Breakfast in Bedlam/Chapters 1-2

Chapter 1
Now: 26 BBY

Dr. Gawynn Karastee tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked over her datapad. She had found a moment's peace in the sparsely-decorated room, a welcome change from the constant noise of the prison around her. Echoing footsteps, the warden's booming voice ringing from the walls, inmates screaming various obscenities that one should not repeat in polite company, and the rhythmic heavy thud of the automatic locks all combined into a chaotic cacophony of distraction. Certainly not conducive to the work Karastee was appointed to do. And most certainly ill-suited to the rehabilitation of her mentally-ill clients. Dr. Karastee was the court-appointed criminal psychiatrist for the Bedacus-Lambrecht Correctional Facility, charged with caring for society's outcasts. Known within the duracrete walls as "Bedlam," the prison indiscriminately housed the mentally-ill with the general population, as to the district's Department of Corrections, there was no real difference whether that inmate's charges were due to conscious decision or irrational and unstable thought processes.

Dr. Karastee shook her head, hearing a hollow, tinny "bang" and several inmates shout somewhere out in the hallway nearby, followed by the harsh bark of a corrections officer and the impact of nightstick against cell door. A few moments passed and she heard the unmistakable beep as the door was unlocked and opened. Karastee looked up from her datapad, two large uniformed officers flanking the doorway, a short insectoid Gand ushered inside and directed to sit in the chair across from her. The Gand, clad in a bright orange jumpsuit and fitted with a breathing apparatus, obeyed immediately. His hands were bound at the wrists, similar bindings on his ankles. Karastee regarded the despondent creature before her with a nod and a professional smile. "Good afternoon, Zuckuss."

Zuckuss gave a slight bow of the head, but otherwise remained silent. He rested his gloved hands on the table separating himself and Karastee.

Karastee waited until the guards stepped outside before speaking again. Granted, the guards were only there to maintain order and discipline, but Karastee would rather it be confidentiality that was the priority. What her clients say is of no business to the corrections officers. And in a facility such as this one, where errant bounty hunters are housed with the fugitives they helped put away, even the smallest amount of information regarding any perceived weakness could be turned into a weapon. She had seen it happen before; an inmate had learned of an incarcerated bounty hunter's troubles due to an off-hand comment by one of the guards. That information was passed on to several others and when dinner was served that evening, the gang descended on the bounty hunter like a pack of wild nexu, beating him to death with a fire extinguisher. It was not the first time Karastee heard of such an incident, nor was it the last. However, it did nothing to change the set-up. The hunters were still caged with their prey. And the prey had ample time to prepare for it, stewing with thoughts of revenge. Days, weeks, months, even years of constant obsession, waiting for the right moment. Being presented with the object of their fury, stripped of power, was the catalyst. And Karastee would be informed after the fact that one of her clients took a shiv in the eye.

Karastee worked primarily with bounty hunters. To the New Republic, these mercenaries were no better than the common criminal, as far as legal rights were concerned. If they committed a fault, they were thrown in prison, oftentimes the same prison as many of the bounties they acquired. Bounty hunters had no rights. They were scum, plain and simple. And it irritated Karastee greatly, having been granted the opportunity to get inside her clients' heads and see them for more than just the hardened shoot-from-the-hip guns for hire that the galactic media outlets painted them to be. A glance at her datapad, Karastee reviewed her notes from their previous session, then turned her gaze to Zuckuss. "How was your morning?" A little small talk was in order to make her client feel at ease. Zuckuss merely shrugged. "Fine." The response was almost a grunt. Karastee nodded, smiling. "Anything in particular?" "No." Karastee nodded again. The monosyllabic responses were commonplace to start with as Zuckuss was not one to start readily sharing information about himself without proper coaxing. Karastee tried a different approach. "Am I speaking with the Uncanny One today?" The question caught Zuckuss by surprise, as evident by how he had straightened his posture and fixed his gaze on Karastee, who could detect shock behind the large insect eyes. His breath caught in the dangling tubes of his face mask and it took him a moment to recover. Albeit with another one-word reply. "No." Karastee nodded slowly, noting it on her datapad. She knew now not to expect to speak with the humble and proper findsman one would expect. That personality surfaced infrequently, only a few times was she witness to it. There would be no discussion of religion today. As per her instruction, she treated the personalities as if they were individuals, which they were, though housed together in one body. She knew that the alternate personality was developed to protect Zuckuss, an attempt to shield him from some past trauma. Particularly stressful situations tended to urge the "alter" out of the darker recesses of his mind, while the primary would essentially be boxed away until the threat has passed. The primary, though, struck Karastee as odd, as the mannerisms, dialect, and even the tone of the Gand's voice were so drastically different from one who hailed from what many considered to be the most humble of societies. It was a personality she expected more from an offworld Gand, one who spent most of his life away from his culture, not from one such as Zuckuss, who was so deeply embroiled in the intricacies of the shamanistic practices of the findsmen that to just simply cast it all to the wind and adopt the identity of a Corellian braggart seemed like a needless sacrifice. As far as Karastee was able to determine, Zuckuss was unable to return to his home planet, any reason why had not yet been divulged. Perhaps that was why he had discarded his culture and packed his former identity away. Karastee folded her hands on the table top. "Is there anything you would like to talk about today?" Zuckuss shrugged. "Not really." Three syllables, Karastee mused, we're making progress. She reviewed her notes again, looking for earmarked entries that she wanted to elaborate on in additional sessions. Zuckuss may claim to not have anything to talk about, but that did not excuse him. In previous sessions, he would often start discussing something, only to change the subject as quickly as he could and then derail the conversation in an attempt to avoid going back to the subject. Usually, the matter concerned the events surrounding his self-imposed exile from Gand and his later imprisonment. Though, just because Zuckuss did not want to talk about it doesn't mean that there was nothing to talk about. "Let's discuss the charges that brought you here." Zuckuss was silent for a long moment, his gaze on the table. "Don't want to talk about it." Too soon, perhaps, Karastee nodded and rephrased her question. "Very well, then... How about before that?  What happened before you came here?" Again, a long stretch of silence as Zuckuss engaged in an internal dialogue, weighing his options and searching for just the right words. "Just a hunt," he said after a moment, his gaze still locked on the table. He was purposefully avoiding the usage of pronouns or any identifiers for reasons known only to himself. "Was contracted to bring in a serial killer." "How did it go? Who were you after?" Zuckuss did not answer right away, concerning himself with quiet whispering responses to some inner inquiry. He shook his head and slapped the table with the flat of his palm to silence whatever it was distracting him. "Pepan Manja. He was the bounty.  Captured him in the Underlevels." Karastee nodded slowly, the name stirring a sense of familiarity. Pepan Manja was a long-snouted Kubaz chef who had succumbed to a bizarre psychosis. He had killed, processed, and devoured at least eight different victims before finally being tracked down and apprehended. The year-long rampage targeted insectoid citizens, a throwback to a culturally-ingrained practice of eating the only available and sustainable insect population on Kubindi and thereby viewing any race that sported compound eyes and an exoskeleton as merely a delicacy to be savored. Karastee had met perfectly sociable Kubaz over the years, ones that worked alongside with what could possibly be considered a potential meal; a Kubaz thoracic surgeon who answered to a Verpine chief medical executive, but never thought that a debilitating psychosis could arise from a specialized diet until Pepan Manja was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility for parole. Sentenced to Bedlam, the very penal facility to which Karastee was assigned. A slight shiver crawled up Dr. Karastee's spine. Her gaze moved to her datapad, then back to Zuckuss. "Speaking of which," this time Karastee changed the subject, "I was informed of an altercation between yourself and--" "Don't want to talk about it," Zuckuss quickly and firmly cut her off, trying to steer the discussion. "Pepan Manja was not the final hunt..." He trailed off, his gaze falling to the table. "Not the final hunt..." Quietly, he repeated himself a few more times before looking up toward the security holo-cam mounted in the corner of the room behind Karastee. His hands went to one of the dangling air hoses and he idly fidgeted with it. "There would have been others... other hunts... There should have been others..." Karastee leaned forward. It was only a matter of time until Zuckuss decided to talk. He just needed to realize that he was in control of the conversation. Karastee studied his expressionless visage, the large, curved, silvery eyes, and the ubiquitous breath mask that obscured most of the lower half of his face, sufficiently protecting his throat and lungs from the room's atmosphere. Gands were generally regarded as being unable to visibly emote, though Karastee had found that she could detect enough subtleties in Zuckuss's body language to alert her to what could possibly be on his mind. With his gaze averted to some inner point of contemplation and his hands subconsciously making a show of playing with one of the attached ammonia canisters, it seemed to Karastee that Zuckuss was working on recalling a difficult memory and selecting his words carefully to avoid bringing attention to what was really bothering him. Karastee waited a few moments more to be sure that Zuckuss was not going to continue his thoughts, then redirected the conversation back to the previous topic. "Tell me about that hunt. About Pepan Manja." His hands again resting on the table, his gaze on Karastee, Zuckuss nodded and began.

Chapter 2
And then: two years ago

No one knew about it. No one suspected a thing. He was always so quiet, well-behaved, kept mostly to himself. "A strange genius," they called him. Brilliant, though aloof. Happily occupied with his cooking. And that's the way it would have continued until the final project. Oh, that final project. How very quickly it had turned, from routine to appalling. Appalling, at least, to the uncultured swine at the academy. They lacked good taste. They all did. The students, the instructors, everyone. The galaxy was mired in the control of those with an unrefined palate. Not a single touch of class among the lot of them. Perhaps if they understood the importance of not letting good food go to waste, he would be attending commencement ceremonies and beginning his career at Calliandro's. But, no. The administration was run by the inflated egos of those without the slightest hint of proper etiquette. Those who were blind to the culinary expertise he had. And their processed-meal-laden minds drove them to expel possibly one of the greatest chefs the galaxy had ever been blessed to have known. And then that dung-eating invertebrate who calls itself a food critic had the gall to make a snide comment on the HoloNet News, further poisoning the minds of the public and blinding them to what he had to offer. The blade hit the counter top with a sharp "thwack," Pepan Manja bringing his focus back to the here and now. It was not the time for inner reflection, considering that he had the oven on. And his mind should not be wandering away while he was cutting a sizable roast into smaller portions for easier storage. Which one was this one again? Ah, yes... a Vratix. Apparently an engineer of sorts, judging by the belongings he found on its strangely-jointed body; a datapad full of technical readouts. Those things didn't matter, though. He could care less about the belongings. He will dispose of those unnecessary items later. The Vratix was caught in a secluded side street roughly two blocks away from Bucher's Quality Meats, a pound of ground nerf chuck tucked under one chitinous arm. It was utterly oblivious to its surroundings, having traveled that area so often that it was confident in its self-assurance that it was in a perfectly safe neighborhood. Its ignorance was its own undoing. Pepan was able to track the Vratix, then felled it with a single blow from a discarded drainage pipe. The dizzying impact to the back of the head sent the Vratix pitching forward. Pepan then quietly ended the hunt, a quick snapping twist of the head to sever the spinal column. He took his catch home and processed it. No one knew about it, of course, just as no one knew about the others. And if he plays his sabacc right, he can keep it that way. This Vratix, with its awkward, crawling gait and multi-jointed limbs, was certainly not about to tell anyone what happened in its condition. Pepan's long snout curled in the Kubaz equivalent of a smile in response to his joke. Shaking his head, he finished cutting and wrapping the last remaining portions of the Vratix carcass in white butcher paper. Putting the meat in his cold storage locker, Pepan took a moment to check on his cooking. A succulent aroma of marinaded meat wafted forth from the open oven on a wave of warm steam. The strong spice scent stung his eyes for a moment, Pepan blinking away the tears that were brought forth. No matter how the seasoning irritated his sensitive eyes, it would not affect the flavor of the dish. The savory meat, softened in its own juices, sizzling, glistened in the light of the oven. Oh, pity on those who would miss out on such a culinary delight! They have not the slightest clue what they are missing! It is their own fault for that, Pepan surmised. To allow this game to roam the streets as if they were civilized creatures. To place sanctions on this bountiful harvest was almost criminal. Perhaps if they realized the banquet potential of this plentiful population around them, hunger would not be an issue in the poorer areas of Coruscant. No sentimental feelings were wasted on the chitinous forms of these creatures. And their flavor! The tenderness of the inner flesh is unmatched by even the most succulent Roba steak! To allow these insects to roam freely was like giving a bantha the right to vote. Such a needless waste. After another cursory glance at the timer, Pepan tossed his knife in the sink and crossed the room to sit for a moment. Wiping his hands on his blood-stained apron, he turned on the holo-proj for some background noise to counteract the deafening silence left behind since he had ended the rhythmic chopping. "--last seen leaving the shop that afternoon. Authorities have questioned the shop's owner, Darellius Bucher, concerning the whereabouts of the engineer..." Well, it seems someone took notice after all. At the very least to the disappearance of the Vratix. It almost sickened him how the authorities treated it, wasting media air time for what essentially is a lost animal. The news report continued to drone, however Pepan was no longer paying any mind to it. Unimportant fluff. Merely background noise. Though, he had to pause and chuckle at the suspect. Darellius Bucher. It was hard to believe that the scrawny pale human, with that hooked nose and bad teeth, was suspected of such an act. Bucher was a bookish busybody with delusions of grandeur, hoping for a career beyond his family's meat-packing business. He spoke in a meek whisper and carried himself with the air of insecurity. With how he recoiled in horror from using a grease fryer, there was no possible way that Bucher would make it as an accomplished chef, utter lack of any cooking ability aside. At least his demeanor worked in that police and public suspicions alike were easily attached to him. And Bucher's round-about way of explaining himself should keep the police busy for quite a while. "Stonewalling," they would claim and Bucher would be placed into custody. It was almost a shame as Pepan and Bucher were roommates at the academy and Bucher even offered Pepan a job at the meat market to help pay off his student loans. To see that his acquaintance was facing serious charges caused a twinge of painful sympathy. Oh well, Pepan dismissed the feeling, better him than me. The timer on the oven buzzed and Pepan stood to attend to it. His roast was finished, the small residence filled with the enticing aroma. Donning protective mitts, he pulled the dish from the oven and placed it on the range. The meat beaded with its sizzling juices, the braised surface a bright red. Carefully, he pierced the meat with a fork, checking the temperature and consistency. Perfect, it was ready to serve. Washing his hands, Pepan got himself a plate and cut a portion from the roast, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. He had to admit one thing, these insects had exquisite taste.