Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 7: Build-A-Blade

I've never thought of a starship as warm before.

That's not what they usually are. They're metal coffins with thrusters attached, rattling through the void while every atom of the galaxy tries to kill you. The only difference between cozy and catastrophic is a few centimeters of durasteel hull and the good graces of a navicomputer.

But after Ilum? After trudging through frozen tunnels, numb fingers clinging to an ice-cold crystal that was supposed to define the rest of my life? Yeah. I'd take a coffin in space over that freezer any day. At least here, when you exhale, your breath doesn't crystallize in front of your face.

The Crucible hummed around us as we filed off the transport and into its belly. Not the shiny white halls of Coruscant, oh no. If you want to make a lightsaber just right, you want to be as close to the stars as possible. Which, of course, means you need a spaceship.

The interior was bronze, almost burnished with age, like the whole ship had been polished by generations of Jedi boots. Pipes ran openly along the walls. Everything thrummed with power, like a heartbeat you could feel in your chest.

Ahsoka gave a soft "whoa" beside me. "It feels… old."

"That's because it is," a voice said — mechanical, crisp, and just a little bit smug.

And there he was.

Professor Huyang.

Imagine if someone had taken the driest old librarian in the Jedi Archives, stretched him out into a spindly metal frame, given him a voicebox that sounded halfway between "lecturing historian" and "polite assassin droid," and then told him to live forever. That was our host.

"Padawans of the Ilum Gathering," Huyang intoned, striding down the central aisle with all the pomp of a king addressing peasants. His photoreceptors swept over us one by one. "For six millennia, I have instructed initiates in the construction of their first lightsaber. From the earliest forgers of Ossus to the High Republic artisans of Starlight Beacon. I have taught warriors who became Knights, Knights who became Masters, and Masters who guided this very Council."

I leaned toward Ahsoka. "Six thousand years, huh? He doesn't look a day over five thousand, nine hundred."

Her montrals twitched as she smothered a laugh.

Unfortunately, the droid's audio receptors were perfect.

His glowing eyes flicked toward me, utterly unimpressed. "I have been called far worse things by Padawans who later became Council members. But your wit, young Kryze, is disappointingly pedestrian."

Ouch. Shot down by a robot grandpa.

"Guess I'll have to up my game," I muttered.

"Please do," he said, and kept walking.

Okay. New goal: get the droid to laugh. Or, failing that, at least short-circuit from exasperation.

We followed him deeper into the ship, our footsteps echoing in time with the Crucible's pulse. I noticed Maris Brood hanging back, her crystal clutched in both hands. She hadn't said much since Ilum—not that she ever said much compared to me or Ahsoka—but she was watching everything. The ship, the droid, even the way the walls seemed to vibrate like they remembered every saber ever built inside them.

Huyang must've noticed too, because when she suddenly blurted, "You've taught every saber-builder for six thousand years?" his tone actually warmed.

"Indeed, youngling. Every Jedi who has constructed a lightsaber since the days of the Old Republic has passed through my hands. Their triumphs, their mistakes, their innovations—I remember them all. And so shall you benefit from their legacy."

Maris's eyes widened. She ducked her head, embarrassed, but I caught the ghost of a smile.

Well, good for her. Someone needed to balance my constant need to mouth off.

Huyang stopped us in a wide chamber where the walls were lined with benches, toolkits, and strange contraptions that looked equal parts blacksmith forge and starship engine room.

"This," he declared, "is where the true test begins. You each carry a kyber crystal, a piece of the Force itself, attuned to your essence. It is not merely a power source. It is your partner. Your reflection. Your future."

He clasped his long hands behind his back.

"But first… history."

Oh no.

"Long before the Jedi Order as you know it, the earliest Force users crafted blades of plasma bound within archaic cells, cumbersome and unstable. The protosabers of Tython, ignited with external packs and heavy cords—"

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

"—eventually evolved into the refined weapon you shall soon create. The lightsaber. Both weapon and tool, defender and destroyer, symbol and reality. And it is you who shall carry its legacy forward."

I raised a hand. "Do we get a quiz after this?"

Without missing a beat, Huyang said, "Yes."

The entire class groaned. Even Ahsoka shot me a glare that said Look what you did.

I shrugged. "Hey, knowledge is power."

"Spoken like someone who has very little of either," Huyang said dryly.

…Okay, maybe I liked this droid.

Still, as he moved on to describing the ritual of "bonding with the crystal," I let my mind wander. My hand brushed the small pouch at my belt where my kyber rested. Green, faintly pulsing, as though alive. Not the black I'd secretly been hoping for—I mean, come on, "Ben Kryze, Wielder of the Darkblade" had a nice ring to it—but green was fine. Green was my favorite color anyway.

Besides, the Darksaber was still out there, and one day it would be mine.

But for now? I'd build my own. A Ben Kryze Original.

Huyang's voice droned on about focusing the mind, steady hands, the dance of crystal and emitter. I barely caught half of it, too distracted by the way the ship seemed to buzz with history. Ahsoka was practically glowing, soaking up every word like it was gospel. Maris still held her crystal tight, as though she was afraid to let it go.

And me?

I grinned, because this was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since the Temple crèche. Not the lectures, not the rules, not the thousand "Attachment is forbidden" speeches.

A lightsaber.

My lightsaber.

And nothing — not the Council, not the Sith, not even this snippy six-thousand-year-old droid — was going to keep me from making it my own.

...​

The workroom aboard The Crucible was silent but for the soft groan of ancient durasteel and the pulse of the hyperdrive beyond the bulkheads. Huyang preferred that silence. It carried weight. A hush sharpened focus far more than chatter, and lightsabers deserved nothing less than reverence.

The initiates stood in a line before him, each clutching the crystal they had wrested from Ilum's heart. The stones were still raw with the echo of the trials, humming faintly in their hands. To the younglings, they were prizes. To Huyang, they were promises.

He reached out his spindly hands, servos whirring with familiar precision, and gestured for the first crystal.

Ahsoka Tano stepped forward, her montrals tilted slightly in that mixture of confidence and nerves he had seen countless times before. She placed her shards in his palm. Huyang rotated them delicately beneath the glow of the workroom's lamp, his photoreceptors adjusting their spectrum until the crystal's inner light bloomed.

"Disciplined," Huyang intoned, his vocoder lending the word a metallic gravity. "Balanced. This crystal, though split, resonates evenly across its lattice. It belongs to a mind that seeks harmony, even when pressed."

Ahsoka exhaled, shoulders easing. Pride radiated off her in the way of all initiates—subtle to them, glaring to him. Huyang had learned not to chastise such pride. The crystal would do it in its own time.

He set her shard gently into a resting cradle. "It will serve you well, Padawan Tano. If you serve it as faithfully."

The Togruta bowed her head in respect before retreating.

Next, Maris Brood. She hesitated—he noted the flicker of her gaze toward the floor, then toward her peers. At last she stepped forward, small hands tight around her prize.

Huyang extended his palm again. "Courage, young one. No crystal bites."

She offered it, and he felt the tremor of her grip. The shard settled against his plating, and immediately his sensors registered the fluctuation. The crystal's resonance did not hum in one clear tone—it stuttered, thrumming irregularly like a heartbeat caught between panic and defiance.

"Ah," Huyang murmured, rotating it gently. "Potential, certainly. Strong, even. But turbulence clouds its lattice. Unresolved energies will challenge its master. Handle with care."

Maris's head bowed, respectfully. Her cheeks colored faintly, shame tightening her lips.

Huyang did not soften the truth, but he adjusted its shape. "Remember, young one—many great Jedi began with crystals far more volatile than this. The blade you forge will temper it, as discipline tempers the self."

She looked up at that, only slightly, but enough. She placed her hands back at her sides and stepped away.

Then came the last.

Ben Kryze swaggered forward with all the subtlety of a rancor in a meditation chamber, crystal pinched between his fingers as though it were a toy rather than the heart of a Jedi's weapon.

"Careful," Huyang said, extending his hand.

"I am being careful," the boy muttered, though he tossed the shard onto Huyang's palm rather than placing it.

The droid adjusted his grip instantly, catching the crystal without a scratch. His photoreceptors focused, scanning the lattice. The hum reached him first—lower than most, uneven, yet strangely… resonant.

He turned it, measured its harmonics, and then leaned closer, adjusting a spectral filter. Inside, the lattice was fractured, yes, but not broken. Two distinct frequency peaks overlapped within its core, creating a dual harmonic resonance that should not, by any measure of crystal growth, exist.

Fascinating.

"Unstable," Huyang finally declared. He let the word hang, watching the boy's reaction.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Unstable? Like… gonna explode unstable, or moody-teenager unstable?"

The droid did not dignify that with a reply. "Not defective," he continued instead. "Rarer still—this shard possesses a dual harmonic resonance. Few crystals in six millennia of my instruction have done so. Intriguing."

Ben folded his arms. "Translation, please? Because all I'm hearing is that my rock is temperamental, apparently."

Huyang turned his head slowly until both photoreceptors fixed on the boy. "Your comprehension lacks refinement. Still, perhaps… not entirely inaccurate."

Ben smirked as if he'd won something.

Huyang placed the crystal into its cradle with greater care than he had the others. "It will not build itself, Initiate Kryze. When you attempt to channel its energy, you may find it… resistant. Remember this: the bond you form with it will shape your blade—and your path—far more than your jesting."

"Noted," Ben said breezily, though Huyang detected the faint tightening of his jaw.

The droid folded his hands behind his back, stepping away from the row of crystals. Three stones rested now upon the bronze worktable, each vibrating with their own tenor of possibility.

Six millennia, and yet each time felt new. Each youngling believed themselves at the center of the galaxy, and perhaps, in their way, they were—for a single lightsaber at a time.

"Prepare yourselves," Huyang said, voice carrying like a bell through the chamber. "The act of assembly is not a task of hands alone. It is meditation, commitment, and revelation. Fail to respect the process, and the process will fail you."

...​

If the Crucible was old and humming with the ghosts of a thousand Padawans, the Forge was practically singing with them. The room glowed, literally, with a low plasma light that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. Ancient machinery churned in the background—massive contraptions that looked like they'd been built when the galaxy was still figuring out how to hammer two bits of metal together without blowing themselves up.

The heat wasn't stifling, exactly, but it had a weight to it. Like walking into a story older than you were meant to touch.

All right, Kryze. This is it. My very own lightsaber. A weapon, an heirloom, a calling card. A declaration that I'd arrived. The moment the Force, history, destiny, and my own smug sense of style all came together in one humming blade.

And I had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to look like.

Everyone else seemed to, though.

Ahsoka sat at her workstation like she'd been born in one of these seats. She laid her pieces out with a surgeon's precision, every component perfectly aligned. When she slotted the emitter matrix into the casing, her hands didn't even shake. I don't think her heartbeat even sped up.

Maris, though… her hands were trembling so hard she nearly dropped her focusing lens. She hunched over, shoulders curled in, as though the wrong twist of a screw would set the entire Forge to self-destruct. Her lips moved soundlessly—probably reciting Huyang's instructions word-for-word like some kind of spell.

And me?

I was staring at my pile of parts like they were going to assemble themselves if I glared hard enough. I've seen Starkiller do it. There's precedent.

… yeah, that's not happening. Okay, okay! I'll build it. Just… where to start? The hilt's design?

"Classic," I muttered under my breath. "That's the way to go, right? One-handed, clean lines, Jedi-chic. Very I'll slice you in half, but politely."

But then… I mean, Dooku had a curved handle. Count Swirlycape himself. Elegant. Practical. I think? It was pretty good at dueling. I could try that.

Or I could do Ezra Bridger's weird blaster-saber combo. Very hipster, very off-brand Jedi, very what do you mean I can't shoot AND slice you at the same time?

Crossguard? No. Never. Stupidest design I'd ever seen. The guard wouldn't guard anything. A lightsaber would shear through it in half a second unless you made the whole thing out of Beskar. And if you had Beskar, why waste it on the guard? Just make the whole saber out of it!

Or a knife at least!

Wasteful.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka had already soldered her first connection. She looked so serene she could've been meditating while building.

Maris's hand slipped and her focusing crystal rolled dangerously close to the edge of her bench. She lunged after it, almost spilling half her parts across the floor.

I sighed. Fine. For once in my chaotic little life, I wasn't going to mock someone.

"You know," I said loud enough for Maris to hear, "if you drop the lens again, the Forge spirit is legally required to appear and curse you with eternal flat hair." Well… maybe a little mocking.

Her head jerked up, startled. Then, to my relief, a tiny, reluctant laugh escaped her. Just enough to steady her hands again.

Score one for Ben Kryze, morale officer.

I turned back to my parts. Still no clue. Still no design.

"Instructions," I told myself, "are more like… guidelines than actual rules."

I grabbed the power cell, shoved it into the casing. A snug fit, maybe too snug. The wires didn't line up properly, so I twisted them until they did. The emitter matrix didn't quite want to click, so I encouraged it with the handle of a screwdriver.

The crystal chamber? Well, the little Force-rock was supposed to slide neatly into the slot. Instead, it buzzed angrily like it was offended at my lack of craftsmanship.

"Don't look at me like that," I told it. "You're just a rock that glows. You don't get a vote."

It continued glowing with intense judgment.

Sparks flew when I tried to connect the emitter to the power cell. Real, honest-to-Force sparks that hissed and spat across the bench. I yanked my hands back a half second before the whole assembly discharged with a sound like an angry gundark.

A searing beam of raw plasma cut clean through the air and scorched the corner of my workbench.

"Whoa!" I yelped, jerking back.

Before the half-formed saber could turn me into Ben à la Charcoal, a flickering blue shield shimmered between me and my would-be suicide project.

Huyang didn't even look up from where he was supervising another initiate across the room. His hand twitched once, activating the shield with the grace of someone who'd saved a thousand clumsy Padawans before breakfast.

He walked over with the patience of an academic who'd seen everything. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Improvised assembly," he said, peering down at my crackling hilt. "Imprecise. Rushed. And yet…" He tilted his bronze head to the side, photoreceptors gleaming. "…interesting."

"Again? Really?" I asked, waving away the sparks. "I get we have a whole cryptic mythicism thing to live up to, but come on. All I'm hearing is my rock is moody, my handle's a death trap, and I'm never going to survive to Padawan. Which, okay, fair. But not helpful!"

"Very well. Then allow me to say this," Huyang said, "your saber reflects your path. Beware too much shadow if you walk the light. Beware too much light if you court shadow."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

I blinked at him. "Right. Of course. Why say something useful, like fix the power cell before you explode, when you can drop a cryptic fortune-cookie riddle instead?"

Huyang didn't even twitch. "Padawans have called my wisdom many things. None have survived long if they ignored it."

"Wow," I said. "That sounded suspiciously like a threat."

"An observation," he corrected. Then he returned to his patrol of the forges, cloak swishing behind him like he was some kind of Jedi librarian Batman.

He doesn't even need that cloak. He's a droid! Droids don't get cold. Do they? I wonder if their circuits freeze—focus, Ben!

I glared down at my half-built saber. It glared back. Or maybe that was just the glow of my crystal, pulsing faintly with an almost alive rhythm.

Great. My first lightsaber, and it already hated me.

"Sorry." I apologized to my crystal, feeling ridiculous for apologizing. But it needed to be said.

It said nothing. Because it was a rock.

"I know I'm being difficult, I just…" I sighed. "I want to do this right. Work with me here. Please?"

It continued to say nothing. But, since it's not trying to blind me anymore, I think I could take its silence as acceptance.

"Okay. Let's try again… with the instructions."

...​

The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

All around her, the initiates stood in small, uneven lines, sabers newly forged and cradled in careful hands. The air still smelled of heated metal and plasma, of oil and ancient machinery cooling down after long use. A dozen crystals pulsed faintly, waiting.

Then Huyang's voice cut through the silence, even but carrying weight:

"Now," he said. "Ignite them."

One by one, they obeyed.

The first snap-hiss cracked like thunder in the stillness, followed by the low, steady hum of a newborn blade. Then another joined it—higher-pitched, almost singing. Soon the chamber was alive with sound, each saber a different voice in a strange and luminous choir.

Maris's breath caught. She had heard lightsabers before, of course. But this—this was different. This wasn't masters dueling in the Temple sparring halls. This was them. The children she studied with, trained beside, argued with in the dormitories. The sound filled her chest like a heartbeat, all uneven and clashing and somehow harmonious.

Ahsoka stepped forward, and when her blade came alive, Maris had to squint. The green shone so bright it almost dazzled, casting a clean, steady glow over the walls. Its hum was perfectly balanced—no flicker, no warble. Strong, confident.

Huyang inclined his head, just barely, but Maris caught it. Approval.

Of course Ahsoka's would be perfect. Ahsoka always followed instructions, always listened. Maris felt a sudden, irrational tightness in her throat.

Then it was her turn.

Her thumb trembled over the ignition switch. She pressed it down. For one terrible second, nothing happened. Then—crack! A jagged line of blue light shot out, unstable, sputtering like a flame in wind. Maris's heart sank.

It's wrong. It's all wrong, I messed it up—

But then the blade steadied. The hum grew firm. Its glow smoothed into a proper line of light, quivering only faintly at the edges.

Maris exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Ahsoka smiled at her, and Maris tried to smile back. But she couldn't ignore the unease prickling in her stomach. The others' sabers had sung with confidence. Hers… hers had stuttered.

No matter, she thought quickly. It's stable now. It works. That's what matters.

But her hands still shook faintly as she lowered the weapon.

Then Ben stepped forward.

Maris braced herself. He would either succeed spectacularly or blow something up. Possibly both.

The blade ignited with a sound unlike any other in the chamber.

It didn't sing or hum. It growled. A low-pitched, guttural sound, like the snarl of some sleeping beast disturbed from its rest. The green glow filled the chamber, steady and solid, yet carrying a weight that felt older, heavier, than the other sabers. Beautiful, yes—but unsettling, too, as though the color was the only familiar thing about it.

The room reacted instantly. A few initiates leaned forward, curious. Others recoiled, unsettled.

Maris's pulse jumped. She didn't know why it scared her, only that it did.

Even Huyang seemed… moved. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head.

"In six millennia of training Jedi younglings," the droid said, "I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will."

Ben, naturally, just grinned. "So what you're saying is, I'm special. Finally, some recognition."

Maris rolled her eyes. Typical.

Before anyone could blink, Ahsoka twirled her blade up into a ready stance. "Show-off."

Ben's grin widened. "Takes one to know one."

The two blades clashed together with a crash of sparks. The other initiates gasped. Huyang's photoreceptors flared red.

"If you lose a limb before you even leave this chamber," he barked, "I am not reattaching it!"

Neither of them seemed to hear. Ahsoka's strikes were quick, testing, playful. Ben blocked sloppily at first, then swung back harder, forcing her to skip backward, laughing. Their blades hummed and clashed, adding wild new notes to the chamber's song.

Maris stood at the edge, saber idle in her hands.

She told herself she didn't want to join. That it was better this way. That the Code said attachment was forbidden, and it was good she didn't share the same easy… closeness those two had. It wasn't jealousy. Of course not.

She wasn't lonely.

She had the Force. And the Force was all she needed.

Then Ben glanced over his shoulder mid-swing, grin bright and wicked. "Maris, you getting in on this?! Come on, I need some backup here! Ahsoka actually exercises for fun!"

Her hearts jolted.

"It's good for your heart, Ben!" Ahsoka retorted. Human problems, in Maris's opinion. Personally, she had two hearts, and she couldn't sit still for anything other than meditation. Adrenalin was too… addictive.

"Then why does it make me feel so miserable?!" Ben argued back. "Maris! Hurry! Save me!"

A dozen thoughts fought in her head at once—It isn't proper. It's dangerous. I don't belong in that kind of bond. Attachments are forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.

But her hand was already tightening on the hilt. Her thumb pressed the switch.

The blue blade sprang to life again, flickering at the edges—but steady enough.

"Yes, please," she breathed, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

And she stepped forward.

...​

The Crucible had gone quiet for the night. You'd think a ship that old would creak or groan or rattle when left to itself, but it didn't. It just… breathed. At least, that's what it sounded like to me as I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. A low hum in the walls, steady as a heartbeat.

My lightsaber sat on the blanket beside me. My lightsaber. Mine.

It hadn't left my sight since we'd left the Forge. I'd carried it through supper, kept it propped against the table leg like it might leap up and scurry off if I wasn't watching. Ahsoka teased me about it, of course—"Careful, Ben, you're going to wear the paint off with all that staring"—but I didn't care. Let her laugh. Let them all laugh. They didn't understand.

Now, with the others asleep and no Master Huyang hovering like a judgmental hawk, I picked it up. The hilt was cool in my palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Not just metal and wire anymore. Something deeper thrummed inside, faint but alive. I thumbed the activator.

Snap-hiss.

Emerald light spilled across the walls. Shadows stretched away like they were running from it. The blade growled—low, steady, almost pleased.

"Now you're mine," I whispered, grinning at the ceiling. "My precious."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I froze, then snorted. Oh Force, really? That's what I came up with? My precious? Somewhere out in the galaxy, some ancient, hunched gremlin was probably suing me for plagiarism.

Still, the words felt… right. Wrong, but right. A private little joke between me and the saber. My saber.

I rose, letting it hum as I gave it a few practice swings. Slow at first, just feeling the weight, then faster, sharper, until the air itself whistled. It wasn't just balance or craftsmanship—I could feel it responding. Not like a tool, but like a partner. Every shift of my wrist, every adjustment of my stance, the crystal sang back to me.

It was alive.

No, more than alive. Aware.

For a heartbeat, I felt its focus brush mine—like being stared at through a keyhole. Not hostile, not friendly. Just… watching. Waiting.

A chill ran down my spine. Huyang's words replayed, dry and too-late: In six millennia, I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will.

I deactivated the blade, the growl dying with a hiss. The cabin plunged into darkness. Only the afterimage of green burned in my vision.

"Don't start spooking yourself," I muttered, dropping onto my bunk again. "It's just a crystal. Just a weapon. Nothing more."

I tried to believe that.

But as I lay back, the hilt resting on my chest like a heartbeat that wasn't mine, I couldn't quite shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—it had chosen me as much as I had chosen it.

And that was fine. Perfectly fine. Absolutely fine. The wand may choose the wizard—even the space wizard—but it was the wizard who was in control.

I was in control.

…wasn't I?

...​

Short answer? Yes.

But, is it something that's going to keep him awake for the rest of the night until he realizes that? Also yes.

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Symbolism, baby!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter. Or, screw that. Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Stelarwand030]

I really enjoy this story.

 

[HoxShorelight]

The last Lightsaber that make a growl like sound when ignite i can remember belong to Savage Opress
What does Ben's Lightsaber looks like anyway ?

 

[lancelot]

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

Click to shrink...

"What the fuck is a car?"

 

[Elmoslayer5]

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Click to shrink...

Mauls saber* in the new show is probably the closest to the growling that i can think of, was kinda hoping it'd look like fire also like mauls saber.

Good chapter made me laugh

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 8: Lessons in Hitting Things (With Lightsabers)

The training hall smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone, the scent that clung to every surface in the Jedi Temple. The floor gleamed in the morning light that spilled through tall windows, perfectly swept and perfectly ready to be scuffed up by a dozen younglings about to learn how to hit each other with glowing sticks.

Master Tyyvak stood at the front, her towering Wookiee frame casting a long shadow across the mats. Her bowcaster was slung across her back as always, though Ahsoka had never seen her fire it. She didn't need to—her sheer presence was enough to make even the rowdiest younglings shut up. Well, most of them.

On another note, why did she have a bowcaster and not a lightsaber? She's a Jedi. That's kind of their thing. Unless… the chamber of the bowcaster is the hilt of the lightsaber! That's so cool! And… probably really difficult to assemble, actually. Ahsoka's much happier with her twin blades, thank you very much.

"We begin today," Tyyvak rumbled in Shyriiwook, her growl warm as always. "Your first supervised sparring matches."

A ripple of sound passed through the gathered class—gasps, nervous whispers, a few muffled laughs. Ahsoka's Montrals twitched with a mix of excitement and nerves. Finally. This was it. The real test. Not katas in neat little rows, not balance drills, not moving stones around with the Force until her head hurt. This was a chance to prove herself. To show she wasn't just some scrappy kid from Shili that the Jedi had scooped up. She was ready. She could do this. She had to.

Beside her, Ben practically vibrated with anticipation, rocking on the balls of his feet as if the mats themselves were too slow for him. He wore a grin so wide Ahsoka was sure it had to hurt.

"Ohhh, here we go," he whispered, too loudly. "The moment of destiny. The showdown of legends. The grand melee of—"

"Quiet," Ahsoka hissed at him, though her own lips twitched. He was impossible sometimes.

Ben mimed zipping his lips. That lasted about three seconds before he leaned back toward her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember, children," he muttered in a singsong imitation of Huyang's precise accent, "don't point the glowy end at your face. Training sabers may be non-lethal, but they are still very sting-y."

A couple of younglings nearby snorted. Even Ahsoka bit back a laugh, though she elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

Across the line, Maris Brood stood with her arms folded, the edge of her dark Padawan tunic brushing her boots. She didn't laugh. She didn't even roll her eyes. She just fixed Ben with a look so flat and unimpressed it could have been carved from stone. The faintest tilt of her chin said everything: You're going to die, clown.

Ahsoka noticed—because she always noticed—that Maris had grown more comfortable around them lately. She spoke more, sat closer during lessons, even teased in her own quiet, sharp-edged way. But apparently, with Maris, being mean was affection. Ahsoka couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Master Tyyvak raised one massive paw, and silence fell again.

"You will spar with your new lightsabers. On their training setting," She continued. "These settings are mandatory, and are designed to teach without maiming. But pain will still teach. You may not lose a limb, but each strike landed will hurt. Do not fear it. Learn from it."

Her growl deepened, echoing through the chamber.

"Control is the heart of a Jedi. Without control, you are nothing more than a danger to yourself and others."

Ahsoka swallowed. Her palms itched with the need to prove she had that control. That she was ready.

Ben, meanwhile, whispered under his breath like it was a game: "Control, control, you must learn control…" He stopped just short of humming a dramatic score.

Ahsoka smacked his arm again.

Maris smirked this time. Just barely.

Master Tyyyvak walked each initiate through the process of using their training setting, silver hilts gleaming as she passed down the line. Each student's face lit with awe—or in Ben's case, smug delight—as their weapons ignited.

Ahsoka's heart hammered in her chest when her saber hit her palm, cool and solid. She thumbed the activator, and a blade of shimmering green burst to life with a snap-hiss. It buzzed faintly, humming with energy, vibrating all the way down to her bones. Her breath caught.

She wasn't just imagining it anymore. This wasn't practice with a stick. This was real.

Ben spun his lightsaber like a baton, nearly clipping one of their classmates before he caught it, waggled his eyebrows, and gave an exaggerated bow.

Maris sighed. "You are going to die."

...​

Master Tyyvak's voice carried across the training floor, calm as ever, but I swear I felt a chill.

"Today," she announced, "you'll be sparring not only with one another, but also with some of the Temple's Padawans. They've generously volunteered their time."

The room buzzed instantly. Younglings shifted on their feet, some excited, some pale. Me? I was half thrilled, half terrified. Mostly thrilled, because if there was one thing better than swinging a lightsaber around, it was swinging one at someone who knew what they were doing.

Probably.

Names were called, pairs arranged. Then my ears caught two I actually recognized.

Aayla Secura—tall, blue, ridiculously graceful—was assigned to Ahsoka. I heard my friend's tiny gasp, and saw her eyes go wide as if she'd just been told she'd spar against a holo-drama star. Honestly, same.

You know, if the Jedi really want to enforce this whole unspoken rule of celibacy thing, they may want to consider less… revealing outfits. Slave Leia had more modesty.

"Padawan Skywalker, you'll spar against Initiate Kryze."

The sparring floor was suddenly a lot less fun.

Oh boy.

The crowd of younglings erupted in little gasps and whispers, like someone had just announced free cafeteria nerf nuggets. Even Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes going wide. Skywalker. The legendary hotshot. The prodigy. The Jedi Temple's equivalent of the kid who was so good at gym class dodgeball you started pretending you had asthma to sit out.

I tried to play it cool. "So," I said, twirling the training saber hilt between my palms, "this is what it feels like to be offered up as a sacrifice."

Anakin, all cocky grin and easy swagger, stepped into the ring. He looked like he belonged there—broad shoulders, confident smirk, that whole I'm-already-the-main-character aura. He gave me a nod that was somehow both friendly and patronizing.

"Don't worry, kid," he said. "I'll go easy on you."

"Great," I shot back. "I'll go hard on you."

A ripple of laughter from the other younglings. Even Tyyvak's mouth twitched, though he quickly smoothed it back into stern Jedi neutrality.

We took our positions. Anakin dropped smoothly into Form V's classic Djem So stance—blade angled up, posture aggressive but balanced. I, meanwhile, copied something I'd read about Vaapad. Which is to say, I held the saber in a way that looked dramatic and tried not to trip on my own feet.

If Mace Windu could beat Palpatine with this, then surely I could beat a prequel-era Anakin. Right? Right.

Focus. Calm. Rely on your training. All good advice. All useless against Anakin Skywalker. He was the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. And given his dad was the Force, a total nepo baby… yes, I see the irony in me saying this.

In my defense, my mom still refuses to let me refer to herself as anything other than Auntie Satine. Plus she handed me off to the Jedi. That's got to be the Star Wars equivalent of leaving your kid on an orphanage's doorstep. I have none of the perks of being a nepo baby.

Anakin has all of them.

He's skilled with a lightsaber. He's a Goliath in the Force. Totally OP. But I had one advantage. Back on Earth, I had relentlessly devoured the Star Wars franchise. I'd seen Anakin at his best. At his worst. At his most vulnerable. I knew his one weakness.

"Pocket sand!"

I hurled the handful from my robes straight at his face.

Don't ask me where I got it. You have no idea how hard it is to find sand on Coruscant. It's worse than looking for water on Tatooine. Let's just say a few decorative planter boxes in the Temple gardens are now mysteriously emptier.

"Ah! It's so coarse, rough, and irritating!" Anakin recoiled, actually whining, blinking furiously as he rubbed at his eyes. The gasps from the crèche became shrieks of laughter. Even Aayla Secura, across the room, cracked a grin.

For a glorious instant, I was a god among children.

I pressed the advantage, charging forward with the kind of reckless overconfidence that makes Jedi Masters sigh deeply into their hands. My blade smacked against Anakin's, forcing him back a step.

"Fear me, Skywalker," I declared, grinning wide. "I am the Sandman."

The other younglings howled. Maris Brood actually snorted.

For two whole seconds, I was winning. Two. Whole. Seconds.

Then Anakin adapted.

With blinding speed, he pivoted, locked my blade, and shoved me backward. My arms jolted like I'd tried to block a landspeeder with a broomstick. He wasn't smiling anymore—now his expression was half amusement, half… curiosity. Like he'd just discovered a new bug to dissect.

"Unorthodox," he said, voice low. "But sloppy."

Uh oh.

What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Anakin flowed into Djem So with terrifying efficiency. Every swing hammered down like a meteor. Every parry jolted my arms numb. I tried a fancy Vaapad spin—he batted it aside like I was waving glowsticks at a concert.

The smugness drained right out of me. This wasn't a duel. This was survival.

I backpedaled furiously, grasping for new tricks. Fake stumble. Switch hands. Shout "Look, it's Senator Amidala!" to distract him. Nothing worked. He cut through my improvisations like they were training remotes.

At one point he disarmed me entirely, sending my saber clattering across the floor. Before I could panic, he kicked it back toward me. "Pick it up," he said. Almost kindly.

Which somehow felt worse.

I scrambled, ignited it again, and tried one last gambit—rolling low, attempting a clumsy leg sweep. He hopped over it easily, tapped my back with his blade, and sent me sprawling face-first into the mat.

The sparring ring erupted in cheers and groans.

Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help me up. "Not bad," he said, voice tinged with genuine respect. "You've got guts. And… creativity." His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging me. "But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

I groaned, accepting his hand, my pride limping behind me. "So what you're saying is… Vaapad plus sand equals still losing?"

"Exactly." He grinned now, flashing the charm that would one day drive half the galaxy insane. "But don't stop trying crazy things. Sometimes, crazy works."

Master Tyyvak called the match. The younglings applauded. Ahsoka caught my eye from across the floor, giving me a mix of encouragement and what-were-you-thinking.

Answer: I wasn't. But it was totally worth it.

Because for two glorious seconds… Anakin Skywalker was afraid of sand.

...​

The clatter of training sabers echoed across the sparring chamber, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of younglings too enthralled to remember they were supposed to be quiet. Obi-Wan Kenobi remained standing at the back of the hall, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, face composed in the dignified stillness that came with long practice.

In truth, his jaw was tight enough to ache.

Ben had just hit the floor for the third time. Sand sprayed across the mat like so much glittering evidence of desperation, and though the boy scrambled gamely to his feet each time, the outcome was never in doubt. Anakin was too strong, too fast, too confident. A storm contained within the shape of a teenager.

Perhaps Obi-Wan trained him too well.

But Ben—his Ben—was stubbornly trying to fight the storm with a bucket and a grin.

"Interesting boy you've got there."

Obi-Wan didn't need to glance aside to recognize the smooth, amused drawl. Quinlan Vos leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, dark eyes alight with mischief as he watched his own Padawan whirl through her match on the opposite side of the room. Aayla Secura was cutting down initiates in clean, fluid arcs, her movements as precise as they were graceful. The girl fought like a dancer who had decided the floor was littered with enemies.

"She's performing admirably," Obi-Wan said evenly.

Vos smirked. "She is. Meanwhile, yours seems determined to turn the duel into a comedy routine."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait.

Vos leaned in anyway. "Tell me, is it standard in your lineage to encourage sand-throwing as a valid combat technique, or is that a… Kenobi innovation?"

"He's not in my lineage." Obi-Wan's lips thinned. "I've merely offered a word of two of advice, as we all should." He may have to offer more, as well. He had noticed the sand. Force help him, he'd noticed everything. The cheek, the irreverence, the utter lack of restraint. And yet—

Yet, the boy had lasted longer against Anakin than half the Temple's initiates would have dared. Clever, reckless, utterly inappropriate…but inventive.

A familiar, treacherous warmth tugged at Obi-Wan's chest. Force help him, he really is his mother's son. If a tad more… eager for action.

Across the mat, Anakin disarmed Ben for the final time with a neat twist and sent the boy sprawling in a heap. The younglings erupted in cheers. Anakin offered Ben a hand up, and though Ben accepted it, he ruined the gesture by saying something irreverent as always.

Though, judging by Anakin's answering grin, his padawan took no offense. Good. It's… nice, to see them get along so well. Obi-Wan was worried that Ben may take defeat as bitterly as Anakin. Or that Anakin's pride may be more wounded by such underhanded tactics.

He should have known better. Anakin employed the unorthodox far more than even Qui-Go dared.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Quinlan barked a laugh.

When the sparring matches ended, the initiates broke into clusters, voices high with chatter. Aayla accepted the admiration of several wide-eyed younglings with a nod as calm as any Knight's. Ben, by contrast, trudged toward his friends like a soldier returning from defeat, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Maris Brood, a recent friend of his s—of Ben, was the first to greet him, her smile sharp. "You lasted, what, four minutes? Impressive. Most younglings only take three to humiliate themselves in front of the entire Temple."

Hmm. Ben should look into finding more supportive friends.

Ben groaned. "Thanks, Maris. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for your support." Great minds think alike. Like father, like—no. Not like father, Obi-Wan… you have not earned that.

She smirked. "Oh, you'll get one—from the healers when they're done stitching your pride back together."

Before Ben could retort, Ahsoka bounded to his side, montrals bouncing, eyes bright with something far more earnest. "I thought you were great," she blurted. "Brave, even. I mean—going up against Anakin Skywalker? You didn't stand a chance! But you tried anyway, and that's… that's something."

Obi-Wan liked her. If he didn't already have his eyes on Ben, he might've tried to snatch her up as his next padawan. If he can teach Anakin, he can teach anyone. As it was, perhaps he'll pass along a friendly reminder to Plo Koon.

Ben's shoulders eased, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Thanks, Snips."

"Snips?" Ahsoka tilted her head.

He shrugged. "It fits."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat before Maris could cut in again. "Ben. A word."

The boy froze, then offered Ahsoka a helpless little grimace before trudging over. He stopped before Obi-Wan, head bowed just enough to suggest guilt, though his eyes still carried that incorrigible spark.

Why did he find that so endearing?

From the sidelines, Quinlan leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging his mouth. "Better you than me, old friend."

Obi-Wan didn't so much as twitch. "Quinlan," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "If you'd be so kind as to take your running commentary elsewhere, I would like a private word with my—" He caught himself, and the pause was audible. "…with the boy."

Vos snorted. "Ah. Privacy. I see. Don't worry, Kenobi—your secret fatherly pride is safe with me."

"Quinlan."

"Fine, fine. I'm going. Force forbid I get between you and your heartfelt lecture."

He sauntered away with that maddening swagger of his, and Obi-Wan, for his part, allowed only the smallest of exhales before turning back to Ben.

...​

I could tell by the way he said my name—low, precise, each syllable clipped like it was being filed down with a whetstone—that I was in trouble. Not Temple-rule-breaking trouble. Worse. Obi-Wan Kenobi trouble.

"Ben."

He gestured toward the hallway with that perfect, infuriating calm of his. Like he wasn't walking me to my doom, but simply suggesting a nice little stroll. My feet, the traitors, followed.

We stopped in one of the side chambers, quiet and dim, the hum of training sabers replaced by the buzz of my pulse in my ears. Obi-Wan folded his arms. That was never a good sign.

"So." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Would you like to explain what that was?"

"Uh… innovative?" I tried, plastering on my best grin. "Creative problem-solving? A stunning display of tactical genius?"

His brow arched so high I thought it might detach and float away.

"All right, all right," I said quickly. "Maybe I got a little carried away with the sand trick. But you have to admit—it worked. For a while."

"That is precisely the problem." He stepped closer, and his voice softened—but that softness was somehow worse than shouting. "Your creativity is a strength. I will not deny that. But without restraint, it will destroy you."

The words landed like a blow. I tried to laugh them off, but the sound died halfway out of my throat. "Destroy me? Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Is it?" His gaze didn't waver. "Today you faced a sparring match with a friend. Tomorrow it may be an enemy with a blade that cuts deeper than training sabers. Tricks and flourishes will not save you if you lack discipline. If you gamble with lives the way you gambled today—"

He stopped.

Drew in a breath. Then, softer still, he said, "I wanted you to succeed, Ben. I did. But not like that. Not by endangering yourself just to prove you could."

I blinked at him. That… that was new. Obi-Wan didn't admit things like that. He corrected, instructed, lectured—but this was something else. Something dangerously close to personal.

A thousand answers fought their way to the surface. Sarcasm. Defiance. A joke about him sounding like my dad. But none of them felt right, not with the weight in his eyes.

And I hated that part of me—some traitorous, quiet part—was warmed by it.

"I…" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I wasn't trying to—look, I just wanted to show I could keep up. That I belong here. I thought if I did something big enough, you'd… notice."

His expression softened in a way that made me feel both seen and stripped bare.

"I notice," he said. Simple. Certain. "Far more than you realize."

The room tilted, or maybe that was just my head trying to make sense of the stew of feelings bubbling inside me—annoyance, embarrassment, a little bit of pride, and something dangerously close to relief.

I looked away, muttering, "Force, you're making this really hard to hate you, you know that?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there. "Good. That suggests I am doing something right."

I wanted to argue. I really, really did. But for once, I didn't.

It's genuinely hard to stay mad at someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Was he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is. But the thing about him is… he tries. Always. Relentlessly. And not because it's convenient, or glamorous, or makes him look good. He just does the right thing because it's the right thing.

Can you imagine being that selfless? I can't.

Think about it—who else do you know who'd throw his whole life into protecting some politician he barely met, just because the Code said so? Or take on training a volatile kid just because his dying master asked him to? Or march headfirst into leading a galactic war, not for glory, but because someone had to step up so fewer innocents would suffer? That's Obi-Wan. That's just… who he is.

He wasn't there when Korkie and I were born. But I can't pin that on him. It wasn't selfishness, or him trying to run from family. It was the opposite, really—he was bound up in a duty that stretched far beyond one person, or even one world. He carries that weight, every single day, and still somehow keeps walking.

So how can I hate him? The truth is, I can't. I admire him too much. I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk like him, talk like him… I even copied his accent. Not that anyone could tell; I picked it up on Mandalore anyway.

I do kinda wish he'd just call me "son", though. Having one parent in denial was more than enough, thank you. But, who knows? As a wise old gremlin once said, "Always in motion, the future is."

...​

Ben was hunched over his workbench again, the glow of the tools painting his face in harsh blue lines. His half-finished lightsaber lay in pieces before him, guts of crystal housing and emitter coils splayed out like an autopsy. He muttered under his breath while he adjusted the wiring.

"Needs an upgrade… countermeasures… built-in failsafe for when some nepo-baby thinks their midochlorian count makes them untouchable."

Ahsoka leaned against the doorway of their shared dorm, her left foot tapping absently. He hadn't noticed her yet. He rarely did when he got like this. His jokes carried the same cadence as always, sharp and irreverent, but she'd started to notice the difference. The humor was his sword, his shield, and his armor, and when he wrapped himself in it this tightly, it usually meant something had cut deep.

He'd shrugged off Obi-Wan's reprimand earlier like it was nothing, but Ahsoka could see the weight he tried to hide. Where she had learned to trust the Temple, to let herself be shaped by it, Ben seemed determined to fight it at every turn. She wondered if he even knew why.

She thought back to Maris in training that day—quiet, withdrawn, but never oblivious. Her eyes had followed Ben more than once, sharp and unspoken. Ahsoka wasn't sure what Maris saw in him, but she knew it wasn't just the clown act he put on for everyone else.

"Going to stare all night, or are you going to help?" Ben finally said without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile. He sensed her presence. Just as she sensed his. Which is why she knew he was hurting more than he let on.

More than bruises. Deeper than pride.

Ahsoka didn't answer right away. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about the future?" she asked.

Ben smirked. "Sure. All the time. Usually involves me with a cloak dramatically billowing in the wind."

"Ben." She let his name hang between them, weighty.

For a moment, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but she saw it. He bent back over the saber with exaggerated focus, pretending her question had never been asked.

Ahsoka sighed and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling. The truth was simple enough: where she felt at home here, Ben felt cornered. She loved the Jedi path, the structure, the belonging. He acted like it was a battle he could never stop fighting.

She wondered what that meant for the two of them, years from now. Would they still be sitting across from each other, friends and sparring partners? Or would the Order push him too hard, until something finally broke?

Ahsoka wasn't as sure as she'd like to be. But she hoped. Whatever happened, she'd be there. She just prayed the Order wouldn't take the choice from them.

...​

Sand is the deadliest weapon against the Chosen One.

More so than fire, lightsabers, or even lightning. Sand is the kryptonite of all Skywalkers. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Speaking of, did you know that I have a Patreon where you can read ahead, right now? See the link below:

My Patreon

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

would it be possible for him to find another black crystal? finding the dark saber sure, but finding another?

 

[One-who-reads]

So, IIRC, montrals are the hollow horns that allow for hearing and a bit of echolocation in Togruta. "Head tentacles", regardless of species, are called lekku. Ahsoka's montrals would not twitch, but her lekku would.

Excellent story so far.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the cgapter

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

"But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

Click to shrink...

All I'm hearing is more Dakka Sand

Ben 'The Jedi with Sass' Kryze:

"Haha! You may have killed thousands of Jedi Darth Vader. But you brought asthma to a Sand Fight!
.
..
...and I have the high ground"

DUMPS a ships entire hold of very coarse sand directly onto Vader

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 9: The Bonds We Forge… In Detention

The crèche cafeteria was loud enough to rival a podracing pit. Metal trays clattered, utensils scraped, and the chatter of a hundred initiates bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Even the kitchen droids had started barking orders—well, synthesized barking, but close enough.

Ahsoka grabbed her tray and shuffled into line. The day's breakfast options were standard Temple fare: blue milk, grain puffs, and nutrient blocks cut into geometric shapes that looked more like tools for building than food. Ahsoka took a triangle one, just to prove she was brave.

At first, things went smoothly. Everyone loaded up their trays under the watchful sensors of the kitchen droids. But then, as always, the competition began.

"Three rolls!" an initiate crowed from a nearby table, triumphantly biting into one.

"Four," another shot back, flashing a grin as he tucked his extras under his robe.

Ahsoka smirked. The unspoken game was simple: how many extra servings could you Force-pull onto your tray without being caught by the kitchen droids? Everyone knew the rules, even the droids—who beeped in mounting exasperation every time a serving vanished mid-air.

Ahsoka was good at the game. Not the best, but good. She casually waved her hand by her side, tugging a second roll off the counter and onto her tray with a whisper of the Force. The droids didn't even twitch.

"Not bad," Ben whispered beside her. His eyes gleamed with the kind of scheming mischief that usually meant trouble. "But you're thinking too small."

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. "Too small?"

He gestured toward the far end of the counter, where an entire serving tray of sweet rolls sat under a warm heat lamp. "That's the real prize. Why bother fighting over scraps when you can seize the supply lines themselves?"

Ahsoka groaned. "Ben, don't—"

But he was already stretching out his hand, muttering something about "logistical supremacy" under his breath.

At first, it looked like he might actually pull it off. The serving tray trembled, hovered an inch off the counter, and began to drift toward them. Ahsoka's jaw dropped. He's actually doing it.

Then the tray tilted.

The sweet rolls slid in slow motion.

And the blue milk—an entire pitcher precariously perched beside them—went with it.

The crash was deafening. Rolls scattered across the floor like grenades, and a tidal wave of blue milk drenched Ben from head to toe. The splash caught Ahsoka across the front, soaking her tunic and montrals.

The cafeteria froze.

Then the laughter started.

Ben stood there, dripping blue milk, blinking as if he hadn't entirely processed what had just happened. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he said:

"Tactical supply lines are more fragile than I anticipated."

Ahsoka wiped milk from her eyes and scowled. "You're impossible."

That only made the laughter louder.

The kitchen droids wheeled over in a fury, beeping indignantly as they started scooping rolls off the floor. "Unauthorized food manipulation! Violation of rationing protocols! Report will be filed!"

Ben gave a sweeping bow to the nearest droid, dripping milk onto the tiles. "I accept full responsibility for this operation's failure."

Ahsoka was about to snap at him again when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

Maris.

The Zabrak initiate was sitting two spots down the table, quiet as always, her expression unreadable. While everyone else was pointing, laughing, or whispering, Maris casually lifted one hand beneath the table. A lone sweet roll slid across the surface, landing squarely on Ben's tray.

Ben blinked at it. Then at her.

She didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge what she'd done. She just broke off a piece of her own roll and chewed, as if nothing had happened.

But Ahsoka saw the quick flicker of Ben's smile, the way he straightened just a little taller, milk-soaked tunic and all.

Ahsoka frowned. Maris wasn't the type to play games. And she definitely wasn't the type to help Ben.

So why did it feel like something had just shifted?

Ahsoka didn't know. But she knew one thing for sure: breakfast in the crèche cafeteria had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

… as had many other things.

...​

The Archives were alive with silence. That was how Jocasta Nu preferred them: the hush of knowledge settling around her shoulders like a robe. The faint hum of the security fields, the even fainter shuffle of initiates' boots on the marble floor, the occasional tap-tap of a datapad stylus—these were the sounds she cherished. The galaxy outside might rage with skirmishes, politics, and endless noise, but here? Here was order. Here was clarity.

She knew, of course, that her initiates didn't always see it that way. To them, the Archives were dusty halls, filled with static files and old Masters too long-winded for their own good. Not these two, though.

Ahsoka Tano was pure light. Jocasta had watched her dart between the shelves, montrals swaying, eager to quiz herself on obscure battles and the names of long-forgotten Consulars. She could hardly keep still long enough to absorb a full lecture, but the joy she found in learning was undeniable.

And then there was Ben Kryze. Older than most of his crèche-mates by a year, and sharper than most Padawans Jocasta had trained herself. He devoured history like it was a meal, asked questions so incisive they sometimes cut deeper than she'd like, and had that dangerous Mandalorian attachment streak that made half the Council nervous.

Yes, he was trouble. Bright, inquisitive trouble. Which was why Jocasta found herself unsurprised when Ahsoka Tano appeared at her desk with a far-too-bright smile.

"Master Nu," Ahsoka chirped, hands clasped behind her back. "Did you ever tell us about the First Great Schism? The one with the Hundred-Year Darkness?"

Jocasta's brow arched. The Togruta's timing was impeccable—almost too impeccable. "I believe I did, young one. Twice, if memory serves."

Ahsoka's grin widened, the picture of guileless innocence. "I think I forgot some parts. Maybe you could explain again? Especially the, um, politics part. With all the Dark Jedi. And the armies. And—"

Jocasta allowed herself the faintest sigh, smoothing her robes. Yes, this was a distraction. A transparent one. She glanced past Ahsoka's twitching montrals, toward the holoterminals two aisles over. She did not need to look to know who had slipped behind them.

"Very well," she said at last, steepling her fingers. "But politics, initiate, are never so simple as you younglings imagine. The Hundred-Year Darkness began with pride, as most things do…"

She launched into the tale, watching Ahsoka nod rapidly, laugh at her own questions, and stumble through clumsy attempts to appear fascinated. Jocasta hid her smile. She would play along—for now.

It was almost flattering, being part of their little conspiracy. They thought themselves clever, these two, and in truth, they were. Jocasta had spent decades among younglings who showed no spark of curiosity at all. That these two loved knowledge so dearly, even when they abused it, warmed her old heart.

Still. She would let Ben Kryze hang himself with his own cleverness, just long enough to learn a lesson.

...​

"Excuse me, Master?"

The voice belonged to Tallo, the Mon Calamari initiate from the same crèche. Jocasta turned to find him shifting uncomfortably, datapad clutched in webbed fingers. His head-fins twitched with visible unease.

"Yes, Initiate Tallo?"

"I think there might be something wrong with the Archives."

Jocasta inclined her head. "The Archives are never wrong. But you may explain."

Tallo shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "I think… well, there's a planet that had its name changed."

"Ah." Jocasta hummed with understanding. "That does happen. Many worlds have different names prior to being settled. But, as colonists make their home, they tend to make their mark. Little by little, the bird makes its nest."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. But, why would they change the name of Coruscant, the Core World of the Republic to… Uranus."

A long, terrible pause followed. Jocasta blinked once. Slowly.

"…my what?"

Tallo hastily turned the datapad around. Sure enough, bold as day, the entry for Galactic Republic Capital had been updated. CORUSCANT—struck through. URANUS—typed in, complete with a small holoprojection of a pale blue gas giant floating where the ecumenopolis should have been.

Ahsoka made a small choking noise.

Jocasta Nu rose, her robes swishing like a thundercloud. She did not storm—storming was for the young. But her presence filled the chamber with a gravity that made even the security droids shift uneasily on their tracks. She swept past rows of shelves and terminals until she came to the source.

And oh, yes. She found plenty.

Mustafar: A beautiful winter vacation for the whole family! Come for the slopes, stay for the nice cool breeze! Don't forget to bring a jacket!

Kamino: Not flooded. You're flooded.

Endor: Official mascot—murder bears.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

On one hand, she should be furious. An initiate had exploited a vulnerability in the archival index, no doubt thinking himself terribly clever. On the other hand… the backups were intact. Every alteration neatly logged, every override easily reversed. The child had even highlighted the faulty code that allowed the tampering in the first place.

It was vandalism—but it was useful vandalism.

Jocasta straightened, smoothing her expression into calm neutrality. She could feel eyes on her—the initiates waiting to see how the dragon of the Archives would roar. Instead, she folded her hands.

"Curious," she murmured. "Quite curious."

Of course, she would correct this. Of course, she would assign penance. But perhaps she would also… encourage it. A child who could find such flaws could help protect the Archives.

Yes. Perhaps the punishment would be… more work.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "I believe," she said, turning toward the wide-eyed initiates, "that I shall have a word with Initiate Kryze. Once he decides to stop hiding."

A shuffle from the next row over, followed by the quiet clunk of a datapad hastily dropped.

Jocasta Nu pretended not to hear it.

After all, the chase was always the best part.

...​

You know what's dangerous? Not lightsabers, not blaster fire, not Sith Lords in black cloaks with questionable breathing habits. No—far worse than all of that is boredom.

And let me tell you, when you dump a dozen Force-sensitive kids in a common room with nothing to do after sparring drills, boredom becomes a war crime.

Which is why we have holo-chess.

Only problem is, holo-chess is boring too. The little figures are bland, the strategy predictable, and the computer AI snores itself to sleep if you play solo. So naturally, I took it upon myself to improve the system. Enhance it. Elevate it.

Translation: I hacked it.

And oh, did I outdo myself.

The board flickered to life in the middle of the room, and instead of the usual geometric holo-pieces, we had—drumroll—members of the Jedi Council.

"Wait," Ahsoka said, pointing. "Is that… Master Yoda as a pawn?"

"Correction," I said, proudly crossing my arms. "That's eight Master Yodas as pawns. Quantity is its own quality."

Sure enough, a row of tiny green Yodas shuffled forward, each clutching a lightsaber half their size, muttering things like 'Win this game, I shall,' and 'Strong with the Force, this opening move is.'

Ezra—I mean, not that Ezra, different Ezra, the Nikto from another class—snorted and nearly fell off the couch. "Please tell me Mace Windu isn't…"

"Rooks, yes," I confirmed, grinning as the tall holo-Mace figures materialized in the corners of the board. They crossed their arms, scowled, and radiated general disapproval.

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "You're going to get us arrested."

"Arrested? No, no. At worst, expelled. Possibly launched into the sun. But think of the artistry!"

I gestured grandly as the rest of the board populated. Depa Billaba as a bishop, Kit Fisto grinning far too widely, Plo Koon wheezing politely, Shaak Ti looking like she regretted existing on this board at all. The real masterpiece, though? The queen.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen," I said, as the holo figure of my most favorite (and definitely not my father) Jedi materialized, looking impossibly noble with a tiny animated cape.

"Really?" Ahsoka whispered. "You made your… you made Obi-Wan the queen? He isn't even on the Council!"

"Yet." I argued. "He's due for a promotion. Besides, why not? It's strategically powerful. Very versatile piece. No symbolism whatsoever."

None that I'll confess to, at any rate.

And then came the king: Master Yaddle.

"Why?" Ahsoka demanded.

"Because no one ever expects Yaddle," I said solemnly.

We had barely gotten two moves in when the door hissed open and in strolled Quinlan Vos, radiating trouble magnet as always.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "What do we have here? Unauthorized holo-gambling in the youngling common room?"

"Not gambling," I said quickly. "This is… a cultural enrichment exercise."

"Cultural enrichment, huh?" He strolled closer, peering at the board. His grin widened. "Is that Yoda? As a pawn?"

Eight tiny Yodas turned in unison and said: 'Flattered, I am.'

Quinlan slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. "Oh, I love it. Alright, I got twenty credits on the Togruta."

Ahsoka blinked. "Wait. What?"

"You're playing, right?" Quinlan said, tossing a chit onto the table. "I bet you beat Ben inside of ten moves."

"I—wait, what—" Ahsoka sputtered. "I didn't agree—"

"Thirty on me," I cut in, swiping Quinlan's chit before Ahsoka could. "And if she loses, I get snacks for a week."

Ahsoka glared at me. "Oh, it's on."

The game began with all the subtlety of a podrace crash. Ahsoka played aggressively, sending her Obi-Wan queen flying across the board with zero hesitation. I countered by ordering one of my Yodas to march right into the line of fire.

"Sacrificing Yoda already?" Quinlan asked.

"Strategic retreat," I said.

The pawn-Yoda turned to me and grumbled: 'Betrayed, I am.' Then it dissolved in a burst of static as Obi-Wan sliced it in half.

"Sorry, Master," I muttered.

And I was sorry. But sacrifices needed to be made.

It was all going well until about move five, when I decided to make things more interesting.

See, technically, holo-chess runs off a standard entertainment grid. Which, if you happen to accidentally upload a "combat simulation patch" onto it… well, things get spicy.

I nudged the command lines on my datapad, and suddenly, instead of politely shuffling across the board, the holo-Maces drew their sabers and began dueling the opposing pieces.

"Oh no," Ahsoka groaned.

"Oh YES," Quinlan said, delighted. "This is the best day of my life."

The Obi-Wan queen performed a flying leap, cape fluttering dramatically, and bisected three Yodas in a row. Plo Koon counterattacked by unleashing Force lightning, which I swear he has never used in real life.

"Don't worry about accuracy," I told the group. "It's about vibes."

And then the board exploded.

Literally exploded. Sparks shot out, the holo-field went haywire, and suddenly we had Council members battling full-size in the middle of the common room.

"RETREAT, RETREAT!" I yelled, diving behind the couch as two Maces dueled each other by accident.

"RETREAT TO WHERE?!" Ahsoka shouted back, dodging a very polite Plo Koon as he tried to Force-push the wall.

Quinlan, instead of helping, doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell into the fire-suppression system.

That was when Jocasta Nu walked in.

"Children," she said flatly, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the chaos. "What… is happening here?"

I sprang to my feet, brushing sparks off my tunic. "What? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a normal, wholesome holo-game."

Behind me, a holo-Shaak Ti tackled a holo-Kit Fisto into the couch.

Jocasta raised one eyebrow. "I see." She stepped closer, fixing me with the gaze of someone who has catalogued every bad excuse since the dawn of the Republic. "Would this… mishap… have anything to do with the technical difficulties I discovered in the Archives earlier today?"

I froze.

"Why would you ask me?" I squeaked. "Surely, you don't think I… No, never. I—I didn't even know we had Archives."

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands again. Quinlan wheezed.

"Ah," Jocasta said, with a terrifyingly calm nod. "I see. Detention."

Just when I thought my doom was sealed, Maris Brood swooped in out of nowhere like some kind of goth guardian angel.

"Wait," she said, stepping forward. "It was me. I changed the settings. My fault."

My jaw dropped. "You—what?!"

"Don't look so shocked," she muttered, crossing her arms. "You'd just get yourself expelled."

Jocasta studied her for a long moment, then glanced back at me. "Hmm. Very well. Detention… for both of you."

"WHAT?!" I yelped.

Ahsoka faceplanted into the couch cushions. Quinlan roared with laughter, then added another chit to the table. "Double or nothing that they don't last a week before another incident."

Jocasta turned to him. "And you, Knight Vos, will be explaining to Master Windu why I found you encouraging underage gambling."

Quinlan's grin faltered. "…Oh."

I smirked. "Guess we all lose, huh?"

Quinlan shot me a look, then ruffled my hair on the way out. "Kid, you're gonna be the death of me."

"Working on it," I said cheerfully.

And thus ended the Great Holo-Game Fiasco.

For now.

...​

Detention at the Jedi Temple wasn't exactly what I pictured.

When Master Tyyvak lumbered into the room—seven feet of shaggy Wookiee with eyes like molten patience—I braced myself for doom. This was the Jedi equivalent of being grounded by a thunderstorm. She didn't roar, didn't even growl. Just handed me and Maris Brood a stack of flimsi-sheets and a stylus each, then pointed at a row of cushions.

"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."

That was it. No dramatic lecture. No punishment chamber. Just… handwriting practice.

I glanced sideways at Maris. She sat cross-legged, her stylus already scratching dutifully. Me? My hand cramped just looking at the pile.

Well. If I was going down, I wasn't going down quietly.

"Bet you," I whispered, leaning just far enough over my cushion to annoy her, "that I can misquote the Code five times before she notices."

Her eyes flicked toward me, then down at my sheet. The tiniest smirk tugged at her mouth. "You'll be lucky to make it to three."

Challenge accepted.

I started innocently enough: There is no emotion, there is… really suspicious frowning. Nothing. No growl from Tyyvak. No sudden Wookiee wrath.

Two lines later: There is no ignorance, there is… a very questionable sense of style in Jedi robes.

Still nothing.

By the fourth misquote, Maris was biting her lip, shoulders shaking. She wasn't laughing out loud—Force forbid she actually break her tragic, brooding aura—but she was laughing. And that felt like a win.

"You're going to get us skinned alive," she hissed.

"Oh, come on," I said. "It's educational. She's testing our creativity."

"Pretty sure she's testing how long until I strangle you."

We went back and forth like that for a while. I threw in bad puns. She sniped at my handwriting. By the time I reached There is no chaos, there is… definitely chaos, Master Tyyvak let out a very long, very tired Wookiee sigh.

Which is Jedi Master for: You two are hopeless.

Before she could redirect us, the doors swished open and salvation arrived in the form of Master Jocasta Nu.

"Master Tyyvak," she said, voice perfectly polite but carrying that librarian authority that made every youngling sit up straighter. "If you would be so kind as to release these two into my custody, the Archives could make good use of their… energy."

"Take them," Tyyvak rumbled without hesitation.

And that's how I ended up in Jedi Archives detention. Which, for the record, is about a thousand times worse than copying the Code.

Jocasta handed us datapads and directed us to the endless shelves. "Data entry," she said briskly. "Cataloguing, cross-referencing. Do not tamper." Then, surprisingly, she looked directly at me and added: "And thank you, young one."

I blinked. "Wait—thank me?"

"Yes. One of the planets you altered during your… prank—Kamino, I believe—was already missing from the Archives. Deleted." Her lips pursed dangerously. "Not by you, of course. Long before your arrival. But when I find whoever tampered with my Archives…" She paused, as if remembering she was supposed to be the embodiment of Jedi serenity. "…I will be very disappointed."

I decided then and there that I never, under any circumstances, wanted to disappoint Jocasta Nu.

I don't scare easily, but—yeah. Apparently, librarians can be more terrifying than most Sith.

So we typed. And sorted. And cross-referenced. Hours of mind-numbing, finger-cramping cataloguing.

At one point, I leaned toward Maris and whispered, "I take it back. The Wookiee was merciful."

"You don't say," she deadpanned.

But the thing was—underneath the sarcasm, she was actually talking. More than usual. Enough that, once I was sure Jocasta was out of earshot, I surrendered to a moment of emotional sincerity.

"So… thanks. For covering for me earlier. With the holo-chess thing. You didn't have to."

Maris didn't look up from her datapad. "I know."

"Then why?"

Her fingers froze for a second. Then she sighed, turning just enough to meet my eyes. "You're one of the only kids who actually talks to me. Not just at me, or about me. To me. And… you're funny. Sometimes." She jabbed me lightly with the stylus. "Don't get a big ego."

I stared at her. "Wait, so you do like me?"

Her cheeks colored, and she turned back to her datapad quickly. "I said don't get a big ego."

But I caught it—the tiniest laugh, slipping past her guard.

And I swear, it was the first time I'd ever heard her sound… normal. Like an actual kid, not some ghost on the sidelines.

"So, what's your favorite thing about me? Is it just my sense of humor, or—ah!" Should have quit while I was ahead.

"Hmm. I think it might be the sounds you make when your punched. Like music to my ears."

...​

The summons from the Council came with all the subtlety of a detonated thermal charge. Obi-Wan had barely stepped out of the creche wing when Anakin came striding down the hall, boots echoing against the Temple's smooth stone, already tugging on his outer robes as if the Force itself had told him to hurry.

"They want us in the war room," Anakin said, his voice sharp with anticipation. "Urgent briefing. Sounds like Outer Rim."

Of course it did. It always did these days.

Obi-Wan smoothed a hand down his own robes, wishing for once that the galaxy would wait until morning. "We've only just returned," he murmured. "You'd think the Council could allow a single uninterrupted night."

Anakin smirked. "They're not exactly known for their sense of timing."

Obi-Wan didn't reply, because his eyes had already drifted down the hall toward the dormitories. He could feel Ben's presence as one feels a hearthfire on a cold night—steady, warm, stubbornly bright. The boy was asleep, most likely tangled in blankets like he had been earlier that evening, whispering dreams under his breath.

It struck Obi-Wan with sudden, inconvenient force that he might not be here when the child woke.

Anakin followed his gaze, groaning. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're thinking of going back in there."

Obi-Wan arched a brow. "And if I were?"

"You're going to wake him," Anakin said. "And then he'll cry. And then you'll have to give one of your legendary speeches about patience and responsibility, and neither of you will sleep. And then we'll both be late for our 'urgent' mission. Again."

"That was one time," Obi-Wan said, a touch more stiffly than he intended.

Anakin folded his arms, grin widening. "Face it, Master. You're basically his dad."

The words landed like a blaster bolt disguised as a joke, one he clearly had no idea would strike so close to home. Obi-Wan gave him a long, level look, the kind of look meant to quell Padawan insolence. Unfortunately, Anakin had long since grown immune.

"I am not his father," Obi-Wan said at last. His voice was cool, measured. "I am his… guardian."

"Uh-huh," Anakin drawled. "Sure. Because guardians hover outside doorways debating if they should tuck their kids in again before they go save the galaxy."

Obi-Wan refused to dignify that with an answer. He did, however, find his feet carrying him back toward the dormitory door.

Inside, the room was washed in the soft blue glow of the Temple's night-lights. Ben lay curled on his side, hair sticking out at improbable angles, the faintest crease still between his brows as though he were frowning even in sleep. The boy never truly relaxed.

Obi-Wan stood there longer than he meant to, silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He imagined kneeling, shaking Ben awake, telling him gently that he'd be gone a while but would return soon. He imagined saying—Force help him—the words he had never been able to say to anyone:

I'll come back for you. I promise.

But promises were dangerous things. The Jedi Code warned against them for good reason. Promises tethered you, and Obi-Wan could not afford to be tethered. Not again.

So he let the boy sleep.

"Sleep well, young one," he whispered instead, so low even the Force barely caught it.

When he turned back, Anakin was leaning against the doorframe with the air of someone who had been eavesdropping shamelessly.

"You're hopeless," Anakin said.

"On the contrary," Obi-Wan replied smoothly, gathering his robe around his shoulders. "I am perfectly rational."

"Rational dads don't sneak goodnight speeches."

Obi-Wan brushed past him. "If you continue to misuse the word 'dad,' I may begin to suspect your vocabulary is shrinking."

Anakin laughed all the way down the corridor.

Obi-Wan did not laugh. He only walked faster, as though distance could smother the guilt that clung to him like smoke. He knew what Ben would think come morning. The boy had been abandoned once already. He would see this departure as proof of it happening again.

And yet Obi-Wan still hadn't woken him.

...​

I was sprawled out on my bunk, arms folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended me. Which, honestly, it probably had. The Temple ceilings had this smug way of being high and polished and impossibly out of reach, like they were mocking you for being stuck beneath them. Fitting metaphor for the Order, really.

Ahsoka was curled up cross-legged on the opposite bed, quietly fiddling with a datapad. She hadn't said anything since Obi-Wan and Anakin left. Didn't need to. The silence already said enough.

"I hate this," I muttered, not bothering to look at her.

Her montrals tilted toward me. "Hate what?"

"The rules." I rolled onto my side, glaring at nothing. "You can't tell me Obi-Wan doesn't care. I'm not blind—I'm just not supposed to say it. It's ridiculous. Like if we just ignore it, it'll go away. Even him! He's supposed to be this whole Jedi ideal, all detached and serene, but I've seen the way he looks at me sometimes. Like… like he wants to say something. He just won't."

Ahsoka's fingers stilled on the datapad. She didn't interrupt. That only made me go on harder.

"Oh no, attachments are dangerous," I said in my best mock-Master-Windu voice. "Because apparently love is worse than letting a bunch of kids run around unsupervised hacking the holo-net and nearly blowing out the Temple servers. Which, by the way, was totally educational."

That at least earned me a twitch of her mouth, but she didn't laugh.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's like they want us to pretend we're droids or something. No family, no ties, no feelings. Just… obedience. Meanwhile Obi-Wan can barely look me in the eye half the time, and I can't say a thing about it. Because, you know. Jedi."

The datapad clicked as Ahsoka set it aside. Her voice was softer than usual when she finally spoke. "I get it."

I blinked at her. "You do?"

"Yeah." She stared at her hands in her lap. "I don't even remember my family. Not really. Just… flashes. And I tell myself it doesn't matter because I have the Jedi now, because I have you. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder what it would've been like to still have them. To know them." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "And the Jedi say I shouldn't wonder. But I do anyway."

I shifted uncomfortably on the bed, because what was I supposed to do with that? Feelings weren't exactly on the Temple curriculum. So, naturally, I did what I always do: covered it with sarcasm.

"Well," I said, forcing a grin, "we could always start our own Order. Rule one: free dessert at every meal. Rule two: we're allowed to hug."

Usually that sort of thing got at least a laugh, if not a snort. But this time Ahsoka just looked at me, eyes big and serious in the dim dorm light.

"That doesn't sound so bad," she whispered.

The grin slipped off my face before I could stop it.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Just two kids in the dark, talking about things we weren't supposed to want.

It's tough being a Jedi.

...​

It really is. But you know what's worse?

Being a stormtrooper. The helmets can't let you see for shit, which is why they can never shoot anything, and they're killed by everyone, all the time. Rebel scum, Jedi survivors, Sith Inquisitors, Sith Lords (when they're in the mood), and you really have to wonder what happened to the majority of them when the Empire went under.

Can you imagine anyone getting hired with their work experience? Yikes.

Oh, yeah. Check out my Patreon if you want to read ahead. Here's the link:

My Patreon

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

I didn't Like this chapter, this chapter Like ME

 

[Hilight]

I really hate how Storm Troopers were turned into a joke and how it was formalized in the Mandalorian.

 

[John-Smith]

"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."

Click to shrink...

Now I wonder what'd happen if he starts to copy the Sith code instead. How long until someone notices THAT?

 

[lancelot]

It's tough being a Jedi.

Click to shrink...

So two problems with this as I see it.

One, the reason Asoka was such a good character was character growth. She spent half the first season being a little shit. It took a war, and people dying under her command to pull her head out of her ass and grow up a little, not all at once but it was a big step.
This Asoka comes off as mid series Asoka, she has from the first chapter, she just starts as far more put together and no reason why.

Ben tries to be funny to fucking hard constantly, it isn't stopping it isn't slowing down. He's the class clown that only hits a good joke 1 in 20, but the 19 other duds ruin the laugh. It would it be better if over the years his humor got sharper, or he learned to pick his jokes better not saying ten of the duds he thought up. But no every chapter every year, it's motor mouth jokes, constantly.

Also he knows he is going to be in the shit, so why isn't he putting extra time into the skills he'll need to survive the clones wars. If he is doing that, you're not showing it. No extra force training, no reading up on tactics, strategy, and logistics. No extra saber practice.
I'm not saying he should dedicate every spare moment to training, but if he is doing any extra training at all you're not showing it, or the results as we see with the simple tray being too much. So between that, and years of shotgunning mid jokes in hope of one hitting I think you need to change things up.

 

[PepeDeLosPalotes]

Thanks for the chapters, they should indeed found their own jedi order, with famiñies, and hugs

 

[Rustic]

I agree I do not see the mc doing anything that will help him survive long term no prep work. He does come across as a annoying twit who motor mouths all the time while seeming to sabotage the other kids training. That's came to mind as well several times.

I just figured he was reincarnated as a young man who came from a inner city public highschool were they don't even try and he carried it over into his second life. It is basically his template. Like a cooked friendly grenade.

Having said that the story is humorous. It just the MC might of been based on Geico squirrel before they all disappeared. The author seems to be writing a Leroy Jenkins character.

I figure the MC is a amoral sociopath who already thought these people I am growing up with will die anyways. once Anakin turns might as well get my fun in before they expire. More than likely that is why he only seems to talk to main and side character from canon. They survived the planned massacre. These thoughts have been running around in my mind since the introduction of the mc.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 10: Shadows In The Hall

I wasn't sneaking out.

Let's just get that clear. Sneaking implies guilt. And while I may have been out past curfew, bare feet slapping against the Temple's polished floors, that was purely for honorable purposes. Very noble. Very Jedi.

…Okay, fine. Snacks.

But in my defense, I hadn't eaten since dinner, and Jedi rations were smaller than a Mandalorian's sense of humor. I needed something to keep me alive through my late-night tinkering—because those holo-decipherers and saber hilt adjustments weren't going to invent themselves. And if I just happened to know that the refectory kitchen droids left the pantry unlocked during rest cycles—well, that was hardly my fault.

So yes, not sneaking. Merely walking briskly. Stealthily. With purpose.

That's when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was just the hum of a scrubber droid. The hall outside the Council's wing was usually quiet, except for the occasional sweeping machine singing to itself about dust. But then I caught actual words. Low voices. Serious voices.

I froze.

It was coming from one of the side antechambers, door half-closed. And it wasn't just any voices.

Mace Windu. Ki-Adi-Mundi. And—oh stars—Yoda. And those were just the ones I recognized!

I should've kept walking. I knew that. Curiosity is the path to trouble, and trouble is the path to getting caught and having to scrub refresher units with your toothbrush. But then I heard something that rooted me to the spot.

My name.

Not clearly. Just a faint syllable, swallowed by the hum of the air vents. But I'd recognize it anywhere.

"Ben…"

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

I inched closer, pressing myself against the wall like some kind of professional spy instead of a hungry eleven-year-old with crumb dust on his tunic. My ear hovered just near the doorframe, and I caught more fragments.

"…Mandalore…"

"…attachments risk…"

"…divided loyalties…"

I swear my heart stopped.

They knew.

They knew everything. Satine. Korkie. The letters. My totally subtle habit of staring too long at the holo-news whenever Mandalore came up. I imagined Master Windu turning toward the others, gravely intoning: This child is dangerous. He must be dealt with.

Dealt with how, you ask? Oh, I had plenty of ideas.

Mind-wipe. That was top of the list. They did it to Revan, didn't they? Wiped the Dark Lord of the Sith like a malfunctioning datapad. Who's to say they wouldn't do it to me? And sure, I wasn't exactly an evil Sith bent on galactic domination—but maybe they were being proactive this time. Preventative memory scrubbing.

Or worse, exile.

I pictured a solemn Council chamber, Masters lined in a circle. Yoda raising his little three-fingered hand, voice grave. Out, young Kryze must go. Cast into the Outer Rim, he shall be.

Then Windu, looming over me. This Council does not grant you the rank of Padawan. In fact, this Council doesn't grant you anything. We're confiscating your toothbrush.

Even Ki-Adi-Mundi, with his very large head, chiming in: There can only be seven wives on Cerea, but zero Mandolorians in the Temple.

I think I blacked out for a second.

When I came to, the voices were fading. Chairs scraping. Footsteps moving deeper into the chamber. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own robe hem. My snack raid had officially transformed into a survival mission.

I sprinted back toward the dorms, all stealth forgotten. My imagination was already ten steps ahead: packing my things, sneaking onto a freighter, living on the run. Ben the Outcast. The Prodigal Prodigy. It had a certain ring to it. Better than Exile at any rate.

By the time I skidded into our quarters, Ahsoka was sitting up in bed, montrals drooping, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"You're loud," she muttered. "Did you fall in the hallway again?"

"No time," I hissed, diving onto my bunk. "The Council's onto me."

That woke her up.

"Onto you?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! That's the problem. They're inventing crimes to kick me out. I overheard them—Windu, Ki-Adi, Yoda. They said Mandalore. They said attachments. They said divided loyalties!"

Ahsoka blinked, clearly debating whether to be concerned or just amused.

"Maybe they weren't talking about you."

"They said my name!"

"Or someone else named Ben."

"How many Bens do you know in this Temple? Exactly one. Me. Case closed."

She rubbed her face. "Okay. So you think the Council held a super-secret late-night meeting just to talk about you."

"Obviously. What else would they do with their time? Play dejarik? No. They sit around plotting how to exile small children from the galaxy."

Ahsoka groaned and flopped back against her pillow. "You're panicking."

"I'm not panicking. I'm… preparing. For exile. Or a memory wipe. Maybe both."

"You are panicking."

"You stop panicking!"

"I'm not panicking!"

"Well, then stop not-panicking so loudly!"

We stared at each other across the dark room. My heart was still hammering, my brain racing with worst-case scenarios. Then Ahsoka rolled over and muttered into her pillow, "If they were going to throw you out, they'd have done it already."

That… was almost reassuring. Almost.

Still, I lay awake long after she drifted off, staring at the ceiling. Mandalore. Attachments. Loyalties. They were watching me. I just knew it.

And if the Council thought they could out-paranoia me, they had another thing coming.

...​

The hum of the cruiser's engines was steady, almost soothing. Almost.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat stiff-backed in the co-pilot's seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on the streaks of starlight that blurred past their viewport. It wasn't that he disliked space travel. Not exactly. He disliked piloting through space travel—an endless sea of nothing with only fragile shields and inertia between one's body and a fiery, instantaneous death.

Which was precisely why he was letting his Padawan fly.

"Ease the stabilizers, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, without turning his head. "You're drifting one-point-three degrees off course."

"I know," Anakin muttered, his hands dancing over the controls with the casual confidence of someone who didn't fully grasp the value of his own life. "I'm adjusting for the pull of that gas giant's gravity. See? Smooth as silk."

The ship shuddered just enough to make Obi-Wan's stomach tighten. Smooth as silk, indeed.

"I still maintain," Obi-Wan said mildly, "that starships were not intended to be handled like podracers."

Anakin flashed him a grin, quick and boyish. "And yet you keep letting me do it."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, carefully not answering. He had let him do it—because Anakin was a prodigy, because his skill at the helm was undeniable, and because, deep down, Obi-Wan would much rather have Anakin at the controls than himself. But it wouldn't do to admit that. Not out loud.

Instead, he checked the navicomputer for the fourth time. "We should be nearing the system soon. If Kamino exists, it ought to be here."

The name lingered in the air, carrying weight Obi-Wan couldn't shake. A missing planet. A file erased from the Jedi Archives. Jocasta had been polite—so polite—but he had felt the disapproval simmering under her calm words, as though his inquiry had struck at something personal. And why wouldn't it? Tampering with the Archives was tampering with the very memory of the Jedi.

He frowned faintly. Who would dare? And for what purpose?

Anakin leaned back in the pilot's chair, feet tapping against the deck in idle rhythm. "So. This Kamino. You think it's really out here?"

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "That is what we're here to find out."

"Uh-huh." Anakin pulled a face. "Translation: you don't know."

"Sometimes, Anakin, the hallmark of wisdom is admitting what one does not know."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's also knowing when someone's hiding something. The Council's being cagey." His jaw tightened, and for a moment the boy's age fell away, replaced by the sharp edge of suspicion. "Why send us instead of a team of archivists?"

"Because," Obi-Wan said evenly, "we are Jedi. Our duty is to follow where the Force leads us."

Anakin snorted. "That's not an answer."

It wasn't. Obi-Wan knew that. The truth was that he didn't understand it any better than Anakin did. Why them? Why now? And why did the thought of a missing world leave a cold thread of unease running down his spine?

He adjusted his robe, smoothing it across his lap. "Patience, Anakin. Answers will come."

"Sure. After we've already found the trouble."

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small smile. "That does seem to be the pattern, doesn't it?"

...​

The ship's beacons pinged as they entered the coordinates. A cluster of stars lit up on the screen, surrounding a narrow band of darkness.

"Here we are," Anakin said, leaning forward. His eyes shone with anticipation. "Let's see if your mystery water world wants to show up."

Obi-Wan straightened, watching the scanner carefully. Nothing. Just the emptiness of the void. He felt his mouth tighten.

"Strange," he murmured. "According to the star charts, this system should host at least one habitable planet. Yet there's nothing on record."

"Maybe there was. Until somebody erased it," Anakin said pointedly.

Obi-Wan gave him a look. "The possibility has occurred to me."

"Then maybe we should stop pretending it's just an 'administrative error' like the Council keeps saying."

There was that edge again—the frustration, the questioning. The boy's faith in the Order was thinner than he realized. Obi-Wan felt a familiar tug in his chest: worry, responsibility, and beneath it all, the quiet weight of guilt. He had left Ben behind in the Temple, sleeping peacefully, his small face softened in the glow of the dorm lights. He hadn't had the heart to wake him. Not when words failed so often between them.

Ben deserved stability, not goodbyes Obi-Wan didn't know how to make.

And now Anakin was pressing at the edges of obedience as well. Two Padawans. One official, one not. Obi-Wan found himself stretched thin between them, torn between what he owed the Jedi, owed Qui-Gon, and what he owed to Satine's children. To his children.

"Don't slouch," Obi-Wan said suddenly, if only to break the thought.

Anakin rolled his eyes but straightened in his seat. "Yes, Master."

The scanners beeped. Both men leaned forward. A faint anomaly flickered across the display—like a shadow where no shadow should be. Or rather, an entire world, precisely where it was meant to be.

Anakin grinned. "Got you."

Obi-Wan's pulse quickened. He reached for the manual override, hands moving with steady precision despite the knot in his stomach. "Bring us in closer. Slowly."

"Slowly?" Anakin's grin widened. "You're no fun."

"I am alive," Obi-Wan said dryly, "which is generally more useful than fun."

Anakin's laughter filled the cockpit, bright and irreverent. Obi-Wan hid his relief behind a faint smile. For all his doubts, for all his gnawing unease, at least they had found something.

A missing world. A hidden secret. And a mission that might be far more dangerous than either of them realized.

Obi-Wan's hands tightened on the armrest as the ship banked toward the anomaly. "The sooner we finish this," he muttered under his breath, "the sooner I can stop flying."

"Did you say something, Master?" Anakin asked, voice projecting innocence.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. "Just… focus on not killing us, Anakin."

"Relax," Anakin said, pulling them smoothly into descent. "I've got this."

Obi-Wan let out a very quiet, very skeptical sigh.

...​

Look, sometimes being a Jedi-in-training means noble acts of service. Protecting the innocent. Preserving the peace. Other times, it means a midnight infiltration run for contraband soup packets and a blanket.

That's where I came in.

"We strike fast, strike quiet," I whispered, crouched at the corner of the corridor like some kind of holovid commando. "Two shadows in the dark, undetectable. Ghosts."

"We're not ghosts," Ahsoka muttered, crouched beside me. "We're idiots sneaking past Temple curfew."

"Correction—brilliant idiots. With codenames. You're Fulcrum."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why am I Fulcrum?"

"Because it sounds mysterious. Pivotal. Like you're the hinge of fate itself." I jabbed a thumb proudly at my chest. "And I'm Starkiller."

Ahsoka blinked, then hissed, "That's not even remotely Jedi-sounding."

"Neither is Fulcrum!"

"You picked it!"

"You did it first," I whispered back indignantly. "I just… uh… coined it for you before you did. I saw it in a vision. And the For the Force trumps all, end of story."

Ahsoka's eye twitched. "That is the dumbest excuse—"

"Shh!" I pressed a finger to my lips. "Sound discipline, Fulcrum. You'll blow our cover."

Her sigh was loud enough to wake half the dorms. But when she peeked around the corner with me, she was grinning.

Target: Maris Brood, sick as a bog-rat and too stubborn to admit it.

Objective: smuggle supplies into her room without anyone catching on.

It wasn't like she'd asked for help. Maris never asked for anything. She just lurked in shadows and coughed when she thought nobody was listening. Which made it my problem. Because apparently if you befriend the brooding loner once, you're on the hook forever.

Curse my weakness for goth girls.

"You know she could've just gone to the Halls of Healing," Ahsoka whispered as we crept along a side hall.

"She could have," I agreed. "If she wasn't stubbornly refusing to admit she's sick. Or if she wasn't already so pale, the healers wouldn't assume it's just her 'aesthetic.'"

"Her aesthetic is 'half-dead wraith.'"

"Exactly. She's blending in too well for her own good."

Ahsoka tried not to laugh. Tried. It came out as a snort.

Our first checkpoint: a supply room tucked past one of the meditation wings. Problem: locked door.

"Okay," I said, pressing a hand to the panel. "Here's how it works. I slice the door, grab the goods, and we're out before anyone notices."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You don't know how to slice."

"Correction—I don't know how to slice well." Holographic locks, encryptions, codes, those were my bread and butter. Physical hardware? I prefer to use my lightsaber as a key. Sadly, this is a stealth mission, and plasma holes aren't very discrete.

Her groan was almost fond. Almost.

I fiddled with the panel, poking wires until sparks nearly singed my fingertips. The door beeped irritably and stayed shut.

Ahsoka nudged me aside, keyed in three swift inputs, and the panel glowed green. The door hissed open.

I blinked. "How did you—"

"I pay attention in tech lessons. Unlike somebody."

"Fulcrum," I whispered reverently, "you complete me."

She shoved me inside before anyone could hear.

Five minutes later, our packs bulged with contraband: soup sachets, extra blankets, a spare datapad preloaded with holotoons. I might've thrown in some candy cubes for good measure. (For Maris. Definitely for Maris. Not me.)

"All right," I said, tugging my strap tight. "Exfiltration route: through the west archives. Fewer patrols."

"West archives?" Ahsoka frowned. "That's restricted."

"Technically, less restricted. If we follow someone in, it doesn't count as breaking rules."

"That's not how rules work."

"It is if you bend them really hard."

Ahsoka gave me that look—the one equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. But she followed anyway.

...​

We shadowed our mark: an absent-minded Knight balancing datapads in his arms. Perfect cover. He keyed into the archives, the door swishing open, and we slid through just as it closed.

For two glorious seconds, it felt like victory.

Then the door hissed shut inches from my heel.

"Too close," I muttered. "Way too close. Almost lost a foot."

"You'd deserve it," Ahsoka said, wide-eyed and grinning despite herself.

The archives loomed around us: towering shelves, endless datastacks glowing faint blue. Even whispering felt dangerous here, like the books themselves might tattle.

We crept between aisles, every creak of our boots echoing like a blastershot. My heart hammered with the thrill of it—every shadow an enemy, every glow-panel a spotlight.

"This is ridiculous," Ahsoka whispered. "We're going to get caught."

"Correction—we're going to succeed heroically. Trust the plan."

"The plan is you winging it."

"Yes. Heroically."

She muttered something un-Jedi-like under her breath but kept moving.

The mission went sideways two corridors later. A door slid open ahead of us, and a tall figure stepped out, datapad in hand.

I froze. Ahsoka froze. The figure turned—

And sneezed. Loudly.

Ahsoka yanked me into a side alcove. We pressed flat against the wall as the archivist shuffled off, muttering about dust filters.

I exhaled shakily. "See? Easy."

"You almost got us killed by a sneeze."

"That was a deadly sneeze," I insisted. "Could've leveled us both."

Ahsoka smacked my arm, but she was laughing under her breath.

...​

The thing about spy missions is, you can't plan for everything.

You can try. Check your boxes for exits, entrances, contacts, and doublecrossers. But there's always something you can't account for. Someone, or something, at the right place, at the right time, can cause a lot of trouble, in the most unexpected ways.

We'd just made it past the archive wing—smooth, silent, undetected—when the real enemy struck. Not a Knight, not a Master, not even a nosy Padawan with questions.

A service droid.

The squat, boxy kind that trundled along the halls humming cheerfully to itself. I think they're called Mouse Droids, basically just glorified roombas. Normally harmless. Except this one coughed sparks as it rounded the corner, jittered on a busted wheel, and smacked straight into the wall panel.

The wall groaned. Then the ceiling did too.

"Oh no," Ahsoka breathed.

"Oh yes," I corrected. Because the universe clearly hated me.

The droid fizzed, a light fixture blew, and suddenly chunks of ceiling gave way.

The crash was deafening. Duracrete and plating came down in sheets. One jagged slab hurtled right above Ahsoka.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I lunged, grabbed her arm, yanked her hard toward me. She stumbled, nearly toppling us both—but the slab missed her by a heartbeat, smashing where she'd stood.

That should've been the end of it. Except the next wave of debris was coming straight for me.

Instinct flared hot in my chest. My hands shot up—too fragile to shield, too late to run—

And the Force caught it.

The slabs froze a handspan above me, humming with invisible strain. My knees shook, teeth clenched. Every muscle screamed like I was holding up a starship, not just a ceiling panel. This is why you always do your Force stretches, people. Never skip a good warmup unless you want to be crushed to death.

Only it didn't crush me.

Didn't even touch me.

Slowly, carefully, I shoved it aside. The duracrete slab thunked onto the floor, safe and harmless.

My breath tore out of me in a laugh. A wild, victorious laugh. "Ha! Did you see that?!"

Ahsoka gawked at me, her body stiff, eyes wide as moons.

"I saved your life," I told her, voice climbing higher than I meant. "And mine! And I didn't even die! I'm amazing!" I swept a hand dramatically toward the wreckage. "Write that down in the Archives. Jedi Knight material, right here."

My pack sagged on my shoulder. I glanced down—half our contraband was intact. Blankets, soup, datapad. All good.

Except the candy cubes.

Gone. Crushed beneath a mountain of rubble.

I pressed a hand to my heart. "They were too young."

Ahsoka just stared at me, breathing hard. Finally, she managed, "Ben… you almost got flattened."

"Keyword: almost." I grinned like an idiot. "As in: not really. Because I'm awesome."

She didn't grin back. Her voice was quieter, shaky around the edges. "I'm serious. That—if you hadn't pulled me—"

I caught the look in her eyes then. Not exasperation. Not amusement. Real fear.

For me.

For a second, my giddiness faltered. I wanted to say something comforting, something heroic. Instead, I blurted, "Well, next time duck faster."

Her expression said she wanted to smack me. But she just exhaled, slow, grounding herself.

"Thanks," she whispered at last. Simple. Honest.

I nodded, trying not to bounce with leftover adrenaline. Because yeah, I was bruised, filthy, candy-less. But I'd done it. I'd saved her.

And for one shining second, I felt like a real Jedi.

...​

The dorm wing was hushed, night-cycle lights dimmed to a sleepy blue glow. Most of the Padawans were out cold by now, sprawled across bunks or curled up under thin Temple blankets. She should be joining them. Resting her body, and preparing for the demanding training their crèche has been going through since they forged their lightsabers.

But Ben had one last mission to complete.

Ahsoka lingered at the doorway, arms folded, as he tiptoed into Maris's cubicle with all the ceremony of a hero delivering treasure to a queen. His pack bulged with the spoils of their ridiculous adventure—blankets, soup packets, a slim datapad loaded with holo-toons he'd insisted Maris would be too shy to ask for.

Personally, Ahsoka believed no one should ever feel embarrassed for watching holo-toons. She actually preferred them on some levels, due to the sheer effort both the animators and the actors had to take to craft their story.

Maris sat up groggily, her horns catching the faint light. Even sick, even pale, she still managed a look of suspicion sharp enough to cut durasteel. That softened the instant Ben handed her the goods.

"Thought you could use these," he said, tossing it off like it was nothing, and they hadn't risked life, limb, and detention, because Maris was too proud for the Halls of Healing. "You know, because you look like death warmed over. In a dignified way."

Her lips twitched. Somehow, she accepted it as a compliment.

Then she surprised them both. She leaned forward and hugged him.

Ben stiffened like someone had stuck a training saber up his back, then awkwardly patted her shoulders in return. His face was all embarrassed pride, like he'd just been knighted on the spot.

Over his shoulder, Maris's eyes found Ahsoka's.

Oh, she was clever about it—her expression softened the second Ben pulled back, all doe-eyed gratitude, the picture of frail innocence.

But for that heartbeat when he couldn't see, she glared.

Right at Ahsoka.

As if to say: Mine. Back off.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes right back. Nice try, friend-stealer.

Neither of them said a word, though. That would risk Ben catching on, and neither of them were willing to jeopardize that.

Ben, blissfully unaware, scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh, don't tell anyone we broke into half the Temple for this, alright? Master Windu might add 'contraband smuggling' to the list of things I'm not supposed to do."

Maris gave a small smile. "Thank you, Ben." Her voice was soft, worn, but real.

He shrugged, grinning too wide. "Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it."

When she curled back beneath the blanket, datapad tucked against her chest like a prize, Ben backed out with exaggerated stealth. He shot Ahsoka a wink. "Mission success."

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny the warmth in her chest.

Because beneath all the bravado, all the jokes, she could see what it meant to him. Helping someone. Making a difference, even in the smallest way. He wore his heroism like a mask of sarcasm, but it was there, bright as any lightsaber.

And maybe that was why he butted heads with the Jedi rules so much. Not because he didn't care about being a Jedi. But because he cared too much about people. He needed to prove—to himself, to everyone—that he could be both.

A good Jedi.

And a good friend.

She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders, watching him flop into his bunk across the room with all the grace of a wounded bantha.

He was snoring within minutes, still smiling.

Ahsoka lay awake longer, staring at the ceiling.

For all his jokes about starting his own Order with dessert rules and free hugs, maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe he was seeing something the rest of them were too scared to.

She didn't say it aloud. She didn't even want to think it too loudly.

But as she drifted toward sleep, one thought stuck with her.

If Ben really did try to change the Jedi…

She wasn't sure she wouldn't follow him.

...​

"Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?" — Obi-Wan Kenobi

You want to know what wouldn't be a foolish move?

That's right!

Checking out my Patreon, where you can read way ahead! Check the link below:

My Patreon

 

[ZzzSlothzzZ]

Onto you?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! That's the problem. They're inventing crimes to kick me out.

Click to shrink...

Great evil, he has committed. Massacring the snack supply, he has been hmmmmh!.

As if to say: Mine. Back off.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes right back. Nice try, friend-stealer.

Click to shrink...

I think we need to run Ben through the Clueless anime Space opera harem friendship protagonist checklist

• Clueless
• Mad skills
• Sincere Humility (False)
• No effort Harem Friends
• Casually asserts dominance
• White hair
• Shota
• 大きい

Ben Kryze:

Verified

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 11: Shopping Around

The rain hadn't stopped since they'd arrived.

Sheets of water hammered down upon Kamino's endless ocean, a relentless percussion that drummed against the transparisteel windows of Tipoca City. Sterile white corridors stretched ahead in perfect symmetry, polished floors gleaming as if the very world had been designed to reflect the storm outside. Obi-Wan Kenobi kept his hands folded neatly within his sleeves, every inch the composed Jedi Knight, though inwardly he had to admit he found little comfort in the planet's bleak uniformity.

Still, there was some small amusement to be found in his Padawan's expression.

Anakin Skywalker had never been subtle with his moods, and right now the seventeen-year-old looked equal parts fascinated and horrified. His blue eyes darted between the vast panes of glass, tracking the waves far below. "The whole planet?" he whispered under his breath, as if trying to make sense of it. "It's all water?"

"Indeed," Obi-Wan murmured, lips twitching at the corner. "Quite the contrast to Tatooine, wouldn't you say?"

Anakin grimaced. "I don't like it. Feels… wrong. Like it's waiting to swallow us."

"Not every world can be made of sand, my young Padawan." Obi-Wan offered the faintest of smiles, but Anakin only folded his arms, scowling at the storm as though he meant to intimidate it into behaving. Once a Tatooine boy, always a Tatooine boy.

Their guide awaited them at the corridor's end: long, spindly limbs, elongated neck, eyes like polished glass. The Kaminoan administrator bowed her head in what passed for courtesy. "Master Jedi," she greeted in her serene, lilting tone. "Welcome to Kamino. I am Taun We. We have been expecting you."

Expecting us? Obi-Wan masked his frown. "That is curious. We did not announce our arrival."

Taun We's great black eyes blinked slowly, as though the distinction were meaningless. "Your Order has always been welcome here. Please, follow me."

Anakin cast Obi-Wan a sidelong look as they walked, his muttered voice carrying just enough to reach his master. "She talks like she's trying to put me to sleep."

"Patience," Obi-Wan chided softly, though he shared the unease. The Kaminoans' detachment bordered on uncanny; he felt as though every word was rehearsed, every motion part of some larger design.

They entered a high, sterile chamber where the rain's sound was muted to a dull hum. Taun We gestured gracefully toward a set of seats neither of them took. "I trust your journey was not too taxing," she said.

Obi-Wan inclined his head, stepping forward. "After a recent… mishap with our Archives, we discovered this planet was removed from our records some years ago by a Jedi Master. We had come hoping to learn more?"

Taun We tilted her narrow head. "A Jedi Master, you say? The only Jedi we've been in contact with is Master Sifo-Dyas."

Anakin's brow furrowed. He glanced sharply at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's composure faltered a fraction. "Sifo-Dyas?" he repeated carefully. "He's been missing for several years. Is he here?"

"No." Taun We's voice was calm, detached. "I am sorry to say, we have found him to be missing equally as long. We had hoped that perhaps he sent you to check on his commission."

"Commission?" Obi-Wan said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. "For what?"

The Kaminoan's eyes gleamed with a hint of surprise. "You do not know? How strange." She folded her hands elegantly before her. "I'm not certain I am at liberty to discuss our clients' purchases with outsiders. A troubling scenario, given Master Sifo-Dyas commissioned it for the Order."

Anakin, ever impulsive, leaned forward. "Then why don't you just tell us? We are Jedi."

"Padawan," Obi-Wan warned quietly.

Taun We inclined her head once more. "Perhaps you can discuss this further with your Council, and we can reconvene at a later date? In the meantime, we will continue our work here. Please, do not be concerned in the matter of payment. Master Sifo-Dyas was quite generous in his advance, and we are content to wait until all is resolved."

The words hung in the sterile chamber, clinical and heavy all at once.

Obi-Wan forced his expression into its usual serenity, though unease coiled deep in his chest. The Kaminoans spoke of Sifo-Dyas as if he were still alive, still involved in dealings with the Order. Yet Obi-Wan knew — as did the Council — that the man had been dead for years. Records erased, names resurfacing, and now this talk of commissions…

He bowed in farewell, thanked Taun We for her hospitality, and guided Anakin back toward the storm-lit corridors.

"Master," Anakin muttered as soon as they were clear. "What in the blazes was that about?"

"I do not yet know," Obi-Wan admitted. He kept his voice calm, for both their sakes, though his mind raced. "But I suspect the Council will be very eager to hear of it."

And yet, no matter how he turned it over, one word clung stubbornly to his thoughts, like a burr refusing to be shaken free.

Commission.

Ignoring the obvious question of why a Jedi Master would commission anything with an organization outside of the Order, an equally more confounding question would be how. Aside from some prepared funds, which they usually received from charitable donations, they hardly had any assets to their name.

Yet somehow, not only was Syfo-Dias able to accomplish this before he died, he was able to die it in such standards, that they're still continuing the work without any current payment or compensation. Where did he get the credits? Did he rob a Spice Ring from one of the Order's missions?

Obi-Wan doubted it.

While he can't claim to know every face and name in the Order, he's made a bad habit of drawing the infamous ones' attention. Sifo-Dyas hardly qualified. Though, Obi-Wan suspected his investigation was going to require a lot more digging.

There were, after all, many questions that needed to be answered. What did he commission? Why did he go so far to hide it? What will be the Council's response to this mess, and why must it involve Obi-Wan Kenobi every single time?

The only silver lining he had going for him, was that at least his… other ward, was having a much easier time at the Temple.

...​

If I'd ever doubted I was the center of the galaxy, today proved it beyond question.

Because the moment I stepped into the training hall, both Ahsoka and Maris lunged for me.

Literally. One grabbed my left arm, the other my right, and I suddenly became a very confused tug-of-war rope. It actually kind of hurt a little. But all attention is good attention. Or am I thinking of publicity?

Yeah, I'm thinking of publicity.

"We're doing saber drills," Ahsoka announced, her grip firm as durasteel. "Form practice, teamwork exercises, the works."

"No," Maris cut in, voice sharp but oddly smug. "We're going to the Archives. There's a restricted section I've been wanting to explore, and Ben promised to help."

"Since when?" I managed, because I definitely had not.

"Since now," Maris replied without missing a beat, tugging me closer to her side.

My brain, traitorous as always, decided this was the right moment to deliver a memory from my past life. Or rather, a small, unfulfilled wish from past life.

In my time back on Earth, I dreamed about this. Being fought over by cute girls. The ultimate teenage fantasy, right?

Except—context is everything. Back then, the girls in question were human, around my age, which at the time was early-twenties. Not ten-year-olds. And definitely not members of a religious order that actively enforced celibacy.

So… maybe not so much like the dream after all.

Still. Not every day you got to say you were the prize in a best-friend war.

"Girls, girls," I said, beaming like the galaxy's smuggest idiot. "There's enough of me to go around."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might sprain something. "You're not that important, Ben."

"Could've fooled me," I said cheerfully, glancing at Maris, who did not disagree nearly fast enough.

Ahsoka's plan was obvious: structured training, drills, sweating in the Temple yard until my arms felt like jelly. She'd already been praised by half the instructors for her dedication, and now she wanted me to play along. Which, fair, it is nice to be praised for something you're good at. I'm still waiting for compliments on my stunning good looks, and great sense of humor.

Meanwhile, Maris was dangling the shiny lure of forbidden knowledge—sneaking into off-limits wings of the Archives, poking around places Jocasta Nu would personally strangle us for trespassing. I'm not sure if I'm being metaphorical. I think any further tampering with her Archives might actually push her to the Dark Side.

So on one hand: exercise and responsibility. On the other: mischief and potential academic execution… yeah. Loving these options, by the way.

I squinted at both of them. "Tough choice. Do I go with the girl who wants to whip me into shape, or the girl who wants me dead?"

"Not dead," Maris said, glaring at Ahsoka. "Enlightened."

"Training builds discipline," Ahsoka shot back. "Which you clearly need."

I raised my free hand. "Correction: what I need is applause. And snacks. Possibly a throne." Or all three, ideally. Do you know how long it's been since I was able to sit down in a comfortable chair, eat as much junk food as I could stomach, and play video games until my brain rots? Neither am I, and that's pretty concerning!

Neither of them dignified that with a response.

Instead, they leaned closer, glaring daggers at each other over my head. I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be down one best friend already.

Which was a problem, because I kind of liked having both of them around.

So I did the only reasonable thing.

"Why not both?" I said brightly.

Two pairs of incredulous eyes swung toward me.

"You're joking," Ahsoka said flatly.

Maris's lips twitched. "He's not joking."

"Nope!" I grinned, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders like this was the start of some heroic team-up. "Think about it! Training and enlightenment! The best of both worlds. What could possibly go wrong?"

Judging by the way they continued glaring at each other over me, the answer was: everything. Maybe I'm not the best at this whole "mediating" thing. Should have paid more attention in our classes on it. Or at least looked it up on my own time.

But hey—for now, I was still the most popular kid in the Temple.

And I was going to milk that for all it was worth.

...​

If Maris Brood thought she could just swoop in and steal Ben away, Ahsoka decided, she had another thing coming.

Not that she would ever admit that's what it felt like.

No, she was just… looking out for him. That was all. Ben had the survival instincts of a tooka kitten in a rancor pit, and Maris was exactly the type to lure him into the shadows with a smirk and a secret. It wasn't jealousy. It was strategy. Protection.

…Probably.

The first skirmish in this silent war came during afternoon study. The Temple's archive halls stretched on forever, rows of glowing shelves and silent reading alcoves branching like arteries from the main chamber. Most initiates came here in groups, muttering about research assignments, but Ahsoka had always preferred training to studying. Which was exactly why she'd made the detour: Ben had been "disappeared" for hours, and she had a strong suspicion of where.

Sure enough, when she rounded a corner into one of the quiet nooks, there they were.

Ben sprawled on the floor with a datapad balanced on his chest, grinning at something he was reading. Maris perched cross-legged beside him, head bent close, her voice low and conspiratorial as she pointed to some passage. From a distance, they looked like two conspirators plotting galactic domination.

Oh, no. Not happening.

"Training time," Ahsoka announced, marching in as though she owned the place.

Ben blinked up at her, squinting against the light from the hallway. "Training?"

"Mandatory sparring drills." She hooked two fingers through his sleeve before he could protest. "You've been lazing around all day. Up."

Maris's dark eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. "He's reading."

"Reading doesn't block blaster bolts," Ahsoka shot back, her montrals tilting forward in defiance.

Ben's gaze darted between them, a flicker of mischief in his grin. He wasn't choosing sides. No, he was already figuring out how to milk this for attention.

"Ladies, ladies," he said with maddening ease. "Clearly there's enough of me to—"

"Up." Ahsoka yanked before he could finish.

He stumbled to his feet, laughter bubbling out of him as she towed him away. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy bossing me around, Snips."

"I call it saving your life," she muttered, refusing to glance back at the Zabrak girl still seated in the alcove, her glare sharp enough to pierce durasteel.

...​

Round two went to Maris.

It happened at the dining hall. The room was packed, as it always was during evening meal, chatter bouncing off the vaulted ceiling while the scent of spice bread and nerf stew drifted through the air.

Ahsoka had been right behind Ben, tray in hand, weaving between tables. They were almost at the counter when the door slid shut in her face.

Locked.

"What—?" She slapped the panel, but the controls stayed dead.

From inside, she caught a glimpse of Maris looking very pleased with herself as Ben turned at the sound of the door hissing shut.

"Ahsoka?" he called, his voice muffled through the door.

"I'm fine!" she shouted back, cheeks heating. Her montrals twitched in irritation.

There was a murmur of voices inside. A moment later, the door slid open just long enough for Ben to slip out, balancing not one but two trays in his arms.

He held one up like a prize. "Don't worry. I saved you a plate."

Ahsoka froze. It was… thoughtful. Annoyingly so. But behind him, she could see Maris's smirk, pure victory written across her face.

"Thanks," Ahsoka muttered, taking the tray before she dropped it in frustration.

Ben only grinned wider, oblivious to the silent battle raging just over his shoulder.

...​

The worst part? Ben loved every second of it.

Later, sprawled on the dormitory floor with crumbs of spice bread still clinging to his tunic, he leaned back on his elbows and said, "If Master Windu saw how adored I am, he'd have to lighten up. I mean, clearly I'm vital to Temple morale."

Ahsoka scoffed, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Vital nuisance, maybe."

He winked. "Same thing."

...​

Ahsoka wanted to dismiss Maris as reckless. Dangerous, even. She had this quiet intensity, this edge, that didn't belong in the Temple. It was the kind of thing that lured boys like Ben into shadows, where they could be tempted into trouble they didn't understand.

And yet… she had to admit, Maris was clever. Clever enough to push when it counted, clever enough to retreat when it made her look innocent.

And — Force help her — Maris made those all-black robes look good. The way they draped, the way she seemed to melt into the shadows. Could Ahsoka pull that off? Maybe. If she tried.

Not that she would.

Not for Ben.

Definitely not because she refused to let Maris Brood win.

This wasn't jealousy.

This was war.

...​

It started with four words that should have been my warning sign:

"Come on, it's safe."

Maris had that glint in her eyes — the one that meant either "I'm about to uncover forbidden knowledge" or "I'm about to get you expelled." Maybe both.

I dug in my heels as she tugged me along the dim corridor that led deeper into the Archives, away from the approved study halls and into the shadowed stacks I knew full well we weren't supposed to be anywhere near.

"Safe?" I whispered, glancing around like Master Yoda might drop out of a ventilation shaft at any second. He might. He has a tendency to do that.. "Safe? This is the restricted section. Master Jocasta Nu eats children for less."

Maris smirked over her shoulder. "She's with the Council. Some emergency meeting. Knight Kenobi just returned with his Padawan from a mission. Everyone's distracted."

"That doesn't make it safe," I muttered. "That makes it suicide. Do you know what happens if Master Jocasta finds us in here?"

"She lectures us?"

"She frowns at us," I corrected darkly. "The frown. The disapproving frown. I'd rather face a Sith Lord with a death wish than Jocasta Nu with that frown. Honestly, if anything's going to push her to the Dark Side, it's me."

Maris only rolled her eyes, sliding a hand over the security panel. The door chimed and, with a spark from some tool she'd smuggled in her sleeve, the lock gave way.

I stared at her. "Where did you even learn that?"

She only smiled, stepping inside like she'd just cracked open destiny itself.

So melodramatic… so cool.

The restricted stacks felt different from the rest of the Archives. Quieter. Colder. The glowstrips hummed at half-light, and the shelves stretched tall and ancient, filled with holocrons and dusty records sealed away from curious initiates like me.

Curious initiates like me… who were now following Maris into certain doom.

"This is where they keep the fun stuff," she whispered, scanning the shelves. You know? I think I miss her timidness. I'm a bad influence.

Actually, I'm perfect. Ahsoka's the bad influence.

"I'm going to die because of you," I muttered, trailing after her. "And when Jocasta mounts my skull on her desk as a warning, I hope you feel bad."

"Stop whining." She pulled a crystal case from the shelf, breath fogging the glass. "Here. Look."

Inside, a holo flickered to life — a recording of a Jedi in green robes, standing before a crowd. His accent was Corellian, rich and warm, and he spoke of balance, of roots, of a different way of walking the Jedi path.

"The Green Jedi," Maris whispered, reverence softening her usual sharpness. "Corellia's order. I didn't think they were actually real! No wonder they keep it in the Restricted Section.."

I squinted at the projection. "Green Jedi? What, do they blend in better on forest planets?"

She elbowed me, shushing. The holorecord expanded, images flashing: a Jedi council chamber not unlike Coruscant's, but smaller, earthier. Families seated in the galleries. Knights walking openly with partners and children. A sense of… community.

The narration explained what the images showed: a branch of the Jedi Order rooted in Corellia's traditions. Looser rules. Greater ties to their people. Attachments not forbidden, but celebrated.

I tried to make a joke, I really did. Something about "finally, an Order with a dating policy." But the words stuck in my throat.

Because for once, this didn't look like heresy or disaster.

It looked… normal.

Belonging.

Balance.

"Imagine it," Maris murmured, eyes drinking in the holo. "An Order without chains. Without Council lectures. Jedi with the freedom to live as they choose, not just survive under rules."

Her voice held that hungry edge, the kind I'd come to recognize. For her, this was about power. Strength in freedom. A way out from under the weight of tradition.

For me… it was different.

I stared at the holo, at the Jedi who looked proud to stand with his people instead of apart from them. And for the first time since coming here, I let myself think:

This… this actually sounds like a path that wouldn't eat me alive.

I forced a laugh, scratching the back of my neck. "Well. Guess I'd better start working on my résumé. Ben Kryze, future Green Jedi ambassador. I'll need new robes, though. Something stylish. Maybe a color other than beige. Or ten."

Maris smirked. "You'd look good in green."

"Please, I'd look good in anything." But the joke was weak, my grin too thin.

Because even as I spoke, I couldn't stop staring at that holo—couldn't stop wondering if this was what I'd been missing all along. Not freedom for its own sake. But a place where I could actually belong. I am so tired of having this crisis. Do I fit in, do I not? Can I make it work?

I have wanted for so long to be a Jedi. But almost half of what I say and do, tells me I can't be. But the way these guys think tells me I could be…. Whatever. It's just food for thought, right?

I'm never leaving the Order. My dad's here. My friends are here. More importantly, this is probably the one place in the entire galaxy I have a chance at saving said galaxy from a tyrannical empire.

Why leave?

...​

The archives were supposed to be quiet. Reverent, even. A place where the whispers of the past could be studied without interruption.

Which was why Ahsoka Tano very nearly exploded when she rounded the corner and found Ben and Maris sitting cross-legged on the floor of a clearly restricted wing, a holoprojector buzzing between them.

"Are you kidding me?"

Both of them jerked like younglings caught raiding the Temple kitchens. Maris snapped the projector off with a guilty flick, while Ben's face went through about six emotions before he settled on sheepish grinning.

"Ahsoka," Ben said, all faux innocence. "Fancy seeing you here. Did you come to, uh… study?"

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Restricted sections? Without permission? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you'd be in if Master Nu caught you here?"

Maris rose slowly to her feet, eyes narrow, voice calm in a way that only made it worse. "Relax, Tano. She's with the Council. No one's going to know."

"That's not the point!" Ahsoka snapped. "You dragged him into this!"

Ben opened his mouth, but before he could defend himself, Maris tilted her head. "I didn't drag him anywhere. He came because he wanted to."

That was the last straw.

Ahsoka's lightsaber snapped to life with a snap-hiss, green light spilling across the shelves. "You want to test that theory?"

Maris's hand darted to her belt, her own training saber igniting in a hiss of orange light. Her smirk was thin and sharp. "Gladly."

The clash of training blades rang out, filling the archive chamber. Sparks scattered off the polished floor as Ahsoka pressed the attack, strikes fast and forceful. Maris met her blow for blow, precise, almost surgical in her counters.

"Careful!" Ben called from the sidelines, half horrified, half entertained. He gestured dramatically to the shelves around them. "Those are priceless Jedi records you're about to set on fire. If Master Yoda asks, I wasn't here."

He muttered under his breath, but Ahsoka wasn't sure she got it. Weird. Her hearing is usually spot on. Of course, give y the lightsabers clashing, it might've slipped.

She's pretty sure he said something about: not wanting to rob the little pyromaniac of the pleasure. Just ask Luke about what happened to the Sacred Jedi Texts. Complete mystery what that meant.

Ahsoka's blade hissed past Maris's shoulder, close enough to ruffle the fabric of her robe. Maris countered with a low sweep that nearly knocked Ahsoka off her feet.

"This isn't about him," Ahsoka said, breath coming sharp between words, "it's about you breaking the rules—"

"Funny," Maris shot back, eyes flashing, "because it looks a lot like it's about him."

The training sabers locked, green and orange light colliding in a flare that cast both their faces in sharp relief. Neither of them gave ground.

Then the roar came.

It wasn't just sound—it was a quake, a tremor through the floor and shelves that made even the holoprojectors flicker.

Both Ahsoka and Maris froze, heads whipping toward the entrance.

Their Wookiee crèche master stood there, looming larger than life fangs bared in an expression of fury that needed no translation. Her roar reverberated again, making datapads rattle in their slots.

The sabers snapped off in unison. Ahsoka swallowed hard, her montrals ringing from the volume. She'd never been so relieved—or so terrified—that it wasn't Master Jocasta who had caught them.

Maris lowered her gaze with a picture of false innocence, though the tiny smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

Ahsoka's own heart hammered in her chest. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came. All she could do was bow her head in shame.

Ben raised his hand from the sidelines like a guilty conspirator in a schoolyard. "Uh… technically, I told them this was a bad idea?"

Master Tyyyvak roared again.

Ben coughed. "Right. Shutting up now."

...​

Later, after the scolding and dispersal, Ahsoka lay in her bunk staring at the ceiling, jaw tight. Maris had gotten away with too much. Ben was still cracking jokes, brushing it off like nothing mattered.

But she'd seen it — the flicker in his eyes when that holorecord had played. The way he couldn't stop looking at it. Something about those "Green Jedi" had struck deeper than his sarcasm admitted.

And it scared her.

...​

I was alone when I replayed the holo again.

The green-robed Jedi filled the projection, their voices calm, their words simple: family, community, freedom. Things that weren't supposed to belong to people like me.

I leaned back against the bunk, arms folded, trying to laugh it off. "Green's always been my favorite color anyway. Maybe because it's like the color of life. Or saving the environment. Not that there's much environment left to save on Coruscant."

Bit of a mute point, after you hollow out your own planet.

My smile tugged wry. "Or maybe I just like green because it's not basic blue. Or red. Or Jedi. Or Sith. It's something else. Something in between. Something that could actually work for me."

For a moment, I let myself believe it.

Then I shook my head, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to my own ears. "Or maybe I'm just overthinking it."

The holo dimmed, leaving only the dark.

And the thought lingered anyway.

Stupid brain.

...​

There, there, Ben.

We've all been there. Sometimes, it just feels like our brain doesn't want us to go to sleep.

For example, I couldn't sleep until I wrote the next chapter for this fic! What? You don't believe me? You honestly think I didn't stay up for the last eight hours to write twenty-thirty pages of the next chapter of this fic? Well, how dare you.

I didn't, but I did write the next chapter. And several more after. Feel free to read them on my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Ghostcraft19]

Interesting

 

[Radial]

The Kaminoan facilities were not actually sterile white.
They are isolationist and can see in the UV spectrum, so their facilities are colored in such.

Will Ben be exposing more dark force secrets?