[Broadcast Feed: The Flavor Network — Galactic Primetime]
Static.
Then—BAM!
A glowing face fills every holo-screen in the galaxy.
NINANG RYE.
Hair perfectly permed, eyes like frying pans ready to judge.
"Ay naku, who approved this program? My cholesterol's rising and I'm just watching!"
Lira sighed. "She found us."
Arin's ladle froze mid-stir. "Oh no. No, no, no. I know that voice."
The holo expanded to reveal a golden kitchen fortress orbiting above them.
Giant antennas pulsed like gossip signals.
"Welcome, mga marites and martians!" Ninang Rye beamed. "Tonight's special: Sinigang ng Tsismis!
Featuring one very special contestant…"
She paused for drama.
"…Arin Sol. Son of my dear friend Bebang."
Arin almost dropped the Quantum Knife.
"You—you knew my mom?!"
"Of course, iho. Bebang and I were rivals back in Cubao before she opened that little carinderia. She made the best sisig; I made the best enemies. Guess who lasted longer?"
Arin clenched his fists. "You leave my mom's lechon sauce out of this."
"Relax, iho. I only bring up the dead to season the living."
Lira whispered, "Oh my god, she is your tita."
1 — THE RULES
The Flavor Network droid dropped down with the cheer of a doomed intern.
"Challenge uploaded: Cook a dish powered by rumor energy.
Gossip equals heat. Too much gossip equals… kaboom."
Arin blinked. "So… it's basically Twitter?"
"Yes," said Lira. "But with flavor."
Ninang Rye's eyes gleamed.
"Hope you can take the heat, iho. Bebang couldn't last five minutes against my tsismis stir-fry."
Arin exhaled. "Okay. Fine. Let's dance, tita."
2 — GOSSIP PRESSURE COOKER
As soon as the burners lit, holographic bubbles popped overhead—each one a rumor.
"He only cooks for the camera."
"That Quantum Knife's just for show."
"He reheats leftovers and calls it innovation."
"WHO SAID THAT?!" Arin yelled.
"Literally everyone," Lira replied.
The rumors swirled into visible heat waves—purple and red energy coiling into the pan.
The broth hissed with judgment.
"Ay naku," Ninang Rye laughed, stirring her pot of glowing vinegar. "This generation. Can't even sauté without validation."
Arin gritted his teeth. "Validation? I'm about to validate this with vinegar!"
He swung the Quantum Knife, slicing gossip bubbles mid-air. Each cut released the scent of garlic and resentment.
Lira dodged behind the counter. "Arin, focus! This isn't a therapy session!"
"Every dish is therapy!"
3 — THE SINIGANG OF SECRETS
The soup glowed pink from rumor energy.
Each whisper that reached Arin's ears changed its flavor—salty for lies, sour for truth, sweet for denial.
"He never finished culinary school."
"He failed his first food stall."
"He still misses his mom."
That one hit.
For a moment, the room blurred.
And in that instant—he heard Bebang's voice.
"Cook like you're telling the truth, anak."
He blinked, swallowed hard, then smiled faintly.
"Okay, Ma. Let's make it honest."
He added calamansi. Just the right squeeze.
Twin Sun Salt. A dash of vinegar.
The broth shimmered, stabilizing under pure emotion.
Ninang Rye watched, eyebrow twitching.
"Hmm. Not bad. He got the wrist movement from his mother… and the arrogance from his father."
"WHAT?!" Arin nearly tripped.
"Oh, you didn't know? Ask her ghost next time."
4 — THE FINAL STIR
The galaxy itself seemed to lean in.
Lira poured rice into her pan—each grain softly whispering compliments to counterbalance the gossip.
"Ang galing mo."
"Ang bango."
"You're doing great, bestie."
Arin plated the Sinigang ng Tsismis—a storm of flavor shifting colors every second.
One spoonful made the judges giggle. The next made them cry.
The third confessed to stealing recipes from Gordon Infinity.
"Tastes like regret and comfort!" cried one judge.
"I can taste my mother's disapproval!" sobbed another.
Then Ninang Rye presented hers—Gossip Kare-Kare Supreme.
Every bite made people overshare.
Lira tried one spoonful and immediately muttered, "I never liked Arin's playlist."
Arin gasped. "TRAITOR."
Lira shrugged. "It's the peanut sauce."
5 — THE DRAW
The scoreboard glitched under the emotional overload.
Result: DRAW.
The crowd roared.
Ninang Rye folded her arms.
"A draw? Bebang would've never accepted a draw."
Arin grinned. "Then I'll do what she never got to—beat you."
For a moment—just one—Ninang Rye's smirk softened.
Then she snapped her fan shut.
"Careful, iho. Pride burns faster than oil."
She flicked her wrist, vanishing in a cloud of sizzling chismis.
A frying pan fell to Arin's station, still whispering:
"His hair's uneven."
Arin screamed, "WHO KEEPS SAYING THAT?!"
Lira wheezed with laughter.
6 — AFTERTASTE
Back in their ship, Arin slumped into a chair.
"First debt, then volcano noodles, now tita trauma. I need a vacation."
Lira loaded the next mission file.
"Sorry, no rest. Next up: the Chicharon Rain of Planet Letchon-9."
Arin groaned. "Can I at least nap first?"
"Sure," she said. "If you don't mind snoring through a pork storm."
He sighed. "Ayos. Let's go."
As the ship rocketed away, the gossip pan in the corner whispered:
"He dreams about adobo."
"So do I," Lira muttered. "So do I."
END OF CHAPTER 3 — "THE MARITES MENACE."