The Weaving Force: Interlude- Year 2 (Patreon)

Interlude 2: Year 2

Dolmen Bueler

Dolmen had always known this was a bad idea. It had been a stupid rumor when he heard it. It had been a pipe dream when he imagined it, and now with the slave collar beeping insistently around his neck, almost literally counting down the minutes he had left before it… exploded, Dolmen was realizing the true extent of his fuckup.

He shook his head, tears of fear and frustration springing from his eyes as he stood. “If I run back I can make it!”

“No!” Dolgus, his cousin, grabbed hold of him, shoving him back down into the seat. “No! It’s too late for that. You’ll never make it back in time, we have six minutes left!”

“HE’S NOT COMING!” Dolmen screamed at his cousin, grabbing hold of his wrists and trying to wrench himself free. “This whole fucking thing was just a trick! Some sick Hutt’s joke idea of weeding out the ‘rebellious’ sorts in their little fucking slavepens and WE fell for it! None of the other slaves who did this shit vanished because they got offworld, they vanished because they died!”

“Look at this!” Dolgus shouted to his face, brandishing the ankle monitor that would soon take off his whole leg from the knee down if something didn’t change. “We have SIX MINUTES. Six minutes will barely give you enough time to flag down a speeder, nevermind get halfway to Mos Eisley!”

“I AT LEAST HAVE A CHANCE!” he shoved his cousin off, the full force of his fury giving him enough strength to damn near launch his older, heavier fellow slave back almost five meters as he stumbled into the wall, rushing towards the basement door that would lead him up towards the street.

Then the door opened.

A man stood there, clad head to toe in bone white armor with strange odd length arrows over the helm at 90 degrees, one straight to the left, the other down. It reminded him of some Mando mercs he’d seen around town.

“Starting a party without me?” the man asked.

Dolmen felt his heart do something in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was anger, fear, desperation, disbelief, a mix of everything; or if perhaps his heart just decided that it was done and he would die now.

“Are you him!?” He found himself choking out. “Are you K-kronos?”

“That’s ~me~,” the man declared in a rather chipper tone, hands and fingers splayed out like a performer shouting “Ta-dah” as he stepped forward. “Lets see here. Oh. MK. V collar. Your owner must’ve hated you. Known for short circuits, a very painful way to go. Even Hutts don’t usually like it. Mainly because of the smell. Burnt wires mean burnt flesh.”

“Can you just g-get it the hell off!” He screamed. What the hell was wrong with this guy?

“Get it off? Nah.”

Dolmen’s heart officially stopped at that second.

Then the man pulled out a tool that made it start back up again in abject terror.

“Set it off-” he brandished the pulse discharger, ready to send his collar into an immediate detonation. “That I can do-”

Dolmen barely had time to scream, trying to pull away far too late before the pulse discharge went into his neck, a spasm of electricity sending bolts of absolute terror straight down his spine.

He didn’t even register the open handed slap across his fac-

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

His scream could have woken the dead, he grabbed at the iron of his collar, looking to rip it off-

Only his fingers touched the cloth of his clothes, nails scraping at the skin of his neck and chest as his wild, panicked breathing slowed marginally as his eyes darted this way and that way, hands still searching for the collar that should be there.

He looked down on himself. Clothes singed, particularly near his shoulders, burnt and blackened. The collar lay in blown out pieces by the sandy floor of the hovel.

“Wh-what?” He breathed into the still air, then turned, finding his cousin Dolgus sitting mutely by the stairwell, hands rubbing at his freed ankle.

Dolgus turned, looking at him, tears in his eyes. “Dunno… One second I’ve got the bomb on me, next I don’t!”

Dolmen breathed, panting, uncertain if he was dead, or caught in some vivid dream. This couldn’t be real.

The door opened.

Both he and his cousin damn near jumped out of their skins, leaping away from the entrance.

Kronos walked back in.

“Good, you’re both done with your makeup. Let’s go. Now. Or you test your luck staying on Tatooine without those slave collars.”

He didn’t spare them another word before turning and marching out.

He and Dolgus looked to each other for a single split second before both of them were scrambling after the strange armored man, damn near trapping each other in the doorway in their haste to follow.

“What did you do!?” Dolmen demanded, rushing up after the man.

“Questions later,” Kronos said, pointing to an open-bed speeder. He pulled free a comm unit from his belt. “Rugess- yeah. Get the ship started. On our way to you now. Ten, tops.”

He shut the comm down without waiting for a reply as he reached to the back of the flatbed. “Both of you, lie down. Don’t move, don’t even breathe too hard, please. He pulled free a tarp, and both Dolmen and Dolgus could tell where this was going. They lay down on the flatbed and allowed the tarp to be draped over them.

Dolmen lay next to his cousin as the speeder started up, their anxious fear making their breathing sound unnaturally loud in the confined space.

The ride was long. A window of eternity, really.

Then it lurched to a stop.

It stayed stopped.

Dolmen felt his heart pounding under his ribs, a whimper nearly escaping his throat.

Then he heard someone speaking in Huttese.

He’d heard enough Trandoshan mercs to recognize when one of them was outside.

They were so dead.

He looked at Dolgus. His cousin stared back at him in the gloom, eyes comically wide. Sweat dripped down his forehead, eyes, and off the tip of his nose.

He heard an answering, human voice speak what must’ve been the worst Huttese he’d ever heard in his life.

The Trandoshan growled.

A sudden blaster shot, a flare of red in the night, and both he and Dolgus jumped in fright as a Trandoshan scream cut through the black.

“Boring conversation anyway.”

The speeder started up again and this time took OFF, the acceleration sliding him along the flatbed. Dolmen determined that whatever cover they had was blown.

He shot up, sitting at the back of the flatbed as he turned in time to see the silhouette of a Trandoshan writhing in pain on the ground. At least one other was stuck inside of an armored truck, trying to kick his way out of an unbreaking windshield.

Ten minutes later he was on a ship, packed to bursting with almost three dozen other rescued slaves. Women. Children. Aliens. Everyone.

They were headed to Mandalore.

(X)(X)(X)

Kelleran Beq

Working with Padawans undergoing their trials was a… trial, at times.

Oh, certainly it could be, and was, rewarding more often than not. Children were innocent and pure in a way others weren’t. But that didn’t mean they didn’t have their faults. The word “brat” had been born somewhere, after all.

And yes, even children raised in the Temple could be bratty and cruel. It was natural for hierarchies to form, cliques to take shape. He’d more than once seen children ostracized for perceived deficiencies, or elevated amongst their peers due to the likelihood - or unlikelyhood - that they’d be accepted as Padawans or be promoted to Knights.

Obi-Wan had been one such example. The now-renowned “Sith Slayer” had been very close to being removed from the Temple outright, and in that final year, when Beq himself had still been a knight, he’d seen how many of Obi-Wan’s former “friends” turned on the boy like he’d been a leper.

The Masters, of course, tried to curb these things - and correct them where they could - but with well over three thousand younglings at any given time, half that number of prospective Padawans, and only two hundred or so Creche Masters dedicated full time to their watch… not everything could be caught.

The Knights and senior Padawans on the cusp of knighthood who were tasked with helping in Creche duty were oftentimes fearful of alienating some of their fellows, or just uncomfortable with the conflict in and of itself, and so would turn away and report it to the Masters. Because they would know best how to deal with it.

Except that it was always “late.” The damage was done, and their disciplinary words or even punishments were mere treatments, not cures.

He did not like it, but there wasn’t much he or any of the various Creche Masters could do to outright stop it.

At least, he’d thought so.

When Master Plo’s two… controversial Padawans, were added to the monthly roster cycling through creche duty, he and the other Creche Masters had been conflicted about it. Very conflicted, to say the absolute least.

The Padawans Dallon and Hebert were famous for vastly different reasons in the Temple.

Dallon lacked… etiquette. Any etiquette. All the etiquette.

She did not comport herself as a Jedi. And she seemed determined to try and make her… outgoing personality the “new norm”, as it were. Certainly, the younglings had a favorite amongst the Padawan volunteers.

Her first week had culminated with her and fifty younglings constructing a “pillow fortress” in the east wing and pelting any Knight, Padawan, or Creche Master that tried to extricate them with flying confectionery.

Master Oba-Dai had been fishing wrappers out of her hair for days afterwards.

It took Master Yoda’s direct intervention to get the children to give up their silly game. Though Beq had heard more than a few ridiculous rumors that the venerable Master had joined in on the game, and it had then taken Masters Yaddle, Dooku and Windu to bring an end to things.

Flatly absurd of course….

So, in short, Miss Dallon was… a nightmare. A favorite of the younglings to be sure, but the Creche Masters did their level best to keep her cycle away from the children for as long as possible.  She was absolute hell on discipline.

Then… Padawan Hebert.

Many, many people believed that she exemplified why one didn’t train individuals beyond a certain age. A manifest example of the Jedi’s greatest concerns and fears. Just waiting to fall once their backs were turned.

Beq would not say he necessarily shared certain Padawans’ and Knights’ pessimistic certainty… but he would say he harbored his own doubts regarding the girl’s… fitness.

The first time she arrived in the Creches for her duties, he himself had been her supervisor.

Despite the cold feeling in the Force that draped over her like an icy coffin, she’d acted professionally, speaking only in monosyllables and accepting his instructions as to what was expected of her here without comment or question.

And… it proceeded as normal.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

For about a week.

Or at least…

That’s how long it took him to notice the pattern.

Something would happen… something innocuous, innocent, or mundane. Something which would draw him away from whatever he’d been doing, thus placing him at the right place at the right time:

Little Pthumer would scream about a giant bug and come running to him, hysterical about it, and he’d go if only to stop her tears. As he arrived in time for the bug to fly away, he caught Dav  berating Lyto for thinking he would ever be a proper Jedi with how weak he was.

A maintenance droid would stop functioning, it would be reported to him and he’d go and collect it. And he’d find little Obara crying in the corner beside it, distraught over some others saying she was sold to the Jedi, not chosen, just like “all” Twi’leks from Ryloth.

A mild injury, like a scraped knee or scuffed chin, and he’d go to collect the child to take them to the infirmary, only to find the injured child tripped and fell while running from a crying youngling sitting amidst torn-up paper flowers.

Every single time… he would be present just in time to hear or see some kind of altercation between other students. Incidents of harassment, or children being cruel to another of their fellows.

No distant third party reports, no acting on the events long after the fact. But rather in the moment, catching the children red handed in their cruelty with indisputable evidence he could act on.

And always she would be there. Distant and shadowy like a wraith.

But he could always see her.

Slowly, inch by inch, incident by incident, his became the Creche with the least offenses reported… ever.

The children knew better.

“You’re good at this,” he’d commented once. Only once during a private moment towards the last day of one of her shifts.

She went still, her head turning ever so slightly in his direction.

He recalled hearing somewhere that she hadn’t spoken for years beforehand. Some claimed a vow of silence, others a self imposed punishment and others beyond that, some grave injury or horrid experience had stolen her voice. And even now, her words were rare things, given only to a select few.

Whatever the truth; it was a story for different, or perhaps even more worthy ears.

“With the children,” he nodded. “Not… like Miss Dallon. But in your own way,” he affirmed. “You’re good with them.”

She shook her head. “No.” Her voice, barely a whisper slipped from her lips. “I simply resent… inaction. Or worse. Indifference. ”

She stood then, collecting the last of her belongings from the small strongbox she’d sealed it in for the day.

“Thank you,” she finally said before turning to leave. “For being different.”

And that was that.

Other Masters would try to remove her name from their roster cycles.

Beq never would, and would perhaps trade her place on the roster with Miss Dallon’s… within reason of course.

(X)(X)(X)

Korkie Kryze:

At six cycles old, Korkie was often told by his tutors that he was a bright child. Observant and curious.

It didn’t take him very long to notice the Outworlders that had become a common sight in the palace. Mr. Dennis, Ms. Hannah, and Ms. Alexandria. Con--... consultants. That’s what Auntie Satine called them.

He liked the three; they made things… easier. Or, at least, he thought so. Aunt Satine had more time for things now. Not very much, but it was something.

Mr. Dennis or… ‘Clock’, he’d heard many of the newcomers calling him, brought others from offworld. Most became servants in the palace, or guards. But some brought their children and so, for the first time in a long while, Korkie had others to play with. That was nice.

Miss Hannah was always kind, even though, Korkie noted, she was also always armed. He’d once thought that only bad people and Royal Guards carried guns, but Miss Hannah was neither and yet she was nice. It was very confusing, but then again, the offworlders on the whole were confusing.

Miss Alexandria was… well… she was very beautiful, and smart. She was always serious, regardless of how much he or others might try to make her smile. She likely had a pretty smile.

Making his way towards Aunt Satine’s office for their afternoon walk, Korkie noted rather quickly the sound of raised voices emerging from the room. He slowed his steps, listening in on the discussion through the durasteel walls.

“So, what will you do?” That was Miss Alexandria’s voice. Cold and harsh like the midnight winds of the desert. “Send them all back into slavery? Politely ask the society of gang lords and criminals to lay down their guns because you’re a pacifist?”

He inched closer to the door, two of the Royal Guards catching sight of him before one of them –  Saxon, if Korkie wasn’t mistaken – held up his hand, silently asking him to stay back with a shake of his head.

Korkie obliged, but remained close enough to keep listening.

“You’re tossing fuel on these fires in a bid to make me compromise on my beliefs!” he heard Aunt Satine shout back, and he could only imagine the angry face she must’ve been making. He recognized that tone.

“I am the only thing deterring a Hutt mercenary fleet from walking in on this place, raiding your capital for their slaves and a few extra ones to boot.”

A Hutt fleet!? A raid? A raid was an attack right? But… why would the Hutts attack Mandalore!?

“Yes, and I wonder how you achieved that. It certainly had nothing to do with the reports of a certain Jakero the Hutt and his entire compound being destroyed by supposedly one woman.”

“I did not strike first. But I will defend myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure! Do you really think I’m this stupid, or are you just that arrogant?”

Korkie winced. He didn’t want Aunt Satine and Miss Alexandria to argue. But this was beginning to sound rather more serious than he’d ever heard from either of them before.

“This is reality, Satine,” Miss Alexandria’s voice dipped and Korkie wasn’t sure what the right word was for what he heard in her tone. “You live in a galaxy where the only players at the table are playing by their rules, not yours. And you do not have the power you need to change that. No matter how much you might wish otherwise.”

“I know what you think of me, Alexandria!” His aunt’s voice had grown cold. “I know that, on the best of days, your views on my notions of pacifism can charitably be called an amused indulgence. But they are the right thing to do! They are the right path forward and you and Dennis and Hannah, through your actions and my failure to restrain you, have been slowly, inch by inch, dragging me towards a conflict I never would have condoned or agreed to! Now it might be too late, and you damn well knew that!”

“Why are they fighting?” Korkie ventured to ask, looking up towards Saxon.

The Royal Guard turned his head, looking at him through the glass of his visor.

“People in power argue, young prince. It is the way of things.”

“But, they’re friends,” he protested.

“Friends argue, too. That is also the way of things,” Saxon answered with a shrug.

“You need to decide what principle matters to you more. Your so-called pacifism, or your ambition to turn Mandalore into an example and safe haven for others to look and reach towards.”

“They are not mutually exclusive!” his aunt screamed.

But Miss Alexandria didn’t seem to care.“They are-” she answered blithely, “-and until you have the power to change that they always will be!”

A silence fell over the two of them, and Korkie wondered if the fight was over.

Then, Miss Alexandria spoke again.  “If you do not expand the military to at least a Mandalorian surface defense force, the Hutts will eventually come for their slaves. We’ve taken too many, and hit them too openly for them not to.”

“We’re members of the Republic,” Aunt Satine protested.

“The Republic does. Not. Care. About the Outer Rim. You know this. Even if you’d rather not admit it.” What!? That… That wasn’t true!

“And I suppose your advice over the last several years leading to more and more autonomy has just been a happy coincidence then?”

Another, longer silence.

“Leave me, Alexandria. Go, before I do something I regret.”

Korkie heard the footsteps approaching the door, freezing beside Saxon as the Royal Guard subtly stepped aside just a bit as the doors hissed open. Alexandria marched into the hallway, and the door hissed shut behind her.

Dressed in a Mandalorian diplomat’s robe of black and gold, the woman’s pretty features barely twitched in more than the faintest surprise as she spotted him there, next to Saxon.

“Young prince,” she greeted.

Remembering his manners, Korkie bowed. “Lady Alexandria.”

She offered a faint bow in return before turning. “Wait here for a minute, young prince,” she advised. “The temperature needs a bit of time to cool in there before I think you would be comfortable.”

She began to march away.

“You’re not leaving, a-are you?”  his words tumbled free of his lips, a jumbled mess spilling into the air as Miss Alexandria paused, turning her head to look at him.

Korkie felt heat creeping up his cheeks, embarrassment making him turn his head down as he tried to explain.

“W-when people fight, sometimes they leave. You’re not… are you?”

For a second, she said nothing.

Then Korkie felt fingers, hard like steel bands, dipping beneath his chin to lift his eyes up.

Miss Alexandria’s brown eyes stared straight into his own.

“You’re a prince,” she reminded him. “You avert your eyes from no one.”

He nodded… or tried to. Her fingers didn’t let him move much. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she answered. Then placed her hand on his shoulder before pushing him towards the door. “Now, go. See your aunt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was only as the door opened and he caught sight of Auntie Satine that he realized: Miss Alexandria never answered his question.

(X)(X)(X)

Nahdar Vebb

Lightsaber training was part of every Jedi’s training. At least once per standard week, a gathering took place with Master Cin Drallig where all Padawans, Knights, and even some Masters gathered around to practice against each other.

He understood why, of course. To simply practice over and over and over again with just your Master meant that soon one’s skills would stagnate and degrade.

It didn’t make the thought of… performing in front of all these people any less harrowing, though.

Especially with a crowd of this size. A rumor had gotten out that Master Dooku would be fighting Master Windu today, which, judging by the two Masters quietly conversing among the seats, seemed likely to be true. But still… there were so many spectators, now.

“Be calm, Padawan.” Master Fisto’s hand was on Vebb’s shoulder, smiling in that calm, easy way of his. “It’s just practice.”

“I know, Master,” Vebb answered with a nod.

There was a bit of a stir along the northern side of the crowd as Masters Plo, Yaddle, and Gallia entered. Following closely behind them were Padawans Dallon and… ahh… Hebert.

He could sense the ripple of emotion across the crowd. Too varied to really put a definitive name to the consensus. Some joy, some nervous fear, some surprise and even some indifference.

Below the mezzanine, Master Drallig marched onto the central arena.

“Thank you all for being here today,” the Master smiled. ”We will begin with the Padawans. Your matches will be chosen by random draw. Knights will similarly be chosen. The Masters, as per usual, have already pre-chosen their opponents. Without further ado, we will begin.”

As per usual, it was both training and spectacle in equal measure.

Aayla Secura, a prodigy with dual blades, fought Olana Chion, defeating her fellow Padawan handily. Cyruss Okent fought Keer Stenwyt, and Ferus Olin crossed blades with Wen-Hurd.

All excellent and exciting bouts.

Then the first of the Knights were called.

A ripple moved through the crowd in anticipation as Obi-Wan Kenobi’s name rang true and loudly across the arena, and Vebb saw Dooku’s conversation with Windu taper off as he turned his full attention towards the arena grounds to watch.

Knight Vos sauntered up to the fighting ground, smiling at Obi-Wan who smiled back, like two old friends relishing the opportunity to cross swords again.

The crowd murmured excitedly, pleased at the opportunity to see the “Sith Slayer” fighting once more. Especially after training with a renowned master like Dooku and his famous lightsaber skills.

The bout… was equal parts a testament to Obi-Wan’s skill, and incredibly disappointing.

Vos engaged first, and Obi-Wan seemed more than ready to play defense when suddenly, with a fluid shift in his stance during the third exchange of blade meeting blade, his whole form… transformed. Altering from the Shien stance into what Vebb distantly recognized as the Makashi lightsaber form, sweeping sword strikes replaced with deft wristwork and nimble foot movements and weight distribution.

The first thrust caught Knight Vos in the shoulder, the sting making his whole arm curl up, leaving him vulnerable to the follow up slash to his thigh.

Knight Vos fell onto one knee, and that was that.

It was over in less than a minute.

Knight Kenobi shut off his blade, moving to help Knight Vos. His longtime friend groaned in pain, hissing something that made Obi-Wan bark a laugh as he carried his sparring partner towards the medical droids.

“He’s learned much from Master Dooku, it seems,” Master Fisto mumbled quietly beside Vebb.

“Master Dooku is famous for using Makashi, yes?”

“Indeed. But only Makashi,” Fisto nodded. “Obi-Wan, it seems, has a few tricks of his own. I see very clear influence of Shien and Soresu within his bladework.”

Then they returned to the Padawan bouts.

After that display, the bouts between Padawans, even senior Padawans, seemed almost slow by comparison: long, drag-out fights rather than decisive, precise bladework.

“Padawan Skywalker, and Padawan Dallon.”

Vebb and what must’ve likely been the entirety of the crowd fell completely and utterly still.

That… Did he hear that right?

Apparently he had.

Padawan Dallon’s whoop of joy bounced off the wall, her figure rising into the sky, over the heads of the crowds to land on the center of the arena. Was that her rumored flight ability? A good Force Leap?

Either way, it seemed a little wasteful.

As if to argue with his mental chastisement, Padawan Skywalker somersaulted over the crowd himself, landing with an easy, practiced grace capped with an utterly vain flourish.

“Padawan.” Even Vebb heard the reproach in Dooku’s voice.

He didn’t hear whatever Padawan Skywalker answered, but judging by the flair as he turned towards the older Master and Dooku’s curling frown, it couldn’t have been humble acceptance at the chastisement.

When Skywalker and Dallon took to the center of the arena, each drawing their weapons and entering their stances, Vebb found himself leaning forward just a bit.

He couldn’t help it.

Both Skywalker and Dallon were older recruits, recruits who by all measures shouldn’t even be part of the Order. They’d been accepted because of their potential, and to see that potential tangibly measured against another of - presumably - equal potential, was just too good of a “show” to not get excited about, regardless of how the Order insisted one should not allow such trivial feelings to affect a true Jedi.

When the match began, it began quickly.

Neither Skywalker nor Dallon were famous for their patience. Vebb couldn’t be sure who initiated, but he could be sure that the sheer impact of Dallon’s blade hitting Anakin’s was powerful enough that he could damn near feel it up here. Skywalker’s feet scrambled to catch his stumble, the sheer power behind Dallon’s swing having knocked him off balance before the girl pounced.

Her feet nearly glided across the arena floor, a single lunge swallowing the distance before she swung, only for a hasty Force Push that seemed to slam into the spectators behind her sent her tumbling across the marble grounds, picking herself up and rounding on Anakin again just in time to deflect his counter attack.

Skywalker’s offense seemed like a rush of whirling blade swings, Ataru and Shii-Cho blending seamlessly in a dizzying rapidfire display that set Vebb’s own heart racing in his chest, as Skywalker seemed to dance around the Dallon girl.

With a scream and a swing, Padawan Dallon’s bright blue blade crashed onto Skywalker’s own, raw power sending the blue skittering across the floor, bringing Skywalker up short.

Then when she went to follow up, Skywalker’s hands pressed against Vicky’s stomach and chest, the Force Wave shoving the girl back and clear out of the arena before yanking down, not releasing his hold until Victoria’s boots crunched into the marble floors beyond the arena bounds.

“Match to Skywalker,” Master Drallig called from his place by the sidelines.

Padawan Dallon kicked a “pebble” by her shoe. “Stand still and lemme hit you next time,” she demanded. Vebb wasn’t sure if she was joking.

“You-” Skywalker laughed, pointing at her with his now recovered saber as it fell back into his hand “-do not hit like a girl. No thank you.”

She grinned.

Hadn’t he insulted her???

…

…

Vebb didn’t understand humans

The next match was called, Dallon and Skywalker marching to the edge of the arena with genial smiles and happily flapping lips as they approached Master Plo Koon and Knight Kenobi.

“Master,” Vebb decided to ask, “who did you select as your opponent?”

“Master Yaddle, if you must know,” his teacher answered with a shrug.

“Oh? Why he-”

“Padawan Vebb and Padawan Hebert.”

He was fairly certain his heart stopped. Both of his hearts. The barbel on his chin quivered as his breathing organs and muscles simply decided they would no longer be functioning for the rest of the day.

“Master… who did I just hear?” he tremulously asked, hoping Master Fisto would come to his proverbial rescue again.

But his Master only smiled at him… smiled. As if there were cause to smile right now!

“I believe your opponent will be Padawan Hebert, young Vebb.”

Oh… right.

He turned away from his Master, looking to the arena grounds where the wraith-like shadow of Padawan Hebert made her way onto the grounds.

“Let go of your fears,” Master Fisto whispered beside him. “We are all here. You are not alone and she is not your enemy. This is merely for practice.”

The sound that escaped Vebb was not wholly a scoff, but not wholly a whimper either.

But he wouldn’t humiliate his Master by refusing. No matter how afraid he was right now.

So with deliberate steps he turned, marching down the stairway leading from the mezzanine down to the arena grounds.

When he arrived, Padawan Hebert and Master Drallig were waiting for him.

Master Drallig nodded in his direction, but Vebb kept his eyes solely fixed on Hebert. The Padawan was dressed in robes of dark blacks and mottled browns, her features blank in a way that was almost droid like. Her presence in the Force was like a block of cold ice, devoid of all feeling, and - somewhat distantly - he had to question whether or not the Jedi’s aspirations of being devoid of emotion was ultimately leading to this.

Because if it was… he didn’t find it worthy of aspiration.

He felt a shiver crawl down his spine, frozen droplets pinpricking along his skin before subtly vanishing, and he wondered just what exactly she was doing as he lit his blade in an almost instinctual need to defend himself.

“Begin!” Master Drallig barked, stepping away.

Vebb tensed. But Hebert - with an almost languid, bored air about her - lit her golden blade, holding it out to her side, tip facing down. The utter contempt her lack of stance showed prickled some part of his brain that lit an ember of indignant anger in him on behalf of both himself and his Master.

She was scary… but he wasn’t about to be underestimated!

He inched forward, his guard held in the Soresu stance. He could switch to Shii-Cho to engage and fall back once she began attacking in earnest, but frankly, he wasn’t sure what saber style Hebert favored; her lack of stance gave him little clue.

Then she struck.

They were still too far apart, so her throwing the blade at him was the only way to get the range. He batted it to the side, the flash of lightsaber meeting lightsaber momentarily blinding him as the golden blade skittered away.

Then she was on him.

Vebb’s eyes went wide, rushing to interpose his weapon between him and her, only to find her fingers clamping around his dominant wrist and saber hilt like vices, the bones in his arm creaked and protested under the sudden squeeze before she twisted his arm, the thinner, lighter human girl forcing him to move with vicious momentum and brute force as she stepped past his guard. She punched him twice, both blows knocking the wind out of him and bruising his ribs before he wrenched his arms close to defend himself-

Then she headbut him.

The crown of her skull cracked into the underside of his eye ridge, the cartilage of his cheek shifting with a sickening sound as he squawked in pain. Then an elbow struck his ribs as the hand holding his wrist twisted.

His weapon fell out of his hands, his feet scrambled to get away as all combat discipline was suddenly lost.

The kick to the chest knocked him flat on his rump as it sent the air in his lungs soaring out of him towards the Temple roof.

When he opened his eyes again, the dark girl was looming over him. Twin blades, one blue one gold, in her hands, the gold one with its viciously curved hilt pointed his way, inching closer as she stepped forward to deliver the killing blow.

Vebb scrambled back, fear and panic reducing his whole world down to just the blade in front of him and the woman holding it, as he tried to flee its reach but as ever she was there, and he was running out of time.

The Force Push that escaped him should have toppled over any Padawan, and likely many a Knight as well, but he felt it slam into her and crash over her like a wave breaking over a rock, doing little more than ruffling those dark curls of long hair.

Then he felt something grab him by the leg.

Using the Force, she dragged him closer to her, no longer willing to calmly give chase by merely walking after him. Now, he lay directly beneath her, the golden blade at his throat and Vebb prayed it was set to stun only, and why hadn’t Master Drallig called the match and where was Master Fisto, he was going to di-

“Match!” he heard shouted behind him, “-goes to Hebert.”

The dark girl drew back, both lightsabers shutting off, before she dropped his blade onto his chest. The tiny cylinder thumping over his breast as he just lay there, breathing heavily.

He couldn’t pay attention to many other fights after that.

Later, his fellows would ask him what it had been like, fighting her. How it was that she’d made him so scared from the very beginning. They could all sense it.

And he’d answer: It was the closest he could imagine to fighting a real Sith.

Later, he’d ask Master Fisto why he’d allowed the fight to go on for that long, even when he knew Vebb had been scared.

“You can only be brave when you’re scared, Vebb. I’d rather you learn that here, where you’re safe, than out there, where you’re not.”

He doubted Hebert was “safe,” and he said as much.

Master Fisto eyed him.

“I’d argue, my Padawan,” his Master began, “that of all the combatants today, you were the one in the least danger.”

“I don’t understand, Master,” he answered truthfully.

Master Fisto didn’t clarify for a long time.

(X)(X)(X)

Saxon

She’s beautiful.

Many would say that. They would say it easily, because she was. Beautiful in that obvious, physical way of course. But that isn’t what matters to him.

Some might care for her strange ability. That power, that lets her call upon a weapon, any weapon, at any time. That was beautiful in its own way. Especially to a Mandalorian.

But that is not ‘it’ either.

No.

She is beautiful… because…

He knows what he is.

He is a soldier.

It’s all he’s ever been.

All he’s ever wanted to be.

He knows what that makes him.

A monster.

They might change the words. Say it differently. But that is what he is. The beast, chained until he is needed, then unchained and let loose to fight.

That is what soldiers are.

Controlled wrath. Chained beasts.

He knows this.

That’s what led him to serve Satine.

Perhaps, if she were to be believed, she had no need of monsters.

She is not a monster. And yet… she is a soldier

That is what makes her beautiful.

An example of… everything he should be. An example of how to be better.

It is not easy for her, he knows. He could see, especially in the beginning, how she wished desperately to simply follow orders again. To leave the thoughts to others making the demands. How it was simpler to just be a gun.

And he’s seen how she’s fought against it. Pushing free of those shackles around her mind, a transforming creature, escaping its final chrysalis into something… incredible.

She is… an inspiration.

He’s unsure what made him ask. Monsters should not sully beautiful things.

And yet… he asked.

And she said yes.

And now…

As the joy fills his chest and she tells him… “I’m not sure if it’s a boy or a girl-”

He tells her, it does not matter.

So long as they are like her, it will never matter.

By her presence, he could already see how to be better.

By her companionship… he would strive for it.

For the sake of the child, which is his, but hopefully it would be more hers, he would achieve that goal.

He must be better.