Work Text:
Lae’zel is seven and a half hours into her shift when the customer’s voice thunders through her headset: “GOOD MORROW, SERVICE WORKER. I HAVE FOR YOU A REQUEST IN NEED OF SWIFT FULFILLMENT.”
Briefly muting her mic, Lae’zel unleashes a torrent of language foul enough to raise the hackles of a red dragon. (Luckily, none of her coworkers speak a lick of gith.) “Lower your volume,” she commands. “...Please,” she adds grudgingly. Her manager’s already written her up twice for ‘inappropriately combative behavior.’
“DAME AYLIN’S VOLUME IS CONCORDANT WITH THE URGENCY OF HER REQUEST, SERVICE WORKER,” the customer bellows. The start of a headache pulses behind Lae’zel’s eyes. She dreams of launching through the drive-through window, enacting behavior more inappropriately combative than her manager’s pea-sized Faerûnian brain could possibly comprehend.
“Despite this supposed urgency, your request remains unmade,” Lae’zel says. She senses Shadowheart pause in her scrubbing of a stubborn stain on the countertop to eavesdrop. “Place your order. … Please. ”
“IN EXCHANGE FOR THE REQUISITE PAYMENT,” the customer says, her voice shaking the headset, “I BESEECH THEE: PREPARE THE FINEST CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE EVER CONCOCTED BY YOUR MACHINES, THOSE MYSTIFYING METAL BEASTS DUTIFULLY CHURNING SUGAR AND DAIRY INTO SWEET REFRESHMENT. PRITHEE RENDER THE REFRESHMENT AKIN TO AMBROSIA, FOR IT’S FATED TO SLAKE THE THIRST OF A BEING WHOSE SWEETNESS PUTS SUGAR TO SHAME – ”
“Regrettably, our ice cream machine is – ”
“ – A SERAPHIC CREATURE, THE GODS’ MOST PRECIOUS CREATION – ”
“Ma’am, the machine is currently – ”
“ – WHOSE LIPS POUR FORTH WORDS AS HONEYED AS ANY – ”
“If you would cease your sonorous babbling for a singular moment,” Lae’zel snarls into the mic, “you might allow the information I possess to penetrate your thick skull: the ice cream machine is down. Select another food item.”
Blessed silence befalls Lae’zel’s headset. Behind her, Shadowheart collapses into barely-suppressed giggles.
“The machine shirks its duty?” the customer asks. She’s speaking at a semi-normal decibel level, at least.
“Indeed it does,” Lae’zel says, glancing at the clock. 4:45 A.M.; fifteen more minutes before her shift crawls to an end. “Select another food item or vacate the premises.”
“Very well,” the customer says glumly. “Today, Dame Aylin tastes the foreign flavor of failure. Tomorrow, Moonmaiden willing, she will taste naught but chocolate. May Selûne bless and keep you until our paths’ next crossing, service worker.”
Lae’zel hopes that her mic doesn’t catch her scornful chk. Shadowheart certainly does, in any case – the half-elf tuts disapprovingly, leaning against the inoperative ice cream machine.
“‘Thick skull,’” Shadowheart says, dripping with faux-concern. “‘Sonorous babbling.’ That’s no way to treat our valued customers, Lae’zel. What would Tav think? Shall I give them a ring and ask?”
“Only if I may speak to them first,” Lae’zel says. (In reality, she’s not all that eager to chat up Tav at the moment. At her last performance review, Lae’zel had informed her manager of exactly how she felt about the constant presence of their little vampire boyfriend, who spent most days lounging in the customers-only seating area. Lae’zel’s blade-sharp memory impels her to recall the exact words that doomed her to be forever scheduled for the graveyard shift: “If you insist on assuming the role of Astarion’s willing juicebox, perhaps we should put you in the Happy Meals for the enjoyment of the malnourished children.”) “I’d like to regale Tav with tales of how you load free food into the arms of your Shar-loving friends at the end of each shift.”
Shadowheart scowls, turning back to her tasks. When the morning crew comes to tag them out, Lae’zel lingers by the front doors, watching Shadowheart slink to her car. Per usual, the half-elf carries out a to-go bag of burgers and fries; per usual, someone in a Sharran hoodie is leaning against her hood, tapping the ash of a cigarette onto the trash-strewn asphalt.
The next night, a newly-familiar voice pierces Lae’zel’s eardrums at the same ungodly hour.
“Service worker!” the customer says cheerfully. “It is I, Dame Aylin – dedicated daughter of the Moonmaiden, devoted servant of Her people. Last we spoke, your instruments of semi-liquid dessert were in the throes of a bothersome revolt.”
“Welcome to Fantasy McDonald’s,” Lae’zel says, as she’s been frequently reminded to do. (Her default introduction, an efficient, monosyllabic “ Speak ,” hasn’t been well-received by the frail-tempered Faerûnian customers.) “Our ice cream machine is down.”
“The revolt continues?” Dame Aylin says incredulously. “Have you no authority over your metal minions, my friend?”
Lae’zel bites her tongue very hard. She doesn’t say I work with a crew of slack-jawed simpletons, each in possession of, at best, a thimbleful of gray matter – I see no reason why the machinery wouldn’t emulate their level of competence. She also doesn’t say Might I suggest lowering your mouth to the lip of a frog-invested bog; the sludge you’ll find there is equivalent to our milkshakes in taste and nutritional value. Lae’zel should be given a shining medal for her restraint.
“My apologies,” is what she does say. The words, while repellant to speak, are effective in calming the more quarrelsome customers. “There is a Fantasy Burger King at the next exit.”
“You misunderstand my mission,” Dame Aylin says. Lae’zel doesn’t remember asking about her mission. “My beloved requires a chocolate milkshake from your establishment. Her instructions, spoken in the mellifluous tone of the dearest songbird in Spring, were clarion and clear. I would sooner put an end to my endless life than disappoint her.”
“Her again?” Shadowheart mouths, halfheartedly pushing a broom over the dirty tile. Lae’zel punctuates her nod with a performative eye roll, which gets Shadowheart to laugh. She likes Shadowheart’s laugh.
“In what part of my predicament have you unearthed such mirth?” Dame Aylin says sharply. Lae’zel’s mic must have picked up Shadowheart’s cute giggle. (...Regular giggle. Annoying, actually.)
“As I have previously communicated several times, the machine is down,” Lae’zel says. “If you find our exchange this vexing, I suggest seeking conversation elsewhere. For example, the Fantasy Burger King that’s at the next – ”
“It was presumptive to call you a friend,” Dame Aylin says. “I see now that you better fit the role of foe. Dame Aylin’s foes know neither peace nor comfort. Expect none of either until the machine once again shakes milk.”
With a screech of tires, Dame Aylin barrels out of the drive-through, her car disappearing into the breaking dawn.
“I must say, I sort of enjoy when we get the crazy ones,” Shadowheart says, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. They get sweaty when she does the more physical cleanup activities, wielding a mop or wiping down tables. Her biceps flex nicely, too – surprisingly toned. Lae’zel takes an intense interest in her own fingernails. “They make great stories, don’t they?”
“Chk,” Lae’zel says, eyes fixed on her cuticles. “Hardly. Stories are made great by bravery and bloodshed.”
“Well,” Shadowheart says, nudging Lae’zel’s shoe with her own. “The night is still young.”
But the night ages swiftly. It’s funny: Lae’zel used to hate these prolonged moments of forced proximity to Shadowheart, the two of them holding down the fort by themselves through quiet, dimly-lit hours. Her coworker is undeniably aggravating – despite her insistence on the importance of privacy, Shadowheart can never quite shut up about the not-so-secret cult she’s pledged her fealty to – but she’s got an unexpected work ethic. In fact, the two of them make a decent team, zipping through taking and making orders like they’re telepathically connected. Lae’zel far prefers working with her to working with any of the other misfits that Tav made the mistake of hiring.
“Care to place a bet on what Gale’s bringing for lunch?” Shadowheart asks as they trudge toward the parking lot. (Karlach waves through the window as they leave, happily stationed behind the counter to begin her own shift. She’s pleasant enough to be around, but the temperature of the already-smoldering kitchen seems to tick up a few degrees whenever the tiefling strolls in.)
“Something stomach-turning, I’m sure,” Lae’zel says, rubbing a knuckle into one sleep-deprived eye. Gale, a part-time worker with a codependent girlfriend who occasionally threatens any female employees seen chatting with her man, brings a brown-bagged lunch every single day. He also routinely leaves that brown bag in the communal fridge after finishing his shift, to the combined chagrin and delight of his curious coworkers. The contents are closer to footwear than edible food.
“Oh,” Shadowheart says, stopping in her tracks. “Oh, you look – ”
She’s gazing at Lae’zel with an intensity that sends a shiver up to the tips of Lae’zel’s ears. Lae’zel waits for the adjective. You look fearsome, maybe. You look regal. You look –
“ – so stupid,” Shadowheart cackles, fumbling for her phone.
“A bold remark emerging from a face that’s identical to a goblin child’s first attempt at fingerpainting.”
“Good one. I assume that came from your little book.” Last month, someone left a dog-eared copy of Volo’s Book of Devilishly Devastating Disparagements beneath one of the plastic chairs in their small sit-in dining section; Lae’zel studies a chapter each time she takes her fifteen-minute break. The tome has proved to be a useful source of education on this culture’s methods of maligning one’s enemies. There’s a surprising focus on the appearance and weight of your adversaries’ mothers. “Looks like you’re going for more raccoon than frog today, hm?”
Shadowheart holds her phone, front-facing camera open, up to Lae’zel’s face. In the inverted reflection of the screen, Lae’zel sees what Shadowheart means: by rubbing her eye, she’s accidentally smeared her meticulously-applied eye makeup into a very racoon-like splotch.
“Tsk’va,” Lae’zel mutters, using Shadowheart’s phone as a mirror. While disrespectful, her coworker’s chosen adjective isn’t inaccurate. She looks stupid. “The label of this makeup boasted of a smudge-proof application. Another false promise from your disappointing plane.”
“If you hate Faerûn so much, you’re free to slither back to where you came from, gith,” Shadowheart says, shaking a cigarette from the pack that’s perpetually in her back pocket. “Crash Clear, or whatever.”
“Crèche K’liir. Make no mistake: I will remove myself from this bastion of istik idiocy at the first opportunity.”
“Make sure you give your two weeks’ notice when you do,” Shadowheart says, touching the flame of her lighter to the end of the cigarette clamped between her teeth. “I’ll need some time to plan my celebration.”
Lae’zel would reply with a rejoinder of her own, but they’ve nearly reached Shadowheart’s car, where a Sharran sits atop her hood. The figure regards Lae’zel with distaste.
“Goodnight, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart says, exhaling a cloud of smoke before reaching for her keys.
“Goodnight, Shadowheart,” Lae’zel says.
In general, Lae’zel dislikes cigarettes – a product that, if used correctly, will rot one’s body inside and out – but, recently, she’s taken a liking to the smell. Before retreating to her own car, she inhales deeply, the secondhand smoke burning pleasantly in her lungs.
“Minimum-wage enemy,” Dame Aylin’s voice crackles through the speaker just as Lae’zel finishes her break. “Show yourself.”
“You are sure,” Lae’zel whispers to Shadowheart, “that employees are not permitted to physically harm the guests?”
Shadowheart shakes her head. “That’s not to say you can’t do it. I’d kill to see the look on Tav’s face if you mauled someone.”
“Poorly-compensated brute,” Dame Aylin shouts. “I will not be denied my paramour’s needs for another night due to your confounding cruelty.”
“I did not break the machine,” Lae’zel says coldly into her mic. “Nor can I fix it. Your quarrel is with the maintenance company, not with me. But, by all means, continue to waste my time each night with your empty threats. I am compensated either way, however poorly.”
There’s a rush of static through Lae’zel’s headset as Dame Aylin sighs. Lae’zel glances to the monitor; the customer slumps in her front seat, looking utterly defeated. (Are those…cracks, running down her face? Shining like gold? Must be a malfunction with the screen – she’ll ask Tav to add it to their lengthy list of things in need of fixing.)
“You may speak the truth, much as I detest to admit it,” Dame Aylin says. It’s the softest that Lae’zel’s ever heard her voice go. “The contraption’s malfunction is outside of your control. I know that you hold toward me no individual malice.”
Not true, at this point. Lae’zel’s malice is very much directed toward one specific individual. “Our milkshakes are made of unspeakable ingredients,” Lae’zel says. Shadowheart kicks her shin with the spiky black boot that definitely violates dress code. “They swim with chemicals devoid of any connection with the sustenance that naturally pushes up from your world’s earth. If you truly care for your…paramour…I suggest fetching her a different drink.”
“Oh, I care for her beyond what our limited language can convey,” Dame Aylin says. “She is the tide to my moon, the glittering stars that add beauty to my expanse of sky. To secure her happiness, I would walk through the fires of Avernus for a thousand blazing years. But all she asks of me is to obtain your franchise’s signature milkshake, that which her father used to bring her to calm her night terrors when she was young. Now, the night terrors return, her damnable father the cause instead of the solution. I just wish to bring her peace.”
“Your commitment is admirable,” Lae’zel says. “There is a car in line behind you. Place your order or leave.”
“Bah!” Dame Aylin leans on her horn in frustration; it emits a short squawk. “Have you no humanity, service worker? No empathy for a fellow being in distress? Is there no one in your life that you would crawl through the hells for, just to draw out their winsome smile?”
Lae’zel looks at Shadowheart. Her shift partner is examining a strange wound on her hand, chewing her lip the way she always does when she’s nervous. Harming the customers may be off-limits, but there’s nothing stopping Lae’zel from separating a Sharran from their extremities. While she doesn’t know much about the organization that claims so much of Shadowheart’s time and energy, she knows enough to wish its members ill.
“My affection is reserved for those with enough mettle to endure such horrific tragedies as a fast food restaurant’s ice cream machine being out of service,” Lae’zel says. “A pity that you cannot say the same. Please exit the drive-through.”
Dame Aylin’s loud cursing is drowned out by the angry honking of the car behind her. Lae’zel removes her headset, which obviously wasn’t made with githyanki ears in mind. The plastic cuts into her skin, leaving indented marks.
“Here,” Shadowheart says, extending a small ziploc bag full of ice.
Lae’zel inspects the ziploc. “What – ?”
“For your ears, dummy. I know the headset bothers you.”
When Lae’zel continues to squint at the ziploc with suspicion, Shadowheart huffs impatiently, pressing the ice to Lae’zel’s right ear.
Lae’zel hisses at the shock of cold. “You consider yourself some sort of physician, Sharran? I don’t remember asking to be treated.”
“Shut up,” Shadowheart says, flicking Lae’zel’s forehead with her free hand. “Doctor’s orders.”
The bite of the ice renders Lae’zel’s ear uncomfortably numb in a matter of seconds, and the condensation from the bag continually drips onto her shoulder. Even so, Lae’zel doesn’t move. She stays planted in place, breathing in the smoke-sweet scent of Shadowheart’s hair, until that poor forgotten customer wails on his horn again.
“May I ask you something, Shadowheart?” Lae’zel says on their fifth Dame Aylin-free shift in a row. (Here’s hoping the customer’s taken the hint for good. Since Lae’zel’s first day on the job, the ice cream machine’s worked for what feels like a cumulative hour.)
Shadowheart doesn’t stop stacking individually-wrapped apple pies into the bag destined for Sharran consumption. “That depends on the question.”
“Why do you let these cretins extort you so? Are you being blackmailed? Have they acquired sensitive information on why you dress like a sexually promiscuous raven?”
“If that is the question,” Shadowheart says, “then my answer is an enthusiastic no, you cannot ask it.”
“You deserve better,” Lae’zel says. When Shadowheart glances at her, Lae’zel smooths out the earnestness by adding, “Anyone would. Their treatment is deplorable.”
“You don’t know what I deserve,” Shadowheart says quietly.
There’s no such thing as silence in their workplace. Even when the place is empty, the appliances have plenty to say – the heaters hum at a low pitch, the ice machine rumbles, a variety of devices anxiously beep and ping to indicate that tasks await completion. Lae’zel listens to the noise, and looks at Shadowheart, and thinks of all the things she isn’t saying.
“Gods, I wish the blasted ice cream machine was working,” Shadowheart says eventually. “That woman waffling on about her life-or-death milkshake really made me want one.”
Lae’zel wishes the damn thing was working, too. In fact, its functionality is suddenly at the top of her priorities. “I have crafted an insult,” she says. “Would you like to hear it?”
The corners of Shadowheart’s mouth quirk up. “Studying Volo’s book paid off? Sure.”
Lae’zel clears her throat, meditating on what she’s learned about the contrivances of Faerûnian slander. “The circumference of your mother’s waist is large. It surpasses the statistical average for a woman of her age and height.”
Shadowheart laughs. Lae’zel likes that laugh so much. She’s starting to think that she might be willing to trudge through Avernus to hear it.
“It’s a good start,” Shadowheart says, tossing Lae’zel an apple pie.
For the next few days, Lae’zel gets very little sleep.
After her shift ends, she sticks around for the first chunk of the morning, intensely examining the ice cream machine. On her phone, Lae’zel’s got about a hundred Fantasy YouTube tabs open with titles like Fix Your Ice Cream Machine QUICK and Fantasy McDonald’s Repair – Don’t Wait for Corporate! She plays the videos at full volume, ignoring the subsequent glares from coworkers and customers alike.
“I think we’ve got people for that, Lae,” Karlach says cheerfully, peering over Lae’zel’s shoulder. “Want me to call that cute maintenance guy? Dammon, I think?”
“I want you to do no such thing,” Lae’zel says firmly, wiping her damp brow. Karlach’s inexplicable furnace-like quality isn’t helping her sweat level. “The machine is mine to conquer. And conquer it I will, after I absorb the knowledge of these internet men.”
“Shadowheart’s been talking about craving a milkshake something fierce,” Karlach says.
Lae’zel’s too focused on the task at hand to scrutinize the tiefling’s expression, but it sounds like she’s smirking. “And?”
“Dunno,” Karlach says, hopping up to sit on a counter that definitely wasn’t designed to hold her musclebound weight. “You’ve never given two shits that the ice cream maker’s busted before, is all.”
“There is a persistent customer who desires the drinkable confection,” Lae’zel says. “I am fulfilling my duties as a diligent employee.”
“Right.” The counter creaks concerningly; Karlach shimmies back off. “She likes whipped cream, just so ya know. Maybe stick a cherry on top if you’re feeling romantic.”
“I am feeling productive,” Lae’zel says.
“You keep telling yourself that, babe,” Karlach calls as she skips back to the register, her tail swishing behind her.
Lae’zel is still putting the finishing touches on her masterpiece when Shadowheart bangs through the front door, a hair tie between her teeth as she uses both hands to gather her unruly mane into a ponytail.
“You’re here early, gith,” Shadowheart says, pulling the hair tie tight. “Are you making a bid for Employee of the Month? Because I think Tav’s afraid to stop giving it to Minthara.”
It’s true – the imposing drow has held the title for five months in a row, despite being even ruder to the customers than Lae’zel is. (For that, Lae’zel quite likes her.) “I have fixed the machine,” she says, lifting the cup into view.
For a disorienting second, Lae’zel fears that Shadowheart hates it. The half-elf’s eyes go wide; she drops her bag on the floor. Lae’zel looks down at the milkshake, scanning for any imperfections, but she’s done exactly as Karlach suggested: a pile of whipped cream tops the beverage, a cherry perched at the peak. The straw emerges at a jaunty angle – maybe that’s where she went wrong? Should it be standing straight up? The whole concept of straws still strikes Lae’zel as foreign. Githyanki need no assistance in transporting liquids from cup to mouth.
“If you do not like it, I will make you another one,” Lae’zel says. “There are other flavors. All of them equally disgusting, pure sugar slop, but your palette is less refined than mine.”
Shadowheart takes a tentative step toward the counter; breaks into a run; wraps Lae’zel in a warm hug. Lae’zel holds the milkshake above her head, determined not to let it drop. No matter how much she’d like to put her arms around Shadowheart’s waist, which is a perfectly huggable circumference.
“Thank you,” Shadowheart says into Lae’zel’s shoulder. “You’re Employee of the Month in my books.”
“That is not your prize to give,” Lae’zel says, confused. “You are not a manager.”
“Fine,” Shadowheart says, pulling back. She’s very close to Lae’zel’s face. Lae’zel can’t even look at her own cuticles, with both hands supporting the milkshake. “You’re Shadowheart’s Favorite of the Month. How’s that?”
Before Lae’zel can inquire after the parameters by which Shadowheart is judging this award, which strikes her as capricious at best, a voice roars from the building’s entrance: “DUPLICITOUS SERVICE WORKER!”
Standing by the doors, backlit by moonlight and frothing with anger: Dame Aylin, her car visible in the parking lot. “The machine is broken, is it?” she seethes, wings unfurling from her back. “And yet you hold in your hand the cure to my darling Isobel’s parched throat. My poor love, sitting treatless at home while you hoard your business’s wealth of caloric libations for yourself. May the gods forgive me for the vengeance I must needs inflict.”
“I’ll be taking my fifteen imminently,” Lae’zel says, carefully passing the milkshake to Shadowheart before launching herself in Dame Aylin’s direction. Tav will throw a fit, she’s sure, but Lae’zel is positive that the employee handbook must make an exception to the ‘no physically harming guests’ rule if the guests try to harm her first.
Before she throws the first punch, Lae’zel thinks of Shadowheart holding the ziploc of ice to her ear. No matter the outcome of the brawl – if Tav fires her, if Dame Aylin is as capable of pummeling her into the ground as she looks – she’s confident that her coworker will help patch her up. That feeling, soft and foreign, renders the job’s aggravations entirely worthwhile.