Mariette stared despondently at the number shining through her right arm. Its glow plastered a magenta thirteen across her taut face. “Number thirteen, Mariette Lipson…number thirteen Mariette Lipson,” a feminine voice blared through the quaint waiting area. 

Standing, Mariette carefully smoothed each wrinkle blemishing her bright green apron, bringing an all-too-pale arm towards her face to secure a freed lock of dark hair. Hesitantly walking towards the room’s far door, she passed by two dozen other fearful and restless applicants. Their eyes darted left and right as beads of sweat rolled down rows of terrified faces. 

Don’t make a fool of yourself, I will not make a fool of myself, Mariette prophetically affirmed. Upon her approach, the reinforced bulk doors recessed soundlessly into their adjoining walls. 

She hesitantly stepped into the darkness beyond, the doors sealing shut behind her. A scant beam of light cut through the eerie gloom she found herself in, leading to an inviting and well-lit standard cooking station. A fridge, an overhead utensil rack, a full cooking utility board, an atomic processor, a neutron ozone cooker, a magnetically stabilized combustion oven, and, of course, your standard sink were all on display.

Mariette marched herself across the expanse with what confidence she could muster, the illuminated path fading to darkness in her wake. A set of holographic footpads appeared in front of her, onto which she firmly stepped as a familiar feminine and robotic voice echoed through the space.

“Mariette Lipson, age forty-eight, family provincial class two,” the voice recited. “Deloir Culinary School of Feline Catering entrance exam. Remunerated attempt four proceeding as scheduled,” the announcement paused briefly as machinery began to hum through the facility’s walls. “Now selecting judges.” Spotlights purred to life towards the room’s far end, illuminating three raised pedestals. While visibly shorter, stubbier, and composed of a carpeted material, the pedestals appeared as ornately decorated columns. 

The first judge soon stepped into the light. It was a massive walrus of a cat, easily over one hundred pounds. On approach the cat’s genetically enhanced legs permitted a gravity-defying leap towards the first dais. It seated itself with a hearty smack, wiggling its considerable heft in search of a comfortable position. Finally, in contempt, the hairy mountain swiveled its gray head, expectantly fixing two glowing yellow eyes onto the cooking station. 

“Cinnamonbun is your first judge: male, age thirty-seven, a British Shorthair with a robust appetite,” the announcer stated.

Another cat paced into the spotlight, gracefully soaring through the air to alight upon the second dais. This hairless feline was visibly more cultured than the accompanying glutton, its deep hazel eyes sparing Mariette but a glance before it began elegantly grooming itself.

“Athelean Amberjill Belladonna will be your second judge, female, age 14: a refined Sphynx from the British Isles,” the announcer added. With this, a third orange-striped cat made its appearance striding toward the last pedestal. Arriving at its base, it clumsily lunged upwards, clawing into the cushioned side and frantically scurrying the rest of the way. Once on top, it slumped over and fell deeply asleep.

“Bob is your final judge, male, age twenty-four: a Scottish Fold who greatly fancies his rest. These three will make up your panel.” The voice paused for a minute, the whir of machinery steadily ceasing. 

“For this test, you will be required to formulate a vegetable-heavy Liver Pâté, utilizing equal parts Earth Celery and Neptunian Dracroot.” Two robotic lifts lowered from the ceiling, depositing a hermetically sealed hydrogen Dracroot containment cell, and a bundle of celery.

What!? Mariette seized up. This combination was wholly unexpected. Celery and Dracroot? If there ever was a counterpart to oil and water in the feline culinary field, this would be it. The combined vegetables were practically explosive.

“You will have thirty minutes to prepare a dish; tarrying any longer will result in immediate disqualification. As you are well aware, you must prepare a dish appealing to the majority of your judges, however, each judge holds the power to disqualify you at any point, regardless of the other two’s impressions. Please be advised, under Act 774, as a provincial class two citizen, this is your final attempt. Good luck.” Emphasizing its closing statement, the voice faded. A large timer reading 30:00 appeared overhead, the hologram beginning to methodically decrease.

Mariette stood motionless before her cooking station, thoughts speeding through her mind. She could almost picture the myriad of cameras hidden in the darkness; Deloir exams provided a popular form of entertainment to the masses.

I will not make a fool of myself, I will not make a fool of myself, she repeated rapturously. She had already failed three times; even her close friends could no longer hide their opinions. If she were to fail again she would be stripped of her family title and sent to live in a lower provincial district. Then I would need to live amongst those uncultured… dog lovers, she shuddered at the thought.

Mariette steeled her mind and began to think through her options. At the age of forty-eight and with over thirty years of experience in the feline catering field, the possibilities were numerous. Yet, this awfully specific vegetable combination was incredibly tricky. On top of this, there were the judges to consider. She glanced over at the diverse trio to which she would cater. Something hearty for the… large one, something eloquent for the hairless one, and something fragrant enough to wake Bob.

She considered her options, focusing on a few plausible but arguably flawed dishes. She decided to go with her first idea, a rather generic blend, flash prepared in the neutron cooker. With this decision, Mariette sprang into motion. She quickly washed her hands, assessed her station, and formulated a plan of action. The clock read 28:41 as she grabbed a knife and skillfully removed the celery bundle’s rubber band, depositing each stalk into the atomic processor. She set the machine alight with an atomic deviation of five.

As it spun to life, she walked to the right-hand fridge, setting its atmospheric conditions to the appropriate hydrogen and helium levels of Neptune. Next, she stepped to the ordering kiosk beside it, noting that livers and cooking oils were the only two presented categories.

She browsed the myriad of oil choices, deciding to go old-fashioned with some butter. A ding to her left signified its arrival. Next, she selected livers, already sure of her choice. She pressed the chicken liver icon, turning towards the metal counter as it arrived. 

By this point the atomic processor had finished the celery. She removed the tray of perfectly identical cubes, setting it atop the counter next to the machine. She promptly depressurized the containment cell, swiftly pulling out the volatile bundle of Dracroot and depositing it within the atomic processor. The machine whirred to life under the previous settings as she turned her attention to the chicken liver. 

The foot-wide organ sat fervently beating with some shred of life as it twitched on the counter. Twisting the handle of her knife to lethal, she firmly gripped the iron-tough mass of rubbery flesh while electrically searing into it. It convulsed beneath the blade, purple juices splattering her face. Finally, with a final spurt, the organ fell still. Strenuously shaving a four-inch cube from its side, she deposited the rest of the liver in the trash bin to her left. 

Cutting the cube further into three-millimeter cutlets, she set the stove alight while grabbing a pan off the overhead rack. Placing it aside in preparation she reached for the butter: Where’s the tub? Mariette frantically searched the counter. She then heard a juicy smack, followed by a low rumble. Drawing her vision upwards, a concerning sight greeted her. Sure enough, the first pedestal stood empty. 

Circling the counter, she came upon what would have been an adorable sight had her predicament not been so severe. The grotesquely rotund mass of Cinnamonbun lay sprawled across the floor, head deeply embedded in the butter trough as purrs wracked his blubbery form.

“Wait, you can’t!” Mariette cried, dashing forwards and desperately reaching towards the key to acceptably flavored chicken liver. The cat’s butter-coated head shot up with bullet speed, its eyes narrowing aggressively. She froze, hand weakly outstretched.

“Ummm…I mean, good Cinnamonbun,” she chided, reaching over and patting the cat’s disproportionately small head with a shaking hand.

She quickly made her retreat, hoping to avoid displeasing her judge further. Turning off the stove and walking towards the ordering kiosk she attempted to order more butter.

“Error, only one of each ingredient type is permitted in exam mode,” the kiosk read. “Figures,” Mariette muttered. 

Turning her back to the kiosk, she slid to a crouch. The overhead clock now read 18:07 as she emotionlessly surveyed her station, inclined to give up. She could imagine the announcers berating her right now, pointing out every mistake and minor flaw she failed to account for. She could also see her parents sitting on their home patio in front of the holo-screen; ready to either support her unconditionally or cut ties on a whim.

Then she thought about her life following this blunder. Stuck as a low-status clerk for some forsaken dog-food store deep in the bowels of a lower district. She would have cried, had she not steeled herself against this possibility long ago.

But… wait… dog food? Neptune is the capital of Dog Society… Perhaps she had been looking at this all wrong. Surveying her station, her eyes fell on the magnetically stabilized combustion oven. While not the most out-of-place piece of hardware, it was a rather odd inclusion in a Feline catering and not a Dog catering entrance exam.

I need something fatty, oily, and vegetable-based! Shooting upwards she frantically scrolled through the kiosk. She found the item she was searching for, swiftly punching in an order of avocado oil, and sprinting back towards the counter.

Practically wrenching the bottle from the lift, she re-lit the stove and drizzled a generous pool onto the pan. Submerging the liver cutlets into the frying oil, she ran to the atomic processor and ripped the tray of Dracroot from it, throwing it through the refrigerator’s ion field. The clock read 13:57 as she paced back to the pan, patiently flipping each cutlet.

Now! She thought, shutting off the stove and gently poking a skewer into the seared meat. It easily gave way, rivulets of exotic chicken juice flowing from the parting flesh. Carrying the pan to the combustion oven, she dumped its contents into the top receptacle, the magnetic field suspending the cutlets. Next, she added the vegetables—Dracroot cubes plumped with hydrogen. She set the combustion oven to mix, waiting with bated breath as the magnetic field began to compress and mash the suspended ingredients. Please let this idea work! 13:05, 11:00, 9:50, the clock ticked worryingly as she waited. 

After exactly six minutes the volatile mixing concluded. NOW! She slammed the ignite button. The concoction flashed blindingly as the hydrogen ignited, its combustion trapped within a magnetic field as the ingredients explosively combined. Exactly a minute later the magnetic field disengaged, the suspended and thoroughly cooked mass falling onto the baking tray at the base of the machine. Pulling the tray free, the aroma wafting off the contents made Mariette gasp in shock. She had never smelled Dracroot this pure and enchanting. It was as if the root had impossibly fused with the other ingredients. She looked over at the avocado oil, the most likely culprit.

Thank the cats above, this might just work! Looking upwards, her attention was drawn to the timer above, now reading 4:36. Her eyes briefly widened in shock before she explosively sprung into action. Ripping a cupcake tray off the overhead rack, she speedily compressed the aromatic cat food into small patties. Grabbing three serving dishes from the same rack, she carefully positioned one on each of them.

I still need something to appeal to that darn picky cat! She finished setting the final dish. Looking up, she saw a simultaneously assuring and worrying sight. Thanks to the aroma wafting through the room, Bob had fully woken up. Cinnamonbun, having returned to his pedestal, had thankfully forgotten about the sticks of butter coating his face as he looked around frantically. 

Athelean Amberjill Belladonna, however, was not impressed. It was hard to tell what she was thinking with her emotionless expression. Mariette desperately surveyed her options as the overhead clock read 2:04. Out of time, she grabbed some earth spices from the rack at random, generously spicing each Pâté before placing a piece of cilantro on each for effect. Next, she grabbed the pan, adding a pinch of on-hand yeast thickener to the remaining chicken juice inside. Hurriedly mixing the content, she created a sauce of sorts, encircling each Pâté with a fine line. The overhead clock read 0:12 as she finished. Grabbing the dishes, she briskly strode to the pedestals arriving just as the alarm rang.

“That is time Mariette,” the feminine voice announced. “Please present your dish to the judges.” With hesitation, Mariette set the first dish atop Cinnamonbun’s pedestal, the plate barely fitting beside him. He immediately sunk his entire head into the patty, sucking it up in a single bite and wildly licking the plate clean.

This was immensely relieving. She confidently walked to the next pedestal setting down another platter besides Athelean. The cat reached out a paw and gently batted the cilantro garnish. She seemed incredibly unimpressed, even disappointed. Hesitantly reaching her head down, the feline extended her tongue and licked the edge of the cilantro. 

“RowR!” She bounded back nearly falling off the pedestal, body convulsing in a hacking fit before fleeing into the darkness.

No… Mariette began to sweat nervously. Her failure thankfully hadn’t been announced yet, so she continued onwards. Shakily walking to Bob’s pedestal she presented her final dish.

Bob expectantly stared at her, his weary form sprawled across the carpeted pedestal. Ever so slowly, he lowered his head, lapping at the dish. As his tongue made contact, he froze, eyes growing to dark pearls. Instantly his body shot up and he attacked the meal with unabated ferocity, bits of food flying through the air.

As he snarfed down the final bits, Bob jumped from the pedestal and ran into the darkness. Mariette noted Bob had also left, similar to Athelean.

“Mariette, by de-facto judge elimination…” she froze. “You have passed the Deloir Culinary School of Feline Catering entrance exam.” Just like that, all her tension abated, and she was able to finally take a breath in what felt like hours. 

“You are now a proud member of one of Earth’s most prestigious feline catering institutions. Congratulations.” A lonesome tear slid down her cheek as she realized her accomplishment. 

Turning to flee before she cried on live broadcast, she caught a flash of fur rushing towards her. Only able to raise her hands towards it, the hairy mass made impact. Falling to the ground she gasped from shock, face-to-face with the butter-covered mug of Cinnamonbun. 

She had massively underestimated his weight. Unable to breathe and pinned beneath the gargantuan cat, her life flashed before her eyes. The society she was born into—one in which human rights had been dwarfed by the rights of the wealthies cats long ago. Decades of intensive feline culinary study; repeated failure at the most important exams due to her negligence; her parents, repeatedly unimpressed by her efforts; and today, when she had finally succeeded. The decades of culinary study to follow would be tough, but it would all be worth it to make them proud. 

Then there was Cinnamonbun. Without his intervention, she was sure to have failed. “Alert alert, assistance required in testing center thirteen! A judge has gone rogue! But please, handle him with care,” a voice lucidly sounded far overhead.

“Thank you, Cinnamonbun,” she wheezed as he ferociously licked the purple chicken juice from her face. Then the world went dark.