TaciturnBadger
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~BHM, ~BBW, ~Sex, Adventure, ~XWG - A super-sized version of Star Wars!
Part VI
Last night he had opened himself up to Farrah, which was a risk. He knew it to be, but at the same token, the Force had brought them together for a reason. He was not meant to know what that reason was yet, otherwise it would have been made clear; but it had seemed so right at the time that he had succumbed. And it still felt right, felt right with his mind, heart, and stomach.
She had come to terms with her desires, and why her past relationships were rife with disinterest, and found him in the process. The way they had connected while he was inside her was incredible, as if she had touched him through the Force while they laid entwined. While on the Jedi council, he had seen cases of extreme emotional feelings triggering an awakening to the Force, although the thought of their lovemaking sparking her awareness seemed preposterous.
But was it, truly? What was there to falsify the possibility?
The thought swam through his mind as his spoon swam through the melting second scoop. Regardless of her awareness, it had been a truly electrifying experience. Farrah had really let her inhibitions go, freeing herself of societal decrees and public perceptions, allowing herself to focus on the gems of what was stored within. It had been her lust for a larger man, yes; an acceptance and understanding of her fascination with fat, her desire to feel him in her, on her, and help him grow to be as large as he would be, and finally acting on what she had been holding back for so long.
Click!
He halted in mid step, causing a number of people to alter their walking paths around his girth. That was it! She had freed her mind, faced the discipline, indulged in it, and returned to control afterwards. All the signs were there, the emotion, the acceptance, the peace. No longer was she fighting with herself for something she did not understand; she had accepted herself for who she was, freed herself from her own thoughts, born again with her true desires and the whims of the Force.
This changes things, he thought.
Kyrren tossed the cup from the dessert into a nearby refuse receptacle, and was debating on going back for another pair of scoops when he felt a presence five meters behind him that was less than friendly. He continued down the street as though nothing had changed, taking a quick turn down an alleyway not much wider than himself.
The presence he felt turned into the alleyway with him, and Kyrren waited for several meters before he turned and confronted the shadow. He recognized the Devaronian from the cantina yesterday, sitting near where Yilts had sat today.
“Help you with something?” Kyrren asked.
“No Corellian Security investigator gets to see our bounties and live,” it gurgled, surprisingly in Basic. “Yilts sends his regards and his compliments on betraying his trust.”
“I’m not Corellian Security,” he said. “They don’t have anybody my size doing field work.”
“A clever disguise he was most impressed with. Your blubber-flesh disguise was good enough to pass Heeng’s check.”
Kyrren found himself staring, open-mouthed at the Devaronian assassin. Was he honestly trying to claim that he was not fat? After where the Rodian had probed, that was downright insulting.
“Good day, Security,” the Devaronian gurgled, reaching quite quickly for a concealed blaster.
Still absorbed in abject shock, Kyrren had little time to do much more than reach a hand out and pull the thug towards him through the Force. Not expecting such a maneuver, the Devaronian pitched forwards, crashing into his belly and crumpling to the street in a heap.
“This gut is real, thank you very much!” He paused for a moment, judging his next actions by what the assassin would attempt to do. When it reached for the blaster again, Kyrren concentrated, reaching out to unhook his lightsaber and ignite it. The bright blue blade extended, cauterizing a perfect hole three centimeters in diameter straight through the attacker’s throat before he extinguished it almost immediately.
“Sith spit,” he muttered. He hated pointless killing.
Kyrren glanced around him, checking to see if there were any witnesses to the death. Finding none, he continued down the alley, having too much experience to come out the way he came in. If the Devaronian had any friends along for the ride, they’d be waiting there for backup. He just had to hope he could get out of sight before any friends he did bring along entered the alleyway to check on the assassination attempt.
* * *
Back on the Illicit Investment, Kyrren had already told Farrah and Dobo Chah about what had happened in the cantina, including the complete lack of an Exchange bounty for himself and the almost bored interest in the open Sith bounty on Jedi.
“Sounds like a good place to hole up for a while,” Dobo suggested. “Not much of an Exchange presence, no bounties on your head. Good deal.”
Much to Kyrren’s surprise, Farrah nodded. “That’d be nice, for a change, you know, not getting shot at.”
Surprised that Farrah would abandon the thoughts of returning to her home on Telos with no hesitation, he blinked at her. “Just out of curiosity, what was your loan with the Exchange for?”
Her face flushed slightly. “Umm, a ticket off Telos.”
Oh. “Let me guess.. you paid the spacer, he told you to meet you at the docking bay, you get there, and he’s gone?”
She nodded. “That about sums it up, yeah.”
“Well isn’t that ironic,” he chuckled. “So you’re up to staying here for a while until the heat blows over?”
Farrah looked around the main hold of the ship, seemingly realizing what she had agreed to. “I don’t see any reason why not. I was trying to get off Telos anyway, and I don’t really see any other alternative.”
Kyrren nodded. “Then it’s settled. But I don’t want to be quite so close to that cantina. Can you give us a lift to Coronet?”
Dobo glanced up from his datapad. “The capital? I thought you were going for low-profile?”
Kyrren grinned. “Haven’t you ever heard of hiding in plain sight? The more populous the area, the greater the chances of getting lost in the crowd. Plus, the greater chance of landing an apartment vacancy immediately.”
Dobo shrugged his acceptance. “Good points. I’ll have Frez start the takeoff process.”
Farrah waited until the pilot left the main hold to address Kyrren. “What are we going to do?”
“The same thing everybody else does – get a job, pay rent, and just live.”
“And to think I was leaving Telos for a better life,” she muttered.
“You did,” he grinned. “You learned something about yourself.”
That seemed to brighten Farrah’s mood, and she moved to sit next to him, placing her hand on his belly, smiling at the minute vibrations working their way through it as the ship lifted off. “This is true. I did. Which reminds me, I managed to get a few truffles made while you were out.”
Kyrren looked at the tray she had brought over from the table. “Well if you aren’t becoming quite the chef,” he said, taking one and popping it in his mouth. Velvety and sweet, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the cascade of flavors. “Delicious.”
The flash of red lights and erupting klaxon alarm interrupted his reverie.
“What is that?” she shrieked over the screech of the alarm.
“Lock-on alert,” he replied, hauling himself to his feet and making his way towards the cockpit. “Get yourself strapped into a flight seat and tighten the crash webbing. Go!”
The cockpit was a dazzling array of lights and readouts, all of which seemed to be displaying negative information at an alarming rate. Dobo was frantically pressing buttons with one hand, controlling the yoke with the other, calling out in a voice scratchy with urgency.
“Three snub fighters on our tail. Full power to the rear deflector shields!’
Frez warbled something in response and made to get up.
“I’ll take the turrets,” Kyrren said, holding a hand out to stop the Duros copilot.
Frez squeaked.
“Yes, both of them.” He sat down in one of the seats, sliding the chair sideways to position himself directly in between the two turret controls. The Investment’s turrets were directly on the sides of the ship, one port and one starboard, allowing fire coverage to almost any angle.
“Don’t worry about him!” Dobo yelled at Frez. “He can handle the guns. Trust me.”
Thankfully, the Investment’s fire control systems were identical to the ones that were installed whenever Kyrren had flown on board, years ago. He turned the monitors to face him, his left eye watching the port cannon, left hand grasping one side of the control yoke; right eye watching the starboard cannon, right hand grasping its yoke. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and splitting his consciousness, letting his brain do the work.
“Bring me my truffles,” he said, his tone flat from concentration. As the fighters closed to weapons range, he worked the turrets, blasting salvos of fire in between the ships to scatter the formation and break up their assault. Frez crooned something from behind him.
“Do it!” Dobo called out.
Having scattered the fighters, the three smaller passes of laser fire were absorbed harmlessly by the ship’s focused deflector shields. Working silently now, the old war companions acting as one consciousness, Kyrren didn’t even need to tell Dobo to adjust the deflectors to match their changed trajectories. It was already done.
Though the information swarming Kyrren’s mind was enough to overwhelm the typical person, he had already separated his mind, which now sat, detached, watching what was happening with idle curiosity and waiting for the truffles, while his body simply reacted, fueled by visual signals and the Force. He had learned, long before the Mandalorian Wars, that thinking with your mind about what was going on in combat slowed your reactions down significantly. Simply letting your body do what it knows how to do was much faster, and allowed for impressive displays of skill.
Such as controlling two separate fire turrets at once.
Frez reached delicately around the monitors, placing the dish of truffles down between them and backing away, glancing over his shoulder and whispering in awe at Kyrren’s abilities.
Their formation scattered, the pilots proved to have more talent than one would have assumed, juking around the blasters that were nicking their airfoils. Several times, Kyrren was certain he had a direct shot on one of the fighters, but they rolled out of the way a split-second before impact.
Kyrren’s mind levitated a truffle over and deposited it neatly in his mouth, wondering what it was these pilots were doing to avoid each and every single shot he fired. The more he thought about it, the less it all made sense, unless they truly were crack pilots.
Suddenly, the solution rang clear. He stopped firing altogether. He felt Dobo’s eyes on his back, sensed the nervousness in the room, but also the trust in his skill. The three fighters finished the pass they were on, swooping in front of the ship and returning to their triangular formation. Kyrren watched the displays, watched them turn around to come back at the Investment. The trio of blips came closer in his vision, split between the two monitors, and then..
Now!
He squeezed both triggers, the port and starboard turret fire converging on the fighter in front. Suddenly without room to maneuver without colliding with the other ships, the fighter had little choice but to take the laser fire straight in the canopy.
Only able to see what was on the display, he saw the blip disappear in a haze of static, but knew what had happened – the converged blast, laser bolts striking at the same spot at the same time with Jedi precision, overpowered the fighter’s weak deflector shields and detonated inside the canopy.
The blast, enough to destroy the fighter’s control and kill the pilot, was not enough to cause the fuselage and wings of the fighter to explode, and it spun out of control, colliding with the fighter to its right and severely damaging its wings. Dobo rolled the Investment to its right sharply, allowing the two falling fighters to pass underneath. Kyrren floated another truffle to his mouth, letting the sweet flavor overwrite the disappointment at being unable to converge the final salvo of laser fire he pelted into the remaining fighter, who had rolled to the side to clear the explosion, and would not have any time to evade as the Investment streaked past.
The battle display chimed and switched from red to green, indicating the destruction of all hostile vessels in sensor range.
Dobo and Frez erupted in a cheer, punching the atmospheric ion drives to full throttle, speeding the ship towards the capital city of Coronet.
Frez warbled, and Dobo clapped him on the shoulder. “Two turrets and dessert at the same time. Never underestimate a fat Jedi!”
Farrah stepped into the cockpit a moment later. “What happened? I heard some explosions and a bunch of laser fire.”
Dobo jumped into the explanation, taking advantage of Kyrren’s mouth otherwise occupied with a truffle. “What happened is our weighty weaponmaster wiped out three short-range fighters while eating your candies. Not only that, but he worked both port and starboard turrets at the same time!”
Frez warbled his approval.
Farrah looked over at Kyrren, still seated at the fire control station between the two monitors. “Is that even possible? I thought port and starboard pointed in opposite directions.”
“They do!” Dobo laughed. “And one of the ships took a blast straight in the cockpit. Somehow he managed to hit him with both turrets in the exactexact same time.” He thumped the control console twice to further emphasize the word ‘exact.’
Farrah blinked at Kyrren, who simply shrugged. “Someone had to fly it,” he said, dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand. “As long as we’re on our way now. I just wish I knew who sent them after us. Might give me a little more peace of mind.”
Frez punched a few buttons, pulling up the sensor records of the fighter’s IFF codes – the Identification Friend or Foe code used to determine whether or not a ship was hostile – and crooned something a moment later.
Dobo slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “That’s my problem, guys, sorry.”
Kyrren raised an eyebrow in question.
“Uh, jealous hyperdive dealers.”
“Remind me to stay out of your line of work,” Farrah muttered. “How much longer till we get to Coronet? I’d rather like to have solid ground under my feet again.”
* * *
Kyrren Mak and Farrah stood on the street outside one of Coronet’s starports, watching the ion drives of the Illicit Investment burn bright as it sped off into the atmosphere towards its next destination.
“So now what do we do?” Farrah asked, suddenly realizing their lodging status now that Dobo Chah and Frez had flown off to other parts of the galaxy.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.” He led her to a nearby hovercar for hire, giving directions to head deeper into Coronet’s heart. Farrah’s eyes were glued to the viewport, watching durasteel and ferrocrete structures larger than her eyes could see zip past. The architecture became more ornate and detailed, the materials used in the construction of the buildings moving from drab grey to a more beautiful ivory, catching and reflecting the rainbow of colored lights dancing as they passed. It was painfully obvious that he was taking them to the very, very high-class heart of the capital.
The hovercar pulled to a stop beside an particularly busy structure, the walls painted to look like ivory and edged in synthetic onyx. “What’s this?”
The hovercar rocked comically when Kyrren exited, the repulsorlifts straining to return the car to level.
“The Thousand Crystals. Galaxy-class resort hotel. The home away from home for ridiculously rich bureaucrats and politicians everywhere. And, to boot, the place of employment of some of the best flair chefs in twenty systems.”
Farrah’s eyebrows shot up as she exited to stand next to Kyrren, absentmindedly wrapping her arm around his back and tracing her fingers over the soft roll on his side. She was familiar with flair chefs, having watched a number of their videos on the HoloNet – standing directly in front of the customers, cooking with dozens of witnesses demanding razors-edge precision. If that weren’t nerve-jangling enough, they came demanding more than a meal of galactic delicacies, they came for a show. Flair chefs were famous for flipping ingredients, twirling knives sharp as vibroblades, cutting ingredients in midair, spinning utensils and tossing morsels into eagerly waiting mouths.
“And just what do flair chefs have to do with us right now?” she asked, eyebrow quirked.
He grinned at her. “Well, we have to have a source of income to acquire an apartment. I’m going to be one.”
Even after being with Kyrren for the short period of time that she had, very little should have surprised her at this point. Instead, she was surprised.
“What, you’re just going to walk into there and get hired as a flair chef? These people study and practice for years before even getting an audition!”
He started in, pulling an open-mouthed Farrah behind him. “Never underestimate a fat Jedi, Farrah. I thought you would have gotten that one by now!” he chuckled.
The interior of the hotel was far grander than the outside, filled with vaulted ceilings and exotic crystal inlays from all around the galaxy. Once inside, seeing the patrons, she felt suddenly self-conscious and horribly underdressed. Not a single item of clothing was worn that she could see that did not have some form of precious metal, stone, or crystal embedded in it, many of the outfits likely costing enough to pay her rent on Telos for close to a standard year.
Kyrren led the way deeper inside, seemingly unfazed by the ostentatious luxury surrounding them. Without so much as consulting a sign, he arrived a moment later at the entrance to the resort’s flair restaurant. There was a podium outside, and a Bith dressed in all-white stood greeting the arrivals.
“Welcome to The Dancing Daggers. How many will be in your party this evening?” the host inquired in perfect, unaccented Basic; an impressive task for a Bith.
“None. I’m here to see the owner about the chef’s position.”
The host blinked, obviously taken aback. “I am unaware of any auditions taking place today. Let me consult with the owner.”
He pushed a small button on the monitor, communicating not with words, but via keyboard for privacy. Kyrren stood patiently, waiting for a response and looking around the hotel. Farrah couldn’t help but feel they were somehow doing something illegal.
Several minutes later, an Ithorian – short for his race, but still taller than both Kyrren and Farrah – stepped outside the restaurant and up to the podium. “I understand you are here about the chef’s position?”
“That’s correct. I understand you’re in need of flair talent of an extremely demanding skill level.”
The Ithorian wobbled its long, curved head, their species’ form of a nod. “I had not planned for any auditions today..” he trailed off.
“I assure you I won’t need to take much of your time.” Farrah caught his choice of words, planting seeds of confidence and control into the owner’s mind. “And I am certain you will be impressed.”
A subtle, almost unnoticeable waggle of his fingers accompanied the tail end of his sentence. The owner pondered the offer briefly, then motioned for Kyrren and Farrah to follow him into the restaurant through a cleverly hidden employee door.
The employee passage, in stark contrast to the rest of the resort, was bare white. The lighting which seemed warm and comforting while waiting outside the restaurant turned harsh and bright, conveying feelings similar to that of being in a medical ward. Several doors into the hallway, the Ithorian stopped to open one, holding it for them to enter. Farrah couldn’t help but feel a small bubble of warmth within her when Kyrren stepped through before her, having to angle himself slightly to fit through the narrow door.
Inside the room, which appeared to have been specially laid out for training and auditioning, a long, rectangular griddle sat next to a preparation counter in a tight L-shape. Facing the grill and preparation station was a raised counter, with bar-style seating to allow customers to dine and watch close up in comfort.
“I must apologize that this will not be a true test of your skills, as the grill is not pre-heated and many ingredients are not stocked in the training room full time. I regret to say that this will, in actuality, be even more difficult as you will be extremely limited in what you have onhand.” Removing a datapad, he made a few pokes and held it out to Kyrren. “This is just a formality, but please hand-print the liability waiver, in case you injure yourself during the demonstration.”
Kyrren did so, and satisfied, the Ithorian sat on one of the chairs, facing the griddle. He gestured for Farrah to sit on the prep table side. Kyrren took a few moments to take inventory of what tools the station had, where the various ingredients and spices were kept, and where the mixing bowls and other goods were. And suddenly, without warning or preamble, he began.
A head of Corellian lettuce popped up, Kyrren’s head still out of view where he was bent over. A split second later, a long knife shot up from out of sight to embed itself perfectly in the stem of the lettuce, turning over slowly to come down into his hand as he righted himself. Placing a bowl on the prep table, he drew another knife from the block, holding it under the lettuce blade-up and spinning the handle of the knife, filling the bowl with long, narrow shreds of just the tips of the lettuce leaves, which were the leafiest and most flavorful parts on the variety he was shredding. Once he was done with the head, he plopped the now-flattened top of it upside-down on the prep table cutting board, the knife wedged in the stem standing straight up and gleaming. Seemingly from nowhere, Kyrren produced a flavorful root from the Onderon system and tossed it in the air, twirling the knife he had been shredding the lettuce with and sending it flying towards the root from behind his back. He had a casual, almost careless manner, with a bored expression on his face, providing the air that this was simply a warm-up.
The knife he spun behind his back arced towards the root, plunging its tip deep into the vegetable and turning to fall root-and-tip first towards the cutting board. As if to play up the tension, Kyrren waved his hand in front of his mouth in the human expression of a yawn, rotating his hand to catch the knife handle and begin dicing the root at the exact instant it would have otherwise impacted the board in a very bad display of knife care.
Farrah’s eyebrows shot up. She knew that Kyrren was a lot of things, but a practiced flair chef had not been one of them. He nodded to the Ithorian – a flair chef’s signal that he would be tossing a morsel towards them, upon receiving an approving response – and picked up one of the diced root pieces on the tip of his knife, turning away from the Ithorian to face the prep table, reaching around behind his back to flick the blade, the root piece landing neatly in the mouth of the Ithorian facing Kyrren.
Farrah blinked and forced her jaw to remain shut. Ithorians had two narrow, shallow mouths, one on each side of their long, flat head. Aiming a piece of root from behind the back without looking to a mouth located in an unusual place was definitely a demanding trick, and as she watched the owner’s eyes widen in surprise, she knew that he had been impressed as well.
Kyrren diced a few more vegetables in similar fashion, pouring each of them into the bowl with the lettuce, adding a dash of oil and vinegar to provide some liquid and flavor. Then he removed a box of rather large berries, labeled the knn’la berry – she couldn’t make out the stamp with the planet of origin on them – each of which was the size of a small egg. Taking a handful in one hand, and three small paring knives in the other, he began to juggle.
She watched as he expertly spun the knives and berries in a cluttered circle, at first simply moving around, but then noticed as the pattern of just the berries changed, and as the knives flashed through the air, each of the berries was sliced, one by one, cleanly in half and landed in the bowl.
Without touching anything in the bowl, he placed it in front of the owner with a flourish, flashing a quick grin at Farrah. She craned her neck to look at his handiwork, startled to notice that the berries had not just been sliced perfectly in half, but had also landed in as perfect a circle as could be made on lettuce.
The Ithorian picked up its fork, taking a big stabful of the contents of the bowl and munching contentedly on it, its head wobbling in a nod the whole while.
“Truly impressive knife work,” he said. “The salad is simple, yet elegant. The dressing doesn’t cling or overpower the other ingredients, and the plating of the berries was downright unbelievable.”
Kyrren waited, wiping his knives and cleaning down the cutting board, casually looking to confirm that he hadn’t gotten any knn’la berry juice on his robes.
“I regret to say that I don’t have a uniform or apron to fit your.. proportions on hand, however that could be ratified quickly. I must admit I am quite anxious to see your performance with the grill. If the skill sets of my staff are any comparison – all of them are not quite as flashy on the prep table than the grill – then your grill performance should be nothing short of amazing.”
Kyrren grinned. “It’s not polite to brag, but I will say I am confident in my skills.”
“Apparently so. The human yawn of boredom was a very humorous touch.” He pulled out a datapad, poked it a few times with one of the long fingers on his three-fingered hand, and slid it over to Kyrren. “This is our standard rate of pay for a flair chef. Of course, all compensation left from customers is yours. In addition, we offer access to our vast array of exotic ingredients, at wholesale cost.”
It was Kyrren’s turn for his eyebrows to raise. The pay offered was significant, the access to the ingredients an incredible luxury, and – truth be told – he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.
“When can I start?” he asked.
“Come down tomorrow, and I will arrange for our tailor to take some measurements and get you fitted for a uniform and apron. They will let us know when the uniform will be ready, and then you shall start.”
Kyrren reached out his hand, a human gesture of agreement, which the Ithorian clasped and shook. “It seems we are agreed. I shall see you in the morning, then.”
Farrah followed as they were ushered out, still wiring her jaw shut to prevent it from falling open, only blurting out once they had exited the resort and were waiting for a hovercar.
“You never told me you were a flair chef!”
He shrugged. “I never told you because I never was until today.”
She cocked her head to the side, realization dawning on her – of course the knife work was impeccable, since that was exactly how he wielded his lightsaber, through the Force! She narrowed her eyes and waggled a finger at him. “You.. you were in control of the whole show, then?”
Kyrren grinned and opened his mouth to say something, which she silenced with a swift kiss. “I know, I know. Never underestimate a fat Jedi.”
“Exactly,” he said, moving in to hug her close against his cushioned front. “Plus, this means I’ll have access to wholesale prices for butter nibs.”
Farrah’s eyebrows rose.
* * *
Part VI
Last night he had opened himself up to Farrah, which was a risk. He knew it to be, but at the same token, the Force had brought them together for a reason. He was not meant to know what that reason was yet, otherwise it would have been made clear; but it had seemed so right at the time that he had succumbed. And it still felt right, felt right with his mind, heart, and stomach.
She had come to terms with her desires, and why her past relationships were rife with disinterest, and found him in the process. The way they had connected while he was inside her was incredible, as if she had touched him through the Force while they laid entwined. While on the Jedi council, he had seen cases of extreme emotional feelings triggering an awakening to the Force, although the thought of their lovemaking sparking her awareness seemed preposterous.
But was it, truly? What was there to falsify the possibility?
The thought swam through his mind as his spoon swam through the melting second scoop. Regardless of her awareness, it had been a truly electrifying experience. Farrah had really let her inhibitions go, freeing herself of societal decrees and public perceptions, allowing herself to focus on the gems of what was stored within. It had been her lust for a larger man, yes; an acceptance and understanding of her fascination with fat, her desire to feel him in her, on her, and help him grow to be as large as he would be, and finally acting on what she had been holding back for so long.
Click!
He halted in mid step, causing a number of people to alter their walking paths around his girth. That was it! She had freed her mind, faced the discipline, indulged in it, and returned to control afterwards. All the signs were there, the emotion, the acceptance, the peace. No longer was she fighting with herself for something she did not understand; she had accepted herself for who she was, freed herself from her own thoughts, born again with her true desires and the whims of the Force.
This changes things, he thought.
Kyrren tossed the cup from the dessert into a nearby refuse receptacle, and was debating on going back for another pair of scoops when he felt a presence five meters behind him that was less than friendly. He continued down the street as though nothing had changed, taking a quick turn down an alleyway not much wider than himself.
The presence he felt turned into the alleyway with him, and Kyrren waited for several meters before he turned and confronted the shadow. He recognized the Devaronian from the cantina yesterday, sitting near where Yilts had sat today.
“Help you with something?” Kyrren asked.
“No Corellian Security investigator gets to see our bounties and live,” it gurgled, surprisingly in Basic. “Yilts sends his regards and his compliments on betraying his trust.”
“I’m not Corellian Security,” he said. “They don’t have anybody my size doing field work.”
“A clever disguise he was most impressed with. Your blubber-flesh disguise was good enough to pass Heeng’s check.”
Kyrren found himself staring, open-mouthed at the Devaronian assassin. Was he honestly trying to claim that he was not fat? After where the Rodian had probed, that was downright insulting.
“Good day, Security,” the Devaronian gurgled, reaching quite quickly for a concealed blaster.
Still absorbed in abject shock, Kyrren had little time to do much more than reach a hand out and pull the thug towards him through the Force. Not expecting such a maneuver, the Devaronian pitched forwards, crashing into his belly and crumpling to the street in a heap.
“This gut is real, thank you very much!” He paused for a moment, judging his next actions by what the assassin would attempt to do. When it reached for the blaster again, Kyrren concentrated, reaching out to unhook his lightsaber and ignite it. The bright blue blade extended, cauterizing a perfect hole three centimeters in diameter straight through the attacker’s throat before he extinguished it almost immediately.
“Sith spit,” he muttered. He hated pointless killing.
Kyrren glanced around him, checking to see if there were any witnesses to the death. Finding none, he continued down the alley, having too much experience to come out the way he came in. If the Devaronian had any friends along for the ride, they’d be waiting there for backup. He just had to hope he could get out of sight before any friends he did bring along entered the alleyway to check on the assassination attempt.
* * *
Back on the Illicit Investment, Kyrren had already told Farrah and Dobo Chah about what had happened in the cantina, including the complete lack of an Exchange bounty for himself and the almost bored interest in the open Sith bounty on Jedi.
“Sounds like a good place to hole up for a while,” Dobo suggested. “Not much of an Exchange presence, no bounties on your head. Good deal.”
Much to Kyrren’s surprise, Farrah nodded. “That’d be nice, for a change, you know, not getting shot at.”
Surprised that Farrah would abandon the thoughts of returning to her home on Telos with no hesitation, he blinked at her. “Just out of curiosity, what was your loan with the Exchange for?”
Her face flushed slightly. “Umm, a ticket off Telos.”
Oh. “Let me guess.. you paid the spacer, he told you to meet you at the docking bay, you get there, and he’s gone?”
She nodded. “That about sums it up, yeah.”
“Well isn’t that ironic,” he chuckled. “So you’re up to staying here for a while until the heat blows over?”
Farrah looked around the main hold of the ship, seemingly realizing what she had agreed to. “I don’t see any reason why not. I was trying to get off Telos anyway, and I don’t really see any other alternative.”
Kyrren nodded. “Then it’s settled. But I don’t want to be quite so close to that cantina. Can you give us a lift to Coronet?”
Dobo glanced up from his datapad. “The capital? I thought you were going for low-profile?”
Kyrren grinned. “Haven’t you ever heard of hiding in plain sight? The more populous the area, the greater the chances of getting lost in the crowd. Plus, the greater chance of landing an apartment vacancy immediately.”
Dobo shrugged his acceptance. “Good points. I’ll have Frez start the takeoff process.”
Farrah waited until the pilot left the main hold to address Kyrren. “What are we going to do?”
“The same thing everybody else does – get a job, pay rent, and just live.”
“And to think I was leaving Telos for a better life,” she muttered.
“You did,” he grinned. “You learned something about yourself.”
That seemed to brighten Farrah’s mood, and she moved to sit next to him, placing her hand on his belly, smiling at the minute vibrations working their way through it as the ship lifted off. “This is true. I did. Which reminds me, I managed to get a few truffles made while you were out.”
Kyrren looked at the tray she had brought over from the table. “Well if you aren’t becoming quite the chef,” he said, taking one and popping it in his mouth. Velvety and sweet, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the cascade of flavors. “Delicious.”
The flash of red lights and erupting klaxon alarm interrupted his reverie.
“What is that?” she shrieked over the screech of the alarm.
“Lock-on alert,” he replied, hauling himself to his feet and making his way towards the cockpit. “Get yourself strapped into a flight seat and tighten the crash webbing. Go!”
The cockpit was a dazzling array of lights and readouts, all of which seemed to be displaying negative information at an alarming rate. Dobo was frantically pressing buttons with one hand, controlling the yoke with the other, calling out in a voice scratchy with urgency.
“Three snub fighters on our tail. Full power to the rear deflector shields!’
Frez warbled something in response and made to get up.
“I’ll take the turrets,” Kyrren said, holding a hand out to stop the Duros copilot.
Frez squeaked.
“Yes, both of them.” He sat down in one of the seats, sliding the chair sideways to position himself directly in between the two turret controls. The Investment’s turrets were directly on the sides of the ship, one port and one starboard, allowing fire coverage to almost any angle.
“Don’t worry about him!” Dobo yelled at Frez. “He can handle the guns. Trust me.”
Thankfully, the Investment’s fire control systems were identical to the ones that were installed whenever Kyrren had flown on board, years ago. He turned the monitors to face him, his left eye watching the port cannon, left hand grasping one side of the control yoke; right eye watching the starboard cannon, right hand grasping its yoke. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and splitting his consciousness, letting his brain do the work.
“Bring me my truffles,” he said, his tone flat from concentration. As the fighters closed to weapons range, he worked the turrets, blasting salvos of fire in between the ships to scatter the formation and break up their assault. Frez crooned something from behind him.
“Do it!” Dobo called out.
Having scattered the fighters, the three smaller passes of laser fire were absorbed harmlessly by the ship’s focused deflector shields. Working silently now, the old war companions acting as one consciousness, Kyrren didn’t even need to tell Dobo to adjust the deflectors to match their changed trajectories. It was already done.
Though the information swarming Kyrren’s mind was enough to overwhelm the typical person, he had already separated his mind, which now sat, detached, watching what was happening with idle curiosity and waiting for the truffles, while his body simply reacted, fueled by visual signals and the Force. He had learned, long before the Mandalorian Wars, that thinking with your mind about what was going on in combat slowed your reactions down significantly. Simply letting your body do what it knows how to do was much faster, and allowed for impressive displays of skill.
Such as controlling two separate fire turrets at once.
Frez reached delicately around the monitors, placing the dish of truffles down between them and backing away, glancing over his shoulder and whispering in awe at Kyrren’s abilities.
Their formation scattered, the pilots proved to have more talent than one would have assumed, juking around the blasters that were nicking their airfoils. Several times, Kyrren was certain he had a direct shot on one of the fighters, but they rolled out of the way a split-second before impact.
Kyrren’s mind levitated a truffle over and deposited it neatly in his mouth, wondering what it was these pilots were doing to avoid each and every single shot he fired. The more he thought about it, the less it all made sense, unless they truly were crack pilots.
Suddenly, the solution rang clear. He stopped firing altogether. He felt Dobo’s eyes on his back, sensed the nervousness in the room, but also the trust in his skill. The three fighters finished the pass they were on, swooping in front of the ship and returning to their triangular formation. Kyrren watched the displays, watched them turn around to come back at the Investment. The trio of blips came closer in his vision, split between the two monitors, and then..
Now!
He squeezed both triggers, the port and starboard turret fire converging on the fighter in front. Suddenly without room to maneuver without colliding with the other ships, the fighter had little choice but to take the laser fire straight in the canopy.
Only able to see what was on the display, he saw the blip disappear in a haze of static, but knew what had happened – the converged blast, laser bolts striking at the same spot at the same time with Jedi precision, overpowered the fighter’s weak deflector shields and detonated inside the canopy.
The blast, enough to destroy the fighter’s control and kill the pilot, was not enough to cause the fuselage and wings of the fighter to explode, and it spun out of control, colliding with the fighter to its right and severely damaging its wings. Dobo rolled the Investment to its right sharply, allowing the two falling fighters to pass underneath. Kyrren floated another truffle to his mouth, letting the sweet flavor overwrite the disappointment at being unable to converge the final salvo of laser fire he pelted into the remaining fighter, who had rolled to the side to clear the explosion, and would not have any time to evade as the Investment streaked past.
The battle display chimed and switched from red to green, indicating the destruction of all hostile vessels in sensor range.
Dobo and Frez erupted in a cheer, punching the atmospheric ion drives to full throttle, speeding the ship towards the capital city of Coronet.
Frez warbled, and Dobo clapped him on the shoulder. “Two turrets and dessert at the same time. Never underestimate a fat Jedi!”
Farrah stepped into the cockpit a moment later. “What happened? I heard some explosions and a bunch of laser fire.”
Dobo jumped into the explanation, taking advantage of Kyrren’s mouth otherwise occupied with a truffle. “What happened is our weighty weaponmaster wiped out three short-range fighters while eating your candies. Not only that, but he worked both port and starboard turrets at the same time!”
Frez warbled his approval.
Farrah looked over at Kyrren, still seated at the fire control station between the two monitors. “Is that even possible? I thought port and starboard pointed in opposite directions.”
“They do!” Dobo laughed. “And one of the ships took a blast straight in the cockpit. Somehow he managed to hit him with both turrets in the exactexact same time.” He thumped the control console twice to further emphasize the word ‘exact.’
Farrah blinked at Kyrren, who simply shrugged. “Someone had to fly it,” he said, dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand. “As long as we’re on our way now. I just wish I knew who sent them after us. Might give me a little more peace of mind.”
Frez punched a few buttons, pulling up the sensor records of the fighter’s IFF codes – the Identification Friend or Foe code used to determine whether or not a ship was hostile – and crooned something a moment later.
Dobo slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “That’s my problem, guys, sorry.”
Kyrren raised an eyebrow in question.
“Uh, jealous hyperdive dealers.”
“Remind me to stay out of your line of work,” Farrah muttered. “How much longer till we get to Coronet? I’d rather like to have solid ground under my feet again.”
* * *
Kyrren Mak and Farrah stood on the street outside one of Coronet’s starports, watching the ion drives of the Illicit Investment burn bright as it sped off into the atmosphere towards its next destination.
“So now what do we do?” Farrah asked, suddenly realizing their lodging status now that Dobo Chah and Frez had flown off to other parts of the galaxy.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.” He led her to a nearby hovercar for hire, giving directions to head deeper into Coronet’s heart. Farrah’s eyes were glued to the viewport, watching durasteel and ferrocrete structures larger than her eyes could see zip past. The architecture became more ornate and detailed, the materials used in the construction of the buildings moving from drab grey to a more beautiful ivory, catching and reflecting the rainbow of colored lights dancing as they passed. It was painfully obvious that he was taking them to the very, very high-class heart of the capital.
The hovercar pulled to a stop beside an particularly busy structure, the walls painted to look like ivory and edged in synthetic onyx. “What’s this?”
The hovercar rocked comically when Kyrren exited, the repulsorlifts straining to return the car to level.
“The Thousand Crystals. Galaxy-class resort hotel. The home away from home for ridiculously rich bureaucrats and politicians everywhere. And, to boot, the place of employment of some of the best flair chefs in twenty systems.”
Farrah’s eyebrows shot up as she exited to stand next to Kyrren, absentmindedly wrapping her arm around his back and tracing her fingers over the soft roll on his side. She was familiar with flair chefs, having watched a number of their videos on the HoloNet – standing directly in front of the customers, cooking with dozens of witnesses demanding razors-edge precision. If that weren’t nerve-jangling enough, they came demanding more than a meal of galactic delicacies, they came for a show. Flair chefs were famous for flipping ingredients, twirling knives sharp as vibroblades, cutting ingredients in midair, spinning utensils and tossing morsels into eagerly waiting mouths.
“And just what do flair chefs have to do with us right now?” she asked, eyebrow quirked.
He grinned at her. “Well, we have to have a source of income to acquire an apartment. I’m going to be one.”
Even after being with Kyrren for the short period of time that she had, very little should have surprised her at this point. Instead, she was surprised.
“What, you’re just going to walk into there and get hired as a flair chef? These people study and practice for years before even getting an audition!”
He started in, pulling an open-mouthed Farrah behind him. “Never underestimate a fat Jedi, Farrah. I thought you would have gotten that one by now!” he chuckled.
The interior of the hotel was far grander than the outside, filled with vaulted ceilings and exotic crystal inlays from all around the galaxy. Once inside, seeing the patrons, she felt suddenly self-conscious and horribly underdressed. Not a single item of clothing was worn that she could see that did not have some form of precious metal, stone, or crystal embedded in it, many of the outfits likely costing enough to pay her rent on Telos for close to a standard year.
Kyrren led the way deeper inside, seemingly unfazed by the ostentatious luxury surrounding them. Without so much as consulting a sign, he arrived a moment later at the entrance to the resort’s flair restaurant. There was a podium outside, and a Bith dressed in all-white stood greeting the arrivals.
“Welcome to The Dancing Daggers. How many will be in your party this evening?” the host inquired in perfect, unaccented Basic; an impressive task for a Bith.
“None. I’m here to see the owner about the chef’s position.”
The host blinked, obviously taken aback. “I am unaware of any auditions taking place today. Let me consult with the owner.”
He pushed a small button on the monitor, communicating not with words, but via keyboard for privacy. Kyrren stood patiently, waiting for a response and looking around the hotel. Farrah couldn’t help but feel they were somehow doing something illegal.
Several minutes later, an Ithorian – short for his race, but still taller than both Kyrren and Farrah – stepped outside the restaurant and up to the podium. “I understand you are here about the chef’s position?”
“That’s correct. I understand you’re in need of flair talent of an extremely demanding skill level.”
The Ithorian wobbled its long, curved head, their species’ form of a nod. “I had not planned for any auditions today..” he trailed off.
“I assure you I won’t need to take much of your time.” Farrah caught his choice of words, planting seeds of confidence and control into the owner’s mind. “And I am certain you will be impressed.”
A subtle, almost unnoticeable waggle of his fingers accompanied the tail end of his sentence. The owner pondered the offer briefly, then motioned for Kyrren and Farrah to follow him into the restaurant through a cleverly hidden employee door.
The employee passage, in stark contrast to the rest of the resort, was bare white. The lighting which seemed warm and comforting while waiting outside the restaurant turned harsh and bright, conveying feelings similar to that of being in a medical ward. Several doors into the hallway, the Ithorian stopped to open one, holding it for them to enter. Farrah couldn’t help but feel a small bubble of warmth within her when Kyrren stepped through before her, having to angle himself slightly to fit through the narrow door.
Inside the room, which appeared to have been specially laid out for training and auditioning, a long, rectangular griddle sat next to a preparation counter in a tight L-shape. Facing the grill and preparation station was a raised counter, with bar-style seating to allow customers to dine and watch close up in comfort.
“I must apologize that this will not be a true test of your skills, as the grill is not pre-heated and many ingredients are not stocked in the training room full time. I regret to say that this will, in actuality, be even more difficult as you will be extremely limited in what you have onhand.” Removing a datapad, he made a few pokes and held it out to Kyrren. “This is just a formality, but please hand-print the liability waiver, in case you injure yourself during the demonstration.”
Kyrren did so, and satisfied, the Ithorian sat on one of the chairs, facing the griddle. He gestured for Farrah to sit on the prep table side. Kyrren took a few moments to take inventory of what tools the station had, where the various ingredients and spices were kept, and where the mixing bowls and other goods were. And suddenly, without warning or preamble, he began.
A head of Corellian lettuce popped up, Kyrren’s head still out of view where he was bent over. A split second later, a long knife shot up from out of sight to embed itself perfectly in the stem of the lettuce, turning over slowly to come down into his hand as he righted himself. Placing a bowl on the prep table, he drew another knife from the block, holding it under the lettuce blade-up and spinning the handle of the knife, filling the bowl with long, narrow shreds of just the tips of the lettuce leaves, which were the leafiest and most flavorful parts on the variety he was shredding. Once he was done with the head, he plopped the now-flattened top of it upside-down on the prep table cutting board, the knife wedged in the stem standing straight up and gleaming. Seemingly from nowhere, Kyrren produced a flavorful root from the Onderon system and tossed it in the air, twirling the knife he had been shredding the lettuce with and sending it flying towards the root from behind his back. He had a casual, almost careless manner, with a bored expression on his face, providing the air that this was simply a warm-up.
The knife he spun behind his back arced towards the root, plunging its tip deep into the vegetable and turning to fall root-and-tip first towards the cutting board. As if to play up the tension, Kyrren waved his hand in front of his mouth in the human expression of a yawn, rotating his hand to catch the knife handle and begin dicing the root at the exact instant it would have otherwise impacted the board in a very bad display of knife care.
Farrah’s eyebrows shot up. She knew that Kyrren was a lot of things, but a practiced flair chef had not been one of them. He nodded to the Ithorian – a flair chef’s signal that he would be tossing a morsel towards them, upon receiving an approving response – and picked up one of the diced root pieces on the tip of his knife, turning away from the Ithorian to face the prep table, reaching around behind his back to flick the blade, the root piece landing neatly in the mouth of the Ithorian facing Kyrren.
Farrah blinked and forced her jaw to remain shut. Ithorians had two narrow, shallow mouths, one on each side of their long, flat head. Aiming a piece of root from behind the back without looking to a mouth located in an unusual place was definitely a demanding trick, and as she watched the owner’s eyes widen in surprise, she knew that he had been impressed as well.
Kyrren diced a few more vegetables in similar fashion, pouring each of them into the bowl with the lettuce, adding a dash of oil and vinegar to provide some liquid and flavor. Then he removed a box of rather large berries, labeled the knn’la berry – she couldn’t make out the stamp with the planet of origin on them – each of which was the size of a small egg. Taking a handful in one hand, and three small paring knives in the other, he began to juggle.
She watched as he expertly spun the knives and berries in a cluttered circle, at first simply moving around, but then noticed as the pattern of just the berries changed, and as the knives flashed through the air, each of the berries was sliced, one by one, cleanly in half and landed in the bowl.
Without touching anything in the bowl, he placed it in front of the owner with a flourish, flashing a quick grin at Farrah. She craned her neck to look at his handiwork, startled to notice that the berries had not just been sliced perfectly in half, but had also landed in as perfect a circle as could be made on lettuce.
The Ithorian picked up its fork, taking a big stabful of the contents of the bowl and munching contentedly on it, its head wobbling in a nod the whole while.
“Truly impressive knife work,” he said. “The salad is simple, yet elegant. The dressing doesn’t cling or overpower the other ingredients, and the plating of the berries was downright unbelievable.”
Kyrren waited, wiping his knives and cleaning down the cutting board, casually looking to confirm that he hadn’t gotten any knn’la berry juice on his robes.
“I regret to say that I don’t have a uniform or apron to fit your.. proportions on hand, however that could be ratified quickly. I must admit I am quite anxious to see your performance with the grill. If the skill sets of my staff are any comparison – all of them are not quite as flashy on the prep table than the grill – then your grill performance should be nothing short of amazing.”
Kyrren grinned. “It’s not polite to brag, but I will say I am confident in my skills.”
“Apparently so. The human yawn of boredom was a very humorous touch.” He pulled out a datapad, poked it a few times with one of the long fingers on his three-fingered hand, and slid it over to Kyrren. “This is our standard rate of pay for a flair chef. Of course, all compensation left from customers is yours. In addition, we offer access to our vast array of exotic ingredients, at wholesale cost.”
It was Kyrren’s turn for his eyebrows to raise. The pay offered was significant, the access to the ingredients an incredible luxury, and – truth be told – he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.
“When can I start?” he asked.
“Come down tomorrow, and I will arrange for our tailor to take some measurements and get you fitted for a uniform and apron. They will let us know when the uniform will be ready, and then you shall start.”
Kyrren reached out his hand, a human gesture of agreement, which the Ithorian clasped and shook. “It seems we are agreed. I shall see you in the morning, then.”
Farrah followed as they were ushered out, still wiring her jaw shut to prevent it from falling open, only blurting out once they had exited the resort and were waiting for a hovercar.
“You never told me you were a flair chef!”
He shrugged. “I never told you because I never was until today.”
She cocked her head to the side, realization dawning on her – of course the knife work was impeccable, since that was exactly how he wielded his lightsaber, through the Force! She narrowed her eyes and waggled a finger at him. “You.. you were in control of the whole show, then?”
Kyrren grinned and opened his mouth to say something, which she silenced with a swift kiss. “I know, I know. Never underestimate a fat Jedi.”
“Exactly,” he said, moving in to hug her close against his cushioned front. “Plus, this means I’ll have access to wholesale prices for butter nibs.”
Farrah’s eyebrows rose.
* * *
