Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn

Koa

Don't you just wanna wake up dark as a lake
Smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?

Koa lans backwards against the counter, his hands propping him as he looks out upon the kitchen and its unusually bare staff. Most of people have gone home to plan their futures and hold their loved ones but a skeleton crew remains, valiantly whipping up enough food to feed their falling cities. Each of their faces holds a tableau of emotion as each of them grapples and comes and deals the very best they can.

Koa's heart aches for them all.

"Have you, though? Thought about it?" It's a tentative question, one that leaves as much room for dismissal as it does for answer. He's still looking outward, watching someone grapple with a stock pot large enough to hold a small child. A woman rushes over, grabbing the other handle and earning a laugh of relief. Together they hoist the heavy pot onto a waiting fire, then each turn to go back to their tasks. What is he going to do without that sort of teamwork, of camaraderie?

Will he ever feel at home again?

No no no. Ha has to keep his focus outward: on Zavien, his family, his people, food. Snapping up from the counter, he turns to Zav with a sharp salute. "Aye, Commander!"

A few questions and investigated coolers turns up the promised meat; Koa extracts his requisite amount triumphantly, ready to return the pan to the fridge when a hand grips his ear. Whirling in alarm, he finds himself looking down into the scowling face of one of the head cooks. Some chastisement and bullying later, and the Dragoon finds himself looking quite lost while standing in front of a massive griddle with a spatula in one hand and a pan of 100 uncooked patties in the other, because to quote the old woman, "If you're going to be using one of my stovetops you might as well be useful!'

If you're drunk on life, babe, I think it's great
But while in this world I think I'll take my whiskey neat