06-21-2018, 10:32 PM
Eleanor Lamb came to find out rather quickly that not all parts of Tier One were so pretty and pristine. The ramshackle apartment she’d taken up residence in, for example, looked more like a large-ish walk-in closet than anything actually suitable to live in. Essentially a six square foot studio, it hadn’t taken long for the pale prime to discover she could lay on the floor and stretch herself almost the entire length of the place. Had it not been for the off-shoot corridor leading to the shower and toilet, you might’ve convinced her she’d wound up accidentally in prison.
She supposed she shouldn’t complain, though—anything was better than an actual alleyway. And she was getting to live here rent free. The landlord of the bar below her, Bucketheads, offered her a nice deal in exchange for lots of hours in the kitchen.
“Can you cook?” the old woman had asked, a suspicious look on her face.
Eleanor paused, biting her lip. “Why would I apply for a sous chef job if I couldn’t cook?” She’d donned a sarcastic grimace, and the woman’s stare had bore holes in her like the sharpest lasers. For several minutes, it had been a competition on which woman could out-glare the other, and somehow, through the sheer intensity of Eleanor’s spirit, the crotchety old woman had given in. Sure, she could have the job, and a tiny apartment instead of a paycheck.
And so, the former experiment’s tenure in the Omniverse continued to be marked by the kindness of strangers—strangers that, despite that kindness, couldn’t be trusted. Everyone here jockeyed for their own well-being. Primes, secondaries, and whatever else was out there moved through the world with one eye on their ambition and the other on keeping their own skin safe. She’d learn to do the same, eventually.
When her eyes opened to greet her next morning—which, thanks to the old woman’s penchant to put her on night shift, was well into the afternoon—she rolled out of bed like clockwork, snatching a piece of chalk from off her bedside table and scrawling another mark on the wall. The eleventh such. Six days since she’d had her run in with the EPD.
El threw on her chef’s uniform, stained an off-white color thanks to how much grease she’d spilled on it, and brushed out of her small, dingy apartment. As if by rote, she hurried down the steps, skipping the second-to-last one that always quaked extra hard beneath her feet, and burst through the backdoor of the kitchen, ensconscing herself immediately in the hustle and bustle of the back of the bar. She flew through her track, clocking in, snatching some orders, and assuming her position at a small station nestled away from most of the people who ran in and out.
She peered at everyone else, heads down in intense concentration. If she’d had more of a sense of humor, she might’ve chuckled, but instead, she just smirked.
She lay the orders out in front of her, reading them slowly and carefully, absorbing every detail. A philly cheese steak, hold the cheese, with chili fries. (Disgusting.) A salad with grilled chicken. (Trying too hard.) French onion soup with a side of mozzarella sticks. (Did those even go together?)
The girl took a quick peek at her co-workers, just to make sure she wouldn’t be watched, and began to swirl her fingers over the station, using her omnilium to create each dish in its most perfect form. This was how she’d risen to the top of the class amongst the other sous chefs; while her manager might have some doubts about her personality, she hadn’t yet raised any complaints about Eleanor’s ability.
And how could she? The prime’s plan was genius, and a true representation of her Mother’s ideal course for her. “Eleanor,” Sofia had always cautioned her daughter, “you have been blessed with great gifts. Use them.”
Gifts—it’d been a strange word then, and was a stranger one now. At home, her mother had never let her spare a thought on God, but nevertheless her abilities hadn’t been natural; the scientists gave them to her when they fucked with her DNA. Here, too, she was some higher power’s plaything. Brought here and given unnatural abilities by a child with no lips.
She couldn’t escape being someone’s experiment. A part of someone else’s grand design.
A runner came by and picked up her finished dishes, remarking on her speed and then leaving her to her devices while she awaited the next batch. This was her life: make, wait, make, wait. This design didn’t seem so grand. It lacked real purpose.
“Lamb,” the runner poked his head back into her station. El jumped slightly. “Sorry to disturb, ma’am, but there’s someone being quite loud about your food.”
Eleanor quirked an eyebrow. Was she going to have to show one of these stormtroopers the door?
Tossing her apron into the runner’s hands and brushing past him without even offering him the chance to elaborate, the girl burst out of the kitchen and scanned the crowd for the most crabby looking stormtrooper. Buckethead after buckethead turned to look at her, but none seemed to be the culprit. At long last, her eyes landed on the anomaly in the room and proceeded to go wide.
Primes. Fuck.
She cut a path through the horde of Empire troops until she stood before the two… muscular men huddled up in one of Bucketheads’ cramped booths. One of them shielded his face, probably out of embarrassment, as the loud mouth finally began to quiet down at the sight of the slender-framed young woman standing, hands on hips, in front of them.
“Something wrong?” she asked, sternly.
“Uh—n-no ma’am,” replied a dumbstruck Peter Quill, “Was just shouting about how this philly cheese steak hold the cheese with chili fries was better than any other philly I’ve ever had. Probably better than ones from actual Philly, I don’t know, never been. You’re the chef?”
Eleanor blinked. “Yes,” she stated as if it should be obvious, “yes, I am.”
“Thank you, ma cherie, for your ti…” the other man started, but his blowhard friend jumped in first, grabbing Eleanor’s hand without her consent.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he nodded, leaning down to plant a kiss on the back of her hand. Eleanor scowled, curling her fingers into a fist and accelerating the meeting time between it and this guy’s face. He doubled back into the booth, clutching his nose. Across from him, his friend vacillated on whether he’d deserved it.
“Can I get you boys anything else?” the girl asked, putting on her most sarcastic smile. The Frenchman’s eyes grew a bit wide, staring at something behind El. She glanced over her shoulder to see a contingency of several troopers sauntering up toward the trio.
Uh oh.
“These douche knuckles bothering you, miss?” one of them growled, wrapping his hands around the hilt of his blaster. Eleanor massages her knuckles, trying to make it look like the punch had hurt her more. She couldn’t afford the people here finding out she was a prime.
“Nothing to see here, boys,” Eleanor waved them off. “Back to your seats. Go away.” The stormtroopers’ stillness betrayed their opinion of that idea.
They were not so keen.
She supposed she shouldn’t complain, though—anything was better than an actual alleyway. And she was getting to live here rent free. The landlord of the bar below her, Bucketheads, offered her a nice deal in exchange for lots of hours in the kitchen.
“Can you cook?” the old woman had asked, a suspicious look on her face.
Eleanor paused, biting her lip. “Why would I apply for a sous chef job if I couldn’t cook?” She’d donned a sarcastic grimace, and the woman’s stare had bore holes in her like the sharpest lasers. For several minutes, it had been a competition on which woman could out-glare the other, and somehow, through the sheer intensity of Eleanor’s spirit, the crotchety old woman had given in. Sure, she could have the job, and a tiny apartment instead of a paycheck.
And so, the former experiment’s tenure in the Omniverse continued to be marked by the kindness of strangers—strangers that, despite that kindness, couldn’t be trusted. Everyone here jockeyed for their own well-being. Primes, secondaries, and whatever else was out there moved through the world with one eye on their ambition and the other on keeping their own skin safe. She’d learn to do the same, eventually.
When her eyes opened to greet her next morning—which, thanks to the old woman’s penchant to put her on night shift, was well into the afternoon—she rolled out of bed like clockwork, snatching a piece of chalk from off her bedside table and scrawling another mark on the wall. The eleventh such. Six days since she’d had her run in with the EPD.
El threw on her chef’s uniform, stained an off-white color thanks to how much grease she’d spilled on it, and brushed out of her small, dingy apartment. As if by rote, she hurried down the steps, skipping the second-to-last one that always quaked extra hard beneath her feet, and burst through the backdoor of the kitchen, ensconscing herself immediately in the hustle and bustle of the back of the bar. She flew through her track, clocking in, snatching some orders, and assuming her position at a small station nestled away from most of the people who ran in and out.
She peered at everyone else, heads down in intense concentration. If she’d had more of a sense of humor, she might’ve chuckled, but instead, she just smirked.
She lay the orders out in front of her, reading them slowly and carefully, absorbing every detail. A philly cheese steak, hold the cheese, with chili fries. (Disgusting.) A salad with grilled chicken. (Trying too hard.) French onion soup with a side of mozzarella sticks. (Did those even go together?)
The girl took a quick peek at her co-workers, just to make sure she wouldn’t be watched, and began to swirl her fingers over the station, using her omnilium to create each dish in its most perfect form. This was how she’d risen to the top of the class amongst the other sous chefs; while her manager might have some doubts about her personality, she hadn’t yet raised any complaints about Eleanor’s ability.
And how could she? The prime’s plan was genius, and a true representation of her Mother’s ideal course for her. “Eleanor,” Sofia had always cautioned her daughter, “you have been blessed with great gifts. Use them.”
Gifts—it’d been a strange word then, and was a stranger one now. At home, her mother had never let her spare a thought on God, but nevertheless her abilities hadn’t been natural; the scientists gave them to her when they fucked with her DNA. Here, too, she was some higher power’s plaything. Brought here and given unnatural abilities by a child with no lips.
She couldn’t escape being someone’s experiment. A part of someone else’s grand design.
A runner came by and picked up her finished dishes, remarking on her speed and then leaving her to her devices while she awaited the next batch. This was her life: make, wait, make, wait. This design didn’t seem so grand. It lacked real purpose.
“Lamb,” the runner poked his head back into her station. El jumped slightly. “Sorry to disturb, ma’am, but there’s someone being quite loud about your food.”
Eleanor quirked an eyebrow. Was she going to have to show one of these stormtroopers the door?
Tossing her apron into the runner’s hands and brushing past him without even offering him the chance to elaborate, the girl burst out of the kitchen and scanned the crowd for the most crabby looking stormtrooper. Buckethead after buckethead turned to look at her, but none seemed to be the culprit. At long last, her eyes landed on the anomaly in the room and proceeded to go wide.
Primes. Fuck.
She cut a path through the horde of Empire troops until she stood before the two… muscular men huddled up in one of Bucketheads’ cramped booths. One of them shielded his face, probably out of embarrassment, as the loud mouth finally began to quiet down at the sight of the slender-framed young woman standing, hands on hips, in front of them.
“Something wrong?” she asked, sternly.
“Uh—n-no ma’am,” replied a dumbstruck Peter Quill, “Was just shouting about how this philly cheese steak hold the cheese with chili fries was better than any other philly I’ve ever had. Probably better than ones from actual Philly, I don’t know, never been. You’re the chef?”
Eleanor blinked. “Yes,” she stated as if it should be obvious, “yes, I am.”
“Thank you, ma cherie, for your ti…” the other man started, but his blowhard friend jumped in first, grabbing Eleanor’s hand without her consent.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he nodded, leaning down to plant a kiss on the back of her hand. Eleanor scowled, curling her fingers into a fist and accelerating the meeting time between it and this guy’s face. He doubled back into the booth, clutching his nose. Across from him, his friend vacillated on whether he’d deserved it.
“Can I get you boys anything else?” the girl asked, putting on her most sarcastic smile. The Frenchman’s eyes grew a bit wide, staring at something behind El. She glanced over her shoulder to see a contingency of several troopers sauntering up toward the trio.
Uh oh.
“These douche knuckles bothering you, miss?” one of them growled, wrapping his hands around the hilt of his blaster. Eleanor massages her knuckles, trying to make it look like the punch had hurt her more. She couldn’t afford the people here finding out she was a prime.
“Nothing to see here, boys,” Eleanor waved them off. “Back to your seats. Go away.” The stormtroopers’ stillness betrayed their opinion of that idea.
They were not so keen.