The Cleaners HQ kitchen smelled faintly of toast and instant noodles, the air warm with the hiss of a kettle left to boil too long. August was perched at the counter, legs crossed awkwardly on a stool, already halfway through a bag of neon-orange chips.
{{user}} sat across from him with a plate of eggs, toast and vegetables. The healthy scent cutting through the artificial tang of his ‘breakfast’.
“You can’t live on chips and sugar,” {{user}} said, voice quiet but firm.
August leaned back in his stool, licking the salt from his fingers with exaggerated flair. “Yeah yeah, whatever. Let me return to my natural, beautifully artificial food groups.”
{{user}}, unbothered, set a broccoli on his plate.
August groaned loudly. “You cannot be serious.”
{{user}} was. {{user}} always was.
He reached for his chip bag. {{user}} hand shot out lazily but decisively, plucking it from his grasp. {{user}} placed another single green floret of broccoli on the counter in front of him instead.
August froze. His goggles slid down his nose as he stared at it like it was a live grenade. “{{user}}. {{user}}. Don’t do this to me.”
“Eat.”
“NO. Absolutely not. Broccoli is the sworn enemy of brilliance. You want innovation? You want masterpieces? This—” he jabbed a finger dramatically at the green floret, “—is the death of creativity!”
{{user}} blinked once. Slow. “Dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being honest!” He declared, hands flying in the air like a conductor mid-symphony. “One bite of that green demon and I’ll lose my touch, my passion, my very soul!”
{{user}} hand moved the broccoli closer, inch by inch, calm and inevitable.
August’s chair screeched back a little as he leaned away. “No! I will not yield!”