Salutations and Christmas greetings everyone! I'm sorry that it took a little longer than usual to get this chapter ready – I lost my sense of humour somewhere in the middle due to life getting a little crazy, and then the chapter decided to run away from me and turn into something totally different from what I was planning… :Insert :shakefist: emoticon here: As a result, this is technically a preliminary chapter to the first program step with no cooking as of yet, but rest assured I'll do my best to massacre a recipe in the next chapter with Albel's help. XD
I found this chapter to be less funny than the others as well, so forgive me. :( The serious bit at the end came out of nowhere… Oo
And Summoner of the Silver Wolf: this meaning of war was taken from Dream Moods Dictionary, which you can find by Googling the name: "To dream of a war, signifies disorder and chaos in your personal affairs. You also be experiencing some internal conflict or emotional struggle. You are feeling torn between aspects of yourself. Perhaps the dream may indicate that you are being overly aggressive or you are not being assertive enough." Hope it helped. :)
SHAMELESS PLUG: The weird auto formatting of this site prevents me from pasting a direct link, but if you guys have time then you will not regret Googling the following: "Celtreny deviantART". Celtreny was kind enough to draw her interpretation of wedding dress Albel from the previous chapter complete with Crimson Scourge, and OH MY GOD you guys have got to see it. XD XD Go to her gallery now! Chop chop!
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"STEP #1: Cook for your lover"
Scritch scritch.
Albel jerked his head up at the subtle sound, pausing in his motions of vigorously patting his hair dry. "What was that?"
>>What was what?>> The Crimson Scourge asked, sounding bored as it remained curled up among the cushions of its little doggie basket. The sword had been half-dozing as Albel "beautified" himself, which is how it opted to describe his actions – though Albel of course vehemently classified his early morning ritual as "grooming" – and so had barely been paying attention. Albel let his scratchy towel slip down from his scalp to drape across his shoulders. Dragging a small comb through his tangled mass of damp hair, he kept one ear trained for more unusual sounds.
Scritch scritch.
"There it goes again. Didn't you hear it?" Albel demanded of the Crimson Scourge, throwing his comb down. Try as he might, he couldn't help recalling the nibbled corn muffin that Cliff had offered him yesterday, which had obviously been recently sampled by creatures of the squeaky, scuttling variety. Asking the idiot for help was one thing, but sharing his rodent infestations was definitely NOT part of the deal. On the other hand, maybe the Diplo was the new breeding ground for a neo breed of mutant termites with a taste for metal…
Scritch scritch BONK.
If it was indeed a mouse, it was probably suffering from a dilapidating disease affecting its motor neurons, judging from the unmistakable sound of a head colliding against the door. If it was a mutant termite though, any insect capable of producing a noise that loud with its head alone was DEFINITELY something to be concerned about. The strangely hollow sound echoed through the room, prompting the Crimson Scourge to suddenly lever itself out of its basket. Albel watched as it hopped over to where he sat on his bed, his keen eyes not failing to catch a mischievous sheen to the Crimson Scourge's blade.
"What are you plotting now?" Albel growled, trying to save precious time by calling its game early.
>>You suspect too much.>> The Crimson Scourge said smoothly as it leapt into Albel's free hand. >>Now be a dear, and push my pointy end under the door.>>
"I suppose it wouldn't be too much to ask why?" Albel ventured with one eyebrow raised.
>>You'll approve this time, I swear!>>
That wasn't as reassuring as it should've been but Albel shrugged, figuring that as long as the Crimson Scourge was being pointed anywhere BUT him that he could afford to play along. Besides, the strange noises outside the door had resumed in that short space of time and Albel wanted to get up anyway to investigate. He quickly raised himself off the bed and crossed the room to stand before the door, pressing one ear to the cold metal to try and better identify the sound.
>>Stop wasting time! Push me under!>> The Crimson Scourge whined, jumping a bit in Albel's closed fist. He frowned in annoyance but if experience had taught him anything, when the Crimson Scourge wanted something done it wanted it done NOW. Otherwise there was the danger that it would take matters into its own hilt and do whatever it wanted by itself.
(Albel still hadn't forgotten the time he'd taken a bath as opposed to giving into the sword's demand for a polish, whereupon it had promptly stolen his clothes to rub itself clean. It wouldn't have been such a problem if the bath house hadn't been an outdoor affair, not to mention right next door to a nun's order made completely out of glass walls. Thank goodness for conveniently placed foliage.)
"Okay okay…" Albel grumbled in defeat, stooping low to inspect the bottom of the door. There was just enough of a gap between it and the floor for the Crimson Scourge's blade to fit through, and without further delay, he shoved the sword under the door in one smooth motion.
"YEOW-OW-OW! Not you again!"
The yell of surprise was loud and burly, and the scratchy noises outside the door were immediately replaced by a loud THUMP – the sort of sound you'd expect from a big muscle-bound backside connecting with a hard metal floor.
"Cliff. You're up early," Albel said wryly, blocking out the worst of the Crimson Scourge's uproarious cackling which was filling his head like hot air.
"… and so is your sword!" Cliff's voice complained through the metal door. Though shaken but not stirred, the Klausian was already scrabbling back onto his feet.
>>If he only knew half of it…>> The Crimson Scourge snickered, unable to resist the dirty connotation.
Albel pointedly ignored the Crimson Scourge, knowing it was too early in the morning to get his blood pressure unnecessarily raised, and directed his next question to the disembodied Cliff. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Trying to open your slot!"
The Crimson Scourge convulsed and nearly had a nosebleed then and there, forcing Albel to level a glare at it, the type he usually reserved for setting small insects on fire. "He meant MAIL slot, you… you…"
>>"Male" slot? Oh I like that!>>
"… the darn thing is stuck! Are you sure you didn't glue it together or something?"
The Crimson Scourge was almost on the verge of tears of hysteria as its mind voice spluttered incoherently. >>O-o-oh I don't know… h-he's always been rather mean and tight up the ar->>
"SHUT. UP." Albel roared as enough steam gushed out of his ears to power a small train, though it was hard to tell who he was directing this expletive to. He quickly dragged his attention back to what Cliff had said, drawing natural assumptions. "You've got something to give me. What is it?"
"Step number 1, delivered straight to your door!" Cliff declared with enthusiastic flourish, luckily replying before the Crimson Scourge could interpret more odd and perverse things from the conversation. It was becoming more and more apparent that the Crimson Scourge had absorbed a fair number of fan girl souls in the course of its servitude to Airyglyph.
"Step number 1…? What, you mean of the program?" Albel suddenly recalled as his stomach flip flopped nervously in reaction. "At this time? It's five in the morning, you fool!"
"No better time for what you've gotta do," Cliff said cheerfully. "No one will be up for awhile, so the kitchen's totally empty! Cool or what?"
"Kitchen?" Albel repeated with notable alarm.
"Relaaaaax," Cliff chuckled, but if not for the closed door in the way, Albel would've been totally unnerved by the loopy grin which the Klausian was sporting on his face. "If there's one thing chicks totally dig, it's home cooking man. Go ask anyone, they'll tell you!"
"Fayt…" Albel hissed through gritted teeth, "… is not a 'chick'!"
"Same difference, who cares?" Cliff said, not skipping a beat. "The fact is, anyone would really dig something like that. 'Makes you look more… whatdoyacallit… doh-mess-tee-kay-tid."
Albel paused, partly because he still refused to believe any of it and partly because he never knew Cliff was capable of uttering five syllable words… but when he found his voice again, he cursed the note of rising panic which was jarring his protests. "No! No way. I've never cooked anything in my life and… and… you expect me to feed Fayt? You're insane. You don't know what you're asking. Now rack off and…"
"Hey hey hey, take a chill pill!" Cliff intercepted Albel's babble. "It won't be that hard – I've got a surefire recipe right here, straight from my Aunty Doreen! Can't go wrong with this baby!"
Albel buried his face in his hands, his whole head shaking in silent denial to Cliff's optimism. COOKING? The Klausian's brain must be made out of the same rubbish as his so-called PHD! Okay, admittedly what Albel had said wasn't entirely true… there had been rare occasions when he'd been forced to prepare quick meals, but that was the crucial keyword – they'd been quick. Long marches with troops across vast territories often led to camping out, and one of a Captain's jobs was to put on a show of provider… though with a stab of gloom, Albel figured that what Cliff had in mind was probably entirely different to the type of food preparation which the Black Brigade had come to expect from him. Tossing whole cows into raging bonfires was likely to be met with more than slight disapproval on the Diplo…
Meanwhile, Cliff was taking Albel's sudden silence as a good sign as he leisurely rocked back and forth on his heels. "You know, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, or haven't you heard that one? And I happen to know that Fayt's got a reeeeeal sweet tooth. Always sneaking candy. You'll win him over in no time if you listen to Aunty Doreen, bless her soul!"
Actually, Albel was feeling less and less inclined to listen to anyone who hailed from Klaus, be it Aunty Doreen, Uncle Billy Bob or Grandpa Jackass, since the whole lot of them were proving to be several crayons short of a full box set. Aiming a swipe at the door with his set of claws, Albel prepared to stalk off. "Forget about it, fool. Fayt will be better off if I stay out of any kitchen, so keep your ridiculous schemes to yourself! I'm going back to bed…"
Cliff however had been fully expecting this sort of resistance, and leaned casually against the wall next to the closed door as he delivered his trump card. "Well if that's the way you feel, I s'ppose I could always get… SOPHIA to give it a go!"
He stifled a laugh as he detected Albel's bitten-back curse, and kept pressing his advantage. "After all, she's cooked for Fayt hundreds of times. I'm sure she wouldn't mind doing it again, 'specially since she's got her eye on him and all. And I've heard she's a pretty darn good cook too, probably waaaaay better than you or that swo-"
BANG!
Cliff hurriedly leapt backwards as the door suddenly… disintegrated before his very eyes. Well, it didn't actually turn into metal powder, but if a nuclear physicist had been nearby then they'd certainly have heard the door's atoms screeching blue murder. Heck, at least the door managed to raise a dust cloud as it caved in on itself. Either way the door was completely totaled, and all that remained of it were pitiful lumps and shards scattered in the empty hallway.
"Whoa!" Cliff exclaimed. "Mirage is gonna have your ass on a stick – ACK!"
A set of five gleaming claws cut through the clearing cloud of dust, snatching Cliff by his collar lapels and dragging him into the breathing space of a very peeved looking swordsman. Cliff grinned weakly as Albel's eyes flashed multiple promises of bodily harm, and he tried not to wrinkle his nose as a puff of Albel's breath invaded his nostrils. Speaking of "doh-mess-tee-kay-shon", Albel was yet to learn the hidden benefits of minty toothpaste when it came to things like courtship.
"Anything that pink low-life of a maggot can do…" Albel snarled as his all patented death glare seared holes straight through Cliff's very thick skull, "… I can do BETTER!"
Cliff winced a bit as those last words washed over him in the form of an ear-splitting roar, and also because those words were riding on a wave of less than aromatic early morning breath, but he quickly got his composure back. The bait had been set and snapped up more quickly then he'd imagined, and it was more than enough to bring back his loopy grin.
"That's more like it! Them's fighting words!" Cliff whooped wholeheartedly, brandishing a hearty thumbsup. It was a bit harder than normal to pull off the gesture, since Cliff had chosen to use the hand which was holding the recipe and the Crimson Scourge was gnawing at his knuckles to try and get him to release it. Sadly, asking for things politely was just not part of its mental makeup.
"Give me that!" Albel snapped just as ungracefully, releasing Cliff to snatch the recipe from where it was impaled on the end of the Crimson Scourge's blade. With one last snort of contempt, the swordsman turned on his heels and commenced a thunderous march down the hallway, venting some of his annoyance by aiming some vicious kicks at a bit of door debris which he kept ahead of him.
Cliff spared Albel's retreating figure the briefest of glances before rubbing his hands together in maniacal glee.
"Now for the other one!"
If Albel had bothered to look behind him, the sight of Cliff happily skipping in the opposite direction would have brought back traumatic flashbacks of a certain flower girl in a certain recent dream, but Cliff didn't give a hoot as to how ridiculous he looked just then. His only concern was the specially manufactured Puffy stink bomb rattling in his pocket – the only object in the entire Eternal Sphere capable of waking Fayt Leingod at such an unholy hour…
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>>Huff huff… slow down, you're going too fast! Hey, are you listening…?>>
The Crimson Scourge may as well have been griping to deaf ears. As a matter of fact it was, if Albel's murderous expression was anything to go by. The Crimson Scourge couldn't help but inwardly wince. Albel hadn't looked so seriously pissed off since the night it had deviously substituted his shampoo for Maria's blue hair dye. Surely the thought of cooking wasn't that repulsive?
>>I said slow DOWN! Look at me when I'm talking to you!>> The Crimson Scourge raised its mental voice a little higher and cranked its Nag-O-Meter into the extreme "Mother-in-law" red range, but the planes of Albel's back stubbornly remained set in place as he continued stomping through the hallway. He set a cracking pace, and any other magic sword would've fizzled out and been reduced to a new career as a butter knife with the effort of keeping up. That's not to say the Crimson Scourge wasn't feeling the strain, and already its pointy end was feeling considerably less pointy from too much hopping along the solid metal floor.
>>Hey Albel. I know you can hear me.>>
The swordsman still refused to stop or turn around. If he had, then the Crimson Scourge would've noticed his frown lines giving a whole new definition to the words "bottomless chasm."
>>How long are you going to ignore me?>>
Albel remained tight-lipped as ever as he forcefully rammed the swinging doors which barred the way into the kitchen of the Diplo. The momentum of the doors created a back draft which would've sent more than a few skirts flying – Albel's included, if only he hadn't weighted it down with bricks sewn into the hems after too many fan girl "incidents". However, the Crimson Scourge surged ahead regardless and deftly darted after Albel as soon as the flapping doors provided an opening.
>>Fayt's a girly pansy with noodle arms.>>
THAT earned the Crimson Scourge a glare capable of bending its blade backwards if only looks could kill. >>Now that I've got your undivided attention… what's with the attitude, young man?>>
Albel's face remained cloaked in grey shadow as he stood beneath the shallow fluorescent tubes which lined the kitchen's ceiling, concealing most of his twisted scowl. A heartbeat passed, followed by several more. The steady hum of the kitchen freezer and faint clangs and thumps in the distance were the only things which punctuated the deathly silence… and all the while, the cool air circulating around the oval shaped room wafted around the snarky warrior and his sidekick sword as they both struggled to emerge as victor out of their vigorous stare-down contest.
Suddenly, the tension snapped as quickly as a taut rubber band. Albel let out a strangled groan as he mashed his forehead against the nearest kitchen cabinet.
"I can't DO this!"
The Crimson Scourge allowed itself the tiniest of moments to preen – it'd be a cold day in hell before anyone could stare down anything lacking eyeballs – before bluntly asking: >>Why ever not?>>
After realising beating his head into a pulp wasn't going to make the recipe cook itself, Albel rubbed a burgeoning bump as he impatiently flung the piece of paper in the Crimson Scourge's direction. "Take a look at it!"
The Crimson Scourge obediently bounced over to inspect the recipe, bending over the paper where it lay in a crumpled heap on the tiled floor.
>>It appears to be a recipe for some sort of cake confectionary. What's so bad about that?>>
Albel's eyes virtually bulged out of their sockets, saved only from spilling over by his optic nerves. "What's so BAD? Did it ever occur to you that I've never cooked a cake in my life? Or used a kitchen? Or even cooked for anyone I didn't want to poison? And now that blonde maggot thinks I can do ALL FREAKIN' THREE!"
Strangely though the Crimson Scourge had gone all silent and hadn't even made any attempts to interrupt Albel's mini tantrum, although it had of course been enjoying the spectacle. That should've put Albel on guard if he wasn't so preoccupied in seeing red.
>>Huh. There's more to this. It's gotten personal, hasn't it? You just can't let Sophia win.>>
Albel's mouth opened and shut several times, like he was experimenting with a new way of catching flies.
"Who said… what… that's not -" he spluttered hopelessly.
>>I don't blame you though – she cooks one mean cake.>> The Crimson Scourge said with a little laugh, scooping the recipe up with its blade and flicking it back into Albel's open palm. >>I KNEW there was a reason why you got goaded so easily by that big buffoon. Maybe he's more perceptive then what we gave him credit for.>>
"You give him too much credit. It's no big secret that I think the girl's an airheaded wench. I've tripped her up in the hallway enough times by now!" Albel said defensively.
>>At least it shows that he's thinking, which is more than what I can say for you right now.>> The Crimson Scourge scolded. >>And stop fidgeting like that! You're making me dizzy!>>
In his nervousness and frustration, Albel hadn't even been aware that he'd been reduced to restlessly prowling up and down the space between the kitchen's first row of cook top ovens and sinks. He looked behind him, mildly surprised that he hadn't worn a trench into the checkered tiles with all of his pacing, and finally forced himself to stop.
"You just don't understand," he snapped at the Crimson Scourge. "Haven't you seen the way that pink worm completely swarms over Fayt? And the fool is so damn nice that he can't even tell her to shove it! Especially at mealtimes – I know what she's doing, even if you and all the other maggots are blind. All that simpering and stuffing him to the gills with food… she's aiming to be "Miss Perfect Homemaker"! And you know what? I DON'T STAND A CHANCE! Not against that!"
Albel's voice lowered dangerously as he continued to seethe. The memories came rushing back thick and fast, and the Crimson Scourge suddenly snapped to attention as a flood of jumbled images and emotions suddenly came tumbling down their shared mental connection. The fragments of thoughts assailed the sword in a cloud of scattergun colour and acting on instinct, it plucked one shining shard out of the flurry to hold to the light…
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Dinnertime on the Diplo – always a chaotic affair. The mess quarters swarmed with crew and passengers alike, while the normally cool ambience of the ship was replaced with loud communal chatter and warm, smoky smells which drifted out of the noisy bustle of the kitchen…
The Crimson Scourge found itself blinking, surveying the room through the watchful eyes of its young master. The memory conveyed nothing but distaste as he flicked his gaze from one person to the next, hopping among them like so many stepping stones and dismissing them just as casually. However there was nothing flippant about his intentions. He was looking in order to find, focusing barely long enough on each upturned face in the hope of catching sight of the one he ached to see.
It was a tough search, although he didn't mind a bit. The Crimson Scourge felt the glow of an inner smile in his belly as he continued to push through and scan the throng. Fayt Leingod could be – and was – many things… Incredibly stubborn one minute, sweetly unsure the next, a paragon of strength and grace in the midst of the most heated battles… Above all else however, there was something which was becoming readily apparent the longer the journey continued. Fayt Leingod was loved
The Crimson Scourge heard its master heave a low sigh, the unassuming sound conveying a wealth of quiet frustration and wonderment. Really though, how could it be helped? The young man was a metaphorical star, pulling others into his orbit not just through the power of gravitation but through the simple goodness of his heart. The Crimson Scourge spotted him now in the midst of the crowd, even as it felt its master's pulse quicken in reaction… yes, it could feel the warmth… inner light shone so radiantly in the young man's core, beckoning others irresistibly closer. The pull was strong and the master was cold. The problem? Fayt Leingod was most definitely loved, but where there was only one Fayt Leingod… there was more than just one adoring admirer in the crowd.
"More roast beef, Fayt? You know I made it just for you – the way you've always liked it!"
"Ah no, thanks Sophia… I really couldn't eat anymore…!"
"Don't be silly, you're so skinny. There's no such thing as too much meat for you! Tee hee, we always used to argue like this… remember that night I stayed over and said the same thing? I guess some things don't change, but… I hope it doesn't have to always be like that…"
The Crimson Scourge felt the fierce frown pull on the corners of its master's mouth, long before it spread across the whole of his face like wildfire. It didn't disapprove – there was plenty to frown about. It wasn't just the sickening sight of the pink clad maggot draping herself across the blushing blue haired teen, her breasts pushing suggestively up against his body… no, it was more than that. It just couldn't disregard the young master's fear. Anxiety prickled his skin like tiny needle points and swirled in erratic circular motions within the pit of his stomach, his muscles squeezing uncomfortably tight. The master had always scoffed at fear; always aspired to be strong in the face of even the most impossible odds. This time it was different, and the Crimson Scourge finally discerned why.
In a battle of emotions, the master found himself floundering. What could he possibly be for Fayt that the girl already wasn't? Friend, confidante, comrade…lover? The latter made him shudder, and he swallowed a lump that seemed to have risen at the back of his throat. How could his feelings be justified? There were no intimate childhood moments shared, no common planet that they could call home, no upbringing that had moulded them into two similar beings of like mindedness…
… so why would Fayt ever need HIM?
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>>Hmph. That's the problem…>> The Crimson Scourge nodded to itself as it shrugged itself loose from the clutches of remembrance, releasing the tiny fragment back into the rushing thought stream within Albel's head. The memory slipped away as quickly as it had appeared, but the sword had seen and heard enough to muse over. Maybe this wasn't the best time to address the entirety of the unanswered doubts – there was ample time for that later – but it was a decent place to start.
>>Well come on then. Let's go.>> The Crimson Scourge said at last, flashing a wicked grin through Albel's head.
"What?" Only a few seconds had passed for Albel, and he was totally unaware of the Crimson Scourge's deeper mental probing.
>>Rivals always make things so much more interesting. Soooo… let's give that annoying little airhead something to counteract. Might as well make life difficult for her.>>
"Through evisceration?" Albel suggested hopefully.
>>No, you idiot. We're going to bake that damn cake better than anyone else.>> The Crimson Scourge's mind voice had taken on a steely edge which matched its physique and it hopped purposely towards Albel, who instinctively started backing up as he noticed the sword's blade take on a menacing sheen.
"Stop looking at me like that," Albel growled nervously but the Crimson Scourge kept right on advancing. Abruptly, it broke into a charge.
"SHIT!" Albel yelled and ducked in reaction as the Crimson Scourge leapt gracefully into the air, ignoring the temptation of spearing him through the eye and instead soaring along a specific trajectory right above his head. Still expecting some sort of pain as he shielded his face, Albel at first didn't notice as something light and feathery fluttered over his arms to settle snugly against his figure.
>>There we go. Pretty as a picture!>>
The sound of the Crimson Scourge laughing in his head jolted Albel out of it. The broken hook dangling above his head caught his attention first, followed by the more startling sight of the bright pink apron adorning his body which was emblazoned with a very loud slogan proclaiming "KISS THE COOK".
Albel didn't even have the luxury of letting his horror congeal before the Crimson Scourge darted behind his heels, herding him relentlessly towards the kitchen pantry.
>>Rule one of cooking – FIND THE INGREDIENTS FIRST!>>
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Elsewhere…
"Whew… I phink vat wuz a wittle too stwong…" Cliff puffed as he sprinted like a cut cat towards the exit of the living quarters. Holding one's nose while moving strenuously was universally regarded as moronic no matter what planet you visited, but the billowing green haze filling the hallway behind Cliff seemed to demand a relaxation of the rules of common sense. He put on an extra burst of speed which propelled him through the double doors leading into the Diplo's secondary crew area, only barely avoiding whiffing anymore of the outrageously smelly green smog. He urgently punched the lock panel with his thumb and sighed with relief as the doors uttered an affirmative "ding".
Cliff peered cautiously through the Perspex windows on the doors, wincing a little as he realised visibility had been reduced to something only hi-tech night vision goggles could hope to penetrate. And the smell? Well… um…
"Fayt will thank me later Fayt will thank me later Fayt will thank me later…" Cliff whimpered as he scuttled off to conceal himself in his special hidey hole, the one he usually reserved for avoiding Mirage's Avenger Kicks whenever she caught him using jetpacks to moonwalk on the ceiling…
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I smell scheming! How about youse? ;)
Next chapter: The program continues, with chaotic results! Expect bad label reading, unexpected drunkenness and blatant disregard for fire safety. Oo How's Fayt going to react?