Court adjourns until tomorrow, wherever the court may be. Most of the petitioners sigh out their exhaustion, grumble out the accumulated irritation, and disperse to the far corners of Beri to try again tomorrow. A hungry few peek their heads through one of the two windows, and without another word found an appetite for a long stroll around the town instead.

Dolce alone remains, without even his own furniture to keep him company. He stands in the hollowed-out kitchen, his polite smile remaining long after he stops waving good-bye. Outside, there are several piles of beaten-up belongings with his name on them, sometimes literally. Whatever tangled thoughts in his head, whatever swirling emotions in his heart, Dolce is a sensible sheep - sorry, Synnefo, and there was work to be done.

Nothing else for it but to roll up his sleeves, and get started. 

Truth be told, he likes a good tidying up. Chores were a good way to keep the body busy, so the head and heart could get some serious thinking done. He half thought that some of the best books he’d ever read must have been cooked up amidst a good dusting.

Decommissioned.

He’d forgotten to ask what it meant, exactly. In the moment, 20022 had spoken of it with such gravitas, and with pictures and everything, that he’d gotten the general point across. Now, he wonders how they’d find out the trigger’d been pulled. Would there be any warning? Ships in the sky? Boots in the distance? Was there a plan for them beyond the planet they were standing on? Was there anything they could do, if it came down to it? 

The thought ought to have worried him more. Not that it didn’t worry him a great deal, but instead of a creeping dread in his heart, he felt a quickening of his hooves and an unsightly urge to slam cabinet doors shut. Decommissioned. Decommissioned. For what, exactly? For the crime of…of not being the most organized? For not meeting some quota of productivity? Lack of good neighborliness? That was reason enough to Decommission everyone here, whatever that meant? And their only way out was to tread water and hope that someday they’d have the right to live here?! It was absurd! Not reasonable in the slightest.

Well, of course it was unreasonable. 20022 said it was unreasonable, or said as much, anyway. He didn’t [i]want[/i] to steer Mayor Kaspar towards a stern hand. If there was a more reasonable path, he’d have been on it already. Dolce had worked through the logic himself, and now he had the added benefit of several large chairs to haul inside while he double-checked his work. Nothing. No insight, no grand ideas, nothing beyond the simple facts of the matter: This planet had been dealt a terrible hand, 20022 was doing his best, and that was that.

Still. 20022 didn’t have to wreck his kitchen for the sake of his operation. Which is as far as that thought went before he plopped down onto a miraculously-intact stool with a sigh. No, he [i]did[/i] have to wreck his kitchen. Working this sternly meant having personnel on hand who would be willing to wreck a few kitchens. It meant maintaining the facade at all times, without exception, because the risk of misjudged mercy was too great.

Mind, it didn’t lessen the sting of finding a favorite mug scratched and dented. Nor did it give him any less of a pile to sort through. Which, at the least, meant more time alone with his thoughts.

Suppose 20022 couldn’t do anything, no matter how hard he was trying. What about someone else? Couldn’t all the Synnefo in all the corners of the galaxy do something about this, being so close to so many important people? And right away, he felt hopelessly silly for even thinking such a thing. What, was he supposed to ask 20022 to pass a message up the chain? A request to, what was that now, “do something?” Yes, how many somethings would you like? Is this a rush order? Would you like them in ocean blue, or sky blue? That was sure to fix all of their problems. If he really wanted to help, 20022 had already pointed out a perfectly doable, perfectly reasonable course of action.

So why was he spending so much time thinking of any other way he could go?

Everyone’s lives were in terrible danger. There was something he could do to help. As dearly as he loved his kitchen, seeing the faces of the crab-hunters when they finally sat down for a hot meal, having a [i]home[/i], he couldn’t be so selfish as to choose that over everyone’s lives and happiness. Not that he’d necessarily be any less happy in the Service. By all accounts, they could find a place where he’d fit perfectly, and help ease this world into one where Mayors didn’t have to rule with such a heavy hand. So why…?

[i]"-we work for an institution, and trust me when I say that there is no higher pleasure for any of us than understanding what that means."[/i]

He’d heard that before, hadn’t he? Maybe not in those words exactly. But the Manor was quite clear where Dolce was to find his highest happiness. See how right they’d been.

But, surely, this time was different? 20022 was different. The Manor had been a cruel, pointless [i]waste[/i], in service to people who never knew they existed and never would, and who didn’t deserve their loyalty anyway. The Service didn’t sound a thing like that. For one, they sounded entirely Synnefo-run, so that was already a welcome change. If they’d been in charge of the Manor, they would have…

If they’d been in charge, they surely would have been more reasonable, and he could’ve asked them to…to...

Dolce froze, a half-folded tablecloth hanging loose around him.

[i]…if the Manor was such a waste, what, exactly, should they have done instead?[/i]

He thrusts the tablecloth into a random cupboard in an unceremonious bundle. On the stove, he leaves a simmering pot, set just right to keep warm without ever burning. On the windowsill, he leaves bowls, spoons, cups, and a little piece of paper. On the little piece of paper, he leaves a carefully handwritten note:

[quote][i]Terribly sorry, but I’m out for a stroll. Take as much food as you need tonight. Please wash your dishes afterwards and set them out on the windowsill for the next guest. Thank you very much![/i][/quote]
Signed with his name, and a little doodle of himself, holding a heart out in gratitude.

With an apron swapped for a light vest, he carefully picks his way through the remaining piles and sets off down the road at a fast trot. This was a problem too big for one chef, and too important for even a moment’s delay. 20022 had asked him to be discreet with the specifics, but there was no harm in discussing theory with a more experienced friend, now was there?