the reasons behind Havoc's defection make sense, but the fact that they went to the Empire, even having fought them for so long, even knowing what they were - that's what puts them beyond the pale. And Fuse...sad kid who made some awful awful decisions. That body count is probably about right, maybe even low. I remember thinking that the town must have lost half its people when the mayor said how many bombs had gone off - place isn't that big.

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.

Xareen'alay is the mother of my main characters (Xania and Lilith) and she had to give them up after the jedi council found out that she was pregnant, as jedis are not too keen on relationships and such. What marked Xar the most, was that her former master, someone she trusted, decided to side with the council and she felt betrayed by such decision. She regretfully chose to follow the concil's directive, but also realised that she could no longer bear to stand in their presence as she began to doubt their teachings. As a result, Xar went into a self-imposed exile.

Her solitude comes not just from the exile but also from being denied a family.

Also, the story is set some time after the consular storyline ending as I have not completed it. So, please, forgive any inaccuracies. By all means, if you do have some insight on the consular/Yuon Par relationship, feel free to share

The lone figure stood in the natural stone archway of the icy cavern. There were only a few objects scattered around and a few furs which were used as a makeshift shelter and, although the temperature was higher inside, it was still close to freezing.

Xareen'alay was kneeling down, in the usual manner of meditating jedis and she did not move.

The figure moved closer, quietly, unsure as what to do next.

“You managed to find me, at last” said Xareen'alay

“It was not easy” came the reply with an elderly voice “I wanted to...see you”

Xareen'alay slowly rose to her feet and turned to face her interlocutor, her face showing no sign of emotion.

“You seem...no...feel so empty”

“You feel with the force now, master Yuon?” The reply felt like a slap to the face for Master Yuon Par as she stared at her former padawan. She could feel the void within her former student but there was also a mixture of other emotions and, although Xareen'alay, or Xar, as she was later known, made no show of such emotions, the older jedi could still feel them.

“I came here to see what you had become” said Yuon “and to check if you needed...”

“Help?” Xar interrupted her “And why would I ask you for help?”

The emphasis on the 'you' is what struck Yuon the most. She had been her best student and she was the one responsible for saving her life yet, she could feel her hostility. Master Yuon wondered if that hostility would eventually sever Xar's connection to the jedi order.

“Please Xar, do not let your feelings towards me turn you from what you have always been.”

“Feelings?” Xareen'alay turned away and started to pace slowly around the room “And what exactly do you know about feelings, Master Yuon?”

“You should not...”

“This is exactly what I always heard, over and over.” Xar interjected “No feelings, no love, no hatred, no fear, no this, no that”. She sighed. “In my time spent in exile, there is one thing I came to understand. The Jedi pride themselves on being selfless, always in control, always preaching about the dark side and how feelings lead you down the darker path”

She paused.

Master Yuon was now fearing that her former student was on a much different path than she used to be.

“Yet...” Xar continued “Jedis are slaves to their own rules. Do you know the Sith code, Master Yuon?”

The older master was struck speechless and, for a long moment, the only noise that could be heard was the wind howling outside.

“They say that the force shall set them free...and I believe it is so”

“Xar, please, don't do this to yourself”

Xareen'alay stopped “Do what to myself? Turn to the dark side?” she chuckled softly “If I stayed in your presence, I would have turned to the dark side a long time ago but my self imposed exile helped me. Solitude brings a resemblance of peace”

Again, silence fell like a blanket of snow.

“What did you expect from this encounter, Master Yuon? Did you really think that I would be so overwhelmed to see you again that I would forget?”

Master Yuon Par had hoped for such an event to happen, she had kept hope for all this time but she was now realising that her hope had no foundations and was crumbling away. “I had hoped that you would...forgive me”

“Forgive you?” Xareen'alay turned to face her “I had the utmost respect for you. Until the day you decided to side with the council”

“You had gone against all the rules of the order, Xar. You...”

“Again you use those rules as a quick way out. Don't you realise that, even if I had been wrong, your support would have meant a lot to me?”

“I...I could not go against the will of the council”

“Of all people, I was hoping for you to understand. Someone like you, who was criticised because of your friendship with a Trandoshan, of your methods that other masters considered strange or out of line, should have...” Xar paused. Yuon could feel the pain within the younger jedi “Maybe, if you had supported me, I would not have lost everything.”

Xareen'alay slowly walked to the center of the icy chamber and knelt down, wanting to resume her meditation and forget past events and lose herself in the solitude of her exile.

“I cannot change the past, Xar.” said Yuon but her former padawan did not reply shattering the last of her hope. She turned around but before leaving, she whispered “I am sorry, Xar”

“It is too late for that, Master Yuon”

And with that final blow, she made her way to the cave's entrance.

This is the earliest thing I’ve written for Rixik, though I have earlier backstory for him. For those counting, in Judas, Sal makes Rixik twenty-two, and that obviously doesn’t jibe with him being eight in this story occurring ten years earlier. It’s not an error, and it’s not a retcon. Rixik was in fact 19 in Judas, Sal deliberately fudged his age older. By twelve he’d stowed away on a freighter (Rodian Engine Wizard) and seventeen convicted with the crew (of a different vessel) for spicerunning. Some of this was mentioned in passing over in the AU thread.

“That’s it,” whispered the boy, pointing down the alley.

His partner, a younger Twi’lek boy, grabbed his threadbare shirt and yanked him almost off his feet, “If you’re lying,” he hissed in Twi’leki, “I’ll break your fingers.”

The older boy brushed him off, “Relax, wannabe. Sal and the Old Man feed us more than Jenks does. Or you can go hungry. I don’t care.” He shrugged, indifferent.

The smell of cooking drifted down from the vents. The younger Twi’lek didn’t recognize the odor, but his stomach did, gurgling in hope of a meal. He checked the alley. It was empty, except for his accomplice leaning against the neighboring building. His belly growled again, impatient. He darted across the alley, stepping up the two stairs to the diner’s back door. A repulsor field, meant to discourage vermin, pr*ckled on his sandaled feet. He gave his confederate one last look over his shoulder before putting his palm on the admittance pad.

The door slid open. It wasn’t locked. The Twi’lek hesitated. Doors were locked. Doors had keys. Doors didn’t open for him, not without some persuasion. Beyond the door was a storage room of some kind. He could hear the sounds of beings moving around farther inside. Busy, bustling sounds. Then the door slid closed again, leaving him on the stoop with the anti-vermin field still stinging his toes.

He glanced over his shoulder again. The older boy was gone. He grimaced. Figures. He tried the door-pad again, expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, it slid open again. This time he stepped over the threshold and into the back room. The door slid shut behind him. He spun, slapping his hand on the door pad, knowing it wouldn’t open.

It opened.

The Twi’lek peeked out of the doorframe. No shocks. No alarms. No nothing, just a dingy Nar Shaddaa alley with trash banked up against the buildings and rats scurrying in the shadows.

He withdrew, letting the door slide closed again. He was in a well-stocked storeroom. Shelves went to the ceiling, packed with items he couldn’t name except a few. It didn’t look like food. His stomach muttered again at the smell wafting in from the adjoining room. The one with all the noise. The one with all the people.

He began examining the bags, boxes, and bottles, hoping for something familiar when he heard a step from the adjoining room. He looked up, frozen, guilty, his hands on a half-empty jug labeled ‘poptree syrup’. A tall Human female wearing a stained apron, her hair done up in an impossible style and an eye-gouging shade of orange stopped outside the storeroom. “Oh, you’re a new one,” she said. Before he could respond she called into the far room, “Sal!”

The Twilek heard an answering call from the busy room, “How many of ‘em, Lindy? I heard the door what, three times?” Caught! His stomach gurgled and knotted itself into an acid ball. He wanted to shrink into the shadows and disappear with his prize.

“Just the one,” she yelled back, “New one.” She turned back to the boy, smiling, “Put it back,” she said.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her screaming hair. He let go of the jug and it rocked back to its regular position. Some sticky from the outside of the container remained on his left hand. He touched one finger to his lips. Sweet exploded. He looked back longingly at the dark fluid. He just lost a whole jug of sweet.

He heard a heavy step behind the girl at the door and another face appeared beside her. Male. Human. White wispy hair slicked back over his skull, a scattering of cybernetics across his forehead, sparse salt-and pepper beard. He was pudgy, rounded shoulders draped in a magenta knitted sweater. His brown eyes were quick and clear, appraising the Twi’lek. “Go on, Lindy, lunch crowd,” he said. She giggled and bustled back out to the customers. “You’re new, kid. Friend send you here?”

The other boy wasn’t his friend, but Jenks had owned him longer so he knew all the tricks. That also meant he could send the new kid off into the bad places if he wanted. He could still bolt for the door if the Human hadn’t locked it remotely. The Twi’lek nodded once.

Sal returned the nod, “Thought so. You look hungry. You hungry, kid?”

The boy’s stomach picked that moment to growl again, answering for him. Sal’s lips twitched in a suggestion of a sympathetic smile. Sal didn’t look like he missed many meals. The boy wanted to shrug it off. To not let Sal know he'd be happy stashing the bottle of syrup someplace where the others wouldn’t find it and drinking it over the next several weeks. But that was one lie he didn’t think this Human would believe. So he nodded again.

A worried look crossed Sal’s face, “You…can speak, can’t you?” he asked.

So they did that here, too. He still had his tongue. And control of it. “Yes,” he murmured in Basic, same as the Human’s speech.

Sal relaxed, “Good thing. Hard to enjoy food otherwise, son,” he said.

The boy stiffened. Jenks called him son. Called all of them ‘son’ or ‘daughter’, right before he beat the crap out of them. If Jenks called him ‘boy’ he was safe for the time being. He’d learned that already.

“How about a sandwich?” Sal asked.

The boy shrugged. He wasn’t sure what a ‘sandwich’ was. He’d never seen that label on a nutrient bar. He decided to go with a safe answer that didn’t showcase his ignorance and might help him figure out what to expect, “What kind?”

Sal snorted, “Picky? You’re a bit scrawny to be picky. What kind do you like?”

He never got to choose his nutrient pack. He was lucky if he got one at all since he wasn’t big. The older kids grabbed them all. At least his old owner made sure everyone got one to start with. So if he had a choice, what kind of food would he want? “Sharptooth caviar,” he said. That’s what rich people ate. If rich people ate it it had to be good.

Sal burst into laughter, “You’ve got good taste, kid, I’ll give you that,” he said. “No caviar here. Special today is roast nerf. How about a roast nerf sandwich?”

Nerf-flavored nutrient bars were alright. “Okay,” the Twi’lek replied.

Sal nodded. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweater, “Your friend tell you how things work here?” he asked, “It’s not handout. My food’s worth something. So we can work a trade, you do something for me—“

The Twi’lek bolted. What an idiot he was. Double-crossing, two-faced, lousy kid. He wasn’t so stupid he hadn’t heard about Jenks’ special clients. When he caught up with the older boy he’d do his best to break more than just fingers. Assuming he got away from this slimeball. He darted around the far side of the shelf toward the back door. But Sal had a shorter trip and longer legs.

“Whoah, little man, slow down,” Sal said, keeping the door closed, “Not gonna hurt you.”

The boy skidded to a halt, heart pounding. He’d never make it out through the front. Sal had him cornered. He stared into Sal’s brown eyes. The boy blinked first. The straightness left his spine and he slumped. He’d lost this round. The Human could do what he wanted. With luck, he’d still get something to eat out of the bargain. He was prepared to pay a pretty high price for that privilege right now.

Sal squatted down to be nearer the boy’s height, “Jumpy little thing, aren’t you?” He looked more closely at the Twi’lek, the natural mottled markings on his lekku camouflaging thick finger-shaped bruises where someone grabbed and hung on. More bruises disappearing beneath his thin, cheap shirt. His eyes, sunk in dark hollows beneath hairless brows. “You’re one of Jenks’ kids.”

No point denying it. Just get it over with. Maybe eat. He nodded again.

Sal sighed. When he spoke his voice was soft and gentle, “I was trying to say that my food isn’t free, and your time is worth something too. I got a lot of customers now on the lunch rush, and my dishwashing droid is on the fritz. Be nice to have someone help with that for a little bit, but I can’t pay you credits unless I go through a whole lot of rigmarole. Get Jenks’ permission, file your time, and he’ll keep what you earn anyway. Doesn’t seem fair to me. So how about this. You load my ‘washer for a while, I’ll give you a nice roast-nerf sandwich and something to drink. Since you’re new, I’ll even give you a half-sandwich advance on your salary. You can eat that before you start. Sound like a fair trade to you?”

The Twi’lek scuffed a foot. It sounded too easy, is what it sounded like. After? What about after? How long? What if it took too long? What if he came back to Jenks empty-handed?

What did this Human really want?

Sal took his hand off the door, “Come on, little man. Got a first-aid kit too, for the bruises. You’re an employee if you want to be, so those are free. I won’t stop you if you want to leave, but if I know Jenks, you won’t get anything from him today but a fist. I think a sandwich would suit you better.”

The boy looked at the door. Then at Sal. If he was going to get hurt either way, Sal at least offered a more sure promise of food. “Okay,” he muttered.

Sal smiled broadly, “Well then, little man, let’s get you your advance. What’s your name?”

The Twi’lek dropped his eyes. Hardly anyone used his name, which was fine, since he didn’t like it. “Shen.”

“Hrumph,” Sal grunted, rising, “that’s…eel, isn’t it? Twi’lekki? I don’t really speak it.”

The boy’s head snapped up. It did mean eel. Back on Naos it referred to a specific slime-eel that often got into the sharptooth traps and ate all the fish inside, leaving the fisherman with a fat worthless eel and a trap full of slimy goo. He sometimes pretended that it meant he was slippery and swift like an eel. But really, shens were pests. “Yeah, it’s eel, yeah,” he said bitterly, “I hate it.”

“Well, I can’t keep calling you boy,” said Sal.

“Everyone else does,” he snapped, forgetting his place, forgetting that it was unusual for a Human to know Twi’lekki. Realizing his mistake, he stood stiff, waiting for the slap. He had a cry and tears all ready. Sometimes they quit if they thought they hit hard enough the first time.

“So you don’t like your real name, and I don’t like calling you boy,” said Sal, scratching his beard, “we’ll have to think of something else, little man. Come on into the kitchen.” Sal turned and proceeded to the other room. The boy followed after a moment, puzzled.

The kitchen was bright and shiny, clean and bustling, even in the middle of the lunch rush. The smell of food was intoxicating. There was a Zabrak with a big knife, chopping plants into smaller pieces with blinding speed and almost mechanical precision. Another Human in a splattered apron sweated in front of an array of simmering vessels and shallow pans full of sizzling…stuff. The girl with the orange hair leaned over a pass-through crowded with heaping plates, selected an impossible number of them and disappeared. The Twi’lek heard conversation from the other side, lots of it, overlapping languages, laughter, the voice of the orange-haired girl scolding someone, but not meaning any of it.

He looked around, bewildered. None of this stuff looked like food. Not like any kind of food he’d ever eaten. It didn’t come in a package, for one. Someone had to make it, for another. This was rich people food. He wondered why Sal didn’t have caviar. He had all this other stuff.

Sal leaned up to the pass-through, “Jyo-Tak?” he called.

“Ayuh?” came an answering voice.

“Need a special back here. Special special,” said Sal.

“Gotcha, boss,” came the reply. In a moment, the top of a brown head with spiky hair barely tamed under a hat peeped over the pass-through. A plate appeared beside the others, going the wrong way, “One Sal special-special. Pickle?”

Sal looked at the Twi’lek, a questioning eyebrow raised. He nodded in agreement. Whatever a pickle was he was getting one. “Yeah,” Sal said. A dark brown, clawed hand placed a pair of bright yellow disks beside the mysterious sandwich. Sal collected the plate and returned to the boy, “Come on, little man, there’s a table back here.”

Sal led him to the very back of the diner, to a wobbly round table tucked up against the wall between a heavy metal door with a thick latch and another, normal door. Both were closed. Sal set the plate down and pulled a bit of paper from a stack in the middle of the table, “Half now, half later, little man.”

By this time, the Twi’lek’s stomach was gurgling and he was swallowing a constant stream of saliva. He took a seat and reached for the unfamiliar delicacy. It was sort of oval, thin brown slices of something layered with bits of plants, all pressed between a pair of sponges. It was warm to the touch. Juices dripped onto the plate from the slices. Nerf, he realized. That was what nerf looked like. What nerf smelled like. Not much like a nerf-flavored nutrient bar.

He picked up part of the oval. Took a bite. A small bite. Can’t let Sal think he was really that hungry. The flavor that hit his tongue was sublime. There was the savory warm meat, vegetal crunch, a bit of acid, rounded out with the soft grain of the bread enclosing the filling. Soft-chewy-crunchy all in one. He tore into the sandwich, utterly forgetting the Human seated across from him, the others in the kitchen with him, everything but the world of flavor and texture in his hands at that moment. An all to short moment. He reduced the half-sandwich to crumbs in a heartbeat. Then he ate the crumbs. Licked the juice running down his arm before realizing Sal was watching him.

He shoved his hands in his lap. The pickles and the other half of the sandwich beckoned. The orange-haired girl wandered by and set a steaming cup on the table.

“Thanks, Lindy,” Sal said. He pushed the cup toward him while the girl trotted back up front. “Go ahead, little man.”

The Twi’lek reached out with greasy fingers for the mug, drawing it close. Stimcaf, he figured. He’d had that before. Dark and bitter, it stomped on tiredness, fatigue, and hunger until it wore off. But it wasn’t. The heady steam that rose from the cup gave off a sugary aroma. He took a tentative sip. It was almost scalding hot, but rich and mellow, creamy and sweet. A bigger sip burned the roof of his mouth. It met and married the sandwich in his belly, snuggling together in warm, contented bliss. It, too, disappeared far to fast.

The boy realized, too late, that Sal could have laced the food with drugs. He hadn’t tasted any spice, but there were other kinds of drugs. The food was unfamiliar, so he wouldn’t know if it was tainted. With his stomach not gnawing on the inside of his ribs for the first time in forever, he didn’t care. Didn’t care what nastiness Sal might have planned. Like the minor pain of his scalded palate, it was more than worth the satisfaction of being full.

Sal stood up, “So, you ready to help out with the ‘washer?” he asked.

The Twi’lek slipped down from his chair. Time to pay for the meal. At least he got a meal out of the bargain, which was more than he got with Jenks. So what, exactly, was dishwasher slang for, he wondered. He imagined a number of unpleasant things, fueled in part by stories the older boys told.

He followed Sal to the far end of the diner. One corner in the back was given over to a noisy machine. A multi-armed droid sat in the middle, grabbing dirty plates, cups, and silverware and placing them in wide trays, sending the loaded trays down a conveyor. The conveyor passed through a tunnel that hummed like an ultrasonic washer or a vibe-shower. The trays emerged out the far end, clean. Another droid replaced the clean items in racks for reuse and sent the trays back down to its partner.

It washed dishes. That was all it did.

Sal approached, hands in his pockets, and the loading droid clattered to a halt. He turned back to the boy, “See? Darn thing keeps blinking out on me. You mind putting the dirty stuff in the trays for the vibe-sanitizer? Just until it comes back on.”

The Twi’lek had a sneaking suspicion that there was nothing wrong with the droid. But if Sal wanted him to do the droid’s job, and that was all he had to do to get the remainder of his sandwich, he wasn’t going to argue with him. It was a lot easier than anything else he’d had to do. Nowhere near as awful as he thought. “Okay,” he said.

“Customer sent this one back,” Sal said, handing the boy a wrapped half-sandwich, “Why don’t you take it for later.” The Twi’lek seized the food like it was treasure and held it tight. “You get hungry, little man, you come back. I’ll find you something to do if you’re hungry.”

“Okay,” the boy replied. He padded off toward the storeroom, cheap sandals slapping on the floor.

Sal returned to the kitchen and entered the office. Another man was already there, sitting in the padded leatheris chair in the corner. He was bald and wrinkled, stocky, a gladiator gone to seed. He held a lit cigarette, the smoke wafting up into the vent. Sal closed the office door and sat on the chair’s thick arm. “New one today, old man.” he said.

“I overheard,” said the Old Man, resting a hand on Sal’s leg, “Saw him on the security cam. Another one of Jenks’?”

Sal stroked the strong fingers, “Yeah. Looks like he just got a new batch from offworld somewhere. Kid’s got a weird accent. Not Ryloth, though.”

Sal’s Old Man puffed on his spice cigarette then stubbed it out in the tray, “That damn fagin. He’s got no business being near kids, let alone owning ‘em.”

“Don’t I know it,” Sal agreed, “Kid wouldn’t even let me put kolto on him. Said Jenks would notice. Beat him again, worse.”

He shook his head, “He’s trouble, Sal.”

“He’s just a kid. Seven, eight maybe.”

“Kids grow up. Get wiser,” said The Old Man, “That kid’s only eight and already he can’t see but crooked. What the hell does he grow into?”

The Twi’lek clutched the extra wrapped half sandwich close to his chest and palmed open the back door. He stepped out and froze. In the alley behind Sal’s diner was a tall, thin whipcord of a man. Not quite human but similar. Hairless, ears with a slight point, dark marks around his too-small eyes. A bulbous, splayed nose, the nostrils almost on the sides, a thick line of flesh connecting to his upper lip. Dressed all in shiny black leatheris like a swoop biker. Jenks.

“I’ve missed you, my son,” he said.

The door slid shut behind him.

“Canth ‘ee anting.” Aric tried to tell Maura that he couldn’t see, his eyes were so swollen. She was frantically searching through medkits, but his tongue was so swollen he couldn’t make her understand. He was getting dizzy, and breathing was hard, but he was doing his best to hang on while she searched. He could hear the chaos around him, people shouting and finally the one voice he’d been waiting for. Spitfire will know what to do, he thought, just before he passed out.

One hour earlier….

“Maura, this ronto is excellent,” Aric told her, sneaking a little piece from the serving platter. “Did you make the coating on it?” He reached for another sliver but she slapped his hand.

“No, I got it from the market outside the Anchorhead spaceport, last time we were through there. Was going to give them to Miriah, but kept forgetting. It is pretty good, isn’t it?” She wasn’t the cook her sister was, but she tried, and for the most part did a fine job. This meal had turned out perfect, and she was excited. They had invited their old crew out to their new home for a cookout, and her family would be joining them. Dorne was the only one who couldn’t make it. It was the first time she’d attempted this, since Miriah was the cook of the family.

They had gathered, but Miriah and Corso were running late. “They probably got distracted, “ Aric smirked, “it happens a lot with them.” They all laughed, and Aric took a large bite of the ronto, relishing the flavor. He absently scratched his jaw and cleared his throat, reaching for a glass of water. He had no idea how quickly his face has started to swell, just that it had. The person sitting nearest to him was Tanno Vik, who looked at the Cathar and startled.

“Hey, boss, there’s something wrong here,” he called to Maura, who rushed over to see what was going on. She’d helped Aric stand and go inside, and the cooler air did help his breathing some, but not the swelling. Maura put cool packs on his face, but the problem was that nothing was helping. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak and was rapidly losing the ability to breathe, when he heard Miriah approach them.

“Need some adrenals, Maura, and hurry. Look in the medkit, grab the blue ones, look for the one marked ‘EPI’, need at least three of those.” Miriah went to work on the struggling Aric, and worked even faster when he lost consciousness. She turned to Corso and pointed at him. “Ice, lots of ice.” He hurried off to do what she asked, just as Maura returned with the injectors.

Miriah injected the first one and monitored his heartbeat, then slowly infused the second. Aric’s breathing was less raspy and seemed a little easier, and the swelling of his face was resolving a bit. He was trying to sit up, when Maura pushed him back down, “Just relax, honey. Mir’s working on things here,” she told him, and saw that he understood. Miriah was holding the third injector, watching the scanner’s screen as it monitored the patient’s vital signs.

“Okay, Aric, I think we’ve got things under control. I’m going to slowly inject this last one, try to stay still,” Miriah told her brother in law. He felt the drug enter his system and thought his heart might explode for a few seconds. “Maura, look through the kit again, for a stim marked “Hista”, should be yellow.” She reached, not even looking, and her sister put the requested injector in her hand. “Aric, this is the last thing. It’s going to make you sleepy, and we’re going to put ice packs on you to finish getting rid of the swelling.” He nodded, trusting Miriah completely to treat whatever this was.

Once the big Cathar was resting comfortably, Miriah turned to her sister. “This was a major allergic reaction. Maura, what did you either serve or cook with that was different?” Maura had already picked up the seasoning container and handed it to her sister. Of course, there was no list of what it contained, and the only thing either of them thought was unusual was a coarse cracked pepper. No one else had experienced any reaction at all to it.

Aric slept, unaware that his body hated Black Hole pepper.

"Spitfire" is Aric's nickname for Miriah, and despite an hour or so of research, I could find no SW data on allergies except to a contaminated batch of bacta, so the adrenal/stim names are close to what we would use to treat a severe allergic reaction.

They sat across from each other in an uncomfortable and terse silence. Broan was partway through his meal, though he was eating mechanically and did not appear to enjoying himself. Rochester had not touched his food. He ignored the rumbling in his stomach and repressed the urge to devour the steak. Broan alternatively looked to him and concentrated on his plate.

"Are you not hungry?" Broan popped another small cube of meat into his mouth, hoping that the action of chewing would suppress the emotion welling in his throat.

"I am, my Lord." Rochester did not look at Broan. It occurred to him that he had not really looked at anything since their fight.

"Then eat." He snapped, surprised by his own anger.

"Thank you, my Lord." Rochester cut into the steak. It was perfectly cooked, brown on the outside and pink in the middle. Despite the seasoning and delicate ministrations of the chef, the food tasted bland to him. He ate as mechanically as Broan. They returned to silence, staring at their plates, look everywhere but at each other.

Broan placed his knife and fork down on the plate, the silverware clinking against china.

"You left your apartments in the upper city." It was a statement heavy with questions that he desperately wanted to ask.

"I..." Rochester poked his fork into one of the slices of sautéed potato and moved it into the steak juices. "There were too many memories, my Lord."

"Where are you now?"

"I have a two-room flat on the eastern side of the military quarters, my Lord."

"Stop that."

Rochester looked up from his ruined potato and met Broan's eyes. In spite of everything, they were still brown; behind his attempts to be stern, there was noticeable warmth and a hurt.

"Stop what, my Lord?"

"I told you not to refer to me like that."

"And what should I call you now?"

A servant removed their plates and cutlery and Broan used the moment to distract himself with a sip of wine.

"You don't seem to have been eating well."

"I haven't had much of an appetite, my Lord," Rochester's voice held a defiant tone. Broan sighed into his glass. The servant returned and placed a selection of desserts on the table. "Carrot cake?"

"Your favourite," Broan took a piece of his cheesecake, finding little comfort in the sugar and cream. "I have arranged a meeting with Keeper, of Intelligence, in a few days. I need you to attend."

"I've never met Keeper."

"And Keeper has never met your Minder," Broan smiled, but it suddenly felt inappropriate and he ate another piece of cheesecake. He watched as Rochester inspected the cake and its icing. He was mouthing a word to himself, unaware that Broan was watching. Over and over, he formed the word 'Broan' as if he were testing it. "Rochester?"

"Broan?"

Rixik’s guiding principles by this time are those two cynical perversions of the golden rule: “He who has the gold makes the rules” and “Do unto others before they can do unto you.” Hence, he’s much less sympathetic than he was as a hungry kid. In the last story, food embodied Sal’s kindness. Here, it’s the opposite.

As far as adopting him as a small, sad kid? Recall The Scorpion and the Frog. He’s not completely irredeemable, but it wouldn’t be easy. Ask AU Kirya.

The Twi’lek pulled the sheet and flipped it over them both. He nuzzled in the Human woman’s blonde-and-copper hair. Beneath her perfume was the musky, animal scent of her skin and perspiration. He breathed deep. His movements grew slow and languid. He was almost asleep when she wriggled out of his embrace and woke him.

She scooted to the edge of the bed, “DeeThree?” she said, swinging her legs over the side. He propped himself on one elbow.

The droid came active and took a step forward, “Yes, mistress?” it asked.

She stood and tossed her two-toned hair back, “He pleases me. Have the wardrobe altered to fit him,” she said.

“Yes, mistress,” replied the droid. It crossed the room to meet her.

“Incinerate this,” she continued, pointing at the prison uniform, the pieces lying rumpled on the floor where they’d fallen, “and change the bed. After he bathes.” She started toward the door. The Twi’lek couldn’t take his eyes off her gently swaying posterior. She reached the doorframe and turned back. There it was again, that sweet threatening smile. The I-own-you smile. I–can-do-whatever-I-like smile. She pursed her lips and blew him a salacious kiss.

Ah well. He was neither the first nor the only Twi’lek sex toy. Though that dubious honor more often went to the females of his species. He tossed the sheet aside. Exposed, he arched his back and flexed his shoulders, “Hurry back, gorgeous,” he purred. Huttese was wonderful for commands like that.

While DeeThree stumbled over a polite translation, she smirked and said, “I’m sure.” She turned her attention to the droid, “I want him and the room clean before I return this evening, DeeThree. Make the usual arrangements with the kitchen. Oh, and start teaching him some phrases in Basic. Nothing fancy. Enough to follow orders.”

“It will be my pleasure, mistress,” said the droid

The service entrance door slid open and DeeThree returned bearing a covered tray. The Twi’lek broke off examining the holoterminal in the outer apartment. “Sir,” began the droid, moving to one of the small tables, “I have brought you some refreshment,” it said. It set the tray down. As he approached it whisked off the cover.

Food! Real food! Real meat! A medallion of what smelled like bantha steak rested on a bed of some kind of pale yellow paste. Tidbits of braised fungus surrounded it in a puddle of fragrant brown broth. A small mass of tender greens nestled on a second delicate plate. They gleamed with a shiny, aromatic liquid.

He sat and seized the silverware. The steak was perfect. The paste…he wasn’t sure what it was besides delicious. The fungus, the salad—it was a sharp, nutty-fruity-vinegary dressing on tiny fresh plants—perfect. Absolutely perfect. Better-than-sex perfect. He barely remembered the last time he’d tasted food like this. Scratch that. He’d never had food like this, even at Sal’s. It sure wasn’t the synthetic, reconstituted, extruded, freeze-dried crap he usually ate straight out of the package it came in. Even before incarceration. Oh, it was going to be hard to go back to nutrition packets after this.

There wasn’t enough. It was gone before he really got a chance to appreciate it. All that remained was the heady aroma and a bit of gravy. He resisted the urge to lick the plates. Food like this and good sex? Could do worse.

Wiping his hands on a silky cloth napkin, it sunk in that his situation was unchanged, and only somewhat improved. This woman cared no more for him than the prison guards did, she just had different work for him. A pampered pet, but still a slave. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him her name.

More to the point…what had happened to his predecessors? He’d heard rumors of illegal arenas and fighting pits, either organized by or at least receiving tacit approval from the guards. He’d heard nothing of this. Nothing of anything like this. But he wasn’t the first one. These apartments were long established and expensive. The droid had to alter the costumes in the closets. There must have been others before him, so where were they?

The holoterminal accessed only sports events and p*rnogr*phy. Typical. He was no professional slicer, but he decided to try his hand at the terminal anyway. At least it was something to do.

In Remi's story she leaves the Jedi Order after chapter 3 and becomes a bounty hunter named Grey. She spends these years away from everyone she had ever known.

She refueled her ship and took the time to inspect the outside for damage. She smiled behind her helm proud of the upgrades she purchased for herself.

“You the Captain who put out the ad for a first mate?” a cheerful voice asked from behind her. She traded her lightsaber for vibroblades and pushed the Force away, she did not use it, she could not feel it, but some instincts remained. He was the one.

He was tall and a bit thin for his height, but wiry and strong, no stranger to hard work. His face held few scars, and she could see stubble was cultivated for effect not sloppiness. He was smiling showing off a dimple that made him look like a boy. He searched the mask of her helmet he was used to looking people in the eye, he ducked under a spray of brown hair embarrassed that he was staring. He was the one.

“I am,” she replied. “Though it’s just me, the ship and the droid right now so I’d be captain of you and you’d be first among one.”

He laughed, a good sound, and stuck out his hand. “Jeffers.” He said clasping her hand firmly then releasing it.

“Grey.” She replied then pointed at her ship. “Show me what you’ve got.” The last three men she said that to either said or did something lewd in response. She sent them on their way, one with damaged parts. This man nodded taking on a businesslike tone and paced around the ship.

“Retired line based on the D-5 Mantis, smaller crew quarters, but bigger guns. Only twenty of them made, too expensive not enough demand. Upgraded engines Quellegh Industrial X2300 model, Armek armor, and Czerka Prototype canons.” He hesitated, “Which are illegal in Hutt territory on the count of them being a ripoff of Rendili’s patents only better but Rendili paid the Hutts to rule in their favor.”

She laughed and applauded and he bowed a little, “Got it in one.” She pointed at a set of targets at the far end of the hangar. The man drew his blaster and hit the three dummies center mass, not the quickest draw but deadly accurate. He turned back to her, holstering his weapon, “You’re good.” She complimented, “Better than good. So tell me, Jeffers, why don’t you have your own ship?”

He ducked again, it seemed to be a habit, “String of bad luck, paying off some debt. Had a bit of a gambling habit for a while, I wasn’t from a big city, didn’t know what I was getting into, they don’t say anything about addiction on the Nar Shaddaa brochures.”

“No they don’t.” she agreed. “Well, the job’s yours if you want it.”

He smiled, but hesitated, “I’d be happy to join your crew, except for one thing.”

“And that is?”

“I don’t do mysteries with my allies.” He pointed at her face.

She spent several minutes staring at him before she removed her helm. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. She was not sure what he saw. “It would be dangerous for someone so beautiful to walk around in places like this.” He blushed furiously and shook his head stammering an apology and a string of foreign curses. She only laughed and replaced her helmet.

“Welcome aboard, Jeffers.” He was certainly the one.

“Are all bounties this easy?” He asked after their third successful mission without a hitch. He leaned against the one console without buttons.

“Planned correctly and gauged properly for difficulty, they all should be,” she answered from the captain’s seat.

“Most of the crews I’ve worked with always ended up in a shootout or desperately running away. Outgunned, outmanned, missions gone bad, wrong mark, you name it, it all goes wrong every time.”

She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair considering the differences between herself and other bounty hunters. “I’m in this for credits not reputation. I don’t take jobs that will end up being too much for me. I’ve got savings, no debt, no real enemies, and no real friends, so there’s no job I can’t walk away from.” He stood directly across from her with a slight smile on his handsome face. “Disappointed?” she asked.

“Not even a little,” He smiled wider, “Never thought taking this job would be more relaxing than sweeping decks in the hangar, I’d only been there a week, glad you put in the ad when you did.”

“Well sometimes things work out.”

“One small disappointment,” he said grinning mischievously, “I save this bottle of whisky for close calls,” he brought out a very special looking bottle, the label etched into the glass rather than printed or painted, the whisky inside looked like liquid gold. A pair of tumblers followed. “Maybe I’ll make a new tradition,” He poured, “A toast to never again having a close call.”

She hesitated before pulling off her helmet, feeling naked without it especially with the way he looked at her. She accepted the tumbler made a toasting gesture and downed it in one shot. The liquid burned its way down her throat not unpleasantly, but she was unused to it and it went straight to her head. She giggled.

“Alright, first mate.” She stood unsteadily but waved off his offer to help. “I’m turning in for the night.” He watched her weave back to her room after only one drink grinning at her back.

He counted to one hundred the time it would take for the drug to knock her out. As small as she was and apparently unused to alcohol the Depredine pills would have her out cold for hours. Jeffers, Antoc, Maric, Vincent, Kellan, none were his real name made his way leisurely to the captains quarters. He tried the door and found it locked. He smirked and pulled out his slicing kit, the locks were usually just deterrents, no one put serious locks on an interior door meant for sleeping. Within moments he was inside the room, he looked at the bed in the corner. He was surprised she made it there, her helmet and gloves left a short trail as she tried to undress but it was all she had managed before crawling in and covering herself. Never mind, he would help her.

He picked up her helmet, the one she hid behind constantly, she was no great beauty but a clean fresh face was just as vulnerable. He would not have cared what she looked like, he just wanted to make sure he did not know her, and he would never forget eyes like that.

He straddled her on the bed and rolled her over. The armored chest piece flipped in his hands and clattered to the floor. He jumped off the bed noticing too late that the closet door was open. A whisper of sound, the soft buzz of electricity and the vibroblade ran through him. Sober yellow eyes blinked up at him watching as his life slipped away.

The Cepradine she had taken to counter the sedatives left Remi shaking and sick. More than that, it had been years since someone had seen her face. Lonely years without sharing a smile or feeling the connection of looking into someone’s eyes and having them look back. For a time she hoped she was wrong about ‘Jeffers,’ but she took a sample of his blood and examined his face, matching the scars and profile to her bounty pictures. Given his recent actions she had not needed to. He was definitely the one.

seems I remember something about Yuon Par having a passionate fling with one of the other affected Jedis in Act one so shame on her,she wouldn't be unfamiliar with that I would think

27/4/15: My transfer request was finally approved. I, Lieutenant Syra Grace, am going to work for the Tuk’ata himself.

They say Colonel Quinn drives right through demanding to psychotic. They say he doesn’t tolerate the slightest weakness or imperfection. But he heads up the most effective brigade in the Imperial Army. One of two things happen to the officers who take this post: they catapult up or they burn out. There’s about a 2:100 record on those results, but I’m told that Colonel Quinn knows how to put the best to use.

I intend to be the best.

I wonder about the nickname. Tuk’ata are clever, vicious hounds. Hard to outsmart, hard to outrun, very hard to take down in a straight-up fight. They used to be ordinary, they say, before the Sith did something to them. Now? Now they’re weapons.

Then again, they say he earned the name Tuk’ata purely on the strength of his friendliness.

27/4/15: Operations normal.

28/4/15: That may have been the single most terrifying experience of my life. And yes, I’m including the time Darth Mortis pulled a surprise inspection back on Dromund Kaas.

Our base is the only scrap of land we hold on this planet, and it’s under attack 24/7 from both local resistance and Republic forces. The streets themselves, though, are clean, orderly, eerily quiet between the bombing runs that impact on the big shield. When I arrived at the spaceport I thought that was the air of everybody knowing what they’re doing.

No, that’s the air of the fact that the Tuk’ata will kill you with his stare alone if you screw up.

He oversees the floor in the command center. He saw me into his office – big place, weirdly empty apart from the desk – and then started questioning me. Background, knowledge of the war in general and this planet’s operation in particular, my attitudes toward and belief in the Empire’s chances in this war. Then some strong language about drinking or fraternizing. He talked like he already hated me, and I have this feeling that that’s his neutral-to-approval tone.

His listing of what my duties would be was insane. It read like a small squadron’s mission list.

I’m on this.

28/4/15: Transfer Lt. Grace arrived. Operations normal.

1/5/15: I was brought in to directly replace one of the colonel’s support staff, and as such I get the…honor?...of dealing with him personally, a lot. I think this is where shell shock comes from.

I’ve met some good people, though. Lieutenant Doreah Briggs has been friendly. The male officers seem to steer clear of us. There are ominous rumors of what happens to officers who get physically involved.

1/5/15: Operations normal.

4/5/15: I worked up the nerve to ask Doreah more about the colonel. She laughed…a lot. Then she started talking.

I’m not sure how much to believe. He married the Emperor’s Wrath? (The Wrath was married? The Tuk'ata was married?) Then he survived divorce? The Wrath's not known for leaving survivors once someone crosses her. Weird stories they tell here.

4/5/15: Operations normal. Lt. Grace demonstrated neglect of weapons maintenance. Refer to monthly status report for other operational details.

11/5/15: Too tired to write much. I got bundled off with half the junior officers for some physical training. It’s the least forgiving possible reading of the training manual. My everything hurts.

11/5/15: 14-day review: Lt. Grace’s performance is adequate. Operations normal.

13/5/15: I and a few other officers stayed up late with the colonel planning what’s likely to be our final offensive in the area. He laid out the prime plan and an exhaustive contingency set. I never realized how many creative ways things could go wrong, but he left no disaster uncontemplated.

He’s so passionate about the campaign – but there is a deep sadness to him, an emptiness in every place that isn’t the mission. Sometimes when I look at him I get the sense that he thinks he’s already lost.

13/5/15: Offensive to be executed in two days. Notable contributions from Capt. Orr and Lt. Grace. Operations normal.

16/5/15: Wow. The past 48 hours have been an incredible rush. I was helping to coordinate from base, and the number of teams we were juggling, the amount of information coming through, the situational info feeds from everybody on the ground…but we dismantled Republic security in amazing time and gutted their garrison. It was awesome to see the plans I had sweated over coming together like that. So this is winning. This is working and winning a big prize. I think even the Tuk’ata was pleased. (Not that he smiled or anything, but we could tell.) As for me, celebrating with the junior officers was a nice wrapup.

16/5/15: Offensive successful. Will finish securing the area, then hand the base over to a permanent garrison.

25/5/15: The colonel had Major Reynard oversee operations while he went off planet all day. Word on the street is it’s “family obligations” of a recurring nature. Most people agree he has a son somewhere. I’m not sure I believe that.

25/5/15: Visitation day. Major Reynard reports no problems.

Young Rylon is well. He may have my face, but he has his mother's laugh. I do not yet know when I can see him again.

4/6/15: The brigade moves on. The new planet’s Imperial presence consists of a spaceport and a gun-studded perimeter. The place is far from welcoming, but the work is incredibly exciting. I’ve learned more about strategy in the last month than the academy taught me in four years. The Tuk’ata pushes us hard, but the result is undeniably great.

I’m told he approves of my work, too. This mostly seems to mean he picks apart my plans first and foremost. Oh, but it’s worth it to see him look good-ferocious when I get it right. It’s by far his rarest mood. 99% of the time he’s bad-ferocious or coldly blank. But I can get good-ferocious.

4/6/15: The new planet is resistant. Will make an example of some of the locals tomorrow. Work toward a more permanent base proceeds on a satisfactory schedule.

9/6/15: The colonel’s latest tirade burned one of our captains out. The guy was okay – the captain, I mean – but he hasn’t demonstrated the proper level of obsession, and some small fault of his set the Tuk’ata off. I would be worried about that kind of expectation, but frankly, getting wrapped up in the mission here is rewarding enough that I don’t care if it’s crazy.

9/6/15: 6-week review. Lt. Grace’s performance is promising. She requires only seasoning. Operations normal.

15/6/15: The colonel took the afternoon off to do nothing. Doreah says he does this every year.

I went out behind the spaceport in the evening to enjoy the rain. It runs off to a cliff overlooking the forest; it's a pretty little space. That's where I found him, in a dark spot between the spaceport floodlights. He was just standing there, looking up at the sky.

I stayed well away, but he must have heard me, because he said – without looking over – “Leave.”

Call me crazy, but I didn’t. He was so very alone. I came up to stand next to him. And I looked up, even though there was nothing to see but clouds. I asked him what was out there.

For a while I thought he hadn’t heard me. But ages later he said “What was lost.”

It seemed right to do something. I don’t know. I had to. So I got close enough to put my hand on his shoulder.

He stiffened. I mean crazy tense. And turned his head a tiny bit, not quite enough to look straight at me. He seemed more interested in looking at my hand. Eventually he looked at me instead. He just seemed…hurt.

He said “Not today. Of all days…not today.” And he took my hand, gently, and pushed it away. “Dismissed, Grace.”

He might just be insane.

15/6/15: Four years.

16/6/15: The colonel gave me a funny look when I showed up at the command center today, but after that he was all business. Long day planning. I remotely oversaw some field operations, then went in for the regular evening wrapup.

I stayed after everyone else had gone. I was curious. He looked at me for a minute. And then he said “You may stay, if you wish.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that he wastes neither time nor words.

The man is not gentle. He wasn’t overly self-centred or anything. There was just…need.

16/6/15: Operations normal.

19/6/15: He works the same as ever. I’m not even sure he feels anything different. That hasn’t stopped us for the last three nights. When we’re alone, he’s intense. But we don’t talk much.

I’m not really sure why I’m breaking the rules for this. I guess this is the only time he isn’t all work or emptiness. I keep thinking, in just one more moment I’m going to figure out what made him so sad, or else I’ll make it so it doesn’t matter.

Anyway, it’s nice to be wanted.

19/6/15: Operations normal.

25/6/15: Doreah’s getting suspicious. She’s asking where I’ve been staying out late. I gave her something about planning an upcoming operation I can’t talk about yet.

If anybody finds out, it’ll be a court-martial for me. As a best-case scenario.

25/6/15: On this subject it is wiser not to think. But it takes little analysis to observe that this dulls pain. Perhaps the memories that cannot be escaped can be eclipsed. The prospect is not unpleasant.

It is wiser not to think.

26/6/15: It’s technically 27/6 by now. Tonight was…unlike anything, ever. I don’t know why.

He was tender, for some reason. Gentle, slow, seeming to savor every motion. He said my name, asked me to say his. I never knew anyone, much less he, could be so warm, so reassuring. He was with me. I don’t know how else to describe it.

Afterward he just held me for a while.

I don’t understand him. But I want him.

26/6/15: [no entry]

27/6/15: My console woke me up this morning with a notification of a personnel transfer, effective immediately, to a brigade that’s operating on the far side of the galaxy.

Colonel Quinn was ‘unavailable’ when I asked.

27/6/15: Operations normal. Approved Lt. Grace’s transfer away.

Not again.

This falls into that long dead space that I handwaved as "military, likely unhappy, possibility of short unfulfilling love affairs" during earlier Ruth accounts. This was the kind of fascination I figure worked its way into the air of noble tragedy I so cheerfully mock him for in the Ruth-less timeline – I mean, the "noble" element required the events of RMC, but I suspect some degree of the same sad (combined with insane-challenging-powerful) magnetism had been there ever since the initial heartbreak.

Also I have wondered from time to time what it would've been like working under his command. From what little we see on Balmorra...well, this is one of those people where I figure it was a mercy to lower-ranking officers that he was taken out of the regular chain of command.

Incidentally, the codex entry for tuk'ata does say that it's the Sith that turned them into war beasts.