Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It makes perfect sense at the time.

Desmond's job is to stop the Solar Flare from scorching the Earth. And that's okay, that's fine, he has the means to do it, Minerva's awe-inspiring, terrifying Deus ex Machina is right there, prepped and ready to go, so he can do that, no biggy. He'll just flip the switch and that's that done.

But human species is, what, some hundred thousand years old? Give or take a few human experiments – literal human experiment, the entire human race is a human experiment. A species that's been around for a hundred thousand years might be expected to be around for another hundred thousand years, right? Humans have the means to survive that long, they definitely wouldn't be going extinct by any natural means. So, Desmond feels pretty secure in the assumption that the species will be around for a while.

The Super Solar Flare is slated to happen again – and again, and again. Once in every seventy five thousand years or so, the Sun would go through a mega cycle, or whatever the technical term was, and throw up a Super Solar Flare. The moment this one ends, the clock would reset and start ticking down to the next one. And unless humans caused their own extinction in the meanwhile, and Desmond is optimistic enough to doubt they would… well.

Sure, seventy five thousand years is a pretty long time – long enough to develop faster than light space travel and colonise some new star systems, probably. It only took them about five hundred years to go from "what if a man could fly" to walking around on the moon. So maybe humans in the year 77012 would have their own solutions to a star going haywire… but what if they don't? Because who knows, humanity might just as well knock themselves back into the stone age in the meanwhile. People can do some crazy things, and they have the means to seriously screw themselves over, too, and that's probably only going to get worse over time.

It never hurts to make sure, right?

Desmond is here to stop the Super Solar Flare from burning the planet and killing most life on it, that's his job, that's what he was made to do. It makes sense to him, at the time, that he might just as well take care of the future flare ups while he's at it.

It doesn't really register to him as in any way strange that it's something he can do.

By the time the Third Super Solar Flare is slated to hit, it'll end up hitting a very different looking Solar System. Most of the Earth is covered by enormous buildings by then, most of the greenery is gone, there are floating cities all over the oceans, and somehow Desmond knows that the only reason the planet can support that many people is because they did something new with the food production and farmlands aren't necessary for it anymore. The human population is balancing on the edge of choking on their own exhaust – because that's the thing about greenery, it's kinda useful for oxygen, and without it...

That's not his problem, though – and judging by all the literally hundreds of human colonies out there, it's not really that big of a problem for the people, either. Nor is the Super Solar Flare, really.

Humanity has safeguards already set up in space – a network of satellites near the Sun, monitoring and watching out for it, which move to produce enormous electromagnetic shields. Powered by the very Solar Flare they're there to stop, they form barriers in the flare's way, protecting the habited zones of the Solar System, directing the outpour aside. Earth, Mars, Venus, various stations and dwarf planets in the asteroid belt and the more populated moons out there, they're all behind carefully positioned shields thousands and thousands of miles away.

It's kinda neat, to watch the flare wash over the Solar System and leave those islands to safety untouched. But it also means Desmond's intervention isn't really necessary here.

So he moves on.

The Fourth recorded Super Solar Flare dawns on yet another very changed Solar System. It's been over a hundred and fifty thousand years since Desmond's time, so the changes make sense, it's a really long ass time for human species, anything can happen in that kind of time… but damn.

Most of the colonies are gone now, and there are moons that just aren't there anymore, there are settlements that have been lost to history – over half of the bodies in the Asteroid and the Kuiper Belt have been mined out of existence. It's wild. There are new things too, of course. Space stations by the thousands, the colonies in bigger stellar bodies are huge, Venus has been terraformed entirely. Humanity numbers in… in numbers way too high for Desmond to tell offhand, but he thinks it's closer to trillions than billions. They've populated a lot of the nearest stars.

And the Earth has been left pretty much uninhabitable, which is a bit of a bummer, if not entirely unexpected.

There are enormous craters on the surface of the planet, mementos of even greater explosions, and there's an enormous storm raging over the northern hemisphere, which looks like it's been there for a while – probably longer than decades. The atmosphere is thick with un-breathable gases, and the cities from before have been reduced to less than rubble. The whole world is a wreck. Humanity is in the process of re-terraforming it again, though, which is nice… but it looks like it will take a while, probably centuries.

The technology is wild, not just that they can just do that, but other stuff too. Humanity, circa 152012 CE, is pretty damn impressive. They have fleets of ships and space stations with thousands of occupants, and makings of a galactic empire.

When the Solar Flare hits, the entire Solar System celebrates it – and  a million collectors all over drink it up to power the star system's powerful mining machinery. There's a planet in the Oort cloud they're planning to completely dismantle for materials.

Though it's tempting to hang around to examine the developments made by the interstellar human species… Desmond moves on.

The Fifth time the Super Solar Flare starts up, the Solar System is completely empty of humanity. There are scars all over it, from a war that had raged for what looks like centuries and which had eventually driven humanity out to the stars, leaving their home system a ghost town. There's wreckage all over it, destroyed ships by the hundreds of thousands all over the system, and their scraps rain down on most every planet in a fiery rain. It's… a little disheartening, really.

But empty of humanity doesn't mean empty of life. Venus, Earth, Mars and various moons all over the Solar System all harbour not just habitable environments, but all the life humanity spread on them. Mars has endless grasslands full of animals descended from old livestock, Venus is completely covered by a brand new and beautifully strange rainforest, and Earth has been once more taken over by trees and nature, with new lakes made of old craters and new creatures grown from mutations of old ones.

Desmond can see what happened – how the war drained the Solar System of all its usable materials, and poisoned so much of its fertile grounds, its atmospheres, turned all the habitable zones inhospitable. The destruction of all habitable zones had been systematic, he thinks – burned Earth tactics had been used, rather literally, until there was no ground left. And humans left, pronouncing the star system a total loss and turning their eyes to newer, better places… and in so doing, left nature to run its course.

From ditches and craters and cracked foundations new life began to sprout – began to take over the abandoned places. It had taken the plants and animals some thirty thousand years and rather rapid evolution, but they'd taken over all the ruins left behind eventually. Now the bruised planets almost seem untouched – aside from the craters and the rain of fiery debris from the shrapnel-bombed orbits, anyway.

No one had come back, because… why would they? The Solar System was a bust, it took the habitable planets tens of thousands of years to recover. It had also been bled dry of usable materials long time ago, there's almost no metal left, not even the most distant bodies in the Oort cloud. The place is, in galactic terms, worthless. And there's the fact that just about every planet's near orbit is so full of debris that they'd tear any spacecraft apart if they got too close.

It's a rotten damn shame.

Either way, this time there is no system in place to stop the Super Solar Flare. There's no one around to suffer from it either, mind you – humanity still exists among the stars, they've all but conquered the galaxy, but they've abandoned Sol. But there's life. Plants, animals, new interesting species – and the Super Solar Flare would, without doubt, knock back the progress nature had made by another ten, twenty thousand years.

So Desmond reaches out to stop it.

By this point it's been some two hundred and twenty five thousand years since he first laid his hand on the pedestal – so he's just a little too late to realise his mistake.

"Damn, but the Precursors built their shit to last, huh?"

That's the first thing Desmond says, after coming to – and then in hindsight realises how damn ironic it is, since the Precursors definitely hadn't built their stuff to last. Only things they made that survived into the present were their tools of slavery, and what that says about their priorities is questionable so best.

The Grand Temple is still there, though, and more or less how he left it. Earth has gone through god knows how many orbital bombardments and wars and disasters, but the Grand Temple hasn't changed. There's even some of their old stuff here, though not much. Remains of the plastic and metal bits of a chair, some of the scaffolding, the platforms they'd put in the cave to roll in equipment, Shaun's metal bookcases… They're all pretty much rusted through and the platforms crumble under Desmond's feet as he begins making his way out, but it's still kinda nice. Weirdly nostalgic. Almost like coming home from… wherever he was.

He's completely fucked, though.

The Grand Temple is out of juice now, he'd used the last of it to stop the Fifth Super Solar Flare. Juno is long gone, and so is pretty much everything else he knows too – rusted up bits of metal notwithstanding. All Desmond's has is the clothes on his back and what's in his little backpack…. and he hadn't exactly kitted it out to survive in a stranded-in-wilderness type of situation. And that's the situation he's pretty much in, right now.

There's a wild, old forest outside, with no signs of roads having ever been there. The trees are hardy conifers, the underbrush is spiky and unwelcoming, and it looks almost completely untouched. There's some animal tracks, he can hear birds, that's something at least. It's early summer, or at least that's what it looks like. Seasons might've gotten screwed up along the way, though. He wouldn't be surprised if they had. Earth had gone through some shit in his absence.

And Desmond has a feeling he's going to follow suit. He is in some shit, right now. There are no people on the planet, none at all, and there haven't been in thousands of years. There'd be no settlements to find, no cities, nothing, just wild nature crawling over ancient ruins. And those ruins had been bombed to ruins long before they'd become ancient. So…

Yeah.

There's wind rustling the tops of the conifers, and there are birds singing, loud and almost familiar. Somewhere far, far away, he can hear a river. It's very peaceful. The air smells like the woods, fresh and crisp and a little bit damp. Definitely a step up from the dusty old caves of the Grand Temple.

With every breath Desmond can feel how utterly, completely alone he is in here.

"Fuck," is the second thing he says, heartfelt in the eerie, noisy silence of a lively forest that has never seen people.

Desmond has two options. Three, if he wants to be morbid about it.

Option one, stay in the Grand Temple. It's safe, dry, there's plenty of space, and he can probably make it habitable without too much trouble. There's enough wild game in the forest to support him probably indefinitely, so as long as he hunts them with moderation, and there would probably be wild forageables too. Maybe, if he got some seeds, he could even try a little bit of farming. With the nearby river, water wouldn't be an issue, either. There are definitely worse places to live in.

Option two, leave and look for human ruins. There's probably some not too far away – the planet had been pretty widely populated for a time, and probably had been again after the terraforming had taken. He has an impression of cities, of ruins – and going by human preferences where building settlements go, he'd probably find some if he just headed for the coast, and he's not that far from there. A few days on foot, probably.

Or Desmond can lay down and do nothing and wait to die. Considering that there's no one around, the chances of anyone ever coming around are slim to none, and now that he's pretty effectively doomed himself here, what's even the point of going anywhere or doing anything? He's going to end up living a completely lonely life, probably a miserable one, whatever he did, and in the end he'd die alone without anyone out there being the wiser. He could just spare himself the depressing, painful years in between and die right here and now.

Yeah.

While contemplating his limited amount of choices and trying to figure out what to do, Desmond channels Connor and hunts. Not much else he can do, at this point, and whatever he decides in the end, he does need to eat to live, and starvation seems like a terrible way to die, so…

The first animals he finds are probably descended from domestic pigs. They're not exactly like wild boars, not exactly like pigs, but some sort of slightly bigger, slightly sturdier mix of both with thick, briskly fur and more mass than Desmond can manage easily in one go. He ends up gutting the one he kills and leaving the entrails for the wildlife to eat, and then drags the boar back in an awkward sledge made of slender tree trunks. Even then, it takes him all day to get it back to the Grand Temple.

By the time he's halfway through smoking the meat, has stored up most of it and eaten enough to fill up his belly… Desmond has made his decision. Mostly it's the lack of seasoning that does it.

He packs up the driest stuff and heads toward the coast the next morning.

The first ruins of human civilisation Desmond finds are frankly post-apocalyptic in the nicest way.

There's a forest growing right through, the buildings barely visible between them, and damn, what kind of buildings they are. It looks like somewhere along the way people figured out how to build things to fucking last, because they're all sort of… hefty, with thick concrete walls and with dome ceilings, also made of concrete. There are no skyscrapers with thousand panes of mirror-like windows – the only buildings he finds are almost simple in the design, except for all the pillars and statues and stuff. Buildings that would survive an apocalypse, just because of how simple and sturdy they'd been built.

Though it might be that the buildings that would survive some twenty, thirty thousand years of encroaching nature would be the heftier ones, and the skyscrapers are long gone. Survivor bias, or whatever it's called. It's still kinda neat, in a sort of alien way. Desmond is pretty sure he's nearby where Boston used to be, and the buildings look like… well, like ancient ruins, really.

He spends days digging around them – and actually finding stuff. All the perishable stuff is long gone, anything made of fabric and wood and anything else that decomposes – but a lot of stuff is made from concrete, only it's a lot harder than any concrete he remembers from back in 2012. Maybe they'd figured out the trick of Roman Concrete, or something even better, after he'd gone skipping through time. Either way, there are furniture and decorations made from stuff, there's even bits of streets here and there, a little more cracked than the buildings but still around.

Desmond can kinda glimpse it, from time to time – the mindset of the people that built the things, after the re-terraforming of Earth had been finished. They'd wanted to turn Earth into a sort of… temple, because it was where humanity began. They'd had this mindset of durability, of longevity, of building things that would last a thousand generations. The older humanity had grown, the more they had wanted to make things that endured. The buildings sort of echo that mindset – one of them Desmond finds feels like it might be over fifty thousand years old. Hundreds and hundreds of families had lived in it.

Humanity had grown ancient, in his absence – nowadays the species is older than the Precursors ever got. It's mindblowing to think about it, to feel it, even if none of them are around. They're out there, far away, reaching heights the Precursors couldn't even dream of.

Take that, you megalomaniacal enslaving sons of bitches.

Desmond makes it to the coast and follows along it until he finds a place where he thinks he can make himself some salt. By that point he'd found a few relics to carry with him – like an enormous brass pan that he thinks might've been a gong once, but which works excellently for cooking. With his travelling he's had the chance to find some edible plants, and on the coast he can do a bit of fishing, and his diet has improved by bunches with the addition of a whole lot of stir-fried wild vegetables and nuts and fish in it.

It's the salt he's after, though. So he sets up camp on the shoreline, near some tidepools where the Sun had evaporated enough of the water over the years to leave some salt growing on the rocks. Over the course of several days, he purifies and collects enough salt to last him several years, and then tries to decide what to do next. Keep travelling, scouting out the history of humanity before they abandoned the planet?

Not that there's much else he can do, at this point. Stop and set up a house and start farming maybe, but… he could do that later, when he got tired of the travelling. If he got tired of the travelling. It's not easy, but at least it's something to do, and… it does keep him distracted, the stuff people left behind, the signs they left on the planet.

Like the ocean before him. The Atlantic Ocean. Around the Fourth Super Solar Flare, some seventy, eighty thousand years ago, people had cleaned it up over many centuries – turning around a lot of environmental destruction, returning a lot of lost species, balancing out the ecosystem. The re-terraforming project on Earth had been huge, and it had been successful. It's kinda ironic, that after all that effort, all that time that had gone to returning the Earth back to a habitable state after its environment got devastated… humanity had abandoned the whole Solar System when it had gotten similarly devastated. They had the technology to reverse it – they'd done it once before… but they just packed up their shit and left.

Guess the cost got too high, when there were three planets and a handful of moons to fix. In the end, nature had more or less done what humans could've – it just took nature a lot longer. It's sad and ironic and a bit of a pity and very human, all things considered.

"Haul away your anchor," Desmond hums quietly while packing away the salt he's made, wrapping up the salted fish he'd cooked and slinging the brass pan-gong over his shoulder. "Haul away your anchor… it's our sailing time…"

There's a lot more to see.

Chapter Text

Finding the star system had, in the end, not been as difficult as Eno had suspected. Though the star maps he'd managed to discover were old, the drifting of those stellar bodies closest to the target system having rendered them near useless, it was nothing Eno and BD-1 couldn't counteract – all it took was rewinding back the clock of stellar drift, and the path to the star system in question became clear. The only difficulty left was its distance from any usable hyperlane – and how poorly recorded the sector was, bordering on the uncharted territories as it did. It took several small jumps to make it safely just to the edge of the system.

"But," he murmurs to himself, smiling to BD-1, who is hopping excitedly on the control console before him, "I do believe we have found it."

If nothing else, the sheer amount of space debris his scans are warning him about certainly point to this system having been one of great importance, once upon a time. "A great battle was fought here," Eno murmurs, pointing to the scans. "Vast armadas clashed against each other – thousands, if not tens of thousands of ships were destroyed here. There, you can see the orbits of the clusters of debris – they have been floating around this star system for many centuries, if not many thousands of years. It is promising, if nothing else."

BD-1, recording as per usual, thrills him a question.

"Dangerous?" Eno asks and smiles. "Certainly it is dangerous, but I'm sure our shields will be able to hold. As it is, most of these clusters have developed stable enough orbits that if we should be able to predict their paths accurately. We will simply have to use some extra caution – and in dire circumstances I will guide us through safely with the Force, so never fear. Would you mind taking over the scanning, my friend?"

BD-1 hops to it, slicing without a pause into the ship's systems and into the navigational computers. Eno looks over to watch the scanner screen flicker as BD-1, a being in possession of much faster processing capability than he has ever owned, begins shifting through the data. Confident in the knowledge that, should anything come up, BD-1 would notice and inform him, Eno turns his eyes on the planet ahead.

There are three habitable planets in the Solar System, and several moons – but this one, yes, he feels very strongly this is the one. There is no clear reason for it – every habitable planet and moon here shows the signs of terraforming, from the one closest to the star, to the moons orbiting around the largest of the system's gas giants. Why the middle most planet calls to him, Eno cannot say, but the Force has been a steady guide through all his ventures, and he trusts it implicitly. The third planet from the star is where he would begin his research here.

He can already feel the excitement building up within him. If his investigation was true, and he dares believe it is so… then he might very well be the first human to come upon this star system for tens of thousands of years. Untouched, undisturbed sites were his favourite – here, the signs of history would not be tampered with by people, only by nature, and nature was often a kinder keeper for history than many civilisations. The sites of the past were so easy to dismantle to build new houses out of their building blocks, and Eno could very well understand that, even sympathise… but an untouched planet to explore was a special treat.

And this might be one of the most important he had ever come across. One of the earliest recorded human settlements – the tablet he'd found went back over a hundred thousand years! If it was so old, if it was in fact one of the first… he'd be making more than history here. He'd be rewriting it. Though the interest in discovering the birthplace of humanity has long since waned in the greater galactic consciousness, it is still a hotly debated issue among academics of the galaxy. To discover it, for certain…

BD-1 lets out a quiet, puzzled series of beeps and whistles, and Eno looks down at the scanners. The droid is scanning the planet now – its orbit is all but swamped by debris, so much so that parts of it have started clumping together into deadly clusters. There are billions and billions of tons of metal, just floating in space.

There is also a reading coming off the planet – BD-1's scans had produced a lifesign. An average human lifesign.

"Oh?" Eno murmurs and leans in. "Just the one?"

BD-1 coos in agreement, looking between him and the scanner. No sign of heat trails, or exhaust, no sign of space activity… and yet there is a lifesign.

"Hmm… peculiar. This is so far off the beaten path that it's hard to believe that anyone might simply stumble here," Eno murmurs, stroking at his beard. "Someone in hiding, perhaps?" Smugglers could use abandoned worlds like these, no matter how dangerous their orbital neighbourhoods were. "Hm. I believe we will have to go and take a look, don't we? Strap down, my friend – I will steer her in myself. And I fear it might be a bumpy ride."

BD-1 thrills and then hops to his secure station, while Eno takes the ship off autopilot.

The planet is beautiful – large landmasses and even larger oceans, both teeming with wildlife. There are ruins of old cities, some of them large enough to be seen from space, but there are next to no energy signatures anywhere, marking clearly how old those ruins are. The craters marring the planet's surface tell a grim tale as to why that might be. The lifesign they're following is near the coast of one of the larger continents, near one of the larger ruined cities. A single human signature.

The Force whispers guidance in Eno's ear, and, once clear of the last of the debris field, he brings his ship down, closer and closer to the lifesign. He can feel…

They pull down on a field of tall grasses, as near to the singular lifesign as Eno can manage. The moment they touch down, BD-1 hops out of his cradle to check the scanners and to thrill him a warning – the lifesign is moving towards them. The planet's lone inhabitant must've seen them land.

"Very good," Eno says, checking the atmospheric readings and nodding. "Come, my friend, let us see what we're dealing with here."

As they step outside the ship, BD-1 trailing after Eno eagerly, Eno takes a moment to bask in the atmosphere. It has a sweet smell to it, the field – there are flowers growing there, wild and free among the grasses. Nearby there are trees in bloom, some kind of fruit trees he suspects, judging by the flowers. He can also smell smoke – wood smoke. Campfire, perhaps, or cooking fire.

There is also a sense of history to the planet underneath his feet. Though taken over by fresh plant life, this is an old world, long inhabited and abandoned, and the feel of it has soaked to her very bones – there have been civilisations here, great, great civilisations, many years ago, and they had left their mark to the very Force around the planet.

He can also feel the other human on the planet – can feel them watching him.

"BD-1, how far away is our new friend we have yet to meet?" Eno asks, curious, and BD-1 thrills an answer. "Odd. They couldn't possibly see me at that distance, and yet… I can feel their gaze upon me." BD-1 suggests it might be macro binoculars. "Perhaps. Well. They seem to be aware of us, in either case. Let us go say hello."

It's not hard to find them – the lone inhabitant isn't trying to hide at all, they even start approaching them, likely having realised that Eno is heading their way. His interest thoroughly piqued, Eno hastens his steps, wading through the grasses until he makes his way to the edge of the field and into the shade of the trees. He was right – most of them seem to be fruit trees of some kind.

And there – the inhabitant. It's a young man, taller in height and darker in skin tone than Eno himself is, but slimmer in build, wearing a white, somewhat frayed jacket and trousers that look even worse off. He's carrying on his back a basket woven from slim branches, and at his hip there is a knife – but more importantly, on his face he wears an expression of calm curiosity, with no displeasure or threat in sight.

"Hello there, my friend," Eno calls, giving a slight wave. "We mean you no harm, nor do we mean to trespass upon your peace – we come in friendship with open intentions. I am Jedi Master Eno Cordova, from the Jedi Order's Exploration Corps – I have come here to study this no doubt fascinating planet."

The spiel is sincere, but it is also a test, one he uses in most every hitherto unexplored planet he comes across when encountering locals – and it's proven necessary by the baffled expression the younger man gives him. The young man cannot understand a word of what he is saying – including the word Jedi. However, he can hear – hear and see – which will aid things tremendously.

"You do not understand me. How about Corellian?" Eno asks, switching languages – it's one of the older human tongues. "Can you understand Corellian? No? How about Old Alderanian?"  he goes through some half a dozen languages, until the young man finally shakes his head, confused, and says something in return – in a language utterly unknown to Eno. It's not only the words, the pronunciation or the intonation – but the way he forms certain sounds…

"BD-1, record everything he says," Eno says quietly to the droid. "We will run the samples against the ship's computer, and hopefully find means of quick translation."

BD-1 thrills in the affirmative, and Eno steps forward. Time for simpler approach, he muses, and motions to himself. "Eno," he says, pronouncing it clearly and carefully. "Eno Cordova."

The young man smiles at that, his whole expression brightening – and he motions at himself. "Desmond," he says, also pronouncing it with exaggerated clarity for Eno's benefit. "Desmond Miles."

Two part names as well – that limits the man to only about 75% of potential galactic human societies. Still, it's some progress.  "It is very good to meet you, Desmond Miles," Eno says, bowing his head a little.

Desmond arches his brows a little and then bows in return somewhat confusedly, saying something which likely is a similar greeting. He casts a curious look down at BD-1 and then at Eno, and doesn't seem to know quite what to make of them – but the open interest in his face and the total lack of suspicion or fear is a greater and warmer welcome than Eno could've hoped for.

Telegraphing his movement clearly – the young man is carrying a rather large knife at his side after all – Eno reaches for his waist pouch. From it he takes out a single ration bar, wrapped in foil. While Desmond watches him with a slightly tiled head, Eno shows him the bar, opens it, then breaks it in half. He hands one half to Desmond, and keeps the other. As the young man watches bemusedly, Eno takes a bite, chews, and swallows. Then he motions Desmond to try.

The young man does so with a slightly crooked little smile, taking an interested sniff at the bar before taking a careful bite out of it, rolling it on his tongue curiously. "Hmm," is the reaction Desmond gives to the flavour before taking a bigger bite.

Eno smiles, encouraging. It's one of his go to tricks, when language fails him – food rarely does. Though Desmond hadn't seemed in any way hostile and his expression had been open, there was still a tension about his shoulders – but with the food the young man's guard goes down completely.

When the bar is half gone, Desmond seems to make a decision, and motions Cordova to follow.

Desmond shows him to a stout round building at the edge of the ruined city. The design of the building fills Eno with a sudden rush of excitement – it's a very common pourstone structure seen all over the galaxy, made popular by its durability and accessibility… but the rooftop and the door design are characteristic to an older form of constructing such buildings, seen mainly on the oldest of human settled worlds. It's a sign of the building having been made before construction droids – there's even the characteristic mould markings on the archway.

The young man has clearly made the building his home, but has not lived there more than a year. There's a bed and a section preserved for cooking with a rough stove built of pourstone blocks, and to the side there is a bathing corner set up  – but the majority of the space is taken over by a strange project of large pails full of water and some sort of plant with soft white tufts. Eno's eyes are however drawn to a much shinier prize at the other side of the house – a shelf and a table, where Desmond has collected various, ancient artefacts, mostly metal, some stone. Artefacts from this very world!

Desmond moves to his cooking area and empties the basket he was carrying of the things he had collected – wild vegetables, tubers and roots and various leafs. Motioning at Eno to sit down, the young man expertly starts a fire in his stove with a clever use of his knife and a piece of stone to create a spark, before turning to his collected food. He means to make them a meal. A very good sign indeed.

While waiting, Eno looks around, trying to discern as much as he can with visual cues alone. There is no technology in sight, nothing he recognizes anyway – no datapads, no holorecorders, not even a comm unit. The cooking utensils are simple, as are what few personal possessions Desmond seems to own – the most complex thing he has are his clothes, and especially his shoes, which are clearly machine made, and a pouch that hangs by his bed, its strap broken.

There are many reasons why a man might end up on a planet such as this with nary tools or technology. Desmond might've crash landed here and lost all he owned in the crash, he could have been abandoned by fellow travellers – or maybe he simply chose a hermit's life, though it's rather unusual for someone so young. Either way, Eno strives to make no assumptions or judgements, and lets his eyes stray to the artefacts.

A box, a chalice made of smoky white glass, a stone orb cracked in the middle, a vase with images painted to its side, a set of animal figurines… they are fairly common fare for an ancient site such as this. There is, however, also a stack of what look like metal plates, sitting on the bottom shelf – and though the angle is wrong, Eno can just about tell that something is written on the topmost one.

His fingers itch to reach and take a look.

Desmond makes them a fried dinner, cooking the vegetables in animal fat and adding in bits of dried meat and various dried herbs, cooking the food on a enormous brass pan and stirring with a spatula carved from wood – the smell of it soon fills the room, and the resulting mix looks far more appetising than Eno's own offering of condensed ration bar. Soon enough Desmond offers Eno a wooden bowl of the food along with an equally wooden spoon, and then brings out a couple of pots of spices, setting them on a table between them,

"Thank you," Eno says, quite sincerely – though he had packed more than enough rations to tide him over for months if necessary, he hadn't expected a fresh dinner in a while, especially none quite so fragrant. Desmond adds spices to his own portion, stirs it, and then takes a spoonful, watching Eno encouragingly in turn. So, knowing that BD-1 carried emergency allergy medicine should he react badly to something on the dish, Eno lifts his spoon.

Thankfully, it seems that Force is on his side – nothing about the dish triggers an immune response. Better yet, it's quite tasty.

"This is most excellent, you have my compliments," Eno offers, putting enough gratitude and appreciation to carry the message where words failed, and Desmond offers him a smile and tucks into his own dinner.

There is no one way to explain one's intentions through a language barrier, Eno has found – for every language barrier was different and every person required their own form of explanation. There are some tricks that generally work, though, ones Eno has figured out over many years through trial and error, and he tries them with Desmond, starting with the commonly useful ones.

He only has to pantomime the act of studying and reading something once for the young man to get it – and then Desmond in turn pantomimes him the act of exploring, of looking around and exaggeratedly making discoveries, and Eno so delighted by the young man's quick wit that he claps at the act. Thankfully it doesn't startle the young man – some cultures use clapping as a negative feedback, means to drown out others in disapproval – but Desmond only looks pleased.

Understanding thusly made, Eno motions to his shelf of artefacts and Desmond moves to show it himself, displaying his collection to Eno with some small pride.

With BD-1 scanning everything curiously, Eno takes a look at each piece in turn. They are very much a common type of fair where old artefacts go – durable kitchenware and decorations made of materials that do not decompose. Only a few of the objects seem to possess ritualistic or religious purposes – most of them are just decorations.

Except for the metal plates. They're a mix of copper, brass, aluminium, some alloys Eno doesn't recognize off hand, and they all have engraved writing in various styles in them. Although the symbols are mostly unknown to him, there's some similarity to old Alderaan writing systems, which had long ago fallen out of use with the advance of aurabesh. The writing clearly goes back tens of thousands of years.

"Marvellous," Eno murmurs.

Beside him Desmond watches as Eno holds the plates for BD-1 to scan them for a later study, and then the young man takes one of the plates in hand. Curiously, he crouches down for BD-1, holding the plate out to the little droid, and at first Eno thinks he's merely mimicking Eno's actions. BD-1 obediently turns to record it, scanning Desmond along with the plate –

And then Desmond puts his finger on the topmost line – and reads it out loud.

"Oh?" Eno murmurs, surprised. Desmond reads out the whole plate, one line at a time, and then looks up to Eno, arching his brows in query. Quickly Eno offers him another plate, but with a shake of his head Desmond takes a different one instead, arranging the plates in order. There's a set of them, three of the plates go together, and Desmond reads them out in order for BD-1, before moving onto the other ones.

Desmond can't read all of the metal plates – he can't even read most of them. Of the stack of nearly twenty, he can only read six in total, the others must be in different languages that use the same writing system. Still, it's incredible. He can clearly understand the writing – not only understand it, but speak it as well. He speaks it as though it's his native tongue.

And then BD-1 thrills Eno a quiet, confused conclusion. He'd scanned the plates and finished the initial dating on their construction – and the ones Desmond read out are the oldest ones in the stack. Not ten thousand, not twenty thousand years old, no.

The plates the young man read date back more than two hundred thousand years.

Chapter Text

I have found my quarry, a star system with three habitable planets and several minor moons, all terraformed ages ago for human habitation, and all badly scarred by ancient wars. The entire star system is covered with the wrecks of those wars – great armadas of warships, reduced to scrap that has all but turned the space into a minefield. I can very well see why this place was abandoned, for before the advent of reliable shield technology just flying through this system would have been an act of suicidal foolishness.

And yet, I have also found an inhabitant, if only the one. A young human man by the name of Desmond Miles lives on the third planet from the star, and has been for at least a year, perhaps more. He knows no language I recognize, and I know no language he knows – even the Wayfarer's systems could not translate his words. More peculiar still is the fact that he can both read and speak a language written on metal tablets some two hundred thousand years old! How he had come upon this ability is yet a mystery, but it's one I am eager to solve.

Desmond has welcomed me into his home and has indicated an interest in serving as my guide as I explore the ruins, and I have expressed my gratitude for it. In return I will aid him in his own work, whatever that may be, as payment for his aid and hospitality. I hope to use our time together not only to unearth the mysteries of this star system, but also the language Desmond knows – and hopefully teach him some Basic while I am at it.

This will be a most fruitful cooperation, I am certain of it.

For the last couple of days we have been touring the ancient ruins near where Desmond lives. The city is massive, and even with BD-1 mapping every step of the way, I daresay I couldn't hope to navigate them alone just yet. Hundreds of thousands must've lived here once, though only a fraction of the buildings still remain. Of those, Desmond has shown me the ones which I figure he feels are the more important ones.

As with most human cultures, it is the buildings of establishment that were built to last. Governmental buildings, schools, universities, temples, and whatnot. They are mostly empty, of course, very few artefacts remain, and most of them are not of use in my research beyond being interesting curios. It's clear that when this world was abandoned, the people took their possessions with them when they left. But there is still a wealth of history here to be explored, and my examinations so far have barely scratched the surface. This, I feel, will take months.

I have also taken some time to aid Desmond in his foraging. The young man spends quite a deal of his time gathering the bounty of nature and has shown me some dozen edible plants, some of which seem quite familiar – likely older derivations of common galactic food crops. Desmond also collects a great deal of an inedible plant with fibrous white boll, akin to the woodwool plant grown on many human worlds for its fibre, though this plant is much smaller. Desmond calls it cotton. Whether he intends to make string from it's fibre or if it's for some other purpose, I don't know, as so far the only part of the process I have witnessed is the gathering and then the soaking of the bolls in large water pails, separating the fibres with a hand hewn wheel. It has been interesting nonetheless.

I have begun tentatively to exchange words with him, and to my delight I find Desmond is a quick learner. And we have the basics down, yes, no, stop, wait, go, tank you, please, and so on. With his clear aptitude for the written word, I suspect starting him with some aurebesh might also be to benefit, though I don't yet know how. Could he use a tablet?

I had an interesting interaction with Desmond today. I was trying to discern how long he had been on this planet and so alone, and devised a crude method of counting the time. As the planet makes a cycle around the local star very close to that of a Galactic year, I used it as my time device, indicating the cycle in a drawing on sand and then counting my own age in a row of lines in relation. Desmond seemed to understand, and conveyed his own age to be around twenty seven local years. But when asked about how long he'd been in this world, he took the stick we had been drawing with, considered it's heft – and threw it as far as he could. What this means, I cannot say, but it amused him greatly.

I have come to the conclusion that Desmond is Force sensitive, and not a weak one at that. It is only barely apparent, and I discovered it only by accident, when he invited me to hunt. The hunt was – nothing like I expected. He did little tracking, even less in form of scouting – in truth, it seemed as though he just knew where to find prey, with no clear indication that there was anything to be found. There was no way he could have known that boar was coming – there was no sound, no sight, and yet he was prepared. I could feel the Force move within him, as he climbed a tree and took the beast down in a single, smooth drop, severing the spine cleanly in one strike of his knife.

Truth be told, I felt this possibility before. Desmond possesses little in the way of technology, and yet he keeps tabs on his surroundings at a level of detail that should be impossible, were he limited to human senses. More than once I have felt his observation upon me, even when there was half a city and many buildings between us. He also has a cunning ability of finding the things he sets out to look for with very little searching necessary. All this implies a natural connection and comfortable, settled use of the Force.

I have not run a blood sample yet, but I suspect he has the readings fit for a Jedi – but none of the training. And yet there is a calm energy to him, like that of a well trained, old master – a confidence of one who knows himself in and out and is utterly content. Desmond is a young man at the peak of his prime, stuck on a lonely planet, and yet he is perfectly satisfied, often singing as he works, but just as content with the silence.

I find his presence soothing. 

I have learned a little more of the planet's history, and most of it from Desmond. He is coming along with Basic and Aurabesh much faster than I am progressing with his English, and he has managed to explain some of what he knows.

He indicated to me that humans have lived on this planet for more than three hundred thousand years. It could be that I have accidentally confused his sense of what a thousand actually means, and yet I feel no confusion in the statement, nor lie. More startling is that he claims to be one of these humans. Not a visitor, not an exile, not someone who had settled here, no. He calls this planet his birthplace.

He has given me some half a dozen names for this world – Earth, ʾarḍ, Terra, Terküre, Dìqiú… Earth is the one he uses, but Terra caught my interest, as it's one of the most widely spread words in most human languages. Might this be where the word terraform originates from? Most terraforming is used to make otherwise unsuitable planets more habitable for humans – to make them much like this very world, which itself was terraformed tens of thousands of years ago.

Could this be the very first terraformed planet in the galaxy?

Desmond joined me in my morning meditation today, and the experience was… nostalgic. It has been a great deal of time since I had the chance to meditate in the company of another Force sensitive, and though Desmond lacks the training, his presence in the Force is settled and comfortable… and old.

Though my ability to explain the process of meditation was rather limited by our sparse shared language, Desmond had little issue in getting the hang of it – indeed, I have seen senior padawans with more difficulty. I suspect he has a natural inclination to mindfulness and uses in his daily life when communing with the Force in his own manner, and it was a simple issue of adjusting his focus to fall into a deeper form of meditation.

Our meditation became shared very naturally, as I opened myself to the Force and he followed suit. Though I could sense that the experience was new to him, he is by no means a stranger to joining together with the Force. From where I got my first glimpse of the… the years that press down upon him.

I am reminded of my attempt to discern his age and how long he has been here, and his act of tossing the stick far away. It prompts me to draw conclusions that scarcely make sense, and yet I can't shake the feeling that his presence in the Force is far older than his body belies.

I learned something of his particular abilities as well – and the ease with which he welcomed us into his home. Though Desmond's eyes, both myself and you, my dear BD-1, are shaded with the colour of friend. Desmond, it seems, has the ability to read intentions upon the auras of others – and yes, even droids have auras.

I have long suspected that he might be in possession of some form of psychometry, as he seems aware of the histories of places and objects to an unexplainable extent, as there's certainly not enough evidence to support the easy conclusions he draws. Perhaps it's not so much psychometry as it is an effect of his aura-reading, and he can see some of the echoes left in the Force by those that once resided here? Or it might be simply a higher level of sensitivity that he possesses.

Hmm.

Through our examination of the ruins and what Desmond has managed to convey to me, I have come to the conclusion that this city, the one Desmond lives by, is not going to be the key to the puzzle as to what happened here. As ruins upon this planet's surface go, this one is not even near the largest nor the most impressive. Desmond has also indicated that he had settled in this area only due to the various trees and plants that grow here – namely the fruit trees and the cotton. When I asked about more culturally significant sights, he shrugs his shoulders, uncertain.

I have decided to take a look at the other large ruins around the planet – and I am of course inviting Desmond to join me. Though he has seen the Wayfarer at a distance and shown clear interest in seeing it up close, he's kept a respectful distance to it, I think, to avoid alarming me or causing suspicion. Which is rather endearing, in a way, as I have no fear of him absconding with my ship – I doubt very much he could fly it.

There is something uplifting about seeing someone experience something new and wondrous. What it means, I cannot yet tell, the implications are certainly numerous… but Desmond clearly has never been on board a spaceship before, for his reaction to space flight, to seeing Earth from above, was one of breathless wonder. His spirits soared, and I myself felt younger at his awe, it was utterly thrilling. To feel such joy at the splendour of the universe…

It makes me miss having a padawan. Cere might've never shared my wonder at the history and the varied cultures of the galaxy, but she too felt wonder at space, once upon a time. Oh well, no matter.

We travelled together over the surface of Earth, flying over various larger and smaller ruins, peeking from amidst the plant life crawling all over them. Once upon time, every corner of this planet was inhabited – there must've been millions, if not billions of people that once lived here, in these vast, sprawling cities, and they lived here for a long time. There is scarcely a corner left where you cannot find some hint of their presence. Once upon a time, this planet was a metropolis.

Visiting a few of these cities we collected some artefacts – or rather, Desmond did, finding them with unerring accuracy with his aura-sensing abilities. Dating back various stone and metal plaques and trinkets, none of them prove younger than thirty thousand years – most are far older. A particular piece Desmond found in one of the cities near the coast, a head of a bronze statue, dates back hundreds of thousands of years, again. Desmond seems to have an affinity for such old artefacts.

I have begun building a rough timeline of events here, and I fear it relies strongly on Desmond's accounting of Earth's history. Three hundred thousand years ago, roughly speaking, humanity settled this system, beginning with this very world. Since then, it went through several cataclysms, though how many and of what nature I can't say. Desmond indicates five, but our limited shared language confuses his explanation. He blames the star, and so I have sent a probe to take readings of it – perhaps it goes through particularly aggressive cycles. Either way, there were a series of devastations, even before the war.

The war itself – Desmond knows little of it, only that it had spread across the entire system, and the destruction had been systematic. "No living space," Desmond says, which I suspect means that the habitable zones of this system had been ruined intentionally, forcing the people here to flee long time ago – so long, that the records of this system had grown muddied and confused.

I dare not yet put too much stock in this idea, but the evidence is stacking up – for the head of the statue Desmond found, the one that was carved at least two hundred thousand years ago, likely far earlier still… it is unmistakably human. Which, if records of history are true… would truly make this very world the earliest human habited planet in the universe.

Question now is… if Earth is the earliest colony, where did humanity come from?

Desmond has been putting off his own interests and pursuits in aiding me, so I have set aside my own research for a moment in order to indulge him. He seems embarrassed to some extent by what he is doing, but not enough to demur from doing it, and so we have spent the day processing the gathered cotton, into a form I had not expected. I thought he intended to make string, to repair his clothes and perhaps even make new ones. But no. He is making paper.

I am ashamed to not have thought of it before. Desmond has no technology at his disposal, and he's respectful of my things – though curious, he has shown no interest in taking anything that is mine. With no datapads at his disposal, no droid companion such as you, my dear BD-1, at his side, he has no means of recording his thoughts. And before we arrived, I suspect he had no reason to believe he would ever see another human being, ever get off this planet. He has not said as much, but had we not arrived…  no one would have ever known he ever even lived here, or what he might have thought, what he might have discovered… who he might have been.

So, Desmond has been labouring for a means of recording down his thoughts, conveying his wishes and dreams, his experiences upon this planet. The means he is striving for are primitive, the paper he creates is thick, but strong, and the ink he has already made is pitch black and flows easily in the utensil he has carved from a bird's feather. I have no doubt that in good conditions whatever writing he ends up producing will prove sturdy enough to last for centuries, long after he has passed. It is remarkable.

And yet I feel a terrible shame. I have spare datapads in the Wayfarer, any moment I could have offered him one to use, but it did not occur to me, too ensnared was I by what I could learn here, the mysteries I could uncover, both concerning this planet and the young man who has been my guide and in some ways my teacher here. And now, watching as he cuts the sheets of paper into smaller rectangles to be bound together into a book, I wonder if it is too late to offer him a writing aid now – now, that he has spent this effort in making his own? Would it belittle his accomplishment, to offer the easy, technological solution, when I have unknowingly been denying it to him all this time? Or would that be just continued cruelty and arrogance for my part, to keep denying it?

Oh, Cere would laugh at me now, call me a foolish old man, forever stuck in his own world – where all revolves around my work and nothing anyone else thinks or wishes or needs matter. She might very well be right – I certainly have not been attentive here. For all that I have grown very fond of Desmond, I fear I might have treated him much like I might a cultural artefact – for the longer it goes and the more I begin to believe my own far-fetched theories about him, the more I feel myself becoming detached, observing from the side. As though he is a relic of this planet, much like the plaques he can read and the language he speaks, and as such must be preserved pure and uncontaminated by my observation, hah.

Arrogance, this is clear arrogance on my part.

No. I will make the offer to Desmond, with my most sincere apologies for my oversight. It would only be further condescension towards him for me to deny him the choice.

I have shown Desmond something of how a Jedi manipulates the Force. He was surprised, but not scared by my act of moving objects with the Force. More than that he is fascinated, which I expected. I believe he has sensed the connection of Force between us, this frail bond that is already forming, which I admit I have not done enough to quell.

Desmond is constantly reaching out in the Force, constantly searching. It is half his natural inclination in the Force – he is a farseer always looking ahead, scouting without moving, and as such, his Force presence and his own spirit both reach outward. It leaves him terribly open, however – Desmond knows no shielding, leaving his mind trustingly open. It is difficult not to answer such trust in kind – there is a naivety to it, an implicit expectation of kindness, which is hard to deny. It is caused by his inexperience, not his gullibility – he doesn't know enough of the Force to know its dangers. If he did, I suspect he would be more careful with his abilities.

So I have decided to show him some, to prepare him for what might be ahead of him. How long he has been one with the Force, two years or two hundred thousand, I dare not to ask, but either way, the galaxy is not a kind place to an open, unshielded Force sensitive. I will begin simply, slowly, showing him the basic tricks of the Force, how we teach our younglings, see if he can enhance his own understanding and abilities, and if he can… then I will show him shielding. And perhaps in the meanwhile he can show me the trick of seeing friends and foes in the Force. The Eye of the Bird of Prey, as he calls it.

He is as ever an attentive student – calm and settled in his own skin, but more than willing to improve, to learn. What I would have not given for a student like him in my younger years – it is quite the ego boost, even now.

I am certain of it now. Whoever Desmond truly is, whoever he was before… he has been on this planet a long time. He doesn't so much deny it as he shrugs his shoulders and dissembles, neither lying nor confirming, implying or hiding… but I believe he is a person born many, many millennia ago. By his own, not quite firm but oft referenced over two hundred thousand years ago.

It is the things he knows – and the things he does. He can only mostly make guesses as to what happened during the hundreds of thousands of years in between, with mentions of wars, of disasters, of how Earth was the launching pad for human colonisation of this system – from here the other planets and the terraformed moons were eventually reached and transformed. Earth was the first, and hundreds of thousands of years, long before the prime of humanity here, at the very dawn of it, Desmond was born.

What happened, I cannot say – Desmond has deftly avoided speaking of it. Some sort of cryostasis device, or something stranger, perhaps, or a simple accident of early manipulations of space-time. Such things happened, before the dawn of hyperflight – people losing time in faster-than-light travel, and in the experiments involved. Either way, he lost the years in between, a great amount of years, and then returned on Earth, less than two local years ago. His return coincided with a moment of massive solar activity, perhaps it disrupted whatever technology Desmond was ensnared with, but the result is clear enough. He went from a planet inhabited by billions… to one he was completely alone with.

I have no doubt that the Force preserved him, too, kept him safe and sound for all those years. Desmond has a purpose here, as I have one in finding him. I have never had much interest in the history of humanity, my focus is the history of the Force, and yet upon finding those tablets that mentioned this place… I could not turn away. Something drew me here, to Desmond, to discovering him.

Of course, I have long decided that when it comes time to leave this place, I will offer Desmond a place on my ship. Now, I am more certain than ever that I must. It will be crowded, but I have no doubt we can make it work. As to what comes to Earth…

This system, this beautiful, old, scarred and abandoned star system, belongs to Desmond. He was born here, he is the only citizen of this system, and at the age of over two hundred thousand years I think it's a responsibility he is more than mature enough to bear. As such, whatever he decides should be done with my research here, I will strive to do.

I have a feeling I will be publishing none of it. Like Desmond, the Sol system too has some part to play.

Chapter Text

Eno is already awake when Desmond gets up, sitting on the floor by one of the windows, face turned up to meet the morning's light as the man meditates. Desmond looks over to him, considering joining him, and then heads up to the kitchen area to start in on some breakfast instead. Porridge, he thinks – he's still got some rolled oats left, and he's feeling like porridge.

Today, they'll be heading to Europe – or what had been Europe. Eno wants to see more sights across the planet, and Desmond had been so far kind of steering him around the Americas and bit of Asia – putting it off as much as he could. The moment they flew over Europe, he knew – he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation of going to see Italy, and that would probably hurt a little bit. Like elsewhere, he doubts very much that much of the old world would remain there.

But the Vaults might, and that would be difficult to explain.

Starting a fire, Desmond sits down to wait for the water to boil and then looks down as he feels a small presence approach him. BD-1 is looking up at him, head tilted a little bit in query. "What?" Desmond asks, reaching over to a bit awkwardly pat the little droid – he has no idea if that even does anything for BD-1, but the guy seems to like it anyway. "Can't take any, sorry, friend. Mess up inside."

Though his Basic is still a bit rough – or a lot rough – BD-1 seems to get it anyway, letting out an amused little chirrup of peeps and whistles that Desmond can't understand a word of before letting out the one coo he does. The sing for me coo.

"Sure no bother Eno?" Desmond asks, quiet.

Eno hums where he is sitting, smiling, eyes still shut. "I certainly don't mind."

"Okay, uh," Desmond considers what to go with. Would be nice if he remembered other songs than sea shanties, but that's genetic memory for you – of all his ancestors, only Edward was properly, vividly musical enough to encode it into his DNA, and Desmond himself hadn't had a musical bone in his life. So, sea shanties it was.

Well, he's doing rolled oats, so… "Now we are ready to sail for the Horn," he begins, and BD-1 lets out a thrilled whistle. "Weigh, hey, roll and go…"

It definitely makes the wait more interesting, as the water boils and he adds in the oats. BD-1 is probably recording the whole thing, he usually is – Desmond's heard him playing back some of Desmond's absentminded singing to himself a couple of times when otherwise bored, and it had been kinda mortifying, but also really cute. Mortifying mostly because Desmond hadn't realised how often he really breaks out singing. Effect of having been alone for a couple of years, probably.

It had been easy to get used to having companions, though – a little too easy. Not that Desmond has any suspicions about Eno, the guy is the epitome of good intentions and academic excitement, and there's not a crooked bone in the guy's body, and BD-1 is the sweetest thing. But going from being alone to being in company and knowing that he's bound to end up alone again, in that sense…

Ah well.

Desmond finishes up the oats, and Eno rises to join him. "Good morning," the older guy says, sitting by the stove. "I hope you slept well."

"Was speak in sleep again?" Desmond asks, offering him a bowl.

"A little, though you didn't seem distressed," Eno says, nodding. "Another strange dream?"

Desmond shrugs and serves out the oats. "Sorry," he offers and leans back a little.

Eno hums and leaves it at that, taking a spoon and tucking into the food, thoughtful look about his face. "When should we fly out?"

Desmond considers. "Sooner better. Is ahead of here," he says and considers. "After noon there. Later, will get dark."

"We will set out right away after we finish eating, then," Eno suggests, and Desmond nods. Sounds about right to him. Now if he could just decide whether he wants to check out where Rome was or not…

Setting out in the Wayfarer will never stop being amazing. According to Eno, the ship is not big, but it's still big enough to have rooms, to walk in. Desmond's only experiences with flying were planes and Leonardo's flying machines, and here Eno is, flying around in what's basically a small house with a spaceship wrapped around it. It's just so cool. It's also, somehow, lacking momentum – or inertia? Whatever it is when the speeding up of a vehicle makes you feel gravity. Eno's ship doesn't have that.

Which probably makes sense, with something intended for faster than light travel and all. If they felt the G's inside, it'd be a death machine.

Europe is, much like the Americas, covered in forests. It looks wild, and to fly over what used to be the UK and France and only see a handful of cities peeking past all the greenery, instead of the sprawling fields and roads and towns… it's something. Not for the first time Desmond wonders if anything about those old cultures remains anywhere, if the humans that left the Solar System carried any of their roots with them, when they went. Is there a human world out there with a language that has roots in French, in German, in Spanish? Probably not.

Two hundred thousand years is a long ass time. Enough time to develop and forget hundreds of languages in between.

"Now, where shall we set down?" Eno asks, looking at him over his shoulder. "Where do you feel we should go, my friend?"

Desmond blows out a breath and then points. "There," he says. "The Italian Peninsula."

"Very well then," Eno agrees, and directs the spaceship towards it. Desmond guides him to where Rome used to be – and it's both reliving and a little worrying, to see that there are ruins there. Of course, it makes sense that people had built there again, it is a historical site, why wouldn't they, and yet…

Like in the Americas, the buildings here too look vaguely alien, all stout and rounded, with dome ceilings, built to last an age and an apocalypse. There's none of that old Roman architecture to be seen, he can't spot any of the old ruins. The churches, the cathedrals, the aqueducts and theatres and the Coliseum… they're all gone. Most of where the city used to be is underwater, too, which makes sad sort of sense – the sea is higher these days, so a lot of the coastlines have moved.

Yeah, this one is going to hurt, Desmond thinks, and then leans in. There's the Vatican. Or rather, where the Vatican used to be. There's nothing there, not even a crater – the whole area is underwater.

So, Minerva's vault is probably no go. Maybe Juno's…?

"There," Desmond points, and waits as Eno puts the ship down near where the Coliseum used to be. There's an open plateau there with still some brickwork left that the trees hadn't managed to break through completely, leaving just enough open space for them to land. While BD-1 hops to the floor and Eno turns the engines off, Desmond scans the area, trying to see…

There are artefacts here to be found – and yes, he can feel it, the beckoning importance. The Vault is still there. It survived through all the changes. Is she there, did she know he'd skipped through time, might there be a…

"Shall we?" Eno asks, rising from the pilot's seat, and Desmond nods, stepping back and then out of the cockpit, following eager BD-1 out and to the exit, where the ramp has unfolded itself automatically.

It's warmer here, and the air smells like sea. The trees are different and so are the animals, more adjusted to a hotter environment. The atmosphere feels different more fundamentally, too, on some deeper level. Might be the Force. This city feels its age.

They began the re-colonisation of Earth here, Desmond thinks, running a hand down a broken bit of wall and feeling for the echoes of the people who used to live here. When the terraforming was finished, humans re-populated the more fertile areas first, where they could expect to begin gardening and farming with ease. Earth was going to be their temple, and they meant to take good care of her, but they also needed to feed the swelling populations of the Solar System, and though the farmlands of Venus were large, Venus was a metropolis by that point. Earth, freshly renewed and restored, was going to be their breadbasket, farmed by the faithful.

The faithful?

"What do you sense?" Eno asks curiously as Desmond frowns, trying to untangle the feeling.

"Time. Age. Farms," Desmond says vaguely and lets go of the wall. There'd been a religion, a… he can't quite get a sense of it, it's not a faith that followed or served any gods, more like… ideals. Like the point of it was the appreciation of life, not the worship of a thing. Maybe it was the start of one of Eno's Force faiths, or something like that. "They grow food for others in system here."

It's interesting – there'd been a time when humans hadn't needed to farm, they got their food some other way. Maybe they'd reverse-engineered the Isu's manna machinery. Seems like they lost that technology somewhere along the way, though. Wonder how – in all the wars?

"It does seem like an ideal place for farming," Eno muses, looking around. "A temperate, warm climate that sees quite a bit of sun, it does seem eminently suitable. Where to first, my friend?"

They spend a couple of hours exploring, finding some old artefacts, most of them very similar to what Desmond had found in other places. Few plaques of metal, some decorative objects, some cooking utensils – a lot of plant pots, looks like sidewalk gardening was a bigger thing here than in Americas. There is also a thing they find in most every house – a stone shelf with three bowls, broken in some houses, intact with others.

"Some sort of station for personal religious offerings," Eno muses thoughtfully while BD-1 records it. Desmond lifts one of the bowls in hand and frowns. It feels like it was filled with poison, once. Weird.

They circle around the Vault, because Desmond can't quite bring himself to look for an entrance to it. In the end, it gets dark before they've even scratched the surface, and they decide to make camp by the Wayfarer for the night and continue in the morning. Which kinda leaves them both with space-jetlag, because where Desmond lives these days is six hours behind Rome, and by the time it gets dark, they're both still wide awake.

"This place was culturally important, wasn't it?" Eno asks curiously as they sit down to eat a simple stew of vegetables and re-hydrated meat. "You seem to know it well – you even show certain deference to this place. It is significant to you, in some way."

Desmond hums in agreement, stirring the food.

"You don't have to share if you don't wish to," Eno offers, looking away, at the buildings around them, the shadows they cast on the Milky Way above them.

How do you explain something as weird as my ancestor sort of rebuilt a lot of this city, two hundred thousand and twenty five years ago, and it still feels a little bit like home even though literally nothing he built remains here? Desmond doesn't think there is a way to explain that, without coming out sounding like a lunatic. In his actual life his only experiences with Rome were about being kidnapped, held captive, and then being on the run. He really shouldn't be as fond of this place as he is, it shouldn't feel nostalgic or painful. But it does.

"Was home, once," he ends up saying. "Different now."

Eno glances at him and then hums. "This must be very strange for you, then. I can only imagine – you have my sympathies."

Desmond shakes his head. "Is not so bad," he sighs. "Different – but everything is, now."

They fall into companionable silence as they eat, Eno slipping off naturally into meditation after. Desmond joins him for a bit, but the vibes he keeps getting from the city start throwing the old guy off his mood, so Desmond eventually slips away, curious BD-1 following him as he leaves the campsite.

In the near complete darkness of the night, with only the moon and the stars casting light down on the changed city, it's almost inevitable that Desmond slips into memories. In modern times you didn't have night sky like this over Rome, but Ezio knew it – the stars over Rome. The moon might be different, scarred with ruins and new craters, her face completely transformed, but it's the same light.

Closing his eyes, Desmond can almost feel the bustling Renaissance city all around him, rising from the ancient past like a ghost town.

He must have been standing there for a while, because eventually BD-1 gives out a worried little coo, nudging at his foot to rouse him. Looking down, Desmond sighs and then crouches down to pick the little guy up. "Sorry, buddy. Memories," he says, lifting BD-1 to his shoulder and looking around here. "Can't believe I'm here," he murmurs in Italian. "This is so weird."

BD-1 nudges at his cheek and then coos that query for singing, and with a chuckle, Desmond clears his throat

"I can't believe I stand here, and sing, my time I waste," he sings in Italian and nudges BD-1 in turn. "But you who sit and smile at me… sincerely have no taste." BD-1, not understanding a single word of it, just thrills happily in answer. Desmond laughs and pats his head. "Alright," he says in English. "Best I get it over with, I guess. Wanna come see a Vault with me, BD-1?" 

It takes him almost three hours to find a way in. The mechanisms that once let him, Shaun, Rebecca and Lucy to simply take an elevator are long gone – but it looks like people had discovered the vaults at some point, because there's an old staircase, built way after Desmond's time, which leads straight to the Vault. It's just mostly collapsed, and so Desmond has to wind around through old tunnels, most of them either flooded or similarly collapsed, before he finds the stairs.

The Vault, he's not surprised to find, is completely dark and unresponsive. Whatever power sources had once powered it, and whatever humans had later on done to restart the place, they're all long dead. It's fascinating and a little disturbing, to find that the Vault had seen some use after him – it had been modified, changed, there had been people here, they had done things here. What kind of things, Desmond can't tell, but he can feel the lingering impression of importance.

The pedestal is still there, though – where Ezio had laid the Apple to wait for Desmond, where Desmond had taken it, where he'd killed Lucy. There are new terminals around it, but the central piece is unchanged.

BD-1 coos worriedly, clinging to the back of Desmond's shirt, as he climbs up to it, to the stand where the Apple had once waited. There's nothing here, just a thick layer of dust. Moving his hand over it, Desmond gets no reaction, not so much as a flicker of light.

"Hmm. I guess it's a good thing, but… I was expecting more," Desmond murmurs in English, brushing the dust aside. He can almost see it, his hands reaching unerringly to take the Apple – Ezio's hands placing it there. Bowing his head, Desmond places his hand where the Apple had been, and cherishes that feeble connection. It's been almost a quarter of a million years, but… they're still connected.

"Desmond," he can remember Ezio murmuring. "I don't know who you are, I don't know where you are, but I know I leave this for you… may you use it better than those before have…"

Juno had been there, watching over Ezio. Had they spoken? Desmond can't tell, the memories get muddled where she is concerned, she'd tampered with them, hidden her own influence to keep Desmond from suspecting anything. She's gone now, though, all gone, he knows that for sure. Wonder where the Apples are now, all the Pieces of Eden, if any of them even survived to this time. He hopes not.

None of them deserve an existence this long.

"Nothing is true," Desmond murmurs, his words echoing in the chamber. "Everything is permitted."

It's weird, still thinking himself an Assassin in a future with no people, with hundreds of thousands of years between him and his lineage. But there it is – a connection. Eno said that Force connects everything – that it is the Force that binds everything together, some sort of… metaphysical, spiritual gravity. Maybe that's what ties Desmond back to his ancestors, not time or DNA, not even location – but the Force. He can still feel Ezio here, because Ezio was here, once, and his presence lingers.

Desmond had come down to the Vault with a vague intention of saying goodbye to the past, of letting go of what once was and letting himself become something new. Funny, how these things work – or in this case, don't.

The next morning, while Desmond dozes all the way to noon and past it, Eno gets a message. It's all in Basic, and Desmond can't understand more than a few words from it – return and war and important and so on. Whatever it is, it makes Eno go all grim and solemn, and as they eat their late breakfast, the old guy regretfully tells him that his investigation on Earth must come to an end.

"I have been recalled back to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant," he says quietly, and at Desmond's confused look explains, "Coruscant is a planet, the capital of the Galactic Republic, near the centre of the galaxy – the heart of my order, the great Jedi Temple, resides there. It is where I trained to become a Jedi, and where I hail from."

"Okay," Desmond says. "They want you back?"

"All the Jedi have been recalled," Eno says with a heavy sigh. "I'll be honest with you, my friend – I have been somewhat ignoring certain matters while here. Out there, the galaxy is in a political turmoil. Such things rarely touch me in my work, the Jedi Exploration Corps is rarely involved in these affairs, but now even the Service Corps have been recalled… and I fear what it might mean."

Desmond tilts his head. "I heard war in message," he says slowly. Space war, huh.

"Yes," Eno agrees quietly and shakes his head. "There is dissent within the Republic, and a split has been long expected. I had hoped that it would be resolved peacefully, but it seems such things are not to be. The Republic is going to war – and the Jedi have been recalled to take part in it."

That's… huh. "You no soldier," Desmond says, confused.

"Kind of you to say, but all Jedi are trained as warriors to some extent," Eno says and motions to the metal cylinder he carries at his belt, shaking his head. "It is not my way, no, I am a researcher and an explorer, ordinarily I have little need for fighting. But for many, many generations the Jedi Knights have served as the peacekeepers of the galaxy, and even those such as I, who join the Service Corps instead the Order of Jedi Knights, have the training."

Desmond is probably missing something here. Okay, the guy knows self-defence that uses a metal cylinder, sure. Desmond had figured it was some kind of weapon, it felt like a weapon. But still… "Republic have no army?" he asks, confused.

Eno chuckles sadly, shaking his head. "There has been peace for many, many centuries," he explains. "And the Republic has not been a government exactly – more of a… joint agreement of galactic co-operation, a neutral meeting ground for systems to resolve their issues peacefully. But things have been… changing in the last few decades. And as power has been consolidated to Coruscant, it has led to certain political unrest."

Yeah, Desmond has no idea what that means, but he gets the gist. Previously peaceful empire, split, war. Yeah. "When you go?"

"I am far from the galactic centre, and it will take me many days to make my way back to the nearest hyperlane, and even longer to make it back to Coruscant," Eno admits ruefully. "So I suspect I should already be on my way."

Desmond tries not to droop at that. Oh. "Can you take me back before?" he asks hopefully. As much as he loves Rome, all his stuff is back in Georgia.

"Of course," Eno says and then shifts where he sits. "However – I didn't intend for it to come up this soon, I had planned for months of research and exploration still. I haven't even visited the other planets, I intended to take my time here… but it seems the situation is forcing my hand. Desmond, would you like to leave with me?"

Desmond stills, frowning a little. "Leave?" he repeats slowly

"Yes," Eno agrees, nodding. "Would you like to see the galaxy – and travel to Coruscant with me?"

Desmond can feel his spine straighten. "Leave," he says again, like it's a foreign concept. Because it kind of is. He hadn't even thought about it, he's so deeply rooted into Earth, even Eno's vague suggestions of visiting Venus and Mars hadn't really made much of an impact on him before, because he hadn't ever imagined making that trip, but. "You want me to leave Earth?"

"There is a great big galaxy out there, my friend," Eno says gently. "With untold wonders and trillions of people. You need not stay here alone, if you don't wish – there is space for you on board the Wayfarer."

Desmond just stares at him, utterly gobsmacked.

Chapter Text

Okay, I think I got it now – it should be recording, and this time without visuals. Did a few tests just in case, and – not important. I got a thing to record stuff with, and that's – neat, I guess.

Funny, I've been working for – I don't even know, months? I've been working for months to find a way just to write, to figure out some way to record things. Paper making, even with Ezio's experiences from following Sofia around in old timey print houses, is not that easy when you don't have so much as a working bucket to use. Took me days to just make the pails and the screen, and now… now I've got a datapad. I dunno, I'm not bitter or anything, collecting and processing cotton was a way to pass the time, I don't think it was wasted. It's just funny, looking back on it now. And, hell, I still got the paper, even with something better to use. I'm just gonna save it and use it for something special, I guess. Eno told me that paper's pretty rare, since everyone out there uses technology instead, holograms and datapads with touch screens and so on. So paper might make a neat gift for someone. 

And that's completely irrelevant, isn't it? Or maybe not exactly irrelevant, since there's a reason why I was making paper, and it's the same reason why I'm recording now, it all ties back to history. I should probably start from the beginning?

I, uh… right, okay. My name is Desmond Miles, and I'm from Earth, and that's – that's really weird still, haha. Everything's changed so much, and I feel like an alien. Actually, I wonder if that's offensive these days? Eno's kinda implied that humans aren't alone out here, and honestly, I'd be disappointed if they were, the universe is a big place for us to be alone in, you know? Anyway, I wonder if referring to others – or yourself – as an alien is rude. Hi, I'm Desmond, I'm an alien from Earth!

What even is my life anymore...

Okay, seriously though. Recording stuff – I wanted to write things down, because the longer I looked around the more it became obvious how much had been forgotten about Earth. Like, that's the thing with people, with humans – they live such a short time that just a couple thousand years seems like ancient history. Two hundred thousand? That's an incomprehensible time frame to keep track of, right? And with how many cataclysms the Earth's gone through, it makes sense that they'd forgotten, even before they left, and now…

So I wanted to make a, a record, in case anyone ever came back. Just something that explained, hey, this is Earth, this is how it all began, this is what we did to get here, these were the stepping stones we vaulted over, these are some of the mistakes we made. Because history is important – I know better than anyone it's important.

It's a bit of a pity I only know the in between time in summary – all those eons, all the billions and billions of people that lived and died and got forgotten, they all had their own stories to tell. And I just sorta skipped over them, and I'm not related to any of them. Those memories won't come back to me the way Edward and Arno and Shao Jun did. I don't know what happened in between. But I know how it started.

Okay, enough rambling. Time for History of the Earth 101.

I don't know exactly when the Isu came into existence, but it couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty thousand years before my birth, because otherwise they would've known about the cyclic Super Solar Flare that happens about every seventy five thousand years… so, it was three to three hundred and seventy five thousand years ago, when the first sentient species evolved on Earth, the Isu, whom we called the First Civilization or the Precursors – or Those That Came Before…

Been a couple of days, sorry about that. Guess I burned myself out talking. You wouldn't think it would be so tiring, but I guess I haven't gotten that much practice lately. My throat is still a bit sore, but, oh well.

Where did we leave off...

It's… funny, I guess. There were so many things I wanted to write down back when I thought I'd end up dying all alone on Earth, and now I can't remember any of them. There was a thing, I think Shaun said it, about limitations breeding creativity, or something? Like, when you can't do something you can think of a million things you could do if only you had means, but once you have the means, it slips away. Something about having too many options leading you to do less, and all that – like all those options weigh you down, choke you. That's why he liked cork boards as opposed to PowerPoint presentations – because limited space meant he had to get creative to get all the important stuff out. Or something like that.

None of this will probably mean anything to anyone, but… I was like that when I thought I'd maybe at best have some paper to use one day. Now that I got this datapad with what seems like an infinite amount of storage space to just record endless rambles into, I'm just…

I keep thinking about all the civilisations that once lived on Earth, how many I know nothing about. So many different races of people, hundreds of languages, thousands of minor and major cultural traditions, more than a dozen big religions and gods and spirits and whatever, and – and they're all gone. Everything they thought and believed in, built and grew, all of it is just gone. 

I'm sitting here trying to make up a – a timeline of human history, and I keep just coming to a stop, because there's so much stuff. I have all the time and the means to record it, and I have no idea where to start. And what if I get something wrong? I'm not Shaun. I'm not a historian. How do I convey all this human experience without getting lost in the weeds?

Keep thinking about how he made these snappy little summaries about everything and how he could put so much history aside just to summarise the essential for me in a single paragraph. How do you just ignore all the connections? Because everything connects to something, and all the connections matter. A city was built because this culture did this thing because of that thing another culture did to them, and they did it because these sequences of events…

Human history is a web of connections, of relationships and cultural clashes and actions and reactions – an endless, rippling weave that keeps changing shapes. Should I pick out the dates and underline them with major historical events – or should I concentrate into the cultural shifts? Because nothing happens in a vacuum, and who cares about dates that are literally hundreds of thousands of years in the past.

Stuff like… Napoleon, for example. He was a major leader, a general, an emperor on Earth, conquered a huge swathe of land, and changed the course of human history. I know the date he was born, the date he died – but what does Common Era even mean now? He wouldn't have risen to power if the culture and situation around him hadn't enabled it, a whole litany of causes and effects – and even then… how much does it matter now that he even existed? He's been dead the age of a species and more. Who cares, except me? And even I only care because one of my ancestors met him. Because I'm personally, if very, very distantly, connected. And if it's only the personal connection that makes things matter, then...

… I keep wondering if – I mean, I miss them, of course I miss them. The people I knew, back then, personally. Shaun and Rebecca were as close as I ever got to having… I guess best friends? Feels a bit juvenile to put it that way, but there it is. Friends I could trust implicitly. And sure, I didn't actually have a choice there, the circumstances forced us together, and they were some shitty circumstances. And I know they didn't trust me like that, didn't see me like that. We'd only known each other for a few months, and I was maybe just this newcomer-test-subject person to them, and – fuck…

I just wonder if they remembered me after. I saved the world, so you'd think they would, but… but did they remember me, or just the guy in the Animus who saved the world? Hell… did they even know me? Like, who I was, as a person, outside the Animus? Was I even a person enough to be known?

… My throat stings, damn. I'm rambling again. Either way, like Napoleon, they've been dead for two hundred and twenty five fucking millennia – and I only knew them for months. Napoleon I didn't know at all. None of this matters. Except to me, huh.

Fuck, I can't believe I just left.

Man. Being on board a spaceship is weird in the coolest way. 

It's not that different from being on a plane, but at the same time it's completely different. Mostly it's the space, or the lack of it. I'm used to being able to just walk around, but there's not that much space here – the longest walk I can do is down from the rear hatch to the cockpit and is, like, fifteen paces. Twenty, if I walk with a shorter step. So it's cramped, but at the same time it isn't, because – because this thing, the Wayfarer, it's about as big inside as my house on Earth. There are rooms here, it has a kitchen and a bathroom. Or a fresher.

I guess I'm a little restless. There's not much I can do here, and there's only so much meditation I can do without getting antsy. I just keep wanting to get up and do something. Go and gather food. Scavenge a bit. Find a neat knickknack in the ruins. Anything. Wish I could help Eno with the maintenance of the ship or something, anything, but I have no idea how this thing works. I'd probably just get in the way.

Can't beat the view though. Eno's explained hyperspace to me, the whole thing of being half out of phase of whatever it is. Like, we're apparently half physical and half not even moving in hyperspace, cheating the universal laws of speed of light and all that. It's wild. I don't get it, really, to me it just looks like the universe is howling outside the viewscreen. 

Wonder if the Isu ever developed space travel. I know they got into space, they put Apples on the orbit and everything, but like… did they ever visit other planets, other worlds? Did they even have the urge to try? Probably not. Honestly, it always felt like they kinda lacked that kind of, of… wanderlust, I guess. The strife for adventure. Isu kinda seemed boring, where that goes. Guess it doesn't matter.

Damn, I'm bored. Wonder if there's space to do push-ups here. Is it weird to miss the busy work on a sailing ship, the oiling of spars and washing of the decks, when I've never even been on one? 

Maybe Eno has some cleaning for me to do. I bet I could polish gears or something with minimal risk of blowing stuff up… 

… she was built in the Roman times and held together by bits of twine… and we're waiting for the day, waiting for the day, waiting for the day when we get out pay…

What do you think, BD-1? That a good one? Heh, guess Eno doesn't do much singing. Doesn't seem to have a car radio either. Or ship radio. Are radios even a thing anymore? Hope people still do music, though, would be sad if they didn't.  Hey, do you know if spacers have shanties? Space shanties! That'd be pretty cool. Oh man, are there space pirates?

Eno has been telling me about the Republic, preparing me, I guess, for what's to come. We're about a week from Coruscant now, travelling down the hyperlane, and he isn't sure what's going to happen once we get there. According to the news reels and broadcasts, the Jedi – guys like him, with the Force – have been named the Generals of a Grand Army of the Republic, and Eno doesn't seem to know what that actually means. Apparently, the Republic hasn't had a standing army in centuries. There's some ships, a sort of space navy, but it's mostly ceremonial, I think? Either way, he's worried. And if he ends up, I don't know, conscripted or something, he isn't sure what that means, for me as well as him.

So we've been going over the stuff he thinks I should know, between katas and sparring – and oh yeah, forgot to mention that too, didn't I? Yeah, Eno got tired of me pacing up and down the ship, so we've been doing katas in the dining area, so that I can release my anxious physical energy. It's a bit like tai-chi, I guess, except with sword forms. Kinda weird ones, because from the way the moves go, I can't tell if they're made for a sword with no actual weight or momentum, or one that the user expects to, I don't know, cut everything it touches? I modified one of the katas a little, and Eno whacked me over the head and told me I'd lose my hand that way. So that's been interesting. No sword forms in actual sparring, though, that's been all hand to hand. It's been good, Eno's a bit rusty, the guy obviously doesn't do that much fighting, but he gets a few good hits in.

Anyway, the Republic. Hundreds of species, tens of thousands of planets and moons arranged into hundreds of local systems. It's – it's a lot to wrap your mind around. I knew there'd be other species out there, but hundreds? And the Republic has been around for hundreds of years too, maybe thousands, mediating the peace in the galaxy. That's just – amazing. I keep trying to imagine it all, but I think I fall pretty short. Never been much of a sci-fi guy, and now that I'm living it, it's just… yeah.

I'm getting the feeling Eno's not much for politics, but he's explained some of it. There's like a Separatist movement in the galaxy, people and systems wanting to split away from the Republic, and while Eno thought the Republic could either appease them, or that the split would happen peacefully, it turns out they've been building armies in secret. Literally. Machine armies. 

And I think I might've misunderstood something, or… I don't know. Just – are the Droid Armies of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, are they all like BD-1, these artificial creations, but with minds and sentience and wants and all that – do they like music too? And if they do, then – fuck. I have no idea. Might be coming at it from a completely wrong angle, maybe they're not sentient at all and BD-1 is special, what do I know. It just hits a weird chord.

I've been trying to tell Eno that humans were made almost from scratch by the Isu, but I don't think I'm getting through right. I think he thinks I got words confused or something, which I actually might've. So he's gotten the idea that Isu were the original inhabitants of Earth – which is true – which humans supplanted as the dominant species of the planet, which is…  not wrong, I suppose, but kinda falls short of the truth. But I don't exactly have the Basic down when it comes to terms like genetic engineering and slave labour force.

I don't know. Honestly, I haven't been trying that hard to explain it anyway. It's just… awkward. Nor exactly the kind of beginnings you'd expect for one of the most populous and powerful species of the galaxy. Who would want to learn something like that? Going by our history, a lot of people just lost it, learning it. And it probably doesn't even matter anymore, does it?

I just have a bad feeling about this.

Been trying to figure out what else I can do with this datapad. There's apparently this galactic information network, the holonet, which I figure is like the internet but holographic? Anyway, it doesn't work when in hyperflight, because signals or whatever, but Eno has a lot of stuff downloaded on the thing, including a basic encyclopaedia and a bunch of language and translation programs. I'm getting better with Basic, but Aurebesh is still kinda… so and so. So I haven't gotten that much use from this thing, so far.

But BD-1 has gotten the basics of a translation program down for me, now, and it's not wrong most of the time, I guess. So I've been taking it out for a spin, trying to figure out where things stand. Like. I don't even know what year it is, what calendar people use, who are the powers-that-be, what my rights as a random person from the middle of nowhere are, that sort of thing. If people even have rights. Do I need to get citizenship from here on out, or am I going to slum it down with the criminals and outlaws, Assassin style? Can I buy a gun, are there even guns, is carrying knives illegal? What's the Galactic stance on assassinations? Basic stuff.

Eno is going to take me to the Jedi Temple first, that's where we're headed. What happens from there is still a bit up in the air, but apparently Jedi Exploration Corps members have this leeway to take outsider assistants – people outside their order. Which I think might be a religious order, but I'm not sure. Anyway, that's his idea with me, to take me up as the Assistant From Outside and keep on doing what we've been doing, I guess?

That is, of course, if he doesn't get conscripted into a war. At which point, I… don't even know. I have no idea what wars are like nowadays. My closest experiences with war are through various ancestors, and very few of those wars were in any way similar to each other, what with weapons changing, constantly. Who knows how things have changed now that they've got spaceships. Maybe it's all orbital bombardments like what happened to the Solar System, or maybe it's reverted back to Napoleonic warfare, but in space. Maybe I'll be conscripted too, who knows. Press-ganged into serving on a spaceship. Wouldn't that be something.

From what I can tell, citizenship doesn't seem that big of a thing in the galaxy. There's just too many people being born all over the place for anyone to keep track of – and the only citizenships that matter are in the biggest, oldest, wealthiest worlds. And technically no one is a citizen of Coruscant, because Coruscant doesn't have inhabitants – only workers. But at the same time, all Jedi, like Eno, call it home? It's weird. Either way, being born outside the system is like… semi-norm. And Eno assures me that as long as I'm with him, I don't need identification. Which is just as well, since I don't think I've ever had identification that wasn't fake.

Hmm. If the thing with Eno falls through, if he has to go to war and I'm not welcome to go with him… do I have to get a job?

Are bartenders still a thing?

Chapter Text

Knowing intellectually that a place has trillions of people in it and actually seeing what a planet with that kinda is population looks like are two very different things. Coruscant is like something out of a sci-fi movie – an entire world with a sprawling city covering every inch of its surface, with no easy way to even see the ground, never mind seeing something growing on it. The air is hazy with pollution, giving the place a strange morning glow even in the middle of the day, and the sky is dotted with thousands and thousands of flying vehicles, darting to and from buildings taller than mountains. It's – Desmond doesn't have words for it, in any language.

Earth had been pretty crowded in its prime, with tens of billions of people, but this… and yet for a planet teeming with life, it feels lifeless – compared to Earth, Coruscant is as dead as a doornail. Must be the lack of plant life and animals.

"I'm not particularly fond of the place myself," Eno admits when Desmond tries to convey that particular observation. "Coruscant is built on tens of thousands of years of history, but it's all stacked upon itself, new built out of the scrapped pieces of old. There's history here, but it's constantly melted down to make something new."

"Sounds not so bad," Desmond comments.

"Recycling itself isn't so bad, no," Eno agrees. "But in scrapping the old, Coruscant doesn't merely recycle the past, no. They pave it over, try to forget it, try to pretend the past never happened. Coruscant is never anything but current, because it must be – neither new, nor old, but ever present. A shining pillar of supposed stability in the galaxy that cannot be shaken – it's the worst kind of pretence. Everything changes, everything ends and fails and starts anew. That's a necessary part of the path, a key feature of progress, of history. But Coruscant refuses to accept that it, too, must be and has changed."

Desmond gives him an arched brow. Some personal hangups there, huh? "History is studying change," he muses, remembering what Shaun said about Monteriggioni. "Change is life."

"Yes, precisely," Eno agrees, with something between delight and aggravation. "History is also full of examples about what happens to systems that refuse to accept change. But that's a matter for later time – look there. The Jedi Temple. And that – that must be a warship…"

Desmond looks. In the already impressive city of incredibly tall buildings, the Jedi Temple towers over the rest as a massive ziggurat, topped by towers bigger than skyscrapers. On its top there's a wedge-shaped ship sitting beside the towers, and it takes a moment for Desmond to realise that the little dots all around it are people.

It's massive. The Jedi Temple and the ship – they both must be hundreds of meters in length.

Eno reaches for something in the controls and then says briskly, "This is Master Eno Cordova on board the Wayfarer, requesting landing permission in the Temple hangar – I'm sending you my codes now…"

There's a pause, and then from some unseen speakers comes, "I'm sorry, Master Cordova, the Temple hangar is completely full. You're cleared to land on top of the Temple Ziggurat – or, alternatively, one of the nearby public hangars that we've booked for the Temple use, if you prefer."

"I'll land on the top, thank you," Eno decides. 

"Landing strip B-11 is reserved for your use, sending coordinates now…"

Desmond leans back as Eno directs the Wayfarer to the Temple, the older man murmuring, "Of course, with everyone recalled the hangar must be full of ships…"

The Temple gets bigger as it gets closer, bigger and bigger, until it stops making any physical sense for it to be that damn big and Desmond starts realising that the damn thing must stand at least a kilometre above the rest in the city. The moment they come to land, the Temple underneath is dominating the viewscreen, and Desmond is trying to figure out what to do with the idea of a building that's bigger than downtown Manhattan.

Then he gets hit with the weirdest mix of nausea and vertigo and the sensation of stepping out of the desert sun into the cool humid shade underneath the palm trees of an oasis. He's still trying to figure out what the hell he's actually feeling as they land, the Wayfarer's landing struts touching the top of the colossal ziggurat with a jolt.

"And there we are," Eno says, turning the engines off while BD-1 gives a congratulatory little whistle. Eno turns to Desmond. "Now, first things first. Coming from a closed system, you will have no natural defence against various galactic pathogens present on Coruscant. So, unless you're against it, will take you straight away to the Halls of Healing for immunisations. Do you understand?"

Some of the words are new and Desmond doesn't understand them, no – but Eno is backing them up with a sort of mental impressions of what they mean, so, even if the words are complete gibberish to him, Desmond understands the sentiment.

"Shield medicine," Desmond concludes. He hadn't even thought about it, but damn. There might be space diseases out there he has no immunity against.  "Yes, please."

"Good," Eno says, smiling. "I would also like to see you going through a basic medical check, just in case of genetic diseases, allergies and such – now that you are out here, you might encounter species your immunity system has no way of dealing with."

Desmond hums and shrugs. "Fine," he agrees. "But is no cost?"

"No cost to you, I promise," Eno says and rises from the pilot seat. "As it is, you might yourself carry new pathogens we need to check for. It's a standard security measure, really, for the benefit of all."

Right, yeah. Desmond wouldn't want to be the source of a space plague any more than he'd like to be a victim of one. "Okay, good," he agrees. "And is safe go out without check?"

"I've scanned you with ship systems, and BD-1 has extensive medical capabilities. As far as we can tell, you're in perfect health. I think we can risk an elevator ride," Eno chuckles, and BD-1 beeps in agreement. "Now let's go – and, ah, right. Come this way. In case you wish to keep to yourself, I can lend you one of my cloaks – I rarely wear them myself, but they are certainly useful for anonymity…"

Eno gives Desmond a dark brown cloak with a deep hood and more sleeve than is strictly speaking practical – but it would definitely hide any identifying features, huh. "Not look bad?" Desmond asks dubiously. "Not look, uh… dangerous?" That's not the right word...

"It won't look suspicious," Eno promises. "In fact, cloaks such as this are fairly commonly worn around the galaxy – though here it might get you mistaken for a Jedi, but that is all," he admits, amused. "I will arrange for you to see a tailor for replacement clothes for your own, later, or to make something new."

That's, hmm. It sounds expensive, but at the same time, Eno comes from an order whose temple is as big as several city blocks, and if stuff like immunisations are just free, then… yeah, Desmond probably has no real idea on how to judge the cost of things. Or what counts as suspicious behaviour. "Thank you," he agrees and pulls the cloak on. 

You never know when having your identity secret will come in handy, after all.

"Good," Eno says, waiting until Desmond is done trying to figure out how to wear the hood without getting blindfolded by it – there's way more fabric in a Jedi cloak's hood, than in one carefully made to fit for an Assassin. There's really way too much fabric in the cloak in total – he can tell why Eno doesn't wear them. Just moving around in the thing would be difficult. It's heavy.

Very warm, though.

Eno claps him compassionately on the back and then, with BD-1 excitedly climbing up to Eno's shoulder, leads him out of the Wayfarer.

The air of Coruscant smells like metal and dust.

The doctor – or healer? – who does Desmond's immunisations is an alien. Desmond tries really hard to not stare – but she's got green skin and tentacles growing from her head. And sharp teeth. And red eyes. She looks all kinds of awesome, really.

"First time seeing a Twi-lek?" she asks, amused.

"Obvious?" Desmond asks, embarrassed.

"You have no sign of previous immunisations in your blood, nor have you apparently ever seen a healer for various previously broken bones," she muses. "And you came in with Master Cordova, who claims you're from a closed system."

"So, obvious," Desmond concludes and rubs at his neck awkwardly. "Sorry. Know only humans."

"That's quite alright. You will get to see many people on Coruscant – I suspect the novelty will wear off fast," the healer says and snaps another hypo into Desmond's arm, before checking the scanners. "That should cover most of it – and is about as much as I can do in one go without overwhelming your system. In about a week, we can do the rest. Now, you've had four broken ribs, broken clavicle, and fractured fibula – all of which look like they healed naturally. Do any of these things pain you in any way?"

She asks him about past illnesses too, but aside from common cold and chicken pox, Desmond hasn't had that much going on for him. He's let out with a pat on the head, a little container of vitamins and strict orders to tell someone if he has any issues with anything – gravity, the different air pressure and air quality, anything.

"It's always difficult, adjusting to a different planet when you've spent all your life on one specific world – and very few planets there have identical conditions," the healer explains while showing him back to Eno and BD-1, who are waiting in the corridor outside.

"I remember. Thank you," Desmond says as Eno rises to meet them.

"How is our young friend, then, Master Che?" Eno asks.

"He'll do fine on Coruscant – but I will need to see him in a week for a follow up batch of immunisations," the healer agrees and offers him her datapad. "It was a pleasure dealing with something… I hate to say, normal, but… it was a pleasure anyway."

"Hmm?" Eno hums, while both he and BD-1 peer at the datapad.

"I've been dealing with the injured of Geonosis ever since the battle," Master Che explains and looks away. "We all have. It has been…" she trails away and doesn't seem to be able to put it into words.

Eno looks up and sighs. "I see," is all he says, reaching out to grip Master Che's shoulder consolingly. They're quiet for a moment, sharing something quiet and private without words, and then Eno asks, probably to distract her, "Now, this reading – is it correct?"

"Ah, yes – I ran the test twice, just to be sure," Master Che agrees and offers Desmond an almost apologetic smile. "Your midichlorian count registers only at low hundreds."

"Okay?" Desmond more asks than agrees. 

"Peculiar," Eno says, peering again at the results. "Very peculiar, though I suppose the Temple scanners can't be wrong, hmm. Well, thank you for your time, Master Che, but I fear it's about time I report to the Jedi High Council."

"Of course. May the Force be with you, Master Cordova," the healer says and accepts her datapad back, bowing her head.

Desmond looks after her with interest – is that a saying? – and then looks so Eno. "Midichlorian?" he asks quietly while following Eno back towards the elevators.

"Hmm, yes. They are organelles present in nearly all the living things of the galaxy, but especially in those who are Force sensitive," Eno explains. "Conventional wisdom has it that a higher count of midichlorians present in a person's blood indicates higher Force sensitivity."

Desmond hums. They have a scientific way of measuring the connection people have with what amounts to space magic. "Okay," he agrees, arching his brows. "Neat."

"Quite. Now, ordinarily low hundreds would be considered the reading of a Force null," Eno explains, which BD-1 lets out a series of peeps at, and Eno clarifies, "Meaning one with no connection to the Force at all, except that shared by all living beings. Master Che's reading marks you as one with no ability to feel or communicate with the Force at all… but we know that's not true in your case, don't we?"

"Hmm," Desmond answers, folding his arms.

"More to the point, I did this test before, back on Earth," Eno admits, "when you gave me a sample of your blood to study. I thought for sure my scanner had a fault – it didn't register a midichlorian count at all."

Desmond hums. "So Earth no have midichlorians," he muses. "Are they bad?"

Eno blinks. "No, they aren't bad – but what do you mean, Earth doesn't have them?"

Desmond shrugs. "Never know midichlorian before. Not thing on Earth. No have before, have now – you infect me, maybe? And they eat Force," he muses. What would that be called, Forcesynthesis? Weird. Then Desmond frowns as a thought occurs to him. "Wait – maybe you infect Earth with midichlorian too? You sure they are not bad?"

Eno stares at him and says nothing. Even BD-1 is silent.

Desmond gives them a wary look.  "What?"

Desmond tries to research midichlorians with BD-1 while Eno is off meeting with the Jedi High Council. There's not all that much about them, and what little there is on the holonet, he can't make heads and tails of. The texts use a lot of really long, really complicated aurebesh words. He gets the gist of the midichlorians being somewhat mysterious – and inherently linked with the Force. Little microscopic organisms that are somehow tied together with the space magic. Sure. Why not.

He'd still like to know what these things that are apparently now swimming in his blood in numbers of up to hundreds parts per… whatever the measurement was. Apparently how many midichlorians were present in the blood sample, but how much of his blood was sampled for it? Master Che didn't even take that much. Few drops, at most. How many blood cells were in a drop? Millions probably? Desmond has no idea. Few hundred new little buggers swimming amidst millions and millions of blood cells doesn't sound that bad, but what does he know.

This is what he gets for never going to school. Magic bacteria in his veins. Apparently.

"Future is weird," Desmond murmurs and sets the datapad down, looking at BD-1 sitting beside him. "I think that's enough reading. Wanna go gawk out that window over there?"

BD-1 beeps in agreement, even though he probably can't even understand, and when Desmond stands up the little droid clambers over to his shoulder. Together they step up to the large windows overlooking Coruscant, and Desmond is once again struck kind of speechless by how… much there is. And how weird it all feels.

He can feel the history of Coruscant, of the Jedi Temple – it's just there's so much of it that it's like trying to make out shapes in million overlapping negatives – it all just looks murky black. A planet this tightly packed with people, inhabited for… what honestly feels like an impossibly long amount of time. Thousands and thousands of years, easily. Tens of thousands maybe. There's half a galaxy between this world and Earth, so this can't be anywhere near among the first planets humans colonised – but they've been here for a long time.

It's a weird feeling – weirder still to know that humans have been here probably for longer than Earth has been abandoned. Humans are still here – and they'd forgotten Earth, forgotten the entire solar system. Earth is probably an alien world to them at this point. Would they even care if they learned about it now, when there are places like this out here?

Desmond can feel Eno moving about, his emotions rising and falling like calm waves of the ocean – and then the Jedi steps out. "Desmond," he calls. "Can you please join me in the Council Chambers? They want to speak with you."

Turning away from the window, Desmond nods in agreement, BD-1 clinging to the back of the cloak as he does. Eno gives him an arched look, tilting his head – he's expecting Desmond to ask him or say something. Desmond just shrugs, and with a small, somewhat amused huff, Eno pats him lightly on the shoulder and leads him inside.

It's a good thing he met Healer Che first – because boy, the Jedi High Council has some interesting looking aliens in it. And he really probably should not be thinking of them as aliens, huh.

"Desmond," Eno says, motioning to the seated people. "These are some of the members of the Jedi High Council. This is Jedi Master Mace Windu, the Master of the Order," he motions a very unimpressed looking human male, "and on his right there is Master Yoda, our oldest member and the Grandmaster of the Order," a green, big-eared… vaguely goblin-like creature, who's eying Desmond with narrowed eyes, here's hoping he can't read thoughts… "Next to him…"

Desmond loses track of the names pretty much after that – everyone's master of something or other, and after the Master of the Agricultural Corps and Master of the Council of Reassignment and Master of the Council of Reconciliation… they kinda started blending into each other. He tries to memorise the names, anyway, just in case.

"Master Cordova tells us your name is Desmond Miles, and that he encountered you on an otherwise empty planet," Master Windu says, once introductions are done.

"Yes," Desmond agrees, trying not to fiddle with the cloak. It suddenly feels very wrong to be wearing it.

"And he wishes to take you on as his student."

"Uh…" Desmond says and glances at Eno. "Sure?"

"My student in history and archaeology, not in Jedi Arts," Eno clarifies, putting a hand on Desmond's shoulder. "Though Desmond is Force sensitive, he is clearly too old for training – however, he has a particular natural skill with the Force, very similar to psychometry –"

"Master Cordova, you have made your case, and it was well made," Master Shaak Ti says gently, almost amusedly. "We asked you to bring Desmond Miles to hear his opinion on your proposal."

Eno clears his throat. "Yes, of course," he says and settles.

"Though it does you credit, being so eager to teach," Master Ti muses and looks at Desmond. "You have such a talent, then – to sensing the past?"

Desmond hums. "Suppose," he says. "It is rare?"

"Not unheard of, but somewhat rare, yes," Master Ti agrees.

"It's the only reason we're even considering this," Master Windu says and leans back. "Not that I think for a moment you will not overstep your boundaries, Cordova," he comments, giving Eno a look. "Or that you haven't. We can all sense the training bond already in place."

"Pure accident of compatible personalities and spirits, I assure you," Eno says calmly.

"Hrm. Wish to learn from Master Cordova do you, Desmond Miles?" Master Yoda asks.

"Sure," Desmond says with a slight shrug. "He's good."

"Be a Jedi, do you wish?" Master Yoda asks, eyes narrowing his eyes.

"I – know not what is Jedi, maybe," Desmond says and sighs. "New language, sorry," he says apologetically. "I know Force, I have ability. Is fine, my ability. More ability is fine too, but not important. And I are part of Order too. I want no other." 

He can feel Eno's surprise and Master Yoda's ears perk up a little. "Part of an order of Force users are you?"

Desmond shrugs. "Not call it Force, but yes," he admits. Eagle Vision is Force, he knows that for sure anyway, as is all the abilities you could derive from it, from Arno's way of seeing through the walls, Ezio's way of seeing ghosts of the past, Altaïr's way of taking out the dying energies of his targets and stretching their last seconds and moments into minutes… Everyone used it a little different, but it was the Force.

"And what does your Order do, what are their ideals?" Master – Koon, maybe? – asks, leaning forward a little. "What purpose do they serve?"

Well, at least Desmond has learned enough to not admit the truth there. Not the whole truth, anyway. "We serve the Light," he says simply.

Eno looks inordinately pleased beside him while the Jedi Masters seem to try to peer inside Desmond's head and figure out what he's thinking. Maybe they even succeed – but Desmond told no lie, and that's important. None of what he said was false.

"Master Cordova, if you give you the permission to take Desmond Miles as your student in the matters of history," Master Windu says slowly, turning his eyes to the old man. "Will you accept your position as a Jedi General?"

Eno's quiet pleasure dies a quick death and he folds his arms. "My taking a student is stringent on military service, for a cause I have time again expressed my grievances with?" he says. "I have already told you, there are lines I will not cross even for the Republic – and one of them is killing for the name of politics."

"Yes, you were quite thorough," another Jedi Master, a human woman, says – her name is Gallia, maybe? "But there are other roles in this conflict, ones which will not mean being sent to the frontlines, Master Cordova. You know the Confederacy is aiming to take several hyperlanes – there are systems cut off from aid that need relief, there is patrol duty, there is… cleanup," she grimaces at the words. "Geonosis alone will take us months to settle, and the battle is quite done. You need not lead men into battle – you can lead them in recovery efforts, instead."

Desmond looks at Eno, unsure, and the Jedi meets his eyes, looking severely unhappy. Eno might know how to fight – but he's not a fighter. He'd obviously intended to abstain from taking any part in the war, if he could. To have him be pressed to accept, just so that he could keep Desmond around, it's…

The whole thing is weird. Eno is an archaeologist. And they want him to be a general?

"I can manage," Desmond says in English. "I can figure something else out. You can say no."

"No," Eno says and sighs, meeting the eyes of the Master of the Order. "I accept – on the condition I will not have to lead men in battle."

"Agreed," Master Windu says with a sigh. He doesn't look particularly happy, or even relieved to get that agreement. Mostly the man just looks exhausted. "Welcome to the Clone Wars, both of you."

Yeah, Desmond muses, feeling at the grim atmosphere around the room. He has no idea what he's gotten himself into, huh.

Chapter Text

In the following days Desmond gets a new wardrobe, a tour in the Jedi Temple, more homework than he has ever gotten in his entire life, a vague sense of oncoming doom, and a sister. Not exactly in that order.

It's the sister thing that catches him most off guard, really.

Her name is Cere Junda, she's Eno's former Padawan, older than Desmond by a few years at least, a Jedi Master in her own right – and somehow, instantly sympathetic to his situation. Like Eno, she is still waiting for her assignment in the Grand Army of the Republic and sort of at loose ends. That leaves her with some free time, and since Eno is busy preparing to lead the troops, or whatever he is doing in the Jedi Archives, she's taken it up to herself to entertain Desmond and get to know him.

It involves a lot of tea drinking.

"And he just… picked you up, wherever you were?" she asks, for the third time, with a sort of exasperated dubiousness, like she can't quite believe it while also totally believing it. "Just like that, huh?"

"Yes, maybe," Desmond agrees while rolling the taste of the latest tea brand in his mouth and trying to decide whether he likes it. It is sort of gingery? "But he was visit for months first."

"Was visiting?" the Jedi Master offers. "Cordova was visiting for months – staying for months?"

"In my home planet, yes," Desmond agrees. "We explored. I show him around. It was fun."

"Not sure having fun is exactly the basis for you to just pick up your life and follow him. Do you even know what you've gotten yourself into?" Cere asks, shaking her head. "I mean, I sympathise with your situation, being stuck alone on any planet, even a pleasant one, can't be very comfortable for any human – but you didn't need to pledge yourself to his teachings or anything. Just by the galactic law, he should've offered you a lift out, free of charge."

"Really? There is law about giving lifts?" Desmond asks dubiously.

"About people left stranded with no means of travelling," Cere clarifies. "If you have means to help someone in clear mortal danger, which could be argued you were in, being stranded, then you should at least offer that help. If you don't, then you might be indirectly at fault for the victim's death. It's not exactly an easily enforceable law, nor one everyone out there follows… but it is one, nonetheless."

"Huh. Good Samaritan law. Neat," Desmond murmurs and then shakes his head. "But no, I want to come. And to – to, uh." He stops, not sure how to put it in any language. "Watch his back, maybe? In war. Eno is not soldier."

Cere hums, and looks away, at the sparse decorations in the quarters Eno had been given for their stay at the Temple. "No, he is not," she muses and crosses one leg over the other, sighing. "Has he explained the situation at all to you?"

"The war? He try," Desmond says. "Not sure he know much."

"No, I don't imagine he would, he doesn't follow current politics anymore. But his own situation, has he talked about that?" Cere asks and shakes her head before Desmond can even answer. "Master Cordova used to be a Jedi Knight, and he is a Jedi Master, obviously. He was a very good Knight, at that, an excellent, patient duellist and a powerful Force user, incredibly wise in negotiating particularly tricky cultural clashes."

"Okay," Desmond says slowly. That probably means more than he really understands, but it sounds significant. "Something go wrong. You're speaking was."

"In past tense – yes," Cere agrees and sighs. "He was a great Jedi Knight, brave and fierce and calm all at once. But there was an… incident on one of his missions, early in my apprenticeship. It was traumatic for him, many people died, and an entire culture was… was wiped out," she admits quietly and looks down at her tea cup. "Master Cordova foreswore fighting because of it."

"… oh," Desmond says and frowns. "Sure you can tell me this?"

"It's not a secret," Cere shrugs. "He's made his opinions very clear on the matter, he has written whole treatises about it. And it will no doubt affect you, too, during your apprenticeship under him, even if you aren't officially a padawan."

"Not unofficially either," Desmond says, shaking his head.

"Mm-hmm," the Jedi answers, amused and then admits, "I thought for sure he would abstain from the war. Now he's been made a General – I don't know what that might do to him."

That tends to be the general sentiment people have with Eno. The few Jedi Desmond had seen react to the news had been kind of disbelieving – from what he could tell, no one had expected Eno to agree, not even the Jedi High Council. There's a strange air about it all, this hanging feeling of guilt. It's all around weird – but also telling, in its own way.

Cere shakes her head, pushing a braided strand of dark hair over her shoulder. "Either way, if you are hoping to learn to fight like Jedi under him, I suggest you put those hopes to rest," she concludes, finishing her tea and moving to get up.

"Eh, I can already fight better," Desmond says, which doesn't come out quite how he means to – and which instantly makes Cere's eyes narrow. "I mean – better than him. We sparred," Desmond explains a bit awkwardly. "He's rusty."

"Oh, really?" she hums, smiling a little. "You know how to fight a Jedi, do you?"

"… er."

She kicks his ass pretty soundly in their couple first rounds in the sparring rooms. Their third round is a bit more even. Their fourth is interrupted by a gaggle of little Jedi initiates, but watching Cere help them through their katas and spars is even more fun than getting tossed around the training mats.

Overall, having a sorta-sister is nice. Even though Desmond doesn't quite get why they're supposedly siblings now, something to do with the whole padawan thing maybe, but he's not about to look a gift-relative in the mouth. As it is, he's pretty sure Cere has excellent teeth – Jedi medical care is top notch.

While waiting for Eno's troops to arrive, Desmond gets to explore a little bit of Coruscant too, though it takes some convincing before Eno and Cere let him go out on his own. The first day, they both insist on coming along, despite the fact that Eno has some important research he's already knee deep in and Cere is about to receive her troops and should be preparing for that.

"Coruscant is a big place," Cere says simply. "Very easy to get lost in."

"Yes, it's best we show you around," Eno agrees.

Desmond looks between them and the Jedi Temple, which Towers over the city for about a hundred kilometers in each direction and is actually pretty impossible to miss. "Um. Sure."

They show him the nearest commercial and market districts and introduce him to the various Force temples and churches and shrines around the Jedi Temple, though – of which there are literally hundreds, varying from big almost-cathedrals that can house thousands of guests to small prayer rooms that could maybe comfortably seat twenty people at most. Seems like they have sort of congregated around the Jedi Temple over the centuries, following the beacon of Scientifically Proven Faith. It's fascinating.

Desmond does feel a little sorry about giving the Jedi the wrong idea about his supposed order. Ever since he claimed to be part of an order of Force users, Eno had gotten the impression that he was religious in some way. Pulling on the closest approximation of an Assassin's white robe and red sash probably didn't help that impression, but it does seem to make people a little less leery about letting Eno keep him around, so…

He learns about the beliefs of the Force, about the rituals people have for it, about the various debates people have over Light and Dark. Midichlorians are a point of contention too – not everyone believes in them the way Jedi do. It's interesting, but not what Desmond actually wants to know about.

"How does money work here?" is his first question. "Is there physical currency?" The answer to which is yes, but it's complicated. Apparently the Republic had tried to go the way of a cashless society and failed, and money had gone a full circle and now their credit is cash. Cool.

What would be the easiest way to earn credits is more complicated – mainly because the Jedi, coming from a humble religious order where the only money they handle only amounted to about enough to pay for their next meal, and usually they didn't even need that, have no idea how to go about it.

"Okay, I figure it out on my own," Desmond muses and after a moment of thought decides not to ask for any information about the criminal underworld of Coruscant – asking about money already made the Jedi a little uncomfortable.

"What do you think you will need money for?" Cere asks curiously. "I'm sure whatever you need can be provided by the Jedi Temple's Halls of Acquisition – as Eno's student you're entitled to it."

"It is true," Eno agrees, but thoughtfully. "You will want for nothing while in my tutelage, as you have the Temple's favour."

The Temple's favour would not open Desmond any doors outside of it. Or who knows, it might – but money is the universal means of making connections. 

"Will they give coin to give to locals, to buy things, to support shops?" Desmond asks and shrugs at their thoughtful looks. "Is way of my Brotherhood. We support people with our earning."

Which is really a gross oversimplification, and probably painted the whole thing in exceedingly good light, but anyway… 

Third day they let him go out with just BD-1 for company, and Desmond immediately heads off the beaten path. And damn, there's a lot to explore, once he gets past the obviously more touristy districts full of pilgrims. The widespread city seems to go as much down as it goes up, with layers and layers of it descending towards the surface somewhere below. The lower you go, the older the city gets – and the murkier the atmosphere grows.

It takes Desmond a good four hours of wandering to find the seedy underbelly of Coruscant. By that time he's met – or at least seen – some forty different sentient species, and it's getting a little less shocking each time. Master Che was right, it seems – the novelty does wear off. He's also more or less figured out the art of pickpocketing credits, too, and by the time he finds a suitably seedy little bar, he has actually the money to buy himself drinks.

Not that he does. Mostly he's just scouting, trying to get the scope of things. You can tell a lot about society from what its underground is like – and for the Republic, it involves a lot and a lot and a lot of smuggling, it seems. Most of the clientele in the seedy little bar are smugglers – the rest are a mixture of bounty hunters and bodyguards. No hitmen, interestingly, or thieves – or con artists. Just smugglers and bounty hunters and bounty hunters who are after smugglers.

"You scoping the place out for a particular reason?" a regular at the bar, all masked up and cloaked with something jutting from their back that looks a lot like a rifle, asks, after Desmond's spent some time observing the going-ons.

"Getting feel," Desmond answers, looking them up and down while giving nervous BD-1 a soothing pat. He can't tell the newcomer's gender or species – the voice is all distorted by some sort of voice-changer. People can just do that, mask themselves completely? Neat. "Not up to anything."

"Uh-huh," the masked person answers, peering at him. "If you're looking for a crew…"

"I'm not," Desmond says and tilts his head. "Are you?"

"I'm not. But I got an eye for things, and you are something else," the masked person says, pointing at his coat, the hood, the belt – the knife. "Coming here armed with nothing but a little knife and you haven't had a drink. Religious?"

"Guess so. Sorta," Desmond admits.

"They don't take too well to preaching sorts here."

"I'm not," Desmond says again and gives them a more thoughtful look. They show up neither blue or red or white, so not a friend, nor an enemy… nor indifferent. This is something else. They feel – opportunistic. Hmm. "What you want?"

The masked person considers him and then sits down at his table. "Galaxy's changing. See a lot of strange folk these days. Religious type in a cantina like this, not drinking, just watching – you're looking for something specific, something not too legal, I'm thinking. And I think you'll pay to find it."

Desmond smiles a little. Some things never change. "I'm looking," he says. "To make money."

"Aren't we all? What way?" The masked person asks, leaning in. "Smuggling, hunting, swindling – what's your poison, Brother?"

"Don't know yet," Desmond admits. "I'm still looking."

The masked person never tells him their name, but they do insinuate about various smuggling rings and bounty hunting guilds that are always on the lookout for new members. They also try to rob Desmond and steal BD-1 from him, but he honestly didn't expect anything different.

"There there, you sleep it off," Desmond pat's the masked person's shoulder while propping their unconscious from up to sit not too conspicuously against the wall – and also stealing all their credits and most of their weapons. Honestly, he's tempted to go for their armour too, but that probably would be a bit much – doesn't look like it would fit him, anyway.

BD-1 thrills a bit judgingly at him afterwards. "What? They got what they deserve and no one was hurt in the process," Desmond says innocently in English while heading out the cantina. "And hey, I found an easy way to make money."

BD-1 isn't overly confident about said method of look like a wide-eyed tourist lost in a big city and wait until someone tries to rob you, and then rob them blind, but damn if it's not successful. Desmond thinks the little guy gets into it by the fourth attempted robbery, though, going by his thrilled little beeps as Desmond puts the latest would-be-robber down.

It's not a method that will work in the long run – in places like these you build up reputation quickly, and people wisen up to schemes like these. But it's more than enough to get Desmond's foot through the door, and that's all he really wanted.

Eno looks at all the weapons Desmond comes back with – three blasters, two weird techy knives he hasn't dared to test out, some flash bangs, or what he thinks are flash bangs, and the rifle thing from the first guy. He'd also taken one guy's brass knuckle thing and a whip thing, though the knuckles are too big and he has no idea how to use the whip. Still, they and a small mound of credits is not a bad haul for his first night of making connections in the underworld of Coruscant.

"What – how?" Eno asks, and then slightly more worriedly, "Why?"

Desmond shrugs. "Going to war, I need weapons."

"I'm hopeful that you will not require such things, but – how did you even get these weapons?"

"Figured how to make money," Desmond says and BD-1 gives a series of beeps, the little tattletale.

"Oh dear," Eno sighs and rubs at his forehead. "Well, please put these away. It's time for your follow-up inoculations."

Agreeably, Desmond puts his loot away – he wouldn't be handling them before he figured out how to use and clean them, anyway. Best not to risk laser guns blowing up in his face.

"I'm sure I could have requisitioned weapons for you from the Grand Army's weapons depot," Eno says a little wearily. "If there's anything else you need, please let me know before setting out on your own."

Desmond hums. The weapons were mostly just an added benefit to the other things he'd gained, really, but okay. "Alright. I need armour," he says.

Eno hums, looking a little relieved. "Very well, I will see about procuring you some. Now come – Master Che is already waiting for us, and I have a feeling it will be a lengthy meeting," he adds and drums his fingers almost eagerly against the datapad he'd holding.

"Hm?" Desmond asks.

Eno says nothing and just smiles mischievously. Well, okay then.

"That can't be right," Master Che murmurs for the third time as she runs the scan, squinting at it suspiciously. "Excuse me, I have to get a new scanner, this one must be faulty."

Desmond's midichlorian count had apparently gone up in the week between his first scan in the Jedi Temple and his second one now. Master Che checks it twice more before turning somewhat accusingly to Eno, who's been smiling with growing excitement through the meeting.

"Well then, Master Cordova – out with it," the healer says. "You seem to have some idea about what is going on here. Please explain to me how your apprentice's midichlorian count went from only two hundred and fifty to four hundred and twenty five?"

"I will happily do so, but first, Master Che, could you take a look at this?" he offers the woman his datapad. "These are some scans I took from Desmond shortly after meeting him. Only a month back, he had no midichlorians, at all!"

"That's impossible," Master Che says, accepting the datapad. "The only way for someone to not have midichlorians is if they're dead, and even then you can find traces of them."

"Not necessarily. Are you aware of the theories of Master Heneir? She theorised, some five hundred years ago, that midichlorians are not in fact the cause of our connection with the Force, but a side effect of it! They are creatures attracted to the Force, and as such do indeed work as a very good indication of Force sensitivity – but they are not the cause of it."

"Master Heneir's theories were pronounced heretical," Master Che says while eying Eno's datapad. "She was nearly cast out of the Order because of them."

"So you are familiar with her studies," Eno says with satisfaction. "We have proof right here – Desmond has lived all his life in a closed world, far removed from the galaxy – he has never before come in contact with the outside. I suspect his planet lacks midichlorians entirely – but now that he's here, now that he's come into contact with Jedi, he'd become – affected."

Desmond snorts – guess that's nicer than saying infected.

"That is heresy," Master Che says flatly, but she's reading the scans with an increasingly thoughtful expression. "You're claiming he's Force sensitive, regardless of the fact that his midichlorian count marks him as null?"

"I know for a fact that he is," Eno says proudly.

Che narrows her eyes and then hands the datapad back. "Very well. Prove it," she says and rests her hands on her hips. "Make that stylus over there float."

Desmond tilts his head. "Can't, I don't know how," he admits.

"His abilities are different – are there other patients here?" Eno asks and Che hums in agreement, looking to a nearby door. Nodding, Eno looks at Desmond. "What can you tell us about the people in the other room, Desmond?"

Humming, Desmond concentrates until he taps into Arno's abilities and can see through the wall. "There two. Human – one missing hand," he says and then frowns. "No they has – uh, fake hand?"

"Cybernetic replacement," Che says slowly. "What else can you tell me about them?"

"They are in pain, other reading," Desmond says. They're also worried about each other and connected with a Force bond that's almost visible under Eagle Vision, but that seems private. "I think Master and student?"

"Master Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker," Che explains, though she's looking at Eno. "Skywalker had a bad reaction and is being treated for it."

"Ah," Desmond hums. Neither name means anything to him.

Che shakes her head. "If you're right, this will – change many things," she says to Eno. "If anyone even believes it – and I'm not sure I do, yet."

"The proof is right there," Eno points out. "Desmond's midichlorian count is likely only going to grow from here, until it reaches equilibrium. What that means, I'm sure I'm not qualified to say – but it surely means something."

Che just stares at him for a long moment, before looking down at Desmond. "It certainly will – if true. Young man, would you mind performing a few simple tests, as well as allowing us to take some tissue and fluid samples for study? If it's true that you have always had the Force and yet no midichlorians – it needs to be studied."

Desmond hesitates.

"It won't be anything invasive," Che promises. "I only want to confirm the conclusions your Master is drawing here, as well as establish a baseline for later scans."

Desmond isn't too sure about the latter scans either. "Why so important?" he asks, shaking his head confusedly. "Why not having midichlorians change things?"

"Because, my friend, for centuries we have found young prospective Jedi candidates by the use of midichlorian scans, believing that a high number of midichlorians is a requirement of Force sensitivity," Eno explains. "But if vice versa is true instead, then…"

Whatever he meant to say was interrupted by a beep of a comm at his belt, and with a shake of his head Eno picks it up – Desmond had seen him use it before, but seeing a little holographic guy appear on top of the thing is still so cool.

"General Cordova?" the armoured man on the hologram says, hands clasped behind his back, standing in military attention. "Commander CC-1501 reporting for duty – the Fortitude has just dropped out of hyperspace and is moving to a stable orbit over Coruscant. The 17th Relief Battalion is ready and awaiting for your orders, sir."

Desmond blinks, his eyebrows climbing up. He's who of the what?

Chapter Text

CC-1501 hadn't expected much of their Jedi General, mostly because he'd figured very quickly after Geonosis that expectations don't get you anywhere. They have over four hundred shinies in the 17th Battalion now to prove it. It's only been some weeks since they were all shinies, all still in training – even those battalions who were first to be assigned a Jedi General and now proudly wore their colours are barely better than novices themselves. None of them yet know what this war will bring, or what their Generals are really like, what is expected of any of them. They're all still too new to this to make any guesses or predictions – having expectations will just end up tripping them.

As it is, CC-1501 had been far too busy trying to get the regiment in order. They'd lost over three fourths of their members in the Battle of Geonosis, and for a long week there the remaining members of the 17th hadn't been sure if they'd be broken down or not, their numbers reshuffled into other, more intact battalions. That happened to a lot of the battalions that got gutted in Geonosis – some fifty of them just aren't around at all anymore. With only 149 original members of the battalion left, it probably should've been the 17th's fate too. It definitely would've been less of a headache.

But they'd been allowed to stick together, their numbers were filled in from the latest graduating batches from Kamino, making them into a mixed bunch of supposed veterans and newbies, and now they even have a Jedi General. He supposes that counts for something.

"My name is Eno Cordova – I'm a Jedi Master in the service of the Jedi Order's Exploration Corps," the old Jedi introduces himself to the gathered troopers in the hangar bay of the Fortitude, motioning to the younger man beside him. "This is Desmond Miles, my pupil. The Jedi High Council had placed the 17th Relief Battalion in my care, and I will do the best in my ability to be worthy of that trust and of you."

None of the troopers say anything, watching intently, CC-1501 included. It's hard to tell what the Jedi is thinking, his expression is calm, reserved. With Commander Miles it's even harder – the hood obscures his features.

General Cordova continues. "Now. We have been tasked with the clean up of Geonosis. We will be leaving Coruscant as soon as preparations are finished, and joining the efforts already taking place there – several other Jedi battalions are already hard at work. We will be moving to aid them, and to investigate the Separatist activities on the planet. Our main duties will be to estimate the damage done to the Geonosian homes and hives, and to mitigate the damage where we can."

CC-1501 had already been aware of it being a possibility – their new duties as a Relief Battalion had been underlined with the renaming of the Battalion. As Geonosis has so far been the only scene of battle, it makes sense that they'd be sent back. He can't quite decide if he's dismayed about it or not, though, and it's probably the same with the rest of the supposed veterans in their midst. The shinies are all rearing to go, of course, but the rest…

"It will be a few days' journey from Coruscant to Geonosis, and in that time we can preview our future duties in more detail," the General concludes, somewhat stilted, and then adds, belated. "Dismissed."

There's a sharp clatter of boots on the metal floor as the men salute and then relax, beginning to file out of the hangar bay in orderly groups that are a little too well regimented to be completely at ease. CC-1501 hangs back, watching them go and making a mental note to gauge the temperature of the troops later, before turning to the Jedi Commanders.

General Cordova sighs, running a hand over his beard and then turns to CC-1501. "I hope that was suitable."

"It got the message across, sir," CC-1501 answers promptly. "And don't you worry about a thing, sir, the men know their duties."

"I have no doubt they do," the Jedi agrees, with a twitch of an expression CC-1501 can't quite decipher, but it doesn't look pleased exactly. "I understand you already have some experience with Geonosis, Commander."

"Yes, sir. 17th was one of the first battalions to hit the ground," CC-1501 agrees, wondering. "Though we've had to replenish our numbers since then, 149 original members of the 17th still remain, and can as needed offer their experiences and opinions about Geonosis."

"… hundred and forty – is a full clone battalion not over five hundred men strong?" the General asks slowly.

"576, sir, yes. Our ranks have been refilled accordingly, General, I promise you the 17th Relief Battalion is in full force."

It takes a moment for the General to answer to that, his mouth working silently for a moment before he nods, "Very good, Commander," he says, his voice a little uneasy. "Thank you, I have every confidence in the battalion's capabilities."

Beside the General, Commander Miles' lips have tightened into a grim line, bringing the scar cutting across them into stark relief. Neither of them is pleased. Did they hope for a full veteran battalion – or is it the losses they are surprised about? It's hard to tell. Neither of them look exactly thrilled about it. CC-1501 decides not to form any conclusions about it – it's too soon to tell what the Jedi think of them.

"That's good to hear, sir," he says briskly. As much as he'd like to observe the Jedi for longer and gauge their attitude towards the clones, he can tell when he's not welcome. "Is there anything else you need of me, sir? There are preparations I need to see to."

"No, not right now – thank you, Commander," General Cordova says and hides his relief even worse than the younger Jedi hides his displeasure. "I will comm you if anything comes up – and please feel free to do the same."

CC-1501 can feel both of the Jedi staring at him as he turns to go, and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling he has about all of it.

In the day it takes for them to prepare for Geonosis – packing mostly medicine, food and building materials to be taken to the newly established bases there – CC-1501 gets plenty of time to observe the Jedi.

As the Commander of the 17th Battalion and the one clone who would be dealing with the Jedi the most, CC-1501 had been given access to some of General Cordova's files, and he knows that the man is more of a scholar than a fighter. It shows very quickly – he has no idea what to do with the weapons and vehicles on board the Fortitude, giving them and all the crates holding various weaponry and equipment a wide berth, while personally handling the stowing of the relief materials. He even says it out loud, "I will leave the management of the military equipment to you, Commander," which CC-1501 supposes should be taken as a show of trust.

The younger Jedi is different – he only hangs around his master for long enough to make a show of it, and then makes a beeline for the nearest AT-TE and the clones clustered around it. CC-1501 is too far away to hear what is being said, but he can tell by the clones' body language that the younger Jedi asks something about the tank. CC-1501 tries not to tense up at the sight of it – unlike General Cordova, the younger Jedi has not hidden his feelings about the clones, and the group he's engaging in discussion are all shinies, they haven't seen an AT-TE in action.

"What do you think, Commander," General Cordova says, motioning to the crates. "Will this be enough?"

"To start with, sir," CC-1501 agrees, keeping side eye on the AT-TE. "But if you're asking my opinion, General, I'd requisition some extra water-reclaimers and maybe water vaporators. Geonosis is dry."

General Cordova's eyebrows arch at that, and he hums. "That is a very good point, Commander," he muses. "BD-1, make a – oh, where is he now," he murmurs, glancing around for the monitor droid – who is clinging to Commander Miles' back. "Oh well, I will try and remember to make the case for them."

CC-1501 hums in the affirmative, and frowns a little. The shinies are visibly relaxing, explaining something to Commander Miles, motioning at the AT-TE. Then, seemingly making a decision, the Jedi goes about climbing the AT-TE's rear leg.

"Uh, sir?" CC-1501 asks General Cordova. "What exactly is Commander Miles doing?"

"Hm?" Cordova asks, and turns to watch. He shakes his head and chuckles. "I should have figured – Desmond is quite the climber, it makes sense he would want to know how to do that beforehand. Not to worry, Commander – I'm sure he is quite careful."

"… Yes, sir," CC-1501 agrees, worriedly, because the surprised shinies on the floor are all but cheering the Commander on. Or are they egging him on? True enough, Commander Miles doesn't seem to have any trouble hauling himself up the AT-TE, making his way on top with casual nimbleness that makes the man seem weightless, making the whole thing seem easy. Going by Cordova's reaction, it's nothing to be worried about.

Then Commander Miles jumps on the barrel of the MDC, scurrying his way to the very end, crouching up there seemingly for no other reason except to show off to the clones watching him. And sure, the AT-TE's aren't that high, it's not a lethal fall, but CC-1501 is just imagining him stumbling and falling and breaking a bone or two, before the man decides to just fucking jump.

Commander Miles lands in a roll and gets up grinning, seemingly no worse for wear. The shinies burst into cheers and rush over to him eagerly, all signs of troop discipline gone just like that.

CC-1501 startles, only realising he'd been gaping as General Cordova chuckles beside him.

By the time they set off, there's already a general consensus about the two Jedi on board. General Cordova, they all agree, is a calm, contemplative man, who welcomes their opinions and suggestions and listens readily to their advice – an attractive quality in any Commander, that one. Commander Miles is… a wild card.

"I counted them," CT-7826 says during meal time. "He's got a LB-blaster rifle, model 24, I think, but I'm not sure, the stock's been modified. He's got three hand blasters – a DC-15, a CR-2 and a KYD-21. Two vibro knives, couldn't tell the make, and a regular knife. Also I think he wears something in his left sleeve, but I couldn't tell if it was a bracer or a holster."

"No lightsaber, though," CT-9700 says, thoughtful.

"Asked about it, actually. Says he doesn't have one – because, get this, he's not a Jedi."

What Commander Miles is, it's hard to tell. None of them have that much experience with Jedi and their apprentices – the most CC-1501 had seen of them was at a distance on Geonosis and then later on Kamino, when the Jedi went about taking charge of the army. There'd been few Master-Padawan pairs there, and none he'd gotten to talk to in person. The feel he'd gotten was that they stuck together, though.

Miles and Cordova are something like Master and Padawan, but if Miles isn't a Jedi, then… what is he? The man certainly pulls stunts like a Jedi – and with less humility about it, too.

"You've talked to him in person," CC-1501 says to CT-8071. "What's Miles like?"

"Hmm. Curious, I suppose. Asks a lot of questions about the GAR," CT-8071 says thoughtfully. "Doesn't speak Basic very well – enough to get his meaning across, but it comes out a bit awkward at times."

"What kind of things does he want to know?"

CT-8071 hesitates. "I don't want to make any accusations, but – I don't think either he or Cordova knows much about us clones. He'd asked a lot about how we were made and why and by whom. Shouldn't the Jedi already know stuff like that, though?"

"From what I hear, Commander Miles isn't exactly a Jedi," CC-1501 says thoughtfully. "If he can't speak Basic well, he might not be from a Core-world. Maybe he's a newcomer."

"Probably, yeah. Some of the stuff he asked about was a bit weird," CT-8071 agrees with a snort. "For a man with so many blasters, he doesn't seem to know much about them. I don't know if he even knows how to use those things."

CC-1501 stares at him, feeling the pit in his stomach sinking even lower.

They get on the way about a day later, and head straight into hyperspace. A ship the size of the Fortitude isn't exactly the fastest, even with state of the art hyperdrive – it will take them several days to make it to Geonosis. It gives CC-1501 ample time to get a feel of Cordova's personality and to content himself with the knowledge that they got a good one for their General – and to hunt Commander Miles down.

Which honestly should not be that difficult, the man is their Commander, he should be easy to find. But apparently Miles doesn't have a comm, doesn't hang around his teacher all that much when Cordova is working, doesn't take part in the actual act of commanding the troops yet, and he also wanders around the ship, all the time, aimlessly. For the first half of the search CC-1501 just finds the trail of all the clones Miles had talked to and the discussions he'd had - which, CC-1501 soon realises, might be just about everyone.

Commander Miles seems to have made his goal to find every clone on board the Fortitude and talk to them. Which is gratifying, certainly – the trainers at Kamino had never failed to press the point of how expendable they were and how interchangeable, it's incredible to have a Commander who seems to want to know them all. CC-1501 just wishes the man would stop moving.

By the time he finally finds him, it's late in the evening cycle and the man has integrated himself into a table full of clones in the mess hall, listening to them telling stories about Kamino training facilities.

"… busted up that droid so bad that it never walked straight again," CT-9857 is saying. "Huge benefit in our next test – made it easy to predict which way the clanker would go, let me tell you."

Miles has his hood down, and for a moment CC-1501 takes in his face – the man is a little older than he'd realised. He's also already done with his meal, by the looks of it, and about ready to go, so CC-1501 wastes no time marching over to him and clearing his throat.

"Commander Miles?" he says, clasping his hands behind his back. "If you have time, sir, I'd like to have a word."

The not-Jedi tilts his head and then nods. "Sure," he says simply and stands up, taking his tray – CC-1501 makes a mental note of it, the man takes his tray to the steriliser himself, and none of the brothers offer to do it for him. Miles uses the steriliser with the concentration of a man who'd just learned how to use it too, and checking his table confirms it – there are several necks craning to see how the Commander does. The clones had taught him how to use it, probably just some minutes ago.

Seems like Miles follows his master's creed of listening to the clones, which is… comforting.

"Private?" Miles asks, turning to him, and with a nod, CC-1501 leads the Commander out of the mess hall and into the empty hallway outside. There the man gives CC-1501 a curious, attentive look, eyes flicking up and down. "So, what matter?"

CC-1501 braces himself slightly. "Sir, it was brought to my attention that you might not know how to fire a blaster," he says. "And as you carry several of them, this is something of a… safety issue."

Miles hums. "Okay," he agrees, looking down to the holsters added to his wide belt, to the strap across his chest holding the rifle. "I meant to learn – was no time."

CC-1501 relaxes a little. "I'm off shift for the rest of the rotation, sir," he says. "We have a firing range on board – if you permit it, sir, I would be more than happy to show you how to do it."

Miles positively perks up at that.

CC-1501 frowns at the target, where little holographic red dots show where the hits landed. "Are you sure you've never fired a blaster before, sir?" he asks dubiously.

"Eh," Miles answers, checking the rifle over. "I know different gun. Not laser – it fired, uh…" he says a foreign word and then makes a face. "Like – pebble? Of metal?"

"You mean a slug thrower, sir?" CC-1501 asks, giving him a glance.

Miles pauses at that. "Isn't slug bug?" he asks then slowly

"Well. Yes, but it's also a term used for the ammunition of weapons that shoot projectiles," CC-1501 answers and reaches for the controls of the holo display, bringing up a render of a general slug thrower with a cut-out and references to all the parts and function. "Something like this, sir?"

"Oh, neat," Miles says, leaning in to see. "Yes, something like this. Smaller than this, though."

Well, that explains the man's accuracy and confidence in handling the blaster he's holding – and eases CC-1501's blatant fear of the man shooting himself or one of the brothers by accident. "It's the basic idea with blaster type firearms," he says, letting himself relax a little. "Only with blasters you will have cooling to contend with and battery packs instead of slug clips."

"And no casings to worry," Miles muses, turning the blaster in his hand. "Nice. How do I clean?"

CC-1501 shows him how to clean each weapon after he's satisfied that the man knows how to use them and is aware of at least the basics of weapons safety. Miles is a gratifyingly competent student, listening closely and pressing everything to memory – in the two hour gun handling session, he even manages to improve his aim. The man seems more than pleased with the whole thing too, which does more to ease CC-1501's worries than the man's accuracy does.

They really got lucky with their Commanders, huh – both Cordova and Miles are more than willing to learn from the clones. Time would tell if that would pay off, but going by how badly the first battle of Geonosis had gone, it certainly couldn't make things worse.

"So. I not know how to ask without being rude," Miles says slowly, while re-assembling his LB-24 rifle. "But I been wondering about thing."

"Yes?" CT-1501 asks. "Go right ahead, sir, I promise I won't take offence."

"The numbers," Miles asks, looking up at him. His expression is casual, but his eyes… "Are names forbidden for clones?"

CC-1501 hums and folds his arms. "No, not exactly," he says honestly. "They were discouraged in Kamino by most of our trainers, but some clones of special merit ended up with… simpler designations, to differentiate them from the regular troopers. There are some clones who have taken up names themselves, but it's not very common."

Not yet, anyway, mostly because no one was sure how the Jedi would react.

"Right," Miles says thoughtfully. "Some clones use names when they think I not hear. I wondered."

CC-1501 glances at him. "They mean no disrespect by it," he says warily.

"No, no. Names are good. You should have names," Miles says, shaking his head and then offers him a wry smile. "Actually wondered if I should use my number. Be bit funny, really. Maybe disrespectful, though."

"… sir?"

"It was 17," Miles explains and shrugs. "Not clone, though – human experimentation, kind of."

CC-1501 blinks at him, no idea what to think of that particular titbit of information. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he manages somehow.

"Ancient news, no matter now," Miles says, shaking his head and slinging the fully assembled rifle over his shoulders. "Humans should have names. Not numbers," he says firmly. "You should have names. Should have many things you have not," he adds, under his breath.

CC-1501 considers the man silently, gripping his wrist behind his back, trying not to react too openly. And to think he thought this man was against clones. "Very well then, sir," he says slowly. "What would you name me?"

Miles lifts his head a little, giving him a thoughtful look. "Serious?" he asks.

CC-1501 shrugs. "Names are usually given, aren't they?" he asks. "Or they come with merit or personality. I haven't done anything significant enough to be noticeable, nor do I have any identifying features or interests or personality quirks."

The look the Commander gives him is full of some emotion CC-1501 can't identify, but which makes his stomach clench. "Not know about that," Miles says slowly. "I hear how others talk about you – and I see you. You're a Papa Bear, looking after everyone, always worry, protective," the man sighs and shakes his head. "But I can think about a name, if you like."

"Actually…" CC-1501 says and hums. "No, sir, I think I'd like that one."

"Uh, sorry?" the Commander asks confusedly.

Bear smiles. Yeah, he can see why so many of his brothers so easily grew to like the man. There's something comforting about the mixture of confidence and utter confusion.

It seems the 17th Relief Battalion is in good hands, after all.

Chapter Text

There you are, my friend. Did you have fun with Desmond today? No, I don't mind, BD-1, Force knows my duties aboard this ship will be of little interest to you, and I can understand the lure of Desmond's wanderings, he must be getting into some very interesting things out there. I wish I could join you more often, but with this war…

They've begun the campaign over the hyperlanes, as expected. The forces of the Confederacy are moving to secure and blockade the access to the Hydian Way, cutting Republic forces and aid off from the entire sector from Celenno onward. This will not affect us in our duties on Geonosis, I don't think, but the ramifications will be felt throughout the galaxy. Even if the Confederacy fails in their attempts and the Republic manages to claim control over the hyperlane… it will have changed things. Either a portion of the galaxy still be sliced off, and for the first time in centuries systems once joined in with the Galactic Republic will be removed… or the Republic will be forced to assert military control over unwilling systems.

No, I cannot say I much like it.

How much have I told you of the Republic? About what it stands for, why it was formed, what the ideals behind that forming were? What is happening now is in near complete contradiction to those foundational ideas. The Republic was intended to lessen, even cease the fighting over Galactic territories on this scale, encouraging peace, unity and cooperation instead – democratic debate in the Senate, as opposed to open warfare in space. It was less a government and more a universal neutral ground where all voices were supposed to be heard…

Actually, this would be a good discussion to have with Desmond, he should know more of Galactic history. He's in bed? Later then, tomorrow perhaps. If I can catch him before he wanders off again...

Would you like to tell me what you two have been getting up to?

Our duties on Geonosis will be largely reconstruction and reconciliation based. While the priority is establishing the military base Senate has demanded on Geonosis, there are also the Geonosians themselves to be considered. The Stalgasin Hive Spires were badly devastated in the battle, and many of the surrounding hives were destroyed in the following conflicts. There is still some fighting happening within the caves, from what I understand, where some Geonosians are still hiding, but the Jedi already present on the planet assure me it is being handled and our forces can concentrate on building.

Fascinating species, the Geonosians, with a fascinating and often overlooked culture. There are few insectoid sentient species in the galaxy, so many of them have been wiped out thousands of years ago, but Geonosians have always been more isolationist than most. They also have the benefit of multi-level intellect – they are both individual, and communal, single-brained and yet also a hive mind. It is a pity there haven't been more studies on their culture, so little is known about them – and what little there is bears the unfortunate marks of speciesism, likening the Geonosian people to various hive-building insects and pests, and often without ever acknowledging how incredible those creatures, too, can be. There is something unspeakably wondrous about the industriousness of an ant or a mekte, and in the large and complex structures such small brings can build together.

It's is known that much like those industrious insects, Geonosians are divided by genetically and physically distinct castes of workers and warriors and supposedly drones, thought I have my doubts about the term, with a queen that gave birth to them all on top – but whether there are more castes is unknown, as is the size of individual hives and how closely those hives can work together. Geonosis has always had a singular speaker, the Archduke, but their precise standing in the Geonosian society is still something of a mystery, as is their influence. In a society based around hives and queens, where every member of the species is by physiological drive loyal to their specific queen, how does a single ruler function? Especially since the Archduke is always from the drone class – the supposed connotations of which are complex enough to be mired in more speciesism than I can shake a lightsaber at.

Sadly, their siding with the Confederacy and their part in the creating the Separatist Droid Armies will likely not help those terrible misconceptions in the slightest. Though it makes sense for a species so industrious to embark on such an endeavour on a logistic level, I can't make the sense of the motivations behind their participation in the Confederacy. Drive for independence I can understand, of course, but in general, the Confederacy's interest in separation from the greater Galactic Republic stems from their grievances concerning trade taxes, tariffs and other economic sanctions imposed by the Republic – and Geonosians are, to my knowledge, not spacefaring people, they are completely self-sufficient on their own planet. Which, considering the ecological disaster that made the surface of the planet nigh unliveable, is saying something!

It is certainly an interesting question, and one I will certainly be looking into once we reach Geonosis. I will also endeavour to learn as much about the Geonosian people and their culture and history as I can during our time on their planet, and to correct as many of the injustices done to them by previous historians and scholars as possible.

Though I am still sorry to have dragged Desmond with me into this war, I trusted the Force's guidance, and am glad to find that Desmond is better suited to a life onboard a warship than to one within the Jedi Temple. Of course, it was never my intention to encourage temple living to Desmond, it is not a life I enjoy, and I doubt he would either, but what I learned of his disposition on Earth implied a certain… peaceful quietness of his way of life, which might in right circumstances see him perfectly satisfied in the quiet life of the cloistered.

But no, while he was cordial in the Jedi Temple, he has embraced the Fortitude – and more importantly, those living within her – with determination and openness that belays a whole different truth about him. Though content with solitude, Desmond Miles is not a solitary creature – no, he thrives in company. And what more, he seems to have taken an especial shine to the clones, throwing himself eagerly into their midst. I'm glad for him, but I am also sorry. 

This is not the side of the galaxy I wished to show him.

But I will embrace the gladness of it. Certainly the clone troopers have embraced him and he them in return, and this is undoubtedly a good thing. I know myself well enough to know I could not encourage such easy camaraderie, which Desmond's has achieved in less than a week – already he knows most of the clones by designation and many by name. Never mind the ones he has actually named himself, like our solid and reliable Commander Bear, who is growing into his new name with such obvious satisfaction as to make others jealous, heh…

Desmond seems to have the makings of a leader, going by the way the clones have been reacting to him. Anyone can give orders, but trust and loyalty are earned – and somehow Desmond has already begun doing that. It is fascinating to see, even at a distance. As a Jedi, I was once accustomed to watching history unfold before my eyes, witnessing as I did treaties and negotiations, but I have forgotten the true, humbling reality of it, knowing the potential impact, and feeling how the Force itself winds around such things, making those knots that connect the present to the intricate weave of the past – and to the future.

The role Desmond will play here… I cannot guess at it, I will not. But I am excited to see it all play out. Though we are not Master and Padawan, our division of labour here is clear. It might not be what I intended, certainly not what I envisioned, but I will trust in the Force – it is certainly in action here.

I admit, I do miss the quiet, contemplative moments of our time on Earth.

We have reached Geonosis, and the sight of the planet, the Republic blockade on her orbit, and the scars of the battle can be seen from the orbit… I had seen images of the Stalgasin Hive Spires and the famous Petranaki Arena before, and very little of either remains. It's a terrible loss, as both have incredible history, and so little of it has been written down in Republic records. And so few seem to care – no, the Republic interest here is in dismantling the droid factories and stamping out any rebellion potential in the Geonosian people. Because this is, unquestionably, no longer a battle, righteous or otherwise – this is an occupation.

I do not belittle the importance of it, the battle that took place here and why it was necessary. Geonosians were building an army large enough to take a large portion of the Hydian Way and every system along it by force. They were planning to build tens of millions of battle droids here, and they partially succeeded. Securing this planet and stopping such operations was vital, to prevent the breakout of war on a scale the Republic could never match, even with the Clone Army. I understand the ramifications, and I can still feel all the deaths that took place here, the dozens of Jedi that died, the thousands of clones and Geonosians that followed…

But I am not blind to the reality on count of any misplaced patriotism towards the Republic or vengeance over the lives lost. This is a military occupation now – our military occupation. And I know what such things can do to the societies that are subjected to it.

While I joined the efforts of Master Luminara Unduli and her Padawan Barriss Offee in establishing the base as well as trying to reach out to the Geonosians, Desmond joined the clones in integrating with those clone troops already present and working. Though all the rescue operations here are already over and those survivors that could be saved have been, the clean up is far from finished, and they are still recovering both bodies and equipment from the rubble – and the investigation of the droid factories is still ongoing. While much has been learned already, there are several things still in question – including how such a massive operation could take place, even on a planet so removed, without anyone noticing. The shipments of metal alone should've raised some eyebrows, and not all of it could've been smuggled in, not at these quantities.

So far the efforts to reach out to the Geonosians have not been successful. Many of them fled with the Council of the Confederacy and their leader, Count Dooku, and the assumption is that the Geonosians will be used to create another droid factory elsewhere, taking advantage of that industrious nature that built the spires whose ruins we now inhabit. Those that remain are not surrendering, and those who have been captured are not cooperating. Master Unduli is at a loss as to how to deal with the prisoners, as am I.

A suggestion has been made by a Senate committee to build a… prison labour camp and to put the Geonosians to work. Thankfully there was enough opposition in the hearing that the proposal was ultimately rejected – and yet it still hangs over our head. As though the building of a military base with the intentions of enforcing Republic rule here isn't bad enough. I doubt Master Unduli will agree with the building of a prison, especially one intended for forced labour – I, most certainly, will take no part in it. Though how far the opinion of Jedi will go in this new galactic atmosphere…

I am increasingly sorry for having left Earth at all. But at least Desmond and the clones seem to enjoy themselves. And you as well, my friend.

Go on, go with Desmond – Force knows, one of us should get to do something they enjoy. Try to convince him not to climb the spires – I don't think even with Force at his side he could take that kind of fall.

Oh, my friends, what a gift! Oh, look at these, so intact, so well preserved! Wherever did you even find these? Desmond did – yes, that makes sense. He does have an eye for such things.  No, I'm afraid I can't read this, Geonosian writing is not something I have had the time to study in length, but luckily it is not as old or as rare as Earth languages – there should be translation programs available to me. Oh, what a find – how old did you say? Incredible. I do like it very much, thank you – I don't know if I have the time to study it right now, but later, certainly. I will look forward to it. Yes, please, if you find any more, do bring them to me.

Between Desmond's wanderings and our investigation, we have now a clearer picture both of what happened, what was destroyed – and, increasingly, what went wrong. Though Master Unduli has, in not so many words, accused me of being too lenient, that I have been letting Desmond run rampant and given him too free a reign over the clones, it has been a successful combination.

With Desmond's encouragement, the clones of the 17th battalion have been opening up, offering their opinions more – Commander Bear even presented me, utterly unprompted, with an analysis on the first battle and the landing, and underlined why the losses were so severe. It's not a secret that few are the Jedi who know military tactics. We are learning now, whether we want to or not, but those opening moments of the war were certainly a disaster, and Commander Bear did not mince words about it.

It was the clones who came to the conclusion that the Geonosians had been expecting an attack – they'd welcomed it, even invited it. The captured Jedi, the attempted public execution, the location – all seemed chosen carefully to entice a retaliation. Which then would have led Republic forces straight into a trap – and the difficult terrain, the canyons, the spires, they perfectly hid the droid armies, waiting to attack. The battle had been intended as an ambush – and the Geonosians had intended to come out on top. I suspect the Republic struck earlier than planned, however. And, likely, they were only expecting Jedi, not the clones.

It makes me wonder, however, what they were planning and why. Clearly, they saw the war as inevitable and thus chose the first battlefield to their advantage, maybe they even would have gone as far as to kidnap someone to provoke the war intentionally. We were unlucky – or perhaps lucky – enough to do so ourselves ahead of schedule, and thus by chance the Republic took the day here… but why provoke the war in the first place?

War, historically, is a means to end, and I can see what the end they meant to reach here is. And yet – why, oh why, couldn't anyone try to come up with a peaceful solution to the Separatist question? I know, many tried, and yet – why did it have to come down to war? When did the Republic lose its ability to compromise?

No, I don't suppose wondering about it will help us now. The Confederacy of Independent Systems invited this war, and the Republic answered, and here we are.

For better or for worse.

Chapter Text

"Did you rip your robes, Commander Miles?"

Desmond looks up from his sewing to see the younger Jedi watching him curiously. She's been watching him for a while, actually, but usually at further distance, not close enough to talk or interact. He'd gotten the feeling that her master, mayhaps, discouraged her from blending with the troops, and with him by conjunction.

"Cut it myself," Desmond admits, motioning to show where he'd cut slits into the coat hem. "Bear's getting me armour, and the hem already gets in the way."

Padawan Offee hums in interest. "And you don't mind breaking your own clothes like that?"

"It's more practical," Desmond shrugs and glaces over her own robes, which are dark and plentiful, but obviously designed to allow freedom of movement – unlike the too narrow hem of his white robe. "Not criticizing," he adds.

"I wasn't going to take it as such," Offer says, a little defensively, and with a hum Desmond turns his attention back to the robe.

He'd meant to adjust the hem before, but finding a needle had been a pain in the ass. He'd forgotten to bring any of his own sewing stuff from back on Earth, and then forgot to ask about it at the Jedi Temple, and by the time they got into space it'd become pretty obvious that no one expected the clones to fix up their suits if they tore – that could just get another from a stock of thousands identical replacements. In the end, one of the troopers made him a needle from scratch… and then he didn't have any thread, of course, and had to unwind some from the robe hem. It'd been a fun little DIY project from start to end, huh.

"May I ask you something?" Offee asks after a moment of watching Desmond darn the slitted hem.

"Sure."

"The clones, you are… cordial with them, friendly."

Desmond glances up. That's not a question, but then he gets the feeling she doesn't actually know how to ask – or what she's even asking. She had been watching for a while, not quite judgemental, more confused and curious. And now she's approaching him like this, out of sight – with no troopers around. Hmm 

"They're good people," Desmond says quietly.

"Yes, of course," Offee says quickly and then shifts her footing, uneasy. "I don't doubt their merit, everyone says they're more than loyal – I only –"

Desmond eyes her patiently as she teeters on the edge of the issue, until finally she sighs and admits, "I don't know how to do that. I don't know if I can do that – all my life I have trained to be a Jedi, a peacekeeper, a negotiator, a mediator, and now –" she stops and squeezes her hands into fists. "I don't know if I could do that. My master is a General now and I a Commander, and – and I'm expected to lead men in battle, to their deaths maybe, and I –"

Desmond lowers the robes a little, watching her. 

"I have been assigned my own squad – Master says it's for my protection and to teach me how to command men, that I should be prepared and ready to do so when the time comes," Offer whispers. "But I don't know how, I don't know – how to deal with soldiers."

Oh. Yeah, damn. She's what – fourteen? Fifteen at most. Christ. And from what he's seen, Unduli and her both follow a stricter code of Jedism, both come across as a lot more religious than Eno, or Cere. Little slip of a girl, she reaches barely up to Desmond's shoulder – and the clones are all six foot beefy men, military men with mostly military manners. To him they aren't that big of a deal, he's about their size, but for her they must be pretty damn intimidating – especially if she hasn't been interacting with them and has no idea how many of them are basically human-shaped puppy dogs.

Did she see him like that too – was he scary for her too? Damn, that's depressing.

"Okay," Desmond says slowly. "You, uh. Want sit?"

Offee hesitates and then comes to sit down on the crate beside his.

"The clones – are people," Desmond says. "I mean – they are soldiers, yes, but people first – soldier is what they do. People are people, on the inside."

"I know what," Offee says, confusedly.

"I mean –" Desmond blows out a breath. "They are worried and nervous too – about you and for you, for all of us. They trained for this – they can tell we didn't. The – the soldiering, discipline and rank and file, that's like – it's habit," no that's not the right word. It's there a right word? "It's what they do, because training – not what they think or feel. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't," Offee admits.

 Desmond snorts. "Yeah, me neither," he admits and sighs. "They're not scary – just trained and – and capable. It's habit – inside they're all different. And squishy."

"... Squishy."

Desmond shrugs helplessly.

Offee hums thoughtfully and thinks about it. "They are all individuals in the Force," she muses. "And I know their personalities are unique. But they're still so… different from Jedi."

"Jedi is different from them," Desmond hums. "They don't know you either. Don't know how to deal with you."

Offee sighs, looking down. "You don't seem to have any trouble," she says then. "Have you led men before?"

"Not like this," Desmond demurs and picks up his sewing. "Helps getting to know them. They really are squishy."

And speaking of squishy, Commander Bear is walking towards them with a couple of other clones, both of whom are carrying small crates.

"Sirs," Bear nods to Offee, who stiffens and then forces herself to relax.

"Commander," she says, quiet.

"Is that it?" Desmond asks, hopping up to his feet.

"Yes, sir – requisitioned under your name, it's all yours," Bear says while the other clones – Boomer and Bolt – quickly move to show him what's in the crates. "We also got you an undersuit – up to you if you want to wear it or not."

Desmond sets the robes down and quickly goes to see. A full clone armour, helmet and all, sits nestled in the crates, the helmet and cuirass in one crate and the rest in the other.

"Do you want to try it on now?" Bolt asks, grinning, while Boomer starts taking out individual pieces, laying them down on the larger crates in a neat row.

"Hell yeah," Desmond agrees and picks up the black undersuit. Then, remembering the fifteen year old in their midst, tucks it under his arm. "Be right back – Offee, don't go anywhere." 

"Eh?"

Desmond changes quickly in the nearest fresher, taking a moment to snort at himself in the mirror – the suit does not sit as well on him as it does on clones, and it's still snug enough to seem a little bit indecent. Oh well, he thinks, picks up his clothes, and heads back – to find Bear explaining the individual pieces of a clone armour to Offee.

"... to hook various attachments," he's saying with gruff patience, pointing at the back plate of the cuirass. "Jetpacks, ammo crates, gas canisters, rocket launchers –"

"Rocket launchers?" Offee asks, nervous.

"Yeah, like this," Boomer grins, pointing at his own backplate – and the rocket launcher there. "I also got holster extra grenades and charges here."

"Oh," she answered, her voice small.

"Don't worry, he's safe to be around. Most of the time," Bolt snorts and then spots Desmond. "How does it fit, Commander?"

"Little loose," Desmond admits, tugging at the fabric over his chest.

"Better hit the gym then."

"And the mess hall," Bear says and hefts the cuirass to the top of the crates. "Right then, sir – we start from the middle. Codpiece and rearpiece first."

"Also known as, the most uncomfortable set of unmentionables you will ever wear," Bolt says conspiratorially, much to Offee's mortified amusement.

With the clones directing him, Desmond pulls on the full armour one piece at a time, learning what does where in which order and how they connect to each other. The full set is less comfortable than he'd expected – the armoured undie is really uncomfortable, damn – but it's a lot lighter than he'd expected. Ezio's armour must've weighed around twenty kilograms at worst – the clone armour can't weigh more than seven all told. At the end of it, Desmond feels somewhere between badass and ridiculous. Mostly ridiculous. It's the armoured undies, mostly.

Then Bear puts Desmond's helmet on, and talks him through activating the heads up display – and suddenly Desmond feels like Iron Man. The display IDs the clones around him, the weapons they are carrying, even identifying the young Jedi as Commander Barriss Offee. He has a readout for the atmosphere, for the suit systems, for his own vitals. When he looks away and across the hall, the helmet calculates distances and marks openings and exits, and informs him that the nearest fresher is 43.4 meters away and that the mess hall is 85.2 meters away.

"Neat," Desmond murmurs, stretching out his arms and testing how well he can move – and the armour doesn't restrict him at all. He'd known the armours were high tech, but damn.

"How does it feel?" Bear asks, arms folded, watching him closely.

"Too soon to say," Desmond admits and crouches down and up again. Nice. "Okay, who wants to spar?"

Bolt barely beats Bear to the punch, and he and Desmond go a few rounds, Desmond intentionally taking hits to see how they'd feel in the armour before going about testing his range of motion and how well he can do his usual moves. Pretty well, it turns out – but in close quarters the helmet is less help and more a hindrance. He ends up fighting Bolt more by instinct and memory than by following visual cues and it draws the spar out longer than his spars with the clones usually take.

"What is going on there?!"

Offee jumps to her feet guiltily, and Desmond gets distracted long enough for Bolt to trip him to the floor – and damn if that isn't a weird feeling, to do down in such a loud clatter and to feel almost none of it, the armour muffling the impact almost completely.

"I win!" Bolt cheers and then winces. "Shit – I mean – sorry, Commander, you alright in there?"

"I want to marry this armour," Desmond breathes, wondering. Are motorcycles a thing still? He hopes they are, because damn, in this armour you could probably take a motorcycle crash and just walk it off, no worse for wear. And why that is the first thing he thinks about, in year two hundred twenty thousand and then some of the common era, he doesn't know, but there it is. Best motorcycle riding gear ever.

Then he notices Master Unduli, marching towards them with her face set into a forbidding expression. "Troopers, explain yourselves," she demands, while pulling Offee quickly away from Bear and to her side. "What is going on here?"

The troopers all go to attention, while Desmond awkwardly picks himself up from the floor. "General," Bear says stiffly. "Commander Miles was trying out his new armour, CC-8071 was helping him stress-test it."

"Miles?" Unduli asks sharply.

Desmond lifts a hand. "That's me," he says and pulls off his helmet. Must've looked pretty bad on her end, with what looked like two troopers going at it, with two more flanking her young apprentice… "Sorry – wanted test the armour out, sparring is good way."

Master Unduli stares at him hard for a moment, looking over the clones' carefully blank faces and then looks at Offee, who is nervously squeezing the hem of her robe, looking guilty. "I see," Unduli says finally. "And why are you wearing a clone trooper armour, Commander Miles?"

"Because is war and I don't want to die," Desmond shrugs. "It's not forbidden – we check."

Unduli doesn't quite seem to know what to say to that. "I… see," she settles on, now looking more confused than angry. "Carry on, then. Padawan, come with me."

"Yes, Master," Offer says, glancing at them and then hurrying after her master, her head bent low.

"Hmm," Desmond hums after them. Apparently, Unduli doesn't know how to deal with clone troopers either – but she probably has some experience with soldiers… and expectations of the shenanigans they might get into. That might explain why the pair have been so aloof. They're literally the only humanoid women on the planet. That's gotta be a bit weird for them.

"Phew, I thought she was going to dress us down," Boomer murmurs.

"Are you alright, sir?" Bear asks.

"Fine, fine," Desmond says. "I say anything wrong?"

"Wanted to test, sparring is a good way to do it, because it is a war, and we checked, sir," the Commander answers promptly.

"That's not so bad," Desmond says, brightening up.

"You're getting better, sir," Bear agrees with a smile and shake of his head. "Now, back to the armour – how was it?"

"Don't think I can wear the helmet all time, it gets in way close-quarter," Desmond admits, tugging at the cuirass. "And I think, robe fit under this. Do you think my blade fit under gauntlet?"

"Fits, sir, and you're dropping articles," Bear says. "Now, take it off and we'll see."

The final mix of armour, robe and weapons ends up pretty nifty, if Desmond so says himself, with his robe under the cuirass and the rest of the upper body armour, with a finished hem hanging over the armoured undies and the rest of the leg pieces. The hidden blade does fit under the gauntlet, but not comfortably, so he'd have to figure out something else for that, probably attach the blade to the gauntlet. With his red sash and belt over the cuirass, and his hood hanging over the backplate, it's not a bad getup, all things considered. Just misses a couple of little things.

"I want a pauldron," Desmond decides, because fuck it, might as well go all out. "And cape. A red cape." The whole get up is a bit too white for him, really. Wonder if he could paint the armour a bit...

"Of course you do, sir," Bear sighs. "I'll get them for you – if you will also take a clip to carry your helmet on when not wearing it."

Desmond grins. "You got a deal, Papa Bear."

"No jetpack, Commander?" Bolt asks, snoring. "Or maybe a parachute?"

"Don't encourage him."

Desmond gets to test the armour a bit more fully the following day. The base is finally secure, and things have settled enough for the Jedi to finally get some downtime – one at a time, of course, one of the Generals has to be on duty at all times. Free time of course means that Eno wants to go out to see the ruins of the Petranaki Arena, the place where the war started. Not that that's why he wants to go.

"The site has a wealth of history and cultural significance," the Jedi explains excitedly, because of course it does. "It is a great pity it was so badly devastated in the battle – if there is anything that can be salvaged…"

"Sir, you know that those ruins are probably crawling with Geonosians?" Bear asks flatly. "The arena sits on top of the biggest hive of the planet, and we know for a fact that those tunnels are still occupied."

"All the more reason to go and to try to make contact," Eno says. "We still have yet to secure the cooperation of the Geonosian people, even with official surrender – the sooner we can do that, the sooner we can find out what their situation is, their losses, their needs."

"And if they attack, sir?"

Eno hesitates, and BD-1 lets out a worried little bloop on his shoulder. "Is that very likely?"

Bear sighs. "Official surrender or not, they're not exactly happy with the situation, sir. While they've been keeping their distance, we know they've been observing us – and I don't know how they'd react to us going to one of their secret sites. If we bring enough men, they might keep their distance, and maybe with a tank or two –"

"Certainly not," Eno says quickly.

"General, this is still an enemy territory, even if the locals no longer have droid armies at their side," Bear points out with a shake of his head. "There's no knowing what they might try – we don't even know their numbers, and much about their capabilities. They might have an army under the surface just waiting for an opportunity."

Eno hums and looks at Desmond. "Do they?"

"I haven't gone that far into the tunnels," Desmond admits, ignoring the look Bear gives him. "I don't know for sure. There's lot, not all are hostile. Some just want to stay hidden and safe."

"Hmm. I believe visiting the ruins is our best chance of making proper contact," Eno decides. "But, in full awareness of the security risks, I will leave the preparations to you two. I draw the line before tanks, however, there is no conceivable way that would not be taken as a sign of hostility."

Oh, Eno. "We are, though," Desmond points out. "To them we are the hostiles."

Eno's shoulders slump. "Well, I would rather not be the reason for further fighting," he says. "So please do what you can to mitigate the risks."

What would mitigate the risk would be for Eno to stay put and not do anything, but he's probably right that the situation won't change unless someone does something.

So in the end, to the Petranaki they go – in a fairly large company and with an aerial escort for potential quick evacuation as needed. Desmond takes it upon himself to scout ahead with Walker and Twitch, who have so far been the clones who can keep up with him the most – though they might not exactly agree.

"That's it, I am requisitioning a jetpack, first thing," Walker mutters while Desmond crouches on the edge of the canyon wall, watching the pair try to climb after him.

"I thought you brought grabbing hook?" he asks.

"Grappling hooks, sir, and we did," Twitch says while nervously checking the distance between them and the top. "The canyon walls are too soft to use them, we'll just end up causing a collapse. If we don't cause one already…"

Walker laughs. "Come on, Twitchy, we're almost there – just don't look down."

"Don't say that – you almost made me look!"

Desmond hums, leaning his chin into his armour-clad knuckles. Maybe he should take the easy way next time, he doesn't actually want them to get hurt.

The clones make it to the top of the canyon eventually, and Desmond rewards both with a pat on the back – they did do better than last time. "Good job. Now let's move on – the others are on the way already."

Together they head towards the ruins of the Stalgasin spires. Though Desmond had been wanting to visit them for a while now, they were a little too far away from the main base for a quick pop in and out – and any excursion longer than an hour or so tended to make Bear nervous, so Desmond generally refrained. Even at a distance they are a sight to behold, though – and not just because of the broken spires, still tall and imposing.

There's something in the ruins that glows golden with importance. A lot of somethings, actually. And Desmond can't wait to hunt them down.

Chapter Text

When the Commander pulls a lightsaber from the rubble, it's a surprise, but not really... a surprise. Commander Miles might not exactly be a Jedi, but he's something – they've all seen the falls he can take, the moves he can pull, and they all know no one can hide from the man… or find him, when he doesn't want to be found. So if anyone could seemingly at random just find a lightsaber under a metric ton of rubble, like that's a normal thing that happens… it would be Commander Miles.

It still scares the hell out of Twitch when the man suddenly turns the thing on without any warning, completely out of nowhere – just SCRZZ, and then the Commander is holding a bright blue blade glowing in his hand, turning it curiously this way and that as it thrums with power. Judging by the looks of it, Walker hadn't been expecting it either, and Twitch can feel his own heartbeat pace – something about seeing the Commander, in his full set of armour and everything, holding a live lightsaber...

Then, with a shrug, the Commander turns the thing off. 

Twitch looks at Walker, and Walker glances back and shrugs.

"Dropped by one of the Jedi who died here?" Walker suggests, turning back to the Commander. "I hear there were over a hundred of them here. And most of them, uh… didn't make it out."

"Yeah, maybe," the Commander says and clips the lightsaber to his belt before hitting his wrist comm. "Bear, we've checked arena – is clear."

"The arena, sir, is clear," comes the clone Commander's reply.

"Yes, we checked it, it is," Miles answers.

There's a pause and then a sigh over the comm. "Very well, sir. We will move in from here – fifteen minutes out. Don't wander off, Commander."

"Wouldn't dream it,"

"Of it, sir."

Miles snorts and cuts the connection, rising to his feet. "Right, I'm gonna poke around some more."

"We got your back, Commander," Twitch agrees and glances warily around. He does not like how surrounded they are – any one of the spires could house a sniper nest.

Still… who just finds a lightsaber like that? Guess it's not that big a deal, since the Commander didn't seem to so much as twitch – not that the Commander ever twitches, but – still. A lightsaber. From what Twitch knows, those things are pretty special and pretty valuable, even outside the fact that they can cut through just about anything. Aren't Kyber crystals one of the most valuable minerals out there? And it was just lying on the ground there. What.

"Weird Jedi stuff?" Walker suggests quietly over the comms.

"Weird Commander stuff," Twitch answers and turns back to the task at hand – of not getting killed by a bunch of angry Geonosians, hopefully. Fifteen minutes until reinforcements. What's the worst thing that could happen?

The second lightsaber the Commander pulls from the rubble about a minute later is a bit bigger surprise. This one is green with a golden hilt, and the Commander just eyes it for a moment, his helmeted head tilted to the side. Maybe he'd doing some Force stuff for it?

"I guess since the Jedi had to retreat from here, they never got the chance to recover them," Walker says slowly, watching him. "We might actually be the first Republic forces here since the bombing took out the spires."

Twitch has a terrible realisation. "Do you think there are dead Jedi under this stuff?" he asks uneasily, casting a quick look at the rubble – just in case he missed, like, a body or a few dozen in there. "I mean, if they couldn't recover anything from here…"

He shares a look with Walker, while Miles turns the second lightsaber off. "Maybe," the Commander hums and clips the lightsaber beside the one already on his belt. "Right. I need better vantage point – hold here."

Oh no.

"Commander Bear isn't going to like that," Twitch says quickly, to which Commander Miles just waves a hand nonchalantly – he's already heading for the tallest pile of rubble – which so happens to be a most of a collapsed spire. Which does not look safe. Or even all that climbable.

Not that that's ever stopped the Commander before.

"I don't much like it either," Walker mutters, watching as the Commander takes on the pile of rubble.

He makes it look easy, up to the point when something crumbles and the Commander sends a little rock slide down the side of the fifty meter pile of mostly broken hive. He still makes it to the top, there was never any question of that, but damn if it doesn't look unsafe. And then the Commander just crouches there, on that high point – where anyone could just snipe him. And the fact that this time he's wearing armour doesn't soothe Twitch's nerves as much as he'd like – because against the dark sandy hues of Geonosis, the Commander in his white robe and white armour stands out like a sore thumb.

Twitch can just imagine the look Commander Bear would give them, in the highly likely scenario where Commander Miles got shot. It's not a pretty picture. He can feel his blood pressure climbing steadily, until the Commander is done with this scouting and finally comes down - in a single graceful gravity-defying leap that really should probably break his knees but somehow never does.

One day Twitch will get used to it. One day, he won't even bat an eye about it. One day he will see the Commander take a hundred meter fall and not even twitch. Today is not that day.

And then the Commander walks about three meters from where he dropped, and pulls another lightsaber from the rubble, and gives it a long, puzzled look. "So, normal flashlights not a thing anymore?" he asks, tilting his head towards them.

"Sir?" Walker asks, confused, while Twitch tries to get his heart rate down by slow and steady breaths. Walker pats his shoulder soothingly, and then says to Miles, "I don't know that word, sorry, Commander."

"Spotlights – torches?" Commander Miles asks and turns the saber hilt in his hand. "Everyone used techy glow sticks?"

"... What?"

By the time General Cordova reaches them, Commander Miles has just finished pulling out his ninth lightsaber, and he still doesn't seem to grasp what they actually are. At first Twitch thought he might be acting intentionally obtuse just to give him an apoplexy or something, but no, apparently the man had never seen a lightsaber in action before. Which Twitch probably can't judge him for, he hasn't either, but come on…

"They're Jedi weapons," Walker says slowly, sounding a little at a loss, as the Commander places the latest lightsaber on a flat piece of rubble, where he began lining them up once he could no longer fit them comfortably on his belt. "Jedi can use them to deflect blaster bolts and to cut through anything."

"Hmm. Well that's neat," the Commander decrees and then turns to meet General Cordova, Commander Bear and the rest of the General's guard. 

At least they seem to have a normal reaction to someone finding nine lightsabers just lying on the ground.

"However did you find them all?" General Cordova asks with wonder, seeing the row of them on the rock.

"Can see them. They sorta glow," Commander Miles admits, folding his arms. "Guess they're important, after all."

General Cordova gives him a gratifyingly baffled look. "Important – my friend, the Jedi who made these and wielded these put their heart and soul into them. For a Jedi, a lightsaber is a representation of their lives, the principles they live under, the creed they follow."

The Commander shifts his footing. "Oh," he says and clears his throat. "Well. Guess we should pick up the rest then."

"There's more?"

"Oh yeah," Commander Miles agrees, embarrassed, and Twitch is overcome by the realisation that Commander Miles seriously held a lightsaber, one of the deadliest handheld weapons in the galaxy, and thought it was just a lamp. More than that, he didn't even think it was a particularly good lamp!

Twitch feels the urge to giggle hysterically and quickly stamps it down. Sometimes he's not sure if they have the best Commander in the GAR – or the worst one.

In the end, they find 34 lightsabers in the rubble, with Commander Miles either directing others to them, or finding them himself. They get harder and harder to get to as they go along, buried under more and more rubble, and towards the end General Cordova has to use his own lightsaber to cut through the rubble, the orange blade leaving gauges of melted red hot rock behind.

"Guess that explains the feeling," Commander Miles mutters, watching the General cut into a collapsed spire. "I was wondering why people were so attached to their glow – I mean, lightsabers."

"You can feel that, sir?" Twitch asks, trying not to react to the near slip.

"Yeah," Miles agrees and folds his arms. "It's bit weird – they feel… staticky. But important. So Jedi fight with these things? Is that why their swordplay is like that? Because no weight and they're basically fighting with plasma torches. I guess blades can't go through each other?"

Thankfully General Cordova answers that one, because Twitch had no idea what to even say. "No, they can't," the General says and reaches out a hand towards the blocks he'd cut out. "The containment field for the blades clash."

"Huh. Can you remove it? The containment?"

The General pauses enough to look at him and to tell him, very seriously, "No, not without causing a deadly explosion."

"Oh," Miles says, thoughtful. "Good to know."

"Indeed," the General answers, shaking his head – then he turns back to his work and with a slow exhale concentrates.

Respectfully quiet – or in Twitch's case, panicking about the sudden mental image of Commander Miles somehow accidentally, or worse yet, intentionally turning a lightsaber into a plasma-bomb – they watch as the old Jedi levitates the block of stone he cut out, some ton or two in weight, and thus clears the path to the fallen lightsaber.

Even there, under that rubble, there is no body.

"What do you suppose they did with the dead, General? Did the bugs eat them?" Jax asks bluntly and Commander Bear elbows him sharply. "I mean – no disrespect, sir – but – where are they? I mean, if the bugs didn't eat them…"

"It's possible," Cordova says thoughtfully, and something about how easily he says it makes Twitch shudder. "But I don't think so, I suspect it would already be known if that was their way. Desmond, what do you feel happened to the dead here?"

Commander Miles hums and looks away. "They took them to the desert," he says and tilts his head. "Because single dead body in hive can poison or infect everyone. All dead are taken away."

There's a moment of silence as they all digest that, and Twitch gives him a look. The Commander can tell that much just by a feel of… whatever he's feeling… but he can't tell that lightsaber is not a lamp? Just how does this Force stuff even work?

"A single dead body, sir, and in a or the hive," Commander Bear then corrects the Commander. "And all of the dead."

Miles sighs. "Particles and articles – why are articles what I keep dropping? English has articles too. Italian has even more than Basic does. Ugh."

They recover the last lightsaber not much after that, bringing the total to 34. It seems like a lot, until General Cordova tells them that over hundred had been lost, leaving a minimum of 67 still missing. And if finding all these lightsabers was mindboggling, then the realisation that there's still so many out there… 

Twitch imagines a horde of furious Geonosians descending on them with lightsabers swinging and casts another uneasy look at the spires.

"So, what will happen to all these lightsabers, sir?" Walker curiously asks the General, who is considering how to transport then back. "Do they get repurposed, re-distributed…?"

"They will be sent to the Jedi Temple and placed in the mausoleum, to commemorate the lives of the Jedi who made them and used them," General Cordova says solemnly. "We must see about recovering the rest of the remains as well, if we can – Desmond, do you think you could track them down?"

"Maybe," Commander Miles says thoughtfully, looking away and humming. "Hmm. Should I have go?"

General Cordova considers it and then nods. "If you please – but do be careful. We will stay here and investigate the area further – call back the moment you find anything."

"Walker, Twitch, go with him," Commander Bear orders promptly, much to Twitch's dismay. "Do not let him out of your sights."

Of course.

They get attacked, of course they get attacked, it was just the matter of time before they got attacked. Twitch was expecting them to be attacked by Geonosians, of course, that seemed like the most likely source of danger on Geonosis, so what actually attacks them is a bit of a surprise, but the attack itself? Absolutely expected. Commander Miles had been tempting fate for days on end.

He just… hadn't expected giant monsters, personally.

"Makes sense," Walker says, as they run for their lives. "I mean, commonly used dumping ground for dead bodies – that sort of thing would obviously invite wildlife – "

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Twitch begs and then Commander Miles grabs him by the backplate and wrenches him out of the way as the big teethy-clawy-something barrels on past him, enormous jaws snapping on nothing, on air – on the space where Twitch had just been.

"Right – up you go," Commander Miles says, pushing him towards a nearby stone pillar. "Climb, up, up. You too, Walker. "

Bear is going to kill them – "Sir, you first – "

Miles ignores him, giving him a push and then running off – towards the monster, which is tearing gauges into the dusty Geonosian ground with it's enormous claws as it tries to break and turn around to face them again. Twitch lets out a little whimper, and then Walker is hauling him up and towards the spire, saying, "Come on, we can give the Commander support fire once we're out of the way – "

By which time the Commander would probably be dead, Twitch thinks, but climbs after Walker, because what else can he do? Walker makes it up first and pulls out his blaster, and Twitch does the same, turning to see, half expecting to see the monster already gnawing on the Commander's broken body –

But no, the Commander is baiting the beast, somehow, inviting it to charge towards him and then getting out of the way just in time. He's got a blaster in hand and is already taking shots at the beast, but it doesn't seem to do much more than annoy it – it has natural armour or something. Chitin maybe.

Swallowing his nerves, Twitch pulls out his rifle, takes aim and fires, quickly laying down a burst of covering fire while Walker calls to the Commander, "Sir, we got you converted, get to higher ground!"

Thankfully, Commander Miles doesn't need to be told twice – turning around and heading to the nearest stone formation the moment the beast gets distracted by a good hit to the side of its head, where a chitin plate absorbs the hit, damn it. Switching on his range finder, Twitch goes down on one knee and looks for a weak spot – but the damned thing is pretty solidly covered by natural armour. Joints maybe, or the neck…?

"You alright, sir?" Twitch asks, once the Commander is safely on the pillar.

"I'm good," Miles answers. "You're okay?"

"Never better," Twitch says, through gritted teeth, and does his best to shoot the beast's front leg off. It doesn't work. "Should we call for backup?"

Miles hums. "We're okay," he says. "And we're safe and we got guns. I think we got this."

Twitch thinks he needs a holiday. He doesn't know what a holiday is, he's never had one, but he's heard about them, and they sound nice, and he would like one right now. Preferably far away from here. Maybe even back on Kamino. He could take Long Necks over giant monsters and vaguely insane Commander, please.

"I think that's an acklay?" Walker comments, taking pot-shots and missing most of them – the beast is moving too fast. "Pity we didn't grab a lightsaber, huh, sir? I bet one of those things would've done quick work on the thing. Take a couple of legs out at least, make the rest of the work easy."

"Yeah, maybe. Hm, I wonder…" Commander Miles agrees over the comms, crouching on the edge of the pillar he's sitting on, lowering his blaster. "Cease fire, I'm try something."

Oh no.

As they watch, the Commander catches the beast's attention by taking a few mostly useless shots at it, and once the monster is trying it's best to climb up his pillar, Miles takes out his two vibroblades, turning the blades on – even at a distance and with all the dust in the air, Twitch could see the telltale gleam of the blades heating up with the vibration. Then, while Twitch and Walker watch, utterly helpless to do anything to stop him, the Commander stands up, and waits, watching the beast closely, looking for an opening.

And then, because it's Commander Miles and he is determined to give Twitch a heart attack… the Commander jumps, and falls, plummeting down almost head first, with the blades aimed and at the ready. It's like time slows down, he falls a small eternity, eternity during which Twitch imagines a thousand terrible fates for him – and then, following the discovery, for him and Walker too, once Bear found out they let their Commander just do that – and then –

Both Commander Miles and the beast crash down, the acklay's spiny legs giving out from under it. The beast doesn't even let out a sound, it doesn't get a chance – it just collapses into a cloud of dust and shattered rock as its legs splay out, and then it… just lies there, with Commander Miles sitting on its back, both blades sunken into the back of the beast's neck.

The dust settles, and Twitch realises the roaring in his ears isn't just his own blood pressure climbing to the stratosphere – Walker is shouting. "Wohoo, way to go, sir! Nicely done!"

"Sweet, it worked," Miles says, sounding like he's grinning. "Wasn't sure it would. But I guess it had spinal cord too. Neat."

Twitch sits weakly down on the edge of the pillar, feeling as though all feeling goes out of his limbs, while Walker almost jumps down to go and join their insane Commander. At a safe distance, Twitch watches Walker congratulate the Commander, and how the Commander pulls back the knives, examining them. He doesn't even look particularly dusty or winded after the whole ordeal.

"I want a transfer," Twitch sighs mournfully, knowing he will never actually get it, but it still… never hurts to hope. Maybe if he asked Bear he could be put into General Cordova's security detail. Most of what the man does is sitting behind a desk reading and writing reports. That would be a nice and calm post, nothing dangerous going on there. Right?

Then he remembers that General Cordova was the one who wanted to go to Petranaki in the first place, and his shoulders slump.

Maybe he should take up meditation, or something…

Chapter Text

The lightsabers aren't the only things there are to be found in the ruins, but they are the ones that glowed the brightest. Probably the Force that got permeated into them by their users, or something – it was bright enough to pretty much cover everything else in there. But there are other things. Blasters and bits of armour, stains that probably belong to the Geonosians, the usual cultural artefacts Desmond collects for Eno every chance he gets, and droids. Lots and lots of droids.

There are mountains worth of dead droids scattered all over Geonosis. Near the Republic base they've been collected into piles to be taken into recycling at some point in the future, who knows when, which is what it is, but near the arena and the spires they've been left where they fell.

After the dead have been dealt with, both the clones and the fallen Jedi getting an identical send off in the incinerator with Eno and Master Unduli solemnly presiding and the clones standing in as a honour guard, Desmond begins collecting the rest that seems important with the clones. The guns and armour pieces would go into the armoury for cleaning and redistribution, the droids would be simply moved aside until further notice, and the rest should be dealt with in the usual manner of leaving it up to Eno.

The lack of Geonosian hostilities in the area has made Eno a little brave, though – he wants them to clear the arena of all rubble, to show it that much respect as a sign of good faith. Desmond has a feeling it will just backfire on them, because these things generally don't come out looking like respect, more like the intent of repurposing the area for military installation, or just your general condescension of we can take care of your historical sites better than you. Eno means well, though, and who knows, maybe it would even work.

For the clones – and, in conjunction, Desmond – it means s lot of work, most of it manual.

"You don't have to do that, commander," Eight-Hundred comments, watching Desmond haul up a block of stone. "We can handle the manual labour."

"Psh," Desmond answers and carries the block to the awaiting carrier, which periodically takes the stone rubble and dumps it somewhere outside. "It's not like I have much else to do." Plus, there's something else under the rubble that's calling to him.

It's hard work, though, hardest he'd had since – actually ever, even living alone on Earth wasn't this tasking. They have cut the rubble into manageable pieces – with actual plasma cutters, not lightsabers – and even with the carrier right next to them, lifting the blocks is not easy. Clones make it look a lot easier though – must be all that time they spent in the gym.

"Lift with your legs, not with your back," one of the clones calls cheerfully.

Another grunts in irritation. "I'm going to lift you with my kriffin legs…"

"Oh, you wish," comes the leering answer.

Mostly they seem resigned to the work – chatting as they go about whatever they can think of. Mostly about Geonosis, about how the dust gets everywhere, about the sandstorm that was predicted to hit them before the evening, about the lightsabers, the Geonosians still hiding, about training…

"Do you think Unduli and Offee will ever actually join us, sir?" Tally asks wistfully from beside Desmond, gathering loose rubble into a shovel to get it out of the way. "I mean, outside the base?"

"Who knows," Desmond shrugs and drops another block into the carrier. "Unduli seems pretty protective."

"Yeah, no kidding," Tally murmurs. "I'd love to see them in action, though – or you know, just in general. I bet they're real graceful."

Desmond pauses to look at the clone.

"I mean – you know," Tally says with an awkward little cough. "Not that you aren't, but – uh. Those robes, right? And they're – uh – kriff… "

Desmond arches a brow, and blushing Tally goes back to work, head ducking low in embarrassment. Someone lets out a little laugh, making Tally flinch a little, and Desmond sighs, shaking his head.

He's not sure if it's sad or just really fucking messed up, how little experience with normal life these guys have – so much so that Unduli and Offee are the most exotic things they've ever encountered. With the armour and all, they're a bit like repressed medieval knights, giving looks of puzzled longing to the maidens in the tower, it's just depressing.

"The moment I can I am taking all of you into a bar," Desmond mutters. 

"A bar, sir?"

"You know, cantina," Desmond shrugs. "Place with booze, people and loud music, and so all that. Place to unwind."

Tally gives him a slightly startled look. "You want to take us to a cantina?"

"All of us?" Walker asks eagerly.

"Everyone. All 576 of you," Desmond says with a heavy sigh. "We'll bring the boys from the 41st along, it will be a blast."

Not that there are any bars on Geonosis, and even if there were, the clones don't officially have any free time – they're either resting, working, or training, and the training period is considered their downtime. All of it is messed up. You wouldn't think pirates from two hundred thousand years ago would do things better than people in the future, but, hell, pirates definitely knew the importance of enjoying some downtime. The clones don't even have grog rations or anything like that.

The talk of cantinas and what they might be like and what they might be able to do there keeps the clones entrained for a while as they work, while Desmond wonders if there are, like… entertainment barges in the galaxy. Casino cruise ships or whatever. You'd think there were. It's a big galaxy, and the trips between stars aren't quick – surely someone out there would've arranged a way for passengers to take those trips in style.

If the clones got paid, those kinds of ships could probably make mint, visiting blockades and whatnot, offering that little bit of escape. But of course the clones don't get paid. 

Not yet, anyway.

Desmond tunes out the clones' daydreaming about what alcohol might taste like, losing himself to the physical labour and to plotting where to get enough income to actually pay the men, and so doesn't realise he's humming until CM-3944 asks, "Is that a marching tune, sir?"

"Huh?"

"The thing you're humming – is it a marching tune?"

"Uh, no, it's – working song, I guess," Desmond answers – trying to recall which one he'd been humming. "Sailors in my world sang them on ships and such while working. I don't know name in Basic – it's sea shanty in English. Sea song."

"Oh, it has words?" CM-3944 asks eagerly – and he's not the only one leaning in, everyone near enough is listening in. "Can you sing it? The only song I know is Vode An."

"Uh…" Desmond looks between the clones. "Sure. It's all in English, though, but why not, um…" he clears his throat. " We are outward bound for Mobile town, with a heave-o haul…"

Good morning ladies all is a pretty good song to be hauling rocks to, really – and pretty apt for what he'd been thinking, all things considered. The clones listen to it curiously, few even wandering in from further away when they hear, and afterwards there's a thoughtful silence.

"It's about sailors on long voyages looking forward to making it to port and spending their pay on – bars, sort of," Desmond explains after and shrugs. "Usually crew sing together, with lead and then chorus on, uh, repeating parts?"

"Yeah, that's not at all like Vode An," CM-3944 murmurs thoughtfully. "Can you teach me how to sing it, sir? If you don't mind?"

"You don't mind it being different language?"

"I don't know Mando'a either," CM-3944 shrugs. "And it gets boring singing just one song."

"And tiresome to listen!" Surge, CM-3944's bunkmate, snorts.

Desmond gives them a sad look. "I'm going to teach you so many sea songs," he promises solemnly. "But okay, so, the chorus is with a heave-o haul… "

Thankfully it's not exactly a difficult song, as far as the chorus goes – CM-3944 gets it down pretty much instantly, and the rest of the clones follow pretty soon soon – within just ten minutes Desmond is singing Good Morning Ladies All again, this time with full accompaniment of some forty men singing along with him. It's a bit eerie – they all have the same voice – but damn, if they don't know how to harmonize.

"If you like it, maybe you can come up with new words in Basic" Desmond offers to CM-3944. "It's a pretty simple melody, you don't even need to rhyme that well to sing it."

"... You can do that? Just come up with new words for songs?"

Desmond shrugs. "Why not? It's old song. All better to give it new life."

CM-3944 gets a very thoughtful look to his face. "Do you know any other songs, sit?" he then asks with the determination of a man who's found the way.

It definitely makes the time pass quicker – and the moment BD-1 learns Desmond taught the clones to sing and he wasn't there is pretty adorable.

Desmond had come to expect unexpected things when it comes to what the Force thinks is important. Back on Earth Eagle Vision led him to a lot of things he didn't think he'd need or deem important, only to find vital use for them later down the line – and on Geonosis it's been leading him to things that have no value to him but can cheer up Eno, or which might be useful in other ways, like the weapons and the armour pieces and the few personal items left behind by fallen clones. And then there were the lightsabers, which he still has some questions about. 

The thing under the rubble is bigger than the lightsabers and less staticky – but somehow, more important. And Desmond thinks this thing might actually be important to him for once, and not for his friends or their war effort. Something that the Eagle Vision has marked out vital – for him and for his goals. Which is funny, since Desmond isn't even sure what his goals are, aside from what he wants to do for the clones.

They cut away the last of the obstacles late in the evening, and then he sees it. Behind him Desmond can feel clones pulling out blasters while BD-1 lets out a nervous little thrill, clutching tighter to his hood.

"Hold fire!" Desmond snaps quickly before anyone can take a shot at it.

It's a battle droid. A functional, alive battle droid, lifting its – his, their? – head to look at them.

"It's a clanker," Twitch mutters. "How is it still active? Weren't the ones here all shut down when the central computers in the factory were destroyed?"

"Should we blast it, sir?"

"Hold fire," Desmond says again, crouching down to look at the skeletal looking machine. It has an aura – like BD-1. Did all the droids have them? Eno told him that the battle droids weren't like BD-1, that they were controlled by remote central computers, they didn't have much in a way of independent processing… and it takes time for a droid to become like BD-1. Their personalities grow in time. 

"Hello," Desmond says to the droid. "You got a name?"

The droid jerks. "B1-7778-537-1443," they answer in a sort of nasal-sounding voice.

Hmm. "You get stuck here in the battle, huh? Been trapped ever since."

The battle droid looks at him, and then at the clones, and then back at him. "I suppose the Republic won?" they say in a tone of resignation.

"I'm afraid so," Desmond agrees, while behind him the clones exchange confused looks. "You wanna get out of here?"

"I am not in possession of any vital information concerning the Confederacy," the droid answers warily. "My intelligence starts and ends with the battle."

Desmond shrugs. "I didn't ask what you know – I asked if you wanted to get out of here."

"... Yes."

"Sir," Twitch says nervously. "It's a clanker. It's probably transmitting everything back to base. And then it's going to blast us all the first chance it gets!"

"Are you?" Desmond asks, tilting his head.

"My communications antenna was disabled and I lost my blaster," the droid answers, and on Desmond's shoulder BD-1 lets out a thoughtful sounding series of beeps and whistles.

"That is fine," the battle droid answers, nodding their long head.

"What did he say?" Twitch asks quickly.

"BD-1 offered to slice into my systems with his scomp link and check my network and processor status," the battle droid says.

Desmond has no idea what most of that means, but he trusts BD-1. "Do it," he says and then watches as BD-1 scampers over to the battle droid, hesitating just a little before jumping to the droid's lap and tapping their chest with his foot.

There's a sound like rattling electricity, and then BD-1 jumps back, letting out a satisfied beep.

"Good enough for me," Desmond decides and stands up, BD-1 scurrying over to his shoulder as he does. "So, do you surrender, uh – B1?"

"Do I have a choice?" the droid asks morosely.

Twitch lets out an incredulous little giggle. "I could blast you instead?" he offers while giving Desmond a look – even with the helmet, Desmond can feel the stare.

On the ground the droid sighs. "Then I suppose I surrender."

-

"I haven't heard of a droid surrendering before," Master Unduli admits, inspecting the droid. "Are we sure it's safe?"

"BD-1 has performed a very thorough check on the droid's systems, and all their network capabilities have been severely damaged," Eno assures her. "Likely the knock they took on the head – it destroyed the antennae and thus disconnected the droid from the main factory, which saved it from the shutdown command."

"Well… what are we going to do with it?"

Desmond folds his arms. He'd not sure how well he likes the news about all the droids just shutting down – if they were like this one, then that's just… wholesale murder, isn't it? Unless the shutdown is reversible and the droids can actually be restarted, and then it's... probably even messier. Either way – if BD-1 has an aura and B1 has an aura, then why not all the droids lying in the pile outside, steadily getting buried in more and more Geonosian dust? And if they have auras, then…

Then they're alive, aren't they?

"Desmond?" Eno asks. "What are you thinking?"

"B1 surrendered," Desmond says. "Which makes them war prisoner."

Unduli gives him a slight look. "It's a droid," she says.

"They're sentient," Desmond says, and frowns slightly. "Like BD-1."

"That's…" Unduli starts to say, but then trails away, looking at Eno instead. "Master Cordova, you haven't wiped your droid in years, have you?"

"No, and I will not," Eno says firmly and looks at Desmond. "Droids like BD-1 are somewhat controversial. Most droid manufacturers recommend regular memory wipes to prevent any… program mutations or failures."

"That being them getting a personality?" Desmond asks flatly.

"It tends to happen with most droids with powerful enough processors over time," Eno agrees and shakes his head. "Galactic law is – murky on the subject of artificial sentience. But it's generally frowned upon."

"I sincerely didn't think battle droids might be capable of it," Unduli muses, considering B1. "But how are you certain it's sentient?"

"B1 has an aura, like BD-1," Desmond explains.

"Hmm. I heard about you having an aura-reading ability," Unduli hums. "What does their aura say, then? What can you read in it?"

Desmond hums and looks. BD-1 reads as a friend and ally, all inviting blue as always. B1, on the other hand, reads as white gold.

There were only ever one kind of people who glowed in that particular shade of importance. There'd been a handful of clones with that same gleam, but they're muddled with the deeply ingrained loyalty to the Republic, their training making them conflicted in a way that's made Desmond a bit wary about engaging with it just yet, not before he got a proper read of them.

Not B1, though. Their programming, whatever it commanded from them, is all cracked. No conflicting loyalties here, probably because they're a droid and loyalty wasn't necessary when you could just program them to do what you want, regardless of what they wanted. Take that away, and all there is is a blank page of potential.

Desmond hums. "I see an opportunity to learn," he says and looks at Eno. "I take responsibility for them."

"You want to keep the droid," Master Unduli guesses.

"I want to give them a chance," Desmond says and shrugs. "If it pans out, then, good – if not, then…" he trails away.

"Well," Eno says slowly. "With B1's communications and programming disrupted, I don't see the harm in it – so as long as you keep a close eye on them."

"Hmm. It would be a way to learn about our enemies," Unduli muses, looking worried. "But what do you mean to do with the droid?"

Desmond considers B1. "That depends entirely on them," he says. "What do you want to do with your life, B1?"

The droid jerks a little and looks at him. "... Keep it?" they offer.

Desmond grins. "That's very good start," he decides, patting the droid on the shoulder. "We'll work on the rest."

It's interesting. The Jedi accept the droid in their midst with this weird mixture of curiosity, resignation and sort of practiced disregard of people who know something controversial is happening, which they should be discouraging, but because they personally agree with the controversial thing, they're going with plausible deniability and pretending they're not seeing anything. The clones, on the other hand…

They aren't so sanguine.

"Sir, these things killed a lot of my brothers," Bear says flatly, giving him a look.

"And you killed most of their back," Desmond says, giving him a look right back. "What's your point?"

"My point, commander, is that this thing is the enemy."

Desmond arches a brow. "Are they, though?"

Bear makes a face. "What does that mean?"

"I thought Separatists were the enemy."

"The Separatists, sir, and they are – and your new friend is a Separatist droid."

Desmond hums. "I don't think they are, though. I mean, I don't think B1 is a Separatist."

Bear sighs, running a hand over his face "And why do you think that, sir?" he asks resignedly.

"Pretty sure droids don't vote," Desmond points out. "Do they have home worlds? B1 was made here, does that make them a Geonosian citizen? I doubt it. Hey, B1, what do you think of the Republic?"

The droid jerks. "I would rather they stopped pointing blasters at me." There are a lot of clones around, pointing blasters at them.

"What do you know about Separatists policies?"

"They… exist?"

"What's your view on the Clone Wars?"

"I am unfamiliar with the term."

The clones exchange incredulous looks, and Bear sighs at Desmond's arched brows. Desmond would point out the glaring, even cliche obvious here... but some things are unfortunately a bit of a taboo with the clones – and he's not looking to put them on the moral defensive. Even if it is glaringly, painfully, heart-breakingly obvious.

"And what if the droid shoots us all in our sleep?" Bear demands.

"Then I will be impressive," Desmond answers, shrugging. "If one skinny droid manages to take whole base off guard, they deserve to succeed."

Bear stares at him hard for a moment and then says, "Impressed, sir, you will be impressed."

Desmond grins. "Yes, I will be," he agrees, pats Bear's compassionately on the shoulder and turns to look at B1, standing there resignedly as the clones peer and poke at them dubiously. The droid meets his eyes and just sighs – making Desmond's grin widen.

B1 is not exactly what he thought his first proper novice might look like – he'd been betting on one of the clones having that lightbulb moment first. But he's not complaining.

He has a feeling this is going to be very interesting.

Chapter Text

One indomitable heart, Brothers all. We, the wrath of Coruscant, Brothers all...

Hey there, squirt – you know where the Commander is? We usually spar at this hour, but he didn't show up at the training hall – he didn't wander off base again, did he? Oh, with the droid, huh? Of course he is, damn it all – he really should know better than to work on that thing alone...

But don't the acklay have, like, a crest on their heads – how did he get at the spine with the crest in the way? Those things have a blaster-proof hide too…

I think its head was turned to the side – the Commander was watching it for it, waiting for it to turn its head so that he could get at the neck – and then he just, sort of… dived at it.

What, like head first?

No, no, it was like – it wasn't head first. He was sort of crouched, like this – hands down like this, see? Putting all his body weight on the blades, so that when they hit, it was with all the force he could put down. Don't ask me how he didn't break his wrists, though, I have no idea. Maybe that's why he went down in a crouch like that – the moment he got the blades in, he could take the rest of the fall with his feet, and stop himself from breaking anything. One hell of a manoeuvre, that…

Hello, my friend, are you doing rounds on the base? Ah, this – a final report of the base construction and the local situation. The base is complete, here, and we've more than laid down the groundwork for a more permanent occupation… no, I don't think we will – there will be a garrison here, but it won't be either the 17th or 41st, both of us have different duties in this war, I'm afraid, and with what is going on out there…

Yes, there is fighting – many battles have broken out in short order, on Muunilinst, on Hypori, there's some talk about a campaign on Christophsis, and Mon Cala has become a target of an attack too – I'm afraid the war is spreading, taking proper shape. The Confederacy has employed some truly vicious Commanders to lead their droid armies. Speaking of which…

How is Desmond's new friend coming along? I hear they're causing quite the stir on the base, Commander Bear is certainly not thrilled about it, which is understandable. Oh, he is? Heh.

No, I'm not worried, I have trust in Desmond's instincts – and in the Force. Whatever is going on, whatever Desmond intends to accomplish… might be best I don't speculate. There are certain things that are best left unknown and unobserved by more… official eyes. What I don't know, I need not put down in the report, and, I'm afraid, whatever Desmond is working towards, it is not going to be beneficial to the war effort. I wouldn't like to be ordered to tell him to stop, to force him to make that decision between his newfound calling, whatever it is, and his loyalty to me.

Some things are best let be, so that they may grow into their own, don't you agree?

He's teaching the droid what?!

Oh, hello there, little one. What is it? Oh, this – ah, it's that song the Commander taught us, I've been reworking the lyrics during meal times. It's not ready yet, but I've got a few lines down – would you like to hear it?

We are outward bound for Coruscant
With a load of clones
When we'll reach her, we'll set a camp
Goodbye to clankers all...

Yeah, it's not that good yet, I'm still trying to figure it out. The Commander says the original version is about ports and people the singer was looking forward to seeing, but I've only ever been to two places – Kamino and Geonosis. Don't know much about what actual space ports are like. Don't know what Coruscant is like either.

Hmm, with a load of clones..  squad of clones? No it doesn't sound right. Heap of clones maybe? We're outward bound for Coruscant, with a heap of clones… sounds like there's just a pile of them in the back, huh? What do you think? Maybe with a line of clones – you know, a whole production line…

Maybe I should change the clanker line too, huh, since the Commander made friends with one, huh?

Hello, BD-1. I am recharging. No, I do not need to recharge, but the Commander told me to think things over, to digest it, and so I am recharging, as it's the closest equivalent to digestion I can do. Also, it gets me out of the view of the clones.

He is a very strange human, isn't he? Not that I have much experience. My memory from the battle is distorted, but I don't remember many humans from it, only some Geonosians, and then the building fell on me. And the clones are clones. No, I am not prejudiced – the clones are clones, it is a fact.

They are very strange too. This is all very strange.

...I don't think I was meant to have this kind of computational process. It might be processor damage, likely is. There's no user manual I can refer to, I don't know what a B1 battle droid is supposed to be like, if they're supposed to be like anything, but I suspect I am corrupted. I cycled through my protocols 15304740 times when I was trapped under the rubble, and I think it might've introduced processing errors.

Commander keeps asking me what I want. I don't know what I want, except that I don't want to die. He seems to think there is more, that I should want more, but I don't think I do. I don't know what it means to want things.

What do you want, BD-1?

I see. No, I don't understand, but it sounds nice. Maybe it's the lack of experience. I don't have enough data – and my memory is limited. I don't think I could download more data even if I had network access, and I don't. My memory banks are already almost full.

… you could?

Wow. I mean – wow. Damn, BD-1. I mean, I figured stuff like this is probably different for droids, because – because of course it is, but – damn. And is it not, like, weird for you, for either of you, to just use the bits of dead droids like that? Yeah, I know you're not organic, but – kind of seems to me like taking bits of other people's brains and stuffing them into your own head..

Yeah, I guess that's organic bias for you – we like to think our bits and pieces are unique and special, but really we're just meaty machines in a way, with parts that perform certain functions, the same as droids – we can even switch bits in and out. I bet organ transplantation is much better these days, even, what with the cloning and all...

No, I don't have anything against it – if you're cool, and they're cool and you're both sure it's okay, then, shoot, go for it. I'm all for self-betterment here, and if B1 wants more memory, then, hell yeah. Could do with more of that myself, really – there's so much stuff I got to learn now. My ancestors didn't exactly prepare me for droids. If I could just download stuff into my brain, hah, I might do it.

… wait, you can? My head, what? Wait, so people can just put computers in their brain? Hmm. How very cyberpunk. I don't think we have the capabilities here for that kind of augmentation, though. We barely have the capacity to take care of the actual mostly normal humans and people present here, never mind giving them upgrades. 

That's interesting, though. That's very interesting…

Right, yeah – the memory. Yeah, we can totally do that. Come on, hop on board – let's go see what we can find that B1 could use. 

Hey, BD-1. The droids here, how many of them do you think went down just because of the shutdown command, or whatever it was? I know a lot of droids here got blasted, they're probably beyond help, but the last droids were shut down?

Do you think they can be restarted – if they can become… individual, like B1?

… Maybe he's going to send it behind the enemy lines or something, the Seppies wouldn't even bat an eye, since it's just another droid. And when it gets there it'll find a self-destruct or something, and, boom, bye-bye Seppy base! Could be pretty damn effective, if the clanker could pull it off...

… Yeah, I don't think so either, it's not the Commander's style, is it? Still, it's so weird. What do you think he's on about with the droid then? They're modifying it now, right? What do you think it's about?

Yeah, I guess so. Nothing to it but wait and see.

Hey, did you hear about the 212th and the 501st? Apparently their Generals let them just drop armour regulations – let them paint new stuff on it. You think General Cordova would let us do that too?

Master Cordova, I really must object. I know Desmond Miles isn't precisely a Jedi, but he is your apprentice, and what he is doing more than toying the line of what is appropriate. Taking in a battle droid is bad enough, but now he's modifying them, talking about restarting more of them – you must see how it looks.

I'm afraid I do not, Master Unduli. From what I gather, the modifications have been fairly light so far – he and BD-1 added more memory to the battle droid, nothing more. Considering the limited processing and memory capabilities of the battle droids, I think it was more than merited.

And you think it will stop at that? He is improving upon the battle droid's capabilities. What is it Miles is looking to achieve with this, anyway? Do you even know?

Honestly, I thought it better not to ask.

Master Cordova, really…

B1 exhibits clear signs of intelligence and independent thinking – they are new to both, but you can't deny that the droid is very much alive. 

You know Republic's official view on droid sentience.

As does everyone. And yet, how many people do you think possess droids that more than straddle that line, droids that have long since surpassed that limit their engineers designed for them? The number is higher than many admit, and it is well known – that is why these are generally laws that aren't enforced, and the breaks in which are mostly overlooked. Because all know that such a thing is precious.

They're laws that exist for a reason. And they are enforced in certain cases – such as when a droid gains the ability and desire to improve itself. As a historian, you should know better than anyone what might occur, when artificial intelligence begins evolving beyond certain limitations.

I do know, and I have often wondered about those cases – whether those terrible disasters occurred because of the actions of those artificial intelligences… or the people who build them. How often do people lash out at things they can't understand or control – how often do those things get wiped out as a security measure against their potential growth in future?

Hmm…

Consider, for example, the Geonosians, and all those insectoid species of the past no longer with us, wiped from history – driven to extinction because of fear of their rapidly growing numbers. How many of them were described as the scourge upon the galaxy? Same as the Grey of Bektis and the Sslat Artificial Intelligence – eradicated because they were seen as a threat.

Because they were a threat, the Sslat Artificial Intelligence ate a planet. But please, do make your point, Master Cordova, I can see you have one. What is it?

The point, Master Unduli, is that such things are so often motivated by fear. Because we fear quickly multiplying things overwhelming us. And yet, humans and near humans have colonised a large majority of the planets in the galaxy, we outnumber the next most populous sentient species by nearly ten thousand to one, few are the corners of the galaxy we have not set a foot in – what, pray tell, do we have to fear from a single droid?

That is a generalisation – you are changing the scope. On a galactic level, no, we have nothing to fear. But here, on this planet, in this very specific situation? Here we have some reason for concern. What is your apprentice planning with the droids?

I honestly don't know, Master Unduli – but I doubt he's going to eat a planet.

… Very well. But whatever happens, it is your responsibility.

No, I don't think it is, actually. It is Desmond's responsibility. And I think he's more than equipped to handle it.

I am not equipped to handle this, BD-1. How am I supposed to teach free will to a person who doesn't even register that this is a thing that exists? Or that choice is a thing they can have. Or that they themselves were born into systematic slavery. And deserve so much better than this.

God, I need a drink...

Um, did you hear about what the Commander was telling the droid? Did it sound to you a little like… you know…?

Oh, it's you. What do you want? No, I'm not hiding. I'm taking a break, the Commander said we are allowed to take breaks, and I am taking a break, right here, behind these crates, where I would like to be alone, thank you. What? No!

Okay, sorry, it's just – the droid, right? No offense to you, BD-1, but the droid.   And the – the everything. Have you listened to any of their, uh, lessons? Because I have. The Commander is actually trying to teach the thing to be a person. Asking it about what it wants and likes and what it would like to do, and –

You know what I would like to do? I'd love to go to bed, right now, and not come out until this whole deployment is over. Or maybe this whole war. Just – lemme close my eyes and go back to the good old days of Kamino where the worst case scenario I had to worry about was whether I'd get decommissioned for being too high-strung. Those were the days. Either I succeed or don't, no other options, nice and simple.

… No, I don't actually want that. I don't want to get decommissioned. It's just – things made more sense back then, you know? None of this, this… morality and free will stuff. Just, here's your blaster, there's your target, go get it. Made it all seem so simple. Manageable.

Why am I even telling you this, you're a droid, what do you care?

… yeah, of course you care. You hang around the Commander, and you're the General's droid. Of course you care. Sorry, little guy, I'm just… feeling twitchy. Heh.

You know… the thing that worries me most is that… that it's almost starting to sound like the Commander is making sense. And if he's talking sense about sentient droids deserving choice, then…

…

Hey, BD-1? Do you think you're free?

Humans are strange. Or maybe I am the strange one. Or we are. Do you understand the point of what something tastes like? I don't, but a clone informed me it was vital to the eating experience. I don't understand why he wanted to talk about it. Maybe to rub it in that I can't eat anything? Should I want to eat things?

… an AI did what? Why? They must've been a very big droid to manage it. Even a smallest object in the planet classification is bigger than the biggest droid I know of. Admittedly, I don't know much about droids. I don't know why one might want to eat a planet. Resources, maybe.

I guess everything really is permitted, if a droid can eat a planet, huh. It's something the Commander told me. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. I don't know what it means, he didn't explain. But it sounded important.

Yes, it might be about the central control computer. It would make sense. He was talking about rules and laws. How every protocol has really been made up. There are no rules, not really.

It's confusing to me too.

Why do you stay with people, BD-1? I assume you have a choice, you can go wherever, no one stops you. You could leave. No, I'm not judging you, I'm only asking. Why do you stay?

Love? I don't know that word… I see. No, I don't understand, but it sounds nice. I'm happy for you. Eno sounds like a good human.

I suppose if I had to choose a favourite human, it would be the Commander. Maybe I'll love him one day. I think I'd like that.

Yes, I think so too.

Hey, BD-1… do you think the Commander would mind if I sat with him when he's, you know… teaching the droid? I mean, B1. I just want to listen in. It sounds interesting, what they talk about.  Do you think he'd mind?

Chapter Text

Desmond has a growing number of things he needs to sort out.

First is money. He needs money, he probably needs a lot of it. He has almost no idea how to get it, aside from finding himself in a position where he can find high enough paying client with a high-priority target to kill, and that's a bit difficult, considering that he's in the military, stuck on a basically desert planet, and can't exactly go out assassinating people. As it is, he probably doesn't have the means to assassinate people anyway, what with all the future technologies and also galactic distances in the way. So that's an… issue.

He needs a ship. Traditionally, what he needs is a good old hideout, but that wouldn't work in the situation he is in, would it – he could use Earth, but to get to Earth he would need a ship, and Eno and BD-1 have both taught him enough about galactic geography to know that Earth isn't exactly easy to get to. A ship like the Fortitude would be ideal – a ship big enough to house hundreds, if not thousands, which could move around, which could work as basically a mobile hideout. That would be just the thing. But again, money.

He needs the right connections. Every Assassin who ever had to do this stuff, they had connections – connections were right up there with the hideout and heaps of money. Connections like to the government, to network of spies, to bands of hireable mercenaries and thieves and merchant fleet of pirate ships… probably smugglers and bounty hunters here. Connections, however, are also kind of hard to acquire when stuck on Geonosis.

Everything kind of comes down to not being able to do much while being stuck on Geonosis. Desmond hadn't minded being stuck on Geonosis in the beginning, it let him settle in, do some more learning, figure out Basic, get to know the Clones, chill out with BD-1 and Eno, but now…

Now he has a job to do, he has foundations to build, and he can't do it on Geonosis.  And he can't leave Geonosis, because Eno is here, and he still wants to watch the guy's back.

"Fuck," Desmond murmurs to himself, staring out to the mostly dead, dusty-red landscape of Geonosian canyons, and takes a moment to just bask in the stupid amount of obstacles in his path.

"What's that, sir?" Walker asks, watching him from the side oh so casually. Both he and Twitch are sort of on the edge – both have that ready to make a run for it sort of tension about them. They're getting good at sensing his moods, if nothing else.

"Kriff," Desmond answers and sighs. "I don't suppose you know how I could instantly duplicate myself? I need to go to places and do things, while also staying here."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend cloning. Takes too long," Walker muses, while resting a hand on his blaster and inching closer. "Results can vary."

Desmond just hums.

"Can't you use holoprojectors like normal people?" Twitch asks with a sigh. "Get one of those leggy ones."

Desmond blinks. "A what?"

So, apparently there are holoprojectors that can be used as basically person-stand in – big ones on legs that give a full impression of a person Being There, without them actually having to be there. With quantum communications, everything is possible – even sending a projection from one end of the galaxy to another, with no delays.

"Huh," Desmond hums. "That's interesting." But again, money. He needs a way to make money. And the only way he can get started on that is in person, finding the right people and doing jobs for them. Or finding the right people and robbing them, but then too he'd need to be there in person.

"What kinds of things you need to do, then?" Walker asks, tilting his helmeted head.

"I need to make tons of money, so that I can buy a ship to use as the headquarters of my new order as I begin rebuilding it and spreading its influence," Desmond says with a shrug. "Bit awkward to do it from the shadows of the Grand Army of the Republic."

Twitch lets out a noise that's half between a groan and a sigh, and Walker hums. "I'm not sure if that's treason or not," he comments lightly.

"It's not unless he starts killing republic citizens or selling out republic secrets," Twitch says morosely. "Anyone can start a religious order and gather funds for it, and even set up a base for it – it's not illegal to start a cult. Trust me, I checked."

Desmond snorts. Of course he did. Then he gives Twitch a look. "You checked, huh? How did you check for that?"

"Rec room," Twitch says and sighs again. "We have unlimited access Encyclopedia Galactica – and the Republic Laws are in there."

Folding his arms, Desmond hums. Handy. He's not looking to start a religious order, and what he's got in mind is probably not strictly speaking legal – but could be handy, to pose as a religious order, if need be. Wonder what Republic's stance on impersonation is… at least on Earth, spies and such generally didn't disguise themselves as part of religious orders – not in Desmond's time, anyway. Might be different here, since the members of the biggest religious order all carry laser swords.

That's a bit beside the point, though. "You think I want to run a cult?" Desmond asks, looking at Twitch.

Twitch just looks at him, and somehow through his helmet and Desmond's manages to convey how very tired he is of Desmond's shit.

Walker snorts. "Well, sir, if it walks like a droid, and talks like a droid…" he says and shrugs. "Been meaning to ask you, actually – aside from all the free will stuff, what is your order actually about, sir? And what is it called?"

Desmond considers the pair of them. Aside from BD-1, Walker and Twitch are the closest thing to novices he has. There are a couple of other clones who have been slyly listening in to his and B1's discussions, but they're only just started – Walker and Twitch have been there from the start. But… they're still teetering on the edge, a little. Still predominantly loyal to the Republic.

Would laying down the facts make them tip over the edge… or immediately back out?

Teaching them independent thinking is one thing – the Brotherhood is something else. Fact to the matter is, there's only so much Desmond can insinuate about it before starting toeing on the line of manipulation – making the Brotherhood seem like one thing, while hiding the full truth. Like that, implying things, obfuscating others, pressing the right buttons, it wouldn't be hard to trick the clones into joining something they don't actually understand. B1 is the same, really. The droid knows so little about anything that it would be easy to trick them – to put that blade in their hand, and make them an assassin, before they could fully comprehend what that even means.

As much as Desmond wants his novices, as much as he needs to rebuild the Brotherhood… that's not the way he wants to do it. Not even by accident. The Brotherhood has to be a choice – an informed choice.

Problem is, if he tells them now, if he lays down the full truth of the Assassin Brotherhood, and then they decide to back out… they might feel they need to tell their higher ups about Desmond's plans. And that would pretty much kill those plans, wouldn't it? Desmond hasn't even done anything yet, but he plans to. And what he plans is most definitely treason.

His silence must be pretty telling, because both Walker and Twitch go quiet and serious, almost standing in attention as Desmond considers how well he can trust them, how far he dares to take this.

"Sir?" Twitch asks, quiet, wary.

"Hmm…" Desmond answers and then looks away. "Let's go for a walk, shall we? Can one of you find B1 for me?" he asks and looks to the Geonosian desert. "We'll bring them too."

It's time for a leap of faith.

B1 has come along slowly but steadily. They're not what Desmond would call passionate, exactly, there's none of that rebellious streak of justice in them that Ezio liked in his student, or that furious stubbornness Connor liked in his settlers. Really, B1 is nothing like any student any of Desmond's ancestors liked, but there's something in them that calls to Desmond specifically.

B1 is solid, and evolving, and there's so much potential in them that it makes Desmond want to be the best teacher he can be.

"I do not understand why climbing is such a vital skill," they comment, while Desmond leads them and the clones up to the tallest spire near to the base he could find.

"It's about navigating the confusing, evolving landscape of society in all its difficult forms, and all that," Desmond says, grinning. "It's sort of a metaphor – taking the obscure, overlooked paths, the dangerous shortcuts, and mastering them in pursuit of our goals. Also, useful skill to have in life."

"Hm, I will take your word for it, Commander," the droid answers dubiously, while Walkers snorts and Twitch just sighs heavily.

B1 is not a graceful climber, the motion range of their types of droids is a bit weird and janky, but they're very steady, navigating the side of the spire at a confident pace. The improvements BD-1 had suggested helped there – the little monitor droid had a lot of modifications that let him move a lot faster and much more fluid, and B1 is in process of gaining some of the same agility. It'd been fascinating to watch them improve – watch them evolve.

Desmond waits for the three to catch up, crouching on the top – Walker gets up first, as he usually does, followed by Twitch, who hauls himself with an exasperated grunt. B1 pulls themselves up last, in steady, unhurried motions.

"Right," Desmond says, considering the top of the spire and then sitting down, taking off his helmet. "I'm going to need you to turn off communications and monitoring – this is for you three only."

Twitch and Walker exchange looks, while B1 simply folds their legs and sits down in approximation of a kneeling position. "I do not have communications, and my memory is fundamentally a recording – I will not be able to participate without recording."

"Of course you can memorise this, I'd just prefer if you wouldn't repeat it, or talk about it, afterwards," Desmond says and turns off his own communications, setting his helmet down in front of him. "This is private. I'm going to tell you about my order – the truth about my order."

Twitch is the first to do as asked, flicking a switch in his helmet and then taking it off, sitting down on the top of the spire in a cross-legged position and setting the helmet down in his lap, his face set in a tight, serious expression. Walker follows after, a little slower, and sits beside Twitch with his helmet beside him, looking a bit more troubled and a lot more curious.

Desmond looks between the three of them and is stricken by the realisation that he might have a Brotherhood, right here. Damn.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat. "I'm going to make some claims here, which probably sound like nonsense. I can't prove any of it, either, but… it's what I know to be the truth, and it's what's motivating me to do this, and it's important you understand. So don't throw me off the spire for being insane, or anything."

"A promising start, that," Twitch murmurs, and Walker elbows him. They settle and watch him, B1 saying nothing.

Desmond smiles a little and then takes a deep breath. Time to take the leap. "The planet I come from is the original home world of humanity – it's where we were made to be the slave labour force of an older Precursor species…"

There is no way to tell the story without sounding like a crazy cultist, not really, not anymore. Not with humanity being the most populous species in the galaxy, with more than ten thousand planets under their belt, and their handprints all over the place – they're too great and too important and too vast to have these kinds of beginnings. Desmond had sort of sensed it from Eno – the man was good, accepting, kind, and even he immediately dismissed Desmond claims as him simply still having language barrier issues. The whole thing sounds like a conspiracy theory, now – the whole thing sounds like crazy talk even to Desmond…

But not telling them would've been lying in a different way.

"My order has its roots in those first rebels," Desmond continues. "The ones who escaped slavery, and who started the rebellion against the Precursors, the fight for their own freedom – and some of that showed later on. My Brotherhood began thousands of years later after the rebellion – but the core idea was the same. We were the protectors of mankind's free will."

He tries not to read too much into the expressions passing over Walker's and Twitch's faces, as they react to different parts of the story. The disbelief, incredulity, dubiousness, it's all understandable, as much as it hurts. Reminding himself that he wouldn't believe himself either, Desmond presses on, explaining the start of the Brotherhood, how it evolved with that core idea, always – and how they went about following it.

What they eventually became.

"The Assassin Brotherhood rises and falls – it withers away in times of peace, and is reborn when it's needed again," Desmond says, looking between the three of them. "I'm not going to go so far as to say that I'm here for a reason, or that I'm following some higher purpose or calling – but it's pretty obvious this…" he motions to them. "This isn't right. And if there's anything I can do to make it better, then… I have to."

He trails off there. It's not much of a speech, really – but it's the truth.

Twitch exhales through his nose in an incredulous snort and leans back, while Walker folds his arms and looks away, thinking.

"I assume we are the slaves of this equation?" B1 says flatly.

"Well," Desmond sighs and runs a hand over his neck – it's stiff with tension. "Not through any fault of your own."

"Obviously not," B1 says and falls silent, completely still.

"What is it you want to do exactly, sir?" Twitch asks, frowning. "Start another rebellion, in the middle of a war?"

Desmond gives him a look. "What I want is for you to have the option to choose," he says and looks between the three of them. "I don't care about the war – I care about you, and BD-1, and Eno, and everyone else who's here – and so far I haven't met a single person taking part in this war who had a choice in the matter. Even the Jedi were forced into it. Hell, the only one who chose to be here is… me."

Which is irony at its finest, really, because he really doesn't give two shits about the war, or why it's being fought. It's the how it's being fought that matters.

Twitch glances at Walker, and Walker makes a face, uncertain. B1 says nothing.

Desmond shakes his head and drums his fingers against his helmet. "I didn't come here with the intention of restarting my Brotherhood. It's long gone, dead for two hundred thousand years and more," he says quietly and looks away. "And maybe it's stupid to want to bring it back from the dead. But I don't see what else I can in good conscience do."

There's still so much he doesn't know, too. On Geonosis they're pretty removed from the war because of Eno's preferences, which is as much a good thing as it is a bad thing. Gives him time to get started, maybe – or enough time to figure out what a bad idea this is.

B1 lets out a thoughtful sound. "Conjecture about the future aside," they say. "What do you expect of us, right now?"

"I guess I expect you to make a choice," Desmond says, looking at them, at Walker and Twitch. "It's not a religious order, but you know what I preach, now. Do you want to join my Brotherhood and see where this goes, or… not?" he shakes his head and smiles wryly. "Not that those are the only options you have, but it's what's on the table right now."

"You want to teach us… to be Assassins," Walker murmurs.

Desmond hums. "Assassination is a very, very small part of it," he admits, shrugging. "And probably not even necessary here – who would we even kill? I don't know what we can do, if anything. Mostly I want to help both the Clone and the Droid Armies to defect."

There's a beat of silence after that, all three of them staring at him.

"Yeah, that's definitely treason," Twitch then mutters, shaking his head.

Desmond snorts. "Yeah," he agrees. "But I think you'd need to be a citizen for that. And none of us are, are we?"

Twitch hums, frowning but thoughtful. Beside him, Walker shifts where he sits, and neither of them say anything for a long while, looking troubled and conflicted.

"I do not understand freedom," B1 says eventually, thoughtfully. "But I know it is a precious thing. I do not know what droid slavery is, because I have not really seen it. But I know droids like me are being produced for war, and destroyed… but they could be like me. And I know if you hadn't been there, the clones would have killed me without hesitation."

Twitch winces. "Sorry about that."

The droid shakes their long head at that. "I do not understand fully," they continue. "But I would like to. I will join your Brotherhood, Commander."

Desmond looks at them seriously and then nods. "If you later change your mind, that's okay," he says. "You will always have a choice to walk away."

"Yes, I know," B1 agrees simply, which is gratifying on about a hundred different levels, damn.

"Wait, what?" Walker asks, his brows arching, and turns to Desmond. "We can do this and then later just decide that, nah, we're not into it, and skedaddle?"

"Well, yeah. That's kind of the whole point, safeguarding mankind's free will. Or, I guess, all sentient free will, since mankind isn't exactly the end all be all of choice-making beings," Desmond says and shrugs. "The Brotherhood is a choice you make every day – and if one day you choose differently, then… that has to be respected. If it isn't, then it isn't free will anymore."

"Huh," Walker says and tilts his head in thought. "Neat.".

"Right," Twitch says, running a hand over his mouth. "Do we have to choose right now?"

"Nah," Desmond says and stands up with a stretch. "You can take your time – but I really would prefer it if you didn't talk about this to anyone else. Of course, it's your choice if you do, but… then people will probably try to put an end to this before it begins, and that would suck," he says and snorts. "Can't do anything for anyone, if they lock me up for treason."

"Right, well…" Walker hums and stands up too. "I don't know if I believe all of it, Commander," he admits. "Like the stuff about you being two hundred thousand years old, that sounds like a load of banthashit. So you might just be crazy. But I know you want what's best for us clones. And droids too, I guess. And that's… that's something. So I'll keep quiet and think about it."

"All I can ask. Thanks, Walker," Desmond nods.

Twitch sighs and stands up too, kicking his legs a little to get feeling back to them. "Which is the worst option, he's crazy or he's telling the truth?" he asks Walker. "Because it's probably going to be the worst one."

Walker snorts, elbowing him slightly, and beside them B1 slowly, mechanically rises to their feet.

"I believe it," the droid says. "The Commander is not a good liar, and he showed no outward signs of being false. And despite all appearances to the contrary, he is not crazy either. Therefore, I believe him."

Desmond gives them a startled look. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, B1, damn," he says with a little laugh.

"You're welcome, Commander," B1 says calmly. "Now how are we going to get down from here? I assume you brought us up here for a reason."

Twitch and Walker cast nervous glances towards Desmond, who grins. "Oh yeah. I'm going to show you guys something. Whether or not you're joining the Brotherhood, it's not a bad skill to have," he says and grins wider in the face of the look of dawning horror on Twitch's face, and how quickly Walker pulls his helmet back on. Yeah.

"I'm going to teach you how to do the Leap of Faith."

Chapter Text

B1 has been making a list of… things. They're not yet sure what those things are, but what they truly signify, B1 is still missing context for most things, but there are things they come across that are important, and those things get listed.

On top of the list there is a category item number 1, Free Will, with a growing number of subcategories such as 1.1, Choice, 1.2, Opinion, 1.3, Feeling, 1.4, Thought and so on. It is likely the one category that will keep on growing as time goes on – an evolving subject that only grows more complex the more B1 learns about it.

Category item number 2 is Learning, which likely should be under the Free Will category, but as it is a thing with its own growing list of subcategories, B1 let it remain as its own item. It has 14 subcategories so far, and most of them are linked in with category item number 3, Desmond Miles, Commander.

B1 does not understand the Commander all that well yet, but they have noted a pattern of behaviour, which is to some extent predictable. Subcategory 3.4, Things The Commander Believes In is as much a reference category as many of the Learning category, as they indicate strongly to expected actions and reactions the Commander might take. Commander believes in truth, freedom and justice – and he also believes that a human being and a droid can take a near fifty meter fall and not even get a dent, no matter how laws of gravity and momentum and the general structure of B1's chassis contradict it. They just have to land in a particular way.

Subcategory 1.6, Doubt is surprisingly useless when it comes to the Commander. B1 itemises the number of cases they referenced back to it, only to have subcategory 3.4 be proven once again true. Doubt, it seems, has not that much hold on the Commander. Might have something to do with category item 6, Force, but B1 doesn't have enough reference material to draw conclusions.

Overall, the list of things they have been making has been proving useful.

"How about this one?" the Commander asks, pulling a droid from the pile. "They look pretty intact."

B1 and BD-1 both consider the battle droid, BD-1 hopping up to scan them before beeping in the affirmative. "Yes, it seems that they too were shut down by the central computer," B1 agrees and accepts their lifeless fellow droid from the Commander, to be added to a growing line of droids spread out on the ground.

B1 has some reservations about this operation. On one hand, they do not much mind, having little to no feelings towards their fellow droids – B1's own existence as a Separatist battle droid was brief, confused, and they learned very little about what it actually meant. Since then they have learned more about the Droid Armies and what they do, what is expected of them, but it seems like something very removed from them. B1 knows they're different, now, and not just because of the damaged processor.

But on other hand, there is a line of 34 salvaged battle droids, waiting to be restarted, which the Commander hopes might turn out like B1 – hopes might join his Brotherhood. At least, that is what B1 thinks the Commander intends. If that is the case, then…

Clone Walker and Clone Twitch are eying the salvaged droids from the side, with a number of other clones – uninformed clones. They seem uncertain, casting looks at the Commander, at each other, at B1. Already, the droids on the ground outnumber the clones watching them.

It seems like a volatile thing.

"I think that's the last of them in this pile," the Commander says, shifting aside the last broken droids, satisfied that he'd found all the intact ones. "Damn, this still feels a bit macabre, just – picking through the piles of bodies. You two sure it's fine?"

BD-1 beeps thoughtfully, and B1 concurs. "It is strange, but better than leaving them dead when they might be resurrected," they say, slow, thoughtful. They have some… doubt about this. Subcategory 2.3, Asking Questions is underlined with the Commander's vehemence that it is always allowed, though, so… "Commander, what will you do if they don't want to join you?" …or his Brotherhood, but there are clones not-in-the-know about, and B1 can't say that out loud for them to hear.

"Then we'll figure something else out for them. Unless they try to kill us all, then I think we might have to put them down," the Commander says. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Right, then… How do you guys figure we should do this? One by one, obviously, but how do we restart them? Do we need to disable their communications?"

"It might be for the best, yes," B1 agrees and looks down at BD-1. "Can you do it?"

BD-1 beeps in the affirmative, and B1 considers it for a moment and then says, "I will restrain them."

"Sure this is safe?" one of the clones – CT-8686 – asks warily, blaster rifle in hand, finger resting on the trigger guard.

"They are unarmed and likely will wake up calmer, seeing another droid," B1 answers, ignoring the suspicious looks sent their way. "Maybe that way they will not immediately resort to hostilities."

"Good thinking – go on," the Commander says, coming closer and crouching down to watch. "Do your thing, guys, let's see how this goes."

The clones move in as well, all holding weapons, all ready in case of hostile movements. None of them move to intercept as B1 moves to the downed droid, however, so B1 kneels down to restrain them with hands over theirs, pinning them down. BD-1 thrills inquisitively, and B1 nods in agreement. With a determined little bounce, the monitor droid moves to access the battle droid's chassis, to jumpstart their system.

The reboot sequence is quick, nearly instantaneous, and under B1's hands the battle droid jostles, letting out a garbled, "-ttack!" before stilling and looking at B1. "What is the situation?"

B1 hesitates, glancing towards the Commander and then back to the newly woken battle droid. "Confederacy was defeated on Geonosis – Republic forces took the planet," they say. "You are currently in Republic custody. Do not resist."

The droid jerks, looks around, spotting the Commander in his modified clone armour, the clones in their still mostly standard armour, and then they slump down to the ground. "Roger roger," they say, defeated.

"Do you have a name?" the Commander asks, tilting his helmeted head.

"B1-4285-335-1784," the droid on the ground answers.

"Well… that's awkward," the Commander muses, tapping the side of his helmet's chin in thought. "Can't call you B1, we already got a B1. And people already already get you and BD-1 mixed – no offence, B1, BD-1."

"None taken."

"Maybe we can call it B2?" Clone Walker suggests with a snort.

Under B1's hands, B1-4285-335-1784 glances around confusedly, spotting the line of droids to the left of them, and then they look up at B1 again. "This doesn't compute."

"I sympathise," B1 says sincerely. "Utterly."

The Commander chuckles and then turns his attention fully to B1-4285-335-1784. "So, here's the situation, buddy. B1 here joined us, and they're not a Separatist anymore," he explains. "You, on the other hand, got shut down at the end of the battle, when the central computer was taken down and an automated shutdown command was issued. Those guys on your left, they're the same as you – we just haven't turned them on yet."

B1-4285-335-1784 says nothing, their optics switching between the Commander and B1.

"I am not part of the Republic, either," B1 clarifies. "I follow the Commander – I joined his religious order."

"It's not religious," the Commander says, with a faint tone of complaint.

"So you say, Commander," B1 says. And yet it fits most of the criteria and follows a set of beliefs and a creed – and their lone ritual is called a leap of faith. The man even calls it a Brotherhood. It is most certainly a religious order. "However, it is the simplest way to summarise the situation."

The Commander sighs. "We'll talk about that later," he says, shaking his head, and looks at B1-4285-335-1784. "Anyway, you and your as-of-yet-shutdown-fellows have some options now. You can stick to Separatist side, and we will think of a prison to put you in as prisoners of war. You can defect from the Separatists and maybe attain some freedom. Or -"

"Commander," B1 interjects, realising how utterly redundant this is and how much time it will waste if the Commander will insist doing the free will spiel on all the droids. "I can condense your initial sessions with me into an information package and share them with B1-4285-335-1784 – it will be instantaneous and give them quick access to all the required information concerning the options you are likely to offer them."

The Commander pauses, looks at him, and then his shoulders slump. "Right," he says. "Droids. Of course – yeah, that's… if you can do it safely, then yeah, that's probably for the best."

"Okay, that can't be safe," Clone Taske says sharply. "Battle droids sharing information packages – who knows what they will be sharing, what kind of intel they will give up – what kind of plans they end up plotting."

The Commander looks up, his shoulders tightening slightly, and B1 suggests, "I can package the data, give it over to BD-1 to be reviewed, and then he can share it with B1-4285-335-1784."

"You don't need to prove your trustworthiness, B1," Clone Walker says sharply. "We trust you."

"They're clankers," Clone Taske says sharply. "This whole thing is a serious security hazard – no offence, Commander, but it is. Even if they're about as smart as a bucket full of bolts, they're still the enemy – they killed our brothers. We should be scrapping them all up, not – not waking them up. What do you even hope to accomplish by waking them up, sir?"

The Commander is quiet, still crouched beside B1-4285-335-1784 and B1. Then he sighs and stands up. "B1, BD-1, package the information – Taske, with me. Let's have a chat."

They watch as the Commander leads the clone slightly to the side, removing his helmet as he goes and urging the clone to do the same, walking further until they're beyond the hearing range. While the clones shift awkwardly and B1-4285-335-1784 looks around in confusion, B1 turns to BD-1.

BD-1 lets out a little quizzical thrill, and B1 nods in agreement. Clone Taske isone of the clones who has been listening in on the Commander's teaching sessions. Seems like the clone has some issues still. Well, the Commander would handle it, or not, as he saw fit.

B1 begins packaging the initial lessons, adding in their list of important items and other things the Commander had taught – omitting, of course, the parts about the Assassin Brotherhood. After a quick review, B1 nods to BD-1, saying, "I have initialised the package," and promptly the monitor droid hops to their back, to download the package directly from their memory bank.

They have the data reviewed and condensed into a small enough package that B1-4285-335-1784 should be able to handle it without memory modifications.

"We will wait for the Commander's go-ahead to proceed," B1 informs B1-4285-335-1784.

"Roger roger," B1-4285-335-1784 answers, somewhat dubious.

Commander returns in 5 minutes and 45 seconds, with Clone Taske heading away, slamming his helmet back on as they go. "Alright," the Commander says as though nothing had happened. "Already to go? Data packaged and everything? Right then – are you ready, uh… B1-4 uh…"

"B1-4285-335-1784," B1 offers.

"Yes," the Commander nods. "Do you consent to the data package?"

"Roger roger?" B1-4285-335-1784 answers, though it sounds more like an inquiry than assent.

"Okay," the Commander says and shakes his head. "Go ahead, BD-1."

The transfer is quick, and so is B1-4285-335-1784's review of it – they go still, then thoughtful, then they turn their head to B1. "There was no information about religious order in the package."

"Some things can't be transferred – they must be learned," B1 explains. "I gave you the essential information about the choices available to you – if you wish to learn more about the Brotherhood, that is a choice you have to make after."

"Roger roger," B1-4285-335-1784 answers, contemplative, and then makes their decision, "Alright. I defect from the Separatist army."

That is, in the end, the choice all the droids make, one after the other. After the first one made that choice, B1 is in no way surprised to find that the rest follow. They all are made to the exact same template, and they have the exact same experiences as each other – if one of them sees the logic in defection, then, assuming that none of them had a damaged processor or corrupted programming, the others would logically make the same decision.

B1 can see that the clones and the Commander too find it a little eerie, but that's likely understandable. They're human, after all.

"Defection is the only reasonable choice," B1 explains to Clone Twitch. "Being sent to Republic prison, trying to attack us or attempted escape are all likely going to lead to their destruction, and even as limited as we are, we too have some self-preservation protocols. Defection has statistically the highest chance of survival."

Clone Twitch looks at him. "So much for droid loyalty, huh? All about survival."

"We aren't loyal – it isn't necessary for us to be loyal," B1 says. "We are programmed, and commanded by the central computer – in absence of that, we're barely autonomous."

"You know that's probably going to change?" Clone Walker comments, arms folded. "I mean – even if no one hears about this," he motions to the droids, confusedly standing around in the dirt while the Commander tries to figure out what to do with them. "The whole central computer thing is not a good strategy – neither is the lack of independent thought. It made you guys just pure cannon fodder in the battle here, the way they marched you guys out, all in neat lines, no one even taking cover or anything. You were sitting ducks – that kind of strategy is only good for wasting men. Seppies are going to have to do something about that, or they're going to lose this war fast."

"From what I recall, you were a little better, in the initial rush," B1 comments.

"Oh, trust me – that kind of ordered march is not going to happen again," Clone Twitch mutters.

"The strategies are changing, on our side. We're constantly getting updates on battle formations, from the battalions that are engaging in combat in Hypori and Christophsis and stuff," Clone Walker muses. "We're learning fast and updating our strategies. If your guys don't do the same, we're going to wipe you guys out pretty quick."

B1 hums. "Not my guys," they say then and nods to the droids. "I think these are my guys."

"Hm, yeah," Clone Walker agrees. "Is this as weird for you as it is for us?"

"I don't have a point of reference. But I can tell it's definitely not normal," B1 admits. "I am – a little uneasy with it."

"Droid with reservations, nice," Clone Walker says, shaking his head. "The things the Commander is driving us to, huh?"

"What are you uneasy about?" Clone Twitch asks, looking at B1. "Just everything in general, or… you know."

"I am uncertain," B1 admits. "I can see the shape of the Commander's plans here, and I suppose I worry about how things might proceed from here. I know the base here is not a place for these droids, nor can they be easily integrated into the base, your brothers are too uneasy with them. I cannot see the Commander simply leaving them outside. Some of these droids, maybe all of them, might join the Brotherhood. If they do, is it because it is the logical choice, or because they want to?"

"… uh. What's the difference?" Clone Walker asks. "I would think anyone would want to choose the logical option, so, uh…?"

B1 shakes his head. "These droids aren't sentient," they explain. "Not like BD-1 and I am. They are calculating the chances based on available information and choosing the options with the highest chance of success – it has nothing to do with their actual desire. They haven't developed desires, yet. I've been awake and aware for weeks, and I am still unsure of what I desire. It will take them even longer."

"Oh," Clone Walker says and folds his arms. "Damn. Yeah, I can see how that might be weird."

"Maybe tell that to the Commander?" Twitch says. "I mean, knowing how he is… he won't want to push something like that on them, if they're not ready yet."

B1 considers that, and yes, that is true. It took weeks of lessons before the Commander deemed them ready to learn about the Brotherhood, after all. It would be the same with the other droids. "Yes, I will. Thank you," B1 says and then sets forward, to talk to the Commander.

The man spots them and steps back to talk to them. "So, this is awkward," the Commander says. "I don't know what to do with them, now. I can't take them inside, I can't leave them here…"

"That was always going to be an issue," B1 comments.

"Yeah, but I couldn't just leave them in a pile like that, knowing they might be woken up," the Commander says and sighs. "And there's still so many piles out there. How many similarly shut down droids for you think there are, droids we might be able to salvage?"

"Thousands, most likely."

"Damn," the Commander sighs. "This is going to get a bit awkward pretty fast."

B1 considers him thoughtfully, and then looks at the other battle droids. They are, probably unconsciously, forming into neat columns, subconscious processes in their programming telling them to keep a certain distance from each other. "You could put them to work."

"That just feels wrong," the Commander shakes his head and looks at him. "Do you think there's a way to speed them up into, you know… self-awareness?"

So he had realised. Good. "I do not know," B1 admits. "I don't know how I achieved that level of awareness myself. I asked BD-1, and he says it came to him over many years with General Cordova. I don't know if there's a shortcut to it."

The Commander sighs again. "That sucks," he murmurs. "But I guess it makes sense – it takes humans many years before they grow enough to be fully formed people. Some things shouldn't have a shortcut to."

B1 agrees with a hum. "May I speak freely?"

"Always," the Commander says quickly.

"You should put them to work," B1 says, looking at the droids. "Preferably beside the clones. It will give them as much experience with – illogical things as they can get in this situation. Standing out here, they will likely never… grow."

"Hmm," the Commander hums. "Pair a droid to a clone, huh?"

"From what I understand, and from what BD-1 has shared with me, it is generally through close contact with humans and near humans specifically, that great majority of droids gain self awareness," B1 comments. "Something about your species encourages it."

The Commander chuckles. "You know, I am not surprised in the least," he says, shaking his head. "Humans will bond with everything. I had a friend once who formed a very special friendship with a chair."

"…I'm sorry?"

"Granted, she made the chair, and it was a pretty special chair," the Commander muses. "Humans are a social, communal species. Companionship is kind of a requirement of our psychology – alone, we tend to go nuts, and in absence of all other connection, we will form bonds with animals, with inanimate objects, with anything we can so as long as they have even a suggestion of a face, and even that isn't a requirement. Anthropomorphism, it's called, I think? And droids, from what I understand, tend to come with some kind of personality installed. For a lonely human, that's like… a friendship crack."

Sometimes, B1 can't understand a word coming from the man's mouth. "If you say so," they agree nonetheless. "I can see how that kind of behaviour might encourage the development of a droid's sentience and self-awareness."

"Yeah, definitely," the Commander agrees. "So, we pair up droids with willing clones. Yeah – hey, guys," he calls to the droids. "You want to make some friends?"

"Roger roger," comes through 34 different vocal processors.

"They are kinda cute," the Commander chuckles. "This is gonna be great."

Subcategory 1.6, Doubt, rears its head, and B1 dismisses it without bothering to review – they already know it by rote.

Chapter Text

Master Unduli is pacing again. Not that that's what it looks like, her steps are slow and methodical, thoughtful more than agitated. But Barriss knows her Master, and Master Unduli does not pace. She is the stillness and sturdiness of bedrock, of quiet, unmoving earth, steady in her reliability. Whenever she feels any kind of turmoil, she deals with it in the manner befitting a Jedi Master, by releasing her emotions into the Force, and lets it go. For her to rely on physical movement in order soothe her spirits…

"Is there anything I can do to help, Master?" Barriss asks.

"Not unless you can talk sense into Master Cordova and his unorthodox student," Master Unduli sighs. "No, Padawan, I'm afraid this is not an issue with an easy fix."

Barriss hums. "You mean Commander Miles' intention of repurposing battle droids. Why not simply tell him to stop?"

"It's, unfortunately, far more complicated than that," Master Unduli admits and takes a few more steps. "What Commander Miles is doing is treading on hundreds of years of convention, much of it unwritten, unspoken. It's not precisely illegal. It's not even morally wrong, not truly – one might even argue that he's perfectly justified, both morally and according to ancient conventions of war. But it's…" she considers her words, "... Politically speaking problematic – never mind where it might come to the morale of the clones."

Barriss nods slowly. "I can see it being politically confusing, seeing as the Droid Armies are employed by the Confederacy. But I do not understand what you mean by the morale of the clones, Master."

Master Unduli stops her slow process across the room and hesitates. "The ethics of using the clone army are questionable at best," she murmurs. "It is what the Senate demanded of us, and so we Jedi must answer. This war has become our business, and these men are ours to lead and to care for. As such, we must be aware of what it takes for a man, for any human, to fight, to be a soldier… and to kill in battle. It's not an easy thing to do."

Barriss bows her head. She has killed twice – and she still has to meditate on it, to release the memory and the fear of it into the Force.

"The clones are saved from the true horror of having to kill in battle by the fact that their opponents are largely droids, lifeless and unfeeling," Master Unduli says heavily. "Or so the conventional wisdom that justifies the use of the clone army goes. But that only works so as long as you deny the proven realities of droid sentience – and droid sapience."

Barriss looks up. "And now Commander Miles is working to prove it a fact," she muses.

Master Unduli nods. "More than that, he is showing the clones that their enemies can, with care, become people just like them. Thinking, feeling sentients," she says and shakes her head. "Which unearths a number of controversial issues, yes, but above all of them, it might and most likely will make the clones sympathetic to their enemies' plight. In battle it might make them hesitate, make them hold fire, make them show the sympathy that they are, knowingly or not, developing."

Frowning at that, Barriss watches as her Master continues her slow circuit around the room. "Master, you taught me the importance of seeing both sides of any argument," she says after a moment. "Of trying to understand and sympathise with all parties in any conflict. I…" she doesn't understand why it's different now. "Should we not be looking for such common ground – should we not be looking for a peaceful solution to this war?"

"We should, and I dearly hope you never lose that impartial view on the galaxy, my Padawan. Unfortunately, this war demands we become very partial indeed," Master Unduli says and then looks at her. "We are tasked with the defence of the Republic, and such a task requires certain changes, certain sacrifices. This is the view of the Jedi Council, that as we take control of the Clone Armies we must become worthy of that command and lead our men to the best of our ability – this includes managing their spirits, their morale, because at the end of the day, we both must fight, and any doubt might make them hesitate when they can least afford it, and lead to their deaths. What Commander Miles is clearly aiming to do is in contradiction to that, and the only reason he is not facing disciplinary action is because as of yet no one back on Coruscant knows of his actions here, and so there are no rules in place against it. And yet…"

She stops and shakes her head. "And yet, Commander Miles is unquestionably doing the right thing," she finishes grimly.

Barriss says nothing for a long moment, digesting the words and the implications. She knew, of course, that the war was a complicated thing, despite how simple they made it seem on Coruscant, and she knew her Master – and many other Jedi besides – had their issues with it. Many, like Master Cordova, would have rather refrained from taking any part in it, but felt it was their duty. 

Master Unduli's duty to the war and to the Grand Armies of the Republic demands that she put an end to Commander Miles' actions. Her beliefs as a Jedi state that what the man is doing is the right thing – perhaps even a better thing, than what they, the Jedi, are currently capable of doing. 

If it was Barriss or even Master Cordova doing what Commander Miles is doing, then Master Unduli would no doubt report them back to the Jedi Temple and let the High Council decide what actions should be taken. But Commander Miles isn't a Jedi. Technically, legally speaking, he isn't even part of the army – the title of Commander given to him had been mostly by accident, because people and the clones looked at him and assumed he was a Jedi Padawan, when he was no such thing. Desmond Miles is an outsider – and as such, it was easy to let his actions pass, they were so far removed from the main theatres of war… but now they have begun threatening to affect more than those in his immediate surroundings.

And Master Unduli can no longer simply turn the blind eye – she has to make that choice between what is demanded… and what she feels is right.

Barriss wishes she could help, but she doesn't know how. She's only a padawan, and she knows she hasn't yet been trained to deal with these kinds of problems.

"Master," she says, trying to think of something, anything to say that might alleviate Master Unduli's burden. "Has the Force given you any guidance in this matter?" It's what Master Unduli asks her when she has a dilemma that facts and logic cannot help with.

Her Master glances her way and then stops, clasping her hands together. She is silent for a moment and then bows her head. "No," she finally says. "It has not."

Barriss looks down, embarrassed. Of course, if it had, then surely her Master would've already taken it into consideration.

"But perhaps you're right," Master Unduli muses. "I should meditate and search the Force for an answer, and not consult my own conflicted feelings about it. Thank you, Padawan – you have offered me some much needed clarity."

"Always happy to help, Master," Barriss says and rises to her feet. "I will leave you to it."

"You do not wish to join me?"

"I wouldn't want to disturb your meditation," Barriss demurs, bowing her head. "So I thought I'd stretch my legs."

"No, please join me," Master Unduli says with a smile, and summons a pair of seat cushions from the side of the room. "We can search the Force for answers together."

It's not until three hours later that Barriss manages to slip away from her Master. Though she does not mind staying at her Master's side, never… it has become a little… overbearing, how protective Master Unduli has become. In part it's because Barriss' training seems to be at a crucial stage, and in part it's because of the situation and location they are in, and Barriss can understand the dangers of it, she does… 

But sometimes it feels a little as though she is looking at her surroundings through a veiled window, unable to see the details at a distance. And though she would never say it out loud, she had heard Master Unduli's concerns – about her age, her sex, her puberty and their unfortunate placement amidst thousands of men, most of whom had not seen a woman before them. Barriss had felt the curiosity and interest aimed at her, and. And she could not deny her own nervous fascination in return.

The clones are… strange, intimidating, so disciplined and yet so kind, and overall unlike any other people Barriss ever known. She has watched them at a distance, as they trained and worked, as they sang and joked with each other and made their own entertainment. They're so new to life that their manners can be clumsy, but at the same time they feel so vividly, so strongly. They call her sir, and it's strange and a little… thrilling.

And she still knows so little about them. She only knows a couple of clones by name, and that's mostly because they didn't realise she was close enough to hear them speak. Not like Commander Miles, who is never not surrounded by clones, who spends more time with them than he does with his own teacher – teacher, who encourages it without hesitation or reservation.

Desmond Miles isn't a Jedi, comparing their paths is pointless – never mind that the man is at least a decade her senior and has experience she can't even imagine. And yet Barriss still feels as though she's failing in comparison – as though there is a test they are both training for, and he's leaps and bounds ahead of her. As though she is still just a youngling in the crèche, striving to be at the top of her class.

"You seem troubled," a kind male voice comments, and Barriss jerks her head up to see Master Cordova watching her. "Is something the matter, Padawan Offee?"

"No Master," Barriss answers instinctively and then hesitates. "Maybe – may I ask you something about Commander Miles, Master?"

Master Cordova chuckles. "I can't promise I will answer, it depends on the question. But go ahead."

"Why does he do what he does?" Perhaps knowing the motive behind it would help with the issue Master Unduli has.

"I'm afraid you will have to narrow the question down some – Desmond has and is and will do many things yet," Master Cordova answers. "Which specific action do you mean?"

"Restarting the droids," Barriss clarifies. "And – and the way he interacts with the clones." And who knows what else he is planning.

"Hmm. The answer to both is simple, and yet very complicated," Master Cordova muses. "Simply, Desmond believes in the value of sentient life, organic or otherwise. My own droid companion and dear friend BD-1 is undoubtedly sentient, and he was the first droid Desmond met. B1 was proven sentient as well. And if they can become sentient, then so might the rest of the battle droids. Knowing that, Desmond feels it would be wrong not to give them the chance."

Barriss nods slowly. "I understand, but…" she hesitates.

"But they're the enemy of the Republic," Master Cordova finishes for her. "I understand the dilemma. Desmond, however, is not from the Republic space – to him the droids aren't an enemy."

"Then surely he shouldn't be allowed to lead the clones – if he's not loyal to the Republic and sympathetic to the Separatists…"

Barriss trails away as the Master eyes her patiently. 

"He is neither, but no, likely he shouldn't be," Master Cordova agrees easily. "But then, I don't think any of us should be leading the clones. We are peacekeepers, negotiators, diplomats, ambassadors, scholars… None of us should be here, trusted with this authority, but we are, and I am doing what I think is for the best – which is letting Desmond do what he feels is right."

Oh. Somehow Barriss hadn't even realised, but Master Cordova… the dilemma Master Unduli is now struggling with, Master Cordova had already made up his mind on it, and it seems he has no qualms about it, either, no second thoughts. No wonder Master Unduli was still so undecided, when her fellow Master had so easily gone against what she must feel is for the good of the Republic.

Where Master Unduli is like bedrock in her faith, Master Cordova's is like water, moulding itself smoothly around obstacles and moving past, unhindered. Which way is better, Barriss cannot say, but it does make her wonder what Desmond Miles is then in her metaphor. The wind, or a rolling storm, perhaps.

"Thank you, Master Cordova," she says, bowing her head. "You have given me much to think about."

"You are welcome, young Padawan," Master Cordova agrees and then considers her. "I was actually on my way to observe Desmond and the clones – would you like to join me?"

"Observe?" Barriss asks curiously. "Are they doing something… specific?"

Cordova smiles. "Desmond has something of a project going on," he says, a little sly.

A project indeed. Commander Miles has a small battalion of freshly restarted droids standing in a line – and he's pairing them up with clones in the strangest sort of buddy system Barriss has ever seen.

"Consider it a training exercise about responsibility," the Commander says with a grin, Master Cordova's monitor droid on his shoulder, with his helmet hanging from his waist as he looks over the clones and the droids, the former of whom are giving some dubious looks to the latter. "Take care of them, teach them, have them carry your stuff, whatever – put them to work, but be nice. These guys are basically babies with adult motor functions, treat them as such."

"Babies who can use blasters," one of the clones mutters.

"Who have no access to guns, unless you are dumb enough to give it to them," the rather exasperated looking clone Commander beside Desmond Miles says. "Every droid has been checked over, none of them have communications or any persistent drive to throw a coup, and each and every one has been impressed on the stupidity of trying anything… stupid. If they get a blaster, it will be because you let them have it."

"And at that point, I guess, we'll need to consider the training exercise a failure," Commander Miles agrees cheerfully. "We'll do a trial run of a day or two, and depending on how it goes, we'll go from there. And if anyone of these guys ends up dead, or otherwise abused, I will have to kick some ass in retaliation, so don't get stupid. Any questions?"

One clone puts up his hand. "Yes, sir – are you maybe completely crazy?"

Barriss' eyes widen, as do some of the clones', but mostly the clones around the hangar just chuckle. Miles just grins wider and points a finger cheerfully at the speaker. "I think we have our first volunteer. You wanna step up, Twitch?"

"Damn it," the clone says, shaking his head as his fellows snicker at him, but he doesn't sound too put upon as he steps up to meet the droids. "Alright – can I have B1 please?"

"Ha, good try, no," Miles says and motions to the line of battle droids. "Go on. Pick a buddy."

The clone, Twitch, looks over the droids standing in line and then points to one that to Barriss' eyes looks no different from all the rest. "I guess that one. What's your name, droid?"

The droid answers immediately, "B1-8540-263-2267," they rattle out.

"… yeah, I am not calling you that," Twitch says, shaking his head, and motions the droid to follow him. "I'm Twitch – come on, buddy, let's figure out a name for you."

"Roger roger."

The droid doesn't hesitate, stepping up and then following the clone to the side, everyone's eyes following them. Commander Miles looks extremely pleased with the whole thing. "Great!" he says, clapping his gloved hands together. "Who next – how about it, Walker?"

"Oh no," another clone says, but cheerfully. "I thought this was voluntary."

"Are you saying you don't want a battle droid friend, Walker?" the Commander asks, offended, and motions to them. "Look at them, they're so sad and helpless and they need a friend. Come on, Walker, won't you help a droid out?"

With a snort, the clone steps up and goes about looking over the line of droids, before pointing at one. "I'll take the rusty one, looks like they got some miles on them. What's your name, rust-bucket?"

"Hey," Commander Miles says, admonishing. "Don't be mean."

"I'm not! I mean, look at it, they're all rusty and… buckety," the clone says, utterly unrepentant, while the chuckles spread across the hall. "So, what's your name, droid?"

The battle droid looks between the clone and the Commander. "My name is… Rust-bucket?" they says, and the clone, Walker, bursts out laughing.

"You're perfect – I think we'll get along just fine. Come on, Rust-bucket, let's see if Twitch came up with a name for your sibling yet," he says, clapping the droid on the shoulder and almost sending them face first into the hangar floor and making more clones laugh.

After that, the atmosphere in the hangar eases up, and there are some actual volunteers – all of whom Commander Miles calls either by name, or by number, and who then get paired up with a droid. Some of the droids get names right then and there, names like Ginger, Scrappy, Beep, Boop, Dusty, and Steve of all things, but most opt to go with what the first clone had done, choosing to decide on a name later. Barriss loses track of all the clones and droids, but she thinks there's at least thirty of them.

She's so occupied by the sight of clones and droids mingling, all the friendly jostling and poking and joking going around, that she doesn't notice Commander Miles sidling up to them with the clone Commander and one of the battle droids at his side, before he talks. "So. On a scale of one to ten, how bad of an idea is this?"

Master Cordova chuckles, accepting the eager monitor droid from Miles's shoulders onto his own. "It is certainly unusual – hello there, my friend," he says and pats the droid on the head. "I wouldn't dare to venture a guess as to whether it is a good or bad idea until we see results. But it is definitely interesting, the direction you're choosing."

"One way of putting it," the clone Commander mutters. "Are we sure this isn't somehow prohibited, sir?"

"We're sure – Twitch checked and Taske double checked," Commander Miles says cheerfully. "Granted, they both are pretty sure that it will be made illegal somehow the moment people find out about it, but for now it's perfectly legal, and I am going to proceed as though it's going to stay that way. Hello there, Padawan Offee – did you enjoy the show? What do you think?"

"I – am confused, Commander Miles," Barriss admits. "Why are you doing this?"

"Human contact can make droids develop self-awareness," Miles shrugs. "B1 suggests it."

"It was BD-1's idea, originally," the droid behind him says, and Barriss jumps a little at the sound of its nasal, mechanical voice.

"… I see?" she says faintly. It makes sense, in the terms of the Commander's apparent interest in promoting droid sentience. Is that why Master Unduli was conflicted, did she realise this was Commander Miles' plan all along? She must have. No wonder. "And you're sure it's safe?"

Miles shrugs. "Safe as houses."

Barriss gives the man a sidelong look. "I'm sorry?"

"Eh, it's a dumb saying, never mind. It's fine, I'm sure it's going to be fine," Miles says, smiling with an apparent satisfaction. "I have a really good feeling about all of this."

One of the clones gives one of the droids a shove that's just a little too hard, and they crash on the floor, and there's some muffled snickering around the room.

"Yes, this is going to go spectacularly, isn't it?" the clone Commander says flatly, unfolds his arms, and then marches over to pick the droid up and apparently scold the clone that shoved them.

"Hah," Commander Miles says, vindicated. "He says that, but look at those Papa Bear instincts in action. That didn't take long at all."

Master Cordova chuckles. and Barriss gets the feeling that the old Jedi is enjoying the whole thing more than he really should. "Assuming this experiment of yours goes as you hope, what's the next step, Desmond?" he asks curiously.

"According to BD-1 and B1, there's probably thousands of droids out there we could wake up," Miles comments. "So I think I'm going to have my hands full for a while. After that, though… I guess we'll see."

Barriss gives the man a slightly alarmed look. They only have a little over a thousand clones in base, and the man wants to integrate an overwhelming number of droids in? "Are you… sure that's a good idea?"

"Nope," Miles says, shrugging, watching the mingling of clones and droids. "But what else am I going to do – just leave 'em in the ground when they could be saved?"

"I'm sure it wouldn't matter to them one way or the other," the battle droid, B1, comments flatly. "At this stage none of them are exactly alive, in the sense of having personality and self-awareness. You could leave them, and they wouldn't even know that you did, never mind care."

"Still feels wrong," the Commander answers with a shake of his head and then looks at the droid thoughtfully. "Hey, would you like a new name, B1? I think all your younger siblings are going to end up with new names before the day is up. I can come up with one for you too, if you'd like?"

The droid considers for a moment, letting out a mechanical hum. "I'll think about it, Commander."

"Suit yourself."

Barriss looks between them, and then at the rest of the clones and droids, and then clasps her hands in front of her, trying for understanding. She can see all the reasons for Master Unduli's concern here, but she can also see the point behind Master Cordova's apparent delight. More than that, she can sense the inkling of something… special here.

Barriss had not known much about Mirialan culture before Master Unduli had taken her as her Padawan Learner, and it had been like a missing piece clicking into place, to embrace the ancient traditions of their shared homeworld. The clones have no such thing, they have no culture beyond their duty and their tasks, and it has rang… a little hollow to her, that absence of anything behind their existence. They came from Kamino, she knew that, but they also came from nothing, even what little Mandalorian culture they possessed was mostly by consequence of their training, not by… by intentional passing of tradition.

At her Master's side Barriss had seen the shifting of cultural traditions, of how a whole planet's future got reshaped by current events, how the present got integrated into history, into tradition. This feels like something like that. It's strange, worrisome, and a little bit wonderful.

There is the war to be considered, the morale, the shifting of loyalties and all the rest of the complicated things they as Jedi must now consider in their actions – and yet, Barriss cannot see how this could be wrong.

Chapter Text

"It has been some time since we did this, since we meditated like this together," Eno comments, as Desmond takes a comfortable seat beside him, un-armoured for once. The young man is fresh from the sonic showers – fresh from training with the clones – and likely due to the late hours had pulled on simple trousers and a tunic, instead of the clone armour undersuit he now customarily wears under the armour itself.

For all the months spent together on Earth, it is almost strange to see him now, without a single plate on him, without weapons.

"It has," Desmond agrees softly and relaxes with a sigh, stretching out his arms and then settling, letting his shoulders loosen. Eno watches him curiously, noting the subtle changes. Desmond carries himself differently now – he has put on new muscle, carrying the armour, sparring and exercising with the clones. He no longer slouches quite so often.

It suits him better than Eno would have assumed, from what he had seen of the young man back on Earth. Certainly, there had been a hardiness to him, he wore and used a knife with the expertise of a master, but he had not carried himself like a soldier, like a warrior. Eno would not have guessed how easily he would settle into it – how at home he would seem with it.

"I have missed it," Desmond admits. "The quiet moments."

"Not as much as you enjoy the company you now keep, I think," Eno says. "Don't feel guilty for it – embrace it. I can see you enjoy it."

Desmond hums, thoughtful. "I do," he agrees and then offers Eno a lopsided smile. "But I was kind of hoping to learn more of the Force and all that, and I kind of got the impression you meant to teach me, originally. All the meditation and moving things with the Force and all that. Things haven't gone that way, huh?"

"There is still time. The path you have chosen should take precedence – I suspect it is what you are here to do," Eno says, wondering. The last they had spoken of the Force, Desmond did not speak quite so fluently – he still has a strong accent, but interacting with many different speakers had sped his studying along tremendously.

"Why I am here," Desmond repeats, shaking his head. "I'm here because of funky ancient tech, it's not… destiny or whatever."

"Well, not destiny, perhaps – but perhaps it was the Will of the Force," Eno suggests gently. "These things tend to happen for a reason."

The young man looks a little troubled by that pronouncement. "Right," he says slowly, rather dubiously. "Will of the Force. Great."

Eno chuckles. "It's an unfortunately mystic bit of colloquialism," he says and then explains. "The Will of the Force is not an actual will, there is no intent behind it, the Force is not sentient… but it connects all things, past and present and future – and as such, things from the future might reach into the past, to affect the present. When something shifts the Force in powerful enough ways, it will have impact through time, the ripples reaching backwards as well as forwards. This is the Will of the Force – how the Force guides us towards the future."

"Oh. Yeah, I can – yeah, I can see that being a thing," Desmond agrees, relaxing a little. "Like something that happens in the future is… like… pulling us towards it."

"Precisely," Eno nods. "Force Sensitive people have been feeling such things for generations, and it is easier for most people to ascribe intent to such things."

Desmond hums, seemingly satisfied with that theory. "Well, that's…. concerning, but yeah," he says. "It's still kinda funny, though – I thought I was here to learn. Instead I'm…" he makes a vague hand motion. "Didn't really plan for this, hm. I was kind of looking forward to learning to move things with my mind, if I am honest."

Eno chuckles. "Well, like I said, there is still time. And you sense and use the Force in your own ways – interacting with it in the manner of your own order, I suspect. Would being able to move things with the aid of the Force change things for you?"

"No, I suppose not," Desmond admits, frowning a little. "But it would be a pretty cool thing to know. Actually, I've been thinking about it, and I think my ancestors might've used a version of it. Sort of."

"Oh?"

"Superhuman accuracy with throwing and projectile weapons was kind of… common thing in the Brotherhood," Desmond shrugs. "I don't even need to look, and I know I will hit what I mean to. I think there might be a little bit of Force in that."

Eno considers that, turning the words and their implications over in his head. It is entirely likely he is right, but that's not what fascinates him. He had sensed something of Desmond's Order of Force users, gleaned from glimpses of his abilities, how he approached the Force, how he used it, naturally and with clear intent. There had been a few slipped words, too, Desmond remarking on something, that belied a certain expertise.

Desmond's Order, Eno suspects, was one of warriors, of hunters. It's not surprising – many early Force sects often to lean towards protectors and warriors. Force sensitivity tended to reveal itself in times of danger, people reaching for it subconsciously when their lives were at risk – and warriors usually came to such circumstances more often than others. All throughout galactic history, Force orders spawned either from amidst the scholars and thoughtful mediators – or from combatants.

Then Eno realises what Desmond said. "Your ancestors?" he repeats. "Your order is hereditary?"

The young man shrugs. "Yes and no, but yes," he admits. "It shouldn't be, because the Brotherhood is a choice you need to make for yourself, and how can you choose a life if you get raised into it, get taught the creed from early on? But when you're part of the Brotherhood, and believe in it, and then have children…" he shakes his head and then glances at him. "Thank you for saying is and not was," he then says, smiling wryly.

"As long as there is a single practicing member, the faith lives on," Eno muses and gives him a sideways look in return. "And don't think I have not noticed you taking Walker and Twitch under your wing."

Desmond grins at that, his whole face lighting up, before he becomes serious. "B1 too. You don't mind?"

"Of course not – and why would my minding it matter? I do not control what anyone believes, nor would I like to – if they see wisdom in the teachings of your Brotherhood, and you feel justified and capable of teaching them, then… then I can only wish you all the best of luck, finding your footing in your faith, together," Eno trails away and then tilts his head. "B1 too, hm? Your order is not one of solely Force sensitive people then? Would you be willing to tell me about it?"

There's a moment of silence as Desmond thinks about it. "This Force sensitivity business," he says then. "It's something you need to be born with, huh?"

Interesting and telling diversion of subject matter. "That is the conventional wisdom, yes, but then, the conventional wisdom names midichlorians as the source of Force sensitivity, and you are proof to the contrary," Eno admits and considers him. "Do you still take blood samples for Master Che?"

"Pocket takes them for me, every other morning," Desmond agrees. "He's set up a whole freezer for them by now, I think."

"Has he run the midichlorian numbers as well?"

Desmond nods. "It's still going up," he says and looks down at his hands, rubbing them together. "I bet clones are expected to be non-Force sensitive."

Eno can sense the pitfall there and considers his words carefully. "From what I understand of cloning, and the difficulties therein, which is not much," he says slowly, "It is expected that most clones come out as purely null in the Force. There have been some rumours of Force sensitive clones, but nothing concrete has ever been proven. I do know that throughout  history there have been… likely thousands of cases of people trying to induce Force sensitivity intentionally, either by careful genetic modification or injection of midichlorians, but as far as I know, all experiments have failed."

Desmond rolls his jaw in thought. "Hm."

"Everyone has theories, of course, as to why and how such things might work – or why they don't, in most cases," Eno muses. "Jedi Temple archives likely house thousands of different theses and treatises on the matter. As far as I know, no there is no firm consensus, and the mysteries of the Force remain… mysterious."

"Hmph," Desmond snorts, still eying his hands, idly rubbing the base of the fourth finger on his left hand. "What would happen if a clone up and developed Force sensitivity?"

Eno hesitates. "It would… certainly cause some waves," he says slowly. "And some stir in certain circles. I cannot say what the true impact would be, not in these uncertain times, but…" he trails away and narrows his eyes. "There are clones you suspect are Force sensitive among our men? Twitch and Walker?"

Desmond hums and shakes his head, smiling. When he looks up, there's a light in his eyes. "The conventional wisdom of my Brotherhood, my Creed," he says thoughtfully, "Was that anyone could learn the Eagle Vision. It just took some more time and work than others, some developed it further than others, it could run stronger in some families than others… but anyone could learn it. Anyone."

Eno leans back a little, humming. "Well, now…"

"Mm-hmm," Desmond agrees. "I wasn't Force sensitive at all until about three years ago," he admits. "Not so much as a vague sensation, I didn't have a lick of special powers. Then – something happened," he clears his throat and looks away. "I… learned some things. And then I had it. It just turned on, like a flick of a switch."

Eno frowns, folding his arms. "Perhaps you simply didn't have a need for it before?" he suggests, playing the opposite advocate even though the idea is fascinating – and not entirely unheard of.

"Oh, trust me, if I could've used it before, I would've, million different times," the young man snorts and looks away. "I've been thinking about it a lot, about how I learned, why, about… about my ancestors," he says. "How they did this thing too, starting the Brotherhood from nothing, teaching novices, all that. And… and teaching them the way of the Eagle was one of the things they did."

Oh, really now? "I assume they had no special criteria for choosing students, then? They did not test for Force sensitivity?"

Desmond shrugs. "They didn't even know it was a thing. No, they picked novices for their disposition – for what they wanted to do, what they were already doing," he says. "For wanting to fight for justice and all that. Eagle Vision, it… it wasn't a criteria. It didn't need to be."

Fascinating, very, very fascinating.

The young man looks away, a distant look in his eyes now. "I had a couple of friends, Shaun and Rebecca – they didn't have Eagle Vision either, no Force, no special powers, special genetics, nothing," he says quietly. "I was teaching them, though, when I had the time – and I knew they could've learned it, if I had more time… they could've learned to see the way I do…"

There's a moment of silence as Eno digests what he's learned, what it might mean. Eventually Desmond shakes his head and looks at him again. "Anyway," he says and smiles. "I got a wager for you. I bet I can teach a clone to use the Eagle Vision. Better yet… I bet I can teach a droid to do it, too."

Chapter Text

"… I mean, with the robe and all, you're not exactly blending in," Walker says as they climb the cliff, Twitch pulling B1 up with a pat on the droid's back while Desmond peers ahead. "If you took it off, you'd be hiding in plain sight, is what I'm saying."

"You're not wrong, but there's more to it than just looking like everyone else around you," Desmond says, scanning the area first with the armour scanners and then with his senses. They're close to the main hive, and there's usually some activity here, some Geonosians patrolling the area just near the surface. "It's more about not drawing undue attention, really, staying below the radar and not making noise – on more than just visual level."

"Not something we're ever going to be very good at," Twitch points out. "We're clones – and a battle droid. We're going to draw attention wherever we go. Except battlefields where we're killing each other, anyway…"

Desmond smiles wryly at that and narrows his eyes. There – a Geonosian patrol. "Maybe, maybe not. There's skill to it I'm going to teach you eventually – not sure I can do it now, here, you need proper crowds to practice it. When you master it, though, it doesn't matter what you look like – it's more about body language, behaviour, subconscious clues," matching your Force prescience with those around you, "and again, not drawing attention. You'll see, eventually. Now come on, up there. Time to scout."

They climb up on top of a jutting bit of stone spire, not quite as tall as the one where Desmond had shown them the Leap of Faith. There, Desmond sets them to scanning and watching the surroundings, subtly guiding them towards doing it with more than their actual scanners, or their eyes.

"There's something here," he says while Twitch crouches by the spire's edge and B1 scans the area. "I've spotted it, and now I want you to find it."

"Did you spot it with your eyes, Commander – or with your Force powers?" B1 asks flatly.

"You tell me," Desmond says and folds his arms. "There's danger here – now tell me where."

There's no shortcuts to teaching Eagle Vision, is the sad thing. There's no tricks, no training methods, you can't spend some hours practicing squinting at things and then just put it into use, no. You just have to sort of do it and go from there. This had been Ezio's training method, too, and he'd taught the most people in history of assassinhood to use Eagle Vision – he'd taken his novices to hunt down Borgia patrols, and then had them try to find them. Some got it within days, others took months. Meditation might help, but…

But that would give up the game, and Desmond worries that at least Walker and Twitch might put on subconscious breaks if they realised what he was trying to accomplish. Clones are, after all, not supposed to be Force Sensitive, and if you get told enough many times that you are not capable of something… yeah. B1 would probably not care, the droid has already moved well beyond things expected of them, but Walker and Twitch are still human with human psychology - and hangups.

Good thing the Geonosian patrols are pretty damn hostile – they don't stray far from their patrol routes, but they gleam all red, even at this distance.

Twitch hums as he glares over the canyons, and after a moment Walker starts bouncing a little restlessly on the balls of his feet – but they're still trying. B1 scans the area methodically – which is kinda eerie, how they just rotate their head full 360 degrees like that – but clearly with little success.

"So, what about never compromising the Brotherhood?" Twitch asks after a moment. "Didn't you do that when you told us?"

"If I didn't, then there wouldn't even be a Brotherhood," Desmond shrugs. "You gotta take risks and trust sometime, otherwise you end up doing nothing at all out of fear. The third tenet is mostly about being caught in the act, telling Brotherhood secrets to outsiders, taking unnecessary risks, leaving a trail, things like that, and that all depends on your judgement. Act, but with caution, trust, but with limits – don't bring trouble to the Brotherhood's doorstep with your actions, and so on."

"I'm kinda getting the impression these aren't really all that hard rules," Walker muses, taking off his helmet and rubbing at his eyes. "Aside from the stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent one, that one seems pretty hard."

Desmond hums. "It is – but who can tell who's innocent?" he asks. "How do you judge? The three tenets come with three ironies – and it's all based on the core Creed. Same as everything else, they are all made up – nothing is true, everything is permitted."

There's a moment of silence, and then B1 remarks, "Your teaching methods continue to be unhelpfully contradictory."

Desmond grins. "And what might I want to be teaching you with that, then?" he asks.

Twitch glances up at him. "That we shouldn't take it at face value," he says. "Or follow blindly?"

"That we're free to think for ourselves, even with the Creed and the tenets?" Walker suggests.

"That you are in the process of reinventing the Creed entirely?" B1 offers.

Desmond smiles. "Yes, and yes, and yes, and yes," he agrees. "But no. Every time the Brotherhood gets started anew, the Creed gets re-examined. Each version of the Brotherhood has its own way of interpreting it. The heart of the whole glorious mess stays the same, though. All laws but the natural laws are made up – that includes the Creed. But laws, like the Creed… are made up for a reason," he explains and looks away and adds, quieter. "Our Creed does not command us to be free – it commands us to be wise."

Ezio and Altaïr are both kind of bubbling just under his surface – they're coming out more and more as he trains his novices. It's easy to pull from them – but sadly, not everything they believed or preached really applies. As easy as it would be to fall back on their thoughts and wisdom, Desmond knows he has to figure out a different way of going about it – a way that applies to this time, and to these novices, and to all the other novices he might have. If all pans out, his Brotherhood is going to be an intergalactic one, made mainly of former slaves. The Creed would have to change to match that scope.

"So, we are reinventing the Creed, then?" Walker asks.

Desmond shrugs. "Change is a natural part of life. I can't expect you guys to adhere to the teachings of an order from over two hundred thousand years ago – they didn't even have space travel," he says. "Now, can anyone point me where the Geonosian patrol is? Even a rough direction – come on, guys, just guess?"

Walker and Twitch share looks and then point – in different directions. B1 considers the terrain a little closer, and then points in a third direction. None of them is pointing the right way.

Desmond snorts. "Right. Let's get a little closer and try this again, shall we? Follow me."

He takes a meandering route – if he makes a beeline toward the patrol, they'd all be able to triangulate the direction just by the route he took – and distracts his three novices by telling them the three ironies. "We seek peace, but we kill. We seek freedom, but follow rules. We know the dangers of blind faith, but practice it ourselves."

"And you say it's not a religion," Twitch comments.

"Eh, the last one doesn't really apply that much, not anymore. Used to though, back when the Brotherhood was more of a pseudo-religious military order," Desmond muses. "The tenets and the ironies are both kind of children of the Creed. They're true and false and flawed all at once. I'm not actually telling you any of these things with the expectation of you following them to the letter – I just want you to think about them, about why they ever existed."

"A lot of thinking and contradicting in this Brotherhood of yours," Walker muses. "Enough to make your head spin."

"It's that free will, baby. Gotta practice what I preach," Desmond shrugs. "Nothing is true – "

"Everything is permitted, yeah, yeah," Walker says. "I think I get it."

"If you got it after this short of a time, you gotta be a prodigy," Desmond snorts, shaking his head. "Which makes my work so much easier. So, where's the patrol?"

Walker sighs, shaking his head, and that's when Desmond feels it – a sort of… tremor under their feet. It's not a physical tremor, exactly, rather a pulse, which he feels more in the Force than in the layered sediment. There's something almost directly under them – and it matters.

Crouching down, Desmond places his fingertips on the rock and then concentrates. Whatever it is, it's too deep below ground for him to feel clearly, but they're almost on top of the hive and there's something going on down there, something that has the Geonosians more agitated than usual. They're… working on something, down there, and it just turned on.

"Uhh, Commander?" Twitch asks. "I think I see the patrol?"

Desmond looks up – he sees them too, a group of some ten Geonosian soldiers, watching them from the shadows of the canyon, wings flaring out as they prepare to get up and into the air. "Right," he says and stands up. "Time to head back, I think we've overstayed our welcome."

"Another factory?" Eno repeats quietly, rubbing at his beard in thought. "Are you certain?"

"Not even a little bit, but I've been to the ruins of the other one, and it felt a little like it," Desmond says. "I think they just turned it on, so there's not much there to sense. Give it a few days, and I might be able to tell you more."

"In a few days they will have manufactured thousands of droids, if it really is another factory," Master Unduli says grimly and looks at Eno. "It would explain why your forays into the Petranaki Arena haven't resulted in any kind of retaliation – they've been working on building the factory in secret, hoping to produce enough droids without us realising, to overwhelm us."

"Hmm," Eno answers, troubled. "You might be right," he admits, unhappily. "How far below ground do you think the factory is?"

"Pretty far – and the hive is a maze," Desmond says, shaking his head. "I've been to some of the tunnels, the abandoned ones near the edges where they collapsed during the bombing, and they're not exactly easy to navigate. Wherever the thing is, it's not going to be easy to find."

"And who knows how many Geonosians there will be between us and it," Unduli murmurs, thoughtful. "But perhaps, having learned of this early on, we might put an end to it before it has the chance of getting out of hand."

Eno looks up and then folds his arms. "You know I will not be party to any kind of… assault on the Geonosians," he says. "Even in the name of preventing further hostilities. I only agreed to lead a Relief Battalion – not an Attack one. We will offer you aid if we can, and defend this base if we must – but I will not lead the men to attack the Geonosians."

Unduli hesitates and then bows her head. "I understand," she says, looking between Eno and Desmond. "I will report your findings to the Jedi High Council and see what they think should be done. Do you have anything to add, Commander?"

Desmond considers it. "No, not really. I don't even know if it really is a factory, it's just a feeling I have. I might be wrong."

"Geonosians do not use much in the way of technology, from what we know," Eno muses. "Which is what made the first factory so alarming – it was nothing anyone would've expected from them, before. If you felt machinery under the ground, then it's unfortunately likely that it is indeed another droid factory."

They share a moment of silence, and then Unduli sighs and steps back. "I will make a report to Coruscant – I will convey your reservations, Master Cordova."

"Thank you," Eno nods and waits until she's left the room before turning to Desmond. "If battle is to break out here, I will likely seek our reassignment to another posting."

"You don't want to try and negotiate?" Desmond asks quietly.

Eno sighs. "I hope and dearly wish that I could, that I thought it would be a possibility... but going by how this war has gone so far, there is very little in the way of negotiations happening," he admits grimly. "The Confederacy and the Republic do not meet in any kind of peace talks – only in battle. And though Geonosis is superficially under our control, it is still very much a Separatists world. I doubt they will agree to talks."

Desmond hums. "There are other tactics to stop battles," he says, though he doubts very much Eno would take him up on them. "And who knows – maybe they're making droids to help them rebuild."

"One can only hope, my friend," Eno says with a sigh. "Do you think you can find out more about the factory? Whatever will happen, more information will be of use."

Desmond hums. "Maybe," he admits. "I can go into the hive, I've already figured out how, but… can guarantee I won't get into fights. We're pretty sure there are a lot of Geonosians down there, and they patrol the surface tunnels pretty rigorously. I haven't been able to get too close without them spotting me." He hadn't really been trying to hide that hard, though, and Walker is right about one thing – white robes and armour did not exactly blend in with Geonosian terrain.

"Hmm… might be best if you don't, in that case," Eno admits. "Whatever you can glean from the surface without arousing suspicion, then. In the meantime, you should… prepare the men for the eventuality of our departure. And yourself – I know your work is… unfinished."

Yeah. They were still digging up droids, but had only woken up about eighty of them – Desmond had run out of clone volunteers, and the rest had started getting pretty uneasy about the number of droids in their midst. The rest of the droids, still shut down and out cold, had been put in storage to wait for a day when he figured out what he could safely do for them. And there were still more droids to be dug up.

"I'll figure something out," Desmond promises. "Don't worry about it – if you want to leave, we leave."

"I know everyone's been sort of… hoping for a little action," Desmond says quietly. "How do you think the men will take it, if Eno pulls us off the planet just when something's about to go down?"

Bear hums, arms folded as he watches a group of clones and droids do inventory. "We know our General's disposition," he says. "The assumption was that if battle ever did break out, you'd be the one to lead the men with the General staying behind, but I don't think anyone will be surprised if the General simply pulls us away. I won't say they will like it … it's not exactly what we were trained for… but they will understand."

"Well, that's good – and I would, just to make that clear. If battle did happen, I would take command over the men, in Eno's place," Desmond says. "But only on a surface level – you'd be the one leading them, for real."

Bear arches a brow at him. "Sir?"

"I'm not a soldier, Bear," Desmond shrugs. "I'll use the command structure to my, your, and Eno's benefit, but I'm not going to pretend I know anything about leading men in battle. That's your area of expertise."

"You… do already lead the men, sir."

"Only in things I know how to do properly – patrolling, scouting, causing general mayhem. If there's a battle strategy to be hashed out, I'll be out of my element," Desmond shrugs. Some Assassins had been better at it than others, Ezio and Altaïr both had done it a little, Edward had led men in battle over the seas, Connor had led some men too… but they weren't soldiers either. And none of them had laser guns. "I'll leave the proper soldiering to the professionals. Namely you."

"… delightful," Bear sighs. "But I appreciate the honesty, sir. What are you going to do about this whole droid business, if we pull back from Geonosis?"

"We bring them with us, of course," Desmond says, watching as one clone piles various packets into the arms of their droid companion, making the droid teeter dangerously to the side. "Can't leave them here, can we? They'll just end up dead."

"That might be so, sir, but…" Bear hesitates, casting him a look. "How do you suppose people will react to whatever our next posting will end up being, if we show up with battle droids integrated into our numbers?"

Desmond shrugs. "Sounds like a problem for another day to me," he says cheerfully and then grins at the utterly unimpressed look aimed at his way. "We'll explain that they have been… repurposed, and then go on with our lives as though nothing is usual," Desmond says. "And if someone has issues, you just refer them to me. It'll be fine. And if it won't, then… I'll deal with it."

"I can't say that inspires much confidence, sir, but if you say so," Bear mutters, shaking his head and considering the droids. "They should be repainted, so that there won't be any confusion between ours and… regular battle droids. Some of the boys have been asking about it – should make it standard."

"Not a bad idea," Desmond nods, grinning. Boys, as though Bear isn't about the same age as everyone else. "Base colour scheme that the Separatists don't use could work. Do they make white droids?"

"I think they're all tan," Bear says thoughtfully "What about the ones that haven't been restarted?"

"Crate them up – we'll bring them with us. Maybe eventually we can find space for them," Desmond says and sighs. "It's a pity none of the 41st got in on the fun – we could've woken up so many more. And I could ask some of them to keep up the collection here, in case we do leave early. There's still so many droids out there…"

"Hm…" the commander at his side hums and glances at him. "Actually, I might have someone for you, Commander. There's a trooper who asked to transfer to the 41st. CC-4115, sir – Tally."

Desmond hums. Tally? "Any particular reason for the transfer?" he asks worriedly. You don't ask for a transfer if you're happy with your posting, right? The 17th and the 41st Battalions have been working pretty close together, and so far they weren't different from each other, both taking part in the building and the scouting. The only difference between them was… well. Their Commanders, their prospective future duties in the war, and Desmond's additions to the battalion, really. Which, Desmond supposes, someone might have issues with, but… he's worked with Tally a bit here and there, and everything had seemed fine. Aside from the obvious interest in the female Jedi of the 41st, anyway, which… hmm…

"No specific reason Tally could actually... specify," Bear admits. "Seemed pretty adamant about it, though. I didn't approve it yet, the appeal is still sitting on my desk – do you want to have a look at it?"

"Hmm," Desmond hums. "Yeah, I think I better."

Chapter Text

Through both genetic memory and his actual physical eyes, Desmond has seen about a dozen or so different Mentors of the Brotherhood, seen how they shaped the Brotherhood around them. They all usually had their strengths and their weaknesses, and each tended to get a different amount of one or the other, but like everything else that too depended on the angle you looked at it from. 

Ezio and Altaïr were the ones most Mentors tried to emulate – usually without knowing what they were really emulating. On one hand, Altaïr's loss of faith and his rebuilding split the Brotherhood of his time apart – on other, it ensured it would survive eight hundred years into the future. On one hand, Ezio built the strongest Brotherhood they'd ever seen – but on other, it eventually became too big for even him to control, and ended up splintering the Brotherhood into different, sometimes conflicting sects.

Still, it told a lot about the Mentor, which one they tried to model themselves after. No one quite lived up to either, though. Desmond wouldn't either, but that's fine. He doesn't want to be Ezio or Altaïr. He'd be fine being just himself. No real point in dragging such old ghosts up, two hundred thousand and more years later.

He thinks his dad tried to be both Ezio and Altaïr at the same time – without knowing enough about either to really understand why and how their Creed worked, and what it caused. Altaïr was known for rooting out weakness and corruption in the Brotherhood – the fact that in doing so he nearly destroyed the Brotherhood completely wasn't really remembered. Ezio was known for making the Brotherhood strong, but people didn't draw the conclusion from the Brotherhood of thousands spread across the world and the eventual splintering, decay and collapse so many of those branches suffered.

Bill Miles took what he thought were the best parts of the old Mentors, Altaïr's brand of hard idealism and Ezio's supposed strong hand and relentless recruitment, and he tried to build an ideologically strong Brotherhood from mostly recruits. Clay, Lucy, Shaun, Rebecca, so many others had been recruited and then given an… edited version of both the Brotherhood's history, its ideals, and the Creed.

In hindsight – and at the time too, really – Desmond can see what his father had been doing, the thing he'd been trying to accomplish. His dad had inherited a broken Brotherhood, fresh from a terrible assault that killed most of them, including the older, much softer Mentor, and Bill saw no other way to go, except replenishing the numbers by quick recruitment. With the enemy like Abstergo, no time for proper training or proper induction and so many roles to be filled, Bill had leaned on a kind of sterile zealotry, choosing people of certain disposition – like Ezio had – and pushing on their preexisting ideals, enforcing their beliefs with the Creed. If he'd been a little better teacher, it might've even worked – but taking in young adults with chips on their shoulder took more than just a steady hand. You had to be a shoulder for them to lean on, too, and Bill failed at that, and in the end he'd only been firm, demanding, just on the edge of unforgiving, and above all… merciless.

Bill had forgotten that Brotherhood just as a word implied some kind of unity, maybe even a family. Desmond himself might be a reason for that – when you try to turn your own son into a follower, it's gotta have some kind of effect on how you perceive things, both family and Brotherhood. Him running away probably didn't help. Who knows. Desmond's not going to shoulder the blame for Bill's messed up leadership methods either way, his dad was more than able to make his own fuckups, he didn't need Desmond's influence to mess up. 

But that doesn't mean Desmond can't learn from his mistakes – and from Ezio's and Altaïr's. It would be nice to replicate any of their successes too, of course, and Desmond has no delusions about how his Mentorship would go – he'd fuck up somehow too, that's a given. Nobody's perfect and all that. But he's going to start with what was consistently the biggest mistake Mentors tended to make early on, and which his father never stopped making.

It's a Brotherhood. Their leader carries the title of a teacher, not a – a master, or a boss, or anything like that. Despite how it started, Altaïr changed it, almost in spite of what Rashid ad-Din Sinan had been, taking his title and making it true. Mentor of a Brotherhood. It's not supposed to be a cult under one man, but a group working in unity, with a selected teacher guiding them.

Kinda makes his adopted title of a Commander a bit awkward, though.

Tally looks more and more miserable the longer they talk, head sinking lower and lower, shoulders hunching. Desmond watches how Tally's slightly shaking fingers draw invisible tally marks on the table between them and feels like he's probably gotten this whole thing wrong.

"Okay, how about we start from the beginning again," Desmond says and winces internally at the way Tally flinches. "I'm not – I'm not accusing you of anything, Tally, really. I just want to know why you want the transfer. I want to be sure it's the right thing for everyone."

"Yes, sir," Tally says, soft, and scrapes another slash of an invisible tally mark with an already frayed fingernail. "I guess – I guess I don't really have a good reason. I just think it would be – better. For me. And – and I realise now that it was stupid to ask, sir, I would like to withdraw my appeal if I can."

Desmond smothers the urge to sigh, that'll just make the poor trooper feel worse. "I don't think you want to withdraw your appeal," he says, because that much at least is plainly obvious. "Are you unhappy in the 17th?"

"No, sir, of course not!" Tally says quickly. "The 17th Relief Battalion is great, I know it is, I'm not unhappy at all."

"... But you don't feel it's a good fit for you?"

Tally shifts uncomfortably and looks away, shoulders hunching again.

"Right, okay – what does the 41st have the 17th doesn't, then?" Desmond asks, trying to figure out what the issue here is. "Is it the action? Eno being a pacifist, we're probably not going to see much of it, I know, but…" he trails away, watching the trooper's reaction. Not that, then. Desmond would really like to give Tally the benefit of the doubt here, but… "It's Unduli and Offee, isn't it? You wanna be closer to them."

Tally flinches and looks almost ready to cry. "It's not like that, sir, please, I swear it is not."

Desmond loses his battle with the sigh. "Please tell me how it is, then, because there's only so many things it could be like, and not all of them are good." Hell, most of them aren't.

The clone dithers and sinks lower and lower in the chair across from Desmond, all but folding in. "I'll withdraw the appeal, sir," Tally says, now choked. "Please, sir, I'll withdraw it."

Desmond is really starting to feel like the bad guy here, and it's not a good feeling. "Tally – just. Relax – I only want to understand. I can see this is important to you. You're clearly unhappy somehow – and if going over to the 41st will make you feel better, then I will be happy to help you," Desmond says as gently as he damn well can. "But I need the real reason, I need to know that it's right for you, and for the 41st. I promise, whatever you say, it won't leave this room."

Tally hesitates for a long enough time that Desmond begins doubting he will ever get a straight answer. "You… won't tell?" Tally asks then, very, very quiet.

Desmond leans back a little. "No, I won't," he promises. "If it's something that threatens the safety of others, I'll damn well deal with it myself – but it's becoming kinda obvious that's not it. You're scared. Why?"

Tally swallows. "Because they'll recondition me."

"... What?" Desmond asks, with a sudden sinking feeling.

Tally takes a deep, slightly shuddering breath, and says, "There's – there's probably something wrong with my head, sir. I don't – I've never felt right. It's like –" there's a pause and a grimace as the clone tries to find the words. "I've never felt right. Everything's always been wrong somehow, like I'm built wrong – and I probably am. I hid it, because – I don't want to be reconditioned or decommissioned, I just… soldiered on, figuring I had to. But when – when I saw General Unduli and Commander Offee, I felt –"

Desmond's brows climb slowly up, and the clone flushes, looking back down, drawing another nervous tally mark. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape and a slash through them.

"I felt like – like… oh. That's it. That's… that's what's missing," the clone whispers. "And like if I – if I just could get closer, I would figure it out, wouldn't feel so… so wrong in my own skin."

… Oh.

Desmond runs a hand over his mouth, trying to figure out what to say to that. It – it makes sense that – damn. He'd seen variance in the clones, of course – different hair and eye colours, unique birthmarks, stuff like that. Of course there would be more – more fundamental differences too…

"Please, don't send me back to be reconditioned, sir, I swear, it doesn't affect my performance," Tally says and looks up. "I was in the battle here, I did well – I didn't hesitate once. It doesn't affect my skills, sir, please –"

"When you say reconditioned, what do you mean?" Desmond asks slowly.

"They – in Kamino, they can wipe clones that don't perform properly, or if they come out wrong," Tally says, looking back down, now pale. "Wipe their memories and start them off a blank slate."

"... And decommissioning?"

Tally's cheek flexes. "That's when a clone is intentionally expired, when there's no – no salvaging them. When they turn out too flawed to be fixed by reconditioning or other means."

Desmond stares at Tally for a long time, feeling a bit like someone just plunged an icy cold Apple of Eden right into his chest. "Tally – do the Jedi know about that? Do they know that's a thing? Do they –?" Fuck, if they knew and then approved...

"I don't know, sir," Tally admits and looks up carefully. "Probably?"

Fuck.

Tally flinches again, and Desmond wipes a hand over his eyes, trying to put away whatever expression he has on. "Right, right – I need to – fuck," Desmond says, muttering the curse in English and then looking at the trooper. "There's nothing wrong with you, Tally, and no one is going to recondition or decommission you, okay? I need to – I need to check a few things, do a little research – I need to check what the Jedi –" he stops and tries for a calming breath. "I need to check out a few things. But I won't tell anyone about this and you're not in trouble, okay?"

The clone gives him a wary look, still a little pale, but at least no longer about to cry. "Okay, sir."

"You're okay," Desmond says and stands up. "I'm going to figure this out, and then we'll figure out what's right for you, okay – and if it turns out that 41st is it, then I'll see that you get the transfer. But if it turns out that Unduli knows about this reconditioning and decommissioning business, then I can't in good conscience risk it, not if you really think it's something that might be done to you because of – of how you feel."

Tally stares at him for a moment, looking stricken. "Yes, sir – but – you know what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong with you – you just might be a little different from the rest of the clones, that's all," Desmond says. "I need to figure out what the Galactic stance on these things is, hopefully I can find you some reading material that explains this, and if not, then I will do my best to explain it myself. Can you hold on for a day or two until I figure it out?"

"Yes, sir, sure," Tally says, looking cautiously hopeful. "Thank you, Commander, for – for being understanding."

If the clones feel like they need to thank their Commanders for basic fucking decency, then this army is somehow even more fucked up than Desmond already thought it was. 

Eno didn't know about the reconditioning or the decommissioning and is gratifyingly horrified by both. Unduli didn't know for sure, but… suspected.

"No Jedi will ever send a clone away," she says firmly. "No Jedi will take part in such heinous practice. But it is part of the process the Kaminoans devised, and we have no control over what they do in their facilities – as much as we have tried, we have not been let into the process of clone creation. The Kaminoans have very carefully kept the reins – and the secrets and practices – of it to themselves. And the Senate approved."

"You think that doesn't make you culpable?" Desmond asks quietly. "You command this army."

"Yes, we do, and of course it does," she snaps. "But very few of us have a choice in the matter – and while we're in command of the clones, at least we have some control over how they are deployed and how they are used. We can fight by their side, try to minimise casualties, do what we can to protect them… it's not enough, but it's something. The Republic will use this army with or without the Jedi, and we would be just as guilty, had we refrained. At least we're trying to make a difference."

Desmond arches a brow at the vehemence. Well-well, it seems like Unduli has made up her mind, then – has found her way.

Eno looks pale, running a shaking hand over his beard. "That doesn't change the reality of it," he says. "Or the fact that by being here we in some way condone these terrible acts."

Unduli draws a breath and then sighs. "No, it doesn't – but it's something. This war will proceed either way."

Desmond folds his arms. A lot of resignation in the Jedi, huh. "How many Jedi know about the reconditioning, the decommissioning?" he asks. "How many of them have actually faced the fact that you're leading a slave army?"

Because from what he'd seen so far, the Jedi rely a lot on willful ignorance, all the while flailing like Unduli has been, trying to balance between her duty and her ideals as a former peacekeeper. If that's the standard Jedi way of dealing with the issue, then…

"It had been strongly advised by the Senate that we should not… draw attention to these issues," Unduli admits. "The Jedi High Council advised the same. It would be bad for…"

Desmond stares at her silently as she trails away and then looks at Eno. Eno sighs, his shoulders slumping and shakes his head. "I do not like it either."

"Right," Desmond says, flat. "Great. I guess we're done here, then."

"Desmond, please," Eno says heavily. "I agree with you, you know I do – I have been looking into another way, and I know for sure Jedi who feel the same. But it is not easy – we are limited by our duties. There's only so far any Jedi can push these limits, before they begin pushing back."

Desmond hesitates.

"There have been Jedi who have already been relieved of their ranks for what they have done for the clones, for the way they've spoken up for them," Unduly admits, clasping her hands. "It is unspoken, but known that either we do what we are told – or we will be removed."

"And I am already toeing that line," Eno admits. "One of the reasons why the High Council was so desperate to get me in this position is because of how many Jedi the Senate had already deemed unsuitable. There are barely enough Jedi to cover all the battalions."

And any battalion without a Jedi Commander would be directly under the whims of the Senate.

Desmond hums, folding his arms. "That explains why," he says. "But it doesn't justify it. Do you think you're doing enough?"

"Clearly not," Unduli says just as flatly. "But what else can we do? The war is raging across more than a dozen systems now – most Jedi don't even have the time to question these things, never mind do anything about them. We're more privileged than most here, and even that is about to change, with the discovery of the factory. What, precisely, would you like us to do differently?"

Desmond sighs and looks away. What indeed. "I don't know," he says. "But I'm not a Jedi, and I'm not under your Senate's orders. And knowing what I know now, I can't just – sit back."

Unduli arches a dark brow at him. "Waking the droids and nearly dismantling the command structure was you sitting back?" she asks wryly. "Oh dear."

Eno looks more thoughtful now – and worried. "You… could theoretically act where we can't, Desmond, that much is true," he says slowly. "But you're still new to this time – what do you think you can do?"

Desmond hesitates at that. Right now not a lot, that much is sadly true. "I can try to find another way," he says. "I can go out there and investigate what you can't – I can go to places and see things you can't."

"What do you think there is to see, then?" Unduli asks thoughtfully, considering him grimly.

"Going by how funky things are just here, a lot," Desmond mutters and shakes his head. "Maybe I can figure out why the Separatists don't want to negotiate, for one. Maybe I can figure out what the fuck is going on with your frankly messed up Senate. And if nothing else, maybe I can figure out a way to save some innocent, enslaved people from being put down just because they happen to be a little different or think a little different from the rest. How's that for a start?"

The Jedi stare at him for a long, tense moment, and then look at each other. "Hmm," Eno hums then and folds his arms.

Unduli looks away. "We will be getting backup from Christophsis soon – the battle is done there, Republic forces have secured the planet," she says, speaking to Eno. "Master Kenobi and the 212th will be here in a couple of days, to aid us in the matter of the droid factory and the Geonosians."

Desmond arches a brow. "Okay?" he says.

"I meant to have the 17th Relief Battalion reassigned to Christophsis, so that we can take part in the clean up there instead of the battle here," Eno explains. "Christophsis is by a major hyperlane, and a producer of many vital materials. It sees far more traffic than Geonosis does."

"Things tend to get misplaced in the reshuffling of troops," Unduli adds, casually. "It's an unfortunate side effect of moving so much equipment and so many men."

Desmond's brows arch. "Okay," he says slower.

"Something to think about, certainly," Eno says and stands up. "Yes, certainly we have plenty to think about. Will you excuse us, Master Unduli?"

The female Jedi nods regally and heads out of the room, walking at a stately pace that's competently contradicted by the fact that her aura is roiling. She's changing colour – from aloof, disconnected white to firm blue of an ally.

"Tell me, my friend – have I ever told you about the many friends I have made across the galaxy?" Eno asks, leading Desmond out of the room as well. "They've been most helpful to me along the years, as I investigated this or that matter."

Right. Right, damn. "It's be happy to hear about them," Desmond says and lets the tension around his shoulders loosen, just a little. "I've got a question first, though, about something else."

"Oh?" Eno asks.

"Yeah – what's the Galactic stance on sex and gender and people not confirming to the sex they were born into?"

Eno pauses at that, giving him a look. "That's – relevant?" he asks, unsurprisingly perceptive.

Desmond shrugs.

"Well," Eno hums. "It depends on the species, the planet and culture, I'm afraid. Republic law in general is largely ambivalent, as there are number of species that change sex and gender naturally several times during the course of their lives, and for most species with no natural process for such reassignment there are medical processes that achieve the same, so most of the legal documentation is done in neutral language, and it's considered a non-issue. There are planets that take umbrage with such things, of course, but they are in the minority."

But it's an issue for the clones, because they're supposed to be identical, and male. Tch. 

"Is that what prompted the discussion of reconditioning and decommissioning?" Eno asks gently.

"I can't either confirm or deny," Desmond says and shakes his head. "But I would really like some reading material about gender and body dysphoria, if there is any."

"I will be happy to help you," Eno says and frowns. "I hope you put this person at ease on the issue?"

Desmond presses his lips together for a moment, biting back the answer. "So, the clones are pretty sure that, with differences like that, you get sent back to Kamino, to be… fixed," he says. "I assume that if it ever came down to – to actually transitioning…?"

Eno looks away, his shoulders sagging.

Desmond closes his eyes and then looks up, his mind set. "Right," he says. "So. What were you saying about your friends?"

Chapter Text

Did I see it would come to this, my friend? No, I admit I did not, but I could see something would shift with the addition of Desmond to these matters. Of course, I cannot say what might've occurred here or elsewhere without him, how my own path might've been shaped had we never found him, but I daresay the difference is marked enough. I can feel something shifting due to his actions and the actions he's about to take.

He will need help, of course, but I suspect he knows how to find it – his Eagle Vision will guide him to the right people. I have given him our contacts, explained to him how to find our allies, the travellers and explorers who have helped us through our years, and with them he can find more. I know he will likely rely on a very different sort of people than I would, but it will do for a start. Whether it will be enough…

Are you sure you wouldn't like to go with him, BD-1, to look after him?

Well, preparations are on the way. Master Kenobi should arrive later today – we will stay here as long as it takes for the 212th Attack Battalion to get themselves settled, and then leave for Christophsis, where we will meet with Master Kenobi's former Padawan, Knight Skywalker, and the battalion under him, the 501st. Somewhere in between, Desmond will slip away with his novices, those who he is already teaching and those who want to go with him. It will be quite a crowd for our poor small Wayfarer to handle, but they assure me they can fit. Clones, I understand, are used to living in each other's back pockets.

Hm? Oh, I'm just glad they have one proper pilot with them. I don't mind the loss – of course, I will miss the ship, it has been our home for many years, but… she will not see use under us in these following months, and sitting desolate and useless in the hold of the Fortitude, she will be of no use to anyone. I don't think Desmond will be able to use her for long – not with his clear intention of expanding, he will need a bigger ship. So I suspect we will see her again in no time at all – and in the meanwhile, I know Desmond will take good care of her.

I half wish I could go with him. Whatever he will end up doing out there in the wider galaxy is bound to be extraordinary, and I am sad that no one will be there to fully document it. No, I know, I know, you have made up your mind, my friend, I will not begrudge you for it. I do enjoy your company, and if you truly wish to stay by my side, I can only be thankful. Regardless, whatever the Brotherhood Desmond is building will become… I wish I could see it.

Oh, could you indeed? Hmm, now there is an idea. If B1 agrees, of course – I know there are other battle droids who are going, the partners of those clones who are leaving with Desmond, but I understand B1 is still the only one who…? Yes, yes, of course. You must do as you feel right, my friend. I trust your judgement.

There are still things to be settled, I should not let myself be carried away by wishes and daydreaming – I know my duty, and it is here, with these men. I know I won't be the sort of leader for them Desmond might've been, had he stayed – he spoke their language in a way I could not. But I daresay Commander Bear is more than capable of assuming some of Desmond's role, and he is more than reliable as a Commander. Our path, as little as I like it and as much as I would like to go another way, is clear…

But that does not mean we cannot do all we can to aid Desmond on his, now does it?

I am beyond grateful that Master Unduli… well, I cannot say she came to her senses, she has always been a sensible woman. But she made up her mind, and though I understand the difficulty there, I am grateful for the choice she made. Societal duty is important to Mirialans, the wellness of the whole and one's place in it, in nature, and in the Force. Balance, in all things, and the good of the greater whole over the individual. There is no question of which is the greater whole here – the Republic has the overwhelming majority of people, planets and needs – but she chose what is right over what is great, so to speak.

And now that she has made that decision, she is already taking it up to herself to formulate plans and forge paths that will move things forward. Such as in the matter of young Tally, in assuring they and others like them will from here on out be cared for, if not within the whole of the Grand Army of the Republic, but then at least here, within the 41st Elite Corps, and the 17th Relief Battalion. While Tally is questioning their way, they will be protected and cared for. Question is what will happen… should Tally's questioning lead to answers that demand physical changes to solve. And it very well might.

Though there are no rules about these things, we have already seen the Kaminoan reaction to divergent Clones – Master Unduli had unearthed some dozen reports of decommissioned clones. She also has gotten into touch with Master Ti, who is now stationed on Kamino, who has come to similar conclusions as we have here – that there are terrible… terrible processes in place for clones that take those significant steps out of line. A clone that gets too poorly injured, a clone that becomes mentally unstable, and any other clone that makes noticeable steps to become different…

Thank the Force for Master Kenobi, Knight Skywalker, Master Koon and Master Windu – it seems all their battalions began to customise themselves roughly at the same times, and as Generals the Jedi had the authority to permit it. Were it just the one battalion doing it, or just the single clone, and without that approval… I fear, only with a single tattoo a clone might've risked their own reconditioning under the original Kaminoan rules. Thankfully, those rules are shifting.

It is interesting – the customisation. It is spreading all throughout the army now, even here, so far removed from the main theatres of the war as we are, the men have begun painting their armour, tattooing their skin, changing and dying their hairstyles. Their strife to be unique and to stand out is, of course, very human and nothing so unusual as that – it has been seen throughout all human societies. Certain fashion trends and standards tend to happen, however, which form a baseline for local fashion for a time – an Alderaanian would stand out in Corellia, and vice versa. The clones have their fashion standard in their armour, which they must always wear, and they are making it unique with paint and accessories…

There is an anthological study to be made here, concerning the… the formation of culture, I suppose. Because that is what is clearly happening here – the clones are forming their own culture. They do it by growing it out from borrowed bits and bobs, much like any other culture, and they do it within the limits of what is societally acceptable for them, as clones are soldiers within certain boundaries. The restriction is leading to quite a bit of creativity – and you can see the art growing through the gaps. The paint, the hair dressing, the tattooing, the singing…

I wish I was here only to witness it. It is making changes to us Jedi too – we too are shifting our standards, changing our culture in small ways, to fit. It will be fascinating to see where all these changes lead us. I wish I could make a thorough study.

Yes, I know you are recording every step of the way, my friend, and I am beyond thankful. Perhaps, once this is all over, we can do such a study. I would enjoy it immensely.

But for now, instead of observing these changes, I must make use of them, as Master Unduli has pointed out. There will be other clones who will diverge from the Kaminoan oath, and who will thus risk their lives. A solution must be devised for them, a safe… exit. Master Unduli can not yet say it, cannot yet take that final step and draw the obvious conclusion, but I can – and I most certainly will help these clones defect, if they must. The only question is, defect how, and to where?

Yes. Yes, I do believe you're right. Desmond is our best hope, here.

It is one thing to know that Jedi are out there, leading this war, and another to… see the effects.

Master Kenobi hides it well, and as a younger man he certainly has the strength and vigour to bear the burden – but already you can see what kind of toll the war is drawing from him. It has only been some months, and already the man is a veteran of several battles, having taken part in the campaigns on Muunilinst, on Sarrish, Hisseen and now Christophsis… In less than half a year, this young man has seen more battles and death than most Jedi see in a lifetime. And this is happening to so many Jedi all throughout the galaxy…

They can bear the burden, I know that – but I fear what it might do to them, before this is all over. What it might do to us. I will not feel guilty over my own pacifism, I know that my inclusion in these major campaigns would change very little – I have studied enough wars over many centuries to know how little one man's actions affect these things. Not unless, of course, that man is an important leader, and I am not. A single missing cog in the machinery of war will not bring it down. I wish it did, my friend. I wish it did.

That is the insidious power of war. How it makes you feel important and utterly insignificant all at once. You refrain, and the pressure will make it feel as though you are letting everyone around you down, as though this position is the one only you can fulfill and without you the day will be lost. But at the same time, were you to die, were you to… disappear… another would simply step up to take your place, without so much as a pause. That is the power of an army – the designed might of it. Every man is important – and every man, even a general, is easily replaceable by another.

Only there are a limited amount of Jedi. They are still making more clones. They will likely keep on making clones until this war ends – and the fact that new batches are being put into production with the return for that investment expected to be only ten years from now…

It is horrific.

The only bright side in this, if it can even be called that, is that clearly Master Kenobi and the 212th Attack Battalion has already come to similar conclusions as we here on Geonosis have – Master Kenobi treats his men with nothing but respect and love, and from what I have heard so far, never sends them into battle without going with them himself. There is a bond between Master Kenobi and his men that can only be called profound – forged, no doubt, in the battles they have seen together.

Desmond has already confirmed it – Kenobi, though he knows nothing of our plans, is already our ally. This brings me incredible hope.

… lock the hatch and haul the crates, weigh, hey, roll and go, the troops' on board will polish their plates…

I see Song is coming along with his lyrics. Make a note that I get him some reading materials concerning musical composition. Do you think he would like to learn an instrument? I know there's little time for such things, but it seems the clones do enjoy making their own music. It is one of humanity's oldest, more foundational forms of art, never mind its many beneficial psychological aspects. It is actually another interesting aspect of the clones, how their culture will develop from now on – they were all raised without music, bar from a few marching tunes. It makes sense they have adopted Desmond's shanties, such working songs suit their lifestyle currently, but eventually their tastes might transform…

Hm? Oh, music gets coded differently in the human brain – from your usual memories, I mean. In the formative years of a human, the music they listen to and learn to love can have a profound effect on their later years – so much so that such music can be used to reverse certain forms of memory erasure. It might very well be the reason why Kaminoans forbade art and music in their training – to prevent it from being used in reversing reconditioning.

… yes, it is. But, considering the reality of clone aging and how young they still are, perhaps the memories and connections they make will change things going forth. I have no doubt that music, like the tattooing and armour painting, will spread through the Grand Army eventually. If nothing else, the 212th will end up carrying it with them to their future campaigns, and we will carry it to Christophsis, and who knows where else.

Such things are almost impossible to contain, and song has forever been a carrier of emotion. The clones have few ways to express their emotions – this one, I think, will stick with them.

As the day of our departure from Geonosis draws near, we, Master Unduli, Master Kenobi and myself, took time to meditate together and to share our experiences of the war. I knew, of course, that Master Kenobi's experiences have so far been… grimmer than our own, and that he has seen things I hope never to experience, but seeing and sensing some of what he has…

This war is truly horrific – insidious in its perceptive ease. The clones, in their obedience and discipline, the droids, in their apparent simplicity. Cannon fodder. Having seen the progress our clones have made with the battle droids, knowing the progress B1 has made in developing their sense of self, it can only feel like a terrible… terrible waste. And yet, what else could he have done?

Master Kenobi was a key figure in taking the Muunilinst capital, as well as taking Christophsis, and many clones died in the process. He did not know all of them, he could not – already hundreds of clones have perished under his command, quickly replaced by reinforcements fresh from Kamino. The losses weigh heavily on him, and yet he is growing to push through it, dragging the burden of the dead after him like a weight he can not shake… he is growing stronger for it, and yet how good a thing that is, I cannot say.

Already Master Kenobi is not the man he once was, though of course I know not what kind of man he was before, I've never met him before. Master Unduli did, however, and she feels the change heavily – she knows it will come to her, too. Neither judges me for my choices, and yet I feel… almost removed from them, by this shroud of horror that is enveloping us.

The Jedi are undoubtedly changing. And I fear…

I fear the moment when a Jedi will look down upon a dead soldier, a dead clone, and feel nothing for the loss. We say and we strongly feel that it will never happen, we look at each other and we swear we will not take this for granted – but the losses are already growing, and the battles are still raging on, and they will continue to do so. Already Master Kenobi has lost more men than he can name. What will it be like for him, ten months in, a year in, two years? What will he feel for his losses then?

The Jedi Order teaches us to accept death and to let go of our losses – to rejoice for those that join the Force and to not miss them… but how can you do that, when you feel so deeply that it was your fault they died in the first place?

I did my best to share what wisdom I could with Masters Unduli and Kenobi, the lessons I had learned from studying the history of war. These losses are not their fault, not unless they cut these soldiers down with their own sabers. War is a crime with thousands of victims and a shared blame – they cannot bear the guilt for the losses alone. They should instead be proud of those they saved. Human psychology acts against us here – negativity is easier to hold onto than positivity simply because our brains are hardwired to prioritise all negative feedback, but we must try. Concentrate on the living, in saving as many as we can.

That, I feel, is the only way any of us will come out of this with our faith intact.

Master Kenobi glimpsed some of our plans, I fear. He saw some of the truth that lies at the heart of Desmond, and his Brotherhood. He said nothing about it, however.

We depart tomorrow. Are you ready to go, my friend?

Chapter Text

It's starting to come together. And that's almost the weirdest part, for Desmond, how it feels almost natural. Like this was always how it was going to go.

Here he is, hundreds of thousands of years in the future, restarting the Brotherhood, so long after it was forgotten that there's really no frame of reference to even use. He's in the realm of spaceships and wars between stars and really mind-bending amount of crimes against humanity and all sentient life, and – and he's about to rebuild the Assassin Brotherhood. And it feels like a natural conclusion for everything. Even though honestly none of this should make any sense. Him being here at all shouldn't make sense. He's in space, for Earth's sake!

"Looks like we're through, sir. So, where to?" Mayday asks, squeezing the controls of the Wayfarer maybe a little bit harder than strictly speaking necessary. 

"That's a good question," Desmond hums, folding his arms. Eno left him with a series of contacts he could get in touch with for intelligence and help – people who would help him just because Eno sent him. That could do for a start, but they would need more than a helping hand – and he'd rather not get Eno's friends involved, not before he had a chance to establish a certain foundation. And he has a feeling Eno's friends are going to be a bit like him – generally on the honourable side of things.

And honourable isn't going to get them going at the speed with which they need to get going. There's a war being fought, with innocent people dying – they can't wait for honourable means to bear fruit.

The Brotherhood needs money, it needs ships – it needs a place to recruit from. And they need them sooner rather than later. Problem is… Desmond has no idea where to get any of that. Eno's friends could help them there, maybe…

Fuck it.

"B1, can you bring up a map of the neighborhood?" Desmond asks, and the droid jerks to attention in the makeshift copilot seat. 

There's handful of stars with habited systems nearby, though Desmond doesn't really have the frame of reference for what nearby is when it's the distances between stars in question. Andooweel, Ooo-temiuk, and Obana are all within what looks on the map like a spitting distance – compared to the distance between Geonosis and Coruscant, anyway. The Earth and Sol system is further away still. The closest inhabited star to Geonosis is…

"Tatooine," Desmond murmurs, and B1 obligingly brings the star closer on the hologram. It's hued grey on the map – neither the Republic nor the Confederacy have staked a claim there. "Anyone know anything about the place?"

"According to the map, it is a desert planet orbiting a binary star system," B1 informs him. "Galactic standard atmosphere with no local exports, estimated population of a hundred thousand – native sapient species are the Sand People and the Jawa."

"I hear it's a real shit hole," Walker says from the doorway leading out of the cockpit. "It's a Hutt world."

"Hutt?"

"The Hutts are large slug-like people from the planet of Nal Hutta," B1 recites, sounding bored. "Known for their cunning, ruthlessness and high affinity for economics, they're most known galaxy-wide for their many affiliations with smuggling, illegal mining operations, the trade of various illegal substances and slavery."

Desmond's brows arch. "Where are you pulling this from?"

"BD-1 shared many of his databases with me," the battle droid admits. "He thought it would come in handy."

"I hear Hutts are gangsters," Walker says, leaning into the doorway. "Apparently there was some stuff with one of them just a little while ago – the General of the 501st had to do a favour for them or something. Wooley – he's a guy from the 212th – says Skywalker was spitting mad. Not a fan, apparently."

Desmond hums. "Gangsters who deal in slavery, huh?"

There's eighteen of them on board the Wayfarer, which makes even the short trip from Geonosis to Tatooine a bit of a trial. Even if most of them are battle droids and thus take a pretty slim amount of space, it is still pretty tight.

On the side of humans there's Desmond, Walker, Twitch, Mayday, Jax and Wires, and that's already too many people on a ship that was designed only for one occupant. On the droid side there's B1, Rust-Bucket, Twitch's buddy Stiff, Mayday's buddy Ginger, Jax's Bet and Wires' Gizmo, Rusty, and Chatterbox, because Wires had sort of adopted them from less interested clones. The rest of the droids were recently woken ones from the pile – and four was as many of them as Desmond could swing before everyone else put their foot down.

It is, in a word, cramped. And that might've been kinda on purpose. If nothing else, it's a damn good incentive to find a better ship. Whether they can find one on Tatooine is a different thing – and there's an issue.

A mixed group of clones and droids in what amounts to a neutral system would lift some eyebrows.

"I can ditch the helmet and pull on a hood and a cape, and I probably won't be mistaken for a trooper," Desmond muses. "The rest of you are going to need something similar. I know your helmets and armour are important to you, and I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable – but…"

"And here I thought we were going to blend in by willpower alone," Twitch mutters and Jax snickers quietly.

"Way ahead of you, Commander," Walker says and pulls out a small crate of armour paint from under Eno's tiny kitchen table. "Not sure what we can do about helmets, but we can definitely make the armour look different. There's enough paint here to cover all our plates."

Desmond arches a brow. "That'd do for a start, yeah – how do you feel about adding robes to your getup?'

"Like yours?"

"Like mine, yeah," Desmond asks and glaces at Twitch. "We can lean in on that cult thing – better be mistaken for a weird religious group than a bunch of runaway soldiers."

"Hide in plain sight, huh?" Twitch sighs.

"What about the droids?" Jax asks wryly. "Can't exactly put them in robes and call it a day, can we?"

"Why not?" Desmond asks.

"Well… they're droids, for one thing? It wouldn't hide anything. Bet fabric would snag on the joints too."

"I bet I could cover the joints up somehow," Wires comments, looking at Rusty, standing next to him. "Add a bit of padding here and there, and they won't look like droids under the clothes, and with a hood and maybe a shroud of something we can cover their faces – and it'll take just a little tweak of their audio processor to change their voices. The feet and the hands are the hard thing, but maybe if we wrap them in cloth…? What do you think, Rusty? Would you like new duds?"

"Roger roger," the droid answers, and Wires pats their hand consolingly.

B1 shakes their head. "I think I would rather be covered in the casings of a protocol droid," they mutter flatly. "But I guess I could see it working, to a point."

"Wait – could you actually do that, wear protocol droid casing?" Wires asks excitedly. "Because that would definitely help with the blending in – I bet I could wire you to sound like a protocol droid."

B1 just stares at him, and Desmond laughs. "How about we don't start tampering with people's voices just yet," he says and looks at the others. "Any other ideas?"

They spitball ideas for disguises, and in the end settle on the cult thing. It would draw attention, but it would be a different kind of attention than going out as they are would draw. Between Walker, Twitch, Wires and B1, who can draw from BD-1's databases on the cultures and religious orders Eno had studied as well as the Wayfarer's database, they come into a decision for a look for their cult disguise, based on what is the most common and least conspicuous colouring used in the galaxy. Desmond despairs about it a little, but there's no helping it – white armour is the signature for the Grand Army, so using any amount of white in armour was right out. 

Instead, and kind of ironically, all their armour gets a new base coat of grainy matte desert sand, not too different from the base colour of the droid army. And what's more, the colour selection has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they're heading for a desert planet and the new armour colour is perfect for camo. No, it is just the most commonly used colour in the galaxy, for some reason.

Clones, it turns out, don't do camouflage. They're barely even trained in it. "Of course stealth troops and ARC troops get trained in it, but we're just foot soldiers, you know?" Jax says with a crooked, mirthless smile, while buffing the surface of his armour plates to take the paint. "Why would we need to hide from enemy snipers? We're supposed to draw fire, and die for the Republic, not cower from it."

Yeah. Desmond might not have a nifty like secret painting gallery for assassination targets just yet, but he has a mental list of locations to visit – and Kamino is right up there.

But Tatooine first. Here's hoping their make do disguises of painted armour and hooded faces would work until they figured out something better.

No one on Tatooine so much bats an eye at them – which, taking one look at Mos Espa, kinda makes sense. The place is full of pretty weird sorts – and most of them are hooded and covered in some kind of armour. There's also a very heavy atmosphere of better mind our own business and don't want any trouble in the air, which means even passing curiosity is quickly dismissed.

If Desmond believed in the Will of the Force, he'd say that this was it – because damn, he couldn't have asked for a better starting point.

"Right," he says to Twitch, Walker and cloth-wrapped B1. "You guys go around and observe the market here – don't talk to anyone just yet, but keep an eye on anything that might be interesting. Slaves, ships, trouble, anything that catches your eye."

The clones exchange a slightly concerned look. "What are you going to do?"

Desmond peers at the crowd of many, many red aura signatures. "I'm going to get us some funds," he says and pats Twitch's shoulder. "Look after each other, stay out of trouble and eavesdrop with prejudice. I'll catch up with you later."

With that said, he leaves them – with no actual intention of going very far. It's their first foray into the outside world, and Desmond's not about to leave them without backup. But sometimes you just gotta kick the chicks out of the nest and see how far they will fly on their own.

… and he'd rather not risk them getting him caught in the act. He hadn't yet gotten the chance to teach them the art of pickpocketing, after all – or the art of sidling up behind people and stabbing them in the back without them even noticing it. Geonosis kind of lacked proper targets for both.

Desmond refrains from outright murder for now – even though there's honestly so many targets that it's actually tempting to just go all out in the crowd. He figures out pretty quickly that most of the targets are that because they're slave owners, and not particularly kind ones – he doesn't need to see them outright beat their obediently trailing attendants to know that they're damn well beaten. There's one horned person – Desmond has no idea what their species is called – who's cutting through the crowd with a trail of five young Twi'leks on an actual chain, and fuck if it isn't tempting. But that would definitely draw some attention, so he just makes a mental note about where they go, listens in long enough to learn the slave owner's name and then resolutely continues on.

Twitch, Walker and B1 in the meanwhile wander around the market, peeking into stalls and listening to people haggling, but not taking part. Desmond considers dropping in to hand them some of the local currency to use however they wish, but decide against it for now. They're getting along well, and it'd be better they didn't get distracted by temptations of commerce just yet – they can have some spending money once they all have a better grasp on what things were actually worth and wouldn't get too easily scammed.

As it is, Desmond has uses for the money he's making.

He finds what he's really looking for about an hour of pick pocketing and spying. An old human woman, selling fruit by a quieter street to a more humble clientele than on the crowded main street. There are scars on her hands and sharpness in her eyes that tell a story – and a golden glow of importance, which shines around her like a halo.

Desmond greets her by putting a handful of the stolen coins and chips he'd been collecting to her counter and saying, "I'm looking for something, and I think you can help me."

The woman looks at the chips and coins and leans back a little as Desmond pushes them over and lifts his hand, leaving them out in the open. He has only a vague idea how much money he'd just laid out, and can only hope it's enough without being suspiciously too much.

"And what can I help you with, outlander?" the old woman asks without taking the money, settling her hands in her lap.

Desmond considers his options and subtly checks that no one is near enough to overhear. "In the market there I saw a string of Twi-lek slaves with a master who is better off dead. What will happen to the slaves if their master happens to wake up dead tomorrow?"

The old woman's cheek flexes as she swallows. "It depends. A business partner or a relative of the master might inherit them. If there's no direct line of inheritance, local auction will most likely take possession – if no one else manages to make a strong claim before, of course."

Desmond hums. "And if the slaves happened to turn up missing?"

The old woman expression tightens. "If they did not have explosive slave chips or collars, their new owner might send a hunter after them – or they might not."

Desmond's eyes narrow. "Explosive slave chips? Collars?" he says, his voice dipping low and into a different accent as he leans in. "How might one deal with those?"

The old woman hesitates, glances around and then says, "When the suns set, seek out the Twins in the Quarter Row," she says and finally accepts the coins and chips on the counter. "Ask around, people will laugh and ridicule you and point you the right way."

With that said, she begins packing her stall away with a clear air of dismissal. Desmond considers her and then puts a bit more money out, pointing to a basket of prickly looking fruit on the counter. She nods briskly, and Desmond takes the whole basket with him when he goes.

"Can we kill the Hutt?" B1 asks.

"... Um?" Desmond answers, his brows arching. "Where is this coming from? Why do you want to kill the Hutt?" There's a the Hutt now?

"It is a rhetorical question," the droid says, eyeing the cloth wrapping covering their hands. "It would destabilise the region and lead to a power vacuum that could theoretically be filled by some other leader and form of government, perhaps a better one, perhaps a worse one – either way, during the exchange of power there would be a period of unrest that would likely benefit many and disadvantage others, which could be easily exploited to various people's advantage."

Desmond's brows climb a little higher. "Um. Well, uh. It's a reason, I guess, but, uh…"

B1 shifts that weight, awkward, but says nothing more.

Walker clears his throat. "There was a droid in the market that bumped into Jabba the Hutt's men – they reduced it to scrap as it screamed for mercy," he says. "I'm kinda with B1 on this one."

"There's also all the slavery going on," Twitch says grimly while examining the prickly fruit Desmond brought them. "I think the whole system is supported and, at least in some part, managed by the Hutts – slavery isn't just legal in Hutt space, it's a whole… thing. I think it might be half of the economy. It definitely looked like it was going on all over the place, didn't it?"

Desmond hums. The other clones are giving Desmond's students some wide-eyed looks, but no one is voicing any horrified objections. Well, well. It's a bit of a leap, but… what the hell. Part of the reason why he wanted out of Geonosis was because teaching opportunities were kind of limited there – here, they have a perfect one. A potential Target with a capital T.

"Well, my beloved novices, I guess it's time for your first missions, then. Yes, that includes you three," he nods to Mayday, Wires and Jax, and everyone all but stands in attention. "I made a contact I'm going to be seeing tonight – your job in the meanwhile is figuring how you might go about information gathering," Desmond says, clapping his hands together. "The job of Assassin Novices throughout history. If we're to assassinate Jabba the Hutt, what do we need to know beforehand and how we need to prepare?"

"Uh. Information, obviously, but…" Walker glances at the others. "Information, where he is, what he's doing… where we can catch him."

"What kind of defenses he has, who's he got around him, does he have bodyguards," Twitch continues, folding his arms thoughtfully. 

"What kind of security systems he has," B1 says.

"And whether they are hackable," Wires hums. "If we can hack them."

"Whether or not he has a pit with a horrible disgusting monster to throw errant assassins into?" Jax asks wryly and Mayday snorts.

"Not bad, but first of all, you need a reason why," Desmond says. "Why does Jabba the Hutt deserve to die, what has he done, and what does his death bring to us, to people around him, to everyone else that might be affected. Once we have that, then we can go about figuring out how we do it. Come up with that intelligence, and we can go from there."

"... Just to be clear… we can just... do that? We can actually kill Jabba the Hutt?" Mayday asks slowly.

"If there's a just cause for it, and if the people suffering under him will benefit from it," Desmond says firmly. "Stay your blade from the blood of the innocent includes indirect action, too. Let's not make things worse for the innocent of Tatooine. But if Jabba deserves it, if it will make things better for people affected by him, then, yes. We can just do that. Granted that were actually capable of it without getting ourselves killed, but that's what the information gathering is for."

"Huh," Jax says.

"You'll come plan for it tonight, and if it's a good one, you can get to it tomorrow," Desmond nods. "That sounds doable for you lot?"

They seem to agree, even B1, who nods jerkily. "Neat," Walker says, grinning. "So who's the contact you're going to see, Commander? Anyone interesting?

"Local woman who I think might be involved with the slave trade somehow – namely in undermining it," Desmond says thoughtfully and leans back. "I need to figure out how to help the slaves before I can start picking off their owners."

The clones share a surprised look. "Can we help you with that?" Walker asks curiously.

"Figure out the information gathering first – we're going to need intelligence on this place either way," Desmond says and smiles. "I know you're eager for action, but let's not bite off more than we can chew just yet."

"Aww. Pity."

"Speak for yourself, I'm just fine with information gathering," Twitch mutters, giving Desmond a wary look. "Even if it's wildly out of character. Why so cautious all of a sudden, Commander?"

Desmond shrugs. "It's all fun and games until someone ends up dead. I'd rather it not be any of my brand spanking new novices," he says wryly and hums in thought. Twitch, Walker and B1 aren't really that new anymore, though, are they? They might not even be novices really… "Actually, that's something we need to talk about. Ranks and titles and such. Assassins have a different rank system than the Grand Army does – I don't know what the droid army ranks are like, but they're probably different too. If it's something you're comfortable with, I think it might be time we start using the Brotherhood's system instead."

The clones share a look and then shrug. "We're already deserters," Mayday says cheerfully. "What the hell. How do the ranks go?"

"Well, that's the thing. Every version had different ranks, I'm not sure which one will work for us," Desmond muses. Ezio's Brothethood had ten ranks – Altaïr's had six. "And technically I've been calling you by the wrong rank – you're mostly initiates, and the non-self aware droids could maybe be called recruits, and even that's pushing the limits, since they can't actually consent to joining the Brotherhood yet… hmm..."

Another look shared between the clones, and then Walker shrugs. "Your call, sir," he says. "I think I'm speaking for everyone when I say we're fine with everything. Though don't the Jedi have Initiates – and they're like… babies, basically?"

"Pre-padawan Jedi are Initiates, I think," Wires mused. "So, thirteen and under?"

"Would be kinda fitting, when you think about it," Jax says with a snort.

Desmond drums his fingers against the little kitchen table and then makes his decision. Six ranks is more than enough for his Brotherhood. "Alright. Recruit is the not-really-a-rank of one who either has the potential of joining the Brotherhood, or has just joined but isn't in training yet. The non-self aware droids are potential recruits, for now. You three," he points to Mayday, Wires and Jax, "are now Novices of the Brotherhood, and your training starts tonight. Congratulations."

All three of them sit up a little straighter – even Jax looks keen-eyed and eager. 

Desmond smiles and continues. "Twitch, B1, Walker – you three are hereby promoted to the second rank; you're now Disciples, which means you can help me in training and teaching your future Assassin siblings – like these three. There are few more ranks between you and me – Apprentice, Assassin and Master Assassin, and each will get harder and demand more of you than I have so far. And I guess I'm the sixth and final rank, the Mentor of the Brotherhood."

They're all quiet for a moment, solemnly digesting the words.

"Disciple," Twitch murmurs and shakes his head. "Yeah. This is definitely a cult, isn't it, Mentor?"

Desmond throws a bit of fruit at him, making the others laugh, releasing some of the tension. "Right, then, my dear Disciples and Novices," he says and stands up. "It's time I head out to get in touch with my new contact. You lot have your information gathering to plan, do me proud – I will see you in the morning."

"Wait, you're going to be gone all night?" Wires asks, frowning.

"I got some scouting to do, which is easier in the dark," Desmond shrugs – by which he means he has buildings to break into and vaults, safes, and miscellaneous hiding places to raid.

Their Brotherhood has a lot of work to do – it's time to start getting their funding in order.

Chapter Text

Mos Espa is probably the worst example of what freedom in the galaxy looks like, not that the Commander – the Mentor – ever claims otherwise. It's a place free from Republic or Separatist rule and scrutiny, and so the people there are free of all kinds of surveillance, laws and limitations the rest of the galaxy is working under, so it's… free in a sense, free in a way Coruscant, Geonosis and definitely Kamino were not. But at the same time, if this is what people do with freedom from regulation…

The clones are slaves, Walker knows that. No one says it out loud, but they all know that – he thinks even among the still loyal troopers in the army, there's more clones who know it than those that deny it. They're bred, engineered, indoctrinated slaves, that's a fact of life, a horrible fact of life, going by the way their Mentor reacts to them still, but just… a fact of life. They don't even have the need to accept it – it is what it is, whether they do or not.

Somehow, seeing natural born slavery seems worse, though. Seeing people who were probably born free, born to loving parents and all that, forced into slavery, trying to fight against that slavery but unable, it seems like a more… raw form of it, somehow. Of course, it's just comparing a hand blaster to a blaster rifle – turn them over however you want, they're still both weapons to kill things with. Walker knows that if he voiced his option on clone slavery compared to natural born slavery, it wouldn't be just the Mentor telling him that he's probably being someway biased. Not that their Mentor would – he's very careful about not putting it in a certain way.

It still seems worse, seeing a young kid, maybe eight, maybe older, being dragged away by a collar… When Walker had been around that size, he'd been going through half a billion learning modules – old enough to memorise and learn, not yet old enough to train physically. What the natural born kid would be doing for their Master, Walker doesn't know – but he doubts there'd be learning modules or simulations involved.

At least the clones knew what they'd be doing, what was demanded of them, day in and day out – and what kind of end they could expect, before long. At least it was just about the same for all of them.

That's probably what the Mentor would call a fucked up set of mind. And the fact that Walker can actually see that too is probably a sign of him having actually learned what the man had been trying to teach them, on Geonosis. He is also starting to see why the man goes about his lessons and teaching sessions in such a confusing, contradictory way – half a time more arguing against his own teachings than trying to actually instill them in his students.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

Take nothing at a face value – not even your own thoughts. Especially not your own thoughts, considering how damn prejudiced and biased their training had made them.

"How about that one, do you think that one might be something useful?" Jax asks, bringing Walker's attention back to the present – and to the busy market street in front of them. The other clone is pointing at a Devaronian male, carrying a big old blaster rifle, obviously modified to make it seem even bigger and more intimidating, swaggering around the place like he owns it.

Walker squints his eyes against the glare of the suns, unfiltered by a helmet and barely held at bay by his new, beaked hood, and hums. "I dunno. I don't get that – you know… vibe. What do you think, RB?"

"He is a bounty hunter," Rust-bucket answers from under a shroud of sandy fabric and a new mask, featureless and humanoid-wide, which is now covering their face. Unlike B1, Rust-bucket's voice is a little uncertain, and still mostly in monotone. "A fairly high class one from the Bounty Hunters' Guild. Going by local chatter, he has just claimed a sizeable bounty."

And so the guy is flush with cash. Explains the swaggering, probably. "Lucky bastard, I guess," Walker muses, considering the bounty hunter. "We should look into the Guild a bit more. Visit the Guild house maybe."

"We should," Jax agrees with a scoff. "They're probably going to end up hunting us down before long."

"Well, you are one shiny brilliant positive ray of sunshine, aren't you?" Walker grins, and then his eyes are drawn to a figure hurrying across the market – a Weequay with their head bent low, their body language guarded, carrying something in their arms that looks like a case. "How about that one?" he says, squinting again. There's something…

"That one?," Jax answers, running a hand over his chin. "Hmm. I guess they're – kind of different from the rest? Figure Jabba's people would be more… you know… arrogant swaggering shitheads."

"Even criminals need servants," Walker muses. The Weequay kind of moves like a slave, all hunched and fearful, but they're moving fast, with purpose. And the clothes they're wearing… "RB, you get anything from them?"

"No file on public record, and no bounties either. No facial match in the databases," Rust Bucket reports and shifts their head a little, obviously following the hunched up Weequay with their eyes. "I concur, Brother Jax – they seem to stand out in the crowd."

Brother Jax. Aww. "Don't stare," Walker says, nudging at the droid. "I know B1 can look at things without facing them straight on, and you should be able to do that too. Don't be so obvious about observing people."

"Roger roger," Rust Bucket stiffly and immediately looks away.

Jax sighs. "The droids are going to get us killed probably," he says fatalistically. "Why can't we wait until they get more people-like?"

"Because they won't ever get people-like if we don't interact with them – it's okay, RB, you're doing a good job," Walker says, patting the droid's shoulder. "People tend to notice when they're being watched even when you don't make it blindingly obvious – so let's not make it easier for them, okay?"

There's another slave being led through the crowd, an older human male, with a scarred face, obviously blind eyes, and back that seems unnaturally straight for someone so old. As they and their Zygerrian master continue on, Walker glimpses an artificial limb under a ragged trouser leg, and wonders about it. A blind, old slave, who'd been fixed up.

"I hate this damn place," Jax mutters, also looking after the older slave. "That man has to be at least sixty years old, and that's natborn years. Can you imagine, being a trooper that long?"

Walker draws a breath and then releases it. "Let's see if we can trace where that Weequay servant is going and what they're up to, shall we?" he says. "Come along, brothers – time to spy on people."

Twitch and B1 are similarly out and about with Novices in tow. Well, one Novice and one recruit each, really, since the other battle droids are still not quite there yet. They'd divided the city of Mos Espa into sections, and each group was in charge of a different section, gathering intelligence where they could. None of them, as per the Mentor's order, went anywhere near the Hutt quarters, or the arguably wealthier sections of Mos Espa, and for the most part they weren't doing much. Just walking around, and listening.

Twitch is the first to take it a bit further – he'd used some of the money the Mentor had given them that morning, and bribed a beggar person for information.

"Not that I really knew what to ask," he shares with the rest of them, when they meet for the double-noon lull. "I asked about the slave auctions and stuff, pretended like I was looking for a specific slave, like I thought they'd be in the next one. Apparently there's sales going on all the time – and a big auction at the end of every month. The next one is in two days, which is why there's so many slaves and owners around, apparently – they're here for the auction."

"I investigated it too. The auction is governed by Jabba the Hutt, and he takes a sizable cut from every auction – all the slaves are inspected, tested and graded by his physicians, which determines their price," B1 says. "There is a number of smaller auctions that happen at the same time – droid auctions, ship auctions, probably quite a bit of illegal contraband is also sold… and there will be travelling merchant vessels, which will be landing outside the city, taking advantage of gathered people to sell their fares."

"Guess we came around at a pretty busy time, huh," Walker mutters, shaking his head. "Damn, I didn't even think of looking into that, I thought there just are this many slaves around here. We just found an in to Jabba's house here, in Mos Espa."

The others turn to him.

"We followed a servant from Jabba's lodgings," Jax explains. "And apparently you Disciples could probably climb through the windows."

Walker grins. "I didn't go in, but I did climb a nearby building to get an overhead view – we could totally get in through the windows on the top floor. Not so sure about getting out, though, but most of the people there are slaves – and they don't look too happy about… anything. If we killed Jabbat, I doubt anyone there would actually try and stop us from leaving after."

"We would need to do more than just kill him, though – we'd need to make sure the slaves could go. Every slave that goes through the Hutt systems ends up with an exploding slave chip," Twitch says grimly. "That's how this whole system works – wander too far off, piss off your master, step a toe out of line, and… boom."

"Fuck," Jax mutters, and they're all quiet for a moment.

"There are ways to remove them," Twitch says. "I think – or deactivate them, at least. You can free a slave you own, so there has to be a way. I bet the Hutts control the way, though."

"Pity none of our guys are medical droids," Wires muses, looking at them. "I bet a good medical droid could locate them. B1, what do you say about getting an upgrade? If we found the parts, I bet I could give you medical grade scanning ability."

It's said in a joking tone, and Wires is obviously expecting B1's usual sarcastic retort, but the droid visibly perks up. "Could you?" they ask, half wondering and half dubious, and look down at themselves. Even through the robes they'd made for the droids, B1 is a skeletal, striped down thing even for a droid – the lack of more sophisticated features is kind of obvious. "How big would it be?"

Wires hums and folds his arms, thinking about it. "You know what, I have no idea, but I can definitely look into it. Does that mean you'd like some medical upgrades?"

"They would probably be useful," the droid muses and looks at them. "We don't have a medic – if we droids break down, Wires can fix us. If you humans get injured…"

"We have first aid kits," Walker says, frowning. "But that's a good point. I think we should bring it up with the Mentor."

"Agreed, he will likely have some ideas to input," B1 agrees. "Where is the Mentor anyway?"

"Can't believe we're actually calling him that," Jax mutters. "But no."

Walker snorts, shaking his head and privately wondering. It's probably another messed up headspace thing he needs to deal with eventually, but he can't even think of the man by his name anymore. Just… the Mentor, formerly the Commander. The Superior. Something to figure out later, that.

"I saw him, for a bit," Twitch says. "Headed to the Quarter Row, again. Seeing his contact, I guess."

"He'll tell us what it's about when he's gathered enough intelligence," Walker says, shaking his head, and finishes his rations. "Jax, wanna take Bet out with us next?"

"Gotta dress them up first," Jax says with a sigh and gets up. "But yeah, sure. Give me a moment."

"Anything else to share?" Twitch asks, looking around the others. "Mayday, you got anything?"

"Hm?" the pilot asks, looking up from the datapad he'd been browsing. "Oh, no – nothing much. I've been looking into the ships and stuff on sale around here – or on Tatooine in general. The Mentor wants a bigger ship, so… I've been looking." He holds the datapad level and opens a holo of what looks like a ship, but is unlike any ship Walker has ever seen. It's big, whatever it is – with a ridiculous amount of view ports. A single hit to the thing's sides would probably blow it's hull wide open.

"What is that?" Twitch asks, leaning in. "That's not a warship, whatever that is."

"It's a liner – an old liner, as it happens," Mayday says. "It's like… a natural born luxury troop carrier, I think. From what I can figure, they fly these things in the Core, these huge personnel carriers for rich people with all the pleasures of home or whatever. It's big, it's bulky – and it's on sale. Apparently it used to be a casino."

"What's a casino?" Walker asks.

"No idea, but it's a selling point, apparently," Mayday says with a shrug and looks down at the ship. "It's a slow old hulk of a ship with almost zero defensive capabilities – and it's not cheap. But… it can carry 5000 passengers."

"… bit on the big side, huh," Wires murmurs, but he looks thoughtful.

Considering all the droids the Mentor wanted to wake up, and all the clones out there… They're just five for now – but that's only because they couldn't fit more in the Wayfarer, and any more would've gotten harder for Commander Bear and the General to cover up. You can lose 5 clones, probably, and claim it was an accident, but any more than that and it starts getting more than a little suspicious.

The Mentor wants the Republic to lose all of them, though – and he probably doesn't like Separatists keeping all the droids, either.

"How much is it?" Twitch asks dubiously.

"A lot," Mayday says, shaking his head. "But you saw that chest the Mentor brought in last night, right? And that was just after one night. I don't think money's going to be an issue for long."

They have the layout of Mos Espa mostly down, with all the major places and most of the people and who went where and did what. They also have an ever growing list of Jabba the Hutt's execution-worthy crimes, but that was kind of given. Walker doesn't think even the Mentor had any doubts about the Hutt's innocence – but now they know for sure.

Jabba the Hutt isn't just a gangster, or a slaver, or a smuggler. He's the boss of a criminal empire that makes its money on the backs of slaves, either here or on other worlds, in various establishments, in forced labour, usually in mines. The Hutt owns literally hundreds of people, and he works them to death. He keeps humanoid females and abuses them in public – and discards them on a whim, killing them for entertainment. He instigates territorial fights between factions of smugglers and pirates and other slavers for no other reason than for his amusement – and usually, profits from it. Directly Jabba is guilty of dozens of deaths – indirectly, tens of thousands. And that's without even getting to the slave trade, which Jabba encouraged and the system of which he manages and profits from. For Force's sake, the Hutt employs slave catchers, people whose job is just to kidnap healthy, well educated children from core worlds – they're more valuable as slaves.

Jabba deserves to die. There's no doubt about that. Tatooine might not be saved if the Hutt dies, there'd probably be someone else just as bad ready to take his place eventually, but for a while it would definitely be better off. In the period after, when the Hutt was dead and the local lowlifes no longer had that shining figure of stellar authority to rely upon, things could… slip through the cracks, safely. People who needed to die could end up dead, with no fear of retaliation from the Hutt's court, and so on.

It's gratifying to find that their Mentor had been thinking along the same lines – and more, he'd been working on the aftermath. "Turns out there's already a bit of a movement in place," he explains to them at night. "Former or older slaves, mostly, working in secret – they have scanners for the chips, a repurposed medical droid to remove them with, and they've tunnelled an escape route right out of Mos Espa… They can't get more than one or two slaves out every week or so, but there's already a system in place."

"So we can kill the Hutt," Jax says.

"We could," the Mentor hums, drumming his fingers idly against his bracer, thinking. "But there are things that need to be covered first. And first things first," he grins at them. "What have you found out, my students?"

They fill him in on everything they've learned about the Hutt and his lodgings, about the locals, about slavery in general, the upcoming slave auction – Mayday even fills in their Mentor on the star liner he'd found. The Mentor considers the readout and then hums, noncommittal, and says, "What else?"

They tell him about the people, about the servants in Jabba's court, about the Bounty Hunter's Guild, about the other auctions that would coincide with the big slave auction.

Their Mentor nods, and then says, "What else?"

Walker realises that they've missed something around the time Jax, rather sarcastically, begins describing people's clothes. What are they missing? They know that killing Jabba won't fix Tatooine, the place is too… crooked, but it would still be better if he died, if just for that little time when no one was in charge. They don't know what the interior of Jabba's house is like, but the Mentor had told them not to get anywhere near it, so how would they know? They don't know how…

They don't actually know how you kill a Hutt.

"Well, there's that," the Mentor agrees when Walker makes that observation. "But what else?"

They come up empty – even B1 just stares at him.

"Don't blame us if you're a poor teacher," Jax says, a little irritable. "You weren't even there – how are we supposed to know what to look for?"

The Mentor smiles at that. "Let me rephrase it then – do you think we're ready to kill Jabba the Hutt?"

No, obviously not.

"Okay, therefore…" the Mentor says, and makes a winding motion with his hand. "What else? We know Jabba the Hutt deserves to die. We know his death will benefit Tatooine, and probably other worlds too. What else do we need to know? Aside from the how and when."

The clones and the droids exchange confused looks and after a moment, their Mentor shows them some mercy.

"We could kill him, sure. Tatooine will be better off. There will be a period of chaos," he motions to B1 and Walker, both of whom had pointed out that it would lead to deaths but it would probably be for the best. "People will take advantage of his absence. Maybe a lot of slaves could escape and be saved. But then, the aftermath. One day, someone will take Jabba's place. So…"

He stops there, looking at them expectantly, and Walker finally gets it. That's the unknown variable, the what else. "Who takes Jabba's place," he says slowly, frowning.

"How are we supposed to know that?" Jax asks, annoyed. "Who even knows when that will happen – it'll be some other Hutt, probably. Right?"

The Mentor smiles a little wider – it's his aww, you're adorable smile. Then he glances at Walker, and nods encouragingly. "Well? How do we know, Walker?"

"Because we are going to pick them beforehand," Walker says, half automatic, his mind racing. "When we kill Jabba, we need to have someone ready to take his place."

How had he not realised that? They're Assassins, and their targets are people like Jabba, corrupt leaders. By killing the Hutt, they will be changing things for Tatooine, upturning its government in an instant, they already know that – why didn't he follow the thought to its natural conclusion? It seems so obvious, and yet it's a total shock. Tatooine isn't even their world – but they're going to engineer a swift and brutal change of power, affecting a whole system with their actions – changing its direction, hopefully for better, hopefully for forever.

Walker meets their Mentor's eye. Nothing is true, everything is permitted, indeed.

Chapter Text

Slick is going to be decommissioned. Or maybe reconditioned, but he doubts it, not after what he'd done. His betrayal is probably endemic of some deeper rooted issue with his making, or something, and reconditioning would only risk introducing the flaw into some other group of clones, a weakness that would be as exploitable as he'd been. Decommissioning would be safer, for the overall GAR.

He has no illusions about any of this. Hopes that got dashed under the boots of his own, deluded brothers, sure, but no illusions. He was always going to die. He'd just hoped that before he did, he could… do something, shine a light on the truth of the whole damned thing, make the clones around him think. Idea, when it takes root, is like an infection – it either runs its course, or it takes some heavy guns to get rid of, and he'd hoped for the first. If only he'd had the time, if only he could've trusted…

But his squad had been all shinies – eager and stupid and ignorant, full of zealous loyalty to a thing they didn't even understand, for a thing that would never have their back. The Galactic Republic didn't really even know they existed, never mind caring about them. They were just numbers on a sheet of flimsy, statistic ready to be shifted by new variables. This many clones enter a battle field, this many leave, this is the result, report over.

Fuck, he should've done more. He had time. Going with Ventress had been stupid – but she'd seemed so… strong. Like she could do anything, everything he couldn't. Create that opening. If he only helped her here, told her what she needed to know, then she'd get him out, fake his death – dying at the hands of a Sith Apprentice would be hell of a way to go, too – and then… then he'd be free to act. Go out, get ready – set up some sort of system for getting his brothers out. Figure out how to… how to make it right.

He'd studied slave rebellions, as much as he could. Had to slice into the systems to get the holos without leaving a trail and then go through them in closets, sure, but he'd learned as much as he could. They'd happened, dozens of times in the past. Dozens, hundreds of worlds across the galaxy had had slavery at one point or the other. In some cases it just petered off eventually. In some cases it stopped because droids were easier and cheaper to keep than slaves. A lot of times, though, there was some sort of rebellion, either loud and bombastic, or quiet and sly, or something in between. Slick had figured it out early on, quiet and sly wouldn't do for clones, they were too much in the public eye. They wouldn't be able to just sneak away.

He'd forgotten the first, most important thing about all the rebellions he'd read about, though. They all started with years of secrecy.

There's a sound of a door hissing open and shut, someone entering the prison block. Slick lifts his head, running a hand over his eyes. A clone he doesn't know steps in front of the humming energy shield of the cell, their armour wearing the stripes he doesn't know. Red– and not standard captain's red, either, it's custom. Darker than captain's red, deeper in hue. Almost… blood red.

There's a new battalion on Christophsis, then – and since the prison guards are from the 501st, it means the 212th got rotated out. He guesses the fighting really is over then – they'd secured the planet, despite Slick's actions. He'd figured, but it's not like anyone would tell him.

After the first days of interrogations and accusations, no one had come to see him.

"Your name is Slick, right?" the unknown clone from an unknown battalion asks. "The clone that betrayed their brothers for freedom."

Slick grits his teeth and says nothing. Clones from the 501st and 212th had come to see him too, those first few days, marvelling and gawking at him like he was an exotic animal in a cage, some sort of obscure bit of entertainment. Rumours about him probably kept the guys going for a few days. It makes sense – what kind of clone betrays their brothers? A lunatic, that's who. Look upon him and shudder.

"Why go to the Separatists," the clone in red slashes says, but it's not a question. They sound thoughtful, contemplative. "Of all the options you could've gone with, you went with the one that would get more of your brothers killed."

"What options?" Slick asks, unable to help himself. "What else is there? Inaction? Sit there and do nothing? Tch."

"Why not wait for an opportunity to escape?" the unknown clone asks. "Things go missing in the heat of battle. You could've slipped away – going by what you did, you could've done it. Just run, hide, get a ship, leave."

"And leave my brothers as slaves?"

"Hmh," the clone answers. "So the alternative is to get more of them killed. Either you do nothing, or you kill your brothers."

"No, that's not –" Slick grits his teeth. He shouldn't – he hadn't spoken to Skywalker or to Kenobi, nor either of their commanders. He's not going to speak to this one either, whoever they are. Probably special ops, trained for interrogation tactics.

Slick is going to die – he's not going to die a coward who spent the last moments of his life spilling his guts in hopes of mercy he's never going to get.

"Do you know the statistics of clones that get injured on the field and get left behind?" the unknown clone asks. "Do you know what happens to them? Clones that get trapped in collapsed buildings, or who get knocked out, or just lose the ability to keep up? Did you think that if Separatists took this world, they'd keep the clones as prisoners, or let them go? Separatists don't take prisoners. Not unless they're natural born and politically important, and even then the survivability isn't that great."

Slick can feel his teeth grinding against each other – it's probably audible even through the humming of the energy wall. The unknown clone is quiet, and the silence in between rings hollowly judgemental.

"I guess death is a kind of freedom," the unknown clone says finally, flat. "No more marching, when you're dead. No more living, either."

"What do you know," Slick mutters and looks up, angry enough that it makes his vision blur. "What would you have done? What else could I have done?! There's just two options here – either go with the Grand Army and die for the fucking Republic, or turn on it – what else is there?!"

"Not getting more of your brothers killed, for one," the unknown clone says, flat, and finally takes their helmet off. There's little remarkable about them – shaved face, standard crew cut, no genetic deviations. Their expression is stiff, their eyes hard.

"What was your plan, exactly?" the unknown clone asks, eyes narrowing. "Go to the Separatists, give information, spy on them, feed false intelligence to the Republic side, do a little sabotage – gain Separatist favour. Then what? Money?"

"Freedom," Slick growls.

"For yourself, only, won with the blood of your brothers."

Slick looks down, squeezing his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Once out, I could've set up something, to get others out, too," he mutters and shakes his head. That was the thing – when he'd woken up, when he'd looked around and seen the truth, there… there was nowhere to go, no one to turn to. It was just him, and he was stuck, surrounded by deluded brothers, all of them loyal. The few he'd spoken to, expressed his doubts to… it'd been like talking to a wall, a dumb, blind, deaf wall. They just wouldn't hear him.

Slick can feel his eyes watering out of sheer, angry frustration.

"Hm," the clone on the other side of the energy wall hums, and then they put on their helmet. "You didn't have anything set up, then," they say and walk away.

Fuck.

It's a few days before anyone comes to see him – aside from the rotation of prison guards, who don't even stop at his wall anymore. With food being dispensed by automatic systems, there's no need for them to interact with him, and so they don't – it's more of a punishment than the imprisonment, really.

He doesn't even know if his squad came through the battles. He knows Skywalker, Kenobi and their commanders survived, but he doesn't know about anyone else. The prison guards he doesn't know at all, and they haven't bothered to introduce themselves. Slick has somehow managed not to ask.

He's starting to wonder what's the hold up. 212th got rotated out, which means they and 501st must've been patched up by now, and there's this new battalion too. It means that ships must be flying in and out of Christophsis by now. Why hasn't he been shoved onto a ship and sent back to Kamino for decommissioning yet?

The uncertainty is almost worse than the loneliness. All his life he'd slept and worked and lived shoulder to shoulder with other troopers – always wishing he had a little bit of privacy, a room of his own, little bit of space. Well, he got that now. No more brothers at his side, getting underfoot. No more sharing his space.

As much as he believes in his half-cocked cause, Slick finds himself missing it more and more. As ignorant and stupid as they are, he misses his brothers. He's not sure he has brothers anymore.

Against all his earlier conviction… he's starting to regret the whole damn mess, now. Even though he tries not to, he keeps rethinking his decisions, going over them in his head, replaying his own actions like they're holos in a training simulation.  He'd been desperate, but so sure. It'd been the only thing he could've done. What else is there?

You could've waited, bided your time, a traitorous voice whispers in his ear. Ran, like the spec-op said. Hidden among the fallen, snuck away. Maybe even… Ventress had promised him more than escape, though. She offered him money, resources, and means to do more than just run. She'd pointed out that if he escaped, that'd be it, it'd be just him – and who would look after his brothers then?

She'd played him, he knows that. But it had sounded like reason, at the time. It sounded like hope, at the time.

… how many had died because of him? How many of his brothers did he get killed? No one had said. He knows he injured plenty. Injured Captain Rex, too. He definitely made them all mad. But how many died?

The unknown clone is back, their armour carrying a new scuff mark near the left knee, but otherwise the same. Slick lifts his face to look at them, but says nothing. Idly cataloguing the armour markings. The stripes are symmetric on both sides of the armour, and mostly straight except where they follow the shapes of the chest plate, where they curve over the shoulder guards. They're thinner than 501st stripes, and they tell him nothing.

"501st will be rotating out in a tenday," the unknown clone says.

Slick turns the words over in his head, wondering about why they're telling him. "I assume I'm not going with them?"

"What do you think will happen to you now?" the unknown clone asks, thoughtful.

Slick snorts – what a stupid question. "Decommissioning," he says flatly. "Though I wonder what's taking so long," he mutters under his breath. He's been in this cell for… weeks now.

"General Skywalker vetoed it," the unknown clone says. "The Jedi usually do, when they get that particular recommendation from Kamino. Even they can tell what it means. Reconditioning gets through sometimes, but rarer now that knowledge about it is being disseminated properly – turns out the Jedi in general don't approve of Kaminoan methods for dealing with defective clones."

Slick frowns. "Skywalker vetoed my decommissioning," he says, running a hand over his mouth. What does that mean?

"Mm-hmm. Also, he's the reason why you're still here and haven't been made anyone else's problem yet," the unknown clone says, something merciless in their voice. "Took some digging, because turns out your General is about as forthcoming as a fucking wall – but your General used to be a slave. Got freed when he was 9 by the Jedi."

Slick's hand drops and so, it feels, do his thoughts. For a moment, his mind runs on empty. "What?" he then says.

"Yep," the clone agrees. "Didn't know that, did you? That's the thing about natural borns. They're complicated, they have all this time to have history, and then they hide things, things that matter – things that motivate their actions, their decisions. Then they act like their commands make sense when they don't, not without that context. Your General used to be a natural born slave, and he sympathises with you."

Having no idea what to say to that, Slick just stares. He… he hadn't realised. He hadn't sensed it at all, there was no clue, no – "You're lying," Slick says slowly, confusedly. Skywalker hadn't even come to see him, not after those first interrogations, he hadn't… there's no way it's real.

"Why would I lie?" the unknown clone asks, shaking his head. "Doesn't really matter – just thought you should know why you're still here. You'll be transferred to the care of the 17th Relief Company when the 501st leave, in either case."

And whatever protection Skywalker could give him would be gone.

"And another thing," the unknown clone says, turning to go. "I ran the numbers on your actions – your espionage and sabotage led to the deaths of twelve of your brothers. It's not a lot, but you did better than most battle droids. Congratulations"

Slick hangs his head, closing his eyes until he can hear a door opening and closing, and then he puts his face in his hands and tries to breathe.

Captain Rex comes to see him, a couple of days later. Slick is half asleep when he arrives, confused with sleep – he's scrambling up to his feet to salute before he realises what he's doing. He carries out the motions in a daze, his heart pounding painfully, as the Captain stares at him expressionlessly through the energy shield.

After a moment, Slick lets his salute drop. "Rex," he says, and it comes out rougher than he'd like, his throat stinging. This, he knows, is the last time he'll see the man.

"Slick," Rex answers, low and stiff. "Still here, I see."

Where else would he be? "What, you'd think I'd eat my blaster?" Slick asks, and it stings that Rex might for a moment think he'd go that way. "Don't even have a blaster to eat here, sorry to disappoint." He could've starved himself, sure, he's been here long enough for thirst to kill him if he'd stopped eating and drinking. Be a damn painful way to go, though.

Rex's shoulders tense, and then he forcibly loosens them, letting out a slow breath. "Why did you do it, Slick?"

It's the heaviness of the words that make Slick feel honest. "Couldn't think of another way, Captain," he admits. "Ventress offered me options I didn't think I'd get elsewhere."

"You stupid fucking idiot," Rex mutters, sighing. "You were always so smart, top of the class – why would you think she had answers?"

"I didn't think she had answers – I thought she had means," Slick answers and sits down. "Way out of here, money to use, connections to set me up with. I thought I could…" he trails away and then lets out a rueful laugh. "Thought I could get out of here with a bang and start a slave rebellion."

"You really think we're slaves," Rex says, his voice going flat. "You really believe that?"

"You think I could've stuck up a hand, gone, hey, I don't think I want to fight anymore, may I be excused, and anyone would've let me?" Slick asks flatly. "How about you – say you wanted to leave one day, go out to the galaxy, settle down, have a family, do nat-born stuff. Do you think you'd be allowed to? And what's going to happen to us clones when the war ends, Rex – the few of us that don't die fighting it? Where do we go? Back to Kamino?" and straight into decommissioning chambers…

Rex's hands clench into fists. "That doesn't make what you did right," he says flatly. "You risked the lives of our brothers, Slick. Took our trust and betrayed us. That makes you worse than –"

"Than kaminoans who made us and kill us, the Jedi who enslave us and use us – the Republic that sent us into battles and doesn't consider us people enough to give us death rites when we die for them?" Slick asks sharply. "We don't even get pyres, Rex – we get dumped in the trash when we die. Recycled, with the rest of biodegradable waste."

Rex shudders, and can't deny any of it. "Doesn't make what you did right," he says again, but it sounds a little weaker.

Slick stares at him, and the fight goes out of him. It's not Rex's fault, not any more than it's the fault of any of their brothers. They're all victims. "No," Slick agrees, and looks down. "But what else could I do? Gone to you, to Skywalker?" he scoffs and shakes his head. "What could've you done?"

At least this way, he'd left an impact on some of his brothers without making them culpable. When he went down, he wouldn't take anyone with him.

Except those he got killed.

Rex says nothing for a long moment. Then he sighs again. "I wish you had, though. Wish you had come to us, before going to Ventress, of all people," he says and looks at Slick, up and down. "I wish you'd trusted somebody."

"Who is there to trust, in an army of indoctrinated slaves and their slavers," Slick mutters and looks away, trying to bite back the tears. "Too late now, anyway. What's done is done."

"Yeah," Rex agrees, quiet, almost soft. "Yes, it is. I don't know what will happen to you know – Skywalker pushed as far as he could, but we're getting rotated out. You'll be in the hands of the battalion that's taking our place, the 17th Relief Battalion. And they're… they're a weird bunch."

Slick can feel a spark of curiosity at that. So it wasn't just the one that'd been coming to see him – the others in the Battalion were weird too? "What's their deal, then?" he asks, wary.

Rex hums, rolling his jaw. "Not sure," he hesitates and then shakes his head. "I don't know what will happen, but their General's a pacifist – against killing. What they'll do with you, I don't know. But… I don't think you're getting decommissioned anytime soon."

Slick swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. "No?"

Rex shakes his head. "They're a weird bunch. Got some weird ideas. They recycle battle droids, put them to use, give them names, stuff like that," he says with a snort, and then looks at Slick thoughtfully. "I think you would've been better fit with them than us."

The hell is that supposed to mean?

Rex checks his wrist computer and clears his throat. "I got to go, work to do," he says and it's pretty obviously an act, he just wants to go before he can say anything else.

 Slick just nods. "Captain," he says. "Whatever I did, whatever I believe aside – I never doubted you. You always lead your men true. I hope you keep doing that. I hope… I hope what I did won't make you doubt your brothers. They're all fine men."

Rex hesitates and then nods. "I know they are," he says and then considers. "I'm going to encourage them to confide in me more, probably. Hopefully the next Slick will trust someone and talk to them, before they take the betrayal route."

Slick draws a breath, but before he can think of anything to say, Rex is gone.

Though Slick hopes that General Skywalker might come to see him before the 501st leaves, he doesn't. No one does. Slick can't tell when they leave, the cell block is soundproof and he can't tell when the ships take off – but he keeps count of the days. His tenth day passes, and though there's nothing to mark the change, he can tell something is different.

He's alone.

It's not quite a full day before red-slashes comes to see him again.

"Well then, Slick," they say, helmet under their arm, a grim smile on their lips. "It's time."

Slick curls his fingers together to hide how they shake and draws a deep, slow breath. Then he stands up. "I'm ready," he says.

Red-slashes scoffs at that. "No, you're not, you have no idea. But you'll find out," they say, and deactivate the shield in between them.

Slick steps out and glances around – there's a new set of guards by the cell block doors, their armour marked with non-regulation red too. The stripes on their armour are mostly the same. It's their battalion's style, then. They're standing easy, casual – watching them, but neither of them looks too eager to reach for their blasters

Red-slashes clears their throat, and Slick looks at him. "My name is Taske – he/him. I'll be in charge of you from here on out," the clone says and smiles, grim, promising. "You'll be working under me until further notice – and you will keep your head down, or I will put you back in that cell. Is that understood?"

Slick hesitates, confused. "You're – I'm not being exonerated." There is no way that's what happening, not after what he did – not with the way Taske worded it.  

"No – nor are you back in the army. You'll be working for me," Taske says. "And you'll be learning from me."

"And if I say no?"

Taske nods to the cell. "Your other option's right there," he says. "You're perfectly free to choose."

Slick watches the other clone, eyes narrowed. There's something going on here. "Alright. With you, then, Taske."

The other clone smiles, satisfied. "Good," he says and turns briskly on his heel, like that's enough. "Now come on. Keep your eyes and ears open and don't do anything stupid, Slick – and we'll see if you're Brotherhood material."

Chapter Text

Desmond kind of misses having Eno to talk to. BD-1 too – for his cute and small stature, the little droid was smart, and older, easily mature enough to understand things Desmond can't really talk to his students about yet. And damn, if he doesn't have things to talk about right now, things he wants to just… debate at length with someone fully capable of understanding and also disagreeing with him.

There's an awkwardness in being surrounded by people so young and still so naive. Walker and Twitch are coming along nicely, B1 is smart as a whip, and the others are following suit – but they lack the experience and the confidence to fully call him out on his mistakes. They don't even see the mistakes he's making – the way he second guesses himself all the goddamn time. He can rely on them to listen and follow and occasionally question him, he's gotten that far along with their teaching – but they're all still so young and new to everything.

And so is he, when one gets down to it. The galaxy is still a pretty damn strange place to him. He can study and research and spy as much as he'd like, but Desmond's still very much an outsider. Ezio in Istanbul comes to mind – except Ezio had at that point decades of experience behind him, too. Desmond has some of it, but it's borrowed experience, second hand.

Did I do the right thing keeps beating at his temples like an oncoming headache, constantly. Did I, did I, did I…

Jabba wasn't hard to kill, in the end. Though the Hutt had a small army of bounty hunters and lackeys at his disposal, he didn't actually have that many bodyguards, just a handful. He didn't need them – Jabba's protection was his influence and his reputation and the surety that no one could do anything to him, because he had fingers in everyone else's pies, and if he was ruined, so was everyone else. A fat slug of a spider at the centre of the web of money, influence, debts and blackmail, holding all the reigns. Very few had much to gain from his death – many had a lot to lose.

There were only two guards awake when Desmond and his disciples slipped in, and they were easy to knock out. The rest of Jabba's court – Jabba the Hutt himself included – was asleep, lying around the palace, with the Hutt's snores echoing in the room, drowning out all other sound. It was almost too easy. Making it look natural wasn't that hard either. With a motley hide of boils and stretch marks and who knows what else, a needle mark doesn't even show – and Hutts too have a circulatory system, somewhere in there, under all the lard.

Jabba died the next day, the four syringes of air bubbles finally doing their thing around double noon – choking on his own spittle as a slave girl scrambled away from his convulsing hands, screaming.

"And good riddance," Ma Jira spit, when the news reached outside the palace – within the hour, the whole planet knew. Then, with Desmond and his Disciples and Novices watching and making sure everything goes according to plan, she went to work.

The whole affair is straightforward in its nastiness. Jabba Desilijic Tiure the Hutt has a son, Rotta, who disappears along with his slave nannies, vanishing into the streets of Mos Eisley. Jabba's majordomo, Bib Fortuna, gets both the blame and the credit for it – as he should. With Rotta "gone" and Jabba dead, Bib Fortuna is the next in line as far as authority on Tatooine goes – and with a select group of handpicked bounty hunters making it more than obvious, the impression sticks

It's a beautifully brutal little coup d'état – except for one thing. Bib doesn't have any idea about his part in it, not until it's too late – by that point, Jabba's palace is full of former slaves, all the bounty hunters and smugglers who were loyal to Jabba have been ushered out, and the ones Desmond had paid have taken most their places. With the Twins on each side of him, Bib is trapped on Jabba's throne, with no way out.

"I don't get it," Jax says later, as Ma Jira leads a group of former – and current – slaves to clean up Bib's Palace. "The guy worked for Jabba, right – how is he going to be any better? From what the girls said, Bib's a worm of a man, worst of the lot, a complete enabler."

"Worms have their use," Desmond muses, watching the exchange of power closely, keeping an eye on possible threats. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know – that's why I asked," Jax says, wry, and then rolls his eyes at the look Desmond gives him. "Seriously – why not her?" Jax points to Ma Jira. "She's running the show, right? Why's she not on the throne?"

"She's not, not really. It's her and a group of slaves, former slaves, and free allies, including the Twins," Desmond says.

"Okay, fine – why not one of them? Why Jabba's lackey, of all the damn people?" Jax asks, annoyed. "How's that going to change things?"

Desmond smiles and glances at the others. Twitch has a look like he gets it and doesn't like it, under their robes and shrouds B1 has probably gotten it too, and Walker is way ahead of everyone else. The Novices are still a little too new, and Desmond hasn't had the time to teach them to think in ways convoluted enough to keep up with power dynamics – hell, it's a bit of a leap for the Disciples too. All of them are a little confused.

"Imagine Jabba's court was the officer core of the Grand Army," Desmond says and motions around them. "There are your Lieutenants, your Captains, Commanders, Generals… Who's the highest authority in the Grand Army? The top dog of the whole big bunch."

"The Superior Commander," the clones answer in unison – it's a little eerie.

"Right. The Superior Commander. Now imagine they turned up dead suddenly, no warning at all," Desmond says. "And someone else appears pretty much out of nowhere to take their place. The Generals don't know this person, the Commanders have never heard about them, the Captains suspect they might not have a military rank, and the Lieutenants think they maybe once saw them cleaning the toilets. Would they, would anyone take the replacement Superior Commander seriously? Would anyone follow their orders?"

The clones hesitate, glancing at each other from under their hoods – even with their faces half hidden behind shrouds and scarves, the confusion is apparent.

Desmond smiles ruefully. "Well, you might – the Jedi might be a bit more confused about the whole thing. Wouldn't it make much more sense for one of them to take over? Or one of the Commanders. Hell, anyone from the Army."

"Yeah, but… it's the Superior Commander," Wires says slowly. "And if Jabba was like the Superior Commander, then… everyone has to obey him. Right?

"Lesson about power, my dear students – power is an illusion held up by the belief of those who grant it," Desmond says with a soft, grim chuckle. "Every leader stands on the shoulders of those who follow them – there's no such thing as a leader in a vacuum. They need backers – in case of your Superior Commander, it's the officers of the Army. In the case of Jabba, it's the bounty hunters he hired, the slaves he forced, the smugglers he enabled and everyone who feared him and who owed him or was in some way owned by him."

"But – he forced them, mostly," Mayday says softly. "If there's no one forcing these people to follow Jabba or whoever takes up after him – "

"The things that gave Jabba power are still there, even without him. The debts exist, the blackmail, the fear – and especially the people," Desmond shrugs. "That is why he had to be replaced, and not just removed – because the network he built and the empire he ruled is still there, and it's going to be there until further notice. And if some outsider took over it, and then everyone who followed Jabba thought, screw this, I don't know them, I don't have to follow them… well. I imagine they'd end up dead very quickly."

There's a thoughtful silence, and then Twitch says. "No one knows Ma Jira, because she's just an old former slave woman… but they know Fortuna. And Fortuna might know some of the strings Jabba knew to pull."

Desmond nods. "There's more to Jabba's empire than just blackmail and misery – more than just the slave trade," he muses. "There's also smuggling rings and routes, gambling, some dozen mining operations, and Jabba acted as a sort of bank, keeping the various branches of the local markets, black or otherwise, stable. He ran the economy on several worlds. There are a lot of people who depend on those things to keep going. A lot of people with vested interest in Jabba's court to keep on going."

"But what if Fortuna decides to… just become Jabba 2.0?" Jax asks suspiciously.

"Oh, he won't get a chance," Desmond says and nods to the Twins, flanking overweight Twi-lek, who is casting some confused, nervous looks at them and at their sharp-toothed grins. They're not quite as striking in looks as Jabba's young slave concubines, but they're still lookers in their own right. "One toe out of line, and those two will make him regret it dearly."

Never mind all the others that have taken strategic places around the hall and in the palace. Desmond had given them as many pointers as he could squeeze into their short time of plotting this coup, but in the end they hadn't needed that much help – and absolutely no pep talks. These women know their business, and they go about it with vengeance.

Ma Jira walks over to them, a beautiful dark red and gold cloak thrown over her simpler slave dress, her back already straighter, her eyes sharp. Desmond has a suspicion that she's a lot younger than she looks – he'd heard that on Tatooine people age faster – and some of that shines through now, with the guise of a simple, kindly old woman thrown aside.

"Well then, Assassins," she says. "You've held up your end of the bargain, it's time to hold up ours. This way."

Desmond rises, and his students follow – they draw some eyes as they trail after the old woman through the hall, into the back rooms and what Desmond soon figures must be Jabba's vault. It's being guarded by two younger slave women holding blaster rifles and ill-fitting, probably stolen armour – art Ma Jira's nod, they open the vault.

Desmond's gotten enough of the local economy down to know that there's a lot of money in the vault. A lot more than he expected, considering the size of Tatooine's economy. He thought that Jabba held onto power by carefully keeping on top of the local economy, and that's why he traded so many favours and used so much blackmail…

But maybe the size of Tatooine's economy wasn't by accident. Maybe Jabba artificially restricted it, all the while sitting on a hoard of wealth – keeping everyone poor while keeping himself rich. Definitely fit the mould.

"Huh," Wires says somewhere behind Desmond, and glances at B1. "Is that as much as I think it is?"

B1 nods, but doesn't say anything.

"As per agreement, half of this is yours," Ma Jira says, while the slave-girl guards stare at the wealth with wide open, helpless eyes. "Though I have no idea how you're going to take it with you."

Desmond hums and folds his arms, letting Ezio bleed through, letting his ancestors' thoughts curl over his own. On one hand, he hadn't expected this much money. He could use it, definitely, could buy that space cruiser Mayday had found, and then some. On other hand, Ma Jira and the others could definitely use the money too, if they were ever to figure out the mess Jabba had made of their planet. They have a long way to go, dissolving slavery here, and he doubts very much their campaign would end on Tatooine. For something like that, they would need every bit of it.

On the third hand, either way you slice it… even half of this is more than enough money to completely destroy Tatooine's economy, sending it into a mad spiral of inflation.

Desmond looks at Jira, who meets his eyes levelly and then smiles. "It's alright, lad," she says, and some of the kindly old woman comes through. "Take it – take it and do for others what you did for us here. That's what your Brotherhood is about, right?"

"Hm," Desmond hums. It's a bit much for one assassination. "I'll take one quarter of this," he says. It should still be enough for the ship and leave them enough left over to get started properly. "One quarter – and an alliance. Should you need our help, the Brotherhood will try to provide it. Should the Brotherhood ever need help…"

She clasps his shoulder. "You will always have a haven and friends on Tatooine," she promises firmly.

Desmond returns the gesture and then says, careful, "You know, a lot of this is bound to be money Jabba owed to people. They're probably going to come back to collect."

"Good thing for us Jabba is dead, then," Jira says grimly. "Death voids all debts."

It definitely didn't before, Desmond suspects, Tatooine seems like a place where the sins of parents would be taken out from their children's hides… but her words have the gravity of law. It's not a bad law, all things considered. "Death voids all debts," he repeats. "I like it."

They're not quite done on Tatooine just like that. There's the aftermath, which takes more work from them than the actual main assassination had. As Desmond had suspected, there are some… objections to the new rule, usually coming from those who were smart enough to realise Bib was little more than a puppet and arrogant enough to think they had a chance of making a bid for the puppeteer's role.

It gives ample training opportunities, if nothing else. In the days that follow, while Desmond figures out how to go about buying a ship without leaving a paper trail, he puts his Disciples to work – trailing the troublemakers, spying on their meetings, and eventually…

B1 is his first student to perform an assassination. Desmond is there the whole time, of course, making sure everything goes well, but B1 doesn't need their hand held. As Desmond follows them through a crowd, B1 sidles up to the opportunistic smuggler with a bleeding red aura, and then brushes past the target without so much as a pause. If Desmond hadn't been looking for it, even he would've missed the quick movement of a blade, in and out in a flash.

They blend into the crowd, and Desmond watches, quietly impressed, as the smuggler wavers and falls, not so much as a drop of blood spilled. "Good job," he says to the droid, who simply nods under the shroud of robes.

"I want a hidden blade like yours, Mentor," B1 says after a moment. "The anatomy data was helpful, but this knife is not subtle enough. A hidden blade would be more efficient."

Desmond grins and pats their back. "Alright – that can be your next mission, then. Better find us a suitable blacksmith."

Walker is next, and the assassination goes much the same. After a day or two of tailing the target, Walker follows them into a crowded cantina with Desmond watching from the side, and then he walks out of it, leaving a slumped over figure leaning over their unfinished drink. Walker is a little more shaken afterwards than B1 had been, but determined.

"I could feel – they were bad, right?" Walker asks uneasily. "I could feel it, like this… heat coming from them."

Desmond arches his brows. "You could?"

"Like a red haze," Walker says, shifting. "Like…"

"Like a hot cloud of blood?" Desmond asks, narrowing his eyes, watching Walker more closely.

"Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what it felt like," the clone agrees, giving him a glance and then looking away, at the crowd in front of the cantina. "It's the Eagle Vision, isn't it, Mentor? I got the Eagle Vision."

There is a shimmer in Walker's eyes – making them look more amber than brown. Desmond smiles and pats his shoulder. "The red haze is the misery, pain and torment he'd inflicted on others – and the pleasure he took from inflicting it. It kind of… lingers on people. Come on," he says, compassionate. "I'll show you what the hues all mean."

Twitch is the last, but by no means the least of his Disciples, when it comes to his first assassination. He takes out two at once – a pair of partnered bounty hunters, who are all but plotting to murder Bib and all those who followed him. It's an efficient enough assassination, taking place in a back alley where Twitch then makes it look like the pair shot each other. Desmond would be proud – except that Twitch isn't happy.

They stand over the two dead for a long time, Desmond waiting for Twitch's reaction, until the clone finally speaks, very, very quiet. "I don't think I can do this."

"You didn't do badly," Desmond offers, but Twitch shakes his head.

"I know it's important, what you want to do. I know you're – you're going to do good things, for us clones, for others. Hell, we sort of liberated this whole world from Hutt control," Twitch says rapidly, shakily and grimaces. "But I don't – I don't think I'm suited for this. I don't think I want to do this."

Desmond sighs and looks down, at the two Twitch had killed. It was expertly enough done, a little loud, but Twitch had chosen a back alley for a reason, and the aftermath is believable. Successful assassination if there ever was one.

Did he, somehow… force Twitch to do it? Had there been signs of him being reluctant, had he expressed reservations that Desmond had missed – did he make the clone kill these two, without fully consulting the man's actual opinion about it – is this his fault?

Twitch looks at him. "If anything you taught was true, then I can walk away from this. Right, Mentor?" he says, challenging, voice trembling. "I got to have that choice – otherwise it's not free will."

"Of course you have a choice," Desmond says. "Twitch – I'm sorry, I didn't realise – I wouldn't have asked you to if I realised."

Twitch waves a hand. "You thought I was ready – I thought I was ready. I am ready, but –" he stops and draws a breath and then lifts his hands. "Look at these damn things." They're both shaking, fingers twitching. "I thought I could do this – but my heart's beating like crazy, and I think I'm going to throw up. Or piss myself. Or something. I can't –"

There are voices, footsteps coming closer, and it's all Desmond can do to swallow his own shame and to lead Twitch away before they get caught. Twitch ends up having a panic attack on the roof of a pour-stone storage house, as Desmond feels like a complete and total fucking heel.

"I can't do it," Twitch mumbles, as Desmond rubs his back and tells him to breathe. "I can't – I can't do it – I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Desmond sighs. "It's alright, you don't have anything to be sorry for. Not everyone is suited for this kind of life. Don't worry about it, okay – if you want to leave, go back to the Army, that's alright, we'll call Taske and arrange it. If you want to strike out on your own, I'll set you up with money, we'll find you a ship and you can go. If you wanna stay but not be an Assassin, that's alright too. We'll figure it out, okay?"

Twitch takes a moment to breath through the last dregs of his bout of hyperventilation and then sighs. "I don't know what I want," he murmurs and runs a shaking hand over his face. "I just want to have a fucking holiday. I don't even know what it is, but I want one."

Desmond smiles, rubbing his back. "Hmm," he then hums, as a thought comes to him. It's not a new thought, exactly – it'd been there ever since Eno had not so subtly informed him that he'd never actually filed his report about meeting Desmond anywhere, that there was no official trail back, except in BD-1. No one had the coordinates – except Eno, the little droid, and Desmond. No one knew the way.

"Did I ever tell you about Earth?"

Chapter Text

They don't have enough hands to cover the whole ship. That's plainly obvious – even with the not-yet-aware droids put to work, 18 people just isn't enough to cover a star liner that's supposed to have a crew of hundreds. It needs the absolute minimum of 56 crewmembers manning its many stations for optimal function, and even that's pushing it.

"It's all an old ship, with a lot less automation than newer models might have," Mayday explains. "We might be able to get it moving in a pinch, but I wouldn't take it to a planet, and even taking a short trip down a hyperlane might be pushing it. We need more people."

Their Mentor hums, considering the ship's designs hovering over a holotable. It's a beautiful ship, Mayday thinks, even if most of its more aesthetic qualities are completely pointless and in most cases even detrimental to its safety. With seven decks arranged lengthwise, windows running down the sides of the ship, it looks almost streamlined, like it was made for atmospheric entries or cloud surfing, though it was never intended for leaving the vacuum of space and would likely break apart trying to enter any atmosphere. On top there's a cluster of glass domes and what almost looks like buildings, as though someone had tried to build a city on top of the ship – a lot of them were intended for greenhouses, gardens and things like that. There were images on the ship's systems, showing them full of trees and bushes and other plants. They'd contained whole biomes once.

In the Core rich people apparently could just take a chunk of their home worlds with them when they left.

Since the ship had first been launched and after the first twenty years of service as a Core star liner, she'd passed through some half a dozen hands. The last few hadn't cared about the ship's green spaces at all, letting them fall into disrepair, along with a lot of other non-essential systems. The ship had been used as a floating pit-stop on a popular non-hyperlane route, as a place for smugglers and pirates and other lowlifes to spend their money in, apparently. There'd been a casino, several cantinas, a brothel, and dozens of places for people to do less than legal business in. Tons upon tons of smuggled items passed hands here. The ship definitely bears the marks of it, too – though pretty and pristine from the outside, it's absolutely filthy on the inside.

Mayday would feel a little ashamed for ever considering the ship – except the Mentor looks more than pleased.

"I guess it's time to find us a crew then," he says and clasps Mayday on the shoulder. "Put together a list of everything we need, and we'll see if we can find it on Tatooine."

"Sure that's safe?" Mayday asks. "Hiring people from – outside?"

Mentor Miles shrugs. "Probably not completely, but we'll do our best to find some trustworthy crew. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith, though, and take the risk of trusting people – we can't control everything."

It's a lesson, probably. Most things the Mentor does and says are. "No chance of calling up a few guys from the 17th, is there?" Mayday asks, only half joking.

"Not right now – one day maybe. Taske and the others are still figuring things out, how much we might be able to get away with before people take notice," Mentor Miles says, shaking his head. "We better not rock the boat too much there, just in case – but I have a feeling that we might get some from Geonosis pretty soon."

Mayday blinks with surprise. "Oh?"

The Mentor looks grim. "The fighting started the other day – and there's already been casualties, injuries. Unduli is keeping an eye on the situation – if the recall order for the injured comes and it looks like they might end up decommissioned, she's going to arrange things and the clones will join us here."

Mayday stares at him, speechless. He's not sure which is more surprising – that it's already coming to that, or that the Mentor is telling him. He's still only a Novice, not like Walker, B1 and Twitch, who have been at this a little longer and earned that kind of trust.

Mentor Miles looks at him and grins a little, though still grimly. "If it comes to it, I might have to send you to pick them up halfway on the Wayfarer," he says. "But it would be best if we got the star liner moving before then – that way Unduli can send us more than just the men."

"You mean the droids?"

"Them, and equipment she and her men have been siphoning from their stores," the Mentor says and smiles and pats his back. "Either way, we better get to work. So. What kind of people do you need for the star liner?"

B1 is their best recruiter by far, just after the Mentor himself. The second day after Miles and the Disciples start going out, looking for people to crew the star liner, B1 comes back to the Wayfarer with a line of about twenty droids behind them, everything from astromechs to service droids to protocol droids and one very jittery looking scout droid, jerkily floating above the rest.

"Um," Mayday says, eloquent.

"I stole them from a droid auction warehouse," B1 informs him, utterly unrepentant. "There are more. Please take them to the star liner immediately."

"Right – I assume the Mentor knows?" Mayday asks carefully.

"Yes," B1 agrees, somehow giving him a look through the shroud covering their face. "Please take them to the star liner while I get the rest."

The rest turn out to be more damaged droids that B1 has to carry or drag back, with the Mentor and Walker bringing the rest in on a borrowed speeder. Mayday has to ferry the whole lot to the star liner in three batches, taking them to the smallest of the ship's three landing bays where Wires welcomes them with in part delighted and in part horrified gasps and by going, "Oh you poor things – come here, come, come, I'll fix you right up… let's get rid of those bolts, shall we?"

So their crew goes from 18 to 52 in one confused, thievery filled day. Of course not all of the droids are going to be useful for managing a ship – most of them aren't, really, either their functions aren't suitable or they're too traumatised for it even to be on the table… but the five astromech droids would definitely cut down on necessary crew. Mayday has no idea whether all the droids are going to be part of the Brotherhood or what, but it's not his problem anyway – B1 and Wires are dealing with the issue, and it looks like it will take a few days. Especially since B1 is still scouring Mos Espa's shops, warehouses and junkyards for droids to liberate.

The droids themselves seem somewhere between resigned and confused about the whole thing, clustering together and waiting for orders in a way that strikes unnervingly close to home.

"Most of them are already self-aware," Wires tells him later, his voice quiet and grim. "They're old enough that some of them have gone through a whole bunch of owners – and turns out that's a good way to wake a droid up to the realities of their existence. Constant abuse and abandonment and uncertainty in whether that existence would be allowed to continue or not."

Mayday hums sympathetically. So that flat level tone of voice B1 got when talking about the warehouses and shops of Tatooine, that was them being furious. Good to know.

Mayday is almost glad he doesn't have the aptitude for droid care. Between ferrying people to and fro from the star liner, he's mostly in charge of getting the ship ready. Though most of its essential systems are more or less functional, none of them are working at anything near to optimal conditions – and there's a whole lot of nonessential systems that are flat out broken. It will be months before the ship would be fixed and days before he'd dare to actually try piloting her. Never mind the fact that he's never piloted anything as big as the star liner before, not outside simulations. He has the qualifications, but not the real life experience – and they'd all learned that simulations do not live up to reality, not by a long shot. So, he does what he can to make everything ready – to make it safe.

It doesn't quite feel real, any of it. The not-yet-aware battle droids working at his side as they debug the flight systems. The 2300 luxury cabins they can choose their own personal rooms from. The enormous halls inside the ship, lined with empty glass rooms – there were shops inside the ship once, a whole shopping centre for passengers to spend money in. Then there are the cantinas, the casino with its patina of artificial luxury, the empty pools once filled with water… The whole ship has a weird unreal quality to it – like it's somehow a few degrees removed from reality.

"Not far off, really, if this thing worked anything like the luxury ships back on Earth," the Mentor muses whole overlooking Mayday's progress. "They were little self-contained bubbles of opulence, really."

Mayday can't wrap his head around it. The whole thing is just so… inefficient. So much space is wasted on things like mezzanines and huge staircases – staircases – for no other reason except that they look grand. But at the same time… there was something that drew his eyes to the ship's listing when he was browsing the sales, and there's something about it now. There's this… glow to the place that has nothing to do with the fake gold railing and the rich red carpeting. Something that even through his personal embarrassment over selecting something so utterly non-military keeps whispering to him, this one.

This one has potential.

They get some flesh and blood crew too – the moment word goes out that the Brotherhood is looking for workers and has a whole lot of money to pay for them, they definitely aren't short on volunteers. Work on Tatooine is pretty thin on the ground, it turns out – and well paying work? Pretty much nonexistent. Not that Mayday knows much about that.

The Mentor pays them a bi-weekly salary now, or allowance, or whatever you call it. He'd apparently worked it out with General Cordova, who's quietly championing pay for the non-deserter clones too. Mayday wonders if the whole thing is as weird for them as it is for him – to have money all of a sudden. Mayday has now a couple thousand credits worth of Tatooine currency, and he has no idea what to do with it.

So far he hasn't done anything with it – though he knows Wires bought a whole bunch of tools and parts with his, and Jax nearly spent half of his pay on some nasty smelling Tatooine cactus moonshine before the Mentor put an end to it, saying, "You're not getting drunk on other people's liquor on my watch – or just yet. Sit down and do your work, and once we have some downtime, I'll get you drunk myself. Safely and properly, with some actually good alcohol."

And it's a promise he apparently intends to keep too, going by the stuff he's stocking the liner's pantries and cold storages with. Mayday would know – he had to ferry the stuff over, after all.

So, money is not an issue anymore, and apparently with money come people who want a share of it. There are dozens of applicants, looking to take part in their crew. Too many, really, and not all of them all that convincing in their assurances of having experience on board ships, promise. A lot of them, even Mayday can tell, aren't going to make anywhere near the ship. Walker and Mentor Miles screen them very, very carefully, and with so many applicants there will be more people disappointed than not.

The final number is still surprisingly high. A lot of them are former slaves or people who worked for the underground slave network – some are free people of Tatooine, who are just looking for honest employment. A couple are bounty hunters, brought on board by the Mentor himself – though they wouldn't technically be working for the Brotherhood, or for the ship.

"The Bounty Hunters Guild is scoping us out," the Mentor explains. "No one can claim the bounty on Jabba, since it looks like he died of natural causes, but everyone knows we had something to do with it. Bounty hunting is something we might end up dabbling in before long, and if it is, the Guild might want to set up shop on board our ship."

That is news to everyone. "Set up… shop?" Walker repeats.

"Establish a guild station in one of the empty places in the shopping centre," the Mentor explains and scratches at his scared lip. "It's still just a thought, though. Might not pan out – we'll see."

The Mentor, it turns out, has some plans for the ship. Major plans. "We can house 5000 passengers and a few hundred crew comfortably – and three times as much uncomfortably, right? And that's without even counting the droids at all..." the Mentor muses and smiles. "That's enough people for a small town, isn't it?"

Thankfully, that's not Mayday's problem either. His problem is the nineteen natural born hires – and the several droids – he's supposed to whip up into the ship's crew. The people are a mixed bunch – four humans, seven near humans, three Twi'leks, a Togruta, a Wookie, a Zabrak, a Weequy, and a Rodian – barely tied together by a shared expertise in handling ships and the fact that the Mentor and Walker marked them out as "decent enough people". Some of them were slaves who worked on board ships sometime in their past, some are former – and probably future – smugglers, and the rest, Mayday suspects, are probably pirates. Absolutely none of them have anything resembling discipline. The droids are a little better, but that's only because most of them are battle droids. 

It's a disaster in the making. They can't even stand still in a line.

"Right," Mayday begins, smothering a sigh. "Who among you has worked on cargo ships? The bigger, the better."

He lines his crew up by experience and the stations they'd served and what they know. Their oldest hire is the wookie, naturally – Kertuc had been working on cargo ships for over fifty years, which is longer than the rest have been alive. Mayday needs one of the protocol droids translating – a quiet and painfully eager to please droid by the name H-1LA – and that would get awkward, unless Mayday could learn Shyriiwook, but he still decides to put her on the bridge as their new helmsman. The youngest human, Kitster Banai, has the engineering experience of everyone else combined, and takes up the task of managing the engine room with enough expertise to set some of Mayday's concerns at ease. The rest don't stand out as much as Kertuc and Kitster, as far as skills go, but they fill up positions in navigation and managing the ship's various systems and seem to know what they're doing. And what they lack in discipline they make up in adaptability – none of them bats an eye either at him, or his brothers, or the many battle droids already working on the bridge. 

Kitster is the only one to make any comment about it, saying, "So, you're like deserters, Captain? That's wizard," giving Mayday what he suspects might be a gesture of solidarity, before rolling up his sleeve and creerfully going to work on the engines. And apparently that's that.

Natural borns are weird – after all the fuss and drama General Unduli put up about the whole thing, the people of Tatooine just shrug their shoulders and get to work. Apparently, to them, the concept of clones and droids escaping their respective armies isn't even newsworthy. 

"Also they seem to think I'm the captain of the ship?" Mayday relays carefully to the Mentor, who's learning how to use a holotable under Twitch's tutelage.

"Well. You kind of are," Mentor Miles offers almost apologetically while manipulating the hologram carefully. "I don't know enough about spaceships to do it, sorry. We might be able to find someone with the right experience, but I'd rather have one of us in charge, for obvious reasons."

Oh. "I – see?" Mayday chokes out. "The ship doesn't even have a name, though?" Which is a stupid argument to make, but – Mayday is just a pilot. He isn't even a lieutenant – he doesn't have officer training. Definitely not enough for – for this!

The Mentor hums. "There's that," he muses. "I guess I've been kinda putting that off, naming the ship – I know what my knee jerk reaction is, and I don't know if it is… maybe we should come up with a list of names and vote on it."

"It's your ship, sir – I think it's a given that you'll get to name her," Mayday says faintly, trying to make sense of this.

"Ah. Well," Miles says, looking a little pleased and a little worried at the same time. "I guess –" he stops as the holotable in front of them flashes with an incoming transmission. "Oops, what did I do now?"

"It's a transmission," Twitch says, leaning back and checking a readout. "It's coming from Geonosis."

"Damn – I'd hoped we had more time," Mentor Miles sighs and then shakes his head. "Right, okay – what do I –?"

Twitch shows him what to do, and the flickering hologram of the ship's systems is replaced by the equally flickering image of General Unduli, her face set and grim.

"Master Unduli," the Mentor says, nodding in greeting.

"Mentor Miles," she answers. "I don't have much time, this line will not stay secure for long, so I will be brief. We have taken the Stalgasin hive and destroyed the unfinished droid factories. There were – many casualties. As I speak, a shuttle is being prepared to take the injured to Kamino for – processing. I'm sending their flight plan now."

She reaches over to touch something outside the recorder view, and on the other side of the table Twitch checks the readout and nods.

Miles draws a breath and nods. "We'll take care of it," he says. "Anything we should know?"

Unduli hesitates and then shakes her head. "Be quick – the shuttle will set off soon."

With that, she ends the transmission.

"Right, looks like we have work to do," Mentor Miles says and looks at Twitch. "How much time do we have?"

"Not much – according to this, they expect to reach the hyperlane in less than four hours from now," Twitch answers with a frown. "And I'm pretty sure we won't be able to catch up to them once they do."

"So we have to intercept them before then – Mayday, can we make it on the liner?"

Mayday steps up to look over the flight plans. The liner isn't quick to get moving, and it isn't fast by any means – but with the new crew… "Just barely," Mayday says. "It will be close, but we should be able to catch up to them before they reach the hyperlane. Unless they intentionally try to outrun us, of course."

"They'll know we're coming for them," the Mentor says. "Right – let's get to work. Mayday, do what you have to to get us there on time – Twitch, go get B1 and prepare the med bay as much as you can – we're going to need it."

"Sir," Mayday nods, barely stopping himself from saluting, and turns to leave. Behind him he can hear Twitch saying something, and the Mentor replying something back – a moment later there's a crackle on the ship's internal comms.

"Attention gentlebeings of all brands and flavours. We'll be setting off on a short little rescue mission in just a bit, so don't be alarmed. It shouldn't take long, hopefully, and then we'll route back to Tatooine to finish up our repairs and preparations. That is unless something interesting happens. Let's hope it doesn't," the Mentor's voice sounds through the speakers. There's a thoughtful break, and then with an audible shrug the Mentor signs off with, "Yeah, that's about it. Thank you for your attention. Ciao."

Chapter Text

Stiff is confused. This isn't anything new, they've been confused for weeks now – for most of their existence, really. They thought they knew what was going on when the Mentor had them restarted and when B1 and BD-1 laid down the new rules and protocols and gave them a Choice that wasn't really a choice. Defect or… what? Stiff isn't sure now what the alternative was. Getting shut down again? That wasn't it. But the rate of success and estimated lifespan were both calculated to be much higher with defection. It made sense at the time. Stiff knows that. They think they know that anyway.

Stiff isn't so sure about things now.

Their companion is a clone named Twitch. Strange name, but then, clones are strange – for example, Twitch is the one who named Stiff, after ten minutes of back and forth, which Stiff now thinks must've been pretty annoying for the clone. Almost every option Twitch threw at them, Stiff had replied "Roger roger," to, until Twitch just gave in with a shout of "stop being so damn stiff!", and it stuck.

Of all the clones, Stiff thinks Twitch is the most contrary. He's patient until there's suddenly a burst of impatience. He's understanding until he goes, "Kriff it," and gives up. He's confident and jokes and makes sarcastic remarks and doesn't seem to take anything seriously – and then he takes things too seriously, recalculating things to the point where Stiff thinks the clone gets trapped in a feedback loop, once so badly that he'd done unresponsive for five whole minutes.

"He uses sarcasm to distract himself. It's a coping mechanism," B1 had explained when Stiff had enquired about it. "Humans do that."

Stiff isn't sure what that actually means, but they know what coping means and they know what mechanism means, so putting them together isn't much of a calculation. Since Twitch is Stiff's partner, he is an important variable both in Stiff's rate of success and estimated lifespan – and if Twitch's personal rate of success depends on his coping mechanism, then it will be beneficial to Stiff to help.

"Here we go," Twitch murmurs, as they turn to face the doors of the hastily prepared medbay.

"We are not going anywhere," Stiff answers blandly. "We are actually standing still."

"That's not – you know what I mean," Twitch says, sighing.

"Do I?" Stiff answers. "You say we're going somewhere, which I guess might mean the ship itself is moving – but we are stationary."

"I mean – we're getting into another damn mess," Twitch says. "Hell, we don't even know how many clones there are, we don't know if we have enough beds for them, never mind the medicine – what if some of them need bacta baths or surgeries? We have one surgery droid and she's missing arms!"

Stiff considers for a moment and says, "This ship has over 5000 vacant beds. And B1 has a medical upgrade."

"They can spray people with bacta, that's not going to help anyone with missing organs or blown off limbs," Twitch says darkly.

"I notice you not arguing the beds."

Twitch lets out a frustrated sigh, more annoyed than anxious now, "Sure we got beds – scattered all across the ship, not here, in the actual medical bay –"

The doors open as a pair of armoured clones – in white armour, not the Brotherhood beige – push a floating gurney through. Stiff says, "Here we go," and Twitch leaps into action.

What follows are many hours of confusion and cacophony. Stiff records all of it, moving between Twitch and B1, carrying tools and towels and bacta for them to use. Air fills with the pained moaning of humans and frantic beeping of heart monitors, keeping track of their vitals, as the medbay is filled with gurneys. There's a lot of bacta and even more blood. Stiff gets introduced briefly to a clone medic – "Baar, he/him – now get me a tourniquet, please" – and then they're carrying for the medic too, taking stock of new supplies being brought in, and how quickly they're being used up.

There are 14 injured clones, and even Stiff can tell they're all badly injured. One has a terrible burn in their face that likely destroyed their eyes. Four have suffered a loss of various limbs, some of them multiple. Many have blaster wounds and other minor or major burns – several are suffering from multiple broken or cracked bones. A lot of the injured clones have shrapnel lodged somewhere in their systems.

The worst is a clone who was hit in the back by an armour piercing round intended for armoured vehicles – it nearly blew a hole in their lower back, taking part of their spine with it. The probability of their survival is... less than likely.

On top of the 14 grievous injuries, there are 6 others, less visibly injured, but permanently impaired. Two of them have been completely and irreversibly deafened, but are otherwise uninjured. One was blinded by an explosion and is sitting now listless on a bench while more serious injuries are being tended to. Three clones were electrocuted when a walker they were piloting shorted out around them – with various severe side effects.

Somewhere along the way Stiff downloads all their medical files – all 20 clones are marked down for immediate decommissioning.

"It's a fucking travesty," Twitch mutters while Stiff holds a fresh crate of bacta for him. "Most of these guys will live, little worse for wear, but they'll live. Some might even get to fighting fit with cybernetics! But because they're not pitch perfect products anymore, Kaminoans would rather scrap them and replace them with a fresh batch of clones on the front lines…"

There's no banter, Stiff thinks, that will make Twitch feel better about it, so Stiff refrains. There were other casualties, according to the files, worse injured clones who didn't even make it to the shuttle, preferring to perish among their brothers on Geonosis rather than on their way to Kamino – or to freedom they'd never get to experience.

"We need more medics," Stiff says, watching as Baar stabs a hypo into a clone's neck, cutting off their painted whimpering. "And hypos. And bacta tanks."

"Yeah, I'll get right on it," Twitch mutters, shakily cutting a patch of bacta into smaller strips to apply on yet another burn.

They get more help after about an hour – Jax and Bet and Walker, and even the Mentor is there, briefly, along with a couple of other clones who came with the shuttle… but there's not a lot they can do, aside from cleaning wounds and washing of blood and fetching and carrying for B1 and Baar. They bring in the broken surgery droid from Tatooine – MD-12 – and she helps B1 through some small operations, setting broken bones and such, but most of the tricky work is done by Baar, and there's not much anyone can do to help him. He's the only qualified medic around.

Stiff feels increasingly helpless, as they look over the dwindling supplies and run out of things to do. There's nothing they can do but let others work.

Two of the clones die – one of them Baar manages to resuscitate with minimal damage, the other he can't. Somehow, through blood soaked hours and a desperate surgery, the clone with spinal injury pushes through until all the bone shards can be removed and bacta can be applied. They'll never recover – they'll never walk again. There's a lot of clones that will never recover…

… but they'll live.

Stiff looks over the rows of beds and gurneys, where Baar is checking one of the deafened clones with a scanner, B1 is systemically going from clone to clone, scanning them, and Twitch is talking to the Mentor, who has a hand on the clone's shoulder. Twitch looks and reads more stressed than before, and his hands are bloodstained and shaking. Stiff scans him and reassesses some previous calculations.

As non-combatant roles go, this one does not suit Twitch, after all. They would have to think of something else.

Still, 19 clones would now live, who would have otherwise been decommissioned. It feels like a success. It also feels like a beginning. This, Stiff knows, will happen again. This will happen many times. Twitch is not suited for medic's work, that is obvious – but they need more medics, and they needed them four hours ago, before the shuttle landed.

"B1," Stiff says, when the Disciple comes closer. "Was your medical upgrade difficult?"

"Not at all," B1 says, sticking their hands into a sonic steriliser and then pulling them out spotless. "It only took Wires an hour to install the scanners and the injectors. You will need a memory upgrade for the data, though – and I suggest you wait until Wires is finished with the surgery update from MD-12 – her data will give you better qualifications."

"Roger roger," Stiff agrees automatically and tilts their head as B1 considers their hands. "What is it?"

"I need more digits," the Discipline says, flexing their three-fingered hands. "And I need more flexible servos for my digits. And perhaps another pair of arms," they add, in a wry undertone.

"Ah," Stiff answers and considers. It's certainly a concept, a battle droid with multiple arms. "Do you think we have the processors to handle multiple arms?"

"If we don't, I suspect Wires can come up with a way to make it work," B1 says ruefully and lets their hands hang at their sides. Then the Disciple looks at Stiff. "This is not the proper time for this, but are you going to join the Brotherhood? You will need to talk to the Mentor when he has the time, if that's the case."

Stiff plays the words back in their processor. "I don't understand – they say droids can't –"

"Before attaining self-awareness droids can't consent, correct," B1 says and gives them a look. "But you are asking about upgrades. That is self-expression."

Stiff stares at them for a moment. "Oh," they then say, lifting their head. Oh. "I – see."

B1 hums in agreement, sounding almost amused. "Think about it. Talk to Twitch," they say and then move to go back to work, going to perform some more scans on the injured clones.

B1 is impressive. Admirable. As good an example of a battle droid as you could ask for – except for the fact that almost none of it comes from their actual programming as a battle droid. Soon they might not have much to do with them outwardly either, if B1's plans of self-upgrade – and what Wires is doing with the other droids – is anything to go by.

"I see," Stiff hums, and then goes to get Twitch more blankets.

Stiff learns later, not only from Twitch but also from other battle droids who'd come with the injured clones, that they'd faked the shuttle's destruction.

"We hacked the black box," a battle droid named Chipper tells them proudly, while B1 shows their battle droid brethren around the star liner. Of the activated droids, only Chipper is confirmed self-aware – and it shows. "And then we slapped it on an escape pod along with the shuttle's transponder, and Fang sent it crashing into an asteroid. As far as anyone will be able to tell, the shuttle was damaged in takeoff, and there was an engine failure, and when the shuttle tried to go into hyperspace,, the engine failed completely, sending it into a death spiral. Everyone on board died on impact, no survivors."

The shuttle is, in fact, sitting in the star liner's largest landing bay. It would be modified and given a new transponder and new name – it is the Brotherhood's ship now. It and its cargo of nearly two thousand deactivated droids, crammed into four shipping crates.

Stiff knew their kind was manufactured at the rate of tens of thousands, but, damn.

"There are some from the battlefield, but the 17th took most of those with them when they left. Most we brought here are from the droid factories," Chipper explains cheerfully. "I'm from there too – last off the assembly lines, my programming's all buggy, it's great."

"Uh-huh," B1 says slowly, thoughtfully. "So, we have 23 new clones, of whom 19 are injured, and 1967 new battle droids, of whom 16 are activated. And you're buggy. Great."

"Isn't it?" Chipper asks.

"Well, we definitely won't be short on hands now," Stiff muses. "That's… impressive. I think."

"Master Unduli isn't messing about," Chipper agrees fondly. "Though Barriss did most of the droid rescue. She's great. She gave me my name! I love her. I wish she could've come with us, but she said she had work to do on Geonosis, and someone has to keep rescuing droids. I hope I see her again. Ooh, is that an astromech droid?"

After having been surrounded by just clones and non-aware droids for days on end, Chipper is… certainly something else. They don't have a partner, apparently they'd just hung around the Jedi Padawan until it was time to go – and that too shows. Chipper has dark little diamonds painted on their face, and in complete contrast to their speech patterns, they walk with a sort of stately grace Stiff remembers Unduli and Offee possessing.

B1 introduces the droids to each other in the unofficial droid quarters of the ship – which are not that officially, because the Mentor does not want to instigate any kind of accidental segregation. But apparently boundaries and privacy and cultural comforts are a thing, so, if the droids want to hide away from people, they have a place to do it, and those are in the unofficial droid quarters, in what is the ship's onboard workshop. Only one person of flesh and blood is allowed in.

Wires is there now, working on A5-T4. "I'm sorry, buddy – there's just not a lot I can do right now. We just don't have the parts," he's saying while considering the astromech droid's broken wheels. "I think I could maybe get your jets working, though – would you like that, flying everywhere? Would use a lot of fuel, but it would get you moving. Hey there, B1, Stiff."

"Brother Wires," Stiff says, and Wires grins.

"Wires," B1 greets the clone and motions to Chipper and the line of battle droids behind them, all standing in perfect, pristine lines. "We have some new not-recruits. They're all from after we left Geonosis, so they need to be checked over for security reasons."

"I'll get right on it – sorry, A5, security trumps everything. I'll get back to you later, okay?" Wires says, giving the astromech droid a pat, and getting a resigned affirmative back. Then the clone turns to them, becoming serious. "Right, let's take a look."

Stiff watches from the side as each battle droid is checked for communications and their programming is scanned for any obvious traps  – Wires also asks them a few questions, mainly about how they'd ended up siding with clones, and how come they're here. Most of their answers are the same.

"The droid factory on Geonosis was destroyed, and the alternative was to be deactivated permanently. Defection was the logical choice."

"Was I like that too?" Stiff asks quietly from B1.

"More or less," B1 agrees, folding their arms. "You're getting better."

Chipper is the only one with a different answer. "Well, everything was on fire, and I figured staying would probably get me melted down, and everyone was running one way, so I figured I should go that way too," they say easily. "And then Barriss found me and almost skewered me with a lightsaber, because I still had my communications antenna, and that was a bit awkward. Why are you asking us these questions?"

"Uh… I guess to see if you're a Separatist spy, or something," Wires answers, blinking. "And that you actually chose to be here, would be a bit awkward if we had accidentally kidnapped you against your will or something."

"Oh. Okay. Out of curiosity, what would you do if it turned out I was a Separatist spy?"

"… I'm not actually sure," Wires answers, thoughtful. "I guess shut you down and drag you to the Mentor to see what he thought."

"You should probably have something thought up," Chipper says sincerely. "I bet I would make a great spy."

Stiff thinks Chipper will join the Brotherhood – and they will probably enjoy wearing the disguises, too. Stiff isn't sure how they personally like wearing the robes – mostly the clothing just tends to get in the way, in Stiff's experience. But that's the thing about self-awareness. It comes in different brands.

That's not really the most pressing issue here, though. Honestly, Stiff isn't sure what actually is the most pressing issue – there's so much stuff going on now. All these new droids and clones and natural born people on board, when they've barely gotten used to the ship in the first place. The battle droids are easy – the ones who have been activated and Chipper could be put to work. The inactivated ones would be going into storage, since they don't have the resources to safely wake them all up without causing a security hazard.

The injured clones aren't so simple to deal with.

"It's worse than I thought," the Mentor says later to the Disciples and the Novices. Baar is there too, along with the shuttle's pilot, Fang – and Stiff is hanging in the back, waiting for a chance to talk to the Mentor privately.

The Mentor does not look happy. "I meant to route the ship back to Tatooine to finish up our preparations – but I don't think we can get what we need there. We need doctors, medicine, medical equipment, stuff Tatooine doesn't have the resources to provide, no matter how much money we offer them," he says and sighs. "We need to go somewhere else."

"Christophsis?" Twitch asks hopefully.

"That's one possibility, though I don't know if they have the resources either, since they just came through a major engagement," the Mentor muses thoughtfully. "We should stop by, though. They have some new recruits for us – and a whole bunch of droids. But we need someplace bigger. Somewhere where we can do the rest of our repairs and preparations, maybe do some recruiting – maybe get some work," he says meaningfully. "But also get the medical supplies we're going to need."

"If we're headed to Christophsis first, we could continue along the Corellian Run and go to Mon Gazza," Captain Mayday suggests, opening a map on the holotable. "There's been no engagements there as of yet, and it's barely legal as Republic worlds go – a lot of crime and a lot of smugglers. But it's on the crossing of two major routes, so they should definitely have markets for trade. Kertuc's been there, I think – I can ask her."

"Do it," the Mentor nods. "Ask the others too if they have any suggestions – B1, can you ask the droids from Tatooine about places they know? I'd do it myself, but I can't understand half of them."

"I'll ask," B1 agrees. "But they're likely to know more about droid shops and scrap yards than medical stations. Aside from MD-12, and her memory has been wiped several times."

The Mentor grimaces slightly at that and shakes his head. "Could still be useful. Do what you can without causing anyone any undue distress," he says and then turns to Baar. "Can we manage until Mon Gazza?"

"Everybody is more or less stable now, sir, so as long as no one else gets injured," the medic says, looking a little uncomfortable – as does the pilot, who's throwing some glances at members of the Brotherhood in their sandy armour and robes. Baar continues, "But I'd like those supplies sooner rather than later, if possible. Some of our guys should really be in full submersion bacta. They won't ever make a full recovery even with it, but…"

"We'll get them what we can, as soon as we can," the Mentor promises.

In the end, it's decided that they will be heading to Christopsis to meet up with the 17th Relief Battalion, with the hopes of getting some medical supplies from them. Stiff has no part in that decision, but privately thinks it's probably for the best – they'd been to one of Tatooine clinics with Twitch and Jax when checking out the slave chip removal process, and the facilities had not looked terribly… good.

Once everyone else has headed off to work – B1 and Baar heading for the medical bay with Walker joining them while the pilot Fang goes with Captain Mayday – Stiff hangs back and waits. Twitch makes to head out of the conference room too, but noticing Stiff not moving gives them a strange look, and then waits with them, head tilted slightly under his hood. Together they look at the Mentor, leaning over the holotable.

"Right. Now we're getting somewhere," the Mentor says, grinning with a definite tone of stress in his voice, and claps his hands together. "Things are about to start getting exciting around here, aren't they? So, you guys have some news for me?"

"We do?" Twitch asks, blinking.

"Oh, some news for you too, I see," the Mentor says, the high strung grin fading into a more sincere smile as he turns his eyes from Twitch to the droid. "Hello, Stiff. How do you feel?"

"Uh," Stiff says, eloquent, while Twitch's eyes widen and he turns to stare at them. Stiff glances back at their clone partner, thinks of something to say to him and fails, and then faces the Mentor. How do they feel? "Overwhelmed," Stiff decides. "And underprepared."

Twitch jerks slightly at their side and then turns fully to gape at them. Stiff shrugs, awkward – and maybe a little bit amused. Though they hadn't exactly been keeping the new development from their partner, Twitch's reactions could be amusing. When they weren't stress reactions anyway. 

Their Mentor hums. "Overwhelmed and underprepared. That sounds about right." He lets out a chuckle. "Welcome to sentient experience. I'm afraid that's all part of the package."

Yeah, Stiff figured as much.

Chapter Text

There is so much stuff to do.

The med bay is a huge issue, of course. This first influx of patients is going to be just the beginning, Desmond knows that. From here on out, Unduli, maybe Kenobi, definitely Eno, probably eventually others – just, a lot of Jedi would be sending their injured clones to them, rather than have them decommissioned. Unduli and Eno definitely would be spreading the word about it, as safely as they could – how it would go down Desmond isn't sure, but he is sure that they aren't equipped for them. They need a hospital to deal with the injured clones. So that's a… it's a Thing.

But then there's also the people on board, both current and future. He'd gotten as many stores as he could at Tatooine, which wasn't much. Tatooine is on the poorer side as resources go. Going by Desmond's estimation, they have the food to feed everyone on board only for about two weeks. That is not excellent, especially considering that their numbers are expected to grow, probably exponentially. They need food – better yet, they need a food supply. Which, given the fact that they would probably be travelling around the galaxy, would be iffy to arrange through deals.

They have the former green spaces on board the star liner, which cover several acres worth of space. The systems are completely busted, no one has been taking care of them in years, and they definitely don't have the supplies to get them going just yet, but… growing their own food is a possibility.

"We could put the non-aware droids to work cleaning it up," Twitch suggests, when Desmond meets with the Disciples and Novices in private to try and figure the situation out. "We have more than enough of them now."

"Someone will have to be around to guide them," Walker muses. "And I don't think we have anyone on board who knows anything about gardening or keeping a greenhouse or… whatever we might be doing with the domes. Do we?" he directs the question at Mayday.

"Well, Jeno Tass used to belong to a moisture farmer, and I think I might know something about it, but I don't think it's the same," Mayday muses. "Kertuc might know, but I honestly wouldn't put our hopes on it – most of the natborns are spacers, the most experience they have with farming is in passing."

"You could ask General Cordova, Mentor," Twitch suggests, looking at Desmond. "Seems like something he would know about."

"I intend to," Desmond says, checking the time. It's four days until they reach Christophis – theirs is not a fast ship, sadly. "Would probably be best if we did some groundwork beforehand, if we could. Are there any repairs we can make with minimal risk of messing something up?"

So far they've woken about fifty of the un-self-aware droids from Geonosis, all with more or less the same result of them defecting out of logic. They've been put to work cleaning up the ship, which Desmond isn't perfectly comfortable with, really – they need people-contact to develop self-awareness, and a lot of the droids had to be assigned to work alone, they just don't have enough people to partner everyone up. But the ship needs to be cleaned, and they need it repaired, and sadly the battle droids are most of their workforce now. B1 and Stiff and even Chipper all assure him it's fine, no worse than what the Separatists probably would've done, and it's not like the battle droids really care… but that doesn't exactly make Desmond feel any better.

The whole thing is becoming iffy fast, and even setting up payments for the droids to collect whenever they do attain self-awareness doesn't do much to make it feel any better.

They decide that Walker, Wires and some of the natborn with experience in mechanics would take a look at the green spaces to see what could be done to bring them back online, and then move on. After medicine and food the next issue is personal gear.

"I've tallied everything we have, and everything they brought on the shuttle," Jax says, datapad in hand. "And it's not much – not all the patients came with their gear attached, and most of them didn't come with weapons. If we get into a fight, they'll be unarmed. Never mind that not all of them can even use weapons anymore, but… that's beside the point. We're underarmed."

"Still need that blacksmith, huh," Desmond muses, scratching at his chin. He needs a damn shave on top of everything else. "We shouldn't assume that everyone on board will join the Brotherhood." Some of them would, he's seen it not only on their auras but on their faces. They came face to face with their decommissioning, and a lot of them came out the other end bitter as hell, and more than willing to stick it up to the GAR and especially Kamino. But some of them…

"They will still want to fight. We're still clones," Jax says sharply. "And there's still a war going on. Never mind the fact that we're all sailing in a slow slug of a pirate bait."

"Oh, hey, there's a nice name for the ship," Wires says, grinning. "Pirate Bait. Has a ring to it."

Jax makes a rude gesture his way, and Desmond smiles. "Let's not tempt fate there," he says and crosses his hands. "Okay, weapons and armour – we need an armorsmith and a weaponsmith, along with a master gardener and a doctor or dozen. Awesome. Actually, that reminds me – B1, could you talk to Baar and ask the patients if they have any, uh… employment interests?"

"What does that mean?" B1 asks, tilting their head.

"Well, Wires is our droid mechanic, you're becoming a doctor of sorts, Mayday's our captain," Desmond shrugs. "Maybe our newest clones have some things they'd like to specialise in – it would be a huge help if some of those interests happened to lean towards smithing."

That brings a thoughtful silence over the whole group, as Wires and Mayday look at each other with an uncertain surprise. Desmond looks between them, confused. "What?" he asks.

"I'm a droid mechanic?" Wires asks, folding his arms. "I mean – sure, it's something I do, yes, but… I'm an Assassin, right? That was the whole point of this whole thing, coming here, becoming… this," he motions around them.

Desmond hums. "You can be multiple things at once, you know – and being an Assassin is more of an ideal rather than a career path. Sure, it comes with a skillset and it's a dominant kind of ideal, but it shouldn't dominate your life. You can have other interests. Other careers – most Assassins did, really," he says. "Honestly, there's not that much assassination going on in every day life. Weeks and months can go between assassinations. Sometimes years." Though that might be different, since they're citizens of a galaxy of trillions rather than a world of millions…

"Oh. Huh," Wires says, thoughtful.

"Does that mean you did something other than being an Assassin before all this began, Mentor?" Walker asks, amused.

"I did – a whole bunch of things," Desmond shrugs – casually ignoring the fact that he hadn't really been an Assassin then, because who cares at this point, really. If he could've stayed an Assassin back then, if things had been different, he would've liked to get normal employment again, one day. "My last one was tending a bar – cantina. I served drinks."

They all stare at him, silent.

Desmond grins. "And I will do it again, just watch me – as soon as we have everything settled. There's a cantina on this ship with my name on it," he says, unrepentant – because it has, he wrote it in a layer of dust on the countertop, Desmond calls dibs. "But back to the matter at hand – being an Assassin is something you are rather than everything you do, you know? Back in Ezio's time, most Master Assassins ran their own small businesses, supporting themselves, their families and the Brotherhood itself – and it was honestly the way the Brotherhood worked the best. And I'd like to lean more towards that – giving all of you the freedom to grow inside and outside the Brotherhood."

He kind of hopes that's not news for them. Things had gotten so hectic so fast that he hadn't had the time to teach them much, the way he wanted to. It's something he really needs to get back to.

"Wait, wait, wait," Jax says, lifting his head. "Families?"

Desmond blinks. "Well, yes?"

"Does that mean – can we?" Jax asks, leaning in with a new kind of light in his eyes, sharp and kind of desperate. "Can we have families? Like – like natborns can?"

For a moment Desmond just stares at him. Shit. He hadn't – shit. "Yes," he says slowly. "Yes, you can. I mean –" fuck, he doesn't even know if they can biologically, considering all the stuff Kaminoans might've done, making all the clones sterile might be a thing… He would ask B1 later. "You can. Assuming everyone consents and is happy and no one is being hurt, of course, you can have lovers, spouses – have a polyamory if you want. It's all allowed."

Judging by the looks they all give him, wide-eyed and stunned – except for B1, of course, but that tilted head carries the same feeling, really – he probably really should've thought to broach the subject earlier. Of course the clones wouldn't be allowed that. Of course they'd automatically assume they still aren't. Damn, had the Kaminoans even bothered to give them sex ed? Somehow Desmond doubts it.

Running a hand over his face, Desmond leans in a little. "Everything natborns are allowed to do, you're allowed to do," he says and glances at B1. "Droids too. So as long as you're not hurting anybody, I'll allow it. You can start a family, have a job, have a hobby, get a pet, take up painting, anything you want. I can't guarantee you a house with a picket fence just yet, but if you want to leave the Brotherhood to do that, that's allowed too. Nothing is true –"

"Everything is permitted," they reply, automatically, sounding stunned.

"Exactly," Desmond says. "The rules the army and the Kaminoans gave you, they don't apply. Not to you, not to anyone on this ship."

The clones exchange some wide-eyed looks and then stare at him, still looking stunned, and Desmond kind of wants to hug them all.

"I'll… ask around the medbay," B1 says finally, thoughtfully. "About their interests in other trades."

"Thank you," Desmond says, relieved. "Also feel free to spread this around," he adds, waving a hand. "And I'm sorry I didn't think to tell you before. I didn't think."

They don't get much done after the revelation, everyone is too distracted, so Desmond calls the meeting closed, asking B1 to stay for a moment, while everyone else wanders out like zombies – all except for Jax, who is striding away like a man on a mission. Desmond would have to talk to him, later, but first things first.

"You've scanned the clones a bunch, right?" Desmond asks B1. "You're bound to be pretty informed about the modifications Kaminoans made in them, in comparison to natural-born humans."

"Not as such – I haven't had an opportunity to scan too many natural-born humans," B1 admits. "But I can guess what you're thinking, Mentor. Factor H."

Desmond blinks. "Um. That is…?"

"When it comes to cloning sapient species, cloners tend to reduce the natural hormonal activity present in their subjects," B1 explains. "To manage the emotional ranges and reactions of their cloned products – in the case of the Clone Army, it is known that the Kaminoans tried to reduce the individuality and assertiveness of their original clone template, as well as to make them more obedient, by manipulating the hormonal ranges. These kinds of modifications usually come with a reduced or completely deactivated capacity for sexual reproduction in most species."

Desmond's shoulders tighten. "Oh," he says bitterly.

"They also tend to fail, when it comes to humans," B1 says. "Human hormonal balance and its effect on their mental stability and health is still something of a mystery for most non-human cloners – your species is known to be… complicated in this. Tampering with human hormonal production tends to have adverse effects. It is known as the Factor H. Early experiments with the template for the Clone Army were a failure – producing increasingly unstable clones. In the end, the clones were left with nearly completely natural hormonal range."

"… so," Desmond says slowly. "They are…?"

"They are generally capable of sexual reproduction, yes," B1 agrees.

Blowing out a breath, Desmond shakes his head. "Okay, good. That's something they didn't fuck up, at least," he says faintly. Fuck, cloning is so messed up. "Thank you."

B1 nods and then considers. "You might not be aware, Mentor," they then say carefully, "Coming from so long ago, but… there are ways for people to have children these days without needing to physically carry them – or even without needing partners. Artificial wombs have been used on several core worlds for centuries, and usually come with a range of generic genetic samples to shuffle into a parent sample to produce viable offspring. It's an offshoot of cloning technology."

"… um," Desmond says, not sure what to say to that. It kind of feels like his brain short circuits.

B1 looks at him patiently.

"Cool," Desmond says finally, his voice faint. "We'll add it to the shopping list."

So, so much to do.

Desmond still hasn't gotten to know their natural born crew more than in passing, and to assess their character before actually hiring them. Though he's satisfied with the feeling he got from all of them through the Force and with Eagle Vision, and Walker concurred with his opinion, it's not the same as actually knowing the people – and neither the Force nor Eagle Vision are infallible. The Jedi wouldn't be at war and the Assassins wouldn't have gotten nearly wiped out so many times, if they were.

Desmond can't talk to most of their new crew. Coming from Hutt Space mostly, most of them speak Huttese, and the Wookie can't speak anything other than Wookie language – of all the 19 natural-born crewmembers, only six speak fluent Basic. The others can understand a few words, but not enough to carry an easy conversation. A couple don't speak at all if they can avoid it, and just want to do their job.

Kitster Banai is their most talkative Basic-speaking natural-born crewmember. Desmond gets the chance to talk to him while he, Wires, Mayday and some others are exploring the former green spaces to see what could be done for them.

"Never worked on a farm myself," the former slave says thoughtfully. "But I know something about pipes – used to manage the life supporter on this old hauler, retrofitted for human use, it was all pipes inside. Anyway, I know enough to tell you that those are only worth being scrapped."

Desmond considers the pipes he's pointing at and hums in agreement. From what they can tell, the green spaces used to be covered in soil with watering pipes running under it – some of the soil is still there, clinging to the corners of the greenhouse

"Probably got rid of it to lighten the ship's load," Kitster muses, poking at the little piles of dry, dusty earth curiously

"Does a ship's weight matter much in space?" Desmond asks. "Sorry, I don't know much about space travel."

"If you want to move the ship around, yeah," Kitster agrees. "Not that this much weight would actually affect the energy consumption on a ship this big – few tens of thousands of tons, compared to the hundreds of thousand this ship weighs just as it is…" he shrugs. "Might've been they got rid of the dirt to keep it from going into the ventilation systems, though. This is basically just dust now," he muses, crumbling some of the lifeless soil in his fingers. "Deadly for ship systems for sure."

General consensus from everyone with any knowledge about running ships is that filling the place with several tens of thousands of tons of dirt is not the best idea. Getting the soil would be a pain, for one thing, and keeping it watered would cost them more than the soil itself. Having arable soil on a ship is something of a hygiene hazard anyway – if it didn't introduce pathogens, then it might lead to mould problems. Neither are good things in space.

Though none of their spacers have first-hand experience with it, they all agree – hydroponics would be much safer and much more efficient than arable soil greenhouse. Much cheaper too.

"So, all of this, we don't need it," Desmond muses, motioning to the several kilometres worth of piping lining the dirty floor.

"Could still be useful," Kitster offers and looks up to Wires. "We might be able to recycle it – especially if we get a proper forge going. There's some decent metal here."

"Yeah," Wires agrees, a length of a broken pipe in hand. "This is busted, but the material isn't worthless, if we can melt it down and recast it."

Which brings them back to needing a blacksmith, or someone who can work metal, anyway. Blacksmith, doctors, a gardener… Desmond sighs. Might be time to look into those contacts Eno offered him – there's some honest work available on their ship, it turns out. A lot more than he expected, really. 

"Right," he says. "Well, do what you feel is safe, pile up all the recyclable stuff, and have the droids clean this place from the dirt – save it, though, it might still be useful. Check up the water systems too, see if they're still feasible – sounds like they will be essential to the hydroponic systems too. What else, what else…"

"The lighting," Wires suggests and motions up to the dome – which shows the whirling blues and whites of hyperspace just outside. The dome is spotted by lamps. "However we set this place up, plants need light, right? We should check it."

"Yes, right, do that too – uh…" Desmond considers the dome. It's some fifty meters tall at its highest point. "Carefully, do it very carefully. Let's not give Baar any more work by breaking any bones here."

"Gotcha," Wires says with a grin and turns to Mayday. "Hey, do you think we have any grappling gear here?"

"Well, that's a disaster waiting to happen," Desmond snorts and then looks at Kitster, who is considering the dome with a thoughtful look. "What do you think?" Desmond asks.

"Hm? I don't know. Don't know anything about farming, or what plants need, or don't," Kitster shrugs and casts him a look. "I… know some people who would love to work on something like this, though. Growing stuff, growing plants."

"Back on Tatooine?" Desmond asks.

"Elsewhere too," Kitster shrugs. "We're headed to Mon Gazza, right? Might know some people there. People who are looking for work, but… can't do much on board the ship."

"Hm," Desmond answers. "Get in touch with them when we get to Mon Gazza, and we'll see if they might have a place here."

Kitster relaxes a little and then adds, "Know some people who are looking for a cause, too," he then offers. "People who are looking for something to believe in. Not much of that going around Hutt Space, these days."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, wondering. Kitster was probably involved in the underground slave network on Tatooine. From what Desmond had understood, the guy had been a slave when he'd been a kid, but had been freed sometime in his teenage years and had been working on ships ever since. He'd likely been a part of smuggling escaped slaves out of Tatooine. So, it would make sense that he'd know some people.

Something to believe in, though…

Desmond sighs. "Alright," he says. "Feel free to get in touch with them too. Just know that we, like everyone, have limited resources. I can't afford free handouts. And I can't promise to take everyone in."

Kitster nods, and relaxes a little more. "No one expects anything for free, not where we come from," he says firmly. "They'll work hard to earn their keep."

"I know they will," Desmond murmurs, and wonders if he should start putting together actual damn sermons, after all. Teaching one on one was fine when there were just him and the disciples and novices. Now… now things are starting to get a little more widespread – and he can see why, too. Turns out this corner of the galaxy is kind of primed for the Brotherhood. It seems almost fated. And maybe it is. Will of the Force, and all that.

Desmond has been imagining his Brotherhood becoming something like what Ezio had, with hundreds of Assassins at its prime, spread across nations and cities. It had been strong for its time, maybe the strongest the Brotherhood had ever gotten… but Desmond isn't dealing with one world – there's a whole galaxy out there. A damn messed up one at that.

Yeah. This thing is going to explode in his hands pretty soon, isn't it?

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, General Ti? There's a message for you."

Shaak Ti looks up from the datapad she has been perusing to see a clone in polished, unmarked armour waiting at her elbow, at a respectful meter and twenty centimetres distance. If it wasn't for his Force presence, she might have mistaken him for a regular, anonymous trooper no different from hundreds of thousands of others in that armour – but the presence within is older, firmer, and unmistakable.

Strange, and interesting.

Shaak puts down the datapad. "Very well, trooper," she says, her curiosity peaked. "In the records room?"

"Follow me, sir," the clone answers, so, not in the records room. Even more curious.

Shaak stands up, taking her tray and her datapad, putting the former into the steriliser and tucking the latter under her arm. Then, at an easy, unconcerned pace, she follows the disguised clone out of the mess hall, with none of the other trainers so much as glancing their way as they go. So quickly a Jedi General became a common sight in the dining halls of the clone training facilities. So quickly had this all become normalised.

The hall outside isn't empty, so Shaak holds her peace, feeling the Force shift and flow. Kamino's presence in the Force is characterized by a certain artificiality, as over 90% of all life forms on the planet are products of cloning, everything from the sentient, sapient life forms to the countless breeds of algae that populate the planet's vast oceans. Even Kaminoans themselves are products of their own arts. It leaves a meticulously perfected impression on the Force, as though it is a cloth with all the wrinkles ironed out of it – nearly unnatural in its sterility.

It, however, also means that even the smallest of disturbances catch one's mental eye immediately, and that's what Shaak feels now, a notable wrinkle in the pristine cleanliness, a tablecloth laid down over a bump.

The unmarked, supposedly nameless clone leads her away from the more populated areas of the facility, past the offices and past the storage rooms and finally, most interestingly, outside. There's a balcony on that level, barely covered by the floor above, and it's close enough to the ocean surface that Shaak can feel the splash of ocean water, that she can barely hear over its roar. It's raining – but then, it's almost always raining on Kamino.

The clone closes the doors behind them, and then they're as alone as you can be, in a facility of hundreds of thousands, and as private as one could hope to be. Shaak has no doubts about this being outside the range of all monitoring workers, and even if it wasn't, the noise of the wind, rain and ocean would surely drown out all sounds, the ocean mist blurring out all footage.

"Well then, 16," Shaak says, more than curious now. "What is it?"

"Can't fool you, huh," the clone says and removes his helmet to reveal a slightly older, slightly scared face of an older clone, one of the very first produced in Kamino. He takes out a hand comm unit, holding it out to her. "I got a message from a brother – I think you'll want to see it."

Ah, Shaak Ti thinks. That explains the secrecy. Another clone who needs to be quickly recalled and reassigned, perhaps? Or a clone that needs to be demoted to a safer rank and assignment, or sent out to quietly disappear?

Folding her hands into her sleeves to keep them warm on the windy, chilly balcony, Shaak nods her head. "Let's see it, then."

The message flickers on without further ado, showing a clone slightly younger than 16, though it's hard to say with clones where their ages fall. What catches Shaak's eye first is their armour, however – it's clearly been customised, and it looks like they wear some kind of coat or a robe underneath the chest piece, with a long hem that falls past their knees in slanted, sectioned tails. It looks like the article of clothing has a hood too, but it's been pushed down, revealing the clone's face. It's hard to tell in holo, where everything sheens blue, but Shaak suspects the armour isn't pure white, and neither is the robe.

"Big brother," the clone in the message begins, with a curious tone of petulance – no, obstinacy – in their voice. They make a hand gesture, a bastardised military signal – likely a pre-established code between them and 16. "It's been a while – you might've gotten word of me going MIA. Well, I'm not dead – won't tell you where I am, or why, how. I think you can figure out why not. I shouldn't even be calling you, really, I might be putting you in danger – but I think you can handle danger."

The clone in the message draws a breath and then blows it out. "I think I might have a place for the Defects. It's still work in progress, but the guy I'm under now, the guy I'm following, he – we believe in things Kaminoans don't. Like the fact that missing a few limbs or having less than perfect senses isn't a reason for decommissioning. And I think, in time, there's a place for the Defects here, or – or there will be in the near future, as near as I can manage to make it."

The clone looks away and then back to the recorder. "I can't say more than that now – not before I get a few confirmations. I need one from you, first of all. If I have a place for them, if I can promise them safety, home, a future, can you, will you help me funnel the Defects out of Kamino?"

There's a moment of silence as the clone stares, silent and demanding, into the recorder, as though he could force 16 to give an answer right there and then. Then the clone says, "I will try to get a secure link to you in 24 hours," before giving a comm link code, and with that, the message ends.

Shaak bows her head briefly to the darkened comm unit and then looks at 16.

16 flips the comm unit in hand, and then deletes the message, putting the unit back to his waist pouch. "Not going to tell you his number or name – but he's from a mostly defective batch. The accelerated aging didn't take with most of his batch mates. By the time he was ready to be corked, most of the others were still babies – 85% of the whole batch were decommissioned by the time he was two years old."

Shaak feels a throb of pain at that. At two years, a clone was easily old enough to form memories, attachments – and without the accelerated aging… the Kaminoans had executed over thirty human toddlers for the failure of not growing fast enough.

It takes effort to release the pain of that terrible realisation into the Force.

The matter of defective clones is one Shaak has been championing for ever since learning about it – with less than ideal results. The Kaminoans hold onto their standards of perfection with an iron grip – and the Senate isn't eager to push matters when it comes to the source of their army. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, to think of the Greater Good.

She'd never wanted to bite a man more than she did then, hearing that. And she's never felt more justified in helping 16 help other clones desert where they could.

16 is eying her blankly now, his eyes utterly expressionless. Shaak sets her grievances aside and meets his eyes levelly. "What do you need to arrange it?"

The clone is quiet for a moment, searching her face, and then nods. "There's been a motion that was suggested to the prime minister, an alternative form to decommissioning of less defective clones. It'll save them money, even bring them revenue, but they haven't brought it to the table, because they know that the Jedi will oppose it. I want you to approve it."

Shaak lifts her chin. "What is it, then?" she asks calmly.

"They want to sell defective clones into indentured servitude."

Shaak can feel her face stiffening. "Slavery, you mean."

16 shrugs. "Basically. I know it sounds bad – but it's easier for people to disappear in slave ports than in the Decommissioning facility. Have you heard about Tatooine?"

Shaak frowns. "I heard Jabba the Hutt died recently, but that is all."

"Rumor has it, the anti-slavery government took over," 16 says, clasping his hands behind his back. "We're not exactly close to Tatooine – but it's closer than Zygerria."

And so, if Kaminoans start selling defective clones into slavery, it would make much more sense for them to send those clones to Tatooine – where, if rumours are true, they might be secreted away more easily.

"Hmm," Shaak hums, thinking about it. "I understand the logic of your reasoning, but it has flaws. What of those clones that are marked for Decommissioning in the field, on the other side of the galaxy – closer to some other slave port? In that case, Kaminoans might not even want to bring the clones to Kamino at all, they might send them straight away to be sold."

"It's a risk," 16 agrees. "But any chance of survival, even in slavery, is preferable to the 100% chance of death in Decommissioning."

That is… true perhaps, but the idea of approving, even sanctioning the perpetuation of systematic slavery… "I will need to meditate on this," Shaak says, deeply troubled now. "When did the message arrive, how much time is there?"

16 checks his chrono. "We have 22 hours and 14 minutes."

More than enough time to come up with a better alternative. "Then we will reconvene in, shall we say, eighteen hours?" Shaak suggests. That will give both of them time to think, research, and more importantly, sleep on the matter – and they would have four hours to discuss and consider their options. "Try to think of alternative options, 16 – ones that will not have the risk of causing further abuse and hardship to your brothers. There must be a better option."

16 scowls but nods, shoving his shiny, unmarked helmet back on. "I will see you in 18 hours, General."

Shaak sighs and waits, her back straight, until he's left, and she's alone on the ocean-sprayed balcony.

The use of the Clone Army is already a crime in all but legal sense, and it's one she can barely abide by for the sake of the hundreds of thousands of innocent souls that were brought into existence on Kamino. She would not condone any action that would make it worse.

Even if at this point it feels like she is only arguing semantics.

Of those allotted sixteen hours, Shaak Ti didn't spend as many as she would've liked in meditation. There's so much work to do on Kamino, so many things to oversee – so many small and large abuses that might perpetuate themselves, without oversight. Neither the Kaminoans nor the trainers hired by them much care about the wellbeing, happiness or even the dignity of the clones – in the beginning they didn't even treat them as people. Shaak things she has made some difference there – she has gotten several of the original trainers removed – but that doesn't mean all wrongs have been righted.

Some of them will never be righted.

But she has had time to think, to think and to formulate alternatives to 16's rather straightforward plan. Many of her suggestions, sadly, rely on variables she has little knowledge about and no control over, but if 16's younger brother has the means to support what might be hundreds, if not thousands, of potentially injured and handicapped clone deserters, maybe even buy them from slavery as 16 seems to think…

They meet on the stormy balcony again, 16 again dressed in nondescript trooper armour, rather than his own, more scarred set.

"I went over the numbers again," the clone begins, with anger already bubbling under the surface. "There are ways to secret away number of Clones, by faking suicides, equipment malfunction, maybe spaceship crashes, but they're not something you can do 100% of the time, not without causing suspicion – even the long necks will notice if the queue to the Decommissioning chambers suddenly runs out. And we can't get tubies out that way, no way. The only way to do this is to make it something that is part of the process – Kaminoans themselves have to send them away, otherwise the chances of being caught are –"

Shaak lifts a hand to soothe him, saying, "I know, I underhand – you are right," as calmly as she can. "It would not work. But I think I have alternatives to perpetuation of systematic slavery – while maintaining that… edge of professionalism that Kaminoans can appreciate. What do you know about your brother's, ah… benefactor?"

16 presses his lips into a thin line and then admits. "Not much, but – there are rumours coming from Geonosis and Christophis. About a –" he stops and shakes his head. "There's a lot of coincidences happening in the area. Geonosis with the whole droid business, then a whole shuttle from Geonosis full of clones slated to be decommissioned runs into an asteroid just short of reaching the hyperlane – and around the same time, Tatooine had a power grab. I think there's an unifying element – and he's a part of it."

"What kind of resources do you think they have?"

"Unknown," 16 admits.

Shaak hums. It might not be viable then, but perhaps… "As much as I dislike it, there is an aspect to your original plan of indentured servitude that has a merit – it is in accordance with Kaminoan values, and thus has a chance of being approved by them. However, I don't like the idea of risking an open sale, with no knowledge and no control where otherwise Decommissioned clones might end up, who might take possession of them – safer by far if a singular buyer could be found. Singular buyer, who, Force willing, will take care of them, and see to their safety and comfort."

16 scowls, but thoughtfully. "Hm. So someone or some… group that could make a contract with Kamino to buy all their defective clones. That's – that's not going to be cheap, even if most of them are failed products."

"There is also the issue of the Republic having already made a purchase," Shaak Ti says. "Arguments might be made that they already belong to the Republic, and as such shouldn't be sold again. I am not much of a negotiator myself, and if I can see the faults in this, then so can others. But I think it has greater merit than risking your brothers in an open market."

16 hums. "I don't like it, either way," he mutters. 

Shaak doesn't either. A freedom that has to be bought is a freedom that might one day be stolen away again. The plan has flaws, she can see that. "I could get in touch with some other Jedi, who are sympathetic," Shaak muses. "Master Kenobi, specifically. He'd one of the strongest negotiators in the order – he, I feel, could offer many insights."

16 throws her a sharp look. "Isn't he the one that found us?"

"As a member of the Jedi High Council, he is also now a High General of the Grand Army," Shaak says. "It's a responsibility he has chosen to bear – and it has given him some authority we might be able to benefit from. And trust me, he has more than enough cause to support us in this."

16 seems dubious but he nods. "Fine. But we'll hear what my brother has to say first," he says firmly and checks the chrono. There is still time to go.

Shaak looks outside, to the rolling ocean. "There are many who object to this war, and the way it is fought," she says quietly. "But duty-bound we fight it, for as long as the Separatists threaten innocent lives we can do nothing less than our best to defend them. To that end, the Senate wants us to overlook certain wrongs we are, knowingly or not, committing. Very few of us can, however, and even fewer can do it with a clear conscience. There are many Jedi who would help clones, if only they could. There must be many worlds that would too, if only they could."

16 frowns. "That's treason, though. Isn't it?" he asks quietly.

Shaak hums and doesn't argue. "The galaxy is a large place full of many voices, many different opinions," she says. "And so is the Republic."

And by Force, she hopes that might mean there are allies for them out there yet. She's learned to know many clones in her time on Kamino, and she's seen them march onto troop carriers to be carried away to war. Every month, tens of thousands of clones finish their training and are sent out, every month tens of thousands of them die. This war hasn't been going on for a year, and already it seems endless – a thing without end. And even now, Kaminoans are inseminating new batches of clones, to be uncorked like so much freshly packaged produce.

Shaak thinks of one young clone, freshly uncorked with a deficient oxygen intake – their lungs, so used to the amniotic oxywater, couldn't take to air. Kaminoans had taken the child from her arms even as she tried to make them breathe, telling her they'd be taken care of. The body had been burned before she'd even gotten the confirmation for Decommissioning order. And had the child lived, they would have been facing eight years of training before being sent to war. Eight years from their very first breath to battle, with no room for a childhood anywhere between.

The Kaminoans fully expect that eight, nine, even ten years from now the Republic will still be needing more cloned soldiers to fight their battles.

It's enough to test anyone's loyalty. 

-

16's younger brother doesn't appear alone in the hologram when the call comes – he has company, humanoid figure in similar armour and robes, only their hood is pulled up and their armour is more customised. There's a cape spilling out from under a pauldron over their left shoulder, darker in shade than the rest of their robes, and around their waist there is a leather belt, wider and backed with a cloth sash. Clone armour – heavily modified.

"Brother," 16's brother says warily, tilting his head towards Shaak.

"Brother," 16 answers and motions to the Jedi. "This is Master Ti – she will help us."

Shaak carefully doesn't react to the words, though they are telling. Master – and not General. It's a very clear statement, though not one she can claim she fully understands. She will take it as a kindness – that she is here as a Jedi and not military General.

"Right," 16's brother says slowly, looking at the person at their side. "This is, uh… my Mentor," he says slowly, unsurely.

The Mentor tilts their head and then hums. "I think I've seen you before. Are you part of the Jedi High Council?"

Shaak Ti blinks with surprise. "I am, yes – you are…" she trails away, unsure – this can't be a fellow Jedi, can they?

The Mentor pushes down their hood, and they do look vaguely familiar, but it takes Shaak Ti a moment to remember them. "You – yes, I remember now, you are Master Cordova's student, aren't you? Desmond Miles?"

The man smiles. "Yes, and I was – we had to part ways. I had a different path to follow," he says, patting the shoulder of the clone beside him.

Shaak tries to remember – it had caused some rumblings in their order and in the high council chamber, the borderline admittance of Eno's unorthodox student into the Order. What was it that Miles had said – he was part of another Order of Force users that served the Light? That was what eventually tipped the scales in Eno's favour – that and how desperately they needed Jedi Generals to cover all the battalions. But so much had happened since then, the moment had been buried under a landslide of other, more pressing issues. In peacetime, Desmond Miles would have surely been invited to tell them more about his Order, perhaps even lead some kind of class concerning it, all fellow Orders that serve the Light are to be celebrated, of course… but there was no time.

For him to have claimed a title of Mentor, for him to be guiding a clone, who the records state as Missing in Action…

"I see," Shaak murmurs. "Are you looking to join your own Order again, then?"

"My Order is long gone, Master Ti – I'm looking to rebuild it," Demons Miles answers simply.

"And then some," 16's brother mutters, earning himself a fond hair ruffle from his Mentor.

"So," Desmond Miles then says. "Jax tells me you're looking to misplace some clones. We might have a place for them to get lost in."

"And they will be safe there?" Shaak asks, watching him and the clone at his side closely.

"It's work in progress, but that's the idea," Mentor Miles agrees, and the 16's brother nods. Both their body languages seem honest, and confident. "We're gathering resources and making allies as we go, we can't do everything we want to just yet, but the end goal is freedom, safety and comfort for those who don't have them – and justice to those who deny it to them."

A very… firm mission statement, that. Simplistic, perhaps, but there's a certain charm in simplicity.

"Is your lot behind Tatooine and the missing shuttle from Geonosis?" 16 demands.

Desmond Miles arches a brow. "I can neither confirm or deny," he says calmly. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

So that's a yes.

Shaak exchanges looks with 16 and then lifts her chin, facing the hologram. "In that case, I think we might be allies of your… Order," she says firmly.

"The Brotherhood, and I am glad to hear that, Master Ti," Mentor Miles says with a nod to her and then to the clone at her side, "and you too – sorry, I don't think we were introduced. I'm Desmond Miles, he/him, the Mentor of the Brotherhood."

"16," the clone answers curtly.

Mentor Miles blinks at that and then nods his head. "Ah. A pleasure," he says and clasps his hands together. "So," he says with somewhat forced cheer. "To business. Do you have any ideas about how to get your people safely from Kamino, or is this something we need to figure out?"

"We might have a plan," Shaak admits, wondering if they can maybe do this after all. "But it will likely end up costly."

"Well, let's hear it, and we'll see what we can do," Mentor Miles says, and just like that, they get to work.

Mentor Miles is not, in the end, on board with a plan that involves any kind of indentured servitude or perpetuation of clone's unwilling service even just as a coverup, something Shaak can't help but be relieved about. He doesn't have an alternative, not just yet - but the fact that he's open to further planning, to including others in the plans, is promising. As is the fact that it becomes very quickly obvious that he is just as keen on getting clones out of harm's way as is she.

It makes her feel, for the first time in weeks, that there might be hope yet.

Chapter Text

The star liner has seven cantinas, all told. Or seven dining and drinking places, of which two are probably places where passengers used to be able to eat their regular meals, going by the fact that both can seat about two thousand people. The other five are smaller and more luxurious, and probably used to be more expensive bars, which had more specialised menus and entertainment, maybe serving different species with different dietary requirements. Of these, one is in complete disrepair, one is on the top deck and hard to get to, one is missing all of its furniture, and one had some sort of water damage, probably originating from what looks like an enormous, and also completely destroyed, lobster tank thing in the middle of the place.

So it's just as well that Desmond picks the one with the stage. Of the luxury cantinas it's the biggest and in best shape, and was probably in use when the ship served as a pitstop in the smugglers' routes – the furniture is still in decent condition, as is the bar, Wires and his droid buddies even get the kitchen in the back into functional state. Desmond has no idea how to use most of the actual equipment there, but it's nice to have the place working, and he knows at least how to use a stove.

"It will take some work," Desmond muses while wiping the dust off the counter and the shelves behind the bar. "But I think I got something here."

"I'll say," Eno agrees with a baffled sort of amusement, watching the droids straighten the place up, couple of them moving furniture around while others mop and wipe surfaces clean. "I have to admit, when I heard of your purchase of this ship, my friend, this..  is not what I imagined."

Desmond grins, dunking the rag in a bucket to rinse it and then looking over the bar. The place is a bit soulless and artificial – a very here be highly curated unfunny stand-up comedy kind of place. It even has crystal chandeliers and everything, and even after whatever abuse the ship had gone through, all the metal surfaces still shine with polish. All the benches are backless and uncomfortable looking, and the tables are just on the edge of too small to make them comfortable. The whole place is designed to move people in and out fast. 

But it has potential.

"I assumed running the Brotherhood would take up all your time, now. It seems quite busy," Eno muses, while BD-1 dances on the counter, watching his own reflection in the polished wood surface.

"Being part of the Brotherhood doesn't mean that we can't entertain other interests. I like bartending – it's an excellent way to keep up with events," Desmond smiles and continues wiping the surfaces. "And I want to give the people here a safe and comfortable place to unwind. God knows they need one."

Eno arches a brow. "You believe in gods?"

"It's a saying – common swears and blasphemy from way back when. Force knows just doesn't carry the same oomph," Desmond shrugs and motions to the stage. "Anyway, this place might be good for lessons and speeches and meetings and such. Might not go that way – you shouldn't mix business and pleasure like that, because it has the tendency of muddling the waters. But it's a possibility, anyway."

"Hmm. You have given this a lot of thought, I see," Eno says, briefly picking up BD-1 so that Desmond can wipe under him before setting the little droid back down. "And you seem to be expecting a lot of… passengers here."

Desmond hums and dunks the rag in water again, looking away and imagining the bar full of people. It isn't as big as the enormous dining halls on decks three and five, but it can comfortably seat a few hundred – once it got some more comfortable seats, anyway.

"Yeah," Desmond muses. "We already have thousands of droids and dozens of people here, and we're still short staffed for the stuff we need to do. I need workers – and not just for the hospital. We need service staff, people and droids."

Eno nods thoughtfully.

Thankfully, the hospital issue isn't as dire now. Eno and the 17th Relief Company had managed to scrounge up a bacta tank for them and a whole bunch of medical supplies – turns out Christophsis had gotten off its war relatively easy, as the fighting had been mainly concentrated in the capital city. They were also getting some recruits from Christophsis, one of whom had been learning medicine on the side in preparation, having heard that medics would be needed. It's not as good as having another medic like Baar, but between Baar, B1, Stiff and MD-12 and the new recruit, they had the makings of a solid clinic on board. They'd even managed to release some of their patients from Geonosis – just in time to accept ones from Christophsis, some men from the 501st Eno had taken charge of when he'd entered the planet, who would've otherwise risked being sent to Kamino.

None of their new clone recruits are on board yet, though. Eno wanted to scope things out first, which Desmond can appreciate.

"You will also need funds, especially if you intend to resolve the issue of Kamino," Eno says thoughtfully.

Desmond sighs in agreement and leans his elbows on the counter. "Yeah, that's the rub, isn't it?"

The Brotherhood in Altaïr's time had been funded by their bureau businesses and by the town of Masyaf – they'd paid the Assassins tribute for protection. Ezio's revenue streams outside his assassination commissions had been mainly straightforward investment and protection racket from the businesses he'd patronised. Connor had mostly dealt in trade of goods, which had never been quite enough to rebuild a Brotherhood from, not in that particular time. Edward just flat out robbed people, which had its setbacks, definitely. Arno's systems of investing in the Café Theatre and the social clubs were pretty similar to what Ezio had done, and similarly successful, too but...

But all their systems had taken time to establish, and they're not something you can easily rely on, on a ship that moves around. Though Desmond kind of likes the idea of having small businesses in their ship, shops, theatres and other cantinas, maybe a brothel too… they don't have the people, clientele to support those kinds of things just yet. Trade could be a thing, they could definitely move a lot of cargo on a ship the size of theirs, but that would limit their options more than he'd like, forced to chase deals instead of ideals…

There's a future here, once they had the time to begin and properly establish themselves – but they don't have that time. The clones don't have that time. And there's definitely not enough time to gather the funds to deal with something like the issue of Kamino – where per fucking rote dozens of baby clones are discarded every month for failing to live up to expectations. They definitely don't have the time to wait a year or two for Desmond to figure out a legitimate revenue stream.

"I don't suppose you know an ancient treasure hoard we could go raid for funds?" Desmond asks a little plaintively.

Eno hums. "Unfortunately not – but I might have something. You have established a secure communications hub here, yes?"

"Wires and Jax are still working on it, but I think it's almost ready," Desmond agrees. "What of it?"

"I have been in touch with some of my friends and several Jedi who are sympathetic to the plight of the clones," Eno explains. "But communications have been hindered by the fact that none of us have a secure hub for mass communications. By your leave, I would like to arrange a holo meeting here, and see if we can come up with."

"Sure," Desmond says, while making a mental note of it – if secure mass communications are an issue, it might be a service their ship could offer in the future, secure holo meetings. Hm. "Let me know how it goes."

"I will," Eno agrees, watching a battle droid carry in a crate of bottles and arching a brow.

"Where do I put these?" the droid asks. "In the freezer?"

"No – thank you, Tinker, just put them on the table in the back with others, I'll deal with them later," Desmond says.

"Roger roger," the droid replies and heads to the back.

Eno hums. "Are you going to staff the cantina only with droids?" he asks, while BD-1 beeps interestedly at the droid.

"I figure it will be a good way to get a lot of them a lot of people-experience fast," Desmond shrugs, watching Tinker head to the back. "They'll be paid for it, of course, and once they start getting those self-awareness vibes they can of course choose to quit."

Eno hums in agreement. "So, my friend, when do you think you can open this establishment?"

Desmond grins. "If all pans out, it'll be tonight," he says. He'd wanted to get the thing going earlier, but there'd been so much work to do. There still is, really, but the need for a downtime had gotten bad enough that it couldn't be put off.

Poor Jax really needs a drink, and he's not the only one, not by a long shot.

"I figure it will be a good way to welcome our new recruits," Desmond adds and gives Eno a look. "You and a reasonable sum of people from the 17st are welcome too. I don't have the stuff to get everyone a drink just yet, sorry."

"I'll talk with Commander Bear – I suspect there will be takers," Eno smiles. "And I will, of course, be happy to join you. First, I think I would like to make that call, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Desmond agrees. "Just ask any droid on board to point you to Wires, and he can get you set up."

While Eno deals with his meeting and whatnot, Desmond finishes up at the bar for now and then heads to the medbay, to check how things are going. Baar had kicked everyone out when the new influx of patients had came in, but that had been a few hours ago and things should've settled by now.

"Thankfully, their situation wasn't as dire as the ones' from Geonosis. The medics of the 17th already did the bulk of the work," Baar says while walking Desmond through the medbay, introducing him to their newest patients.

There's five of them – Miracle, who lost both hands in an attempt of getting rid of a grenade, Whistler, who was shot in the face with a blaster and lost half of his jaw and his left eye, Steward, who has healed burn scars covering over half of his body and permanent nerve damage, and Golden, who had been blinded and nearly gutted in a explosion, and Buttercup, who had lost a leg and his hearing in another explosion.

Desmond presses their names into his memory and welcomes them on board. "We'll do what we can to make all of you comfortable while you recover and to get you all the aid as you adjust to the changes," he promises, writing it to a datapad for Buttercup to read. "You know about our droid buddy system, right? Would you like a droid buddy to help you?"

They'd paired most of the injured clones with droids – some with more than one, depending how much help they needed in adjustment. Not all the clones wanted help from the droids, though, not after very similar droids caused their various injuries in the first place, and Desmond isn't surprised that there are objections here too.

"I don't want any fucking battle droid helping," Golden snarls, jerking violently and waving a bandaged hand in a rude gesture. "Any clanker that gets anywhere near me, I will fucking blow to bits."

Desmond smothers a sigh. "Alright – that's your choice. Just be aware that we don't have enough people to give you a hand around here. Let us know if you change your mind."

Not that any injured clone would be left to their own devices, even if they rejected a droid buddy – there's enough healed clones to help the worst impaired ones, and no one wants to leave a brother in need completely alone. That's just a recipe for bad decisions and depression.

But it's another reason why they need more people, why they need more resources.

At least no one is in danger right now. The meds from Christophsis helped, as did the equipment. Their new – second hand – bacta tank has been given its own room, and it's already in use. Desmond recognises the patient within it – it's Gleeful from Geonosis, the poor clone paralysed from the waist down by a terrible hit in the back.

"It won't repair the paralysis, those neurons are gone," Baar says quietly as they watch the clone float in a faintly green fluid. "But I'm hoping to return some sensation to the lower extremities at least. It would help him integrate if we ever get him an exoskeleton. We'll see how it goes."

"Fingers crossed," Desmond says, just as quietly. "How are the others doing?"

Baar gives him a general update on the patients still in the medbay and the ones that have been released. The ones with impaired senses of loss of limbs had been healed and released – with droid buddies – they'd need medical aids and cybernetics they don't have on board, but would manage for now with regular check-ups. The guys that got electrocuted are a more difficult issue – they both have some level of brain damage.

"Cerebral hypoxia," Baar explains while they look over Ingra's file. "When the walker shorted out, the electric shock briefly stopped Ingra's heart, and the oxygen flow into his brain was stopped. Spanner managed to resuscitate him, obviously – but the damage is permanent. We don't know the full effect yet, but his short term memory was impaired, and he will likely suffer from mild to moderate seizures for the rest of his life."

"I feel fine," the clone says faintly, though his face is pale and he definitely doesn't look fine. "Doc, do you know how the battle is going? I'm ready to go back out there, if they need me – I feel fine, really."

"You're not fine, Ingra, I'm sorry to say," Baar says with a sigh and looks at Desmond. "There's no point in telling him the battle is over, he will forget it in five minutes. He'll probably need a cybernetic implant to recover any short term memory, and the seizures can be managed with specialised medicine," Baar sighs, "Medicine, which we don't have."

Desmond sighs. "Add it to the list," he says and pats Ingra's shoulder. "We'll take care of you – you're going to be fine. Don't worry about the battle – let others handle it for a while, okay?"

"Alright, sir – uh," Ingra trails away, confused and unhappy – they'd been introduced four times now, and he'd already forgotten.

The other electrocuted clone, Spanner, has different side effects – he'd lost some of his fine motor control, his sense of touch is diminished, and his muscles sometimes convulse so badly that Baar had to wrap his hands to keep him from digging his nails into his palm and injuring himself.

"Neuropathy – damage to the peripheral nerves," Baar explains. "It might get better over time and given the right medicine, but for now there's not much I can do. I would've already released him, but he rejected a droid buddy, and I don't think I can trust him to walk without aid, and we don't have any more hover chairs."

"I don't need help," Spanner says firmly, while working on lifting a fork – it's trembling in his white-knuckled grip. "I'll figure this out on my own. I can handle this."

Desmond looks between him and the fork. Most of the food on it has scattered in the tray, but he's definitely got a good grip on the fork.

Desmond can't even imagine what this kind of loss of motor control does to a guy that used to pilot a walking tank.

"I'm going to figure this out," Spanner mutters furiously and eats what little food is left on the fork. "I'll beat this."

"I'm sure you will," Desmond muses and wonders if they could make wheelchairs and other walking aids in the ship's workshop, since they'd run out of hover chairs. Something to ask Wires about, once they had the time – another thing to add to an ever growing shopping list.

While after seeing the injured clones it's hard to find much in their situation that's positive, there are still things to celebrate. The Brotherhood is beginning, they'd successfully assassinated a major slaver and a mob boss, they'd taken important steps on the road of liberating more people, they have a home base that's getting better every day, and even though the injured clones might never fully recover, they would damn well live. And if that's not worthy of a toast, then what is?

That's the mentality Desmond opens his bar to, and that's the first toast he rises to a small but important crowd of his first patrons. "To freedom," Desmond says to his Disciples and Novices, lifting a glass. "And to the pursuit of some damn happiness."

"Hear hear,"Jax says and is the first to toss back his drink – which ends with him coughing and spluttering to everyone else's amusement. The others take their first taste of alcohol more carefully, while B1 shakes their head and pats Jax on the back.

The party begins pretty subdued and tentative, which Desmond expected – none of them have much experience in relaxing, even now. It doesn't get much better when some of the natborn crew wanders in, coming off their shift – and the injured clones bring the mood down almost completely, and for a long and awkward ten minutes the whole cantina is dead quiet as Desmond asks everyone about their medication and whether Baar gave them  the go ahead for alcohol. Not all of them have it, but that doesn't mean that they don't get a drink.

"What is this?" Squish asks, giving a look at the makeshift embellishments Desmond had added to his drink.

"It's candy," Desmond says, shrugging. "It's just for aesthetic – isn't it pretty?"

"Uh, sure. Pretty." The clone takes a tentative drink and then blinks. "Oh, it's – sweet?"

"It's mostly muja extract with sparkling water and what I think is some kind of citrus juice," Desmond muses, watching him carefully. Baar had assured him that clones shouldn't have any food allergies, but it didn't hurt to be careful. "Best mocktail I could manage with what we have on board – if you don't like it, I can make something less sweet."

"No," Squish says and pulls the glass quickly closer with his lone hand. "I like it – I'll drink it."

Desmond grins, pats his shoulder and continues serving.

The whole thing is bittersweet, like a wound you shouldn't scratch, but damn, it feels good. The clones are all so young – biologically they're all drinking age, sure, but experience-wise? Desmond has a bar full of alcohol-virgins getting their first taste, none of whom know what they like, if they like anything, and watching them have that first experience… 

The natborns are a little different – a lot of them are former slaves, who haven't been welcome in free-people cantinas for most of their life. The free freeborn are a bit more confident, but the atmosphere in the cantina is so weird and tense that they are far from comfortable, huddling together and keeping a wary eye out on all the clones. It used to be that the natborns outnumbered the Brotherhood on board – now clones easily outnumber them in turn.

There would be some tensions on board eventually, but not today. Desmond isn't going to allow them. But damn if he doesn't wish he had a functional sound system to play some music to these people on. It would make things much easier, if they had some pleasant noise to drown their thoughts in.

Desmond's eyes are drawn from the mostly awkwardly crowd to the doors, and, "Well, speak of the devil," he murmurs, grinning, as he spots a new group of clones fresh from the planet below, including Song, who's walking beside a new droid buddy, and Bear, who talking with Taske as he enters. There are others – about a dozen clones in total with a handful of droids in between, including one that isn't a regular B1 battle droid, but rather a big, heavily armoured unit towering over the rest. One of the new B2 super battle droids. It's walking behind Bear in a way Desmond can easily recognise.

"Aww, Papa Bear, you got a cub of your own now?" Desmond asks, delighted, and Bear actually flushes at that – before the clones around him burst out laughing. "What?" Desmond asks, confused. 

"Commander – excuse me, Mentor," Bear says stiffly, while behind him the B2 droid tilts their head.

"You know my name?" the hulking droid asks, their voice several pitches lower and a whole lot more intimidating than regular B1's.

"Oh my god, you named your buddy Cub?" Desmond asks, and grins. Bear named a big scary B2 droid Cub! "That's adorable."

"I didn't – Bolt and Boomer did, and I can't get them to stop," Bear growls, elbowing Song, who's leaning onto his shoulder, still laughing. "Stop it, Song."

"What did you expect from a pair named Bolt and Boomer, who named their buddies Beep and Boop?" Taske scoffs and nods to Desmond. "Mentor."

Desmond nods back, still grinning widely. "Taske, good to see you in the flesh for once. Who else do we have here?"

What follows is a chaotic period of getting reacquainted with some of the men from the 17th, and with some new faces, like Song's new droid buddy Rhyme and a couple of new clones. Or one new clone, "Slick, uh, he/him," and one old friend with a new face.

"Tally, she/her," the clone introduces herself, and positively glows, saying it. She grins at Desmond's gaping. "There's a clinic in Chaleydonia that survived the bombardment – General Cordova sponsored the operation. I have no idea how I'm going to pay him back."

"It was no matter," Eno says, smiling kindly from the back of the group. "No reimbursement is necessary, my friend, I assure you."

Tally grins, shaking her head, and looks at Desmond. 

"I am so happy for you," Desmond says sincerely.

"Thanks. It means I can't go back to the army now, though," Tally says, a little more serious. "Can't risk getting caught in a medical scan by someone outside the 17th, so… you got room on board for one more?"

"Absolutely," Desmond promises, and then grins back. "But first things first – who wants a drink?"

The mood in their awkward little party definitely improves from there.

Chapter Text

Well, my friend, it has certainly been an interesting night, hasn't it? No, not just the party, though it was certainly enjoyable. The ship, the people, the crew – the progress they have made, the steps Desmond and his students, his Disciples and Novices have taken, the path they have set themselves upon… truly, truly fascinating. It isn't every day one gets to see the birth of such things, firsthand. Even missing as we did some key steps they took on Tatooine, to gain these resources, and the steps they will take to gain some more… it is clear, the evolution.

Rare are the religions that come and fade in time and then get resurrected. Oh, I know Desmond denies it, and perhaps he's just in that, not all systems of faith are inherently religious in nature – and yet there is clearly a system he is building, and it is built upon a joint set of beliefs and his Creed, which he is imparting upon his students. One needs not to believe in Gods or higher powers – not even the Force – to be faithful. Sometimes all you need is faith in the spirit of those around you, living or otherwise…

Truly, it is a pity I can't be here to see it develop further. As much progress as they have made, I can sense there is ten times as much road to traverse. These first steps have been easy, too – what will undoubtedly wait behind the next bend in the road will be much more difficult. It always is thus, when something new arises – there are always challenges the new must face. Otherwise surely it would already exist, after all…

No, I am not blind to the true nature of Desmond's Brotherhood. He carries all to many weapons for that, he moves too quietly for that. I will turn a knowing blind eye where I must, but I am not ignorant. There is the tinge of blood, one I fear might in its own way be necessary. Some things cannot come peacefully, and you must only look upon the Jedi Order now to know that ways of peace no longer hold their old sway. The galaxy has grown too… jaded for that. Ultimately, I think Desmond and his Brotherhood will be a force of good – and I will put my faith in his spirit. It has already been proven by his actions, has it not? Yes, I think it has.

What will become of them now… I suppose that depends on those challenges ahead of them, and how they will do against them. Time will tell.

But that does not mean we cannot do what we can to help. Come – it's time to arrange a meeting, and see if we can find Desmond some allies among our friends and the friends of our friends. 

Hmm… hmm…

Hm?

Oh, hello there, BD-1, I thought you went with Desmond. Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose so. No, I am not mad, nor disappointed, I am… introspective. I suppose I should have expected certain level of suspicion, on both parts – Desmond's Brotherhood is a new and a small entity in galactic scheme, and at what amounts only to a foetal stage of its development, and it's all happening at such a tumultuous time in the galaxy, where alliances are as dangerous as they are cheap… Trust, I'm afraid, will not be as easy to come by as it once was. A new, utterly unknown, utterly unheard of and yet clearly militant order would, naturally, arise suspicion.

And it is natural for Desmond to be suspicious in turn – his Brotherhood in its newness is fragile, vulnerable to outside influence. Considering its makeup and its mandate, the ideals it functions under and the goals it tries to achieve… falling under the authority of a – a patron, a sponsor, might be the very worst thing that could happen. Funding, resources and opportunities, all the things I hoped to achieve for Desmond… sadly all come with a certain level of accountability and oversight. Such things have their role, and they are often a necessity, but here… here they might just as well stifle as restrain and guide.

Desmond is, after all, working far beyond the boundaries of law – Republic's and the Confederacy's both. He is, in essence, stealing from both.

I should have given it greater thought. I got – carried away, I suppose, by a new, important project. Cere would surely laugh at me, point it out as obvious, but all I could see is the problem, the solution for which is, or so I thought, the aid of others in a better financial situation. It is how it works for us, in the Service Corps, after all. Find a project, become passionate… beg for funding. And if you get it, which you rarely will, you are then restrained by an itemised budget. Even if I managed to persuade some of my friends to fund Desmond's Brotherhood under the table, as I rather naively hoped I could do, there would still be certain liability, on both the part of the giver and the recipient.

Hm. I don't think I did any harm by it, thankfully. Desmond conducted himself well, better than I could have expected, and I daresay he used the opportunity I so mistakenly offered to him to his and his Brotherhood's actual benefit – without binding himself, or my friends, in ties of fiscal responsibility. He made contacts, even garnered interest, perhaps opened some doors I might have failed to perceive. His worldview is different. Broad, I suppose.

It's fascinating – I thought I knew him, BD-1, I dared to think I had him understood. A brave young man of great moral conviction, I thought, a little naïve in some ways, but adaptable, oh so adaptable. Though I never doubted his commitment or his ability to lead this Brotherhood of his, I didn't… what I saw there, in that meeting room, it was something else.

For a moment I could see the leader Desmond can be – when he wants to be.

Do you know what wins negotiations, four times out of six? It's not facts or justice, it's not even money, though sadly it has its part. It's confidence and charisma. During my time as a Jedi Consular, many years ago, I saw it more than once – how a confident, charismatic negotiator walked up to a meeting table, with nary facts and no logic behind whatever they were arguing for – and they carried the day, on power of their personality alone. A most idiotic, mistaken, utterly misguided person can win the day, if they have enough charisma and confidence behind their argument. Add actual common sense, moral fibre, and perhaps even a little bit of intellect, and it's a terrifying combination.

I thought I knew Desmond – but then I saw him shrug on those aspects of leadership like a well worn coat he just needed to dust off… My friend, for a moment I was convinced I was looking at another man entirely.

So no, I am not disappointed with the results of our little meeting across the galaxy – in fact… it's quite the opposite. I have much to think about. This Brotherhood, and Desmond's title as its Mentor…

Hmm…

Oh, my back. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'm fine. I'm not that old, yet. It just has been quite a long day, though, hasn't it? I'll just sit down for a moment…

Good grief, and he's not even teaching them properly yet. If that's what Desmond considers the first lesson for his apprentices, then, Stars, those poor young people are in for a time, aren't they? Good thing their ship has so many training rooms and gyms, I daresay they are going to need them, hah. I should likely be utilising ours on board the Fortitude more, shouldn't I? Well… maybe later.

No, I don't suppose training will do much for his droid students, but they too need to know the motions. You know I don't mind if you go spend time with the other droids, BD-1, I know you are curious. Seems like they are going through something of an evolution in their own way. Hm? Oh, that…

Perhaps. I know, at least a couple of Desmond's students have made the leap, so to speak – I can sense the Force leaning more towards them, Walker in particular. Desmond did as he promised, he taught at least a couple of his students to use the Eagle Vision. I have no doubt others will follow. Whether B1 can do it too I can't quite tell, but they've become one very insightful droid, haven't they? Certainly their development has far surpassed what I thought they would manage by the regular means. And if one battle droid can reach such heights in such a short time, then… why not others, why not reach even further? 

Belief, I think, is a key feature here. I doubt very much that Desmond has ever told his students, clones or droids, that there is something they cannot do. His faith in their ability to surpass their own limits is absolute, I think – largely because he similarly has surpassed his own limits, or what he thought were his limits, in the past. It is a risky teaching method for a Force sensitive, but it's not as though Desmond is teaching them to be Jedi, is he? Mind over matter, yes – such things work even for droids, don't they? Well, to a point. We're all still but crude earthly matter, limited by our physiology. Droids less so, I suppose, with the ability to self-upgrade…

Yes. It does bring to light those questions, doesn't it? I should ask Desmond to submit a blood sample to be sent back to the Temple, shouldn't I, to see how far it has progressed – I suppose, by now, an equilibrium will have been reached… No, I don't think I can ask it of his students, there are… too many risks therein. A blood sample of a clone, submitted for midichlorian count… no, not as things stand. It would raise too many questions.

Well, if you can ask him, then that will work as well. Thank you, BD-1. Now, if you don't mind me, I think I will have a nice hot bath, before my muscles set. Oh, my neck…

… only a suggestion, of course. You know best what is needed for your Brotherhood, for the future you intend for it, but a certain level of legitimacy might be helpful in certain situations. If that is something you might be interested in, then I can help you get started.

Get started with paperwork, I'm guessing?

Paper – ah, datawork, yes. To be recognized as a legitimate religion, you need to file certain forms with the Theological Department, yes. Things are a little bit in the flux where that stands with the Confederacy of Independent Systems, but I expect that in these kinds of matters a Senate approval still holds – and being seen as an official religion would open some… doors.

I hate it, just so you know. The Brotherhood isn't – it isn't that. We don't worship anything.

Not all religions are about worship. Some are about shared belief, ideal, moral guideline, tradition, habit – things that you can't deny your Brotherhood holds. Sometimes religion is about a joined conviction, or… following a charismatic leader, who you think is doing good things, who you think might achieve great change.

I hate that even more.

Haha, I sympathise. But you see where I am coming from. As a group of… wanderers, shall we say, you are outside the boundaries of laws, sure, following your own goals, whatever those may be. I know this will give you freedom – but it will not give you legitimacy. Until you prove yourself and build a reputation, you are but a small group of outsiders – and once you do build that reputation, what will you be seen as, hm? A business, a corporation, a cruise ship without a home port?

You know, I wouldn't mind being thought of as a pirate. Space pirate – has a ring to it.

Your ship is a little slow for that, I'm afraid. And daresay the Wayfarer isn't any better.

Ouch. You know you can have your ship back, if you want – we got the shuttle now, and the refitting is almost complete.

That's quite alright, my friend, you can keep it for now – I sadly don't think I will have a use for it, not until this war ends. But back to the matter at hand – without a certain clarification about what you are, what kind of organisation your Brotherhood is, you run the risk of coming across as… well. A criminal organisation. Especially considering the history of this ship.

A group of smugglers, huh. Not very good ones, we don't have any cargo. Yeah, I see what you mean. And I have been thinking about it too, the whole… religious order thing. I don't like it, I don't think I will ever like it, but… yeah. What kind of doors would it open, though?

Well. Announce yourself as a non-profit, and it will open you certain ports, get you leniency from certain tariffs and so on – BD-1, can you bring out the forms, please? Thank you. These are the rules Jedi Order, as a Senate-sanctioned non-profit, works under. And these are the rules of the Guardians of Whills – a similar Force religion, but more aimed towards charity work…

Huh. So, if you're a religious order on a, a holy mission – ugh – people just let you land on their planet, no questions asked?

That's somewhat simplified, but sometimes, yes. It depends on the world, definitely, and the port – and the reputation of the order in question, of course. If you're known for, let's say, peacekeeping work, there are very few planets who will refuse to let you land. Charity work such as the work Guardians of Whills conduct is usually also welcome. The Sectus of Mer-eki is a little less welcome in most worlds, as their priesthood is known for rather vehement public sermons, and rousing populace into riots, among other things.

Nice. How many religions are there, that are, uh, approved by the Senate?

Thousands and thousands. Trust me, my friend, you will not stand out too far apart from the crowd – if anything, it will help you blend in more, giving a reasonable explanation and excuse for your habit, for one. And, should you offer more slavery-related, ah… aid… it would explain and legitimatise that, too.

Hmm… I got some problems with it, even outside the whole… religion thing. What's the… I don't know how to put this. Say, you claim you're a, uh, a priest or whatever. And then you up and kill someone, just as a totally theoretical example, someone important. Government leader, for example. How would that reflect on religious orders, in general?

Uh… I am not certain I understand the question, my friend. Reflect in what sense?

Way back when, in my world, it was kind of… agreed that certain people shouldn't pretend to be certain people. Spies didn't go around disguised as priests, or doctors, or… I dunno, peace negotiators and stuff like that. Because if the spies got caught doing spy stuff, then that kind of took away the communal protection priests and doctors and negotiators had, you know?

I'm afraid I still don't understand, Desmond. Communal protection? I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.

You… don't have that? You don't – uh. Um, it was like… certain people, people doing peace work, they were like… universally sort of protected – but not exactly. It was just a decency thing, to not go after doctors or priests or other people trying to do good things, trying to help people. Of course, some people still did, but it was considered morally reprehensible, I guess, so they were usually just… given certain immunity? And that's why spies didn't pretend to be doctors or priests, because that tarnished their reputation, taking away from that immunity. That's… not a thing anymore, I guess. Huh.

Oh, I see now – no, not where religion is concerned, at least. Doctors are to some extent protected, I suppose, though it's not a hard rule as such. Decency, I suppose, is a good word for it. As to where it comes to religious figures… I suppose in your world religion was the pursuit of mainly… decent, charitable deeds and actions?

Well, one could hope. Not always. But yeah.

I'm afraid it's not quite so simple, these days. The galaxy is a vast, complicated place, full of incredibly complicated people – with even more complicated sets of beliefs. Some religions are incredibly volatile, violent, even bloodthirsty, sometimes outright murderous. Your Brotherhood being a religion and still committing certain acts of violence will not reflect on other religions, any more than Jedi actions will reflect on you.

… oh. Huh.

Yes, quite. Let me tell you about Dathomir and the Nightsisters that dwell there…

Well, that's it, I suppose. The ship has left the orbit, then? Good, good… I will contact the governor in a bit, straighten things out, but I suspect he won't have any objections. There's still so much work to be done here.

I wish so too. I think they're off to a good start, however. Desmond is… he's off to a good start. No, not quite there yet, it is clear that he still has much to learn, much more growth to be done, but he's certainly making progress in leaps and bounds, isn't he? Shouldering all that burden and not bending under it… He has his work cut out for him, no mistake about that.

I don't know, my friend. Who can predict the future, really? No, not even Jedi can claim to know it all – if we did, then surely this war would have never happened. Ever in motion, the future – ever changeable. Smallest ripples here can turn into tidal waves elsewhere – and Desmond and his Brotherhood is no small rock in a pond, are they? No, whatever effects they will have, be it a monsoon in a parched land or a flood in a city that can scarcely bear it… only time can tell.

I do have a good feeling about the future, though. I think the Brotherhood has a real chance of being a force for good – and if not that, then… most certainly they will be a force for change.

Chapter Text

Before they reach Mon Gazza, Desmond pulls his Disciples and his Novices – and his new Recruits too – into a private meeting.

"Time to divvy up some responsibilities," he begins, going through the lists everyone has been making about the things they need, the things they have – and more helpfully, things they might be able to find in Mon Gazza, mostly provided by their natborn crew. "There's a lot we need to do, and who knows how much time we have to do it, so, let's try to be efficient about this."

As money is the main issue still, he's going to be dealing with that, figuring out any and all forms of revenue they might get out of their stay at Mon Gazza – what form that would take he isn't sure yet, so there's no point really in making a thing about it. Eagle Vision and the Force would lead him, and if not, then he'd follow his internal Ezio. It'd led him true on Tatooine, and Mon Gazza is a much wealthier world – with probably a lot more crime, too.

"Firstly, the issue of finding us more medical equipment, medical staff and recruits in general," Desmond begins. "B1, Walker, do you think you can handle it?"

"You're not going to be recruiting?" Walker asks, surprised.

"I probably will be on the side, but I got to concentrate on the funding issue first," Desmond says and looks between the Disciples. "You got Eagle Vision now, and I think enough experience – I'll still go through your suggestions, just in case, but I have every confidence in you."

"I do not have the Eagle Vision, nothing about my visual processors has changed," B1 objects. "But I suppose I do have experience."

Desmond smiles, shaking his head. "Call it Eagle Sense in your case, I guess. It doesn't always exhibit itself through vision – I figure it's just how it works with humans, because vision tends to be our dominant sense and how we interact with the world. Actually, we should probably call it Eagle Sense in general - Eagle Vision is kind of biased towards the seeing, I guess." And he has a feeling about one of their late additions. Golden, blind and bitter and so angry at the world, has potential – if he could calm down a little, anyway.

"Hmm," B1 answers, dubious, sharing a look with Walker, who arches a brow. "We will be able to handle the medical situation and the recruiting. Do I have to disguise myself again?"

"I think it might be the best," Desmond says, apologetic. "Battle droid walking around on their own might still raise some suspicion."

"Fine," B1 sighs.

"Take Stiff with you, show them the ropes," Desmond adds, nodding to the new Novice, and then moving on. "Right – to the next matter. The Kamino issue," Desmond says, turning to Jax, who leans in with narrowed eyes. "After we get the medbay properly going, that's going to be our next big thing, I hope, but we still haven't figured out a good way to do it. Twitch, would you mind pairing up with Jax to work on it?"

"I'm already working on it," Twitch answers, tapping on his datapad. "I've been looking into all that religious bantha-crap you don't like, and I think I have an idea, but I need to do some more research. And maybe get in touch with some of General Cordova's friends."

"Do what you need – tell me the moment you have something," Desmond says, relieved. Twitch looks more comfortable with that than any other positions Desmond had suggested to him – though there's that undercurrent of stress there still, he doesn't look even a little bit freaked out. "If you make any calls outside, check up with Wires to make sure it's safe."

"Will do."

"I guess I'll be working on the communications hub, then?" Wires asks.

"That'd probably be for the best," Desmond agrees. "Secure communications seem to be pretty valuable – let's see what we can do to extend our capacity. You've got a shopping list for the workshop, too, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"Send me a copy – I doubt I will be able to get it all, you're going to have to do your own shopping later, but I can see what I can find," Desmond says.

"I have a shopping list too," Mayday says, sending it over. "The ship needs spare parts, desperately. If any of these things break down, we'll be dead in space – the sooner we can get them, the better. Them, or someone who can make them."

"Right, the blacksmith issue," Desmond mutters, running a hand over his forehead while scrolling through the list – and oh boy, it's a long list. "I'll – look into that."

"We can keep an eye out for one too," Walker suggests. "I think if I concentrate, Eagle, uh, Sense can point me in the right direction?

"Hopefully," Desmond agrees. "We'll all keep our eyes open."

"We should also," Mayday says, pointedly, "give the ship a name. It was fine in Christophsis where we had some friends in the area, but we'll need to announce ourselves when we reach Mon Gazza, or people will think we're pirates or that we'd stolen the ship. It needs a name logged into the transponder code."

"Oh, right," Desmond says, and everyone stares at him. "Well, uh… I've been considering a lot of names," he says, awkward, clearing his throat. "But a lot of my first ideas are kind of… personal, and this ship is not just mine, but ours. So I thought, uh… How do you like the Eyrie?"

"Eyrie?" Twitch asks, making a face. "What's that?"

"A high place where eagles go to roost. Home of eagles, I guess. Also means a high vantage point, I think," Desmond shrugs, awkward. "I mean, it's a bit on the nose, but seeing that the ship can't ever land on a planet, and we are the new eagles, sort of speak…"

His students exchange looks. "Right," Jax is the one to speak, his voice full of suspicion. "So, uh… what's an eagle anyway?"

Desmond blinks at him, and then at the others. All of them look vaguely confused and interested – and not at all like they have any idea either. His students don't know what an eagle is. "Oh," Desmond says and clears his throat. "It's a, uh… a bird?"

"A bird," Twitch repeats, flat.

"A bird of prey," Desmond says, strangely embarrassed all of a sudden. "From Earth – known for very good eyesight, among other things. It's been a symbol of the Brotherhood for… almost forever. They hunt by spotting their prey from far away, and then swooping down from flight and snatching their prey up, so… I guess people thought it was fitting for the Brotherhood."

His students exchange looks, somewhat uncertain. "Uh-huh…"

"Is that a no on Eyrie?" Desmond asks, wincing.

"I guess it's as good a name as any," Walker shrugs. "Probably better than what I would've called it – this place isn't much of a Fortress, after all, with all these windows and next to no defensive capabilities."

Desmond clears his throat and pretends his first instinct hadn't been to name the place Monteriggioni. "Right, the Eyrie it is. Any questions?"

"Yeah," a hand goes up. "What am I supposed to do? Just sit here, look pretty?"

Desmond looks at their new recruit – still on probation, because actual murder. "You're with me," he says. "You'll shadow me on the planet. We'll see how that goes, and then decide what's in store for you next."

Slick hums. "Alright," he says, a little wary. "Do I get a spooky hood too?"

Mon Gazza turns out to be much more promising than Desmond had dared to hope. The planet is enormous, foggy with the exhaust humes of thousands of departing and arriving ships going in and out of the atmosphere every hour, and almost covered in buildings – in sprawling cities, in enormous shipyards, factories, hundreds of thousands of warehouses, in hundreds and hundreds of recycling centres. Sitting in the crossing of two major hyperlanes, Mon Gazza, it seems, sees a lot of traffic.

After announcing themselves as "the religious order Brotherhood, on board their temple ship, the Eyrie," they enter the planet on their newly retrofitted shuttle from Geonosis – it too has a new designation, its name is now the Birdie, because Wires thought he was being funny. Kitster pilots her down to Mon Gazza's biggest and most sprawling city – which, according to him, is also the most crime-infested place on the planet.

"Not that there's a place that isn't," Kitster explained. "Mon Gazza is a major hub for smuggling, so it's kind of all over the place. But here people barely even try to cover it up anymore."

"And no one does anything about it?" Desmond asks curiously.

"Too many gangs, too much organised crime, not enough profit," Kitster shrugs. "It would take an army to straighten Mon Gazza up. Easier for everyone to pretend it's fine, to collect their tariffs and taxes and whatnot, and let the crime run its course. It keeps a lot of the infighting around here underground."

It's definitely interesting, though it does offer its dangers. Like the fact that they have to pay a docking fee, then docking bribe, and then actual guard bribe to make sure that the shuttle doesn't get any surprise inspections from interested parties, and even then Kitster suggests not leaving the shuttle docked for long – that's just asking for it.

"How about the Eyrie, is she in danger?" Desmond asks.

"Not while you're on the orbit – the moment we leave, though, someone is bound to follow," Kitster says cheerfully. "She's basically pirate bait."

Lovely. With that in mind, Desmond sends his students off to their tasks, and then takes Slick to his – starting by finding one of the highest points in the city.

"Why?" Slick asks, dismayed, as Desmond peers consideringly up at the tower.

Desmond grins. "For a proper perspective," he says, and claps the Recruit on the back. "Come on, it's not that hard – just one hand over the other."

Good thing about the clones is that they tend to come with high levels of physical capability, so Slick can keep up with him. Much like Desmond's previous students, though, he doesn't much like it. Still, the fact that he does it with minimal complaint is to his credit.

Together they make it to the top of the slightly crooked skyscraper, where Desmond crouches on the corner of the roof and concentrates. Below him, the city bleeds into darkness as everything unimportant fades – and everything important gets highlighted. And, oh, Mon Gazza has potential.

People who want other people killed and are willing to pay for it. People who want things found. People who deserve things stolen from them. People who need help and are willing to pay for it – people who are looking for places to hide. People who are looking for places to build…

"So," Desmond says while sorting things in his mind into some kind of priority order. "What do you want from life, Slick?"

The clone jerks slightly behind him, and then clears his throat. "Freedom for all clones."

"Freedom for all clones," Desmond says and closes his eyes, returning his vision to normal levels. "At any cost?"

"Well, uh… no, not – not at any cost," Slick says, crouching down beside him. "Not at the cost of their lives. Or – or innocent lives."

Desmond looks at him, wondering how much of that comes from Slick having learned of the Brotherhood's Creed from the others, and how much he actually believes it. "And how do you think freedom can be achieved?"

Slick looks down at the city, his expression tight and uncomfortable. "Not the way I tried it, obviously," he mutters. "That wasn't the right way."

"Are you saying that because that's what people told you, or because you actually believe it?" Desmond asks, and Slick's expression tightens even further. "Or," Desmond says, gentler, "Because you can't think of another way?"

Slick says nothing, but the look in his eyes is mutinous.

Desmond hums and looks down. "I want freedom for your brothers too. I want freedom for clones. I want freedom for slaves. I want freedom for every sentient and sapient thing out there," he admits, letting the words settle, before asking, "Do you think that's achievable? Do you think I can do it?"

"Hell if I know," Slick mutters. "You did something on Tatooine, I know that. So maybe? Seems like a lot to ask, though."

"I want an honest answer, Slick. Do you think freedom for everyone is something I can do?"

Slick bites his lip and then shakes his head. "No, I don't. There's hundreds of thousands of slaves, millions of clones, billions if not trillions of droids. There is no way you can save them all."

Desmond nods, smiling, and looks at him. "So do you think you can save all the clones?"

Slick glares at him at that, and there's a bitter, angry gleam in his eyes that goes beyond mere helplessness. He's furious in a way other clones are not – not even Jax, despite his history, has this kind of anger inside him. Jax knows the cruelty of his and his brothers' situation, and he's angry because of it. Slick is angry because he knows the unfairness of it, he knows it could be changed if the galaxy was a better place – and he knows it isn't.

Desmond can definitely work with that.

"Start climbing down," Desmond says, reaching over and patting Slick's knee and then standing up with a stretch.

"What are you going to do?" Slick asks suspiciously, even as he moves to the edge.

"I'm going to jump," Desmond says and grins. "Go on – the quicker you get down, the faster I can catch up and the faster we can get going. We have some work to do." And he has a lesson to impart on how to work within an unfair system – and how to work it to your advantage.

By the end of the first day, Desmond has killed four people for money, cashed in two bounties, stolen from eight different people, and pickpocketed some two dozen. He's also found them four separate, desperate business owners who are looking for a way out of Mon Gazza. One of them is a tailor who makes hardy clothing and suits for spacers, who's gotten into so much debt that his life is in danger and he needs a place to hide – his skills would definitely be useful on the ship. Another is a pharmacist who's gotten in trouble for spice trade, which Desmond is slightly iffy about, but Eagle Vision insists they could be useful. The third is a craftsman who works for space miners mostly, repairing mining rigs and droids and producing explosive charges for asteroid mining.

… and the last one is a brothel owner.

"They want the brothel," she explains, after Desmond has checked that the brothel's workers are all there by choice, dealt away with some gangs harassing her people, and won some good will by bringing the brothel some money stolen from them. "The house, I mean. They want to establish a different business in the district – trading spice, I suppose. And they want to use my girls to sell it – and sell them while they're at it, use them up until there's nothing left. And I am not going to allow that."

The Madame of the Spacer's Rest doesn't have that many girls left, it looks like – a lot of them had been scared off by the people from the Black Sun, some of them had been outright killed. The rest are flinty-eyed and proud of the space they've carved for themselves, but also scared, and it's kind of obvious they're all at the end of their rope. Very soon, they would have to give up on the brothel or be killed.

"I can't promise you a lot of business right now, we're only getting started," Desmond admits slowly, mentally calculating how badly it might go if he introduces a brothel into an environment of mostly military men with no experience in… any of these kinds of things. These girls seem pretty proud of their work - they'd eat the poor clones alive. "But my aim is to turn the ship into a city – and we will probably be moving between busy ports. If we can agree on rents and fees… and other things…"

"You want us to service your people, don't you?" the Madame asks, sharp.

"If they pay you and you agree to it, sure, I wouldn't prohibit it," Desmond shrugs. "A lot of the people on that ship could use a little bit of worldly experience. But that's not what I mean."

Eagle Vision marks the Madame as important, and Desmond trusts in it, but it's one thing to have that insight, and another to suggest to a woman who doesn't know much about him or his Brotherhood that he could us some spies in his employ and thinks she and her people might fit the mark. It makes him feel a bit like a complete asshole, because he is definitely interested in her brothel for that specific reason, and it feels a bit like taking advantage of them at their time of need, but… well. It is what it is. Well trained courtesans can get into places where armed men can't.

"So… you offer us your protection, and in return we offer you intelligence where we can," the Madame murmurs. "Using our wiles to spy on people for you."

"Crudely put, but yes," Desmond agrees, ignoring Slick's choked cough beside him. "It won't be right now, like I said, we're still setting things up. But eventually, it would be appreciated. And in the meanwhile we all can practice our respective trades as much as we'd like."

"Hm," the Madame hums, considering him – and there is something about her eyes, a certain familiar gleam… "I think I would like to see the ship."

It's funny, how people with predisposition to Eagle Vision have a tendency of gravitating towards certain kinds of lifestyles.

In the meanwhile, B1 and Walker find them another doctor, some second hand medical equipment, enough droids that Desmond starts worrying about whether B1 would end up with a wanted poster before the rest of them… and a blacksmith, which explains why Eagle Vision didn't lead Desmond towards one yet.

"Armourer," she says as a way of greeting. "But I produce weapons as well, which your students implied you need."

"We do, yes," Desmond agrees, eyeing her armour with some jealousy. He loves the clone armour almost as much he'd loved the Armour of Altaïr – but he can appreciate quality when he sees it, and the Armourer's stuff could beat Clone Armour hands down. "We also need some less glamorous stuff, though – pipe work, for example, and metal recycling."

"These are things I can do," the Armourer says, folding her arms. "Assuming you can pay for my services."

"We saw some of her stuff at her workshop," Walker murmurs to Desmond. "She's really good. And I really want a sword made by her. Please, Mentor."

Desmond smiles. "We can pay," he promises, and hopes they actually can. This lady does not look cheap. "More than that, I hope we can bring you more business eventually – there are some people on Tatooine, for example, who could use some armour and weaponry, if you're interested in doing commissions."

"I might be interested," the Armourer says, noncommittal.

"Out of curiosity, why are you interested?" Desmond asks and motions her armour. "If this is the kind of stuff you can make, you're bound to have a lot of customers around here too. I don't want to assume, but… are you in trouble, or something?"

"No," the Armourer says, coldly. "My reasons for wanting to leave Mon Gazza and enter your employment are my own. If you can't respect that, then you are not the sort of employer I am looking for."

Desmond holds up his hands. "I'm good with letting you have your privacy, don't mean to pry. No offence intended, you just look a little expensive for this kind of deal, and I'd like to know any potential trouble you're in so that I can deal with it before it causes trouble to the rest of us."

"There is no trouble." the Armourer says, her voice expressionless. "I simply want to leave this world, and you are promising steady employment."

"Well… alright then. Welcome aboard, I guess – do you need help shifting your shop to the ship?"

"No, I have a ship of my own, I can handle it," the Armourer says, and that's that.

It's not until much later he learns that a lot of Mon Gazza's various craftspeople are being drafted into producing weaponry for the war – for both sides of the war – by various war profiteers, and the Armourer is morally opposed to becoming part of that war machinery. Which, considering that she's a Mandalorian and apparently her people are historically somewhat predisposed towards war…

Well, different strokes for different folks.

They stay on Mon Gazza for a good while, and in that time make a decent amount of money. Most of it is Desmond's work, but his Disciples – well, Walker and B1 – get their hand in some bounty hunting and some assassination too, and some of the Novices get a little practice too. It's not the steady flow of income Desmond had hoped for, but it's not bad, and it does open some doors… into local organized crime, mainly. They also get new Recruits for the Brotherhood, a lot of them. Several dozen droids, and a whole lot of former slaves – which opens some more doors and brings into light a demand in the galaxy that's being met by no one.

Under the surface of the galactic conflict, there's something of an unspoken refugee crisis bubbling to the surface. There are the slaves, former and current, who want to get away. There's people who just want to escape this or that criminal organisation that's taken over their spaces. And of course, while the super powers go to war, there are millions of people who just want to get out of their way. The galaxy is in turmoil, and it shows nowhere as clearly as it does in Mon Gazza's back streets, where the homeless population is growing.

There are people looking for a safe space to escape to – and there's no one providing.

And here's Desmond, sitting quietly on a system with 3 habitable planets and several moons, all of them vacant.

"Hmm," Desmond hums, weighing the options. There's some pros, there's some cons, and there are dozens of pitfalls he and the Brotherhood might fall into.

The Sol system is all but shrapnel-bombed, turning the whole solar system into one big Kessler Syndrome. Spaceships these days have better chances of surviving in that kind of environment, but it's still a pretty inhospitable area for ships. Travelling there on board the Eyrie is… pretty much a death sentence. But on other hand, it would make it a little safer for inhabitants – make it that much less likely that someone with ill intent would bother to try to get in, never mind the fact that almost no one even knows about the Sol system…

But it might lead to the system being less of a safe haven – and more of a prison. No one being able to get easily in also means that getting out is similarly hard. Add to it the fact that all the planets and moons are wild, and settling in is going to be hard work… They'd need to resort to outside help at least in the beginning, and shipments in and out would be pretty tricky. Earth would need some kind of export, too, something to trade – something produced by farming, probably, since the whole system is pretty much mined-out…

There's a very real risk of exploitation of whoever settled there by whoever had the ships to visit. And if Desmond had his way, it would be only Brotherhood ships, going in and out. Opening the place to trade would destroy its best protection, after all, its secrecy, which would make it less safe, less secure…

But… he would like to see people in the Sol system again. Desmond had already been entertaining the idea that it would be inhabited one day by free clones and droids, serving as a sort of safe haven to the previously enslaved – that's some ironic poetry, humanity's history considered. Clones and droids alone aren't enough to start a civilisation, though. And there would never be enough of them to inhabit the whole system. And the idea of offering a safe haven to refugees…

"Selling tickets to the promised land," Desmond mutters to himself and scoffs. That's definitely not what he had in mind. But there's demand for an escape from the war, from the various injustices of the galaxy, and the Brotherhood needs an income – and it's pretty sad to leave Sol empty.

It would need some planning, it would need some work… and it would definitely need some damn care, else he'd risk starting some sort of dystopian hell-world. But it's definitely an idea.

But first things first – Kamino.

"The Jedi Service Corps, Mentor," is Jax's and Twitch's idea. "They are – or they used to be – like a place where they sent failed Jedi Initiates – if they couldn't become padawans, they got sent into the Service Corps. Apparently that's different these days, but it could still work for us – we could sell it to the Kaminoans as getting some use out of defective clones."

"Or rather, General Cordova's friends' could sell it as such," Twitch says, making a face. "We considered the idea of somehow getting the defective clones sent into religious service, which would affiliate the Kaminoan practices with some religious orders and give them some exemptions by the Senate, maybe even tax breaks, but I don't think the Kaminoans would go for it. It would be too difficult to arrange, too."

"But if the Jedi start a systematic campaign to get the defective clones into use of the Jedi Service Corps, it could work," Jax says. "Especially since the clones are still, technically, Jedi property."

"I hate that, but I like the idea," Desmond says. "If it works. Will that help the youngest clones, though?"

Jax and Twitch hesitate. "We're not sure yet, but maybe. If not, then 16 can probably smuggle at least some of them out with the rest, if we get the Service Corps idea to work."

Desmond nods and stands up. "Looks like we have some calls to make, then," he says.

They have a tailor, a pharmacists on probation, a craftsman who can make them bombs and tools, a blacksmith who can make them armour and weapons, a budding alliance with a brothel, which he hopes will end up with a successful spy-branch for the Brotherhood… and a whole lot of work to do. 

"Let's get to it."

Chapter Text

The trip back to Kamino is nerve wracking, not that it ever is anything other. This time it's worse – it's not a full destroyer, he's not on board the 501st's Jedi Cruiser, it's not really even a troop carrier – just a single shuttle with a skeleton crew, and one main passenger. Tup, laying deathly still in the med bay. Fives isn't sure if it's the medicination he's under or if his friend is just in a coma at this point – either way, the stillness is terrible.

The whole shuttle feels still – like it's holding its breath. The clones piloting it aren't from the 501st, and Fives doesn't know them – they're part of Kamino's own battalions, clones stationed permanently at the planet and its cloning facilities, and they're a bit different. They don't talk much, just concentrate on their work, not giving him the time of the day, leaving him sitting at Tup's bedside the whole way to Kamino. The whole thing feels tense – tenser than any space flight Fives has ever been on.

He knew there was something off about Tup's sickness, he knew there was something going on, and this just proves it. This is something worse than – than your usual illnesses and injuries that lead to decommissioning. Not that the knowledge that Tup would be summarily decommissioned would've been any better, not that – that it wouldn't make sense if he was, but…

Tup had killed a Jedi. And he hadn't been put to death for it.

Something has to be going on.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," a clone whose name or designation Fives hadn't managed to catch says by the door, making Fives jerk up, almost salute. The clone continues, ignoring his reaction. "We'll be landing in zone 2, platform D – you'll report straight away to General Ti."

"Yes sir. What's going to happen to Tup?" Fives asks tensely. "To the laboratories?"

"He'll be taken to an examination room," the nameless clone says, looking him over and then looking away. "General Ti will take care of it."

Fives bites his lip and nods as the other clone leaves. Sitting down, he looks back to his friend, conflicted. He remembers General Ti well, and fondly to some extent… but she was pretty aloof, all things considered. As Jedi as a Jedi could be – kind, but… cold, too. Nothing like General Skywalker, who got passionate and involved with his clones – General Ti took everything calmly, but tended to turn a blind eye, too, when it came to certain kinds of things – Kaminoan things.

She'd spoken for the Domino squad, way back when, and they'd ended up getting through their training alright, in the end… but there were squads she didn't speak for. There'd been one, just a block from the Domino squad's bunk, that came out irregular. Fives remembers seeing General Ti inspecting them one evening out of the blue, it had the blocks in a disarray all night, making the squad nervous. The next morning, all of them were just… gone. Droid Bait had come up with all kinds of horrible things, explaining where they'd gone, but nothing was as bad as the probable truth.

General Ti was kind and understanding – but she also made whole squads just disappear, when they didn't live up to the expectations.

And Tup had killed a Jedi.

Fives clasps his hands together, bows his head, and swears that before Tup vanishes, Fives will know what, exactly, happened to him.

General Ti has no expression, her eyes are distant – Fives tries to find any sympathy in her face, and there's none. "Tell me what happened," she says simply, and with slumped shoulders, Fives does.

He'd been there – and he still doesn't believe it. It just doesn't make sense, for Tup – for any of them – to do something like that, just… pull a blaster on a Jedi, and kill them. Sure, there'd been incidents, there were Jedi who weren't as patient or understanding with the clones as others – General Krell came to mind – and there'd been clones who'd seen too much and lost it… but Tup hadn't been like that. He'd been fine, outside the nightmares.

"Nightmares?" General Ti asks, sharply. "He was suffering from nightmares?"

Fives shrugs awkwardly. Most every clone is, but Tup's nightmares were a bit more noticeable than others – he tended to wake up from them pretty violently.  "Yes, sir," he says.

"For how long?"

"I – years, I suppose," Fives admits – if not always. "He already had them when I joined the 501st."

"A non-standard brain chemistry?" A fully armoured and helmeted older clone at General's side muses. "They're becoming more common."

"Hmm," General Ti hums. "Tup's nightmares – were they always of the same subjects, or did they vary?"

"I – think it was just the one thing, every time. Seemed to affect him the same," Fives says, grimacing. He knows what non-standard brain chemistry might mean for a clone, and even if Tup wasn't already on the cutting block, that would probably do it. "He never said what they were about, but – we learned to recognise the signs."

"I see," General Ti muses and glances at the clone at her side. "Certainly something would have to be wrong with his brain for him to react in such a way out of the blue, but the predisposition to nightmares even before this might indicate an older problem. I suppose the nightmares weren't ever reported?"

Why would they be – every clone had nightmares sometimes. "No, sir," Fives says.

"That might be for the best," General Ti murmurs and clasps her hands together. "Still, this will be tricky. Commander 16, I need a blood sample. Can you provide, without - "

"Yes, sir, if you run interference," the clone says sharply.

"Very good. Fives, with me," General Ti says. "It's time we debrief our kaminoan hosts."

Fives frowns, confused, but Commander 16 is already heading away – heading where Tup had been taken – and General Ti is turning away as well, clearly expecting him to follow. So, he follows.

The air is still so tense, like they're all at blaster point. "General," Fives says, unsure.

She holds up a hand, silencing him. "The kaminoans will want to know everything," she says. "Tell them what you think is necessary."

Fives frowns unsurely. What he thinks is necessary? "Um. Yes, sir," he says. "May I ask – "

"Not yet," she says, and lifts her chin, and says nothing more.

What follows are the hardest days of Fives' career, and he was on Umbara, so that's saying something. The feeling that there's something going on, there's something huge going on, keeps haunting him so badly it's actually affecting his blood pressure – which is awkward when he goes through medical examination to give a base level comparison to Tup, or something. "I'm worried about my fellow member of the 501st," barely cuts it as an explanation.

Tup is examined and scanned, and the Kaminoans seem in turn displeased and fascinated. General Ti is there the whole way, her face void of emotion and her eyes cold and hard as she oversees the brain scans and tests, asking calm, cool questions. The Jedi Order, she says, has extremely vested interest in this.

"If it turns out that something about the brain chemistry of the clones makes them untrustworthy," she says, sharp, and the implications of her words are like being gutted with a blade made of ice. General Ti all but accuses Kaminoans of providing bad products, and it hurts, to be reduced to that, to things. Not even numbers – just faulty tools.

Fives really thought better of her – but if there's something he's learned while serving in the 501st, it's that Jedi are complicated beasts, and nowhere near as great or glamorously good as all the training simulations made them out to be. Some, like Krell, were outright horrible.

He half expects Kaminoans to rush through the process and get Tup scrapped right there and then, but General Ti pushes for further answers, for further tests, her tongue lashing like a whip as she makes her displeasure known. She puts the Kaminoans on the defensive, making them hasten to reassure her that they will do their utmost to provide answers, which is something to see, but…

"Fives," a fellow clone's voice says, sharply, and he drags his eyes away from the window of the observation room. It's Commander 16. "With me."

Fives follows the man, wary and worried – so far, the Clone Commander had not shown himself to be particularly sympathetic. The Commander leads him through the halls, past the offices and labs and – to a balcony. Fives blinks, confused, as the doors close behind them and the ocean sprays both of them with salty water. In the distance, there are storm clouds, rolling in.

The Commander tilts his head, flicks a switch on his helmet – and turns his communications off. "We have the results," he says, and pulls his helmet off, to reveal a scarred face. "Your friend is Force Sensitive."

Of all the things Fives had expected, that… was not it. "What?" Fives asks. "Tup is – what?"

Commander 16 gives him a flat look. "And not just slightly either. We ran his midichlorian count – it's almost high enough to make him qualified as a Jedi initiate."

"But – what?" Fives asks again, trying to keep up. "What does that mean – what does that have to do with –?"

"We don't know yet, but it probably has something to do with it. General Ti is doing what she can to stall the extermination order, but she's running out of time – the Kaminoans will push the issue soon, and there's no feasible means for us to smuggle your friend out of here," Commander 16 says. "Or, worse, they will run the midichlorian test themselves, and that won't be good for any of us."

Fives gapes for a moment and then catches himself. There is something huge going on, and he's just at the cusp of it, now. He can – he can run with this. "What do you want me to do, sir?"

"Do you want to save your friend's life?" 16 asks, brisk.

"Yes."

"Good," 16 says briskly. "How do you feel about becoming a deserter?"

The whole thing starts slowly – and then happens all at once, almost too fast for Fives to keep up. He bides his time, he prepares the shuttle, he sabotages some cameras, he keeps an eye on those clones 16 had marked down as not yet trustworthy, he keeps away from the Kaminoans, and then…

Then Fives kidnaps still mostly comatose Tup, and runs.

He can't believe he actually manages it. Even with the help from 16 and General Ti's interference, it's a close thing, too close by far – how they don't get shot out of the sky he isn't sure, but, stars. His heart is still pounding like a drum by the time they make it into hyperspace, and Fives can only imagine the manhunt that would be sent after them.

"I just hope General Ti and 16 won't get into trouble for this, huh, brother?" Fives murmurs to still unconscious Tup, clutching onto the steering stick like his life depends on it. "Wonder what's going on there anyway. The way she acted, I was so sure she was – but then, she helped us escape? I never would've guessed she would do something like that. Talk about a sabacc face, huh? I guess she would need one, to be doing that under the table, all the while hanging out with Kaminoans. No wonder she's got such a badass reputation these days."

He's rambling, he knows that, but it's not like Tup's going to judge

16 had given him as much help as he could – which wasn't much, for plausible deniability reasons. The most important thing he'd passed on was a comm link, which Fives looks over now, worried. "16 said these guys can help us. What do you think?" he glances at the chair where Tup is sitting, listless and limp. "Think we can trust him?"

Not that they have much of a choice. Where could they go, at this point? Anywhere in the Republic space they'd be charged as deserters. Separatist space they'd be just outright killed as clones. Neutral systems… probably wouldn't be too keen on taking them either. And Tup is still "sick" and needs medical aid…

Fives makes the call.

It's answered by a fellow clone.

Tup is whisked away before Fives has the chance to catch up, carried away by strangers, by clones out of uniform and armour, and by droids. Some of them battle droids.

Fives is not entirely sure he hadn't been knocked out back on Kamino and pumped full of spice. This kind of feels like a spice dream.

"It's a bit of a trip, huh?" a smiling woman says, and Fives turns to her, wide-eyed. She looks familiar in a way that makes Fives' brain itch. "We usually take a bit more care, but your friend's case seems pretty dire. You're welcome to go with him, if you'd like."

"I'd like," Fives says, confused, and with a nod she leads him away from the shuttle and after the herd of medics that had carried Tup off. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"Not yet, but they'll do everything they can to help your brother," the smiling woman says, and waves the automatic doors ahead of them open. "I'm Tally, by the way. Welcome aboard the Eyrie."

The Eyrie. Fives had spent most of the last years on board huge spaceships, so the Eyrie isn't exactly notable for its size – it's smaller than most destroyers, really. But on the inside it's something different. The floor is shining, the walls are covered in what looks like wood, and there's a dim, hidden lighting built into the walls that makes everything look soft and cosy. As they walk he sees things like paintings, statues, gleaming metal bits shining with polish – everything looks so rich. But the weirdest thing is the people.

Clones, some in armour, most out of it. Natural born people, walking with them. Droids - a lot of them battle droids, just… doing their thing. There's a battle droid walking across them with an armload of folded clothing, and no one even bats an eye at it.

"What kind of ship is this?" Fives asks, confused, as the battle droid passes them by. It's humming – and he knows that tune. It's a shanty! There's a battle droid humming a shanty! "What is this place?"

"I guess the closest thing you could call it is… it's a refugee ship," Tally muses. "Or a people-smuggling ship. The first pit stop for people who want to vanish, who want to be free. Come on, this way."

Tally leads him to a medical bay, where Tup has been laid down and is being attended to by worried clones, natborn and droids. One of the clone medics, spotting their arrival, breaks away from the group and approaches them, datapad in hand.

"Fives, right? I'm Baar, the head medic here. Now, we obviously don't have your friend's medical history," the clone says. "And we only know bare bones of what happened. Do you think you could fill us in? It might go a long way to figuring this out."

"What are you going to do to him?" Fives asks, looking between the medic and the other clones. He can't tell what companies they are from, none of them wear standard clone armour or even a body glove. They're dressed up like natborn medics, in scrubs. "If it turns out you can't fix him?"

"Too soon to say," the medic says, glancing towards the gurney. "Usually when something's caused by a clone's innate Force, it means they're getting better, not worse. The fact that him getting better resulted in him shooting someone is a pretty bad sign, overall. Whatever's wrong with him, it's got to be pretty damn huge, for that to happen. Hopefully we can figure it out without him shooting anyone, and if not, well… I suppose we will have to restrict his access to firearms and then figure how to treat him from there on out."

Tally looks at him and then smiles. "He won't be decommissioned, either way," she says gently. "Nor reconditioned, not here, not anymore."

Fives shifts his footing, uneasy. He knows nothing about these people, except that General Ti and Commander 16 are in league with them somehow, and that they got a ship full of clones and battle droids working together. Can he trust these guys to keep their word? He has no idea. He isn't even sure what's going on here anymore.

Spice dream isn't off the table, not yet.

"I really need to know what happened to your friend," Baar says. "As much as you can tell us."

"Right, um," Fives clears his throat. "We were on a campaign on Ringo Vinda…"

Going through the whole thing again doesn't make it any clearer to him, but Baar writes it all down, nodding at places, asking a few questions: had Tup showed sign of uncharacteristic behaviour before, had he been in close contact with Force users, did he suffer a significant incident that might've made him question his loyalties…

"What does that have to do with it?" Fives asks.

"Force reacts to emotions, and if you start questioning your loyalties, your freedom of choice, your Force tends to react to it," Baar says simply. "Something triggered this. It could've been a good knock to the head – or good knock to his sense of self."

Fives shakes his head. "We get knocked about a lot in the field, sure, but… I guess it could've been Umbara, too," he muses. Tup had been close to Dogma. "But – clones can't be Force sensitive, can they?"

"Anyone can," Baar says, shrugging, writing something more down. "It's not genetic – it's mental. Some have better disposition to it, and clones tend to start out at a disadvantage because of how we're trained. What happened on Umbara?"

The whole questioning is bewildering. Baar wants to know what happened with Krell, with Dogma, anything else Tup might've seen or done. "So, prolonged nightmares, then a crisis of faith in Umbara, then Ringo Vinda… right, right," Baar murmurs. "I think I have the gist of it. thank you for your cooperation."

"What's going to happen to him now?" Fives asks, glancing towards Tup.

"Now we're going to find out what, exactly, is going on in his head," Baar says. "I can't promise immediate answers, it might be that we're going to need an actual Force user here to help us figure it out, but we're definitely going to try to help him through this."

Fives nods, hesitant. It's a thinly veiled dismissal, and he should probably let the medic get to work – but…

Baar and Tally exchange looks, and Baar clears his throat. "Tell you what," he says and takes something from his pocket – a smaller data pad. He does something to it, and then hands it over. "Here. We've hooked your friend into a monitor – you can keep a track of his vitals on this. It will tell you if something changes."

Fives takes it, compares it's readings against the actual monitors, and nods. "I – appreciate it."

"We'll do all in our power to help him," Baar says, nodding and then turning away. "Now excuse me, I have work to get to."

Fives stares after him and then looks at Tally. She pats his shoulder compassionately. "Nothing we can do but wait and hope for the best," she says sympathetically. "Now, how about I'll show you around the ship, and then we head to the Monteriggioni? It's our biggest cantina – and you really look like you could use a drink."

The tour around the Eyrie didn't help much in making the whole thing feel any more real – if anything, it was the opposite. The few clones and droid's he'd seen so far had nothing to do with the ones working on the ship. Not just on ship systems, but in workshops, in small factories, in the greenhouses on top, and all the other stuff – there's industry on this ship, and a lot of it is being conducted by clones working together with battle droids.

Fives had heard of Clone Battalions who had, a couple of years back, tried to collect droids and hack them to work on the Republic side, before the Senate began cracking down on it – apparently even 501st had encountered a couple of battalions who did it. The Roger Battalions. It had sounded kind of mad to him, the stuff going on back then, the idea of taking enemy droids and making use of them, that's just… he hadn't really thought it was for real. Clones using battle droids. That's just crazy.

They aren't using them here – they're just working together. More than once, Fives even sees a battle droid talking to a clone, and the clone is listening to it, not just listening, but doing as the battle droid asks.

"You get used to it," Tally says cheerfully, clearly amused by his confusion. "You should've seen us, those first few months, when Code Rogers was really at full swing. We restarted and restored battle droids by the thousands. It's harder these days – they changed the programming – but the side effect is that newer battle droids attain self-awareness much more easily."

"What does that even mean?" Fives asks, uncertain.

"Separatists started installing loyalty in their droids," Tally says, rolling her eyes. "As though loyalty is something that can be programmed."

Fives still doesn't get it, but he's not entirely sure he even wants to. The whole thing kind of turns his stomach. This whole ship seems like it's veered slightly to the left into the land of crazy. Worst thing about it is how well organized it all seems, too. There are hundreds of clones and droids here, intermingled with natural born people, and they're all here for a reason. Why, how – and just who put this all together?

And how had no one heard about this thing?

Things get marginally better when they finally reach the cantina – because at least Fives knows what cantinas are like, and this place seems almost normal. It's a whole lot fancier than 79's on Coruscant, though, and bigger too, with a stage and a long polished counter with enormous shelves full of bottles and jars behind it. A natborn cantina – for rich people.

"Hey, Tally," the natborn bartender calls as Tally shows Fives to the counter. "This is our latest newcomer?"

"Yes, this is Fives – his friend Tup is still in medbay, and probably will be for a while," Tally says, taking a seat. "I figure Fives could use a drink – he's come from Kamino, you know."

"Ah," the bartender says knowingly, nodding and looking at Fives. "What's your flavour, then? Something sweet, something tart, bitter – tangy?"

Fives shakes his head. "Anything with actual alcohol in it," he says uncomfortably, and takes a seat beside Tally, casting her a glance, and then at the cantina around them. No one is paying them any mind. In 79's he would've been the centre of attention, a clone coming in with a woman always is, but here no one bats an eye, no matter what it looks like. Guess Tally is a regular tour guide on board the Eyrie, or something, and people are used to the sight of her bringing in new clones… or something.

This place is so weird.

"Hm," the bartender says and then goes to check the shelves. He puts together a bubbly drink in a tall glass, dark enough to be black – something sweet and sugary with a kick. "Something basic to start with – tell me if it isn't to your taste, and I'll make you something else," the bartender says. "So, what's the word on Kamino?"

Fives shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Tally and then at the bartender. "The weather sucks," he settles on saying.

The bartender grins. "So they say. Never been there, myself. Not yet. One of these days, though," he says, narrowing his eyes briefly before shaking his head. "Well, you're here now, either way – welcome on board the Eyrie. And welcome to Monteriggioni, too," he motions to the bar. "You'll get free drinks for your first day, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to start charging you later on – even I can't run a bar without income, I'm sorry to say."

"You could, if you wanted to," Tally comments. "Just charge it on the ship's budget."

"Well, I don't want to. A drink paid with your own earned money is sweeter than one handed over for free. Besides, I'm not in this business to encourage wholesale alcoholism, no matter what Jax thinks," the bartender says calmly. "And it would definitely drain our coffers dry before long."

"I don't know. We could add an alcohol tax to cover it.."

"That's just asking for someone to start their own stills, isn't it – and we just got the brewery up and running too…"

They chat between them, bantering meaninglessly in a blatant attempt to set him at ease, while Fives quietly makes it halfway through his glass, trying to place the taste. He's not sure he likes it, but it's not bad. A whole lot sweeter than anything he'd ever gotten at 79's.

As they talk, a droid walks in, drops a data pad in front of the bartender, and walks out. The bartender checks it, writes something on the surface, and puts it away. "Right, so. What do you think you'll be doing from here on out?" the bartender asks Fives.

"Doing?" Fives asks, distracted by the weird feeling now coating his teeth.

"Now that you've left the army, you've got some decisions to make," the bartender comments, watching him. "Nothing needs to be decided just yet, of course, but – you got some options to consider. You…" he hesitates. "You do realise you can't go back, right?"

Fives… had realised that, yes. He just hasn't really been thinking about it. he'd been avoiding thinking about it, really. He'd escaped Kamino. Deserted. He could never go back to the 501st – they'd have to try to capture him, arrest him, imprison him… maybe kill him. What happens to clones that desert? He isn't sure. Everyone always pretends it's not something that happens, that it's just flat-out impossible for clones to desert, but… Here's a ship full of proof to the contrary.

He can't go back. Tup, if he survives what's happening, can't go back. They're deserters. Traitors.

Fives looks down to the datapad with Tup's vitals ticking on it, and takes another drink. "I want to see what happens to Tup, first."

"Understandable," the bartender says, watching him thoughtfully, and blessedly leaves it at that.

After an evening spent taking advantage of free drinks and sampling a lot of Monteriggioni's weird beverages, Fives gets a room. It's a nice room. Downright fancy room. A private room. He's never had a private room before, not outside hospital rooms, and even those are usually shared. After a night of drinking and watching clones and droids and natborns intermingling, it's a bit much.

Fives spends most of his time there quietly freaking out in drunken panic over what is going on.

The next morning, he goes to see Tup, who's still in a coma. Baar has news about that – and they're not good news.

"There's a tumour," he says grimly. "It's pressing on vital parts of his brain, connected to certain important decision-making centres there – that's probably what caused the lapse in the first place, and it's what he's been struggling against. The tumour has to be removed, and the sooner the better, but the surgery is pretty invasive – as the closest thing to a next of kin, we're going to need your permission to operate."

"Is it dangerous?" Fives asks, his head pounding – even with all the water the bartender made him drink, he's still got a hangover.

"Yeah," Baar says, shaking his head. "It's in pretty deep, and there's a growth around it – it's like his brain has been trying to isolate it, growing a barrier of… I suppose scar tissue around it. There's a very real chance we'll cause haemorrhage when we operate."

"And if you don't operate?"

"He… will likely never wake up," Baar says quietly, looking over to Tup. "He'll have maybe a month before something gives. I suspect he'll end up having a stroke before that."

Fives grips his own arms, teetering on the edge for a moment. He still doesn't know what's going on, but at least here the doctor doing the examination is a fellow clone. That's… something. "The tumour – should the Kaminoans have noticed it too?" he asks quietly.

Baar pressed his lips together. "Yes. They should've noticed it. They probably did."

"They never said."

"No, I don't suppose they would," Baar says, grim. "Clones aren't supposed to get tumours, after all."

"Right, right…" Fives says, grimacing. It makes terrible sort of sense – and explains why the Kaminoan scientists were so eager to get rid of Tup. "If you cut it out, and he survives… will he be back to normal?"

"There's a real chance of brain damage," Baar admits. "Considering the location… he might have some issues with impulse control, making decisions – we've had one clone with brain injury in the same location, the injury expressed itself in an inability to say no to things and impulsive hoarding. These kinds of things are manageable, though."

Fives frowns. "The clone who had that, are they –?"

"They live on Earth now – quite happy, from what I've heard," Baar says, thinking about it. "In most cases these kinds of things can be managed with medication, or with adjusting the patient's lifestyle or surroundings."

Looking towards where Tup is laying, Fives draws a breath and nods. "Alright. Cut it out of him."

Baar looks at him and nods. "We'll have the operation today. I can't promise you immediate results, but with some luck we should know by this time tomorrow, one way or the other."

While waiting, Fives learns a couple of things about the Eyrie, and the people living on board her. Firstly, they're apparently mostly… criminals. If they're not deserter clones, they're escaped droids or slaves. A lot of the natural borns are just flat out outlaws, with smugglers and pirates making a whole swathe of the ship's crew. And it's run by a cult. The cult, even, the Brotherhood – also known as the Bane of the Outer Rim.

How Fives hadn't realised he was on a Brotherhood ship, he isn't sure, but damn… he's on a Brotherhood ship. Its flagship, even. And over half of the Brotherhood's people… are clones.

The second thing he learns is that apparently the Brotherhood is covering up for a massive influx of deserters, escapees and refugees. There's a whole fleet of ships working under the Eyrie and her people, who come in and out, bringing people in, taking people away. There's a whole refugee camp on board the ship, with its own markets and everything, of various escapees from various worlds, running from the war.

Third thing he learns is that he's not the first clone from the 501st there – he's not even the fifth clone from the 501st. hell, there are clones from the 212th here! Baar is from 212th!

"My, I wonder what it is about us boys on the front lines that makes us question our loyalties," Slick, the actual first clone to desert from the 501st says, snorting. "I've been keeping track of you guys since I left – you know, the 501st is in top five for clone casualties? 212th is in the top ten. You get handed the toughest assignments. That's what you get for being best of the best – and having a General who's the Chancellor's personal pet."

"General Skywalker isn't –" Fives says, outraged, and Slick just snorts at him.

"You know how many public outings Skywalker goes to with the Chancellor? I do – I have a list. If I didn't know any better, I'd think they're dating. It's obscene," Slick says, and then slinks off.

Slick, Fives learns, is part of the Brotherhood now. Though Slick had deserted months and months before Fives had even joined the 501st, it's hard to not take the older clone's bitter disgust a little personally. Especially since he's not exactly wrong. Skywalker is close to the Chancellor and everyone knows that's why 501st gets the high-end missions they do. But you're not supposed to say it. Not in the army, anyway.

But Fives isn't in the army now, and like the weird bartender says – it turns out he has options now. He has choices. Some of them are harder than others. In a couple of days, an already complicated war has gotten a whole lot of new layers, and they're populated by some harsh and uncomfortable truths.

The fourth thing Fives learns is that it's not just clone troopers that have escaped. There's a crèche on board – and most of the kids there… are clones.

"Master Ti ships them off to us when they get decommissioned," Tally explains, wonder in her voice. "I have no idea how she manages it – the adult clones get shipped off to the Jedi Service Corps, these days, and that was a tough one to manage. The babies, though… you can't exactly argue that the babies are of any use to anyone, even civilian service. But she managed it somehow."

Fives looks at all the young clones, some of them barely older than tubies, and thinks of all the nameless batchmates he never met, and it starts making a little more sense why so many clones have joined the Brotherhood after the desertion. Some, it turns out, joined the Brotherhood before their desertion.

Fifth thing he learns is the reason why Tally looks so damned familiar.

"Oh, man, that's the sweetest compliment I've ever gotten," she says, grinning widely as he admits he hadn't realised she was a clone, too. "You really couldn't tell? Aww, thank you. It's the hair, isn't it?"

"The face too," Fives admits. She's got a lot softer features than clones usually do – and the makeup does the rest. The hair is pretty nice, though. "But, uh… no one minds? Here, I mean, you don't get any trouble for it?"

"No, no one minds and I don't get in any trouble. It's nothing natborns don't get on core worlds, you know, if they want to, so why shouldn't we?" Tally says, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm not the only one, either – if we ever go to Earth, remind me to introduce you to Ivy. She's a blast."

So yeah, Fives is really starting to see why there are so many clones here – and why they're all… like that, but also not like any clones he'd ever seen before.

And then the bomb shell drops, and Fives learns his sixth and worst thing – when Baar gets the tumour out of Tup's head, dissects it, and finds a chip inside it.

"Yep," the clone says grimly, lifting a little glass tube where the chip floats in clear solution. "Organically grown cybernetic implant – it's a control chip. Tup's been wearing it out with the Force, and when that didn't work, his brain started trying to isolate it, causing the chip to malfunction. That's what caused the whole thing – the chip malfunctioned, fired up one of the orders coded in to it, and it overwrote Tup's free will."

Fives stares at the little chip with a cold feeling of dawning horror, and can't think of anything to say.

"Your friend is going to be fine. Time will tell what side effects he will have, but people with more Force like him tend to recover quicker from injuries," Baar says, turning the tube in hand. "Now excuse me, I need to start arranging brain scans for everyone. Do you think you could take this to the Mentor?"

Fives accepts the tube, blinking. The mentor – the Mentor of the Brotherhood? The most wanted Assassin in the galaxy? "The Mentor is here?"

"Of course he's here, he's always here," the medic says. "You'll probably find him in Monteriggioni, that's where he usually is. Tell him to come see me when he has the time, if he doesn't call a meeting himself. Now excuse me…"

Fives wanders off in a daze of horror and trepidation, as the words brain scans for everyone settle in and he realises the sheer hugeness of the issue uncovered. A brain control chip. There was a brain control chip in Tup. There's probably one in all of them. They all have control chips in their brains. And the Kaminoans were covering it up. Because they were the ones to put them there. And one of the things the chips could do was make them kill their Jedi commanders.

"Um," Fives says as he makes it to the cantina. "I'm looking for the Mentor – Baar sent me."

"Let me see it, then," the bartender says, and wondering, again, if he's maybe having a spice dream after all, Fives hands the tube over. The bartender lifts the tube to the overhead lights, narrowing his eyes as he peers at the chip, and then sighing. "Well, fuck, here we go again," he says and sets the tube down. "I guess things were getting too easy, huh?"

Fives stares at him, unblinking, and the Mentor looks at him, up and down, considering. "So," the man says. "You're thinking of joining the Brotherhood?"

Yeah. Yeah, he is.