DAY (1)

Dilemma, planning, visitation, getting to know him before cooking, dynamic setting (rocky at first).

Why the fuck did I agree to this shit?

I wake up from my smooth white sheets, pouring out my rage in a shrill. I look to the window, heaving already. Flying cars around this city, holographic advertisements everywhere from the view of my 20th-floor studio apartment.

Inhale, Wanda. Let the oxygen hurt your lungs a bit like a balloon on the verge of exploding.

Then, exhale. Like you're letting go of every pain you went through in your life.

I get down from the bed, placing my feet on the soft insoles. I wait as my insoles pixelate around my feet to form a pair of fuzzy sandals. I notice the left one missing some pixels and groan. I have to repair them soon.

Walking to my living room, my house looks too clean as if no one lives there for a while. Sighing, I start making my coffee.

"HELLO, WANDA!"

"WHAT THE FUCK?" I shout, spilling my coffee onto my hand.

Turning my head to the source of the voice on my right, I scoff.

"Damn droids!" I wince at the heat on my hand.

"Sorry! Sorry!" My Droid, wheels himself to a nearby napkin, rinsing it with cold water, and pats my hand with it.

Soon enough, a breath of relief escape my mouth from the soothing sensation.

"Winner, what did I tell you about startling me?" I look at him.

The Droid blinks at me. I chuckle a bit.

My father made him out of broken binoculars with used bionic eyeballs and black car chassis cut with a circular saw for the rest of his body parts on top of those little wheels. Below the binoculars he has a triangular-shaped microphone and a screen that shows pixelated expressions, with small speakers as his dimples.

"My apologies, Wanda. I had to load my memory of commands. You did say..." There are computer chimes before he continues his words.

"...When I wake up, do not frighten me. When I get startled in the morning, I tend to have a bad day." He recites my exact voice from a recording.

Somehow, it sound more irritating than fellow humans or Mechahumans who mock you by mimicking your words by how you said it because this machine literally uses your words against you. Even though he's basically supporting my argument, in this case.

"Yes, that's what I said, Winner. So why did you forget?"

"I think I am having a trouble with my Mecha memory. Could you please take me to Droid vet?"

I look at my watch, seeing no urgent messages from Lara or Ruby, so I nod to him.

"Yes, but I can only drop you there. Be sure to memorize where we are going so you can retrace your way back. Or if you can't because of your memory problems, I'll tell the workers to program you home."

Winner blinks and smiles.

"Alright, pack your charger dock."

"Yes, Wanda!"

Time blurs fast. Before I know it, I am already at Droidoctor Clinic with Winner wheeling beside me. There are two people before us.

"Did you memorize the way home or is your memory too fucked-up?" I ask him with a smirk.

"...Hey! Not nice with those curse words!" Winner plays a recording of my father's voice.

My eyes darken, every amusement faltering. Suddenly, having a mini heart attack in the morning feels better than his voice.

"What did I say about playing Dad's voice?"

"...I don't remember."

Scoffing, I shake my head.

"Loser."

We walk forward as the person in front of us finished registering his session with his own Droid. Winner winks at the female Droid, who blushes but glitches right after.

"Hello, there. I'd like to book a session for my wheeler Mecha-model Droid, Winner. He is a vintage and modified model of Mechdroid 6153. Material consists of steel and aluminium from a Toyota chassis, a part of a binocular model I don't know the name of, and expired bionic eyeballs that was meant for transplant. He's 19 years old." I place Winner's record book on the clinic counter, the admin takes it.

"Alright, Ma'am. Can I have your name and address please?"

"I'm Wanda Edisa. My address is Panorama Five Street, Turbo Apartment, 20th floor, Unit 15."

"Contact please."

"Uh... Is it okay if I use Mechawatch ID instead of my phone?"

"Yes, sure."

"W-A-N-D-A-6-1-7-4." The admin nods.

"Alright, is there any problem with Winner we should know about?" I sigh slightly.

"He complains about memory troubles. It seems to me that it's not memory loss, but it seems that he isn't as quick in accessing them, which disrupts personalized commands and all."

The admin takes a look at Winner and wince a bit.

"Alright, please take a seat-"

"Actually, I'm late for work right now. Is it okay if you bill me once he's done and give him a command to go home?" I catch the admin's uncertainty before she softens.

"I'm a bit pessimistic that the doctor won't need your time, possibly for consent of rewiring surgery, especially because Winner is a vintage. However, if all goes well I'll do just that. But I hope you can be here around 12 P.M, around worker's lunch hour, because Winner is scheduled for 11:45 A.M." I shift my gaze to Winner, realizing how old he is turning that he might need the robot equivalent of a human brain surgery.

"I'll..." I hesitate a bit, chuckling from the disbelief of the fact. "I'll just be back at 12. He'll be fine."

The admin smiles slightly. "Alright, we'll wait for you."

"Be good, Winner."

"Yes, Wanda." Winner chimes. I walk out from the clinic, walking about a kilometer to the High Breed Sled Station in Oblivion Street. Going down the stairs to the underground, I wait for the train. The sign says Oblivion Street Station - 2 Minutes. I play a song in my earbuds, sitting on a bench.

Soon, the Transformer Huskies come running with their sled capsules, holding hundreds of people. The Huskies halt at their designated braking stop point. Some leave the capsules, while the station cleared from the people who waited.

After two minutes and a half, I arrive at the third station after the one I came from: Cyberpavillion Boulevard. I arrive before I know it, really. Many things here are almost instant. The Huskies travel in a minute for a ten kilometers distance between every station. Even that comes with a promise of compensation if they arrive in exactly 60 seconds because apparently, a minute is too slow. I don't know how these Mechahumans live in such a rapid pace. Maybe that's why the human minority would rather live in Old Alaska or Old Lombok. They would rather live in a space conserved with nature, no instant pace that human brains just can't process as fast.

Walking from the station, Sapiensa is just right across the exit. I enter the empty restaurant. This time, I am not the early one.

"Chef! We were worried!" Caelan says.

"Sorry, forgot to text that I had to take my Droid to the vet first."

"Is he okay?" I sigh, taking off my backpack to which Caelan takes it.

"Just some memory troubles. I'm sure he'll be fine. What are the chefs working on?"

"They are resuming experiments. The Apprentis are taking lectures from Ruby." I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank God. I don't want to lose my partnership with Culinary Arts Academy. I forgot I even have a lecture today."

"Um, Chef?" Caelan clears his throat.

I furrow my eyebrow in curiosity. "What?"

"Mr. Wright is here. I let him in because of your deal with him..."

I look at the table with that man in his classic suit. He looks like he hadn't showered or maybe it's the mere fact that every man basically have the same tuxedos. He waves at me and stirs his coffee, eyes unreadable.

"What was his order?" I whisper to Caelan, my eyes still on Eli.

"Black."

"Bean?"

"...Liberica." Caelan looks confused. "Why are you asking?"

"Just trying to determine how difficult this one month will be..."

"And?"

"Let's just say... if we impress him, Holostars might have to create a new tier where we could have a fourth one." I step to Eli, leaving Caelan's eyebrows raised.

"Hi, Eli." I smile slightly.

He looks at me, eyes narrowed through the rim of his coffee glass. As he sets his down, he chuckles a bit and smirks, amused.

"Strange one you are."

I tilt my head, face crouching in confusion.

"Why is that?"

"It's just... No one really calls me Eli without asking for permission." He shakes his head.

"Would you rather me calling you Sir and whatnot?" He laughs slightly.

"No. In fact, I'm curious why you immediately chose to. I imagine being a three-starred chef requires an intricate protocol in keeping your reputations clean."

"You're a conglomerate of historians. I don't doubt your worth of being referred with formalities. I just don't think that as someone who looks like you could be my peer, you are any different to me. Honestly, I respect you enough as Eli Wright. No need to sue me for not treating the rich any different."

Eli smiles and softens again.

"Don't worry... Wanda. I am humble for whatever concept of filthy rich you have."

I look out the window for a bit. A flying car landing on a parking spot to a shop adjacent to us. I shift my eyes back to Eli.

"I'm going to interview you today."

"Shoot."

"I won't be subtle about what I want to cook. First, what's your favorite food?"

Eli tilts his head, eyes looking up while he thinks.

"Maybe spaghetti carbonara."

"Why?"

"It's classic, timeless, hard to fail if you already got the ingredients correctly."

"What is the best memory associated with carbonara?"

Eli looks at the window, thinking while smiling softly.

"Conversing with my parents. They work a lot when I was a child. I was basically raised by the maids. They take me out only when it's fancy galas or important dinners. They always take place in fancy restaurants somehow. I would never miss on spaghetti carbonara in each restaurant that has it. Those dinners forces this bubble in our table that we can't complain about. My parents are sick of work too, probably hate most of the people in the party. But for the sake of reputation, they attend. They seem happy that they could spend time to talk to me when they can or use our conversations as a distraction of the boredom."

I smile too, imagining the scenario.

"Making most of the time you can have..." I whisper.

"Yeah..." Eli chuckles.

"Did your parents ever cook for you?"

"Twice in my lifetime, maybe."

"Who did?"

"Mom."

"Do you like what she cooked?"

"A lot. It was tonkotsu ramen. She learned how to make ramen when she was handling our NGO branch in Tokyo for a year before I was born. Fucking delicious."

"You seem to like noodles a lot."

Eli's eyes brighten in realization.

"I actually just piece it together as well."

"What about go-to breakfast?"

"Chocolate spread sandwich."

"Are you more of a sweet tooth or umami tongue?"

"Balanced."

"Favorite groceries snacks?"

"Probably Second Millenium snacks."

"So like, Lays, Cheetos?"

"Yep. More specific on seaweed-flavored Lays." Eli looks at me, eyes squinting.

"What about you though?" he says.

"What about me?"

He shrugs.

"What about your relationship with food? Does it remind you of anything? Your achievements, hard work or family-"

"Stop." I grit my teeth, looking away from him.

I can feel his concern and sympathy.

"You cook for humanity and love, but shut out your own."