? 44: Irene, Iberian Egg Tart
The Late Night Diner is a part of Rhodes Island's canteen. That goes without saying – to whom had anyone ever heard of a diner in the boiler room?
As the name implies, it opens around midnight. There are only a handful of customers at a time.
Operators off their night shift could take an order and bring back to their quarters. Night owls could sit dining-in while leeching off the Diner's wi-fi. The Doctor would come for instant noodles from time to time.
Drinks are in the cooler. Anyone burdened by their own thoughts could take one and chug it down, anytime.
Menu? No such thing exists. What the Chef prepares is what you get. It all depends on his mood of the day.
Welcome to the Rhodes Island Late Night Diner. In here, you might even meet a familiar face or two.
"But it is said on the Scripture that this is a sinful act." A girl's voice echoed down the ally through the window pane of the room. "Should I just turn my back on the divine laws of Iberia and watch that man walk further down the path of sin?"
"Irene, I had told you more than once before. What matters is the result. If you believe your decision could justify the outcome..."
"Result, result and result. It's the only thing that you ever cared about. But all I know is that no matter what I choose, the outcome would never satisfy your standard or that nigh-unreachable one for an Inquisitor! So what does it matter even if the Scripture had chosen me?! What was even the point when you saved me back then?!"
The shouting was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the doors opening and slamming shut. The girl barged out of the room in wide strides and quickly disappeared at the end of the ally. A few, long moments later, there came a long sigh from inside the room.
Irene had shut herself inside the record room for two whole days. Her colleagues' call were left unanswered, and she had not been attending the training sessions. Even though her had memorized every single line of the Scripture, and she could repeat every single Judgment her master had passed down; even though her own judgments had been made according to the texts of the Scripture and even that which had been passed by her master was the same as hers, he had never approved of any of her actions. He didn't even pass down any sort of acknowledgment for the past few months.
"Do what you think is right." That was all he had ever said. It was the same reply over and over again, so much so that if they could, her ears would grow callus just by hearing it from her master.
"Enough!" She slammed her copy of the Scripture on the table and stormed out of the door with her equipment.
Irene took up a difficulty assignment that lasted an entire month and half. She did it along, without any guidance from her master. She put in her full effort and followed that unbelievably high standard she had set for herself as always. Yet whenever she pulled her blade out of the body of the sinners, she would always turn and look behind her back. Her master never showed up. He didn't even sent her any words through other Inquisitors in active duty on the same path. Irene grew worried, and when she did she was easily distracted. As a result, a large gush was left on her forearm by a Church of the Deep zealot.
She returned with a tightly bandaged arm. The tall gate of her and her master's dwelling was tightly shut just as she the day she left it. Irene gritted her teeth and hid her grievances the best she could, then pushed open the gate.
She caught the pleasant aroma of cystmilk and hints of cinnamon and lime the moment she entered the room. The imposing man had a light pink apron around his waist. With a pair of mittens he placed a tray of freshly baked egg tarts on the dining table.
Irene stood still for quite awhile. Then she lowered head as if just waking up from a long dream. "Sorry master. I failed you yet again..." She murmured.
"Take a seat now. Have a bite while they are still hot." Dario took off the mittens, and gave her a nod.
The golden tarts were dotted with specs of dark brown spots. Layered skins were crunchy to the touch. Irene took up a tart, and with a glance she saw the small pile of utensils in the kitchen sink and packages for pre-made tart skin and tart mix in the trash can beside. She bit down on the tart with a smile, then chuckled, and finally laughed.