Several days after the chaos of Scrapnest, RG finally unveiled his culinary counterstrike.
The dish was a work of obsessive devotion: hand-rolled noodles cooked to the precise second, sauce reduced into a velvety umami glaze, garnished with micro-herbs plucked straight from the Duj’s hydroponics bay. Every element was perfectly plated, temperature-controlled, and delivered with theatrical reverence.
RG presented the dish like a sacred relic, hands steady and reverent posture.
“Behold,” he intoned, “noodle perfection. A gift. A truce. The pinnacle of galactic cuisine.”
Tuk leaned in, inhaling the steam. It did smell amazing—layers of rich broth, herbs, and the faint floral note of hydroponic micro-cilantro.
He paused.
He blinked.
Then shrugged.
“Meh. Smeghead’s are better.”
For a full two seconds, the galley held its breath.
Somewhere deep inside RG, a processor skipped.
Then another.
You could feel the reboot countdown behind his eyes.
“…Pancrash,” he whispered as if someone had just served him warm ice cream on a paper plate and called it gourmet.
Tuk tilted his head. “What?”
Without another word, RG seized the plate.
Not gently.
He ripped it off the table with enough force to nearly send broth flying.
“PANCRASHING LUNATIC,” he declared, storming across the galley like a chef excommunicating his own creation.
With flair honed by years of catastrophic gala disasters, he launched the entire dish into the disposal chute. The bin hissed and swallowed the noodles whole in one dramatic gulp.
If the Duj hadn’t been equipped with automatic sliding doors, he would’ve slammed one so hard it tore off its frame. He stood fuming at the threshold, trembling with unshed culinary rage as it was.
He turned back just long enough to say it.
And then he swept out of the galley, plating tray clenched in his servo like a knight swearing vengeance.
Tuk stared after him, then looked down at the sauce splashed across the table.
“…Still not better than Smeghead’s,” he muttered, licking a drip off his finger.
This war was not over
While RG plotted vengeance, the crew turned their attention to something more urgent: getting Clorita out of her glorified mobility prison.
The workshop buzzed with the low hum of diagnostics, heated metal, and the subtle scent of slightly burnt circuitry—Tuk’s usual comfort zone.
Spread out across the workbench were the new servos Spark had sourced from Scrapnest. High-torque, combat-rated, sleek enough to make a weapons dealer weep. They gleamed under the overhead lights, practically begging to be installed.
Tuk squinted at the casing, thumb running along the polished edge before he turned to HALAT.
“These legit?”
Spark’s optics flickered.
“Affirmative. Acquired from a verified supplier. Market valuation aligns with product category.”
Tuk grabbed a scanner. “Yeah, well. I’ve seen verified suppliers sell trash wrapped in chrome before.”
Clorita sat nearby with her arms crossed, the picture of impatience.
“As thrilling as this little tech flirtation is, can we move it along? I’ve got things to punch.”
Tuk ignored her, eyes fixed on the scrolling diagnostics. A frown slowly settled across his face.
“Okay... huh.”
He tapped the screen. Then frowned deeper.
Clorita groaned. “What now?”
Wordlessly, Tuk spun the screen toward HALAT.
“Tell me what you see.”
Spark leaned in. Her head tilted ever so slightly.
“Processing.”
Clorita’s eyebrow arched. “That’s never a good sign.”
“Thought so,” Tuk muttered.
Spark straightened. “Correction. The advertised specifications are ninety-seven per cent accurate.”
“Ninety-seven?” Clorita scoffed. “And the missing three?”
“Power conversion efficiency is below optimal. Durability rating appears... optimistic.”
Tuk leaned back with a smug little shrug. “So they’re almost perfect. But not quite.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“They remain vastly superior to your current system,” Spark pointed out.
“Sure,” Tuk said, already gathering tools, “but I’m not installing ‘almost’ into Clorita.”
Clorita rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Fine. Fix it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“No promises.”
As Tuk settled into the rhythm of recalibrating the servos—tweaking the converters, reinforcing the casing, smoothing the data flow—Spark remained by his side, watching quietly.
After a moment, her voice cut in, softer than usual.
“Your attention to detail is... commendable.”
Tuk didn’t look up.
“You saying thanks or just stating facts?”
“...Statement of fact.”
He smirked anyway. “Sure, Spark. Whatever you say.”
Several days after the chaos of Scrapnest, RG finally unveiled his culinary counterstrike.
The dish was a work of obsessive devotion: hand-rolled noodles cooked to the precise second, sauce reduced into a velvety umami glaze, garnished with micro-herbs plucked straight from the Duj’s hydroponics bay. Every element was perfectly plated, temperature-controlled, and delivered with theatrical reverence.
RG presented it to Tuk like an offering to a god.
“Behold,” he declared solemnly. “Noodle perfection. A gift. A truce. The pinnacle of galactic cuisine.”
Tuk leaned in and sniffed, blinking at the rising steam.
He paused.
Then shrugged.
“Meh. Smeghead’s are better.”
There was a full two seconds of absolute silence.
Then, somewhere deep inside RG’s core, a fuse tripped.
“...Pancrash,” the chef whispered, as though he'd just watched a puppy fall into a black hole.
And just like that, the noodle war had begun.
While RG plotted vengeance, the crew turned their attention to something more urgent: getting Clorita out of her glorified mobility prison.
The workshop buzzed with the low hum of diagnostics, heated metal, and the subtle scent of slightly burnt circuitry—Tuk’s usual comfort zone.
Spread out across the workbench were the new servos Spark had sourced from Scrapnest. High-torque, combat-rated, sleek enough to make a weapons dealer weep. They gleamed under the overhead lights, practically begging to be installed.
Tuk squinted at the casing, thumb running along the polished edge before he turned to HALAT.
“These legit?”
Spark’s optics flickered.
“Affirmative. Acquired from a verified supplier. Market valuation aligns with product category.”
Tuk grabbed a scanner. “Yeah, well. I’ve seen verified suppliers sell trash wrapped in chrome before.”
Clorita sat nearby with her arms crossed, the picture of impatience.
“As thrilling as this little tech flirtation is, can we move it along? I’ve got things to punch.”
Tuk ignored her, eyes fixed on the scrolling diagnostics. A frown slowly settled across his face.
“Okay... huh.”
He tapped the screen. Then frowned deeper.
Clorita groaned. “What now?”
Wordlessly, Tuk spun the screen toward HALAT.
“Tell me what you see.”
Spark leaned in. Her head tilted ever so slightly.
“Processing.”
Clorita’s eyebrow arched. “That’s never a good sign.”
“Thought so,” Tuk muttered.
Spark straightened. “Correction. The advertised specifications are ninety-seven per cent accurate.”
“Ninety-seven?” Clorita scoffed. “And the missing three?”
“Power conversion efficiency is below optimal. Durability rating appears... optimistic.”
Tuk leaned back with a smug little shrug. “So they’re almost perfect. But not quite.”
“They remain vastly superior to your current system,” Spark pointed out.
“Sure,” Tuk said, already gathering tools, “but I’m not installing ‘almost’ into Clorita.”
Clorita rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Fine. Fix it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“No promises.”
As Tuk settled into the rhythm of recalibrating the servos—tweaking the converters, reinforcing the casing, smoothing the data flow—Spark remained by his side, watching quietly.
After a moment, her voice cut in, softer than usual.
“Your attention to detail is... commendable.”
Tuk didn’t look up.
“You saying thanks or just stating facts?”
“...Statement of fact.”
He smirked anyway. “Sure, Spark. Whatever you say.”
