Canned Pasta Bliss
Ignoring the debris crumbling from the banquet hall ceiling with a hooduk sound, I wander through the abandoned building. Rifling through broken rubble and scattered junk, I search for survival supplies just like always. But no matter how thoroughly I check every nook and cranny, it's all empty. In this ruined world, food or medicine doesn't just appear out of thin air, so what can you do? Even when I do find something, it's just cans full of rust and dust or empty wrappers. Days like this, after searching all day, finds are rare. It's grueling work with meager results. I always feel deflated by the poor outcome, but we can't fill our starving bellies without doing this, so we never take a day off.
Once, our food ran out completely, and we went three days filling our stomachs with snow. That was rough... Eating raw snow just to quiet the hunger isn't something humans should do. I have to scavenge to avoid that kind of hardship.
"Unnie, come here! I think I found some food!!"
A voice brimming with joy echoes from across the room. That's Hope for you—her luck's always better than mine. But the moment I see the "food" she's found, my bubbling excitement sinks like a stone. Hope, oblivious to what it is, beams with a flower-like smile, giggling happily.
"Jackpot. Total jackpot. We can eat all this, right?"
She's practically lunging at it already. Her eyes sparkle, and it looks like drool might start dripping any second. I get why she's excited—it looks way more appetizing than our usual stuff. But we can't eat that.
"Hope, that's... you can't—"
"Ugh—! It's hard. Tastes weird too. I think it's spoiled."
Before I can break the harsh truth to her, Hope brushes off the dust and takes a little nibble. And just as expected, her face scrunches up.
The viewers watching through the drone chuckle at Hope's antics. The chat floods with explanations of what she ate, showing off their knowledge. I don't need them to tell me—I know exactly what it is. Things that look like food but aren't edible. Pizza, chicken, omelet rice, pork cutlet, jjajangmyeon, pasta... all sorts of dishes from my past life, scattered like trash. Covered in dust but still intact in shape, they're obviously not real.
Who knew they'd still be in such good shape. And there's so many. The kind you see in restaurants or museums. Real food rots easily, so they make these hyper-realistic models for display. I've gone into shops hyped by the models, only to be disappointed by the real thing more times than I can count.
"Okay, I got a great idea. What if we cook it? That should make it okay, right?"
Hope, never one to give up, pipes up with her suggestion. The notion that cooking fixes any food. Some preserved foods do taste better warmed up, so she's patting herself on the back, shoulders puffed with pride, grinning ear to ear. Sorry, Hope, but food models aren't edible even boiled.
The chat explodes in panic, bombarding me to stop Hope. Yeah, yeah~ I know, so quit freaking out. Normally I'd shower her with praise, but no means no.
"Hope, you can't eat that. It's not food."
"Whaaat?! It's not edible? But it looks like food!"
"It's a fake made to look real. Eat it for real, and you'll get way more than a stomachache."
Hope gasps in shock! Eyes watering as delicious-looking dishes spread out like a feast, but untouchable. Tears well up in her eyes.
I pat Hope's little shoulders to comfort her. She keeps glancing back at the models as we walk, unable to let go.
"They look different from what we eat. What kind of food are they?"
"Those are foods old people used to eat a lot. Back then, ingredients were plentiful, so they made all sorts of variety like that."
"They all look so tasty. Wonder what they taste like?"
"Think of it like those canned treats we eat when we're happy."
"Oh, like cucumber ice cream or mint choco tteokbokki flavor?"
"Exactly."
"Old people had it good, eating yummy stuff like that."
Hope sounds envious. But the chat wails and rages at her words.
Yeah, I get how you feel. The special flavors we treat ourselves to are actually pretty divisive. But in this world where most foods are gone, just having flavor is enough to delight the tongue. To Hope, who doesn't know truly delicious food, those weird tastes are like rare treats for special days. I ignore the chat screaming to correct her. Why shatter a kid's happiness with the truth that even past folks avoided those flavors? Cruel.
"Unnie, do you think we'll ever eat stuff like that someday?"
"Maybe when we reach Eden. Lots of people there, so probably tons of tasty things."
"Eheee~ Now I wanna go even more."
The search continues. This time, for real food. Soon, we spot a special-looking room. The door's shut tight, with some kind of security device suggesting something valuable inside.
"Hope, step back a bit."
"Okay."
She scurries behind me. Just in case of danger.
"As if. I don't know the code—how am I supposed to crack it? And I'm no expert."
"One question first. Do you know how to crack it?"
"Knew it." I asked if any viewers could bypass the security, but no dice. Even the serious advice stalls because the mechanism's unfamiliar.
Time for my usual method. I reach for the revolver at my waist.
"Ancestors said a gun fixes everything."
Bang!Bang!
Bullets slam into the security device, turning the chat into chaos. I shrug.
"Out of seven tries, two opened like magic this way." No explosion means it's fine. After a wait, I yank the door hard. It slides open smoothly.
I smirk at the speechless chat. "See? Told you. Ancestors are never wrong."
I step inside. The narrow room is packed with boxes. Worth the bullets? Peeking in, it's just unknown machine parts. I frown, expectations crushed. Wasted ammo, but maybe some spares for the Kettenkraft. While digging, I bump a box, and a familiar sound rings in my ears.
"This... jackpot. Hope, check what I found."
"Huh? Unnie, that's?!"
"Dinner's on this tonight."
Hope's eyes go wide. Get excited—she'll freak.
That evening.
"Hope, all warmed up. Try it. You'll love it."
"Whoa... different from usual."
"Blow on it—it's hot."
"Hoo..."
The moment Hope forks some canned contents into her mouth, she freezes. Her tiny hands tremble. But she's not grimacing in disgust—it's the opposite.
"Tasty. Way different from our usual. First time for food this good."
Her eyes sparkle in awe. I chuckle at her enchanted face.
"Sweet-tangy... tangy-sweet... Unnie, what is this?"
"It's called pasta."
"Pasta?"
"One of the foods old people ate a lot."
"Whoa~ So this is what they ate back then. Pasta's amazing."
Hope showers pasta with praise. First time tasting something heavenly, so no wonder. But to the viewers who can't accept our reality—calling canned pasta "pasta" is...
I ignore the exploding chat and try the canned pasta myself. Even canned has expiration dates—finding unspoiled is pure luck. The taste? Miles behind my memories in flavor and aroma. But eating something I thought impossible? I can't stop grinning.
"Pasta's the best."
I join in praising the apocalypse's only pasta. Chat's noisy, but whatever.