A/N: In case it wasn't clear by now, I am a sucker for cross-faction friendships :). Set immediately following the ends of the Knight and Warrior class quest lines on Nar Shaddaa.
For Want of a Sandwich
Chapter 1
o.O.o
The Power Guard project has been shut down, Agent Galen's back with the SIS, Lord Sadic is extremely dead, and Darth Angral has yet another reason to be pissed at her. All in all, it's been a productive day.
Zaarah feels justified in taking a few hours to decompress. Meditation is fine, but sometimes, she's discovered, a walk through a city center is more effective. The sheer force of life boiling up from the depths of Nar Shaddaa—chaotic, desperate, blazing life—drowns out the memories of Galen's screams and the choking smell of burned meat and ozone hanging over the lab.
. . . Yeah, don't think about that. Zaarah lets the waves of other people's emotions wash it away. She holds herself steady in the maelstrom, surrounded by it but not swept away, and wanders the Promenade without any particular destination in mind.
She said she'd meet Kira in a few hours' time, but until then, she's at loose ends. Might as well see the sights. So far, she's chatted with a few vendors, picked up some trinkets she thinks Kira and T7 might like, and spent more time than she probably should have staring at the statue in Lucent Square. It was just . . . difficult not to stare at the fifty-foot-tall aurodium-plated Hutt. Which is probably the point of it being so big. And golden. And . . . big.
Zaarah spots a sign for the Slippery Slopes, a bar just off the Square. She can probably camp in there for a while and people-watch, hopefully without anyone bothering her. The Jedi robes tend to be kind of off-putting, which for once is a good thing. Angling towards the bar, she nearly runs into a courier droid on its delivery rounds, but jinks sideways at the last second, reflexively apologizing. It ignores her. Okay, then. No social reciprocity program, apparently.
She has to stop and brace herself a little in the doorway of the bar as the music, the crowd noise, and another wave of life all crash over her. Filtering out enough of it to function takes a minute—she's not usually this clumsy, hasn't been since she was just an initiate—but once she's got her balance back, she marches up to the bar, takes a seat, and orders a drink, more for appearance's sake than because she likes the taste.
She's only a few sips into it when a red-bearded man in Republic uniform drops onto a stool a couple of seats down from her. He stares blankly at the bartop for a minute or two, the Force twitchy and uneasy around him. Then he heaves a sigh and waves over the bartender droid. It glides closer, photoreceptors glowing cheerful yellow. "What'll it be, honey?" it says, relentlessly perky.
"Whatever's strongest. And keep 'em coming," the soldier mumbles.
"Okey dokey!" says the droid.
The soldier rubs at his temples, rests his elbows on the bar, and sighs again. Zaarah clears her throat. "Excuse me, but I can't help but notice you seem a little shaken," she says.
"Huh? Oh—Master Jedi. Sorry, sir. It's been a weird day, that's all."
"Weird, how? Everything okay?"
The officer shakes his head. "I don't know, sir. I really don't know. Me and my boys were down at Outpost Shylon, defending it from the Imps. It was going bad, the Imps had us cornered, when this Sith comes out of nowhere and just . . . smashes through them. The Imperials, I mean."
Zaarah frowns. "Why would a Sith kill fellow Imperials?"
"Some kind of power struggle, I guess. Anyway, this guy saves our hides, then asks for our help. I figure it's better to get things over with and learn what the hell he wants sooner rather than later, so I say yes . . . and two hours later I get a call to come in and help him take down another Sith and his goons."
"Is your squad all right?" asks Zaarah.
"Yeah. No casualties. Not a one. Whole lotta questions, though."
Strange. Zaarah hopes this isn't the prelude to something horrible, but since when has she ever been that lucky?
o.O.o
Rathari neutralized, Naughlan and his Republic commandos slightly flabbergasted but all alive and well, Baras none the wiser—Evren couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. He regrets Agent Dellocon's death; the man was a loyal operative, and he deserved better. But his end was swift, even merciful by Sith standards. Certainly by Baras's.
You're rationalizing, the little voice at the back of Evren's mind whispers. But what else could he have done with Quinn watching, his master's faithful eyes and ears? Try to save Dellocon from Rathari?
He tries to focus on the positives. Vette and Quinn are unharmed. He might have an ally on the other side, if circumstances should demand it. Baras is pleased enough to grant a few days' respite from their hunt for Nomen Karr's mysterious Padawan.
Also, this is a really excellent sandwich.
"No, look—the sharper, brighter notes of the mustard and pickled fruit add so much dimension to the classic meat and cheese combination, to say nothing of the fact that it's all toasted together," he explains, waving the sandwich in question for emphasis. "It's anything but a—how did you put it, Quinn? 'A clumsy, plebeian assemblage of conflicting flavors'?"
Quinn, though a fine officer, clearly does not appreciate the culinary genius of Korta's Cafe, because his only reaction is to nod and say, quite blandly, "Indeed, my lord."
Evren sighs. "Never mind." He takes another bite.
"Come on, Captain," Vette cajoles from the other side of their cramped table, "live a little! Enjoy the ambience! This here is a taste of Nar Shaddaa, and you're missing out."
"I confess, I find it difficult to trust anything that passed through the hands of a Hutt," Quinn says.
"Who, Korta? There's a reason she's stayed open for the past thirty years in one of the nastiest real estate markets on the planet," Vette says, "and that reason is the fact that she's damn good at what she does."
"You know the proprietor?" Evren says. If there's a chance he might be able to beg an audience, perhaps discover where she gets these pickles . . .
Vette sits back, takes a sip of her drink, and grins around the straw. "Sure do. The old gang used to hang around here between jobs. She kinda had a soft spot for us. Made sure we didn't starve."
"An altruistic Hutt," Quinn mutters. "How novel."
"A speciesist Imperial," Vette shoots back. "How cute."
Evren frowns, distracted. Something's . . . off. The Force is still and taut as a wire about to snap. He half-turns to glance over the rest of the cafe. It looks safe enough. Patrons at their tables, servers on their rounds, a courier droid just entering.
"It is a demonstrable fact that a disproportionate number of Hutts are involved in criminal activi—"
The front of Korta's Cafe explodes.
o.O.o
tbc