Mitosis (Reckoners 1,5.) 4 csillagozás

    “Sparks,” Tia said. “Like rats on a ship.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Or glitter in soup.”
    Tia and Abraham fell silent.
    “Have you ever tried to get all of the glitter out of your soup?” I demanded. “It’s really, really hard.”
    “Why would there be glitter in my soup in the first place?” Abraham asked.

    Yellow mustard, onions, chunked tomatoes, sweet pickle relish, peppers—whole, of course, and pickled—a dill pickle slice, and a pinch of celery salt. Just like I remembered. A true Chicago dog looks like someone fired a bazooka at a vegetable stand, then scraped the remnants off the wall and slathered it on a tube of meat.
    I took mine greedily. Abraham was more skeptical.
    “Ketchup?” Abraham asked.
    The vendor’s eyes opened wide.
    “He’s not from around here,” I said quickly. “No ketchup, Abraham. Aren’t you French? You people are supposed to have good taste in food.”
    “French Canadians do have good taste in food,” Abraham said, inspecting the hot dog. “But I am not convinced that this is actually food.”

    Sam sighed, crossing his arms on top of his cart. “Sorry, Steelslayer. They’re too afraid.”
    “Afraid of hot dogs?” I said.
    “Afraid to get comfortable with freedom,”

As Abraham and I walked off, Tia’s voice, terse and distracted, came in over my earpiece. “Do you two have a report?”
    “The dogs are awesome,” I said.
    “Dogs?” she said. “Watchdogs? You’ve been checking on the city kennels?”
    “Young David,” Abraham said around a mouthful, “has been instructing me on the local cuisine. They are called ‘hot dogs’ because they’re only good for feeding to animals, yes?”
    “You took him to that hot dog stand?” Tia asked. “Weren’t you two supposed to be doing greetings?”
    “Philistines, both of you,” I said, cramming the rest of my hot dog into my mouth.

    Prof been acting weird lately—at least, that was how we phrased it. “Weird” was actually a euphemism for “Prof is secretly an Epic, and he’s trying hard not to go evil and kill us all, so sometimes he gets antisocial.”

    “ ‘Albums by Weaponized Cupcake,’ ” Tia read.
    The clones piled on top of me, hands gripping my throat, others pulling my gun away from me.
    “Which one?” Tia asked. “Appetite for Tuberculosis? The Blacker Album? Ride the Lightrail?"
    “Kind of getting murdered here, Tia!” I said, struggling to keep the hands from my neck.