Chapter Text
J’Talo Skauli felt numb, like they were floating away from their body. The young Nautolan stared in dismay at the Jedi Master before them.
“What do you mean, dead?” they whispered in a trembling voice.
Kit Fisto bowed his head. “Master Bolla Ropal was unfortunately killed by Cad Bane earlier today,” he said quietly. “Along with the rest of the 616th battalion.”
“All of them?” Sweep asked quietly. The usually unflappable clone sergeant next to them looked slightly pale, his hands gripping his helmet a bit more tightly than usual.
Fisto nodded again. “I’m very sorry,” he said softly.
J’Talo’s eye drifted to the vambrace on their left arm, scuffed and scratched and covered with writing. There’s not enough room.
A hand descended on the vambrace. J’Talo looked up at Sweep.
“I’m going to talk to the boys,” he said, his usual steadiness returning. J’Talo could still hear the pain and horror under his voice, thrumming in his aura. They nodded. The pressure on the bracer increased for a split second before he released them and marched out the room.
The boys.
The last of the 616th.
They jumped slightly at Fisto’s hand on their shoulder. “J’Talo?” he asked quietly. “Do you have any questions for me?”
They turned back to him, Kit Fisto, the only other Nautolan they knew, their own void-black eyes reflected in his. They cleared their throat and attempted to steady their voice. “How did he die?” they asked. They wanted to know. They needed to know.
Fisto sighed and guided them over to a bench along the wall. They followed stiffly, although they couldn’t quite feel their feet hitting the floor of the Republic Base. They still felt numb and tingly.
“Master Bolla Ropal was captured by Cad Bane, who was working for the Separatists,” he began in a steady voice. “Cad Bane wanted him to open a holochron, and he refused. So he was killed.”
J’Talo caught a flash of something else, a flash of something they had seen before their master had left for his last mission, something they hadn’t understood at the time. An inconsistency in Fisto’s story. “He was tortured to death,” they said flatly.
Fisto bowed his head and nodded. His hand still hadn’t left their shoulder. J’Talo’s stomach roiled at the thought of their master, stoic and strict but kind and steady, electrocuted repeatedly, screaming in pain pain pain pain –
“J’Talo?” Kit’s hand on their shoulder squeezed gently.
They thought of the 616th with their dusty red armor. The men they had fought with for years. Shrike and Rip and Tipper and Flick and Drone and –
“J’Talo, can you hear me?”
The colors of the small war room seemed to seep together. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” J’Talo whimpered, wrapping their arms around their stomach as they curled up on themselves. They felt too hot and too cold and everything everything was swirling swirling swirling and they felt sick sick sick sick sick –
They opened their eyes at a rustling noise and saw that Fisto had dragged over one of the small trash receptacles and set it between their knees. On top was a wrapper for some sort of candy. They focused on that, reading the ingredients and descriptions on the side. Natural fruit juice, orange #4, Sweet and Chewy! Made with Real Fruit! Tropical Retreat in a Bag!
They tried to picture someone eating gummy candy in a war room. It made them feel a little better.
They took a deep breath and leaned back. “I’m okay.”
Fisto rubbed their back supportively. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “Ropal was a good man. A good Jedi.”
J’Talo nodded, staring vacantly at nothing. They turned to him slowly. “Master Fisto, where does that leave me?” They felt a little selfish asking that. It seemed like a reasonable question, but they almost wondered if they should be more concerned with mourning. They weren’t sure what the proper procedure was for losing a master.
“The Jedi Council will assign you a new master,” he assured them quickly. “As soon as this mission is over.”
They frowned, brow furrowed. “What mission?”
Fisto hesitated and looked away. “Cad Bane. . . did get access to the holochron, unfortunately.”
J’Talo felt something heavy and greasy drop in their chest. “Who?”
He shook his head. “That’s not –”
“Who?”
He sighed and met their eye again. “Bane took a Padawan, Ahsoka Tano, hostage, and her master Anakin Skywalker opened it to save her life.”
J’Talo tasted bile again. How? How? Their master gave their life and in the next moment, not even an hour later, someone else disregarded that sacrifice. He had died for nothing.
They wanted to feel angry. They wanted to feel rage and hatred and fury at this faceless Skywalker. But they couldn’t. All they felt was tired.
They nodded and stood shakily. “I need to talk to my men.”
Fisto stood with them. “Of course. It may take us a few weeks to find your new master. In the meantime, study, train, and consider yourselves on leave, understood?”
They nodded and bowed numbly. “Thank you, Master Fisto.”
With one more supportive squeeze of their shoulder, he turned away, striding out of the room down the hallway. A few passing soldiers gave odd looks to the Padawan staring vacantly after him, until they turned and marched away.
On the second floor, eastern corridor of the main Republic Base on Coruscant, there was a small storage room. This small storage room, like so many other nooks and crannies of the Base, had been commandeered by a small squadron of clones. It was this room that J’Talo entered, rubbing their brow vacantly and flipping their unusually short headtails over their shoulder. They looked up as the door slid shut behind them. Seven clones sat silently around the table in the center of the room, the table salvaged from an irreparable ship.
Seven clones.
The Monsoon Squadron.
All that remained of the great 616th battalion.
J'Talo leaned back against the door. “Damn.”
Weaver was the first one to get up. Long hair braided on the right side, a tattoo of interlocking triangles on his temple. J’Talo barely even noticed his approach until his strong arms were around them, squeezing tightly. It felt like he somehow pulled them back into their body. His shaggy black hair brushed against their temple. He smelled like caf with too much sugar and fresh paint from his armor.
It was so familiar. All of them were. J’Talo tried to take comfort in the fact that they were still there.
J’Talo slumped against him, shaking, eyes shut as they fought their tears. After a moment, Weaver straightened up and ushered them to the only open seat at the table. Cover, directly across from them, slid a cold bottle of seltzer across the surface. J’Talo caught it deftly, as they had a thousand times before.
“How?” Chatter asked quietly.
“Cad Bane working for the Separatists,” they replied, cracking open the sweet drink and taking a sip. Everyone else had one of the alcoholic beverages they had smuggled in months ago, still cold from the fridge also swiped from the broken ship.
Slip swirled his beer, silent and stoic as always. Knock leaned against Toss. J’Talo could feel their thoughts through the Force, each silently glad the other hadn’t been on the ship. Of course. They were the Tech Twins. J’Talo themself would’ve sooner cut off their own arm then separate them.
Sweep patted J’Talo’s back. “There’s a Mando’a saying we say for the fallen,” he said. “Nu kyr'adyc, Shi taab’echaaj'la.”
J’Talo tilted their head. “What does it mean?”
“Not gone,” Chatter translated, “merely marching far away.”
Slip raised his bottle. “Marching on,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.
J’Talo nodded. “I like that,” they said quietly. “I like that a lot better than ‘rejoining the Force’.”
Chatter spoke again. “Ni su'cuy gar kyr'ady mi partyli gar darasuum,” he said quietly. “I’m alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.”
J’Talo nodded and raised their bottle. “Here’s to the eternal.”
Sweep raised his drink. “To Captain Jab,” he said quietly, calling the name of his older brother for the last time.
Slip raised his. “To Hook.”
All the rest responded in turn, calling the names of their closest brothers outside their own squadron, one more time.
“To Icha.”
“To Pulse.”
“To Mince.”
“To Tuck.”
“To Kork.”
All eyes turned to J’Talo as they took a steadying breath. They lifted their bottle. “To Master Bolla Ropal,” they said. Everyone clinked their glass bottles together and took a long swig.
Chatter sighed loudly and slumped back. “So,” he said brightly. “Who’s our new boss?”
“I think you’re overthinking this.”
This didn’t console J’Talo as they paced frantically on the steps of the Jedi Temple. “There’s a billion factors to consider here, I can’t be overthinking because I haven’t even finish preliminary-thinking.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Sweep’s lips. “What have you not considered?” he offered calmly, concerned but slightly amused.
J’Talo’s fingers tap-tap-tapped on the vambrace on their left forearm. “What if,” they began, “they’re some kind of Sith spy, and I find out and they try to kill me for it?”
“Going a little extreme there.”
“It’s happened before.”
“Maybe start with, ‘Will they like me?’”
J’Talo snorted, tossing their head. “That’s the least of my worries,” they muttered, borderline hysterical.
Sweep held up a hand. “Take a deep breath for me.”
“I’m fine.”
“Deep breath.”
J’Talo finally paused and inhaled deeply. They closed their eyes, taking in the scent of damp concrete, speeder emissions, the sweet-smelling pink flowers in the Temple garden. They knew they should probably be inside, preparing for the meeting, meditating, something. But when Master Windu had commed and announced that the Council had selected J’Talo’s new master and they’d be introduced in just a couple short hours, J’Talo had felt panicked, ambushed, unprepared. So, they’d done the only thing they could think of.
They’d called Sweep.
Sweep always knew what to do.
As he wasn’t a Jedi, he couldn’t enter the Temple. They’d settled for meeting on the steps while they waited to be summoned. He’d been doing his best to calm them down for the better part of an hour. It was working. Somewhat.
J’Talo released the breath they held. “Thanks,” they mumbled, rubbing their eyes with the back of their hand.
Sweep dropped his hand on his helmet, which rested on his knees, and shifted slightly. “What’s the best case scenario here?”
“I go in there and they decide that I’m ready to be knighted,” they replied. “Which won’t happen because I’m only fifteen. Or,” they added, raising their eyebrows. “They tell me that Master Fisto’s Padawan died and they’re assigning me to him.” They waved their hand. “I mean, that’d be bad, because Master Fisto would be sad, but good because I hate his Padawan.”
Sweep rolled his eyes. “We’re all well aware of that,” he retorted. He smiled slightly. “Not terribly Jedi of you.”
“Hm.”
“What’s the worst case scenario?”
J’Talo shook their head and turned away, kicking the ground with the toe of one heavy boot. “I somehow get them killed again,” they muttered.
Sweep’s brow furrowed. “Sir, you weren’t even on that ship, how was Ropal’s death your fault?”
They glared back at him though pitch-dark eyes. “Because I wasn’t on the ship.”
“You argued with him for hours about that,” he sighed. “He made you stay behind, Bolla Ropal’s death was not your fault.”
J’Talo seemed too distracted to hear him, instead taking up their anxious march back and forth again. “And then that Skywalker made his death completely meaningless,” they snarled. “No plan, no nothing, totally disregarded his sacrifice.”
A heavy silence fell over the two of them as they individually mused over the last few weeks, the weeks of training and waiting and training and waiting and waiting.
"Anyways," Sweep said finally, "the most likely result is somewhere in between."
"Right," J'Talo mumbled, rubbing their brow. "Right, right. I'll be fine."
The comm device on J’Talo’s gauntlet started beeping rapidly. They both fell silent as they answered the holocall. Mace Windu’s glowing blue form appeared over their wrist. “Padawan Skauli, we’re ready for you. Please meet us in the council room.”
“Yes, Master Windu,” J’Talo replied placidly. He disappeared. “Dank Farrik,” they hissed, snatching their bag. “I’ll meet you guys in the storage room and tell you who I get.”
“We’ll be waiting!” Sweep called after them, finally standing to return to the Base as they ran to meet their new master.
J’Talo’s heart pounded as they approached the double doors of the council room. They slowed from their anxious jog and took a deep breath, smoothing their hands over their navy blue shirt and fussing with their headband. They hesitated, wondering if they should knock. Just as they were debating, the doors slid slowly open. They took another deep breath.
Whoever it is, I’m ready, J’Talo promised themself as they stepped inside. My men believe in me, so –
They froze. No.
The Jedi in the middle of the room turned to face them. “J’Talo Skauli, I presume?” he greeted.
Nope. Nope, no I’m not. J’Talo? Never heard of them. Jedi who? I’m just the janitor, took a wrong turn, wrong wrong wrong wrong –
“Yes,” they replied, stepping forward, hoping he hadn’t sensed their mortification as they managed to settle their heartbeat. The door slid shut behind them, trapping them inside. No problem. For all they knew, he was probably just going to introduce their new master. Of course, that was it, there was no way he actually –
“I’m Obi-wan Kenobi,” he greeted, “I’m your new master.”
Dank Farrik.
J’Talo clasped their hands in the front of their chest, bowing slightly, keeping their expression neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you and an honor to serve under you, Master.”
Kenobi returned the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. I’ve heard quite a bit about you and look forward to getting to know you more.”
Their eyes darted towards the Jedi masters circling the room, wondering who was telling him about them, what they had told him.
Kit Fisto met their eye and offered an encouraging smile. They tried to smile back, but it ended in more of a grimace as they turned back to their new master. He was surveying them with a neutral expression, taking in their big black eyes, short headtails that ended just below their jawline, the black markings on their green face. They could feel his gaze lingering on the gauntlet on their arm, trying to decipher the writing. Their fingers twitched nervously in the silence as they fought the urge to hide it behind their back. It wasn’t until three more seconds of silence passed that J’Talo realized they were meant to respond.
“Yes.” The word seemed to disappear as soon as they spoke it, blunt and heavy. They cleared their throat and continued. “Yes, I’ve heard of you as well.” Their mind blanked. They glanced back at Master Fisto. He smiled again, but now it looked more like he was trying not to laugh. Their heart pounded as they struggled to meet Kenobi’s eyes again but, stars, why was it so hard? Why was he looking at them like that? Why was the air so heavy? They were having trouble breathing, was anyone else having trouble breathing? Was gravity increasing? That had happened on a cruiser once, but this wasn’t a cruiser, but what are planets but big cruisers, but if Coruscant suddenly had an increase in gravity it –
“May I see your lightsaber?” Kenobi asked, extending his hand.
Blood roared in their lekku as they fumbled with the weapon on their belt, handing it over. “It’s double-bladed, so be careful,” they mumbled, then bit their lip. Be careful, he’s Obi-wan Kenobi, of course he –
With a whir, the two orange blades of J’Talo’s saber extended between the two of them. The low hum and familiar glow clamed them a bit. Kenobi examined the long handle, the bright shine of the blades. “I’ve never met someone with an orange blade,” he observed quietly. Something that J’Talo didn’t recognize flickered in his eyes as he studied the weapon. Remorse? “Quite a rare color.”
“Yes,” J’Talo smiled slightly as they watched him give the saber an experimental twirl. “I’ve always been proud of it.”
Kenobi sheathed the blades and returned their weapon. “Well, it was very good to meet you. I have some matters I must finish here, then I’ll return to the Base. Would you wait for me there?”
“Yes. Thank you.” J’Talo took their saber and turned away, striding out of the council room again. The doors slid open and closed. The hallway was completely empty. J’Talo took advantage of the privacy to collapse against a wall.
“Uuuugh,” they moaned, rubbing their eyes. “Oooooh Farrik, that was so bad.”
“Everything okay?”
J’Talo glanced at the Jedi passing by, a tall human with shaggy brown hair and black robes. They didn’t recognize him.
They shrugged and straightened up. “Just panic,” they muttered, striding away.
They needed to tell their men the good news.