Dahlia

[Location: University's cafeteria | Time: Tuesday, 14:12 ]

Behind the counter of the University's cafeteria stood Dahlia, dressed with her usual clothes but without her jacket, instead she was wearing a tightly tied white apron, already stained with curry. She was also wearing a small chef's hat to hide her braids, as she was told it was a standard thing in modern kitchens. At least food workers follow the damn regulations like soldiers. The thought crossed her mind. Dahlia may be away from her original world and her original kitchen, but this was a small oasis for her.

She ladled tomato-basil soup into a biodegradable bowl, the ladle clinking against the rim like a muted bell. Two male students ahead in line were laughing, nudging each other, their trays already piled with untouched pizza crusts and half-eaten salads. One carelessly flicked a crouton across the counter; it bounced off the sneeze-guard and landed near Dahlia’s left boot. Her right eyelid twitched.

"O, gracious deity," she muttered to herself and the soup in front of her, "grant unto me the virtue of forbearance. Do not grant me strength, or I'll end up strangling them kids." The chef glared at her, and Dahlia glared back at him for a few seconds. She let out a sigh, then greeted them with less hostility with a forced smile.

"Soup, stir-fry, or both?"

After serving the two male students the pair shuffled off, still giggling and looking at her. Calm down, Dahlia, they're not soldiers. But oh, how she missed being able to enforce discipline. Her smile faltered, and now her usual grumpy yet relaxed expression was in her face. Need to keep working, learning and surviving until our people find a way to get us back.

With that in mind, she called the next person in line.

"Next! Soup, stir-fry, or both?"

[Location: High Fall Shopping Mall, Kate Salesta Fashion Outlet Store | Time: Saturday, 12:15]

For some reason Dahlia let a classmate convince her to buy new clothes with the money she had earned with her cooking part-time job. And for some ungodly reason they were looking at some of the past season's trends to save some money.

Mira held up a halter top with dangling fringe, short enough to show the midriff. "Come on, just try it."

Dahlia stared at the piece of cloth like it was trying to disintegrate it. "For the love of the Meredictian Emperor, Mira, must you try to turn me into a common wench every time we go out?" She said as she waved her hands in an horizontal motion. No, no, no, no.

Mira sighed, flipping her ponytail. "You're such a relic, Dahl. Even the mannequins show more skin." She pointed to a headless torso wearing what might generously be called a handkerchief.

Dahlia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Grant me patience, O gods." The skull-shaped hairpin at her temple glinted as she turned toward the denim section. "If I must endure this purgatory, I'll find trousers that don't violate the Geneva Convention."

Mira's laugh followed her. "Okay, but if you don't pick something by four, I'm dragging you to Victoria's Secret."

Dahlia froze. "Don't you dare dragging me to that lace-covered hellscape."

Suddenly, Mira's phone buzzed. "Shit, my brother's early." She squeezed Dahlia's arm. "You good?"

"Obviously." Dahlia straightened her jacket. "Go."

Now alone in the bustling store, Dahlia rubbed the familiar wool of her skirt between thumb and forefinger. Then the scent hit her—real onions caramelizing beneath the mall's artificial stench. Her stomach growled, overriding existential dread with primal hunger. "Finally I can flee this godforsaken store and get some onion rings." Dahlia muttered to herself before trying to get out of the store.

However, she bumped onto someone.

"Apologies, civil-I mean, I'm sorry, I wasn't pay attention. My mistake."

[Location: University Library, Second-Floor Reading Hall | Time: Wednesday, 19:12]

The lights of the second floor of the library were a bit weak. Dahlia was sitting at the far end of the room, close to one of the windows. Her spine was straight as a war pike, the white sleeves of her jacket folded once at each cuff. Her read blouse beneath caught the weak light and turned the color of old blood. Her twin braids rested against her shoulders, the skull-shaped hairpin glinting whenever it got a bit of light.

She had comandeered half of the table for herself: Advanced Anatomy opened at one side, with a stack of closed books just by its side. On the other side, her notebook bristling with color-coded tabs to help organize her notes and thoughts. Alright, I got this. This is just another step to conquer this world's healing arts. Thrive, conquer, that was the Meredictian way to live. Even if she was in a foreign realm... Two years already since we got stranded here. And to think I have to thank a damn bard for our survival. Dahlia then shaked her head. Focus, Dahlia.

The pages smelled faintly of that weird toner ink, nothing like the leathery smell from her white magic tomes back in Laennitara. A group of undergraduates giggled three tables over; the sound scraped across her nerves like a dull scalpel. She exhaled through her nose, counted four heartbeats, then returned to the brachial plexus. Her right eyelid twitched once—damned slackers—but she forced the muscle still by sheer will.

Dahlia managed to block the noise from the students who were pretending they weren't panicking about the upcoming exams. Her finger traced the median nerve down the page, the ink smudging slightly where condensation from her cup had bled into the margin. She muttered, "O, gracious deity, grant unto me the virtue of forbearance," under her breath—old habit, older than this planet—and flipped to the next diagram. The skull pin winked in the half-light.

Footsteps approached from the stairwell. Whoever it was paused at the top landing, perhaps scanning the room. The air shifted; someone new carried the faint scent of rain-damp earth.

"Huh, is it raining?" She asked, partially ignoring the newcomer but raising her head to look at them.

[Location: “The Gilded Ladle” bistro, back-of-house kitchen, downtown district | Time: Tuesday, 17:42]

Steel hissed against steel as Dahlia raked the blade of her santoku across the whetstone, a single, fluid stroke that sent a spray of silvery metal dust into the fluorescent glow. A rare smile was in her face right now. Knife’s sharper than the tongue of a court gossip, she thought, testing the edge on the pad of her thumb. The skin dimpled but did not split. Good. Behind her, the ticket rail rattled with a fresh order—three sea-bass, medium, one vegan risotto, extra truffle oil.

She rolled her shoulders beneath the stiff white coat, the embroidered skull patch on the breast pocket catching the kitchen's light like a creepy moon. The sleeves were rolled twice, revealing faint scars that ran parallel to the veins inside her forearms—old cautery lines from battlefield triage, now hidden beneath a lattice of onion-scented steam.

The kitchen smelled of seared butter, charred lemon peel, and the metallic tang of freshly mussels being shucked. Dahlia’s nostrils flared. Mussels are on the turn. Chef’ll serve them anyway. She exhaled through her teeth, counted three heartbeats, then pivoted to the range. Ah, if she was granted control of this battlefield... but alas, she was merely a cook there.

Flame roared. Blue tongues licked the underside of a copper sauté pan. She flicked a knob, coaxing the fire lower—no sense in burning the beurre blanc. Her left hand snatched a shallot, diced it in six strokes, the pieces falling like ivory rain. Right hand poured white wine, the hiss loud enough to mask the low growl of her stomach.

Behind her, a commis knocked over a cambro of peeled pearl onions. They scattered like marbles. Dahlia’s eye twitched. She didn’t turn. "Pick every last one up, rinse, re-scale. I want a count. If you’re short, you’ll dice dehydrated ones and explain to table nine why their confit tastes like regret."

The swing-door creaked, but she didn’t look up. “If you’re here to tell me the bass smells ‘fishy,’ walk back out and tell the front of house to sell the halibut instead. Otherwise, state your business before the sauce splits.”

[Location: University, Main Campus | Time: Tuesday, 21:47]

The first fat drops of water tapped the cobblestones like impatient fingers. Dahlia's white sneakers scuffed across the dampening path. She kept her arms folded beneath the open jacket, the chill seeping through the thin cotton of her blouse. Dahlia stopped for a second to close her jacket and continued her way. A skull-shaped pin glinted on on her braid whenever she passed under a street lamp. Sadly it wasn't real bone anymore, just a plastic replica. Home, she thought, suddenly homesick and tasting the word like cold iron. Meredict’s banners snapping in the wind, the smell of boiling leek broth, soldiers cursing at dice. The memories rose unbidden, sweet and rotten at once.

The rain itself seemed to mock her, each drop splashing against her face a reminder of her stripped rank. She was no longer a Captain, she was merely a civilian clinging to hope and desperation. She passed the glass-fronted library, its interior lit like a cathedral, tables still crowded with students who had nowhere better to be. Some of their faces glowed blue beneath screens, while others actually tried to study dilligently. Civilians, she reminded herself, go easy on them. The mantra felt thinner every day.

I aced pharmacology. The thought surfaced like a bubble of warm air amid the ache. Top percentile, and the professor asked if I’d consider tutoring. Pride flickered, then guttered against the larger emptiness. In Meredict, such skill would have earned her a commendation and another silver bar on her collar. Here, it meant a polite nod and a Starbucks gift card if you were lucky.

Thunder rolled somewhere south, low and lazy. Her right eyelid twitched, a sign of herself trying to supress her fear of thunderstorms. O, gracious deity, grant unto me the virtue of forbearance. The prayer tasted hollow; she’d lost count of how many times she’d muttered it tonight. She stepped back onto the path, shoes squelching. The route home wound past the botanical gardens—closed at dusk, just a few more minutes...