<hr/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://img856.imageshack.us/img856/4121/103qm.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Michael White<br/><strong>Nom De Guerre:</strong>N/A<br/><strong>Position/Grade:</strong>10<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Wok Inn<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/>The chair creaked under Michael's weight as he sat in the food court. The variety of food available blew his mind. He wished that Aristotle were here, so that he could ask the android about the various offerings. In truth, Michael had no idea what a lot of these food items were - they were a far cry from tubes of nutrient paste. Not that there was anything wrong with a tube of nutrient paste. In point of fact, Michael found himself yearning for the simplicity of nutrient paste at the moment as he watched people taking various dishes and consuming them. Some looked interesting and had appetizing aromas, but he did not have the courage to go up to those people and ask, 'hey, what's that you have there?' Everyone ordered food and received it in such a casual manner that Michael deduced people above sea level ate it all the time and it would reveal too much to show any sign of ignorance. The variety of culinary combinations seemed to offer only the slightest hindrance to everyone else, as a few dithered and took moments more than their fellows to decide what to have. But he had the sense that they knew what they were trying to decide between, and their hesitation was between two knowns rather than agonizing over unknown gastronomic experiences.<br/><br/>Michael leaned to the side and grasped the straps of a duffel bag that lay by his feet. The weight and size of it gave Michael no trouble - his strength mitigated much of it. Perhaps not so much the unwieldiness of the dimensions. But the weight was no trouble. Michael was aware that he earned several glances as he made his way to one of the food dispensing tables. He presumed it was because he fell well outside the statistical average for height and weight for a human male, and that being an outlier drew an attention. The youth did not meet any eyes, and simply reminded himself that if anyone asked, he was a mutant. Anything noteworthy about him was an accident of genetic recombination. Aristotle had helped him with this. The android said that there was a statistically significant percentage of human beings born with superhuman abilities that occurred naturally, without outside manipulation. Somehow, that made Michael feel worse. The . . . sacrifices . . . made to reach the discoveries that had produced him were unnecessary. Worse, of course, than unnecessary, but fundamentally none of it was required: the regime he was created to serve was so much ash and so many traumatic memories, and individuals existed with capabilities that were his equal all through the vagaries of random chance. It was extremely disheartening.<br/><br/>Entering the lineup with the others, roughly his age or older, Michael stared at the menu images and wondered again at the things offered. He slowly came around to the idea of ordering a combo. The economics of it did not enter his mind. He had no concept of the value of a dollar. It was a consequence of being raised the way he was. He understood in purely logical terms that things that required the exchange of many dollars for them were expensive and that it was desirable to part with fewer dollars as possible, but having never worked for money, it was about as impactful in the decision making process as any other abstract fact. In time, it was his turn, and for a moment he found himself paralyzed with indecision and an uncertainty as to how to proceed, despite observing the others do so with casual, practiced aplomb. This was likely an everyday thing for those who lived above sea level.<em>Quickly!</em>He urged himself mentally.<br/><br/>"I want combo number three, please." Michael blurted out quickly. Too quickly. The person behind the counter was, however, too dead inside from working a customer service job that entailed primarily in dealing with super-powered youths at the height of their angst, issues, and entitlement to care. She pressed a button.<br/><br/>"What do you want to drink?" She asked, her voice lacking much in the way of emotive inflection, reflecting the deadness inside her. Michael reeled, and did not expect to be confront with this counter-question. The image clearly showed! Showed a drink! He wanted the one in the picture, as communicated by stating he wished the number that accompanied that image! Was this a surface trick? The woman sighed as Michael's mouth hung open and he looked on, poleaxed and uncertain. "We have coke, diet coke, sprite, root beer, and orange." Michael released a breath of relief as she enunciated the choices . . . and apart from orange, he had no idea what they might be.<br/><br/>"Uh . . ." Michael said, looking furtively up at the menu board, as if its illuminated plastic might contain some revelation or deliverance. The illuminated plastic's harsh glare, however, held only silent contempt for his ignorance of fast food. "The, uh, the first one. 'Coke.'" Michael said furtively. The woman depressed another button. She told a number, and Michael wondered if that was when his food would be done. That was incomprehensible! It would be hours from now! Then he remembered: exchange dollars for goods and services. He reached, stiffly, into his pocket for a wallet, and opened the thing. He looked over the slips of paper within, selecting one that had a twenty printed on it, along with a long dead politician. The woman took the slip of paper, and handed him back several more with ones printed upon it and several small metal discs embossed with dead politicians and face values.<br/><br/>Eventually, a tray was brought with food that was for him. He took it, and he was almost out of earshot when he heard the woman to remark under her breath, "these kids get weirder every year." This was comforting to Michael. The resignation of her lament indicated his behaviour was expected and not specifically noteworthy in a manner that was unique to him. Other kids were also weird!<em>Excellent. Excellent.</em>Michael thought as he took a seat at an empty table. He looked down at the food before him, and at the two wooden sticks inside a plastic film. What was he supposed to do with them? Nutrient paste could so easily be consumed! One simply poked a hole in the extruder and squeezed the tube with sufficient force to extrude the desired amount of paste. It was simplicity itself. With narrowed eyes, Michael watched a pair of other kids eating in the periphery of his vision. He was watched how they held the sticks poised in their fingers, using them to scoop individual pieces of food into their mouths. And then they moved their mouths . . . chewing. So much chewing.<br/><br/>Michael tore open the plastic film, and then tried to grasp the sticks in the way shown on an image he had unintentionally disfigured in opening the plastic. It was easier said than done, but eventually he got the hang of it. At least, enough of the sense of how to do it to get food into his mouth nine times out of ten, and the tenth time the food simply fell back onto the serving vessel rather than him. Not only was it a day of discoveries, but a day of victory, as well.