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christine-thinks · 3 years

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Forged With Fire - Deleted Scene #1

What’s this? Actual, original work?? Yes!

Since Forged With Fire is written from Sloan’s perspective, this scene never would have been in the final work (she’s literally unconscious here), but it’s also a bit too soft tonally to fit where it would have shown up in the timeline.

But! I loved the idea of Moses, who has done nothing but growl at everyone up to this point, make a family dinner (while growling at everyone).

Also trying on a different name for the hacker yet again, this time it’s ‘Zélomé‘ (zay-lo-may), which I completely made up. We’ll see if it sticks!

🍲🍲🍲

Zélomé tacked at her keyboard while Moses paced back and forth in the kitchen in front of her.

“We need food,” said Moses suddenly, “For when Sloan wakes up,”

“Sure,” Zélomé said absentmindedly, “There’s some take-out menus in the cupboard under the sink—we can—”

“Take-out?” Moses had stopped pacing and was staring at Zélomé.

“Yeah,” said Zélomé slowly, glancing at Moses, “You know, like, food? From a restaurant? Not everybody can survive on like, powerbars and protein shakes or whatever it is you subsist on,”

“Ugh,” said Moses, making a face. “What food do you have here?”

“I don’t know,” Zélomé shrugged, although Moses had whipped open her refrigerator before waiting for an answer.

“You...don’t have any vegetables in here,” said Moses.

Zélomé rolled her eyes, “No. They go bad before I use them—why would I bother?”

“Do you have any kind of protein at all?”

“You’re the one looking in the fridge,” Zélomé went back to her typing, “There’s some cans of stuff in the cupboards, too...somewhere,”

Moses closed the refrigerator with a tap of her foot and began opening and closing the cabinets, pausing when she found one with unopened spice jars and canned food. She didn’t need to stand on her toes like Zélomé did to reach the top shelf—she easily picked up a few cans and examined the labels.

“You have three cans of hominy, but no milk? Or eggs?”

Zélomé shrugged again, “My mom always had some in her pantry. Why, did they go bad or something?”

“You don’t—” Moses stopped and shook her head, "No, it’s canned. It’s fine,”

She placed the can of hominy beans on the counter and began rummaging through the cupboard again, murmuring to herself as she pulled out more cans and spices. Zélomé continued her half-hearted research on Bishop: she had a good handle on his finances and investments now, as well as his public reputation and business relationships, but the real information would be in much darker places. She didn’t want to venture there now. She was tired.

Zélomé stared blankly at the screen for a few more moments before sighing, closing her eyes, and placing her hands over her face. She usually felt so inspired after a job—even when they went wrong. And this one hadn’t even gone that wrong—they were all still alive, weren’t they?

Okay, they hadn’t gotten paid for their trouble—that sucked—nor did they still have the painting itself. But no one was after them. At least, not for the moment. Sloan would figure something out, surely. Wouldn’t she?

“Have you ever even used these knives?”

Moses’ question nearly startled Zélomé out of her weariness—she removed her hands from her face and looked over at Moses, who was examining the probably dusty knife block shoved into a back corner on the counter.

“Maybe,” Zélomé replied.

“They’re nice,” said Moses, and Zélomé was surprised to hear the note of admiration in her voice. “Is it alright if I use them?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Moses nodded, “Where’s your pots and pans?”

“Pot and pan—singular. They’re over there,” she pointed to a cabinet Moses hadn’t yet rifled through. Moses sighed, but opened the cupboard and pulled out the almost-new cookware. She set them on the stove and clicked on two of the burners before opening some of the canned vegetables on the counter and draining them in the sink.

Zélomé watched with fascination as Moses deftly chopped or minced the assortment of ingredients arranged in front of her. She had assumed Moses was good with knives—anything sharp, or anything that could be sharpened, really—but not like this. Zélomé’s mother was an excellent cook, and she’d had roommates who would have considered themselves aspiring chefs, but Moses was on a whole other level entirely.

Alright, so Zélomé’s only frame of reference for professional chefs came from fast-paced reality TV shows, but she was pretty confident in her assessment. Moses was quick, and deliberate, and precise, and at the very least really looked like she knew what she was doing.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Zélomé finally asked, after staring at Moses’ hands for probably too long a time.

“Around,” Moses replied, not bothering to face her.

Zélomé rolled her eyes, “Like where?”

Moses stopped chopping and started to fill the pot with water, “My parents. Travelling. Just...around,”

“Hmm, travelling. Right. I didn’t realize black ops agents needed to be trained as chefs too,”

After she set the pot back on the stove, Moses poured some kind of oil into the pan, “Anything can be used as a weapon. Knowing the ways food can be prepared means you know the ways it can be tampered with,”

Zélomé covered her face in her hands again, “Oh, my God. I was kidding, Moses. Is that seriously it?”

Moses shrugged as she picked up the cutting board and swept the chopped and minced vegetables into the pan with one swift motion.

“My parents taught me first,” Moses said, after a moment.

Zélomé perked up—something personal? From Moses?—but held her tongue. If Moses was going to share, it was most definitely going to be on her own terms, not because Zélomé was prodding. But Moses didn’t say anything else, only stirred the pan on the stove.

Whatever Moses had put in the pan started to sizzle and smell familiar—like onions and chilis, although where Moses had found an onion, Zélomé wasn’t sure.

“What are you making, anyway?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Moses flipped whatever was in the pan—peppers, maybe?—with ease.

“Pozole,” she said, “Or, a variation of it. Pozole verde, I guess. You didn’t have any meat,”

No wonder it smelled familiar.

“Meat goes bad faster than vegetables—plus it’s more expensive,” Zélomé said, feeling defensive.

“You wouldn’t have shit going bad at all if you actually used it,” Moses tilted the pan and scraped the vegetables into the pot, which made a loud bubbling sound, “Or do you not know how?”

“I know how to cook!” Zélomé huffed, “I just don’t have the time,”

“Make time,” Moses put a lid on the pot, which quieted the bubbling.

“What’s the point? Fast food is cheaper, take out is easier. I don’t—”

Moses turned around to face her, throwing a dish towel—where had she gotten a dish towel?—over her broad shoulder and crossing her arms.

“Cooking is important. Making food for yourself is important,” She didn’t look upset, exactly, but Moses was staring at Zélomé with such intensity it made her want to squirm. Zélomé had seen Moses intense before—just before a particularly heated fight, or just after a low blow from an opponent—but there was something else fueling her here.

“It’s human—to make food, to create something,” she continued, “It keeps you grounded. Connected. To humanity,”

Passion.

Zélomé tilted her head slightly—so, she could get Moses to let down her walls after all.

“Or, you know. Whatever,” Moses muttered, turning around and beginning to pick up the dirtied utensils.

“Here, let me,” Zélomé hopped off her stool and joined Moses at the counter, “This I know how to do,”

#wip: forged with fire #original work #writeblr #this was a fun exercise!#hopefully there's another opportunity somewhere to put both moses' muscles AND her cooking skills in the spotlight #also zélomé calls moses a black ops agent but i'm not sure if that's actually what she was #it works here for now

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