vilakins | Ficlet: Breakfast

Written for the meals challenge on b7friday a while back; 300 words set in season 3.

Breakfast

Vila cut his toast into four fingers, then dipped one in his soft-boiled egg. "Troopers, my mum called them." He bit the glistening yolk-covered top off. "I always start with the head," he said. "More merciful."

Avon looked at him, shook his head wordlessly, and returned to his croissant and coffee.

"Here's a joke for you, Orac."

"What," said Avon, "is that machine doing in the galley?"

"Learning." Vila turned back to Orac. "Listen, back on Earth they tell you to go to work on a egg, right?"

"There is no means of transport known as an egg, either officially or not," said Orac.

"Figure of speech. Means you go to work on a decent breakfast. Anyway, this bond slave who worked in an agricultural dome pulling a plough called the egg board up and said he was feeling much better for the morning egg, but his neck still hurt. So after a bit of discussion, they gave him some advice."

Avon frowned, trying to work it out.

"And the bloke rang back the next day, right chuffed. 'It worked,' he said. 'Got rid of the yoke and it's all white now.'"

"Ah," said Orac. "I believe I have analysed the wordplay. It is based on egg-related homonyms and near-homonyms."

Avon put his croissant down and briefly closed his eyes. "Vila. That is one of the worst puns I have ever heard."

"Werl, you have to start off at the beginning, don't you, with primary school humour. I'm going to work Orac up to satire eventually."

"I fail to see the point."

"Just a bit of fun."

But really, Vila thought that if Orac ever managed to grasp the concept of humour, he might become more human. And if he did, he might even get to like Vila. You never knew.