It’s a Saturday night.

The skies are clear.

Across the moon's surface, the golden colonies of the Lunar Federation glisten amongst the stars. Ships arrive at the spaceport of Oasis, one of the Federation’s largest colony cities on Earth. Likewise, ships launch and embark on journeys towards the Moon and beyond. Oasis is surrounded by an expansive glass desert known as The Iridescence. The Moon’s light reflects off the surface of the glass sands, creating a dull blue glow that surrounds the city’s two-hundred-foot protective walls. The city streets are teeming with activity. Bars and restaurants glow as patrons buzz in and out. The air is filled with the sounds of live music and the smell of good food.

Nights like these used to mean something.

Within the jovial evening commerce stands The Mare, an elegantly dressed restaurant that garners so-so reviews. However, its kitschy dedication to traditional Lunar cuisine has made it very popular with tourists; particularly those visiting from the Moon who are looking to eat something familiar. Every table in the restaurant has been booked from the minute the doors opened in the morning into the night. It’s nine-thirty. Half an hour before close. As per usual, the kitchen is a chaotic mess.

The Mare’s kitchen is like a ship caught in a storm. Its stainless-steel walls echo an endless cacophony of aggressive decibels as waves of orders rock the vessel and spirits are broken. Plumes of heat burst all around as stovetops blaze and oil smokes. The overworked crew of cooks scramble around one another. The counters are dirty, and the floors are a slipping hazard. Mise en place was abandoned then abandoned again, repeatedly, until the counters ran out of space and the mess made its way onto the floor. The evening rush and short staff have left no room for cleaning. It’s all hands on deck.

Trapped within the maw of this storm, a cook named Sebastian struggles to stay afloat.

Sebastian’s feet are tired, and his arms are worn. He stirs and stirs, sifting dry ingredients for a particularly delicate sponge cake. He moves onto his wet ingredients, mixing milk, butter, and vanilla extract into a bowl.

Nights like these used to mean something.

The weekend rush used to be exciting. Now Sebastian is just exhausted. His mind is foggy, and he has been standing for hours.

Oh.

That’s right.

He remembers to prep the egg whites.

Sebastian sets down his bowl and carefully makes his way to the fridge. He enters the large adjustable fridge and immediately begins to shiver. He steps out of the unit and zips over to the terminal next to the fridge door. The internal temperature is set to negative five degrees Celsius—about eight degrees lower than it should be.

Sebastian looks around panicked.

"What’s going on with the fridge?" he asks out loud.

Another cook, Delphine, who is currently making the icing for Sebastian’s cake looks up from her work. She sees the panicked expression on Sebastian’s face and attempts to call out to him. Unfortunately, the chaotic noise of the kitchen drowns out her voice. Delphine sighs and makes her way over to Sebastian, slipping around on the slick kitchen floors. Delphine slides up to Sebastian.

"May I be of assistance?" She asks. Her polite tone sounds robotic.

Sebastian takes a deep breath. "The temperature in the fridge is too low."

Delphine looks at the terminal. "Oh my. That’s odd."

"You two! What are you doing?!" A booming voice rings out from the other side of the kitchen.

This is the Head Chef, Polard. The appointed captain of this sinking ship. He swiftly makes his way to the fridge door.

"It’s negative five inside, chef." Delphine points to the terminal screen.

"Well, what are you standing around for?!" Chef Polard barks.

He taps on the terminal screen, raising the fridge’s temperature back to three degrees. Polard then reaches into the fridge and pulls out a tray before looking back at Sebastian and Delphine.

"It’s fixed! We need that cake in the oven now!" He yells.

"Yes, chef." Sebastian and Delphine say in unison.