Cannibal, Cannibal

[Ada Wong]

“Hi, boss-lady!”
 
The irreverent greeting burst from the communications device resting in the palm of T’Jung’s hand— far, far too familiar of an address from the subordinate officer she knew to be on the other end.
 
T’Jung had been in the process of preparing her evening meal and was thus standing in her kitchen when the call came through. Held precisely in her left hand was a pestle, the companion mortar having been set aside so that she could answer the call, and over her hands she wore a pair of sterile blue gloves to prevent any contamination. The blunt pestle, a tool made of finely polished soapstone, was pinched between the fingers of one hand, and scattered across the countertop before her were a mixture of ingredients, one of the most eye-catching and exotic being a bright, smooth-skinned crimson root similar to a carrot in appearance. A bowl of water, too, was set off to the side, bits of red dust already beginning to form a chalky brown paste inside.
 
Her apartment was sparsely decorated despite the large amount of space it contained, the wallpaper a demure shade of brown that reminded T’Jung of the harsh desert sun and swirling grains of sand. A meditation mat was rolled up and placed against the far wall, and that was adjacent to a low table adorned solely with a bronze-colored incense holder in the center of the room. Several potted cacti were scattered about the open area, a spray bottle half-filled with water sitting beside one of the clay-swaddled desert plants. A long, fan-bladed lirpa was buttressed against the space over her desk and supported by two simple hooks; the deadly pole-arm seemed especially conspicuous in comparison to the placid atmosphere hanging about the rest of her home. It was one of the few ornaments she had allowed from her home world, not for sentimental purposes as one might expect, but solely because it might prove useful in the event of an invasion of her place of living. The weapon appeared fierce even in its resting state, familiar characters carved into it and the polished, curved blade glistening under the low light.
 
Placing the communicator on the countertop with a click, T’Jung returned to her task. The steady flick of her wrist as she turned the pestle was the only motion in the kitchen area, her tall, trim figure backlit both by the electric-blue neon sign outside her window and the open sky of Coruscant, grandiose spires and shiny glass windows sparkling and unsoiled by dirt or grime as far as the eye could see. While she could easily create the same dish using much more efficient, less primitive means, she found the repetitive movements soothing, and so continued to prepare her meal by hand.
 
Scchhsh, schssh, schssh—
 
The call had come as a surprise to T’Jung. She could almost hear the human breathing into his comm, their connection simmering with static from the volume of his words, but the only outward sign of puzzlement she allowed was the slightest lift of her sharply-upswept eyebrows. She would overlook this blatant disregard of their place of work’s hierarchy for now. There were more pressing matters to consider, after all.
 
First and foremost, it was… unusual for one of her fellow researchers to contact her while she was outside of the research laboratories, forcibly separated from her experimentation by the facility's security due to the long hours she typically kept, but most unusual of all was her subordinate’s lack of explanation for the initiation of said contact. This must be rectified at once, the woman concluded, and immediately sought to do just that.
 
“Science Officer Myers. What is your purpose for contacting me?” T’Jung asked, and if she was displeased by the man’s impertinence, she did not elect to verbalize or acknowledge it for the sake of brevity. Unlike her human coworker, she made sure to posit a question right at the start of her speech to make her purpose clear.
 
A sound like crumpling paper flittered over the speakers, as if Myers was searching for a report to read from. As if he had not already prepared said report before initiating contact. T’Jung tilted her head to the side, the shell of one pointed ear grazing against the phone’s hard plastic surface. Most illogical.
 
Scssch, schssch. T’Jung paused to scoop the contents of the mortar into the bowl of water, observing with mild interest as the pulverized dust sucked in moisture, becoming clumpy and wet in a matter of seconds. Taking another handful of finely-chopped root pieces and dropping them into the mortar, T’Jung resumed her earlier ministrations.
 
Myers continued to speak.
 
“Well, ah, you know..."

Ah, 'you know.' Another expression that T'Jung was swiftly becoming accustomed to, although the phrase still grated over her own, much more literal understanding of the common language. It was no small wonder that she was able to restrain herself from sighing, her focus again slipping toward the very labor-intensive recipe.

"There’s been a small… accident. A very tiny one! The teeniest, tiniest accident possible. It was just an oversight that we really should’ve caught on to, and, uh.”
 
Ssscchh!
 
T’Jung was silent. She stared expressionlessly at the wall of her apartment, all efficient movements having ceased. Her head bowed over the bitter root paste she had been preparing, pitch-black hair encircled by a halo of bluish light cast by the massive, glowing neon emblem looming outside of her window.
 
Her next words were toneless. As was her way, she did not allow for any emotion to creep into her voice, and yet T’Jung found herself struggling to quell the mounting panic within the boundaries of her own mind. Any error in their line of work, even a small one, could prove disastrous.
 
“An accident,” repeated T’Jung, her meal now thoroughly abandoned.

"Yeah," said Myers, and this time T'Jung recognized the nervousness trembling in his voice, the audible hesitance of his tongue as it painstakingly inched over each damning syllable. "You need to get down here. Now."