“Well, here we go.” Manako clutched the ketchup bottle in her hand.
There were two plates of omurice on the table, one each for Salmon and Dubtwo. She stood in front of them, anxious, and Kimihito swore he heard her gasp for breath.
The special omurice served at the café was the kind where, in front of the customer, a maid would draw a heart on in ketchup. It was such a common service that there was a specific kind of ketchup, thinner and easier to draw with, that everyone in the industry used. That didn’t make it easy, though. Kimihito had tried and failed before while cooking at home.
“Okay…like this…and…”
“Whoooa!” the MON members cried out in unison.
Manako had taken her time to get it right, and the result was perfect. But it wasn’t a heart—it was a picture of a single, large eye. It wasn’t clear whether she did it to show her personal style or just because she found the heart too embarrassing. Pleased with the result, she gave a slightly bashful smile. “Hee hee.”
Salmon and Dubtwo gazed reverently at the plate, as if it were the face of God on their omurice and they were preparing to worship it.
“Beautifully done,” Kimihito said. He felt a little awed, too.
The lines were uniform and unsmudged, showing just how precise she’d been with the ketchup bottle. “Th-thank you very much. Complicated designs are my passion. I even assemble and disassemble my own guns.”
“Oh, I see,” Kimihito said. It was tough to imagine at the moment, with her standing in front of him in a maid outfit, but thinking back to her appearances with the MON team… Of course a sniper would be in charge of her own rifle, and she had the fastidious personality for both tasks.
“Mmm, it’s too delicious!”
“Yes! I’m having a religious experience!”
The MON agents cried into their omurice as they ate. It seemed they had attained Manako-nirvana.
“Nice going, Manako,” said Kimihito. “They’ve transcended.”
“Oh. H-honestly, Miss Ren made the omurice. I just drew on it.”
“Yeah, but that’s what really mattered to them, I think.”
“Hm. Thank you. Shall I draw on yours, too?” she asked.
It was a kind suggestion, but, “Cerea is doing mine.”
“Oh, that’s right! Miss Centorea, how are you doing?” Manako looked over at her.
“Err.” Centorea stood at the neighboring table, ketchup bottle in hand. At first it looked like she was doing the same thing as Manako, but as she struggled to get the ketchup onto Kimihito’s omelet, he noticed her expression and swallowed hard. The look on her face was terrifying, the complete opposite of what anyone who ordered the special maid service would expect. “Hrrrgh. A heart, you say?” she managed through gritted teeth.
“Don’t worry about it, Cerea. if that’s too difficult, you can draw something easier.”
“I refuse! I am Centorea Shianus! Milord ordered a heart omelet, and I will perform my duty and make him proud! No mere foodstuff can stop me!”
“Sure, but—”
She totally ignored his interjection. It was obvious from her grip that she was holding the bottle too tight and in the wrong place. Unless she relaxed, she would never get anything out of there, let alone draw with it. “O-of course, drawing a heart is childish, far beneath my station, but if it is part of a maid’s duty, I must do so nonetheless! My pride as a centaur is on the line!”
“Okay, do your best,” he sighed.
Centorea’s hands shook as she adjusted the bottle to draw the left side of the heart. She could swing a (fake) sword with ease, but whether from inexperience or her condescending attitude toward the task, she couldn’t get the ketchup technique right. “H-here I go!” she shouted.
Splorch.
With her tight hold on the bottle, it was bound to happen… The ketchup splattered messily all over the plate.
“Ahh?!” she yelped, but she didn’t stop squeezing; the ketchup splatter widened and spread onto the table. Easing her grip—as if that would help now—the bottle slipped from her hands. “Ah!” It rebounded from the edge of the table, the cap flying off, and turned end over end in the air—towards Kimihito.
He saw it arc toward him like it was in slow motion. The bottle trailing ketchup, and him, too busy watching to think of getting away—
“Bwuh!” A direct hit to the face. His vision went completely red, and all he could smell was tomato. It dripped from him like blood from a head wound.
“Aaaaah! Milord! My deepest apologies!!” Centorea screamed in despair, and the sound echoed through the café.