Sticky Pans Cannot Fry: Inside John Fluorine's Crusade for the Perfect Breakfast

The smell of burnt eggs preceded the man himself.

John Fluorine slipped into the booth across from me with the expression of a man bearing the weight of the universe on his shoulders.

I shuffled my notes, recalling the correspondence that had led to this meeting at a well-known diner on Benten Station. I wasn't sure what to expect from the man who had built an industrial enterprise around the pursuit of better cookware.

He seemed to regard the diner with an air of skepticism, as if he already knew breakfast this morning would not meet his standards. Yet as we exchanged introductions, I was greeted with a magnanimous warmth and a personality far larger than the man himself.

The waitress took our order—a refill on my coffee for me, eggs and toast for him. As she wandered off to inform the morning’s line cooks, I placed my recorder on the table.

It was time to get down to business.

I leaned forward, easing into the questions I had prepared.

“For readers unfamiliar with Fluorine Solutions, how would you describe the company’s mission in your own words?”

He gave his answer with the ease of a well-seasoned executive accustomed to media attention.

“Our mission is to provide cheap and affordable Fluorine to everyone regardless of their wealth and nationality.”

Here he paused, as if carefully considering his next words.

“Even if they’re from Antares,” he continued. “Or Moria. We can even deliver to—”

His answer was interrupted by a bout of violent coughing, but he persevered.

“—Katoa. Thankfully we are selling the only gas that can remove its stench. You are welcome, by the way. Also we are trying to make pans that don’t stick. But that’s much harder, however.”

He appeared to side-eye the diner walls, as if the Katoan “stench” might somehow be present even here.

I pressed on.

"Is it true the company was founded after repeated failures to properly fry an egg?"

Here Mr. Fluorine leaned back, draping an arm over the booth.

“Yes. Yes it was.” He gave a wistful smile.

“I also tried to make scrambled eggs yesterday. The instructions said to preheat the pan, so that’s what I did—preheated it for like ten minutes, until it was red.”

I began a comment, but Fluorine soldiered on.

“Overkill is better than no kill, as I like to say. The eggs turned themselves into coal in half a second. Can you believe it? After we finally make a non-stick pan, we will make a pan that preheats but does not overheat. Or I will just explore the incineration market and spin up Carbon Solutions.”

I jotted down a few notes, deciding to move to the next question.

“At what point did frustration with cookware evolve into a full-scale industrial extraction operation?”

Fluorine nodded sagely.

“I have spent so much money on chefs that could properly fry an egg that I almost went bankrupt. It was at that point that I told myself: ‘Okay John, you need change in your life. You need to be sustainable.’”

“So I fired chefs. Hired historians instead to investigate the history of egg-frying, pick the best possible recipe, and cook them myself. And then we discovered that ancient humans had some miracle material, partially consisting of Fluorine...it was called felton? Telfon? Something like that.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Either way it made pans non-stick. Can you believe it? It was like winning the lottery, except you won that lottery a thousand years ago and it was your ancestor who won it.”

I wondered if the waitress would be coming back with my coffee soon.

"You've spoken extensively about humanity's apparent loss of ancient non-stick materials technology. What first convinced you this 'miracle coating' was real?"

Fluorine crossed one leg over the other.

“I believed in it instantly. It was just meant to be. I am the chosen one to bring back the miracle material killed by some environmental regulations because some of its byproducts were ‘toxic.’”

My pen paused and a question began to form, but the moment was lost.

“I always repeat: the ‘toxicity’ label doesn’t mean ‘do not manufacture,’ but rather ‘dump on some planet in Antares.’ I am, after all, a simple man. A simple man who likes a good fried egg.”

Fluorine glanced toward the kitchen, as if suddenly remembering he too had an order in progress.

I still had not received my coffee. I decided to change tack.

“Why establish operations on AM-528f specifically? Was the fluorine concentration the sole factor, or did the planet itself appeal to you?”

The brevity of the reply was perhaps its most surprising quality.

“It was the cheapest one to set up a base on.”

Fluorine shrugged, as if the answer were entirely self-evident.

I tapped my pen against the pad.

“Your recruitment materials describe AM-528f as ‘basically a summer resort.’ How would current employees describe the situation there?”

Fluorine’s eyebrows rose in what appeared to be genuine surprise. The topic of employees did not seem to have occurred to him.

“Why don’t we ask one instead?”

Fluorine pulled out a large phone, selecting a contact I could see labeled “fun police.”

“Hey, John here. How are our employees?”

He paused while someone on the other end replied, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Great, that’s what I love to hear! See ya.”

He tossed the phone onto the booth beside him.

“See, I’ve just called the head of our HR. She says that they can’t complain.”

I idly wondered if my coffee refill existed only in an alternate dimension. I pivoted to a related question.

"During one recruitment broadcast, a micrometeorite reportedly struck a nearby ship mid-transmission. Did that incident affect company safety policy in any way?"

Fluorine let out a small chuckle, apparently amused by the very concept of company safety policy.

"Yes, we stopped using ships because they’re expensive to fix. We are relying on FTL wheelbarrows instead. It’s funny that we can propel wheelbarrows with Fluorine to FTL speeds, but haven’t yet made non-stick pans—our R&D has some quirks for sure."

I cleared my throat, making way for the next question.

“Have any scientific institutions or major corporations expressed interest in funding your proposed laboratory efforts?”

Here Fluorine rummaged through his suit jacket for a moment.

“Yes. Stella Foundation has given us a research grant for more wheelbarrow research.”

He withdrew his hand with a look of momentary triumph, presenting a check signed by Stella Foundation. It had more zeros than I expected.

“They said something about safer transport, I don’t know...since our transport is already pretty darn safe, we’ve just used that money to make more of them.”

I glanced over his shoulder, but there was still no sign of our server. Looking back down at my notes, I moved on.

“You mentioned elsewhere that NEO Charter Explorations has been purchasing fluorine in significant quantities. Do you have any theories regarding their intended applications?”

Fluorine leaned in conspiratorially, and I found myself leaning in as well despite myself.

“I’ve signed an NDA with them so that I don’t go around telling people things like, ‘Hey, NCE is working on chemical weapons.’ So unfortunately, I can’t answer this question.”

He shrugged apologetically.

I raised an eyebrow, making a note in the margin for Corin Vale.

"Has the growing notoriety of Fluorine Solutions changed how other corporations or station authorities interact with you?"

Fluorine grinned widely—one could almost see the twinkle in his eye.

"I think that they love us. I provide a crucial cheap element and am researching fried eggs! What’s not to love about us?"

He continued without pause.

"Also, all station authorities have certified our FTL-Wheelbarrows to dock there. That’s actually a funny story there, let me tell you—"

My planned next question died before it could be delivered.

"A few months ago Benten station installed a really powerful radar array, probably to scan for these pesky NCE strategic bombers...or Antarean strategic bombers...or Insistorian strategic bombers...not! Insistorians would probably just drop veggies."

I crossed out the next few questions on my list.

"Either way, they got this radar and when it detects something their station ground personnel goes into emergency mode and dresses itself up into hazmat suits. The thing was, I am not sure if they’d noticed it, but their software was broken and they only detected our harmless FTL-wheelbarrows."

Fluorine shook his head, grinning at the apparent idiocy of it all. The dots would not connect themselves.

"I still can't stop laughing thinking about that. Back to the story—I’ve decided to temporarily ship my Fluorine shipments in something else so as to not needlessly upset these poor Bentonians until they figure things out with their radar.

So we’ve sent an old car that ancient humans used to make, my historian called it—"

He checked his phone without breaking cadence.

"—2006 Ford Focus. Yeah, I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean as well. However, according to our R&D it had a different radar cross-section, and we could still load it up with F and FTL it to Benten, so that’s what we did."

I continued to note his answer by habit.

"And yeah, sure enough, our plan at not triggering false alarms has worked! The Bentonians later found out that their radar was not protecting them from NCE but was detecting harmless wheelbarrows. They fired their head of security that day, which I think to be a funny coincidence."

Fluorine nodded thoughtfully.

“Either way, they later called me and told me that our FTL-wheelbarrows are certified for their airspace and asked me not to send Fluorine in some other containers due to some bureaucracy issues. They still handle them with hazmat suits, though, which is weird, but I am not a know-it-all that dictates how to handle stuff. If they want to do it, they can. And I am a proud owner of this certificate!”

Fluorine produced a certification issued by Benten system authorities, and I briefly wondered what else was contained within the apparent pocket dimension nestled somewhere inside his suit jacket.

I skipped ahead to the end of my questions now that he was breathing again.

"In your view, what other forgotten technologies might still be waiting to be rediscovered across the frontier?"

Fluorine paused, cocking his head.

"That 2006 Ford Focus got me thinking about a potential future company making strategic bombers if it’s so good at not being detected by radars..."

I went straight to my final question.

"Finally: after all the ships, infrastructure, and CIS invested into this mission...have you managed to successfully fry an egg yet?"

Here Fluorine shook his head, but spoke with the steely determination of a man with a mission.

"No. Not yet. But one day, I will. I will provide perfect fried eggs for every human in the universe. Myself included."

I clicked off the recorder, rising to my feet. Reporters keep busy schedules, after all.

Fluorine remained seated in the booth, staring thoughtfully toward the kitchen.

At press time, Fluorine Solutions had not yet announced any breakthroughs in non-stick pan technology.

I never did get that coffee.

Talia Mercer, Community Affairs Correspondent
C-02 Frontier Voices | Benten Regional Dispatch
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