CHAPTER 78: TAKING OVER THE DINER

The false Marron twitched violently behind the counter, sweat dripping down its mangled copy of her face. "Come here," it demanded, voice stitched and unstable. "Tell me how to make new dish."

Marron leaned forward on her elbows, lowering her tone like a teacher scolding a child. "And let everyone copy the dish? So they can replace you?" She let the disdain drip from every word. Then she slammed her palm onto the table, rattling the spoons. "No. I tell you here."

The room went still. Even the boiling congee pot seemed to hush.

Dozens of flickering faces watched the scene—the critic-absorber against the ruined chef.

Marron could feel her secret rice ball burning like a weight in her pack. Her hand itched toward it. One bowl. One spoonful of salt. That’s all it’ll take to make this counterfeit dissolve.

But first, she needed the stage. She needed to make sure every mimic in the room would be watching when the false Marron fell.

The bartender mimic blinked between the two Marrons, its face melting from worry into something blanker, safer. The whole diner had turned into a theater. The critic had made her declaration; now everyone expected a performance.

Marron let her glitch flicker again, as though her disguise struggled under the weight of irritation. She jabbed her spoon into her bowl of watery congee, then shoved it forward with a sharp scrape across the stone table.

"Look at this," she said, voice cutting. "Overcooked. Bland. No seasoning. Do you call this food?"

Gasps and mutters followed. Mimics glanced between each other, their mouths twitching, their expressions unraveling.

Behind the counter, false Marron twitched, lips peeling back into something that might have been a smile if it hadn’t stretched too wide. "I—I make better—"

"You’ll do more than that," Marron cut in. She stood, holding the bowl aloft. Her free hand slid into her pouch, fingers brushing the coarse packet of salt she had hidden earlier. She tipped nearly the whole thing in, stirring quickly with the spoon as she walked.

The mimics leaned forward, eyes following her every step.

She stopped at the counter, right in front of her twitching double. The resemblance—if you could call it that—was grotesque. The sagging cheek, the warped eyes, the trembling hands that couldn’t hold a ladle right. A mockery of me.

"You call yourself a chef," Marron said softly, for the mimic alone. "Then taste your own dish."

She shoved the bowl into the false Marron’s hands. The thing blinked, twitching as if confused by the command. The bartender mimic frowned, leaning forward. "Taste it. Prove dish not boring," it ordered.

Caught in the trap of expectation, the false Marron lifted the spoon. Its ruined lips parted.

The moment the salted congee hit its tongue, its entire body convulsed.

It shrieked, a high-pitched, broken sound that scraped the air raw. Its face melted like wax under fire, collapsing into a slurry of pink flesh and flickering features. Fingers clawed at the counter, nails leaving deep grooves, before the mimic dissolved into a puddle that hissed as if burned alive.

The diner erupted. Mimics howled, some backing away in horror, others leaning forward with gleaming eyes.

Marron didn’t flinch. She stood tall, letting her glitch shimmer over her skin again as if she were barely holding form. She swept her gaze over the room like a queen at court.

"See? Weak chef. Unworthy." She tapped her chest with one sharp finger. "I make new dish. One you never forget."

A hush fell. The bartender mimic, its borrowed features frozen in awe, nodded slowly. "Critic... no. New chef."

The word rippled through the diner. "New chef. New chef."

Marron’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she kept her smile steady. In her pouch, her hand still tingled with the sensation of brushing against that dissolving mimic, as though she had absorbed its half-baked mimicry into herself.

Ding!

[Skill Unlocked: Mimicry Level 2]Absorbed template: False Marron (Chef Copy).Your disguise now stabilizes under stress.Warning: identity overlap possible. Use with caution.

Her heart pounded at that last line, but she didn’t show it. She straightened, exhaled slowly, and bowed her head ever so slightly toward the room.

"Now," she said, with a calm authority that tasted like victory on her tongue. "Bring me the pot."

+

The mimics obeyed. Two of them shuffled forward, their faces half-formed and trembling, to drag the massive iron pot across the counter. Its surface was cracked with heat, steam rolling upward in thin white streams that stank of mush and burnt garlic.

Marron wrinkled her nose, but caught herself quickly. No disgust. Only authority.

She dipped the ladle, lifted a spoonful, and let it drip back with a sharp shake of her head. "This is not food. This is sludge. Even the Core would spit this out."

Murmurs rippled. Faces slid into expressions of shame, confusion, hunger.

Marron slammed the ladle down against the rim of the pot, the sound ringing out like a gavel. "Watch."

She pulled a small pouch from her belt, pretending it was part of her mimic’s "collection." Inside were the simple tools she’d hidden away: salt, pepper flakes, dried herbs she’d scrounged. She pinched a small amount of salt—only enough to flavor, not kill—and let it fall in.

The crystals sizzled faintly, vanishing into the slurry. She added the tiniest pinch of garlic powder, then stirred slowly, deliberately, so every eye could see.

"Food must balance," Marron intoned. "Not too weak, not too strong. Each bite must call you to the next."

The bartender mimic leaned closer, eyes flickering with awe. "Balance..." it repeated, as if tasting the word.

Marron ladled a spoonful into a fresh bowl, let it cool for a beat, then took a careful bite. She allowed her glitch to flicker more violently now, as if the act of real tasting strained her form. She smiled with calculated satisfaction.

"Yes," she murmured, loud enough for them to hear. "Better."

The room erupted again. Mimics crowded forward, bowls outstretched, clamoring with stolen voices: "Better! Better! Want better food!"

Marron dished a little to each, careful with her seasoning. Not enough salt to harm—just enough to make them crave her cooking above all others.