Mandat de l'impératrice des Cieux - Imperial Princess Troubleshooter Space Opera Quest

"Johnny. Be a dear, and turn that racket down."

Oh wow, you think. Look who's here at nine on the dot.

The front buzzer had foretold their coming, of course, as had the chime of an opened door sans knock or ring their place in your circle of trust. Not lightly did Fleet Admiral Yonatan Chew give out the keys to his private kingdom. But it was the careless double-whump of tails hitting soft leather before your guest's body that gave them away.

"Welcome back, Maggie." you say.

"I'm back," comes the reply. "Still don't want to hear that holo."

"It's relaxing."

And you need relaxing noises in your life right now. Farewell drone-on reports, bad news and the tick-tock, tick-tock of your lifespan melting off from the stress, hello flowing cooking oil, whisked cream and tap, crack, omelette. What do the cool kids call that nowadays?

Eh. Whatever. You can't recall. Nice sounds are nice, and chase away the memory of shitty ones. Good for you, good for me. Oorah, carry on, Fleet Admiral Yonatan Chew - so you do.

"...Johnny."

You glance up past the top of your open kitchen into the living room beyond.

Lo and behold, to the surprise of no one (not that there are people around to be surprised anyway), there lies Amagi Ri-Sumeragi, draped across on your couch, luxurious dark-honey fur panoply of war shifting from side to side. She hooks one long leg into the air, bare but for her definitely-not-Navy-issue black pantyhose, her two long ears tapered just slightly downward as two long lashed royal blue eyes burn through you with her family's patented 'I-do-not-ask-I-demand' look.

And even so, you would have things to say about this, but for the long, plaintive growl that fills the room at that precise moment, somehow managing to drown the blender-whirring sounds coming from your kitchen holodeck.

Somehow, her face doesn't shift an inch.

Bah. Now that wasn't fair. At all. Which demon did these foxes sell their souls to in order to get timing this fortuitous?

You pause the video momentarily.

Also, had you mentioned that she was Sumeragi yet? Sorry, Great House Sumeragi. Not like they ever let anyone forget it, of course. Thank the Founder that ostentation bled out of the gene line if you fell far enough from the main tree. Well, almost: the haori Maggie wore over her navy uniform was still House crimson with black and gold trim. Not the most discrete.

But you'd seen worse from some court peacocks. Way worse.

Back to the delicate task of cutting up enough New Kobe short-rib, sirloin and Black Armand brisket for two, then. And best to check where you had been with that holo. See, ground could be given, but a man couldn't simply surrender the entire battle altogether. Something something, mile and lightyear.

So yes, rewind about thirty seconds back to- ah yes, here.

Beautiful. The sounds of sunflower seeds cracking on a tray as tinkling muzak plays. There could be no better accompaniment to your own work.

"You've listened to the 'Halva Marathon, No Talking' episode of Binging with Babushka a hundred times, Johnny."

Not really. More like seventeen - eighteen if you count this latest time.

She rolls her eyes.

"Ugh. You and your semantics." It doesn't surprise you at this point, but it never fails to make you a bit queasy that they probably get taught to read a thousand words into the least of expressions over on Kagutsuchi. That has to be the only explanation; you can't be that transparent, right? "I mean, this isn't even related to what you're making."

"It's relaxing. And pray tell, Maggie, what am I making?"

The fox doesn't even skip a beat.

"Oh, I don't know. Is it Ramly Burger or Ramly Burger?" Maggie glances at the 'loin, a sly smile forming. "Non-kosher too. You apostate."

In fairness, you probably should've left the apple cider vinegar and ground cinnamon in the cupboard for a while more. Right now all they did was take up space, not to mention give the game away.

"I'm at least two hundred light-years from my nearest blood kin." So saying, you pull the aforementioned section of ex-cow open, cutting out the silver skin; good, good. "God alone is my judge."

"Well, at least this one doesn't have narration."

You can practically hear the shudder in that last word.

"It's called a Slav affect," you insist.

"It's called the sound of Tsuugo dying the death of a thousand mutilated consonants," Maggie scoffs back, having shifted languidly from the couch such that she now has to arch her long, pearl-white neck just to see you. "The 13th Fleet's passing would sound more dignified, even coming from you.

"Hmmm. Wait, it's not being scrapped, is it?" She continues, flicking a hand out as though to banish the idea. "Just reduced. Pun not intended."

You look down at your meat slices, ready to cart off to the fridge for firming. Yeah, no, that was a real bad joke, even coming from someone who-

-hang on just a moment. Where the devil had that one come from? What Sumeragi Sorcery was this? The proposals for that were still sitting in your office holodeck, having come in late this afternoon, waiting for your approval. How in earth had she-

"I got it from you."

"I'm sorry?"

Swinging both legs off the sofa in an arc, Maggie begins to pace around the room in...oh, shit on a cheesecake, you know where this is going.

"Now, I know you're disappointed, ah girl."

Oh, Lord preserve us, she even has the accent down.

"And in your position, I would be too. But we can find a compromise: we'll need most of the larger ships, but you can pick a pared down command to keep...and in other news, I should back your father up a bit. So, are you still keeping every third noble boy in the realm hanging, or have you decided on one to torment for a while?"

Maggie gives you a beatific smile as she finishes her recitation. No, you're not cringing inside as you close the freezer door.

"A wonderful script. If you could ever stick to them...and listen to this: Have you looked at me? No looks, no riches. Hell, even I don't want me, so I totally get why I'm unmarried." The fox-lady sashays over, placing both elbows on your tabletop, her eyes shining expectant. "Ah, what would little Yui think? Her second father, in naught but a loose bathrobe, rehearsing his lines so he doesn't get caught lying to her through his teeth!"

Okay. That was too far. Time to lay the law -and the accoutrements- down on the table.

After you start heating up the oil fryer and frying pan, of course.

"First," you begin, tomato in hand, "stop with the 'little'. You're barely five years her senior. Second, we were in private, and that was my best bathrobe." You put extra emphasis on the word private. That means much, in lieu of what you- well, that's complicated. Complicated bad, simple good, simple with open-ended reading best. "Third, your silks are getting dirty."

"Please. We all get our hands dirty." Never mind, you take that one back. Turnabout sucks ass so serious that even the most effortlessly graceful of brow-arches can't make you feel better about it. "And please. You could never do any of your subordinates dirty. Much less that hatchling Masatada-san dropped on your doorstep for you to forge into a model soldier. You were always going to compromise with Yui, Johnny, early morning speech therapy or not."

"Oh come on," you groan. "Seriously, who told me that mystique comes with the rank?"

"Not I, honored lord." Taking her hands off the table, Maggie glides around the table and past you. Going for the snack cabinet, no doubt. You'd never say this out loud, but hot damn Great House genetics always made you jealous. "And tell me, is this how you bribed the poor, hungry girl after a miserable day at court? With food?"

"We reminisced over MREs."

There is a rummaging sound from behind you.

"Good heavens, and I didn't think things could get worse for Yui."

"Newsflash, Captain, 'Yui' outranks you," you point out.

Something is dunked onto the far end of the table, as if in reply. Whatever. You have accoutrements to slice up, and a good military diet to be on, one that most certainly does not include a reliance on the privilege of your birth to not balloon from the excess of your...excess.

You're three quarters through the onions by the time she says anything else.

"And does the Vice Admiral, the Royal Princess, the former Vicerine-Elect Yui Akasha get to eat at your table, o chef mine?"

"She used to help when her family came over," you retort. Unlike some layabout. You won't mention names of course. Officer and a gentleman and everything. "Now if you want to be helpful, you could help with the-"

The board that enters your field of view is a legitimate miracle. And you're not just talking about the way the Pallas Pipers are perfectly skinned, or sliced to thickness you'd need to put under a microscope to prove they weren't equal. No, it's the dainty hand -you could barely tell that they were a soldier's hands, though they most certainly were- that holds the board, and the golden sticks of starch laid out luxuriantly upon them.

Also, oh shit, had you even heard her cutting? Fucking Sumeragis.

"You know, you don't have to bring your work home," you say, quietly.

That earns you a huff.

"Nonsense, Johnny. You love having me as your 'everything officer'."

"That's not al-"

Maggie leans forward, putting a finger to your lips. You don't miss how her other hand reaches for the holo volume control, but damn if that isn't even the last thing going through your head right now.

...Fucking Sumeragis.

"Now don't be droll. I have naught but many talents, and I shall use them at my pleasure."

Yes she does, you think, and she does.

"Thanks," you say at last.

"You're welcome," she replies, "though I must warn you, my skills in this section of 'everything' are not House-approved."

"I...respectfully disagree with their assessment."

"Wonderful. So do I. I'll get the Worcestershire and the Biryani masala ready."

So saying, the woman who's shared your home for almost a year now removes to your side, a little further than elbow distance away, and continues her work.

The two of you settle in to a comfortable rhythm, in equally comfortable silence. You look Maggie's way from time to time. Progress checks, of course. Not to mention making sure the side effects of whatever she's hopped up on aren't triggering yet.

It's a real shame, you think. You could get used to this. Really.

But you won't - because if things comes down to a head someday; you know, just if…?

You're going to have to make sure you can still shoot first.