Rain in the Desert

SUMMARY:

Plo Koon is called when one of his tiny, adorable foundlings has a terrible week and asks for him. They sit mostly in silence and color with crayons.

This saves the Galaxy.

Plo looked down at the small crecheling, not yet old enough to join an Initiate Clan, who had demanded to speak with him. He was five standard, near Human, and had been one of his own foundlings just two years before. His crechemaster had indicated he’d had a troubled week and was acting out, and Plo had reviewed his file in advance to see if there had been anything amiss in the last two years that he was unaware of.

The child had visions, but never acted out after them. They functioned as night terrors and the youngling’s art would be particularly brutal for the month afterwards, but he had special sessions with Yoda on the subject, and according to his file he was improving, and his visions were lessening in intensity, severity, and frequency.

Plo had his own thoughts about whether or not that was, in general, a good thing. He absolutely did not want children to be tortured by visions. He also didn’t want seers to be utterly trained out of having visions, though his own culture’s Adept training did sometimes clash with the doctrine that was vogue in the Order in the present era, and this was certainly one of those areas.

He sighed and released his frustration into the Force. It was the balanced knife edge he walked as both a Jedi Master, and indeed, High Councillor, and a Baran Do Sage. What was appropriate and normal in one place was not necessarily appropriate and normal in another.

He looked down at the drawing that little Obi-Wan was working on. It was a surprisingly realistic rendition of a Greater Krayt Dragon, if Plo wasn’t mistaken. Perhaps the creche was learning about charismatic megafauna this month.

Plo pulled out the tiny chair next to the youngling, pulled it away entirely, then knelt down instead, as he might for a battle meditation, on his knees and comfortably sitting back on his feet. He pulled a sheet of flimsi out from the center pile and started quietly drawing next to the tiny child. He chose for his subject another charismatic megafauna he had read about some time ago. Extinct now, but so many creatures were. As he drew, he wondered at his choice. He could barely remember what the things looked like, but he drew anyway, putting tiny trees like flowers at the bottom, for scale. 

“I knew you would understand,” the crecheling said quietly as he continued to draw. His voice, like his hands and fingers, were tiny and adorable, and somehow, strangely, infinitely sad.

“I try to understand many things, Obi-Wan, even things that are difficult. Patience and an open mind are very useful in such an endeavor.”

“It’s been hard to be patient in the last week, Master,” the sweet youngling said.

“Just the last week?” Plo asked, continuing to draw his own extinct megafauna.

“Mmm. It was easier, before. Master, what do the Sages say about direct intervention of the Force? Or even, I suppose, Force deities?” His voice was… meticulous. Tiny, high, but not at all child-like. Not like he’d been the last time Plo was visiting the creche.

Plo took the conversational segue with grace, continuing to draw, but switching crayon colors. “It is a rare and beautiful thing, like rain in the desert, that produces unlooked for results in those who are not wary. But the flowers that bloom in such an event have been waiting for years, even centuries. Patiently. Knowing it would happen eventually. Preparing for when it would.”

“Master, would you say that you are more like the unwary, or more like the flowers?”

“I hope I am like the flowers. And you?”

“I was unwary. It surprised me. But I can hardly argue with the rain that pours down, can I?”

“Only the foolish would argue against the existence of the rain that wets their face and hands.”

“Do you think, Master, that there are not such people here, even now?”

Plo sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot say there are not. My hope would teach me that none would be so very foolish, but my experience would teach me otherwise.”

“Mine, too,” the five year old said.

“What shall we do about it, then?” Plo asked.

“I missed you,” the crecheling said suddenly and apropos of what Plo couldn’t tell. He was sniffling his unshed tears away, or trying to.. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s harder to regulate my emotions.”

Plo paused his drawing to rub the young one’s back, though the child continued to carefully color. And sniffle.

“We should meditate,” the youngling said after many minutes had passed and they both resumed their drawings. “You need to see what the Force did, and you might not believe me if I just tell you. But I’ve been organizing my thoughts and memories for the last week, so it shouldn’t be too disorienting. And after this, I probably need to see a soul healer, but not one that you haven’t told the pertinent facts to, not one who doesn’t understand like a flower in the desert. And after that, there are a lot of things the Shadows need to know about, and do. I haven’t made a list, but I remember perfectly well. Also, I’d like to be your padawan, if I have to go through all of that again. Just getting my request in early.”

“Meditation, soul healers, Shadows, and training,” Plo mused. “The first two I can easily agree to, without any further context. The third I shall be very open minded about, and the fourth will require us both to meditate on the subject, preferably together, and after our initial meditation, don’t you think?”

“Wise,” the five year old assured him. “But you always were. Wise, kind, loving. They called you Plo’buir, you know. Right up until the end.” The initiate sniffled again. Plo paused his drawing to rub his back, again.

They were quiet after that, until they had both finished their drawings to their own satisfaction, Obi-Wan adding a small humanoid figure next to the Greater Krayt Dragon and labelling it ‘Leia and Obi-Wan, Friends’, and Plo with his extinct Mythosaur.

Plo settled himself again and again during the meditation, after each shocking revelation. I am a flower seed in the desert. I have been waiting for this my entire life, even though I knew it not.

I am a flower seed in the desert.

This is my moment.

This is my moment to rise.

This is my moment to show my true colors.

Plo felt quite settled into his new quarters. It was a mix of atmospheres that would be a good place to live with his dear, oxygen-nitrogen breathing friend. Twice as large as his old apartment, of course, as it was really two knight-style apartments with the wall knocked out and new transparisteel wall with atmo-lock doors between. A mask had been procured for his friend in the appropriate size so that each of them could rest and be welcome (and drink liquids and slurries) in the other’s dedicated space, and his friend’s kitchen pod (replaceable, once his size changed) was appropriately sized for adequate accessibility.

The rest of the Temple saw his friend, for now, as his padawan, and his extremely young padawan, at that. But that was not, strictly speaking, true.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a Master of the Force. He was a master of shielding, of Soresu (no matter that he had not yet rebuilt his muscle memory of it), and of physically sustaining himself with the Force, a technique that few Jedi of this generation, including An’ya Kuro, had mastered.

That Obi-Wan had entered the Temple creche two years ago, at the age of three, was an indisputable fact of record. Plo himself had brought him hence. That Obi-Wan had also lived a complete life, raised a padawan to knighthood, seen a grandpadawan, slavery, three wars, the end of the Jedi Order, the end of the Republic, the end of Mandalore, been killed, and existed as a separate Force Ghost for a number of years was also an indisputable fact of record, however much the record was currently sealed by the Head of Shadows. Only Vokara Che was in the know, outside of Plo and Yaddle, and Vokara handled Obi-Wan’s physical and mental wellbeing.

And as much as Obi-Wan died at the age of fifty-six standard and existed for nearly another decade afterwards as a ghost, he was currently in a five year-old near Human body which needed hugs, proper nutrition, and plenty of exercise and sleep.

They agreed that Obi-Wan would stay with Plo until he was at least eighteen standard, by the current count of his body, though depending on how things went, he may be more widely acknowledged as a Master before that, at least within the Temple.

Whether or not he would be going on missions before the age of ten was a hotly argued and much debated thing between the both of them and the Master of Shadows, and depending on the day, it was hard to know who was on which side. The arguments were fascinating though.

Still. His tuition would be accelerated to cover the things he didn’t already know, and the new barrage of placement tests Obi-Wan had agreed upon marked him, technically, as a prodigy, though he admitted only being a prodigy when it came to war. But not in front of anyone other than Plo, Yaddle, and Vokara.

Still, still…

The rooms were good. Plo had a number of plants from Kel Dor in various pots and planters, two very fine tapestries his nieces had brought for him as presents upon their individual knighthoods, and of course all his comfortable furnishings from before. Except… he had swapped out his tall table and chairs for a floor table with seating cushions, just as in Obi-Wan’s side of the apartment, there were the same. Where Plo had a couch and some chairs, Obi-Wan had bean bags large and medium sized, and where Plo had holos and flimsi prints of pictures on the wall, Obi-Wan had begun drawing pictures of the people he loved in his past. Plo could name them all, by now, or nearly so, and knew at least some of the stories associated with them.

Anakin.

Ahsoka.

Satine.

Quinlan.

Cerasi.

Bant.

Cody.

Boba.

Garen.

Waxer and Boil.

Siri.

Luke and Leia - the near humans, not the Krayt Dragon and the Sand Storm they were named for.

Reeft.

Alpha-17.

Bail.

Mace.

Wooley.

Leia the Greater Krayt Dragon.

Hondo Ohnaka.

Qui-Gon Jinn.

Dexter Jetster.

Every day or so there was another portrait, painstakingly drawn, and sometimes redrawn. There had been three different versions of Anakin’s portrait so far, and two of Cody’s.

It was coming along quite well. And today they would go to the Quartermaster’s together to get the last of Obi-Wan’s necessary items. He needed new clothes and some personal items, plus his own study and communication materials. And a go bag.

They would be travelling to Ilum very soon, after all.

“I think I should be Mandalorian this time around, Plo,” Obi-Wan said, wearing his mask and drinking tea with Plo at his dining table on his side of their shared apartment. “Odd, perhaps, in some respects, but it feels right. I have meditated on it, though of course things are very murky here, even now.”

“Hmm. Very interesting,” Plo said, considering the issue. “We go to Ilum next week. Let us meditate on it together as we go. Professor Huyang has already been read in by Master Yaddle and will not be expecting you at any of his classes during that time. Do you have any modules for culture and history there that you can recommend?”

“I can pull some for you,” his small friend assured him. “I have some actionable ideas on the subject, once we return. But they can wait. I won’t build my lightsaber on the way back, however. I need to meditate then, too. There are things I suspect but cannot confirm in the execrable hellscape that is this ecuminopolis.”

“You do need to sleep twelve hours a day, Obi-Wan. Vokara was very clear about that, and I am your accountability partner in this. You’ve agreed. Just because you are a master of physical sustenance and survival through the Force doesn’t mean it won’t entirely ruin your physiology if you use it before your body is twenty standard.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Obi-Wan admitted, letting a thread of his chagrin leak from his shields, no doubt on purpose. “And I appreciate the reminder, no matter how inconvenient. I swear, I do want to be healthy. It would be lovely to end up taller and perhaps a bit stronger, this time around. I’ve just got dreadful habits, Plo. Dreadful.”

“It won’t be long before those habits are broken, my friend. Not long at all. Well before puberty we’ll have you sorted. We have time,” he assured him.

Obi-Wan groaned and let his head sink down. “Ugh. Puberty. It was hell the first time. I can’t imagine it’s going to be much better the second time.”

Plo laughed, and his tusks clacked together, unimpeded by his mask that usually corralled them. “Well, at least you’re going into it knowing your exact orientation and the presence of any kinks. That has to be some measure of assurance.”

Obi-Wan groaned again. “Yes. Lovely. So helpful, Plo.”

Plo laughed again. “Come now, old man. You’ve seen far worse than your own sexual awakening.”

“Oh, I’ll grant you, it could be worse. Maggots could be eating my muscle tissue while my arms are pulled out of their sockets, a Sith artifact rapes my mind, and my Commander is flayed in front of me. Yes, I’ll grant you, it could be worse. I’m not exactly expecting a cushy life, here. I’m just not looking forward to the inevitability of it. Rattatak I might be able to avoid this time. Puberty is on the table whether I like it or not.”

“So dramatic,” Plo said, his tusks vibrating in amusement as he poured out more tea for both of them.

“I’ve lost nearly everything, Plo. I clutch my own sense of melodrama like a noblewoman clutches her pearls.”

“I can tell,” Plo agreed dryly. “Though I notice that you turn it off and shift over to weaponized adorability quite easily when the situation calls for it.”

“I work with what I have. After puberty it will be weaponized sexuality, so you’re forewarned. It really unnerves the Sith when you start flirting with them mid-fight.”

“Unless they were Kel Dorian Sith, I’m not sure it would be a viable tactic for me.”

“Hmm, no. But you do have a very strong parental energy about you. You could work with that. Especially with the younger ones. Should it come to that, of course.”

“I will consider it. Thank you for the tactical advice.”

The five year old nodded graciously from across the table.

“Anyway, I have a new argument for missions taken early, if you’d like to hear it?”

“Oh?”

“I am calling it the Jon Antilles approach. But modified. With my face covered and a voice modulator, not unlike the mask I’m wearing now, I could just be a rather short non-human species.”

Plo hummed as he considered it. “It would have to be after you’d recreated your muscle memory, to say nothing of your lightsaber, though of course the former will occur far before the latter. And as much as you dislike Ataru, you have to admit it’s worthwhile with your current size-”

“True, true,” Obi-Wan agreed, sounding resigned.

“-and so my only deep concern would be the occasional difficulties that do come up on missions. One would certainly be if we are required by custom to eat with anyone, though of course I don’t take my mask off for that, so you might simply follow suit-”

“Exactly,” Obi-Wan agreed.

“-but the second is how physically strenuous missions can be. Twelve hours of sleep, Obi-Wan. Until you’re eight. Then ten, until you’re eleven. Then you can go down to seven, if you must, but nine would be better when you can. Vokara was very clear about this.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “I think I would like to be prepared, just in case.”

“And I suppose if you’re Mandalorian, a helmet or mask would be appropriate.”

“See? Exactly!”

“Three more days and we shall meditate on it. Now, how is the initiative to relive the best parts of your childhood going?”

Obi-Wan sighed. Again. “It’s a trial. Tholme hasn’t found, or returned, with Quinlan yet, but I do like coloring time. Bant is at least tolerating me, and she promised to swim with me tomorrow. It’s hard to be with Garen and Reeft, though, and Siri is a nightmare at this age. Doesn’t help that I’m a bit of an oddball and I can’t quite seem to act my physical age for any length of time without it becoming a significant stressor requiring more meditation than time allows.”

“Something to bring to Vokara, perhaps?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I shall. I have an appointment the morning we leave.”

Plo nodded.

Obi-Wan, understandably, wanted to race forward with every plan, every initiative, and had wanted (at first) to do it all himself. It had taken some significant time and conversation to work him around to a different sort of plan. 

But Plo was playing the long game. He had an Order to reform, a Republic to save, new friends to make, and an old friend to support.

And right now, Obi-Wan needed to be a healing general who led from the back, supporting and advising, even as he gained new skills, including those of proper self-care.

It would be something entirely different for both of them, really. But only as different as a plant becomes when it outgrows its seed casing, which both Plo and Obi-Wan had done.

And now it was time for the desert to bloom.

The End.

Gifts of the Ka’ra’e

SUMMARY:

This is a story about how Jaster Mereel, Mand’alor, averted an unnatural disaster on the planet Mandalore, cancelled several lucrative contracts (including one on Korda VI), and acquired several quite astonishing children of his own, to add to the single one he already had.

In doing so, he also saves the Galaxy.

Jaster had just averted a sentient-arian disaster the likes of which Manda’yaim had not seen since the Dral’han. And it was… entirely sorted. He could, now, sit back and relax, take a deep breath and marvel at the gifts the Stars had bestowed upon him, as Mand’alor, and upon his people.

Not, notably, upon the New Mandalorians. But even the Old Clans came to his call this time, and the New Mandalorians at least treated this as the so-called ‘humanitarian’ disaster that it was, and provided aid without debt, and half the Old Clans had agreed to pledge to him not a tenday afterwards.

So, yes.

Actually.

Jaster was quite pleased with himself.

And so what if contracts had to be cancelled, or delayed for a bit?

War Council was put off for a complete month, in light of the fact that almost a sixth of all adults beyond the age of twenty now had new children to help adjust, and most had more than just two. Even in his own household, with Jango being a bit of a modifying factor to the situation, Jaster found himself half-drowned in snuggly, ferocious, prodigious male children who looked uncannily like his eldest child.

And they all - at least, all of Jaster’s - remembered living quite a long life, sometime in the near future.

Jango was seeing his mind healer daily, now. And all the new children were scheduled for weekly group sessions, in all their various areas, spread out as they now were across the Mandalorian Sector. (Except Kalevala.)

Jaster was reclining in the karyai, having just brought over the warmed chocolate blue milk for his young ones (and admittedly also Jango; at fourteen he wasn’t that old), with Fox snuggled up to one side of him and Kote snuggled up to the other, with Fordo, Seventeen, Ninety-Nine, and Ponds in a heap just beyond Kote, and Boba curled up on Jango’s lap, thinking that life was unexpectedly good when he overheard what Seventeen, Ninety-Nine, and Fordo were actually arguing about.

The hissed argument hadn’t been quite loud enough, before.

“You don’t understand, Ninety-Nine, we do!” Seventeen grated out. If Ninety-Nine was the unexpected personification of wisdom and serenity in a seven year old body, Seventeen was the walking version of aggression.

Fordo picked up the thread, also raising his voice beyond the previous hissed whispers. “He’s right, Ninety-Nine. All the Vod’e were agreed, back then. If you weren’t in the 212th, nothing strange happened. If you were in the 212th, there was Force osik nearly every month. He’s like a magnet for it. We should check on the General.”

The General. Jaster had heard whispers of ‘the General’, even though he knew that each battalion had their own, except for Fox, who had been the head of the Coruscant Guard, and had politicians rather than a General.

“We should call the Temple,” Kote called out.

Boba snorted, while Jaster wondered what temple they could be talking about.

Fox argued loudly against it. “I’ll grant you it might have happened to him too, but he’d still be, what, a tubie? Not happening. They’ll tell you nothing, then send a bunch of Shadows as the vanguard of the strike team. We didn’t just save Jas’buir to see him cut in half before we can sort out Death Watch’s complete stupidity and put a slug through that Sith’s brain. Get real. Remember what year you’re in.”

“There has to be a way,” Kote whispered, sounding heartbroken.

Jaster was reeling, and just trying to keep up. Many things his children had said, and many things he now knew and accepted as true, if strange, but saving him hadn’t been one of them.

“Look, I get it, vod,” Fox, the rather abrupt six year old, said. “It sucks for you. It sucks for a lot of us. At least you didn’t actually kill him, okay? Bly and Wolffe are both on suicide watch and General Secura hasn’t even been born yet. Force help us all if any of the 501st actually show up, because every single one of them is going to need to be on suicide watch.”

Something clicked for Jaster.

“Wait, children, wait. Are you saying… are you saying there are more of you that we haven’t seen?”

Fordo answered him. “These are just the Alphas, the Nulls, and the Command Clones. First wave stuff. More than made it to the war, because all the decommissioned vod are back with us, too. But there are about nine million of us missing. The Clone Troopers.”

“More than just nine,” Seventeen added, as Jaster reeled and felt a little lightheaded. “Gotta count those decommissioned early. They culled a fucking lot of us.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jango muttered.

Jaster did not chide either one of them.

“I miss Rex,” Kote said sadly. “And Obi-Wan.”

“I miss your verbal filter,” Seventeen said crossly.

“Fuck off, Seventeen. If I want to brood, I can brood. I served fifteen years under Vader, that twisted, overpowered traitor to sanity. I have earned the right to brood.”

“Kinda glad I kicked it before the order came through,” Ponds said in a musing voice, still absently drinking his hot cocoa and getting his head stroked by Fordo.

“I am sorry about that,” Boba said, peeking over from his hiding spot on Jango’s lap.

“Meh, it’s fine. I get it. You were understandably upset with General Windu. Things will be different this time. We’ll make them different.”

Kote looked up at him. “Jas’buir, if Rex shows up, will you adopt him? Just one more?”

“What’s one more?” he asked, feeling just a little more fatalistic about the entire thing, but also now planning for an influx of nine million more children, rather than just the one million who had just shown up in the plains to the west of Keldabe eight days ago, demanding to speak with the Mand’alor.

This was… not a crisis. He was not going to think like that.

This was… an opportunity.

Yes.

This was an opportunity.

Jaster was stunned to discover that the Jedi Archives had sent him a message. He hadn’t commed with them in, what, fifteen years?

Not that they were remotely helpful at the time, but if he could get his hands on some of the primary sources they had that were missing from Mandalore’s own records, oh, that would be some excellent reading!

He had plenty to keep his attention without more manuscripts yet to read, but that’s what hyperspace was for, he was certain of it. And as soon as his boys got their muscle memory back they’d be going on some hunts with him. (The Goran had approved all of the echo-children who had survived to their first skirmish in the war-that-wouldn’t-be as verd’goten certified, and training armor was being created as quickly as it could be.)

Jaster opened the message with a hopeful heart.

Greetings to Mand’alor Jaster Mereel of Keldabe, Mandalore, from High Councillor Plo Koon of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.

I understand from a friend that many years ago you requested the following materials of the Archives and were denied, on spurious and incorrect grounds. Though many years have passed and you may no longer require the materials, I thought it best to send them along. If you should desire further borrowing privileges, the Head Archivist has been instructed to let you and any who self-identify as True Mandalorians have access digitally, or physically, if you are in the area. I note that at least one of your requests does reside physically here; it is a beautifully hand-illuminated manuscript available for viewing with droid assistance.

If you do decide to visit us, you and your party would be most welcome to land at the Temple and stay as our guests, and I and my padawan would be most pleased to give you a tour of the Temple, including that portion of our interior gardens which includes a room dedicated to the flora of Mandalore.

To that end, I and my padawan would be most interested in discussing your Codex with you, if such a thing would be amenable. My padawan in particular is most keen to swear the Resol’nare, and I am considering the possibility of it myself.

Attached also is the standard borrowing forms and new account request forms for the Archive, and my own personal comm code, as well as the comm code of my padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

May the Manda protect you, the Stars guide you, and the Force be with you.

Jaster couldn’t stop laughing for a solid minute.

He had prepared. He had stockpiled. He had warned the Old Clans that the Stars might bring more echo-children, many more echo-children in the coming months or years and they too, began to stockpile. But in seven weeks, nothing had happened and no Clone Troopers had arrived (suddenly, on the plains to the west of Keldabe).

Oh, but the very thing his own children had wanted, that had suddenly landed in his comm’s inbox.

Well, nothing had happened yet, and Kal and Silas could manage things well enough if something did happen.

And in the meantime… Jaster had an invitation to the Jedi Temple and an illuminated manuscript! And also to meet at least Kote’s general, though his children would obviously try to get an accurate count of exactly who was there and who might recognize them and so report back to their siblings.

Naturally.

Greetings to High Councillor Koon from Mand’alor Mereel.

Thank you for the manuscripts and Archive forms. I accept your invitation and will arrive with my children, eight in number, in six days time. We all look forward to the tour, and I hope I will be allowed some dedicated time in the Archives.

I will happily discuss the Codex with you and your padawan, and hear whatever vows you both choose to make.

Your padawan can expect to receive a message from one or more of my children in preparation for departure. Most of them are quite eager to hear of the Jedi.

What an interesting future we are living into, yes?

I will claim Diplomacy to the Jedi Order for the atmosphere entry, and happily accept Temple landing clearance for my X5-N22 class corvette, Verco’dara’suum. 

May your gods and your magic be for you what you need them to be.

Kote was floating around in a dazed space of perfect contentment since he’d gotten a message back from Padawan Kenobi - the General - and not even getting his training armor painted and returned in time for their departure seemed to jar him out of it.

Wolffe, one of Silas’ adoptees, had begged to come with them, but he was still on suicide watch, though he was apparently doing much better than some. Jaster knew, however, that his brothers would do all they could to make the situation better for him, and if Kenobi’s teacher was at all in the know, a comm call would be forthcoming.

None of his younger children had helmets yet, but between them, Jango and Jaster had enough blasters to make sure nearly all of the echo children had one, a replacement ammo pack, and a sturdy knife.

Fox was not allowed a slug thrower until he was fully eight years old, which was making him perpetually cranky, and Ninety-Nine (who was not allowed weapons at all, yet) was thrilled to be wearing armor in preparation for his verd’goten in another six years. He had, however, stocked his weapons belt with medical supplies and rations. Just in case.

Medic in the making, that one.

Fordo was content, Seventeen was grumbly, Ponds was quietly excited, and Boba was fine so long as he had Jango within eyesight. He may have allowed Jaster to adopt him, and he did call him buir occasionally, but Jango he persisted in calling ‘Dad’, in Basic. The rest had largely ceased calling his son ‘Prime’ and settled into ‘ori’vod’, but… it was good that Jango was seeing his mind healer daily. While on this upcoming trip he would be working on homework from his mind healer, and Jaster would make sure he did it.

It was hard for everyone at first to contemplate the series of tragic horrors that would lead an honorable child of Mandalore to so renounce all honor, truth, and vision, but most agreed that seeing all your loved ones cut down in a parody of justice, and then spending ten years in slavery marinating in grief, spice, and a desire for vengeance just might do it. 

It was a lesson for Jaster, at least, for compassion when dealing with the potentially dar’manda, and certainly with Death Watch. He would always leave the space to choose again, to regain their honor and live a different, better life. Because if someone had been so clear with his son in that other life… might it all be different? Might he have made different choices?

Jaster fervently hoped that Jango never had to find out, but if he could make it better for others, that would be worthwhile.

Everyone was reading in the most delightful cuddle pile in the main karyai, except Jango and Boba who were playing Sabacc for candy that was going to end up being desert tonight for everyone, anyway. Fox had earfills in and was practicing a Mando’a module, occasionally outloud. Ponds was humming a warchant as he read about Chandrillian weaving techniques. Fordo was reading Alderaani epic poetry. Ninety-Nine was doing a basic first aid module. Seventeen was reading a translation of a history of the Crusading Age of Mandalore, and Kote was rereading a translation of the Codex and occasionally interrupting Jaster’s own reading to ask questions.

It was bliss, honestly, and they had certainly all taken their new borrowing accounts for the Jedi Archives for a spin. Even Boba took out a history of the Hutt Empire and an advanced Huttese module, muttering something about wanting Tatooine back.

Into Jaster’s academic hyperspace wonderland, Jango and Boba started arguing, loudly.

“You’re cheating!” Jango accused, apparently shocked.

“Am not,” Boba defended himself, his eyes going round and tooka bright in what Jaster considered a highly adorable and entirely suspicious manner.

“You really are,” his fourteen year old asserted.

“If I am, it’s because you taught me to,” Boba challenged right back. In moments like this, you’d never know he lived eighty years past his apparent age.

“You’re being blatant. I would never have taught you that,” Jango reasoned.

“I wanted to see if you’d notice,” Boba said, eyes wide again, an endearing smile on his face.

“I noticed,” Jango responded flatly.

“I’ll stop,” Boba promised.

“Stop, or get a whole lot better at it,” Jango agreed, grousing.

They were quiet after that and Jaster sunk back into his own reading until Kote’s next question, or his timer to start midmeal went off.

And truly, it was bliss.

There was no part of any visit Jaster had ever paid to Coruscant that wasn’t stressful, but this, at least, would have some upsides.

This time there would be Archive time, Illuminated Manuscript time, and no landing and docking fees, at least, not paid in Republic Credits. That he’d have to make nice with Jedi - a completely unknown quantity, Kote’s and Wolffe’s Generals not withstanding - was certainly going to be a fee paid in lieu of docking fees.

Not that Jaster didn’t have an intense curiosity about Jedi. He did. He always had. But he was also very wary and very well-read when it came to history. And when it came to trained wizarding adepts, the Mandalorians always got shafted, and it didn’t matter if they claimed the high moral ground or were insane sadists. This was the story history told, and the lesson it had to offer.

If this could possibly go well, Jaster would be writing his own history book on the subject… and hope it didn’t end with the Mandalorian Sector getting shanked in the figurative kidneys. Again.

Regardless, Jaster was keeping a journal again, not wanting to miss or forget any of the details that brought his remarkable children to him, and for security’s sake, he was keeping it scribed on flimsi.

The last thing he needed was a curious Sith deciding that something interesting was happening in Jaster’s little corner of the Outer Rim and slicing through all their firewalls to discover just what it was.

Still.

Still. Atmosphere entry went smoothly enough and the wait was short. The downside of that was, of course, in the next ten minutes every official with any level of curiosity would know that he was officially on the planet and officially in the Jedi Temple.

Jango was co-piloting and all the little ones were dutifully strapped in, and Jaster couldn’t help but think about his children as he smoothly sailed through the atmosphere toward the coordinates indicated.

In some moments it felt like they barely needed him. They had all of his family’s fighting forms memorized and improved upon, all except Ninety-Nine, but Seventeen had already declared himself in charge of his training. They had complete memories of all they had learned in a school setting, and through the hard experiences of life. Some of the children, of course, would need all the normal instruction of children their age, for all those who had been murdered early on. But even Ninety-Nine, who was just barely literate, was wise, calm, and steady in a way that Jaster wished some of the Clan Heads on his War Council could emulate, and in a way that was almost eerie coming from someone whose body was still seven standard years old.

And then there were the other moments.

Every single one of them carried a burden of grief that was unimaginable. The days were sometimes tricky, but the nights were a shitshow. They all slept in a pile and there was no separating them. 

Seventeen, so gruff, and so much the ori’vod during the day, would lay shaking and gasping between Fordo and Ninety-Nine every night, hiding his tears in one or the other of their necks.

Fox and Kote, who were often snarking and sniping at each other throughout the day, would lay quiet and whispering with Ponds, snuggled in blankets and pillows, whispering promises of vengeance and triumph, while holding hands, or wrapping tiny, thin arms around each other.

Boba would lay quiet and still, but noticeably awake with Jango curled around him for hours before he could find his rest.

And Jaster kept the watch.

He lay on the periphery in the karyai, close but not touching, on the other side of the pile from Jango, usually near Kote or Fordo and later, deep into the night when sleep had claimed them, later he would wake and discover his nearest child had rolled over and snuggled up to him in the night, and he would pull his blanket over them and adjust the pillow under their head and tuck them back in and fall asleep with them.

No, his children were well-mannered, orderly, and all save two of them were already completely educated (arguably three, with Boba’s somewhat spotty education after the age of nine). What they needed from Jaster was love. Love, safety, care, and someone to lift the burden of responsibility from them.

And that, he thought as he landed in a massive hanger bay in a stone ziggurat, was something he could do. Children were the future, and his were particularly easy to love.

The End

Master of Shadows

SUMMARY:

Master Yaddle looks as similar to Master Yoda as one can get in the galaxy, anywhere in the galaxy off their home planet, which they do not discuss. And yet, Master Yaddle is about as different from Master Yoda as one can get, and still be Light Side Force Adepts of the same species.

It was not true to say that Yaddle had it out for Yoda. That would be… unfair. And largely untrue. And it was all well and good that when she had escaped on her own, thank you very much for absolutely nothing, Jedi Order, and returned to the Temple that she was immediately declared a Master of the Force and offered an open seat on the High Council, and shortly after that, the position of Master of Shadows.

And if the Grandmaster thought that would make her more tractable as the Master of Shadows, he had been very sorely mistaken. 

First, her Shadows were necessarily dubious about the entire thing. And that was fair. She didn’t share most of their skillsets, and she needed to be brought up to speed on so many things. But if she could do nothing else, she could sustain herself with the Force, use a staff, and teach every single one of the Knights and Masters under her a thing or two about oneness with the Force. 

And the thing she did not like to do was have a Jedi missing in action or only reported dead without confirmation.

If any Jedi with even a passing acquaintance with Force Discernment had tried to find her (a padawan! a junior padawan could have found her!), they would have easily done so in the hundred years of her incarceration down a fucking hole. 

And until Plo Koon and Jocasta Nu came to visit her and go over some ancient documents that had not been part of her own abbreviated education, Yoda had hobbled her and her ability to use her Shadows to their fullest extent.

But the Shadows were not part of the KnightCorps, which was the only portion of the Order that the Senate held jurisdiction over. They seemed to be, they were listed as such, though technically they were never rated for the field and so could not be assigned to regular missions. They were part of the ExploriCorps and very nominally answered to the Council of First Knowledge, and that part of their files was sealed.

These were nuances that Yoda had never informed her of, and so kept his control over her actions.

And the day she broke free, she didn’t even need to inform him of the fact. 

The day she broke free, oh, the day she broke her chains, was the day she realized that as Master of Shadows, she actually had carte blanche.

It went to her head for a full twenty minutes, but at least she was alone in her apartment at the time, and was able to get her maniacal laughter under control, and meditated to let go of, really, so many things in the privacy of her own home.

And then it began.

As Master of Shadows, she didn’t need the Council’s permission to draft members of the KnightCorps, either, nor to send them on missions wholly unrelated to paltry Senate requests designed to ask for less than was needed and to leave unsaid more than could be reasonably explained away.

She would send no junior padawans anywhere near anything that hinted of danger.

She would send no Jedi unaccompanied by at least one other Knight or Master, and preferably a Jedi pilot as well - far too many had trouble with spacecraft to do anything less.

And she would find, rescue, or confirm dead as many Jedi as she possibly could while simultaneously sorting through Master Kenobi’s long list of ways to undermine the Banite Sith and their troubling legacy.

Yaddle could not change Yoda’s mind on any subject, she already knew that. But she could now work around him.

And she would, for as long as necessary.

“What you wanted, got then, hmm?” Yoda said, looking absolutely every day of his 852 years.

Yaddle tilted her head at him as she stood in the hallway, looking slightly up at him as he sat in his hoverchair. “Know not what you mean, I do,” she replied. Sometimes she used his archaic grammar. Sometimes she didn’t. But now certainly wasn’t a moment to prove just how progressive she was.

And in truth, she once might have wished for a change in leadership in the Order, for Tyvokka, for all his kindness, always agreed to whatever Yoda suggested, and no one successfully argued against him in a meeting. But she hadn’t for some months now, now that she had discovered her own power, and indeed, was finally living fully into her own responsibilities, after having the position for more than a decade. 

And so it was in truth that she said it, because he could stay around, stagnating and dragging others down into the swamp with him for all she cared. She could have continued to work around him until the day he dropped dead and rejoined the Force of entirely natural causes, which might be any day now. 

Any day now.

At any rate, Yaddle preferred the clear water, even if it was still enough to grow lilies.

And if at the bottom of the clear water was a little muck, a little effluent, a little refuse, well, lilies needed that to root in, and it didn’t disturb the clarity of the water, nor the beauty of the scene.

As metaphors went, it was spot on, she thought, and it gave her a clear conscience and an unbesmirched Force Presence to lie to Yoda’s face and get away with it.

She was the Master of Shadows. She ought to be able to at least do this.

“Harumph,” Yoda said, nodded to her, and hovered off in the direction she had just come from.

Yaddle did not smile, but tucked her hands into her sleeves and continued on her way.

She had things to do, Sith to hunt, people to find, and a galaxy to save. Yoda was hardly enough to put her off her day.

The End.

Missed Opportunities

SUMMARY:

Knight Windu has the worst migraine he’s ever had and misses an opportunity in a shatterpoint he honestly doesn’t know *how* to break. But break it eventually does, and then the dashing young knight goes off to lead his very first mission as the senior Jedi. It’s a bit of a milk run to physically hunt down a Watchbeing who missed too many check-ins. Or at least, that is what Mace thinks before their ship is shot down on Rattatak.

Mace had woken at four in the morning in such profound pain he almost vomited. He did those things he needed to do to take care of himself - drugs, a hot shower, extra oxygen, heat on his shoulders, a cold pack on his forehead, hydration, food, being gentle with himself, but it did not relent.

Mornings like that made him doubt his sanity, and whether or not he would ever, ever be able to take on a padawan. How could he care for a child when he could barely function in a normal manner?

He had spent the day in meditation, and that helped, if not with the pain perse, then certainly with the suffering it caused. 

Two days later the pain had not relented, despite one of the twin shatterpoints, in fact, shattering, and Mace followed the Force to the creche where the nearer of the two resided. He stood back and observed. He wasn’t particularly good with the little ones unless they could hold up their end of the conversation, and so he waved off the Crechemaster. But they were used to that. It was a thing, apparently, for Knights and Masters to just quietly come into the creche and meditate, ostensibly to see if the Force was directing them toward any particular child as a future padawan, and so Mace’s behavior was not entirely out of the usual way.

This time, he was apparently making the younglings cry, so he cut it short, but he’d seen what he needed to see.

A shatterpoint of massive proportions, and strangely not the only one, was gathering and turning and nearly ready. And yet… and yet he’d missed an opportunity. Right there in the creche. He’d seen it. It was right when the youngling started to cry. If Mace had gone to him, had somehow said the right things, or listened in the right ways, it would have shattered.

But Mace was terrible at that. He was, very literally, the worst possible person to send in to aid a distressed five year old near human. He didn’t allow them in his theatre class until they were seven, and already initiates. That was his lowest threshold of tolerance.

And then the opportunity passed, but the shatterpoint was still tantalizingly near. But it would not be Mace who could break it. And he did not know what would happen when it broke.

Fully five days of intractable pain and finally the migraine receded and Mace could act like a normal sentient again. He visited his friends in the Temple and assured them he was well. He attended the knighthood ceremony of Feemor and congratulated his friend Qui-Gon on attaining Mastery. He trained in the salles and meditated in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. And finally, at his leisure, sometime three or four days after being migraine-free, Mace went back to visit the creche.

Except he couldn’t find the little youngling, the mega shatterpoint, one of a twin of unbelievably large shatterpoints, the other, he considered, being probably somewhere out in the Outer Rim.

He was sent on a mission after that, with the young Knight Feemor, and a Knight Pilot, one Clee Rhara, to physically check-in with a Watchbeing who had missed too many check-ins, and if necessary render aid. It was something of a milk run, perhaps, but it would take careful use of Force Discernment to sort through it, and it would be time to get to know and bond with his team, who seemed like very nice sentients, even if he didn’t know them well. The mission details were understandably light in some areas, and strangely specific in others, but they prepared themselves mentally and physically and went off without delay.

They were shot down, a danger which they’d been warned about. Knight Pilot Rhara stayed with the ship to repair it while Feemor and Mace made their way through an independent slaver world on the edge of the Outer Rim and Wild Space to find their lost and stranded Watchbeing and his brand new ward, a Force Sensitive former slave.

Still, it took Rhara a solid twelve days to repair the ship with occasional help from Feemor, who had the know-how to do more than just hand tools over, or hold things in place. Which Mace from time to time did do. They also set up a perimeter, guarded the ship and the small encampment they had created, and when the time came to depart, permanently disabled the cannon emplacement that shot them all down to begin with. This last thing they did with serenity of heart. Mostly. And maybe just a hint of rather aggressive satisfaction.

Just a bit.

Honestly, Feemor looked like he was chopping vegetables for latemeal, and the cannon itself looked ready to go into a stir fry by the time they were done with it. Not that Mace felt the mission report required such nuanced details.

All told, it was just over a month before Mace returned from that mission, successful in rescuing a stranded Watchbeing on a hostile world, and bringing a new Force Sensitive child to the Temple to boot.

It was Mace’s first mission as the senior and lead Jedi, and all told he was quite pleased with himself, his team, the mission, the report he had written and submitted two weeks ago while enroute, and during a switch of hyperlanes, and the Council was satisfied with them! There was no need to report directly to the High Council, as they had no questions in his report, though apparently there were now mandatory visits to the Healing Halls for new post-mission check-ins for both physical and mental health. He would be apparently required to meditate with a mind healer briefly, in order to remain on the mission-ready status, which… was a bit intense, but reasonable.

Well, it traded one tedious responsibility for another, but Mace would take the Healing Halls over the Council Chamber any day, so it was no hardship.

He thanked Clee heartily, ducking into the cockpit just after landing, and they both agreed to meet up with Feemor for latemeal out in CoCo Town in a day, and Mace grabbed his bag and disembarked. A Council member greeted them as they got off the ship, but they were clearly present for the Watchbeing and led them kindly away.

Mace knew that Knight Narec had to write his own reports on the way back, and it was very likely that he had to stand before the High Council, though probably after a stay in the Halls with his young ward.

Another ship was landing just after the Watchbeing was led away from them, this a larger one and it made Feemor whistle lowly. 

“What?” Mace asked, letting a thread of his bemusement out of his shields toward his new friend. He’d known and been friendly with Qui-Gon, Feemor’s former master, since Mace’s own knighting two years ago, but he liked Feemor even more. He was easy going, easy to laugh and smile, and easy to speak with.

“That, my mechanically ignorant friend, is a MandalMotors Corvette in mint condition. They stopped making them five years ago. Favored by pirates but… pirates never keep it that clean. You do not see them in the Core. Light warship, complement of thirty but can be crewed by just two, negligible cargo space, but a sprawling amount of room for warriors to train. Double sublights for crazy maneuverability in akkfight situations, and not bad hyperdrive as standard.”

“It looks like a light cargo freighter with guns,” Mace remarked blandly.

Feemor cringed and scoffed at the same time. “Heathen,” he breathed out playfully and Mace cracked a grin at him.

“Says the being who has never attended so much as a musical,” Mace said, not even reaching for the haughty voice.

“How are we friends?” Feemor asked with a grin, slinging an arm around him just as a very tall master and a very short padawan walked past.

“Hi, Knight Feemor! Hi, Knight Windu! Welcome home!” an adorable voice chimed from the little padawan.

The master and padawan pair paused and bowed to them, causing Feemor to straighten up a bit so they could both bow politely back.

Mace recognized that the padawan was lately the shatterpoint crecheling he’d made cry. Well, he certainly wasn’t a walking migraine today. But… Wasn’t he a bit young? But then, maybe a council padawan didn’t do much?

“Master Plo, Padawan,” Feemor said, politely acknowledging them.

“Congratulations on your successful mission, Knights. May I introduce my dear friend, Padawan Kenobi? A talented seer and well-rounded prodigy.”

Ah. Well. That would do it, Mace supposed. He noted that a tiny lightsaber was clipped to the padawan’s utility belt. The belt bags on the belt were normal sized, however, and looked enormous on the child.

“Very nice to meet you, Padawan Kenobi,” Mace said, with Feemor murmuring much the same just after.

“It is lovely to formally meet you both. I am glad you had a good mission, but I am sorry for your migraine before, Knight Windu. I’m sure it was a dreadful one.”

Mace blinked down at the child, a little shocked and feeling wrong footed, which this child seemed to have a tendency to do to him, really.

“Um, that’s… that’s hardly your fault. But thank you for the kind sentiments.”

“Oh,” the little padawan said, his high voice and faultless diction making the part of Mace’s brain that was always considering such things wonder if he might enjoy the stage because the stage would certainly enjoy him. “Kindness is easy, but the fault was entirely mine. Unless, I suppose, we blame the Force.”

Mace just blinked. And really wanted to convince the child to sign up for his theatre class.

Master Plo laughed and put a hand on his padawan’s head, the closest he could reach to the child without bending over. “Let us do blame the Force. That is most appropriate my friend. And now we must away to greet our guests.”

They bowed and were gone.

“What was that about? And are all council padawans trained in being mysterious and cryptic? Because that was… intense.” Feemor asked quietly as they slung their bags more firmly over their shoulders and made their way out of the hangar.

Mace harumphed softly and wondered about the answers to that, himself.

The End.

Jango’s Too Young For This Osik

SUMMARY:

Jango Fett is the fourteen year old eldest child of Jaster Mereel. He’s a blooded warrior, thank you very much, and the head of his own squad, and he’s determined to make it to the coveted rank of SuperCommando before he turns eighteen. He had thought he’d become a bounty hunter at that point, but he’s recently had a few hard conversations with his mind healer about assumptions, life trajectories, possibly fated destinies, and how not to become a soulless monster, and so he’s been rethinking the bounty hunter thing.

Might go back to farming, actually.

Jango walked off the ship next to Jaster, kind of prepared and also kind of not knowing what the Mandafuck was going on. Seriously.

Like, seriously.

Fully a quarter of the Mandalorian Sector was now made up of his extremely sympathetic-to-Jedi clones. Boba was honestly the only one Jango could tell who was only kind of lukewarm on the subject of Jedi in general, but he was also quietly and firmly in the corner of Kote’s Jedi in specific, who apparently he’d known well after the war, but before he disappeared again. For the umpteenth time. And now that Kote was comming with the Jedi in question again (honestly, no fewer times than twice a day, except when they were all in hyperspace) they’d all discovered that the last time Boba had lost track of him, back in the future, that’s when Kote’s Jedi had actually died, and someone named ‘Vader’ had killed him.

Boba’s response to all that was, and Jango remembers it so clearly, as if it were etched into his mind with acid, ‘Aw, shit, really? I kinda liked Vader, too. …and I’ll keep that opinion to myself from now on.’

Apparently this Jedi that even Boba liked had been presumed dead a number of times as a matter of course. And apparently ‘Vader’ (which sounded like a half-made up word in Basic, but then all names that weren’t in Mando’a sounded a little strange to Jango, including most of his brother’s names) was also the Jedi-turned-sociopath that Kote’s favorite Jedi had trained like a little sibling before the insanity set in and he became the Sith Emperor’s enforcer.

Fox had been the only one who knew that, though, and when he told the others, Kote and Seventeen lost their midmeal and Jaster had to go have a quiet word with them after they got cleaned up.

(Honestly, all this drama, it was more riveting than an episode of Oya Manda!)

Which, you know, it was a lot of good fodder for Jango’s homework assignments for his mind healer, which involved so much writing it was insane, but, you know, maybe worth it. Because maybe it was the homework assignments, or else he’d probably just go into one of the rack rooms, start crying, and never come back out again. So, the essays were okay.

Yeah, yeah, the essays were fine. That was fine.

And it was fine that Boba wouldn’t currently listen to anyone giving orders or making suggestions but Jango, whom he immediately and meekly obeyed if Jango so much as raised an eyebrow at him.

And it was fine that he had six brothers, a son (could they all just be honest about Boba? Please?) a million extant clones, and a mysterious future legacy as a soulless monster he was keen to not live down to.

What pissed him off, however, was that Seventeen, who was seven years old and came up to the middle of Jango’s abdomen, could beat him in a spar. In forty-five seconds.

It was so unfair.

Kote (a six year old!) could beat him in fifty-three seconds.

Fordo declined the one time he offered, pointing out that he always lost unless it was a death match.

Fox, at least, he managed to pin to the ground, and never had Jango ever heard such vicious swearing in so many languages as he did when Jango won the one and only match against Fox. At that point he stopped thinking he could help them and started just watching how Seventeen was training Ninety-Nine.

It was enlightening. 

And also, it was a little unfair. 

And also, it provided plenty of fodder for his essays.

But there was so much melodrama, and everything these days was always life or death or bleak tragedy turned up to eleven, everything was so much everywhere he looked, so… 

So, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised when he discovered that Kote’s Jedi was the galaxy’s cutest baby Jedi.

Seriously. They couldn’t possibly come more adorable than this little guy. Waaaaay cuter than all his clones, and Jango could objectively be honest that his clones were super cute, especially when they weren’t scowling at him, but kind of also when they were.

And the galaxy’s cutest baby Jedi, probably he could kick Jango’s ass ten ways from Taungsday, but he still just wanted to pinch those cheeks!

So, yeah.

Melodrama. Jango was certain he was now living inside an unfilmed episode of Oya, Manda!

The big Jedi who was a little intense looking, but apparently he was Wolffe’s Jedi, welcomed them and introduced himself and his padawan, and then Jaster did the gracious diplomatic thing, well, as much as Jaster ever did, and then introduced himself, and all of his many feral murder children (except Ninety-Nine who was just as sweet as uj cake and carefully removed all spiders and flies from the apartment without killing them), and then… and then the adorable baby Jedi spoke.

“At ease, gentlemen. Permission to speak freely.” It should have been adorable, but it was… not.

Boba had a look, and opened his mouth, but Fordo put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head a little, while Seventeen nodded at Kote.

“General?” he half whispered, his voice breaking with tears.

Jango watched as the tiny baby Jedi opened his arms and Kote pelted into them, sliding down on his knees at the last moment. Kote was quietly chanting his sorrow and apologetic grief while the tiny baby Jedi held him around the shoulders and stroked his head.

Jango couldn’t hear what the tiny baby Jedi said in response until he turned the sensitivity up on his helmet and turned on the close captioning. Which he shamelessly did.

‘It’s alright, my darling. Everything’s going to be alright now. I love you, I forgive you, we’ll make everything alright this time around. We shan't be separated for long, not if you don’t wish it.’ 

Boba sighed next to him as Jango turned the sensitivity of his helmet down again so as not to deafen himself with the engines that were just being primed across the hangar.

“Well, that explains a lot, then,” his son said wryly, apparently not needing technology to have enhanced hearing.

Ponds shifted over and put an arm around Boba’s waist. “You didn’t realize?” he asked quietly.

Boba shook his head in the negative, snaking his own arm around the back of Ponds’ waist. Jango refrained from also shaking his head, despite the fact that he also hadn’t gotten the message, either.

“It’s why we keep comparing him with Bly. Except Bly shot his general point blank in the head and killed her, and Cody had his worst marksman fire an ion cannon at him from three klicks away and then waited five hours to try to recover the body, as if Kenobi hadn’t survived far worse than that. They were all awake, inside, when it was happening, you know?” Ponds said, his voice so soft, just for Boba and Jango’s ears. “But they had no control. Or, not much. They could sabotage their orders, but only in the most minute of ways. And if Kenobi had been in point blank range, Cody would have had to do the same as Bly did. So. You know. Thanks for killing me early. It would have ripped my soul to shreds to kill General Windu.”

Boba sighed and leaned his head against Ponds’. “You’re welcome.” Boba sighed again. “It’s a rough fucking galaxy out there, boys. I’m glad the old man got some while he was still young.”

Jango wondered who the ‘old man’ in question was. Were they still talking about adorable Kote and his tiny adorable Jedi?

Ponds snorted delicately. “He’s not that much like Bly. They spent every moment together, quietly pining for each other and blowing each others’ minds with their competence and battle prowess. Took Rex two years to figure out it was totally mutual, but despite hard evidence, Cody never believed him.”

Boba shook his head. “So competent, and yet so stupid.”

“Takes one to know one, ori’vod.”

“Fuck off, vod’ika,” Boba said, rather mildly, and still doing a rather intense side cuddle with Ponds. “I ruled a planet.”

Ponds scoffed. “You stole a single ball of dust from the Hutts. That barely counts. When we are finally taller than Jango, we’ll all go have a little celebration, okay?”

“And conquer the Hutt Empire?”

Oh, shit.

“You know Seventeen is planning it even now.”

Oh, double shit.

“Lotta syndicates out there. And the Zygerians.”

Jango could tell where this was going.

“Yup. And we’ve got a grudge against them all. They’re all going down.”

Oh, fucking shit. When the Republic found out the Mandalorian Empire was reforming and conquering again, they were going to shit bricks of solid beskar. And they were having this conversation on Coruscant.

“That’ll be a good day,” Boba agreed and Jango swallowed hard, wondering how much of any of that Jaster might have heard. Probably… probably none of it, since he and the big Jedi were talking quietly and giving the tiny baby Jedi and Kote a moment to work out decades of shit.

Old people in young bodies twisted his mind into a pretzel and his mind healer was totally on board with that.

So… then… Jango would need to tell him about it all, and so he tried to parse the information so he wouldn’t forget any of the major details, but…

Yeah.

Jango was too young for this shit.

The End.

The Ones Who Understand

SUMMARY:

Arla Fett looks up one day from her life of misery as an indoctrinated footsoldier of Death Watch and discovers that her life, which she was absolutely certain could not get any worse, just did.

Arla Fett is, however, a bit of a pessimist at this point and doesn’t recognize a rescue when it’s standing in front of her, looking like her little brother, with a single eyebrow raised.

Arla was shocked when she saw the twins that had been brought in. They were… they weren’t… they couldn’t be… they had to be… 

The Manda had abandoned her and the Stars had cursed her and just when she thought her life could get no worse…

Little siblings.

But no, no, it couldn’t be. Her parents were dead and Jango… Jango wasn’t old enough to have children. Okay, maybe technically, but certainly not children that age.

Cousins. Had to be cousins. Cousins from family Arla had no knowledge of. Had to be.

Oh, stars, the cowards were going to torture her baby cousins. 

Arla filled her canteen with nutrient water and emptied her belt packs, refilling them with bacta and high quality rations. She stowed extra knives in her boots and pried a green-go pass from the inside of a vambrace from the armory.

It was easy to find them and gain access. She only had to imply to the guard on duty that she wanted to tenderize them, see if they had any skills or mandokar. The guard even promised to turn the monitor off for twenty minutes, but no longer, as the shift would change. They weren’t technically supposed to have interactions with the new recruits, but the guard clearly was fine with her beating up small children the sly.

Arla made a point of setting a timer for nineteen minutes and gave a jaunty salute, pushing down her own nausea.

She went to the indicated door and the door unlocked before she could reach it, which was good. If the logs showed it was her who opened it, she’d be in for a world of trouble, not that she wouldn’t take it on the chin. She would.

She pushed the door open and realized she’d need to prop it open with something, so pulled off her helmet. No knowing when they’d be monitoring her vocoder, anyway, and it powered off automatically when she took it off so as to not waste battery power. She let the door close on it and made sure it was wedged well enough not to move.

Then she turned around. It took all of her courage to do so.

Oh, stars, they were obviously her family. Obviously. 

“Are you injured?” she whispered, looking down at the two, sitting on a cot next to each other while the rest of their new squad looked silently on from their beds with haunted eyes.

One of them tilted their head and stared at her like he was staring into her soul. Except she didn’t have one anymore. She was entirely dar’manda and she knew it.

The other spoke in a whisper. “You’re Arla, aren’t you?”

“And you’re my cousins,” she responded.

“Sort of,” said the twin who’d spoken before at the same time that the one who was staring said, “Yeah, not exactly, ori’vod.”

Arla’s breath shuddered. “I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ll get you out of here. Here, I brought bacta and rations - they won’t feed you enough - drink this now,” she said taking her canteen. “I need it back, but it has nutrient water in it.” She pulled out the contents of her belt bags. “Hide these. Only use them when the lights go out so the guards monitoring you don’t see.” Then she pulled out the green-go pass and explained which doors it would and wouldn’t open. And finally she pulled the knives from her boots and handed them over, hilt first. “Give me two days. I’ll figure something out.”

“You don’t want to come with? Your brother misses you,” said the twin who was speaking, not staring.

“I can’t. Bomb in my cuirass. Activated if I fuck around with it. Remote detonation up to ten miles away, or if I get out of range. It’ll be another eight years of serving before I can get a bomb-free cuirass. Plus all my armor and my kute all have trackers in them. Besides,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m dar’manda demagolka now. I’d be killed on sight.”

“The Mand’alor is remarkably forgiving,” the talkative twin said, his voice gentle. Which was sweet, but he obviously had no idea what he was talking about.

“And we’ve refrained from killing worse people,” said the twin who had been mostly silent up until now. “Look, Fett. We’re here to end Death Watch, not escape. Mereel would give everyone, and I mean everyone here a chance to make a new choice. Cin vhetin. How many do you think would take it?”

Arla gasped and felt her knees weaken. She sagged down into a squat and took a shuddering breath in. “I don’t… I don’t know.” She took a deep breath and a slow exhale and then another. “I don’t even trust anyone enough to try and sound them out. They’d sell me out to get a higher rank faster.”

“How’d you get in here, then?” That was the second twin.

“Implied I wanted to beat the shit out of you. They turned off the monitor, but only for the next few minutes. Timer goes off, I get out.”

The two twins looked at each other for a brief, silent moment, then one nodded. 

“Two days. Find the place or places, device, or devices that can set off the bombs in the armor. When all hell breaks loose, go for those. And if you have an opportunity to warn sympathizers to stay out of it or play dead, do it.”

She nodded.

“Thanks for the supplies,” the chatty one said, stuffing them under the pillow. “I’m Fordo. I’ll be killing the three in charge before we leave, unless they have a special place in your heart?”

Arla snorted and shook her head in the negative. Then she looked to the one who was quieter.

“Name’s Seventeen, ori’vod. We’ll get you home.”

“I have no home,” Arla said, hollowly.

“Jango and his buir think differently. Always have. Now get out of here and go look like a coward who just beat up some defenseless little children.”

She left, closing the door silently behind her and shoving her helmet back on to hide the tears.

It turned out, actually, that she was able to sound out four different people, all of whom seemed genuinely sympathetic and who also knew of several other people who also wanted to get the hell out of there, especially with a Mand’alor who would offer them cin vhetin. It was strangely easier than she had imagined.

Look pathetic. (Very easy, she usually just tried to hide it.)

Respond to a quietly spoken word of sympathy. 

State a desire that was obviously and clearly dreamlike and fantastic, and not at all based on any actionable plans. (‘I wish I could just go home.’)

When the same was echoed back, (‘Yeah, don’t we all.’) bring it into the real world. (‘What if we could? I think… I think I know a way we could.’)

And the rest was easy.

And so when all hell broke loose, there were sixteen ready to stun their own and steal into one of the tech heavy rooms that could turn off all the detonators. And that’s when they discovered that more was rigged to blow than just their armor.

Fordo really did kill three fully armored lieutenants of Death Watch with the two knives she had given them and he did it so… efficiently. Cleanly, given the fact that he couldn’t be more than ten years old. 

It was like he was trained in assassination, or something.

And it happened so… quickly. Arla almost didn’t register what was happening until it was over.

She shook herself and kept stunning people, then laid down her blaster when the real Mandalorians came through. She also took her helmet off and knelt down on both knees, the others following suit behind her.

“Compound is clear, Buir. Most are stunned, not dead,” Fordo said. He was covered in blood splatter. Quite a lot of blood splatter, considering the three throats he’d just cut.

“Good work,” said the one in the red cape before turning to others. “Fan out, start transporting bodies. Shriek Hawk, Jaig, Grunts, we’re ready for you.”

“We rescued Arla,” added Seventeen, nodding over to her. He had led the sixteen in a systematic sweep, once Arla stunned the guard and opened his squad’s door.

The one in the cape nodded, and all the kneeling ones were asked if they were willing to regain their honor.

“Yes, Alor,” they all chorused, and Arla with them.

They were asked if they were willing to pledge to House Mereel, and the Mand’alor, by which the speaker obviously meant that other Mand’alor, Jaster Mereel, not Tor Vizsla.

“Yes, Alor,” they all chorused, and Arla with them.

“Good enough. Details later. For now, up you get, grab your stuff.” Then he started separating them out to accompany others. Except Arla.

“Where should I go?” Arla asked, when the room had emptied except for the two mandokarla children of her family, and the one in the red cape.

He pulled his helmet off. Human, or near enough. Dark skin, like her, broken nose, also like her. She held her helmet under her left arm and tried not to shake. She was better than this, stronger than this.

The man before her sighed. “Child, I’m Jango’s buir. You can stay with me.”

She blinked at him and wished away her nausea, her lightheadedness.

“Yes, Alor,” she said, her voice strong because she willed it. She swallowed back the nausea, determined to master herself, no matter what.

"Come on, then. We have work to do.”

Arla was quietly repainting certain pieces of her old armor and her new beskar alloy cuirass and helmet in one of the Forge’s repainting stalls. She was painting it all the same unrelenting shade of white. It was the only thing she could paint it, should paint it, would want to paint it even if she were allowed a different color for the first five years. Which she wasn’t. And yet, it meant something different to her brothers than it meant to her.

Well, most of her brothers.

They understood, though.

She was allowed a kute of a different color, and a cloak of a different color if she wanted it.

Arla chose grey. A grey reinforced flight kute, and a grey fireproof kama like some of her little brothers wore, and a grey armorweave cloak, hers with a hood. The only thread of color was a thin band on the edge of the hood to honor Jaster and her original parents.

She was well aware she would blend in with a fog, but her siblings didn’t tease her about it, like they might have with each other. They understood.

They understood that sometimes she needed space, and sometimes she needed people.

They understood, like she would never have imagined possible, that sometimes being haunted by what you’ve seen and done seems more real than firstmeal, the weather, today’s training, the daily threat and risk reports, and doing mundane things like brushing your hair or showering.

They understood, and left her alone sometimes, and sometimes when she was certain she needed to be alone, Fordo or Ninety-Nine or Ponds or once even Seventeen would show up and just pull her out of bed, turn on the shower, help her strip and launder her clothes, and shove her under the hot water. Which always seemed to help, even if she wouldn’t have been able to manage all that on her own. They would bring her soft clothes and soft slippers and just her vambraces to wear. They would brush her hair and braid it. They would bring her spiced, sweetened caf. They would bring her out to the karyai when few others were around and put into her hands a large bowl of hot grains with an unrealistic amount of shredded cheese added, which was always just perfect. Then, as she slowly ate, they would curl around her and share their plans to overthrow the Zygerian Empire. It was usually the Zygerians, even though they had other plans, she knew. Sometimes she would even ask questions about the strategy, or the politics involved, or the inevitable power vacuum, and what it would be to have so many freed slaves whose minds and wills had just been shattered by their experiences.

The mind healer helped, and her sessions with the other rescued children, and every day it was one or the other. And yet, her brothers, who somehow understood more than she could have imagined, they helped perhaps even more.

They understood.

They understood and left her to sleep in her own private room when she needed it, and didn’t say anything at all when sometimes they woke and she was curled around Jango anyway, clinging as if her life depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

And her brothers understood.

The End.

What Matters To Vokara

SUMMARY:

Vokara Che is the Head of the Halls of Healing in the Jedi Temple at Coruscant, and a skilled healer of mind, body, and soul. She’s older than she looks, kinder than her temper lets on, and wiser than any of the KnightCorps on active field duty. She has a biting and dark wit, though few but her former padawans are aware of it.

And she is absolutely going to save the Galaxy. And she’s going to do it for the galaxy’s own sake.

Vokara Che looked up to see the healer who was knocking on her door. Ah, yes. Her own former padawan, Cara, who had decided to specialize in mind and soul healing. She had meant to talk with her soon anyway, so instead of just looking up from her review of reports, she got up and gave the Pantoran a hug and started making a pot of tea, waving her dear child over to the floor table with the comfortable seating cushions.

The door was closed and the water was heating and Vokara was smiling, leaning against a data terminal while she listened to her dear one emotionally vomit all over her office.

“-I mean, okay, and yes, before you ask, I totally have already taken most of the cases to Supervision and discussed them there, and I absolutely have brought this up to my own mind healer, but oh holy starfuck, Vokara!” Her emphasis involved a loud hissing whisper. “I mean, the so-called ‘good’ sentients on the planet were eating the fertilized eggs of their sentient enemies as a delicacy, Master! THEY SERVED THEM TO MY PATIENT AT A FORMAL STATE DINNER!!! GRAAAAAAH!”

Cara had her hands thrown up in the air and she made a few choice Ryl’lek curse signs while she was at it that made Vokara lose the battle to the grin on her face.

If she hadn’t already reviewed the overview notes from the session, she might not have been able to laugh about Cara’s melodrama, but she had, and it was just as Master Kenobi had warned them of.

It was truly horrible, and now it was averted. The Kaleesh had a lot to work through, as a people, but the Yamrii had been exiled from the planet they’d tried to conquer and the Jedi Corps had been welcome to establish a base, instead. And so, one more pawn of the Sith had been taken off the board. Likely two more would replace it, or so her own wise patients surmised, but things were changing, and even if they didn’t change enough to satisfy Obi-Wan or Plo, people were still helped. That is what Vokara urged both of them to remember.

It wasn’t just about averting war.

It certainly wasn’t about just preserving the Jedi as a monolith.

It was about the people. They were here to serve the Force, yes, and the Force desired that they help people. Real people. One at a time, sometimes, and sometimes by the dozens, hundreds, thousands, or by the planet, as Cara’s patient had done.

In the end, the war did not matter to Vokara. The Jedi Order did not matter to Vokara.

It was the people who mattered to Vokara.

The people who were sometimes insulting, infuriating, demeaning, and just plain shit-for-brains morons, yes. Those people. Those people along with the nice ones, the kind ones, the polite ones, the well-meaning ones, the intelligent ones, the ones who also helped.

It was all of those people who mattered, and every change Master Kenobi was instigating was materially changing the lives of billions of people.

And it was that, incidentally, that would save the Jedi Order, that would avert war.

But it was the people who mattered.

The meditation with Cara went well and the young Pantoran would be wrapping up with her current patients in the next three weeks and she would prepare to deploy to the newly reopened temple on Tython. She would be head of the mind healers there, with six others under her pulled from various MediCorps stations, in charge of all of the mental well-being of those Jedi and lay members who dwelt within, and at least for the next few months, it would also be a quiet time with few calls on their services. They were all to take it as a partial-sabbatical, Vokara had explained.

They would need it.

Vokara also carefully explained to her beloved former padawan that, should the Shadows be so fortunate, Cara and her healers would have the toughest caseload in the galaxy. Few in quantity. Sith in quality.

And after the meditation, Vokara and a much sobered Cara discussed protocol, procedure, self-care, and then Vokara brought out the ancient manuscripts. They went over each in summary fashion, with Cara given the assignment to read them all over most carefully, make her own notes and return in a week to discuss her observations and questions with Vokara. Therein was a stunningly useful array of techniques and methods to reclaim darksiders in general and Sith in particular. It included everything from how to cut off their connection to the ritual objects that made them stronger and less mentally stable, to exposure techniques that could only be accomplished on one of three Light Force Nexii in the galaxy, Tython being one of them. It also covered methods for the healers, for counterattack, defence, grounding, and a level of self-care that even healers might find a little cushy. All were absolutely required for any mind healer who carried the maximum caseload of Sith patients: 1.

The Guardians of the Temple of Kyber in Jedha were willing to permanently house the former darksiders and Sith they might find, but only if all due diligence had already been done for them in terms of mind, body, and soul healing, and only if they could not be returned to the regular society of other Force Sensitives, in a cloistered or non-cloistered lifestyle.

So if the Shadows didn’t kill them all and burn the pieces, the due diligence was going to be left up to Cara and her healers, with Vokara supervising Cara.

With a hug and a promise that if Cara didn’t comm and stay in touch outside of supervision Vokara would be sorely disappointed, she saw her beautiful child out of her office and returned to the rest of the reports she needed to sign off on.

Vokara was no fan of datawork, but behind each report… was a person.

And Vokara Che was in this for the people.

The End

Sea Change

SUMMARY:

Kit Fisto is read into a Shadow Jedi need-to-know plot. And after having the entirety of Canon dropped on his head like an anvil from ACME, he is just a tiny bit overwhelmed. Which, you know, relatable.

Kit Fisto walked into the meditation room he had been summoned to and saw that Agen Kolar had preceded him there, though no one else as yet. They hadn’t been in the same Initiate clan, but they were only a few years apart and had largely grown up together, and Kit found the Iridonian quiet and thoughtful and generally good company. Kit smiled widely at him and bowed.

“Do you know what this is about?” Kit asked.

Face placid and peaceful, the Zabrak shook his head very minutely, twice, which sufficed for an answer.

Kit mentally shrugged. He would much prefer to chat and catch up with all of Knight Kolar’s news and so pass the time waiting, but that was generally not Agen’s wont, so he didn’t want to push it.

Ah, well. Light meditation it was.

Then the door opened and Mace Windu came in.

Interesting, interesting. Bowing and the polite acknowledgement of Force Presences and all such necessary pleasantries were passed until the door opened again.

Master Yan Dooku strode in.

Kit was noticing a theme; renown with a ‘saber, but in different styles. Was there to be a tournament of sorts?

Then the door opened again and Vokara Che walked in, and that theory went up in smoke. Master Healer Che didn’t use her lightsaber. Didn’t even carry it anymore.

The door opened again and four people entered this time; the Master of the Order, Plo Koon, his little prodigy of a padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi who was, at least, now the age of an Initiate rather than a crecheling, and Master Yaddle, who was also on the High Council. And behind Master Yaddle came another figure whose Force Signature he didn’t recognize, and the being’s outer robe’s hood was drawn down over their face. Seemed like a near human male, though, and a little shorter than Kit himself.

Back to Kit’s original theory of some sort of ‘saber or fighting competition… it wasn’t wholly unfounded, and perhaps Master Che was here in a medical oversight capacity. Because Yaddle fought with a lightstaff, Koon could channel Emerald Lightning, and the prodigy padawan was nearing mastery with Soresu. No telling about the other one, though.

“Thank you for coming, Masters, Knights, Padawan,” the Master of the Order calmly said. “Obi-Wan, will you?”

The small padawan, now seven standard, if Kit had the reckoning right, without any movement of his hand or arm, floated out nine meditation cushions into a circle in the center of the room. He did this with absolutely perfect control.

Prodigy, indeed.

“Masters Dooku and Antilles-”

Holy Force above, that was Jon Antilles? The Jon Antilles?

“-Knights Windu, Kolar, and Fisto, you five are going to be read into a confidential situation because the Master of Shadows has deemed it time. Two years ago, the Force took extraordinary measures both here and in the Outer Rim, to achieve cosmic balance. The details of what occurred will be shared during meditation. I urge you to keep an open mind. We will need your open mind, as well as your skills at discernment, combat, and your own deep wisdom.”

“This was roughly the time you took on your quite advanced padawan, was it not?” Master Dooku asked.

“Only a week or so after the incident, yes,” Master Koon acknowledged.

“I saw those shatterpoints. The one here, attached to Padawan Kenobi, and more vaguely the one in the Outer Rim. They were the largest I’d ever seen,” Mace admitted. “But this moment isn’t one.”

“It wouldn’t be, no,” Master Yaddle piped up. “More you will understand, soon. Deepest decisions already made, they have been. Many quiet changes, already in progress are.”

Yeah, and some not so quiet changes, too, Kit considered. A lot of old satellite temples had been reopened in the Mid Rim, Expansion Region, and even in the Deep Core by all four of the Jedi Corps, and Knights and Masters were starting to transfer out. Four more MediCorps stations were opened in the Outer Rim and Agricorps and Educorps were now in every Outer Rim sector, and lay recruitment of non-Force Sensitives was apparently skyrocketing, or so Kit’s crechemate in the ExploriCorps had said. Recruitment was up in all the parts of the Order and the Jedi had forged an official alliance with the Mandalorian Empire.

Not the Republic.

The Jedi.

Once there was a Jedi at the head of the Mandalorian Empire.

Now there was a Mandalorian at the head of the Jedi Order.

Yeah.

There had been just one or two changes, Kit considered ruefully.

The Nautolan was pulled out of his musings as they were all pleasantly invited to sit and Kit sank easily into the joint meditation. And Kit was able to maintain his sunny outlook for longer, objectively speaking, than he would have thought, if he’d been warned of what, exactly, was to come next.

Kit continued to breathe deeply as the meditation finally ended. It was… a lot. Most pertinent, perhaps, at least for here-and-now considerations, was the upcoming Sith hunt.

Hunts. Plural.

How Kit had gotten tapped for a Sith hunt he himself had no idea.

They each would be paired with an extremely small and deceptively young-looking Mandalorian who would be uniquely suited to work with their fighting style. Still. They would be given time to train and get to know one another. Two months worth of time.

Kit’s brain skipped over some of the other perhaps extremely pertinent issues raised in the meditation, like a flat stone over the surface tension of the water.

“Master Kenobi,” Master Dooku began slowly, the first to break the physical silence after their long meditation. “I would like to apologize for the terrible treatment you received at my hands, in that other life.”

Kenobi bowed at the neck. “You are forgiven, Grandmaster. The Dark side twists the best of intentions.”

Dooku returned the bow and there was quiet again, for a space. 

“It is a lesson, is it not, for us all?” Yaddle asked.

“Which lesson in particular do you mean, Master?” Mace asked.

“Master Dooku, vocal for some decades he has been, hmm, yes. Clear it has been, to him, the corruption of the Senate, the complicity of the Jedi, the deep unaddressed needs beyond the Core of the Republic. Ignored him, the High Council has.”

“Not in recent years,” Master Dooku interjected dryly. “And now I understand why.”

“The Order has slumbered,” Agen said. “And while it slept, the Sith have crept in, made fast the chains and begun chipping away.”

Kit took a deep inhale and a rather slow exhale.

“The Force has given us a gift,” Master Antilles grated out. “I am both surprised and pleased that the Order has not squandered it.”

“The Force has given us twelve million, seventy-six thousand, four hundred and thirty-two gifts. Each one is incredibly precious,” Master Kenobi added.

“Master Antilles has agreed to train us all in some of the key esoteric techniques that will be useful in the coming hunts,” Master Koon said. “And Master Che and I will be teaching you all how to redirect Sith lightning. We shall be going out in pairs of two Jedi, with Mandalorian back up. We will have three months to train on our own, using only the Shadow salles for the techniques, and another two with our Mandalorian counterparts.”

The Banite lineage the Sith might be, but there were far more than simply two of them. Because of course there were.

“What can you tell us of our Mandalorian counterparts? I, obviously, did not have one in the other time,” Master Dooku asked.

The Master of the Order answered.

“Neither you, nor Master Yaddle, nor Master Antilles were drafted by the Republic. Master Dooku, you will be assigned Fordo Mereel. He is the kindest, most forgiving, and deadliest of the Alpha class, and therefore, of the entire cohort of the echo-children of the original. Master Antilles, you will be assigned Seventeen Mereel. He is… gruff and no nonsense, and has been and continues to be the head trainer of the echo-children.”

“He’s really soft and squishy on the inside and a bit of a mother nuna, but he’ll deny it to his dying breath,” Master Kenobi added in a soft voice, with a smile.

“Indeed,” Master Koon agreed, his tusks vibrating slightly. “Master Yaddle will be assigned Fox Mereel, former Marshall Commander of the Coruscant Guard. Fox has a biting wit and a keen desire to kill his former torturer, who became the Sith Emperor.”

“It would be helpful, perhaps,” Master Kenobi said, “to say something of the others, as we will each be training and cross training and spending much time with them all.”

The Master of the Order nodded and then continued.

“Knight Kolar, in another life you worked with several different Commanders, but we have discerned Bacara Rook, former Commander of the Galactic Marines, to be best suited to the present circumstances. Bacara is quiet, occasionally gentle, and entirely formidable.” 

Kit was having… a lot of feelings about working with the Mandalorians. Would they at least be… nearly full grown? Really? How small was small? Even if they’d lived a full life and had full experiences, it just felt… it felt so wrong to subject the bodies of children to something as horrifying and rigorous as a Sith hunt.

Deep breaths. He kept taking deep breaths, letting his concerns flow into the Force for now. He would meditate in the deepest salt waters the Temple had, and soon. But for now, he kept listening.

“Knight Windu, you will be paired with Ponds Mereel, former Marshall Commander of the Reconnaissance Corps. He is gentle, kind, and wise and I have been told he has quite a discerning taste for theatre. Knight Fisto, you will be paired with Monnk Wren, former Commander of the SCUBA division. Monnk is gregarious and witty and has enhanced lung capacity. He’s looking forward to swimming with you.”

Kit was having an awful lot of emotions about that, and he’d… need to examine them all later. While Kit did more deep breathing, the time travelling Master took up the thread of conversation.

“Master Plo will be paired with Wolffe Rook Koon, his former Commander of the 104th Battalion, and I will be paired with Kote Mereel, my own former Marshall Commander of 7th Sky.”

“May I ask the difference between an Alpha clone, a Marshall Commander, and a Commander?” Master Dooku asked, possibly, for everyone who hadn’t time travelled from a Sith-blighted future.

Master Kenobi responded. “The Nulls came first, and had the most individually wide-ranging genetic alterations from the original. They were never intended for combat, but they were fully trained to see how the training would take. The Alphas came next and had the specific alterations that the contract sought in attaining the perfect super soldier that could keep up with Jedi, and at the precise moment, turn on them. They all saw combat, briefly, and most survived, but were retained at the cloning facility as trainers. You see, most of them were considered too aggressive to function in an army and some of them were certainly more likely to lead wide-scale mutinies than others, and so the Command clones were the perfect, but extremely expensive, balance of super soldier capacity, leadership ability, and diminished aggression. After them came the Clone Troopers, cheaper and faster to produce, and even less aggressive, but still extremely competent super soldiers, some of whom qualified for more advanced training. It was the Sith’s attempt to manufacture a sympathetic Mandalorian ally without having to actually deal with Mandalorian politics, which do not favor the Sith in this century.”

“Worth mentioning, it is,” said Master Yaddle, “the Force did not bring the echo-children backwards in time with the slave chips intact. Turn on us, they will not.”

“A relief to know,” Agen said, nodding his head at her.

Kit finally asked his question in a lull of the spoken word. “I recognize it may not be salient to our work, but why was the original chosen?”

Again, Master Yaddle spoke. “Most dangerous sentient in the galaxy, he was. Broken by tragedy. Warped by the Sith. Yes, dangerous.”

“Was it Durge?” Master Antilles asked, and Kit couldn’t help but to wonder who Durge was.

Master Kenobi sighed, then answered. “The Sith had too much sense of self-preservation to clone him. They didn’t want their super soldiers to be functionally immortal, that would defeat the purpose entirely. Also a mind-control chip wouldn’t have worked there, because his brain is spread out through all his tissue. The original they did choose was, perhaps, just dangerous and broken enough for their purposes, but mostly human and entirely mortal. But we have changed things, and the majority of the original’s tragedy has been averted. I believe he’s considering becoming a gardener, this time around.”

“Oh, that is nice,” Master Koon said, because the Master of the Order apparently had some sort of personal knowledge of the template for the army of sith spawn super soldiers. Sort of like Crysalides, but sentient.

Kit still wanted to know who Durge was, however.

The End.

Suspension of Disbelief

SUMMARY:

Mace is taking this all quite philosophically and is only a bit sad that Kenobi decided to take up Calligraphy instead of Theatre. Also, Cody Mereel’s ship has guns, and those tippy-uppy wing things that rotate upon landing.

Mace felt distinctly underdressed. He was, in fact, the only one not wearing armor. He had opted not to even wear any pieces of cortosis weave that the Temple had in stock, and apparently all the Temples now had in stock, specifically reserved for Sith hunts, and not just Temple Guards.

Both of the Sers Mereel as well as Master Kenobi were wearing a significant amount of armor, plate, mail, and weave, though the Mandalorian Jedi’s armor was mostly covered by his outer robe, and he only wore an augmented mask, rather than a full helmet. The Mandalorians wore full, pure beskar, and Mace would have thought that would be particularly difficult at their age, but apparently their bones were as dense as a Zabrak’s and they were remarkably muscular for nine year old near Humans.

And they ate a tremendous amount.

But this was life, now.

And when months ago, now, Master Antilles was in company while Agen and Kit had been grousing early on concerning the true viability of time travel in any context, versus deep visions, false memories, and some sort of deeper Sith plot also involving cloned super soldiers who had perhaps freed themselves in a traumatic catastrophe that could not be recalled… that had not gone well.

Master Antilles then proceeded to explain the practical temporal mechanics over midmeal, and which of the several esoteric techniques they were currently learning from him could result in spontaneous, unpredictable, and uncontrollable time travel that at best was Force directed and at worst was random, proving in the longest-winded way that Mace had frankly thought previously inconceivable, particularly from that Master, that Kit and Agen were, in fact, full of shit.

So, yes. This was Mace’s life, now.

And since he would far prefer to do good, continue his studies, and make the galaxy a kinder place for having been in it, he was content to not be in a full-scale galactic dejarik game that a Banite Sith was playing with himself.

Kit and Agen were clearly still unnerved by the old-in-memory and young-in-body ones… but it was like the theatre, in Mace’s mind. It only required a single suspension of disbelief, and the rest had perfect internal consistency. And because he could suspend that disbelief, he had discovered a wonderful person in Master Kenobi, whom he was quite enjoying befriending, and who was taking the opportunity afforded to him to become wiser, healthier, more deeply attuned to the Force, and to cultivate some new hobbies, none of which (sadly) benefited Mace’s theatre troupe. Calligraphy and illumination were more his style, apparently, and Mace had seen some of his early works. By no means were they masterpieces, but they were certainly beautiful works of art, and as he continued they would only get better, of course.

And being a polyglot, Master Kenobi could naturally not limit his calligraphy to Aurebesh.

This is what Mace thought of, instead of their prisoner, as they led the Sith back to Cody Mereel’s personal transport (Feemor knew all of its specs, but Mace couldn’t remember a single one of them; it had guns, plenty of room, and its front-facing wings did that tip-up thing that some ships did, and it was painted white and orangey gold). Mace had sufficiently passed astronav, and could pilot most ships whose labels were in Basic. That was all that was necessary, and that was as far as he needed to go, there.

Master Kenobi quite agreed with him, on that.

At any rate, at least their Sith was asleep, already in a healing trance, and while Mace did have mixed feelings about using a Hutt manufactured electro-shock, Force Suppressing bomb collar on the Muun, the other three-quarters of his team seemed quite cheerful about it.

A deep irony, Master Kenobi called the electro-shock function, and it had helped to meditate with him on the subject before they’d dropped out of hyperspace. 

Master Kenobi was floating the Sith horizontally between them as they walked back to the ship, and once they’d put the Muun’s severed hands on top of him, Ponds Mereel had thrown a sheet over his body, which admittedly did not make things less conspicuous, even in their rented speeder. But, so it went.

A team of Shadows were doing clean up in the Muun’s palace, seizing property, droids, and data and freezing accounts, and they would be there for weeks yet, working through everything and possibly finding more leads on other Sith that would need arresting.

That would be a task for next month, undoubtedly.

For now, Mace and his team needed to take the Banite Sith to the Temple on Tython for processing and possible rehabilitation, a thing that would only occur on the strongest Light Force Nexii the galaxy had to offer.

Perhaps he, too, could be saved, and offer the galaxy whatever beautiful and unique gift the Force had given him.

Perhaps.

The End.

Welcome Home

SUMMARY:

Plo welcomes Obi-Wan’s Sith Hunting Party home again, and then there is a celebratory meal to prepare for.

Plo pulled back from the hug and held the shoulders of his dear friend. “I do believe you’ve grown.”

Obi-Wan scoffed in a manner most unbecoming The Negotiator. “I’ve been gone less than a month, Plo’buir. Really.”

Plo chuckled, his tusks vibrating. A day less than a month hardly counted. “And yet, and yet. You are in many ways, a growing boy, and you’ll always be at least three hundred years younger than me, young man. Well, three hundred, give or take the vagaries of reality today.”

Obi-Wan gave a much more charming giggle that was entirely age appropriate, and another quick hug.

Plo looked to the others coming down the ramp of the Crown Prince’s pride and joy, a Kom’rk class starfighter and troop transport liberated from Death Watch. He bowed to the Jedi and saluted the Mandalorians.

“Well met, friends,” Plo greeted. “I shall accompany you to the Halls of Healing. You’re the last ones back, and then you’ll be just in time for a brief rest, and then a group meal that Obi-Wan is hosting,” he said, clapping his padawan’s shoulder.

“Oh, am I?”

“Well, it’s on your side of the apartment. But what Yan hasn’t made, the kitchens catered. It’s all taken care of.”

“Ooo, Master Dooku is cooking?” Obi-Wan said, looking up, his adorable eyes wide and round.

“Is that a good thing?” Ponds Fett asked as they started walking.

Plo watched Knight Windu shrug.

“He has taken Master Antilles under his wing, given that his master was a crechemate of Yan’s, and has been determined to pass down some lineage recipes that his own padawans have been hopeless at. The results have been very gratifying,” Plo assured them.

Obi-Wan hummed.

“We’re all back then?” Knight Windu asked, without naming names.

Plo nodded wordlessly.

Plo himself had gone out with Agen Kolar, Yan with Jon, and Yaddle with Kit, and all their attendant Mandalorians. Yan, Jon, Fordo and Seventeen had returned the earliest, and the cooking lessons had begun in earnest even before they left, apparently, with Fordo and Seventeen being allowed to learn the sacred lineage recipes. Somewhere along the line this idea for the whole group to share a private meal afterwards had been born.

Plo had already had the odd comm message with Obi-Wan assuring him that all was well and going according to plan, and Obi-Wan’s full report had already been submitted to Yaddle, and though Plo didn’t know the details, he trusted the most important things to come out eventually, if they needed to be said.

Not that it wasn’t Plo’s responsibility to provide communication accountability to Obi-Wan. It was. But not in the Temple hanger, nor the hallways.

Plo waited in the Healing Halls with Cody and Ponds Mereel and noticed that Ponds was humming something, at least until Cody gave him a cold, helmeted stare.

Possibly Ponds was still humming after that, but it looked like he might have turned his external speaker off. It was a handy feature, and one that would be even better if it weren’t telegraphed by typing something into the interface on his left vambrace.

Alas, they would get the full HUD interface in their final helmets, but not until they were finished growing. Wolffe had told him all about it.

Plo did so enjoy kicking a hornet’s nest, however.

“What a delightful tune, Ser Mereel. What is that you were humming?” Plo asked.

A tapping on the vambrace came before the response, which meant that Plo was right. 

“It was a song from the musical Dark, a story about two Adept sisters in a corrupt and difficult ancient time. The Light Side was full of corruption, too, so the one sister, the title character, walks in Shadow, without going wholly insane, and it’s about her journey. And there are flying monkeys. I watched it with Knight Windu.”

“They watched it eight times,” the Ven’Alor added.

“Ah, yes. A great fan of the stage, our Knight Windu. Ven’Alor, were you aware that Padawan Kenobi has a very pleasing singing voice? His present age makes him sound like an angel, but I’m sure his voice will age well.”

“Bet you wouldn’t mind if Obi-Wan were singing in the drop bay,” Ponds slyly pointed out.

“I’m sure Padawan Kenobi would make his lineage proud,” the Ven’Alor said tightly, “as he does with all things.”

“True, true,” Plo agreed. “He is a most reliably impressive youngling. I’m so glad he has you to remind him of his worth.”

A nod was all Plo got, and he tried to keep his tusks from vibrating in amusement, but it was so difficult.

Cody Mereel was too much fun to wind up for Plo to refrain from doing so unless the situation was entirely dire, but perhaps that would be enough for the day.

Plo was not at all shocked that the Ven’Alor did not retire to the shared quarters of his brothers, but to Obi-Wan’s apartment instead.

Physically, they were seven and nine years old, so at most they shared chaste kisses, some semi-private hand-holding, and sprawling cuddles when unconscious, which Wolffe assured him all the Vod’e did. No one slept alone if they could help it.

Still, Plo was vaguely aware that when Obi-Wan was showering, Cody was on a comm call in a corner of the living room and continued the call through when others started bringing extra tables, cushions, and other gear into the room.

Plo put up his reading of reports, then, and came over to lend a hand and stopped when Wolffe tugged on his sleeve and indicated an adorable scene to witness.

Just a forehead kiss between the two, as Obi-Wan left the refresher, and Cody got up to take his turn.

But Plo did notice a knife in a rather ornate leatheris sheath on Obi-Wan’s belt that certainly hadn’t been there, before.

Clearly that would be another part of his personal file that would be under a seal, Plo considered, welcoming Yan and Jon inside, and the pots and dishes that Jon was floating in between them.

Well, well.

It would all come out eventually.

Eventually.

And what was the best kept wide-open secret in the Mandalorian Sector would become the best kept wide open secret in the Jedi Order, too, even if it never went into the minutes of a High Council meeting, and therefore was never available for Senate review.

Laughter caught his attention, however, and Plo looked up to see Jon and Seventeen laughing at something that had Fordo spluttering and Yan looking his absolutely most severe and dignified, but still, Yan was leaking amusement into the Force. Plo wondered what on earth had happened to make Jon and Seventeen laugh, and realized that he really must pay more attention to the glorious people around him in the here and now.

And so he did.

The End.

end