#and my jedi padawan is a weequay.

[space-sweetheart]

I'm finally done naming the pirate ocs for my star wars si so here are some new tags for y'all to bear witness to

🐺 bor sivruf 🐺

❤️ van'dal ❤️

🦎 tussk hess 🦎

and of course I never said her tag before but my jedi padawan oc

☄️ nova ohrion ☄️

[freesia-writes]

Chapter 9: Interception

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance.

COVER ART BY @zaana!! And this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D

Master List of Chapters

Months passed, giving Vel plenty of time to find a suitable rhythm in the Coruscant underworld. From Jedi in training to a common thief, she marveled, shrugging it off dismissively. She had made her home in an abandoned hangar, in the levels far below the planet's surface, where only the scum and villainy tended to go. 

She would venture to the higher levels on "picking days", where she would select well-to-do shops and individuals from which to pilfer the various things that she decided she needed more than they did. The deserted hangar she called home also housed an abandoned ship, an old Republic tugboat retired from years of service and thoroughly picked-through by scavengers.

Quieter moments found her in meditation, trying to channel the Force through her as she once had. On one particular day, she managed to lift and turn a wrench, tightening a nut into its socket before the wrench clattered to the ground. A dismal victory, she decided. Right up her alley.

She kept to herself, wanting to avoid attracting any attention to the fact that she had moved into the hangar. She set up a little target practice range to improve her ability with a blaster, with a variety of pieces and parts that would move and spin to present challenges for her aim. Between pilfering and practice, the days melted away and the ache in her chest dulled. 

***

"Hey!!" a gravelly voice shouted, and Vel cursed under her breath, launching into a sprint. "Come back here!"

She flew down an alley, clutching a handful of credits, some shilo pins, and a couple capacitor bearings. Casting a glance behind her as she rounded the corner, she saw two angry Weequay in pursuit, waving blasters over their heads and shouting a variety of colorful insults. 

She leapt over a cart, scattering a basket of meilooruns and smacking her head on the vendor's makeshift canopy. Hard. This earned her a momentary splatter of bright light across her vision as well as an additional cacophony of vitriol from the merchant as the credits and parts scattered from her hands. 

Regaining her bearings, she heard the Weequay coming dangerously close. She wove through another alley, dodging trash cans and pedestrians, still blinking rapidly to try to clear her vision which was now swimming with tears from her solid blow to the temple. She spotted a ladder up ahead and made a beeline for it, doors and windows flying past.

She had almost made it when a pair of arms snatched her mid-run, pulling her into a crevice between buildings that was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. She cursed and struggled, scratching at the walls and squirming in an attempt to free herself. Her captor had fallen behind her against the wall, pulling her in tight. She felt a hot breath on her ear and cringed at the anticipation of the throaty Weequay voice.

But it was an urgent whisper instead: "If you would please be quiet until your pursuers are gone..." The matter-of-fact insistence stopped her cold, and she froze in disbelief. She looked down at the arms across her stomach, registering the gray and red paint.

"Tech?!" she whispered, gasping into silence as she heard the Weequay trundling down the alley outside.

"Where did she go?" one called to the other, sniffing around menacingly.

"Check the ladder!" the larger one pointed, and the two started off. They hadn't taken more than a single step before bright blue beams sizzled around each of them, and they dropped like stones. A second after that, Wrecker came charging around the corner, determined grin changing to disappointment as he saw their unconscious bodies.

"Aww, come on Crosshair, I almost had em!" he yelled, kicking one of their boots. "You never let me have any fun," he grumbled, sauntering back the way he had come.

Vel felt like pinching herself. She hadn't ever tried spice, but this sounded a lot like the spice dreams she had read about. Yet it felt so real. The arms around her loosened, bringing her back to reality and gently pushing her toward the opening. She stumbled out into the open, whirling around as quickly as she could. This resulted in a smarting pain in her temple, and she winced as she raised a hand to cover it. 

Tech emerged from the crevice, helmet first, then backpack antenna, then the rest of his glorious, tall, wonderful, incredibly welcome frame. Vel exhaled, looking up at him from her hand on her forehead. 

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?" she asked, dropping her hand to relax into a completely dumbfounded posture. She was so flooded with relief at the sight of him, exhilaration from the pursuit, and confusion about the whole situation that she forgot the pain she'd been carrying in her heart for months.

"I will be happy to answer all your questions," Tech answered, corner of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile, "When we are in a secure space. The ship is up above. Will you join me?"

She followed him after Wrecker, still speechless, mind racing with questions. They approached a set of lifts; the left was clearly occupied and on its way up, but the right was dark and available for use. They stepped on together, Tech punched a number, and the doors slid shut. 

The lighting in the lift was dim, and it reeked of all kinds of unsavory activities. Tech lifted his visor and regarded her from his helmet. 

"Is this what you have been doing?" he asked, not a single trace of implication behind his words.

"Are you going to lecture me?" Vel retorted, lifting her chin as she met his gaze. 

"No," came the simple response, as Tech calmly returned his eyes to the front.

The lift arrived with a mechanical ding, and the doors opened. They walked wordlessly down a puzzle of streets, Tech tapping away on his datapad as if nothing had happened, until they arrived at the Marauder. 

Crosshair and Wrecker were already settled as Tech and Vel boarded the ship. She looked around, feeling the dull ache once again as she took in the space she had come to grow fond of. Tech took his seat at the pilot controls, powering up the ship, and Crosshair stared at her as she approached. Wrecker clapped her on the shoulder as he headed back toward the bunks, and it was then that she noticed something different.

"Where's Hunter?" she asked, looking after Wrecker. 

Crosshair smirked, bringing a foot up to rest on his chair, elbow propped up on his knee. "Hunter took a bit of a tumble," he said smoothly. Was he gloating? Or was that just the way he talked? She looked to Tech inquisitively.

"What happened?" she asked.

Finishing his sequence of switches and buttons, Tech swiveled in his seat to face her. "We were sent to sabotage a Separatist droid factory. The intel we were given suggested that the power cells were housed in extremely combustible and highly valuable ipsium. We placed charges appropriately and constructed a timed detonator, to ensure ample time for our escape, but..." he faltered, lowering his head shamefully. 

"But your star-crossed lover here got his wires mixed up," Crosshair interjected, jabbing his toothpick in Tech's direction, "And the factory collapsed before we could get out."

Two simultaneous reactions met his words: Tech's head snapped up at Crosshair's accusation, and Vel's eyebrows skyrocketed at the news. Something echoed in the back of her mind... star-crossed lover?... but it was overshadowed by the lack of closure about Hunter's status.

"Is he okay?" she asked, feeling a disproportionate amount of concern. 

"Yes," Tech answered pertly, still staring at Crosshair. "He suffered two femoral fractures due to a falling crossbar, but he is nearly entirely recovered. And the wires were not mixed up," he insisted, "The coating had an unexpected reaction with the ipsium."

Vel's relief at his words was quickly overtaken by a flashback to their little outing to the geological cache. She could see the glass case of mineral reactions, remembering distinctly her delight at the new combinations she hadn't yet known about. 

"Oh no," she said, realization dawning on her as she looked at Tech, "Were they syllen wires?"

"They were," he confirmed grimly, "And I am now fully aware of their combustibility in proximity to ipsium."

"Too bad you weren't there," Crosshair crooned, and Vel couldn't gauge his tone. Some mix of mockery, wistfulness, and disdain. The usual cocktail. She let it go and took a deep breath, dropping into a nearby seat. She absently rubbed her temple, squinting through the throbbing pain that was now emanating from both her head as well as her chest.

"May I assist with that?" Tech asked cordially, motioning toward her hand. 

"It's fine," she said dismissively, still fighting to form a coherent thought. "What am I doing here? What are you guys doing here?" she finally asked, looking at each of them in turn. 

"Well, we wondered if you would be open to assisting us again," came a silken voice from behind her. She swiveled in her seat to see Hunter sauntering in from the back, walking a bit more stiffly than usual but looking none worse for the wear. 

There was absolutely too much going on, and Vel felt near to a breaking point. She shook her head, immediately regretted it, and gritted her teeth as she closed her eyes. She hadn't realized how much had been pent up inside, between the disappointment of her departure to the stress of the day. She just wanted to sleep an entire day and night, wake up fresh, and start again.

"Let's fix that headache and you can go from there," Hunter invited, motioning for Tech to approach. He could sense her faltering and was just in time with his recommendation. As Tech reached out to offer her a hand, she felt her eyes grow irresistibly heavy, followed by her head, and the last thing she saw before blacking out was a concerned pair of honey-colored eyes.

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[sinisterexaggerator]

Shipppppppp: Honda x Ventress

Are you playing games, nonny?

LOL. NO WAY.

Ventress barely had the patience for Quinlan Vos. She would never be able to tolerate someone like Hondo Ohnaka.

On top of that, she absolutely hates Weequay! Weequay Raiders murdered her former master, Ky Narec, which led her toward the dark side.

"In 23 BBY,[2] during another attack by Weequay raiders, Narec was defeated and killed by a single raider, shot in the back with a sniper rifle, and subsequently died in Ventress's arms. Enraged by her Master's death, Ventress took Narec's lightsaber and struck down the sniper in a fit of rage, becoming the first step in her path to the dark side of the Force.[3]" - Wookieepedia.

In Dark Disciple, she is quoting as saying this about Weequay:

“When I was an infant, my clan was forced to surrender me to a criminal. I became his slave, but he was a surprisingly kind master. He was killed when I was still quite young during an attack by Weequay raiders. I was rescued by a Jedi Knight named Ky Narec, who sensed that I was strong in the Force. He was stranded on Rattatak, and he took me under his wing. I became his Padawan.”

“You were trained by a Jedi?” Vos stared openly at her. Ventress nodded and clenched her teeth for a moment. Sorrow gripped her heart, and she let it.

“For ten years, we helped the people of Rattatak. We became heroes—to most. But to some, we were the enemy.”

“The Jedi are always enemies to some,” Vos said.

“Narec died in front of my eyes. He, too, was killed by Weequay,” Ventress continued. Speaking the words opened the gates even more, and she felt a flare of the old, never-quite-gone pain…and the comfort, cold but real, of hatred. “You may have noticed I dislike them. I vowed vengeance, and I got it."

Raider is another word for pirate, me thinks. This would not bode well for Hondo.

So, ultimately, my answer is Nooooo, with a capital "N."

[the-insolent-pirate-king]

Hondo my friend, you know how powerful jedi can be, even younger ones.

Now that the order has fallen, would you be willing to take a few ex padawans along and… conveniently forget they were jedi? They have such a price on their heads yet have a funny way of escaping death, and I’m sure you could sell the kyber crystals on the black market for those too scared to carry a lightsaber…

*Folds his arms and sits up, regards the mysterious stranger with a slight tug pulling the corners of his lips down*

And what makes you think I am equipped for such a task? I am just a simple weequay, making my way through the galaxy, same as anyone else in these tumultuous times. *shakes his head and swats the air between them* No, I believe you have the wrong man, my friend. Now I must depart, may you find what you are looking for.

*Stands, and casually exits, enters his ship, and checks for intruders before opening a comms line* @a-big-hat there is a.. situation. Message me when you get this. *closes the line, then sighs loudly with a hand over his eyes* What mess have I made this time?

[warsamongstthestar-keen]

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chopper, upon receiving the coordinates for Lira San had trundled off to the cockpit. The Lasat's had all gathered together in the common area, talking quietly about the old days on Lasan.

The three Force-sensitives moved over to the benches around the holo-table, and Kanan pulls up Djarik. "What d'you say, Keen. Care for a game?"

"Sure, but just be aware that I haven't lost a game in over a century."

"That will just make it all the worse when I beat you," he says, grinning.

"Oh, yes, absolutely devastating," she deadpans.

The game progresses, as does the trash talking. Ezra decides to start assisting Kanan, so it becomes two against one. It was clear that Ari'abel was going to win, when the entire ship shakes. Ezra is on his feet, racing to the cockpit, everyone else following him, immediately.

"What's wrong?" Ezra asks.

"There's something in our path," Sabine replies, pointing out the viewscreen.

"What is that?"

"Imploded star cluster, biggest one I've ever seen," Hera tells Ezra.

"Nice save."

"Yeah, not only did she save all our lives, she saved your *ss from a humiliating defeat."

"Hey, I was gonna win!"

"No," Ezra and Keen say at the same time, "You were not."

The Knight shakes his head at them, while grinning. Hera rolls her eyes, deciding to being the conversation back on track. "If we get any closer the gravity field will destroy us."

"What happened?" Gorn asks, as he enters the cockpit, "Are we on course?"

"Yep! But theres a bit of an issue with a giant space anomaly in our path."

"This is what happens when we jump into uncharted space," Hera finishes.

"Ah. This is the maze that was prophesied!" Chava says, gesturing out to the star cluster.

"Wait, a maze? You never said anything about a maze. You prophecy types always pull something like this," Zeb growls.

Just as he finishes, the blaring sound of an alarm fills the room, and Keen sighs. Everything was going so simple, and then it's one problem on top of another. "What now?"

Filtering through the comm comes the voice of Imperial ISB Agent Kallus. "Attention rebels. As much as I might like to watch you consumed by the maelstrom before you I will offer you a chance to surrender an opportunity for survival."

"How did he find us?" Zeb groans, glaring at the comm.

"Hello, my friends," the voice of a familiar Weequay calls, answering the question.

"Hondo? What are you doing with him?"

"I must apologize, Ezra. I hid a tracker on that transmitter. You know, for insurance purposes."

Keen leans forward, talking into the comm, "Hey, Hondo, remember how I said I was glad you survived the Clone Wars?"

"Yes?"

"I take it back."

Chopper echos her sentiments by chattering angrily at the comm.

"You have one minute to prepare for boarding, or to be destroyed," Kallus says, trying to nudge the conversation back to the Empire.

"I can't believe this. Kallus has got us," Zeb grumbles.

"He plays his part as warrior."

"Wait, he's the warrior. And I got stuck being the child!"

"Well, Hondo gets to be the fool, which is the role I wanted. Sometimes you just have to accept what life casts you as."

"There are many warriors, fools, and children, Captain," Chava says, ignoring the Jedi Master, "The child in you can't see how things are but how they can be. The fool denies his destiny but it is the warrior you are who will create one. You are never one of these. In time you become all of them."

Zeb considers her statement, before turning and looking at his bunkmate, "Ezra, bring me my bo-rifle."

"What are you thinkin', buddy?" Kanan asks Zeb, as Ezra sprints to go and get the Lasat his bo-rifle.

The Padawan returns a few moments later, and hands him his weapon. "You can do this, Zeb. I know it."

He takes the rifle, holding it out in front of him, pointed at the controls in front of him. "Just like the ancients used it."

"Your time is up, rebels."

The rebel crew ignore the ISB Agent, instead choosing to focus on the Lasat who is electrifying the controls. Hera and Sabine seem vaguely concerned, but Keen steps forward, tapping into the Force to help him guide the ship. Ezra and Kanan both take a step forward, gently laying a hand on the Lasat's shoulder, helping him to guide the ship. The hyperspace kicks in, and the Ghost crew leave the Imperials behind, letting them take in the view of the star cluster.

As the hyperdrive stops, the occupants of the cockpit going flying around. Ezra hits the floor to Zeb's left, and Kanan is on the other side of the Lasat. Keen, who was standing directly behind Zeb, gets the full weight of the Lasat on top of her. Chopper rolls over, deliberately whacking Ezra as he wheels past him. "Ow! Was that really necessary?"

The astromech merely laughs at Ezra, as he wheels away.

The Padawan sticks his tongue out at the droid, climbing to his feet, he sees the Lasat, who looks as though he may be unconscious. He races over to him, and Kanan helps the Lasat up. Gron walks over to check on Zeb, while Kanan focusses his attention on Keen.

He offers her a hand, which she grabs like it's a lifeline, hauling herself up off the hard flooring. "Well, that's not something I'd like to try again. But, it looks like it was worth it," she comments, gazing out the viewscreen at the planets just within view.

***

Zeb takes the Phantom, and Chava and Gorn down to Lira San. It's a few hours later that Ari'abel walks into the gun turret, where Ezra is lounging in the seat. Kanan strolls in as well, leaning in the doorway, while Keen crouches in the window. "Zeb has been down there a while. Are you sure he's coming back?"

"Pretty sure."

"Zeb, although he'd never admit it, actually likes you, so, yeah, he'll be back."

The Padawan looks out the window to see the Phantom once again approaching the Ghost.

"You were right."

Chopper wheels into the room, grumbling about the return of the Lasat. Hera chuckles, "Well, I'm sorry, Chopper. You're gonna have to put all of Zeb's stuff back in his room."

Sabine gazes out at Lira San herself, musing,  "Kinda sad, those two Lasat all alone on that planet."

The door behind her opens, and the towering figure of Zeb stands there, and comments, "They're not alone."

"What are you talking about?"

"There were already Lasat down there. Lira San is where my people originally came from."

Chopper chatters confusedly, turning his dome to face the Jedi Master. "Why yes, my small friend. That does mean that there are a whole lot more of him."

The astromech grumbles, and Hera answers his question, "Yes. We can go home now."

"Yeah. How do we get home?" Ezra asks.

"Consider this system charted which means now that the Ghost has been here we can always come back."

"And if we meet any other Lasat I will show them the way," Zeb says, actually seeming happy, for the first time in a long, long while.

[mahizli]

Bonds (Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, 22 BBY)

Art by Mokorney and Part 22 of ‘Sparks of Hope’

***

Dooku held nothing but contempt for the Skywalker boy – no finesse, no subtlety, and no mastering of emotions, without much room for improvement. The Force knew he had tried to curb similar faults in Qui-Gon, very long ago, but his former Padawan had found his balance into meditation, oddly enough, and Dooku had only needed a few seconds to assess that Skywalker was completely unable to achieve it, and never would be.

Dooku was no fool. He could sense how powerful the boy was, what an asset he would play once he would have fallen completely – he was also very much aware of the interest his Master had in him. An interest that Dooku needed to be watchful of – because he knew how easily a Sith Apprentice could be replaced.

Dooku was no fool – and that was why he was keeping Ventress just close enough to control her, and just far enough for her not to attract Sidious’ attention unnecessarily. Ventress was fierce, skilled and loyal to a fault – and since he could not have Kenobi yet, she was a tolerable substitute.

It did not mean Kenobi was entirely lost to him, though – and Dooku watched him wake with carefully hidden interest, sitting up and rubbing his brow silently, helping Skywalker to recover.

“How you could choose to walk out there and get yourselves caught despite my warning is truly beyond me”, Dooku quipped, taking delight in watching Kenobi’s eyes widen slightly.

His former Grandpadawan’s eyes wandered to the electric bound wrought around his waist, attaching him both to Dooku and Skywalker. And the Count was surprised to feel resolve and relief seep through his incredibly strong shields. Kenobi was quick to place himself in front of Skywalker, holding him back and shielding him with his body, as soon as Dooku began to provoke the boy – it was frankly too easy. One just had to mention his arm, and watch Skywalker go feral.

“You will pay”, Skywalker hissed. “For all the Jedi you murdered on Geonosis.”

“That, my dear fool of a Jedi, is entirely your Master’s doing. Remind me again whose rescue it was that needed two-hundred and twelve Jedi?”

“Don’t you dare…”

“Anakin.”

Kenobi’s voice was calm. Measured, and so very soft. His body language still spelt protectiveness, one hand lightly placed on Skywalker’s left forearm. His face looked pale, in the dim light of the cell – but there was nothing but steadiness in the Force around him, and the command on his shields was frankly impressive.

“The Republic is going to send envoys with the spice. We need to get out of here before. And since we appear to be bound together, for the time being, I suggest we refrain from murdering each other.”

“You want us to team up with him?!!”

The indignation in Skywalker’s voice was grating – and Kenobi sighed.

“Currently, having you running in different directions is no option for me.”

He gestured towards his waist, a small smile playing around his lips, and Skywalker huffed.

“Good point, Master.”

They spent the next hours trying to escape from Hondo Ohnaka’s cells, only to found themselves back there. Dooku just shrugged, mentally, not overly worried and secretly impressed when Kenobi pulled that mind-trick on the stupid Weequay sentinel.

“You don’t want to stand guard. You want to deactivate the cell bars and… go out drinking.”

They watched the guard turn to a mindless puppet and set them free, and Kenobi muttered:

“Almost too easy.”

They had been prisoners together long enough for Dooku to recognise the small frown between Kenobi’s eyebrows as a sign of worry. He was not projecting anything into the Force, his signature surprisingly mild and gentle, but Dooku had already learned that his former Grandpadawan’s mind never stopped running.

They left the cell for the second time, running towards the exit, and suddenly Kenobi was pushing him behind a crate, palm splayed on his shoulder, body shielding him in an unconscious, protective move mirroring his earlier one.

“Hurry along, Dooku.”

His sharp, focused grey eyes darted around, and Dooku realised just how strong and dangerous his Grandpadawan could be, even without a lightsaber. Obi-Wan’s sleeve was brushing his, and he had adopted a defensive Soresu stance, but his hand was trailing behind, feeling for Skywalker in the Force, attuned to his reactions – and this was Qui-Gon’s training.

Qui-Gon had perfected the dual Master-and-Padawan technique along with Feemor, and brought it to completion with Obi-Wan, who had mastered the skill himself along with his own Padawan.

Dooku could have invaded their bond through the Force – but such was a crude, dirty thing reserved for the ones like Maul, whom Dooku abhorred and despised. Instead, he focused on the quiet signs: Obi-Wan’s small tilt of the head, the way his shoulders relaxed once Skywalker shifted his own position, and the quiet smile in his eyes when they started to run in sync.

Their bond was not closed, clearly, and this was so very interesting – but it also tugged at something Dooku had though to be long purged from his very system.  

Something reminding him of a vibrant green blade, of Qui-Gon’s quiet, casual shrug whenever Dooku ordered him around – but his Padawan had been dutiful and strong, truly skilled in the Force and so very warm. Until Feemor had died. Until Dooku lost Qui-Gon’s friendship and goodwill for good – because his Padawan had always been too headstrong, and too tender-hearted.

“Jump!”

They were still bound by the waist – Obi-Wan linking them together, and Dooku heard his gasp when Anakin grabbed the fence, leaving them both hanging below him.

“You’re too heavy. I can’t do it.”

They were slipping, and suddenly the link between him and Obi-Wan snapped – and then Dooku felt warm, strong hands grab his.

“Are you crazy, Master?! Just drop him!”

But Obi-Wan’s hands just tightened around his, eyes narrowing in steely resolve even as the bound tugged at his waist, drawing another pained exhale from him.

Never.

The small word echoed in the Force with quiet determination, and Dooku almost winced in pain, because the dedication within sprang from something so old, so long forgotten it burned, around his chest and in his very mind.

Ohnaka’s men somehow managed to knock Skywalker out and drag them both up in one fluid motion, and they soon found themselves back in their cells, finally separated but still unable to flee.

Dooku’s wrists hurt and he was somewhat short of breath, and so was Obi-Wan, who was bent above Skywalker’s unconscious body and had yet to straighten fully, arm wrapped around his waist.

“You should have dropped me”, Dooku stated, but Obi-Wan just huffed, with a small, annoyed shake of the head.

He fumbled through his utility belt, and managed to unfold a small Bacta patch, placing it against the welt on Skywalker’s brow, then he splayed his fingers, pressing them gently against his head.

Skywalker let out a soft moan, then his limbs seemed to relax and Dooku watched Obi-Wan’s face soften, his features still focused but appeased as he guided the boy into a healing trance.

“Rash, and unbalanced.”

This got Obi-Wan’s attention, and Dooku soon faced those calm, grey eyes, watching his Grandpadawan straighten, Anakin’s head still cradled in his lap.

“He might be skilled with machines. Wires. Even lightsabers”, Dooku dropped. “But he has not mastered anything in the Force, and he will disappoint you, if he hasn’t already.”

“Anakin will never disappoint me.”

“Don’t be so sure…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, but then his Grandpadawan shook his head.

“I know what you are trying to do. And it will not work. You want to sow distrust and hatred between us. You want to belittle Anakin in my mind, and in my heart. But you cannot. Because those faults you point out are known to me, and known to him. Because I did not seek to raise a perfect machine, or a droid, when I took Anakin as a Padawan.”

“Did you? Take him as a Padawan? Or was it something more complicated? A promise to the one who had raised, and forsaken you?”

“Qui-Gon did not forsake me.”

Obi-Wan’s voice was very quiet. He was not a small man, but he was definitely smaller than them both. Thin. A small reed, Yoda had always called him. And Dooku knew just how very fragile he was, how insignificant the Dark side of the Force made him – their duel was only months old, and he had brought him down within seconds.

Yet, just now, there was a conviction and a power radiating through him that seemed to dwarf them all. Obi-Wan raised bright grey eyes towards him, and Dooku realised, then, that the boy had worked hard towards balance – and that his efforts had not been vain.

“Qui-Gon believed in him. And, when it came to choose between Anakin and myself, he chose him because he saw, and realised, that Anakin needed him more than I did.”

“You do not resent him? For calling you only stubborn, and capable, in front of the whole Jedi Council, when you gave him twelve years of your life?”

It still irked something in Dooku. It had made him want to shake Qui-Gon until his teeth rattled – but Qui-Gon had died before Dooku had even known the full extent of the mess he had made with Obi-Wan, and then… Then Dooku had realised that the Jedi Order was nothing like it should anymore – nothing like it could.  

“And what kind of a Padawan would that make me?”

Obi-Wan’s voice was just a whisper, and his face had turned very pale, but the resolve had not left his eyes. On the contrary, something warm and light had begun to seep through his shields, permeating the Force around him, and it was searing open that small, long forgotten spot deep into Dooku’s chest.

“What of the years Qui-Gon devoted to me? What of Qui-Gon choosing me? Of helping me understand the Force, and myself, and the world around us, every single day of my apprenticeship? What of the love and care he provided, for my mind, body and soul, giving me all he had and even more? What of the devotion he inspired in me – strong enough to help me come back to him when I almost fell? How could I resent him for caring for a boy who deserves the world, and who was unwanted by most, yet who holds such promises?”

His Grandpadawan was facing him, features pinched yet glowing so brightly in the Force – and there was no contempt in Obi-Wan’s words, just genuine truth and belief. And it was painful.

“Qui-Gon taught me to be gentle with the faults we can find in others, because he was not perfect and never sought to be. He simply sought to improve himself. And this is something Anakin does as well – which is why he will never disappoint me.”

“Such meekness…”

“Call it whatever you want. I do not care.”

“Have you no pride at all?”

The question was genuine – almost taking Dooku by surprise. Obi-Wan however just raised his eyebrows, hands finding Anakin’s shoulders.

“And who am I, to place myself above so many others? We are a whole, Dooku. And just because I have no interest to dominate or best others does not mean I do not seek to improve my skills, and my way of understanding the Force.”

“How can that be enough?”

Dooku was laughing now, but it sounded cold and foreign to him.

“Because it is.”

There was sadness, and compassion in Obi-Wan’s eyes – and Dooku realised then, that this conversation had to end. That he would not gain the boy to his side that day – that he would have to wait for the war to extinguish the light into Obi-Wan’s eyes, for the battles and losses to harden his heart, for the despair to invade more of his mind, until he would be ready to hear some of the truths Dooku had come to embrace.

“I wish you would see it. I wish it would not be you we had to fight, day after day and night after night. But if I must, I will – because it is worth it.”

“What is…?”

Skywalker’s quiet mumble brought them both back to the small, grey cell they were still stuck in, and Obi-Wan’s eyes instantly searched for his face.

“What’s worth it, Master? Why are we back here with him?”

“Because your Master would not take your advice to drop me”, Dooku quipped.

“’Course not.”

The childish surety in Skywalker’s voice was surprising, and the boy lifted a hand, gently patting Obi-Wan on the arm.

“I’m the evil one here.”

“Hush now, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s hand had not left his brow, and his eyes met Dooku’s again. Steely, with a hint of sadness and unshakable resolve. His Grandpadawan wrapped an arm around Skywalker’s chest, and gave a curt nod.

And despite of himself, Dooku nodded back – because Obi-Wan was definitely worth a conversation. His Grandpadawan also had the means to defend himself, and to get himself – and Skywalker – out of this mess. And so, when Ohnaka’s men went to fetch them, leaving him alone in his cell, Dooku wasted no time preparing his own escape.

When the power died down, he killed the guards and the men facing him without any remorse. And he did not look over his shoulder, not once – determined to leave Florrum as soon as possible, and return with enough forces to burn it to the ground.

Just like he would burn the small part of himself Obi-Wan had brought back to life, because it was not part of Dooku’s plans and schemes.

Some bounds were better severed, and Dooku was honing his blades.

But not just yet.

[crispyjenkins]

can you write jangobi - they have to team up together to save their dumbass kids??? and maybe their weapons get switched around so obi ends up shooting people with jango's westars and jango ends up stabbign people with the glowy murderstick???

(such a cute concept!! more mandalorian weapons flirting, more obi being a chronic ‘saber-dropper, more boba absolutely whooping anakin’s ass at hand to hand — obi really needs to step up the training there. i put this in the jar’kai canon divergence (first part here) because this prompt had interesting parallels. you get a whopping 2,000 words!!  still not over lightsabers being called “glowy murder sticks” fandom peaked like five years ago and also I’M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG i was going to write this on friday and then fiori and i got into it about dha kar’ta and i’m ruined. anyways have some competence kink.)

  "We really must stop meeting like this."

  Jango growls and slams a new charge into his blaster, like it will prevent him having to turn around and acknowledge his newest headache. "I don't need your help, Kenobi," he grits, as he dodges a piece of the falling ceiling and ducks behind the barricade block Kenobi is crouching against, hands as loose as the smile on his face.

  “Oh, no, I’m sure you have it well under control.” 

  An explosion rocks the warehouse, clouds of duracrete dust whipped into their faces by the evening wind; Jango is thankful for his helmet’s respirator, but Kenobi doesn’t even seem bothered. They’re in the middle of karking nowhere in the industrial district of the planetoid Odos, where no one in their right mind is outside after midday for the wind storms, and Kenobi’s appearance confirms Jango’s suspicions that this mess is jetiise related osik.

  “Where’s that foundling of yours?” Jango demands, popping up over the barricade to take a shot at the scaffolding where a human bounty hunter had managed to get the drop on him. 

  Kenobi hums and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the barricade like the building isn’t currently threatening to come down on them. “I imagine he’s about where yours is. I’m sorry to say that it seems Boba has been caught up in my padawan’s first mission as a knight.”

  Dropping back down next to him, Jango has to resist putting his westar-34 to Kenobi’s head. “That seems to be going well.”

  “Yes, well, you know Anakin,” Kenobi says easily, smiling wider as he opens his eyes. He raises a brow at Jango’s blaster aimed suspiciously in his direction, but there is no fear in his expression, and Jango wishes he had the time to show him just why there should be. And then out of left field Kenobi asks, “You have two of those, yes?”

  And Jango doesn’t know what the kriff to say to that. Are jetiise even allowed to use blasters? 

  He glances down and notices that Kenobi doesn’t have his jetii’kad on his belt or in his hand, not a visible weapon on him, and suddenly the hiding behind a barricade makes a lot more sense. 

  “Where’s your ‘kad, jare jetii?”

  Kenobi sniffs in offense, tugging Jango to the side to avoid a blaster bolt fired from above. “Well, that’s hardly fair, I did have it, before your friends upstairs blew up the wall.” Jango just growls and takes out the ‘friend upstairs’, watching with satisfaction as they drop three stories to land in a heap on the duracrete. 

  Kenobi looks impressed, stirring something warm in Jango’s chest, like his stupid heart wants to do anything to keep that expression on his face. So of course Jango burns the thought and tells his heart to shut the kriff up.

  “Only until I get Boba back,” his mouth says without his permission, yanking his second westar out of its holster and holding it out to Kenobi grip-first. He’d be concerned about the jetii using mind tricks on him if he didn’t still have his beskar helmet, but he’s tempted to still shoot him anyways.

  Every year under Jaster’s tutelage screams at him as Kenobi takes the blaster, oh Force he hadn’t even let Sheeka touch his westars—

  “Only until we get Boba back,” Kenobi agrees, a strange pinch between his brows as he looks down at the blaster for a long moment. Then he switches off the safety and it’s like nothing had ever crossed his face as he smiles cockily sideways at Jango. “Well, shall we?”

-

  Jango comes to learn that Jedi aren’t forbidden from using blasters, but he sees why they shouldn’t.

  Kenobi cleans the scaffolding of four Odos weapons dealers in a single burst, ducking in a fluid motion to dodge the counter attack before popping back up, firing Jango’s westar exactly as it’s meant to be: in ferocious volleys that would melt other blasters. And the implication that Kenobi has had experience with multiple kinds of blasters makes his throat go dry.

  Crouching back down, Kenobi clicks out the charge pack and slips a new one in, that Jango hadn’t even seen him take from his belt. And then the jare karking Jedi jumps over the barricade and sprints for the humans knocking their way into the warehouse. 

  Jango finally gets his head out of his ass and says kriff it, following Kenobi over the barricade and kicking his jetpack into flight, covering the crazy Jedi from above. Not that Kenobi seems to need it, easily alternating between the westar and hand to hand, moving almost too fast for Jango to be sure he doesn’t accidentally shoot him.

  An absolute hulk of a Weequay manages to clock Kenobi in the face, sending him skidding back a few feet before Jango can put a blaster bolt through his head. Kenobi wipes his face on his sleeve, smearing blood on the white of his armour, and it’s as if every Mandalorian that’s ever marched away* is screaming “this one!” in Jango’s brain; he nearly flies into a column and decides it’s safer to be on the ground until he can somehow get the image of an angry, bloody Kenobi out of his head.

  No sooner are his boots on duracrete that a human yells and throws himself at Jango, and they must be smuggling spice as well as weapons if they think trying to use their fists against full beskar’gam is a good idea. The human goes down in three hits, just in time for Jango to see the Weequay get another lucky blow, shooting Kenobi’s shoulder to make him drop the blaster.

  Jango!” Kenobi shouts, dodging the Weequay’s fist, and oh, they’re on a first name basis now?

  But Jango tosses him his blaster like sharing weapons on the battlefield isn’t frowned upon for being too intimate, and watches Obi-Wan fire from his left hand with the same ease as his right, before Jango has his own Weequay to worry about.

  It’s only when both he and Obi-Wan manage to push their assailants back enough that they all spill out into the freighter depot that Jango realises he now only has his vibroblade and flame thrower, the latter of which he can’t use without having to worry about Obi-Wan.

  “Wait,” Jango says, kicking a human in the chest and sending them flying. “Where’s that commander of yours.”

  “Ah,” Obi-Wan winces, somehow having the presence of mind to both shoot and look guilty. “I should technically not be helping my former padawan on his mission.”

  Another dumbass father, then. Jango snorts, using his jetpack to hop across the depot and stop a human from running away, sticking them through the throat with his vibroblade. “Then why the kriff are you here?” he taunts, and then immediately almost gets shot, because Obi-Wan laughs and shouts,

  “Boba called me!” 

  Jango curses every Kyr’tsad commando and Jedi he can remember the name of, because it’s their fault his life has played out in a sequence of events that has somehow landed him here, noticing Obi-Wan’s ‘kad on the ground and picking it up. It’s a little charred and could use a wash, but doesn’t appear to be broken. 

  He doesn’t have time to decide if he plans on hurling it back to Obi-Wan before a vibroblade is shoved in his face, barely missing scratching his visor, and Jango doesn’t think as he flips the jetii’kad on, relieving the human of their entire arm. 

  Oh, he likes this weapon.

  The beskad is not Jango’s favourite weapon by a long shot, he’ll take distance weapons over up close and personal any day, but he can’t deny the effectiveness in such situations where he’s stupidly given and/or thrown his blasters to a kriffing Jedi. Fair’s fair, he supposes he gets to use Obi-Wan’s weapon until they find Boba, equal exchange and all that.

  He’s just thankful there aren’t any other Mando’ade around to witness it.

-

  When the ground is littered with bodies and every muscle in Jango’s body screams for rest, Obi-Wan is staring at him. 

  He still has the westar, held loosely enough that the Odus winds buffet it to match the hair that Obi-Wan had cut since their last meeting. He watches Jango with a complicated expression from several yards away, dried blood on his upper lip and Jango’s blaster in his hand, and those taab'echaaj'la Mando’ade* are yelling at him again, 

  Jango powers down the ‘kad and breaks them from their reverie, Obi-Wan blinking back to himself and offering Jango an unsure smile. 

 “Is it safe now?”

  Jango startles at Boba’s voice and quickly searches for the source, only letting out his breath when he finds his boy peeking down from the hatch of the fighter closest to them. Obi-Wan’s foundling pops his head out of the same hatch, and Jango shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

  “Obi-Wan!” Anakin says cheerfully, swinging down from the fighter to trot over to his former master, his new knight hair looking rather unfortunate all stuck up with blaster smoke like that. 

  Boba follows easily, not looking even a little bothered by the day’s events and comes to stand next to Jango while Obi-Wan frowns at Anakin’s fresh black eye.

  “And what’s this?” he questions, reaching up to Anakin’s face before the foundling shrugs him off. 

  “‘Ran into Boba. He didn’t recognise me.”

  “He was wearing a mask!” Boba protests, making an aborted gesture to the bodies of the weapons dealers and scowling. “He needs to learn more hand to hand combat.”

  Obi-Wan laughs at that, then seems to realise he’s still holding the westar and abruptly stops. He clears his throat and quickly brushes the dirt from the blaster with his robe, then spins it around to face Jango grip-first. As if he hadn’t just cleaned Jango’s blaster in front of both their younglings. 

  Boba looks between them quickly, lips parted in surprise, and Jango really doesn’t know what to tell him. So he does the only thing he can think of and wipes the soot off Obi-Wan’s ‘kad with his cloak, closing the space between them to hold it out to him pommel-first.

  Obi-Wan blinks, looking from his ‘kad to Jango’s face, and, well, that certainly answers the question of him being aware of weapons courting. Jango takes his westar back and holsters it, still holding the ‘saber expectantly as Anakin stares insead at Obi-Wan’s limp right arm.

  “Master, are you bleeding?”

  Something icy lodges in Jango’s throat, but doesn’t get the chance to repeat the question as Obi-Wan looks down at himself and promptly tips forward into Jango’s chest with a muttered,

  “Oh, goodness.”

  Anakin yelps and leaps forward to help Jango catch him, and Jango really wishes just about any other Jedi had saved him from the Bando Gora, because they wouldn’t give him heart attacks. 

Mando’a: jetiise — Jedi pl., sing. jetii jetii’kad — lightsaber, lit. “jedi saber” jare — someone taking a life-threatening risk, not a compliment; similar to kamikaze but not a direct comparison. beskar’gam — Armour made of beskar, “Mandalorian Iron” that was actually probably a steel alloy. Kyr’tsad — Death Watch, lit. “Death Society” beskad — traditional curved Mandalorian saber Mando’ade — Mandalorian, lit. “Child of Mandalore”

*based on the Mando’a word for the dead/deceased “taab'echaaj'la”, or “marched far away”, best explained in the Mando’a tribute to dead comrades, “not gone, merely marching far away”. the idea of Mandalorian ancestors gets sketchy when lineages aren’t like. a thing. but yeah, every Mando that’s walked the path is telling Jango to climb Obi like a tree.

[clonewarsarchives]

Kindred Spirits

written by Christie Golden. illustrated by Magali Villeneuve.

From Star Wars Insider 159. Prequel to Dark Disciple. [4.5k]

“This enterprise is doomed to failure,” Asajj Ventress muttered. Her hands were securely bound behind her, and she was sweltering beneath the blazing Florrum sun in a long dark robe and heavy cloak.

“Only if you blow it,” Lassa Rhayme whispered back. The blue-skinned Pantoran wore Ventress’s clothes: black boots with blue protective shin plating, leggings, and a black, high-collared shirt beneath a tunic. There was more plating on the left shoulder and across the hips, and plenty of places to fasten a variety of gear. The pirate captain looked born to it.

Ventress had no intention of “blowing it”, but she was definitely having second thoughts about this scheme. Taking the bounty had seemed like a good idea at the time. The job had appeared on the roster with an impressive number of credits attached to it, and Ventress had recently laid out a sizeable amount for repairs to the Banshee.

Seeking half-dozen skilled fighter pilots to serve as escort for the cargo ship Steady On. No questions asked. Half payment upon agreement, half upon safe delivery of Steady On's cargo.

“Smugglers plus cargo equals pirates” was an equation Ventress had learned long ago, so the attack on the Steady On was not unexpected. What was unexpected was getting rescued by a second group of pirates, the Blood Bone Order, who had also intended to plunder the freighter.

“We’ve been planning this for weeks,” Lassa Rhayme had told her. “You can imagine my surprise when, upon the Opportunity’s arrival at the proper coordinates, the only ships we saw were fighters floating dead in space.”

Ventress had been the only survivor. Rhayme had brought the wounded woman to the ship’s sickbay and healed her injuries. She had also towed the Banshee in for repairs.

“Why?” Ventress had asked, curious.

“When your ship was in such bad shape and you were still alive, I had a hunch. It paid off. We found this.” Rhayme had reached behind her back, withdrew Ventress’s lightsaber, and tossed it to her.” I can use your help recovering the Steady On.”

Ventress welcomed the familiar weight of the weapon in her hand. She had expected to miss her twin red lightsabers, but was glad now that they had been stolen. The old ones reminded her too much of Dooku, and she found she preferred the yellow light of this one. “I might be willing to help you—provided I get to keep a certain piece of cargo.”

“What might that be?”

“That might be my business,” Ventress had replied. Rhayme’s golden eyes had narrowed as she speculatively regarded the woman she'd rescued. “One item?”

“One item.”

She nodded. “Help me get the freighter back, and whatever it is, it’s yours.”

Rhayme had sent a crew member to go undercover on the Steady On. He had reported back that Hondo Ohnaka, the pirate responsible for the theft, was currently not on the Florrum base; only a skeleton crew led by an underling was unloading the Steady On. “It's a break for us—Hondo’s sharp, and a nasty piece of work, even for a Weequay.”

Weequay.

“Now, you have my attention,” Ventress said. “I’m… not fond of Weequays.”

It was an understatement. Ventress despised the species, with their leathery, wrinkled skin and sour dispositions. Weequay raiders had murdered both her slave master and, later, Ky Narec, the Jedi who had taken her on as his Padawan. Her hand had tightened on her lightsaber in anticipation.

“Don’t get too free with that,” Rhayme warned, nodding at the weapon. “I’m not fond of high body counts. We kill when needed, not for sport. “

“You sound like a Jedi,” Ventress had said scornfully.

“Don’t insult me.”

Jiro, the pirate put in charge in Hondo’s absence, had been intrigued by Lassa’s proposition when contacted via hologram, and permitted them to land in the flat, rocky depression in front of Hondo’s complex. The area was cluttered with debris. Somebody had ferreted out this hideaway not too long ago, and it was definitely the worse for wear. Ventress had spotted the Steady On—noteworthy for being completely intact amid the rubble—being unloaded as they were “escorted” inside what remained of a large, multi-level complex at blaster point.

“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea,” Ventress continued as they walked through a triangular door and passed from sunlight into gloom.

“Hey there, no talking!” One of the pirates shoved a blaster into Ventress’s midsection. She gritted her teeth to keep from Force-hurling the disgusting creature the length of the enormous and poorly named “grand hall”.

A few of the pirates were engaged in activities such as drinking, flirting with the female members of the crew, fighting about flirting, betting on fighting, and the fine art of sliding off a chair completely smashed. But there were others, their cold gazes crawling over the newcomers, who speared food with knives as if they were simply practicing carving up flesh. Jiro awaited Ventress and Rhayme at the far end. Seated at a long table on raised dais, he sprawled comfortably in an ornate chair that commanded the best view.

He was one of the ugliest Weequays Ventress had ever seen, with a row of single locks of hair standing up in spikes on his overlarge head and two longer braids trailing down his back. The pirate who had brought in the two women handed him Ventress’s lightsaber. Jiro looked at it carefully, then at Ventress, and finally at Rhayme.

“You must be someone special, to catch a Jedi. How'd you manage it?”

“The magnificent Captain Rhayme,” and Lassa spat on the ground, “sends her crew off to scout for news of ships to plunder. That’s how I came across her.” She gave Ventress a scornful look.

“I found her pretty badly injured, from what or whom I don’t know, but still alive. I took her back to my ship, healed her up—enough to walk, at least—and contacted you. “

Ventress gave Lassa a look that she hoped was both defiant and exhausted. Jiro leaned back in his chair, plunking filthy boots on the table. At the next table over, someone belched.

“I’ve heard of Lassa Rhayme. Sounds like she’s not your best pal.”

“Hardly,” Rhayme said, with just the proper amount of loathing, her lip curling slightly. She's good, Ventress thought. “That witch is brutal. We boarded a Separatist ship once, and she stole its torture droid. Rhayme’d always been harsh to her crew, but now...” the “bounty hunter” shook her lavender head. “I'd do anything to get out from under her thumb.”

“Like deserting your captain to join Hondo’s Gang, eh? How could we trust a turncoat?”

Rhayme smiled sweetly. “Hondo gave you a second chance when you turned on him, didn’t he?” Ventress stifled a smile as Jiro’s face darkened at the reminder. She and Lassa had done their homework. Rhayme folded her arms.

“Look—I've got everything to lose and nothing to gain by lying. I’m giving you a Jedi. The ransom the Order will pay for her safe return will be staggering. Plus...” She placed her hands on the table and brought her face close to his. “I'll tell you everything you need to know about Lassa Rhayme’s plans. Hondo will come back to find that in his absence, you have defeated a dangerous pirate captain, captured her ship, have a new loyal crewmember, and a Jedi prisoner in the bargain. He just might make you second in command.”

Jiro considered this, removing his boots from the table and leaning forward. “Still, why not keep the Jedi yourself and collect the bounty?”

Ventress’s patience had worn out. The more the Weequay grilled them, the more likely he was to simply order both her and Rhayme shot and claim all the glory himself. Time to shake things up a bit.

The lightsaber sailed from Jiro’s hands into Ventress’s just as she spun around to catch it. She could not use it to cut her bonds with her hands bound behind her, but she could fight. With a yell, she sprang over Rhayme, turning in mid-air and angling the lightsaber so precisely it singed Rhayme’s lavender braid.

“What—” cried Jiro, then dived for cover under the table.

Rhayme gasped and stared at Ventress. Her brilliant gold eyes narrowed and she lunged for the nearest blaster, which happened to belong to the pirate who had brought them in. Ventress was therefore not displeased when Lassa used him as a shield while firing at the “Jedi. “

The shots barely missed Ventress. Rhayme looked furious. Her color was up and her white teeth were bared in a grimace of pure hatred.

Oh, no. She thinks I’ve turned on her.

It was a perfectly reasonable assumption. There had been a time, not long ago, when it would have been the correct one. But not today. Ventress would have to hope that Lassa Rhayme would understand what she was doing—and that Jiro wouldn’t.

With her back to Rhayme, Ventress used the Force to sense the bolts coming and bat them away. She heard a yelp behind her, but it was decidedly not feminine. Good. She jumped onto the table, whirling in a circle down its length and catching any stray arms or torsos unfortunate enough to be in her lightsaber’s blazing yellow path.

“Stand down, Jedi!” came Lassa’s clear, strong voice.

Has she caught on yet? One way or another, either to continue the plan or end it, Rhayme would have to stop Ventress. Two Weequays charged the table, raising their blasters. Ventress leaped to meet them, kicking out with both feet. The toe of each boot caught a startled pirate under the chin. Their heads snapped back and they crumpled, either unconscious or dead.

As she landed, a powerful kick in the small of her back sent her sprawling. Her lightsaber was snatched from her hands and a second later, pain blossomed in her wrists. Lassa Rhayme, pirate captain, planted a boot on her back—Ventress shifted her head to one side and looked up, still uncertain as to whether Rhayme was friend or foe. Rhayme brought the humming tip of the lightsaber so close to Ventress’s face that she was forced to squint against its brightness.

She struggled for breath, and finally gasped, “I... yield.”

“I didn’t believe you were really able to capture her,” Jiro said, somewhat grudgingly, as the “defeated Jedi” was led away. “I am... impressed. “

Rhayme’s shoulder ached, and she would have several bruises shortly, but she’d had worse. “No question, Jedi are tough to defeat. I'm lucky she’s not at her best.”

She casually fastened the lightsaber to her belt, as if there was no question that it belonged to her. Jiro noticed the gesture, but let it go, doubtless reasoning that the amount the Gang would receive from the Jedi Council would more than compensate him for a lost lightsaber.

“So I take it we’re agreed?” Rhayme continued. “You get the bounty on the Jedi and accept me as a crewmember, and I tell you where to find Lassa Rhayme’s fleet.”

“Well,” Jiro hedged, “It's Hondo who has to make the final decision.”

She took a seat without being invited, and again, Jiro did not object. “I’m not surprised. It’s his gang, after all. I'll wait. When is he expected back?”

That threw Jiro. “He didn’t say. But I could put in a few good words for you if you were to tell me where to find this fleet. So I could, ah, prep the ships and get them all ready-like.”

So you could send off your men now and take all the credit-like, Rhayme thought, amused. And likely try to kill me in the bargain. Rhayme pretended not to have come to this obvious conclusion.

“That’s a great idea!” she said. Jiro visibly relaxed. “Now... let me start by telling you how many ships Rhayme commands, what kind, and their names,” she smiled. “I think a drink might loosen my tongue... if you’ll join me.”

Jiro gave her a lascivious look, reached for a no-doubt filthy mug, and sloshed a bright green liquid into it.

* * *

The lightsaber burns on Ventress’s wrists were exquisitely painful, but she didn’t care. In taking Ventress down, Lassa had sufficiently damaged the stun cuffs so Ventress could break free—and that meant Lassa believed her. She could take a little pain.

Once the doors to the grand hall closed behind her and her escorts, Ventress wasted no time. She used the Force to shatter the remains of the binders and extended her hands, palms up, to each side. Two of the pirates slammed hard into the walls. She whirled on the third, who came at her with a fist raised and rotting teeth bared, and punched him in the throat. The fourth grabbed her arm. She twisted, using her momentum and the Force to hurl him over her head, landing a blow to his jaw on his descent.

They all looked to be alive, but out cold. Better safe than sorry, though. Ventress relieved the guards of their blasters, then paused. Rhayme had asked her to kill only when needed. Sighing, she set one blaster to stun, and gave the pirates a second shot of dreamland.

Now to take over the Steady On—and make sure the item she’d been hired to safeguard was still on board.

* * *

Once Lassa told Jiro where Captain Rhayme’s fleet was supposedly based, he, of course, decided immediately to take the initiative and send what ships were on Florrum to attack. Lassa encouraged him to send all his men, but he stubbornly shook his head.

“Hondo said he wanted the cargo unloaded,” he insisted.

That was really too bad, but Lassa took comfort in knowing that she’d just sent all the intact ships on Florrum and every pirate but Jiro, those sprawled snoring on the ground, and the few unloading the Steady On off on a wild caranak chase. With gusto, Lassa spun outrageous tales of the terrors the “evil Captain Rhayme” perpetrated upon her hardworking crew, buying time for Ventress. Jiro swallowed it all, apparently having decided that since she had defeated a Jedi, Lassa was entirely trustworthy.

A movement caught Rhayme’s eye. Ventress’s slender, robed figure blended so well with the shadows that she was easy to miss. She's very good, Rhayme thought.

“So tell me more about this ale that your Captain Rhayme hoards all to herself,” Jiro prodded, plunking down his empty cup and reaching for a refill. “

“Ale? Oh no, it’s Tevraki whiskey,” Rhayme said, watching Ventress out of the corner of her eye while smiling at Jiro. “And a finer thing has never touched your lips.”

Jiro leered hopefully at the implied invitation. Ventress made her way to the door and slipped outside. Lassa waited, continuing to exchange suggestive remarks with Jiro. She gave it a few minutes more, then unobtrusively placed both hands below the table, pressed a button on her bracer, and gave Jiro a bright smile.

“Well, I can’t say this hasn't been fun, but I must be going.” She indicated the cup of green liquid. “Thanks for the, ah... whatever that was,”

Jiro’s green eyes narrowed. “What're you talking about?”

“My ride should be here right about...” She cocked her head, and was rewarded by the unmistakable sound of a ship landing in the outside arena. “Now.”

Faster than she would have given him credit for, considering the amount of alcohol he had imbibed, Jiro leaped over the table with a roar. Rhayme darted away, pressing the switch on the lightsaber. It activated with a snap-hiss, almost startling her with its speed. A sword was a sword, however, and Lassa Rhayme knew how to use one. Jiro grabbed for a blaster someone had left on the table, but Rhayme slammed the lightsaber down, slicing through both blaster and table with as little effort as if she were cutting through butter. Jiro growled and threw a stool at her. Again, Rhayme waved the yellow, humming blade and cut the piece of furniture in half.

She laughed with sheer delight. What a glorious weapon! She swung it simply to hear the sound it made. “

“Which of you is the Jedi?” blurted Jiro.”

“Jedi?” came a smooth voice trembling with indignation. “In my hall? Again?”

Jiro and Rhayme whirled simultaneously to see Hondo Ohnaka silhouetted in the triangular doorway. He carried an electrostaff which sparked magenta at both sharp ends and stood like an aristocrat, head high, one hand on his hip, his duster billowing about him. The effect was spoiled by the Kowakian monkey-lizard perched on his shoulder. Hondo strode forward, fairly vibrating with offense.

“Jiro! You imbecile! What have you done? Where is my crew?” He completely ignored the woman holding the active lightsaber. Rhayme stared from one to the other, unsure whether to attack or to burst out laughing.

“Oh, hello, boss,” Jiro said miserably. “This lady here came saying she wanted to defect from the Blood Bone Order and join us instead.”

“Of course she does. Everyone knows Lassa Rhayme is a tyrant. Am I not correct? Hmm?” He peered alertly at Rhayme, expecting confirmation. She nodded wordlessly.

“And—she brought us—I mean you, boss—a Jedi she'd captured. Said we could hold her for ransom and—”

“Da-da-da-da!” Hondo cut him off with an imperious, irritated gesture. “I leave you alone for half a day—half a day!—and look what you have done. No more ransoming Jedi! That never ends well. Bad for business.”

“But... it was like this beautiful fruit just fell, right into my lap!” Jiro pleaded.

Hondo sighed and placed two fingers to his temple under his helmet as if in pain. “How many times must I tell you, Jiro. You cannot trust such unexpected gifts. Fruit never falls into your lap unless you shake the tree first!” He looked at Rhayme, spreading his arms in a helpless manner. “You see what I have to deal with.”

“I certainly do,” Rhayme said, not without sympathy.

“Now, then,” and he turned to her, “what do you really want?”

Rhayme sobered and drew herself up, meeting his eyes evenly. “To take back what's mine.” She pointed the lightsaber at him. “You stole my haul, Hondo Ohnaka. You see...” and she smiled fiercely. “I’m Lassa Rhayme.”

“You? The terrifying captain of the Opportunity?” He eyed her up and down. “Not what I expected. Not at all.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly. “Little girl,” he said, “did you think I had come alone?”

And the hitherto empty chamber echoed with the sound of weapons being drawn.

Lassa smiled. “Did you think I did?”

Sudden perplexed cries of pain and anger came from the entrance A area of the grand hall, followed by blaster fire. Hondo turned to look, and in that moment, Lassa sprang.

She brought the lightsaber arcing down, but Hondo recovered in time to block it with his electrostaff. His eyes narrowed behind his goggles. “This is a fight you cannot win, my dear. You may have the laser sword, but youdon’t have the Force.”

“Don’t need it.”

He swung the staff low, but she leaped up and it sliced only air. A second jump brought her onto the table, and she swung with the lightsaber. This time, he struck it hard and the impact jarred her injured shoulder Gritting her teeth, Lassa kicked out and up, and the electrostaff flew from Hondo’s hands.

“Not bad,” Hondo admitted. He recovered the weapon and vaulted up to join her, shoving one of the sparking ends of the staff like a spear. She parried, but let him drive her down the table, pretending to be unsure of her footing. A smile curved his thin mouth, and he feinted, dodging her blow and bringing the staff down. At the last second, Rhayme swerved and dove for a blaster someone had left behind. In one graceful movement, she grabbed it, fired at Hondo, and flung the lightsaber toward the doorway.

Ventress—don't fail me...

* * *

Ventress had been using a combination of the Force and the pirates’ own blasters to methodically mow them down. It was almost too easy. She'd already incapacitated the half-dozen who had been unloading the cargo ship, and Hondo had brought only another ten back with him. There was an ample supply of things to hurl at them—pitchers, a crate and the sharp-edged tools it was filled with, mugs, stools, even the pirates themselves could be used to knock their fellows down. It was good exercise, and Ventress welcomed the chance to work up a sweat while fighting hated Weequays. Respectful of Rhayme’s wishes, she didn’t shoot to kill, but several of them were on the ground writhing in pain from blaster shots to their arms or legs.

Suddenly Ventress felt a quick, bright urgency in the Force. She whirled, looking toward the far end of the hall, and saw her lightsaber hurtling upward.

It turned end over end, still lit. Some of Hondo’s pirates tried to grab it in mid-air, and paid with their fingers. Others, more wisely, dove out of the way. Ventress shot out her hand and the hilt smacked into her palm. She grinned as she sensed the tension in the remaining four pirates skyrocket. At that moment, she heard the sound of another ship landing outside, and felt the presence of two-dozen life forms racing across the landing field.

She grinned, and set to.

* * *

“Not so fast!” Hondo warned as Lassa turned to fire on him. He struck her full in the chest with the end of the electrostaff and Lassa gasped, flailing helplessly as the jolts surged through her. She crumpled, gasping, and tumbled limply off the table, spasming on the ground.

He leaped lightly down and gazed at her. “A good effort, my dear. I'm impressed. You almost lived up to your—”

Rhayme lifted the blaster and aimed it directly at his chest.

“—reputation,” Hondo finished.

“It's set to kill,” she warned him. “Throw away the staff.”

“Surely we can work this out like two civilized pirates,” he protested, but did as she ordered.

Lassa got to her feet, still feeling the effects of the staff, but forcing herself not to show them. “On your knees, hands behind your head. “

Again, Hondo obeyed. “Come now, Captain Rhayme, let us not be hasty.”

She stepped forward, placing the tip of the blaster between his eyes. “You mocked me earlier. I think you've changed your tune.”

“Most certainly,” he said. To his credit, his voice was completely calm.”

“I'm taking what's mine.”

She fired.

* * *

“Hondo was rather charming, actually,” Lassa said, finishing her account as she and Ventress sat in her cabin aboard the Opportunity. On the table beside the bounty hunter sat a nondescript metal box about a third of a meter high. “Of course I wasn’t about to kill him, but he didn’t know that. It'll be fun to hear what sort of rumors he'll spread.”

“Well done,” Ventress said as Rhayme uncorked a bottle of aged Tevraki whiskey. “So... I've been wondering something.”

“Fire away.”

“You don’t have any tattoos.” She'd noticed it immediately upon meeting Rhayme. All the Pantorans Ventress had encountered adorned their faces with bright yellow tattoos. She wasn’t sure what they signified—family affiliation, social rank, personal achievements—but they all had them.

“That's because I have no loyalties other than to my crew,” Lassa said. “They are my family. Otherwise—I belong only to myself. I am my own woman.”

Ventress nodded. She liked that. She thought of her own tattoos, and how much they meant to her. Rhayme’s unmarred face obviously conveyed the same pride.

Rhayme raised her glass. “To success—and perhaps, new friends.”

Asajj was surprised at her reaction. She didn’t have “friends”.  But she’d grown to admire Lassa, and the other woman had kept to every part of their bargain. And... she was good company. Ventress said nothing, merely gave a fleeting smile as their glasses clinked. The whiskey was delicious—a warm, slow comfort slipping down her throat.

“Much better than what they serve in the bars on Thirteen- Thirteen,” Ventress said. “I could get used to drinking this.”

“Why don’t you?” Lassa said. “I can provide erratic but profitable income, bed and board, adventure, fair treatment, and the company of the woman who beat Hondo Ohnaka in single combat.” She winked a golden eye.

It sounded good. Very good. And for a long moment, Asajj Ventress was tempted. But then she thought of all the company she would bring along with her; the shades of the dead, the remnants of dark memories, and a wariness that would likely never fade. Ventress would never trust anyone, not really, not even this remarkable woman with whom she had partnered for a brief time. She would always be alone, and she accepted that.

“While that’s a fine offer,” she said, “I must decline.”

She sensed Rhayme’s genuine disappointment, but the Pantoran recovered quickly. “If you ever change your mind, the offer stands.”

“And if you ever need a bounty hunter, I’m not hard to find.”

“Deal.” They shook hands. “In the meantime,” Rhayme said, let's take a look at this item that’s been so problematic.”

Ventress glanced at the box beside her. “Part of the deal was that I don’t look at it.”

“You've worked pretty hard for your bounty this time, Asajj. Go on. You can always say you were making sure it wasn’t damaged in the fighting.”

Ventress considered that. “Sheb does strike me as a dealer who'd appreciate that concern.”

The lock was easy to pick, and Ventress carefully lifted the lid. A small force field in the box itself prevented unauthorized handling. Ventress was seldom moved by beauty alone, but this time, even her eyes widened as Rhayme gasped softly.

The object that had given her so much trouble was no gem, or weapon, but a simple statuette. A sea mammal with four flippers and an elongated muzzle was caught in a moment of joyous freedom, its small gem eyes sparkling, its sleek body curled beneath it so its tail merged with the wave that formed the base. The stone from which it was carved was a breathtaking shade of blue. The entire image—its sense of action, of grace and power and playfulness, its delight in movement, even its hue—seemed to Ventress to be a reflection of the Pantoran woman sitting before her.

A pirate’s life—but not for me, she thought.”

“A pity you can’t keep it,” Rhayme said.

Ventress merely nodded. With unwonted gentleness, she closed the lid and locked it.”

“I do my job,” she said, and slid her glass over for a refill.

[jasontoddiefor]

Summary: Rumor has it, if you clean up one of the droids in the temple the day before your Gathering, Anakin Skywalker himself will take you to Ilum. Or: Anakin loses his lightsabers and is absolutely popular with teeny tiny Initiates. AN: Also on AO3! Saw a post by @shatouto and decided I need to write

There were two things the younglings looked for when they saw Anakin Skywalker enter the crèche.

The first one, of course, was whether he was injured. It was common knowledge that Skywalker-and-Kenobi somehow always got involved in the most reckless and crazy missions and with the start of the war, that hadn’t changed.

If Anakin was not injured, then it was alright for the children to throw themselves at him with no need to watch out for any possible complications. Usually, those actions were accompanied by a cry of pure joy and delight, or, in the case of the children sensitive to touch, an enthusiastic wave sufficed.

The second thing they watched out for was whether he had his lightsaber with him. Now, this was the point where it got especially interesting for the younglings. If Anakin had this lightsaber with him then it would be just another regular fun day playing around listening to him tell stories about the war and the brave soldiers he fought with.

But if he didn't have a lightsaber and was not heading into the direction of the toddlers who couldn't be trusted to be around such a weapon, chances were high that instead Anakin was going to spend some time with the Initiates, particularly those who were supposed to go on their Gathering soon. As it were, Anakin had a bit of a reputation for losing his lightsaber. It wasn’t that he just lost it somewhere in a ditch by being careless. When Anakin Skywalker came to tell you how he had lost his lightsaber, it would always be a story worthy of the stars about glory and dangerous risks and perhaps a Senator or two that needed to be saved.

This morning when Anakin headed into the rooms of the Dragon Clone he was very much not holding onto his lightsaber. He was also uninjured, even though he felt a little like hurt in the Force, but that wasn’t anything unusual in these times and nothing a calm day around his fellow Jedi couldn’t fix. Therefore the general assumption was made that he was alright enough to hug.

“Good morning,” Anakin greeted the tired senior Padawan sitting at the desk near the entrance.

The Weequay teenager smiled cheerfully despite the long bags under his eyes. Anakin was sure he had seen the Padawan in the halls of healing just yesterday when he had returned to Coruscant with a couple broken ribs, but Anakin wasn’t going to rat them out for sneaking off to crèche duty. He had done the same often enough, still did if he was honest. His trips had become less frequent with the war effort and his own Padawan to train, but he still tried to go there somewhat regularly. It was his duty as Obi-Wan’s first Padawan to make sure the next one would be a promising and interesting youngling after all.

“Knight Skywalker, what has brought you here today?” The boy asked.

“I spoke to Master Cherem yesterday, I’m picking up the Initiates for their Gathering.”

The boy’s eyes darted to the belt where Anakin usually kept his lightsaber and found the weapon missing. His already impossible bright grin seemed to lighten even more.

“Is it time already for the next group to go?” The boy asked. “Oh, wow, time sure flies… Well, you know the protocol I assume?”

Anakin rolled his eyes mock-annoyed and swiftly filled out the forms the Padawan had given him. “I haven’t lost my lightsaber that often. I happen to enjoy taking younglings to Ilum.”

And it wasn’t even a lie, Anakin really did enjoy it, even if there were plenty Knights who preferred not to be stuck on a small ship with a bunch of overly excited children who were so nervous, some might even vomit. Anakin actually enjoyed the sensation, the younglings running around him like the bees in a hive. He had always been the most relaxed in places where there were so many Force-sensitives, their own tunes in the Force distracted from the abyss Anakin could gaze into so easily at all times.

“Have fun, Master Skywalker, and may the Force be with you.”

Anakin smiled in turn and made his way into the crèche proper. As soon as he stepped into the rooms the Initiates were in, a hush fell over the group. It only lasted for a split second, as long as the children needed to realize he was there, then Anakin opened up his arms and let himself be dragged to the floor.

“Hello, Knight Skywalker!” They chirped from all sides before beginning to chase him with all kinds of questions about his most recent missions.

Laughing, Anakin tried to quiet the group, but they proved to be as convincing as always. One moment he had been lying on the ground, the next he was sitting in the middle of the storytelling corner, surrounded by pillows, blankets and of course a hoard of younglings listening attentively as he told them a simplified version of a mission that had contained significantly more trotting through the dirt and complaining to Obi-Wan than he relayed to them. They didn’t seem to mind that he embellished some parts. They likely heard enough gruesome details about the war already, saw the clones walking their halls and the Jedi returning home with incredible injuries. If Anakin could give them this peace of mind, that would be enough.

“Anakin, why are you here?” A Kel Dor youngling asked after he had finished the story.

“Well,” Anakin said slowly, dragging out the word. “I was going to take the oldest of you to their Gathering, but I think I can also just-“

The rest of his sentence was lost in-between the excited cheering of the children.

“When are we going?” A Tholothian child asked. They appeared to be one of the older children, so likely one of those Anakin was going to take to Ilum.

“Depends,” he replied. “As soon as you can finish packing.”

As soon as he had said it, five of the children broke away from the pile and rushed into the directions of their rooms, cheered on by the rest of their clan. Fondly, Anakin watched as they disappeared behind different doors before returning his attention to the remaining children.

“Alright,” he said. “Who wants to hear another story in the meanwhile?”

The expectant eyes all focused on him were answer enough.

[felagund-fiollaigean]

Peace like a river (always going, never getting)

 A Jedi: Fallen Order fanfic.

5k words of child soldier angst, fluff, hugs, an 8-year-old Jyn Erso discovering her penchant for inflicting blunt force trauma, a jam session around a campfire with Space Booze, and Merrin and Cal finding a moment of respite to feel young and carefree, taking comfort in each other after a traumatizing lifetime of raw survival.

Read it here or under the cut!

Saw and his rebel band could be uptight and overzealous sometimes, but they sure knew how to throw a party.

They were in the middle of one of the most isolated forests of Corvus, where they had earlier cleaned out an Imperial munitions plant. There had already been so much devastation wrought to the moon’s forests, but it was a big win nevertheless, and Saw had insisted in a rare magnanimous display that the crew of the Mantis join him and his partisans for some revelries. A massive bonfire had been lit with the flammable remnants of the factory they had scrapped. Saw’s motley crew was in high spirits tonight, exchanging drinks and jokes and puffs from a t’bac bowl.

Cere had brought her hallikset down with her, and was joined by a Weequay on a Sriluurian fiddle. The two had gathered a small audience of rebels enthusiastically shouting requests for this song or another, singing along raucously if obliged. Greez had gotten roped into a game of dice with a trio of drop troopers, and Cal was keeping a careful eye on the game to make sure the pile of credits in the center wasn’t getting too big. BD-1 had strayed from his perch on Cal’s shoulder to explore, making his rounds around the fire to meet everyone and scan everything in sight. He catches a glimpse of Merrin across the fire, nodding along to what one of the rebels was telling her about and tapping her foot along with the music.

Cal's managed to get himself pleasantly tipsy. The alcohol he's consumed so far has him feeling warm and loose and lighter than he's felt in a long time. There's no shortage of friendly conversation to be found either, and his status as the resident Jedi is making him fairly popular among Saw’s band. Cal doesn’t mind the attention, personally. So far no one has asked invasive questions like “So what was the clones' betrayal like for you, Cal?” or “You were only a padawan during the purge, right Cal?” or “How does it feel to be the last survivor of your order, Cal?”

The mood is celebratory and relaxed, and Cal is happy to forget about all the atrocities in the galaxy for a while with the rest of them.

He's distracted momentarily when he discovers that BD-1 had made a new friend. A human girl around eight years old, cheeks still round from baby fat and an oversized flak helmet on her head, fawning over the small droid. Cal studies her closer. He didn’t see her during the fighting (and thank the Force for that, at least this child didn’t have to grow up a soldier like he and his friends did), but she's the only child he's seen so far among Saw’s party. Struck by curiosity, he makes his way around the circle of flames and sits down on the damp grass next to her.

“Hey.”

She doesn't look up from where she's fiddling with the antenna on top of BD-1’s head. “Hi.”

“What’s your name?”

This time, she does look at him.

“You’re one of the ones from the Mantis, right?”

Her evasion of the question he asked doesn’t escape him, but he doesn’t press the issue. He wasn’t exactly an open book in his youth either.

“Yup. I’m Cal, and this here is BD-1.”

She frowns at him. “I know. I can speak binary,” she says, as if offended by the insinuation that she couldn’t.

Cal doesn’t let it faze him. “That’s good, not many people can.”

“I’m Jyn.”

Cal smiles to himself. He holds out his hand to her. “It’s nice to meet you, Jyn.”

She accepts the handshake, squeezing his hand in a fierce grip with her little fingers.

“Ouch, you got a strong grip there,” he says, exaggeratedly shaking the pain out of his right hand.

Jyn nods. “Saw says that a firm handshake establishes dominance quickly.”

“Well, it's working,” he says with a smile. “Is Saw your dad?”

Jyn frowns bitterly, and Cal instantly regrets asking. “Not really, she says, shaking her head. “He’s just raising me.”

Now there was a loaded response. Cal wonders what happened to her parents. Were they dead? Or was there another reason why she was in the middle of the woods with a band of militants and Saw Gerrera. Was it possible that she-

Cal shivers, and reaches out into the Force, only to withdraw with dismay a moment later. The Force flowed around her like it did every other being, but she lacked that spark of connection, that synchronization to the energy of life that other Force-sensitives had. He tries not to let his disappointment show on his face and steers the conversation away from either of their pasts, waving his hand to indicate the group gathered in the forest clearing. “Are all of these people your friends?”

She shrugs. “Sort of. I know most of them, but they don’t hang around much because they’re usually off on missions and stuff for Saw.”

“Does it ever get lonely?”

“No, I don’t mind being by myself. It does get boring though. Hey, can I have some of that?”

“What, this?” He holds up his cup, still half-full of Sunberry wine.

“Yeah.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Um, I’m not sure that’s a great idea, it wouldn’t be very responsible of me. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to drink when you’re older.” Internally, he cringes at his own words. Since when did he begin to sound like his master?

“That’s what all the others say. I thought you would be cool,” she says with a huff of disappointment.

Cal is momentarily tempted to give in, if only to salvage his status of “cool” in the eyes of this girl. But he really doesn’t want to get in trouble with their newfound allies by getting their surrogate daughter drunk on their very first meeting.

“Hey, I’m definitely cool. How old are you anyway?”

“I’m 8, and I think if I’m old enough to start training for field missions, I’m old enough to have something to drink that’s interesting. But so far, I'm the only one who thinks that.”

Training for field missions. Training for- Saw was training her for the field already?

Eight. She’s eight years old. He tries to picture this girl - with her tiny button nose and flyaway hairs escaping from braided pigtails - wearing her flak helmet and clutching a blaster, taking shelter in a foxhole as Imperial fire rains down. They at least had let him wait until he was 12 before he shipped out with Master Tapal and the clones in the 13th, this girl was practically still a baby.

Instinctively, he looks to Merrin, the only other person he knows who would understand. But Merrin isn’t where he saw her last. His eyes scan the clearing, and catch sight of her at the edge of the forest, at the start of the path that leads to the cliff edge nearby that overlooks the valley.

He wonders why she’s leaving, and if she wanted him to follow.

“Hey, did you hear what I said?”

Jyn is looking at him expectantly. Kriff.

“Uh, sorry, Jyn. Zoned out for a minute there. What was that?”

“I asked you if you know how to shoot a blaster, or if you only use your lightsaber and stuff.”

“Oh. Uh, I prefer the lightsaber I guess."

"Can I hold it?”

Cal blinks. Hold his lightsaber? He glances around the fire. He doesn’t have a problem with it, personally, but for the second time that evening, he is taken aback by his newfound position as an adult responsible for the wellbeing of a child. He unclips it from his belt.

“Yes. But,” he says, and doesn’t continue speaking until she’s torn her excited gaze away from his saber hilt to meet his eyes. “Let’s not ignite it here, okay? So be careful with the button. Got it?”

She nods, and he passes it to her.

She takes it reverently, holding it carefully in both hands and turning it over, examining it from all angles. Her little fingers barely wrap all the way around the circumference of the hilt. Cal is pleased to see she gingerly arranges her fingers so as not to accidentally trigger the ignition. BD-1 stands on her thigh, examining it with her even though he’s seen it hundreds of times already.

“It’s heavier than I thought,” she remarks. “Is it fun?”

“Is what fun?”

She shrugs. “You know. Using it, and fighting with it.”

Cal thinks for a moment. He doesn’t think of fighting as something fun. Usually, when he has to use it’s saber, it’s because somebody is trying to kill him and he will have to kill them in return. But his mind is drawn back to building his first saber as a youngling, and the thrill of feeling each component of the hilt assembling into something uniquely his. Of practicing kata or sparring in the temple, saber moving with power and fluidity as an extension of his own self. Of igniting his second saber for the first time on Illum, feeling the heat of the blade on his face and the crystal within calling out to him as if reuniting with an old friend.

And he finds himself saying, “Yeah. It’s pretty fun.”

She seems to consider something for a moment, and hands it back. “I know that I’m not a Jedi or anything, but do you think I would be good at fighting with one if I was?”

He busies himself with affixing his lightsaber back to his belt and taking a swallow from his rapidly-cooling wine as he considers how best to answer her bid for validation.

“How about the next time we come to work for Saw, you and I find out together?”

She looks at him accusingly. “But I don’t have a lightsaber, how would I do that?”

He shoots a look at BD-1, who seems to nod encouragingly.

“Before any Jedi builds their own lightsaber, we train with sticks and staves. We practice with ordinary weapons before we ever take up a lightsaber. I could teach you, if you wanted. You don’t need to be a Jedi to hit somebody with a stick."

She laughs at this, evidently not expecting so elegant a weapon to be compared to a common stick. “What if I wandered around with a stick tied to one side of my belt, and bonked people on the head like it was a tube of flimsi towels?” she says, shaking her fist as she raps Cal’s own skull with an imaginary cardboard tube.

Cal smiles. “Stormtrooper helmets aren’t very good quality, but they’re a bit tougher than your average flimsi-towel tube. We’ll have to find you something sturdier to practice with.”

Jyn stares at him, looking a bit shocked. “Were you serious about teaching me?”

BD-1 trills with affirmation, hopping from one little foot to the other in excitement.

“Of course. Not tonight, but we’ll see each other again. Someday, I’ll show you how to fight with one of these.

Her eyes are shining with excitement, and she holds out a tiny pinky. “Promise?”

He locks his little finger with hers, and says “I promise. You should be able to defend yourself as much as possible, when you’re out there.”

What he means is, I’m not going to let you die like the others, not if I can help it.

But he doesn’t say that, because Jyn is still young and dreams of glory, and the cruelty of the galaxy will find her soon enough without any of his help. She’s like him and Merrin now. A survivor.

Speaking of Merrin…

She’s still not back, and Cal eyes the entrance to the first path with apprehension. She’s more than capable of taking care of herself, he knows that. And if she had run into trouble, she would be able to make enough of a fuss to be noticeable from here.

Still.

He takes a final swig from his cup and leaves it behind him on the grass as he stands, and tries not to groan at the stiffness in his knees.

“I’m gonna go for a walk, make sure Merrin’s okay,” He says. “You two…” he points from Jyn to BD-1 in turn “Stay out of trouble, alright?”

“Okay,” Jyn says casually, resuming her fiddling with BD-1’s antennae as BD-1 chirps contentedly. “Don’t get lost.”

Cal isn’t worried about getting lost. He’d traveled the footpath from the clearing to the cliff ledge multiple times in the daylight. But this time, as the shadows of the trees close around him, cutting him off from the warmth of the fire and his gathered friends, his mind began to wander back to his conversation with Jyn.

Was Saw really going to send this child out to fight? At least with him, they hadn’t had a choice, they hadn’t just...

No, they had. The Jedi order made a choice to send him out onto the front lines as a soldier at the age of 12. They did the same to Caleb and Zett and Skywalker’s padawan, Ahsoka, who at the age of 14 had seemed so mature to Cal when he first met her. They had all grown up under blasterfire and canonfire and the shrill scream of bombers, and now Jyn was going to have to do the same.

He makes the decision then to ask the rest of the crew to take on as many jobs for Saw as they can. He knows he isn’t invincible. He can’t save the entire galaxy by himself, but if he can be here for Jyn, maybe….

Maybe he could be for her what Prauf was for him. A guide, an anchor, someone who would have her back when the going gets tough, as it inevitably does.

It takes 7 standard minutes and two stumbles over protruding roots before the trees thin out and Cal finds himself at the clearing on top of the cliff. It’s a stunning view. Corvus’ twin moons cast a wan glow over the valley, and the dark sea of trees below them stretches out all the way to the horizon, leaving the star-studded sky open and clear and resplendent. He isn’t alone, and nearly starts out of his poncho before he remembers why he came out this way and recognizes Merrin sitting on the edge, kicking her dangling feet back and forth. She seems to notice him at the same time he notices her.

“Did nobody ever warn you about sneaking up on a Nightsister?”

Cal smiles in the way he can’t help but smile whenever she’s near. “They probably did, and I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Foolish of you,” she says, patting the spot on the grass next to her. “What are you doing out here?”

Cal accepts the invitation, and eases himself down beside her, dangling his legs over the edge as she did. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, and to keep you company if you didn’t want to be alone.”

She smiles a little, making the dimples in her cheeks stand out. “Thoughtful of you. Were you enjoying yourself?”

“I was. Saw knows how to throw a pretty good shindig.”

“I will have to take your word for it. I haven’t been to many shindigs, as you call them.”

“Yeah, I guess Dathomir wasn’t really known for it’s party scene.”

“As a matter of fact,” she says dryly, “It wasn’t.

“Did you meet Jyn?”

“Was she the little one you were talking to?”

Cal sighs deeply. “Yeah, she was.”

Merrin draws the silence out, leaving room in the air between them for Cal to say what he was thinking. He wasn’t even sure how to express it, but felt compelled to try. Besides, if anyone knew how he was feeling, Merrin would.

“She’s only eight. Saw’s training her for the field.”

Merrin makes a neutral humming noise in the back of her throat. “It will be good for her to learn early. Better start now, so she will be stronger when she’s grown.”

“Maybe, but I don’t know. She’s really young, and I…. I never really thought about the kind of childhood we had, and how it really wasn’t a childhood at all, until now. And it’s hard to wrap my head around.”

“It is difficult to see it happen to someone else with your own eyes, now that you’re grown.” Merrin’s voice is unusually gentle, but she wastes no time getting to the heart of the issue as usual.

“Yeah, exactly. I wish she could grow up in a more peaceful galaxy, and not have to fight.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, suddenly overwhelmed by a bitter surge of emotion. “And she’s not just out there for her own life. These rebels are fighting because so many can’t fight for themselves. She’s going to be responsible for a galaxy full of people older than her, adults who should be protecting her, not the other way around!  And it’s not… it’s not fair.”

The sentiment sounds childish to his own ears - he’s long stopped believing that the universe was fair -  but his chest aches with the truth of it. What he wouldn’t give to live in a world where he and Merrin could have had their childhoods free of fighting and and death and raw survival, where they could simply be two teenagers: Drinking and talking and watching the stars. Where Jyn could simply be a child. With her parents. Going to school, making friends her own age, catching bugs and playing with dolls and collecting model starfighters.

As if she could sense his thoughts, Merrin says “There’s no use dwelling on what could have been, Cal. This is the world we’ve been given. We’re here, so we’ll keep her as safe as we can for as long as we can, and when we can’t anymore, well. You and I survived, didn’t we?”

He glances at her to find she’s already holding his gaze.

“Yeah, I guess we did.”

“Then why can’t Jyn?”

Trust only in the Force.

He takes a deep breath in and exhales, and with it releases his fear and anxiety and regret into the Force, like snow melting off a mountainside.

Sometimes, he thinks Merrin would have made a better Jedi than he ever did.

“You’re right, as always,” he says, and a comfortable silence ensues between them for the next few moments as they watch the stars together.

“Hey,” Cal says, tilting his head towards the southwest. “That constellation kind of looks like Greez.”

She follows his gaze, searching the horizon with bright eyes. “Where?”

He extends his arm and points up at the vaguely Latero-shaped cluster of stars. “There. See?”

“Huh. I think it sort of looks like a dick.”

“Do you mean it actually looks like a penis, or that Greez is just a dick?”

Merrin considers for a moment. “Yes to both.”

Cal snorts.

They carry on that way, and make a game of trying to find the shapes of their friends in the stars. Until something occurs to Cal.

“Hey, why did you leave anyway?” He asks.

“Well, it was… you know.” Merrin sighs, and Cal copies her earlier silence, the open air of the night waiting for her words.

“On Dathomir, and even with you and the crew of the Mantis, I always knew that I belonged, and it’s easy to know what to do. I’ve… I’ve never been around so many people before who didn’t know me.”

Cal thinks he knows what she means, but he lets her go on.

“Cere has her music, and Greez loses our money at games, most beings find you handsome and pleasant and easy to talk to, and of course everyone loves your little droid. But I don’t know what the rules are, yet. To being with so many people who aren’t like me.”

Cal feels his face flush hot at her words. Merrin thought he was handsome? But he didn’t let himself dwell on the compliment.  

“You know you’re one of us though, right?”

Merrin had an impressive sabacc face by anyone’s standards, but Cal had known her long enough by now to learn her tells. Right now, for instance, the slightest tension in her brown told him that she wasn’t entirely sure.

“Hey, I mean it. Socializing takes practice, it definitely did for me when I first ended up on Bracca. The first year was awkward and confusing, but we really care about you. I know it won’t be the same as your sisters on Dathomir, but you have a place here, for as long as you want it.”

Merrin nods, slow and contemplative. “I do, and I care about you too, but it doesn’t feel the same as I thought it would all the time. So many things are unfamiliar, it gets overwhelming. Cere’s music was nice but I don’t know any of the songs that the others do. The music on Dathomir wasn’t quite so… exuberant, but at least I knew all the words.”

Cal leans back on his arms to better look her in the eye.

“Well, that problem shouldn’t be a hard one to fix.”

Merrin mirrors his movements to regard him in return. “What do you mean?

“I’ll send you some music before the next shindig, whenever it is.”

Merrin raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You want me to listen to that caterwauling you call music?”

“First of all,” he says, holding up a reproachful finger. “It’s not caterwauling. And I’ll make you a playlist, even. Cal Kestis’ Guide to Exploring the Galaxy Through Music. And next time Saw has a party you’re going to sing and get drunk and be ridiculous with the rest of us. We can pretend we’re regular, irresponsible teenagers having fun for once.”

She turns away again to study the terrain below them. “I would do no such thing. I am the epitome of grace and beauty, and will not bring disgrace upon the Nightsisters of Dathomir by fraternizing with the likes of you in such a way.” Her tone is imperious and unyielding, but he notices the faintest upturn in the corners of her mouth and knows she's only teasing.

“That’s a lie! You’re just as weird as the rest of us, admit it.”

“I should sue you on grounds of defamation of character.”

“How? You don’t know any lawyers and we’re both enemies of the state.”

“Semantics.” She lies down onto her back, face tilted to the night sky. The light of Corvus’ moon casts a glow on her face that makes her grey complexion look like a moon itself, ethereal and resplendent. “Very well. I will let you educate me about ‘music,’” she says, making quotes in the air with her fingers, “on one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“Next time we’re at one of these, what did you call them? Shindigs? You are going to dance with me.”

Cal hesitates. “Well… I’m really not a very good dancer, Merrin.”

“I know that. But I have hopes of improving you. You will find I am a marvelous teacher. My sisters and I would dance when we had… nights like this.”

She doesn’t elaborate, but Cal is no stranger to longing for a past that was cruelly ripped away. As shy as he felt about dancing in public, he wasn’t going to let her miss a chance to give her back something she loved about her home.

“Okay then. You can teach me to dance.”

Merrin grins, looking delighted.

Yeah. He would waltz arm-in-arm with the Ninth Sister if only to see Merrin smile like that again. He copies her in lying down on his back, breathing deeply of the forest air.

Moments where it’s just the two of them together, without the rest of the crew or even BD-1 around are few and far between and tragically short at that, so Cal decides to relish every minute of it as it is. The stillness, the beauty of the night sky on Corvus, lying next to her so close their shoulders are a hair’s breadth from touching, and nowhere they need to be for the next standard rotation.

Yeah, Cal could get used to this. He sneaks another glance at Merrin.

Judging by the way her eyes are closed and her breathing has deepened, Merrin is even more relaxed than he is.

He smiles, glad that she’s finally resting properly. Sleep is hard to come by in their line of work, and Merrin works harder than the rest of them, since her magick is so vital to sneaking the Mantis past Imperial blockades.

The thought of work and blockades and their myriad responsibilities must be what jinxes him, because just at that moment, his comm chirps and Merrin jerks awake.

“Sorry, Merrin,” he says sheepishly. He wishes whoever was trying to get in touch with them could have at least given her a few more minutes to sleep.

“It’s fine,” she replies. “See who it is, it might be important.”

Regretfully, he answers the comm. “Cal here.”

“You kids better have been kidnapped or something,” blares Greez’s voice from Cal’s wrist. “Because if I find out you two have been canoodling in those woods, I swear I’ll-”

“Kriff, Greez! No one’s canoodling!” He silently damns his own face for blushing, and hopes Merrin doesn’t notice. “We were just on a walk.”

“Oh, that’s what they’re calling it these days? And where did you hear that language?”

“The last time? From you,” Cal deadpans.

"Yeah okay, smartass. Merrin’s with you?”

“She is,” Merrin says.

“Swell. Look, fire’s getting low, Saw’s getting impatient, Cere broke a string, and that little droid of yours is about to bust a servo with how much he’s worrying about you. So you might want to get back here. We’ll pack up the Mantis, make the jump to Taanab and sleep on the way. Got it?”

Cal sighs, and shares a knowing look with Merrin. So much for peace and quiet.

But such was the life of survivors like them.

“We hear you, Greez. We’ll be back shortly.”

“And no detours! Don’t need you two giving each other any diseases or-”

“Yup, we got it, thanks,” he says quickly, before Greez can add any more input on what they should or shouldn’t do on their way back. “Cal out.”

He shuts off his comlink, closes his eyes, and sighs for what feels like the millionth time that evening. When he opens his eyes, Merrin is pointing towards the southwest.

“Like I said. Dick.”

He laughs, embarrassment forgotten in a moment.

“You were right about that,” he says, then stands up and offers her a hand for assistance.

The scathing look she gives him would have cowed a lesser man, but Cal stands his ground, silently daring her to accept his chivalry. She does give in, as he knew she would, using him as leverage to pull herself to her feet.

But what he didn’t know that she would do was draw herself closer still and wrap her arms around his shoulders.

It takes him by surprise, but he gathers himself quickly. The gaping hole in his chest that made their last (and so far, only) hug a rather painful ordeal is now nothing but a blot of pinkish scar tissue, so he returns her embrace wholeheartedly, settling his arms against her back and waist. Merrin takes a deep, tremulous breath, and he rubs her back tenderly to soothe her.

She doesn’t show any interest in letting go yet, so he lets himself linger as long as she’s willing to, dreading the moment of pulling away. He can’t remember the last time he had ever felt like this. Physical affection on Bracca and the Mantis was limited to back slaps and shoulder pats and handshakes sealed with the spit of a promise. He remembers falling asleep cuddled next to his fellow crechemates as a very small youngling at the temple, but they had abandoned such childish actions when they left the creche. Now that he considers it, he can’t remember the last time he had been held.

And suddenly he feels untethered and desperate and weak at the knees and he squeezes her as close to him as he can without hurting her. He lets out a harsh breath that turns into a whimper, and muffles the sound in the crook of her neck. Her arms around his shoulders tighten in response. He imagines himself physically soaking in the hug, letting her warmth and her weight in his arms seep through his skin and shore up his defenses that have been stretched too thin for far too long.  

A hundred years could have gone by, and Cal would have been content for both of them to stay right where they were for the entirety of it. But Merrin loosens her grip on him so he reluctantly does the same. It’s only then he realizes that he had managed to lift her completely off her feet, and she drops the few inches back to the ground awkwardly, landing on his toes.

“Ow, kriff, I’m sorry,” He fumbles. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t apologize,” she chuckles, tugging the hem of her tunic back into place. “It was nice. You’re a good friend, Cal. You give good hugs.”

Affection wells in his chest and swells his heart so full he’s afraid it will burst. His feelings for her lately have been… complex. And confusing. And he doesn’t really know what to do with them, except to stay by her side for as long as he can, wherever they go.

“I’m- I’m so glad I met you,” is all he knows to say. And as an addendum, “You give good hugs too.”

The words sounded lame as soon as he said them, but Merrin beamed as if he had recited the sonnets of Adranax.

Until her face nearly splits down the middle in a massive yawn she belatedly tries to cover with the back of her hand. He puts an arm around her shoulders then steers them both towards the path that will take them back to the others.

“Come on,” he says. “Long day tomorrow.”

“It always is, isn’t it.”

“That’s true.” He takes one last look behind them at the moon-soaked landscape, committing it to memory as best as he can.

This is a night he never wants to forget.

[kyberled]

@cosmicnexus​ said:

// i don't even know the whole story but i know based on the red x's on the picture those kids ain't alright and i am S A D but holy fuck jay this picture is amazing!!! the shading and the rendering!!!!

// AaaaaAAAA thank you Kato ;w; You’re always far too good to me and I love you <3<3<3

The basic story is this is Braig’s little ‘inner circle’ group of best friends. He met Hano (the Cathar) when he was three, and they’ve been best friends ever since; he met Naweh (the Tarasin) not long after, and she fit in with them perfectly; He met Booda (the Gungan) when he was four, Lohata (the Rodian) when he was five, and he sort of knew the Affgor twins, Garak and Shah-Ki (the Weequay) in passing, but he didn’t actually know them until their Gathering, when the seven of them - at age seven - went to find their kyber crystals. Ever since the Gathering, they’ve sort of been their own little clique, so they refer to their collective selves as ‘the Gathering group’. Not very creative, but it suits their purposes. 

(Little fun fact: Braig’s the oldest of all of them! Technically they’re all born in the same year, but he was born first. The actual age order is Braig -> Lohata -> Hano -> Naweh -> Booda -> the Twins. The Twins don’t know which one of them was born first, and change their answer depending on their moods.) 

(more details under a cut because I rambled)

Tarasins, such as Naweh, have skin that changes colour based on their emotions. They can learn to control the changes, and even use them to communicate when they get older. Normally, Naweh keeps herself a calm, neutral blue-purple-green, but she knows her friends don’t care, so right now, she’s a happy/excited pink-yellow-orange. Anyone who knows Tarasin skin colours would take one look at her and go ‘wow, she’s stoked to be there’. 

One of Naweh’s favourite places to be was the nurseries. She always said if she hadn’t been chosen to pursue knighthood, she would’ve been happy working with the younglings (to the point where if she ever had the Group’s braincell and advised against something, they’d usually chorus a light-hearted ‘Yes, Crechemaster’). She loved kids. That’s why, aside from encouraging Hano to embrace his bastard status, she’s braiding Braig’s hair. She doesn’t have hair of her own, but some of the little ones do, and having it braided makes it easier for them to do their training. She’s practicing braids so she can help the kids better on her next shift. (That’s also why she has a bunch of hair ties around her wrist, in part. She also just wore them because most of her close friends - Braig, Hano, the twins - have long hair, so she comes prepared in case they lose one of their own ties.) 

She gets a red X because she was in her beloved nurseries when Order 66 was declared. She died shielding the younglings, helping the staff smuggle them out. One of the last things she ever did was use the Force to shove some of the smaller ones into a ventilation duct in the hopes they might escape. She knew she wouldn’t. If you were to  find her body after the Purge, you’d find her still covering some little ones who weren’t so lucky, a guardian to the last. 

Of course we all know and love Braig. I don’t have too much to say about him here, since, again, we know him already. He’s napping because he’s warm and safe, the Force in the gardens and with his friends feels amazing, and he’s been getting his hair played with for the past five minutes. He’s also, as the group’s healer, on standby in case Booda’s prosthetics hurt her, but they all trust the Twins’ work enough that he feels safe dozing.

He survives Order 66, so no X - but his connection to the Living Force, combined with so many deaths all at once, leaves him with near-permanent metaphysical chronic pain. Sometimes, the literal air around him just feels painful to him. It sucks.

Hano is the tallest and strongest of the group. He evens out at 7′5, over 300 lbs. The Force gave him a bronze crystal when he was young and he did not disappoint. The necklace he wears is actually a trophy from the first hunt he went on, a rite of passage among Cathar. The trophy just lets other Cathar know he completed the hunt and can be welcomed as an adult into their society. Given that he was training as a tracker (Braig always called him ‘the greatest/most skilled tracker I’ve ever met’), his success was inevitable. As intimidating as he can be, he’s a gentle giant and a goofball at heart. He’ll tear it up on the battlefield, sure, but he’ll also use the fact he’s strong enough to lift a clone trooper in one arm to carry wounded men back to safety, to carry his friends around for fun, or to help the men, other Jedi, and the Temple staff with more strenuous physical labor. He also enjoys play-fighting, especially with Braig and Naweh, and the control he learned through the rigorous training of a Jedi means he can easily do so without hurting them. He’s always had a penchant for mischief, which is why he’s been telling dumb jokes and awful puns for the past little while. 

(Bonus fun fact: I joked, years ago, that he’s large enough that when he goes out with his friends - especially Small Friend Braig - he gets mistaken as their master. When I posted a WIP of this in my discord server, my friend Reece assumed he was their dad, so. It looks like that’s not a joke and actually happens, and Braig was quietly sulking that he’s three months older for a while after. Hano continues to think it’s funny.) 

He survived Order 66, barely. He was blinded and lost a leg in an explosion (hence the red scribbles). His master, Yokar Eedai, hid him among rubble, commed some of his non-Jedi friends to find the location, and then lead the clones away at the cost of his own life. Hano spent many years hiding in the Outer Rim in self-imposed exile. (He does eventually reunite with Braig, though. If you swing by Braig’s weapons shop, you can usually see him there, bandages tied over his eyes and metallic claws peeking out from under his left pantleg.) 

Garak and Shah-Ki aren’t very talkative or physically affectionate. They show their love for their friends through inclusion and acts of service. When they were young, still forming their group, Braig always thought that they were ‘each others’ best friend, and could live without the rest of us’. While that may have once been true, they’ve bonded with the rest of the Group quite thoroughly. So Garak is brushing Hano’s hair for him (Hano usually wears it in braids) and Shah-Ki is fixing Booda’s prosthetics, though they’re both debating the best way to enhance the water-proofing without sacrificing mobility. The twins were training as Shadows, a rare variant of Jedi that specializes in stealth missions. They were also brilliant slicers and engineers, making them incredible secret agents. By the time they were senior padawans, they could make not only themselves invisible through the Force, but one or two others, as well. They would often use this talent to bring one of the others of their group to see what they had most recently found or made. The rest of the Group always joked that you never knew what it was going to be. It could be a store room in the Temple that had fallen out of use, it could be a Battle Droid they repurposed, or it could be the complete dossier of someone who wasn’t legally supposed to exist. Just whatever they thought was cool. 

Their penchant for going unnoticed also meant that they heard, intentionally or otherwise, all sorts of gossip throughout the Temple. They’d usually share interesting tidbits at mealtimes with their friends, a practice Naweh had affectionately dubbed ‘Holocast T’. 

While Weequay can grow hair, braids are significant to them culturally, representing how many times they’ve visited their home planet of Sriluur. Because of this, the twins opted to have silka bead padawan ‘braids’ instead. 

They were finishing up a mission when Order 66 hit. While they were never as outwardly friendly as some others, they did trust their men, and as such didn’t think to hide themselves from those that became their executioners until it was too late. They died only moments apart, still reaching out to each other, but weren’t quite able to touch. 

Lohata and Booda are dating! They like to pretend nobody knows. The entire Group knows, of course, but they pretend they don’t, for their sake. 

Lohata is as close to a ‘mom friend’ as you can get when you don’t have a mom and haven’t been raised to know what having a mom is like. She usually has the braincell, and does her best to make sure the others can get out of any trouble they get into. That’s not to say that she doesn’t get into trouble a lot, too, she’s just usually the one who can bail them out when ‘blame it on Braig’ isn’t feasible. She’s also a bookworm, and usually has a datapad in her hand (she always appreciated that her friends would just let her read when they all hang out, jumping into and out of the conversation whenever she wanted without judgement. It was nice). She and Braig often exchange ‘pads from the archives (with Mistress Jocasta’s permission) if they found one they thought the other would like. She has a fairly dry sense of humor, which is why she’s in the middle of telling Hano that if he tells the one about the Womprat and the Quacta again, she’s defecting to the Separatists so she can hit him with a tree branch without getting in trouble. (Hano, being Assigned Disaster At Birth, is now figuring out how to reroute the conversation into a good segue for the one about the Womprat and the Quacta.) 

Aside from reading, she loved flying and singing, and was quite good at both - though she wouldn’t admit to the second. When Booda was recovering from getting her prosthetics for the first time, Lohata used to sing to her to help her relax. She wasn’t quite as good at dancing ad Booda was, but, if they had a moment alone, she’d make the effort for her girlfriend. 

Booda is much sunnier and more open than Lohata, but not as outgoing as Braig (hence why he’s usually their mastermind). She has a joy and genuine love for life, and, in the moment, is just happy to be home with all her friends, all safe and together and able to relax for once. 

As a Gungan, she knows all too well how her species is regarded by the rest of the Galaxy. She’s trained herself to not speak Gungan Basic in an effort to appear more ‘civilized’ and ‘respectable’ as a Jedi, and to hopefully avoid the negative stereotypes. (She only ever speaks it to other Gungans, now, and tries to avoid doing so in public.) Like Naweh, she figured if she ever got tired of field work, she’d be happy in the Temple - though she wanted to work in the Archives, not the nursery. She was a cultures nerd, like Braig, and the two of them often edited each others’ cultural papers and assignments before handing them in. 

Booda got her prosthetics after a mission went wrong, damaging both her arms beyond repair for the current Jedi on the scene. Her master, a Nautolan named Nid Arto, blamed himself for it, and had to speak to his own (former) master at length and meditate for a while to come to terms with it. He visited her for hours on end every day in the Temple’s medbay until she was cleared. She hadn’t yet turned 16, so she was still growing - this, as well as the frequent wear and tear of missions, meant that she had to get them replaced quite often. Oddly enough, this helped her come to terms with it more. At Nid’s suggestion, she started getting coloured casings for them, and that made it a bit more fun.  The Group would often visit her after these procedures with washable markers and draw or write little notes and designs on, which made it even better. By the time of this little meeting of theirs, she’s grown used to them, and is quite pleased with these new pink casings (they’re her favourite colour). 

She’s also the best dancer of the group, and usually teaches the others different dancing styles to help with diplomatic missions. Naweh, Braig, and Lohata are her usual students, as they’re the ones who do diplomacy more often (and she likes being able to dance with her girlfriend). Hano doesn’t do high society - it’s hard enough to get him to put on a shirt, he hates how it feels with fur - and the twins are shadows, not consulars or guardians. The three of them still show up for support and shenanigans, though. The twins are quite good at a Corellian waltz. Booda and Braig had a long-running joke about how he insisted dancing was just like sparring without hitting each other, dips were take-downs you stopped half way, et cetera, and she, through increasing giggles, would try to convince him to stop trying to punch foreign dignitaries to music. 

When Order 66 happened, Booda, Nid, and Lohata had just finished up a mission to Naboo (Lohata’s master had been sick, so Nid invited her along for the ride). They’d finished up early, so Nid, who knows Lohata likes to fly and Booda likes being on Naboo, decided to let the girls get a bit of flight practice in (with Queen Jamilla’s permission) in friendly skies. The men turned on them, and Lohata’s ship crashed, knocking her out. It was the fire and injuries that eventually took her life. Booda tried to pull her out, but only succeeded in damaging her prosthetics before Nid pulled her away to get her running. The two of them hid in a lake. When the men dropped depth charges, Nid shielded Booda and died in the process. She hid under water and in under-water caverns with air pockets for days, peeking out to still see her master’s corpse floating there before someone eventually removed it. She would never really be able to leave the lakeshore again, barely being able to venture into town for food weeks later, and to get her arms fixed over a year after the Purge. She, too, eventually reconnects with Hano and Braig - while she never feels safe leaving her lake, they make sure to comm her fairly regularly, and visit in person when they can, and it’s the closest to feeling truly safe she’s been in decades. 

[nerdywyrds]

I’m going to answer a few more questions from this meme because I want to.

A. Favorite character?

Depending on the day, it’s either Grand Admiral Thrawn or Luke Skywalker. Both of them mean so much to me; I really can’t overstate it. When I first got into Star Wars, I read every single book in my library that had Luke in it. And the Thrawn Trilogy totally blew my mind in terms of how one can have a ferociously clever villain, and still have the heroes win in a satisfying manner.

When Thrawn was brought into Disney canon I nearly cried with joy.

B. Favorite Jedi?

Luke. XD  Unless I have to pick from the Jedi Order, in which case it is Plo Koon. I vaguely liked him pre-TCW, because he showed up in a couple of comics (most notably Pizza Hutt) and he had a cool design and a fun personality. Then TCW came out and he treats everyone with respect, whether they are a fellow Jedi, someone else’s padawan, a clone, a pirate, or an angry lost child. I admittedly haven’t watched much of TCW, but Plo seems to exemplify many of the Order’s teachings on compassion.

C. A Couple You Ship? (Doubles as Q. Any Rare Pairs?)

Yarna d’al’ Gargan and Doallyn. I will die on this hill.

F. Favorite Sith?

My SWTOR Inquisitor. Hmmm... Oh! The Grand Inquisitor. He’s cool as hell! Do we have any new content on him? I must know his name. I want to know everything about him!!

I. Best Clone?

Fi Skirata. Next fave is probably Sev Vau.

Of the TCW clones, which are a very different flavor, probably Wolffe?

S. Best Moment?

“You’ve failed Your Highness. I am a Jedi, like my father before me.”

T. Favorite Species?

Chiss Chiss Chiss Chiss Chiss Chiss

Runners up include Kaleesh and Weequay.

Z. Best Frienship?

There’re a lot of really good ones... Hmm... I guess I’ll go with Wedge Antilles, Wes Janson, Tycho Celchu, and Hobbie Klivian from the Rogue/Wraith books. They support each other, tease each other, and look out for each other as needed. If someone’s ego needs some popping, the other three gleefully get on it; likewise if someone needs a boost, the other three are there. Plus, the snark. So much snark.

[dragonhoardsbookz]

Prompts! Hondo and Obi-Wan were putting some kids to bed last we saw them. What are they going to do with them? (Got to crawl out of the woodwork for the sole purpose of sending Hondobi prompts ;))

*tackles you into a hug* Hello Anon, I missed you! I’m glad you’re still around!

“Right, let me get this straight“, Ahsoka repeatedslowly. “You have birth parents, but you have also four siblings and two uncleswho are not related to you by blood at all. How in the Force does that work?”

Sinon grinned, their lekku twitching. They had almostaged out, and were supposed to be assigned to Master Qui-Gon alongside Ahsoka,who went to Master Anakin. But Sinon, for some reason, had refused, and nowthey were both sitting planetside waiting for Sinon’s uncle to pick them up. Ahsokawas trying to understand how it was possible for Sinon to have uncles despitethe fact that neither of their parents had siblings.

“Right, so. When we were younger, me and the sibs werekidnapped and were supposed to be sold into slavery, only my uncle and hispeople were robbing the place and kinda took us along. Since we were all prettyyoung we didn’t really have any idea on who and where exactly our parents were,so getting us all home took a while. During that time, we were parented by ouruncles and we all became siblings. And then Uncle Obi figured out where webelonged, so they took us home. My parents gave me to the Jedi soon after, I’mnot sure they knew what to do with me anymore.”

“And the rest of your siblings?” Ahsoka desperately wantedto know more, she had never heard of a family configuration like that.

“Well, Fen and Lof are twins. Or rather, nestmates,they have like five more. They went home to the family farm and are quite happyliving there. Samor was adopted by his aunt Soph and lives with her and hercrew. Since you’re a law-abiding Jedi Padawan, I’m not telling you what they dofor a living. Ma’ri is the youngest, she technically went home but she keptescaping and finding her way back to our uncles, who finally gave in and gaveher to Mama to raise, who’s technically like our grandma. Great-aunt? Anyway,the mother of one of our uncles. Ma’ri will be soon old enough to join thecrew, I believe.”

“Huh. Your family is strange”, Ahsoka admitted.

Sinon’s grin only broadened. “That they are.”

Master Anakin came over. “We just spotted a shipentering atmosphere. Are you certain about this, young one? Once you left theOrder, there’s no turning back.”

Sinon nodded decidedly. “Uncle Obi has many choicewords for the Jedi Order, but he’s willing to let me make my own path. The onlything he made me promise that under no circumstances was I to become Qui-GonJinn’s Padawan. He has good instincts about these things, so I’m willing tolisten to him. Also the Force agrees and I wasn’t that stoked about becoming aJedi Knight anyways.”

Master Anakin looked vaguely insulted, but he obviouslywasn’t about to argue with a thirteen year old. Ahsoka decided to interferebefore he could change his mind. “What will you do now? Return to your parents?”

“Oh no, I’m going to badger Uncle Obi into teachingme. He’s a one-man courier service, and a great pilot.”

At this moment the ship landed; the ramp lowered, a loneWeequay stepped outside and spread his arms. “Welcome to the Ohnaka YounglingShuttling Service, now active in all of the galaxy!”

Master Anakin stared. “Your uncle. Is Hondo Ohnaka.”

“Sure is.” Sinon hugged her, then whispered. “Takecare, Ahsoka. Uncle Obi told me he sensed darkness in Anakin Skywalker, soplease be careful.”

Before she could reply, they turned and skippedtowards their uncle, who apparently was an infamous pirate. Even Ahsoka had heardabout Hondo Ohnaka. Sinon hugged their uncle, then turned to wave at her onelast time before they disappeared out of her life.

Although, Ahsoka had the strange feeling they wouldmeet again.

[anoray]

Happy Anniversary, Star Wars Rebels and fans!

In honor of the October 3rd anniversary of Star Wars Rebels, here is an opening excerpt from Chapter 6 of Spectre One Rises WIP for anyone who happens to be reading my fanfic on A03. 

Hope you enjoy! This has not been beta’d, so pardon any rough spots.

Excerpt from Chapter 6 – The Mutiny

5 ABY

Kanan – Chimaera

The word delighted was hardly one that Kanan would use to describe the feeling dredged up in his guts by Thrawn’s imperious arrival. That said, the sight of Ezra tossing the squad leader his rifle and bounding into Hera’s arms like a fathier released from a starting gate finally eased the ropes of tension wrapped so tightly around Kanan’s chest. His heart took immediate advantage of its freedom by ballooning hugely with joy while Ezra lifted Hera’s heels off the ground in an enthusiastic embrace. 

 “Hera! I’ve missed you so, so much!”

 Hera pulled back just enough to meet Ezra’s shining blue gaze. Her own face was aglow with maternal love, and pent up tears magnified her wide-set eyes. She captured Ezra’s chin with a trembling hand, taking in the dark goatee that encircled his radiant smile. “If only we could’ve all been together while you finished growing up,“ her voice husked softly.

 “How fortuitous you are reunited on my ship,” Thrawn’s crisp voice disrupted.

 Kanan swallowed the raw lump in his throat and dragged his attention to where Thrawn stood planted like an unyielding Veshok tree in front of the bristling hedge of his weapons-bearing minions. The armored barricade had surrounded either side of the captive group.

 “I bid you formal welcome aboard the Chimaera, General Syndulla.” Thrawn clasped his hands behind his back like a bird of prey folding its wings after a kill.

 “Like I had any choice, Thrawn,” Hera hissed back at the Chiss. She gripped the crook of Ezra’s elbow with one hand and the other interlocked fingers with Kanan’s almost painfully tight.

 Kanan’s mind spat out an image that was a far too recent memory for him: Hera stumbling into his arms after interminable hours of torture strapped to Governor Pryce’s interrogation chair. And here before us stands the puppet master behind it all.

 Kanan’s jaws clenched to restrain his bared teeth, and his body shifted of its own accord to align himself with Ezra as protective shields on either side of Hera. If only our unwanted Imperial audience would do us the favor of dropping through the hanger floor.

 Instead, the glowing orbs of Thrawn’s eyes focused on Hera’s stiff face with keen satisfaction.

 “Ah, but I am offering you a choice, General.” He gestured elegantly at Ezra, the sweep of his blue hand outlining the incongruous, Imperial boilersuit under the young Jedi’s scowling face. “After all, Commander Bridger here has been my military guest for over five years.”

 Hera’s eyes narrowed into jade green slits, then Thrawn inclined his head toward Kanan. “And your…companion…Master Jarrus, joined the Chimaera in this same capacity not long ago.” A corner of the grand admiral’s mouth twitched.

 Hera’s inexplicable look slid from a very disconcerted Ezra to settle on Kanan. “Is that so?” she responded glacially.

 Kanan’s free hand spread itself in reflexive defense; he felt his suddenly hot face scramble up an I can explain everything look, only to blanch as Hera’s eyebrow climbed to its unnerving Oh, yes, you will, dear height. In response, Kanan’s shamelessly oblivious heart decided to perform an ecstatic backflip, behaving as if he and Hera cuddled alone on the Ghost while bickering over their morning caf. Kriff!

 “Indeed, General Syndulla,” Thrawn’s silken words coiled around Kanan and Hera and snapped back their undivided attention. He gestured solemnly to indicate the dismal battlefield beyond the Chimaera’s hull. “I can assure you the Jedi have remained willingly allied with our Imperial forces against a grave, galactic threat.”

 The red-hot coals of Thrawn’s eyes cast their way across the squads of stormtroopers to ensure his pointed reminder of their common enemy had sunk in. His glower lingered pointedly on Bek, freezing the trooper’s furtive struggles to straighten his still crooked pauldron in mid-motion.

 “You don’t say,” Hera forced through clenched teeth…then her fingers secretly pressed against Kanan’s reassuringly.

 Kanan’s eyebrows drew fleetingly together before Hera shook her head at him almost imperceptibly. She knows more than she wants to let on. Kanan squeezed Hera’s hand back lightly in acknowledgement, then flicked a glance at Ezra. His not-padawan’s retreating scowl signaled that he’d picked up the coded signal as well.

 Thrawn’s brow quirked before his gaze bored into Hera relentlessly. “I surmise the evidence of this invader’s penchant for butchery did not escape your notice?”

 “It most certainly did not,” Hera bit out tersely, but her green cheeks paled.

 “Then you are fully aware that time permits only two immediate destinations from which you may choose, General.” Thrawn raised his chin regally, his expression deceptively placid. “My security forces can either escort you to the comfort of my office while I determine your potential as my military guest…or to the solitary confines of a detention cell for the remainder of your journey.” One eyebrow arched upward coolly. “Do you have a preference?”

 In the beat of Hera’s simmering silence, troubled thoughts flashed through Kanan’s mind. Thrawn was walking a razor’s edge after he and Ezra tossed bucketheads all over the Chimaera to reunite with a notorious Rebellion general. If Kanan and Ezra escaped punishment, Bek and his Jedi-hating cronies would have plenty of outraged company. Clearly, Thrawn was willing to risk his stormtroopers’ ire to keep the Jedi as pawns in active play against both the New Republic and the Nihilum. Now Thrawn has Hera’s capture to maximize our captive cooperation.

 Kanan sensed similar, unpleasant conclusions conjure up a grimace on Ezra’s face just as his own mouth declared hotly, “We go wherever General Syndulla chooses.”

 “Excuse me, sir Grand Admiral,” Hondo piped in abruptly, startling everyone. The wiry pirate pressed his manacled hands to his chest. “Speaking for myself, Hondo, I would much prefer the comfort of that undoubtedly very fine office at the tip top of your most magnificent bridge tower.”

 As Melch squealed and nodded vigorously beside Hondo, Kanan resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. Of all the beings in the galaxy who could’ve popped out of hyperspace with Hera, these two ragtags were the last names Kanan would have placed on the list. What the hell does the Force have tucked up its sleeve this time?

 Thrawn merely glanced coldly at the squad leader to his right. “Have the pirates taken to detention cells immediately. Orders will follow concerning their interrogation.”

 “Yes, Admiral.”

 “Bah!” Hondo exclaimed as two stormtroopers dutifully manhandled him and the squirming Melch toward the rest of the squad.

 “Is this really necessary?” Ezra’s expression roiled like a menacing thundercloud as the protesting pirates were walled off by a row of troopers.

 “Extremely,” Thrawn stated flatly.

 “This is not at all unexpected--but disappointing nonetheless!” Hondo called reproachfully to Thrawn while the stormtrooper yanked the Weequay forward with an iron grip. “Ho! Gently now, we are happily going.”

 Alongside Hondo, Melch swiftly kicked his own escort in his armored kneecaps and promptly received a sharp cuff to the head.

 “I promise I’ll come check on you, Hondo!” Ezra declared through the clenched megaphone of his hands.

 “Dear boy, your concern for Hondo touches my heart!” Hondo shot back as he was unceremoniously marched away. “But rest assured, Hondo is an interrogation expert!”

 “Enough.” Thrawn’s crimson gaze practically dissected Ezra and Kanan before it nestled on Hera. His voice softened to a glacial purr. “Your decision, General Syndulla?”

 Hera bequeathed Thrawn with a glare so murderous the pit of Kanan’s stomach felt supremely relieved it wasn’t directed at him.

 “Your office it is. Grand Admiral.” Hera’s tongue coated Thrawn’s title with a less than subtle layer of sarcasm.

 Thrawn ignored her jab as if it was utterly beneath his notice. “Proceed.”

 He issued a nonchalant gesture of command to the second squad leader and strode toward the hanger bay exit with his sentry droids close on heels. Lieutenant Braruz re-emerged into view and kept her speculative gaze locked on Ezra, Kanan and Hera until she turned obediently to trail the towering droids.

 Meanwhile, the squad swiftly corralled the Rebel trio and herded them in the wake of the grand admiral’s entourage. Hera walked between Kanan and Ezra with her head held high, her lekku swinging gracefully with each firm stride. She kept one slim hand tucked in the crook of Ezra’s elbow while her other remained intertwined with Kanan’s like a permanent fixture.

 Kanan trod along in more than a little daze, wondering if Hera (and the whole damn hanger) could hear his heart romping around like a Loth-cat each time it sank in that she was actually here beside him. Everything had happened so fast that a part of Kanan remained in shock to be holding hands with the woman he’d only dreamed of returning home to less than thirty minutes ago. Granted, being held captive aboard a Star Destroyer with Hera’s archenemy wasn’t exactly the romantic setting Kanan had envisioned for their reunion, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain.

 Through the Force--and Hera’s pulse--Kanan sensed her emotions running as wildly as his own beneath her calm facade. If only he could ask the million questions firing up every neuron in his mind (starting with our child!). Kanan had to settle for touching his lips to Hera’s cap-covered earcone and murmuring, “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

 Hera’s face turned, revealing a churn of uncountable questions and concerns behind her falsely mild expression. “Yes, love,” she agreed with equal tenderness and frustration, then leaned in so the warmth of her breath caressed Kanan’s ear in the barest of whispers. “When Big Blue isn’t around to hear us.”

 Big Blue? That’s Ezra’s code name for… Kanan stared raptly into Hera’s eyes and the crafty triumph he found sparkling in their depths could only mean one thing: She had crossed paths with PZ-5 and the droid was somehow safe after all.

 Oh, Hera. Far too many ways in which Kanan could fully express his gratitude and revel in his Twi’lek general’s infallible resourcefulness electrified his body. At the knowing glint in Hera’ eye, Kanan turned away to cool his thoughts—not to mention the hot flush rising in his cheeks.

 Ever since awakening in the Chimaera’s bacta tank, Kanan’s heart had felt shrouded under Thrawn’s mantle of manipulative darkness. Despite the odds stacking against their Rebel trio, Kanan now burned that shroud with an inner glow so bright, he let its light slip out by flashing Hera the most reverent smile he possessed in his arsenal.  

 Hera’s by my side. And PZ-5’s out there drumming up a rescue party.

 Kanan almost felt sorry for Thrawn.

[warsamongstthestar-keen]

Chapter Thirty-Two

The taller Lasat glares at the Imperials, growling, “Where are you taking us?”

The officer supervising the Troopers answers, “To a detention facility for a nice, long stay.”

The Lasat scoffs, “More likely a blaster squad.”

Popping up behind two Stormtroopers, Zeb attacks, knocking them both out in one swift move. Kanan, Hera, and Sabine leap out from behind some crates, shooting three more Stormtroopers. Keen leaps off the top of a crate, knocking the sixth one to the ground, punching him, with the Force making it a harder punch than should be possible from a person her size. The Imperial Officer gulps, as three blasters are levelled at his chest. He slowly begins to back away from the rebels, unaware of the Padawan behind him, who immediately shoots him with his lightsaber.

From behind the boy, a very familiar Weequay appears, waving slightly, “Hello, hello! You arrived just in time, as I knew you would.”

Keen’s thumb and forefinger move to the bridge of her nose, sighing deeply upon seeing Hondo Ohnaka.

“You could have warned me the Empire was here,” Ezra comments.

“Ah, but I sold the Lasats to the Empire knowing the heroes would save the day,” he waves his index finger in the air as he speaks, pausing to chuckle, “You being the heroes, of course.”

Ari’abel rubs a hand over mouth, commenting, “Hondo is your contact?”

“To be fair, he contacted me.”

“Yes, Quinara, to be fair. Because I knew these two,” he points to the two Lasats,  “belonged with that one,” he finishes by pointing straight at Zeb.

The taller Lasat, his eyes landing on Zeb smiles, “It is him. Captain Orrelios.”

The older, female Lasat gasps, “By the Ashla. The Prophecy!”

Ignoring the female Lasat, Ezra turns to Zeb, and asks, “Captain?”

“Yes,” the older Lasat replies, “Captain Garazeb Orrelios of the Lasan High Honour Guard.”

The Ghost crew’s Lasat groans deeply, placing his head into his hands. The Jedi Master smiles at him, and Hondo taps her on the shoulder. He smiles at the Lasat’s, commenting, “A reunion! I was right again. How wonderful.” He then nods down at the unconscious Imperial at his feet, “Hondo could use a little help.”

Keen rolls her eyes at the Weequay, grabbing the Imps shoulders, while Hondo picks up his legs, dragging him into the crate that the Lasat’s had just left. “What are you doing, Hondo? You’ve never been this nice to anyone, not even Obi-Wan.”

“Ah, well. The Empire has been bad for business. Yes, very, very bad.”

“So you’re helping the Rebellion, so that you can help yourself.”

“Exactly,” he proclaims, flailing his arms out. “And here my crew always talked about how idiotic you Jedi were.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ll try not to be insulted.”

“Now, now, Quinara,” the Weequay comment, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “Hondo himself would never say such a thing about you, no, no, but, Hondo has no control over his crews.”

The Jedi smiles at him, shrugging his arm off her shoulders. “Yeah, whatever you say, Hondo. I’m shocked to say it, but I am glad you survived the Clone Wars.” She steps out of the crate, joining back up with the rest of the crew. Sidling up beside Kanan, she quietly inquires of what all she missed.

“Zeb was a Captain of the Honour Guard of Lasan. Gron, the taller one, served under him. The other one is Chava the Wise.”

“Got it, thanks.”

“I didn’t know you were a Captain,” Ezra comments.

“He never told any of us,” Hera tells the boy.

“It was so long ago I...I forgot.”

“We have not,” Chava informs Zeb.

“That’s all well and good,” Keen comments, “but the Imps are gonna realize pretty soon that something is off. We should really be getting you lot out of here.”

“Yeah,” Ezra says, “We gotta go.”

“Oh. Wait, wait…,” Hondo calls after them. “Does this mean I am not getting my finder’s fee?”

“You never were,” the Padawan informs him.

“Perfect answer. I am so proud of you right now. I never had a student learn this quickly.”

The group leave the Weequay alone with the cargo crate, filled with unconscious Imperials. After they round a few corners, and walk a little way down the corridor, Ezra turns to their passengers, “So, tell us where you’re headed.”

“Our new world, Lira San,” Chava says, waving her arms around her head, “Prophesized in the ancient Lasat writings. It is a safe system where our people can begin anew.”

Zeb groans, leaning his head back, looking at the ceiling, “Look. The only safe system for us was Lasan and it was destroyed.”

Keen cocks her head, musing on what the Lasat’s said.

“It was transformed as part of the future destiny of our people,” Gorn argues.

“There’s no future destiny. Everything is gone.”

“Everything can’t be gone, Zeb,” Keen states, pain clear in her voice. “You aren’t gone, and neither are Gorn and Chava. As long as you three exist. As long as one Lasat exists, your culture, your people will carry on. Lasan lives within your heart.”

Chava looks up at the Jedi, “It almost seems as if you speak from experience. As she said, Captain. Lasan is within us. Everything is happening as it was meant to.”

The transmitter Chopper is carrying crackles to life, Hondo’s voice sounding through, “Ezra, my boy. It's your pal, Hondo.”

The astromech grumbles, shoving the transmitter into Ezra’s hands. “What is it, Hondo?”

“Just so you know, there are, uh…” the Weequay pauses, sniffing, before continuing, “...Stormtroopers on their way.”

“How close are they?”

Hondo doesn’t get the chance to respond, as blaster fire flies at their heads. “Pretty close.”

The team race around the corner, only to be met by more Troopers. “They’ve got backup!” Kanan yells back to the other, whilst he, Sabine, and Hera shoot at the Imps.

“So do we,” Sabine replies, tossing two blasters at Gorn, only to have them smack against his face.

Keen glances at him confusedly, from her place behind him. “Oh, no. We do not fight. It is no longer our way,” he explains. The Jedi Master shrugs, jumping over him, running along the wall, before dropping into a crouch right near Kanan’s feet, whipping a modified blaster out of her bag. She begins to shoot at the Troopers, hitting two of the ones in front of them. Behind her, she can hear Zeb lecturing Gorn on the ways of the Lasat.

From the corridor the rebels just left, a group of Troopers appear, instantly firing at them. “This just keeps getting better,” Hera snarks.

“We’ll never get through now,” the Jedi Knight grumbles.

Keen turns around, shooting at the Troopers who approached from behind  them, tossing over her shoulder, “No way we can go back the way we came.”

It’s then that her eyes spot Hondo at the door controls just behind the Troopers, and she smiles at him, offering a two fingered salute.

“What happened?” Ezra asks the team, although the transmitter is still in his hands.

“Another rescue by Hondo Ohnaka!”

“Thanks, Hondo! We owe you one.”

“No. We don’t,” Kanan enthuses, as he finishes clearing the path of Troopers. He then leads the way back to the Ghost.

When they arrive in the docking bay, a whole platoon of Stormtroopers greets them. Ezra and Kanan automatically whip out their lightsabers, keeping the blaster fire off the others. Keen follows suit, leaping on top of a nearby crate, drawing fire to herself. She deflects the blaster bolts, as the team moves closer to the ship.

It's a quick trip to the Ghost, made all the easier by the lightsabers, and the Troopers inability to hit any target.

[ohnakatransportsolutions]

"You know what, just admit it: you don't know how to fly this thing." Poe pulled his chin even higher up, in an attempt to seem older and surer of himself than he was. But the pirate's arguments were true: they were stuck on the ship, just the two of them... and maybe working together wouldn't be the worst idea to get out of here and rendezvous with his master. "Hmmpf. FINE. I guess. But I'm taking you to my master - he's gonna decide what to do with you."

“I can fly it just fine! I just happen to be a very sociable Weequay. And it isn’t like you have anything better to do anyways except sit there and pout. You’re a Padawan no? This should be a good lesson for you.” It could perhaps be profitable for himself as well. A lesson from the Pirate Ohnaka himself in exchange for some credits. A deal of a life time.

Hondo started to walk towards the bridge of the small vessel, looking back to see if the boy was following. “And just who is your master then? Perhaps I know them. I’ve met quite a few Jedi.”