Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 1: Twin Suns of Mandalore

I maintain that if Korkie hadn't looked at me like that, I wouldn't have done it.

It was the smugness. The little arch of the brow as he scooted his seat closer to the table. The sanctimonious way he reached—reached—for the fruit bowl like he hadn't just called me a "gremlin with jam on his face" five minutes ago. Which I was. That's beside the point.

He wanted the meiloorun. The big one. And I wasn't about to let him have it.

So I did what any emotionally well-adjusted four-year-old with mysterious telekinetic powers would do: I lifted the entire fruit bowl off the table with my mind and hovered it just out of his reach.

Korkie froze mid-grab. His fingers curled around empty air. His mouth stayed open like he forgot how to finish the sentence "Auntie will hear of this." To be fair to him, he's four. His language skills aren't that developed.

Not calling him dumb. Just saying, it's not like he reincarnated into a baby, full memory in tact. Did he?

Stare.

"Ben!" he squawked, swiveling toward me like I'd kicked a puppy.

I put on my best innocent face—wide eyes, sticky cheeks, hands folded like I hadn't just summoned the power of the Force to win brunch.

"I didn't do anything," I said sweetly. "Maybe you just didn't want it badly enough."

The bowl hovered gently behind me, untouched and spinning ever so slightly like a trophy on display.

Bo-Katan was across the table nursing her morning caf like it was the only thing holding her together. She stared at the levitating fruit, blinked once, then took another long, slow sip without breaking eye contact.

"Mmm," she said blandly. "Just like his father."

I'm pretty sure she meant Obi-Wan, even if she still refused to say it. But she always said it in that tone—the one that meant "This is why I drink."

And for the record, I don't think she's the mother. Despite whatever claims "Auntie Satine" wants to make. Bo-Katan would have been like fifteen by the time we were born. Which… okay, biologically speaking could be possible. But thankfully, me being Force-Sensitive puts the horrifying implications of that theory to rest.

No way Bo-Katan would ever sleep with a Jedi.

Korkie slammed his tiny fists on the table like a baby senator delivering his first filibuster. "That's not fair! He's using—he's doing weird stuff again!"

"It's called strategy," I said, trying to scoot the bowl closer without wobbling it. "Also, he called me a gremlin. Which is rude and speciesist."

"You are a gremlin!"

"You're a nerd."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Ben, put the bowl down before I throw you out an airlock," Bo-Katan muttered, still not looking up from her caf. "And Korkie, stop tattling. If he wanted to hover produce in defiance of natural law, that's between him and his future therapist."

"She means Jedi," Korkie whispered at me accusingly.

I stuck my tongue out. "Does not."

"Does too."

"I will set this fruit on fire with my brain."

"You can't do that!"

"…Yet."

The bowl trembled slightly, enough that a bright yellow jogan apple rolled to the edge. I reached to catch it—physically this time—but it slipped through my fingers and thumped onto the floor.

Look—space magic isn't as easy as they made it look. I'm doing my best, here.

Bo-Katan sighed, set her mug down with a clink, and finally looked at me.

"You know this is how it starts, right?" she said. "One minute it's breakfast levitation. Next thing you know, you're declaring yourself ruler of the Outer Rim in a cape made of wookiee pelts."

"That sounds amazing," I said with awe.

She rubbed her temples. "I should've let Death Watch take you."

I grinned. She didn't mean it. Mostly.

Korkie looked between us, equal parts scandalized and smug, like he was calculating whether telling on me would score him enough points with Aunt Satine to get extra dessert.

I popped a meiloorun slice in my mouth. "If you're gonna tell, at least wait until I finish chewing."

"I'm telling."

I held up a sticky hand and waved the fruit bowl just out of his reach again, smirking.

"Then I'm hovering."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not nervous.

He had passed his Trials. He had been knighted. He had a padawan of his own. He had stopped an arms smuggler ring two days ago without so much as a burn mark on his robes. He had also, recently, grown a beard. All the hallmarks of maturity.

He was not nervous.

Except he was also standing on Mandalore. In front of her. And they had kids. Two of them. Twins. Small, terrifying ones. And he was reasonably sure one of them had caused the Force anomaly they were sent here to investigate—by levitating a fruit bowl, if the report was accurate.

Truly, he could only blame the Will of the Force for it. How did he always find himself in the most awkward position in the most inopportune time? Simple. The cosmic energy that binds and penetrates the entire galaxy has it out for him.

Shockingly unsurprising.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tunic. "Duchess."

"Knight Kenobi." Satine's voice was calm and cool and perfect, as always. Her back was perfectly straight. Her hands were perfectly folded. Her eyes were a little too dry.

He hated how well he knew her tells.

"It's not often the Jedi Order comes knocking unannounced," she said, voice sharp as a vibroblade wrapped in silk. "I suppose we should be honored."

"This isn't a diplomatic visit," Obi-Wan said, doing his best to keep his voice level. "We detected a significant Force signature in this region. Untrained and… erratic. We traced it to your estate."

"And what a surprise, it turned out to be a member of my household," she said, arching a brow. "A child, no less."

"Yes, quite the coincidence," Obi-Wan replied stiffly. "As the… not-father of these children—"

"Yes," Satine said crisply. "Because that would be absurd."

They stared at each other.

Bo-Katan, leaning against a pillar behind them, let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered into her cup, "I'm going to become a terrorist out of spite."

"I heard that," Satine snapped.

"You were meant to."

Ben and Korkie were a few meters away, sparring with sticks. Well, Korkie was sparring. Ben was making lightsaber noises and spinning wildly, eyes alight with glee.

Obi-Wan watched them for a moment. The smaller twin—Ben—was practically vibrating with energy. He was grinning like he'd invented happiness. Korkie, by contrast, looked like he had memorized the Art of War and resented being pulled into such chaos without proper planning.

"I'd like to evaluate the boy," Obi-Wan said, clearing his throat again. "We'll need to confirm the strength and source of the signal we detected."

Satine nodded, tightly. "Of course."

"You can use the courtyard," Bo-Katan said lazily. "It's already scorched from last week's training accident. Ben tried to make a rocket out of caf beans."

"He succeeded," Satine muttered.

...​

They gathered in the courtyard. Ben plopped cross-legged on the ground and immediately began humming to himself. Korkie stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a disapproving uncle.

Obi-Wan knelt before the boy and produced a small device from his belt. "This is a kyber resonance reader," he explained gently. "I want to see how your energy interacts with it."

Ben tilted his head. "Are you gonna do the glowy hand thing?"

"Not unless I have to," Obi-Wan said with a small smile.

"You're old," Ben observed. "But not like old-old. Just regular boring-old."

"I see your manners are well-developed."

Ben beamed. "Bo taught me sarcasm."

Bo-Katan raised her cup. "You're welcome."

Obi-Wan turned the reader on. It hummed—then whined. Then sparked. The display blinked red and shut down with a sad little chirp.

"Oh," Obi-Wan said.

"Told you I'm awesome," Ben said smugly.

"That thing broke last time too," Korkie said, shrugging. "He touched it and it caught on fire. I think he's cursed."

Ben rolled his eyes dramatically and reached behind his back to yank a meiloorun slice from his pocket like it was a reward snack. "I'm not cursed. I'm gifted."

"Gifted in chaos," Korkie muttered.

"Well, you are Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said under his breath, then immediately felt Satine's gaze burn two holes in his skull.

"I heard that," she said.

"You were meant to," he muttered back.

...​

The formal "tests" lasted all of ten minutes before Obi-Wan gave up.

Ben knew where objects were without seeing them. He nudged a pebble across the ground just by scowling at it. At one point, when asked to focus on a sphere hovering above his palm, he accidentally burst it. Into confetti.

Not literal, mind you. He quite simply rendered a solid metal sphere into shreds.

"This is going splendidly," Obi-Wan muttered.

"I like the Jedi stuff," Ben said. "Will I get a lightsaber?"

"Eventually," Obi-Wan replied. "After training."

Ben nodded, chewing on his fruit. "Cool. Can I have a black one?"

"That's… rare."

"Cooler, then."

Korkie crossed his arms. "They're monks. You're gonna have to shave your head."

Ben froze.

"What," he said flatly.

"Jedi all have bald heads. That's what monks do. Bo said so."

Ben narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"Nope. No hair. Not even eyebrows."

Bo-Katan, smirking, let her own thoughts on that matter be known. "This is so much better than breakfast."

Ben looked at Obi-Wan. "Is this true?!"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth—and then Ben lifted Korkie three feet into the air.

The Force surged around him like a gleeful ripple. Korkie yelped, flailing his arms as he floated above the courtyard like an offended balloon.

"Ben!" Satine called, half-panicked.

"I will not be bald!" Ben shouted. "I look weird without eyebrows!"

Bo-Katan snorted caf through her nose.

Obi-Wan reached out with the Force and gently brought Korkie back to the ground. "Ben," he said, as calmly as he could. "That's not how Jedi resolve conflict."

Ben frowned. "Then how do they?"

"Through diplomacy. Wisdom. Patience."

"I like the floating better."

"I can see that."

...​

Obi-Wan stood beside Satine on the veranda, watching Ben dart around the courtyard in circles while humming something rather sinister, though he certainly couldn't place it.

"He's strong," Obi-Wan said quietly.

"I know."

"He should be trained."

"I know."

They stood in silence for a while.

Then Satine said, too softly, "You'll look after him?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "As much as I'm permitted."

"You're not his father," she said, with a small, sad smile.

He turned to her. "Of course not. That would be… absurd."

Below, Bo-Katan kicked a helmet off the steps and muttered, "I swear, if I have to co-parent another Jedi, I will blow something up."

...​

The walls were quiet again.

Not just the stone—cool and polished in the Mandalorian tradition—but the silence beneath the silence. No boots scuffing down the hall. No bickering twins. No Bo-Katan cursing under her breath. No Jedi Knight hovering in her orbit like a ghost from an unfinished past.

Satine closed the door behind her and rested one hand against it.

She stayed there a long moment, simply breathing.

She hated quiet. Hated what it gave her the space to remember.

Her quarters were modest by noble standards. A darkwood desk against the far wall, one stack of reports still open. A tall narrow window allowed the suns to cast angled light across the floor. Shelves lined with datapads and legal texts and framed holos—none of which featured her children. That had always seemed… safer.

And there, on the low reading chair by the hearth, sat the plush tooka toy Ben had dragged around since he was three. Its left ear had long since been gnawed flat. Bo-Katan had threatened to vaporize it once, during a diplomatic summit.

Satine crossed the room, sat down, and picked it up.

It smelled faintly of dust and fruit jam.

She held it to her chest like it was something fragile and precious, and let her mask fall.

...​

They had been young. So young.

The galaxy had been on fire, and she and Obi-Wan had somehow thought they could outrun it.

They'd spent weeks moving between safehouses, sleeping with a blaster between them and the door. She had braided his hair once, just to see if she could. He'd complained bitterly, then refused to take it out. When she asked him why, he said, "Because you put it there."

And yet, they had never spoken the words aloud. Not then. Not even later, when she'd stood in front of the High Council and smiled like her heart hadn't been shattered three times over.

Obi-Wan had bowed, then turned his back.

She didn't blame him. Not really. He had chosen his path.

And so had she.

But then there had been the sickness.

The birth.

The miracle.

Twins. Unexpected. Unplanned. And for the first time in her adult life, Satine Kryze had been utterly unprepared.

Ben hadn't cried right away. He had come into the world silent and still, like he was already listening. The medics thought he wouldn't survive. They were wrong. By the next morning, he had knocked over an entire tray of instruments without touching them.

It had been Bo-Katan who said it first, cradling the squirming boy in one arm while Korkie chewed on her sleeve.

"He's his father's child," she said, softly.

Satine hadn't answered.

...​

She traced the worn fabric of the tooka's nose with one thumb. It was frayed from years of affection.

"He always has to win, you know," she said to the empty room. "Even when it doesn't matter. Especially then."

Ben would be leaving. Soon. Perhaps by nightfall. She had given her blessing—what else could she do? They would take him to Coruscant, to the Temple, to the Jedi. He would learn discipline. He would learn restraint.

But he would also learn distance. Detachment. The same cold, noble masks that had turned Obi-Wan's love into silence.

She feared what the Jedi would make of him. Not because she didn't trust them—but because she did. Because they were so good at molding children into ideals.

And Ben was not made for ideals.

He was bright and burning and wild. He belonged to Mandalore in ways Obi-Wan never had. He screamed when he was angry. He laughed with his whole chest. He ran too fast and tripped too often and loved things before understanding them.

He would either break the Jedi or be broken by them.

Satine closed her eyes.

"I thought we'd have more time," she whispered.

...​

The door buzzed. Once. Twice. She didn't answer.

Bo-Katan let herself in anyway.

Her boots were loud—deliberately so—and she paused only long enough to glance at the tooka in Satine's lap before she spoke.

"They're loading the ship."

Satine nodded.

"Obi-Wan's hovering."

Satine did not look up.

Bo-Katan sighed and walked over to the window. "You going to say goodbye?"

"I said what needed saying earlier."

"He's four."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Do you want me to—?"

"No," Satine said quietly. "You'll only make it worse."

Bo-Katan leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. "He won't forget you."

"He'll be trained to."

"No," Bo said, more firmly now. "He won't."

Satine finally looked up. "He's not like Obi-Wan."

Bo-Katan huffed. "No, he's not. He's not like you, either."

"Then what is he?"

Bo-Katan smirked. "Yours."

Satine smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I just hope he keeps his hair."

"You know he's going to come back with a dramatic cape and an attitude problem."

"That's our boy."

Bo-Katan snorted. "I give it ten years before he tries to conquer a star system out of spite."

Satine set the toy down, smoothed its ears. "Then I hope it's a good star system."

Bo-Katan's voice softened. "He'll be fine, you know."

Satine said nothing.

Bo-Katan crossed the room, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's going to terrify the Jedi."

Satine finally smiled for real.

"Good."

...​

Okay, so here's the thing about Jedi transports: they're cool, but not that cool.

They don't shoot lasers. They don't have rotating plasma turrets or atmospheric thrusters that flip upside down mid-battle. They definitely don't have flamethrowers. Or a rear-facing cannon mount. Or a kitchen. I asked.

This one just looks like a big sad metal egg with a light-up ramp.

I'm supposed to be excited about it—this whole "You've been chosen by destiny to be a peace monk in space" thing—but mostly I'm just wondering if Jedi get to wear capes. I'm four, not stupid. Priorities.

Bo-Katan walked beside me, and by "walked," I mean stomped like the ground had personally offended her. I think she was hoping if she glared hard enough, the shuttle would combust from fear and she wouldn't have to say goodbye.

"I told Korkie you'd cry," I said.

"I don't cry," she snapped, not looking at me.

"You sniffled that one time during the holodrama with the sad Loth-cat."

"I had allergies."

"To emotions?"

She glared down at me. "Say one more word, and I will become a terrorist."

I grinned. "You always say that."

"Because no one believes me."

"Korkie says if you haven't done terrorism by thirty, it's just a phase."

Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Not a phase. Just waiting for the right target." She didn't even deny it this time. Progress!

The shuttle was still powering up, humming softly as Jedi people with important robes pretended not to watch me. I waved at one. He flinched. Excellent.

Bo-Katan stopped at the edge of the landing platform and crossed her arms. That was her version of "I'm feeling things and refuse to let them out except in the form of property damage."

I kicked a rock toward the ramp. "So, this is it."

"Apparently."

"You gonna miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Tiny gremlin."

"Angsty space bat."

"You're lucky I don't believe in corporal punishment."

"I'm lucky you love me and are terrible at hiding it."

She looked at me for a long second—then snorted, rubbed a hand over her face like I gave her a migraine, and crouched down to my level.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked. Like she was trying to memorize me in case the Jedi tried to give me a personality transplant.

"You don't have to be like them, you know," she said eventually.

"The Jedi?"

"The quiet ones," she said, gesturing vaguely at the nearest robe cluster. "The ones who never laugh. Who wear beige on purpose."

I squinted. "What color is beige again?"

"The color of sadness."

"Ah."

She reached into a side pouch and pulled out something small, metal, and very illegal.

My eyes lit up. "Is that a—"

"A vibroblade," she said, pressing it into my hands. "Deactivated. No power cell. Don't tell the Jedi."

"Sweet!"

"Think of it as a Mandalorian keepsake. Or a last-minute act of extremely poor judgment."

I turned it over in my hands reverently. It was slightly too big for me, but it felt right. Like it belonged.

"Are you sure I can take this?" I asked.

"No," she said flatly. "But I'm not your real mom, so it doesn't count."

I grinned. "You said it! You admitted you're not my mom. Oh, I'm so telling Satine."

"I was fifteen when you were born!" she snapped. "It was a dumb lie, anyways!"

It really was. If Satine really didn't want to admit she slept with a Jedi—which if we're being honest is pretty fair—she should have just said we were adopted. We're actually super supportive of that here on Mandalore.

This is the way.

Of course, so is messing with your family.

"Then who's our real mom, huh? Duchess Satine and Obi-Wan the Jedi definitely never—oh wait, yes they did."

She groaned. "If I hear one more person whisper that I'm the mother, I will punch a senator."

"You already punched two."

"Harder."

I laughed and tucked the blade away into my satchel. Bo-Katan stood up again, hands on her hips like she wanted to fight destiny itself.

"You'll come back, right?" she asked, but very casually, like it didn't matter.

"Obviously," I said. "I have to show you my cool lightsaber."

"Don't make it beige."

"I'll make it black."

"Good."

We stood there a minute.

Then, softer, she said, "Aliit ori'shya tal'din."

I blinked. "Family is more than blood."

She nodded once. "Make some friends while you're gone. Tell me about them when you come home."

"…You'll want names and tactical weaknesses?"

"Exactly."

I looked up at her. The wind tugged at her hair. The sky was too blue.

"If the Jedi mess you up," she added quietly, "I'll take it personally."

"Even if they mess me up in a character-building way?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll build your character with explosives."

I threw my arms around her legs.

It was quick, and I played it off like it didn't mean anything, but I felt her hand settle gently on my head before she ruffled it hard enough to make me yelp.

"Get out of here, brat," she said.

I walked toward the ramp, the vibroblade in my bag and my chest feeling too full. Just before stepping inside, I turned back and yelled:

"Bye, Mom!"

Bo-Katan's whole soul left her body.

"Say that again and I'll blow up a planet!"

"You better pick one with a good name!"

...​

The inside of the shuttle smelled like metal and floor polish.

Not exciting, legendary floor polish. Not "wiped-down-after-a-duel" kind of polish. No lightsaber scorch marks. No blaster pockmarks. No bones. Just smooth floors and boring chairs and weird humming from somewhere in the wall that was probably normal but sounded like a depressed gundark.

I sat near the viewport with my forehead against the transparisteel, watching Mandalore shrink below us.

It didn't look like home from up here. It looked like a coin. One you'd forget in a pocket and only find later, after it'd already been through the wash.

Korkie was down there somewhere, probably throwing a fit. I hadn't even said goodbye.

Mostly because he said if I did, it meant I wasn't coming back.

So obviously I had to skip it. For narrative tension.

Also, I wanted him to be dramatic about it. Maybe write a manifesto. Or a tragic poem. Or a play. The Tragedy of Korkie Kryze, Whose Twin Ditched Him for the Space Monks. I'll read it at his wedding someday.

Bo-Katan had stayed until the very last moment, arms crossed and eyes like she was memorizing me just in case. Then she walked off without a word. Classic.

Satine hadn't come.

…Which was fine.

Totally fine.

She was busy. Duchess stuff. Definitely not crying in her room with a cup of tea and one of my stupid stuffed toys. Nope. That would be weird.

The ramp had hissed shut behind me and I hadn't looked back.

Because I'm brave. And independent. And I don't cry in front of Jedi.

Mostly because this one might actually be my dad.

...​

He was sitting two rows over. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Knight of the Jedi Order. High-functioning disaster.

He was doing the "brooding in a tunic" thing that I think came standard with the beard. Like he was trying to be mysterious, but just looked constipated with feelings. His arms were folded. His eyes were closed. But every thirty seconds, he peeked.

I know because I counted.

"Hey," I said.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't blink a lot."

He cracked one eye open, slowly. "Jedi discipline."

"I think it's a medical condition."

He huffed. "You're very observant."

"I know. I'm going to be the most powerful Jedi ever. Or something. I'll figure it out. I'm still workshopping."

That got the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. More like a tiny hostage note from the muscles on his face.

I shifted in my seat and pulled my knees up. "Do you think I'll get a cool title?"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "A title?"

"Yeah, like—'Ben the Blade,' or 'Wrath of Mandalore.' Something with dramatic flair."

"You'll be given a name when you become a Knight."

"I'm four."

"Yes, well. Let's take it one step at a time."

I looked out the viewport again. Mandalore was just a speck now. Like a freckle in space. A memory.

"Hey," I said quietly. "Do you miss her?"

There was a pause. Then:

"Who?"

I turned to look at him with the most unimpressed expression a child could possibly muster. "Don't make me say it. We both know the game."

Obi-Wan looked away.

After a moment, he said, "More than I can explain."

And that was the most honest thing anyone had said all day.

...​

The rest of the ride was quiet.

The other Jedi chatted softly in the background. Someone passed around ration bars. I took two and stuck one in my bag next to the (definitely legal) vibroblade Bo-Katan gave me. I wasn't planning to stab anyone. Unless the cafeteria food was bad. Then we'd talk.

I didn't fall asleep, even when they dimmed the lights. Just watched the stars smear past like slow-burning fireworks.

The galaxy was big. Way bigger than I thought.

And somehow, it felt like I was already chasing something. I didn't know what.

Power? Family? Purpose? Probably all of it.

I just knew I wasn't done yet.

I pressed my forehead to the window one last time.

Mandalore was gone. Out of sight.

"I'll be back," I murmured. "With drama… And possibly a cloak." I grinned to myself, heart weirdly heavy and full at the same time. "I really hope a cloak…"

...​

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[Synfth]

nice!

 

[Ghostcraft19]

Interesting