Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Depa Billaba, though she was on the High Council of the Coruscanti Order of Jedi, probably should’ve been barred from interaction with the Senate.

But an actual ban would have defeated the purpose of masking her history and expertise. Instead, she had a position that allowed her to dodge most interactions with the Senate. Requests for her as a Jedi could be delegated to a non-councilor who had more time to spare than she presumably did, and requests for her as a high councilor could be deferred to one of the others with longer or more advanced standing.

The need for her to have such a position had probably contributed to her inordinately young appointment to the High Council. Her particular areas of expertise had helped, of course, since there weren’t many options for who else could’ve replaced Master Micah Giett after his death, but that shouldn’t have been enough. Especially since most people only knew about her expertise with Form III, not the highly restricted Form VII.

Jedi with her particular Force talents rarely opted for combat-related specialties for good reason, but even those who did usually needed stints in more remote temples in order to find their balances.

Even her sister, Sar, had needed that, and she didn’t have combat-related specialties, just specialties that could have some combat-adjacent applications. That was part of why Sar was only a knight, despite having achieved Enlightenment as a Chalactan Adept.

Part. More of it had to do with the reason Feemor had quietly checked why the kriff Sar was now a Watchman. Feemor’s relief upon hearing Naboo had asked for her still confused Mace, who’d never had reason to notice that Sar was eccentric even by Jedi standards. The side effects of her meddling with her own biochemistry from the crèche didn’t help with that.

Depa’s own particular mental balance wasn’t the healthiest, either, but it was stable and it worked well enough that she could blend into environments in a way that Sar couldn’t. Depa could even handle her occasional stints in the Senate with politically appropriate aplomb.

This proved to be a good thing. After all, she could hardly refuse a direct request from the chancellor for her personally.

If she sometimes dissociated a little in the meantime—well, it worked. Sar wouldn’t tell on her.

Chancellor Palpatine’s droning bled into, “…Master Jinn accomplished much for your order. His passing is a very great loss.”

For some, certainly. Depa sipped her tea and smacked a bit more of the Force into her right hip. It still ached from her most recent fight with a bounty hunter, after he’d tracked her down on Naboo to steal his flute back. The injury was just a bruise—he’d pulled the kick—and would heal quickly enough.

But the chancellor had given her an opening to accept the condolences he’d already given at Master Qui-Gon’s funeral, and she took advantage of it. “Repetition doesn’t suit you.”

“I beg your pardon?” His surprise was a good play. Most wouldn’t notice it was feigned. He even got the timing right; fakers usually held it too long.

She put wry amusement into her glance at him. “You’re the chancellor of the Galactic Republic. I’m a high councilor of the largest order of Jedi in the galaxy. We both have better things to do than to rehash political niceties that have already been rendered—and I am not whom you would be speaking to if you truly felt need to reinforce your thanks. Kindly get to your point. Your tea is—”

Oh. Well, that was interesting.

Anger flickered in his aura, so promptly masked that it frankly explained the tea. “The tea is…?”

Depa promptly dismissed the options of ‘tactically chosen’ (too observant), ‘bland’ (too obviously dishonest), and the slightly hyperbolic ‘drugged’ (too forthright). She settled on, “Not particularly tasty,” which was sufficiently tactless to explain why she was never assigned Senate duties.

Saffron could be problematic for diabetics for good reason, and that was aside from its ability to soothe anxiety to the same degree as some medications. But it was also expensive and thus chic to consume. A number of senators opted for that one even without knowing its side effects. There was nothing notable about its inclusion in the tea.

What had caught her attention was the hsuberry. Not much, just enough to dull the edges of Force ability for someone of her midi-chlorian count, but it would muddy most non-Sensitives’ gut instincts. The chancellor was Naboo, so it wasn’t necessarily notable that he had included it since hsuberry was part of the planetary cuisine, but…he managed his aura so tactically. He might’ve chosen the hsuberry with intent, aware of the side effects.

Chancellor Palpatine’s slight laugh came a hair late, possibly due to entirely natural surprise at her frank speech, but… “Oh, I do apologize! Perhaps we could share a blend better suited to your palate, next time?”

She kept her placidity, sipped the Force-dulling tea. “You believe there will be a next time?”

The chancellor hesitated, set his own teacup down. “Very well. I will be frank, Master Jedi. I heard that you had an altercation with a notorious Jedi killer.”

Had he, now? How? It had been hardly a week since their first meeting on Tatooine, much less the encore on Naboo.

“Jango Fett,” she conceded. “Killed six Jedi on Galidraan.” None of them known for their battle prowess, but he did survive Dooku and Vosa, who were.

“If I may be so bold… You seem to have come out of that engagement with remarkably good health. Have you considered perhaps pursuing further development of those skills?”

Encouraging a Jedi to be violent was an interesting choice for someone who was allegedly a pacifist, especially one that was presumably not Force-sensitive, themselves.

“Good health is hardly a skill, Chancellor,” she said blandly.

Anger flickered in his aura, again, oh so subtle. “Indeed. I merely meant… You must be skilled with a lightsaber, even for one of your Order.”

Yes. That was much of the point of why she’d kept her particular conditioning. Anger could only lead to hate if you felt you had a right to act on or out of that anger. “I’m considered a master of soresu.”

She considered adding a summary explaining what soresu was, but best to see if he needed it, first.

Depa wasn’t a Jedi Shadow, sadly—Tholme would never allow it, with her baggage—but she knew enough to wonder how Adi managed to spend so much time in the Senate building without losing her notorious temper. Granted, Adi had never been fond of the more esoteric areas of the Jedi Archives, so perhaps she hadn’t even noticed that many artifacts in senatorial offices ran Dark.

“Have you considered expanding those skills?” the chancellor pressed. “I understand soresu is rather...passive. Surely you would prefer be able to remove a threat before it possibly harms your friends, rather than be restricted to waiting and reflecting the threat’s own attacks?”

So he already knew what soresu was. He understood how it worked, even.

Depa glanced at her tea, at the reflection of what was behind her. He wasn’t the only politician with Dark artifacts in his office. His reasoning, however, was reminding her of some Sith philosophy. He must’ve found better resources than most amateurs, maybe even conversed with an actual Sith. The religion could doubtless be reassuring to someone with ambition.

(Yes, yes, the Sith ‘had been extinct for a millennium.’ As if there weren’t sufficient artifacts and interested ambitious persons for the religion to persist or sprout further branches. There were even artifacts with nebulous dates that made the Shadows question if a line of Sith might have survived the millennium, rather than been revived from the old records or developed with inspiration from the old religion. There was a discreet betting pool regarding which of the three options answered where Jinn’s killer had come from.)

With that in mind, she opted against pointing out that soresu wasn’t passive, particularly not for masters of it. Defense wasn’t passivity.

Baiting Palpatine was probably a bit paranoid, but it was definitely entertaining. “If I may be frank, Chancellor, I’ve already pursued such skills to a degree that my order is comfortable with.”

Passing a particular point or degree did require reaching it in the first place.

“Your order, you say. Not you?”

She just sipped the tea. Her personal boundaries weren’t his business. Even most of her friends didn’t know those.

“Please, don’t feel obliged to continue drinking that on my account. It’s such a shame that your order would limit you for no better reason than feeling uncomfortable. Have you considered studying elsewhere, perhaps? There are martial arts you could learn, to expand your skills.”

Perhaps, if she were willing to risk killing someone. Although...an intentionally non-lethal martial art might actually be a good idea. “Have you any particular options in mind?”

The pleasure that flickered in his aura was stronger than the question warranted, and the smile that tugged his lips was possibly a smirk.

As the chancellor carefully waffled his way into suggesting Teräs Käsi—a notoriously lethal martial art that had been developed for killing Jedi—she glanced to the window behind him, focusing on the reflection of the Dark artifacts behind her.

Maybe she should delegate fewer invitations to the Senate.

Chapter Text

The aroma of fried food was often delicious even when the food itself was objectively terrible, and what Dex produced was far from that. Padmé salivated as she entered the diner, and Dex himself raised one of his four arms in greeting.

She gave a slight nod back, sidestepping the male Zabrak about to stumble from vertigo. She caught him gently with the Force—Wait, what?—just enough for him to regain his bearings despite his plummeting blood sugar. “Something for the diabetic, please.”

The sapient waitress—«Muriel»—was an avian race Padmé wasn’t familiar with, and that waitress shook her head at her.

Padmé belatedly remembered that medical confidentiality applied to conditions like diabetes. “My apologies.”

That wasn’t her voice.

The mannerisms weren’t Padmé, either, as she drew to the side, pulled her cloak tightly against her robes, minimizing contact with other patrons of the busy diner. She waited patiently for her food, and it took Padmé a few minutes to realize the mental game of dejarik she had going on was real, that her master was inputting her moves and alerting her of his.

Her master?

Padmé cast an alarmed glance at herself. This wasn’t her body, either.

«Of course it isn’t,» the owner thought nonchalantly as she sent another move for the dejarik board. «It’s mine.»

What?

«Lothal or Naboo?»

What?

«Were you on Lothal or Naboo, before you woke up here?»

Padmé blinked in surprise, then again as she realized the owner of the body she was in was letting her to do that, was letting her glance around in confusion.

Dex was frowning at her. Her face stretched into a mild smile that didn’t feel like Padmé’s at all but seemed to reassure the Basilisk, though it didn’t end the leery side-eye.

I’m possessing someone, Padmé realized, something wild in the thought. Someone is letting me possess them.

«There’s no harm in it for now, and you’re not going to try to force a permanent stay.» Something about the host’s reasoning felt familiar, and confusion kept Padmé from noticing the gentle mental scan until: «Ah, you’re from Naboo. This’ll end when we sleep, then.»

Padmé blinked again. And if I came here from Lothal?

«Then splitting might’ve needed a bit more active help, depending on what that nexus was wanting. But Jedi tend to be meddlers, so our temples follow suit. You Naboo observe far more than you meddle.»

Dex’s familiar hand held an unfamiliar ‘usual’ in Padmé’s face: various vegetables that were toppings of various dishes that Dex offered, with one of the burger sauces. Without her input, her expression shifted into her host’s version of a smile as she accepted. “Thank you, Dex.”

“Everything okay, Jedi?”

“Perfectly fine,” the host said easily. “Just a minor possession.”

The avian waitress’s feathers puffed out with alarm.

Dex chuckled, slowly shaking his head. “That’s just her sense of humor, Muriel.” He pushed a few meals towards the waitress. “Deliver these, please.”

The avian—«She’s Fosh»—scurried off.

Dex’s amused smile stayed put. “That possession had better stay minor, you hear? I know who to call if it doesn’t.”

“Oh good,” Padmé blurted. “I mean, thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing here; I’m not even on Coruscant.”

“Oh Sithspit. Lothal?” asked a nearby Toydarian.

“Good afternoon, Bal,” replied Padmé’s host. “And truly, we’re fine. My temporary guest’s more displaced than she realizes yet.”

What?

“I haven’t been to Naboo since I was a padawan, but she saw me there this morning.”

“Trawling others’ memories is rude, Sar.” The Toydarian’s voice had the exasperated edge of a repeated gripe.

Sar? Padmé’s host was Sar? “Labooda?” she asked.

“No, some other Sar,” sniped the Toydarian. “Of course that’s Sar Labooda. Depa would’ve shredded you already.”

“Not necessarily,” Sar replied. “My guest isn’t trying to control anything.”

Padmé pressed Sar’s hands to her stomach, but her host definitely wasn’t pregnant. “What’s the date?”

The Toydarian gave it—«His name’s Bal»—and Padmé stared at him, uncomprehending. How had she lost a year?

«This is probably your first timeline,» Sar said easily. «Showing you something important that’s gone differently in your current timeline.»

Padmé stared, unseeing, in sheer confusion. But you didn’t believe I’d time traveled, when I told you.

«Visions are far more probable than time travel, and particularly strong seers can get confused about that. And it can be easier to remember a past life as if it’s visions, or so I’ve been told.»

…Told?

Sar cast a glance about the diner, focusing on the auras rather than the persons. One caught her attention. She casually took her plate of food and slipped into a chair beside someone Padmé belatedly recognized.

Jango Fett grumbled, “Table’s taken.”

“I see the tea has helped.”

Tea? Padmé asked.

«He had some horrible mind lesions, last time I encountered his aura. The Evendale blend from Perfect Seasons can help those heal.»

…You suggested a tea?

«If he were optimistic enough to trust Jedi help after our displayed incompetence on Galidraan, he wouldn’t be a bounty hunter.»

Fett chewed a bite of his burger, casually nudging a data stick towards Sar with his elbow.

She nonchalantly swiped and pocketed it. “The Everbright blend can help with shielding.”

“Can n’jetiise [non-Jedi persons (Mando’a)] learn that? To protect their minds from jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] ?”

Sar considered Fett, didn’t let Padmé redirect her gaze into something more polite than potentially challenging. “As long as the Jedi is respecting due consent, yes. But not all sapients able to do that are Jedi, and not everyone respects consent for anything. Protecting yourself isn’t always possible.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed as he searched for something. Padmé tried to keep herself back, out of the way—

“Sith still exist,” Jango said outright, his tongue tripping a bit awkwardly over the Basic.

“Obviously,” Sar answered dryly. “But good luck convincing anyone of something they want to disbelieve.”

“Your Order wants to disbelieve that,” he inferred.

She shrugged lightly, took a bite of her salad. It tasted somewhat familiar, less spicy than Padmé felt it should be on her host’s tongue.

«It’s the Mandalorian burger sauce on a vegetarian special,» she told Padmé. «Grease gives me migraines.»

You get migraines? Padmé would’ve blurted if Sar hadn’t gently blocked her from being able to.

«Only if I eat turmeric or other triggers.» “The first step for shielding is to identify your core imagery. It’s something that ‘clicks’ for you, feels safe and secure, letting you control what comes in. Common imagery is of light or air that acts as a filter, but that’s usually preferred by ne’kaane [non-combatants (Mando’a)] .”

Jango eyed her. “Tion’jor jorhaa’i? [Why (do you) speak (Mando’a)? (Mando’a)] ”

The slight smile slipped onto her face again. “Picked it up as a padawan, while my tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] was missing.”

«Tat means biological sibling, specifically, who is also a legal sibling,» Sar clarified to Padmé. «It’s mostly Concordian dialect, little-used in general because of the potential implicit implication that birth is superior to adoption.»

“Thought Jedi didn’t have families.”

She hummed. “We do by bond, in a few ways. Bonding with biological relatives in the Order is usually discouraged, due to the side effects.”

…What?

“Side effects,” Jango echoed neutrally, not asking, but curious.

Sar munched another bite of her salad. “The star-touched can tie to each other through the—” She caught herself, corrected what she’d been about to say with “the Force. There are different kinds of tethers, and when they’re complementary, the parties working together can be far stronger than the sum of each one working independently.

“Blood relatives easily end up with this effect, which is why certain clans have been winnowing star-touched Mando’ade [Mandalorians (Mando’a)] over the past several centuries.”

What??!! Padmé nearly blurted, only to get smacked back hard enough to make her feel as if her mind were ringing.

“As an illustration, I can can pinch a blood vessel from across the room.”

That actually explained a lot of Sar’s reaction to threats on Naboo—or rather, her utter lack thereof.

“My tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] can smack a fully loaded industrial hovertruck into a canyon wall.”

…This was sounding a lot like actual examples, not hypothetical ones.

“Now, usually when two star-touched link together, the result is essentially additive. Like, two with different skills will balance each other out, with each one filling in the areas they’re better at.

“But with tal’iit [biological family (Mando’a)] , the result is more…multiplicative. That means the function and routes of control differ from either party’s usual, so they have to cooperate as a single unit in order to have proper control and use of what they can do with and because of that bond.

“If my sister and I both simultaneously focus on, say, incapacitating the same attacker, we’ll likely shove them through the wall. Not the best option when that wall’s an outer bulkhead.”

Fett stared for a few breaths. “You’ve done that before.”

“Riggers’ Meet,” she said blandly.

Padmé had never heard of it, but the bounty hunter’s eyes widened.

“Riggers’ Meet was wiped out,” he said neutrally. “No survivors, all bodies missing, and the hole in the hull was insufficient explanation for that.”

“They were between shipments at the time,” Sar volunteered. “And families weren’t allowed on-site; too much risk of a child or spouse acting against syndicate interests.”

He frowned, eying Sar. “You killed?”

She shrugged and repeated, “I can pinch a blood vessel from across the room.”

There had to be a reason Sar knew she could do that. Padmé’s stomach rolled as she took another bite of salad.

«It was a relay base for some traffickers, close enough to Chalacta that we overheard a clanmate get in trouble there. We helped her, discovered the hard way that I cannot battle bond with Shylar, and the side effects bled into Depa enough to result in a permanent end to their operations.»

…Yeah, that matter-of-fact explanation didn’t assuage Padmé’s nausea. I thought Jedi preserved life.

«We serve the Force. Ask ten different Jedi what it means to do that, and you’ll get at least four different interpretations.»

Did she want to know Sar’s?

In Padmé’s current lifetime, this Jedi was living in Theed, working with her handmaidens. So whether she wanted to know or not, it was something she needed to know. What’s your interpretation?

«Jedi seek to promote the beneficial, positive things in the universe. Some of us do so by seeking to do beneficial, positive things. Some of us seek to stop detrimental, negative things. Some of us seek to sabotage and prevent detrimental, negative things before they happen.»

That wasn’t answering the question. Which path is yours?

«Preventative sabotage of Fallen adults,» Sar answered briskly.

…How did that describe mind healing?

Confusion responded to her thought. «Why would a mind healer know what teas soothe side effects of discreet and long-term Force interrogations?»

As Padmé processed that, she felt her host smile again. “My apologies for the distraction. My master made an interesting move in our dejarik game.”

But Sar was a mind healer. Padmé was certain of this.

…Why was she so certain?

Approval was clear in the Force as her host continued chatting with Jango Fett, casually dropping discreet warnings about what a person could even do with Force telepathy.

…Billaba wasn’t exactly the high councilor she presented herself as, either. Or rather: Billaba wasn’t only a high councilor.

Obi-Wan been both the Negotiator and the Sith-Killer. Gallia had been a high councilor and a public relations specialist; Windu, a leader and figurehead. Anakin—

Anakin—

…Anakin hadn’t known others’ specialties, either.

Wary of what Sar could pick up, Padmé asked, Why would an information specialist end up a Jedi Watchman?

«Boredom? Career change? Re-evaluation of where their skills would be of most use?»

Sar was still carrying on the conversation with Jango, with Padmé none the wiser about what exactly was being said. The incompetence at possessing someone was a relief, truly.

Why would you choose to be Watchman for Naboo? Padmé asked directly.

Comprehension filled her host. So did hesitation. Calculation.

«My specialty can be considered black ops,» Sar answered finally. «My Order prefers avoiding use of specialists like me whenever possible. Sure, we’ll complete mission objectives, but what if it’s at the cost of what the objectives were intended to accomplish? The interrogator can get intel, but what if it breaks the informant so they can’t give anything else?

«And then there are the effects on the specialist. Every time you use their skills to their full potential, you risk breaking them and losing the potential to use them at all. It helps to ensure they have other skill sets, ones that they use more frequently, but if you end up needing the specialist…

«Such specialties affect a person. The more they’re utilized…There’s a point where the specialty ends up being all they can do and be, and rehabilitating them is incredibly dangerous and costly—when it’s even possible. The Force only exacerbates that.»

Padmé swallowed.

Sar let her swallow.

That explains how your sister’s an assassin, Padmé sent carefully.

Her host masked a snort by taking a sip of her juice. «No, Depa’s a supercommando whose specialty is creating exits and forcing enemies to focus on her rather than her allies. While that can be leveraged for assassination, that’s an application, not her specialty itself.»

Goddess, the amusement in Sar’s tone was horrifying.

Padmé didn’t want to ask. She really didn’t want to know…but she needed to. What’s your specialty?

The amusement didn’t falter. If anything, Padmé’s dismay was entertaining the Jedi.

«Ensuring enemies forget my allies exist.»

Forget her allies. Not to forget her.

“Oh,” Padmé said quietly, and she trusted that Sar only allowed it because it fit the conversation with Jango. That specialty did fit her decision to be a watchman.

If Padmé messed up, if Palpatine realized she was a time traveler, Sar would edit his mind. He’d quite likely kill her for it, too.

And, despite the child Sar had on the way, she was perfectly fine with that.

Eirtaé Frizmar, handmaiden of Padmé Naberrie who was Queen Amidala of the Naboo, stared at the ceiling in sheer disbelief.

It was insane enough that Padmé had traveled back in time and kept having dreams about it that she was unconsciously projecting onto Eirtaé, but now to somehow be visiting her original timeline in her sleep?

(Maybe it had been naught but a dream or vision, but…it hadn’t felt that way.)

And that was aside from the assumptions Padmé was making. She knew better than that.

Eirtaé flung off the covers with an annoyed huff and quickly dressed enough to be acceptable, by Housed standards. She followed Watchman Labooda’s aura to the gardens, where the Jedi was sitting on the edge of a planter, reading while she nibbled on some flower petals.

(Considering how frequently the woman snacked without damaging the gardens, she had to be encouraging regrowth with the Force.)

Eirtaé scowled, reminded of just how little she knew about the Force and how to use it, and settled near enough to converse without invading the older woman’s personal space. “If your specialty’s making enemies forget your allies exist, how do you decide who’s your ally or enemy?”

“Context,” the Jedi answered easily, unsurprised by the question.

Maybe she’d bothered to watch Padmé’s dream, too. She certainly had the ability. Maybe her intrusion on Padmé’s memory-dreams was even why the other timeline’s her was getting possessed.

Her answer to Eirtaé’s question, however, was not reassuring. “You could target Padmé as an enemy, then.”

“Of course. Anyone can be an enemy, presuming they have the freedom to choose. I’m certainly not going to fiddle with their right to make that choice.”

That focus caught Eirtaé’s ear. “You’ll sabotage others’ efforts to unduly influence a person’s choices,” she said slowly, feeling her way through verbalizing what she’d noticed.

“If you try to compel someone to quit their job, I’ll stop you, but compelling them to cease a current problematic action so you can withdraw from it?” The Jedi shrugged, rubbed her stomach. “Persuading them to quit or compiling evidence to get them fired would also be fine, but pressuring them or inventing evidence against them would not.”

Eirtaé mulled on those boundaries. “And if the target is skilled enough at reputation management to prevent actionable evidence?”

Watchman Labooda studied her. “You’re thinking of someone specific.”

“The Sith Master,” she admitted, because the Jedi surely had already picked up enough to guess that. Labooda wasn’t nearly as oblivious as her unusual priorities made her seem.

Labooda illustrated that with how she massaged her stomach again while she thought, nibbling a few more petals. “Wouldn’t invented evidence be a vulnerability he could exploit?”

“Why assume ‘he’?”

The Jedi tossed her an odd look. “That’s his choice of pronoun as a politician.”

Eirtaé sucked in a breath. She hadn’t expected Labooda to be trusted that far. “Vos told you?”

“Of course not. Reputation management to the degree you’re presuming requires a lot of social, political, and financial power,” the Jedi said idly, “and the Trade Federation’s invasion was too convenient for him to be a mere opportunist.”

Something about this Jedi’s matter-of-fact comment made the back of Eirtaé’s neck prickle.

And that sensation only increased as the woman shrugged. “The hook he set on Skywalker was its own giveaway, of course. Thankfully, the boy’s aura dissolved that quickly enough once alerted of the invader.”

Eirtaé stared at the Jedi in bleak horror. “You noticed the chancellor’s a Sith, targeting Anakin, and you haven’t told anyone?”

“Not my dance, not my partner.”

What? Was she seriously calling it not her responsibility to share things like that?

Labooda frowned in what seemed to be genuine confusion. “Overtaking others’ jobs is rude, and I’m not authorized to work with children.”

What. The. Kriff.

Coruscant was wizard but loud, with so many more lives than Tatooine and even Naboo. The Temple helped shield that, somehow, but everything was still bright in a way that made Anakin uncomfortable. Suns could kill.

He was starting to get used to it, though. It helped that he could read Basic okay, now, so he wasn’t needing as much obvious help in class and could blend in a bit. Sometimes, anyway.

Today hadn’t been one of those times, since the lecture on Force theory had been based on crèche games Anakin didn’t know, so he would have to visit the littles again to learn them. He kept his head down as he quickly gathered up his things after class was dismissed, but he wasn’t able to get out of the room before the teacher.

Telloti had lingered, again. He was a few years younger than Anakin, and smaller, and felt threatened by the padawan in his class who had the master that he wanted.

Technically, Anakin was self-studying all the classes he’d missed by not growing up in the Temple, but it was easier when he attended classes, even though he wasn’t going at the same pace as his classmates. The lectures included details like those crèche games that weren’t in the summaries, and it was easier to ask a teacher for clarifications when they knew him at least a little.

He wanted to be caught up with the other junior padawans by the time he was old enough to go on missions. The advanced Huttese class helped; the reading and writing parts were helping him understand Basic better.

Anakin was being extra careful with the classes about the Force, not wanting to miss anything important. He wanted to be able to do things with precision, not just because he had the strength in the Force to force what he wanted.

Master Depa brute forced things. Master Depa also tended to kill hawk-bats when checking for eavesdroppers. She wasn’t nearly as strong in the Force as Anakin, either; doing things her way would kill people.

So Anakin didn’t even try to push back as Telloti sought to trip him with the Force, because he’d probably hurt the other kid. He stumbled but managed to keep his feet.

Telloti sneered at him. “You don’t deserve to be the Sith-Killer’s padawan.”

A faux-amazed gasp cut in from Darra, a padawan close to Anakin’s age who was helping him learn lightsaber stuff. She was staring from the doorway with eyes widened to match. “The Force told you that but not the High Council?”

Behind her, Master Depa snorted, biting back a smile that displayed her…disbelief in how much the rest of the High Council listened to the Force.

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to admit that,” Anakin muttered in Huttese.

“What’d you call me?” Telloti demanded, making clear he didn’t know the language whatsoever.

Master Depa’s expression flattened into her usual serene mask. “Initiate Cillmam’n, you believe you would be a better padawan for Knight Kenobi than Padawan Skywalker is?”

The nearby Temple Guard shifted their attention, in unvoiced warning.

Telloti puffed himself up. “I could destroy Sith.”

Anakin had only gotten a few glimpses of the tattooed Zabrak who’d killed Qui-Gon, but it was enough for those memories to nip now. Breathe, he reminded himself.

Another classmate (Jax?) snorted. “You can’t even beat our age cohort.”

“I don’t mean now. I mean with training—”

“If you think being a Jedi is about destroying anyone,” Master Depa said simply, “you aren’t going to get the training you want.”

“You’d know,” Anakin muttered in Huttese, and he was pretty sure she intentionally projected her amusement so he’d feel it.

Telloti’s attempt to shove Anakin was intercepted by a hand on his wrist. He blinked up at Master Depa as the Temple Guard stopped short before entering the room.

Anakin blurted, “Hees youngee. [He’s young. (Huttese)] ”

“See?!” Telloti demanded. “He’s—”

“Talking to me, not insulting you,” Master Depa cut in, then continued to Anakin: “Please alert Obi-Wan that I’ll be a few minutes late. I need to have a word with a crèchemaster.”

Anakin followed Darra out, ducking around the Temple Guard who was keeping a careful eye on Master Depa but his classmates probably thought was watching Telloti. The usual training salle he and Darra worked in was for padawans, not initiates, and they swung by a cafeteria on the way for a few pastries to snack on.

“Hope you don’t mind that I brought Master Depa to see that,” Darra said, while they licked sticky cinnamon from their fingers. “Telloti needs someone to talk to him about his attitude, or he’ll age out and end up like Sing.”

An anxious I can take care of myself! nipped, and Anakin firmly reminded himself that getting help and explanations was okay. He still sighed at himself, annoyed that the feeling still bothered him, but at least it was getting quieter. “Sing?”

“She used to be a padawan, but now she’s really mad and hunts Jedi for some reason. And Master Billaba’s great at what Telloti actually wants to learn, so…”

Anakin misstepped, whipping around to stare at her. How did she know that?!

Darra cast him an amused smile. “I once overheard a healer thanking the Force that Master Billaba had enough sense to stop participating in tournaments before she killed someone. I looked up the records, and her last tournament was as a junior padawan.”

Pit sickness was horrible, and it had turned out to have particularly dangerous consequences in Master Depa.

“My master says that her own reputation with a lightsaber is only because of tournaments. There are a lot of better duelists who don’t participate in those at all, and of course the best ones don’t show their true skill levels in public.”

That sounded weird, since Jedi didn’t have owners seeking to drain them dry, but it probably came from some freeborn things Anakin hadn’t learned yet. Or maybe those Jedi weren’t Free? There was some stuff about Jedi that kept confusing him about if they were really Free or just chain-blind, or if maybe it was just some of them who weren’t Free…

It made him uncomfortable, but he was pretty sure he was pretty much Free. He couldn’t visit Mom, no, but that was because he was a kid, not because he was a Jedi. Sabé and the Naberries were making sure Mom had regular visitors, watching for opportunities to get her Free, too.

He and Darra washed their hands in the fresher by the salle, then entered to find Obi-Wan setting out the water bottles and towels.

“Hey, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, since his master had asked to be called that since he’d learned enough Huttese to understand the connotations of ‘lorda’, although that wasn’t the same thing as the Basic ‘master’ at all. “Master Depa said she’ll be a bit late because she has to talk to somebody.”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “Talk or ‘talk’?”

Darra perked up, curious.

“Talk,” Anakin clarified in Huttese, using the verb that didn’t also mean ‘threaten’.

“One of his classmates has been bullying him,” Darra tattled. “Master Depa wanted to have a word with his crèchemaster.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Anakin explained. “It’s not like he’s trying to kill me or anything.”

From the look that passed between Obi-Wan and Darra, that attitude was a holdover from Tatooine. Anakin bit his lip.

“Even so,” Obi-Wan said carefully, “I would prefer to know these things, please.”

“Sorry.” Anakin tried to smile, but discomfort writhed in his gut. “I really don’t understand why it matters, though.”

The door opened behind them, and Master Depa said absently, “You don’t know how far he might escalate as he gets more desperate, and you don’t know what he does to other targets.”

Oh.

“That made sense to you?” Darra asked, frowning. “Master Depa’s explanation?”

“Well, yeah. Just because he isn’t trying to kill me now doesn’t mean he never will, or that he’s not trying to hurt someone else.”

“I got that, it’s just…” Darra side-eyed Master Depa. “Isn’t thinking in terms of threat potential a trauma response?”

“It can be,” Master Depa answered, Force-calling a water bottle. She took a few sips. “It’s also standard procedures in some specialties.”

“Yeah, but…” Darra bit her lip. “Anakin doesn’t have a specialty.”

Master Depa paused mid-sip of water, then just continued finishing her water bottle, expression bland.

Darra winced. “Sorry, Anakin. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s just…” She chewed her lip. “Never mind.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Anakin stared in confusion at Obi-Wan. “You didn’t tell her?”

“It’s for you decide who you’d like to tell.”

“Oh.” Anakin had figured the others his age just didn’t understand his background. But them not even knowing did explain a lot of the grumbling about him getting special treatment. Because yeah, he was, but there was reason for it, and it wasn’t the ‘Chosen One’ thing.

(Since there had been a version of him that turned Sith and murdered people, he was pretty sure the prophecy was either bantha poodoo or seriously misunderstood, anyway. But he was gonna look into that after he was caught up on his classes and understood Basic better.)

Anakin chewed his lip. People were already looking at him differently, and at least if they knew why he was different…well, that would show who just wanted to be a sleemo [jerk (Huttese)] , right? “I was a slave. Master Qui-Gon won me in a podrace and freed me.”

Darra blinked in surprise. “Oh. But then why…”

She slowly turned to stare at Master Depa.

Anakin hastily Force-grabbed a training saber and turned it on. “So let’s see how much I remember without you reminding me?”

Master Depa nonchalantly crushed her water bottle and tossed it into a trash receptacle across the room. “Good idea. Obi-Wan, why don’t you try that for soresu?”

The first time Taun We asked Jango Fett for resources on ways Humans could be useful even when ‘defective’, he’d figured it was her curiosity showing. The kaminiise [Kaminoan persons (Mando’a)] even culled their own children who didn’t fit their views of perfection or usefulness.

The second time, she asked specifically about polydactyly, and her relief when he provided resources demonstrating that any extra fingers and toes were simple to remove—and didn’t indicate any flaw in a genome—made him suspicious.

Perhaps Taun We had been looking for just this opportunity to meddle with the euthanasia her people engaged in so cavalierly. She’d danced close to being terminated, herself, with a strong possibility that she’d only been spared because the previous aide had needed a replacement. Kaminiise [Kaminoan persons (Mando’a)] were isolationist and secure in their own superiority, not intrigued by offworlders and willing to notice double standards or unfortunate side effects of their traditions.

But he would never risk exposing Taun We by asking, just as she never asked about his trips to get back—or lose—his bes’bev [Mandalorian flute that doubles as a weapon (Mando’a)] from their narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] .

(And if he stuffed his flute with flimsy mentioning specific persons or locations, the jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] was the one assuming that meant certain mission plans needed adjustment.)

Then came the day that Taun We burst into his rooms in clear distress. Her urgency probably would’ve confirmed his suspicion even if her blurted “How can blindness be useful for the Jedi?” hadn’t.

Boba whined, and Jango rocked him. “Aren’t ‘defects’ considered indictments on your people’s work?” he asked Taun We calmly, hoping to soothe her nerves before she slipped somewhere she shouldn’t. Her position as an aide who had to interact with offworlders gave her some protection, since no ‘proper’ kaminii [Kaminoan person (Mando’a)] wanted the job. But she could still be ‘recycled’ if viewed as more trouble than she was worth.

“The contract is for ‘perfect’ units. I need evidence for how the buyer defines ‘perfect’.”

Tachi had been clear that the Jedi definition would be far broader than the Kaminoan one, in the same conversation where she'd set them up with their jetyc [Jedi (adjective) (Mando’a)] narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] . He’d established the comm line, shared it and his encryption with Taun We. “Why are you coming to me about this?”

That twitch of her neck was agitation but helped herself to one of the kaminyc [Kaminoan (adjective) (Mando’a)] smoothies he kept in the fridge for her. “Your contact doesn’t know me.”

Their jetii [Jedi (Mando’a)] narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] would be fine with that. She had with his call, when they’d met.

She also had his bes’bev [Mandalorian flute that doubles as a weapon (Mando’a)] , at the moment, since she’d grabbed it from him while he picked up a bounty on Ord Mantell. He was pretty sure he’d cracked her jaw and at least one rib, and she’d left him with a concussion and a few dislocated fingers.

Comm calls could be intercepted. In-person contact would be safer. They’d have to actually have an in-person conversation for him to be able to record it, but wasn’t that why she kept stealing his flute and letting him steal it back? To make opportunities for that?

(He tried not to think much about how much fun he had whenever he sparred with Billaba. The jetii [Jedi (Mando’a)] didn’t need his dar’jetyc [Sith (adjective) (Mando’a)] owners picking that up from his mind. Her rank in her Order made her a target already.)

Boba whimpered a little again, and Jango sighed. He’d have to leave the boy with a nanny droid, again. At least Boba was young enough that he shouldn’t remember it, later. Since Taun We had gotten in trouble for watching him, leaving him with a sapient wasn’t an option without exposing him to the other clones.

All his ade [children (Mando’a)] would know about each other eventually, be aware of the chance that caused one to be recognized as a person while the others were property, but Jango would at least try to delay that until they were old enough to understand it wasn’t their faults.

The time it would take to get the answers Taun We needed would doubtless doom whoever was facing ‘decommissioning’ now, especially with how young they all were. The sunk costs were relatively low.

They probably couldn't save the current children being culled, but at least they could try to see others spared in the future. “I’ll find out.”

Chapter Text

Anxiety puffed into the Force. Depa wordlessly directed her sparring partner’s attention to the source: a classmate whose own partner had slipped into too aggressive, and he was more than large enough to hurt her badly.

Her partner immediately dropped out of position, calling for their instructor.

She herself slipped around the pairs of sparring classmates until she reached Taro and Quar. A quick grip, physics, and the Force put herself in Quar’s place before Taro’s blow landed on the other woman’s face.

Depa had to redirect his fist with her forearm at a suboptimal angle, though. Her ulna twinged with a microfracture that she’d have to support with the Force for now and heal tonight. “Out of bounds, Taro.”

He sneered at her. “As if you’d last a minute in a real fight.”

“Taro!” snapped their instructor, an Anomid who’d hailed from Jedha, once upon a time. Their lavender skin, six-fingered hands, and fin-like ears made many assume the metal vocalizer mask was a breathing apparatus, despite how detailed the masks often were, telling the story of their social status, clan affiliation, occupation expertise….

Instructor Erabus’s mask was unusually simple, for their people, reminding her of Master Plo’s. But Plo was Kel Dor; on an Anomid, such simplicity admitted to orphaning, to being abandoned by their clan.

Depa looked to the instructor, letting her steady expression and nonchalant sidestep of Taro’s next blow offer to teach the out-of-line classmate another sort of lesson. She’d given proper disclosure for due consent before she’d even signed up for classes, so Instructor Erabus knew who she was.

Sar had taken lessons here in the Jedhan martial art of zama-shiwo, without telling Depa. Evidently Sar had been a good enough student that Instructor Erabus had taken her advice that Depa not be permitted to learn that one. She’d been understandably concerned about what Depa might dare risk if she developed further control over her autonomic nervous system.

But they also taught hijkata, the martial art used by the Senate Guard. It was a good fit for a Jedi Master who sipped tea with galactic politicians, so Depa had opted to accept that option, from an instructor with experience discreetly teaching a Jedi with mind talents, rather than the tae-jitsu instructor recommended by her own Undercity contact.

(Contact, dealer, same difference. Bal was the ethical sort—he sold drugs as a job, specifically for people who needed to self-medicate. If a client fell into harming others or pursuing thrills, he sent the name her way so they could get help or at least stopped, and he knew who to alert if Depa herself ever warranted such intervention.)

She casually redirected Taro’s kick with the Force-reinforced forearm, still meeting her instructor’s gaze.

Instructor Erabus frowned at her, glanced at Quar’s black eye—not from Taro, but he’d sure focused on her for it. Their jaw tightened, and they gave her a short nod. Permission to call Taro’s bluff that Depa wouldn’t last in a ‘real’ fight.

Their tone was also resigned. “Sixty seconds.”

“Make it an even hundred.” She casually tossed Instructor Erabus the vibroknife from her left boot. It was the only weapon of hers that didn’t go into their office safe, during lessons, and even allowing her that much was an intentional concession to the risk of a crime ring or something coming for her here.

Force-sensitives were valuable. It was a miracle from the Force that more of her Order weren’t intimately aware of that. People who put others’ safety above their own were outright easy for slavers to blackmail.

Instructor Erabus sighed but held her vibroknife firmly, while her classmates looked on in confusion as she adjusted her stance.

Taro scoffed and lunged, practically tripping himself with how simple he made it to hook his ankle.

“Are we sparring or fighting?” she prodded. “I could’ve killed you a few times, already.” More like a few dozen, but admitting that would’ve sounded hyperbolic.

Taro growled, jumping to his feet and sending his fists at her face.

“There we go. Black eyes do it for you, do they?” Without the restrictions of sticking to the martial art she was new to learning, Depa easily danced around his efforts.

Her classmates caught that this was a genuine fight—that their instructor was allowing it—and reacted with varying degrees of astonishment, shock, fear, and discomfort that she let wash past her in the Force.

Granted, most fights were easy for her. It was unavoidable, since she couldn’t help but overhear others’ instincts and intentions. That was doubtless why she enjoyed sparring with Jango so much: The beskar muddied what she could pick up from him, and he had the experience and expertise to override instincts and surprise her.

Taro viewed her choice to dodge as cowardly, weak, terrible practice. His mistake. That dance gave her plenty of time to confirm some of his patterns, weaknesses, gaps…

She was intending to illustrate a mistake on Taro’s part, not encourage him to (try to) stalk and murder her, so she let him land a hit on one thigh. Her femur could take the impact without Force enhancement of the bone.

At ninety-five seconds in, she snapped a heel into his ribs, grabbed his shoulders to plow his forehead into her knee then shove him to the mat. She held herself back from riding him down—that could send a damaged rib into a lung or the heart—but she did follow him to the mat, to pin his wrists and kneel on his diaphragm. “We’re done.”

His reddened face gained a purplish tint, advertising the fury and indignation storming in him. Maybe she should’ve taken a few more hits?

He spat at her face. Well, tried to. The spittle mostly dribbled down his chin in a remarkably pathetic example of ineffectiveness.

Maybe most beings didn’t have spitting contests as children to practice fine control of the Force, but… “What are you, three?”

“Billa,” Instructor Erabus cut in.

She obeyed the unspoken command to get off Taro, accepted her vibroknife back, and belatedly realized she should’ve scrambled a bit for her balance. Her Jedi was showing.

Instructor Erabus helped Taro sit up but also held him there. “I recorded that attack on Billa. Stay away from Quar and don’t come back here, or Billa’s family will make you wish I’d called CSF.”

That was so very well played. She casually added, “Coruscant Security Forces would get what was left, of course.”

The discomfort and distress of her classmates reminded her why she usually refrained from making jokes.

Instructor Erabus shoved Taro out the door, then returned and gave her a hard look. “Do I need to worry about you hunting him?”

Depa hadn’t realized Sar had warned him that much, but it was a good choice for everyone’s safety. What response would actually reassure him?

Her private comm buzzed with an incoming alert: the Slave I had docked on Coruscant.

(She’d set up the back door into the port authority’s alert system as a padawan, shortly before she was knighted. Someone would patch it one these days, surely? It would be ever so embarrassing for them if the ‘Congratulations on surviving a decade-long infection!’ auto-alert kicked in on their screens. It had been funny when she was… Okay, she still found it amusing, just wished she’d thought to put it in something other than formal, upper-class Basic.)

“Billa.” Instructor Erabus’s voice was heavy with a warning that they’d call Mace, if necessary.

They’d had allowed her here as she was, trusting she’d restrain her abilities while in the dojo. She wouldn’t repay that by making their life difficult, which disappearing Taro would certainly do.

“He’s not worth hunting.” She had far more important persons to pursue.

Considering Taro’s current emotional state, he might come after her, anyway, but that would be self-defense. No need to hide bodies from that.

There weren’t any bounties available that suited Jango’s general expertise, pay requirements, and need to get sufficient attention from the jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] so his narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] would hear about it, without risking himself or the ade [children (Mando’a)] .

He wracked his brain for alternatives and ultimately just went to Coruscant. He could ‘spin’ his visit as looking for some rare gear for his kit, and maybe he could even spy on the Temple a bit. His owners would like that.

The dar’jetii [Sith person (Mando’a)] who owned him might check his story, so he did actually browse various rare weapon shops in the Undercity that weren’t too far from the Jedi Temple, which cut further down into Coruscant than he’d expected. Jango considered seeing if he could follow the building down, but since it went as far as he could see down the closest level shaft even while he was in the Undercity, that seemed unwise.

A day passed, two, and he still wasn’t sure how to best get the attention of his narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] when he turned to spying on her home.

He could call her, but his gut tugged against that idea; the call itself would leave traces, and they needed to avoid that, when possible. Let the overlap between them placing and receiving calls seem coincidental.

Maybe he could waylay a jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] and send a letter? But communication that blatant could doubtless get her in trouble, too.

On the morning of his third day on Coruscant, he caught a whiff of horopito peppers. His stomach growled, and he followed the scent to a food cart beside a small street stall that sold Mandalorian spices, some of which he hadn’t tasted in years.

Jango approached the stall, taking advantage of how surrounding civilians parted for him, giving the armored bounty hunter space. He started choosing packets so he could take some flavors he missed back to Kamino with him, and the wariness in those around him eased a bit.

Despite the location so close to the jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] , the stallkeeper was Mando’ad [(a) Mandalorian person (Mando’a)] , themselves. They watched him with sharp eyes—they’d read his armor; they knew who he was—but didn’t comment past stating the total that he owed. He made up the credit chip to pay, started handing it over—

One WESTAR slipped from its holster before he could stop it. He grabbed for his second, dodged an attack that didn’t come as beings around him scattered.

His narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] had taken his weapon.

Fury at the violation blazed in his chest, made him snap “What do you want, jetii [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] ?” despite her lack of robes and the worn blaster on her hip, hair braided tightly against her head—betraying her trust as she just had his.

Her blaster’s handle had the subtle charcoal line of a ‘Git’, as GTs were called in the trade, and that specific indentation in the base was specific to the GT-560. Those didn’t have safeties or stun settings—a very n’jetyc [non-Jedi (adjective) (Mando’a)] choice, on her part.

But Billaba didn’t seem bothered by his outing her, despite her disguise. She nonchalantly plucked something from an inner pocket of her vest, held it out to him.

Held out her lightsaber.

And her expression, her relaxed shoulders…those were genuinely friendly, despite the insult and betrayal of taking his weapon in the first place.

This jetii [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] indicated his blaster that she held in her other hand. “Is this a WESTAR-39? I’ve never shot one of these.”

She was acting as if all she’d done was call out good-natured osik [shit (Mando’a)] about his combat skills, and…wasn't that what she'd actually done, just nonverbally? Ka’ra [stars; council of deceased leaders who watch over Mandalorians (Mando’a)] knew her tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] could overlook that others’ feelings and thoughts weren’t actually forms of communication.

(Labooda had apologized once she noticed, but she’d been unbothered by how he was hunting her tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] . She’d even helped him track Billaba down, because he’d fought her tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] before and had survived it.)

Abilities affected culture.

Cultural differences could cause a lot of miscommunications.

“It’s a thirty-eight,” Jango said slowly, carefully accepting the weapon that she’d offered him. He considered the cylinder with a narrow hand guard, didn’t know enough about jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] or kad’ause [lightsabers (Mando’a)] to understand what she wanted him to do with it.

“You can turn it on, if you like,” she said, still focused on his blaster. “It’s set to training mode.”

He forced himself to unclench his jaw and meet her casual tone. “These have training settings?”

“They can.” She frowned, popped the charge cartridge out of the blaster, eyed it. “Features depend on the builder’s wants, skills, time, resources available. You know how it goes.”

She squinted inside the handle of his blaster.

His blaster. Anger nipped. “Don’t take that again.”

She paused. “Oh.” After a final glance over the blaster, she put the cartridge back in with a brisk professionalism and returned it to him. “I apologize for any offense issued. A wire by the toggle is about to break.”

“Thank you.” Was that why she’d taken it to begin with, to alert him of the damage? He put it away, briefly considered how he’d adjust his various holsters to hinder Force-grabs in the future (and appreciated that she hadn’t done that in any of their fights, so they truly had been spars).

She didn’t even twitch towards the GT-560 on her hip.

Jango activated her kad’au [lightaber (Mando’a)] , testing her apparent disinterest in demanding her own main weapon back. The green blade hummed, pitch lower than what he’d heard before, on Galidraan. That helped him keep his tone level. “What does ‘training mode’ do?”

“Reduces the heat and cutting power.” She reached out and gripped the blade before he yanked it away.

The reek of burnt hair seared his nose, but she hadn’t even flinched. Me’haran? [What the hell? (Mando’a)]

She even opened her hand, showing a deep red burn that had to hurt. “It’s safer for practice, especially for the younglings.”

Me’ven? [What? Huh? (Mando’a)] “You let adike [children (Mando’a)] use these?”

“Small training versions that can’t be turned up, yes, basically as soon as we have enough coordination for it. Roughly equivalent to Human age three or four Standard, usually. One of my crèchemates didn’t get to start until he was seven, due to treatment-resistant palsy, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to be a knight. He’s in EduCorps, now, working with Undercity kids.”

She was sharing too much, wasn’t treating him as a narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] : a temporary ally, one who’d joined forces specifically to take out a mutual enemy. Did she view him as a tomad [ally (Mando’a)] , a full ally?

The dar’jetiise [Sith persons (Mando’a)] who owned him would want him to take advantage of this.

The man he was supposed to be, who hated jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] and wanted to destroy them, would take advantage of this.

He stared at her, willing her to please by the Ka’ra [stars; council of deceased leaders who watch over Mandalorians (Mando’a)] notice what she was doing and stop before she handed him something his owners could use to harm her people. His honor was stained enough.

She met his gaze as if she could see through his visor, gave a slow blink like a relaxed tooka. Turned away from him and chose a packet of black harakeke from the stall.

”That’s bitter,” he said. “If you want sweet, go for white or green.”

She shrugged, grabbed one of each type, addressed the stallkeeper. “How much does that make his order?”

He hissed, annoyed at her presumption, then froze as she swiftly paid the stallkeeper herself. She swept up his order and hers in separate bags, then turned back to him and offered his bag for her weapon. “Lunch?”

Jango accepted the trade, considering how easily she’d maneuvered so he would owe her a favor—and suggested a repayment that would give them opportunity to converse further, perhaps in private. “My buy’ce [helmet (Mando’a)] stays on in public.”

“And I’m not setting foot on your ship.” She scanned the street as she mulled on the situation, gaze ultimately falling on the food stall they stood beside. “How about you buy me lunch, and…”

Her expression froze, and she swallowed uncomfortably. Her caution with a known killer of jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] was a good thing, but Jango’s gut twisted anyway.

“Give me a restaurant. I’ll meet you there in an hour,” he heard himself say, even as his mind stumbled on I will?

Her dark gaze narrowed at him. She plucked a pen from a pocket, wrote something on his bag of spices. “See you then.”

Though he was going to need more than an hour to prepare, he watched the jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] blend back into the crowd with ease, swiftly dropping out of view, making all too clear that, when he hunted her for his flute, she was letting him find her.

Dinyc jetii. [ Insane Jedi. (Mando’a) ]

Depa avoided touching her lightsaber as she double-checked that it was secure in her vest. Odds were that Jango’s armor had prevented any impressions from being left on it, but there was a chance it hadn’t. She would use the Force to switch the crystals into a backup hilt when she got back to the Temple, set this one aside for Quin to check when he got back from Ryloth.

Finding Jango in the Undercity had been a gamble to begin with, of course, but it had been a few days since her alert macro pinged her about his ship’s arrival, and he usually was a lot more efficient when making a hit. It seemed reasonable to assume he was sticking around to seek her out.

And her gamble had paid off: he definitely wanted to chat, and now he would buy her lunch in the place of her choosing. Assuming he didn’t stand her up, but she doubted he would. He wanted something from her, something he didn't trust to comms.

Maybe she should look into getting a safe house of her own in the Undercity. Her discretionary income could easily be expanded with just a little gambling. If she mostly counted cards and was judicious about how much she earned from any particular casino, she could easily build up enough for a place without giving herself away as a Jedi.

The blaster on her belt got her an increasing number of wary glances as she entered CoCo Town, but open carry was perfectly legal on much of Coruscant. Coruscant Security Forces sometimes liked ‘forgetting’ or ‘overlooking’ that, though, so she made sure to seem distracted, not as if she were making note of the people bothered by her presence, to reduce the risk of someone calling it in.

That got a bit better as she neared Dex’s Diner, probably because anyone who frequented the place would be used to its clientèle. Even criminals with open warrants on them could eat there without getting reported, unless their crimes fell into the areas even Dex considered unethical. Trafficking was a major one he refused to tolerate.

Depa ducked a Wookie’s waving arm as she entered the diner, then clucked a greeting to Mariel. The Fosh waitress straightened her neck.

“I’ll need one of FLO’s specials today,” Depa said. “I can wait.”

Mariel fluffed her feathers, twisted to look behind her. “How long will you need it?”

Jango had said he’d join her in an hour, and it had only been a third of that. She doubted he’d be ready so quickly, though, and he’d need time for whyever he was bothering to chat, rather than just fight her for his bes’bev [Mandalorian flute that’s also a weapon (Mando’a)] back. Meal plus negotiation plus conversation plus buffer… “Four hours.”

Mariel nodded, went to check on the wait, returned quickly with “It’ll be a bit over an hour. I’ll buzz you.”

“Thanks.” Depa confirmed they had her comm number so she could receive the promised alert. She then stepped back out to find a bench so she could work on her data reader in the open, leaving others plenty of room to flee if she was attacked.

It wouldn’t do for anyone else to be in the way if her erstwhile classmate decided to actually act on his desire for revenge that he was stewing on. The stalking he was indulging in wasn’t a promising sign on that front.

She should’ve let Taro get a few more hits in.

Jango felt naked without his beskar’gam [armor (Mando’a)] , but his kute [bodysuit worn under armor (Mando’a)] —gray, for mourning the loved ones he’d lost—was made of armorweave and cut-resistant. The kute [bodysuit worn under armor (Mando’a)] could stay under the slacks and jacket he’d picked for his casual trip.

His helmet stayed on in public, yes—when he was wearing it to begin with. He preferred wearing his beskar’gam [armor (Mando’a)] —any true Mando’ad [Mandalorian person (Mando’a)] would—but sometimes it was best to go without. The impending lunch with his narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] was such a situation.

He still looked like a mercenary of some sort, just wasn’t drawing attention and broadcasting his identity with his beskar’gam [armor (Mando’a)] , and that was what he was going for.

What he’d chosen from his closet resembled what the jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] had worn at the market, he noted with some amusement, though he had significantly more weapons handy. He considered changing, but he was already late, and scouting out the restaurant would be adding enough time to that.

Dex’s Diner proved to be a small place in CoCo Town, with multiple exits—both built-in and able to be forced—and a remarkably eclectic collection of customers.

“Bantha burger for Senator Antilles!” called the sentient server, feathered and avian with a long thin neck. A Senate aide accepted it and hurried out, not showing any particular surprise or concern at Jango’s openly visible weaponry as he passed on his way out.

A waving hand caught Jango’s attention, in a corner by a window that he’d scanned as space-grade transparisteel—better quality than a diner like this warranted. Jango followed the hand to the jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] he was buying lunch for. She’d left plenty of room beside her for him to share her view of the door.

She was still in the slacks, tunic, and vest that she’d worn at the market. She’d also trusted him with her weapon, earlier, giving him opportunity to prove false as an ally. He could trust her to watch his back. Probably could.

He slid into the seat across from her. The test was worth the risk, and they’d blend in better, this way. Just a pair of colleagues having a meal break in the middle of work, or maybe after their shift.

An overweight Basilisk in an apron navigated through the customers, plopped a heaping plate of fried tubers on their table. “One saber special. You wanted all the sauces, FLO said?”

The jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] casually indicated Jango. “He’ll probably like at least one of the ones I don’t.”

“Ah! Well, tell FLO what you want, and I’ll have her bring it out to you.”

“Thanks, Dex.”

The Basilisk nodded, grabbing a blue shake from the serving droid behind him and setting it in front of Billaba. He waited for her to pick it up before asking, “Your family know who you’re seeing, right now?”

She froze midsip, swallowed carefully. “I’m working.”

“If you say so.” The Basilisk met Jango’s gaze, communicating without a word that her ‘family’ wouldn’t be the only dangers to his person if he mistreated her. “Jammer’s under the table, newbie.”

Jango smiled blandly, keeping it out of his eyes, although he appreciated that at least somebody was keeping an eye on her dubious self-preservation instincts. “I’ll take what she’s having.”

“Try it first,” she suggested, pushing her shake across the table.

Definitely wasn’t treating him like a narudar [temporary ally due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] .

He accepted her offer to sip it, though, and bitter and tart nipped his tongue. He grimaced.

She passed him her menu, too. “Take your time.”

The jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] was already on-track to spend a few hours on him today. He accepted the menu but pressed, “Don’t you have something better to do?“

She took back her shake, sipped. Her motions were smooth, fluid, as she palmed a datapad from her vest and placed it on the table. “If you need time, I can occupy myself.”

He frowned at that datapad, considering how readily she found him when he was hunting, how frequently she was available for him to hunt. “For someone of your position“—on the high council of her Order—“you have a very flexible schedule.”

Her dark eyes bore into him for the space of several breaths, through the serving droid dropping a tray of dipping sauces for the tubers she’d gotten as an appetizer.

She then frowned, plucked a tuber from the large bowl, and dipped it in a thick golden brown sauce. “My colleagues respect my propensity to migraines.”

Useful excuse. “Do you get migraines?”

“Coruscant’s loud,” she said blandly.

Memory nipped of a jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] who’d absentmindedly responded to his thoughts—unintentionally; she’d apologized, but…that jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] was this one’s tat [biological sibling (Mando’a)] . “Your…talents leave you susceptible.”

She inclined her head in agreement as she ate another tuber. “It’s an oversimplification, of course.”

Of course. He waved over the serving droid, doubled the appetizer order, added caff, and chose the ‘flaming suns’ nerf burger, which looked as if it might have enough spice to suit his palate.

The jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] smiled faintly. “Make his the Mandalorian version, FLO.”

“Mandalorian, huh?” the serving droid asked. “Friend of Obi’s?”

“Something like that.” She ordered a ginger soup-and-salad combo for herself, then commented to Jango: “I assume you bought the peppers because you like them.”

“Fair call.” He picked up a tuber, eyed the sauces. The jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] ’s eyes glinted with amusement as he tentatively tried the green one that turned out to blend bitter and tart like her shake. He grimaced and pushed it towards her.

“Vor’e, [Thanks (Mando'a)] ” she said absently. That thank-you was too casual for narudar [temporary allies due to a shared enemy (Mando’a)] , but he let it slide. She was trying to be polite.

The serving droid—FLO, evidently—brought his caff and second order of tubers and sauces. “Anything else?”

He glanced at the jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] across from him, mirrored her shake of the head. “We’re good for now, thanks.”

“All right. Your meals will be about ten more minutes.”

“Thanks, FLO.” Billaba dug into the mountain of tubers, not commenting on the amount of food he’d ordered and was now consuming. He handed over sauces he didn’t care for. She nudged a few his way, too. Evidently neither of them cared for Corellian darling sauce.

The silence was…comfortable, surprisingly so, and it lingered through the food arriving, through him taking his first bite of spicy burger that included horopito peppers and…was that ne’tra gal [black ale (Mando’a)] —Mandalorian black ale—in the sauce? Aruetiise [outsiders; foreigners; traitors (Mando’a)] usually went for Mandallian narcolethe.

The almost-spicy sweet of the sauce balanced excellently with the green harakeke in the meat.

She smiled at his expression and focused on her own soup, a speckled orange and cream, with a simple salad beside it. “Thank you for the lunch.”

He swallowed, uneasiness gripping his stomach as he remembered the jammer under the table. He was here for a reason, and she’d handed him the perfect opportunity. He pulled out his personal scanner, double-checked what was active and in range.

Pit4 scramblers? The diner’s owner didn’t skimp. “Time for business, then.”

She shrugged as she took a bite of her salad, a cracker cube crunching under her teeth.

He’d thought about how to approach this, he knew he had, but the plan slipped from his memory for long enough that he continued eating as he sought to recover it.

It took him a few bites of burger. Ah, yes. That was what he’d planned. “I need to record this conversation.”

Billaba lifted her eyebrows but reached under the table, pulled up the jammer’s controller. She adjusted a few settings.

He confirmed she’d set it properly, then set his own recording device on the table. “You jetiise [Jedi persons (Mando’a)] get involved in warfare.”

“Unfortunately,” she said with an academic’s blandness that masked her personal experience. “Some Orders can opt out, but due to the specifics of the Coruscanti Order’s arrangement with the Republic, we don’t have that luxury as an organization, though we do allow individuals to do so when we can.”

When they could? Jango considered pursuing what sort of contexts could keep her Order from respecting individual members’ personal objections, but that would anger him and wasn’t why he was here, so he opted to stay on-task. “Right. But you sometimes purchase…products to assist you with such things.”

“Yes.” Billaba’s narrowed gaze made clear that Tachi hadn’t told her about the clones, despite trusting her to protect them when the situation blew up. That was more unnerving than reassuring, but it was also intriguing. Tachi trusted Billaba to protect them even without due warning or time to prepare, which meant this jetii [Jedi person (Mando’a)] had sufficient position and wits to be able to do so.

What exactly was her role in her Order? There had to be some special reason for her to be so trusted, something beyond her seat on the High Council. “When you place an order for perfect units, what does that ‘perfect’ mean to you?”

Billaba frowned. “That isn’t a term we would use in that context. It’s unreasonable.”

“But if the supplier insists on it, what would your Order expect as a result? Uniformity?”

The confusion was thick, now, and she wasn’t even pretending to poke at her food. “There’s nothing perfect about uniformity. Even from a strictly military standpoint, uniformity is imperfection, expecting an unrealistic ideal and sabotaging ability to handle the realities of combat. Medical supplies need sufficient variety to tackle various types of injuries. Astromech droids need sufficient variation to be able to work with different sorts of pilots.

“Even if you’re talking something like analytics droids, uniformity creates vulnerabilities due to echo chambers. Optimal function outright requires variation in structure, expertise, and overt functionality. Conformity only matters to the point of being able to function within whatever role someone or something has. One of our top information analysts of recent years was blind during her final years, and that handicap helped her notice and catch things others didn’t.”

Jango’s mind raced over her words, seeking loopholes that would need filled to give him a chance to save at least some of the so-called ‘defective’ children. “But your analyst had the same training as your other analysts.”

Billaba speared another bite of salad. “Hardly. My people have uniform education on core topics, to provide a consistent foundation, but past that, there’s a lot of variety in both experience and side interests. And we have centuries of results demonstrating that gives far more ’perfect’ results than some kind of enforced single-purpose track for specific expertise.

“For my Order, even in military contexts or situations where we have authority over others, perfection is in variability, not uniformity. A diabetic might notice food options that ‘incidentally’ harm one party, or a migraine sufferer might spot a shift in lighting that others don’t.”

Demanded acceptance of ‘defects’? That was better than Jango had dared hope for.

She eyed him, though, as she ate a bit more, obviously puzzling over why he’d sought her out for this conversation. She set down her fork. “It’s my own experience that fighting through a handicap itself produces specific nuances of expertise that require the handicap. Usually those nuances don’t matter, and sometimes they produce a disadvantage, but sometimes they’re a major advantage.

“‘Perfect’ ability to deal with what life dishes out requires such variety.”

Jango froze, memories of their fights filling his mind’s eye. “You’re handicapped?”

“My particular talents make it easy to get overwhelmed or otherwise distracted in intense situations. Learning to overcome that is extremely dangerous, and even when we survive that…the results can endanger everyone around us.”

When Jango met her on Tatooine, fighting for the first time, she’d casually kept the fight off passersby—except for some bruisers seeking a protection payment from someone, whom she’d casually thrashed even while fighting him.

“While learning to balance my talents with my training, I nearly killed people. My migraines themselves are ultimately side effects of what I do to myself to maintain my chosen balance. But in exchange, I am unusually capable of identifying hostile intent and in creating exits, when need be.”

Her words should have been a warning. Should.

“I’ll still kill you if you give me good reason,” she said outright, matter-of-factly. “But I have intentional conditioning to limit what I can consider good reason. Otherwise, either I’d be entirely averse to killing, or I’d be over-eager to prune people as if they’re weeds. My particular balance between the two extremes requires the handicap I’m starting with.”

That personal conditioning also being why she was tossing herself as a potential sacrifice in this recorded conversation with him…and her mental powers being why she was sharing this with him at all. She’d been following his emotions to expand on the details that brought him comfort, relief.

Jango kept his movements obvious as he turned off the recorder. “Your handicap also being why you’ve shared so much in areas I need to know.”

She easily met his gaze. “Your anger about Galidraan avoids false equivalence—it’s specific to the persons who screwed up, not targeting others who share traits with them.”

Tachi had enabled that. “Maybe,” he said, trusting she would catch the feelings that answered yes. “Tomade [allies (Mando’a)] ?”

“I’m sorry?”

So she didn’t know much Mando’a at all. “Allies?”

She did blink, then, and she slowly passed him his bes’bev [Mandalorian flute that’s also a weapon (Mando’a)] over the table. “Are we not already?”

Chapter Text

Eirtaé Frizmar

Eirtaé Frizmar’s head was spinning, but her words were staying steady as her feet couldn’t right now, even as her hands worked to get her luggage just so. “Remember, when she says Linká, she means Fé, and when she says Fé, she means Peli, and—”

Rabé grabbed Eirtaé’s arms, stopping her. “We know,” the older handmaiden said. “We’ve been here, remember? We’ll keep things running until you get back, and Sar will tell us if she picks up anything.”

Right. Jedi Watchman Sar Labooda had a very good reason to refuse any orders to leave Naboo, right now.

Eirtaé stared at Rabé. Should she alert the other handmaidens? The Jedi’s condition could affect the queen’s security, especially with the vomiting…

“Sabé’s helping her test some remedies for the morning sickness,” Rabé said more quietly, releasing the arms to untangle a bit of Eirtaé’s blond hair from a luggage strap. “And the queen’s family has an apothecary who Sar’s going to ask for help if they can’t find something on their own. She’ll be okay.”

So they’d noticed, too. Thank the Force. “Has she said anything about who or how? I mean…” Eirtaé glanced around, but nobody else was in earshot, not in her bedroom, with a scrambler active. She still lowered her volume further. “Jedi don’t get pregnant.”

“Yeah, uh… Yané overheard a comm call about that. Sar told some guy he was the father. He was really upset about it—not at her, but at himself for not realizing she didn’t have a birth control implant and so they’d needed to have that conversation. Something about her being a Temple Jedi, not a field Jedi.”

That sounded like an important distinction, maybe even why Watchman Labooda had orchestrated her position by showing up and asking the available primary handmaidens to request her.

And her lover knew her well enough that he didn’t take offense at her not thinking to initiate the birth control conversation, so— “The father’s a Jedi, too?”

“Yané thinks so, and she said he sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He started planning to help Sar out, sounded as if he’d sacrifice some things. But she refused, said she’d only called him because she didn’t want to do to him what his mother had done to his father—and this is where it really got weird.”

Eirtaé blinked. “The Jedi Watchman who’s keeping an eye on our Force-sensitive queen is pregnant, by a Jedi friend of hers, and that’s not the weird part?”

“No! She said she’d alert his brother…and she called Ruwee Naberrie.”

She stared at Rabé.

Rabé was dark-haired and dark-eyed like the rest of the official, non-honorary handmaidens, but her skin had a slightly darker tone than the others’. That made her far significantly likely to be targeted by assassins—unlike Sabé, the primary decoy, and Yané, who despite being the youngest handmaiden had volunteered to share Sabé’s particularly dangerous role as soon as she could.

Yané also persistently volunteered to play decoy for the most dangerous assignments, as if she were trying to die. Eirtaé had the impression that nobody else had noticed that yet. Maybe Labooda?

“Yeah,” Rabé said, answering that yes, Watchman Labooda had gotten pregnant by the queen’s uncle. “So if the queen has a Jedi uncle, who was fathered by a Jedi, and the brothers have the same father—”

“Then her grandfather was a Jedi,” Eirtaé finished. No wonder so many of the Order were helping Padmé. “Better than a father that’s a Sith.”

“Huh?”

Cold washed over her skin. “Nothing. Just a–a bad joke. Very bad taste. From something I helped Vos with.” She forced a smile, wan though it was.

Rabé squinted at her, blatantly dubious. “Right.”

Eirtaé could get a few more millimeters of space in her bag if she adjusted the—

“Do you even have anything else to pack?” Rabé poked the luggage.

She looked around. Everything she’d set out to pack was in the luggage already. “Oh.”

“I’ll get my duffel—”

“No! It’s fine. I don’t need anything else. Thanks.” Eirtaé took a breath and sealed her bag.

Rabé was frowning at her. “Remember, the rules apply to you, too. With all the stress we’re under…”

“We need breaks, else we’ll break,” she said, paraphrasing Labooda, as strange as it felt to be agreeing with the watchman about mental healthcare. Not that Eirtaé had any idea about what she was going to do, for her week off.

Eirtaé’s personal comm unit buzzed. She glanced at the clock. “Thanks for the help, but you have a shift to ready for.”

Rabé nodded. “You be careful, and you call if you need anything.”

“I will.” She absentmindedly accepted the call as Rabé left.

“My dear,” said the Chancellor of the Republic.

She froze, ice wrapping around her bones. How did he get this comm number?

And how long had he had the number? Had he tapped it?

“I’m so glad I could catch you. I heard you were due some time off, and it just so happens I’ll be on Naboo this week! You must meet me for dinner. I insist.”

Eirtaé stared, skin so icy she had to have gone pale. At least the holo wouldn’t show it.

“I’m honored,” she managed, “but I’m afraid I won’t be on Naboo, myself. I have pre-existing plans.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll endeavor to contact you with more notice, next time, so we can be sure to match our schedules.”

She couldn’t bring herself to agree, though that would doubtless be the safest response. “Understood, Chancellor.”

She smacked off the comm, and her hands shook as she sought out Vos in her contact list. He didn’t pick up, but she left a message.

“I’m sorry, but in all the stress of getting ready to leave, I completely forgot where we’re meeting up. Call me?”

She ended the message, staring blankly into her mirror. She was pale, and she felt terrified, but somehow she just looked stunned. “Please,” she begged aloud. “Call me.”

“I’m sorry, but in all the stress of getting ready to leave, I completely forgot where we’re meeting up. Call me?”

Jedi Knight Quinlan Vos stared at his comm. His finger moved almost of its own volition towards the replay button.

His padawan, Aayla Secura, sauntered in to the cockpit. He curled his hand into a fist, hiding his comm.

“So Master Sinube wants an essay on…” She scanned him with her eyes and the Force, her Rutian blue lekku twitching with concern. “Master?”

“Start on it. A detour just came in.” He glanced at the navicomputer. Aayla would doubtless be upset at the delay—and the added liability—but Frizmar wasn’t stupid or suicidal and would’ve only invited herself to join him if absolutely necessary. Assuming the blonde was on Naboo…

“A detour?”

“Yeah. We’re picking someone up.” And on the way, he’d come up with some options for how he could justify the pickup in the paperwork.

Aayla Secura, Jedi Padawan, was pretty sure her master had lied to her again.

He’d said that Watchman Labooda requested that he bring Handmaiden Frizmar get some experience in a low-risk drug investigation, but Frizmar was an honorary bodyguard, not a security agent—and since when was security like this their purview, anyway? If Labooda had really wanted to get someone that sort of experience, she would’ve asked Knight Brannik or something.

Aayla and her master only had this mission because it involved her uncle, Pol Secura, in his position of clan chief. Okay, and because Brannik’s type of investigator worked so closely with Judicial that they couldn’t play nice with the underworld that Twi’lek families pretty much had to at least accommodate, to survive, because Ryloth was a hot mess due to the centuries of raids by slavers.

Her uncle greeted them warmly, with his lekku matching his effusive Twi’lek hospitality…except for little twitches, here and there, that revealed anxiety. Nervousness at seeing her again, maybe? He’d tried to keep her safe as a child…

Master Quinlan introduced Frizmar as ‘an associate’, and the blonde took in their surroundings with a sharpness in her blue-eyed gaze, one that made Aayla wonder what she was thinking beneath the professionally polite expression and carefully still shoulders.

Somewhere, the girl had learned to mask the normal Human tells, even though she was still the age of a junior padawan, a few years younger than Aayla. To be this adept with it, there had to be personal interest.

A personal interest in skills mostly useful for spies didn’t seem all that promising for an honorary bodyguard.

A wide window showed looked out over the Nightlands, a desolate waste of ice caused by the tidal locking of Ryloth. Thanks to the lack of planetary rotation, only a narrow band of the planet was viable, the rest of it split half into endless night and half into endless burning.

Frizmar paused, peering out at the darkness and ice, façade slipping enough to flash the jealousy that slipped into her aura.

…Jealousy?

Aayla sent a querying poke with the Force.

The girl cast a sharp glance at her, at her lightsaber, then back outside. She adjusted her cloak more firmly about her and continued down the hall. “The ice reminds me Ilum.”

Aayla froze.

Her master just lifted his eyebrows. “She’s been?”

“Once. Knight Unduli dropped in on Watchman Labooda, once, and it reminded her.” Frizmar grimaced.

Oh, they were talking about that possibly possessed-or-time-traveling queen that Frizmar worked for.

…Amidala had been to Ilum? The secret Jedi planet where they got their kyber crystals?

“Speaking of Labooda…” the blonde continued. “What in the galaxy does your Order do to its mind healers, Vos? She doesn’t even blink when there’s a blaster pointed at her face, just keeps munching on petals from the public gardens while she defuses the situation.”

…That was weird.

Her master laughed a little. “That’s just Sar.”

“You, ah, aren’t a Jedi, then?” Pol Secura asked Frizmar, then stammered “I–I didn’t realize Jedi associated with non-Jedi” while under the weight of the girl’s ice-blue eyes.

“They’re ‘associating’ with you.” Something sharp lurked beneath Frizmar’s mild tone. “And not all Force-sensitives are Jedi.”

Her uncle’s lekku twitched anxiously. “You, ah, are Force-sensitive, then?”

The pleasant smile that broke out on Frizmar’s face reminded Aayla of a pimp playing nice with authorities. “Perhaps.”

Pol Secura’s mien settled, and his emotions smoothened. “Oh good. Good. Your age and coloring would be attractive to slavers, you see, and my security was planned for visitors who could duly protect themselves.”

“The concern is appreciated,” Frizmar said easily, still with that disconcerting smile. “But I can look after myself.”

There was tension in Master Quinlan’s look at the blonde. He smoothened it out, but Aayla had caught the wariness. How could she help him if he wouldn’t tell her what was going on?

Secura’s frustration was too loud to drown out the confusion and hurt, but it helped Eirtaé’s nerves—and wasn’t that a sad commentary on what she was used to? It was so much easier to keep her equilibrium when she had hostility to cope with.

It admittedly helped that Secura’s emotional profile reminded her of Panaka’s. Eirtaé had been successfully managing him for over a year, now.

Even if Vos hadn’t warned her that tagging along on a Jedi mission was odd enough to feed rumors, Secura’s reaction would’ve made that clear. Vos had said Labooda covered for them, and Eirtaé could only hope it was in a way that wouldn’t make clear to the chancellor that she’d invented the trip to get away from him.

At least Labooda was aware the chancellor was probably a Sith and would try to be careful?

Maybe some of the slavers Pol Secura obviously collaborated with would show up and make things interesting enough to distract from the rest of it. As he’d said, her age and coloring were valuable, and her Force sensitivity would only increase the appeal.

“I assume your dietary habits are the same as Vos’s?” Pol Secura asked her directly, as if a genuinely concerned host.

Padawan Secura seemed fine with a Human-conventional diet, but Twi’leks did have sharp teeth, so perhaps they usually preferred their meat raw? “That would be a safe assumption.”

Pol Secura nodded and clapped his hands together before gesturing for them to precede him through the door. “Please enjoy my hospitality.”

That had the cadence of a formal saying that had been not quite stated correctly. Eirtaé thanked him anyway.

“So you have heard of that new drug, right?” Aayla asked her uncle outright as a servant poured tea. “What’s it called…”

“Glitteryll,” Frizmar supplied as she eyed her tea with an odd interest—one that Master Quinlan was discreetly paying attention to while he broke etiquette and didn’t pick up his.

Aayla frowned at the blonde. The drug name hadn’t been mentioned in the mission summary they’d given her.

Her focus never shifting from her tea, Frizmar took a sip. “Glitterstem, ryll… rockweed flower? Is that the binder?”

Master Quinlan froze his hand midreach for his own cup, as if it had taken him a second to process her words, but he’d been prepping that move from the moment he’d chosen to not pick it up to begin with, so he’d been waiting for the girl’s comment. “You mean there’s glitteryll in the tea?”

“Yes.” Frizmar kept sipping, expression bland. “There’s something else… I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

He gave the Naboo girl the same look that meant he was about to hogtie Aayla if she didn’t behave. “Stop drinking it.”

What was she doing with the Force? It wasn’t a purge…

“Frizmar,” Master Quinlan warned.

The girl smiled at Aayla’s uncle, showing teeth. “Death-lies-bleeding,” she said, setting her cup down. “That’s the last part.”

Okay, how the frip did she know how to identify such things by taste?

Frizmar glanced with amusement at Master Quinlan’s expression, which was carefully clear of the dismay that tinted the Force. “I find trees to be quite helpful.”

There wasn’t any particular emphasis on the trees, but the non sequitur itself was a hint that she’d somehow learned about poisons from Master T’ra Saa.

“W–wait,” her uncle cut in. “You can’t mean that’s in the tea?!”

“I outright said it is. Perhaps you should check your security for gaps where a saboteur might infiltrate.”

“There are no gaps!” her uncle insisted, anger covering fear.

“You sure about that?” Master Quinlan asked casually. “Because if you don’t have gaps, that means somebody in your household just tried to dose us with the same drug we’re here to investigate.”

Guilt spilled into the Force.

…Guilt?

Aayla froze, staring at her uncle. “You’re dealing it,” she said slowly, in realization. “Why did you just try to poison us?”

“I wasn’t poisoning you!” he snapped, “I was protecting you! You’re mine.”

Frizmar tapped her teacup. “I can see how you could consider them relatives under your authority, I suppose, but I wonder: What excuse were you planning to give for me?”

The Force flared around the young woman as she started to do something Aayla couldn’t identify before Master Quinlan smacked it aside with a sharp, “Frizmar!”

The handmaiden startled, head wobbling as she looked to Master Quinlan with some disorientation and surprise. “Do you want him to answer questions or not?”

“He doesn’t lose his rights just because he tried to poison us!”

…What had Frizmar been about to do, exactly?

And why was her master unsurprised by Frizmar’s attempt to do it?

«Not now, Padawan,» Quinlan sent to Aayla as he focused on her uncle. The Twi’lek’s hands were drifting towards a probable pocket comm. “You don’t want to do that.”

Please do not force a fight. Aayla loves you.

Pol Secura lifted his chin and glared at Quinlan, his lekku twitching angrily. “You Jedi—”

“They’re Jedi,” Frizmar cut in curtly. “I’m not.”

“The Jedi stole her from me!”

That was not an argument Quinlan had expected. The Twi’lek had sold Aayla to a Hutt shortly after getting custody of her as a toddler. Quinlan had inadvertently rescued her—the Force caused some really weird coincidences—and Pol had pretended that he’d sold his niece to protect her.

Aayla still hadn’t realized that excuse didn’t wash. She would eventually. Quinlan hoped that would be soon—he didn’t want to have to postpone her knighting.

Frizmar laughed, the sound cold and harsh. “Only things can be stolen, Secura, and people. Are. Not. Things.”

Her precise diction emphasized the sharpness in her voice, reminding him that she’d been eligible to be queen of her world, too, trained and everything.

“But I suppose that answers my question,” she continued, milder, “since I’d fetch a good price at auction.”

“And we didn’t take Aayla from you,” Quinlan reminded him. “You had already given custody away. The Jedi don’t steal children.”

The Jedi sometimes stole custody of children, like they’d basically done from the Hutt who had briefly owned her, but that was rare and usually temporary to protect a child from abusive guardians while the legal transfer of custody was processing.

“They stole you,” Secura snapped.

Oh. Oh. Kriff.

“What gave you that idea?” Aayla demanded.

“Good old Aunt Tinté,” Quinlan said, keeping his tone light—the better to distract his padawan from noticing what he wasn’t allowed to tell her: that his aunt was still hunting him. “She never did agree with my guardians’ decisions when I was a child, but she didn’t have the authority to stop them from giving me to the Jedi.”

Secura spluttered. “Didn’t have the authority? She’s the sheyf!”

“Now, yeah. Wasn’t then.” And never mind the issues with how a clan sheyf on Kiffu could, actually, prevent parents from willingly surrendering a child to the Order.

Anger flared in Frizmar again. That was understandable, and it was good that she felt safe enough to let herself feel it, but the temper was also concerning. She learned to use the Force by teaching herself from what she observed, and some of what she’d witnessed ran kriffing Dark.

Quinlan frowned. Most Jedi used mind tricks too cavalierly, in his book, but if Frizmar were inclined to do them anyway… There were relatively kind methods for them.

Sar was expressly forbidden to weave minds without direct orders from authorized parties, but she also only obeyed orders to the extent that she saw sufficient reason for them. It was possible she’d taught—

Frizmar shoved herself to her feet, jostling the table. “Well? Will you cooperate, or will you require your niece assist with your arrest?”

Secura stiffened. “I am the leader of Clan Secura—”

“And you just insisted there was no saboteur among your people, which means the glitterryl was in our tea at your behest. We’re here to investigate the glitterryl trade. You’re to be questioned in the very least.”

Relief twitched Aayla’s lekku at that ‘in the very least’, but Quinlan’s attention sharpened. Frizmar was offering to avoid reporting the attempted poisoning, but even if they didn’t, Secura providing information about the trade lines would bring the question of how he knew it in the first place.

“Have you recorded your conversations with the sheyf?” Frizmar asked.

Force, if Secura had hard evidence of Tinté lying outright to try to entrap him…Tholme and T’ra would make that be enough for a plea deal.

Frizmar was sharp. Aayla hadn’t noticed that. But then, Frizmar was persistently dealing with similar manipulation, herself, so it was easier for her to notice.

“Of course! I’m not an idiot!”

“Great,” Quinlan cut in unenthusiastically. (Wouldn’t do for the male to know how valuable his intel was.) “So you’re gonna share what you have, then?”

Secura grumbled but agreed.

He agreed.

Thank the Force.

Zora, a.k.a. Siri Tachi

Pacifists could understand violence just fine. Zora—who once had been Siri Tachi, Jedi—was grateful for that. She wasn’t sure she would’ve survived this long, otherwise.

A notorious T’surr slaver, Krayn, was the power behind much of the black market and even the Smuggler’s Moon, Nar Shadda, but nobody could prove it. So…that was her job: do whatever horrible things she had to, in order to join his organization and gain his trust, ideally into his inner circle.

All without giving so much as an inkling that she came from the Jedi Temple, because he killed everyone he suspected of even considering contacting the Order or Judicial.

After Zora’s carefully orchestrated fallout with her master that had proved far more real than she liked, she had needed help. She’d turned to the one person who she knew any witnesses would think hated the Jedi: Satine Kryze, duchess of Mandalore, who had singlehandedly hauled her people into pacifism to prevent them from self-destructing.

Satine had taken one look at her over holocall and insisted they meet in person. Zora had spent a few days helping the duchess mind her ‘nephew’ (without alerting the kid that he was, in fact, Force-sensitive) while listening to the woman tsk and grumble invectives at the idiots who’d set Zora up to fail. Apparently her ship had even had a tracker in it.

Thank the Force she’d contacted Satine, else Zora would’ve died in the first month. As it was, she was several months into living her persona that fit Krayn’s organization.

She was still on the periphery, just picking up associated contracts sometimes, and all she needed was a good hook to be noticed past being one of the thousands of smugglers based out of Nar Shadda.

Nar Shadda, where she was carefully refusing to stare at a Force-sensitive slave while she half listened to the ramble of the Koorivar who ran this bar.

The slave hadn’t come from one of the farms that definitely existed, though the Order hadn’t been able to figure out where. No, this boy was Order-trained, his battered shielding showing patterns taught to every initiate who grew up in the Temple, despite how thoroughly he’d lost his independence.

He wasn’t broken, she didn’t think. He still remembered he was a person and he didn’t deserve to be treated like this. But that root in his psyche, expecting others to choose to elevate themselves over him, was reminding Siri uncomfortably of Depa.

Or maybe the reminder was just the Force pinging her that this kid was Depa’s son?

(Why had nobody bothered to tell her that Depa had an Order-trained kid who’d been taken by slavers?)

(When and how had they gotten him, for that matter?)

Zora gathered those thoughts up and carefully locked them away, behind the partition-box she’d created for the things she couldn’t afford to process right now. The technique was dangerous—if the box collapsed, she could self-destruct or even end up catatonic—but she lacked better options. Satine had gifted her access to a safe house with orders to use it when she needed a breather, but Zora refused to lean on that.

As for why she and Satine knew each other, Zora locked that away, too, with her memories of little so-much-like-his-father Korkie. Again.

She stretched through her loose-limbed sprawl, wordlessly expressing how bored she was with the Koorivar’s chatter that was probably intended to suggest his cranial horn wasn’t the only big thing about him.

“With those hands?” she drawled, pulling herself up. “I asked if you had work for me, not if you wanted me on my back.”

“Work can be in the back.”

Yeah, he was mangling Basic on purpose. Probably thought himself clever.

She kept her bored expression, letting that warn him as she leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. “Everyone wants my backside. All I gotta do is pick.”

Zora let her gaze drift over the servers. The Jedi-trained boy was the only one who looked underage, and depending on why he was on the floor, he might be the only one who actually was. The Koorivar ran this establishment for a Hutt who had chosen to cater the more legitimate clientèle that most of its kind shunned. That legality was probably a front for a broader, shadier organization, but this bar was ostensibly ‘clean’, even by Republic standards.

The Jedi-trained boy wasn’t fully suppressed, either.

She narrowed her gaze at him. He was tending tables briskly, efficiently, with slight uses of the Force to keep glasses steady.

“He’s not available,” the Koorivar snapped.

She treated him to a flat glare. “You wish I wanted your merchandise.”

The boy stiffened, aura flickering, and almost dropped a tray.

She angled her body away before he could get a bead on who had noticed him. “What’s with that? Your place doesn’t do young.”

“One of the girls had a hard birth and he volunteered to cover her shift,” the Koorivar retorted, then blinked, apparently noticing how odd that was.

Zora had moments to salvage this before things got dangerous. “And you let him?”

The incredulity in her voice shoved the Koorivar into defensiveness, and he promptly invented justifications for his choice. “Look at him! He does great work, and he’s bait for the idiots who don’t belong here.”

“Bait? Is that what we’re calling ‘liability’, these days?”

The Koorivar jumped off into how the boy wasn’t a liability and was actually very useful as a server, so much so that he’d be kept on the schedule in the future.

Thank the Force it worked.

And if the job gave Zora more opportunity to snatch the boy from his owner…all the better.

Lifting the kid was depressingly easy.

Setting things up so Zora freeing the kid would look as if she’d just stolen him to resell for profit? That took a few weeks of careful work, and a little help from Satine to make sure she had alibis that both painted her as a hardass willing to betray an ally and ‘proved’ she wasn’t the one to steal the kid.

And in the end, she didn’t even steal him.

When Zora weaseled her way into the path of the Jedi-trained slave, he slipped out to approach her, presenting his collar for her to plug in her override that would deactivate the built-in bomb.

She did so, her head pounding with What if I weren’t a Jedi?

What if she were the profit-driven bitch who would sell her own mother?

The boy kept a slave’s careful poise as he followed her to her corvette, the first step in getting him back home and her more evidence of her presumed character. So the kid wasn’t stupid. Maybe he was padawan to a Sentinel or knew Siri for some other reason.

Zora. You’re Zora, right now.

She swept her corvette for spyware, swiped the empty caff boxes and food containers off the dining table, and directed him to sit.

He obeyed with an immediacy that felt to her like slave and padawan both, and that brought its own discomfort. She maintained control of that feeling as she worked at picking his collar open. It wouldn’t do to let her uneasiness slip into the Force where he could pick it up.

Tears were welling in the kid’s eyes.

“Too tight?” she asked briskly.

He shook his head—carefully, mindful her grip, but clearly.

She kept working, ignoring the tears. He’d been fortunate to end up with an owner who preferred positive reputation management (which of course made Siri wonder what that Hutt did under the table, since he went so overboard to keep investigators out of his business). But that didn’t change the harm caused by being property in the first place.

Finally she freed the boy’s neck and set the collar on the table.

He burst into sobs. “The Council sent you to rescue me!”

Siri—No, Zora—thanked the Force he was too distracted to notice that no, they hadn’t.

The boy cried himself dry, practically put himself to sleep, and Zora performed the preflight checks. It would be some hours in hyperspace to drop the kid off with Satine’s contact so he could get back to Coruscant, then she’d dawdle a bit on the way back. She needed her claim to have sold the boy to be believable, after all.

He’d murmured his name before sleeping, and Siri carefully accessed public records for Ferus Olin.

…What in the Force was the kid doing in AgriCorps?

Obi-Wan had ended up in AgriCorps, too, as a ploy by Yoda to get Qui-Gon to claim him. It had nearly failed.

Siri scowled. Like Obi-Wan, this kid didn’t belong in that branch of the Service Corps—and that was nothing against the agriculturalists. Ferus Olin had managed to manipulate his overseer into letting him cover for a waitress against business protocol while partially Force-suppressed. That was solid Sentinel material, maybe even Archivist.

And if he didn’t want that path, there were other service corps branches that would be far better fits for his talents—especially after he at least had enough padawan-level training to protect himself.

Maybe he’d wanted to go into AgriCorps? Force knew that Siri’s chosen field of expertise wasn’t the usual fit for her natural talent.

Considering he’d had enough experience with his talent to actually use it without getting himself killed, that struck Siri as highly unlikely.

She dug further into the records, which said he’d been adopted by a well-off family on Bellasa as a newborn, who had then given him to the Order as a toddler, a hair’s breadth from the standard cutoff age. They’d wanted to keep him, then, but decided they couldn’t support him as he needed with his Force talents, like her family had.

…Or maybe…

Siri hesitated, then dug into Holonet archives. It took a while to narrow possibilities and cross-reference databases, but she found the Bellasan news coverage of a mission to Voktunma that year. The story included an image of Master Windu and Depa, lacking their cloaks and faces fully visible to the holocam, with bruising on their skin and tears in their tunics.

It was weird, seeing them both so young and Depa without the Marks of Illumination, but something about she held herself… There was similarity, in this fifteen-year-old padawan and the boy Siri had just rescued. Had his parents noticed that?

Her gaze landed on a quote from Depa, a casual mention that she’d heard the kidnappers from a kilometer away. The article presumed it was hyperbole, but the parents of a Force-sensitive infant with mind talents might’ve realized it wasn’t. Might’ve seen this story and decided to give him up to people who would understand and help him in ways they couldn’t.

Siri hesitated, but she ultimately messaged Satine, asking for a favor: could she somehow find out why the Olins had chosen to give him up rather than keep him? Even if Ferus didn’t want a chance to become a knight, she could at least try to give him a support system that would notice and seek help for him if he wanted to leave the Order.

Her ship alerted her of an incoming call, far faster than she’d expected from Satine, and she absentmindedly accepted it and glanced at the holoimage that appeared.

That wasn’t Satine.

“Knight Tachi,” the cloaked figure said, sounding male and elderly—and Dark, her gut said, and the memory of cloning facilities filled her mind’s eye. “I’ve heard intriguing things about you.”

“Is that so?” Siri managed to answer blithely, flicking the switch to record the message. “Can’t say I’ve heard of you.”

“You haven’t told anyone you met my apprentice on Kamino.”

“Of course not,” she replied, acutely aware of the child sleeping in the bunk room who would be at risk if she mishandled this. “That would’ve been asking for you to kill me.”

She cut the call before he could demand anything, banking on the rudeness being interpreted as anger, as a propensity for Darkness and susceptibility to Falling. It in the very least fed the perception of her lacking loyalty to the Jedi, and that perception was probably what had spared her life so far.

She’d have to figure out a cover for Padmé, who’d played her padawan there.

She needed an excuse to abandon her mission, too. Her cover that had been blown as soon as her caller called her Knight Tachi. Even if she managed to infiltrate Krayn’s organization, she’d be at the mercy of the mystery caller.

The child in the bunk room needed a master. She’d planned to quietly offer him that, for him to be guaranteed training in the Temple whether or not she survived her mission. Sentinels were too few already and made sure orphaned padawans weren’t abandoned. Even Bant hadn’t been, though she’d quickly decided she wanted to be a healer, instead.

But…Siri needed an excuse to abandon her mission. A padawan could be an excuse.

Siri worried her upper lip with her teeth and dug further into the records of the boy who she hoped would be her padawan, for both their sakes.