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Chapter Text

An almost impenetrable darkness had settled over the Jedi Temple, as though the very architecture had exhaled and gone still. Though Coruscant below hummed with its eternal tempo – speeder lanes alive, towers blinking in sleepless rhythm – the uppermost reaches of the Temple defied the motion of the world beneath. It was a place deliberately untouched by time, or perhaps simply forgotten by it.

Even the temple guards – stationed, motionless, along the great hall – seemed more like statues than sentries. Whether in meditation or asleep with their eyes open, it was hard to tell. Nights like this blurred such distinctions.

Then, a disruption.

Soft footsteps. The tap of a wooden cane. Subtle, but unmistakable – the quiet intrusion of purpose. A small, hooded figure advanced through the main hall, moving slowly but with a sense of inevitability, like a line of prophecy walking itself out. Toward the far end of the corridor – and the elevators that climbed to the summit of the westernmost tower.

Just as the figure approached, the elevator doors hissed open without warning, casting a cold light into the corridor. Inside stood another hooded silhouette – taller, broader, and unmistakably less patient.

“Master Yoda,” came the greeting, spoken in a quiet but immovable tone. The speaker pulled back his hood, revealing a face half-lit by the sterile glow of the lift – Mace Windu, expression unreadable as always, though the slight, persistent twitch of his right index finger betrayed a fracture in the calm.

Yoda lifted his gaze. For a moment, the two Masters studied one another, their conversation beginning in silence.

“Long, have you been waiting for me?” Yoda finally asked as he stepped into the lift.

“No, not very long,” Mace replied, fingers dancing idly against the panel. “Though you'd have been here faster if you'd taken your hovering pod.”

Irritation, Yoda assessed internally. Mild, but concentrated.

“A good night, for a walk it is,” he said simply, and offered a low chuckle, though whether it was genuine or defensive even he wasn't entirely sure.

The elevator began its slow ascent, humming like a beast unsure of its own destination.

Moments later, the doors opened again with a hydraulic sigh, and the two Masters exited into a dark, high-ceilinged corridor. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Each step echoed faintly off the polished stone floor, accompanied by the occasional flicker of yellow city light slicing in through narrow, vertical windows. The outside world passed them by in brief glimpses – speeder lights, tower shadows, the buzzing pulse of a galaxy that was about to taste war once again – a stark contrast to the heavy stillness of the Temple itself.

Finally, they arrived at a single, unmarked door. A thin band of light leaked out from beneath it, like a secret trying not to escape. They paused. Windu looked to Yoda. Yoda looked back. No discussion followed. They had already agreed.

Mace veered toward a small security panel beside the door and placed his palm on it. A soft chime responded, and a moment later, the hush of voices slipped through the widening crack between the doors.

Inside was the Jedi Council chamber. Nearly every High Council member was present, and clustered among them were at least twenty other Masters of considerable rank. The room throbbed with layered conversations – fragments of debates, whispers of dissent, philosophical grievances rehashed for the fiftieth time.

No one noticed the two newcomers. Not at first.

It wasn’t until the doors sealed shut behind them with a sharp hiss – the kind that drew instinctive silence even in war rooms – that the ripple began. Heads turned. Voices dimmed. One by one, like uncertain dominoes, the Masters quieted each other down until all eyes fell upon the small, robed figure now standing at the threshold.

Yoda did not move to his seat. He stepped to the center instead. Slowly – purposefully – he reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a face neither angry nor fearful, but etched with something deeper: foreboding.

“Dark times have come,” he said simply.

A quiet murmur rose – soft, confused – like a wind brushing through tall grass.

“What do you mean exactly?” someone asked from the back, not confrontational, but not comforted either.

“A tragedy will happen,” Yoda continued, unmoved, “if we do not act swiftly. And if we don’t… the end of our order as we know it, it will be.”

Now the room began to swell again – the conversation turning stormy, overlapping, dense. And yet Yoda remained still, centered, like the eye of it.

“Tomorrow,” he said, raising his voice only slightly, “a new position among our order will be opened. Tonight, we shall vote on who will be chosen for it. May the Force guide us.”

That did it.

Whatever fragile calm had existed shattered in an instant.

Voices crashed together. Arms gestured wildly. Some Masters stood. A few paced. The word position seemed to ignite an unspoken anxiety. Something about the way he said it – vague, inevitable, loaded – suggested this was not a position one volunteered for.

And then:

“Master, what position are you talking about?” came a voice – nearly lost in the storm of sound, but just audible enough to register.

Master Ki-Adi Mundi stood. His face was blank, but his tone was weary. He didn’t raise his voice right away. He didn’t need to.

“You know exactly which,” he said, and sat back down.

Silence followed. Then, softer:

“You know exactly which.”

At the edge of the chamber, Master Windu exhaled through his nose. Something passed through the room – a ripple in the Force not unlike the drop of a stone into deep, still water. Subtle. Ominous.

The first votes were being cast.

Some in confusion.

Some in resignation.

A few in what could only be described as spiteful hope.

And above them all, the silence of a decision they would all pretend was necessary, as if to not burden their souls for the rest of their existence.

“A what?” asked a young padawan, barely fifteen. He wasn’t sure he had heard correctly what the Council had just told his Master.

“Be calm, Obi-Wan,” came a soft but deep voice. Master Qui-Gon turned his gaze toward his visibly shaken companion and placed his right hand on the boy’s shoulder. Kenobi immediately calmed and lowered his head, unable to meet the Council’s gaze.

Qui-Gon removed his hand and turned once again to Master Windu, speaking with his usual tranquility.

“Master Windu, could you please repeat what you’ve just announced to me? I want to make sure I understand it properly.”

“Yes. Yesterday, a decision was made. A unanimous one, I might add, that to ensure the survival of our order, you will be assigned to a new position. We’re not doing it with a light heart, I hope you know that. If we could–”

“Master Windu, please,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “I know such a decision couldn't be made easily, so please, let's keep it brief.”

“Of course,” Mace began again. “Let us get to the point, then. Master Qui-Gon Jinn, from now on you're no longer a Jedi Master. Starting today, you’re a Jedi Public Relations Representative, and your padawan will be your assistant.”

“I see,” Qui-Gon replied quietly, not moving a muscle, as if the Council’s decision had merely brushed across the surface of his awareness like a passing breeze. He looked toward Obi-Wan, who still avoided everyone’s gaze, clearly struggling to accept what he’d just heard.

Master Jinn stepped forward, hands folded in his sleeves, his gaze fixed as though pondering the meaning of press releases in a galaxy at war.

“The Force moves in curious ways. I had sensed a disturbance last night... I had hoped it was a planetary alignment. But now I understand,” he said finally, in a near-ceremonial tone. “If this is the will of the Council, I will obey.”

He paused, looking at Master Windu with a polite, almost unsettling calm.

“Though I must ask,” he added after a moment, “will I be expected to speak in slogans, or may I continue speaking in truths?”

The Council members looked around uneasily, as if hoping someone else would answer. No one did. Jinn inclined his head slightly and turned toward the exit.

“Obi-Wan, come. Apparently, we are to serve the Order... through carefully worded statements and ceremonial vagueness.”

Obi-Wan didn’t reply. He followed his master, still unsure whether this was all a dream or some elaborate test of patience.

“I will require a new robe,” Qui-Gon added as they reached the threshold. “One with deeper sleeves. They must sense that I mean every word… even if I don’t explain any of them.”

The silence after Qui-Gon’s exit was almost painfully loud. Obi-Wan closed the door behind them with a padawan’s typical delay, as if hoping to hear, “No, we were joking.” He didn’t.

Only the rustle of robes and moral disorientation remained in the chamber. Master Windu avoided the eyes of the others. Yoda stood still, his face somewhere between spiritual exhaustion and profound existential regret.

“Well…” Ki-Adi Mundi said first, breaking the silence like a blade. “That went… better than I expected.”

“He didn’t argue. That’s… something,” Plo Koon added uncertainly, shifting in his seat with a sound like sliding gravel.

“Didn’t argue?!” exclaimed Master Oppo Rancisis, surprisingly lively for someone made mostly of beard. “He compared our announcement to planetary alignment and demanded a robe with deeper sleeves!”

“Symbolism, perhaps,” offered Master Coleman Trebor, as if trying to rationalize the disaster. “Maybe he accepted his role on a metaphysical level.”

“Or he’s planning a silent rebellion through interpretive press statements,” muttered Windu, massaging his temples. “And honestly? I’m not sure we’re strong enough to stop it.”

At that moment, a soft “Hmmmm” came from Master Yoda. Everyone looked to him, hoping for the wisdom they so desperately needed. Instead, Yoda slowly nodded and said:

“We chose wisely, I think.”

“Wisely?” asked Master Shaak Ti, uncertain. “He asked if he should speak in slogans or truths. What do we even answer to that?”

“Nothing,” Windu replied dryly. “That’s the trick. If you answer, he wins. If you stay silent… he still wins, but you feel less humiliated.”

Silence fell again. Some Masters stared out the window. Others pretended to meditate. One of the younger guards stood motionless in the corner, his face silently screaming, “Please don’t make me be the one recording the press statements with him.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” Windu said softly, rising from his seat, “we must begin training him in how to hold a microphone without looking like he’s defusing a bomb.”

“May the Force be with us,” someone whispered from the back of the room.

Yoda closed his eyes.

“With us… it better be.”

The doors closed with a hiss. Only the echo of a new era of communicative chaos remained.

Dozens of floors below, the training room doors opened and then quietly shut behind two Jedi, both clearly perplexed. Silence spread across the room like spilled tea: slowly, unwanted, but inevitable.

Obi-Wan stood uncertainly, glancing around the empty hall as if expecting a banner to descend from the ceiling saying: “PR Bootcamp – Day 0.” Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. Not yet.

“Master...” he finally whispered, “you took the news... surprisingly well.”

“Of course,” Qui-Gon replied calmly, without turning to face him. He stood motionless, hands folded in his sleeves, staring at the wall as if seeking answers within it. “Change is part of life. Resistance only invites suffering. Acceptance... leads to peace.”

Acceptance leads to peace, he repeated in his mind.

Does it? – his inner voice immediately asked – Because right now, you’re two seconds away from throwing a training droid through that window.

Obi-Wan stepped a little closer but didn’t dare interrupt the silence. Qui-Gon still stared at the wall.

“I have dedicated my life to understanding the Force,” Master Jinn said at last, his voice still composed. “I have walked among the wisest of our Order, meditated in silence, listened to the Living Force speak through wind, water, and light…”

...and for what? – the thought crept in – So I can explain why Master Windu decided to blow up a perfectly good ship to holonet anchors?

“I always knew the path would be difficult,” he continued. “I just never expected it to involve... talking to journalists.”

Journalists. People who ask questions not to learn, but to quote you out of context and ask them again tomorrow.

The Sith are subtle. Journalists are relentless.

Obi-Wan looked at him, a hint of concern in his expression.

“Master, are you... sure you’re alright?”

“Perfectly,” Qui-Gon answered at once. “The Council has its reasons. The Force has its path. I am but a servant of both.”

...though lately I do wonder if the Gray Jedi weren’t onto something.

No council, no press briefings. Just… balance. And freedom. And maybe a nice cave on Alderaan.

“Perhaps this is an opportunity,” he said aloud, “to reach out beyond the walls of the temple. To connect with those we have long ignored.”

Or perhaps it’s a trap. A slow, bureaucratic assassination. Death by press credentials.

Obi-Wan straightened slightly, as if trying to give them both courage.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it... meaningful.”

Qui-Gon nodded slowly.

“Yes. Meaningful,” he repeated. “I shall speak truths that cannot be reduced to soundbites. And if they insist on questions... I will answer with questions.”

Yes. Confuse them into submission. That’s still technically communication.

Both fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a ship flew past. Its engines echoed faintly off the high training room walls.

“Master…?”

“Yes, Obi-Wan?”

“Are we... still Jedi?”

Qui-Gon looked at him for the first time since entering the hall. His face was calm. Almost. In his eyes flickered a spark of something hard to name. Weariness? Resignation? A deep longing to turn back time and simply become a farmer on Naboo?

“As long as we serve the Force,” he replied, “not the press.”

Obi-Wan nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

“Very well, Master.”

“Good. Now meditate. Tomorrow we begin... exposure training.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I will stand very still while you read me holonet headlines until I stop reacting.”

Obi-Wan sat down. He sighed. He was beginning to understand that this was going to be a longer journey than he had ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Morning had come – though on Coruscant, such a concept was more symbolic than literal. The planet’s eternal traffic ensured the sky remained in a perpetual glow of amber and white, as if the sun itself were stuck in bureaucracy.

Within the Jedi Temple, however, there was no mistaking the shift. Lights hummed slightly brighter, air systems sighed awake, and younglings could be heard somewhere in the distance, reciting meditative mantras with the sleepy cadence of beings who would much rather still be asleep.

Master Windu stood outside a tall, curved door on the eastern side of the Temple's residential wing, arms folded behind his back, posture as straight as ever. Next to him stood Master Ki-Adi Mundi, his brow furrowed in that particular way that meant he was either in deep thought or remembering he had once opposed this entire plan.

The silence between them had lasted a full minute and a half.

“Do you think he’s meditating?” Mundi asked at last, his voice low, uncertain.

“No,” Windu replied without hesitation. His tone was clipped. Definitive. “He doesn’t meditate this long unless he’s about to lecture someone about the living Force.”

Another pause.

“Perhaps he’s composing his first statement,” Mundi offered. “Something simple. Poetic. Probably filled with unnecessary metaphors about the Force.”

Windu glanced sideways, one eyebrow almost twitching.

“Poetic metaphors don’t take three hours.”

Mundi sighed. “Maybe he’s dressing. He did request deeper sleeves.”

“That doesn’t take three hours either,” Windu said flatly.

A moment passed in silence.

Then, without further comment, Windu stepped forward and pressed the door chime.

Nothing.

He pressed it again, this time holding it longer.

Still nothing.

Windu looked at the panel, then at Mundi.

“Override?” he asked.

Mundi hesitated, glanced discreetly down the corridor, then gave a slow nod. “It is... a matter of public security now.”

Windu placed his palm on the control pad. The door let out a reluctant beep, then hissed open.

Both Masters stepped inside.

And stopped.

The chamber was empty.

Perfectly cleaned, resoundingly silent, uneventfully empty.

The bed was untouched. The ceremonial outer robe was draped lazily over the edge of the meditation dais, as if abandoned mid-thought. The room was clean. Too clean. No sign of packing. No farewell note. Just a single datapad resting on the table, displaying what appeared to be a list of Coruscant-approved public venues for open-air discourse.

Windu blinked once.

Mundi blinked twice.

“He ran away,” Windu said at last.

Mundi furrowed his brow. “Perhaps he’s–”

“Don’t,” Windu cut in.

“I was going to say meditating somewhere else.”

“He ran away,” Windu repeated, more firmly this time.

Mundi stepped forward, peering around the room as though expecting to find a secret exit. “Maybe he left early to scout for optimal press angles?”

“This is a man,” Windu said, “who says cameras only see light, not truth. He’s not scouting.”

Ki-Adi picked up the datapad. “There’s a draft here,” he murmured.

“A draft?” Windu asked, already regretting it.

Mundi cleared his throat.

“The Jedi Order does not speak to rule. It speaks to remind. That which is forgotten must be remembered. That which is silent must be heard. That which is bureaucratic must be gently, but persistently ignored.”

Windu exhaled sharply. “He’s gone feral.”

“Philosophical,” Mundi corrected.

“Feral and philosophical,” Windu muttered. “That’s the most dangerous kind.”

The room fell silent again.

Then, slowly, Mundi walked toward the far window and peered out into the city’s hazy glow.

“You think he’s off-world?”

“No,” Windu replied. “If he left Coruscant, we’d feel it.”

“Then where–”

A soft chime interrupted him.

Both turned as the door slid open again, revealing a squat Temple service droid holding a steaming mug of something greenish.

“Delivery for Master Qui-Gon Jinn,” the droid announced cheerfully.

Windu narrowed his eyes. “He ordered tea?”

“Yes, sir,” said the droid. “Custom infusion. Roots and mosses. No sweeteners. Something called ‘clarity blend.’ Left instructions to deliver one brew to the Room of Stillness and another to personal quarters.”

Windu’s voice dropped a half-octave. “The Room of Stillness? That’s not a real room.”

“Oh, it is now,” chirped the droid. “He relabeled Meditation Chamber D-17 last night. Said the previous name was ‘overstated.’”

Mundi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shall we follow the tea?”

Windu was already walking. “Before he renames another room after a philosophical concept.”

Somewhere in the northern residential wing of the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan Kenobi was engaged in what could only be described as a silent crisis of identity.

He stood before the mirror in his small private chamber – back straight, brow furrowed, hands clasped behind him in the classic pose of someone who didn’t know what else to do with his hands. He had been staring at his own reflection for fifteen minutes, blinking only when forced to by biology.

His Jedi robe – still the standard padawan cut – suddenly looked... unserious. Childish, even. Certainly not like the kind of robe one wore as an assistant to the Jedi Order’s official Public Relations Representative.

He sighed.

Deeply.

Then again.

Then he turned to the neatly folded stack of garments laid out on his bed: one formal robe, one alternate tunic in “public-facing beige,” one sash he wasn’t sure was up to regulations, but looked administrative, and a belt that might hold a holocomm, a datapad, and possibly – if he packed tightly – some form of dignity.

“What even is a public relations assistant…” he muttered under his breath. “Do I bow before interviews? Stand beside him during statements? Block tough questions with a lightsaber? Will I even have a chance to use my sabre anymore?”

He sat down and began retying the same belt for the third time. It was now either too tight or not tight enough – impossible to tell, and increasingly less important by the second.

A small datapad blinked on the side table beside him, its screen displaying a basic glossary of PR terms Mace Windu had personally uploaded.

Press Release – An official Jedi statement meant to inform, clarify, or prevent further embarrassment.

Spokesbeing – A representative tasked with explaining things no one fully understands.

Damage Control – (1) Tactical suppression of media chaos. (2) Your new job.

Obi-Wan closed the datapad gently. Then reopened it. Then closed it again, slower this time, like it might explode.

He looked back toward the mirror. His reflection stared back, equal parts hopeful, horrified, and deeply aware that he did not sign up for this.

“If anyone asks me to smile on record,” he murmured, “I’m going to throw myself out the window and trust the Force to sort it out.”

A soft chime interrupted him.

He jolted upright and spun toward the door.

Another chime. Not the patient kind. The kind used by people who already know you’re inside and are prepared to make it your problem.

Obi-Wan rushed to the door and opened it.

Master Windu stood there.

Behind him, Master Ki-Adi Mundi, arms crossed, already mid-sigh.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Windu said, without preamble. “We’re going to find your master.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Is he... missing?”

Mundi responded first, in the tone of someone who was trying very hard not to assign blame. “He was not in his quarters. He appears to have relocated. Without telling us.”

“Without telling anyone,” Windu added. “Except, apparently, the janitorial droid who delivered him tea.”

Obi-Wan hesitated.

“That... does sound like him,” he admitted.

Windu nodded grimly. “Come with us. Apparently, he has renamed Meditation Chamber D-17 as something called ‘The Room of Stillness.’”

Obi-Wan didn’t move.

Mundi leaned slightly forward. “He left instructions. The tea must steep exactly eleven minutes or ‘it becomes prophetic rather than clarifying.’”

There was a pause.

Then Obi-Wan stood up straighter, fastened his sash with deeply performative professionalism, and followed them out into the corridor.

As they walked, Windu spoke again, mostly to himself.

“I’ve negotiated with Hutts, led battle mediations, and disarmed political coups on four systems.”

He shook his head.

“But I have never – never – felt more unequipped than I do trying to brief Qui-Gon Jinn on holonet protocols.”

From behind, Obi-Wan let out a soft, understanding sigh.

“Welcome to my world, Master.”

The Room of Stillness – formerly Meditation Chamber D-17 – had never looked better. Gone were the standard-issue cushions and muted temple banners. In their place: three unlit candles, a stack of hand-selected stones arranged in deliberately uneven harmony, and one very large mug holder positioned exactly one meter from the central sitting mat. Inside it, a once steaming brew of tea, now still and cold.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn sat cross-legged in the center of the room.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly calm.

Externally.

Internally, however, he was undergoing what could only be described as a full blown panic attack mixed with an existential crisis.

I could run.

The thought had arrived precisely eight minutes and seventeen seconds ago and refused to leave.

I could get up right now. Quietly. Leave the Temple. Take a transport. Tatooine. No one asks questions on Tatooine. People sell scrap and ride dewbacks. I could be one of them. I like sand now. I’ve decided. I love sand.

His breathing remained slow. Controlled.

Of course, I'd need a name. Something unassuming. Qun Gorn. No. Gor Quenn. No–

He blinked once.

Krag. Just Krag. Short. Honest. Krag sells metal and doesn’t have to explain war crime semantics to bored holonet anchors.

He shifted one toe slightly beneath the robe, the only detectable movement in twelve minutes.

No, wait. Krag runs a tea stand. Yes. Desert tea. Deep cups. No press.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine.

From the outside, he resembled a serene statue of philosophical discipline.

On the inside, his consciousness was pacing in frantic circles, interrogating the wall.

I am a Jedi Master. I have walked among Wookiee sages and communed with the Living Force. And now I am being asked to provide quotes. Possibly with branding guidelines.

He exhaled through his nose.

Maybe if I’m just still long enough, everyone will forget I exist.

Maybe I’ll become a legend. “He went into the Room of Stillness,” they’ll say. “And he never came out.”

At that precise moment, the door chime activated.

Once. Then again.

He did not move.

Another chime. Louder this time.

They’ve found me.

Stay still. Become one with the wall. You are the wall.

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss.

Footsteps. Three sets.

Qui-Gon did not flinch.

“...This is worse than I imagined,” Windu muttered.

“I think it’s... peaceful,” Mundi offered cautiously, stepping inside.

Obi-Wan stopped in the doorway, blinked twice, and whispered, “Oh no. He’s in that mode.”

The three entered slowly, approaching the perfectly still figure seated in the center of what now resembled a fusion between a meditation hall and an art installation curated by someone who had never once paid rent.

“Master Jinn,” Windu began, voice low and carefully diplomatic.

Qui-Gon said nothing.

Obi-Wan stepped slightly closer. “Master?”

Still nothing.

Windu crossed his arms. “Is he... awake?”

“I believe so,” said Mundi. “He just exudes... profound unresponsiveness.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “This is his defense mechanism. He does this when he’s overwhelmed. Or when someone asks him to speak at public ceremonies.”

Windu took a step forward. “Master Jinn, we need to speak with you about–”

At last, Qui-Gon opened his eyes. Slowly. Calmly. Like someone waking from a century of meditation with absolutely no trace of panic. His voice was soft. Steady.

“Yes. I sensed you would come.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, stunned.

Windu gave him a look. “When, exactly, did you sense that?”

Qui-Gon tilted his head slightly.

“Roughly eleven minutes after the tea began steeping.”

Mundi knelt beside him, voice gentle.

“Master, we wanted to prepare you for today’s responsibilities. There will be briefing materials, a communication schedule, a–”

Qui-Gon raised one hand.

“No need. I am prepared.”

Windu narrowed his eyes.

“You haven’t moved in thirty minutes.”

“I have moved internally,” Qui-Gon replied.

Obi-Wan muttered, “That’s what he said the last time he missed the transport to Malastare.”

Qui-Gon slowly reached for the tea mug and took a long, deliberate sip. Then, without changing tone:

“I have decided not to flee to Tatooine.”

Windu blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Qui-Gon continued, eyes still half-lidded, “that I am ready.”

Mundi turned to Windu, whispering, “Did he just say–”

“Yes,” Windu interrupted. “Yes, he did.”

Qui-Gon stood with almost unnatural grace, gathering his robes in one smooth motion.

“I will speak truths,” he said. “They will not be comfortable. But they will be... educational.”

Windu pinched the bridge of his nose.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Mundi just sighed.

And then, without another word, Qui-

Gon walked toward the door – calm, steady, as if he hadn’t spent the last half hour considering a life of fake names and sand-based beverages.

The three followed.

Behind them, the incense smoldered gently.

And the datapad still blinked softly with the title:

DRAFT – Jedi Messaging Strategy, v0.0001 – Theme: Cosmic Humility?