With the exhaust fans on, the oil receding, Haru cracked an egg against the rim of the frying pan and split it open with one hand, dropping its goppy contents onto the searing hot surface. Instantly the translucent whites turned opaque upon contact with the oil, buffering the dome of yellow yolk that rested on top. Radicals of oil lept at Haru like burning fleas, her pyjamas only saved by the pink frilly apron. Three more eggs joined the pan. Her round frame glasses started to fog over the hot stove and had to be wiped clear. The eggs were severed from the enamel bottom with the wooden spatula to prevent them from sticking, the yolks jiggling as though getting tickled. Haru giggled at the thought.

“Careful,” said KD in their booming voice, who loomed over Haru like a long broad shadow. “I want my yolks of the unborn intact, so when I bite into them I can savour the simulacrum of devouring my enemies.”

“Hehe… simulacrum.” To shake off the crispy bits stuck to the spatula, she struck it against the rim—*clang clang!*

And like a primitive man upon banging two stones together, something delightful was discovered: a musical rhythm, on the horizon of a new synesthetic frontier. With the sizzling in the background, inspiration struck, and it buzzed into the joints of her jaw and down her arm holding the spatula.

♪Sizzle sizzle!♪ Haru sang, hit the pan. *clang clang!* ♪Sizzle sizzle!♪ *clang clang!* ♪Pop, crack, fry the eggs on the grizzle! *clang clang!*—♪ Then she swung the spatula over to KD, hoping that they would join her in cooking up some rhymes, however, they whipped at it instead.

*SNAP!*

The head of the wooden spatula broke off at the neck and clattered onto the linoleum floor, a victim of abuse, a martyr to heckin good rhymes.

“What the heck was that for, KD?!”

“It cannot be helped! I am wary of ambushes at all times,” KD protested.

Haru raised her brow. “With a spatula? In our bunker?”

“I…” They scrunched up a long arm like a sleeve and sheepishly scratched the side of their head with a finger. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget that you do not pose a threat to me, and for that I am a tremendous fool.”

Although their white skull face was one rigid piece, it looked like it sagged a little. It was moments like these that reminded her of the circumstances of their meeting two months ago, that hurt could last despite the wounds healing long afterward. So, unable to stay angry for long, she tossed the headless spatula into the bin with the other broken utensils, then gently patted KD on the arm. “Let’s get these eggs onto the plates, shall we?”

KD nodded vigorously.

With a fork, the eggs were parsed out onto the plates—one for Haru, three for KD—in order to free up space on the pan for the thick-cut bacon, or “pig flank” according to KD. A greasy scent saturated the kitchen despite having the exhaust fans on at full blast. It lingered humidly even when they sat to eat. The dining booth was designed for a modestly-sized human instead of a Void Entity so, naturally, it was a rather tough fit for KD than for Haru. KD had to such in their gut, scrunched up their arms, and hunched over like an old crone just to jam itself into the booth. Meanwhile the girl had more than enough room to comfortably shift around.

The bunker was a small, concrete burrow shunted deep into the crust. The thick walls, its depth, all to weather the possibility of an enemy bombing. Back then, before the city became a crumbling ruin, people always forecasted annihilation by the kilotonnes. That it was only ever a button-press away. Everybody expected as much. So did her mother too, which was why the bunker was built. Luckily though, the rain never came. But the Folding happened instead.

The sunnyside eggs were partly runny, partly overdone when Haru cut into it and took a bite. At least the bacon was hot and smoky. Breakfast was still good. The utensils looked miniature in the large hands of KD. It was a rather messy ordeal to watch, like witnessing a murder. The fork was used to more so violently stab at the food than to eat with. Then, after they got tired of violating the eggs, they pressed the eviscerated mush into the approximate area of where their mouth was, and through some quirk of biology the eggs were “eaten” somehow.

“We’re going to need a new spatula,” said Haru.

KD burped, then slammed their fists on the table, heaving the plates and utensils up before clattering back down. “I agree. Let us venture to the mall to acquire a new spatula.”

Haru shook her head. “No, not the mall. Those spatulas suck buns, yo. I want one that’s more durable, good for cooking and for making music.”

“And where do you propose that we find such a worthy instrument for the cooking of breakfast?”

A rolodex of places flipped through her mind as she chewed on a mouthful of eggs, recalling the previous ruins she had looted, the gossip of merchants at the market. Most had only the cheap plastic ones after the other city goons looted anything metal from the shelves when the demand for it soared that one summer. The highest chance of finding a quality, metal spatula had to be somewhere untouched, which was for a good reason.

The mushy eggs in her mouth travelled down like rocks when Haru swallowed.

KD perked up at the apprehension. “I sense glory, adventure and danger ahead of us.”

“Mhm.”

“Gone with the suspense, Haru! I must know where.”

A cold shiver crawled up her spine. It was rather risky to venture into that part of the city ruins, especially for a spatula when any cheap one would do. Even so, getting a sturdier spatula meant more than just about flipping eggs. It was about making music, making rhythms and rhymes, and maybe, just maybe, getting KD to feel comfortable enough to join in on the fun. Focusing on that instead, she found a well of courage to draw from. A sudden swell of confidence welled up in her throat and she said, “The Convention Centre.”

KD straightened up, its horns scraping against the concrete ceiling, and bits of debris fell onto the table. “A thrilling challenge to test my physical prowess.”