Chapter 11:
CH 6 END
METRO 1497
CASTLE GROUNDS CAFETERIA — EVENING —After a long hard day's work in the blazing sun, it's now time for the Kitchen's Restaurant Night shift.
The cafeteria is already roaring by the time Metro ties his apron around his waist.
Long tables are packed shoulder to shoulder. Boots scraping the floor. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Steam rolls out in thick, fragrent waves.
Ana runs the joint like she was born it— sleeves rolled, hair tied. Voice cutting through the noise, yet you can tell she's struggling, but not speaking up.
Ana: "Two more pots on the fire!"
A couple of farm hands jump to obey, scrambling around her with flour on the shirts.
They're strong,
but green.
Ana guides them, and they follow like soldiers.
Metro shoulders past a pair of infantrymen, pointing at a stack of dirty plates.
Someone whistles at him.
Soldier: "Overseer in the trenches!" "Look at him— one of us, at last!"
Metro doesn't bother answering. He just drops the plates into the wash basin, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.
There's a rhythm to it— rinse, scrub, stack. A beatable challenge, something from keeping his mind reverting to something negative. Not wanting to think about politics, the fortress, or the weight of forty thousand Quarter Blooms.
He nods in agreement with the infantry men, trying to stay positive.
Behind him, the farm hands are chopping vegetables in the blazing hot kitchen. Under Ana's direction, they try their best to keep up with her direct, assertive order.
Metro wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
The whole room is a chaotic furnace, but somehow, the energy is still good.
Alive.
Human.
He carries a tray of clean dishes back out to the floor. Soldiers cheer when they see him.
Soldier 2: "Overseer! more brew over here!"
Soldier 3: (pointing at a spill) "Hey! You missed a spot, there!"
Soft laughter erupts from the front of the house, rolling through the doors in a warm, rowdy wave.
Blake glances up. That split second is all it takes. His hand brushes the iron Skillet.
A sharp hiss.
A sharp gasp.
Blake: "AH!— Ow!… hot!"
He jerks back, knocking a spoon off the counter. Then a bowl. Then a ladle. A full cascade of Blake-ness.
Farmhands dodge, and try to catch things, scrambling.
Blake shakes his burned hand, trying to play it off.
"I'm good! Totally good!"
Ana scoots beside him, instantly grabbing his wrist, leading him to a bowl of cold water.
She dumps his hand in the water, looking at him deeply for a moment.
Blake:"I was just checking the tempature…. I'm ok…"
Ana: "Blake… Get some fresh air…"
He opens his mouth to protest.
Ana:(nods, assured) "Go."Blake nods, embarrassed, cradling his hand as he steps out.
Metro weaves through the panic-packed cafeteria, performing a balancing act, plates on his forearms, elbows on his hips. The noise is a wall— boots, mugs, laughter— but he moves through it with practiced calm.
He reaches Lutheran's table. The infantry leader is flushed red from ice brew, shoulders loose, grin wide. His band of soldiers already half gone, leaning into each other, loud and warm.
Metro starts stacking bowls, then collecting cups. A soldier elbows his buddy, then calls out.
Soldier: "Overseer! Report! How many dishes have you slayed!?"
The table erupts. Metro doesn't rise to it. He just gathers more cups, stacking them on top of each other, three sets of stacked cups in one hand. He balances bowls and mugs like he's done this a hundred times.
Smooth.
Almost graceful.
That only fuels the infantry's noise more.
Lutheran watches him with a lazy, amused tilt, swirling the last inch of ice in his mug.
His eyes half lifted, voice warm and calm, but devastatingly stern.
Lutheran: "Well boys, if he doesn't make captain… I'm sure he'll make for a beautiful waitress!"
The joke detonates. The tables explode— fist pounds on wood, men howl, some riviting of there benches.
The laughter rolls across the room like a wave. Metro freezes for half a second— not offended, not angry— just unsure how to process it. His face heats, but he keeps his chin up, posture straight.
He turns, cups and bowls high in his hands, and walks away with an unreadable expression, the roar of laughter chases him across the hall.
He doesn't look back.
He doesn't know how to feel.
He just keeps moving—
— METRO'S PERSONAL CHAMBER —
Steam rises around Metro as he sits in his chamber hot tub. He scrubs coconut oil through his hair.
The chamber is dim, candlelight flickering across the stone. For the first time all night, its quiet, peaceful almost…
The laughter echoes, disturbing his stillness.
Not the joke, just the sound of it.
It unsettles him.
Water drops down his face. He sinks deeper into his bath, all the thoughts hit him at once.
Rose's softness, Veronica's sharpness,Theron's political weight, the laughter…
His face settles into a stare, conflicted, still.
His sight focuses on candlelight as if trying to see a future he can't name.
Scene fades
. Scene ends.
Switch Scenes.
— MORNING —The room holds a blue still vibration inside of it.
Metro wakes from his chamber bed— the air feels thin, almost sacred, but not quiet.He sits up slowly, shoulders rolling once. The smell of cold ash and dry wood linger from last night's fire.
He tears into a strip of jerky, the salt waking his tongue.
He meditates for a few moments, just at the edge of his bed. Feet planted on cold stone.
Hands on knees.
Back straightened.
Eyes closed.
He grounds himself, he releases negative energies, and recharges himself. A faint white glow is seen shimmering ever so slightly. It feels cool and refreshing.
As he dresses— shirt, belt, boots— the leather creaks softly and the cotton feels nice, each motion deliberate and unhurried.
A slip of paper waits under the door. Ana's handwriting curves around it.
✱ left early on the first chariot to the village. Blake insists he comes. We're headed back to check on home. Keep working and don't worry, we will be back tomorrow before sundown.
Love, Ani ✱
— DOWNSTAIRS —The kitchen is alive for breakfast, rising steam, metal clattering, voices layering a morning routine.
He continues to push through the set of steps, each one splitting wider than the next. Through the cafeteria, into the main hall. He doesn't stop. Doesn't speak, just moves with that calm, purposeful stride.
Outside the front gate, the glowing hay fields can be seen.
The air here hits colder— crisp enough to sting the lungs. The sky is pale, washed gold, trying to break through the blue.
The towering gate stands open. Guards stand, and some sit, breath fogging in short bursts.
Sally waits near the post, tail lashing back and forth, ears pointed toward him before he even lays a hand on her neck.
Metro swings into the saddle in one smooth motion. For a moment he sits still. His eyes sharpened with an inward draw. He leans forward and gently taps Sally with two heels.
Metro: "Let's go babe."
Sally moves. They take off, cutting through the cold morning, into the Whispering Forest.
— Scene fades black —
The cafeteria is already roaring by the time Metro ties his apron around his waist.
Long tables are packed shoulder to shoulder. Boots scraping the floor. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Steam rolls out in thick, fragrent waves.
Ana runs the joint like she was born it— sleeves rolled, hair tied. Voice cutting through the noise, yet you can tell she's struggling, but not speaking up.
Ana: "Two more pots on the fire!"
A couple of farm hands jump to obey, scrambling around her with flour on the shirts.
They're strong,
but green.
Ana guides them, and they follow like soldiers.
Metro shoulders past a pair of infantrymen, pointing at a stack of dirty plates.
Someone whistles at him.
Soldier: "Overseer in the trenches!" "Look at him— one of us, at last!"
Metro doesn't bother answering. He just drops the plates into the wash basin, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.
There's a rhythm to it— rinse, scrub, stack. A beatable challenge, something from keeping his mind reverting to something negative. Not wanting to think about politics, the fortress, or the weight of forty thousand Quarter Blooms.
He nods in agreement with the infantry men, trying to stay positive.
Behind him, the farm hands are chopping vegetables in the blazing hot kitchen. Under Ana's direction, they try their best to keep up with her direct, assertive order.
Metro wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
The whole room is a chaotic furnace, but somehow, the energy is still good.
Alive.
Human.
He carries a tray of clean dishes back out to the floor. Soldiers cheer when they see him.
Soldier 2: "Overseer! more brew over here!"
Soldier 3: (pointing at a spill) "Hey! You missed a spot, there!"
Soft laughter erupts from the front of the house, rolling through the doors in a warm, rowdy wave.
Blake glances up. That split second is all it takes. His hand brushes the iron Skillet.
A sharp hiss.
A sharp gasp.
Blake: "AH!— Ow!… hot!"
He jerks back, knocking a spoon off the counter. Then a bowl. Then a ladle. A full cascade of Blake-ness.
Farmhands dodge, and try to catch things, scrambling.
Blake shakes his burned hand, trying to play it off.
"I'm good! Totally good!"
Ana scoots beside him, instantly grabbing his wrist, leading him to a bowl of cold water.
She dumps his hand in the water, looking at him deeply for a moment.
Blake:"I was just checking the tempature…. I'm ok…"
Ana: "Blake… Get some fresh air…"
He opens his mouth to protest.
Ana:(nods, assured) "Go."Blake nods, embarrassed, cradling his hand as he steps out.
Metro weaves through the panic-packed cafeteria, performing a balancing act, plates on his forearms, elbows on his hips. The noise is a wall— boots, mugs, laughter— but he moves through it with practiced calm.
He reaches Lutheran's table. The infantry leader is flushed red from ice brew, shoulders loose, grin wide. His band of soldiers already half gone, leaning into each other, loud and warm.
Metro starts stacking bowls, then collecting cups. A soldier elbows his buddy, then calls out.
Soldier: "Overseer! Report! How many dishes have you slayed!?"
The table erupts. Metro doesn't rise to it. He just gathers more cups, stacking them on top of each other, three sets of stacked cups in one hand. He balances bowls and mugs like he's done this a hundred times.
Smooth.
Almost graceful.
That only fuels the infantry's noise more.
Lutheran watches him with a lazy, amused tilt, swirling the last inch of ice in his mug.
His eyes half lifted, voice warm and calm, but devastatingly stern.
Lutheran: "Well boys, if he doesn't make captain… I'm sure he'll make for a beautiful waitress!"
The joke detonates. The tables explode— fist pounds on wood, men howl, some riviting of there benches.
The laughter rolls across the room like a wave. Metro freezes for half a second— not offended, not angry— just unsure how to process it. His face heats, but he keeps his chin up, posture straight.
He turns, cups and bowls high in his hands, and walks away with an unreadable expression, the roar of laughter chases him across the hall.
He doesn't look back.
He doesn't know how to feel.
He just keeps moving—
— METRO'S PERSONAL CHAMBER —
Steam rises around Metro as he sits in his chamber hot tub. He scrubs coconut oil through his hair.
The chamber is dim, candlelight flickering across the stone. For the first time all night, its quiet, peaceful almost…
The laughter echoes, disturbing his stillness.
Not the joke, just the sound of it.
It unsettles him.
Water drops down his face. He sinks deeper into his bath, all the thoughts hit him at once.
Rose's softness, Veronica's sharpness,Theron's political weight, the laughter…
His face settles into a stare, conflicted, still.
His sight focuses on candlelight as if trying to see a future he can't name.
Scene fades
. Scene ends.
Switch Scenes.
— MORNING —The room holds a blue still vibration inside of it.
Metro wakes from his chamber bed— the air feels thin, almost sacred, but not quiet.He sits up slowly, shoulders rolling once. The smell of cold ash and dry wood linger from last night's fire.
He tears into a strip of jerky, the salt waking his tongue.
He meditates for a few moments, just at the edge of his bed. Feet planted on cold stone.
Hands on knees.
Back straightened.
Eyes closed.
He grounds himself, he releases negative energies, and recharges himself. A faint white glow is seen shimmering ever so slightly. It feels cool and refreshing.
As he dresses— shirt, belt, boots— the leather creaks softly and the cotton feels nice, each motion deliberate and unhurried.
A slip of paper waits under the door. Ana's handwriting curves around it.
✱ left early on the first chariot to the village. Blake insists he comes. We're headed back to check on home. Keep working and don't worry, we will be back tomorrow before sundown.
Love, Ani ✱
— DOWNSTAIRS —The kitchen is alive for breakfast, rising steam, metal clattering, voices layering a morning routine.
He continues to push through the set of steps, each one splitting wider than the next. Through the cafeteria, into the main hall. He doesn't stop. Doesn't speak, just moves with that calm, purposeful stride.
Outside the front gate, the glowing hay fields can be seen.
The air here hits colder— crisp enough to sting the lungs. The sky is pale, washed gold, trying to break through the blue.
The towering gate stands open. Guards stand, and some sit, breath fogging in short bursts.
Sally waits near the post, tail lashing back and forth, ears pointed toward him before he even lays a hand on her neck.
Metro swings into the saddle in one smooth motion. For a moment he sits still. His eyes sharpened with an inward draw. He leans forward and gently taps Sally with two heels.
Metro: "Let's go babe."
Sally moves. They take off, cutting through the cold morning, into the Whispering Forest.
— Scene fades black —
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