The polite way of describing the group’s method of getting the food up would be—creative. They did not have many tools and options to make the transport easy, so they opted to have someone carry it up.
Ordinarily, they might have drawn straws or played rock-paper-scissors to pick the unlucky soul, but Glasses volunteered enthusiastically, and the others weren’t about to take his place. One end of a rope was tied to his waist without complaint, and they tossed the other up to Helmet. Helmet pulled the rope up while Glasses hung horizontally with the bowl of scalding hot soup just above his stomach.
To the three on the ground, it must have looked like the young man was walking up the side of the machine as he slowly and precariously ascended. After several minutes of Helmet’s struggle, Glasses lifted the bowl up. The collar of his shirt was turned into a handle as Helmet pulled him inside the machine’s cockpit, which was already cramped with only two.
Helmet laughed and smacked Glasses on the back.
“Hey, watch the soup!” Glasses protested as Helmet fiddled with the rope’s knot.
“It’s stew!” Slacks shouted from below.
“You’re… all idiots!” Angela said, with a quiver in her voice. Her red eyes focused on the rope as Helmet loosened it, and it fell to the machine’s floor.
Neither paid any mind to her critique. Helmet tossed the rope to the others while Glasses handed her the bowl. She accepted it with the blanket acting as a buffer.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he said, pulling bright red palms away. The boy patted his front, back, side, shirt, and every other pocket before turning to Helmet. “I think we forgot a spoon.”
After about ten tries from Coat and Bandana to throw the utensil up, Slacks eventually got sick of watching and did it in one try; Angela snatched the spoon enthusiastically but froze as her hand locked around it. With a clearing of her throat and graceful movement, she dipped the spoon in the bowl and stared at it.
Taking care that she did not expose the skin with the Reaper's tendrils showing, she scooped some of the food and blew on it. Her red eyes darted between Helmet and Glasses, who eagerly awaited her opinion. A forehead vein bulged, but Angela closed her eyes and took a bite.
Her eyes immediately shot open as she chewed. The young woman turned away so they wouldn’t see her face. Glasses couldn’t help but wonder when the last time she had a meal was; he wasn’t so impressed with Coat’s cooking to believe she thought it was delicious.
“It’s good….” She eventually offered her audience; though her words were layered with scorn, there was an underlying quiver that suggested she was holding back tears.
“Hey, Coat! She likes it!” Helmet bellowed down.
“Of course she does; no one dislikes my cooking!” Cook shouted back.
“Your cooking tastes like shit.” Slacks added with a small laugh. The others joined in, Coat included, with the sniper. Angela shook her head with wide, red eyes. ‘What band of weirdos have I come across’ was painted clearly on her face. She settled to eat the soup/stew silently while Helmet and Glasses slid down the grappling hooks cord to get their own food.
Glasses wondered if she might run away then and there. She no longer had to worry about bringing some baggage along and could make a breakaway easily. Instead, several minutes passed in silence—followed by a shy voice shouting for seconds. They soon maneuvered a second bowl up the same way, and Glasses caught a brief glimpse of a face as red as her eyes before she collected herself.
