Mathilda laid down on her bed in the hotel, legs up on the wall, hips bent at ninety degrees. She had shed her winter coat and boots earlier and was not in warm, black thermal clothes. Her feet were incased in black wool socks and were lightly hitting each other.

The morning had started out fine. She had taken care of a few annoying birds, but they were still everywhere. She had chatted a bit with the other Chosen, when she felt slightly hungry. She had only been here for a couple of hours, but she hadn't really remembered to eat before hand. Everything was fine, when she saw the rations in her bag. They were small, liveable, but small. It had brought her back to a memory she would have rather forgotten, but all the same, it resurfaced and upset her.

Now, laying absolutely still, the memory played over and over.

--

Mathilda stood at her front door, nine years old. It was just her and her mother, her daddy having been away for a few days already. Her mother had said it was some cooking show that he had been invited to, that's why he was gone. Then, she had grabbed her briefcase, placed a sandwich in front of Mathilda and walked out the door. Her mother's food tasted bad, even if it was just a sandwich. This scenario happened every day, and after Mathilda there the sandwich away, she would make herself a bowl of cereal and wait by the door, hoping to see her vater. Her mother wouldn't be back until dinner, so Mathilda would sit or stand and watch the door handle, waiting on baited breath to see it turn and she the dark haired man that was her father walk in.

Everyday, she got out her and her daddy's apron, his saying 'Meisterkoch' and hers saying 'Koch in Ausbildung'. Both were black with grey lettering, Mathilda's having a blue ribbon and Jonas' having a white one. After she placed the aprons out, she would stand on the tallest chair she could climb on and bring down the family cook book, flipping to whatever recipe she wanted to. Afterwards, she would run back to the door and wait. And wait. Eventually, her mother would come home, and Mathilda would sigh and place everything back, making sure she put the cook book back first so her mother didn't touch it.

Today, however, was different. She hadn't woke up feeling great, but she was determined to see her father home. After a while, she eyes felt heavy and she went to her room, grabbing her pillow and blanket. She then returned to the hallway and bundled herself on the ground, keeping an eye on the door.

-

Something was moving beneath her, up and down, up and down. Mathilda shifted and sat up, glancing around.She was in her room, staring at her light blue walls and dark wood frame of her bed. Looking below her, she noticed that the moving sensation was her father, still dressed for his convention, wearing a nice shirt and slacks. Mathilda grinned and hugged her daddy, happy he was home.

Jonas smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

--

Opening her eyes briefly, Mathilda recalled what her father had told her. Apparently, she was asleep in the hallway when he got home. He had carried her back to her room, but she wouldn't let him go and therefore got roped into being her pillow. Breaking deeply, Mathilda closed her eyes as the memory counted to play.

--

Mathilda, who was feeling better, followed her daddy to the kitchen. She bumped into the man's legs as he stopped short. Stepping back, she looked up as her father turned and looked down at her. Tilting his head, he crouched down and patted Mathilda's blonde hair.

"Waiting for me, Liebling?"

Nodding, Mathilda moved around Jonas, grabbing their aprons and placing the bigger one in the brunettes hands. After making sure hers was on, she grabbed his hand and moved over to the counter, climbing up one of the stools and reaching for the flour.

Behind her, her father hummed before picking her up and setting her on the island in the middle o the kitchen. Motioning for her to stay still, he turned around and grabbed the cookbook, flipping to the back the book. He turned it to face her. Both pages were filled with names, all German.

"This is the name of everyone in my family who has used this book. It's tradition for this book to end up in a Callahan's hands at least once in their life. See? Here is my father, and my brother. Some of these are super old. However, this book has only ever needed up in male Callahan's, never female. It's been an unspoken rule."

Hearing her father sigh, Mathilda traced her small fingers over all the names. Her daddy was right, there were no female names. Reading a few of the names, she felt something being slid into her hand. It was a pen.

"Vater?"

"I was certain you would be like your mother, you most certainly have her attitude." He poked her nose. "But she has told me, that you are very resistant to her training. She told me that, every day, you prepped for cooking. She took note that all the recipes you opened to her baked goods, but you know that I don't like you using the stove." The man paused, and uncapped the pen. "I want you to have the book Mathilda. You are unique. You're equally me and your mother, but are fully yourself. I know every recipe in that book, and I am handing it off to you. You and your mother have your 'special training' and you and I will work through this book. Here, sign write here, next to my name."

--

Sighing, Mathilda opened her eyes again, stretching them wide to avoid tears. That moment was so important to her. remembering it reminder her that this was a place she needed to be. Here, with these other unique individuals with their own backstory. Chosen, who...would be hungry. She had seen a few army men, men who knew how to handle rations. But most of these Chosen, wouldn't. Smiling, she sat up and grabbed her bag, finding the food.

Slipping on her shoes, she left her room, determined to gather enough food to cook good, warm meal, and some people to eat it. Fighting metal birds might make her mother proud and her father faint, but feed the people around her would certainly make up for that.

wc: 1103