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Chapter Text

Jedi Master Plo Koon breathed.

On its surface, this wasn’t a strange thing.  Like most sentients in the galaxy, Plo’s body needed some form of breathable atmosphere to function, even if his species’ particular biology required a very different sort than most; as such, he needed to breathe to live.

But that was just the issue, Plo thought as he jolted out of what his body identified as a deep meditation, his mandibles shuddering and clicking as he loosed a sibilant sound of distress.  He shouldn’t need to breathe because he shouldn’t be alive.  He should be dead.  More than that, Plo was very certain he had been dead, the faded echo of a burning phantom agony from his ship exploding around him pulsing with every beat of his heart.

Plo curled inward where he was settled on a meditation cushion (he was somewhere he should be at peace), head ducking into his chest and hands raising to touch at his own bared face (he was in a room with a controlled atmosphere and likely alone), eyes snapping open to dart unseeingly at the many lights that surrounded him in his Force senses (lights that he had just felt extinguish, along with those of his men, his Pack, where were his sons).  He gasped another breath, feeling like he couldn’t take in enough air to make his lungs properly function.

He had been dead.

He was positive that he had been dead!

‘Y’need to breathe, General,’ a whispered memory cut through his overwhelming anxiety, gruff and worried but steady and familiar and reassuring.  There was the phantom sensation of a broad-fingered Human-or-near hand covered in blaster calluses gently touching his neck along where his mandibles met the base of his skull, firm and grounding despite the careful pressure.  (His heart ached.)  ‘In four, out five, on my count…’

Plo sucked in a breath, ‘two, three, four, hold, General, you’re doin’ fine—’ then shakily exhaled it, ‘two, three, four, five, the Pack’s got the watch, sir, just focus on this—’.  It took ten repetitions before he once more felt steady enough to take stock of his situation.

A glance around the room revealed that it was his meditation chamber at the Temple on Coruscant, a place he had not returned to in nearly six standard months due to the unexpectedly brutal campaign over Neimoidia and its Purse Worlds (he very carefully did not yet allow himself to think of how that had ended).  The lilac walls and scattered Dorin plants, normally soothing, left him feeling unnerved after so long on his ship, even discounting the fact that it was not where he last remembered being (he refused to think about it).  More carefully than he had earlier, Plo began to stretch his Force sense, breathing out harshly when he encountered the presences of his fellow Jedi.

There were so many of them.  If his species were capable of crying, he was sure there would be many tears; as it was, his mandibles quivered and his lips curled back from his palates and his eyes closed on their own as he simply took them in.  There was Master Drallig, running drills with tired but determined Initiates in the salles; there was Crèchemaster Prie and her Vulptexpaw Clan, the younglings’ excitement over the day’s field trip bleeding into the air; there were a few scattered groups of nervous Padawans and studious Knights researching various projects under the piercing supervision of Master Nu in the Archives; and there—

Plo’s breath hitched and hissed again, this time not in stress, but instead an expression of hopeful awe.  There was the familiar feel of Little Soka, her presence bright and unburdened as it hadn’t been for so many years.  She was radiating a faint level of boredom where she sat in a class that he distantly thought might be Master Yaddle’s basic Healing course, but perked up at his attention and sent him the equivalent of a cheerful wave.  He barely had the mind to return it before he drew back into himself, the niggling thought that had been passing through his mind since he found himself breathing after he had most assuredly died (don’t think about it) after his men’s presences disappeared from his senses (don’t think about it) roaring back to the front, the Force near-dancing in Its eagerness to assure him of the truth of it.

Somehow, some impossible way, Jedi Master Plo Koon had travelled back in time.

Chapter Text

The date was the 10^th of Melona, 3629 ATC, and the Clone Wars were due to start in less than two years.

Plo stared at the innocently blinking jumble of letters and numbers at the top of his datapad for what felt like an eternity.  Two years before the galaxy seemed to fall apart; two years before a war that turned men into monsters and monsters into demagolka; two years before the start of a long fall (or, perhaps, a swift Fall) that would end in thousands of his Jedi brethren dead and millions of their most trusted allies as good as.

Two years to make a difference.

“But where to start,” muttered Plo, frowning at himself.  The Force was entirely unhelpful, merely lapping at his mind with a hum that rang fix and change and help and save to his senses but not offering anything more direct than that.  Plo loosed a hum and let his eyes drift closed, clacking together the talons of one hand in a self-soothing rhythm and loosely gripping his datapad in the other as his thoughts raced.

“Count Dooku delivered the Raxus Address and formally founded the Confederacy of Independent Systems just two months ago,” he continued aloud, half to organize his thoughts and half to get an opinion from someone who was not there.  There was an aching lack of a warm body and gruff, steady presence at his right shoulder that he had to force himself not to dwell on just yet.  “It is too late to try and stop the planets who left to join him, or change the minds of those who will in the coming months.  And, moreso, it is not my place to tell other sentients how to run their societies, however misguided I may feel their actions are.

“The original draft of the Military Creation Act will be presented in six months, but I know nothing of the details of the bill itself beyond its fear-inducing effect.  Perhaps I could contact Mon to try and stymie it?  Or perhaps not,” he tacked on, a mix of amused and discouraged by the Force’s firm no.  “I would think it would solve many problems to stop or slow its creation, but perhaps that is better left to those who know the Senate’s workings.  I suppose once it is presented that a simple message sharing worries with an old friend will have to be enough.”  The Force hummed yes and Plo tipped his head a bit in return, feeling the continued agreement with his next thought even as he spoke.  “Yes, and an anonymous letter or two, perhaps an opinion piece sent to the Coruscant Daily.  Something to work on when I have the time.

“What else?”  The Force nudged him once more with fix and help and he loosed a soft breath, finally forcing himself to think of what he had not wanted to.  “…the Vode are already well into their creation.  There is nothing I can do to stop it.”

Not that he would have, Plo wryly admitted, if only to himself.  Perhaps the many years at war had left him selfish, but the thought of never meeting his men—his sons, he wished he could shout from the Temple’s spires; his children in every way that mattered even before he said the Gai Bal Manda, tears in their eyes and pride in his heart that they had chosen him as much as he had chosen them; his talented, strong, selfless, brave, brilliant Wolfpack—made him feel even more lonely than he did when he thought about how they would no longer know him as he knew them.  The Force twinkled with some sort of mischief, but danced away from his attempts to understand Its meaning, making him wonder…

But no, best not to get his hopes up.  Plo forced his thoughts back to his current problem.

“I should leave them be,” he said heavily, even as his very soul cried out at the thought.  The empty space behind his right shoulder felt impossibly colder.  “They are safe, if perhaps not happy, for now.  So long as the Jedi do not know of Kamino, neither will any other.  It is for the best.”

“N O .”

Plo startled and dropped his datapad, eyes snapping open and darting around his room at the resonant shout.  It had sounded like it came from right next to him, but he was undoubtedly alone in the room.  So where…?

The Force rumbled warningly, and the sound (now identified as more of such an intense thought and feeling amplified so many times over that it seemed to be spoken aloud) repeated, “NO.”  And then, just to be sure he understood:  “GO.”

Plo blinked.

Well.  Alright, then.

“To Kamino it is,” he agreed, a little bemused to be spoken to so directly.  Normally only those rare few gifted in the Cosmic Force, such as Knight Feemor or Master Antilles, could hear the Force Speak instead of just receiving impressions.  It was a bit of an unnerving experience but one he was humbled to be gifted.

Now he just had to convince his fellow members of the Jedi Council to let him go.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, it was laughably easy to get clearance to go on a Search (as in a Search for Force-sensitive children in the outer regions of the galaxy, which was the closest to the truth that Plo could think of to explain his need to find his men).  Upon entering the Council meeting that day, Mace took one look at him, closed his eyes in clear pain, and said to the rest of the Council, “Whatever it is that Master Koon is requesting, I vote to approve.”

And then the Korun had excused himself to lay down and nurse a shatterpoint-induced migraine, leaving the Council sans Plo to exchange startled, uneasy looks.  Plo just smiled in the privacy of his antiox mask.  It wasn’t becoming of a Jedi to be happy about another’s suffering, but the Force’s eddies lapped at him with a sense of reassurance that Mace would be fine after he was able to process the universal shift in shatterpoints that his unexpected time travel had caused, so he allowed himself some joy in the knowledge that the Force was so firmly with him in this endeavor.

Still, thought Plo a standard week later, preoccupied as he exited hyperspace and began the final approach to Kamino, the fact that they approved his Search as well as his spending tens of thousands of credits on random-seeming odds and ends was a strange thing to process.  He knew the importance of what he had bought—hundreds of gallons of various colored paint known to settle nicely on plastoid; buckets of hair dye in a variety of colors specially developed to settle into the roots as a semi-permanent change; a hundred tattoo guns and enough ink to drown a bantha; three dozen piercing machines and about twenty thousand simple silver hoops and studs (the most he could get on such short notice)—but no one else from the Order could have.  Yet, not one member of the Council batted an eye at the purchases when he returned to say his farewells.

A small part of Plo wondered if this placid acceptance of everything being the Will of the Force was what led to the Order’s downfall.  He very carefully sealed that thought away to examine at a later time.

“Planet Kamino, this is the Lupus, requesting permission to land,” he called through Tipoca City’s comms channel once he was within range.  “I repeat, this is the Lupus, requesting permission to land.”

There was a long silence, long enough that Plo repeated himself yet again and was contemplating doing so once more before his ship’s comm crackled a response.

“Lupus, this is Kamino,” the sibilant, airy voice of one of the natives came across.  “If I may, how did you gain access to this channel?  It is meant exclusively for our clients’ use, yet we have no record of prior visits from your craft.”

This time, it was Plo who paused.  He hadn’t even thought twice before inputting the familiar comm number as he had dozens of times before, whether he was visiting the planet on a mission or to pick up new recruits.  Perhaps he had tipped his hand a little too soon…?

“My apologies, gentlebeing,” he said without bothering to change his tone from polite disinterest.  The Kaminoans as a whole were notorious for their difficulty in understanding vocal nuances that came from emotions, so there was really no point in playing at remorse.  “I am Jedi Master Plo Koon.  I was arriving to inspect the progression of…our order.”

The words tasted like oxygen on his tongue, the choking, cloying burn of airborne poison.  No matter the fact that Plo knew he needed to use terminology the Kaminoans would understand, referring to the cloning of sentients to be legally enslaved (and he still shuddered to think such a thing was possible in Republic space, for all Kamino wasn’t part of it just yet) in such a callous way was ever-sickening.

However, his words worked as intended.  On a dime, the being on the other end of the speaker went from wary to accommodating and said, “Of course, Master Jedi.  I am sorry for the confusion, but I was not informed of your visit.  Please proceed to follow the lights to Landing Bay 3; I will inform the Prime Minister of your arrival.”

Plo gave his affirmative before shutting off the channel and taking a moment to collect himself.  It was time to put his plan into action.

Chapter Text

Taun We was the one to meet him, as she always had (would?  Time travel confused tenses more than he had expected).  “Master Jedi, welcome,” she greeted, swaying forward in her species’ version of a respectful greeting.  Plo lowered his head and shoulders in return, but made a point not to give a full bow.  Petty, perhaps, but when it came to the Kaminoans, he wouldn’t give them more respect than they deserved—which was very little, in his humble opinion.  “The Prime Minister is anxious to meet you.”

“I will have to extend my apologies for the long wait,” Plo said, folding his arms and slowly tapping the armor caps on his middle talons against his elbows in a self-soothing motion he had never quite managed to shake.  “Extenuating circumstances delayed this check-in for far too long, I’m afraid to say.”

Taun We inclined her head ever-so-slightly before she turned, waving a hand to invite him along as she did so.  “Please, this way.  We should not keep him waiting.”

Plo hummed, but said nothing, simply following the Kaminoan in silence until they arrived at what he knew from previous visits was the Prime Minister’s reception room.  Lama Su himself was perched on one of the peculiar round chairs he and his people favored but unfolded his long body sinuously at their approach.

“May I present Lama Su, Prime Minister of Kamino,” drawled Taun We.  Lama Su leaned his head forward so little that it was barely even a motion, and Plo returned the greeting with an equally shallow nod.  “And this is Master Jedi Plo Koon.”

“It has been many years since we last had heard from the Jedi,” the Prime Minister said, slowly, not a hint of his emotions in the words or on his long face.  “We were beginning to wonder if you were not coming.”

“I must apologize on behalf of the Jedi Order,” said Plo serenely, lacing his fingers and tapping his talon armor together in a steady rhythm.  He most certainly took no pleasure out of the way both Kaminoans’ presences drew back with irritation at each metallic clink, echoing loudly in the otherwise silent space; none at all.  “I am afraid that Master Sifo-Dyas, who you may recall was given charge of the original contract and all details therein, passed away some eight years ago, now.  He oversaw many of our Order’s more delicate projects and as we trusted you and your people had the commission in hand, we felt confident enough to wait to check in until our other affairs were under control.”

The Kaminoans’ emotions settled into a faint, pleased pride at the (empty) platitude and (false) trust in their abilities.

“It is no trouble,” Lama Su lied.  “Please, let us get right to business.”  He did not offer a seat, and Plo did not ask, preferring to meet the slight with only a serene gaze that likely looked no different from his normal expressions to one not accustomed to his masked features.  “You will be delighted to hear that we are exactly on schedule.  The first batch of fifty thousand clones are reaching the end of their training and will be battle-ready by the end of this year, with one hundred-fifty thousand more ready one year after that.  The remaining million are also well on the way, projected to be completed precisely on time.”

“The initial commission was for one million units, to be further expanded upon if needed, was it not?” interrupted Plo, recalling the details of the original contract from his past-future.  That had been a Council meeting for the ages, he recalled a bit fondly despite the bitterness coating the whole affair; Shaak had been on a ship to Kamino within an hour to renegotiate the more unsavory portions, radiating into the Force a protective fury of an alpha predator fearlessly facing another with the intent to protect their young despite her outward serenity.  “I would ask why there are two hundred thousand extra units prepared beyond that.”

The Prime Minister’s nostrils flared slightly, only noticeable because they were such a central part of his face.  “We pride ourselves on our commitment to our contracts, Master Jedi.  With that in mind, accidents do happen on occasion, and as such we would rather be over-prepared than under.  We would be willing to cull the extras should you feel they are not needed.”

‘Cull’ cut through Plo’s being like a vibroblade to his heart and behind his mask, his lips pulled back from his palates in a snarl, the deep hiss of his rarely-stoked anger inaudible due to how far below most sentients’ hearing range it was.  He had to draw upon the Force to smooth the edges of it—not remove it, but temper it into something less like the wild lightning all Kel Dorians feared and instead more similar to the precise directed strikes the Baran Do Sages trained to command.

“I did not intend any offense in my question, simply to gain understanding,” he said once steadied, the words searing like an oxygen burn in his maw.  “There is no need for senseless waste after all the effort has been put in.  A cull will not be necessary at this time.”

Lama Su was slightly mollified.  “As you wish, Master Jedi.  We strive to keep our customers happy.”

Plo took a nearly imperceptible moment to breathe and reassure himself that his emotions were once more under control before continuing the conversation.  “If I may, Prime Minister, I am anxious to inspect the units for myself.  While I am sure the army is progressing as you say, my colleagues wish for a thorough report on my observations.”

“Of course, of course,” said Lama Su as he waved a hand toward where Taun We still stood in the corner of the room.  “I would lead you myself, but I am afraid I must leave to meet with another of our patrons.  Your arrival time was fortuitous; ten minutes later and I would have missed your visit.  As it is, Taun We will take you on your tour, and afterwards show you a room where you may rest until my return at tomorrow’s midmeal.”

“I thank you for your time and will plan to see you then,” Plo replied, keeping his tone serene for all that neither of the beings before him could read it.  “May the Force guide your travels.”

‘Straight into a karkin’ sun,’ a memory of a gruff but oh-so-loved voice added in his mind as it might have done over secure comms if its owner were only here.  His right shoulder felt cold as it had since he had woken in the past and the redirected lightning of anger in his veins pulsed, begging to be let out to raze the facility to the ground so he could find the ones he so dearly missed and ensure their safety…but no.

Over a million bright lights pulsed in the Force around him, so close together that their edges blended until it felt like one beating heart of brotherhood, and he let their radiance steady him.  Anger and revenge were not the Jedi way, but to protect those lights—those Plo had known and would know and many he would never even meet—he would pull both to him.  The Vode deserved to have defenders, ones who would stop culls and foster individuality and fight for their right to be free, and he would proudly be the first to take up that mantle.

But before that, of course, a tour.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, on particularly dark days where the Force wept with the many lives so senselessly lost and the galaxy itself seemed turned against his family (his Jedi siblings, his beloved sons, his millions of unofficial nieces and nephews), Plo found himself morbidly contemplating what Obi-Wan’s thoughts had been when he first discovered the army that had been created for them.  What had he felt most intensely?  The confusion, at a hitherto unknown species that had been expecting him when he hadn’t expected them?  The heartbreak, at the million-plus lives being forcibly created to fight in a war that was not theirs?  The horror, at finding that the soldiers were told that they were made for the Jedi?

It was an interesting thought exercise, if nothing else.  Plo could only assume it was a combination of all three—and he could only assume, as he would never dare to ask unless Obi-Wan came to him first, and Obi-Wan was very much not known for asking for emotional support from others.  “Stubborn as a wild strill,” Commander Cody once described after he had relaxed enough to talk freely to his batchmate with Plo still in the room, radiating tired but fond exasperation.

As for Plo, his (re)discovery of the Vode went in a very different direction.  He felt all of those things of course, but the confusion and the horror were dulled with tired age until only the heartbreak remained to mingle with anticipation.  He could sense hundreds of familiar presences in the Force, for all he couldn’t easily identify or track them as they blurred with others’ in the tight confines of Tipoca City and their thoughts were neither close nor directed at him.  He wondered a bit morbidly what he would do when he met one of his sons and they did not know him as he knew them.

Most of his ride to Kamino had been filled with meditation on this matter, but there was no way to know for sure.  The Force was also being spectacularly unhelpful, only nudging at him with vague sensations of help and fix and save and change between warm reassurance and trilling mischief.  Where were the straightforward words of before? wondered Plo, amused and bemused in equal turns but receiving no response.

“…coming upon midmeal,” Taun We was saying, drawing him out of his wandering thoughts as they strolled down a particular hallway that connected most of the smaller training areas set aside for smaller and specialized combat lessons.  “I am afraid that as we were not forewarned of your arrival, we may be unable to prepare a meal you could partake in, Master Jedi.”

“That will not be a problem,” said Plo, pausing at the side of the corridor with his hands clasped and the armor caps on his talons clicking together in a staccato beat.  The Kaminoan’s Force presence flickered irritation at every tap as it had since he began to do it, but he very pointedly did not notice that, given how if he did notice he would be obligated to stop.  “Kel Dor are a very hearty species; we generally only require one meal a day, and I have already taken mine on my ship.  Instead, I would like to meet the troops, if that would be possible to arrange.”

“‘Meet’ them?”  Taun We gave a rare look of open bewilderment at the request.  “Master Jedi, surely you do not have to meet the products.  They are hardly worth the effort.”

The lightning in Plo’s veins crackled, but he kept himself visibly serene.  His talon-caps tapped together slightly louder as the only outward show of his anger.  “I believe that, as the client, it is my duty to decide what has ‘worth’, is it not?”

Taun We’s nostrils flared much more noticeably than Lama Su’s had, and it was very satisfying to see.  For a moment he thought (and perhaps hoped) she would argue, but after a pause her expression calmed and she inclined her head.  “Of course, Master Jedi,” she demurred, contrasting the affront in her Force presence.  The skin around Plo’s eyes crinkled with the width of his triumphant smile, but predictably, the Kaminoan didn’t notice and instead moved her hands in a gesture to a small branch from their current pathway.  “Some of the units that will be declared battle-ready next year are training in this room with Instructor Tay’haai.  When you are done meeting the troops, let him know, and I will return to direct you to your quarters.”

It took a moment to place the instructor’s vaguely familiar name.  Eventually, he recognized it: Wad’e Tay’haai had been one of the Cuy’val Dar, and after a six month break following the First Battle of Geonosis, he had returned to Kamino to aid in the training of specialized commando squads for the remainder of the war.  During a meeting on the Council, just months before (don’t think about it) he ended up in the past, Shaak had slyly mentioned something about members of the Vode that were slated for reconditioning seemingly dying of self-inflicted injuries after visits from the Mandalorian warrior.  The bodies left behind did not have any markers of the to-be-reconditioned, she had added, teeth bared in what could only loosely be called a grin, but it was always possible that someone had been mistaken while recording the reconditioning orders.  The Council was conveniently distracted by a very fascinating report from the Agricorps immediately after this statement and thus couldn’t be blamed for not putting the conversation in their meeting notes.

A good man, thought Plo with some relief.  It was always a pleasure to find others who cared about the Vode and were willing to protect them when the Jedi had failed.

“As you say,” he replied aloud, nodding his head.  Without another word, he turned to the hallway, drawing his hands apart to instead hold his elbows as he walked.  He allowed himself a chuckle as Taun We audibly sniffed before she did the closest thing to stomping away such a sinuous and naturally graceful species could manage.

He wasn’t able to dwell on the amusement for long, however, as a ping on his Force senses drew his attention to the presences on the other side of the door.  This close, he was able to unravel them, and as he did so his breath caught.  There was one presence more familiar than the others, blooming with determination and focus that balanced surprisingly easily with a natural good humor, and he found himself frozen in front of the doors as they automatically slid open.

Thirteen gazes, twelve Vode and one Mandalorian in full armor, snapped to him at his entrance, but only one did Plo focus in on.  It was easily the most startled of the gazes, and the Vod it was attached to took a single step back in surprise before his Force presence nearly exploded against Plo’s senses.  There was surprise and joy and relief and loyalty and care and, far and above that, practically vibrating with its strength, there was an overwhelming warmth that simply read as family.

“Boost,” breathed Plo, barely audible even through his antiox mask’s amplifying vocoder, but in the dead silence of the room it may as well have been a blaster-shot.  He was vaguely aware of the Mandalorian, presumably Tay’haai, radiating hostile confusion and the other Vode shedding alarmed shock and confused stress, but he ignored them for now, focus intent on one of his three eldest sons.

“Koh-to-yah, Buir,” the reckless trooper greeted with wet eyes and an open beam.  Gasps and hisses echoed softly through the room and perhaps Plo should have been more worried, in particular given the way Tay’haai’s hostility spiked, but there was no sense of immediate danger in the Force so he allowed himself to ignore it for now.  Instead, a smile of his own creased his face, and he took a step further into the room so the doors could close behind him.

“Koh-to-yah, my ad’ika,” he returned warmly, extending one hand in welcome.  Boost sprinted to him, shouldering two brothers roughly out of the way without apology, and was tucked in a hug against Plo’s chest before most sentients could blink.  The Kel Dor chittered a subvocal greeting that shook through his chest as silent tears wet the front of his robes, the fingers of one hand carefully lacing through Boost’s strangely regulation-length hair and the other arm protectively circling his shaking shoulders, and despite the inherent danger currently around them Plo could only feel at peace.

He had one of his sons safely enclosed in his arms.

Everything else could wait.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, everything else could not wait, despite Plo’s desire otherwise.

Barely a few seconds of the mutual comfort between himself and his son passed before the Force screeched a warning.  In a blink, Plo had shifted his grip to pull Boost into a firmer hold and jumped into the air, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt to the knees by doing so.  With a simple front-flip and another shift in grip, they were on the ground on the opposite side of the room, Plo standing between Boost and the threat with his lightsaber hilt in hand.  He barely refrained from igniting the blade, and only because he knew that doing so would escalate the situation and thus put both himself and his son in further danger.  He would be damned if he let that happen when they were so freshly reunited.

The Vode in the room had scrambled to pull their own weapons at the blaster’s discharge, but didn’t quite seem to know where to aim once Plo pulled out what was very recognizably an unlit lightsaber.  Perhaps predictably, the attacker was Tay’haai, and only a beat behind Plo landing the Mandalorian turned on his heel and pointed his blaster directly between the Kel Dor’s eyes.

“How dare you speak that language, jetii,” Tay’haai growled, drawing himself up in an attempt to look larger and more intimidating than he already was.  “Who are you?  Why are you here?”

“I would think that obvious,” Plo replied perfectly evenly, as if he had not just been contemplating violence.  Boost, with the ease all Troopers had been forced to develop when hard-hitting campaigns gave no time to properly mourn, had already shaken off his relieved tears and pulled his own blaster to aim at Tay’haai from over Plo’s shoulder.  His fierce protective fury nearly drowned out the sharp tang of terror in his Force presence, and Plo very carefully smoothed both over, sharing his trust and firm resolve that between the two of them they could take care of this adversary.  He was pleased to feel Boost’s body relax ever-so-slightly against his back.  “I am here to greet my son, as is my right.  Unless,” he tilted his head slightly to signify a glance over his shoulder, “Boost has decided to disown me in the last standard week or so?”

“Not on my life, sir,” the Vod immediately responded.  “Nor would any of the Wolfpack, for that matter.”

Message received, thought Plo, relief hitting him like a bolt to the gut.  It wasn’t just Boost and Plo who had travelled in time; some of the Pack, likely most if not all by his son’s phrasing, had joined them.  His mandibles quivered at the burst of relieved joy he felt and were his species able to cry, he likely would have at the very least teared up.  Luckily, however, he wasn’t, so instead he merely shared his sense of solace with his son and received the warm thought of a here, always in return.

“There you have it,” said Plo, tone remaining serene.  “And as for the language, I do apologize if Kel Dorian offends you.  I will try to refrain from using it in the future.”

Tay’haai snarled something in Mando’a that Plo’s limited grasp of the language didn’t allow him to fully translate.  He caught the words ‘stupid’ and ‘death wish’ in there, however, so he understood the gist.

“K'ulyc, bajir!” Boost was quick to snap, puffing up in offense.  He, too, spoke in rapid-fire Mando’a, and Plo caught him repeating ‘careful’ and something about a blade.

“I can defend my own honor, Boost,” said Plo a little dryly, fully aware of when someone was threatening another on his behalf, “and moreso, we should refrain from needlessly antagonizing one of your trainers, however much he way wish for us to give him an excuse for a fight.  I have it on good authority that it will be another year before you have finished your training.”

Boost made a wounded noise that was all for show.  “You’d let’em hold me back like that, sir?”

Plo only barely refrained from hissing a scoff.  “I would ‘let’ the Kaminoans do little, when it comes to my sons or your brothers.  However, the fact that you can barely peer over my shoulder means that your body has not finished maturing just yet, and as such you will need to finish honing it before your lessons may cease.”

“Buir,” groaned Boost, and Plo just knew his son would be rolling his eyes if they weren’t still hyper-focused on the potential hostiles in the room.

“Where did you learn Mando’a, Cadet?” interrupted Tay’haai, irritated at being ignored.  There was a hesitation from Boost before the Vod answered, tone dropping from teasing and comfortable as he had been with Plo to rigid formality with a hint of a challenging growl.

“From my Commander, Instructor Tay’haai.”

“We don’t have our assignments yet,” blurted one of the other Vod in the room, startling everyone.  The trio still at a standstill turned to look at the cadets, of which a few appeared uneasy while the others just looked on with expressions edged in firming resolve—and that resolve, Plo noted upon seeing the tilt of the blasters in their hands, was certainly not to back up their instructor should this turn into a true fight rather than a terse stand-off.  He was a bit conflicted at the realization.  On the one hand, he appreciated that he would not have to harm one of his nephews (or nieces; he didn’t recognize the Vode in the room, and he was not the type to assume such things), but on the other, nothing he had done warranted any sort of loyalty from them.  He sincerely hoped that they were not on his side solely because he was a Jedi.

(Unwittingly, flashes of reports of Jedi Knights who came back uncaring of wiped-out legions of Vode cut across his thoughts.  Plo had to remind himself that he was only one man and thus could only focus on so many things at a time.  There would be time to ensure those Knights were no longer a danger after his sons and their siblings were safe from more immediate threats, namely the Kaminoans and the more violent among the Cuy’val Dar.)

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, vod,” said Boost airily, tone once more relaxing into his normal cheerful drawl.  “I’ve had my assignment for a while.  Part of the 104^th Battalion with General Koon here, under Commander Wolffe—and there’s nowhere else I’d be,” he added, part promise and mostly threat.  He slightly shifted his grip on his blaster where it was still primed over Plo’s shoulder, a silent warning all its own that he wouldn’t hesitate to fight off any who would dare to try and separate them.

“Koon,” muttered Tay’haai, too quietly for most sentients to hear.  Unfortunately for him, he was in a room with a dozen genetically enhanced super soldiers and a Jedi who was of a species with extrasensory organs that boosted both his hearing and his Force abilities, so naturally they all heard.

“Indeed,” confirmed Plo, slowly, sensing the Mandalorian’s suddenly dropping hostility as it was replaced by surprised wariness and a bit of…was that relief?  What?  “I am Plo Koon, Sage of Baran Do, a Jedi Master of the Physical Force and member of the Jedi High Council.”

Apparently, this meant something important to Tay’haai.  His armor’s vocoder crackled with a burst of air, perhaps a sigh or a huff, as his presence in the Force settled and he finally, finally lowered his blaster.

“My Clan owes the Koon family of Dorin a life debt,” he said, the words sounding as if they pained him to admit.  Plo blinked behind his goggles and turned to look over his shoulder at Boost, who despite still holding his blaster at the ready looked just as bewildered.  This was…something that hadn’t come up in their last lives, obviously.  “In honor of that, I won’t harm you or yours so long as I’m not attacked first.  Haat, ijaa, haa’it.”

“I accept your vow,” Plo agreed, still feeling wrong-footed, but willing to accept that some things were simply the Will of the Force.  Its eddies chuckled and soothed against his self in agreement, reassuring that this is the way, and Plo waved his hand in the motion of stand-down at Boost.  “The Force assures his truth as much as his honor as a Mandalorian does, my son.  We may relax for now.”

“Karkin’ Force osik,” Boost said in the familiar refrain of all GAR troops, fondly exasperated, but obediently holstered his blaster and stepped around Plo’s body to stand slightly in front of him instead.  Plo loosed a hum that neither agreed nor disagreed, brows raising and mandibles clicking lightly as he took in the protective stance, and Boost tossed a grin over his shoulder that said he knew why the Jedi was so amused and was completely unrepentant about it.  “Since we’ve got that sorted, you want to meet my batchmates, Buir?”

“As you wish, my ad’ika,” murmured Plo, touching Boost’s shoulder affectionately before following his lead.

There were other concerns to address, but for now, Plo would set them aside.  This was important to his son, and so it was important to him.  The rest could be taken care of in time.

Chapter Text

After the disaster of the Malevolence crisis, the 104^th had primarily become a search-and-rescue and reconnaissance battalion, mostly due to Plo putting his foot down about being involved in large-scale conflicts after the trauma of losing almost eight hundred men in a single sweep.  None of them had been his sons—it had been too early in the war, before he would allow himself to open up to the inherent trust and potential heartbreak involved for such emotional connections or for his men to do likewise—but it didn’t change the fact that the loss had been devastating to both himself and, moreso, the soldiers that survived.  Wolffe of course felt overwhelmingly responsible for the loss of the men under his command, while Sinker’s entire batch had been casualties and Boost lost all of his own but one (who only wasn’t assigned with them because he had been scouted for the Marines under Commander Bacara and Master Ki-Adi; he was reported killed in action just six months later).  Any levity that the two troopers had tried to hold on to while they, Wolffe, and Plo waited for rescue crumbled into dust once they were dropped on Coruscant to rest until the battalion could be re-staffed.

Plo very vividly remembered the men’s breakdown after he had gently led them into the padawan room adjacent to his own, blatantly ignoring Admiral Yularen’s barracks assignment.  He remembered Wolffe sitting in the corner of the bedroom farthest from the door, too still and too silent, his eyes open unnaturally wide without seeing as tears streaked down his pallid face.  He remembered Sinker curled up on the room’s cot with its blankets pulled over his head, whole body uncontrollably shuddering and shivering with soft hitching breaths the only vocal sounds of distress he allowed himself.

He remembered Boost who, for all his natural cheer and good-humor, still broke.  Upon Plo cautiously poking his head into the room to inquire if there was anything they needed, his own posture slumped with both exhaustion and his own mourning over so many lives lost, Boost had leapt from his vigil sitting on the floor between Wolffe and Sinker’s positions and ran forward to tangle his arms around the Jedi in a grip that would have broken an unenhanced Human-or-near’s ribs and made even Plo’s sturdy build creak slightly in protest, near-silent sobs escaping him all the while.  In response, the Kel Dor had felt his resolve to keep his distance from them snap like flimsiplast in a harsh wind.  He was quick to hug the too-young man back as gentle chirrups vibrated his body in a way the young of his own species found soothing; judging by the hiccuping relief in the Trooper’s Force presence and the way he pressed his nose impossibly deeper into Plo’s chest, Boost apparently agreed.  Eventually, Sinker (still wrapped in blankets from head to toe) and Wolffe (still with that dead-eyed look of shocked grief) would join the embrace, and it was when all three of them were in his arms that Plo allowed himself to think, oh.  Oh, these men—these heartbroken, but so very strong and loyal and brave young men—were his, now, and there was no going back from that.  He found that he didn’t much mind.

In the here-and-now, as he was introduced to the batchmates that his son had lost so violently and he had once commanded without allowing himself to become attached, Plo found that same fierce feeling of protective determination to see them safe welling as it had with every member of the Wolfpack that joined over the years.  The thin spirals of love radiating from Boost only aided that, silvery strands of attachment visible only in the Force that were burnished with old grief but all the stronger for or despite it trailing from him to each of the eleven others he had been born with, trained with, and only by pure chance did not die with.

The look in Boost’s eye said he knew exactly what he was doing by sharing those he cared about with his buir, too, and it was an expression far too reminiscent of a tooka who managed to swindle their sentient out of some cream.  Plo share a sense of fond I see what you’re doing in return, but didn’t bother to stop himself from greeting each man with his typical introductory question of how they had picked/been given their names and carefully touching their Force presences so he could keep track of them as he did all his sons.

“Are you gonna adopt us, too?” one of the young men, Taboo (who apparently earned his name because he couldn’t stop himself from asking forbidden questions), bluntly asked after they had all been introduced.  Boom (who was ironically silent as often as possible and communicated only in handsigns when he could get away with it) swiftly elbowed him in the ribs, earning a sotto-voice swear and a thrown elbow in return.

“Well,” Plo slowly said, ignoring Boost’s (hypocritical, given how often he and Sinker tussled) gestures to stop the roughhousing in his peripheral vision as he folded his arms and tapped his armor-capped talons on his elbows, “I suppose that would depend on what you all are comfortable with.  It took Boost and I many, many months of getting to know each other before he honored me with the request to undertake the Gai Bal Manda.  On the other hand, Sprint and Mortar—two of my other sons, whom you will meet soon enough, I’m sure—asked me within a fortnight of being assigned to our command.  And, of course, some of my men never asked to be adopted, and I and my sons do our best to respect that choice.”

It didn’t stop him from silently considering them his sons, of course, but he was careful not to say such aloud.  Some of the men who were folded into the 104^th did so because they were very badly hurt by their previous command, and he refused to abuse their trust and autonomy in any way by pressuring them to join his family before they were ready to have faith in those other than their brothers again.

Silence fell as the Vode digested this answer, some looking eager, some wary, and some very clearly withholding judgement.

“How many sons do you have?” another batchmate, Swoop (who had an intense love of flying), eventually asked in a tone that suggested he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Oh,” hummed Plo, running the numbers in his head, “something like…one thousand?”  He chuckled, his mandibles clicking in amusement at the spikes of shock and disbelief in the Force around him.  “Of course, I cannot say that I have ever bothered to actively take a count, so I could be off.”

“Probably more like twelve hundred,” Boost offered with a mischievous grin, “if we count the ones who’ve not worked up the guts to ask you to do the Gai Bal Manda with’em just yet.”

“...and how many of them are clones?” ventured Snooze (who was an insomniac) in a small and cautious tone.

Once more, there was a hush that fell over the room, eleven identical sets of eyes trained upon him in anticipation and apprehension in equal measure.  Only Boost, by nature of knowing the answer, remained loose and relaxed, his gaze and presence radiating warm pride over his family.

“Why, all of them, of course,” Plo serenely said.  Immediately, the entire batch erupted into chatter, exclamations of ‘no way’ and ‘you’re kidding’ and one very quiet ‘how can he even keep track of them all?’ choking the room.  In the midst of it, Plo simply let the noise wash over him, mandibles clicking again when two of the men (Reboot, who was a spectacular slicer, and Maroon, who flustered and blushed far easier than the average Vod) tried to interrogate Boost about the validity of this claim.

“And where did you find the time or ability to meet all these clones, jetii?” Tay’haai cut across the conversation, hovering in front of the door to the rest of the complex and radiating a mix of suspicion and intrigue.  He ignored Boost’s protective glare with ease, instead tilting his helmet in Plo’s direction at the precise cant of one who expected an answer.  “None of them have left Kamino other than the occasional closely-monitored flight exercise, and I know for a fact that none of your sorcerers have come to visit before now.”

Plo paused the tapping of his talons and exaggeratedly raised his brow at the Mandalorian before, in a deliberately tranquil voice, he answered, “It is as they say, my new friend: the Force works in mysterious ways.”

Boost poorly disguised his laughter with a series of over-exaggerated coughs and the skin around Plo’s eyes creased as he finally gave his own, albeit hidden by the antiox mask, smile.

“Karking jetiise,” muttered the Mandalorian, quietly enough that he wouldn’t have been heard if he were instead in a room with unenhanced Human-or-nears, “copaani mirshmure’cye an…”

“Actually, very few of our number would appreciate a smack in the face, but thank you for the offer,” said Plo, deliberately misunderstanding.  Boost once more cough-laughed and this time a few of his batchmates snickered as well.  Tay’haai just growled and didn’t bother to try again.

“Speaking of my sons,” Plo went on, turning to Boost, “would you happen to know where the rest of the Pack is scattered to, this time of day?  I am very eager to reunite with you all.”

With no warning, all of the earlier ease and cheer retreated out of Boost’s Force presence, his smile freezing on his face.  The emotions that replaced them were sudden and dark and complicated: remembrance, realization, shock, grief, horror, helplessness…eventually it all culminated in what Plo was alarmed to feel as didn’t mean to and please don’t hate us and a choking, cloying, overwhelming regret that read simply as, I’m so sorry.

Very carefully telegraphing his movements, Plo stepped closer and reached out to rest one hand on his son’s shoulder.  “Boost…?”

“How can you still care about us?” blurted the young man, his frozen smile falling into a deadpan excepting wide, glassy eyes.  His body was unnervingly stiff under Plo’s touch other than a faint, barely-there tremble.  “How can you stand to even look at us, after what we did?!”

Involuntarily, Plo tightened his grip, reaching with his other hand so he was holding both of his son’s shoulders.  “What you ‘did’?” he echoed, a slow coil of dread pooling in his gut.  He had what his fellow Jedi would call a ‘bad feeling’ about whatever it was that Boost was referencing (don’t think about it).  “My son, my ad’ika…I swore when I adopted you, there is nothing you nor your brothers could do that I would not forgive you for, in time.  You are pack, clan, aliit, family—whatever you wish to call it, all of my sons are the most important parts of my world.  Nothing you ‘do’ will change that, nor that I care about you more than I could ever convey.”

Boost’s shoulders jumped under his hands, once, twice, before the dam behind his eyes fell and with a broken sob he tumbled into Plo’s embrace just as he had two and a half years ago/in the future when the 104^th was destroyed.  More than a little lost, Plo chirruped in an attempt at reassurance as he looked up to catch Tay’haai’s visor and jerk his head in the universal sign of get the others out so I may deal with this that transcended cultures.  The Mandalorian immediately nodded and gathered the other Vode to direct them to a side door that was opposite the exit to the main hallway, very pointedly reminding them that it was still a few clicks until their time for midmeal and they had things to do.  All of them radiated confused anxiousness but, upon realizing Plo would take care of their batchmate, reluctantly followed their trainer.

The door closed and Plo was immediately focused back on his son, carefully soothing one hand along his scalp and firmly wrapping the other around Boost’s shoulders.

“I would ask you to tell me what’s wrong, my ad’ika,” he murmured, his ‘s’es drawing out ever-so-slightly as he tried very hard not to start hissing and potentially have the Vod mistake it for a sign of displeasure instead of worry.  It was difficult, however, with his son breaking down in his arms and no immediately visible way to fix it or even know what the trigger was (don’t think about it).  “I can fix nothing if I do not know what is upsetting you so.”

“You don’t know?” asked Boost between hiccuping gasps, words slightly muffled as he continued to hide his face in Plo’s chest.  “You don’t—remember?”

The Force quivered against his senses, drawing his attention very carefully along a particular track of thought.  He remembered the future that was his past, of course, it was why he was here.  He remembered the war and all its ups and downs, all it took and all it gave, from first being introduced to his battalion through their loss and his gaining of a thousand-plus sons and millions of nieces and nephews in the Vode, through battles untold on far too many fronts, all the way until…

Don’t think about it.

Except he had to think about it, now, the Force insisted.  No more pretending he didn’t know what had happened, no more ignoring the truth he wished he didn’t know.

No more pretending he did not know that the shots that had hit him

the shots that had killed him

had come from the ships of his sons.

Chapter Text

It had started as a fairly straightforward mission.  They, as in the 104^th “Wolfpack” Battalion, had been at the tail end of a six-month campaign over Neimoidia and its Purse Worlds despite the initial projection for their deployment being a mere two months.  They were all tired, and hurt, and so very sick of losing brothers/sons to what was increasingly seeming to be a pointless war.  Plo had very carefully not heard the whispers from some of his sons about the logistics of an oxygen-breathing species living on Dorin or similar worlds, or how to inconspicuously gather enough supplies for travel to the Outer Rim, or how to make approximately eight hundred Vode and a well-known Jedi Master disappear without being traced.  If he didn’t hear any of it, he didn’t have to report it to the Council or—Force forbid—the Chancellor, and so could continue “misplacing” the men’s spare rebreathers and oxygen cartridges and the occasional crate of rations with a clear conscience.

Returning to the point, they had spent three times as long in this section of the galaxy as they had wanted to.  Their supplies were low, they were stressed and injured and sleep-deprived, and more than anything they just wanted to be out of the cesspool of a system that they were stuck in.  However, there was some hope: the last planet in the system that the Separatists occupied, Cato Neimoidia, had just been cautiously declared clear.

To be safe, Plo gathered a small team of men to make one final sweep over the planet so he could ensure they wouldn’t have to return again.  Among them were his best pilots, Corvis and Warthog; Boost and Sinker, as a concession to Wolffe since his Commander had to stay on the bridge in the unlikely case something went wrong; and two of their newest recruits, Captain Jag and his batchmate, who simply went by Eleven.

Wolffe had pulled Plo aside before they left to ask, in a low voice that rumbled with his worried half-growls, why the General insisted on taking the latter two with him when five fliers would have been more than enough.  Plo was upfront about his reasoning: while Jag and Eleven had settled into their roles in the Pack during the too-long campaign despite their initial jumpiness (understandable, given that before their transfer both had been demoted and only narrowly avoided reconditioning for—rightfully, in Plo’s opinion, not that anyone outside of the Wolfpack asked—ordering a retreat of their men during an unwinnable Separatist ambush), he wanted to erase any remaining doubt that they were welcome and trusted by their new General on a more personal level as well.

Wolffe had huffed and puffed, but eventually agreed it would settle the not-actually-Shinies’ worries and maybe kick their asses into gear on the whole adoption business.  ‘Should be soon,’ the Commander had told his chuckling buir with a canid grin, ‘with how they stare when y’call one of us “son” or, Ka’ra forbid, “ad’ika.”’

So, in high spirits with the promise of the end to this too-long campaign and the possibility of two more sons accepting their place within his family, Plo had gathered the men and they began their sweep.

It was here where Plo’s memory became…not hazy, but perhaps overloaded was a better term.  Merely an hour into their scouting, there was the ripping, shrieking sense in the Force of a Jedi dying, which was unfortunately not unusual as the war continued to drag but still made Plo bow his head in grief.  He expected that to be the end of it.

As it turned out, that was not the end of it.

Seconds after the first, a second and then a third Jedi’s death rippled.  Then a fourth, fifth, sixth—seventheightninthtenth—fifteenthtwentyeighthfortythird—and as each Jedi died, rocking Plo’s Force senses with the overlapping rip-tear-shrieks, he suddenly realized that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong.  Moments before each Jedi died, hundreds or thousands of other lives around them became…muted was the only descriptor that seemed to fit, all dwindling to the point where if he weren’t so focused or if he were a little less strong in the Force Plo would have thought them entirely snuffed out.

There was only one group of sentients hundreds or thousands strong that would be around a Jedi.

Alarmed, Plo reached to toggle his communications relay so he could send a battalion-wide alert about the loss of Vode and Jedi alike.  In retrospect, it likely wouldn’t have helped as he did not know the cause, but his mind and sense of the Force had felt so raw and blooded and he was having so much trouble focusing beyond the loss-death-loss-loss-death-loss-pain-loss-loss-death that he didn’t realize it.  Not that the attempt mattered, for at that moment, the presences of the Wolfpack—of his darling, beloved sons—flickered in the Force…

…and muffled to the point where, in his beaten senses, they simply disappeared.

There was a strangled, shrieking, hissing screech coming from somewhere.  If he were more aware of himself, Plo may have realized it was his own distressed cries, the sound of pure grief that a Kel Dor made only when they felt the overwhelming loss of those closest to their hearts.  There was no time for him to recognize that truth, however, for his ship suddenly rocked with the force of an attack.

Feeling like he was moving through sludge, Plo turned his head, realizing somewhere in his muddled thoughts that the shot had come from his sons’ ships.  His sons’ ships where, despite there being no sign of their pilots he could read in the Force, all six continued to fly in formation around him.

Another shot hit.  Then another, and another, and still another.  Alarms were blaring around him, lights were flickering ominously, but Plo couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Jedi and the Vode were still disappearing and dying.

All of his sons were already gone.

What was the point in anything after that?

What was the point in living at all?

This was the last thought Plo had before a shot hit his engine a final time, destroying the ship around him, and the agonizing burn of the fiery explosion and the even worse stabbing of the shards of his broken heart were all that he knew for a long, long time……………

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(Jedi Master Plo Koon breathed.)

Chapter Text

Plo didn’t notice he was hissing until he felt Boost trying to pull away from his embrace, the Vod muttering over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, General, ni ceta, ni ceta, Buir, ni ceta,” with increasing hysterics.  He quickly strangled the noise and although he loosened his grip, he didn’t quite let go, instead ducking down to peer into his son’s face.

“It’s alright, my son, you’re alright, I’m not mad,” he quickly soothed, trying to vocalize some chirrups, but unable to through his grief and rage as he finally allowed himself the realization that in the span of minutes he had lost the entirety of his family to some unseen foe.  The lightning in his veins crackled, begging to be let out, and he drew on the Force to smother it into a metaphorical ball and tuck it away with a firm not now.  He couldn’t go off the handle right then, not while his son thought he was mad for something that Plo knew was not his fault.  “It’s okay, it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Boost keened, the noise near enough to a Kel Dor hatchling in pain that Plo’s mandibles instinctively shuddered and attempted to rear back in a way they couldn’t quite manage with his antiox mask encasing them.  The Vod’s eyes were wide and still dripping tears, pupils blown with stress as he stared intently into Plo’s goggles as if to convince him of the truth in his words.  “Buir, we shot you down!  We got the Order,” the Force drew back and growled and spit like a feral Loth-cat, “and we didn’t hesitate, we just—we shot you!!  Buir,” and once more, Boost’s voice became strangled with hysterics, “we killed you, Buir!!!”

“You did no such thing,” said Plo sharply, the hands on Boost’s shoulders tightening as he cut off another sibilant sound of upset for fear it would make Boost panic impossibly more.  He quickly eased his grip again upon realizing the armor caps on his middle talons were beginning to dig into the other’s skin and gentled his voice.  “Boost, you and your brothers did not kill me.”

Boost was already shaking his head before the sentence was finished.  “You were dead,” he said while scrubbing a hand roughly across his eyes and cheeks to clear his tears, voice hoarse and his presence broadcasting how heartbreakingly certain he was of the truth in his words, “and me and Sinker and Corvis and Warthog and Jag and Eleven…we were the ones who shot you down.”

There was a moment where Plo was simply at a loss.  What could he say?  How could he explain his certainty that his sons had not killed him, when here Boost was, feeling just as certain that they had?

Plo, still stooped slightly to be at eye level with his anguished son, took a moment to gather his thoughts.  “I have a question for you, Boost, and I suspect it will be a difficult one, but I need your honest answer,” he began ever-so-slowly and carefully.

“Of course, General,” the Vod said stiffly, making Plo internally wince at the pointedly professional tone and title.  Boost hadn’t called him ‘General’ outside of an active campaign or the occasional tease since he had formally performed the Gai Bal Manda, and it hurt to hear his normally easygoing and good-humored son retreat into himself in such a way.

“Thank you, my ad’ika.”  Boost flinched, but Plo refused to acknowledge it even as his own heart broke.  “Now, please, tell me…why would you have attempted to kill me?”

There was a strangled half-whine that escaped the young man’s throat before it was ruthlessly smothered.  “I—I told you, sir—we got the Order—”

“From whom?” interrupted Plo, the Force crying yes and help and fix in the back of his mind.   “Why?  What precisely was this ‘order,’ and why did you follow it?”  Boost’s jaw worked, as if he wanted to answer, but couldn’t find the words.  His Force presence bled his distress and grief, yet Plo could also clearly sense growing confusion, a nebulous sort of why did we underscored with makes no sense and, under that, so faint that if he were not focusing the Kel Dor would never notice it, there was the echo of that disturbing blankness he so clearly remembered proceeding the attack.  “I know you and your brothers, Boost, and moreso I like to think I know you all very well.  You would not have attacked without reason.  Now, I need you to tell me what that reason is.”

Unsettled, the Vod visibly cast his mind back, eyes unfocusing as he did so.  Plo patiently waited despite his lightning-edged anticipation of a target, someone to blame for this misfortune that tore his family apart that he could track down and deal with in a way that would be fitting for a being that had undoubtedly earned the descriptor demagolka.

“…I don’t know,” Boost finally admitted, gaze snapping back into focus and locking on Plo’s.  His expression and presence still radiated distress and regret, but now, there was an edge of realization that something beyond the obvious was very, very wrong.  “I don’t know the reason, Buir.  I don’t know the why, and I don’t know the who; I just know that…”  The Vod sucked in a breath, bracing himself, and the words tumbled from him in a rush, as if to say them faster would make them somehow easier to comprehend.  “I just knew that I was a soldier, and I had an Order, and

“Good Soldiers Follow Orders.”

Chapter Text

At Boost’s words, the Force shrieked, and Plo felt It metaphorically shove him into a set of visions without further warning.  There was a shadowy figure, draped in dark robes with a hood that obscured all their features except a heavily scarred chin, drawling, “The time has come!  Execute—Order—”; millions of armored clone soldiers marching, blank in the Force other than duty and order, nothing more than marionettes on strings; a blank-armored Vod with a tattoo on his forehead, hazy with drugs and broken by grief, begging for someone to believe him, please, he was telling the truth, this was going to destroy them all; another Vod, a different one with long hair in 501^st blue, saying, “I don’t…feel…like myself” before all sense of cognizance was lost to the endless refrain of “Good Soldiers Follow Orders”; and finally, one last, clear image:

A batch of clones, so very small and fragile, still in their incubation tubes waiting to be grown enough to safely be decanted, monitored by a few Kaminoans as one said, “The units are prepared for the procedure, Head Scientist,” and another responded, “Very well, we shall begin; ensure you take detailed notes, as how well this batch takes to the chips will be our baseline for all future insertions…”

Plo came out of his visions, ripping his hands from his son’s shoulders and stumbling back a step as he did so, and this time he could not stop the lightning in his veins from lashing out.  An arc of orange-yellow electricity flashed from his fingertips, scoring a dark burn on the wall to his right, the direction where scientist Nala Se and a handful of her fellows were working in her lab, and then two more struck the one on his left, where he could sense the largest concentration of Kaminoans in the facility were gathered.  How dare they.

How dare they!

How dare those pathetic excuses for sentient beings do something so heinous and wrong, commit such an injustice!  There was another lash of lightning at the thought, this one ricocheting around and between his hands before dissipating itself into the ether.  A chip, a mind altering device, placed in the heads of the Vode—in the heads of his sons—before they were even born, ready to flip and take away all their autonomy, force them to only “follow orders” even to their own detriment, to do things that they never would have done in their right mind!  How dare—!

“—Buir!!”

The sound of one of his children shouting for him snapped Plo out of his righteous rage.  He had, at some point between stumbling out of the visions and then, risen to his full height and was looming over his son, fingers and talons spread and curled into gouging-ready claws, mandibles raised in an aggressive pose that dared someone to accept his wordless challenge, the orange-yellow lightning of Electric Judgement dancing in small arcs along his forearms and hands to add to the silent threat.

And standing before him was Boost, not at all intimidated by the rare sight of the Kel Dor truly angered and displaying a bit of why that was something to be feared, radiating fierce protectiveness and focused concern and the determination to fix whatever was causing Plo distress despite having been completely overwhelmed by his own not too long ago.

The electricity dancing along Plo’s limbs guttered out and he took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing his arms to lower and his posture to relax into something more approaching normal.  The Force vibrated against his senses, urging him to take action with save and fix and help but also trying to soothe with calm and think and change, and he used the latter sensations to settle himself.  While tearing apart some Kaminoans would feel very satisfying right then, doing so was not the best way to ensure the safety of the Vode, and thus he would have to refrain.

For now.

Plo took another breath, only slightly calmer than the last, and the first words he spoke were perhaps not the ones either of them expected but they were the ones he felt were most important to say.  “You did not kill me, Boost,” he said very, very quietly, so quietly that had his antiox mask not been equipped with an overpowered amplifying vocoder and had there been any other noise in the room then he would not have been heard.  He held up a hand to forestall Boost’s denial before it could be voiced, taking another unsteady breath as he did so.  “But before we discuss that, I must apologize for my loss of composure.  It was unbecoming of me to lose control of myself in such a way, but I am afraid that the Force revealed some…troubling information that caught me off guard.”

Boost stared for a long moment, then slowly ventured, “About why we shot you down, sir?”

Plo’s lips curled back from his palates behind the antiox mask and a stray spark flashed along one of his hands.  “Yes.”  He paused, looking at his son closely both with his eyes and with the Force to ensure Boost was somewhat steadied (which he was, although he continued to be drenched in protective concern and the slow return of anxiousness and overwhelming regret) before he continued.  “I will be telling the rest of the Pack this later, but I want you to know now before you hurt yourself any more over it: Neither you nor your brothers were at fault for the attack that took my life.”

As Plo had expected, Boost flinched violently backward and immediately tried to deny his words.  The Jedi didn’t give him the chance.

“Moments before the first bolt struck my ship,” he continued, fingers flexing with the ache to touch his son in support and only refraining because he was unsure if the Vod would appreciate it, “the presences of you and your brothers entirely disappeared from the Force.”

“But we were there,” Boost immediately objected, trembling just the slightest bit, “Buir, we were there, and I remember firing on your ship!  I remember wanting to—wanting to—!”

Plo cut in before the other could work back into a panic, giving in to his urge to reassure and carefully touching one of his son’s shoulders with only the very tips of his fingers.  “But did you want to?  Did you, before the very moment you began to fire, have any desire at all to hurt me?”  Boost stilled, every inch of his body and presence screaming a firm, unyielding NO, and Plo slowly nodded his head.  “That is what I mean when I say you had disappeared from the Force, my son.  Your body may have moved, and your ship may have fired, but you?  The singular core of yourself, all that makes you unique, all that makes you Boost?  That brave and loyal young man, my stubborn and kind and eternally good-humored ad’ika, was no longer there, leaving just a blank hole in the Force where he should have been.  Where you should have been.  To be honest, Boost…”  Plo took in a breath, bracing himself as an echo of a horrifying death-knell of a sound he hoped to never feel the need to make again rang through his thoughts.  “To be honest, with the way that it felt, I was under the impression that you and your brothers were either dying or already dead.”

There was a moment of silence as Boost processed this.  Then, in an incredulous near-whisper, the Vod asked, “How’s that even possible, sir?”

For a moment, Plo debated how to respond.  The Force had given him a start by revealing the existence of the mind-altering chip the Kaminoans were implanting in the Vode (the lightning in his veins crackled, wanting to again be unleashed, but he was now calm enough to stop it manifesting), but why were they created, and on whose orders?  Certainly not Master Sifo-Diyas’s; if Plo was remembering the original contract correctly, he had brought up a failsafe to prevent treachery, but as near as the Council could tell the wording had been left open-ended and no final decision on what that fail-safe would be had been decided upon.  Shaak had ended up completely disregarding it during her re-negotiation of the contract after the Vode’s discovery upon that assumption, which Plo suspected she would have regretted if she were here instead of him.

More than that, if the chips could rip most or all free thought from the Vode upon just an order from some nebulous figure…what else could they do?

“I am afraid I have nothing more than theories,” he eventually settled on saying through a brief sigh, dropping his hand to fold his arms and tap his armor-capped talons against his elbows.  “The Force-visions attempted to share a starting point, yet they were not as clear as I would have liked, and I will have to investigate further before committing to an answer.  I can only concretely say that it has something to do with the operations on Kamino.”

“The longnecks are involved?” asked Boost with a weak attempt at a smirk.  His presence in the Force was churning with unease and confusion and lingering regret, but he was making a valiant effort to put it aside and bring forth his ever-present sense of good humor.  “Never would have guessed.”

Plo chuckled, more of a huff of breath than a true sound of amusement.  “Perhaps you should leave the sarcasm to Sinker, my son.  You are not very practiced at it.”

Boost shrugged, smirk firming into something more genuine, and Plo cautiously reached out with his own presence to sooth along his son’s with a promising impression of we will figure this out that he was sure would not sound as steady and reassuring if he tried to say so aloud.

“I know we will, Buir,” Boost reassured him in return, unable to respond in quite the same way due to the near-blindness to the Force that all Vode shared, but radiating his confidence in Plo all the same as he let it chase away most of his upset.  His mischievous smile morphed into a full, impish grin.  “But before that, we should probably get my batchmates and Tay’haai and head to midmeal.  I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

This time Plo’s chuckles were much more sincere as he allowed his own tension to ease and he set aside his worries for the moment.  Obviously they would have to be addressed sooner rather than later, but the Force had settled around him with a gentle reassurance that he yet had time and a reminder that he had many more sons waiting to see him again.

Who was he to argue with that?

Chapter Text

While Tay’haai’s expression was hidden by his helmet, the way he very obviously stared between the scorch marks on the walls to either side of a serenely standing Jedi Master as he led the rest of Boost’s batch back into the main room still managed to bring across his bewilderment and unease without him saying a word.

“Something wrong, Instructor?” asked Plo, tone radiating innocent concern, while Boost moved to reassure his batchmates of his well-being after they witnessed his earlier breakdown.

“…I won’t ask,” Tay’haai eventually settled on saying, voice flat.  “Just know if the kaminiise say anything, I’ll be sending them your way.”

Plo chuckled, mandibles clicking softly in amusement.  “Fair enough.”

Apparently this was a sign for the Mandalorian to continue, folding his arms and steadying his masked glare on the Kel Dor’s face.  “What’s your plan, now that your ad is over whatever the kark that was?”

“I am afraid that I have no idea what you mean,” Plo said evenly, not batting an eye (not that anyone could see his eyes through his goggles).  “I simply came to see my sons, as I told you earlier.”

“Jehaate,” snapped Tay’haai, quickly following with, “if you don’t want to tell me, just say so, but I don’t appreciate when someone lies to my face.”

At this, the Kel Dor turned to slant a look at his companion and cocked his head to the angle both Vode and Mandalorians used to imply that they were seriously considering something.  “Are you certain you wish to know, Instructor Tay’haai?  I was under the impression that the Cuy’val Dar are only here under contact to be instructors to the clones, not to become involved in their affairs.”

It was an olive branch and an apology for the initial blatant falsehood that Plo even revealed that what he was doing was related to the Vode as a whole rather than just his sons.  After all, for as gruff as Tay’haai was and as potentially disastrous as their meeting in this time could have ended, both past/future unofficial reports of his desire to save the Vode from reconditioning as well as the Force’s reassuring hum in his metaphorical ear told Plo that he was a good man at his core.  It made him wonder what could have convinced him to accept Jango Fett’s offer in the first place before he dismissed it as none of his business as long as it caused no issues in the future.

This time it was the Mandalorian’s turn to pause.  For a moment his presence in the Force was conflicted, duty and personal honor raging against self-preservation and bitter prejudice, before it evened into a simple but beskar-strong sense of determination.  “Look,” he said, taking a step closer to Plo and lowering his voice slightly, helmet tilted to the cant of one giving a sitrep to an ally, “part of what I was told when I signed on was that the clones were going to be nothing but meat-droids, barely able to do more than take a piss without a commanding officer holding their hand.”  Plo’s lips pulled back from his palates and he loosed a deep hiss, barely within hearing range, and Tay’haai nodded in agreement.  “Yeah, I figured out that was strill-osik pretty fast after I started working with the Commander batch.  They started out pretending they were nothing but good little Republic soldier-droids, but after the third time I caught ’Ten-Ten—Fox, I think he’s called now—throwing a spar because he thought one of the others was going to get culled for not doing well enough in sims, it was pretty obvious they were free-thinking enough.”

Plo blinked behind his goggles at the anecdote.  His Commander had told him plenty of stories about his batchmates over the years, and ones about Fox often included the second eldest of the Commander Class protecting another Vod in some discretely cunning way, often to his own detriment; as such he wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that the practice had started young.

“The point being,” Tay’haai interrupted himself, shaking his head once as if to swat away the memory as he continued, “I get it.  The clones have been given an osik’la hand and even if some of us are trying to help, there’s not much those of us instructors who give a damn can do about it.  So if you’re here to fix things—however much they can be fixed, with almost a million lives already born to be slaves of the Republic—then I can and will help, within reason.”

Despite already having made his decision, Plo had to ask, “And this has nothing to do with your Clan’s life debt to my family?”

Tay’haai lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.  “Doesn’t hurt to know your aliit’s an honorable one, even ignoring you taking on over a thousand ad’ike just because they stared at you like lost strill pups.”

“More like feral Loth-wolves,” Plo said with a fond chuckle.  He let it die off naturally before he loosed a brief hum.  “My most immediate plan is to see as many of my sons as I can and reassure myself that they are alright, at least insomuch as they can be given the circumstances.  After that, however, I will be doing some investigation into the Kaminoan scientists’ practices in modifying the Vode, in particular during the months proceeding a decantday.  If you have a covert way to look into that, or preferably a way for me to set a few slicers loose on a terminal without our being immediately caught, I would welcome the help.”

There was a full-body startle and a streak of shock that leaked from Tay’haai about halfway through Plo’s explanation.  “The Vode??”

Plo smiled behind his mask, creasing the skin around his eyes, and turned a fond look to where Boost had successfully distracted his batchmates with a legend native to Dorin about the origin of the Baran Do Sages and their ability to predict and redirect the lightning strikes that ravaged his home planet.  “That is what they call themselves, my friend.  Not clones, or units, or meat-droids, or whatever other degrading name others have tried to force upon them.  Instead, they chose their own name, based upon the relationship that ties them together more strongly than any other: the one they form with their siblings.”

The sense of bewilderment radiating from Tay’haai slowly faded into a bittersweet pride.  “Ah…I see,” he said, tilting his helmet to look at the group across the room.  He caught the eye of Boost and ducked his helmet into a respectful cant, ignoring the startled deer-in-the-headlights look he received in response, and his smile was audible when he emphatically reinforced the regard with a mutter of,

“Vode An.”

Chapter Text

The walk from the training room to the mess hall was an adventure all its own, not least of which was due to the fact that it was a time between lesson blocks when the group left the training room.  Knowing he was going to cause a commotion when he was spotted, Plo waited until Tay’haai and all of Boost’s batchmates proceeded him from the room, attempting to wait for Boost himself to do the same only to be immediately shut down.

“I’ll have your six, sir,” said the Vod with a smirk, positioning himself very comfortably at Plo’s left shoulder.  The cold spot behind his right one was slightly less so with the reassuring presence at his back.

“Thank you, my brave ad’ika,” Plo chuckled, shaking his head at his son’s antics.  “It gladdens me to know I can trust you when it comes to foiling the many attacks upon my person as we walk down Kamino’s relatively safe hallway system.”

“You’d be surprised, Buir.”

Which turned out to be very true.  No sooner did Plo step out of the room with Boost only one stride behind him to meet the impatiently waiting Tay’haai and Boost’s batch than did all movement in the hall—stop.  Every Vode outside of their little group of fourteen seemed to freeze, some mid-stride, and stared openly while the few Kaminoans (Plo had to put up more of a fight than usual to keep his Judgement under control) and trainers scattered throughout ranged from indifference to shock to radiating hostile offense at his existence.

“General on deck!” Boost hollered in his best no-nonsense-Sergeant voice, bleeding gleeful mischief into the Force, and the cadets in the hallway (ranging from three to eight years old at a glance, equivalent to a natural-born Human-or-near’s six to sixteen) scrambled to show off their picture-perfect salutes.

“At ease, cadets,” said Plo quickly, nudging at Boost’s presence with a firm reprimand of that wasn’t very nice that was laced with his own amusement despite his best efforts.  Boost didn’t even pretend to be repentant, which Plo kindly ignored in favor of turning his attention back to the hallway and creasing his face with a smile.  “And greetings to you all.  I am Jedi General Plo Koon, a Kel Dor and Master of the Jedi Order, with my preferred pronouns being ‘he’ and ‘him.’  I look forward to meeting and working with you.”

A low buzz of conversation swept across the Vode, some craning their necks to better see him, and after some clicks of this Tay’haai’s vocoder crackled with a frustrated scoff.

“Don’t you all have places to be?” the instructor snapped.  The cadets in the hallway all scrambled again, this time with hasty calls of ‘Yessir’ and ‘Sorry, Instructor’ and ‘Of course, sir’ in various configurations, and they returned to moving toward their assigned learning spaces (if noticeably slower than before and often with multiple glances in Plo’s direction as they went).  Tay’haai’s visor turned to lock with a couple of the Cuy’val Dar in full armor and after a few handsigns, they, too, reluctantly went on their way.  The Kaminoans had either ignored the whole display or only gave curious looks before returning to their business.

A sense in the Force of excitement-joy-loyalty-care and relief-loyalty-care-exasperation proceeded two Vode peeling away from their batches, ignoring their brothers’ hissed warnings, and making their way to where the group stood.  The younger one, looking to be seven/fourteen, arrived first by nature of having taken off at a sprint and had a wild grin that took up most of his face as he skidded along the slick hallways to stop just before he ran into Plo.

“General, sir!” the young Vod greeted with a hastily thrown salute.  “Koh-to-yah!”

“Koh-to-yah, Wildfire,” Plo returned easily, reaching out with one hand in welcome.  Wildfire, never one to hesitate, immediately dropped his salute and lunged forward to tightly hug his buir with his not inconsiderable strength.  Unfortunately, due to his being half a foot shorter than he would be when full grown, this meant that even taking into account the natural heartiness of Kel Dor physiology he was in danger of squishing some of Plo’s internal organs.  “Ah—lit-tle lesss ssstren-gth—my sssson,” he hissed out, not due to anger or stress, but because he couldn’t get enough helium into his lungs to properly breathe.

“Get off, utreekov, you’re strangling him,” snapped the other Vod, looking closer to Boost’s physical age of eight/sixteen, as he stalked within range and grabbed the back of Wildfire’s uniform to drag him away.  Disregarding Wildfire’s mixed look of contrition and continued excitement, the elder Vod turned to Plo and performed a much crisper salute.  “Koh-to-yah, General Koon.”

Regaining his breath and ignoring Boost, who was shaking with the force of suppressing his laughter (and failing, since the occasional giggle broke through), Plo quickly smiled again.  “Koh-to-yah, Warthog.  Still chasing after your little brother, even now?”

Warthog dropped his salute and sighed, a long, resigned sound that probably wouldn’t have been out of place coming from a Crèchemaster watching over twenty younglings instead of a Vod wrangling one enthusiastic and reckless younger brother.  “Feels like I’ve been doing it all my life, sir.”

“You’re only thir—I mean seven, vod, shut up,” Wildfire groused on a pout.

“Seven and a half long, unending years,” corrected Warthog, deadpan as ever.  “Some days, I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve this terrible fate.”

“Probably made a few ik’aade cry with the look on your ugly face,” Boost was quick to offer, smirking.  Wildfire immediately held up his hand and the two high-fived while Warthog’s already serious expression became that slightly more impassive.

“Did you want a hug as well, my son?” asked Plo, mandibles clicking in faint amusement at the byplay he deliberately was not acknowledging.  “I would welcome a more gentle touch than Wildfire’s.”

“A raging Zillo Beast has a gentler touch than Wildfire,” Warthog sardonically declared even as he stepped forward and accepted his hug.  Plo chittered a greeting through his chuckle and there was a small, rare smile on Warthog’s face as he pulled away before it quickly dropped.  He stared up at Plo in silence for a long moment, before, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry, Buir.”

There wasn’t a need to ask what for.  Wildfire froze at Warthog’s side, his smile turning brittle, while Boost shifted at Plo’s back and huffed a breath.  Plo himself simply sighed, reaching out and pulling Warthog back into his embrace as soft, soothing chirrups shook his chest.

“As I already told Boost,” he said oh-so-gently, “it was not you who took the shot, my ad’ika.  You and your brothers would never harm me.”

“Force osik,” clarified Boost upon Warthog’s face twisting into both agreement (to the statement he would never willingly hurt his buir) and disbelief (that he hadn’t attempted to anyway), a wry little smirk on his face.

Still holding Warthog in a loose hug, Plo raised his brow.  “That is partially why I know the truth of it, yes, but also I know and trust you all enough that even without the Force, I would have known something was wrong.  None of my sons are the sort to do…what was done,” he finished vaguely, all too aware of the many eyes and ears on them in the open hallway, most of which weren’t bothering to pretend to not listen in.

All three of his sons radiated agreement and pride and loyal trust at the firm confidence from their buir, Wildfire’s smile relaxing back into something more real as he—gently—punched Warthog’s shoulder.  “Told you,” he said smugly, crossing his arms and lifting his nose superiorly.

“Shut up,” Warthog mumbled into Plo’s chest, giving his brother a rude gesture even as he relaxed back into Plo’s embrace.  His presence in the Force wasn’t fully settled nor convinced by what he had been told, but he was steadier and more sure of himself than he had been, so Plo cautiously took the victory.  “Nobody was even talking to you, idiot.  Mind yourself when your betters are speaking.”

Wildfire squawked, offended, and Boost laughed.

“As heartwarming as this all is, don’t you two have somewhere to be?” cut in Tay’haai where he was standing in front of Boost’s very confused and slightly envious-feeling batchmates, his voice pointed.  Wildfire and Warthog both jumped at the unexpected interruption, the latter practically tearing himself from Plo’s arms as he stumbled back so they could turn in unison to look at the Mandalorian.  Said Mandalorian had his arms folded across his chest and was tapping his foot, and upon gaining the Vode’s attention, he jerked his head to gesture down the hallway.  “If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be late for your next block.”

“Kriff!” shouted Wildfire at the reminder, eyes going wide and a little hunted as his presence crackled with alarm.  “I’ve got to get going—Instructor Tervho is going to kill me!”

“Forget Tervho, I’ve got Bralor,” snapped Warthog, already turning to jog away and tossing a wave over his shoulder as he added, “Sorry, General, we’ll catch up later!”

“Enjoy your lessons, my sons,” said Plo serenely, taking reassurance in the fact that Tay’haai wasn’t radiating any concern, just small spikes of (sadistic) amusement.  It helped that Plo had once met the no-nonsense Rav Bralor and while she struck an intimidating figure, he had also at the time seen her as a whirl of protective fury as she verbally tore apart another member of the Cuy’val Dar who had taken their training too far and sent a half-dozen cadets to the infirmary.  One who cared so much about the safety of the Vode would not actively hurt them, he felt confident to assume.  “We will have a meeting of the Pack as soon as I can arrange it; we can speak more then.”

Warthog threw up the GAR combat signal for “affirmative”, already too far down the hall to reply without shouting, while Wildfire ducked in for one last (far gentler) hug.

“See you soon, Buir!” he said with a quick grin before he, too, ran off, catching up to where his batchmates were hovering just before a curve and were already alternating between berating him for making them late and asking what the kark was that, Wildfire, that’s a General, you can’t talk to them like that, you definitely can’t hug them, and more importantly did you just call him ‘Buir’?!

The group was gone before Plo could hear his son’s response.

Chapter Text

Even with the continued bustle of other sentients in the hallway, the immediate area around the small group seemed much quieter without one of Plo’s most enthusiastic sons to fill the air with chatter.

“He didn’t even have to ask for their designations,” one of Boost’s batchmates, Hoot (who was a bit of a jokester), whispered to the others in awe.  “He just—knew who he was talking to, just like that!”

“Indeed,” Plo agreed, mandibles clicking when the Vode all jumped at his interjection.  His face creased around his goggles with his smile when they all turned to look at him.  “While you and your brothers may be genetically identical, save for some minor variations, your core selves are all unique in the Force.  It is a simple matter to memorize your presences as a non-Force-sensitive might memorize your shell patterns.”

“‘Shell patterns’?” echoed Lagoon (who had once fallen into Kamino’s oceans and had since sworn off all bodies of water excepting emergencies), openly confused.

“Armor designs,” Boost said, voice strangely quiet as his presence bled muted reverence.  A hushed, disbelieving awe settled upon the group.  Even Tay’haai’s presence sparked with shock before it shifted into realization and frustrated self-recrimination.

“We aren’t allowed to personalize our armor, sir,” Taboo told Plo, voice wooden, as Boom ducked his head and flashed the standard battlesign for an agreement at his side.  “The Kaminoans say it’s a waste of resources when we’re just going to be replaced as soon as we fall in battle.”

There was a single flicker of orange-yellow lightning between Plo’s fingers before he forcibly snuffed it out.  It was unfortunate, he thought with some frustration, that his earlier outburst in the training room had destroyed his normally impeccable self-control when it came to his ability to manage his Judgement.  He would need to meditate soon in order to settle his emotions and regain his sense of restraint, preferably before another wall bore the brunt of his rage.  Or an unfortunately-placed Kaminoan.

“None of you are replaceable,” he said first, voice firm, and couldn’t quite stop himself from sweeping over their presences with the warmth of his belief in his words.  “Each of you are unique and different in the Force and to lose even a single one of you would cause a hole in Its eddies that could not be filled by another.  And, on a less metaphysical note,” Plo leaned forward and dropped his voice, forcing some extra focus and adding gravitas to his words, “you cannot think your brothers would not grieve should you march ahead before them—as would I, for all we have not known each other long.”

This seemed to strike a chord, given the flare of belief and realization and the start of a fierce, protective loyalty that bloomed in the batch’s presences.  Plo straightened again and raised his voice back to his baseline volume as he continued.

“As for personalizing your armor being a waste, I and the Jedi Order as a whole strongly disagree.  It is important for any sentient being to express themselves as they see fit, whether that be how they are addressed, their sense of personal style, or so on.  Rest assured, I will ensure this…miscommunication is fixed posthaste.”

“Not that it’ll matter much,” grumbled Bookie (who was often found with a datapad in hand when not in class), openly bitter.  “They won’t have paint or anything we can use, unless we want to go white on white.”

Boost, apparently, saw something interesting in Plo’s expression despite it changing very little.  “What’d you do, Buir?” he asked, eager for the anticipated mischief.  Plo deliberately folded his arms and tapped his armor-capped talons on his elbows in a slow rhythm, radiating nonchalant innocence.

“I am afraid I have no idea what you mean,” he said serenely.  Boost’s widening smirk said he believed that exactly not at all—correctly so, of course.  “Although, I do have gifts for you and your brothers on my ship, when we find the time to gather them.  I would hope you all have a creative way to put them to use.”

It was Boom who seemed to understand first, sucking in a surprised breath before he roughly elbowed both Taboo and Monsoon (who was one of the few Vode who loved Kamino’s stormy weather) in turn before making a series of bastardized battle signs.

“You’re kidding,” blurted Monsoon after translating what his brother was saying, turning to Plo with wide eyes.  “You just—happen to have a bunch of paint ready on your ship??  For us!??”

“And a few other supplies I felt may be needed,” Plo confirmed.  He turned his head to signify his glance at Boost, whose smirk had shifted into smug pride in his buir as his batchmates looked poleaxed and excited in turn.  “They did not have your preferred brand of dye, I am afraid, but the salesman assured me that the shade I purchased is near identical.  You will have to let me know if that is not the case so I can search for a better match.”

“You’re the best, Buir,” Boost announced, throwing a victorious fist in the air before he ran that same hand through his regulation-length black hair with a half-grimace, half-grin.  “I can’t wait to get rid of this mop and not have to chance twenty longnecks breathin’ down my neck about breaking regs.  It’s only been a week, but it feels more like years.”

Plo chuckled at his son’s enthusiasm.  “I will ensure one of the first items on the agenda when I speak to Lama Su is the abolition of that rule.  So long as it will not cause an issue on the battlefield, I see no reason why they bother to deny you all that innocent bit of free expression.”

Boost’s expression fell into a rare scowl.  “Because Kaminoans’re the definition of fun-sucking—”

“Take care with your words, Boost,” interrupted Plo before he could say anything too explicit, moving his head to pointedly look at where one of the aforementioned beings was gliding down the hallway just out of earshot.  “Be mindful of those around us who may take offense and make our lives infinitely harder because of it.”

Boost grumbled a bit, but obediently quieted with a grudging, “Yes, sir.”

Nodding in thanks, the Jedi turned instead to where Tay’haai was hovering, his presence still bleeding frustration and self-recrimination.  It was, however, now edged in steady honor and a determination to correct wrongs, Plo was curious to note.  “Instructor Tay’haai, perhaps we should move on to the mess hall before any further interruptions occur?”

“You’re the one causing the interruptions, jetii,” the Mandalorian accused, tilting his helmet to signify an accompanying eye roll.  He took a step forward despite his grumbling and raised his voice to cut over the continued excited muttering of the batch.  “Come on, cadets, move your asses!  You’re already late to your slot at midmeal!”

The promise of food was the perfect motivator, as it was for all young men—Vode with their accelerated metabolisms in particular—and soon they were heading down the hallway.

Only to be stopped shortly thereafter by an excited shout of, “General, sir, you’re here?!” that proceeded Tay’haai’s explosive sigh and Plo’s brightening smile as he turned to greet another one of his sons.

Well.  Perhaps another delay wouldn’t hurt.

Chapter Text

It took almost twenty minutes to complete what should have been a five minute trip from the training room to their assigned mess hall, in the end.  Not that this was Plo’s fault in any way; obviously, if his sons wanted his time, he was always happy to share it with them.  It was just lucky that only two dozen were in the hallways as they went, even if it was…very strange, at times, to see how young some of them were.

(Sprint and Mortar, batchmates who were some of the newest and youngest in the Wolfpack given they had joined as fresh-off-Kamino Shinies just eight months before the incident Plo was back to not thinking about, looked particularly disgruntled at being physically something like twelve years old for a natural-born Human-or-near.

“Seriously, Buir, I don’t think we were this annoying when we were six,” said Sprint on a huff while complaining about the rest of their batch, the baby fat still heavy in his cheeks softening his attempt at a scowl into a pout.

“If they don’t start us with live blasters soon, I’m going to riot,” Mortar added conversationally, high-pitched voice removing any gravitas the threat would normally have—not that the fact that he would easily break his arms from a DC-15’s recoil at this age didn’t do that already.

The duo only calmed down upon Plo soothingly telling them that he would see what he could do to get them into some sort of advanced program when he got the chance.  They did both agree, however, very loudly and pointedly in Boost’s direction after he laughed at their misfortune, that their rediscovered youth did have an upside, as their smaller size aided in their enjoyment of Plo’s already-phenomenal hugs.  Boost very much refused to admit to his upset when Plo bemusedly shared the sense of truth in their Force presences at the statement.)

With each greeting, Tay’haai’s presence in the Force grew more and more frustrated and bewildered and obstinate in equal measure.  He had the feel of a sentient who had been given a puzzle with half the pieces missing, yet was still determined to make it fit together in some understandable way.  Plo probably should have felt bad, given it was mostly due to his and his sons’ blatant references to things they had learned or done in the future/past, but he honestly did not.  A little mystery never hurt anyone, after all, and since Tay’haai was already a tentative ally it was relatively harmless to let him wonder until Plo could more thoroughly debrief him.

After saying goodbye to a trio of his sons who were of a similar age to Warthog and thus half a year younger than Boost and his batch, they finally entered the mess, which surprisingly only had about a third of its seats filled.

“We missed the first half of the time slot,” explained Tay’haai, a touch accusatory, upon Plo very noticeably staring at the empty sections of seating, “and most of the other trainers don’t like to linger longer than it takes for the cl—…the Vode,” Boost, Snooze, and Hoot, who had chosen to wait for their batchmates to gather their food before doing the same so they could protectively hover (Plo had the delightful feeling that the latter two were already seriously considering asking him to adopt them), all jolted and turned identical wide-eyed looks onto the Mandalorian at the use of their favored address, “to finish before dragging them off to train some more.  We only get a week at a time with each batch before we’ve got to pass them on, so we try to take advantage and cram as much in as we can before they go.”  He made a derisive noise that didn’t translate well through his vocoder.  “Almost makes me miss the times we only had fifty thousand to toss around instead of six times that.  Luckily Fett plans to let the Command batches help us out once they’ve graduated, ease up on us a bit so we’re not fighting for time to breathe.”

“Ser Fett is the one who designs all their training regimes, I assume?” asked Plo, mild, more to keep the conversation going than an honest interest.  Boost’s presence spiked a pure, brief hatred at the name of their donor, but upon catching Plo’s sharp glance in his direction it evened into a sense of ruefulness for upsetting him, if not for his feelings on the matter.

Oblivious to the byplay, Tay’haai tilted his head to a dubious angle, also radiating a surprising amount of scorn into the Force.  “He was the original one to put them together, yeah, but a lot of us modified it since we figured out the verd’ike aren’t meat-droids.  Some of the osik he wanted them to go through before they were even old enough to take a verd’goten was just…”

He trailed off, apparently unable or unwilling to finish voicing his thoughts on how deplorable the proposed training was.  Considering a large part of Mandalorian verd’goten training consisted of survival and combat exercises that were considered too extreme for an adult to complete by the galaxy at large, Plo found that very concerning to hear.  It reflected badly on the (former?) Mand’alor to know that he had been the one to implement such practices in the first place.

“I must thank you and your fellows, then, for your ever-exemplary sense of honor and care,” said Plo with a bow that he stopped at an angle just before it would bare the back of his neck—doing so would be an insult to a Mandalorian who was not a formal ally or part of one’s family, as he had learned from his sons.  “The Jedi have enough issue with this situation without adding the purposeful traumatizing of children to it.”

“Wer’cuy,” dismissed Tay’haai, turning his helmet away in emphasis until Plo had straightened again.  His presence sharpened intently when he turned back.  “’Though, I’d like to know what you mean by that.  If you have ‘issue with this situation,’ why’d you buy a clone army in the first place?  You might as well get some datatechs working on programming droid AI instead.”

Before Plo could even think about how best to respond, Boost jumped into the conversation, speaking rapid Mando’a in low tones so that he couldn’t be easily overheard.  He was speaking too quickly for Plo to follow along (Kel Dorian was such a simple, blunt language that even learning Basic as an easily-teachable youngling had been a not insignificant challenge; outside of Basic, Plo was able to pick up individual terms in other languages easily enough, but the swift translations and grammar knowledge needed for actual conversation were beyond him), but words for ‘secret’ and ‘later’ did stand out.  That was apparently more than Snooze or Hoot could understand, at least, as both were staring at Boost like he had spontaneously started howling like a Loth-wolf.

(Speaking of, Boost’s batch would need to learn how to do so if they were going to join the Wolfpack, as it was one of his sons’ favorite ways to signify quick changes in plan on the battlefield.  Plo made a mental note to arrange for lessons with one of the Pack’s senior members at some point.  He would leave it to Boost, but while an enthusiastic teacher, he was…not particularly gifted at it.)

When Boost stopped speaking, Tay’haai loosed another disgruntled noise.  “You owe me a lot of explanations, jetii,” he said, radiating feelings of resignation and mild frustration into the Force.

“Rest assured that you will get them when it is safe to do so, my friend,” Plo replied.  Boost muttered with two of his returning batchmates, Reboot and Lagoon, for a moment before with a brief wave he, Hoot, and Snooze went to get their own meals.  The two that were left behind set down their trays of rations and not at all subtly positioned themselves near to Plo with clear sightlines to the rest of the room, bodies loose and seemingly relaxed but eyes and presences intent on scanning for danger as they picked at their rations.

Humming, Plo slowly raised his brow.  “You all do know that I am able to watch out for myself,” he said pointedly, lifting his volume enough to be heard by the other Vode from Boost’s batch as they also settled at the table beside where he and Tay’haai stood.  Walking away and only barely within earshot of the comment, Boost tossed the GAR battle sign for “message received” and immediately followed it with the one for “disregard,” not bothering to turn around as he did so.  Plo couldn’t help but chuckle at his son’s cheek and said as an aside to Tay’haai, “As you come to meet them in more informal settings, you will find my sons worry about my wellbeing far too much, despite my repeatedly assuring them that they need not do so.”

“You’re a General, sir,” said Bookie without looking up from the datapad that had migrated into his hand, tone overly reasonable.  He went to stab at his rations and only managed to actually scoop some up because Monsoon, who had settled next to him, jostled his tray over with an air of indulgent exasperation.  “Regulations say your safety is priority over any others’.”

Plo folded his arms and began to tap his armor-capped talons on his elbows in a slow rhythm.  “It has not been so long since our conversation about the value of your lives being just as important that I would believe you have forgotten it, Bookie.  Even besides which, Boost knows very well that I can take care of myself.”

“I think he just cares about you,” offered Maroon, dark skin turning noticeably darker with a blush upon Plo looking at him as he blurted out a hastily tacked on, “sir.”

“And I, him,” Plo said firmly before adding, “yet I do not post a guard detail on him when he leaves my eyesight for a few moments.”

“Does it have something to do with whatever made him start crying like a tubie earlier?” asked Taboo through a mouthful of rations.  Sitting on the bench to either side of him, Boom and Lagoon elbowed him in the ribs in perfect unison, making him choke and sputter out an oblivious, “What?!”

That had not occurred to Plo, to be honest, partially because his sons had always been overprotective of him.  But now that it had been mentioned, he realized it was true: Boost hadn’t left his side excepting short visits with his batchmates since they reunited, and even then, Plo could sense his attention was split between them and himself.  He turned to look across the room at the realization—and sure enough, despite having unofficially assigned Reboot and Lagoon to watch him, Boost was still keeping one eye on Plo himself.

“That is concerning,” Plo muttered, to both himself and the empty spot at his right shoulder.  The empty spot was silent, but he could picture the grumbling, ‘Can’t blame the vod’ika; I’ve been there, too,’ that would answer him if it was filled.

“Kyrbej’haryc?” asked Tay’haai quietly, tilting his helmet to the cant of professional concern despite his Force-presence sharing a more personal slant.

After taking a moment to break apart the base words of the unfamiliar term, Plo hummed, thoughtful and slightly troubled as he answered in an equally lowered voice.  “Perhaps, although likely not in a traditional sense.  I will take care of it.”

What Plo did not and could not say was that he had seen his behavior from Boost before, which to him made it both more and less disquieting.  After the Malevolence crisis, Boost, Sinker, and Wolffe had all clung to each other as well as Plo to an unexpected degree for someone who spent most of their life among Jedi.  The Kel Dor had allowed it for a short time so the three would settle before having a very serious discussion with them all about boundaries and trusting each other to protect themselves, which had…mixed results, but eventually they managed to return to some form of reasonable (even if Wolffe in particular continued to be just on the unhealthy side of paranoid about their safety).  A revisit to that conversation would probably not be amiss.

“What’d I miss?” asked Boost as if on cue, nodding a thanks to Reboot and Lagoon before settling at the open spot that had been left directly next to Plo.

“Nothing that cannot wait to be addressed until after your meal, my ad’ika,” Plo soothed, thankful that the noise volume in the echoing mess hall had successfully covered his and Tay’haai’s brief conversation from even enhanced ears.

Boost, being more observant than others in the Wolfpack often gave him credit for, gave Plo a side-eyed look but apparently decided to allow the redirect.  He took a bite of his rations and made a very expressive face of disgust, forcing himself to swallow before he turned back to Plo with a set of pleading eyes that would put a massiff pup’s to shame.  “Buir, since we have time, will you please tell my batch about the mission where you and General Windu destroyed that army and saved those all those slave kids?”

Plo hummed faintly, amused by the request.  “I am afraid you will have to be more specific than that if you wanted to hear about one time in particular.  Due to our familiarity with the Outer Rim and parts of the Unknown Regions, Mace and I have gone on many missions of that sort since he was Knighted.”

There was an excited murmur from his son’s batchmates, and at the tables around theirs, other Vode who had been pretending not to listen in on their conversations before that point dropped the pretense to look over with wide eyes.  Even Tay’haai radiated none too little interest at the thought of hearing such a tale.

“The one you told the Pack after Felucia,” Boost eagerly clarified, still with those begging-massiff eyes.

With a soft exhale, Plo placed the story and after a moment to gather his thoughts agreed, “Very well, my son; we should have time enough for that before your meal is over.”  He raised his voice to carry across the room so all the interested Vode within could hear and began:  “It was some five years ago that my colleague, Jedi Master Mace Windu and I were on a Search for Force Sensitive children in the Corva Sector when we received a very strange transmission…”

Chapter Text

The Vode were, as ever, the perfect audience.  They were attentive and reactive in equal measure, gasping and muttering and cheering at every dramatic turn of the tale.  It made Plo think fondly of when he took time in the Crèche to visit and read to the younglings, and, more recently, of telling legends from Dorin or tales of his missions before the war to the Wolfpack while unwinding between campaigns.  If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture his sons lounging around him, listening to the tale just as enthusiastically as his current audience.

As it was, the Vode in the mess hall had all gravitated closer to where Plo and Tay’haai were still standing as the story continued, with Boost’s batch clustered closest by virtue of having already been seated at the nearest table; a few dozen had even settled themselves on the floor between tables.  Some would probably have been intimidated by roughly two hundred teenage-equivalent sentients being so invested in their words, but Plo was not only used to larger audiences but was also able to sense their warm and attentive presences in the Force, all full of innocent excitement over something so simple as a dramatized mission report, and as such simply felt content.

By the end, even Tay’haai was bleeding reluctant admiration into the Force, for all he had stood at the same stern parade-rest next to Plo throughout.

“Alright, you lot, story time’s over,” he announced after Plo had finished by sharing how he and Mace had reunited the kidnapped children with their families, refraining from mentioning the ones who had no families left.  Stories of children rescued from slavers were always bittersweet in that way, the Kel Dor reflected, and upon being loosed on the galaxy the Vode would learn the same.  There was no reason for him to speed the process along.  “Block’s going to be over in less than five minutes; I’d start moving your asses if you don’t want your instructors to move ‘em for you when you’re late to your next lessons.”

A couple of the Vode grumbled or groaned, but most obediently shuffled out, many stopping along the way to thank Plo for the story and a handful shyly asking if he would share more stories in the future.

“I would be happy to arrange that,” he said to the courageous young man who had been elected by his brothers to be the one to ask, crinkling his face with the force of his smile at the small explosion of excited chattering over his words.  “I will speak to your instructors and see about arranging something as soon as I have the chance.”

“Thank you, sir!” the brave Vod exclaimed, echoed by the others who had followed him even as they drifted away to share the exciting news.  He hesitated until all but two left, presumably some of his batchmates given they were of an age and the silvery threads of familial love that twisted between them in the Force, then leaned forward a bit and dropped his voice as if sharing a secret.  “Also, sir, I—that is, me and Bits and ’Seventy-six—we were wondering…is it true some of the brothers call you,” he dropped his voice further until it was barely audible, “‘Buir’???”

Plo, still smiling, clicked his mandibles ever-so-lightly.  “Indeed, young one.  A relative few of the Vode have given me the honor of asking to be adopted as my sons, and as such they are welcome to call me accordingly—often choosing ‘Buir,’ but some have become more comfortable with the Basic terms of ‘Father’ or ‘Parent’ instead.”  He paused to take in the air of awe and envy around the three before him, along with the faintest trace of hesitating hope.  “I can sense that there is a reason beyond curiosity that you ask.  Should you wish to share it, I would be happy to listen.”

The small Vod and his two batchmates hesitated, looking between each other, before they shook their heads in unison.  “No, sir,” the one to the right of the initial speaker said, followed by the one to his left saying, “Thank you, sir.”

“It is no trouble,” said Plo, gentle.  “Should you change your minds, know that my ears are always open.”  He tilted his head to the cant of an armored Vod or Mandalorian who was telegraphing mischief and gestured to the extrasensory organs that hid his auditory canals.  “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

The trio giggled at his joke, a tried and tested one that always either brought laughter or groans depending on the audience.  “Thank you, sir,” the brave Vod said again, before hastily tacking on, “oh, uh, I’m CT-21/1565, and these are my batchmates, CT-21/1576 and Bits.”

“Nice to meet you, General Koon, sir,” Bits added, sounding genuine despite the rote greeting.

“And I, you,” Plo returned just as sincerely, “but you three should run along, now.  Wouldn’t want to keep the rest of your batch waiting.”

“You’re going to spoil them,” said Tay’haai, tone not quite reprimanding, after the young ones had left.  Plo hummed and folded his arms without turning away from watching the trio reunite with the rest of their batch, meeting a Mandalorian Cuy’val Dar in unfamiliar black and grey armor at the doorway who radiated fond amusement at the enthusiasm of their preteen-equivalent charges and quickly swept them off to their lessons.

“I disagree,” the Kel Dor said when the group was gone, tone even as he turned to Tay’haai, “but even if I were, they deserve to be spoiled just as any other child in the galaxy.  It is not an easy life they have been born into.  Should I be able to make it that slightest bit easier, whether that be through telling tales or offering to listen should they wish to talk, then I consider it a privilege to do so.”

Tay’haai scoffed, crackling his vocoder, but despite the derisive noise his presence reflected only a quiet sort of approval.  Rather than responding, the Mandalorian instead turned to Boost’s batch, raising his voice into a commanding officer’s harsh bark.  “Hey, you think I wasn’t talking to you, cadets?!  Get your asses up and your trays bused!  We’ve got osik to do!”

The young men were already scrambling to move before the first sentence was out of Tay’haai’s mouth, and normally, Plo would perhaps click his amusement or make some comment to his companion about young Vode being so easily distracted.  However, the Jedi’s attention was instead directed toward a powerful sensation in the Force, a heralding repetition of pleasepleasepleaseplease from a Vod whose presence was still too blurred by his brothers’ to be easily identified.  Due to the distance (which was already decreasing rapidly), he was only able to tell it was one of his sons because of the ever-present loyalty that was the core of every member of the Wolfpack and a strong overall sense of familiarity.

“Someone’s coming,” he found himself saying, a little more gravely than he intended.  Tay’haai tensed, one hand drifting toward his blaster, and Plo quickly corrected, “Another of my sons, I believe, but which one I am unsure.  He seems to be very desperate about something, and it is interfering with my ability to identify him.”

The pleasepleasepleaseplease was getting stronger, now less of a whispered repetition and more of a shouting plea that was drowning out most of Plo’s other senses.  He was becoming quite concerned—which of his sons was so hopeful yet reluctant to be so, and for what reason?  A desire to see him, he could assume, but the others he had met hadn’t quite had this level of desperation, not even Boost and Warthog who had been under the impression that they directly contributed to his death.  So then who…?

It hit him like a blaster bolt, then, and he was swiftly moving toward the doors to the mess hall before he could stop himself.  He heard Tay’haai bark something and felt Boost’s spark of panic at his unexpected movement, but he ignored both of them for the clear sense of loyalty-love-protectiveness-ferocity-reluctanthope that was suddenly so clear and yet unbearably far away.

Plo stopped and used the Force to throw the doors open just as the presence appeared on the other side, and in that moment his hidden gaze locked onto another’s that was wild with desperation but quickly shifted to reflect the crippling relief that replaced his repetitive pleas in the Force.

“General,” said the Vod, breathless not just because of the sprint he had just completed.

“Wolffe,” returned Plo, foregoing titles, and whereas he had waited for his other sons to come to him, when it came to his eldest child he could not hold himself back.  He moved forward to gather the Commander into his arms, grip tighter than he normally allowed himself, and bowed his head forward to press it gently against the other’s temple.

Wolffe sagged in his hold as if a monumental weight had fallen off his shoulders and reached up to hold Plo just as tightly in return, pressing back into the mirshmure’cya with a projection of thank the Ka’ra so strong that it may as well have been said aloud.  His voice was hoarse and quiet in a way his gruff son rarely bothered with when he finally spoke.  “Su cuy’gar, Buir.”

Plo could only loose a brief chuckle at the stereotypical brusqueness of his son, his proud Wolffe, and closed his eyes for a moment to bask in the relief as the cold by his right shoulder finally began to fade.  “Indeed, my ad’ika.

“We are alive.”

Chapter Text

There was a clattering of hurried bootsteps followed by a very empathetic, “What the kark,” from beyond Wolffe’s shoulder.  Wolffe tensed, and Plo immediately opened his eyes and pulled back from their mirshmure’cya to look over the two Vode standing there, one with a slack jaw and the other looking torn between glee and horrified disbelief.  It took him a moment to identify them, mostly because of the minor changes in their Force presences from the last/future time Plo saw them: Commander Bly, missing his golden facial tattoos with his mouth gaping in shock, and Commander Fox, his hair solid black without the silvered streaks he had gained as the war progressed with wide eyes and the half-grin of an elder brother who found something unexpected to tease their younger sibling about but wasn’t quite sure how to leverage it (yet).

“Did you run out in the middle of training?” asked Plo wryly, loosening his hug so he could lean back and take in Wolffe’s face.  His eldest son had, presumably upon hearing Bly’s shocked exclamation, closed his eyes and was tightly pressing his lips together in frustration.

“Some fresh cadets were passin’ by talkin’ about a ‘General Buir’ on Kamino,” he said, slowly, sounding pained even as he spoke.  He blinked open his eyes and grimaced, his strangely matched gaze meeting Plo’s hidden one with immediate, unerring accuracy.  “They said that you were in the mess and, well…”

“You bolted like Fett himself was on your ass,” Fox offered, golden gaze narrowing as his sly grin dropped into a reprimanding scowl.  “You’re lucky we’re self-study today or else you’d have a lot more to answer to than just us.”

As if summoned, three more Vode showed up, the rest of Wolffe’s batch as Plo recognized after a pause to account for the slight differences in their presences.  Commander Cody and Commander Neyo he was able to identify, while the third Vod was one he had never met in person, and so presumably was Commander Thorn.  He had a brief click to wonder how Wolffe had handled seeing his previously-deceased batchmate before they caught sight of him and Wolffe still embracing and all stopped in unison.

“What the actual hell,” Neyo said, his normal deadpan expression lost with his widened eyes.  Plo took a moment to double check his mental list of supplies on the Lupus and was pleased to remember that he had managed to purchase some surprisingly-hard-to-acquire silver tattoo ink, so Wolffe’s youngest batchmate would be able to recreate his designation tattoo whenever he was ready.

“That’s what I said,” Bly agreed, voice a little faint.

“Who replaced Wolffe with some random brother when we weren’t looking?” added presumably-Thorn with a toss of his head, radiating concern despite his tease.

“Shut up!” Wolffe snarled over his shoulder, notably still not retreating from Plo’s arms (“Okay, never mind, that’s definitely Wolffe,” Thorn corrected himself under his breath upon seeing the glare).  “Give me a karkin’ minute!  I’ve been waitin’ too long to see my Jedi again, and I won’t have you bastards ruinin’ it!!”

“Your Jedi?!” was the general consensus, which Wolffe summarily ignored, turning back to grimace at Plo.

“Sorry, General.  Didn’t mean t’bring a bunch of yappin’ strill pups with me.”

“No trouble at all, Commander,” chuckled Plo, his mandibles clicking and quivering in the aftershocks of his joy to have reunited with his eldest son.  “It gladdens me, as ever, to know you have such a good relationship with your batchmates.”

“Yeah, ‘good,’” Wolffe grunted on an eye-roll.  His presence in the Force, so turbulent even after their reunion, finally felt settled enough that Plo chanced pulling back from hugging his son.  Wolffe clung to him for a final brief moment before he let go and took exactly one step back, reaching up and rubbing at his face immediately afterward, in particular around the eye he had once lost (but hopefully would not again lose).  “’S one word for it.”

“Commander Wolffe, sir!” called Boost as he jogged over, stopping to salute and grin when he was close enough.  “Glad you found us!”

“Boost,” acknowledged Wolffe with a nod, signifying the other could drop his salute.  “You been takin’ care of the General, then?”

“Yessir!”

Wolffe nodded again, reaching over to clasp the younger Vod’s shoulder and shake it once with a smirk.  “Good man.”  His smirk immediately fell into something sterner and he shifted his grip from Boost’s shoulder to the back of his neck, then leaned in to loom over the slightly younger man with a sneer.  “Now, mind sharin’ why the kark you didn’t call me as soon as he showed up?!”

“Uh,” was Boost’s brilliant answer, his grin swiftly turning into a look of panic.  He looked at Plo for a moment, earning a raised brow but no actual help (Plo had decided long ago to not interfere when Wolffe got it in his head to censure their men unless he took it too far and received the same consideration from his eldest son in return), before looking back at the Commander.  “We were…stuck in training, sir?”

“You couldn’t’ve sent a runner!?” demanded Wolffe, expression thunderous.  He shook Boost again, more roughly this time; a reprimanding gesture instead of a friendly one.  “And this doesn’t look like a training room, Sergeant!  Thought I made it clear that if anyone from the Pack got new info, I needed to be alerted ASAP!  Having the General on Kamino sure as hell counts!!!”

Boost rocked with the motion without fighting back and loosed a quiet sound of regret, bowing his head in acceptance of the reprimand.  “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry, sir.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, and with a huff, he let go of Boost’s neck to instead get him in a headlock and scuff at his hair.  Boost immediately went from genuinely repentant to yelping in exaggerated complaint and flailing in an attempt to get loose.  He was only let go when Wolffe was thoroughly satisfied that he had tangled his younger brother’s curls beyond salvage, the elder smirking as he surveyed his work.  “Now you are.”

“Oh, man,” muttered Boost with a hassled look as he unsuccessfully tried to fix his hair, “now I feel bad for laughing whenever you do that to Spitter and Wildfire…”

“Don’t be,” Wolffe snorted, rolling his eyes dismissively, “the di’kute normally deserve it.”

“If you are quite finished,” Plo interjected, softening his words with a gentle touch of his content pleasure at seeing two of his eldest sons against their presences in the Force, “Boost and his batch had a lesson to complete, I believe?”

“Now you’re concerned with their schedule,” said Tay’haai scornfully, appearing on his right as if summoned and causing Boost, Wolffe, and the other Commanders-to-be to all jump.  Plo was beginning to think he enjoyed fading into the background only to pop back out when the Vode would least expect it.

“Instructor Tay’haai, sir!” Cody, who had been watching the proceedings with a deceptively calm expression despite the turmoil of confusion and concern in his Force presence, rallied enough to say as they all scrambled into a salute.  Boost started to do the same, but quickly seemed to decide against it, instead ducking his way to stand on Plo’s opposite side in a shameless attempt to use the Jedi as a living shield from his instructor.  Plo raised his brow, silently doubtful the tactic would work, but allowed it.  “Sorry, sir!  We were just…”

The normally composed Vod drifted off, clearly unsure what they were doing, which would make sense if the five had simply followed Wolffe when he took off running to find Plo.

“Coming to see the jetii, I know,” Tay’haai supplied dryly.  “At ease, verde, you graduated my course.  I couldn’t give less of a kark about your precious regs at this point.”

The Commanders-to-be slowly lowered their hands, looking bewildered with the exception of Wolffe, who simply dropped his salute and nodded as if this was a given.  Suddenly, Tay’haai whirled on his heel in a surprising show of speed for someone in full armor and looked directly at Boost.  “You, on the other hand!  Did I or did I not say your batch was to get your osik together so we could leave?!” he demanded, voice thundering in the near-empty mess hall.

Boost let out a pathetic little ‘eep’ and ducked to try and hide behind Plo’s shoulder—which would be quite the feat, considering his son was broader than he was, even if they were no longer quite of a height.  “Buir, help,” he plead in a stage whisper.

The five others from Wolffe’s batch sucked in breaths of surprise and panic upon hearing the endearment, with Wolffe himself loosing a brief warning growl as his eyes flickered in Tay’haai’s direction.  Plo quickly soothed his elder son’s worry with a projection of all is fine until the noise drifted off before he turned his attention back to the younger.

“I believe this is a battle you must fight on your own, my son,” said Plo with affected solemnity, which made Wolffe’s batchmates spike complete shock into the Force.  Wolffe, having been successfully calmed, just radiated a sense of resignation and deadpan what did you do that made Plo smile behind his antiox mask.  “Instructor Tay’haai will go easy on you, I am sure.”

“That a requirement, jetii?” asked Tay’haai, tone dangerously calm.  Plo lifted a hand in surrender.

“Oh, I would not presume to tell you how to run your course, Instructor.  I was simply reminding my son that you are a man of honor and as such would not give a punishment unbefitting of the crime.”

Tay’haai scoffed, the sound crackling his vocoder.  “You’re speaking some pretty words, jetii.  Be careful with that around here; some of the other Cuy’val Dar might take offense.”

“Over an honest compliment?” Plo asked, tone even.

“Over blatant attempts at manipulation,” Tay’haai corrected, warning, despite radiating no offense himself.  Plo still took the caution in the manner it was offered and bowed his head briefly in understanding.  Tay’haai nodded back before turning sharply back to Boost, who startled into a quick salute.  “You’re doing laps when we get back, cadet!  Go get your batchmates and head back to the training room, double time!”

Boost—hesitated.  Still holding his hand jackknifed at his temple, his gaze slid briefly to Plo, radiating his unease at the thought of leaving him into the Force.

“Go on,” Plo gently encouraged, smoothing the edges of his son’s discomfort with his own confident calm.  “I will stay with Wolffe or another of the Pack until we may see each other again.”

“You can’t leave without saying goodbye to my batchmates,” blurted Boost, voice falling just short of desperate.

Instead of taking offense, Plo inclined his head solemnly.  “I will endeavor to visit you all before I retire for the night.”

With a final glance at Wolffe, who also nodded with an addition of the GAR combat signal for “I have the watch,” Boost dropped his salute and gave Plo one final, swift hug before he jogged off to join his batch where they were all nervously hovering by another exit.

“I’ll watch him,” Tay’haai offered, lowly, so only Plo and the to-be-Commanders could hear.

“I know you will,” Plo did not hesitate to agree, folding his arms and tapping his armor-capped talons on his elbows in a staccato rhythm.  He tilted his head to signify his sidelong look.  “Thank you again for your help, Instructor Tay’haai.  It is reassuring to know that it will not merely be I and my sons fighting to correct the wrongs the Kaminoans are committing.”

Wolffe was the only one of his batch to be relatively unsurprised by the casual announcement, only broadcasting a slightly more empathetic what did you DO while the others once more flared shock and unease and a little bit of panic.  Plo would have to explain that to them later, but for now it was important that Tay’haai knew his genuine gratitude, and that meant no speaking around the matter.

“N’entye,” said Tay’haai gruffly, swiftly following with the Basic translation, “no debt.  I told you before some of us were already trying to help the Vode; you just gave me a place to start.”

All six of the Commander Batch metaphorically shrieked their disbelieving panic into the Force at hearing their preferred name for themselves from their once-instructor, and shortly after that panic changed into stunned shock when they processed the rest of what he was saying.  Plo tuned them out as best he could for the moment, tapping his talons slightly faster, while Tay’haai was unaware of the reactions his words caused, merely moving his head to look at where Boost and his batchmates were whispering at each other furiously.

“I better go stop them before they find some way to blow up the place,” continued Tay’haai, a crackling huff or sigh escaping his vocoder.  “Ret’urcye mhi, jetii.”

“Until we meet again, Instructor,” Plo returned with a slight, but genuine bow, “and may the Force be with you.”

Tay’haai tapped his fist briefly on his chest, a Mandalorian salute and goodbye all in one, and without further words left Plo to stand with Wolffe and his batch.

Who were now all focusing their combined attention on Plo, making him hum, resigned to his fate.  It looked as if he had some explaining to do.

Chapter Text

“One day,” Wolffe snapped once Boost, his batch, and Tay’haai had left the mess hall, whirling to settle a heavy scowl in Plo’s direction.  “One day, General!  No, not even one day, you weren’t here at firstmeal—half a day, and you somehow stir up a bunch of strill-osik!  I swear,” he crossed his arms over his chest, fingertips furiously tapping at his elbows in a gesture he had presumably inadvertently adopted from Plo, “I know the 212^th and 501^st think their Generals’re the worst trouble magnets, but give’em one day with you and they’ll eat their words.”

“Is that so?” asked Plo, humming and clicking his mandibles in amusement over his son’s fond exasperation.  Well, he said it was fond; were it not for his ability to sense emotions through the Force, Wolffe probably would have just come off as completely done with his buir’s well-concealed ability to cause trouble.  “I was under the impression that young Obi-Wan was still in the lead for most missions going in unexpected ways, while I am at a very comfortable third.  Not taking into account any missions before he was Knighted, of course, or else I would have an unfair advantage.”

Wolffe growled, mouthing ‘unfair advantage’ through the rumbling sound, and Plo smiled behind his antiox mask.  Leaving his son to his worried fuming, the Jedi instead turned to Wolffe’s batch with a brief but deep bow.  “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner,” he said upon rising.  “I am Plo Koon, a Jedi Master and representative of the Jedi High Council, with the preferred pronouns ‘he’ and ‘him.’  I assume you are Wolffe’s batchmates?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody swiftly took over for his brothers as they continued to recover from the earlier overheard discussion between Plo and Tay’haai, taking a half step forward and saluting.  “CC-2224.  It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Wolffe’s growls and mutters cut off at the introduction, and before Plo could respond, he gruffly said, “You can use your names, vode.  General Koon does better with’em than the numbers, anyway.”

“When phrased that way, you make it sound as though I have an issue with my memory instead of a distaste for identifying your brothers in a manner which they have decided does not suit them,” said Plo, a little bemused.  Wolffe shrugged, unrepentant, and Plo turned a solemn gaze onto the others, refusing to make light of the situation.  “While I would be honored to use your chosen names, should any of you be uncomfortable with sharing them, I would not force you to do so.”

Cody hesitated, a rare sight in the Marshal Commander-to-be.  After a flicker of his eyes toward the rest of his batch, his presence eased slightly, even though his perfect salute did not waver.  “Cody, then, sir,” he offered.  Plo smiled, crinkling the skin around his goggles.

“A pleasure to meet you, Cody.  Please be at ease.”

Obediently, Cody dropped his salute, although instead he decided to fall into parade-rest.  Small steps, Plo had to remind himself to stave off the disappointment over his unofficial nephew not relaxing just yet.  This Cody did not have his memories of commiserating over Obi-Wan’s lack of self-care and exchanging tips on how to best aid him in creating healthier habits, nor of Plo asking for advice on how to best handle Wolffe’s occasional but explosive temper, nor of long nights with all four of them working tirelessly on developing tactics to minimize losses on the battlefield.  He would have to be patient until they could rebuild the trust and sense of community that he so fondly remembered.

“And the rest of you?” asked Plo, turning to the other four.  “How do you prefer to be addressed?”

Unsurprisingly, Fox stepped forward next despite continuing to shed unease into the Force, also giving a picture-perfect salute.  “I am CC-1010, sir, but I prefer Fox,” he said, eyes guarded in a way they hadn’t been when he was teasing Wolffe earlier.  “If I may, sir: would you rather be addressed as General Koon, or is just General acceptable?”

Plo hummed, crossing his arms over his chest and slowly tapping his armor-capped talons on his elbows, careful to keep up his smile as he did so.  “At ease, Fox.  You may call me as you wish, whether that be given or clan name and with or without a title.  I do however feel the need to point out that, technically speaking, I have yet to be given a formal military rank, despite all Jedi Knights and Masters defaulting to that of ‘General’ whether it is deserved or not.”

“You’ve earned that rank hundreds of times over, General,” Wolffe cut in loyally, lip curled in a snarl at the implication otherwise despite this being an old argument between them.

“As always, my son, we must agree to disagree,” said Plo serenely.

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘my son’?” blurted Bly, only to hastily salute and tack on, “Uh, my name is Bly, sir!”

Plo clicked his mandibles lightly, amused at seeing someone who would one day be such a confident and steadfast Commander acting so awkward and unsure.  “At ease, Bly.  And yes, I did.”  He took a moment to project a sense of query at Wolffe, wanting to know how much his Commander had and was willing to reveal, and caught a flash of the GAR hand signs for “not here” and “unsecured” in response.  “Perhaps that is something better discussed elsewhere, however.  Would any of you know of a more private area we may move to?”

“Might as well hit the bunk room,” said Neyo, eyes narrowed and radiating only-slightly-below-hostile suspicion.  He snapped a salute and dropped it just as quickly, curtly adding, “CC-8826, Neyo, sir.”

“Thank you, Neyo,” Plo returned, solemnly accepting the other’s mistrust.  He knew it was simply the youngest Commander-to-be’s nature to be reticent and borderline-paranoid of others and so took no offense; his memories of watching Mace struggle to simultaneously mourn the loss of Ponds and gain the trust and understanding of Neyo were stark and heartbreaking in turn.  “Assuming you all would be comfortable allowing me in your space, that seems to be a reasonable option.”

“Thorn, sir,” the final member of the group introduced himself, also throwing up and dropping a salute before being dismissed, if in a much more relaxed way than Neyo had.  “Don’t worry about intruding or whatever; if Wolffe trusts you, I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

“Maybe because a Jedi just dropped on Kamino out of nowhere and started calling some of the Vode his ‘sons’?” Fox muttered dryly, barely moving his lips and speaking lowly enough that only enhanced ears could hear him.

“Thank you, Thorn,” Plo said, before turning to Fox and adding, “but if others of your batch do not agree, I would like to honor that decision.  I am sure it would be little trouble to find somewhere less personal to convene.”

Fox froze and hitched a breath, clearly startled.  “Kel Dor’ve got pretty good hearing,” Wolffe offered with a quirked brow and faint smirk.  “Talkin’ quiet won’t work with the General like it does for the instructors or longnecks.  Best get out of the habit fast before you say somethin’ you don’t want’im to hear.”

For a moment, Fox remained frozen before he once more came to attention, gaze lowered to somewhere around Plo’s collar.  “I apologize for my backtalk, General Koon,” he said stiffly, “and will submit to whatever punishment you deem fit.”

Wolffe’s amusement at his brother’s slip-up slid away to grim self-recrimination as Fox’s feelings of resignation and a sense-memory of old hurt in the Force made Plo loose a subvocal hiss, careful not to let it become audible nor allow the lightning that crackled in his veins at the implication to manifest.  “I do not punish others for speaking their minds,” he said, firm, once he was sure his tone would remain even, “and there is no need to apologize for being worried about your brothers.  I am a stranger to you all, perhaps the first unknown you have encountered in your lives given the isolated nature of Tipoca City, and as such it is only natural to be cautious.  I will never hold that against you nor any of your brothers.”

“Udesii, ori’vod,” offered Wolffe, the only reflection of the remorse in his presence being his slightly softened tone.  “The General’s goin’ to help stop that osik, not take part in it.”

Fox was clearly unconvinced by their words, but slowly forced his body to relax anyway.

“We’ll head to the bunks,” Cody cut in, quiet but decisive.  His steady gaze swept between Plo and Wolffe, clearly trying to figure out where his brother’s faith and knowledge had come from, before settling on the rest of his batchmates as he finished his words.  “It will be the easiest place to secure.”

After a moment to read the currents of the Force, which gently whispered and reassured that the to-be-Commanders would not be unreasonably disturbed by this decision despite the continued unease bordering on upset of Fox, Plo slowly inclined his head.  “As you say,” he agreed.  “I trust your judgement and will follow your lead.”

Cody wasn’t the only one whose presence sparked with a hint of surprise, but the Vod only nodded in acknowledgement before turning on his heel and starting down the hallway.  Plo fell into step behind him without prodding, and as he felt Wolffe settle into his usual spot over his right shoulder with an achingly familiar sense of steady trust and protective warmth, he felt his body relax despite the others’ tension still lingering in the Force.

Wolffe’s batchmates may not fully trust him yet, but that would come in time.  Plo could only believe that this upcoming conversation would help.

Chapter Text

On past visits to Kamino, Plo had never visited the bunk rooms where not-presently-deployed Vode resided.  It was a courtesy he insisted upon for the young ones who had so few places or things to call their own; the single time he had been invited to visit his sons there, he had very gently, yet firmly, told them he would not intrude upon their brothers in such a way and warmly invited them to instead join him on the Victorious (which had replaced the Triumphant as their battalion’s flagship after her destruction) when they so chose.

However, desperate times made mince of morals, mused Plo as he followed Cody into the very area he had once so staunchly refused to tread.  In a city controlled by Kaminoans and the Cuy’val Dar, neither of which he nor the Vode wanted privy to their upcoming conversations, there were only so many places where one could have a true sense of privacy.

As always, Wolffe was well-tuned to his general’s moods.  While outwardly nothing changed as the group made their way through the halls, the Commander(-to-be?  Did ranks transfer upon falling backwards in time?  Wolffe had used Boost’s rank when they spoke earlier, so perhaps so) did his best to clumsily project his thoughts of it’ll be fine and a very convicted we can handle anything at Plo.  It was truly impressive for a near-Null in the Force, even considering that such nonverbal cues were enhanced by their familiarity and trust in each other as well as the Kel Dorian natural inclination toward telepathy.

Plo gently shared his thankfulness and agreement in return, smiling to himself.  The smile remained until their entourage had arrived at a small room with six perfectly made bunks set into the walls, three on each side, and a set of six durasteel lockers just large enough to fit a set of Trooper armor set against the far wall, which like the others was painted a faded sky blue.  It was otherwise bare and there were exactly zero signs of personalization beyond a clumsily stitched black and white doll(?) on the nearest bed that was swiftly knocked out of view before Plo could catch more than a passing glance at it.

Once more, Wolffe showed off his uncanny ability to read Plo despite the many barriers that normally prevented others from doing the same—his barely-humanoid species, his mask and goggles, and his Jedi training, to name a few—by snorting derisively as soon as the door had closed.

“Yeah, ’s not pretty, but it’s a place to sleep,” he said, not bothering to hide his distaste as he swept a look across the room as if attempting to see it from Plo’s perspective.  The Jedi chuckled faintly at the familiar bluntness despite not feeling particularly amused by the situation and Wolffe continued in that same derisive tone.  “Gets a bit better after the Jedi move in, but Ka’ra forbid the longnecks let us have anythin’ nice without a fight.  At least it’s not white like everything else on this karkin’ haran of a planet.  Small mercies, I guess.”

“Wolffe,” hissed Bly as each of the Vode settled into parade-rest next to their bunks, wide eyes that darted toward Plo matching the worry over potential censure he was radiating into the Force.  Wolffe completely ignored the implied warning and instead turned back to Plo, gesturing toward one of the bunks farthest from the entryway.

“That one’s mine, General, if y’wanted to sit.  ’S not much better than the floor, but at least it’s somethin’.”

Plo couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling at his son’s familiar gruff concern.  “I appreciate the consideration, Commander, but it is unnecessary,” he demurred.  Wolffe gave a deadpan stare and said nothing, letting his unimpressed presence speak for him until Plo held up a hand in surrender, his fond smile hidden by his mask.  “If you insist.  Thank you, Wolffe.”

The Vod grunted, but a curl of satisfied pleasure entered his Force-presence as Plo slowly lowered himself onto the stiff mattress.  He couldn’t quite stop his subvocal chirrup of relief as for the first time in too many hours he was finally able to sit and rest.  While he was physically in the prime of his life and well used to physical activity even at a time long before his body was further conditioned by the intense pace of the war, there was a difference between regular spars at the Temple or hiking through a planet’s wilderness on a Search and standing with minimal movement for hours at a time with only short walks to break up the monotony.

It took a moment before Plo realized none of the Vode had sat, instead still standing at parade-rest where they had settled as if awaiting an inspection.  They felt tense and anticipatory in the Force, excepting Wolffe, and it made the Jedi ache to know that despite his affability they were still awaiting a trap that did not exist.

“Please, at ease, all of you,” he said gently.  He clasped his hands in his lap and turned his head in a sweeping motion to emphasize his shifting gaze.  “I understand you are likely to have many questions, and it will take time to address them all.  There is no need to stand on ceremony while doing so.”

There was a strained pause while the Vode looked at each other as if weighing his sincerity before Wolffe rolled his eyes and very pointedly moved to sit on Plo’s right, turned so he could lounge against the wall at the head of his bunk.  “Look, you’ve been botherin’ me for a week for answers on what’s goin’ on, right?” he drawled at their looks.  “Here’s your chance for ‘em.  The General’s right that it’ll take a while, so might as well get comfy.”

As was often the case, it was Cody who broke the stalemate.  With a soft and near-inaudible sigh, the scarred man loosened his stance and leveled a not-quite-warning look at Wolffe.  “I expect those answers to be pretty impressive,” he said, tone dry, and stiffly lowered himself to perch on the very end of his bunk.

“Should be interesting, if nothing else,” Thorn was quick to agree.  He took a more relaxed position than the Marshal Commander-to-be, hopping up onto his mattress and letting his posture slump as he pulled his legs into the lotus position.  Plo was amused to note that he looked like a youngling settling in for a story more than a near-grown soldier preparing for what was presumably going to better resemble a modified debrief.

Neyo made a derisive noise and Fox went narrow-eyed in silent warning over Thorn’s flippant attitude, but they and Bly all cautiously sat down as well in varying degrees of comfort.  As soon as he was sure his son’s brothers were as settled as they would allow themselves to be, Plo turned his attention to the upcoming conversation.

For a moment, the Jedi found himself strangely unsure of where to begin, the Force giving little more than a reassuring hum and no further direction to aid him.  “May I assume you have yet to tell your batchmates the situation?” he decided to delicately ask, turning his head toward Wolffe.

“Couldn’t risk it,” the Commander admitted gruffly.  He ran a hand through his slightly too short hair and huffed a sigh, glancing at his watching batchmates as he did so.  “Without your Force osik, I had no way t’know if we really were secure.  Honestly, if we didn’t have such reckless di’kute in the Pack, I probably wouldn’t’ve even known it wasn’t just me here.”  He fixed a semi-accusatory glare at Plo, as if it were solely the Kel Dor’s fault his sons were so free-spirited.  Anyone who personally knew Wolffe wouldn’t buy it, of course; Plo was fully aware of who had organized the 104^th’s “secret” get’shuk league, and despite the latest battalion rumors, it had not been Wildfire.  “We’re lucky we haven’t been caught yet.”

Plo hummed.  “Or at least you have yet to be explicitly called out.”  Wolffe grunted an agreement and Plo took that as a sign to continue.  “I believe I heard you tell Boost earlier that you are able to send messages to the Pack, at least?”

“Yessir,” said Wolffe, still looking cross.  He folded his arms and knocked his head against the wall behind him for emphasis.  “After Comet and Sinker nearly bowled me over in the hallway that first day, we managed to track down a few of the others t’get a scuttlebutt line goin’ and gather at least a general idea of who all came back.  Ended up bein’ nearly everyone from the Pack who was still around at the end of the Neimoidia Campaign, far as we can tell.  We have a few who we’ve still got an eye on,” (there was a flash of some emotion at this point that was there and gone too fast for anyone without the Force to read, a mix of frustration and longing and a guilt-tinged smudge of recrimination) “but obviously we don’t want t’go too blunt with it and tip someone off who can’t be trusted.”

“You will have to add a few others to that list,” offered Plo, earning a sharp look from Wolffe, and smiled widely enough to crease his face around his goggles.  “While Boost’s batchmates did not recognize me, I am pleased to say that I was greeted by Scope on our way to the mess.”

Wolffe sucked in a breath, eyes going wide at the name of one of his once-fallen brothers.  Scope had been an unfortunate casualty during the aftermath of the battle over Kadavo a few months before the start of the Wolfpack’s final campaign and one that had hit Wolffe particularly hard, as he had been the one to insist that the mechanically-inclined Vod would be a boon in case there were problems safely removing the Zygerrian slave collars—which he had most assuredly been.  It was simply unfortunate that one of the remote detonators had not been disabled with the others and thus resulted in his death as well as those of two liberated slaves he had been working with at the time.

Plo did not hesitate to reach out and rest a gentle hand on Wolffe’s shin, careful not to catch the flimsy material of the fatigues on his talons as he did so.  He waited until his eldest son caught his own hidden gaze before continuing, keeping his voice deliberately light.  “He requested that I pass on his apology for not submitting the forms for the Juggernaut upgrades on time, with the promise that you will receive them as soon as the A6 models are in production.”

Wolffe loosed a bark of a laugh and shook his head.  “Sharal di’kut,” he muttered fondly, only the slightest of quivers in his voice despite the overwhelming relief and joy he radiated into the Force.  “Always some excuse with him.  Next time he’s gettin’ a demerit.”

“If you had truly given him a demerit every time you said you would, I do believe he would have been demoted several times over by now,” Plo gently teased back.  He pulled back his hand to return it to the other in his lap, reassured Wolffe was stable, and put on a more serious expression.  “Once we settle here and I have reported back to the Council on my ‘discovery’ of the operations on Kamino, should we have time, I would like to make the rounds to as many common areas as possible so we may better see who else has returned to us.  While we may not see a pattern in who returned just yet, the Force rarely does such things by chance.”

The fact that Wolffe outwardly only hooked an eyebrow despite his overwhelming dubiousness was honestly a bit impressive.  “So you’re tellin’ me that time we picked up that Jedi artifact on Subterrel an’ half the Pack ended up stuck as charhounds until we got back to Triple-Zero was part of some grand design?  ’Cause I have to be honest, General, I don’t see the logic in havin’ to stop fightin’ Seppies to put out literal fires for a tenday.”

Plo chuckled and clicked his mandibles, fondly amused at the memory.  “I said rarely, Commander, not always.  And one could argue that there was a point to that incident.  It gave us an excuse to return to Coruscant early enough to join in on the Temple’s Life Day festivities, did it not?”

Whatever Wolffe was going to respond with, Plo would never know, for it was at that moment that the patience of the other Command Class clones ended.  Specifically, the normally aloof Neyo’s patience finally snapped and in a tone acidic enough to melt durasteel he demanded, “Will you stop speaking in riddles and tell us what the kark is going on already?!”

A canid grin spread across Wolffe’s face.  “You mean y’haven’t figured it out yet?” he drawled, full of teasing amusement at his brothers’ varied expressions of confusion, concern, and frustration.  His gaze darted to each of them in turn and eventually lingered on Cody in particular, the only one who had even a hint of understanding in his expression.  “Would’ve thought at least one of you would’ve picked up the clues by now.  It’s a bit unbelievable, yeah, but when y’factor in a Jedi and their karkin’ Force osik, it shouldn’t be that much of a stretch.”

“You seem to have forgotten that your brothers have yet to be exposed to the wonders of the Force and Its Ways as you have, my ad’ika, and even those familiar who have would find our situation hard to believe,” Plo gently admonished his eldest son.  Wolffe’s grin turned into a smirk and he shrugged, unrepentant, so Plo took it upon himself to turn to the other Vode and attempt to look apologetic despite how difficult it was to do through his mask and goggles.  “I suppose there is no simple way to ease into this, so I will have to be blunt:

“It appears,” said Plo aloud for the first time, voice even and full of appropriate gravitas, “that I and many of the Vode I have adopted, Wolffe included, have travelled backwards through time.”