#but it’s a form of dissociation which isn’t very healthy

[tvlipsandbread]

How about we not romanticize maladaptive daydreaming because it literally ruins lives (this is a cry for help)

[ilovebeingt4t]

a (not) little rant about total drama’s portrayal of dissociative identity disorder in ROTI and AS

a few little tidbits before we get into the juice…

-i don’t have DID ! i have a dissociation disorder and i’ve done a lot of research on DID, but that obviously doesn’t mean i know as much as someone in a system would. if i make any mistakes or you want to add/correct anything, please do !

-since there isn’t an official name for the system as a whole, i’m gonna use “mike system” to refer to mike, chester, svetlana, vito, manitoba, and mal as a system

-before anyone says it, i know it’s “just a kids’ show” but it’s a kids’ show i’m insane and not normal about. so i’m very passionate about this. also kids’ shows should still be normal about mental illnesses/disabilities so idc

alright stinkers… let’s get into it

ok ! mike systems DID in ROTI isn’t GOOD representation but it isn’t like. the worst out there compared to some other media. some huge positives are the way the alters have actual triggers, and that everyone in the system IS portrayed as their own person, not just an extension or part of mike. i interpret the “gasp” the body does with switches as a stand in for dissociation (since they couldn’t really have him just sit there and stare into space bc of plot/time reasons) and it’s very easy to assume the role of everyone in the system from their personalities and triggers. the best example of this to me is vito ! vito is a “tough guy” who’s triggered to front by his shirt coming off, it’s easy to put the pieces together and assume his role is a protector who formed due to sexual abuse.

obviously, the use of the outdated term multiple personality disorder, the very quick switches, the fact the writers obviously did not actually research DID and just wanted a silly crazy character, and probably more i’m forgetting rn, are NOT issues to just ignore because of the good stuff. it’s definitely NOT good or super accurate representation by any means, but i don’t think it’s exactly super bad either. it’s iffy but has redeeming qualities to it.

another plus about mike system in ROTI, even though this isn’t really part of the portrayal of DID as a disorder, is that mike has a love interest that isn’t written as a joke. i feel like having mike in a romantic relationship is a BIG positive representation wise. it’s really important to me that even though zoey is confused and weirded out when she didn’t know what was going on, once she found out mike was part of a system she became more understanding and didn’t give up on him. being part of a system doesn’t mean you can’t have a partner, friends, etc and mike being in a wholesome healthy relationship is a nice breath of fresh air compared to other media portraying DID.

NOW. LETS ADDRESS MAL AND ALL STARS. GOOD LORD.

all stars has an issue with watering down characters and making poor plot/character choices in general, and in my opinion it’s the worst with mike system. ROTI had questionable at times but ok DID rep with mike system, which is why it’s so disappointing that AS took the “evil alter” route and whatever the hell the button thing was… bc they were SO close with having ok representation and then they threw it all away for an overdone and harmful stereotype. mike system in ROTI is a MASTERPIECE compared to whatever the hell was going on in AS.

even when you take into account that in a real life system, mal is most similar to the role of a persecutor (an alter who sabotages the body’s relationships and causes harm to the body/other alters as a way to “protect” everyone in their eyes (oops ! i was wrong. a persecutor isn’t always a protector, however they can take the role of a persecutor and protector which is where i got confused. mal is a both a persecutor and protector to me)) which makes SOME of his actions explainable TO AN EXTENT, it’s clear the writers didn’t have that intent and just wanted a spooky evil alter, which is really disappointing. along with the button issue, which is just…. so insane….

i choose to believe for my own sanity that the button was sort of an emergency temporary dormancy button and that chester fr just lied/didn’t know and made something up. but that obviously isn’t canon, and IN CANON the body’s trauma and serious disorder was literally gone because of the PRESS OF A BUTTON and it is absolutely ridiculous. and it’s portrayed as a GOOD THING.

systems are systems because it is the only way the body and brain can maintain stability and live after serious repeated trauma. in a real situation with a system, if there was somehow a way to get rid of alters in literal seconds, the consequences would be ABSOLUTELY DISASTROUS and unstable. obviously, integration and dormancy CAN be a good thing depending on the system, but it is a LOOONG and complicated process and watering it down to the press of a button in your brain is so inappropriate and insensitive. literally why did they do that. it’s just so disappointing to go from what mike system was in roti to what they became in all stars.

sorry u guys i am just passionate about this

[phoenixyfriend]

Auntie ‘Soka and Little Leia (and Rex)

The counterpart to Uncle Ben and Little Luke (Original Post, Chrono)

Listen. You all knew this was coming.

This got... very long and detailed and I’m going to have to clean it up and post to AO3. As in, this was supposed to be 2-3k and is literally ten times that long. It crossed 25k. And the initial section actually glosses over a bunch, actual fic-style writing starts at “That, of course, is when things get interesting.”

Warnings: discussion of various canon traumas (most relating to being child soldiers), general PTSD, several scenes featuring dissociation or panic attacks upon being triggered, and canon-typical violence.

Rated T, gen.

I still want there to be de-aging nonsense involved so Ahsoka is physically a late teenager despite having a solid two decades of field experience behind her (we’re pulling her from Malachor).

Leia, much like Luke, is now six. She just came from being a rebellion general. She is not happy about being a child. She was already short, this is just mean.  She’s a human espresso.

UNLIKE BEN, Ahsoka is not happy about this turn of events. Being seventeen-ish is not helpful in the outer rim. She’s a female togruta, young and healthy, and in the Outer Rim, caring for a small human child. Sure, she has her lightsabers and plenty of combat experience, and she can keep them safe, but she’s just one person, and a major target for those looking to make some quick cash. It doesn’t matter how good she is; she needs sleep at some point.

It makes my heart happy to treat Ahsoka and Rex as two halves of the same black ops specialist so you know what, he’s there too! He’s physically like... 10-12 in natborn, maybe. They’re not sure, because clones age weird. He’s moderately more useful than Leia (who is very competent but also physically six, and short for that age), but he’s still... very small.

Reminder that none of them have been born yet.

Ahsoka has a harder time explaining WHY she has children with her, since she's barely more than a kid herself, and clearly unrelated by species. She sometimes just says “Oh, my adoptive brother’s kids” since it’s kind of the truth for Leia and she’s not touching the actual truth about Rex with a ten foot pole.

Ahsoka definitely knows about Leia being a Skywalker, or at least has suspicions that Bail never outright confirmed but was conspicuously quiet about. She does tell Leia about it, but it’s not like that means anything, right? Just, you know, your dad was my teacher! I don’t have to tell you he became Va--oh shit, you already knew that part. Well, fuck. What do you mean he had a son? OH SHIT, PADME HAD TWINS.

Alt take for explaining why she’s got kids: She’s my foundling, I know her name as my child (Leia shut up!!!)

(Ahsoka can fake Mandalore. Sometimes.)

That said, there is... significantly less gambling and significantly more theft to get to Coruscant.

As previously stated, Ahsoka is a black ops kinda gal, and more importantly, she looks like a fairly attractive young woman in the Outer Rim, with two children in good health. She’s a target, and also not the kind of person one generally gambles with. If she does gamble, people get upset when she doesn’t lose, in ways they don’t get upset about Ben doing the same, because she’s, again, a cute teenage girl. It’s exhausting.

As things go, she largely ends up stealing from people who deserve it and/or smuggling herself and her charges into someone else’s ship. They’re small, they can hide. Sometimes she can get them all passage by working as a mechanic, she’s good at that.

Once they’ve got a handle on when they are, they have to decide on Names. None of them have been born yet, so technically they could use their own names without anyone Knowing. Rex and Leia might not even be born, depending on how successful they are at, you know, stopping the war and everything. Ahsoka, though, she’s going be born in two years, and there’s no reason to prevent it, so... she doesn’t want to steal baby-her’s name. That would be mean.

Leia is already calling her “Auntie ‘Soka” when she can for reasons like “selling the bit” and “manipulating adults” and “making us both feel better after we had a mutual breakdown about Anakin being Vader.” Ergo, she decides that whatever new name she picks better include that in some way, and decides on “Sokari” because it sounds pretty.

Overall, they don’t... they don’t actually make it very far before there’s an Incident. Again, teenager with small children. They spend a lot of time hiding out in space ports looking for an opportunity.

That, of course, is when things get interesting.

Specifically, Ahsoka spots a Mandalorian.

She doesn’t recognize the armor. She does recognize the sigil, and thinks ‘well, they’re more likely to help than some,’ because from what she’s heard, the Haat Mando’ade are Decent People Overall. Her view is a little biased, mostly on account of the sheer level of grudge she has against Kyr’tsad. It’s fine! The True Mandalorians have the same grudge, right? And Mandalorians like kids and Ahsoka hasn’t slept in five days and it’s fine. It’s fine! IT’S FINE.

“Oh shit,” Rex whispers, before she can suggest anything. “Oh fuck.”

“Stop cursing,” Leia hisses, elbowing him. “People are going to notice.”

“That’s the Prime,” Rex panics, mostly quiet. Ahsoka’s heart drops, because fuck is right. “That’s Fett.”

Leia isn’t impressed. Ahsoka just angles herself between Fett and Rex and hopes that he doesn’t see them. That’s just asking for trouble.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is in fact running on none sleep with left trauma, and doesn’t notice Fett walking up and dropping into a seat across from them until he’s actually done so, removing his helmet to glare a little more efficiently.

“Wanna explain why your kid has my face?”

Ahsoka later tells herself that he’s killed Jedi and that’s why he can sneak up on her, and that she can be forgiven some slip-ups with the exhaustion being what it is, and that she’s obviously going to be dealing with some emotional instability in light of the sudden return of teenage hormones and new forms of anxiety that are markedly different from those she was dealing with a few weeks ago.

What Ahsoka wants to say is “that’s kind of a long story,” or “maybe he’s a cousin,” or “kriff off, I don’t know you,” or maybe even “he’s a clone.”

What Ahsoka actually does is burst into tears, which is embarrassing for her, for Fett, for the kids, and for the entire rest of the bar.

It really is the straw that broke the eopie’s back. Even when she was actually this age, she didn’t exactly cry much. Objectively, Fett quasi-aggressively asking a valid question shouldn’t send her into a panic. She’s been through torture and worse. She shouldn’t be crying.

But she is, sobbing her eyes out with no control, and he’s just sitting across from her and looking uncomfortable while Rex wraps his little arms--oh Force he’s so small--around her, and both ‘children’ glare at Fett.

“So, I’m going to take it she didn’t kidnap you from a loving family or do something illicit with a blood sample,” Fett says, after it becomes obvious that Ahsoka’s not going to be ready to talk any time soon.

“She didn’t,” Rex says stiffly, with just the right emphasis for Fett to catch what’s implied. Ahsoka just keeps her head down, eyes pressed against the heels of her palms, trying to get her body to stop rebelling against her.

Fett’s eyes dart to Leia, who folds her arms and draws herself up, every bit the unimpressed princess. “My father claimed her as a sister, so she’s my Auntie ‘Soka.”

The man dithers a bit, the conversation clearly not going where he’d expected. “Right,” he says. “You--you’re all kids. I thought she was a little older, at least, but I didn’t have a good look at her face before.”

She is older, but actually admitting that is only going to make this worse, both for her pride and for her chances of making it out alive.

“Where are you staying?”

“What?” Leia bites out.

“You’re kids, you’re alone, and you’re clearly not okay if you were trying to hide the one with my face as blatantly as you did, and then... whatever this is, when I confronted you,” Fett explains. Ahsoka lifts her head to glare at him, but it’s probably not doing much with the way her eyes are rimmed with red and still wet. “Don’t give me that look, ad’ika, your kids looked as confused and horrified by that as the bartender did. They obviously didn’t think it was normal either.”

Well, kriff you too, Ahsoka thinks.

“And what do you mean by ‘blatantly,’ here?” Leia challenges. It’s adorable, but Ahsoka watched this tiny girl shoot a man last week, and wonders when people are going to start taking that seriously.

“There’s a lot of people in this galaxy, and I don’t exactly have the clearest memory of what I looked like at that age,” Fett says, slow and careful like he thinks they’re dumb. Ahsoka decides to chalk it up as being because Leia’s visibly six. “I would have thought it was just a coincidence if you hadn’t put in effort to hide him.”

Leia huffs, and Rex glares harder. Fett just sighs, like they’re all going to give him grey hairs.

“You can explain whatever the hell’s going on,” Fett says. “I’ll let you stay on my ship, there’s a spare bunk and you’re small.”

“For free?” Rex demands.

“A night on a bunk in exchange for information,” Fett clarifies. “We can negotiate from there.”

Ahsoka takes a few moments, notes that both of the others are waiting on her for the decision, and cringes. She doesn’t feel steady enough to carry that. She has to anyway.

“Rex?” she asks, voice rasping after the breakdown of the past few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“How much?”

He looks up at her, eyes calculating, and grimaces. “We don’t want Order 66. A warning is better, even if we... share information.”

She nods, and turns to Leia. “Any premonitions, princess?”

Leia glowers, cute and furious. “No.”

“No, don’t tell, or no, you aren’t getting any vibes about sharing info one way or the other?”

“The latter,” Leia clarifies, huffy to the last.

“Right,” Ahsoka says, and then just... hesitates. “Fett...”

“You’ve got conditions,” he guesses.

She bares her teeth in what could have, through a squint and perhaps a few drinks, been called an apologetic smile. “Just one, really.”

“Yeah?”

“No hurting, killing, or turning us in for bounties,” she says. “Any of us.”

“You’re children, I wouldn’t.”

She blinks at him, slow and careful. She hesitates. She reaches down, out of sight, sees him stiffen.

She unclips her sabers from her belt and puts them on the table.

His eyes are fixed on the weapons the second they enter his line of sight, and don’t move as he clearly realizes why she made the condition she did.

“I left years ago, because I couldn’t stay without it ruining me,” she says. Still slow. Still careful. She’s so tired. “But if I want to keep Leia safe, I have to get back to Coruscant.”

His eyes finally lift from the sabers, expression blank. “Just her?”

“Rex doesn’t have the same monsters coming after him,” she says. “If it were just me and him, I’d worry less. Leia’s a different kind of target.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith on the table by telling me that,” Fett says, voice flat and toneless. “Considering my occupation.”

“She’s a child,” Ahsoka says, feeling heavy and boneless. “Even with what I was and will be, even with what money you would get from the right buyer, you wouldn’t.”

“There are other risks.”

“There are.”

They stare at each other for too long, probably, and then Fett jerks as Rex kicks him under the table. The boys glare for a moment, and then Rex says, “If she weren’t good, I’d still be a slave to those who grew me.”

Fett blinks, and then nearly growls the word, “What?”

“She freed me,” Rex reiterates. “While I was trying to shoot her.”

Ahsoka lifts a hand and puts it on his far shoulder, pulling him into her side. She doesn’t meet Fett’s eyes again, because part of her is back on Mandalore, dodging her own soldiers and crying out as her family dies across the galaxy.

Fett breathes in. Breathes out. He puts a hand to his head, visibly frustrated. “Fine. A good Jedi kid, and two smaller kids, one of which is apparently in some way mine.”

Rex makes a face, which is fair, but also not helping.

“To the ship,” Ahsoka says, putting her sabers back on her belt and sliding out of the seat. “I’m... I’m Sokari.”

“You already know my name.”

“I do.”

---------------------------

Fett watches her like she’s a predator, which has the benefit of being accurate and slightly flattering. She lets other two take care of most of talking, and then Fett tells her to sleep first, and talk in the morning.

“You’re dead on your feet, jetii,” he snorts. “And that crying jag didn’t do you any favors. Sleep.”

So she does, and Fett doesn’t even wake her. He just lets her sleep. He watches her in the way of a guard. She sees him when she gets up to use the ‘fresher in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t even comment when she collapses right back into the mediocre cot she’s borrowed for the cycle.

Rex and Leia are safe, her hindbrain tells her, even in the depths of sleep. Her mind curls around theirs in the Force, and she trusts that they are here. They are not happy, but they are alive and unharmed, and that has to be enough.

When she stumbles her way to true wakefulness, groggy and loose-limbed, Fett greets her with caf.

“The kids wouldn’t let me near you,” he tells her.

“They’re good,” she says, cupping her hands around the mug. She feels wobbly, in every sense. Her body, her mind, her emotions, her connection to the Force. Nothing is on-kilter right now. “Did they tell you anything?”

“They waited for you,” he says. “But the little miss needed a nap of her own. They’re down in the other bunk.”

“I didn’t notice,” she admits. She should have. She’s Fulcrum. She’s a veteran of the Clone Wars. She’s... she’s supposed to be better than this.

“How long?” he asks, and then when she squints up at him, he clarifies. “How long did you fight?”

“My last fight--”

“No, whatever war you came out of,” he says. Her chest twists cold. “I don’t know if the Jedi sent you into it or if you waded in yourself once you left, but you move like a soldier.”

“I was,” she confirms. “But... but I don’t want to talk about the details. Not until the other two are here.”

He frowns at her. “Is there anything you can talk about?”

She shrugs and looks away, trying to take solace in the warmth of the caff she holds above the table, as if it can hide her, guard her, from the disgraced Mand’alor across the table.

“Jedi?”

“I’m not officially a Jedi,” she says, voice quiet. “Not anymore.”

“Then what do I call you?” he asks. “We’re not exactly close enough for names.”

“Torrent,” she says. “It’s not--I can’t claim my family name anymore. But I can claim Torrent, so I will. And if you want a title, I was a commander.”

“Bit young for that.”

“I got the rank when I was fourteen,” she says, and watches his face do something complicated and unpleasant. “Don’t. I know your own culture puts children on the field that young.”

“Not in command.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well... the soldiers were technically younger. Adults, but...”

Ahsoka can see the way he casts about to figure out what species grows at that rate. He guesses a few, and she shoots all of it down.

She won’t tell him. Not until Rex is awake.

This part of the story is his.

--------------------------

When Leia tries to sit alone, a foot away on the bench like a proper adult, Ahsoka refuses to let it happen. She pulls the younger girl to her side and quells protests with a glance. It’s a decent skill, but she’s not sure how long it’s going to work on her niece-in-spirit.

“Your body needs the chemical release of skinship,” she says, and Leia glares at her. “I spent way too much time with the boys to not know about this. Deal.”

Rex sits close enough to knock their knees together under the table, and his warmth is the old comfort she needs.

“Do you want the story you’ll believe, or the truth?” Ahsoka asks.

“What’s the difference?”

“One of them involves something so impossible that even most Jedi wouldn’t believe it,” she tells him.

Fett folds his arms and leans forward to rest them on the table, challenging but oddly open. “Try me.”

“Time travel.”

He blinks, just once, fully controlled. “That’s a tough one.”

“There were only three Jedi left alive when I died,” she says. “Or... whatever it is that happened to me. I think I died. All I know is that one moment, I was thirty-two and dying, and the next, I was... seventeen again, and had these two with me. All of us younger than we were. None of us have even been born yet.”

She refuses to look him in the eye. “They both outlived me by... six years, maybe. Got caught up while traveling instead of dying. Leia was twenty-two. Rex was thirty-five. I’m not technically the oldest anymore. I mean, physically I am, but that doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not exactly doing us any good, and--”

Rex bumps his shoulder to her arm. “I dunno, Commander. I’ve spent a long time looking older than I should. Nice to look younger for once.”

She shoots him a small, pained grin. “Could be worse, yeah.”

“Let’s say I believe you.”

Her attention snaps back to Fett, who’s looking damnably blank, and is showing even less in the Force.

He waits a second for her to relax back into her seat.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he repeats. “How’s ‘Rex’ connected to me? What’s so special about Leia there? And what war did you fight in that has you acting like a veteran?”

“Three years in the clone wars,” she whispers, glancing to Rex and forcing herself to not go for her sabers to defend against an attack that her paranoia says is coming and the Force says is not. “Then almost all the Jedi were wiped out at once, and I spent a year... drifting. Then black ops for the next fifteen.”

“Black ops,” he repeats, still damnably flat.

“There was a Sith Empire,” she says, and she can hear her own tone growing somehow emptier. “Glassing planets. Enslaving entire species. Committing genocides all over. Of course, there was a rebellion, and of course I joined it. I was one of the only people left with Jedi training. For all that I’d left the Order, I still had a duty to the universe.”

His eyes flit to Leia, who shrugs and tries to look prim. “I was adopted and raised by one of the founders of the rebellion, a movement built on the desire to instate freedom and democracy in a galaxy that had lost even the pretense.”

“That why you’re special?”

Leia smiles, thin and patronizing. It doesn’t fit on her little face. “I’m special because my biological father was one of the most powerful Force users in history, and his Fall to the dark side and choice to become a Sith is why the Emperor’s rise was nearly uncontested. I do not like power, but it’s in my veins and I can’t change that. Force users are... a lucrative trade, and I’m still the size of a child, so I can’t fight back. I’ll be safer in the Jedi Temple, even if I don’t want to be a Jedi.”

Fett looks to Ahsoka, makes to ask a question, and then shakes his head. Not the time, maybe.

“So, that’s all... very complicated and I don’t know how much of it I believe, but it doesn’t explain...” he trails off, and sighs. “My kid, or whatever you are. I heard you mention clones.”

Rex grins. It is not a kind expression.

“Let me tell you about Kamino.”

---------------------------

Ahsoka has no idea if Fett believes them. Either he thinks they’re telling the truth, or he thinks their delusional kids. Whatever the case, he offers to take them closer to the Core. Ahsoka quietly offers to take a look at his engine in return, and then pretends not to notice when Fett awkwardly drifts to and away from Rex.

“They put chips in our brains to make us kill the Jedi we respected, cared for, even loved. I tried to shoot ‘Soka, Fett. She was seventeen and risked her life to get that chip out of my head while I was trying to kill her. I have never hated myself more than when I woke up and realized what I’d almost done, and I was one of the few that were able to fight it. I heard the stories of dozens of brothers who woke with their chips having degraded and chose to eat their blaster rather than live with the guilt of the orders they’d followed without question because of a thrice-damned Sith slave chip in their head.”

“So no, I won’t call you father or acknowledge you as clan until you do something to prove you’re worth it, shared blood or not.”

What Ahsoka does get out of the arrangement, for all that Fett’s route mostly takes them on a meandering path that isn’t faster than their previous system, is sleep. She gets to rest. She gets to trust that Fett won’t kill Rex, out of guilt for something he hasn’t done, that he won’t kill Leia out of a worry that she’s just a delusional child, a real child, that he won’t kill ‘Sokari’ because it would ruin any chance of gaining Rex’s favor, ever.

She’s not safe, won’t believe she can be until she’s in the Temple and Sidious is dead dead dead, but she’s safer than she’s been in a long time.

Every night, Ahsoka wakes up and stumbles to the little galley, deaths and torture sparkling behind her eyes with the energy of a thousand lost Jedi, ten thousand mourned brothers and sisters.

She is not the only one of their little group to be a survivor of a near-total genocide, but Rex could not feel his brothers die in the Force, even if his nightmares featured what they heard of suicide missions by the emperor’s favored shock troopers, and Leia had... Alderaan had more off-world survivors than there had been Jedi at all.

It’s not worth comparing their pain. It’s stupid to even think it. Part of her can’t help but do it anyway.

“Caf?”

She feels a lek twitch in response to the voice of the only other person on board who can reach the top shelf. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Whiskey?”

“That’s a definitely shouldn’t.”

“Hoth chocolate?”

“...please.”

She doesn’t lift her head from her arms until the mug clicks down in front of her, ceramic on plastisteel.

“Do I ask what it was this time?”

She shrugs. “It’s hard to explain to non-sensitives.”

“Try me anyway.”

Ahsoka twists the Hoth chocolate in her hands, takes a sip as she thinks. “The Force isn’t just one thing. It’s... energy and philosophy and spirit, a sense of being that ties the entire universe together. Sentient and inanimate and living and dead, empty space and lush forests and stifled cities. For those of us who are sensitive to it, it’s possible to feel the life of everyone around you, theoretically possible to feel entire systems. If you have a Force bond, like a master and padawan, that can stretch across planets, even systems if one or both are particularly powerful.

“So just... just imagine, for a moment, what it’s like to feel the screaming of all those Jedi in the Force as their trusted men shot them down.

“Some of them were close enough that I could feel them die,” she manages. “I... it’s horrible. It’s horrific. It’s not something I can ever forget, and I want to. I want to forget what that moment was like. Not that it happened, but...”

She can feel the tears. Fuck..

“You want to dull the edges.”

“Don’t we all?” she asks, scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Leia lost her entire planet, billions of people, and she was forced to watch. Rex... Force, I can barely imagine, and I was there for most of it.”

Fett watches her, measuring. “From what he said, they were as much your brothers as his, by the end.”

“No,” she immediately denies. “They could have been, maybe, but the ones I was closest to died earlier, and then I left, and by the time the Empire rose, all but a handful were... no. Rex, I will claim as a brother in all the ways that matter, but I don’t get to do that with the rest. I don’t have the right.”

“You’re hard on yourself.”

“Fate of the galaxy, my good bitch. Guess who’s got it on her shoulders.”

He snorts at her, and nods at the mug. “Drink your Hoth chocolate. We’re landing in eight hours, and you’ve got kids to look out for.”

---------------------------

There’s a twitch in the Force when they land, something pulling at her in a way she barely feels. She’s had her shields up so fully for so long that it’s natural to hide away what she is to the point where she can hardly tell what anyone else is, either. It takes more than a moment to remember how to let herself spread out across the world.

“Auntie ‘Soka? Why’d you stop?”

She doesn’t have an answer to Leia’s prodding question. “I don’t know.”

It’s almost familiar. Old and half-forgotten, not the same as what she remembers, but--

“This way,” she says, and wanders off into the crowd. Leia and Rex follow without question. Fett curses and rushes through the rest of his transaction with the docking attendant. The sound of him jogging after them is almost funny, with the armor, but she can’t focus on that.

Ahsoka slips between people with the ease of a career built on such a habit, children trailing like ducklings. She knows this feeling, she knows this person, what is she missi--

“Oh,” she breathes, going stock still. She knows that face. She knows those braids. She even knows the presence.

Younger than Ahsoka had ever seen her, but unmistakably Master Billaba.

“Torrent, what the hell?” Fett demands, finally catching up. “You can’t just run off like that!”

“It’s Depa,” she says, eyes still fixed on the woman parsing through a datapad with an irritated vendor. She has a padawan braid. It doesn’t feel like Master Windu is on-planet, so this might be a solo mission, a... oh. Senior Padawan, Knight Elect. This is the kind of mission taken to test if she’s ready to be promoted.

Ahsoka feels light-headed.

Fett waits for her to elaborate, but she can’t. This was Kanan’s master. This was a member of the High Council. This was a woman who died and--

“You need to sit down,” Fett says, not a touch gruff. He puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her off the main walkway. “I’m... going to talk to the woman in the Jedi robes. You three just stay there and don’t get kidnapped.”

Ahsoka nods, feeling like she’s not quite inhabiting her own body.

It’s Depa.

Her eyes track Fett without conscious control, and her montrals pick up the sound.

Depa looks up when the armor comes close enough, free hand tensed in a way that says she’s preventing herself from reaching for a saber in reaction to the heavily-armored individual standing several feet away.

“Mando,” the woman says. “May I help you?”

“Are you Depa?”

Depa doesn’t do anything so dramatic as gape or step back, but she does blink rapidly for a moment. She then folds her hands down in front of her, drawing her spine up ramrod straight. “I am Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, yes. May I ask why it is that you need to know?”

Ahsoka imagines Fett grimacing, or rolling his eyes, or maybe dithering. She can’t tell from this angle, and he has a helmet on besides. It turns his awkward silences into judgmental ones.

“I’ve had some Jedi kids on my ship, hitching a ride,” he says at length. “One of them recognized you and then just... froze.”

“You have our younglings in your care,” Depa says, carefully not accusatory, but close enough to be a warning.

“Not quite,” he says. “The one that actually came from the temple is seventeen. One of ‘em isn’t Force Sensitive, and the last one is but hasn’t been to Coruscant before. They’re trying to get the little one to the Temple for her own safety.”

Depa considers that, and then passes the datapad to the vendor. “Lead on.”

It’s surprisingly simple, really. Fett did all the talking.

And then Depa is standing right in front of her.

“Like I said,” Fett sighs. “She froze up.”

“Hello,” Depa says, hands laced together inside her sleeves. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I know of you. I’ve seen you spar. You’ve never spoken to me.”

All true. A little misleading, but it’s fine, it’s all fine.

Depa waits a moment, and then says, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Sokari T-Torrent,” she manages. The words feel clunky in her mouth, the sound abrasive for all that it’s just her own voice, no different from usual. A little shaky, maybe. She can feel a cool breeze on her upper arms. Shouldn’t she have armor? She should have armor. “It... it’s been a long time since I’ve seen another Jedi. I’m having a hard time believing you’re real.”

“I see,” Depa says. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private? You seem a little unsteady.”

Ahsoka lets herself be led back to the ship, in the company of Mand’alor Jango Fett, Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, Princess-General Leia Organa, and good old Captain Rex.

It’s like the start of a sick joke.

---------------------------

Fett and Depa talk where she can hear, but they rarely address her directly. Both seem to realize that she’s not particularly useful right now. Leia and Rex are pressing up against her at the little table in the galley, and Ahsoka lets them.

This is real. She can feel Depa in the Force, recognizes her energy even if it’s not quite what it will-was-could-have-been. This is happening.

It’s a textbook Traumatic Stress Response case, one of them says.

Fett has his helmet off. Ahsoka’s sure that’s wrong for some reason. She thinks he might already be on wanted lists. Should she worry about Depa trying to arrest him?

Depa asks about Rex at one point. Fett tells her that someone cloned him without his knowing, but the kid is more comfortable with Ahsoka so they’re still working on what that means for him.

It’s more or less true. Rex squeezes her hand the one time someone suggests separating them. She’s not letting that happen unless Rex wants to leave for whatever reason. They’ve worked apart before. They can do it again.

“Auntie Soka? You’re shivering.”

Is she?

Leia cuddles in closer, and Ahsoka runs a hand over her hair. It’s an absentminded motion, and for all that she knows Leia’s hair is fine as silk, it feels like plastic in the moment.

“I don’t think I’m okay,” Ahsoka announces. The words hang in the air like lead balloons, and she can feel Depa staring at her. “I haven’t been for a very long time.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Fett says. “Do you need to lay down, Torrent?”

Does she?

“No,” she says. “I... I don’t know what I need.”

“The spicy drink,” Rex tells them. “It’s grounding.”

Right. That.

Fett goes to grab it, and Depa continues to watch.

“How long ago did you leave your master?” Depa asks. “Or... did he die?”

Ahsoka closes her eyes and shakes her head. She can feel the shivers now, tremors in her biceps and a shudder she can’t control in the height of her ribcage. Her teeth grind together, jaw like stone.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Depa assures her. “I’m... going to recommend you see a mind healer on Coruscant.”

That was a forgone conclusion.

A cup clinks onto the table. Fett’s back. “Drink.”

She does.

Depa and Fett continue discussing it as “the adults” at the table. She’s older than both of them. Rex is older than all of them. Ahsoka follows about half of what they say. She agrees with most of it. Rex bullies his way into speaking when she doesn’t, without her even asking, because he knows her mind as well as she does. Fett rolls with it. Depa lets him.

She’s going to reach out to the Temple and see about getting them a ride back to Imperial Center Coruscant.

Fett makes Soka go to bed, taking Leia with her.

---------------------------

She feels more like a person come morning.

Depa’s sitting at the table, datapad in her hands and caff on the table in front of her.

“Good morning,” Ahsoka says, rough and croaking, and Depa’s eyes flick up to meet hers. She nods a shallow hello.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” Ahsoka says, and goes about gathering a breakfast. There’s definitely some dried meat in here. She can get something fresh when they stop by the market later.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your options,” Depa tells her, once she’s sat at the table. “Fett and your friend Rex took care of most of the negotiation, and I feel like I have an idea of what would work best for you.”

Ahsoka nods slowly. “Okay.”

“There is a Master-Padawan pair a few planets away,” Depa says. “The Council informed me when I spoke with them about you and your wards. They’d be headed back to the Temple in a few days anyway, and the Council has agreed to extend an offer to Fett to handle the transportation. The presence of a Jedi Master on board will allow for him to get in and out of the Core unmolested, and we’d like for you and yours to have a Jedi escort, given what happened yesterday afternoon.”

Her complete spiral into nonbeing?

“I understand,” she says instead. “I suppose Fett agreed because he’s still trying to get Rex to like him?”

Depa shrugs. “That part isn’t my business.”

Of course it isn’t.

“Rex can stay with me for a while, right?” Ahsoka finally asks. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, but I’m...”

“In need of a support system until you’ve seen a mind healer, and against all odds, the child is part of it,” Depa summarizes. “Yes, I recognized as much. I think the Council will be able to allow some leeway there. I don’t know if he’ll enjoy it, given that all the others his age are Initiates, but we can adjust as necessary. On that note... Do you know Leia’s midichlorian count?”

“No,” Ahsoka says, and hesitantly adds, “But her biological father was my Jedi Master, and I’m told his count broke records even as a child. Given what Leia’s shown so far... it’s why I’ve been in a hurry to get her to the Temple.”

Depa frowns at her, clearly working through the implications of a Jedi having a daughter and still teaching... and then visibly dismisses the situation, eyes closing to breathe in the steam of her caff.

Biological father certainly implies a child that was raised by her mother or adopted out so the Jedi father could remain in their chosen career without a conflict of interest or duty.

She’ll tell the council the truth, or... at least Master Koon. Master Kenobi is still a padawan, but she can tell Master Koon.

She already told Jango Fett, of all people.

“Padawan Torrent?”

Her head snaps up. She hasn’t been a padawan in over fifteen years. It’s weird to hear. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted some time to think it over before I presented the offer to Fett,” Depa says.

Ahsoka gets the distinct feeling that Depa is planning a report to the Council that has ‘needs a mind healer’ underlined at least three times.

“No, I’m--I’m fine. That sounds like a good plan.”

“I’ll speak with him, then. Would you like to come with?”

"No, thank you.”

---------------------------

Fett agrees. Ahsoka’s pretty sure it’s all to do with Rex and maybe Leia. It’s probably nothing to do with ‘Sokari.’ She’s a Jedi, an adult in mind and in body, or at least close enough to count. She’s a damn sight more ‘enemy’ to Fett than the other two are. Not as much as Depa, maybe, but Fett’s been playing nice with her for Leia’s sake.

He plays nice with Ahsoka for Rex’s. That’s all.

They’re only a few planets over from the meeting point, and they have a few days to hang around before the escort meets them. Depa hadn’t given them a name--apparently it could have compromised the opsec for the Jedi team--but Ahsoka’s pretty sure she’ll be able to identify almost anyone. She gets the feeling that the Force is going to send her a familiar face, just as it did Master Padawan Billaba.

Ahsoka lets herself feel the world around her. It’s dark and dreary, in the sense that the beaten-down port is full of petty crimes and less petty horrors, but it’s still lighter than most of the Empire had been. She sneaks away from the ship at night, ignoring Fett at her back, and performs a bit of vigilante justice while she can. She’ll be banned from doing so as soon as she’s reinstated as a Jedi, probably, but for now... for now, she can look at the drug cartels and ‘they’re not slaves, really’ workers and do something to help.

She doesn’t use her sabers. She doesn’t need to. It’s been a long time since she has, for small fry like these.

“What are you doing?” Fett asks her, landing heavily behind her back.

“Chip removal,” she says, hand pressed to the slave’s leg. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear him shifting. “Let me concentrate, I don’t have a meddroid for this.”

He’s silent until she finishes, and waits until the people she’s helped are on their way to the planet’s freedom routes. He doesn’t ask what she did with the owners.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Regularly,” she confirms. “You?”

He doesn’t answer that, just ambles over to the the chains and stares down at them.

“Fett?”

“You go through this like it’s as easy as breathing,” he says. “It’s... impressive.”

“I guess?” she hesitates to continue. “I’m... I don’t think of it that way. This is the easy stuff. A time-waster that helps people. If I wanted to help for real, I’d been going after Jabba or Sidious or--”

“How old were you?” he asks, turning on his heel to face her dead-on. The vocoder of his helmet pulls the emotion from his voice. “When did this... these missions, the slavery battles, when did that start for you?”

“Fourteen,” she says. She’s not entirely sure, really, what counted as a mission for ending slavery and what counted as just a part of war, but she can round down. “Maybe fifteen. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“And you just kept doing it.”

“Of course,” she says. “If I have the time and the energy, if I need to do something and there’s nothing official on my hands, why not?”

He doesn’t answer her.

---------------------------

Rex greets them before she does.

Ahsoka, in her defense, is asleep at the time. It’s a restless sleep, but it’s enough that she doesn’t sense the nearing Force signatures until they’re almost at the ship.

She recognizes one of them.

“Auntie ‘Soka?” Leia questions, when she lurches to her feet and starts pulling on her boots with all the energy of a zombie. “Where are you going?”

“Jedi,” Ahsoka grunts. “Here.”

“I see.”

Leia dresses to follow her, in a little coat that’ll withstand the chill of the outside air, and Ahsoka makes it to the cargo hold just in time to hear Rex saying, “I’m not shaking your hand until you put your gloves on, Vos.”

She laughs to herself, breathless with the knowledge of what she’s about to find. She jumps the railing of the upper walkway, drops down just in front of the Master-Padawan team, and keeps her back to Fett and Rex. “Hello, there.”

One human, one Kiffar. She knows the latter.

“Would you be Sokari Torrent?” the Master asks.

“I am,” she says, with a slight bow. She can tell there’s a bit of judgement for how she’s dressed, but they’re covering it well. A Shadow and his trainee know the value of armor better than most Jedi bother with. “I’m afraid Padawan Billaba didn’t inform me of your names before we met.”

“And yet your friend knew my padawan,” the Master says.

“By reputation,” she says, as smoothly as she can. “I’ve encountered Quinlan Vos before, though I doubt he remembers--”

“I’d remember someone like you,” Quinlan interrupts, with a grin she’s sure is meant to be charming and rogueish.

He’s... very young for her, and not her type. Mostly, she wants to pat him on the head, but that probably wouldn’t go over very well. She still looks like she’s younger than him.

“Anyway,” she says, turning back to the master, “I’m afraid I still don’t know who you are, Master.”

“I am Tholme,” he says, with the bow that a Master gives a Padawan. She feels a little slighted, but it’s fine. She looks the right age, it’s fine.

It’s not like they know.

“It’s nice to meet you, Master Tholme,” she says. “My charges are Rex Torrent, the young man behind me, and currently coming down the ladder is Leia Antilles. I’m sure you’re aware of Jango Fett.”

“The Mand’alor,” Quinlan volunteers, and Ahsoka can almost hear Fett’s teeth grinding.

“Don’t call me that,” he says. She’s sure he’s got a hand drifting for his blaster.

“There isn’t a whole lot of room on the ship,” she says before the men can get into whatever weird contest she’s sure someone might start. Her bet’s on Fett. “But Leia and Rex are small enough to share with me, so I’m sure we can make it work.”

“There’s spare rolls for anyone comfortable with sleeping in the hold,” Fett grunts. “Or on the floor in the passenger room.”

“Well, I guess I could ask for a little help fi--”

“Vos,” Ahsoka snaps, letting her voice take on the kind of ‘obey me or get fresher duty’ irritation that she’d perfected back when the rebellion still had her managing people, before they’d realized she was more use in the field. “Do not.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and Tholme looks unimpressed with that raised eyebrow, but the kind of unimpressed that’s split between his own padawan and the stranger before him.

“Um,” Quinlan says. “I just--”

“No,” she cuts him off. “No flirting.”

It’s weird and uncomfortable and she’d have maybe been okay with it if she was actually the seventeen-or-eighteen-ish(?) that she looked, but she’s not. She’s in her thirties and Vos is... what, twenty? Twenty-one? No.

He stares at her, and she wonders momentarily if she’d gone too far in the direction of judging his intentions in the Force and preempted actual flirtations.

“I’m sorry?” He offers, looking confused, but ashamed. “I, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

She definitely preempted the actual flirtation.

Fuck.

Ahsoka closes her eyes and breathes in. Breathes out. Opens her eyes. “Right. That was... I’m not sure how much Padawan Billaba told you about me.”

“Enough,” Tholme says. He moves forward and puts a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder. Ahsoka has no idea if it’s to comfort him or hold him back. “I didn’t share most of it with my padawan, but I have a general understanding of what’s going on.”

Quinlan darts a look at his teacher, but Ahsoka doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Thank you for your understanding,” she says, and bows, and stiffly turns away to walk to the galley.

---------------------------

Leia squirms into the bench seat, shoving her way under Ahsoka’s arm like a particularly wriggly tooka.

“What was that?” Leia demands, the authority of a rebellion general rather useless in the squeaky voice of a child.

“What was what?”

“The whole thing with Padawan Vos,” Leia says. “You blew up at him before he even did anything.”

That’s pretty true.

“I felt the flirtation coming before it happened and reacted inappropriately because I panicked. I’m significantly older than him, but I can’t tell him that, so it’s just awkward and uncomfortable and... I’m not okay, Princess. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Yeah, we can tell.”

“Leia.”

“What? I need therapy too! Captain Rex needs therapy! I’m pretty sure Fett needs therapy! You, Fulcrum, you really need therapy. None of us are okay.” She huffs, wiggling impossibly closer. “I don’t like it, but it’s true.”

“I know,” Ahsoka groans. “I just... I just need to hold out until the Temple.”

“Will you be able to hold it together if you see someone you actually care about?” Leia demands. “What are you going to do when you see Kenobi?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious, you--”

“Leia, that’s enough,” she snaps. “I was fighting that war before you were even born, and I’ve dealt with the consequences since. I know the risks and I’ll thank you to remember who taught you to control your own mind.”

Leia stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath. “That was uncalled for.”

“You’re not the child you appear to be,” Ahsoka reminds her, not a little sharply. “You want to dish it out, be ready to take it. What will you do when we see Bail Organa? When we see the toddler that is Anakin Skywalker?”

“I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Ahsoka mutters. She isn’t surprised when Leia ducks out of the embrace and leaves the galley. She lets the girl go, guilt warring with the memory of how Master Kenobi had more than once spoken that way to Anakin at the height of the war. The fact that she’s an adult in the body of a child isn’t an excuse for poking at Ahsoka’s open wounds. It was cruel and unnecessary, and unbecoming of a... not a Jedi. A princess. A politician.

She rests her head on her arms and zones out. She should meditate, but that seems like... too much effort.

She can feel Vos and Tholme setting up in the room they’ve been assigned. Neither seems particularly angry. Most likely, Tholme’s given the absolute shortest explanation of ‘child soldier, dead master, highly traumatized and emotionally unstable’ to Vos to smooth over the incident in the cargo hold. Rex is with Leia; he’s agitated, but less so than Leia herself. Fett’s annoyed, in the cockpit, but he seems annoyed as often as not. There’s a shudder at lift-off, and a few minutes later, they’re in hyperspace, headed for the Core.

Fett finds her, falls into the other bench in full armor, and drops his elbows onto the table. The helmet clunks down a moment later.

She doesn’t lift her head. “What do you want?”

“Do I need to keep Vos away from you?”

“What?”

“Vos. He made you uncomfortable. Was that him being someone that hurt you in the future, or just the interaction being awkward?”

She lifts her head. She stares at him. “What?”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “Do you need me to tell Vos to stay the hell away from you?”

She’s gaping. “You realize I’m thirty-two, right? I can handle my own battles.”

“You’re also traumatized as hell and everyone can see it,” Fett argues back. “If Vos himself is a trigger, I can handle it.”

“He’s not,” she tells him. This is strange. Fett’s being strange. “He was actually a friend of my grandmaster’s. I’m just uncomfortable with the flirting because I’m a lot older than he realizes, and I can’t tell him that.”

He nods sharply, and then looks away. The silence sits.

“Thanks for asking?” Ahsoka says, well aware of how her confusion over the offer turns it into a question. “I mean, thank you for... caring.”

I guess, she finishes in the privacy of her own head. Or at least pretending to.

Fett makes a face, still not facing her. He eyes the galley instead. She can guess where his thoughts are going. The galley is... not very big, especially with six people on board instead of one, but she’s sure they’ve stocked up enough. On the off chance they do go through more than expected, because of how many growing bodies are in residence, they can stop off and buy more. They have those resources now.

Jango never does ask what she did with the slavers.

“Who’s going to cry if I spice things properly?” he asks.

“Probably Leia,” she says immediately. “Vos will try to power through it even though he’s going to be overwhelmed. No idea about Tholme, but I think he’ll keep a straight face whether he likes it or not. Rex and I are fine, ‘hot’ was pretty much the only flavor of seasoning the GAR had.”

“GAR?”

“Grand Army of the Republic.”

He finally looks at her.

“You already knew I was a child soldier, Fett; don’t act surprised.”

“That doesn’t mean I like hearing about it.”

“I was fourteen. That’s old enough by Mando standards, Fett. Just think back, when did you get on the battlefield?”

“I take your point,” he says, lip curling unpleasantly. “It just hits different now that I’m old enough to look back and think of how damned young fourteen really is.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Yeah, well--”

“You said the clones were ten.”

There’s the rub, isn’t it?

Of course it was about the clones.

“...closer to seven, by the end. Kamino was just making speedies at that point. Triple growth on the average instead of double, but averages in that case meant they’d been growing at double rates for six years and then got forced through four growth cycles in a single year to beef up the army when we kept losing men.” She looks down at the table, picking at a scratch in the plastipaint with her nail. “Rex and the rest of the ones from the beginning were basically twenty in mind and body, even if they’d only been decanted ten years earlier. The speedies... I always wondered. They’d gone from functionally twelve to functionally twenty in a year. That’s not... even in Kamino, that can’t have been normal. They didn’t act like adults, not the way the originals did.”

Fett rubs at his face, groaning. He swears under his breath in three different languages.

She pities him, if only because he hasn’t actually done any of this yet. He’s paying for the crimes of a man he likely won’t ever become.

She kicks him under the table. “Wanna make tiingilar and see how long it takes Vos to start crying while he insists it’s fine?”

---------------------------

Dinner is when the questions start. Some are relatively easy. Others, not so much.

“My Master was Leia’s biological father,” is an easy truth to share. “She inherited his power, so I need to get her to the temple for her own safety, because home no longer is.”

“Yes, her adoptive parents were unfortunately killed rather recently. We’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Rex is with me. Where he goes, I go, and vice versa.”

That one gets her an odd look.

“I thought...” Quinlan trails off, gesturing between Rex and Fett.

Fett keeps his face impassive, but his discomfort and guilt leak into the Force. “I didn’t know Rex existed until I ran into these three in a spaceport cantina a few weeks ago.”

Quinlan blinks at him, looks at Rex again, and then turns back to Fett with a grin that might have been described as ‘saucy’ if he were less smug about it. “Wild oats, huh?”

“Are you shitting me right now,” Leia whispers, and Ahsoka elbows her.

“That was inappropriate, padawan.”

Quinlan’s grin fades as Fett just continues to eye him.

“Um, so--”

“How old is the kid?” Fett interrupts.

Darting eyes answer him, as Quinlan tries to gauge Rex. “Ten? Maybe twelve?”

“And how old am I?”

“...early thirties?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Quinlan’s grin fades further as he does the math.

“I’d have been between fifteen and seventeen when he was born,” Fett says, tone flat. “Between fourteen and sixteen at conception. I know damn well I wasn’t doing anything that could have resulted in a kid at that age.”

Quinlan rallies. “So, brothers?”

Tholme sighs loudly, hand over his eyes.

“I’m a clone,” Rex says, and Ahsoka can feel the amusement he gets out of Quinlan’s confused shock. They’d both had plenty of respect for Master Vos, but Padawan Vos was nothing but trouble. “Harvested genetic material, grown in a tube, inconsistent aging meaning I don’t even know how old I am for sure.”

“I broke him out,” Ahsoka adds, which is half true.

“There was a chip in my head,” Rex adds, with a bright smile. Quinlan’s discomfort grows. “She got it out. Also, lots of brothers. None of them are... around anymore. The creators were trying to make an army.”

Vos and Tholme have no response. Fett looks like he’s been carved out of stone. Leia’s just ignoring them and picking at her food.

Ahsoka lifts a hand and, without looking, Rex high-fives her.

---------------------------

“Drop your elbow.”

Ahsoka tries to cover her smile at the dirty look that Leia shoots Fett. Fett remains unimpressed by the glare of royalty, just gestures for the girl to do as he said.

“I know how to fight,” Leia grumbles. “I took lessons. I was good at them.”

“And I’m better,” Fett says, leaving no room for argument. “You want the Torrents to take over?”

The Torrents. Rex and Soka. She likes being referred to that way. Like they’re a team that never got split up.

Force, she wished they’d never gotten split up.

“Again,” Fett orders, and Leia moves through the Mandalorian kata with ill grace in her emotions and all grace in her sweeping limbs.

Well, as much grace as an undersized six-year-old can, at any rate.

“Think he’ll ask me to spar her again?” Rex asks, dropping down into the seat next to Ahsoka and passing her a drink.

“Maybe,” she acknowledges. “I think he’s wondering if it’s worth asking Vos to spar with her, so she gets more experience with size differences.”

“Hm?”

“She flinched at his face again,” she tells him. “The whole... thing with Boba, I guess. She still won’t tell me why Fett triggers her sometimes, but he’s not pressing her to spar with him, and there’s only so much she can get out of fighting me. Asking Tholme would be presumptuous, but Vos is just a padawan. I think it’d work out.”

“And you?”

She looks at him, already feeling a cresting wave of bullshit she doesn’t want to deal with. “What about me?”

“Are you going to spar with the Jedi?”

She should. She hasn’t sparred with a saber since she got tossed back into a body only half-familiar to her. She’s let Leia borrow the shorter one to learn some basic blocking moves, Shii-Cho and then, with hesitance, the first Soresu form. Another time, she loaned it to Rex to practice some attacks; they both know that the next time he picks up her saber in battle, having lost his weapons or she her grip, it will be neither the first or last time he wields a sword of light. None of that, however, is... sparring.

None of that is against someone who knows what they’re doing.

How long has it been since she sparred with anyone other than Kanan and Ezra?

How long has it been since she sparred without the looming specter of Darth Vader in the back of her mind, without fear of the Inquisitors, without the knowledge that any saber held by someone other than her two friends would be red as blood and twice as drenched.

Would she be able to hold back as she fought?

“I should,” she acknowledges, eyes on where Fett is nudging Leia’s feet into position for some kind of leveraging flip. She’s so small. “It would probably be a good idea to spar against a master at some point.”

“Do you think you can?” Rex asks.

“I never knew him,” she says. “And he isn’t Dark. It should be fine.”

Rex nods, taking her word for it. They watch as Leia stumbles on a final move, and Fett gestures for her to sit down and get a drink.

“That man is a terror,” she informs them.

(She’d once described him as a slave-driver. She had not made that mistake twice.)

“Least it’s not Kamino!” Rex tells her cheerfully. When Leia refuses to look impressed, he laughs at her.

Ahsoka has a half-second’s warning before heavy boots thud to the ground next to her. “What’s Kamino?”

“Hello, Vos, it’s nice to see you too,” she drawls. “I’m good, thanks for asking, and yourself?”

The boy-not-quite-man rolls his eyes. “Hi, Torrents; hi, tiny one.”

Leia glares at him next.

“So, Kamino?”

“Planet by Rishi,” Rex says.

“Why were you there?”

“They specialize in cloning.”

Ahsoka covers her mouth as the conversation drops into the same awkward gap that always happens when Quinlan stumbles into a subject he didn’t know to avoid.

“Like... you were made there, or you were researching how it works for your own--”

Ahsoka slaps a hand over his mouth. “Now’s a great time to stop talking.”

He licks her palm.

She bares her teeth and arches her fingers just enough to press nails into his cheek.

He bites at her palm, and she yanks her hand away.

“You’re all children,” Leia accuses, conveniently forgetting that Ahsoka and Rex are both over a decade older than her.

“I can throw you the length of a swimming pool,” Ahsoka tells her. “One of the fancy competition-ready ones that would make a Tatooinian cry. You are absolutely the child here.”

“Using the Force is cheating, sir,” Rex informs her.

“Only if there’s a competition,” Ahsoka shoots back. “And proving that a certain princess is a small child is not a competition. It’s a declarative fact.”

“I’m going to rip open the seams on all your tops except the ugliest one,” Leia decides.

“Try me,” Ahsoka challenges. “Adi’ka.”

A low, rough cough interrupts them. “Are you done?”

Fett has his arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. He knows they’re all adults here, and is entirely unamused. As the silence drags, the eyebrow climbs a little higher.

“Done with what?” Quinlan finally asks, thereby volunteering himself to spar in hand-to-hand with Jango Fett, as one does.

“Poor, poor Vos,” Rex laughs, watching as Fett barks out orders at Quinlan every five seconds to fix his footwork, to stop dropping his guard, to stop wasting energy on flips instead of just dodging the easy way.

“Throw him!” Ahsoka calls. To her delight, Fett obliges.

The thing is, Quinlan isn’t bad at brawling. He’s got training, endurance, skill. The man knows what he’s doing, objectively. He’s just not a match for Fett, and is used enough to relying on his saber that his hand-to-hand skills are rusty. They are perhaps less rusty than those Jedi who don’t take questionable jobs in the Mid-Outer Rim, and Ahsoka’s got a suspicion that Vos regularly gets into bar fights in his downtime, but none of that is enough for him to actually do more than survive against Fett without his saber.

Even the saber wouldn’t help, if Fett had his armor.

“Whose idea was this?”

Ahsoka cranes her head back and smiles. “Hello, Master Tholme. Vos... volunteered.”

“Did he know he was volunteering?”

“No comment.”

Tholme snorts, crossing his arms and eyeing the spar in front of him. “I thought Fett hated Jedi. Giving us a ride for the sake of you three is one thing, but why is he teaching my padawan?”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Constructive bullying?”

There’s a small twitch of a smile, quickly gone. “He said something wrong, I’m guessing?”

“There was no way he could have known,” she dismisses. “We’re just, like, ninety-percent tragic backstories.”

“You’d think the Force would warn him,” Rex notes.

“That’s not how the Force works,” Leia chides.

“No, no, he’s right,” Ahsoka corrects. “The Force does sometimes step in to stop a person from saying something stupid. However, Padawan Vos is at an age where people think they are very rational while being more irrational than they likely ever will be again.”

“Do I want to ask what you were doing at that age?” Tholme asks.

“Running bla...” she trails off, then whips around to gape at him.

He smiles, bland and unassuming. “Does Fett know?”

“Know... what?” Ahsoka asks.

“That you’re significantly older than you look,” he says, voice just low enough that the sparring duo can’t hear him. “All three of you.”

Ahsoka turns back to the spar, only catching Tholme out of the corner of her eye. “He knows.”

“Mm. Were you planning on telling the Council?”

“Yes.” That part was never in question. “How did you figure it out?”

“I am a good investigator,” he says. “And you rely a little too heavily on your physical forms to obfuscate. Were it just one of you, that wouldn’t be a problem, but the pattern repeated across three is a little easier to discern.”

“I hoped the whole ‘child soldiers’ thing would be a bigger distraction,” Ahsoka mutters. She glances at Leia and Rex. Both of them are used to being in charge to some degree, giving orders and making contingency plans, but in this... in this, Ahsoka is in charge. They’d decided that at the very start. It didn’t matter that Rex had lived longer and had more experience, or that Leia had held the highest Rebellion rank of the three of them. Ahsoka had been agreed as leader, and they were relying on her.

They’re waiting on her orders. Stiff and unhappy, in Leia’s case, but they trust her.

“Will you be telling Vos?” She asks.

“No,” Tholme says. “Your secrets remain your own unless they endanger us, and I’ve a feeling they won’t be.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Rex jokes, smile not reaching his eyes. “I’ve been working with this family for too long to trust that trouble won’t find them around the next corner.”

“This family?” Tholme repeats.

“Sokari was telling the truth about her master being Leia’s biological father,” Rex says. He shrugs. “I worked with him, with his wife, with both of his kids, with his master and his padawan. All of them, to a one, are trouble magnets.”

“Ah, but that’s not the secret that’s putting us in danger,” Tholme points out. “Simply existence as a Jedi.”

Rex shrugs. “Fair enough. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

Ahsoka lurches to her feet, turning with a smile and dancing backward into the the stretch of empty cargo hold they used for such things. “A spar, Master Tholme?”

He looks past her, to Quinlan, and raises a brow. “Would you not prefer to spar with someone a little closer to your level first?”

She barks out a laugh. “Master Tholme, I’m afraid I’ve spent more of my life fighting to survive than having normal friendly spars. My style is more lethal than the average, and you’ve already seen what war’s done to my mind. I ask to spar with you because, if I lose control, if I slip in time or react on an instinct that isn’t appropriate, I trust that you’ll be more able to stop me than a senior padawan.”

He smiles. “Yes, I gathered as much. Still, better to ask. Shall we wait for them to finish up?”

Ahsoka shrugs, turns, and yells. “Clear the deck!”

Rex snorts behind her, and lowly mutters, “Sir, yes, sir.”

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “At ease, Captain.”

“That’s ‘Commander’ to you, I got promoted,” he sniffs, chin held high.

Heavy steps herald Fett’s arrival at their little group. “The hells are you doing?”

“I’m going to have a spar with a Jedi Master, and I want you and Vos to not get stabbed.”

“I’m not that easy to injure in an actual fight, let alone by accident,” Fett grouses. He looks up and over at Vos, who is already significantly taller, if a fair shot less built. “This one, on the other hand...”

“Hey!”

Ahsoka laughs and backs into the center of the cargo hold, drawing her sabers. “Don’t worry, Vos, I won’t play dirty. You’ll probably get your master back in one piece.”

He wrinkles his nose at her. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, aren’t you? He’s a Jedi Master and former Watchman. You’re... what, eighteen?”

Ahsoka raises a brow and activates her sabers, tapping the blades together and watching as more than one person winces. “Wanna bet on how long I last?”

“No,” he says immediately, stepping back to join Rex on the bench. “You’ve already blindsided me enough. I’m not dumb enough to fall for whatever you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“I don’t have sleeves.”

“Armwarmers-slash-greaves, then.”

“Greaves go on the legs, these are vambraces.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m just going to stop talking now!”

“Good plan,” Leia snarks, and then literally hisses when Rex ruffles her hair.

Tholme lights his saber and sinks into an opening stance.

Ahsoka mirrors him.

---------------------------

She wins, but barely. She's had a few weeks to practice her forms, has sparred hands-only with Rex and Fett, but this is her first real try at using her sabers against a person, instead of a blaster or thin air, since she arrived in the past. She’s only mostly adjusted to her body.

But Tholme is a healer and a watchman, not a duelist. Ahsoka held her own against Ventress, against Grievous, against Maul when she was this age. Still adjusting to her body or not, her lineage is one of battle, and it bled true.

“You’re terrifying,” Quinlan tells her after they’re done, smiling like the sun as he hands her a towel. “Please never turn that on me.”

She laughs at him. “Would you believe that I’m out of practice?”

“Out of practice with what?” he asks, horrified and fascinated. “Fighting Sith Lords?”

“Among other things,” she says, and smirks when he chokes on his drink. “Multiple darkside users who claimed to be Sith, at least. One being a full Lord, one that was disowned by his master, and one that was apprenticed to a Banite apprentice, so she wasn’t technically allowed to be a Darth because of the rule of two.”

Tholme meets her eyes past Quinlan’s shoulder, head tilted and eyes half-shut in consideration. He’s taking her seriously. He knows what she’s not saying.

“How...” Quinlan trails off and shakes his head. “You know what, no. Asking you people questions never ends well.”

“Good plan,” Ahsoka says, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “Also, you need to spar with Fett more. Your footwork is shit.”

“It is not,” Quinlan gripes. “You’re all just scary good at this stuff.”

“You mean surviving?” Leia pipes up, and smiles innocently when Quinlan turns to pout at her.

“You’re getting bullied by a six-year-old,” Rex informs him.

“Yeah,” Quinlan sighs. “I know.”

Ahsoka laughs, and it’s fine. It’s all fine. For a week, everything is honestly great. She trains, she laughs, she works through the nightmares.

Then fucking Denon happens.

---------------------------

Denon is a city-planet on the intersection of two major hyperlanes. It’s the kind of place where they stop for two things:

Fuel.

Paperwork.

Technically, there’s a whole mess of paperwork they have to fill out to continue along this specific hyperlane, since they aren’t official Republic ships, and don’t have the licenses to just pass along like ships that are pre-registered to the Trade Federation or the like. They could sneak past--literally all of them know smuggler’s routes--but it’s honestly less of a pain to do things legally. They have a Jedi Master. They have cash. Some of that cash wasn’t quite legally acquired, but nobody needs to know that.

It’s supposed to be a pit stop. That’s all.

It’s just a pit stop.

But no, the galaxy isn’t that kind and Ahsoka’s luck is currently being compounded with a Skywalker, two Fetts, and Vos, which means that of course they run into trouble. Of course they do. There was never any other option, was there?

“Motherfucker,” Ahsoka snaps, lifting her head up and slamming her drink on the table.

The glass is empty. That’s good. They’re in a restaurant right now, a little splurging after weeks with only each others’ company, and spilling the sugary child-friendly juice with that move would have drawn way too much attention from the servers.

“Language,” Tholme says, voice idly unconcerned.

“Sir?” Rex asks, kicking Ahsoka under the table. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wr--that jackass,” she hisses, getting to her feet. “Rex, grab a blaster, I’ve got shebs to kick.”

“Okay,” Rex says, grabbing one out of Fett’s holster and scooting out of the booth before anyone can tell him not to. “Whose?”

“I didn’t even know that he was... osik, I don’t have jurisdiction,” she realizes. “I don’t have any record of wrongdoing. I can’t arrest him since we don’t have evidence of criminal wrongdoing...”

“Are you two going to explain what’s going on?” Vos asks. “Or sit down, maybe?”

Ahsoka makes her decision. She eyes the window--the restaurant in question is a little dingy, but it’s also several dozen stories in the air. “Rex, remember the thing we did on Geonosis that you hated?”

He pauses, and then sighs heavily. “Yes, sir. I remember the... yeeting.”

Hah. That slang doesn’t even exist yet.

“Great. With me!”

It’s a good thing the windows are forcefields instead of transparisteel. A bit of a twist to the energy and they’re gone.

She only hears a little screaming before the wind tears all noises away while they plummet.

They land lightly--of course--and Ahsoka wraps them both in a don’t notice me aura. Nobody even notices that they’ve just come from above. It’s great that she can just Do These Things again, and get brushed off as Weird Jedi Shit, instead of worrying about the Empire. She’s missed being able to jump out of windows without fear.

Rex follows her as she starts running through the city. They don’t have comms, and he’s still so small, which means he can’t keep up with her even if she runs at normal speeds without Force enhancement.

“Should you carry me?” he asks, before she can figure out if it’s worth suggesting. She did it a few times before they joined up with Jango.

“It’s not... urgent, I think,” she says. She hesitates to speak, even as she keeps jogging with Rex at her heels. “Honestly, I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything I can ding him for so we can attack him. It’s all well and good that I can beat him right now, but all the crimes I know about haven’t happened yet, so it wouldn’t be legal...”

“Commander?”

“Hm?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

She scrolls the conversation back mentally, considers, and says, “Oh.”

“Who’s getting steamrolled?”

“Uh, Maul’s here,” Ahsoka admits.

“Ah,” Rex says. He makes a face. “I understand the desire to jump out a window, now. I don’t agree with it, but I understand.”

Ahsoka laughs. “I mean, I just... every time I’ve seen him for almost twenty years, it’s been like... on sight, you know? We’ve never not attacked each other, except when I needed him to cause problems on Mandalore. But I always knew I was in the right, then.”

“So... what do we arrest him for?” Rex prompts.

“Um... carrying a lightsaber without a license?” she hazards. “We’ll need Tholme there. Hopefully I can just shout at him and he’ll attack me, but I think he only went full nutjob after Master Kenobi cut his legs off. He might be too controlled to try to kill me just for yelling at him.”

“...do we have to stalk him?” Rex asks, sounding like he’d most likely sigh if he weren’t mid-run.

She scoops him up and swings him around onto her back before she answers. “I think we have to stalk him, Rex’ika.”

“Don’t call me that.”

---------------------------

Maul is... exceptionally sneaky, actually. Either that, or he hasn’t done anything wrong yet. Ahsoka’s betting on the former, because she’s seen this particular skocha kung take over a planet before anyone realized he was the most dangerous person around.

Or maybe he’s just not committing crimes, and is in fact just here to buy groceries.

He’s examining a papaya.

She fantasizes about jumping across the market and greeting him with a heel to the cheekbone.

“Are you imagining a flying kick, Sir?”

“Yeah...”

“He’s examining a papaya, Sir.”

“I know...”

“Does he know we’re here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Do you think I should go hit him?”

“No.”

“Should I hit on him?”

“No, Sir. I would not advise that.”

“He’s looking at the neloms.”

“I can see that.”

“Why does he have to be so bo--did he just fucking bite a nelom?”

“It appears so, Sir.”

“Like... like rind and all. Just bit the little fucker.”

“Seems it.”

A scuff of metal. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

Ahsoka tips her head around to peer through the grate. “We’re spying, Fett, what does it look like we’re doing?”

Rex cranes his head. “We’re hanging upside-down from a fire escape to get a look at a suspected Sith Apprentice that is currently shopping for various fruits, Mand’alor.”

Ahsoka waves. “Hi, Master Tholme.”

“Sokari,” the master greets. “This seems a very conspicuous way to spy.”

She shrugs as well as she can from this angle. “Yes, but you see, this way’s more fun.”

“Is it now.”

Rex shifted. “He’s on the move!”

“To kill someone?!”

“No, to the deli meats.”

“Kriff.”

---------------------------

Apparently, Tholme and Fett had told Quinlan to take care of Leia, as Leia had wanted to finish her juice and refused to get involved in the Torrents’ nonsense. According to her, if they couldn’t be bothered to explain the nonsense, they didn’t need her.

This was true and accurate.

Quinlan shows up while they’re still stalking Maul, having moved to a low rooftop for a decent vantage point with less likelihood of being spotted. He’s giving Leia an eopie-back ride, and the pout on her face at needing it is adorable. She pouts harder when she sees them.

“Are you even trying to hide?” Leia scoffs.

“Not really,” Ahsoka admits. She’s got Fett’s binoculars out. “I’m not sure he’s caught wind of the fact that we’re here yet.”

“Or he has and he’s just biding his time to escape while we’re distracted,” Tholme points out.

“Meh,” Ahsoka says, avidly devouring the visual that is a teenage Maul glaring at leafy vegetables. “I just want him to do something so I have an excuse to beat his ass.”

“Do I get to know who?” Quinlan asks, setting Leia down on the roof. “Or are we going to keep being completely unwilling to share information?”

“Baby Sith Lord,” Ahsoka says. “He’s fifteen. A child.”

“A baby,” Rex agrees.

“You’re... that’s... ugh,” Quinlan groans as loudly and as dramatically as he dares, flopping down to the rooftop. “Master Tholme, please tell me this isn’t a real Sith.”

“He’s Dark,” Tholme confirms. “Sith is... up for debate until we have evidence.”

“He’s a bitch is what he is,” Ahsoka mutters. She observes the teenager in question stop to poke at some pink tomatoes. “E chu ta, break the law, already!”

“Does he have a lightsaber?” Quinlan asks. “If he has a lightsaber and no Jedi ID or specialty license, we can probably arrest him.”

“Auntie Soka doesn’t have a license or ID,” Leia points out.

“She’s got a Jedi escort,” Tholme says. “And if our supposed Sith is polite and plays nice, we can probably escort him to the Temple as well.”

Rex snorts derisively.

“Do you know why he’s on Denon?” Fett asks.

“No clue,” Ahsoka admits. “Evil reasons, probably.”

“You’re useless,” Leia tells her.

“Thanks, princess, how’s that attempt to open the jam jar by yourself coming?”

Leia says something very inappropriate for a princess, for a child, and for a lady. It’s fairly appropriate for a soldier, which is admittedly what she’s been for a few years now. Ahsoka sticks her tongue out at the girl like the mature operative she is.

“I wish we could still get him to lose his osik by just showing up and insulting him,” Rex mutters, low enough that Quinlan probably can’t hear.

“I wanna punch him in the face,” Ahsoka confesses. “I want him to try to punch me in the face, and fail.”

“Don’t bully the baby Sith,” Rex admonishes.

“He’s a Sith.”

“He’s fifteen, it’s tacky.”

“But it’s Maul.”

“I know, but you’re tw--significantly older than him.”

“But... but it’s the motherfucker himself.”

“...you can bully him a little, but only because he’s a Sith.”

Fett steals the binoculars. “You can borrow them again when you stop acting like children.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rex says, dry as Ryloth. “I’m ten.”

“Pretty tall for your age,” Ahsoka mutters, and then giggles.

“Don’t steal my jokes,” Rex says. He elbows her, hard.

“You know,” Quinlan says, slow and tired. “Master Tholme and I are trained investigators.”

Ahsoka and Rex look at each other, and then up at him.

“Okay?”

“...do you want me to find actual evidence of this guy doing something criminal?”

“Oh, yes please.”

---------------------------

Quinlan, as it turns out, is not overselling his skills. He does catch Maul doing something illegal later that day. It’s a little more ‘stealing corporate secrets in the dead of night’ and less ‘torturing people for kicks,’ but it’s still enough to legally arrest him. Quinlan attempts to do so.

Quinlan does not succeed, and is forced to jump out a window to avoid getting cut in half. Maul follows, steals a passing speeder by throwing out the driver, and takes off. Someone--looks like Tholme--drops back to save the driver, but the rest of them give chase. Ahsoka gleefully takes point on that, of course. She’s the best pilot.

(Rex looks bored, but someone is likely to puke by the end of the night. She hopes it’s not Leia, who insisted on coming for some fucking reason.)

“How the kriff is a teenager that good?!” Quinlan yells, clinging to the edge of the speeder to avoid getting tipped out as Ahsoka swerves around a corner with a wild laugh.

“He’s a Sith!” Leia shouts over the wind. “What do you think?”

Quinlan is not impressed by the claim of Sith.

Ahsoka screeches as she drifts across four lanes of traffic and into an alleyway to pursue Maul. He’s pretty good at dodging cross-building walkways, but she’s better. She bares her teeth, hissing, and tries to pick a plan.

“Vos, how’s your aim with Force throws?” She calls to the backseat.

“Uh, decent?”

“Great! Fett’s the projectile!”

Vos takes a second longer to process that than Jango does.

“I’m wh--”

He cuts off, screaming, and is flung forward by Quinlan to crash headfirst into a teenage Sith.

“Take the wheel!” Ahsoka commands, not waiting to see who follows the order, because Fett and Maul are both getting to their feet, the other speeder is about to crash, and she’s not sure who’s going to win that fight.

She jumps from the speeder they’ve been violently dragging around Denon, and lands feet-first on Maul’s... shoulder.

Hm.

That definitely dislocated something.

“You should wear armor!” she chirps at him, drawing both sabers and grinning as he whirls to face her, eyes wide with hate.

He’s utterly silent.

That’s disturbing. Expected, but disturbing.

“Did you just throw me?” Fett demands, higher pitched than she’d normally expect.

“No, Vos threw you.”

“Because you told him to!”

“Yeah, it’s a good strategy!”

“It is not!”

“Why not? Throwing people was standard practice in the GAR.”

She can’t see his face, but she’s pretty sure he’s about ready to strangle her.

Ahsoka cannot, at that point, continue snarking with the father of her best friend, because there’s a red lightsaber coming for her throat, and she should probably worry about that. Maul’s very good at killing people and she’d like to avoid becoming part of that statistic.

As she is quickly reminded, he is... fifteen. And shorter than she’s used to. And already injured.

It’s really, really easy to take him out, actually.

At some point, the other speeder was safely recovered before it caused property damage, and their own is landing a few meters away with Vos and the kids.

“You have Force-negating cuffs, right?” Ahsoka asks.

“No, Master Tholme has them.”

“Oh,” she says, and grimaces. “I guess I’ll just... keep sitting on him then.”

Maul snarls, and she raps him on the skull. “Stop that, it’s uncivilized.”

Rex snorts.

Jango makes a noise that is incredibly frustrated with the lot of them, and turns on Rex. “Was she telling the truth?”

“About?”

“Throwing people being standard practice for the GAR.”

Rex’s face goes pained. “It was in the five-oh-first. And a few others.”

“What’s the GAR?” Quinlan asks.

“None of your damn business,” Fett snaps.

Quinlan throws his hands up in the air again. “Come on! I just proved I know what I’m doing!”

“And their tragic backstory is none of your business, prudii!”

Quinlan blinks at him, and then glances at Ahsoka. “Um.”

“He called you a shadow since your training, um, seems to be pointing in that direction,” she says as carefully as she can. “We were theorizing.”

“Wh... you actually paid attention?” Quinlan asks, looking horribly confused. “I thought I was just annoying you.”

Ahsoka laughs at him. “Oh, Vos... I’ve been running black ops for... much longer than most would guess. Trust me, I know another spy when I see them.”

She smiles as kindly as she can, because she hadn’t actually meant to make him feel left out or unwanted or... well, she’d been pretty patronizing, especially for someone seemingly younger than him. The smile does not work. Quinlan just looks kind of horrified about how young she just implied she started spy work.

Granted, she’d been sixteen for Zygerria...

Deciding to ignore him for a bit, she shifts on Maul’s back and pats him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Baby Sith. We’re going to get you lots of nice therapy. Mind healers, no Sith tortures, all that fun stuff. Maybe some plushies.”

“You’re also getting therapy, right?” Quinlan asks. “Please say you are. I’m required for the specifics of my training and if anything you’ve said is true, I feel like you really need it and I’m scared of what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Ahsoka laughs, knowing exactly how empty it sounds. “Oh hell, if I didn’t get therapy, I imagine Kix would rise from the grave to force me into it.”

The name means nothing to anyone except Rex, and... ah, yeah, she told Fett about Kix a few weeks ago.

“No more throwing me without warning,” Fett grumbles, dropping to sit on the ground next to her. “Especially not at baby Sith Lords.”

“I am not a child!” Maul spits.

“He speaks!” Ahsoka cheers. “Aw, I knew you could do it.”

“’Soka, I told you not to bully him,” Rex complains. “It’s tacky. You’re being tacky.”

“I’m allowed to be tacky,” Ahsoka declares. “I’ve died twice, that’s, like, permission from the universe.”

“You’ve died twice?” Quinlan asks, back in ‘fascinated horror’ territory. “Wait, no, I shouldn’t ask--”

“Too late! The first time was on a planet that doesn’t exist and my Master lost his mind, killed a god, and used the good favor of another god to have me brought back to life at her expense. Not in that order.”

“I--what? No, that’s--what?”

Ahsoka smiles brightly. “You asked.”

Tholme finally shows up with the cuffs.

---------------------------

“You should eat something.”

He glares at her.

“Baby Sith Lords need to eat.”

He keeps glaring at her.

“Maul, you’ll never get big and strong and ready to kill if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

He bares his teeth.

“No, I don’t eat my veggies, but I’m a Togruta, so if I eat too many vegetables I throw up.”

Rex kicks her thigh, right on the faulds. “What did I say about bullying the Sith Lord?”

“Not to.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Making him eat his vegetables.”

“Soka.”

“Rex’ika.”

He kicks at her again. “Get up, we’re swapping out the watch.”

“But I wanted to hang out with my favorite little criminal mastermind.”

Rex drops to the floor and presses his forehead to her shoulder. “How the hell is being around this guy the first thing to make you cheer up in weeks?”

“I’m allowed to be mean to him.”

“He’s going to bite you.”

“I’ll bite back.”

Rex jabs a finger into her ribs, and she squeaks. “Go get something to eat, Commander.”

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling to her feet and moseying along to the galley. She walks in on Tholme and Fett having an argument about the ways in which Jedi and Mandalorians differ. Quinlan’s on the side, watching with wide eyes, and little Leia’s drinking a juice box at his side, tucked up under his arm and occasionally saying things to fan the flames. Ahsoka assumes she’s enjoying herself.

She opens the cooling unit, looks over the contents, and pulls out a raw leg of eopie mutton. She leans against the counter, bites into the chilled-but-not-frozen meat, and uses the back of one hand to wipe the blood off her chin. The ‘real adults’ don’t notice.

“I’m like ninety percent sure you’re doing this to mess with me but also...” Quinlan trails off, staring at her with horror. “Why?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Yeah, but all the obligate carnivores I know are like... generally holding to basic rules of courtesy when it comes to not grossing people out,” Quinlan says. “Like, I don’t chew with my mouth open. You don’t... eat in the most intimidating--did you just crack the bone with your teeth?!”

Ahsoka smirks at him, using her free hand to take away the shard of bone so she can suck out the marrow without eating the bones themselves. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t polite society. We’re in a galley on a bounty hunter’s ship, and I’ve been living on the run or in an army for most of my life. Table manners are optional.”

“No, they’re not,” Leia orders. “Fett, it’s your ship, tell her to--”

“--and another thing!” Fett snaps at Tholme, clearly paying less than no attention to the food argument.

Ahsoka keeps on eating, trying to catch wind of where the discussion’s at. Mostly, it seems to be at ‘talking past each other.’ Neither of them seems to have fully grasped more than the absolute most basic parts of the other culture, and that’s only enough to insult each other, not actually have a constructive conversation. She’d have expected more out of Tholme, at least. He’s not exactly young.

“Hey, quick question,” she says, in a moment where both of them have paused for breath and the opportunity to seethe. “Fett, when’s the last time you worked with a Jedi, or any member of a Force-based religion, before I popped into your life?”

His nose scrunches up as he makes a face.

“And Tholme, when’s the last time you worked with anyone from the Mandalorian system?”

Tholme’s reaction isn’t any more gracious than Fett’s.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says. “Vos, were either of them actually interested in that conversation, or just looking for an excuse to yell?”

“Now listen here, jetiika--”

“Fett,” she snaps. “I am not a child.”

“And neither am I,” he growls right back. “This is my ship, and I damn well don’t need you treating me like a misbehaving youngling. You’ve got a problem, you bring it to my face, not get all smug about people’s tempers blowing over.”

Well, then.

She smiles thinly. “Of course.”

He stands with his arms crossed, in full armor save for the helmet. She puts aside the eopie meat and wipes her hands, smiling until she can put her hands on her hips and let it drop to a challenge.

“You know, I’m just--I’m just gonna go,” Quinlan mutters, pulling Leia out with him, the girl hanging from under one of his arms. “This, uh, this looks like a problem for... you folks. Um. Yeah.”

He sidles out.

Tholme doesn’t.

Fett rubs at the bridge of his nose, and then gestures at the table. “Sit.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

He drops his hand and glares at her. “We have another week on this ship together. We are going to have this conversation. Sit.”

She sits, right on the warm spot left behind by Quinlan and Leia. She crosses her arms, lifts a brow, and waits.

Fett takes the seat across from her. Tholme leans against the counter.

“We all know you’re older than you look,” Fett says. “I heard Tholme mention it, I know that much has been shared. You’re acting like an actual teenager, and I’ve... I’ve put up with a lot. I am trying to keep things civil, particularly with you. I’ve tried to be friendly. You’ve been fucked up since we met, fine, everyone’s got trauma. The thing where you’ve started talking shit to our faces for what seems like your own amusement? That has to stop. You’re older than me, Torrent. Fucking act like it.”

She blinks at him, slow and not exactly happy, and turns to Tholme.

The man shrugs. “I was planning to put up with it until we arrived to the temple and handed you over to some mind healers. Fett doesn’t have that kind of time.”

There’s a curdle in her stomach, defensive and angry and guilty.

“You’ve been... a bitch,” Fett finally says. “You know that. I’m not going to mince words. You’ve been holier-than-thou and rude and condescending, and aiming that at Antilles is one thing, when you’ve apparently known her since she was a toddler and taught her things. Aiming at the rest of us isn’t going to fly. We’re all adults trying to share a space. Stop acting like... just like you have been.”

There is no defense to be made that they aren’t both already aware of.

She closes her eyes and tries to strangle the burst of irrational rage.

Their accusations aren’t unfounded.

They deserve an apology.

She is in the wrong.

She’s felt freer than she had in years, and in that freedom allowed herself too much rein, let herself lace her words with barbed wires and poison instead of sparks and spices, comments that were cruel instead of just joking. Too familiar. Too comfortable.

“My behavior’s been inappropriate,” she finally says, the words clumsy and too big in her mouth. “You’re right about that. I’m sorry, and I’ll endeavor to keep a tighter rein on my less pleasant behaviors in the future.”

At least she only lashes out with words. It could be worse.

She opens her eyes, fixes her gaze on the wall behind Fett, wrestles her expression into stiff neutrality. “Am I dismissed?”

“...uh, no, not after that,” Fett says, sounding just a little horrified. “What the hell was that?”

Tholme hisses out a breath. “Let her go.”

“No, this needs to be discussed, that’s not a healthy rea--”

“Fett, let her go,” Tholme insists, low and heavy.

Fett looks between the two for a moment, seems to come to a realization he doesn’t like, and then gestures almost violently towards the door. “Fine. Go.”

She walks out, doesn’t sprint. She’s stiff. She’s controlled. She’s the one that fucked up, so it’s fine if she doesn’t feel great right now. Getting called out on one’s own failings as a person isn’t something to get upset about if the failings are real. The feelings are real and normal, but this was her fault, and so it’s up to her to fix it, and she can’t let them know it hurt her, because this was her mistake.

She goes to the cargo hold.

---------------------------

Ahsoka works out her frustrations on Fett’s punching bag. She does not augment herself with the Force, just uses raw strength and technique, ignoring the tears that press at her eyes.

She’s fine.

It’s not weird. It’s not odd. It’s not strange to not notice she’s been kind of a bitch since her mood came up with the whole Depa thing, and then Maul. She’s been mean, mostly to Vos and Fett, and nobody’s confronted her about it until now. They let her have room for her trauma, and she hadn’t reined it in. She’s just gotten worse.

‘Snippy’ she’d always been, but age apparently hadn’t fucking tempered it.

“Um.”

She catches the punching bag, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. She hasn’t worked out all the twitchy, nervous energy yet.

“Vos,” she greets, once she’s caught herself enough that her voice won’t waver. He’s on the other side of the bag, but she knows his voice. “Do you need something?”

“You’re kind of... projecting,” he tells her, drifting to where she can actually see him. “Not self-loathing, but, um, recrimination? You just don’t feel very good and I was hoping to help”

Why in all the Sith hells does he have to be nice.

“I got called out on my behavior and wasn’t ready to face the fact that I’d kriffed up,” she tells him. “I’ll be fine. And I’m... sorry. I haven’t been fair to you and was using you as an easy target for some of my ruder comments.”

“I mean, I kind of figured,” he admits, coming closer. “I’ve been tutored by Shadows before, and a lot of them act like you. I just assumed it was more of that.”

“I still shouldn’t have let myself run loose like that,” she says. “I’m... it wasn’t appropriate. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says. “Not with... not with you. Or anyone other than Rex and a mind healer, really. Most of it is...”

She trails off, distantly noticing that her eyes are tearing up enough to blur her vision, and her nails are digging into the bag in a way Fett won’t appreciate.

There’s so much that beat her down, never quite breaking her, that she doesn’t even know what made her act the way she does.

“Want to spar?”

She looks over at him, wonders what he sees that makes him want to fight her when she’s visibly unstable.

He smiles, kind and easy, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s genuine in intent, if not in energy. He wants to help. “You all keep saying I could work on my hand-to-hand. Just take off the armor so I don’t break a finger, maybe.”

“You’re serious.”

“No, I’m Quinlan.”

She’s going to wipe the floor with this boy. “You sure you wanna fight me?”

“You won’t be able to meditate until you do,” he says. He’s right, damn him. “The other option is that I go get your... vod, I think? I go get Rex and you two can talk it out since you trust him with more. I don’t want to do that, though, he’s still a kid.”

She eyes him, lips pressed together and mind awhirl with emotions and thoughts she’d tried to beat out of her head and into the bag. “Ever fought someone without the Force?”

“...yes?”

“Was it cuffs?”

“Oh, you meant me not having the Force,” he realizes. “Er, no. Is... is that something you’ve done a lot?”

She smiles at him. “You’re planning on Shadow work. That means getting captured and stripped of everything you are at some point, Force included. Unfortunately, the cuffs are in use on a very annoying Dathomirian right now, so we’ll have to make do with you shielding like your mind’s a Kessel Spice Mine.”

“...do I want to know how often you’ve been captured?”

“No, you don’t.”

When he comes at her, it’s easy to dodge. It’s easy to tap him on target points, little pokes that show she could take him out, but isn’t going to until he’s learned something. He stays grinning throughout, letting her take the lead, and he treats her like... like a knight. Like a teacher. He’s stepped back and gone from trying to impress her as a fellow padawan, to proving himself to a full knight.

She’s not sure when that change happened, or why or how, but it makes things much smoother. She wants to think that it would have even if she hadn’t gotten a wakeup call from Fett.

So she treats him the way she treated Ezra, for the year she’d spent traveling with Kanan. She treats him as a student that’s willing to learn, good but not yet great, competent but not yet ready to survive. She draws him into the kind of chest-heaving exhaustion that tells a fighter just how much energy they waste.

(Ahsoka may have had her own style, but her grandmaster had been the pinnacle of a Soresu user. She’d spent years on the frontlines of a war. She knew the worth of conserving energy, and she’d teach it to any who stepped in to challenge her.)

“Who taught you to fight like this?” He asks, when they’ve taken a handful of moments to circle each other. His steps are heavy, sure, planted. Her own are light and ready.

“Soldiers,” she says. It’s true enough.

“Not your Master?” he asks, just as he tries to kick for her upper arm. It’s a safe question. For anyone else, it would be a safe question.

But for Ahsoka, it’s another chink in the armor, after a maelstrom of emotion, a storm of self-loathing, a dervish of instability.

She doesn’t break right away.

She spirals. She fights Quinlan, but doesn’t quite see him. Her strikes get sloppy, her feet stumble. She can’t make herself meet Quinlan’s eyes, not when the scrape of his heel against the metal sounds like the rasp of a breathing machine. Her shields get fuzzy, she knows, and she leaks what she feels into the air, making it sour and thick. She doesn’t notice, because all she can see, all she can--all she can hear and feel and--

She drops to her knees and grabs at her head, trying to stop it.

“Sokari?”

She breathes. In and out, harsh and jagged but natural in a way that the damned respirator wasn’t.

Her master her teacher her brother the traitor the hound the executioner

Her face is hot. Something prickles. It might be tears.

She tries to say something, tries to say a name or a request, tries to make anything come out of her mouth that isn’t the broken wail of a woman who hasn’t let herself think about how she died.

She feels herself pulled into someone’s arms, and she can’t quite tell who, but they’re bigger than she is, and feel warm and worried. They care. They don’t understand, they’re scared, but they care.

Her hands shake, clutched to her chest and she can’t breathe she can’t make herself take in enough air to do a Force-damned thing the empire is going to feel her her shields are down and broken and her emotions are spilling and the empire is going to find HER ANAKIN IS GOING TO FIND HER AND--

“COMMANDER!”

Rex.

Rex is here.

Her breath is coming so fast that she’s hiccupping more than she’s actually inhaling. She feels small hands in gloves on either side of her face, and then her forehead presses to something warm.

Rex. A Keldabe kiss. Her brother, her partner, her other half. He’s here. He’s calm. If he’s calm, then things are fine.

“What happened?” Light voice, high voice, small and distant. Leia. Little Leia little princess Leia she’s in danger she’s in trouble Anakin will--

“Commander.”

No. Here and now. She needs to focus on here and now. Her throat feels cold. She breathes too fast, still. She can’t stop it.

“I don’t know.” That’s Vos. He was... they were doing something. He was here. Talking to her. “We were sparring, and she just--”

Right, sparring.

“I don’t know if I said something?” He offers, voice pitching up, unsure and worried. Is he the one holding her? He’s the one holding her. That’s embarrassing.

“Commander?” Rex prompts. “Commander, can you open your eyes?”

She tries. She can’t. She shakes her head.

“Soka?” he asks, voice quiet. “Where are you?”

“F-F-Fett,” she manages. It’s enough.

“And where were you?”

His voice is so soft. So worried. She held him the same way after Mandalore, after Order 66, after all his brothers, all her friends...

“Soka.”

Her mind is spinning, and suddenly all she can hear is Anakin Skywalker is dead. I destroyed him.

Her breath hitches, and she wails.

“Commander,” Rex tries again, but her head is a vortex of Then you will die and Perhaps this child and not the Jedi way.

Our long awaited meeting.

I destroyed him.

Then you will die.

She can’t breathe she can’t breathe she can only see that yellow eye that’s too familiar but belongs to a stranger can only hear a voice that shouldn’t exist can only mourn and break and--

“Soka?”

“Malachor,” she manages. “I--h-he--I died.”

“What did you say?” someone asks. A vod. It’s the right voice, almost, rough and business-like, not accusing anyone yet, and... and... no. No. Not one of her boys. It’s Fett.

“Um, right at the end? I asked her who taught her to fight like this,” Quinlan says, nervous. “And she said it was soldiers. And I joked, I asked that it wasn’t her Master, and she didn’t answer that. A couple minutes later, she just started...”

“Oh, Soka,” Rex whispers, pulling her closer. “Commander, just breathe with me.”

“H-h-he, he just--R-Rex, he j-just--and I c-c-couldn’t--”

“I know,” her captain whispers. “I know, just breathe with me.”

“He k-k-k-killed me,” she sobs, falling out of the Keldabe and into too-small arms. “I l-loved--he was my broth-ther and--and he just--he killed me, he didn’t even stop.”

“I know,” Rex whispers. “Soka, I know.”

Of course he does.

---------------------------

“It was just bad timing,” Rex says, once they’re in the room she’s been sharing with her little family, curled up under a blanket and watching the floor like it has all the secrets to how she lost her world three times over.

“Is there anything we need to keep in mind?” Fett asks, gruff and uncomfortable. She wonders if he’s angry that she took his necessary confrontation and turned it into this mess.

“Don’t bring up her Jedi Master,” Rex says, and pulls her in when she shivers. Her eyes squeeze shut before she can stop them, tears beading up again. “Just... don’t. It’s too soon.”

“He’s--”

“He Fell,” Ahsoka interrupts. “I thought he died, but he became a Sith. And fifteen years later, we ran into each other, and I refused to join him in the Dark, so he tried to kill me.”

Fett swears, low and muffled. She thinks he has a hand over his mouth.

Quin and Leia aren’t there. She thinks they’re keeping an eye on their Baby Sith prisoner. That’s good.

“Soka,” Rex whispers, and she buries her face in his shoulder. She’s too old to be this kind of mess. She’s thirty-two. She’s Fulcrum. She’s...

She’s in need of a lot of therapy.

“We can avoid the subject unless you bring it up,” Tholme promises. “Definitely until the Temple. Is there anything else we shouldn’t talk about?”

Ahsoka can practically feel Rex’s deadpan look. “Sir, we’re a trio of child soldiers ripped from everything we know. Every other sentence is a risk. We’re just... working our way through.”

There’s a knock at the door. Oh. Quin and Leia.

“Just figured we’d drop this off before we went down to visit Mr. Grumpy-Face,” Quinlan whispers. He still thinks Leia’s a child. He’s trying to make things less terrible for her. That’s nice. “We decided he’ll be less angry if he tries Hoth chocolate, and made some for everyone.”

They definitely made it for Ahsoka herself, and Maul was an afterthought. Still. It’s sweet.

“Commander?” Rex prompts, jostling her a little to try and get her to sit up.

“Gimme a sec,” she manages. It takes longer than it should to push herself away from him, to accept the mug that Leia gives her, too-serious worry in the furrow of her brow and the twist of her soul.

She doesn’t look six. She doesn’t even look twenty-two. This girl was always too old for her skin, forced to grow up in the hostile fear of the Empire.

“Thank you, Princess.”

She sips.

She can barely taste it beyond the ashes she imagines coating her tongue.

I destroyed him, her memory echoes. His slightest hesitation before he made the final move, it haunts her. She almost reached him. If only she’d tried harder, yelled louder, been better...

She shivers.

“Do you need help falling asleep?” Tholme asks. “I’m a regular healer, not a mind healer, but...”

She probably should.

She takes another sip of her drink, willing herself to taste it. It’s good. She likes it. She knows she does.

“Can you make it dreamless?” she whispers.

“It doesn’t always work, but I can try,” he tells her.

She nods. “When I finish the chocolate.”

“Of course.”

---------------------------

Everyone’s careful around her for days. The whole decision to be nicer doesn’t mean anything when she’s walking about in a daze of too few emotions, drained of everything she could feel in favor of a grey cloud of fluff in everything she does.

She does forms. Single saber and Jar’kai. Ataru and Djem so and Soresu. Reverse grip, regular grip, partial reverse on either side.

Again. Again. Again.

She loses herself in the motions, not meditating so much as just empty.

Rex worries. Fett worries. Vos worries.

Leia and Tholme keep their shields locked up tight, and she doesn’t know how they feel. She thinks Leia might be judging her. She think Tholme might be pitying.

Maul simply hates. It’s an old and familiar sensation to walk into, and she takes unthinking comfort in his rage. She’s silent instead of snippy, when she plays the role of guard, and they stare at each other in silence. His eyes burn, and she wonders how much he’s heard of her nightmares.

“You need to talk,” Rex tells her, when he finds her with a cold cup of caff, eyes fixed somewhere beyond it all. She lifts her head. “Soka.”

She just stares at him.

He sighs and pulls her into a hug. “Commander, please.”

She can’t.

Ahsoka stares at the wall behind him, resting her chin on his head. Her neck itches under the lek at the back of her head, a little tingle of a feeling that she can’t bring herself to do anything about. The pale light of the galley is sharp against the chipped paint of the metal that surrounds them. It hurts her eyes to look, but it’s not the deep and dark lit only by red--

Then you will die, her memory growls.

She flinches.

“Breathe,” Rex tells her, too-small hands clinging at her back. “Just breathe, ‘Soka.”

She curls in tighter and tries to just breathe.

---------------------------

“Tell me something good.”

Ahsoka blinks. She looks at Leia. She doesn’t have the energy to parse that.

Leia chances a look at Rex, who isn’t leaving Ahsoka’s side any more than he has to, and Fett on the other side. Tholme’s asleep and Quin’s on Baby Sith duty. It’s just people who know, right now.

The little girl across the table, the child senator, the spy, purses her lips and huffs in irritation. “You knew my biological father before he became one of the worst people in the galaxy. Both of you did. Tell me something good about him.”

Good things.

About Anakin.

“You fought a war as a Jedi,” Leia prompts. “Surely you must have done some good things with him, or at least thought you were.”

Did they?

Every mission ended in tragedy or was just a ploy of Palpatine’s. Every saved life was just...

Wait.

“He built Threepio,” she finally says. “Your father wi--I mean, Bail wiped Threepio’s memory after the Empire rose, for your safety, but Anakin was the one who built him.”

Leia sits up, eyes brighter. “I didn’t know that. I... was Artoo involved? Did he build R2D2, or...”

“No,” Rex says, “But Artoo was his favorite astromech, and they always pushed each other into stupid stunts. We risked a hell of a lot to save that droid, more than once, and I didn’t find out until you started working with the Rebellion full-time, but Artoo and Threepio were the witnesses for your bio-parents’ wedding.”

Leia gapes at him. So does Ahsoka. (Fett doesn’t know enough to care.)

Rex grins, and if it looks a little forced, that’s fine. “He had a holo recording. I was one of the few people left that knew about the marriage that might have wanted to see, so Artoo offered. It was... sweet.”

He waits, probably for Ahsoka to add something herself, but she has nothing.

“I think that’s when they swapped droids, since Threepio was more useful to a politician and Artoo did his best work when we set him loose on the enemy.”

“He never changed,” Leia muses. “Did he always swear that much?”

“Yes,” Ahsoka answers, as Rex laughs. “Always. All the binary I learned started with the best swears.”

She tries to think of another good memory, something else that Leia might appreciate. Her mind ticks back to saving Stinky, which is just a terrible option, because that mission started with Hutts and ended with the Battle of Teth. That massive loss of life, all for the son of the creature that had put Leia in chains.

She wonders if she has anything in her memory that doesn’t end in blood and graves.

“Soka.” Rex.

“Hm?”

“Remember that time Fives and Echo got lost in the undercity their first time on leave, and we had to get the General to help us find them?”

She does.

He’s right, that’s a good story.

“Okay, so what you have to understand,” Ahsoka says, already digging the faint details out and dusting them off, “is that these boys were ARC troopers, top-notch, terrifyingly competent once they got through specialty training, and loyal as hell. Echo had memorized the reg manuals front to back, and Fives was... well, Fives ended up being the only person to figure out the chips before they went into action. Point is, the Domino twins were good... eventually. Just like everyone else, though, they started out shiny.”

---------------------------

“Tholme’s hiding something.”

Ahsoka wonders if Leia will just leave if she ignores her enough. Probably not. This was the girl that got kicked out of boarding school for leading a sit-in at age seven. She’s got patience.

“His job requires him to hide a lot of things,” Ahsoka says instead. “Not as many as Vos will have to, eventually, but a lot.”

“He’s hiding something from us,” Leia insists, visibly frustrated that Ahsoka isn’t as upset about this as she is. “Something important.”

The way she says ‘important’ is clumsy and impacted by the missing baby tooth. She can’t say the r. It comes out as ‘im-poh-ten,’ which is adorable, and if Ahsoka comments on it, she’s probably going to get punched by a six-year-old.

“The Force doesn’t care,” Ahsoka says. “I trust his intentions, if not him as a person.”

“If you don’t trust him, then why trust his intentions?”

“Leia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I trust one and a half people in the galaxy,” Ahsoka points out. “Me not trusting a person isn’t a sign of anything except my paranoia. The only person I trust fully and without reservation is Rex. Even you, I only mostly trust, because my brain starts screaming if I think too hard. That’s why you’re the half.”

“Okay, whatever, paranoia aside,” Leia barrels on, “He should tell us. Whatever it is that he’s hiding, we deserve to know. We’re not children that he can just hide things from for our own good.”

Ahsoka presses her lips together. “Leia. Princess. I know you’re used to holding all the cards--”

“This isn’t about me being a control freak!”

“It is, though,” Ahsoka soothes, and smiles. “Your mother--the bio one--was the same way. You spent years as one of the leaders of the Rebellion, so obviously you’re used to having all the information, and people reporting to you... but Tholme is a Jedi Master. He reports to the Council and the Republic. Do you know how many people I kept secrets from while I was a padawan? We’re an unknown, Leia. They have no proof that we’re on their side, especially since we’re traveling with Fett.”

Leia crosses her arms and glares as hard as she can.

“I’m not going to bother him,” Ahsoka says. “I’ve already had, like, five unrelated mental breakdowns. I’m putting this on hold until we get to the Temple and I can trust that there’s a healer on hand to sedate me or something.”

“You... want to be sedated?”

“Leia, this... really should be obvious, but a Force-Sensitive losing their osik the way I have been isn’t actually safe. I know I broke a weapons rack last week.” Ahsoka gestures vaguely. “If the Jedi Master isn’t telling me something for reasons that might relate to my clear and obvious mental instability, I’m going to assume he’s got a point.”

“So he should tell me or Rex.”

“We’ll be on Coruscant in four days,” Ahsoka soothes. “Just... let it be. They won’t hurt us.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “I don’t have to. The Force leads me in all things, including this.”

Leia isn’t impressed by that, but Leia isn’t impressed by much in the first place.

She strides off in a fit that is, perhaps, more influenced by her six-year-old emotional control than she’d like to admit. Ahsoka lets her. It’s not worth the argument.

It’s only a few minutes later that Fett strides in, takes the seat Leia was just in, and asks, “What would it take for you to teach me how to use a jetii’kad?”

She blinks at him. “You want to learn how to use a lightsaber?”

“Yes.”

“...why?”

“Viszla.”

“I see.”

She does.

Ahsoka taps her fingers against the table, eyeing him with the kind of interest she copied from Master Kenobi, years ago. Fett doesn’t fidget, but she thinks he might want to. He just looks back, waiting for her judgement.

“You’ll need to justify it,” she finally says. “It’s a significant difference from what you actually did, so I need to know your reasoning for doing it, and your plans for once it’s done.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s step one,” she corrects. She tilts her head, considering. “My standards for you aren’t built in a vacuum, and you know that. Explain to me what you plan to do and how you plan to do it, and if I approve...”

“You’ll help me achieve it.”

“Maybe,” she allows. “A lot of that depends on Rex.”

“I expected as much,” Fett says. “He is... an admittedly large part of the reason.”

“He would be,” she says. She gives the silence a few more seconds to sit awkwardly between them, and then stands up. “I’d guess you’ve been brainstorming already. Do you have it written down or is it mostly just in your head so far?”

“I’m still... debating options, so to speak.”

She grins, and the shape of the predator’s smile, the baring of teeth... that almost makes him step back. She can see it in the twitch of his muscles. Smart man.

“Follow me,” she says, and doesn’t wait for him to stand. She strides out with tooka-light steps, hears the heavy beskar tread behind her, and goes to the cargo hold. Fett’s confusion grows tangibly behind her, especially when she tosses him a wooden quarterstaff. She picks up the other and spins it in one hand.

“You’re going to fight me,” she tells him, stretching and letting the staff help with the process. “And while we fight, you’re going to tell me what your plans for Mandalore are.”

He mimics her, but there’s a frown on his face. “And why staffs?”

“You and I, we’ve only sparred bare-handed,” she says. “I need a feel for how you fight with a weapon anyway. These are a good start.”

“Not the beskad?”

She grins, and the twitch is back. “No. That can wait. We start with the staffs.”

He takes a stance, and she mirrors him. She lets him strike first with a weapon, but she’s the one that asks all the questions.

(He is the only one on the ship that can fight her one-on-one right now, and he can win. Still, she makes him work for every inch, and what she doesn’t win in bruises, she wins in words.)

(Fett might yet be a proper Mand’alor, but Ahsoka learned war from her brothers, negotiation at the knee of a general and in the shadow of a prince, and government at the side of duchesses and queens.)

(If he wants her help uniting his people, he needs to prove that he can hold them together once she’s gone.)

---------------------------

Ahsoka’s interrogation of Jango’s plans is thorough, and she’s not the only one involved. She brings Leia in, and has her join in on the grilling. She maybe laughs as the twenty-seven-year-old survivor of Galidraan, the Mand’alor, a man who has killed Master Jedi with his bare hands, gets lectured on various government structures by a tiny girl that's missing several teeth and needs to sit on books to see the table properly.

Still, Leia knows this better than any of the rest of them do. The girl might have grown up heir to a monarchy, but she got a classical education and was drilled on democracy and all associated forms of government. Where Ahsoka knows military protocol and law enforcement, intersystem relations and defensive measures, Leia knows agricultural subsidies and welfare programs, infrastructure and education.

Ahsoka may know how to find out if someone’s breaking a zoning law, but Leia knows why it exists in the first place.

“And I grew up in a cult,” Rex says, when an argument on that topic breaks out. Everyone that hasn’t heard the joke-that-isn’t-a-joke stares at him. “The Jedi grew up in a religious meritocracy; Leia grew up in a monarchy; and I grew up in a cult.”

Ahsoka elbows him. He’s not wrong, but still.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is about forty-seven percent sure that Leia will put her foot in her mouth when it comes to Mandalorian culture, blunt as the girl is. That prefrontal cortex isn’t anywhere near as developed as it should be, either, so impulse control for the princess isn’t great. Ahsoka refuses to let Leia and Fett talk about ways to mend the breaks between tradition and the pacifism of the New Mandalorians without either Rex or Ahsoka herself as a mediating presence. Tholme sits in a few times, but while he knows that Leia isn’t really six--though not about the time-travel, yet--Quinlan doesn’t.

They admittedly end up doing this while he’s on Maul-sitting duty.

“It’s like he doesn’t even care about making nice with the people that, at this point, make up the majority of his people!” Leia grumbles one night, as Ahsoka kicks over a step stool so the girl can brush her teeth. “He may not like the New Mandalorians, but from what I understand, it’s still early enough to prevent the majority of the cultural bleaching you brought up. If he stays this stubborn--”

“Leia,” Ahsoka says, and the girl’s mouth snaps shut. “I’m aware of your reasons for not trusting his intentions. But if I may say? Chill.”

“He’s not even trying!”

“He’s trying a hell of a lot harder than he did in the original timeline,” Ahsoka reminds her. “Brush your teeth.”

“I’m not a--”

“Teeth.”

It’s a little worrying, how the child’s brain affects Leia, but... well. That’ll pass in time, hopefully. Until then, Ahsoka gets to be the aunt she should have been. This includes tucking Leia in, which the girl grumbles about despite the fond waves of comfort that enter the Force around her. Ahsoka doesn’t call her out on it, just brushes back wisps of hair to plant a kiss on Leia’s forehead, and then does the same once Rex stumbles in, grumbling about the limitations of a cadet’s body, but far more ready to follow the protocol that is bedtime.

Rex doesn’t pretend to not like getting tucked in, for all that he’s sharing with a grumbly, already-asleep princess. He smiles up at Ahsoka, lets her hug him, and pretends they can be a normal family for five seconds.

Quinlan’s making a late night snack for himself in the galley. Tholme is guarding the Baby Sith. Fett...

Ahsoka goes to the cockpit, takes the copilot’s seat, and watches hyperspace pass them by.

It takes long minutes before either of them say anything.

“Do Jedi believe in souls?”

His shields are up, locked up tighter than the innermost chambers of the Imperial Palace. She has no idea where he’s taking this question. She has to cast about for an answer.

“That depends on how you define a soul,” she finally says. “Leia told me about Force Ghosts. A Jedi Master who underwent the right meditations and training could pass into the Force upon their death without losing their sense of self. They could remain themselves, to an extent, and interact with force-sensitive individuals. I don’t know if they could last that way indefinitely, but depending on your definition, I could argue those ghosts were evidence of a form of soul.”

“So you believe that the dead pass into the Force, but that what passes could be a soul. Something must exist for a sense of self to disappear at death in a way that impacts the Force as you understand it, and many would use the word ‘soul’ for that something.”

“Mm,” Ahsoka considers it. “I’d say that’s pretty accurate. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“What about those not yet born?”

Her fingers feel cold, and she finds herself no longer able to watch the passage of hyperspace as passively as she had, and her eyes catch on streaks and motes of what is not dust, her vision unable to keep any more still than her heart.

“Oh,” she hears herself say. “The clones.”

It’s a long time before he answers, but the walls come down. He carries a confused sort of grief with him, guilty and a mite resentful. His questions have been building for longer than she’d thought. His voice is rough. “I’ve taken plenty of lives, but I’ve never known the name of someone I erased from existence before they were even born.”

“The stories we told Leia about the brothers.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from Fett, so those dots at least connect.

“I take it my answer wasn’t helpful,” she manages to say.

“Will they still exist?” Fett asks. “Will they be born elsewhere? Or is... is a soul something that only comes into existence after the body does?”

“I have no idea,” Ahsoka admits. “I want... I want to think that I’d be able to find them eventually, to recognize them, if their souls are still born into this world elsewhere.”

“And if your Sith finds someone else to build his army out of?”

Ahsoka looks at him, sharp and pointed. “You wouldn’t.”

“They’ll be doing it anyway, if their plans are as ironclad as you say.”

“You’re already associating with Jedi,” Ahsoka says, fighting the urge to break his nose. “They wouldn’t approach you, not now. They can’t leverage your anger against you. They won’t know everything, but they’ll know that you have friends among the Jedi.”

“You think they can’t come up with better lies?”

He has a point. He has more than one point and she hate hate hates it.

A Jedi does not hate.

I am no Jedi.

“You’re going to have to convince me,” she says. “Especially if you want to somehow balance this with the darksaber thing. I won’t teach you how to fight with it if you’re not planning to retake Mandalore.”

“That’s how they’d sell it,” he says. “Retaking Mandalore. An army ostensibly for the Jedi, and ultimately...”

“You’d build an army of slaves.”

“No, I’d be the inside man for when they build that army anyway.”

She holds his gaze. She looks away first.

“Torrent?”

“I’m thinking.”

He lets her.

“I’ll need to talk to Rex. Probably Leia.”

“Understandable.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I’m only just considering it. It’s an idea, not a plan.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t ripped your throat out with my teeth.”

“Hyperbole doesn’t suit you.”

She glares at him, and leaves, her mind chopping up and laying out every possible angle on Fett volunteering to do the exact same thing as last time, but somehow worse.

Great. Just what she needed.

---------------------------

Ahsoka isn’t there for the shouting match between Rex and Fett, but she doesn’t have to be. She can hear it form clear across the ship, and Rex comes to her afterwars. He’s been crying, which isn’t as surprising as it could be. These bodies are still prone to such things, and will be for years. She doesn’t comment.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“We need to take out Sidious before he starts anything on Kamino.”

“Agreed,” she says. “It’ll be hard, though.”

“I don’t care.”

“What did Fett say?”

“That if it wasn’t going to be my brothers, it would be someone else’s. Either we stopped the cloning from happening at all, or we mitigated damage by being there.”

“I don’t think Sidious is going to tap him for it,” Ahsoka admits. “Not unless you’re willing to stage that kind of fight publicly enough for Fett to claim the Jedi poisoned you, family, against him. It could work, but it’s a gamble.”

He knows all of this.

“I miss them,” he says, and she cards her fingers though the curls he’s managed to grow in the past weeks. “I just... even at the end, I had Wolffe. I knew Boba was out there; I wouldn’t be surprised if the beskar let him survive a Sarlacc. I had brothers. Not as many as I used to, but there was always someone. I miss them all, so much it hurts.”

“It wouldn’t be them,” she reminds him. She pulls him closer, puts her cheek to his head. “It would be the same process, the same faces, the same training, even, but the boys themselves...”

He clings to her and shudders.

“Rex?”

“I can’t force them to grow up the way I did. I want them back. Sidious is going to make the army no matter what. Someone’s going to suffer, and I don’t want it to be my brothers, but they won’t exist otherwise, and...”

“And it’s an impossible choice,” she summarizes. “And it sucks.”

“It’s sucks Gungan balls, ‘Soka.”

She laughs, and feels him smile against her shoulder. Good. He needs to smile more.

“He’s still trying to get me to like him,” Rex says. "He’s still making an effort, and he never did that for anyone except Boba, and it’s weird. I don’t know what to do with any of that.”

“Gain a brother,” Ahsoka whispers, and she feels him jerk against her. “If that’s what you want.”

“He’s not vod.”

“Same blood as all the rest, and you’re older than him, so he’s not really in a position to be a parent to you like he was to Boba,” she says carefully. “You don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to, but... I think he’s trying. I think this means a lot to him, and that he isn’t any more sure of what to do than you are. You don’t have to forgive him for what he did in the future, you don’t have to accept when he reaches out, you don’t have to ever talk to him again after we reach Coruscant if you don’t want, but I think... I think it’s worth at least considering what you have to gain. I think it’s worth looking at what he’s trying to give you.”

Rex huffs. “Why couldn’t he just be the shabuir I knew in training?”

“Something happened between now and then?” she offers. “I don’t know. I never met him in the original timeline. I just know the guy that keeps trying to get on my good side so you’ll like him.”

He outright scoffs. “Soka, that’s not the only reason he’s trying to get on your good side.”

“...I’m a former Jedi who talks trash to his face,” she says slowly. “And I cried on him. There is no reason for him to be nice to me, other than you.”

“He thinks you’re cool and a good person and wants you to be his friend.”

“Bantha poodoo.”

Rex grins in a way that goes straight to smirking. “Soka, I’m not joking. Jango Fett wants you to be his friend.”

“Kriffing why?” she asks, more than a little horrified. “I’m a mess, look like I’m ten years younger than him, have gleefully kicked his ass in front of an audience; I even told Vos to throw him at a baby Sith Lord. Putting up with me is one thing, but I’m... I’m only barely not a Jedi. I’m a historical enemy of Mandalore, and part of the community he hates more than anything, and--”

“And his reaction to you kicking his ass was pure Mando,” Rex says. “In that he now thinks you’re a badass, and thus worth being friends with.”

“I can’t believe that. I physically cannot.”

“Soka, just accept it. The Mand’alor wants to be friends with you.” He scratches at his scalp. “I mean, he met you while you were protecting what appeared to be children, and it’s apparently still early enough for him to care about that.”

She leans back in her seat, eyes on the wall ahead of her and back against the cool metal of the other side. Rex falls back with her. She wonders if Rex changed the subject so they didn’t have to talk about deciding how many of his brothers get to exist, and whether or not he can swallow the bitterness of his history to have a connection with at least one member of his blood. She doesn’t ask. If he wants to change the subject, that’s his right.

“I don’t... no.” She denies it as well as she can, and then the implications dig a little deeper. “Is this me accidentally signing up to be the Jedi Order’s official liaison to the Mand’alor?”

“I mean, this point in time... they’ve got Kenobi for the Duchess, yeah?” Rex shrugs. “Good relations with the system are probably a good thing, and you’ve got a stronger connection than Tholme and Vos.”

“Ugh,” she says. She rubs a hand against her head, and then lurches to her feet. “Fine! Fine. If it’ll get him to retake Mandalore before the Sith decide to bribe him with an army he doesn’t get to keep, I’ll teach him how to fight for the kriffin’ Darksaber.”

“That’s what makes the decision for you?”

“Well something had to!”

They only get one lesson in before Coruscant, but the lesson lasts a full day, and Ahsoka’s got his comm number. Fett’s a quick learner anyway, and Tholme was there to give pointers where Ahsoka couldn’t.

He won’t measure up to a Jedi in saber-to-saber combat, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to learn enough to turn all those skills with a beskad to something that works with a jetii’kad.

(The balance of a saber is wrong to those used to a physical weapon. The inertia doesn’t work the way anyone expects. There’s no need to worry about damaging the blade.)

(Fett is good. Ahsoka is better. And, bless his heart, he knows it.)

(She will mold him into the shape of someone who not only can, but should rule a system with a history like that, and he damn well knows that too.)

---------------------------

“Dropping out of hyperspace in T-minus twenty seconds.”

The Slave I is not, in fact, a Venator-class starship, or anything else near the size and smoothness of the ships that Ahsoka grew up on. This is a bounty hunter’s vessel, and the drop to real space jolts like nothing else. Ahsoka’s in the copilot seat for the return, but Tholme’s going to swap with her as soon as they’ve got confirmation that there were no problems with exiting hyperspace, and nobody’s shooting at them.

“We’re not going to get shot at,” Tholme had assured her.

“I always get shot at,” she’d told him.

“I have our clearance,” he reminded her, seeming more amused than frustrated. “There’s no need to worry about getting shot at.”

“I also always get shot at,” Jango had thrown in.

“Okay,” Tholme had allowed, after several minutes of his trust in the Temple warring against Ahsoka and Jango’s learned paranoia. The looks Quinlan had darted around the room when Leia and Rex also claimed ‘chronic getting-shot-at disease’ had been a treat. The paranoia of a Watchman and a future Shadow was great, but the paranoia of three revolutionaries and a galaxy-wide criminal was greater. “You can take us in close enough to get in radio contact, but the second we have to ask for clearance and a vector, I’m in the seat.”

She’d agreed, of course. She was paranoid, not inexperienced.

“We’re much less likely to get shot down by ground control if you tell them we’re with you,” she’d said, to his hilariously apparent metaphysical exhaustion. “Obviously.”

“Good enough,” he’d sighed.

What that means is mostly just that Ahsoka gets to watch the distant star at the center of Coruscant’s system grow rapidly brighter. She can pick out the constellations she’d grown up with, the stars the creche had projected on the ceiling every night, the ones that she may not have seen from the surface, but had greeted her and then sent her on her way every time she left on yet another campaign that lost her men their lives for a Sith Lord's wretched plans. These were the shapes and stories she’d never seen again as Fulcrum, a woman so hunted that to come within a dozen subsectors of the planet was to court her death.

For sixteen years, she hadn’t ventured closer than Alderaan, save for a single trip to Chandrila.

And now, maybe twenty minutes away at this speed, was the Temple. It was home.

A home that didn’t know her, that had sentenced her to death, that had hosted the rampage of her former master... but home nonetheless.

“Stable?” Fett grunts.

“Thrusters are good,” she confirms.

“I meant you.”

Ah. “I’m... fine. As good as I could be, anyway.”

She hesitates, but manages to speak before he does. “You?”

“I’m not the one walking into an entire building of triggers.”

“Only because you’re not entering it,” she says. “It’s the home of your ancestral enemies who, bad info or no, killed off a whole lot of your friends.”

“I get to leave,” he says. “You don’t.”

She plans to needle him a bit more, maybe on something a little less based in both their traumas. She needs to talk, if only to fill up the silence and keep herself from reaching out to all the lights in the Force. It’ll be too much, she knows.

Tholme enters the cockpit. “Change of plans.”

“Better be a good reason,” Jango says, voice flat.

“Leia’s crying.”

Ahsoka’s unbuckling herself before she can process the words fully. “What?”

Leia doesn’t cry for no reason. Her emotional control is as difficult as the body makes it, but she doesn’t just cry. There’s always a cause.

“I don’t know. Rex said to get you,” Tholme explains. “She was saying a name. He seemed to recognize it.”

Not good not good not good. If Leia was feeling the Emper--No. She cuts the thought off there. No catastrophizing. Information first.

“What name.”

“Luke. Mean anything to--and she’s gone.”

Ahsoka ignores him, just sprints to where she knows the ‘young ones’ are. They’re all in Maul’s room, because nobody wants to be alone with him now, but it’s the worst time to leave him without supervision. It’s not the worst option; he mostly refuses to talk, still.

This holds true, because he definitely isn’t talking when she bursts in. He’s sitting on the bench, in a corner, hugging his knees and watching Quinlan try to calm Leia down.

“Captain, sitrep.”

“Vos and Tholme attempted to show Leia how to reach out to feel the Temple from a distance. They felt that it would be a good use of the time, and an interesting exercise at this distance. She attempted to do so, struggled for several minutes, and then reacted with shock. She has repeated the name ‘Luke’ several times since then, and we’ve been unable to fully calm her down. I asked Tholme to get you, as you are the only Force-Sensitive on board that understands the situation in full.”

“Understood.” She nods to him, and then goes to nudge at Quinlan. “Vos, move.”

“Torre--”

“You can sit behind her, hold her in your lap like you did when we had lunch the other day, but I need to get in her face.” She waits for him to comply, and then drops to her knees and takes Leia’s hands in her own. She radiates calm and assurance, even though she knows Quinlan’s probably been doing the same since this started. She dips her head enough to get in the girl’s line of sight, waits for her to meet eyes.

“Princess,” she says, and meets Leia’s eyes. “What did you feel?”

“Luke.”

From this distance... they’ve got half the system to go, at least, and Leia’s training shouldn’t reach that far for anything more than the fact that the Temple is there. Ahsoka could feel unshielded individuals from here, if she focused, but she’s also been doing this much, much longer. The twins theory holds more water than ever.

“Can you show me?” Ahsoka asks, instead of asking for more clarification. She squeezes Leia’s hands and smiles. “In the Force?”

Leia nods, and closes her eyes. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it’s the first time in a while that Leia’s needed Ahsoka to guide her through.

Luke’s light, for all that it’s unfamiliar to Ahsoka, is brilliant among the rest of the signatures in Coruscant. Like Anakin and Leia, he’s a star in his own right, but he’s brighter. He doesn’t have Anakin’s bitterness or Leia’s righteous anger, just... light. Ahsoka had asked Leia to show her instead of looking for herself because she’d expected to not recognize the boy, but she needn’t have. He’s unmistakable.

He’s so bright that she almost misses the other signature that she does recognize. She shies away, knowing that it would be there, but... but it’s almost twinned with another nearby. Not identical, but different in a way that comes with age, with trauma, with... death.

Leia hadn’t arrived alone, after all.

Why would Luke?

Her eyes snap open, her hand coming up not-quite-fast enough to clap over her mouth as she gasps. She feels a shudder, one that starts in her shoulders and reaches deep into her ribcage, finds a home in her chest and doesn’t stop.

“Oh fuck,” Quinlan whispers. “Torrent? Um, Sokari?”

Rex steps closer. “Commander?”

“That shabuir faked his death again,” she manages. “Three times, Rex!”

He blinks at her. “...I know way too many people who fit that description, Soka.”

“Master Ke--” she cuts herself off. He might have changed his name, just like she had. There’s already an Obi-Wan here. Rex seems to be figuring it out, but she needs to give him another hint.

“He pulled a Hardeen,” she stresses, and Rex’s eyes snap shut with a tired groan.

“Who?” Leia asks, her own tumult of emotion paused in the wake of Ahsoka’s shock. There’s a hope and relief to her, and Ahsoka belatedly realizes that her main worry had been that she’d misidentified what was going on, that she’d given herself a false hope. Ahsoka’s internal reaction, her approval and awe at Luke’s presence, had trickled over enough to give Leia the reassurance she’d needed.

Unintentional as it was, Ahsoka was glad that she’d succeeded in helping her charge.

“Er...” she trails off. “I don’t know what name he’s going by, right now. We’ve spent so long in hiding...”

“The man Luke knew as Crazy Old Ben,” Rex says, and Leia’s eyes light up.

“Oh,” she breathes. “General O--no, names. The High General, then.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says, not a little soft. “Yeah, I guess death didn’t stop him any more than it stopped me.”

“I could have told you that,” Leia says, smiling far too widely. She squirms where she still sits on Quinlan’s lap. “He was... he taught you, right?”

“As much my master as the official one,” Ahsoka says. She glances as Quinlan, feels Maul’s gaze on the back of her head. “Your f... my official master was very young when I was assigned to him. He wasn’t ready to teach, wasn’t even ready to be a knight, entirely, so my training was split between him and his master.”

Quinlan pops in at that moment, “Your grandmaster was military, too?”

We all were, she thinks. Even you, in your own way.

“I landed in their care mid-battle,” she says carefully. “It was a complicated situation.”

He nods, and she vaguely notes that he’s got his arms wrapped around Leia, and his chin tucked on top of her head. She isn’t sure if Leia’s noticed, but Quinlan’s picked up ‘baby’-sitting duty so often recently that she’s fairly certain he’s all but declared her ‘little-sister shaped.’ It doesn’t matter that Leia’s older--she’s still taking the juice boxes and gummy snacks that Quinlan shoves at her every single snacktime.

“Do you think...” Rex trails off, something uncomfortable twisting in the Force, even though his face keeps it mostly hidden. “My brothers. If the General survived and... and made it back...”

“I didn’t feel any,” Ahsoka says, because she knows she’d have noticed if it was anyone she’d met, and likely any clone at all. They all felt different in the Force, but they all held a spark that made her know it was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rex’ika.”

“A long shot,” he says, that dash of hope shriveling up. He must see something in her face, because there’s a curl of warmth in him, even if his smile is brittle. “It’s fine, really. I have you, ‘Soka.”

Rex and Ahsoka. Two halves of one whole.

She can’t wait to hear the lectures on attachment, the way people who haven’t seen her wars try to criticize her for clinging to any chance at still having a will to live. She can’t wait to see them justify telling her that it’s selfish to hold her sanity in her hands and refuse to let the grief take it away. She can’t wait to stare someone down for asking her to ‘learn to let go’ after she’s lost her family, her life, her universe three times over.

Most of the Jedi are more sensible than that, are reasonable enough to see those shades of grey and how to approach rules in the spirit they are meant instead of the rigid letter, but there will be some.

There will be more than enough telling her she is wrong to hold her oldest, closest, best friend as dear as she can.

Attachment, they’ll say.

What they’ll mean is ‘codepedence.’

They won’t be entirely wrong.

She reaches out for him, lets him fall into her side and stay there, closes her eyes and reaches out for the man she’d long called father, when they’d still been in each other’s lives.

This time, past the deafening flare of surprise-love-hope of the little star next to him, she can feel him reach back.

---------------------------

The second the ship has landed, even before Tholme and Fett are done with the checks, Ahsoka’s waiting at the exit. She strains her hearing so she’ll know the second the system will let her open the massive door of the cargo hold.

Leia clings to her side, and the boys stand to her back.

Quinlan’s stressed enough that she can feel it like a cloud. She is very much not trying to feel that stress. Quinlan’s stress levels, back where he’s got Maul so he can keep an eye on Ahsoka and the Baby Sith at the same time, are so low on her priorities list that it’s a a little sad.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to punch the button and open the damn door.

It opens slowly. She bounces on her toes, because there’s a beacon of light and a steady, familiar glow on the other side, and she’s so, so close. She can’t see through the crack yet, because it’s day in this part of Coruscant, and the sunlight is blinding against the dark of the hold. So close. She’s so close.

“The hell’s wrong with you?”

Fett? Fett. He’s already here to get off? This door’s slow.

She doesn’t answer him, because the door is finally open enough to let her out, and she leaps through the gap.

She lands on a pourstone floor, feels pebbles and grit compress under her boots, frantically looks around as her eyes adjust to light and--

The High General, the Negotiator, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, looking just as he did when she first met him, if a little less armored and a little more fed. The hair, the beard, the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. His spirit is a little older, his smile a little more strained, his posture a little more tired, but it’s him.

He spreads his arms, low enough that she could have dismissed it if she’d cared less for hugs, except she’s almost as small as she was when they met.

And every other hug she’d given back then had been, functionally, her being a living missile aiming her montrals for someone’s organs.

She’s a little more aware of how to avoid stabbing her friends in the intestine now.

“Master!”

She sprints for him, collides and sobs, feels him stumble back and then sink to his knees on the too-hard floor, and can feel the tears pouring out of her already. Her breath hitches, and she wails like a child, and that last part of her that couldn’t even grasp at safety shreds itself. His arms are tight around her, warm and strong and Master Kenobi don’t you dare leave again.

It doesn’t matter that Sidious is out there, that the Republic’s been building towards war for a century, that even now someone’s kicking up the Trade Federation. Her dad is here.

“I’ve missed you too, my dear,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, the bristles of his beard scratching along the skin of her forehead. Off to the side, the binary suns that are Luke and Leia grow brighter in proximity, so bright she can barely bear it.

(“Fett, why the kriff are you reaching for your blaster?!”)

(“Torrent said her master tried to kill her.”)

(“Different guy, that was a different guy, put the blaster away.”)

(“You could have just warned me.”)

(“I didn’t expect you to go for a shot on sight!”)

(”Calm down, Jetiika, if I was going to shoot on sight, we’d already be in a firefight.”)

She ignores everything.

“If you fake your death one more time, I swear I’m going to kill you myself.”

He tries to pull away to talk to her more directly. She does not let him. He apparently resigns himself to this, because he just adjusts how he’s sitting and pulls her in closer.

“In my defense, I was far from the only one presumed dead that took advantage of that status, by the end,” he says, letting her slump into his lap and cry herself dry. “I’m proud of you. You know that, I hope.”

She nods against his chest, smearing tears and snot across the linen and wool. She doesn’t care that they’ll need a thorough washing. She can have her public breakdown and it’s fine because Master Kenobi is here.

He doesn’t even know what she’s spent the past fifteen years doing. Luke wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t know she’s thirty-two and broken, beyond a shadow and cut down by her own master. There’s so much he doesn’t know but the Force rings with the truth of it: he’s proud of her anyway.

“I’m going by Ben, now,” he mutters against her montral. “There’s already an Obi-Wan here, after all. Still, I remain a Kenobi.”

She can’t make the words come out of her mouth. She’s overwhelmed, so much so that speech is a mite bit beyond her.

Sokari Torrent, she presses along the frayed bond that’s knitting itself back to life with every breath they take. Leia was already calling me Auntie Soka, and Rex and I both took Torrent, for...

“For the men you lost,” he mutters. “Yes, that’s fitting.”

He smells like sapir tea and a spiced beard oil.

There’s a whirl of activity about her, greetings and ‘a Sith apprentice?’ and introductions. She distantly notes when Fett almost shoots Dooku before Rex shuts that down and advises the Master to leave the area before things spiral out of control. She feels Ben stand, and she stands with him, clings to his side like a child and trusts that whatever happens, whatever needs to happen, he’ll take care of it until she can stand on her own two feet without swaying.

Rex grabs her free hand, and she feels herself settle back into her skin, bit by bit.

She’s back at the Temple. The twins are safe. Her grandmaster is here. She has her other half.

They can save the galaxy this time.

She’s alive she’s home she’s okay.

She’s okay.

Everything’s going to be okay.

[with-my-murder-flute]

Sometimes you just have a really intense week and can’t stop thinking about how much trauma Lan Sizhui experienced by the time he was 5 and how being the Very Best Boy isn’t always healthy and then you need to write Lan Wangji the child psychologist and his incredibly anxious foster-son, y’know?

---

Bunny is on time-out again.

"You have to behave,” A-Yuan says in the voice of the potato-head, packing accessories into its body and shoving it into the bed of a soft plastic truck. “You get in the car now.” The Barbie van is already full, with a dinosaur and a fingerpuppet and one of the new larger Lego figures, and all their carefully packed luggage. A-Yuan does that. Over and over again, for each of his toys, he methodically packs and unpacks luggage. It’s his most common form of play, but not the most enjoyable.

A-Yuan’s breathing is rapid and shallow, so much so that he takes little gasps when he talks to himself. Routinely, predictably, he’s calmer when he turns away from the dollhouse. He’s most collected when selecting items to put into luggage, deciding on pieces of felt and Barbie shoes, but even with the vehicles he can lose himself enjoying the movement and progress of the cars. But underneath it all, there’s a jerkiness to his movements and a certain disconnected quality in his speech and body language that tells Lan Wangji that he’s pretty distressed.

It’s a step forward that Bunny is out at all, Lan Wangji knows. A behaviour therapist at A-Yuan’s last preschool made it a point to extinguish comfort-seeking behaviour towards the toy, which was becoming both careworn and grubby. A-Yuan’s had it at least since he was fourteen months old; it was with him when he came into care. Maybe his birth mother gave it to him. A-Yuan has obediently derogated the toy; if it’s left lying out, he can usually be trusted to throw it into a corner to prove what a big, grown-up boy he is.

Lan Wangji has very carefully gauged his son’s limits of tolerance for some things. When the car ride begins, he waves slightly and says, “Have a nice trip,” which makes A-Yuan glance back at him nervously, but it’s just mild enough, just unemotional enough, just tolerable enough, that it doesn’t provoke too much emotion. A-Yuan can keep pushing his vehicles around, and feel safe enough to drive one into Lan Wangji’s foot. He doesn’t persevere at that point, though; the trip has culminated and he gets up and walks to where he can see down the hallway to the front door, then wanders over to the slide.

A hundred million years ago, Lan Wangji thought he’d be a genetics researcher, like his uncle. Then he thought he’d be a neuroscientist, like his undergraduate thesis advisor. Then he thought he’d be a psychologist like his brother, who focuses entirely on assessment and the development of psychometric tools. For a little bit in grad school, he thought he’d counsel adults, like Wei Wuxian, until a classmate told Wei Wuxian that Dialectical Behavioural Therapy was “objectively badass” and he developed a fixation Lan Wangji could not follow. In retrospect his career path is absolutely obvious, resonating clearly through every bone of him, but it took him a very long time to realize he ought to work with children. It’s a little shocking that he, who was so bad at being a child, feels so prepared to be a father.

He smiles when A-Yuan looks at him anxiously from the slide, the moment of uncertainty as he lets go and begins sliding down triggering the need for reassurance. Lan Wangji is always waiting for that glance, waiting to return it. At A-Yuan’s last placement he’d been assessed as having an avoidant/dismissing attachment style, and despite its uncharitable and parent-shaming nature Lan Wangji can’t help but agree with what his husband had muttered over that one: “Were the parents even trying?”

The most vital task, and the hardest, is being present in the moment with a child. Not worrying about the future, not concerned with the past, not preoccupied with an external standard. He’s surprisingly bad at performing objective assessments with children, because he can see how unfair they all are. His greatest facility is something he built for himself, brick by painstaking brick: the willingness to sit with discomfort, and have faith that the chaos will not remain chaos. All his years of meditation have cultivated a still eye to see the world from, and the faith that patience and compassion will see him through.

Still smiling, still watching A-Yuan, Lan Wangji moves closer to the dollhouse. He carefully stars arranging its contents, righting knocked-over furniture and returning blankets to little wooden beds. He takes out a shark figurine, a couple of doll clothes, then puts Bunny on the floor near his shin. When A-Yuan comes close, magnetically drawn away from the slide, Lan Wangji reaches behind himself for the tea set they were using earlier, arranging cups and plates in front of him as though they’re going to have another tea party. He leaves the placement of the cups ambiguous; it’s not like Bunny is specifically invited, but there is a suggestive proximity, the way the other cup is in proximity to the shark. A-Yuan takes the teapot, and Lan Wangji solemnly holds his cup out while A-Yuan pours. For the sake of the ritual he accepts milk and refuses sugar and mimes stirring his invisible ingredients before taking a sip.

When A-Yuan is done drinking, Lan Wangji turns to Bunny, lifting a cup, and asks, “Would you like some tea?” A-Yuan noticed the moment that Lan Wangji’s hand moves, but as he addresses the rabbit A-Yuan seems to lose interest, which is to say, he slightly dissociates; blink and you missed it, but his eyes go a little glassy, he looks away, and then he acts on the adrenaline and gets up and wanders away.

The current theory about Bunny is like the theory of gravity, which is to say, it’s definitely pretty certain but it never hurts to be humble when it comes to knowledge. It’s honestly a little more speculative and psychodynamic than Lan Wangji is truly comfortable with, and A-Yuan’s case manager, possibly a little defensive over the last preschool placement, absolutely refuses to consider the possibility. But it still feels as essential and true as which way is up that Bunny performs the vital task of holding all the parts of A-Yuan that he blames for making the adults he cares about disappear. Bunny holds both the neediness and the hope for comfort that were so painful, his son shut them down in order to survive. Bunny was how A-Yuan mediated that desire, the source of his comfort, until he was three and a half, and the behaviour therapist.

A-Yuan knew his foster parents didn’t like him being disorganized and distressed and clingy, that they’d rather he behaved more like a six-year-old than four. Which he could, sometimes, because he had a ferocious intelligence which put him cognitively ahead of his emotional development. But he, well... adapted a little too quickly, one might say. Learned his lesson a little too well. Now they’re trying to reignite the behaviours that were extinguished.

Lan Wangji takes a risk, while A-Yuan is pulling picture books off the lower shelf, and lifts Bunny to his shoulder like a colicky infant. He doesn’t do anything else, aside from stroking the rabbit’s fur. He leaves it in place, with a little guiding help from his hand, when A-Yuan brings a Franklin book over and climbs into his lap, demanding to be read to. With interest he notes, halfway through the story, that Lan Wangji holding and petting Bunny doesn’t distress A-Yuan; as the story arc gets as exciting as Franklin books ever do (which is not, to be clear, a criticism) A-Yuan turns in his arms long enough to distractedly reach up and pet Bunny too, before turning back and trying to grab the book for himself.

Wondering how far he can push this, he keeps Bunny in place on his shoulder when they leave the room to check the clock, and A-Yuan goes to the living-room window to watch the street for Wei Wuxian. He looks curiously when Lan Wangji leans down to dig the remote out between the couch cushions, but easily redirects when Lan Wangji turns on the TV and goes to prepare dinner. Having the show on limits his anxious glances out the window to three or four a minute only, instead of sustained attention followed by a meltdown if he had to wait more than five minutes.

Lan Wangji thinks it would be easier to keep Bunny in place, on his shoulder like a dishtowel, if he had weighted plastic beads in his extremities, or if he was velcroed. He’s wary of changing anything about such a strong comfort object, though, so he just learns to move and stand differently to keep the rabbit from constantly falling off.

A-Yuan greets Wei Wuxian with the kind of terrified delight that looks like general indifference if you don’t know better; he runs over, stands uncertainly within arm’s reach of Wei Wuxian’s legs, and then dodges away before Wei Wuxian can reach down to him. Lan Wangji helpfully muted the show when he heard the door open--it gives A-Yuan the space to sit with his back to the room and self-regulate while the adults say hello.

“New friend?” his husband asks finally, an eyebrow raised.

“Modelling it as appropriate,” Lan Wangji says. “I thought perhaps he could tolerate us demonstrating that it is not discouraged.”

“Nice rabbit, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says seamlessly, in a voice meant to be heard from the couch. “I like it. Makes me wish I had a rabbit.”

“They are very good friends,” Lan Wangji agrees. “This one is not mine, but he is keeping me company.”

“Nice,” Wei Wuxian agrees. “Maybe whoever you borrowed him from will let him hang out with me sometime.”

Their audience does not comment on this, but they didn’t need him to. Wei Wuxian sets the table while Lan Wangji cooks. A-Yuan’s palate is still pretty limited, so he’s used to making three separate elements of one meal, and can live with cutting up cooked hot dog into little coins so long as he doesn’t have to eat them himself. They just supplement their kid’s diet with a multivitamin.

A-Yuan looks askance enough, when dinner is ready, that Lan Wangji takes Bunny off his shoulder and asks, “Where should he sit while we eat?”

There is a fourth chair, albeit completely out of proportion, but he doesn’t dare try it. Instead A-Yuan thinks for a minute, and points to the kitchen counter behind the table. Lan Wangji props Bunny up against the wall, observing dinner if not participating, and after a second to think, A-Yuan accepts this as normal and climbs into his chair. He is meticulously well-behaved.

Lan Wangji aches for his son, and hopes one day he’ll feel confident enough in their love to break the rules around them.

They eat.

[flecks-of-stardust]

Hey I genuinely don't know this but what is a sysmed?

there's A Lot of community context a lot of singlets (ie, non-systems) don't know about here, so i'll try to explain as i go. and of course, disclaimer that i am only just one person (and one system), so other folks will have other thoughts, and i do not represent all plural folk. for what it’s worth, i have thought about this vein of things a lot, so i hope this is an adequate summary of the controversy surrounding this term.

the short version is in the word itself. ‘sysmed’ is short for system medicalist. system medicalists are systems (usually) that believe that systemhood is inherently a medicalized existence, and often that comes with beliefs such as all plurality requires psychiatric treatment, all plurality is disordered, you have to have either DID (dissociative identity disorder) or OSDD (other specified dissociative disorder) to be a system, etc. if you look the term up, you will likely see people on both sides of the argument referencing transmeds (ie, trans medicalists), because ‘sysmed’ did arise with inspiration from ‘transmed.’

the core of the idea here is that sysmeds believe that systems must form from trauma, because that is the definition for DID and OSDD in the dsm 5. i think this is bullshit, and i don’t want it anywhere near me. i don’t care if they think the term ‘sysmed’ is derogatory, because i have very little patience for this type of gatekeeping behavior. i don’t think it’s helpful to anyone, least of all traumagenic systems (ie systems that formed from trauma), to police people’s existence like this, and that’s why i keep restating this boundary. (i don’t put it in a pinned post because i don’t like having a formal ‘dni’ or some shit. i just block people i don’t like.)

longer version below the cut with more community context:

a lot of this is, frankly, complicated. brains are complex. humans are complex. neuroscience, while having made leaps and bounds in recent years, still hasn’t given many answers to how the brain works, least of all how there can be multiple distinct personalities/people in one brain. a good chunk of what we know of brains now comes from autopsies performed on preserved brains, which, as you can imagine, probably isn’t entirely accurate to how a live brain works.

there just isn’t much research at all on how plurality works to begin with, and so a lot of things are hard to argue. most of what we have now is based on lived experiences, with limited research to back it up. on top of that, a good portion of the research that Does exist is based in eugenics. the psychiatric system very much does Not want systems to exist, and everything paints this state of being as disordered, as broken, as something that requires fixing, and all other sorts of ways to state that they want us gone. so whatever there is out there, it’s very focused on how plurality is ‘damaging’ or some shit. i don’t even know. i don’t care for it.

this is compounded by the dsm 5. i’m less knowledgeable on this than a lot of other people, i’m sure, but the tldr is that the dsm 5 is full of bullshit. it’s a collection of extremely narrow boxes and labels that clinicians stuff mentally ill people into, and it is often and constantly used as a means of enacting violence on marginalized peoples. the whole obsession with labeling certain human behaviors as harmful and certain others as healthy is very misguided, and often misses the point that human existence is fluid and hard to define. what is healthy and helpful for one person can be detrimental to another, and vice versa. there is no one level of disorderedness that you can use a single guideline to determine, and at this point the dsm 5 is just a tool to milk money out of people.

so then coming back to plurality, there are two categories for it in the dsm 5. there’s DID, dissociative identity disorder, sometimes considered ‘more severe,’ and there’s OSDD, other specified dissociative disorder, sometimes considered ‘less severe.’ the difference between DID and OSDD is that in DID, splits between headmates/alters are usually more complete, resulting in two (or more) distinct personalities/people, while in OSDD, it can be incomplete in a multitude of ways. there is a theory that DID results from the psyche of a traumatized child responding to said trauma by not fully integrating their personality, resulting in multiple distinct personalities; the more severe the trauma, the more fragmented this personality is. that’s roughly how it pans out, though of course, it’s not as simple as it being a sliding scale from OSDD to DID. human brains are incredibly complex, after all.

the thing is, there is, as far as i’ve heard, no actual research to back up that theory. i wish i could link some sources here, this whole post is Dude Just Trust Me, but i really don’t have anything on hand and i’d have to slog through pages of medicalization if i were to look now. but we really don’t know for sure that trauma is required to cause this type of personality fragmentation, nor do we know the exact mechanisms for how it works. the idea that systems have to form from trauma is really just based on community experiences. and certainly, there are a lot of community experiences here. i won’t deny that there are a lot of systems who have experienced childhood trauma, and severe childhood trauma at that. i’m in no way discounting it.

i am, however, saying that there are systems that did not result from trauma. they are called endogenic systems (as opposed to traumagenic systems), and they just... are plural. they have headmates or alters, and their system origin is not traumatic. that is literally it. no one really knows how that works either, and honestly i don’t really care that much. they exist, they’re talking about their experiences, and that’s good enough for me. it is so not my place to question them on how they came to be.

a lot of traumagenic systems do not like the idea of endogenic systems. because their systems resulted from trauma, which requires a lot of work and healing, systemhood is inherently tied to trauma for them. and, i mean, that’s fair, honestly? but a lot also believe that because their systemhood is tied to trauma, there is no way to exist as a system without medicalization, ie receiving treatment for it. some may go as far to believe that their systemhood is something that requires fixing, and some may go to the lengths of integration, which is when all headmates/alters in a system integrate and form into one singular person. so when endogenic systems come along and share their experiences of plurality and how it’s not linked to trauma for them, a lot of traumagenic systems that buy into this idea of medicalization get very angry. they say that by implying that it is possible to be a system without trauma, it devalues their trauma because their systems formed from trauma, and the two are inextricably linked. they also get mad because some endogenic systems don’t see a problem with their plurality at all, not seeing it as a disorder or something that requires treatment, and it’s in direct contrast to how some traumagenic systems may have highly disordered systems with lots of internal conflict.

i am not trying to deny the painful reality that some traumagenic systems face. there can definitely be a lot of disorder in a system, where alters will argue and fight and hurt each other, and communication can be poor, or dissociative barriers prevent information from one alter passing to another, and just the general difficulty of existing in a world that is so built around singlets. i’m not denying any of that, and i sympathize with it. but i really can’t say that endogenic systems don’t exist either, because they’re talking about their experiences, how they sometimes lack these issues (and hell, they can have these problems too), and it’s just not my place to argue that this can’t exist. we don’t know that. it is not any of our places to argue whether someone else’s experiences are valid or not. that is gatekeeping.

also, note my wording above. i said that endogenic systems didn’t form from trauma. this doesn’t mean they can’t have trauma, because there are so many ways to be traumatized. someone can be an endogenic system and still be traumatized, and it’s not an oxymoron. and this is where a lot of the conflict arises, i think; traumagenic systems argue against endogenic systems with the idea that these ‘fake’ systems are stealing resources from traumagenic systems, and/or that because these endogenic systems have trauma, that must mean they are actually traumagenic and just denying their reality. or, because endogenic systems exist, they will make singlets think being plural is trendy and not painful and difficult, and it demeans how hard it’s been for traumagenic systems. and i’m sure there’s a bunch of other arguments that i can’t think of off the top of my head right now.

if you really read that and think about it, it’s just rehashed respectability politics. there are no resources to ‘steal,’ because you can’t use up a resource. therapy is expensive and hard to get for everyone, and endogenic systems aren’t blocking traumagenic systems from receiving help. and i hope i don’t have to explain why saying ‘you’re actually traumagenic and just denying it’ is shitty. i’m sure you’ve heard similar veins of thought before.

to be honest, i really don’t think medicalized systems are necessarily bad, because some systems can really only be medicalized. i won’t deny their existence, and at the end of the day, there will always be systems who choose to regard their system as a disorder and wish to fix it. that is the nature of how things are; disability is a complex thing, and you’ll find lots of varying opinions across the board within only one type of disability, and the same goes for mental illnesses or other conditions that affect the brain and how one experiences the world. there will always be systems who will want to integrate, and i take no issue with it, even if i don’t understand it. it’s just not my business. the problem here is that these system medicalists, sysmeds, are pushing their beliefs onto everyone else, and they get Violent. there are reddit threads dedicated to ‘exposing fakers,’ and i haven’t seen much of it because i know actually reading what they say about other people would make me sick and angry, but this is the exact same type of lateral violence that plays back into the comfort of those in hegemonic rule. i don’t want sysmeds interacting with me because i’ve seen the type of damage they can cause, and i’m not interested in dealing with it.

and this is really why they’re often likened to transmeds. doesn’t the ideology sound similar? you must have dysphoria to be trans, you must have traumatic origins to be a system; you can’t experience transness in this way because it’s not possible, you can’t experience plurality in this way because it’s not possible (according to the dsm 5); there are trans fakers who make us look bad and we should expose them, there are system fakers who make us look bad and we should expose them; etc etc etc. it is the same vein of thought, and it is just as damaging, to both the people being targeted and the perpetrators. and both of it panders to cis/singlet people.

so yeah. i don’t want that nonsense on my blog. i don’t want to interact with people, systems or otherwise, who buy into that ideology. it’s damaging, it kills people, and it’s just respectability politics. i tried to stay as neutral as possible when describing this, but it’s a lot. either way i hope it’s some useful context.

[clownspiral]

MORE michael headcanons!

- michael (all forms) is an afab nonbinary transmasc with a fem-leaning presentation/expression 

- michael (all forms) is autistic 

- michael shelley is a bit of a neat-freak & the disorganization of the archives drives him a little crazy 

- michael shelley LOVES oldies but goodies 

- michael shelley’s glasses are oval (long-ways) and have pink frames 

- michael shelley usually wears his hair up in a ponytail 

- michael shelley frequently becomes lost in his own daydreams (a lot of which involve living in a nice little cottage) 

- michael shelley carries around a clipboard to keep notes on throughout the day 

- michael shelley is usually wearing bell bottoms 

- michael shelley has a nervous laugh 

- michael shelley comes from a small, poor family 

- michael shelley is kind of a goody-two-shoes but doesn’t snitch on his friends, even though it makes him feel guilty to keep secrets. he’d rather get dragged into trouble than throw a friend under the bus 

- michael shelley misses a lot of social cues & jokes especially tend to go over his head 

- michael shelley isn’t exactly the Most Skilled of liars 

- michael shelley fidgets with his hands a lot 

- michael shelley is over-sensitive or overemotional at times but is a pretty consistently responsible/reliable person 

- michael shelley has trouble expressing when he’s struggling emotionally & usually just doesn’t tell anyone 

- michael distortion is immune to human sicknesses but does experience the occasional monster-cold, usually caused by fatigue 

- michael distortion really likes having its hair played with/braided 

- michael distortion perches itself on things it should not be able to fit on 

- michael distortion is almost weightless despite being something that takes up quite a bit of space 

- michael distortion has to lean down to enter rooms if it’s not using its own door 

- michael distortion really likes classic disney movies 

- michael distortion has elf ears, which it hides under its hair out of insecurity 

- michael distortion likes to help its human friends with household chores, as well as running errands 

- michael distortion refuses to harm animals or children (claiming that they’re “too easy” as spiral targets) 

- michael distortion likes to whistle 

- michael distortion has a long, lizard-like tongue 

- michael distortion likes putting on shadow puppet shows for its friends & can quite literally perform entire movies with just its hands 

- michael distortion is able to hypnotize people & is especially skilled at putting others to sleep 

- michael distortion’s handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, over-the-top cursive 

- michael distortion often mimics any animal it is interacting with 

- michael distortion is usually either swaying subtly or is 100% motionless 

- michael distortion does not Need to breathe but often fakes it just to fit in 

- michael distortion mirrors & adopts its friends’ quirks and behaviors 

- post-spiral michael is not ok with being called it/its 

- post-spiral is cold and closed-off at first, and becomes extremely argumentative when talking does become a more common thing. he works on being less snappy during therapy 

- post-spiral michael comes out of the spiral in very bad health (weak, underweight, shaky, etc.) & it takes some time for him to recover back to a healthy state 

- post-spiral michael experiences Severe bouts of dissociation/depersonalization/derealization, as well as random crying & laughing spells (post-spiral helen experiences the same & they often trigger each other into having such spells) 

- post-spiral michael has trouble reading or solving equations 

- post-spiral michael is very jumpy and hypervigilant 

- post-spiral michael has nail-biting, finger/hand-gnawing, & hair-chewing habits 

- post-spiral michael goes nonverbal (and sometimes catatonic) for varying amounts of time 

- post-spiral michael experiences intense migraines 

- post-spiral michael & post-spiral helen like to twist their limbs together as a form of cuddling (they're both extremely flexible) 

- it takes a while for post-spiral michael to warm up to Having A Skeleton & he spends a good chunk of his immediate post-spiral period walking a bit like a baby deer 

- post-spiral michael greatly prefers doorbells to knocking 

- post-spiral michael will only keep clocks that do not tick in his home 

- post-spiral michael is sensitive to rejection, especially from post-spiral helen (at first he interprets her wanting Alone Time as her hating him but he slowly gets over that as his own social circle begins to grow so he’s no longer dependent on her and her alone) 

- post-spiral michael has joint/bone pains, especially in his fingers/hands/wrists 

- post-spiral michael prefers sleeping in the light to sleeping in the dark, and will only sleep with the bedroom door Open (closet door too) 

[fencesandfrogs]

If its ok to ask. In moon knight episode 5 I was unsure when exactly marc's did really started from his mom's abuse. When he was 10 or 12?

This is a hard one to answer, because (to the best of my knowledge) there’s no specific onset for dissociative disorders.

Now, I understand how the show makes it look, but the show isn’t perfect, and the narrative convenience is kind of necessary.

Here’s an article on DID in children, although the introductory case is very dramatic. My broader understanding is that dissociative disorders in children are often much more subtle, because parts haven’t fully established their own identities. They just haven’t had time.

Anyway.

Look, here’s my two cents. A normal, healthy parent is very unlikely to suddenly become that abusive. Yes, there were circumstances, but I just find it hard to believe she was the ideal parent before that. (To be clear, I’m not saying it’s impossible, or that it could never happen. It could. But to me, that good/bad split feels like, well, a coping mechanism. Especially considering the dissociation.) Even if she wasn’t abusive, she could have not fostered a secure attachment, an unpredictable caregiver is a very strong risk factor for DID.

There’s no split, just a failure to integrate. As they got older, their identities solidified separately instead of together.

(Note: this is not to say new alters cannot form passed the age of integration — I don’t think there’s a true hard cut-off age for DID, but before twelve is most likely — but we’re talking about something else, here. New alters can form at any time.)

With that in mind, I’m autistic and bad at telling how old people are, but Marc read as somewhere around ten in that scene. He had probably already been dealing with disorganized attachment, leading to some dissociation + “mode-switching,” if you will, which coupled with a traumatic event and ensuing abuse to cement his DID.

[prisoner009]

Here is why I, a person who has DID, think that Mikoto also has DID. I have seen a lot of misinformation about the disorder in the Milgram tag so I will try to correct them with the best of my abilities. And just a heads up, I am not interested in arguing whether or not Mikoto is a singlet or not since I had this conversation with others several times. This is just what I think Milgram meant to portray.

Before I start, please be mindful of the fact that Mikoto isn't a real person and I don't think he is a great DID rep however I feel like a lot of people just ignore the fact that he has DID because "it is ableist" while it is true we shouldn't ignore the obvious intention of the series, Milgram doesn't like being vague about the prisoners as seen with others. Here is the diagnostic criteria for DID. Code 300.14 "A. Disruption of identity characterized by two or more distinct personality states, which may be described in some cultures as an experience of possession. The disruption of marked discontinuity in sense of self and sense of agency, accompanied by related alterations in affect, behavior, consciousness, memory, perception, cognition, and/or sensory-motor functioning. These signs and symptoms may be observed by others or reported by the individual. B. Recurrent gaps in the recall of everyday events, important personal information, and/or traumatic events that are inconsistent with ordinary forgetting. C. The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. D. The disturbance is not a normal part of a broadly accepted cultural or religious practice. Note: In children, the symptoms are not better explained by imaginary playmates or other fantasy play. E. The symptoms are not attributable to the physiological effects of a substance (e.g., blackouts or chaotic behavior during alcohol intoxication) or another medical condition (e.g., complex partial seizures)." 1) "Disruption of identity characterized by two or more distinct personality states" for the sake of clarity, I will refer to Mikoto's alter as "Other Mikoto". Mikoto himself is very sociable, kind and has a more sweeter tone to his voice. He calls most prisoners by nicknames even though he isn't really familiar with them. In John Doe voice drama Mikoto gets stressed and switches to "Other Mikoto". Other Mikoto talks more like a delinquent, swears a lot and generally has more of a raspier tone to his voice. Other Mikoto goes as far as attacking Es which is out of character for Mikoto. 2) "B. Recurrent gaps in the recall of everyday events, important personal information, and/or traumatic events that are inconsistent with ordinary forgetting." We know that since day one Mikoto had no idea about what he had done to be in Milgram. In MeMe, during Other Mikoto's parts (metal parts of the song) he is very blunt about the murder making it clear that he is the alter that holds that traumatic memory while in Mikoto's parts (softer, chorus parts of the song) he says that he doesn't know why he is there and that they must be mistaken. No, he isn't lying about amnesia. It has been confirmed that to ensure that they are not lying Es uses a song extraction machine that extracts the knowledge about murders from their subconscious mind. MeMe sounds like two songs stitched together because Mikoto's subconscious is shared by another alter. In short, it was extracted from both of them not just Mikoto. Also, in John Doe voice drama right after Other Mikoto switches out Mikoto gets really confused because he doesn't remember beating Es and then fighting with Kotoko. 3) "C. The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning." Even though Mikoto has a stable office job and tries his best to look like a functioning adult I believe there is more to it. In MeMe, towards the end it sounds like they are aware of each others existence but Mikoto wants to deny the fact that he has DID. His amnesia barrier and miscommunication with Other Mikoto does affect his functioning. 4) D and E points are as we know, don't apply to Mikoto so I won't bother explaining them. I have seen a lot of people say that Mikoto is faking DID because "He remembers/knows about it a little as seen in the MV." which is literal misinformation. Amnesia barriers are not always the same and you may remember bits of things at times. Mikoto is well aware that

something bad is going on, he is scared to admit it. He just doesn't know what and that is when Other Mikoto comes in the stage. Other Mikoto is supposed to hold that traumatic memory (murder) so Mikoto won't have to process that all by himself. I believe Other Mikoto is a trauma holder + most likely an protector. "You don't have to keep it in and hide it away, “I” will save “me”." is the reason why I think Other Mikoto is a protector. Motive for the murder was not mentioned a lot in the video but basing from these lyrics I believe that he has killed someone that was a past abuser or a threat to Mikoto's life in anyway. The murder was planned. At the beginning we can see him waiting on a specific subway station for his victim, which makes me think that it was most likely someone he knew rather than a random pedestrian. Hopefully, we will learn more about his motive on the second trial but for now all we can speculate is that he did it to "protect" himself. Not by the means of self defense, but by something else. Another thing I have seen that has been spread around a lot is that "Mikoto formed a system after murdering someone/because of his stress as an office worker." No. No one can form a system at the age of 23. It doesn't work like that. (next part is taken from did-research) The theory of Structural Dissociation works off of the assumption that no one is born with an integrated personality. Instead, infants operate based off of a loose collection of different ego states that handle their different needs- feeding, attachment to a caregiver, exploring the world around them. Over time, these ego states naturally integrate into one coherent and cohesive personality, usually by the ages of 6 or 9. However, childhood trauma disrupts this process. Different ego states are left unable to merge with each other due to conflicting needs, traumatic memories, or learned action paths or responses to trauma. One coherent sense of self cannot form when the primary caregivers of the child are inconsistent, loving one moment and abusive the next, preventing healthy attachment from occurring and instead facilitating disorganized attachment. In short, Mikoto's DID formed in childhood because of repetitive trauma that he had experienced when he was between the ages of 6-9. We don't know what his trauma is but perhaps we may learn about it on the next trials. Overall, DID is used in a lot of symbolic ways in MeMe (from using OSDDID terms like "switch" to a headspace) that I think it is almost impossible for Mikoto to not have DID. Thank you for reading all this mess. Feel free to shoot me ask if you have any questions.

[diemondgrimm]

Just throwing in my ideas about Powder/Jinx

(Spoilers ahead)

When Powder and Vi are walking in the very first episode, Powder doesn’t cry. - she is also the one to comfort her sister.

My thoughts are Powder is emotionally blocked. Her sister is so rough and outright and extremely confident in her emotions, (this is dampened after being in prison), but she’s still very raw and emotional. The first thing she does upon seeing Powder again is explain herself, she’s emotionally in tune and even expresses herself in “I wanted” and “my intention”, here’s no manipulation, it’s very honest. Powder is constantly using “you” statements from the moment we first see her, paired with emotional “wanted” statements. Which in the proper context these are good, but when they become a mantra, usually, (there are exceptions but the rule in the psychiatry office is), if it’s repeated as if you need to convince yourself as well, it’s usually a trigger. She’s not just “whiny”, and when little kids whine about their feelings it’s because they are small beans, they haven’t been taught how to properly deal with them, this whining is a sign someone needs to help her mature or she isn’t processing properly/she’s emotionally compromised to a point she can’t move past the situation that has her triggered so she’s unable to move forward. Essentially someone needs to teach her emotional skills and help her through her triggers, but I don’t think therapy was an option..

Powder is extremely defensive and feels outcast from the beginning. She is emotionally unhinged by her sisters “betrayal” (even if that betrayal is simply to keep the others safe and logically is smart and not a betrayal at all) much like someone with borderline personality disorder.

Carrying through with this borderline personality disorder thing, she also results to hurting herself, and hurting her things in an uncontrolled rage

We also see extremely codependent traits form Powder. how she comforts her elder sister in the very beginning of the show, which I would normally claim of course she is, they are seeing their dead parents and their world is falling apart and on fire around them-but! Powder doesn’t cry. She stands comforting her sister with a completely blank stare. I think some will say she is dissociating, but I’m not satisfied with this opinion. I think of course she is, but this isn’t the traumatic event that started her dissociative episodes. If her parents were killed, I’m going to assume they were part of the fighting. I am going to assume that the unrest of a “civil war” of sorts has been plaguing their parents and those they know for some time. The emotional outburst, the helplessness of her parents situation she probably took on as her own at an age when she wasn’t supposed to be anything more then a child. I’d bet these co-dependent traits started with mummy and daddy being stressed and her needing to learn to stand on her own two feet at too young an age. I think this is further proven by Vi being much more adjusted. She probably had a more relaxed childhood where she was allowed to be herself, providing her with room to grow her more confident and healthy self.

I also see strange care taker traits with Powder as she becomes Jinx. Her family dying and her sisters betrayal is something I think she expected to happen. Those doubts and fears have been rolling around for a long time. This family trauma doesn’t strengthen her thoughts that “my sister will return for me” it’s the opposite. The way she reaches out for the first person she sees is expected with that level of trauma, but the extremeness of it, the level of manipulation available to her new parental figure is paired with those doubts and an already unhinged kind of a codependent mindset and borderline traits.

This thought carries when she’s not surprised by her fathers betrayal either. The constant repeat of “liar” is something she does not only to feel confident in what she is saying, she needs to say it to believe it. She has to believe everyone will leave in the end just like her sister, she feels alone because she has can’t reconcile with her own deep emotional woods. If she faced herself she’d have to admit that she did indeed kill her family and that what she’s done isn’t morally gray. It’s downright wrong.

Also, let’s all admit. If you’ve been in therapy you know, a lot of time healing feels like dying. You have to kill the beliefs and essentially part of you to be able to heal from trauma. It’s rough Buddy and I’m sure Jinx had no one to rely on and is deep in it.

I believe the kind of trauma, of losing your family, and how she idolizes them through dolls and toys much too young for her is easily a symbol of how she cannot move past what has happened. Furthermore her strange childlike behavior around her new father figure keeps with that theory. She’s mentally stuck in one place.

It’s my personal belief when someone is stunted in one area, whether it’s emotional or physical, we make up for it in others. I think it’s obvious Powder is gifted with electronics from a young age, and her obsession with guns and bombs becomes where she puts all her energy. Including the energy, that in a healthy life, she would have used too emotionally develop. It’s no help that weapons and bombs is probably what her care taker cares more about. Who cares if she’s emotionally stable? (as the crew constantly complains about”she’s unhinged”, but) the boss doesn’t seem to care? He even cultivated her curious and unhealthy relationship with machinery and child’s things and her art.

I think all of Jinx’s issues and general craziness started long before her sister left, or her family accident, or her parents were killed.. she probably was an extremely gifted child who needed lots of love and care to help her with her special needs or her emotional needs. That wasn’t met, it maybe was even abused long before we see her on the screen.

There’s a lot more i could say. But, I think poor Powder was different from the beginning.

[fictionkinfessions]

No one’s ready for this absolutely smoldering hot take about Moon Knight shipping but here it goes:

(Disclaimer: my experiences with plurality is not universal and others might not find this advice helpful but I wanted to share anyways)

Shipping Jake, Steven and Marc together is not problematic because it’s selfcest, but it is toeing the line of healthy bc getting so absorbed in your own head/finding comfort in dating your alters can be a dangerous form of escapism for systems

Most systems experience dissociation wherein you loose time and/or retreat into your own head to cope with life stressors, if you’re dating someone in your own head, the comfort that comes from them may tempt you to retreat more often. Therefore you would loose touch with the outside world which isn’t the best because you’re basically missing out on your life. Dating your system may be one of the only ways for someone to find comfort but just be wary, especially in situations where you use it as an out on everyday life. Keep an eye out, guys

- a very tired Marc Spector fictive

[unwelcome-ozian]

Hello! I was wondering: what are your thoughts on "endogenic systems"/people that believe that DID can form without C-PTSD? I have seen a lot of people claiming to be multiple without any trauma and being very aggressive about it. It confuses me. Why would someone WANT to be multiple? It makes me sad, even a little bit angry. I have to live with this condition for the rest of my life and people are talking about how great it is to be an endogenic "system"... Sorry if this is a dumb question.

It's not a dumb question at all. 

Here's a quote from a post I found a bit ago.  The link to the post will be at the end of the quote so you can read more if you choose.

The terms traumagenic and endogenic, which are now often used to try and divide the community into “fake” and “real” systems, were never meant to be used as such. We proposed them, and a few other terms, back in mid 2014 just as a way for people to move away from medicalized terms, to help phase out the term “natural system”, and give non-medicalized systems words they could use to better describe their experiences.

Endogenic simply means, a system not formed from trauma or other negative life experiences. It doesn’t mean they never experienced trauma, just that it isn’t what formed them. It doesn’t mean “healthy” or “non-disordered”. Endogenic systems can and sometimes do experience amnesia, dissociation, distress, and dysfunction. There are quite a few hypotheses out there for how endogenic systems form, but in the end, we just don’t know how the brain works in regards to plurality. It could be psychologically, physiological, spiritual, who knows. The point is, endogenic systems exist and are a completely valid expression of plurality.

Traumagenic means a system that formed from trauma or other negative life experiences. That’s it, full stop. There are no criteria besides that, there are no age limits. If it happened at five, twenty five, or fifty five, that’s all acceptable and valid. Traumagenic is not a synonym for “DID system” or “OSDD system”; DID and OSDD are medicalized terms for how a system functions, or doesn’t function, not terms for how the system itself formed. There are traumagenic systems that do not have DID or OSDD, and just as there are endogenic systems that do experience amnesia and distress, there are traumagenic systems that do not.  LINK

take care,

Oz

[bumbleberrysky]

alexa, play candyshop (bass boosted) | 02

pairing: gabriel x reader genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs) wc: 3.7k rating: sfw warnings: same as before, wounded gabriel & removal of those stitches notes: the fire under my ass burns as strong as ever, hallelujah

You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. It’s something you’re destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point you’d thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes you’re suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason you’d been brought here in the first place? Maybe…

Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.

prev. || next

Much to your regret, your plans the next morning to continue being a nuisance to Dean are thrown in the bin at his decision to leave early and meet Castiel somewhere a state over for a case that the angel had found. Something about vamps in a mine or something, you’re a bit hazy on the details. You’d only half-listened when Sam filled you in upon your arrival in the kitchen, a good hour after Dean had already departed the bunker.

While you would like to say Dean is completely to blame, the truth is that once you passed out last night you slept like a log and didn’t wake up until mid-morning today, which classifies as a sleep-in of sorts for you. You love sleep, but your body is wired to wake up not long after sunrise, unfortunately. It’s that hunter lifestyle you love to hate.

Sam had huffed a laugh at your face when you found out you’d missed Dean, but otherwise had kept to himself with his healthy breakfast as you went about making yourself a coffee. You tend to be a bit nauseous in the mornings, so a coffee will be enough for you for a few hours. It’s likely your stomach won’t roar in hunger until a bit after midday, as it is wont to do.

“How is your arm?”

Sam’s question breaks you out of the dissociative state you’d slipped into as you sip your coffee, grip on the mug tightening in reflex. It takes a few blinks before your eyes focus back on him, a small smile on your lips.

“Much better, thank you doctor,” you answer, before mumbling into your coffee as you take another sip. “Despite apparent attempts at making it otherwise…”

Sam snorts, not even bothering to comment on that. “I’m glad. Did you have anything planned for the day?”

A contemplative hum escapes you, your gaze wandering to the ceiling. “No, not really. I kind of went hard for a while there, one case after the other, so I’m due for a break. Not much of a fan of burnout.”

Your eyes move back down, meeting his own. “I’m probably going to just hang back, for a bit. Recuperate. I mean, I didn’t get any injury besides my arm, but I’m just… tired, I suppose. Didn’t get much sleep the past few weeks.”

“Of course you didn’t hurt anything but your arm,” Sam rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his smoothie—you’re not a fan of the green tinge it has, but if he likes it then you suppose it must be alright, at least. “You and your stupid good luck. Dean is still mad about last time, you know. When he got splattered in monster guts that just missed you by a centimetre.”

The memory yanks a giggle out of you before you can stop it, almost spilling your coffee as a result of the abrupt movement. “Oh, that was good. I wish I had a picture so I could scrapbook it.”

Sam laughs around a mouthful of food, swallowing it down before he continues. “Dean would kill you.”

“I know, but it would be worth it.” You place your cup down, deciding it a better course of action than continuing to hold it and risking spillage. “Also, I know you think my luck is really good all the time, but it’s kind of just good occasionally. All other times, it sucks.”

“It kicks in when you hunt, though, so I suppose that’s all that matters,” Sam muses, flicking through an article on his phone somewhat distractedly. He hums to himself before turning the screen off and angling his body to you properly, meeting your questioning gaze.

“I’m… I’m gonna need your help,” he says, appearing somewhat sheepish. “With Gabriel.”

You try not to let your sharp intake of breath show, but from the look that flickers through Sam’s eyes you figure he catches it anyway. Your teeth worry your bottom lip for a moment before you can muster a proper response. “Alright. What are you thinking of doing?”

Sam adjusts once more, pushing his plate away, cutlery stacked on top; it’s only now that you realise he’s finished the meal and the only thing left to consume is his smoothie.

“Well, I’m not… entirely sure yet.”

You huff a laugh, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy. It isn’t that you’d forgotten about the battered archangel hiding in a room a few doors down from yours, but it’s moreso that you’d made it a point not to think about it so early in the morning, lest your mood be ruined for the entire day. Thinking of Gabriel… it kind of hurt. You’re not sure you’re ready to sit down and analyse exactly why you’re having such visceral reactions yet.

“I don’t think we can really plan much, here,” he says, features softening with empathy. It reminds you that when it comes to Hell and being tortured, the youngest Winchester isn’t as unfamiliar as you might hope. A pang of something hits against the confines of your chest at his tone and the passing look in his eyes; as always, there’s the useless feeling, the wish you could take away all the bad memories and experiences and make it all better. You know you can’t, nothing can, but you hate seeing your friends in any modicum of pain.

You suppose that includes Gabriel, if the sensations whirling within you at the thought of him are anything to go by.

“We’ll just have to take it as it comes,” you say, taking your mug into your hold and downing the rest of the drink in one go. “Alright! I’m gonna shower and then… I guess we go see him.”

x   x

 Unlike the Gabriel you were once so familiar with, this Gabriel is decidedly not fond of visitors.

Sam had gone and prepared some things while you’d showered and dressed, and by the time you reappear outside your room you hear shuffling from the direction of the library. Curious, you make your way down the hall, peeking your head in and blinking in only minor surprise at the sight of Sam, his shoulders heavy.

“What’s up, Sam-o-saurus?”

Sam looks up and gives you the closest approximation to a bitch face that you’ve ever received from him, clearly not fond of the new nickname that came to you on the spot like a divine enlightenment. He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe, though, which is probably for the best considering your mission for the day. It would do none of you any good if he went near Gabriel while all riled up.

“Gabriel is, uh,” he clears his throat, placing down a sterile steel tray in the shape of a bean and small surgical scissors, along with a scalpel. Your gaze strays to the side and sees that it was the first aid box he’d been ransacking as you arrived. “Not very open to visitation from me right now. I think I might be a bit… bit big. He doesn’t really even see me when he looks at me, so I don’t think he realises who I am.”

You wince, trying not to dwell on the information longer than needed to file it away for later consideration. “Oh. Sorry, Sam. You want me to go see if I can bring him out?”

“Please,” the tall man says, gesturing to the tools on the glossy oak table. “I figured we could start by getting rid of those stitches over his mouth, if nothing else. I don’t think he has enough grace right now to stop infection so we should try and reduce the risk.”

His words sadden you, but you know the truth they hold. Your limbs feel a bit heavy as you push away from the doorway.

“Alright. I’ll be right back.”

Gabriel’s allocated room isn’t all that far from the library, and the note on the door sticks out like a sore thumb so you don’t have to worry much about getting lost on the way (ignoring that at this point you know most parts of the bunker like the back of your hand). Once outside his room, something gives you pause though.

Are you ready to see him in that state again? Or is it that a small, tiny part of you fears he won’t recognise you, either?

Ridiculous of you, really. You take a moment to admonish yourself for the thought. If you take a second to factor in the difference in time spent in hell, even without considering all the time he was missing, Gabriel had to have been trapped and tortured for over a century at the very least. Centuries and years might mean nothing to a celestial being who has been alive for millennia, but over a century of fear and torture is a lot even for someone with such impressive mileage.

You shake your head, attempting to clear your thoughts and emotions so you don’t enter his room with an overwhelming aura. Okay, showtime.

A soft knock echoes as your knuckles meet the wood, a moment passing before you speak, attempting to keep your voice as soft and nonthreatening as possible.

“Gabriel? It’s y/n, I’m going to come in now.”

You allow another moment to pass before you ease the door open, blinking in surprise as your eyes are greeted by light—it seems the archangel has every bulb in the vicinity burning its brightest. Understandable, since you presume he wasn’t exactly kept in well-lit conditions.

For a second, you think he’s not in the room. You don’t see him anywhere, and you’re about a split-second away from turning and calling Sam when you catch a glimpse of something shifting in the corner, behind the bulky side of a wooden dresser. You think for a second that you’ve forgotten how to breathe, chest painfully tight, as you realise that the small form huddled and curled in the corner is, in fact, the archangel Gabriel.

You hate that you’d noticed him only because of the filthy scraps of material that stick out against the dark décor of the bunker.

“Hey, Gabriel,” you say softly, keeping the door open so he has a route of escape and moving over as slowly and cautiously as you can. “I’m just gonna come over and sit in front of you, alright?”

You figure that even if he’s not entirely listening to everything you’re saying, it’s better to announce what you’re doing before you do it, for his benefit.

Something painful ricochets off the inside of your chest as you grow close enough to see him around the dresser and you’re confronted with his beaten, bloody and battered figure once more. His gaze is anywhere but you, and the way he presses himself into the corner is like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. It takes all of your willpower to squash down the unexpected sob that catches low in your throat. What is wrong with you?! You need to get a grip.

“Oh, Gabriel,” you find yourself saying before you can stop. “I’m so sorry…”

The closer you get to him, the lower you try to make yourself in his peripheral. It wouldn’t do any good to startle him by appearing big and threatening. It makes you frown when you remember just who it is that you have to think this way about. It’s sad, you think. The Gabriel you’d known was prideful, glaringly bright and loud in his presence, both as a trickster and an angel, and that he’d been reduced to… well, to this? It made your chest feel heavy.

Slowly and as quietly as possible, you ease down onto your knees in front of him, doing your best not to rush anything. It’s hard—you’re a hunter, used to moving with speed and a sense of urgency. So to take your time and really be in the moment for each of your actions is definitely an odd change from the usual autopilot your brain resides in.

He doesn’t acknowledge your presence once you’re still in front of him, not really. You had expected as much though, and as much as he seems unresponsive you do see the occasional flick of his eyes in your direction before they dart away, like he couldn’t believe he’d dared to look at someone instead of the floor.

For a few minutes, you simply let him adjust to your presence, your company. Ever so slowly, you see the tiniest bits of tension ease from his shoulders, his eyes no longer darting around like a frantic squirrel. You take the opportunity to take in the wounds and sores littering his body, doing your best not to get too upset by what you see. Dirt and grime coats him in layers, and you mentally note that your next goal with him would be to get him in a damn bath.

It can’t be comfortable, sitting in all that grime…

“For the sake of transparency,” you begin when he seems like he will be open enough to listening. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. This is your space right now, and I don’t want to intrude on it unless I really need to.”

He doesn’t meet your gaze, but you sense you have his attention. “Given that right now you’re low on… strength, and not healing as you usually do, we need to take care of some of the worse wounds you have. If we don’t, it’s a risk of infection, and we don’t know how well you would fight that off in this state…”

You clear your throat, attempting to keep yourself on track. “So, if you’re able, we’d really like you to come out just for a moment, so we can fix up some of your sores. I promise that you can come right back in here afterwards, and that unless we have something really important we’ll leave you alone. Sound good?”

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t really move, but the way his eyes move to yours and hold your gaze for a bare second longer than you expect, you gather he’s not entirely against it. You offer him a smile, oddly proud of him. You’d seen firsthand how hard it can be to get out of these mindsets, even just for a moment. Effort is hard and that he’s making it means everything.

“Perfect,” you say, shifting in your spot so you can stand more easily. “Alright, I can help you up, if you’d like, or you can stand on your own if you want. What do y—”

Your hands had already begun to outstretch as you spoke, and you’re taken by surprise when before you even finish speaking his hand is whipping up to grab your wrist in a sort of monkey grip. You’re left blinking as you help him up, moving on autopilot. You expect him to release you as soon as he’s standing, but it adds to your surprise as he wobbles in place and retains his grip, if anything shuffling a little closer.

“Okay,” you say, angling your body and adjusting your grip so that it’s loose and as nonthreatening as possible. “Let’s go. Thank you for cooperating.”

Of course, there’s no response and he’s silent the whole way to the library. You remember that Sam is in there only as you approach the threshold, but unlike what you feared, Gabriel doesn’t seem to react too poorly to him like he apparently had earlier. Risking a glance his way reveals that actually, amongst the frayed and almost manic energy, he seems oddly… grounded, just for the moment.

Well, this is certainly going better than you’d anticipated.

x

“I went to bully Dean this morning, but he woke up before me and left before I could get to him.”

You’re in the process of cleaning the wounds around Gabriel’s mouth and removing the ugly stitches that have been sewn into his lips. As something to distract him as much as you from what you’re doing, you’ve begun chatting idly to the archangel, unbothered by the lack of response. Sam sits a metre or so away, researching for Dean who had apparently called earlier when you were coercing Gabriel out of his room.

Still Gabriel doesn’t hold your gaze, eyes averted as he leans forward in the chair for you to reach his mouth, but you can tell from the way his eyes occasionally flick to you as you speak that he is listening, somewhat. It’s enough of a win that you’re willing to take it.

He winces each time your alcohol swab goes over the entry point of a stitch, but doesn’t flinch away too badly. You’re pretty proud of him for that, actually, because it must hurt like a bitch.

“You got him yesterday, though,” Sam pipes in from the side, amused as he recalls your arrival. “Barely an hour after you got here and he was quitting and heading to bed.”

“It’s hard being so naturally talented,” you say, placing the swab down and reaching for the small scissors and tweezers. “I’m an absolute delight, and Dean should appreciate that!”

“Has anyone ever believed you when you told them that?” Sam asks, presumably referring to the ‘delight’ bit.

“Why wouldn’t they, Samuel?” you ask, giving the massive man a light spritz of stink-eye. “Do you have something to say to me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” he snorts in response, turning a page in the tome he currently has in his lap.

You bite your lip to hide your amused smile, turning back to Gabriel. You place your hand softly on his cheek to let him know that you’re about to go back in for the stitches, before raising the other tool and bringing it to the first of the thick threads woven through his flesh. Wincing, you try and snip it as delicately as possible. Now seems like a better time than any for more distractions.

“If you think I’m bad, you should be glad you never met my grandfather,” you inform the youngest Winchester, successfully severing the first stitch and beginning the icky job of pulling it out. Gabriel makes a muffled noise of pain but remains still, and you pat his hand softly in support. “He could stir the shit out of anyone, man. Like, I’m not even kidding. The bastard gene I got from him was actually watered down by the time it got to me, so count your lucky stars.”

Sam makes a noise of contemplation, like he really is taking the time to thank whatever powers that be— those apparently being Chuck, as you’ve heard— that you’re not more like your grandfather. Honestly, you’re not kidding—they really should be grateful. You loved your grandpa but you’d never met anyone so quick to stir whatever pot may present itself before them. An opportunist with bastardous tendencies, one might describe him.

In the silence that follows, you jump to another topic for the sake of distraction once more—you’re about to move onto another stitch.

“So, now that your mother is here, are you guys actually eating like normal human beings?” you ask, tongue pressed between your lips in concentration as you try to snip the thread as painlessly as possible by manoeuvring the small scissors. “Like, balanced meals with vegetables and shit?”

You hear Sam pause in the motion of turning a page, a scoff turning into a laugh as it climbs his throat. “What—homecooked meals? Our mom? Dude, she’s worse than Dean in the kitchen, and I really didn’t think that was possible.”

You pause your ministrations to face the tall man, squinting. “What? No way. No way is she worse than Dean—”

“We’ve had to replace the fire alarms twice already,” Sam says, meeting your gaze with a look that is full of both fondness and exasperation. He lets out a laugh at your flabbergasted face. “Dude, I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You’ll see, whenever she gets back with Jack. She can’t cook but it doesn’t really stop her trying.”

“Another terrible chef joins the ranks,” you proclaim dramatically, pulling the stitch you were working on out and going in on the next one. “Oh, to be able to cook. I suppose this Jack kid is our last hope.”

“He’s not even a year old, y/n,” Sam says, deadpan. “I wouldn’t count on it. Also, you can cook, you’re just lazy.”

You shrug, making a face; he has you there. “I will neither confirm nor deny these allegations.”

Once more, you feel Sam roll his eyes behind you—he should get that checked if he’s rolling them so heavily you can feel it yourself. They’re not even eyes that are in your own skull, man.

You proceed to pull shit out of your ass as you take Gabriel’s mouth stitches out, the metal tin to the side soon filled with scraps of thick thread covered in dried blood and muck. The exit wounds where the thread had been have begun to well with blood, the wounds agitated by the removal of the stitches, and you bring a new cotton pad back with alcohol to clean them up. Gabriel hisses at the contact, and you rush out apologies under your breath as you finish up. You’d forgotten to warn him, and it’s only something small but you still feel bad.

“Alright, that’s done,” you announce, mostly to yourself. You look over him, deciding which wound to treat next, when your attention is drawn to the way he seems to be shaking a little on the spot. He’s not as grounded as he was earlier when he sat down with you, and even though you have much more work to do you can tell intrinsically that this is the most he can take right now. Dressing his other wounds would have to wait until tomorrow.

You turn to find Sam already giving the archangel a scrutinising look, apparently arriving at the same conclusion you had. He gives you a nod and you let out a soft breath, turning back to Gabriel and offering your hands should he need them.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today. Let’s get you back to the room.”

You can only hope tomorrow will offer the same amount of progress as today.

prev. || next

[themadauthorshatter]

... I apologize in advance.

This is my personal idea for a sequel in The Nightmare Before Christmas, and I hope you all enjoy😄🙏. This whole thing will be TV perspective, like the Sanders Sides Beetlejuice AU. For better context, you might want to check out the OTP headcanons in my master post.

🎃🎃🎃

We begin the day after Halloween, in a meeting between Jack, The Mayor, and Jacob, who's here to take notes on how things are run.

He's a little bored, but he's still taking notes and doing well in dealing with The Mayor's whining.

The meeting wraps up and the Skellingtons leave the city hall.

Jack sighs that the meeting went well, at least better than he thought it would, but Jacob admits that he wasn't expecting much to begin with, save for the usual.

Regardless, Jacob still agrees, but asks if it's really necessary to have a meeting immediately after Halloween, because it seems tedious.

Jack gets the confusion, because this is the third meeting he's attended, and nods, saying that it can be tedious, but they need to be on top of everything, in case something happens, like an idea or something they can't do, and to keep The Mayor calm; he's the real workaholic, not Jack.

Jacob bursts into laughter and Jack, also laughing, tells him to be more subtle because who knows who heard that.

Turns out someone DID hear them.

It's Daemon, who is outside sitting against the fountain because he's bored and wanted to see his dad and brother.

Jack asks why he isn't with Sally or Luna, and Daemon explains they're out looking for herbs to restock. He was offered to go with, but he didn't go because he figured they'd want some mother-daughter time.

Jacob thinks to himself that girls are like that, but asks why Zero isn't with him, at least.

He followed Sally and Luna, and, looking back, Daemon doesn't know which would've been more unpleasant: making sure he stood far away enough for Sally and Luna to talk without losing them or having damn near everyone that walked past him say he looked so much like his father and was probably just as terrifying, and that Jack should watch out because Daemon might scare him under the table.

Jack lightly chides Daemon for the comment, but explains that he'll get used to being called the best as he helps him up.

Daemon humms as he stands and places himself next to Jacob, asking how the meeting went.

As they walk, Jack admits that while it was longer than he'd anticipated, the meeting went very well, so this year's Halloween should be pretty eventful.

Daemon echoes that word, eventful, and we focus in on Jacob as his face turns from relaxed joy to slight boredom and thoughtfulness at what Jack and Daemon said.

Eventful.

Does he want to do 'eventful?' Yes.

Does he know how?

Not yet. Because to him, eventful means whatever new idea his father comes up with.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when Daemon asks how he did, being the next Pumpkin King and all.

Jacob shrugs and says he did okay for his third neeting, but Jack corrects him: he did WONDERFUL, giving ideas that could only be gotten from an outsider, like finding a new way to use whatever was in surplus.

That excites Daemon and he asks if Jacob took notes, so he'd remember his ideas for the next meeting.

Jacob nodds and takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Daemon.

Jack reads the notes as well, and his face falls a little as Daemon humms in contemplation.

We do not see what's written, but Daemin returns the note to Jacob, saying that he's written really good notes.

Jack isn't very enthused by what he read, will still agree that the notes themselves are really good.

Jacob notices, but doesn't question it.

They meet Sally, Luna, and Zero at home, glad to see the boys home.

Sally asks how the meeting went and Jack changes his answer from before as he and Sally give each other a peck on the lips, because they're married and love each other.

The meeting went great and this year's Halloween should also be great.

Sally's glad, and so is Luna, who's glad to see her brothers together, all things considered.

Jacob, when their parents' backs are turned, mouths, "Bite me," while Daemon returns the sentiment, asking how her time with Sally was.

Luna holds up a basket of herbs and smiles that she and their mother will have enough herbs to last until spring.

Daemon is very glad to hear it, though Jacob spaces out again, thinking back to the word 'eventful' and his notes.

Speaking of which, Luna asks about the meeting, cause she loves seeing her brother be tormented.

Jacob, unfazed, says it actually went swimmingly, which must grind her gears.

Daemon stops them and suggests Luna get the herbs to the kitchen.

Jacob leaves and goes to his room the put the notepad on his desk. He goes back to his family, but we see what he wrote that got Jack uncomfortable:

Holiday Doors drawn in a circle, each of them with a question mark around them, save for Halloween, because he's already there.

Back with the family, they're eating some dinner, and Daemon's showing his crazy side by wanting to stab his meal to bits and pieces, but not doing it because his mother AND father are at the table.

Luna asks what ideas there are for this year's Halloween.

Jack explains some ideas regarding utilizing spiders and even using shadows a little more, but Jacob is zoning out.

Quick side note here, if we're going off the headcanon that Jack deals with depression or a form of it, then I'm adding that Jacob has some attention problems. He doesn't SEEK attention, he just struggles with staying focused after a while, he fidgets, he gets overwhelmed when his mind's getting off track and he's still trying to focus, he zones out, he fidgets, he gets TOO caught up in doing something after doing it for a while, and, if it's REALLY bad, he dissociates.

TL;DR: Jacob has something along the lines of ADHD and a little bit of Dissociation. Still happy, still healthy, just a little iffy on whether or not he wants the lights on or off upstairs, metaphorically speaking.

Back on track, Jack asks Jacob to explain his ideas, which gets him to pay attention and he obliges.

Turns out one of his ideas involves using the shade and finding a way to get all of the power turned off as to frighten the people even more.

It's an impressive idea, all the same Luna tells Jacob not to get too high on his horse, in case someone with problems gets hurt.

He nods and continues eating, saying he'll keep it in mind.

Sally asks if there was anything else that happened and Jacob denies it, saying Jack would probably remember it all better, anyway.

Luna and Daemon exchange a glance, not fully buying it.

Outside of a window, a centipede looking bug stares at the family before crawling away and transitioning us to the triplets' room, where Jacob is trying to even out his hair for the night before bed. Daemon is laying his pillows out so they form a coffin or a casket around him while Luna braids her hair so it doesn't get messy; have you ever tried brushing yarn out withoit ruining it?

Luna asks what ideas Jacob REALLY has, and Jacob feigns ignorance, that he doesn't really remember.

Daemon gives one of those 'not buying it' "mm-hm"s and Luna folds her arms, asking about the doors he keeps writing about.

Jacob turns to them, eyes asking how she knows about that.

Luna only states that he's just like Dad: the WORST at hiding things that he doesn't want people to see.

Jacob barks at her to drop it and goes to bed.

Luna does the same, muttering that when tbeir father found the doors, it didn't end well for him, so if he wants to be better, he'd better steer clear.

Jacob ignores her and we learn through some internal monologue that he doesn't want to just be better than Jack or his expectations, he wants to exceed him, the town, and everything else.

In their room, Sally spots Jack staring out a window and asks what he's thinking about.

Jack turns and asks if she had any visions on her walk with Luna.

She did, but she wants to know what's bothering Jack first.

Jacob drew the holiday doors while taking notes, and he needs to know that his son is not going to make the same mistake he did.

The two hug and Sally admits she did have a vision, but it just showed one of the doors, the stars exploding, and Jacob running into the woods while she heard nothing but laughter.

Jack holds her tighter and nonverbally promises himself and Sally that he will not let Jacob make the same mistakes as his father.

[dodstoldpackage]

ANP (Apparently Normal Part) and EP (Emotional Part) are both heavily linked to the Structural Dissociation theory which you can find here. This theory is it’s own can of worms, but we’re going to focus on ANP and EP for this Dipper’s Guide. 

“The "emotional" part of the personality. The EP is a manifestation of a more or less complex mental system that essentially involves traumatic memories. When traumatized individuals remain as EP, these memories are autonoetic for the EP, but not for the ANP. The memories can represent [pathogenic] kernel aspects of the trauma (Van der Hart & Op den Velde, 1995), a complete overwhelming event, or series of such events, and are usually associated with a different image of the body and a rudimentary or more evolved separate sense of self (McDougall, 1926). Thus the EP range in forms from reexperiencing unintegrated (aspects of) trauma in cases of acute and posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), to traumatized dissociative parts of the personality in dissociative identity disorder (DID; APA, 1994).”

“The "apparently normal" part of the personality. Traumatized individuals fail to sufficiently integrate current reality -- normal life -- as EP. As ANP they have failed to integrate the trauma, either partially or fully, and tend to be more or less engaged in normal life. The ANP is predominantly marked by a range of losses or so-called negative dissociative symptoms (Nijenhuis, Spinhoven, Van Dyck, Van der Hart, & Vanderlinden, 1996), such as a degree of amnesia for the trauma and anesthesia of various sensory modalities. The ANP is also characterized by a lack of personification, both with respect to the traumatic memory and with the EP. That is, the ANP has integrated neither the traumatic memory, nor the mental system that is associated with this memory. To the extent that the patient as ANP is informed about the trauma and about the EP, this knowledge remains noetic, and the relevant memories semantic, i.e., lacking personification.”

That’s how the paper that we’ve linked explains ANP and EP, but for a more simplistic version, here’s what the community seems to collectively agree are the definitions.

Emotional Part/EP: “For DID/OSDD-1 systems. These alters hold traumatic memory, often being stuck in the sensory experience of the memory and unaware of the passage of time. Tasks involving daily life are managed by ANPs instead, e.g., working, cooking and parenting. Despite their name, some EPs are not emotional. There is controversy surrounding this term, so it should be used with care and not applied to anyone else without their permission.”

Apparently Normal Part/ANP: “For DID/OSDD-1 systems. This is the identity who manages every day life and does not normally hold trauma memories. There may be more than one ANP managing daily life at any one time, each with different roles. An ANP may be emotionally unconnected to, or amnesiac for, past traumatic events. There is controversy surrounding this term, so it should be used with care and not applied to anyone else without their permission.”

However, as you can see, even the agreed upon definition doesn’t really give much credit to ANPs being their own person, still being called “the identity.” This is likely due to the way most of the psychology field sees those with DID and OSDD -- as parts of a “broken” whole that needs to be integrated. Whether that integration be into one core/original or just all of them coming together to form a “whole” with no specified core/original. While many of those with DID and OSDD may greatly benefit from integration that is not the case for everyone with these disorders. Healthy multiplicity should also be an option, but much of the psychology field and papers like the Structural Dissociation theory make it out to be something impossible to achieve. Let us not forget why MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) was changed to DID in the first place -- primarily it was because “personalities” gives too much personalisation and independency to each alter/system member or what psychology often sees as nothing more than a “part.” Those with DID are seen not a “multiple people” or even “multiple personalities” but a “lack of a unified identity.” (See also).

While many with DID may find this way of thinking helpful and beneficial, not all with DID (or that would fit the DID criteria) find this as helpful to them. Generalising something so complex as this is harmful. However, now we’re getting more into the general psychology of DID than what we set out to do today.

These terms, especially ANP, not only paint a “normal” way of living as strictly singlet (this is in terms of ANP and EP being applied to DID and OSDD), the papers and other aspects of psychology they are associated with also paint integration as the ultimate end goal of all those with DID or OSDD. The Structural Dissociation theory also seems to paint these “parts” as being the “normal” for those with DID and OSDD, which would also be inaccurate as well. Neither of these terms give any credit to the complexity of plurality or these disorders or the people who live their lives like this. It’s highly unlikely that a poll has ever been done when it comes to the individuality of alters/system members and how they might identify each other and themselves. Not to mention these terms are not just used for those with DID or OSDD; in the paper linked, it’s also used in terms of PTSD along with DES. Despite the fact that, while these disorders aren’t mutually exclusive, they do tend to present some different symptoms. Otherwise, why would we need to differenciate them with names and diagnosis criteria? So not only do they not acknowledge these different “parts” as having the ability to be idividuals, but they also use the same terms for very different disorders as well. It’s been said that this is the case because, in every trauma based disorder, there is often a state of reliving past trauma and being detatched from it. Often meaning many traumatised people go through these different states of being so to speak. However, that doesn’t mean that all traumatised people do.

Regardless, these terms are strictly based on observations and how the psychology field views those with these disorders, which usually isn’t a good view. Sure, some people may be slowly coming along but still not a lot of progress has been made and the representation in media really shows it. From “evil alters” to being seen as “different parts of a whole that just isn’t a unified identity,” good media representation is hard to come by regardless if the media is news or complete fiction. We’re not a disordered system, so our stance doesn’t matter too much when it comes to these terms in relation to what the community does as whole with them, if anything is or should be done about them. However, we will always be of the opinion that singlets don’t get to choose who we are and our terms for us. That’s why we make so many of our own terms. This post was made with the intention to let others know why many in the community view these terms as ableist and our personal take on them. Which, before anyone goes claiming that things like this can go for terms like System Hopping/System Travelling because they’re “abused,” no. Those terms (system hopping/travelling) were created by and for the plural community while ANP and EP were created by singlets for those with these disorders just based on observation. Alternative terms can always be made to encompass something similar to these as roles, however it is good to know that some systems out there do like these words and they can certainly reclaim them for themselves. Just be mindful that many systems don’t like these words as well. 

Below the cut are image ids for those with screen readers.

[Image 1 ID:  © Art Credit VixonRex on Deviantart (credit is for art of Dipper Pines from Gravity Falls). Today ON Dipper’s Guide to the EXPLAINED! The Ableistic Background and Connotations of the terms ANP (”Apparently Normal Part”) and EP (”Emotional Part”).]

[Image 2 ID: T chart; left side has “ANP” and right side has “EP.” Underneath are explaining some simple things about the terms that make them ableist. 

Left: - “Apparently Normal” gives connotations that being plural can’t be a normal way of living one’s life. - Going indepth on what the term means; it also insinuates that being detached from trauma is the only way someone who’s plural can be seen as normal. - This also perpetuates the idea that “normal” people can’t or just don’t have trauma and that is entirely inaccurate. - The history of this term is also very ableist. Will go more indepth down below (below the picture but above these ids).

Right: -”Emotional” kind of holds connotations that other system members can’t have emotions or be emotional. It can also insinuate that the only emotion that plural folks feel are trauma based. While most people know this to be untrue, those who are ignorant and uneducated might take that to mean this or something similar. - “Part” is dehumanising and depersonalised. Both terms have this issue. - The history of this term is also ableist. Will go more indepth below (again, this was below the image but above these ids; before the cut.)]

[b0ttl3d-up-st4rs]

Well I'm gonna do what I do best and self reflect to an insane amount. This is probably gonna be a long post so buckle up.

To be honest my behavior for nearly the past year now is concerning to say the least. There's this little voice in my head that just desperately wants to get more and more hurt, more and more traumatized. Why is that? At first glance the negative approach could be to say its some sort of masochistic behavior and any negative repercussions as a result of this behavior is deserved, but I don't really think thats the case.

Self sabotage is a characteristic that can be exhibited in many mentally ill people and I am no exception. I think this behavior, of seeking to be hurt by grown men on the internet is partially self sabotage.

And I remember when I first started this shit show, I just wanted attention. Sounds mean to say, but craving attention is something the human soul desperately wants. And I was starting to feel some sense of self beauty but I didn't feel as though anyone around me was appreciating it so I tried to get attention from grown men because being showered in compliments and attention felt so good when my whole life I've never gotten any of that.

I think there's more too it, though. Looking back my whole life it's almost as if I've wanted to get hurt. In books I liked to sit around with the pain the characters felt. And its almost like I wanted to get traumatized. I've heard that people with trauma that they don't acknowledge is trauma or think its bad enough to be traumatizing seek put worse forms of trauma, in order to feel that pain is valid. And I think that's part of my issue too.

I do have unaddressed and repressed childhood trauma. I was given unrestricted internet at a young age and was exposed to the horrors of the internet. Nothing like straight up porn, but a lot of suggestive content. And in general being exposed to that caused me a lot of catholic guilt as I was raised catholic. I remember feeling like knowing these things were my fault. Many days I felt so guilty that I would pray to god to let me not wake up in the morning.

As a child I also questioned my religion a lot, which i think was traumatic in itself. Religion is a big thing. And as a kid I had a big issue knowing reality from fiction. Heck I still do. I remember as a kid my friend telling me that we were all demigods and one day we were going to run away to camp half blood. That the percy jackson books were real. It sounds stupid now, but I processed that as real and it was so stressful for me.

And I remember being 12 coming out as trans and as a part of the lgbtq community to my parents. They didnt react well. They said I was confused. My mom said I was both too young and too old to know. I fought a lot with my mom. And in general have a lot of unhappy memories from then. I was outed multiple times in my life.

My relationship with my parents still isnt good. My mom has a tendency to be toxic. I hate that I have to stay in the closet around my family its so painful. Like a month ago I mentioned the lgbtq community for the first time in years, asking my mom her opinions on it and if it changed since 2017, and it turned into her yelling at me and making herself a victim. It really hurt. I forgot how much it hurt.

I don't really have much of a relationship with my dad. We barely talk. Hes very emotionally distant. When I'm at my dad's house I sort of fend for myself. Its the exact opposite at my moms house. She's overbearing and never leaves you alone. It's like going between to extremes.

And honestly I can't wait to move out. My mom and I have arguments a lot. But hey at least I have some relationship with her, I don't really have a relationship with my dad.

I remember one time this year, I was during the end of a school semester. I needed to catch up on work because after talking to my abuser for like 5 months and then unlocking him I was left in shambles and fell into a really bad depression to where my motivation for school just disapeared. Im still dealing with that tbh. Anyways I had to go to a online meeting to choose my classes and I didn't get to choose the classes I thought I would be able to, and that made me really upset. But after the meeting I had to go to do am act of kindness (I chose picking up litter at a graveyard cause i like graveyards) for my school project but I was still distraught. If I was given some time to myself I probably wouldve been able to go without issue, but my mom wanted to go immediately. We argued. And when I got there I refused to leave the car because I felt so much like shit. We argued more. It was the worst argument I ever had. She even swore at me. Which she's never done before. And she ended up playing victim again. She does that a lot I guess. And doesn't really listen to my feelings. Whenever I try to communicate about my feelings with her it turns into an argument and she makes it about herself. So yeah our relationship isn't the greatest. And I think having mommy and daddy issues is a trauma in itself. Ppl deserve to have happy healthy supportive families.

Oh right and another trauma I completely forgot (funny how that happens) is when I was 14 and admitted to a mental hospital because I tried to off myself. It was so surreal and they forced me to learn how to make eye contact with people cause apparently thats "how they know im doing ok". Which is kinda fucked considering the fact I recently realized I might be autistic. And eye contact is literally so painful for me. It especially was back then. Anyways the place itself wasnt too bad but the feeling of being trapped overall sucks and being disconnected from the rest of the world isnt fun either. Also I dissociate all the time but I especially dissociated hard thru the whole experience. And sort of made myself into the perfect patient, repeating all their bs and literally lying to myself to convince myself that I was ok so they would let me go. So that was kind of weird.

Anyways I know I have it better than others. And honestly sometimes it's hard to tell what exactly was traumatic in my childhood. I probably forgot and repressed other parts of it too and am forgetting things. But needless to say these unaddressed traumas didn't help my mental state. And i do think that's a big part of the voice in my head begging me to just get hurt more.

Overall my mental state is fucked, It's been really hard for me not to be taken advantage of by another internet pedo. Heck the only reason that isn't happening rn is because no ones dmed me yet. Also I unblocked my old abuser and we are talking again now so thats fun. It definitely doesnt help the cognitive dissonance in my brain of him being actually a nice and supportive dude. I think thats also a part of me wanting to get more traumatized. Since my abuser is a nice person that should counteract all the fucked up sexual things he said to me in the past right? I mean others have it worse, had worse abusers that were actively cruel. That's part of the bitch in my subconscious brain talking. It sucks tbh.

Anyways yeah I probably need therapy but I don't feel comfortable talking about this to my current counselor and honestly its really hard to say out loud. I can talk forever about it by writing it down but the moment I speak words from my dumbass mouth I break down in tears and can't do it. Plus idk, I'm scared if I say anything she'll have to tell my parents and that my phone might be taken away or I'll have less privacy and for a closeted queer where my only current life line is the internet and my online friends: that is a terrifying idea. Idk. I'm fucked basically.

[floraone]

What do we mean when we say “sex positivity?”

With Smutember around the corner, and because this is SADLY nothing sex ed talks about consistently around the globe, I want to take a bit of time to about sex positivity if you’ll allow me. Specifically, what we mean when we use the term, and what it doesn’t. Does sex positivity mean you have to like having sex? (Spoiler, it doesn’t). Does sex positivity mean it’s wrong to not be open about doing certain practices? (Nope, it doesn’t either.) Does sex positivity mean I have to either love or hate porn, or erotic literature? (No, again.)

Since I’ll talk about this for a little longer, AND you because get to decide if you want this topic on your dash*, read ahead after the cut.  (*and, while we’re at that, with smutember coming: all posts on this blog will be tagged with the hashtag #smutember2020 henceforth. If you don’t want to see this content, please feel free to block the hashtag.)

Forthose who don’t want a long post, here is the TL;DR:

Sex positivity is defined in many, many different ways, but ultimately spans attitudes regarding how we perceive sex and sexual conduct both for ourselves and others. It sees sex as a healthy expression of ourselves in which all consensual expressions of it are valid. In which shaming each other for sex or sex practices or shaming each other for the lack of experiencing sexual desire and having healthy sexual boundaries is not sex-positive. Sex positivity is about embracing all expressions of sex and sexuality (as long as they are between consenting people) as something positive that embraces open communication about personal limits and desires, and encourages exploration. Consent here is the most important prerequisite requirement: That all people involved are of an age and state of mind and consciousness where they are able to willingly consent, as well as have the perceived power to willingly consent to participate in the action. 

So, to preface this shortly, this isn’t actually a term that is super easy to define. Which is why scholars (among them feminist, psychologist, social studies and sexual medicine scholars and many others) have not yet agreed on a universal definition. In fact, there are papers solely focusing on comparing definitions to find their common ground. It is, thus, definitely not something that goes without saying.

Before I can speak about what sex positivity is, we have to talk about the most important ingredient, though: Consent.

What is (and isn’t) consent?

Consent is the explicit agreement to participating in any action, and here, specificially, sex. It can be verbal and non-verbal, but it means everyone involved really wants to do all sexual actions that are being done, no exceptions. It means no one is being coerced against their will, no one’s concerns are being ignored, their desires and boundaries are known and being listened to and respected. It means no one is doing something they had no chance to reflect upon if they want it or not, and no one is doing something they don’t want out of obligation or a sense of duty. It means no one is having sexual contact with someone who isn’t able to consent in any form: be it because they can’t consent because of their age, or limited consciousness, or because of perceived verbal or nonverbal threats and/or consequences. The latter, in its most base terms, means (non-exhaustively) that people below the (culturally differing) ages of consent - meaning children and young teenagers - cannot consent, that people who are intoxicated, under the influence of drugs, asleep, in a state of trauma or shock, in a dissociated state of mind or any similar states cannot consent, and that people who feel they have no power to say no cannot conset - i.e. someone who fears consequences to their physical, social or psychological well-being (or those of others) if they say no, which can range from, say, an employee feeling like they can’t decline an employer’s physical advances that they don’t want without negative consequences in any form in their work-environment, or a person in a romantic relationship fearing a break-up if they don’t “deliver” sex even if they don’t want it, or a person who feels they have to “deliver” sex they don’t want in order to prove their personal worth or love or affection or to avoid ridicule. These are of course non-exhaustive. A person who says yes even though they don’t want to because they feel they can’t say no, as well as a person who is too young and/or unable to say no, isn’t consenting. 

And because this is so important, here, have that brilliant Tea of Consent by Emmeline May, quoted and photographed off my copy of “More Orgasms Please: Why Female Pleasure Matters” by the Hotbed Collective.

What Sex Positivity Is

Most of us are very intuitive about what sex positivity is, but the fewest of us have ever discussed it at length in any way or form, and thus the edges are very often hazy!

First and foremost, sex positivity is a set of attitudes that forms personal beliefs regarding sexuality, how we perceive collectively shared sexual norms, and how we view sexual autonomy and sexual expression both in ourselves and others. So what does that all entail, and how does that look?

A basic view of this is: sex is good! Sex is, as long as it’s consensual, something healthy, and a valid and enjoyable way to express intimacy, affection, love and desire. It’s not just a means to an end (satisfaction, babies, etc.) and it should not be shrouded in shame or pain or discomfort, and instead be communicated about openly and respectfully. This is of course, in direct answer to sex-negativity: The belief that sex is bad, shameful, sinful, and having it makes you just as sinful.

Here is one of many scientific definitions for the term:   “[Sex positivity is] the belief that all consensual expressions of sexuality are valid.” (p.289) 

That means if you’re, say, really into having sex while wearing stockings (actually something that comes up very often when you ask people of their fantasies in surveys!) or maybe wanting to be tied up for it (also a VERY frequent fantasy) and do it ONLY with people who are into it, too, and not against their will, then it’s a healthy expression of your desire and no one (no parents, no society, no church or institution or anyone) is entitled to shame or sanction you for it.

As Justin Lehmiller, a social psychologist and sex researcher says, society (including its medical and psychological history and authorities, sadly!) has had a very narrow and restrictive view of what is “ok” to be desirable when it comes to sex in the past and sadly sometimes still the present, and that “they’ve pretty much told us that we shoudn’t do anything other than put penises in vaginas and even that, ideally, should only take place within the confines of a heterosexual, monogamous marriage).” (p.vi) Bringing with it the dogma of immorality and crime, among else. 

Sex positivity aims to be the antithesis of this. It means all forms of consensual sexual expression are valid. Not one form is better than another. If you live and love monogamously or heteronormatively, it isn’t better or worse than living in any other form. From polyamory to kinks, or having any kind of consensual fetish that don’t hurt anyone else or their free sexual expression when sharing them with others, all of them are valid, none of them are better or worse than any other individual choice. It means celebrating and validating all forms of sexual expression (or lack thereof!) as well as all forms consensual practices, while having any form of sexual identity and any placement on the wide spectrum that is gender identity. 

What Sex Positivity Isn’t

Because sometimes it is easier to thoroughly understand something by outlining what it DOESN’T include, this is more imporant than many might think. And because I’m obviously not the first person to think about this, there is this really great article by Everyday Feminism about what sex positivity isn’t that is written in a very clear and straight-forward way, that I’ll urge everyone to check out, but I’ll also outline some select few of the (more numerous) basics they’ve described here:

🚫 Sex positivity means liking sex

No. Just because someone really, really enjoys sex, that does not mean at all they are sex-positive by default. Sex positivity isn’t synonym with being overly enthusiastic about having sex or surrounding yourself with it. It can! But that’s not at all the point in the slightest. Someone who really likes sex can still be disrespecful about someone else’s sexual expression, or feel entitled to someone else’s sexual acts or interest in sexuality, or that they can judge someone’s sexual identity or form of expression. Sex positivity is about respecting others in all their forms of sexual expression, even if those forms don’t represent your own. Likewise, someone who does not themselves like or enjoy sex can still be respectful of other’s expression of it in any form and with any other person or persons, and see sexuality as a healthy form of self-expression even when it is their choice to not engage in it for any span of time or reasons.

🚫 Sex positivity means everyone should have and like sex because it’s healthy

No. There are uncountably many reasons why someone might be repulsed by sex or simply not interested it. All of them are valid. None of them are to be shamed. Sexual trauma, sexual exploitation, a lack of feeling sexually empowered, pain during sexual intercourse, lack of desire, internalized shame that prevents sex from being enjoyable, the feeling of being in an environment where your sexuality is coerced or objectified and not feeling comfortable with it, being touch-repulsed or simply feeling no inkling of “lust”. All of this is valid. Sex positiy means respecting boundaries in consentual sex. It does not mean you have to have sex if it is unpleasant for you for any number of reasons. Of course, if you want sex and are suffering under any number of reasons that make you not enjoy it even though you would intrinsincally WANT to enjoy it (Anything from pain to sexual trauma to shame), then there are professionals out there qualified to help and counsel you. But they, too, are not entitled to dictate sexual action for you. Only you decide if you want to have sex or not. No one else. You are the master of your sexual expression in any form and are entitled to decide how, when and if you (and only you) want it, and no one else. That is an expression of sex positivity.

🚫 Sex positivity means being open to all forms of sex

No. Being sex positive means you respect the healthy expression of your own and someone else’s sexuality, and this includes their boundaries. You can believe that sex is healthy and enjoyable and should not be shamed in the least, and still not like anal. It does mean however that you still respect someone and their sexual expression when they do like the shit out of anal (pun intended lol, thank you very much.) This person is not entitled for YOU to like anal or to get it from you if you don’t enjoy it, and you are not entitled for them to not desire it. And this of course goes for any sexual practice. Judging and shaming someone for enjoying giving blowjobs is not sex-positive, just like it isn’t sex-positive to expect someone to inherently WANT to give blowjobs. Sexual boundaries are very healthy, and an important form of self-reflection and the root of true informed consent. Knowing what you like and don’t like and that these things will most likely differ from others in their unique expression is an important path to a most healthy sexual expression.

🚫 Sex positivity means always being ready, available, and interested in sex, with anyone.

No. Sexual expectations wear heavily on people from any gender or sexual identity. Many queer or nonbinary people suffer, among else, under sexualisation and being made the stuff of fetishes or being ascribed heavily sexualized attributions. Many men, among else, suffer under normative stereotypes, myths and sexual scripts that say they always want sex and are unmanly when they don’t feel desire 24/7, that they’re always up for sex and never not in the mood. Likewise, the 70s brought women and their sexual freedom into a position heavily reinforced by porn scripts in which they are expected as ‘sexually freed’ beings to be sexually available, ready, interested, and orgasmic at all times, and if you are not, you are a prude, and if you do it too much, you are a slut. These are all (non-exhaustive) forms of sexual shaming and dictated sexual expectations. If you are generally enthusiastic about sex and enjoying it, you are allowed to have phases where you feel less desire. And whether you are someone with a generally smaller libido that sometimes spikes, or you’re someone who has never felt any sexual desire at all, or someone who wants sex a lot, you are sex positive when you respect other’s free expression of it, and this includes the frequency in which they want it or with whom they have it. You get to pick what sex you have and with whom or how many you have it, no one else. Anyone who tells you otherwise under the mantle of ‘sex positivity’ is, as everyday feminism so eloquently put, employing “sexual coercion cloaked in faux-progressive language. If someone is calling you a prude or sex-negative for not having sex with them, they’re violating your consent and their opinion of you is invalid. And just because you want to create a world in which everyone is empowered to make the sexual choices they want doesn’t mean that you personally have to be interested in casual sex.”

🚫 Sex positivity means sex is healthy, so that means I am entitled to sex.

No. It means you are entitled to WANT to have it, but not to have it. In sex as in every other need involving other people (from receiving oral, to boardgames, to conversations, to a hug or affection): Just because you are entitled to want something or even very validly need something, that does not mean someone else is obligated to give it to you. Just because someone needs comfort and company, you are not obligated to give it. Just because someone wants and needs attention, it is not your job to give it. Just because someone wants sex and feels they need it, even if they are your partner, you are not obligated to give it. This can be frustrating, of course. But NO: Just because you want sex, you are not entitled to have it. Ever. From anyone. No one owes you sex, not even if you’re married to them. Everyone has their own sexual agency, and everyone needs to respect it. In fact, feeling entitled to sex lies at the base of sexual aggressive behavior of all kind, and the idea that your own desire for sexual activity rates higher in priority than the individual needs of the person you’re coercing it from. It’s at the root of rape culture, and something we must all internalize to overcome it: Despite you wanting something and it being healthy to have it or to get this something, no one owes it to us or is obligated to give it to us.

🚫 Sex positivity means you have no problems with sex.

No. The term positivity of course often brings overtly positive connotations with it: something easy and happy. Of course, sex positivity doesn’t require you to have an easy or happy relationship with sex and sexuality. Sex can be traumatising, uncomfortable, regrettable, awkward, unpleasant, confusing, or plain boring and uninteresting to you. Even if it isn’t traumatising or painful, it can still be hell of a lot frustrating navigating it and your own desires. Body image issues or and religious restrictions that can be important to you or not, never having orgasmed but really really wanting to, the feelings of not ever having encountered sex that’s truly fun for you, all of these and many, many more are the giant maze that can arise when navigating sexuality in our lives. None of these means you aren’t sex positive. It’s here for survivors of sexual violence and aggression and those who want to reclaim their sexual agency, sexual empowerment and self-expression, just as it is here for asexuals, demisexuals, aromantics, or anyone else. It’s the belief that we have a right to a healthy sexuality without being shamed, violated, sanctioned or discriminated for it, and that we have a right to our boundaries as well as our fantasies. 

So, I’m guessing most of you knew this intuitively all along. I’m preaching to the choir. However, seeing it written down often helps us in expressing ourselves, and in the way we confidently navigate our own sexual empowerment.

And, with smutember on the horizon again, when we once again try to incorporate sex positivity in our writing, too, it might serve as a good reminder that we help along the normalisation of sex positivity whenever we portray it in media in general, and fiction specifically! I hope one day we will take all this fully for granted, and everyone around us, too!