do fun jobs really exist?

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

based on this

Though there’s an excellent staff feeding the passengers and crew of the White Base, there is one little treat that the bridge crew are rewarded with, and that is the refrigerator. What’s so special about an appliance that’s been in households for centuries? It isn’t about the mechanics, the temperature or the spacious ice trays. No, it’s the privacy. The reassurance of writing your name on an item and knowing, just like the sun will always rise in the East, that your food will be there.

Except when it isn’t. For Sayla Mass, this is the fourth time this week someone’s eaten her egg salad sandwiches. The sometimes-doctor-mostly-pilot isn’t necessarily married to the sandwiches or anything.
They’re merely fast to make and eat on shift, one hand working the comms and the other hastily (but daintily) shoving half of her lunch-dinner-what-time-is-it in her mouth.

The first time she thinks it’s a fluke. It happens, they’re in a high stakes life 24/7. But two times is a pattern, and this fourth time is the worst mistake one of her comrades can make. Sayla is reasonable. She’s logical.

She isn’t surprised in the least when Hayato comes to see her, wringing his hands, about an hour and a half after her note.

“Sayla? I uh…it was me, I was the one who ate your sandwiches.” He fidgets, he doesn’t quite look her in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, I—there’s no excuse. Could I please get the antidote?”

Sayla stares at him with those piercing [graveyard] blue eyes, silent. Watches him fidget. The nervousness is right, but—

“It wasn’t you. You didn’t eat them.”

Hayato jolts, she can practically see the sweat on his brow.

“What? Yes, I did, I ate the sandwiches.”

“No, you didn’t,” she retorts confidently. Hayato thinks he feels a slight chill creep into his spine.

Hayato doesn’t even try a staredown. His shoulders sink.

“No, I didn’t. But I—”

He’s called away rather abruptly; the conversation, and Sayla, are left hanging. This is nothing like those great mysteries of time.

Another hour of relative peace [in a ship crewed by adolescents and their problems] passes before a familiar shape slinks into the break room. Kai usually slinks, shoulders rolled forward in half defense [of the
stupid things that come out of his mouth] and half natural grace.

The difference is he’s got a sheen of sweat across his freckled face, which is a shade of green.

“May I help you, Kai?”

He watches her with those hawk eyes of his. “It’s pretty messed up to scare someone like that.”

One fine brow raises to nearly Sayla’s hairline. “Oh? And frequently stealing from another isn’t considered ‘messed up’?”

His expression sours, shoulders hunched and eyes flashing with anger. “Just admit you didn’t do anything to those eggs.”

Cool as a cucumber, as the sea of stars beyond them [cooler than staring down the barrel of a mobile suit's gun], Sayla tilts her head.

“Didn’t I?”

Kai crumples like a paper bag. He curls in on himself, arms around his belly. “Sayla-saaaan, please! My stomach hurts…did you or did you not poison me?”

Sayla Mass, Communications Officer and Mobile Suit Pilot, uncrosses her arms from her chest, rises from her chair and crosses the room to her comrade. After slapping a palm to Kai’s damp, sticky forehead, she sighs loudly and declares—

“You’re just a hypochondriac. What a horrid fate.”

The note left in the fridge atop her meal read as follows:

ATTENTION! TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
I had some egg salad sandwiches in this fridge and they’re gone. Whoever took them please know those eggs are not meant for consumption. If you have not consumed them please discard, but if you have please see me for the antidote. They are eggs from a rare bird on Earth.
Thank you!
Sayla Mass