5. Mantodea Don’t Fuck

Chapter five

Mantodea Don't Fuck

Oliver's first day at The Passing Through Cafe went about as well as any first day usually did. He woke up at four in the morning, excited and nervous in equal measure. So as not to wake his roommates, he tiptoed around the loft as he dressed, brushed his teeth, and scarfed down a bowl of oatmeal.

Not wanting to be late on his first day, he left the loft extra early to ensure he had enough time for the commute to the train station and the train ride through the veil. A little after five thirty, he was circling the cafe's yellow stone building and entering cautiously through the back door.

Soft voices murmured over the sound of odd music—not the alternative rock that he'd heard when the cafe was open, but something else. It sounded like elevator music mixed with something you'd hear at a spa, but with… nature sounds? Something was caterwauling under the discordant melody, and honestly, Oliver couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Hello?" he called out as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it next to a pink, sequined hoodie and a dark green shrug that felt like it was made out of moss.

"Oliver?" Glyma appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, and he was struck again by her overwhelming beauty. "You're early."

"Better early than late," he said, and she tittered.

"My kind of man." She gestured for him to follow her before heading back the way she came, yet another pair of flip-flops—these ones red and glittery—slapping against the floor with every step.

His mouth watered as he walked further into the warm kitchen. The scents of fresh bread and caramelized sugar hung in the air, and he couldn't wait for his lunch break. He was going to try every single item in the bakery case.

Like Glyma could read his mind, she motioned to a plate of bite-sized baked goods. "I think it's important you know what everything tastes like, so I have samples of every item we sell that's safe for human consumption."

Oliver's hand hesitated over the plate. "You sell items that aren't safe for human consumption?"

"Mhm. We keep it separated in the case, though, so it's easy to keep track of. Don't want to poison an unsuspecting customer." Her smile glitched. "Not again." Oliver's brows rose, but she covered the worrisome words with a giggle. "Anyway, Rusty will show you."

"O-okay." Marginally less excited, he carefully plucked a square of what looked like banana bread off the plate and took a hesitant bite. It didn't taste like banana bread, but the consistency was similar. It was savory, not sweet, and salty with a hint of sourness. It was a strange flavor, but Oliver liked it. "This is good."

"Kriltcake," Glyma said as she resumed kneading a batch of dough. "It's a Greed delicacy. You pickle krilt eggs for one hundred and seven days, then mash them up into a paste and layer in the dough before baking."

He wished she hadn't explained, but he shrugged and popped the rest into his mouth. Who cared if it sounded weird? As long as it tasted good, that was all that mattered in the end, right?

Almost everything on the plate tasted good to him, but he made notes of his favorites, asking for the ingredients in case customers ever had questions. Whether she was impressed with his initiative, or she just thoroughly enjoyed sharing her passion for baking, Glyma excitedly explained the recipes, even pointing out ingredients in the pantry so he had a visual aid.

Ten minutes later, as she was expounding on the process of coagulating the blood of a mummit—whatever the hell that was—to make the bloodgel beads that topped the mummit fruit tart, the kitchen doors swung open, and Rusty walked in, pushing a bucket and mop in front of him.

"The closers didn't clean the bathrooms again," he said irritably, and Glyma frowned.

"Again? I'll have another talk with them. They're always forgetting stuff like that, but I guess that's teenagers for you." She splayed her dough-stuck hands before turning a beaming smile on Rusty. "Thank you for taking care of it, Rusty. You always notice the little things; I appreciate that about you."

Rusty shifted uncomfortably, and Oliver had a feeling that if he wasn't covered with fur, his face would have darkened in a blush. "It's, uh, whatever. No big deal," he muttered with a sullen roll of his eyes, but his tail had puffed up from the compliment, betraying his nonchalance.

"Good morning, Rusty," Oliver said as Rusty wheeled the bucket to the back.

"Hey." Jabbing a clawed thumb in the direction of the front, he said, "Ready for me to show you around behind the counter?"

"Right. Yeah." Oliver took a few steps toward Rusty before pausing, turning back to Glyma. "Is that okay? Was there anything else you—"

She was already waving a hand at him in dismissal. "Go on. Rusty has more important things to teach than I do, anyway."

"Thanks for the samples," he said as he hurried after Rusty, catching the swinging door in his shoulder with a grunt. "Oops. Ow."

"Good morning, Oliver," Willow greeted from her spot crouched in front of the minifridge holding the different dairy options.

"Hey, Willow. How are you?"

Pressing a hand to her chest, she simpered. "That's so kind of you to ask. I'm feeling at peace and optimistic for the day. How are you feeling?"

She could probably already tell what he was feeling, but he was grateful that she still asked. "A little nervous, but I'm good."

"First day nerves are natural, but you're going to do splendidly. I just know it." She placed a rough hand on his arm and squeezed.

"Thanks, Willow. I appreciate the encouragement."

"And I appreciate your positivity."

"And I'd appreciate a cyanide pill," Rusty griped under his breath.

Thankfully, Willow didn't hear him. "Your aura is so bright and pleasant, Oliver. It's such a wonderful comfort."

"A bullet to the brain would be a wonderful comfort," Rusty added unhelpfully.

"That's kind of you to say, Willow. I bet a bright, pleasant aura is a nice change of pace," Oliver said with a pointed look at Rusty.

Rusty pressed a sarcastically offended palm to his chest. "I don't know what you mean; I'm a bucket of fucking sunshine." His declaration was followed by the most unenthusiastic jazz hands Oliver had ever seen.

"If the bucket was a deep, dark hole and the sunshine was endless angst, then yes."

To Oliver's surprise—and delight—Rusty laughed. It was husky and raspy, like he wasn't accustomed to making such a sound. But it was nice, and Oliver grinned.

"Yeah, you're gonna do just fine here, K.O." Rusty elbowed him good-naturedly before gesturing to the bakery case. "Now pay attention so you don't poison yourself. Or a customer."

"Sure, but first, someone has to tell me what K.O. means," Oliver said in exasperation.

With a smirk, Rusty leaned his hip against the glass of the case and crossed his arms over his chest. "We actually took that from your world. There was a fighting game in the early nineties. Lots of kicking and grunting. Very homoerotic. Something Combat , I think?"

" Mortal Kombat ?" Oliver offered, and Rusty nodded. "Wait a minute. K.O. stands for knockout ?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you humans are so weak and pathetic." He mimed decking Oliver in the face. "One hit knockout."

Oliver had never been more offended in his life. "That's so unfair! You demons have claws and wings and sharp teeth. Of course we can't compete with that."

Cocking his head, Rusty frowned. "Exactly. How are you running right into the point, yet still missing it?"

"That's so offensive," Oliver sputtered.

"No, it's not. If a demon's trying to offend you, they'll call you a slug."

Well, damn, Oliver had been called that too.

"'Cause we're small and gross and easily squished?" he asked.

Rusty sucked his teeth. "Yup."

"Great."

The kitchen doors burst open, making Oliver jump, and Gem stumbled inside. Before anyone could say a word, he held up several hands. "No talking! It is too early for socializing or pleasantries or any of that bullshit! Rusty, I swear on the deities below, do not test me today."

Gem pointed numerous threatening fingers at Rusty's face and chest. He pantomimed zipping and locking his mouth shut, and Gem's tiny nostrils flared.

Flouncing toward the espresso machine, Gem muttered incoherently under his breath. Willow and Rusty exchanged an amused look, and Oliver bit his bottom lip to stop a laugh.

"Don't let him scare you," Rusty said quietly. "That's his speech every morning."

"Rusty!" Gem screeched. "What did I just say?"

A small explosion of smoke and fire erupted in the dining area, interrupting Gem's tirade and scaring the ever-loving shit out of Oliver. Quin stepped out of the smoke wearing an oversized t-shirt, a pair of boxer-shorts, and a furious expression.

"Keep it down," she snarled, red eyes burning like coals as she glowered at Gem. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

Plastered against the back counter, Gem cowered. "Sorry," he whispered.

Quin huffed a puff of steam through her nostrils before glancing Oliver's way. "Have a good first day," she muttered before she disappeared back into the smoke-flame tornado.

"What was that?" Oliver gasped out.

"Quin can… teleport, I guess. It's a Daemon thing." Rusty pointed at the ceiling. "She and Glyma live above the cafe. Gem wakes her up every few days with his whining, and she gets all fire-and-brimstone about it."

"I wasn't even that loud." Gem pouted as he started throwing together a large latte that Oliver assumed was for himself.

Oliver spent the rest of the time before opening making notes of the items in the bakery case, which ones were safe for human consumption, and which ones had common allergens for demons. Willow showed Oliver how the register worked, then explained the special mood syrups that could be added to the drinks.

Confidence, desperation, and optimism were only a few of the labels Oliver read.

"So if you're feeling down, you can just take a shot of optimism, and you feel happy again?" he asked, and Willow nodded.

"More or less. It only lasts a few hours, and it might not truly compare to the genuine emotion, but it's close. Strong empaths are able to absorb and bottle all sorts of feelings and experiences, and people buy them."

"We got a horny syrup too," Gem added, his mood having improved after he had his first coffee. "But we keep it under here." He patted the cupboard under the espresso machine. "Don't want the cafe to turn into an orgy."

"Things got very messy the last time that happened." Willow shook her head morosely.

Dead bodies, poisonings, and orgies? What kind of place had Oliver signed up to work in?

"You'll help Gem with the drinks for a few hours, then shadow me on the register. And if you have any questions about the bakery case, ask Rusty," Willow said as she handed Oliver an apron.

Neither Gem or Rusty wore one, but Willow had already secured hers around her torso. Oliver followed suit.

There didn't appear to be a dress code. Willow was in another strappy sundress, and Rusty wore all black again, his cut-off shirt advertising a demon punk band Oliver had never heard of. Gem wore a pair of high waisted, poofy culottes and a turquoise halter top that complimented his gray and red skin.

Oliver figured his jeans and plain shirt would be just fine.

As Gem pointed out the different features of the espresso machine, Rusty crossed the dining area and unlocked the front door, flipping the sign to Open . Immediately, several demons filtered in, and Oliver wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on the back of his pants.

"You're gonna do fine, babe," Gem whispered with a wink. "If you need anything, just say so."

"Thanks, Gem."

For the first few hours, Oliver hopped between watching Willow work the register and helping Gem make drinks. Not that he needed help; he had it handled with his many arms. To be honest, Oliver was more in the way than actually helpful, but Gem was gracious.

In some ways, it was just like his old job at the university coffee shop. In other, more obvious ways, it was completely different. He nearly gave a demon a cup of desperation-laced coffee instead of delight. And when a demon with tentacles spilling out of their mouth spoke to him a wet, sucking language he couldn't understand, he had to call on Willow to help translate.

Somehow, the possibility of a language barrier had never crossed Oliver's mind. Maybe because all the demons he'd met so far spoke impeccable English, even if they had subtle accents. The menus on the wall were in both English and the symbolic written language of Hell.

The different districts and species had their own dialects, which Oliver hadn't known until Rusty had told him. But in the same way English had been accepted as the global language of Earth, Hell had a universal language that everyone spoke.

Most of the customers were more than happy to speak English with Oliver when he took a turn on the register, Willow hovering beside him for support. Only a few gave him snide looks, but no one was outright hostile. He took it as a win.

Toni waltzed in through the front door around nine, wearing dark sunglasses and another t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He shot Oliver finger guns and a, "'Ey, Ollie!" before disappearing into the kitchen.

Oliver took his break at the same time as Rusty, though he took his sandwich out the back to sit outside and smoke while Oliver hung out in the kitchen, taste-testing more baked items and even some of the paninis and salads that Toni and Zef made. He even tried the wriggling salad Zef had been making the first time he'd met them.

The movement had been caused by tiny little cricket-like bugs hiding within the greens that were apparently a Wrath favorite. With an air of challenge, Toni watched Oliver spear a forkful of greens with, yes, one of the wriggling bugs.

"They're crunchy," Toni said in encouragement. "Like a peanut."

"A peanut with legs," Oliver muttered, steeling himself. He shoved the whole bite into his mouth and chewed quickly, not wanting to give the cricket-peanut a chance to crawl anywhere.

It didn't taste like a peanut, but it definitely crunched like one. The taste was… rather bland if Oliver was being honest. The greens were fresh and a little bitter, which complimented the sweet dressing nicely. The bugs were more like a garnish than anything.

"Once you get past the wriggling legs, it's not bad," Oliver said, and Toni slapped his shoulder.

"'Atta boy, K.O."

Zef asked lots of questions about humans, centered mostly around culture and societal norms. Oliver did his best to answer them, though as a white boy from Montana, he wasn't exactly cultured. But he enjoyed chatting with the insectoid demon and answering their many questions

"What about you?" Oliver asked, after he'd explained what a dude ranch was and how it had been for him growing up on one. "Where are you from?"

"Me and my fellow hatchlings were raised in Envy," Zef answered in their wispy voice. "Some have moved to other districts, but I remain with several of my… I think you humans would call them siblings."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Seventy-eight." Zef sprinkled a crumbly sort of cheese onto a plate of slimy noodles that… yup, they were definitely alive. So, worms, not noodles.

Deciding he wasn't adventurous enough to taste that dish, Oliver focused on the conversation. "Seventy-eight siblings? Holy shit."

"Is that a lot for human standards?" Zef's wings rustled, antennas rising with interest. "Our pod is rather small for a Mantodea colony."

"Uh, yeah, seventy-eight siblings is… I don't even know if that's physically possible for a human couple to accomplish." Oliver did some fast math. "Maybe if there were numerous sets of twins or triplets."

Zef nodded sagely. "Yes, your human reproduction cycle is rather… complicated."

"Is yours not?" Oliver asked before he thought better of it. "I mean, sorry, that's an awkward question. You don't have to answer."

"It is not awkward. Reproduction is a part of the natural cycle. Mantodea reproduction is much simpler than with other species, especially humans." Zef tucked a chunk of white hair behind their pointed, almost elf-like ear. "Every Mantodea is capable of either laying or fertilizing the eggs. If they wish to do so asexually, they can. Though most choose to do so in partnerships, as it is easier to raise the young with more than one adult."

"So you don't have different genders? Like you don't need that to have kids?" Oliver asked, trying to be delicate.

"We are all agender on a biological level," Zef explained, entirely unphased. "Though I cannot speak over another's gender identity. In regard to reproduction, as a species, we do not need fornication to ensure the next generation, nor are we inclined to engage in it."

"In other words," Toni said from the stove as he stirred a pot of soup. "Mantodea don't fuck."

"Thank you, Toni," Zef said flatly. "As always, your colloquial contribution is invaluable."

Chuckling, Toni saluted them. "I got you, baby."

Oliver leaned his hands on the stainless steel table. "That's fascinating, though. I mean, humans identify as agender and asexual, but biologically, we're still kinda trapped in the binary of needing an egg and sperm to… you know."

"Yes, it is a rather messy affair from what I understand. Involving many fluids." Zef's placid expression pinched slightly, a wrinkle forming between their compound eyes. "Forgive my candor, but it sounds like very unpleasant business to me."

"Messy? Usually. Unpleasant?" Fighting a blush, Oliver shrugged. "To each their own, right?"

"Indeed," Zef said diplomatically.

The back door shut, and a moment later, Rusty appeared, tucking a packet of loose tobacco into his back pocket. "Ready?" he asked Oliver. "Gem's gonna wanna take a break, so maybe you can man the coffee machine for a bit?"

"Yeah, for sure." Oliver rapped his knuckles on the table. "Thanks, Zef. It was cool learning about you and your people."

Zef dipped their head. "A pleasure to speak with you as well. Perhaps next time, we can discuss the intricacies of ‘Netflix and Chill'? I have heard the phrase but have yet to understand it."

Swallowing a laugh, Oliver nodded. "Sounds like a plan."