Just Like Old Times

Our commander had gathered the squad leaders of our company around him. He stood atop a supply vehicle, looking out onto the whole group of officers. He stood proudly, yet wearily, before us, like how a father returns home to his children after a long, hard day at work.
“I wonder what this is all about,” said Mik.
“No doubt it is of great importance, for he summoned the whole of the company before his presence,” I answered.
“Ugh,” groaned Mik. “Gods, man, would it kill you to speak a little less snobby to me? Every time we talk it’s like I’m at a poetry recital.”
“And I know how much you hate poetry,” I said.
“Ohh, yeah,” he uttered.
“Be not-“ I stopped myself. “Don’t worry, Mik. I’ll try to take it easy on you.”
“Brave warriors,” started our commander, whose very words hushed us quickly. He was Yarir ‘Ahnanee. A competent commander, conventional, caring towards his men. “While the fighting has been brief and relatively modest on this world, on Novi Herzegovina, the terrain has been less than ideal for our movements. I am as exhausted as you are… which is why what I am about to do will be most welcome for us all.”
‘Ahnanee had a crate moved into full view, and he opened it via interfacing with a holographic console. The top of the crate came off, and our commander’s face filled with enthusiasm. He picked up a small pack of some sort of canned foodstuffs from the supply crate. ‘Ahnanee pulled from the pack a single can, holding it up for all of us to see. There were several gasps of awe.
“Chef ‘Munakhee, the master!” excitedly stated Mik. Indeed, the sight of the canned dumplings filled with ground maegophet meat is just nostalgic. Many a Sangheili youngling has had a dish of maegophet dumplings cooked for him by his mother. Chef ‘Munakhee-brand dumplings are considered “the standard” across the Covenant, although any true rustic Sangheili knows that the best ones are homemade ones, not ones that come from a can. However, I digress. Our commander generously distributed packs of the cans amongst the lances, calling us forth in ascending order.
“Lance 7!” he yelled out. Mik and I approached him, and he handed off the cans to Mik. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you, sir,” we both said. Then, we departed for the rest of our lance, who were resting beneath a tree. The hilly, forested terrain was difficult to navigate, and the spring sun made travel slightly more challenging. Rivers crisscrossed this particular section of the planet, and fording them was a struggle in and of itself. Basab, Vek, and Vok, our Unggoy, Tes, our Kig-Yar, and another Sangheili, N’tho ‘Sraomee. N’tho was dedicated, loyal, obedient, an all-round good warrior. However, his orthodox thinking frequently clashed with Mik’s rebellious streak. Nevertheless, I knew that even he would appreciate this particular luxury.
“Your leader has returned bearing gifts!” I announced to the lance.
“Ooh! Is it more plasma grenades?” asked Basab.
“Sorry to crush your hopes and dreams there, Grunt,” said Tes, “but to me that looks like canned food.”
“Provisions?” asked N’tho.
“Provisions!” elatedly exclaimed Vek and Vok, twins. They shared a gesture where they balled their fists and struck each other’s knuckles, as affirmation.
“That’s right, my fine friends, we have Chef ‘Munakhee,” Mik said.
“Incomparable to the food I remember eating as a youngling, but considering the locale we find ourselves in, far from home, I am most eager to have this taste of my childhood,” mused N’tho.
“Indeed,” I said, distributing cans to everyone in our lance. Tes declined a can with her hand held up as she shook her head. She had not developed a taste for Sangheili food.
“More for me,” said Mik, taking Tes’s can.
“Go right ahead, sir,” said the Kig-Yar sharpshooter.
“Mik, start a fire,” I ordered my subordinate. “It’s better eating these warm.”
“Got it.” And so, after a few moments, flames were lit, and we warmed our cans. More minutes passed before we took the cans away from the fire, eating the hot dumplings coated in spiced vegetable paste with makeshift utensils: solid metal daggers. Mik did away with any utensil altogether, electing to consume his share with his hands.
My family looked down upon food such as this, considering it fit for only the peasants working the fields, or the urban poor. I, however, found it quite tasty, and would often choose to consume it with Mik whenever he and I spent time together, away from my family keep. I was always welcome in Mik’s household, modest and unassuming, a platter of Chef ‘Munakhee warm and ready for me.
I looked to him, and he to me.
“Just like old times, eh?” he asked. I nodded in agreement silently, considering it improper to talk with my mouth full.
Category:The Weekly