It's the morning after Lilith's surprise birthday party. Though Bomberman had managed to cater quite lavishly for a party of six, Lilith finds herself craving something more substantial than tortilla chips and ice cream cake for breakfast.

With a tranquil sort of grogginess, Lilith shuffles into Bomberman's kitchen and flicks the light switch on. The bright fluorescent bulbs from the ceiling coolly illuminate a humble but stylish setup. She and Rukifellth have crashed at Bomberman's house a number of times before, so she feels right at home poking about in the fridge and the cabinets to assess the culinary situation. Lilith moves as quietly as possible so she doesn't disturb the others sleeping in the family room just down the stairs. She succeeds in digging out the appropriate utensils and ingredients — and in accidentally scaring the hell out of Rukifellth.

"For the love of the Angel!" Rukifellth cries. He's half-ready to strike with an icing-covered plastic knife. "Do you have to be so quiet all the time? I swear, sometimes I wonder if you even exist!"

Lilith merely smiles as she puts a carton of eggs back into the fridge, having procured the necessary number. "Are you saying that I'm just a figment of your imagination?"

"No. I figure that you're too good to have come from my imagination."

"You flatter me way too often."

"On the contrary," he says, hugging her from behind, "I don't think I flatter you enough."

Lilith blushes. "Okay, look, I appreciate your hugs, but could you please not do it now? I have a fork in my hand."

"I have a knife. I'm pretty sure that beats fork in any game of spoon-fork-knife."

"But my fork is metal."

"...point taken," Rukifellth says, and he steps away to toss the plastic knife into a nearby garbage can. "What are you making, anyway?"

"French toast."

Rukifellth makes a sound in his throat that sounds like the mongrel spawn of a choke, a demon's death scream, and two garbage disposals arguing with each other.

Lilith gives him a concerned look as she sticks a skillet on the stovetop and fires the burner. "Are you all right?"

He shudders and passes a hand over his face. "Sorry. Somehow it just feels like I should have a bad memory about French toast."

"What do you mean?"

"Not entirely sure. I think it involves frozen fries, toasters in ovens, and you and Bomberman handcuffed together."

A beat.

"If there ever was a time to be scared of your imagination," Lilith says slowly, "I think it would be now."

"I'd say so too." Rukifellth heads over to the fridge and pulls out a gallon of milk.

Lilith eyes him warily. "...you're not thinking of drinking straight from that, are you?"

Rukifellth looks offended. "What? Please. I'm a member of proper society — no way would I ever think of indulging myself in such a barbaric action!" He goes to borrow a glass from a cabinet. "What in the galaxy gave you an idea like that, anyway?"

Lilith gazes thoughtfully at the bread slices simmering softly in the skillet. "I...don't know," she admits, poking at one of the slices with a spatula. "Past-life memory, maybe?"

"I wasn't aware you believed in that kind of thing."

She shakes her head. "Forget it. Maybe there was a hiccup in the universe's CPU, or someone up there is having a little too much fun. Go wake up Bomberman and see if he wants anything for breakfast."

"Are you trying to get me killed? The man's a walking nuke even when he's sleeping! He probably has post-traumatic stress disorder from all that work he does being the universe's biggest hero. No way am I going to wake him up when all I'm going to get for my efforts is a bomb to the face!"

"Come on, the least I can do after he helped me with the party is cook him a customized breakfast. Can you do it for me? Pretty please?"

Rukifellth sighs. "The things I agree to for the girl I love," he mutters, getting up from his seat and wandering down to the family room.

The startled explosion from downstairs approximately two minutes later knocks down Rukifellth's abandoned glass of milk on the kitchen table.

"Ahh, jeez," Lilith says, grimaces. "He's never going to let me live this one down, is he?"