Page 10 of Sanctuary and Spices

Barou’s voice rumbled as she appeared at my door, her scales shifting from welcoming gold to resigned bronze. “That’ll be Pix. Our resident… innovator.”

Almost on cue, a small figure bounded into my room. The Quarvik barely reached my waist, their makeshift helmet—amodified cooking pot—tilted at an odd angle. Wires dangled from various pockets, and their wide grin revealed sharp teeth.

“New neighbor!” Pix declared, bouncing on sticky feet. “And a chef! Perfect timing. I just finished upgrading the communal kitchen’s protein synthesizer. Well, almost finished. There was a small explosion. But! The flavor matrix is at least 47% more efficient now. Probably. Want to test it?”

“The protein synthesizer… exploded?” I asked, struggling to process the rapid-fire words.

“Only a little!” Pix’s eyes gleamed with unbridled enthusiasm. “But the fire suppression system worked! Mostly. So, what do you say? Real chefs never get to play with experimental molecular gastronomy equipment. Unless…” They leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Did you really tell off an Aurenai ambassador?”

Heat crept up my neck. “News travels fast.”

“Are you kidding? It’s all over the feeds! ‘Crown Chef Schools Diplomat on Proper Food Appreciation.’ Some are calling it a diplomatic incident, but who cares about diplomacy when you can have perfectly seasoned nebula foam, right?”

A laugh bubbled up, rusty from disuse. It felt strange but good.

Barou crossed her arms, amusement flashing in her eyes. “What did we say about testing inventions on new residents?”

“That I should wait at least one standard day?” Pix offered innocently. “But this is different! She’s a chef! A real one! Do you know how long I’ve wanted expert feedback on my culinary innovations?”

“Your last innovation turned all the synthesized protein purple for a week.”

“And it tasted amazing! The color was purely cosmetic. Mostly.” Pix turned back to me. “You’ll try it eventually, right? Once I fix the small explosion issue?”

Another laugh escaped. “Maybe. Once you fix the explosion issue.”

“See? She’s perfect!” Pix bounced again. “We’re going to be great neighbors. I can tell.”

Barou sighed, though fondness softened her expression. “Out, you menace. Let her settle in.” She shooed Pix away with practiced ease. “And no more explosions today!”

“No promises!” Pix disappeared down the hall, their chatter already resuming.

Barou shook her head. “You’ll get used to them. Eventually. Here.” She handed me a small package. “Basic necessities, fresh linens, house rules. Shared spaces are marked on the diagram. The kitchen is… usually functional, despite Pix’s improvements.”

“Thank you.” The simple kindness made my throat tighten.

“Rest. Settle in.” Barou moved toward the door. “Oh, and if you hear any strange noises from next door…”

“Ignore them unless something’s on fire?”

“You learn quick.” With a nod, she left.

I sank onto the bed, my small bag of belongings still untouched. Through the wall, Pix’s muttering about circuits and flavor matrices provided a strange comfort. My hands found my grandmother’s cookbook in the bag, its worn cover familiar and grounding.

The memory hit hard: standing on a stool in her kitchen, her hands guiding mine as we kneaded dough. “Food is love, little one,” she’d always said. “Not just nutrition. Not just fuel. Love.” Somewhere between the Crown’s molecular gastronomy and endless performance metrics, I’d forgotten that.

Setting the book on the desk felt like planting a flag. A beginning.

A thump from next door, followed by triumphant cursing, made me smile despite myself. The small potted Velthryn ivy onthe desk trembled slightly. I touched a leaf, and it leaned into my hand like a cat seeking affection.

“You too, huh?” I murmured.

The station’s night cycle dimmed the lights gradually. Through my window, the residential garden’s crystals glowed faintly, and the moon Danti hung low against a star-scattered sky.

I unpacked methodically, placing chef whites into storage, not discarded but shelved for now. Grandmother’s cookbook claimed pride of place. Each small action felt like a declaration: I’m staying. This is my space.

Through the wall, Pix’s chatter continued:

“…quantum-aligned spice rack… plasma fields… oh, don’t tell Barou…”

---