Magdalane was lounging on soft pillows, her two sisters in her quarters with her. There was soft music playing, candles, and the focus of the room was a large platter with a bowl. The platter was covered in sliced fresh fruit, and the bowl held the most delectable, decadent chocolate Miriah could smuggle past the Republic customs officials.

“Are you sure the door is locked?” she asked, looking at the platter.

“Umm hmmm,” Miriah responsed, dipping a chunk of mango into the rich, dark chocolate. Her resulting sigh of pleasure was enough to make the other two dive into the food. They had waited several months for this, their one time when the guys were not allowed, when all manner of things went ignored, and they indulged, even the Jedi, in their ritual.

“Ooooooh this is just tooo good,” Maura moaned, licking her fingers, making Miriah giggle as she sipped champagne. They ate their fill, oohing and ahhhing, too focused on the delicious delicacy to realize how they sounded, or even care. This happened all too infrequently, and for the time they were in there, they were girls again, licking chocolate off their sticky fingers and reveling in the endorphins flooding their brains.

Corso and Aric joined Felix in the conference room, directly across from Magdalane’s quarters. “What do you suppose they’re doing in there, “ Corso asked the other two, since Miriah wouldn’t tell him, and the noises coming from the room sounded far from innocent.

Aric shook his head. “You don’t want to know, man, you really don’t want to know.”

Shen stood at the console perusing the next hour’s starship departures. Seven scheduled, four in restricted zones, so those were out. Three civilian. One was an automated small-cargo packet. That might work. Looks like it just ferried freight between the planet and the orbital station. Once he made the station, he could disappear.

The main residence door slid open, interrupting his thoughts. She was early. Shouldn’t have been back for an hour. His erstwhile bedroom companion, the lovely Lady Siri, wife of the not-so-lovely Vice-Administrator of the Sevarcos penal colony. She bustled in, fresh from the salon. A mute package-carrying droid followed at heel and scurried off down the hall to unload itself. “DeeThree, the new bath salts are here. Put the Alderaanian-nectar scented ones in—“ she spotted the Twi’lek at the computer and froze. “You’re…you’re out!” she stammered. She started fumbling in her pockets for the control to his amped-up shock collar.

“I am,” he replied. He rested his hand on the small sporting pistol he’d liberated from the hall locker and formulated a new plan immediately.

“You can’t be out!” she said. She found the switch and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

He smiled, “Oh, I deactivated that,” he said. “In fact, I don’t need this anymore.” He reached for the shock collar around his neck, removed it, and set it on the console.

“That’s not possible!” continued Lady Siri, “You can’t do that, it’s not possible for you to do that! DeeThree! DeeThree! Come here this instant DeeThree!”

“He’s deactivated too,” said Shen, “I hope you had insurance. On the bright side, I can assure you that this blaster is fully charged,” he said, bringing it to bear.

“You can’t…” she trailed off as a dawning realization hit her, “you speak Basic!” she yelled.

He allowed himself a chuckle, “The funny thing is how long this conversation has been going on before you realized that. Yes, I speak Basic. Always have.” He shook the pistol slightly, “I’m also a very good shot. I wouldn’t mind shooting you. You’ve been very…naughty,” he said.

Lady Siri composed herself quickly. She relaxed and struck an alluring pose. She pursed her lips a bit and batted her eyes at him. “We could still have some fun out here,” she said, “Maybe in the atrium, in the pool?” She approached him slowly, “That would be different. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said.

Predictable woman. “I’ve never liked you,” said Shen, his voice flat.

Lady Siri went red, “You enjoyed it. Every minute of it,” she hissed. “I know you can’t resist me,” she said, her lips turning in that unforgettable sinister smile of hers. “Haven’t been able to from the beginning. You couldn’t keep your hands off me! You can’t resist me!” she screeched.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Shen said, “you know what the mines are like. The conditions down there. You had t*ts and compatible genitalia.” Not to mention his collar boosted up high enough to drop a rampaging bantha. Choice makes all the difference. Lady Siri sputtered in rage. “Sit,” commanded the Twi’lek, waving the snub-nosed blaster at a chair.

“How dare you—“ she snarled.

“I’m the one holding the blaster, doll, now sit,” he interrupted. Shocked into compliance, Lady Siri sat on the indicated chair. He took a seat opposite her. “Now, let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to give me the passcodes to your financial account. You’re going to escort me to the hangar for your yacht, card me on, and then I’m going to fly off this pustule-on-a-Hutt’s-underside of a planet. And you’re not going to say a word to anybody about it.”

She tipped her head back, looking down her shapely nose at him, “And why, pray tell, would I do anything of the sort? Because you have a blaster?”

He smiled and removed a compact datacard from a pocket of his trousers. One of several, but she didn’t need to know that, “Because I have the recordings of what you and your friends have done with all the prisoners you’ve brought to your little pleasure den. I can get a mountain of credits from holop*rn publishers for this footage.”

Lady Siri went pale, “You wouldn’t,” she said.

Afraid your husband will find out what you’ve been doing? Or more worried about a review board for this scumhole? None of those other prisoners were still here, alive, at least. He just wanted the credits, to hell with the rest. He shrugged, “I’m already a convicted spicerunner. P*rn star would be a step up.” Not that he had any intention of selling those particular vids.

“That’s blackmail!” she hissed.

“Yes it is,” he replied, “So, ready to leave?” he asked.

Lady Siri scowled, “If I do as you say, what guarantee do I have you’ll not sell the footage anyway?”

“None,” said the Twi’lek, “And I have no guarantee you won’t send the system patrols to intercept me before I can jump to hyperspace. Welcome to the criminal underworld, babe.” He shifted his weight on the soft upholstered seat, “Since you’re new at this, I’ll spell out how it works. I’m going to clean out your accounts—“

“Then I’ll have nothing!” she protested.

“Shut up,” he snapped, “That’s a lie, and we both know it. You lose your yacht and the contents of one account. In return, these holos stay safely secret for probably six months or so. Could be longer, depends on whether I need the creds or not.” Or it could be a lot less. He expected to sell at least some of them right away. Too bad for her.

“That’s not acceptable,” she said, straightening.

Shen shrugged again, “Your choice. You get six months to get your poodoo together and leave someone else holding the bag, or you get a week at best. Make no mistake. I’m leaving this planet. I’m keeping the holos. You give me enough credits now and I won’t need to sell them. Cross me and these all go public,” he stood and slipped the datacard back into his pocket, “You, my lovely-lovely, are well and truly screwed,” he said with a smile. He padded around behind her seat, taking a lock of her bicolor hair in his hand and letting it slide through his fingers.

She slapped his hand away, “Keep your hands off me!” she snarled.

“Ooo,” Rixik said with a sneer, “that’s not how you felt this morning. Now get moving,” he said, waving the blaster again.

“You bastard son of a kath hound!” she swore.

“Mesh’la-mesh’la,” he said, slipping back into Huttese for a moment, “you really don’t want to do this the hard way,” he gave her his own little smirk. Shoe's on the other foot, now, dearie, and it feels so very nice.

"So, we discussed it among ourselves and we've decided you're insane," Gault said conversationally, settling into one of the bridge chairs and propping his feet up.

Skari glanced over at him and then returned to her monitors, flipping through files, watching Solomon Crae move through the ship.

"Aaaand you're not talking," he spun his chair a little to the left and leaned into her line of sight, "so, what gives?"

Skari sighed, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "I think I made a mistake."

Gault snorted. "Sweetheart, we all make mistakes. This isn't a mistake. It's a full-blown disaster."

Skari scowled at him, "Gee, thanks."

"Hey, voice of reason here, just doing my job."

"I knew it was f**king bad idea when I thought of it, and I still hauled that a**hole back to the ship," she groaned, drinking from one of the cold half-empty kaffa mugs that cluttered the console.

"Maybe it was that handsome face of his. I hear women like that whole dark and mysterious thing," Gault said helpfully.

Skari glared at him and then slumped into her chair, "I never should have put you guys in this position. My mess, my mistake, my problem." She sat up and started tapping out some commands. "Crew has a three week holiday, starting now," she said firmly, "I want you all off this ship and someplace safe. That should be enough time to get this cleared up."

"We could just kill him, you know."

"I killed his brother," Skari said quietly.

"This guy is hardly an innocent rube," Gault pointed out, "Not like the galaxy would be worse off without him."

"If it comes to me or him, he'll go down, but I just want this f**king done. That boy is the last one on my list."

Gault's eyebrows rose, "That list was huge. When have you had time?"

Skari shrugged, "Here and there. Most of them were easy enough."

The Devaronian shook his head, "You Mandalorians and your honor. I will never understand it. But..." He stood and looked at her calmly. "...we're not leaving you to deal with this psychopath by yourself."

"Not your call," she said mulishly.

Gault continued as though she hadn't spoken. "We decided you're insane, but you're our insane. Afraid you're stuck with us."

Skari looked up at him. "Where's Gault and what have you done with him?" she asked with a tiny smile.

"Hah! Don't get mushy on me," he laughed, "The list of people who want me dead is bigger than a Hutt. Gotta keep the few friends I have alive."

Skari swallowed and then nodded. "We need to get this done quick."

"Tell me about it, did you see what he did to those guys?" He shuddered.

Skari's jaw tightened. "Yeah, I saw."

"Have to admit though, the guy gets results," he said, half admiringly.

"Aw, don't tell me you're developing a crush?" Skari grinned.

"I don't go for the kill-you-in-your-sleep types. You live longer that way."

"Mako's started running the search algorithms based off his info. Some weird bits and pieces though: Rylothian kaffa, mountain lakes with a semi-tropical climate, paintings by some Republic rich kid, 32 hour day/night cycles, killik nectar lotion, whatever that is, along with what we had on height, species, associates."

"Think it'll work?"

Skari shrugged, "Maybe. I hope so. Sooner he's off our ship, the better off we'll all be."

"I'll drink to that."

Lunch conversations, from what I'd observed on the ship, consisted primarily of Gault poking fun at Torian and Mako while the Jawa chattered to anyone and everyone. Mako would either poke back or pout; Torian would raise an eyebrow and go back to eating whatever over-spiced Mandalorian concotion he'd made for the group that day. They seemed to enjoy each others' company, for all that they were entirely different creatues in more ways than species. I could tell they'd been together for quite some time. Enough time to sort out hierarchy, pack dynamics. Enough time to close ranks against anyone who invaded their space.

I smiled slightly at the group around the table when I stepped into the galley and silence fell like a deathshroud. From the chiller, I gathered the raw vegetables and poultry I'd picked up before we left Nar Shaddaa. There is something soothing about preparing food. The key is a sharp knife, of course. A sharp knife solves many problems. Trim the ends. Slice into uniform straws. A confetti of color and texture and taste. Slicing meat is not like slicing vegetables. Long strokes of the knife work best on thick cuts, each cut going deeper. The pan must be hot, searing. I like the scent of meat left tender and juicy, vegetables left with something to bite at the end. The right bit of spice, salt, herb.

"That really smells good," I heard Mako mutter behind me.

"Well anything would smell better than that excuse for third degree burns your boyfriend makes," Gault muttered back.

"Would you like some?" I asked as I tossed the ingrediants together in the oil. It is a pleasure to have a real kitchen to cook in.

"Uh, no thanks," she said louder. "Wouldn't trust it not be poisoned," I heard her mutter.

I grinned at my pan. "Food is one way to administer poison," I said with a nod, stirring the skillet. "You can also add it to the victim's lotion, their soap, even the water in the refresher." The room behind me fell silent. "There are powdered poisons that can be applied to clothing, blankets, hair brushes." I glanced over my shoulder. Mako's eyes were huge. Torian's were narrow, planning his charge, no doubt. I turned back to my cooking, added a bit more salt. "Then of course you have sprays, needles, and your various darts. Long-range blaster rifles can hit from miles away, but I always liked the close-range dart. Small, easily concealed..." I smiled at the fragrant vegetables.

"I...think I'm going to go work on that search," Mako said, standing up and quickly leaving the room. Torian followed, as did Blizz who tucked a couple rolls in his robes and scuttled out, leaving Gault calmly eating his meal at the table.

I dished out a serving of the stir-fry and a mug of tea and brought it over to the table.

"That's quite a list," Gault said, watching as I began to eat my food.

I grinned and took a bite, chewed slowly as I watched the sharp assessment in the Devaronian's eyes. I love intelligent creatures. Ones with backbone are even more fun.

"I recently put together a list. You might be interested in it."

"By all means," I said, taking another bite.

"Series of files. Confidential, you understand. All tucked away in different places. Set to be shipped out if something...say, were to happen to us."

I sat back, taking a sip of tea. "Interesting. Where would these files be going to?"

He began to tick them off his fingers. "Havoc Squad. Jedi Council. The Hutts. One particularly vindictive Darth. And then there's the Mandalorians, can't leave them out. Maybe a couple other places. Here and there."

I raised an eyebrow.

"A collection of your...work. Most is real, but I may have embellished. A little. Plus your DNA and every piece of information Mako could pull about you," Gault said conversationally, folding his hands over his stomach, "Girl's got some skills."

The snake was inventive. I smiled. "Let's say, for argument's sake, that I meant your pack harm. Your list wouldn't stop me."

Gault laughed without much humor. "Maybe. But if we don't keep breathing, you're not going to live long enough to enjoy that victory."

"Perhaps. Not that I mean you any harm. Of course." I took another bite. The sharp crispness of the orange roots with the softness of the greens and the tang of citrus tasted as good as it smelled.

Gault's lips curled into a small smile. "Of course. Still, it's good to have insurance."

Love Gault

“I cannot believe you would attempt to kill our son,” Lord Scourge said solemnly staring with a mixture of horror and dismay.

“I’ll kill you,” Remi said gritting her teeth.

“And me as well?” The Sith shook his head mournfully, “I have heard of such things, when a parent has borne too much. How can I leave you alone with him when I fear for what you might do?”

Remi clutched the knife in her hand and glared at him red faced and nearly incoherent.

“We can get help for you,” he held out a hand to her, “There are professionals available, even droids we can acquire… that can bake.”

Remi slammed the cake knife on the table, “I don’t know what happened! I followed the recipe exactly.” She snarled at what was supposed to be a chocolate birthday cake. The sad brown confection was coal on the outside and not quite cooked in the center, the frosting dripped down the sides in unappetizing runnels. Remi looked down at the disaster that marked yet another failed attempt at baking something edible and giggled. Once begun she could not stop, sagging against Scourge who shook his head. He could never understand why she kept trying to do something she was obviously so terrible at.

Their three year old son sat staring wide eyed at his mother. His little hand reached out and grabbed a small piece of the cake that sat in front of him.

“No!” Both parents said but it was too late, he had placed it in his mouth. His face went blank at first, then his mouth puckered. His cry of disgust exploded out of him with a wave of Force-energy, blasting both of his parents with burnt chocolate and melted frosting.

Scourge chuckled putting his arms around Remi despite the mess, “Nevermind, I think our son can take care of himself.”

Yep. I'm the one who can't write an appealing food prompt.

Yozusk. Sleen. Vine cat. All food. All meat and protein. All hard as hell to kill without a well-placed cliff fall. Once the beast of choice was downed he had five minutes to gather as much as he could into his poorly constructed animal leather pouch before the predators of the jungle came for their share. He used the vines and overgrowth clinging to the cliff to climb back up. It had taken him a while to master this skill. After his first near death experience with hungry predators sensing an easy meal, he worked on it like the Sith he was.

He made it back to the cave he had recently claimed as his own. His old one was on the way to being discovered, but it made little difference. None of these places were home and none of them ever would be. It didn’t matter. Being left alone in the jungles didn’t matter as long as it made him stronger. He knew that much. Sith were strong. Only the weak died, the strong survived and conquered all obstacles. Failure was not an option.

He started a small fire far enough outside the cave to vent the smoke, but under enough cover to keep the flame burning strong in spite of the rain. Tonight, he would eat. Tomorrow, he would hunt down the Imperials who were sure to find his old cave and kill them. They wouldn’t send another patrol for a while after and the Brute of the Jungle would be allowed to hunt and thrive in relative peace.

Rochester leant against the door, feeling the cold metal pull at his skin as he slid down. He ran his hands through his hair, just taking the time to breathe. Conflicted and confused, he needed a moment of quiet. Broan had contacted him, invited him to lunch, even spoken to him and yet... the feeling was still there. The empty, weightlessness in his chest was familiar, as was the crushing doubt on his shoulders.

"Should I have told him?" He curled up, hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees. "I want to die." He sighed, but did not cry. Now he could only wait; his life forfeit to the will of Lord Naught. Broan would not hurt him, but Lord Naught? Were they still the same person or had the mask of a Sith become something more? He closed his eyes and, in a rare moment of his life, rallied against the will of the Sith.

This is my baby pureblood Inquisitor (a venerable level 12), who got her name back with the giant server merge. Thumbnail background: Jealousy is a product of a Sith Lord's cloning and alchemical manipulation to re-create his vision of the ancient Sith species. The Dark Council ended his experiments and sent anything potentially useful to Korriban. As a growth-accelerated clone, Jealousy is fully mature but socially and ideologically inexperienced. I’ll post a pic of her soon, though I don't know how much I'll be writing with her.

“Eat them both, Khem,” she said.

“With pleasure,” growled the Dashade.

Jealousy stepped aside and her domesticated assassin waded into the useless pair. Ffon went down beneath his claws first, screaming and begging for mercy. Harkun tried to run. Khem stalked him, toying with him, finally ripping him to shreds as Jealousy had so often fantasized of doing.

He destroyed them. Utterly. Skin and sinew, muscle and bone. Even devouring the shadows they cast in the Force. Crunching, gnashing, consuming. When he was done there was nothing left. No bodies, no ghosts. Nothing but their mingled blood on the floor. An irony, given how often they’d both mocked her own as perverse and debased through alchemical manipulation.

Khem turned from his grisly meal, “A lovely appetizer, little Sith. Now for the main course.” His bloody claws reached for her—

She woke with a start, cracking her forehead on the bottom of the upper bunk in the transport’s stateroom. Lord Zash reserved a double, but she’d seen no sign of a roommate.

“Lights,” she said, rubbing the bruise. The lights came up. Khem loomed in the middle of the room, his bulk casting multiple misshapen shadows.

“Your dreams are delicious, little Sith,” he said, “go back to sleep.”