I flopped down on my bed, exhausted. It had been another hard day. Last week had been my seventeenth birthday, which meant I now qualified for ‘adult’ tasks as opposed to ‘child’ tasks. This included giving breakfast to the summoners down in Summoner’s Sanctum, repairing many of the worker droid machina, and sometimes even scouting out in Bikanel Desert for lost wanderers or machina parts. And regularly helping out in the kitchen for two or three meals a day. It was only five in the afternoon, meaning that my work had far from finished; after this five minute break I would have to get to work down in the kitchens. After eating dinner, it would be time to finish off repairing the machina from earlier today, and I would only get to bed at eleven – or sometimes even twelve – o’clock.
It was draining, all this work, but I still enjoyed it. I felt proud to be an Al Bhed and even more proud to count as an adult now. I had so many responsibilities and duties, and the work would only get more strenuous. So many people were dependant on the work I did, and if I made even the tiniest error it could result in someone being seriously injured. That pressure helped me to thrive, and I was rapidly excelling at everything I did (although I hated to admit that so bluntly). Except for, that is, cooking. I was a terrible cook; everything I tried cooking came out looking – and smelling – distinctly disgusting, to say the least.
Mustering up all of my energy for my next shift of work, I jumped off of my compact bed and tugged a brush through my hair quickly. In the mirror, I sighed at the shadow of the girl I had always dreamed of being. I had wished for enchanting emerald eyes; perfectly pale skin; naturally highlighted hair that radiated light. Instead, I was just pale and drawn-looking with dull, green eyes and blond hair that just…was. It spiked around my face, but that just made me look duller. Everything about me was boring, plain – just like I was. The only feature of mine that I liked was the characteristic spiralling pupil; it had always seemed so magical to me. But every Al Bhed had that. I longed for something to set me apart from the others.
From what I remembered of my mother, she had always emanated a gentle light, and she was a soft, innocent person who was naturally stunning. My dad had been broad-shouldered with a wide, strong chest; great for hugs as a little girl. But when I had just turned seven years old, the men came. They were staunch supporters of Yevon, and decided that it was time to punish the Al Bhed. They had massacred every man, woman and child in our home. I only survived because I hid under the dead bodies of many others. It had sickened me, and I could recall sparkling tears streaming down my face, clearing tracks in the soot imprinted by the bombs the Yevonites used. I had been brought here by an Al Bhed sympathetic who had been rummaging through the ruins, and for the last ten years I had called the new Home my home.
Just then, the evening bell rang out, telling everyone on my shift to get to work. I jumped as I was pulled from my memories, put down the brush I was still holding and scurried through the familiar maze, headed for the kitchen. “Late again?” Mika called. “Ha ha, yeah, something like that. I gotta run, so see ya at dinner!” I hollered back joyfully over the busy noises of the mechanics. I loved how busy this place was; everywhere you looked was another person, another machina, another job. Some people are just born to be in busy places, and I was one of those people. Living somewhere calm – like the Mi’hen Highroad, or Besaid Island – would bore me. I needed the electricity this place shocked into me; I craved the buzz it gave me.
I thought I would manage to slip into the kitchen unnoticed – Cook would murder me if I was late again – but when I got inside the first thing I heard was my name being bellowed. “Shii!” With that one name, the cry of the Cook reverberated around the room, bouncing off all of the spotless surfaces with a gong-like noise. Wincing, I stood straight. “I apologise most sincerely Sir!” Cook strode over to me, and peered down through his moustache.
“You’ve been here ten years now, right? And you’ve still not got the hang of the kitchen. Dreadful…they say you have a talent for mechanics though?” I nodded slightly, embarrassed by the bluntness of his speech. “But you cannot cook without singeing something…Perhaps I give you a better-suited duty here?” I nodded again hopefully, knowing not to speak. “Okay. You can wash up while we cook! Hopefully that will teach you!” he laughed loudly. I sighed silently and strode over to the sink.
The Cook of Home was a round man, shorter than me, but he had an intimidating air. Knowing that he was in control of all the food you put in your mouth did that for a person. But even so, Cook had an unspoken respect. He had a smiling mouth with a small moustache that he would twiddle with his fingers as he spoke to you. When I had recently moved to the Home, Cook had found me under one of the tables, huddled in a ball, crying. I had been attracted by the warmth and smells, and sought comfort in a corner of the room. Since then he had been like an uncle to me, but he was never without a stern word.
