Things were going well on the Irken side of my life.
The Jedi side?
Less so.
Anakin and I were still paired together constantly.
Forms. Force exercises. Classes. Sparring.
Occasional delinquency.
Our ongoing competition to see who could sneak around the Temple without getting caught.
We were good friends.
We were also extremely competitive.
Anakin kept getting better.
Faster.
Stronger with the Force.
And, worst of all—
Taller.
Bastard.
I wasn't exactly upset about the competition.
A little jealousy was useful.
Every time Anakin pulled ahead, it made me want to train harder.
Every time he learned something faster than me, I wanted to catch up.
That part was healthy enough.
The problem was everything else happening inside my head.
The disgust hadn't gone away.
If anything, it was getting worse.
Sometimes I'd see another species and immediately feel this unpleasant little reaction before I'd even consciously thought about them.
Aqualish bothered me.
Bith bothered me.
A few others were worse.
Occasionally I'd catch myself staring at someone for too long while my Irken instincts quietly decided everything about their face was wrong.
Some of the Masters noticed.
Of course they did.
They'd glance back at me.
I'd look somewhere else.
Problem solved.
Probably.
Zeephy Rho and Tala Vress weren't helping.
Our rivalry had moved beyond simple sparring.
They'd collected a little group of Padawans and younglings around themselves who seemed perfectly happy helping make our lives more difficult.
Nothing serious enough to report.
That was the irritating part.
Our location would get "accidentally" reported incorrectly.
Training remotes seemed to mysteriously hit harder whenever Anakin or I used them.
Sparring droids would somehow end up on settings noticeably higher than the instructor remembered assigning.
Anakin loved it.
More difficulty meant more fun to him.
I tolerated it.
Mostly.
Some days I imagined killing them.
Not immediately.
Not there in the Temple.
That would've been stupid.
But whenever my Irken side got particularly loud, I'd find myself thinking about some future battlefield.
Somewhere nobody would question it.
Somewhere like Geonosis.
The thought should've bothered me more than it did.
~~~
One afternoon they cornered us.
Tala.
Zeephy.
Several of their little followers.
They positioned themselves around us like they were expecting a confrontation.
Anakin noticed too.
He almost looked excited.
Tala crossed her arms.
"Some of us actually care about the Code."
I was already annoyed.
The longer she talked, the more annoying her voice seemed to become.
Zeephy looked directly at Anakin.
"And some of us don't spend their free time sneaking into the Lower Levels for contraband."
Anakin smiled.
"Some of us win."
Oh no.
His fist tightened.
The idiot actually looked ready to fight them.
I sighed.
Fine.
Apparently I had to be the responsible one.
"Some of us have cameras."
Everyone looked toward me.
My PAK gave a cheerful little beep.
Several faces changed immediately.
That was the wonderful thing about blackmail.
You rarely had to actually use it.
The group slowly dispersed.
They tried making it look dignified.
It wasn't.
Anakin looked disappointed.
"You ruined it."
"I prevented another meeting with the Council."
"I would've won."
"I know."
That wasn't the problem.
I watched the others leave.
A part of me wanted to follow them.
Hit them anyway.
See them bleed.
That thought came too easily.
Especially when I started thinking about their species.
I pushed it down.
The Council already seemed one bad incident away from deciding I needed to be somewhere very far from Coruscant.
I didn't need to give them a reason.
~~~
Unfortunately, behaving inside the Temple didn't mean I behaved outside it.
Anakin and I still visited the Lower Levels.
That particular night, he wanted ship parts.
I wanted to sell cookies.
The fatigue-reducing effect made them surprisingly valuable down there.
Workers loved them.
Mechanics loved them.
People gambling through the night especially loved them.
So I carried a box.
Anakin carried credits.
We agreed to make the trip quick.
In.
Shop.
Sell.
Leave.
Simple.
We made it as far as a chop-shop district before things went wrong.
There were six of them.
Local gang.
Cheap weapons.
Mismatched armor.
The sort of people who watched everyone entering their street and decided who looked vulnerable enough to rob.
We felt their attention before they moved.
The Force made intentions difficult to hide when someone was actively preparing to hurt you.
I looked toward Anakin.
"Walk?"
His eyes shifted toward an alley exit.
"Run?"
Before either of us picked—
A blue stun bolt crossed the alley.
Anakin shoved me sideways.
He jumped the opposite direction.
The bolt passed between us.
Alright.
Negotiations over.
My Irken pistol appeared in my hand.
I fired.
Pink plasma crossed the alley.
At the same time, I tossed Anakin one of the Naboo pistols I'd kept.
He caught it.
The attacker clearly hadn't expected either of us to be armed.
Definitely hadn't expected us to be good with them.
Anakin fired stun rounds.
I didn't.
My first shot hit center mass.
The alien dropped.
No dramatic pause.
No struggling.
The plasma bolt burned through his chest and left the surrounding armor glowing from the heat.
Dead.
Immediately.
For a second, I stared.
Then footsteps came from farther down the alley.
More of them.
Five.
They spread out.
Raised weapons.
The Force became painfully clear.
Movement before movement.
Intent before action.
My body knew where to go.
A strange calm settled over me.
The first one raised his rifle.
I fired.
Chest.
Down.
Another moved behind cover.
I shifted before his shot came.
His bolt passed where I'd been.
Mine didn't miss.
"Dabo!"
Anakin shouted my name.
I heard him.
Didn't stop.
Another gang member pointed a weapon.
I flicked my hand.
The Force snapped his wrist sideways.
The rifle dropped.
My next shot hit him before it reached the ground.
A fourth ran.
Actually turned his back and ran.
My antennae twitched.
I raised the pistol.
Fired.
He collapsed forward.
The last two barely managed to fight.
They were armed criminals.
We were Jedi-trained.
And I wasn't fighting like a normal Padawan anymore.
Whatever Irken military instinct had been buried inside me was completely awake.
Then there was nobody left.
Six bodies.
The alley went quiet.
My pistol remained raised.
My hand started shaking.
That was strange.
Because emotionally...
I felt almost nothing.
Anakin stood a few meters away.
His pistol had lowered.
His breathing was quick.
He stared at the dead.
He'd fought before.
He'd hurt people before.
But I didn't think he'd ever personally watched someone he knew kill six people in seconds.
Not like that.
"We should go," I said.
My voice sounded flat even to me.
Anakin kept staring for another second.
Then nodded.
"Yeah."
We left.
Fast.
Before security arrived.
Before anyone identified us.
I didn't say much on the way back.
Neither did Anakin.
The part that bothered me most came several minutes later.
I realized I was thinking about the box of cookies I'd dropped.
Not the six people.
The cookies.
Disappointing...
~~~
Three days later, I learned the Masters were talking about me.
I wasn't supposed to know.
Force Sight had become useful for things beyond seeing walls.
Sometimes, if I focused carefully enough, I could observe places I wasn't physically standing in.
That was how I found them.
Shaak Ti.
Mace Windu.
Several others.
I couldn't hear everything clearly.
Enough.
"His reactions are unusual."
"Species norms may account for some of it."
"No."
Windu's voice.
"His bias toward other species is increasing."
Someone else added—
"He's becoming better at concealing it."
Great.
Wonderful.
Another voice.
"And he's maintaining pace with Skywalker."
"Training elsewhere?"
That made my stomach tighten.
"Perhaps he should."
Silence.
Then—
"A remote Temple may benefit him."
I stopped watching.
Immediately.
There was a point where spying became too dangerous.
That was it.
Shaak Ti found me later.
I'd just finished meditation when she appeared.
"Walk with me."
Not a question.
I stood.
We walked through the Temple.
For a while she said nothing.
Then—
"You're struggling."
I looked at the floor.
"I'm managing."
Her eyes moved toward me. I shrugged.
That answer clearly wasn't good enough.
Shaak Ti waited.
The silence stretched.
I considered saying something useful.
Something honest.
Instead, I looked at my hands.
"Thoughts."
"Which thoughts?"
I shifted my weight.
"Nothing important."
She didn't move.
Didn't look away.
Just waited.
That was worse than being questioned.
I sighed.
"Sometimes people bother me."
"People?"
"Species."
Her expression didn't change.
That somehow made it worse.
"I don't know why."
"Do you know what you feel?"
I hesitated.
"Not exactly."
That was closer to the truth than I wanted it to be.
She was silent for several steps.
Then—
"Stay close to Anakin."
I looked up.
"He helps you."
I almost said that Anakin was annoying.
That he was reckless.
That he talked too much and cheated whenever he thought he could get away with it.
Instead, I muttered—
"He's difficult."
"That is not what I said."
"No."
I looked away.
"He makes things... simpler."
Shaak Ti continued walking.
"He reminds you to see people as individuals."
I almost laughed.
"Mostly, I think about how to beat him."
"That is still a form of attention."
I didn't have an answer for that.
So I said nothing.
The silence returned.
Then something else came out before I could stop it.
"Sometimes all I see is his shadow."
Shaak Ti stopped.
I immediately regretted saying that.
She studied me.
Not judgmental.
Just concerned.
"We will work on that."
I nodded.
"Okay."
It was easier than explaining what I meant.
And we did.
Meditation.
Sparring.
Conversation.
More meditation.
Did it completely fix anything?
No.
But training helped.
Being around Anakin helped.
Having something immediate to focus on helped.
Whenever I was busy enough, the disgust became background noise.
Eventually I decided I needed distance from the Temple entirely.
~~~
Back in Irken territory, RedComet had become significantly bigger than I intended.
What started as a quiet little black-market name had turned into something people actively searched for.
The potions weren't miraculous.
They couldn't cure everything.
But buyers started reporting effects I hadn't originally designed for.
Severe infections slowed.
Fevers temporarily dropped.
Some degenerative diseases stopped progressing for several days after treatment.
Nothing permanent.
Definitely not a cure.
But if someone had been told they had days left to live and my potion gave them another week?
They considered it a miracle.
I considered it repeat business.
Why cure your customer when you could—
...
Okay.
That sounded evil.
Still.
Orders tripled.
Then increased again.
Customers became richer.
More desperate.
More willing to pay.
I stayed anonymous.
RedComet existed.
Dabo didn't.
For deliveries, I started buying small disposable courier drones.
They carried the product.
Completed the transaction.
Then didn't come back.
Expensive.
Worth it.
Meteor deliveries kept arriving at my station with crates of ingredients.
My little garden expanded.
Then expanded again.
DING.
Skill Progression: Merchant (Lv 3 → 4).
DING.
Skill Gained: Pharmacology (Lv 1 / 10).
DING.
Skill Progression: Alchemy (Lv 3→ 4).
DING.
Skill Progression: Herbalism (Lv 3→ 4).
I stayed on that side for several months.
Grow.
Harvest.
Process.
Brew.
Package.
Sell.
Repeat.
It was peaceful compared to the Temple.
Eventually—
I actually started missing the Jedi.
A little.
Not enough to admit it to anyone.
But enough that I finally went back.
And, as always, almost no time had passed there.
I returned to the same problems waiting for me.
Same Temple.
Same routines.
Same people.
Same strange heaviness in my thoughts.
I still didn't understand why my mood tended to get worse there.
Maybe it was the Irken instincts.
Maybe it was the constant meditation forcing me to notice my own thoughts.
Maybe it was something else.
Either way—
I kept training.
And the System continued giving me skills I absolutely did not ask for.
One night I was wrapping a simple package with a knot.
Then—
DING.
Skill Gained: Knot-Tying.
I paused.
Then kept staring as the skill climbed.
Wonderful.
Meanwhile, skills I actually cared about continued progressing at normal speed.
Dancing improved.
Woodworking improved.
Sneaking improved.
Brawling.
Sprinting.
Acrobatics.
Parkour.
Telekinesis.
Force Veil.
Lightsaber practice continued steadily too.
Useful.
All useful.
But I still couldn't make a fireball.
Years of knowing the Force could apparently do almost anything...
And I could tie a knot in twelve different ways.
Fantastic.
~~~
Things became considerably stranger when I returned to Irken territory again.
I hadn't been back long.
I was walking through one of the station corridors when—
The lights flickered.
A door opened.
Something fired.
THWIP!
A coil-net wrapped around my legs.
I hit the floor.
My PAK barely had enough time to register the problem before an electrical pulse hit.
Then—
Nothing.
I woke up somewhere unfamiliar.
First thing I noticed was the smell.
Oil.
Metal.
Something sweet.
Cinnamon?
Second thing—
An Irken was sitting across from me.
Tall.
Not Tallest tall.
Obviously.
But tall for an ordinary Irken.
Around four and a half feet.
Maybe six inches taller than me.
That didn't sound significant compared to human height differences.
For Irkens?
It absolutely was.
Six inches might as well have been half a meter.
His uniform made the rest obvious.
High rank.
Very high.
Polished boots.
Perfect posture.
PAK in pristine condition.
He smiled.
"Admiral Vrek."
...
Oh.
Wonderful.
I'd been kidnapped by an Admiral.
I sat up.
He continued.
"I've heard rumors about you."
That didn't make me feel better.
"Really?"
"The hands of a miracle worker."
His antennae shifted.
"And sweets that keep soldiers coming back."
I stared at him.
"Do you need something, sir?"
Polite.
Very polite.
Tall Irken.
Admiral.
Not someone I wanted annoyed with me.
Only then did I properly look around.
This wasn't a holding cell.
The room was enormous.
Closer to a private suite.
Several cushioned beds lined one side.
Tables.
Chairs.
Storage.
And an absurdly well-equipped kitchen.
Rows of cooking surfaces.
Ovens.
Preparation tables.
Cookware hanging neatly overhead.
Most of the room remained empty.
Vrek watched me look around.
"You will be useful aboard my ship."
I slowly looked back at him.
"Useful?"
"Morale."
He smiled.
"Sweets."
Pause.
"Massages."
Another pause.
"Quietly."
...
Oh.
Great.
I'd been abducted into catering.
"Sir—"
His smile disappeared slightly.
"Allow me to clarify."
There it was.
The threat.
"You will provide these services."
His voice stayed calm.
"Or I will find another assignment for you."
I knew exactly what "another assignment" could mean in the Irken Empire.
Food service drone.
Waste reclamation.
Test subject.
Some isolated maintenance post nobody returned from.
There were much worse possibilities than cooking.
I smiled.
"Understood, Admiral."
Good enough.
I could work with this.
~~~
So I worked.
Cooked.
Sold sweets.
Learned the ship.
Memorized corridors.
Mapped access routes.
Watched crew schedules.
Recorded anything that might eventually matter.
And since nearly everyone assigned aboard an Irken frigate had decent pay—
I raised my prices.
Significantly.
Three hundred percent sounded fair.
Apparently everyone agreed.
Or they were just desperate.
Most customers bought food.
Very few requested massages.
That surprised me at first.
Then I remembered I was dealing with Irkens.
Most of us were not particularly comfortable letting another Irken touch us for half an hour.
Fair.
DING.
Skill Progression: Cooking (Lv 6 → 7).
DING.
Skill Progression: Merchant (Lv 4 → 5).
Back home, Scat had apparently discovered he was good with plants.
Shockingly good.
He took over most of my garden while I was stuck aboard the frigate.
With help from a few of my old customers, production continued without me.
He sent ingredient crates by drone.
Usually with messages.
YOU OWE ME COOKIES FOREVER.
Then another shipment—
SEND DONUTS.
Reasonable requests.
About ten days into my new employment, Admiral Vrek finally visited my quarters personally.
Without knocking.
The door opened while I was standing over the kitchen counter making nachos.
I nearly dropped the tray.
"What the—"
He walked inside.
No warning.
No permission.
Nothing.
What if I'd been naked?!
Not that Irkens had much to hide.
Still.
Privacy existed.
Probably.
Vrek stopped after several steps.
His eyes moved around the room.
I could tell he hadn't expected what he saw.
My quarters looked nothing like standard Irken housing anymore.
I'd finally had enough space to pull some of the furniture I'd collected elsewhere out of storage.
Large bed.
Hand-carved nightstands.
Wardrobes.
Soft couches.
Coffee table.
Actual comfortable chairs.
Everything was ornate.
Decorative.
Wooden.
Completely incompatible with normal Irken design.
But comfortable.
Extremely comfortable.
Vrek looked at one of the couches.
Then at me.
I shrugged.
"Imported."
No further explanation.
He continued inspecting the room.
Then walked into the sitting area and pulled out a chair.
Apparently he had decided he was staying.
Fine.
I assembled a tray.
Cookies.
Muffins.
Brownies.
Brought it over.
He tried a cookie first.
His antennae immediately rose.
Then a muffin.
Then the brownie.
Same reaction.
I nodded toward the little sign I'd placed beside the tray.
30 MONIES EACH.
He ignored it.
Of course he did.
"I was told your talents were being wasted."
He took another bite of brownie.
"I find that difficult to believe."
"I try."
Lie.
Recently I'd started intentionally holding back on my cooking because too many customers were becoming annoying.
Apparently even bad effort from Cooking Level 7 was good enough.
Vrek placed the brownie down.
"I've also heard about your other skill."
My stomach sank.
His eyes moved toward the massage tables.
Of course.
"That might not be necessary—"
He stood.
Apparently it was.
His PAK extended its mechanical legs.
Then—
It detached.
I stared.
The PAK carefully lowered itself to the floor beside him.
...
I could detach mine.
Technically.
But seeing another Irken do it that casually still made me jealous.
Vrek removed the upper half of his uniform.
I blinked.
Usually people kept their clothes on.
I worked through the uniform.
Less direct contact.
Less awkward.
Apparently Admirals had different rules.
Or maybe tall Irkens simply assumed every choice they made was automatically correct.
Probably that.
Red and Purple acted exactly the same way.
Height wasn't just physical in the Empire.
Height meant status.
Status meant authority.
Authority meant you were right.
How could you possibly be wrong?
You were taller.
Vrek lay face down on the table.
I stood there for a moment.
Fine.
Work was work.
I tightened my gloves.
"Relax."
The phrase came automatically after doing this for so long.
He breathed out.
Didn't respond.
My Masseuse skill had become difficult to manage.
By Level 3, normal pressure had already started producing ridiculous results.
At Level 6, I had to deliberately hold back.
Barely touch.
Minimal pressure.
Otherwise people lost the ability to function.
I coated my gloves with some of the scented oil Vrek had supplied.
Sweet smell.
Probably expensive.
Then placed my hands on his upper back.
The reaction was immediate.
His shoulders jerked.
Then relaxed.
Completely.
...
Right.
Level 6.
I reduced pressure even more.
My thumbs moved along the muscles beside his shoulder blades.
Tension disappeared almost instantly.
His breathing slowed.
For several minutes, nothing happened.
Then—
"Enough."
I paused.
Vrek started pushing himself upward.
"This is satisfactory."
I put one hand on his shoulder.
"You're not done."
He turned his head slightly.
"I said—"
I pressed into another tight section of muscle.
His sentence stopped.
...
Interesting.
"Continue," he said after several seconds.
Sure.
I continued.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The entire thing became less about massage and more about testing exactly how little force I could use while still triggering the skill.
Almost nothing.
A fingertip.
A thumb.
Small movements.
Every time I hit the correct point, muscles visibly released beneath the skin.
Vrek tried maintaining his Admiral posture despite being face down on a table.
Didn't work.
Eventually his arms went loose at his sides.
His breathing deepened.
Then—
DING.
Skill Progression: Masseuse (Lv 6 → 7).
...
Vrek noticed.
"Problem?"
"No."
Definitely a problem.
My skill had just become even stronger.
I tested the smallest possible amount of pressure.
Barely anything.
Vrek's entire back relaxed.
His head lowered into the table.
Silence.
I stared at my hands.
This skill was becoming absurd.
I continued for another few minutes.
Eventually Vrek lifted one hand.
"Stop."
This time I listened.
I stepped away.
He remained still.
Then slowly pushed himself upright.
Or tried to.
His arms shook.
He stopped.
His PAK apparently decided he'd had enough dignity loss for one day.
Its legs unfolded.
The unit walked over.
Reattached itself to his back.
Then several mechanical limbs extended and helped lift him off the table.
I watched.
Vrek straightened his uniform as much as he could.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't say anything.
His PAK carried most of his weight toward the door.
The door opened.
He disappeared into the corridor door closing behind him.
Silence.
I stood there for a few seconds.
Then looked at my hands.
Level seven.
Terrifying.
But useful.
I walked back toward the kitchen.
My nachos were probably cold.
Great.
I started reheating them.