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Chapter Text

Patya hadn’t meant to be in a war zone.  She had never meant to be in a war zone.  Not a current one, anyway.  Historical war zones, sure, she’d trained extensively to manage her psychometric gifts in order to study ancient sites such as those, but the dangers of touching the echoes of history were vastly different than those in an active conflict.

“I’m not some karking Sentinel, Force take it!” she hissed to herself as she ducked into a building that seemed less targeted.  It was set half into the ground, a set of narrow stairs leading to the door, which was locked until the Force - and some picks hidden in her braided bun - provided.  She closed the door and relocked it in the minimal light of the narrow, dirt-stained clerestory windows on either side.  Something scuffed the floor with a soft sound followed by a harmonious chime akin to metal tapping metal but somehow more resonant.  She jolted, turned, and looked behind her at the bleary half-impression in the Force behind her.

A Mandalorian.

She took a deep breath and a quick threat assessment as she tucked the picks back into her hair with a feigned rubbing of her head.  She was about to introduce herself and spin some form of cover story when the world screamed, and her hands flew up to create a shield like what she used to keep artifacts and tomes on the terrible, rickety hover carts they kept in service well past intended use since new ones weren’t in the budget.  Never in the budget, not even when one karking exploded on poor Knight Sitra.

The wall with the grimy windows bucked, the Force fighting her as an explosion outside shattered the duracrete and stone of the building above the haven she’d chosen.  Although, now that she was trapped inside it with a Mandalorian who now knew she was Force Sensitive, at the minimum, and had probably figured out she was a Jedi, it felt far different.

“Not a haven,” Patya muttered to herself as the new wall of stacked rubble settled.  She worked a few smaller holes into the settling as best she could.  No need to die choking.  At least, on account of lack of available air in the room.  Her new companion, on the other hand….

Memories from battlegrounds old and new had her suppressing an urge to cough.  Liked going for the throat, Mandalorians did.

“Stupid karking war, stupid karking…what is this?” she mumbled.  Not is.  Was.  Treat it like a historical site.  Assess it.  Analyze it.  Understand it.  A cantina?  Definitely had the echoes of drinking to forget and drinking to remember.  “A soldier’s bar.  Self medication.  Because of course you can’t just get a mind-healer, or maybe just not blow half your karking planet to bits.”

Suddenly remembering that might not be a wise thing to mention, she glanced at the Mandalorian, who still hadn’t introduced himself.  He seemed… unmoved.  Well, if he couldn’t hear her self-soothing monologuing through that helmet, then she felt no need not to.  It helped, to gripe about the absolute stupidity of causing all this pain and destruction for no purpose other than a mediocre attempt at genocide.

***

The Jetii - obviously a Jetii, even if they were dressed like some soft core-worlder and carried no saber - had been muttering about the evils of war ever since the abandoned building Kabii had been scouting had shook with a distant explosion and they’d been trapped together.  That was also when he’d realized she was a Jetii… normal core-worlders didn’t toss up their arms and will walls not to crumble as the rest of the building collapsed around them.  Yes, it had saved their lives, but now the rubble was trapping them, the adrenaline was fading, and the aggravating, Nu Mando’yc muttering was getting on his nerves.

"If you hate genocide so much, where were your people at the Dral'han?" Kabii asked with a scoff.

The Jetii went still, and turned, slow and graceful and strangely liquid for a Human.  Probably Near Human, actually.  He tried to place the exact species, but it was one of those ones that were so similar in appearance that it was hard to tell.

"Where were we? You ask why we did nothing when your people were attacked?"  She nodded in a way that could have been a polite one, the nod of a respected teacher accepting a student to learn from them.  

It was not.  

Under his helmet, his lip curled in a snarl at her condescension. At her threat.

"We were not there, Mandalorian, because Jedi live longer than most of their species, and 200 was not an uncommon age for our elders, once.  Every sitting member of the Council during the genocide of your people vividly remembered how Mandalore reacted when they came for us, first.  They were children when the Senate broke our families, dissolved every Jedi marriage and tore our children - those same Councilors - from their parents with a single signature... and your people laughed and called us heartless.   They remembered when the Republic we served took our armor, when they took our backup and our defenses, everything but our sabers, and your people declared it easy hunting."

The Mandalorian pride in Kabii’s heart wanted to protest, but the Jedi spoke firmly and smoothly, a trained lecturer speaking on a topic they knew well.  Instead he swallowed around the hard knot of something in his throat and tried to listen.  History was not always kind, but it was still always worth learning from… something neither Kyr’tsad nor the Nu’mando’ade understand, and Kabii refused to make the same mistakes as them.

"The Republic had been slowly destroying us for two hundred years by the time of the attack on Mandalore, and in that time the number of Padawan braids and lightsabers seen on Mandalorian armor as trophies skyrocketed,” she said, spitting the word at him the way he would have said huut’un or demagolka.  Her voice was breaking free from the even tones of the lecturer and into the ragged yet starkly painful tones of the grieving.  “We were trapped, betrayed, and dying… and your people hunted our young and desecrated our corpses, carrying the stolen lives of our kin as proof.  

“So!” she said with a sudden clap and a brightening of her face that did not come across as cheerful but rather as bloodthirsty.  “Why did we do nothing when they came for your world?" 

Kabii didn’t answer.  He couldn’t put together the words to do so, as his mind raced with the need to be anywhere but here, trapped with a hurting, angry sorcerer who saw him as an enemy.

"We did nothing… because the Jedi are merciful, Mandalorian."

***

Patya took a slow, even breath, gathering the Force around her as she did, creating an insulating cushion for her own battered heart after throwing the truth in the Mandalorian’s face.  She could afford no weakness to show, her mask must be smooth and impeccable if she were to survive this, where so many others, so many better trained, better equipped, better Jedi had not.

"I... still,” the Mandalorian said, shaking himself  “That was long ago, and you offer so much to so many others.  Yet you never reach that benevolent hand toward Mandalore.  You never even tried to repair what they destroyed." 

"We will.” she said with the easy confidence that came from knowledge, from faith in her people and what they had done for their longest-standing enemies.

“That claim has so far been unfounded, Jetii.   Despite all requests made for reparations, despite every petition for aid made through gritted teeth as Mand’alor after Mand’alor has swallowed their pride on behalf of their people,” the Mandalorian growled, the snarling tone catching at the bottom edge of his helmet’s audio pickup with hissing pops of static.  “You say we call your people heartless?  Why shouldn’t we, when you show no sign of that vaunted compassion you claim to uphold.  I’ll bet you never even consider Mandalore or Mando’ade outside history lessons about the barbarians on the Rim.”

“Actually, it's a favorite assignment of young Jedi Service Corps members,” Patya said with a slightly wry laugh.  “How to save you, when you exist so close to destruction every day.  We use it to teach problem solving, since there’s a million ways to do it, and EduCorps has been collecting the best ideas for… almost seven hundred and fifty years, actually.”

He sputtered at that, wordless sounds of disbelief.

“We don’t just consider your people’s suffering.  We have plans to end it, Mandalorian, and we will offer them over, offer over our help and our friendship,” she swore.  Then she shrugged.  There were more choices involved in that than the Jedi Order could control.  “One day.  Maybe." 

"What do you mean maybe?” he demanded hotly.  “You Jetiise, you get some sick pleasure out of having the keys to saving my people and doing nothing with it, all for your twisted revenge against long dead Mando’ade?!" 

"Who said long dead?" she spat mercilessly, fighting with all her strength not to slip into the comforting grasp of the Dark and bring that crumbled wall down on both of them.  Revenge, not against the exact Mandalorian that took her sibling-of-the-soul, but against a Mandalorian, anyway.  Blood for blood, the idea sang out from the stones beneath her feet, and she grit her teeth around hysterical laughter as she pushed aside the same madness that had led this planet to the state it was in now.

She would not Fall.

She was a Jedi.

She was a Historian.

Revenge was not her way, because when one looks at the cold light of the long arc of history, one sees it is not as effective as the passion of the moment leads you to believe.  Wisdom, knowledge, those were her weapons.  And those… those she could wield freely.

"If we stood by once because our lives and memories are long, yes, that was petty and beneath us. But is it pettiness to protect our people now? From real and current threats?  We will give you the plans, we will give you our aid,” she swore, hands over her heart in a near-galactic gesture of oath-taking.  “We will give you everything… when the killings and desecrations stop."

"What do you mean, when they STOP?  How dare you-"

"I mean what I said,” she said, sharper than a blade, the feeling of fire sparking behind her eyes as she remembered another child, and a familiar braid hanging from a different set of armor.  She would not stand by and let this armored autocrat dictate a rewrite of her own life’s tragedy.   He would not be allowed to look away from what his people did.  “You only draw breath because I see no braid or beads decorating your armor, and thus I shall assume you’ve killed no children of my people, at least recently.  As a kindness to you.  Like I said, Jedi are merciful.”

She pushed down the memories again, swallowing hard on the bile fighting to rise.  She wasn’t here to get justice for her lost friend.  She was here to find an Initiate who’d been shuffled into the Corps improperly, then shuffled back, then slipped off a table like a side-alley hustler hiding sabacc cards up sleeves.

“If you, or any with you, harmed the missing child I'm trying to find,” she warned, “not being permitted by Republic law to carry my saber, my life, will not stop me from ending yours."  

"Wait.  Wait.  There is an adiika out in this mess?" he demanded.   "What happened?!?"

"A long story involving someone with power and desperation doing what they could to raise a dearly beloved child against the rule of the Republic Senate and subsequently setting off a chain reaction of epic proportions,” she sighed, feeling the rage leave as suddenly as it came.  The Mandalorian’s sudden change in demeanor had knocked the power from her drive and she was on the drift, left to rely on the one thing she always had.  The sharing of knowledge.

“That chain reaction led to said child being in the care of someone who was only allowed to have a child at all because we literally cannot afford not to practically force every adult into claiming every child they can if we do not wish to go extinct,” she said with a bitter eye-roll.  “Which then somehow resulted in that child dropping off the map in a slave mine on Bandomeer, which is not a training post, it is a high risk field post.  Specifically because of the proximity to space marked as Knight and Master travel only, because our Padawans, our children, don't come back from it."

"You mean Mandalorian Space."  It was not a question, and there was a resigned feeling to it, a subtle sense of… not acceptance, but understanding.  Of willingness not to question the experiences of the Jedi, not to question her experiences.

"I do," Patya agreed.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan grumbled under his breath as he dodged through rubble and blasterfire, keeping an eye on his charges and trying not to wish for old friends. Master Jinn was very clear on his opinion of attachments, but it was difficult not to wish for the easy teamwork with his crechemates or for the Young and their familiarity with running, hiding and dodging adults trying to kill them when he was leading a passel of slave children who'd never been allowed to even look at a weapon.

It had been a very busy…year and a half, and while this was starting to feel old-hat, almost passé, even, he couldn't help but wish for backup he knew and trusted. Or any backup at all, for that matter. This mission hadn't even been about slaves or pirates, much less yet another genocidal civil war, never mind somehow managing to have all three at once. It was a standard corporate v. corporate territory dispute. The Senate provided info packet hadn't mentioned the ring of pirates nearly blockading the sector, nor any potential slavery rings, nor the karking genocide going on on-planet, of course not. Because the mission wasn't about those things. 

It didn't stay that way. 

Obi-Wan understood, now, about how the Senate worked and expected the Jedi to work. He understood that they couldn't intervene in anything they were not expressly sent for without an excuse even the Senate couldn't argue with. They were sent for the territory dispute, so Master Jinn could only work on the territory dispute, even when both corporations were illegally using slave labor right in front of them, unless....  

Unless they made it Master Jinn's problem.

Which meant Obi-Wan had to get taken by people low enough on the totem pole not to know he was a Jedi and the company owners had, almost definitely, laid down the proverbial law about not making the slavery the Jedi's problem.

Obi-Wan understood. 

That didn't mean he was even remotely okay. He'd spent most of the last two? three? weeks leaning heavily into the Force to avoid the unnecessary panic and memory traps from the weight on his neck and wrists, the stale, damp air, the too-thin bodies, the smell of sweat and blood and infection, and the sound of carefully muffled crying in tunnels. He leant so heavily into the Force it was a wonder he got anything done around his accidental trancing, visions of horrific futures, and mental fugue.

But he did. He did get things done. Mostly because the last year and a half had taught him rather a lot of things the Temple never had: the value of preparation no one knew about or could find, the value, use, and hiding of lockpicks, how to make and hide improvised weaponry out of almost anything, how to talk downtrodden people of all ages into standing up and fighting for their rights, for what was right.  

How to rewire, plan and place bombs for the most bang for your buck.

He wiped blood off his face and grinned as the explosives he'd stolen out of their collars and turned into very effective distractions went off in the distance. Later, he'd blame it on the concussion he undoubtedly had, but he paused a moment to watch the explosions. They were pretty, dammit. And he was too exhausted not to enjoy the small things in life.

He was sure Master Jinn was working hard, but he had taken too long, and maybe asked the wrong question a few too many times. Word came down that the Corporations were looking to "offload some weight" and Obi-Wan knew they were out of time. The "weight" the company was looking to get rid of first was the children, who were harder to excuse as indentured servants, and they were in a hurry to do it. They hadn't been meaning to sell. He'd probably get scolded for hasty actions later, but that would be future Obi-Wan's problem. If he lived long enough to get there.

Another thing he'd learned the value of since first setting foot outside the creche: knowing the sewers and knowing them well. He thanked the Force that he had long developed the habit of memorizing the city plans for the sewage system before even setting foot on a planet, and had explored some of it in person as soon as he'd been able to. 

One particular entrance he'd explored almost immediately turned into the kind of narrow, twisty warren too small for adults that the Young had preferred, and he was leading the children there while the adult slaves, now without bombs around their necks to keep them in line, led a full on revolt behind them.

The only problem was the open square between them and the entrance.

Obi-Wan stopped to make sure they were all paired up, the littlest in the arms of the biggest to get across the square as quickly as possible. Then he sank into the Force, checked for watchers and ran for it. He got the sewer open with a flex of Force and got the line of feral gremlins going down. Half their number, and all of the smallest were down when the shout echoed across the square, half a moment before the blaster bolt aimed at the last of the line.

He couldn't get there in time, but with the Force and the electro-whip he'd stolen from an enforcer, he could deflect it enough not to be fatal.

"Go!" He shouted as he turned back to a fight none of the kids were prepared for. "Go, go! I've got this!"

He did, after all, have rather a lot of practice fighting bigger, better armed, better fed, opponents. Cerasi would be so upset with him if he didn't put it to good use. 

Obi-Wan set his shoulders and charged, grinning as the enforcers backed up in confusion. It was true, after all, what they said: "If you can't outrun them, outgun them. If you can't outgun them, outsmart them.  If you can't outsmart them, out-crazy them."

He was one, small, half-starved kid, in blood-covered rags, with a shiv and a whip, willfully, gleefully, charging against half a dozen large, armored men with blasters, electro whips and pikes. Obi-Wan was the single most terrifying being on the field just then, and he had no problem using that. It probably made him a bad Jedi, but at that particular moment, it worked so it was very hard to care.

Right up until they rallied and began shooting at him. And then he was in among them and they couldn't shoot him at all or they'd risk killing each other instead.

Didn't stop the big one from picking him up by his threadbare collar and throwing him through the wall.

Obi-Wan groaned as he rolled to his feet and caught sight of the pair staring at him in horror, very clearly frozen in the middle of an argument. Given that it included an EduCorps Master and a Mandalorian, it was probably important, and he'd interrupted them with his inability to aim or cushion his landing properly. He'd have to work on that.

He was, however, very good at apologizing for the innumerable inconveniences he tended to cause others with his carelessness. He had plenty of practice.

***

Patya blinked at the Padawan currently groveling before her.

"Obi-Wan?" she asked gently, Force brushing soothingly over his battered but durasteel-tough shields.  "Take a deep breath in for me, please."

The boy took a shaky, shuddering inhale and roughly shoved the few ragged ends of his Force presence that had slipped past the shields back.  She winced at the harshness of the action, and got another apology, this one silent and in the Force.  For being too loud.

What the kark?  The kid was Shadow-silent once he finally started breathing properly.  She thanked her anger for its input and set it gently aside in the Force.  Her target was not here, so anger did not serve her.

For now.

"This is your adiika?" the Mandalorian asked.

Patya sighed.  It would be too much trouble to explain the complex web of connections that was the Order, and she didn’t really feel like doing that.  The truth of the matter was that as the only adult Jedi here, Obi-Wan was hers to guide, protect, and care for.

"Yes.  And while he looks like he needs food and rest, I see no signs he's been subject to a Hunt.  So.  Truce for now, Mandalorian?"

"Of course," the warrior agreed too easily.  "I’ll get you both to safety, and I will be speaking to the Gorane and Alore about what you've said."

She tried to find the threat in that, and could not.  This wasn't her first foray into the field, and she'd said nothing that wasn't easily verified with publicly available data.  Perhaps referring to her saber as her life, but what were they going to do about that, take sabers as trophies?  Oh wait.

"Thank you," she said, and gave the absolute minimum of a bow she could, eyes never leaving her tentative ally of convenience.

***

Kabii wasn’t at all sure how to feel about the things the Jetii had said.  His pride was stung, his honor enraged at the entire idea she thought he would ever harm a child, even a Jetii child.  And yet…  She spoke like a scholar about their people’s shared violent history.  She spoke like a grieving verd about the much more recent violence he’d known nothing about.  And most importantly, she spoke like a Buir about the child caught in a mess of the Republic’s making.

That alone was enough to have him guarding their backs as they evacuated the bombed out building, the Jetii stabilizing the debris enough for them to climb.  The eyes on the verd’ika were enough to have him passing over a blaster after checking the kid knew how to use one.  The boy had inspected the weapon with a near-professional eye, checked the grip and weight with beskar-clad trigger discipline, and set it to stun.

“No one here will judge if you chose to set it higher,” the Jetii whispered softly, but not so soft Kabii’s buy’ce didn’t pick it up.

“Charge packs last longer on stun,” the boy, Obi-Wan, said simply.  “Turn here.”

“Where are we headed?” the Jetii asked.

“Rendezvous point.  There’s a batch of former child slaves we need to get off-world.”

“Padawan…”

“We have a Mandalorian,” the boy said with the same flat simplicity he used to note the longevity of blaster charge packs.  “None of the others are Jedi, so it’s a good fit.  The Force provides.”

“My clan will take any of the children we cannot get back to their parents,” Kabii agreed.

“Obi-Wan, I know you didn’t get the full Padawan introduction, but-”

“I know Mandalorians hate Jedi.  But Mandalorians like kids,” Obi-Wan said again, less flatly.  “Kids they think are people, anyways.  I looked it up, after… yeah.  Of the places that normal kids can go for help, Mandalore ranks pretty high.”

The Jetii bristled silently, and subtly shifted to put her body between Kabii and her child.  The boy didn’t notice, slipping into a small sewer opening too small for an adult with a short command to wait for him.

“Not every Mando’ad thinks the same way about everything,” Kabii pointed out once the boy was gone.  “Or about most things, sometimes.  Three verde, five opinions, as they say.  But we agree children are the future, and deserve good homes and the chance to learn who they are.”

“How wonderful for those you deem children,” the Jetii said icily.

“Look, you don’t owe me the story of your pain,” Kabii sighed.  “But if we’re going to be tomade, we need some level of trust.  My people, specifically, the Haat’Mando’ade… we’re not monsters.  We don’t hunt children.  Other factions I can’t speak for, it certainly fits Kyr’tsad’s warped viewpoint to justify that, but Jaster’s people?  No.  Nu draar, not never.”

The Jetii let out a small bitter laugh.

“I’m a historian, by trade.  EduCorps.  We work closely with the main Archives.  Madame Jocasta Nu had a Padawan who wasn’t going to be able to be plausibly Knighted by the time I aged out, but she taught me as much as the law allowed.  We’re very close.”

“Nu… that’s the one who keeps denying Jaster Archive access,” Kabii said.  He only recalled because her name was a bit of a pun, given how often she denied Jaster. 

“Do you know why?”

“Stubbornness, and the whole ‘not being sure which Mandos would kill you’ thing?”

“The first time Mereel asked, he had The Finder-Slayer by his side.  I don’t think they realized we’d recognize him, he did a good job cleaning the security tapes.  But the Finder he killed was also a Shadow, a Jedi investigator.  They take that sort of thing… seriously.   So they called a psychometric in.  Someone who could sense the memory of places.  Places like the shuttle that the dismembered bodies of Feemor and his charges - all toddlers - were returned in.  Who could relive the past, who could find the face of the killer.”

Kabii blanched.  The idea of a shuttle filled with the dismembered remains of ikkade turned his gut.  The sheer karking mandokar of whatever Jet’verd walked into it looking for answers put many Mando’ade to shame.

“Fortunately, I’m also trained in sharing the memories I view.  Madame Jocasta said no because the person requesting a pass into the heart of our home was friends with someone who complained that his prey was an unarmed Finder and children who were too young to have good trophies on them.”

“You’re trained… so it was you who saw….  Wait… what?”  Kabii was gasping for air, trying to find stable ground.  Someone close to Jaster was a demagolka.   He had to get back, had to warn his Mand’alor.

“Okay!  I got them all ready, let’s go!” Obi-Wan chimed, saving Kabii from having to form words as he watched the brittle strength of the Jetti Historian slip beneath an armor made of warm smiles and soft posture to soothe skittish children.

Chapter Text

They didn’t manage to find Master Jinn before they got to the Mandalorian’s ship.  Obi-Wan tried to be disappointed by that, but it was difficult with the kind Jedi Master carefully leaning her presence into his shields with comfort and a spark of burning protective drive that reminded him of another time he hadn’t had Qui-Gon to lean on.  Of every time, actually, although this was the first time he’d felt it aimed at him.

The children bunked down in a storeroom on travel mats the Mandalorian pulled out of the wall storage, and then the Jedi Master and the Mandalorian sat down over a very tense cup of not-tea.

Obi-Wan didn’t really think first.  He just started doing what he always did, smoothing the way for the terse older Jedi beside him.

“I’m Obi-Wan, what’s your name?” he asked the Mandalorian, who had pulled off his helmet to sip his not-tea.

“I’m Kabii.  Kabii Cadera,” the man laughed with a warm smile.  “We did rather forget introductions.  And do I get to know your name, Jetii?”

She smiled too, but it wasn’t very warm.

“Senior EduCorps Historical Sciences Specialist Patya Boma.”

Ah, she’d taken her Creche Clan as a name!  Clever, he would have to consider that, although Obi-Wan Dragon didn’t sound as natural.

Kabii spit out some of his not-tea and coughed harshly.  “Boma?”

“Ironically, the name was… a gift of sorts, from a different Mandalorian.”

“What did you do for a Mando’ad to call you Boma?”

“Not what I did,” she said sadly.  “I inherited that name.”

“You weren’t in Clan Boma,” Obi-Wan whispered in shocked horror.

“No, Padawan, I was not.  I was in the Heliost Clan, as are many who feel a Calling to teaching, learning, and related fields.”

“I’m sorry,” Kabii said sincerely, picking up on what must have happened somehow.  It softened Master Boma a little.  Well, not Master per se.  The Corps did things differently, but she felt like a Master, settled and sure the way they all were, even when she was clearly upset.  The self-control was there, even if she did indulge in more emotion.  Obi-Wan wished he could do that too.

He must have been too loud again, since she opened her shields a little to show him the trick of it, looking over each emotion carefully, inspecting it for meaning like Quinlan looked over evidence in his Shadow training courses, taking what wisdom she could before storing it out of the way.

“If it helps at all, I had no idea,” Kabii swore.  “I am also… very upset by the things I’ve learned today.”

He felt far more than upset, but it didn’t show on his face or in his voice at all.  It was a different sort of self-mastery, but one Obi-Wan also wanted to learn.

“It does help, some,” Master Boma allowed with a nod.  “At least with you.”

“Enough to maybe bunk down?” Kabii asked.  “No offense, but you look like you haven’t slept in a few days.”

“Why would I take offense at an obvious compliment?” she laughed.  “It’s not been days, it’s been weeks, and the only reason it’s not months is that I know better than to anger my healer.”

Kabii blinked in shock.  Obi-Wan wasn’t sure why though.  Of course Master Boma would have the skill to defer sleep like that.  He was a little offended on her behalf at the Mandalorian’s obvious doubt.  Not much though, since Master Boma stood up with a nod at their host.  Obi-Wan followed the move a split second behind, not yet in tune enough with her to stand in unison.  

“Wake me when we land wherever you’re dropping us off.  Any major port will do.  Come on, Padawan, you need meditation, then sleep.”

“I’ve got the watch,” Kabii said softly as they left, but Obi-Wan wasn’t sure Master Boma heard him.

***

Kabii’s head hurt.  His heart hurt too, but they were still a few minutes out from the Goran, so he was willing it to wait.  Meanwhile the headache and the source thereof was annoyingly persistent and resisting attempts to ignore it.

“I told you to drop us off at any major port!  This is not a port, Mandalorian.”

“I had to get the kids to the Cab’yaim,” Kabii explained again.

“Which you did first, obviously,” Patya bit out.  “Which is why I did not question why we were flying so deeply into restricted space.  However, now we should be flying out and we are not!”

“It’s not restricted space, it’s Mando space,” Kabii explained… again.

“It is restricted to us!” the Jetii growled.  “I need to get back to-”

“You need to speak to the Goran,” Kabii said bluntly, cutting across an argument he’d heard before.  “You are the first Jetii in eight hundred years to actually explain what was going on, and the best hope we have of stopping it.”

“It is not the duty of a victim to handhold the victimizer through repentance,” she replied in a flat monotone, one that sounded akin to the clinical tone used in audio records of medical texts.  Kabii’s vod was a medic, he’d gotten used to that slightly dead quality during their qualifications testing.

“It isn’t,” Kabii agreed.  

He could regret the action he took for the stain on his personal honor, but he could not let the chance pass if it meant one day cleansing the honor of the Manda itself.  His sorrow for Patya and her people was real, and if he had any chance of doing it justice, if she had specified who among the Mand’alor’s people she’d seen in her terrible vision while investigating the death of a friend and the children he guarded, Kabii would have done as she asked.  

As it was though, he needed her.  The Manda needed her.  He could and did regret that need, but he would not ignore it.

“And yet… it is the duty of an EduCorps Master to teach,” Obi-Wan said softly.  “Isn’t it?”

Instantaneously the fight went out of the older Jetii, and Patya’s shoulders slumped like she’d had her wind knocked out.

“It is.  Thank you, Padawan, for your insight.”  

“Oh, I didn’t mean to-” the boy stammered.

“You saw more clearly than I did,” Patya said firmly, cutting over self-recriminations, “and I thank you for the correction.  We will go, we will educate, and then you will escort us back to safer territory, Kabii.”

“That I can do,” Kabii agreed, setting down at the landing pad in front of the Goran’s forge.  Her use of his name was reassuring.  “Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it.”

***

Goran Vorpaya narrowed her eyes behind the visor of her helmet.  Kabii was generally not given to dramatics, but he’d showed up at the Cab’yaim with a hold full of traumatized children and barely stayed long enough for handoff.  Obviously, the Cab’alor had called the Goran to report this, and the best she could say was that at least Kabii had signaled his approach a few minutes later.

She set aside her heavier work gauntlet-arm, pulling on the slimmer fitted armored prosthetic that more closely mimicked a normal Mando’ad’s.  She had guests, apparently, since her hands flitted through the motions of preparing an extra large pot of shig, ready right as Kabii paused respectfully inside the doorway.

“Goran?” he asked, hesitant sounding.

“Kabii,” she welcomed.  “Sit.  You have a tale to tell, I think.”

“Nu ni,” he said softly, stepping aside to allow a Kiffar woman past him.  She was dressed simply but sturdily in rich valor-brown tunic and leggings over a cool mourning-gray shirt with sleeves loose enough to allow movement but trim enough to avoid impracticality or standing out in any given spaceport.  She had several hidden weapons on her, hardened wood hair-sticks holding up a pile of braids, slim boot knives, and something in the drab durasteel belt buckle that would require more attention than could be politely paid to it to identify.

“Welcome, to the Forge of Vorpaya,” the Goran said solemnly.  “What do you come to me to learn?”

“I am here to teach,” the woman bit out.  A red-haired child pushed up beside her, not passing in front at the last second as the woman shifted to put her weight in a ready stance.

“I’m Obi-Wan,” the child said.  “This is Master Boma.”

“Master?” Goran Vorpaya hissed, tilting her head sharply at Kabii.

“Technically my title is Madame, the same as Jocasta, as we have the same level of degree.  She got hers in Archives, I got mine in History.”

“Eh, but you feel….”

“Corpsmembers are not allowed to hold that title,” Boma said softly.  Then she turned burning eyes on Goran Vorpaya.  They may have been a cool, murky brownish green, but they held an intensity like metal ready for the anvil.  “I am Senior EduCorps Historical Sciences Specialist Patya Boma, of the Jedi Order.  I have been brought here along with Padawan Kenobi to explain exactly why the Jedi Order has never offered aid to Mandalore.  After I do that, I have Kabii’s sworn word that he will return both of us to Republic Space, unharmed.”

“Of course,” the Goran blinked.  An unexpected turn of events, but at least one that would answer several mysteries about the strange sorcerers from the Core.

“You will not like the lesson, but as I was given no choice in the matter of teaching it, I will not be held responsible for your reaction.  Any attempt to harm Padawan Kenobi or prevent his safe return to the Order will be met with… a proportionate response.”

“You dare-”

Kabii made a sharp negating gesture, and her shock at such a command being directed at her in her own forge silenced her.

“We do not help Mandalore because we cannot safely enter Mandalorian space,” Boma said bluntly, speaking over an offended Goran in a startling display of fearlessness.  “Because over the last thousand years, there has never been a time long enough without a Jedi dead at Mandalorian hands for us to send an envoy, let alone any actual assistance.  We see your suffering, and we ache to solve it, but we will not walk into our own deaths, nor risk the deaths of our children to do so.  I demand Padawan Kenobi’s safe return to our people, because I have every reason to believe such a request will not be granted unless I enforce it.”

Goran Vorpaya reared back, stung honor calling for her to challenge the Jet’Bajii.  Obi-Wan pulled a braid from behind his ear, beads glittering on it between colored bands of thread.

“This is my Padawan Braid,” he said.  “It records my achievements as I study to become a Jedi.  All Padawan Learners have them.  I won’t cut it until I leave the Order or become a Knight.”

“They are the mark of a child, one who has not yet passed the Knighthood trials that herald the age of adulthood among Jedi,” Boma said sternly.  “Does it look familiar?  It should, seeing as they are a popular trophy for Mandalorians.”

Goran Vorpaya staggered, gasping.  She had seen those before, in art; on images of warriors, some from as recent as a few hundred years prior.  And yes, as trophies, collected by the Old Houses.  Some so short as to imply the murdered ade were very young indeed.

“It gets worse,” Kabii said, eyes on the floor.

“How does it get worse?!? ” the Goran demanded.

“The other most favored trophy of a Mandalorian Jedi-Hunter… the lightsaber,” Boma said in the measured tones of a lecturer.  “To most, mere plasma blades.  To us?  Living reflections of our own lives.  We test ourselves against harsh climates, against harsh truths, and walk away with a weapon mated to our souls.   When we rejoin the Force, we leave behind the echo of who we were in our blades.  A Jedi does not cling to the crude matter of the body, as death is a natural part of the Balance of the Force.  None are truly lost to us, merely called deeper into the Force which connects us all.  But it is still a desecration to see remnants of the lives of our people held captive by those who caused that death.”

This time, she made it several feet, almost behind the hearth of the Forge before ripping free her helmet and gagging on bile.  She remembered a weapon in her grandfather’s trophy room.  It had been old, collected by her ba’ba’buir.  She wasn’t supposed to touch it as a child, the warning staying in her memory when the story of it had faded.

Plasma blades are dangerous after all.

She had grown up with the Jetii equivalent to stolen beskar’gam in her family’s home… and it currently hung in her buire’s trophy room with all the other heirlooms.

“That wasn’t what I meant when I said it gets worse,” Kabii said with a voice like beskar under the hammer; resolute, but being pushed and tested to the limit.  The Goran knew the feeling.  She wasn’t sure she could handle “ worse” herself without bending to the force of shame and pain.

“That is worse to us,” Boma said flatly.  “You might not believe what we do, might not respect the memory of the fallen, but we do.   Holding stolen lightsabers is akin to holding prisoners of war.  At least braids and beads only hold a record, not a soul.”

If the Goran could get her lungs to work properly, she would laugh at how very wrong the Jetii was about that.

“Tell her about the… the Finder-Slayer,” the warrior said with a jagged sound in his voice, the beskar of his soul reaching the point it would bend to new form… or tear asunder and require re-smelting.

“Oh, right,” the Jetii said casually, and Goran Vorpaya felt her heart drop like metal into the quench.  “That was the most recent case we know of.  A few years back, a Finder was murdered.  A Finder is a Jedi tasked with locating children with the potential to be Jedi and making sure they are safe – and removing them if and only if they are not .  Contrary to popular legends, the Jedi do not abduct children from safe and happy homes.  It is not our fault Force Sensitivity does not often lend itself to safety.”

“I was rescued by my Finder.  My birth parents tried to drown me,” the child said far too calmly.  The older Jetii braced herself, clearly pushing through her feelings about that to continue the story.

“This particular Finder was killed while on his mission.  Dismembered, to be precise, as were the three toddlers he had already rescued from dangerous situations.  Their corpses were placed in a shuttle and returned to the Temple.”

“And you have reason to suspect… a Mando’ad?  Maybe Viszla’s bastards would-”

“I do not suspect, I know. And with your consent, I can show you.”

The Goran did not know what to expect, but the Manda gripped her heart and screamed for honor, for redemption, so she nodded, and felt a cold, soft hand touch her face, before the horrors started.

***

Patya was on edge from the moment she stepped into the stillness of the Forge.  Fascinating frescos were worked into the metal of the walls, combat scenes, mostly, but at least none that resembled the one-sided Hunts of Jedi.  The Goran was a broad, well-muscled being, with one prosthetic arm that didn’t quite fit the rest of their frame.  Their presumption and arrogance were expected.  Less so the strong reaction to the explanation Patya had been tasked with providing.

“I do not suspect, I know. And with your consent, I can show you.”

She reached out to touch the mottled green and pale blue cheek revealed when the helmet had come off.  Thick scar tissue twisted along the same side that bore the prosthetic arm, narrowly missing the eye and painting a vivid picture of the sort of injury that led to both.  Under the skin blood pumped, nerves fired, and a myriad of other things Patya wasn’t qualified to understand went about their way.  It was always a terrifying honor to be allowed in like this, allowed past shields and flesh and into another’s mind.

She was careful, extracting just the box in her own mind that contained those memories specifically.  She ordered them carefully, passing them off one at a time, allowing room for each.

First the assignment, with Tholme’s face carefully blurred out.  She knew it was him from other memories, ones she did not need to share, but none she passed the memory on to would be able to track him or break his covers.  

Then the ship, the blood still slightly tacky on the walls and floors, the scent of cooking flesh from where some had dripped into a power-coupling turning her gut.  

Then the memory of the ship, the way it sliced into her, fresher than the historical horrors she usually uncovered, the pain imprinted by dying Force Sensitives.  The grief of feeling the last stubborn stand of a friend, the ache of loss knowing his attempt to buy time had been in vain, the soft vindication as he left a stained mark in the Force on his killer, a miasma that would not wash clean, warning other Jedi away from him.

Lastly the murderer, smug and brutish.  The blue sleeves pushed up to bare muscled arms, the tell-tale grey armor and red box-like marking on the chest… the sigil of the skull in bronze and black. 

Something warm and hard shoved against Payta, and she withdrew without a fight.  Stepping back, she glanced up at Kabii.

“I’ve done what I can, shared what I can.  It is up to your people now.”

“Goran?” Kabii asked, ignoring her as the other Mandalorian shook off the effect of the shared memories.

“I need to call Jaster.  You… honor your word.”

***

The Jetiise had left as soon as she’d given the nod to do so, obviously uncomfortable among Mando’ade.  The Goran could not find it in her pride to blame them.  The memories pushed into her had burned, a strain on her mind like a wound; she made a note to comm her mir’baar’ur after she commed the Mand’alor.

They hadn’t been terribly clear, and yet the clarity of them had cut like a blade, like the first time she’d held a graver and accidentally sliced right through her own glove.  Scent and horror blazed bright, unspecified pain and fear coupled with the image of walking through a small shuttle soaked in blood of several colors blending into a brown morass of suffering.

Then the image of a murderer, a demagolka, one the Goran knew down to her bones had delighted in his sacrilege, in the murder of children.  The shape of him was distorted, too many perspectives overlapping, and the Goran felt sudden sympathy for species with compound eyes attempting to calibrate their HUDs.  Big, as a general impression, although many images showed him from the size of a child.  Armored, certainly, a dull blankness that was noted with a clinical thought of Mandalorian steel and Jedi Hunter.   A flash of dull oiled-metal grey, a common choice of those who worked stealth-focused jobs or who guarded their personalities too close for proper paint.  A rectangle of honor-red like a sarcastic laugh around the kar’ta.  The sigil of the Haat’ade in nobility bronze and justice black, screaming its falseness to her even as the Jedi’s mind only registered the shape for cross-reference.

Unfortunately, the knowledge that a monster was wearing her Mand’alor’s crest did not get her closer to finding him and putting her hammer through his head.

For that she would need Jaster.

“This is Mereel,” he answered, then blinked at her.  “Goran?  You don’t look well.  Has there been an attack?”

“Yes,” she gasped, sucking bile off her teeth to spit into her forge.  Jaster’s face went an unhealthy pastel shade on the holo.  “By one of our own.  A child-murderer bears your aliik, Jaster.  Fix it.   Before I get to him, if you want to keep his head intact.”

Chapter Text

“A child-murderer bears your aliik, Jaster.  Fix it.   Before I get to him, if you want to keep his head intact.”

Jaster gaped at the holographic image of Goran Vorpaya, a solid and reasonable Mando’ad by every account and by his own limited interactions with her.  In fact, if it weren’t for the comm code that initiated the call and the familiar edges of her armor around her chest and arms where they showed in the limited pick-up field, he wouldn’t have even known it was the same woman.  Gone with her buy’ce was the quiet assured teacher, the guardian of the shared lore and soul of Mando’ade.  Instead, a grieving woman looked at him, spat to the side, and snarled in anger.

Justified anger.

“Who… I have no idea what… I-” Jaster spluttered.

"Big, blue kute, oiled-grey armor, lying honor-bordered karta'beskar, worse lying kyr’bes in your colors, Mand’alor.  Murdered an unarmed Jet’cabur and three ikkade.” 

Jaster rocked on his heels.

Kark. 

No wonder the Jettise had always been so cold to him.  He bore the same aliik as one who murdered…

“What?  Ikkade?   How…”

“One of ours dragged a Jet’bajii and their ad in.  The Jet’bajii very unwillingly explained why they hate our guts.  Why they’ve every right to hate us.  Jaster,” the Goran cut off in a broken sob.  “Jas.  We’ve been keeping stolen beskar’gam and ad’aliike as trophies.   For centuries.   They have every right.”

“We’ve been WHAT?” Jaster yelped, shooting to his feet in a panic.

“Kad’aue are Jet’gam.  They keep their souls there.  In their sabers, which they earn in what sounded like a… a Jet’goten.  The same as we keep ours in our beskar’gam.  Those braids you see in art, with the beads?  Mark the adoption and training of their ad'e.  Those were ad’aliike we carried around like pelts.”

Jaster gagged.  He’d seen those, in the trophy halls of a dozen clans.  In his own Clan Yaim, once upon a time, even though he’d been raised far from Manda’yaim.

"The verd who brought the Jet'bajii in reported that the Jet’ad demanded they take the slave children the Jet’ad rescued on their own, on the grounds that we think former-slave non-jetii children actually count as people so the ade would be treated better by us than by anyone else.  He also reported the ad seemed willing to risk his own life to ensure the other ade were safe, despite acknowledging the risk we posed to him when his Jet'buir tried to stop him.  Tried to stop him for fear of us, Jaster."  She took a breath and shook her head.  “They know we value children.  They just don’t trust us to see their children AS children, as people, because we’ve proven to them, time and time again… we don’t.”

“But… those troph- the braids, the kad’e, those are all ancient.   Modern Mando’ade….”

“Remember how I opened this call, Mand’alor?  The Jet’bajii showed me.  They have a magic, lets them see the past through the memories of a place.  Like some of our Kiffar verd'e, but… more .  They used it to find someone who murdered their vod, who killed their vod’s foundlings.  Then they showed me.  That murdering shabuir bears your sigil, Jaster.  The kyr’bes, black on bronze.  You have a demagolka in your aliik.  FIX .  IT.”

“Elek, Goran.”

***

Jaster had predictably, at least to those who knew him, dealt with the upsetting late night revelation through research.  Well, with research, and by writing a very terse letter to all the Clan Alore.  Even for Mando’a it was terse.

One line, ordering the removal of all Jetiise-related artifacts from clan and personal trophy storage, to be sent to him along with records of who had what. Of who acquired what…and how, if it was known.

He would figure out how to make up for the unforgivable crimes once he had a better scope of how large a debt hung on his people, how large a debt he had to repay.  But pay that debt they would, even if it took another thousand generations Mando’ade.  

Mando'ade draar digu, after all.

It was weary of body, mind, and spirit, he finally found his way to his second’s door.  Jango had been at Silas’ last night, his usual refuge when Jaster went on a research bender.  That was good.  He didn’t want to tell the boy he thought of as a son what their people had done.  Not yet.  Not until he’d found the child-killer among them.

“Montross,” he sighed, sagging into his friend’s arms as the door opened.

“Jaster?  Have you been drinking?”

“No.  Researching.”

“Jast’ika, you need to tell someone before you do that shit, we can send someone to pull you out and make sure you eat and sleep.”

“Couldn’t.  Couldn’t make the words come out,” Jaster sighed.  “I learned something.  Something… awful.  Needed to process it first.”

“Well you’re here now.  Come on in, I’ll make shig.”

He staggered into the small quarters.  Montross could have claimed a bigger set of rooms in the main Haat’ade compound, but he preferred to stay in a modest single-verd apartment with a small dock for his ship on the edge of the city.  It was good, showed he wasn’t arrogant like some claimed.  Proved them wrong.

Montross stepped away into the kitchen, and Jaster moved into the kar’yai.  The same room he’d been in before a hundred times.  Same battered floor seats around the eating pit.  Same scattered projects on the workdesk in the corner with a view of the door.  Same complicated art piece Montross was always tweaking hung on the wall.

Same complicated tapestry, woven of a variety of fibers, smooth and rough and shaggy, all twisted and… braided.  Studded with glinting beads and colorful nubs of silk.

He staggered closer, one hand going up in horror to trace a braid through the mass.  Through more tiny little braids than he could count at a glance.  Through the proof of a hundred crimes worthy of death.

“Jast’ika, I have shig,” Montross said, stepping into the room.  “Come, sit down.”

“You dare?” Jaster growled.

“Dare what?  Jast’ika, this is my job as your Second in Command.  You need someone who can tell you to sit.  You know that.”  Montross wasn’t even looking at him, setting the mugs down.

Normally, Jaster dealt justice fairly.  He used the Courts, not the rights of the Mand’alor to punish crime.  He was open and transparent, because his people deserved to know WHY someone had been judged guilty, and complain if they thought his discipline unfair.

They deserved the chance to make things right.

There was no making this right.

There was no making this fair.

He tackled Montross at full speed, catching him up under the ribs and lifting him off his feet as Jaster rushed them both from the kar’yai.  Montross got his breath back by the time Jaster reached the door.  The demagolka Jaster had once called friend twisted, shifting Jaster’s weight backwards, pushing him against the door.  Jaster slapped the controls and yanked Montross backwards by the kute.  The blue kute.  Just as the Goran described.

The angle was right to spill them both into the broad hall, now beginning to fill with morning traffic as folks left their homes to meet friends for first-meal in the commissary or otherwise went about their day.

“Jaster!  What are you doing?” Montross babbled, eyes wide and darting to the people nearby.  “Are you on stims or spice or something?  You know that’s terrible for you!”

“Demagolka,” Jaster growled, not dignifying the attempt to shift blame, to paint Jaster as an unhinged addict.  He could repair his reputation later, but reputation was not honor no matter what jare'la young verde thought.  His honor, the honor of all Mando’ade, screamed at him to remove the threat among them.  

Old instincts, instincts that rarely raised their heads, now roared inside him.  Probably a good thing, part of him dimly reflected.  Easier to relate to Jan’ika and his struggles, although his son (“not son, you never said the words, he never asked you to know his name,” whispered a tiny part of his mind.  His instincts crushed that part.) was far closer to those Taung roots.

“Jaster!” Montross gasped in feigned horror.  Jaster didn’t give him time to spit more lies, moving swifter than he had ever before.

Well, aside from that one time.

What could he say?  Child-murderers got his blood up.

Jaster put his shoulder pauldron directly in the weak spot under the kar’ta, the red-fenced  kar'ta declaring falsely of honor, where the plain gray-metal chest plates and abdomen plate met in a three-way junction.  Then he kept moving.   He felt his people get out of the way as he slammed Montross into the thin sheet of stone separating the hallway from the open courtyard opposite the rooms.

The stone was beskar-stone, removed from a mine alongside the ore that would guard their bodies, destined to protect their homes.  Something the Nu Mando’ade had never seemed to recall when discussing peaceful uses for the mines.  The stone would block blaster bolts, even pierced with delicate carvings to allow air and light through it as it was.   No one hole was large enough to serve as a sniper’s perch, and it was strong enough to stand up to rowdy verde.

It did not stop Jaster from putting the monster through it.

Montross had chosen an apartment on the top floor, since it came with a docking port for his little fighter.  The building was only three stories from the outside, which also meant a sen’tra trained verd like him could use the outer windows as safe exits.  On the inside, the courtyard was five stories, with lower-level apartments dug into the ground for those who felt unsafe without solid walls, or those who needed atmo-changers installed.

Sure, they weren’t falling from the top of the building, but 40 feet was still a long way to fall.

Jaster used every second of it, digging his fingers under the armor this demagolka dared to wear, to dishonor.  The backplate fell away first, and the scum screamed as it did, suddenly seeming to find his regret.  Too late, of course.

They impacted with a sick crunch of breaking bone.  Someone screamed for a baar’ur, and Jaster pulled up onto his knee, resisting the urge to vomit as a flare of pain in his ankle informed him only some of those breaking bones had been his foe’s.

“Demagolka!” Jaster accused again, slamming a fist into a screaming, tear-stained face.  “Child-killer!  Hut'uun’la shabuir!  They were babies!  YOU MURDERED CHILDREN!   GAR KYRAYC IKKADE!"

His words were punctuated with more strikes, blood splattering up his arms and onto his face.  Jaster didn’t care.  He didn’t stop.

“They were Jetiise,” the thing that used to be his closest friend spat as Jaster paused to resettle his hand so his fingers didn’t break further.  “That doesn’t count!”

“You don’t count,” Jaster hissed back, dropping Montross’s collar and letting his head hit the metal plate of the floor.  He staggered to his feet, grunting as he shifted off his broken ankle.  “I declare you Dar’manda!  For crimes unanswerable against the core of what it is to be a Mando’ad, against children and those who guard them, I cast you out of the Manda, out of the Mando’ade.  You will never march on with us, no matter who remembers your name.”

“Jaster!” Montross screamed.  “How dare you!  I was your everything!  You owe me!”

“He murdered children, he kept the proof in his rooms,” Jaster told the watching verde.  His voice broke on the horror, but he refused to hide behind a wall of authority.  He had stripped someone of their soul, their afterlife.  He owed his people an explanation, owed proof it was deserved.  "Jetiise Ad'aliike.  On his wall.  Called it art.   It's still there.  Send for a Goran.  I… I need to get them down, try to separate them, so we ca- can care for the… the ade."

"You need a baar'ur," an old warrior said, stepping forward with an offered cane of ironwood and durasteel.  "We can send the Goran up, but we only have one Mand'alor."

"Coward!  You weak, pathetic excuse for a Mando’ad, get back here!" Montross screeched, shambling himself upward despite the blood and squelched crunching sounds as he moved.

A bolt bit through the air and burned a hole in his side.

"You need the trash alive, Alor?" a young Mando’ad in scholar's clothes asked, elbowing his friend with the pulled blaster.

"No," Jaster said, looking his once-friend in the eyes one last time.  "I am told Jetiise don't claim blood debts.  They prefer that people clean their own houses.  Give any Buire, Cabure, or Bajiise the first shot."

"In that case," the scholar said, whipping out a bes'bev.  Jaster turned away as the scream cut out on a wet gurgle.

"Don't clean the armor," Jaster instructed as he moved to report to the Baar'ur'e. "We will give it, as is, to the Jettiise, along with the trophies he kept of his crimes against them, that they may know justice has been carried out."

***

Jocasta glared at the comm that beeped at her moments before she was ready to leave the archive.  Technically she could leave it.  It was the long distance one, which meant a prerecorded message.  It had, technically, come in during her work hours, but only by a minute.  Nobody would know if she just… dealt with it tomorrow.

Well.  Not quite accurate.

She would know.

Sighing, she grabbed her notepad and pressed play.

A familiar figure, that of the Mandalorian who seemed not to understand the word No in any language she spoke (and that was NOT a small number of languages).  He wasn’t due for another round of trying to wear her down and get into her Archives for another week, though.

Then her mind let her process what else was on that face.

Unlike live holocalls, recorded messages were in full color.  His face was liberally splattered with red, the same shade as human blood.  His eyes were a warm brown, but glinting golden at the edges, like some nocturnal predator, and Jocasta’s skin pricked with instinctual caution.

Behind him… behind him was a woven sheet of brown and black and red and gold and blue and green, glittering with beads of metal, crystal, and ceramic.  Beads she knew without further inspection were attached to the braids of murdered children.

Her ears rushed with a roaring wave sound as she slammed the end-call button, then hurled the entire comm unit into the wall with the Force.  Power came to her hands easily, whipping through her office with the strength of her rage, her pain, a whirlwind caused by the sheer amount she had to bleed off into the Force so she could stand.

Staggering to her feet she stalked out, slamming the door shut with the Force rather than waiting for it to close automatically.

“Madame?” one of her assistants asked.  Normally she knew them all by name, by feel in the Force.  For everyone’s safety, she was currently blocking off the Force, and her nagging issue with connecting faces to people was in the way.

“Sabbatical,” she growled.  It wasn’t the first time something had come up and she’d needed to get away from delicate artifacts and records.

“Who?” the assistant asked, all four eyes narrowing, nictitating membranes fluttering shut.

“The Mandalorian.  It was bad.  I’ll be back… at some point.”

“We’ll keep things running,” the assistant promised.  “If he calls again I’ll route it to records in case he says anything useful.”

Chapter Text

It was with no small amount of dark humor that Patya Boma stormed the gates of the Jedi Temple, fifteen year old Padawan on her hip like a particularly uncooperative stack of datapads that would not stop insisting he didn’t need the Healers.  Despite said Padawan being underfed enough that he could be hoisted onto her hip like a particularly uncooperative stack of datapads.  She also didn’t have high hopes for his immunization status, given the state of the rest of his records.  Force only knew what else was going on, but that was out of her specialization, which is why he’d be going to the Healing Halls, regardless of his assessment.

“Ipatiy, you seem to have a growth on you,” the Healer who met them at the entrance to the Halls said with a grin.

“Feehr,” she nodded to her creche-brother, a sarcastic zabrak who technically was a researcher, but happened to be on service rotation at the Temple.  “You remember my side project?”

“Tracking all the age-outs to make sure everyone ends up properly trained?” Feehr said, blinking at Obi-Wan, who had gone suddenly still in her arms.  “Wait, is this the Bandomeer kid?  Shit.  Yeah.  Get him in room six, I’ll flag Che and Tumai.”

“Thank you, Feehr.”

***

Obi-Wan was quiet through his exam, which was mostly done by Master Feehr, with Master Che standing nearby taking notes.  When she left, he cleared his throat cautiously.

“Yes?” the zabrak asked, tucking his stylus across two horns and putting down his datapad.

“What did you mean… before.  When Master Boma brought me in?”

“About her project?  Yeah, Ipatiy… that is Specialist Boma, she’s been tracking all new Corpsmembers since she got access to those systems.  She likes to make sure everyone is being shuffled correctly, since she’s acutely aware of that particular shell game and has been since we were in the creche together.”

“Shell game?”

“Kiddo, do the math real quick.  We have a limited number of Knights and Masters.  Each year more of them reach the Senate-mandated age they can no longer train Padawans.  Each year, more die.  And every year we still have Initiates hitting thirteen standard.  Fewer over time, but we lose far fewer children than we do adult Jedi.  Since we’re only allowed one Padawan at a time….”

“There’s not enough.  I know that.  It’s why I was trying so hard, and even that wasn’t enough.”

“You were more than enough.  You weren’t supposed to be Corps, that’s why Patya was looking at your file.  You were supposed to be Yoda’s.”

Obi-Wan blinked, his world rearranging itself on top of him.

“See, there's a very old loophole in the Senate restrictions that basically means if one Master is deemed unable to train their student, another Jedi of their lineage can step up to finish the training, and kark the age limits on Masters.  Not to gossip, but there’s a reason Yoda was trying to set you up with Jinn and not another of his padawans or grand-padawans.  It’d be pretty easy to shuffle you from Jinn to Yoda.  But for those same reasons, he dragged his feet and… well.  You know what happened.”

“I got sent to the Corps, and Master Jinn finally decided I wasn’t going to Fall.”

“You got sent to an advance field posting where a child shouldn’t have been, and your paperwork trail utterly vanished for over a year,” Master Boma said, stepping into the room.

“Ipatiy, this is a closed consult room!” Feehr scolded.

“I finally got Jinn and Yoda herded into the Mind-healer offices,” she said with a sigh.  “I needed to check if Obi-Wan was alright, before I go dump my trauma on Tumai’s lap.  The mission was… bad.”

Obi-Wan frowned.  It hadn’t been that bad, surely.

Feehr had a similar look on his face.

“Mandalorians,” Master Boma said, then immediately started waving her creche-mate off the way Siri shoved off Garen when he fussed.  “I’m fine, they just wanted to talk .  About why we don’t go to Mandalorian Space.”  

“So physically fine, emotionally bleeding out,” Feehr assessed.  “Go, get your ass under one of those heavy blocker-blankets in Tu’s office and do what you need to.  I’ll guard your Padawan.”

“Not my Padawan,” she grumbled, accepting a gentle tap in the Force that made Obi-Wan grin to see even as he was disavowed again.  It didn’t sting as much anymore.

“Our Padawan then.  Technically I’m back on Knight rosters during my rotation.”

“Sure, that works, but if Judicial comes for my ass I’m throwing you under the speeder.  Take good care of our Padawan.”

Obi-Wan blinked again, world shifting subtly as he watched the Jedi who had saved him bundled off like Quin with a headcold.

Maybe he should speak to the mind-healer Master Che suggested.

***

“Have you been meditating?” Tumai asked casually, setting out the ritual tea set they used for this sort of thing.

“Define meditating,” Patya grumbled, pulling the Force-blocker lined blanket more firmly over her shoulders.  It provided a heavy weight and protected raw nerves from the input of the universe.

“You know what I mean,” Tumai said, brow-ridge twitching.  “Have you meditated with your kyber recently.”

Patya sighed.  “No time.  Lost Corps-kid on the border of Mandalorian space, two years ago, only found him now.”

“Two years!  Ipatiy, you know better!” Tumai scolded, setting the pot of hot water down with a clack on the reed-wood tray.  “You have to meditate with your saber-”

“What saber?” Patya scoffed at her old friend.  Tumai was a fellow Corpsmember, once, only they’d been cycled back to the main Temple after showing promise with Soul Healing during their base MedCorps training.  She doubted Tu recalled the days their kyber lived in a sealed box on their belt and not in a saber’s hilt.  “I’m Corps.  I have a ‘specialty multipurpose blade’ that uses the same inventory code in our systems as a box knife.  Its hilt is designed to look like a box knife.  For all intents and purposes, it is a box knife.”

“You still need to meditate with it,” Tumai sniffed.  “Kyber is far more stable in the force than we are.  It stores a good imprint for you to self-regulate off of.”

“When, Tumai?” Patya asked with a sigh.  “When I was trying to find Yoda’s Padawan on the edge of Mandalorian space after he vanished off our records during a slave revolt on Bandomeer?  When I was fresh off re-living Feemor’s death and ripping all the scars off of losing Lia?  During the whole bacta fiasco…”

“They’re calling it the Stark Hyperspace War,” Tumai said, pouring water over the tea to open the leaves.  They passed the cup to Patya, who used it to feed the little figurine of living stone, feeling the Force ripple happily as the liquid passed over it.

“That is the stupidest name,” Patya said with an eye roll.  “Stark was, at best, a fall man and it had nothing to do with Hyperspace.  Still, I wasn’t exactly whipping out my kyber during that mess.  That asshole senator had the unnecessary blade-waving covered, and I was just concerned with keeping the medics I was billeted with from getting torn apart by the mobs.”

“You weren’t on that mission, I didn’t think?” Tumai said, pouring Patya’s cup.  Payta took it with the shallow bow expected, then savored the smell for a moment.

“Oh I was on the far side of the sector from it, on Phindar.  But you were here weren’t you?”

“This is where my patients are.”

“So you didn’t see what a sudden fear of a bacta shortage did to people,” Patya nodded.  “They were… irrational.  Stockpiling, sometimes outright looting, medics were getting shook down in alleyways, and the city ran out of refresher wipes.”

“What?  Why?  That’s totally unrelated to bacta.”

“People were scared,” Patya shrugged, sipping her tea.  It was good, as always.  “Scared people do dumb shit.  Also, did you see my report about Phindar?”

“Yes, I did, although I have no idea how we missed such a big psychic wound,” Tumai answered before taking their own sip.  

“To be fair, that year was sort of insane.  Still, I saw what people did over bandages and refresher wipes.  I wasn’t exposing my kyber to that level of risk.  I did get a little meditation in, but it was shallow.  Maintenance level.  Not what you want me doing.”

“Psychometry comes with additional risks,” Tumai reminded gently.  “I just want you to be able to find your way back.”

“I did,” Patya countered, waving at herself.  “See?  One piece and everything.”

“Sure, sure.  When you’re ready, we can see if you really are in one piece.”

Patya sighed, finished her tea, and dropped her shields enough to let Tumai in to help patch her battered soul up again.

***

The Clan Heads didn’t look terribly happy to be summoned like this.  Jaster didn’t particularly care.

“Mereel,” Alor Eldar said gruffly.  “I know you have… interests, but this is a very inappropriate request.  Clan artifacts and trophies have always been sacrosanct.  These traditions show respect to those we met in honorable combat and to our warriors who successfully defended themselves and their aliit.  They act as an enduring record of our survival as both people and culture.  Your study of the Jetiise is not a good enough reason to demand we hand over the tokens of our people’s honor.”

Jaster bit down on the growl that fought to leave his throat like a striil scenting prey.  He wasn’t entirely successful by the way the Alore shifted.

“If these are…,” he swallowed hard around the words, “honorable trophies to you, then either you do not know what they mean, what they are… or you don’t care.   In the first case, I have very bad news for you.  If it’s the second, I’ll be killing you and melting down your beskar’gam myself.”

Alor Eldar staggered, shoulders squaring as if to fight back.  Jaster smacked his crutch into the floor with a sound like a hammer, cutting through grumbled protests.

“They are ad’aliike and the closest thing a Jetii has to beskar’gam,” Jaster spat in the bigger Mando’ad’s face.  “If you think ad’aliike and stolen beskar’gam are appropriate trophies, you’ll join Montross as Dar’manda.”

Two people audibly gagged.  A third collapsed to their knees with a crashing sound of armor.

“But… Jetiise,” began Alor Skirata.  Alor Eldar slammed them to the floor without so much as a twitch of warning, a grating growl from their buy’ce echoing in Jaster’s chest as the Manda reassured him that those who shared his soul acted on his behalf while he was injured.

“Ad’e.  Ven.  Cuyot.” Alor Eldar snarled.

“Did you know?” Jaster demanded, snapping the question out so quickly that both Mando’ade twisted to look at him.  “Did you know what they were?”

“I… I knew the braids were from the trainees, but they… they’re all past 13!” Alor Skirata insisted.  “Verd’ike, not ad’ike, my clan would never attack an actual child!  It has never been forbidden to take evidence of a victory in honorable combat against an acknowledged enemy, and the Jetii carry so little else.”

“Your son, Kal,” Jaster said slowly.  “He’s past his verd’goten, yeah?”

Alor Skirata stilled.  “You wouldn’t.”

“Hurt him?  No,” Jaster assured.  “But I might just add his old ad’aliike to the Ceta-Skira I give the Jetiise.  Since you seem to think they don’t matter after he turned 13, you can send that instead of your precious trophies.”

Alor Skirata let out a wounded howl and thrashed as Alor Eldar planted their knee in Skirata’s lumbar when the pinned Mando’ad tried to rise, fighting to protect the symbol of their child’s place in their clan, of the connection between them as buir bal ad. 

The other alore muttered among themselves at Jaster's pronouncement that he would give Ceta-Skira, the deepest possible ritual of atonement possible, sacrificing both the unjustly taken sabers and braids as well as his own honor and quite possibly his life.  It was a big decision, especially as Mand’alor, but he thought it was right, and the Manda hummed agreement in his blood when he considered it.

“Ad’aliike are ad’aliike and it doesn’t matter if the ad in question is three, thirteen, or thirty,” Jaster said firmly.  “Jetii sabers hold their souls the way our beskar'gam holds ours.  We’ve been keeping prisoners of war for centuries, and it is time they go home.”   

The gathered Alore sobered, pulling themselves together enough to face him, prepared to hear his commands in response to this horror.

“This is my order as Mand’alor.  We will kneel for the sins we carry.  We owe a terrible debt, have owed it for far too long, and we will pay it with honor or we will be unworthy to bear the name Mando’ade.”

“It shames me, but… there are a few in my clan who will not kneel,” Alor Rau said softly.  “I don’t think I have any like Montross, but I know I have some prideful verde who will argue that because our clan never… went out of our way to hunt like that, it is different.  Who will argue that the debt only requires the return of the ad’aliike and kad’aue, and not kneeling, not offering full Ceta-Skira.”

“Those who wish to argue… their armor will be used to protect the very Jetii’tsad we wronged,” Jaster said solemnly.  “We took advantage of their lack of armor once… so we will give them ours.”

“Mand’alor…” someone at the back whistled.

“It’s a vow from our people to theirs,” Jaster insisted.  “No more Jetii Hunts, no more taking ad’aliike or kad’aue.  Nu draar.  Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it.”

Chapter Text

After leaving sixteen messages on the Jedi Archive com number, Jaster gave up, temporarily, on that avenue, and turned instead towards the only other library that might have information on archaic details of the Jedi Order. The Royal Archives of Alderaan. 

Mind, he probably should have slept sometime between yet another futile research binge and calling halfway across the galaxy, the poor girl manning the research com center did not deserve to listen to his disjointed ranting, but he hadn’t and Breha was very understanding. Apparently that was a common problem among researchers of obscure fields.  Soldiers, scholars, and villains all seemed to be devoid of the sense to sleep reasonable hours like saner people, and Jaster was two out of the three.

“Alright,” Breha said brightly, “I’ve got a search running through our database for anything regarding the armor and equipment of the Army of the Light, that will take just a few minutes. In the meantime, I think I may have another potential avenue for your research if you’re interested.” 

Her smile was bright but her eyes were furious in a way that made Jaster think of a Baar’ur catching sight of a medbay-jumper.  Jaster grinned back, aware his was just as sharp and bloody.

“Yes please,” he agreed.  

“In overview, in the wake of the Sith Wars, Militarism in general and Jedi Expansionism in specific was perceived to be a leading cause of the many wars preceding the Ruusan Armistice.  And the sudden lack of any appearance of Sith supported that opinion, so the Republic wrote the Ruusan Reformation, which, among other things, took armor, non-lightsaber weapons, and all means of supporting an army from the Jedi.  Lightsabers are allowed as a religious symbol, but only if the Jedi in question are within the segment of the Order that may reasonably have need of them in defense of the public.   They are not allowed firearms, armor, ships armed with more than minimally defensive weaponry, or ‘machines of war.’”

Breha rolled her eyes, reminding Jaster strongly of Jango talking about the stupidity of some of his verde.  Of course, he somewhat agreed.  Somewhat then turning to entirely as she kept talking.

“In the same document, the Republic disbanded their own army barring only a skeleton crew galactic police force, named the Judicial Arm of the Republic.  The Senate of the time simply voted to give a substantial portion of those tasks, and the funding for accomplishing them, to the Jedi.  Of course, since the Jedi are largely an ascetic order, they were also banned from accepting monetary donations, on the premise of preventing bribery and or attempts to rebuild their army.  They are allowed only ‘gifts of a symbolic nature’ at the conclusion of services.

“The budget set out for the Jedi by the Reformation has never been increased, despite inflation, but has received several cuts throughout the centuries.”  Breha breathed deeply through her nose for a moment and Jaster swallowed hard in anticipation of what made the girl take calming breaths.  “Alderaan has a several centuries long standing tradition of making ‘symbolic gifts for services rendered’ of things that are inherently useful and in quantities that can aid several individuals.  Most of our defense budget goes to that actually, on the logic that making friends and relieving economic pressures reduces our chances of needing to defend ourselves.  The Senate doesn’t reprimand us because we made it the tradition for all services rendered, not just the Jedi.”  She smiled viciously. “They think it’s quaint, a naïve over-generosity, and as such, do not see it as undermining them.  But, perhaps, it is time to remind them of who Alderaan is.”

“How, exactly, are you going to do that?” Jaster asked worriedly. Teens do not need to be doing things that might get them labeled as terrorists, after all. Should he be sending a team to Alderaan to protect a librarian? Or to sit on her? Maybe both?

“I’m Crown Princess-Apparent Breha Organa, my suitor is a Junior Aide to Alderaan's Senior Senator, who is my uncle.  If I want a statement made, it will be made.”

Oh. That’ll do it.

“...Do I need to send you some verde?  I’m happy to lend backup to an ally.”

“No,” she smiled, “My own are sufficient, but I will happily take books and copies of your own theses and treatises. I collect histories, laws, and philosophies from around the galaxy, you see. But I’m distinctly lacking in perspectives from your corner of the galaxy.”

The terminal next to her pinged, “Oh, and the search is done, we do have several sources for you. Let me just pack a file real quick.”

The com call went quiet as she clicked away on her terminal, and Jaster took the time to do the same, creating a file with a copy of everything from his Supercommando Codex to his essays on various Mand’alore and treatises on the flow of political relations between Mandalore and other cultures and governments, and the resources he used for them, including a primer on Mando’a.  

She deserved it for putting up with his rant, giving him useful information, and finding resources that would help him solve a very big problem for his whole people.  If that’s what she wanted as payment for her service, that’s what she’d get.  Two more clicks and it was on its way. 

Another moment and the comm terminal beeped its reception of a very large file. Payment well earned.

“There you go!” Princess Breha chirped. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“No, thank you,” Jaster said, smiling. “Go take a well-earned break, my terminal is informing me you’ve been working for at least three hours. Get a snack, at least.”

Breha laughed and Jaster gave himself a pat on the back. “I’m actually off in about five minutes and I see one of my guards hovering. Have a good day, Mister Mereel, and happy hunting.”

“Happy hunting to you as well,” Jaster returned, clicking the end-call button and withdrawing his drive from the terminal. “Happy hunting to us both.”

***

One of the extra reading items the princess of Alderaan had sent Jaster was a particularly oversized volume by a Master Yan Dooku entitled "Consequences of the Reformation."  Along with references to specific articles of the Ruusan Reformation, it entailed a brief summary of every mission report and task undertaken by every branch of the Jedi Order within one year some fifty years ago.  It was not small, and noted a rather large number of deceased in the line of duty Jedi.

Jaster didn't know why he did it, morbid curiosity most likely, but he pulled a separate data pad over, scrolled back to the beginning of the file and began calculating just how much it would cost the Haat Mando'ade to do all the same things in the same timeframe.  The gargantuan number staring him in the face halfway through was depressing, and he gave up.

A glance at the chrono displaying a problematically small number, and he saved the file and went to bed.  He did not pick it back up in the morning, he moved on to his intended research, opening a new file to document the changes to beskar'gam needed to suit a Jedi's needs.

The spreadsheet he'd made, detailing the time frame of each mission, number of ships, verd'e, food, fuel, medical equipment, arms and ammunition, and the running costs lingered on the datapad untouched.

An… amount of time later, certainly, Jango trotted up to him at his favorite study carrel in the Keldabe Miit’be’yaim to drag him back to the comm terminal.  Goran Vorpaya had finally gotten through watching the buy’ce record of the verd who’d found the Jet’bajii and their child, and forwarded it to Jaster with their notes and assessments.

Obviously, he dropped everything in a pile and hurried off, knowing full well nobody here would disturb his work. 

***

Itzal Qur was aware his life was not going to end peacefully, joining the Force in his old age.

He had chosen the Path of the Shadow anyway.

Still, his heart grieved when he woke to find tickets on a commercial flight to Mandalore tucked into his hands.  While the Force often led him in his sleep, somnambulant visions preparing him for his next step, he had never before seen such a clear sign that he would need to walk directly into death.

There is Death, and yet the Force, he reminded himself.

Itzal shot off a quick text-com to the senior Shadow who supervised his missions, notifying them of what would likely be his final mission, and left to make his flight.  The flight itself was calm, business passengers mostly, and a family of Mandalorians, three adults in armor, five younglings, returning from a vacation.  He gleaned what he could, but by the time they landed, he had no clearer of an idea where he was supposed to go.  In hopes of more guidance, he went to the one place a traveler could always reliably take a short nap without paying for a room.

Keldabe Library, labeled in Mando’a with words that - based on the small Basic-Mando’a dictionary he’d found in his belt - roughly translated to Word Armory.  Which… figured.

He sat down at a study kiosk, laid his head on his arms, and let the Force lead.

When he woke, he had someone else’s datapad in his hands, unlocked already, displaying the preparations for war.  Another few flicks of his hands, and an analysis of Army of Light era armor and weapons faced him.  Itzal let out a rattling hiss through his anti-oxygen mask, set the datapad down among the pile of records it seemed to have come from, and very carefully walked as quickly as he could without catching attention to the nearest holo-cafe to send a message.

Not the cleanest message, but the fastest, arriving in under a day, and in this case….

It wasn’t like he’d planned to make it out of Mandalore alive, anyways.  It was a death trap, all Jedi knew that and Shadows were not given to excessive optimism behind the lines of any enemy, but especially the Mandalorians.

Not when they were preparing for open war against the Jedi.

***

“Oh.” Breha said blankly, looking at the large file she’d received at work on her bedroom’s terminal. “Mister Mereel is that Mereel.  Mand’alor Mereel.”

The text of the Supercommando Codex glared at her as she stared blankly at her screen, drawing up memories of other historical laws still on Republic books. The Jedi weren’t the only people to get kriffed over by the Senate, after all.  Finally Breha sighed and shut down her terminal, sticking her head out the door to speak with her guards.

“I’m going to be comming Bail,” she told them, “It’ll be a while, and probably get loud, feel free to ignore everything short of screaming for the next… few hours, probably.  Mand’alor Mereel ranted for three hours about Republic abuses of the Jedi Order, I’ll need at least as long to rant at my representatives about the same.  Especially since I need to add Mandalore to the list of aggrieved parties.”

***

Junior Senate Aide Bail Prestor was usually quite punctual.  Which was why, when he slipped into a meeting nearly half an hour late, Senator Bail Antilles raised a brow and flicked dust off his shoulder with a pre-arranged handsign meaning “we need to speak”.

After the meeting ended, he shifted to look the adventurous boy in the eyes, and let his aide speak first.

“The Royal Family had… concerns, and requested my time,” Prestor said eventually.  “You needed to be in this meeting, I did not, and well….”

“They outrank me,” Senator Antilles said with a wry smile.  “What’s Breha up to these days?”

“Possibly staging a rebellion,” Prestor sighed dreamily.  “She’s mad about how the Jedi are being treated, how the Mandalorians have been treated, and generally upset that the majority of the Republic Senate don’t behave sensibly.”

“Understandable, but a bit vague,” Antilles said, brows rising.  “That vagueness concerns me when it comes to my lovely niece and you.”

“She wants to make a Statement of some sort.  Apparently the Mandalorians have a new King and he’s very progressive and exceedingly sensible, so she thinks this is a great time to exercise some tactical diplomacy and facilitate negotiations.”

“I mean, I could try reaching out to the Jedi,” Antilles said consideringly.  “I’m unsure if I’m the best person to contact the Mandalorians, I don’t have many contacts there.”

“You know that one Duke, don’t you?” Prestor suggested.  “You helped set up the boarding school for his daughter.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely right!  I didn’t think of it at first, we haven’t really spoken since I served as his proxy, but I could absolutely reach out to Duke Kryze.  I think I could even manufacture a reason to get him and a Jedi in the same room, probably.  Once they start talking I’m sure we can reach a united front.”

***

Cin Drallig didn’t usually work with Shadows.  He was far too blunt a weapon for that.  However, when the Master of Shadows invites you to tea, you go.

“A report we have, out of Mandalore,” Yaddle said gravely.  “I am… concerned about our current readiness.”

“War,” Cin whispered.  He was Battlemaster, ostensibly a teaching position, one given short enough shift in their interactions with the Senate to obscure the less-than-legal things a Battlemaster did.  Like prepare for war.

Yaddle nodded, sipping her tea.  “Analysis was found on a datapad belonging to one of the faction heads, it appeared to be plans for full-scale ground assaults.  And… assessments of the weaknesses of Jedi armor.”

“The Temple Guard,” Cin said in horror.  The ceremonial armor allowed the Temple Guard wasn’t the most effective, but it was better than what they could legally give anyone else in the Order, and it cost the Guard dearly.  No living Jedi was allowed armor… so officially, as far as the records and budget allotments went, every Guard was deceased.  They gave up their status as living citizens of the Republic to take on the armor and staff of their calling.  To think someone would conspire to make that painful legal fiction a reality….

“We have no idea when this assault will take place, and we cannot afford the Senate’s ire at the moment.  We skirted the rules far too closely on Troiken and Thyferra, they are on the watch for military action,” Yaddle explained.  “All preparation must be deniable, and concealable.”

Cin nodded.  He could do this.  Over nine hundred years the Battlemasters had considered this problem, mapped plans and laid in contingencies.  He would need to check the evacuation routes, shift the Creche to its alternate location further down the Temple, where the forgotten tunnels let out below the habitable zones of Coruscant.  Then he would have to call his counterparts in the Corps, get them to initiate the supply line logistics on the Rim where the Senate didn’t seem to care what went on.

Of course, Mandalore was a Rim-world, they’d have to be cautious not to let anyone know what was happening.

“The Shadow that sent the report, are they…” he trailed off as Yaddle’s Force signature dimmed in sadness.  “I’m sorry.”

“Itzal Qur was a good Jedi.  He knew the risks he took, and what we stood to lose if he did not take them.  The funeral will be in five days.”

“I’ll be there.  We won’t forget his sacrifice.”

Chapter Text

In the week or so after they’d returned from the mission, Obi-Wan had spent more time in the Halls of Healing than he had since he was a Youngling.  Namely, he hadn’t left them, being moved from the exam room to a very soothing private room.  It wasn’t big, enough room for a bed-alcove, a set of shelves with entertainment and comfort items, and a table big enough to eat at, with a small refresher attached.  But it was comfortable, feeling neutral in the Force in the way only things frequently cleansed of their impressions did.

When he stepped out of his room for supervised walks, the Force actually felt lighter.  Not Lighter as in the Light side, but lighter as in less heavy.  Like the invisible weight of his duties sat less clumsily on his shoulders, and he could breathe properly.  Everything else felt less heavy, too.

Apparently he hadn’t been growing right, something in what he was eating (or rather wasn’t eating) had slowed it down, and getting the right nutrient supplements was helping it feel like it should have this whole time.  Which, as it turned out, made it easier to move. Honestly, he was pretty sure he didn’t need to be here any more, he felt so good, but none of the Healers wanted to let him leave.

Or rather, they didn’t want to let him leave with Master Jinn.

Which was… fair.  With time and mind-healing and not being exhausted and in pain, Obi-Wan was capable of the abstraction necessary to ask himself if he’d let Master Jinn have care of another youngling, and the answer was a resounding no.   So regardless of his own feelings about being rendered Masterless, he agreed with the Healers and stayed in the Halls and mostly tried not to be a bother.

However, he did perk up in an undignified way when he spotted his rescuer in the dining hall set aside for those in the Healing Halls.

“Mas- Madame Boma!” he said with a smile as she turned to greet him with a friendly half-bow that was almost the nod that a Master would give their own Padawan.  Obi-Wan tried not to be upset at the longing ache that started in his chest.

“Padawan Kenobi, it is wonderful to see you looking so well,” she said.  “Would you care to eat with me?”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, and set his tray on her table, seating himself.  “How have you been?”

“Healing, which is slow but to be expected,” she said with solemnity, the statement weighed and measured for truth before being released.

“Nobody would tell me what was wrong,” Obi-Wan said.  “I was worried.  I’m not a Healer like Bant but if you were hurt I should have at least noticed.”

“No, they wouldn’t have.  While as a culture the Jedi are not particularly concerned with keeping the details of physical injuries secret, privacy is very important to the healing of some wounds.  Control of who knows about the injury is part of the treatment.”

“But if a mission partner doesn’t know where injuries are, they might accidentally re-open them,” Obi-Wan said slowly.

“I am aware of the limitations, but it is still helpful.  Or would you like to openly discuss your time on Bandomeer with the Temple at large?”

Obi-Wan blanched and shook his head.  It was bad enough after Melidaan, when everyone thought they knew what had happened.

“Wait, how do you know about….”

“Because when you dropped off the records, I was… concerned,” Madame Boma answered with a soft smile.  “When I saw where you dropped off the records, I was… motivated.   I’m the Corps equivalent of a Wandering Master, I’m allowed to make my own schedule for my touring lectures and research trips, so I arranged a visit to Bandomeer.  Met some of your friends.  Too late to have found you, obviously; I wasn’t able to get there until a couple months after your records got flagged, which itself was a week after you were taken and believe you me I had words with the Corpsmaster there about it.  But recently enough everyone remembered the brave young man who led them to freedom.”

“That’s not… I didn’t… I’m not brave.”

“I’m a researcher,” Madame Boma said gently but firmly.  “I know how to verify citations and vet sources.  You were very brave, and you did the right thing in a horrible no-win situation, and I’m not at all surprised Tumai isn’t clearing you to leave yet.”

“It feels… weird, that you know about that,” Obi-Wan admitted.

“I know.  That’s why privacy is so important for soul-healing.  Would it feel better if we were more even?  I’m open to answering questions about my… situation, although I reserve the right to censor details as needed.”

He weighed it.  It might not actually help, but he wanted to get to know the older Jedi better - the terrible selfish part of him wanted to build a training bond with her, and this felt like the sort of shared understanding that he saw between Quinlan and Tholme, or Siri and Master Gallia.

“I know some of it, you mentioned you weren’t Clan Boma to start with… and it’s clear you have problems with Mandos.”  He shrugged.  “I can do that math.  You lost a friend.  What… what was their name?”

“Lia… Lia of Boma Clan,” she laughed tightly.  “Lia was my sibling-of-the-soul.  Adventurous where I was cautious, quick where I was steady, my balance in the Force, she made me a better Jedi just by being my friend.  I knew very early I wasn’t going to seek the path of a Knight; I did the math and decided to cede that place to another.  Lia was going to be an amazing Knight.  Until she and her Master took a mission that went rather too close to Mandalorian space.”

Obi-Wan didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t.  He tried to imagine Quinlan or Bant being… not there and his heart hitched.

“We didn’t actually know what exactly happened to them for a year.  Missing on mission, no details.  Then we found a holo.  A news briefing with a picture of someone accepting some sort of award.  Their bodyguard was a Mandalorian.  And they had Lia’s braid on their shoulder.”  Madame Boma took a shuddering breath.  “So we reset the timer on offering aid to Mandalore, and put Master and Padawan to rest as best we could with no bodies and no sabers.  I took Lia’s clan name when I became a Senior Corpsmember and began my advanced degrees as Patya Boma.”

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan said, reaching out gently in the Force.  She accepted the touch but gently folded it away from other pains, and he accepted that boundary.

“She is with the Force, and one day I will be as well.  So will we all.  In the meantime, I try to live the way she’d want.  I push myself the way she pushed me.  I set myself upon a path of rightness and discovery, and I refuse to let it wander into complacency or corruption.  She may not be among us, but she still makes me a better Jedi.”

***

Jaster hadn’t seen the Kel Dor currently sharing the study room around before.  Oftentimes he ended up with the whole study room to himself, even if it was designed to fit multiple scholars.  He assumed it was out of respect his people gave him space.  Jango insisted it was healthy self-preservation.  Either way, it meant Jaster often was without a good objective third party to talk things out to.  When given the opportunity, he was loath to pass it up.

“Pardon me, friend,” he said politely.  The Kel Dor looked up, face distantly curious from what could be seen past the anti-oxygen mask.  “I was wondering if I could borrow you a moment, I need to talk something out with someone who hasn’t been staring at the same project for a week."

“Jaster, no,” Jango sighed despairingly.  “You can’t just kidnap people for your weird research hobbies!”

“Oh Jango shush, controls are important in inquiry.  I'm sure this fine being doesn't mind letting me bounce some ideas off them."  Jaster smiled winningly and tilted his head.

“I could use a break, sure, let’s hear what you have,” the Kel Dor said gamely, and Jaster gave a very dignified nod and didn’t even pump his fist in victory.  Jango did not seem to appreciate his restraint, muttering about ‘run while you still can’.

Of course, Jaster was neither a fool nor rude, so he began with a basic overview of what he knew of the Jetiise, their history and situation in the modern context.  It was always good to make sure your audience understood the fundamentals, and it was a rather niche topic so he couldn’t assume this person even knew what a Jetii was.   Fortunately, his new friend nodded along, clearly picking up the topic with remarkable speed, and Jaster flushed with the joy of finding an ally in this particular scholarly battle.

By the time he was done laying the groundwork, it was getting late enough that Jango had returned with the librarian to gently evict Jaster for the night.

“You may, of course, return tomorrow, Mand’alor,” she said sternly.  “I will ensure your materials are left undisturbed.  You as well, Ser.  I’ve gotten you a visitor ident card, since you’re not a Keldabe resident. ”

“Oh, I just realized I pulled you away from all your own research, how rude of me,” Jaster exclaimed.  “Let me make it up to you, friend.”

“Oh there’s no need-” the Kel Dor demurred, but Jaster was determined to pay his debts after taking so much of a visiting scholar’s limited time.

“Nu naas,” Jaster said.  “Come, have dinner with us.  And you can share your research as well, don’t let me have all the fun!”

“As you say,” his new friend agreed.

“Say, what’s your name, friend?”

“Itzal Qur.”

***

Itzal had been both cautious and grateful to the Force when the Mandalorian warlord had approached him.  Obviously his first thought was that he’d been discovered, caught snooping in the man’s datapads.  Of course it was too simple to be able to just walk up to the war plans of an enemy leader and read them, even with the Force.  That he’d doubled back again, just in case he could find more, just meant he had accepted the mission’s finality.  When it turned out he had not been discovered, and instead was being offered a position of confidant as the man planned his assault on Itzal’s people, well….

The Force had a sense of humor, sometimes, a blasphemy all Shadows knew well.

Of course, that hadn’t made it easy to listen to an academically clinical summary of the more painful parts of his people’s history, punctuated by common misconceptions, mistranslations, and the occasional outright falsehood.  He was a Shadow, though, and he used the mask of the neutral third party to hide his feelings as the Mandalorian rambled, and silently added up the statements both true and false to better decipher what plans were being laid.  If he could get a second message to Coruscant, it would be well worth it.

If, however, is a strong word.

So now, Itzal found himself seated around a low table in a semi-sunken seating area in the middle of the home of the warlord of Mandalore, drinking a wonderfully flavorful fish soup through a metal straw wide enough to actually provide a decent mouthful without dislodging his anti-oxygen mask.

“More gi’pirpaak?” Jango Fett, the warlord’s son, asked.

“Yes, please, this is delicious,” Itzal answered.  It was, but also drinking bought him time to come up with a better cover story.  Unfortunately, spontaneous Force-led wandering did not come pre-equipped with a backstopped identity or reason to be where you ended up.

“While he’s getting that, tell me more about your research project,” Mereel said jovially, and Itzal resisted the urge to wince.

“Mandalorian Wars and their tactics,” Itzal answered, hoping the Force knew what it was doing to put those words in his mouth.  Who knew how swiftly he’d die if he offended his host?  “What better place to do that than the capital city?”

Fortunately, the claim did not seem to offend anyone.

Unfortunately, the claim made Mereel light up with a glow Itzal knew only from his friends who had become Knight Archivists and EduCorps Specialists, particularly when asked a question pertaining to their field of study.  The idea of an Archivist as fully armed as a Mandalorian, with tactics and war as their field, made his internal organs clench in deep, primal fear.

However, it was far too late for him to run.  He was able to play off a lack of knowledge of the topic aside from what little he remembered from his Galactic History and History of the Order lessons as a Padawan as merely being very early in his research.  He was not able to then stop his host from providing a far more in-depth history lesson, although the discomfort was salved some by young Fett providing more soup, and then a dessert-like beverage with caff after, with a rueful and sympathetic grin each time.

By the time the lesson trailed off, Mereel starting to wander in circles about his Codex, a set of guidelines he wrote to define the ways traditional Mandalorian warfare could feasibly and honorably exist in the modern galaxy, it was late.  Or, rather, early.

“Where are you quartered?” Fett asked, draping a blanket across his father’s shoulders.  “I’ll get you a ride.”

“Oh, I hadn’t yet arranged a room,” Itzal said, wondering how he could reasonably talk around what he wanted to say, which was ‘ the Force will provide’ and was significantly less safe to say here than in the rest of the Galaxy.

“You must stay here!” Mereel insisted, his exclamation cracking on a yawn at the end.  “It’s far too late to find a place now, and it’s my fault, really.  You’re much too nice, letting me ramble at you like this.”

“It was… educational,” Itzal said mildly, not acknowledging the offer.  If he could escape this home, he could send another message to the Temple, better arm them for the coming conflict.

“See, now you must stay, friend,” Mereel said with a slightly deranged grin.  “I need a fellow scholar around here who understands what’s really important!  First of the six actions!”

Itzal laughed nervously.

“I’ll put him in the guest suite, Jaster,” Fett said with a shrug.  “Come on, I suppose you’re well and truly kidnapped now.”

“Um…” Itzal said slowly, rising to follow Fett as he was bid.

“I tried to warn you to run while you still could, but you didn’t listen,” Fett scoffed.  “Now you’ll never escape.”

Itzal swallowed hard, and tried to release his fears into the Force.

***

The next day, Itzal was subtly but firmly herded back into the central room every time he tried to probe the security for an escape.  He wasn’t sure his host noticed the attempts, per se, certainly the man’s household had, and yet none seemed to have sympathy with his plight.  More amusement at the way Mereel enthused at Itzal, every moment spent talking out his project.

Which, it turned out, did involve the Jedi, but not in the ways Itzal’s first report had indicated.  There was never a chance to slip away and update it, however.  No, not with Jaster Mereel’s unflagging academic drive, relentlessly conjecturing and postulating about how exactly the Jedi pulled off the number and scale of missions they did with next to nothing.

Part of Itzal wanted to roll his eyes and point out the obvious.  If the Jedi could not do their job with the resources legally given, obviously they were gaining those resources illegally.   He did not cultivate an entire false identity as a wandering Sabacc shark to get his contributions waved away as impossible, for the Force’s sake!  Nico Diath getting turned in for his ridiculous bounties alone had funded every mission that passed close enough to Hutt Space for a credit transfer.  According to rumor, there was some reckless asshole named Kenobi who kept selling himself in a far riskier variation of the bounty-breakout trick, but frankly Itzal didn’t really believe that one.

He didn’t say any of that, though, because he still didn’t really trust the seemingly cheerful academic.  Mandalorians had cheerfully and academically perpetrated horrific crimes before.  And they weren't the only ones, Mad Scientists existed everywhere, after all.  And Itzal definitely couldn't say Jaster was sane. If he wished to keep his head, he’d need to keep it down.

Of course, then a different Mando was ushered in by guards who seemed to hover in the space between respect and terror usually reserved for angry Crechemasters. 

This new Mando was also angry, and ranting with every breath.

Ranting about Jedi.

And suddenly everything shifted, the Force lining up in ways he very rarely saw while waking.

The Mandalorians he had been captured by did not hate Jedi.  They grieved for them.  They had encountered someone, a Master and Padawan, and seen past the shield of Jedi serenity to the truth few saw.  Even among Jedi there were those who chose to close their eyes to the unpleasant truths of their Order, so they could still serve the Light.  Among outsiders… there were so few who saw even a portion of what had been done, and fewer still who cared.

These Mandalorians cared.   Their grief and rage shook the Force with a fury like a marching army.  It could have been Dark, the wild, painful way they felt, the guilt they bore for not having seen it sooner.  It wasn’t Dark, but neither was it Light.  It burned like a raging fire, like the exposed core of a hyperdrive, an untamed chaos of change that swept away the stagnant shadows.

Itzal no longer feared he would be killed if they discovered he was a Jedi.

He was slightly concerned he would never be allowed to leave, though.

“We have to armor them,” the newcomer said firmly.  Despite theoretically outranking her, Mereel immediately agreed.

“Of course, Goran.  I’ve been looking at designs,” he said.  “I have notes, oh it’s that one.  Itzal, hand me that please.”

“Who is this,” Goran said sharply.  “A new verd?”

“No, no, a fellow researcher.  He’s been helping me.  Yes, this is what I was able to get on the old Army of Light armor.  If we replicate our own there’s some chance it won’t suit Jetii fighting forms.  Unfortunately it’s hard to test since our people will have all trained for strength and Jetii training seems to focus on dexterity.  Say, Itzal, how flexible are you?”

“Me?” Itzal asked, wishing his species could ‘flop sweat’ the way his human crechemates had when caught in a prank.  “Decently.”

“Great, you’ll help test this design.  Goran, try to give him back in good condition?”

Chapter Text

The word had spread quickly after the Clan Heads had met with the Mand’alor.  To the credit of the Mando’ade, the majority quickly and respectfully handed over the sabers and braids in their care.  A few argued, Alor Rau had not been wrong in his assessment of the excuses given.  There were several who had to be talked through the difference between taking a strip of kama or a side-arm off a fallen Kyr’tsad verd who had given a particularly good fight, and removing the braids or saber of a Jetii who had done the same.

More rarely, a verd exposed themself as a monster who had hunted the Jetiise themselves, and their fellows dragged them to the ground where disappointed gorane stripped their armor with deft and skillful hands.  

Such a shift carried with it the explanations of why such an act was worthy of casting someone from the Manda.

Such explanations carried with them a deep pain, and a desire to fix it.

When whispers of the Jet’bajii who had exposed this hidden evil in their midst spread, so too did the talk of what else they had said.  Whispers of the Jetiise having lost their armor, their clans, their legal ability to defend themselves or others.  Three of the six actions that the Jetiise had kept once, and now no longer could.

And after those whispers, the deep pain, the longing for redemption… found an anchor.

“What if we just … adopt, like, every last karking one of them?” a beroya suggested in the hallowed halls of the Oyu’baat.  “If they’re Mando, they can have armor again.”

“Then they can have families,” added another, a Haat’ad on ev’adiik leave.

“Jaster wouldn’t tell them they couldn’t fight for kids who need it, not never,” slurred a scholar who’d had a bit too much tihaar.

“I heard Jaster plans to basically adopt the whole damn Order,” a verd in Eldar colors added.  “That’s where the beskar pulled from the demagolkase is all going.”

“Yeah, the Mand’alor is a smart one,” the beryoa who started the conversation agreed.  “But big things like that take time.   We should be supporting our Mand’alor and adopting the Jetiise where we can.”

***

Zanlin Vand was a Jedi Master.  She was one with the Force and the Force was with her.  She would complete her mission or die trying.

Dying trying seemed particularly likely as they’d picked up a tail of the beskar-clad variety.  The mission was thankfully easy enough as long as she could keep them ahead of the Mandalorian hunting her long enough to deliver the courier carrying the sacred relic to the ancient temple of his people.  They were most of the way there, really.

She just hoped she could get far enough away afterwards that her death did not taint the holy place.  She explained, and apologized for not being able to provide an escort back.  The Courier nodded their veiled head and accepted it with easy grace.

At the steps of the ancient temple, the Force swirling in arcane patterns Zanlin couldn’t track, they said goodbye.

“Take this, please, get it back to the Jedi,” Zanlin said, carefully handing over her saber.

“This smells… sacred,” the Courier said slowly, their deep voice pulling at Zanlin’s chest.

“It is my life,” she said simply.  “And while I have no illusions that the one hunting me might kill me, I don’t wish them to wear my life as a trophy or mount it on a wall.  If I escape, the Order will gladly return it to me, and if I do not, it will rest among the lives of all my people.”

“I understand.  You have aided in my sacred task.  I shall ensure yours is completed.”

“Thank you, friend,” Zanlin whispered, then ran, the Force at her feet, each step a sailing leap of many yards.

***

“Alright, so what have we learned?”

“Jedi are much harder to adopt than previously thought.  Also they’re fast karkers.  Tell Jaster he needs to adapt the armor he makes for them around that.”

***

“Finally!” the Mandalorian growled across their vocoder.  Dosha Vahno snarled, a rumble in his montrals that sank to his throat before emerging.  His hand pressed tightly to the injury he’d taken running from the hunter, a jagged cut along his upper ribs where he’d misjudged the protrusion off a building while he fled across rooftops, but he was not going to go down without a fight.

He flung up his hand and shoved, the Force failing to catch the beskar, but ruffling the under suit.

“Come on, bur’cya, no need for that,” the Mandalorian chuckled, as though he found Dosha’s defiant last stand cute.   Dosha curled his lip.  This hunter would learn.

The Force came ready to his call once more.  This time he did not try to shove the entire armored form off the roof.  He grabbed only the undersuit that had responded to the shove before, gripping it tight and tossing him from the rooftop.  Blood cooled on Dosha’s upper lip, and the world went fuzzy, but he had fought.  He had fought to the last.

He was one with the Force and the Force was with him.

***

“He scruffed you?  Like a tooka?   Vod, that’s kriffing embarrassing.  I am embarrassed for you.”

“Meh, I had a jetpack.  Get the med-kit, he’s bleeding in five places and he only bothered to put pressure on one.”

***

Wini Tasto had been captured before.  She just hadn’t been captured by Mandalorians.  Still, the cell they had her in was nice enough, it looked like a repurposed bunk from your average mid-sized transport.  The jailor, a stern Mando in vivid teal armor that matched her kyber, had yet to beat her, although there had been the terrifying moment she woke in a prisoner’s jumpsuit with none of her hidden pockets and was forced into a scanner to check for any other contraband.  She held firm against the hidden tricks, the false-kindness offered with a beskar hand… she knew what people did with Force Sensitive captives, the emotional manipulations and brainwashing that could tip an unwary prisoner into the Dark.

She was a Jedi.

She could endure.

The worst of it really was the food.  She didn’t care if there wasn’t much of it, she’d used the Force to supplement herself before when the mission took her places where food was scarce.  It was how plain it was, and how often she was presented with a small bowl of broth and a portion of cooked grains with a tangy micronutrient mix added to it.  It was how her captor stood there, insisting she eat it all, and how every time she had to bite down her pride and eat bland nothingness designed to keep luminous being inside crude matter and not much else.

At least today there was a different smell to it.  Perhaps at least she’d get the entertainment of filtering toxins.  Perhaps she could feign a reaction and use it to lower her captor’s guard.

“Good news, Jetii!” her captor announced.  “Your scans are looking much better.  The refeeding is going well, so today we can try a little bit of tiingilar.  I made it less spicy for you, no worries.”

The small portion of red stew in a bowl beside her usual grains and broth smelled strongly and Wini’s mouth watered.

She was a Jedi.  She could do this.

She took a bite.  She whimpered.

The Mando was suddenly at her side, firm hands pressing her gut, her arms, the sides of her face and neck.

“No inflammation, no anaphylaxis,” they muttered.

Wini was a Jedi.  She gave up.

“It’s just really good.  I hate bland food.”

“Well why didn’t you say so?  Come on, ba’buir’s been dying to cook for you.”

***

Yaddle frowned.

A report from a Shadow who had felt called to the jaws of Mandalore was one thing.  There was reason to prepare, but no real timeline on Knight Qur’s discovery.  Even then, the logistics plans could have been for a number of planned targets, although the more damning analysis of Temple Guard armor did look bad.

The sudden sharp uptick in Mandalorian attacks on Jedi on missions, though… that was harder to ignore.

In the span of a week, there had been fourteen Jedi gone dark after encountering Mandalorians.  Some they wouldn’t even have known about if not for the bystanders the Jedi asked to carry messages, and in one heartbreaking case, a lightsaber, back to the Temple.

Yaddle grieved, but she was a Jedi.  She would let go of what she could not change.  The past was the past.

The future, however….

“Call a high alert,” she commanded.  The Master overseeing the communication hub paused only slightly.

“What reason do I give?” he asked, voice grave.

“A Mandalorian Hunt, it would appear, has been called.  Recall all Jedi who are safe to return to Coruscant.  Contact the Corps, tell them to expect to take in those who cannot make it home.  Any who cannot reach a Temple or a Corps House are to go to ground, hide their sabers, and maintain cover.”

“The Senate….”

“They are harder to hide from,” Yaddle agreed.  “If only all our enemies were as blunt as the Mandalorians.”

“I meant they won’t like Jedi abandoning their posts,” the Master said with a frown.  “They’ll retaliate.”

“The Senate is the reason we cannot absorb the losses if this keeps up at the rate it’s going,” Yaddle scoffed, heart teetering on the edge of the Dark.  Once more she pulled herself back from the edge.  Once more she defeated the monster that lived in the heart of all Jedi of her age, pain and loss coagulating in the Force to create something living inside her that she would cage until her death.  “Make do, we always have before.  Make do, we will again.  Call the high alert.”

***

“Stay behind me,” Mossi Corbilles ordered her Padawan.  They’d been caught on a short away mission when the High Alert went out.  Their evacuation appeared to be about to come to an abrupt end, trapped in a back alley in the port on the way to their shuttle, when the Mandalorian in bloody red armor cornered her and the kid.  In the Force she sent a pulse of run-when-you-can.

“S’cuy Jetii!” the Mando called. “Gar verd’ika ori’copikla!  Tion gar gai?”

Then he stepped toward her kid.

Sabers would do next to nothing against Beskar, and hers was currently dismantled for stealth.

She had the Force, though.

She planted her feet and gripped the support pole of a nearby awning in the Force, ripping it free and dropping the cloth over the Mandalorian.  The pole itself she wielded like a club, smacking the figure beneath the awning.

He managed to evade a few hits, wriggle out of the entanglement, and surge up into her space.  She dropped the pole and gripped every bit of the figure that wasn’t beskar and slammed him against the wall of the alley.

“You know what they say,” she growled.  “If you would take the Padawan, make sure the Master is dead first.”

“Tion copaani riduur?” the Mando gasped, and her senses in the Force stuttered as they glanced over the skin bared by the twisting of his flight suit, picking up the surface emotions there.  That mix of respect and interest was not what she expected to feel off of him, and it cost her a second of focus.

The next thing she knew, he was wrestling her almost gently to the ground and….

Huh.

Putting his own armor on her?

The Force slipped from her grasp.

***

“What the fuck, Vod, you married one?   I am all for helping the Mand’alor but….”

"Look, look.  You would have too!  They put their kid behind them and then proceeded to smack my ass about like I owed them a fortune and they were the debt collectors coming for the interest without ever drawing a weapon or even moving from their one-being shield wall!”

The skeptical Mandalorian looked over at the Jetii who was currently making sure her verd’ika was actually doing their coursework.

“That is pretty mandokar…”

“It was hot as kark,” their ori’vod corrected with a snort.  “They pinned me to a wall as I was bleeding internally and I knew they were my forever.”

“Now you just gotta find a way to tell them what it means.”

“... Kriff.”

Chapter Text

Being captured by Mandalorians was not nearly as hazardous as previously assumed.  Master Vand had evaded them for a week before finally running out of stamina, being gently but firmly hauled into a small ship, and locked into a closet which she promptly started trying to escape.  Unfortunately, the small ship and the closet was only a shuttle, and her captors came to retrieve her before she could get the last bolt off the ventilation duct cover.

“Wayii, hope Jetiise become less feral after settling in,” a Mando in deep blue complained.  “Come.  Better rations on big ship.”

“Ret’copyc,” the other, in a medium green, countered.

“Not your ship she’s dismantling,” Blue said, “and use Basic, rude.”

“My Basic is better than yours, just think it’s dumb language,” Green mumbled.

They led her through an airlock into a narrow hall that opened shortly into a large cargo hold that had been retrofitted as a living space.

“Ori’shya Jetiise!” a broad Mandalorian in orange and a lighter, much more vivid green called from a small galley to one side.  “I make more food.”

Zanlin glanced around the room, clocking several other Jedi, including a Master-Padawan pair, the Master of whom sent a pulse in the Force of welcome.

“I knew it’d be a good idea to get everyone together,” she said with a smile.  “These… Haat Mando Aday, they mean well, but they do not understand Jedi.  Fortunately I had the leverage needed to make them listen.”

“Yeah you do,” snickered a young Mandalorian in scarlet and pink.

“Ne’johaa,” an older near-human in partial armor of brown and silver commanded.  “Leave your sister-in-law alone.”

“Sister-in-law?” Zanlin asked in shock.

The young teaching Master, who was probably a Knight, laughed and rapped one fingernail on her shoulder where it rang like a chime.

“My husband is terrible at communicating.  Knight Corbilles, I am keeping my last name.”

“Of course, ner riduur,” the brown Mando, who - now that she was looking - was missing a piece of shoulder armor, agreed instantly.  In the Force, he felt… loving, open and honest and more passionate than anyone should be with someone they’d just met.

“How long have you….”

“I’ve been here three days, married two days.  I spent one day yelling at him about kidnapping and ambush proposals.  I only count the marriage from when he did it properly, so I could agree and say vows back.   Then I spent yesterday yelling at the rest of ner dee ku tay.”

“It’s ner di’kute, my beloved.”

“Right.  Language lessons are… ongoing.  Suffice to say, the threat posed by the latest Mandalorian Hunt is greatly exaggerated.”

Zanlin blinked.  Every Jedi here was giving off a mixture of confusion, comfort, and wary hope.  The Mandalorians she could read were happy, caring, and… worried?

“What is going on here?” she demanded.

“Ah, well, turns out one of my fellows dropped a bit of a lesson on the Mandalorians,” said a Bothan in coveralls marked with the ExploraCorps sigil and pips that Zanlin couldn’t quite recall the equivalent to in standard ranks.  High, though.  “Now their leader has some big gesture of reconciliation in mind, and these fine beings decided the best way to help was to track down random Jedi and offer to adopt them.”

“Is loophole in law,” the blue Mando who had captured her said proudly.  “Jetiise not allowed armor, not allowed clan, not allowed freedom.   Mandos allowed.  Make Jetiise Mandos.  Now Jetiise allowed.”

“That is… sweet but not how any of that works,” Zanlin said.

“We’ve told them,” Knight Corbilles’ Padawan said.  “All it did was speed up the head-mando’s plans.”

***

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he should be given a mission yet.  If they weren’t letting him sleep outside the Healing Halls, surely he wasn’t ready for missions.

However, Master Koon had come to the Room of a Thousand Fountains where he was meditating with Madame Boma, who was seeming much recovered.

“There is… a request,” he’d said gravely.  “One we suspect you two may know more of than the rest of us.”

“I was thorough in my report,” Madame Boma said sternly.

“Yes, which is why we think it best you attend this request,” Master Koon had agreed.  “There is… a diplomatic request.  From Alderaan.”

“Diplomatic, or diplomatic?” Madame Boma asked, and Obi-Wan couldn’t hear the difference, but clearly Master Koon could.

“Diplomatic,” Master Koon said with a nod.  “They desire someone to speak with the Sundari Government.”

“Mandalorians?” Obi-Wan gasped.  “But…”

“I will go,” Madame Boma agreed, cutting off his protests.

“I will too,” Obi-Wan said instantly.  She cut him a glance.

“Someone has to have your back,” he grumbled.

“Your loyalty and honor are worthy traits, Padawan Kenobi,” she said with a faint hint of a smile and a warm brush of approval in the Force.  “But that depends upon the Councils, and their decisions.”

“You have been approved as Interim Mentor for Padawan Kenobi, regardless of Corps affiliation,” Master Koon said, happiness radiating from him like heat from a sun-warm rock.

“Excellent.  If you’ll excuse us then, we need to prepare.”

***

Duke Ad'nau Kryze wiped his hands on his thighs, hoping the stress didn’t show too badly.  He’d been wrangling too many fractious Mandalorians for far too long if a simple request from his friend in the Senate had him this anxious.  Bail wouldn’t put him in any real danger, even if Mandalorians and Jedi were ancestral enemies.  Even if the Anhilliation was proof the Republic for which they fought cared little for rules of combat and civilian casualties.  Even if he had heard reports lately of armored renegades who did not and never would answer to his authority capturing Jedi.

“Buir, udesii,” his youngest, Bo-Katan said, putting her hand in his.

“Bo… speak Basic, would you?” Satine hissed.  He laid one hand warningly on her shoulder to keep his elder daughter from reaching over to flick her sister’s ear.

“Ah, my friend!”  Senator Bail Antilles said warmly as the doors to the meeting room hissed open.  “I would like to introduce you to Mas-”

“Madame,” the short near-human beside him interrupted.  Dark hair streaked with fine lines of silver was braided and piled on her head in a way that made him wonder if she were another Alderaanian.  She wasn’t.

“I am Madame Boma, of the Jedi.  This is Senior Padawan Kenobi.”

“Ah, I am Ad'nau Kryze, Duke of Kalevala, Governor of Sundari.  These are my daughters, Satine and Bo-Katan.”  He nodded to Senator Antilles, who seemed rather pleased.  “Senator Antilles suggested we may be able to overcome some of the antagonism between my people and yours?”

“Yes, we were told that as well,” Jetii Boma said without expression.

“I’ll just leave you to it, then!” Bail said, cheerfully abandoning the room.  Alderaanians… they had a reputation for kindness, generosity, honor, and it was deserved.  But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t kindly, generously, and honorably drag you over a cargo crate if they genuinely thought it was best for you. 

“Well.  Ah… so.  Peace.  Wonderful thing, yes?”  Ad'nau said awkwardly, aiming for ‘charming and non-threatening’ but seeming to miss as the Jedi settled her child and sat, looking for all the world like someone forced to attend a budget meeting.

“Of course, peace is something we all strive for,” she said mildly, but a steel was underneath it as Ad'nau moved to join her.  Satine followed dutifully, sitting across from the red-haired boy.

***

Obi-Wan did not like this mission.  Sure it wasn’t strenuous, and it sure seemed like Duke Kryze didn’t want to hurt or upset them, but everyone felt nervous and upset and it was making his palms itch for something to fight.  He also didn’t know how he felt about the Duke’s elder daughter.  She was haughtily ignoring him in favor of paying attention to Madame Boma, which would be entirely understandable, but she wasn’t really, she kept shooting glances at him when she thought he couldn’t tell, like she was checking if he was also paying attention.

Of course he was.

He wouldn’t dare look away while Madame Boma displayed a magnificent mastery of the layered language of politicians.  He had loved his rhetoric classes for just this, but then Qui-Gon had shown him how it was almost only ever abused by the greedy.  Now he got to see it used as it should be, in a verbal spar as engaging as any in the salle.

“Fun spar, huh?” Bo-Katan whispered.  Her sister shot her a sharp edged glare, but Obi-Wan grinned.

“Bo-Katan, don’t compare Father’s conversation to a spar,” Satine hissed, dropping her voice on the last word like it was dirty.  “These are Jedi, they’re with the Republic, they wouldn’t attack us.  They support us.”

“Actually,” Madame Boma cut in, sliding her attention away so seamlessly she might have always been a part of the children’s conversation and not her own, “We do not.”

“What?” Duke Kryze asked, a stricken look on his face.

“We are bound to the Republic, as your child so astutely noted,” Madame Boma said with a nod to Satine, who seemed conflicted by the praise, despite the warmth in the Force as it was given.  “And we would not attack you.  However, Republic support for Sundari is very different than Jedi support.  The Republic likes that which resembles but does not threaten it, so they support you.  The Jedi are very purposefully silent about our support for any given government within or without the Republic.”

“How dare you-” Satine began, and Madame Boma stood.

“Do not confuse silence with hate, young one,” she chided as Obi-Wan stood to be beside her. “The Jedi Order as a whole is quite intentionally neutral.  And for me personally, pity is far more accurate.  Now, we have fulfilled the letter of Senator Antilles request and I do believe we have also hit the limit of our ability to fulfill the spirit, so I shall bid you a pleasant day.  If you wish to leave your comm code, Obi-Wan, you may.  It is helpful to have friends outside the Order.  I, however, require a medically concerning quantity of caff.”

***

Rumors spread faster than anything else in Mandalorian space.  This included Mandalorian spaces on other planets.  Within hours the news of the meeting had spread through Kih’dabe.  In the following hours, this rumor spread to Manda’yaim proper, and to the halls of the Mand’alor.

“Osik,” Jango hissed, leaning over the comm table in Jaster’s study where the report had come in.  “The Jetiise are meeting with Sundari.  If we don’t make our stance clear before the Nu Mando’ade get through with them, they’ll never listen to us.”

“I’ll step up the timetable of the initial gesture,” Jaster said immediately.

“I’m confused,” Itzal ventured.  “Why are you concerned about talks between New Mandalorians and Jedi?”

“The Nu Mando’ade hate us, hate our culture,” Jango muttered.

“Kryze does his best to keep them less extreme but they are definitely not Mandalorian as we know it,” Jaster agreed more diplomatically.  “The best of them only adhere to two or three of the six actions.  However, they are far more likely to gain diplomatic approval by the Jetiise, and there is little likelihood we’d be allowed to offer our skira if the Jetiise are officially in support of them.”

Itzal snorted.  It was uncommon for a Shadow to break character.  However, the idea was so patently laughable, and he felt so comfortable, so safe here - itself a rather large shock - that the snort slipped out.

Unfortunately, both Mandos whirled on him, heads tilting at the same angle with unspoken questions.

“Um… it’s just… I think it’s unlikely that they’ll officially support the Sundari government.  Jedi are notoriously neutral.”

The heads remained tilted.  One of Jango’s brows bent in added doubt, as his father’s Force presence fluttered in realization.

“The Nu Mandos are pacifists,” the young warrior insisted.  “Like the Jedi.  And the Nu Mandos all act as Republic as they can.  They have more in common.”

“Friend, where did you say you were from?” Jaster asked, the tone firm enough to cross into command.

Itzal closed his eyes and felt for the Force’s guidance.

“My apologies for the belated introduction.  My name is Itzal Qur, Jedi Knight,” he said with a slight bow, hands together but head up to track their staggered reactions better.  “And while you got more right in your research than wrong… here you are dangerously incorrect.  Yes, the Jedi and the New Mandalorians have much in common.  No, that does not mean we support them.  It means we look at them and grieve that they walk the same roads we did.  In much the same way you have looked at us and grieved.”  

“And you do nothing?” Jango demanded.  “If you felt what we feel….”

“That feeling is… not conducive to the sort of control a Jedi relies on for their safety and the safety of others,” Itzal said gently.  “Malachor V is testament to that.  The last three Jedi to Fall are testament to that.  I would know, I was assigned to kill two of them before the Senate could fine us the entire cost of their training in punishment for failing to deliver the Jedi they paid for.  The third faked his death at least once, maybe twice.  We grieve for Sundari, but not enough to sacrifice lives.  Not enough to give up the defense of others nor our own armor for them.  I am sure you understand that.”

“Armor…” Jaster whispered, a horrified look on his face.  “You made armor they couldn’t take, didn’t you?”

“There’s a popular children’s rhyme,” Itzal said with a small smile.  “Take my love, stay my hand.  Tell me how I cannot stand.  I don’t care, I’m still free.  They can’t take the Force from me.  Send me out into the Dark.  I am Light within my heart.  Burning land and boiling sea, they can’t take the Force from me.  There’s no place I am free, yet I will find serenity.  They can’t take the Force from me.”

Jaster’s head bowed in understanding.

“So… we don’t need to move up the timeline?” Jango asked.

“Oh no, you definitely should.  If we hurry I might even make it back in time for my own funeral,” Itzal chuckled.  They looked at him aghast.  “Remember, I didn’t know you weren’t going to strip me for parts until under a week ago, and nobody’s left me unattended near a comm relay in the last four days.  Impressive OpSec, really.  I hardly ever get kidnapped by someone this competent.”

“Kidnapped?” Jaster said mournfully.  Itzal shrugged and took a sip of the blended caff desert beverage he had developed a bit of an addiction to.

“I’ll move up the schedule,” Jango said, clearly choosing action over breaking his composure.  It was downright Jedi-like of him… not that Itzal would ever say that out loud.

Chapter Text

The day of Knight Qur’s funeral was like any other.  The weather cycles of Coruscant didn’t alter themselves for one dead Jedi, after all.  In deference to his sacrifice, though, the large overhead lights of the Temple were left unlit.  Sunlight came through windows, slicing into the darkened Temple with blades of light that were no less potent reminders of how a Jedi lived on than the saber he left behind when he took the Shadow posting that set him on the path that killed him.

Jedi from all over gathered in the large central hall of the Temple.  More names had been added to the rosters of the Force since Knight Qur, and they would be mourned this day as well.  The Order was spread too thin to mourn each death separately when they came in clusters like this.  The Corps turnout alone had swelled the ranks of Jedi lined up to watch as Masters of the Councils responsible to the fallen.  Yoda was grave beside Yaddle, whose face was stern and fearsome, and behind them walked the heads of every Service Corps.  The Masters carried trays of sabers and crystals, and small candles for those who died with their kyber in their hands.

There was no music, not in the air, Jedi practices were often perceived as silent to outsiders, to those who had not earned the full depth of the emotions of the Jedi.  For the gathered Jedi, however, the finest Force Singers of the Order released sweet and haunting melodies of loss and love and guidance, seeking to help their fellows release their grieving to the Force which accepted their lost kin.  The music filled the Temple, spilling out to the steps where Temple Guards kept their vigils.

The Temple Guards were stoic.  Nobody joined their ranks without the patience and dedication necessary to be without face, without identity, quite technically giving their lives to the service they chose.  That did not mean a frisson of battle-ready tension didn’t run through them all at the appearance of the group approaching the main steps of the Temple.  

Generally speaking, armored Mandalorians on the Temple steps were not a good thing.

“State your business,” the lead Guard ordered.  

The armored forms shifted, allowing a broad Mandalorian in copper and dark blue plate, face marked with molten rivulets of shining silver like tear tracks, to step forward.  Behind them was a long hovercrate.  The kind used to transport corpses through planetary customs.

“We speak with Jet’alore.  Ah… High Council.”

“The High Council is not-” the Guard started, only to be silenced when a dead man stepped from between the armored forms with a gleeful look in his eyes.

“They really do need to speak to the Councils,” Itzal Qur said mildly.

“We owe a debt far too long unpaid,” said a Mandalorian in dark grey and red, with more silver tear-tracks.  “An insult gone uneaten will choke the one who gave it.”

“Also, it just wouldn’t do, to miss my own funeral,” Knight Qur added with a giggle only heard in the Force.

***

The assembled Jedi stiffened at the opening of the doors, Masters moving to the front of the rows, younglings swiftly pulled from where they had been given priority into the safety of the side halls.  By the time the Mandalorians marched down the aisle the Council Heads had just walked, they were given wary walls of blank-faced Jedi to walk between, eyes tracking their every move.  At the slightest hint of aggression, sabers would spring to hands, and Jedi would fight to the end to defend their home and family.

No aggression came.  Merely silent gaps in the Force marching in a slow honor-guard of caskets.

They reached the end, where the Councils still stood, trays bearing the remnants of their dead on pedestals behind them.  A soft growl cut the eerie quiet, and it took a few moments for the Jedi watching to realize it came from Master Yaddle.

Silently, the Mandalorians arrayed the caskets in a mirror of the arc of pedestals.  The Mandalorians carrying each casket then bent to open them.

The shock moved like a wave in the Force, rippling from the Jedi who could see the crates to those who could not, as they passed the knowledge of what they saw along.  It only took an instant, to share the image, as the truth radiated as the beskar lined boxes opened to reveal their contents.

Hundreds of sabers, neatly lined up, their crystals singing with confusion and joy at their return.

Hundreds of braids, neatly coiled and showing signs of recent treatments with preserving oils.

The Mandalorian some knew well as a menace to the Head Archivist bent to open a far lower quality crate of thin-ply fast growth wood, revealing blood-stained armor, while the large Mandalorian at the other end of the line began removing their own.  The snapping sound of magnetic catches releasing echoed in the silent Jedi Temple, joined with a resonant ringing as both armor sets were stacked in front of the Councils.  Last, all the Mandalorians present removed their helmets.  

The grief could be sensed at the Temple doors.

The Mandalorians met the eyes of the Council, gathered their nerves, and knelt.  Not the ready-kneel of before a spar, but meditation kneeling, which placed both legs from the knee down flat against the floor, feet centered below their bodies. 

“Ni ceta,” the two lead Mandalorians said in unison, as they and their warriors bowed to touch their heads to the floor.  “ Mhi ceta.”

***

Before they’d landed, Jaster had gone over the plan with Knight Qur.  He greatly enjoyed the man, even if it had been a shock that a Jedi had walked into his home and he’d never known.  Somehow he’d expected them to be… different.  Marked in some clear way by the vast power they touched.  Itzal was just a person, clever and kind and drily humorous, with no glimmer of strange wizardry.

It was reassuring now.

“They can’t sense your intent through the armor,” Knight Qur reminded him.  “You’ll need to remove at least some of it, if you want them to know what you mean by the gesture.”

Beside him, Jaster’s verde bristled, then stilled themselves.

“We will remove it,” Goran Vorpaya said firmly.  “They could ask for far worse skira from us.”

Itzal twitched as if he was about to speak, then stilled, nodding.  “They will be angry, hurt… you’re ripping the scabs off a very old wound.  It needs to be done, but you’ll need to know what you face.  How to stand against the anger of a Jedi.”

Someone at the back had scoffed.  Itzal moved in the space of a heartbeat, flickering from where he stood to stand before the doubter.  Cold had chilled Jaster through his kute and armor watching the affable researcher vanish into a stone-faced warrior between breaths.  Itzal had stared at the verd until they’d caved, taking one step back.

“Jedi do not let their anger run hot.  If we did, we would be the spark that lights the flame that burns the Galaxy down,” Itzal cautioned, voice steady and strangely calm.  

His words were not monotonous, that would imply he was keeping his feelings out of his voice.  Instead it was blank, empty of emotion.  Like a lecture on some deadly dry topic even the most studious scholar would struggle to find interest in.  

“Jedi anger will not look like anger to those with the luxury of fire in their blood,” Itzal continued, and even the emphasis sounded off, devoid of the bitterness the words he chose implied.  Merely pointing out that it was, in fact, a luxury to feel passion… a luxury his own people did not have.  The neutrality turned Jaster’s gut.  “Jedi pain will not look like pain to those who have always had the safety needed to show weakness.  Our hearts only look hard because yours are soft.   If you come into our home and disrespect our anger, our pain, you will learn what it takes to lose that softness.  You will not enjoy the lesson.”

From anyone else, at any other time, with any different look on his face, that speech would have earned a dozen duels.  Here, now, with someone they had known and enjoyed the company of standing before them with a face blanker than any buy’ce… it earned silence.

Jaster had known he would need the lesson his friend offered him.  

He’d had no idea how hard it would be to execute.

The Jetiise’alore stood before him, blank and impassive.  The Jetiise they’d walked by on their way to bring the dead home had been blank as well, exuding a chill as though they were carved of ice.  Removing Montross’ bloodied armor as proof of the justice done had set his heart racing for reasons he couldn’t place, an unnamed fear taking up along his spine below his armor.  He could only marvel at the courage of Goran Vorpaya, who stripped her own armor for the offering of skira.

When he pulled his helmet off, it signaled the others to do the same.  He knew behind him would be loss-stricken faces, but no cowardice, no resentment, for every verd with him was a volunteer.  A very specific sort of volunteer.  Jango was not with them, thankfully.

Everyone here had resigned themselves to whatever the Manda required.  To whatever the Jetiise asked as their skira, their blood debt.  Every verd here represented a clan who had taken these sick, twisted trophies in the last two hundred years.

“Ni ceta.  Mhi ceta,” he said as he led the squad that had followed him into this through the deepest and most meaningful of ritual apologies.  The act of kneeling was rare in Mandalorian culture.  It was a submission, a surrender, and thus almost unheard of in a people who rarely admitted defeat.  To kneel fully, to bare the back of the neck, was to invite and accept fatal retribution for your actions.  He pushed that understanding to the forefront of his mind, willing the Jetiise to understand, to see what he offered them and know the depth of the sorrow and regret he felt.

“You have interrupted a sacred Jedi rite,” a soft, kind voice said.  It sounded… almost unconcerned.  As though the speaker commented on the weather.

“Our honor could not hold,” Jaster said, face still pressed to the cool stone.  “What we did… I would say we did not know, but some did.  More could have figured it out.  We… we chose not to know, and that is a stain on our very soul.”

“And that means you come here.  To our Temple.  Seeking… what?  Forgiveness?” the Jedi asked, voice disconnected and disinterested.  

If Jaster had not been prepared by Itzal, he would have raged at it, at the lack of emotion over the return of the souls of their people.  Would have argued on behalf of the deceased Jet’verde and Jet’ade whose memories he had overseen the care of, the cleaning and preserving.  As it was, he knew this was the hard and icy Jet’aden he’d been warned of.

“Seeking honor,” Jaster said, swallowing hard.  “And offering justice.”

“Jedi bring justice to the galaxy,” a different voice said, one he knew well.  It took all he had not to break his submission as he flinched from the dry tone of the Jetii Archivist he knew he’d personally wronged the most by refusing to accept her answer to his quest for the knowledge she guarded.  “We do not keep any for ourselves.”

At that, Jaster did break his posture, for a moment.  Hearing how little she seemed to care for her own rights as a victim, as a sapient being.  The idea he would even consider denying justice....  His back shook and his fists clenched as he dragged his wounded, raging honor back under control, forehead inches from the stone.

“Then please, allow us to bring it for you,” he begged, voice breaking as he pressed his head down once more.  “We are willing.  We brought proof!  We just….”

“This belonged to a friend of yours,” the Archivist said, kneeling close enough he could feel the motion of air across his neck as she reached to touch Montross’ armor.

“It belonged to a monster I did not see for far too long.  That I chose not to see.  I owe a debt to the one who revealed him to us, at what I understand to be a great personal cost.  The least I could do was clean my own house,” Jaster sighed.

A hand was laid across his neck and Jaster tensed instinctively, then relaxed.  No matter what they claimed as their skira, it would be worth it.  He would not fight it.  He would renew the honor of his people’s stained soul, even if it was, quite likely, the last thing he ever did.

“Oh no, Mando,” a new voice, one sharp and edging towards hurtful in a way that almost relieved him, hissed in his ear.  “You don’t get off that easily.  You’re not dying by Jedi hands today.”

“Boma,” Itzal said warningly from farther away than the Jedi scruffing him.

“Stand,” the Jet’bajii who began all this ordered, dragging him to his feet.  Behind him he heard the sound of the squad following suit.  He met her eyes, steeling himself.  Her face was blank, the same as any other Jetii he’d seen since entering this place, but her eyes burned and he recalled Itzal’s words about sparks that lit fires.  

“You want justice?” she asked softly.

“Elek.”

“Then fight for it, Mando,” she ordered.  “Fight the way we could not.  Not for us.  Madame Nu is correct, the Jedi bring justice but we are not allowed to seek any ourselves.  Fight for the galaxy, for every culture ground under a cruel heel, every people deemed unworthy of life and respect.  Fight for what we have already lost.”

“Madame Boma,” a small, green, ancient looking Jetii interrupted.  “Master of the High Council you are not.  Negotiate on our behalf, you cannot.”

“A Jedi Master I am not, Grandmaster Yoda,” she said, voice calm but edged with exasperation.  “By the bonds broken under the Reformation, by the exile-in-residence of the Corps who stand beside you now, I am barely considered a Jedi, full stop.  But I may yet speak for myself, and without stain on those who cannot speak at all.”

“Jedi are neutral,” said a Bothan in matching bronze robes with a nod and a ruffle of fur.  “The Corps are… more flexible.  Senior Specialist Boma does speak for the EduCorps.”

“As she does for the AgriCorps,” agreed an Ithorian with a whistling laugh.  

A grim-faced Twi-lek bearing the Republic emblem for Medics nodded silently.

“Give me back my Senior Wayfinder Corpsmaster, and the ExploraCorps will agree,” a rough-looking near-human with inky blue skin and silvery freckles said, crossing their arms.  “He got out a coded message he’d been forcibly adopted against his will, and I want him  back.”

Jaster swallowed hard.  What the kark had his people been doing?

“I’ll find him, haat, ijaat, haa’it.”

“Jedi must not have an opinion,” another small green Jetii, this one with auburn hair piled between long ears, said, head tilted like a shriek-hawk sighting prey.  “You will do what you will do, and we will do what we must do.  But… you returned one I thought lost.  May the Force be with you, Mandalorian.”

“That means please leave,” Itzal stage whispered.

Jaster tried not to let his departure feel like a retreat.

Chapter Text

The Jet’alore’s declaration that their people had to be returned was met with grumbles, but little actual resistance.  Comm-codes were pressed into hands, robes made of kute-grade armorweave tucked into bags, and it seemed that would be the end of the whole affair.  A short spate of adoption-happy Mandalorians creatively acquiring Jedi that ended upon clearer heads prevailing, perhaps destined to be an unusual footnote in history.

That was not, it would turn out, the end.

***

“Jet’verd Vahno, su’cuy gar!” a Mandalorian with extensive chemical damage on their purple and magenta paint said cheerily as they crawled from a sewer grate.  A muffled thump sounded from the open gap behind them before they shoved the grate back in place.

Knight Vahno blinked slowly.

“And you as well, friend.”

“You had a bit of an entourage, of the sort that carry slugthrowers.  Don’t worry, I dealt with it.”

Knight Vahno blinked again.  “My thanks.”

“No debt, Jetii,” the Mandalorian laughed cheerfully.  “Ner gai Valin.  Now, I heard there was a terrorist in the area, that your hunt?”

“Um… well I can’t legally confirm anything…”

“Right.  So I figure I’ll hit up the local black market dealers, see if they know anything.  I already hit the three major Guild boards - Hunters, Assassins, and Mercs - and they had no leads.  Fortunately I know many people who like things that make pretty booms if you get my drift.  We’ll find them in no time.”

“Uhhh.”

“Come on!  Oya, Jetii!”

***

“Hush, dear one, we will be safe on the ship soon,” Master Koon whispered to the fussy youngling in his arms.  Her parents had called his emergency comm, the unofficial one, for a pick-up after a Force-empowered meltdown had drawn the attention of slavers.  She was still suffering from over sensitivity, which was not making it easier to get her to his ship before they got caught.

Point in fact, the three thugs blocking the exit of the alleyway they stood in now.

The fight was swift, brutal, and ended with his mask crushed and the child being dragged from his arms.  He clawed his way up the wall, blocking the high whine of tinnitus as he meditated to reduce his oxygen poisoning.  The blow to his face would have been fatal for any Kel Dor but a Sage.

It was fortunate for him, then, that he was a Sage.

It would be far less fortunate for the slavers.

The sight of an enraged, maskless Kel Dor ripping through a sorrow-lane market would likely remain a story of the Outer Rim for a while.  It might, perhaps, even discourage future villains from this particular target of their evil.

He hissed in the face of the lead slaver, mandibles clicking a hairsbreadth from the man’s bulbous nose.

“You… you were dead!” the man protested.

“You should do a better job confirming your kills,” someone said from the side door to the room.  “It’s sloppy.”

Plo let out a rattling, wet screech at the newcomer, eyes refusing to focus on the blur of dark color in the shadows.

“Naak, Jet’buir… your adiik is well.  I have a backup mask if you’d like it… my cousin is half Dorian.”

Plo dropped the slaver.  The Mandalorian stunned the fallen man neatly, then unclipped a mask from their belt and tossed it underhand to him, all with steady, telegraphed movements.

“You should call us next time.  Any Cab’yaim would be happy to field a squad to back you up.”

Plo took a grateful breath of non-toxic air and let out a wheezing laugh.

“Perhaps I will, my friend, perhaps I will.”

***

Knight Ti did not mind bodyguard work.  She would, however, really like the body she was guarding to stop running headlong into danger.  It was getting increasingly hard to want to keep the pompous man alive, especially when he seemed to think she was there not to guard him, but to act as part trophy, part servant, part verbal punching bag.  The Force fluttered, and she turned her attention away for a half second.  The diplomat’s shrill demands peaked in both volume and indignation before suddenly cutting off.

“Have you considered shutting the kark up?” a woman in thick armor-weave and a metal headpiece that let a mix of humanoid hair and Nautolan tentacles flow freely behind her asked, one gloved hand over the diplomat’s mouth.

“Release him,” Knight Ti commanded.

“I mean, if you want me to, sure,” the woman shrugged.  “He seems really annoying though.”

“Unfortunately, he is a crucial part of negotiating an end to the local unrest,” Shaak sighed.

“Oh yeah, the union that the local Governor was trying to bust?  Which is really illegal, even by Republic standards, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are not,” Shaak said slowly, eyes narrowing at that very Governor, who had blatantly lied to her about any sort of nascent union activity.

“You want a copy of their demands?” the woman asked cheerfully as the Governor thrashed.  “Quiet you, the Jetti and I are trying to have a conversation.”

“Mando?” Shaak asked with dawning understanding.

“Jem Beviin, I’m doing my practicum from Oya’baju University of Law.  Hold on a sec, I have that data chip in my belt.”  Rather expertly, she flipped the Governor into a more secure hold utilizing her knees, to free up a hand to rifle in her belt pouches.  She pulled free a data chip and passed it to Shak.  “It’s all pretty reasonable stuff, even for Republic Law, so it should be easy to understand.  They just want reasonable work hours and environmental protections.”

“How dare you-” squawked the Governor.

“You want me to call the Union Heads?  We can get the whole thing signed, sealed, and sorted as long as I sit on this one, I think.”

“Yes, please,” Shaak said warmly.

“You answer to me!  I will have your head, you Jedi bit-”

Jem Beviin shifted her weight onto a sensitive part of the Governor’s anatomy, cutting off the insult.

“She’s doing a wonderful job preventing your death, so please… keep testing that.  We learn who we are when we are tested, after all.”

***

Late night tea ceremonies weren’t officially a part of the post-mission process, usually only occurring when a Jedi returned unsettled.  Their closest friends in the Temple would float together after late-meal with the things for tea, and gently extract the story from the Jedi who had endured something disrupting their balance.

For the first time in a long time, multiple groups found themselves sharing the smaller refectory usually used for such things.

“It wasn’t … bad?  It was just weird.  There I am, standard issue Diplomatic poodoo mission, and bam, there’s a Mando serving a bounty on the sleazy Marquess I’d been trying to ward off the whole mission.  Fully certified and everything, totally legal.  I’m not certain, the helmet stayed on, but I think the Mando winked at me.”

“Yeah, I had a Mando drop a ship in front of me during an emergency evacuation, door open and ready to go.  No explanation, just an armed and armored exfil escort right when I needed it.”

“Not me, but my crechemate in the MediCorps said there’s a new… faction or something, in white and teal, they keep dropping into plague zones and disaster sites with bacta and trained doctors.  With a lot of bacta.”

“The last five planets I’ve been on, someone has insisted on feeding me.”

“Okay, but you are definitely short for your species, that’s probably a good thing.”

“CALL ME SHORT TO MY FACE, I DARE YOU!”

“Crechemates, I swear.”

***

Jaster sighed.

“Okay, run that back, please,” he asked.  Kabii Cadera cleared his throat and nodded.

“Your orders are being respected so far as not absconding with Jetiise.  Sometimes they end up hitching rides, but they always get dropped off as soon as possible at their requested port.”

“However,” Jaster said, waving the rest out.

“However, many Mando’ade have decided the debt shared by all of us needs more to clear it than what the Jedi took from the Ceta-Skira.  It seems a few of the ones who adopted people also stayed in contact, and there have been some… back channel discussions of what they need.”

“Who’s organizing that?  Someone has to keep us from flooding one type of assistance and neglecting another,” Jaster pointed out.  Kabii tilted his head quizzically.  “Right.  Mand’alor.  Okay, we’re going to need to hire a dedicated Quartermaster, ping the Haat’ade job boards for that, and probably a chief logistics officer… Why did Ad'nau have to go become a New Mandalorian, there was a time he’d have been perfect for this.”

“I don’t think he’d object,” Kabii said quietly, and Jaster stilled.  

He probably wouldn’t, now that Jaster considered it.  Ad'nau Kryze had been a good and honorable leader once, respecting their traditions and holding the six actions, in his own way.  His riduur had always been more militantly New Mandalorian, and love did strange things to a man, but there wasn’t much of a way to interpret what Jaster needed as violent.  If anything, it was designed to limit violence.

“I need to make a call,” Jaster said, and strode out of the room.

***

“The senate thinks the Mandalorians are going to war,” Jocasta said mildly to Yaddle over tea.

“Oh?” the elderly Jedi said in invitation.

“Apparently they noticed something that looked like troop movement and laying in supply lines.”

“Not our mandate yet, hmm?  Jedi, to war, do not go,” Yaddle replied, sipping her tea.  “I heard from Senior Wayfinder Corpsmaster Rem Fuhan, the other day.  He’s quite pleased with their new volunteer program.”

“Mmm.  Master Waawat Both from the AgriCorps did mention something similar.  Apparently an independent coalition of transports is helping with the logistics of distribution these days.”  Jocasta poured herself another cup of Sapir, and offered Yaddle another cookie from the plate.

“Forgiven the Mand’alor yet, have you?” Yaddle asked.  “Nice enough young man, he could be.”

“Jaster has digital access only,” Jocasta said primly.

“Jaster, it is, hmmm?” Yaddle cackled.

***

Nico Diath sighed, looking at the comm message in his hands.  They’d known they needed to give this message for years, but it hadn’t been possible.  And of course it was Dooku’s grand-padawan.

Only Feemor, really.

He squared his shoulders and stepped into the Mandalorian tapcaf, and prepared to catch his dead friend’s spouse when they learned the truth at long last.

Chapter Text

“Verd Awaud,” the scruffy looking spacer said, eyes on his drink as he slid in beside Tavi.

“Do I know you?” Tavi sighed.  She wasn’t in a good mood.  This wasn’t a great week to be bothering her.  This week two years ago she’d missed a meeting with her riduur and never heard from him again.  Hence being in this skughole bar trying to numb the pain.  He hadn’t even sent her a comm to break their riduurok, the shebs.

“No, but I knew your husband,” he said softly.  Sadly.  Her hearts clenched as she belatedly registered the past tense.

“No… he never broke the riduurok, he is my husband.”

“Feemor Stahl was a good man, a good friend,” the spacer said firmly in the face of her denials.  “I was happy to help cover for his marriage.  He cared about you.”

“He… wait, cover for?”

“Technically he was breaking the law, getting married like that.”  The spacer shrugged.  “We would have tried to celebrate with you, but… missions too close to Mandalore were banned until recently.”

Realizations crashed together in her head like a speederwreck.

“Fee is… a Jetii?  But the Mand’alor gave Ceta-Skira, the wounds are healing… even if he somehow thought I was associated with, with that, he would see we’re changing, he could tell me himself.  Even if he didn’t want to be married anymore, he could say that!  I wouldn’t try to cage him.  I wouldn’t!”

“Unfortunately, my friend, that isn’t possible,” the spa- no, the Jetii said with a shake of his shaggy head.  “Although one could say his last act did help bring our peoples closer.”

“No, no… he can’t… no!” Tavi yelled, pushing back from the bar with a crashing of barstools.  The barkeep growled, but the Jetii held up a hand.

“All is well, we will repair any damages,” he promised the barkeep.  Then he turned to Tavi.  “I understand, trust me… he was like a little brother to me.  It took six Healers to contain us when Patya and I were done with the ship.”

“When… oh no, no Manda, please no!” Tavi wailed.  

Distantly she noted the Jetii passing a stack of credits to the barkeep and waving out the few scattered drunks from the room as she finally realized what was being said.

“He was… ner cyare was… ner riduur was The Finder.   He was…,” her voice broke on the wail that punched out of her chest.  Her beloved, her Feemor, had been ripped limb from limb by dar’manda scum.  Of course he had fought to the end for the children, he always loved kids.  She had wanted to raise his, from the first time he wandered into the same horrid little tapcaf.  

She had been there to meet a client.  He had come in to drink because his work had taken him into a dark place; he won through at the end, but with hurts that needed numbing.  He’d been soft-seeming, mild and polite, until he’d gotten a drink or two in, leaning on her arm and ranting about how vital forensic accounting was to ending the evils of the slave trade.  He’d been bright, full of life and joy and a bloody edge like a good knife aimed well.

“His killer is dead already,” she growled.  Her vengeance denied her, as she finally realized there was something to avenge.

“We set his armor aside for you, if you want to claim it as Feemor’s next of kin.”

“His… did he not have a Jetii family?”

The Jetii winced.  “He should have.  His… former close-to-father is on psych lockdown.  He never managed to reunite with the lineage, after.  That’s why those of us he worked with were so glad he connected to you.  He needed what you gave.  Love, unrestrictive and supportive.  You were there for him, and we thank you for it.”

Tavi broke around a sob that cracked in her ribs.  She hadn’t been.  Her arrogance had led her to assume she had time, that her riduur was safe as a warrior of numbers and flimsi.  She knew what he did wasn’t safe, even when she didn’t know he was a Jetii.  He chased slavers, for kriff’s sake.  She’d missed their meeting, and he’d died.   Died by the hand of one who wore the same armor she did.

The Jetii wrapped strong arms around her, pulling her into an embrace as she wept.

***

“It’ll be okay,” Shiri whispered to the others in the cage.  “I know it.  The Mother promised me.”

They nodded, aware she had a blessing and knew things.  She wasn’t the oldest, that was Pirik, who was nearly ten, but they listened.

A series of thumps, bangs, and pings got steadily louder, and the door flew up with a snap-crack.  A tall person in shiny gold and silver armor painted with broad wings on the chest in red stepped through.

“Alright ad’ike, let’s get you out of here,” they said with a voice that sounded like two voices to Shiri, a strong woman and a gentle man, speaking as one.

Tell Tavi you go to my people, whispered the man.

“Um, Missus Tavi?” Shiri said hesitantly.  The armored person turned to look at her.  “I um… I think I go to… um.”

“You’re one of Fee’s, aren’t you?” the woman asked, bending down.  “Don’t worry Jet’ika, I’ll get you to the Jet’yaim safe and sound.”

That’s the mission, the man laughed.

“Always,” Tavi whispered.

***

“Riduur, we have to stop meeting like this,” Knight Mossi Corbilles laughed, ducking around her husband to bring up her saber and block the shots coming in at his side, her Soresu slotting in neatly around his shots at their attackers.  “The Mand’alor will think you’re breaking the rules for me.”

“Jaster is a romantic, my heart.  He will forgive me,” Heshi Corbilles chuckled in Mando’a.  “How is our son?”

“Varrik is doing very well, and plenty of good, too.”   She shook her head in exasperated fondness.  “Maybe next time please don’t send him bombs as a life day gift, though, he’s had far too much fun with that build-your-own explosives set.” 

“It’s educational!” Heshi protested, one hand on his chest in mock woundedness.  Mossi rolled her eyes and batted away a blaster bolt.

“Fewer lessons with property damage, please!” she shouted over the sound of an explosion to the west.  “We don’t have that many Temples, you know.  That’s him, I think.  I told him to secure the path to our ship.”

“Excellent work!” Heshi praised, looking at the plume of smoke by the port.  “Satsi should be there too.”

“Satsi?”

“Um… you said you wanted lots of kids, right?”

“Did you at least get this Satsi’s permission first?”

“Of course!  I do learn, my vociferous beloved.  She’s very happy to be our foundling, we have paperwork and everything.”

“Good job,” Mossi said, bouncing up with a touch of the Force to peck a kiss on her husband’s helmet.  “Let’s go, before our Padawan burns down the spaceport.”

***

“So… run that by me again?”

“Well, I met Var’vod at the port, he saw our aliik on my shirt, and we worked together,” Satsi said calmly from her seat in the co-pilot seat of Knight Corbilles’ starfighter.  Given she was much shorter than the seventeen year old Padawan who normally sat there, it was a bit of an adjustment to remember to look down, not up.

“And that resulted in you on my ship?”

“Yeah, I was closer to this one when that one 'lectric popper accidentally took down the port’s sign.  Those repulsor mounts really should be sturdier.”

“And Varrik is…”

“With Hesh’buir!  I saw him get in the ship, that’s why I got in yours.”

“Because…”

“Then one of us is always with one of our parents, duh?” Satsi rolled her eyes and Mossi had a sudden sensation of her dearly departed Master cackling about children exactly like you.

“Right.  Okay.  I’ll just send a quick Comm to the Temple to let them know why I’m late.”

“Late?” 

“We have to detour to Mandalore, ner ad, to swap you back.  Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but Varrik has tests next week.”

“Does he do well on tests?” Satsi asked skeptically.

“He… takes after his father,” Mossi sighed in answer.

***

Kabi waved to Ruusan across the tap-caf and smiled as the younger woman trotted up with a tell-tale giddy grin.

“So I take it you saw The Bajii recently?” he asked.

“At Dex’s, on Coruscant.  She’s so smart, Kabii, I could listen to her teach for hours.”

“Only if she’s alright with that,” he warned.  Ruusan pulled a face at him.

“Of course only if she’s alright with it!  I would never!  I’m not the Mand’alor.”

“I heard my title?” Jaster laughed, sitting down with them.

“Um, that is,” Ruusan stammered, and Kabi took pity on her.

“She’s just joking about you and Itzal,” he assured.  “Although plenty of other well meaning Mandos kidnapped their Jetiise, so you’re not alone in that.  We try really hard not to push on ours, though.”

“Yours?” Jaster asked, one brow shooting up.

“Patya, the Bajii,” Ruusan sighed dreamily.  “We have to be careful, she’s very skittish and we don’t want to scare her, but… Mand’alor, she’s just the best.”

“Nu draar,” Tova Wren disagreed, pulling up a chair too.  “Cuun ad, Ob’ika is the best.  Patya is a good buir for him, but have you seen him fight?

“No arguing,” Kabi said firmly.  “We meet up like this because we all care about Patya and Obi-Wan.  They are, together as a unit, objectively The Best, and that’s all that matters.”

“I get the feeling I’ve interrupted something,” Jaster laughed lightly.

“Oh, just the meeting of the Unofficial Patya Boma Fanclub Harem,” Ruusan chuckled as a few more verde pushed another table up to join them.

“And the Unofficial Obi-Wan Kenobi Fanclub Buire,” Tova added.  “There’s lots of overlap, so we just agreed to share notes equally.  It means we’re all reassured they’re doing well and nobody accidentally overlaps and sets Patya’s protective instincts off.”

“Does… Madame Boma know you’re doing this?” Jaster asked warily.  Understandable, consent was the difference between this being loving and being stalking.

“Who do you think suggested it?” Kabi shrugged.  “She said she doesn’t have time to manage us all, so we could act like grown Mando’ade and sort ourselves out so she doesn’t deal with any unexpected Mandos unless there’s an emergency.”

“Ob’ika has all our comm codes too,” Tova added, “so he can message us for help with learning modules or if he needs credits to get something on a mission.  He doesn’t often, but when he does it’s a joy to help teach him and take care of him.”

“Well, as long as they’re happy with it, I guess I’ll see myself out then,” Jaster said mildly.  “I have a comm call I need to be on soon.  Madame Nu said I might be allowed short term archive entry access, if I can prove I have the credentials to handle rare items.”

“Jate ka’ra, Mand’alor!” Kabi called as Jaster meandered away through the tapcaf’s crowds.

Chapter Text

It had been close to a year after the fateful mission, Obi-Wan’s last with Master Jinn.  He was still Qui-Gon’s Padawan on all the paperwork, but aside from a short and supervised visit in the Healing Halls for closure, he hadn’t seen Qui-Gon much at all.  Even that had been strange, watching the mentor he once would have given anything to please silently weep while apologizing for what seemed like an endless list of things.  Weirder still was the realization that perhaps those things were, in fact, deserving of apologies.

Instead of Master Jinn, Obi-Wan spent his time with Madame Boma, his “Interim Mentor” becoming far more permanent than the title would suggest.  They spent their time traveling to historical sites, documenting data and collating research, or presenting lectures at universities, or occasionally being called in to provide historical context at peace talks and other negotiations.  He received very detailed lessons in language, the same sort of verbal sparring he had so admired, and in psychology, sociology, and history.  He had to know the basic building blocks of communication and society, after all, if he was to understand how they broke down and how best to repair the damage that could lead to war, corruption, and suffering.

The unusual group of Mandalorians who seemed intent on making sure he was well fed and properly equipped had taken a bit to get used to, but after a short call to Kabii Cadera, they’d slowed down and now he felt far more confident calling them for assistance if he needed it.  More than once a quick comm had brought in just enough credits to escape tricky situations, or a friendly ship in the correct port.  

Even Madame Boma had relaxed enough to call them for help sometimes, and admitted privately that her own unhealed traumas had made her more reactive than was fully reasonable when they first met Kabii.  There were many explanations for people going missing she hadn’t considered when blame could be laid on Mandalore’s door, and many cultural differences she hadn’t bothered learning about in her grief.  But she was working on being better so she wouldn’t end up spilling her issues onto Obi-Wan, and it was a good chance for him to watch up close as someone he respected dealt with complex emotions in a healthy manner.

He was doing better in classes, too, well on his way to being a skilled Consular Knight even with the slight hiccup of his training under Master Jinn.  He’d even been invited to a Junior Leaders conference hosted on Naboo, on the strength of some of his essays that Madame Boma had helped him submit to academic journals.

Which was how he came to be standing with the Princess of Alderaan and her suitor, the current senatorial aide to Alderaan’s representative, at a small table laden with fizzing fruit juices on a balcony overlooking one of Theed’s many waterfalls.

“So I said, why don’t you just ask them,” Bail said, and Breha let out a dignified giggle.  Obi-Wan smiled slightly more widely than he might have otherwise… it was a very funny story.  “Speaking of just asking them… Senior Padawan Kenobi, are you by chance the same Padawan Kenobi involved in the… rather enlightening conversation between Mandalore and the Order?”

Princess Breha looked excited, and Obi-Wan fought a blush.

“Yes, although I can take no credit for that conversation.  That was entirely my mentor, Madame Boma.  She is… a very educational person to converse with.”

“I’m just glad Breha’s mad plans to mend the rift between your peoples worked,” Bail said with a fond look to his betrothed.  “The outer rim is much more comfortable to travel now that Mandalorians and Jedi have overcome their differences.”

“Wait, that was your idea?” Obi-Wan asked, stunned.

“Oh yes, I thought surely with so many similarities you’d get along well once you got over the initial discomfort,” Breha said happily.

“Discomfort is… maybe not the word I would use,” Obi-Wan said, thinking of the day of the funeral.  He’d been beside Madame Boma, and while the other Padawans were pushed away, she had allowed him to stay by her side, although she’d firmly instructed him to stay behind the first row of Masters and Knights for safety.  He’d still had a good view of the grim procession setting down their ghastly burdens, felt the bone-deep remorse and horror when they removed their helmets.  He still had nightmares on occasion of the resolve they felt to die if the Jedi wished for fatal revenge, a numb resignation tinted with self-loathing that clung horribly in the Force.

“Well, Satine did say it went very well,” Breha allowed, and Obi-Wan realized they may not be speaking of the same thing.

“Oh, you meant the meeting!” he gasped, then blushed at his outburst.

“Well what else would I mean?” Breha giggled again.

“Oh well, the meeting didn’t actually do much,” Obi-Wan admitted sheepishly.  “Sundari isn’t Mandalore, as far as politics goes, or wasn’t then.  Madame Nu reports that Jaster and Ad’nau are working together much more closely nowadays.  So meeting the Duke was fun, and I loved getting to watch him and Madame Boma talk, but that wasn’t what I thought of when you said ‘the mad plan that changed everyone’s mind’ you understand?  That would be Jaster, Goran Vorpaya, and like, a dozen armored Mandos crashing a funeral to give us back all the trophies Mandalorians have taken off Jedi in the past thousand years.”

“Who gave you back what, now?” Bail asked with a blink. 

“Yeah, they didn’t realize they were taking anything important, apparently, but the sabers were all really happy to come home.  Now there’s only one missing.”

“What?” Breha asked, head tilting.

“Oh, the saber of Master Tarre, nobody was able to get it back, apparently.  We know who has it, but he’s sort of hard to confront and doesn’t consider Jaster his leader, so… not much we can do.”  Obi-Wan shrugged.  “Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I have a Mandalorian… friend, who is looking into planetary repair.  The Agricorps has them on the list, but the best plan they can come up with for it takes a bit more resources than we have at the moment.  Do you think that Alderaan might be able to spare some donations?”

***

Madame Nu smiled ever so slightly.  She thought she was being quite exuberant in her pleasure at the care Jaster was taking with the research items he was investigating.  After all, she let her feelings grace her face.   

Of course they were all records from the Pre-Reformation period, specifically the ones related to Mandalorians, which meant they were quite fragile.  It wasn’t purely pettiness and concern for Temple security that had caused her to deny his access all these years.  Half these items could not be safely digitized, or would require far more resources than she was granted to do so.  Of course, anonymous donations earmarked for her use had become far more frequent as of late, particularly after she explained that to the avid researcher now bent over an aging scroll.

“Record Besh-Aurek-Nern seventy five,” he murmured, voice muffled by his helmet, which was serving to keep the moisture of his breath off the artifacts.  “Researcher note, mis-categorized.”

“What?” she asked, her own voice muffled by the rebreather she was wearing for the same purpose.

“This is noted in your collection logs as a battle record,” Jaster said with a huffed laugh.  “It is… very much not.”

Whatever he said after was garbled, said too quietly for the audio pickups to catch correctly.

“Let’s step outside, I would like an explanation,” she suggested.  He nodded and they both carefully proceeded to the airlock on the archive for sanitization protocols.  Outside, she rubbed the bite mark of the rebreather mask out of her cheeks and gave him a quizzical look as he removed his helmet to reveal a deep blush.

“Ah, I entirely understand how the mistake was made,” he started, not making eye contact with her.  “It is no fault of your researchers or cataloguers.”

“You won’t offend me,” she said with a soft laugh.  “That was cataloged when Yoda was a Padawan, and it was old and fragile then.  I just want my collection cataloged properly.   Which means I need whatever information you have about it.”

“Ah, well.  Um,” he hedged.

“If your delay in providing knowledge you know I need is some form of petty, juvenile revenge-”

“Nu draar!” he gasped, waving his hands as though he could clear the suggestion from the air.  “It’s not, I just…. Ah.  The catalog calls it a battle record, because a lot of the words in it could be considered very… martial.  But there are distinct patterns that indicate the type of writing, phrases that indicate a factual retelling, a fictional story meant to educate, a fictional story meant to entertain, markers for poems and songs, and this one… is not a factual account of an event.”

“So it should go in fiction?” Jocasta asked.

“It should go in erotic poetry,” Jaster blurted, looking steadfastly about a hanspan over her head as what appeared to be half his blood flow hit his cheeks.  “It’s an incredibly… descriptive poem about the, um… I don’t know what the Basic is… the love-dreams of the writer.”

“Oh!” Jocasta exclaimed, one hand covering her mouth to stifle a giggle.  The steadfast and aggravatingly stubborn Mandalorian was blushing, stammering, and refusing to meet her gaze, because he’d stumbled into some ancient Mando’a porn.  “Well that is both mis-cataloged and probably mis-translated in our records, if we’d been trying to make it a battle record.”

“You have translations?” Jaster asked, aghast, eyes finaling meeting hers.

“Not good ones, I assure you, they aren’t anything quite that fun to read,” she huffed.  “Although I did very much wonder why the speaker didn’t clean his weapon off before sheathing it.  Lightsabers may not have that issue, but Cin assured me sheathes are not supposed to gush blood when you put your sword away.”

“It um… that word just means bodily fluids,” Jaster corrected.  “It doesn’t mean blood in that context.”

“And I assume that was absolutely not an actual sword nor sheath?” she laughed.

“No, it very much was not,” he agreed with a laugh.

“Would you be open to assisting in providing a clearer translation?” she asked, unsure where the bravery was coming from to even ask.

“A… ah.. a clearer translation?”

“Language is a strange, mutable thing that relies on context and subjective reality.  Relying solely on our own interpretations can lead to unnecessary conflict and reading intentions into another’s actions that were never there.  A translation, one informed by the wisdom of someone with the correct context and clarified through less subjective means, can only serve to better enable a mutually engaging cultural exchange.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I could,” he said, seeming strangely hesitant, perhaps even disappointed.  

“A good point, Madame Nu makes,” Yaddle said, causing both of them to jump.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Jocasta said primly with a glare at her diminutive mentor.

“Words can cause confusion,” Yaddle said with a wide, frog-eating grin.  “Actions, much clearer, they speak.  Translations she would like.”

Jaster flushed again, but his Force Presence felt pleased.

“Thank you, Master Yaddle,” Jocasta sighed.

“You are very welcome, Jo.  However, your quarters would be a better place for your translation project.  No need to scare the Padawans, is there?”

“I said thank you Master Yaddle,” Jocasta growled.  “Shall we perhaps take dinner now, Mand’alor Mereel?”

“Call me Jaster,” he said with a warm smile.  “Dinner sounds lovely.  We can discuss… poetry translations.”

***

“So are you still looking at being a negotiator?” Tova asked over holocomm.  “Or has Boma convinced you to be a historian?”

“Eh,” Obi-Wan shrugged at the older Mando.  “What she does is important, but it’s not my calling and she knows it, so there isn’t much convincing happening.”

“I’m still unclear on how you Jetii apprentice to people without wanting to learn their trades,” Tova said with a shake of their head.

“Of course it's an apprenticeship,” Obi-Wan said with a sly grin that had the Mando’ad perking up in interest.  He never had that expression when he wasn’t planning to pull some convoluted trick out of his over-large Jetii sleeves.  “What else could it be?  Jedi don’t have families.   They can’t, obviously, because Jedi don’t have emotions.”

Of course, Tova knew that for a lie.  Ob’ika was a very passionate verd’ika, always caring so deeply for everyone, there was a reason his list of buire was longer than Tova’s chain-code.  The Jetiise may pretend to be cold and heartless, but that lie was the basis of their armor.  As upsetting as Mando’ade found the idea of beskar'gam be runi, it was traditional to the Jetiise, It still hurt Tova to see when their beloved ad pulled that impenetrable barrier over his brightly burning soul.  They wished they could get him a proper buy’ce instead.

“If Jetiise cannot have families because Jetiise do not have emotions, then….” Tova didn’t finish the thought.  If Ob’ika was using the doublespeak, it was probably important not to say the quiet part too loudly.  Whether that was a compromised line (unlikely) or the ad thought the idea would transmit better in what Tova was realizing was the secret native language of the Jedi (more likely) they didn’t know, but they would honor his choices.

“How is your eldest, by the way?” Obi-wan asked abruptly, then took a sip of his leaf-juice.  Tova didn’t know why he liked it, but he did.

“Oh, she’s fine.  Working on a new art project in Sundari with her cyare, I think it’s a mural?  She had a lot to say about it, but most of that went over my head.  I am definitely not called to the arts like she is.”

“It’s good that you support her, even though her ambitions are different than your own,” Ob’ika hummed over the rim of his cup.

The round chambered in Tova’s mind.

They supported Ursa’s more artistic interests because she was their child and deserved the support, even if half the things she said about her work sounded like she was suddenly speaking Ryll.  Actually, Tova was passable at Ryll, art-speak was worse.

Boma supported Obi-Wan’s love of negotiation and debate even though she herself appeared to only enjoy speaking if it were a lecture, because he deserved the support in his own interests.  Because he was his own person, not a miniature version of the beings raising him.  She wasn’t training an apprentice to follow in her steps, she was raising a child.

Jetiise don’t have emotions.  This is a lie.

Jetiise don’t have families.  This is a lie.

Jetiise train apprentices.  This is a lie.

A lie told to preserve their families, to hide the feelings that were unsafe to reveal, a lie told over and over until it became a language of its own.

“I still don’t know how you lot manage to keep track of everything,” Tova said with a rueful huff at their own lack of understanding.

“All things are possible in the Force,” Obi-Wan said with a graceful gesture.  A gesture that in non-Twi’lekki Ryll meant Honesty.

Ah… they Jetii used their magic to ensure the double meanings were heard, which meant the shabuire in the Senate couldn’t see through the armor of lies to the truth hidden underneath.

“You will be a very fine negotiator one day, Ob’ika,” Tova chuckled.  “You are very skilled with languages.”

“I appreciate your kind words, I know language is important in your culture,” Obi-Wan said with a gracious nod.  “I need to go, my class on aggressive negotiations is beginning, and Battlemaster Drallig despises tardiness.  Ret’urcye mhi.”

“Ret’urcye mhi, ad’ika.”

Chapter Text

“But I’m barely even a Padawan,” Quinlan grumbled.  “I’m an adult by Coruscant standards.  Why am I getting punished like a small child?”

“Small children rarely break protocol, sneak out to the lower levels, and run highly illegal gambling dens as cover for their even more illegal spy networks,” Tholme said placidly.  “Being legally a child so long as you’ve not been knighted is all that kept you from being sent to prison instead, and trust me, the prisons they send Force Sensitives to are far worse than a week of archival transcription duty.  Also, we may have kept the first ten years of your training off the Senate books, but we still can't afford an 8 year training fine.”

“He’s not going anywhere near the transcription room,” Jocasta Nu cut in suddenly.  

Quinlan did not scream like a horror-holo victim and jump into his Master’s arms.  

Jocasta raised a single eyebrow and rubbed delicately at her ears.  “Jaster found some of your previous work, and while the scholarship was solid, it did make it quite clear you’re not suited to that method of discipline through tedium.”

“Where do you want him, then?” Tholme asked, hefting the Kiffar more securely in his arms.

“Radio Room,” she said.  Quinlan tipped his head.

“During the Sith Wars, the Sith used a more archaic form of comm device, one that was less prone to signal jamming and near impervious to slicing,” Tholme explained while trotting off deeper into the bowels of the Jedi Archives.  “It requires specialty equipment that wasn’t common even in those days, but once we located their signal bands it was easy enough to intercept their messages.”

“So it wasn’t secure?” Quinlan asked.  “That seems… really short sighted, even for Sith.”

“That’s where encryption comes in, codes, ciphers, and the like.”  Tholme grinned.  “Which, as you know, is detailed work that requires complete focus .”

“But the Sith are dead!” Quinlan protested, finally squirming free when faced with the prospect of being asked to intently focus on small details, something he was good at, but loathed with a passion unbecoming a Jedi.

“Their temples and artifacts are not,” Tholme said with sudden seriousness.  “And they rarely fall into hands that mean well.  Now more than ever, there are few eyes upon the specific frequencies used by a society who are, as you say, dead, and that appeals to a certain type of mindset.  It’s just scanning, recording, and running decryptions should you hear anything, Quin.  The manual is right there and very detailed and easy to read if I do say so myself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you aren’t as creative as you think you are and your old fogey of a Master once served his punishment for very similar crimes here.”  Tholme grinned.  “You should have done a brothel instead of a casino; fewer disgruntled former patrons and those ladies did an excellent job covering my escape.  They kept all the profits, so they were motivated.”

***

It had been hours, and Quinlan was certain nothing would happen.  He had finished reading the manual written by his Master, and then read the old one, and reluctantly agreed the revision was superior.  He was scanning through a list of frequencies, waiting for anything at all interesting to happen, when suddenly, it did.

He moved swiftly as soon as he realized the signal contained actual signal and not just random noise, plugging the feed into a dozen decryption subroutines and frantically scanning for one to turn it into something reasonable.

Ah-ha!  Got you.  

It would have been near-impossible to decode even a few years ago.  As it was, the Will of the Force had its inconvenient hands all over Quinlan’s presence in the Radio Room and he smugly filed that away to tell Tholme later… he had been careful enough with his gambling house, the Force just needed him here, so he could hear this message.

This message that decrypted into Mando’a.

He wasn’t as good at the language as Obi-Wan, but he had done all the same language modules, and they practiced together when they were both in-Temple or close enough for short-range comm calls.  He was fluent enough to start writing down the contents as soon as he hit ‘record’ on the ancient technology.  It was redundant, but if Tholme had taught him one thing it was that you should always assume tech will fail at the worst time, and at least handwriting was hard to hack.

Partway through the call, his hands began to shake.

This was big, way bigger than he could handle on his own.

The second the call ended, he jabbed at the button to eject the data-stick, snatched it and his notes, and sprinted from the Radio Room.  The Archives were a blur as he moved through them, guided purely by the Force as he opened himself up to its ebb and flow and released the urgency into its vastness, pulled along in the wake of that need.  He slammed to a stop against the door of a Master’s suite, body bouncing backwards off the barrier.  He pulled himself upright to press the call button when the door slid open.

“Encryptions, Vizsla, lightsaber,” he gasped out, thrusting the notes and datastick forward into the hands of Jocasta Nu.

“Come on in, ad,” a deeper voice said and Quinlan blinked as strong hands guided him into the room and onto a sofa.  “Ori’jate, just breathe.”

Quinlan blinked and then blushed.  Jaster Mereel, the fucking Mand’alor was helping him regulate his breathing and anchor himself in the here-and-now.  A very naked Jaster Mereel, with one of the Temple Standard towels wrapped around his hips.

Oh.  Quinlan was maybe not as straight as he’d thought.  Shit, he owed Bantling ten credits.

Oh sithspit.   Jaster Mereel was very naked… in Madame Nu’s rooms.   And now that he was thinking of it, she was in a thin silk robe patterned with flowers, as she scanned through his notes at the kitchen counter.

“Jaster, I do believe young Vos has solved one of our mutual problems very neatly,” she said crisply.

“Oh?” the Mand’alor asked, as though he weren’t fully tits-out in the private quarters of Madame fucking Nu.

“You’ve one more trophy to return, my love,” she purred, and Quinlan wondered if he could release himself to the Force, since surely he was 90% embarrassment by now.  Madame Nu crossed the space between them, slapping the notes and datastick against bare Mand’alor flesh.  

“You can have this Tor fellow,” she growled, “but Master Vizsla’s lightsaber comes HOME.”

“As you wish, ner cyare.”

***

Jaster ran the remaining gear checks he needed.  The uninhabited planet Tor had found to hide on was mostly jungle, meaning they’d come in several klicks out from the camp location and hiked in on foot for the advantage of surprise.  Now, the man who’d caused so much damage was within sight, and with him, the final piece of the Ceta Skira that had hung over Jaster’s head like the legendary beskad of Mand’alor Damocles.

A soft rustle caught his attention and he jerked about to see the incongruous form of Jedi Shadow Itzal Qur.

“My friend, it is good to see you,” the Kel Dor said quietly, with a bare sketch of a bow, hands tucked into loose Jedi sleeves.

“What are you…” Jaster trailed off, as more Jedi slipped out of the trees.  His ori'ramikade were well trained enough not to give away their position from surprise, but their shock was clear in their posture.  He was not the only one who'd had no idea the Jedi were here.

“This isn’t your mission alone,” Itzal said solemnly.  “How often, in recent years, have Mando’ade come to the aid of the Jedi?  How many missions would we have lost our brothers and sisters on, if not for yours?  And now you go to rescue one of our own yet again.”

“We’re not Mandos,” added a gruff human man with the broadly muscled body of someone who did not rely on magic alone in a fight.  He stroked his prodigious mustache thoughtfully.  “That doesn’t mean we’re cowards, nor does it mean we lack honor.”

“What Nico means,” a female Bothan in modified robes that showed off impressive looking arms sighed, “is that we’re here to help.  When it comes to lightsabers, untrained hands are often more deadly than trained ones, and we’re not rolling those dice.  Not with these stakes.”

“Jedi do not cling to attachments past their time,” a hooded Jedi added.  “But we do have… reasons to be invested.”

“I could not bear to return to a home my Master did not reside in,” a delicate looking Sephi said.  Delicate the way fine blades were, Jaster decided, looking into sharp green eyes that held no lies.  “A home at war with his people.”

“Who…” someone asked and Jaster slashed a hand for silence.

“Jedi Master Fay Vizsla,” the Sephi said with a sharp grin.  “Only surviving child of Jedi Master Tarre Viszla, last of my lineage, and I will bring ner buir home.   Haat, Ijaat, Haa’it.”

***

The fight went smoothly.  Too smoothly, almost.  The Jedi didn’t move like the wind, nor like water, both ways Jaster had heard it described.  They moved like the Ka’ra themselves.  The Bothan Jedi danced with the flames thrown at her, twisting them around her and redirecting them at those who thought to burn the Jedi.  Nico, the burly human, tossed Kyr’tsad verde around like they were made of flimsi.  The hooded Jedi vanished and reappeared at will, drawing fire away from Jaster’s people and often catching Kyr’tsad in their own lines of fire.

Tor, finally faced with a fight he could not run from, drew the Dah’kad, the black blade snapping into existence with a crackle like lightning.

“NO!” Fay screamed at her cousin of many generations removed, falling to her knees.  The other Jedi broke from their fights to flank and guard her as a wailing sob ripped free of the grieving Jedi.

Jaster moved in the moment of shock, left hand coming up to grip the wrist holding the glowing black blade, right raising his blaster to tuck beneath Tor’s buy’ce.  The sword dropped from Tor’s grip, and a streak of cold ripped along Jaster’s shoulder as he pulled the trigger, the bang of the weapon echoing louder than any blaster should.

Steady hands braced Jaster, and he blinked at sharp green eyes as Fay gripped him tight and something like a live wire coursed through his veins.

“You will live, Mand’alor,” she growled.  Her green eyes glowed with a faint teal light, and Jaster very sensibly passed out.

***

“So… where did you get the slugthrower, Buir?” Jango asked from the seat by Jaster’s bed in the medical bay of their ship.

“The what?” Jaster asked.

“The slugthrower, the one you shot Tor with?” Jango clarified, and while that did explain the sound, it hardly answered his child’s question, as Jaster did not recall carrying a slugthrower.

His comm buzzed, saving him for a second as he checked the message.

You can keep the slugthrower, Jo said it was a gift.  Speaking of gifts, Fay left something for you in your shuttle.  Look for the green silk wrapping.  - IQ

That both did and did not answer his questions.  Jaster eased himself out of bed and  Jango slotted himself under his buir’s good shoulder to help him walk.  They moved swiftly - there was a limited amount of time one could spend out of medbay without permission before the Baar’ure noticed.

Thankfully, medbay was near the hangars intentionally, for swift care of injuries, and it wasn’t long before he was sitting in his shuttle with a small green-wrapped item on his lap.

“Mand’alor, you shouldn’t be out here,” Mij chided, but fell silent as Jaster unwrapped the gift.  “Is that….”

“The Mask of the Mand’alor,” Jaster whispered.

“There’s a note,” Jango said, grabbing the small square of rare and precious paper.  “It says A Jedi strives to forgive, but a Mando’ad never forgets.  I have walked in two worlds long enough, I think.  Do not call me, Mand’alor; I now answer only to the Force.  May the Ka’ra be with you… Fay.”

“Well… that’s certainly something,” Mij said.  “Now come on Mand’alor, I want you back in that bed until we reach Manda’yaim.”

***

“A long time, it has been,” Master Yoda said thoughtfully, “since in our Temple you have stayed, hmm?”

“A long time, indeed,” Fay agreed, pulling the reason for her long-overdue return from her robes, “since at peace my people and the people of my Master have been.  Returned to our home, he has at last, and peace between Jedi and Mando’ade we have once more.”

“Peace, you say?” Yoda chuckled.  “Peace is not the way of the Mandalorian.”

“Friendship, then,” Fay said with a faint smile at her only surviving crechemate.

“Friendship, a wonderful thing it is,” Yoda agreed, turning his face to the sunlight that shot through the Room of a Thousand Fountains.  “Lighter, I feel.  Hunt frogs later, I might.  Join me, will you?”

“I would love to, my old friend,” Fay accepted.

She felt lighter too.

***

"Nominate Master Fay, I do, to Grandmaster of the Jedi Order."

"You little troll!"

"Seconded."

"Yaddle!"

"All in favor?"

"I strongly dislike all of you right now."

"Motion Passes.  My condolences, Grandmaster Fay."

Chapter Text

“Are you ready for your final mission?” Patya asked her Interim Mentee.

“I predict the negotiations will be short,” Obi-Wan huffed, settling his robes.  Technically, Jedi were forbidden armor.  Technically, the beskar he wore underneath his robes was a “ceremonial necklace” given to him in recognition of his work facilitating the re-greening effort, and the reinforced gloves that covered him to his elbow were “workman’s protective equipment”.  He still kept his saber on his hip, but his boots now both carried “all-purpose utility cutters” as well.

“The Trade Federation is not known for their willingness to leave credits on the table,” Patya warned.  “They have many motivations to do this, and only the Chancellor’s orders not to.”

“I said short,” Obi-Wan laughed as they waited for the shuttle doors to open.  “I did not say quiet.”

***

“Battle droid army?  That’s an odd play for the Trade Federation,” Patya mused.

“Not really, they did that before during the Stark Hyperspace thing,” Obi-Wan said without looking up from the terminal he was slicing.

“We might want to get moving,” Patya reminded him, checking her ‘specialty multipurpose blade’ to see it hadn’t taken too much damage being shoved through a shield generator’s field.  The weak point of those things was always in small, slow, kinetic intrusions.  They were geared to stop blaster bolts, after all, not scholars with box-cutters holding them against the neck joints of destroyer droids and then flipping a switch.

“You’re right,” he said too quickly for her liking.  “Let's split up. Stow aboard a ship or shuttle, and I’ll meet you down on the planet.”

“Did those droids hit your head?” she asked calmly.  “What are you even doing?”

“Making a call,” he said, standing up abruptly.  “Come on, there’s a shuttle over there!”

***

“So that went swimmingly,” Obi-Wan commented mildly.

“Your attempt at humor is noted, Padawan Kenobi,” Patya shot back as she squeezed water from her braids.  She was never in a good mood when wet, and while the Gungan City itself was protected, the path in and out had left her waterlogged.

“Thisa why hair no-good for Gungans,” their local guide said sympathetically.

“Unfortunately, I am not a Gungan,” Patya sighed.  “Where to next, Obi-Wan?”

“Theed,” he said, eyes going distant.  “We need to find the Queen.”

They took off running, following his lead, and rounded the corner in time to see the Queen’s Retinue surrounded by battle-droids.  Obi-Wan launched into combat with his Saber, and Patya fell back into the Service Corps Special: huddling near a wall and subtly crushing important-looking joints and electronics with the Force.  Jar-Jar seemed torn between the two, but chose to stand some sort of guard over her, his bouncy posturing actually providing very good cover for her Force manipulations.

“Who are you?” Sio Bibble demanded and Patya made a mental note that yes, he was just as annoying as her friends in the lecture circuit said,

“Negotiators,” Obi-Wan said bluntly, still scanning for danger.  Patya dimly noted the Queen’s Guard and several handmaidens watching with approval.

“Your negotiations have failed, it would seem,” Bibble blustered.

“The negotiations never took place,” Patya said, cutting him off before he could steam-roll Obi-Wan.  

“Right,” Obi-Wan blew out a hard breath and nodded.  “Strategic retreat it is.  Where are your transports?”

***

The fight had been harsh, but short, the way most space battles were if one side was willing to run.

“There's not enough power to get us to Coruscant,” the pilot growled in frustration, looking at the diagnostic screen. “Our hyperdrive is leaking.  We'll have to land somewhere to refuel and repair the ship.”

Patya looked at Obi-Wan, and he looked back at her.  Technically, he was their mission lead.  Technically she was merely an observer.  The Council had taken one look at the personal favor requested by Valorum and decided sticking Qui-Gon Jinn into the mix was a terrible idea… but on paper, Obi-Wan was still his Padawan.  He would be making the calls here, it was part of his Trials, but his call could still be to ask for her help.

He looked back at his datapad and pulled a map up into projection.

“Here.  Tatooine.  It’s small, isolated, and the Trade Federation has no presence there.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?” she asked him curiously.

“It’s owned by the Hutts.  They don’t get along.”

“You can't take Her Royal Highness there!” Captain Panaka protested.  “The Hutts are gangsters and slavers, if they discovered her…”

“It would be no different than if we landed on a system controlled by the Federation,” Obi-Wan retorted.  “Except the Hutts aren't looking for Her Highness, which gives us an advantage.  Also, it happens to have some… unofficial resources we could really use.”

“Like what?” the Captain challenged.

“Like a harem,” Obi-Wan quipped, and turned to set the course into the navigation panel.  

“They are not a harem!” Patya snipped.  “They’re a Fan Club.  It’s more dignified.”

***

“Her Highness commands you to take her handmaiden with you. She wishes for her to observe the local… um.”

“ Color is the usual euphemism,” Obi-Wan supplied.  He raised a brow at the supposed handmaiden.  “It’s going to be dangerous.”

“I am not afraid,” the girl said stubbornly.  “I've been trained in defense... I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, that just makes it so much worse,” Obi-Wan sighed.  “Come on, lets get moving.”

“Cansa I come wit-ya?” Jar-Jar asked.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Patya said sourly as she wrapped her shawl more securely around her face.  “This planet’s airborne humidity tops out at ten percent, and your species is adapted for swampy wetlands.  At best you’ll be constantly a little bit drunk, at worst you’ll get a skin infection we don’t have the supplies to treat.”

“Stay with the Queen,” Obi-Wan suggested.  “See if the Gungan perspective can help her find a solution.  Her people are not warriors, not like yours are.”

“Meesa can do that,” Jar-Jar said solemnly with a rapid, bobbing nod.  “Gungans know many places good for fight, know many bombad ways to protect our homes.”

***

Patya, Padme, and Obi-Wan looked at each other in shared sorrow and horror as a teasing conversation took a sudden turn when the kind hearted slave boy asked if they were there to free slaves.

“I…” Padme trailed off.

“Your people are already fighting for their freedom,” Obi-Wan reassured her with a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder.  “There is no shame in not being able to fight on two fronts at once.”

“So you aren’t,” Anakin said with barely hidden disappointment.  “You aren’t here to free slaves.”

“Jedi must follow their mandates,” Patya said softly, looking at her not-technically-Padawan.

Obi-Wan tugged his tunic’s neckline away from old scars in an unconscious habit.

“Oh…” Anakin whispered, eyes wide and full of sympathy.  “There are a hundred ways to be a slave, but a thousand ways to be free.”

It clicked then, what the kid meant, the assumptions he’d made, and the startling fact that she did not actually disagree with any of it.  Kark the Senate anyways.

“Jedi must follow their mandates,” she repeated, and Obi-Wan’s head snapped up to stare at her, knowing full well what that sort of emphasis meant from her.  “Padawan Kenobi, you are the mission lead for the Naboo Situation.  You’ve been well trained, you know what must be done, you know what resources are at your disposal.  You have my full faith as your teacher of these last five years.”

“Madame Boma….”

“A Senior EduCorps Historical Sciences Specialist is not, according to the Senate, a Jedi.   We may not carry lightsabers, we may not take Padawan Learners, we may not claim the ranks we have earned.  We are cut from our people by a blade made of law and pedantry,” she explained to the Skywalkers as she had to so many others, and for the first time, the truth didn’t come out bitter.  

“Jaieh,” Obi-Wan breathed softly.  Shmi and Anakin looked confused as they tried to track a conversation held more the Force than in words.  Patya turned to them with a warm smile.

“Yes, Anakin Skywalker,” Patya Boma said with a wide, violent grin.  “I am here to free slaves.”

***

“But what will you do about your ship?  Watto will never accept Republic Credits, you know,” Shmi asked late that night, after Anakin had gone to bed and Patya had slipped away to find a private comm terminal.

“Oh, we mainly were doing pre-shopping, you know, figure out who has what we need,” Obi-Wan said with a shrug.  “We will get what we need tomorrow.”

“The Queen will not approve,” Padme muttered mutinously.  She’d made her stance on paying anyone for slave labor clear. Padawan Kenobi smiled at her in what seemed to be respect.

“There are ways and there are ways, my dear.  Those of us who have to live under a Master’s whims learn them well, as they are a matter of survival,” Shmi said fondly.  “What your friend isn’t saying is that he has ways that he can live with.  If he can accept them, you should as well.”

“But…”

“And what Shmi is not saying is that I have also had experiences in slavery,” Padawan Kenobi said, tugging the tunic down, instead of out, and lifting his chin.  Padme gasped at the large red circuit of scarring around the base of his neck, larger than would be reasonable for a scar gained as an adult.

“So… what will you do?”

“Get some sleep.  Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

***

“Hi Kabii, thanks for coming,” Patya said with a wry grin at the Mandalorian.

“Of course, you called for help.  That never happens, I'm certainly not going to make you doubt the faith you finally put in my word.  What do you need?”

Patya looked to Obi-Wan.

“Well in the short term I need a team to hit Watto’s junk shop, secure the detonation keys for his two slaves, and retrieve these items,” he said, passing off a list to Ruusan.

“In the long term… I have a contract for you,” Patya said, passing a datapad to the first Mando’ad she had ever tentatively trusted in a bombed out dive bar, five years prior.

“Oh this… this we can do,” Kabii Cadera chuckled.

***

“Honorable representatives of the Republic, distinguished delegates, and Your Honor Supreme Chancellor Valorum, I come to you under the gravest of circumstances,” Queen Padme Amidala stated sternly.  “The Naboo system has been invaded by force.  Invaded against all the laws of the Republic, by the Droid Armies of the Trade -”

“I object!” Lott Dod shouted, cutting off her words.  Padawan Kenobi took the opportunity of his ranting about proof and investigative commissions to slide a data chip to her. 

“Overruled,” Valorum shouted over Dod’s shouting, which continued in an undignified display.  Amidala rolled her eyes and said a silent prayer for patience.  Senator Palpatine went to lay a hand on her shoulder, but missed as she slotted Padawan Kenobi’s data chip into the pod’s projector input.

Suddenly, a live holo-call appeared above the Senate, the crackling sound of blasterfire silencing those shouting about precedent.

“Obi’ka, you know I never mind a call, but I’m a little busy right now!” the recipient shouted.

“Sorry to bother you, Vhonte, but would you mind flipping the comm pickup?” Obi-Wan said into the audio receptor built into the pod.

The image switched from a harried woman lit by screens too close to her face, and to a view of Theed.  The landmarks were recognizable immediately to anyone who had witnessed their very wide ranging tourism campaign a few years prior.

Droid armies marched in the streets, being harried by Naboo citizens, including Gungan warriors with the clever bombs that Jar-Jar had told Sabe all about while she posed as Queen on Tatooine.  The view jerked suddenly and zipped through the streets of Theed to land in front of Nute Gunray on the balcony of the Palace.

“Nute Gunray!  I got a bounty on you,” the woman who’d answered the call growled.  In Gunray’s huge, terrified eyes, they could see the shape of a Mandalorian helmet.  “It’s all legal and everything, got it cleared with Governor Bibble this morning.”

“That is impossible!” Gunray spluttered.  “Bibble has been imprisoned since we took control of this planet.  The only contact he’s had with the outside was a call to bait that foolish child-queen!”

“Thanks for the confession,” the woman, Vhonte, laughed, grabbing Gunray by the wrists and slapping binders on them.  “By the authority of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, in accordance with the laws of the Republic, and on the order of the Mand’alor, you are under arrest for being a di’kutla shabuir who invades planets without provocation.”

The comm switched back to Vhonte’s face as Gunray hit his knees.

“Sorry, Obi, I gotta go.  The datawork on this is going to be a karking nightmare, and we still need to take the control ship down to stop the droids.  I swear, we have got to get this place some better star fighters.  The skill of the pilot doesn’t mean shit if your ship blows up more reliably than a discount thermal detonator.”

The call cut off abruptly.  The Senate, for once, was silent.  Amidala sniffed disdainfully.

“My apologies for wasting your time,” she said coldly.  “It appears my people have handled this unlawful invasion without the aid of the Republic.  Now if you’ll excuse me, it appears I need to draft a letter of thanks to the Mandalorians... and find better starfighters, apparently.”

***

“That was incredibly reckless,” Patya chided Jango Fett as a medic treated the burn on his neck.  “What were you thinking, attacking a Darksider like that!”

“I was thinking his laser sword was bigger than yours,” Fett huffed.

“Oh you dear, sweet, pantsless idiot,” Patya growled.  “It’s not the size of the saber that matters, it’s how you use it.  And you didn’t have any saber!”

“It still worked,” Jango grumbled.

“The graft I did on your carotid says otherwise,” Mij chimed in.  “I’m with the Jetii on this one… choking out that Zabrak was a stupid move.”

“What am I going to tell your father!” Patya huffed.  “Shit… what am I gonna tell Jo?”

“Who?” Jango asked, hissing as Mij sprayed another layer of bacta on the surgical site.

“Jocasta Nu?  The woman who all but raised me?  The one currently driving a one-woman revitalization of the Mind Healer program because your adoptive father goes through her shielding like a rotary cannon through flimsi whenever he’s in the Temple overnight?”

“Oh, ew, I did not need that image!” Jango protested.

“That’s what you get for insulting my saber size, you little shit,” Patya growled.

“Congrats on the new ori’vod, Jango,” Mij grinned.

***

“Mand’alor,” Myles said cautiously.  Normally, he reported to Jango, but with his own fearless leader stuck in medical, now he was standing across from the Mand’alor himself, feeling out of his depth.

“Myles, I understand from my son you are an excellent marksman,” Jaster said with a soft smile that made Myles a little uneasy.

“Sir, I do my best….”

“We just finished interrogating the Sith that nearly took off Jango’s head,” Jaster said, a little too calmly.

“It’s only been a few hours!” Myles protested without thinking.

“Many things are possible in the Force,” Patya Boma said from the corner behind Myles, and he very firmly Did Not Jump.  It was a very near thing, though, and he felt justified in that.  “A Jedi does not partake of hate… but after a walk through that poor asshole’s history, I think I can be allowed a strong dislike for a certain Senator of Naboo.”

“Naboo…” Myles said softly, drawing lines in his head like target calculations.

“This is the mission,” Jaster said, passing over a datapad.  “You’re allowed to say no-”

“This is the one who sent the Zabrak?  He's the one who nearly got Jango killed?” Myles asked.  Patya Boma nodded gravely.  He turned to Jaster with a fist on his heart.  “Consider it done, Mand’alor.”

***

“Much lighter, the Force feels today, wouldn’t you say, Grandmaster Fay?”

“You’re still a fucking troll, creche-brother mine,” she growled at Yoda.  “But yes, it does feel lighter.  We should send someone to check on young Mace, that poor kid keeled over in the canteen last night.”

“Hmm, yes.  Read Senior Specialist Boma’s report, have you?”

“Of course,” Fay nodded.  “I’m visiting the Zabrak later to help the mind-healers excise the traps in his psyche.”

“Hmm. On the matter of the Sith Master,” Yoda said slowly, “very vague, her report is.  Resolved without Jedi involvement she says.”

“I think,” Fay hummed, “she did nothing… because the Jedi are merciful.”