Despite my reluctance to go full murderhobo, I wanted to test my theory of being able to test the collar. My pressing theory was that there was no alarm function, and it was a simple mechanical lock. Ink proved his usefulness once again. The lock was not a simple lever lock that could be defeated by ink fashioning himself into a skeleton key; it was a primitive tumbler. I practiced lockpicking as a hobby in college to impress girls, mainly by accessing hidden spaces at clubs and house parties for a little privacy. My challenge was transferring that information to the inkling directly connected to my soul. Thankfully, the little fucker was tenacious, and the manufacturing industry of this world had not perfected tolerances. There was an intuitive mental connection between me and Ink, and I was starting to think it was different from what the other three could have offered me. I think his neophyte nature was what allowed the bond. Either way, it allowed him to combine my aura vision with his ability to shapeshift. He didn’t understand tumblers and pins at first, but a few mental prods helped him form an iron key. I stopped him before he could fully turn the lock. He turned it a little bit, which meant that it would only take a moment.

  I slept the sleep of kings but still woke up early enough to see the stars. I took an astronomy class as part of an elective for my degree. I hoped that the knowledge would help me figure out where in the universe we were. I had the sinking feeling that the one-hundred-level course wouldn’t get me there. I wondered if I was alone on Earth or if there were others who had come here with me. I spent five cycles in the dungeon. That was almost a decade on earth. I wondered what the newness was in tech, and if electric cars took over. I would answer these questions, at least if there were other Earthers here. I would not be a slave. At least not for long if this shoddy quality of suppression was a standard.

  Morning came with a gentle stir. I was lying on my back. The night had been cool but pleasant enough. I heard stirring from the others in their bedrolls and decided to play the dutiful slave today. I walked over to the fire and added a few sticks, using one of them to move the few live coals into the center. A few deep breaths and blows, and the fire was stoked.

  Rogan quickly sidled over with a fist raised. I shrank back, this was his domain after all. He looked at the small fire I had rekindled and grunted with approval.

  “Good knows fire. Does know Breakfast?” His deep voice carried the question well.

  “I can try. Worst case, Gorn beats me for burning his bacon.” My comment elicited a bellowing laugh from the Pachy. He then tossed me a pouch that weighed more than it should for its size. I looked under its top flap and saw absolute darkness inside.

  I should have played dumb, but the darkness called to me. It was the Void. I knew what this was, but didn’t dare dive it despite my desire. I touched a finger inside and felt the contents spring to life. There were almost a hundred ingredients of varying quantity; the vast majority I didn’t know. I felt that this was a test of some sort. What would a good slave do? He would try his best. Back in my old life, I was a breakfast bar kind of person. Or espresso and a stroopwaffle. Simple, easy faire that went down quickly on my way out the door. However, on the weekends, my wife would sleep in. I would play video games until I heard her start to stir, and then I would begin the only magic my world knew. I loved to cook breakfast. I was not on for fancy faire either. No quiches in my domain. Home-cured and thick-sliced bacon? Now that was my jam. Here I was, though, on the ultimate version of chopped, without a clue, so I started with what I knew.

  My first creation was skillet tortillas. Flour, because that’s both what he had and what I was confident to make. I'm pretty sure it was wheat as well as the flour reacted exactly as it should. I didn't have a press or paper, but a well-oiled pair of nesting cast iron made for a hell of a dutch oven. The rhino was intrigued as I pulled the first of a dozen off the bottom of his skillet. He looked at me with concern when I had used one of his pans as a scoop for embers. As a cook, I understood, don’t fuck with my cast iron. I swear I could see him taking notes.

  My next creation was the challenge. He had about half a dozen different versions of sausage. Nothing seemed to spoil in the bag, yet all of them seemed to be hard-cured and smoked. I guessed that meant bags of holding were less common than travelers who needed to eat. At last, I found a raw sausage. I tested a little bit of it on the skillet to get its flavor. Gorn seemed to be personally offended by my tasting it. Rogan was a cook, though, and he understood what I was doing. He was testing me in his domain and did not broach the others’ intrusion. A solid look set the cow back on his hooves.

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  The sausage tasted like a lightly seasoned bratwurst and had a similar casing. I looked deeper into the bag for utensils and finally found what I needed, a wooden spoon. The one pan was still hot from cooking the tortillas, and it quickly received the sausage as I squeezed it from its casing. The spoon gave it a good break up into browning crumbles. I dumped and tapped out the other pan and set it aside to cool. It wasn’t perfectly clean, but it would only add to the flavor.

  I pulled out what I hoped was an onion and diced it into the cooking sausage. Thankfully, the flora on this planet was very similar to Earth. Garlic, salt, and a little bit of dill soon joined the sausage. As it was cooking, I pulled out the ingredients of my final two creations. You needed two last things for a proper breakfast burrito: Eggs and salsa. A dozen eggs were cracked into a bowl and quickly whisked. This caught the pachy’s attention even further. Did they not know scrambled eggs in this world? If I got another chance, I would make an omelet to blow his mind.

  The sausage was almost done as I started on the salsa. Apparently, molcajetes were a thing here. It had been decades since I watched my adoptive grandma make salsa in hers, but it came back like it was yesterday. The peppers were an odd purple color. I briefly paused, holding them up.

  “Hot?” I asked, only getting a nod in return

  I made a few quick cuts and began to grind. It was a simple salsa, closer ot a hot sauce really. I added what smelled like vinegar and a pinch of salt. Three cloves of garlic and a drizzle of honey for sweetness. I added the beaten egg to the hot oil in the pan and began alternating mixing. Rogan saw the difficulty I was faking and motioned for the stone bowl. I let him concentrate on that while I focused on not burning the eggs. They finished light and fluffy, so I added them to the warming pan with the rest of the ingredients. I pretended not to notice as Rogan sampled the sauce, I was grinding. His smile after tasting it showed his approval.

  With all the ingredients complete, I began assembly. Here is where I hit my first snag. Protocol. Who ate first? I deferred to Rogan as I created the first burrito. He stared at its novelty and its simplicity, and offered it to Shy, who had come to watch.

  Shy was at a loss for how to eat the taco. I didn’t wrap it right.

  “It helps if you tilt your head a little.” I offered up. I will tell you this: I will never forget the absolute hilarity of a fox trying to daintily eat a taco. She tried little bites and was barely past the initial tortilla before I had the other two up. Rogan took a solid bite. His eyes rolled back as he savored the flavors and the textures. I’m not sure if his mouth evolved for eating such things, but lord, he tried. Gorn, on the other hand, shoved the entire thing in his gob and swallowed it, holding his hand out for another. I happily obliged.

  I ended up making two for each of them, not leaving much left in the pan. I offered the last bit to each of them before Rogan motioned it to me. I looked over at Gorn, seeking his approval. He crossed his arms in denial but then looked away. I ate the food appropriately. That is, I scarfed that shit down faster than any skill would allow.

  “Did you teleport that to your stomach?” By her tone, Shy was appalled at my manners.

  “Sorry, ma’am, it’s been a while since I last ate actual food.”

  ‘You were there for a while, weren’t you?”

  “At least several months.”

  “You help cook now. ‘Till we sell,” Rogan added. My face fell a little bit at the sell part.

  “Worry not, human. Our treatment may be harsh, but it is the norm in these lands. However, skills are prized amongst mortal slaves. So you just increased your worth. We cannot keep you; there are rules about that. But impress us and we will drive up your price. That food was adequate for a mortal and will grant you a better life than the mines.” Shy added

  “Rules, m’lady,” I tried.

  “Yes, but also don’t call me that. I appreciate that you don’t understand the connotation, but I shall not be over-titled. As for the rules. You cannot keep what you catch. Too much animosity, you see. Even if we were to train you and keep you as a full member of the party, you could never fully trust us even if we took that collar off. ‘Once a slave, always a slave,’ they say. The same is true for slavers, though they don’t tell you that when they give you a collar for free. Nor when they tell you the reward for bringing it back.” I would say she sounded redeemable in that moment—a ‘slave’ to a system of abuse. I wasn’t naive enough to think this world was a utopia, not that it was free from the same disease that plagued ours. It was simple; some things were a choice. What was the price of your morals? In my heart of hearts, I knew sooner or later I would meet my bargian. I wondered what it would be.

  “Will need more wood, fresh game. Send human. May get potential. Worth more.” Rogan chimed in with his guttural speak. This got Gorn to his feet, or hooves, whatever, he stood up.

  “Come trash.” He said it, but I felt more bravado than hate for once. Food does that.