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inkformyblood · 2 years ago

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i lose all (but not him) #2 CWW2023

Codywan, slowburn, canon-verse with some divergence @codywanweek Prompt: Tea, Caf and Flimsiwork (Day 6) Ao3 link here

The war is, perhaps, the easiest part of Cody’s job.

And he is Cody now, truly and properly, no longer having to tuck the name he has chosen for himself in the hidden compartment of his vambrace along with a scrap of dark fabric stiff with dried blood and a nearly full tube of paint used to mark the corridors bolted on Kamino. He would tap his fingers against it now to reassure himself that it is still closed and he hasn’t wandered away from the quartermaster with the equivalent of his spine hollowed out and exposed, but his arms are currently full. The training simulations had never covered the intricacies of carrying Jedi robes (slippery), a packet of tea (it kept crinkling) and a datapad (liable to be classed as a projectile). Obi-Wan’s lightsaber is the least worrying thing on Cody’s tray at that moment.

The lightsaber bumps against his leg as he walks, holding onto his belt through a combination of emergency tape, which is quickly becoming routine tape, and sheer willpower.

Cody doesn’t think about it.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Cody pauses, feeling the sharp stab of tension between his shoulder blades, and presses his shoulder against the metal wall to try and alleviate the pressure from his armour. They were all based on the same template so their armour is similarly fashioned and shipped out from four clone-manned facilities on various satellite stations tucked on the wrong sides of planets orbits, and then two others that Cody technically doesn’t know about.

Query: order status?

Answer: on track for fulfilment in two weeks.

In the factories, Cody wonders, are they lonely? He had seen one of the factory squads from a distance, noted the perpetual stoop to their shoulders from the ceilings built to be manned by droids three-quarters of their height, the easy way they pitched into each other as if their shoulders had been made to be held instead of holding. Fox had been standing next to him, his helmet resting on his hip, fanning at the fresh paint with one hand to try and stop it from smearing. They had been so close but the act of reaching out, of leaning his head against Fox’s shoulder, was impossible. It hadn’t ever been meant for them.

His fingers ache as if he’s cold, trapped inside the treated fabric of his gloves. It doesn’t rustle when he moves like the earlier versions, but Cody finds himself missing the sound. Everything rings hollow inside the maw of a spaceship in a way Kamino never had.

(He is tired.)

First, he needs to return Obi-Wan’s possessions to him. It isn’t a strict part of his role as if he follows the chain of command as it is laid out in Form 44.949 which had only gone into effect a week after their deployment — and that is its own issue that Cody can’t dwell on, can only cut his teeth into fresh points arguing about it. According to the protocol, Cody should give the items to a lower-ranked shiny and direct him to return them to Obi-Wan, with no contact necessary. But he wants to. And he can.

Cody presses his shoulder further against the wall, scraping the plastoid against metal. It still doesn’t sit quite right, pinching at the joint where his altered patch had slipped over the past few hours of battle. He’d likely have a bruise there, an exploitable weakness, a crack for sunlight to spill through.

Footsteps.

Cody is alert in an instant, not moving, barely breathing. Sound carries strangely in a starship, echoing off of the enclosed walls and carried by the pipes tucked just behind the thin plating. They had made use of it, knocking out messages against the exposed metal and waiting for a response with their hands pressed against the chill, waiting for the reverberations that meant an answer rather than the shivers that the temperature drop would bring. Everything is cold, all the time.

He knows the sound of those footsteps specifically, the almost graceful dancelike quality to them despite the scuff of a heel used to brace more often than it is used for anything else.

“Sir?” Cody calls and hears Obi-Wan’s footsteps pause and then continue, moving sideways with purpose rather than the careful creep sideways.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan answers, warmth brewed with every syllable of the name, meticulously flavoured and treasured because it is Cody’s. It is indescribable and it takes Cody’s breath away each and every time. He isn’t wearing his helmet to hide the sudden flush to his cheeks so, instead, he busies himself with tucking the trailing sleeve of Obi-Wan’s robe back into his hold.

Obi-Wan looks battle-worn, his inner layer of robes scorched along one edge and it still carries with it the heady iron scent of the battlefield, blood and anticipation twined together until one cannot be parted from the other. There’s not going to be an end to this, there will always be another battle. But, Cody can help in the quiet moments in between.

“I looked for you earlier, sir.” Cody doesn’t look at Obi-Wan fully, stealing glances out of the haze of his peripheral vision as he keeps his gaze fixed past Obi-Wan, boring through the hull into the void beyond. He can’t study the other man to the extent he would like, not like the first moments on Kamino or the rush after that, so he makes do with fragments. He doesn’t know why.

(We were made for them.)

Obi-Wan blinks, breaking into a grin. He’s slightly off balance, dignified despite that or maybe, because of it, a network of carefully applied bacta patches peeking out from beneath his sleeve. Cody should take him to see a medic. He’s within his training to do so.

“My apologies, Cody.” Obi-Wan bows slightly, his grin never wavering and only growing fonder, building upon a well-worn foundation. “I was just on my way back to my room. Would you like to join me?”

A thrill flickers up Cody’s spine and he thinks of the simulations, of information burning into his neutron pathways and rearranging him from the inside out until he cannot remember who he had been before, only what he had always been. Obi-Wan’s invitations feel similar and, at the same time, like nothing Cody has experienced before. It’s a choice he wants to make just because he can.

“I’d appreciate that, sir.”

“Here, let me.” Obi-Wan’s voice isn’t aligned with his mouth, the sound arriving a handful of seconds before his mouth moves (three seconds exactly, the count inside Cody’s head still ticking down and down and down just as it has been all along). It’s still off-putting, a whisper of the universe leaning forward, head propped on their fists and an unknowable look in their eyes as if this is a test Cody is undertaking and he isn’t aware of the parameters just yet. He swallows against it and squares his shoulders. He isn’t about to kneel for anyone, universe or not.

“I can manage, sir.”

Obi-Wan is unperturbed, reaching for the bundle in Cody’s arms and plucking the hang of his robes free, folding them into his own arms with practised ease that spoke to years of habit. Cody knows the slant of shinies, limbs too long and decorated with bruises instead of paint, but it doesn’t seem to fit Obi-Wan correctly like he’s trying to pilot a command module with an engineering base. He must have been shorter at some point, bare-faced and delicate like the little Commander allocated to Rex’s squadron, but Cody can’t picture it. Obi-Wan’s fingers brush Cody’s, his skin warm and a little sticky from the bacta residue on his palm. There’s a ragged edge to one of his nails, the skin torn and protruding and something in Cody snaps into sharp relief, a knowing that he cannot explain.

“There.” Obi-Wan smooths his hands over the robe once more and Cody keeps his gaze lowered, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye as he tucks the datapad under his arm and holds the roughly folded packet of tea on the same side. He straightens up, settling back into the easy position that feels like his bones have been reshaped to fit. His elbow bumps against Obi-Wan’s saber and he draws it free with his other hand, pulling the tape free.

It’s warm, clinging to the remnants of Obi-Wan’s touch, and still heavier than Cody expects, each and every time. “I believe this is yours, sir?”

“Ah.” Obi-Wan brightens, his smile rueful. There’s a faint flush of colour to his cheeks, more noticeable thanks to his pale complexion, and he covers it by smoothing his fingers over his robe once more. “You truly are a wonder, Cody. I knew my saber would be safe with you watching out for me.”

Compliments had been few and far between on Kamino for the command track clones, limited to a dull glow of satisfaction at a posted score or an envious glance at their other brothers who could grin like it was easy because it was for them. Cody keeps his breathing even, hoping the flare of colour in his cheeks isn’t as noticeable as he feels it is despite the chill that permeates every inch of the ship. “I’m just doing my job, sir.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head slowly, reaching up to run his fingers over the side of his neck, his grip curling over something that is no longer there before he lowers his hand once more. When he speaks, his voice is heavy with a gravity that could tear a planet in two. “Even so, Cody, thank you.”

Obi-Wan takes his saber, his fingers brushing against Cody’s, his hold casual for a weapon that still gives Cody pause despite the number of times he has handled it. He spins it over his palm, a flash of darker calluses bisecting the base of his fingers and the pad of his thumb, a rough touch that Cody knows and he wishes he doesn’t and craves it all at once.

(They were made for us.)

Cody nods, sharp enough to cut, his gaze lingering on the pale green cast of bacta over the gap at Obi-Wan’s wrist. The air hangs heavy, the fans above and below thrumming through a circulation cycle and the scent of iron clings to the back of Cody’s teeth. He wants to suggest that they continue forwards, down the corridor and around the corner that would open to the solid door that blockaded Obi-Wan’s rooms, but he can’t. It’s too close to an order, his mind too tired to work around the logic jumps that would let him justify it as a suggestion. He stands, silent, his breath catching on every ragged piece of the scars on his chest, his gaze fixed on a single distant point.

Query: help

Answer: This is temporary. Wait for orders.

Cody is a good soldier. He waits.

“Shall we continue, my dear?” Obi-Wan says. There’s something about his voice that reminds Cody of the incubation rooms, cast in dull blue light and necessitating hushed voices just because.

Cody nods, exhaustion adding several pounds to his armour as he waits for Obi-Wan to begin walking and he falls in place next to him. There’s an itch at the nape of his neck, a wisp of hair caught between the fabric of his blacks and his armour, and sweat pooling in the divots of his spine and beneath his arms. Over the rest of him, he can still feel the grit of the battlefield and he knows he will never be able to be free of it. Yet another thing that had never been covered in the simulations.

Around them, the ship groans and settles into an evening cycle, the lights flickering to a darker hue and Cody glances up automatically, searching the ceiling for the tell-tale watchful eye of the security system. He wouldn’t see it, the cameras were something that he had left behind on Kamino and he had scrubbed over every inch of the ship’s systems and every single regulatory form searching for the equivalent that the Jedi would hold over them. He hadn’t found it but the fear is always there. He checks every so often, and he knows Fox does too.

Settling back into an easy pace, Cody thinks over the recent battle, the developing report he is transcribing in his mind for it, the supply list for the ship, anything and everything to not think about the lingering warmth from Obi-Wan’s touch that still burns over the dull fabric of his gloves. He knows what Obi-Wan’s hands feel like on his bare skin and that is somehow worse.

They draw to a halt, Cody stopping half a step behind Obi-Wan before he corrects himself, moving level. A small smile tugs at Obi-Wan’s mouth, fond in a quiet way, and he taps over the control panel to open the door and he steps inside. “Would you mind closing the door after you, Cody? I find there��s a certain chill that comes with the evening cycle.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s a choice to obey, the deliberate phrasing of not an order that Obi-Wan had fallen into whenever he speaks to the clones, the same way he would keep the world stable somehow with nothing more than a gentle word and a smile. Cody taps over the door control and it hisses closed behind him.

Inside, Obi-Wan’s quarters are similar to Cody’s own, one room slightly larger than the standard plan outlined on the ship’s blueprints, the ceiling sloping down towards the bed hollowed out of one wall due to the swell of pipes and wires and Obi-Wan stoops slightly as he moves towards a set of hooks just above an alcove. Against the opposite wall, a desk sits, bolted into place and covered in a mess of datapads and flimsiwork roughly shuffled into piles and bound together with broad straps and a pulse of pain spikes behind Cody’s eyes in sympathy. His own desk looks similar, if more organised. He can’t not. Not yet.

Cody steps forward, watching Obi-Wan out of the corner of his eye. His heartbeat is unsteady, a rattle in his chest making his teeth ache. He had told before that he doesn’t have to wait for Obi-Wan, that he can sit down when he wishes, but he can’t here and now. He needs an order.

Obi-Wan keeps his head lowered as he reaches into the alcove, pausing only to throw his robes towards the bed. The angle isn’t right, meaning to land the robes on the edge of the bed, dooming them to pool into a crumpled unregulated mess. But it doesn’t. Because the mystical energy that governs the universe bends itself to Obi-Wan’s commands because it loves him — like Cody thinks he might, a choice he’s making for himself alone — and the robe folds itself neatly on the bed, one sleeve dangling free like it’s waiting to be held.

“Please sit, Cody.” Obi-Wan isn’t looking at him but Cody can feel the easy pressure of his gaze regardless. There’s almost a release, a switch flicking in his brain, and Cody gratefully sinks onto the single chair offset from the low table. His back is still straight, his elbows tucked into his side, and he holds the datapad and the tea on his lap, keeping it level. His back is to the curved corner, the brief scrap of wall between the desk and the door to the private fresher Obi-Wan is allocated. It makes sense, distance to stop familiarity, a layer of separation that the Jedi seem determined to sidestep whenever possible, however they can.

The single bed is a rarity that keeps drawing Cody’s attention like a neon sign flickering out of step with the world around it. He’s used to sleeping alone now, his own separation from his brothers, his world blunted behind thick leather and heavy plastoid to keep him moulded as he was intended, but he can remember the dormitories when he had been barely bigger than a shiny and he was no different than any of his batchmates. He can barely remember their names or numbers now, a deliberate forgetting Cody forced himself through after the first casualty report landed in front of him, his hands bound in bacta from his blaster shattering in his grip, bloodied and yet it hadn’t been enough.

It would never be enough.

“What tea did you select for us, Cody?” Obi-Wan pulls out the kettle from the alcove, his head bowed in quiet contemplation before he rests it in midair, returning to the alcove for two mugs dangling from his crooked fingers before he picks the kettle back up.

Cody doesn’t think about the word ‘us’. He’s getting better at doing that.

“Picked it up last rotation.” Cody’s voice cracks at the final word, stumbles into cowering compliance as his knuckles ache with the desire to do something (ERROR: it isn’t time yet). He swallows, swings his gaze from Obi-Wan’s bed to the rough sheen of the kettle, non-regulation modifications packed beneath the innocuous surface so it has its own transfer form for whenever Obi-Wan brings it onto planet-side with him for the longer campaigns. He’s allowed, as is his right, to bring more items than the standard clone trooper. Cody is similarly allotted a slight increase in his cargo allowance and he has no end of brothers who are willing to pick up a maintenance slot here and there in exchange for some of it.

It’s strange.

He’s a little jealous of them, he thinks. It comes easier for them.

“Oh? What about it caught your eye?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t reach for the package, waits for Cody to offer it. Instead, he watches Cody beneath lowered lashes, ostensibly scooping and re-scooping the same amount of sugar, letting the granules tip back into the rustling packet at each attempt. There are choices to be made, but Cody falls back onto old habits, open-palmed and offered up like a sacrifice to a deity they manufactured themselves out of scrap metal and the scent of salt and the hopes of what the Jedi would be like, their unknown purchasers. It had been old when the Alpha batch were shinies, decaying by the time Cody had grown, but it is still there, still watching.

(Interesting. A side-effect, perhaps?)

“It was the picture at first.” Cody doesn’t shift his gaze as Obi-Wan steps closer, impossible not to watch him in such close quarters but Cody focuses on the delicate embroidery covering a burn mark on Obi-Wan’s tunic, the sharp scent of bacta rising. “Reminds me of Kamino.”

Obi-Wan scoops the packet up, cradling it in his palms as he raises it up to the dull glow of the light. It breaks against the planes of his cheekbones, turns his hair golden at the edges to replace the whisper of silver throughout, and Obi-Wan hums in answer. “Good flavours too, I’m particularly fond of wild cherry, it’s a shame the crop itself will be in short supply this year due to the change in agriculture. Not even just because of the war, but Stewjoni—“

The kettle whistles and Obi-Wan turns back to it, the sound of his scuffed footsteps not aligning with the fall of his boot. He ducks his head and returns to the alcove, still speaking, still animated with a flush to his cheeks.

“—Stewjoni is my home planet originally or, at least, that is what was put into my records. But they are the main exporter of this type of wild cherry and they’ve had a higher-than-expected amount of rain in recent years and a significant number of the trees haven’t produced fruit because of it. We won’t feel the effects for a while, modern food storage being what it is, but there’ll be a shortage in a year or two.”

Cody can’t make out what Obi-Wan is doing, but he can hear the kettle taper off into a low rolling boil, water splash into three cups and the scent of something Cody can’t name fills the air. It’s close to the memory of the market stall at the edge of a decaying town, the flat space loaded with numerous packets and they had smelt slightly sweet behind the industrial tang of the packaging and the lingering ash of battle. It’s a nice smell and Cody breathes in deeply.

“Here you go, Cody.” Obi-Wan balances two cups on the small table in the centre of the room, sweeping the handles round to both face the same direction before he straightens and pulls the desk chair out, sinking into it. One cup is immediately familiar as caf, sweetened to the point of thickness, and something in Cody’s chest twists at the thought of Obi-Wan remembering, of not needing to ask because he knows, and it takes a moment for him to assess the second cup. The liquid inside is paler by a few degrees, tending towards a deep red shade, and it is the source of the new scent.

“Have you any plans for your leave? I believe I’m going to be stuck at the Temple for the duration.” Obi-Wan crosses his legs whenever he sits if he isn’t restrained by the arms of the chair. In those situations, he will often sit sideways, throwing his legs over the arm in order to sprawl. He’s sitting like that now, stance wide and somehow stable despite the deliberate tilt to the chair.

Cody reaches for the cup as he twists his thoughts into an answer. He feels almost like a cadet again, strapped into an armour that’s too big for him, stumbling around in search of something that makes sense. “I picked up some supplies to try knitting,” he offers, his back straightening before he can stop himself. He might as well have carved through the plastoid on his chest and offered Obi-Wan his bleeding heart and it would feel less personal.

But Obi-Wan brightens, turning towards Cody like a flower searching for the sun, and it’s okay, it’s going to be alright.

“That’s wonderful to hear, it truly is a rewarding skill to have.”

Cody nods, wishing in vain for his helmet to hide the flush on his cheeks, and picks up the tea instead, lowering his head to sip at it. It tastes sweet, like the warm sensation of his fingertips brushing against Obi-Wan’s and Cody drinks more, craving something he can’t fully name. Not yet, at least.

#codywan #cody x obi wan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #star wars #codywanweek 2023 #codywan week 2023 #my writing #fanfic

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darkladylumiya · 1 year ago

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My thoughts on Tales of the Empire

I'll start with my overall thoughts - the animation is really good, though at this point the contrast between more standard Clone Wars-style models and the more realistic ones who look like they could be from a video game is a bit jarring (though this could easily be a just me thing, I've not seen anyone else talk about this), the Barriss arc was way better than the Morgan Elsbeth one, which I doubt was a surprise to anyone, though I still have some issues with both. My big thing is that, compared to Tales of the Jedi, where we get little excerpts and character moments to fill out the characters and their progression through time, here Tales of the Empire is more or less our only source for info on these characters at this point in time. We know what happens with Dooku and Ahsoka in between their episodes - we have no clue what happened to Morgan to get her from Dathomir to running a planet for example, or how Barriss went from inquisitor to hermit healer (though this example is much less extreme).

Anyway, into the arcs proper. Get excited everyone, other force witch clans are back! Like the... checks notes Mountain clan. Not Singing Mountain. Just... Mountain. Cool, thanks Filoni. A decade later you finally make other Dathomiri clans canon, but you just shave a word off a name and now it's totally your own original idea, right? And don't worry, we'll have more totally original ideas from Filoni later, but first. Okay, the first episode is kinda like... a nothing episode. We end the episode with Morgan in the same position as she was halfway through, with a strange plot where Morgan immediately tries to seduce people to the Dark Side because... I don't know, she can? And again, we have no clue how she made it off planet. Dathomir doesn't exactly get a lot of space traffic, and apparently there are droid gunships still scouring the planet looking to kill literally any Nightsister left. Surely the first episode should have dealt with her getting off-planet? And not her sowing some dissent in a clan we've never met before and never see again? Some dissent which immediately ends and goes nowhere because most of them are now dead.

Anyway, next episode, she's in charge of a planet now because she has to be for The Mandalorian to still work - surely her getting to be in charge of a planet should have been an episode? Have the first one be her family getting killed and then her getting off-planet with some scavengers or pirates or whatever, the second episode is her rise to power over this planet and then the last is her meeting Thrawn? But sure, whatever, she's in charge already, cool. She's the designer of the TIE Defender, because they love beating my boy down. I'm not even going to ask how a Nightsister who has probably never even seen a starship before her clan got murdered figured out in the however many years it's been now knows how to design one of the best starfighters out there. Let's actually address that though - how many years has it been? The Battle of Dathomir was 20 BBY. The episode starts with a shot of Coruscant, where we see six Venators before finally an Imperial-class Star Destroyer appears. This implies to me that this has to be early on in the Empire, right? The first five years or so maybe? But then in Rebels season four there's an episode where they steal a TIE Defender prototype. So it took the Empire, or I guess Thrawn more specifically, at least seven years to go from design to a single test model? That's just strange to me, but who knows, it's been forever since I've seen that Rebels episode so maybe I'm just misremembering how they talked about it there. Anyway, the thing that truly got me was Pellaeon and Rukh. Fucking Rukh. But yeah, why was Eli Vanto not here but Pellaeon was? New canon more or less replaced Pellaeon's role with Vanto, so why is he not here now but Pellaeon is? My guess - because Filoni wanted to cover all the Thrawn bases. He read a brief summary of people and things associated with Thrawn in Legends and he put them all in one episode. We have Pellaeon, we have TIE Defenders, we have fUCKINg Rukh. I genuinely do not know why the FUCK Rukh is here.

Okay, let me explain. In the original Thrawn trilogy from the 90s, Rukh is Thrawn's personal bodyguard. Rukh is a Noghri, a species who regard Darth Vader as the savior of their people because their planet got nuked during the Clone Wars (it was an accident) and Vader came in and promised to help rebuild the planet, which he did. Very slowly, so the Noghri would always be indebted to him, because as it turns out they're very good assassins and commandos. But the important thing to note is that they're sworn to Vader, and serve him. Now in the books they work for Thrawn because they're more broadly sworn to the Empire, and after Vader is dead they end up working for Thrawn once he's in charge of the Empire. But Filoni doesn't care, the Noghri are associated with Thrawn and so here Rukh is as his bodyguard testing whether Morgan can fight. As soon as she got attacked, I immediately guessed it was going to be a Noghri, but once I saw the face of her attacker I was much less sure, because the head is completely wrong for a Noghri by the way, their head looks nothing like that. But anyway I lost it when Pellaeon said Rukh's name, because I knew I was fucking right. We're just pulling out all the sick Thrawn trilogy references, but not actually using these characters in any meaningful way - Rukh is here so his character page on Wookieepedia can have a canon tab now and so Filoni can show off his cred of pretending to have read a single book in his life. Oh yes, there is another thing Rukh is famous for by the way. KILLING THRAWN. I'm sure Filoni just forgot that little detail. Or who knows, maybe he'll just recreate it word for word at some point because he cannot do anything but steal from other people's work but do it in a worse and more amateurish way. I was so upset with Rukh being here with no explanation or justification I really did not care about anything else that happened in the rest of the arc. Thrawn shows up and recruits Elsbeth and then the third episode is just her killing a diplomat and burning a forest for no reason, yeah sure whatever who cares. I simply wish at some point there would be a notable character from Legends who is just... left there, and doesn't get dragged by cowboy hat man into whatever nostalgia bait ploy or attempt to pretend he has ever read a book, because the nostalgia bait doesn't work anymore. It just doesn't - it simply pisses me off. You're reminding me of better stories while I watch your lame shows, Filoni. Is that really what you want?

Ugh. Anyway, Barriss. I have a lot less to say because it's actually pretty good. I think it's way too short and she deserved way more screentime, or at the least not having to share an equal amount with Morgan Elsbeth (who I honestly forgot was even in the Mandalorian, I genuinely thought she was made up for the Ahsoka tv show for a while she's so forgettable). Anyway, the fundamental flaw is still that Barriss's massive heel-turn change of heart came out of nowhere and makes little sense with her character as established, so while this does a decent job at building upon that, it doesn't change that her arc in The Clone Wars makes no sense and was obviously chosen so that Ahsoka could be emotionally devastated by her best friend betraying her. A different complaint I then have is like... when did Barriss, woman who killed over a dozen people in a terrorist bombing, at least one of whom was someone she knew and liked, Barriss who murdered a woman in cold blood and purposefully framed her best friend so she could get away with this bombing, Barriss who convinces a wife to make her husband into a living bomb, Barriss who kills three clones with her friend's lightsabers to set her up even further and leads her purposefully where she has stashed more of the same bomb material, and indeed Barriss who kills someone who seemed to be her friend with the same technique she used to kill the woman who was about to rat her out - you want me to believe she suddenly has an issue with killing a village full of people? I'm sorry, but you have to actually explain how she sees this as different. Because you don't actually address at any point how she might feel about her terrorism now, or even what exactly her moral compass is. Killing innocents is good when she does it bad bad when it doesn't make the political statement she wants to make? I just don't get it. Anyway, final episode is the best of the series because it does the most to actually have a moral and message and actually does something pretty interesting? Whether she dies or not (I doubt she does personally), it's still an interesting setup for something else, either another season of this or a comic or book or whatever, to come back to and follow what the hell Lyn (and probably Barriss too) does now. I'm also glad Filoni finally remembered Barriss's specialty was healing actually, and not terrorism, even though we don't actually get to see her do any healing, with the Force or otherwise. Oh also, why does she look so old? It's like she aged 50 years over the course of 10? Like Lyn looks exactly the same but Barriss looks like she's 80. Idk, that was weird. Anyway I've rambled long enough, Filoni is still a hack who's never read a book in his life, but the Barriss stuff here was pretty good, at least somewhat enjoyable throughout. If you watch anything, watch that - all the Morgan Elsbeth stuff is terribly forgettable or outright frustrating.

5/6 edit: I’ve fixed Eli’s name (sorry Eli) and while it’s been pointed out to me that Rukh is in Rebels, a fact I was unaware of, I’m going to maintain the rant as it stands with this disclaimer here at the end - Rukh was in Rebels and was not originally added in this show. However, I still think his design sucks.

#star wars #star wars legends #tales of the empire #thrawn #morgan elsbeth #barriss offee #sw #I really wish Filoni would get out of the executive chair at this point he's so clearly up his own ass #it's to the detriment of every project he works on #also like holy shit almost every show that's come out in the last two decades has been by him #the two main exceptions being Visions and Andor #And guess what! Andor was good! While Ahsoka was mediocre at best #Each season of the Mandalorian gets worse and worse #I guess also maybe Resistance? That probably wasn't him but I genuinely don't know #Did anyone watch Resistance?#But anyway like please for the love of all that is holy let someone else cook I'm begging you #If Filoni ever had it he sure as fuck doesn't now

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snapmite1998 · 7 months ago

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Crimson Dawn’s Use of Smugglers: Evading Republic and Law Enforcement

Overview

In their pursuit of dominance and expansion, Crimson Dawn consistently engages in illegal activities requiring discreet and secure transportation. To evade the Republic and law enforcement, they hire experienced smugglers who excel in navigating dangerous routes and avoiding detection. These smugglers play a crucial role in transporting illicit cargo, which includes weapons, spice, stolen goods, rare artifacts, and more, ensuring that Crimson Dawn’s operations remain uninterrupted and profitable.

The Role of Smugglers

1. Expertise and Skills

- Navigational Mastery: Smugglers are skilled pilots capable of navigating the galaxy’s most treacherous routes. Their knowledge of lesser-known hyperlanes and hidden pathways allows them to avoid heavily patrolled areas and checkpoints.

- Stealth and Evasion: These operatives are adept at using stealth technology and evasive maneuvers to avoid detection by Republic forces and law enforcement. They utilize jamming devices, cloaking fields, and other advanced technologies to stay off the radar.

2. Discreet Operations

- Covert Cargo: Smugglers specialize in transporting illegal cargo without drawing attention. This includes using false compartments, hidden storage spaces, and other deceptive measures to conceal their illicit payload.

- False Manifesting: To cover their tracks, smugglers often use falsified documents and manifests. These forgeries ensure that any inspections or scans performed by authorities don’t reveal the true nature of their cargo.

Types of Illegal Cargo

1. Weapons and Armaments

- Advanced Weaponry: Smugglers transport an array of advanced weaponry for Crimson Dawn, including blaster rifles, disruptors, thermal detonators, and heavy ordinance. These weapons are destined for use by Crimson Dawn forces or for sale to allied factions.

- Black Market Arms: Access to black market weapons also means that smugglers often transport highly restricted or experimental technology, ensuring Crimson Dawn maintains a technological edge over its rivals.

2. Spice and Illicit Substances

- Spice Trade: The lucrative spice trade requires discreet and reliable transportation. Smugglers haul valuable spice from production sites to distribution points, evading customs and law enforcement along the way.

- Recreational Drugs: In addition to spice, other recreational and controlled substances are smuggled across the galaxy. These shipments generate substantial profit, funding Crimson Dawn’s operations.

3. Stolen Goods and Artifacts

- Rare Artifacts: Smugglers transport stolen relics, artworks, and valuable cultural items. These treasures are either sold to collectors or used to bolster Crimson Dawn’s dark side research.

- Pilfered Technology: Advanced technologies, including droid components, starship parts, and scientific equipment, are frequently stolen and smuggled. These items enhance Crimson Dawn’s capabilities and resource pool.

4. Sentient Cargo

- Human Trafficking: Tragically, smugglers are also involved in transporting slaves and trafficked individuals. These sentient beings are often bound for Zygerrian slave markets or directly to Crimson Dawn’s labor camps.

- Prisoners of War: During conflicts, captured enemy combatants, political prisoners, and notable figures are smuggled to secure locations for interrogation, ransom, or forced labor.

Hiring Process and Contracting

1. Selection Criteria

- Reputation and Reliability: Crimson Dawn hires smugglers based on their reputation for reliability and discretion. Only those with proven records in successfully completing missions without detection are considered.

- Network and Connections: Smugglers with extensive networks and connections within the underworld are highly valued. These connections facilitate smoother operations and provide additional layers of protection.

2. Contractual Agreements

- Payment and Incentives: Smugglers are well-compensated for their services, with payment structures that include upfront fees, hazard bonuses, and percentages of profits from the cargo they transport.

- Secrecy Clauses: Contracts often include strict confidentiality agreements, ensuring that all information regarding the nature of the cargo and the specifics of the mission remains undisclosed.

Methods and Tactics

1. Stealth Ships and Modified Freighters

- Custom Modifications: Smugglers frequently use heavily modified freighters and stealth ships. These modifications include advanced propulsion systems, reinforced hulls, and state-of-the-art cloaking devices.

- Hidden Compartments: Ships are equipped with hidden compartments and false panels to store illicit goods, making it nearly impossible for authorities to uncover the true cargo without extensive searches.

2. Diversion and Deception

- Decoy Ships: To further avoid detection, smugglers sometimes employ decoy ships. These ships lead law enforcement on wild chases, allowing the true cargo to pass through unnoticed.

- Transport Convoys: Smugglers might also travel in convoys, blending in with legitimate trading vessels to avoid raising suspicion. These convoys use coordinated flight paths and communications to maintain cover.

The Smuggler’s Journey

1. Pre-Mission Preparations

- Route Planning: Before embarking on a mission, smugglers meticulously plan their routes, identifying potential hazards, checkpoints, and safe havens. This preparation minimizes the risk of exposure.

- Coordination with Contacts: Smugglers communicate with their contacts within Crimson Dawn to ensure all aspects of the mission are understood and that contingency plans are in place.

2. Execution

- Real-Time Adaptation: During transport, smugglers remain adaptable, ready to alter their course in response to unforeseen challenges. Their ability to think on their feet is essential for evading patrols and navigating dangerous territories.

- Delivery and Handover: Upon reaching their destination, smugglers execute a discreet handover of the cargo, ensuring all items are securely transferred to Crimson Dawn operatives without attracting attention.

Impact on Crimson Dawn Operations

1. Sustained Illegal Activities

- Continuous Supply: The efficient and discreet transport of illegal cargo keeps Crimson Dawn’s operations running smoothly. This continuous supply line is critical for maintaining the organization’s power and influence.

- Expansion of Reach: The use of expert smugglers allows Crimson Dawn to extend its reach into new territories without alerting law enforcement or rival factions, facilitating further expansion and consolidation of power.

2. Financial Gains

- Revenue Generation: The illicit cargo transported by smugglers represents significant financial value. This revenue funds various aspects of Crimson Dawn’s enterprise, including weapon procurement, bribes, and the construction of projects like the Blood Star.

- Economic Control: By dominating the illegal trade through these smuggling operations, Crimson Dawn exerts considerable economic control over the black market, reinforcing its position in the criminal underworld.

Conclusion

Crimson Dawn’s strategic use of experienced smugglers for the transport of illegal cargo highlights the organization’s adaptability and cunning. By hiring skilled operatives from the galaxy’s most dangerous and discreet circles, they ensure the seamless execution of their illicit activities while avoiding the scrutiny of the Republic and law enforcement.

This reliance on smugglers not only sustains their illegal operations but also enables them to expand their influence and control within the galaxy’s underworld. As long as Crimson Dawn and its network of smugglers remain in place, the organization’s power and reach will continue to grow, unimpeded by the watchful eyes of the authorities.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars what if #darth maul #savage opress #feral opress #dryden vos #crime syndicate #crimson dawn #criminal activities #smugglers #Darth Maul: A New Dawn #check out my fanfic #my fanfiction #my story

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limey-self-inserts · 7 months ago

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First Day Alive

Word Count: 3.8k words F/Os: The 501st (familial) Summary: Ajax's first meeting with the 501st and Domino Squad, before they even have a name. Content warnings: canon is a sandpit and we are building castles here

Tag list: @lavenoon @mikealys-ael @rexscanonwife @space-sweetheart @bugsband @ssunnybee @avenships @faerie-circle-ships

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As ever it did, a storm rolled over the surface of Kamino. It rained more than it shone sunlight out here, but the weather was as much deterrent to those who wanted to reach the secrets on the surface as much as the fleet of starships that floated in space above the planet. Within the clone factory and training base, it was usually impossible to hear any of the storm’s sounds. To do that, you needed to find the quiet spaces in the corridors where the vents drew close, and the thunder could sneak down the metal veins to rumble in the distance. Or you could head to the hangar bay.

“How goes it?” Rex called out to the other trooper who stood to the side of the hangar doors, just barely touched by the rain that lashed the metal floors and roof tops of the smooth domed buildings. Neither of them could see the ocean from here, but it roared louder than the wind.

“Miserable, but a good light show,” Fox replied, gesturing up towards the skies. Thick clouds were intermittently split by lightning, turning the grey-green sky to hues of blue. And somewhere beyond that, roiling red and orange sparks could be seen descending towards the ocean horizon, far from their reach. Although the sparks were certainly not natural, neither clone trooper reacted with surprise.

“General Shaak Ti had mentioned a Separatist cruiser coming in too close for comfort. Looks like that’s not going to be an issue for us,” Rex commented, folding his arms as he watched the shreds of debris cascade down past the lightning storm.

“Mmm. Someone too bold or too stupid,” Fox agreed. “But that’s their problem now.”

“Was their problem.”

Both clones shared a small smile of amusement, silently laughing over some hapless droids that had been left to burn up in the atmosphere on the orders of someone who hadn’t put their head on straight. Anything that could be a victory, even the destruction of a Separatist cruiser without needing to lift a blaster, was taken as one.

There wasn’t time to celebrate, of course.

“You’re expected in the training facility with the rest of the boys soon,” Rex said. “We might be here on medical but we still need to keep sharp. I’ve got to track down Jesse, so I’ll see you there.”

“Right you are, Captain.” Fox snapped a quick salute before marching back inside alongside Rex, leaving the rolling storm, far away falling debris, and the very close hungry ocean behind the hangar doors.

Ninety-Nine knew the corridors of the Tipoca City facility well. So well in fact he could easily have navigated it blind. Not that he ever had to - the facility was constantly bathed in white light, as if the darkened sky of storm clouds didn’t exist. But he knew each corridor and each store room and every maintenance hatch’s location, a little helping hand for his janitorial duties.

Shuffling along to the next store room along, he ducked aside for a squad of clone infantrymen - freshly graduated from the look and sounds of them, their high spirits and eagerness as they chatted amongst themselves. Ninety-Nine would never count in one of their number on the battlefield, but he took great pride in being a clone still. Important duties needed to be done here at home as much as at war.

The store room door slid open and he pushed the hov-trolley inside. This room was mostly medical supplies, boxes of mediscan units and painkillers alongside huge tanks of bacta, mostly to be shipped off to the front line alongside medic squads. Picking a data-pad off the trolley, Ninety-Nine began to scan over the crates and tanks surrounding him, ticking off what he saw. Anything they needed he would be able to bring to the Kaminoans attention, and then they would ensure the shipments arrived. Although not always in good time, as he noted that the supplies here had already been flagged as needing restocking.

“War’s tough on everyone and everything,” he muttered, holstering the data-pad back on the trolley and beginning to load up a supply run for the medical wing.

Wait.

What was thudding?

Turning around, his eyes skimmed over the store room. There it was again, that low metal beating sound. The waves were too far below to be able to strike against the sides of the facility, and the storms rarely got so bad as to physically impact the city. So then…

His eyes turned to the maintenance hatch in the floor.

THUNK THUNK

Turning on his heel, Ninety-Nine shuffle-ran for the store room door, grateful for the automation to fling it open fast enough for him to exit. Further gratitude arose as he spotted familiar faces of Domino Squad in the corridor, Fives and Hevy both catching sight of him and rapidly going from delight to concern.

“Ninety-Nine! What’s wrong?” Fives called out, leading the squad to hurry across. Other eyes spotted the attention. Other passing troopers paused to watch. It was a soldier’s instinct - to see the disturbance before it could begin. And Jesse, one of the elite 501st, was the closest to be drawn over with a frown.

“Someone’s below the maintenance hatch,” Ninety-Nine replied breathlessly. “We’ve got a security breach.”

“Shouldn’t we alert the system?” Echo asked quickly.

“Not if we deal with the intruder ourselves,” Heavy replied, hand squeezing on the grip of his blaster pistol. But Jesse stepped in, pushing his hand down and away.

“Are they actively breaking in?” he asked Ninety-Nine, who shook his head.

“They’re…knocking.”

“Alright. You open the hatch. Domino, you provide cover. I’ll alert the system the moment we start shooting.”

Domino Squad were still fresh from graduating, waiting for their first assignment, but they moved like a squadron that had been fighting together for years. They filed into the store room as one, flanking around Ninety-Nine as he took position at the entrance hatch. The knocking was beginning to get more rapid, as if the entity below knew that there were people in the room. Briefly the clones all glanced to each other, before Cutup nodded towards Ninety-Nine. He reached down and twisted at the locking system. The hatch hissed. Locks fell back from sockets. The hinge swung upwards. Four blaster pistols readied themselves at the open hole where the storm and wind began to howl from.

A sodden human stared back. Possibly a youngling. They gripped to the emergency escape ladder like it was the only thing keeping them alive, wet hair plastered to their face. Bright blue eyes looked up at the squad and Ninety-Nine, wide and scared and exhausted.

For a moment, no-one moved. The clones waited. The human stared.

“Sorry,” they murmured. “I-I couldn’t find the front door.”

“Kriff’s sake, what’s this supposed to be?” Hevy snapped.

“Could be a spy?” Fives raised.

“We won’t find out leaving them out in the cold, will we?” Droidbait looked over his shoulder to Jesse, who was also caught staring. “Alert General Shaak Ti. Let her know an intruder got into the facility but we have them secured.”

As Jesse turned to speak rapidly into a comms device, Echo holstered his pistol, kneeling down to extend a hand to the human. They took it quickly, a foot slipping from the ladder, but Echo’s strength and their arm pulling onto the room flooring overhead kept both from tumbling back down to the ocean below. He hauled them through, Hevy reaching over to hook a hand under the human’s other arm and help pull them fully into the store room, allowing Ninety-Nine to seal the hatch once more. They lay on the floor, more beached fish than human, gulping down deep breaths as their eyes tried to focus on the figures around them.

“C’mon, get up,” Hevy said firmly.

“I don’t think they can.” Ninety-Nine approached, kneeling down and taking the human’s pulse. “Heart rate is going too fast.”

“You might need to call in a med-bay,” Echo called over to Jesse. “Looks like they really did climb all the way up from the ocean.”

As the squad continued to discuss over their heads, Ninety-Nine felt fingers catch on the edge of his uniform sleeve. The human caught his eye, and the faintest of smiles slipped past their lips. A faint “Thank you” formed but was not spoken.

He was a good soldier. He hadn’t seen the enemy but knew them well. It seemed wrong that the enemy would come directly to the clone force’s doorstep with a face that was so exhausted.

He held their hand until the medics came in with the gravstretcher.

“Human, planetary origin unknown. Biological age, around twenty six standard years. Anatomically female, although signs of past surgery suggest alternative designation. Much more recent signs of surgeries show the subject to have experienced numerous incisions across the front and sides of the torso, although our medical scans have not picked up on any foreign objects present in the body.”

Nala Se read the results from the data pad in her hands, although her eyes frequently flickered to the individual that lay within the medibed. Shaak Ti also rarely looked away, her face creased by a firm frown, the humming of electrical equipment punctuated by the soft rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

“Closer examination of the subject found broken fingernails and bruised pads from impact or attempts to open an object; a near hypothermic state from exposure to cold temperatures; trace amounts of seawater in the lungs; and severe muscle fatigue.” Nala Se now glanced across to Shaak Ti. “Tying in from the Separatist medical robes they were first found in, it would seem that it was not only shipwreck debris that has been falling on Kamino.”

“If escape pods managed to get past the blockade then anything else could have made it past,” Shaak Ti muttered. “This isn’t good.”

“The prime minister will need to be informed,” Nala Se agreed, nodding her head slowly. “Defences must be fortified.”

“Have you managed to identify them?”

“It is….proving to be difficult.”

Something about Nala Se’s hesitancy and body posture carried the tone of embarrassment more than evasiveness. Shaak Ti’s head tilted, her gaze turning to fix upon the Kaminoan scientist. Caught under scrutiny, Nala Se ducked her head down further.

“With our biometric scanners, we are normally well capable of identifying any individual. However, it is reliant on using live tissue. The subject’s tissue….is not live.”

But then - both scientist and general looked back to the medibed. To the heart monitor that beeped steadily away.

“They are living, are they not?” Shaak Ti questioned.

“They are indeed, general. It is possible there is a technological fault at hand. I will speak to one of the facility technicians to have the subject scanned elsewhere.”

And just like that, the thought was pushed to the back of their minds, where it would remain unwilling to be considered. Far easier to fault the highest state of technology on the planet, than to take into truth the possibility of something that could be alive and dead at the same time.

“I will go to speak with Lama Su,” Shaak Ti says, pulling away towards the exit of the medical room. “I have instructed Domino Squad to guard the intruder until a decision is made as to what will be done with them.”

“I must accompany you, to provide the prime minister with information on the subject’s state,” Nala Se commented, her steps gliding along beside the jedi. “Once we have concluded whether the subject is a threat or not, we will want to take steps to interrogate them as to how they escaped the transport ship, whether before or after the cruiser was brought down by the blockade.”

The room emptied, door sliding closed behind the pair.

Silence. A steady beep. Blue highlights across a still body.

Eyes opened. Head turning to glance towards the door, a steady breath escaping before they lay back again. Eyes closed.

The door slid open again, allowing the tail of a conversation to spill into the quiet space.

“- delaying us from taking proper assignments.”

“This is our assignment now. It’s important for the safety of the facility, for the city, for the rest of our brothers,” Droidbait returned fire to Cutup, who folded his arms.

“I do reckon we don’t need everyone in this room,” he said. “I’d rather keep guard on the front door.”

“That’s a fair call. Who wants front door and who wants inside the room?”

The squad split relatively evenly, Fives and Echo settling on chairs inside the room as the rest of the troopers filed out to the front door. Another silence returned, although this one accompanied by an air of….impatience. Curiosity. Thoughts rotated in the space between.

“Do you think they’re actually a spy?” Echo asked.

“Anyone could be a spy. Could be they put themselves in this condition as a way for us to lower our guard, or they’re just a….” Fives waved a hand through the air. “Bad spy.”

“Guess you’re right about that.” More silence. More thoughts. “It seems risky though. They could’ve been blown up with the Separatist cruiser. If they came down with an escape pod, it might’ve sunk with them inside. Too many holes in that sort of a plan.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t ejected before the cruiser was blown up?”

“But then the system would’ve flagged it. Instead it was hidden with the debris fall. That’s why no-one was alerted until they were quite literally knocking at the front door.”

“So it was risky, but still perfectly timed to be hidden?”

Echo went silent, and Fives folded his arms as he looked back to the resting figure.

More silence. But fewer thoughts now.

Boredom was easy to slip through the edges. Even good soldiers got bored, and guarding a sleeping body was a sure-fire way to go about it.

“Where do you think we’ll go first?” Echo asked.

“From what I’ve heard, it’s a seventy-thirty shot of being sent straight to the frontlines or posted up on active guard duty. There’s some talk of a new push being made for Hypori. And although Christophsis was cleared up, there’s still skirmishes happening on the planet’s surface that’ll need reinforcements.”

“There’s a lot of talk about Ryloth. Seems risky leaving the Separatists to establish a base there without sending in troops to counter-.”

“Orders are orders. We wait for the command to come as to where to go.”

The chatter eased through, back and forth, falling and rising through periods of quiet to moments of casual discussion. There was more silence than talk - the reason for their presence wasn’t forgotten.

But it meant the room, for a while, was disconnected from the rest of the facility. So when the blue lighting switched to emergency red, it jolted Fives and Echo into action immediately.

“What’s happening?” Fives called out to the rest of the squad, opening the door to look outside. The corridors, normally so bright and clear, were now also bathed in red lighting. Troopers ran to their stations, calling out to one another. Domino Squad bristled in their posts, watching as others hurried to where they might be needed.

“Security breach. A proper one this time,” Droidbait replied. “Comm chatter says it’s Separatist droids, stealth bots.”

“Looks like something did come down with the debris fall,” Echo muttered. “The intruder hasn’t done anything over here, so the droids are something separate.”

“We need to gear up and get moving,” Cutup said, Hevy nodding in agreement. But Droidbait shook his head.

“We have our orders to guard this intruder.”

“They’re not doing anything, look at-”

All eyes focused on the human that was very much sat up in the medibed, tentatively shifting over the edge with feet dangling towards the floor. They froze at the sound of no further talking, meeting their gaze.

“I can help.”

Cutup snorted in amusement.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.”

“I’m not demanding I just…I can help,” the human replied, voice shaking. “You said it was droids.”

“How long have you been awake?” Fives questioned, beginning to prickle. How much had been listened to, eavesdropped on.

“Just for the important bit.” They dropped down the short distance off the medibed and their knees buckled immediately, forcing them to cling to the handles of the bed-frame. Despite the hesitation, despite the tension, Echo took the few steps forward. Slinging an arm under their shoulders, he hoisted them upright.

It was like the first breath before a lightning strike. Hair over his body standing on end, the edges of his armour buzzing just barely to be noticeable, a metallic taste across his tongue.

“I can help,” the human repeated, insistently, looking up towards Echo. And he believed them.

“I think they can help,” he said, glancing back to his squad, who all recoiled in various levels of disbelief and confusion.

“Echo, now is not the time to be acting a di’kut,” Droidbait muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We just managed to pull through graduation, we cannot be spoiling that by assisting an intruder in doing goodness only knows.”

“Look at them, they can barely stand, do you think they’re a threat to us?”

“That makes this worse, you realise? How can they help if they can’t even walk?”

The lights above them flickered. Somewhere deeper in the facility came the echoes of blaster fire. Somewhere in the red there was a haze of blue.

“We managed to conquer the Citadel by trusting each other,” Fives said, slowly, picking through the words. “I can’t see what Echo sees, but we are all brothers, aren’t we? Maybe this will prove us well too.”

That seemed to bring a shift in the squad. Cutup still looked reluctant, but Hevy was beginning to glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the blaster fire.

“Wouldn’t this count as keeping our post? We’re still guarding the intruder, just…not in the med-bay,” he raised. Droidbait’s gaze flickered madly from him, to Fives, to Echo, to the human.

“If we get court-martialed for this, I’m putting all the blame on you lot,” Droidbait muttered, as he unholstered his pistol and activated it.

“If we get court-martialed.”

“What’s your plan?” Echo asked the human, who’d been steadily leaving more of their weight in his hands. He could hold it at least.

“I need to see one of the droids. I can take care of them from there.”

“You heard the civvie. Let’s go droid hunting,” Hevy commented, beginning to head further down the corridor.

Boots and bare feet fell against the metal flooring, footsteps swallowed behind the background of the alarm blaring. Blaster fire rattled like rain on a hollow roof, echoing louder and louder the further and further Domino Squad proceeded. Rounding a corner together, the sound of the fight washed in hard. Hevy and Cutup split to the opposite side of the T-junction’s mouth, giving cover fire for the other clones who had cornered a pair of stealth droids - lanky bastards that, for any other droid, would be pinned down under the heavy fire, but even now were progressing bit-by-bit up the corridor.

Glancing back towards the reinforcements, Kix and Jesse both went from relief to confusion to alarm. Sensing the pause from his fellow brothers, Rex took a quick look over his shoulder and it was only thanks to the cover of Domino Squad that they were able to maintain the blaster pressure.

“Really? You brought a civvie to a firefight?” Rex questioned as Kix hurried back towards the squad, relieving Echo of his cargo for the moment. The human was visibly sweating under the emergency lighting, but their eyes were clear and hands steady as they accepted the new arm to support them.

“They said they can help,” Echo replied, kneeling down to join Jesse’s side with pistol in hand.

“Oh, I’d like to see what that means.” Jesse rolled his eyes.

Kix didn’t speak up. His gaze was firmly on the human’s hands that were lifted into the air. Their focus trained on the stealth droids, further down the corridor.

The smell of the storm warped its way through the ventilation system. Or maybe it came from a different source entirely.

With a harsh crackle, electricity sprung from the human’s fingertips. Arching down the corridor in the blink of an eye, the lightning connected with one droid, then the second. Both froze in place, limbs jerking wildly as their wires and connections were burnt to a crisp.

The human dropped, and Kix dropped with them, but it was on purpose instead of fatigue. Palms flat on the floor, those threads of lightning bounced into the metal of the facility, racing through the maintenance tunnels and cords of wires. They’d dug into the droids, and knew how they felt under the bright blue electricity that rolled off them.

Across the facility, the other stealth droids jolted, electrocuted from the sudden burst of electricity that sprung from the floors and walls. The scrap came to as an abrupt halt as it had started, clone troopers and one jedi staring in disbelief as the droids fell to the ground, smoke wafting from their joints.

The human gritted their teeth together, eyes alight with a glow that was almost white. Steam and smoke rolled off their back and shoulders, curled from under their fingertips. Thinking and acting rapidly, Fives rushed forward and brought the butt of his blaster rifle hard on the back of their head.

Silence. Still bodies on the ground. The creeping smell of ozone and petrichor lingered.

“You alright?” Jesse asked, pulling Kix to his feet.

“I’m fine,” Kix replied, turning his hands over in disbelief. He’d been supporting them up until Fives knocked them out, yet not a single burn or char appeared on his palms, or anywhere on his armour.

Lifting the human back up into his arms, Echo felt very aware of how fast his heart was beating. Adrenaline was a natural thing, and he was swimming in it now, just from proximity to this…person? This thing? They’d nearly burned themselves inside out. Had they even known what they were going to do?

I can help.

“General Shaak Ti will have to be informed,” Jesse said firmly. “Again."

"Get them back to the medical bay, so any damage they dealt to themselves can be treated," Rex added in. "There'll be discussions about your decisions another time. But at the very least...good job, Domino Squad."

“They did help,” Fives muttered, glancing away as he holstered his rifle, unwilling to look back at the human’s face. Domino Squad began to tail away towards the med-bay again, only too aware of the murmurings that were already beginning to snake through those present. That the squad had brought a civvie in, and the civvie had brought the storm indoors.

#writings #world: star wars #self insert #lets goooo I finally write this down after 3 years

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angelseraphines · 1 month ago

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THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER THREE

“by code or by conscience.”

the heat was unlike anything she had known.

from the instant the ramp of the royal starship began to descend, the air that poured in was not merely warm, it was alive with dust, dry and merciless, thick with the scent of sunburnt stone and scorched circuitry. the light was harsher than on naboo, more intense, devoid of water’s softness or forest shade. it poured across the landing platform in wide, golden torrents, illuminating the uneven texture of the earth and reflecting off the chrome plating of the ship’s hull until the vessel gleamed like a dropped jewel half-buried in sand.

vasharre stood beneath the curve of the open ramp, one hand clasped lightly in front of her, her eyes narrowed against the glare. her outer robe had been exchanged for something lighter, a muted violet cloak over a fitted dress of linen and silk, the embroidery modest by rharrellis standards but still elegant. the desert heat clung to the fabric at her wrists and collar, and her dark hair had been twisted into a loose coil at the base of her neck to ease the weight of it. beside her, the droid r2-d2 chirped softly, his dome swiveling back and forth as he scanned the terrain ahead.

a few meters away, master qui-gon jinn stood near the ship’s forward edge, speaking in low tones with captain panaka.

“we will not be long,” qui-gon said, his eyes sweeping the horizon with the detached focus of a man considering options against necessity. “this settlement has merchants, supplies, some limited traffic. it will suffice.”

“the queen requests that the handmaiden padmé accompany you,” panaka said. “she has given the order directly.”

qui-gon’s gaze changed, not indignantly, but with a trace of disapproval.

“this planet is not suitable for court servants,” he said. “especially not the queen’s own.”

“it is not a request, master jedi.”

there was a pause. the wind swept dust against the starship’s shadow, swirling in narrow eddies across the landing field. qui-gon looked toward padmé, who was descending the ramp with quiet poise, her posture straight, her eyes lowered in the manner expected of her cover. though veiled in simplicity, nothing about her was undecided.

he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“as the queen mandates,” he said.

vasharre did not move.

she remained beneath the arch of the ramp, half-shielded from the sun’s direct gaze. her gaze lingered on the dusty skyline, low buildings shaped from beige stone, angled rooftops, mechanical towers swaying in the haze. there was no green here. no water. no trees. nothing of theed, or the lake provinces, or home.

obi-wan approached from the upper deck, cloak drawn across one shoulder, his lightsaber secured neatly at his hip. the desert light hit the edge of his cheek and the line of his jaw as he stepped into view, and despite the heat, there was no trace of discomfort in his expression. only attention. only readiness.

qui-gon turned.

“obi-wan.”

his padawan stopped beside him.

“yes, master.”

“remain with the ship. keep watch over the delegation. guard the royal lady rharrellis.”

his tone was not unkind. it was unfaltering, calm. there was no implication beyond the words.

obi-wan’s eyes drifted briefly toward vasharre, then back to his master. he nodded once, staunchly.

“of course.”

padmé had moved to stand beside r2-d2. jar jar binks shuffled behind her, clearly uncomfortable in the arid air, fidgeting with his belt.

it was then that padmé spoke again.

“the queen,” she said, “has also instructed that lady rharrellis accompany the party into town.”

the lack of conversation that followed was longer this time.

qui-gon did not speak immediately.

his eyes drifted to vasharre, then back to padmé.

there was no anger in his gaze.

only something else.

something discerning.

an old intuition, a ripple in the force that only he seemed to sense.

“lady rharrellis is the heiress to a great house,” he said, slowly. “tatooine is no place for someone of her station. i have no intention of placing her in danger.”

padmé met his gaze.

her tone did not change.

“she is stronger than you think.”

vasharre stepped forward then.

she did so tenderly, her violet robe catching in the desert wind.

“i can go,” she said, her voice level. “i am not afraid.”

qui-gon did not look at her at first.

he looked to obi-wan.

then back to her.

and something unspoken passed through him, something no one there could name.

he sighed.

“very well,” he said at last. “but the lady’s handmaiden remains on board.”

ebos, standing further back near the ramp, straightened. her lips pursed, but she did not speak.

vasharre turned toward her.

the words did not come easily.

“i will be careful,” she said. “i will return soon.”

ebos nodded once, but her green eyes remained fixed on the desert beyond.

vasharre crossed the final step down from the ramp.

the sand crunched softly beneath her boots.

she looked once toward obi-wan, who stood nearby, silent, watchful, his blue eyes fixed on the distance. he gave no gesture. no word. only a polite nod, so subtle it might have been imagined.

and then she turned, following padmé toward the horizon.

the suns rose higher over the sand.

and the city of mos espa awaited.

the blistering sand was everywhere.

not only beneath her feet, not only along the path they walked, but in the air itself, fine and granular, suspended in the heat, catching in her hair and against her lashes. it slipped into the seams of her boots, clung to the edges of her sleeves, settled in the delicate embroidery at the hem of her robe. it did not merely move with the wind. it was the wind.

vasharre had never known such a place could exist.

naboo, for all its complexities, was a world of temperate seasons and natural splendor. its cities had been shaped with care, its architecture carved with intention, its lakes and rivers untouched by anything resembling this hostile desolation. even the poorest districts of the capital bore traces of artistry. even the slums had gardens.

tatooine had no such mercy.

the twin suns blazed overhead, one low and one nearly overhead, their combined light casting sharp, doubled shadows across the dry stone streets. the buildings of mos espa rose around them in a muted palette of beige and rust, rounded towers with domed roofs, angled marketplaces constructed from aging stone and sun-scorched metal. narrow alleys twisted between them, thick with machinery and half-covered stalls. cables and wires dangled overhead in loose coils. engines lay disassembled in the street, half buried in sand.

the streets were crowded, though not with anything vasharre would have recognized as civilized congregation. there were no lords, no scholars, no courtiers or senators. the beings here were of every kind, giant, short, armored, cloaked, some furred, some scaled, some shaped in ways she could not immediately comprehend. there were dug merchants with slick gray skin and bulbous eyes, jawas with glowing yellow irises peeking through dusty hoods, rodians bartering over engine coils, and moisture farmers dressed in roughspun fabrics, their faces veiled to keep out the heat.

the noise was overwhelming.

not a cacophony, but a relentless murmur, market calls in a dozen different tongues, the hiss of steam-driven carts, the groan of a half-functioning exhaust vent spitting smoke from the side of a stone warehouse. the smell was worse: oil, sweat, rust, heat, and the unmistakable sour tinge of unwashed metal.

padmé walked with purpose beside her, shoulders squared despite the suffocating atmosphere, her eyes scanning every stall and passageway with practiced wariness. jar jar, farther ahead, stumbled over a gutter drain and flailed wildly, drawing stares from several passing merchants. r2 followed behind qui-gon, the whir of his treads muffled negligibly by the dust.

vasharre could feel the fabric of her gown clinging to her skin. it was not meant for this. the dress, though somewhat adapted for travel, bore the structure of nobility, embellished ollar, layered sleeves, silver threading along the bodice. her pendant hung heavy at her chest, the nova star dulled in luminosity from the layer of airborne sand settling across it.

“we are nearly there,” qui-gon said, leading the group around a corner.

they had not spoken much since they left the ship. padmé and vasharre had exchanged only a few glances. no words. there had been too much to absorb.

a few steps later, the group stopped in front of a low building carved from sun-bleached stone. a faded sign hung over the entrance, its lettering marked in huttese, flanked by repulsorlift coils mounted loosely to the wall. an awning of fraying canvas stretched overhead, offering shade of a poor and ineffectual quality.

watto’s shop.

qui-gon jinn entered first.

jar jar trailed in behind him, muttering something in gungan that neither padmé nor vasharre could quite understand, and disappeared somewhere near the entry steps.

vasharre wavered at the threshold, then went inside.

the interior of the shop was darker than the blinding street outside, but it was no cooler.

the air hung with the smell of rusted metal, sand-caked wiring, and chemical dust. overhead, fans creaked slowly in tired circles, doing little to combat the dry weight of the heat that settled between the walls. odd scraps of machinery hung from the rafters, circuitry panels, scorched hyperdrive coils, broken communicator heads, the stripped shells of droid torsos dangling like discarded skins. the floor was uneven, worn smooth in places by years of boots, paws, and treads.

vasharre stepped inside just behind padmé and r2-d2, the heels of her boots catching on the cracked edge of the threshold. her robes clung uncomfortably to her arms, the fine velvet lining sticking to her skin. even now, even here, her attire was entirely out of place, shimmering threads of silver embroidery, the soft plum of her sash, the polished jewelry that glinted dully in the murky light.

jar jar had already stumbled off toward the left aisle, mumbling some excuse about “slippery metal stuff” and brushing his hands against a stack of engine parts, which caused a precarious avalanche that r2 whistled at sharply. qui-gon ignored the commotion. his focus remained fixed on the figure hovering near the far end of the shop, a short, blue-skinned toydarian, flapping his small wings in staccato bursts, his potbelly hanging over a stained work apron.

“i’m looking for a t-14 hyperdrive generator,” qui-gon said peacefully.

the toydarian who identified itself as watto squinted one eye, then launched into rapid huttese, waving a tool in the direction of a scattered pile of parts and muttering about republic credits and garbage-grade parts. qui-gon’s posture remained composed, his arms resting behind his back, his eyes unmoved.

as the two began to speak further, watto growing louder, qui-gon more tense, padmé stepped forward to survey a row of datapads along the counter, r2 wheeling behind her.

vasharre stood where she was, closer to the entryway.

she brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead, her fingers trembling from the dry heat. her throat was parched. her sleeves itched at the crook of her elbows. she had not thought to pack simpler clothing. there had been no time.

then, without warning, a voice rang out, bright, clear, and young.

“are you an angel?”

the words were not aimed at her.

they came from the left, from behind one of the display cases, and were directed at padmé, who looked up in mild surprise.

a boy had entered from the workshop in the back.

he could not have been more than nine or ten years old, dressed in a worn tunic and utility belt, bare-armed despite the heat, with sun-darkened skin and sandy blond hair that curled slightly at the ends. he had wide, earnest blue eyes and a dust-smudged nose. there was something disarming about his presence. he stood like someone who belonged there, but not in the way watto did. where watto moved through the shop with hunched impatience, the boy stood with open curiosity.

padmé tilted her head, blinking once.

“what?”

“an angel,” he said, stepping forward. “i’ve heard the deep space pilots talk about them. they’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe. they live on the moons of iego, i think.”

padmé smiled.

“you’re a funny little boy.”

he returned the smile without delay.

“i’m not joking,” he said. “they’re real. they help people. i’ve heard they glow in the dark.”

padmé did not answer at first.

then, softly, “i’ve never heard of angels.”

the boy took another step forward, glancing toward qui-gon and watto still arguing in the back, then back to her.

“how did you end up here?”

“we came on a ship,” she said.

“are you a pilot?”

she shook her head.

“no.”

he looked at her for a minute longer, then turned.

his gaze moved across the shop and landed on vasharre.

his expression didn’t change. he didn’t hesitate.

he walked toward her.

vasharre stood still, startled.

“or maybe you’re the angel?”

the question, asked so innocently, caught her entirely off guard.

“i am not.”

he looked her up and down.

“you look like one.”

“i do?”

he nodded with complete sincerity.

“you shine,” he said.

vasharre looked at him closely now.

the boy had a strange presence. not imposing, not unusual. only honest. startlingly so. there was no calculation in his face. no attempt to impress. he was not trying to charm her. he was only saying what he thought.

“you are kind to say that,” she said, lowering her voice to match his.

he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“are you a noble?”

“i am the daughter of lord naem rharrellis, the former senator of naboo.”

his head tilted to the side.

“so… you’re royalty.”

she pondered his words.

“some would say so.”

he grinned.

“wow. i’ve never met a real royal before.“

vasharre folded her hands in front of her, watching him more closely now.

there was a freedom in his speech. not recklessness. simply the freedom of someone who had never been taught to speak through a facade.

“do you live here?” she asked, careful not to let any judgment touch her tone.

he nodded again.

“my mom and i. i work for watto, fixing stuff. droids, pods, engines.”

vasharre’s brow creased.

“you work for him?”

“yeah. i’m his slave.”

she stiffened.

the word landed like a jolt in her spine.

“you are what?”

“a slave,” he repeated simply. “all of us are here. it’s not so bad. i mean… sometimes.”

there was no shame in his tone. no anger. only fact.

vasharre stared at him.

not because she disbelieved him.

but because she had never met someone her age, or close to it, who could say those words and believe them normal.

“what is your name?” she asked.

“anakin skywalker.”

she didn’t know why an unexplainable sensation surged through her upon hearing the boy’s name, one that was so obscure and enigmatic, beyond words or comprehension.

“i’m vasharre rharrellis,” she said softly.

his eyes lit up again.

“that’s a pretty name.”

before she could answer, a metallic screech rang out from the far end of the shop.

“mesa go now!” jar jar called out, stumbling through a display of cable reels.

qui-gon’s voice followed, hushed but decisive.

“padmé. r2. come.”

watto was already flapping toward the side exit, pointing toward something outside. r2 let out a series of beeps and followed. padmé glanced once toward anakin, offered a small smile, then turned and walked after them.

anakin stood in front of vasharre, smiling without expectation.

“i hope you get your ship fixed,” he said.

“thank you.”

“i like your necklace,” he added, pointing to the pendant at her collar. “it looks important.”

she looked down at the nova star.

then back at him.

“it is.”

and then she turned and followed the others.

the light outside had become gloomy by the time padmé turned to leave.

the suns had lowered, but the heat had not relented. instead, it pressed against the doorframe like a living thing, curling inside the shop with fingers of scorched wind and powdered sand. anakin stood in the center of the floor, looking up at her with a grin that hovered somewhere between admiration and awe. there was a hesitance in him now, hardly visible, as though he had begun to sense the space between them, the difference in years, in bearing, in the way she moved through the world.

padmé hesitated near the door.

then she turned back.

“it was very nice to meet you, anakin.”

he blinked, and his ears pinked.

“you’re… you’re welcome to visit again, if you want. i mean, if you ever come back to tatooine. or if you need help with engines.”

his voice cracked slightly on the last word. he swallowed quickly, hoping she had not noticed.

she smiled again, tenderly, kindly.

“thank you.”

she stepped outside.

vasharre stayed behind a second longer, her gaze fixed on the boy who had spoken with such unaffected honesty.

“goodbye, anakin skywalker,” she said.

he looked toward her, more confident now.

“you too, vasharre.”

and with that, she followed padmé into the street, the door shutting behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss.

outside, the wind had picked up.

the marketplace had transformed since their arrival, more voices now, more dust kicked into the air as traders packed up stalls and locals navigated the narrowing paths. the air carried the scent of spice and old metal, and the sun cast long, angular shadows across the walls.

as they moved away from the shop, vasharre heard a familiar voice, steady and clipped, emerging from a handheld comm device carried by qui-gon jinn several paces ahead. he walked with steady purpose, r2 rolling alongside him.

“master,” came obi-wan’s voice through the static. “the ship is secure. local climate is wreaking havoc on one of the exterior relays, but we’re holding.”

qui-gon pressed the comm closer.

“understood. we may be delayed.”

“delayed?”

qui-gon did not elaborate.

he ended the transmission with a tap of his thumb.

before vasharre could wonder what he meant, a sudden shout pierced the air from somewhere ahead.

“no, no! mesa sorry! mesa no see you there!”

jar jar’s unmistakable voice rang out across the square, followed immediately by a growl and a guttural string of huttese curses.

padmé quickened her pace. vasharre followed, her robes pulling at her shoulders, her breath catching slightly from the exertion.

they emerged into the clearing near the market’s central fountain just in time to see jar jar tangled in the legs of a massive, leathery-skinned dug, sebulba, his long arms flailing as he attempted to back away. the dug hissed furiously, baring sharp teeth, one clawed hand already gripping the front of jar jar’s tunic.

“yousa let me go! mesa no mean harm!”

sebulba snarled something unintelligible and raised a hand.

then, a voice cut through the air like a flare.

“let him go!”

anakin.

he was already stepping between them before anyone could react, his small frame squared, shoulders drawn back.

“you touch him again, and you’re gonna have to answer to me!”

sebulba snarled again, this time in unmistakable menace, then snapped out something cruel in huttese.

anakin didn’t flinch.

he folded his arms and stood his ground.

sebulba glared, his nostrils flaring wide, then spat into the dust and shoved jar jar backward.

the gungan collapsed with a yelp, flailing backward into a basket of fruit.

anakin turned quickly to help him up.

“you okay?”

“mesa… mesa tink so,” jar jar groaned.

qui-gon arrived a second later, hand near his belt but not yet reaching for his saber.

he eyed anakin.

“impressive,” he said. “not many your size would stand up to him.”

anakin shrugged, though the pride was visible beneath his modesty.

“he picks on people smaller than him. i don’t like bullies.”

padmé looked at him now with greater admiration.

“you really are brave.”

anakin grew flustered. “come on,” he said. “your ship’s too far from here. the sun’ll be setting soon. you should come to my home. it’s not far.”

qui-gon studied him with intent, then nodded.

“lead the way.”

anakin looked up once more at padmé. she gave him a small, grateful smile.

vasharre watched the exchange from behind them.

she said nothing.

but as she walked beside the others, following the boy into the labyrinth of adobe homes and dusty stairways, she glanced sideways toward him again.

anakin skywalker.

a boy born of sand and dust.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

anakin led them through a winding path of narrow alleys and tawny walls, his pace brisk but considerate, checking often to make sure jar jar and the others had not fallen behind. the deeper they moved into the settlement, the more the noise of the market gave way to something quiet, layered with the hum of speeders and the whine of distant moisture vaporators, but gentled by distance and stone. the houses here were simple structures of hardened clay and weathered metal, shaped more by survival than aesthetics, their rooftops bowed beneath coils of salvaged wire and sun-faded tarp.

they stopped outside a modest dwelling at the end of a narrow causeway, its angled door set beneath a short arch and flanked by two rusted storage crates. anakin reached for the panel beside the door, keyed in a short sequence, and waited. the lock disengaged with a snap.

the door opened inward.

a woman stood there, backlit by the cool interior. her clothing was plain, sand-colored tunic, dark underskirt, but clean and mended with care. her hair was dark and pulled back from her face. her features were austere, but the lines around her mouth and eyes spoke of long years of effort. she did not appear surprised to see them. only alert.

her eyes moved first to anakin, then to the others.

anakin grinned broadly. “mom. these are my friends.”

shmi skywalker’s eyes moved across the group.

qui-gon offered a respectful nod.

“we were caught in the sandstorm,” he said. “your son offered shelter.”

shmi looked at him for a long while before answering.

“then you’re welcome here.”

anakin stepped inside first, motioning for the others to follow. the entry hall was low-ceilinged and shadowed, but cool. clay walls, smooth from years of sand and touch, were lined with tool racks and faded fabric drapings. the air inside carried the scent of dried herbs and old metal, a contrast to the scorched tang of the city outside.

they entered with reluctance.

shmi turned toward her son.

“anakin, get the others some water.”

“yes, mom.”

he darted into the adjoining room.

shmi turned toward the visitors. her voice was soft.

“we don’t have much. but we’re glad to offer what we can.”

padmé bowed her head.

“your home is lovely.”

shmi smiled, then looked to vasharre, whose posture had remained poised but uncertain.

“and you, my lady?”

“i’m… grateful for your hospitality.”

shmi’s eyes were fixed on her for a beat longer. then she turned away, vanishing into the kitchen with a grace that was born not of training, but of perseverance.

anakin reappeared moments later, carrying a tray with four mismatched cups and a dented metal pitcher. he handed them out with the proud air of a host presenting a royal banquet.

“come on,” he said, brightening. “there’s someone else i want you to meet.”

he motioned toward a narrow hallway.

padmé followed, with vasharre just behind her. r2 rolled slowly at their heels.

they entered a small, windowless room crammed with parts. wiring hung from the ceiling. crates of droid limbs and stripped-down circuit boards were stacked in every corner. a workbench had been assembled from two old panels, and on it stood a half-finished protocol droid, thin, skeletal, wires exposed and limbs partially assembled.

anakin beamed.

“this is c-3po. he’s not finished yet, but he’s really smart. he’ll help mom around the house when I’m done.”

padmé stepped closer, hands folded before her.

“hello.”

the droid stirred.

his eyes blinked on, bright yellow, unfiltered.

“i am c-3po,” he said in a polished, formal tone. “human-cyborg relations. how may i serve you?”

anakin puffed his chest out. “see? he works!”

vasharre stepped forward, her expression caught somewhere between intrigue and unease. she had never seen a droid in such a state, not outside repair stations or military factories.

“he’s… very mechanical,” she observed.

anakin turned to her.

“you can talk to him. he understands lots of languages.”

vasharre glanced at the droid again.

“i’ll remember that.”

r2 chirped in response, causing c-3po to jerk slightly.

“how rude,” the protocol droid muttered.

anakin laughed.

vasharre’s smile was small, but real.

then, a faraway sound caught her ear, static, filtered through a comm panel in the hallway beyond.

she turned her head.

the others had remained clustered near the droid. no one had noticed her stepping away.

inconspicuously, she slipped back into the corridor.

the sound was clearer now.

qui-gon stood near a comm terminal, angled away from her, one hand resting on the console.

a blue hologram flashed to life, obi-wan, projected from the starship.

“master,” obi-wan’s voice came through. “we’ve received a message. encrypted, but the seal is authentic. it’s from naem rharrellis.”

vasharre froze.

she did not step forward.

qui-gon’s voice was calm, but decisive.

“do not respond.”

“master, if it’s genuine…”

“if it’s genuine, he is being coerced. the viceroy knows the queen escaped. they may be attempting to locate her, through her closest allies.”

obi-wan hesitated.

then nodded once.

“we’ll hold position.”

the hologram vanished.

vasharre stood in the shadows of the door, her heart stopped.

her hand clutched the doorframe. her breath caught, too sudden to halt.

she tried to step back, but her heel caught the edge of the corridor stone with a scrape.

qui-gon’s head turned immediately.

he said nothing at first.

only lowered the comm.

“my lady,” he said calmly. “you should be with the others.”

she swallowed.

“you said… you said my father is…”

“alive,” he answered. “yes. but compromised. if they are forcing him to reach us, it is because they want something.”

“we should respond,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. “he is trying to reach me.”

“i know,” he said. “but if we do so, they will find this ship. they will find you.”

her mouth opened. then closed again.

he gave her a long, thoughtful look.

and then said, gently, “you care deeply for your family. that is good. but to protect them, you must remain here. safely away.”

she nodded once, eyes burning.

and as she turned away, the weight in her chest returned, not the burden of terror.

but of helplessness.

and worse than that the ache of knowing that obi-wan kenobi had heard the message before she had. that he had spoken to qui-gon in her father’s stead. that he, not her, had been trusted with the truth.

she said nothing.

but as she returned to the others, the shadow of her duty followed her.

the conversation was burned in her mind hours after vasharre had slipped away from the corridor. though she had rejoined the others, the voice of obi-wan kenobi still echoed in her mind, concerned and unshakably composed. the mention of her father, reduced to a possibility in a transmission, had left her unsettled. but there was no time to dwell. anakin, eager and hospitable, had returned from his workbench and invited them to stay for a meal. shmi, ever gracious, began preparing what little she could offer. the hours faded into the soft rhythm of plates being set, utensils placed, steam rising from a single shared pot. and so, without ceremony, the day’s tensions folded into the muted warmth of a makeshift dinner, one lit not by grandeur, but by necessity and unfamiliar companionship.

the scent of roasted grain and root spice lingered in the small kitchen, mingling with the heavier, earthier aromas of cooked desert fowl and stewed greens. steam curled upward from the serving dishes that had been set across the circular table, simple ceramic plates, mismatched in tone, and a single cracked pitcher of water resting near the center beside a basket of softened bread. the meal was modest by any standard, especially for guests from the core, but there was warmth in its preparation, and vasharre could see the effort it had taken to make it appear full.

they sat close together in the narrow dining space. the walls were rounded and low, plastered smooth by hand, the corners lined with old woven fabrics and clay hangings, all sun-bleached and weathered by years of heat. the light from the single overhead fixture was golden and uneven, casting long, quiet shadows across the room.

shmi sat with gentle poise, her hands folded loosely in her lap when not reaching for the serving bowl. padmé sat to her right, her chin tilted downward slightly, eyes darkened with thought. qui-gon was across from her, seated with the natural quiet of a man used to stillness. beside him sat jar jar, already halfway through his second helping. vasharre occupied the seat between padmé and r2-d2, who, lacking the need for food, had positioned himself near the wall but remained active, his dome rotating softly in scan intervals. anakin, lively and animated, had chosen the place beside qui-gon.

for a time, the meal proceeded with small, careful talk.

anakin had asked padmé where she was from. she had answered with vague wording about the core worlds.

vasharre had commented on the unfamiliar seasoning in the stew, and shmi had smiled and explained it came from a local root, pounded with herbs.

jar jar had attempted to explain gungan cuisine before being gently cut off by qui-gon’s quiet clearing of his throat.

but then the conversation changed direction.

padmé lowered her fork.

her expression had changed, not with discomfort, but with something solemn.

“it’s wrong,” she said softly, though there was no gentleness in her meaning. “you should not be enslaved. no one should.”

anakin looked at his mother, then back at padmé.

“well… it’s all we’ve ever known. i guess.”

“that doesn’t make it right,” she replied. “just because something exists doesn’t mean it’s just.”

shmi offered a faint smile.

“you speak like a politician.”

padmé hesitated.

“i’ve… heard them speak often.”

vasharre looked between them, not speaking a word.

she had heard this debate before, in many rooms, spoken by her father and his allies when the republic refused to intervene in the outer rim’s darker affairs. and yet here, spoken over a meal of shared bread and worn cutlery, the weight of it felt more piercing. not abstract. not political. personal.

“but why doesn’t the republic do anything?” padmé asked, her voice tight.

“the republic doesn’t exist out here,” shmi answered quietly. “we’re beyond their reach. they can’t, or won’t, enforce their laws on tatooine.”

padmé’s jaw clenched.

vasharre could feel it in her own chest. the burn of frustration. the hollowness of knowing that power did not always bring protection.

anakin, sensing the tension, turned to qui-gon.

“you carry a laser sword.”

qui-gon’s brow lifted, the corners of his mouth tugging in amusement.

“i do.”

“you’re a jedi knight,” anakin said confidently.

there was a pause.

vasharre looked at qui-gon, shocked.

he had never said so aloud. not in the boy’s hearing.

qui-gon leaned back slightly, one arm resting across the table’s edge.

“what makes you think that?”

“i saw your weapon,” anakin said simply. “only jedi carry lightsabers.”

qui-gon arched an eyebrow.

“perhaps i killed a jedi and took it from him.”

anakin’s eyes widened in horror.

“no,” he said, his tone immediate, insistent. “a jedi couldn’t be killed. no one can kill a jedi.”

the table went still.

then, slowly, qui-gon nodded his head.

“you are right. i am a jedi.”

anakin sat up straighter, visibly energized.

“i’ve heard of them all my life,” he said. “my dream is to be one. to travel the stars, to help people. to make things better.”

he said it with a kind of raw conviction that only came from youth, the kind not yet worn down by disappointment.

“and what does your mother think of that dream?” qui-gon asked.

“i think it’s in his blood.”

qui-gon nodded once.

“we came here to find parts,” he said, his voice turning more practical now. “our ship is damaged. we need a t-14 hyperdrive generator. we can’t leave without it.”

shmi folded her hands, her expression unreadable.

“then you’ll need credits.”

“republic credits are no good here,” qui-gon said.

anakin frowned.

“so… what are you going to do?”

qui-gon looked at him carefully.

“i don’t know.”

anakin paused.

then said, slowly, “i can help.”

padmé turned to him.

“how?”

anakin leaned forward.

“i can race. i’m the only human who can do it.”

“race?” vasharre asked, her voice uncertain.

anakin turned to her.

“podracing. it’s dangerous. most racers are dugs or gran, species with faster reflexes. but i’ve won practice runs. i’m fast. i can do it.”

padmé looked horrified.

“you’re nine.”

“and i’m good.”

“it’s too dangerous.”

“we don’t have another way,” qui-gon said.

“you’d let him do this?” padmé asked sharply.

shmi’s voice was calm, though her gaze had dropped to her hands.

“he was meant to help you,” she said. “he can see things before they happen. he’s special. he was meant to find you.”

qui-gon studied her for a long while.

then looked back at anakin.

and for the first time, his expression went from curiosity to something else.

recognition.

vasharre watched the exchange.

she said nothing.

anakin skywalker. there was something about him that made the air feel different. as though something had already begun.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the suns were falling again, golden light curling over the edge of the dune sea, casting long shadows across the worn stones of mos espa as they returned toward the ship. the heat, though no longer blistering, clung to the folds of vasharre’s robe, and her throat still carried the dry scratch of sand-borne wind. behind her, the hum of the desert faded into the distance, broken only by the occasional flutter of fabric from the awnings above the alley and the rhythmic tapping of jar jar’s uneven gait against the stones.

they were walking without anakin now.

he was at his home with his mother, but the echoes of what had occurred hours earlier moved akin to dust through vasharre’s thoughts.

she remembered the way watto’s wings had beat frantically, his voice climbing in anger and disbelief when the boy had won the podrace, when the bet had been honored. she remembered how the toydarian had flailed and shouted, refusing to release the boy until qui-gon’s gaze turned sharply downward, stern and commanding, and the trader’s protests had collapsed into snarling compliance.

she remembered the chaos at the finish line, the roar of the crowd, the flash of flags and banners, the sound of hundreds of voices rising around the narrow stone barriers of the course. the podracers had streaked through the final circuit, engines screaming, sand clouding behind them in feral trails. for a breathless instant, she had not believed anakin would survive it. but then he had crossed the line, first, impossibly, undeniably, and the entire settlement had erupted.

shmi had stood amongst them, stunned and grateful her son had won his freedom from the shackles of slavery.

padmé had wept tears of joy, though she would later deny it.

and vasharre, clutching the sash of her silken robe against the wind, had been unable to move. because in that instant, the boy had not seemed like a slave. or a mechanic. or a child.

he had seemed destined.

but that knowing had not begun with the race.

it had begun the night before, when she had slipped past the sleeping forms in the skywalker home and moved, barefoot and silent, down the narrow stone corridor toward the shaded courtyard outside.

the night had been heavy and thick with heat, her head crowded with too many thoughts, the message from her father that she had not been allowed to answer, the ache of distance from home, the terrible stillness of waiting. but when she reached the archway that overlooked the rear terrace, she had heard voices.

qui-gon’s voice.

tempered and tranquil.

“…over twenty thousand.”

a pause.

then the voice from the comm, obi-wan’s, laced with perplexity.

“even master yoda doesn’t have a count that high.”

vasharre had pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

“he doesn’t know what it means,” qui-gon had said. “but i believe i do.”

another pause.

then, “he was meant to help us. and he will.”

vasharre had not understood all of it, not then, but the number, the way it was spoken, the exchange of the names. she had known what it implied. a midichlorian count of that magnitude was impossible to ignore. she had grown up surrounded by discussions of the jedi, by her brother’s training, her father’s old alliances, the lineage of the rharrellis bloodline. she knew what it meant when someone possessed an affinity for the force that exceeded reason.

and she had known what it meant for a boy like anakin skywalker to be outside the order.

she had returned to bed underneath the veil of twilight.

she had said nothing.

but now, as they reached the outer threshold of the starship, the memory still pulsed behind her ribs.

the ship gleamed in the last light of the suns, its chrome plating throwing pale reflections onto the scorched stone below. the ramp had already been lowered. the guards were visible from a distance, posted near the auxiliary entry, and the familiar silhouettes of the pilots shifted along the bridge walkway. r2 chirped once beside her and veered toward the docking panel.

jar jar stumbled up the ramp first, his limbs swinging, his voice full of exhaustion and mild complaint.

padmé followed with qui-gon behind them, his cloak flaring in the wind, his gaze scanning the horizon once more before stepping into the ship.

vasharre stopped at the top of the ramp.

her eyes searched the hull, and there, just beyond the corridor junction, she saw a recognizable figure moving toward them.

her heart stumbled once in her chest.

obi-wan kenobi.

he was walking with purpose, his arms folded into the sleeves of his robe, his face lit only faintly by the corridor lights behind him. he stopped just short of the entrance, his gaze passing over the group with swift efficiency.

he looked first at qui-gon.

“what is this?” he asked, his words mocking with clipped dryness. “why do i sense we’ve picked up another pathetic life-form?”

qui-gon did not smile, but his tone held the subtlest trace of amusement.

“another stray, perhaps. one worth the trouble.”

obi-wan exhaled through his nose, and for a moment, his blue eyes moved.

they found vasharre. not for long. a split second.

but long enough that she felt something uncoil beneath her sternum.

she lowered her gaze, stepping aside as he passed, the scent of desert wind and leather robes trailing behind him.

qui-gon gave a nod toward the engineering bay.

“see to the hyperdrive. r2 has the parts.”

obi-wan bowed his head, already turning down the corridor.

vasharre stood at the edge of the walkway, the dust of tatooine still clinging to the hem of her robe, the desert sun fading from her skin. her hand drifted once more to the nova star at her collar, her fingers curling around the metal of the silver chain.

for a minute, she allowed herself the indulgence of standing still.

not as a lady of house rharrellis.

only as a girl.

watching the man forever forbidden to her, yet who had already taught her how absence could bruise more deeply than presence.

and then she stepped inside.

behind her, the ship sealed with a soft hiss.

the hum of the ship had long since become rhythm.

after the tension of mos espa, the sharp noise of the crowd, the mechanical fury of the podrace, and the quiet finality of their departure from the skywalker home, the silver corridors of the vessel felt strangely muted. the polished walls shimmered with the reflection of artificial light, and the hum of repulsorlift power beneath her feet was steady, predictable.

vasharre had changed out of her dusty travel attire, her robes exchanged for a more formal dark-blue garment fitted close to the body, with a sash of soft lilac drawn across her waist and fastened in place with a silver clasp. her hair had been brushed smooth by ebos, then drawn partially back with decorative pins shaped in the image of nova starbursts. her ears still rang faintly with the roar of the podrace stands, and her skin still felt sun-warmed from hours exposed to the twin suns of tatooine.

she stood in the central corridor, waiting for the next instruction, some new direction that would mark the next chapter of their detour.

and then she heard voices.

distant, but familiar.

vasharre moved toward the boarding ramp, her feet gliding across the floor with practiced poise.

the ramp was half-lowered, sunlight piercing through the threshold like a blade. outside, near the far edge of the boarding platform, she could see the silhouette of qui-gon jinn, his towering frame outlined against the scorching sky. beside him stood anakin skywalker, still in the same dusty tunic, his hands folded behind his back as he listened to something qui-gon was telling him.

vasharre stepped forward, down the incline of the ramp, into the light.

“anakin?” she called.

he turned immediately, startled but joyful.

“vasharre!”

but his next words were cut off.

not because of her.

because of something behind her.

because of what was coming.

a shadow fell across the sand.

something black.

something wrong.

and before vasharre could turn to look, a shriek of wind erupted from the far rise of the canyon.

a figure appeared.

hooded, cloaked, draped in black from head to foot. his stride was silent, but swift. and then, as if summoned by death itself, he drew a lightsaber, crimson, bladed at both ends, humming with vicious clarity.

vasharre’s heart stilled.

qui-gon turned immediately, cloak flaring, hand snapping to his belt.

“get inside!” he roared. “both of you!”

anakin grabbed her arm.

they ran.

the sand exploded behind them as the stranger leapt.

qui-gon’s blade ignited in a flash of green light, meeting the attacker mid-air. the clash of sabers sent a shockwave through the ramp as vasharre stumbled forward, dragging anakin with her.

the ship shuddered once.

a shout echoed from the deck above.

“lifting off!” came obi-wan’s voice over the comm.

vasharre turned at the top of the ramp, breath caught in her throat.

qui-gon fought below them, blade flashing against the twin red beams of the assailant. the figure spun like a phantom, strikes delivered with unnatural speed. but qui-gon countered each with measured strength, his expression drawn in fierce concentration.

“close the ramp!” panaka called from the bridge.

“not yet!” vasharre shouted.

the ship began to rise.

sand whipped around them in a wild storm, the engines igniting with roaring thrust.

qui-gon lunged upward.

the figure struck again, twice, then retreated into the canyon as the wind lifted the ship clear of the ground.

vasharre reached out once as the ramp hissed shut behind them.

a heartbeat passed.

then qui-gon leapt through the narrow gap, cloak catching in the wind, landing in a crouch just as the ramp sealed behind him.

the ship surged upward, into the atmosphere.

the battle below vanished in the clouds.

vasharre dropped to her knees, gasping.

anakin crouched beside her, trembling.

qui-gon stood in silence, his blade deactivating with a soft hum.

“what… was that?” anakin asked.

no one answered.

but vasharre’s eyes turned slowly toward qui-gon.

and something old began to rouse in her mind.

the shape of something long foretold in her dreams.

the whine of the engines softened as the ship broke free of the atmosphere, slipping into the weightlessness of orbit with a smooth, hollow silence. the windows shifted from golden brilliance to the deep, speckled void of stars, the horizon of tatooine fading behind them into a faint curve of gold and rust. it was quiet now. no alarms. no shouting. only the rhythmic pulsing of the navigation console and the gentle hum of the ship’s core systems.

vasharre sat near the forward observation deck, a slender window carved into the durasteel wall, her hands folded neatly in her lap. though her posture was still, her heart had not slowed since the moment the ramp sealed shut behind qui-gon. her eyes remained fixed on the corridor leading toward the cockpit, watching, waiting.

when the door finally slid open, it did so with no fanfare, only a soft mechanical shudder.

obi-wan stepped through.

his hair was tousled from the wind and heat, the edge of his robe darkened with dust, but his expression was composed, his eyes alert. he moved with deliberate calm, scanning the space quickly before stepping down into the corridor.

his gaze caught on the boy first.

anakin skywalker stood near one of the storage compartments, examining the holotable embedded into the panel with the wide-eyed intensity of someone seeing advanced technology for the first time. he turned as he heard footsteps, his eyes landing on obi-wan with open curiosity.

obi-wan studied him.

the boy said nothing.

vasharre rose from her seat, her movement gentle, as if not to interrupt whatever was about to pass between them.

qui-gon appeared behind obi-wan a short time later, his broad frame shadowing the narrow corridor.

“obi-wan,” he said. “meet anakin skywalker.”

anakin stepped forward, extending a hand with practiced courtesy.

“hi,” he said. “you’re master qui-gon’s padawan?”

obi-wan looked down at the outstretched hand.

then took it.

“i am,” he said pleasantly. “obi-wan kenobi.”

“you’re the first jedi besides him that i’ve ever met.”

“and you’re the boy who built a protocol droid from scrap metal and flew a podracer to victory,” obi-wan replied, raising one eyebrow. “without any formal training.”

anakin grinned.

vasharre observed the exchange.

then turned her gaze toward qui-gon, who had folded his arms behind his back and was watching the two with a sliver of pride in his eyes.

“master jinn,” she said, her voice soft as to keep others from overhearing. “will he be trained?”

qui-gon did not answer immediately.

he glanced toward the viewport, then toward obi-wan, then finally met her eyes.

“that is for the council to decide.”

vasharre lowered her gaze.

of course it was.

of course it had to be.

she looked once more at anakin, bright-eyed, eager, filled with impossible potential, and could not help the memory that returned to her, as unbidden as breath.

it had been a year ago, deep in the mountain halls of coruscant, the jedi temple burning with candlelight and silence. her father had brought kraen, newly elevated to padawan, his bearing proud, his presence strong. the council chamber had felt too large, too vast, the ceiling lost in shadow, the floor gleaming akin to polished onyx. she had watched from the outer gallery as master yoda sat in contemplation, his eyes half-lidded, listening.

they had all believed it was kraen.

he was the elder child.

he bore the rharrellis name with wisdom and strength, he was quick of body and sharp of mind. the council had taken blood, had counted midichlorian concentration, had asked him questions that reached into his soul.

and yet, the answer had come not from plo koon or ki-adi-mundi, but from yoda himself.

“strong, yes. but the forceborn… he is not.”

the silence in the room had been defeating.

even her father had not spoken for a time.

and so the title, the prophecy, remained unclaimed.

a chosen one shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored. yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.

shmi had said anakin skywalker was born of no father.

that much she understood now.

but the second name, the second role, continued to be void.

and perhaps, she thought, it was better that way.

too much had been built on names.

too many hopes attached to destinies no one truly understood.

behind her, the stars stretched on in the endless sky.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

hyperspace had turned the galaxy into a blur.

beyond the hull, the stars stretched into ribbons of white and silver, pouring across the viewports in silent motion. within the ship, all had gone still. the final reports had been filed to coruscant, the engines maintained by a skeleton crew, the guards dismissed to their quarters. quiet music played faintly through the speakers near the starboard corridor, a naboo melody, high and plaintive, the kind often used in state processions. its notes drifted through the chambers, haunting and slow.

obi-wan stood at the edge of the upper deck, one hand resting casually against the wall as he watched the passage below.

his eyes had followed her without meaning to.

vasharre rharrellis was moving with measured grace along the central hall, her robe trailing softly behind her. beside her walked her handmaiden, ebos, bronze and serious, with that graceful watchfulness she always seemed to carry. neither of them spoke. vasharre’s hair had been unpinned, her dark waves loose down her back. her shoulders were bowed, her steps smaller than usual.

she passed the security bulkhead and disappeared into the residential wing, the soft white light fading behind her.

obi-wan exhaled, subdued and slow.

he pushed off the wall, preparing to return to his quarters.

“obi-wan.”

the voice was not loud.

but it carried with unmistakable coherence.

he turned immediately.

qui-gon jinn stood near the tactical console, his arms folded behind his back, his stance as unmoving as the stars.

obi-wan approached without question.

“yes, master.”

qui-gon did not speak at once.

his eyes remained on the viewport, the wash of hyperspace reflected dimly across his features.

then, without turning, he said, “you are troubled.”

obi-wan paused.

then gave a shallow nod.

“there is much to consider,” he said carefully.

qui-gon looked at him now.

“you feel it too.”

“the boy?” obi-wan asked.

qui-gon said nothing.

but the silence was answer enough.

obi-wan crossed his arms, gaze narrowing.

“his instincts are untrained. his emotions uncontrolled. he is too old.”

“perhaps,” qui-gon murmured.

“there is danger,” obi-wan continued, more forceful now. “i can feel it. not in him, not yet, but around him. as if something is gathering.”

qui-gon’s eyes drifted toward the deck where vasharre had gone.

“there are many kinds of gravity,” he said. “some draw ships across space. others draw devotion.”

obi-wan did not respond.

qui-gon’s voice was hushed when he spoke again.

“you remember the prophecy.”

“i do.”

“repeat it for me.”

obi-wan shifted, clearly unsure as to why this was being asked so suddenly, but obliged.

“a chosen one shall come,” he said, “born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored.”

qui-gon waited.

obi-wan paused.

then added, “yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.”

qui-gon’s expression did not change.

“and what do you believe it means?”

obi-wan frowned.

“legends are prone to exaggeration and misinterpretation. i believe the prophecy speaks to a convergence of force energy, possibly a being capable of harmonizing light and dark. the chosen one may be destined to defeat the sith. or something far beyond that. it is unclear, we cannot know.”

“we don’t,” qui-gon said. “and yet we must choose to act as though we do.”

obi-wan straightened slightly.

“you think anakin is the chosen one.”

qui-gon did not flinch.

“i feel it.”

obi-wan’s tone sharpened.

“and what if you are wrong?”

“then we have risked much on a child.”

a long pause.

“and the foreborn?”

qui-gon’s eyes dimmed a shade in thought.

“the prophecy names two,” he said. “and yet, we have spent years seeking only one. we have looked for signs, bloodlines, visions, disturbances in the forces. perhaps we have been too definite. too narrow.”

“you think it’s someone we’ve overlooked.”

qui-gon’s face gave nothing away.

“the force does not always choose who we would expect. or when.”

obi-wan’s arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“we don’t even know what we’re asking of them.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “but that does not excuse us from the asking.”

silence followed.

obi-wan stared down at the floor.

when he finally spoke, it was quieter than before.

“how are we to prepare them? either of them? if we don’t even understand what this balance is supposed to be?”

qui-gon turned toward him fully now.

and said, not unkindly, “we begin by trusting the force. not the council. not the code. the force.”

obi-wan looked away.

“and if the force leads us to cataclysm?”

“then cataclysm is part of the balance.”

the words, once spoken, hung in the air between them. they did not fade. they persisted, heavy, resonant, untouched by sound or motion. and when they settled, it was not with peace. it was with significance.

qui-gon’s gaze drifted toward the shimmering stars.

they were alone in the corridor. the hum of the ship’s systems pulsed gently through the walls, and the distant sound of hyperspace flowed like water beyond the steel. the light above them washazy, casting long shadows across the floor. and for the briefest moment, it felt as though time itself had paused to make room for the next words.

he did not speak immediately.

he only looked out.

his hands, still folded behind his back, stiffened.

“obi-wan,” he said at last, and his voice had changed, not louder, not softer, but deeper, shaded with something grave beneath it. “there will come a day when you must choose.”

obi-wan turned his head, his brow furrowing.

“a day?”

“not soon. not in any way you will expect. but it will come.”

obi-wan’s shoulders became taut, his expression sharpening with confusion.

“what choice?”

qui-gon drew a breath, slow and steady, his eyes still fixed beyond the transparisteel.

“you will be asked to obey the code. and in the same moment, you will be asked to protect what you hold sacred.”

obi-wan said nothing.

his master’s voice deepened further.

“you will not be able to do both.”

obi-wan’s head turned fully now, disbelief flashing through his gaze.

“you’re speaking in riddles.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “i am speaking plainly.”

“but the code…”

“i know the code.”

obi-wan’s mouth tensed.

“then you know what it forbids. attachment, possession, love. these are not…”

“i know what it says,” qui-gon said again, more firmly now. “but i also know what it does not say. it does not account for mercy. it does not account for devotion. and it does not account for the moments when following it leads to ruin.”

obi-wan stared at him, eyes narrowing.

“you’ve always questioned the council,” he said, measured. “but this… this is something else.”

“yes,” qui-gon replied. “it is.”

obi-wan looked away, unsettled.

“you would have me betray everything we were taught.”

“no,” qui-gon said, and at this his voice dropped, softer, though no less urgent. “i would have you remember that the code was made by men. the force was not.”

obi-wan opened his mouth to respond, but the words did not come.

his master stepped forward now, his frame casting a shadow against the deck lighting.

“i am not asking you to disobey the order. nor am i telling you to abandon what you believe. but you must understand, there will come a day when the question will not be about the code. it will be about the greater good. it will be about those whose lives matter beyond doctrine, beyond rules, beyond oaths. and when that moment comes, you must choose the path the force shows you.”

“even if it goes against the teachings of the jedi?” obi-wan asked.

qui-gon’s gaze darkened, not in anger, but in the sheer gravity of what he was carrying.

“yes.”

“even if it goes against the will of the council?”

“yes.”

obi-wan’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“even if it costs me the right to call myself a jedi?”

“yes,” qui-gon said, and now his voice was steel. “especially then.”

obi-wan stepped back, as though he had been struck, not physically, but in spirit. his throat bobbed once as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard. he had known his master to be defiant, yes. independent, yes. but this was something else. this was prophecy speaking through him. this was a warning. this was a plea.

he looked into the jedi master’s face.

and he saw no doubt.

only sorrow.

and something else, something deeper.

“you speak as though you have already chosen,” obi-wan said, voice scarcely audible.

qui-gon did not answer.

he only turned again, back toward the stars.

and said, so placidly it nearly vanished in the sound of the ship’s systems, “promise me you’ll remember this.”

obi-wan remained still.

“promise me,” qui-gon said again, and now there was an urgency in him rarely seen. “you must.”

the younger man drew in a breath.

and bowed his head.