Title: Little Pines (working title, looking for a better one!) Part 1B
Fandom: Toriko
Rating: G for this section, will go up to PG-13 once the pirates start appearing
Summary: As a landlocked chef, Komatsu has never really fit in the world of the Gourmet Empire. Can an encounter with a mysterious stranger, an accidental abduction, and a whole new world of adventure help him find his place?
Warning: Toriko Pirate AU. Do I really have to say anything else? *facepalm*
Link to Previous Part
The journey back to The Little Pine seemed to stretch on for eternity. Komatsu’s steps dragged as his thoughts turned and whirled, scattering like leaves in the wind. He couldn’t possibly have a rival, could he? He used normal, everyday ingredients to make food for normal, everyday people. He, himself, was a rather ordinary everyday chef. He wasn’t wealthy — he had a normal, everyday sort of income. Who could possibly be jealous of that? Who would even want to target his restaurant?
Why?
He had hoped that his mood would lift as soon as he made it back to the doors of his restaurant; seeing its wooden exterior never failed to make his heart leap, after all.
Today, though. the normal clang and clatter of the restaurant awakening was absent. The building was silent and still. It was mid-morning now; people should have been hurrying in and out of the back entrance as the building started its process of preparing for the lunch rush.
For a moment, Komatsu wondered if it was a holiday he hadn’t remembered — did he give his staff the day off? But no, there they were, standing around … which was wrong in a way that set his teeth on edge. There was the remaining stock to be prepared, tables to be turned and dressed, tools to be laid out. The air should have been spiced with cursing, good natured teasing and trash talk.
A silent kitchen with people just standing around was not a real kitchen at all.
No one would meet his eyes.
“Guys? What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, Chef Komatsu, how did your supply run go?” Anthony, his sous-chef, asked. As the sous-chef, he held authority that was second only to his boss. It was he who really should have gotten the others started and working already.
There was something, though, to the way his shoulders were slumped, that made Komatsu pause before asking him why he hadn’t gotten the place started as he normally would have. Anthony had served him well over the years; for him to be silent and still when the kitchen had yet to prepare for the lunch rush — it was as unnatural as seeing a fish trying to swim in space.
But that’s right … Anthony was with me throughout the last pirate shortages. He remembers what it was like … he barely got paid those times! He’s probably worried — and that’s what stopping him from preparing the ingredients we have now … he wants to know if we have to conserve again.
Komatsu squared his shoulders, hoping that he was giving forth his most confident appearance. It’s not just me, after all! My staff and their families are counting on me!
“Don’t worry. It’s not going to be like the last time with the pirates. Actually, pirates aren’t even the problem! I’ve actually managed to get really good supplies today, I promise! And I’ll keep going out there and getting even better supplies, okay? Tell you what — if you let me know what you want, I’ll pop in the kitchen and fix a mid-morning snack … maybe that’ll get some energy in here!”
Komatsu turned, ready to start. If he hurried, he could get the snack prepared and get his staff into better spirits just before the first lunch customers showed up. “So what are you guys in the mood for?”
“Um, n-nothing, actually,” moving quickly, his busboy, Alton, blocked his way. “Um, we’re fine. Really.”
“You sure?” Komatsu fretted. “If you guys don’t have anything in mind, I could always just whip something up using my imagination, I guess.”
For a moment, his staff looked very tempted. Some of them even licked their lips, as if in anticipation. Then they all shook their heads again.
“Please don’t,” Alton begged, “Boss, you really shouldn’t be so nice to us, you know.”
“What?!” Komatsu blinked. “I’m not being nice; I just want you to feel better. You’re usually not just standing around like this; I know I can trust you to get started, just like I always have. So there has to be something wrong to make your feel so down … and I have to fix it. We’re a team and I couldn’t do it without you. It’s you guys that have made this restaurant so great!”
“No it isn’t!” wailed the head server, Mario. “It’s really you who makes this restaurant great! I wish we didn’t have to —”
“That’s enough! You heard Chef Komatsu! Ingredients are coming, so we damn well should get prepared! We can’t let him or the ingredients down. Everyone to their stations!” commanded Anthony as he wiped his hands off on his apron.
His words and orders were like a firebrand to tinder. Suddenly, all the employees started rushing about. The frenetic activity should have been somewhat comforting, since it signaled that food was going to be on the way as soon as the customers walked in. Yet, Komatsu could feel — as anyone who was used to a precise, working instrument that was a kitchen in harmony could — that something was still very off.
A touch to his sleeve made him turn around. Anthony was regarding him solemnly, his toque in his hands. “Boss, we’re going to work now; you don’t have to make anything to cheer us up. It’s not you, okay? Whatever happens, it’s not you. It’s because of … the … er … uh …”
“The pirates!” Alton jumped in again, “That’s what it is. We’re just worried about the pirates. I heard that the Bon Appetit is very close! And last time …”
“I remember,” Komatsu said softly. “But guys … is it really the pirates?”
There was another long moment of silence and stillness as the staff looked at one another, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats.
“It’s nothing!” Anthony finally declared. “We’re ready to do a good day’s work for you sir. Our best ever — we owe it to you!”
He glared at his coworkers. “RIGHT?!”
One by one, they nodded. Before Komatsu’s increasingly confused eyes, they seemed to redouble their activity; their pace was almost manic now.
“Anthony, what’s wrong?” he asked as his sous-chef turned to go. “I know there’s definitely something up; I can feel it — it’s just like when I know a dish is about to come out badly.”
“Please boss …” Anthony shook his head. “Just stop asking, okay?”
And though he knew he probably should have asked, no, demanded to know what was wrong, especially if it effected his kitchen, Komatsu reluctantly let the matter drop.
He had never quite liked being a leader, especially at times like this. Komatsu always felt he lacked something when it came to being a boss. (His diminutive height certainly didn’t help people take him seriously either, he thought sourly.) And perhaps that boss quality wasn’t the only thing he lacked. It wasn’t even about the level of his ingredients, either.
Even as he planned his dishes, his instincts were always whispering, something else. Something else is missing.
No matter how well he cooked, or flawless his technique … perhaps …
Shaking his head, Komatsu smacked his face with both hands, then stretched, straightening his shoulders.
Okay, enough! Stop being swishy wishy washy swashy — I can do this! he told himself. So maybe I’m not the best restaurant owner or boss or even cook ever, and for some reason people are behaving weird, but I’m going to do this the best I can, to the best of my abilities, for my own reasons, no matter what!
And even if he wasn’t the best boss, owner, or cook, night after night, the tables filled up and the line spilled around the corner — despite the fact that there were much fancier restaurants with much more fancier ingredients situated up and down the street. Even customers with permits well over level seven came in, despite the fact that their frippery and their designer labels clashed rather horribly with rest of the class five clientele, with their jeans and t-shirts.
His little place had somehow managed to survive and thrive for three years in an age where restaurants rose, shone, and fell so fast that one could eat lunch at one place, and come back for a totally different cuisine by dinner.
Three years, through a pirate famine and everything else … I’m going to make sure it will survive much longer!
Whatever had been bothering his staff (be it pirates or otherwise), it seemed to have passed by lunch. The tables had never been so clean, orders had never been taken with such accuracy and professionalism, or dishes fly out so fast. Yet, Komatsu’s gut instinct still twanged an discordant note, especially when he watched how his staffs’ eyes seem to water and their mouths tremble every time they looked at him.
However, the usual overwhelming tide of the lunch crowd swallowed all his spare attention. Komatsu was swept up in the rhythm of his restaurant at its peak.
His hands found work nonstop from the moment the first crate arrived from Tom. Worry and discontent held no chance against the toe curling delight of simply cooking. Komatsu cut, prepped, and cooked his way through the afternoon, early evening and well past night.
Perhaps that was why he was caught entirely unprepared when the last customer had left and he turned to find his entire staff lined up in front of him in the main dining room. Their heads were bowed and their eyes downcast.
“Eh? What’s up?” he asked. “We still got the cleanup left, but I know it was a long night; it seems like everyone in Haute Harbor decided to show up! I understand if you’re tired and if you need to go home early …”
“No. We already took care of the cleanup, sir,” said Alton.
“And the tables and chairs …”
“Done, sir,” said Mario.
“Oh!” Komatsu glanced around the restaurant. He had been concentrating so hard on his last dish that he hadn’t noticed just how quickly and efficiently his staff had closed up the restaurant around him. Now that he thought about it, they must have done it when he had gone down to lock up the last of the remaining stock.
“Well, you did a great job! I’m proud of you all; whatever was bothering you earlier — pirates? Well you really got over it quick! Keep it up, and there’s definitely going to be raises.” Komatsu grinned at his staff. None of them, however, smiled back at him. If anything, the mood seemed to plummet through the floor and down into the basement.
“Guys?”
To Komatsu’s horror, Anthony, the rest of the sous chefs, all the wait staff, and the bus boys started sniffling. Gulping, Komatsu rubbed both hands across his face he felt his own eyes fill.
“What’s wrong? If it’s the hours, you can take an extra hour tomorrow morning, as a thank you for how hard you worked today, ” Komatsu said.
“That’s the thing!” Alton sobbed. “There won’t be a tomorrow morning. We have to quit tonight. All of us.”
“W-what?!” Komatsu blinked. “All of you?! What do you mean have to?”
“It’s more like it was … ah … suggested that we should find employment elsewhere.” Mario was staring at the ground as if he could drill a hole in it with his gaze alone. “It was suggested rather forcefully, actually.”
“Y-y-you’re serious?!” Komatsu stuttered. His legs wobbled and he had to grab a nearby table to remain standing. “Who would … but the restaurant … I … I can’t run a whole restaurant by myself!”
“We’re very, very sorry, boss,” Anthony said. “We thought you wouldn’t be able to get any supplies this morning. And we were supposed to quit this morning just before the lunch rush. But then you still came in, and then there were the ingredients, and … we couldn’t do that to you and to our customers. So we thought that if we did our best one more time …it might be easier to leave you tonight …”
“But it’s NOT easier!” cried Alton. “If we had any other choice —”
“Shut up, Alton! Chef Komatsu does not need to know about that!” Anthony chided. “We’re giving him enough trouble already!”
Komatsu wrapped his arms around his chest, shaking his head slowly. “They’re holding something over you all, aren’t they?” he asked, the words feeling hard and strange in his mouth like he had eaten a whole bushel of prickleberries without taking off the prickles. “And you can’t tell me ‘cause that’s part of the suggestion.”
There was a ghost of a nod from some of his staff, but no one said a word.
“It might be best if you left with us too,” Anthony finally said. “Quit. Find another job.”
“Another job?” Komatsu’s arms tightened around his sides further. “Like become a chef at another restaurant or hotel?”
“Um, no sir.” Anthony’s mouth had twisted downward in something that seemed harder than a frown. “I mean that you should quit the cooking business entirely. Do something else. You can’t keep on going like this, creating dishes don’t fit their standards — they’re not going to let you! In the gourmet empire, there’s no place for someone like you, not with your ideals!”
“That’s the second time today someone’s said something like that! What do you mean by my ideals? I just want to invent recipes and make people happy with my cooking! What’s so strange or idealistic about THAT?!”
He had not realized he was shouting until he heard the space left behind after his words. In the quiet, they seemed to echo up to the beams of his small restaurant.
His staff looked at one another, wincing and shifting from foot to foot
“It’s not something that most people expect from a chef of the Empire,” Anthony finally offered in reply. His gaze dropped even lower; Komatsu wondered if he was trying to drill through the floor with his eyes and escape that way. There was something much like a trapped animal in his manner. “No one expects chefs to do anything but prepare the ingredients they’re given in the manner they’re supposed to… especially if you’re a … a l-low, no-name, unremarkable class 5 chef like you are.”
Komatsu rolled Anthony’s words in his head, trying to find some kernel of offence that he could take. However, Anthony had looked as if he was being forced to grind the words out of his mouth. There was something sick and ashamed in his eyes, something beaten and left out in the rain.
“No,” Komatsu finally said, “You’re wrong. Class doesn’t matter. The level of ingredients shouldn’t matter. A chef can do anything, once he has food in his hands. People should expect the best from any chef, especially a chef of the Empire!”
“I am so sorry, boss. But that’s not true. Not in this empire.” Anthony clenched his fists tight. “Though … actually, it kinda makes me happy, seeing someone that can still think that way. But ideals aren’t not enough to keep me … or any one of us here. Ideals aren’t enough to keep families fed. We’re just not that strong, not like you are.”
“Me?! S-strong?!” Komatsu gestured to his rather insubstantial height. “I’m not strong! I just do what I believe is right!”
“But isn’t that what true strength means?“ Anthony asked. The he just smiled, though the expression seemed more like an open cut across his face than anything carrying real mirth.
Then, executing a tight bow, he met Komatsu’s eyes for the first time that day. “It has been the highest honor working with you, sir. Please take care of yourself.”
It was as if his words had held the final snap of a lock breaking; one by one, his staff all bowed to him, then swiftly headed for the exit. Within moments, they were gone.
As the door swung closed with a creaking finality, Komatsu was somewhat surprised to find he wasn’t sobbing dramatically. He could feel the damp track of tears down his cheeks, but they were something quiet and distant, separate from the cold enormity of the empty restaurant and the silent kitchen.
What am I going to do now? What’s going to happen to the customers? My restaurant? Now my staff are gone and there are no supplies …
Abruptly, Komatsu found himself sitting on the floor as his legs gave out from under him.
What can I be if I can’t be a chef?!
“Your sous-chef does have a point, youngster,” a gravelly voice spoke up, nearly scaring him out of his apron. If Komatsu hadn’t been sitting, he would have ended up on the floor anyway. As it was, he nearly tumbled backwards, ass over teakettle. “You are not suited for the Imperial Gourmet age. There is no place for you here.”
“WHAAA!?”
There, in the darkest corner of the dining room, was a large dark shape sitting at a table. Taking a deep breath, Komatsu quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeves and straightened up immediately. Years of cooking school and working up through various positions in a kitchen had drilled into him the one, unbreakable rule of all chefs.
Outside, a cook could be excited, frightened or sad. In the marketplace, he could swear and loudly bargain down the prices. But in his own restaurant and kitchen, a chef must always have control over his tools, his ingredients and himself.
The stranger seemed almost amused by Komatsu’s transformation. Or at least, Komatsu guessed he was amused. It was hard to tell. He — it had to be a he, given his enormous size and a stance that seemed to all but scream his overwhelming masculinity to all and sundry— was wearing a long, hooded cloak that hid his whole body and face. Still, Komatsu could see the clear outline of large, bulging biceps, triceps and all-ceps through the cloth. There were also some disconcerting spiky-bits to where the stranger’s head should be, but Komatsu resolved not to think too much about it.
Perhaps it was because the day had been too long, or the night had been too rough, but Komatsu could only stare at the stranger numbly.
It’s like I’m a frog caught in a snake’s gaze, his thoughts finally spit up. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I can’t do anything! It would be useless.
Seeming to track Komatsu’s train of thought, the stranger folded his hands on the table. The cloaked head turned to stare at him, and even though Komatsu could not see into the dark depths, he had a feeling that those eyes inside were locked on him. Daring him. What are you going to do next?
“Ah … honored g-guest, we have closed for the night. And as you can see, the kitchen staff has left. Um, rather permanently.”
The hooded head nodded once.
“I apologize that you had to see that,” Komatsu said softly.
Silence fell again.
Behind his back, Komatsu clasped his hands tightly together, trying to keep himself from shaking apart. He could almost feel the tension build, pointed and sharp as any of the knives he had wielded on the cutting board.
“Hmm,” the gravelly voice finally emerged again, right at the moment that Komatsu felt he would drop back to his knees again from the stress.
“How very interesting … most would have tried to run by now. Some, even more foolish, would have tried to attack me. You knew it was of no use and that speaks of your intelligence. Additionally, while you’ve told me that the restaurant has closed and you’ve apologized for your staff having left, you have yet to tell me to leave.”
“Uhhh, erm,” Komatsu cleared his throat. The words I don’t think that’ll work with you, didn’t seem to be a very wise choice of phrasing. “It’s my policy that if anyone that enters my restaurant, they don’t have to leave until they’ve at least gotten something to eat, if they want it.”
“Even if I show up after hours, uninvited, and clearly meaning no good? What if I rob you? Or worse? Do your resolution hold even then?”
Komatsu wavered. In reality, he knew he should be running and screaming for the police. But still, Komatsu could not stopped the answer that came out of his mouth, any more than could have halted his own heartbeat.
“Errr, t-there’s n-nothing I can do to s-stop you if you want to rob me or hurt me, just like I couldn’t do anything about … well, everything that happened today.” He swallowed, trying hard to control his trembling. “I know my strengths and weaknesses. I can’t defend this place or myself through brute strength. All I can do is cook. So, that’s all I can offer you, even if you’re here to destroy my restaurant.”
For a long, breath stealing minute, the stranger tapped his fingers against the table, as if considering. Then, the cloaked head bobbed up and down once. “Very well. I’ll have the butterbunny crepe with the mochi-mushroom demi-glace.”
Surprised that the stranger was actually ordering instead of commencing with something violent and probably unpleasant, Komatsu paused, breath hitching slightly. Then his instincts for ingredients — which seemed to be unfortunately ingrained even deeper his one for self preservation — kicked in.
It was a rather light dish for a rather … well … light wasn’t quite the word he would use to describe the mysterious stranger before him.
The man in question tilted his head. “Do you disagree with me? Perhaps you dare to suggest something else?”
“Uh … er …”
“Well, I am curious about your true strength, after all, and I did agree to meet you on your chosen battlefield, rather than just in the arena of physical strength.”
“Battlefield?!” Komatsu stuttered. “I’m just cooking …
Again, Komatsu couldn’t help but feel that he was being appraised and measured. For what reason or by what standard, however, he couldn’t even begin to guess.
“Um, no, of course I’ll prepare whatever you want, honored c-customer,” he spluttered. As if on autopilot, Komatsu turned and headed for the kitchen. His staff had left it spotless, and everything was in its place, so he was able to start right away on putting together the ingredients for his dish.
And strangely enough, the process calmed him down. Instinct and experience kept his hands moving just so in checking the temperature of the stove, flipping the meat, and stirring the sauce.
The order did not take long at all, and he had plated it up and was shouldering back into the main dining room before he realized he should have probably headed out the back door and out to safety.
When Komatsu reappeared, the man in the cloak tilted his head and brought one hand up to scratch it.
Sweat beading on his forehead, Komatsu stood at attention. “Please enjoy, sir,”
Unexpectedly, the stranger nodded and clapped his hands together. “I give thanks for the meal.” Traditional blessing finished, he calmly took his knife, cut into the crepe, and took a bite.
When he did not immediately take another, Komatsu felt his stomach drop down past his kidneys. As silly as it sounded, he couldn’t quite shake the thought that his continued existence depended entirely on what the stranger thought about his food.
“Surprising,” the man finally said as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Ah, is the crepe… um … not to your liking?” Komatsu swallowed.
“I did not say that,” the man said. “But I am curious. What would you have cooked for me, if you had your choice?”
“Well….” Komatsu did his best not to fidget with the edge of his apron.
Not a crepe — too light — but the choice of a mochi-mushroom demi-glace felt promising. Still too deep in thought to really consider the consequences of speaking freely, Komatsu licked his lips as his mind whirled.
“Fire spiced bricklebear steak with mochi-mushroom demi-glace,” he finally replied. “Yes. That would mix right — the solidness of the bricklebear meat paired with the heat and danger of the fire spice. The mochi-mushrooms would then lend that last touch of velvet elegance.”
“Hmmm. That is very interesting.” The man was scratching his head with a finger again. “I see. And all of those are class 5 ingredients and below … hmm. You’re still fighting with a handicap. That won’t do.”
“I’m not fighting,” Komatsu again insisted. “Just cooking!”
“That’s what you said before. And that really won’t do. You really don’t understand this world you’re in, do you?”
When silence fell again, sweat began to bead on Komatsu’s skin. Like he had said, his strength came through his chef skills; now that he was finished cooking, he felt strangely exposed and bereft, as if he was approaching the stranger wearing nothing but his fragile skin.
“W-what are you going to do now? U-um, to me?”
The stranger shrugged. “To you? Ah, well, in your case, it comes down to this — will it be destiny? Or luck? My guess is both, though more of luck than anything else.”
Komatsu blanched. “E-e-excuse me, sir?!”
The stranger stood up, and Komatsu felt his heart nearly stop in his chest. The aura of danger surrounding the man climbed to immeasurable levels, becoming as real as a taste or a sound or a scent.
“Yes, I would say, in your case, it’s mostly luck. It’s been through luck alone that you’ve survived this long, cooking with those naïve ideals. I can practically taste the hope and innocence in every drop of your sauce and every bite of your cooking. Kitchens like yours should not exist in this Empire. They cannot exist. And as with anything that can‘t survive in its environment, well … it will have to change. Or else…”
“W-what do you mean?”
“Thank you for the meal,” the stranger said, and brought his hands together to finish the customary ritual.
It was then that Komatsu first smelled the smoke and heard the crackle of flames. His kitchen. His kitchen was on fire.
Without giving a single thought to his safety, he dashed through the double doors to find that the walls and the ceilings had been engulfed in a sea of flame. A wiser man would have then bolted through the exit doors. A wiser man would have tried to save his own skin.
Komatsu ran towards the fire, stopping only when the heat and smoke forced him to his knees.
Komatsu stared in disbelief as the stranger stepped casually into the flaming kitchen heedless of the heat or the smoke. Before Komatsu’s stunned gaze, the man strode towards Komatsu’s nearly already engulfed workstation and picked up the two knives that Komatsu had just finished using and cleaning.
“Don’t touch those!” They were his oldest and most cherished ones. He wanted to move, to grab the man’s arm and take them back — and perhaps hold on to the last bit of dignity in a night that had already stripped him of his pride.
Like some devil in the melting pot of hell, the man merely laughed as Komatsu hung futilely to his bicep. For a moment, Komatsu could even swear he saw the actual shape of a demon hovering above the man, a one eyed monster with veins bulging.
A quick swing of the muscular arm sent him sprawling back on the floor, choking and gasping for the little air that was left. “Huaaa, now you choose to defy me? Finally! A true measure of your conviction and resolution … and how very rare! You live to cook. You’d even die for it. Perhaps I should just let you have that honor.”
The man examined the edges of the blades. “Yet these knives — I could actually almost use them. That’s even more rare. The world is full of resolute men, after all … but it’s not full enough of those who have the talent to match. When the two come together … ah.”
Komatsu’s vision wavered and darkened at the edges as the man stepped back towards him, Komatsu’s knives in one hand, the other hand reaching for his face.
“As they are now, without a whetstone to hone them, your blades are dull. I stand by my words. You have no place in this era of empires … but perhaps you have enough luck to find a way to evolve, in spite of that. If we meet again, perhaps I shall test your edge once more. I pray, for your sake, I’ll find you useful then.”
And then there was nothing.
Part 2a: But I’ve Never Been to Boston in the Fall!
—-
Much love and thanks to latenightiridescence who had the idea in the first place and who was generous enough to give me permission to use her idea even though she’ll be writing a better one of her own. X3 I don’t think we can ever have enough pirate fics (or at least, I hope I won’t be the only one. *Sighs*)
Well, there you have it, the beginning of a rather long pirate epic. I still can’t believe I wrote this monster … it’s not quite done yet, but I’ll start officially posting it once I finish the last chapter. It desperately needs an edit though; my normal betas aren’t into Toriko, which means I’ll have to go it alone — but if you see any mistakes, please let me know. Also, tumblr stripped all of the italics when I cut and pasted from my word program, so I think I may have missed some of Komatsu’s thoughts, which SHOULD have been in italics. Gaaah.
And, as I said before, this a BOXING day release, which means I haven’t been too careful. It’s just my way of saying Happy Holidays, though! The polish version will be up as soon as I can finish the whole fic and edit it thoroughly.
Anyway, I’m offering fic to the person who can help me name this something better than Little Pines (which, incidentally, is what the kanji in Komatsu’s name translates to). Right now, it’s a placeholder name. As an Easter Egg bonus, if you know the full names of all the OCs I’ve used (they don’t actually appear again, so don’t worry!) you’ll also earn a fic. X3
