Obscene Routine of a Piscene's Cuisine [Hyou]

“Mhn.” Sigga hummed in affirmative, nodding her head to confirm that she was indeed interested in obtaining a muffin once their baking was concluded. Of course she was. What kind of lunatic would turn down a free muffin? The offer hadn’t initially been given a response for that very reason. Though… if she thought about it, someone with allergies might have declined. Fortunately the girl didn’t have any, at least none that she was aware of.

Her head turned to peek at the oven for a brief moment, still listening to the follow-up remark. There was one suggestion she had in mind to offer the boy about his muffins. She may not have tasted them yet, but her idea to improve the baked goods wasn’t exactly based on the chemical contents used to make them. Sigga held off on vocalizing her rather revolution muffin making concept for the moment. There’d still be time to mention it in a moment. “Muffin recipes?” She asked, hoping for some verification and clarification on what exactly the blonde had in mind. Were there specific muffin recipes he was considering altering? Was he looking for new muffin recipes? Was he looking for new recipes in general, not necessarily muffin-related ones?

Though her mind was now multitasking; diverting processing power between muffin queries and focus on her own cooking, the girl didn’t pause from her original task.

The sweetness from the dried fruit she had just cut up was pretty important to her dish. An almost imperceptible smile graced her face as her eyes met the curious glance the other student was now giving her. “They’re also a traditional ingredient.” The hairless creature stated, gesturing to the prunes before grabbing a large white onion to cut up next. “-adds some subtle sweetness. I’ve heard you can use honey instead, but I prefer these.” Judging by the significant difference in volume between the three prunes and the rest of her recipes ingredients, one could surmise that any sweetness they would provide really would be subtle.

Onion chopped up, Sigga turned back to her skillet which had been cooking the jackfruit for a little longer than the previous vegan sausages and tofu. The strange ingredient was finally starting to brown. She grabbed the steel spoon and scrapped it into her pot, taking a second to finally stir her main dish.

Before the skillet could overheat, absent of anything other than the residue from the items it had been previously cooking, the girl grabbed her cutting board and brought it over to the stove. She hesitated for a moment as if contemplating something. There was a reason she hadn’t been glancing at her phone or a sheet of paper while working on her meal. The recipe was entirely in her head and, as such, meant minor revisions were often made to it. One such revision had been made right this moment. The girl scrapped off the chopped onion into the skillet, but left the mushrooms and prunes still on the cutting board which she set aside next to the stove. She added a pinch of salt to skillet, but it wasn’t until the onion itself started to brown that she deposited the other two ingredients into the pan. The slight decrease in cooking time for the prunes and mushrooms as compared to the onion might have seemed insignificant to an observer, but Sigga had cooked and eaten bigos often enough where small changes to the recipe left subtle but still quite distinct alterations to the final dish’s taste.

As the fruit and veggies simmered, the teenager grabbed the small bottle of red liquid that had been sitting on the counter. The glass bottle lacked a label, though maybe justifiably so. The girl wasn’t about to openly advertise she brought alcohol onto the campus, even if it was only a dry red wine for her to cook with. And fortunately for her the evidence was about to be carefully eliminated. Sigga opened the bottle and dumped its entire contents into the skillet. The bottle was then very quickly rinsed and left in the sink, the girl dashing back to the skillet. Her task was to cautiously reduce the wine without letting it burn. She couldn’t afford to mess up this part of her recipe unless she felt like starting over.

Her unique cuisine was very close to completion.

“Hm…” The fish girl mused thoughtfully, making sure the food in her skillet didn’t burn as her mind searched itself for a muffin-related suggestion to offer up. She had baked before, muffins even, but those recipes hadn’t been executed often enough for her to remember them, simple as they were. “Well…” Sigga began again, hesitant to mention a rather specific preference she happened to have regarding baked goods. “-I don’t know how well it would work with any specific muffin recipe, but I’ve always loved muffins, cake even, that had some candied orange peel in it.” The girl was now either very entranced by the skillet she was supervising or, quite possibly, feeling the slightest bit of embarrassment sharing what amounted to nothing more than the smallest sliver of something personal. “Very easy to make yourself.” Sigga continued, her speech quickening a bit. “Just need the orange peel itself, and some sugar and water. You could even use other citrus fruit. Lemon. Lime. Grapefruit…”

Her words trailed off after that, the skillet now requiring her undivided attention. With the wine properly reduced, leaving only a little bit soaking in the onion, mushroom, and prune mixture, the girl scrapped it all into her pot. The burner, no longer in use by the skillet, was switched off while the pan itself placed in the sink to be washed later. Her recipe was just about done; moving on to the last step of production.

Sigga zeroed in on the small spice rack, complete with handle and assortment of spices, which had been left unmolested on the island counter until now. She moved the rack next to the stove and began grabbing various spices and adding them into the pot. These last few additions were all measured by eye rather than with some utensil. It would have taken her much longer otherwise. At least all her spices were properly labeled. First some allspice was sprinkled in, followed by caraway seeds, paprika, pepper, and thyme. Then the girl snatched one more item off her spice rack. Unscrewing the top of a container, she grabbed and then unceremoniously deposited a single bay leaf into the pot. On top of that she poured in some of the previously strained sauerkraut water that was still in a bowl. Finally the denouement was at hand. Sigga grabbed her steel spoon again and slowly mixed all the cabbage, sausage, fruits and vegetables, and spices.

The aroma given off could do little but generate a ravenous appetite in the girl, a peculiar thing considering she did not have a nose. Though the teen’s physiology might have left her without a proper sense of smell, her particularly viscous saliva was capable of easily trapping airborne particles and delivering them to the extra sensitive taste buds on her tongue. She couldn’t help but smack her jowls in anticipation. Leaving some of her meal for future lunches would prove a difficult task.

Satisfied with her mixing, a lid was finally placed on the pot and the stew left to simmer. The bald girl let out a sigh, content with what would undoubtedly be a satisfying result to her early morning cooking. It was time to clean up. The dirtied items that were not already in the sink were brought to it, along with a copper scouring sponge. It didn’t look like she had any intent on using the available dishwasher or dish detergent for that matter.

As Sigga scrubbed away at the skillet, cooled by running water, her hearing picked up the shrill tone of a phone’s digital timer. Her subconscious, seeming to know exactly what the beep signified, was already sending signals to her salivary glands. The girl couldn’t help but swallow occasionally, careful to perform the action when it would not be observed. She didn’t turn to the sound of the oven door being opened but it wasn’t long before her mouth picked up on the subtle hue of chocolate dancing in the air.

“I can wait.” She remarked in reply to the cooldown period dictated by the muffin’s creator. A good thing the words were said rather convincingly as Sigga needed to fool herself at least a little so as not to eyeball the baked goods hungrily. Keeping her head down and at least partially focused on the task of washing her dishes was a tribulation in and of itself. It wasn’t her fault. What person didn’t develop a seemingly insatiable hunger when the time for breakfast was at hand. Especially when surrounded by delicious foods that weren’t quite ready to be consumed.

With the last of her cooking items washed and set aside to dry a bit, Sigga dried off her hands and lifted herself onto the counter. The granite made for an acceptable seat after having been on her feet all this time. Even the fins on the back of her legs seem to relax a bit as they gently smushed against the kitchen drawers.

Naturally, the fish-girl's eyes ended up landing on the muffin tray that had been set aside to cool. She managed to keep herself from licking her lips if only just. Seeing as there was a bit of time to fill before the muffins were prime for consumption, Sigga took the opportunity to bring up the original muffin idea she had thought up when the topic was first broached. “I mean, it’s not really necessary-” she began, already backtracking before the crux of her argument had been spoken, “-but one thing you could do to make muffins a little more… optimized, is cut the top half of any muffin cups, to make the stumps of the muffins more shallow, and then crumple some aluminum foil into the trays so the cups have something to sit on before pouring in the batter.” The teenager shrugged her shoulders. “You’d still have a hundred percent of the delicious muffin tops, but less of the mediocre muffin stumps. Using less dough for each muffin would mean you'd also get more individual muffins out of the same amount of ingredients.”

The young chef was secretly pleased her suggestion of citrus peels had been taken so seriously. Her youngest foster-sister had been revolted by the idea and Sigga has subsequently become rather timid in sharing one of her favorite baking ingredients. That almost absentminded acknowledgement the boy made had a rather profound effect on her, the idea of trying some baking now a strong contender for future early-morning activities. But what kind of muffins should she bake?

She had meant to comment on some of the other student’s vocalized thoughts on the topic, but instead a pensive look crossed her face. Now that she thought about it she didn’t need to bake muffins specifically in order to utilize those aforementioned orange peels. There were other option, and one in particular occurred to her. But… she didn’t have the recipe for it, and… how much buttermilk did it require again?...

The relatively neutral response her muffin optimization idea received was, likewise, met with the girl’s own neutral look. That particular idea was one she had been less invested in, though she couldn’t help but wonder how muffins baked in that manner would turn out. It would almost be easier to… “Oh. Uh… Hm.” The girl’s mouth mumbled, each audible cue corresponding to the thoughts her grey matter sifted through. “Now that I think about it…” Sigga continued, “It would be far less work to skip out entirely on the muffin tray and just use the muffin batter on a cookie sheet. Bake some soft, fluffy cookies with it.” Now that idea actually had some merit to it.

Clearly the universe agreed with the concept, because her mentioning of it was done just as the blonde’s muffins had concluded their allotted time for cooling. Her baking-related cunning was about to be rewarded. Prompted to help herself, Sigga hopped off the counter, her momentum causing her to bound over to the target. Her fingers easily removed the still-warm muffin from the tray and the girl hopped back onto the counter before digging in to the baked chocolate. You could clearly see four decidedly over-sized incisors cut into the chocolate before the girl’s lips hid them away, chewing thoughtfully. One particularly large crumb, complete with melted white chocolate, managed to break away from the muffin and leave its mark on the girl’s already stained, green shirt. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Ish gudd!” The fish remarked, likely enjoying the abundance of sugar rather than considering it unfavorable. There wasn’t any constructive criticism for her to offer, though one could plainly see she was appreciating the muffin quite thoroughly. After her rather muffled two-word review, amber eyes remained glued on the baked good. She seemed to be eating it rather methodically, devoting all her attention on the first meal of the day.

Well, yeah, she thought to herself. Pouring muffin batter on a cookie sheet would technically make them cookies, but that’s kind of the point. Sigga didn’t openly voice this difference of opinion, as her mouth was still full of delicious chocolate muffin. It wasn’t until she swallowed her last bite and the boy had consumed some of his own baking that the girl would chose to speak again. First, however, she hopped off the counter again and hovered over to her pot.

It was still busy cooking, bigos requiring notably more time to finish than baked muffins. She stirred the contents of the pot with the oversized spoon, making sure the low-carb, heated mixture was stewing properly. Though her meal was going according to her plan, Sigga couldn’t help but be a little frustrated. Ever since the blonde boy had first suggested he’d share his chocolate baked goods with her, once they were done, the fish girl had contemplated offering some of her own cooking in return. She had been hesitant to do so initially seeing as there would have been no long-term benefit to her. He wasn’t in her class so she’d probably never speak with him again and the girl was far too cunning to be easily swayed by something as simple-minded like the social rule of reciprocation. And yet…

Her brow relaxed as she turned away from the stove to face the blonde again, “If you don’t mind waiting until its done, you’re welcome to try some.” Sigga kept her face neutral as she made the belated offer. It would be at least another forty-five minutes until the stew was cooked to her liking, but the worst part of the whole ordeal was that even if the boy accepted her offer he’d only be experiencing the penultimate form of the meal. Bigos was a much more elevated dish once it’s been left overnight in the fridge. Still, after having munched on chocolate muffins, the flavor of the stew would end up being that much more pronounced. Sour was so much better after something sweet.

Certainly, it was fine to hoard food prepared yourself since you got to eat it all, but there was something uniquely special about sharing one’s own cooking. On the surface it looked like you were doing someone a considerable favor, especially when the meal in question took plenty of preparation and was not insignificant in cost regarding the ingredients. The more furtive benefit, however, was equally as important; you got to show off how awesomely talented you were!

Sigga was well educated when it came to skills of social manipulation so understanding her own motives, the why of her actions, was something her inner psyche was usually well cognizant of. Actions that others might perceive as altruistic were often the bald girl simply banking future favors by offering some unsolicited aid in one form or another. It was noteworthy then that nobody present, fish-girl included, was particularly aware of her motives for offering some of the cooked stew. Educated or not, there was probably some of that rule of reciprocation at work, in addition to the teenager’s oblivious chase of a hit of dopamine. Social media likes and upvotes were all well and good, but nothing could beat the potential, in-person, praise of one’s cooking.

The teenager’s eyes shone upon hearing the blonde accept her offer. She was far too caught up in her own little world to take note of the intonation with which said offer had been accepted. In her mind, the boy was already applauding her skills and prostrating in submission to the master chef. You could almost see the girl’s head inflate like a balloon, filling up the entirety of the dorms before engulfing the rest of the world.

Meanwhile, back in reality, Sigga was giving the pot a few more stirs before replacing the lid. The bigos still needed time to cook. There was naught to do but wait. The boy remarked he had nowhere else to be, so that only left them with the dilemma of how to kill time. The bald girl peeked out through one of the building’s large windows. It was still dark outside and she could only see her own reflection in the glass. If one were to venture to the top floor one might spot the start of some color trickling from beyond the horizon. It was still early and she too didn’t have anywhere else to be right now.

The girl rounded the granite island and into the open space dividing the kitchen from the lounge, trying to come up with some sort of diversion while the food continued to cook. “Hmm.” She mused, unconsciously starting a stretching routine drilled into her from 1-B’s physical education class. Unlike the boy behind her, Sigga was not particularly toned. Her physique was decidedly average. Maybe even a little on the skinny side.

Her casual stretching continued. This was the first time she had done any sort of warm up in her academy skirt and this ghastly green shirt. The image of the cartoon cook on the front contorted, though hidden from the boy’s view, as Sigga continued her warm up. He’d only be able to spot the back of the girl’s shirt, which had by some unimaginable circumstances been covered in as many food stains as the front.

Momentarily quiet, aside from the silent rustling of her wardrobe, something else on her person was now a little more evident. Just above the slippers on her feet, around her right ankle, was some sort of device. A pedometer perhaps? “It’ll probably be done before the sun is up.” Sigga mentioned casually, peaking back at the pot on the stove. Her mind was still trying to come up with something to pass the time with, only now realizing the stretching she was doing.

It was almost exclusively on the UA grounds that Sigga ever wore a skirt. Not because she didn’t like skirts or anything. They were easy to throw on, easy to wash, didn’t need ironing, and were the most comfortable article to wear in public on hot days. Or at least the academy-provided ones were. The problem was that they left the girl’s legs exposed. This was an issue for two reasons. First, it showed off her leg fins. The world had plenty of people with mutation-type quirks leaving their owner’s with unique physiological traits, but those that didn’t have them sometimes let their curiosity get the better of them leaving Sigga an unwanted target of said curiosity. Second, and far more importantly, a skirt did nothing to hide the tamper-resistant ankle monitor the girl was forced to wear on account of her past transgressions. Well, one specific transgression to be precise.

The bald charlatan had the foresight upon enrolling to the academy to realize that there was no way she’d be able to keep the tracking device hidden in such a populous environment. That meant she had to be a little more creative if her desire to keep others in the dark about it were to have a chance of success. During her three month stay in Hokkaido, before moving in to the UA dorms here in Musutafu, Sigga had gone and bought some nail polish in red, white, and blue, and practiced painting her ankle monitor to make it look like it was actually some sort of official UA fitness tracker. While technically that action was classified as tampering with the device, a bit of astute intelligence gathering revealed that her parole officer was not allowed on campus. That meant she’d always be able to scrub the camouflage off with nail polish remover before any mandatory encounter with them. In short, Sigga was a genius. But even a genius couldn’t account for every possible contingency and the girl had no idea the person she was with had his own shady past that left him more knowledgeable about such devices than the average Joe.

By this point lying about what was on her ankle had become instinct; second-nature. Upon hearing the blonde mumble the conclusion he came to upon spotting the ankle monitor, Sigga’s mouth moved automatically with no conscious intervention on her part. “It’s just a pedometer.” Though her tone conveyed no hint of deceit, there were other suspicious factors one might pick up on. There was the oversized band that kept the device strapped to her ankle, looking more like it was designed for sturdiness than comfort. Also her paint job was mostly meant to pass only the most cursory of inspections. Careful study would reveal the UA logo was painted on by hand. And what if she was asked to remove the item off her ankle? Did the girl have a contingency plan for that circumstance as well?

Though her face betrayed none of her thoughts, the echo chamber between Sigga’s head-fins was full of colorful language evocative of the emotions she was now feeling. Meanwhile, the more level-headed, rational side of her brain had already queued up a follow-up lie for her to spout. As the girl was about to continue on with her bluff, confident that doubling-down on it would be enough to convince the blonde that he was mistaken, the boy uttered a line that caused Sigga to rethink her line of action.

She kept her face neutral as she turned to face him. The stakes had just risen and she needed to get a better look at him, see the expression he wore as he stated his familiarity with those that wore ankle monitors like hers. It was difficult to fight the anxiety that was now building up. Sigga was almost certain that the remark he made meant one thing. Obviously a student attending one of the best hero academies in all of Japan, one who knew exactly what an ankle monitor looked like, could be nothing other than the son of someone working in law enforcement. She waited, expecting him to once again assert that he wasn’t being fooled and maybe even brag that he was holding all the cards in this social standoff.

This pessimistic mindset of Sigga’s wasn’t just some unconscious philosophy brought on by a life of betrayal and hardship. She had learned; had taught herself, that the best way to keep her head above water was to assume everything that could go wrong would go wrong, one-hundred and ten percent of the time. And if she desired to avoid any more significant hardships in her life she should always assume the worst would happen and plan accordingly. That way she could prevent life from sidelining her, prevent others from taking advantage of her, maybe even prevent any more family from dying. It wasn’t a philosophy of self-pity; it was one of survival. Of course, not everyone was out to get her.

Her suspicion didn’t immediately fade as the other teen remarked he wouldn’t press her for details. But as he continued to speak, hesitating as he sought the courage required to continue, the girl’s expression betrayed her for the first time. An eyebrow inching upward. A slight tilt to her head. The fish was struggling to process the data being presented as it was conflicting with all the assumptions she had just made. So easily on the defensive, it had never occurred to bald dork that someone familiar with the nature of her situation could very well have been in the same boat.

Sigga’s eyes flickered to the fading scar his finger tapped against, then refocused again on the boy’s expression. For once the girl was uncertain how to react. It was a wonder the silence wasn’t pierced by the wailing screams of a newborn, so pregnant was it.