Night 17: Flamebringer, Baklava
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.
Pastries the Chef prepared today were once again scoured by the Sanktas. It was only 11 pm, and the pre-prepared pastry ingredients were near gone. The Chef took out a small plaque in resignation and put it into the display cabinet. The plaque read "Pastries Sold Out". It was a gift from Specter after he reserved a few meals for her. Seeing the plaque, the night-shift operators' weary hearts earning for comfort through sweets grew once again ever so heavier.
One of the unspoken rule of the Diner was never bribe the Chef. The reason why he agreed to Specter's requests was because she had been carrying her round saw with her that day.
"All the pastries were gone?" A customer asked in a gruff voice.
"Unfortunately yes. I still have fowlbeast meat soup and fried scalebass fillets. Want some?" The Chef said while putting an large iron basin into the sink.
"Baklavas?"
"Gone the moment when they came out of the oven"
"Tulumba?"
"Nope"
"Porridge with dried apricot?"
"Dried apricots were used up yesterday. Haven't got around to restock."
"...milk pudding?" The customer grew increasingly impatient.
"None left." The Chef too was tired of the endless inquiries. He stopped the matter at hand and pointed towards the Sanktas occuping a table on the left side of the dining area, "Order something else, or go get some from them. They bought half a tray of baklava."
The customer's gaze followed the Chef's direction. He grew silent. Moments later he huffed, then walked towards the table looking grim.
Soaked in syrup, the baklava broke up easily in the mouth. In between the layers of thin skins were embedded crumbs of pistachio and peanuts. This was not the delicate pastries fit for Victorians nor Siracusians. Indeed, it was one that had gone back to the very root of sweet pastries, and expressed its sweetness in a bold, rough-and-tumble fashion.
"So sweet~~" the Sanktas were devouring their treats. Sound of crispy pastry crunching between the teeth grew like an ocean wave, and the halo atop their heads glowed brightly with lights of joy. Their "empathy" was functioning at its highest capacity, and within the minds of every Sankta at the table flowed a powerful sense of happiness and elation.
Suddenly a trace of anxiety and anger intruded the shared euphoria. They raised their heads in unison, and focused towards a single direction as if detecting a great threat. Where their gaze was cast there stood a tall lean Sarkaz.
Rhodes Island had always hired for capability and merit. Race and birth were the least of concerns for Human Resources. With that said, there were still frictions between operators of certain backgrounds, especially when they belong to the groups with long-lasting tension: Ursine and Kazimierzian, nobilities and the Tarans, Victorians and Guals...well, Gual was no more. Sankta and Sarkaz had a historical hostility towards each other. Even for someone outgoing and open-minded like Exusiai, when encountering Sarkaz operators in the hallway, she would still put on a straight face and pass them by quickly.
"What do you want?" The group regarded him with alert, "Don't look for trouble unless you want to be sent down to the Securities."
"Relax, he wouldn't dare." One of them said, picking up a piece of baklava and throwing into his mouth. He chewed loudly, "Last time when a fight broke out here the boss handled it alone. A six-feet tall guy was literally thrown out by the boss himself and landed at the end of the hallway like some pathetic little cub."
The Sarkaz stared at the crumbs around his mouth and clenched his fist.
"C'mon now, let's get back to it. This guy here is probably drunk." The group resumed digging away at the baklava in the plate. There was not much on the plate. The speed which Sanktas at eliminating sweets was only matched by a sweeping Catastrophe through the land, and in just a moment there were only three pieces left. The sound of chewing and the fragrance of nuts and syrup assailed the Sarkaz's senses. Just as one Sankta was reaching for the last few pieces, he slammed his left hand on the table while reached into his jacket with his right hand.
"What are you doing?!" Sanktas quickly stood up. One after another, they were ready to draw their guns or crossbows. The air was still with tension. Other customers had quite a startle by the turn of events, and cast their gaze towards the group. Even the Chef had leaned on the counter, keeping an eye on the situation and its development.
The Sarkaz took out his meal card and a few sheets of Lungmen dollars from inside his jacket, then levelled his golden eyes at the Sanktas. "This money. Right here. For the rest of the baklavas." He said.
"Wha –" After a short moment of confusion, two Sanktas from the group whispered to each other. A sudden yet profound sense of dread spread into each and every Sankta through their shared empathy. They backed up slowly, keeping distance, wary of the Sarkaz.
It was said there was a Sarkaz man who led a solitary life away from his kin. He relished in blood and flame, chasing after the limit of life and death in the heat of battle. Countless people he had cut down, and their lives together could form a short history of Terra. And he had the eyes of molten gold, forever aflame just like the edge of his blade...
The Sarkaz stood there staring down at the angels in silence. He pushed the money on the table toward them. One of them came out of the group and cautiously collected the money, then watched as he sat down nonchalantly and started eating the leftover baklavas. They slowly stepped backwards, till confirming they had indeed gone out of the reach of his strikes, and finally turned and left. It was at this moment cold sweat dripped down their backs like water down the shingles in a rainy day. The inlay of their thick coat uniform become dampened then soaked .
"Who was that guy?" One of them mustered his courage and asked.
"Flamebringer," the one walking the fastest replied, "Stop asking, you don't want to know him."
It took days for the Sanktas to calm their frightened hearts down. When they once more gathered around to enjoy baklavas, Flamebringer appeared to them again. He would put down a wad of Lungmen dollars way overvalued to buy a few pieces of the pastry from their plate. The Sanktas would cautiously take the money and push the plate slowly to him, fearing even a heavy breath would add their insignificant names to his hit list.
"Baklava." Flamebringer slammed the money onto the table. This was his way to initiate the trade.
After a few rounds of the tentative trades, he reached some kind of silent agreement with the group of Sanktas. The angels would leave a few more pieces for him, and would return most of the money he put down. Till one day, he came in with a heavy-looking cardboard box and put it down on the table instead of the usual Lungmen dollars.
"Thanks." he then took the plate with baklavas and started eating, not before gesturing with his chin toward the box. "For you." He said.
The Sanktas opened the box in a hurry. Inside they found many pots of elegant flowering plants. Their rosy and cream pedals were still dotted with drops of fresh dew.