Hunger Pangs (Dreadpiratemike)

[lion]

The Jedi Temple mid-afternoon always had a sense of relaxation to it,a sense of ease through the day that the earlier hours lacked, as the various rank-and-file members of the Order scurried about in their tasks. Training, study, departure for missions or arrivals from them; the morning hours were littered but the afternoons seemed somewhat less so, as routine tasks were settled into and the day began to wind down to a close. Peace, for a lack of a better term, reigned; even with the business of day to day life among the Jedi, the afternoon calm seemed to mute the otherwise nigh-stressful flurry of activity.

The only problem with that, however, was that peace tended to bring on a sense of fatigue. It was easy to push through when activity around you was high; you'd struggle to keep up sometimes but keep up you would. When the sun began to set, and when the day's activities began to wind down and give way to the night, the motivation of one's surroundings began to fade; one could only rely on their stamina to keep them going against the dreary haze of tiredness.

It was a battle that Fenn Soran had long lost.

The Bothan apprentice's day had started early, as with most Jedi, before dawn; the dark hours of the morning were devoted to lightsaber drills and training patterns with a blaster remote and sparring partners. There had been some other Jedi there, of course; mostly Knights rather than initiate younglings or fellow Padawans, seeking their own time to practice and hone their bladework. Midway through his own Trials, Fenn had found that practice with those above his station helped iron out the faults in his own forms; it had been the case for a few weeks now that the Bothan had thrown his lot in with the Knights and had found himself improving bit-by-bit with each day's practice.

The drills were tiring, of course, but Fenn's day was far from starting, as the true exhaustion had come not from combat but from mental fatigue. As an apprentice healer, Fenn spend most of his time among the Temple's injured, sick and maimed; practice of both the mundane and the arcane healing forms had a way of absolutely draining one's body and mind. The healing art within the Force was difficult, requiring intense concentration and subtlety to knit together the broken flesh, and each time brought its own separate challenge; each patient's body responded differently ,and thus, had to be approached differently.

There was no one surefire way, Fenn's educators had stated over and over, to encourage healing; the art was not in simply wishing away wounds but by spurning on the patient's own damage-management routines. Coagulation of blood vessels around cuts that refused, re-binding of flesh rendered open, nutrition of bruised flesh and suppression of infection were all natural events the patient's body could handle; the Force simply sped the process along. 

And with each patient's body practically speaking its own unique language, as it were, the whole practice became tiring. It wasn't until the Coruscant sky had began to orange up and the sun began to descend that Fenn had been allowed to leave; his training for the day complete but his body feeling as if it were ready to drop into one of the patient beds of its own volition. Hunger, like a growling Rancor lodged in his chest, demanded satiation but there was only so far Fenn could have ever gotten before he rebelled against himself. He'd barely left the Healing Halls, sitting down on a small bench by the Temple Gardens to simply rest his legs for a second, that tiredness had gotten him.

A simple moment to close his eyes, to 'rest his eyes for a second', and it was all over. There, sprawled face-down along the seat of the bench as if it were a bunk, his left arm dangling from it, Fenn slept; gentle snoring and a small dribble of saliva, trailing from the right side of his slightly-open mouth, down to the bench seat an embarrassing testament to just how far-gone the exhausted Jedi had become. 

[DreadPirateMike]

Form was a necessity of function. Nothing more.

Walls were hard and unyielding, because such permanence was needed. The body could do only what the energy stored in coiled muscle fibers made possible, because those were the rules. And the universe needed rules, needed to operate in a predictable, sensible, reliable manner in order to birth and shelter the dizzying multitudes and varieties of life that in turn birthed the Force.

But if you were so gifted as to be able, if you kept looking long and hard enough...there was more there. Layers to reality utterly free of such utilitarian notions, in which there was no need for glass, or duraplast, or even the wonderfully soft and lustrous fur that warmed Rikkavi, Padawan learner. Just energy. Endless, shining energy, the true "form" of all things. And most amazing of all...it listened.

For the better part of an hour now, Rikkavi had sat silently upon this cool floor, cocooned by the darkness and silence that dominated the Temple after all but the night guard had retired to bed or to their chambers. Well, theoretically. No doubt a night owl lingered here and there, but the important thing was that he'd not be bothered. And free of Jedi distractions, the imposed concern over whether he was doing it "right" or worse still "effectively", the young Selonian had often found it easiest to connect with the Force. And in truth, his connection was strong, and always had been. But some of the typical applications, levitation, high jumps and the like, he'd nevertheless always lagged in a bit. Sometimes, this deficiency had been self-imposed, sometimes an upsetting disconnect made it harder, as if attempting to twist the Force into a workman's tool just cheapened and weakened the connection.

But in moments like this, free of outside expectation, the connection felt strong. And if he simply asked gently, rather than tried to demand, the Force might indeed help him do great things. Even now, with gentle but thoughtful pushes and tugs at the "truth" behind it all, he could feel the myriad components responding here in the world of the mundane. Several delicate and complex operations in motion at once, settling into careful and precise configuration. But oh so natural.  No need to force it at all.  And in time, patience and trust in the order of things won out.

A gentle clatter upon the floor in front of him announced the completion of his labor.  His eyes came slowly open.  He beheld the form of the thing in front of him, but with greater understanding of its true elegance.

You always wanted to reinforce that bottom slice of fragrant dark bread somehow.  There was nothing worse that a soggy foundation, and that's why he'd started with a whole Gammorrean pork chop on the bottom, before ascending to sliced terrafin loin, and finally nuna bacon at the top.  In between every layer of course, pink lettuce for the crunch.  And alternating between layers, bimm AND boontaspiced mustard.

It was a work of art.  Unlike the open refrigeration unit doors and clutters counter tops of the galley behind him.  And like all things of such beauty, it was transient, save in memory.

"The Force rules." he finally announced to nobody in particular as he chomped down happily.

[lion]

It hadn't been from a natural return to restfulness that had stirred Fenn from his impromptu slumber so much as it had been a sudden, loud snort; a sudden blockage of the nasal passage forcing the young man's lungs to expel their load of spent air with enough force to become audible. Ears flicking, the young man's body moved into action before his mind had fully detached from its sleeping state, leaving the Bothan in the unenviable position of trying to stand up from his sprawl from sheer reflex alone.

"Mruhh." Was about as coherent as the furred Jedi was going to manage, his half-lidded eyes rolling slightly into the back of his head, only to let out a sudden wheeze of air as a hammer struck him squarely in the chest. Pain, it seemed, was about as effective as a good shot of double-strength caf to get the mind working; no sooner had the seeming punch landed did the Bothan sputter and sit up, clutching his chest with a groan, far more awake than he'd ever wanted to be.

Hunger pangs; straight-away identifiable and by the Force they hurt so bad. The groan that creaked from the young man's saliva-slicked mouth as he tried to calm the hollow 'pressure' in his stomach was matched only by the demanding gurgle it offered in response; a harmony of need and discomfort. Cramping didn't begin to even cover the sheer sharpness of pain that had taken hold, and had he not known better, it wouldn't have been far off to imagine he'd been stabbed at some stage during his nocturnal drifting.

Slowly pushing from the bench, spending a few seconds to embarrassingly wipe the pockets of drool from his mouth with his sleeve, Fenn finally managed to make up onto his feet; unsteady thanks to the heady haze still lingering about his senses, but nevertheless upright. Nevertheless, even addled as he was, rubbing his head against his palms for a second to try to get his bearings, the young Jedi quickly grasped the obvious facts that brought a heavy ruffling to his coat in shame.

He'd slept clean through the evening into the night, and given just how dark and quiet the halls seemed to be, it was likely that the kitchen had long since closed. 

The thought alone was enough to bring a sense of depression, the grim reality of it only heaping upon it as if to fortify the punishment. Having passed out in the Halls was one thing, embarrassing enough, but to know he'd have to endure the night and likely face the next day of grueling work and study without a full stomach had the Bothan practically crestfallen. There was no way he'd make it through fencing practice, leave-alone an entire day of study in the Healing Halls, with his stomach nagging at him the whole time; even half-asleep the young man knew his limits and what the next day threatened to bring was far beyond any of them.

No, he had to eat. There was no two ways about it; even if he'd been hesitant to pull off a pantry-raid, the sheer force of the last stomach contraction was enough to shut his moral mind up and focus on his needs. There was no two ways about it, even if it was the correct thing to do, going to sleep on an empty stomach like this was only going to be a disaster.

Even with the sense of embarrassment and regret, it didn't take long to find the kitchens; the Jedi Temple had been where the Bothan had spent much of his life and, even in the dark of late night, he could navigate it practically by instinct. Each step brought harder contractions, the knowledge that food was close bringing his body into anticipation; his mouth salivated and his stomach yearned with nigh nauseating force.

So badly so, that it hadn't even occurred to check that perhaps he hadn't been the only Jedi with the same idea of a late-night snack, as no sooner had Fenn set a hand to open the door leading into the chamber did he sense the presence of another. Not through the Force, not through the keen instinct of someone used to detecting others, but by the sheer sound of chewing and the scent of cold, spiced meat hitting his nostrils like a one-two knockout.

The Bothan's stomach practically rolled, and quietly begging his own internal organs to maintain their vigil for just a moment longer, Fenn could only inwardly curse as he opened the kitchen door and strode in. Desperation was evident in the disheveled fur and likewise uncomfortable facial expression on the Bothan, making no attempt to remain hidden, as he cleared the doorway; his gaze quickly falling to what looked to be a Selonian boy beside a sandwich that could have rivaled a duracrete panel for thickness.

Were it not for his hunger, Fenn might have commented on the greed, but damn it all if he couldn't empathize with the younger Jedi for going all out. The scent alone was far too enticing to ignore, so much so that the fact that he'd treated the Selonian before hadn't hit him in the face until several seconds later; this was no random Jedi, but one of the Battlemaster's apprentices.

"I won't tell if you don't." Fenn started, his voice low and his glance carefully shifting from the refrigerator units, to the Selonian, and back; his mind whirring at the possibilities of what to eat and unable to fall on any particular one. Everything about this was wrong, hesitancy was painted across the Bothan like white on snow, but absolutely no part of him dared to try to stop. "Deal?"

[DreadPirateMike]

Rikkavi, for his part, DID receive his first warning of company from the Force, but other than an instinctive raising of his hackles, he didn't have time to actually DO much in response.  Receptive as he was to his surroundings, unusually so for one his age, it was known to get blocked out at times by his more conventional sensory responses.  Right now, it was Life Day in his mouth, and everyone was invited.  

And so, as Fenn entered, he would spot Rikkavi frozen where he sat, sandwich in hand and the chaos of its construction strewn about the counters behind him, looking about as "caught" as a creature could with his fangs bared and his mouth opened wide enough to chomp an average sized humanoid's head.  His lips, which instinct had drawn back to better display those aforementioned head chompers a bit better in response to alarm, came back down a bit as the young Selonian registered how very NOT imposing a sight a nervous and half-starved, five foot Bothan made.  But most of his muscles did not relax until his brain at last recognized the unforeseen expression on the newcomers face.

Guilt?  Hah!

Oh, that was definitely guilt.  And not just the subtle "Okay, yes, you got me." guilt.  More like the "I just clubbed a little Ewok to death with its mom's carcass." kind of guilt.  And for what?  Sneaking a midnight snack?  What ultimate fate did his fellow fuzz bucket imagine awaited the contents of these refrigeration units?  Oh, this was most assuredly a "proper" Jedi Knight in the making.  One lightsaber hanging at his belt, another lodged firmly up his-

Wait a minute.  He knew this guy.  He couldn't quite place from where, but he'd definitely seen that face.  An irritating conundrum, thankfully cut short when his attention was drawn by a fresh rumbling to the Bothan's stomach.  With a sigh, he took stock of whether there was still half a sandwich to spare, found in the affirmative, and called a knife from the counter to his hand.

"Oh, just sit down already, wouldja?" he demanded as he began cutting.

[lion]

There were fewer sights more comical than someone mid-gape attempting to tackle a meal, and if there were perhaps any sight that could have gone a ways to cracking the super-tense feeling of guilt stirring in what felt like the empty cavern of the Bothan's stomach, Rikkavi had managed it without lifting so much as a finger. The sheer extent at which the Selonian's jaws had extended brought into question every bit of biological knowledge Fenn had about the species, and were he not moreso worried about getting food in his stomach, the boy might well have made a mental note to look into the possibility of Selonians possessing unhinging jaws.

No, instead, between struggling not to laugh and trying not to jump the smaller padawan for the mammoth sandwich in his hands, Fenn's mind was practically gone to the prospect of any intellectual thought. Medical reports, wiring diagrams, sparring practice sequences; all went out the window the moment the scent of food hit his broad nostrils, and with something of a nervous but pleased shudder of fur rippling about the older Jedi's body, the Bothan could only manage something of an incoherent mutter in place of words.

What had been a carefully worded protest about not having to give up half of the gargantuan sandwich, about his ability to make something small for himself and simply go, all boiled down to the ever-eloquent phrase, perhaps worthy of epitaph: "buh."

It was hard to argue with the Selonian, knife in hand, as the metal blade of the kitchen utensil sheared its way through the mountain of bread, meat and other add-ons. Every bit of the Bothan's moral compass went haywire, but the black hole in his chest bellowed and every part remaining seemed to silence in sheer fear of the stomach's demands. It was wrong to sneak in and take food meant for all of the Jedi, but it was food meant to be eaten anyway, and it wasn't fair to have to patch together younglings and hear their wailing cries all day without at least having something in his stomach, surely?

If it weren't for his pulse seemingly racing at the prospect of being caught, and his mouth pooling saliva in anticipatory delight, it might have been entirely plausible that the Bothan's heart had stopped out of sheer panic. Instead, however, with half of a mammoth's feast of sandwich before him at the hands of Rikkavi, the prospect of his arteries quickly clogging was not as far-fetched.

And Fenn did absolutely nothing to stop himself. Sitting down beside the taller Corellian-native, the Bothan gratefully accepted his half of the slab of food, struggling momentarily to get a proper grip with either of his hands before taking a deep bite; far less impressive as Rikkavi's but nevertheless desperate. Masticatory muscles extended and contracted to lift and drop the Bothan's jaw as sharp teeth tore apart a mouthful from the offered sandwich, and as food hit tastebud-bristling tongue, all was at peace with the universe.

It took several seconds worth of chewing before a monumental gulp brought the mouthful of food into submission, and with it, every little bit of guilt melted away from the medic Jedi, who could only turn his gaze from the transcendent sandwich, to Rikkavi, then back to the sandwich. It was too hard not to take another bite, and with another chomp, the Bothan's mouth went to work; the stomach had taken rule now, it dictated morals and right now, food was good.

"Kark, I owe you like you wouldn't believe right now." Fenn muffled around a mouthful of meat and bread, the twenty-two year old's ears flicking slightly as his fur ruffled contently; body shifting slightly against the tiled floor of the kitchen to better gain comfort against its surface. "Haven't eaten all day; thanks."

[DreadPirateMike]

"Why the hell not?" Rikkavi asked, the query somewhat muffled by his own mouthful of sandwich.  Taking a moment to swallow, he then proceeded to clarify the question.  "Dull lectures, getting hit with training sabers, more lectures because you got hit with the damn things...not a whole lot to get excited about in this place, and that's coming from someone who biology spared having to wear that stupid Padawan braid.  But free food is one of them."

A fresh scowl settled upon his features as his thoughts turned, promptly and predictably, back to his stomach.  The truth was, while the obvious presence of true need has spurred him to his admittedly reluctant act of generosity, he was missing the prospect of getting to eat that now missing half.  It wasn't as though he technically needed it, and as his own words had attested, the meal had cost him nothing more than a bit of time doing something he enjoyed anyway when there weren't instructors around to ruin it for him.  Still...there was an inescapable sense of disappointment to it.

He couldn't say he was proud of the reaction.  Gluttony was neither a new charge against him, nor one he had ever bothered to dispute.  After all, Jho was just as bad, and it was important to take your joy where you could find it.  But regretting altruism, and for such selfish reasons...even he knew that wasn't exactly stellar thinking, for a Jedi or anyone else.  And for all his laziness and frequent sarcasm, he wasn't used to feeling actual guilt over thought or deed.  The last notable time that had happened was the "training mishap" that-

Wait a minute.  Yes.  He definitely knew this guy.

"Hold up.  You're one of the healers!  Like...the people who give other people advice about being healthy and all that poodoo.  And you haven't EATEN?  Doesn't that kind of make you...not so great at your job?"

[lion]

Nothing fazed him. So intent on eating the still-gargantuan serving of sandwich barely held together in his hands, the twenty-year old Bothan's ears fell deaf to Rikkavi's explanation, paying attention only to the key words rather than the real thrust of the Selonian's remark. Nodding his head slowly for a few moments, the elder apprentice continued to chew, focusing his mouth solely on the task as his nose handled all breathing duties; it had long since gotten to the point that his tongue had overpowered his lungs in urgency.

Another hard gulp brought down the mouthful, another exhale of relaxation and utter contentment released from the boy, and without shame did Fenn take another bite. The sandwich, remarkably, must have been magical; for no matter how many bites the Bothan took, it didn't get any smaller! Or at least, so it felt in his hands, still fumbling they were to maintain a solid grasp of the veritable brick of foodstuffs that they could do little else.

"You're lucky you don't need to wear it; hate the kriffing thing. I have to untie it every night or it'll get tangled up the next morning." Fenn muffled, around a half-chewed morsel of delicious glory, his voice muted ever so slightly by it. Manners were temporarily suspended, it seemed; gone were the chocks and restraints, and emphasising with a slight burp as he swallowed down what was left in his mouth, Fenn chuckled. "You should become an artisan making sandwiches like this; truly the Force speaks through your sandwich-craft."

The remark was sarcastic, playful, accompanied by a slight smirk as yet another small bite passed the Bothans' teeth and into the ever-hungry abyss that was his mouth. Again, his tastebuds were overwhelmed; was it the hunger that made the food taste better, or just the thrill of having obtained it dubiously? Either way, with what felt like the greatest meal he'd ever eaten in his hands, the otherwise-upstanding apprentice couldn't stop himself; wouldn't stop himself.

That was, until the topic of healing came up. So he did remember! It was tempting to see how long the Selonian would take, how long Rikkavi's mind would spend recalling that the two had in fact met before, but it was hard not to feel a little disappointed that it had taken only so long. The training saber marks, the bruises and scratches from struggle, Fenn remembered them fairly well; it was one of his first hands-on patients, after all.

"Hey, it's not my fault! You said it yourself; training, lectures...Throw study on top of that for the Trials, throw having to heal your sorry asses from said training saber burns in as well...They don't let you eat in the Halls, you know; gotta keep sterile." The Bothan retorted, his growing grin as he chewed defying the defendant tone he took, turning it from argumentative to jibing once more. Resting his head against the back of the bench he had taken up for support, Fenn closed his eyes momentarily; this was too good not to enjoy, relaxation was finally kicking in. "I missed eating today because sleep was apparently more important; I went to sit down for a bit and wait, closed my eyes for a second and it was night time.."


There was a slight pause.

"Kriff...Rekkon they've got any bluefruit left? They had some this morning; I was keen all day to get down here."