Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 1: Twin Suns of Mandalore

I maintain that if Korkie hadn't looked at me like that, I wouldn't have done it.

It was the smugness. The little arch of the brow as he scooted his seat closer to the table. The sanctimonious way he reached—reached—for the fruit bowl like he hadn't just called me a "gremlin with jam on his face" five minutes ago. Which I was. That's beside the point.

He wanted the meiloorun. The big one. And I wasn't about to let him have it.

So I did what any emotionally well-adjusted four-year-old with mysterious telekinetic powers would do: I lifted the entire fruit bowl off the table with my mind and hovered it just out of his reach.

Korkie froze mid-grab. His fingers curled around empty air. His mouth stayed open like he forgot how to finish the sentence "Auntie will hear of this." To be fair to him, he's four. His language skills aren't that developed.

Not calling him dumb. Just saying, it's not like he reincarnated into a baby, full memory in tact. Did he?

Stare.

"Ben!" he squawked, swiveling toward me like I'd kicked a puppy.

I put on my best innocent face—wide eyes, sticky cheeks, hands folded like I hadn't just summoned the power of the Force to win brunch.

"I didn't do anything," I said sweetly. "Maybe you just didn't want it badly enough."

The bowl hovered gently behind me, untouched and spinning ever so slightly like a trophy on display.

Bo-Katan was across the table nursing her morning caf like it was the only thing holding her together. She stared at the levitating fruit, blinked once, then took another long, slow sip without breaking eye contact.

"Mmm," she said blandly. "Just like his father."

I'm pretty sure she meant Obi-Wan, even if she still refused to say it. But she always said it in that tone—the one that meant "This is why I drink."

And for the record, I don't think she's the mother. Despite whatever claims "Auntie Satine" wants to make. Bo-Katan would have been like fifteen by the time we were born. Which… okay, biologically speaking could be possible. But thankfully, me being Force-Sensitive puts the horrifying implications of that theory to rest.

No way Bo-Katan would ever sleep with a Jedi.

Korkie slammed his tiny fists on the table like a baby senator delivering his first filibuster. "That's not fair! He's using—he's doing weird stuff again!"

"It's called strategy," I said, trying to scoot the bowl closer without wobbling it. "Also, he called me a gremlin. Which is rude and speciesist."

"You are a gremlin!"

"You're a nerd."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Ben, put the bowl down before I throw you out an airlock," Bo-Katan muttered, still not looking up from her caf. "And Korkie, stop tattling. If he wanted to hover produce in defiance of natural law, that's between him and his future therapist."

"She means Jedi," Korkie whispered at me accusingly.

I stuck my tongue out. "Does not."

"Does too."

"I will set this fruit on fire with my brain."

"You can't do that!"

"…Yet."

The bowl trembled slightly, enough that a bright yellow jogan apple rolled to the edge. I reached to catch it—physically this time—but it slipped through my fingers and thumped onto the floor.

Look—space magic isn't as easy as they made it look. I'm doing my best, here.

Bo-Katan sighed, set her mug down with a clink, and finally looked at me.

"You know this is how it starts, right?" she said. "One minute it's breakfast levitation. Next thing you know, you're declaring yourself ruler of the Outer Rim in a cape made of wookiee pelts."

"That sounds amazing," I said with awe.

She rubbed her temples. "I should've let Death Watch take you."

I grinned. She didn't mean it. Mostly.

Korkie looked between us, equal parts scandalized and smug, like he was calculating whether telling on me would score him enough points with Aunt Satine to get extra dessert.

I popped a meiloorun slice in my mouth. "If you're gonna tell, at least wait until I finish chewing."

"I'm telling."

I held up a sticky hand and waved the fruit bowl just out of his reach again, smirking.

"Then I'm hovering."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not nervous.

He had passed his Trials. He had been knighted. He had a padawan of his own. He had stopped an arms smuggler ring two days ago without so much as a burn mark on his robes. He had also, recently, grown a beard. All the hallmarks of maturity.

He was not nervous.

Except he was also standing on Mandalore. In front of her. And they had kids. Two of them. Twins. Small, terrifying ones. And he was reasonably sure one of them had caused the Force anomaly they were sent here to investigate—by levitating a fruit bowl, if the report was accurate.

Truly, he could only blame the Will of the Force for it. How did he always find himself in the most awkward position in the most inopportune time? Simple. The cosmic energy that binds and penetrates the entire galaxy has it out for him.

Shockingly unsurprising.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tunic. "Duchess."

"Knight Kenobi." Satine's voice was calm and cool and perfect, as always. Her back was perfectly straight. Her hands were perfectly folded. Her eyes were a little too dry.

He hated how well he knew her tells.

"It's not often the Jedi Order comes knocking unannounced," she said, voice sharp as a vibroblade wrapped in silk. "I suppose we should be honored."

"This isn't a diplomatic visit," Obi-Wan said, doing his best to keep his voice level. "We detected a significant Force signature in this region. Untrained and… erratic. We traced it to your estate."

"And what a surprise, it turned out to be a member of my household," she said, arching a brow. "A child, no less."

"Yes, quite the coincidence," Obi-Wan replied stiffly. "As the… not-father of these children—"

"Yes," Satine said crisply. "Because that would be absurd."

They stared at each other.

Bo-Katan, leaning against a pillar behind them, let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered into her cup, "I'm going to become a terrorist out of spite."

"I heard that," Satine snapped.

"You were meant to."

Ben and Korkie were a few meters away, sparring with sticks. Well, Korkie was sparring. Ben was making lightsaber noises and spinning wildly, eyes alight with glee.

Obi-Wan watched them for a moment. The smaller twin—Ben—was practically vibrating with energy. He was grinning like he'd invented happiness. Korkie, by contrast, looked like he had memorized the Art of War and resented being pulled into such chaos without proper planning.

"I'd like to evaluate the boy," Obi-Wan said, clearing his throat again. "We'll need to confirm the strength and source of the signal we detected."

Satine nodded, tightly. "Of course."

"You can use the courtyard," Bo-Katan said lazily. "It's already scorched from last week's training accident. Ben tried to make a rocket out of caf beans."

"He succeeded," Satine muttered.

...​

They gathered in the courtyard. Ben plopped cross-legged on the ground and immediately began humming to himself. Korkie stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a disapproving uncle.

Obi-Wan knelt before the boy and produced a small device from his belt. "This is a kyber resonance reader," he explained gently. "I want to see how your energy interacts with it."

Ben tilted his head. "Are you gonna do the glowy hand thing?"

"Not unless I have to," Obi-Wan said with a small smile.

"You're old," Ben observed. "But not like old-old. Just regular boring-old."

"I see your manners are well-developed."

Ben beamed. "Bo taught me sarcasm."

Bo-Katan raised her cup. "You're welcome."

Obi-Wan turned the reader on. It hummed—then whined. Then sparked. The display blinked red and shut down with a sad little chirp.

"Oh," Obi-Wan said.

"Told you I'm awesome," Ben said smugly.

"That thing broke last time too," Korkie said, shrugging. "He touched it and it caught on fire. I think he's cursed."

Ben rolled his eyes dramatically and reached behind his back to yank a meiloorun slice from his pocket like it was a reward snack. "I'm not cursed. I'm gifted."

"Gifted in chaos," Korkie muttered.

"Well, you are Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said under his breath, then immediately felt Satine's gaze burn two holes in his skull.

"I heard that," she said.

"You were meant to," he muttered back.

...​

The formal "tests" lasted all of ten minutes before Obi-Wan gave up.

Ben knew where objects were without seeing them. He nudged a pebble across the ground just by scowling at it. At one point, when asked to focus on a sphere hovering above his palm, he accidentally burst it. Into confetti.

Not literal, mind you. He quite simply rendered a solid metal sphere into shreds.

"This is going splendidly," Obi-Wan muttered.

"I like the Jedi stuff," Ben said. "Will I get a lightsaber?"

"Eventually," Obi-Wan replied. "After training."

Ben nodded, chewing on his fruit. "Cool. Can I have a black one?"

"That's… rare."

"Cooler, then."

Korkie crossed his arms. "They're monks. You're gonna have to shave your head."

Ben froze.

"What," he said flatly.

"Jedi all have bald heads. That's what monks do. Bo said so."

Ben narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"Nope. No hair. Not even eyebrows."

Bo-Katan, smirking, let her own thoughts on that matter be known. "This is so much better than breakfast."

Ben looked at Obi-Wan. "Is this true?!"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth—and then Ben lifted Korkie three feet into the air.

The Force surged around him like a gleeful ripple. Korkie yelped, flailing his arms as he floated above the courtyard like an offended balloon.

"Ben!" Satine called, half-panicked.

"I will not be bald!" Ben shouted. "I look weird without eyebrows!"

Bo-Katan snorted caf through her nose.

Obi-Wan reached out with the Force and gently brought Korkie back to the ground. "Ben," he said, as calmly as he could. "That's not how Jedi resolve conflict."

Ben frowned. "Then how do they?"

"Through diplomacy. Wisdom. Patience."

"I like the floating better."

"I can see that."

...​

Obi-Wan stood beside Satine on the veranda, watching Ben dart around the courtyard in circles while humming something rather sinister, though he certainly couldn't place it.

"He's strong," Obi-Wan said quietly.

"I know."

"He should be trained."

"I know."

They stood in silence for a while.

Then Satine said, too softly, "You'll look after him?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "As much as I'm permitted."

"You're not his father," she said, with a small, sad smile.

He turned to her. "Of course not. That would be… absurd."

Below, Bo-Katan kicked a helmet off the steps and muttered, "I swear, if I have to co-parent another Jedi, I will blow something up."

...​

The walls were quiet again.

Not just the stone—cool and polished in the Mandalorian tradition—but the silence beneath the silence. No boots scuffing down the hall. No bickering twins. No Bo-Katan cursing under her breath. No Jedi Knight hovering in her orbit like a ghost from an unfinished past.

Satine closed the door behind her and rested one hand against it.

She stayed there a long moment, simply breathing.

She hated quiet. Hated what it gave her the space to remember.

Her quarters were modest by noble standards. A darkwood desk against the far wall, one stack of reports still open. A tall narrow window allowed the suns to cast angled light across the floor. Shelves lined with datapads and legal texts and framed holos—none of which featured her children. That had always seemed… safer.

And there, on the low reading chair by the hearth, sat the plush tooka toy Ben had dragged around since he was three. Its left ear had long since been gnawed flat. Bo-Katan had threatened to vaporize it once, during a diplomatic summit.

Satine crossed the room, sat down, and picked it up.

It smelled faintly of dust and fruit jam.

She held it to her chest like it was something fragile and precious, and let her mask fall.

...​

They had been young. So young.

The galaxy had been on fire, and she and Obi-Wan had somehow thought they could outrun it.

They'd spent weeks moving between safehouses, sleeping with a blaster between them and the door. She had braided his hair once, just to see if she could. He'd complained bitterly, then refused to take it out. When she asked him why, he said, "Because you put it there."

And yet, they had never spoken the words aloud. Not then. Not even later, when she'd stood in front of the High Council and smiled like her heart hadn't been shattered three times over.

Obi-Wan had bowed, then turned his back.

She didn't blame him. Not really. He had chosen his path.

And so had she.

But then there had been the sickness.

The birth.

The miracle.

Twins. Unexpected. Unplanned. And for the first time in her adult life, Satine Kryze had been utterly unprepared.

Ben hadn't cried right away. He had come into the world silent and still, like he was already listening. The medics thought he wouldn't survive. They were wrong. By the next morning, he had knocked over an entire tray of instruments without touching them.

It had been Bo-Katan who said it first, cradling the squirming boy in one arm while Korkie chewed on her sleeve.

"He's his father's child," she said, softly.

Satine hadn't answered.

...​

She traced the worn fabric of the tooka's nose with one thumb. It was frayed from years of affection.

"He always has to win, you know," she said to the empty room. "Even when it doesn't matter. Especially then."

Ben would be leaving. Soon. Perhaps by nightfall. She had given her blessing—what else could she do? They would take him to Coruscant, to the Temple, to the Jedi. He would learn discipline. He would learn restraint.

But he would also learn distance. Detachment. The same cold, noble masks that had turned Obi-Wan's love into silence.

She feared what the Jedi would make of him. Not because she didn't trust them—but because she did. Because they were so good at molding children into ideals.

And Ben was not made for ideals.

He was bright and burning and wild. He belonged to Mandalore in ways Obi-Wan never had. He screamed when he was angry. He laughed with his whole chest. He ran too fast and tripped too often and loved things before understanding them.

He would either break the Jedi or be broken by them.

Satine closed her eyes.

"I thought we'd have more time," she whispered.

...​

The door buzzed. Once. Twice. She didn't answer.

Bo-Katan let herself in anyway.

Her boots were loud—deliberately so—and she paused only long enough to glance at the tooka in Satine's lap before she spoke.

"They're loading the ship."

Satine nodded.

"Obi-Wan's hovering."

Satine did not look up.

Bo-Katan sighed and walked over to the window. "You going to say goodbye?"

"I said what needed saying earlier."

"He's four."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Do you want me to—?"

"No," Satine said quietly. "You'll only make it worse."

Bo-Katan leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. "He won't forget you."

"He'll be trained to."

"No," Bo said, more firmly now. "He won't."

Satine finally looked up. "He's not like Obi-Wan."

Bo-Katan huffed. "No, he's not. He's not like you, either."

"Then what is he?"

Bo-Katan smirked. "Yours."

Satine smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I just hope he keeps his hair."

"You know he's going to come back with a dramatic cape and an attitude problem."

"That's our boy."

Bo-Katan snorted. "I give it ten years before he tries to conquer a star system out of spite."

Satine set the toy down, smoothed its ears. "Then I hope it's a good star system."

Bo-Katan's voice softened. "He'll be fine, you know."

Satine said nothing.

Bo-Katan crossed the room, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's going to terrify the Jedi."

Satine finally smiled for real.

"Good."

...​

Okay, so here's the thing about Jedi transports: they're cool, but not that cool.

They don't shoot lasers. They don't have rotating plasma turrets or atmospheric thrusters that flip upside down mid-battle. They definitely don't have flamethrowers. Or a rear-facing cannon mount. Or a kitchen. I asked.

This one just looks like a big sad metal egg with a light-up ramp.

I'm supposed to be excited about it—this whole "You've been chosen by destiny to be a peace monk in space" thing—but mostly I'm just wondering if Jedi get to wear capes. I'm four, not stupid. Priorities.

Bo-Katan walked beside me, and by "walked," I mean stomped like the ground had personally offended her. I think she was hoping if she glared hard enough, the shuttle would combust from fear and she wouldn't have to say goodbye.

"I told Korkie you'd cry," I said.

"I don't cry," she snapped, not looking at me.

"You sniffled that one time during the holodrama with the sad Loth-cat."

"I had allergies."

"To emotions?"

She glared down at me. "Say one more word, and I will become a terrorist."

I grinned. "You always say that."

"Because no one believes me."

"Korkie says if you haven't done terrorism by thirty, it's just a phase."

Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Not a phase. Just waiting for the right target." She didn't even deny it this time. Progress!

The shuttle was still powering up, humming softly as Jedi people with important robes pretended not to watch me. I waved at one. He flinched. Excellent.

Bo-Katan stopped at the edge of the landing platform and crossed her arms. That was her version of "I'm feeling things and refuse to let them out except in the form of property damage."

I kicked a rock toward the ramp. "So, this is it."

"Apparently."

"You gonna miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Tiny gremlin."

"Angsty space bat."

"You're lucky I don't believe in corporal punishment."

"I'm lucky you love me and are terrible at hiding it."

She looked at me for a long second—then snorted, rubbed a hand over her face like I gave her a migraine, and crouched down to my level.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked. Like she was trying to memorize me in case the Jedi tried to give me a personality transplant.

"You don't have to be like them, you know," she said eventually.

"The Jedi?"

"The quiet ones," she said, gesturing vaguely at the nearest robe cluster. "The ones who never laugh. Who wear beige on purpose."

I squinted. "What color is beige again?"

"The color of sadness."

"Ah."

She reached into a side pouch and pulled out something small, metal, and very illegal.

My eyes lit up. "Is that a—"

"A vibroblade," she said, pressing it into my hands. "Deactivated. No power cell. Don't tell the Jedi."

"Sweet!"

"Think of it as a Mandalorian keepsake. Or a last-minute act of extremely poor judgment."

I turned it over in my hands reverently. It was slightly too big for me, but it felt right. Like it belonged.

"Are you sure I can take this?" I asked.

"No," she said flatly. "But I'm not your real mom, so it doesn't count."

I grinned. "You said it! You admitted you're not my mom. Oh, I'm so telling Satine."

"I was fifteen when you were born!" she snapped. "It was a dumb lie, anyways!"

It really was. If Satine really didn't want to admit she slept with a Jedi—which if we're being honest is pretty fair—she should have just said we were adopted. We're actually super supportive of that here on Mandalore.

This is the way.

Of course, so is messing with your family.

"Then who's our real mom, huh? Duchess Satine and Obi-Wan the Jedi definitely never—oh wait, yes they did."

She groaned. "If I hear one more person whisper that I'm the mother, I will punch a senator."

"You already punched two."

"Harder."

I laughed and tucked the blade away into my satchel. Bo-Katan stood up again, hands on her hips like she wanted to fight destiny itself.

"You'll come back, right?" she asked, but very casually, like it didn't matter.

"Obviously," I said. "I have to show you my cool lightsaber."

"Don't make it beige."

"I'll make it black."

"Good."

We stood there a minute.

Then, softer, she said, "Aliit ori'shya tal'din."

I blinked. "Family is more than blood."

She nodded once. "Make some friends while you're gone. Tell me about them when you come home."

"…You'll want names and tactical weaknesses?"

"Exactly."

I looked up at her. The wind tugged at her hair. The sky was too blue.

"If the Jedi mess you up," she added quietly, "I'll take it personally."

"Even if they mess me up in a character-building way?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll build your character with explosives."

I threw my arms around her legs.

It was quick, and I played it off like it didn't mean anything, but I felt her hand settle gently on my head before she ruffled it hard enough to make me yelp.

"Get out of here, brat," she said.

I walked toward the ramp, the vibroblade in my bag and my chest feeling too full. Just before stepping inside, I turned back and yelled:

"Bye, Mom!"

Bo-Katan's whole soul left her body.

"Say that again and I'll blow up a planet!"

"You better pick one with a good name!"

...​

The inside of the shuttle smelled like metal and floor polish.

Not exciting, legendary floor polish. Not "wiped-down-after-a-duel" kind of polish. No lightsaber scorch marks. No blaster pockmarks. No bones. Just smooth floors and boring chairs and weird humming from somewhere in the wall that was probably normal but sounded like a depressed gundark.

I sat near the viewport with my forehead against the transparisteel, watching Mandalore shrink below us.

It didn't look like home from up here. It looked like a coin. One you'd forget in a pocket and only find later, after it'd already been through the wash.

Korkie was down there somewhere, probably throwing a fit. I hadn't even said goodbye.

Mostly because he said if I did, it meant I wasn't coming back.

So obviously I had to skip it. For narrative tension.

Also, I wanted him to be dramatic about it. Maybe write a manifesto. Or a tragic poem. Or a play. The Tragedy of Korkie Kryze, Whose Twin Ditched Him for the Space Monks. I'll read it at his wedding someday.

Bo-Katan had stayed until the very last moment, arms crossed and eyes like she was memorizing me just in case. Then she walked off without a word. Classic.

Satine hadn't come.

…Which was fine.

Totally fine.

She was busy. Duchess stuff. Definitely not crying in her room with a cup of tea and one of my stupid stuffed toys. Nope. That would be weird.

The ramp had hissed shut behind me and I hadn't looked back.

Because I'm brave. And independent. And I don't cry in front of Jedi.

Mostly because this one might actually be my dad.

...​

He was sitting two rows over. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Knight of the Jedi Order. High-functioning disaster.

He was doing the "brooding in a tunic" thing that I think came standard with the beard. Like he was trying to be mysterious, but just looked constipated with feelings. His arms were folded. His eyes were closed. But every thirty seconds, he peeked.

I know because I counted.

"Hey," I said.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't blink a lot."

He cracked one eye open, slowly. "Jedi discipline."

"I think it's a medical condition."

He huffed. "You're very observant."

"I know. I'm going to be the most powerful Jedi ever. Or something. I'll figure it out. I'm still workshopping."

That got the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. More like a tiny hostage note from the muscles on his face.

I shifted in my seat and pulled my knees up. "Do you think I'll get a cool title?"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "A title?"

"Yeah, like—'Ben the Blade,' or 'Wrath of Mandalore.' Something with dramatic flair."

"You'll be given a name when you become a Knight."

"I'm four."

"Yes, well. Let's take it one step at a time."

I looked out the viewport again. Mandalore was just a speck now. Like a freckle in space. A memory.

"Hey," I said quietly. "Do you miss her?"

There was a pause. Then:

"Who?"

I turned to look at him with the most unimpressed expression a child could possibly muster. "Don't make me say it. We both know the game."

Obi-Wan looked away.

After a moment, he said, "More than I can explain."

And that was the most honest thing anyone had said all day.

...​

The rest of the ride was quiet.

The other Jedi chatted softly in the background. Someone passed around ration bars. I took two and stuck one in my bag next to the (definitely legal) vibroblade Bo-Katan gave me. I wasn't planning to stab anyone. Unless the cafeteria food was bad. Then we'd talk.

I didn't fall asleep, even when they dimmed the lights. Just watched the stars smear past like slow-burning fireworks.

The galaxy was big. Way bigger than I thought.

And somehow, it felt like I was already chasing something. I didn't know what.

Power? Family? Purpose? Probably all of it.

I just knew I wasn't done yet.

I pressed my forehead to the window one last time.

Mandalore was gone. Out of sight.

"I'll be back," I murmured. "With drama… And possibly a cloak." I grinned to myself, heart weirdly heavy and full at the same time. "I really hope a cloak…"

...​

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 2: Wookie Mama

So here's what nobody told me about the Jedi Temple:

It smells like… soap.

Not good soap. Not "I just punched someone and now I'm fresh and dangerous" soap. No, it smells like… rules. Clean floors. Fresh linen. Order. The kind of soap that implies no one has had a good lightsaber fight in years.

Which is ridiculous, because this is the home of the Jedi.

You'd think there'd be at least one broken statue or a scorch mark somewhere. Something to give the place character.

Instead, I'm standing in the world's largest, most peaceful marble hallway, holding my bag of definitely legal belongings and staring up at a ceiling so high it might count as its own zip code.

I'd ask Obi-Dad what to do next, but he left already. Classic Jedi move: deliver the child, vanish emotionally.

The onboarding team was nice enough. The medical droid scanned me (twice), the healer gave me a fruit chew (I asked for five and got two), and someone gave me a tiny beige uniform that looks like someone took all the color out of "fun" and sewed it into a shirt.

And then I was guided—no, herded—down a hall, through an arch, and into the crèche.

...​

The crèche is big.

Like really big. Big enough that if I ran in a straight line yelling, I could cause at least three minor incidents and maybe one full evacuation.

Which means I'm already in love.

There are kids everywhere. All kinds—Togruta, Twi'lek, Rodian, some sparkly one I'm afraid to look directly at. Everyone's laughing, running, talking, or—surprisingly often—floating. There are balls made of light zipping overhead, training drones hovering around like confused seagulls, and little meditation pads scattered like someone tried to summon a minimalist demon and gave up halfway through.

And in the middle of it all is a girl.

She's standing on top of a cushion stack with her hands on her hips, yelling at a Nautolan twice her size.

"No, you listen!" she's saying. "It's not a fair game if you keep using your head tentacles to trip people!"

"It's not tripping if they fall on their own!" the Nautolan argues.

She jabs a tiny finger in his face. "That is exactly what tripping is!"

I like her already.

I take two steps in and a soft voice says, "This is your stop."

I turn around just in time to see the Knight who guided me here disappear down the hall like he's allergic to follow-up questions. Rude. But I guess helping others is the path to the Dark Side.

Fine. First impression time.

I sling my bag over one shoulder, puff out my chest, and march straight into the chaos like I was born here. (Technically I was born in a Mandalorian war bunker during a thunderstorm, but that's a story for another day.)

"Hi!" I say, approaching a small circle of kids who are trying to stack blocks using only the Force. "I'm Ben. I'm new. And yes, I do come with accessories."

They stare at me.

One of the blocks topples and hits a kid in the forehead. Another sneezes and levitates a cushion by accident. Someone behind me drops a tray of ration cookies.

"I'm also charming and mysterious," I add.

Still silence.

Well, fine. Time to impress them with skill.

I spot a training ball sitting nearby. One of those little floaty spheres used for light reflex drills—perfectly round, perfectly smooth, and—if the Force is with you—perfectly tossable.

I stretch out a hand, squint just a little for dramatic effect, and reach out with the Force.

The ball trembles.

Someone gasps.

It floats. It spins.

It rockets upward at warp speed and slams directly into a hanging chandelier.

There's a crash. A shatter. An extremely awkward silence.

A few crystals clatter to the ground.

A Togruta boy screams.

"…Oops."

The next thing I hear is a sound like a krayt dragon gargling gravel.

A very large Wookiee emerges from behind a meditation curtain, and I mean emerges like someone summoned her with the ancient rite of "noise." She's huge, covered in cinnamon-colored fur, and wearing simple Jedi robes stretched over broad shoulders. I didn't even know Wookiees wore clothes, so this was surprising. Her eyes lock onto me like I just gratified the Temple steps.

"RRWAAHHHRRHHH!"

Everyone goes dead silent.

Even the training drones stop.

I blink up at her, trying to look innocent. "Uh…"

"WRAHHHHRHHHHAAAHHH!"

"Oh," I say quickly, nodding. "Yes. Very wise. Of course."

The other kids exchange glances.

"That means don't run indoors," says a Twi'lek girl nearby.

"Right," I nod solemnly. "That's what I said."

The Wookiee Jedi narrows her eyes.

She crosses the room in four massive strides, scoops up the training ball and one of the fallen chandelier crystals, then turns to me and points.

I raise a hand. "In my defense, I was trying to demonstrate natural Force talent. Which I did. The target just happened to be… gravity. And also lighting fixtures."

"RAWWWRRHHH."

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?"

"Ben," the Twi'lek girl whispers. "That's Master Tyyyvak."

"Oh."

"She runs the crèche."

"Oh no."

"She's the kindest Jedi ever, but she has zero patience for nonsense."

I glance at the shattered chandelier, then back up at the looming Wookiee matriarch who is still pointing at me like I owe her money.

"…Well, this has been educational."

Tyyyvak growls again, then gestures sharply toward the pile of meditation cushions. I scurry that way without complaint. Behind me, the circle of kids starts whispering—some amused, some impressed.

I plop down on a cushion and try not to explode from embarrassment.

The girl from earlier—still perched on her stack of cushion thrones—glances over at me.

She smirks.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just… entertained.

I give her a little two-finger wave.

She raises an eyebrow.

Challenge accepted.

...​

Ahsoka wasn't sure what she expected when they said a new youngling was coming today, but it wasn't… that.

She'd seen him from across the room—short, scruffy, too confident. He strolled into the crèche like he already owned it, said something dumb to a group of kids, and then promptly launched a training orb into the chandelier.

There was a crash, a scream, a dramatic Wookiee roar.

And then he tried to pretend he understood Master Tyyyvak like that made it better.

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?" he asked.

Ahsoka nearly snorted fruit chew out her nose.

She hopped off her cushion tower, padded across the room, and took a better look at him. He wasn't tall—none of them were yet—but he carried himself like he was twice his size. His hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and his tunic was already wrinkled like he'd been wrestling it before arriving.

Mandalorian. Definitely Mandalorian.

And he had attitude.

She was going to like him.

Or possibly kick him.

She hadn't decided yet.

...​

Outside, the training yard was sunlit and wide, its edges lined with soft sparring mats and padded corners for safety. Dozens of younglings were scattered in clusters: some working through the basic katas, others chasing practice orbs. A group of tiny Rodians were stacked in a pyramid for some reason. One had a traffic cone.

Normal day.

Ahsoka stretched, tail twitching, and watched the new boy as he wandered out, trying to look casual while very obviously casing the area like he planned to conquer it by lunch.

She followed.

"Hey, chandelier boy," she called out.

He turned. "Oh hey, tentacle girl."

"I'm a Togruta."

"I'm Ben."

"Not what I asked, but thanks for the update."

He tilted his head, curious now. "You're the one who yelled at the Nautolan."

"He tripped three kids with his head tails."

"I respect that."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You want to fight?"

Ben blinked. "Like, real fight, or pretend 'I'm testing your reflexes' fight?"

"Yes."

He grinned. "Awesome."

...​

They started slow.

Force tag was a crèche tradition, somewhere between a game and low-stakes sparring. Rules were simple: if you got touched by the Force, you were tagged. Shields up, senses sharp.

Ahsoka ducked left. Ben tried a push. She felt it coming and rolled under it.

"Close," she said, springing up behind him.

"Wasn't trying."

"Sure."

She flicked her fingers, and the Force nudged him off balance. He yelped, windmilled, and landed square on his butt.

"Tagged," she smirked.

Ben groaned. "Alright. No more Mr. Nice Jedi."

"You were being nice?"

"No. But now I'm gonna be dramatic."

It escalated fast.

Ben started leaping off training blocks like a tiny acrobat, flinging himself through the air and trying to catch her mid-sprint. Ahsoka flipped over a floating droid, doubled back, and force-tripped him into a foam wall.

"TAG," she shouted as he hit the mat.

"You used stealth," he accused.

"It's not stealth. You're just loud."

A Force tug whizzed past her ear. She dodged, slid across the polished floor, and countered with a pulse strong enough to make him skip like a stone.

"You've trained before," he puffed, scrambling upright.

"I listen."

"I wing it."

They were both panting now, hair flying, limbs sore. Other younglings had gathered in a loose circle, watching the chaos unfold like it was better than Temple holovids.

Ben vaulted off a bench and reached for her shoulder.

Ahsoka ducked, spun, and—

"WRRAAAHHHHHRRRHHH!"

The sound hit first. Then the Force.

Tyyyvak descended like an angry thundercloud in a robe. One swipe of her massive arm and both initiates were swept off their feet, pinned gently but firmly by the invisible weight of an experienced Jedi Master's Enough Is Enough technique.

Ben landed face-first in a foam ring.

Ahsoka bounced twice before settling in a heap, montrals flopped over her eyes.

"RRRHHHWWWAAARRRRRRR!"

Enough. Training is not an excuse to break half the courtyard. Also, that droid is not a launchpad.

Ahsoka peeled a leg off her shoulder. "Sorry, Master Tyyyvak."

Ben rolled over with a groan. "I declare it… a tie."

"You fell in a bucket."

"It was strategic."

Ahsoka smirked. "You're ridiculous."

"You tripped me into a wall."

"You liked it."

"I really did."

Tyyyvak sighed, deep and long. Then she walked away, still muttering something that sounded like "Loud ones. Why is it always the loud ones?"

Ben sat up, hair sticking out wildly in every direction, and looked at her like he'd just been hit by lightning and decided it was a personal challenge.

"So," he said. "Are we best friends now, or mortal enemies with unresolved tension?"

Ahsoka tilted her head.

"…TBD."

He grinned. "Cool."

...​

Here's the thing about Jedi education:

It's terrifyingly organized.

The classroom wasn't even a room. It was more like a giant, circular meditation pit, lined with cushions and gentle humming panels that probably pumped in calming Force vibes. There were no datapads on the floor. No snacks. No knives.

Zero stars. Would not recommend.

I flopped into my assigned spot beside Ahsoka and immediately started taking mental notes:

No windows. Prison vibes. Cushions = deceptively soft. Floor hums. Either meditation field or very large cat. Investigate later.

Ahsoka is sitting suspiciously upright. Possibly possessed.

"Why are you so serious?" I whispered to her.

She didn't look at me. "Because Master Tyyyvak is about to speak."

"What, like in words or in—"

A deafening roar echoed through the chamber like a rancor with a megaphone.

"RAAAAAWWWWRHHHHHRRAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak stepped into the circle like a majestic, extremely hairy judgment cloud. Her robes rustled. Her claws gleamed. The room fell utterly silent.

I straightened up immediately and tried to look innocent. This took effort.

Tyyyvak cleared her throat with a rumble that sounded like a landspeeder failing to start.

Then she began her lecture.

I had no idea what she was saying.

But I pretended I did.

It started strong. She made a sweeping gesture toward the stars and growled something long and emotional.

I nodded solemnly. And copied Ashoka's notes.

"The Force surrounds us, connects us. Be mindful." Right. Yes. Classic.

Then she slammed one paw against her chest and snarled.

"The Jedi are protectors of peace. Even when it's hard." Deep stuff. Possibly traumatic. Moving on.

She raised a finger like she was about to deliver the thesis statement of the universe.

"RWAAAHHHHHHHHRRRRRAAHHH!"

And I wrote in my notebook, "Don't eat your enemies. Even if they deserve it."

Ahsoka leaned over to read my notes.

"That's not what she said."

"You sure?"

"She said the path of the Jedi requires patience and compassion."

"That's what I said."

"No it isn't."

"She used very aggressive body language."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes and went back to listening like the teacher's pet she absolutely was.

I continued to write, scribbling down what I felt the lesson was probably about:

Ben's Jedi Notes, First Edition

• The Force is like air but moodier.

• Compassion is a weapon? Maybe that was metaphorical.

• Meditation involves breathing, but like, seriously.

• Life Day is a Force ritual (probably).

• Attachment is bad, unless it's to snacks.

• Master Tyyyvak has very sharp teeth.

Halfway through the lecture, Tyyyvak turned and pointed directly at me.

"RRAAWWWRRHHHHH!"

Everyone stared.

I glanced at Ahsoka. "Translation?"

"She said you should let go of your attachments."

I nodded wisely. "Cool. I'm letting go of my math homework. Emotionally."

Another roar.

"She's proud of me."

"She's confiscating your notebook."

"What!?"

A massive paw landed gently but firmly on top of my datapad. Tyyyvak took it and held it up to the light like she was considering whether to vaporize it or archive it as a warning to others.

I looked mournfully at Ahsoka.

"You betrayed me."

"You betrayed yourself."

"You encouraged me!"

"I watched you write 'Force Lightning is probably just spicy empathy.' I chose peace."

Tyyyvak tucked the datapad into a pouch that was, frankly, way too small for such violence. Then she grunted again, one short bark followed by a huff.

Ahsoka translated with zero sympathy: "She says you'll get it back when you show 'respect for the living Force.'"

"…That could mean anything."

"Probably means stop drawing lightsabers with fangs in the margins."

The lesson continued.

To my credit, I listened harder after that. I mean, I still didn't understand any of the words—but the energy was there. You could feel it when she talked. Like her voice pulled the Force itself into the room and made it pay attention.

That's the weird thing about Jedi stuff. It's not all about rules or codes. Sometimes, it's just sitting still, breathing slow, and pretending that you don't want to throw a cushion at the nearest Nautolan.

It's boring.

But it's… also kind of peaceful.

And Tyyyvak—she's scary, but she cares.

You can tell.

She doesn't roar at just anyone.

Class ended with a brief, rumbling hum and a soft tap of her claw against the floor.

The kids filed out in silence. Even me.

I bumped Ahsoka with my shoulder on the way to the door.

"So, how'd I do?"

"You survived."

"I call that a win."

"You made up at least five Jedi rules and invented a holiday."

"Thank you."

She sighed. "You're lucky she likes you."

I nodded. "That's the plan."

Behind us, Tyyyvak roared one final word.

"RAAAAAWWWRHHHHHHHH!"

Ahsoka smiled faintly. "And she kindly requests you stop guessing what she's saying."

"Yeah," I said under my breath, "that's fair."

...​

I'd been at the Temple for three days.

In that time, I'd (1) set off a floating orb alarm, (2) invented a new Force maneuver called "accidental backflip into a plant," and (3) gotten my notebook back from Tyyyvak, complete with fur-covered sticky note that read:

"Try again. With fewer disruptions."

Progress.

I had also, apparently, made a reputation for myself—which, look, wasn't intentional. But when you're from Mandalore and your general vibe is "small chaos goblin with Force powers," people start expecting things. Like unpredictability. Or commentary.

Which was why, on day four, we were told to gather for our first meditation-focused lesson—and I was specifically placed next to Ahsoka, who had been specifically instructed to keep me "quiet."

She was not thrilled.

...​

The meditation room was dim, quiet, and smelled like incense and responsibility. Light streamed through tall windows, catching the edges of soft floor mats and polished stone. There were no distractions. No training balls. No obvious things to throw.

Suspicious.

Master Tyyyvak sat in the center of the room like a fluffy statue of judgment and wisdom. She raised one massive paw.

The room went silent.

"RRRAAHHHHHHHHHHRRRHHHHH."

Yeah, I still couldn't understand her, and the Force isn't Duolingo. What I did have was a data pad, with the Sci-Fi, Temple approved equivalent of Google Translate.

Today, we begin our study of the Jedi Code.

She let it hang in the air like an ancient riddle. I could feel the other kids tense up with excitement or fear or both. I, personally, was 70% excited and 30% bracing for disappointment.

Sure enough, she growled the first line with reverence:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

I waited a beat.

Then whispered: "Unless it's funny."

Ahsoka elbowed me so hard I nearly shifted dimensions.

"RRRRAWWWWRHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak didn't look at me. She didn't have to.

I coughed. Sat up straighter. Tried again.

"There is no ignorance, only… underpaid archivists."

Another elbow.

Another growl.

A kid across the room started to sniffle.

"Okay, okay," I said quickly. "I'm done. I'm focused. I'm ready to learn the Sacred and Very Serious Code of Not Laughing Ever."

Ahsoka muttered, "You're going to get Force-choked in your sleep."

"Not by her. She likes me."

"Not the point."

Tyyyvak continued the recitation. Her roars came slow and thoughtful, translated with gentle pauses by the Temple's universal translator—or Ahsoka, when the thing glitched (which it did a lot, there's a reason they're rarely used).

"There is no passion, there is serenity."

"There is no chaos, there is harmony."

"There is no death, there is the Force."

Simple. Repetitive. Easy to memorize.

Harder to believe.

I mean, have you seen the galaxy? There's plenty of emotion. And chaos. And death. And passion. It's kind of the entire theme.

But something about the way Tyyyvak said it—like it wasn't just a rule, but a reminder—stuck with me.

Not that I'd admit that.

Instead, I mumbled under my breath: "No death? Bold take for an order with laser swords."

Ahsoka coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

One point for me.

...​

We were told to repeat the Code as a group. Loud and clear. Centered. Still.

I tried. Really.

"There is no emotion…" I began.

And suddenly, I felt something.

Calm. Weightless.

For a half-second, it was like my brain stopped spinning. Like the Force itself pressed gently against my chest and said, "Hey. You're not wrong to be loud. But you don't have to be all the time."

Which, frankly, was rude.

But true.

I finished the line without a joke.

"There is peace."

Tyyyvak glanced over.

Just a glance.

But I swear she nodded.

...​

Afterward, we were told to reflect. Quietly. In our journals.

I stared at the blank page.

Thought about chaos. Thought about Mandalore. Thought about Satine's face when she said goodbye, and how Bo-Katan had pressed that (deactivated) vibroblade into my hand like it was a promise.

And I thought:

There is emotion. But it doesn't have to own me.

There is chaos. But I can be louder.

I doodled a lightsaber with wings and labeled it "inner balance."

Ahsoka leaned over to peek at the drawing.

"…You're so weird."

I smiled. "Thanks."

...​

Tyyyvak gave her final Wookiee blessing of the day—a low, rumbling hum like the purr of a starship engine—then dismissed us with a raised paw.

We filtered out in silence, or something close to it.

I waited until we were just outside before I said, "So… real talk: what do you think they'd do if I carved the Code into a training mat using only the Force and a spoon?"

Ahsoka didn't even blink. "Ask you to do it again but quietly."

I grinned.

Then walked straight into a doorframe.

Balance.

...​

The dormitory was supposed to be quiet by now.

Most of the younglings were already curled up under their thin Temple blankets, soft breathing syncing with the low hum of ambient meditation frequencies piped in through the walls. Outside the tall windows, Coruscant's endless cityscape glowed like a sleeping giant made of light.

Ahsoka was trying to sleep.

She wasn't succeeding.

Too many thoughts. Too much energy. Too much Ben.

He was lying in the bunk across from hers, very pointedly not asleep, one arm flung over his face in a melodramatic sprawl that suggested either deep suffering or severe boredom. Possibly both.

"Psst," he whispered suddenly. "You awake?"

Ahsoka rolled over, blinking. "No."

"Oh. Good."

Yes, Ben. How wonderful for her that she, an aspiring Jedi, can find no rest. Why does she hang out with him, again?

"…Wanna snack?"

She sat up.

He grinned and pulled a crinkling packet from under his pillow like a smuggler revealing contraband.

"Stole it from the cafeteria droid when it wasn't looking. I'm basically a stealth master now."

"You are the loudest child in this Temple."

"And yet somehow, always successful."

She took the snack—dehydrated fruit sticks—and leaned back against the wall beside her bunk. "This doesn't mean we're best friends, you know."

"Obviously not," Ben said, already halfway through his own pack. "We're sworn enemies with snack benefits."

She snorted. "You're weird."

"And you've said that every day since I got here. At this point, it's a compliment." He tossed her a stick, which she was quick to sink her teeth into.

They chewed in silence for a bit, both watching the soft pulse of Temple lights dim toward rest mode.

Ben broke it first.

"So," he said casually. "If you had a lightsaber… what color would it be?"

Ahsoka tilted her head. "Green."

"Ugh, predictable."

"It's a classic!"

"Exactly. I want black."

"There's only one black lightsaber," she said. "And it's missing."

"I know. That's why I want it."

"Are you planning to find it?"

"Or make a new one. Somehow. I don't know. I'm still workshopping."

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "You're going to be a problem."

"Correct."

A few bunks over, someone snored.

Ahsoka tucked the blanket tighter around her legs and looked toward the ceiling. "You ever feel… weird here?" she asked quietly.

Ben blinked over at her.

"I mean, like you're not exactly… Jedi-shaped."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I'm from a place where people wear armor instead of robes and raise kids with knives. Yeah. I feel weird."

She smiled. "Me too. Not the armor part. But I get it."

"I think that's why they stuck us together," Ben said. "Too much sarcasm for one hallway."

"Too much brainpower," she corrected.

"Too much awesome."

"Too much… 'accidentally launched a training ball into the ceiling.'"

"That was day one," Ben said proudly. "A record."

She hesitated, then glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No Tyyyvak. "You think Master Tyyyvak sleeps?"

"No."

"You think she's a ghost?"

"I think she's part of the exhibit wing. Like the old Jedi archives with bones and stuff."

"She definitely has bones."

"Yeah," Ben said. "All of them."

They both giggled.

It wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

...​

Ahsoka looked over again. Ben had gone quiet, staring at the glow of the lights outside like he was trying to see something further than the skyline.

"Hey," she said softly. "If we get split up someday—like, if they assign us to different Masters or whatever…"

"…Yeah?"

"Can we promise to look out for each other anyway? Even if we're not together?"

Ben didn't answer right away.

Then he swung his legs out of bed, padded over, and held out his hand.

"Sworn oath," he said. "One Force Pact of Eternal Watchfulness."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now."

She took his hand. Shook it once, firmly.

"We look out for each other," she said.

"No matter what path we take."

"No matter how annoying you get."

"No matter how green your lightsaber is."

"No matter how many chandeliers you destroy."

They smiled.

It was silly.

It was childish.

It stuck.

Ben yawned. Loudly. "Okay, sleep now. Tyyyvak said if I fall asleep during meditation again she'll roll me into the fountain."

"She didn't say that."

"She implied it. With her vibe."

He climbed back into his bunk and flopped over with all the grace of a tranquilized loth-cat.

Ahsoka lay down again, eyes drifting shut, heart a little quieter than before.

Outside, the lights of Coruscant blinked softly.

Inside, two small Jedi dreamed.

Together.

...​

Aw! It's all so sweet. Like those puppy shorts I can't stop watching. Too. Addicting! Not the typical kind of writing I'm used to, but I thought I'd try out something new for a bit. Though, with that said, this wholesome childhood imagery will more than likely end before too long, so don't get too attached. Shouldn't be a problem.

The Jedi hate attachments.

Was that foreshadowing? Who know?

If you'd like to find out the answer early, you're more than welcome to check my patreon, link below, where I have a whole bunch more chapters available. If that's not your thing, no worries, everything will still get here eventually. But if you want to show your love and support, please do! Just know that I appreciate every single one of you!

Huh?

What's that?

Sorry, I was just informed by the Jedi Council that I'm not allowed to express my feelings of gratitude. I take all of your appreciation and admiration with due diligence and indifference. You all mean nothing to me.

(Okay, they're not looking: love you guys!)

My Patreon

P.S.

Sorry for the late update. My wi-fi was not my friend today.