Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You want me to open a what?” Design asked.

“A chicken restaurant,” Wit said, already halfway out the door.

Design hummed once. “A place. That sells chickens.”

“Exactly,” he said, twirling a sphere idly. “But not just any chicken restaurant. A statement. An ironic deconstruction of food as identity. A greasy satire of late-stage monarchy.”

“Oh,” she said. “So it’s performance art.”

“Of course it is.” Wit paused. “You’ll need signage. Counter service. Menus. Possibly a slogan. I’ll be back in a week.”

“Why?”

“To prove a point,” he called, already vanishing down the corridor. “To Jasnah!”

Design turned to the Breakaway Market and considered her options.

Four hours later, she opened the doors of Kholin Fried Chicken™ , “in honour of Her Radiant Majesty Jasnah Kholin, Queen of Alethkar, Champion of Logical Consistency, and, most importantly, Owner of a Public Reputation.”

The counter gleamed. The fryer hissed. The wall menu rotated gently between items like Spite Chicken™ , Longleg Chicken Striders™ , and Mystery Peck Nuggets (No Refunds) .

When Pattern phased through the wall mid-shift, she didn’t look up.

“Mmmm,” he buzzed. “You have created a structure of economic recursion. It is… delicious.”

“Thank you,” Design said, flipping a theoretical wing. “The Radiants love it. The ones with trauma prefer mild.”

“You are wearing a paper hat.”

“Metaphorically.”

He stared at the mural on the side wall. It featured a majestic stylized chicken, a radiant glyph of Wit’s face, and the words "A Culinary Rebirth of Meaning."

“This will make Jasnah... annoyed,” Pattern observed.

“It’s educational,” Design said sweetly. “People should know who they’re eating for.”

Pattern pulsed with delight.

“This is nonsense.”

“I’m very proud,” said Design.

Chapter Text

By day two, the queues reached the Soulcasting tier.

There was no advertisement, no official launch, and yet the Breakaway Market had transformed. A red awning now shaded the entrance to Kholin Fried Chicken™ , and the smell of Lavis-oil and deep-fried semi-recognizable poultry hung heavy in the air.

The menu rotated slowly on a glowing board, each item less comprehensible than the last:

• Spite Chicken™ – “Graceful. White. Hates you.”
  
  
• Longleg Chicken Striders™ – “Lean. Pink. Judgemental.”
  
  
• Riverbeak Grace-Fillets™ – “Elegance. Malice. Served warm.”
  
  
• Conceptual Combo #3 – “Don’t worry about what’s in it.”
  
  

The sauces were worse.
Customers whispered about Unspoken Aioli , claimed Cognitive Dissonance Dip had triggered visions, and began using Epistemic Mustard as a metaphor in academic debates. (“He accused me of plagiarism, so I gave him the mustard.”)

By the end of the week, there was graffiti in the stairwell that just read:

“The sauce knows.”

But it wasn’t the chicken or the décor that made the place infamous. It was the Spicy Chicken .

There were no signs for it. No listing. No description. You had to ask. And when you did, the answer was always the same:

“Sorry. That’s only for Highmarshal Stormblessed.”

Kaladin came every other day. He said nothing. Collected a plain black box from the back counter. Left without eating.

Someone swore they once saw the box flicker. Another claimed it was soulcast on the spot. A third insisted the temperature of the air dropped five degrees when he passed.

No one followed him.

They respected the ritual.

They feared the spice.

Design said little. She moved with practiced efficiency, adding swirls of Unspoken Aioli and dots of Epistemic Mustard like she was composing music in condiment form.

Pattern returned on day four, buzzing with approval.

“You are still… thriving. I do not understand it.”

“That’s because it’s working,” she replied, folding sauce packets like origami.

On day six, he came back with five more Cryptics, all trailing behind him like confused geometry. They circled the counter, pulsing faintly with inquiry.

“Why,” one asked, “can only the Windrunner obtain the Spicy Chicken?”

“We have an agreement,” Design said without looking up. “He gets the chicken. I say the words.”

She served a plate of Riverbeak Grace-Fillets™ to a nervous-looking scribe.

“Stormbless your meal,” she said.

The Cryptics all pulsed at once.

One hummed in admiration.

“A recursive exchange of identity and sustenance!”

“I would also like to be stormblessed,” said another, wistfully.

“Eat your nuggets,” Pattern told them.

They did not eat. But they applauded anyway.

Chapter Text

Wit returned to Urithiru seven days later, carrying a flute, a headache, and a speech prepared.

He expected detachment. A shallow joke stretched too thin. A few curious patrons gnawing on irony-flavoured tenders before wandering off in search of something real.

He did not expect this.

The Breakaway Market thrummed with purpose. There were queues. There were paper hats. There were Radiants earnestly debating the philosophical implications of Unspoken Aioli . Someone near the front of the line was crying softly while writing a haiku about Epistemic Mustard .

Wit blinked.

A mural now adorned the wall behind the counter. A stylised chicken stood atop a glowing glyph of identity , crowned in sauces. Beneath it, someone had etched:

"We tried to resist. She gave us sauce."

He made his way to the counter through a sea of devoted customers and intellectuals with stained notebooks. The smell of Lavis oil and deep-fried meaning hung thick in the air.

Design stood behind the register in a metaphorical uniform and a very real paper hat that said “Cognitive Chef.”

“Design,” Wit said. “What in the name of Harmony is this?”

“Lunch rush,” she replied, cheerful. “You're early. Kaladin hasn’t come through yet.”

“You were supposed to expose the absurdity of comfort,” he hissed. “Undermine the illusion of consumer meaning. Dismantle it all, piece by piece, with a fry basket and a grin!”

“I did,” she said, spreading Cognitive Dissonance Dip onto a plate with measured grace. “And then people kept ordering it.”

“You made murals.”

“They made those.”

“You made loyalty cards.”

“I optimized engagement.”

“You institutionalised the bit.”

“Wit,” she said gently, “you tried to prove people would consume emptiness. I gave them something to believe in.”

A hush fell behind them. Kaladin had arrived. He passed silently to the back counter, collected a black box, and disappeared into the halls.

No one followed. No one spoke. The fryer hissed like punctuation.

Design slid a tray toward Wit.

“Do you want the combo?”

She tilted her head toward the wall. He followed her gaze.

“Not if it involves… that.”

Wit closed his eyes.

Then, resigned:

“Egg before chicken.”

“Spice before sweetness,” she replied, bright as a sunrise.

Together:

“Queuing before satiation.”

Chapter Text

Pinned Notices (Official)

LOST:

• One Cognitive Geometry Textbook (slightly greasy, smells of mustard)
  
  
• My place in the queue (Line Position 37 → ???)
  
  
• Innocence
  
  

KFC POLICY REMINDER:

• No Spicy Chicken unless you are Highmarshal Stormblessed
  
  
• No asking Kaladin what’s in the box
  
  
• No making glyphwards in the dipping sauces
  
  
• The fryer is NOT a fabrial
  
  
• “Stormbless your meal” is not legally binding, but it is spiritually encouraged
  
  

Recent Graffiti & Scribbled Notes

“I saw a Cryptic crying. Like actual sobbing. She said the sauce ‘understood her angle.’”
Janiel, scribe (unverified)

“The mustard knows.”
Scrawled in four different dialects)

“I tried ordering the spicy chicken while making eye contact with the mural. Nothing.”
Anonymous Windrunner

“The Lopen wore a fake moustache and said ‘Highmarshal Blormsplest’ and they still wouldn’t give him the spicy.”
Witnessed by three bridgemen and a mildly offended Cryptic

“Pattern tried to pay with theoretical currency. It was accepted.”
Confirmed

“I asked what the Riverbeak is. She asked what I’m afraid of. I went home.”
Unattributed

“Why does the Spicy Chicken box hum?”
[written, then hastily crossed out]

“If you eat three Conceptual Combos in a row, you see the chicken.”
Lopen, probably

“Renarin didn’t eat the spicy chicken. He just looked at it once and said ‘not yet.’”
Truthwatcher trainee (unnerved)

“I kissed a Cryptic to try and get early access. All I got was sauce on my collar and a new fear of decimals.”
Stormwarden intern (name withheld)

“The Spicy Chicken is the 5th Ideal.”
Crayon sketch of Kaladin with flaming wings and a sauce bottle

“The sauce board rotates based on your Intent.”
Two Ardent apprentices in passive-aggressive debate

“Stormfather eats here.”
Highly contested. Possibly metaphorical.

“I heard Adolin was running down the market halls yelling ‘JAMES! WHERE ARE YOU!’ for ten minutes straight.”
Three eyewitnesses. One merchant is still laughing.

Board last updated: 3 hours ago. Next predicted update: after the next Spicy Chicken sighting.

Chapter Text

ONBOARDING BASICS

Uniform:

• Paper hats are metaphorical.
  
  
• Aprons are mandatory (Lavis red preferred).
  
  
• Badges will be assigned by Radiant Order. You do not get to choose.
  
  
• Windrunners: “Runner of Sauce”
  
  
• Truthwatchers: “Quality Assurance, Vision Department”
  
  
• Lightweavers: “Menu Design (Visual Lies Division)”
  
  
• Skybreakers: “Do Not Let Them Near the Fryer”
  
  

STANDARD MENU ITEMS

SAUCE RANKINGS (Do Not Mix Without Proper Certification)

THE SPICY CHICKEN RULE

NEVER SERVE unless the following criteria are met:

• Request is made without words
  
  
• Box is summoned, not retrieved
  
  
• The requestor is Highmarshal Stormblessed
  
  
• You are emotionally prepared for what follows
  
  

KEY PHRASES TO MEMORISE

NOTES FROM DESIGN

• All complaints must be submitted via metaphor.
  
  
• If you spill sauce on Pattern, apologise in waveform.
  
  
• If someone asks about the chicken’s origin, ask about theirs.
  
  
• If Wit returns:
  
  
• Give him the combo.
  
  
• Make him say it.

ADDITIONAL NOTICE
Regarding the Rainbow Chicken Incident (Training Memo #47):

The Spectrum Glaze™ is not to be used in full-bath marinades.

Attempts to create "Rainbow Chicken™" led to:

• Unexpected spren interest
  
  
• Temporary cognitive dissonance among customers
  
  
• One irreparably stained fryer
  
  
• Four reports of "emotional tasting"
  
  
• A five-page letter of complaint from the Elsecaller Society (pending review)
  
  

Per management directive: NO Rainbow Chicken experiments are authorised at this time.
Do not attempt to innovate unless accompanied by a Lightweaver and at least one Edgedancer with napkins.