Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 9

+++

The cold gnawed at his bones, but Rossi ignored it as he raised the datapad in his hands. He was born in Northern Italy. Going through the cold was nothing for him.

Food for the apocalypse was designed to last—durable, shelf-stable, easy to store. But even with the finest preservation methods, Rossi couldn't shake the doubt that any of it would have survived this long. The androids assured him otherwise, but he suspected their idea of "fresh" was far removed from his own. His pace quickened, urgency propelling his legs as he made his way toward the food stores—and, more importantly, the seed vault. Their future depended on it.

His boots echoed softly against the concrete floor as he moved deeper into the storage complex. Each breath hung briefly in the frigid air before vanishing. The fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting uneven shadows across the rows of shelves. Meticulously organized containers lined the walls: crates of water bottles stacked high, their labels still crisp; cans of rationed meals arranged in perfect columns, their exteriors free of rust or wear.

Rossi stopped at one of the shelves, running his fingers along a tin's edge before lifting it. He inspected the can carefully, searching for any signs of damage. Nothing. No dents. No corrosion. It was pristine, as though it had been packed just yesterday.

He returned the can to its place and exhaled, quietly tamping down the disbelief coiling in his chest. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Without a second thought, he turned toward the seed bank, his footsteps reverberating in the cold stillness.

The door creaked as it opened, revealing rows of glass jars and sealed packets, each labeled with the names of plants: corn, tomatoes, beans, and dozens more. Some were stored in airtight, temperature-controlled units, others on simple shelves, but all of them were immaculate.

Rossi knelt beside a shelf, inspecting a jar. The seeds inside were vibrant, plump, untouched by time. No shriveling, no rot, no decay. They belonged in a well-kept garden, not in a world that had come unhinged.

He stared at the jar, his breath shallow. Disbelief threatened to rise again, but he suppressed it with a sharp exhale. Look on the bright side, he told himself. At least hunger wouldn't be their first problem.

The next step was to wake the staff and begin planting. But with the androids constantly lingering...

A shadow crossed his face.

"Sir?"

Rossi turned sharply at the voice. His expression hardened. "What is it?"

Two androids stood in the doorway. The shorter one, with cropped black hair and a considerable chest, fidgeted slightly. The taller one, whose shoulder-length white hair framed a more pronounced figure, remained still. Both wore the brown-and-tan uniforms of the Resistance.

"We thought you might need assistance," the shorter android said, her voice uncertain. "Is there anything we can help with?"

Rossi tilted his head, studying them. Had they been following him? "Do I look like I need help?"

The shorter android flinched, glancing at her taller companion. "I—uh—no, sir. We'll leave—"

"Wait," Rossi interrupted, his tone cold. "What are your names?"

The androids straightened, their movements unnervingly synchronized.

"I am Salt," the white-haired one said.

"Pepper," the black-haired one added with a small smile.

Salt and Pepper. Rossi smirked faintly. Their creators had a sense of humor, apparently.

"Since you're here, you might as well make yourselves useful," he said. "Tell me—do either of you know how to cook?"

The androids exchanged a glance. Then, in unison, they shook their heads.

Rossi sighed. Of course not. "Splendid. Then I don't need your services. Go."

"Wait!" Pepper took a step forward, her voice rising with urgency. "We can learn!"

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Can you?"

"Yes!" Pepper nodded furiously. "We're androids, sir. We can process data quickly. Just give us a chance. Please?"

Rossi studied her, then glanced at Salt, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of agreement. He considered his options. It was only a matter of time before the others started feeling hungry. He could wake his staff—or he could use the androids.

He exhaled heavily. "Very well," he said. "Listen carefully. Go to the storage room and find these ingredients…"

The bunker kitchen was small but functional, outfitted with stainless steel counters, a row of gas burners, and a modest set of pots and pans hanging from hooks on the walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the space. Rossi stood at the counter, his arms crossed, while Salt and Pepper hovered nearby, their movements stiff and overly precise—awkward in a way that only androids could be.

Rossi eyed them warily but decided to press on. He rolled up his sleeves and gestured toward the small collection of ingredients he had gathered on the counter: olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, dried spaghetti, and a small jar of salt. A single sprig of parsley lay off to the side. He hummed. He should have ordered them to get more. But for now, this was fine. He just wanted to see if they could follow instructions.

"We're making aglio e olio," Rossi said, his voice gruff but steady. "It's simple, quick, and doesn't require much. Even you two shouldn't mess it up."

Salt and Pepper stood perfectly still, their synthetic eyes fixed on him. The intensity of their stares made Rossi shift uncomfortably.

"First rule of cooking," he said, grabbing the spaghetti. "Relax." He pointed a finger at them. "You're too stiff. You'll break something moving around like that."

Pepper tilted her head, puzzled. "Relaxation is a human concept. We are designed for efficiency."

"Well," Rossi muttered, turning to the stove, "you'll need to simulate it. Cooking isn't just about following steps. It's about feeling your way through it." He filled a pot with water, set it on a burner, and turned the gas on. He waited for Pepper to respond, but she remained silent, as if trying to process the idea of 'feeling.' She inwardly battled. How does one process feelings?

"Right," Rossi said after a pause. "We need salt for the pasta water. Pepper, grab that jar of salt and add it to the pot."

Pepper moved immediately, her motions jerky but quick. She unscrewed the lid and began to pour the salt directly into the water.

"No, no!" Rossi snapped, channelling the spirit of his nonna, grabbing her wrist before she could dump the entire jar. "Not the whole thing! Just a pinch. Like this." He took the jar from her, pinched some salt between his fingers, and sprinkled it into the water. "Taste the water. It should be salty like the sea."

Pepper blinked. "Salt water is bad."

Rossi groaned. "It's an expression. Forget it. Just follow my lead."

Salt stepped forward. "Shall I prepare the spaghetti?"

Rossi nodded cautiously. "Sure. Put it in the pot once the water boils."

Salt picked up the spaghetti, studying it as if it were an alien artifact. Her fingers moved with unsettling precision as she snapped the dry noodles cleanly in half. Rossi's mouth was half-way about to open before the violation could continue.

"Stop. Wait. No!" he said, holding up a hand. "Don't break it! You're supposed to cook it whole."

Salt frowned slightly, her synthetic brow furrowing. "But it fits more efficiently in the pot if broken."

Rossi pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not about efficiency. It's about doing it right. The strands are supposed to stay long." He sighed. "Forget it. Just... just put it in."

Salt carefully dropped the broken spaghetti into the pot. Rossi shook his head but decided to let it go.

"Next," he said, turning his attention to Pepper. "Grab a pan. We're going to make the sauce."

Pepper moved to the cabinet where the pans were stored. She opened the door with such force that it slammed into the counter beside it, making Rossi flinch.

"Gentle," Rossi grumbled. "You're not wrestling the thing."

"Apologies, sir," Pepper said, her voice tinged with embarrassment. She retrieved a pan and set it on the stove with exaggerated care.

Rossi grabbed the olive oil and handed it to her. "Pour a little in the pan. Just enough to coat the bottom."

Pepper unscrewed the cap and began to pour. Rossi watched with growing alarm as the oil flowed steadily, pooling far beyond what was necessary.

"Stop! Stop!" Rossi barked, lunging forward to snatch the bottle from her hands. "That's enough oil to fry a whole chicken!"

Pepper stepped back, her hands clasped in front of her. "I misunderstood the required quantity."

"Clearly." Rossi sighed, wiping his forehead. "We'll work with it. Salt, come over here. You're going to chop the garlic."

Salt approached the cutting board, her movements unnervingly precise. Rossi placed a clove of garlic in front of her and handed her a knife.

"Hold it like this," he said, demonstrating how to grip the blade. Salt mimicked him exactly, but her rigid posture made him uneasy. "Now, crush the garlic with the flat side of the knife and peel it."

Salt nodded and pressed the clove under the knife. The motion was too forceful, and the garlic exploded into fragments, scattering across the counter.

"Not like that!" Rossi exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "You're not trying to murder it. Cosa sei, un assassino? Just press gently."

Salt stared at the ruined garlic, then at Rossi. "Understood. Less force."

"Good." Rossi handed her another clove and stepped back, watching her every move. This time, she pressed carefully, and the garlic clove cracked perfectly. Rossi nodded in approval. "Better. Now slice it thin."

Salt's knife moved with mechanical precision, slicing the garlic into perfectly uniform pieces. Rossi had to admit, it was impressive—if a little unnerving. But that was the benefit of having a mind far more advanced than a human, he supposed. All perfect.

"Okay," he said, turning back to the stove. "Heat the pan, then add the garlic. Pepper, you're in charge of stirring. Don't let it burn."

Pepper nodded eagerly and took a wooden spoon. As the garlic began to sizzle, its aroma filled the small kitchen. Rossi glanced at Pepper, whose movements were now overly cautious, stirring the garlic with such exaggerated care that she barely moved it. The androids perked up, their noses twitching.

"You can stir faster," Rossi said. "It's not going to bite."

"Yes, sir," Pepper replied, quickening her pace slightly.

Rossi shook his head but smiled faintly. "Alright. Once the garlic's golden, we'll add the red pepper flakes. Salt, grab the pasta with those tongs. It should be about done."

Salt retrieved the spaghetti—what was left of its broken halves—from the pot and transferred it to the pan. Rossi added a ladle of pasta water, gesturing for Pepper to keep stirring.

"Now toss it all together," Rossi instructed. "Coat the pasta in the oil and garlic."

Salt and Pepper worked together, their movements still awkward but improving. Rossi sprinkled a bit of parsley on top and stepped back.

"Not bad," he said, crossing his arms. "Not perfect, but edible."

Salt and Pepper looked at the pan, then at Rossi. "Does this mean we succeeded?" Salt asked.

Rossi clicked his tongue. "You didn't burn down the kitchen. I'll call that a win."

Pepper's face brightened. "Thank you, sir. We will strive to improve."

Rossi sighed, grabbing a fork. "Let's see how it tastes first."

He twirled a bite of the pasta, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Not bad," he admitted. "Could use less oil, but it's passable."

It wasn't his choice, he mused. Rossi liked a bit more garlic.

Salt and Pepper exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable but somehow proud. Rossi continued. "We are not done, however. The others will be quite hungry so, we must make more."

"We're cooking more?" Salt blinked, excited.

Rossi shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

​He was just going to let them to the prep work. No way in hell was he going to let them take over, not for now at least.

+++

2B exhaled softly as she stepped out of the elevator. Commander White was going down soon. All that remained now was to wait.

But something was off.

She blinked, the subtle narrowing of her eyes hidden behind the sleek black blindfold. The atrium was eerily empty. The machine gun nests, once manned and aimed at the elevator, were abandoned. It was as if the Resistance androids stationed there had vanished entirely.

Where is everyone?

Her map flickered to life, catching her attention. A dense cluster of black dots marked a gathering deeper within the facility. With a soft click of her heels against the cold, metallic floor, she followed the markers, navigating the sterile hallways with practiced precision.

Rounding the final corner, she stopped short, her head tilting ever so slightly in disbelief.

The Resistance androids were crowded before a massive steel door, their behavior strange and almost... childlike. Some crouched low, heads tilted as if straining to hear through the heavy frame. Others pressed themselves against the door, hands cupped to their ears. A muffled hum of voices leaked through, sparking curious whispers and furtive glances among the group.

"What's going on here?" 2B's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

The gathered androids startled, snapping upright like guilty children caught in the act. One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered android tagged as Reaper—turned to face her.

"They're eating," he said simply, his gravelly voice quiet, almost reverent, as if speaking louder might disturb what lay beyond the door.

"Eating?" 2B repeated, her tone flat but laced with faint confusion.

Reaper nodded solemnly. "The humans. They're eating. It's... fascinating."

"I see," 2B said slowly, her voice carrying a note of disapproval. Her gaze swept over the group, lingering on their haphazard postures and eager expressions. "You abandoned your positions... to spy on the humans eating?"

"Observe," Reaper corrected casually, crossing his arms. "God, you YoRHa types are so stiff. Lighten up a bit."

​Pod 042 chimes in. "Observe and Spy are two halves of the same coin. Albeit observe is a less sinister context that spying."

2B tilted her head slightly. "Observe is merely a softer synonym for 'spy,'" she countered, her voice cool. "I suggest you return to your posts."

Reaper smirked, defiance flickering in his eyes. "How about no? We're not YoRHa to order around, lady. We're flexible."

"Flexible?" 2B echoed, her tone calm but edged with something sharper.

"Yeah," Reaper replied, his grin widening.

2B didn't respond. She stepped past him, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. The crowd stiffened, their curiosity now tinged with apprehension as the heavy steel doors began to part.

Inside, the mess hall sprawled wide and industrial. It was built to accommodate large groups, but only a single table was occupied. The air was warm, heavy with the aroma of food—a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the bunker.

At the head of the table sat Smith, his posture relaxed yet commanding. To his right was Anemone, her expression caught between irritation and apology. On his left, Dr. Fujikawa sat stiffly, her sharp features softened by rare stillness. The Twins sat nervously beside her, their plates barely touched as they exchanged uncertain glances.

"Lieutenant Colonel!" 2B declared loudly, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "I've returned from the surface with news."

Let it not be said that 2B was incapable of spite.

Smith's gaze flicked to the doorway, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. "And company, I see," he noted dryly, gesturing toward the cluster of androids still lingering outside.

"I am so sorry," Anemone said suddenly, standing and striding toward the doorway with sharp, purposeful steps. Her voice snapped like a whip. "Back to your positions! Now!"

The Resistance androids groaned in unison, their disappointment palpable as they began to disperse. Some shot lingering glances toward the Twins—envy or distrust flashing briefly in their eyes—before retreating, their muttered complaints fading into the distance.

2B watched them leave, her expression unreadable behind the blindfold. When the last stragglers disappeared, she turned back to the table and stepped closer.

"Care to join us?" Smith asked, gesturing toward the table. At its center was a pot of pasta, steaming and fragrant with garlic, parsley, and chili flakes. Beside it sat a tray of bread rolls—golden brown, glistening with butter, and heavy with cheese and garlic.

"Androids do not need to eat, sir," 2B replied evenly. Food, after all, was an indulgence, not a necessity.

"But you can, can't you?" Smith countered, his voice light.

"Sustenance is unnecessary for androids. It is merely an indulgence," 2B repeated, her tone clipped.

Smith smiled faintly. "Oh, then I hope you don't mind indulging with us. Come on. Rossi worked hard on this."

The invitation was, she had to admit, strangely tempting. To dine with the gods? It was almost poetic. But no. 2B straightened, her resolve firm. "I must decline, sir," she said softly.

Smith nodded in understanding, but before either could say more, Fujikawa grumbled from her seat.

"Come now, eat. You two are like twigs," the doctor insisted, her sharp eyes fixed on the Twins.

"W-we don't need to eat," Devola murmured nervously.

"We also have duties to—" Popola started, but Fujikawa cut her off with a snap.

"This facility can automate the basics on its own," the doctor said brusquely. "Eat."

Grumbling, the Twins obeyed. Despite their protests, it was impossible to miss the way their faces softened as they took their first hesitant bites. Fujikawa nodded in satisfaction, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

"The news, 2B?" Smith prompted gently.

2B inclined her head. "The Commander will be arriving with a task force, sir. She intends to establish a perimeter around the valley to secure this facility further."

Smith nodded thoughtfully. "Good," he said. "Anemone mentioned the Moon Base. I'd like to contact them soon—reveal our presence. I have some concerns."

"Concerns, sir?"

He nodded. "Anemone's told me enough to know this is no place for civilians. We can't leave them here while Earth remains a battleground. I'd like to arrange for their evacuation off-world, if possible."

2B nodded, though a faint unease swirled in her chest. She pushed the feeling aside, refocusing her attention. "Is the food to your liking, sir?"

"It is," Smith said warmly. "That's why we're making you all eat." He chuckled, picking up a knife to cut into one of the bread rolls. He held a piece out to her, his kind eyes inviting. "Try this, at least."

2B hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to the Twins, who were failing miserably to hide the redness in their cheeks. Slowly, she took the offered piece.

The first bite was hesitant, but the moment the flavors hit her tongue, her eyes widened slightly.

The crunch was delicate, a perfect symphony of texture that gave way to the richness of butter—warm and indulgent, spreading like velvet. The sharp, earthy kick of garlic followed, bold but smooth, balanced by the brightness of parsley. It was harmonious, almost overwhelming in its simplicity.

"It's... sufficient," 2B said, swallowing carefully, her tone attempting to mask her surprise.

She took another bite.

Smith nodded knowingly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There was an emotion there she could not place. "Of course it is."

2B glanced at the remaining bread. "Might I have another bite, sir?" 2B requested.

"Here. Have this whole piece."

​"Thank you, sir."

+++

A/N: As said, this version will be a bit more relaxed, for comfy viewing frfr.

The Twins are basically adopted by Fujikawa now. Woe be to anyone trying to start shit with them. Smith is coping and he's using 2B for that, if it isn't obvious. Well, all of them are coping hard. More to be revealed.

Next up, White arrives.