Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 7: Build-A-Blade

I've never thought of a starship as warm before.

That's not what they usually are. They're metal coffins with thrusters attached, rattling through the void while every atom of the galaxy tries to kill you. The only difference between cozy and catastrophic is a few centimeters of durasteel hull and the good graces of a navicomputer.

But after Ilum? After trudging through frozen tunnels, numb fingers clinging to an ice-cold crystal that was supposed to define the rest of my life? Yeah. I'd take a coffin in space over that freezer any day. At least here, when you exhale, your breath doesn't crystallize in front of your face.

The Crucible hummed around us as we filed off the transport and into its belly. Not the shiny white halls of Coruscant, oh no. If you want to make a lightsaber just right, you want to be as close to the stars as possible. Which, of course, means you need a spaceship.

The interior was bronze, almost burnished with age, like the whole ship had been polished by generations of Jedi boots. Pipes ran openly along the walls. Everything thrummed with power, like a heartbeat you could feel in your chest.

Ahsoka gave a soft "whoa" beside me. "It feels… old."

"That's because it is," a voice said — mechanical, crisp, and just a little bit smug.

And there he was.

Professor Huyang.

Imagine if someone had taken the driest old librarian in the Jedi Archives, stretched him out into a spindly metal frame, given him a voicebox that sounded halfway between "lecturing historian" and "polite assassin droid," and then told him to live forever. That was our host.

"Padawans of the Ilum Gathering," Huyang intoned, striding down the central aisle with all the pomp of a king addressing peasants. His photoreceptors swept over us one by one. "For six millennia, I have instructed initiates in the construction of their first lightsaber. From the earliest forgers of Ossus to the High Republic artisans of Starlight Beacon. I have taught warriors who became Knights, Knights who became Masters, and Masters who guided this very Council."

I leaned toward Ahsoka. "Six thousand years, huh? He doesn't look a day over five thousand, nine hundred."

Her montrals twitched as she smothered a laugh.

Unfortunately, the droid's audio receptors were perfect.

His glowing eyes flicked toward me, utterly unimpressed. "I have been called far worse things by Padawans who later became Council members. But your wit, young Kryze, is disappointingly pedestrian."

Ouch. Shot down by a robot grandpa.

"Guess I'll have to up my game," I muttered.

"Please do," he said, and kept walking.

Okay. New goal: get the droid to laugh. Or, failing that, at least short-circuit from exasperation.

We followed him deeper into the ship, our footsteps echoing in time with the Crucible's pulse. I noticed Maris Brood hanging back, her crystal clutched in both hands. She hadn't said much since Ilum—not that she ever said much compared to me or Ahsoka—but she was watching everything. The ship, the droid, even the way the walls seemed to vibrate like they remembered every saber ever built inside them.

Huyang must've noticed too, because when she suddenly blurted, "You've taught every saber-builder for six thousand years?" his tone actually warmed.

"Indeed, youngling. Every Jedi who has constructed a lightsaber since the days of the Old Republic has passed through my hands. Their triumphs, their mistakes, their innovations—I remember them all. And so shall you benefit from their legacy."

Maris's eyes widened. She ducked her head, embarrassed, but I caught the ghost of a smile.

Well, good for her. Someone needed to balance my constant need to mouth off.

Huyang stopped us in a wide chamber where the walls were lined with benches, toolkits, and strange contraptions that looked equal parts blacksmith forge and starship engine room.

"This," he declared, "is where the true test begins. You each carry a kyber crystal, a piece of the Force itself, attuned to your essence. It is not merely a power source. It is your partner. Your reflection. Your future."

He clasped his long hands behind his back.

"But first… history."

Oh no.

"Long before the Jedi Order as you know it, the earliest Force users crafted blades of plasma bound within archaic cells, cumbersome and unstable. The protosabers of Tython, ignited with external packs and heavy cords—"

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

"—eventually evolved into the refined weapon you shall soon create. The lightsaber. Both weapon and tool, defender and destroyer, symbol and reality. And it is you who shall carry its legacy forward."

I raised a hand. "Do we get a quiz after this?"

Without missing a beat, Huyang said, "Yes."

The entire class groaned. Even Ahsoka shot me a glare that said Look what you did.

I shrugged. "Hey, knowledge is power."

"Spoken like someone who has very little of either," Huyang said dryly.

…Okay, maybe I liked this droid.

Still, as he moved on to describing the ritual of "bonding with the crystal," I let my mind wander. My hand brushed the small pouch at my belt where my kyber rested. Green, faintly pulsing, as though alive. Not the black I'd secretly been hoping for—I mean, come on, "Ben Kryze, Wielder of the Darkblade" had a nice ring to it—but green was fine. Green was my favorite color anyway.

Besides, the Darksaber was still out there, and one day it would be mine.

But for now? I'd build my own. A Ben Kryze Original.

Huyang's voice droned on about focusing the mind, steady hands, the dance of crystal and emitter. I barely caught half of it, too distracted by the way the ship seemed to buzz with history. Ahsoka was practically glowing, soaking up every word like it was gospel. Maris still held her crystal tight, as though she was afraid to let it go.

And me?

I grinned, because this was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since the Temple crèche. Not the lectures, not the rules, not the thousand "Attachment is forbidden" speeches.

A lightsaber.

My lightsaber.

And nothing — not the Council, not the Sith, not even this snippy six-thousand-year-old droid — was going to keep me from making it my own.

...​

The workroom aboard The Crucible was silent but for the soft groan of ancient durasteel and the pulse of the hyperdrive beyond the bulkheads. Huyang preferred that silence. It carried weight. A hush sharpened focus far more than chatter, and lightsabers deserved nothing less than reverence.

The initiates stood in a line before him, each clutching the crystal they had wrested from Ilum's heart. The stones were still raw with the echo of the trials, humming faintly in their hands. To the younglings, they were prizes. To Huyang, they were promises.

He reached out his spindly hands, servos whirring with familiar precision, and gestured for the first crystal.

Ahsoka Tano stepped forward, her montrals tilted slightly in that mixture of confidence and nerves he had seen countless times before. She placed her shards in his palm. Huyang rotated them delicately beneath the glow of the workroom's lamp, his photoreceptors adjusting their spectrum until the crystal's inner light bloomed.

"Disciplined," Huyang intoned, his vocoder lending the word a metallic gravity. "Balanced. This crystal, though split, resonates evenly across its lattice. It belongs to a mind that seeks harmony, even when pressed."

Ahsoka exhaled, shoulders easing. Pride radiated off her in the way of all initiates—subtle to them, glaring to him. Huyang had learned not to chastise such pride. The crystal would do it in its own time.

He set her shard gently into a resting cradle. "It will serve you well, Padawan Tano. If you serve it as faithfully."

The Togruta bowed her head in respect before retreating.

Next, Maris Brood. She hesitated—he noted the flicker of her gaze toward the floor, then toward her peers. At last she stepped forward, small hands tight around her prize.

Huyang extended his palm again. "Courage, young one. No crystal bites."

She offered it, and he felt the tremor of her grip. The shard settled against his plating, and immediately his sensors registered the fluctuation. The crystal's resonance did not hum in one clear tone—it stuttered, thrumming irregularly like a heartbeat caught between panic and defiance.

"Ah," Huyang murmured, rotating it gently. "Potential, certainly. Strong, even. But turbulence clouds its lattice. Unresolved energies will challenge its master. Handle with care."

Maris's head bowed, respectfully. Her cheeks colored faintly, shame tightening her lips.

Huyang did not soften the truth, but he adjusted its shape. "Remember, young one—many great Jedi began with crystals far more volatile than this. The blade you forge will temper it, as discipline tempers the self."

She looked up at that, only slightly, but enough. She placed her hands back at her sides and stepped away.

Then came the last.

Ben Kryze swaggered forward with all the subtlety of a rancor in a meditation chamber, crystal pinched between his fingers as though it were a toy rather than the heart of a Jedi's weapon.

"Careful," Huyang said, extending his hand.

"I am being careful," the boy muttered, though he tossed the shard onto Huyang's palm rather than placing it.

The droid adjusted his grip instantly, catching the crystal without a scratch. His photoreceptors focused, scanning the lattice. The hum reached him first—lower than most, uneven, yet strangely… resonant.

He turned it, measured its harmonics, and then leaned closer, adjusting a spectral filter. Inside, the lattice was fractured, yes, but not broken. Two distinct frequency peaks overlapped within its core, creating a dual harmonic resonance that should not, by any measure of crystal growth, exist.

Fascinating.

"Unstable," Huyang finally declared. He let the word hang, watching the boy's reaction.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Unstable? Like… gonna explode unstable, or moody-teenager unstable?"

The droid did not dignify that with a reply. "Not defective," he continued instead. "Rarer still—this shard possesses a dual harmonic resonance. Few crystals in six millennia of my instruction have done so. Intriguing."

Ben folded his arms. "Translation, please? Because all I'm hearing is that my rock is temperamental, apparently."

Huyang turned his head slowly until both photoreceptors fixed on the boy. "Your comprehension lacks refinement. Still, perhaps… not entirely inaccurate."

Ben smirked as if he'd won something.

Huyang placed the crystal into its cradle with greater care than he had the others. "It will not build itself, Initiate Kryze. When you attempt to channel its energy, you may find it… resistant. Remember this: the bond you form with it will shape your blade—and your path—far more than your jesting."

"Noted," Ben said breezily, though Huyang detected the faint tightening of his jaw.

The droid folded his hands behind his back, stepping away from the row of crystals. Three stones rested now upon the bronze worktable, each vibrating with their own tenor of possibility.

Six millennia, and yet each time felt new. Each youngling believed themselves at the center of the galaxy, and perhaps, in their way, they were—for a single lightsaber at a time.

"Prepare yourselves," Huyang said, voice carrying like a bell through the chamber. "The act of assembly is not a task of hands alone. It is meditation, commitment, and revelation. Fail to respect the process, and the process will fail you."

...​

If the Crucible was old and humming with the ghosts of a thousand Padawans, the Forge was practically singing with them. The room glowed, literally, with a low plasma light that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. Ancient machinery churned in the background—massive contraptions that looked like they'd been built when the galaxy was still figuring out how to hammer two bits of metal together without blowing themselves up.

The heat wasn't stifling, exactly, but it had a weight to it. Like walking into a story older than you were meant to touch.

All right, Kryze. This is it. My very own lightsaber. A weapon, an heirloom, a calling card. A declaration that I'd arrived. The moment the Force, history, destiny, and my own smug sense of style all came together in one humming blade.

And I had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to look like.

Everyone else seemed to, though.

Ahsoka sat at her workstation like she'd been born in one of these seats. She laid her pieces out with a surgeon's precision, every component perfectly aligned. When she slotted the emitter matrix into the casing, her hands didn't even shake. I don't think her heartbeat even sped up.

Maris, though… her hands were trembling so hard she nearly dropped her focusing lens. She hunched over, shoulders curled in, as though the wrong twist of a screw would set the entire Forge to self-destruct. Her lips moved soundlessly—probably reciting Huyang's instructions word-for-word like some kind of spell.

And me?

I was staring at my pile of parts like they were going to assemble themselves if I glared hard enough. I've seen Starkiller do it. There's precedent.

… yeah, that's not happening. Okay, okay! I'll build it. Just… where to start? The hilt's design?

"Classic," I muttered under my breath. "That's the way to go, right? One-handed, clean lines, Jedi-chic. Very I'll slice you in half, but politely."

But then… I mean, Dooku had a curved handle. Count Swirlycape himself. Elegant. Practical. I think? It was pretty good at dueling. I could try that.

Or I could do Ezra Bridger's weird blaster-saber combo. Very hipster, very off-brand Jedi, very what do you mean I can't shoot AND slice you at the same time?

Crossguard? No. Never. Stupidest design I'd ever seen. The guard wouldn't guard anything. A lightsaber would shear through it in half a second unless you made the whole thing out of Beskar. And if you had Beskar, why waste it on the guard? Just make the whole saber out of it!

Or a knife at least!

Wasteful.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka had already soldered her first connection. She looked so serene she could've been meditating while building.

Maris's hand slipped and her focusing crystal rolled dangerously close to the edge of her bench. She lunged after it, almost spilling half her parts across the floor.

I sighed. Fine. For once in my chaotic little life, I wasn't going to mock someone.

"You know," I said loud enough for Maris to hear, "if you drop the lens again, the Forge spirit is legally required to appear and curse you with eternal flat hair." Well… maybe a little mocking.

Her head jerked up, startled. Then, to my relief, a tiny, reluctant laugh escaped her. Just enough to steady her hands again.

Score one for Ben Kryze, morale officer.

I turned back to my parts. Still no clue. Still no design.

"Instructions," I told myself, "are more like… guidelines than actual rules."

I grabbed the power cell, shoved it into the casing. A snug fit, maybe too snug. The wires didn't line up properly, so I twisted them until they did. The emitter matrix didn't quite want to click, so I encouraged it with the handle of a screwdriver.

The crystal chamber? Well, the little Force-rock was supposed to slide neatly into the slot. Instead, it buzzed angrily like it was offended at my lack of craftsmanship.

"Don't look at me like that," I told it. "You're just a rock that glows. You don't get a vote."

It continued glowing with intense judgment.

Sparks flew when I tried to connect the emitter to the power cell. Real, honest-to-Force sparks that hissed and spat across the bench. I yanked my hands back a half second before the whole assembly discharged with a sound like an angry gundark.

A searing beam of raw plasma cut clean through the air and scorched the corner of my workbench.

"Whoa!" I yelped, jerking back.

Before the half-formed saber could turn me into Ben à la Charcoal, a flickering blue shield shimmered between me and my would-be suicide project.

Huyang didn't even look up from where he was supervising another initiate across the room. His hand twitched once, activating the shield with the grace of someone who'd saved a thousand clumsy Padawans before breakfast.

He walked over with the patience of an academic who'd seen everything. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Improvised assembly," he said, peering down at my crackling hilt. "Imprecise. Rushed. And yet…" He tilted his bronze head to the side, photoreceptors gleaming. "…interesting."

"Again? Really?" I asked, waving away the sparks. "I get we have a whole cryptic mythicism thing to live up to, but come on. All I'm hearing is my rock is moody, my handle's a death trap, and I'm never going to survive to Padawan. Which, okay, fair. But not helpful!"

"Very well. Then allow me to say this," Huyang said, "your saber reflects your path. Beware too much shadow if you walk the light. Beware too much light if you court shadow."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

I blinked at him. "Right. Of course. Why say something useful, like fix the power cell before you explode, when you can drop a cryptic fortune-cookie riddle instead?"

Huyang didn't even twitch. "Padawans have called my wisdom many things. None have survived long if they ignored it."

"Wow," I said. "That sounded suspiciously like a threat."

"An observation," he corrected. Then he returned to his patrol of the forges, cloak swishing behind him like he was some kind of Jedi librarian Batman.

He doesn't even need that cloak. He's a droid! Droids don't get cold. Do they? I wonder if their circuits freeze—focus, Ben!

I glared down at my half-built saber. It glared back. Or maybe that was just the glow of my crystal, pulsing faintly with an almost alive rhythm.

Great. My first lightsaber, and it already hated me.

"Sorry." I apologized to my crystal, feeling ridiculous for apologizing. But it needed to be said.

It said nothing. Because it was a rock.

"I know I'm being difficult, I just…" I sighed. "I want to do this right. Work with me here. Please?"

It continued to say nothing. But, since it's not trying to blind me anymore, I think I could take its silence as acceptance.

"Okay. Let's try again… with the instructions."

...​

The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

All around her, the initiates stood in small, uneven lines, sabers newly forged and cradled in careful hands. The air still smelled of heated metal and plasma, of oil and ancient machinery cooling down after long use. A dozen crystals pulsed faintly, waiting.

Then Huyang's voice cut through the silence, even but carrying weight:

"Now," he said. "Ignite them."

One by one, they obeyed.

The first snap-hiss cracked like thunder in the stillness, followed by the low, steady hum of a newborn blade. Then another joined it—higher-pitched, almost singing. Soon the chamber was alive with sound, each saber a different voice in a strange and luminous choir.

Maris's breath caught. She had heard lightsabers before, of course. But this—this was different. This wasn't masters dueling in the Temple sparring halls. This was them. The children she studied with, trained beside, argued with in the dormitories. The sound filled her chest like a heartbeat, all uneven and clashing and somehow harmonious.

Ahsoka stepped forward, and when her blade came alive, Maris had to squint. The green shone so bright it almost dazzled, casting a clean, steady glow over the walls. Its hum was perfectly balanced—no flicker, no warble. Strong, confident.

Huyang inclined his head, just barely, but Maris caught it. Approval.

Of course Ahsoka's would be perfect. Ahsoka always followed instructions, always listened. Maris felt a sudden, irrational tightness in her throat.

Then it was her turn.

Her thumb trembled over the ignition switch. She pressed it down. For one terrible second, nothing happened. Then—crack! A jagged line of blue light shot out, unstable, sputtering like a flame in wind. Maris's heart sank.

It's wrong. It's all wrong, I messed it up—

But then the blade steadied. The hum grew firm. Its glow smoothed into a proper line of light, quivering only faintly at the edges.

Maris exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Ahsoka smiled at her, and Maris tried to smile back. But she couldn't ignore the unease prickling in her stomach. The others' sabers had sung with confidence. Hers… hers had stuttered.

No matter, she thought quickly. It's stable now. It works. That's what matters.

But her hands still shook faintly as she lowered the weapon.

Then Ben stepped forward.

Maris braced herself. He would either succeed spectacularly or blow something up. Possibly both.

The blade ignited with a sound unlike any other in the chamber.

It didn't sing or hum. It growled. A low-pitched, guttural sound, like the snarl of some sleeping beast disturbed from its rest. The green glow filled the chamber, steady and solid, yet carrying a weight that felt older, heavier, than the other sabers. Beautiful, yes—but unsettling, too, as though the color was the only familiar thing about it.

The room reacted instantly. A few initiates leaned forward, curious. Others recoiled, unsettled.

Maris's pulse jumped. She didn't know why it scared her, only that it did.

Even Huyang seemed… moved. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head.

"In six millennia of training Jedi younglings," the droid said, "I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will."

Ben, naturally, just grinned. "So what you're saying is, I'm special. Finally, some recognition."

Maris rolled her eyes. Typical.

Before anyone could blink, Ahsoka twirled her blade up into a ready stance. "Show-off."

Ben's grin widened. "Takes one to know one."

The two blades clashed together with a crash of sparks. The other initiates gasped. Huyang's photoreceptors flared red.

"If you lose a limb before you even leave this chamber," he barked, "I am not reattaching it!"

Neither of them seemed to hear. Ahsoka's strikes were quick, testing, playful. Ben blocked sloppily at first, then swung back harder, forcing her to skip backward, laughing. Their blades hummed and clashed, adding wild new notes to the chamber's song.

Maris stood at the edge, saber idle in her hands.

She told herself she didn't want to join. That it was better this way. That the Code said attachment was forbidden, and it was good she didn't share the same easy… closeness those two had. It wasn't jealousy. Of course not.

She wasn't lonely.

She had the Force. And the Force was all she needed.

Then Ben glanced over his shoulder mid-swing, grin bright and wicked. "Maris, you getting in on this?! Come on, I need some backup here! Ahsoka actually exercises for fun!"

Her hearts jolted.

"It's good for your heart, Ben!" Ahsoka retorted. Human problems, in Maris's opinion. Personally, she had two hearts, and she couldn't sit still for anything other than meditation. Adrenalin was too… addictive.

"Then why does it make me feel so miserable?!" Ben argued back. "Maris! Hurry! Save me!"

A dozen thoughts fought in her head at once—It isn't proper. It's dangerous. I don't belong in that kind of bond. Attachments are forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.

But her hand was already tightening on the hilt. Her thumb pressed the switch.

The blue blade sprang to life again, flickering at the edges—but steady enough.

"Yes, please," she breathed, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

And she stepped forward.

...​

The Crucible had gone quiet for the night. You'd think a ship that old would creak or groan or rattle when left to itself, but it didn't. It just… breathed. At least, that's what it sounded like to me as I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. A low hum in the walls, steady as a heartbeat.

My lightsaber sat on the blanket beside me. My lightsaber. Mine.

It hadn't left my sight since we'd left the Forge. I'd carried it through supper, kept it propped against the table leg like it might leap up and scurry off if I wasn't watching. Ahsoka teased me about it, of course—"Careful, Ben, you're going to wear the paint off with all that staring"—but I didn't care. Let her laugh. Let them all laugh. They didn't understand.

Now, with the others asleep and no Master Huyang hovering like a judgmental hawk, I picked it up. The hilt was cool in my palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Not just metal and wire anymore. Something deeper thrummed inside, faint but alive. I thumbed the activator.

Snap-hiss.

Emerald light spilled across the walls. Shadows stretched away like they were running from it. The blade growled—low, steady, almost pleased.

"Now you're mine," I whispered, grinning at the ceiling. "My precious."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I froze, then snorted. Oh Force, really? That's what I came up with? My precious? Somewhere out in the galaxy, some ancient, hunched gremlin was probably suing me for plagiarism.

Still, the words felt… right. Wrong, but right. A private little joke between me and the saber. My saber.

I rose, letting it hum as I gave it a few practice swings. Slow at first, just feeling the weight, then faster, sharper, until the air itself whistled. It wasn't just balance or craftsmanship—I could feel it responding. Not like a tool, but like a partner. Every shift of my wrist, every adjustment of my stance, the crystal sang back to me.

It was alive.

No, more than alive. Aware.

For a heartbeat, I felt its focus brush mine—like being stared at through a keyhole. Not hostile, not friendly. Just… watching. Waiting.

A chill ran down my spine. Huyang's words replayed, dry and too-late: In six millennia, I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will.

I deactivated the blade, the growl dying with a hiss. The cabin plunged into darkness. Only the afterimage of green burned in my vision.

"Don't start spooking yourself," I muttered, dropping onto my bunk again. "It's just a crystal. Just a weapon. Nothing more."

I tried to believe that.

But as I lay back, the hilt resting on my chest like a heartbeat that wasn't mine, I couldn't quite shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—it had chosen me as much as I had chosen it.

And that was fine. Perfectly fine. Absolutely fine. The wand may choose the wizard—even the space wizard—but it was the wizard who was in control.

I was in control.

…wasn't I?

...​

Short answer? Yes.

But, is it something that's going to keep him awake for the rest of the night until he realizes that? Also yes.

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Symbolism, baby!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter. Or, screw that. Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Stelarwand030]

I really enjoy this story.

 

[HoxShorelight]

The last Lightsaber that make a growl like sound when ignite i can remember belong to Savage Opress
What does Ben's Lightsaber looks like anyway ?

 

[lancelot]

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

Click to shrink...

"What the fuck is a car?"

 

[Elmoslayer5]

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Click to shrink...

Mauls saber* in the new show is probably the closest to the growling that i can think of, was kinda hoping it'd look like fire also like mauls saber.

Good chapter made me laugh

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 8: Lessons in Hitting Things (With Lightsabers)

The training hall smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone, the scent that clung to every surface in the Jedi Temple. The floor gleamed in the morning light that spilled through tall windows, perfectly swept and perfectly ready to be scuffed up by a dozen younglings about to learn how to hit each other with glowing sticks.

Master Tyyvak stood at the front, her towering Wookiee frame casting a long shadow across the mats. Her bowcaster was slung across her back as always, though Ahsoka had never seen her fire it. She didn't need to—her sheer presence was enough to make even the rowdiest younglings shut up. Well, most of them.

On another note, why did she have a bowcaster and not a lightsaber? She's a Jedi. That's kind of their thing. Unless… the chamber of the bowcaster is the hilt of the lightsaber! That's so cool! And… probably really difficult to assemble, actually. Ahsoka's much happier with her twin blades, thank you very much.

"We begin today," Tyyvak rumbled in Shyriiwook, her growl warm as always. "Your first supervised sparring matches."

A ripple of sound passed through the gathered class—gasps, nervous whispers, a few muffled laughs. Ahsoka's Montrals twitched with a mix of excitement and nerves. Finally. This was it. The real test. Not katas in neat little rows, not balance drills, not moving stones around with the Force until her head hurt. This was a chance to prove herself. To show she wasn't just some scrappy kid from Shili that the Jedi had scooped up. She was ready. She could do this. She had to.

Beside her, Ben practically vibrated with anticipation, rocking on the balls of his feet as if the mats themselves were too slow for him. He wore a grin so wide Ahsoka was sure it had to hurt.

"Ohhh, here we go," he whispered, too loudly. "The moment of destiny. The showdown of legends. The grand melee of—"

"Quiet," Ahsoka hissed at him, though her own lips twitched. He was impossible sometimes.

Ben mimed zipping his lips. That lasted about three seconds before he leaned back toward her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember, children," he muttered in a singsong imitation of Huyang's precise accent, "don't point the glowy end at your face. Training sabers may be non-lethal, but they are still very sting-y."

A couple of younglings nearby snorted. Even Ahsoka bit back a laugh, though she elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

Across the line, Maris Brood stood with her arms folded, the edge of her dark Padawan tunic brushing her boots. She didn't laugh. She didn't even roll her eyes. She just fixed Ben with a look so flat and unimpressed it could have been carved from stone. The faintest tilt of her chin said everything: You're going to die, clown.

Ahsoka noticed—because she always noticed—that Maris had grown more comfortable around them lately. She spoke more, sat closer during lessons, even teased in her own quiet, sharp-edged way. But apparently, with Maris, being mean was affection. Ahsoka couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Master Tyyvak raised one massive paw, and silence fell again.

"You will spar with your new lightsabers. On their training setting," She continued. "These settings are mandatory, and are designed to teach without maiming. But pain will still teach. You may not lose a limb, but each strike landed will hurt. Do not fear it. Learn from it."

Her growl deepened, echoing through the chamber.

"Control is the heart of a Jedi. Without control, you are nothing more than a danger to yourself and others."

Ahsoka swallowed. Her palms itched with the need to prove she had that control. That she was ready.

Ben, meanwhile, whispered under his breath like it was a game: "Control, control, you must learn control…" He stopped just short of humming a dramatic score.

Ahsoka smacked his arm again.

Maris smirked this time. Just barely.

Master Tyyyvak walked each initiate through the process of using their training setting, silver hilts gleaming as she passed down the line. Each student's face lit with awe—or in Ben's case, smug delight—as their weapons ignited.

Ahsoka's heart hammered in her chest when her saber hit her palm, cool and solid. She thumbed the activator, and a blade of shimmering green burst to life with a snap-hiss. It buzzed faintly, humming with energy, vibrating all the way down to her bones. Her breath caught.

She wasn't just imagining it anymore. This wasn't practice with a stick. This was real.

Ben spun his lightsaber like a baton, nearly clipping one of their classmates before he caught it, waggled his eyebrows, and gave an exaggerated bow.

Maris sighed. "You are going to die."

...​

Master Tyyvak's voice carried across the training floor, calm as ever, but I swear I felt a chill.

"Today," she announced, "you'll be sparring not only with one another, but also with some of the Temple's Padawans. They've generously volunteered their time."

The room buzzed instantly. Younglings shifted on their feet, some excited, some pale. Me? I was half thrilled, half terrified. Mostly thrilled, because if there was one thing better than swinging a lightsaber around, it was swinging one at someone who knew what they were doing.

Probably.

Names were called, pairs arranged. Then my ears caught two I actually recognized.

Aayla Secura—tall, blue, ridiculously graceful—was assigned to Ahsoka. I heard my friend's tiny gasp, and saw her eyes go wide as if she'd just been told she'd spar against a holo-drama star. Honestly, same.

You know, if the Jedi really want to enforce this whole unspoken rule of celibacy thing, they may want to consider less… revealing outfits. Slave Leia had more modesty.

"Padawan Skywalker, you'll spar against Initiate Kryze."

The sparring floor was suddenly a lot less fun.

Oh boy.

The crowd of younglings erupted in little gasps and whispers, like someone had just announced free cafeteria nerf nuggets. Even Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes going wide. Skywalker. The legendary hotshot. The prodigy. The Jedi Temple's equivalent of the kid who was so good at gym class dodgeball you started pretending you had asthma to sit out.

I tried to play it cool. "So," I said, twirling the training saber hilt between my palms, "this is what it feels like to be offered up as a sacrifice."

Anakin, all cocky grin and easy swagger, stepped into the ring. He looked like he belonged there—broad shoulders, confident smirk, that whole I'm-already-the-main-character aura. He gave me a nod that was somehow both friendly and patronizing.

"Don't worry, kid," he said. "I'll go easy on you."

"Great," I shot back. "I'll go hard on you."

A ripple of laughter from the other younglings. Even Tyyvak's mouth twitched, though he quickly smoothed it back into stern Jedi neutrality.

We took our positions. Anakin dropped smoothly into Form V's classic Djem So stance—blade angled up, posture aggressive but balanced. I, meanwhile, copied something I'd read about Vaapad. Which is to say, I held the saber in a way that looked dramatic and tried not to trip on my own feet.

If Mace Windu could beat Palpatine with this, then surely I could beat a prequel-era Anakin. Right? Right.

Focus. Calm. Rely on your training. All good advice. All useless against Anakin Skywalker. He was the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. And given his dad was the Force, a total nepo baby… yes, I see the irony in me saying this.

In my defense, my mom still refuses to let me refer to herself as anything other than Auntie Satine. Plus she handed me off to the Jedi. That's got to be the Star Wars equivalent of leaving your kid on an orphanage's doorstep. I have none of the perks of being a nepo baby.

Anakin has all of them.

He's skilled with a lightsaber. He's a Goliath in the Force. Totally OP. But I had one advantage. Back on Earth, I had relentlessly devoured the Star Wars franchise. I'd seen Anakin at his best. At his worst. At his most vulnerable. I knew his one weakness.

"Pocket sand!"

I hurled the handful from my robes straight at his face.

Don't ask me where I got it. You have no idea how hard it is to find sand on Coruscant. It's worse than looking for water on Tatooine. Let's just say a few decorative planter boxes in the Temple gardens are now mysteriously emptier.

"Ah! It's so coarse, rough, and irritating!" Anakin recoiled, actually whining, blinking furiously as he rubbed at his eyes. The gasps from the crèche became shrieks of laughter. Even Aayla Secura, across the room, cracked a grin.

For a glorious instant, I was a god among children.

I pressed the advantage, charging forward with the kind of reckless overconfidence that makes Jedi Masters sigh deeply into their hands. My blade smacked against Anakin's, forcing him back a step.

"Fear me, Skywalker," I declared, grinning wide. "I am the Sandman."

The other younglings howled. Maris Brood actually snorted.

For two whole seconds, I was winning. Two. Whole. Seconds.

Then Anakin adapted.

With blinding speed, he pivoted, locked my blade, and shoved me backward. My arms jolted like I'd tried to block a landspeeder with a broomstick. He wasn't smiling anymore—now his expression was half amusement, half… curiosity. Like he'd just discovered a new bug to dissect.

"Unorthodox," he said, voice low. "But sloppy."

Uh oh.

What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Anakin flowed into Djem So with terrifying efficiency. Every swing hammered down like a meteor. Every parry jolted my arms numb. I tried a fancy Vaapad spin—he batted it aside like I was waving glowsticks at a concert.

The smugness drained right out of me. This wasn't a duel. This was survival.

I backpedaled furiously, grasping for new tricks. Fake stumble. Switch hands. Shout "Look, it's Senator Amidala!" to distract him. Nothing worked. He cut through my improvisations like they were training remotes.

At one point he disarmed me entirely, sending my saber clattering across the floor. Before I could panic, he kicked it back toward me. "Pick it up," he said. Almost kindly.

Which somehow felt worse.

I scrambled, ignited it again, and tried one last gambit—rolling low, attempting a clumsy leg sweep. He hopped over it easily, tapped my back with his blade, and sent me sprawling face-first into the mat.

The sparring ring erupted in cheers and groans.

Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help me up. "Not bad," he said, voice tinged with genuine respect. "You've got guts. And… creativity." His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging me. "But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

I groaned, accepting his hand, my pride limping behind me. "So what you're saying is… Vaapad plus sand equals still losing?"

"Exactly." He grinned now, flashing the charm that would one day drive half the galaxy insane. "But don't stop trying crazy things. Sometimes, crazy works."

Master Tyyvak called the match. The younglings applauded. Ahsoka caught my eye from across the floor, giving me a mix of encouragement and what-were-you-thinking.

Answer: I wasn't. But it was totally worth it.

Because for two glorious seconds… Anakin Skywalker was afraid of sand.

...​

The clatter of training sabers echoed across the sparring chamber, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of younglings too enthralled to remember they were supposed to be quiet. Obi-Wan Kenobi remained standing at the back of the hall, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, face composed in the dignified stillness that came with long practice.

In truth, his jaw was tight enough to ache.

Ben had just hit the floor for the third time. Sand sprayed across the mat like so much glittering evidence of desperation, and though the boy scrambled gamely to his feet each time, the outcome was never in doubt. Anakin was too strong, too fast, too confident. A storm contained within the shape of a teenager.

Perhaps Obi-Wan trained him too well.

But Ben—his Ben—was stubbornly trying to fight the storm with a bucket and a grin.

"Interesting boy you've got there."

Obi-Wan didn't need to glance aside to recognize the smooth, amused drawl. Quinlan Vos leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, dark eyes alight with mischief as he watched his own Padawan whirl through her match on the opposite side of the room. Aayla Secura was cutting down initiates in clean, fluid arcs, her movements as precise as they were graceful. The girl fought like a dancer who had decided the floor was littered with enemies.

"She's performing admirably," Obi-Wan said evenly.

Vos smirked. "She is. Meanwhile, yours seems determined to turn the duel into a comedy routine."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait.

Vos leaned in anyway. "Tell me, is it standard in your lineage to encourage sand-throwing as a valid combat technique, or is that a… Kenobi innovation?"

"He's not in my lineage." Obi-Wan's lips thinned. "I've merely offered a word of two of advice, as we all should." He may have to offer more, as well. He had noticed the sand. Force help him, he'd noticed everything. The cheek, the irreverence, the utter lack of restraint. And yet—

Yet, the boy had lasted longer against Anakin than half the Temple's initiates would have dared. Clever, reckless, utterly inappropriate…but inventive.

A familiar, treacherous warmth tugged at Obi-Wan's chest. Force help him, he really is his mother's son. If a tad more… eager for action.

Across the mat, Anakin disarmed Ben for the final time with a neat twist and sent the boy sprawling in a heap. The younglings erupted in cheers. Anakin offered Ben a hand up, and though Ben accepted it, he ruined the gesture by saying something irreverent as always.

Though, judging by Anakin's answering grin, his padawan took no offense. Good. It's… nice, to see them get along so well. Obi-Wan was worried that Ben may take defeat as bitterly as Anakin. Or that Anakin's pride may be more wounded by such underhanded tactics.

He should have known better. Anakin employed the unorthodox far more than even Qui-Go dared.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Quinlan barked a laugh.

When the sparring matches ended, the initiates broke into clusters, voices high with chatter. Aayla accepted the admiration of several wide-eyed younglings with a nod as calm as any Knight's. Ben, by contrast, trudged toward his friends like a soldier returning from defeat, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Maris Brood, a recent friend of his s—of Ben, was the first to greet him, her smile sharp. "You lasted, what, four minutes? Impressive. Most younglings only take three to humiliate themselves in front of the entire Temple."

Hmm. Ben should look into finding more supportive friends.

Ben groaned. "Thanks, Maris. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for your support." Great minds think alike. Like father, like—no. Not like father, Obi-Wan… you have not earned that.

She smirked. "Oh, you'll get one—from the healers when they're done stitching your pride back together."

Before Ben could retort, Ahsoka bounded to his side, montrals bouncing, eyes bright with something far more earnest. "I thought you were great," she blurted. "Brave, even. I mean—going up against Anakin Skywalker? You didn't stand a chance! But you tried anyway, and that's… that's something."

Obi-Wan liked her. If he didn't already have his eyes on Ben, he might've tried to snatch her up as his next padawan. If he can teach Anakin, he can teach anyone. As it was, perhaps he'll pass along a friendly reminder to Plo Koon.

Ben's shoulders eased, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Thanks, Snips."

"Snips?" Ahsoka tilted her head.

He shrugged. "It fits."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat before Maris could cut in again. "Ben. A word."

The boy froze, then offered Ahsoka a helpless little grimace before trudging over. He stopped before Obi-Wan, head bowed just enough to suggest guilt, though his eyes still carried that incorrigible spark.

Why did he find that so endearing?

From the sidelines, Quinlan leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging his mouth. "Better you than me, old friend."

Obi-Wan didn't so much as twitch. "Quinlan," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "If you'd be so kind as to take your running commentary elsewhere, I would like a private word with my—" He caught himself, and the pause was audible. "…with the boy."

Vos snorted. "Ah. Privacy. I see. Don't worry, Kenobi—your secret fatherly pride is safe with me."

"Quinlan."

"Fine, fine. I'm going. Force forbid I get between you and your heartfelt lecture."

He sauntered away with that maddening swagger of his, and Obi-Wan, for his part, allowed only the smallest of exhales before turning back to Ben.

...​

I could tell by the way he said my name—low, precise, each syllable clipped like it was being filed down with a whetstone—that I was in trouble. Not Temple-rule-breaking trouble. Worse. Obi-Wan Kenobi trouble.

"Ben."

He gestured toward the hallway with that perfect, infuriating calm of his. Like he wasn't walking me to my doom, but simply suggesting a nice little stroll. My feet, the traitors, followed.

We stopped in one of the side chambers, quiet and dim, the hum of training sabers replaced by the buzz of my pulse in my ears. Obi-Wan folded his arms. That was never a good sign.

"So." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Would you like to explain what that was?"

"Uh… innovative?" I tried, plastering on my best grin. "Creative problem-solving? A stunning display of tactical genius?"

His brow arched so high I thought it might detach and float away.

"All right, all right," I said quickly. "Maybe I got a little carried away with the sand trick. But you have to admit—it worked. For a while."

"That is precisely the problem." He stepped closer, and his voice softened—but that softness was somehow worse than shouting. "Your creativity is a strength. I will not deny that. But without restraint, it will destroy you."

The words landed like a blow. I tried to laugh them off, but the sound died halfway out of my throat. "Destroy me? Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Is it?" His gaze didn't waver. "Today you faced a sparring match with a friend. Tomorrow it may be an enemy with a blade that cuts deeper than training sabers. Tricks and flourishes will not save you if you lack discipline. If you gamble with lives the way you gambled today—"

He stopped.

Drew in a breath. Then, softer still, he said, "I wanted you to succeed, Ben. I did. But not like that. Not by endangering yourself just to prove you could."

I blinked at him. That… that was new. Obi-Wan didn't admit things like that. He corrected, instructed, lectured—but this was something else. Something dangerously close to personal.

A thousand answers fought their way to the surface. Sarcasm. Defiance. A joke about him sounding like my dad. But none of them felt right, not with the weight in his eyes.

And I hated that part of me—some traitorous, quiet part—was warmed by it.

"I…" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I wasn't trying to—look, I just wanted to show I could keep up. That I belong here. I thought if I did something big enough, you'd… notice."

His expression softened in a way that made me feel both seen and stripped bare.

"I notice," he said. Simple. Certain. "Far more than you realize."

The room tilted, or maybe that was just my head trying to make sense of the stew of feelings bubbling inside me—annoyance, embarrassment, a little bit of pride, and something dangerously close to relief.

I looked away, muttering, "Force, you're making this really hard to hate you, you know that?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there. "Good. That suggests I am doing something right."

I wanted to argue. I really, really did. But for once, I didn't.

It's genuinely hard to stay mad at someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Was he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is. But the thing about him is… he tries. Always. Relentlessly. And not because it's convenient, or glamorous, or makes him look good. He just does the right thing because it's the right thing.

Can you imagine being that selfless? I can't.

Think about it—who else do you know who'd throw his whole life into protecting some politician he barely met, just because the Code said so? Or take on training a volatile kid just because his dying master asked him to? Or march headfirst into leading a galactic war, not for glory, but because someone had to step up so fewer innocents would suffer? That's Obi-Wan. That's just… who he is.

He wasn't there when Korkie and I were born. But I can't pin that on him. It wasn't selfishness, or him trying to run from family. It was the opposite, really—he was bound up in a duty that stretched far beyond one person, or even one world. He carries that weight, every single day, and still somehow keeps walking.

So how can I hate him? The truth is, I can't. I admire him too much. I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk like him, talk like him… I even copied his accent. Not that anyone could tell; I picked it up on Mandalore anyway.

I do kinda wish he'd just call me "son", though. Having one parent in denial was more than enough, thank you. But, who knows? As a wise old gremlin once said, "Always in motion, the future is."

...​

Ben was hunched over his workbench again, the glow of the tools painting his face in harsh blue lines. His half-finished lightsaber lay in pieces before him, guts of crystal housing and emitter coils splayed out like an autopsy. He muttered under his breath while he adjusted the wiring.

"Needs an upgrade… countermeasures… built-in failsafe for when some nepo-baby thinks their midochlorian count makes them untouchable."

Ahsoka leaned against the doorway of their shared dorm, her left foot tapping absently. He hadn't noticed her yet. He rarely did when he got like this. His jokes carried the same cadence as always, sharp and irreverent, but she'd started to notice the difference. The humor was his sword, his shield, and his armor, and when he wrapped himself in it this tightly, it usually meant something had cut deep.

He'd shrugged off Obi-Wan's reprimand earlier like it was nothing, but Ahsoka could see the weight he tried to hide. Where she had learned to trust the Temple, to let herself be shaped by it, Ben seemed determined to fight it at every turn. She wondered if he even knew why.

She thought back to Maris in training that day—quiet, withdrawn, but never oblivious. Her eyes had followed Ben more than once, sharp and unspoken. Ahsoka wasn't sure what Maris saw in him, but she knew it wasn't just the clown act he put on for everyone else.

"Going to stare all night, or are you going to help?" Ben finally said without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile. He sensed her presence. Just as she sensed his. Which is why she knew he was hurting more than he let on.

More than bruises. Deeper than pride.

Ahsoka didn't answer right away. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about the future?" she asked.

Ben smirked. "Sure. All the time. Usually involves me with a cloak dramatically billowing in the wind."

"Ben." She let his name hang between them, weighty.

For a moment, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but she saw it. He bent back over the saber with exaggerated focus, pretending her question had never been asked.

Ahsoka sighed and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling. The truth was simple enough: where she felt at home here, Ben felt cornered. She loved the Jedi path, the structure, the belonging. He acted like it was a battle he could never stop fighting.

She wondered what that meant for the two of them, years from now. Would they still be sitting across from each other, friends and sparring partners? Or would the Order push him too hard, until something finally broke?

Ahsoka wasn't as sure as she'd like to be. But she hoped. Whatever happened, she'd be there. She just prayed the Order wouldn't take the choice from them.

...​

Sand is the deadliest weapon against the Chosen One.

More so than fire, lightsabers, or even lightning. Sand is the kryptonite of all Skywalkers. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Speaking of, did you know that I have a Patreon where you can read ahead, right now? See the link below:

My Patreon

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

would it be possible for him to find another black crystal? finding the dark saber sure, but finding another?

 

[One-who-reads]

So, IIRC, montrals are the hollow horns that allow for hearing and a bit of echolocation in Togruta. "Head tentacles", regardless of species, are called lekku. Ahsoka's montrals would not twitch, but her lekku would.

Excellent story so far.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the cgapter

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

"But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

Click to shrink...

All I'm hearing is more Dakka Sand

Ben 'The Jedi with Sass' Kryze:

"Haha! You may have killed thousands of Jedi Darth Vader. But you brought asthma to a Sand Fight!
.
..
...and I have the high ground"

DUMPS a ships entire hold of very coarse sand directly onto Vader

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 9: The Bonds We Forge… In Detention

The crèche cafeteria was loud enough to rival a podracing pit. Metal trays clattered, utensils scraped, and the chatter of a hundred initiates bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Even the kitchen droids had started barking orders—well, synthesized barking, but close enough.

Ahsoka grabbed her tray and shuffled into line. The day's breakfast options were standard Temple fare: blue milk, grain puffs, and nutrient blocks cut into geometric shapes that looked more like tools for building than food. Ahsoka took a triangle one, just to prove she was brave.

At first, things went smoothly. Everyone loaded up their trays under the watchful sensors of the kitchen droids. But then, as always, the competition began.

"Three rolls!" an initiate crowed from a nearby table, triumphantly biting into one.

"Four," another shot back, flashing a grin as he tucked his extras under his robe.

Ahsoka smirked. The unspoken game was simple: how many extra servings could you Force-pull onto your tray without being caught by the kitchen droids? Everyone knew the rules, even the droids—who beeped in mounting exasperation every time a serving vanished mid-air.

Ahsoka was good at the game. Not the best, but good. She casually waved her hand by her side, tugging a second roll off the counter and onto her tray with a whisper of the Force. The droids didn't even twitch.

"Not bad," Ben whispered beside her. His eyes gleamed with the kind of scheming mischief that usually meant trouble. "But you're thinking too small."

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. "Too small?"

He gestured toward the far end of the counter, where an entire serving tray of sweet rolls sat under a warm heat lamp. "That's the real prize. Why bother fighting over scraps when you can seize the supply lines themselves?"

Ahsoka groaned. "Ben, don't—"

But he was already stretching out his hand, muttering something about "logistical supremacy" under his breath.

At first, it looked like he might actually pull it off. The serving tray trembled, hovered an inch off the counter, and began to drift toward them. Ahsoka's jaw dropped. He's actually doing it.

Then the tray tilted.

The sweet rolls slid in slow motion.

And the blue milk—an entire pitcher precariously perched beside them—went with it.

The crash was deafening. Rolls scattered across the floor like grenades, and a tidal wave of blue milk drenched Ben from head to toe. The splash caught Ahsoka across the front, soaking her tunic and montrals.

The cafeteria froze.

Then the laughter started.

Ben stood there, dripping blue milk, blinking as if he hadn't entirely processed what had just happened. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he said:

"Tactical supply lines are more fragile than I anticipated."

Ahsoka wiped milk from her eyes and scowled. "You're impossible."

That only made the laughter louder.

The kitchen droids wheeled over in a fury, beeping indignantly as they started scooping rolls off the floor. "Unauthorized food manipulation! Violation of rationing protocols! Report will be filed!"

Ben gave a sweeping bow to the nearest droid, dripping milk onto the tiles. "I accept full responsibility for this operation's failure."

Ahsoka was about to snap at him again when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

Maris.

The Zabrak initiate was sitting two spots down the table, quiet as always, her expression unreadable. While everyone else was pointing, laughing, or whispering, Maris casually lifted one hand beneath the table. A lone sweet roll slid across the surface, landing squarely on Ben's tray.

Ben blinked at it. Then at her.

She didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge what she'd done. She just broke off a piece of her own roll and chewed, as if nothing had happened.

But Ahsoka saw the quick flicker of Ben's smile, the way he straightened just a little taller, milk-soaked tunic and all.

Ahsoka frowned. Maris wasn't the type to play games. And she definitely wasn't the type to help Ben.

So why did it feel like something had just shifted?

Ahsoka didn't know. But she knew one thing for sure: breakfast in the crèche cafeteria had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

… as had many other things.

...​

The Archives were alive with silence. That was how Jocasta Nu preferred them: the hush of knowledge settling around her shoulders like a robe. The faint hum of the security fields, the even fainter shuffle of initiates' boots on the marble floor, the occasional tap-tap of a datapad stylus—these were the sounds she cherished. The galaxy outside might rage with skirmishes, politics, and endless noise, but here? Here was order. Here was clarity.

She knew, of course, that her initiates didn't always see it that way. To them, the Archives were dusty halls, filled with static files and old Masters too long-winded for their own good. Not these two, though.

Ahsoka Tano was pure light. Jocasta had watched her dart between the shelves, montrals swaying, eager to quiz herself on obscure battles and the names of long-forgotten Consulars. She could hardly keep still long enough to absorb a full lecture, but the joy she found in learning was undeniable.

And then there was Ben Kryze. Older than most of his crèche-mates by a year, and sharper than most Padawans Jocasta had trained herself. He devoured history like it was a meal, asked questions so incisive they sometimes cut deeper than she'd like, and had that dangerous Mandalorian attachment streak that made half the Council nervous.

Yes, he was trouble. Bright, inquisitive trouble. Which was why Jocasta found herself unsurprised when Ahsoka Tano appeared at her desk with a far-too-bright smile.

"Master Nu," Ahsoka chirped, hands clasped behind her back. "Did you ever tell us about the First Great Schism? The one with the Hundred-Year Darkness?"

Jocasta's brow arched. The Togruta's timing was impeccable—almost too impeccable. "I believe I did, young one. Twice, if memory serves."

Ahsoka's grin widened, the picture of guileless innocence. "I think I forgot some parts. Maybe you could explain again? Especially the, um, politics part. With all the Dark Jedi. And the armies. And—"

Jocasta allowed herself the faintest sigh, smoothing her robes. Yes, this was a distraction. A transparent one. She glanced past Ahsoka's twitching montrals, toward the holoterminals two aisles over. She did not need to look to know who had slipped behind them.

"Very well," she said at last, steepling her fingers. "But politics, initiate, are never so simple as you younglings imagine. The Hundred-Year Darkness began with pride, as most things do…"

She launched into the tale, watching Ahsoka nod rapidly, laugh at her own questions, and stumble through clumsy attempts to appear fascinated. Jocasta hid her smile. She would play along—for now.

It was almost flattering, being part of their little conspiracy. They thought themselves clever, these two, and in truth, they were. Jocasta had spent decades among younglings who showed no spark of curiosity at all. That these two loved knowledge so dearly, even when they abused it, warmed her old heart.

Still. She would let Ben Kryze hang himself with his own cleverness, just long enough to learn a lesson.

...​

"Excuse me, Master?"

The voice belonged to Tallo, the Mon Calamari initiate from the same crèche. Jocasta turned to find him shifting uncomfortably, datapad clutched in webbed fingers. His head-fins twitched with visible unease.

"Yes, Initiate Tallo?"

"I think there might be something wrong with the Archives."

Jocasta inclined her head. "The Archives are never wrong. But you may explain."

Tallo shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "I think… well, there's a planet that had its name changed."

"Ah." Jocasta hummed with understanding. "That does happen. Many worlds have different names prior to being settled. But, as colonists make their home, they tend to make their mark. Little by little, the bird makes its nest."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. But, why would they change the name of Coruscant, the Core World of the Republic to… Uranus."

A long, terrible pause followed. Jocasta blinked once. Slowly.

"…my what?"

Tallo hastily turned the datapad around. Sure enough, bold as day, the entry for Galactic Republic Capital had been updated. CORUSCANT—struck through. URANUS—typed in, complete with a small holoprojection of a pale blue gas giant floating where the ecumenopolis should have been.

Ahsoka made a small choking noise.

Jocasta Nu rose, her robes swishing like a thundercloud. She did not storm—storming was for the young. But her presence filled the chamber with a gravity that made even the security droids shift uneasily on their tracks. She swept past rows of shelves and terminals until she came to the source.

And oh, yes. She found plenty.

Mustafar: A beautiful winter vacation for the whole family! Come for the slopes, stay for the nice cool breeze! Don't forget to bring a jacket!

Kamino: Not flooded. You're flooded.

Endor: Official mascot—murder bears.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

On one hand, she should be furious. An initiate had exploited a vulnerability in the archival index, no doubt thinking himself terribly clever. On the other hand… the backups were intact. Every alteration neatly logged, every override easily reversed. The child had even highlighted the faulty code that allowed the tampering in the first place.

It was vandalism—but it was useful vandalism.

Jocasta straightened, smoothing her expression into calm neutrality. She could feel eyes on her—the initiates waiting to see how the dragon of the Archives would roar. Instead, she folded her hands.

"Curious," she murmured. "Quite curious."

Of course, she would correct this. Of course, she would assign penance. But perhaps she would also… encourage it. A child who could find such flaws could help protect the Archives.

Yes. Perhaps the punishment would be… more work.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "I believe," she said, turning toward the wide-eyed initiates, "that I shall have a word with Initiate Kryze. Once he decides to stop hiding."

A shuffle from the next row over, followed by the quiet clunk of a datapad hastily dropped.

Jocasta Nu pretended not to hear it.

After all, the chase was always the best part.

...​

You know what's dangerous? Not lightsabers, not blaster fire, not Sith Lords in black cloaks with questionable breathing habits. No—far worse than all of that is boredom.

And let me tell you, when you dump a dozen Force-sensitive kids in a common room with nothing to do after sparring drills, boredom becomes a war crime.

Which is why we have holo-chess.

Only problem is, holo-chess is boring too. The little figures are bland, the strategy predictable, and the computer AI snores itself to sleep if you play solo. So naturally, I took it upon myself to improve the system. Enhance it. Elevate it.

Translation: I hacked it.

And oh, did I outdo myself.

The board flickered to life in the middle of the room, and instead of the usual geometric holo-pieces, we had—drumroll—members of the Jedi Council.

"Wait," Ahsoka said, pointing. "Is that… Master Yoda as a pawn?"

"Correction," I said, proudly crossing my arms. "That's eight Master Yodas as pawns. Quantity is its own quality."

Sure enough, a row of tiny green Yodas shuffled forward, each clutching a lightsaber half their size, muttering things like 'Win this game, I shall,' and 'Strong with the Force, this opening move is.'

Ezra—I mean, not that Ezra, different Ezra, the Nikto from another class—snorted and nearly fell off the couch. "Please tell me Mace Windu isn't…"

"Rooks, yes," I confirmed, grinning as the tall holo-Mace figures materialized in the corners of the board. They crossed their arms, scowled, and radiated general disapproval.

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "You're going to get us arrested."

"Arrested? No, no. At worst, expelled. Possibly launched into the sun. But think of the artistry!"

I gestured grandly as the rest of the board populated. Depa Billaba as a bishop, Kit Fisto grinning far too widely, Plo Koon wheezing politely, Shaak Ti looking like she regretted existing on this board at all. The real masterpiece, though? The queen.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen," I said, as the holo figure of my most favorite (and definitely not my father) Jedi materialized, looking impossibly noble with a tiny animated cape.

"Really?" Ahsoka whispered. "You made your… you made Obi-Wan the queen? He isn't even on the Council!"

"Yet." I argued. "He's due for a promotion. Besides, why not? It's strategically powerful. Very versatile piece. No symbolism whatsoever."

None that I'll confess to, at any rate.

And then came the king: Master Yaddle.

"Why?" Ahsoka demanded.

"Because no one ever expects Yaddle," I said solemnly.

We had barely gotten two moves in when the door hissed open and in strolled Quinlan Vos, radiating trouble magnet as always.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "What do we have here? Unauthorized holo-gambling in the youngling common room?"

"Not gambling," I said quickly. "This is… a cultural enrichment exercise."

"Cultural enrichment, huh?" He strolled closer, peering at the board. His grin widened. "Is that Yoda? As a pawn?"

Eight tiny Yodas turned in unison and said: 'Flattered, I am.'

Quinlan slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. "Oh, I love it. Alright, I got twenty credits on the Togruta."

Ahsoka blinked. "Wait. What?"

"You're playing, right?" Quinlan said, tossing a chit onto the table. "I bet you beat Ben inside of ten moves."

"I—wait, what—" Ahsoka sputtered. "I didn't agree—"

"Thirty on me," I cut in, swiping Quinlan's chit before Ahsoka could. "And if she loses, I get snacks for a week."

Ahsoka glared at me. "Oh, it's on."

The game began with all the subtlety of a podrace crash. Ahsoka played aggressively, sending her Obi-Wan queen flying across the board with zero hesitation. I countered by ordering one of my Yodas to march right into the line of fire.

"Sacrificing Yoda already?" Quinlan asked.

"Strategic retreat," I said.

The pawn-Yoda turned to me and grumbled: 'Betrayed, I am.' Then it dissolved in a burst of static as Obi-Wan sliced it in half.

"Sorry, Master," I muttered.

And I was sorry. But sacrifices needed to be made.

It was all going well until about move five, when I decided to make things more interesting.

See, technically, holo-chess runs off a standard entertainment grid. Which, if you happen to accidentally upload a "combat simulation patch" onto it… well, things get spicy.

I nudged the command lines on my datapad, and suddenly, instead of politely shuffling across the board, the holo-Maces drew their sabers and began dueling the opposing pieces.

"Oh no," Ahsoka groaned.

"Oh YES," Quinlan said, delighted. "This is the best day of my life."

The Obi-Wan queen performed a flying leap, cape fluttering dramatically, and bisected three Yodas in a row. Plo Koon counterattacked by unleashing Force lightning, which I swear he has never used in real life.

"Don't worry about accuracy," I told the group. "It's about vibes."

And then the board exploded.

Literally exploded. Sparks shot out, the holo-field went haywire, and suddenly we had Council members battling full-size in the middle of the common room.

"RETREAT, RETREAT!" I yelled, diving behind the couch as two Maces dueled each other by accident.

"RETREAT TO WHERE?!" Ahsoka shouted back, dodging a very polite Plo Koon as he tried to Force-push the wall.

Quinlan, instead of helping, doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell into the fire-suppression system.

That was when Jocasta Nu walked in.

"Children," she said flatly, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the chaos. "What… is happening here?"

I sprang to my feet, brushing sparks off my tunic. "What? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a normal, wholesome holo-game."

Behind me, a holo-Shaak Ti tackled a holo-Kit Fisto into the couch.

Jocasta raised one eyebrow. "I see." She stepped closer, fixing me with the gaze of someone who has catalogued every bad excuse since the dawn of the Republic. "Would this… mishap… have anything to do with the technical difficulties I discovered in the Archives earlier today?"

I froze.

"Why would you ask me?" I squeaked. "Surely, you don't think I… No, never. I—I didn't even know we had Archives."

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands again. Quinlan wheezed.

"Ah," Jocasta said, with a terrifyingly calm nod. "I see. Detention."

Just when I thought my doom was sealed, Maris Brood swooped in out of nowhere like some kind of goth guardian angel.

"Wait," she said, stepping forward. "It was me. I changed the settings. My fault."

My jaw dropped. "You—what?!"

"Don't look so shocked," she muttered, crossing her arms. "You'd just get yourself expelled."

Jocasta studied her for a long moment, then glanced back at me. "Hmm. Very well. Detention… for both of you."

"WHAT?!" I yelped.

Ahsoka faceplanted into the couch cushions. Quinlan roared with laughter, then added another chit to the table. "Double or nothing that they don't last a week before another incident."

Jocasta turned to him. "And you, Knight Vos, will be explaining to Master Windu why I found you encouraging underage gambling."

Quinlan's grin faltered. "…Oh."

I smirked. "Guess we all lose, huh?"

Quinlan shot me a look, then ruffled my hair on the way out. "Kid, you're gonna be the death of me."

"Working on it," I said cheerfully.

And thus ended the Great Holo-Game Fiasco.

For now.

...​

Detention at the Jedi Temple wasn't exactly what I pictured.

When Master Tyyvak lumbered into the room—seven feet of shaggy Wookiee with eyes like molten patience—I braced myself for doom. This was the Jedi equivalent of being grounded by a thunderstorm. She didn't roar, didn't even growl. Just handed me and Maris Brood a stack of flimsi-sheets and a stylus each, then pointed at a row of cushions.

"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."

That was it. No dramatic lecture. No punishment chamber. Just… handwriting practice.

I glanced sideways at Maris. She sat cross-legged, her stylus already scratching dutifully. Me? My hand cramped just looking at the pile.

Well. If I was going down, I wasn't going down quietly.

"Bet you," I whispered, leaning just far enough over my cushion to annoy her, "that I can misquote the Code five times before she notices."

Her eyes flicked toward me, then down at my sheet. The tiniest smirk tugged at her mouth. "You'll be lucky to make it to three."

Challenge accepted.

I started innocently enough: There is no emotion, there is… really suspicious frowning. Nothing. No growl from Tyyvak. No sudden Wookiee wrath.

Two lines later: There is no ignorance, there is… a very questionable sense of style in Jedi robes.

Still nothing.

By the fourth misquote, Maris was biting her lip, shoulders shaking. She wasn't laughing out loud—Force forbid she actually break her tragic, brooding aura—but she was laughing. And that felt like a win.

"You're going to get us skinned alive," she hissed.

"Oh, come on," I said. "It's educational. She's testing our creativity."

"Pretty sure she's testing how long until I strangle you."

We went back and forth like that for a while. I threw in bad puns. She sniped at my handwriting. By the time I reached There is no chaos, there is… definitely chaos, Master Tyyvak let out a very long, very tired Wookiee sigh.

Which is Jedi Master for: You two are hopeless.

Before she could redirect us, the doors swished open and salvation arrived in the form of Master Jocasta Nu.

"Master Tyyvak," she said, voice perfectly polite but carrying that librarian authority that made every youngling sit up straighter. "If you would be so kind as to release these two into my custody, the Archives could make good use of their… energy."

"Take them," Tyyvak rumbled without hesitation.

And that's how I ended up in Jedi Archives detention. Which, for the record, is about a thousand times worse than copying the Code.

Jocasta handed us datapads and directed us to the endless shelves. "Data entry," she said briskly. "Cataloguing, cross-referencing. Do not tamper." Then, surprisingly, she looked directly at me and added: "And thank you, young one."

I blinked. "Wait—thank me?"

"Yes. One of the planets you altered during your… prank—Kamino, I believe—was already missing from the Archives. Deleted." Her lips pursed dangerously. "Not by you, of course. Long before your arrival. But when I find whoever tampered with my Archives…" She paused, as if remembering she was supposed to be the embodiment of Jedi serenity. "…I will be very disappointed."

I decided then and there that I never, under any circumstances, wanted to disappoint Jocasta Nu.

I don't scare easily, but—yeah. Apparently, librarians can be more terrifying than most Sith.

So we typed. And sorted. And cross-referenced. Hours of mind-numbing, finger-cramping cataloguing.

At one point, I leaned toward Maris and whispered, "I take it back. The Wookiee was merciful."

"You don't say," she deadpanned.

But the thing was—underneath the sarcasm, she was actually talking. More than usual. Enough that, once I was sure Jocasta was out of earshot, I surrendered to a moment of emotional sincerity.

"So… thanks. For covering for me earlier. With the holo-chess thing. You didn't have to."

Maris didn't look up from her datapad. "I know."

"Then why?"

Her fingers froze for a second. Then she sighed, turning just enough to meet my eyes. "You're one of the only kids who actually talks to me. Not just at me, or about me. To me. And… you're funny. Sometimes." She jabbed me lightly with the stylus. "Don't get a big ego."

I stared at her. "Wait, so you do like me?"

Her cheeks colored, and she turned back to her datapad quickly. "I said don't get a big ego."

But I caught it—the tiniest laugh, slipping past her guard.

And I swear, it was the first time I'd ever heard her sound… normal. Like an actual kid, not some ghost on the sidelines.

"So, what's your favorite thing about me? Is it just my sense of humor, or—ah!" Should have quit while I was ahead.

"Hmm. I think it might be the sounds you make when your punched. Like music to my ears."

...​

The summons from the Council came with all the subtlety of a detonated thermal charge. Obi-Wan had barely stepped out of the creche wing when Anakin came striding down the hall, boots echoing against the Temple's smooth stone, already tugging on his outer robes as if the Force itself had told him to hurry.

"They want us in the war room," Anakin said, his voice sharp with anticipation. "Urgent briefing. Sounds like Outer Rim."

Of course it did. It always did these days.

Obi-Wan smoothed a hand down his own robes, wishing for once that the galaxy would wait until morning. "We've only just returned," he murmured. "You'd think the Council could allow a single uninterrupted night."

Anakin smirked. "They're not exactly known for their sense of timing."

Obi-Wan didn't reply, because his eyes had already drifted down the hall toward the dormitories. He could feel Ben's presence as one feels a hearthfire on a cold night—steady, warm, stubbornly bright. The boy was asleep, most likely tangled in blankets like he had been earlier that evening, whispering dreams under his breath.

It struck Obi-Wan with sudden, inconvenient force that he might not be here when the child woke.

Anakin followed his gaze, groaning. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're thinking of going back in there."

Obi-Wan arched a brow. "And if I were?"

"You're going to wake him," Anakin said. "And then he'll cry. And then you'll have to give one of your legendary speeches about patience and responsibility, and neither of you will sleep. And then we'll both be late for our 'urgent' mission. Again."

"That was one time," Obi-Wan said, a touch more stiffly than he intended.

Anakin folded his arms, grin widening. "Face it, Master. You're basically his dad."

The words landed like a blaster bolt disguised as a joke, one he clearly had no idea would strike so close to home. Obi-Wan gave him a long, level look, the kind of look meant to quell Padawan insolence. Unfortunately, Anakin had long since grown immune.

"I am not his father," Obi-Wan said at last. His voice was cool, measured. "I am his… guardian."

"Uh-huh," Anakin drawled. "Sure. Because guardians hover outside doorways debating if they should tuck their kids in again before they go save the galaxy."

Obi-Wan refused to dignify that with an answer. He did, however, find his feet carrying him back toward the dormitory door.

Inside, the room was washed in the soft blue glow of the Temple's night-lights. Ben lay curled on his side, hair sticking out at improbable angles, the faintest crease still between his brows as though he were frowning even in sleep. The boy never truly relaxed.

Obi-Wan stood there longer than he meant to, silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He imagined kneeling, shaking Ben awake, telling him gently that he'd be gone a while but would return soon. He imagined saying—Force help him—the words he had never been able to say to anyone:

I'll come back for you. I promise.

But promises were dangerous things. The Jedi Code warned against them for good reason. Promises tethered you, and Obi-Wan could not afford to be tethered. Not again.

So he let the boy sleep.

"Sleep well, young one," he whispered instead, so low even the Force barely caught it.

When he turned back, Anakin was leaning against the doorframe with the air of someone who had been eavesdropping shamelessly.

"You're hopeless," Anakin said.

"On the contrary," Obi-Wan replied smoothly, gathering his robe around his shoulders. "I am perfectly rational."

"Rational dads don't sneak goodnight speeches."

Obi-Wan brushed past him. "If you continue to misuse the word 'dad,' I may begin to suspect your vocabulary is shrinking."

Anakin laughed all the way down the corridor.

Obi-Wan did not laugh. He only walked faster, as though distance could smother the guilt that clung to him like smoke. He knew what Ben would think come morning. The boy had been abandoned once already. He would see this departure as proof of it happening again.

And yet Obi-Wan still hadn't woken him.

...​

I was sprawled out on my bunk, arms folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended me. Which, honestly, it probably had. The Temple ceilings had this smug way of being high and polished and impossibly out of reach, like they were mocking you for being stuck beneath them. Fitting metaphor for the Order, really.

Ahsoka was curled up cross-legged on the opposite bed, quietly fiddling with a datapad. She hadn't said anything since Obi-Wan and Anakin left. Didn't need to. The silence already said enough.

"I hate this," I muttered, not bothering to look at her.

Her montrals tilted toward me. "Hate what?"

"The rules." I rolled onto my side, glaring at nothing. "You can't tell me Obi-Wan doesn't care. I'm not blind—I'm just not supposed to say it. It's ridiculous. Like if we just ignore it, it'll go away. Even him! He's supposed to be this whole Jedi ideal, all detached and serene, but I've seen the way he looks at me sometimes. Like… like he wants to say something. He just won't."

Ahsoka's fingers stilled on the datapad. She didn't interrupt. That only made me go on harder.

"Oh no, attachments are dangerous," I said in my best mock-Master-Windu voice. "Because apparently love is worse than letting a bunch of kids run around unsupervised hacking the holo-net and nearly blowing out the Temple servers. Which, by the way, was totally educational."

That at least earned me a twitch of her mouth, but she didn't laugh.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's like they want us to pretend we're droids or something. No family, no ties, no feelings. Just… obedience. Meanwhile Obi-Wan can barely look me in the eye half the time, and I can't say a thing about it. Because, you know. Jedi."

The datapad clicked as Ahsoka set it aside. Her voice was softer than usual when she finally spoke. "I get it."

I blinked at her. "You do?"

"Yeah." She stared at her hands in her lap. "I don't even remember my family. Not really. Just… flashes. And I tell myself it doesn't matter because I have the Jedi now, because I have you. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder what it would've been like to still have them. To know them." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "And the Jedi say I shouldn't wonder. But I do anyway."

I shifted uncomfortably on the bed, because what was I supposed to do with that? Feelings weren't exactly on the Temple curriculum. So, naturally, I did what I always do: covered it with sarcasm.

"Well," I said, forcing a grin, "we could always start our own Order. Rule one: free dessert at every meal. Rule two: we're allowed to hug."

Usually that sort of thing got at least a laugh, if not a snort. But this time Ahsoka just looked at me, eyes big and serious in the dim dorm light.

"That doesn't sound so bad," she whispered.

The grin slipped off my face before I could stop it.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Just two kids in the dark, talking about things we weren't supposed to want.

It's tough being a Jedi.

...​

It really is. But you know what's worse?

Being a stormtrooper. The helmets can't let you see for shit, which is why they can never shoot anything, and they're killed by everyone, all the time. Rebel scum, Jedi survivors, Sith Inquisitors, Sith Lords (when they're in the mood), and you really have to wonder what happened to the majority of them when the Empire went under.

Can you imagine anyone getting hired with their work experience? Yikes.

Oh, yeah. Check out my Patreon if you want to read ahead. Here's the link:

My Patreon

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

I didn't Like this chapter, this chapter Like ME

 

[Hilight]

I really hate how Storm Troopers were turned into a joke and how it was formalized in the Mandalorian.

 

[John-Smith]

"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."

Click to shrink...

Now I wonder what'd happen if he starts to copy the Sith code instead. How long until someone notices THAT?

 

[lancelot]

It's tough being a Jedi.

Click to shrink...

So two problems with this as I see it.

One, the reason Asoka was such a good character was character growth. She spent half the first season being a little shit. It took a war, and people dying under her command to pull her head out of her ass and grow up a little, not all at once but it was a big step.
This Asoka comes off as mid series Asoka, she has from the first chapter, she just starts as far more put together and no reason why.

Ben tries to be funny to fucking hard constantly, it isn't stopping it isn't slowing down. He's the class clown that only hits a good joke 1 in 20, but the 19 other duds ruin the laugh. It would it be better if over the years his humor got sharper, or he learned to pick his jokes better not saying ten of the duds he thought up. But no every chapter every year, it's motor mouth jokes, constantly.

Also he knows he is going to be in the shit, so why isn't he putting extra time into the skills he'll need to survive the clones wars. If he is doing that, you're not showing it. No extra force training, no reading up on tactics, strategy, and logistics. No extra saber practice.
I'm not saying he should dedicate every spare moment to training, but if he is doing any extra training at all you're not showing it, or the results as we see with the simple tray being too much. So between that, and years of shotgunning mid jokes in hope of one hitting I think you need to change things up.

 

[PepeDeLosPalotes]

Thanks for the chapters, they should indeed found their own jedi order, with famiñies, and hugs

 

[Rustic]

I agree I do not see the mc doing anything that will help him survive long term no prep work. He does come across as a annoying twit who motor mouths all the time while seeming to sabotage the other kids training. That's came to mind as well several times.

I just figured he was reincarnated as a young man who came from a inner city public highschool were they don't even try and he carried it over into his second life. It is basically his template. Like a cooked friendly grenade.

Having said that the story is humorous. It just the MC might of been based on Geico squirrel before they all disappeared. The author seems to be writing a Leroy Jenkins character.

I figure the MC is a amoral sociopath who already thought these people I am growing up with will die anyways. once Anakin turns might as well get my fun in before they expire. More than likely that is why he only seems to talk to main and side character from canon. They survived the planned massacre. These thoughts have been running around in my mind since the introduction of the mc.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 10: Shadows In The Hall

I wasn't sneaking out.

Let's just get that clear. Sneaking implies guilt. And while I may have been out past curfew, bare feet slapping against the Temple's polished floors, that was purely for honorable purposes. Very noble. Very Jedi.

…Okay, fine. Snacks.

But in my defense, I hadn't eaten since dinner, and Jedi rations were smaller than a Mandalorian's sense of humor. I needed something to keep me alive through my late-night tinkering—because those holo-decipherers and saber hilt adjustments weren't going to invent themselves. And if I just happened to know that the refectory kitchen droids left the pantry unlocked during rest cycles—well, that was hardly my fault.

So yes, not sneaking. Merely walking briskly. Stealthily. With purpose.

That's when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was just the hum of a scrubber droid. The hall outside the Council's wing was usually quiet, except for the occasional sweeping machine singing to itself about dust. But then I caught actual words. Low voices. Serious voices.

I froze.

It was coming from one of the side antechambers, door half-closed. And it wasn't just any voices.

Mace Windu. Ki-Adi-Mundi. And—oh stars—Yoda. And those were just the ones I recognized!

I should've kept walking. I knew that. Curiosity is the path to trouble, and trouble is the path to getting caught and having to scrub refresher units with your toothbrush. But then I heard something that rooted me to the spot.

My name.

Not clearly. Just a faint syllable, swallowed by the hum of the air vents. But I'd recognize it anywhere.

"Ben…"

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

I inched closer, pressing myself against the wall like some kind of professional spy instead of a hungry eleven-year-old with crumb dust on his tunic. My ear hovered just near the doorframe, and I caught more fragments.

"…Mandalore…"

"…attachments risk…"

"…divided loyalties…"

I swear my heart stopped.

They knew.

They knew everything. Satine. Korkie. The letters. My totally subtle habit of staring too long at the holo-news whenever Mandalore came up. I imagined Master Windu turning toward the others, gravely intoning: This child is dangerous. He must be dealt with.

Dealt with how, you ask? Oh, I had plenty of ideas.

Mind-wipe. That was top of the list. They did it to Revan, didn't they? Wiped the Dark Lord of the Sith like a malfunctioning datapad. Who's to say they wouldn't do it to me? And sure, I wasn't exactly an evil Sith bent on galactic domination—but maybe they were being proactive this time. Preventative memory scrubbing.

Or worse, exile.

I pictured a solemn Council chamber, Masters lined in a circle. Yoda raising his little three-fingered hand, voice grave. Out, young Kryze must go. Cast into the Outer Rim, he shall be.

Then Windu, looming over me. This Council does not grant you the rank of Padawan. In fact, this Council doesn't grant you anything. We're confiscating your toothbrush.

Even Ki-Adi-Mundi, with his very large head, chiming in: There can only be seven wives on Cerea, but zero Mandolorians in the Temple.

I think I blacked out for a second.

When I came to, the voices were fading. Chairs scraping. Footsteps moving deeper into the chamber. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own robe hem. My snack raid had officially transformed into a survival mission.

I sprinted back toward the dorms, all stealth forgotten. My imagination was already ten steps ahead: packing my things, sneaking onto a freighter, living on the run. Ben the Outcast. The Prodigal Prodigy. It had a certain ring to it. Better than Exile at any rate.

By the time I skidded into our quarters, Ahsoka was sitting up in bed, montrals drooping, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"You're loud," she muttered. "Did you fall in the hallway again?"

"No time," I hissed, diving onto my bunk. "The Council's onto me."

That woke her up.

"Onto you?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! That's the problem. They're inventing crimes to kick me out. I overheard them—Windu, Ki-Adi, Yoda. They said Mandalore. They said attachments. They said divided loyalties!"

Ahsoka blinked, clearly debating whether to be concerned or just amused.

"Maybe they weren't talking about you."

"They said my name!"

"Or someone else named Ben."

"How many Bens do you know in this Temple? Exactly one. Me. Case closed."

She rubbed her face. "Okay. So you think the Council held a super-secret late-night meeting just to talk about you."

"Obviously. What else would they do with their time? Play dejarik? No. They sit around plotting how to exile small children from the galaxy."

Ahsoka groaned and flopped back against her pillow. "You're panicking."

"I'm not panicking. I'm… preparing. For exile. Or a memory wipe. Maybe both."

"You are panicking."

"You stop panicking!"

"I'm not panicking!"

"Well, then stop not-panicking so loudly!"

We stared at each other across the dark room. My heart was still hammering, my brain racing with worst-case scenarios. Then Ahsoka rolled over and muttered into her pillow, "If they were going to throw you out, they'd have done it already."

That… was almost reassuring. Almost.

Still, I lay awake long after she drifted off, staring at the ceiling. Mandalore. Attachments. Loyalties. They were watching me. I just knew it.

And if the Council thought they could out-paranoia me, they had another thing coming.

...​

The hum of the cruiser's engines was steady, almost soothing. Almost.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat stiff-backed in the co-pilot's seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on the streaks of starlight that blurred past their viewport. It wasn't that he disliked space travel. Not exactly. He disliked piloting through space travel—an endless sea of nothing with only fragile shields and inertia between one's body and a fiery, instantaneous death.

Which was precisely why he was letting his Padawan fly.

"Ease the stabilizers, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, without turning his head. "You're drifting one-point-three degrees off course."

"I know," Anakin muttered, his hands dancing over the controls with the casual confidence of someone who didn't fully grasp the value of his own life. "I'm adjusting for the pull of that gas giant's gravity. See? Smooth as silk."

The ship shuddered just enough to make Obi-Wan's stomach tighten. Smooth as silk, indeed.

"I still maintain," Obi-Wan said mildly, "that starships were not intended to be handled like podracers."

Anakin flashed him a grin, quick and boyish. "And yet you keep letting me do it."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, carefully not answering. He had let him do it—because Anakin was a prodigy, because his skill at the helm was undeniable, and because, deep down, Obi-Wan would much rather have Anakin at the controls than himself. But it wouldn't do to admit that. Not out loud.

Instead, he checked the navicomputer for the fourth time. "We should be nearing the system soon. If Kamino exists, it ought to be here."

The name lingered in the air, carrying weight Obi-Wan couldn't shake. A missing planet. A file erased from the Jedi Archives. Jocasta had been polite—so polite—but he had felt the disapproval simmering under her calm words, as though his inquiry had struck at something personal. And why wouldn't it? Tampering with the Archives was tampering with the very memory of the Jedi.

He frowned faintly. Who would dare? And for what purpose?

Anakin leaned back in the pilot's chair, feet tapping against the deck in idle rhythm. "So. This Kamino. You think it's really out here?"

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "That is what we're here to find out."

"Uh-huh." Anakin pulled a face. "Translation: you don't know."

"Sometimes, Anakin, the hallmark of wisdom is admitting what one does not know."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's also knowing when someone's hiding something. The Council's being cagey." His jaw tightened, and for a moment the boy's age fell away, replaced by the sharp edge of suspicion. "Why send us instead of a team of archivists?"

"Because," Obi-Wan said evenly, "we are Jedi. Our duty is to follow where the Force leads us."

Anakin snorted. "That's not an answer."

It wasn't. Obi-Wan knew that. The truth was that he didn't understand it any better than Anakin did. Why them? Why now? And why did the thought of a missing world leave a cold thread of unease running down his spine?

He adjusted his robe, smoothing it across his lap. "Patience, Anakin. Answers will come."

"Sure. After we've already found the trouble."

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small smile. "That does seem to be the pattern, doesn't it?"

...​

The ship's beacons pinged as they entered the coordinates. A cluster of stars lit up on the screen, surrounding a narrow band of darkness.

"Here we are," Anakin said, leaning forward. His eyes shone with anticipation. "Let's see if your mystery water world wants to show up."

Obi-Wan straightened, watching the scanner carefully. Nothing. Just the emptiness of the void. He felt his mouth tighten.

"Strange," he murmured. "According to the star charts, this system should host at least one habitable planet. Yet there's nothing on record."

"Maybe there was. Until somebody erased it," Anakin said pointedly.

Obi-Wan gave him a look. "The possibility has occurred to me."

"Then maybe we should stop pretending it's just an 'administrative error' like the Council keeps saying."

There was that edge again—the frustration, the questioning. The boy's faith in the Order was thinner than he realized. Obi-Wan felt a familiar tug in his chest: worry, responsibility, and beneath it all, the quiet weight of guilt. He had left Ben behind in the Temple, sleeping peacefully, his small face softened in the glow of the dorm lights. He hadn't had the heart to wake him. Not when words failed so often between them.

Ben deserved stability, not goodbyes Obi-Wan didn't know how to make.

And now Anakin was pressing at the edges of obedience as well. Two Padawans. One official, one not. Obi-Wan found himself stretched thin between them, torn between what he owed the Jedi, owed Qui-Gon, and what he owed to Satine's children. To his children.

"Don't slouch," Obi-Wan said suddenly, if only to break the thought.

Anakin rolled his eyes but straightened in his seat. "Yes, Master."

The scanners beeped. Both men leaned forward. A faint anomaly flickered across the display—like a shadow where no shadow should be. Or rather, an entire world, precisely where it was meant to be.

Anakin grinned. "Got you."

Obi-Wan's pulse quickened. He reached for the manual override, hands moving with steady precision despite the knot in his stomach. "Bring us in closer. Slowly."

"Slowly?" Anakin's grin widened. "You're no fun."

"I am alive," Obi-Wan said dryly, "which is generally more useful than fun."

Anakin's laughter filled the cockpit, bright and irreverent. Obi-Wan hid his relief behind a faint smile. For all his doubts, for all his gnawing unease, at least they had found something.

A missing world. A hidden secret. And a mission that might be far more dangerous than either of them realized.

Obi-Wan's hands tightened on the armrest as the ship banked toward the anomaly. "The sooner we finish this," he muttered under his breath, "the sooner I can stop flying."

"Did you say something, Master?" Anakin asked, voice projecting innocence.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. "Just… focus on not killing us, Anakin."

"Relax," Anakin said, pulling them smoothly into descent. "I've got this."

Obi-Wan let out a very quiet, very skeptical sigh.

...​

Look, sometimes being a Jedi-in-training means noble acts of service. Protecting the innocent. Preserving the peace. Other times, it means a midnight infiltration run for contraband soup packets and a blanket.

That's where I came in.

"We strike fast, strike quiet," I whispered, crouched at the corner of the corridor like some kind of holovid commando. "Two shadows in the dark, undetectable. Ghosts."

"We're not ghosts," Ahsoka muttered, crouched beside me. "We're idiots sneaking past Temple curfew."

"Correction—brilliant idiots. With codenames. You're Fulcrum."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why am I Fulcrum?"

"Because it sounds mysterious. Pivotal. Like you're the hinge of fate itself." I jabbed a thumb proudly at my chest. "And I'm Starkiller."

Ahsoka blinked, then hissed, "That's not even remotely Jedi-sounding."

"Neither is Fulcrum!"

"You picked it!"

"You did it first," I whispered back indignantly. "I just… uh… coined it for you before you did. I saw it in a vision. And the For the Force trumps all, end of story."

Ahsoka's eye twitched. "That is the dumbest excuse—"

"Shh!" I pressed a finger to my lips. "Sound discipline, Fulcrum. You'll blow our cover."

Her sigh was loud enough to wake half the dorms. But when she peeked around the corner with me, she was grinning.

Target: Maris Brood, sick as a bog-rat and too stubborn to admit it.

Objective: smuggle supplies into her room without anyone catching on.

It wasn't like she'd asked for help. Maris never asked for anything. She just lurked in shadows and coughed when she thought nobody was listening. Which made it my problem. Because apparently if you befriend the brooding loner once, you're on the hook forever.

Curse my weakness for goth girls.

"You know she could've just gone to the Halls of Healing," Ahsoka whispered as we crept along a side hall.

"She could have," I agreed. "If she wasn't stubbornly refusing to admit she's sick. Or if she wasn't already so pale, the healers wouldn't assume it's just her 'aesthetic.'"

"Her aesthetic is 'half-dead wraith.'"

"Exactly. She's blending in too well for her own good."

Ahsoka tried not to laugh. Tried. It came out as a snort.

Our first checkpoint: a supply room tucked past one of the meditation wings. Problem: locked door.

"Okay," I said, pressing a hand to the panel. "Here's how it works. I slice the door, grab the goods, and we're out before anyone notices."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You don't know how to slice."

"Correction—I don't know how to slice well." Holographic locks, encryptions, codes, those were my bread and butter. Physical hardware? I prefer to use my lightsaber as a key. Sadly, this is a stealth mission, and plasma holes aren't very discrete.

Her groan was almost fond. Almost.

I fiddled with the panel, poking wires until sparks nearly singed my fingertips. The door beeped irritably and stayed shut.

Ahsoka nudged me aside, keyed in three swift inputs, and the panel glowed green. The door hissed open.

I blinked. "How did you—"

"I pay attention in tech lessons. Unlike somebody."

"Fulcrum," I whispered reverently, "you complete me."

She shoved me inside before anyone could hear.

Five minutes later, our packs bulged with contraband: soup sachets, extra blankets, a spare datapad preloaded with holotoons. I might've thrown in some candy cubes for good measure. (For Maris. Definitely for Maris. Not me.)

"All right," I said, tugging my strap tight. "Exfiltration route: through the west archives. Fewer patrols."

"West archives?" Ahsoka frowned. "That's restricted."

"Technically, less restricted. If we follow someone in, it doesn't count as breaking rules."

"That's not how rules work."

"It is if you bend them really hard."

Ahsoka gave me that look—the one equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. But she followed anyway.

...​

We shadowed our mark: an absent-minded Knight balancing datapads in his arms. Perfect cover. He keyed into the archives, the door swishing open, and we slid through just as it closed.

For two glorious seconds, it felt like victory.

Then the door hissed shut inches from my heel.

"Too close," I muttered. "Way too close. Almost lost a foot."

"You'd deserve it," Ahsoka said, wide-eyed and grinning despite herself.

The archives loomed around us: towering shelves, endless datastacks glowing faint blue. Even whispering felt dangerous here, like the books themselves might tattle.

We crept between aisles, every creak of our boots echoing like a blastershot. My heart hammered with the thrill of it—every shadow an enemy, every glow-panel a spotlight.

"This is ridiculous," Ahsoka whispered. "We're going to get caught."

"Correction—we're going to succeed heroically. Trust the plan."

"The plan is you winging it."

"Yes. Heroically."

She muttered something un-Jedi-like under her breath but kept moving.

The mission went sideways two corridors later. A door slid open ahead of us, and a tall figure stepped out, datapad in hand.

I froze. Ahsoka froze. The figure turned—

And sneezed. Loudly.

Ahsoka yanked me into a side alcove. We pressed flat against the wall as the archivist shuffled off, muttering about dust filters.

I exhaled shakily. "See? Easy."

"You almost got us killed by a sneeze."

"That was a deadly sneeze," I insisted. "Could've leveled us both."

Ahsoka smacked my arm, but she was laughing under her breath.

...​

The thing about spy missions is, you can't plan for everything.

You can try. Check your boxes for exits, entrances, contacts, and doublecrossers. But there's always something you can't account for. Someone, or something, at the right place, at the right time, can cause a lot of trouble, in the most unexpected ways.

We'd just made it past the archive wing—smooth, silent, undetected—when the real enemy struck. Not a Knight, not a Master, not even a nosy Padawan with questions.

A service droid.

The squat, boxy kind that trundled along the halls humming cheerfully to itself. I think they're called Mouse Droids, basically just glorified roombas. Normally harmless. Except this one coughed sparks as it rounded the corner, jittered on a busted wheel, and smacked straight into the wall panel.

The wall groaned. Then the ceiling did too.

"Oh no," Ahsoka breathed.

"Oh yes," I corrected. Because the universe clearly hated me.

The droid fizzed, a light fixture blew, and suddenly chunks of ceiling gave way.

The crash was deafening. Duracrete and plating came down in sheets. One jagged slab hurtled right above Ahsoka.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I lunged, grabbed her arm, yanked her hard toward me. She stumbled, nearly toppling us both—but the slab missed her by a heartbeat, smashing where she'd stood.

That should've been the end of it. Except the next wave of debris was coming straight for me.

Instinct flared hot in my chest. My hands shot up—too fragile to shield, too late to run—

And the Force caught it.

The slabs froze a handspan above me, humming with invisible strain. My knees shook, teeth clenched. Every muscle screamed like I was holding up a starship, not just a ceiling panel. This is why you always do your Force stretches, people. Never skip a good warmup unless you want to be crushed to death.

Only it didn't crush me.

Didn't even touch me.

Slowly, carefully, I shoved it aside. The duracrete slab thunked onto the floor, safe and harmless.

My breath tore out of me in a laugh. A wild, victorious laugh. "Ha! Did you see that?!"

Ahsoka gawked at me, her body stiff, eyes wide as moons.

"I saved your life," I told her, voice climbing higher than I meant. "And mine! And I didn't even die! I'm amazing!" I swept a hand dramatically toward the wreckage. "Write that down in the Archives. Jedi Knight material, right here."

My pack sagged on my shoulder. I glanced down—half our contraband was intact. Blankets, soup, datapad. All good.

Except the candy cubes.

Gone. Crushed beneath a mountain of rubble.

I pressed a hand to my heart. "They were too young."

Ahsoka just stared at me, breathing hard. Finally, she managed, "Ben… you almost got flattened."

"Keyword: almost." I grinned like an idiot. "As in: not really. Because I'm awesome."

She didn't grin back. Her voice was quieter, shaky around the edges. "I'm serious. That—if you hadn't pulled me—"

I caught the look in her eyes then. Not exasperation. Not amusement. Real fear.

For me.

For a second, my giddiness faltered. I wanted to say something comforting, something heroic. Instead, I blurted, "Well, next time duck faster."

Her expression said she wanted to smack me. But she just exhaled, slow, grounding herself.

"Thanks," she whispered at last. Simple. Honest.

I nodded, trying not to bounce with leftover adrenaline. Because yeah, I was bruised, filthy, candy-less. But I'd done it. I'd saved her.

And for one shining second, I felt like a real Jedi.

...​

The dorm wing was hushed, night-cycle lights dimmed to a sleepy blue glow. Most of the Padawans were out cold by now, sprawled across bunks or curled up under thin Temple blankets. She should be joining them. Resting her body, and preparing for the demanding training their crèche has been going through since they forged their lightsabers.

But Ben had one last mission to complete.

Ahsoka lingered at the doorway, arms folded, as he tiptoed into Maris's cubicle with all the ceremony of a hero delivering treasure to a queen. His pack bulged with the spoils of their ridiculous adventure—blankets, soup packets, a slim datapad loaded with holo-toons he'd insisted Maris would be too shy to ask for.

Personally, Ahsoka believed no one should ever feel embarrassed for watching holo-toons. She actually preferred them on some levels, due to the sheer effort both the animators and the actors had to take to craft their story.

Maris sat up groggily, her horns catching the faint light. Even sick, even pale, she still managed a look of suspicion sharp enough to cut durasteel. That softened the instant Ben handed her the goods.

"Thought you could use these," he said, tossing it off like it was nothing, and they hadn't risked life, limb, and detention, because Maris was too proud for the Halls of Healing. "You know, because you look like death warmed over. In a dignified way."

Her lips twitched. Somehow, she accepted it as a compliment.

Then she surprised them both. She leaned forward and hugged him.

Ben stiffened like someone had stuck a training saber up his back, then awkwardly patted her shoulders in return. His face was all embarrassed pride, like he'd just been knighted on the spot.

Over his shoulder, Maris's eyes found Ahsoka's.

Oh, she was clever about it—her expression softened the second Ben pulled back, all doe-eyed gratitude, the picture of frail innocence.

But for that heartbeat when he couldn't see, she glared.

Right at Ahsoka.

As if to say: Mine. Back off.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes right back. Nice try, friend-stealer.

Neither of them said a word, though. That would risk Ben catching on, and neither of them were willing to jeopardize that.

Ben, blissfully unaware, scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh, don't tell anyone we broke into half the Temple for this, alright? Master Windu might add 'contraband smuggling' to the list of things I'm not supposed to do."

Maris gave a small smile. "Thank you, Ben." Her voice was soft, worn, but real.

He shrugged, grinning too wide. "Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it."

When she curled back beneath the blanket, datapad tucked against her chest like a prize, Ben backed out with exaggerated stealth. He shot Ahsoka a wink. "Mission success."

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny the warmth in her chest.

Because beneath all the bravado, all the jokes, she could see what it meant to him. Helping someone. Making a difference, even in the smallest way. He wore his heroism like a mask of sarcasm, but it was there, bright as any lightsaber.

And maybe that was why he butted heads with the Jedi rules so much. Not because he didn't care about being a Jedi. But because he cared too much about people. He needed to prove—to himself, to everyone—that he could be both.

A good Jedi.

And a good friend.

She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders, watching him flop into his bunk across the room with all the grace of a wounded bantha.

He was snoring within minutes, still smiling.

Ahsoka lay awake longer, staring at the ceiling.

For all his jokes about starting his own Order with dessert rules and free hugs, maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe he was seeing something the rest of them were too scared to.

She didn't say it aloud. She didn't even want to think it too loudly.

But as she drifted toward sleep, one thought stuck with her.

If Ben really did try to change the Jedi…

She wasn't sure she wouldn't follow him.

...​

"Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?" — Obi-Wan Kenobi

You want to know what wouldn't be a foolish move?

That's right!

Checking out my Patreon, where you can read way ahead! Check the link below:

My Patreon

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

Onto you?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! That's the problem. They're inventing crimes to kick me out.

Click to shrink...

Great evil, he has committed. Massacring the snack supply, he has been hmmmmh!.

As if to say: Mine. Back off.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes right back. Nice try, friend-stealer.

Click to shrink...

I think we need to run Ben through the Clueless anime Space opera harem friendship protagonist checklist

• Clueless
• Mad skills
• Sincere Humility (False)
• No effort Harem Friends
• Casually asserts dominance
• White hair
• Shota
• 大きい

Ben Kryze:

Verified

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 11: Shopping Around

The rain hadn't stopped since they'd arrived.

Sheets of water hammered down upon Kamino's endless ocean, a relentless percussion that drummed against the transparisteel windows of Tipoca City. Sterile white corridors stretched ahead in perfect symmetry, polished floors gleaming as if the very world had been designed to reflect the storm outside. Obi-Wan Kenobi kept his hands folded neatly within his sleeves, every inch the composed Jedi Knight, though inwardly he had to admit he found little comfort in the planet's bleak uniformity.

Still, there was some small amusement to be found in his Padawan's expression.

Anakin Skywalker had never been subtle with his moods, and right now the seventeen-year-old looked equal parts fascinated and horrified. His blue eyes darted between the vast panes of glass, tracking the waves far below. "The whole planet?" he whispered under his breath, as if trying to make sense of it. "It's all water?"

"Indeed," Obi-Wan murmured, lips twitching at the corner. "Quite the contrast to Tatooine, wouldn't you say?"

Anakin grimaced. "I don't like it. Feels… wrong. Like it's waiting to swallow us."

"Not every world can be made of sand, my young Padawan." Obi-Wan offered the faintest of smiles, but Anakin only folded his arms, scowling at the storm as though he meant to intimidate it into behaving. Once a Tatooine boy, always a Tatooine boy.

Their guide awaited them at the corridor's end: long, spindly limbs, elongated neck, eyes like polished glass. The Kaminoan administrator bowed her head in what passed for courtesy. "Master Jedi," she greeted in her serene, lilting tone. "Welcome to Kamino. I am Taun We. We have been expecting you."

Expecting us? Obi-Wan masked his frown. "That is curious. We did not announce our arrival."

Taun We's great black eyes blinked slowly, as though the distinction were meaningless. "Your Order has always been welcome here. Please, follow me."

Anakin cast Obi-Wan a sidelong look as they walked, his muttered voice carrying just enough to reach his master. "She talks like she's trying to put me to sleep."

"Patience," Obi-Wan chided softly, though he shared the unease. The Kaminoans' detachment bordered on uncanny; he felt as though every word was rehearsed, every motion part of some larger design.

They entered a high, sterile chamber where the rain's sound was muted to a dull hum. Taun We gestured gracefully toward a set of seats neither of them took. "I trust your journey was not too taxing," she said.

Obi-Wan inclined his head, stepping forward. "After a recent… mishap with our Archives, we discovered this planet was removed from our records some years ago by a Jedi Master. We had come hoping to learn more?"

Taun We tilted her narrow head. "A Jedi Master, you say? The only Jedi we've been in contact with is Master Sifo-Dyas."

Anakin's brow furrowed. He glanced sharply at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's composure faltered a fraction. "Sifo-Dyas?" he repeated carefully. "He's been missing for several years. Is he here?"

"No." Taun We's voice was calm, detached. "I am sorry to say, we have found him to be missing equally as long. We had hoped that perhaps he sent you to check on his commission."

"Commission?" Obi-Wan said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. "For what?"

The Kaminoan's eyes gleamed with a hint of surprise. "You do not know? How strange." She folded her hands elegantly before her. "I'm not certain I am at liberty to discuss our clients' purchases with outsiders. A troubling scenario, given Master Sifo-Dyas commissioned it for the Order."

Anakin, ever impulsive, leaned forward. "Then why don't you just tell us? We are Jedi."

"Padawan," Obi-Wan warned quietly.

Taun We inclined her head once more. "Perhaps you can discuss this further with your Council, and we can reconvene at a later date? In the meantime, we will continue our work here. Please, do not be concerned in the matter of payment. Master Sifo-Dyas was quite generous in his advance, and we are content to wait until all is resolved."

The words hung in the sterile chamber, clinical and heavy all at once.

Obi-Wan forced his expression into its usual serenity, though unease coiled deep in his chest. The Kaminoans spoke of Sifo-Dyas as if he were still alive, still involved in dealings with the Order. Yet Obi-Wan knew — as did the Council — that the man had been dead for years. Records erased, names resurfacing, and now this talk of commissions…

He bowed in farewell, thanked Taun We for her hospitality, and guided Anakin back toward the storm-lit corridors.

"Master," Anakin muttered as soon as they were clear. "What in the blazes was that about?"

"I do not yet know," Obi-Wan admitted. He kept his voice calm, for both their sakes, though his mind raced. "But I suspect the Council will be very eager to hear of it."

And yet, no matter how he turned it over, one word clung stubbornly to his thoughts, like a burr refusing to be shaken free.

Commission.

Ignoring the obvious question of why a Jedi Master would commission anything with an organization outside of the Order, an equally more confounding question would be how. Aside from some prepared funds, which they usually received from charitable donations, they hardly had any assets to their name.

Yet somehow, not only was Syfo-Dias able to accomplish this before he died, he was able to die it in such standards, that they're still continuing the work without any current payment or compensation. Where did he get the credits? Did he rob a Spice Ring from one of the Order's missions?

Obi-Wan doubted it.

While he can't claim to know every face and name in the Order, he's made a bad habit of drawing the infamous ones' attention. Sifo-Dyas hardly qualified. Though, Obi-Wan suspected his investigation was going to require a lot more digging.

There were, after all, many questions that needed to be answered. What did he commission? Why did he go so far to hide it? What will be the Council's response to this mess, and why must it involve Obi-Wan Kenobi every single time?

The only silver lining he had going for him, was that at least his… other ward, was having a much easier time at the Temple.

...​

If I'd ever doubted I was the center of the galaxy, today proved it beyond question.

Because the moment I stepped into the training hall, both Ahsoka and Maris lunged for me.

Literally. One grabbed my left arm, the other my right, and I suddenly became a very confused tug-of-war rope. It actually kind of hurt a little. But all attention is good attention. Or am I thinking of publicity?

Yeah, I'm thinking of publicity.

"We're doing saber drills," Ahsoka announced, her grip firm as durasteel. "Form practice, teamwork exercises, the works."

"No," Maris cut in, voice sharp but oddly smug. "We're going to the Archives. There's a restricted section I've been wanting to explore, and Ben promised to help."

"Since when?" I managed, because I definitely had not.

"Since now," Maris replied without missing a beat, tugging me closer to her side.

My brain, traitorous as always, decided this was the right moment to deliver a memory from my past life. Or rather, a small, unfulfilled wish from past life.

In my time back on Earth, I dreamed about this. Being fought over by cute girls. The ultimate teenage fantasy, right?

Except—context is everything. Back then, the girls in question were human, around my age, which at the time was early-twenties. Not ten-year-olds. And definitely not members of a religious order that actively enforced celibacy.

So… maybe not so much like the dream after all.

Still. Not every day you got to say you were the prize in a best-friend war.

"Girls, girls," I said, beaming like the galaxy's smuggest idiot. "There's enough of me to go around."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might sprain something. "You're not that important, Ben."

"Could've fooled me," I said cheerfully, glancing at Maris, who did not disagree nearly fast enough.

Ahsoka's plan was obvious: structured training, drills, sweating in the Temple yard until my arms felt like jelly. She'd already been praised by half the instructors for her dedication, and now she wanted me to play along. Which, fair, it is nice to be praised for something you're good at. I'm still waiting for compliments on my stunning good looks, and great sense of humor.

Meanwhile, Maris was dangling the shiny lure of forbidden knowledge—sneaking into off-limits wings of the Archives, poking around places Jocasta Nu would personally strangle us for trespassing. I'm not sure if I'm being metaphorical. I think any further tampering with her Archives might actually push her to the Dark Side.

So on one hand: exercise and responsibility. On the other: mischief and potential academic execution… yeah. Loving these options, by the way.

I squinted at both of them. "Tough choice. Do I go with the girl who wants to whip me into shape, or the girl who wants me dead?"

"Not dead," Maris said, glaring at Ahsoka. "Enlightened."

"Training builds discipline," Ahsoka shot back. "Which you clearly need."

I raised my free hand. "Correction: what I need is applause. And snacks. Possibly a throne." Or all three, ideally. Do you know how long it's been since I was able to sit down in a comfortable chair, eat as much junk food as I could stomach, and play video games until my brain rots? Neither am I, and that's pretty concerning!

Neither of them dignified that with a response.

Instead, they leaned closer, glaring daggers at each other over my head. I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be down one best friend already.

Which was a problem, because I kind of liked having both of them around.

So I did the only reasonable thing.

"Why not both?" I said brightly.

Two pairs of incredulous eyes swung toward me.

"You're joking," Ahsoka said flatly.

Maris's lips twitched. "He's not joking."

"Nope!" I grinned, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders like this was the start of some heroic team-up. "Think about it! Training and enlightenment! The best of both worlds. What could possibly go wrong?"

Judging by the way they continued glaring at each other over me, the answer was: everything. Maybe I'm not the best at this whole "mediating" thing. Should have paid more attention in our classes on it. Or at least looked it up on my own time.

But hey—for now, I was still the most popular kid in the Temple.

And I was going to milk that for all it was worth.

...​

If Maris Brood thought she could just swoop in and steal Ben away, Ahsoka decided, she had another thing coming.

Not that she would ever admit that's what it felt like.

No, she was just… looking out for him. That was all. Ben had the survival instincts of a tooka kitten in a rancor pit, and Maris was exactly the type to lure him into the shadows with a smirk and a secret. It wasn't jealousy. It was strategy. Protection.

…Probably.

The first skirmish in this silent war came during afternoon study. The Temple's archive halls stretched on forever, rows of glowing shelves and silent reading alcoves branching like arteries from the main chamber. Most initiates came here in groups, muttering about research assignments, but Ahsoka had always preferred training to studying. Which was exactly why she'd made the detour: Ben had been "disappeared" for hours, and she had a strong suspicion of where.

Sure enough, when she rounded a corner into one of the quiet nooks, there they were.

Ben sprawled on the floor with a datapad balanced on his chest, grinning at something he was reading. Maris perched cross-legged beside him, head bent close, her voice low and conspiratorial as she pointed to some passage. From a distance, they looked like two conspirators plotting galactic domination.

Oh, no. Not happening.

"Training time," Ahsoka announced, marching in as though she owned the place.

Ben blinked up at her, squinting against the light from the hallway. "Training?"

"Mandatory sparring drills." She hooked two fingers through his sleeve before he could protest. "You've been lazing around all day. Up."

Maris's dark eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. "He's reading."

"Reading doesn't block blaster bolts," Ahsoka shot back, her montrals tilting forward in defiance.

Ben's gaze darted between them, a flicker of mischief in his grin. He wasn't choosing sides. No, he was already figuring out how to milk this for attention.

"Ladies, ladies," he said with maddening ease. "Clearly there's enough of me to—"

"Up." Ahsoka yanked before he could finish.

He stumbled to his feet, laughter bubbling out of him as she towed him away. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy bossing me around, Snips."

"I call it saving your life," she muttered, refusing to glance back at the Zabrak girl still seated in the alcove, her glare sharp enough to pierce durasteel.

...​

Round two went to Maris.

It happened at the dining hall. The room was packed, as it always was during evening meal, chatter bouncing off the vaulted ceiling while the scent of spice bread and nerf stew drifted through the air.

Ahsoka had been right behind Ben, tray in hand, weaving between tables. They were almost at the counter when the door slid shut in her face.

Locked.

"What—?" She slapped the panel, but the controls stayed dead.

From inside, she caught a glimpse of Maris looking very pleased with herself as Ben turned at the sound of the door hissing shut.

"Ahsoka?" he called, his voice muffled through the door.

"I'm fine!" she shouted back, cheeks heating. Her montrals twitched in irritation.

There was a murmur of voices inside. A moment later, the door slid open just long enough for Ben to slip out, balancing not one but two trays in his arms.

He held one up like a prize. "Don't worry. I saved you a plate."

Ahsoka froze. It was… thoughtful. Annoyingly so. But behind him, she could see Maris's smirk, pure victory written across her face.

"Thanks," Ahsoka muttered, taking the tray before she dropped it in frustration.

Ben only grinned wider, oblivious to the silent battle raging just over his shoulder.

...​

The worst part? Ben loved every second of it.

Later, sprawled on the dormitory floor with crumbs of spice bread still clinging to his tunic, he leaned back on his elbows and said, "If Master Windu saw how adored I am, he'd have to lighten up. I mean, clearly I'm vital to Temple morale."

Ahsoka scoffed, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Vital nuisance, maybe."

He winked. "Same thing."

...​

Ahsoka wanted to dismiss Maris as reckless. Dangerous, even. She had this quiet intensity, this edge, that didn't belong in the Temple. It was the kind of thing that lured boys like Ben into shadows, where they could be tempted into trouble they didn't understand.

And yet… she had to admit, Maris was clever. Clever enough to push when it counted, clever enough to retreat when it made her look innocent.

And — Force help her — Maris made those all-black robes look good. The way they draped, the way she seemed to melt into the shadows. Could Ahsoka pull that off? Maybe. If she tried.

Not that she would.

Not for Ben.

Definitely not because she refused to let Maris Brood win.

This wasn't jealousy.

This was war.

...​

It started with four words that should have been my warning sign:

"Come on, it's safe."

Maris had that glint in her eyes — the one that meant either "I'm about to uncover forbidden knowledge" or "I'm about to get you expelled." Maybe both.

I dug in my heels as she tugged me along the dim corridor that led deeper into the Archives, away from the approved study halls and into the shadowed stacks I knew full well we weren't supposed to be anywhere near.

"Safe?" I whispered, glancing around like Master Yoda might drop out of a ventilation shaft at any second. He might. He has a tendency to do that.. "Safe? This is the restricted section. Master Jocasta Nu eats children for less."

Maris smirked over her shoulder. "She's with the Council. Some emergency meeting. Knight Kenobi just returned with his Padawan from a mission. Everyone's distracted."

"That doesn't make it safe," I muttered. "That makes it suicide. Do you know what happens if Master Jocasta finds us in here?"

"She lectures us?"

"She frowns at us," I corrected darkly. "The frown. The disapproving frown. I'd rather face a Sith Lord with a death wish than Jocasta Nu with that frown. Honestly, if anything's going to push her to the Dark Side, it's me."

Maris only rolled her eyes, sliding a hand over the security panel. The door chimed and, with a spark from some tool she'd smuggled in her sleeve, the lock gave way.

I stared at her. "Where did you even learn that?"

She only smiled, stepping inside like she'd just cracked open destiny itself.

So melodramatic… so cool.

The restricted stacks felt different from the rest of the Archives. Quieter. Colder. The glowstrips hummed at half-light, and the shelves stretched tall and ancient, filled with holocrons and dusty records sealed away from curious initiates like me.

Curious initiates like me… who were now following Maris into certain doom.

"This is where they keep the fun stuff," she whispered, scanning the shelves. You know? I think I miss her timidness. I'm a bad influence.

Actually, I'm perfect. Ahsoka's the bad influence.

"I'm going to die because of you," I muttered, trailing after her. "And when Jocasta mounts my skull on her desk as a warning, I hope you feel bad."

"Stop whining." She pulled a crystal case from the shelf, breath fogging the glass. "Here. Look."

Inside, a holo flickered to life — a recording of a Jedi in green robes, standing before a crowd. His accent was Corellian, rich and warm, and he spoke of balance, of roots, of a different way of walking the Jedi path.

"The Green Jedi," Maris whispered, reverence softening her usual sharpness. "Corellia's order. I didn't think they were actually real! No wonder they keep it in the Restricted Section.."

I squinted at the projection. "Green Jedi? What, do they blend in better on forest planets?"

She elbowed me, shushing. The holorecord expanded, images flashing: a Jedi council chamber not unlike Coruscant's, but smaller, earthier. Families seated in the galleries. Knights walking openly with partners and children. A sense of… community.

The narration explained what the images showed: a branch of the Jedi Order rooted in Corellia's traditions. Looser rules. Greater ties to their people. Attachments not forbidden, but celebrated.

I tried to make a joke, I really did. Something about "finally, an Order with a dating policy." But the words stuck in my throat.

Because for once, this didn't look like heresy or disaster.

It looked… normal.

Belonging.

Balance.

"Imagine it," Maris murmured, eyes drinking in the holo. "An Order without chains. Without Council lectures. Jedi with the freedom to live as they choose, not just survive under rules."

Her voice held that hungry edge, the kind I'd come to recognize. For her, this was about power. Strength in freedom. A way out from under the weight of tradition.

For me… it was different.

I stared at the holo, at the Jedi who looked proud to stand with his people instead of apart from them. And for the first time since coming here, I let myself think:

This… this actually sounds like a path that wouldn't eat me alive.

I forced a laugh, scratching the back of my neck. "Well. Guess I'd better start working on my résumé. Ben Kryze, future Green Jedi ambassador. I'll need new robes, though. Something stylish. Maybe a color other than beige. Or ten."

Maris smirked. "You'd look good in green."

"Please, I'd look good in anything." But the joke was weak, my grin too thin.

Because even as I spoke, I couldn't stop staring at that holo—couldn't stop wondering if this was what I'd been missing all along. Not freedom for its own sake. But a place where I could actually belong. I am so tired of having this crisis. Do I fit in, do I not? Can I make it work?

I have wanted for so long to be a Jedi. But almost half of what I say and do, tells me I can't be. But the way these guys think tells me I could be…. Whatever. It's just food for thought, right?

I'm never leaving the Order. My dad's here. My friends are here. More importantly, this is probably the one place in the entire galaxy I have a chance at saving said galaxy from a tyrannical empire.

Why leave?

...​

The archives were supposed to be quiet. Reverent, even. A place where the whispers of the past could be studied without interruption.

Which was why Ahsoka Tano very nearly exploded when she rounded the corner and found Ben and Maris sitting cross-legged on the floor of a clearly restricted wing, a holoprojector buzzing between them.

"Are you kidding me?"

Both of them jerked like younglings caught raiding the Temple kitchens. Maris snapped the projector off with a guilty flick, while Ben's face went through about six emotions before he settled on sheepish grinning.

"Ahsoka," Ben said, all faux innocence. "Fancy seeing you here. Did you come to, uh… study?"

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Restricted sections? Without permission? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you'd be in if Master Nu caught you here?"

Maris rose slowly to her feet, eyes narrow, voice calm in a way that only made it worse. "Relax, Tano. She's with the Council. No one's going to know."

"That's not the point!" Ahsoka snapped. "You dragged him into this!"

Ben opened his mouth, but before he could defend himself, Maris tilted her head. "I didn't drag him anywhere. He came because he wanted to."

That was the last straw.

Ahsoka's lightsaber snapped to life with a snap-hiss, green light spilling across the shelves. "You want to test that theory?"

Maris's hand darted to her belt, her own training saber igniting in a hiss of orange light. Her smirk was thin and sharp. "Gladly."

The clash of training blades rang out, filling the archive chamber. Sparks scattered off the polished floor as Ahsoka pressed the attack, strikes fast and forceful. Maris met her blow for blow, precise, almost surgical in her counters.

"Careful!" Ben called from the sidelines, half horrified, half entertained. He gestured dramatically to the shelves around them. "Those are priceless Jedi records you're about to set on fire. If Master Yoda asks, I wasn't here."

He muttered under his breath, but Ahsoka wasn't sure she got it. Weird. Her hearing is usually spot on. Of course, give y the lightsabers clashing, it might've slipped.

She's pretty sure he said something about: not wanting to rob the little pyromaniac of the pleasure. Just ask Luke about what happened to the Sacred Jedi Texts. Complete mystery what that meant.

Ahsoka's blade hissed past Maris's shoulder, close enough to ruffle the fabric of her robe. Maris countered with a low sweep that nearly knocked Ahsoka off her feet.

"This isn't about him," Ahsoka said, breath coming sharp between words, "it's about you breaking the rules—"

"Funny," Maris shot back, eyes flashing, "because it looks a lot like it's about him."

The training sabers locked, green and orange light colliding in a flare that cast both their faces in sharp relief. Neither of them gave ground.

Then the roar came.

It wasn't just sound—it was a quake, a tremor through the floor and shelves that made even the holoprojectors flicker.

Both Ahsoka and Maris froze, heads whipping toward the entrance.

Their Wookiee crèche master stood there, looming larger than life fangs bared in an expression of fury that needed no translation. Her roar reverberated again, making datapads rattle in their slots.

The sabers snapped off in unison. Ahsoka swallowed hard, her montrals ringing from the volume. She'd never been so relieved—or so terrified—that it wasn't Master Jocasta who had caught them.

Maris lowered her gaze with a picture of false innocence, though the tiny smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

Ahsoka's own heart hammered in her chest. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came. All she could do was bow her head in shame.

Ben raised his hand from the sidelines like a guilty conspirator in a schoolyard. "Uh… technically, I told them this was a bad idea?"

Master Tyyyvak roared again.

Ben coughed. "Right. Shutting up now."

...​

Later, after the scolding and dispersal, Ahsoka lay in her bunk staring at the ceiling, jaw tight. Maris had gotten away with too much. Ben was still cracking jokes, brushing it off like nothing mattered.

But she'd seen it — the flicker in his eyes when that holorecord had played. The way he couldn't stop looking at it. Something about those "Green Jedi" had struck deeper than his sarcasm admitted.

And it scared her.

...​

I was alone when I replayed the holo again.

The green-robed Jedi filled the projection, their voices calm, their words simple: family, community, freedom. Things that weren't supposed to belong to people like me.

I leaned back against the bunk, arms folded, trying to laugh it off. "Green's always been my favorite color anyway. Maybe because it's like the color of life. Or saving the environment. Not that there's much environment left to save on Coruscant."

Bit of a mute point, after you hollow out your own planet.

My smile tugged wry. "Or maybe I just like green because it's not basic blue. Or red. Or Jedi. Or Sith. It's something else. Something in between. Something that could actually work for me."

For a moment, I let myself believe it.

Then I shook my head, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to my own ears. "Or maybe I'm just overthinking it."

The holo dimmed, leaving only the dark.

And the thought lingered anyway.

Stupid brain.

...​

There, there, Ben.

We've all been there. Sometimes, it just feels like our brain doesn't want us to go to sleep.

For example, I couldn't sleep until I wrote the next chapter for this fic! What? You don't believe me? You honestly think I didn't stay up for the last eight hours to write twenty-thirty pages of the next chapter of this fic? Well, how dare you.

I didn't, but I did write the next chapter. And several more after. Feel free to read them on my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Ghostcraft19]

Interesting

 

[Radial]

The Kaminoan facilities were not actually sterile white.
They are isolationist and can see in the UV spectrum, so their facilities are colored in such.

Will Ben be exposing more dark force secrets?

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 12: Diplomatic Immunity

The air inside the Jedi Council chamber was cool and still, as though even the ventilation refused to disturb the weight of a dozen Masters deep in thought. The faint hum of the hologram projector filled the silence, an insistent reminder that there were questions left unanswered—chief among them: Kamino exists.

Obi-Wan stood in the center of the room, his cloak draped neatly, hands folded. He had long ago learned that posture mattered here. Straight back. Even breathing. Never fidget. He could have been mistaken for one of the chamber's statues if not for the flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes.

"The system was not missing," he concluded, keeping his tone steady. "It was… removed. Deliberately. And I believe I know why. The Kaminoans claim a Jedi—Master Sifo-Dyas, in fact—commissioned a project for the Republic eight years ago. They declined to say what it was."

Murmurs rippled among the Masters. Even Windu's calm mask faltered for a breath. Yoda's ears tilted downward, thoughtful, as though the words themselves carried dust from an old wound.

"Strange… this is," Yoda said at last. "Missing, Sifo-Dyas was. Long before such an order could be placed."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "Yes, Master. And the Kaminoans claim he was acting on behalf of the Council. They were… surprised we had not come sooner."

There was a heaviness in that silence that followed—an unspoken question no one wanted to answer: Who erased Kamino? And why?

Obi-Wan's composure never slipped, but his mind drifted. Sifo-Dyas, gone for a decade. A vanished world restored to record. Most days, such a mystery would have demanded his full attention. This was not most days. Thanks entirely, to the quiet ping from his datapad the night before—the holonet headline he hadn't expected to see in a lifetime:

DUCHESS SATINE KRYZE TO ADDRESS THE GALACTIC SENATE ON MANDALORE'S DEPARTURE.

The words had lingered like a whisper in the back of his thoughts ever since.

He realized belatedly that Mace Windu was speaking again.

"We'll need to confirm this with the Chancellor," Windu said, his gaze sharp. "The Senate should be informed that a project was commissioned in their name—and of the Jedi's supposed involvement."

"Agreed," Obi-Wan said automatically, the muscle memory of diplomacy saving him before his attention betrayed him.

"Much to uncover there is," Yoda added, his eyes narrowing slightly at Obi-Wan, as if reading more than words. "You have done well, Master Kenobi. Rest, you should."

The meeting adjourned soon after, Masters filing out with the same measured calm they always did—except for Anakin, who, as ever, moved with the faint impatience of a man convinced destiny was waiting outside the door.

When they reached the corridor, Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders. It did not help.

"So…" Anakin began, the grin already forming. "Kamino's a thing now."

"Indeed."

"And Sifo-Dyas commissioned… something."

"So it seems."

Anakin tilted his head, studying him. "You're awfully quiet for someone who just discovered a decade-long mystery. Usually you'd be halfway to giving me a lecture on the importance of research and investigation by now."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I have several concerns, Anakin, but I see no point in discussing them in the hallway."

Anakin smirked. "That's not what's bothering you, though."

"Really?"

"Really." He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "You've got that look again."

"What look?"

"The I've-seen-a-ghost-but-I'll-deny-it-to-my-grave look."

Obi-Wan's jaw tightened. "Anakin—"

"Come on, Master," Anakin pressed, grin widening. "Any old flames I should make sure not to bump into? Someone from the Mandalorian delegation, perhaps?"

Obi-Wan turned sharply to face him, the full force of Jedi composure barely masking exasperation. "Anakin."

"I'm just saying," Anakin continued, utterly unrepentant, "you do have a type. Refined, stubborn, probably owns a blaster. Very on-brand for you."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've been spending far too much time with Ben." A friendship that he now deeply regretted helping blossom. Why couldn't he be a sane and responsible sentient-being, and let the children argue for his attention?

"Maybe. But I'm not wrong."

Before Obi-Wan could retort, the chamber doors slid open again behind them. Mace Windu's voice carried out, calm but cutting.

"Master Kenobi, before you go—there's something you should know."

Both men turned as Windu approached, datapad in hand. "The Council has been informed that Duchess Satine Kryze will be speaking before the Senate this afternoon, concerning Mandalore's election to remain independent of the Galactic Republic."

Obi-Wan's throat went dry. He forced a nod. "I… see."

"We think you should attend," Windu continued. "You spent considerable time with her during the civil conflict on Mandalore. You understand her views better than anyone. If there's any indication Mandalore's neutrality is shifting—"

"You'll want to know at once," Obi-Wan finished, quietly.

Windu nodded. "Exactly." He glanced at Anakin. "Skywalker, you may accompany him. Discreetly."

"Of course," Anakin said, already biting back a grin.

When Windu departed, Anakin waited precisely three seconds before turning to his Master. "So," he said cheerfully, "the plot thickens."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "Anakin, I am not—"

"—in denial?"

"—discussing this."

"Right. Sure. You're just going to coincidentally attend a Senate session where your very old friend is giving a passionate speech about peace, and—"

"Enough." Obi-Wan's tone was calm, but his eyes carried the faintest plea. "Anakin, some matters are best left—"

"—unspoken?"

Obi-Wan exhaled. "Precisely."

They walked in silence for a time, the hum of speeders echoing faintly from the open-air balconies. But Anakin's grin refused to fade, and Obi-Wan's attempts at serenity were already failing when a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

Just beyond the corridor junction, half-hidden behind an ornamental pillar, a familiar mop of reddish hair peeked out. A pair of wide eyes watched him with unrestrained curiosity.

Ben.

The boy ducked back the instant their gazes met—far too quickly to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping.

Anakin noticed the motion and raised a brow. "Is that—?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said before Anakin could finish.

A beat.

"Should we—?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Anakin grinned again. "He's definitely plotting something."

"I am well aware," Obi-Wan muttered, rubbing at his temple. "Force help us all."

...​

There are three rules to any successful infiltration:

Confidence.

Preparation.

Absolutely no witnesses.

And I, naturally, had none of those.

"Step one," I muttered, jogging down the Temple corridor, cloak flapping behind me like I thought it made me stealthier. "Acquire disguise. Step two: don't get caught. Step three: charm the duchess—my aunt, who's actually my mom, but won't admit that—before Obi-Dad implodes and emotionally represses himself into a coma."

Ahsoka blinked at me from where she was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, montrals twitching in that way that meant she was already done with me. "Ben, you realize that sentence contained at least three crimes, right?"

"Four, technically," I said. "Impersonating a government employee is still a felony."

She groaned. "And yet you said that like it's a selling point."

"Of course it is! We're not doing anything illegal, we're doing something heroic."

"You're trying to sneak into the Senate to meet a politician you're not supposed to know is your mom."

"When you put it like that," I said, "you make it sound weird."

"It is weird."

"Exactly. Which means it's memorable."

Before she could protest, Maris Brood appeared like the little dark-side angel on my shoulder. Even though she wasn't actually that dark. I think the horns, and the hair, and the makeup just made her look a touch evil. Or goth. Her recent sense of dark humor probably didn't do her any favors. A little habit she picked up following me around.

Yet another sign of what an excellent role model I am. What? I'm being serious. It used to be that she was too shy to say a word. Now she's verbally abusive… in a good way.

Today she had her hood up and that smug smirk that could curdle blue milk.

"I heard something about crimes," she said sweetly. "Please tell me I didn't miss the planning phase again."

Ahsoka threw her hands up. "Oh, perfect. The chaos twins are assembling."

"Chaos trio," Maris corrected. "I'm senior co-founder."

Technically, we recruited her last, so if anything, me and Ahsoka are the co-founders. But I'll allow it. If only because I'm terrified of what my ranking in the totem poll will be if I say anything.

I grinned. "Glad you're here. We're breaking into the Senate."

"Finally."

Ahsoka just stared at us both like she was rethinking every friendship decision she'd ever made. "You're both going to get expelled."

"That's fine," I said cheerfully. "We'll start a freelance detective agency. 'Kryze, Tano, and Brood: Galactic Problem Solvers.'"

Maris nodded. "Sounds marketable."

"Terrifying," Ahsoka muttered.

...​

Attempt #1: Maintenance Apprentice.

Our first stop was the Temple's supply bay, where I found a mop, a rag, and a jumpsuit about two sizes too big. Ahsoka tried not to laugh when I tripped over the pant legs. Maris didn't bother trying.

"Ben," Ahsoka said, "the mop is taller than you."

"Height is a social construct," I argued, then immediately lost balance and fell into a cleaning droid.

The droid beeped in protest and shot a jet of soapy water at me. I screamed, tripped again, and face-planted into a bucket.

The Force was not with this disguise.

"Mission compromised," Maris deadpanned. "Agent down."

...​

Attempt #2: Delivery Boy.

After a quick towel-off, I reemerged in what I swore was a legitimate delivery uniform I'd found in storage. The logo said Galactic Grains, which sounded food-related enough.

Ahsoka looked at me skeptically. "What are you delivering?"

"Diplomatic pizza."

"There's no such thing as diplomatic pizza."

"There is now."

"You're going to get arrested."

"Correction," Maris said, "he's going to get arrested. We're going to laugh."

I ignored them and swaggered toward the Temple exit with a crate full of datapads that I was pretending were "pizza boxes." A Temple guard gave me one look and said, "You're not cleared for off-world transit."

I froze, panicked, then blurted, "Special order for the Senate cafeteria!"

He didn't even answer. Just hit the comm. Within thirty seconds, I was back inside and banned from the launch deck for "creative misuse of property."

...​

Attempt #3: Historian's Apprentice.

The third time, I went for subtlety.

Jedi Archives. Robe tucked neatly. Hair brushed. Glasses borrowed from a librarian droid for "academic legitimacy."

I even practiced saying "Hmm" in a scholarly way.

"Hmm."

Ahsoka squinted. "You look like you're about to assign homework."

"Perfect," I said. "That's authority."

Maris plucked a holobook from the shelf. "So what's the cover story this time?"

"Junior archivist," I said proudly. "Assigned to assist with data transfers to the Senate library."

Ahsoka frowned. "That's… actually believable."

"I know."

"Which means it's terrifying."

...​

We were halfway through loading datapads onto a repulsor cart when she appeared.

Master Jocasta Nu, the most terrifying librarian in the galaxy. Her footsteps were silent, but somehow her disapproval made a sound.

"Padawan Kryze," she said, tone sharp enough to slice through cortosis. "Explain."

Ahsoka and Maris both took a strategic step back, leaving me alone to face the execution squad.

"Uh… archival field trip?" I tried.

Her gaze traveled from my borrowed glasses to the repulsor cart to the datapads precariously stacked in alphabetical disorder.

She sighed. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that carries centuries of disappointment.

"If you're going to sneak into the Senate," she said finally, "at least cite your sources properly."

I blinked. "Wait. That's not a no?"

"It's an academic supervision," she said crisply. "You may assist with the database transfer under my oversight. Consider this your penance—and your lesson in subtlety."

Ahsoka gaped. "You're actually letting him go?"

"Knowledge," Jocasta said, "is best acquired through experience. Preferably under duress."

Maris grinned. "She's kind of my hero."

...​

By the time we reached the Temple hangar, I was sitting smugly atop the data cart in full "junior historian" regalia, complete with a stylus behind one ear.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you," I said.

Maris crossed her arms. "This is still going to crash and burn, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ahsoka said.

I smiled, glancing at the sky. "Then we're right on schedule."

...​

If you've never been inside the Galactic Senate, imagine a thousand overdramatic politicians floating in their own personal bubbles while yelling at each other through holograms. Then imagine it smells faintly of ozone and expensive perfume. That's the vibe.

I sat beside Master Jocasta Nu in the observation booth, trying very hard not to spin the chair. It was one of those fancy swivel kinds, and I could feel it testing my willpower.

Across from us, Ahsoka and Maris sat cross-legged on the floor beside the data cart, pretending to be responsible "assistants." They both looked about as enthralled as banthas at a moisture conference.

"Try to pay attention," Jocasta murmured without looking up from her datapad. "This is history in the making."

"Pretty sure most history in the making involves a lot of people talking about trade routes," I whispered back.

"Correct," she said primly. "And that is why historians, not heroes, preserve civilization."

Hard to argue with that, but I did anyway. "Yeah, but heroes get better theme music."

Ahsoka snorted loud enough to earn us a glare from Jocasta, who went back to note-taking.

That's when the Chancellor's booming voice filled the chamber. "The Senate recognizes the honorable Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore."

And suddenly, my heart forgot how to work.

She stepped into view on the central podium, draped in those flowing silver-blue robes I remembered from holonews broadcasts. Her hair was pinned up with the same elegant precision she used for her words. Every movement radiated control, composure, grace. She looked like the kind of person who could stare down an army and ask them to please reconsider their life choices.

And she was my mother.

Well. Secretly my mother. Officially my aunt. Unofficially the galaxy's most talented denier.

"Citizens of the Republic," she began, voice calm and clear. "Mandalore stands before you not as a threat, but as a testament to peace. We have rejected the path of war… and with that same dignity, we must now reject the Republic. We are formally declaring our independence, as the democracy we hold dear no longer exists in its current form..."

Even through the holoscreens and distance, her conviction hit like a shockwave. She wasn't just speaking; she was commanding belief.

And I felt proud.

Proud in that tight, aching way that only hurts because it's full of love. That's my mom. The woman who made me. The woman who made peace sound braver than battle. Which was pretty fucking impressive considering our culture.

Although, the fact that Mandalore was bailing on the Republic years before The Clone Wars happened was a tad bit alarming? Did I do this? Damn butterfly effect. Now how am I supposed to predict things?

"Hey," Ahsoka whispered beside me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I lied, eyes still locked on Satine. "Just… watching history in the making."

She gave me a small smile and squeezed my wrist. "Guess that's what historians do, huh?"

"Guess so."

...​

Padmé Amidala was the next to stand, her white gown practically glowing under the chamber lights. "The Republic should support Mandalore's autonomy," she declared. "If we truly stand for democracy, we must respect the right of a world to support it in whatever capacity they deem best."

She sounded righteous, confident, and extremely photogenic.

I squinted. How did she do that?

Like, no frizz, no sweat, no visible pores. I'd been in here ten minutes and already looked like I'd fought a small war with humidity.

Okay but seriously, how does everyone in this galaxy have perfect hair? Is it a Force thing? A midichlorian conditioner? Is that what Yoda's been hiding? Selfish little gremlin doesn't even have hair!

Across the chamber, Obi-Wan and Anakin sat in the diplomatic gallery. Obi-Wan looked dignified as always—polished beard, robe folded just so, hands clasped like he was pretending not to feel feelings.

And then there was Anakin.

Oh, Anakin.

The man was supposed to be a Jedi Padawan. Reserved, wise, but he was staring at Senator Amidala like she was the last power converter on Tatooine.

His entire face screamed crush. Like, not even subtle. Not "admiring a colleague" subtle. We're talking full-on romantic holodrama poster levels of yearning.

If this were a stealth mission, he'd have been spotted from orbit.

"Wow," I muttered. "He's subtle as a podracer explosion."

Ahsoka followed my gaze. Her expression went through all five stages of denial in about three seconds. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no."

"Yup," I said. "He's in loooove."

"Don't say it like that."

"He's in—"

"I will Force shove you off this balcony."

Maris snickered from behind us. "What are we looking at?"

"Forbidden romance," I said solemnly.

"Gross."

"Agreed," Ahsoka said, rubbing her temples. "Also potentially treasonous. Seriously, how is he this bad at hiding it?"

"Maybe the Jedi teach emotional suppression but skip 'acting natural in public.'"

Maris tilted her head. "She's older than him, right?"

"By like five years," I whispered. "Met him when he was nine."

Maris blinked. "…And we're sure he's the creepy one?"

"Huh… never thought about it that way, but yeah. Does seem a little suspicious. I mean, a crush is harmless enough, but if it's reciprocal… yeah, I don't know. Feels a little like grooming." I really, really didn't want to think about it that way.

But now it's all I can think about.

Ahsoka made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. "I can't believe you just said that."

"I'm just saying," I said. "Obi-Wan represses, Anakin obsesses, Satine digresses, and somehow I'm the normal one here." I really hate the fact that I couldn't think of an esses for Padmé's grooming. Possesses, perhaps?

Nah, too much alliteration.

"Force help us all," Maris muttered.

...​

Down below, the debate intensified. Senators shouted. Droids beeped. Satine stood her ground with calm dignity, parrying accusations like verbal lightsabers.

When the Chancellor called for recess, she bowed slightly and stepped down from the platform. The camera followed her as she exchanged polite words with Padmé and a handful of officials.

Then, for just a moment, the holofeed panned across the Jedi gallery.

And her eyes—those sharp, sapphire-blue eyes—flickered upward. Toward Obi-Wan.

It was less than a second. But I saw it.

Recognition. Warmth. Pain. All of it, packed into a single heartbeat.

Obi-Wan didn't move. Didn't even breathe.

But his hand twitched—just once, like a man reaching for a ghost he'd already let go.

And I understood.

That's what it meant to be a Jedi, right? To feel everything and pretend you didn't.

I looked back down at Satine. She'd already turned away, mask of composure firmly back in place.

"Step three," I murmured to myself, "charm the duchess before Obi-Dad implodes."

Ahsoka sighed. "You're really going through with it?"

"Of course," I said. "Someone's gotta reunite the galaxy's most emotionally constipated couple."

Maris smirked. "And you think you're the guy to do it?"

I flashed my best grin. "Nope. But I am the guy dumb enough to try."

...​

The Senate corridors always felt colder than the chambers themselves. The air hummed faintly with repulsorlift noise, a constant reminder that the Republic ran on sound and spectacle both. Obi-Wan walked beside Anakin in contemplative silence, his thoughts lingering on Satine's voice echoing through the hall minutes earlier—composed, brilliant, infuriatingly principled.

It had been years. Too many.

And now, she was here again.

"Master," Anakin drawled, sidling closer, "you've got that look again."

Obi-Wan sighed. "What look, exactly?"

"The brooding knight with unresolved feelings look."

"I do not brood."

Anakin grinned. "You absolutely brood. You've been brooding since she said 'Mandalore must remain independent.' Honestly, if you furrow your brow any deeper, I'll start storing spare tools in there."

Obi-Wan gave him the sort of patient look only years of mentorship could cultivate. "You seem unusually invested in my facial expressions, Anakin. Should I be concerned?"

"Just making conversation."

"Indeed."

The exchange might've continued, had the universe not taken pity on Obi-Wan by presenting the very woman he least wished to encounter under his Padawan's scrutiny.

Satine Kryze stepped out from a side corridor, surrounded by two aides and that effortless aura of calm defiance. Her gown caught the light like the surface of a river—refined, understated, and unmistakably her.

Anakin blinked. "Huh. So that's her."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan warned.

"I'm just saying! She's got presence."

"Anakin."

"Alright, alright, I'll shut up. You're welcome."

Obi-Wan exhaled through his nose, composed himself, and offered a polite bow. "It's good to see you again, my lady."

Satine's lips curved into a faint smile. "It's been far too long, Master Kenobi."

"Too long," he echoed softly.

For a moment, words failed both of them. The hum of droids, the shuffle of aides, and Anakin's visible smirk filled the silence.

"So…" Anakin began, leaning in with that grin that could light a reactor. "Should I leave you two alone or start planning the wedding seating chart?"

Satine's blue eyes narrowed like a blaster sight. "You must be Skywalker."

"Guilty."

"Your reputation precedes you."

"Good things, I hope?"

Her tone turned ice-cool. "Not particularly."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, the very picture of restraint. "Anakin, perhaps you could go… anywhere else."

"Right, right. Give the star-crossed lovers some privacy."

"Anakin."

He was gone before Obi-Wan could scold him further, leaving behind only the faint echo of a chuckle and the distinct impression that this would somehow end up in the Council gossip network within the hour.

Satine tilted her head. "He's rather incorrigible."

"He is," Obi-Wan agreed, smiling despite himself. "But he means well. Most of the time."

"Reminds me of someone," she said, her gaze softening.

"Surely not."

The air between them shifted—lighter for a heartbeat, then heavier with all that had gone unsaid since their last parting. Satine's poise wavered, just enough to show the emotion beneath.

"Tell me," she began quietly, "is he well?"

Obi-Wan blinked. "Anakin?"

She gave a faint, frustrated laugh. "Ben."

Ah. Of course.

The question landed with all the force of memory—the boy's quick wit, his unguarded curiosity, his talent for being exactly where he shouldn't be.

"He's thriving," Obi-Wan said gently. "His instructors speak highly of him. As do his peers, when he isn't getting them into trouble."

"That sounds about right."

"He misses you, I think," Obi-Wan added, then caught himself. "Though I'm sure he would say otherwise."

Her smile was small, fragile around the edges. "And… does he know?"

"About you? Not entirely… though, he certainly has his suspicions." A disturbingly accurate theory, as a matter of fact, given that he's determined with no uncertainty that Obi-Wan was his father.

She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried years of decisions and regrets. "We both know there'd come a day when we told the twins the truth. They more than deserve it."

"And they will have it," Obi-Wan said. "When they're ready. When we're ready."

For a long moment, they simply stood there—two diplomats of different creeds, bound by a secret larger than either could admit aloud.

"I hoped…" she sighed, with a small smile. "I'm not sure what I hoped. That he'd be with you, perhaps? It's been a long time since I've heard from him. It's been ages since…"

Obi-Wan's mouth twitched. "Since he's written to you."

"He's told you?!"

"Not exactly." He confessed. "But I have seen the letters. Only I have seen them. The Order would… It's not precisely forbidden to send messages, but… we don't want our initiates to get the wrong ones, if you take my meaning."

Satine gave him a look that was part gratitude, part scolding. "You always did know how to bend rules when sentiment was involved."

"Don't tell the Council."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

He almost smiled again. Almost. "He's grown, Satine. Restless. Sharp. A touch dramatic, if I'm being honest."

"That would be your influence."

"Unfair."

"Accurate."

They'd begun walking again, more by instinct than intent, their words weaving through the tension like old music. And then Obi-Wan, with all the subtlety of a master manipulator disguised as a model Jedi, guided them toward a marble pillar near the outer corridor.

"I wish I could see him," Satine murmured. "Just once, even if he still has to call me his aunt."

"I'm afraid that's difficult," Obi-Wan replied, feigning regret. "The Temple is… particular about Mandalorian visitors around our younglings."

"Of course."

"Still," he continued lightly, checking his wrist comm with exaggerated distraction, "I'm suddenly reminded of a report I must file. Urgently."

She blinked. "Now?"

"Diplomatic matters wait for no one, my lady."

And with that, he gave a courtly half-bow, stepping away—though not before casting a sidelong glance toward the pillar behind which a certain tiny, impatient shadow was trying very hard not to breathe.

Obi-Wan pretended not to see him.

As he turned the corner, he heard it—the faint intake of breath, the tremble of disbelief in Satine's voice.

"Ben?"

"Hi, Aunt Satine," came the sheepish, cracking whisper.

Obi-Wan smiled to himself as he walked off, letting the moment belong to them. For once, he would allow himself a secret—one the Council needn't ever know.

And perhaps, just this once, the galaxy could spare him a happy coincidence.

...​

You ever have one of those days where you're too tired to think, but your brain insists on thinking anyway?

That was me.

I was lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling lights that dimmed themselves automatically at curfew, trying not to feel too pleased with myself. I technically did make it into the Senate. That counted as a win, right? Sure, Jocasta had technically "invited" me, but I'd been halfway through Operation Totally Accidental Encounter long before she caught me.

Ahsoka would call that "bending the truth."

I called it "creative interpretation."

"Ben," she said from the next bunk over, "you're still awake."

"Nope."

"Then how are you answering me, Ben?"

I sighed. "Can't a guy talk in his sleep without being judged?"

"You're going to get caught one of these days."

"Only if I stop being awesome first."

She groaned and rolled over, muttering something about meditation practice and impending disaster. Ahsoka had gotten very good at predicting my disasters. It was starting to feel like a Force power.

I grinned up at the ceiling, but it faded fast. The smile, not the ceiling. That was still there.

I was the one starting to fade. Because behind all the jokes and half-baked disguises, the debonair, couldn't care attitude, the thing I couldn't stop thinking about wasn't the Senate or the speech. It was her.

Satine.

My… mother. Or "Aunt Satine," as the official record—and she—preferred.

Force, that word felt weird now. Aunt. Like she just occasionally sent me Life Day cards and polite reminders not to eat unpasteurized jogan cheese. Not like the woman who'd risked everything to keep Korkie and me safe.

When I saw her on that platform today—calm, radiant, commanding the attention of thousands like she was born for it—I felt…

Proud.

And tiny.

Like watching a star from orbit. Beautiful, but way too far to touch.

And when she saw me after—when Obi-Wan accidentally left us alone in that corridor—Force, it all fell apart.

She'd frozen at first, like her mind couldn't quite process it. Then she just… dropped all that duchess poise in one motion and pulled me into the biggest hug in the galaxy.

No speeches. No royal restraint. Just warmth and tears and that familiar perfume that somehow smelled like Mandalorian steel and peace lilies.

I think we both said the same thing at the same time.

"I missed you."

I'm not sure which one of us meant it more.

She asked if I was happy. If I was safe. If the Jedi were treating me well.

I said yes to all three. Mostly true answers, if you didn't count the parts where I regularly broke curfew, trespassed in restricted archives, and emotionally blackmailed Anakin into teaching me advanced saber forms behind Obi-Wan's back.

But seeing her cry—actually cry—did something weird to my insides.

Jedi aren't supposed to form attachments. And yeah, I'd tried to live by that. Tried to be what I was supposed to be. But it turns out, it's really hard to meditate away the part of you that wants to be hugged by your mom.

Even now, lying here, I could still feel it. That ache in my chest that meditation didn't fix. I turned onto my side, to try and get more comfortable. Didn't help. I sighed, "Following the Light Side is hard."

Across the room, Ahsoka mumbled sleepily, "Then stop doing dumb stuff."

"Never."

"Then stop complaining."

"…Also never."

She groaned again and buried her head under the blanket. I smiled.

But it didn't last long.

Because once my mind started spinning, it never stopped. I thought about Satine's speech again—the way she'd stood there and said Mandalore wouldn't take sides. The courage it took to tell a galaxy full of war-hungry senators to shove it, politely.

I admired that.

Not because I agreed with her pacifism—Force, no, I was a sucker for a good lightsaber duel—but because she refused to play by Palpatine's game.

She stood there and said, "No. We'll be our own thing."

And that… hit me.

Because, honestly? I kind of wanted to be like that. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Not some political pawn with a cool robe and a list of commandments. Maybe I was a "third option" kind of guy.

The 'Fuck Both Your Factions' Faction.

I chuckled softly to myself. "Vote Kryze 5 BBY: Peace Through Mild Anarchy."

Ahsoka stirred. "What are you talking about… and what's BBY supposed to stand for?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep before I start a movement."

"Ben, if you start a movement again, I'm telling Master Obi-Wan."

"That was one time!"

"The Temple fountain still smells like fruit syrup."

"Creative expression!"

"Sticky rebellion."

I threw a pillow at her bunk. She threw it back with twice as much Force-enhanced velocity. Fair play.

Silence fell again, save for the quiet hum of the Temple's night generators.

I stared at the ceiling until it blurred.

So much had happened lately—Kamino, Satine, Obi-Wan being weirdly tense all week, Anakin acting like a lovesick space cadet, and me, stuck somewhere between all of it.

Sometimes I felt like the galaxy was moving faster than I could catch up. Other times, I felt like it was waiting on me to make a move. That's a dangerous feeling for someone like me. Because I will make a move.

Eventually. Just… maybe not tonight. I'm tired, after all. Could use some sleep.

I'll conquer the galaxy tomorrow.

...​

Procrastination. Truly, you are the enemy of progress.

Still, things are going to get very exciting, very quickly. Stay tuned! Or, if you'd prefer, feel free to read ahead on my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

Knowledge," Jocasta said, "is best acquired through experience. Preferably under duress."

Click to shrink...

Infiltration training

Maris grinned. "She's kind of my hero."

Click to shrink...

Lib-rar-ians Fuk yeah!

Unofficially the galaxy's most talented denier.

Click to shrink...

Windu: I deny plebeian lightsaber colours.
I deny you the position of master.
I deny anything will go wrong arresting the Sith Supreme Chancellor in the middle of the night without telling anyone.

Alas, Unlimited power

esses for Padmé's grooming

Click to shrink...

Dresses

no frizz,

Click to shrink...

Tresses

Nah, too much alliteration.

Click to shrink...

Yesses

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 13: Field Trip to Nowhere

The holoprojector flickered to life with its usual soft hum, bathing the Chancellor's private office in pale blue light. Three figures coalesced in the air before his desk—Masters Yoda, Windu, and Ti—each standing at perfect attention, each a portrait of Jedi composure.

How odd. He could have sworn Shaak Ti was dead. Ah, well. Perhaps it was just a part of one his visceral fantasies about slaughtering the entire Jedi Order.

Palpatine smiled warmly, steepling his fingers. "Masters. What an unexpected pleasure. I trust the Council has reached some clarity regarding Master Kenobi's discovery?"

"Clarity," Windu said, his tone clipped, "is precisely what we lack."

The Chancellor's brow furrowed in concern, the picture of empathy. Inside, however, he was nearly humming with satisfaction.

Yoda inclined his head, eyes half-closed in thought. "The world of Kamino, erased from our archives it was. Rediscovered, now. Curious… and troubling."

"Most troubling," Palpatine agreed. "An entire star system wiped from record? Why, it's unthinkable. The sort of crime that undermines the very trust the Republic places in its institutions."

The Masters exchanged looks. Even through the distortion of the hologram, Palpatine could feel Windu's scrutiny. That one never relaxed. Though, not without reason, Palpatine could admit.

"It seems," Shaak Ti said carefully, "that the Kaminoans were under the impression a Jedi ordered something on behalf of the Republic—eight years ago. The late Master Sifo-Dyas."

Palpatine feigned surprise, just a heartbeat too late for it to seem rehearsed. "Sifo-Dyas? But… hasn't he been missing long before then?"

"He was," Windu replied. "That's what concerns us."

The Chancellor sat back, letting the silence breathe. In truth, he'd already heard the news from other sources—long before this meeting. His contacts on Kamino had warned him that the Order had taken renewed interest. The timeline had been accelerated, and that, he did not like.

He needed patience. The Grand Plan depended on it.

"Well," he said finally, smoothing his tone into something gentle and fatherly. "Surely there's some mistake. A clerical error, perhaps? I understand even the Jedi archives aren't infallible."

"Removed, this world was," Yoda said gravely. "Deliberately."

Palpatine's expression froze just long enough to seem appropriately alarmed. "Removed? By whom?"

"That is what we intend to find out," Windu said. "But we believed the Senate should be informed. The Kaminoans claim the project was commissioned on behalf of the Republic. If true, that places this squarely under your authority, Chancellor."

"Ah," Palpatine murmured, placing a hand over his heart, "I see. And what, may I ask, was commissioned?"

The three Masters exchanged another glance. Shaak Ti shook her head. "They declined to say."

A pause.

A perfect pause.

Palpatine let his features soften into something halfway between concern and confusion. "Then it seems we are all in the dark. How regrettable. Still, I'm grateful for your diligence, Masters. Please, keep me informed of any new developments. The Republic must remain vigilant in such uncertain times."

Yoda bowed his head. "Informed, you shall be."

"Thank you," Palpatine said smoothly. "And please—convey my personal appreciation to Master Kenobi. His vigilance does the Order proud."

He meant every word.

Just not in the way they thought.

The holograms flickered out, leaving the office in darkness save for the ambient glow of Coruscant beyond the windows. The Chancellor sat in silence for several long moments, staring at the empty air where the Jedi had stood.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

Kamino. Rediscovered ahead of schedule. His army, his masterpiece, revealed before the galaxy was ready. It was a problem—but not an insurmountable one. If anything, it was a reminder that he would need to accelerate other parts of his design.

Pieces were moving. Some faster than expected.

He rose from his chair and drifted toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, the city's endless sprawl reflected in his eyes. Below, the speeder traffic formed golden rivers between the towers—so small from this height, so easily guided with a nudge here and a push there.

The Jedi were proud of their detachment, their wisdom. But they were still children on the board. He'd already placed his hand on the next generation—one boy in particular.

Anakin Skywalker.

A bright flame, too bright. Left unattended, it would burn itself out. But in the right hands…

He would have to be careful now. The boy's loyalty was still tethered to Kenobi, and that grated more than he cared to admit. That man—that smug, self-righteous creature—had stolen more than one prize from him over the years. First his apprentice. Now his replacement.

For a moment, his smile faltered, and the warmth drained from his face entirely.

From what he's been told, Master Kenobi has been training the boy well. A fine stand in for the late Master Qui-Gon Jinn—which was at least one thing Maul got right. He couldn't imagine how burdensome it would be to corrupt the young Padawan under the Maverick Jedi's careful watch.

If only his late apprentice could have finished the job.

The thought curdled like venom in his mind.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. The perfect Jedi. The Republic's golden son. Always calm, always composed, always in the way. He'd been there on Naboo, too—he remembered that moment clearly. When the flames died down, when the apprentice he'd spent years shaping lay in pieces down the bottom of a reactor shaft, it was Kenobi's blade that had done it.

There would be a reckoning for that.

But not yet.

No, the galaxy was still fragile, still malleable. The Confederacy's shadow was still spreading, and fear was the soil in which power grew. His army must remain a secret until the moment it was needed. Until the Senate begged for protection. Until the Jedi themselves came to him for salvation.

Only then would the galaxy see what he had built in its name.

He turned back to his desk, activating the console with a flick of his hand. A dozen encrypted messages awaited, each from a different corner of his web—Kamino, Geonosis, Serenno. He skimmed them briefly, his mood cooling into something like satisfaction.

The plan would endure. The plan always endured.

And when the time came, when the galaxy cried out for order, it would be his voice—gentle, reassuring, inevitable—that answered.

He paused, gaze drifting once more to the cityscape outside his window. Billions of lights glittered in the distance, and for a moment they almost looked like stars.

"The galaxy forgets nothing," he murmured, the faintest smile curling his lips. "It only waits to remember… at the right time."

The window dimmed as the office lights came back online, and with them, the mask of the Chancellor returned—warm, weary, and oh so human.

...​

There are bad classes.

And then there's this class.

Now, naturally, I am a perfect, civil, and prestigious member of the Jedi Order. Renowned for my ability to follow rules, and my adherence to our code. So I, certainly, have never experimented with the Dark Side of the Force.

But if I did, this is what it would feel like—slow, endless, and entirely devoid of mercy.

"Now, if you turn to page three-hundred and twelve," drones the instructor — a tall, paper-dry Togruta with the energy of a damp towel — "you'll find the full breakdown of Senate Appropriations for the Mid-Rim Relief Fund. Please note that all requisition requests above fifty-thousand credits must first be cleared by the Subcommittee on Planetary Infrastructure."

My eyes glaze over faster than a carbonite door.

I've faced sparring drones that move faster than this lecture. I've meditated through hour-long chants about the "inner calm of the outer self." But nothing — nothing — in this galaxy prepared me for Jedi Temple Civics 203: "A Comprehensive Overview of Republic Bureaucracy."

I lean forward on my desk, whispering under my breath. "If I wanted to suffer this much, I'd have stayed in the womb."

Ahsoka doesn't even look at me. "Focus, Ben."

"I am focusing," I whisper back. "On how to escape this mortal coil." And on how to reincarnate into someone less miserable the next time I win the Isekai lottery.

On my other side, Maris is pretending to take notes, but the faint flick-flick of her stylus tells a different story. She's sketching. I glance over. It's a vibroblade — blood grooves, runes, the whole deal. The blade even has a little cartoon skull on the hilt. Subtle.

"Nice," I whisper. "When do we submit those for grading?"

She smirks, not looking up. "When I finish drawing the blood."

I decide not to ask if she means metaphorically.

"—and that concludes Section VII of Senate Appropriations," says the instructor, pausing as if to let that sink in.

It does not.

Something in me just… snaps.

I raise my hand. "Question."

The instructor sighs. "Yes, Initiate Kryze?"

"Why?"

Ahsoka immediately buries her face in her hands.

"Why… what?" the instructor asks, warily.

"Why are we learning this?" I spread my arms. "I mean, if I wanted to know how to fill out tax forms, I'd just get a job in the Senate. No offense to the fine people keeping the Republic fiscally solvent, but I joined the Jedi Order to move stuff with my mind, not memorize Section VII, Subparagraph Nine."

Maris snorts audibly. Ahsoka kicks me under the desk.

The instructor's eye twitches. "Because, Initiate, understanding governance is essential to understanding the Republic we serve."

"Couldn't we just… visit the Republic we serve?" I counter. "Field trip style. You know — experiential learning."

"That is not how the curriculum is structured."

"Then the curriculum's wrong."

There's a low ripple of laughter through the class. Somewhere behind me, a Nautolan whispers, "He said it!"

The instructor inhales through her teeth. "If you're so eager for a 'field trip,' perhaps you'd enjoy spending the rest of this session in silent meditation."

"Sounds great," I say cheerfully, standing up. "Best learning happens in the field, after all."

Ahsoka groans. "He's doing the thing again."

Maris grins. "He's definitely doing the thing again."

...​

Fast forward twenty minutes, and "the thing" is in full swing.

The lecture hall is a memory. The corridors hum with the Temple's soft, ever-present energy — tranquil, dignified, boring. Perfect for covert operations.

"All right," I whisper, pressing myself against a wall as a group of younglings shuffle past. "Phase One: Evade detection."

Ahsoka sighs. "Phase One was supposed to be: don't get expelled."

"Semantics," I whisper.

Maris disables a nearby security cam with a flick of her fingers, the Force shorting its lens with a satisfying bzzt. "Phase One complete."

I grin. "Phase Two: Acquire snacks and transportation."

"You mean we're actually doing this?" Ahsoka asks, crossing her arms.

"Of course. Think of it as… civic engagement. Hands-on learning. Expanding our awareness of the galaxy."

Maris's grin widens. "Or, in plain Basic—playing hooky."

"Exactly."

Ahsoka gives me that look — half amusement, half exasperation — that says she's already decided she'll regret this but is too loyal to say no. "You know the last time you said 'trust me,' we ended up in a restricted hangar bay?"

"Yes," I say solemnly. "And did we, or did we not, learn something valuable that day?"

"That the hangar guards don't have a sense of humor."

"Exactly!"

She rubs her temples. "Force help me."

"Already does. It introduced us, didn't it?" I ask with a grin, peeking around the corridor corner. "Come on. The Temple's practically begging us to explore. You can't just teach Jedi kids to use telekinesis and expect us not to use it."

"Master Yoda says discipline is the foundation of wisdom," Ahsoka says primly.

"Master Yoda also said that about not eating dessert before dinner," I counter.

"That's not—wait, did he?"

"Probably. He's like, what, nine hundred? I assume he's said everything by now."

Maris snorts. "This is the best class I've ever taken."

I motion them forward. "Then congratulations, you've just enrolled in Advanced Civic Studies, Jedi Edition."

We slip through a maintenance door leading toward the outer corridors. I've been through these halls enough to look confident, which is ninety percent of leadership anyway. Never mind that I have no idea where this particular passage leads.

It's fine. The Force provides. Or, failing that, I improvise.

The air grows cooler as we descend, the Temple's serenity fading into the hum of Coruscant's infrastructure — faint echoes of repulsorlifts, muffled voices, the thrum of the city below.

Ahsoka glances back over her shoulder. "You're sure this isn't going to get us in trouble?"

"Of course not," I say confidently, even as I'm pretty sure that's exactly what's going to happen. "It's educational. Cultural. Enlightening."

Maris grins. "And illegal."

"Only if we get caught."

Ahsoka exhales. "You're impossible."

"Thanks," I say. "It's my best quality."

We reach a side exit — one of the smaller ones used by maintenance crews and temple droids. Maris waves a hand, and the lock clicks open with a faint hiss. Beyond it, a narrow bridge leads out into the open air of Coruscant's endless skyline — speeder traffic flowing in gleaming rivers below.

The galaxy sprawls before us.

Ahsoka shakes her head, fighting a smile. "You're really serious about this."

"Completely," I say. "Come on. How often do Jedi Initiates get to see real people?"

Maris smirks, stepping past me onto the bridge. "Where to, fearless leader?"

"Oh, I have something very special in mind."

...​

I had absolutely nothing in mind.

Zero. Nada. Not a single neuron firing in the strategic part of my brain.

But did I let Ahsoka or Maris know that? Of course not. Leadership, as I've learned, is ninety percent confidence and ten percent pretending you know where you're going.

We wove through Coruscant's mid-level walkways, surrounded by a steady stream of repulsorcraft and the ever-present scent of fried oil and ozone. The Temple was long behind us now—both physically and morally. I told myself this was all part of the plan. A "practical civic excursion." Experiential learning. A lesson in… urban navigation.

Mostly it was a lesson in not admitting we were completely lost.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Ahsoka asked, glancing up at another neon sign written in some dialect I definitely didn't recognize.

"Absolutely," I said confidently. "We're just… taking the scenic route."

"Scenic," Maris repeated, kicking at a loose piece of scrap metal. "This level smells like it lost a bet with a sewage plant."

"Smells like adventure," I corrected.

"Smells like burnt copper and fried oil," Maris countered.

She wasn't wrong. The lower we went, the thicker the air got—speeder exhaust, food stands, the metallic tang of moisture vaporators. Holoads flickered on the sides of towers, half of them advertising things I was pretty sure the Jedi Code forbade. Ahsoka's eyes were wide, darting everywhere—like a kid seeing a carnival for the first time.

"This is amazing," she murmured. "All these people, all these lights…"

"Yeah," I said softly, watching her expression. "Whole galaxy out here, huh?"

She nodded, her montrals twitching as if picking up the hum of the crowds. "We spend so much time in the Temple, sometimes I forget how alive the city is."

"Alive and probably contagious," Maris muttered.

I was about to reply when Maris's stomach growled loud enough to startle a passing droid. She glared down at it. "Don't you dare."

"Hungry?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I could eat," she said.

"You always could eat," Ahsoka teased.

"Well, excuse me for having a high metabolism," Maris shot back. "Zabraks are carnivores, you know? You should know, Togruta are too, technically. So, if we don't find food soon, one of you is going on the menu."

I stopped dead. "Noted. Field trip ends at the nearest diner."

Scanning the street, my gaze landed on a very familiar sign.

Bright neon letters blinked through the haze.

DEX'S DINER.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that sign. I knew that sign.

"Oh. Oh, this is perfect," I said, grinning like an idiot.

Ahsoka raised a brow. "You know this place?"

"Uh… I've heard of it," I said quickly. Internally, I was screaming. I watched Attack of the Clones. I know this diner. This is where Obi-Wan gets his plot delivered in sandwich form!

Maris eyed me. "You're smiling. That's never a good sign."

"It's fine," I said, already leading the way across the street. "It's wholesome. Iconic. Delicious. Totally not an integral story location in another life."

"Another what?" Ahsoka asked.

"Another… uh, layer of Coruscant," I said quickly.

The diner was just as I remembered it—or, well, filmed it. Retro booths, chrome counters, and a faint haze of cooking oil that had probably been there since the High Republic. The air smelled like caffeine, grease, and unspoken life choices.

We slid into a booth by the window. A service droid zipped over, its photoreceptors flickering. "Welcome to Dex's Diner. Table for three?"

"Please and thank you," I said, collapsing into the seat.

"Very good, sir," the droid said, clearly unimpressed.

The door jingled behind us, and a booming voice filled the diner.

"By the stars—you're a Kenobi!"

I froze. Oh no.

The voice came from behind the counter—a massive Besalisk with four arms, a grease-stained apron, and a grin big enough to eclipse a pod racer. Dexter Jettster himself.

Every neuron in my brain screamed: deny, deny, deny.

"I don't know who that is!" I blurted. "I'm… Ben… uh… Keno B!"

What the hell is wrong with me? My last name isn't even Kenobi! It's Kryze. Ugh. Where's an assassin to put you out of your misery when you need one.

Ahsoka choked on her own breath. Maris slammed a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh.

Dex squinted, one of his four hands adjusting his goggles. "Keno B, huh? You sure 'bout that? You got the same nose, same eyes—just smaller."

"No relation!" I said quickly. "Totally unrelated! Probably a coincidence of the Force!"

Maris lost it. Ahsoka joined her a second later, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink when the droid brought it over.

Dex chuckled. "Heh. Don't worry, kid. If you say you're not a Kenobi, that's fine by me. You look like you could use a burger."

"Several," Maris said.

"Coming right up!" Dex disappeared into the kitchen.

Ahsoka was still giggling when she turned back to me. "Ben Keno B, huh?"

"I panicked," I hissed. "It just came out."

Maris smirked. "That's what she said."

I gave her a flat look. "Really?"

She sipped from her water. "What? It's a valid observation."

Dex lumbered over with three enormous nerf-burgers and a tray of milkshakes so blue they practically glowed. "On the house. Don't tell the Council."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, already half in love with the burger.

Ahsoka poked at hers skeptically. "What's in this?"

"Courage," I said through a mouthful. "And sodium."

Maris took a bite and let out a small, feral growl of satisfaction. "Okay, this was a good idea."

I raised a finger. "See? I told you—field learning. Civic studies through gastronomy."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

...​

As we ate, Dex leaned against the counter, watching us with an amused grin. "Haven't seen Temple kids down here in a long while. Usually you lot stay up there in the clouds."

"Research trip," I said quickly.

He snorted. "Sure. And I'm a Jedi Master."

He looked us over, eyes softer now. "You kids got it good up there, don't get me wrong. But down here? Real folks don't need Jedi telling them to be calm or 'find the Light.' They need someone to listen."

That landed harder than I expected.

I fiddled with my straw. "I listen great," I said lightly. "Selectively."

Dex chuckled. "Yeah, you look the type."

But behind the humor, there was something real. The diner noise faded a bit as I watched him move back behind the counter, chatting with a customer, wiping down a table. A big, greasy, good-hearted man keeping this little corner of the galaxy turning while the rest of it spun apart.

Ahsoka noticed too. "He's right, you know," she said softly. "Most people just want someone to care."

"Yeah," I murmured. "But I'm still ordering dessert."

Maris grinned. "That's the spirit."

...​

By the time we finished, the glow outside had dimmed to Coruscant's version of twilight — which meant the lights were slightly less blinding. The city pulsed with movement, ships streaking overhead like comets, people hurrying through the haze.

Dex waved us off with a wink. "Come back anytime, Jedi or no. And tell your dad he still owes me twenty credits."

"I don't have a dad!" I called back, dragging Ahsoka and Maris toward the door before he asked which Master.

The night air hit us, heavy and buzzing with energy.

Ahsoka exhaled, looking around. "That… was kind of amazing."

"See? Best bad idea ever," I said.

Maris adjusted her robe. "I don't know what's more surprising — the food, or that we haven't been arrested yet."

"Yet," I repeated. "Keyword."

She smirked. "What's Phase Three?"

"Get back to the Temple without anyone noticing."

Ahsoka sighed. "So… impossible."

"Exactly," I said, smiling as I looked out at the city below.

For a moment, we stood there — three Jedi kids, surrounded by a galaxy too vast to understand, lights gleaming like stars we could almost touch.

And maybe Dex was right. Maybe the galaxy didn't need heroes or warriors all the time. Maybe it just needed someone to listen.

But that sounded dangerously close to introspection.

So instead, I said, "First one back pays for the next field trip."

And before Ahsoka could protest, I vaulted off the bridge rail and dove into the night.

...​

For someone supposedly "trained in patience," Ahsoka Tano's first instinct was to scream.

Ben had jumped. Just—jumped. Off the bridge. Into Coruscant traffic.

"Is he insane?" she shouted.

"Undiagnosed!" Maris replied, already leaning over the railing. "He's falling!"

"No—he's enjoying this!"

Ahsoka could feel it through the Force—Ben's reckless thrill, the giddy spin of his thoughts, the utter lack of survival strategy. His version of peace was free-falling through death traps. Hers was not.

She and Maris exchanged a look, and then—simultaneously—they reached out through the Force.

Ben's fall stopped halfway down. He hung there, flailing midair.

"Hey! No fair!" he shouted up. "That was going to be a symbolic exit!"

Maris rolled her eyes. "Symbolic of what? Your bad decisions?"

"Freedom!" he yelled back.

Ahsoka sighed. "Get back up here, genius."

They lifted him effortlessly, setting him back on the platform with a thud. He brushed off his robes, clearly offended. "You two are ruining my heroic arc."

"Your heroic arc can wait until after we don't get arrested," Ahsoka muttered.

As if summoned by irony, a mechanical chirp cut through the air.

A patrol droid floated up beside them, its photoreceptors glowing red. "IDENTITY CONFIRMED. JEDI INITIATES DETECTED BEYOND AUTHORIZED BOUNDARY. PLEASE REMAIN STATIONARY FOR ESCORT TO TEMPLE."

Ahsoka groaned. "Ben."

He blinked innocently. "What?"

"This is your fault."

"That's harsh," he said, stepping subtly between them and the droid. "I'd call it… an unforeseen opportunity."

"For what?" Maris asked.

"For learning!"

Then he turned and sprinted toward a nearby line of parked speeders.

"BEN!" Ahsoka shouted.

He didn't look back. "Trust me!"

"Never again!"

But by the time she caught up, he was crouched over the control panel of a small two-seat rental speeder, muttering something about "primitive security design." Sparks flew, a wire popped loose—and somehow, impossibly, the speeder roared to life.

The patrol droid advanced. "ILLEGAL VEHICLE TAMPERING DETECTED—"

"Get in!" Ben yelled.

"I am not—"

Maris was already climbing aboard. "Shotgun!"

Ahsoka hesitated for half a second—long enough for the droid's stun blaster to whine to life.

"Fine!" she shouted, vaulting into the passenger seat. "But if we die, I'm haunting you!"

"Deal!" Ben grinned, slammed the throttle—and the world blurred.

The speeder shot off the platform like a blaster bolt.

...​

They plunged into Coruscant's chaotic traffic lanes, weaving between streams of speeders that stretched into glowing rivers of light. The wind howled in her montrals, filling her senses with a chorus of noise—repulsors, horns, droids shouting warnings.

"Left!" Ahsoka cried.

"Right!" Ben yelled.

They went straight.

"BEN!"

"Improvising!"

Ahsoka gripped the side rail until her fingers ached. The Temple's meditative teachings had not prepared her for this. "You're going to crash!"

"I prefer the term 'unintended landing!'"

A transport barge loomed ahead. Ben yanked the controls, swerving beneath it just as a flock of droids zipped past above. The barge's exhaust nearly cooked Ahsoka's lekku.

Maris whooped from the back seat. "This is amazing!"

"This is criminal!" Ahsoka shot back.

"Semantics!" Ben shouted.

Behind them, the patrol droid was still in pursuit, its siren blaring across the skyway. "UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLE DETECTED. STANDBY FOR INTERCEPTION."

Ahsoka turned around in time to see a pair of smaller droids joining the chase. "They called backup!"

"Good! I was starting to get bored!" Maris yelled, crouching like a predator.

"Don't—!" Ahsoka started. Too late.

Maris jumped.

Ahsoka's heart lurched as the Zabrak flipped through open air, landing perfectly on the back of a passing cargo hauler. She sprinted along its spine, ducked under a vent, and yanked loose a stack of unsecured crates.

The crates tumbled backward, smashing into the pursuing droids in an explosion of sparks.

Maris landed back in the speeder a heartbeat later, smirking. "You're welcome."

Ahsoka could barely breathe. "You're insane."

Ben grinned. "She's my favorite."

The speeder banked sharply around a tower. A delivery droid screamed as they missed it by inches. Somewhere below, a civilian shouted something very rude.

"This is not what Master Yoda meant by 'expand your horizons!'" Ahsoka yelled over the wind.

Ben only laughed, eyes alight with pure, reckless joy. For a moment, she almost admired it—the way he threw himself into life like it was an adventure game with unlimited respawns.

Almost.

"Watch out!" she cried, pointing ahead.

A massive airbus blocked their lane. Ben didn't slow down. He angled the speeder downward, shooting between its landing struts, sparks flying as the undercarriage scraped the durasteel.

Ahsoka's heart pounded. "You're not even licensed!"

"I'm not even legally old enough to be licensed!"

"That's worse!"

The chase wove lower, deeper into the orange-glow mid-levels. Signs and skybridges whipped past in a neon blur. The last of the police droids tried to close in—but Ben dove sharply, spinning through an intersection so tight Ahsoka was sure they'd die.

They didn't. Somehow.

Maris threw her arms up. "Ten out of ten! Would flee law enforcement again!"

Ahsoka's montrals rang with laughter—hers or theirs, she couldn't tell anymore. The speeder roared through a final stretch of skyway—and then the Temple spires came into view.

"Oh no," she groaned. "We can see it. That means we're going to crash into it."

"Relax," Ben said, grinning. "I've got this."

He did not, in fact, have this.

The speeder clipped a traffic tower, spun sideways, and plowed into a maintenance yard in a spectacular shower of sparks and dust.

Silence.

Smoke drifted from the crumpled speeder. A single hubcap spun lazily across the floor before clattering to a stop.

Maris coughed, brushing soot from her sleeve. "Ten out of ten," she said weakly. "Would flee law enforcement again."

Ahsoka blinked through the haze. "We are so expelled."

Ben sat up, hair sticking out in every direction, and grinned. "Worth it."

Through the smoke and noise and chaos, Ahsoka couldn't help but laugh. Because somehow, against all odds, they were still alive. And somehow—she knew—they'd probably do it again.

...​

The neon glow of Coruscant's lower levels always made Obi-Wan feel faintly sticky.

It wasn't the heat or the noise — though there was plenty of both — but the sheer messiness of it all. It offended his sense of order. The traffic was chaotic, the air hummed with the constant thrum of repulsors, and somewhere nearby, a vendor was selling something that hissed audibly when it moved.

Anakin, naturally, loved it.

"Come on, Master, lighten up! You've been brooding ever since we got back."

"I told you Padawan, I do not brood," Obi-Wan said, adjusting his cloak as they stepped into the familiar warmth of Dex's Diner. The bell chimed, and the smell of frying nerf-burgers hit them like a freight speeder. "I reflect. There's a difference."

"Sure there is," Anakin said cheerfully. "Brooding just sounds cooler."

Obi-Wan gave him a look. The kind of look that could slice through durasteel. Anakin ignored it and slid into their usual booth with the ease of someone who had absolutely no shame.

A waitress droid rolled over with two menus and a friendly beep-boop. Obi-Wan waved it away. "The usual tea for me, thank you."

"Bantha steak melt," Anakin said. "Extra cheese. Extra everything."

When the droid left, he leaned forward, grinning far too widely for Obi-Wan's liking.

"So," he said. "Did you two—"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "Anakin."

"What? I'm asking as your friend, not your Padawan!"

"I fail to see how that distinction makes this conversation any less inappropriate."

"Hey, I'm just curious! You and the Duchess of Mandalore, all that history, the way she looked at you—"

"She looked at me with disdain, Anakin."

"Uh-huh. And you looked back like a man reconsidering his vows."

Obi-Wan sipped his tea with painful restraint. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments — or as companionable as it could be with Anakin smirking like a Loth-cat who'd stolen a datapad.

Then Obi-Wan said, without looking up, "You've been staring at Senator Amidala since Naboo."

Anakin nearly dropped his cup. "I— that's— completely different!"

"Of course," Obi-Wan said mildly. "Because the Jedi Code explicitly states that attachment is only forbidden if it's my emotional entanglement."

Anakin folded his arms, muttering something about "hypocrisy in robes."

The banter might have continued indefinitely if not for the booming laugh that filled the diner.

"Well, I'll be! If it isn't the galaxy's most proper Jedi — and his not-so-proper apprentice!"

Obi-Wan turned, smiling despite himself. "Dex."

The Besalisk lumbered over, wiping his hands on a stained apron that had seen more battles than most soldiers. His grin was as wide as ever.

"Been too long, old buddy! Heard you were off playing peacekeeper with Mandalore again. How's the Duchess?"

"She's… well," Obi-Wan said carefully.

"Still gorgeous, huh?" Dex winked. "You lucky scoundrel."

Anakin choked on his drink. Obi-Wan set his tea down with a very deliberate motion. "Dex, we've discussed this."

"Sure, sure," Dex said. "All business with you Jedi. You know, you'd live longer if you let a little love in."

Anakin grinned. "See? Even Dex agrees with me."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Force preserve me."

Their food arrived — or, in Anakin's case, a small mountain of food — and for a blissful few minutes, conversation was replaced with the sound of chewing and occasional groans of culinary satisfaction.

It was Dex who broke the peace.

"Funny thing," he said, refilling Obi-Wan's cup. "Saw your boy earlier today."

Obi-Wan froze, teacup halfway to his lips. "…My what?"

"Your kid!" Dex chuckled, pointing to the booth near the window. "Sat right there. Him and those two little ladies — one Togruta, one Zabrak. Cute group. He's got good taste in nerfburgers, by the way. Polite, too."

Obi-Wan gave Dex a strained smile. "I have no children."

Dex snorted. "Uh-huh. And I'm a Jawa."

"I assure you, Dex, I—wait. Did you say he was here? Outside the Temple? With two friends?"

"Sure did! Looked like they were having the time of their lives. Had that classic Kenobi guilt-smile, too. You know the one."

Anakin laughed so hard he nearly spat out his drink. "To learn about civic culture, I'm sure!"

"Dex's Diner," Obi-Wan said flatly, "is not civic culture." He paused. "…No offense."

"None taken!" Dex said cheerfully. "We're more of a cultural experience."

Obi-Wan sighed deeply. "I'm going to have to speak with the Council about tightening the Temple's perimeter again."

"Oh, come on, Master," Anakin said. "They're kids. Let them explore a little."

"Last time you 'explored,' Anakin, the Jedi Archives suffered minor combustion."

"That was one time."

"Exactly one time too many."

Anakin smirked. "You're just mad your son's following in your footsteps."

"He is not my son."

Dex grinned. "He tried to lie to me like that, too. Same little squint in the eyes. You sure you didn't sneak in a bit of Mandalorian genetics somewhere along the way?"

Obi-Wan set down his utensils with impeccable calm. "Dex, I believe your imagination is running rampant again."

Dex chuckled, wiping the counter. "Whatever you say, pal."

For a few moments, the world returned to normal — laughter, sizzling grease, and the clatter of utensils. Then, almost absently, Dex said something that froze Obi-Wan's blood.

"Oh, and I've had a few Kaminoan seafood traders swing by lately. Let me know if you want to try some. The food's alright, but the people? Not so sure. You know those tall, pale types. Bit odd —especially them, all hush-hush about cloning tech."

The words hung in the air.

Cloning. Kaminoans. Sifo-Dyas.

Obi-Wan's mind began to turn. Rapidly, dangerously. Kamino… that was the name that had been erased from the Archives. Sifo-Dyas had commissioned something from Kamino — Kaminioans were cloners.

Did someone, acting as a Jedi, commission clones for the Republic? Who? Why?

A question answered, and three more take its place.

The laughter faded from the booth. Obi-Wan's thoughts drifted somewhere far from the neon hum of Coruscant's diners and the greasy comfort of bantha melts.

Anakin was still talking — something about ordering dessert, probably — but Obi-Wan barely heard him. His appetite was gone, replaced by that cold, familiar sense that the galaxy was moving just out of sight, the way it always did before a war.

...​

Now be honest.

How many of you seriously thought I was just going to put Kamino back in the bag?

And with that, today's chapter is posted! Hope you all enjoyed! Please stay tuned for tomorrow to find out how Nancy-Drew Kenobi's investigation goes. Or, if you loathe waiting/want to support your favorite author, check out my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[mango363]

...
So when does Anakin start writing his thesis on the Dichotomy interpretation of TTODPTW? Would fit right in lmao. Tftc
Also, despite this being absolutely peak and insanely funny, you are definitely suffering from having posted it on the sfw part of the forum, most of the traffic is on the degen side of the degen site lol.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 14: A Mandalorian In the Archives

You'd think breaking into the most secure part of the Jedi Archives would feel… more dramatic.

Y'know—alarms blaring, laser grids, maybe a hovering droid yelling "Unauthorized access!"

Instead, it's just me. Alone. Standing in front of a locked holo-door that opens with the exact same swipe code as the cafeteria supply closet. This is why you don't re-use passwords, people.

"Wow," I whisper, glancing around the dimly lit corridor. "Centuries of galactic history and enlightenment, protected by… mild inconvenience."

Technically, I'm not breaking in. I'm just… repurposing my "Temple maintenance assistant" credentials from last month's lightsaber safety seminar. The badge still reads Ben K., Apprentice Mechanic, which isn't wrong. It's just not—strictly true.

I tug my borrowed utility vest tighter, push open the door, and step into the restricted stacks.

The air inside feels different—colder, quieter, heavy with the hum of a thousand sleeping holobooks. Thin blue light from the floating data-streams glows off the marble floors, reflecting endless towers of knowledge. It's gorgeous, in a "I definitely shouldn't be here" kind of way.

I hum a low tune under my breath.

Not just any tune. "Duel of the Fates."

Except slower. Jazzier. Spy-movie style.

Da-da-da-da-daaaa… chhh… snaps fingers

The rhythm helps me move quietly between aisles, scanning the glowing glyphs for the Mandalorian section. The ancient histories are near the back — conveniently marked "Cultural Conflicts of the Outer Rim." Subtle, Jedi. Real subtle.

A holo-drone drifts past, scanning for motion. I duck behind a column and nudge it gently with the Force, sending it spinning just far enough to misread its own sensor.

"Shh," I whisper at it, because apparently I'm now scolding robots. "You saw nothing."

Once it's gone, I head for the archive terminal and plug in my access chip. The console flares to life with the old Republic crest, then scrolls through data requests like it's deciding how much trouble I'm worth.

SEARCH QUERY: "Mandalorian Wars"

The results flood in. Old footage, reports, fragments of testimony from Jedi who fought in those wars — all compiled, sterilized, neatly categorized by moral lesson.

I start skimming, half-curious, half-annoyed.

"Right, so, we've got a few centuries of 'war bad, peace good,' followed by an appendix on how to rebuild your planet after near-annihilation. Real inspirational."

A few holos play automatically as I scroll. A Mandalorian fleet under siege. Jedi armadas moving in perfect formation. And then—Satine Kryze.

Her younger self flickers on-screen: calm, composed, addressing the New Mandalorian council.

I slow down.

She looks so much like Korkie it's eerie. Or maybe we look like her. Hard to say.

"Huh. So peace apparently comes with about fifty committee meetings per day," I mutter. "No wonder Mom looks tired."

Mom.

That word still feels weird when I think about her. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to know, but it's also not exactly a well-kept secret. At all. I figured it out before I was five. Honestly, it has to be the most obvious lie of all time.

Satine only has one sister, and was under sixteen when I was born. Trust me, it's not her. But here I am off-track, again.

I keep reading.

Turns out, after the Wars, Satine pushed Mandalore into demilitarization—something called the New Mandalorian Reforms. The archives praise it like a miracle of diplomacy. But the more I read, the more I notice what's missing.

There are entire sections of the record—especially the recent ones—flagged with the Council's sigil.

ACCESS RESTRICTED — LEVEL SEVEN CLEARANCE REQUIRED.

I lean closer. "Level seven? I barely rate level two and a half." And I only had that much because of all the detention work I've had to do in the library.

Out of curiosity, I tap for metadata. The file headers show names I recognize: Kryze, Satine. Kenobi, Obi-Wan. Sundari Political Network.

So yeah—clearly the Jedi are keeping a very close eye on Mandalore.

And that's when the irony hits me.

Here I am, a Jedi Padawan-slash-Mandalorian spy, trying to research my homeworld's peace movement — and it turns out the Jedi are the ones secretly monitoring us.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I flop down on a nearby hover-step, rubbing my face. "You'd think one of them might mention it. 'Oh, by the way, Ben, your mom's government is on the Council's classified watchlist.' Great dinner conversation."

For the record, yes, I do have a little meta knowledge rattling around in my head. You don't just stop remembering the plot of The Clone Wars when you wake up inside it. Before it. Whatever. It doesn't matter, because it's all fuzzy anyways.

Spotty. I wasn't exactly a walking Wookieepedia before this, you know. I watched the movies, the shows, played a few games. That's it. Half the time I'm winging it.

And really, what's a fan to do when the timeline's already diverging?

Research. Proper, hands-on, archival digging. Jedi-style.

A soft beep breaks the silence. I glance down at my belt—my communicator's flashing.

…oh no.

The display reads: INCOMING HOLO-CALL — KORKIE KRYZE.

"Of course," I hiss under my breath. "The one time I'm breaking twenty-three Temple rules, my brother decides to FaceTime me."

I glance around in panic. No one's nearby, but the holo-projectors around me are still active. If Jocasta Nu catches me taking a personal call in the restricted stacks, I might as well pack my robes and move to Tatooine.

The comm keeps buzzing. Korkie's patience level is approximately zero.

I could ignore it…

…or I could answer.

I sigh.

"Yeah, sure, why not," I mutter, hitting accept before I can overthink it.

A flicker of blue light fills the dark aisle as the holo springs to life — and there he is.

Korkie Kryze, in all his perfectly groomed, annoyingly composed glory. His tunic's pressed, his hair's combed, and behind him stretches one of those marble Mandalorian council chambers that looks like it was designed specifically to make everyone inside it feel underdressed.

He blinks. "Ben? Why does it look like you're calling me from a broom closet?"

"I'm not," I lie immediately, ducking lower behind a holoprojector column. "It's… uh, an active learning environment."

Korkie raises an eyebrow. "You're hiding in the Archives again, aren't you?"

"No," I protest, offended on principle. "I'm researching. Academic research. Jedi stuff. Historical inquiry."

"So you're spying for Auntie Satine."

I groan. "Do not start."

Korkie smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I'm serious. She's always saying, 'I wish I knew what the Jedi thought of Mandalore's politics these days.' And now here you are, sneaking through their archives like a tiny secret agent."

I fold my arms. "First off, I'm average height for my age. Maybe even above average. Second, this isn't spying, it's—"

"Espionage," he finishes helpfully.

"—homework," I correct. "That I'm definitely authorized to be doing." By which, I mean it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Jedi will grant forgiveness. They will not grant permission.

He just laughs, that irritatingly diplomatic chuckle that sounds like he's about to host a press conference. "You know, if you're going to lie, at least sound confident about it. You sound like a guilty protocol droid."

I roll my eyes. "Glad to see Mandalorian politics haven't dulled your sense of humor."

"Oh, they have. I just save it for you," he says, leaning forward slightly, tone shifting. "Speaking of which—things are getting bad here, Ben. Really bad."

The words drop heavier than I expect. I glance up from my datapad, pulse steadying. "How bad?"

He sighs. The blue holo flickers, and for a second I catch a glimpse of the view outside his window—Sundari's skyline, all domes and gleaming towers under the glass canopy. Even through the distortion, I can see smoke trails in the distance.

"The Council's voted to withdraw Mandalore from the Republic completely," Korkie says. "Auntie Satine's tried to put a positive spin on it, but her hands were tied. The New Mandalorians have just been getting too much push-back. There are protests in the capital. Some are calling themselves the 'True Mandalorians.' again. Others are just—angry. They want to rearm."

That word hits harder than I want it to.

Rearm.

For a planet that's supposed to be the galaxy's model for peace. The biggest redemption story to date, that's a terrifying step backward.

"She's still holding it together," Korkie adds quickly. "But the Senate's calling her reforms 'fragile,' and the Trade Guilds are starting to pull funding. She's barely sleeping."

I rub my neck, feeling useless across the light-years. "She always did say peace was harder than war."

Korkie nods. "Yeah. She also said you'd probably forget her birthday again."

I blink. "What? No— I— okay, yes, but in my defense, the Temple doesn't celebrate birthdays. It's a very anti-cake environment."

He chuckles softly, but the humor fades fast. "She misses you, you know."

My throat tightens. "She doesn't say that."

"She doesn't have to."

There's silence between us for a long moment — just the faint hum of the holo-feed and the flickering blue light casting weird shadows over the archive shelves.

Then, like he's deliberately changing the subject, Korkie says, "She met with Uncle Obi-Wan last week."

My heart skips.

"Oh?"

He smirks. "Oh, so you knew."

"I may have… seen them. Briefly."

"How was it?"

"Awkward," I admit. "Lots of politics, some reminiscing, the usual. Pretty sure most of it was about me, which was…" I shrug, grinning faintly. "Weirdly nice, actually."

Korkie's grin softens. "She looked happier that day. I think seeing him helped. And I think she'd be even happier if you sent her a message that wasn't about missing laundry tokens."

"That was one time," I protest. "And those were Temple-issue tokens! You can't just replicate them."

He snorts. "You're hopeless."

"Maybe," I admit, smiling despite myself. "But I'm a hopeless student of galactic history. Which is why you, my dear sibling, are interrupting vital academic research."

"Oh sure," he says. "Because nothing screams 'academic research' like whispering in a dark corner surrounded by restricted files."

"I prefer to call it immersive learning."

Korkie's laughter echoes through the holo-feed, bright and easy, and for a second, I forget about the weight of the Archives, the rules, the Jedi code — all of it. It's just us again. Two brothers talking, like nothing's changed.

Then he looks at me — really looks at me — and says softly, "Ner vod."

My stomach twists.

My brother.

It's not that he doesn't call me that sometimes — it's just that when he does, it means something's hit deeper than either of us wants to admit.

He adds, "Don't let the Jedi wash the Mandalorian out of you, okay?"

I laugh, but it comes out awkward. "They can try. I'm more stain-resistant than I look."

He smirks. "Sure. I can already hear it fading. You're starting to sound like them."

"I am not."

"You are! Say 'schedule.'"

"What? No—"

"Say it."

"…Schedule."

Korkie bursts out laughing. "See?! No accent. You've gone full Coruscanti."

"Unbelievable," I grumble. "I risk life and limb for historical accuracy and this is what I get—phonetic betrayal."

He's still laughing when the holo starts to flicker again.

"Connection's dropping," he says. "I'll tell Auntie Satine you're behaving."

"Liar."

"Always," he says with a grin, then: "Stay safe, Ben."

And then he's gone.

The Archives feel too quiet all of a sudden.

The holograms keep spinning their soft blue light, but it feels colder now. Distant.

Maybe Mom was right.

Maybe peace and order really can't coexist.

The Jedi talk about balance, but they don't really live it.

I close my communicator and start to slip it back into my belt—

—and freeze.

Footsteps.

Light, deliberate, approaching from the far end of the aisle.

A voice — sharp, unmistakable — calls out,

"Padawan Kryze? Is someone in the restricted stacks?"

My stomach drops.

Jocasta Nu.

Oh, kriff.

...​

Of course it's her.

Because why wouldn't the literal head librarian of the entire Jedi Order decide to take a midnight stroll through the restricted archives tonight of all nights?

My hand flies to the console, slapping at the shutdown command. The screen sputters, freezing on Satine's face mid-blink. "No, no, no, don't you dare buffer—"

The holo fizzles out. Darkness floods back in.

I stand perfectly still, like that'll somehow make me invisible. It doesn't help that my breathing sounds like a podracer engine in the silence.

Her footsteps echo closer.

Think. Think, think, think!

If I move now, she'll see me. If I don't move, she'll definitely see me in about five seconds. I need a distraction. Something loud. Something—

CLANG.

The Force provides.

Across the aisle, there's a metallic crash so violent I almost duck on instinct.

A thin, tinny voice follows:

"No, no, no! You are holding the hydro-spanner backwards, you blundering bolt pile!"

Another voice — slow, confused, and sounding about as bright as a spent power cell — answers, "Error: define 'backwards.'"

I peek around the column.

Professor Huyang — ancient, stately, and perpetually exasperated — is locked in mortal combat with a repair droid twice his size, both surrounded by scattered datapads and spare wiring.

Huyang's photoreceptors flick my way. I mouth, cover for me.

He stares. Then, with the robotic equivalent of a sigh, straightens up and raises his volume dramatically.

"THIS WAS NOT IN MY MAINTENANCE PROTOCOLS, MASTER B—OH!" He spots Jocasta Nu rounding the corner. "MASTER NU! HOW DELIGHTFUL TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING!"

Jocasta stops dead, robes swishing. "Professor Huyang? What—by the Force—are you doing in the restricted section at this hour?"

"Routine diagnostics!" Huyang declares far too loudly. "My assistant here was attempting to recalibrate the atmospheric filters, but alas—"

The repair droid interrupts with a loud bzzt. "Error. Clarify: was 'alas' a command?"

"NO," Huyang snaps, wings flaring. "It was a lament!"

I duck further behind the column, pressing both hands to my mouth to keep from laughing. Jocasta looks like she's aging in real time.

"Professor," she says, in that tone that could vaporize an entire generation of Padawans, "the filters were recalibrated yesterday. And this—" she gestures at the toppled parts "—is most certainly not standard maintenance."

Huyang tilts his head, as if consulting a data file only he can see. Then, very solemnly, he begins to quote poetry.

"'A machine of metal, given form, yet forged with care and soul—'"

"Oh, not this again," Jocasta groans.

"'—Knows not the silence of the forge, nor rest within the whole—'"

The repair droid whirrs. "Processing… statement illogical. Recommend memory wipe."

"Blasphemy!" Huyang cries, clutching his chest plate. "You see, Master Nu, this is why I must continue these lessons! Without culture, our droids are doomed to barbarism!"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You are not teaching droids poetry again."

"I am preserving the arts," Huyang counters, hands on hips. "Would you have them all reduced to soulless code?"

"I would have them quiet after curfew!" Jocasta snaps, then whirls around. "And I expect the restricted section secured when you're done, Professor."

"As always, Master Nu!" he says, voice pure sunshine and deceit.

Her footsteps fade, each one echoing like a judgmental metronome.

Only when the door hisses shut does Huyang turn, his entire frame rotating toward my hiding place.

I step out, sheepish. "So, uh… thanks for that."

"You are welcome," he says dryly. "Though I should like to know why I was drafted into a covert operation without consent."

"I wouldn't call it covert so much as…" I gesture vaguely. "Unauthorized academic enthusiasm."

His optic sensors narrow. "You were in the restricted Mandalorian archives, were you not?"

"…Maybe."

"Ah." His tone softens, metallic but somehow warm. "Your curiosity does you credit, young Kryze. Though your methods, perhaps less so."

I rub the back of my neck. "Yeah, I figured."

He studies me for a moment. "Your people are craftsmen, warriors, philosophers—now, pacifists. An unusual evolution. Perhaps your curiosity honors them more than your secrecy shames you."

I blink. "Wait, was that… a compliment?"

"Do not grow accustomed to them," he replies immediately.

"Right, because that'd be too healthy for my self-esteem."

He makes a whirring sound that might be amusement. "Ben, there are rules for a reason. Archives hold more than history; they hold power. And power, in untrained hands—"

"—leads to the Dark Side, yeah, I know." I raise both hands. "I wasn't trying to, like, uncover Sith holocrons or rewrite galactic history. I just wanted to understand my family's part in it. The stuff no one tells me."

He hums thoughtfully. "Understanding one's lineage is no small thing. Even Jedi cannot wholly separate from where they began."

I glance down at the pile of datapads. "Yeah, well, try telling that to everyone else in this building."

For a while, the hum of the archives fills the silence. Soft, rhythmic, like breathing.

Finally, Huyang says, "You are not wrong to seek truth, Padawan Kryze. But next time, do so during daylight hours. With supervision."

"So I'm not grounded?"

"You are absolutely grounded," he says without hesitation.

"Yeah, thought so."

He gestures toward the fallen parts from his earlier "battle." "Now help me clean this up. I cannot, in good conscience, allow the archives to suffer disorder—even if it saved you."

I crouch beside him, stacking datapads in neat piles. "For the record, Professor, your dramatic poetry routine? Brilliant."

"I improvised," he admits, modestly. "Though I suspect Master Nu will schedule another evaluation for my 'operational stability.'"

"Worth it," I say.

A quiet chuckle — or something like it — hums through his vocoder. "Indeed. And, Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you require a distraction," he says, his tone suddenly conspiratorial, "do remember: I am quite adept at stagecraft."

I grin. "Noted."

As we finish tidying, he powers down the terminal with a smooth wave of his clawed hand. The last flicker of blue light fades, leaving only the soft glow of Coruscant's skyline through the window slits.

It's peaceful.

Almost enough to make me forget I just committed light treason by Jedi standards.

Almost.

...​

Kamino never grew less strange with familiarity.

Even now—standing once more beneath its bleached corridors and endless rain—Obi-Wan felt the same quiet unease prickling beneath his skin. The city floated upon the sea like a pearl carved from bone, gleaming under flashes of lightning. Every sound echoed: the soft patter of rainfall against the transparisteel windows, the gentle hum of sterile machinery, the muted rhythm of his and Anakin's boots.

It was the sound of perfection. The sort that felt wrong.

"Welcome back, Master Jedi," Taun We said with her serene, almost musical tone. Her expression was unreadable, though her narrow features managed a flicker of warmth. "We received your transmission and were most… gratified. We trust this time your return with your Order's authorization?"

Obi-Wan inclined his head politely, concealing the faintest twitch at the word authorization. "Indeed. The Council was most eager to verify the progress firsthand."

A partial truth, if one squinted. The kind that tended to pass in diplomacy—and espionage.

Anakin walked beside him, his robe damp at the hem from the landing platform. His expression was a mix of curiosity and irritation, eyes constantly flicking toward the towering Kaminoans and their endless white hallways. "Do they all look like this?" he muttered under his breath.

"They are cloners, Anakin," Obi-Wan replied softly. "Uniformity is… thematic."

Anakin gave a quiet snort. "Creepy is what it is."

Obi-Wan didn't disagree.

Taun We's elongated stride guided them through the corridor to a turbolift, its walls smooth and white as eggshell. "Prime Minister Lama Su regrets he cannot join you today, but he has authorized a complete inspection of our facilities. It is rare that our clients wish to view the process so… comprehensively."

Clients.

The word sat poorly with Obi-Wan. "Yes, well, the Jedi Order prefers to understand the… scope of such undertakings."

The lift opened to a vast observation deck, and for a long, silent moment even Anakin had no words.

Rows upon rows of figures stood below, tiered like the amphitheaters of the Republic Senate—except instead of seats, there were growth pods. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands.

Each pod glowed with faint blue light, liquid-filled capsules where embryonic shapes floated—some humanoid, some nearly formed. Beyond them, further levels descended into mist, their depths lost to the ocean's reflection.

The air hummed with temperature regulators and heartbeat monitors, the sound overlapping into an eerie, mechanical lullaby.

Taun We's voice was a whisper beside him. "The first generation are already entering advanced training. By the time production stabilizes, we expect full deployment capacity within a standard cycle."

Anakin stepped forward, eyes wide. "That's… an army," he said, voice small against the glass.

Obi-Wan's reflection looked back at him in the transparisteel—rain streaking across both their faces, as if the storm outside had seeped in.

"Yes," he murmured. "An army for the Republic."

He'd meant it to sound factual. It came out like a confession.

Taun We gestured gracefully. "If you would follow me, Master Jedi, we can proceed to the training levels."

The next chamber was a cathedral of motion. Clones—hundreds of them—moved in formation across polished floors, blaster rifles raised in synchronized drills. Others ran obstacle courses while Kaminoan overseers adjusted data readouts. From above, it resembled an intricate dance: every breath measured, every movement mirrored.

"They learn quickly," Taun We said, clearly proud. "Conditioned for loyalty, obedience, and efficiency. They will perform their duty without hesitation."

Obi-Wan's eyes tracked one squad that faltered mid-step. The instructor barked a correction; the troopers resumed in perfect rhythm, faces expressionless beneath close-cropped hair.

"Without hesitation," Obi-Wan echoed quietly.

Anakin, beside him, crossed his arms. "So we're… making soldiers now?"

Obi-Wan's gaze lingered on the endless rows of faces—each identical, each alive. "Someone has," he said softly. "In our name, no less."

Taun We's long fingers brushed across a console, summoning a holographic display of genetic readouts. "All troopers are based on a single donor: the bounty hunter Jango Fett. His physical and mental attributes proved ideal. He requested no genetic tampering beyond the acceleration process."

"Fett," Obi-Wan repeated, the name rolling in his mind like a pebble in a river. "A Mandalorian name."

"Indeed. Though he claims no allegiance to the clans. His genetic code serves as the foundation of our project."

"Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said again, quieter this time. The word carried a weight that stirred memories he preferred untouched—of helmets, jetpacks, and the scent of iron in the red sands of Concordia. Of a woman's voice, measured and steady, declaring peace while surrounded by ghosts of war.

Satine would have hated this place.

"Master?" Anakin asked softly.

Obi-Wan blinked, realizing he'd drifted. "Hmm?"

"You went quiet," Anakin said. "That's… usually a bad sign."

"I'm thinking," he said.

"Also a bad sign," Anakin muttered.

Obi-Wan gave a faint, distracted smile. "Noted."

As they walked, Anakin's frown deepened. "So this whole army—someone ordered it from the Kaminoans years ago? Without telling the Senate?"

"Apparently so," Obi-Wan said.

"And we're sure, it's not Sifo-Dyas." Anakin pressed.

"In as much as we can be." Obi-Wan sighed. "There's still a great deal of mystery surrounding what happened to him after his disappearance. He was prone to visions, and often led by them. It's not impossible that he saw something so dangerous he felt the best course of action was to build an army. But I find it unlikely that under any circumstances, he wouldn't inform the Council of it."

"Then who—?"

"That," Obi-Wan cut in, "is precisely what we're here to find out."

They passed another training yard—this one filled with clone cadets sparring hand-to-hand under artificial rain. The water sluiced off their armor in rivulets, indistinguishable from the storm outside. One cadet stumbled and fell; his partner helped him up instantly, without a word. No hesitation. No complaint.

Anakin watched them. "They're like… droids. But human."

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "No, not droids. They can think, adapt. They have potential."

"Potential for what?"

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

The path curved upward toward a command center that overlooked the ocean — an endless, glassy void broken only by lightning and the faint pulse of stormlight beneath the clouds. Kamino's rain pressed against the transparisteel walls in constant rhythm, a ceaseless, liquid applause that reminded Obi-Wan of blood rushing through veins.

He paused at the window, hands folded neatly behind his back. From here, Tipoca City's towers looked like the bones of some colossal creature rising out of the sea — vertebrae of white alloy and light. The Kaminoans built as though they believed themselves immune to nature, to decay.

Yet everything here, even the light, felt artificial.

Behind him, Taun We and Anakin spoke in low tones about accelerated aging protocols and cognitive imprinting. Obi-Wan only half-listened. His focus was elsewhere — on the faint reflection of himself in the glass. The image of a Jedi Master in rain-dark robes, face calm, eyes tired.

The Order had once prided itself on peacekeeping. Now they were walking through the blueprint of a war.

"Master?" Anakin's voice brought him back. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Obi-Wan said. It was automatic. Reflexive. The lie of every Jedi who didn't have the energy to explain the truth.

Anakin's gaze flicked toward the cadets below, the ones running synchronized drills. "They don't even look… real," he said. "Just copies."

"All life begins as a copy of something else," Taun We interjected, in her serene way. "A cell divides. A pattern repeats. What is individuality, if not variance within a sequence?"

"That's a creepy way to say 'people,'" Anakin muttered.

"Perhaps," Taun We said, unfazed. "But an accurate one."

Obi-Wan watched as a young clone paused at the end of his drill. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve, and yet there was a quiet, mechanical maturity to his movement — as if he'd been taught not to exist between actions.

Their eyes met through the glass. For a moment, Obi-Wan thought he saw something — curiosity, faint and questioning. Then the instructor barked a command, and the boy turned, vanishing back into formation.

There was no defiance. No individuality. Only obedience.

He exhaled slowly. "They've been alive only a few years, and already they march like veterans."

Taun We's tone carried unmistakable pride. "We ensure each unit matures with optimal conditioning. Their loyalty is absolute."

"To whom?" Obi-Wan asked.

She blinked, long and deliberate. "To the Republic, of course."

And yet the Kaminoans hadn't even been in contact with the Republic in regards to their commission. That was the part that disturbed him most. If no one had questioned the identity of their "client," then obedience wasn't a virtue here — it was a design flaw.

Anakin leaned close. "I don't like this place," he whispered.

"Nor do I," Obi-Wan admitted softly.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, listening to the storm batter the city.

Then Taun We gestured toward a side corridor. "Would you care to see the combat testing floor? Our newest batch has begun live simulations."

They followed her down a spiraling walkway that opened into an enormous chamber — half training ground, half battlefield diorama. The lighting dimmed as blaster fire illuminated the arena below, streaks of red and blue cutting through artificial mist.

The clones moved with frightening precision. Each gesture, each motion, was part of a seamless collective effort. There was no hesitation between orders and execution.

"Observe," Taun We said, gesturing gracefully. "They have been bred for adaptability and instinct. The perfect soldiers."

The words chilled him.

Anakin spoke before he could. "And they'll just… obey anyone who tells them what to do?"

"They will obey the Jedi," she said, with complete confidence.

Obi-Wan almost asked her what would happen if that changed — if someone else gave the orders. But he didn't. Some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.

Instead, he said quietly, "You've accomplished something extraordinary here."

"Thank you, Master Jedi," Taun We said, bowing slightly. "Your Order's commission has been our honor."

Obi-Wan caught Anakin's glance — that subtle mix of confusion and discomfort. He understood it well. Neither of them could admit how little they actually knew about the Order's involvement.

"This Jango Fett," Obi-Wan said, steering the conversation back, "you said he was a bounty hunter?"

"Yes. A most skilled specimen," she replied. "Prime Minister Lama Su arranged for his continued residence here, that we might preserve the integrity of the genetic source. His son, Boba, has proven quite the curiosity as well."

"Son?"

"A pure genetic duplicate — unaltered. Mr. Fett requested him as part of his compensation."

The thought unsettled him further. A man raising his own clone — his own child, in some sense. A mirror nurturing its reflection.

Mandalorians, Obi-Wan thought, had always lived in contradiction. Warriors preaching honor through war. Builders who worshipped destruction. But this — this was new. Mandalorian blood bred into uniform servitude.

If Satine ever saw this place, she'd tear it down brick by brick.

Lightning flashed, bleaching the world white for a heartbeat.

"Fett," Obi-Wan murmured again. The name pulled old memories from the dust — Vizsla, Death Watch, Concordia. The smell of fuel and fire, Satine's voice sharp as glass:

We must rebuild, not repeat.

He turned back to Taun We. "I'd like to meet him."

"Of course. Mr. Fett is currently on a contract off-world, but he maintains quarters here for his return. Shall I provide his contact information?"

"That would be appreciated."

Taun We inclined her head and moved toward a console.

Anakin lowered his voice. "You really think he knows who commissioned this?"

"I think," Obi-Wan said, "that anyone paid to be the face of an entire army knows more than they're willing to admit."

She returned with a small holocard — elegant and precise, Kaminoan craftsmanship at its most minimalist. "You may reach him through this frequency when he returns."

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, tucking it into his belt.

They followed her back toward the main corridor. The air felt heavier now — thicker with questions. The hum of the clone nursery below carried through the walls, a heartbeat magnified a thousandfold.

When they reached the exit, Taun We bowed again. "The Prime Minister will be pleased to know of your satisfaction, Master Kenobi. I trust the inspection was illuminating."

"Oh," Obi-Wan said, allowing himself a small, polite smile. "Illuminating indeed."

As they stepped back into the storm, the Kaminoan architecture blurred into pale outlines against the endless rain. The drops soaked into his robe instantly, but he hardly noticed.

Anakin did, though. "So what now?"

"Now," Obi-Wan said, glancing toward the Starfighter docked nearby, "we contact Coruscant. The Council needs to know what we've found."

Anakin frowned. "You think they'll take it well?"

Obi-Wan didn't answer right away. He stared at the holocard in his hand — the one bearing Jango Fett's contact frequency — and felt the weight of the storm pressing around them.

Lightning struck somewhere across the waves, lighting the entire horizon.

"I think," he said at last, "that there are more secrets in this galaxy than even the Jedi realize. Better to be forewarned, and forearmed. Then to be taken by surprise."

They walked together toward the waiting ship, boots splashing through shallow pools on the landing platform. The roar of the ocean below swallowed everything — words, thoughts, and the quiet tremor of unease that followed them into the cockpit.

As the Starfighter lifted from the platform, the storm swallowed Tipoca City in white mist. The lightning faded behind them, leaving only a reflection of the endless sea.

An ocean of clones.

Identical faces. Identical destinies.

And somewhere among them — one man with a Mandalorian name, whose shadow stretched from Concordia to Kamino.

...​

And that's a wrap! Clone reveal two years ahead of schedule! What does this mean?! What does this change?!

Well, I know. And so do the people who read ahead on my Patreon. Check the link below, if you'd like to know, too!

My Patreon

 

[Uthalem]

Hey I saw this over at space battles, is there any reason to read this on here instead of over there?

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 15: The Clone Conundrum

Council conspiracy. 1900 hours.

Suspects: every single Jedi with a chair.

Also: every single vent shaft on this floor, because none of them are designed for twelve-year-olds with investigative spirit and the upper body strength of a tired womp rat.

"Kriff," I muttered, trying to shift an elbow without rattling the durasteel. "These vents are uncomfortable. I wish I could take a seat."

The air was warm, stale, and humming faintly from the Temple's environmental systems. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. Beneath me, the Jedi Council's voices echoed through the metal — calm, disciplined, suspiciously coordinated. I angled the tiny commlink closer to the vent grille and tapped it on.

"Council Conspiracy," I whispered into it, lowering my voice to a gravelly tone that I thought sounded appropriately noir. "Investigator Kryze on scene. The hour is late. The suspects are discussing a mysterious army no one ordered. I suspect—"

A crackle interrupted me.

"Ben," Ahsoka's voice came through, exasperated. "Why are you whispering like that?"

"Atmosphere," I hissed back. "This is an operation, Fulcrum. You don't just talk. You narrate."

Maris's voice joined in, softer and delighted. "Is this the part where he does the accent again? I like the accent."

"It's not an accent," I said. "It's investigative texture." First Korkie, now Maris. Am I actually starting to lose my accent? Say it ain't so.

"It's weird," Ahsoka countered.

I grinned despite myself, twisting the commlink back toward the Council chamber. The voices below grew sharper, echoing faintly through the vent like ripples in a pond.

"…a clone army, commissioned by the Jedi Order," Mace Windu was saying, his tone clipped. "For the Republic."

There was a beat of silence so heavy I could feel it through the metal.

Oh no.

Right. That's not supposed to happen yet. Cool, cool, cool, everything's fine, I'm not hyperventilating, you're hyperventilating.

I bit my lip hard enough to sting.

The war wasn't supposed to start for another few years. No Geonosis, no droid army mobilization, no Separatist conflict breaking open yet. And here we were—already knee-deep in Kaminoan paperwork and genetic soldiers.

I must've done something. Or changed something.

Butterfly Effect. Space Edition.

Ahsoka's voice cut through my spiral. "Ben? You still alive up there?"

"Define alive," I whispered. "If you mean 'breathing rapidly and questioning my entire understanding of causality,' then yes."

"What?"

"Never mind. Nothing. Totally fine. All good in the morally ambiguous neighborhood."

Maris hummed thoughtfully. "You sound pale."

"I'm in a vent, Maris. Of course I'm pale."

Below me, Master Yoda's voice echoed—low, measured, carrying that weight of someone who already knows too much.

"See into this, I cannot. Clouded, the future is. Disturbing, these revelations are."

"No kriffing kidding," I whispered before I could stop myself. The only good news was that the word "kriff" was really growing on me. It was like fuck, but I could use kriff in polite company.

Ahsoka immediately whispered, "Ben, don't—"

But it was too late.

The grille creaked.

Every muscle in my body froze. I tilted my head an inch—just enough to see through the slats.

Yoda was looking directly at me.

Not vaguely in my direction. Not suspiciously at the ceiling. At me.

Those big green eyes locked onto the vent like he'd been expecting me to monologue up there this whole time.

"He knows," I breathed.

Ahsoka hissed back at me. "Of course he knows! He's Yoda!"

Yoda doesn't know everything, Ahsoka. If he did, he never would have trusted Darth Palps, and he would've been way more productive about this whole, clone army thing.

Maris was the voice of reason. "What if he's just staring at the vent because he hears something?"

"Obviously he hears something," I hissed. "Have you seen the size of those pointy, green ears? They're like the biggest part of his body! He's old, not deaf!"

I pressed myself flat against the duct, holding my breath.

For a terrifying moment, no one said anything below. Just quiet murmuring and the faint hum of the Temple's atmospheric systems.

Then Yoda spoke again, slowly.

"Watchful eyes, the Temple has. Curious, its students are."

Mace Windu frowned. "Something you'd like to share, Master?"

Yoda's ears twitched. "Nothing. Yet."

I did not breathe for the next thirty seconds.

I kept quiet, frozen. Letting my mind wander through the very real possibility that I completely, and utterly screwed something up. And not even having the faintest idea of what that something was.

By the time the Council session adjourned, my entire spine hurt from staying still. The Masters filed out one by one, their robes trailing like stormclouds below. I waited a full minute after the doors hissed shut before whispering into the comm again.

"Situation update," I rasped dramatically. "Council dismissed. Secrets abound. Investigator Kryze remains undiscovered, though shaken. Morale: medium. Knees: low."

"Are you done being weird?" Ahsoka asked.

"Unlikely."

I inched backward, elbows scraping against the narrow walls. The vent was tighter than I remembered on the way in. Or maybe panic was expanding me. Either way, I was halfway to freedom when my boot hit something metallic.

Clunk.

The sound reverberated like a temple bell.

"Ben," Ahsoka said, voice sharp. "What was that?"

"I don't know. Could've been… air pressure. Or fate punishing me for hubris."

"Get out of there before someone—"

The vent panel beneath me shifted.

It wasn't a full drop, thank the Force, but it opened just enough for a rectangle of light to spill through. Below, a maintenance droid was rolling by, humming to itself.

"—before someone finds you," Ahsoka finished dryly.

"Too late for that!" I whispered, flattening myself against the top of the duct as the droid paused. Its sensor light swept upward, scanning.

I waved a hand instinctively. "You saw nothing."

The droid beeped once, rotated, and continued on its way.

"Force persuasion," I whispered proudly. "Still got it."

"Pretty sure that was just a coincidence," Maris said.

"Pretty sure you're just jealous of my espionage skills."

"I'm pretty sure you're going to fall out of the ceiling one of these days."

"That's a tomorrow problem."

...​

Or a today problem. You see, after I crawled to the maintenance hatch, I was sweating and possibly allergic to recycled air. The vent spat me out into one of the upper corridors, just outside the meditation wing. I rolled onto the marble floor, gasping.

"Mission accomplished," I said between breaths. "No witnesses, no injuries, no—"

"Initiate Kryze."

I froze. Slowly, I turned my head.

Plo Koon stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, amber goggles reflecting the corridor lights.

"Hi, Master Koon," I said weakly. "Fancy seeing you here. I was, uh, doing… maintenance."

He tilted his head. "Maintenance."

"Yep. Temple security sweep. Very important. Authorized by…" I squinted like I could read the nearest wall. "Uh. Me."

There was a long silence. Then, mercifully, his mask made that soft, amused hiss. "Your enthusiasm for Temple security is admirable. Though I suggest you leave the vents to the droids next time."

"Yes, Master," I said quickly.

He nodded once and continued down the hall. Only when he turned the corner did I whisper into the comm again: "And that concludes today's episode of Jedi-Cop. Tune in next time for more thrilling near-death ventilation adventures."

Ahsoka laughed. "You're going to get grounded forever."

"Probably," I said, brushing dust off my tunic. "But at least I'll have the moral high ground."

Maris groaned. "Don't—"

"—try it?" I said.

"Ugh."

...​

If there's one thing I've learned about the Jedi Archives, it's that they don't forgive and they never forget.

Well — Jocasta Nu doesn't, anyway.

So when I got dragged out of the Council Tower vents and reassigned to "research duty," I figured this was it. My punishment. My exile. My eternal reward: filing dust reports for a librarian who could probably kill me with a footnote.

But when I arrived, she was… smiling. That was new.

"Ah, Initiate Kryze," she said in that deceptively gentle tone that made 'Initiate' sound like 'repeat offender.' "Since you seem so curious about Council matters, perhaps you can assist me in compiling the historical ethics records concerning Kamino."

"Kamino?" I repeated, like an idiot who'd just been asked to summarize his crimes out loud.

"Yes," she said sweetly, guiding me toward a terminal that looked older than Yoda. "A fascinating case study in moral ambiguity. You'll find the archives under 'Clone Development: Societal Impact.'"

I sat down. The terminal hummed to life. Jocasta folded her arms.

"Consider this," she said. "A constructive outlet for your curiosity."

Translation: You're on thin ice, young man. Research your way out of it.

...​

An hour later, I had a datapad full of notes that read like the ramblings of a particularly anxious philosophy student.

Clone = people? Question mark.

Born soldiers — literal army babies?

Growth acceleration = child labor, but with extra steps.

"Programmed loyalty." Yikes.

I scrolled further. Kaminoan methodology, genetic reinforcement, behavioral imprinting — it was all so… clinical. No compassion, no pause. Just endless reports written like they were describing a line of appliances instead of people.

"So they're born soldiers," I muttered under my breath. "Like, literally bred to die for us. That's… fine. Totally fine. Nothing dystopian about that. It's not like I'm reading the origin story of a galactic tragedy or anything."

From the next terminal, Jocasta's voice drifted over. "Muttering to oneself is often a sign of deep reflection, Initiate. Or guilt. Which is it in your case?"

"Yes," I said automatically.

She actually chuckled at that — soft, surprised, the sound of a librarian caught briefly off-guard. "You're an unusual student, Kryze."

"I've heard that before," I said. "Usually right before I get detention."

"Then let's ensure this research remains purely academic."

"Right," I said. "Academic. Sure."

But it wasn't. Not really.

Because I'd seen these soldiers — in another lifetime, another medium. I'd seen them laugh, joke, disobey orders. I'd seen Rex risk everything for his friends, Fives uncover a conspiracy, Cody shoot Obi-Wan in the back. They were heroes and victims at the same time. Living proof that being good doesn't save you from being used.

I scrolled to another entry — Behavioral Conditioning and Obedience Training, Kaminoan Doctrine. The first line made my skin crawl:

"Compliance is the foundation of survival."

Yeah. That sounded healthy.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "You know," I said out loud, "if I ever start a list called 'Bad Things the Jedi Accidentally Approve Of,' this would be item one."

Jocasta didn't even look up. "The Jedi did not commission the army," she said smoothly. "No matter what some might claim. The Kaminoans were approached by one man — Master Sifo-Dyas. And even that account is… disputed."

"So the Order's off the hook," I said.

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. "We are never 'off the hook' when lives are involved, Initiate. But facts matter."

"Sure," I said. "But… we're still gonna use it, right?"

She froze. Just slightly — like she hadn't expected that question from a twelve-year-old. "That's… a difficult question to answer."

"That's what people say when the answer's bad," I said quietly.

Her gaze softened, but her voice stayed firm. "The army belongs to the Republic, not the Jedi. We serve as peacekeepers, not generals. Naturally, we detest the subjugation of sentients. But cloning is… not a simple matter. What we will do, Initiate Kryze, is our best."

I nodded — because that's what a good Jedi-in-training would do.

But deep down, the words "our best" felt like a Band-Aid on a sinking ship.

"'It's complicated,'" I said, mostly to myself. "That's what they always say right before the ominous music starts."

Jocasta looked amused again. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," I said quickly, tapping the datapad. "Just making a note for tone."

...​

We worked in silence for a while. I skimmed through Kaminoan ethics dissertations — which, by the way, are the worst bedtime reading in the galaxy. All formulas and detachment. I'd expected at least one moral crisis, but apparently, the Kaminoans had outsourced empathy to their spreadsheets.

There was a line buried in one report that stuck with me:

"Ethics are inefficient. Perfection requires singular purpose."

I stared at it for a long moment.

That's what they thought perfection was — obedience without conscience. A species that worshipped control so completely that they'd bred an entire generation to die for it.

I wondered if any of the clones ever felt that. If any of them ever looked around Kamino's endless white corridors and realized they weren't supposed to dream.

Then I realized — they did.

That's what made them human.

"Initiate Kryze," Jocasta said, pulling me back. "You're frowning."

"I was just thinking," I said. "The Kaminoans… they designed the clones to be loyal. To follow orders without question."

"Yes," she said carefully. "As all soldiers are expected to."

"But they didn't give them a choice," I said. "That's not loyalty. That's programming."

"An interesting distinction," Jocasta mused. "And yet, many beings act from conditioning — cultural, religious, even Jedi discipline. Are we, then, programmed too?"

I blinked. "…Okay, that's unsettling."

She smiled faintly. "Ethics usually are."

There was something oddly comforting in that. Maybe because it meant she had thought about all this. That someone here, buried under the layers of doctrine and politics, cared.

"So what happens next?" I asked. "With the army, I mean."

"That depends on the Council," she said. "And the Senate. You may yet have a front-row seat to history."

Great. Just what every time-traveling preteen wants: front-row seats to an ethical disaster.

Jocasta closed her terminal, then gestured toward mine. "You have a thoughtful mind, Ben. I'm assigning you to assist the Senate delegation reviewing the issue. Since you're so… interested in ethical collapse."

"Wait—really?" I blinked. "That's a thing you can just—assign?"

Her smile widened. "In the Archives, Initiate Kryze, everything is an assignment."

I sighed, collecting my datapad. "I'm starting to understand why people turn to the Dark Side. Less paperwork."

"Then perhaps," she said lightly, "you should reflect on why so many of them start as students."

That one landed. Hard.

I gave a small, awkward bow. "Thanks for the existential crisis, Master Nu."

"You're welcome," she said serenely.

...​

If there's one thing worse than a moral crisis, it's a moral crisis with homework.

Jocasta Nu didn't just hand me a datapad full of Kaminoan ethics reports. She handed me a mission: deliver them to the Temple's Senate liaison office "for consideration by the Republic Committee on Defense and Armament."

Which was a fancy way of saying: Take this folder to the grown-ups before they accidentally start a galactic war.

So there I was, clutching a glowing datapad like a bomb made of bureaucracy, wandering the Temple's upper corridors and praying I didn't run into anyone with more authority than a cafeteria droid.

The Force, naturally, has a sense of humor.

"—and I assure you, Senator Organa, the situation is being handled delicately," said a familiar voice up ahead.

I froze.

There, standing outside the liaison chamber, were two of the most famous people in galactic history — one future rebel hero, one doomed queen.

Bail Organa was every bit as composed as the holo-feeds suggested: tall, elegant, diplomatic posture set to medium concern. Next to him, Padmé Amidala looked like the personification of "politely unimpressed." Her senatorial robes shimmered under the Temple's soft light, perfectly pressed, perfectly regal, perfectly terrifying.

And she looked so much like my childhood crush, Natalie Portman.

My brain chose that exact moment to forget how to walk normally.

She turned, noticed me hovering nearby, and smiled with professional warmth. "Oh! Hello there. Are you the messenger from the Archives?"

Okay. Deep breath. Don't panic. Don't say anything stupid.

"Excuse you," I said immediately, "I'm an unpaid intern in moral philosophy… also a Jedi, I guess. But that part should be obvious, considering I'm twelve and live here."

Smooth. Nailed it. Definitely not panicking.

Padmé blinked, then laughed — softly, but genuinely. "My apologies, Initiate…?"

"Kryze," I said, straightening my tunic with as much dignity as a dusty twelve-year-old could muster. "Ben Kryze."

"Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo," she said, extending a hand. I stared at it a second too long — half because she was being nice, half because holy kriff it's Padmé Amidala in 4K reality.

I shook her hand. Probably too long. Definitely too awkward.

Bail smiled kindly, stepping in. "And I'm Senator Organa. Pleasure to meet you, young man. I take it you're assisting Master Nu?"

"That's one word for it," I said. "Another would be 'indentured servitude.' She calls it 'educational.' Tomato, tomahto."

Padmé hid a grin behind her hand. "And what kind of education is Master Nu assigning you these days?"

"The ethics of mass-producing soldiers," I said, maybe too fast. "Light reading."

That got their attention.

Padmé's brow furrowed. "You mean the Kamino situation?"

"Yep." I lifted the datapad. "Clone army. Mystery commission. Possible intergalactic identity theft. The usual."

Bail chuckled under his breath. "You certainly don't mince words, Initiate."

"I try not to," I said. "Words are expensive, and I'm unpaid."

Padmé's expression softened — intrigued now, not amused. "And what do you think of the clone matter, Ben?"

Oh no. She was asking me for an opinion. This was a trap. Politicians love asking children questions that turn into headlines.

But my mouth apparently didn't care about self-preservation.

"Well," I started slowly, "it's complicated. Clones are people — or at least, they should be. But they're made to fight a war they didn't choose, by people who won't have to fight it themselves. That's… kind of messed up, right?"

Padmé's eyes widened slightly. "You're very well-informed for a Padawan."

"Initiate," I corrected automatically. "Still working my way up to hypocrisy."

Bail laughed — an actual, proper laugh. "You remind me of someone I met, you know. It was Initiate Kryze, yes? Would there happen to be any relation to a Satine Kryze?"

"As a Jedi, I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility that may have relatives." I answered, diplomatically.

"I'm sure." Bail's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Well, regardless, I certainly hope you're relatives are proud of you. I can only hope to one day have a child as academically inclined as you are."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," I said. "I think she turns out okay… if a little racist against Wookiees for no apparent reason."

Leia Organa, on the off-chance you heard about this somehow, like, maybe through the World Between Worlds or something, I just want you to know: I stand by what I said. Give Chewbacca a medal, damn you!

Padmé tilted her head, studying me. "You have a rather unique perspective, Ben."

"Yeah," I said. "I get that a lot."

What I didn't say: I also happen to know you're about to fall for a guy who hates sand and will one day massacre a village, choke you, and enable a galaxy-wide fascist regime, so maybe steer clear of moody Jedi with mommy issues.

…But sure, keep it light, Ben. Keep it casual.

That's when I felt a familiar ripple in the Force — bright, overconfident, and radiating the energy of someone who once crash-landed a starfighter just to make an entrance.

Oh no.

"Senator!" Anakin Skywalker's voice carried down the hall, boyish and cheerful. He rounded the corner, cloak billowing dramatically — because of course it did. "I'm sorry for the delay, Master Kenobi was—"

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing next to Padmé.

"Ben?"

"Anakin," I said, as neutrally as possible. "Fancy seeing you here. You know the Senator?"

Padmé blinked. "We've met."

I nodded sagely. "Sure. Met. Right. Definitely nothing galaxy-changing about that."

Anakin frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… moral philosophy."

Padmé looked amused again. "Well, perhaps your moral philosopher can join us for the Temple tour, Master Skywalker."

"Actually," Anakin said — and was that a tiny blush? — "he has assignments."

"Right!" I said, clutching my datapad like a shield. "Assignments! Research! Very important stuff about… ethics and… consequences and… destiny."

Bail arched an eyebrow. "Destiny, hm?"

"Yeah," I said weakly. "Trying to avoid it."

Padmé smiled kindly. "You're a curious one, Ben Kryze."

"You have no idea," I muttered.

An awkward silence lingered — the kind that comes right before someone says something history-defining — and I decided it was time to leave before I accidentally spoiled the entire prequel trilogy.

I bowed quickly. "Well, this has been enlightening! Nice meeting you both. Good luck with the whole 'governing a galaxy' thing. No pressure."

Padmé actually laughed. "Thank you, Initiate Kryze."

As I turned to leave, Anakin leaned in just enough to whisper, "You're acting strange, even for you."

"Thanks," I said. "It's a gift."

And I walked away before I could make things worse.

...​

The corridor was blessedly empty again. I exhaled hard, pressing my back to the wall.

Okay. Survived a conversation with Padmé Amidala without blurting out "you die in childbirth but don't worry, your kids are fine, they're going to kiss each other, one day." That's progress.

My commlink crackled suddenly.

"Ahsoka to Ben," came the urgent voice. "You're gonna want to see this."

I straightened. "What happened?"

"The clones," she said, her tone sharp with disbelief. "They're here. In person."

For a second, I thought I misheard.

Then my stomach dropped.

"What do you mean here?"

"In the Temple hangar," she said. "The Council's meeting them right now."

I looked down at the datapad in my hands — Kaminoan ethics glowing back at me in cold blue light.

Of course they were here. Of course it was starting already.

"Copy that," I said, voice tight. "On my way."

I took one last look down the corridor — where Padmé and Anakin were walking side by side now, talking quietly. The future was already unfolding, and all I could do was watch it happen.

Butterfly Effect, Episode II. Attack of the Dominos

...​

It started with the sound of boots.

Dozens of them. Perfectly synchronized.

You'd think the echo of identical footsteps wouldn't be unsettling, but it is. It really, really is.

Ahsoka stood beside me, leaning over the balcony rail with her elbows propped like we were watching some parade. Maris had her hood up, the picture of quiet judgment. I was doing my best to pretend like I wasn't seconds away from morally combusting.

Below us, the Republic's newest military acquisition was marching in formation. Rows of identical men in identical armor — white plastoid, blue-accented pauldrons, blaster rifles at their sides. Every movement landed with mechanical precision. If you didn't look too close, you could almost believe they were machines.

Almost.

"So…" I started, because silence was unbearable. "Moral greyness looks good in armor."

Ahsoka snorted. Maris did not.

One of the clones glanced up — not at us specifically, but in our direction. His visor caught the sunset and flared gold. For a second, I saw my reflection in it: a scrawny Initiate, hands stuffed into too-long sleeves, trying not to feel small.

The clones turned another corner. Another perfect pivot.

And then they were gone, swallowed by the next platform level, off to wherever the Senate's shiny new army gets its paperwork processed.

"I still don't get it," Ahsoka said. "Who made them? Why Kamino? Why now?"

"Because the galaxy's running out of good ideas," I muttered.

She looked at me. "That's not helpful."

"Wasn't trying to be."

We fell into silence again, the three of us leaning over the durasteel rail. Airspeeders streamed past below — thousands of them, golden trails weaving through the neon haze. Somewhere down there, people were buying dinner, arguing about holonews, kissing someone goodbye. Completely unaware that a secret army had just been delivered to their doorstep.

It should've felt triumphant — like, hooray, the Republic finally has a defense force! But instead it just felt… wrong.

Manufactured.

Maris finally broke the quiet. "They didn't feel like droids."

I blinked at her. "What?"

"When they walked by," she said, still staring at the spot they'd disappeared. "I could feel them. In the Force. Not faintly, either. Like a chorus — too precise, but alive."

I hesitated, then reached out too. Just a touch, like dipping a hand into a current you're not sure is safe.

There they were.

Bright. Sharp. Patterned, almost. A thousand ripples of life, identical and distinct all at once. It was like hearing the same note played perfectly by a hundred voices — beautiful, but unnatural.

I pulled back. "Yeah," I said quietly. "They're real."

"Of course they're real," Ahsoka said. "They're people."

"Yeah," I echoed. "That's the problem."

I don't know what I expected from seeing them up close. Some kind of clarity, maybe. Instead, my brain just kept spinning.

Because I knew them — the idea of them, at least. I'd seen what they'd become: soldiers with names, jokes, friendships. Heroes who'd fight and die for people who didn't even know their serial numbers. Rex, Cody, Fives, Echo… all just waiting to be born into a war no one had started yet.

Except now the timeline was off. The army was here early.

And I had no idea what that meant.

What if Palpatine pushed sooner? What if the Separatists rose faster? What if Order Si— Nope. Not saying it. Not thinking it. Not even alphabetically approaching it.

Still. The thought stuck. Because even if I didn't say it, it existed.

"So what happens to them?" Maris asked.

"Huh?"

"The clones," she said. "The Senate commissioned them for… what? Defense? Peacekeeping?"

I shrugged, helpless. "You're asking the wrong existentially terrified twelve-year-old."

"Ben."

I sighed. "Okay, fine. They'll probably get stationed in garrisons, patrolling spaceports, looking impressive. Until someone gives them a reason to shoot."

Ahsoka frowned. "That's not fair."

"Neither is creating life in a lab and calling it patriotism," I said before I could stop myself.

She gave me a look. "You sound like Master Yoda."

"Yeah, except when he says stuff like that, it sounds wise. When I do it, it sounds like sarcasm with trauma."

Ahsoka elbowed me, smiling faintly. "That's your brand."

I didn't argue. She wasn't wrong.

A transport rumbled overhead, casting long shadows across the platform. The light caught on my hands — pale against the durasteel, trembling just a little.

"I keep thinking about what Jocasta said," I murmured.

Ahsoka tilted her head. "About what?"

"That the Jedi didn't commission them. That we didn't ask for this. But we're still going to use them. Pretend it's for peace, for balance, whatever helps us sleep."

Maris' voice was soft. "Maybe they'll want to fight."

"Maybe," I said. "But what if they don't know they can choose?"

That shut everyone up.

For a while, the only sound was the city — speeders, air currents, a chorus of distant engines. Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the Temple, a training saber activated and someone yelped. Probably Gungi again. The kid never remembered to duck.

It was such a stupidly normal sound that it almost broke me.

I turned away from the edge, suddenly exhausted. "I'm gonna go have an existential crisis somewhere with snacks."

Ahsoka grinned. "Cafeteria?"

"Obviously. Philosophy burns calories."

...​

And that's why I always ate during my philosophy classes.

My professor hated it, but he was a dick. Seriously. He only had four assignments that he graded over the entire semester, and they were all tests, with True/False only questions, and even then, they were obscure, or used double negatives. Have I mentioned that I don't like philosophy? This is why.

Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed!

As always, stay tuned for more chapters, or read ahead on my Patreon, link below:

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[ZzzSlothzzZ]

Her smile widened. "In the Archives, Initiate Kryze, everything is an assignment."

Click to shrink...

Darth Liber: "Chancellor Palpatine, I assign you to die, execute Order 65. Mwahaha Infinite knowledge and power and wine "
Ahsoka: "We're are not legally old enough to..."
Maris: "I lurve yuu guyysh" *glomp*

"I'm gonna go have an existential crisis somewhere with snacks."

Click to shrink...

Kill moral conscience with food.

It is the way

"Obviously. Philosophy burns calories."

Click to shrink...

It's a third of the reason why philosophers were drunks.