A/N: Bloodsoup is an actual Sithy thing and I can't stop laughing oh my god
Ritual Purposes
o.O.o
"So. Pirates."
"I can plant appropriate rumors around town—even, ah, persuade a few local personalities that they know of this fictitious pirate band," says Lana. "If there's one thing the denizens of Raider's Cove are willing to believe, it's that they all owe money to somebody."
"Sure, sure," Theron says agreeably. "I just think we could make the charade a little more fun, you know?"
". . . Fun," Lana echoes, dubious.
"Yeah," says Theron. "Don't just stop at big scary pirate gang—make 'em really scary. No survivors, because dead spacers can't spill secrets. A ghost fleet crewed by the damned and the disappeared. That kind of thing."
"Is this an adventure novel, or a covert operation?"
Theron pouts. "Come on, Lana. Live a little. Ooh! I know—cannibal pirates."
She tilts her head in consideration, then nods. "I like it. Can't hurt to maximize the intimidation factor, and he won't find the accusation too strange or offensive to accept without protest."
". . . Okay, on the one hand, I'm glad we're on the same page, here, but on the other hand we're really not. How are accusations of cannibalism anything but strange and offensive?"
"He's Sith, Theron," Lana says.
Theron can't help but think back to Manaan, the faint prickle of threat down his spine when Straik walked into the room. "Yeah, I noticed."
"No—I mean that he's Sith. Traditionalist Sith. Cannibalism is hardly taboo."
Theron blinks. "Wait, what?"
"Look up bloodsoup sometime," Lana says, wrapping a scarf around her face and head to hide her hair. "I'm going to begin spreading word of the Howling Tempest Gang's imminent arrival. Will you be all right back here?"
"Um," says Theron, still a bit stuck.
"Lovely," says Lana brightly.
o.O.o
"It's disgusting," Straik says, when asked, and Theron almost manages to get out a full sigh of relief before the Sith continues, "You might as well bite your tongue until it bleeds for all the difference it'd make to the flavor—it needs a higher soup to blood ratio, even if you keep the blood as a base. Has to be served fresh, though, or it gets sludgy, and that's no good to anyone."
Theron makes a strangled noise. "Whose—whose blood?" he manages.
Straik shrugs. "Depends. Rituals usually call for a mixture of the participants' blood, especially if it's a master-apprentice pair. More, ah, recreational dishes will use that of servants or slaves. I don't like asking for donations, so whenever it's come up I've used my . . . own . . ." He trails off awkwardly, gaze dropping, expression going closed-off and guarded. "Sorry," he says, quieter.
Theron is way, way too conscious of his heartbeat. He swallows. "Um. It's, uh, it's fine. Cultural thing. Yeah."
The next few seconds are tenser than a holocall with his mother. Straik takes a breath like he's about to say something, then shuts his mouth. He takes a step back—and then he's gone, mumbling something about checking in on Lana.
Theron rubs the back of his neck. Well. That was fun.
o.O.o
"Oro omelet?" Straik says.
Theron can't deny that it smells delicious. And they're all supposed to be on the same side, here, and Straik has as much reason as Lana or Theron himself to hate Revan and his little conspiracy so it's not like betrayal by breakfast is a huge risk or anything . . .
He's hesitated too long; Straik is shutting down again, posture closing, motions getting smaller, more cramped. Theron coughs. "Actually, uh, yeah, I'd love one. Thanks. Sorry, bad night, I'm not real with it this morning."
That warms things up a little. Straik flashes a smile over his shoulder and flips the current omelet expertly. "There's caf if you want it—Lana left at least a cup or two."
"Caf is magical," Theron says, with feeling, scraping himself over to the caf maker and grabbing a chipped mug off the sideboard. He pours until the caf threatens to spill over the edge, checks the temperature with the tip of his tongue, and then gulps half the mug's contents in one go. "That's more like it."
Straik slides the omelet onto a plate and sets it aside, laughing. It's a nice laugh, low and a little raspy. "All yours, Agent Shan."
"Not a caf guy?"
"Tea, usually."
Or blood? Theron thinks, and instantly feels terrible about it. He clears his throat. "So . . ."
"What do you want on yours?" Straik asks.
Theron shakes it off and drifts close enough to see the ingredients Straik's laid out next to the stove. He picks a few out and then backs away a couple steps. He's not sure which of them relaxes more once they've got a little distance.
The minutes it takes for Straik to finish Theron's omelet aren't nearly as awkward as they could be. They both have something to occupy them, at least—Straik's busy, obviously, and Theron can nurse his caf and kick his brain all the way awake instead of stewing over the mess he made of things yesterday.
Whoops, never mind, he's stewing anyway.
(Stew. Haha.)
But Straik's serving up the omelet, and it smells great, and when Theron thanks him his smile is crooked and bright.
Omelet tastes great, too, the perfect ratio of peppers to mushrooms, and gooey with exactly the right amount of cheese—which is apparently too much for most people, but Theron knows what he likes, damn it. "This is fantastic," he says with his mouth full.
"I live to serve," says Straik, half-bowing. He takes a bite of his own omelet, still smiling a little.
Theron tells himself that he is definitely not experiencing vaguely affectionate feelings for the actual cannibal Emperor's Wrath. Nope. Theron Shan is a professional and loyal Republic agent. He cannot be bought, even with delicious vegetarian omelets and light-up-the-world smiles.
. . . Shit.
o.O.o
end