so as many of you know i have secretly (not so secretly) unprivated secure that card for the entirety of december.
💀🔫
now that december is coming to an end and i finally got a chance to reread it and think upon what i would like to do with the fic, i have finally come to a decision.
i will definitely be rewriting stc, but i don’t even know if it’s going to be called stc anymore.
as i’m currently working on it december 24th 2025 it has basically a new plot, new backstories, and some new characters so i fear we have lost like most of the og plot. (WHICH IS GOOD BECAUSE I’M NOT GONNA RUN INTO ANOTHER SCANDAL I HOPE!!!! THIS IS ALL MY ORIGINAL THOUGHTS AND IDEAS)
for starters, i have decided to place the cast as masters students at stanford instead of undergrad. i’m actually debating wether or not i want y/n to be an international student rn, but i think i am leaning more towards that route.
there will also be more focus on a 2nd couple (haechan and yizhou) as well as a third couple i haven’t decided on who yet. i want the 3rd couple to mostly be the comedic effect so… it’s a con marriage aaaa couple story type (idk one person conned the other person into a marriage people pull this shit all the time).
anyways
here’s a prologue i wrote
hope u can deal with these crumbs sorry for being dead this entire year
—
Graduation season arrives the way summer storms do. Bright at first glance, heavy if you stay under it too long.
For some people, it means hope. New beginnings. Clean slates and shiny resumes. For others, it’s a beautiful ending, the kind you frame in your mind and refuse to touch again. Either way, everyone gets shoved forward into a place ominously titled society, where reality smiles politely, raises its hand, and slaps you so hard your face swells before you can even ask what you did wrong.
Haechan adjusts the collar of his graduation gown for the fifth time in ten minutes. It’s itchy. Everything today is itchy. his skin, his thoughts, the way the future presses too close.
He passes by a couple near the bike racks.
“I’m asking you for the last time,” the woman shouts, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you going or not?”
Haechan slows despite himself. He hates that part of him that listens.
“My parents already made the arrangements,” the man snaps back. “If I go back, I’ll have everything. If I stay in Beijing, I won’t get anything at all.”
“Then what about our love for the past four years?” she demands. “What does it count as?”
“These are two separate issues.”
The pause afterward is louder than the argument.
“Let’s split up.”
Haechan looks away before the silence can settle on him too deeply. This is breakup season as well. Turns out the cost of staying together is sometimes higher than leaving. People say you need courage to love, but they never talk about how much you need to leave. When you break up, you only need a few words. The rest are unnecessary weight.
As for him, this is the season of an ending.
He was crazed once. Full of wishful thinking, the kind that convinces you life will wait until you’re ready. He realizes now that he never truly began living the life that is ending today. He was always standing on the edge, waving at something that never quite waved back.
I’m a visible road, he thinks. A visible river. After today, I’ll flow wherever I’m supposed to go.
He reaches the steps where graduates are lining up, voices overlapping, caps already tilted wrong. Someone trips over their gown. Someone else complains loudly about their parents’ camera angles. Life, apparently, does not pause for existential dread.
Haechan stops.
He turns.
Yizhuo stands there, sunlight catching in her hair, expression soft and unreadable in that way that has always undone him. She looks like someone who knows exactly where she’s going. Or maybe she’s just better at pretending.
He never really allowed himself to think about it. About the feeling that lived quietly at the bottom of his heart, never asking to be named. Even she, who became a character in this tale, was never aware. Maybe that’s the joke. The world ends, and the most important things remain unspoken.
Today, they will turn and walk in opposite directions. No dramatic confessions. Just a nod, a smile, and the mutual understanding that some things are not meant to survive graduation.
Many years from now, she will be buried deep in his memory. He suspects she’ll stay there until the end of the world.
“Haechan,” she says, waving. “Don’t trip on the steps.”
He laughs, because of course she would say that. “I make no promises.”
And just like that, the moment loosens its grip.
The announcer calls their names. The crowd cheers too loudly. Reality raises its hand again.
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.
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?”
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.
