I stood staring at the closed kitchen doors of Omega Mess at exactly 4:55 PM, rolling a coin across my knuckles. The massive dining hall felt ghostly without the chaos of hungry students.
"Stop with the fucking coin tricks."
Bakugo stood ten feet to my left, hands jammed in his pockets, one eye still slightly swollen from our earlier encounter. He looked like a bomb waiting for an excuse to detonate.
"Nervous habit," I replied with a lazy smirk, knowing it would irritate him further. "Four hours of quality time together. Excited?"
His face contorted. "I will end you."
"Not before dishes are done, you won't." I pocketed the coin.
The kitchen doors swung open before Bakugo could respond. Lunch Rush stood before us, pristine in his white uniform and mysterious mask. No words. No gestures.
After a moment of staring that felt like a full interrogation, he turned and walked back into the kitchen. The message couldn't have been clearer if he'd shouted it through a megaphone.
Follow.
We trailed behind him like condemned prisoners, the temperature rising as we moved deeper into the kitchen's heart. He led us to dish purgatory. A mountain of crusted pots, greasy pans, and food-caked trays waited in steaming sinks. The pile looked suspiciously larger than what would naturally accumulate from one day's service.
Lunch Rush pointed at the disaster zone, then to two pairs of yellow rubber gloves sitting on a nearby counter. He made a single, efficient motion toward the clock on the wall.
Begin. Now.
Then he stepped back, folded his arms, and became a statue.
"Fuck me," Bakugo muttered, grabbing a pair of gloves.
"Not even with borrowed hands," I replied automatically.
We approached the sinks from opposite sides like boxers circling a ring. I assessed the situation, mentally cataloging the different types of dishes and their logical cleaning order. Meanwhile, Bakugo attacked the nearest pot with the fury of someone imagining it had my face painted on it.
I started organizing stacks. "If we create a system—"
"Shut up and wash," he snarled, scrubbing so hard I thought he might put his fist through the bottom of the pot.
I noticed a faint sizzling sound and glanced over. The water around Bakugo's hands was steaming more than it should. The sneaky bastard was using his Quirk to heat his hands, melting grease off the pots faster.
Not to be outdone, I picked up a plate with a stubborn bit of dried... something. I focused a tiny amount of energy into my fingertip and tapped the food speck. A small pop later, the offender was gone, leaving the plate unharmed.
The sound drew Lunch Rush's attention like a gunshot in a library. His head swiveled toward me, one finger extending in accusation. He wagged it sharply, the motion conveying disappointment, warning, and threats of unspeakable punishment all at once.
Then he turned to Bakugo, giving a single, sharp head shake at the steaming sink.
No Quirks. Got it.
But then things got weird. Lunch Rush stepped forward and began making a series of hand gestures. He chopped at the air, made stirring motions, and held his palm flat before pointing at the drying rack.
Bakugo and I exchanged a brief, confused glance—possibly our first moment of solidarity.
"What the fuck is he saying?" Bakugo hissed.
"I don't speak pantomime," I whispered back.
Lunch Rush repeated the gestures, more emphatically this time.
"You want us to... karate chop the plates?" Bakugo tried.
I studied the motions. "Maybe it's some kind of washing technique? Wax on wax off?"
Lunch Rush's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. He pointed at the chopping gesture, then at the food scraps, then back at the gesture.
"Scrape the food off first?" I guessed.
A single, sharp nod. Progress.
The stirring motion remained a mystery, and when Lunch Rush pointed at the sinks, I still had no idea what he meant. The flat palm gesture pointing at the drying rack was equally cryptic.
Our confusion quickly dissolved back into competition. Bakugo started washing plates at warp speed, while I focused on efficiency over raw speed. Water splashed. Suds flew. A slippery plate escaped my grasp, and Bakugo caught it with a small, instinctive explosion that left a scorch mark on the ceramic.
Lunch Rush's posture stiffened. Even through the mask, I could feel his displeasure radiating like heat from an oven.
"Nice catch, Pomeranian. Really subtle."
"Fuck off, pretty boy. At least I'm doing something useful instead of arranging plates like they're going to a goddamn dinner party."
We were seconds away from recreating our locker room brawl when a clear, commanding voice cut through the tension.
"Master says if you use your Quirks on the equipment again, he'll have you polishing the floors with a toothbrush for the rest of the month."
A young woman stepped into our corner of kitchen hell. She wore a light grey chef's coat that complemented her chestnut-brown hair, which was tied back in a thick, practical braid. Her eyes were sharp and professional, taking in the situation with a single sweep.
She bowed slightly to Lunch Rush. "I apologize for the delay, Master. The inventory took longer than expected."
Lunch Rush gave her a single, sharp nod.
She turned to us, her expression neutral but not unkind. "I'm Rin Akiyama, Master Lunch Rush's apprentice. I'll be supervising your punishment detail."
"Oh thank god, someone who talks," I said, leaning against the sink with exaggerated relief. "Your boss's charades game needs work."
Her expression didn't change, but I caught a micro-twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Master Lunch Rush doesn't waste words."
She stepped closer to the disaster zone. "The chopping motion means scrape all food waste into the disposal before washing. The stirring motion indicates pre-soaking heavily soiled pots in the degreasing solution in the far sink. The flat palm means stack plates horizontally on the drying rack, not leaning."
Bakugo scowled. "Why doesn't he just say that?"
"Why don't you just listen?" she countered smoothly.
I stifled a laugh at Bakugo's expression. Rin didn't flinch under his glare. She simply met his eyes, her expression unchanged.
"Let me demonstrate the proper technique," she said, rolling up her sleeves. Her hands moved with the speed of a high-end card dealer as she demonstrated how to scrape, soak, wash, and arrange each type of dish.
"The cake pans need special attention," she explained, pointing to a stack of chocolate-crusted nightmares. "The residual sugar burns easily, so they soak for exactly seven minutes before scrubbing."
Under her guidance, a rhythm emerged. Bakugo, for all his rage, was strong and could scour even the most stubborn burnt residue with his aggressive scrubbing. I found myself naturally falling into the role of organizer, managing the workflow from soaking to washing to sanitizing to drying.
We still didn't speak to each other directly, but we didn't need to. Rin became our buffer, her calm instructions creating a workflow that actually made sense.
"So," I said during a brief lull, "you're the one who speaks fluent Mime?"
"I'm the one who respects Master's methods," she replied without missing a beat, her focus on inspecting a recently cleaned pot. "This one needs another pass. The rim still has residue."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Must be fascinating, working for the silent culinary overlord," I tried again, rewashing the pot with extra attention to the rim. "Do you have actual conversations, or is it all just thumbs-up and disapproving stares?"
This time, she did look at me, her brown eyes assessing. "Master communicates everything necessary. Words are often superfluous in a kitchen."
"Unlike in a punishment detail," Bakugo muttered, attacking a particularly stubborn lasagna pan.
"The lesson is in the work itself," Rin said, surprising us both by responding to him. "Master believes that hands learn what minds resist."
The hours passed more quickly than I expected. By 8:30, the mountain had become a molehill. By 8:50, even that was gone, leaving gleaming stainless steel in its wake.
At precisely 9:00, Lunch Rush returned for inspection. He walked slowly around the scullery, examining random surfaces with critical intensity. He checked inside pots, ran a gloved finger along counter edges, and held plates up to the light.
Finally, he gave a single, decisive thumbs-up.
Rin's face softened with a small, proud smile. "Master is pleased with your work."
Bakugo grunted, peeling off his rubber gloves.
"Same time tomorrow," Rin reminded us, taking the gloves and hanging them properly. "Perhaps we can finish fifteen minutes earlier if you maintain this standard."
Bakugo stormed toward the exit without a word. I lingered, watching Rin as she began carefully cleaning what appeared to be Lunch Rush's personal set of knives, her movements reverent and precise.
"You know," I said, "most babysitters don't have your patience."
"I'm not a babysitter," she replied without looking up. "I'm a culinary apprentice who happens to be tasked with ensuring two probationary students don't destroy Master's kitchen."
"Sounds like babysitting to me." I pushed away from the counter. "See you tomorrow, Rin-chan."
That earned me a sharp look. "Akiyama is fine."
"We just spent four hours washing dishes together. I think we're past formalities."
She returned to her knife cleaning. "Good night, Murano-san."
At the door, Bakugo waited, his expression dark. I braced for another explosion, verbal or otherwise.
Instead, he jabbed a finger at my chest. "This doesn't change anything. Tomorrow, I'm washing more dishes than you."
"You're... competing over dish washing now?"
"I'm better than you at everything," he snarled. "Including punishment."
With that bizarre declaration, he stormed off down the hallway.