CHAPTER 165: WHAT THEY NEED

The communal tent smelled of sawdust and hope. It was an odd combination, but Marron thought she’d just get used to it. Through the open flaps, she could see mimics working on the half-finished structures, their forms stable in the afternoon light. Some carried lumber, others mixed mortar, a few hammered at roof frames with the careful deliberation of people learning carpentry from scratch.

"You’re thinking too hard," Mokko said, settling onto one of the log benches they’d set up earlier. He adjusted his glasses with one claw. "I can practically hear the gears grinding."

Marron looked down at the Generous Ladle in her hands. The symbols along the interior bowl were still shifting, unreadable. The metal was warm, not from heat but from something deeper—like it was waiting for her to understand something.

"I want to make something special," she admitted. "Something that’ll impress them. Something that shows I—" She stopped, recognizing the trap in her own words.

Lucy burbled encouragingly from her jar on the prep table, forming a wobbly heart shape.

"They’re already impressed," Millie pointed out. She was sitting cross-legged on another bench, her white fur catching the light filtering through the tent canvas. "Alexander said they call you ’the soup lady’ like it’s a title of honor."

Marron’s mouth twitched. "That’s... embarrassing."

"That’s earned." Mokko’s tone was firm. "You fed them when they were starving. When they were eating that gods-awful gruel in the dungeon, thinking that was all they deserved. You showed them different."

The memory surfaced unbidden: those first mimics she’d encountered in the dungeon, their flickering forms, the way they’d been so cautious around her food. How they’d tested it like they expected poison. How their shapes had stabilized, just a little, after eating something made with care.

"They weren’t like the ones in Whetvale," Marron said quietly. The Whetvale mimics had killed and replaced innocents—she’d never forget that. But these mimics, the dungeon mimics, Alexander’s people... they’d just been trying to survive. Living underground on terrible food because they didn’t think they deserved better. "They were different."

"And you saw that difference," Millie said. "That’s why they trust you."

Marron turned the ladle over in her hands, feeling the perfect balance of it. The preserved leather wrapping was warm against her palm. "Then I don’t need to impress them. I need to feed them."

"There’s the soup lady," Mokko rumbled approvingly.

A laugh escaped her—surprised and genuine. "Don’t call me that."

"Too late. It’s canon now."

Marron shook her head, but she was smiling. The anxious knot in her chest had loosened. She didn’t need to create some elaborate showpiece meal. She didn’t need to prove anything. These people had already decided she was worth trusting. What they needed was... comfort. Nourishment. Something that said you matter enough for me to cook for you.

"Okay," she said, setting the ladle down carefully on the prep table. "I’m going to keep it simple."

She walked to the tent opening and looked out across the settlement. A group of mimics were working near what looked like it would become a chicken coop—she could see the frame taking shape, the careful measurements being made. Three others were at a table near the communal fire pit, rolling out dough and folding dumplings with surprising dexterity.

The dumplings decided it for her.

"Egg drop soup," Marron announced, turning back to her companions. "I saw people making dumplings earlier. Soup pairs well with dumplings. It’s warm, it’s simple, it’s... it’s the kind of thing you eat when you need to feel grounded."

"Comfort food," Millie said, nodding. "That tracks."

"Plus it’s fast." Marron was already mentally running through the recipe. "I can get broth going, prepare the eggs, do it properly without rushing. Let the ladle do whatever it’s going to do." She gestured at the Generous Ladle, which was still radiating that patient warmth. "If it really adjusts portions based on need, then egg drop soup is perfect—it’s the kind of dish where portion size actually matters. Someone who needs more gets more. Someone who just needs a little comfort gets exactly that."

Lucy bounced in her jar, forming an enthusiastic star shape.

"You’ll need eggs," Mokko observed.

"I’ll need a lot of things." Marron grabbed her ingredient list—she’d started one earlier, noting what the settlement had available. "Let me go talk to whoever’s managing the food stores."

It turned out to be a young mimic named Cara who managed the settlement’s provisions. She had chosen a form that looked maybe sixteen, with short brown hair and quick, clever eyes. Her shape only flickered occasionally—a joint bending slightly wrong, fingers briefly too long—but she seemed comfortable in it.

"Chicken eggs?" Cara repeated, already heading toward a covered storage area near the kitchen tent. "We’ve got plenty. The hens have been laying well since we got them settled."

She led Marron to a temporary hen-laying setup, with barrels and crates neatly organized. From one crate, Cara gently lifted a basket full of eggs. They had pearl-white shells, smooth and perfect.

Marron picked one up carefully. The weight was just right, and still warm--clearly freshly laid. "These are beautiful."

"The cream-colored hens are my pride and joy," Cara said, beaming. "Really pretty birds. Skittish, though. They don’t like anyone watching them lay."

Huh. Now that I think about it, I’ve never actually seen the chickens or ducks in this world laying eggs.

There were chickens sitting in their nests out in the Lumeria street market, and she had seen ducks and other birds walking around or floating in the water. But none of them had ever lain eggs. She’d never seen ducklings or chicks wandering about, either.

"Huh. I just realized—I’ve never actually seen a chicken lay an egg here. Or any bird, really."

"That’s because the birds who lay eggs in this world are super secretive about it," Cara said matter-of-factly, like this was common knowledge. "If you watch them, they won’t lay. It’s this weird instinct thing. The farmers back in—" She paused, her form flickering slightly. "Well. Where I’m from originally, they used to say the birds know when they’re being observed. Magic sensitivity or something."

"That’s..." Marron tried to wrap her head around it. "That’s incredibly weird."