It was good.
It was good, what he was doing.
Something so delicate, his large metal claws would have scoffed at before.
But there was a lull in battle, he'd been given a brief leave as General. The Separatists had pulled him out, saving him for something big.
He hated when that happened; he just didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't in the midst of battle.
So here he was, hiding away in his castle-fortress of Vassek's third moon. A wooden spoon was latched in his claws; he stared ahead at the dark rock walls, momentarily forgetting what he was doing.
Slowly, he looked down. A wooden bowl of lumpy batter and dried berries had been beaten together in an intriguing blue liquid.
The blue liquid had been the mammarily secretions of an odd blob like-creature, and Grievous had to pause, wondering why he kept his kitchen stocked at all; especially, if he was going to fill it with such disgusting things.
He added more berries, crushed grains, and other matter to give the batter some fight against his relentless spoon.
He stirred and stirred, but his snapping tension only rose. His distraction was failing.
He stirred and stirred, the batter a ridiculous whirlpool as Grievous glared into it.
The spoon had broken, and the sudden loss of momentum sent the bowl spinning. Grievous didn't bother to save it.
It clattered against the stone flooring, splintering into wedges, as it gushed like a sad corpse.
Grievous had no reaction to this, didn't even look down as he sidestepped numerous other bowls and batter, dead on the floor.
He retrieved another bowl from his cupboard. He went to fetch a spoon, but found he had run out. Right, the spoons always broke the most.
A snarl and a back kick sent the new bowl crashing into the wall, a splintered husk.
Grievous sighed as he stepped into his pantry, not to find it stocked with food, but numerous blocks of wood.
He grabbed one, slamming it onto a novelty wood table. Grievous sat down on a chair, also made of wood.
A claw scratched an outline of a spoon into the wood and he set to work.
His claws were the only thing needed, durasteel so sharp it was like cutting petrified cream.
He made the surface of his creation, smooth and deep, the stem sturdy as an arrow. It was a spoon that perhaps deserved to be used more than once, but was rarely the case.
Grievous retrieved a new bowl, with spoon in hand. Normally, he'd carve more than one in a session, but as his internal clock was counting the minutes go by, he realized he'd never complete his project at the current rate.
Gingerly, he poured in the now scarce ingredients, containers of product empty and tossed to the floor.
Dried berries and grains once again melded in the bowl. Reluctantly, the blue liquid returned, pure glucose, flavor shavings, and more served to complete the convocation.
Slowly, he stirred. He didn't want to break another spoon so soon.
Even as the batter formed lumps and was unevenly distributed, he stirred, steady and silent, like a mumuu-beast posed to strike, hidden amongst reeds.
Eventually the batter settled into a dough, the spoon coming away bruised but not in two pieces. Onto a baking vessel, careful consistent blobs sat side by side in camaraderie and were deposited into a confectionery furnace.
Grievous could do nothing else but stand and watch, his flesh-less back itching as he watched and felt the minutes tick by.
He was alone with his thoughts then. These moments he used to treasure, when he could close his eyes and cherish the quiet, amongst warm stone and a roaring hearth.
Now, his eyes were wide, yellow embers, as if he'd swallowed a fire and never let it go. The furnace's fire was throughly whipped, a sad animal; any heat that escaped was immediately eaten by the cold fortress walls.
Both external and internal timers counted down. Grievous's eyes flickered side to side as he tried to distract himself from a horrifying familiarity. He returned to his wood, spoons to be considered.
He carved, eyes glazed over with an itchy thumping of pain. He remembered Kalee in its glory, when his red hands carved boats and living temples, from the hearts of rich jungle trees.
All those trees were gone now. Not because Grievous couldn't see Kalee currently, no.
The Kalee he knew was long dead. The Yam'rii and Republic sent orbital bombardments onto the side of the planet the Kaleesh most congregated.
All had burned in fire, notably the trees. Kalee was no longer green. The fires had turned the sky grey and the land black.
Fruits did not take to seed, animals couldn't produce life in a barren wasteland.
The Kaleesh burned, just in ice. There were no fires at night, no fires to cook. The elderly froze, the children forced to eat raw meat and to get sick, or to die from starvation.
Grievous looked over his spoons with newfound reverence. The broken bowls against the floor, gave him shame.
Wood, what he took for granted, was a luxury his people no longer had.
He held a spoon, closed his eyes, and snap, it broke in two.
He took the other spoons, and snap, just splinters in his claws.
Then, the timers went off, and Grievous opened the furnace, snaking out his prize with no hesitation.
Cookies, or as the recipe told him, what the hard crumpled biscuits ought to be. The result didn't match the advertised product, but Grievous just sighed, not at all surprised.
He didn't try at all with cooking. He used to love it, but that was then and it was now. A cookie slumped against his claws and Grievous eyed his kitchen suspiciously, wondering why he even had one.
He didn't eat, couldn't eat, as he cruelly reminded himself, holding the cookie close to his face-plate.
Grievous could smell though, a small blessing. A Kaleesh's greatest sense was smell, not even sight. He was sure whoever reconstructed his body was well aware of that fact. He would've gone crazy without such small pleasure. It smelled sweet, and a little burnt, not like it mattered.
He remembered why he bothered to cook now. The cookies smelled divine, despite appearances.
The still hot tray was thrown onto the table, leaving marks where it sat. Grievous sat down, holding the cookies close, letting himself get lost in the smells of happier times.
He was at the hearth, tending to it with a log of wood. Happy squeaks were going on behind him as he pulled something carefully from the fire.
He didn't use claws, but a stick to wrestle it free, his hands were living and red.
It was placed on a table, endless rows of children watched in fascination as Grievous presented it, though his name wasn't Grievous then, the children called him a kinder, sweeter name then.
Numerous tiny claws grabbed at berry-flavored biscuits. Delighted squeaks demanded an encore and Grievous was happy to oblige.
Cold crumpled biscuits crumpled further under his tapping claws. The smell was growing thin and less novel, the good atmosphere with it. Everything felt hallow.
Grievous turned around, stiffened and stared; as if someone had walked in, but he couldn't even hear a droid in the empty hallways.
He turned back to find, that he was awaiting guests that would never come. Silently he poked at the cookies, as if they could solve his problem somehow...
They could not.
With a great singing rage, he leaped from his chair, putting his weight against the table.
It broke in two, the four legs splayed out like a skinned animal. The chair wasn't spared and he smashed it into brittle ribbons against the crippled table. The cookies were buried and forgotten, and could bother him no longer.
He noted how the mess would've made an excellent campfire, before he recalled that the Kaleesh didn't need fire, not anymore, and that extended to Grievous.
Wordlessly, he stepped out of the kitchen. A droid would come along to clean up the mess. He didn't dare touch it.