#Like using a pronoun like “it” is technically possible (even though it's very dehumanising to actual humans) but it also

[iamfuckingsorry]

So I've recently realized that murderbot's been translated into my native language and it's apparently a he in the translation (which admittedly makes sense, because it's a heavily gendered language and 1. gender-neutral language doesn't really exist in general and 2. "bot" and all the related words - I believe they use "droid" for mb in the translation - are grammatically masculine).

It made me curious how it's been handled in other translations though!

*e.g. being referred to by multiple gendered nouns/pronouns depending on the context, like both "bot" (masculine) and "machine" (feminine).

[villainessbian]

Old Scratch, sulphur smoke evading his nostrils, smirked as I shook his hand. The beast was tall, imposing even, looming over me with reddish fur over black skin and cloven hooves much like high heels. I did not care much - I'd faced my share of tall figures. No, what made me nervous was the possible and likely tantrums of the divine.

It was not his stature that sent a shiver down my spine, but that of the shadow, darker than dark, he cast on my kitchen walls. Oh, I knew to fear it, and my past brushes with the divine did impart me with that instinctive fear, but they also showed me how to overcome that. My choice had been made already. It was out of my hands... the time to act was now. And that came with relief enough.

So what if my adversary was, THE Adversary? I could only do my best.

As black inscriptions spread through my palm and his lit up, he waved his other hand and my kitchen expanded, revealing twin cooking sets for use by me and him. He even produced a compact, cracking parchment despite being quite literally new - drama is as drama does - for me to sign. I'd already forfeited my soul by dealing with the devil, I knew that much, but enough force of will when deciding the terms of that treaty would decide whether I lost it immediately in the worst possible conditions, or gained it back with a serving of glory. I had taken a sharp breath in as eldritch runes had been seared into my flesh, and let it out slowly to calm myself and steel my resolve.

The damned (that was me, technically speaking, but that was obviously psychological warfare) is to prepare the better meal, or forfeit the rest of its (charming use of dehumanising pronouns) natural life for immediate suffering at the hands of the judge.

Most mortals would be cheated out of a chance to win already, of course. The Devil, a fair judge? Judge, jury, and executioner along with participant?

I bickered. I fought. I threatened to refuse the deal and only forfeit my soul at the hour of my timely death. He admitted to some corrections.

The damned is to prepare the most extraordinary while gustatorily pleasing meal, as determined by the concert of the two participants, both forced to deliberate in good faith, or forfeit the rest of its natural life for immediate suffering at the hands of the Devil, and should it win, will receive glory, magically-enhanced culinary skills, and its soul back.

See how tricky he was? But I had tricks of my own. I only accepted a cook-off, because I knew what I was able to do. I knew I could amaze even his taste buds. I no longer had to conform to a very, very qualitative "better" idea - I had to be extraordinary. And that could mean quality, origin, rarity, and so on.

And no one was better-suited for this task than I was.

I signed the contract, with a drop of blood in quill. Ah, appearances. Just as he wanted to give the appearance of a fair fight, or that I was doomed, with wording. Just as I wanted to give the appearance of his having the upper hand still, by conceding to that reductive "it" pronoun (I go by he/they, thank you very much). He wanted to make it appear like a done deal before I signed it, and one on his terms by using his tools. In truth, it's about intent. If you wager with a god, it's intent that matters. Hubris. Blood and ichor, they're just more appearances. He could be using windows 8 for the same effect (perhaps even would it be yet more cursed and frightening).

I signed it with a flourish of my own elegance and symbolism, of course. That's what names are for. I wouldn't use the Latin alphabet to mark my name. The script I used was one older than Satan's name itself, a mix of angles to be etched in stone and curves to be carved in softer wood. And I always found it more proper, though they won't teach it in schools.

Intent and symbols matter, sure. As soon as I signed the parchment burnt and burst into smoke, impossible to cross out, edit, tear. Oh, he might regret not reading the name first.

As he took to the pans, I first went to check on my son, fast asleep in his room.

The Devil huffed and smirked.

"That boy will be an orphan soon!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," I replied with a genuine smile.

I didn't have to make much effort for my meal to be pleasing. It was a recipe I knew already, and just as I, Satan had tasted ash and stone and dry sand: little prowess would be needed for either to find that a meal tasted "good". No, no, that "extraordinary" word was the crux of the matter, and my trap shut around the Devil.

He would regret not reading, or knowing how to read, the name I calligraphied in a clean, archaic Greek alphabet. He would read the compact again and belatedly learn the name of Tantalus.

You’ve accidentally summoned the Devil while cooking dinner, and he’s intrigued by your culinary skills. He challenges you to a high-stakes cook-off, with your soul on the line. If you win, you get a lifetime of unparalleled culinary prowess and the ability to impress anyone with your dishes. But if you lose, your soul is his. As you accept the challenge, you realize you’ll need to prepare the most extraordinary meal of your life.