Based on the web serial "Worm" by wildbow.

SRS Business

I removed one screw at a time from the square wood panel. The bees within the old coal chute paid me no interest after I removed its cover. Collecting that day's worth of honey I left to the busy little workers, directing them with my power even as I observed the black widows pouring into the basement from the windows I'd left open.

The bees I'd gotten used to, somehow. The spiders still wigged me out. Maybe because they didn't produce any food. They strainers I'd had them construct helped filter my honey varieties of impurities, yeah, but I didn't like looking at these particular 'worker bees' too closely.

I could get over that, for the sake of my chef's costume.

In the cutthroat world of cuisine it paid to make sure your back was protected. For a rookie like me, bullet- and knife-proof spider silk would be a big safeguard when I went up against the local franchises and solo food carts. Parachefs Online had too many sob stories about newbies manning their market stands getting drive-byed.

While I minded the construction of my apron, I held out a single finger. Some bees buzzed over and deposited a sample for me to taste. I'd been experimenting for months on sugar and flavoring combinations to elevate my honey from mere urban farming to unique exotic blends. I'd already stockpiled almost a hundred bottles of my best recipes, along with a few disgusting failures to remind myself where I'd gone wrong. Today I'd see if I had one more to add to the win column.

I brought my finger to my tongue, and actually rolled my eyes at the delicious blend of strawberries and coffee with just a hint of mint.

Yeah, I needed a life.

But I had some sweet ass honey.

.

"…the food, just send it back. Doesn't matter if it's good, just send it back. You see a chef coming out to argue? Shout twice as loud over that little bitch just to be sure the customers only hear you. We give them no chances to be clever or lucky, understand?"

.

"Well, Bug, a health inspector is gonna show up in less than a minute. You did us a solid by dealing with Lung, so take my advice. Someone from the Protectorate finds two unlicensed restaurateurs duking it out, they're not going to let one walk away. You should get out of here."

.

"You gonna ask me for a tip?" Grillmaster called out.

"I'm a chef."

He tilted his head. "You look like a delivery girl."

I winced.

.

Taking a bite of french toast, I suppressed a sigh at the pre-sliced bread. My power was orientated more toward sweets and deserts than breakfast foods, but there were so many ways I could punch this up. I don't even mean baking my own bread. Even a bit of my honey or some locally-sourced fruit preserves would make this so much yummier.

It was the eternal frustration of us masked chefs to hide our culinary skills from the people closest to us. Still, at least my french toast was a hearty wheat instead of plain white — not that our family really had much choice in that regard. Caucasians couldn't buy white bread in Brockton Bay without unfortunate connotations.

Damn Kaiser, ruining grilled cheese for the rest of us.

"You know Gerry?" my dad asked, to which I shrugged. "Big guy, burly, Black Irish? Rumor's going around he found work. Guess with who."

"Dunno."

"He's going to be one of Über and Leet's waiters."

I raised my eyebrows. Über and Leet were hometown chefs with a gamer culture theme. Bacon-wrapped fried Snickers bars. Mountain Dew slushies. And worse. They were pretty much as incompetent as chefs could be while keep their underground arcade/diner running. "They going to make him wear a uniform? Bright primary colors, Tron style?"

My dad chuckled.

.

The streets were busy with people on their lunch break. Businessmen and businesswomen were heading to restaurants and — ugh — fast food places. My stomach growled as I passed a line of people waiting their turn at a street vendor, but I kept walking. The cart owner's shaved head was as much a giveaway to his allegiance as the aromatic bratwursts he was grilling on demand. Not that I even had enough pocket change for even a mere hot dog, even if I wasn't the type of person to eat ethically. My lunch had been in my backpack, and Sophia...

I stopped myself before I could finish that train of thought and put myself into a worse mood. Still, as I thought back to the circle of villains and Tattletale's message, the thought crossed my mind that I could ask them to repay the favor by making me lunch. It wasn't a serious thought, but the ridiculousness of the mental image – me eating grass-fed veal with a group of criminals – put a dumb smirk on my face.

As I thought on it, though, the notion that I might actually consider taking Tattletale up on her offer of a meeting nagged at me. The more I thought on it, the scarier the idea got, and the more it seemed to make a crazy sense.

What if I did take them up on the offer?

The Undersiders were perplexing, in large part virtual unknowns. Not even a single Yelp review among them. From what I knew of Grue and Hellhound, they were both marginally successful short order cooks barely scraping by. Now both had joined a co-op bistro that was pulling high profile giveaways and confounding the likes of Grillmaster and other health inspectors. The four teens seemed totally different in methodology and palate.

What, or who, had drawn such radically different individuals together?

One thing I knew for certain: the Protectorate would like to learn the answer too.

.

"You're really okay?"

My gaze roved over the fully-stocked if cluttered kitchen, taking in the details, as I gave him my assurances. "Better than ever. I kind of made some friends."

My eyes settled on their dining room table. There was a stack of money, wrapped with a paper band just as the money in the lunchbox had been. Beside the money, plain as day, was a can of Spam.

My attention held by the Spam, I only barely caught my dad's question. "What are they like?"

"They seem like good people," I lied.