Chapter Text
"From here on, this will be your room, Mr. J. Some residents keep things as they are, while others renovate to their own taste, so... as long as it doesn't block the shared corridor or inconvenience the other residents, feel free to make it your own."
"Oh, uh... thanks."
"By the way — you're a blacksmith, correct? Whether we'd be able to set up a forge inside a private room, I'd have to look into that. Or there might already be a smithy somewhere in the Suitcase that I simply haven't found yet — or perhaps we could create one. And if neither of those works out, I could always build you a portable furnace you could use out in the Wilderness... though, well, it's entirely up to you, Mr. J. Would you like me to look into it?"
"Uh... s-sure. Please."
"Understood. I'll head back to guide the next resident now. If you need anything, feel free to let me, the Timekeeper, or Ms. Sonetto know. ...Does that work for you?"
"Yeah..."
"Then, excuse me."
— That was more or less how our first contact went.
He'd clearly assumed I was younger than him — cue the customary moment of shock when I told him my actual age. That little scene unfolded right on schedule.
What really stayed with me, though, was how uncommonly flustered and out of his element he seemed after that.
Restless, scanning the room like he was looking for an exit.
Through the whole exchange — the greeting, the key handover, the tour to his room — he kept glancing around, blinking at unfamiliar things, as if he'd wandered into somewhere he didn't quite belong and couldn't fully trust the floor beneath his feet.
The only way I could describe it: this man had the energy of a very large canid who'd gotten himself thoroughly lost.
Or one that had just been placed in an enclosure it had never seen before.
After parting with him, there was Mercuria, and then Pioneer — one by one, the Timekeeper handed them off to me as their paperwork cleared, and I walked each of them to their rooms the same way.
...Though for some reason, J had trailed after us at a distance the whole time — watching us with all the energy of a guard dog that's caught a stranger in its territory.
He seemed to think he was being discreet about it. I pretended not to notice.
"Right then."
So what on earth does he want?
I'd settled at a table near the corner of the Suitcase entrance, working through a stack of documents, when — just as before — I caught it: the carefully measured footsteps, and a gaze hovering somewhere behind me.
I finished the page I was on. Set the papers down.
"Please, don't be shy. Have a seat."
I gathered the documents, pulled my tea tray closer, and spoke to the room without turning — aiming my voice at a slight upward angle, just loud enough to carry behind me.
"..."
He went even more still. If anything, his breathing went quieter.
So I peeled the paper napkin off the spare cup I'd kept covered, poured out my now-cold tea, and said — without looking up:
"Mr. J?"
A few seconds passed. Then, like a man accepting his sentence, he stepped into view.
"...How did you know it was me?"
"Your gait — it's distinctive. The belt that holds your weapon across your back makes a particular sound when you move. And the height from which your breathing reaches me."
I gestured toward the seat across from me without turning. He sat down — more readily than I'd expected.
"Please, help yourself. It's gone cold, I'm afraid, and the tea leaves are nothing special."
I set the cup and sugar pot in front of him by way of welcome. He made some vague sound in response — something between "uh" and "oh" — but it was clear there was something else on his mind entirely.
He kept reaching for the cup, then pulling his hand back. His gaze drifted over to me, then away, then back.
He was working up to something.
Right. Let's try multiple choice.
"Is this about paperwork?"
"No..."
"A supply request, then?"
"Nope."
"Hmm. What could it be? ...Don't tell me you came all this way just to have a chat with me?"
"..."
"Pfft — sorry, sorry. I'm kidding."
J furrowed his brow at my quip, looking vaguely pained.
Whatever he'd actually come for, it clearly wasn't any of my suggestions — but that meant I was getting closer.
"...No. You were right. I came to talk to you."
"Oh."
Turned out that was the answer.
I tilted my head, keeping my reaction minimal so he could get the words out uninterrupted.
"Uh... so, look—"
"Yes?"
"Is that — that overly polite way you Foundation people talk — is it mandatory?"
"Not exactly mandatory. But it is recommended, as a way of expressing respect."
"...Doesn't it get exhausting?"
"Not particularly. ...Oh — I'm sorry. Has it been making you uncomfortable?"
"It — it's not exactly that—"
He fumbled.
"Just?"
"I can't tell what you're actually thinking. No, wait — that's not it. I know you're different from those government pencil-pushers — I know that."
"How so?"
"Because — when we first met, you said, 'the hands of a craftsman.'"
"I did, yes. They were impressive. I'd skimmed through the Timekeeper's briefing notes, and the moment I saw you, the entry for 'blacksmith' just clicked into place. The muscles built for swinging a hammer, the calluses on your palms, the skin that's been met by flame — I've always thought the marks that honest, hard-won labor leaves behind are something beautiful."
"Yeah... that's exactly it."
"Pardon?"
"That gap — between your tone, warm and genuine as it is, and the kind of stiff, cold formal language I've only ever heard from suits and government types — I can't make them fit together in my head."
"Ah. I see."
I gave a small nod — the kind meant to say: you don't need to work any harder to explain yourself.
I think I understood what he was getting at.
For him, formal speech wasn't a mark of respect or goodwill. It was the sound of contempt wearing a polished face — or the mask hiding something worse.
That kind of association isn't uncommon. People from places where the government's rotten or the streets are rough tend to carry it with them.
Not universal. Not rare either.
"Would you prefer if I spoke more casually?"
"...Yeah, I guess."
"My sincere apologies. Switching now."
"W-wait, I didn't mean you had to go that far — what are you doing? Why are you bowing?"
"Pay it no mind. Just a breath to reset — if you'll allow me."
I dipped my head formally. Then I breathed in, slow and deep — the kind that fills the lungs from the bottom up and replaces everything. Held it. Let it out.
Then I sat up straight and looked at him again.
A wide grin — hidden behind my mask, sure. But the energy behind it was real.
"— Alright! Ha, relax, relax, I'm not being weird about it or anything, promise! The thing is, polite speech is just, like... a habit, y'know? It's the most broadly useful tool for showing good faith to someone you've just met. But if it's making you uncomfortable, I'll dial it back — meeting people where they're at *is* the point of respect, right? If I'm overriding how someone actually feels just to sound proper, that kind of defeats the whole purpose, doesn't it?"
"—!?"
"Too much? Too familiar?"
"N-no, it's fine! I just — you switched so fast—"
"Good. Well — 'good' might be a stretch, ha! Sorry for the whiplash!"
I papered over the awkwardness of the switch with a burst of chatter, and took another sip of tea.
Cold, but honestly not bad like this.
J, still visibly recalibrating, mirrored me — he picked up his cup, took a sip, and made a mildly pained face.
"Cleaner finish than coffee or juice, right?"
"..."
"What, what's with that look? I was expecting something like, 'Oh, so *this* is what refined taste means — lukewarm and slightly bitter, very classy.'"
"...Was that supposed to be me?"
"Yep."
"I'm not that bad..."
"Ahahaha! Well, I'll keep working to stay someone you'd say that about."
J dropped his shoulders with a sigh. He gave me a look I couldn't quite decode — but honestly, fair enough, given the circumstances.
"Oh, hey — the forge worked out all right, didn't it? I happened to walk past when you and the Timekeeper were going back and forth about it."
"Yeah... that. I mean, sure. Like, she's the one who runs this whole place — and then she goes and acts like *I'm* the one in charge of the workshop?"
"Haha."
"'Make it bigger?' Lady, *you're* the one who can do that, not me. Come on."
"Hahaha — yeah, she does that."
I laughed along as J relayed the whole thing — mock-aggrieved, but clearly not actually bothered. I propped an elbow on the table, and he eased up too, resting one arm across the surface.
"Oh, by the way — there were a *lot* of eggs on your grocery request. Are you a big fan?"
A stray thought I'd been meaning to ask about. Might as well.
He unfolded his arms and leaned back, looking pleased with himself.
"Secret to staying in shape. First thing in the morning — crack a raw egg into a glass and down it in one go!"
"...Rocky!! That's so cool!!"
Several thoughts tried to come out at once and briefly jammed in the doorway.
Okay — specifically:
*Please use Japanese or Italian eggs for that, otherwise you're going to be bedridden for three days, which completely defeats the purpose.*
Or: *Boiled eggs actually have higher protein bioavailability than raw ones, statistically speaking.*
Or: *Very on-brand for someone your age.*
Sorry to burst that bubble while you look so proud of yourself.
"Speaking of Rocky — hey. Just between us." I leaned in conspiratorially, one hand near my mouth. "Did you know?"
"?"
He leaned in too, of course. Immediately. On instinct.
Unguarded as anything. This big man doing that without a second thought — it was a little... endearing, actually. That unselfconscious, boyish quality coming out of someone this size—
Never mind. Focus.
"...Recent research suggests that raw eggs actually contain a compound that interferes with the absorption of certain nutrients. Cooking them — boiling, say — deactivates that compound. So technically, you get more nutritional value out of a boiled egg than a raw one."
"Huh. Is that right."
"Yep. And plenty of people still go raw — for the movie energy, for the time-saving, for the sheer drama of it — and look, I get it, go for it. But—"
I checked his expression. No irritation, no defensiveness. Good.
"—You know, if you actually end up with food poisoning, you're out of commission for days. So if you're going the raw egg route, Japanese or Italian eggs are genuinely the way to go."
"Hang on — there are eggs that are safe to eat raw?"
"Absolutely."
The skepticism in his voice was obvious, but so was the curiosity. I nodded firmly.
"They're a bit pricier, though..."
And right on cue, to avoid sounding like I was lecturing, I tossed in the self-deprecating caveat — give the other person the easy win, keep it light.
"Japanese ones run about a dollar thirty for ten... Actually, what do eggs go for where you're from? Per dozen?"
"Buck twenty."
He said it exactly as I'd predicted — just slightly triumphant, deliberately languid, the energy of someone who's clocked the competition and found it overpriced. He leaned back.
"Yeah, Japanese eggs are a bit steep."
"'A bit?' That's Manhattan prices right there."
He shrugged, deadpan. I laughed.
"Ahahaha — but in exchange, you are *guaranteed* not to get sick! If you factor in the cost of being laid up for a few days, it might actually be worth it?"
"'Guaranteed' is a big word for a raw egg."
"Oh? *Is that a challenge?* Japan's raw egg culture is a national *institution* — the safety standards are Grade AA and beyond, the sanitation protocols are intense, and the proof is: nowhere on the carton does it say 'cook thoroughly before eating.' And there is not a single Japanese person alive who hasn't eaten a raw egg. Try wrapping your head around *that.*"
"Ha! Japanese people have cast-iron stomachs or what? If we tried that back home we'd be out for a week. And you're saying the carton doesn't warn you to cook it? That's not confidence, that's terrifying. Japan running low on food options or something?"
"YOU — how DARE you — you — YOU — YOU!!"
"Wh — WHAT?!"
Okay. That's it. I could not let that stand!!
Before I'd consciously decided anything, I was on my feet, jabbing a finger in his direction like I was trying to poke a hole in the air between us.
He stared at me, thrown completely off-balance by the sudden rapid-fire jabbing — and even his baffled expression wasn't quite enough to fully cool me down.
I marched over, reached out, and grabbed him by that impressive bicep of his.
The muscle gave a satisfying squish under my grip.
Still not enough.
"You are going to EAT TAMAGO KAKE GOHAN RIGHT NOW!!"
And I hauled him up out of his chair and started towing him across the room.
His arm tensed up immediately.
"Hey — WHAT?! Where are we going?!"
"I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND!! Fihihih!"
"HEY!?"
"Thanks for not dragging your feet, by the way!!"
"Oh — uh — wait, that's not — HEY—!?"
*
"You are going to EAT TAMAGO KAKE GOHAN!!"
"Okay, okay, okay—"
I marched the young guy into my room, shoved him into a chair, and plonked a bowl of TKG right in front of him. He looked completely flustered.
"Can you use chopsticks? No? Here's a spoon—"
I pressed it into his hand and he sat there looking helplessly lost.
...He really did look like a big confused canid that had been hauled out of its territory against its will.
Kind of cute, honestly.
"Is this... actually edible? Plain rice, raw egg, some kind of powder? And this jet-black sauce..."
"What do you mean, 'dog food'?!"
"I didn't SAY that!?"
He shot back and looked at me.
On his face — just barely, peeking through — was something caught between nerves and uncertainty. But he clearly thought showing fear was uncool, because his eyes slid away almost immediately, working hard to cover it.
Like a dog in an unfamiliar place, tail between its legs, but posturing anyway.
...A dog, though? Where? What's the resemblance, exactly...? Am I more exhausted than I think?
Next time I see Pickles I'm absolutely borrowing those big, thick, wonderful ears under the guise of a scalp massage...
No. Focus.
"So — funny timing, actually. My egg shipment from Japan arrived just yesterday. And I happened to have rice cooking for lunch or dinner already, so. Lucky you."
"Some might say unluc— ...no. Nevermind."
I smiled at him. Slow. Pointed.
He gave up and nodded with a sour face.
"Fine. I'll eat it."
"Just give it a light mix first."
"..."
He repositioned the spoon and started stirring without a word.
The soft sound of the egg coating each grain of rice — to me, unmistakably appetizing. To him, probably deeply unsettling.
"You don't have to stir it *that* thoroughly. ...Are you nervous?"
"Am not."
"The magic powder makes it absolutely perfect, don't worry."
"Stop trying to psych me out! And what even *is* that powder?! And this black sauce looks sketchy as hell—"
"AHAHAHAHAHA!!"
I cracked up. I couldn't help it.
"WHAT?!"
He scowled.
I answered through the laughter.
"Ha — sorry, sorry. It's just regular Japanese soy sauce and monosodium glutamate."
"Mono- what?"
"Ajinomoto. A Japanese seasoning made from sugarcane."
"Sugarcane — so it's sweet?"
"Ajinomoto isn't sweet. It's not sugar... just eat it, you'll understand. It's fine, I swear!"
"Fine!"
He half-resigned himself to it, gave the spoon one last stir — then stopped. Drew a long breath. Steeled himself.
Raised a heaping spoonful.
Golden-glazed white rice, gleaming under the light.
He stared it down for a solid ten seconds. Sniffed it.
Honestly hilarious.
But he was dead serious about it, so I watched him quietly with a smile, arms folded.
Finally, his jaw set with decision.
Eyes squeezed shut. Mouth opened wide.
And he shoved it in.
"..."
Just the sound of chewing. A long pause.
*Gulp.*
Without a word, he went back for a second bite. Swallowed faster this time.
"...!!"
He looked at me with an expression I hadn't seen from him yet.
"Well?"
"...It's like — risotto? No — more like a pasta sauce — creamy, rich, and — *what is this?*"
"Tamago Kake Gohan. Good?"
"...The texture — we don't really have anything like this back home."
He couldn't just say *yes*. I understood — I'd more or less forced this on him. But he didn't have to.
Getting him to eat it was the whole point.
"The raw egg slipping around — once you mix it into the rice, it's... not as weird as I thought it'd be. And the rice itself is different from what I'm used to — rounder, a little sticky, kind of sweet-smelling. That must be what covers the raw-egg smell. It went down easy."
"Yeah, I think you're onto something — the smell and texture of raw egg is usually the main obstacle. Some people add a drop of vanilla extract when drinking raw eggs straight, to help it go down... but pairing it with fragrant rice does something similar, naturally."
"And there's this — what is it — it's not just salty, there's this... depth? That spreads out in your mouth. Not like sauce, not ketchup, and definitely not just the egg — it's more like an ache at the back of your tongue. Makes you want another bite—"
"Ah, that's probably the magic powder."
"Is that the sugarcane thing you mentioned?!"
"Hey, you remembered. That makes me happy."
I laughed and nodded.
"Right... bold in concept, solid in execution. And it genuinely is safe, yeah?"
"Yep. Vouched for by me — born and raised in Japan, eaten this more times than I can count — and Ms. Satsuki. And X and Ms. Sotheby both tried it once out of curiosity."
Not a single stomach casualty among us, I added.
Satisfied, J returned his gaze to the bowl and picked back up.
When I nudged him to hold the bowl properly, he found the whole thing easier to manage, and the pace of his spoon picked up considerably.
And I sat across from him — arms folded, quietly nodding — and watched contentedly until the last bite disappeared.
Quietly relieved, too. Another new resident, and we'd made it past the awkward stage.
I'd eased back toward more formal speech toward the end of the meal, blending the registers a bit — and he didn't seem to mind this time.
END.
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