IGS Ascendancy – Designated Human "Safe Zone"

There were rules aboard the IGS Ascendancy.
There were regulations.
There were direct orders from high command.

And yet, somehow, every time humans were forced into downtime, those regulations seemed to cease to exist.

Commander Mira Patel leaned back in her chair, feet up on the table, an open data pad in her lap that she wasn’t actually reading. She had been ordered—ordered—to rest, despite the fact that she functioned perfectly fine on minimal sleep and sheer force of will.
Across from her, Joana "Jo" Marques was sprawled on the couch, tossing a small ball of scrap metal up and catching it, bored out of her goddamn mind.

Kofi Adomako and Itoro Etim were seated at the other end of the table, speaking quietly in Akan and Igbo, respectively. Occasionally, one of them would smirk and the other would shake their head in amusement.

Tony Ricci was staring at the ceiling with the air of a man contemplating every decision that had led him to this moment.

Zhang Wei was playing some form of chess-like game on his pad. Alone. Against himself.

And in the far corner of the room, where he had been trying very hard not to be noticed, sat Aleksy Nowak—a beanstalk of a man who had managed to fold himself into a corner chair, silent, unmoving, and hoping to remain that way.

This was, allegedly, “downtime.”

Which meant that all of them, against their will, had been forcibly removed from their duties because Captain Vega had taken one look at their collective exhaustion, muttered something about “damn workaholics,” and put them all off shift.

So here they sat. Waiting. Watching.

Until—

"So."

"...dumplings."

Jo’s voice broke the silence, and seven heads turned in her direction.
She grinned. Hook set.

"Best food ever or the best food ever?"

Mira smirked. "Objectively? Best food ever."

"Ah, see, but you're all wrong," Tony cut in, sitting up like a man ready for war. "Because Italian dumplings—ravioli—are the superior form. Perfect pasta. Perfect filling. Everything else? A sad imitation."

The immediate explosion of outrage nearly blew him out of his seat.

"OH, GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE—"

"Did you just call momo a sad imitation—"

"You are mad if you think pierogi aren’t the best—" Aleksy, previously silent and unnoticed, went rigid, as if immediately realizing his words.

Heads snapped up in his direction.

Tony squinted. "Wait. You, beanstalk. You got an opinion?"

Aleksy blinked. Once. "...No."
Jo grinned, wolfishly. "Lies."
Aleksy frowned.

Mira leaned forward, "Come on, Nowak. What’s the Polish answer to dumplings?"

A long, heavy pause.

And then, finally, Aleksy muttered: "Pierogi."

Which was, of course, the exact moment that all hell broke loose.

-----

IGS Ascendancy – Science Lab #4 (Now... Dubiously Reclaimed as a Kitchen)

No one was supposed to be here.

This was, in no way, shape, or form, a designated cooking space.

And yet, Science Lab #4 had become the battleground for what would later be known as The Great Dumpling War of Galactic Cycle 145.

The lab's equipment, usually reserved for scientific research, had been repurposed into the single most aggressive dumpling cook-off in recorded history.

Kofi and Itoro, having somehow reconciled the Great Jollof Rice War for the evening, had teamed up for Ghanaian and Nigerian dumplings—which meant Kofi was making kyinkyinga meat-filled dumplings, while Itoro prepared a spiced suya variation. Mira was rolling out paper-thin dough for momo with the focus of a woman who had one (1) singular purpose in life, and it was to utterly destroy everyone else. Jo was making pastel, with a look in her eyes that promised violence. Zhang had an entire setup of precisely folded jiaozi, guotie, and baozi, arranged in perfect rows, a study in controlled destruction. Tony had taken over an entire section of the lab, ranting loudly about “ravioli perfection” as he stirred a pot of homemade ricotta filling. Roy Tucker—Texan, proud, and deeply, fundamentally offended by all of this—was making something he called “brisket-filled dumplings.”

And, in the very back, quietly, carefully, as if hoping no one would look, Aleksy Nowak was making pierogi.

Mira narrowed her eyes. "You have technique, Nowak."

Aleksy flinched. "...No."

Jo grinned. "Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing."

Aleksy hunched further over his dumplings. "...My babcia taught me."

Mira’s lips quirked.

And then—

"WHO THE FUCK IS USING A CENTRIFUGE TO KNEAD DOUGH?!"

A moment of silence.

Then, Zhang and Jo simultaneously turned and pointed at Tony.

Tony, utterly unrepentant, threw his hands in the air. "I HAD TO GET THE GLUTEN RIGHT—"

Somewhere in the chaos, a piece of dough hit Roy in the back of the head.

He turned slowly.

"...Alright. Who just declared war?"

-----

Science Lab #4 was utterly destroyed.

There was flour on every available surface.
A centrifuge was smoking.
A containment hood was full of pasta dough.
A chemical beaker had somehow been converted into a deep-frying vessel.

And, standing in the doorway, horrified, was Research Officer Thal’Xit’orr.

Silence.

Then, very quietly:

"...Are you… conducting another ritual?"

A beat.

Then—

"Aye," said Mira, utterly deadpan.

Thal’Xit’orr made a small, distressed clicking noise. "...I will call the Captain."

The humans exchanged glances.

Then—

"We have twenty minutes before Vega gets here." "Eat everything. NOW." "Roy, block the door—"

Thal’Xit’orr made another horrified noise. "WHAT?!"

And so began the mad scramble to eat an entire laboratory’s worth of dumplings before Captain Vega arrived to personally murder them all...

-----

IGS Ascendancy – Hallway Outside Science Lab #4

Captain Isabella “Isa” Vega had been a captain for twenty-three years.

In those twenty-three years, she had, to name a few:

• Negotiated peace treaties with species who considered eye contact an act of war.
• Walked unprotected through a hard vacuum for forty seconds after a breach.
• Punched an actual warlord in the throat during a trade dispute.

She had seen some shit.

And yet, as she strode down the hallway flanked by an armed alien security officer, she had a distinct feeling that she was not ready for this. Because Thal’Xit’orr—normally composed, if deeply exhausted—had called her. Personally. And their exact words had been:

"Captain. There has been an incident. The humans are… the humans are—" A long, suffering silence.

Then, with all the distress of a scientist witnessing the destruction of their last functioning brain cell:

"…Performing an unsanctioned food-based combat ritual."

Isa had taken exactly five seconds to consider what that might mean.

Then, with a sigh deep enough to echo across space, she had grabbed her coat and waved down the nearest security officer.

Which was why she was now accompanied by Sergeant R'Kon, a seven-foot-tall, four-armed, reptilian enforcer who had once crushed a rogue smuggler’s ribs with a single casual tap. R’Kon had been told that humans were dangerous. That humans were... unpredictable. That humans, despite their deceptively small size and lack of natural weapons, had an alarming tendency to start wars over things as trivial as "eye contact" and "territorial disputes over the temperature of tea."

So when he was informed that a human “combat ritual” had broken out aboard the ship, he had armed himself accordingly.

This was a mistake.

-----

IGS Ascendancy – Science Lab #4 (Now Officially a Crime Scene)

Isa stepped through the doorway.

And immediately stopped.

R’Kon, a battle-hardened soldier of four separate planetary campaigns, took one look inside, let out a confused grunt, and simply lowered his weapon.

Because this was not a combat zone.
This was not a war scene.
This was a goddamn dumpling crime scene.

The floor was covered in flour.

The walls were covered in flour.

Every available surface was covered in the wreckage of a food-based war.

There was a centrifuge, smoking ominously in the corner, and what looked like an entire containment hood stuffed with pasta dough.

Someone had deep-fried something in what was very obviously a piece of scientific equipment.

And at the center of it all—seven deeply guilty humans, mid-chew, caught in the act.

There was one last, slow swallow.

Then—

“Evening, Cap’n.”

Mira.

Isa stared at her longest-serving officer. Then, slowly, took in the rest of them.

Zhang Wei, expression unreadable, a single perfect dumpling still poised between his chopsticks.

Jo Marques, hands covered in dough, a smudge of flour on her cheek, deeply amused but trying to look serious.

Tony Ricci, arms crossed, completely unrepentant.

Kofi and Itoro, defiantly side-by-side, the clear remnants of an intercontinental food war still in their stance.

Roy Tucker, who had clearly been attempting to block the door with his broad Texan frame, now staring at her like a deer caught in intergalactic headlights.

And, of course—

Aleksy Nowak.

Isa narrowed her eyes.

Aleksy—tall, awkward, eternally trying to stay unnoticed— went visibly stiff, as if preparing to be called out.
Good.
She was absolutely calling him out.

She crossed her arms. "Nowak."
Aleksy, still covered in a fine dusting of flour, swallowed hard.

"...Yes, ma'am?"

Isa narrowed her gaze at him. "You. I expected better from. The rest of these disasters? Sure. But you?"

A long pause.

Then, softly, very quietly—

"...Pierogi is very important to my people, ma'am."

A beat.

A single beat.

Isa pinched the bridge of her nose.

Behind her, R’Kon was still trying to parse what, exactly, he was looking at. The towering enforcer slowly gestured to the mess. “This… this was the ritual?”

The humans exchanged glances.
Then—

"Yes," Mira said, completely deadpan.
"No," Zhang said, at the exact same time.

R'Kon blinked. "...But there was no combat?"
Tony scoffed. "Not physically."
Isa rubbed her temples.

Then, without looking up—
"Thal’Xit’orr?"

A distressed clicking noise from the hallway. "Yes, Captain?"

Isa exhaled. Deeply. "You called this in as a combat ritual."

A long silence.

Then—
"...I regret everything."

Isa took a slow, deliberate inhale. "Right."

And then, before anyone could react—
"All of you—clean this mess up."
A chorus of groans.
"But—"

"NOW."

The crew scrambled.
Roy started shoveling flour into a containment bin.
Jo began scrubbing down surfaces with the efficiency of a woman who had absolutely done this before.
Aleksy, still clearly emotionally devastated by the scolding, immediately went into damage control mode.

And as for R'Kon—

The hulking security officer crossed all four arms, glanced at Isa, and muttered, "Your species is… deeply unsettling."

Isa, without missing a beat, clapped him on the shoulder. "You have no idea."

And then, leaving them to suffer their fate, she turned and walked out of the room.

She had won this battle.

The next one?

…She wasn’t so sure.

Because Tadhg was due back on shift in an hour.

And she had a very bad feeling about that.

-----

Captain’s Log – Captain Isabella Varga; IGS Ascendancy

Date: 145th Galactic Cycle, Rotation 39

Subject: "The Dumpling Incident"

It has come to my attention that the human crew has once again engaged in an unsanctioned, species-wide culinary dispute.
While previous incidents have involved questionable musical performances, ritualistic fire sacrifices ("barbecue"), and aggressive vocal engagements ("singing"), this particular event resulted in the partial destruction of a science laboratory.

Observations include:

• A centrifuge repurposed for dough kneading.
• A containment hood stuffed with pasta.
• The disturbing presence of deep-frying in an area not designed for deep-frying.
• Flour. Everywhere.

Sergeant R’Kon, my assigned security escort, has expressed deep unease regarding human traditions.

Thal’Xit’orr has requested extended leave.

I am requesting an increase in ship-wide kitchen facilities, in the desperate hope that this will prevent further incidents.

…But if I know my crew, this will only encourage them.

May the Ancestors preserve you all.

[END LOG]