Echoes In Space - Argentee, BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Nymphie_Wolf, SharlHarmakhis, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314, leetuce - Star Wars (2024)

Chapter 1: Table of Contents

Chapter Text

As we add viewpoints there may be organizational changes to the work, please refer back here for a Table of Contents:

Chapter 1: Table of Contents

Captures and Escapes

Ca'senaar - Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.
Sera - We Are Soldiers
Theja - One Does Not Simply Get Kidnapped Off a Roof
Marianne - Capture and Captivity
Iviivian - Deep Space
Leia - The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
Theresa- I'm a gun for hire, I'm a saint, I'm a liar
Theja - Can I Give CPR When I’m Suffocating?
Ca'senaar - All spirits come out at night, they like the dark, they hide in the shadows.
Sera - We have to Fight, ohhhohh We have to Die
Sharl - You think you know witches from stories and such

Kaysh - I'm nobody, who are you?
Adenn- Nothing Could Contain the Rising of the Storm
Kara-Dancing Through the Embers, Stirring Up a Storm

Wake up calls:

Vokara - There is NOT Enough Tea
Iviivian -Hissy Fit
Sharl - waking up from ash and dust
Ca'senaar - Answers in the wind
Sera-Wait... WHAT?
Vokara -More in Heaven and Earth

It is a Beautiful Day in the Jedi Temple:

Adenn - Ek Masa Nu Adenn Lukka Ki
Kara - Standard Answers Don't Apply
Ca'senaar - Can you look at this brilliant wound?
Adenn- Little Bird, Tell Me A Story
Sharl - We're starting over, build something new
Iviivian: Wicked Girls Saving Ourselves

Terrans, loose in the Jedi Temple

Ca'senaar - A stand against entropy.
Kaysh - I'm just waiting for the world to end again
Kaysh & Cas - You'll meet friends in the dark
Theresa - I have tried, in my way, to be free
Ca'senaar - Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.

Later in the timeline

Ca'senaar - In the Forest of Knowledge
Theresa - And I work when I am sleeping and I work when I'm awake

Chapter 2: Ca'senaar - Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Night shift sucks. Everyone knows that. Either you're a Daywalker forcing yourself awake with medically concerning quantities of coffee, Dr. Pepper, or any other poison of choice, or a Child of the Night and you miss all the best events or have to change in the back seat of someone's car. She chose changing in the back of a friend's car.

Like f*ck was she walking into a show dressed like a f*cking rental cop. Even if that's what she was, technically. It paid the bills and it wasn’t as soul crushing as retail, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed dressing in bad polyester cop-cosplay.

Thanks, Capitalist Hellscape!

Especially since she did the clothes for the local opener. Showing up in work clothes guaranteed to bring down the vibe would be a great way to lose their business later, and the one-offs helped supplement the sh*t pay and moderately acceptable shift differential from guarding an empty building of theoretically valuable computers. Sure as shifters made her feel better about it.

Next, fit check.

Tonight's look was fast and casual, by necessity when your changing room is the back of a decade old Honda Civic. Work docs, purple UV reactive washi tape stripes over the stitching for easy removal before next shift. Black jeans, thrifted, side seams ripped out and scrap leather piece work added so they fit like a second skin. Holes mended with decorative stitches in purple and blood red. Black shirt, with the Addams Motto in Latin and English. Custom print job, a friend’s work. His cards in the left belt pouch, her own in the right. Cloak of Many Things, salvaged cargo pockets sewn together to make the lining under unassuming oxblood wool.

Makeup consisted of one messy swipe of funeral proof eyeliner in oBITCHuary black over the lower lid and sweeping up to the temples, another above that in the berry-toned Possession, as well as a rough smear as lipstick and a quick, messy set of cheek cutting contour in metallic grey.

Hair…. Mussed. That was the best she’d get on a parking lot job. She looked edgy and messy, like a dare to the neat and orderly world to just try shoving her back in the stagnant boxes they loved so much.

Am I mentally describing myself like a My Immortal Character? Maybe. Like everyone doesn't have cheesy hype up rituals. Whatever.

The venue was great. A defunct -and deeply haunted- K-Mart on the edge of the city, rented for cheap and lit with eerie rope lights hidden in the left behind shelves forming a rough layout of the space. Stage to the right by the old snack bar added in the mid 90s as an attempt to compete with Target having Starbucks, which now held pre-packaged snacks and sodas. BYOB, the liquor board didn’t give licenses to pop-up clubs in haunted K-Marts.

The show itself was awesome, obviously. The opener was industrial Gothic opera, their heavy metal Der Erlking always made the crowd choke up. Something about the background projection of paper puppets showing the fleeing father, the frightened child, and the swooping eldritch kidnappers added to the high and haunting soprano and the growling, shrieking, thumping music.

She accepted the nods and fist bumps when the band thanked her for the armored corset the lead singer wore and the long duster of brocade cabbage on the bassist. She had also done the skirt on the violinist, each layer of flounces dip dyed in reds, browns, and deep purples, but they had bad anxiety and nobody wanted to single them out.

I can be silently proud of making that Victorian wedding cake of a garment.

Between the opener and main act, everyone went outside. Most for smokes, some to cool off, or get space. She was in the latter camp.

She walked away from the haunted K-Mart, nodding amicably to a Presence that flared in warning as she hit the corner of the building. That warning was necessary, since at least she had a stable stance and her hands up in guard when someone tried to scruff her.

She dropped low and let out a feral shriek, the kind that draws echoes in a club and backup anywhere else. Something sharp raked her arm, catching the wool cloak. She let them tangle and rolled her steps in toward them, turning to land a solid donkey kick before twisting and tossing her solid weight behind a punch to what should be a throat. It was instead a clavicle.

Note: in a fight, the bigger bone wins. Knuckles are smaller than collarbones.

Pain flashed her vision electric shades, which settled on blue, and then the world went black.

***

She came to in a cell.

Well that figures. Question: Is this a Silence of the Lambs situation or a human trafficking one?

She took a deep breath, listening for any of the Differently Living nearby.

Keep your head down.

Don’t anger the Masters.

Words in the Heart cannot be taken.

Right. Human trafficking. Inventory check.

No cloak. Not ideal, the Cloak of Many Things was her go-bag. Yes clothes, including Docs. That was better. No sign of sexual assault, but her muscles hurt like she’d touched a live wire. Mouth dry, but tolerable.

Nearby someone was whispering the rules. Standard fare; no talking, no fighting, a schedule of food and forced showers, punishment dealt to the children nearest the offender. Less standard, the captors all looked like escapees from a Sci-Fi drama or Furry Con. Cat-people and Lizardfolk. Still, that didn’t change anything about what they actually were. Slavers. Evil.

Acceptable targets.

Dead f*cks walking.

Depuran.

“There is no evil as clever nor as creative as it thinks itself to be,” she whispered with a shallow nod. It had been done before, it would be done again. And every time it reared that ugly, uncreative head, people fought back, people died… but people also survived, and added their survival to the collective memory of humanity.

They never forgot, and they never forgave.

They remembered, and they survived.

She remembered. She would survive.

***

By the second enforced shower, she’d gotten the rhythm. Not the pattern, it was too inconsistent, but the rhythm. Like any mosh pit, large numbers in contained spaces had rhythms, a pulse under the skin of the space pumping feeling the way hearts pumped blood. The others sang a lot, which helped speed it up. She’d smiled with too many teeth at the day’s First Singer as the woman launched into a jarringly sweet, slow rendition of “The Female of the Species.”

Oh lovely, sweet, wonderful woman. Precious genius. Clever Girl.

The slavers didn’t speak English.

When the songs came around to her, she had the right one ready.

We are the little folk we,

Too little to love or to hate.

But leave us alone and you’ll see

How fast we can drag down the state.

***

The next day, Clever Girl had sung "Never set the Cat on Fire".

It had taken all her self control not to cackle. Instead, she waited, thought, closed her eyes and consulted memories from longer ago than her birth and the whispers of the Differently Living. Then she sang it back.

If spying ‘round to get some news; be sure that no one sees ya
You know about the captain's views: a very bad idea
He doesn't want cargo thinking
So pay mind who knows that you’ve been slinking
If spying ‘round to get some news

They did that, back and forth, edits passing from person to person, voices raised in suggestion and song. How to throw punches, how to survive the electrified whips… how to turn those whips against their captors.

Don't start an interstellar war; it has no helpful uses
If people ask you 'what's it for?', you'll only have excuses
If the captors become the caught,
Remind them of the lessons taught
Don't start an interstellar war

“And mind your manners, as circ*mstances may require, and wait to set the cat on fire,” she sang, facing the wall so her face could curl into something only charitably resembling a smile. She saw the flash of bloodlust in the eyes of the others.

They would be ready.

***

The light popping drew her attention. Clever Girl was having a very contained panic attack. She couldn’t fix that, but she could reach for answers. For the smart thing to do.

If you can’t do something smart, do something right, and aim to misbehave.

You get hurt, hurt 'em back. You get killed... walk it off.

Plant yourself like a tree by the river of Truth.

What’cha gonna do when there’s blood in the water?

Clever Girl raised her eyes and squared her shoulders.

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again,” Clever Girl sang. Yes, yes she could hear the songs of anger. "When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, there is a battle that will start when tomorrow comes."

“Will you join in our crusade?” she answered back, shooting glances down the line, checking to see if any would waver. “Who will be strong and stand with me? Beyond the slaver's cage, is there a world you long to see?"

To their credit, none of the captives flinched. Shoulders squared, jaws firmed, hands flexed in readiness.

Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night?

The night was all around them. The black of space, the hush and the stillness, the long empty road of the soul that dulls and dims the unnecessary flash of day and leaves behind painful truth.

It is the music of a people
Who are climbing to the light.

They were ready to fight, to climb out of that night, to sharpen their truths to a razor edge and let those who tried to hold them cut their own fingers off.

For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies.

Throughout human history, the same evils rose again and again. People as things, the root of all sin. And every time, every single f*cking time… People fought back. When backed into corners, they fought. They bit and scratched and lashed out with their fury, their hope, their one shining flame of Truth.

People are not Things.

People will be free… or else.

Even the darkest night will end
And the sun will rise.

Spears would be shaken, shields would be splintered… a sword-day, a red day, and more than just the sun would rise.

We will put away the plough-share,
We are taking up the sword.

Her smile was sharp, and she caught the eye of a lanky teen with a similar grin.

The chain will be broken
And all men will have their reward.

Further down the line a curly haired woman tightened her boot laces, tell tale Doc Martin golden topstitching gleaming like a blade in the dark.

It is the music of the people
Who will not be slaves again.

On the other side, past Clever Girl, a soft-faced woman pulled the long, sharp hairstick from her bun to inspect the tip before tucking it away again. If her eyes weren’t already so accustomed to darkness, the stick would be a slash of night in the dark. As it was, a faint flash of midnight blue glinted on the edge before it vanished into dark braids.

When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums

She rolled her neck and caught a glance across the aisle at a teen boy using the space provided by the children on either side to stretch. She nodded and held up her hand to show him the good stretches to make sure punching didn’t pop your knuckles wrong. He grinned back and followed her lead.

There is a battle that will start
When tomorrow comes.

All around… the people beside her, her people, prepared themselves.

Chapter 3: Sera - We Are Soldiers

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Walking to the mailbox to test the function of the leg armor and her knee brace was something that should have been simple, not the emotional minefield it proved to be.

f*cking hells she missed Locke. He’d been in the same sh*tty boat she had been with parents who had been avid Sherlock Holmes fans and unfortunate last names.

She’d only been stuck with Johanna, Locke had gotten the full first name.

Meeting in medic training the rest of the squad had been teasing the crap out of him, the ‘consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes’ when she’d been brought in and introduced. A shared look and a shared brain cell and he was grinning evilly at her.

“Doctor Watson, I presume…”

The teasing hadn’t ever stopped, but they became the unstoppable team of two, sharing a love of Star Wars, comic books and ridiculous anime convention cosplay.

They’d ended up deployed together, six deployments, and shared an abiding hatred of being stuck on an upper deck in a damned typhoon and gods be damned sand.

Halfway through the seventh the medivac chopper they’d been on fell out of the damn sky.

She’d survived.

He hadn’t.

Then their company clerk back state side had started shoveling people out as fast as she could get the paperwork sorted trying to save her own lily-white ass.

Speaking of the bitch, she was supposed to run the last of her paperwork out tonight. With as fragged up as her knee had been downsizing her hadn’t been as easy as the other poor kids she’d drop kicked out. She still got cycled out as ‘unpromotable’, but she at least had a couple years in where she could get school and housing and probably limited VA help.

At least the foam and PLA print of her leg armor mockup wasn’t pinching.

She twitched, that itchy feeling of bad things coming under her skin was getting loud. It had been screaming right before they’d heard the tell-tell crunch and whine of a locked-up rotor and the horrible weightless feeling of falling out of the air.

It was screaming now.

Down the road she could see headlights, she paused.

Headlights in the same pattern and placement as the damn SUV the Bitch drove, slung sideways across the road and half into the ditch.

Screaming, a familiar voice and something hissing or growling or both.

Blue light.

Furred and scaled faces that a slightly hysterical part of her mind identified as Trandoshin and Zygerrian, was to put together to be masks.

She turned to run.

She didn’t make it.

The blue made everything lock up so hard she couldn’t even scream, couldn’t twitch and was faintly surprised she could still breathe.

Hostage protocol.

Stay limp.

Stay compliant.

Watch for openings.

Getting thrown over her former colleague on a pallet that floated was weird enough, it being shoved onto something that absolutely looked like it was out of a Star Wars or Outer Banks film didn’t help.

Boulourde was still out, deeply out and their captors hadn’t realized she wasn’t as dead to the world as her fellow prisoner.

The odd hum of the engines became a smoother sound.

They were moved again down a narrow space between rows of cages.

Women, children.

No one male over the age of ten or twelve.

She could hear Locke’s voice in the back of her mind, just like she’d heard him since the crash. Hearing his slightly caustic observations helped her stay calm, stay limp as the dead weight of her limbs turned into pin-tingling stabbing pains.

The foam of the prop armor got shredded right off because the stupid lizard couldn’t bother with undoing the clips, but the brace under it and the printed plastic got left alone. He laughed and made some comments that provoked more mean sounding laughter from the other lizards and cats.

No. she liked cats… Ziggers. Even if her dad would have scrubbed her mouth out from how close it sounded to another slur. Never mind her first cousins were all hogging the melanin and all she ended up with was hair so red she’d started dying it to keep the mean-spirited jokes about changelings down.

The quick search with vandalism only cost her the foam work, her phone and one of her pocketknives, then she was dumped into a cell. From the sounds of it Boulourde was dumped in the cell across from hers.

Gentle hands rolled her over into a recovery position.

And she finally could do something with her eyelids other than blink but closing them just let the adrenaline crash and fatigue from a stupid long day catch her.

-------

Waking up to Boulourde screaming her damn head off again was not a pleasant wake up call.

Reflex had her back on her feet and getting zapped by the damn bars before her brain was fully in gear.

And it looked like their captors had less patience than she did for Boulourde’s antics.

She got dragged out, a massive scaly fist yanked her head up by her hair and then a single hissing pop.

Then she dropped limp onto the deck.

A moment later and the distinct air pressure change of a chinook opening its back hatch and the wind and noise that came with it.

Big scaley grabbed Boulourde by her hair again and dragged her toward the back.

A few minutes, at most, later and she was popping her ears as the air pressure shifted with the closing of that hatch.

f*ck.

Okay then.

She shared a look with a few of the women who shared her cell and the ones across from her as big scaley walked back and cuffed a smaller example of his kind to get him to hose off the mess.

Looks like hostage protocols it was, the ones where they didn’t really care if they kept you alive or not.

Hearing Locke whispering in the back of her mind to wait and to observe everything helped.

There were civilians in here.

She knew her job.

Chapter 4: Theja - One Does Not Simply Get Kidnapped Off a Roof

Chapter by HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

Theja was f*cking tired. It was hours til dawn and they had yet to see any of the “weird stars” one of their usual lunch table-mates had been harping on about the day before. Something about distorted meteor showers and faulty equipment that had worked perfectly beforehand. Normally they’d dismiss it as yet another random topic that would engross the group for a few minutes before promptly being set aside for yet another debate over the superior Godzilla Movie, but the teen was curious, and curiosity meant questionable decisions.

Tonight’s questionable decision was staying up till midnight before clambering out of a too-small window and out onto the roof. It wasn’t by any means a new experience, but it was a questionable decision all the same, though.

Knowing the forecast and the unpleasantness of the roofing, Theja had opted to wear the next day’s clothes, donning a pair of paint marker-covered work pants and a tight black thermal top, forgoing any socks for traction’s sake. They paused at the threshold of their room to braid and tie back their hair before tiptoeing into the bathroom, lifting themself up onto the window sill, pulling the sliding glass aside, and slipping out onto the roof.

It was cold. But that was expected. Spring meant freezing rains and occasional bits of sleet that went on till the beginning of what the rest of the hemisphere considered “summer months”, at which point the weather would take a turn for the furnace. Theja shivered slightly, letting out a sigh of relief once they started to acclimate. The thermal had been a good call. They shook off the last of the discomfort and worked their way over to the edge of the roof before plopping down, legs hanging over the drop, swinging gently.

Something was off though. It was too quiet. There’d been coyotes right? Theja couldn’t remember, their brain felt muddled, as if their thoughts were just out of grasp. The enby froze, legs stilling, alarms flaring in their hindbrain. Yep, something was definitely off. They looked up, almost anticipating some cosmic horror staring down at them from the light-polluted void of stars. Nothing. Then, out of the corner of their eye, Theja saw a flicker. No, not a flicker, a distortion, like someone-or something- had taken a badly-rendered video of the stars and hidden behind it.

Then everything went blue.

Chapter 5: Marianne - Capture and Captivity

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, leetuce, NittuSidhe, Nymphie_Wolf, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Marianne groaned as she looked at the gas gauge on her rental car. She had totally gotten lost on her way out of San Diego and instead of heading north to LA (and her plane home to the Midwest), she had ended up going east. And while she had not gotten far enough for that to matter, she also had been so creeped out by what she could remember of her dream (something vaguely of cats and danger), that she couldn’t sleep and had checked out of the hotel in the middle of the night…and had forgotten to refill her gas tank.

Time to call AAA it seemed. Yay for unexpected socializing. This was supposed to be a vacation! Visit where she had grown up and then visit an online friend who lived nearby, not get stranded on the side of the road, needing to call road-side assistance. Marianne had come out to California to get away from her stress from working as a lab tech in an EPA lab (and her stupid asshat of a useless boss), not add to it.

Pulling out her phone and wincing as she remembered it had not gotten charged all the way before leaving the hotel, she then grabbed her wallet out of her purse to rifle through it for her AAA card.

A bright light distracted her. She paused, trying to decide what to do. Middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, with a car out of gas, and then being by herself? This was definitely pinging her ‘something bad is happening’ feelings. Before she could make up her mind on whether or not to crouch and hide, she saw a flash of blue light and Marianne blacked out.

—

Waking up in a cage was not what Marianne had been expecting. And cat- and lizard-people were definitely a new one. It kind of made her want to grab her benadryl whenever she saw a cat-person. Thankfully she was not actually having any reactions, so the benadryl was not needed. And the benadryl was non-existent, as her purse had not come with her. Which also meant no epi-pens. Which meant that those food bars that were handed out twice a day were not to be trusted at all. Marianne handed those out to whoever looked hungriest, careful to not touch the bar herself as much as possible.

Of course, going low food meant that Marianne was crabby as hell. Added to the fact that they were not allowed to talk to each other and only sing, she was also on her way to an anxiety attack. She hummed along to the songs when possible, but after having been told for years that she could not sing, the idea of singing was so difficult to her. Oh, if only she had a knife and an opening, Marianne could see herself going after their captors. She wondered if cat- and lizard-people tasted good. She was totally going to try and take a bite if she got a chance.

It got to the point where she just could not handle it anymore. She still gave away her meal bar, but she had broken off a small piece and rubbed it along her inner arm. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Thankfully her arm had stayed rash free. So step one of the allergy test was complete. She would wait a few more hours before trying step two, just in case.

Suddenly a small hand pulled on Marianne’s shirt. She turned to look at one of the kids who was holding a slightly smaller kid’s arm. The smaller kid looked a bit weaker than the others around them. “Yes?” she whispered quietly, trying to avoid the captors’ gaze by adding a bit of a sing-song tune to her voice.

“Whatcha doing?” The older kid who had pulled on her shirt asked.

Marianne could not help but think of Isabella from Phineas and Ferb right now and giggled. “I’m testing to see if the food bar is safe for me to eat. I have a nut allergy. So far, it has passed my skin test. In a few hours, I’m gonna try putting a small piece in my mouth for the second part of the test.”

“Hmm, my sister is also allergic to nuts. Can you let us know if the food is safe to eat?”

Smiling sadly, Marianne nodded, and then put her finger to her mouth as a guard started to walk towards them. The cracking of the whip made all of them jump and the younger kid whimpered.

A few hours later, when the next meal bar came, Marianne did the same thing as earlier, and gave the bar away, saving just a bit, and put that bit into her mouth. After a minute of her being fine, the younger kid grabbed the meal bar that they had been gazing at soulfully and wolfed it down. The older child freaked out. Marianne was also freaking out as well, though with the bite of food in her mouth, she was unable to say anything clearly.

“Why did you do that? We weren’t given the okay?” the older kid asked mournfully. They were wringing their hands.

The younger kid shrugged. “If I die, I no longer have to be hungry anymore; and if I don’t die, I can eat and not be hungry anymore. I feel like this is a win-win situation.”

Their older sibling looked aghast at that statement, and Marianne held her hands out, to offer a hug for both of them. Trying to not prematurely swallow the bite of food, she did not want to risk talking. Or rather ‘singing’.

Both of them hesitantly hugged her, and they cuddled together, waiting to see how things would turn out with the food.

Thankfully, Kidlet did not have any reactions to eating the meal bar. Nor did Marianne, even after she swallowed the bite a few hours later. Having given up her bar so many times before, she had decided to only take a little each time, planning to eventually work her way up to a half a bar each time.

But before that happened, they were rescued.

Sort of.

Chapter 6: Iviivian - Deep Space

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Her foot wouldn’t stop twitching. Hadn’t for the past ten minutes. Even on vacation, she couldn’t seem to escape her fidgets or insomnia.

Fine, she’d wake mom one way or another. Might as well just get up and burn off some of that energy so they could both get some sleep tonight. Throwing back the covers, she started changing into trail pants and a tshirt. She was lacing up her running shoes when mom sighed and rolled over.

“Sweetie?”

“Gonna go for a run so I can sleep. I’ll just do a few laps around the pool.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Braid up or down? Muggy as it was, up. A few twists, and the marbled acrylic of the black and blue Deep Space hairstick nearly vanished into the mass of hair.

The night insects and frogs sang out as she headed for the hotel pool. Just a little run to get the fidgets out and let her sleep, fifteen, twenty minutes, and then back to bed.

The slowly cooling night air was pleasant, the night calm. And suddenly, too calm. The wildlife fell abruptly, ominously, silent. She whirled, hand reaching for her bun, but a flash of blue light caught her and the world went dark.

~~~

A child trying to cry quietly was the first thing she registered when she woke. Over a hundred foster kids, be it siblings or charges, and thousands of students, had trained her to notice such noises even dead asleep. She groped blindly towards the sound before prying her eyes open. Oh mother goddess on a pogo stick, she was in a cage. No, panic later, there was a child crying. That took priority.

Another woman softly sang the rules like a lullabye, rocking a toddler in her lap. Right. No talking, only singing. She could do that. She could do this. This wasn’t her first lockdown rodeo. There were children behind her, a threat before her, and for now, the best thing to do was to stay quiet, keep calm, and manage the children. When they rattled the doors, keep her body between the children and the threat.

The crying little girl was tired enough to fall asleep quickly after a bit of singing and some hair petting, snuggled against her side. A careful touch to her own hair revealed an unexpected boon: her hairstick was still securely buried in her bun, mostly hidden in the braided knot.

Eyeing the cat and lizard people acting as their jailors through her lashes, she had to repress a hysterical giggle as she remembered the color of the stick she’d grabbed. Deep Space indeed.

~~~

She hated how quickly she got used to the cages. Lockdown drills were nothing new, and this wasn’t exactly the same, but it was similar enough. Not exactly the same though. The first time they’d done rounds with the ration bars, she’d had the children all tucked behind her, eyes fixed on the bars, mentally running through the same silent litany she did every lockdown. ‘Keep going, move along. No one here, no one at all. Just empty space, not worth checking. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Move along, you don’t want to waste your time here.’

The lizard-person’s eyes had slid right past her cage, not even hesitating. Unfortunately, this also meant their cage didn’t get their rations. She’d stomped, hard, on any thoughts about the impossibility of anything. She was in a spaceship, held captive by cat and lizard people. Impossible was for people who still thought aliens were theoretical. Impossible didn’t soothe the children whimpering about not getting their meager meal.

The next time they came around, she focused on a different litany. ‘Just obedient merchandise, no need to bother them. No problems with this cage, just give them their share and move on. Everything’s fine over here.’ To her relief, this time the ration bars were tossed lazily into the cage, just like all the other cells. She carefully slid crabwise away from thinking too hard about anything she didn’t need to. It was safer to think about other things. She couldn’t afford to break down here.

I made it this far without cryin' a single tear/An' I'd sure hate to break down/It's too late to turn around/I'd sure hate to break down here

No, no time for hysterics. Better to be Alice about it. Six impossible things before breakfast. Count them, Alice. One: Cat-people aliens existed. Two: Lizard-people aliens existed. Three: Spaceships, far more advanced than anything NASA had ever dared hope for, existed. Four: The people were slavers and the ship a slave ship. No, no, she said impossible things, and that was just depressingly normal facts about how folks behaved when they didn’t have rules to stop them. Four: She, with her asthma that would deny her any hope of joining any space program, was in space. Five: She could keep this cell calm. Six: She would get through this.

So, she needed to focus on safer things, things that wouldn’t make her panic. The cages were just another flavor of lockdown. They really shouldn’t be, there should be no experiences learned working in an elementary school that translated to surviving in a slave hold, but that was apparently just further confirmation that “normal” back home was in fact incredibly broken. Focusing on the children helped. Singing helped. And when the slavers weren’t paying attention, carefully cataloging what weapons they carried, how those weapons were held and used, and the soft spots she could see on their captors? Well. That helped too.

Acting now, in the rumble of what was most likely a spaceship moving through a vacuum? That would be foolish. But their captors had joints, had eyes, had limbs that moved in ways that suggested a certain range of motion, and associated limitations. She knew no plan survived contact with the enemy, but running through scenarios helped. You didn’t have time to stop and think when you were fighting, so working out some options beforehand helped. For now? Let them think they were in charge. Don’t fight. Submit.

Spend time singing to the children. Keep her head down, keep the children around her soothed and calm and occupied. Keep the eyes of the captors sliding over her little corner. Nothing to see here, nothing to see, we’re obeying, no need to look this way. No need at all to remember we’re even here between rations. We’re calm, we’re quiet, we’re obedient. No need to notice the sharp stick hidden in her hair, or tucked up her sleeve, or slipped in her pocket while she fingercombed and painstakingly smoothed and rebraided her hair. No need to notice her hairstick. No need to think about what she might be able to do with the length of ribbon securing her hair either. No, no need to notice at all. She was perfectly harmless.

She was perfectly harmless, and she’d stay that way until she needed to be otherwise. Because she’d never killed before, but she’d drawn blood in self defense. She’d looked at boys that outweighed her and outnumbered her, and solemnly sworn to maim them if they touched her, and seen them back down from the truth in her eyes. She’d huddled in the dark, twenty-four five year olds behind her, the doorknob rattling, and sworn the shooter would go through her first. Clutched a pair of scissors with thirty-one ten and eleven year olds behind her, and planned how to kick the book cart to trip the shooter so she could go for the eyes or throat or hands or groin, whichever was least armored, and make sure the kids had a chance to run. For now, she’d keep her corner quiet and below notice. And when the time came? Well. After this, she probably wouldn’t be able to say she hadn’t killed.

Chapter 7: Leia - The capillaries in my eyes are bursting

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, leetuce

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Lee hated, it was working in retail.

Sure, she loved most of her coworkers, but she could really do without someone’s grandma being rude because they'd bought the wrong thing but weren’t allowed to return it. Or the 10 yr old looking her dead in the eye while eating a chocolate bar they took off the shelves. Or her boss getting annoyed at her because she asked to go home early after throwing up in the staff room and almost fainting from a migraine.

Yeah, Lee hated retail.

After another invigorating conversation with a customer explaining why they couldn’t continue shopping after close time, Lee headed to the back of the store with her coworkers, already mentally mapping out the rest of her night. Go home, eat some spaghetti, play Stardew Valley and sleep.

“Ready for the 6 pallets of stock tomorrow?” Mars asked dryly from next to the door.

Lee looked at him and slowly blinked, feeling the pressure behind her eyes increasing like it had been all day, “f*cking yippee.” She muttered, and Mars snorted as he strode off to his car.

Waving to her colleagues, Lee walked out of the staff car park and into the dark street next to it. Her phone buzzed with a notification from discord, and she flicked out of LIFE360 to see what one of her dumbasses was messaging her now.

The Local Di’kut

hey

hey

lee

poke

The Other Local Di’kut

poke

hey

The Local Di’kut

are you still good for dnd this satursay

satueday

satrday

The Other Local Di’kut

satursay lol

Lee rolled her eyes as her phone kept incessantly buzzing with Razor’s attempts at spelling Saturday, flicking her phone off and chucking it into her pocket, dodging down another street. Glancing ahead where she could see the light from her mum’s store ahead, Lee felt herself relax slightly. Finally, she could get home and deal with her approaching migraine and finally relax. f*ck, she was exhausted.

As Lee got closer to her mum’s store, she shivered slightly, goosebumps going up her arms. Something’s wrong, her body whispered, you should run while you still can.

Shut up stupid paranoia, everythings fine.

Glancing down at her phone, Lee winced slightly at the bright screen before flicking a message off to her mum that she was almost there.

Lee never saw the shot coming.

—

When Lee came to, she held in a groan at the pounding in her head. For f*cks sake, couldn’t the universe give her a break for once.

She let out a quiet choked noise as the pounding increased, before freezing as a hand landed on her shoulder. Eyes snapping open, the pain doubling at the light, she stared at the woman in front of her through the tears slowly covering her vision. Shuddering slightly, Lee glanced up from the woman to the cell she was in, at all of the other women in cells next to them.

She looked down to her trembling hands, clenching them tightly, closing her eyes and resolutely trying to ignore the cold seeping into her skin. She tilted her head back and bit back the tears that threatened to spill over, desperately praying in her head that she was in a dream, praying that she would wake up any second, praying that any moment now her Mum would be there with a warm hug.

Please God help me.

Lee rolled over, curling up on the metal surface, the cold seeping into her bones and clawing at her lungs. The strange aching in her head and joints increased as she lay there on the ground, and soon quiet singing echoed through the large space. Singing from a group of women trying to calm down a child that started loudly sobbing a few cells over.

f*ck. f*ck.

—

Lee got used to the routine of being a captive slave in a Sci-Fi fever dream fairly quickly. Well, whatever semblance of a routine there was. In fact, she’d even made a mental checklist she went over everyday to follow the routine! She was coping great!

1. Wake up after a restless night of barely any sleep

2. Have a breakdown

3. Eat ration bar #1

4. Sing

5. Disassociate for a few hours

6. Do some stretches

7. Sing

8. Eat ration bar #2

9. Cuddle pile with kids

10. Sing

11. Shower

12. Sleep

See! Lee had gotten a hang of things! She was doing great!

Of course she was barely remembering anything that was happening during her waking hours and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was stretching everyday her joints would be hurting so much more. The constant pounding in her head was borderline torture at this point, and she could do without the f*cking cat people killing other women. But hey, things could be worse!

—

‘Things could be worse’ my ass.

One of the kids that had cuddled up to Lee started crying. She tried to sing quietly to calm them down but one of the cat f*ckers had been in a bad mood. The bastard had tried to grab the kid and Lee had gotten in the way.

Electrowhips f*cking hurt.

—

Lee lay on her back staring up at the dull ceiling above her, Her Kids curled up next to her fast asleep, the large space quiet with the soft sounds of sleep.

Swallowing, she opened her mouth and started quietly singing, “Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to Lee, happy birthday to me.”

Lee closed her eyes, tears trickling down her face, “Hip hip, horray, hip hip, horray.”

—

One of the other women, the pretty lady who had started ‘Never Set a Cat on Fire’ started singing ‘Do You Hear The People Sing’, and for the first time, Lee felt her blood start pounding as she ran a trembling hand over Her Kid’s heads. She glanced up and met the eyes of one of the women in the same cell she was in, bloodlust echoing in her eyes as she also held onto a few of the other kids that had been stuck in the cell. Lee didn’t know that woman's name, but she understood her well.

The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France.

—

It was a few hours later that the ship finally shuddered to a stop.

Where you go, I go. What you see, I see.

Lee raised her head and met the eyes of the unnamed women in the cell with her, slowly passing the children to the back of the group, one of the kids reaching back to her with a look of fear that she tried to ignore.

I know I’d never be me, without the security.

She took a wet blanket from one of the women who would be sticking to the back of the group, silently nodding her thanks as she stretched slightly, cracking her back and knuckles.

Of your loving arms, keeping me from harm.

Lee swallowed and crouched next to two other women near the edge of the cell. All three of them clutching wet blankets in their hands, she looked around at the other women in the cells surrounding them, seeing the same looks of grim determination.

Put your hand in my hand and we’ll stand.

She would do anything to make sure those kids were okay.

Chapter 8: Theresa Isabella De La Rosa Santiago - I'm a gun for hire, I'm a saint, I'm a liar

Chapter by Argentee, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Five years out of college, and Theresa Isabella De La Rosa Santiago was driving down Alligator Alley at night in a million dollar sportscar with the radio blasting. Of course, it wasn't her sportscar, she drove a used Volvo since paying off her student loans was a much higher priority than fancy cars. But because she was the personal assistant to a very wealthy man it was an immaculate used Volvo. Her clothing might be second hand, but they were the right brands and a cousin tailored them to her so they fit Theresa the way things never fit off the rack.

And when her boss decided he wanted one of the cars he left in Fort Lauderdale down in Miami... well, Theresa could have hired a driver, but her boss also wanted to make sure that no trace of his mistress's visit was left for his wife to find. And since there had been a size two dress hung among the size sixes, well, it was a good thing Theresa had volunteered to take care of the sweep and fetching the car.

Sometimes Theresa wondered if this was how she really wanted to spend her life, organizing the paperwork, appointments, and personal lives of rich white men who had been lucky enough to be born into the right families. But the money was letting her pay off her student loans years faster than any other job she could get. And if that meant being the token female and minority in the room and pouring the coffee, so be it. Her Abuela was scraping by on a teacher's retirement. Theresa was willing to sell out if it meant she'd be able to help her Abuela and put aside money for her own future retirement.

When Teresa spun out the million dollar sportscar because of a goddamn spaceship appearing out of nowhere, her first thought was not ending up in the goddamn swamp. Her second thought was wondering if her boss had been doing cocaine or worse in the car and if she was tripping out on a second hand high. Teresa threw herself out of the car, grateful she had swapped her heels for something more practical for the drive, and tried to make a run for it. She didn't make it far before there was a flash of blue light and darkness claimed her.

Waking up was moving from one nightmare to another. Metal floor under her. Thin blanket over her. Dimly lit, but metal bars and women and children packed in. Only women, all appearing young, healthy, and only about half of them white. Kids all old enough to be toilet trained and the boys too young to have hit their puberty growth spurts. It added up to an ugly mental picture that the smell of chemical cleansers and human fear didn't help.

Cat-people and lizard-people armed with laser pistols and electric whips. A few white women had thrown screaming hysterics and been dragged out, shot, and the bodies dumped. Lesson learned. No talking, no fighting. Eat when fed, sh*t in the grated trench, when the lights are raised strip and shower. Minor infractions were taken out on the kids nearby.

Oddly enough, singing was allowed. Theresa was fluent in English and Spanish, got by in French and Italian, but Amazing Grace was Amazing Grace. One of the women leading the singing not only knew more languages than anyone had a right to, she started bringing out songs that made it clear that the aliens didn't speak any earth languages and spreading the message to bide their time.

Days turned into a week or more and there weren't any new faces being added, the hold packed in like sardines on both sides. People took turns sitting, standing, and stretching. Kids moved around, gravitating to women who sang in languages they understood. Unfortunately, the aliens got bored during travel, and countless games of cards were supplemented with a new game of tormenting the prisoners. Theresa was just grateful it didn't extend to rape. It was hard enough watching Miss Tower-of-Babel and Miss Soldier get on their knees and beg, taking blows that would have otherwise been aimed at children. They weren't the only ones, but they took far more than their share.

Then came the day when the sound of the ship changed. The sound of landing. The engines stopped. The cages were opened.

And the women fought back.

Theresa had never thought of herself as a violent person. She had taken weekly self defense classes in college. There had been one handsy drunk she had to teach the meaning of 'no', but who didn't have a story like that? Then a knife ended up in her hand, and one of the cat people was lunging for a child, and she moved, and then his guts were spilling across the metal deck and... and....

Theresa managed to move against the wall before throwing up. Less chance of someone stepping in it. Mostly bile, those tasteless bars were barely enough to be considered food and her clothes were looser than when they had caught her. Then she tightened her grip on the knife and moved back into the fray, only to see a canister come soaring into the room spewing gas everywhere. She grabbed a dead slaver, threw the body over the canister hoping to slow the gas down, even as her knees hit the ground and darkness claimed her.

Chapter 9: Theja - Can I Give CPR When I’m Suffocating?

Chapter by HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

Waking up cold was easily top fifteen on Theja’s list of “Most Uncomfortable Situations to Be In”, and waking up cold, on metal, easily pushed it to top eight. Pulling themself back into the realm of the conscious, the teen looked around, first wincing then blinking blearily at the harsh lights illuminating their new surroundings.

This was a cell. That was clear at first glance. A cell crammed full of other people of all sorts, mainly women and children with a few androgynous outliers, all in various stages of waking and unconsciousness, some looking more battered than others. Theja hummed lowly, twisting in place from their half-crouch-half-crisscross position to look around, spotting a few more cells similarly crammed with women and children, before stopping short at the sight of both the bars of their cell and the beings in front of them.

That… was not a human. One seemed almost feline. Short fur with large ears and catlike bone structure. The other was quite reptilian. Three cranial crests, scaled, skull like a lizard, exposed nostrils. Definitely alien, yet somehow vaguely familiar. Neither looked friendly, and judging by body language and position, they were likely captors, Theja figured. Both were speaking what sounded like a guttural version of German that was put through an in-sink food disposal unit.

They shook their head lightly, wincing at the slight twinge of pain that shot through them. Headache, possibly a migraine, but probably not a concussion. Hopefully. Next came checking for any injuries and figuring out what they had on hand. After making sure their glasses were intact, Theja patted down their pockets, hoping to find at least something, whether it be food, a weapon, or a trinket. They found nothing. Not a can tab or even a crumpled wrapper. Their clothes seemed intact and otherwise untouched, which was a relief, though their hairband looked like it could be on its last legs. Theja was completely unarmed, but fixing that could come later.

“Well fu-kriiiiff.” Theja sighed, speech stuttering as they looked to the side, quickly switching to Mando’a as they noticed a pair of wide, fearful eyes fixed on them. The ad’ika was young, maybe five to six years old, nowhere near the age where an ad should be without a buir or caretaker. This… just got more complicated.

Theja slouched down so that they were level with the ad, and tried to smile reassuringly, hoping the kid spoke or at least understood English.

“Are you okay? Do you have a parent with you?”

The ad’ika shook her head, stifling a keening wail, eyes welling with the promise of impending tears. Theja grimaced slightly at the implications, hating the idea of an ad losing their family so young and immediately being thrown into a sh*tshow like this. Part of them realized that they too, were technically an ad who’d lost their parents, but the seventeen year-old decided to set that thought aside for a later date. Grief could come later. Now there were others to think about.

The enby held their hand out to the young girl, “I’m Theja, what’s your name?”

“‘Lizabeth.” The ad’ika mumbled, taking the teen’s hand and letting them pull her into a gentle hug.

“Elizabeth?” Theja clarified, the ad nodding in response. “Okay Elizabeth, it’s gonna be alright. I’m gonna make sure nothing happens to you, okay ad’ika?” The ad nodded again, tucking herself into the enby’s arms.

“Sarē, paḍukō.” The teen hummed, rocking the ad’ika to sleep while making eye contact and giving a nod with a woman sitting a few paces away, cradling two children in her arms.

"We need to find a way out," The woman whispered hoarsely, voice set with a hard edge of determination. "We can't let them break us. For them."

Theja nodded again, more decisively, some part of their brain recognising this as some sort of threshold. No more birthday breakfasts with family, no more early drives to school blaring loud music, no more bantering with the guys at the lunch table over video games, sci-fi stuff, or anything else, no more date lunches with partners when off-blocks lined up, no more color guard, no more late nights staying up reading by lamplight, no more mashing up four different languages in casual conversation with their ori’vod, no more home. Stars, what were their parents going to think, when they found an empty bed? Their brother would probably notice the window first, but then what? With no trace of any struggle or signs of Theja’s leaving? Home was gone. Everyone probably thought they were dead, or worse.

But, children were the future, and Theja was more than willing to do whatever it took to keep Elizabeth safe. Staving off a breakdown was the least they could do, really. They’d survive at any cost. Haat, ijaat, haa’it.

Translations [Mando’a]

Ad/ad’ika - Little one, son, daughter, child, of any age

Kriff - f*ck

Haat, ijaat, haa’it. - Truth, honor, vision - words used to seal a pact.

Ori’vod - Big sibling, older sibling, special friend

Translations [Andhra Pradesh Telugu (romanized]

Sarē, paḍukō. - Alright then, get some sleep

Chapter 10: Ca'senaar - All spirits come out at night, they like the dark, they hide in the shadows.

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

There was a slight shudder like a newbie driver breaking at a light. The engines stopped.

Everyone shifted, legs coiling under them, fists forming, thumbs exactly where the more combative of them had shown the younger or less trained among them to put them. She sent a thought to the Differently Living on board, receiving back a reassuring warmth like hugs and blood on her hands.

The showers came on. Blankets were passed from the front to the back, held to catch water.

“It’s a good day for slavers to die,” she chuckled under her breath. Beside her dark laughs huffed on soft breaths.

The slavers entered the hold.

A round-faced woman with warm brown skin and hair in space-buns shrieked. Clever Girl let out a sound like a battle cry. The lights shattered, the cage bars flew up into their recessed sockets with a speed that cracked like a bullwhip.

She launched herself at the nearest slaver, wet blanket wrapping them in a soggy, thrashing bundle.

Heh. Spicy purrito.

They bit at her, and she bit back, her own blunt ape teeth not as adapted for this as the feline ones, but she had rage lending strength and no need to make clean cuts. Her jaws crushed flesh at the neck until the Cat went limp. She released her jaw and spat a glob of spit tinged reddish violet to the side before swinging her leg over their torso to strip the sidearm from their hip.

She tossed the weapon to someone who snapped their hand up in time to grab it and squeeze off a shot. Her own hand snapped out to trip a Lizardfolk and yank the blade from their boot. The blade cut through flesh like a bread knife through a tomato.

Somewhere nearby someone threw up with a soft retching noise, and she noted who it was in case they needed backup - and the location to avoid the slip hazard - absently before throwing herself back into the fight. She took out another Lizard coming up on a teen with a specific, reckless aura that prompted her to pause long enough to say words that had saved her life once, maybe.

“Valhalla can wait,” the old man had said. Whispers along her hands as her fingers went numb and clenched again on her sword more firmly. “Fight to the end. If you can still fight, this isn’t the end.”

She hadn’t ever used a sword, she preferred hand-to-hand. She didn’t know where the memory came from, but she wasn’t going to ask right now.

After all, it wasn’t the end, and whatever Gods would take her could wait their goddamn turn.

The bodies hit the floor with a satisfying thump, and were promptly looted. Clothing was stripped and pulled onto bodies or turned into bundles. She stole two belts and wrapped her hands and arms, securing the smooth metal fasteners over the first two knuckles of each fist. The owner of the Doc Martins did the same and she offered up a clinking fist-bump before peeling a blood-splashed jacket off the back of a Cat. It wasn’t the Cloak of Many Things, but it had reassuring weight and several pockets. Also the psychological benefit of slightly blue-shifted arterial red dripping down the tan material that existed oddly between leather and canvas… maybe after this was over she’d paint or embroider the pattern on it permanently.

They moved… not as one, there were injured, and those equipped to tend and protect them who stayed behind. But with a unity of spirit. A single surging wave, even as the riptide fell back to care for their own. The door to the hold slammed open with the same force the bars had retreated with earlier.

Another set of slavers went down fighting.

The dance was familiar. The stomping of feet, the thrashing of arms, the gnashing of teeth, the rhythm was as clear as any mosh pit she’d ever attended. Her hundred dance partners knew their beats as well as she did, and she knew they would hit their marks as surely as she knew she’d hit her own. How she knew, she did not know, but combat was not the time to ask.

Her knife lodged in a ribcage and she was shoved against a wall. The slaver dropped, and she nodded at the perky blond who’d kicked the Cat in the head. High-Kick Barbie bounced off and she turned back to the fight.

A scaly hand got close enough to her face to take off a finger with a snap like a turtle. It tasted a little bit like good tuna sushi but with a gamey edge. Her gut rumbled with hunger, but she spat the finger out with a large amount of the coral-red blood that had flooded her mouth with the bite. She had no idea what diseases a lizard from space might carry, but she didn't want to risk it.

There was a ripping sound and the metal of the wall tore open from the outside.

“Rymun!” someone shouted. “GRENADE!”

She heard the hiss.

“GAS!” she shouted, pulling a stolen undershirt up over her face in an improvised mask. “RUN!”

Around her, people grabbed kids, grabbed the fallen, and ran. She paused to grab one of the newcomers by the plate-armor and toss him over her hip into his friends. He was too light, sailing farther than any Tin Can should. She shoved the knowledge he wasn’t wearing proper armor to the back of her mind and did it again, clearing a path to the brand new door they’d helpfully added.

“SCATTER!” she shouted as people flooded past her. The last of those still able to run went by and she planted her feet in the gap.

The Differently Living were not merely the dead. She knew that like she knew the name on her birth certificate that she hated. They existed everywhere, although strange places had strange spirits. A bit of politeness never hurt, no matter where you were, though.

“Please,” she whispered, hands up and on guard, eyes flicking to the armored forms in front of her. “Help me.”

***

The Guard had been sent in to stop slavers, and they’d been equipped and prepared to do so. They had not been equipped or prepared to fight dozens of frightened, near feral women armed with stolen weapons and seemingly superhuman strength, speed, and the luck of the Jedi themselves.

Most of the women ran. Some fought, clearly unable to tell friend from foe in their fear. The command went out on bucket comms to switch to stun, nobody wanted to drop a civvy, especially ones who so clearly weren’t trying to hurt them.

The one who kept picking their brothers up and throwing them like an enraged Alpha-class trainer in hand-to-hand class on the other hand… well there were many reasons not to try too much force.

“Stand down, we aren’t your enemy,” Sergeant Face ordered her as she took a stance in the only clear exit to the hold. If he could get her calm enough to recognize they weren’t a threat, maybe they could get the others to cooperate, as well.

“Pliz hɛlp mi,” she whispered, seeming to be speaking to someone Face couldn't see, hands rising into loose fists by her firmed jaw. Her lower face was stained in blood, blood the wrong shade to be her own. Her stance, her expression, all of it was calm and watchful, ready for conflict. Her eyes were clear and focused under bruise-colored warpaint that trailed up her forehead like horns and down her cheeks like tears.

She wasn’t too scared to tell friend from foe. She just didn’t see them as allies.

“We are the Coruscant Guard. By order of the Chancellor, we are here to rescue you. Please do not resist,” Face said, stepping closer slowly.

“Ju ʃæl nɑt pæs!” she snapped, shifting to be more firmly in the gap. Framed by the opening, she seemed to glow… no, the shadows in the hold seemed to lengthen, darkness deepening around them.

“Force osik,” someone hissed on the comms and Face snapped a sharp hand sign to hush. Jedi business was Jedi business, the Order didn’t need it dragged into a judicial matter for Triple-Zero.

“ə deɪ meɪ kʌm wɛn ðə ˈkɜrəʤ ʌv mɛn feɪlz, wɛn wi fɔrˈseɪk ˈaʊər frɛndz ænd breɪk ɔl bɑndz ʌv ˈfɛloʊˌʃɪp, bʌt ɪt ɪz nɑt ðɪs deɪ,” she growled. The shadows deepened, and whispers broke out through the hold, only a few sounding to Face like his brothers. “ðɪs deɪ... aɪ wɪl faɪt!”

Someone fired, the shot going wide, the round ring of blue from their stun clipping the edge of her shoulder. The woman didn’t even flinch, instead releasing a rasping scream that echoed and ripped along Face’s nerves like sandpaper, a foreboding sense he was doing the wrong thing, a gut drop, a flash of a nightmare that ended with his hands tacky with the blood of a Brother.

Someone screamed, and Face snapped up his weapon, aimed, and fired once, twice, three times.

The woman stiffened at his first shot to hit her. She pulled up tall at the second, seeming to swell with rage and snarling, stubborn grit. It wasn’t until the third stunner hit her chest that she fell. He wouldn’t be adding it to the report, but it seemed for a moment like her fall was slowed, invisible hands catching her and easing her down.

“This is Breach Lead, the ship’s hold is secured,” Face reported.

“You took out all the slavers?” Commander Thire asked.

“Nope. The cargo did. Then we took down the ones that stayed back,” Face reported, shuddering off the feeling of WrongBadOathbreaker as he knelt to check the warrior's pulse. “May all the little gods have mercy on us for it.”

Chapter 11: Sera - We have to Fight, ohhhohh We have to Die

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Watching more women and children, and it was always women and children, never males past puberty, get dragged in and dumped into cells until there wasn’t room to turn around without cell mate cooperation, was bad enough. Watching the Zigs and Zards get bored and try beating the kids had her and several others murderous. If these bastards had understood any language their prisoners had and weren’t going on superficial body language and vocal tone a bunch of them would have gotten shot.

Ninety new ways to call someone a dickhe*d was nice, but language lessons weren’t the primary objective.

Watching a girl who was barely a step out of being a kid herself step up had her seething. Watching her disassociate had her wishing profoundly she was in the same damn cell. Passing instructions via sing-song and Locke's voice passing her relevant song lyrics helped a little.

Not enough, but it got the needed information across, even if she suspected one of the cell mates had recognized what was happening.

And she could almost see Locke out of the corner of her eyes, it wasn’t just hearing him.

It didn’t make things hurt less, but it did help a little. And the longer they were stuck in the cells the more easily she could see and hear Locke and the more she could see shadows that could have been people.

And those shadows lurked around several of the other prisoners.

Well then, proof the pagans she’d been hanging out with were on to something.

It didn’t make watching people beg to get beaten by an electrified whip, so the damn slavers didn’t beat little kids any easier. After one round the others in the cell wouldn’t let her take a turn. The whips acted more like a taser hit, and the damn things after-effects lingered.

The newfound ability to pull pain and ease bruises was more valuable. So reluctantly she had settled into the background and watched and listened to the undercurrents of the singing that was allowed under the guise of keeping the children quiet.

Then the engine noise stopped.

She bared her teeth and grabbed the kids in her cell to keep them out of the fray the bars slammed open and all hell promptly broke loose.

Blood smell was blood smell, even if the blood wasn’t quite the red she was used to.

Whatever the blankets were made from, they smelled like wet wool, and didn’t burn like wool. They smothered the electro-whips, but she was focused on keeping their own wounded stable. The fighters in the front surged forward and any fallen got pulled back where she could do what she could to stop bleeding and stabilize other injuries.

Then the shouts, in two languages of ‘grenade’ and then the follow up of ‘gas' had her swearing as she scanned for their own, the kids and exits.

No chance. Not even with the one she’d tagged as somebody’s independent brain dumping a feline corpse over the gas canister. She was way too far back even without her knee slowing her down, and she still had patients to protect in case the gas didn’t take the slavers down fast enough.

The smell and taste of burning and rotting mint apparently was a universal constant, but this time it wasn’t coughing and streaming eyes.

It was unconsciousness.

Chapter 12: Sharl - You think you know witches from stories and such

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, leetuce, NittuSidhe, SharlHarmakhis, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Blech. Walking home afterwards is the worst part of Game Night. Especially walking past the construction site, even if it’s empty it’s still dark and their guard is instinctively up.

It has to be, of course. Short hair and baggy clothes aren’t enough to disguise a feminine build despite their height and sturdy Norwegian Peasant Genes (thanks, Great-Grandma), and that in and of itself might as well be a neon sign above their head blazing ‘PREY!’ as far as their anxiety is concerned. Some days they’re not sure what’s worse, the actual statistics or their own fear.

…that shadow behind them isn’t theirs. A heavy hand falls on their shoulder, the one not on the side with the Messenger-Bag of Holding, and for once ‘fight’ takes precedence over ‘freeze’ and they spin, leading with an elbow. The last thing they hear before the world dissolves into blue light and nothingness is a pained yowl.

They’re mildly surprised to wake up at all, and even more surprised to wake up still wearing their own clothes… short their coat, bag, and belt-pouch, which is annoying. They’re in a cage, which isn’t good, and sharing that cage with women and children. No-one presenting male in sight, at least not inside the bars, which is really not good, except for a few kids… and what’s outside the bars has them freezing and simultaneously blessing and cursing their latest autistic hyperfixation. Trandoshans and Zygerrians. f*cking Star Wars, they think.

The rules are passed around in whispers and song. Keep quiet, don’t speak but sing to ‘calm the children’, appear obedient and cowed. They can do this. Just abuser-dodging, bully-avoiding behavior ramped up to ten thousand and played for keeps, they’ve been training their whole life for this.

I don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they’re from.

Bury it down, bottle it in. Conceal, don’t feel. Lashing out at the wrong moment could get you, or worse, someone else, killed. Stretch that fuse as long as you can get it.

It’s sweet relief when the realization hits that the slavers don’t understand them any more than they and their captive fellows understand their captors, and they’re quick to volunteer a song when the turn comes ‘round to them. After what the kids have been through, they can handle a little carpet F-bombing directed at their tormentors, right? And it’s so bright and cheerful-sounding, surely it can’t mean anything bad…

“Look inside, look inside your tiny minds
Then look a bit harder
‘Cause we’re so uninspired, so sick and tired
Of all the hatred you harbor
So you say it’s A-OK to take slaves
Well we think you’re just evil!
You’re just some racists who can’t tie our laces
Your points of view are medieval!”

The tweaked words are a balm on their tweaked nerves.

“f*ck you, f*ck you! f*ck you very, very much!
‘Cause we hate what you do and we hate your whole crew
So please don’t stay in touch!
f*ck you, f*ck you! f*ck you very, very much!
‘Cause your words don’t translate and it’s getting quite late
So please don’t stay in touch!”

And yeah, they do hate the slavers. Both in general and personally. Look, they’re not great with kids. Parental instincts of a rock, neurotypical little-kid logic is even more from Mars than neurotypical adult logic, random screaming is sensory hell, and all that, plus the fear of accidentally scarring their tiny little minds for life. But like f*ck are they not going to at least try to be a meat-shield between a kid and whichever variety of sad*st has decided to beat on them.

This is the way.

So, they wait. Husband their resources in the face of not-enough-food. Limber up as best they can in the crowded conditions. Participate in the brainstorming sessions disguised as sing-alongs.

I’m not standing still, I am lying in wait!

When ‘Never Set The Cat On Fire’ goes around, they bless their ‘resting autism face’ because it’s funny, and make a note to remember to listen and feel for engine vibrations, no matter how hard they’re riding the edge of a meltdown.

Neutral jing involves listening and waiting for the right moment to strike.

If they let the wave they’re riding go at the wrong time, it’ll be disastrous for everyone in the hold, not just themself.

Wait for the opportune moment.

Even at the right moment, it’ll be bad, but far better the bad be mostly directed at the bad guys. They know themself, know how big the boom at the end of their carefully-cultivated long fuse is. Know just how much of an asshole they are when the gloves finally come off. Usually it’s a bad thing all around, they don’t want to lash out at family, friends, or random strangers, after all. But when presented with some f*ckers that really need biting?

The trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a mongoose.

And the trouble with smallish frightened humans in a cage is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a pissed-off Witch. It starts as a normal autistic overwhelmed meltdown, screaming the misery of the last however-long-it’s-been right at their tormentors, but suddenly the heavy tingling full-body rush that signals the touch of the Divine is there.

It’s more than they’ve ever managed to achieve before. On the rare occasions this has happened in ritual, the most they’ve experienced is a sense of parts they didn’t have… high jackal ears perking at a protest vigil in service of that which is Just, and so on. This is different. They can see the flutter of black wings out of the corner of their eyes, even with their glasses a distant memory, hear a sound half a raven’s croak and half a woman’s laugh, and they laugh in answer, viciously.

“Hail and welcome, Phantom Queen! I ask but one question of thee…”

Yes, child?

The crash and burn after this is going to be awful, but what the sh*t, it’s fight or die anyway. “HOW MANY OF THEM CAN WE MAKE DIE?!” And the world goes red in front of them.

They come back to themself an infinite now later with the hiss of gas and the beating of departing wings, swaying and in pain and with bloody hands and face in shades that aren’t human, staring at a figure in Clone Trooper armor who’s got a blaster pointed at them and ‘what the f*ck’ written in their body language in text even their autistic ass can read.

“Hail and farewell, Great Queen,” they manage to croak out before their world grays out into nothing and they drop like a brick.

Chapter 13: Kaysh - I'm nobody, who are you?

Chapter by Argentee, HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

Kathleen crept out of the side door and eased it shut behind her. She had to get out of the house, just for a bit. Normally she'd not dare try sneaking out at night. The girls' bedroom was at the back of the house, and sneaking out past her sisters, and Gigi, and Grandma Betty who was up all hours taking care of Gigi, and Grandpa Robert who was a night guard at the factory, and her parents was just impossible. She normally couldn't get a drink of water in the middle of the night without at least two people getting up to check that she was alright.

But right now her dad's mom, Grandma Heather, was visiting and had her bed, so Kathleen was sleeping on the couch. Grandma Heather hated Grandma Betty, because Grandma Betty moved in with them to make it easier to care for Gigi and all day long had been making nasty comments. About how her eldest, Robert, had three sons while momma had only given her dad a bunch of daughters. About how the world was going to hell because of sinners and women working outside the home, never mind that daddy was on 100 percent disability because what the military hadn't done for, the cancer had. Nasty comments about how Grandma Betty kept house, about how Kathleen always had her nose in a book, about how Kim was a tomboy and how Clara would never be pretty enough to get a husband and...

Kathleen took a deep breath and let it out. Grandma Heather might wear a nicer dress to church on Sunday, but as Grandma Betty put it, if God was Love there wasn't a bit of God in Grandma Heather. Being under the same roof as the woman felt like breathing poison. Kathleen carefully stepped over the step that creaked and walked towards the back of the property. There was plenty of moonlight, and she picked a couple snap-beans to nibble on as she made her way past the garden.

If Grandma Heather hadn't been here, she would have maybe sat up with Gigi and read a bit. If two teenagers hadn't been found dead just across the county line, she might have walked up the road a bit and caught Grandpa Robert on his way home. But bodies had been found, and then whisked away by some government men and no one knew who they were or where they were from. Not local, at least. When Priscilla Clayton and the preacher's son had run off, the whole county knew about it by lunch the next day. Still, if someone was dumping bodies Kathleen was staying away from the roads and strangers. She had American History in the same class as the Sheriff's youngest, no doubt they'd all be talking about it on Monday.

The only warning she had was the birds and insects going silent. A blast of wind from something large descending fast above her flattened her to the ground then a blue light sent her into blackness.

When Kathleen woke up, she was in hell. She barely noticed the metal floors beneath her, the bodies crammed in together, the way she curled up in a tight ball. All she could notice was the pain. Everything hurt. Everyone hurt. HerandSheandHisandFearandPainandPain and alltheboxesinherheadwereopenandshecouldn'tgetthemshutandpainandtoobigand too much of everything and it all hurt. She didn't start screaming. If she did she didn't think she could stop. She was vaguely aware of eating or drinking when one of the women put something in her hands, but her body was very small and very far away and the pain and misery was so very very big.

The music helped her find a way back. Things... wouldn't all go back in the boxes in her head. That worried her, but enough went in that she could start responding. Humming or singing softly along with the singing. Hiding the young kids behind her the way the other teens and tweens did. It wasn't a lot. She couldn't handle a lot. Her mouth was filled with the taste of blood even when it was bone dry. There was a ringing in her ears like screaming not so far away. It was enough. It had to be enough. It had to be.

Then came the day that the engines stopped.

AndThereWasScreamingInsideHerHead

The cages were open

SheWasScreamingInsideHerHead

Light panels were exploding

ScreamingAndThetasteOfBlood

andPainAndPainandPainandPain

Scaled and Furred bodies on the floor

TearandStabandShootandKill

Her hands were hot and sticky

RageandGriefAndPainandRage

She tasted blood

The smell of rotten mint cut through the air, and Kathleen found herself sinking into darkness.

Waking up was disorienting, and Kathleen did her best to hold still, to keep her breath slow. Mattress under her. She'd been bathed while unconscious and was in clean clothes. Footsteps were approaching. She barely slit her lids open, not letting herself think for fear of fear giving her away. Human. Male. Strange clothes. His hand clasped the light sheet covering her and she didn't think, she punched for his throat. The man flinched at the last moment, turning it from something potentially fatal to an uppercut that knocked him out.

Kathleen didn't wait to see one way or another. She was out the door and running. Someone stepped in front of her and she struck first for the gut and a moment later to the knees. Target down. Keep running. Larger man, her mind distantly noted small horns but didn't have time to think about it. Her punches were blocked, sidestepped, she dropped to one knee and when he moved closer headbutted him in the groin. That was effective but she found herself dog-piled from behind, heard a hiss, and the darkness came down again.

The next time she woke up, there was a boy her age or a little younger sitting on a chair off to the side of the foot of her bed. As soon as she woke up, he was grinning at her. "You are my hero. You headbutted Jedi Master Agen Kolar in the BALLS."

"I... are you crazy?" Kathleen's mind was racing. Jedi, what the f*ck? Or maybe kriff...

Jason grinned, "Well, I was a cosplayer with the Mandalorian Mercs back home so maybe. But yeah... we're in the Jedi Temple and the Zabrak you nailed in the balls is Master Kolar, part of the high council. My name's Jason."

"f*ck. That means we're in the clone wars." She felt like cold water had been thrown over her. Shock. She was going into shock. "Palpatine?"

"Is Chancellor. You're a fan?" the boy's eyes went even wider.

"Yeah... I write... oh f*ck, does that mean I've been writing real person fanfic? Oh god, I think I'm going to be sick." Kathleen felt her stomach lurch. "I mean... punch Qui-Gon, adopt Obi-Wan is my favorite trope but now..."

"But now if Qui-Gon isn't dead you can punch him for real. If Lucas has the timeline right, he's dead, but think happy thoughts!" He grinned as Kathleen gave a choked laugh. "Unfortunately, Basic is NOT English so... the communication barrier is a bitch. But I've been hanging out eavesdropping on newscasts and gossip and a lot of the names are the same. You haven't told me your name yet."

"Kathleen, but.... I might change that. I mean, it stands out here and... it's my mother's middle name, my great grandmother's first name, her grandmother's first name, the name of THREE of my cousins...."

Jason hummed, "But you don't feel like a Kathy or a Kate."

Kathleen snorted, "Think I can get away with telling the Jedi my name is Kaysh?"

Jason grinned. "Do it. I'll back you."

Chapter 14: Adenn- Nothing Could Contain the Rising of the Storm

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, leetuce, NittuSidhe, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

A window opened on the back of the old country house. A few moments later, a small shape crawled out. Dressed in old jeans and a warm coat, long blond hair twisted into a knot and secured with hair sticks at the nape of their neck. They had a backpack across their back but it wasn’t full of much. They weren’t planning to go far tonight.

The child slid the window closed and carefully replaced the window screen before darting off into the surrounding hills and shrubland. It wouldn’t do to leave any sign of their escape. The moon shone bright overhead, full enough that they didn’t bother with a flashlight as they ducked down old deer trails. It was nice to get out of the house. Away from the ghost of their mother that hung over everything.

They stopped at the base of a small cliff to toe off their shoes and shove them in the bag. The climb would be easier barefoot. They’d get better grip that way. Up they went, hand over foot until they reached the top. Shoes and backpack fell to the dirt beside them as they gazed out across the land. Here they could see the entirety of the ranch. Unbidden, their eyes strayed to the old farmhouse. It had been a week since the funeral, and everyone else was still mourning. It was too early to see if things changed in the house. They hoped it did, they wouldn’t know what to do if everything stayed the same.

Something rustled in the bush and they turned to look. If it was a hog they’d have to be careful. But the brush rustled again and whatever was moving was too tall to be any of the wild hogs around here. They’d have thought it was a deer if the nightlife hadn’t suddenly gone silent. The child watched the rustling brush. Maybe it was a coyote. Or a mountain lion, they still had those ‘round here.

They stood up. If there were mountain lions out it was safer to be at the house. But before they could start back down the cliff, something bright and blue slammed into them and the world tilted into darkness.

The next place they woke was a cage. Packed full of people and smelling of fear and sh*t. A slaver's hold. The walls whispered of pain and suffering. A thousand people chained and carted from place to place. To be sold like cattle.

Their planets first encounter with extraterrestrial life, and it was the damn slave trade. A bitter laugh escaped them. It was almost ironic. Evil was the same no matter where you went.
——

The fight was bloody, and Adelaide wasn’t scared. They should have been, most people would be. A fight for survival, up against literal slavers. But this was easy, there were bad guys, there were good guys, and the depuran made a mighty satisfying thump when they hit the floor.

They noted that their body felt distant and fuzzy in the way that signaled another dissociative episode, but that was a problem for future Adelaide. Present Adelaide just lost their stick to a depur’s neck and had to find a way to keep on fighting.

In the end they resorted to teeth. It was a familiar weapon though not one they’d used like this before. Maybe it wasn’t the most effective, maybe it left them open to attacks they could have avoided, but what did that matter? Either they’d be free or they’d be Free, and it didn’t really bother them which one came first.

A woman burst into view, all bloody teeth and deadly intent. She slid her knife behind what would be the ear of a lizard-like Depur and up into the brain.

“You fight to the end, kiddo,” growled a woman with warpaint the color of deep bruises rising like wings over her eyes and flowing like tears down from them to meet a wash of red dripping down her chin. “This isn’t the end, so keep fighting. Valhalla can f*ckin’ wait their f*ckin’ turn.”

“I won’t let them kill me,” Adelaide grinned, and felt drying slaver blood crack around their mouth. They wouldn’t find dukkra today. They had nim, and they could choose life. They’d get free, they’d make it to that exit and out into the world. And anything that got in their way? Well, everyone was equal when faced with Lukka, even Depur.

“Lukka you bastard, get your dusty ass over here and help!”

***

Jester wasn’t nervous exactly. Sure, he didn’t really like being assigned rear containment, he’d rather be up there with his brothers giving the slavers a taste of his blaster, but he knew this was an important role too. Nobody wanted one of the shabuire breaking the cordon and getting away.

Still, something hummed in the air, like static before one of the really bad storms on Kamino, the ones with lightning that left scorches on the dispersal arrays and kept anyone from stepping foot outside. He tasted ozone and blood and it put him on edge.

The breach teams entered the hold of the ship, following the canisters of sedative gas. He heard shouts on the comms.
“Civvies!”
“Stun only! Switch your blasters to stun!”
“sh*t, she bit me!”
“Easy, there, I don’t want to-OOF.”
“Damn, that one can throw me any day.”

Jester blinked and pulled himself into a ready position, weapon set to stun. Moments later, a flood of women and children poured out of the gap left by the breach team. They roiled, almost, like that time he’d been scavenging in the lower levels and accidentally disrupted a nest of swarm rats. It made it impossible to draw a bead on any one of them until they scattered, splitting up and drawing off individual squads of Corries to try to track them down.
One though, charged right at him. Skeletally thin, wide eyes showing white all the way round the iris which was practically black with blown pupils, face curled into the very image of rage given flesh. There was blood frothing with spittle at their lips, and on their bony, claw-like hands as they rushed him.

He got his weapon up, but he hadn’t pulled the trigger when their eyes rolled back and they collapsed, a strangely boneless crumpling for someone who seemed to be mostly bone and skin. He holstered his weapon, and moved to do a first aid check.

“This is Breach Lead, the ship’s hold is secured. May all the little gods have mercy on us for it.”

***
Adelaide was getting real tired of waking up in strange places. The room was cold and clean and smelled strongly of disinfectant. There was a myriad of fancy looking machines around them and several IVs. Their clothes had been changed to an odd looking hospital gown, but upon inspection the string of Japor snippets was still snug around their torso.

So, they were in a hospital of some sort. But had they gotten out? The last thing they remembered was Lukka f*cking off as they tried to get past a wall of soliders, so probably not. Best to treat it like they’d been caught.

Okay, planning time. They needed to get out of here, but how? They didn’t know where any exits were, had zero backup, and didn’t speak the local language, unless Amatakka was miraculously spoken here but even then they weren’t gonna use that with potential depuran.

Fighting wasn’t an option. They’d get caught and any chance of escape would go out the window. Better to bide their time.

Adelaide shifted in the bed, curling up to make themselves look smaller and less interesting. If they could get the depuran to lower their guard; see them as unimportant, then they might have a chance of slipping out when no one was looking. They’d figure out freedom once they got it.

They watched as a depur walked in. Tall, fishlike, with heavy bags under his eyes. Whoever this guy was, he was exhausted. He was also panicking, looking around the room, muttering something under his breath.

Could he not see them? That wasn't good. If they disappeared too early all their plans could get f*cked up.

***

Padawan Avnuc should have been fine, all they were supposed to be doing was checking the readouts of the machines on the more impaired residents of the Healing Halls. Nothing was blaring on the main Nurse’s station, so Nurse Vergere wasn’t expecting trouble for the Padawan. However, they triggered their emergency alert, so she huffed, and headed into the indicated room.

“Now what is… oh,” she said, noting the seemingly empty bed that had panicked the Senior Padawan. None of the alerts indicated the various tubes, wires, and sensors had been disturbed, though, and this was not Vergere’s first running of the banthas. “Go get a mirror, Senior Padawan.”

Avnuc was an adaptable sort, and ran to do so.

“Alright, that is a very good notice-me-not, but it will not work on me. I put up with the Shadows, you aren’t going to be worse than them. So here’s what we will do. I will show you why we need you to stay put, and if you persist in attempting to prevent your own healing, we will be bringing in a far more aggressive mind healer than I am.” She flicked her nictitating membranes at the seemingly empty bed.

Avnuc returned, and Vergere took the mirror with a word of thanks, turning it to hold up for the being in the bed. The Force gasped for lack of a better word, and the skeletal patient reappeared. Vergere grabbed their chart. Severe Force burnout, including signs of recent encounter with a nexus event or presence, dangerously low body fat percentage, and several enzyme markers indicating the body had begun breaking down muscle mass as well. A dip in bacta had repaired all the organ and nerve damage, with supplement nutrition lines supplying the needed material for the body to reinforce the weakened bone mass and replace the muscle and fat loss. None of that had fully taken effect though.

“As you can see, you’re not in great shape,” Vergere said firmly.

“aɪ doʊnt ˌʌndərˈstænd ju,” the being in the bed said in a small voice.

“Yes, I suspect we don’t share a language, none of the others have,” Vergere sighed. “It’s alright. All I need is for you to stay still while things heal.”

She pulled out her data pad with the alert system pulled up, then slowly reached to tap the call button near the bio-bed. She watched as the young patient’s eyes tracked the light that flared on the screen, then tapped it twice to deactivate it. She gestured to the button and watched them cautiously tap the button themself to activate and deactivate it, watching the alert screen the whole time.

Vergere pointed to the various wires and tubes, mimed pinching her arm with a soft yelp, and tilted her head in a manner most species with spinal chords considered ‘curious’. The patient rotated their head in a way that Vergere knew better than to assume meant no, but also made a soft patting gesture on their lap, a comfort gesture in 90% of all social mammalian species.

“Alright, if nothing hurts and you know how to call for help, I’ll get back to my shift. Please try not to panic the Padawans again.”

“Padawans?” the child said, the first word that had been understandable.

“Padawan Avnuc,” Vergere said, pointing to Avnuc, still hovering by the edge of the door. Then she pointed to herself. “Healer Vergere.”

“Jedi?” the patient asked, and Vergere bobbed her head happily. This one was at least new enough to the Sith hell that they’d been rescued from to recognise a Jedi. Although, they were also apparently new enough to still realize they needed to hide or escape from unknown beings when they’d clearly awakened believing to be slavers, and the others… well. Bar attempting to fight anyone who touched a child, many were far too relaxed, indicating a rather endemic normalization.

She added ‘speak to Mindhealer Annima'taa about the newcomers’ to her ever growing list of tasks, and left Padawan Avnuc to it.

Chapter 15: Kara-Dancing Through the Embers, Stirring Up a Storm

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

This… was not necessarily Kara's wheelhouse. But her fear had long burned to anger in this endless night – a fitting phrase from one of the others, she thought as she dug her fingernails into the jugular of the nearest cat-person, pleased that their anatomy was just human enough that it was still a weak point. And! All the tendencies that had disqualified her from wrestling with the other kids growing up were finally useful. Her opponent swiped at her but in doing so brought their hand far too close to her mouth and she bit down until she felt bones give under the pressure. The creature under her gurgled as she finished ripping their throat out and she scrambled up, stalling only long enough to spit the mouthful of blood on the corpse.

Fragile: Not like a flower… like a bomb.

Humans claimed to have Tamed fire, but because of that they often forgot its dangers. A carefully tended hearth, when left abandoned – or worse, desecrated – easily grows into an Inferno that destroys everything in its path.

Kara leapt onto the back of a lizard captor that was closing in on a couple Littles. She wrapped one arm around the neck from behind, the other hand clawing for their eyes as she yanked backwards to make them stumble a few steps back from the kids.

If they stand beside you, respect them. If they stand behind you, protect them. If they stand against you… destroy them.

Her skin was hot, blood nearly sizzling as it spattered over her hands from the slaver's ruined eye. At one point she could have sworn she was literally exhaling smoke. She'd known when she'd devoted herself to Hestia that She wasn't entirely the demure homemaker that many people thought of Her as, but the sheer heat of the bloodlust that flickered in Kara's vision did take her off guard a bit even as she buried her teeth into the slaver's neck – where the carotid would be on a human.

She would worry about that later.

For now there were Homewreckers (she snorted mentally at the thought – not quite what that word means but the only one she could think of at the moment) to raze and ruin. For now there were children to keep safe. Even if she couldn't protect them from the gruesome sight of the Slavers’ deaths, she could keep them alive . It would have to be enough.

For now… Kara was the vengeful and purifying Fires of Hestia. And every one of these monsters would burn .

~~~~

She woke slowly, though she didn’t entirely remember passing out. After she’d killed the lizard-person the rest of the fight was a bit of a blur. Only a couple snapshot-like scenes standing out clearly: a woman with intense makeup and blood far too dark to be human dripping from her chin; a cat-person getting knifed by someone with two tone hair and glowing hands; a woman with dark brown hair and a grip on a redhead girl while wielding a gun; a dark haired woman whipping a hairstick out of her bun and driving it into a cat-person’s eye; white and red armored figures that looked kind of familiar but not in any way that she could place.

The next thing she was aware of was the singing and she relaxed a bit.

Take my Love, take my land

Take me where I cannot stand

I don't care

I'm still Free

They can't take the sky from me

They had been moved, but they were safe. For now. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look around. She was in what seemed like a hospital room of some kind, an IV in her arm. One of the kids who'd been her section on the ship… Jason, she thought his name was, was sitting between her bed and another. A woman with red and blue streaks in her hair was laying in the bed behind him, asleep.

Jason grinned at her as soon as he saw she was awake. “It's a good song,” he commented, “and I love Firefly as much as the next nerd, but it's the wrong franchise.”

“Franchise?”

“Though, to be fair, Star Wars music doesn't really have lyrics.”

“Star Wars.” Kara deadpanned, sitting up and looking around what she – with the context Jason had provided – easily recognized as the Jedi Temple. “Huh.” After a brief moment of existential crisis, she mentally threw her hands in the air and decided to roll with it. Sure. They're in the GFFA. Why not. “You ever see Rowan the Bard's stuff?” Her mouth twisted into a wry grin as she started humming Song of the Midnight Blade and Jason laughed delightedly.

“Just a heads up, Basic is not English, or any other languages that any of us speak, so we're still dealing with that.” Not all that surprising – though still inconvenient, and Kara was by no means a polyglot for all that she was a bit of an etymology nerd. (She spared a moment to mourn one of her favorite podcasts.) “We're avoiding saying specific names because there's no telling if those do translate.”

“Wouldn't be too surprised if they did.” Kara muttered, “Names are just a series of sounds that you assign to refer to yourself specifically. No interpretation necessary.” Jason laughed again. “How long has it been and how did we get here?”

“It’s been about a day. The Coruscant Guard showed up right at the end of the Uprising and brought us to the Temple.”

“The Guard” she murmured, “so… Clone Wars?”

Jason nodded in confirmation. “You were separated for a bit because you had a pretty serious fever - at least I think that’s what the readings they were taking meant. And you were covered in blood. But you stabilized quickly and most of the blood wasn’t yours so they were able to move you to a recovery room for monitoring a few hours ago.”

Kara nodded and sat up, checking herself over for both injuries and her belongings. Finding at least her necklaces – and those were the important ones – intact she let herself fully relax and turned to Jason again. “So. Do you have any idea when I can get out of here? And where I can get something to Burn? Or will I be making do with the hem of my shirt.”

She had her Lady to thank.

…

…

…

So it turns out she's pyrokinetic in the GFFA.

Talk about a Blessing from Hestia, but now she has to figure out how to control it.

Chapter 16: Vokara - There is NOT Enough Tea

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

Being a healer meant dealing with all kinds of nonsense.

Almost a hundred slaves from beyond the Force knew where who were one and all insanely force sensitive was more than enough mayhem. They all were dehydrated, malnourished and showing all the expected signs of abuse and that was without the reports from the Guard that they’d come in to fight their way into the ship flagged by the Shadows as highly suspicious only to get a bigger fight than they expected from the captive slaves fighting their way out.

Not a single one had any basic.

Two had reacted badly to stun rounds and the crowd suppression gas canisters. One was in bacta, the other one…

If anyone had told her a small human woman could soak a dozen stun rounds and come back out of it essentially intact Vokara would have been giving that person some very heavy side eye and reaching for a sedative hypo.

But that one they had multiple helmet camera views that confirmed this particular patient had shrugged off eight rounds before having several hit at once and finally going down. That one at least was safely ensconced in a bio-bed as they waited for the supportive fluids to do their work.

Then there were more routine screenings on the rest. There were allergies, two had life threatening nut allergies, but for species specific, the weirdness there flagged up hard enough it couldn’t be ignored.

Pure human.

No hybrid genetics anywhere.

Every other human she’d ever dealt with had some smidgeon of other genetics.

That riding with the lowest M count being solidly in the middle 13,000’s…

And some of them could pull a Notice Me Not that had made Padawan Avnuc rightfully panic and call in Nurse Vergere to pull out some of their ‘dealing with traumatized Shadows’ tricks. If that particular child hadn’t been so desperately fragile and needing so much nutritional support it would have been funny.

None of the force tricks they could pull felt remotely funny right now.

Vokara slugged down her tea and rubbed her eyes.

When another panic button alert sounded, she firmly gave her frustrations to the force and hurried to deal with it.

Padawan Talsai, again, backing away from one of the women who was standing very defensively in front of an assortment of the freed younglings.

The frantic babble about the woman being violent was more than likely an overreaction, and was interrupted by a clever bit of patterned clapping that the younglings echoed. After a level look at the other woman who was now sure of Vokara’s attention, she got a very speaking bit of pantomime about someone grabbing without care and getting an appropriate warn off, complete with a very disturbing imitation of an angry nexu, before settling with a very clear look of ‘so now what’ on her face.

Vokara sighed. Padawan Talsai’s protests that he’d tried fell flat, their version of trying was in fact very trying to everyone attempting to instruct them.

She hadn’t drunk nearly enough tea for this nonsense.

A bit of pantomime back with her scanner got cooperation, more than that it got the woman to encourage the children to cooperate as well, which made getting some baselines far easier.

One needed dietary supplements, they were one of the ones who had allergies so they probably hadn’t been eating at all well. Two needed shots to try and get ahead of respiratory infections that were commonplace in children rescued from slavers. One would need some very close monitoring as it looked like they might have one of the nastier degenerative nerve disorders. Fortunately, it was something they could easily treat if it really was that particular nasty and not the less serious seizure disorder that it mimicked in these very early stages. And if it was just the less serious seizure disorder, well, they made calibrated implants that would interrupt things before they did damage, it would just take some tinkering. Tinkering that was hard enough in a youngling who could understand a request for cooperation. Well, they could monitor and gene therapy was just a set of shots, it might not be as ethical as she’d like but leaving a child to suffer just wasn’t something she was prepared to do. The woman also needed a round of inhalable bacta as she seemed to have an untreated form of reactive alveolar syndrome. She was beyond fortunate that she hadn’t had issues in captivity, slavers tended to not deal well with health issues like RAS. Vokara wished yet again she could talk to these people, as explaining the treatment with pantomime was less than ideal and showing the scans was only marginally helpful.

Getting cooperation with the small groups was heavily hindered by the language issue and by the fact none of these people responded well to attempts at outside calming.

At least this woman was clever enough to find a work around. Unfortunately, someone had sworn in the presence of the children because one of the older ones had used karking while answering the woman after passing around bowls of nuna and noodle soup.

The reflexive scold got her ‘kriff ænd kark” chanted back at her with an ear-to-ear grin. Her pained sigh got her a look of complete commiseration. At least the little hellion had some sort of supervision that wasn’t her. She didn’t have enough time to ride herd on more than she already did.

The portions had been small to hopefully avoid the patients gulping it down and making themselves ill, but the woman seemed aware of that possibility too. She led the children in taking a small sip and waiting, perhaps testing for allergies, before letting them eat the rest in tiny, slow sips.

Vokara was pondering how to explain bathing without having one of the children screaming blue murder thinking they were being assaulted again when the woman did an exaggerated sniff of her armpit and made a face as if things had stunk, waved a hand in front of her face, then shrugged. The mime of washing up and inquiring face made more sense than her words but at least this was something she could do.

The snide question from Padawan Talsai about how she was going to teach these dumb savages to shower had her snarking back that she’d strip and demonstrate. That, in turn, had Padawan Talsai sputtering and backpedaling.

She had to give her irritation to the force when Padawan Talsai made another much less than kind remark under their breath about the level of intelligence they clearly felt these survivors didn’t have. As if they would have done any better if they were dropped on any number of planets with very differing technology and very different hygiene regimens. She’d have to bring up some very serious sensitivity training for several of these trainees. Calling them savages was neither accurate nor was it kind and calling them stupid, well sooner or later everyone would be in a situation where they would look like an idiot no matter how wise and knowledgeable and intelligent one was. Just the glaring lack of decency and compassion was setting her teeth on edge and the smug and superior attitude would not get them cooperation from a hostile patient who could speak the language, never mind these poor souls who didn’t even have that. Demonstrating water and sonics to the sharp-eyed woman and the one hellion at least got the hygiene issues of this group sorted. And given how closely the rescues interacted she could take some relief in that the instructions would get passed on to others. She allowed herself to be nudged out where there was at least the illusion of privacy, and made sure clean clothing was available to dress the younglings in as they were given very thorough individual baths.

Listening made her think, just from the emotions coming off the woman and the one child, they weren’t related at all. They might well have not had any acquaintance at all before the slavers grabbed them, but they were united in protecting the smaller ones.

That at least seemed consistent, the older watching out for the younger.

She just wished they could actually talk to these people.

Chapter 17: Iviivian - Hissy Fit

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Good news: They were out of the slaver ship!

Bad news: The people who had ‘rescued’ them also didn’t speak any of the languages any of them spoke. And while they looked mind-bendingly like Jedi, they didn’t seem to be nearly as empathic as one would expect from literal empaths.

She had done plenty of traveling, worked with plenty of students who didn’t speak English, language barriers were not insurmountable problems when both parties were willing to try. It was easier when you shared a language, but not impossible to get by without that. And yet, the main feelings she got from these probably Jedi was a sort of checked out bureaucrat vibe, crossed with a side of some doctors talking over you and ignoring everything you tried to bring up.

She got it. They didn’t share a language. If this was somehow the Jedi temple during the clone wars, they were likely spread very thin and under incredible stress. She usually tried her best to be compassionate and remind herself that caretaker burnout was a thing, and other people had bad days too. But if one more person treated her like livestock, she was going to lose it.

She’d already been seen by healers once shortly after she’d woken up. She’d had her injuries from the escape treated with fruity scented bandages and been talked at and over before they’d released her to a room of others from the ship. Without much else to do, she’d returned to the task of soothing and comforting the children she’d found herself placed with.

Hours later, when she’d nearly gotten the children to settle down to sleep, strangers had tromped in and tugged her out again. A handful of children also got pulled from various rooms, with one child who hadn’t been on the list refusing to be separated from a sibling and being allowed to come along, and another of the older boys simply attaching himself to the group and refusing to be shooed away.

At first the escort seemed to want to put them in different rooms, but her flat refusal to let herself be separated from the children eventually resulted in the little group all being placed in a room together. It would doubtlessly be much less frustrating if she knew why they were doing this, but the language barrier was once again standing in the way.

Another probably a doctor or healer of some sort walked into the room she and the six children had been herded to. Without even glancing up from the tablet their eyes were glued to, they started to sidestep her and reach for one of the kids.

“RRrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrooooooooooooWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLL!!!”

It really was a bit funny how fast and far the doctor leaped back, and how wide their eyes went. She’d grown up around cats, and apparently the “I’m going to rip your face off” growl of a cat about to do excessive amounts of violence translated better than any of her attempts to speak thus far.

She stepped firmly in front of the children, chin lowered, lips curled back from her teeth, weight on the balls of her shoulder width apart feet, knees slightly bent, arms low but spread, staring at the healer like the next door neighbor’s herding mix.

The healer swallowed. Oh good, they’d gotten the message.

The healer started making soothe the angry animal toned words, which came with a sensation of…well, it wasn’t physical, but it was sort of similar to a feeling of being mentally petted? Like the soothing was both vocal and mental.

Yeah, no. She hissed, delicately, imagining fur standing up and hooking her fingers into claws. The soothing sensation vanished.

Standing up straight and giving her best Parental Disappointment Look at the healer, she paused to let the healer process the change. Then she pointed at them. Mimed grabbing. Pointed at herself. Mimed clawing. Paused. Pointed at them. Mimed offering an open hand. Pointed at herself. Mimed gently setting one hand in the other.

Come on, she mentally encouraged the healer. Most people did not react well when you tried to snatch their young. For that matter, most people didn’t like being manhandled themselves. This was not a difficult concept.

A shared language helped communication, but it wasn’t necessary. She had taught quite a few children who didn’t speak the same language as anyone else in the room to select and check out library books with just a few minutes of effort. This healer was presumably not a small child, and she was trying to explain the much more basic idea of “grabbing bad.” Given the attempt to soothe her a moment ago, her theories about empathy were looking more and more likely.

The healer reached up and pressed a button clipped to their shirt, making no attempt to reach back or communicate anything themselves.

“Really?” she asked, exasperated. “I hope you’re an intern, because this? This is just sad,” she told the healer, despite knowing they wouldn’t understand a word. A hand came up to rest on her hip, and she granted the skittish being the same look of wry disappointment she’d give a toddler found in a mud puddle.

Moments later the door swished open again, and she found her knees bending as she rocked onto the balls of her feet and her hands fell loose and ready. Another healer, this one with blue skin, hurried in. Her lekku were much more graceful than even the animated shows had suggested, and something about the movement of the tips reminded her of an annoyed cat. The two healers started talking at each other, ignoring the patients in the room. Grabbing her patience with both hands, she pulled herself back into a more neutral posture, then gently clapped a slow-slow fast-fast-fast pattern. Four of the six children behind her predictably clapped the pattern back to her.

“Good job, thank you children,” she praised. Then she turned her attention to the new probably a healer. They didn’t look like security, but that was always a possibility. Most likely, they were a senior healer, come to help the other one. They were at least paying attention now, and looked expectant.

Moving slowly and clearly, she pointed at healer one, mimed grabbing, and pointed at the children behind her. Pointed to herself, then dropped back into the aggressively defensive posture from earlier, and let out another growl and hiss. Stood back up, pointed at healer one, and mimed panicking and pinching at where the call button was on the healer’s lapel. Settled into a casual hipshot stance, and gave the new healer an expectant look.

The new healer took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. The next words they said still didn’t make any sense, but the tones of someone stuck managing panicking idiots far too often were fairly universal. The healer took out a scanner, ran it over herself, indicated the green lights and said something in a chipper, happy tone. The Healer then carefully ran the scanner over her, and when the scanner went over her bandaged areas, the lights turned yellow. The healer said something serious but not overly so, and mimed wrapping bandages.

The new healer then looked between her and the nearest child, pointed to the scanner, pointed to the child, and said something polite but questioning.

She smiled, lips covering teeth, and nodded. “Sweeties, we’re going to let the nice doctor help us,” she told the children. Gently, she reached for the child the healer had indicated, pausing and waiting for the child to close the distance themselves. Modeling the desired behavior! It was magic! She gently urged the child forward, keeping the hand on their shoulder as the healer scanned them.

The healer scanned the child carefully. Some scrapes and bruises got carefully washed and bandaged with something that smelled like overripe pineapple and spilled hawaiian punch. The bandages had little cartoon cat-like creatures on them. The healer indicated the bandage as a whole. "Wriþels" The plain bandage on her wrist was also "wriþels" the little cartoon cat things were indicated with "Tooka".

All of the children were scanned, one at a time. One got something to drink that made the girl grimace a little and complain "Tastes like fake oranges." Two of the kids got treated with something that made a little puff noise against the skin, but no complaints from the kids of any pain from an injection.

The youngest spent the longest being scanned, the healer’s lekku twisting in what she thought could have been worry. Of course, she didn’t actually know anything about lekku body language, but something about the sinuous motion just felt like worry. A final scan with a different scanner that kept flashing lights in a sequence even after it was done scanning seemed to be the last of the testing needed for the little one, the secondary scanner set aside to possibly continue processing data if the flashing lights meant it was still doing things.

After the children had all been looked at, the healer turned to her. Even though she’d already been given some bandages, this scan was possibly more in-depth, as the device flickered amber over her chest. That earned her a few moments taking deep breaths from a mask with some sort of pineapple tinged mist.

Meanwhile, idiot healer one had left the room and did eventually roll in a cart with multiple shelves and what looked like bowls of soup with noodles. The sensible healer took a bowl, took a sip, then offered the bowl to one of the children. It even smelled like chicken noodle soup. No spoons or utensils, though the bowls were almost cup shaped with how deep they were, and easy to drink from.

“Okay kids. Take one sip of your soup, hold it in your mouth a moment. If it tingles or tastes spicy, spit it out. If not, you can take slow sips, but don’t gulp. You’ll make yourselves sick. Alright?” She helped hand each child their cup, and once all the kids had a serving, took her own and demonstrated the slow, careful sips she wanted the kids to use.

A boy of eleven or so muttered, "I wish it was spicy. Who do I have to stab to get some hot sauce?" Which made some of the smaller kids giggle. From his accent and tan he was probably from Texas or somewhere in the southwest USA. "But spicy when it shouldn't be... allergies?" He gave her a questioning look.

“Yes, spicy when it shouldn’t be could mean allergies, that’s right,” she praised. “We don’t know what food they have here. They obviously aren’t all just humans here, and we don’t even know if the human looking people are actually like Earth humans or just look like it. So we need to be careful when we try things, just in case.”

The boy nodded to the sensible healer. "She looks like a Twi'lek... and the guys who gassed us, red and white armor like the Coruscant Guard... are we in karking Star Wars?"

The sensible healer said something mildly scolding in his direction. The grin the boy got was pure mischief. "Kark and Kriff, Kark and Kriff, Kark and Kriff." The sensible healer gave a sigh of martyrdom and LOOKED at her with the 'Sorry he's YOUR problem but not REALLY sorry' look of someone who is GLAD to be able to pass the buck for a change.

She sighed and returned the look of the Tired Parent. “Yes, I suspect we are, somehow, in Star Wars. Clone wars era, to be specific, though I’m not sure when in that time period. Be careful making assumptions though. We may see things that we expect, like bacta, but other things may well be different. And even when we do get the language sorted out, we probably shouldn’t try to explain having movies about this place back home,” she warned.

As slowly as they were trying to sip, the soup was rapidly disappearing. As long as they had someone sensible in the room, she might as well try to address another issue. She mimed sniffing her armpit, made an exaggerated face of disgust while waving her free hand in front of her nose, then gave a dramatic shrug and looked around. “Where can we wash?” She mimed washing up a bit, keeping her expression quizzical.

Sensible healer opened what turned out to be a door, the 'lock' looked more like the touch controls on a fridge than a lock. There was what looked like a toilet, but no toilet paper and it had a touchscreen control with way too many options, a sink, and a cubicle that might have been a shower but again with the touch screen. Healer one said something in a sarcastic tone, sensible healer responded back calmly... and healer one blushed a purply-red. So maybe not pure human.

Sensible healer then demonstrated how things worked by, well, using them. No modesty, not even a blush, just a matter of fact demonstration of the controls. The toilet had a bidet built in and a drying function as well as what was probably a sonic feature. The shower had both water and sonic features, though sensible healer didn't seem to enjoy the sonic feature much. There was also a warm air dry like a full body blow dryer built into the shower.

While she wouldn’t have wanted to have to figure out all the controls by trial and error, most of it seemed fairly understandable after demonstration. Which wasn’t actually that surprising, considering these were hygiene facilities that would be regularly used. She shooed the still dumbstruck hopefully padawan out of not just the bathroom, but the treatment room completely. She did not envy whoever that idiot’s primary teacher was. Common sense isn’t was apparently just as true here as back home.

After the moron was removed, she turned to the other healer. Sensible healer allowed herself to be directed to a spot where she couldn’t see into the bathroom, but was on hand in case they had trouble. She also helpfully provided clean clothes that looked to be roughly the right sizes from another compartment in the cart. With the wrapped and belted styles, the fit wouldn’t have to be too precise, and it would be nice to have clean clothing to put on after the showers.

The boy who had been a brat earlier was now behaving, or at least helping the little kids get cleaned up. "I'm Jason... we need to find if Palpy is Chancellor and get the heck out of the Temple before purge... I'm trying SO hard to avoid proper names, just in case... I mean, we don't know if the movies and all are accurate, but can we take the chance and..." He took a couple deep breaths. "If we get out of the temple and if the language is accurate I... um... My family cosplayed with the MMC, I was riding my bike home alone when I got snatched, but..." His voice dropped to a whisper, "I speak fairly good Mando'a. Maybe we can find a translator droid or data pad or something and find out if it's a real language here..."

She hummed a soothing tone for a moment, recognizing the careful attention to keeping calm and focusing on what could be done. She addressed the last bit of what he’d said first. “Well, even if it isn’t a real language here, I’d love it if you could help me polish the bits of that language that I have. If nothing else, it will be a good bit of practice, since we’re going to have to learn whatever the local language is. I have some of the vocabulary down, and I understand more than I speak, but I wouldn’t call myself fluent by any means.”

She huffed a ghost of a laugh through her nose. “I’ve had to restrain myself from commenting on the loneliness of some people’s decidedly singular braincells. I know they’re probably stretched thin and burnt out, but some of these folks have me wanting to wish them days exactly as pleasant as they are.” She paused to work out a tangle in the youngest girl’s hair, smoothing it gently.

“Good call on the proper names, and you’re right. We need to get out of the temple. Depending on when we are, that might be more or less urgent, but better to be out of the temple well before any unfortunate regime changes. Here, hold this for me?” With the children clean and dressed in fresh clothes, she passed over her much-abused hairstick and started unbraiding her hair. She’d done her best, but calf length hair really couldn’t just be given a lick and a promise, and the sluice downs were not real showers. She couldn’t take all the time she wanted to just stand and enjoy the luxury of a real shower after all this time, but she was going to take the time to at least wash her hair properly while she had the chance.

“As for my name, you can call me…Libby, at least for now. I was an elementary school librarian back home. You’re doing a great job keeping it together, Jason. For now, we’ll do our best to hold it together, get the lay of the land, and stay as safe as we can.”

Jason gave her a little smile, "I... I was alone, my family's home, they're SAFE... they won't know what happened to me, but they're safe. That... that helps. A lot of the other kids, they saw their parents... parents fight for their kids, you know? Slavers don't want fighters." He gave a brittle little chuckle. "They chose the wrong karking planet for that..." He took a breath and let it out. "Get... get your shower, I'll watch the littles, they're sleepy with their tummies full and... I know how to braid hair if you want a hand."

The tangles didn’t take too long to straighten out, even without a comb. Not sleeping much meant not tossing and turning to tangle the little stubborn hairs that liked to snarl even when her hair was braided. And actual warm water? The little things in life really were worth appreciating.

“I was on vacation with my mom. Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a run around the hotel pool. I…I still imagine a version of me going back to the room, finishing the vacation, and going back to work like everything is normal. I know it didn’t happen, I know mom is worried about me, but yeah, at least she’s safe. And us? We’re grade A deathworlders. We’ve marched ahead, but we’re still alive. We’ll find our feet. Humans are good at survival, and we’re from a crazy pressure cooker planet.” The combination of water followed by sonic and the warm air dryer did a lot to leave her feeling refreshed and clean, even without fancy scrubs or soaps. It even got her hair from ‘smuggling three days’ water rations’ to ‘about the right level of just damp to braid for really nice waves later’ in less time than the shower had taken. Truly a miracle.

Libby grabbed the clothes that had been left for her, dressing quickly. She paused for a moment at the tunics, trying to recall which way the Jedi had wrapped them. She couldn’t quite remember, so she went with left over right, like she would a yukata. If nothing else, that gave her a convenient pseudo-pocket to use. She’d check the next few Jedi she saw, and correct her tunics if they all wore them right over left.

“I haven’t had anyone braid my hair for me in ages. I can do it myself, but if you’d like to, I wouldn’t mind. I can show you how to tie a braid off with ribbon or string too. That’s what I prefer, and I don’t actually have any elastics on me.” She sat down, back to Jason to allow him access to her hair as she pulled her socks on. Forgoing the soft, highly adjustable looking slipper-boots that came with the new clothes, she shoved her feet back into her own shoes and hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder. Competent, blue, female presenting healer. Do you think our healer is who I think it might be?”

Jason mmhm'd "I heard Heblerner Che and Jaieh Che from the younger one... so Che is her name and the other two I think are titles. But I can't be a hundred percent sure..." His hands were gentle and he definitely seemed to have done this before. "Mom would braid the ribbon in for the last six inches or so, and then use the ribbon to tie it off and up. Do you want to do that? I learned to help mom and sis... we do cons and costumes together."

“This ribbon I usually do the last nine inches or so, it’s cut a bit long and I don’t like the bow at the end being too large when I’ll use a nautilus bun and stick to secure it. Usually I just go with a simple bow, then knot the loops to keep it from coming loose when I’m not paying attention.”

There was no help, and quite possibly was harm, in focusing on their losses right now, when they didn’t have the safety and security to devote time to the mourning and recovery. But there was, perhaps, room for the type of lighter reminiscing, the sort that a fan might engage in with others as a fun pastime. With that in mind, Libby turned her attention to teasing out happier stories and filling the silence so fear couldn’t sneak in. “Which cons and costumes have you done? My mom doesn’t cosplay, but she helps me make my costumes sometimes.”

Jason hummed happily as his hands worked, "Star Wars Celebration, Comic Con Austin and San Diego, Dragon con a couple times... World Con twice. My first con I was like, four months old. Mom was the March Hare, Dad the Mad Hatter, Sis Alice, and I was the Dormouse.... Started doing a certain baby bounty hunter at eight, with sis doing... the genetic template. Not like you can tell gender in full armor. We both had personal armor as well for MMC... Mom and Dad are 501st.... We do hospital visits and stuff like that in costume. I've done a bunch of lego characters, those are cool. Robin and sis doing Batgirl, Mom and Dad doing Talia Al Ghul and Batman. Family costumes are always fun. And sometimes my parents will help organize huge group costumes. Like one year we had 20 different Deadpool variations. Wading pool. Mimepool. Lady Deadpool. Winnie the pool. It was hysterical."

“Deadpool cosplayers can be amazing. So much chaos, so many shards of the fourth wall scattered around.”

Jason laughed at that, finishing up the braid. "There! See what you think." He hesitated, "Ma'am... if we can learn to speak Basic, do you think we could try and change things? Or... well, if it turns out my Mandalorian is passable, we could try to run away to little Keldabe but... what the Emperor will do, it's so horrible..."

Libby ran a hand over the braid, pulling the end around to look at it. “Great work, very neat and even.” With a quick twist and a bit of winding and tucking, the braid went from long rope to a complex looking knot that kept itself in place even without her hairstick. Turning on her knees, she settled back on her heels, head a bit lower than Jason’s.

“The Emperor is horrible, you’re absolutely right. Ideally, we’d like to prevent his rise. But first? First we need to heal, and to gather information. We had to wait for the ship to land before we could break free. Now? We need to learn when we are and what is happening here before we try to do anything drastic. We’ll likely only get one shot at something that important, so we need to do it right the first time.”

She snagged her hairstick from where it was peeking out of the folds of Jason’s wrap shirt. Rising, she used the sink sonics to clean the stick, then slid it into her bun. Turning back to Jason, she rested one hand on his shoulder. “So start by healing, by learning the local language. We’ll keep our ears open, try to learn when we are. We’ll stay ready in case anything happens. And just like before,” her smile grew sharp, “we’ll wait to set the cat on fire.”

Chapter 18: Sharl - waking up from ash and dust (welcome to the new age)

Chapter by SharlHarmakhis

Chapter Text

The next time they wake up, they’re in what feels like a hospital bed, and everything hurts. Including the light, when they crank open an eyelid that feels like it weighs a ton. But someone is singing the opening theme to ‘Firefly’, and it doesn’t smell like sh*t and terror. There’s a sense of… focused scrambling, like whoever has them isn’t quite sure what to make of them yet.

The first thing they manage to get out of their throat is a zombie-esque groan. The second is a whimper of ‘I don’t envy Cú Chulainn one bit at all if that was a mini-riastrad’. Their opinion thus stated, they curl themself into a ball and hide their face under the thin blanket. Photons are being far too pointy.

They’re fully awakened by a gentle but firm coaxing that at first has them mumbling ‘g’way, Mom, my head hurts’ before it occurs to them that the kind but tired woman speaking to them is neither their mother or using a language they understand. That gets their head out from under the blanket and their eyes pried half-open while they feel instinctively for the glasses they know are gone.

The woman (as far as they know, if they had a language in common they’d ask) is wearing robes in varying shades of brown and beige. She is blue, and lovely if stressed-out, and has lekku. A Twi’lek. Well, they had confirmed the whole ‘galaxy apparently not-so-far-away’ thing… “Hi,” they say sleepily, squinting against the bright light. “I can’t understand you.” They haul themself into a half-seated position and tap their hand to their chest. “Shareth ket Harmakhis.” Then, a compressing gesture with their two hands, hoping the ‘for short’ translates. “Sharl.” Time to ditch the dead-name once and for all, nobody here to tell them they aren’t cool enough or whatever for the name that’s been in their heart for years.

The Twi’lek woman taps her chest in turn. “Hethlerner Vokara Che.” It’s like a bolt of energy and recognition shoots through them at that name. Crap, languages! Well, when in Star Wars, use a Star Wars language, and pray she’s been around the Vode long enough to understand…

“Jetii Baar’ur Vokara Che?” One rather startled-looking nod later, and Sharl is sagging back to their bed in utter relief. Safe. They’re safe. Well, safer, there’s still a war on and a Sith in the Senate pulling the strings and the entire f*cking nightmare of the chips in the Vode’s heads to deal with… but they can breathe. “Thank the gods. It’s wonderful to meet you, Jaieh Che.”

They’re almost too busy being relieved, and still headachy, that hasn’t gone away, to be amused at how round Healer Che’s eyes have gone, but (as one might expect of a Jedi) she masters herself almost instantly and pantomimes needing to check Sharl’s eyes. This is going to hurt, but they obligingly sit back up and hold open their eyelids for her to have a look… their vision is sharper than it should be without their long-destroyed glasses, and they want to know if it’s Herself’s parting gift.

The Jedi Healer makes some confused noises but doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong, which is a relief. Lowering the light levels doesn’t seem to be possible in such a large room, so Sharl is just going to have to embrace the suck. K’atini. They’ve soldiered through migraines before, they can do it again.

f*cking Star Wars. How about that?

The peace doesn’t last long, though. It seems like every junior healer in the whole giant room wants to poke and prod at them, and ask questions they can’t answer because they don’t understand them. They’ve always hated being the center of attention, especially suspicious attention, and the use of Penlights of Doom might bring a spark of amusem*nt at them being a universal constant, but it is not helping the migraine.

They all seem to be treating them like a venomous snake, half-fearful and half-fascinated, and Sharl is baffled as to why even as their shoulders steadily creep up around their ears until about the third… intern, they guess, they’ve got Intern Energy, peers at their eyes and lets slip a word they know. Sith. They’re tired and frustrated and their head aches so they give the kid a ‘really?’ look and tell them “If I was evil, would poking me when my head hurts be a good idea?”

It doesn’t help. There’s just more poking, as if they’re trying to get the eeeevil scary Sith to stop hiding and reveal themself for the monster they are and if they make Sharl mad enough they’ll drop the disguise. There’s no disguise though, just a headache and a lot of building up shields because f*ck are these idiots loud. And rude. And upsetting. Finally, on the verge of tears, they think very hard at the crowd to ‘go away please, you are hurting me!’

It doesn’t get them to go away, but it does bring Jaieh Che to check on what the mental noise was, and shoo the circle of padawans? Interns? Whatever the kids are, she makes them leave, and collects a thankful seated bow from Sharl. An idea strikes, and they make ‘sad puppy eyes’ at the Twi’lek Healer and mime something clamping tight around their head, hoping that ‘headache’ comes across.

It does, thankfully, and whatever she gives them lets them give another mimed ‘thank you’ and a surge of gratitude to her before they’re swept back off to sleep and away from the pain.

The next time they wake, and this is becoming bizarrely old hat to someone who’d never been knocked out or fainted before in their life, they’re in a smaller, private recovery room of some sort. The lights are blessedly dim, their headache is gone, and their clothes are folded by the bedside as well as a few shirts they’ve never seen before.

The necessity of the shirts becomes dismayingly clear in short order… their beloved ‘What Doesn’t Kill You Gives You XP’ T-shirt is ruined, the back and sides torn to unwearable shreds due to the slavers’ whips. They think they may be able to salvage the design for a back-patch if they can find a sewing machine, but that’s about it… and that’s if Star Wars sewing machines even work like Earth sewing machines. Or exist at all. Do droids do it all? …They’d better start learning Binary and make nice, then. Anyway.

The demise of their bra is another cause for dismay. Sure it had been old, but it’d still worked… but electro-whips were past its design parameters, they figure. Ew… and only a sort of wrap thing for replacement. If they ever get back to Earth they are punching Lucas so hard for being right about the bra thing. “Good thing the boob fairy mostly ignored me,” they gripe, hoping their wrapping job holds up. Underpants seem to be a universal constant, as do socks, and they’re surprisingly comfortable. Nobody’s gonna see them, so they aren’t fussed about color.

The shirts are inspected after their thankfully-whole jeans and boots have been happily put back on. Uck. Beige, paler beige, white… dark brown. That will do. ‘Dark brown for valor’, they think wryly. They haven’t been particularly valorous, in their opinion, but it beats f*cking beige, so on it goes. It ties like the top of the dobok they wore for their very-long-ago hapkido classes, which is neat and, between that and the wide belt that was also kindly provided, will hopefully help make up for any failures in sort-of-sarashi tying. Then out, because nobody had told them to stay and the door wasn’t locked. They want something to read!

Chapter 19: Ca'senaar - Answers in the wind

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

She woke to whispers again.

Emotion, yet peace.

Ignorance, yet knowledge.

Passion, yet serenity.

Chaos, yet harmony.

You are Safe.

Me, sure. Who else?

“You awake?” someone asked.

She rolled to squint at Docs. The room was too bright, but at least it was clean and she didn’t smell fear anymore. Annoyance, sure, a faint over-ripe pineapple tinge that could be a diabetic reaction but probably wasn’t unless Docs was better at hiding symptoms than most, but fear… not so much. The Differently Living felt calm enough, and Docs didn’t seem cagey or anything else that would indicate something hinky.

“Fine,” she grit out, groaning as her jaw finally loosened. She felt like the day after she won a bet by muscling through more volts on a souped-up TENS unit than either Boo-Boo or Magic.

Man, I miss those parties. Wish I had Boo-Boo or Cam here, they’d fix me up.

“Acronym or word?” Docs asked.

She snorted. Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional sure fit the bill.

“Three guesses, first two don't count. Sit rep?”

“How familiar are you with Star Wars?”

She blinked. “Ah, well that explains why the armor was for sh*t… f*ck. Where? When? If you say Sequels, I’m leaving. I’ll go be Maz Kanata’s pool girl in a synthleather bikini and the rest of the galaxy can suck it.”

“Well the Jedi Temple still seems to be a Jedi Temple, not a creepy Imperial Palace, and there are a bunch of hot, mostly identical men in armor so… Clone Wars.”

“Double f*ck. I am not at all familiar with that era. The animated series had this weird visual texture, so I never watched it. Some fanfics, but… not Canon.”

“Well it's probably not super close anyways. Nobody speaks English, Spanish, Russian, or anything else the others know. The Jedi are feeding us, clothing us, housing us, and treating our injuries, but from what I can tell, nobody has worked out talking to us yet. Although I haven't exactly been swapping notes yet, being stuck in medical. Last I heard, someone had gotten them to rearrange us by language, and charades were holding a strong one-in-four streak of working.”

“Triple f*ck sundae with a kark that on top,” she sighed. The Differently Living tittered in a scandalized way, and she ignored them. Chatty f*ckers, this place seemed to have. They weren't usually so loud or intrusive in their commentary. But it did give her an idea. “What if we don't need to talk? We didn't on the ship, did we?”

“I don't think singing will… wait.” Docs slowed as she had the same realization.

She smiled. “We didn't need to know the language. I'm a product of the US Education System, I only know English, but I am pretty sure I was picking up things laid down in Korean back on that ship. For that matter, half my favorite bands sing in other languages. I was literally picked up at a concert that was half in German and half in Italian. Music transcends that sh*t.”

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything,” Docs quoted in agreement.

“Do they let us gather?” she asked.

“I don’t think either of us is cleared to leave medical, from what I can tell. They keep saying deáþléadstæf to me, so I think they’re pissed I smoke. Even though if Canon is accurate, deathsticks and tobacco really only have lung tar in common,” Docs said with an eye-roll. “And you took a couple days to wake up once they moved you in here, about one local day after I woke up, so I don’t know what you did but….”

“I may have tried to Bridge of Kahzad Dum the Troopers in red,” she admitted with a wince. “The problem with tanking is, well, the tanking bit.”

Docs gave her an assessing look. “That’s it, I claim Big Sister rights. Someone needs to tell you to take care of yourself.”

She stuck her tongue out, rolled her eyes, and flopped back on the bed. The motion apparently summoned a doctor. A dark green Twi-Lek doctor. Which… confirmed the Star Wars thing. Too bad her fandom experience had been Rebels and Mandos, not Jedi. One of her exes had started a local Saberguild chapter, but that was the closest she really got.

Although her experience with doctors put this right back into her comfort zone, what with being ignored, arranged, and talked at rather than to. Him being an alien didn’t make it any less annoying.

“All due respect, Sir,” she said calmly, never raising her voice as she extracted his hand from her bicep with firm but gentle movements, “but go take a long walk off a short dock.”

The doctor replied in the weird Germanic-sounding language she didn’t know. He sounded stressed, tired, and short of patience. She could relate, since she was too. But she wasn’t taking it out on others, as her Daddy hadn’t raised an asshole.

“Spirits grant me strength,” she muttered, only to be shocked when they did. When a hum of energy trilled along her skin like the seconds before a show began, when the crowd hushed in anticipation of the lights coming up.

The doctor blinked and gasped in a pearl-clutching way.

“We will see our people,” she said. A statement, not an order.

If Jedi were real, then Jedi Mind-Tricks were real, and she didn’t trust the thrumming energy the local spirits gifted her. She wasn’t going to use it like that, not unless a life was in danger and she was out of options. She kept that gifted energy tucked along her skin where it couldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t touch her first. Outside her own shields, thank you very much, she had no idea where that energy had been, after all.

The doctor’s head-tails twitched, and he looked confused, but not aggressive about it.

She slid off the bed, nodded to the doctor, and put her hand out for Docs. “We’re going.”

“sh*t…” Docs said admiringly as they stepped together into the hall. “You know the medics outrank you, right Lady Gandalf?”

“Of course they do,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “And if I see a Medic I will defer to them. But I didn’t see a medic, I saw an ass and a boob, and I was a Theater Kid. When I see asses and boobs, I ignore them.”

"Really?” Docs said, delight in her features. “Me too! We'll have to share green room shenanigans stories later."

***

The rest of her people seemed to have collected at the edge of a large… indoor park? A courtyard? It was hard to tell. It was nice, green and living in ways that she missed sometimes, living in a city. Several people spotted them and waved, kids trotting over to chatter to New People about what they’d seen and learned.

“How are we holding up?” she asked Hairstick. The stick itself was not in view, but she knew better than to assume that meant the woman wasn’t armed.

Hairstick smiled serenely. “Well, none of them speak any of the languages we speak, but apparently Livid Cat gets through to them. We seem to have communicated the concept of ‘grab a child, pay blood tax’ at least, so they’re being much more polite now.”

One of the children giggled. “You threw a hissy fit!”

Hairstick nodded. “I DID throw a hissy fit! Because the people weren’t listening to my nice words, or trying to use their nice words, so I threw a hissy fit!” She then gave a playful feline hiss, to the giggling delight of the children.

“Riot is indeed the language of the unheard,” she laughed.

Quietly, Docs hummed the opening guitar riff of Riot by Three Days Grace.

“Let’s hold that one as Plan M,” she chuckled, “I think we came up with another good universal language. Let’s see if that works first.”

Several women perked up, tilting their heads as translations got passed around of what she’d said. She glanced around at them, then at the Jedi hanging about on the fringes, warily eying the children as they played with the adults. When she was certain they’d seen her looking at them, she began to hum.

How many roads must a man walk down, before you will call him a man?

She couldn’t remember all the words, but she knew the tune. She remembered the weight behind it when her Mom would get the far off look and sing under her breath, in a voice meant for singing in the key of Army, rough and tuneless and pained.

How many seas must the white dove sail, before she can rest in the sand?

She remembered putting spikes on the handles of wheelchairs to prevent people manhandling her friends, her chosen family. She recalled people who turned away to talk to her instead of her Godmothers, even though they barely needed her as a translator. She remembered snarling and snapping because people thought they could treat others like things just because they had supposedly good intentions.

Yes and how many years must some people exist, before they're allowed to be free?

She remembered the shakes in the hands of men she grew up calling Uncle, not for blood shared, but for blood shed beside her parents at protests. She remembered the bitterness with which her Uncles used those shaking hands to stitch the words “Second Generation Agitation” on her battle-jacket. She remembered the steel in the eyes of her Aunts as they gifted her armor- a vest of layered canvas quilting to put under the denim, a pocket for goggles in case of gas sewn in the lining.

Yes and how many times can you turn your head, and pretend that you just cannot see?

She remembered her father leveling an unimpressed look at the Super of her best friend's college rat-hole apartment, and installing adaptive handles on all the doors and drawers himself. Remembered his soft voice telling her that apathy was a luxury that they could ill afford.

The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.

She remembered a hundred slights against dignity, against agency, against Personhood, and a thousand responses. She remembered a thousand voices screaming to give up, and ten thousand ways to slip the chain and stand like a tree by the river of Truth. She remembered a hundred thousand questions with one answer: "No. You move."

The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.

She remembered, and she felt others remember. She felt the Differently Living of this place picking up the notes beside her, even as halting as her words were, out of order and not quite right. She felt the plants and the stones around her echo with her memories and their own.

She felt as the complaint clicked into place with the watching Jedi. One very familiar Jedi approached and offered her some soft words she didn't know, in a sing-song cadence she did. She gave Yoda a rock-and-water salute, open hand over fist at her chest with a shallow bow from the waist, eyes locked on his shoulders, watching for tells of motion from the flippy Muppet of an alien.

“How big must your ears grow, Grandmaster Yoda, before you can hear people cry?” she asked. He gave a head tilt. She sighed. “Okay. So you got the gist but apparently the language barrier is still in effect. Looks like we're gonna be Emoting as our primary form of communication. Thank frick we have functioning emotions, at least.”

“Hah! We’re channeling enough emotions for the entire temple here, trust me,” Hairstick snorted. After a moment’s pause, she started giggling, smothering the sound behind her hand when the noise started to get a slightly hysterical edge. It spread, infectious hysterics rippling across the crowd of people, even a few nearby Jedi letting out snorts before composing themselves.

“Oh, oh goodness.” Hairstick wiped at her eyes after she finally got the laughter under control. “Are you telling me we’re in Star Wars: The Isekai Musical?”

"I mean, I'm always in a musical,” Docs said with a shrug. “I speak and think in movie and song references half the time. Someone says 'it wasn't me' and I start singing Shaggy. Someone says 'Trouble' and I answer 'With a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for Pool'. Someone says 'What power?'..."

"The power of voodoo!" she jumped in on the open line with a grin.

“Who do?" Docs cackled.

“You do!” Hairstick answered.

“Do what?” another woman added in, the campy, over exaggerated question causing a cascade of giggles through the kids.

"Remind me of the babe!" echoed back a good cluster of the adults and at least a few of the older kids, setting off a string of people trying to recall the words to Dance Magic Dance.

“You realize this is all insane,” said High-Kick Barbie, now much less enjoyable with a lack of common enemy. “Right?”

“If it works, it's not crazy,” she countered with a wry grin. “But I'm spent. Someone else can have Watch, I need to lie down.”

***

It didn’t take long after the last remaining adults were released from medical care for clusters of found families to form. It made sense, really… she of all people knew that lost and hurting people were agglutinative, tending to coagulate like blood when actual blood-bonds were in short supply or not worth the pain they caused.

She and Docs (“Call me Mabon if you like, Mad Mab if you don’t,” the woman had grinned) paired off right away, bonding over music and theater and that special clicking together of bonds that happen a handful of times in any lifetime. Old friends, meeting for the first time yet again. Between the two of them they managed to attract a handful of children, which was… probably a good thing given the sheer ratio of kids to adults. Especially factoring skill sets, not everyone wants to be a parent, or should be. She herself was better at handing older kids, the tweens and teenlings who knew who they were, mostly, and just needed someone to be there.

She could definitely be there.

And if the two of them happened to collect the ones with sharp smiles? The ones who’d fought red in tooth and claw? The ones who knew what she meant when she’d joked “tastes like tuna” even though that joke usually involved chicken?

Well…

Like tends to collect like, after all.

Chapter 20: Sera-Wait... WHAT?

Chapter by Argentee, HollowsArchivist, leetuce, Mikaiyawa, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

Waking sucked.

She couldn’t get the taste or smell of overripe pineapple out of her mouth and sinuses.

And some wit had f*cking strapped her to a table.

Joy.

Deep breath, keep breathing, screaming wouldn’t help.

Having an unfamiliar hand grab her ankle provoked a reflexive kick.

Hunh.

So much for that strap.

Another kick and both legs were clear, a somersault back off the table got her wrists free. Then it was finding a door, find faces she knew, then find a corner to back into.

Finding familiar faces didn’t go to plan.

Corner it was.

Nobody had a language she did and none of them had bedside manner for sh*t.

They didn’t get charades either.

At least she didn’t get gassed or shot with whatever the blue lights were that had paralyzed her.

Feeling something trying to force her to be calm from outside just pissed her off. Pissed her off enough she took a deep breath then let out a purely mental scream of ‘get out of my head’, which made the little twit in front of her yelp and flail away from her while frantically grabbing for something, a button it looked like on the front of their wrapped tunics.

A breath later and a very pretty blue person with very emotive tails coming off the back of her skull bolted in the door. The dead stop and raking gaze followed by what had to be the most speaking ‘this? AGAIN?’ body language tripped over the giggle bucket, and she found herself laughing as the poor little twit tried to frantically explain themselves.

Pretty pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a speaking sigh along with a flood of very calm, level words that had the junior slinking away.

The resignation was something she fully understood, she’d dealt with idiot trainees and butter bar lieutenants who thought they knew everything and were more clueless than any toddler she’d ever met.

After wiping her eyes, she stood up from where she’d wedged into the corner and pulled a riff from every kung fu film she and Locke had ever watched. Fist to palm and a small bow.

That got her a startled blink and a small bow back.

What the hell.

She pointed at herself.

“Sera,” then rolled her hands out so they were palm up and offered them out with a questioning look.

It took a moment then she got a stunning smile.

“Vokara Che.”

Then they were back at charades.

Vokara couldn’t tell her what had happened but could and did guide her to where some of the others were.

Not all of them, some faces were conspicuous in their absence. The other military person, the one who Sera was sure was Israeli, The pretty Asian woman whose acting ability had been top notch and had grabbed one of the children and run like hell when given an opening to.

The woman who had all the markers of a special forces operatives’ kid and a wicked sharp mind for appropriate songs sung in utterly the wrong tone.

The female of the species indeed.

Not like several other songs hadn’t been retuned to sound like lullabies.

She was lucky, the first person who reached out was a librarian. And she got Sera caught up on everything they didn’t yet know while pretty Vokara sorted out a scanner and what looked like a hypodermic without the needle.

Yeah, vaccinations were probably a necessary thing.

That just left her with a sudden sinking feeling. She hoped like hell nobody in the wild mess of people she could see who had to have been grabbed from all over the damn place wasn’t carrying pre-emergent measles.

Or polio, that wasn’t fully eradicated yet either.

f*ck.

She didn’t have the words to convey the worry.

Something in her body language must have shifted enough that she got a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Sera put her hand on it and tried to sort her worries into something that would translate without words and shoved them at the other woman.

She flinched, but some of what she was trying to communicate got through. The flicker of images she got back looked like containment and quarantine procedures. The smile and gentle pat to her hand told her at least this one appreciated the concern even if it probably was as clear as Kentucky mud.

-------

Sera found herself glad Locke had been a dreadful polyglot and dragged her with him on the speaking and understanding words thing. She had enough French, German and Arabic to help, and all of the folks who had more than one language were helping keep their fellows and all the children calm.

What she knew; they were in fact in a Star Wars type Republic. Palpatine was Chancellor, f*cker had been on a holo, and the locals couldn’t figure out why he’d gotten hissed at by anyone who had any knowledge of Lucas’ universe. They were being held in protective custody by the Jedi order, given Palpa-f*ck was around Sera was going to be glad it was protective custody, she didn’t want that slime ball near any of the others, even if he was ‘missing’. They were all considered to be force sensitive. Nobody outright said it, but the fact the kiddos were getting lessons alongside the children of the locals was pretty telling.

Nobody local could figure out the think like the landscape trick Jason and a couple others did. The physics trick of pulling water out of the ponds and fountains in the big garden space, making it snow indoors was a delight. That it made one of the stodgier of their minders about blow a blood vessel was extra whip cream on that cake.

Being watched like they thought she was going to make off with the silverware got old quickly, but Sera was more interested in the medical scanners once she’d gotten her hands on a pad one of the local kids dropped with the focused desire to understand at top of mindand woke up back in medical with a massive headache and the ability to read. Her handwriting was still horrifying, but you couldn’t have everything. And given the attitudes of the general population none of them were in a hurry to show off how fast they were learning.

Getting her hands on a scanner that had been passed hand to hand by the younger student medics proved the migraine and information transfer thing wasn’t a fluke. Sera barely made it back out of medical when they were getting shuffled again. Down to a lower level away from everyone else, and Theresa and Ca’senaar and Mabon had gone snipe hunting for things to do.

-------

Trading more reading for a set of clothing that suited better than the wrapped everything the jedi used was nice.

Why the jedi didn’t use pockets was flat beyond her.

And sticking around Ca’senaar and Libby let her brush up on the sewing skills she’d been letting slide in favor of other craft skills.

Locke found all kinds of weirdness in the storage rooms, and if he knew where a thing was Sera could go hunting for it when Ca’senaar or Theresa or Mabon or any of the others went hunting fabrics for clothing.

She’d found the metal studs that were so nice for decorating the straps on the arms or hands that a few of them had picked up. Theresa had found rings that were also pretty and decorative.

Decorative, right. Pretty, right up until it ruined some jackass’s day and protected your knuckles as you punched the daylights out of them.

The flute he’d found was odd, it felt old, really old and had a wickedly sharp point. The mouthpiece was more like the recorder she’d used when she and Locke cosplayed a pair of Mandalorians, but a recorder and drum meant they tended to find friends after the day's events were over. And music meant they didn’t have to pay for their drinks very often.

Well, not in cash anyway.

Settling into a space just inside the main doors to the temple let her get out of everyone’s way while she figured out how badly out of practice she was.

The long version of Vode ’an at least made her feel a little better about not having picked up an instrument since Locke had died.

But seeing a trooper scurry away left her wondering what in hell that was all about, and Locke was laughing too hard to explain.

If it was important he’d explain.

Eventually.

-------

Locke didn’t explain.

He also kept poking at her to work out, which given her knee wasn’t screaming anymore was a valid point.

So rather than risk sticking herself back in medical, again, by picking up something with intent, she went hunting a practice room with something resembling staves.

Her knee would take Wushu.

Probably.

Finding an empty practice room was shockingly easy, she looked them up, found one that was empty and found it on the map. It took her more time to walk to it than anything. She only needed to test run three or four of the staves set in a tidy rack before finding one that was both the right length and the right weight.

Stretching was habit and with her eyes closed she could almost feel Locke’s hands on her wrists helping her get that last little bit of stretch.

With her eyes closed she could almost feel Locke taking up his usual position eight feet behind her and back-to-back. It had taken them over a year to get where they could start so close and run the pattern of warm up, individual kata and then mirrored kata without tripping each other, smacking a staff out of the other’s hands or just flack smacking each other.

They were medics, patching up bumps and bruises was normal. As long as nothing got broken they were good.

Getting to the end of the usual routine and opening her eyes and realizing she was on the damn ceiling?

Not normal.

Locke laughing at her when she hit the mats and rolled and still ended up wheezing was though. At least she’d remembered to roll.

Flopping on her back and focusing on breathing helped, but the childish giggle had her rolling to her feet by pure reflex.

The giggler was bright orange with reddish spots and a head full of nubby tentacles that one day might rival Kit Fisto for length and activity.

Well, the animated version anyway, the live action one had been… stiff. And she didn’t think she’d run into the real one yet. Elderly troll yes, deadlocks with a continual headache, yes, disaster bisexual Kenobi, absolutely. Hot amphibian, not so much.

At least the kid was cute.

And she mostly got the slightly lispy giggled explanation that gravity was optional, and they would show her.

What the hell.

She’d done it once; she could do it again.

And tag with the little imp would tire them out enough that she could get them back where they belonged.

In a general sense anyway.

-------

Tiring the kid out was educational.

The gravity is optional trick did work again, and Locke’s snark about tripping and missing the ground while valid wasn’t really helpful, she wasn’t actually trying to fly here.

But tired small child was easy to scoop up and head back toward slightly more familiar territory. Explaining no, her hair didn’t naturally grow from red to black on the way back down to the medical halls reminded her she really needed to do something about the mop.

The question was what.

Cutting it didn’t really appeal, and being able to show the natural red like she hadn’t since high school did have some appeal.

Handing the kiddo over to a slightly frantic being she vaguely recognized as being somewhat in charge of the more amphibious littles right outside the doors of the wards was comforting enough.

Having them then insist on the little getting checked out was slightly offensive, and they’d slowly been getting a collective of more sensible senior healers on their side. So, while Healer Che wasn’t on duty, seriously, the woman had to sleep sometime, the larger furrier healer on duty took one look at the child, a look at her and flicked his whiskers back against his furry cheeks in a gesture Sera had tagged as irritated.

Getting pinned by those alert brown eyes had her shrugging.

“They want to show gravity not real, not needed. I play tag until they tire out.” Sera hated not having proper words for things but at least the giant friendly weasel healer person gave her more correct ones.

Whiskers forward, then back, then a funny little twizzle in place. But he gave the stressed-out caretaker a soft confirmation that kidlet was fine, just needed a nap and a good dinner and everything would be fine.

Of course, then those intent eyes were very firmly on her. The soft scolding for overworking her force connection did explain the faintly fried feeling she had, but she hadn’t done that on purpose, not like picking things up with intent to learn and understand.

That was probably why he was doing the gentle lecture. That and he was simplifying words and Sera could feel him ever so gently offering her mental pictures to go with those words. That made things a thousand times easier, but only a very few of the jedi used that trick with any of the adults.

Oh well, at least she knew where the nearest canteen was, and could read the labels for what she could and shouldn’t touch or consume. The prescription for a high protein and carb dinner was easy at least.

Asking about fixing her hair made him blink. Even with admitting it was silly, she was tired of the black and wanted her natural red back but didn’t want to just cut it and wait however many years for it to grow back.

Them having a way to speed grow it made her blink.

Apparently, hair length was a cultural thing for some species, so they could cut off the black and with a little work get the red back down past her hips again.

It was something one of the more decent of the students could do now if she wanted to.

Sera nodded and managed a slightly broken please.

Going to dinner and seeing blood red curls over the black in her peripheral vision had her trying not to cry into her soup. Her great grandmother had red hair, the curl under glass had been this color of almost burgundy red, but by the time Sera had been old enough to know the elderly woman whose name she carried as her middle name, those curls were faded to white at the temples and faintly pinkish at the ends.

She could faintly feel Locke’s arm around her shoulders as she mourned the woman who had been her most solid supporter for going into the medical track, for going into the military at all. The men and boys did, why shouldn’t she?

At least Memaw Sera wasn’t alive to wonder what had happened. She’d passed in her sleep shortly after Sera and Locke had graduated.

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.

-------

Chapter 21: Vokara -More in Heaven and Earth

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, Mikaiyawa, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

The woman who had soaked a stupid number of stun rounds had awakened, and nearly given junior healer Shelb’lainan heart failure.

He really did need to get over his dramatic reactions to people swearing.

She’d also panicked one of the trainee healers who had been ferrying supplies between rooms and left Vokara feeling distinctly unsettled. Healer Shelb’lainan had tried to keep the woman in the biobed, causing her to mutter something that by tone was either a plea for patience or for strength.

And the force had lit up and flooded her with strength. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before, so his panic was marginally understandable.

Marginally. At least she’d had her first cup of tea before he hit his panic button.

The survivor wasn’t in danger of passing out again, and her fellow survivor was herding her toward the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The others had been diligent about making sure the others got water and the simplified starvation diet soups and foods they’d been using as they screened out potential allergens and species-specific intolerances, so Vokara was reasonably certain the aftercare for this patient would be handled by the group.

At this point Vokara was washing her hands of some things. Getting basics conveyed by pantomime should have had Mace in his element, except he wasn’t here , he was out dealing with Separatist idiocy, leaving the bulk of the adults to self-manage. With the adults self-managing they also managed the younglings who were too old for placements in classes with their own younglings.

Anything that lightened the workload. The three they had in isolation and the one in bacta with the more usual caseload was more than enough. Think of trouble and it will appear, she thought with resignation as her comm buzzed with another pair of alerts, both from the same location. Padawan Avoll’carlu at least only hit his panic button if the patient was actively doing something somewhat alarming.

Somewhat alarming, if they could just talk to these poor people so much of this nonsense could be avoided. They really needed to look at developing a standard for these situations.

-------

As she hurried towards her first patient after a night of not nearly enough sleep, Vokara had the somewhat uncharitable thought that at least this alert wasn’t from Padawan Talsai. Padawan Talsai was not doing very well on the compassion and care of severely traumatized beings. It was becoming a distressingly repetitive refrain, and they couldn’t just keep assigning him to keeping on top of the datawork. Thank the force he was busy right now with more usual homework. She could see if they could shuffle shifts around so trainees who were able to adapt a bit better were dealing with the monitoring that was needful as these souls woke up and adjusted to not being in a slaver’s hold anymore.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary though. This alert was for their last patient who hadn’t awakened after being brought in. Happily, Padawan Avoll’carlu had only been passing by the room not in it causing the issues. Vokara wished for the millionth time today that the younger trainees weren’t as curious as tooka kittens getting into things because they ‘looked interesting.’

Heavy restraints had been used because the gas had made this woman convulse and the standard treatment had just made things worse. It had taken a mad scramble followed by several days in bacta to sort it back out. At least the gas sensitivity had been something that was stupidly easy to clear up and make sure would never be an issue again.

Vokara huffed and shoved that thought and the dozens of others she’d been idly pondering in the breaths between cases aside as she passed Padawan Avoll’carlu and reached the room. Get this emergency sorted. Then she could fight with staffing and potential extra lessons and disciplinary action.

The patient moved like a soldier, like the Guard troopers had when they’d been brought in to have those evil chips removed. At least she wasn’t reacting with violence, other than the very clear and loud mental scream that made the get out of my head very clear even without words. She was just getting herself somewhere defensible and waiting.

Given the levels of mayhem any trained trooper could dish out Vokara was rather grateful this patient was limiting her reactions even suffering something like a traumatic flashback. It didn’t make the fact she couldn’t sense a Force blessed thing off the woman less unnerving. Looking right at her she didn’t feel like anything other than an empty corner where two corridors came together. Not as bad as one of the others who flat vanished unless you used Shadow Wrangling tricks, but still deeply unnerving.

Vokara wasn’t sure what had defused things. She’d bolted in after the paired panic button alerts, had the time for a quick look to evaluate the situation, and was then met with the frantic excuses of junior healer M’henna. M’henna, who had been warned about making sure patients were aware before touching them, had grabbed without any sort of warning zi was going to. Again. At least this time M’henna hadn’t needed Avoll’carlu to drag zim out of harm's way, even if Avoll’carlu did make sure to keep himself out of the way. That helped even if M’henna’s antics left Vokara pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration at the idiocy that kept happening in her wards. Her silent plea for patience and mutter of poor Padawan Avoll’carlu’s name and why couldn’t all her students be sensible had the woman cracking up laughing. Some was just a release of emotion, but then she’d levered herself out of the corner she’d backed herself into and done something odd.

She’d done an open hand bow of respect.

Reflex had Vokara bowing back.

She pointed at herself and gave a set of syllables, “Sˈɪɹə,” then rolled their hand out palm up and tiled their head in inquiry. And now Vokara could feel the woman. She had the same sort of calm waiting that many of the more experienced field medics that she’d run into in her course of working with clone troopers. Watchful and patient.

Sˈɪɹə was her name.

Vokara smiled and gave her own name, then they were stuck with pantomime and speaking facial expressions with stunningly clear emoting. Whatever else this woman had done she’d very clearly been trained in nonverbal communication. Some of her aborted hand gestures looked almost like the battle sign the trooper medics still defaulted to if they had hands free.

She was concerned about the others. That was relatively easy to fix, and only took guiding her to where the others seemed to like to congregate in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. That alone seemed to help but after a few minutes of unintelligible conversation with another survivor the woman blanched, and her eyes went round before she was turning and Vokara’s reached a hand to her shoulder.

A heartbeat later and the woman’s hand covered hers and a shockingly clear set of images were shoved at her mind. An illness that started as a rash, that left people dead, another that didn’t even have a visible symptom that left younglings dead, paralyzed and permanently disabled. Images of medical wards with far too many patients and too few hands to tend them. Why was… oh.

That was humbling. She was concerned they carried illnesses that would sweep through fresh populations with worse devastation than the old outbreaks of the Blue Shadow virus.

She was afraid one of her people would be patient zero in a massive, lethal outbreak. She couldn’t possibly understand they had far superior methods to test for and contain diseases, even the novel ones that lingered in the blood of several of the rescues.

Finding a way to picture those protocols and push them back so the woman could see them felt clumsy, but it was clearly enough information as the woman went limp in very clear relief. The fist to chest salute was eerily like one she’d seen numerous times in Kih’dabe.

Food for thought, she’d have to ask Kenobi when he made it back.

Chapter 22: Adenn - Ek Masa Nu Adenn Lukka Ki

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

Adelaide looked up when there was a knock on the door to their little room, but instead of a Padawan a teen with long brown hair poked their head in. “Knock knock, you up for some visitors?” they asked in English.

“Honestly, you’re a lifesaver. It’s been getting so boring stuck in here all day.”

They walked in, followed by another kid. “Glad to be of assistance then. I’m Kara.” They both pulled up a chair and settled in.

“What pronouns do you use?” They may present female, but so did Adelaide and they didn’t want to assume.

The teen blinked, then grinned sheepishly. “She/Her. Sorry.”

“I’m Jason.”The other piped in. “He/Him. What’s yours?”

“I use they/them. Though, um- I don’t have a name yet. Not one I want to use anymore.” They’d leave their dead name on earth. Let their family bury it. It wasn’t like they weren’t going to when they came out, anyway.

“Do you… want us to help you find a new one?” Kara asked, maybe a little hesitantly. But they didn’t get the feeling that it was because she was uncomfortable with the idea, just not sure if the help would be welcomed.

“Yeah. The ones I was considering back on earth don’t feel like they fit anymore. So I’m kinda starting from scratch.”

“What kind of vibe are you thinking? Something short? Long? Easy to say or more complicated?”

“Maybe something in one of the languages here?” Jason suggested. “Or at least what conlang we had on Earth.”

“Normally I’d look at non-binary names. But I dunno if any of the normal ones are the same here. For all I know naming girls after nature sh*t could be a common trend.”

“Well…” Jason hummed. “Mando’a is completely gender neutral so using something from there wouldn’t be as likely to accidentally stumble into gendered names.”

“I’m not that good at Mando’a.” Kara shook her head, “just a couple staple words. But that is definitely something to consider.”

“It’s a good idea,” Adelaide agreed. “And it beats the other local language I know since that one was entirely fannon and I’m not even sure it actually exists here.”

“I’m pretty good with it. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I couldn’t help with it.” Jason assured them.

“Cool. So what kind of message do you want to convey?” Kara asked, clapping her hands lightly.

They paused. Names were important. Had they been back on earth, they would have used the Amatakka name they adopted for discord and AO3. But that name belonged to that community. They couldn’t take it with them. Maybe they could do something similar though?

“There was a name I used online that I was considering making my legal name when I came out. It translated roughly as reckoning? Or maybe Judgement? It doesn’t really have an exact translation, but something along those lines would be nice.”

“I can do that.” Jason sank into thought, a slight frown on his face as he went through his mental dictionary. Kara lightly drummed a playful beat on the bed and Adelaide hummed a random melody in return. The two bounced music between them while he thought. “I can’t think of a specific word for judgment, but there’s ‘Tor’, which means justice.”

They stopped humming. “Isn’t that also the name of that death watch guy?” Jason winced a bit and nodded. “I dunno if I want to share a name with him.”

“Valid.” Kara affirmed. “I don’t know that it’d fit you anyways…”

“Gratiir is the verb ‘to punish’ and you could play with that.” Jason offered next. Kara made a bit of a face at the suggestion but turned to Adelaide for their opinion.

“Yeah, no. It gives off the wrong image.” They paused, trying to figure out how to translate the concept of bentu into english. “It’s more like, the kind of actions you take from righteous anger? It can mean punishment, but it’s more like the type of actions someone takes against an abuser, or when people talk about destroying capitalism.”

“f*ck around and find out?” Kara offered, half jokingly.

Jason’s face lit up. “A’den. It means wrath.”

“Adenn…” They felt the name out, rolling it around in their head. “I like it, I think that’s the one.”

Kara beamed at the expression on their face. “It’s great to meet you, Adenn!”

After that, the conversation switched to easier topics. Adenn- and the name felt right, if a bit strange in its newness, asked about the other terrans and the goings on outside the walls of their hospital room.

Kara shared a bit about her own time in the hospital, having only been released earlier that day. Jason told them about the section of the temple and all the scalpels and sharp objects he’d stolen.

“You have any on you? Think I could have one?” Adenn still had the knife Bitey Lady had handed them in the fight, but more weapons were always nice.

In the end, it was a good distraction from boredom, and they’d come out of it with a new name and several new stabby things. But as the time drew on, their energy began to wane. They were still lethargic from malnutrition and the more they spent talking the harder it got to focus. They hardly noticed when Jason and Kara left, already half asleep.

_____

Japor charms clicked together as Adenn ran the string of mesquite beads through their hands. Stuck in the hospital and lacking stim toys, they’d untied the charms from their torso to fiddle with. If the Jedi hadn’t taken them yet, it was unlikely they were going to.

It had been two full days since they’d woken up, and the bed rest was becoming unbearable. On one hand, they understood the necessity of it. They looked like a walking skeleton and their body ached from the stunt they’d pulled with Lukka. On the other, they’d spent forever stuck in one little room. They had access to a conjoined bathroom, and they’d been able to get up and walk around a little, but standing too long left them feeling dizzy and faint like when they’d go all day without eating. Though that feeling had disappeared the longer they spent in the hospital.

The door clicked open and Adenn buried their japor beneath the folds of the beige tunic they’d been provided. Healer Vergere walked in, carrying a steaming cup of something. They watched as she checked vitals and examined the fancy looking machines with a wary sort of curiosity.

Finally she turned to them and offered the cup in her hand. The liquid was a deep blue, and warmed their hands when they took it. Adenn examined the cup. It looked like tea, and smelled faintly of something like cinnamon. When she looked back up at Vergere, the healer said something and mimed drinking.

“Is this medicine?” They asked, though they knew they wouldn’t get an answer.

Maybe it was something to help the malnutrition. They took a tentative sip. The drink was warm and rich. It tasted like a spicy rooibos and before long the cup was empty. Healer Vergere looked pleased, so maybe it was some kind of medicine thing.

Once they finished with the drink, she motioned for them to stand up. Adenn climbed out of bed and held onto the edge to wait through the short dizzy spell. When it passed and their vision cleared, they glanced at Healer Vergere who was waiting at the door, motioning for them to come over.

“Where are we going?” They tried their best to convey their confusion through body language.

A short game of charades later, in which Adenn had to keep themselves from using ASL, and they were pretty sure they were going to see other people. Maybe the other Terrans?

It was a short walk to their destination, which Adenn was thankful for. Healer Vergere left them near one of the temple gardens, and already they could hear the sound of familiar languages.

The garden that the other Terrans had claimed as their own was large and open, a refreshing break from the monotonous and busy healing halls. As much as Adenn understood the need, it was nice to finally be able to move around.

_________

“Oh, hey! It’s you, Bitey lady!” Adenn waived her over to where they’d been sitting at the edge of a fountain, dangling their feet in the cool water.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days, how are you doing? Did you make it out of the fight okay? No offense, you look a little… rough.”

“I’ve been with the healers. I think they were worried about my weight. Which, you know, fair. I look like a skeleton.”

“Yeah,” the woman said slowly. “Those rations were gross and not terribly filling so I understand not being at a super healthy weight, but this is…. Any idea what happened? I sort of lost track of you in the fight. If you’re comfortable talking about it, of course. Privacy maintains.”

“It’s my own fault mostly. After you left, I kinda did something stupid.” They pulled their knees up to their chest. “You said I wasn’t allowed to die in that fight, and well, I’m not much of a fighter so I asked one of my Deities for help. I didn’t exactly consider the consequences of getting ridden on starvation rations.”

She blinked.

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Generally speaking, humans don’t have enough reserves for more than us inside our skins. If that’s something you want to keep in your practice, I would definitely recommend a high nutrition diet. I don’t generally let the Differently Living get past my shields at all, but I had friends in faiths where that was important, and there was a reason every gathering started and ended with food.” She got a distant, distracted look. “And the difference between back home and here is the Differently Living are a hell of a lot more able to make us hear them, which probably means it’s going to be more intense in all ways.”

“I figured so. I tried hiding earlier, when we first got here. You know, just fading into the background so people dont think I’m important. I used to think it was just body language stuff, but I ended up causing an incident in the hospital because I completely disappeared. The Padawan looked right at me and couldn’t even see me. It sucks, I miss having fine control over that stuff. Hiding works better when you can tailor it to people and situations.”

“Hmm. Sounds like you’re used to using nothing to see here as a Mask, but it’s a bit too literal with the weird energy boosts,” she hummed. “Have you tried Situation Normal as your baseline? Not nothing to see, but nothing unusual to see.”

“That’s kinda what I was going for? I thought they were slavers when I first woke up, so I was tailoring the mask to that. It’s like, for slavers the mask I’d used would be someone already broken. A little bit of fear in the body posture, exhaustion in the face. Just another body, someone to ignore. I knew if I disappeared completely from a hospital bed with a bunch of IVs in me I’d never get a chance to get out. Not that I need to, but I didn’t know that then.”

“Yeah… if that’s your Situation Normal it’s probably a good thing I’m not on the same planet as your… legal guardians,” she said, making the words sound like the nastiest insult possible. “For reference, this is my Situation Normal Mask.”

She shifted a little, relaxed her face, and blew a breath out. For lack of better words, it looked like someone unfolding origami. A complicated figure systematically becoming less complex, slightly less interesting, but also softer with fewer sharp edges and points. Her smile gentled itself, teeth hidden where nobody would suspect they’d ripped throats out. Her shoulders rounded, the proud line of them dipping into a graceful, artless slope. She wasn’t hidden at all, she was still there and real and very much a person, but all the interesting parts that caught your attention seemed to slip away when they focused on them.

“If you need it, a Mannequin Mask isn’t a bad thing,” she said, and even her voice was undefined and vague, a nothingness of an accent. “But if making yourself look like a thing rather than a person is your Situation Normal… yeah. The people who taught you that should be very very glad I got snatched.”

“It’s um, it’s appreciated, but she died a few weeks before I got grabbed. Some kind of infection.” Adenn shot her a sharp-toothed smile and hummed part of the chorus of Cell Block Tango. “Kept losing her medication.”

“Good,” the woman said firmly, snapping back into focus in an instant, a matching grin spilling across her face like a stain on white carpet. “We’ll get you better Masks, and better people. Don’t worry, you aren’t the first Baby Bat to need that. First one I’ll be helping on my own, normally I have the usual suspects to help find places to land and folks who are hiring and all that, but not the first.”

“Baby… bat?”

The goth woman smiled warm and dark and comforting, a mother’s smile painted with love and pain for their pain.

“When you’re young and being raised by bats, that makes you a Baby Bat. And being raised by bats… well. It’s a song. Want to hear?”

Adenn nodded. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Chapter 23: Kara - Standard Answers Don't Apply

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist, Wayfinder1314

Chapter Text

After saying goodbye to Adenn, Kara found herself wandering the garden the Terrans had taken over, looking for a quiet corner to meditate. Jason had handed over one of his filched scalpels (and Kara still wasn't sure where he'd gotten them because she sure hadn't seen any in the few hospital rooms she'd been in – from her own to Adenn's last in the line in that Hall) before dropping her off at the garden and heading off to cause more mischief. Not that he said that's what he was doing, but he had that sort of look on his face.

She was still wrapping her head around the Pyrokinesis she'd discovered in her hospital room when she'd nearly lost control of the flame Jason had helped her make out of some bandages he'd dug out of one of the cupboards. Needless to say the healer who had come in right then was not impressed. Oh well. It's not like she burned the room down. All that yelling seems like a Them problem.

…

Okay it's also a Her problem.

Which is why she's settling down next to a pond with a pile of flammables.

It took a bit but soon she held a steady flicker of flame in her cupped palms like Zuko and Aang going to see the dragons. A tiny heartbeat. Fire was the source of Life as much as it was a great destructive force, and her newfound control of it was a sobering responsibility.

~~~~

Two days later Adenn found her sitting on the edge of a fountain absentmindedly playing with a flicker of fire. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah? Why do you ask?”

“Because you kinda seem like you're about to fall apart.”

“I'm fine.”

“The acronym maybe.”

“Adenn.”

“Seriously. You're freaking the f*ck out. What's going on?”

Kara slumped, sighing heavily. “I’ve… been having nightmares. They’re getting in my head.”

“What about?”

“...the breakout…” Kara hesitated, and Adenn sat down next to her. “And everyone I killed.” The phantom taste of blood filled her mouth and she hunched over, emotions swirling in a mess she was sure Adenn could feel - she wasn’t very good at shielding - and that made her even more miserable knowing she was affecting everyone around her.

“Alright.” Adenn stood up. “No doing Depur’s job for him. We’re free and chaining ourselves in our minds defeats the point.” They grabbed her hand and dragged her off the fountain. “C’mon, you’re gonna talk to the Mama Bat.”

“Mama bat?” Kara asked, bafflement across her features. “What?”

Adenn didn’t answer, just continued to drag her off. Kara did her best to pull her emotions back into herself, winding them up until they only fit inside her own body instead of leaking into the area around her. It was something she’d always done on Earth, tuck all her emotions inside, then she’d keep her head down and go on with her day. If people looked they could still tell she was upset.

People didn’t usually look.

Adenn stopped near a group and pushed her towards them, pointing one out in particular. “That’s Ca’senaar. Mama Bat. Talk to her.”

Kara looked at the woman, at her pale round face, at the dark hair curling at her shoulders, and after a moment thought she recognized her as the one with the makeup and blood.

Assuming that that was real and not just a Fever Dream.

She so looked different without it.

“Uhh…” The woman turned to face her. “I… think I saw you… in the fight… you had blood on your face.”

“Yeah.” She glanced behind Kara towards Adenn. “I did. I bit a few people. Hard enough to pop off a finger, at least once. The ‘red’ of red in tooth and claw tends to be blood.”

Kara’s breath left her like she’d been punched in the stomach. That was why Adenn brought her here. “Ah… yeah. I did too. Like, a lot. And I’m not sorry I did! They were demagolkase and deserved to be burned away.” She was losing her grip on her emotions, tears welling in her eyes. “I just… didn’t expect to like it so much. Killing another sentient should never be easy. So…” She sighed, breath shuddering. “Am I an awful person for tearing out a Trandoshian’s throat with my teeth? Or am I weak for letting this bother me so much?”

“Ah… duality of man issues, gotcha. Look, nobody is all good or all bad or all strong or all weak. We're marvelous, multifaceted prisms casting off rainbows and dark mirrors that give no light. The falling angel and the rising ape in one confused, fleshy body. We are the sum total of our choices, nothing less. So the question is not are you bad, are you weak. Were your choices bad? Are your choices weak?” Ca’senaar asked. “You are not a bad person for doing what you needed to to protect yourself and others. You are not weak for valuing the lives of others, even people who tried to hurt you. But if you let it tear you apart and keep you from living… well, that's a Choice too.”

Neither of them were meeting the other’s eyes but Kara still felt more seen than she had in a long time.

“My name is Ca’senaar Addams. I Chose both names. They are my Choices. Do you know why I picked Addams?”

“Because of your shirt?”

“The Addams Family credo… and not just pretty words,” She agreed. “If you get pushed to a wall, if your choices are violence or subjugation, and you choose to bite the hand that would control you… well no matter what else you are, you’re an Addams. That’s what sort of person you are. You can always change your mind later, an Addams is an Addams by conscious, continuous Choice, but until you decide you aren’t? You’re an Addams.”

A warmth like a blanket by a fire draped over her shoulders and her hands warmed like she was cradling. A voice like a low crackling fire hummed in her head, quoting a song.

Throw your Fear upon the Pyre

Let it Rise as Something New

She took a deep breath, and tried out the name on the exhale. “Kara Addams…” It felt good in her mouth. And having someone who understood. Who would stand by her out here so far from everything she’d known…

An Addams, huh?

Family first and family last. And family by and by.

She squared her shoulders and briefly met Ca’senaar’s eyes.

Ca’senaar grinned. “Pleased to have you in the Clan, Kara Addams.”

Chapter 24: Ca'senaar - Can you look at this brilliant wound?

Chapter by BairnSidhe, HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

The downside of being allowed to speak freely was that she couldn’t keep calling people by the nicknames she came up with. They also couldn’t keep calling her “The Goth Chick” or whatever else they’d come up with themselves. Well, they could, she wouldn’t stop them, but most wouldn’t and that meant dealing with Names.

She had a name, sure, a lower-case letter name meant for paperwork and pay-stubs. It was awful. She wasn’t entirely sure what drugs had been in her Mom’s epidural, but they’d resulted in three names that rhymed and the first was often shortened into something that called to mind glitter, Bubblicious gum, and compliments that were really insults.

She had half-a-dozen nicknames from people who knew she hated it. Names gifted from love, customized to the relationships she had with the ones who called her by them. Those names needed to stay on Earth. They belonged to the people who used them, who would need them to remember her by.

Strangely, it was one of Hairstick’s… Libby, her name here was Libby for now… one of Libby’s tweens who helped her come to terms with it.

“That person marched on. Like in Mando culture.”

“Tion gar Mando’ad?” she asked without thinking.

“Ele- ah… I would have said yes on Earth. I’m a fully approved OM with the Mando Mercs. But here? Is that appropriation?”

“Oh. Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. But hey, we both have a grasp of at least one local culture. And language, right? Not all Mercs invest in all six actions, I know.”

“I could stand to learn more. I know some,” he said with a shrug. “If we need to bug out, I’m pretty sure I could navigate Little Keldabe.”

She nodded. “Good plan. And to loop back to your first point, yes. I marched on, farther than any of them will ever go, hopefully. They need to grieve me, and I need to be functional enough to keep moving forward. I can’t let myself treat them like they’re dead. If I try to remember everyone we lost… I don’t think any of us can say eight billion names even if we knew them all, and even just the people I knew personally would incapacitate me. I’ll leave my names to the ones we lost.”

“You still need a name,” a passing adult pointed out. “At least one that the Jedi can put on paperwork. If we ever are allowed to leave, we’ll need ID.”

“Last name, Addams,” Docs… Mabon said, plopping down opposite Jason. “You have the clan-rights, you live by the words. Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. Maybe she shouldn’t feel proud of how many chunks she bit off of sapient beings, but they had earned a bit of toothy behavior, and she would always gladly feast on those who would subdue her.

“What about a name in Mando’a?” Jason suggested. “Did you have a Merc Name? I don’t think that’d be super wrong, and at least it’d fit in more.”

Ca’senaar.

“No, I didn’t have the time or the cash to get a full cosplay,” she denied.

Ca’senaar, the night-flier.

“What about a nickname you liked, translated?” Libby offered. “What were the ones you were fond of?”

Rat-girl. Dandelion. Mama Bat. Nightingale. Wabi-Sabi. Gintsugi. Agape. Named for things that existed without permission. Named for things that flew free at night. Named for things that brought beauty and hope to neglected places. Named for love, because if she didn’t love, who would?

Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Ca’senaar Addams.

I didn’t ask you, I don’t acknowledge you, now forget my f*cking name, she thought viciously at the presumptuous spirit.

It is your name, though.

Fine, you pushy dead bastard.

“Ca’senaar. You can call me Ca’senaar Addams.”

***

“Hey,” a teenage girl said softly, sliding up beside her. “I saw you, in the fight. You had blood on your face.”

Ca’senaar resisted the urge to sing We Will Rock You and nodded.

“I did. I bit a few people. Hard enough to pop off a finger, at least once,” she said. She wouldn't feel shame for that, and she wouldn't model it for a kid. “The ‘red’ of red in tooth and claw tends to be blood.”

“Ah… yeah. I did too. Like, a lot. And I’m not sorry I did! They were demagolkase and deserved to be burned away,” the girl admitted, startling grey eyes wide under brown lashes. It would be model-level striking if she weren’t gamely wrestling her tears back. “I just… didn’t expect to like it so much. Killing another sentient should never be easy. So…” She sighed, breath shuddering. “Am I an awful person for tearing out a Trandoshian’s throat with my teeth? Or am I weak for letting this bother me so much?”

“Ah… duality of man issues, gotcha. Look, nobody is all good or all bad or all strong or all weak. We're marvelous, multifaceted prisms casting off rainbows and dark mirrors that give no light. The falling angel and the rising ape in one confused, fleshy body. We are the sum total of our choices, nothing less. So the question is not are you bad, are you weak. Were your choices bad? Are your choices weak?” Ca’senaar asked. “You are not a bad person for doing what you needed to, in order to protect yourself and others. You are not weak for valuing the lives of even people who tried to hurt you. But if you let it tear you apart and keep you from living… well that's a choice too.”

The girl hissed under her breath, looking away. That was fair, these questions were rough, and the vulnerability needed to even ask them to a stranger was…. Well. No matter What answer the girl came up with, Ca’senaar knew one thing.

She was brave, not one to shy from the thorny path if it went where she needed to go, perfectly willing to confront the skeletons of her closet. She had the soul of someone who would find beauty in those thorns and teach the dry bones to dance.

Actually,

“My Name is Ca’senaar Addams. I chose both names. They are my Choices. Do you know why I picked Addams?” Ca’senaar asked.

“The shirt you were wearing?”

“The Addams Family credo… and not just pretty words,” She agreed. “If you get pushed to a wall, if your choices are violence or subjugation, and you choose to bite the hand that would control you… well no matter what else you are, you’re an Addams. That’s what sort of person you are. You can always change your mind later - an Addams is an Addams by conscious, continuous choice - but until you decide you aren’t? You’re an Addams.”

“Kara Addams,” the girl whispered, still uncertain but already steadier.

Ca’senaar’s heart jolted at the familiar name. Not her first name, not even the second, but enough overlap to cause her to grin. Her Mom taught her never to pass up a gift omen, even as her Daddy taught her to look every prophecy in the mouth and kick the tires too.

“Pleased to have you in the clan, Kara Addams.”

***

“So… what do we do about Not-yet Vader?” Jason asked later that night after most people had gone to bed. Her sleep schedule let her stay up later, so she ended up having conversations with anyone with insomnia, anxiety, or discomfort related to the minimal but still softer than the slaver’s ship beds. She’d met a lot of people and she was only two days in.

“Not using his name?” Adenn, the reckless one from the ship, asked. They’d been sticking close to Ca’senaar; apparently the gift of a knife was enough reason to consider a stranger ‘safe’ which sat uncomfortably in her heart.

“Not sure if it’ll translate,” Jason explained, “I don’t wanna give anything away.”

“Valid OpSec,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “What are the options you’ve thought of? We’ll go through them.”

“We can’t fight him, not head on.”

“Poison is tricky for Force users,” Adenn commented. “But it does work. Remember the kidnapping episode with the pirates?”

“But where would we get pirate booze?” Jason asked.

“Are we sure we want to kill him?” Ca’senaar asked, a little horrified this was where the kid's minds went. Not surprised, she'd known teenagers before, but a little bit horrified. “Remember, if Plan A was 'Beat it out of him' Plan B can't be 'Just ask nicely'. Escalation goes least to most.”

“He slaughtered the Tuskra,” Adenn said mulishly. “He doesn’t have to be a Sith to be bad.”

“We don’t know that,” Ca’senaar said firmly. There had been several versions of the death of Shmi Skywalker throughout the old canon, new canon, and hundreds of Fanons. Given what differences she'd seen already, she didn't want to assume. “Unless you’ve had a vision? Lucas had his own issues and biases, so has every person ever put at the head of any creative work. We can’t guarantee that what the movies showed is exactly what happened. Trust, sure, but verify.”

“What if we do get a vision?” Jason asked speculatively.

“Then we go from there. Again we trust, we verify, and if we need to make someone go away, you two will be letting adults do it.”

Both teens pulled faces.

“Look, our bug-out plan is Mandalorians. If someone is gonna get arrested for dropping a Jedi, it’s not going to be the still-adoptable looking people who will have the best bet of putting the rest of the kids behind an overprotective, armed and armored wall of warriors. If, and I really mean IF that’s the best play, you are both going to help Libby evacuate. One, she needs extra hands to get all the kids out, and two, Jason has the best Mando’a here.”

Jason squinted skeptically at her. She still thought his was smoother. He disagreed, but she stood by her assessment.

“So, if we’re starting at low escalation, what plans do we have?” she asked again.

“Trust… but verify. We test him?” Adenn suggested slowly.

“How?” she asked.

“We could just ask…” Jason said slowly. “If he reacts badly, we tell the Council.”

“How?” she asked again.

“I don’t know… do you know any good ‘the Chosen One is a baby Sith’ songs?”

“Sadly, no.”

“We see if he remembers being Amavikka,” Adenn said, blinking at their hands. “We sing a song of his people, we see if he reacts, what he does.”

“Who?” Jason asked.

“Slaves. We see if he remembers what it is to be a slave,” Adenn clarified. “If he does, maybe he’ll realize what The Emperor is. What he might become.”

“So… songs?” Jason asked in agreement.

***

The song started the next morning, after breakfast. The kids had spread the word, the adults picked the song by a group consensus reached by humming and seeing who hummed along. There were many options, after all. Slavery was an old, uncreative sin.

Faster than any group project she’d ever been on, a song floated to the top of the list, the majority of people seeming to know at least the tune. She kept her eyes out for Skywalker, spotting him by the training areas laid out in the big garden, meant for easy exercise or meditations where she was teaching a couple older kids some basic martial arts. She tapped Adenn’s shoulder and nodded toward the Knight as he moved to claim a spot for his own katas.

“It's not the wakin', it's the rising. It is the grounding of a foot uncompromising,” she sang as she demonstrated a firm, wide stance that would be hard to knock down. “It's not forgoing of the lie, it's not the opening of eyes, it's not the waking, it's the rising.”

Someone else farther off in the garden picked up the song while she corrected a younger kid who was trying to match their stance to the teens, not using their own shoulders as a guide.

“It's not the song, it is the singing. It's the heaven of the human spirit ringing,” Adenn added on, bouncing on their toes as Ca’senaar kept humming the tune. The garden was echoing by now, voices from all corners humming, singing, drumming fingers or tapping toes.

The song kept up through her lesson, the list of names of those who cried power growing longer as people added to it.

“Cesar cried power!”

“Greta cried power!”

“Anne cried power!”

“Hypatia cried power!”

“Malala cried power!”

“Joe Hill cried power!”

Skywalker glanced her way and she smiled with too many teeth as she added names too.

“Luke cried power!” she belted. “Leia cried power! And you could cry power. Power has been cried by those stronger than me, straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains if you love being free.”

He left. It didn’t matter. They would keep singing. He wouldn’t be able to run from it. They would rip the scabs off and he’d heal or he’d bleed.

***

“Um… so good news or maybe bad?” Jason asked that night as she started her patrol, pacing around the edges of the section they’d been given. It wasn’t dangerous here the way it would be elsewhere, but everyone deserved to sleep soundly, and if she could help by walking a circuit and casting her awareness wide enough to alert them if something weird happened, she would.

“Good first. If the bad isn’t that bad, it’s nice to have a positive to start us off.”

“Kenobi does speak Mando’a, so we have a way to communicate, sort of.”

“That’s great, is he still in the Temple? I am happy to go talk to him if you don’t feel comfortable being our translator.”

“Uh… no. He was going on a mission. It’s just… the mission was Umbara.”

“Not my area of the Fandom, kiddo, you’re going to have to explain.”

“Deathtrap mission with a Fallen Jedi and a lot of friendly fire intentionally engineered. Good people die. A lot of them.”

She stopped short. “Friendly fire isn’t. Did you warn them?”

“Yes,” he said mulishly. “You said trust but verify, but…”

“You did the right thing,” she assured immediately. “I said trust but verify when we were talking about ending lives. You have a lot more room to react first and ask questions later when your focus is only on saving them.”

“I’m still changing things, though.”

“Everything we ever do changes things, even if we didn’t know potential futures. I could not give a single flaming, flying fox-duck about the butterfly effect. I care about not letting you make unfixable mistakes. Even if this was a bad idea, it’s fixable. You gave Kenobi a warning to be on guard, to pay more attention, to question things. That’s going to save lives. If one of those lives turns out to be a problem later, we can fix that, but for now they’re here, they’re alive, they’re gonna stay that way. If you decided to say See Ya Later, Maybe Vader and off him before he got there, there is no bringing him back.”

“Well…”

“I do not acknowledge the ‘somehow Palpatine returned’ line,” Ca’senaar said firmly. “Resurrection is hard, messy, and frequently does not work. Always assume deaths are permanent when considering them as options, and never make a permanent choice unless you’re certain about it.”

“Like tattoos?”

“You can get tattoos removed or covered. They’re only mostly permanent, which is still partly fixable. I’m talking about ‘the only thing left is to go through his pockets and look for loose change’ permanent. A damage you cannot undo kind of permanent.”

Jason looked at her.

“So is there anything in your brain other than sage advice and pop culture references?”

“I’ll never tell!” she laughed.

***

She woke up from a dead slumber with a mad laugh on her lips. She didn’t know why, she just knew she had to laugh. The wheezing cackles hurt her ribs and caused her to cough until she tasted the tang of iron. When they subsided enough, she hauled out of bed and found Mabon talking quietly with Adenn and the other kids Mabon had taken under her wing.

“Hey, I just had a bad case of Joker-gas out of nowhere, everyone here okay?”

“Yeah, we’re five-by-five. You okay?”

“Will be. Gonna find the good medic anyways, if she’s around. If you see Kara or Jason before me, let them know I’m okay.”

Mab nodded and Ca’senaar trotted off, one hand rubbing her throat and chest as she made her way to the healing halls. It wasn’t the really annoying one on desk duty, but it also wasn’t the really good one either. She sighed, then winced as the air leaving her lungs caused the pain to flare again.

The healer tilted their head, she wasn’t certain of gender, they were Mon Cal and it was hard to assess gender presentation with a wildly non-human face shape and genderless Jedi robes. Ca’senaar felt a gentle press on her shields, the kind she expected from more polite spirits, and nodded, letting herself focus on what hurt.

The medic winced, said something garbled that Ca’senaar was really trying to parse but just didn’t have the language to, and gestured to a side room.

The Good Medic came in a while later, making questioning sounds.

“I don’t like being manhandled, that doesn’t make me an idiot,” Ca’senaar said bluntly, knowing her words wouldn’t be understood anyway. Then she pointed to her throat and rubbed her chest, coughing lightly and wincing in pain when she did. She focused on where exactly it hurt and what she’d woken with. The intense, almost manic laughter that ripped up her esophagus and strained her lungs. She willed the understanding to pass from her to anyone who would willingly take it on.

The Good Healer winced and made a covering gesture at her head, like she was protecting her ear-cones.

“Too loud?” Ca’senaar asked, a bit shocked. She hadn’t been focusing that hard, she definitely could have been a lot louder. “Sorry about that. Here, let me know what’s right.”

She put her hand up as though measuring a height by her head, slowly dropping it while pulling her mind away from the pain and tucking herself back into her own skin. By the time it was at her lap, she was walled off the way she had to at work, a blank masked mannequin of a person with no cracks through which anyone could see her without her consent.

The Healer gasped, and indicated a spot a bit below her armpit. She adjusted, and let the Healer poke at her a bit, then gladly took the O2 mask that dispensed oversweet, tropically-scented air that soothed her pains.

When the Healer cleared her throat, Ca’senaar handed the mask back with a closed-lip smile and a quick rock-and-water salute. She seemed free to go, so she headed back to the others.

Jason was waiting when she got back to the hall that the Terrans had been assigned to.

"Ca'senaar... remember we were talking last night?" His expression got somber except the glint of mischief in his eyes. "Well... Somehow, Palpatine has vanished."

She let out another laugh that rattled her ribs until she hissed in pain.

“Well, at least it’s an improvement.”

Chapter 25: Adenn- Little Bird, Tell Me A Story

Chapter by HollowsArchivist, NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

Adenn had a problem. Well, they had several problems but the most pressing issue was in the form of Skywalker. Both of them, to be exact.

Ever since they’d left earth, their gods had been more talkative. And recently, Ekkreth was refusing to shut the f*ck up. It was almost three am and the oversized feather duster kept f*cking poking them. Anakin was keekta-du and Ekkreth was pissed. Apparently that made it Adenn’s problem.

They groaned and lay back on the ground. “I just don’t know what to do. But we gotta do something, if we don’t he’s gonna be depu-krekta.”

“We could kill him,” Jason suggested.

“Just the two of us? No way. We wouldn’t last a minute.”

They lapsed into contemplative silence. It stretched between them, until the sound of someone approaching caught Adenn’s attention. They sat up from their sprawl across the floor and watched as Ca’senaar wandered in.

“What are you two doing up?” She asked.

“Insomnia”

“f*cking Skywalker.”

Ca’senaar shot them an odd look.

“It’s- he names himself Skywalker, and he’s keekta-du.” They may not work with Ekkreth, weren’t nearly cunning enough, but a chain blind skywalker set their teeth on edge.

“So…” Jason cut into their rant before they could truly work themselves up. “What do we do about Not-yet Vader?”

Adenn paused. “Not using his name?”

“Not sure if it’ll translate,” Jason explained, “I don’t wanna give anything away.”

“Valid OpSec,” Ca’senaar said and Adenn nodded. They needed to be more careful. “What are the options you’ve thought of? We’ll go through them.”

“We can’t fight him, not head on.”

“Poison is tricky for Force users,” Adenn began, “but it does work.” Sourcing it would be a problem, but there were cannon examples. “Remember the kidnapping episode with the pirates?”

“But where would we get pirate booze?” Jason asked.

“Are we sure we want to kill him?” Ca’senaar cut in. “Remember, if Plan A was 'Beat it out of him' Plan B can't be 'Just ask nicely'. Escalation goes least to most.”

Except that he’d already crossed that line. He was keekta-du. Maybe even depukrekta considering how he treated the clones in the show. Even if Fia’s stories were true and Vader found himself later, he would already be Vader. He’d have already killed the Jedi, enslaved the Galaxy.

“He slaughtered the Tuskra,” Adenn said in place of explaining the horror of a depukrekta Skywalker. “He doesn’t have to be a Sith to be bad.”

“We don’t know that,” Ca’senaar said firmly. “Unless you’ve had a vision? Lucas had his own issues and biases, so has every person ever put at the head of any creative work. We can’t guarantee that what the movies showed is exactly what happened. Trust, sure, but verify.”

Adenn thought about the first Amavikka stories they’d ever written. Where the tales came in dreams and the words ripped their way out of their throat and left their tongue feeling like barbed wire against the inside of their mouth. Had those been visions?

“What if we do get a vision?” Jason asked, before Adenn could voice the question.

“Then we go from there. Again we trust, we verify, and if we need to make someone go away, you two will be letting adults do it.”

Adenn frowned.

“Look, our bug-out plan is Mandalorians. If someone is gonna get arrested for dropping a Jedi, it’s not going to be the still-adoptable looking people who will have the best bet of putting the rest of the kids behind an overprotective, armed and armored wall of warriors. If, and I really mean IF that’s the best play, you are both going to help Libby evacuate. One, she needs extra hands to get all the kids out, and two, Jason has the best Mando’a here.”

Adenn sighed, but relented. She had a point. Someone would need to get the kids out and make sure they were safe.

“So, if we’re starting at low escalation, what plans do we have?” she repeated.

“Trust… but verify. We test him?” Adenn considered the issue.

“How?”

“We could just ask…” Jason said slowly. “If he reacts badly, we tell the Council.”

“How?” she asked again.

“I don’t know… do you know any good ‘the Chosen One is a baby Sith’ songs?”

“Sadly, no.”

“We see if he remembers being Amavikka.” They’d have to remind him of where he came from. “We sing a song of his people, we see if he reacts, what he does.” Hell, it might even get the oversized pigeon to shut up for a bit. This is why they didn’t work with Ekkreth. Too f*cking pushy.

“Who?” Jason asked.

Right, they wouldn’t know. “Slaves,” Adenn explained. “We see if he remembers what it is to be a slave. If he does, maybe he’ll realize what The Emperor is. What he might become.” What he could already be, a small part of them whispered.

“So… songs?” Jason asked in agreement.

_____

Adenn and Jason spent the next morning spreading their plan to as many Terrans as possible and trying to figure out where Anakin would be. Before long they were set up in a large garden that several Jedi were using to spar or meditate.

As they waited, Ca’senaar pulled them and Jason over and began teaching them how to fight. Adenn tried to focus, they really did, but they were hyper aware of everyone around them and couldn’t crush the twisting bundle of nerves in their gut.

It was a relief when Anakin walked in and Ca’senaar began singing.

“It's not the wakin', it's the risin', It is the groundin' of a foot uncompromisin'”

“It's not forgoin' of the lie, It's not the openin' of eyes, It's not the wakin', it's the risin',” Adenn joined in, as did many other Terrans throughout the garden.

Music echoed up to the ceiling and Adenn grinned. They’d never been able to sing like this before. Couldn’t speak too loudly of rebellion and hope.

Others picked up the music as Ca’senaar showed Adenn how to stand to not get knocked over, but they weren’t paying attention anymore. They were watching Anakin. Did he recognize the meaning? Did he know what he was?

“It's not the song, it is the singin', It's the heaven of the human spirit ringin,'' Adenn started singing again, trying not to laugh at the Amatakka translation. “It is the bringin' of the line, It is the bearin' of the lie, It's not the wakin', it's the risin.'”

“And I could cry power!” The room echoed as every Terran picked up the line.

“Nina cried power!” Around them others started adding names and Adenn turned back to Ca’senaar. They let the music carry them as they practiced, always keeping half an eye on Anakin in case things went south.

“Rosa cried power!”

“King cried power!”

“Harriet cried power!”

“Rick cried power!”

“Terry cried power!”

“Ar-Amu beru nim!” Adenn cried, “Ekkreth beru nim!”

Anakin’s head snapped to look at them, and they shot him a sharp toothed grin.

“Mas-Kister beru nim!”

“Mas-Jira beru nim!”

“Mas-Shmi beru nim!”

“And I could cry power,” They continued in Amatakka. “Power has been cried by those stronger than me, Straight into the face that tells you to grab at your chains, If you love bein' free!”

Adenn pushed all their rage and determination and longing for freedom into the lyrics. Every long night spent telling stories or stealing food. Stolen moments of freedom and the feeling that came when their Depur finally died. Let it be enough, let him see.

But it wasn’t. Anakin fled the room and Adenn was left with a pit in their stomach.

____

After Anakin fled, Adenn was unsure. The original plan hadn’t worked. Sure, they’d kept singing, and sure the songs had likely followed Anakin throughout his day- even if only in his head, but that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t realized.

They’d need a new approach. Adenn ran their japor charms through their hands as they thought. They couldn’t talk to him.

Okay, fine, maybe they could, but they didn’t want to. If things went bad, if he was depu-krekta and Adenn called him on it? Well, he’d already killed the tuskra children. They wouldn’t put it past him to kill another.

If only they’d still had their tarot deck. It had been an old deck. They’d found it at one of the little thrift stores in their town. A couple cards had been missing, but Adenn had stolen some playing cards and drawn new designs to replace them.

Wait a minute. They could just make a new deck. It’d take time, but all they’d need was paper and a pen. They didn’t know where the quartermasters was, but they’d found the crèche while exploring. Surely there’d be paper and sh*t with the little kids.

They stood up and tucked the japor string back beneath their tunic. A moment later and it was tied snugly around their waist.

The walk to the crèche took longer than it should have. They needed to stop several times to give their burning muscles a break. Had this been back on the ranch, they could have done the walk easily. Adenn covered more ground and over worse terrain every day. As it was, ever since they’d woken up in the hospital everything took more energy.

The creche felt alive when they walked in. The air humming with energy and life that they hadn’t noticed most of the temple lacked until they’d found it again.

Kids were everywhere, and the room buzzed with chatter. A confusing mix of basic and various Terran languages. Adenn watched two Terran littles chase each other up the wall and over the ceiling.

“Huh, well that’s new.” They muttered to themselves.

Something to consider later. For now, they had a job to do. Adenn approached the green skinned twi’lek, and mimed drawing on a piece of paper. He pointed them over to the paper and Adenn hurried over with a signed thank you.

Paper and crayons acquired, Adenn made for the exit.

“Gestillan,” The creche master gestured at the items in their hands and said something else.

Adenn frowned, took another step towards the door, and watched the twi'leks' eyes narrow. Looks like they’d have to work on it here. They settled at a low table and got to work, sectioning the thick plasticy paper into playing card sized rectangles before starting to draw.

Everything else faded into background as they worked, though they didn’t miss the suspicious glances the twi’lek kept giving them.

——

A zabrak kid poked Adenn in the leg.

“Nosu,” he said, and pointed to himself.

“Adenn”

The kid continued on in basic, but they couldn’t make out a word.

“I can’t understand you.”

He grabbed one of the crayons scattered around the table and flipped over one of the pages they’d already finished. Adenn watched him draw. When he was done, he presented the page to them.

There was a stick figure drawing of a person, next to a stick figure of a jedi.

“Oh! It’s like charades.” Adenn flipped over their own page and started to draw a response.

“I’m not a jedi,” They explained as they drew. “Just visiting the temple for a while.”

At this point other kids had wandered over and started looking at what they were doing. Seems everyone was curious.

This was becoming too much. Adenn glanced around for someone to help them, but the creche master was still shooting them suspicious looks.

“Okay, clearly you guys want a story.” They muttered, after the fourth question about how they got to the temple. Well, they sure as hell weren’t gonna tell that one.

“Can you get the lights?” Adenn asked as they drew a lightbulb turned off and shadow puppets on the wall.

A few moments later had the lights flipped off and one of the terran kids handed Adenn a flashlight. It took them a couple minutes, but before long they’d angled the flashlight to point at the largest empty wall.

Adenn didn’t even have to pause to consider what story they wanted to tell. Between the creche master’s looks and jedi’s treatment they knew which one needed to be heard. Although perhaps not in its original form. Arahi’s story was his, he hadn’t consented to sharing his secrets with the outsiders.

“What if I told you,” They began “That there was once a kind dog.”

They used their hands to form the shape of a dog on the wall. Who knew this hyperfocus would come in handy like this?

“His name was Arahi, and he was the cleverest of all the dogs.”

The door to the creche opened. They paused, only to see Libby walk in.

“Hey!” Adenn gave a small wave. “I’m telling the littles a story since they seemed interested.”

Libby nodded, settling in to watch without comment.

When they focused back on the wall, the shadow of the dog was still there even though their hands were now in their lap.

“Well that’s odd.” Adenn thought back to Kara and her pyrokinesis. They pulled at the shadows, grabbing at it with the part of them they called on when doing magic.

The shadow moved.

“Holy sh*t.” This was gonna let them do so many things.

By now the kids had started to grow restless.

“Sorry, sorry. Now, where was I?”

“Arahi!” One of the littles shouted, and Adenn nodded.

“One day, Arahi tricked his owner and ran off into the wilderness. For his owner was cruel and never cared for him properly. But as Arahi fled, a storm blew up. He could no longer see the stars to guide his way and before long Arahi was terribly lost.”

Adenn wove the story in the air, painting shadows like a silent film. The kids watched as the little dog forged through the storm until dawn colored the sky.

“When the storm finally passed, Arahi was cold and hungry and lost. If he didn’t find shelter soon he wasn’t gonna make it much longer.”

“But!” Adenn wove a glowing light into the shadows. It shimmered between dark trees. “There was hope.”

“Arahi was lucky. In his wanderings, he had stumbled across a home. The kind dog dragged himself to the door to scratch and bark against it.”

“‘Let me in!’ He called, but no one answered.”

“‘Please,’ he whimpered, but still no one came.”

“Finally Arahi collapsed against the door. He was convinced there would be no help here.”

“At last, the door opened.”

A glowing doorway swung open on the wall, and the figure of a child appeared within it.

“The girl brought Arahi inside, but was stopped at the entrance by the sound of her mother.”

“‘You can’t bring that thing in here!’ She cried.”

“The girl pleaded and begged, and eventually the mother relented. Together the two got Arahi fed and bathed and treated the injuries he’d gained in the storm. Arahi listened as they talked about him, but couldn’t understand. Nor could they understand the language of dogs.”

“Despite the language barrier, things got better. The girl adored Arahi and the two spent hours together. But the mother was still distrustful, and would try to shoo Arahi away.”

Adenn stared at the creche master as they spoke.

“Until one day, Arahi and the girl were out playing. Each unaware of the nexu that was hunting them.”

The shadow of a Nexu stalked the two across the wall. Around them the kids grew still. They could recognize a predator, even if they couldn’t understand the words.

“The nexu pounced!”

Shadows blurred as Arahi tackled the nexu off his friend. The two wrestled and fought until finally-

“The nexu ran off, and Arahi collapsed to the ground. The girl helped Arahi inside and once again her and her mother nursed him back to health.”

“When Arahi woke, he was surprised to find that things had changed. The mother no longer feared and distrusted him. In fact, she seemed grateful.”

“She was grateful, so much so that she wanted to do something for Arahi. ‘I must get him a gift,’ She said to herself. ‘Something precious and worthy of his bravery.’”

“So the mother asked the traveling merchants and the people of the nearby town what to get Arahi.”

“‘He is a dog, so you should get him a bone.’ Said one man”

“‘No, get him a nice toy,’ said another.”

“‘A collar,’ said the last. ‘To show he will have a home with you.’”

“This sounded perfect to the woman, who immediately went searching for the most beautiful collar she could find. There were many merchants selling them, but she denied them all. They would not take a regular leather collar, or even a beautifully woven fabric one.”

“Until finally, the mother came upon a golden collar. ‘This one,’ she said, and took it home with her. The next day the mother presented the shining collar to Arahi.”

“Arahi was horrified. He would not wear a collar ever again, for he distrusted them after his last owner.”

“‘No!’ He cried. ‘I will not take it!’ But the mother didn't understand him and only pushed the collar towards him.”

“Arahi turned and fled. He left the house behind. Left his friend behind. He would rather weather a thousand storms than wear another collar. The family never saw Arahi again, but he found his freedom elsewhere. Far off in the wilds where none could collar him.”

The shadows on the wall stilled as Adenn brought the story to a close. The energy in the air, which had hung over the room as they spoke, slowly began to evaporate as the children started to talk.

“I tell you this story, to save your life.” They said, looking the creche master dead in the eyes. His expression twisted from suspicion to guilt. Good, he got the message.

“I will remember,” Libby responded with a respectful dip of her head. She paused. “There are a thousand ways to be a slave…” she trailed off, glancing at the Jedi and crechelings.

“But a hundred thousand ways to be free.”

Libby smiled. “I thought I recognized at least some of the words you sang to His Huffiness earlier.”

“Yeah, figured it’d help drive the message home. Not entirely sure it worked though.”

“That sounds like impatience speaking there,” Libby said, looking dubious. “He wouldn’t have run so fast if he didn’t hear something that got through to him. He would have been confused, or angry, if it hadn’t worked at least a little. Running like he did though? That was guilt.”

“You think so? This isn’t- I’ve helped with keekta-du Amavikkan before, but never one like him. I guess I just worry.”

“As much as we might like it if a single question, or a single musical number, could fix all our problems in an instant, that is rarely how it works outside of fiction. If Lucas was writing this, it might have gone that way, but…this isn’t the silver screen. It is going to be messy, and slow, and two steps forward, one step back. That’s how it works outside of pretty little fairy tales,” she said with a tired sigh. “He felt something. He heard us. And maybe some time thinking will help him hear more.”

“Yeah…” Adenn ran their hand over their japor charms, feeling their shape beneath the fabric. “It’s nice to know there are other terrans here who know the culture. I thought I was the only one.”

“I would never have claimed to understand the culture back home. That…you just don’t claim membership to some communities without certain qualifications. But I was a librarian, a star wars fan, and a voracious reader. And some of the fandom just….resonated more than others, and drew my eye?” She snorted a bit. “I guess I know why now. Who would have thought there were Seers and the Force was real?” Tucking a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear, she sighed. “I…well, I suppose I am a member of the community now, aren’t I? Master’s blood on my hands and all.”

“You’ve gotta claim to it now, but you don’t have to engage if you don't want,” Adenn led the two of them out of the creche and into the empty hallway for some privacy. “If you do though, I have most of the stories memorized. Hell, I wrote a lot of them so once I get my phone back I can find them in my docs.”

Libby smiled, a gently teasing thing. “Now, that’s just silly. I might not know much, but I know there are as many Ekkreth stories as there are slaves on Tatooine, which is to say, stories without number and more every day. You can’t fit that many on your phone!”

Adenn laughed. “Gods no! I think that many might brick my phone. I swear sometimes it takes it a literal minute to load the app, even with the ones I do have. And that’s not even mentioning the WIPs.”

Libby paused, then made a face. “Oh. Oh dear. I just realized. This makes most of the star wars fic real person fic. …I don’t like that. No thank you please.”

Adenn cackled. “Oh man! I feel bad for all the other writers having to wrestle with that.” They fought off another laugh. “Most of my stuff was folk stories, and what fics I had that weren’t, like the one about Arahi, I’m pretty sure were consensual? I’d get dreams, and well- sometimes the dead want their stories told too.”

“You,” Libby said, with all the dignity of a cat that had absolutely meant to fall off a table, “are a gremlin with no sympathy for my poor sensibilities.” Her dramatics were interrupted by a loud, messy sounding crash from the creche. “Oh no, I am not cleaning whatever that was. Time to go!”

Adenn hurried after Libby. No way they were helping clean that mess up. Moments later, the only thing left in the hall was the echo of laughter.

Chapter 26: Sharl - We're starting over, build something new

Chapter by SharlHarmakhis

Chapter Text

As they’d expected given the sheer size of the edifice that was the Jedi Temple… they got lost. Fortunately for all involved, they’re found and gently guided back to their… recovery room, they think, by another of the Jedi Healers, an elderly humanoid of a species Sharl can’t immediately identify. Even more fortunately, after Sharl’s grateful bow causes their attempted sarashi to come untied and makes them squeak and slam their arms to their sides, their guide points to the not-tank-tops in the pile of shirts, points to Sharl’s chest and their own, and smiles in a sympathetic sort of way. Sharl can’t help but flush red, but as soon as the Healer turns around they’re swapping out the loosened cloth band for one of the tank-ish tops in a nice slate-gray. Huh. They have binders, sort of… and they’re sure the Healer can feel their bubbling delight at how neatly their chest is contained.

It hadn’t needed to be this compressed Before… but Before, they’d had a lot of spare flesh on them to balance it out and have it perhaps be mistaken for a light case of what their generation would term ‘moobs’. Now, they… didn’t. They still had enough to not look like a walking skeleton or a fashion model, which was much of a muchness in their rather sarcastic opinion, but their great-grandmother’s inherited stoutness had been scooped away from their frame by the metabolic demands of invoking a Goddess. They wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry, if ever.

Re-donning the brown wrap-top and the wide belt, and feeling much more secure, they turn back to the Healer and project deep gratitude… And then have to adjust how much gratitude they’re projecting when the Healer winces. An apologetic and embarrassed smile and a genuine effort to correct one’s error smooths over a lot no matter where you are, it seems, and soon they’re being guided to a huge room full of plants they’ve never seen before.

Sharl gapes. They can’t help it. They’re not a gardener like their mom, they hate yard work, but… all this life! Unknown, alien life! Not just plants, they can hear birds or something like birds and there are bugs but that’s okay bugs are part of the ecosystem and running water and… wait they can hear it. Clearly. The everpresent ringing in their ears that’s plagued them since college has gone away.

Buoyed on a sense of stunned relief and effervescent joy, Sharl does something they haven’t done since they were a kid and reach out with both a hand and their mind to brush against the leaves at the tip of a nearby tree’s extended bough with a happy mental greeting. “From so simple a beginning,” they whisper as they reach out, in awe of how much new life there is to learn about, “endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been and are being evolved.” ‘Darwin,’ they think, ‘I study in your honor.’

They definitely didn’t imagine the decidedly plant-y return greeting. They’d thought they’d imagined communicating with the spirits of plants, or old houses, or once, memorably, an airplane on Earth, so they’d mostly stopped doing it, afraid of being seen as insane rather than just weird.

This was going to be great.

They’re still bouncing with the delight of a scholar presented with an entirely new branch of their favorite field of study when they’re led to where their fellow… Terrans, they suppose, since old boundaries of nation, ethnicity, and creed have rather gone by the wayside, or ought to… have congregated.

Familiar faces stick out of the crowd, looking much better with rest, food, and the clear light of this marvelous alien arboretum rather than the stink, stress, and darkness of the slaver’s hold, and they can’t find the Cajun woman they’ve tagged ‘the Bard’ but someone else, the fellow Goth with the awesome pants and the T-shirt they honestly kind of envy, is there, and they wave cheerfully. “Yo, Addams!”

The Goth so addressed looks confused. “Addams?”

Oh heck. Oh no not here, not now… but then, it’s a lot easier not to give a f*ck about offending an enemy than it is to not give one about offending an ally, and even though they try to fight down the reaction, they can feel their shoulders hunching up and that godsdamned self-deprecating ‘please don’t hurt/hate me for speaking/breathing/existing in your presence’ smile creeping over their face. “Sorry, sorry,” they ramble, “it’s just, well, there wasn’t any way to get names on the Not-So-Good Ship sh*tshow, and your shirt…” They gesture to the Addams Family motto shirt the other is wearing. “I was workshopping Addams as a potential surname, in case I couldn’t have the name I really wanted once I got away and could change it, when…” A shrug. “Well.”

They get a comforting smile in response to the word-barf, a shrug, and the strange emotional sense of someone being pleased with them. “I take it as the absolute highest honor, my dear, that the reputation of my honorable Clan precedes me. And it beats the hell out of the name on my birth certificate. I was nicknaming everyone too. So, what about you? What’s the name you wanted? Assuming you don’t want to keep Corvidae, which is what I called you in my head.”

Sharl takes a deep breath, sets their shoulders, and lays out their cards. Better to be rejected now, if it’s gonna happen, then after they’ve put in lots of time and spoons trying to befriend someone who thinks they’re a dweeb. “Corvidae is great and I’m flattered as hell, but… Shareth ket Harmakhis. Sharl for short.” A wry smile. “They/them pronouns.”

“Nice to meet you, Sharl.” No sign of mockery, none whatsoever, and the delightfully strange rush of unstinting approval. “Until I’ve worked out a more official name to use around here, Addams will absolutely do. I always prefer gifted names anyways. Oh, and she/her.”

Sharl’s shoulders finally untucked themselves from around their ears. “Nice to meet you too, Addams.”

One of the older kids looked over and perked up. “I recognise you! You handed off kind of a lot of those meal bars to me and the other kids in the cage with us…” He sounded worried, and Sharl hoped his parents had survived his kidnapping because he was clearly being raised right. They smiled at him reassuringly, or at least hoped they had past the Resting Autism Face.

“‘S okay, squirt. I have… well, had,” they added wryly, looking at their rather reduced silhouette, “the fat stores to be able to skip some meals. Guess someone in that pack of walking brussels-sprout-and-beer farts liked ‘em thicc, or had a buyer who did. Y’all don’t have that sort of insurance.”

“Neither do you, any more,” the kid pointed out, and Sharl had to admit he had them there.

More actual Names, or at least placeholder names, in the case of the graceful woman with the deadly hairstick and the amazingly long hair who called herself ‘Libby, for now’, were put to faces. ‘Docs’ was Mabon and very friendly, ‘Miss Thang’ proved to be named Lynndsey and very not friendly, the feisty kid with the knack for fire was Kara, and the woman who’d thrown up after she stabbed a slaver introduced herself as Theresa Isabella De La Rosa Santiago, asked to be called simply ‘Theresa’, and groused that she really was not that delicate, she simply wasn’t ready for the smell.

“I’m not going to tease,” Sharl promised. “The smell was grody and those ration bars were not exactly easy on the stomach.”

And, as if in tribute to the little Gods of comedic timing, Sharl’s own stomach grumbled.

“Guess my body’s telling me to get started on putting fat back on it,” they laughed sheepishly. “Dunno how I’m going to pay for any of this, but…” They trail off. “Maybe that won’t be an issue?” That sounds more hopeful than confident, but it’s what they’ve got.

They don’t have to pay for their food. It’s largely vegetarian, with shrimp and crab as the main animal proteins. Once they figure out that it’s all grown aquaponically within the Temple itself, to keep costs down, they are entirely fine with reserving the very small amount of available protein coming from larger animals for the various obligate carnivores among the Jedi. They have a choice, a different species wouldn’t, and they love shrimp and crab. It’s kind of the least they can do.

Palpatine is a worry. Anakin is a more physically present worry, and some of the kids, with a boy named Jason at their head, have been getting a bit bloody-minded about maybe making him not a worry.

No person, no problem, as a certain Russian dictator would say. And if Lucas had been right about the Tusken massacre as well as the tragic state of undergarments for the breast-having… well, the only problem Sharl will have with that is that it will inevitably both upset Obi-Wan, whom they have not yet met but are hopeful they will like, and cause Skeevatine to have an epic and possibly Republic-ending tantrum.

Fortunately, cooler and less-stabby heads prevail, and the decision is made to inflict emotional damage first. They ambush him in, of course, the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and begin first to hum, a song Sharl recognizes instantly, and then to sing.

“It's not the wakin’, it's the risin’
It is the groundin’ of a foot uncompromisin’
It's not forgoin’ of the lie
It's not the openin’ of eyes
It's not the wakin’, it's the risin’!”

They can see the ‘Hero without Fear’ freeze, his shoulders going tense, as he picks up on what’s being laid down. Good.

They have their own list of names of people who cried Power, and they offer them up without a second thought.

“Sophie cried power!”
“Marsha cried power!”
“Harvey cried power!”
“Sengbe cried power!”
“Heather cried power!”

And, just as they thought they were done, a sudden impulse made them add one more name to the list. “Jaster cried power!”

And somewhere, just faintly, it felt like something… or perhaps someone… took notice.

Chapter 27: Iviivian: Wicked Girls Saving Ourselves

Chapter by NittuSidhe, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

The temple nearly echoed, if you paid attention. Not just physically, as happened with any building with soaring ceilings and wide hallways, but emotionally too. The Jedi gave them rooms in a hall that felt a bit like that one ghost town she’d passed through a few years ago with mom. Too far off the beaten path to be a tourist destination, it didn’t have the familiar feeling of beach glass glitter that so many destinations had, polished and smoothed by hundreds of thousands of curious and admiring eyes passing over it, even once the people who called it home had passed into history.

No, that ghost town had felt tired and shabby, the wind sighing through the streets like a secret, punctuated by the soft creak of a loose board sagging lower and the croak of the crows. The church, with the door standing half-open, the gas station with the sign advertising thirty-two cents a gallon, forever waiting for people who would never return.

The side halls of the temple were clean enough, but no army of cleaning droids could make it feel lived in. It was hardly a surprise then, that they tended to spend much of their days in the gardens. The Room of a Thousand Fountains was alive in a way their rooms simply weren’t, thousands of years of children playing and elders strolling and everyone in between existing in the space giving it an energy that welcomed them without judgment.

The children below the age of seven or so, who hadn’t firmly latched onto a particular adult, had been spirited away by the Jedi. This still left a number of teens and adolescents running about, but the adults were no longer quite so outnumbered. Libby had no intention of leaving any of their children in the temple if it looked like they needed to run, but for the moment, it was a bit of a relief to have some of the children being looked after.

Most of the tweenlings were running around, poking their noses into all the corners and crannies of the gardens that they could find. Libby found herself sitting on the edge of one of the ubiquitous fountains, feet dangling in the water as she slowly worked a comb she’d acquired through her hair. Behind her, there was a skittish child trying to remain unnoticed. Libby gamely pretended to be oblivious, singing as the comb tugged through her hair again and again in a soothing repeat.

Tinkerbell says, and I find I agree
You have to break rules if you want to break free.
So do as you like – we’re determined to be
Wicked girls saving ourselves.

The skittish kid began to quietly hum along behind her.

Libby grinned. Gotcha. She sang a bit louder, projecting clearly. She wanted to glance back, but she refrained. The real trick with skittish kids was to let them come to you, without crowding them.

For we will be wicked and we will be fair
And they'll call us such names, and we really won't care,
So go, tell your Wendys, your Susans, your Janes,
There's a place they can go if they're tired of chains,
And our roads may be golden, or broken, or lost,
But we'll walk on them willingly, knowing the cost –
We won't take our place on the shelves.
It's better to fly and it's better to die
Say the wicked girls saving ourselves.

Flipping her hair from the left shoulder to the right, she took a moment to arrange it, then restarted the song from the top.

Wendy played fair, and she played by the rules that they gave her

There was a second voice singing with her this time around. It was quiet, a little unsure, but there. The kid crept closer, a wide arc bringing them barely within view. They kept a careful eye on Libby, looking as if they were one wrong move from scurrying away.

They say she grew up and grew old -- Peter Pan couldn't save her.

Libby kept her hands occupied with combing out her hair, using her very best Cat Manners and politely not looking directly at the child. They were rail thin, worryingly gaunt, but the Jedi had likely already noted that. For the moment, Libby just sang, letting the child decide how they’d interact.

It took a bit, but eventually the kid shuffled closer. They settled for perching on the fountain a bit further down where they were in range to speak without shouting, but were still out of arm’s reach.

“What, um- What song is that?” They fiddled with a string of beads in their hands. “It’s nice.”

“Wicked Girls Saving Ourselves, by Seanan McGuire. I heard it a while ago, and it stuck in my head. It seemed to fit, and I’ve gotten in the habit of singing lately.” She divided her hair into three strands and started to weave them together, firmly occupying her hands. “I’m calling myself Libby, for now. She/her,” Libby said, carefully asking nothing of the child.

“I like it. It’s got good vibes.” They glanced at her hands. “You can call me Adenn, they/them.” Adenn paused, as if trying to judge their reactions.

“Nice to meet you, Adenn. Hm…Adenn…a’den? Mando’a? Sorry, that was rude, you don’t need to answer, I just let my curiosity get away from me. Mine is a bit uninspired, I’m afraid. I used to be a librarian back home. Librarian, Libby, not terribly clever,” she rambled a bit, fingers flashing in and out of the dark brown locks, weaving the hair into a neat rope.

“Libraries are cool.” Adenn pointedly did not comment about their name. “There was one in my town I used to go to, the guy running it was nice.”

“I’m glad. We try to-oh!” Libby cut herself off as a ball came sailing out of the foliage, splashing down into the fountain and sending a rather large amount of water into her face and chest. A few coughs to clear her airways and she started laughing softly. “Three, two, one…”

Five children somewhere between eight and ten came crashing through the bushes. “Hey! Hey lady!” the youngest bellowed. “Have you seen our ball?!”

Libby raised a dripping eyebrow. “Yes, I have. It's in the fountain, right over there.” She pointed with one bare foot at the floating ball.

By the time the chaos stopped, Adenn had disappeared.

~~

Libby thumbed through her flashcards, holding in a growl as she flipped the card she’d identified as grek, only to see usk on the other side. Tipping her head back, she blinked rapidly against the stinging in her eyes. They hadn’t even been here an Earth week. It was okay that she didn’t have this down yet. It was.

This was also the first time in her life she hadn’t been able to read. Well, at least since she was three or so. She couldn’t even remember learning to read. Oh, she’d traveled to places where she didn’t know the language, but that wasn’t the same as this. No one here spoke English. There was nothing written in English. She was functionally illiterate, and there was no going home at the end of the trip.

Libby knew she wasn’t stupid. This was ignorance, not stupidity. She could learn. But…well. She knew adults learning a second language often never quite sounded like native speakers. A little stiff. A bit awkward. A little less eloquent. Children who had learned to be bilingual did much better, even with languages they learned as adults, something about already having the brainpaths for the concept of learning languages, she thought.

The thought of going the rest of her life sounding stilted and stiff hurt. So did the idea of never regaining her ability to read without having to painstakingly sound out and translate everything. Libby chewed on her lip. Several of the others had touched…something. Or been touched by something, perhaps. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea. But the potential benefits…

She tucked her flashcards away, and settled comfortably, breathing deep and even. In, and out. In, and out. And then, she formed a thought. “If anyone with good intentions and no ill will is listening, willing, and able to help, I have a request. I accept no debt, only gifts freely given and with no conditions. In this place, I am illiterate and unable to speak the local languages. As a librarian, one who keeps and shares knowledge, a caretaker and educator of children, and for myself, my lack of literacy and fluency pains me. I do not accept any debts, but I would not object in this moment to someone assisting me in gaining literacy and fluency in the local languages.”

She sat, breathing, waiting. And heard a chuckle.

Ah, little Iviivian. So impatient.

Libby felt her spine pull straighter, even as she ruthlessly controlled her breathing. She kept her eyes closed, feeling a chill behind her left shoulder that suggested she’d see nothing even if she looked. “I accept no debts, only that which is freely given, with no obligations afterwards, and no lasting ties or bindings,” she said firmly.

It will hurt, to pay the price up front.

“Will it harm, or only hurt? And how long will the hurt last?”

No harm, little one, though you may doubt me for a time. It may hurt for days.

“The pain will pass, and with no damage? Then it is better to pay the price up front than to incur debt. Some temporary pain as the price to learn the local languages would be an acceptable trade to me, if that is what you offer.”

K’atini, Iviivian.

The coldness came closer, brushed the nape of her neck, and Libby knew no more.

~~

Her head was pounding. She did not appreciate the light trying to sneak through her eyelids nor the beeping off to the side. Libby laid still, breathing deep, and tried to let the pain wash over her. Migraines were old hat, and there was no use fighting. After a while, minutes or hours, Libby couldn’t be sure, a quiet mechanical swish preceded footsteps.

“Hello? Are you awake? Your readings changed, and I’m talking to someone who can’t understand me, but hopefully this lets you know I’m here so I don’t scare you, just keep the tone soothing, yeah?” the newcomer murmured in a soft, even voice.

Libby gave a long, wordlessly pained moan, and shoved her head under the pillow.

“And that would be a mark for headache, I guess. Well, the monitors look fine, so I’ll, uh, let you sleep it off?” The footsteps pattered away, and the door swished again.

Under the pillow, Libby’s mouth stretched into a wild grin, even as she kept her eyes screwed shut against the pain. Absolutely worth it.

Chapter 28: Ca'senaar - A stand against entropy.

Chapter by BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

“I need something to do with my hands,” Ca’senaar told Theresa, the sweet one who threw up during the fight. Sweet didn’t mean incapable, and Theresa had swiftly become the point-person for anyone who needed things, or needed a more polite person to request things. So Theresa was obviously who Ca’senaar went to.

“What kind of thing, oh Warrior Princess?” Theresa asked, eyes still flicking over the chunky tablet in her hands. Fortunately for Ca’senaar, other people here were faster at picking up written languages than she was, and a few appropriated tablets were expanding the collective ability to navigate their new home faster than she could have on her own.

“I need to make things. Or repair them. Mending, making, modifying, anything reasonably productive and transportable if possible. I’ve got cabin fever and I need something to do with my hands while I listen to people talk, so the language sticks better. The lesson plans here make my brain itch, so I’m just gonna camp out somewhere with people and try to do it the old school way.”

“Well, we have stuff in the store-rooms that could be used to make our clothes a little less….”

“Sad and beige?” Ca’senaar asked. Theresa nodded. “Dope. I will take whatever you can get me. What can I make you in exchange? I’ll put you at the front of the line.”

“Line?”

“Well I know hand-sewing whole garments isn’t exactly a common hobby, and I doubt many people actually like Jedi Chic, so I was gonna do outfits for anyone who wanted them and wasn’t a bitch about it. But if you’re supplying my raw materials, then you’ll get priority on new clothes. Obviously.”

***

Step one was gathering information. Doodles, measurements, discussing what could and could not be done with the materials available. Looking over local fashions helpfully provided by Theresa and a few others who had figured out the incomprehensible local version of an internet. Making a list of needed items. Size-neutral skirts, pants with deep pockets and hidden ones, shirts for people who wanted something other than Jedi wrap-tops, and bras. So many bras. Why this whole ass Temple had not one single brassiere she would never know, but for now she was fixing it for her own people. Also vests, for those who wanted their chests obscured, not supported.

Then came the drafting, turning that list into pattern pieces.

Libby had appeared during this step to volunteer her services, expressing a desire to learn how to draft patterns and adjust them. In exchange, she offered her existing skill in hemming and sewing one piece of fabric to another. Adenn and Kara also showed up, watching intently as she showed them how to draft patterns.

“Okay, so this is mostly just math, geometry in three dimensions. You know how to calculate the circumference of a circle? A cone? You can make trapezoids and triangles? You can do this. Just break apart the shapes of a body into cylinders and cones, the flat parts into trapezoids, the awkward side parts into triangles.”

Libby laughed a bit. “You’re going to have to break that down for me, I’m more a written or hands on learner than verbal,” she said lightly.

“No worries,” Ca'senaar promised. “I have flimsi for just this reason. And once I make at least one pattern you can have something to play with until it makes sense.”

She sketched out a series of flattened shapes on a sheet of flimsi, touching at the edges, naming each one.

“Tunic goes on torso. Torsos are cylinders, which means we just need to measure around the widest bit, and that's this measurement, there's a bit of shape at the upper chest here, a trapezoid, so this measurement is armpit to armpit, fullest part of the bust to our neckline from bottom to top, and shoulder to shoulder for the top line. That also means we need the top on the other side, from armpit to armpit, up to the neck, and across shoulder to shoulder.”

“Then you draw around the edges, to smooth it out, cut and assemble.” As she spoke she folded the flimsi into a cylinder, pinched in the excess so it was hidden (flimsi didn't tear anything like paper, she hated it). It was a lopsided model, but clearly torso shaped. “It's easier on fabric.”

Together they drew out the parts they needed on taped-together flimsi. She cussed under her breath over the lack of big rolls of butcher paper. Those had made this step so much easier back home.

“It’s not paper, but will it help?” Theresa asked, presenting a roll of thin but tightly woven black cotton and a fistful of silvery pens.

Ca’senaar bit down the urge to cry. “Yeah that’s perfect.”

Step three was mockups.

“You want long, easy to pull running stitches,” she suggested to the small but growing collection of helpers. “We’re just seeing if they assemble correctly. Make notes where they aren’t.”

Her helpers did that, and she made notes where a base pattern could be amended for sizing, or the addition of embellishments. Then came disassembling them, laying them out, adjusting as needed, and doing it again. And again. When they were ready, the bolt of black tight-weave got hit again, this time with tighter seams than the loose tack stitches of the last step.

She dispatched them with the kids who’d gathered around to watch people turn a pile of soft black scraps into clothes, passed out to the people who had asked for them.

Step four was getting feedback. This took the longest, always, which would shock people who didn’t sew, especially by hand. She could lay in a surprisingly large amount of yardage with a backstitch in an hour, and Libby was shockingly good at the type of tiny, even stitches that would make any SCA seamstress weep with envy. Tracking people down and making them tell you what they did and didn’t like, honestly and specifically, was a bitch and a half. It took more de-escalation than her old job as a security guard ever did.

And after all that, then, at last, came actually making proper clothes, which meant fresh fabric to be laid out and cut, pinned, and brought with her to the best place she’d yet found for listening to conversations with an eye to learning the language.

The waiting area of the Healing Halls.

She camped out with her bag of parts and a little case of thread, needles, and scissors, prepared to sew and listen as long as her fingers and ears held out. The junior healers, the ones who looked like trainees, gave her a wide, wary berth. The ones with the walk of experienced nurses ignored her after a cursory check that she wasn’t injured. The doctor-ish ones didn’t seem to come out this way often, so she didn’t see them before she bent her head to the task of back-stitching a waistband onto the front panel of a skirt.

There were always more people here than she expected. Sure, there was a war on, but she really had assumed most of the medical care would be on those big fancy ships. She didn’t watch Clone Wars, but she did watch Star Trek, and the MedBay was about as nice as this place, if a bit smaller. She had no idea why there were so many troopers filing in and out all the time, but at least they tended to gossip.

Five skirts and three shirts later, and she felt reasonably qualified to greet the nearest trooper.

“Hello!” she said with a smile.

The trooper’s eyes went wide and he scrambled out of the chair to salute and hastily retreat.

Weird, I must need more practice.

***

Jason and the other kids had picked up a bit of Basic and took a delight in translating the newscasts about the missing Chancellor. At first the news had been alarmed, blame being cast on the Separatists, but on the second day of his disappearance, the news broke that the Chancellor had an elevator that wasn't on the blueprints leading to a hidden garage and the tone started shifting. At first it was sly innuendo but the Jedi, especially the Jedi Council, looked more grim than usual.

Which was saying something, given the war.

Ca’senaar stepped up production, making sure every garment had hidden pockets, straps for easy girding of loose fabric, and options that would allow for fast changes of silhouette. Circular cape sleeves that converted to wide hoods, skirts that became pants with the tightening of a few drawstrings, reversible outer garments with wildly different looks on each side.

She also set a number of her new sewing circle to modifying the Jedi-gifted clothes, since that would likely be easier to blend in with than her own style. Wrap tunics got hidden pockets. Trousers got padding added to the knees in case they needed to crawl. Cloaks and coats got reversible linings.

If they needed to run, they’d be ready.

***

Despite the growing grimness of the Jedi, most of them were pretty polite, preferring to give the adult Terrans a wide berth and the children the same kindness and care they did their own younglings. However, there was a range in there where pre-teens didn’t quite get either. All too accustomed to people slipping through cracks, Ca’senaar started adding the areas the tweens congregated at to the general patrol route.

From down the hallway came a shout of an irate tween, adding speed to her steps. She skidded into a room with a Jedi and a cluster of the in-between kids.

“CAS!” one of the kids called, tipping their head at one who was glaring at the Jedi. Like Ca'senaar, the tween in question had ditched their birthname, and now went by Kaysh. Brown hair, average height, average looks they would have vanished in a crowd of one if it wasn't for their shifting hazel eyes.

“They’re poking in my head,” Kaysh growled. “You do NOT want to be in my head! It is NOT a nice place!"

“If they walked in, they gave consent to see what you’ve got,” Ca’senaar said calmly, moving to flank the cluster of kids. “I say do your worst, Kaysh. Teach them not to trespass. I’ll keep you from tipping too far, if you’re worried about that.”

There was a moment or two of silence, then Kaysh started sing-songing. "One, two, Freddie's coming for you. Three, Four, better lock the door."

A couple of other kids joined in, using that breathy, high pitched sing-song that made the hairs on the back of the neck stand up. "Five, six, grab your crucifix.”

The sound was coming from rooms up and down the hall as more voices joined in, some in the guttural sounds of Basic. A friendly nudge from the Differently Living asked if they could play too. Ca’senaar’s lips curled into something that only technically could be called a grin.

“Seven, eight, stay up late.”

Ca’senaar kept smiling as she sent a wave of invitation out to the nearby entities and energies, carefully blocking the kids themselves from the area of the invite. She’d had good luck so far with the locals being kind, but their etiquette still needed work and the kids weren’t ready for that yet. She was still working with Adenn on unpicking what’d gone on when whatever it was they’d invited for a ride had carried them out of the slaver’s ship.

“Nine, ten, never sleep again...."

More voices joined as they restarted the verse, sounds of high-pitched voices echoing forth from the walls, the air, the shadows in the corners, languages layering and stacking. It became too obvious to ignore that the song wasn’t coming solely from human throats.

"One two, Freddie's coming for you. Three, Four, better lock the door...."

The sound of passing Jedi running, fleeing from the area the tweens had claimed and escaping down the hall made the sound of children's laughter at the sudden retreat even more eerie.

“What did you do?” the youngest of the tweens asked her. “That echo wasn’t….”

“A little parlor trick. Don't worry,” she comforted. An eyebrow went up.

“You got friends on the other side?” the kid asked skeptically.

Ca’senaar laughed, her voice rasping on the sound.

“You could say that. I think in this case it’s more like the Jedi have people on the other side who aren’t mad… just disappointed.”

***

She was helping Theresa in the storeroom in thanks for all the help getting people dressed when she found them.

Different formulas for sure, but she knew exactly what the little black lacquer box was when she opened it. A series of clear jars filled with a rainbow of color, a set of brushes with matching black lacquer handles and a mirror in the lid.

“Oh….” Tears threatened the edges of her eyes. She hadn’t had her own Face on since that first forced shower in the ship, since she’d felt her cheek markings melt off under the punishing spray. The eyes and lip had lasted better, being waterproof and easier to protect with her hands or by pointing her face to the floor. She’d been able to pretend they were still there, wings of black and purple flying in the face of those who wanted her caged and small. They hadn’t been there by the time she found a mirror her first day awake in the Temple, and it hurt more than she’d expected.

“You okay?” Theresa asked.

“I… can you help me figure out if these are still safe to use? I don’t want to mess around with expired cosmetics, but… I want my Face back. Those f*cking slavers took my f*cking Face and I want it back. If these are safe… I could do that.”

Chapter 29: Kaysh - I'm just waiting for the world to end again

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

The downside of naming herself 'her' or 'they' was that it played into Kaysh's tendency to blend into the background a little too well. Kaysh had always been the quiet one. The responsible one. Eldest Daughter syndrome. Now... she was too young for the adults or even teens to take seriously, too old to join the Jedi. And while some of the other kids were being snapped up by adults, Kaysh... wasn't. The one time a Jedi tried to get in her head it spooked the hell out of her and she retaliated by spooking the hell out of him. She should have listened when her parents told her she was too young for those movies. Plenty of nightmare-fuel to go around.

But nobody wanting her... It was fine. She had family back on Earth. No one could replace them. She didn't want to replace them. And the Jedi temple was... big. Mind numbingly big. You could put the biggest building in Charleston inside the Jedi temple and it would rattle. And it was mostly empty, even the top levels where people live were mostly empty.

It made it easy to collect supplies. It made it easy to vanish. Backpack, clothes, shoes and boots, bedroll, dopp kit. Packed and good to go. She practiced being invisible, different ways of being invisible. Blending into a crowd was different than blending into shadow was different than convincing the Jedi that no one was there. Security in the Temple kind of sucked. Doors had locks, but the air vents weren't flimsy metal vents; they were passages carved in stone or built around. There were even more passages meant for mouse droids and such. There were maintenance tunnels and abandoned halls and levels. And no cameras. No sensors as long as you stayed away from vital areas like medical and water reclamation. A couple dozen Temple guards wasn't enough for the top 20 levels, much less the top 50.

Kaysh set up a home base in the lower levels near the creche. Safe to keep her stuff there, close to two cafeterias where she could get food, and the bonus of eavesdropping on the toddlers and little ones to learn basic and other stuff. She wasn't sure which she was more proud of, learning to count to a hundred in basic, or the first time she lifted a feather with the force.

Even with Palpatine gone Kaysh was still planning on leaving the temple, but she needed to speak Basic first. Needed to learn enough Force tricks to survive. Then she would vanish. No one would miss her.

If the war had taught Cin Drallig anything, it was that his title of Battlemaster was an absolute mockery. None of them had been ready for a true war. Least of all him.

Everytime a Jedi didn't return from the battlefield, every time a list of trooper casualties came in, he was reminded of his failure. There would always be casualties in war, but how many fewer would there have been if he had done his job properly? If he had been trained properly for this? A lesser man would have become an alcoholic.

Cin Drallig trained.

He studied every battle he could get records of, past and current. He pushed his old bones until Vokara started yelling about stress fractures. He sat and listened to those who returned from the field, the Masters and Knights and yes even the Padawans. He learned, he trained, and he pushed those he trained even harder. Before the war, someone would have taken Cin aside long ago and grounded him for burnout, but now they were all burnt out.

Then everything changes.

The Temple is invaded, not by Sith or Separatists but by refugees with startling high M counts, rescued from a slaver's hold. They are nothing like the Jedi or the Sith. They are nothing like each other. Loud and quiet. Bold and shy. A babble of different languages, a current of strange foreign songs. They don't have the most basic of Force skills but a few know exotic techniques thought either legends or lost.

They're a security nightmare. Cin finds himself fascinated. He wishes that Fay was here, thinks that she would understand these fierce, shining women and children better than the Council could. But Fay left when the war started, vanishing to the outer rim and taking the Wandering Masters with her. No one knows if they're still alive. Cin hopes that after the war they will return.

The Dark Woman might understand these strangers' powers but wouldn't understand them. Cin hopes she doesn't show up.

Right now, however, one of the rescued was causing him a major headache. They were young, eleven or twelve, and went by Kaysh. The one called Jaisin had a habit of vanishing in the garden and scaring Jedi by dropping out of trees. Kaysh... Kaysh was invisible all the time.

Or more accurately, nearly invisible nearly all the time. A glitch in a recording, a shadow where one shouldn't be, food disappearing from the serving line. It wasn't that she was doing any harm, it was that he had a mostly-invisible child running around a temple full of Jedi suffering from extreme combat fatigue. It could all too easily go horribly wrong.

Tholme. Unless Fay miraculously appeared in the Temple, Tholme was his best chance of corralling a girl who could vanish as well or better than most Shadows. The pair finally tracked her down to a stairwell a level or two down from the creche. Abandoned but not blocked because every now and then maintenance needed to tend the pipes below, the girl's voice could be heard even if she could not be seen.

A thousand years is past imagination

A century's beyond the minds of men

A decade is a lifetime's worth of memories

A week is all that I can comprehend

Another thousand years of crazy history

Another hundred decades gone and spent

A second in the slowly fading sunlight

I wonder when the summer came and went

The stairwell echoed not just with her singing, but with a melancholy far too heavy for someone so young. A love of the beauty of the universe balanced on a knife's blade with the knowledge that nothing lasted. The echoes helped hide her location, so they moved down slowly to listen for where she was, knowing their eyes couldn't be trusted.

In the twilight of the millennium

Thinking back on where I've been

In the twilight of the millennium

I'm just waiting for the world to end again

And of course that was when they ran into the adult Terran.

Chapter 30: Kaysh & Cas - You'll meet friends in the dark

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

Ca’senaar had gone looking for one of their kids. Of course she had, when the dinner headcount came up short. It was Kaysh, poor kid. Trauma sat clear and heavy on those young shoulders.

Which would be why she didn’t come empty handed. A pack bundled in the softest blanket she could find from the back of the store rooms, stuffed with as much comfort as she could muster. She wasn’t like her Aunt, she didn’t work magic with wool or make things that carried the phantom imprint of hugs, but she could pour her care, her consideration into picking out supplies for building a more comfortable nest. She was a good gift-giver.

The plan was to find the entry to the vents she was pretty sure were where Kaysh was hiding, under the creche by a couple levels, tuck the gift inside, maybe hum a little to alert the girl to it, then leave it be. Skittish kids that hid in vent systems generally didn’t like being chased.

Of course, then she saw the Jedi, about to do just that.

“HEY!” she shouted, drawing their attention, ducking forward to body-block the vent opening. “The kark you think you’re doing?”

The two Jedi looked at each other then the woman. They talked to each other softly, not hostile but concerned. Neither of them was particularly young, one built like a brick wall with dark blonde hair that was fading into silver. The other had black hair with a skunk streak and a scar over his left eye, an eye that the green didn't quite match that of the right. The brunette indicated himself. "Tholme." Then indicated the Blonde. "Cin Drallig." He indicated the vent behind her, and said something that was heavy with concern.

“Ca’senaar Addams,” she sighed, and forced herself to relax - a small amount, only - put down the bundle, and gestured for them to move with her farther away. She figured she couldn’t get them all the way to another area, but she could give the specific opening some room while they sorted this out.

Taking a deep breath, she gave the rock-and-water salute, bowed eyes-up, and folded herself into a seiza. She couldn’t do a deep meditation, not with there being someone depending on her to protect them, but she could lightly soften her focus and the edges of her being in invitation. Maybe, just maybe, if they were willing and fanfic wasn’t entirely wrong, they could share a meditation and get some level of understanding.

And if not? Well she was plenty okay with letting them get a peek of what it was like to be hunted by people you didn’t know or trust. There were memories to spare in the dusty cupboards of her mind, surely one of them would be correct.

The two men returned the bow and after a brief exchange that was felt more than seen, gracefully joined her, though she might have heard one or two joints creak. None of them was willing to slip into a deep meditation, not here, not now. Tholme took the lead, reaching out a gentle mental touch.

The Jedi were worried. Very worried. Kaysh wasn't sleeping with the other Terrans, was traveling about the temples through vents and passages not meant for human travel at times. They weren't safe. Worse, she was walking around invisible, or nearly so. The images were generic, imaginings and worries not memories, but the concern for the child, the image of a generic Jedi with shakes to their hands lashing out at something unseen only to find a crumpled dead child was clear enough.

Then came a firmer image, that of Kaysh wrapped in blankets, in the Halls of Healing, talking to a specific elderly Twi'lek. Still not firm enough to be a memory but there was a push to it. Like they wanted this to happen.

Then the Jedi waited.

She replied. Comfort, understanding. Yes, it wasn’t ideal. Yes, the vents weren't really intended for this use. Vents never were, which would be why most vents weren't big enough to even attempt it outside of movies. Yes, the Jedi were all carting about bags and bags of trauma and that could make even the most well meaning warrior dangerous if startled. Yes, a therapist was a good idea.

But their way would not work.

She returned to them images from her own childhood, no older than Kaysh was. Memories of training in halls not dissimilar to the training facilities here, and the knowledge that the memories started after the training began. Learning how to kick, how to hit, how to bite. How to scream… not help, never help, nobody comes when you scream help. How to scream fire because people will always come to watch you burn. Memories of school assemblies on how to tell if you've been sexually assaulted because children can't always tell the difference. Her kind, loving father role-playing as a kidnapper for her to practice against, tears flowing into his beard as he told her she needed to come with him, he had a missing puppy, he had candy, he had her Mother, her parents were in a terrible accident, her parents were dead… a thousand terrible lies so she could stay calm when it happened for real.

When. Not if.

When.

That damning word, that damned reality, that damned and damning certainty. There were monsters in the world and, for the most part, they looked like men.

She felt more than saw their reaction, the sick feeling in her gut almost but not quite unfamiliar, something fresher than she’d felt for years when considering the topic.

Then she shared a fiction. An idea formed of memories and her current sight. Of looking up from a child's height at two men… one built like a brick wall with graying dark blonde hair, one with a scar over a green eye didn't quite match the other. Hands reaching for her, and lessons long learned on the nature of fear.

Fear is the mind-killer, but you must not fear your fear. Let it pass over and through you, burning away that which is not yourself, and when it passes, only you shall remain.

Then turn that fire outward, because it is always better to die taking evidence from your attackers flesh as you make them pay in blood for every inch of you they steal. Always better to die on your feet, than to let them take you into whatever hell waits in the secondary location.

She would know.

The last memory she shared was the night she was taken. The night she failed in the lessons taught. The night she failed to die on her feet in the parking lot of an abandoned store, and woke in a slaver's hold.

“Secondary locations are bullsh*t,” she said, knowing the words wouldn’t translate, but the warning would.

Tholme sent back reassurance, his words gently rebuking along with a sense that life was its own victory and dead men can't help others. Brief images of her helping the various tweens in the Healing Halls and garden. Then a sense of... amusem*nt and questioning along with an almost cartoonish image of Ca'senaar removing Kaysh from the vents with a vastly oversized prybar and wrapping her in blankets until only a pair of blinking eyes are visible.

Ca’senaar snorted darkly at the rebuke. Clearly this man had not received the same harsh life lessons on what was worse than death. She was glad to have survived, obviously, but that was dumb chance and a full willingness to fight to the death, not any proof of the mercy of human traffickers in general. The aliens had been nicer than she expected, which said volumes about what else could have occurred. The vaguely Wile E. Coyote image got a much less dark chuckle and a nod.

“Yeah, I'll get them. But you need to back all the way the f*ck up while I do. If you go around looking like the Wet and/or Sticky Bandits, Kaysh is gonna rip your faces off and I'm not going to feel bad for you.”

She punctuated the words with scenes from the Home Alone movies, static cut outs of Tholme and Cin over the villains faces. She grinned with teeth as she added the more vicious Kevin Traps to the mix, giggling the way she always did when picturing demagolkase getting painfully removed from the gene pool.

Tholme snorted at the image, and pushed again the face of an elderly Jedi Twi'lek healer. As if that particular healer was important, then got to his feet. Cin added an image of his own, of the Jedi salles, and Cin guiding Ca'senaar and Kaysh through a Kata... then an image of Tholme tying a blindfold around Yoda's eyes and pushing him away from the Salle where that was happening.

She mirrored the image of the healer back for confirmation, then stood as well with a grin to Cin.

“I would be honored, Sensei,” she said with a deep formal bow. “Vor entye, Jaieh Drallig. Gar baju, bal ni ven’hibi. I can make no promises for Kaysh, but I will learn if you will teach.”

Cin Drallig looked surprised and pleased. "N'entye." The two Jedi gave a bow, then retreated back up the stairwell. She heard the door at the top open and not close again, but there was a little thud. Later she'd find they had wedged the door open leaving a clear path out.

Ca’senaar sighed, and turned back to the vent.

“Kaysh, kiddo, can you hear me?” she called out. “You don’t need to come all the way out if you don’t want, but I need proof of life, if you please.”

"I'm alive... If the Jedi are mad at me, I can go... I think I've scrounged enough to get to little Keldabe." Kaysh wasn't coming out just yet but she was nearer the vent grate than Ca'senaar had expected. "There's places where the mouse-droids drop little items they found, and some haven't been cleared out in ages. Not as many beads as I expected, but I've got like a hundred hair ties."

“Ohhh yeah, we need a full system reset here,” Ca’senaar mumbled to herself. “Kaysh, kiddo, I want you to know I am one thousand percent on your side when I say this. That would make the situation… so much worse. The Jedi aren’t angry, kidlet, they’re worried. They don’t want you getting hurt, and they had some very reasonable safety concerns. Honestly I’m worried too. It’s hard to be sure you’re safe when we don’t ever see you.”

Kaysh was quiet for a moment. "I'm safe. There's plenty of food and I stay out of the way. I'm too old to become a Jedi, but I'm listening in on the classes and I'm trying to learn. The Jedi took the little kids away and they don't want my help in the gardens so it's not like I'm useful."

“Oh boy, so many things are so very f*cked up here,” Ca’senaar mumbled to herself. “You aren’t responsible for being useful, Kay’ika. Usefulness is not the price you pay to exist in this galaxy, and if it’s someone here who told you it was, I am going to need their name or a rough description. You don’t owe the Jedi jack f*cking sh*t for doing the right thing, nor do you owe any of us. We owe you. We owe you care and education and protection. Sometimes usefulness is necessary, there are plenty of cases I can think of where everyone able to help needs to, but when there isn’t a crisis and nobody is asking you to be useful… you don’t need to be useful in order to be cared for.”

Kaysh blinked at her.

“I trust that you’re not taking risks or acting stupid,” Ca’senaar assured. “That’s not the safety worries I have. It might be the safety worry the Jedi have, they raised a pretty solid point about not spooking space wizards with trauma and laser swords, but if you say you’ve been careful I believe you. What I’m worried about is if one of your explorations takes you through a damaged area and you fall, break a leg maybe. If we don’t know where you are, if we don’t know to be worried because we haven’t seen you in a while…. Do you know how long a human can survive without water?”

“Three days,” Kaysh answered swiftly, the question seeming to provide an anchor in a sea of feelings.

“Yes. If you get hurt and can’t call for help, that’s three very nasty days. If I don’t see you more than once a week normally, then by the time I realize something is wrong… that’s why we do headcounts at meals, why I came looking for you. If you’re gonna be running around in vents that weren’t designed for human transit, I need multiple safety check-ins daily, at a bare minimum.”

Kaysh frowned. "I'm not going down where the ghosts are, I'm hanging around the creche levels mostly... And the one cafeteria that has good barbeque. I test a new passage before I put weight on it, same as I would a tree branch." She frowned. "I could check in every morning before lessons start. It takes them forever to get the little ones up, clean, and fed but they won't let me help. I started feeding my baby sister when I was three. I couldn't change diapers by myself until I was almost six just because I wasn't strong enough and babies are wiggly... but they won't let me help." Kaysh pondered. "I can probably check in after dinner too. There's less to watch then, and I'm usually just exploring or pointing problems out to the mouse droids."

“It sounds like you’re doing a great job of mitigating your risks, but I appreciate your willingness to work with me here,” Ca’senaar said with a relieved sigh. “Does being useful make you feel better? Like not about earning a place, I repeat you do not need to earn care by being useful, but inside yourself? Because if you really want to be helpful, we can find a place for you with the rest of us. I just want to be sure that you are physically and emotionally taken care of, with as much independence as makes you feel happy and as much support as makes you feel loved. But that sort of means us working together to get what that looks like sorted out.”

Kaysh frowned, "I need to be useful. Things fall apart if everyone doesn't do their share."

“Okay,” Ca’senaar accepted. “That is certainly a common enough worldview and it’s not one that’s likely to cause damage, as long as you aren’t trying to do more than your share. Do you mind if I ask some questions to pin down what a good role for you might be?”

Kaysh tilted her head, then snagged her bag out of the vent, using it as a seat. "Ok...."

“Alright, is there any sort of Craft you enjoy and feel called to? I’m talking about a thing you make or do, like cooking, building, sewing, fixing machines, telling stories, anything like that? Not ‘are good at’ but something you actually enjoy and want to be doing.”

Kaysh shook her head. "I enjoy reading and drawing, but that's not useful. I can cook, plant, water and weed, sew a little with a sewing machine, shoot, run rabbit snares and traps, fish, take care of babies and little kids... but either it's not useful HERE or it's not something I'm allowed to do."

“Hmm. Drawing may not have been useful back home, but here it’s actually quite useful,” Ca’senaar said. “If we need to bug out, we need to know the safe routes out of the temple. Which either means a bunch of us going all over the temple to map and memorize it individually, or it means one person who knows how to navigate stealthily making a map, preferably one with landmarks drawn in to help us use it.”

Kaysh perked up. "I've got three routes out already.... Though only one is adult-sized and it's through some run-off piping so it's a bit... icky. The other two are my-sized but the worst is some dust."

“Great! We can cope with ick, but having more routes we can get the littles out through is critical. If the Order goes out, we’ll let adults know and make their own choices, but I’m not leaving a single child in this place to die, Terran or Jedi. If we can get copies of those routes made, I can start finding kids willing to help evacuate the Creche.”

Kaysh nodded at that. "There's a route the Jedi could probably do... there's a jump I won't try to make.... We can give the Jedi THAT route and keep some routes to ourselves... we don't have to tell everything we know."

“Very true, ad’ika. You also like reading… how do you feel about learning new languages? I’m struggling to get literate again, but if you’re up for it, it’d be really useful to have someone who’s better at reading around.”

Kaysh shrugged, "I've been listening in on the crecheling lessons from the vents. I've got the aurek besh cresh's down, but reading is still 'see spot run'.. Except they don't use spot, they use a tooka named Fluff. See Fluff run. See Fluff nap. Fluff tried to steal a fish, naughty Fluff...."

“You might still be farther than I am. Aurebesh is a nightmare, it feels like my cousin described her dyscalculia. I’m doing so much better with the Mando’a language models.” Ca’senaar sighed. “Look, upskilling is always useful, it just might not be immediately useful. So for right-now help, keep working on mapping the temple, then practice reading as best you can, and two check-ins a day, just so I know what areas to go looking in if I don’t see you at dinner.”

Kaysh nodded and grimaced. "Can... you let the Jedi know I'll keep my distance and treat the grownups like my dad? Not startle them, make sure they see me if I'm in striking distance? I'm still going to sneak around, I don't want to be herded to the Terran wing over and over... and I want to still be able to eat at the cafeteria where the food is better. If you told me a year ago I'd be tired of shrimp I'd have said you were crazy, but I'm really tired of shrimp."

“You found a cafeteria with non-shrimp options?” Ca’senaar asked eagerly. “Kiddo, for that alone, never worry about not being helpful again. Where is it, can you show me, or draw a map? We have two people with shellfish allergies and… three or so with religious reasons for not wanting to eat filter feeders. There’s exceptions when there’s no other options, but they’re all getting sick of the tofu options. They’re so bland I can’t blame them.”

"There's a cafeteria that's Vegan... from the Halls of Healing take the big hall, second group of lifts, down two levels and turn right, the cafeteria's on the right. The one that has other meat options is harder to find... and the Jedi in it don't dress like Jedi and are harder to hide from." Kaysh paused, a look of appalled revelation crossing her face. "I think they might be Shadows. But the food there has more meat and flavors and it's my favorite cafeteria so far. Easiest way is from the Cargo ship bay but... yeah... I better draw a map and show you. Some of the halls don't look like halls and some of the doors don't look like doors."

“Yeah, sounds like you found the Shadows. That’s a bonus, I have always appreciated dark shadows. They feel safe. Like blankets. Come on, why don’t we head there, get a little snack, then both of us need to find a good place to kip down for the night.”

Kaysh brightened a bit at that and shrugged on her backpack. "Ok, from here we can go down two levels, to the next staircase over, then up three levels. That other staircase turns differently, so that takes you to a hall that is a pain to get to if we just go up a level here. I think it was originally maintenance, but only the water-pipes are left. I'll show you." She hummed to herself as she led the way.

Chapter 31: Theresa - I have tried, in my way, to be free

Chapter by Argentee, HollowsArchivist

Chapter Text

Waking up Theresa was in, well, it was some sort of medical facility. She recognized other patients from the cargo holds. Theresa stayed more or less on her bed, working out who in the room spoke what languages, tolerating being poked and prodded by the healers. English was the most common language, and everyone in this room was more or less healthy. The healers weren't all human, and went in and out taking scans then leaving again.

The blonde who kicked like a mule during the breakout gave a little sniff as a third healer ran a scan on her feet and legs. "I am a ballet dancer and choreographer. There is nothing wrong with my legs." Her tone dripped with disdain and when the healer did not respond the blonde, whose name turned out to be Lynndsey, hopped off the bed and proceeded through a series of stretches and motions that made Theresa hurt just watching. The healer's jaw dropped, but Lynndsey kept the same aloof smile as she continued gracefully and precisely through the exercise. The healer shook their head in disbelief, but they left Lynndsey alone after that.

After about an hour of no visits from the healers, Theresa headed out of the room to visit the next. She did not sneak, sneaking was counterproductive. She walked like she belonged there, she was allowed, and people went along with that.

It took a bit to survey everyone, especially since she didn't speak any eastern or middle eastern languages, but Theresa's idea was simple enough. Rearrange people in groups by shared languages. A young Chinese woman who had been some sort of embassy staff joined her, as did a medical student from the University of Cape Town. When it came time to actually move people, Theresa snagged a young being who had an air of 'slightly harried, eagerly helpful' and engaged in some intricate pantomime.

There were a few patients that the young being didn't want moved, but they were ok with everyone else in the room being moved, so the shuffling began. The kids were eager to have someone they could talk to and most of the adults felt the same. Every group had someone who could speak some English, so they had a way of communicating between groups. Theresa did worry about translation errors, because in some cases it would be someone translating from English to French to Arabic to some language Theresa didn't even catch the name of but it was better than nothing. Definitely better for the kids who were calming down and in many cases picking an adult to cling to.

A few of the women were in tanks of faintly blue liquid, and wasn't THAT a disturbing sight. Then one of the tweens explained that the people around them were Jedi. They were in the middle of Star Wars, sometime during the prequel movies. She wouldn't have believed it, but some of the doctors would have stuff just fly across the room into their hands and there were what could easily be lightsaber handles worn on the sashes at their waist.

Before the end of the first week, and apparently Star Wars weeks were five days, everyone was out of bacta and people were starting to be moved out of the healing wing. The youngest children were moved into the creche and the Jedi were doing their best to include them in lessons and teach them Basic.

It was anyone over the age of seven or so that the Jedi had a problem with.

They were given rooms in an unused part of the Temple. Basic clothing, linens for the bed. There were cafeterias to eat in, and after a great deal of pantomime, being ignored, getting in people's faces and even more pantomime, they had figured out that one of the cafeterias banned all dairy, nuts, and wheat. It might not be the tastiest option, but it was the safest for those who had allergies.

Theresa had fallen into organizing things. Trying to make sure those who shared languages had rooms together or at least close to each other. Getting access to store rooms of materials so people could customize their clothing and outfit their rooms with something more than a bed and a couch. The Jedi offered language lessons, but the teacher changed randomly and there was little or no consistency to the lessons. They learned more from the smaller kids passing on what they picked up in the creche.

Having clothes and people willing to tailor them was good, but she needed a different wardrobe if she was ever going to build a life outside of the Temple. She knew the type of clothing she wanted, or at least the type of person she wanted to look like, but she didn't know the details that would work here. It was a bit galling to find Lynndsey, of all people, browsing the Holonet at an Archive terminal with, if not ease, certainly more skill than Theresa had at the moment. The blonde woman was not friendly. Oh, she was polite but Lynndsey kept to herself and insisted on attending formal etiquette lessons with the youngest, along with formal dance class. As if the most important thing was to learn what fork to use and the local equivalent of a waltz. She also had spent a lot of time studying images of high society types.

"Can I help you?" The words were perfectly polite, bland, and coldly impersonal.

Theresa took a deep breath and let it out. "Can you show me how the search engines work? I'm trying to find images of Senators and corporate executives that have their assistants in the background..."

Lynndsey was silent and still for a moment, then got out a fresh sheet of flimsi. "This is what you type for a general image search, then your search terms narrow it down further. Click this button for an AND search, this button for an OR search, but to exclude a term you have to put what you want to exclude inside of these two symbols..."

The instructions were clear and the cheat sheet Lynndsey was giving her was good, but something about the woman just grated on Theresa's nerves. But when Theresa left the archives a couple hours later, she had a dozen printouts showing female-presenting executive assistants and senator's aides in a style that Theresa thought would suit her and they had a chance of mimicking. Now to enlist Ca’senaar to help with the sewing part.

The Goth-turned-seamstress of their merry band hummed at the images.

“Sure. We can do this. It’s all tunics and tunic variants, over pretty normal skirts or trousers. You like the skirts better, or the pants? I could do some pants that look like skirts, they’ll look sort of like this burgundy one in shape.”

Theresa hummed thoughtfully. "That works. With ribbon trim, we can pull the silhouette change trick in an emergency. Mostly browns, the Jedi have plenty of that, but some pieces in autumnal reds and oranges. The Jedi seem allergic to anything in the reds, and I don't want to look Jedi. I also need to look like I belong without looking like I'm from any specific system, so patterns not matching exactly is a good thing."

Theresa's smile was definitely planning something. "Trying to pass myself off from Naboo or Alderaan or somewhere specific is asking for trouble. But I want something that if I walk past briskly carrying a pile of datapads, a Senator won't look twice once he glances to make sure I'm not bringing him those pads."

“Ah, Office Camo. Gotcha. I'll put you on the list for three tunics, browns for the base and reds and orange for the accents. Skirt-pants, with fast-alteration ribbons, one in brown, one in each of the autumn shades we end up using on the tunics?”

The grin on Theresa's face was for a moment shark-like before settling into office-serene. "That would be perfect. Anything you want in particular for dinner? I'm going to help the gardening ladies raid for more onions and peppers."

“Does the Temple have garlic? Even weird purple, like, ‘space garlic’ or something. The onions have been good, but I miss garlic.”

"They do... Only two of the cafeterias seem to use it, and one of those is the one that keeps trying to hide itself, but they grow a lot more of it than they use. I'll grab a head or thirty, and what we don't use right away we can braid up and hang for later." Theresa remembered her grandmother storing garlic and peppers that way, but she wanted gloves if she was going to be braiding peppers. Forget and touch your eyes once and you never forgot again.

“Do you need any bodies buried? An alibi? Anything, I will make it happen,” Ca’senaar swore, and it only felt a little bit joking.

"Ask me that again once we're settled in and have jobs." Theresa had that sharp smile back. "I'm thinking of going assistant to a politician or someone high up in civil service if we get the language down and the local equivalent of green cards. I was an executive assistant for a billionaire with more money than sense back home, I can handle people. And it would let us keep an eye on what was really going on."

“Good idea, we need early warnings if the Plot is gonna thicken on us. Don’t worry, I’ll get you what you need to do that. You just keep that executive function sharp and your eyes on the stuff the rest of us miss.”

Theresa smiled. "I'm good at that. And you're good at keeping people going. This group... we're survivors. Hopefully we'll get to do more than just survive."

Ca’senaar gave her finger guns as she walked away backwards. “Survive, thrive, make the bastards regret they took us alive!”

Chapter 32: Ca'senaar - Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.

Chapter by BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

Ca’senaar bounced on her toes slightly as she moved through several yoga poses in a coordinated dance that warmed her up and stretched her muscles at the same time. Kaysh had hovered in the door of the training room when they first arrived, but now was standing to Ca’senaar’s right and slightly behind, copying the moves.

“Su’cuy!” Vae called as she came in. She was stuck speaking Mando’a after the disaster with the flash-training for Basic, but Ca’senaar was getting better at that much quicker than she was with Basic. It helped that there were people who were fluent in both English and Mando’a around and willing to practice with her. It also helped Vae’s isolation.

“Su’cuy,” Ca’senaar replied in the same language. “Join us to train? Teacher Dralig offered us lessons.”

“I would like that,” Vae agreed. “Can you show me your… ah. Hmm. Before-learn dance?”

“Oh!” Ca’senaar said. “Body prepare, means same as warm up.”

In Mando’a, the word ‘warm’ only meant temperature, and ‘up’ was a direction in three dimensional space, but even without her memories of English, sometimes idioms still resonated with Vae if they came through a different language first.

“Body prepare,” Vae repeated. “Can I learn yours?”

“Elek, ner vod,” Ca’senaar agreed.

The three of them ran through the poses together, then Ca’senaar started moving katas, dancing around Kaysh and Vae until they both loosened up enough to do the same, eventually devolving into unstructured dancing like she used to do back home, movement and sensation and joy unrestricted by expectation, led only by her heart.

A sound startled her to a whirling stop, and she bowed to Master Dralig.

“Su’cuy, Jaieh Dralig. Mhi ru baar’tsikado. Tion gar tsikala bajir?”

He nodded and made a small gesture with his hand that felt larger than the actual motion, encompassing a question.

“A warm up,” she said in English, willing the meaning to carry the same way he had. “Move our bodies, get the blood used to moving, stretch the muscles so we’re not stiff. Prevents injuries.”

He said… something in Basic.

“Ah, Teacher Dralig wanted to know who taught you Battle… mind-peace?”

“Meditation,” Ca’senaar supplied without thinking. “Wait… we were doing Battle Meditation? Like from karking KOTOR?”

Vae translated some more.

“Not we. You. We were allowing it, but you initiated and led it.”

“Huh. I didn’t feel any different than I do when I normally dance. Did you two?”

“Not really,” Vae shrugged. “It was easier, maybe, I didn’t feel self conscious about it at all and I sometimes do. But that was just because I was copying you, and you’re a really good dance-lead. Did you ever do formal dance?”

“Foxtrot, East Coast Swing, I’m sh*t at Tango unless I steal the lead,” Ca’senaar mused, knowing it wouldn’t be understood. Then she nodded. “What about you, Kaysh?”

“I just did what you did,” she said with a shrug.

“Okay, so file that away with things I did not know I knew,” Ca’senaar muttered in English before switching to shaky Basic. “Lessons?”

Dralig nodded, moving to the front of the room, then rapped sharply on their minds. Kaysh cried out and Ca’senaar swept up a furious shieldwall made of memory, thought, and a half-dozen of the willing dead to protect the child, before gripping the ephemeral projection and twisting, yanking Cin Dralig’s Force presence sharply while snapping up to his body with a variation of the moving kata she’d done slowly moments before. Her hands flew in the space between heartbeats, pushing as she pulled, dumping the Jedi Battlemaster on his ass before the recovering Kaysh.

“That was very rude,” she said sternly, her mind hooking into his with vicious fingers, digging in on the opening he’d given when he lashed out and prying her way past the language barrier. “We agreed to be taught, not abused.”

“I… wasn’t,” he managed, and although Vae provided a translation it wasn’t needed. Ca’senaar leaned in with a growl.

“Look at Kaysh, their shielding. Not mine, theirs. Notice anything about what you did to it?"

Dralig stilled in horror.

"Putting your fist through a wall to get someone’s attention is abusive.”

“Her shields, they’re like flimsi!” he gasped. “Why would she-”

“They are perfectly normal Terran shields,” Ca’senaar corrected. “Not everyone kits out in f*cking kevlar on the daily; we just don’t f*cking shoot at people. The fault lies with the one who fires without care, not the one they hurt.”

“Every gun is loaded, every bullet fired will hit someone, everyone hit will die,” Kaysh recited dutifully, seeming to calm down with the gun safety mantra. “Never pick up guns unless you are willing to kill.”

“I didn’t mean to… I was just asking for a training bond, to make teaching easier,” Dralig whispered, looking ill. “I am deeply sorry. I hadn’t realized how different the shields are. Yours are so… loud.”

“I’m constantly fending off your ghosts because nobody bothered to keep them properly socialized,” Ca’senaar sighed, releasing her punishing grip. “My shields are exhausting, but necessary.”

“Ghosts aren’t-”

Ca’senaar smiled with too many teeth. “How many deeply held beliefs do you want broken today?” she asked, co*cking her head. “Also someone with what sounds like a deeply embarrassing nickname for you is telling me to remind you of Jorom 6.... Should I ask?”

“Ah,” Cin said shakily. “No. I would however like to ask for etiquette lessons. And how you learned Basic so quickly.”

“Oh I didn’t. I just bypassed the linguistic processing center of your brain. Seriously, an impenetrable fortress is pointless if you leave the door unlocked. I wouldn’t have taken advantage of it, because that’s rude, but you needed to be able to understand why I was gonna make you eat mat if you didn’t apologize, and you needed the correct language in which to offer it.” Ca’senaar shrugged. “As for lessons, just try to be more… subtle. Most etiquette is subtlety anyway, making sure you don’t inconvenience or unduly burden those who haven’t consented.”

“I… was under the impression I had been subtle, but that is clearly wrong. Can you show me what you mean?”

Ca’senaar nodded and pulled all the way back from his mind, shaking her head at the strange pop of her ears that followed. She let him settle, then she brushed a light whisper of an idea across the outer edges of the Battlemaster’s mental fortifications. He stared at her, clearly not feeling the brush of contact. She sighed.

“Vae, may I?” she asked, one hand held to the Terran Padawan. Vae blinked, then nodded. Ca’senaar repeated the gentle request, and received a warm welcoming in return. They brushed their Force presence together like cats. Despite only having known one another a week, it was simplicity itself to bridge the gap and meet in the middle, neither having to enter the other’s mental homes when both were willing to stand by the shared fence and chat.

Sorry everything goes all dramatic when I’m around, Cas sent.

I’m starting to think that’s all of us, Vae laughed. The whole damn planet and everyone on it has Main Character Syndrome.

Gods, I hope not, that's a terrible fate. Hey, if you want I can let the others know this works better than broken Basic and bits of Mando’a?

Maybe, but not everyone. This is close enough for family, but….

Well obviously they need to ask first, Cas agreed. Boundaries are important.

Thanks, vod.

Of course, Savi’ika. No debt for my vod’ika.

***

Cin Dralig felt like he’d been dumped on his ass more than once that day. He’d been utterly surprised by the swift, multilayered, and violent reaction to his gentle knock, only to be run through the entire spectrum of indignation, horror, and shame as he was frog-marched into understanding that what was a gentle knock to him with his expectations of Jedi shielding, was in fact a brutal attack to the child with barely-there shields. They were so good at vanishing in plain sight that he’d assumed that came with thick shielding, but apparently it did not.

Then the snarling, protective woman had casually admitted to taking his simple temporary training bond and using it to do something only possible in the deepest and most well maintained of Dyad Bonds. True, sapient mind to mind conversation across a language barrier was supposed to be borderline impossible, the closest they came was Beast Taming, and it required at least one mind to be very simple.

Of course, maybe he was simple enough, he thought, as he watched the two adult Terrans create a delicate, sophisticated connection out of Force bonds as fine and strong as Karlini armor silk with the barest whisper of communication, so slight he had to stretch himself to sense it. As they released it, seeming settled and unbothered by the action, he felt himself reaching for the Force to settle himself in all the ways they didn’t need to.

You needed that, he felt his long-dead crechemate chide. Stubborn goat.

Right. Because Force Ghosts weren’t a heresy, apparently.

The strange and concerning Terran looked at him, and said something in her oddly angular language.

She wants you to get on with it. I like her. She’s just like you… say, have you considered another Padawan? You don’t want Plo to have all the fun.

f*ck off, Dralig thought.

Laughter echoed in his mind as he re-attempted a training bond, this time with barely any contact with his pupils at all. Warm blooms answered him, and the lessons began.

Chapter 33: Theresa - And I work when I am sleeping and I work when I'm awake

Chapter by Argentee

Chapter Text

There was always work that needed to be done. Theresa had learned that at an early age. You could use money to get devices to make it easier, or you could pay someone else to do it, but the work would be there. Dust and dirt happened, meals needed to be made, what was broken needed to be mended, and if you didn't have money you had to do the work yourself.

The Jedi were obviously shorthanded, and according to those who had been Star Wars fans had been short handed long before the current war decimated their numbers. So Theresa had rolled her sleeves up and helped. Cleaning yes, but organization and figuring out solutions were her strong suit. Even before they got translation chips, she had been working in the quartermaster's office, purging, reorganizing, and repurposing things. Damaged clothing and bedding could be cut down and repurposed. Not just clothing and bedding for the children, but quilting and pieced together fabrics to make things for adults.

Getting the translation chips, that is when Theresa really started to dig in. Step one was dig out a bunch of old teaching and translation droids. It didn't matter if they could only handle a dozen or hundred languages, would have to delete some to load up the English and other Terran languages, and were so old that the Jedi seemed embarrassed by them. If it could go from Basic to even ONE Terran language, then she'd put it to use.

Most people would have thought step two would be to learn Basic. Learning Basic wasn't even on the flowchart. It would happen as she worked. Step two was learning how computers, paperwork, and databases worked locally. The Quartermaster's was again a good place to learn. There were centuries of... stuff. One of the ladies had a degree in art history, and was ecstatic at the idea of cataloging and displaying some of the pottery, sculpture, tapestries, and other art that was just stashed away, but a lot of it was just... stuff. Bolts of fabric, some nibbled on by vermin. Bells and bowls and spoons and scissors and... well, it went on and on.

Important, diplomatic gifts to the Temple or the Order had their own vault, in case the Supreme Mugwump of Wherever-the-hell showed up and wanted to see the Dust Collector their great-great-grandfather had donated. The Quartermaster's office was the location for official purchases, but also the flotsam and jetsam from missions. The bolt of lace that had been bought at an inflated price as a bribe, the gift from a potter to a passing jedi, the disguise or shelter acquired on a mission and never used again. And then there was the stuff the Jedi themselves made. Centuries, no, millenia living in the same place meant that someone at sometime had tried every hobby across the Republic. And as Jedi passed away the things they made and the tools they made them with also ended up in the Quartermaster's.

Apparently, every century or two someone would start to reorganize things and give up part way through. They'd never had a pack of bored Terrans on their side before, however. It took a couple of days to break down the old systems and come up with a series of workable meta-data tags. An elderly Zabrak with an impressive set of scars and a prosthetic hand handled the programming, apparently amused by the Terrans exuberance. (And occasional flirting, much to Theresa's mortification.)

The higher level of technology was definitely a plus. Holographic camera would take an image on check in, the system pull up a list of metatags that might be appropriate though additional ones could be searched for, and based on the tags and the scan a shelving location suggested then logged after it was approved or modified. Check out was a similar process, the image of the item would pull up the most likely matches, the correct one selected, and the item would be removed from inventory.

Searching by metadata was the new feature that thrilled the quartermaster. Beads, for example, might be stored with jewelry, with craft supplies, or with clothing. They might be loose, strung, made into jewelry, clothing, or even tapestries. With the right search you could find what you were looking for, verify by checking the image, and then be told the shelf location to find it. Scanning all the existing inventory and removing damaged items would take a while, but there were eager Terran volunteers, a small army of mouse droids, and even bored Jedi initiates or elders to help. The work would get done.

Once things were up and running Theresa left the scanning and moving items to others. She had moved on to the Quartermaster's other paperwork. Funding for the Jedi came from the Republic, but it came with strings attached. Systems and companies they couldn't buy from. Systems and companies they had to buy from. Reports and forms to supposedly ensure the Jedi weren't 'wasting the Republic's money'.

It was bullsh*t. Once the money had been given to the Jedi, it became the Jedi's money. The restrictions on where they could buy from guaranteed money would be wasted, and the paperwork wasted even more time and more money. No wonder the Jedi hoarded everything that came through their doors. Poverty left scars, left its brand on the soul, and the Jedi had been forced into it for generations. There were even restrictions on what they could sell because having the Force supposedly made it 'unfair competition'.

Theresa took a deep breath. She could do this. She needed a little coaching on the programs still, but there were already programs for purchasing, paperwork and all that. To track spending and generate reports. Companies used them, charities used them, rich bastards with too much money used them. She knew how to use them. She just had to learn a new set and adapt them to the Jedi's needs. It was doable.

It took time, and more conversations with the Jedi than she was really comfortable with, but Theresa got it done. She also remarked to those same Jedi that the Ruusan Reformation had been revoked in its entirety. Jason had helped her with the research, explained what it meant. The Senate legally had no obligation to pay the Jedi anything anymore. But likewise the Jedi no longer had to follow their bullsh*t rules.

The fact that the Jedi were acting like it was business as usual was a mistake. Being reactive instead of proactive was a mistake. The Jedi insisting that all was as the Force willed it made Theresa want to grind her teeth.

Of all the things she had expected her paperpushing to lead to, Obi-Wan Kenobi showing up in the Terran common room was not one of them. "Ah, you must be the lovely Theresa, the Quartermaster couldn't stop singing your praises. Do you have something suitable for a job interview? Which room is yours?"

"I do, and... second on the left. Job interview with whom? I haven't applied..." Theresa found herself being herded to her room, then watching with disbelief as Kenobi ransacked her closet, making small tisking sounds as he assembled an outfit.

How the kark did anyone mistake this man for straight?

Theresa found herself herded into the fresher to change her clothes, then sat down as Obi-Wan Kenobi did her makeup and hair while doing an impromptu lecture on hair styles and makeup traditions to a couple of the women and kids who had wandered in. It wasn't that surprising that some of the Jedi had studied what fashion and makeup revealed about people in different cultures. It was more of a shock that General Kenobi was doing her makeup like a pro while teaching Blending in on Coruscant 101.

"And done! Now if this wasn't for an interview you'd take the eye-color down two shades and the lip color down one, strong lip color is more acceptable on Coruscant where people avoid eye contact. Meet someone's eyes, and they might want to have a conversation." Obi-Wan rolled his own eyes.

"What is this an interview FOR, Master Kenobi?" Theresa wasn't exasperated. Really she wasn't. But he was explaining everything except what she wanted to know.

Obi-Wan grinned. "Palpatine legally blocked appointing a Jedi to the Coruscant Guard in a dozen ways that we've found, and there are probably more. However there is nothing preventing a civilian being Commander Fox's administrative assistant. And with a nat-born who is not a Jedi but lives in the Temple in the role..."

Theresa nodded. "There is a back channel for reporting incidents. Just having a nat-born woman present going all wide eyed and horrified that a Senator would even suggest such a thing will stop a lot of problems before they start."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Exactly! And from how quickly you've learned the language and organized things around the Temple, you'll have no problem at all."

Theresa just smiled and said absolutely nothing about how various women and children had been leveraging their new found Force-powers to improve everyone's language skills. But an interview with Commander Fox, she could handle this.

Twenty minutes later, she was walking into Chancellor Organa's office. She was going to kill Kenobi.

No, that would be over too quickly. As she gave Bail Organa her best professional smile she decided she wanted Kenobi to suffer appropriately.

Theresa was going to convince Master Windu to delegate the Council's paperwork to Kenobi. She didn't know how, but she would make it happen.

Chapter 34: Ca'senaar - In the Forest of Knowledge

Chapter by BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

Her fingers hurt. She hadn’t done this much hand-sewing since… she couldn’t remember. She remembered the muscle memory of it, the ache in her joints and the pressure points in her fingertips. She didn’t remember when she remembered it from, but that hardly mattered.

What mattered was that everyone had clothes. She wasn’t the only one to sew, even if few people liked drafting enough to make their own patterns, and there were enough hands on the project by the end to fully kit out the Terrans. She knew it mattered, at least to the adults, that they had clothes they owned, not Jedi loaners, and most people had a backup outfit or two.

She’d even begun recreating her Battle Jacket. It didn’t have her Uncle’s stitches on it, but it did proudly bear the Addams motto in Latin starting on the back of her left sleeve and running to the cuff of the right, above her own Second Generation Agitation slogan across her upper back in English, where it had been on her previous jackets. Under that, she’d added carefully transcribed Mando’a reading “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la” - not dead, merely marching on. A memorial for those she had left behind, for her old self who had surely marched far, far away from her home. Beneath that, in neat block Auberesh she’d added the Basic translation of “Like my father before me”. It wasn’t a reference anyone but the Terrans would get, hopefully. If they could manage it, Luke would never have to face down the Emperor, never have to declare his loyalty to the Light.

It still mattered to her. She had feasted on those who would subdue her, which he had not, but she was the inheritor of fights she fought like her father before her. She had marched on, like her father before her, even if she couldn’t meet him here. She would be kind, she would look out for those nobody else did, she would care with all the love in her big, broken, bleeding heart and take pride in it. Exactly like her father before her.

The jacket sat comfortably on her shoulders, a familiar feeling in a world that was as unfamiliar to her as she’d ever encountered. It helped her stand tall and walk the halls with her head high, as did her eyes now carrying a small flash of her Face, makeup approved for safety but still in limited supply.

It was walking the halls that Jason found her, seeming shaken.

“I did it again,” he said quietly, glancing to the side as though someone was going to emerge from the walls and scold him.

“Kenobi again?” she asked, lifting one arm backwards so the teen could choose to duck underneath it or not. He chose to, slotting in alongside her and matching her strides. He’d kick ass at three-legged races.

“Yeah. We meditated. I showed him….” Jason swallowed hard. “Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well, everything Prequel Era. He pushed me out at the end of RotS.”

She shuddered at the thought of watching your family murdered by your mind controlled friends, at knowing others had watched it… for entertainment. She took a breath and blew it out through clenched teeth as she let the sick guilt she felt for having watched it herself, even unknowing, pass over her and through her, until only she remained. Thankfully Dune wasn’t some weird prophecy, but the Litany still worked wonders.

“Understandable. He is one of the better balanced ones, hopefully he uses that well. What do you need?”

Jason staggered, his steps falling out of sync with hers and stopping them both. Ca’senaar felt the momentum and pushed it into a turn, facing the startled boy.

“Jason. You are a brave, plucky, stubborn kid. Mandokar out your ears. But I have not been Mama Bat to half a city worth of Goths for as long as I have without being able to clock when someone needs something. I’m just smart enough not to assume I know what that is.”

“You’re like, really young to be a Mom,” he said, squinting.

“I said Mama Bat, not Mom. There is a distinction and the role is not age based. It’s based on realizing you need to bring snacks and sensory friendly hoodies to concerts and being able to peg dehydration at thirty paces. Now, if what you need is for me to stop asking, I will, but I know you need something and I don’t like leaving people in distress. What do you need?”

“I… what if I made it worse? Like an unfixable type of worse?”

“What if you made it better?” she countered. “Nobody can fix a problem they don’t see.”

“You didn’t see his face… I think I broke Obi-Wan. I broke The Negotiator. That’s… really bad.”

“So we fix-” she cut off with a snort at her own humor. “Look, I repaired things as a hobby, once. Decorative mending, fixing pottery with gold and silver, you name it. I don’t think you actually broke him, but if you did, that’s not an unfixable problem. Let's get you some water and a snack, and then I’ll go see about patching up a Jedi.”

***

“Hello there,” she said with a grin. The Jedi she was looking for turned right before the entrance to the hangar. The sound of machines faded with the soft thump of the door closing as he moved out of the way to speak with her.

“Hello,” he greeted.

“Jas’ika ru’jorhaa’i ti gar. Kaysh ru mir’e me'dinui ti gar.”

Obi-Wan blinked at her. Sure, her Mando’a wasn’t great, but she narrowed her eyes until he nodded.

“Me'vaar ti gar?”

“Naas.”

“Nu jehaati ni. Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Ahh….”

“Kaysh baati. Ni baati. Gar ori’jate jetii, a gar shuk meh kyrayc.”

“Gar serim,” he relented.

“Tion gar kar’ta kadala? Mir? Tion ni gaa'tayli?”

“Naas,” he said, this time more honestly. “Ni mir’baar’ur jatene.”

“Ori’jate. K’oyaci, Obi-Wan,” she nodded. “Tayli'bac?”

He laughed and gave a very Jedi bow. She nodded and thumped her chest in salute.

She could tell Jason to relax. He didn’t break the Jedi.

***

The sad thing about being dragged into what had previously been a fun fictional escape was that aside from attempting to level grind basic functions like language, food, and clothes, there wasn’t much to do. None of the plot was happening where she was, she was deeply ill equipped to do anything about it if it was, she didn’t know the language well enough to read for enjoyment yet, and now that they’d mostly settled down, there weren’t even major issues to help solve between the locals and the Terrans, or between Terrans. Everyone was sick of sing-alongs aside from the necessary ones, and she was getting dangerously bored.

“Ugh… Maaaab,” she whined, flopping across her adopted ori’vod’s shoulders like an obstreperous cloak. “I’m bored.”

“Hi Bored, I’m Mab,” Mabon said dryly, shrugging her off. Ca’senaar indulged in a dramatic flop, arms splayed out. It helped, but not for long.

“Seriously. If I sew any more I’m gonna stab someone to dismemberment with the needle. There aren’t any good TV shows unless the good bit is well out of my ability to understand it, which… I watched un-dubbed, un-subbed anime in high school and don’t speak a lick of Japanese, so I think I just hate holodramas. I can’t freaking read yet, so that’s not fun, that’s work, and I don’t want to work. I want to suplex my ADHD into the lowest pits of hell with something fun. I never thought I’d be thankful for my practice functioning unmedicated.”

“So? Name another hobby,” Mabon said. “You have ADHD, I am sure you have a million.”

“Music would drive people to violence, and I don’t wanna push my voice further than it’ll happily go if I don’t have to… gaming? Like Dungeons and Dragons, not the bastard offspring of Hold ‘Em and Blackjack played with the tarot cards they use here. Think we can find enough people? Do we even have dice? Character sheets?”

“Actually, yeah. Someone had a big bag of gaming gear, I snagged that and a really nice cloak on my way out the back hatch of the sh*thole.”

“YOU HAVE MY CLOAK OF MANY THINGS?” Ca’senaar yelped, rolling over and popping to her feet with a bounce.

“And several phones with no battery life that I can't figure out how to charge safely to find out whose they are.”

“The Cloak has solar powered powerbanks with full charge in them. Every concert, someone forgets to charge ahead of time and panics because haunted K-Marts do not have easily accessed outlets. Gimme the Cloak, I’ll get them out.”

The Cloak was fished out of the decently sized pile of treasures, the hidden pockets raided, and half a dozen phones were immediately hooked up to power banks.

“So, new plan. We find the owners of this stuff, we give them the stuff, we invite them to play DnD with us, profit.” Ca’senaar grinned widely, the new prospect of entertainment brightening the world already.

“Who’s gonna DM?” Mabon asked. “The person who brought the bag?”

“I wouldn’t want to assume,” Ca’senaar shrugged. “But I mean, I ran a Chaos Hobo game for six years. Theater of the mind, so it’s okay if there aren’t enough minis for monsters, or even if there aren’t any minis. I just need players, since it’s not as much fun to just sit silently on my own and imagine a game. You need to share the madness, you know?”

“Oh, I know, trust me. Let’s go get players!”

***

“A DnD game?” Marianne perked up. “I’m totally in! That’s one thing I definitely didn’t think I would get to experience while stuck in space. And it sounds a lot easier to schedule games with all us all in one spot at the moment.”

“Great, what type of character?”

“I tend to play rogues or rangers. My attempts at playing face characters don’t go so well.” Marianne blushed. “Even after taking improv classes, I tend to freeze when I have to role play important conversations. That’s also why, when I run, I tend to lean more towards pre-written campaigns.”

“Gotcha, one extra quiet Range-roguer. This’ll be fun!”

***

Jason let out a joyous whoop. "D&D? Dibs on the Paladin!"

"I would have thought you would play a rogue, or maybe a bard," Mabon said curiously.

Jason grinned, "Nyah, I like playing something different from me. Like trying to keep out of trouble. Ohh, and the noble background! I want to make the two followers I get my adopted kids. Extra responsible."

“Escapism, I like it,” Ca’senaar agreed.

***

Theresa blinked. "I've never played, but I'm willing to learn. Though now I wonder where the rest of the stuff from the Slaver's ship went and if any of it is our stuff." She squared her shoulders. "Time to go grab an unsuspecting Jedi and be annoying."

Ca'senaar blinked as Theresa added yet another task to her list. With a planning brain like that she'd usually advise a Wizard or other complex caster, but for Theresa, who stepped up when they needed it without asking and with far too little thanks or reward…..

“I'll build you a Barbarian, they're easy. Just Hulk out when you think something needs to be punched. Cathartic, right?”

“Yeah. Actually… can they also be a Librarian? I have ideas.”

“One Librarbarian coming up!”

***

“I have five character sheets on my phone,” Mabon said, blinking at the device. “Five. What do I play?”

“We have tank and melee covered, some light healing from Jason’s Paladin, and DPS from Marianne. Bard? Or some sort of caster?”

“I have two ADHD pixie casters, one ADHD catfolk rogue with a severe case of kender-itis, and a severely ADHD half-catfolk, half-winged elf soul knife who once talked a fairy dragon into letting us pass by complimenting the verra nize shiny collection, and the steam powered robot bard that was supposed to be underpowered, except sh*t Kept Happening, and the dice kept making it worse.”

“Steam Powered Robot Bard? I love that band!” Ca’senaar laughed. “Do it, play the bard, this is gonna be hilarious.”

****

“I’d love to!” Adenn wiggled, a smile blooming on their face. “Though, um- how do you feel about disabled characters? I have one I never really got to use from my last campaign.”

“Go for it! Representation is badass,” Ca'senaar grinned back with matching enthusiasm. “What type of character build?”

“She’s a tiefling sorcerer, but she acts kinda like a bard? Since sorcerer magic is innate, I wanted to play with her idea of magic being story based. It led to some really fun hijinks in the last campaign. I might need to run the backstory by you though. It was a homebrew campaign and her backstory was kinda wild”

“Chaos hobos are my specialty, my dear,” Ca’senaar assured them with a ruffle of their hair.

***

The benefit of being stuck in the Jedi Temple was that at least scheduling for the game was a lot easier. They took one day to prep characters, then gathered in a mostly out of the way spot that looked like it was a meeting room of some kind, except as a four-columned pavilion in the big garden area. There was a large table with a slight lip on the edge that would be good for keeping dice from falling, and a hex-grid pattern already embedded in it, which was nice even if they weren’t planning to use minis. Adenn and Jason had rounded up chairs for everyone. Marianne had dug a box of votive style candles out of the store rooms, which they’d placed them in recessed niches in the columns that looked designed for the purpose, being lined with a crystalline surface that bounced the light in a rainbow of colors off the faceted glass ‘ceiling’ and polished stone floor. Mabon’s phone had been drafted into duty for background music, as the party’s Bard had plenty of downloaded songs.

The sounds of Lilli Furfaro’s Stories spilled from the phone, set in a small carved indent that acted as a bowl speaker, and everyone piled in, both the players and several spectators who had opted not to play, but wanted to see the game anyways. Several Jedi stood farther off, watching at a distance, but people ignored them.

Ca’senaar took a deep breath and flicked back the hood of her jacket, converting it instantly to a shimmering capelet. Drama was the best part of being the DM after all.

“Welcome, my friends… to Nexus. A city out of time, out of space, out of reality, Nexus hangs in the balance, suspended in the pause between breaths, in the blinks and flickers of attention. Lost things end up in Nexus. Lost people, too. You have stepped out of your own homeworlds, and now you stand on the edge of what could be, what once might have been, and what is.”

She wove the world in words, the patter falling easily from her and building an image of soaring spires of glass, deep tunnels of stone, parks that contained primordial forests, and gateways to any world one could picture. She guided the party together, a series of unlikely meetings and shared goals that set them on a single path. Everyone leaned into it, describing their characters and their actions in ways that wove an image so real she could practically see it shimmering like a hologram above the table in the refracted rainbow light.

Jason’s lawful-good Paladin fought hard for justice and honor in a world sorely lacking in both, teetering on the line between right and might but pulling himself to the light with grit and love for Rowan and Sage, his foundlings.

Adenn’s Teifling Sorcerer fought for the freedom of all, her story bringing tears of healing to the assembled Terrans who weren’t long out of slavery themselves. She spoke often in Amatakka, layering her words in the Force so even the players who weren’t as familiar could follow along.

Marianne’s mostly-silent Ranger-Rogue turned up key items exactly when needed, winking cheekily as she rolled skill checks and made off with the ill-gotten gains of the wealthy who would profit off suffering.

Mabon’s robotic Bard charmed them on her chaotic charge through the encounter, bringing comfort to the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable with a measure of justice (and arson).

Theresa grinned and laughed a bellowing laugh as they faced down the evil overlord, directing her ancestral guardians to flank him. “That’s my secret,” she rumbled deeper than anyone would expect her to be able to reach. “I’m always angry. Angry doesn’t mean dumb. It means… ZAAL SMASH!”

***

Outside the ritual space that had gone unused in ages, Jedi Masters gathered with concern. The Terrans had set up a shared vision ritual of unknown origin, pulling energy in the Force from all assembled Terrans, not merely the six gathered at the Seeing Stone set into the center of the pavilion. The leader of the ritual wore black with a red cape the color of the Dathomiri Nightsister’s regalia, her face painted with wide, wing-like marks in black and bruise-purple. As she directed the ritual, the others took turns pouring feelings of sorrow, pain, longing, delirium, and anger into the ritual, gathering up into a storm that flashed phantom images behind the eyes of any who looked too closely at the Seeing Stone.

“Should we… stop them?” someone asked hesitatingly.

Mace hummed softly in consideration. Shatterpoints danced along the hands of the ritual leader as she gestured, but stayed contained, causing him startlingly little pain. She was pulling it to a close, it seemed, drawing the energies into herself and containing them, directing focus back to herself, where it had been passed in a weave between the other five.

“kənˌɡræʧəˈleɪʃənz, ju hæv nɪˈɡoʊʃiˌeɪtɪd ə seɪf ˈpæsəʤ əˈɡrimənt ænd ɑr naʊ ˈeɪbəl tu teɪk ə lɔŋ rɛst,” she said, gently silencing the shimmering Force bonds between her and the rest of the ritual participants. “lɛts teɪk ə bɪt ʌv ə breɪk fɔr naʊ. strɛʧ, ˈhaɪˌdreɪt, ɡræb ə snæk, ænd ʧɛk ɪn wɪð jʊər hɛdˈspeɪsəz.”

She drifted his way, eyes sparking with a wit he wished he could actually understand, but her people’s broken Basic got in the way.

“Enjoy drama?” she asked slowly, forming the words carefully.

“Drama?” Mace asked with surprise.

“Stories say Mace Windu is… ˈθiətər nɜrd. You enjoy watch people drama show. Enjoy ours?”

“That was a… play?”

“Play… story-show?” she asked, trialing the word a few times before nodding. “Play. And game. And story. We share us, and story becomes game. We share you, then game becomes play. Jedi enjoy share?”

“It is… interesting,” he said neutrally, not wanting to offend with the misconception he'd had of the... not actually ritual.

Her face fell, eyes shuttering immediately, her Force Presence pulling back the way he’d heard some of them could, light blinking out of existence even though he could see she still lived. Mace swallowed hard.

“That is…”

“Not enjoy, not share. Not here be. We enjoy, we share. Be elsewhere,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Release it to the Force,” she commanded clearly, enunciation sharp like a memorized phrase. “Not our choice be here. Your choice share when not enjoy. Choose better. Be elsewhere.”

“I do believe we made a mistake,” Mace muttered as she turned on her heel and walked back to the group. Where she had felt dead - no, she had felt inanimate, an object, something never alive in the first place - a second prior, she now bloomed as she guided them back into another round of the ritual. This time, however, the effect in the Force seemed clouded, shielded from view somehow, even though he hadn’t changed his vantage. His focus didn’t skip or slip like a compulsion or notice-shield, but the depth of view was denied to him firmly.

These strange Force users from Wild Space had unusual abilities, for certain, but he saw no harm in allowing their ritual-play, for now.

“Leave them be,” he told the other Masters nearby. “It’s not harming anyone. If you don’t like it, don’t watch it.”

Chapter 35: Vokara - The Force Doesn't WORK that way.... Are you SURE?

Chapter by Argentee, BairnSidhe, Mikaiyawa, Sylph_Writes

Chapter Text

To her frustration Kenobi did not stay in the Temple long enough for her to grab him and ask if any of their rescues could speak or understand Mandalorian. A single small saving grace was the younglings were picking up basic with a creditable speed.

The adults, it varied and Vokara kept her thoughts they were understanding far more than they were letting on behind her teeth. Her students weren’t the only ones having a failure of empathy. But she didn’t have time to do more than attempt to correct her own team.

Finding a known force skill in one of them shouldn’t have been surprising. That it was the woman she’d mentally tagged in her head as a combat medic, Sˈɪɹə, had picked up one of the training scanners that were passed around from trainee to trainee demonstrating that these women had gifts that were known was just a rather bitter irony.

Sˈɪɹə had blacked out, stayed blacked out in a trance very much like Quinlan Vos did after he’d had a psychometric overload. And when she’d come out of it, far later than Tinmay liked, she knew how to use the machine.

More critically she could use it correctly and was taking reasonable actions based on what the machine told her. That implied she had picked up understanding of the written language just by handling the scanner.

Even more interesting than that she’d started sneaking pads out of the Archives, children’s stories mostly, and medical texts, and apparently could read them well enough she was translating on the fly from written word to their language. One of their languages, there seemed to be several. Mostly for the one who had demonstrated an angry nexu protecting her cubs to Padawan Talsai. Though the medical texts seemed to be something she was trying to share with a couple of other women.

Then one of the ones who had managed to escape the Guard net showed back up, with Mandalorian armor and translation chip and thank the Maker, the ability to speak basic.

And she was with one of the others, who she could now get a proper name for, Mˈæɹi͡ən. And Mˈæɹi͡ən was one of the ones with a lethal nut allergy.

And that had one of her oversights rise up and slap her in the face.

How exactly had one of them explained the danger of her allergy to her when none of them shared a language? That was an inexcusable lapse that could have had fatal consequences.

At least they could fix it and ensure she had auto-injectors. And that had her hurrying a little to make sure the others who had life threatening allergies got proper, understandable, instructions for their medications and that they actually got those medications.

They’d been beyond lucky, hungry children didn’t always care that what they were eating might kill them. They were hungry, they were going to eat.

Once that blasted droid of Skywalkers had sorted out the chip communications became massively easier and teaching them basic sped up to something significantly better than the very slow glacial creep it had been.

Madame Nu had been both intensely annoyed and insufferably pleased that there had been trained archivists in the collection of women. The woman she’d tagged as a combat medic was in fact a combat medic, but there had also been a trained and certified doctor in the clutch of the seemingly random group. And how in the Seven Corellian Hells had people from the middle of nowhere Wild Space known Madame Nu’s name.

For that matter how had they known hers, and known her character well enough to relax when she identified herself? Something she’d have to ask about, but later, when she had a few moments to breathe.

But fear was still a problem.

Jedi were supposed to be better about not letting their fears rule them, but so many shockingly powerful beings with unfamiliar force philosophies, she no longer thought it was just one, the fear of how destructive one could be if she started breaking things was hard to release to the force.

Tinmay had three that needed to be kept in isolation rooms with the heaviest shielding they had, and they were still swinging between catatonia and violently reactive.

They didn’t have enough trained mind-healers to dedicate to having one doing work and three anchoring and protecting both patient and healer from harm. Not even pulling from the ranks of the retired jedi.

Vokara took a deep breath and slugged the last of her mug of cold tea.

She needed to meditate and try and sort out what she could do and what kind of help she could ask for from the medi-corps and what to do in the meantime.

-------

Sitting down to organize her notes, really organize, not semi shuffle into order let Vokara see a sort of order to how their rescues behaved.

They’d figured out emoting, pantomime and projection. And thank the maker most at least tried to moderate their volume once they had a cue, a visual cue, that they were LOUD. And they asked for help if they had physical injuries. Several had awakened one morning to what some of the junior healers were calling mad laughing disease. There had been several who had done harm to their ribs or throats with uncontrollable laughing, and it wasn’t all in their rescues.

They’d mostly self-managed once Sˈɪɹə had demonstrated enough practical knowledge to deal with minor mishaps. They’d had a group begin making and altering clothing, one even taking up space in the front room of the Halls where she seemed to both soak up and project focused calm.

Sewing was familiar enough to be somewhat comforting to watch, but the group that collected in an unused ritual space and seemed to share in raising and then purging emotions unnerved a large number of knights and masters. Master Windu had observed and had left a standing order to leave them be as whatever rite they were practicing didn’t seem to be doing any harm. Anyone who tried meditating in the area later reported back an odd set of feelings, an impression of a massively disparate group of beings banding together for a common cause.

One of the padawans said it felt like an adventure holo and then was soundly scolded by their master for recklessness, there was no telling what they could have been infected with being careless like that.

Vokara wasn’t sure it was carelessness. And was very sure the youngling wouldn’t have come to deliberate harm. The mixed group included some of their own younglings, and the core group allowed people to step in for a session and then back out as they felt comfortable and there were always people watching or listening in.

They also made sure to have food and drinks so even the main participants didn’t end up worn to a thread by whatever work they were doing.

Just because she didn’t understand the rituals didn’t mean she couldn’t clearly see the positive impact it had on even those who just watched.

But fear was making people stupid.

At least the rescues could mostly speak Basic to the point where they were understandable. Being able to ask a question and understand the answer helped some.

She was reaching for her tea when she heard the soft high song of a flute. That alone wasn’t unheard of, music therapy was a thing they used.

The tune though wasn’t one she recognized at all and reaching cautious mental fingers back got her an odd set of images.

A tiny spider climbing up a water diversion pipe to build its web, being washed out of its home by rain and then determinedly climbing back up to rebuild.

A strange sort of thing to think of with music, but it did seem to make the patient in the same space as the musician relax enough that the aura of the room could do its work and let them sleep.

Sˈɪɹə and the one who was a doctor both were diligent in trying to help their fellows recover. But it was very clear neither really felt the last three lingering in the Halls would ever really recover where they could have a meaningful life outside of a protected space.

Vokara sighed and turned back to her notes.

No matter what you did, sometimes nothing would be enough.

At least they were alive and would be safe and protected here.

Chapter 36: Ca'senaar - I am no bird and no net ensnares me

Chapter by BairnSidhe

Chapter Text

One of us is coming, the whispers started.

It’s the cajun girl, the one who sang Female of the Species, the whispers continued.

She got herself some support out in the city, and she’s coming to get us out of here, the whispers elaborated.

Clever Girl. Ca’senaar grinned.

The Jedi seemed concerned, but her fellow Terrans were anticipating something that at least wouldn’t be bad for them. The least optimistic and the most independent seemed uninterested in what Clever Girl had been up to, but Ca’senaar was of the opinion that at least it’d be different than what they’d been doing for the past month, so it would be a welcome change.

She happily joined the others that the Jedi gently herded into a large gathering space, and waited to the side while Angeline, C3PO, and Theresa worked out the best way to spread information through the crowd in the various languages needed.

"For those who didn't get my name when we were in the cargo hold, I am Angeline Cadieux,” Clever Girl started. “When we fought off the Zygerrians, I escaped with Marie and have since been adopted by a Mandalorian.”

Nice. Ca’senaar nodded appreciatively. She let the rest of the information wash over her, discussion of languages was interesting, but not worth the excess focus for her, and she was already aware Palpatine had vanished, and given the mad laughter that possessed many of them halfway through… she’d done the math. Now she did a little more, and decided she wanted to stick beside the woman who merc’d the Sith Lord.

“Holy crap, we really are in a fix-it fic!” she laughed, thinking back to Libby’s comment that first day she woke up.

"And Quinlan Vos is allergic to sleeves, the good looking asshole,” Angeline said with a wide grin. “Do NOT ask who I am dating. I will squee."

Good for her, Ca’senaar said to herself and let the others take precedence as they asked questions. Political stances, where to find better food than what they had been able to make with the scavenged supplies, how to get re-certified in their careers… all reasonable, although for once Ca’senaar was glad she hadn’t finished higher education. It’d be depressing to have followed through on the master’s degree she’d once dreamed of, only to have to start from scratch when she was thrust into a world that rendered her functionally illiterate.

"What is up with the Force and the Jedi?" someone asked. "They will teach the children, but not us. And they keep looking at us like..."

"Like they expect us to make off with the silverware?" Ca’senaar suggested drily.

The Jedi were… kind, really, but the way they jumped and twitched whenever an adult Terran was nearby left her feeling oddly reminded of getting followed by security guards in stores whenever she dressed in alt-fashion. Given she was a security guard, that behavior often resulted in her calling their companies and demanding they implement better threat-assessment training, since she knew damn well that wasn’t what they were supposed to be doing. Once, she’d gone on a ten minute rant to her own District Super that got overheard by the Regional Division Head, and the full debacle resulting from that had ended with three people fired and five people, including her, promoted. She still hadn’t forgiven Logan for guilting her into moving into management.

The others seemed to agree, and the conversation moved on, eventually landing where Ca’senaar wanted it. Mandalorians, specifically the ones who adopted Angeline.

“And how do they regard Force users?” she asked. The Fanon was split, and the Canon definitely skewed negative, but if Angeline’s adoptive buir thought she was Force Sensitive, the odds were better that they’d be reasonably safe.

“Well, the Jedi they regard as stuck up pricks who are blind to the fact that the Senate uses them as attack dogs. But the Force in general? It's a gift from the Ka'ra,” Angeline clarified, and Ca’senaar nodded and waited through the definition and explanation portion.

“So,” she said when there was a reasonable pause, "what House and Clan are you?"

"Clan Mereel, House Mereel. Adopted by the clan armor-smith."

Nice. Clever Girl did well for herself, Ca’senaar thought with a nod.

Kaysh mandokarla, elek.

Yet again, nobody asked you, Ca’senaar thought firmly at the Mandalorian who’d been making commentary since they’d butted in and tried to adopt her. The sheer chattiness of the Differently Living here was the hardest thing to adapt to. It was distracting.

Speaking of which, while she was batting away the voices of those who hadn’t quite marched far enough, Angeline had been drafted to assist with medical translations, and the group was left to discuss among themselves.

She had places to be.

***

“Adenn, Kara, huddle up for a sec?” she called, waving the teenlings over. The gathering room had been limited to actual adults, the older teens deputized to keep an eye on the younger ones while their Terran caregivers were in the meeting. However, now they might be leaving, there was a need to finally have the conversations that’d been left unsaid.

She ruffled both her kid’s hair as she pulled them into Private Conversation Mode. The soft bubble of social boundaries wouldn’t have been enough to keep people overhearing back home, although it’d have been rude to acknowledge it, but here it seemed to actually provide a gentle white-noise like cover to those who had no need to be in the conversation.

“Hey, so that meeting earlier… that was Angeline, one of the other women from the ship. She’s got a good line on getting us out of here and to Mandalorians. I think it’s a good plan, but if either of you have got any reason whatsoever to object, I will say thanks but no thanks. You two come first for me. We never leave an Addams behind.”

Adenn shrugged. “I mean, they’re our best bet for getting out of here.”

“Let me clarify,” Ca’senaar sighed, biting back an urge yet again to throttle whomever gave this kid the idea that they couldn’t have an opinion on something as major as where they were going to live.

“You both earned the Addams name on your own merit, but I would like to be your parent, both in action and on paper or whatever passes for it here. Forget getting out of here for a moment… do you want to be Mandalorian? It’ll be hard, you’ll be expected to keep up with the self-defense lessons as well as language lessons, learn how to wear armor, all that. If you say no, I will absolutely get my name on your paperwork as your guardian anyways and we will go do something else. But we’re gonna do it together.”

She hesitated, uncomfortable anxiety curling under her ribs.

“Unless… I mean if you don’t want, I wouldn’t ever force you to accept an adoption, that’s just tacky….”

Two bodies collided with hers in a hug that knocked her back against the nearest wall.

“So that’s a yes?” she asked.

“It’s a duh, who else is our Mom?” Kara said with an eye roll. “You’ve been Mom. For like, weeks!”

Adenn buried their face into Ca’senaar’s chest. “You’ll always be Mom, you and Mab. But- I dunno about a Mando adoption. Everyone keeps talking about how you’ve gotta follow their code, and I don’t want to be a Mando if it means I can’t be Amavikka. I dunno enough about the rules to know if I can balance both.”

Ca’senaar hummed, an old song that fit the scansion well, and since she didn’t know the actual tune supposedly used for the rhyme, would work as well.

“Bajur bal beskar’gam, aranov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor, an ven’cuyan mhi. Education and armor, defense and family, our language and our leader, all help us survive. That is the resol’nare, the six actions. Unless the stories from home are way off and Angeline was super misleading, that is all it takes to be Mandalorian. Does any of that go against the code you want to live by?”

“Not really. And I guess it’d be nice to have a community.”

“It will. For sure.” Ca’senaar looked to her other kid. “Kara? Like I said, we don’t leave an Addams behind. You say no and we don’t go. We’ll make something work that we all like.”

Kara took a breath, clearly focusing on her feelings, which Ca’senaar appreciated. Kara was a good role-model for her vod’ika.

“Yeah. Mando feels right. Defense, family… those matter to me too. I still have things to learn, and I don’t mind wearing some armor and I’d need to learn more languages anyway. Who’s the leader though?”

“Currently, not much of anyone, as far as I know,” Ca’senaar said, and shoved the snickering of the Differently Living aside. “But if someone gets the job and they’re actively sh*tty we’ll vote with our boots and either kick ‘em out or walk, whichever seems most effective. Like I said, my priority is you guys. Ner ade, my kids.”

“So since we're ade… then that makes you Buir?” Kara asked.

“Yeah,” Ca’senaar said with a soft smile. “I’m Buir.”