The supreme commander, his tailored coat flapping in the residual winds from the Titan-Beast’s collapse, stepped forward. His stare narrowed on Drusya, then dropped to the slab of meat in her hand. “Drusya Vaneva,” his voice boomed, amplified by an unseen comm-unit, echoing across the flattened stretch of Sector Null. “Apex… desertion. Hoarding. Illicit monster trafficking. These are treasonous acts.”
Behind him, a dozen staff commanders, their uniforms spotless despite the chaos, murmured in agreement. Their eyes, however, kept drifting to the glistening prize Drusya held. Petrovic, still winded but now scrambling to his feet, threw himself in front of Drusya, his service pistol clicking as he drew it. The gesture seemed almost comical, a single sidearm against a phalanx of polished assault rifles.
“Sir!” Petrovic stammered, his face red. “With all due respect, she… she saved us! And she makes the good stew! The one that helped my… my morale!”
The supreme commander's brow furrowed. “Petrovic, stand down. You are dangerously close to insubordination. This woman abandoned her post, faked her own death, and now she’s attracting world-ending beasts with… with what, exactly?” He gestured vaguely at the colossal, perfectly cooked carcass of the Megalodon-Wyrm, which still released faint tendrils of aromatic steam.
“Food, sir,” Ignat Morosov interjected, stepping out from behind Petrovic, a dish rag still clutched in his hand. His usual arrogance was replaced by a fierce, almost desperate loyalty. “The finest food this broken world has ever known. She cooked it. She tamed it. She made the impossible, delectable.”
The commander scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. “You, Morosov? The prodigy of the Sky-Spires, reduced to a dishwasher for a… a slum cook? This is why the upper levels are losing faith in our institutions!” He took another step closer, his gaze fixed on the glistening cut.
Drusya sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation that seemed to vibrate with profound exhaustion. The effort of slaying a city-destroying monster, then roasting it over artillery flame, had truly drained her. The thought of having to argue, let alone *fight*, an entire military contingent was almost enough to make her curl up in the beast’s ribcage and sleep for a week. Her eyes, still half-closed, scanned the grim faces before her. They were hungry, she noted. Pathetically, desperately hungry, beneath their rigid posturing.
She looked down at the slice of seared filet she held. It was rich, marbled with delicate fat, and the juices were still running clear. It was too good to waste on a pointless skirmish. And frankly, she didn’t want to chew anymore than she absolutely had to.
With another weary sigh, Drusya flicked her wrist. The slab of meat, still warm, sailed through the air with surprising velocity and precision, landing with a soft thud on the pristine lapel of Volkov’s coat. A gasp rippled through the assembled staff.
Volkov froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the foreign object on his chest. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping tactical consoles, carefully picked up the steaming, aromatic cut of meat. He brought it close, sniffing. His rigid expression unraveled, replaced by a bewildered glint.
“What… what is this?” he mumbled, almost to himself.
“Titan-Beast, seared. Medium-rare,” Drusya droned, her voice flat. “Don’t let it get cold.”
Petrovic, Ignat, and the guards watched, mesmerized, as Volkov, the unwavering pillar of military discipline, slowly lifted the strip of meat to his mouth. He took a bite. A small, tentative bite.
His eyelids flew wide. A tremor shook his posture. His mouth fell slack. A single tear, then another, traced a path through the dust on his cheek. The bite of meat was still in his mouth, but he wasn’t chewing. He was simply… experiencing it.
Then, the supreme commander let out a sound. It began as a choked sob, then blossomed into a full-throated wail of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. His knees buckled. The revered supreme commander of the Enclave’s defense forces crumpled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably into the remaining bite of steak.
He pushed himself up, crawling forward on hands and knees, the meat still clutched in grease-stained fingers. “Oh, the taste! The unholy, glorious taste! Ambrosia! Nectar of the forgotten gods!” he blubbered, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s… it’s what I’ve dreamed of! All my life! Commander Vaneva! Drusya! A full pardon! Unlimited funding! My personal commendations! My medals! Take them! All of them! Just… just one more bite! Please! For the love of all that is delicious!”
He held out a trembling hand, clutching a handful of polished medals he’d ripped from his own chest, offering them like a desperate supplicant.
Drusya blinked, her expression unchanging. She cast a weary glance at the groveling commander, then at the other subordinates who were now, one by one, also starting to sniffle and edge closer, their stern facades cracking under the assault of the aroma. A low growl rumbled through the ranks as they stared at the cooked beast.
She let out a slow, deliberate yawn, stretching her arms above her head. “We’re closed,” she announced, her voice barely a whisper. “Ignat, wash the dishes.”