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Tiplee's master is a light-blue skinned Mikkian woman named Laikass. Her sister's master isn't mikkian - they're a nonbinary Pantoran named Solas Anehema with deep purple hair and cerulean skin, but Tiplee and Tiplars's masters are close enough friends that it’s like sharing a master. It's unusual - but then again, so's force-sensitive twin sisters.
When they're both 17 standard, Laikass takes them to a mikkian seer on coruscant and helps him trace the Taja sigil onto their foreheads. Grips their hands as it's tattooed onto their skin.
"It shows who you are," she explains softly, pressing her fingers against her own mark. "It ties us to where we come from."
Tiplee's seventeen years old and pressing lightly at the still healing tattoo. Her sister is sleeping beside her, her feet pressing against Tiplee's hip, her presence humming in the force.
-
They're only a year older than Skywalker, who they're fighting with now. They'd all been padawans on Geonosis, the hot sun and the burning of the force and the lightsabers as the Jedi had stood, in a circle. Tiplee had been terrified, had raised her saber and fought but all her thoughts had been to her sister, to her master.
Tiplee had felt master Laikass' death before she knew it had happened, felt the stretch and pull and snap of the bond they shared as it broke, as her taleth stilled and her body hit the Geonosian sand. She screamed and cried and clutched at her sister's hands, the force of it tearing a hole through her. Then she'd risen, saber ablaze, and fought with every ounce of her, letting her grief fuel her.
"She is one with the force," the other Jedi said, resting a hand on her shoulder and pushing empathy and condolence at her.
"She looks to the glorious future," her sister whispered, when they were alone, the traditional mikkian phrase falling between them in the silence. They're waiting for their knighting ceremony, both of them masterless, grief-filled, and clutching onto each other like they did when they were younglings. When they stand in front of the council, they do it with their fingers curled together.
The clone wars come, and they fight, together as always. Tiplar has to argue for it, though, in front of the council.
"We're better together," she explains, without a doubt. "It's not attachment, masters. It's just the truth." And they get a battalion, together, led by clone commander Doom, and they fight, back to back and shoulder to shoulder.
Commander Doom is like them. Commander Doom has a million brothers and he would die to protect every single one. Tiplee and Tiplar understand - and together the three of them mourn for every death, every injury, every battle. "It's not right," Doom says, when they're on Coruscant, three quarters through a bottle of Mikkian wine. "It’s not fair."
"No, it isn't," Tiplar says, her yellow-green taleth whipping in agitation. "This whole fucking war is pointless."
They finish the bottle, they finish their leave, they go out and fight again, watching more of their battalion die useless, pointless deaths and they cry for every one of them. Tiplee gets shot in the arm, but a hundred clones die in that battle, and she thinks that she'd get shot again if she could have saved them.
They try to give Tiplee a different battalion, and she refuses. "We're better together, masters," she explains. It’s no longer just her and her sister - commander Doom is included in that too. She thinks of them - the three of them, back to back, shoulder to shoulder, in the mud of Felucia and the dust of Ryloth and the quartz plains of Christophsis. It's not attachment, and she knows this. It's the truth, and it can be seen in their victories.
-
Here are three truths: Tiplee loves her sister, more than anything. She would lay down her life to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep her happy. She'd do the same for commander Doom, for all her men. She'd fight and die to make sure that they survive this. And lastly, she truly, truly believes that the Jedi are doing the wrong thing by fighting in this war.
Anakin Skywalker directs them through the stations of Ringo Vinda and Tiplee and her sister follow. He understands what he's doing, and Tiplee can understand why he's been given so much responsibility and control, because he's good at this. They're almost at the end, after two days straight of solid fighting, they almost have the station under their control.
The problem is that Tiplee's been having visions of something happening, the whole time she's been on this station. Limp taleth and a teardrop tattoo and four words that mean - something, but she can't quite put her finger on what. She looks at her sister, and touches the mark on her forehead with two fingers.
Tiplar nods. Touches her own mark, with three fingers. "Taja," She whispers, when they get a second alone. "The goddess speaks."
"Something's about to happen," Tiplee says. "Something important."
Tiplar nods, then looks aways as Skywalker walks over.
"Don't get too comfortable," Skywalker says. "This battle hasn't been won yet."
"Master Skywalker," Tiplee says, ignoring the aching remnants of the vision. "We must get to the command post. Admiral Trench has sent for reinforcements. We must take this post before they arrive"
Skywalker nods, and they all crouch down beside the holomap. "It's time for phase two."
As Skywalker explains the plan, Tiplee blinks. There's a voice murmuring something in her ear, but she can't quite make it out.
good… orders, the vision whispers. If they had more time, Tiplee would get her sister to look at her Taleth, see if she could pick the parts of the vision from their movements. Bat they're in the middle of a battle - the future will have to wait.
"If we time it right," Skywalker concludes. "We should all converge on this spot at the same time - the droids won't know what hit 'em."
Doom folds his arms. "If we're making a run, we'll need backup. Our men are severely depleted." From him, it looks like gruffness, but Tiplee knows him well enough to know it's not brusqueness, it's grief - they've lost a lot of men in this battle. They look to the glorious future, she thinks, clasping her hands together.
"Fives," Skywalker says, looking at his ARC. "You and Tup take ten of your best men and support master Tiplar."
The clone nods, looking at his brother. "We're on it, sir."
There's a second more for organization, for Tiplee to feel the dregs of the vision fade, and then they're off again. Tiplee takes Captain Vix and what's left of Hurricane Company down the right passageway, and there's no time for thought - just movement.
She blocks, twisting to avoid another shot before slicing the cranial unit off of a droid. Her men form up behind her, shooting at the oncoming swarm of droids, and she loses herself in the momentum, the force swirling around her like a storm.
Whatever's about to happen, it's really important.
They get to the end of the passage at the same time as Tiplar and Doom, and Skywalker bursts from the middle corridor a second after. Good timing, she thinks. The command post is within sight, and droids are spilling out of the corridor in front of them. She raises her saber, her taleth flicking behind her.
She hears her sister - "On your left!" and turns, slicing at the droid, and then -
Something - something snaps, tears, and then she turns and her sister's on the ground, a clone pointing a blaster at the space where her head was.
No.
"Sister!" She screams, desperation and shock hitting her like a blaster bolt, and she jumps from her position and runs to her sister.
Her taleth are limp. When she lifts her into her arms, her head lulls, when she reaches out with the force for a sense of life, anything - there's nothing. Just empty space.
She's - she's -
Skywalker screams something, but she doesn't hear. She presses her fingers to her sister's neck, searching for a pulse, presses her palm to the base of her taleth, searching for a thrum of movement, and finds nothing.
"Fall back!" she hears, and lifts her sister's body, curling it against her chest, and retreats, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to focus on getting back to base.
Doom's there. She lays her sister on the ground and grips his hand so tightly that she hears plasteel creak. Curling her other hand around her sister's, she sobs. Doom's body is trembling too, and she can feel his grief - sharp and curling - in the force.
This isn't fair, she thinks, and remembers shore leave and mikkian wine and Doom's furious grief. This isn't fair.
-
There's something she needs to do. She's had a vision, she's seen it to completion, and now she kneels in her quarters alone, pressing two fingers onto the mark on her forehead, and two fingers on her other hand to her sternum.
"The Goddess speaks, and I listen," she whispers, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Then she removes her fingers from her sternum and presses them against her lips, squeezing her eyes shut, letting tears stream down her cheeks.
She did this with her master and her sister, whenever one of them would have a vision. When her master died, it had just been her and Tiplar, whispering the ancient words.
And now it was just her.
I don't know how we're going to do this without you, Tiplar, she thinks. We're better together. We've always been.
She stood, inhaling deeply, trying to control her tears. Then she went to find Doom, and mourn their loss, a bottle of Mikkian wine in her hands.
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