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eorzeashan · 2 months

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Commander Stew

Theron cooks something for the Commander.

Odessen - The Kitchens

A young man sporting a dollop of white hair and refined features entered the communal kitchen of the Alliance carrying a large crate, wearing a plain burlap apron, rubber gloves, and waders over what usually would qualify as a stealth suit–a bit of an odd sight, but one Theron had gotten used to over time.

“Hey! You’re back early. Put ‘em down over there,” Theron glanced over his shoulder, nodding briefly at the young man, then motioning with his head at the kitchen island. Eight squeezed past him as he ran his hands under the faucet, careful not to bump into the other spy. They set down the box on the counter and patiently folded their hands, awaiting instructions.

Theron turned off the sink and flung the remnant droplets off his hands, drying them with a slightly stained checkerboard dish towel.

Even with his fearsome past, Theron found the quiet operative to be pleasant company most days, with Eight acting as his assistant in daily matters ranging from mundane chores to deadly missions. All at the behest of Lana, of course. She was the one who insisted on (see: forced) a pair of helping hands for him after he'd incorrectly assumed she’d wanted him to take on all her burdens.

Not that he was complaining about the extra hands. Certainly not today of all days–he was planning something special, and that required all of the help he could get.

Theron opened the flaps of the crate. Fresh from their gardening plot in the Odessen fields, the box was practically bursting with colorful root vegetables and leafy greens native to the planet. Purple, orange, striped yellows and swirls of blue–all packed with vitamins and the healthy color of a successful crop. Plain proof that their efforts to cultivate more organic food for the personnel had finally given fruit, after several long winters of withered stalks and exhausting meals of food chips.

Theron smiled wryly. He’d have to make a toast to Dr. Oggurrobb’s fertilizer and the Force Enclave’s agricultural knowledge later.

“Will this be enough?” Eight asked, mellow as ever. He watched him coolly through deep umber eyes.

“It’s more than enough,” Theron answered, a bit of uncertainty leaking into his tone as he stared at the foodstuffs. The vegetables taunted him from their comfy spot atop the counter next to the impressive array of knives and cooking utensils laid out side-by-side like an interrogation toolkit. “...I think.” He wiped the tip of his nose.

Theron hated to admit it, but he was no culinarian. Master Zho had never taught him (really, what could you teach a kid to cook in the wilderness besides canned goods and pre-packaged rations), and his stint as a SIS agent since his youth had left him with little time to prepare nor care. The extent of his cooking repertoire could quickly be summed up to sticking a frozen Orobird leg in the flash oven and waiting for two minutes, sadly.

So why was he making an effort now?

The image of the Commander’s tired face weary from battle and sleepless nights, aging lines etched deep into their skin with the carvings of a destiny too large for one person, flashed in Theron’s mind. He’d seen the way they’d fought–skipped meals, denied themselves sleep, hid the way their gaze turned vacant when they thought no one was looking, left their cafeteria plate practically untouched, compounded blackened bottoms of endless cups of caf, the stims—the Commander was burning themselves at both ends.

Hypocritical as it was, he couldn’t stand watching them drive themselves into the ground. The galaxy’s fate was important, but…not as important as they were to Theron. Yet he found himself at a loss; what words he wanted to tell them to eat better, to sleep more, to stop hurting themselves fell short whenever the Commander gave him that one look. That look of resignation, deep as the dull ache that would settle in his chest afterwards.

“I’m okay,” They’d tell him, smiling wan, “Thank you, Theron.” It’s alright. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.

Like hell he couldn’t. He–

“Theron…?”

Theron snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d been wringing the dishcloth far too tightly for too long. Eight stared at him, puzzled. He released it. His knuckles returned to their previous pink.

“...Sorry. Just. Tired,” Theron shook his head, massaging his temples. Tired. Yeah. He was sure someone else was too, and he hadn’t asked Eight to come here to watch him have a breakdown. Pushing off from the counter, he clapped his hands together, mustering up a second wind. “Let’s get to work. Shall we?”

Commander Stew

Ingredients:

Young Makrin Legs

Orobird Soup Stock

Rootleaf, 1 Head

Imperial-issued Instant Glowblue Noodles, 1 Package

Republic Synth-Ham and Grophet Sausages

Odessen Wild Onions

Mandalorian Spice Sauce

Zakuulan Swamp Glowshrooms

Slice of Ration Cheese

Directions:

Prepare the young makrin legs by soaking them in water and shaving the fibrous exterior with a peeler.

Theron stared at the unassuming pile of…legs that resembled roots more than they did the limbs of any creature, and secretly shuddered. Makrins weren’t particularly uncommon on terrestrial worlds, but their crabby, tree-like appearance and tendency to wallow in loam didn't make them his first choice to eat. He wasn't exactly opposed to adventurous cuisine, but he wondered how exactly the legs of a chitinous creature equaled something that would make the Commander more appetized.

As if sensing his cause for pause, Eight peered over his shoulder where he stood frozen with peeler in hand. “The Jedi recommended them for use in medicinal dishes. When eaten boiled, it lowers blood pressure, and contains many nutrients.” He said thoughtfully, as if reading an entry from an encyclopedia.

“Is that so.” Theron inwardly balked at the mention of the Jedi–a little known fact was that Master Zho had raised him on Jedi cuisine, most of it vegetarian, but even then he hadn’t sampled every bit of agriculture the galaxy had to offer. Makrin legs were a bit out there, but seeing as they were native to Odessen, recommended by the enclave and another piece of stress relief on a plate for the Commander? His survival training told him the harmless limbs could only benefit, despite their gnarly appearance.

Remove the tips and fibrous base. When cleaned and processed, set aside.

He buckled down and began shaving the legs. Lack of proper nutrition was always a deciding factor in conflict–Theron had seen his fair share of soldiers who contracted disease from improper eating and lack of supplies– and he would feed the Commander any bit of ugly vegetables if it meant seeing a little more life restored to their pallid cheeks. His fingers found their rhythm as he removed the tough outer skin from the legs exposing their soft white core beneath the blade of the peeler, their texture reminding him oddly of Dantooinian tubers with an extra coat of slime.

Slice and dice half of a medium-sized onion.

Theron had to pretend he wasn't looking particularly emotional as he chopped the onion. Or maybe he was simply brought to tears at the thought that their food could have flavor for once, all thanks to the Alliance’s team of scouts who procured such supplies for them from the unmapped regions of Odessen’s wilds. Eight was among that team, hence Theron's willingness to let an Imp spy of all people join him in cooking. There was only a small handful of people he could use to conceal his efforts from the Commander, and Theron would make use of both his ability to obtain food in secret and his espionage skills to see this through, opposing factions be damned.

And if others worried about poisoning, well. He didn't pride himself on being Chief of Security for nothing. The safety of the Commander was his priority, as were the characters of those he chose to fight alongside them. They were his responsibility. His to trust with their most important fight and everything in-between. Theron couldn't afford to keep the old grudges that the Republic and Empire maintained in these desperate times, and he would not fall victim to their need to blind themselves with their unending war. He had to fight for what was important, and that was…people. Not sides.

Theron would always be a son of the Republic at his heart. But now his heart belonged to another, and those lines had long blurred.

Slice the glowshrooms length-wise, removing the head from the stems. Set aside.

Clean and cut the rootleaf in half, then the following halves into quarters; chop into smaller squares until you have about 1 cup’s worth of rootleaf. Store the rest in a cool, refrigerated place.

Unpackage the Synth-Ham, Republic Ration #0625, and slice to desired thickness.

Theron opened the can of mystery meat and upended it onto the chopping board. The green ham-like substance plopped onto it with gelatinous grace. He poked it with his cooking knife. It jiggled away from the tip.

Eight placed an empty pot next to him along with a can of opened grophet sausages and an unwrapped package of Imperial ration Glowblue Noodles, their signature color shining through the foil. Theron quickly thanked him out of the corner of his mouth.

Arrange the rootleaf, onion, makrin legs, and glowshrooms at the bottom of the pot in even layers.

Add a helping of Mandalorian Spiced Sauce on top.

Theron couldn't forget Torian and his people. They were the ones who suggested using their own spices for the hotpot, as “no other spice in the galaxy compares to that of a Mando’s.” Though he’d initially expressed some reservations at setting the Commander’s tongue aflame, this special mix had been made with their preference in mind; Shae had been so impressed by their valor that she presented several crates worth as a gift after the battle of Darvannis. Spices were a luxury if not a grand gesture in wartime, and not one Theron intended to use lightly.

Add the Synth-Ham, grophet sausages, and top with a slice of ration cheese over the previous ingredients.

Finally, add the Glowblue Noodles and 3 liters of Orobird stock.

Theron blinked at the finished product. “Wait a minute. This is…”

“Revanite stew?” Eight once again helpfully supplied.

It was Theron’s turn to ask the questions as he raised a suspicious brow towards his sous-chef. “They ate this during the coalition, when the camps combined. How did you get the same recipe?”

Eight smiled quietly to himself, in his mysterious and elusive way. “Our Commander was there. It was their idea to share food across factions. I still haven't forgotten its taste. If you ask any of the soldiers from that time, they will say the same.”

Theron stared at him, speechless. To think the same recipe he’d been making this entire time was a result of their union on Rishi…he recalled seeing Imperial and Republic soldiers bonding over a cookpot, but hadn't joined in, content to watch the proceedings from a distance. So much had happened during Revan’s rise that he’d failed to pay enough attention to something so innocuous as a moment of camaraderie between unlikely allies.

It had been their idea to eat something both Imperial and Republic that fateful night. To form the basis of their Alliance over a simple, warm bowl of soup.

Theron felt his heart swell.

He…he had to remind them of what they had built. What they meant to him. With this.

Set on top of a burner and deliver to recipients with bowls to share.

Theron held his breath as he wheeled the cart of foodstuffs to the Commander’s quarters, careful to avoid jostling the stew that balanced atop it as he reached his destination. He rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.

A puff of pnematic air revealed the Commander, yawning wearily from yet another sleepless night of work and burdens. “Yes–” They stopped. “Theron? What are you doing here?” They eyed his cart. “And what's with all the food?”

Theron cracked a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you could use some dinner, so…I brought you some. If you don't mind, that is.” He quickly added, feeling out of place in the deserted hallway.

The Commander smiled, a genuine one that reached their eyes, crinkling at the edges. “I’d love to try whatever you made. Come in, we can eat it together.” They stepped aside to allow Theron room to maneuver.

Enjoy with your intended party.

As expected, it was delicious.

Not as filling as seeing the Commander laugh to the point of tears at his explanations as to why he'd been so secretive all week trying to hide the fruits of his cooking from them, but filling nonetheless. He'd give it a 5/5, personally, as a true soup for the soul. (And a note to make it again with less sneaking around).

If the Commander was satisfied and satiated... so was he.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #theron shan #theron shan x alliance commander #oc: orradiz #knights of the meshi.#admin writes #unnamed commander btw you can self insert. or not #eight cameo in there for. uh. reasons.#i spent way too long procrastinating on this but i think it turned out alright #writing a cooking style fic is way harder than it looks also the ending was kind of botched but im tired #a bit of alliance worldbuilding a bit of speculative cuisine of alien species and plants a bit of #CHARACTER STUDY??#what the hell whatever

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2stepadmiral · 1 month

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“Kriffing Fey’lya,”

An explosion twenty meters ahead marks where the AT-ST fire was slightly off, but it still sprays Rex with dirt. He grits his teeth as he tries again to push the chunk of a blasted wall off his chest, but it’s still no good. The permacrete is too heavy for him to budge, at least from this angle.

It was a rookie mistake on his part, getting too close to the wall when the enemy had artillery deployed. Rex must’ve been getting old. That was the only possible explanation for him making such a stupid mistake, the kind of idiotic move that he had dressed down countless shinies for during the Clone Wars. He had gotten too close, and a stray shot from the walker had brought a huge chunk of wall right down on top of him. It wasn’t big enough to crush him, or even seriously injure him, but it was certainly large enough to pin him down under the rubble.

He gritted his teeth once again as he remembered the two fellow Rebels who had noticed him trapped, and tried to help, completely disregarding his orders to abandon him. Didn’t seem to be much good and being a commander if your subordinates ignore orders like that. Rex idly wondered if any of the boys back during the days of the 501st would’ve followed that order, or would’ve been so loyal to their commander, that they stuck around in a vain effort to help and got mowed down, moments later, by a stormtrooper pressing the advance. He truthfully could not remember.

He could hear the trooper’s footsteps growing closer now. The son of a hut who had shot the two men was slowly making his way over, inspecting his kill and making sure that the job was done. From where he lay, Rex was concealed from the troopers view, but if you got to close, he would be completely exposed. He tighten the grip on the DC 17 clutched in his free hand. If the trooper got too close, Rex would have a mere heartbeat to respond before the trooper filled him with blaster bolts. Even now, at his age, such a response was trivial for Rex. The question was not whether or not, he could beat the trooper to the draw, but whether or not the blue blaster fire would attract the attention of the ATST. If it did, Rex would be out of options. His A280 rifle had an explosive launcher attachment, and with precise aim, he might be able to get a thermal detonator through the viewport, but with one arm pinned, his aim was hardly at peak proficiency. And since the rifle had fallen some two meters away, the whole concept was rather academic.

The footsteps stopped, and Rex could hear the plates pressing together as the trooper tensed. At least it wasn’t a clanker that got me, Rex thought. An Imperial walker wasn’t much better, but the difference was important to him. He closed his eyes for a moment as he braced himself. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, General. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish this fight for you, and for Commander Tano.

Rex’s eyes fly open as he hears the distinctive snap-hiss. The trooped yells and opens fire. He goes silent as a whoosh fills the air. Rex sees a shadow pass over him and hears a thud as the trooper collides against the building behind him. Rex strains to see over the debris. He barely makes out a green glow against the smog before the entire area is illuminated by a bright flash.

The walker steps close, the ground shaking slightly beneath its footsteps. It’s floodlight makes Rex wince for a moment before it points down at something in the middle of the street. Rex sees the cannon flash, hears the explosive impact, and hears the hum of a lightsaber in motion. A dark cloaked figure leaps forth, green blade flashing, and the walker stumbles a moment before tumbling to the ground, its leg severed. The figure holds up the saber defensively as he scans the area for further threats, lowering and closing down the blade as he decides that all is well. He turns a hand toward Rex, and the rubble begins to shift.

Rex gasps with a sensation that has little to do with the relief of this pressure. He thought he recognized the figure when he saw him leap through the air, severing the walker leg with a form that he knew all too well. Until he saw the man lift his burden with the Force, he didn’t dare to hope. Now, he couldn’t stop himself.

“General?” He calls out desperately. “General Skywalker, is that you?” It’s impossible. He knows General Skywalker was killed at the end of the Clone Wars, but somehow, he knows. He knows that Skywalker has returned. Impossible things have happened before, he knows. Commander Tano survived, and apparently, General Kenobi had actually survived, and been hiding for decades before briefly, returning to die on the death star, So why not Skywalker?

The figure steps forward, reaching up to lower his hood. Rex gasps at the young, scarred face looking back at him. This is not Anakin Skywalker, no, this man is far too young. But his features are decidedly similar. Similar enough to be a relative. A son.

“My name is Commander Luke Skywalker,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m here to help you.”

He had heard the name before, everyone in the alliance had, but he hadn’t made the connection. There were plenty of people named Skywalker in the galaxy, after all.

Rex took the hand at once. Something in him said to trust this man. Perhaps it was the distinct features of general Anakin Skywalker, that were just visible, or perhaps it was the innate kindness and compassion that seemed somehow vaguely familiar as well. Perhaps the boy’s mother? Yes, that was it. His mother. Senator Amidala. There was no one else that really could be, not after all those holo calls the general used to steal away any chance he got.

“I’ll take the help,” Rex said as he rose to his feet. “We were able to insert the Bothans, and our retreat should have covered for their entrance. Unfortunately, we took a lot of Flack on the way out.” Rex lowered his gaze. “Lost some good people, I’m afraid. Hopefully, this will all be worth it.”

“You’ve done a great job, Commander,” Luke said, his tone so very reminiscent of Anakin’s when he had praised Rex for a job well done, but it was also gentler, a bit kinder, as though he could see and feel the emotions that Rex was experiencing. Somehow, the impression reminded him of General Kenobi. “Now, we need to get you and your people out. I’m here for your extraction.”

“Surprised that Fey’lya bothered with an extraction plan.” Rex commented.

“Actually, he didn’t,” Luke grimaced as he spoke. “I came here on my own.”

Rex scowled. “Kriffing Fey’lya,” he growled. Then he froze. “Oh, sorry, sir.”

Luke smiled. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Commander. I understand your frustration. The plan was rather ruthless in regards to your team, but that’s why I am here. Just a slight change in the plan, one that Fey’lya won’t really be able to protest.”

“Leave no man behind, eh, sir?.” Rex smiled. “You sound a lot like another Jedi named Skywalker I once knew.”

Luke’s eyes widened. “You knew Anakin Skywalker?”

The sound of footsteps on the permacrete cut off Rex’s reply. There were several footsteps approaching, and by the sound of the clinking armor plates, it sounded like a full squad of storm troopers, at least. Rex drew his second DC 17, not bothering to reach for his discarded A280. fighting alongside another Skywalker? No, he wouldn’t need a rifle. He wanted to fight like he had in the old days, like an ARC trooper. Like he always had alongside Anakin.

“We’ll talk when we get out of this,” Rex said.

Luke nodded. He drew out his lightsaber, igniting the green blade. “I’ll draw their fire.”

“After you, sir.”

Luke smiled. “You don’t need to call me sir, commander. I don’t outrank you.”

“Force of habit, Commander,” Rex replied, his grin widening. Then, on an impulse he couldn’t quite help, he added, “Besides, in my book, experience outranks everything.”

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