Freighter Mynock's Prize, en route to Tython. 13 ATC.

Maneera rooted through the galley fridge and pulled out a foil-wrapped packet of nerf steak. She peeled back a corner of the foil and, after giving the meat a cautious sniff, passed the bundle across the counter to Corso. “Does this smell off to you?”

Corso leaned forward, sniffed, shrugged. “Should be fine. Just cook it through and maybe toss in some extra peppers.”

“If we end up with a couple of sick Jedi on our hands, I’m telling everyone it was your fault.” She unwrapped the steak and laid it out on a cutting board to hack it down into bite-sized cubes.

“Relax, Captain.” He picked up the first few cubes and tossed them into a bag of flour and herbs. “Everything’ll be — ow!” Maneera had swatted him across the knuckles with the flat of her knife. “What was that for?”

“I already told you,” Maneera replied, returning blade to steak. “I’ve got to get this done on my own.”

“But why?” Corso demanded.

“The Captain has already explained,” Akaavi chimed in from the table where she and Bowdaar were arm-wrestling. Their hands hadn’t moved more than a couple degrees out of vertical for the past ten minutes. “Preparing the meal is her expression of intent to reunite her clan. She believes that enlisting aid in the task would undermine the gesture.”

“See?” Maneera pointed with the knife. “She gets it. Thanks, Kaav.”

Akaavi nodded. “Though she did not hunt a wild nerf, nor kill it with her bare hands.” One side of her mouth twitched up into the suggestion of a smirk. “One might take this to mean that her insistence is less a matter of honor than of misguided stubbornness.”

“I went grocery shopping with Risha,” Maneera grumbled. “That should totally count as a difficult hunt.”

“They’re your family, though,” said Corso. “I’m pretty sure they’re gonna be a lot more interested in catching up with you than in who helped put the chow together.”

Maneera shook her head as she took the coating bag from Corso slid the rest of the cubed steak into it. Bless his big dumb farmboy heart, he tried, but most of the time it was like he belonged in another century. “For one thing,” she started, “they’re both Jedi — have been since they were knee-high to nothin’ — and Robes aren’t really much for caring about family.” She punctuated the statement with a fierce shake of the bag. “And besides, they’re both real-live galactic heroes. Zeezee took down the Emperor, Alen outed his bastards. I’m not the kind of person that heroes generally like to have around.”

“But you’re their sister,” Corso replied, as if just saying the same thing enough times would somehow change her mind. “Nothing changes that. I mean, even after all the stunts Rona pulled, she’s still my cousin and I’d still do just about anything for her.”

“Your worth is already proven,” Akaavi added. “If these Jedi disagree...” She gave a bright, feral grin.

“No,” Maneera declared. “You are not beating up my kid sister and brother. Not now, not ever.”

“The Warden of the Order and the Hero of Tython,” Akaavi mused, pretending to ignore Maneera’s protests. “The battle would be glorious.” Bowdaar howled his agreement.

Maneera heaved an exasperated sigh. “Kriffsake, you people are more than usually full of the crazy today. If I let you help with dinner, will you give this a rest?”

Corso stretched across the counter to pull a skillet from the cabinet. “I’ll brown up the nerf.”

Akaavi slammed Bowdaar’s knuckles against the table before striding over to the counter. “The vegetables will need to be prepared.”

“Well okay,” Maneera said, handing off the bag to Corso. “Guess that leaves the bread for me to deal with.” She smiled. Kneading dough was always a good outlet for frustration.

Maneera's culinary stagefright may or may not draw inspiration from the year that my parents and my in-laws were visiting for Christmas.

Also, Bowdaar is a slave.