#force-sensitive! OC

[spicynectarines]

celebrate pride month by taking revenge on your ex boyfriend captain

[wantonlywindswept]

Definitely True Facts About Commander Vertex #3

He has negative Force bacteria.

[forgotten Fox AU tag]

"Midichlorians," Patches said, for the third time, his head in his hands. "They're called midichlorians."

"Tiny little buggers that live in your body," Jek scoffed. "I might have barely scraped by my biology modules, but that sounds like bacteria to me."

Patches whimpered.

Jek grinned and reached over to pat his babiest of brothers on the head. Their youngest medic really was too easy to rile up. 

Still, at least Patches was capable of taking a break on occasion, even if it was just to sit at Jek's bedside in the medbay while he recovered from a round of Force cleansing. He always felt a little like the mess hall slop after every session, squishy and mostly-liquid, though the effects had been lessening as the treatments went on. 

Turned out that working in close proximity to an evil Sith overlord for an extended period of time could be 'damaging' and 'harmful to the spirit', and as soon as the Jedi got the okay from Marshal Commander Thorn they'd instituted regular healing sessions for the Guard. Some of them weren't overly affected--the ARF division hadn't been allowed in the Senate Dome that often anyway, and the medics rarely left the infirmary, much less Guard HQ--but the majority of them were on rotating schedules to get their minds checked for Sith residue or whatever.

It was even worse for the Force-sensitives.

No one was more surprised to find Force-sensitive clones than the clones themselves, and a frankly unsettling percentage of the Guard tested for above-average midichlorian counts. That was just those who agreed to submit to the assessment, too--a lot of the Guard refused to do even that. It wasn't like they could be Jedi, and with the war over, what did it even matter?

(Except it did matter, a lot, because apparently evil Sith overlords could also drain the life force from sentients around them, and particularly enjoyed ones with the Force. Palpatine got a little tasty burst of power like they were some kind of energy snack, and it wasn't like the Guard weren't already exhausted anyway.

That kind of siphoning left even worse traces of Sith influence; Jek's cleansing sessions made his bones feel like wobbly gelatin, but Glitch's sessions hurt.)

"I bet Defib's m-count is the highest in the Guard," Jek mused absently as he watched their CMO stalk around the medbay between the beds--and the Jedi--with a scowl on his face. 

Patches lifted his head to give Jek a horrified look.

"Don't say that where he can hear you."

Jek, who lacked both bones and a sense of self-preservation, merely shrugged. Defib had refused testing, scoffing that he didn't need the Force to heal, but he wasn't named after a defibrillator for nothing: he'd brought more than one brother back from the brink of death against impossible odds.

Jek had his suspicions about Patches, too. 

Even with Defib hovering suspiciously over their shoulders, the Jedi healers--there were four of them, led by Master Rig Nema--moved around the medbay with an almost unearthly poise. Jek was more familiar with ordered chaos in the infirmary: medics shouting across the room to each other, rushing back and forth to see how far their meager supplies could stretch. The Jedi were quiet, coordinating with each other soundlessly while still seeming to be aware of everything else happening in the room.

The mesmerizing little dance wasn't even interrupted by the main doors opening, which drew Jek's attention to Commander Vertex stepping into the medbay. The commander had his bucket tucked under one arm, and sharp eyes surveyed the room in a quick glance.

Patches waved at Vertex, because he was adorable. 

Vertex waved back, because he was a sap.

Defib immediately veered off his self-appointed task of looming to intercept Vertex before he got too far into the room. They ducked their heads together in a brief conversation with far too much angry gesticulating on Defib's part, and the calm competency Jek had come to expect on Vertex's. Jek watched, fascinated, as Vertex managed to settle the fuming medic with just a few words and a gentle touch to his shoulder. 

Defib made a bitchy face, but he did seem to lose some of his protective bristling; at Vertex's nudge he sidled over to his desk in the corner of the medbay, dropping into his chair to finally take a break and...to angrily chew on a ration bar?

Incredible.

The Jedi, meanwhile, had continued on with their Force nonsense, which lasted up until Vertex tapped one of the healers on the shoulder and their serenity shattered with a resounding squawk.

The poor Rodian who made the noise spun around, flailing wildly, and would have fallen back onto one of the beds if Vertex hadn't grabbed her to keep her upright. The other three Jedi's heads snapped up in eerie synchronicity, startled expressions on their faces, and Master Nema took a jolting step forward before seeming to register what had happened.

In the frozen stillness that followed, Defib's sullen crunching took on a distinctive note of glee.

"Apologies," Vertex said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"When did you even..." 

"How can we be of assistance, Commander Vertex?" Master Nema asked, stepping away from her patient to take the place of the still-baffled apprentice healer. Both she and Vertex smoothly ignored the disbelief radiating off the other Jedi, who were looking at Vertex like they didn't know how he had appeared. 

Jek wondered that sometimes, too, but it didn't bother him.

"Hey," he said, nudging Patches with his elbow as the two bigwigs conversed, "What do you bet that Commander Vertex has negative Force bacteria?"

Patches stared at Jek like he'd kicked a baby massiff, and then slowly sunk lower in his chair with a low, despairing whine.

So easy.

[im-yotsu]

What am I supposed to do with you?

[dingoat]

May the 4th be with you <3

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

The Many Names of Peace (pt.3/?): Communication

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Child murder (discussed).

Rape/Sexual assault (discussed)

Slavery and sistemic oppresion (discussed)

Human/Sapient rights violations (discussed)

Ruusan Reformation (derogatory) (discussed in detail)

The mission was nothing complicated, just a standard corporate dispute. However, the intel didn't say a word about the pirate blockade on the orbit of Quarzite, not a single sound about how both corporations were using slave labor, or about the genocide going on on the planet.

Because the mission wasn't about those things. It doesn't matter that both corporations were using child slaves right in front of their noses, or that the planet belongs to the people the belugans are subjugating, oppressing, killing and enslaving.

The ade, Terith observes with concern, are terrified of them and the Jet'verde. One of them, a girl of near-human species, is clinging ont the Jet'ad for dear life and watching the adults surrounding them with mistrust. Terith's heart breaks a little.

"Agisti, Kenobi" the kage Jedi greets the Padawan-brother of her Shadow-brother. "It seems you found trouble again."

Kenobi sighs, looking a strange mixture of proud and exasperated. "It was all my Padawan this time, Jexha…"

Zahara smiles, a little amused. "Valehnan Jexha Zahara."

The Jetii approaches the scared ade, and kneels in front of them in order to put herself on the same level. She whispers something in a language Terith doesn't understand, but some of the ade seem to. The little girl clinging to the Jetii'ad relaxes once she hears the language, and calmly lets go of the boy's arm. Then, she turns to the other kids.

"She's a Warrior, she's Kin" the little girl says, switching into Basic, "and a Jidai. She doesn't mean us any harm."

The Jetii'ad looks surprised and confused, and a few other emotions that cross his face too quickly to be identified. However, the children immediately relax at hearing the girl's words. Apparently, whatever Heliost said was enough to make herself trustworthy.

Zahara smiles softly. "Don't worry. None of the people here will hurt you" she promises, and the look she gives Terith makes the clear threat of or else. "Do you have homes to return to? Kin?"

The children and Zahara switch to Kage again, and she manages to gather information about some of the children. She turns to the others.

"Most of these younglings are kages from Quarzite" she says in Basic, to make sure nearly everyone understands what she's saying. They'll be discussing these younglings' future, the least they can do is make sure the younglings understand them. "They are all from different Caves —homes, families—, and… some of them don't exist anymore. We have to make sure they all have places to stay in."

Then, she swallowed. "Others were stolen from families and homes in the Outer Rim, or bought from the Hutts. The others were taken too young to remember where they come from."

Anakin flinches slightly. He hopes nobody notices, but they all seem to be busy discussing what to do with the child- younglings.

They finish returning the kage ade to their homes and aliit a full standard day later. Now, the only thing left to do is return the remaining ade to their people or, in case they can't, find them a new home.

There is a tense silence in the subtram back to their ship. The recently freed younglings are wary of the three Jedi and the Mandalorian, even after Anakin freed them, and Zahara and Obi-Wan are obviously uncomfortable with a Mandalorian so close. Jedi and Mandalorian animosity runs deep.

The little kage girl that spoke to Zahara is roughly four standard, but turns five —according to her— in a few months. She's Force-sensitive, judging by her question of why Terith doesn't have "colors".

Zahara swallows a relieved sigh, but her shoulders still relax. Anakin hates it, how nobody cares about slaves unless they are Force-sensitive, how the Jedi do nothing about the planets in the Outer Rim or even the Couruscant underwold. So much for compassion.

There is tense silence as Obi-Wan, Boma and the Mandalorian sit around the table on Terith's ship, drinking slowly from their cups of tea. Hadia, the kage girl, has already drunk her whole cup, while Anakin's sits on the table untouched.

Is this what everyone does? Drinking tea instead of freeing slaves?

"How did you end up working with a Mandalorian, anyway? I thought, well, after…" Obi-Wan says, attempting diplomacy to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Not every Mando'ad is the same, even within the same faction" offers Terith. "Two verde, five opinions, as they say."

"It was you two, especifically" Zahara explains. "Terith despised the idea of a missing youngling, and I needed help to find you."

"Children are the future" adds Terith, sounding like they are quoting a sacred tenet of a creed they are part of. "If it helps… my clan will take care of any child we cannot bring back to their families."

Zahara clenches her jaw. "How wonderful for those you see as children."

The kage Jedi says it in a low mutter, but not low enough to avoid being heard by the Mandalorian.

"Look, you don't owe me the story of your pain" Terith tells her, having a silent conversation Anakin isn't privy to. "But Jaster's faction, the Haat'Mando'ade? We don't kill children. Nu draar, not ever. We are not Kyr'tsad."

Zahara sighs, but doesn't reply immediately. Instead, she turns to the younglings. "Anakin, Hadia, I'm about to explain something gross and disturbing to Terith, okay? I think you should leave. It's not a burden I want to put on you"

Hadia nods, and Anakin has to swallow the sharp retort that wants to come out of his lips. "Alright."

Hadia, still holding Anakin's hand, drags him out of the dinning room.

Whatever Knight Zahara said to the Mandalorian —Terith, they'd introduced themselves— was enough to make them feel disturbed. Anakin can feel their horror, even with their Force-presence muted through the armor.

"Mister Terith, are you okay?" Hadia asks.

The Mandalorian takes off their helmet and smiles, ruffling Halia's white hair gently. "I'm okay, just… learned something a bit upsetting. I'll deal with it."

Zahara and Obi-Wan come next. Obi-Wan squeezes Zahara's arm, and she smiles and squeezes his. They let each other go, and walk up to Anakin.

"Anakin" Obi-Wan begins, and swallows. "Can we speak alone for a moment?"

Anakin hesitates, not sure if he wants to deal with a lecture after the day he's had, but… Obi-Wan seems tired and worried, about him, and his chest tightens.

He hadn't wanted to worry Obi-Wan. He swallows the lump in his throat. "Yes, Master."

Zahara raises a brow at the form of adress, but doesn't say anything. Together, she and Obi-Wan lead Anakin into the dinning room of Terith's ship.

Anakin and Zahara sit down, as Obi-Wan pours his fellow Knight and himself a cup of tea. Anakin doesn't understand the Jedi's obsession with tea.

Zahara takes her cup to her lips immediately, while Obi-Wan leaves his on the table, waiting for his tea to cool down a little before drinking it.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, with none of the Knights knowing what to say and Anakin expecting the scolding to begin any time soon. Finally, Obi-Wan starts.

"What you did was very brave, Anakin" His Padawan flusters at the praise. "You did what was right even when it was hard, and I'm very proud of you."

Anakin's cheeks turn hot and red. He… hadn't been expecting the praise.

"But it was also reckless" Obi-Wan goes on. "There are many things that could have gone wrong, things you didn't consider."

Anakin feels anger rising. "I was trying to free the slaves!"

Knight Zahara sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. "Do or do not, Skywalker. There is no try." She leaves her cup of tea on the table.

"You're very lucky Hadia is Force-sensitive and under the age limit" Obi-Wan explains to his Padawan, with slowly dying calm. "You could get into great trouble if we don't thread carefully."

Anakin's anger explodes, and with it so does Zahara's cup of tea. The Valehnan barely shields herself and Obi-Wan in time to stop the hot water from burning them. "I was freeing slaves! I shouldn't need a justification for that! I don't need to tell the Council what I'm doing every second of my time so they can argue about everything and waste my time!"

Zahara picks up the broken teacup, using the Force to avoid cutting herself, and throws it into the trashcan. She's projecting calm into her expression, but the kage doesn't manage to hide her frustration in the Force.

"There is no could, there is no should, only what you must do." The kage Jedi says, words of wisdom beyond Anakin's reach flowing through the air and the Force. "You're right, you shouldn't need permission to do the right thing and free slaves. But we don't live in an ideal galaxy, and right now you do need authorization to fight slavery."

"Jedi must follow our mandates, Anakin" Obi-Wan tells him honestly. "We can't act however we wish, even if it's right."

"You sound like we are slaves at the orders of the Council! Jedi are free, we should-!"

Zahara grabs another cup and pours herself some tea. While she does that, she cuts Anakin off. "We are not, Skywalker."

Anakin's anger quickly turns to confusion. "What do you mean…?"

Obi-Wan sighs tiredly. "What do you know about the Ruusan Reformation, Anakin?"

Anakin blinks at the sudden change in subject.

"It's a peace treaty signed after the last Jedi-Sith Wars."

"In theory" Zahara allows. "In practice, it's… something else."

The kage Jedi and Obi-Wan exchange a glance. Then, all emotion disappears from their faces, but their Force signatures grow… louder.

"At the end of the New Sith Wars, a thousand years ago, the public view of the Jedi had shifted." Obi-Wan explains slowly, carefully. "Most of the galaxy doesn't understand the difference between a Jedi and a Sith, and coming from a centuries long war that caused a technological regression we are still recovering from…"

Anakin finishes his Master's sentence, sounding hesitant and almost hoping he's wrong. "People blamed the Jedi?"

Zahara sighs. "Yes. We were blamed for things we didn't do and for things we couldn't do even if we tried. That's why the Ruusan Reformation was written in the first place: to limit the power that Jedi could wield" The kage Jedi swallows the lump in her throat. "First thing they did was take away our power to participate in the political process, which means we cannot be representatives for any planet or system in any government, have representation in said governments, nor are we allowed to vote."

Anakin's face turns a shade paler. "But… isn't voting a right for all citizens of the Republic?"

"Yes" Zahara replies, and doesn't elaborate, lets Anakin reach his own conclusions. The Padawan doesn't like the conclusions he's reaching to.

"Next was… the demilitarization of the Order, right? I remember Quinlan talking about it" Obi-Wan adds.

Knight Zahara nods. "They took our armor, back-up and defenses, basically everything but our Lightsabers" She takes a sip of her tea. "This means that zabraks and kages, for example, cannot own their cultures' traditional weapons."

Anakin remembers an old male zabrak slave, who had always lamented the loss of his staff, and feels sick to his stomach.

"It gets worse" Zahara warns him.

"How…" Anakin swallows. "How does it get worse?"

"Jedi must follow their mandate, in theory to prevent abuse of power" Obi-Wan explains.

"In practice, it means the Senate can… request favors from us, and we are not allowed to refuse" Zahara tells him. Anakin's anger resurfaces.

"You mean they can use us as Blood Slaves, Pleasure Slaves and… they don't suffer consequences" Anakin says between gritted teeth.

Zahara, notably, doesn't deny it. "They also added other impositions, such as not allowing members of the Corps to carry Kaitahj or nevi padib being sent to the Corps if a jaieh hasn't chosen them once they turn their species equivalent of thirteen."

"Our ability to free slaves is one of those things they restricted" Obi-Wan adds mildly, but Anakin can feel the frustration underneath the calm surface prickling on his skin. "A Jedi cannot free slaves without prior Senate authorization… unless there is an enslaved Force-sensitive youngling, and the Jedi in question is a Finder."

"The youngling must also be taken into the Order" Zahara adds.

Anakin feels the weight of guilt and anger sink its claws into his stomach.

Jedi aren't free, he isn't free, and now he's condemned Hadia to the same fate.

"I wonder what it says about the galaxy that the Order is still the safest place for a Force-sensitive youngling to grow up in" Zahara mutters.

"Jedi can leave the Order and get the full rights of a citizen of the Republic" Obi-Wan adds softly.

Anakin feels anger curl up in his stomach, the familiar frustration that comes with powerlessness. That's not a choice, that's only cruel. Nobody should choose their culture, their traditions, their identity, or their freedom.

It's like the ghost of a choice he and his mother had in working in Watto's shop, the same choice Dancing Girls have in their outfits. Just an ilusion.

He remembers his mother's words, Elder Tena's soft explanation, what they had never managed to teach him because he didn't want to understand, because he'd been afraid of understanding.

There are a hundred ways to be a slave. Gold and jewels can still be chains.

Anakin's heart hurts. He wants… he wants to do something.

"Is there anything we can do?" Anakin asks, voice soft and timid.

Zahara nods and gives him a quick smile. "Yes, I have a plan" She drinks her tea, and adds: "I'm registered as a Finder, and Hadia is four standard, which is within the age range imposed by the Senate. We can simply say that I was on planet and Hadia was enslaved there, so after she was freed I took her to the Order."

"It's the truth." Obi-Wan replies, face in a cold mask but with amusement and defiance coloring his Force signature.

"From a certain point of view" Anakin is certain that Zahara takes her teacup to her mouth to hide her smirk.

Anakin is familiar with these games, these half-truths and careful lies told in order to hide dissent, the keeping of secrets done to get whatever smidge of freedom one could get. He knows the Tongue of Slaves intimately, even if he's never been good at it. Perhaps it's time to start learning another language.

His life dream of freeing all the slaves hasn't changed. It only has one more step. He and the Jedi will break their chains, and together they will free the slaves from the Outer Rim.

No chain or cage can hold a Sky Walker forever.

Dai Bendu

Agisti — hello, hi, a greeting between equals

Jexha — Jedi Knight, title.

Valehnan — Jedi Shadow. Lit "Master of physical darkness" Zahara is introducing herself as a Shadow who has completed her training.

Xari — Darkness, Dark Side of the Force. Although in this context Zahara doesn't mean it literally.

Imkai'ans — murderers without sense or cause, people who kill without good reason, for its own sake. The worst thing you can call someone in Dai Bendu (it's very accurate for Death Watch and the Finder-slayer though)

Enishee — crechemate

Kaitahj — Lightsaber(s)

Nevi padib — the Initiates

Mando'a

Ad(e) — child(ren)

Jet'verd(e) — Jedi Knight(s)

Jetii'ad — Jedi child, Padawan or Initiate

Buy'ce — helmet

Mando'ad(e) — Mandalorian(s)

Jetii — Jedi (singular)

Aliit — family, clan

Verd — warrior

Haat'Mando'ade — True Mandalorians, followers of the Super Commando Codex and the Rewritten Canons who recognized Jaster Mereel and later Jango Fett as the rightful rulers of Mandalore

Kyr'stad — Death Watch. Lit "dead society"

Nu draar — a very strong no, not on your life, absolutely not, not ever, rather cut my eye out with a fork than do that. Lit "not never", since Mando'a uses double negative for emphasis

Jetiise — Jedi (plural)

Mandokar — epitome of Mandalorian virtue: courage, tenacity, loyalty and lust for life. Although in this case they're praising Zahara's guts

Shig — spicy Mandalorian drink similar to tea

Demagolka — someone who commits atrocities, war criminal, someone who hurts children, a real life monster. From the scientist from the time of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, a figure of hate and dread in Mandalorian culture

Mand'alor — leader of the Mandalorians

Kage Language

Jidai — Jedi

"The mission wasn't about those things". Jedi cannot act without explicit Senate authorization, in theory to prevent abuse of power. In practice to keep them on a leash.

The belugan corporations were using enslaved kages as employees because that way they don't have to pay salaries. Anakin Anakined the whole thing and decided to free the slaves. He freed most of them, mainly the children, but others were killed.

Zahara doesn't have a last name because Kage Warriors don't do surnames the same way we do. They mean something, such as a vocation or an experience you went through, and Zahara hasn't decided upon one yet.

Baby Anakin is suffering from severe imposter syndrome and is trying to make himself fit into the Order. He's hiding his Tatooine accent, he doesn't tell anybody about the culture he was born in and tries to immitate the Jedi he meets. What he hasn't realized yet (partially because of internalized biases, partially because of Palpatine) is that the Jedi want him to keep his culture and traditions, that many Jedi have accents from nearly every planet and that they don't know he was a slave.

The atmosphere of Quarzite's surface is Type IV, which is incompatible with any form of life (save for perhaps some kinds of bacteria). However, its caves are deep and, just like some caves in real life, have their own atmosphere, where sapient life is possible. Most ships are not equipped to the pressure, winds or storms of the Quarzite atmosphere, so people have to take subtrams to travel from one breathable space to another.

Jedi are a culture that drinks tea often, since many of them tend to find the flavors and/or textures soothing. Anakin doesn't know this, but Zahara and Obi-Wan made different teas with different flavors for everybody, because they have different tastes. Terith, on the other hand, is drinking shig (a spicy Mandalorian drink).

Anakin is still a baby and doesn't understand that freeing slaves is not something that can be done just like that. It requires careful planning, money, manpower and resources that the Jedi don't have. The restrictions of the Ruusan Reformation don't help, either.

If you've realized, Terith uses a lot of Mando'a words, even when they know Zahara doesn't speak Mando'a and neither does (as far as they're aware of) Obi-Wan. However, Zahara and Obi-Wan do not speak Dai Bendu in their presence save for a couple words, and they are speaking to each other, not to Terith. This is because Terith, like most Mandalorians, is not used to people not speaking the same language, Basic is their second language, and they're not fully fluent yet. However, Zahara and Obi-Wan are well trained diplomats who have dealt with people who didn't speak Basic, people who didn't want to speak Basic, people who couldn't speak Basic and are used to switching languages when necessary.

Terith doesn't know what enishee means. However, they can guess that it's either sibling, friend or the name of weird Jedi relationships like Padawan. But they can understand thanks to context. Basic sucks.

Jaster is still alive because I said so. He's a massive nerd too because I love that characterization for him.

My intention with this fic is, aside from spiting the Jedi-hate and Mando-worship of the fandom, adressing the horrible history Mandalorians have with Jedi. Despite this, I'm intending to be kind to most Mandalorians that show up on screen. Terith is a decent person that's horrified by everything they're learning (spoiler alert: it's bad) and I intend to give the same kindness to many other Mandalorian characters because, in the end, I believe most people are good (or at least not evil) and many Mandalorians would want to fix things and make amends however possible (giving braids and Lightsabers back, giving those who murdered children to justice, etc).

"A bit upsetting" AKA it's really bad and I'm barely holding on, but I don't want to worry you.

Most Jedi only call their Masters that word in Basic when there are people they don't want to find out about Dai Bendu (politicians, mainly) or when they're upset. Hence Zahara's reaction.

In case anyone's curious, Quarzite is an Inner Rim planet and as such is connected to Couruscant by a public transport network, despite its proximity to Mandalorian space (in this fic, I did artistic lisense on the GFFA map). Zahara didn't want to draw attention to herself while searching for Anakin, and it's standard procedure for Shadows to hide their Jedi status whenever a Jedi goes missing, because it's assumed there was a Jedi hunter involved until proven otherwise. However, now that she's found Anakin, Obi-Wan and the half a dozen or so slave children that tagged along, she's not willing to go by public transport and draw attention to the children they're smuggling out of the planet.

"There is no could, there is no should, only what you must do." A kage saying. What's done is done, it is what it is, and you must do your duty regardless. In this context, she's telling Anakin that it's useless to dwell on what should be happening, because it's, by definition, not happening. There are things that should be but aren't, and Jedi must act according to the present, not the past, possible future or alternate reality.

"Blood Slaves" Slaves whose masters use them as assassins, the very common fate of Force-sensitive slaves.

Elders are, in my version of Tatooine slave culture, slaves who have survived hardships and passed trials, for a lack of better word, and are revered by other slaves for their wisdom. Their role is similar to that of a Jedi Master (because the role of wise mentor is present in many cultures, and not all slaves have parents or guardians), but not quite the same. Anakin will, like many other Jedi, learn to balance his birth culture with the life of a Jedi.

"There are a hundred ways to be a slave." Saying in Hutt Space, where slaves make up over half the population. Not all slavery looks the same, some kinds are worse than others, but all in all it's the same shitty situation. The second part of the idiom, "gold and jewels can still be chains", means that even the people that look the most privileged can still be enslaved to something. Jedi live in a pretty Temple, but that doesn't mean they are free or the elite. In fact, as Anakin realizes, they are the complete opposite.

"Tongue of Slaves" AKA lying, misleading, deceiving, flattering and keeping secrets from slaveowners.

"Sky Walkers" is what the slaves from Hutt Space call themselves. It's a reference to a long extinct red bird species native to Tatooine, wiped out when the Hutts took over. The saying "no chain or cage can hold a Sky Walker forever" is born out of a sentiment of hope and defiance, a way of telling themselves they will be free one day, even if what gives them freedom is death. It's used as a last name for slaves who don't have one.

I'm not very satisfied with this one, so if it suffers any surprise editions you know why.

[stbrutus]

they are so good at missions !!!

based on this picture:

[tridentrans]

family resemblance. or something

[basileusdraws]

Some early days design stuffs for my favourite crab kids :)

[dhampiravidi]

the story of darth tenebrous & his chase

Those eyes--

She'd first seen them the day her Master had been killed, the last week she'd been a Padawan. Despite the Jedi Council knowing that the planet of Fjerda was hostile towards Grisha like themselves, they sent their people to aid the Republic-friendly faction against invading Confederates. Jayn saw a Fjerdan, only a few years older than herself, shoot her Master clean through the chest when the woman tried to help the fallen soldier up. Full of sudden rage, Jayn screamed, and a wave of power kicked the soldier yards over. She sobbed, then went to check on her friend, her de facto mother and sister. Just as she looked up to reassess the situation, she noticed the oncoming droids--

And then a dark blur threw itself between her and the droids. It was illuminated by a colored glow, then by the blasts fired. But the blur simply kept moving, until the blaster bolts deflected and destroyed all of the incoming droids. Only when the blur stopped did Jayn see that it was a person, one who gave her a quiet, dark stare before he ran off. Aleksander Morozov, the hero of Fjerda, saved my life.

That was years ago. Since then, Jayn had ascended to the rank of Master, while on the path to becoming a Jedi Shadow. She'd added another blue lightsaber to her repertoire, and she had never taken on a Padawan, aside from volunteering to lead combat training on occasion. She felt lonely sometimes, and she had a few escorts she kept visiting against her better judgment (attachment was forbidden, not sex, after all), but she knew she was fighting for peace. According to the Jedi, that was all she needed to be satisfied. And yet, she was not. The Senate grew more disjointed by the second, Fjerda had joined the Confederacy, and the Confederacy kept upgrading their droids faster than the Republic could learn to counter them with regular soldiers.

The whole time, the Jedi stayed quiet unless directed by the Senate, and it ate at her. She knew that her mother had been killed for being Grisha, because her father had been the one to bring her to the Temple. We aren't doing enough.

The night of the first time she thought that, she dreamed of those dark eyes again. They might be on a glowing advertisement, or on the face of a Wookie, or even in the sky like stars, but they kept appearing, just before she awakened.

Ravka. A group of children had been taken hostage by a gang that had had increased conflicts with the local police. Negotiations were going poorly, so Jayn would go and deal with things herself.

She was just entering the planet's atmosphere, sitting calmly in her starfighter when she felt something strange in the Force.

@starlsssankt

[darth-bagel]

—Jedi Tivan'n, Jedi Tivan'n, Jedi Tivan'n—

[maulfucker]

a handful of oc concepts

[dragonrider9905]

Also find me on Ao3--DragonRider9905

Everything is separated by series

Canon

One Shots/Stand Alones

Hunter's Stress Journal

Clonetober 2022

Lessons from the Past Offer Hope for a Golden Future

AUs

To Be a Jedi (Hunter Force-Sensitive AU)

The Clone's Incomplete Guide for Navigating the Afterlife (We're Learning as We Go)

Technically, We’re in Love (Tech/OC)—Same AU as Broken, Not Shattered

Broken, Not Shattered (Crosshair/OC)(Hunter/OC)—Same AU as Technically

With You From Dusk till Dawn (Hunter/OC)

The World Where You Live (Hunter/OC) (Tech/OC)

Reader Inserts

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy!

Feel free to comment and/or reblog. Would be much appreciated!

[penvisions]

of beskar and kyber {chapter 3}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: You begin to understand the dynamic between you and your new captor. But things aren’t always what they appear to be, and maybe that’s for the best. 

Word Count: 7.8K

Warnings: talk of sexual favors, narcotics, reader was drugged previously, withdrawel, symptoms of withdrawel, light violence toward reader (very minimal and not detailed), nightmares, trauma, ptsd triggers, reader is in a survival headspace, readers hands are still bound, semi-nudity, moral dilemmas, morally confused din djarin

A/N: hello, hello! i initially planned to update twice a month, but this chapter flowed so easily once i began to flesh out the scenes i had outlined for this installment. it helps to set the dynamic between the reader and our dear mandalorian. i also am aware that my writing style allows for glimpses of his feelings and what he’s thinking, it’s still strictly set in the ‘reader knows x and acts that way’ and then some passages give way to how he’s experiencing the events as well (though reader isn’t privy to them). i like giving insight to him so he doesn’t seem so flat. please let me know what y’all think!  ♡ 

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist 

It was early morning, the sun just barely showing signs of peaking over distant mountain ridges. You hadn’t slept much, the chill of the desert and the close, heavy presence of your captor making the task difficult.

The familiar sound of your saber handle had you sitting up quickly, a warning on your tongue as the bright white of the blade formed with the push of a button by a gloved hand.

“Be careful!”

Glowing light cast from the blade illuminated the helmet of the Mandalorian, facing where you had shot up from your resting position. The fabric of your tunic swung as you reached a hand out, not thinking about the sudden movement inciting the man’s instincts. He leaned away from you, his legs pushing him up from his own seated position on a fluid movement, the blade coming in front of him in as a defensive shield. Your face was cautious, your outburst making you worried in the wake of the warning from the night before.

“Please be careful, jatne vod.” You spoke in a softer tone, not wanting the man to accidentally burn himself as he quelled his curiosity surround your weapon. Or wield it at you in defense, you were too weak to put up much of a fight, despite adrenaline that would pump through your system should the threat feel real enough.  While it may not be particularly yours anymore, you wanted it to be cared for and handled with caution. “The crystal is very sensitive.”

“Crystal?” The man’s curiosity seemed to get the better of him. He experimentally twisted the handle in a mimic of how one would a blade to get the feel of the weight and balance. The handle moving from one hand to the other, the humming of the blade reacting to each minute swing and twist. It shouldn’t have but the vision of this strong, capable Mandalorian bounty hunter wielding your weapon so easily stirred something in your chest. You ignored the feeling, willing it to fade away and forcefully snapped your focus back.

“The energy of the crystal is harnessed by the handle, resulting in the blade. I mined the crystal myself, long ago.”

“A kyber crystal. Heard of it before, in passing.”

“Yes, jatne vod. A Kyber crystal, they are very important to jedi culture. Much like beskar to your people. It’s a living crystal, it’s bonded to me. It may not operate for everyone who attempts to.”

You didn’t mention that it meant a great deal that it had operated for him.

The Mandalorian didn’t respond, seeming to have the information he wanted regarding the weapon. His need to understand the weapon temporarily overriding the requisite of you being silent. The press of a button dimmed the blade, powering it down completely. A gloved hand reached up with a small flashlight in its grip and he flicked the beam on to point into the handle. The crystal reflected faceted light onto the front of his helmet, bathing his form in a mesmerizing display. The angle of the light hitting the bottom of his helmet giving you a faint glimpse of the shape of the man’s face. No features had been discernable, the darkness within the helmet keeping them hidden from you.

Your eyes traced the faint outline, searching for any hint of the man beneath the helmet even as your mind reprimanded you that it was an invasion of privacy. This man had sworn a creed, much like yourself, though his was different from yours. While yours forbade earthly attachments, his forbade revealing his face to those he was not bonded to. There was just something about him that you seemed instinctually react to…The reverent air that possessed him as he inspected the weapon, respect seeping into his gentle ministrations as he looked it over and got a feel for the way it moved and glided through the air.

You knew that Mandalorians put great worth on weaponry and armor. It was a part of their culture, of their way of life. For this man to take great time and care to figure out the logistics of your own weapon that was now in his possession, it felt like something. However misplaced it may be. The more sensible part of your brain was trying to argue that it didn’t mean anything, that the man probably collected every weapon from every quarry he’s ever captured. Inspected them, deemed them important enough to integrate into his own personal cache of weapons or store them upon the ship for when he may need them, if ever.

The sun was beginning to cast pastel orange rays that were bleeding into the dark navy of the fading night over the vast expanse of the open sky, painting the desert in a wash of golden light. Eclipsing the man standing before you, his back to the beauty of the day’s new beginnings.

Suddenly the silver helmet morphed into one that was all black, the visor disappearing. The quiet air of the early morning was filled with the sound of deep breaths being helped by a compressor, the figure of the Mandalorian shifting into that of one you’ve spent your entire life running from. A red blade sprang to life as the standing figure twisted the lightsaber and aimed it at you, stepping over you to hold it close to your throat.

The hum of it was loud in your ears, the heat of it setting your skin on fire even if it hadn’t touched you yet. Your name fell from the figure’s mouth, modulator making it low and it settled heavy in the air. It wasn’t the voice of the Mandalorian you had grown to recognize over the past day. A hand was raised and you felt yourself being lifted to hover few feet above the ground, your body hanging limply as the Force was worked against you. Chills rained down your arms and back despite the beads of sweat that were beginning to form along your skin, body freaking out even as your mind was utterly blank with panic.

The hand fell from its raised position, your body collapsing to the ground with a thump. Fear had you rooted in your spot, unable to do anything as the blade began to cut a line into your neck…

You shot up from where you had been laying, hand flying to your neck as a choking sound warbled from your mouth. You took a deep breath, blinking furiously to dispel the image of a dark cloaked figure with a black helmet as the light of day revealed to you that it had all been a dream. A dream of a memory that had morphed into a nightmare. The shade encompassing you had you stilling as you tried to mentally reign yourself in.

You whipped your head around, trying to get a bearing on your surroundings. You were down on the ground, a thick piece of tattered fabric separating your body from the coarse sand. The sound of metal on metal filled the air as you turned to see the Mandalorian and the Ugnaught working together to fit a final piece of siding back into place on the Razor Crest. The sun was setting but you had a feeling it wasn’t the same day as when you had fallen unconscious. The fuzzy feeling of your tongue in your dry mouth and the aching of your muscles were an indication of the time that had passed.

You watched silently, moving to sit more comfortably atop the fabric, as the two made sure the metal panel was securely in place. When the figure of the Mandalorian emerged from the shadows of the ship, you realized he was free of the mud that had covered him the last time you had been conscious, and he had fastened his cuirass back into place despite the large dents that still marred the metal. He was missing his cloak. Your middle dropped from you to disappear into the sand as you realized he had removed it and given it to you in your unconscious state to lay atop. That he had taken the time to clean it of the mud that had caked on it before doing so.

With frantic still bound hands, you brushed as much of the sand that had gathered onto it off, hoping he wouldn’t notice how careless you were treating something of his. Halfway through your ministrations, you realized you still had a layer of mud covering your own form, though it was dried and nearly baked into the fabric of your tunic and along your hair. Small bits of it crumpled off to land on the fabric. Your face had been wiped clean, though whoever had done had made sure to stop there.

“He told me of the powers you used to defeat the mudhorn, I’ve heard of them in passing.”

Your head shot up at the voice, suddenly realizing that the Ugnaught had approached you. You hoped he had been the one to wipe your face clean, unsure of how you felt about the Mandalorian taking the time to ensure you had something to lay on so you weren’t on the ground and to clean you. He had schooled his expression to one of slight curiosity, though you couldn’t read much else in his expression.

“Whispers of such powers have faded, but they still linger in the wind and minds of the galaxy.”

You just nodded, bringing your hands to rest atop your bent knees. Your eyes moved to the pod beside you, it was open to reveal the unconscious form of the Child inside. Worry stirred in your heart for him, he was so small and the Force took a lot of energy and concentration to direct, to harness. His moves to save the Mandalorian will have definitely hit him harder than yours had done to you. Memories of a similar figure in species and stature wove through your racing mind, though the one you were thinking of had been alive for millennia. He had been skilled beyond comprehension, his age allowing him the time to become one of the strongest people you had ever encountered. The Child had a long way to go and you’d surely be long dead by the time he was even ready to begin training himself.  

“You must be stronger than the Child, he is still unconscious.”

You nodded again, not wanting to give anything away. The fleeting worry that the Mandalorian has recounted the events with the mudhorn grew in your chest and made it hurt as you fought your instincts to incapacitate the figure in front of you. That he had told the Ugnaught what you had shared with him in his native tongue, still so cautious about who you were.

No one could know what you were, what you possessed, you already had such a large target on your back. But this man had been nothing but kind to you in his own way, allowing you to share his farmed water, offer you transportation, and aid with repairing your captor’s ship. Surely he wasn’t a threat in any way, whether personally or by the sharing of information he’s gathered from the interactions of the past few days.

“You may speak with him, if you wish. Though I have not repeated what you told me,” The deep timbre of the Mandalorian’s modulated voice sounded as he approached as well. He pressed something along his left cuff and the pod beside you moved toward the repaired ship and up the ramp. Something stirred in you, quelling the panic and worry that had begun to consume your mind. But it was quashed just as quickly as it had begun to form at the next words to leave his modulator. “Word of what you told me would make it even more of a task to complete the job of returning you.”

You hoped none of the emotions that had washed over you had shown on your features, not wanting to be so easily read. You nodded again, the repeated motion beginning to cause nausea in the pit of your stomach now that you were conscious. You spied the handle of your saber secured in a spot on the Mandalorian’s utility belt. Hidden from anyone who didn’t know what to look for.

“Thank you for the kindness you have shown us while on your planet, sir. It is greatly appreciated. I don’t have anything to offer you in return.” Your attention snapped back to the man directly in front of you. His eyes meeting your own as he looked you over. It seemed as if he had more to say but had settled on holding the words back in favor of addressing your immediate response.

“I am in your service; you are my guests. There is no need to supplement me. I have spoken.”

The ship lifted into the air, and you gripped an arm of your seat tightly, both hands curling around it as you fought the rolling nausea in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if it was because of withdrawal or nerves at flying again. It had been so long since you’d been aboard a ship, and apparently the last time you hadn’t even been conscious enough to realize you were being transported. But this time you were, and you grounded yourself with that small notion. You were aware of what was happening at this moment, and it was all you could think of to comfort yourself even if you were being taken back to a place you never wanted to return.

Once the ship lurched into hyperspace, the mesmerizing colors wafting around the ship and displaying through the glass of the cockpit, you felt your nerves ease a little. The colors were beautiful, the light of them calming despite what they meant. Though the brightness of them could be felt behind your eyes as your head throbbed.

You climbed down into the hold once the course through hyperspace had evened out, taking in the space. It was small but enough room to allow the Mandalorian his sleeping quarters, space to store a good number of crates secured along the walls of the hull with thick netting and fabric straps with metal clasps, the small room that held the refresher that the ladder up to the cockpit lined, the cabinets that he used to hold his weaponry, and settled into the hull of the ship itself was the chamber he must’ve used to contain his quarries. You inspected the door, a slight confusion settling over you as you took in the control panel. With a start, you realized it was a carbon freezing chamber.

Backing quickly away from the doors that opened into the small chamber, you felt your back collide with something strong and solid, sending faint jolts of discomfort down your sore shoulders. Shifting on your feet with more energy than you thought you possessed, you came face to face with the Mandalorian himself.

You began to shake your head, fear growing hot in your body as you realized that your fate was to be frozen in this moment and roused once you were back in the hands of your cruel mother. No chance to put up a fight, no chance to scramble for freedom once in a place with more opportunities. You felt like a fool, thinking the armored man would allow you to occupy his space as he returned his other quarry, the one he had initially set out to capture. The job he had intended to fulfill when he happened upon you on the same planet. He said you had to be returned unharmed and the best way to do that would be to turn you into carbonate for travel.

But he didn’t activate the doors to open, he didn’t push you into the chamber. He didn’t move at all except to nod his helmet toward the other side of the hold space. There was a crate that had been taken from the netting and placed against the paneling that you knew opened up to reveal a condensed kitchen space. There was a small cooling supply unit and a hot plate. The cabinets around the immediate area housed a caf maker he had been adamant about retrieving from the Jawas and various boxes of nonperishable foods you weren’t too keen on. You preferred freshly prepared food, a product of your upbringing on a planet whose culture was rich with fishing and farming.

Two smaller crates had been set up next to it in a mimicry of a dining table and chairs. You looked to him before moving across the space and settling yourself atop one of the ‘seats’, him doing the same, sitting diagonal to you. His back was to the wall of the hull, while yours was open and exposed as you faced him and the paneling. It was quiet, the space filled with a weird tension you couldn’t explain when he moved to lean forward with something in his hand that you hadn’t noticed in your panic.

The ration pack placed in front of you atop the ‘table’ made you blink, the change of clothes that weren’t your own underneath it even more so. You glanced over to wall of armor that hide away the man who offered them to you. You stared at the pile of items in front of you, taking note that they were for a reason, one that you weren’t daft enough to ignore. When he reached forward again, this time to remove the binders still around your wrists, you stared at the visor, trying to gauge the situation to get a read on what he would prefer. Taking a breath, you stood and moved to face the man, your skin humming in hesitant anticipation like it always did before you were given instructions, no matter how silent.

You didn’t say anything as you stood from your seat and kneeled before him, hands reaching out to rest on his thighs. You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you at the idea of touching the cold-looking armor decorating his form, but you would deal with it. You could deal with a lot if it meant you could eat and have clean clothes. You had thought that being taken by him only meant an exchange of who was handling your shackles, and you were correct. It didn’t matter if he claimed to be transporting you back to your home planet and mother, you were under his control in the meantime and you didn’t want to upset him. Didn’t want to run the risk of turning down his offer to trade and then ending up with nothing in exchange and him taking what he wanted anyway.  

The harsh truth of the situation was that you needed the food. You needed something in your system to combat the waning drugs and the sensations they were leaving in their continued absence. Withdrawal had fully set it in, if your spells of nausea and dizziness were any indication. The sensitivity to light you were developing spoke of it even more so, accompanied by interwoven chills and hot flashes that had nothing to do with the planet’s environment. If you were to make it through, you needed something in your system to help counteract the energy it was taking from your already spent body.

The clothes looked soft, something that sounded like a blessing against your irritated skin. You needed those items. The fact of the matter was that you needed to trade for them with the man before you, nothing came for free. Not in this life, not in yours. Because underneath all that armor and the creed, he was just another man. Steeling yourself you began to reach out for him, to begin with something relatively tame. Hopefully it would be enough for the items…

You didn’t even get to lay your hands completely down on the armored plates over his thighs before there was a sharp sting on your cheek and you felt yourself crumble to the floor from the force of a hit.

You had been so focused on keeping your eyes on his lap that you hadn’t seen the twitch of his hand before it moved swiftly toward you. You didn’t move an inch from where you were on your backside on the floor, submitting completely to the man now standing. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides, the crinkling of leather giving away his irritation at the situation. You didn’t do anything, you didn’t look dare look at him, not wanting to upset him further. You waited for him to speak, to give you directions.

“What are you doing?” His voice was low and harsh, the same one he used when you had heard him talking to Jawas. It held no respect. It reverberated through your entire body, bringing you shame you hadn’t felt in a long time, having shut down feeling bad over the things you’ve had to endure. Shame at things you had to do to survive while being held captive for so long and on different occasions. “Answer me. Why would you think that’s appropriate?”

“Th-the food….and the clothes. Pay-payment, jatne vod.” You wanted to bring a hand up to your stinging cheek, the feeling of a cut underneath your eye bringing tears to your lash line as swelling began. You allowed your hair to shield your face from view, no one had ever struck your face before, and it had taken you off guard. It had hurt.

No one had dared touch your face, to leave marks on it, no matter who the captor had been or who had been watching over you. Your mother had wanted you to maintain the soft skin of your face in order to gain a husband someday, but as you got older the idea seemed to disappear from her mind. It became a silent way to hide the things they did to you. The same went for your captors, they wanted to keep anything they did to you covered. Easily hide the awful things they did to you should you need to be transported, avoiding as much unwanted attention as possible.

“Payment?” The Mandalorian took a step back, feeling his entire body go cold. He took in the way you were trying not to cower, your hands shaking where they held you up from being on the floor completely, your legs splayed out where you landed from the force of his panicked movement. He hadn’t meant to hit you, his mind urging him to push you away before you touched him had turned into a frantic swipe of his hand. You were a quarry, there was no need for touching unless he was fighting you.

You didn’t say anything further. He glanced at the items on the table for a second, his mind reeling at the idea of you having to pay for them when he had obviously placed them there for you to have. To make yourself somewhat comfortable aboard the ship. He may not have the best record of social interaction and had trouble accepting things offered to him without seeing the strings attached, but this? He hadn’t meant for you to take the items as something you had to earn, your puck instructed to bring you in alive and unharmed, he had just been trying to be accommodating to some degree.

You were covered in mud and dirt from the desert and your captivity. Even more so from saving him, taking out that second, raging mudhorn that had quite literally come out of nowhere. He had wiped your face free of mud, but hadn’t dared do anything further. It felt like too much, just what little he had already done. He’s intent on ignoring his betraying mind telling him he wouldn’t have done as much for anyone else.

The talk of the Jawas and the favors they had referred to when discussing wanting to trade his parts back for time with you echoed in his head. They had been talking about the way the guards of the compound had refused to give you anything lest you trade for them, but with no possessions to trade there was only one thing that could mean…

“I-if that’s not what you wanted, then do whatever you think is f-fair in exchange.” You turned to face him, though your eyes didn’t dare rise past his cuirass. You were kneeling once again, though instead of reaching out to him, your hands went up to untie the wrap keeping your tattered tunic closed and loosened the knot there. The fabric fell from your form onto the floor and puddled around you, leaving you in just your underthings. The fading bruises and cuts on your skin from your captivity on full display.

You rested your hands atop your thighs and waited for his instructions. You could feel your skin prickle in the cold air of the ship, your chest displaying the sensation through the fabric. “I h-have an implant, if that interests you, jatne vod.”

“It doesn’t interest me. Put your clothes back on and collect yourself. This isn’t a game.” Disgust at the insinuation dripped from his modulated voice. He looked at the wall just beyond your face, not looking at you but looking over your head. He could see the red line the plate of armor on the back of his hand had made underneath your eye, the trickle of blood that blossomed from the end of it. He hadn’t meant to strike you so hard, he hadn’t even meant to strike you in the first place. “I gave you those things, they’re yours.”

“But-“ You cut yourself off, as if realizing you were arguing with him. He didn’t see having a conversation as arguing, but he guessed you weren’t used to having a simple conversation. He realized that days ago he had snapped at you to remain silent, that he preferred if you didn’t talk. The sentiment carved into your every interaction with him since then as you spoke only when spoken to. Outside of when you had explained the diagnostics of your weapon. You had been missing for so long, no doubt having been captured for most of it. Obeying despite not wanting to instilled in your mind for survival. You remained unmoving, as if waiting for another strike to fall on you. “Apologies.”

He was quiet, taking in the way you sat before him. When he raised his hand to point at the items on the table, he took in the way you began to flinch. He had tried to abort the movement at the realization you were worried he would strike you again. Unfamiliar guilt stuttered through his chest, prompting a heavy sigh to sound through the modulator.

“Eat, then wash off. The refresher is through that door. The soap and towels in there are for you to use, do so. I’ll be overlooking the course.” He walked away from you, leaving you kneeled on the floor. His footsteps could barely be heard as he crossed the space and disappeared up the ladder.

The Mandalorian was overwhelmed with not knowing how to interact with someone who seemed conditioned to wait for commands but could take down an assailant and a raging mudhorn with ease. It made him uncomfortable; you made him uncomfortable. Strength and ability hidden away in favor of submitting; he didn’t understand. Even if it was a survival tactic. He’d just rather fight his way through threats than submit and bid his time. Shaking his head roughly to dispel his thoughts, he reached out for the last rung on the ladder and pulled himself up to the level of the ship that held the cockpit.

The sooner he could return the Child to Nevarro, the sooner he could get you where you needed to be and off his ship.

Your stomach protested the heartiness of the ration pack. It was too heavy, even if all you had taken was two bites before realizing. The waning of the drugs in your system paired with no other food or nutrients made it hard to swallow what you did dare to intake. You didn’t want the Mandalorian to think you were ungrateful, especially after giving you the ration pack. You just stood there, staring at the opened foil of it and frowned.

You had used the refresher, taking your time washing the caked-on mud and sand from the past few days journey. You were donning the rather large, long sleeve shirt and pants that had been given to you as well. You tugged the belt from your dirty clothes and cleaned it quickly to help hold up the waist. A sigh fell unbidden from you and you pushed up the long sleeves and began to handwash the rest of your stuff in the refresher sink, leaving the unfinished pack on the table. You had carefully folded the foil to conceal what you had not been able to eat.

You were about to hang your tunic and cloak on the top of the shower stall door when you heard faint footsteps in the hold. They seemed to pause before they redirected and a knock on the refresher door sounded. Jumping slightly at the loud sound, the fabric in your hand fell to make a wet smack on the tile of the shower floor.

You abandoned in to open the door, the broad figure of armor taking up the entire open space. His visor was turned down to look at you directly, though you hadn’t the faintest clue what expression was truly on his features.

“You didn’t finish your ration pack.”

“I am grateful for your generosity, jatne vod. I…may I speak plainly?”

The visor continued to stare at you, no confirmation or denial leaving the face behind it. You felt your face heat as you were aware of how close he was, that you were in his own clothing, that the steam from your shower was still wafting through the air. Embarrassment made you heat up even more so, hating the way that it affected you so. But you were beginning to realize how pathetic you must have appeared to the man before you and continued to so do the longer you were in his presence.

“It’s… too dense on my stomach. Food wasn’t a priority for me, at the compound. And the…stuff they used to keep me contained may have worked out of my system but it’s still affecting me.”

“They kept you drugged so you wouldn’t fight.”

“Yes, jatne vod.”

“They starved you and kept you drugged.”

“They starved me in order to make food something desirable, something I would trade…companionship for.”

A knot formed in your throat, the words physically hurting you to speak aloud, keeping your head bowed enough to not make eye contact with the visor. Your cheek throbbed where the armor on his hand had sliced you. Your body was sore, your muscles exhausted from the events of the past few days on top of the particularly harsh reality you had been living for however long you had been captive. You must’ve been shaking, or your muscles twitched, or you made a face when stab of pain reverberated through your stomach as it tried to digest what little you had eaten. The flinch didn’t go unnoticed.

“Do you require medical attention?”

“No. I would not want to waste your supplies.” The immediate response flew from you before you even knew the words existed. But you had no way of paying to supplement what he would use. You didn’t even know what would help beyond bacta spray for your cheek.

“Not a waste if you’re injured. You are to be returned intact.”

“…I would appreciate it, if I would be allowed to just settle somewhere and rest for a bit. If that’s amenable, jatne vod.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You’re my captor, I’m your quarry. What do you wish me to call you? Because I don’t think you’d like the term I’m using in my head.” Your eyes flared in annoyance at the man in front of you as you straightened to your full height and gazed directly into the visor. His own eyes caught the flash of emotion through the visor. You were trying to be respectful, despite the circumstances. If it had been anyone else, you would’ve pummeled them and taken off with your freedom. But he was a Mandalorian, a rather extraordinarily skilled one despite his propensity for aggravated outbursts over mundane things. And you knew when you were outmatched, especially in your prevailing weakened state.

“What were you doing in here for so long?” He peered over your head, toward the damp clothing that was hung up and then to the piece that had been left forgotten on the floor at his appearance.

“Tending to my clothes, I did not want to anger you by being in your own for too long should you need them. Mine should be dry by the time I’m done resting.”

It was silent as he entered the small space, you shifting to plaster yourself against the wall that faced the small mirror above the sink. You could only watch as he gathered the damp clothing in his hands and walked clear out of the refresher. He opened up a panel along the side of the hold space and dumped the clothing in the dark space. You didn’t protest as he did so, nor did you apologize for taking up space with them as you had tried to dry them.

“Once the Child is returned, we will find a stall for a new tunic.”

With that he moved to the concealed door that led to his own, small quarters. He opened it and disappeared inside, the door closing nearly completely behind him. The pod containing the Child had floated into the space along with him. You allowed yourself to relax just a bit, the tension pulling your shoulders taut waned and you sighed in relief. You moved to sit atop the ‘seat’ he had occupied before, with your back leaning against the siding of the space you closed your eyes and hoped your head would stop hurting soon.

You were awoken some time later by the sound of ceramic on metal. You jumped, your hair swinging with the sudden motion and your body protested the tensing of muscles. Your eyes immediately took in the form of the Mandalorian seated across from you in your previous spot. His hand was still curved around the mug he had set atop the ‘table’ in front of you. Steam wafted up from it and the faint smell of something delicious had your mouth watering. Your stomach gurgled in response to the smell, loud enough to be heard in the silence.

“Bone broth, should be easy on your stomach.”  

Eyes raked over the helmet, the dark shape of the visor in the low light of the hold space. He didn’t remove his hand from the mug, his gloved hand curled around it to display just how wide his palm was and how thick his fingers were. Your eyes snapped to the steaming mug and then back to him as he leaned forward slightly, his other arm coming to rest atop the ‘table’. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, the silence getting heavy as you realized he was about to ask for something in exchange for the delicacy that had been placed between you.

“The Child. He’s still unconscious.”

Straightening your back, stifling a groan at the action you took in the way his own shoulders were tensed, the way his legs were firmly planted on the floor of the ship. He was carrying something he wasn’t accustomed to and it was a burden that could be read on him as if he had plainly told you. The Mandalorian was worried about the Child.

“He may be older than both of us, but he is still young for his species. The Force is…a complicated thing to wield and he may have hidden his powers in the time since we were first hunted. He will be okay, his mind is recovering and his body is allowing it to happen in the safety of unconsciousness.”

Your words seem to hold what he was looking for, as his large hand detangles from around the mug to leave it sitting in front of you in a clear display that it is now yours. You try to not greedily reach out for it, your stomach making more noises as the prospect of something that smells so enticing. You bring the mug to your lips slowly, the action of swallowing making you grimace slightly as you realize you may have been out for longer than you initially thought, once again. Your cheek throbbed at the movement though you visibly relaxed as the warm, smooth liquid flowed down your throat to settle in your stomach.

A somewhat comfortable silence hung in the air, until the man across from you reached into the box you hadn’t seen atop the ‘table’ in your distraction of the mug. He pulled out a small tube that looked too much like something that would house a needle.

The clatter of the mug on metal and your uncomfortable shuffling to make yourself smaller had the visor training back on you with a quick movement. Your eyes were wide, and your breathing shallowed as thoughts of him drugging you created a feeling of foolishness to swell in your chest. He didn’t say anything as he held the tube out to you in his wide palm for you to see the label on it.

‘Bacta’ in small, all capital letters spelled out in Basic.

“For your wrists,” He set it down slowly by the mug. “So they don’t scar.”

You had been rubbing unconsciously at your sore wrists, the angry red marring the tan skin around them irritating. You hadn’t noticed you had been doing so, had probably been doing so since your departure from the compound, even around the binders he had placed on you while in the desert. You watched with cautious eyes as he stood and took the box that must hold his medical supplies in it back toward his sleeping quarters. He returned to the ‘table’ and took the tube back in his hand, popping off the protective cap to reveal a squat spray nozzle. He held out his other hand in a silent request.

Hesitantly you held your arms out, palms turned up where the most damage had been caused. Dried, ugly looking scabs decorated your skin. The area around them irritated and painful looking. He hovered his free palm below your outstretched hands and proceeded to spray in small bursts over the circumference of them. Your heartbeat fast and painful in your chest throughout the whole ordeal. He pocketed the now empty tube before leaning back out of your space. You nodded your thanks as you moved to pick the half empty mug back up, your wrists tingling as the medicine began working to heal the damage to your skin. Quiet resumed.

Once you’ve finished the mug, the contents of it sitting comfortably in your stomach, you both move to the cockpit as he announced you would be leaving hyperspace soon.

Settling into the chair behind the pilot’s seat, off to his left, you spied the pod housing the Child resting in the one to both his and your right side. The Child was still unconscious, though his chest was rising and falling evenly. The ship lurched, pulling your attention from the small being toward the open windshield of the ship. A planet taking up the airspace directly in front of it as it exited hyperspace.

Turning, the Mandalorian reached out to grasp the open lip of the pod. He gently shook it, to gauge the figure inside. But it didn’t stir, not so much as a wiggle of adorable ears or the twitch of a small nose. He turned back to face the control panel, taking the handles of the power steering in his grip. The planet grew larger, the view of it expanding as you closed in on it.

Through the atmosphere you could make out the fluorescent reds and oranges that meant it was a volcanic planet. The realization striking panic to simmer low in your abdomen. The bases of most Imperials were hidden away on planets with volcanic environments, harnessing the energy and movement of the lava to create the weapons they had used during times of war. If the lack of response to your earlier question of the Imperials being the ones to contract the Child’s return was anything to go off of, then you were positive they were here on this planet.

Rustling drew your attention, you looked over to see the Child was awake, his head popping up over the lip of the pod as he peered curiously over the top of it. He clambered down from the pod, from the chair the pod was nestled in and walked over toward the side of the pilot seat. You couldn’t see him, but you did see when one of his small green hands reached for the handle of one of the controls. The shiny top of it commanding his attention. The Mandalorian was momentarily focused on a transmission he played as it dinged in.

When the transmission ended, his attention focused on the Child beside him. The small figure had climbed up atop the control panel, small hand gripping at the top of a lever in front of him. The shiny ball of metal atop it his goal. He removed it easily, bringing it to his mouth to chew on.

“It’s not a toy.” A gloved hand grasped the back of the Child’s clothing and lifted him up. A small noise left him as he was moved back to his pod and deposited back into the confines of it. They shared a look, a soft coo sounding before the Child looked over to you with his bright eyes. You smiled at him, wiggled your fingers at him in a motion that pulled a giggle from him in his cute voice.

“Remain on the ship. I’m going to lock it down and set access coding, attempting to mess with the panels or controls will send an alert directly to me.”

You watched as the armored man stood before his storage cabinet and donned what he deemed appropriate. The act of him fastening weapons and adjusting his armor and the underling padding over his clothing seemed an invasion of privacy almost, though he hadn’t told you to leave him be or leave the room. The intimacy of knowing where he had hidden blades and extra munitions seemed to be something you should not be privy to.

You hide away in the cockpit during his absence, spending the time watching the hustle and bustle of the city through the main archway that separated the open expanse from the landing area for ships.

The city was dirty, the streets full of people and trash. The buildings were crumbling in some places, blaster damage and dirt decorating the exterior of most of them. It was seedy and it was exactly the type of environment you had spent most of your life hiding in. You didn’t miss it, having been so young when you first took to a life on the run, forced to. You took in the way people didn’t linger their gazes on anything or anyone else for too long. As if they were afraid of inciting conflict. Too common a thing in places like this.

You watched the goings-on of the main street you could see that wound its way through the center of the small city. Losing track of time, it was growing dark as the day began to bleed into night. The time of twilight taking over the planet and bathing it in blue light. The light pollution from the city shields the stars and surrounding planets from view.

When the Mandalorian returned, you had tracked his path down the main street until he had gotten too close to the ship to do so. He was alone, the pod no longer trailing beside him. But that had been the end of this mission after all. It didn’t matter that he had asked after the Child’s wellbeing as it had laid unconscious for days. His task was predetermined.

His armor was different. The plates were still secured to the same places as his previous set, but this one was all comprised of the same silver metal as his helmet and his right pauldron. Of beskar. The spoils of his mission plainly on display for all to see.

It was beautiful, it was gorgeous. It made him look even stronger and more capable, if that was even possible. You wanted to skim your hands over the smooth expanse of the plates and feel the coolness of the metal underneath them. Even as you realized it was the very embodiment of the Child being no more.

Grief for another of your kind fallen was an old friend, one that was knocking to be let back into your world after such a long absence. It was not welcome. No words were exchanged, the air holding a sense of detachment as he entered the cockpit. He was holding tension in his entire body as he moved past you and settled into the pilot chair. He punched in the coding he had set and began to power up the ship for lift off.

When he reached over to pull the lever to begin take off, he paused. The ball that normally sat atop the lever had been placed on the control panel when he had removed it from the Child’s mouth hours ago upon arrival. He held the small piece of round metal in his gloved hand, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head beneath the helmet. He slowly screwed the piece back onto the lever and he pushed it forward, his hand hovering over it after the fact.

He suddenly pulled the lever back, reached up and hit some switches. He was a flurry of quick, precise movements as he powered the ship back down just as efficiently as he had powered it on, making your heartbeat fast as you watched him do so.

He didn’t reset the access coding.

As he turned his seat around, the door to the cockpit opened. He stood beside you for the briefest of moments, offering you a curt nod that spoke volumes.

“As soon as you see me returning, ready the ship for take-off.”

“May the Force be with you, jatne vod.”

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taglist: @js-favnanadoongi

[varpusvaras]

The nights on Alderaan were a dark shade of blue.

Leia had seen nights on other planets. Most of the planets she had been on had moons that illuminated the sky even during the darkest hours of the night. Alderaan had none, but still, they had clear skies and countless stars shining down on them, and she loved the nights like they were.

Especially as the darkness made a very good cloak for anyone who knew where to step when sneaking around.

She wasn't the one doing the sneaking tonight, but she welcomed the cover anyway. She knew he was coming, even before there was a light knock on her door. Two-one-two-two.

Come in, she thought, and listened as the door slid open and then close, as soft steps made their way to her bed.

"Can't sleep?" Even asked quietly, as he climbed up next to her.

It was a rhetorical question more than anything. Even already knew that she couldn't sleep, and he already knew why.

"No", Leia answered anyway. "I had the dream again."

"Of the boy and the Suns?" Even asked. Again, a rhetorical question.

"Yes", Leia still answered, again.

It was not a bad dream. It was a good dream, actually. Leia liked seeing the boy, his light hair, bleached in the rays of the two suns, his eyes, just as blue as the sky above the sea of desert around him. He was always radiant, even more than the suns, and every time Leia saw him, she felt warm, like she had been standing there with him.

But every time she opened her eyes after the dream, all she was left was the feeling of the heat leaving her body, and doing so, leaving her only with the cold sorrow of longing.

Even always knew when Leia had that dream. She was almost sure that he could see it too, every time she did. Just like they seemed to know each other's thoughts and feelings, like they were whispers only they could hear. Leia had never felt anything like that with anyone else, and she couldn't bear the thought of not having him in her life.

But still, it felt like-

It felt like she was missing something. Someone. Like there was a violently torn seam on her side where Even wasn't.

Even took her hand into his, and tugged it lightly. She scooted over to him, and leaned her head against his shoulder. Even was already almost a full head taller than her, despite being several months younger. Leia didn't mind it too much, though. He reminded her of Papa and Buir more and more every single day, and she found it more comforting than anything else.

"You miss him", Even said.

"I do", Leia said. "I just- I have you."

It felt unfair, for both her and Even, for her to miss someone like that. He was her brother. It should've been enough.

"You do", Even said, calmly and patiently. He really was more like their parents, every single day, even like Mama. "It's alright. Buir has us, but he still misses his family, every single day. It doesn't mean he loves us less than he loves them."

That was true. Leia knew that the sadness and yearning she could feel coming from Buir wasn't because they weren't enough for him. They all occupied his heart just as much, but there were holes in it, holes that just weren't the right shape for Leia, or for Even, or even for Mama and Papa to fill back up. Leia understood that, but still-

"But Buir knows them", she said. "He misses them because he knows them. How can I miss someone I don't know so much?"

Even was quiet for a moment. Leia could feel him thinking, but for once, not the exact thoughts going through his head as he tried to figure out what to say to her.

"I think", he said, after a moment, "I think you do know him, already. Maybe you always have."

Leia's eyes burned.

"It's not fair", she whispered, trying her best to make the burning go away. It wasn't working, not that night. "It's not fair."

Even didn't admonish her, nor did he try and make it better by saying something to make her not sad. He just leaned down and pressed his forehead softly against Leia's, and let her pour her silent tears into the night.

[endoplight]

They grow up so fast. ;^; There are some friendships that can never be broken. ~~~ Finally posted the art for these two characters that I made a while ago. Gwynn on the right and Eoz on the left. They were both padawan's together from before order 66, who were then reunited years later on opposite sides of the war. I first posted art of these two for last year's color palette challenge on my Instagram.

[basileusdraws]

My darlings