No Man Is an Island

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

In a scant twenty minutes, the Cadets returned to their bunk, save for Thida, who was still being doggedly shadowed by Khoovi to keep her honest. The group completed the run in more or less a cohesive formation, save for the hapless Cadet Nebbil, who struggled to stay with the pack despite his aching welts. To their credit, the Cadets managed a brisk pace, running hard enough to show the slightest darkening of perspiration at the smalls of their backs and in their armpits.

"Stand to attention!" Vissica snapped, and the Cadets returned to their previous statuesque poses. The only matter that betrayed that calm was the rising and falling of chests and the audible sounds of breathing. The Selonian spent a minute examining each of her charges, then with a thump of her tail, called "Dismissed."

The Cadets fell out of line, and Nebbil finally gave himself a moment to massage his tender bruises. Knight Vissica headed for the door of the barracks, pausing at it's threshold.

"Cadet Redsun, come with me."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The thought of a good sonic shower was deflated at the mention of his name. For an entire heartbeat, Jeryd froze, with a fresh jumpsuit in his hand, before the survival instincts kicked in. The jumpsuit was racked and he fell into a steady jog to catch Vissica - Lady Vissica, he reminded himself, recalling Khoovi's yelp of "Yes, ma'am!" - before she was out the door. On the way, he caught looks from the other cadets, who failed to transform their nervous glances into something encouraging. He couldn't blame them: this was unknown terriroty, even for him.

Once outside, he fell into step behind her, and followed as ordered.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"At ease..." The Selonian rumbled as they walked clear of the barracks. Vissica turned, a two-stage action lead by her upper torso pivoting to face as her legs beneath shifted their weight to turn a moment later.

"I reviewed your file, Cadet. Of all the potentials here, you are the only one with formal training in the Imperial military."

Vissica's array of whiskers raised.

"This all must seem familiar to you."

[Jeryd Redsun]

With some difficulty, Jeryd allowed his posture to deflate, clasping his hands behind his back. Relaxing in the presence of Matatek Sel Vissica was like trying to sleep on a tightrope. And it didn't help that she moved in way that was so unmistakably alien to him, with the unpredictable twisting and turning of torso and limbs alike. But, of all her unique qualities, none was more overwhelming than her breath: it had the fetid stench of decay that transported Jeryd back to Lorthal, where the abandoned fishing ports seethed in the summer heat. His one and only excursion into the Outer Rim Territories. Every breath, the stench seemed to congeal, coating the inside of his throat in a rotten deathly paste. His stomach turned in protest.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, in response to her statement. The caveats went unspoken, for it was no secret that the Imperial Citadel surpassed all academies in terms of grandeur and prestige, and also, by a significant margin, in its quota of aliens. And, considering his present company, it was a distinction he was not keen to highlight.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

His affirmative reply to Vissica's question elicited only a rumble in the Selonian's chest and a nod of her head. Her broad nose seemed to wrinkle, as if winding something only she could discern.

"You are angry. A useful emotion when controlled."

Straightening her posture, Vissica's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I suspect that anger is not something so simple as returning to a training environment."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"...No, ma'am."

A creeping cold climbed the back of Jeryd's neck. Propriety afforded him a certain degree of protection from this probing; he wouldn't lie, nor did he have to elaborate unless specifically asked. Yet, under Lady Vissica's gaze, he could feel his defences peeling away, one by one.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Nothing so simple."

Vissica's eyes squeezed closed.

"No, your anger is concentrated on your comrades."

The Selonian's eyes opened again.

"On yourself."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Though he was supposed to be standing at ease, Jeryd stiffened. In more ways than one, Lady Vissica had him backed into a corner, and, with each new deduction, robbed him of another escape route. The cold was replaced by a prickling heat, that climbed his neck in angry pink blotches. Against his will, he was having his own secrets unearthed, and presented to him for inspection like the unsightly carcass of some wretched animal.

Yes, he was angry. The life that was rightfully his, earned through hard work and determination, had been torn away from him in an instant. Replaced by something shameful and grotesque. He was branded a freak, and found himself surrounded by those he had been taught to hate. The callous sort that invaded the private thoughts of decent people and used them against them. And, worst of all, he was now one of them.

Stripped of his illusions, Jeryd’s anger crystallised into something hard, and sharp. Something so tangible, he felt he could surely drive it through the armour of this great beast and pierce her black heart. And, despite all this, what he actually did was simply reply:

“Yes, ma’am.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

The anger Vissica felt slowly uncurled from it's center, like the budding of a scornful flower. The Selonian's ermine eyes peered over Jeryd's face in all of it's minute detail. He had an exceptional control over the tempest inside, at least so far that it didn't betray him outwardly.

"I need not remind you of your oaths. I sense you are a man who understands how to keep them. Swearing fealty to the Empress, offering your service - your life, if necessary."

Lady Vissica drew in a long breath, letting it go in measured release.

"Pride, like anger, can be useful when applied correctly, Cadet. It can push you onward when you may otherwise quit."

She stiffened, her array of whiskers bristling.

"But pride can lead to arrogance. You should learn to appreciate the difference. You've given yourself in service to the Empire. How you are best put to use is no longer your say."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Lady Vissica spoke of his oaths; when she spoke of the Empress, and of the ultimate privilege – to die in service of the Empire – Jeryd became rigid, supercharged, as if an electric current had shot right through him. The words fell on his ears like sonnets, they filled his head with sweet perfume, and took root deep in his heart, where they blossomed like so many velvet roses. With the romance of it all, his chest swelled so much it could burst. These were not the words he wanted to hear, but the ones that he needed to hear.

The scalding cauldrons of anger, that in the last twenty-four hours had bubbled and frothed to overflowing, now hissed under the downpour of Vissica’s cool reprimand. What you want is irrelevant. That was what Captain Fisk had said, and here was this monstrous alien echoing his hard words. How arrogant it had been to put himself, and his own petty complaints, before the will of the Empire. This was to be his calling, whether he liked it or not. All that was left to ask of him was to do his best. To make it count.

“Yes, ma’am,” came the oft repeated phrase, and then, boldly, and brimming with zeal, he said, “I will serve the Empire to my fullest.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

At the cadet's response of "Yes ma'am", Vissica took a step with the aim of leaving the matter settled. Jeryd's zeal prompted more words, however, and the Selonian stayed her departure, standing just to Redsun's left. She weighed his declaration momentarily, mouth parted slightly to reveal her forked lower canine teeth.

"Yes. I know you will."

Vissica pushed past the Cadet, leaving him in her wake.

"There are no other alternatives."

[Jeryd Redsun]

He watched her leave down the corridor, eclipsing all light with her massive frame. Not a thought or a breath would betray him in this moment of reprieve. Instead, he remembered her words, and held close all the feelings they had stirred within him. They were the same feelings he had felt in the presence of great men, like Captain Fisk. Matatek Sel Vissica was no Oram Fisk, but she understood, as he did, the significance of loyalty, and of duty, and service. These were values that were to define his career in the Imperial military, in whatever shape it took. And, if the Empire wanted him to be something else, the change would have to come from him, and it would start with a bloody good wash.

####

What sonic showers lacked in luxury, they made up for in utility. Less than three minutes had passed since Jeryd stepped into the dark grey cubicle, slick with sweat, and wearing the grime of a hot afternoon like a second skin. The generators climbed the walls in three columns, and their discs throbbed, making the very air come alive around him. He turned slowly on the spot, like a roasting nuna, while ultrasonic vibrations ran in waves over his skin, sloughing away the foulness. If he closed his eyes and listened, he could very well have been in the presence of a giant purring cat. It was a small measure of bliss to claim in the absence of hot water, and it was over all too soon. When he stepped out, he felt a degree of cleanliness that surely went down to the molecular level.

He quickly changed into a fresh jumpsuit, avoiding eye contact, ignoring conversation. What snippets managed to slip through his filter were invariably petty complaints of sore feet and aching legs; they were all as soft as cookie dough. Not one of them appeared to take satisfaction in the warm afterglow of a good run; his muscles were sated, and drunk with fatigue. It was about the only thing he had left in the face of all that was different. His crisp jumpsuit, though tight and uncomfortable in its newness, was a joy to wear compared to the stiff and itchy sacks everyone wore at the academy. And that was just the beginning: everything about the Citadel was superior, from its impossibly smooth floors, to its ornate vaulted ceilings; the dorms boasted views to make senators green with envy, while the bronzium statues were fit for palaces, not military grounds. Of course, the Citadel had not always been a military facility. Indeed, the Citadel had not always been the Citadel. That was when his awe turned to ashes.

Thereafter, every sight became an ugly extravagance. And, as much as he wanted to avert his gaze, it would not do to be seen head-drooped, dragging his feet around a place of admirals and generals. He carried himself with the pride of a soldier wherever he went, titles be damned, and, at present, he was on his way to the mess hall for perhaps another slice of normality, or something equally appetizing. Lines from a mental map unfolded, leading him first to the end of the long line of dorms, then left, and then the second right to a turbolift; one floor down was where the mess hall would be. The moment the doors opened, he was greeted by the indistinct smell of hot food that filled him up like tibanna gas. He drove on with purpose in his stride, cutting a line through the milling crowd until he reached his destination.

It wasn’t so much a mess hall as it was a mess city. In terms of proportion, it had more in common with the immense hangars of Star Destroyers - not that he’d ever seen one himself, of course, just the pictures - except, instead of shuttles and rows of starfighters, the mess hall was populated by an endless sea of tables and rowdy cadets. Service stations, chaotic with the bustle of hungry crowds, were dotted at regular intervals around the hall, vanishing into the distance. Jeryd looked up, and marveled to see an entire second floor that wrapped around the outskirts of the room, full of tables of officers in uniform. That was smart: close enough to keep the cadets in line, but far enough to remind them of their place. Against his will, he pictured himself looking down on the surge of bodies, disemboweling clawclams in his finest officer greens. And then, dashing his daydream, he dismissed the lording officers with a scowl.

At the nearest service station, the queue was 42 people long. He knew this because he had the time to count, and there wasn’t much else to do besides wait, and attempt to ignore the all-encompassing din. The service station was manned by droids and cadets alike - Jeryd assumed there was a rotation in place and that it would, one day, be his turn to don the unsightly white apron - their faces glistened from the heat and pace of the work, and their once-white aprons were painted with the contents of the myriad steaming and bubbling vats. Beyond the front lines, there were many more busying themselves about the kitchen, cadet and droid alike, side by side, slaving over hot stoves and pans. It was all very familiar, except for the ridiculous scale of it all.

Halfway along, a voice caught his attention. It belonged to an older cadet, with a long face and slick black hair. He was talking to a shorter, broader boy with beady eyes and a face full of teeth.

“Did you hear? Lady Vissica inspected the new blood today.”

“Oh, skrag, son. New blood is right.”

“Nah. They got off light with a few laps of the Citadel. Although, one kid did look a little busted up,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Seems like Darth Otter’s losing her touch.” The note of disappointment in the cadet’s voice was unmistakable. But he soon brightened up, “Hey, remember when she punched that Chiss boy so hard he crapped blue for a week.”

“No. I wasn’t there, Choffer. And neither were you.”

“Yeah, but I heard-”

“And Chiss don’t bleed blue, they bleed red like the rest of us.”

“Nonsense, chap. You’ve been spending too much time with those limp-dicked multiculture pals from Team Green. Where do you think the expression ‘As rich as a blue-blood’ comes from?”

“That’s the aristocracy, you anus wart.”

The exchange of insults came thick and fast; he’d heard enough. By the time he arrived at the service station itself, Jeryd was so hungry, he could eat a bantha. With a metal dinner tray in hand, he shuffled with the rest of them, lusting after the cruelly-lidded containers, each bathed in a warm golden light. His imagination ran wild, grasping at all the possibilities. But it wasn’t until he reached the end of the queue, and finally caught a glimpse of the menu, that he realized the extent of his good fortune. The droid, however, was unmoved by his smile.

“Next.”

“Yes,” he said, and with the gentle manners of a school boy, pointed out each of his choices, “Can I have the steak and dumpling stew, with a big old chunk of bread, and a side of Wookiee peas, please?”

The droid responded with a vacant blink of photoreceptors, before one of its long spindly arms reached out and snatched away his dinner tray. He studied the efficient work of the service crew with satisfaction; his tray was passed from droid to cadet, to droid, to cadet, and back again, filling up in no time. Once it was returned, he gave it a once over, to ensure everything was in order. In the middle of the tray, there was a pool of milky water, and in the groove beside it, a sachet of brown powder; an inch-high cube of what looked like dry sand sat at the back of the tray, while a thumb-sized tacky white ball rested in the neighbouring compartment, and finally, to the left of the tray, a long trough of smooth green cream. His inspection done, Jeryd turned his gaze on the droid.

“Excellent,” he smiled, “Thank you very much.”

On his journey through the labyrinth of packed tables, he noticed a pattern emerging: the heart of the mess hall was occupied by the older, more experienced cadets, whose jumpsuits bore the crests of their assigned teams - team loyalty was evident in their congregations, but what surprised him most was that these groups were mixed, with aliens and humans sitting shoulder to shoulder at the dinner table - it was completely unheard of; while the older cadets were exemplary in their behaviour, there was a boisterous brood of younger cadets who had been around long enough to exhibit confidence, but too briefly to know better; on the outskirts of the mess hall were the greenest recruits, huddled in quiet segregated groups of humans and aliens, trying not to be noticed. For once, it was a sentiment Jeryd shared.

After a minute of walking, the crowds thinned, and he found the cadets from his dorm. He was spotted by Kass Pheridae, she was made unmistakable by the frizzy ginger hair that she had wrestled into a pony tail, and by her considerable height. For a girl. She stood so she could move along the bench and make room for him, presumably because she thought he wanted to sit with them. She was ignored. So, too, was Cadet Thida and the Duros boy, who he thought was called Tolomy Pash, but he couldn’t be sure. They shared a table with another Rodian, and an alien with red eyes and tentacle hair, but neither of them seemed to notice the other. And they were dutiful in their ignorance of him, too, for which he was grateful. And yet, when he turned his back, he could almost feel their eyes on him. A feeling he hoped was just healthy paranoia, and nothing... unnatural.

Finally, he arrived at a table that was blissfully empty. An island in the storm. He sat, considered his dinner tray for a moment, then clasped his hands. Eyes closed, he muttered, “Gloria Imperium.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Study datapads lay on the desk in Halajiin Rabeak's private living quarters, much as Halajiin Rabeak lay flopped out in his fur on his bed, snoring lightly. The Nehantite's day had been a busy one, with morning classes and early afternoon exercise and training sessions which had been cut off early as some of the knights were needed to inspect the new arrivals. That meant an afternoon study period for most about the basics of the Force, and a nap for Hal in a room which much resembled his old one back when the Citadel was known as the Jedi Temple, and Hal carried the rank of Jedi Knight.

Now he found himself alone, all remnants of the Jedi gone from the Citadel except what remained under lock and key, while the Empire used the Force to train and brainwash super-soldiers for its own twisted cause, while the uniform jumpsuit of an Imperial Knight Cadet hung in his closet. Oh, if only the Empire knew who he was behind his veneer of Kyle Rayner.

The beep of his alarm clock signaled that it was coming up on dinner time, and it was with a lazy flailing of arms and legs that sheets were flung back, and Hal hauled himself out of bed to stand in the sunlight at his massive window wall, allowing it to sink into all of his bared fur. Sure, he might get an indecency complaint from a passing speeder driver, but it was their fault for looking, wasn't it? A good stretch and yawn, then it was off to his own private sonic shower in his en suite refresher. Kyle Rayner was truly the envy of the cadets as he had his own private room, even if it was jam-packed with cameras and monitoring equipment.

What took three minutes for humans took nearly six for furred species, and the Nehantite was no exception, especially as he felt the need to give his fur a good brushing to alleviate the static charge buildup his yellow pelt held after each go in the sonic shower. A pair of snug, lycra undershorts next, then his jumpsuit, Hal inspected himself in the mirror. It fit well enough, despite being a little tight in the crotch, and he had to admit its black and white color scheme really set off his fur. Giving himself a playful smile, Hal parted ways with his reflection to tug on his boots and head down to the mess hall for some chow. Months of meal cubes only had been brought to an end by the introduction of dehydrated food powders, and for once he actually looked forward to a meal. Sort of.

When he had arrived several months earlier, the number if Imperial Knight Cadets was fairly easy to keep track of, but since then two more waves had arrived, and now another truly massive one had joined the ranks of the IKC, who began to pose a threat to the number of standard, non-Force-adept Empire Cadets, officers, and special agency operatives who shared the Citadel as their home and base of operations.

Known to all of them by his alias of Kyle Rayner, Hal stood out like a sore thumb, but as more aliens had come into the fold he found himself growing more comfortable. Dinner would be nerf lasagna, with sides of some blue carrot thing and salad, and a glass of protein mineral vitamin drink which looked like brown muck, yet tasted like strawberries that weren't entirely ripe.

The simple thought of a dinner that wasn't meal cubes brought a smile to his face, though it vanished as he saw some new punk had taken a seat at his table.

His table.

Months of "Be careful, he's a Jedi," and "I think he might be an Empire mole," had left the character of Kyle Rayner on the outside of most cadets' circles, but he'd also proven himself in combat and knowledge, even helping to protect the Empress's boy-toy in that big mess on Pallaxides, and standing by her side in a historic meeting with the Alliance afterward. One of the adhesive sutures still remained above Hal's left eye from that mission, where a scar had mostly healed over thanks to plenty of topical bacta.

With great stealth, Hal set his tray down whilst his table-mate said his little prayer, and by the time the human could look up, Hal was seated across from him, stirring his powder and liquid sauce into something that started to reconstitute into a food-like substance.

"You must be one of the new class, huh?" Hal said, totally nonchalant. "They tell you about the Jedi guy here, yet?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

The appearance of some sort of dog alien took Jeryd by surprise. He stiffened just enough to correct his posture, and compose himself in the presence of an unwelcome stranger. The way he was so casual put him on edge, it reminded him of the way a predator stills itself before the deadly pounce. Luckily for him, he was no fat docile grazer, waiting to become manka cat food, nor was he some gullible greenhorn about to make himself the butt of some half-wit’s prank. He afforded the yellow-furred guy all of a second’s worth of a mirthless glance.

“Yeah. Good one.”

The sachet of brown powder was torn open, first; a beak was made of two fingers and a thumb, it dipped into the bowl of milky water, lifted, and flicked a few drops on the tacky white ball; the powder was poured into the water in one circular motion, and the sandy cube was dropped into the centre of it. For a moment, nothing. Then, the tacky ball started to grow, pulling fibres into bulbous tumours that browned at the edges, it stretched, transforming the close glutinous texture into a husk of light fluffy bread that was as big as two fists. The milky water bubbled and turned dark, it thickened as shapes rose to the surface, drinking up the remaining moisture, until it resembled a hearty vegetable stew. And sat proudly in the middle, a huge steaming steak dumpling.

Not another second was wasted. When Jeryd cut into the dumpling, gravy oozed out of the side, and with it, he swept up a mouthful of stew and shovelled it into his mouth. If this joker thought he was going to humour his rubbish about Jedi in the Imperial Citadel, he was sorely mistaken.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

On his own tray, Hal's lasagne grew and morphed into a rather unhealthy looking mess as he'd overstirred, causing layers of pasta to merge with the swelling bits of ground nerf, and it's overall structure to lean heavily to one side. At least his salad was fresh, and so he jabbed a fork into it while shrugging his shoulders and carrying on.


"Yeah, not kidding. One of the older cadets here was trained by a Jedi. They caught him on Phindarr. What I heard is that he took down nearly a squad of TIE fighters before the ISD overhead took him to ground, and then it took several platoons, some heavy armor, and both Lady Vissica and Lady Palara to actually catch him." Hal rattled off his own story with ease, though a hint of self-skepticism thrown in for good measure. "They say he's committed to the Knights now, though. I'll tell you what, I wouldn't want to get on the bad side of a Jedi. Who knows what weird and dirty tricks they know. Just thought I'd fill you in since you're new here and all."


With that he set about tucking into his meal, able to fit massive forkfuls of salad and lasagna into his animalistic mouth, though he left the blue carrots alone after a quick taste revealed they were positively nasty.

[Jeryd Redsun]

While the furball ran his mouth, Jeryd hunkered over his food, and attacked with strokes of surgical precision. A dig here, a mound of stew; a slash there, a knife’s edge of peas; he ripped chunks from his bread, and mopped the edges, and washed it all down with an upended tumbler. Still, he was talking. Prattling on about some Jedi, who apparently walked amongst them, and was a force to be reckoned with. What a first class laser brain.

“Listen up, story corner, keep your gossip to yourself. I don’t give a crap about the big bad Jedi that’s lurking under your bed. Get me?”

As if to draw a line under the whole stupid thing, he stabbed a piece of dumpling into his mouth with murderous intent. In burning his tongue, he had at least denied himself the temptation to breath anymore life into such unworthy hearsay. And, to think, when he woke up, yesterday, he'd discussed top-secret postings with Dodge, AT-AT piloting, over breakfast with Bosh, and, while he was buffing boots with Muldoon, they’d talked about the eager girls of Commenor, and all the things that made their knees weak. Normal things. Good, wholesome Imperial things. Not rumours of evil space wizards. Was this to be his life now?

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Oh, I get ya," Hal shrugged. "I just heard you and your class got to go run laps this morning. Mine didn't have to. Mostly because we didn't fuck up by not knowing the answers to things. But, hey, fine, you obviously don't need any advice from someone who's been here for a while."

His fork cut away a section of his strange lasagna-esque foodpile, and he contemplated it for a moment. It wouldn't do for this new little snot to know Hal had to do fifty push-ups on his first day, so he kept that to himself while working at that next forkful.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

The words tumbled out before he could put a leash on them. It was a knee-jerk response, fuelled by pride, and defiance. He retreated a few inches, straightening up in his chair, and pulled his gaze away from his antagonist. And what? If some lippy dog alien could boast about not having to run a circuit around the Citadel, then he, Jeryd Redsun, had every reason to be proud. His father was a captain, and his grandfather had been a major. Hells, even Aryn was a frakking junior lieutenant. Loyalty, service, strength - these were the foundations upon which the Redsun family was built. He was a true son of the Empire, not some alien tourist got lucky because he could float rocks.

In the space between crowded tables, he saw the bobbing of a familiar nest of curls. From under it, appeared Nebbil, drinking in his surroundings with moons for eyes. Jeryd tensed as his gaze swept over him. For a second, it looked like the scrawny greenhorn was going to join the others, but instead, he found himself caught in his owlish glare. When that freckled face brightened with the light of recognition, he felt a stab of ice to the gut, and watched as he zig-zagged in their direction. By the time he was upon them, there were death threats in Jeryd’s eyes. All it took to stop the little twerp in his tracks, was a subtle shake of the head. Again, Nebbil backtracked, and slunk off to sit with Kass Pheridae. Perhaps, this time, the message had been received loud and clear.

Safe, Jeryd sank back into his dinner.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Oh, but I know so much about you already. Hal's mind gloated inside. You're a little self-important brat, too good to associate with others. Must be upper-class, or from a distinguished military family. Probably both. You want to stand out on your own, which is why you avoided everyone else to come sit at the empty table, and then you were miffed when you couldn't get your stoic mealtime silence. You pretend not to be worried that there's something here beyond your understanding or control, and you disregard advice given to you, which means you think you know everything already. In less than two weeks I could get you to break down in tears, if I wanted to. You're so easy to read that you're less an open book than a single-sided pamphlet.

Dozens of biting comments played upon Hal's tongue, which had been made sharp by years of snide remarks and stinging retorts, but just as one readied itself from his magazine of smack, a new and even better opportunity presented itself.

"You're wrong, I do know the first thing about you. I know that's your new classmate," Hal grinned. "Why doesn't he come join us?"

The Nehantite gave neither time or opportunity for Jeryd to object before he stood, nodding to Nebbil and waved him on over. If Jeryd intended to ever lie or perform any act of deception whatsoever, the kid desperately needed lessons in hiding his facial expressions. The fact that Nebbil had been greeted with a glare of intolerant arrogance had opened new doors through which Hal could further read the new recruit.

[Jeryd Redsun]

When the dog alien beckoned Nebbil over, time slowed. Jeryd watched, helpless, as the curly-haired cadet turned a finger on himself, and mouthed the inevitable ‘Me?’ A half-cocked eyebrow leapt, lifting him out of his seat. There was a stiffness in the way he moved, and his walk had been reduced to a sort of lopsided shuffle from the burden of six lashes and a five kilometer run. He folded himself onto the bench beside Jeryd, groaning like an old woman.

“Hello, gents,” he sighed. Jeryd noticed he had eyes only for his new furry chum, which meant that he was not completely stupid. Somehow, from under the shadow of the beatings and humiliation, Nebbil surfaced, as bright as a new day. First came the pleasantries, “Nebbil Hoob.”

A pink and eager hand sprang out across the table.