Before Zac could explain the nuances of dark romance tropes, a crystal clear ding cut through the noise.
Bune stood at the head of the room, holding a small silver bell. The sound silenced the table instantly. Even Nock sniffled and quieted down.
"Dinner," the Left Head announced formally, "is served."
The double doors to the kitchen swung open, and a procession of zombie waiters and waitresses shuffled in. They moved with the jerky, uncoordinated gait of cheap animatronics, their dead eyes staring vacantly as they carried massive silver platters.
They placed the meals with varying degrees of clumsiness.
Skarg received a raw, bloody haunch of meat that looked like it had been ripped off a centaur five minutes ago. He immediately picked it up with both hands and bit into it with a wet crunch.
Nock was served a delicate arrangement of songbird tongues and roasted grapes on a bed of gold leaf. He picked at it daintily with a silver fork, still sniffling.
Andras got a bowl of what looked like live, squirming grubs in a spicy broth. He winked at the zombie who served him.
Halphas received a literal mountain of protein. Steaks, whole roast chickens, and a pile of hard-boiled eggs…. He began inhaling it with military efficiency.
Marchosias's plate held a perfectly seared, medium-rare steak with a side of charred vegetables. It was sensible, nutritious, and deadly serious.
A zombie shuffled up to Zac and placed a covered silver platter in front of him. Zac stared at the domed lid, his hands trembling slightly. He reached out, gripped the cool metal handle, and lifted.
Steam curled up. The sweet, artificial scent of blueberry and preservatives hit his nose.
Zac slowly grinned. Waffles.
Then, his eyes narrowed. He looked up at Bune, who was overseeing the service. "You two-faced snake," he whispered. "You said there were no waffles in Hell. If I bite into this and find out it's just textured crepes masquerading as breakfast perfection, I'm gonna-"
"Avatar."
The bark cut off Zac's angry rant instantly. His head snapped toward the head of the table, his expression shifting from rage to adoration in a nanosecond. "Yes, Captain?"
Marchosias was watching him, looking surprisingly pleased with himself. "I heard you are a picky eater. I had this meal procured for you specially. As we do not have much, uhm…" He frowned, glancing at the butler. "Bune, what Earth is this one from?"
Zac froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Which Earth?" he questioned slowly. "As in… more than one Earth?"
Bune pulled a clipboard from his coat, flipping a page with a claw. "Earth designation 3c88XT0o, Captain. A rather noisy, polluted variant. We don't recruit from there often."
"So, there are a few Earths then," Zac said, his voice small. He suddenly felt very tiny in a very large, very complicated universe.
"Ah, yes," Marchosias continued, breezing past the existential crisis. "We do not have much of that Earth's food stock, but," he gestured magnanimously to the plate where four very overcooked, slightly burnt frozen waffles sat sad and dry, "we are resourceful. We managed to get some sent over via courier imp."
The wolf leaned back, crossing his arms, looking undeniably proud of his logistical triumph. He waited for the praise.
He didn't get it.
Zac had stopped listening long ago. He was already eating. Or rather, he was unhinging his jaw like a snake. He didn't bother with a knife or fork. He picked up the first waffle and shoved half of it into his mouth, chewing frantically. It was dry. It was burnt. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
Marchosias frowned, his ears twitching. "Uh, yes. We can have another box prepared for you."
Zac didn't respond. He was currently licking the plate clean, chasing a crumb of blueberry with his tongue.
The wolf looked a bit upset. He had expected gratitude, perhaps a poetic declaration of thanks like Nock would offer. Instead, he was being ignored for a toaster pastry. He put his hands to his temples, rubbing away the onset of a headache.
"Halphas," he barked. "Make another box. The Avatar looks like he hasn't eaten in days."
Zac immediately dropped his plate with a clatter. His attention snapped to the eagle. Make a box, he could make frozen waffles right here?
Halphas grinned, wiping grease from his beak. "You got it, Cap." He stood up, pushing his chair back. He began to roll up the sleeves of his grey uniform.
Zac watched, mesmerized. The fabric strained and then yielded, revealing forearms that were thick, corded with muscle, and dusted with fine feathers.
'So dense,' Zac thought, biting his lip. 'So thick. I bet he could crush a watermelon with those forearms. I bet he could crush my head. Please crush me.'
Halphas held his hand out over the table, grinning. "Lucky we got the crates shipped in after the pantry burned down, eh? Supply chain resilience, baby."
"SKARG IS NO LONGER ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN!" Bune's Left Head shrieked, pointing an accusing fork.
The caribou man slammed his half-eaten, bloody haunch down on the table with enough force to splatter droplets of gore onto Zac's cheek. "If you let me take care of the Avatar, I wouldn't need to light things on fire to keep him warm!" he yelled, bits of raw meat flying.
Andras flicked a spicy grub across the table. It bounced off Skarg's antler. "Not a bad idea," the owl drawled. "The human would seduce you within minutes, the wards would trigger, and then the rest of us would be free of you after the Captain boils your marrow for disobeying orders."
"Shut up, you!" Nock sniffled, dabbing his eyes with a silk napkin. "I had all of my custom boar-bristle brushes in that desk! They were imported from the Seventh Circle!"
Halphas glanced over at the tearful cat, shaking his head. "Shoulda had things checked in through inventory, bro. If it's not logged, it's not protected."
As he spoke, Halphas's hand began to glow with a dark, pulsating light. The air around his fingers warped. With a sudden puff of black smoke and whitish-grey feathers, a pristine, yellow box of Blueberry Waffles materialized in his grip.
Zac didn't hesitate. He half-dove across the table, snatching the box right from the eagle's grasp before the smoke had even cleared.