#they're vegetables. eat them. christ sakes.

[iwritesometimes]

lol i am 100% aware this comes from a place of ABYSSAL ignorance bc lbr i'm doing good to make myself a grilled cheese but i swear to GOD it looks like all these youtube chefs use just. SCADS of salt. absolutely obscene amounts of it. i just watched my beloved wife Samin Nosrat salt LITERALLY every component of a tuna sandwich. oh pardon: there wasn't any salt on the pickled onion. okay. but she salt-coated the tuna before cooking it. salt in the aioli. salt to break down garlic into paste. she salted the fresh cukes and tomatoes. there was a brine-packed olive and caper tapenade. and when she mixed everything together she added more salt to the mixture.

not even from like. a health food standard: that honestly looks miserable to eat. and the bon appetit test kitchen folks are the same - HEAVILY salt pasta water and also salt EVERY part of the sauce you toss the pasta in? Andrew Rea does the same. so i know it must NOT suck and must, in fact, be the correct thing to do, but like. jesus christ i'm not looking to salt-cure my tongue, y'all. and yet poor-people food like fast and preserved foods are "loaded" with salt. which is true, i know it is, but. THE HEALTHY BOUGIE FOOD ALSO LOOKS TO BE DROWNED IN SALT.

[companionwolf]

Central Plushie Fic 1 Chapter 4

Central sleeps, rousing only to eat and drink and go to the bathroom. He has been running so long he has forgotten the luxury of waking up slowly, waking up warm and relatively safe, waking up and lying in bed in a half daze. 

The cot is small, so he cannot sprawl out, so he curls into himself instead, MOLLE nestled at the center. It's still cold, still snowing, so he stays under the blankets, letting his body heat and breaths slowly warm the air. 

Central dreams.

He dreams of the mess hall, talking with soldiers and making stupid bets and laughing at stupid jokes. 

He dreams of the bar, touching shoulders with fellow base staff and numbing the horrors of the day. 

(In some moment of lucidity, he thinks this is where that began. The fall only worsened what was already awakened. He falls unconscious again before the shame sets in.) 

He dreams of sitting alone in Mission Control, staring into the blue light and feeling not so scared, because--

He dreams of the situation room, at late hours, watching the Commander pace in front of the screens and trying his best to offer help. 

He dreams of their sparring matches, collapsing on the mats and laughing, of the greenhouse the Commander manages to convince the Council to fund, how they took the vegetables they'd grow and mixed them into cooked meals they'd serve. 

He dreams of late nights, quiet quiet in the cramped command quarters and getting to know each other, of the celebrations, breaking out champagne and playing card games with the soldiers. 

He dreams of the day they gave him MOLLE, how they'd waited with baited breath for him to open the gift bag and how they lit up when he hugged him and thanked them. 

Central stirs. His head is full of soft and fuzzy things, the world muted at the edges. He presses his face into MOLLE and lets out a content exhale. He hasn't dreamt like this, been so free of nightmares, in ages.

He gazes softly at the plushie, stretches. He isn't sure what time it is, but he's groggy all the same, and not keen to really get up. He pulls MOLLE closer. They can stay here.

He's about to drift back into half sleep when--

The sound of gunfire, and close. A screaming begins, and Central bolts upright, nearly knocking MOLLE off the cot. He scrambles off the cot, grabs his bag and rifle, has MOLLE under his arm as he bursts out of the tent. 

An ADVENT dropship hangs in the air over the camp, troopers jumping down from the dark dawn. Resistance fighters have assembled and are fighting back, but Central sees more ships coming. Too many for the tiny fighting force here.

He finds himself starting to run. 

As he weaves between tents and clothes lines and crates, he hears screams and shots go off; he feels reality slipping at the edge of his senses.

God, not now, he thinks, and puts on speed. 

Someone bursts out of a tent as he passes, grabs him by the pack. He snaps to a stop, and wildly looks back to see who--

Oh, it's her. From before.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I--"

"Come on, you've got a gun for Christ's sake-- use it!" she says, and pulls him toward where the resistance fighters are taking cover behind a series of wood pallets. 

He ducks into place next to an older man. The woman grabs the gun off a fallen fellow and dives away from incoming bullets. 

Central positions his gun over the pallet, finds an ADVENT soldier (there is no lack of them, and it's going to get worse, he thinks), fires. He downs a few troopers before they're upon the resistance fighters.

Central runs, again.

He doesn't stop until he's cleared the perimeter of the camp, until his legs give out as he falls face forward onto wet leaf litter dotted with the last remains of snow. He glances back.

The camp is on fire. 

His heart is racing, blood rushing in his ears, guilt gnawing at him. He gets up, breaths shallow as he begins to run again, not stopping until the camp has disappeared over the horizon.

Wherever you go, people will die, says a dark part of him. You shouldn't try. You need to be alone. 

But the Commander would want me to--

The Commander is dead! 

Central's chest hurts, but he can't tell if it's an emotional ache or from the running he's forcing himself to continue. Better not to figure it out. 

The woods break again by the time the sun sets, and he enters a large field of dying crops. A barnhouse sits lone in the distance, with its barn near the far end of the field. 

"Barn's safer," he says to MOLLE. 

Central reaches the barn, pushes the heavy red and white door open. He climbs the ladder up to the hay loft, hides himself and his gear amongst the bales. 

He sits with his back to the wall, knees drawn to his chest. MOLLE sits at his feet, silent but present.

And Central cries.

He's trying to be as quiet as he can, but he really thought...he thought it'd be ok. That when he reached Freedom Point the curse wouldn't follow. That when he joined XCOM the curse wouldn't follow. That when he left home the curse wouldn't follow. 

But everywhere he goes, people die. And he must be the catalyst. That's the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He cries harder.

MOLLE watches him. He reaches for her, hesitates, feel shame shame shame (the Commander would be so upset with him, with everything he's done and not; he doesn't deserve their gifts or anything else) and goes for his flask instead. When that's out, he pulls what's got from his bag and drinks that too. 

The room spins, then blurs.

All the while, Central cries.