Non-aquatic species would never understand the one true, absolute meaning of thirst. Failing to hit their daily water intake goal would only make them cranky and prone to headaches—the same mistake would easily render Ashkhen comatose. Forget fear or anger, dehydration led to the Dark Side.
Her mind floated in a semi-conscious haze. Ashkhen was vaguely aware that one life cycle had come to an end—hers, as Bantha heifer roaming the arid lands of Tatooine—and she was now nothing but a spirit, bound to guard her desiccated skeleton in the desert until deemed worthy of reincarnation. The blazing heat of twin suns beat down on her brittle white bones, long ago picked clean by scavenger animals.
Water!
She propped herself on her left elbow and opened one eye, half expecting a fistful of sand pouring out of her empty eye socket.
Her weathered, long-time travel companion, one of the very limited personal belongings that was allowed by the Jedi Order, flew into her outstretched hand. The stainless durasteel water bottle had been the butt of many jokes between Master Balian and herself.
Empty.
Ashkhen pushed herself up with a groan and took a few wobbly steps towards the kitchen faucet with all the grace of a newborn Bantha-calf. She sat the bottle aside and grabbed the handle, ready to turn it on full blast and dunk her head in the kitchen sink.
Rattling and gurgling sounds came from the wall—but no water.
Damn the utility bills to the ninth Sith hell!
Ashkhen, delirious with thirst, let go of the handle and sank to her knees, resting her forehead against the cabinet. Mr. Varshik's magic pills had knocked her out long enough to regain functional use of her right arm, but on the other hand—no pun intended—she also missed the deadline for the monthly payment.
Not good!
The sound of furniture being hurled against other furniture shook Ashkhen from her stupor. An obscenely expressive aria parlante for coloratura soprano commenced on the other side of the partition wall. The contra tenor joined in at once, swearing up a storm and increasing the total volume by a factor of ten. The strain that their duet put on Ashkhen's already frayed nerves did her in.
An ugly, smouldering fire radiated from her core. She made a feeble attempt, more habitual than heartfelt, to release it into the Force, but the unstoppable rush of blood to the head obliterated any and all traces of self restraint. She flew out the door, bottle in hand, and banged it against the neighbouring apartment's front door with such force that it made a tiny dent in both surfaces.
The fighting stopped at once. The Weequay male opened the door, growled something, then switched to a heavily accented Basic.
"What do you want?"
His partner stood next to him, looking Ashkhen up and down. She was already wound up enough to be ready for another fight.
"I want you"—Ashkhen unclenched her jaws—"to stop fighting ALL THE KRIFFING TIME!"
Distraught and furious, her control slipped. Ashkhen inadvertently infused her words with a burst of Force Persuasion—two pairs of eyes immediately glazed over.
"…stop fighting," the couple said in unison.
Oops.
Ashkhen scratched her head. The Weequays were a lot more susceptible than anticipated.
Now that were here, might as well…
She made a subtle wave with her hand and said, "You will treat each other with respect, set clear boundaries and work on your communication." Then, turning to the woman, "Top this off for me, please."
She took the bottle and went inside. The guy stood still in the door, looking dazed. He and Ashkhen listened to the splish-splash noise his girlfriend made with utmost indifference and excitement, respectively.
Ashkhen drank and drank and drank. The feeling of each and every cell in her body expanding brought her to a higher level of spiritual consciousness. The water washed over the embers of her anger, and she found balance once more. Another idea popped into her head, followed by the phantasm of Master Balian burying his face in one hand. She shooed away the latter.
"I want to take a shower."
The Weekquays stood aside, gesticulating towards the door to the right. Ashkhen took her first steps into their apartment, and doubtless, towards the Dark Side too.
Twenty-nine minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom serene and revivified. The couple sat in silence at the dining table, eyes locked, fingers entwined. In the meanwhile, they switched from standard Sriluurian to the much more intimate way of communicating through the effusion of pheromones. Ashkhen was unfamiliar with the Weequay scent-speech, but the dense, musky tang of it almost made her gag.
"You might want to, uh… let some air in."
They took no notice of her presence, just kept gazing into each other's eyes. Ashkhen turned to leave.
"You guys stay cool," she said as she slipped out the door.
••• ••• •••
Ashkhen sat on a bench in one of her frequented parks on Level 3834, eyes closed, head hung in defeat. Whatever the kriff had possessed her to hit up a private bodyguard agency!
Under Master Balian's tutelage, Ashkhen had undertaken many a diplomatic mission during which the pair of them had both ambassadorial and security responsibilities. Ashkhen was no stranger to navigating situations that had the potential to go wrong at the drop of a hat—a well paying security job position popped up on her feed, and she went to apply without a second thought.
She never expected the kind of attention she drew when she walked in through the front door. Ashkhen passed the prospects in the waiting area, trying to ignore how they—all of them three heads taller and at least twice her weight—glared at her in disbelief. Her confidence soon ran out. The muscle-bound Gamorrean receptionist raised her gaze from touching up her trotter-polish and asked "Yeees?" with such incredulous amusement that Ashkhen peeped a timid "Never mind!" and turned back towards the entrance without breaking stride.
She didn't fault the other applicants for exchanging confused looks—even with the traditional Jedi apparel in days of yore, she looked about as fierce as a nest of porgs.
Ashkhen leaned back with a sigh and let her arms drop to her sides. Back to square one. Again.
Her mind wandered back to the time she had been offered to join an AgriCorps mission in the Outer Rim. In the last few months, such episodes of getting stuck in a loop and brooding over whether she had made the right decision came on more and more often. She missed blindly following instructions from time to time, even if she had never been much of an expert at it.
Ashkhen wondered when had her comlink found its way into her hand.
'I know I said "call me if you ever need help", but that doesn't mean you couldn't call whenever,' she imagined Master Balian would say. 'I was starting to get worried.'
'I know, I've been meaning to…' she would reply. 'It's just…'
Master Balian would wait patiently as he always did.
'Okay, I admit, this is harder than I thought,' she would blurt out eventually. 'A lot harder. I don't know, I guess I've never really been on my own like this and… sometimes I think, in some ways, being a Jedi had been simpler. Not easier, just… simpler.'
Master Balian would take the opportunity to point out the consequences of her impulsiveness in decision making. In his humorous way, of course. Ashkhen smiled at that.
'Anyways, I just wanted to let you know…' She would hesitate a little, then speak her mind as she always did, 'I'm getting by. I really miss you, though.'
'The Force will be with you, Ashkhen. Always,' he would say.
Ashkhen pocketed her comm with a sigh, then slowly stood to head back home. Master Balian had a new Padawan learner to look after now, surely he didn't have the capacity to be bothered with his shelved projects. She deliberately mistook that little thorn of jealousy pricking her side for hunger pangs.
Present itself, a solution always will.
One of Master Yoda's catchphrases invaded Ashkhen's mind as she crossed the skylane. She walked past a small, cozy restaurant by the other end of the overpass—she had missed it coming from the other direction, as it was dwarfed by an enormous office building.
Her stomach grumbled. The issue commanded immediate attention—Ashkhen quickened her pace and walked with determination towards the next goal. Making any major life decisions on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster, anyways. As she got close enough to set off the infrared sensors, another feature caught her attention on the transparisteel double doors.
Huh. Would you look at that.
She quirked an eyebrow at the sign taped to the door panel. The same words were printed in seven different languages:
HELP WANTED.
••• ••• •••
This early in the afternoon, the diner was still running at almost full capacity. Ashkhen headed for the only vacant stool at the lunch counter and took a seat. The holo-menu popped up immediately, revealing the diner's general culinary atmosphere and underwhelming speciality dishes: grease in several different flavours. She scrolled to the daily menu: Glottlefish 'n' chips.
Blech. Deep frying fish is an affront to marinity.
Ashkhen fondly reminisced about the diplomatic missions she had attended accompanying Master Balian. Successful ones—the overwhelming majority, due to Master Balian's expertise—always ended with ceremonial banquets of grandiose proportions. These were, by far, her favourite parts of being an ambassador-in-training. Ashkhen had never voiced her complaints about the food in the refectory, but what was deemed nutritionally balanced for growing bodies, was also lamentably bland for Nautolan palates.
She would have never admitted to it, but sometimes she fantasized about water worlds having a little more conflict brewing. Like Dac, for instance—authentic Mon Calamari food was ah-mazing. Glottlefish, lampfish, seasquid… They even had nexufish prepared at the wedding! Those were the days.
Two years before the unfortunate Trials, the Mon Calamari Representative Council had requested Jedi assistance in a highly controversial matter—a wedding between a member of the Mon Calamari royal family and a Quarren noble. Master Balian and Ashkhen had spent a little over a week in Coral Depths City to ensure that the tension between the Mon Cala and the Quarren was kept under control leading up to, and during the ceremony. Ashkhen got grounded for the first time ever during the mission, and came dangerously close to missing the wedding. That particular assignment went down in history as one of the very few occasions Ashkhen managed to send Master Balian into conniptions, which, considering Master Balian's general disposition, was a feat in and of itself.
A string of bittersweet memories cascaded forward; Ashkhen recalled the time she had spent exploring the underwater city, the meetings with the family representatives, and having lengthy discussions with Master Balian about marriages of state versus love marriages, neither of which was in any Jedi's wheel of concerns.
Ashkhen soon found a new friend in the Bride. She even got an invitation to Her Ladyship's bachelorette party two days before the wedding—Master Balian flat out refused the idea. However, the Mother of the Bride, the Countess herself insisted, saying that having a Jedi in her daughter's rambunctious company would put her mind at ease. With many a misgiving, Master Balian let Ashkhen join the party, but made her swear she would strictly do so in the capacity of a bodyguard to the young Lady. The Mon Cal girls really went to town on the entertainment and, taking her duty very seriously, Ashkhen followed suit.
Much, much later than expected, the moderately inebriated Padawan arrived back at their lodgings. Ashkhen tried her damnedest to concentrate on shielding her presence in the Force, determined to creep back into her room without waking her Master.
That was the theory. Practice went way off-kilter.
She swam through the entrance and fumbled with the control panel in the dark. Her excellent low light vision wasn't the issue—it was the poking about with uncoordinated, trembling fingers that caused the sluice door to partly reopen and promptly get jammed. Water gushed in through the gap, flooding their airtight apartment at an alarming rate—waking Master Balian was the least of her concerns now, for she had no contingency plans prepared for drowning him by accident. Smashing all the buttons on the door controls in a frenzy wasn't helping much. In a last desperate attempt, Ashkhen drew on the Force, raised her hands and wrestled the outer hatch shut. The door panel made a screech so loud that it could have woken the Progenitor from its three thousand year slumber on Manaan. So much for trying to sneak past a sleeping Jedi.
One drenched and extremely irate Jedi Master materialized in the living room. His sizzling presence in the Force, reminiscent of the dangerous Mon Cala eels, filled the remaining air in an instant. Ashkhen blinked at the entrance door—slightly bent out of shape, water still seeping through by the hinges—and realized that her only escape route had just been sealed shut. She frantically tried to think up any plausible explanation for the very late, or rather, early hour and the property damage, but drew a blank as soon as she turned around to face her Master.
They both stood waist-deep in icy seawater, staring at each other—the Devaronian Jedi drawing himself up to his full height, arms folded across his chest; his Padawan gently swaying on her feet, headtails covered in glitter and wearing an outlandish silver sequin crop top with He fell for it — hook, line and sinker! written across the front.
Master Balian was not amused.
"Where is your lightsaber, Ashkhen?" His yellow eyes flashed as he cocked an eyebrow at the mighty inappropriate cylindrical pink plastoid bachelorette party prop hanging at Ashkhen's belt.
Ashkhen looked down, registered the egregious negligence, and for the first time in her life, knew what drowning must have felt like. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. She closed it quickly and swallowed hard so nothing else would either.
"That weapon is your life," he continued in a low voice, "Tell me you did not lose it."
Ashkhen, furiously blinking, made another attempt to engage her Master in a conversation, failed again, and started hyperventilating instead. Master Balian, clamping down on his own rising temper, took a calming breath or four.
"In that case, we shall retrace your steps through last night's revelry and look for it together. You have exactly three minutes to make yourself presentable. We're leaving as soon as I've drained our suite. Don't even think about it," he added, seeing Ashkhen's tired gaze linger towards the smaller bedchamber.
"Oh, we found it under a table, Master Jedi," the young Mon Cal bartender said as he rummaged through a box under the counter. "Girls' night out, right? Ha-ha! There you go," he pulled out Ashkhen's lightsaber wrapped in a plastic bag and handed it over to Master Balian with a puckish smile. The kid would have seemed an amiable fellow, were it not for the fact that he wore nothing else but a bow tie and white shirt cuffs matching his white swim briefs. "So it's a lightsaber? Whew, glad no one tried pushing any buttons on it to see what it can do, ha-ha!"
Master and Padawan swam back to their quarters in utter silence. Master Balian peeled off his scuba suit without a word, Ashkhen put on her Jedi tunics, also completely subdued. Since the carpet and most of the furniture was still sopping wet, Master Balian forwent kneeling in the familiar meditation pose and simply stood in the middle of the room, holding Ashkhen's lightsaber in his hand. Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, Ashkhen stood in front of him, looking everywhere but at her Master. The thick layer of glitter on her headtails somewhat dampened the intensity of the mood that radiated off her Master, which only made the scenario all the more bodeful.
"Padawan."
"…Master?"
Master Balian prompted his young protégé through their training bond, but she kept her head down, to all appearances engrossed by her own webbed feet.
"I'm listening."
Ashkhen swallowed. "I'm sorry I woke you, Master." She risked an upward glance. Wrong answer. Master Balian was livid. Ashkhen always felt very uncomfortable when he looked so Devaronian.
"Ashkhen."
She winced at her Master's uncanny aptitude for infusing those two syllables with the meaning of a thousand unsaid ones. She quailed under his gaze and promptly returned to counting her toes.
"Yes, Master?"
"We're Jedi."
"I know, Master."
"We're on a diplomatic mission."
"We are, Master."
"We're not here to party."
"No, Master."
"You're underage."
"Technically, if you convert my age in Glee Anselm years into Mon Ca—"
A muscle lept along Master Balian's jaw. Wrong answer. Again.
"And counting in Wookie, you'd be still plenty young to be flung over the knee."
Ashkhen scoffed at the image, but seeing just how different a riled Master Balian was from the habitually jocular one, alarm crept into her voice. "I'm pretty sure the Code forbids—"
"Many things," he said. "Some of which are, as of recent, in your repertoire."
"Look, Master, Her Ladyship insisted… I didn't…" she trailed off. She deemed her own conduct—or what she rememered of it—a little un-Jedilike, but still mild enough to be lumped in the harmless fun category.
"I thought you were better than that." Master Balian seldom sounded so cold and flat.
So not fair!
Ashkhen's head snapped up, her shoulders tensed in objection. Defiance flared through their training bond. "Does the Code explicitly forbid having fun?"
"This isn't about fun, Ashkhen, it's about you and your duty as a Jedi!"
"Which I fulfilled to the best of my abilities, Master! I sensed no danger near or far, still looked out for everyone the whole time, even escorted Her Ladyship all the way home! Should I have stopped them from having fun? Does my duty as a Jedi entail being a buzzkill?"
Master Balian's face darkened. "Everyone's entitled to disgrace themselves in whatever way they want and label it as having fun, but we're Jedi. We have a Code."
"And you're mad because letting my headtails down once tarnishes the Order's collective reputation beyond repair?" With a colossal effort, Ashkhen stopped herself from slipping back into the old habit of crossing her arms and jutting her chin.
"No, Ashkhen. I'm disappointed because you made a promise and didn't keep your word."
Hard to argue with something so blunt and so true.
"Master, I—"
"You swore to keep Her Ladyship safe, yet you allowed yourself to be swept up in the merriment, got drunk and misplaced your lightsaber halfway through the night."
"But—"
"What if something happened? Something too much to handle for a sottish and unarmed Padawan?"
Ashkhen opened her mouth, but Master Balian was far from done.
"Thank the Force your Master had his wits about himself, and he tailed and apprehended the Groom's inimical uncle before he could have crashed the Bride's party," he said, face set in harsh lines. "Couldn't sense any danger? Your judgement was clouded. Alcohol tends to do that to people."
Ashkhen stared at her Master mouth agape, colour draining from her cheeks.
"Anything else you would like to contribute?"
She hung her head. The ugly weight of shame bore down on her far heavier than the tremendous water pressure outside had.
"In that case, in you go," Master Balian said, pointing at Ashkhen's room. "I suggest you start meditating on what it entails to be an underage Jedi Padawan on a diplomatic mission. You may come out when we're ready to leave the system. We'll discuss the rest en route to Coruscant."
Ashkhen's head shot up again, eyes going wide with alarm this time. "But Master… the wedding's tomorrow!"
"I am aware," he said, still pointing at the door.
"Master!"
"Padawan."
When two syllables weren't enough to keep his pupil in line, Master Balian resorted to his incredible knack for invoking the apocalypse in three. The Jedi Master clipped Ashkhen's lightsaber onto his belt, next to his own—the implications of that symbolic act brought his apprentice to heel. Loyalty, respect and most important of all, obedience. Ashkhen bowed her head again, this time in apology, and beat a hasty retreat to her room.
"And scrub that ridiculous glitter off, you look like a court jester."
In the end, the Force had sided with Ashkhen. After a little over thirty-three hours of house arrest—or meditation retreat, in Master Balian's opinion—she found herself sitting at the head table, digging into the lavish dinner with much enthusiasm. Her Ladyship the Bride was adamant about having the Jedi as guests of honour at the ceremony, especially her new best friend—or accomplice, in Master Balian's opinion—essentially coercing the older Jedi into suspending the lockdown.
Midway through the first course, her and Master Balian's eyes met. The setting pricked her conscience so much that she avoided looking at her Master for the rest of the dinner. Being the sole non-aquatic attendee of the ceremony, sadly, his full face scuba mask prevented him from partaking of the underwater feast.
All in all, the mission had been an absolute success, yet when the time came to submit the Council report, Ashkhen started fretting about what level of detail would Master Balian deem necessary. After numerous lengthy discussions on their way back to Coruscant about the differences between adolescents and adolescents who also happen to be Jedi, Master Balian went for concise and logged, Padawan Dakiis observed local traditions with characteristic aplomb.
••• ••• •••
A subtle trace of something floral and fruity brought her reminiscing to an end, a scent surprisingly out of place in the restaurant smelling of saturated fatty acids and impending heart attacks.
The source of the perfume, a comely Twi'lek waitress stood on the other side of the counter, sporting a server's smile expertly tailored to Ashkhen's perceived tipping capabilities. The white uniform with bright aqua blue collar and cuffs set off her vibrant hollyhock-shade skin to its best advantage. With a sudden pang of envy, Ashkhen added 'playing around with colours' to the list of things she never got the chance to try.
Oh, well. Sad beige really brings out the Jedi in one's eyes.
"Hi, I'm Tilla. How can I help you?" the waitress asked, throwing one pink lekku over her shoulder. Ashkhen put on her most expressive smile, only deciding against doing the finger guns at the last minute.
"Hi, I'm Ashkhen. How can I help you?"
The Twi'lek's confused frown swiftly turned into an expression overflowing with warmth and reassuring kindness. Unconditional acceptance rolled off her in torrential waves, practically turning her into the patron saint of people exhibiting echolalia.
"Oh, sweetie, it's okay, it's just a turn of phrase. Are you hungry?" She pointed to her stomach and rubbed it with a theatrical gesture. "Do you want food?"
To salvage the situation, Ashkhen dialled back on the aggressive smiling and jerked her thumb towards the entrance.
"No, I meant the sign on the door. Are you hiring?"
"Oh, that!" she slapped her forehead and laughed. "I'm sorry, of course! But you see, you'll have to ask the manager about, uh… job accommodations."
Ashkhen pinched the bridge of her nose. Good job starting off and promptly tripping over the wrong foot.
"Listen, I know I look a little special but I swear this"—she raised her cybernetic left hand—"is my only incapacity."
That's if you don't count my early-onset Dejedification Syndrome.
Tilla's features arranged into a look of pure mortification. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean— It's just that I've never seen a white… you know…"
Ashkhen glared at her with feigned indignance. "Polar Nautolans are a legit subspecies, whether we're recognized or not."
The Twi'lek's eyebrows shot up in surprise, her mouth formed a perfect 'o'. Ashkhen mentally kicked herself for slipping back into the old habit of taking it out on innocent people again.
"Anyways, I happen to be between jobs. Do you think I could see the manager about the opening?"
"Sure, she comes in the early afternoon," Tilla said. "Have you ever worked in the service industry?"
Jedi come to serve, Ashkhen heard the familiar phrase in Master Balian's voice.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," she said, slowly twirling a straw between her thumb and forefinger. "But I've left that life behind. I'd rather not talk about it."
Tilla's fuchsia eyes burned with a depth of compassion that would have looked excessive on a Jedi. She reached across the counter and grabbed Ashkhen's hands.
"Listen to me, no one should be ashamed of what happened to them in their past, okay?" Her voice quavered a little, as though she had been on the verge of tearing up. "I'm glad you could walk away from that life of exploitation. Trust me, Drosili won't turn away anyone who's coming from such a dark place."
"Wh… what?"
Ashkhen's features arranged into a look of pure confusion. Then it clicked.
Oh, kriffing phrasing!
How much of a difference three thousand levels made in the average life experience on Coruscant! She made a mental note to be more mindful about mentioning her Jedi past in the future.
"Stars, no! I meant—"
Tilla leaned over the counter, coming so close, that Ashkhen expected the Twi'lek was going for a hug. Tilla just gave her an encouraging smile. "I don't judge people. You know, most of my friends work in entertainment."
A bell rang behind the counter. Tilla pointed Ashkhen to an empty booth. "Have a seat, Drosili should turn up within the hour. I'll bring you some caf in the meantime. On the house." She rushed towards the kitchen.
"Thanks. Hey, can I also get a—" Tilla, however, was already out of earshot. Ashkhen plopped down on the booth seat and stared out the window, one hand on her stomach. Her only hope was that the Twi'lek would soon come back from the kitchen to check out the source of the loud rumbling.
She did appear a few minutes later, with a mug of caf and a creamer full of blue milk on her tray. Ashkhen, the living embodiment of diplomatic grace, refrained from imparting an unsolicited xenology lesson upon the waitress—few things existed that amphibians found more revolting than the concept of consuming milk. Tilla tucked the empty tray under one arm and pulled out a datapad from the chest pocket of her apron.
"Ready?"
Ashkhen looked askance at the menu. "Anything you'd recommend?"
"Well, do you like meat or ve—?"
"Seafood!" Ashkhen said, a little too eager, little too loud. "I mean, once I had privilege to be a picky pescatarian, but circumstances changed and now I'm happy with anything that's less than three days old."
"You can never go wrong with the club sandwich. You know what? I'll tell the cook to swap the thrantcill for smoked, uh… I think we have sprats. We'll call it"—he scrunched her forehead—"Island club sandwich!"
"Sounds catchy." Ashkhen nodded with a straight face. The bell rang again, Tilla spun around and strode back towards the kitchen with a spring in her steps.
As the Twi'lek passed the next booth, a murmur in the Force thrummed through the restaurant. Ashkhen shifted sideways, using the reflective coating on the customer side of the lunch counter to keep an eye on things going on behind her back.
A few minutes later, Tilla emerged from the kitchen yet again, this time balancing a tray full of plates in her hand. The swing doors swung to—the Force rang out—and fro—Ashkhen sprang out from her seat the next moment.
As Tilla passed the neighbouring booth on her way back, one of the three Aqualish customers reached out and grabbed her hand. Tilla lost her footing and the tray wobbled perilously. Ashkhen steadied it with the Force and closed the distance three steps.
"Let her go."
"None o' yer business, Chtulhu, kriff off."
The Aqualish held Tilla's arm with unnecessary force. Ashkhen's stance shifted.
"My lunch is being held up because of you. It's very much my business."
"I ain't letting go until I get her comm number. I don't ask for things twice."
His facial tusks trembled, a rough approximate to a snarl, as far as Aqualish physiognomy went. Ashkhen's eyes narrowed.
Evaluate. Immediate intervention necessary. Always assume concealed firearms. Three against one, close quarters, too many civilians. One lightsaber, one backup Jedi Master and twenty-five kilograms of muscle mass short. Odds aren't looking good.
De-escalate. Stay calm. Maintain eye contact. Appear non-threatening. Okay, that's hardly going to be a challenge. Talk them down from an agitated state. Speak in a low and steady tone. Show empathy.
Or… Yeah, orchestrating peace negotiations do seem a bit of an overkill. Wrap shit up and let's have lunch.
"I said, let go." Ashkhen, head tilted to the side, placed a hand on the chest puffer's shoulder.
His features softened into a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. He glanced down at his own hand, still clutching the waitress's wrist, and quickly let go. He seemed completely lost.
"Maybe you should apologize for acting in such a lowbred manner, don't you think?" Ashkhen continued, still keeping her hand on his shoulder.
"I'm really sorry I was rude." The Aqualish formed the words slowly, as if he was talking in a language he just recently started to learn.
"No harm, no foul." Ashkhen thumped him on the shoulder. "If only everyone owned up to their mistakes, the Galaxy would be a much better place."
Tilla set down Ashkhen's dish with a cautious frown, then backed off towards the kitchen looking back and forth between the neighbouring booths.
Ashkhen took her seat and eyed her oily fish sandwich. Overcome by mixed feelings, she took a bite. To her surprise, it didn't rank among the five worst meals she had ever had.
••• ••• •••
"Hey, thanks for earlier! Guess what!" Tilla said, passing Ashkhen's booth again. She hefted the tray full of dishes her hand. "That lout just left like, the biggest tip ever when he picked up their tab."
"No way!" Ashken quickly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin to cover her expression.
Tilla took a plate of still steaming of muja pie from her tray and placed it in front of Ashkhen. Small rivulets of tangy sauce wound their way down the side of the dessert and pooled under a handful of assorted berries strewn around, making the plate appear like a mid-battle diorama of a Delta 7B Interceptor surrounded by buzz droids.
"Compliments from our guy."
"Aww, he really shouldn't have," she said, a wicked grin pulling the corners of her mouth apart.
••• ••• •••
The restaurant slowly settled into the early afternoon lull. Ashkhen, by contrast, was getting more and more jittery, thanks to all the free caf refills.
"Help me finish the pot?" Tilla asked for the sixth time when she passed her booth.
"Yeah, no, it's okay, thanks," she said. "Say, when do you think your boss is coming? She's coming, right? Today? Soon?"
"She'll be here any minute now," Tilla said for the sixth time.
"Okay, cool, thanks," Ashkhen said. She laced her fingers and pressed her hands between her knees to stop their trembling, then fixed her gaze at the entrance, to keep her eyes from twitching.
Soon enough, a short and rotund, middle aged Phindian woman waddled through the door. She drew her brows together and turned around, scrutinizing every inch of the restaurant as if she owned the place.
As it turned out, she did.
Tilla bounced over to greet her boss, explained something to her with wide gestures, then pointed the older women towards Ashkhen's booth. She nodded, then came towards Ashkhen, swinging her gangly arms as she walked.
Non-hostile incoming. Act normal. Look reliable. And for the love of the Force, don't screw this up.
Drosili came to a halt next to the table and put her hands on her wide hips. "Fresh meat?"
"Uh, I mean…" Ashkhen desperately willed her left leg to stop its furious bouncing. "I'm cold-blooded, so that's up to your specific religious definitions."
Drosili crossed long her arms, looking Ashkhen up an down as though she was gauging how much fish stock she would yield. She nodded at Ashkhen's headtails.
"Can those be shed?"
"That's a layered question." Ashkhen blinked in surprise. "Losing them is painful, and comes with a social cost. They eventually grow back, but even in emergency, lopping them off would be my last resort."
"Perfect. The one customer complaint I can't bear is when they find hair, bristles, feathers or scales in their food."
"I've none of the above," Ashkhen assured her.
Drosili's globular eyes wandered to Ashkhen's left arm.
"That a household accident?"
"No, ma'am. Just a run-in with marine life."
"Ah, so you're not a klutz, you're someone's leftovers!" She laughed. "Good to know you taste bad. I won't put you into my faux fin soup if you mess up any orders, then." Her steady yellow gaze bore into Ashkhen's. She seemed dead serious. "Not quite! I'm joking. We don't cook interns as punishment, can't afford getting sued over food allergens."
By now, Ashkhen was seriously doubting she had been following the will of either the Unifying or the Living Force—there must have been a Capricious Force, too, one that the ancient Jedi texts forgot to mention.
"Afternoon shift's yours. Come in tomorrow at twelve hundred, you'll see how everything runs," she stood up and thrust her long arm forward for a handshake. "Welcome to the team. Now, if only finding a delivery driver would be this easy!"