Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mission woke to a quick kick in the ribs and a mouth full of dust.

“Well,” a voice sneered. “What do we have here? A pretty little Twi’lek, hm?”

Instinctively, Mission's hand reached for the vibroblade on her hip. Didn’t these Upper City morons have anything better to do? Hopefully Big Z was nearby, or would find her soon, because fighting off these creeps would sure be a heck of a lot easier with two—

Her hand closed on the empty air where her vibrobalde should be.

Mission’s head shot up and she scrambled to sit. Sand. That was the first thing she noticed. Yellow, coarse grains that scratched her skin. Her eyes jumped around wildly. She was in an alley between two buildings, both the same pale yellow as the sand. The alley was shaded, but the sun shone bright and burning along the top edges. That was the second thing.

The third thing she noticed was the boot coming towards her face.

Mission threw herself backward until she collided with the rough stone wall, pressing herself against it.

“I asked you a question, bitch,” the man snarled.

He was human, short and weatherbeaten. Rough, homespun fabric that had seen better days wrapped around him in a desert style she only vaguely recognized. It was an odd mix with his face, cheeks that had once been sunken now filled out badly, like fullness stolen and stuffed into place. His eyes, brown and too-bright, glared down at her. It was a familiar look, even if she couldn’t place the clothes. She’d seen men like him in the the Black Vulkars, and the Upper City humans when they dared venture down to the Lower City. Scum, violent scum that looked a her and saw a thing, not a person. And as Mission’s eyes darted down to the blaster on his hip and the mag-holders hanging from his belt, she knew that this one was a slaver.

Her eyes still narrowed as his words registered, because Mission had lived most of her life as a scrappy Taris street rat and her patience for bullshit had starved to death in that cargo hold with Griff. Who did this guy think he was? Slaver or not, he was shorter than her. He didn’t get to make the rules!

“Who’re you calling a bitch? Way I see it, the only bitch here is you!” she said, drawing herself up indignantly.

The man’s face twisted in an ugly expression of rage as he reached for a blaster on his belt. Dull, scratched, and dangerous. This was not a man used to being insulted. Mission gulped. Big Z was going to kill her. If he could find her, that is. Only place she knew that looked like this was Tatooine, and there was no way Canderous would have agreed to come back here so soon after Jagi.

The vague hopes of Big Z were violently pushed from her mind as the slaver brought the gun up, hands steady, and aimed for her heart.

“Why you little—“

“Hey!”

Mission and the slaver both snapped to look at the voice. A little boy stood at the entrance to the alley, chin jutted in subtle defiance. The effect was a little ruined by the smears of what looked like engine grease on his face, but he stood there just as determinedly, planted like even the worst sandstorm wouldn’t be enough to move him.

As Mission watched, the boy called out to the salver in an odd, garbled tongue that she recognized vaguely as Huttese. The two glared at each other in a tense, silent battle of wills. The slaver broke off with a curse and angrily clipped his blaster back to his belt. He turned that venomous glare on her, and she got the sense that he’d like nothing more than to shoot her in the face. After a few uncomfortable seconds, he spat another curse in Huttese and spit at her feet, before spinning around and stalking away through the other end of the alley.

“Thanks,” Mission said once she was sure the slaver had gone, hand unconsciously drifting to where her vibroblade was supposed to be. She looked the boy over. He was dressed in the same rough cloth tunic as the slaver, a little baggier, a little more threadbare, but better patched, blonde hair dirtied by soot. But it was the eyes that caught her attention. Bright and blue as the Dantooine sky.

The boy shrugged, reaching up to wipe at one of the smears on his face. “You looked like you needed the help.”

Mission began to bristle before she stopped herself. There wasn’t any judgment in his statement, and she really did need help. The empty air where her weapon should be said as much. She absently clenched her hand in the vacant space, wishing for the familiar weight.

His eyes flickered down to her hand, and back up to her face. His eyes pinched and he cocked his head curiously. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

Mission shifted. “What makes you think that?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. Okay, he had a point.

His hands fiddled with the edge of his shirt as he stared at her for a minute. Mission felt oddly self-conscious while he looked, obviously debating about something. She was about to say something to break the scrutiny when he seemed to come to a decision. Nodding to himself, the boy dropped the tunic edge and met her eyes.

“C’mon, follow me,” the boy said, turning on his heel and walking out of the alley.

“Hey!” Mission called out, taking a few steps forward. “What makes you think I’ll just follow you?”

He turned around for a second and looked at her, and for a moment she could have sworn there was something other in his gaze. Like he was seeing something more than her. She blinked, and a second later, it was gone.

He smiled. “Call it a hunch.”

She sighed heavily to herself. Well, at least Big Z wasn’t here to yell at her.

“Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Funny thing about Mandalorians: they didn’t get angry often. In a fight, sure. Anger paired well with the rush of adrenaline, the crowing drive to win, to revel in the glory of battle. But once the dust had settled, so too did the anger. They respected a good loss, a good victory, even when it wasn’t theirs. So they might get angry in fights, but they didn’t get angry over them. A clear head meant good planning, meant a better fight next time. And unless you fucked with their gear, there wasn’t much else they’d get worked up about.

Canderous? Canderous was furious.

He glared out at the other patrons of the cantina, hand clenched around the ceramic of his cup. He was tucked away in a back booth, settled with his back to the wall and a service entrance to his right. The table was sticky underneath his arms, and the music blaring from the players a few feet from him did no good for his hearing, but it had clear sight lines and he wasn't in a mood to be picky. At least the rest of the place was calm enough, if not exactly quiet. Mercs and bounty hunters chatted with slavers and seedy-looking types that were less obvious and no more trustworthy, loose groupings around the bar and at the tables. Fuck, this hadn’t been his scene for a while. But it was familiar, and it sunk into his skin like a familiar brand of synthehol.

Canderous leaned back in his seat, settling one hand on the stolen blaster on his hip. It was a piece of shit, if he was being honest, as ill-cared for as the Rodian he’d killed for it. It’d serve him in a fight, but he’d give a good chunk of credits for his blasters. But no, those had been gone when he woke up, weaponless, in a shady back-alley of sand.

He hadn’t been angry, at first. Annoyed, sure. It was a lucky person who got the drop on him, and Canderous didn’t put much stock in luck. He didn’t drink much, his clothes didn’t smell of alcohol, and it was his turn to look after Mission when they went planet-side, so he knows he didn’t go off voluntarily. But that was fine. Not ideal, and if they touched the kid he was going to pull them apart slowly and painfully, but not unreasonable. Something he could work with.

And then he’d gotten to his feet, internally calculating where on Onderon there’d be sand like this, and he looked up. To endless blue sky. To twin suns over endless sand, and something in Canderous had burned.

So he’d jumped the first unlucky bastard that happened upon him, and headed for the nearest bar. Which was this shit-hole. Canderous sneered around his cup as he brought it up to his mouth. Maybe not the smartest use of the dead Rodin’s few peggat, but he needed something stiff. It was cheap, disgusting, and exactly nothing he wanted to drink. He took a long swig anyway.

So, Tatooine. The one place he’d have skinned someone rather than come back to. And borne Bastila’s lecture about how he’d been “trying to turn over a new(er) leaf,” for, later, but he still would have done it. She’d have fought against coming back here, too, but Canderous was a bit more… emphatic about his hatred for this dust-ball. 

Bastila hadn’t had to see her father die, either, so maybe that was it.

Jagi, though. Jagi was a fresh wound in the bloody wreck of what used to be his Creed. Goddamn it, he wanted more time. Wanted the next time he came to Tatooine to be as a man that was…. better, than the general who’d hurt Jagi so deeply. He didn’t regret the choice he made, but he wanted to see people like Jagi before they took that pain and turned it on themselves. Wanted to find some honor outside of battle.

Canderous sighed and set his cup down with a sharp clack. Kark, he hated this place. It made him maudlin. He needed to get his head on straight, and he needed to find his crew (and Mission before Zaalbar killed him for losing her). Then they could get off this dump. Preferably on the Ebon Hawk, but he wasn’t picky about the details. He needed information.

The main entrance to the cantina caught Canderous’ attention as it swung open, and a man came striding in with all the pissed off, indignant anger of a wet cat. He was shabbily dressed, even for this place. Short, with beady eyes Canderous didn’t like. With faint amusement, Canderous watched the man storm to the bar and order a drink, the words hissing through his teeth as he seethed.

The other patrons gathered at the bar grumbled at his appearance, but made room for him anyway. A few looked at the man curiously as he snatched his drink from the bartender and tossed some of it back angrily. 

A big Aqualish nursing a drink at the bar next to him snorted. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asked.

“That little bitch,” beady-eyes snarled. “I should have just shot her in the head, to hell with the cost!”

Canderous huffed and leaned back in his booth. Just some slaver scum throwing a fit over something that bit back. Good for her, Canderous thought as he brought up his cup for another drink.

“A little blue Twi’lek, down near the slave quarters—”

Over the lip of his cup, Canderous’ eyes snapped to the shabby man. His back was to him, and Canderous stared at it as he thought. It could fit. What were the odds, anyway, on a day like today? Female, blue, Twi’lek...

“—called me a bitch!”

Antagonistic.

Mission.

The cup hit the table with a quiet clink as Canderous stood up. Slowly, he walked up behind the man, gait too easy to be anything good. The other patrons eyed him warily as he neared the man, but beady-eyes was too caught up in his rant to notice their sudden unease.

Canderous leaned on the bar next to him. The man, sensing someone new had joined, turned to let loose some of his ire. Canderous grinned at him, a false, sharp smile glinting with danger. The man tapered off and paled.

“Now,” Canderous asked, voice low, “What is it you were saying about a blue Twi’lek?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Mission followed the boy through busy, narrow streets. All sorts of people walked through the streets of the town, the sound of merchants hawking their wares and clamoring to be heard over the bustle, but Mission was too focused on following the boy to pay much attention. He ducked under arms and through groups with the nimble ease of long practice and Mission, for all her experience navigating busy, rough, and dangerous streets, was struggling to keep up. The sand stung her eyes, and the sun beat down mercilessly on her uncovered lekku. It was hot.

“Just a little farther,” chirped a voice from her elbow, and she whipped around in surprise.

“Geez, you scared me!” She squinted at him. “Weren’t you ahead of me just a second ago?” she asked, voice suspicious.

The boy shrugged as he walked.

“You were taking too long.”

Mission crossed her arms. She’d like to see him try and move through this crowd when he was her height. She couldn’t go ducking under everyone! She wasn’t that short.

“I’m sorry. Maybe if I knew where I was going, I’d get there faster.”

He just shrugged at her and untangled her hand from her crossed arms. She looked down in surprise as he clasped it firmly with his own.

“Well, I know where we’re going, so you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

With that, he took off, and she stumbled at the sudden jerk. She could feel his amusement, clear and bright, and she pushed down the urge to yank him back. They hurried along, weaving through the crowds at a far faster pace than before. Mission ducked under an awning as he lead her down a side street, and they came out to a road lined with two-story buildings of rough stone.

The boy let go of her hand as they slowed down.

“Fast enough for you?” Mission asked, panting.

“Just about,” he replied.

Mission shook her head. “Kids these days.”

“Hey! You’re not that much older than me!” the boy cried indignantly.

“Yeah, but I am older,” she countered.

“I’m smarter.”

“As if!”

The boy stuck his tongue out at her.

“Now that’s just plain rude,” Mission said as they stopped in front of an aged, weather-beaten door.

He waved her comment away. Mission huffed and away from him to the door.

“C’mon,” he said, stepping forward to open it. He dashed inside before she could say anything.

She stepped up to the threshold and stopped, hesitating. A little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Carth whispered You don’t know this kid! For all you know, he’s just led you to a slaver’s den.

But the kid saved her life, after all. He didn’t have to do that. The slaver could have easily hurt him too.

She stepped through the door.

It was much cooler inside than it was in the sun, and Mission breathed the first sigh of relief since waking up in this desert. It felt nice. She let herself enjoy it for a moment before looking around. The quarters were small and cramped, with tools and bits of machinery left in piles, like someone had been working on them and got distracted. She could see signs of care, in the soft blanket draped over a chair, the carefully-patched walls and the well-worn furniture.

“Mom!” the boy called. “There’s someone here I want you to meet!” He turned back to Mission, meeting her eyes. “She’ll like you, don’t worry,” he assured her.

She smiled nervously.

“What’s—oh.”

Mission turned to see a woman with dark hair and wary eyes. She could see the family resemblance. It was in the line of her jaw and the set of her mouth, the way she planted her feet in the same solid stance. Her shoulders were heavier, though, and her eyes more shuttered as she met Mission’s eyes.

“Who’s this?” the woman asked, directing the question to the boy, but never looking away from Mission.

Mission stuck out her hand.

“Mission Vao, ma’am. Your son got me out of some trouble.”

The woman looked at her for a long second, appraising her with guarded, dark eyes. Mission found that she did not want to be deemed lacking.

“Shmi,” the woman said finally, taking Misson’s hand. “Shmi Skywalker.”

Mission smiled.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shmi.”

Chapter Text

Jolee and pain were old friends. Old, old friends. It was hard not to be, in this galaxy. With the reign of Exar Kun (and hadn’t he been a nasty piece of work), the Mandalorian Wars, the New Sith Empire… Well, you got the picture. Violence was as likely to find you as a thorn in a Cacta bush. But it wasn’t that pain Jolee cared about: that of fight and fire, blaster wounds and lightsaber burns with molted bruises, broken bones and ringing ears. That was a young man’s pain, and despite the tumultuous galaxy, that pain didn’t come to everyone. But age did, and age was a two-faced bastard with a sick sense of humor.

Pain pulsed through his old joints like vicious Manaan waves, confusion washing in on its tail. It brushed against the foggy blackness of his mind, poking at it and spiriting parts of it away like waves against the shore. Jolee groaned. Conciousness trickled in slowly, in the coolness against his cheek, hard pressure underneath him, the grainy feeling of grit against his skin. What—?

Memories slipped away from him like clouds through his fingers, and irritated, his focus slid away to the trickle of sensations filtering from the rest of his body. They were… odd. Stiffness and a creaking pain in his bones, the kind that made you doubt what it felt like to move normally. He was used to a low-level ache in his joints. He had not been kind to his body when he was young, and his body was not kind to him in his old age. But he didn’t hurt like this unless he spent the night on the ground. Which he didn’t remember doing. 

Slowly, a gossamer-mist memory rose to the surface. Onderon… he was in the medbay, wasn’t he? Some of the others had gone planet-side, he’d stayed behind to go over their inventory so he could comm Juhani with what med supplies she needed to pick up. Then what…?

Jolee’s eyes slid open and he winced, eyelids snapping shut again. Nausea rolled in his stomach as his brain recovered from the stabbing brightness. Force, his head hurt. It reminded him of listening to those Czerka poachers, only worse, because he couldn’t tell this headache to shove it. He breathed in, and coughed on the dust that filled his nose. Hmm. Well, fuck. There was no way in all the Sith hells this was his medbay. Even if he’d let it get that bad, T3 would have thrown a fit.

Jolee sighed, long and heavy. He pried his eyes open again, squinting against the pain as he shoved himself up on an elbow. He coughed against the new wave of dust kicked up by his movements, but it settled soon enough as he peered out at the room.

It was dim. Dimmer than he expected, as his eyes adjusted. The smooth plastisteel of storage crates sat in front of him, blocking him from most of what little light there was. Sandstone walls near his head and feet, and rough stone brushed against his back. He was blocked in, in the narrow space between the wall and the crates.

Jolee reached down for the familiar weight of his lightsaber, and cursed when his fingers brushed against the bare fabric of his tunic. Well, that was one option out. A frown pulled at his face. He didn’t exactly fancy leaving cover without a weapon when he didn’t know what was beyond this little nook.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the smell of heat and sunlight, the steady drag of dust in his lungs, the scrape of his skin against the ground, and sunk into the Force.

It swirled around him in tight eddies. Sliding over his skin, a brush of power. Tension, potential, like the air before lightning. Contained fury, bottled and condensed. The Force had been his only companion those twenty years on Kashyyyk–he knew its currents and moods as well as his own. Now, it whispered of ill intentions and danger, layered thick over the stone of the room. But it was the old, soaked feeling of a dangerous place that had been dangerous for too long, and the space around him held only the vague shapes of inanimate objects. A rough place, sure, but no immediate threat to him.

He reached farther, stretching for what lay outside the room. But the Force danced away from him, curiously, pointedly blank to his senses beyond the stone walls. He huffed in irritation. Oh sure, the Force would serve him perfectly well for sixty years, but now it decided to be elusive.

Jolee leveled himself to his feet, one hand braced against the wall, his teeth gritted against the awful ache in his joints. It had eased, some, now that he was awake, but it was damn uncomfortable. Standing, he looked at where the crates brushed both walls, and sighed. Bracing his shoulder against the stack on the right, he pushed with a grunt of effort. The plastisteel scraped against the stone as a gap formed and widened enough to fit him. He squeezed through and carefully stepped into the rest of the room.

Dusty scrap and broken bits of machinery skittered away from Jolee’s feet. It was a small, crowded room. Half-deconstructed droids lay, thrown carelessly over moisture vaporators, more scrap and machinery shoved in the spaces between. The only semi-clear space was directly in front of the door on the opposite wall. It was a sorry sight, to be sure. Idly, he wondered what kind of place he ended up.

Jolee grumbled as he cautiously picked his way across the room. This was not what he had wanted to do today, especially not with the slight twinge in his knees and hips whenever he moved just so. A scowl worked its way onto his face.

His foot snagged on something, and Jolee stumbled, cursing as he caught himself on a scrap heap. Turning, he scowled down at the stray piece of protocol droid that had tripped him. He kicked it away, grumbling under his breath. Jolee glanced down at the scrap heap under his hand as he moved his foot to a clear spot. 

Jolee paused. It was an astromech, not a scrap pile. A silver, very familiar astromech.

“This would easier if I knew anything about droids,” Jolee muttered as he knelt down next to T3-M4, hands running down the sides of his chassis where he was decently sure his power button was. His fingers brushed against a switch, and he flipped it.

A series of sharp beeps, and the lights on T3’s head flickered on, flashing orange before settling on the standard white. The little droid’s head rose up, and he rolled backward in confusion. His dome swiveled from side to side before settling on Jolee, trilling in question.

“I don’t know,” Jolee said gruffly.

T3 made a quiet, anxious noise at that, swiveling his head to look around again, like there would be something different that would give him answers.

“Do you remember how we ended up here?” Jolee asked.

T3 shook his head sadly.

Jolee huffed “Figured as much. Well,” he said, grunting as he straightened “If we’re here, I’d bet the others can’t be too far.”

Any response T3 had was lost in the sudden bang as the door went flying off its hinges. Jolee’s hand shot for a lightsaber that wasn’t there, as he cursed and coughed under the wave of sand and dust. T3 beeped in alarm and extended his droid shock arm threateningly in front of him.

A dark silhouette stepped into the room, lost in the cloud of dust, and Jolee pooled the force around him, ready for an attack.

“Exclamation: Meatbag! I’ve come to rescue you,” a weapons-laden HK-47 cried as the dust settled, the muffled sounds of angry yelling and blaster fire behind him. “Query: Shall we find the others?”

A man came charging through the door behind HK-47, shouting. HK-47 whipped around lightning-quick, firing off a single shot. The man fell in a heap on the ground, a smoking blaster wound in his chest. HK-47 swiveled back to look at Jolee and T3-M4 expectantly.

Jolee gave a long, tired sigh. T3 cooed consolingly.

________________

Canderous shoved his way through the crowded streets, intent. The shabby man at the bar had given him a name. Anakin Skywalker, a young slave owned by a local junk dealer. Gutsy kid, from the story Canderous had dragged out of the slaver. He could almost like the kid, but that depended entirely on what kind of condition he found Mission in.

Canderous scowled and pushed through the crowd just a little more urgently. The sight of him was enough for most people to give him a wider berth, but this town was full of hard and dangerous people, and not everyone was so easily intimidated. His path to the junk dealer's was slower than he'd wanted. But as much as didn't need to rely on stealth, it would also do him no good to draw attention by blasting his way through some of the buildings. Or the crowd, either one would do fine.

Eventually, he found himself in front of the junk shop. Stepping into the dim building, Canderous squinted at the sudden shift as his eyes adjusted. When he could finally see, he scanned the room. Shelves of used scrap and junk lined the walls. Nothing special, but he'd seen worse selections. A large, seedy-looking Toydarian hovered behind the counter. That must be the scrap dealer, Watto.

"Welcome!" Watto called, flying out to meet him, hovering just out of knife range. Smart. Canderous internally gritted his teeth at the grating cadence of his voice. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for one of your slaves," Canderous said. "A kid, Anakin Skywalker."

The toydarian's amicable facade faltered, and he eyed Canderous warily.

"What would you want with Ani?"

"I'm looking for someone," Canderous said, "and I'm told he might know where they went."

Watto considered that for a moment as his eyes flickered over Canderous. "And if he knows?"

"Then I'll ask, and be on my way."

"And if he doesn't?" Watto asked after a moment. Canderous' expression didn't change.

"Then I'll ask, and be on my way."

Watto looked at him for a long second, before nodding slowly.

"He should be in the slave quarter. I let him go early. It's west end, the one with the scuff mark on the bottom door."

Canderous nodded in thanks, turning to go.

"Wait!" Canderous looked back. The toydarian seemed almost... worried. "I expect Ani to be in once piece tomorrow," he added gruffly.

Canderous nodded, and stepped out into the street.

The bright sunlight was almost painful after the dim shop, but this time Canderous didn't wait for his eyes to adjust. Pushing through the crowds, he made a beeline to where he'd seen the slave district earlier. He needed to get to Mission, preferably sooner rather than later. He didn't like the thought of her alone on a planet of slavers. The kid could take care of herself, but he'd rather she have some backup.

Canderous slowed his stride as he entered the west slave quarter. The city felt different here. It had the same sense of hardness, of rough stone and sharp teeth, But there was also the quiet fury that sits in the air just before a sandstorm. There wasn't the sense of "every man for himself" like in the rest of the city. The people on the street largely ignored him, moving about their business. But he could feel the watchful eyes tracking him. He met the gaze of an old Togruta, sitting quietly on the corner, making no effort to hide her stare. We do not trust you, her eyes said. We will watch. Walk carefully. 

They might not acknowledge him, but they were very aware of him. He was an outsider here. The watchful stares followed him all the way to the house with the scuffed bottom door, and remained fixed to his back as he raised a hand to knock.

A moment of silence and the door slid open. A dark-haired woman in rough-spun blue looked up at him with carefully guarded eyes. The mother, then.

"What is it I can do for you?" she asked.

"I'm looking for a young woman. Your son saw her earlier."

Those dark eyes shuttered in a moment. Her posture changed, and if Canderous had been anyone else, he might not have recognized it. To anyone else, it seemed to be the unassuming deference of a slave. It was well-done, but he could see the defensive set of her feet, and the movement of her body to shield more of the open door. Ready to defend.

"If you could be more specific, sir? We see many different people in a day."

She met Canderous' eye, and he felt his patience thinning.

"A young Twi'lek, short, blue—"

He cut off as a familiar voice called out from inside the house

"Canderous?"

Mission appeared in the doorway behind the woman. She didn't look any worse for wear, despite being a fair bit dustier than last time he'd seen her. It stood out on her black undershirt and coated her lekku. But as dusty as she was, she didn't look injured. The beginnings of an excited, relived smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she looked at him. The knot Canderous' chest eased just the tiniest bit.

"Hey, kid. Everything alright?" he asked, watching Mission closely for any sign that something was amiss.

The dark-haired woman glanced between the two of them, hand tight on the doorframe.

Mission rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Don't worry, Shmi. He's a friend," she reassured.

The woman, who Canderous assumed was Shmi, met his eyes. Her gaze was just a little too deep, and Canderous got an odd feeling that she was looking for something he couldn't see. A moment later, it was gone, and she'd seemed to find what she was searching for.

"I think," Shmi said, "you'd better come in."

Chapter Text

Everyone dealt with unexpected events differently. Some people floundered, some people rolled with the punches. Carth and Bastilla, upon waking up to find themselves in a small, unfamiliar, sand-colored house, had started shouting. Loudly.

“Clearly,” Carth said, irritation creeping into his voice, “This is some Jedi Force bullshit.”

Bastilla sputtered in indignation, her crossed arms dropping as she moved away from the wall. “Jedi Force—oh, so this is my fault, then?”

Zaalbar huffed from his seat on the crate by the door, as far away from them as he could get in the small room. The ceilings were far too low for him, and he’d claimed the spot immediately—keeping firmly out of the shouting match.

“Hey, I never said that. But you have to admit this is a little weird,” Carth reasoned.

Bastilla clasped her hands behind her back and straightened, gathering her Jedi persona around her, and Carth held back a sigh. Bad enough he’d had to deal with Bastilla when she was trying to keep Revan from falling back to the dark side, but Bastilla when she needed to prove her own dedication to the Light? That was a karking nightmare.

“If we’re here, then it is the will of the Force.”

Carth threw his arms out in exasperation. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but this is certainly something other than ‘Jedi Force Bullshit’,” she stressed.

“Enough, both of you,” Zaalbar growled.

Carth and Bastilla’s mouths snapped shut and they glared at each other. Carth took a deep breath. This was... frustrating. They’d been angry and on-edge since they woke up, and nothing about this situation was helping. The two of them were not the greatest combination without a buffer, and Zaalbar didn’t count, the bastard. But as frustrating as Bastilla was, this wasn’t the most important thing at the moment.

“Well,” Carth said into the tense quiet, “whatever it is that brought us here, it doesn’t matter right now. We need to find the others.”

Bastilla’s shoulders lost some of their angry tension as she visibly reeled herself in, and she nodded. “You’re right. We should look for Revan, first,” she said. “If anyone has an explanation, it would be her.”

Carth was nodding before she finished speaking. That, at least, they agreed on. He wanted to find the others—of course, of course he did, but… he’d promised Revan. He just—He needed to know she was okay. Carth glanced to Zaalbar, sitting by the door, and sympathy twinged in his chest. He wasn’t the only one with a person like that.

“I’d say split up so you can find Mission, but you’re a bit too... conspicuous. Sorry, Zaalbar,” Carth apologized.

Zaalbar huffed. “She can take care of herself. I would prefer it if Revan went after Mission, regardless.”

The sympathy was overtaken by indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Carth asked.

Zaalbar leveled him with a look.

“The last time you two were involved in a rescue mission, a planet was destroyed.”

Unfair.

“The Sith destroyed Taris, we had nothing to do with it,” Carth retorted.

The corners of Bastilla’s mouth turned downward as she raised her eyebrows, on his side for once. “And in case you forgot, I was the one being rescued.”

Zaalbar just hummed, unconvinced.

“How are you planning on finding her?” he asked, in lieu of a response.

“We’ll use the Force.”

“You don’t even know where we are, Bastilla.”

Bastilla turned, likely to explain to Carth, once again, the mysteries of the Force, but something slammed against the door, shaking it in its frame. Zaalbar rocketed to his feet and whipped around as Carth and Bastilla instinctively reached for weapons that weren’t there. Muted screams and blaster-fire clamored from outside.

The three of them shared a long, tense glance.

“Well,” Carth said, “Might as well check it out.”

“And why, exactly, would we do that?” Bastilla asked, following Carth anyway as he strode past her to the door. Zaalbar stared like he thought he’d lost a few brain cells as Carth shouldered past him to the door access panel.

Carth half-turned to look at the other two. “Whatever crazy son of a bitch started that is definitely one of ours.” He hit the panel and the door slid open, the yelling and weapons fire spilling through loud and clear.

“That man, I swear…” Bastilla muttered under her breath as she darted out the door after Carth.

Behind her, Zaalbar growled in agreement.

___________

Sand swirled through the busy streets, whipped up by wind that carried a dry sent of Tatooine spices, stolen from the marketplace a couple blocks over. It cut through the bustling crowd, mingling with the smell of heat and desperation; bounty hunters, smugglers, racers, all pushed their way through the street in heavy, agitated movements. Slavers, a bitter corner of her mind whispered. Slaves. This planet, of heat and sand and spice, was a slaver’s planet, and the knowledge burned in Juhani’s chest with the searing scorch of binary suns.

Under the cowl of her stolen cloak, her eyes burned yellow. The burning yellow of fury (Cathar eyes, and that just made her angrier because she would not feel like this if she did not have them), but not the sickly color of the Darkside. No, not now. However angry she might be, that would not help her. She had done this before, she had lived through more than this and still not fallen, not again, she’d learned her lesson the first time, she knew that was not what she wanted. 

She kept the snarl of fury off her face as she watched a young boy struggle under the weight of his master’s purchases.

She wished Revan was here. It was easier to push back the shadows with Revan beside her. She was an anchor to the light, a reminder of the good Juhani could find in the galaxy. The Jedi in gleaming sunlight that freed her, the woman who did not remember her (did not remember anything) but who held out her hand anyway, and the woman who did remember but chose the Light anyway. A smile, a sense of safety, and an unwavering faith in her that shook Juhani to her core. But she wasn’t there, and Juhani was still angry. And helpless, she thought as she leaned against the wall under the shade of an awning.

She drew the cloak tighter around her. It was no good to be Cathar on a slave planet, and she needed to remain unnoticed. It would be of no help if she got herself captured before she found the others. She sent out a brief prayer to the Force that they were on-planet. If not, she would steal a ship and scour the galaxy.

She would not let them be taken from her. Not even the Mandalorian.

But first she needed information, and she needed it soon. She was no stranger to places like this, but an outsider with no funds and nothing to offer wouldn’t find information easily on the streets. Not without causing a scene. But with something to loosen their lips… maybe. Drink turned a lot of people into gossips.

The cowl of her cloak fell low over her eyes as she pushed away from the wall. She slipped into the center of the crowd, where the vendors couldn’t reach her, and let herself be swept away in the anonymity of the crowd. Dust hung, kicked up thick by the drumming feet. Juhani tried not to cough.

The cantina wasn’t too difficult to spot. Drunk patrons stumbled up from its entrance, spilling out with the faint sounds of music. Her footsteps quickened, and she drifted toward the edge of the street as she drew closer.

A short cry of pain cut through the clamor, and Juhani faltered. Her ears twitched as she looked behind her, eyes scanning over the crowd. Her gaze lingered over the closed doors of the street-side buildings, before landing on the shadowy entrance to an alleyway, a few feet behind her.

Juhani cast a glance around to the other people walking down the street, flowing around her stationary form. No one else seemed to hear the voice, or if they did, they ignored it. Her eyes drifted back to the alleyway.

Don’t, a voice in her head whispered. You need to find the others.

But no one else had heard, no one else cared, and Juhani remembered crying out, too. She remembered no help came for her. Not until the Jedi.

Another cry, layered with fear (no one’s coming they’re hurting me), and Juhani stopped debating.

She shoved her way back through the crowd. People cursed and snarled at her, but she ignored them. The noise from the street dulled some as she slipped into the alley, ears alert as she listened for the voice as she walked. It was fainter, now, like they had stopped crying out in earnest and made only noise pulled out of them by pain. Juhani followed it down the alley as it let out onto a back street. Sparsely populated, a few groups walking here and there. Her eyes skipped past them as she searched for the source of the voice. Movement caught her eye, in an out-of-the-way corner. A dusty green shin, poking out from behind a crate. 

She moved as quickly as she dared, slowing only as she cleared the crate. The shin she had seen from across the street, the voice she had heard, belonged to green skinned Twi’lek woman, laid on her side, bleeding, on the ground.

Juhani fell to her knees beside the woman, shielding her from the sparse street traffic still passing behind her. Her eyes were closed, chest rising shallowly like it hurt to do more. Nasty-looking bruises molted her skin, and bloodstains dotted a plain, sleeveless tunic from where a boot had broken skin. A cut above her eye seeped blood, blue and dust-matted across her face. Juhani rested her hands on her thighs, open-palmed and non-threatening.

“Can you hear me?” Juhani asked, quiet enough that no one else would hear.

A single dust-encrusted eye cracked open. An unfocused gaze stared at nothing, before she blinked, and her eyes focused in on Juhani.

“I am not here to hurt you,” Juhani said softly.

The woman’s face smoothed into blankness in a moment. With shaking limbs, she hurried into a sitting position as far away as she could get, her back pressed tightly against the wall. An arm cradled her ribs as she watched Juhani with the wariness of a cornered animal.

A flash of rage burned through Juhani’s veins at whoever had hurt this woman. She wanted to tear and rip until they could never hurt anyone again. But she shoved it down, beat it back from her expression with a vicious determination.

Slowly, very careful to keep her body language open and relaxed, Juhani reached for her sleeve and rolled it up to her elbow. The woman’s eyes flicked down to Juhani’s arm, and she stilled. Even after all these years the brand stood raised and angry, seared into the soft skin of Juhani’s forearm. The symbol was unique to Taris, but unmistakable.

The woman met her eyes, dark brown to bright yellow, and the understanding there delved deeper than the color.

“Haven’t seen one of those in a while. Most of us just have the chips,” the woman said, voice quiet. Just a statement, no expectation of information, no question. Her voice was rich and rough, and Juhani liked it immediately.

“Who did this to you? Please, tell me.”

The woman winced as she shook her head. “You shouldn’t worry about it, muchi. There’s noth—”

“The hell are you doing with my property?”

The woman stiffened, arm tightening around herself. She looked to Juhani, a plea in her eyes. Go, they said. But anger poured into Juhani’s bones as the footsteps grew closer, and she ignored the silent message. A hand grabbed onto her arm and whipped her to her feet.

“I asked you a question!” The slaver spat, disgusted snarl too close to her face. “What the fuck are you doing with my property?”

Angry eyes burned out of a weatherworn, age-lined face. His hair frizzed out from him wispy and white, thin on his head and thick in his beard. It looked sun-damaged, his face tanned with years and sunlight. She didn’t recognize this face, but she knew those eyes. It twisted, and suddenly they were staring out of sunken sockets, on a head with scarred, purple lekku and the cruel twist of a sneer. She saw Xor.

She punched him. In the throat.

The man stumbled back, the image of Xor dropping as he folded like a sack of tubers. A choked noise wheezed it’s way out of his throat, and Juhani froze as she glanced up at the street. The people around them had stopped, staring. A group of slaves hauling a broken-down speeder across the street watched her with fearful eyes.

One, two breaths of stillness, and the Force screamed. She dropped to the ground, and watched in detached horror as the blaster bolt meant for her shot toward a group of bounty hunters. It struck a Rodian, and he collapsed where he was, a smoking hole in his chest.

Screams of rage tore out of his friends. Hands went for blasters, someone shot, and then suddenly blaster fire was streaking across the street. Yelling and screaming drowned under the cacophonous roar of discharging weapons. 

Juhani dragged herself over to the Twi’lek woman, belly scraping the ground as bolts went flying over her head. The woman, watching the fight with tired eyes, blinked at her as Juhani hooked her arms under the woman’s. Her back bowed and crouched as low as she was able, Juhani dragged her to the shelter of a deep doorway. She settled her carefully against the corner and crouched down.

Sand gritted underneath her fingernails and in her lungs. It was cooler, in the shady doorway, and Juhani clung to it with grasping hands.

“I’m sorry,” Juhani started, torn, “I didn’t—”

“He would have killed me,” the woman interrupted. She smiled, blood smeared across the shark-sharp teeth, stained red from the beating she’d taken at her Master’s hands. “The fucker deserved it.”

Still, shame boiled low in Juhani’s belly. She should not have lost her temper like that, shouldn’t have put this woman in danger (this woman who had asked her to go. For Juhani’s sake, but had asked her all the same). She should be in control, should have more discipline than this. Revan would have wanted her to be better. Quatra would have wanted her to be better.

The woman’s gaze shifted to something past Juhani, and she stiffened. A shadow spread across the woman’s face as the feeling of sunlight disappeared from Juhani’s back, and she tensed for an attack.

“Observation: This is not very good cover, meatbag.”

Juhani turned on her heel.

“HK?” she asked, breathless and hopeful.

Standing in the doorway, towering over her, was HK-47; covered in dust, holding far too many blasters, and the best thing she’d seen since waking up.

“Answer: Indeed. Although, I have not come alone.”

Before Juhani could ask, a familiar gruff voice cut through the blaster fire.

“How do you get yourself into a situation like this, kid?” Jolee asked, ducking past HK-47 and crouching in the space between Juhani and the wall. He glared over at HK-47. “And you. Not all of us are made of repairable parts, you know.”

T3-M4 rolled through HK-47’s legs, beeping something that sounded like agreement as he rolled up to greet her. Something in Juhani settled as T3 knocked against her knees, Jolee a warm weight pressed at her side as a battered Twi’lek slave used her shoulder to reposition herself, HK-47 standing between them and a firefight.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” Jolee said.

Juhani nodded, a hint of a smile gracing her lips. “It is good to see you as well.”

Jolee looked past her to the bruised Twi’lek woman. “I don’t suppose we’ve met?”

The woman huffed out a laugh. “My name is Aleema.”

“Jolee. Good to meet you, Aleema.”

“Observation: As much as I hate to interrupt the introductions—” A Wookie’s roar cut through the clamor of the fight. “It seems that more of the crew have arrived.”

_________

Revan woke up alone.

It was the first thing she noticed. Before the shift of sand beneath her, or the press of it into her cheek, the crick in her neck or her own fluttering heartbeat, instinct compelled her to reach for the Force. She thought it had been for enemies, once. To see if today Malak would try to kill her, to become the Master instead of just the Apprentice. But now, it was to brush against her crew, reassure herself that yes, they were there. They were safe. 

But when she reached out to the Force, her crew wasn’t there.

Alarm, dancing down her spine, and suddenly she was wide awake. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Soft shade, gentle light, and the curve of round sandstone walls that stretched far above her. Revan shifted, the sand underneath her belly and chest cool with shade as she dragged a hand down to her sabers. 

Her fingers ghosted over empty clips, and she sighed.

Stiffness fought in her limbs as she pushed herself up. She’d been in one position for too long, and she could feel it. The grains slid over each other, the only sound as she stood. Revan looked around as she gently brushed sand from her front. Sunlight shone brightly from an opening, maybe twenty feet to her left. It was enough to dimly illuminate the rest of the place. She was in a cave, with a wildly uneven sand-dune floor. Old, white bones lay scattered in piles, cracked and broken. Others lay in morbid testament of their deaths, scraps of clothing and equipment belts scattered around stretched limbs and curled hands.

It was a familiar scene, one she had seen before, and she didn’t need the hulking shadow curled at the very back of the cave to jog her memory. A Krayt Dragon lair. Although it didn’t look like it’d been used in a long, long time.

Revan breathed deeply, centering herself with the lingering feeling of sand on her skin, and the soft movement of air dragging into her lungs, letting the scent of stale heat curl in her nose. 

Tatooine. She remembered this place. Older memories, of coming here with Malak and finding a Star Map in the back of a cave much like this one. She hadn’t remembered that the second time she had come here, Malak gone from her side, but her crew had been with her. Her crew, that was missing, that was gone, that wasn’t here.

Last she remembered… she had been wandering through the lower market in Iziz, Carth at her side. She remembered the feeling of his hand in hers, calluses different from hers but familiar all the same, how the afternoon sun had wrapped around him as he looked over the pretty-looking daggers displayed across a booth. She’d watched, indulgent, as he tried to figure out if Mission would stab him for buying her one.

That was where it ended. Like the flash scene of clarity in old memories, her brain skipped over what should have come after. A moment, a warning in the Force, a pinch of pain, anything. But it wasn’t there, and it was the familiar feeling she got from the patch-work overwritten collection some of her memories still were.

Worry rose thick in her throat, but she let it slip through her fingers and seep out of her bones. Not now, she told herself. Rarely did she have the luxury of worry, and she’d only allow herself to feel it when she had a lead on her crew.

Revan glanced over at that great shadow, still and calm and silk-soft quiet. Softly, the sand shifted under her feet as she made her way toward it. Some distant part of her that always planned for the worst half-braced for it to move, to see the steady rise and fall of sleep in the shadows. But as she grew closer and the details became clearer, it faded.

A Krayt dragon, long dead, barely more than bones and leather. It was large, hulking in the way that she remembered from the last one she’d met, and it was sad. It was curled in on itself, a frozen in tight ball of limbs—like it had come here to die, and died slow.

Revan laid a hand against the skin on its shoulder, and quietly wondered what had taken this proud predator down.

A glint, just a flash from its head, caught her eye. She slid her hand from the hide and stepped toward it, curiously. Its eyes were closed, and Revan took a second to be grateful. After so many years in such a harsh climate, all the soft tissue had long degraded, leaving only the thick hide and bones behind.

Between the teeth, something glittered. Revan crouched down, peering into the Dragon’s mouth. It was hard to see through the rows of teeth, dense as they were and cloaked in shadow. She reached out a hand, carefully reaching around the fangs for the faint shimmer.

Her hand close over something, smooth and round, and with the crack of breaking teeth, she pulled her hand back, objects gripped in hand.

A pair of Krayt Dragon Perals, shining softly in the dim, distant sunlight. Revan sat cradled them in her hands as she sat back on her heels, and a sense of sorrow that was not hers swept through her. She breathed in her nose as it pulsed in her chest. It ached. The nuance had been lost to time, just the emotion left. Sorrow and grief, in subdued encompassing waves. The Krayt Dragon’s sorrow, caught in her pearls. Whatever had killed her had carved its impression so deeply into them that Revan could feel it after all this time.

Revan pressed her palm to the crown of the Kyrat Dragon’s head. She could not reach this creature, couldn’t ease her pain or bring her peace. Because she was just skin, now. Skin and bones and pearls. But Revan sent apologies through the Force, anyway, because that didn’t make it less. I’ll carry them. I’ll remember.

After a moment, she drew her hand back and stood, tucking the Pearls into her belt. She looked toward the sun-lit opening, a sea of sand dunes stretching in the distance, no sign of civilization in sight.

Time to find her crew.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry,” Mission asked, voice high, her cup gripped dangerously tight, “Could you say that again?”

Shmi’s brow creased in concern as she repeated the words, but they didn’t make any more sense the second time. Ani looked curiously between Canderous and Mission across the table, but they were still staring at Shmi.

The day Jagi died, Canderous had recited the date until he could say it in his sleep. Tatooine’s date, because it was the planet Jagi had decided to die on, and that meant something. He knew that date, knew it by heart and seared it into his bones. And it did not match with what Shmi had just said.

“How—That’s not—That’s not right. That can’t be right.” Mission turned to Canderous, lost. “Is it?”

Canderous leaned back in his chair. Canderous was not often at a loss. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to, nor one that he liked. That couldn’t be possible, shouldn’t be possible, and yet…. meeting Shmi’s confused eyes across the kitchen table, with Ani watching Mission in concern, Canderous had a feeling that it was true.

“Why would that be wrong?” Shmi asked, after several moments of silence.

“It's been... longer than we thought,” Canderous said, voice rougher than normal.

“What do you mean?” Ani asked, leaning forward in his seat with concerned eyes. Shmi set a hand on his shoulder, and he glanced at her before he slid back with a pout.

She met Canderous’ eyes. Hers held an old, tired understanding. A slave’s understanding, of muddled backgrounds and uncertain origins. How sometimes you didn’t want to talk about where you were stolen from, because it made it impossible to continue on. He knew right then that she wouldn’t push them, wouldn’t ask for an explanation.

Mission grabbed his hand, searching for an anchor, and Canderous found himself uncharacteristically grateful for it.

Shmi sipped the last dregs of her tea and stood. “I have work at the shop. You two are welcome to stay here with Ani, if you’d like.”

Mission was still gripping his hand and staring, lost, at her mug, so Canderous answered for both of them.

“Thank you, ma’am. That would be appreciated.”

Shmi flicked her eyes over to Mission, a silent message to take care of her. Then she ran a hand through Ani’s hair, and walked off to gather her things.

Ani watched with sharp eyes as Canderous set a hand on Mission’s shoulder. They scanned over Mission’s face and then jumped to Canderous, reading his body language

“There’s a guest room, you know,” he said suddenly. “It’s not much, just some spare bedding and parts. But you’re welcome to it.”

“I think we’ll take you up on that,” Canderous said.

Ani nodded waited as Canderous prodded Mission to stand up, an arm around her and hand still trapped in her grip. Ani made no move to stand, just pointed to a door on the far left. Canderous nodded and guided Mission to it.

The door slid shut behind them, and Canderous looked around at the little room. It was just a foot or two bigger than the doorway, only enough room for a pallet with some blankets, stretched out on the wall opposite wall. Some spare parts littered the floor between the door and there, but the bed itself was clean.

Canderous set Mission down on the pallet, but remained standing. He leaned against the wall and watched as Mission clenched and unclenched her hands, staring down at them as she worked through the thoughts in her head. After a moment, she looked up.

“That’s not possible,” she said, looking at Canderous. Canderous felt sympathy ache in his chest at the expression on her face. “That—that can’t be possible. I don’t care what kind of Force stuff is going on here, there’s no way that we’re four thousand years in the future. We just—we can’t be! We can’t be.”

“It looks like we are, kid.”

Mission stood up and walked up to Canderous, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“No, that’s not possible! Because that means that—that Griff—“ she cut off and swallowed heavily.

Mandalorians weren’t exactly the cuddliest type, and bounty hunters even less so, so Canderous hadn’t really done the whole ‘hug’ thing in a while. But as he gave it his best shot as he pulled Mission into his side.

“We’ll find Revan, and then we’ll figure out what’s going on,” Canderous said.

Mission took a deep breath and nodded.

_________

“What are those idiots doing,” muttered Jolee.

“I do not know,” Juhani said from beside him.

Through the gap in HK-47’s legs, Jolee watched as Carth, Bastilla and Zaalbar smacked down people in the fight. It looked like Carth and Bastilla had stolen a couple blasters, and were fighting back-to-back in the fray, shooting and kicking when their opponents got too close. Zaalbar hadn’t bothered, and just picked people up to throw them against walls with a roar.

Jolee was reluctantly impressed.

“Observation: It appears that the two meatbags and the Wookie have joined the fight. Certainly, it would be rude of us not to join in.”

Aleema, on the other side of Juhani, looked at HK-47, brow ridges raised. “You four are welcome to do that.”

“We are not leaving Aleema behind,” Juhani said immediately.

Aleema shared a glance with Jolee, the same tired look on her bruised face. Oh, he liked this one.

“No one’s suggesting that,” Jolee said, turning to Juhani. “I’ll take Aleema, get us clear of the fight with T3. You and HK-47 can go get those three idiots.”

“I do not want to leave you three alone,” Juhani said.

“What, you think I can’t take care of myself? I’ve survived worse cesspools than this one, kid.”

Juhani stared Jolee down for a moment. Her mouth pinched at the corner, eyes flicking over Jolee’s, still and coiled. Searching for confirmation. She sighed after a moment, and looked away. “Fine.”

Jolee looked past her to the fight and winced. Bastilla had gotten ahold of a dewback riding stick and was beating the living hell out of a Duros.

“You’d better get moving before Bastilla kills someone,” Jolee said. Juhani followed his gaze and cursed. She stood swiftly and looked back to Jolee, T3 and Aleema.

“I will see you soon,” she said, and with a nod to HK-47, they were off.

He sighed and turned to Aleema. She watched him with tired amusement, propped against the wall. The cut on her face had stopped dripping blood, but the dried, dusty mess was adhered to the side of her face. T3 beeped and gently rolled against her foot in concern.

“Well, how do you want to do this?” Jolee asked.

Aleema sighed and stretched an arm up experimentally. Her eyes flashed with pain and her mouth turned down in a grimace. She glanced up to meet his eyes and forced the corner of her mouth up into a tired half-smile.

“You might have to carry me,” she said.

Jolee nodded and knelt next to her. She watched him with curious eyes as he turned around so his back was to her.

“Think you can get your arms around my neck?”

“Yes,” she said softly, and Jolee heard the shuffling sounds of cloth on stone before long, thin arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders.

T3 beeped anxiously as Zaalbar’s roar and Juhani’s curse cut through the clamor. Jolee ignored it and waited until he felt Aleema’s knees brush against his feet.

“On the count of three, I’m going to stand up.” He reached back to place his hands on the inside of her knees. “One, two. Three.”

Jolee grunted as he stood slowly, Aleema’s weight pulling back on his shoulders. T3 rolled under Aleema to boost her up as Jolee got his feet under him. While Jolee appreciated the assist, he hadn’t lived in the Shadowlands by himself for twenty years for nothing, and Aleema was lighter than he was expecting.

“You need to eat more, kid,” he said.

She wrapped her arms more securely around his shoulders as she responded, her chin resting on his shoulder. “Slaves don’t tend to eat much.”

That was certainly a good reason, Jolee thought. Not that he was happy about it. Once they found the rest of the crew, he was going to make a giant pot of Nuna Leg stew. A huge pot fit to feed an army, and he was going to give Aleema half before Zaalbar could get to it.

“Well T3, think you can keep up?”

T3 swiveled to look at him and beeped out an affronted response. Jolee’s droid was a little rusty, but he didn’t need to be fluent to understand the You think you can outpace me, old man?

“Fair enough,” Jolee said.

He glanced out at the battle. He paused, processing what he was seeing, and sighed. Juhani and HK-47 had apparently taken “get Zaalbar, Carth, and Bastilla out of there before they kill somebody” to mean “go beat the shit out of some people” which—while he approved—was not what they were supposed to be doing. Not that HK-47 was a surprise; that droid would take any opportunity for violence. But he’d had faith in Juhani.

Aleema seemed to know what he was thinking. “She had an option to kick the szu’tak out of slavers,” she said. She didn’t speak very loudly, but she was close enough to his ear that he heard her clear anyway. “Can you blame her?”

Bah, he was too old for this.

“They’re a good distraction, at least,” he grumbled.

Jolee looked to see if T3 was ready, and the little droid gave him a nod. And with that, Jolee waited until there was a break in the fighting just in front of their alcove, and then he moved.

He ducked out of the alcove, into the chaos. Aleema tightened her grip on his shoulders as Jolee stuck close to the wall and ran quickly along it. T3 rolled just behind them, rolling at top speed and frantically dodging stray feet.

A warning rang through the Force, just in time for Jolee to redirect the blaster shot headed for Aleema. It hit the wall above her head and she jerked, startled. Another warning, and Jolee forced the shot just above T3’s head. He screeched in surprise and sped up. Jolee cursed under his breath and forced his feet to move faster. It had been a long time since he’d been in a real firefight without a lightsaber, damn it, and he was too out of practice to keep this up for long.

He kept his senses open as they ducked down the streets, until the angry rabble around them started to thin out. The battle had spread farther than Jolee had thought. By the time they were clear, they were in the middle of the market district.

He slowed down, breathing heavily. For all that he’d kept in shape over those twenty years in isolation, dodging through a fight with a Twi’lek on his back across half the city was not something he really had an opportunity to prepare for. The people passing didn’t pay them any attention. What a place this had to be, if a bloody green Twi’lek woman on an old man’s back, covered in sand head to toe, didn’t even warrant a second glance. Aleema patted his shoulder as if she sensed his musings.

Jolee was about to find an out-of-the-way corner to rest when Aleema tapped him. He turned his head to show her he was paying attention.

“Go there,” she said. She pointed toward a round, low-ceilinged building a little farther up on the other side of the street.

“You got a friend there?” Jolee asked.

She gave him a side-eye, one that plainly said why else would I point it out?

“Yes,” she said simply.

Good enough for him. Jolee readjusted his grip under Aleema’s knees and walked across the street. He ducked around to the back of the building when Aleema directed him to. She squeezed his shoulder and he stopped. A single doorway stood in the back, a round archway. Jolee caught sight of some shelves and what looked like the edge of a workbench.

On the doorstep, he hesitated. After a moment of stillness, Aleema spoke up.

“While I don’t particularly want to walk, if you don’t start moving I will.”

Jolee sighed, but stepped forward into the building. The sudden dimness blinded him, and he impatiently waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he was treated to a view of the same shelves he’d seen from outside, and what he correctly assumed was a workbench. What he couldn’t see from the door was the woman holding a speeder exhaust pipe like a bat.

Jolee caught dark hair, loose grey dress and wary eyes before the woman noticed Aleema sitting on his back. She froze for a moment.

“Aleema?” the woman asked. She set the pipe down and came toward them, reaching out to brush at Aleema’s face. She didn’t even acknowledge Jolee, and he had to admire the blatant way she had dismissed him as a non-threat. The woman’s expression flashed with anger when blood flaked away from Aleema’s face as she drew her hand back.

“What happened?” the woman asked, concern underlying the hard note in her voice.

Aleema grinned, smile sharp and teeth bloody.

“Shmi, do I have a story to tell you.“

_________

Tatooine was as hot as Revan remembered.

Endless dunes stretched out in front of her. The suns glinted and warped on the sand, turning the rolling dunes into static-y holograms as burning heat radiated up from the grains. That hadn’t changed one bit—the binary suns still beat down with the same merciless intensity they had in Anchorhead, when Bastila was stiffly complaining about the Jedi robes while Mission laughed in her sleeveless shirt and light pants.

Revan tamped down on the worry that in her chest. She needed to find her crew, and the memory only strengthened her resolve.

The shadow of a large dune fell across her knees as she walked. She slowed to a stop and squinted up at the sun. She had been walking for hours already, and the shade stretched far enough that it would cover her if she sat. It was about time for a break, anyway. Revan sat down, resting her back against the side of the dune.

She sighed and let her head fall back. This situation left her uncentered. She felt adrift, wandering through the Force as much as she was wandering through the desert. Meditation might do her some good, while she was resting.

Taking a deep breath, Revan opened herself up to the Force. It settled around her, wild and free as the sandstorms that plagued the planet and at first glance, dead. But as she reached deeper, she could feel it. The old echoes of life, from when Tatooine had seas of water instead of dunes. The more recent imprints, too. The bantha herds that had traversed this spot, the scraggly, determined brush that grew in the shade of scattered stones. A group of Sandpeople that had traversed this part of the desert.

She let them flow through her, let them fill her senses, and breathed them out, let the present filter in. At first, there was nothing. Just the same endless feel of the Force. Then she felt it. A tug, one that pulled taught from somewhere East of her. She tried to follow it back to its source, but the Force stopped her. You’ll see danced through its currents as it diverted her attempts.

Revan frowned. She was wary of whatever the Force didn’t want her to see on the other end of that tether. But, seeing as the Force didn’t see fit to tell her, she’d have to deal with it as it came.

Which might be sooner than she thought. The tether went taut for a moment, and Revan sensed the thing on the other end move. In her direction, and at a steady clip. Her eyes flew open as she gathered her senses back into herself. She climbed quickly to her feet, and looked to the East. Her eyes flicked over the dunes, wary and watchful. The Force danced around her fingertips, ready for her to call on it.

The desert was still and silent. Revan’s eyes never left the dunes, anticipation growing along with the tension in the air. The wind blew sand across her feet, and it was the only sound as she waited.

A call cut through the dunes and the tension. A call that Revan recognized, had heard over and over last time she was on Tatooine.

Sandpeople.

They crested the dunes in front of her, a mix of bantha riders and on-foot. She could tell the moment they spotted her, because the ones on foot let out another ringing cry. She steeled herself for a fight as they raised their gaffi sticks.

One of the bantha riders held up a hand, and the others immediately quieted. Revan watched, wary and curious as they slid down from their bantha, handing the reins to one of the on-foot. They walked towards her, and stopped a few feet away.

The two of them surveyed each other for a moment. In the background, the other Sandpeople stood still and silent. Revan had never seen a group of Sandpeople outside of the enclave that stood that still for so long. Her attention snaped back to the one in front of her as they reach for something on their belt. Revan was curious, but also ready to run. The Sandperson dipped their hand into a pouch and rummaged for a moment, before they seemed to find what they were looking for.

They held it out in front of them, on an open palm. They stared at Revan, waiting. A Krayt Dragon Pearl. Gleaming in the sunlight, an offering between them. Not just any Dragon Pearl. Revan recognized how it felt in the Force. The faint echo, preserved. Fainter than it should be, like it had been generations since Revan gifted it to the Chief.

Revan looked into the face of the Sandperson. Revan knew they were far from Anchorhead. She could feel that in the Force. This person should not have this Pearl. This Pearl shouldn’t feel like this, like it had been thousands of years since Revan had touched it. But it was here, and the Sandperson still waited.

She stepped forward and slowly closed her hand over the Pearl. The Sandperson let her take it. Once she’d drawn her hand back, the Sandperson waved the others forward. They circled around her. Her Sandperson took their bantha reins back. They swung up onto it’s back and looked down at her. They extended a hand down to her.

Revan looked down at it hesitantly, and back up at the masked face staring down at her expectantly. She took it after a moment, the gloved hands rough on her skin. They hauled her up behind them, and Revan grabbed their waist reflexively. They uttered a cry and dug their heels into the bantha’s side.

Around her, the Force whispered as the bantha under her moved, and the group started forward again.

The desert always remembers.

Chapter Text

Zaalbar did not particularly like the Ebon Hawk. He didn’t like space travel in the first place; it reminded him too much of his days in slavery, being carted from planet to planet like so much cargo. He didn’t hold any attachment toward the crew, either, so being a part of the Ebon Hawk crew was unappealing overall. He only stayed because of the life debt. That, and he would follow Mission wherever she chose to go. He respected the others, sure, but he didn’t really care about them. Not like with Mission.

All that was a load of bullshit, but as Zaalbar slammed an Andorian into the ground that had taken a shot at two of his stupid, reckless humans, he wished it was true.

“Juhani! HK-47!” Carth called from behind.

Zaalbar picked up a snarling Palliduvan as they dashed in front of him with a vibroblade and chucked him into a bounty hunter that was struggling to dislodge his own vibroblade from the wall. The Palliduvan squawked as the two collided and went sprawling onto the ground. Zaalbar spared a glance over his shoulder to Carth and Bastilla behind him.

Carth wore a breathless grin, hair in his eyes and back-to-back with Bastilla, who—other than her reddened cheeks—was as composed as always. Carth’s attention was fixed on something in the crowd to his right, dodging blows as he kept his eyes on whatever it was.

It was Juhani and HK-47, cutting their way toward them. Juhani’s face was a mask of burning fury, eyes flashing and a snarl twisting across her face, tearing through the crowd with her bare hands, while HK-47 shot brawlers in his usual vicious glee.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes!” Carth said as the two reached their position, ducking a kick to the head and spinning to shoot out his attacker’s kneecaps. He retreated quickly to cover Bastilla’s back once more as she deftly caught a stray shot aimed at Carth’s head on her bantha stick.

Juhani slipped into place next to Bastilla, pressing her shoulder against hers in a brief reassuring touch. HK-47 moved to cover Carth’s six, which Zaalbar silently approved of–he preferred room to work.

“It is good to see you as well,” Juhani said, brushing her arm against Carth’s in a similar touch as she assessed the fight.

Zaalbar knew that look, and watched her from the corner of his eye as he sent a few people sailing across the street. She was vicious, deadly, and unerringly effective. Bastilla glanced at her, a warning in her eyes. Privately, Zaalbar thought that Bastilla didn’t have room to talk, and he sent out silent approval to Juhani when she ignored her.

“Is it just you two?” Carth asked over the battle roar.

It was HK-47 who spoke this time. “Answer: Negative. We located both the meatbag Jolee and T3-M4.”

A blaster bolt cut down the human on Zaalbar’s left, and he bit down on a frustrated growl. They’d found the crew that was here. They needed to go.

“Where are they?” Bastilla asked, ducking under a blow aimed for her head. Without looking, she thrust her staff under her attacker’s chin with a crack. He crumpled, unconscious.

“Somewhere beyond the fight,” Juhani said, snapping a kick to a Togruta’s throat. “Jolee and T3 volunteered to get Aleema clear.”

Carth side-stepped a blade to the ribs and shot the guy in the heart. “Who the hell is Aleema?” Carth asked.

“Recommendation: Perhaps the answer can wait until they are no longer shooting at us,” HK-47 said, haughty.

Carth conceded the point with a nod as he sent a shot flying over HK's arm. He threw Zaalbar a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Z!” Carth called, and Zaalbar’s attention snapped to him. “Can you see any easy way out of this?”

Zaalbar straightened and cast a look over the top of the crowd. Bastilla’s unerringly vicious staff paired with Carth’s accurate aim had encouraged those with more self-preservation to give them a little breathing room. An irate, hulking Wookiee was probably a good deterrent too, Zaalbar conceded. But that was the only break in the fight Zaalbar could see. It stretched down both ends of the road, and Zaalbar suspected that it had spilled into the adjoining street.

They were, in a word, screwed.

“Nothing,” Zaalbar said, turning back to meet Carth’s gaze. He sighed heavily.

Zaalbar could just barely hear Carth’s mutter. “Figures.” From the snort Bastilla tried to cover up, she did too. Carth raised his voice so they could all hear him. “You guys ready to blast our way out of here?”

“That’s the best plan you can come up with? Blasting our way out of here?” Bastilla asked, knocking a blaster from the hands of a woman gunning for Juhani.

“Not the time!” Zaalbar roared, flinging a Duros into the crowd, knocking people over like bowling pins.

Zaalbar watched as the crowd broke in the thrown man’s wake. He glanced back to his crew, still viciously fending off anyone who came near, and frowned. It was the best opportunity they were likely to have. He glanced at his crew, where Bastilla and Carth were focused completely fighting, and Juhani and HK-47 looked to be unaware of anything else other than tearing into the people around them. He came to a quick decision.

Bastilla sputtered as he scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder. Carth looked back at them, eyes wide and startled before Zaalbar lifted him off his feet and over the other shoulder. Juhani didn’t notice, eyes a little wild at the edges and face still fixed in a snarl as she waited for the next target. She snarled as Zaalbar snagged her around the waist and tucked her under an arm.

“What are you doing?” Bastilla asked, pushing futilely against Zaalbar’s back. Carth just sighed, steadied himself against Zaalbar’s shoulder, and kept shooting. Juhani was still struggling, too worked up to stay still.

He ignored her and shoved his way through the momentary break the flying Duros had caused. HK-47 fell into step next to him.

“Objection: It seems unfortunate to leave the battle prematurely. Surely we should stay until it is over. After all, it’s only the polite thing to do.”

“Later, HK,” Carth barked, propping an elbow against Zaalbar’s back to get a steady shot.

HK-47 sighed, but reluctantly turned his weapon on the oncoming crowd. “Commentary: What a waste…”

Zaalbar ignored them and continued pushing through the crowd. A visibly annoyed Wookiee made a great battering ram, unsurprisingly. On Zaaalbar’s shoulder, Bastilla used the Force to deflect blaster shots while Carth returned fire, shooting down anyone angry by their forceful movement. Juhani calmed somewhat under his arm, but he could still feel the waves of anger radiating off of her. He almost regretted that his hold prevented her from fighting, but it was probably for the best.

Eventually, HK-47 caught Zaalbar’s attention. “Statement: If my predictions are correct, which they are,” he said, sending blaster bolts ahead to thin the crowd, “We should be nearing the edge of the fight.”

He was right. A street later, the angry, murderous crowd thinned out until Zaalbar was pushing his way through a normal crowd. Zaalbar walked until he couldn’t hear the fight, and then slipped down an alleyway.

Zaalbar set Juhani down and let Carth slide off his shoulder. Bastilla had already clambered her way down with as much dignity as she could muster. Zaalbar didn’t much care how she got down, but HK-47 seemed amused by it.

Well,” Carth said, holstering his blaster, “That was certainly something.” His wry expression shifted into something fond when he looked at Juhani. He reached up and gripped her shoulder, giving her a half-smile when she met his eyes. “It’s good to see you, kid,” Carth said softly. He raised his voice as he spoke again. “You too, HK.”

“Concession: I suppose it is good to see you as well, meatbag,” HK-47 said begrudgingly.

“Where are the others?” Bastilla asked. “You said you were with Jolee and T3.”

“I do not know exactly,” Juhani said. “They should be somewhere on the outskirts of the fight, although Aleema may have guided them someplace else.”

“And you didn’t set up a rendezvous point?” Bastilla asked, and internally Zaalbar sighed. That was a bit too sharp, pointed. “Are we just supposed to wander around until we find them?”

“Hey,” Carth cut in, throwing Bastila a glance “It was a stressful situation. Let’s cut each other a little slack, alright?”

Personally, Zaalbar thought Carth didn’t have any place to talk, considering his and Bastilla’s reactions upon waking up. But, he was just as uninterested in getting involved as he was then.

“Who is Aleema?” Zaalbar asked.

Juhani broke her staring contest with Bastila and turned to Zaalbar. Her shoulders had curled inward, and she seemed reluctant to meet his eyes. Bastilla’s comment had hit some hidden nerve, and the vibrating tension had morphed into shame. It was odd; Juhani wasn’t a model Jedi, which was a sore point for her, but Bastilla’s disapproval rarely mattered. Especially over something that small. It was something else. Discontent bubbled up in Zaalbar’s chest; He didn’t like it.

“A woman I ran into while searching for the crew,” Juhani answered quietly.

“Any idea where she might’ve gone?” Carth asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Very well,” Bastilla said. “We can find Jolee in the Force, assuming they’re still together.”

Carth threw his hands in the air. “We don’t even know where we are, Bastilla.“

Zaalbar reigned in the impulse to knock their heads together. It had been a messy, confusing day, filled with stubborn, reckless crew and too many firefights for Zaalbar’s taste. He did not want to hear this argument again.

Apparently, neither did HK-47.

“Observation,” HK-47 said. “We are very clearly on Tatooine.”

Carth turned to regard HK-47 in surprise. Juhani’s expression didn’t change, and she watched HK-47, unsurprised. This wasn’t new information for her, Zaalbar realized.

Bastilla raised a brow, irritated. “We’re not in Anchorhead,” Bastilla said pointedly.

Despite not having a mobile face, HK-47 managed to convey a look of exasperation “Clarification: I did not say we were in Anchorhead. I said we were on Tatooine,” HK-47 said shortly.

Zaalbar hadn’t had time to appreciate the planet before, when his focus had been the fight, but he certainly noticed now. It was hot. That was the main thing. A dry, arid heat utterly devoid of moisture, so it drew it out of you in sweat while the binary suns overhead baked it off of you. It was deeply uncomfortable with his heavy coat, and he was sure there was more sand in his fur than the dune sea. It was very much how Tatooine had felt last time.

“You’re sure?” Carth asked after a moment.

HK-47 turned his head to train on Carth. “Positive.”

“Alright, good to know.” Carth sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he raised his voice and turned to Bastilla. “Try the Force-thing. I’d like to find the crew and get off this planet as soon as possible.”

“I could not access the Force, earlier,” Juhani said, turning to Bastilla, “But perhaps if we reached together, we may be able to sense something.”

Bastilla nodded. Communicating silently, the two closed their eyes and settled into what Mission had dubbed the “Jedi Zone-Out”.

“If we’re not in Anchorhead,” Carth muttered under his breath, “Then where the hell are we?”

Zaalbar didn't have an answer for him.

_________

“What’cha making?”

Ani glanced up from the mess of wires in his lap. Leaning against the doorway, Mission watched as he grabbed a spanner, lying next to a powered-down 3PO. The droid sat leaning against the wall, still more a loose collection of wiring and frame than a droid. Ani had explained everything about C-3PO to her earlier; as soon as Shmi had finished talking with her, Ani had dragged Mission back to the half-finished droid. But she didn’t know what he was doing now.

After a moment, he looked back down to his project. “I’m re-working 3PO’s arm. There’s still a delay that I haven't been able to fix.”

Mission walked over and sat down next to him, tucking her legs underneath her. She could feel the cool stone through the fabric of her pants. It was grounding, and she latched onto the sensation.

Ani shifted so she could see what he was doing. He pointed just below C-3PO’s wrist. “Right here—some of the wires are damaged. Those are the ones that should be sending signals back and forth between his processor, but the info is getting stutter-y. I can’t replace it, so I have to work around it.”

Mission could see what he was talking about; Just below the wrist, a couple wires had some of the same scoring that T3 would complain about occasionally. Revan would usually just find repair parts, but she thought T3 would be very interested in whatever work-around Anakin found.

“How?” Mission asked. If her voice sounded a little weird, he didn’t mention it.

“Well,” Ani said, using the spanner to strip the covering off one of the faulty wires, “His hand and arm are controlled separately, so I can sort of hijack his hand controls, I guess? Just at the damaged section. Only, I’m not really sure if the signal will come back out."

“…Wouldn’t it just go to his hand?”

Using a pair of pliers, he cut the same one he’d stripped. Tilting it so she could see better, he singled out another wire. “I mean, maybe. But I’m not really sending everything through the same line. It’s more of a back up? Boost? It’s a secondary flow of information that’ll shore up when the main starts stuttering, and hopefully flow back out to the arm control further down. If I’m lucky, their receivers are different enough that there won't be any mixed-up info.”

He tapped two points on a long, grey wire that ran along the length of 3PO’s arm down to his hand as Mission listened, intent. Gratitude spread through her chest, quick and warm as he talked through his work, patient and absent and nice. She let herself be absorbed, reaching to hold a wire out of the way or hand him a tool when he asked. She didn’t want to think about—other things right now, and this was a good distraction. Canderous didn’t say as much, but she knew he’d disappeared out the back door for the same reason she was sitting here now. Something to do to get her mind off everything. Anakin seemed to get it. He didn’t mention it, just scooted closer so his knee touched hers as he talked.

“Where’d you get this stuff, anyway?” Mission asked as Ani fixed the last of the wires.

Ani shrugged. “It’s just some old stuff Watto threw away. There’s not much use for protocol droids out here, 'specially broken ones. They’re not worth repairing.”

“So why’re you making one?”

“It’s for mom,” Ani said. “To help her out. Only the really important people need a protocol droid, so I figured mom needed one too. Besides,” he said proudly as he finished up, “3PO’s going to be much more than a protocol droid.”

Anakin scooted over to reattach the arm. Arm firmly in place, Ani leaned back and reached up to press the button high on C-3P0's shoulder. The lights in 3P0's head lit up, and Ani scooted back as the droid jerked awake.

“Oh! Oh, where is everyone?” 3PO’s high accented voice asked. Servos whirred softly as he turned his head unsteadily from side to side.

“Oops,” Anakin murmured, and Mission stifled a giggle. “Sorry, 3PO. Your visual processors are in the other room. I forgot to put them back in.”

“Oh, well. I suppose that’s alright.” 3PO said, voice still unsteady with anxiety. Mission was starting to get the impression that he was just a very high-strung droid.

“They’ll be on next time, promise,” Ani assured. He gestured to the arm he’d just reattached, despite 3P0's lack of sight. “Why don’t you try the arm out?”

Tentatively, C-3PO stretched his arm out in front of him. With the same uncertainty, he raised it in circles, slowly growing more confident as the movement went relatively smoothly. Still with a certain lack of polish, but he wiggled his fingers and let out a sound of delight.

“Oh, this is marvelous! No glitch at all!” He turned his head in Ani's general direction. “Thank you, Master Ani! I don’t know what you did, but whatever it was, it’s a much needed improvement,” he said, nodding his head.

Anakin was grinning. “Glad you like it. Do you want to say hi to Mission?” he asked.

“Mistress Mission is here?” 3PO’s head swiveled back and forth, trying to find her in his blindness. He realized it after a moment and stilled, gaze fixed somewhere to the left of Ani, a faint air of embarrassment hovering in the rigid stiffness of his limbs. “Hello! It is nice to see you again. Ah, well. Relatively speaking.”

Mission smiled. “Nice to see you too, 3PO.”

He moved his arm a bit more, not used to the improvement, seemingly happy to enjoy it. He was a funny droid, but she couldn’t help liking him. After a moment, he seemed to hesitate, arm stilling. He turned his sightless eyes back to Anakin.

“Master Anakin, might I request that I be turned off for the time being? I wouldn't want to drain my batteries, after all.” 3PO asked.

“You don’t like not being able to see,” Anakin summed up, amused.

“Yes, well... It’s rather disorienting,” C-3PO said quickly.

“That’s alright. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“As you wish, Master Anakin. I hope to see you again, Mistress Mission,” he said as Anakin reached for the power switch.

The lights on C-3PO’s body flickered off, and he slumped back against the wall. Anakin slid off his knees and settled into a sitting position. He smiled at Mission.

“He likes you.”

The quiet warmth that thrilled through her at that tugged her mouth into an answering smile. “I like him too. He’s very impressive.”

She meant it, too. There had been plenty of black-market droids on Taris, but nothing as complex as C-3PO. Not built from scratch with discarded junk. And none of those sellers would’ve been able to do half the repairs that Anakin did to make 3PO work. And Anakin couldn’t be older than ten.

“Hey,” Anakin said suddenly, extending a foot to nudge her. “Why don’t you tell me about your crew? You’ve already met my family,” he prodded when she hesitated, “I want to hear about yours.”

Well, when he put it that way…

“At first, it was just me and Big Z—”

_________

“We need to get your chip out,” Shmi said, pressing the blood-soaked cloth to the sluggishly bleeding cut on Aleema’s face.

Jolee, standing to the side of the workbench, scowled. Perched on top of the cleared workbench, Aleema winced as Shmi gently turned her face.

“You know a medic willing to do it?” Jolee asked, crossing his arms as he watched Shmi carefully wipe the blood away from Aleema’s eyes.

“Yes,” Shmi said, and the corner of her mouth pinched. “But he’s at Gardulla’s Palace. He won’t be back in time.”

T3 beeped alarmedly, and Jolee nudged him with a foot to calm him down.

“Kark.” Aleema sighed, shifting on the workbench. "Jobal was training Dinah. She available?”

Shmi shook her head. “Not trained enough.”

“Is there no one else?” Jolee asked.

Aleema broke out of Shmi's hold and turned her head to look at him. Shmi tutted at her and followed her face with the cloth.

“No one else that wouldn’t set off the explosives. Unless one of your crew is a decent medic,” Aleema said, voice morbidly amused.

Shmi’s hand stilled for a moment before she resumed her ministrations. “Crew?”

“My crew and I got separated when we landed on-planet. We’ve been trying to find each other—it’s part of what Aleema got herself caught up in.”

Shmi turned to stare at him. Aleema winced as she fidgeted, trying to find a good position for her ribs. Shmi’s attention was pulled back to Aleema and she swatted at her for moving.

Jolee hummed to himself. Slave chips weren’t commonly used. They were risky and unstable. Too often they blew up before an owner set them off, and not many owners were willing to risk the profit loss for a bit of extra security. But Jolee knew enough about them, and he was a decent medic.

“I can do it.”

Both of them turned to look at him, surprised. They glanced back at each other, some silent conversation passing between them that Jolee didn't catch. The only one who didn’t seem fazed was T3, but then again he’d seen the Ebon Hawk crew come to him when they’d gotten worse than a few scrapes and bruises. He wasn’t that confident in his skills, but he knew enough. And if it saved Aleema, he’d make himself confident in his skills.

“If it means I don’t explode, I’m okay with it,” Aleema said, breaking their silent back-and-forth.

Shmi shot her a disapproving look, but Aleema semed determined to be amused in the face of potential death by explosive. Sighing, Shmi pulled Aleema’s hand up to hold the cloth against her face, and stepped back. She grabbed a thin grey shawl from the shelves and turned back to Aleema.

“We can use my back room,” she said, drawing the shawl around Aleema.

“What’re you doing?” Aleema asked as Shmi tied it in a loose knot. “You can’t leave work early.”

Real fear flickered in her eyes, fear for Shmi, but Shmi was steadfast.

“Watch me. Jolee,” Shmi said, fixing him with a no-nonsense look, “Come here.”

Jolee, for once in his life, was not going to argue with an order.

Aleema looped her arms over his shoulders as he crouched in front of the workbench. His knees gave a creak of protest as Shmi helped her onto his back, T3 doing his best to help. Once she was settled, he slowly stood.

Shmi carefully rearranged the shawl more securely around Aleema.

“Alright,” she said, pulling back and looking them over. She nodded, satisfied. “Just follow me.”

_________

The saddle jingled softly as the bantha walked. The Sandperson in front of her moved up and down with the bantha’s steps, and she had to adjust her grip. The sunlight beat down, baking hot, and she absently wished for a head covering. It was an interesting experience, bantha riding. For all Revan’s knowledge, she couldn’t say she’d ever ridden one. It was a new, if not strange. She had lived a varied life, and large pack animals were similar on every planet. A soft, steady presence in the Force that reminded her of Alderaanian Nerfs. The Sandpeople were a different matter, and one that Revan puzzled over as they made their way steadily across the dunes.

Every being had its own unique Force signature. The pulse of life in the back of her awareness, something different that reflected the being it belonged to. It whispered faint impressions of their emotions—bright flares of surprise, the cloying taste of a lie, a murmur of suspicion, and the quiet warmth of contentment. It mingled with the currents that lingered everywhere.

The Force around her now felt… muted. Not empty–Revan had lived enough to know the difference. Here, the life of the desert still glimmered in her mind, a low presence at the edge of her consciousness. The banthas were a soft, steady glow; The kind of solid warmth that Revan remembered from her last visit. But the Sandpeople were an interesting conundrum.

They were a murmur. Just a murmur, one that didn’t so much as slip away from her grasp as curl into itself and whisper there’s nothing here, there is the sun and the sand and that is all. She couldn’t sense anything of them. Muted and tightly contained, the Force twined around her companions in wisps and told her nothing. It was odd—A few species had natural force-shielding abilities, but this didn’t feel quite like shielding. Just… camouflage.

It sent an ache of worry through her chest. There was a reason for it, something that she didn’t know. Something that the months they’d been absent from Tatooine couldn’t explain. The Krayt Pearl burned at her hip. A suspicion curled in the pit of her stomach, pulled down on her shoulders. The weight of her own body felt suddenly much heavier, and she fixed her eyes on the horizon in front of them. Revan was tired. She wanted her crew close and safe, wanted them to be happy and taken care of. She did not want them to be ripped away from everything they held dear. It did not matter about her; she had rebuilt herself, rebuilt her life, many times before. They hadn’t. She did not want them to have to.

Revan tightened her grip, twisting her fingers in the loose folds of her Sandperson’s tunic, the fabric rough against her skin. She filled her lungs with the heat-soaked, sandy air, and let the soft snorting breaths of the banthas fill her ears. Maybe her suspicions were correct, but Revan was nothing if not resourceful. Her crew was resilient. She had faith in that. Unorthodox, her mind supplied, but all the more resilient for it.

The banthas on either side of her slowed to a stop, and Revan pulled herself firmly out of her thoughts. Around her, saddles jingled as the riders slid to the ground. Revan withdrew her arms from her Sandperson as they shifted. She leaned out of their way as they swung their leg over and slid off, landing on the sand with a soft crunch. They looked back up to her and held out their hand, silently offering assistance. It was an amiable gesture, and she took it with a silent wave of gratitude through the Force. They seemed to understand nonetheless, and nodded.

She hadn’t taken much time to assess their surroundings on the ride—dune seas were dune seas—but now, on the ground, the banthas blocked most of her view. The sandpeople around her busied themselves with loosening the straps of their saddles, baying softly to each other. The Sandperson she had ridden with waved over one of the foot travelers. They exchanged a few words, and the foot traveler moved to take charge of Revan’s bantha.

Her Sandperson caught her attention. They motioned for her to follow, and she fell into step beside them. They pushed past the banthas in front, and Revan’s breath caught. A large sandstone gorge stretched away to the right, reaching higher as it went. Archways, stairs, and awnings sprawled across the walls, carved into the stone. They reached from ground-level to the very top of the gorge. It was a city, cut into the face of the cliffs. Revan marveled at the amount of work that had to have gone into this.

Wind swirled sand around her feet, and her Sandperson urged her forward. Behind them, the banthas huffed as the other Sandpeople spoke among themselves. She let her companion lead her to one of the many ground-level openings, a little wider than the others. As she grew closer, she noticed inscriptions carved into the stone around the arch. Sharp, jagged characters that she couldn’t read. The tugged at something in the back of her mind as she studied them.

Revan felt the unmistakable weight of another pair of eyes on her. She glanced at her companion, who had stopped on the threshold to stare at her. She caught a flash of bewilderment and curiosity before it was quickly hidden behind a quiet whisper of there is nothing, there is no one, there is just the sand and the sun and the land. You see nothing else. There is nothing else. A flicker of surprise went through Revan. It was the first real impression she had sensed from them.

After a moment of mutual staring, the Sandperson stepped up and through the door, leaving her no time to dwell on it. They glanced back at her to make sure she was following. Revan took a look at the sprawling, vertical city. She breathed deeply, and stepped through the archway.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet. A pocket of stillness and calm, it settled around him like a balm against the chaos of the day. It was small, just enough for some essentials and a small stone table. Canderous hadn’t bothered turning on the light, just let the sun from the main room spill through the archway. The stone stone of the wall was a cool relief against his bare arm. It was what kept him rooted there, leaning on it, watching the front door out of the kitchen archway. There was a little voice in the back of his head that said he should sit down and rest his legs, maybe check his stolen blaster again. But, he’d already done that. Doing it again felt useless, and Canderous wasn't big on meaningless tasks.

A sharp note of laughter sounded in the other room, and Canderous fought the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was on the wrong side of the archway to have a good view of the two, but he could hear them. It was good to hear the kid laughing. Mission had needed a distraction, needed something close to normal. Some time with Ani was good for the kid.

Canderous shifted for a better view of the door. Loathe as he was to admit it, he'd needed a bit of a distraction himself. Mission had caught him before he slipped out the back door, and nodded, just barely, understanding, before Ani called her back into the main room and Canderous slipped out. Not for the same reasons–He’d burned enough worlds and lived enough lives to be unmoved by the upending of his own. War was a hell of a lesson in adaptability, and mercenary work didn’t exactly promote attachment. But he’d gotten a little attached to the Ebon Hawk and her crew. It was what had driven him out of the Skywalker’s house, and why there was now a second blaster resting on his hip, courtesy of a rather unfortunate Bounty Hunter. It was for Mission, once she and the Skywalker kid were done chatting. Leaving her in the other room, weaponless, didn’t sit quite right in his chest, but she needed this. He could wait. Not too long, but for now. For now it could wait.

Although, It might be cut a bit short. Beyond the voices of Mission and Anakin, he heard something; barely audible scuffing, and a what might have been someone’s voice. Just outside the door, and growing louder. Canderous started to straighten off the wall, alert, before one of the voices raised, and a ping of recognition made him pause. Shmi. Canderous relaxed, but stepped into the main room and kept his eyes on the door, idly curious.

A moment later, the door slid open. Shmi stepped through, her expression steely and eyes flashing. Canderous' guard went up as he watched her eyes find Anakin, sitting with Mission around a plaitless droid on the floor. Anakin and Mission’s conversation cut off. Anakin looked toward his mom in confusion. Mission watched, lekku twitching in concern.

“Ani,” Shmi said, and Anakin straightened, alert, at her tone, “Go get the first aid kit.”

The kid stood quickly, abandoning his project on the floor, and darted into one of the back rooms. Canderous opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but the question died in his throat as someone else stepped through the open door.

Jolee Bindo, scowling and caked in dust, squinting in the new dimness, an equally dusty, bruised and bleeding green Twi’lek woman clinging onto his back. Canderous felt the absurd urge to laugh. He didn’t know why he was surprised.

“Just through here,” Shmi said, motioning to an archway in the back.

Jolee didn’t move for a second. He’d caught sight of Mission, who stood and stared in surprise. Canderous, still off to the side, hadn’t been noticed yet. He just watched some of the strain ease underneath Jolee’s scowl in a way the old man would certainly deny.

“Jolee?” Mission called, and Shmi’s attention rested briefly on her. She didn’t look surprised, and Canderous filed away that observation to examine later.

Anakin ran back in with a plastisteel box and handed it to Shmi, who took it with quick affectionate hand over Ani’s hair. Anakin squinted at Jolee with slow dawning realization.

“Later,” she said, looking at Mission and Jolee in equal measure. The order was kind and soft, but underneath it was the steel that Canderous was starting to associate with Shmi.

“We’ll talk later, kid,” Jolee said firmly, and followed Shmi as she waved him into the back room. “And someone go help T3! He can’t get up the steps.”

As soon as they were out of sight, and before Mission or Canderous could say anything, Ani tugged on her arm.

“You have a droid?”

“Well,” Mission said, “We don’t really have a droid. T3 just does what he wants, and I guess that includes sticking with us.”

Canderous grunted in agreement as he moved toward the door, Anakin and Mission trailing behind him. He figured he might as well do this now–if he didn’t rope T3 into distracting Mission she was bound to either worry about Jolee, or go and bug the old man, and Canderous wasn’t in the mood to deal with the mood Jolee got into when someone interrupted him while he was playing medic. And based on that Twi’lek’s injuries, that’s certainly what he was doing.

“You didn’t mention him in your stories,” Anakin said as Canderous paused to listen outside the door. There was nothing else except for the impatient beeping of T3, and Canderous deemed it safe enough to open.

“I didn’t get that far!” Mission retorted as the door slid open.

T3 paused beeping and swiveled to look up at them. He sat at the base of the one stair, pressed as close to it as he could be, like he had been rolling against it impatiently. Defeated, by three inches of concrete. Canderous felt bad for the little droid. T3 had complained about the sand sticking in his joints the last time they were on Tatooine, and he was covered in it now. T3’s usual bitchy attitude about sand seemed to have taken a break at the sight of them, however. He made an quiet questioning noise that trailed off as he stared at Canderous and Mission.

“Well,” Canderous said gruffly after several moments, “Do you want a hand up or not?”

T3 beeped excitedly and practically shook as he swivled between Canderous and Mission. He rolled back and forth as he beeped an energetic greeting, lights flashing.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Canderous said, and stepped down to the sand where T3 was.

T3 kept up an excited string of questions and exclamations in binary as Canderous bent down. Mission and Anakin, despite following him out here, made no move to help, but rather chatted with T3 as Canderous considered the best way to pick him up. Canderous got his arms underneath T3 as best he could, one arm wrapped around his body and the other under his back wheels. With a grunt of effort, Canderous stood. The little droid was heavier than he looked. The sharp edges of T3’s chassis bit into his arms and burned uncomfortably with the heat of the sun.

He tuned out the very excited conversation the other three were still having, and carried T3 through the door. Mission and Anakin followed after him like eager ducklings, Mission happy to see another one of the crew, and Anakin peppering T3 with questions about his model, which was “different than anything I’ve ever seen before, where’d you come from?”. Anakin seemed especially taken with the little droid.

Perhaps less carefully than one of the other crew members would have done it, Canderous set T3 down a good couple of feet from the door. T3 turned around to look up at him, rolling gently against his leg and beeping out his thanks.

“Don’t mention it,” Canderous said.

T3 just shook his dome and rolled back over to Mission. She leant down and patted his dome affectionately. Anakin seemed to be visually cataloguing all the parts of T3’s design he recognized. Bastilla would have sighed at the amount of sand that was falling from T3, leaving a trail across the Skywalker’s floor. Canderous only felt a small amount of regret that someone would have to clean it up, but it wasn’t his problem.

“Did you two find anyone else?” Mission asked, looking down at T3.

Canderous watched T3 closely as the little astromech nodded. Mission’s eyes lit up in excitement and she looked up at Canderous. Canderous didn’t acknowledge it, just kept his attention on T3.

“Know where they are now?” Canderous asked.

T3 made a sad noise and rolled backward, shaking his head. Mission deflated a little, but patted T3’s head again anyway.

“Well, that’s alright. We’ll find ‘em eventually.”

T3 trilled and rolled gently against her leg in concern.

“We’ll talk strategy later, once Jolee is here,” Canderous told Mission.

Mission nodded, and her excitement had been covered by the same expression that she wore before they got into a firefight; when she was the determined Taris street rat with a chip on her shoulder, and a dogged perseverance to come out on top.

Ani tugged on her arm, and the expression eased.

“So,” he started, and Canderous hadn’t been around children that much, but he could tell that tone meant trouble. “That’s was your grandpa, right?” Ani asked.

Mission's cheeks flushed as she turned to Anakin. “Excuse me?” she demanded.

Ani just smiled unrepentantly. “He sounded a lot like a grandpa in your stories.”

“Jolee is not my grandfather!”

“Well sure, not biologically—“

Canderous couldn’t help it. He started laughing, a rough, barking sound that interrupted Anakin’s sentence and was sure to just make Mission angrier. She glared at him, but Anakin’s smile just grew into a grin.

“I’m on your side, kid,” Canderous placated roughly .

Mission eyed him like she knew he was full of shit, but accepted it anyway. She reached up to scratch at her nose, and left behind a smear of grease. Canderous had to shove down any amusement. Another smear of grease rested high on her cheek, he noticed. Anakin had similar, if more, smears on his face, and both of their hands were blackened with the same oil. Anakin seemed to realize it at the same time Canderous did, and nudged Mission with his shoulder. She turned to look at him, a hint of indignancy still in her face.

“Hey, you wanna get this stuff off?” he said, gesturing with his grease-covered hands. “Maybe we can help if we’re clean.”

Mission looked down at her hands like she’d just realized how filthy they were. She sighed as Anakin helpfully informed her that she had some on her face, too.

“Lead the way, then,” she said.

Canderous watched as they walked off toward the kitchen, disappearing through the archway. He could still hear them as they talked. Anakin seemed to have taken it upon himself to make Mission feel more at ease, and Canderous appreciated it. Mission did too, it seemed. The emotionally charged revelation in the spare bedroom wasn’t good for the kid to wallow in.

He would check in with Mission later, he decided. For now, Jolee could probably use another pair of steady hands.

_________

The Force was both unusually active and yet quiet at the same time. It was odd, Bastilla thought. She could feel the Force signatures of many different life forms—Tens of thousands of beings singing in the Force, a giant wave that would have threatened to overwhelm her had she had less training. But the whispers that would reach out to her and offer hints of guidance, they weren’t gone, really, just… subdued. Selective. Like the Force was holding back.

It felt like a punishment. She knew, intellectually, that it wasn’t. The Force didn’t keep grudges, and no one held her fall against her—Revan, Jolee, and Juhani had hammered that in enough these past months. But she was supposed to be better than that. She was supposed to guide Revan away from the Darkside, and she was so sure she could do it, right up until she Fell herself.

Juhani’s Force presence brushed against her own, concerned. Bastilla centered herself and let the negative emotions drift away in the Force. She sent out a reassurance and a quiet apology. Juhani accepted, but stayed close in the Force, as if she could ward away the sickly cloud of shame by her presence alone. Which was a noble effort, and rather comforting. Juhani's force presence was straightforward kind of light, open, with an air of simple understanding that reminded Bastilla a little of Revan.

Bastilla felt the hints of more shame and regret. She hadn’t meant to snap at Juhani the way she did, hadn’t meant to… judge her the way that she did. She should not be one to look down on people for their anger, and Juhani’s was completely justifiable. Force knows Bastilla might not have been able to anchor herself to the light if she’d lived the life Juhani had. But feeling Juhani’s anger in the Force, her rage and her hurt… reaching for the Force in that moment felt dangerous, felt too much like herself when she had faced down Revan, Jolee, and Juhani on the top of the Temple of the Ancients, or when she had tried to kill Revan on the Star Forge.

She had needed to distance herself. Had felt herself slipping back into that perfect Jedi mask she would hide behind when she couldn’t control the emotions she wasn’t supposed to be feeling. And she had directed that at Juhani. Which wasn’t fair, and wasn’t right. She had caused those same feelings in Juhani with her words. It was easy to forget that they were both struggling with the same thing. Hard to admit that she was struggling with it at all.

Juhani’s mind brushed against her again, drawing her out of her thoughts. Bastilla sent another apology through the Force, but this time Juhani waved it away. Bastilla got the sense that she’d picked up on some of her ruminating, and pushed down the urge to feel embarrassed. Instead, she reached out to Juhani, and brought her memory of Jolee’s Force presence to the forefront of her mind. She felt Juhani do the same. They let their minds boost the other, stretching their senses out across the city.

They felt nothing for a while, before they snagged on a staunch presence that reminded Bastilla of the Kashyyyk Shadowlands.

Jolee.

Satisfied that they could track him now, Bastilla and Juhani carefully withdrew their minds. Bastilla gathered her senses back into her body, and with a breath, opened her eyes.

The overwhelming yellow and tan of their Tatooine alley greeted her. Carth, leaning against the alley wall, pushed off as he saw her eyes open. Bastilla saw Juhani open her eyes a moment later. Zaalbar and HK-47 didn’t move, just watched her and Juhani appraisingly. Juhani blinked and turned to look at Carth as he came forward. He offered a hand to each of them. Bastilla took one, and Juhani did the same. He hauled them to their feet.

“Find what you needed?” Carth asked as they brushed the sand from their knees.

“Yes, I believe we did,” Bastilla said.

“Well,” Carth said, gesturing an arm at the entrance of the alley. “Lead the way.”

Bastilla looked toward Juhani, and nodded her head towards the street, a clear invitation to lead the way together. Juhani gave her something that was almost a smile, and walked forward with her to the mouth of the alleyway. The other three fell into line behind them.

It wasn’t a particularly busy street, and they merged with the limited traffic fairly quickly. Tatooine was… not necessarily unpleasant, but rough. Certainly nowhere Bastilla would have gone of her own volition. The street vendors were particularly insistent, and her minimalistic Jedi upbringing made their hawking sit uncomfortably in her chest. And the heat and sand did not mix well with her robes. Nonetheless, they made decent time through the streets, orienting themselves with a quick check on Jolee’s Force presence.

The other three non-Jedi had dropped back a little, to give them some room to decide a direction. It also gave the two of them a modicum of privacy. Bastilla, gathering her courage, reached out to Juhani and hooked their arms together, drawing them closer together. Juhani started and stared at her in surprise, but made no move to remove her arm. In fact, once she registered it, she bent her arm as well, so they were walking fully arm-in-arm.

“I… wanted to apologize,” Bastilla said haltingly. At Juhani’s newly surprised expression, Bastilla’s words spilled out faster. “It was unfair of me to judge you so harshly. That is not my place, and you haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve just been a little on edge recently, and I took it out on you.” She sounded awkward, unsure in a way that she hated, but she hadn’t done this much. She was trying to do better, but her own stumbling speech made her cringe.

“It is alright,” Juhani said softly.

“No, really, I—“

Juhani squeezed her arm. “I understand,” she said, turning her head to meet Bastilla’s eyes. “It is not easy, this path. The climb back to the light is harder than the Fall. You…” she seemed to carefully consider her own words, like she was still struggling to internalize them herself, “You are allowed to be angry, and have days where it seems so much harder and Falling seems simpler.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Bastilla asked softly.

“I think so,” Juhani said. She pulled Bastilla a little closer. “It takes a long time, but I think we will get there. Revan did.”

Bastilla didn’t say anything in response, just tucked her arm tighter around Juhani’s.

If they stayed like that the rest of the way, the others were too smart to comment on it.

_________

“Right here,” Shmi said, quickly moving the few pieces of junk that were scattered on the table.

Jolee carefully walked forward in the small room, dodging a couple broken parts on the floor. It looked like it had once been a smaller storage room, until it was repurposed for a spartan workspace. There was some clutter here and there, but it was clean, and the metal table sitting in the middle of the room would work.

Turning, he slowly lowered Aleema onto the table until she was securely on the edge. She hissed slightly when she withdrew her arms from around his shoulders. As soon as Jolee was clear, Shmi was gently coaxing Aleema to lay down. The table was, thankfully, long enough to hold her, and she went with only vague protests. She really didn’t look good. Her thread-bare clothes were stained with blood in splotches that spoke of hidden injuries. Despite Shmi’s efforts earlier, the bloody mess still curled around her eye and down the side of her face. She breathed shallowly in a way that suggested bruised or broken ribs.

Jolee pushed down the tired grief and irritation. He’d seen worse, fought in quite a few wars. He was used to this, but he still didn’t like it. Best he could do is patch her up, he thought as Shmi handed him the first aid kit.

He set the kit on the table by Aleema’s feet. “You know where your chip is?” he asked as he cracked it open. It was well stocked, in a way that made Jolee suspect this was not the first time someone had needed it for this. But it had enough supplies that Jolee could get the job done with little improvisation.

“No,” Aleema said, turning her head to look at him. “Discourages people from escaping.”

Jolee didn’t voice his thoughts on that, since he figured Shmi wouldn’t appreciate her son hearing that kind of language. He sighed. Okay. Chances are they didn’t have a scanner. Which left a game of cut-and-guess, which no one was keen on playing, or the Force. Assuming that it would cooperate. Aleema didn’t have time for the finicky game the Force was playing right now, and as Jolee watched Shmi reach out to grasp Aleema’s hand, his only hope was that the Force would comply.

Jolee closed his eyes on Shmi’s curious look, and sank into the currents of the Force. It swirled around him, but the tight eddies of before were curiously absent. Instead, they seemed to flow around the room, gently steering him away from the Force outside of it. As he reached his senses out, the Force gently directed him towards Aleema. He sent a quiet note of gratitude and relief to the Force as he focused on her. There was no answer, but he wasn’t expecting one.

Aleema’s Force presence was like a cool breeze in the shade of the desert. Like the wind that would send ripples through a pool of water in an oasis. There was a hint of wildness to it, like the threat of a sandstorm breathed behind every gust. He searched across it for the sense of something out of place, something that didn’t belong.

There. In her leg, there was a part that the wind avoided, where the air was dead in a way that no living thing could be. The chip. About halfway up her calf, a square of metal and circuitry, embedded into the muscle there.

Jolee drew himself out of the Force. He opened his eyes to see Shmi and Aleema staring at him. Aleema’s expression hinted at idle curiosity, but Shmi had realization dawning in her eyes. Jolee chose to ignore that for now, and reached out to lightly tap on Aleema’s calf.

“Right here,” he said. “I should be able to get it out, but you’re not going to be walking on that leg for a while.”

Aleema nodded as best she could while laying down. She didn’t seem to be in the mood for questioning how he knew. “Do it.”

They didn’t have gloves, but there was an old portable sonic, so it would have to do. Aleema watched intently as he ran it over the section of her leg that contained the chip. Once he was sure his hands and her leg were as clean as they were going to get, he set it down and met Aleema’s eyes.

“You might want something to bite down on, kid.”

She shook her head. “I will be fine.” The look on her face spoke of someone who was used to worse than this.

He just huffed. Her choice. They didn’t have time for him to argue with her. He just grabbed the scalpel and a pad of gauze. Shmi readjusted her grip on Aleema’s hand and set one hand on her shoulder. She looked more concerned than Aleema, oddly. Jolee held the gauze to her leg just above the chip with one hand, and without giving Aleema a chance to tense, he made the cut.

He heard Aleema suck in a breath through her teeth. He held her leg down with the gauze as it jumped instinctively, and reached quickly for the one old pair of forceps as blue blood seeped from the cut. He chanced a glance at Aleema’s face, he saw her watching what he was doing. The only real sign of pain was the tightness around her mouth and eyes and the tight grip on Shmi’s hand. He turned his attention back on what he was doing.

The chip was a null point in his mind, and Jolee used the Force to guide his hands. He worked quickly, and soon got a hold on the chip. Carefully, and slowly, he drew the chip out of her leg. Aleema tensed at the feeling, and he could feel Shmi’s eyes on him. Once he got it free, she relaxed, letting out a breath. Jolee quickly moved the hand with the gauze over the cut, pressing down as he reached for the needle and a thin pair of plyers.

Shmi was there a moment later. She nodded at Jolee’s hand, and he let her take over as he readied the needle. She was still applying pressure when Jolee turned back, and she moved the gauze quickly as Jolee moved in.

He worked quickly, Aleema gritting her teeth at every puncture. He tied the stitches off, and set the needle and plyers down on the table. Shmi handed him a new piece of gauze, and he pressed it against the wound. He lifted Aleema’s leg as Shmi wrapped it in bandages, securing the gauze. Gently, Jolee set her leg down. He sent a little Force healing into her leg to, hopefully, ward off an infection.

“Alright, the dangerous mini explosive is out of your body,” Jolee scowled, looking down at Aleema’s face.

Aleema threw him a wane smile. “I gathered that.” The smile faded from her face and her expression turned more serious. “Thank you.”

Shmi, still standing across the table from him, had the same sentiments in her expression. There was gratitude in her eyes as she regarded him.

He very pointedly didn’t roll his eyes, but he was sure the two of them got the message. “Don’t thank me yet. You could still die, until we get rid of this thing,” he grumbled.

“I’ve got that covered,” a voice said from behind him, and Jolee whipped around.

Canderous Ordo stood in the doorway, as scarred and sharp as ever. Actually, Jolee was mildly impressed that he didn’t have any new scars. He might not have been the most reckless of them all, but he was the most trigger-happy. Jolee hadn’t known he was here, but he should have guessed that one of the others would have found Mission. It’s not as if any of them were keen on the idea of leaving her alone on a slaver planet. And he was slightly relieved to see Canderous in one piece, he could begrudgingly admit. Not that he’d tell anyone. Nonetheless, that didn’t excuse sneaking up on elderly crew members.

Jolee pointed an accusing finger at Canderous. “No scaring the old man, damn it!”

Canderous just gave a small, smug smile that got on Jolee’s nerves. “You missed me when you came in. If anything, this is on you, old man.”

That was true, if the amusement on Shmi’s face was anything to go by. Jolee just scowled.

“Tell you what—when you get to my age, you can go ahead and miss a thing or two. You have my permission.”

“Nice as that is, I’d rather just have the chip, if it’s all the same to you,” Canderous said.

“Your crew?” Aleema asked, the pieces starting to fall together for her. Shmi didn’t look surprised in the slightest, but Jolee supposed she’d probably heard some of the story from Canderous and Mission.

“No, I’m just yelling at him because I like it.”

Canderous sighed. “Just hand me the chip, Jolee.”

Jolee scowled deepened, and he could hear Revan teasing him that it would stick like that one of these days. Nonetheless, he wrapped the chip in a spare piece of gauze and held it out to Canderous.

Jolee caught Canderous’ wrist as he drew his hand back, now holding the chip, and held it there. “You can dump this before it explodes?” he asked. Canderous opened his mouth to respond, probably some gravelly Mandalorian crap, but Jolee cut him off. “Without getting yourself horribly, recklessly injured?”

“I’m touched at your faith in me,” Canderous said, but nodded anyway.

Satisfied, Jolee let go of his arm. “Well, what are you still doing here? Shoo!”

Canderous didn’t even grace him with a response, just nodded to Shmi and Aleema with a curt “Ma’am”, and left to go dispose of the chip.

Jolee shook his head and muttered something about “kids these days” that was too quiet for anyone else to make out, before turning back to Aleema and Shmi. Aleema had, at some point, propped herself up on an elbow. Shmi was standing beside her

“How long has he been here?” Jolee asked Shmi after a moment.

“Since this morning,” Shmi said. Jolee looked up at her, and he saw that her eyes had lost some of the steely intensity. “He came looking for Mission.”

“Well,” Jolee grumbled, “I’m just glad somebody found her.”

He looked at Aleema. Her arm, supporting her weight, trembled. Jolee sighed. The chip wasn’t the end of it, she definitely still needed medical attention.

Shmi placed her hand on his arm when he reached for the bandages. “We’ve got it from here,” she said, a silent message to go talk with Mission in her eyes.

Well, Jolee supposed he couldn’t argue with that. “Come get me if you need any help,” he said grouchily.

Shmi very pointedly ignored him as she grabbed a couple bandages. Jolee just sighed, and left to go find Mission.

_________

The city was extensive. That was the main impression Revan got from the long sequence of hallways her guide led her through. The city was a network of interconnected hallways, archways, rooms, and the staircases that linked it all together. It was… surprisingly open. Revan had expected to feel trapped, claustrophobic. But the hallways were wide and well-lit, the Sandpeople stretching the natural sunlight as far as they could, lighting the rest with warmly glowing stones that were remarkably similar to the natural light. It had been painstakingly created and cared for, and she wondered how long it had been here.

It was nice in way she didn’t expect from Tatooine. Tatooine had been a place of rough survival and steadfast endurance, last time. Now it felt a little different. A little less barren. Even if they hadn’t run into anyone else, which Revan suspected her guide was purposefully doing, it still felt like there was more life here.

Her guide stopped her in front of an archway, cutting her musings short. It looked the same as the many others they had passed before. Her Sandperson paused for a moment, and Revan could read the lines of hesitation in their body. They looked over at hers and stared. She looked back curiously. She couldn’t read anything from them–after their slip earlier, the Sandperson’s camouflage had stayed steady and unfaltering. But she could pick up on their body language, and they seemed to be silently deliberating over something.

Slowly, the Sandperson reached into their belt. Revan felt her curiosity spike as they drew out a piece of japor. Revan vaguely remembered seeing japor snippets on the Gaffi sticks of the Enclave Sandpeople back near Anchorhead. The Sandperson held it out to her, the snippet resting in their palm. They waited, unmoving. Revan looked between them and the snippet. It felt like Krayt Pearl again. But, this moment here didn't have the same weight, where it felt like the japor carried a destiny, an inevitability. This had weight, but it was not the weight of the galaxy. This was just a moment, and it was just a japor snippet and a choice.

Carefully, she reached out and curled her hand around it. When the Sandperson didn’t react, she tucked it into her palm and withdrew her hand. Her guide regarded her for a moment, then nodded.

Revan didn’t know what it meant, but the Sandperson left her little time to ponder it. They stepped through the archway, and Revan could only follow behind them.

It opened onto a circular room, moderately sized, but unlike the rest of the city Revan had seen, there were Sandpeople here. A group stood talking in the center, and a few were engaged in individual conversations nearer the walls. The ones in the center seemed to be absorbed in their conversation, and didn't notice them. Her guide motioned for her to wait, and walked forward to the group. They caught the attention of one of the Sandpeople on the far side of the group. The rest of the group blocked her view. Whoever they were, she watched as they quietly made their excuses and extracted themselves from the group.

Her guide lead them over to her, and Revan’s eye caught on her guide's companion. On the darker clothes, the decorated Gaffi stick carved with symbols and draped with japor. It wasn't the same one she had met in the Dune Seas around Anchorhead, but this was undeniably the Chief.

The two of them stopped a few feet from her. The three of them stared at each other for a long moment. Slowly, not knowing what else to do, Revan reached into the pouch on her belt and brought out the Krayt Pearl. The one that whispered faintly of a time it was gifted to another chief in another time. She held it out with the japor snippet, much like the sandperson had done to her. As an offering or some kind of proof, she wasn’t sure. But the Force whispered good things, so she stood there anyway.

Slowly, the chief nodded, and, after shooting her guide a look, beckoned her forward. Neither one seemed interested in taking the Pearl or snippet back, so she slipped them into her belt pouch.

The chief leaned their Gaffi stick against their shoulder, and brought their hands up. Carefully, they started forming symbols, and Revan was surprised to find she recognized them. It was an old signing trade language used by species that didn’t have the vocal cords to speak each other’s language. Revan's knowledge was a bit rusty, but she knew enough.

“I am Chief Saleh,” they signed. “Our ancestors have told stories of you. You are welcome here.”

Revan's response was slow, but passable. “Why have you brought me here?”

Her guide looked between them, but they obviously didn’t know this language. Revan almost wished she could translate, but she didn't know their language, either. The Chief started to form the answer to her question, and Revan focused back on them.

“The desert whispered of you. When the desert speaks, we listen.

It said to help you find home.”

Chapter Text

The heat beat down heavy on Carth’s neck as they walked, turning the skin on the back of his neck pink and tender. Moisture collected underneath his collar, but Carth bore it with the stoicism of a soldier. The sullust leather jacket was uncomfortably warm, but not unbearable.

He glanced at Zaalbar, walking beside him, and winced in sympathy. Zaalbar’s thick coat had made him hesitant to venture out onto the planet during the search for the Starmap—Only Mission’s determination to find Griff had convinced him, in the end. Carth didn’t doubt that Zaalbar was having a kriffing awful time, now. There wasn’t much any of them could do about it, but Carth did what he could. When they passed by shaded areas or through tight alleyways where the shadows stretched longer, Carth moved so Zaalbar walked the most in shadow. Big Z noticed, and sent him a quick nod after the third time. Carth shrugged it away, but Zaalbar just shot him an unimpressed look. Reaching out with one hand, he grabbed the back of Carth’s jacket and plopped Carth down on the other side of him, into his shadow.

Carth managed not to stumble when he landed, but only just barely. He shot a glance at Zaalbar, mouth tugging up into something like a smile. Big Z kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead. Carth shook his head. Big Z had a soft spot for all of them, but he never liked acknowledging it.

Carth let Zaalbar pointedly ignore him and turned his eyes forward again. He let his gaze wander over the streets and took a breath. The heavy desert heat and sharp dust drew thick into his lungs and pressed against his skin in a vaguely uncomfortable pressure that he couldn’t shake. 

Tatooine had never been Carth’s favorite planet. That had been true when they’d come here for the Starmap, and it was true now. It wasn’t so much the heat, the sand, or the karking suns, although they certainly didn’t help. It was the memories. He still remembered the way Mission’s face aged as Griff asked her for cash, and the steel in her spine and weary acceptance in her voice when she refused had made him an odd mix of sad and proud. She’d come back from that drained, her shoulders back and presence steadier than before, like she had finally shed some burden. That, she had done herself, but the muted sadness in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide was Griff’s last parting gift. Bastilla had come back much the same, the anger at her mother gone but the grief for her father an ache behind her Jedi guise. It had been a bad day when Revan had looked up from an old pack at the back of the Krayt Dragon’s cave, an old holocron clutched in one hand. The sight of Bastilla’s face, frozen, still made Carth’s heart ache in sympathy. So did the memory of Canderous staring, silent, at the beskar’gam laid out on his bunk, Revan silent at his side.

Carth had never wanted for much. For all that he was a passionate man, he didn’t often want for things. Sure, he’d wanted his son and wife safe and alive (still did, even if one was lost to him and the other bitter in a way that made his heart ache), wanted good to win over evil, had wanted to make it out of the war alive. Those were the big, abstract causes, the ones that beat in his heart and ran through his blood. He’d always had a cause. It was just the way he was. First it had been the Republic, the beat in his soul that drew him away from his family even when they needed him to stay (he regretted that decision, and his stomach twisted when he couldn’t convince himself it was the wrong one). Then he’d crash landed on Taris with a sharp-tongued amnesiac Republic Soldier who fought him every step of the way, and slowly, without him realizing it, fighting with her had become fighting for her. His heart had found another cause.

The thrum of keep her safe, watch her back, follow where she leads settled in his bones just like the drive for the Republic had. It was another big, abstract want. That wasn’t new. But slowly, just as slowly as Revan had seeped into his heart, the others had too. He found himself wanting Mission to keep out of trouble, to punch her sleazeball of a brother in the teeth, wanted to ease Bastilla’s guilt and Juhani’s low self-esteem. Found himself dragging Canderous to shady bars and pretending to be exasperated when he got into a fight, but joining in anyway because violence was too karking familiar to not settle Canderous in a way not much else did. Found himself buying T3 newer, shinier parts and HK weird guns not because they needed them, but because Carth wanted to buy them for them. When they needed a break, he’d land them on Forest Worlds because they reminded Zaalbar of home and made Jolee go scavenging for ingredients to ease his joint pain because he hated how the bought creams smelled. He wasn’t used to wanting things like that. It was new. Usually, things were dead and gone too fast for wanting.

His gaze found Bastilla and Juhani, walking ahead of them. Something fond unfurled in his chest as he looked at them, arms linked and sides pressed tightly together, heads turned toward each other in quiet conference.

Carth didn’t have a lot left, in this world, and it was good to see what little he did have getting along.

The five of them trudged on, pushing through the streams of people, Carth coughing through the dust, because the others were either Jedi, Wookies with unfair air filtration systems, or didn’t have lungs in the first place. 

Slowly, the crowds thinned and changed, until the shady, sneering scumbags made occasional appearances instead of pressing against them on all sides. But where the crowds changed gradually, the buildings shifted abruptly. The low-ceilinged shopfronts dropped away at the turn of a corner; Narrow, multi-storied buildings sat in their stead, an odd mix of square-cut corners and jagged, sloping stone. They varied in size like a set of sprawling wax candles, melted in the sunlight and reformed during the night. It was very different from the dome-like architecture that formed most of the city, but it fit. It didn’t feel out of place in the ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle of a city.

There was something different about it, though. It had the same sharp teeth and rough edges as the market streets, that didn’t change. But the eyes tracking them felt less like they were analyzing how many credits they could rob them for, and more like they were watching for trouble.

Ahead of him, Bastilla and Juhani slowed their pace and dropped back. They had disentangled themselves, and Bastilla drifted to Carth’s left while Juhani difted to walk by Zaalbar and HK. 

Bastilla’s head tilted in his direction. “I can sense him nearby. He’s in one of these buildings, although I’m not sure which,” she said, voice pitched quiet.

“Great,” Carth muttered. “Just bring us close as you can.”

Bastilla, for one of the few times during their friendship, didn’t voice an argument, just tipped her head.

“Hey,” Carth reached out a hand to touch her elbow. She stiffened under his touch and he dropped his voice low. “Are you alright?”

The tension sat thick underneath her skin as she glanced back at him. Then she sighed, and it drained out of her.

“Yes, I’m alright. Truly,” she said, when his expression didn’t ease, “I’m fine.”

Carth didn’t buy it, but he nodded anyway and let his hand slip away. Bastilla glanced at him again, the sun catching on her hair and in her eyes, highlighting the hesitance that danced on her face.

“Thank you,” she said, the words stilted and awkward but no less genuine. She turned her head forward again and cleared her throat. “For your concern.”

Carth blinked and stared at the side of her face as she looked determinedly ahead. They didn’t do that. Well, not generally. They knew when the other was thankful, or sorry when their arguments got too personal, but they were both so stubborn that it usually went unsaid. He didn’t know how to respond to Bastilla saying it, so he didn’t.

 “We’ll find Revan,” he said, finally looking away and let her be self-conscious in peace. “And it’ll be okay.”

Bastilla nodded, and a flicker of something shot through her eyes that made Carth immediately wary. “Of course. We must trust in the Force.”

“Absolutely not–”

“There!” Juhani said suddenly, and Carth bit back his retort. 

He turned his attention to Juhani and out of the corner of his eye saw Bastilla do the same. Juhani was pointing to a building a little ways up the street, face intent and focused. Carth raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted in its direction. It was one of the two-storied buildings, nestled just at the bend in the street. It was partially hidden by a staircase attached to the building next to it, but he caught a faded red durasteel door. Worn and bleached by sand and sun, but the color clung with a dogged sense of determination.

“I can sense him, there. In that building,” Juhani said.

Carth nodded at her. “Good work,” he said, and she gave a nod in return.

They five of them made their way toward the red door. They were almost to it when Zaalbar stiffened beside him. Carth’s hand dropped down toward his blaster, instantly alert.

“There’s someone—”

The door slid open with the stuttered whine of old mechanics, and Carth’s hand closed around his blaster grip.

Canderous Ordo stepped out into the sun, squinting against the bright sunlight. Carth froze for a moment, shock thudding in his chest. He sighed a moment later and let his hand fall away from his holster. Why was he even surprised? This was in character.

“Observation: It appears we’ve found more than just Jolee.”

“I can see that, HK,” Carth said.

Canderous’ had blinked the sun from his eyes, and his mouth twitched upward in that dangerous way he smiled as he looked at them.

“I’m not going to ask how you got here.”

“Canderous, it’s good to see you.” Carth said, relief filling his voice.

Canderous nodded. “Likewise. I’d stay and chat, but I need to get going.”

“What are you doing here? Where are you going?” Juhani asked, brows furrowed as she stepped forward.

Canderous held up a hand and she halted. “Not a good idea right now, kid. I’ve got an explosive on me that I need to get rid of, and Jolee would kill me if any of yougot caught in the blast range.”

Alarm chased by concern shot through Carth. Next to him Bastilla started forward before she stopped herself. Carth opened his mouth to ask what the hell, but Canderous cut him off.

“Mission’s in there with Jolee and T3, just as a heads up. If one of the Skywalkers opens the door, tell them you’re one of Mission’s crew—they should let you in.”

Carth could feel Zaalbar snap to attention beside him. “Mission’s here?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“Yeah. Try not to startle the kid, will you? She’s had a rough day. And don’t go grilling her for information ‘til I get back.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Carth said dryly.

Canderous humphed. “I have to go, but if I didn’t, I’d smack you upside the head.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Come back safe, will ya?”

Canderous grinned, the type of smile that should be coated in blood. “No promises.”

With that, he was gone down the street. Carth watched his retreating back for a moment, worry and concern thick on his tongue. Canderous would come back, but his definition of ‘safe’ was, quite frankly, appalling.

He was jostled back to the others as something furry pushed past him. He stumbled back as Zaalbar strode to the door. He raised one fist to knock heavily, and Bastila started forward, one hand outstretched.

“Zaalbar,” she hissed. “We haven’t discussed what–”

“Mission’s in there,” Zaalbar said, firm and simple.

Bastila just let her arm drop and sighed.

With a stuttered whine of old mechanics, the door slid open.

________________

T3 had three rules. They were important rules, ones that had been carefully crafted during his time with the crew.

1. Don’t let the ship blow up

2. Keep HK-47 away from explosives

3. Keep the Organics alive.

The first was apart of his original astromech programming, but he felt it was a good general rule of thumb, so he kept it on. The second existed because it interfered with Objectives Don’t Let The Ship Blow Up and Keep The Organics Alive (it did not apply to guns, as keeping HK-47 supplied with firearms was vital to the success of rule number 3). The importance of rule two had been hammered in one horrific afternoon that T3 preferred to bury deep in his memory banks. The third rule, he made the minute Revan bought him on Taris and asked him to break into the Sith Enclave. He operated by those rules. They were good rules, he thought. They covered everything important.

Except, apparently, they didn’t, because Favorite_Angry_Child was sitting in the Skywalker’s kitchen, upset, and that was unacceptable.

He beeped his worry and rolled against her boot, the quiet thunk loud in the silence of the kitchen. Mission blinked and looked down at him, jolted out of her contemplative funk.

She scrounged up a smile and reached down to pat his dome. “I’m okay, little buddy. Don’t worry.”

T3 let out a flat noise that declared exactly what he thought of that banthashit. It won him a more genuine smile, which he counted as a success. He didn’t like it when his Organics were sad. They were complicated in weird ways that he couldn’t fix. If HK was feeling under the weather, he could reboot his system or repair a bad patch of code. He couldn’t do that with Organics. The best he could do was sit there comfortingly and beep at them in the hopes that their limited Binary picked up exactly what he was trying to say.

“Hey,” T3 rotated his dome to see Small_Bright_Child step into the room, head bent over a small brush as he fiddled with it, “I found a sand brush for T3. I would have grabbed the one for C-3P0, but it’s not really meant for exterior work.”

He looked up as he stopped in front of them. His eyes darted over Mission and flicked briefly to T3, like he could sense the shift in mood, but his expression didn’t change. 

“Thanks,” Mission said, and T3 chirped an agreement.

Anakin flashed a smile at them and offered the brush to Mission.

“Here. I can show you how to get him clean, if you want. That alright?”

It tool T3 a moment to realize that last part was directed at him. Recovering quickly, he beeped an affirmative. T3 caught the flash of a pleased expression on Mission’s face. Organics didn’t usually ask him his opinion. This kid, though, did.

“I figured it out last time, but I wouldn’t mind some tips,” Mission said, accepting the brush from Anakin. She kneeled in front of T3 and swiped an affectionate hand over his dome. She missed the surprise flash through Anakin’s eyes, but T3 caught it. He chirped, lights flashing curiously. It caught Anakin’s attention, and he took the prompt as he kneeled next to Mission.

“You’ve been to Tatooine before?” he asked.

Mission stiffened for a moment, so slight that anyone who wasn’t crew wouldn’t have caught it. T3 watched as she forcibly relaxed, and when she spoke her voice was nonchalant.

“Yeah. We didn’t stay very long, but it was long enough for T3 to get sand everywhere. He complained about it for weeks.”

T3 whistled in a low, sulky tone. They were there for quite a while, thank you. He’d had to deal with a newly-aquired, psychotic HK-47, and two sad Organics, all while battling the awful sand clogging his gears. Excuse him for being a little snippy about it.

“Where’d you go?” Ani asked as Mission busied herself with running the brush over T3’s struts

“Anchorhead,” Mission said, and those bright watchful eyes, the ones that belonged to the Taris street rat, darted to Anakin, her face as pleasant as ever as she brushed the dust off the back of T3’s chassis.

Anakin nodded. “I’ve never been there myself, but Mom has. Here,” he said, reaching for the brush. Mission let him take it, and he reached down to T3’s struts. T3 craned his head downward to see what he was doing, but he couldn’t quite catch it. After a moment, Anakin leaned back and nodded to him. “Try moving that wheel now.”

T3 did as instructed and whistled in satisfaction when the gears turned smoothly. Anakin gave him a fond, closed-mouthed smile.

“Better?”

T3 chirped an affirmative and rolled against Anakin’s leg, a soft nudge of thanks. Anakin’s smile blossomed into a grin, and he reached down to pat T3’s dome just like Mission had.

“Hey, Ani?”

Anakin looked up at Mission, and T3 swiveled his head to follow. Mission had sat back on her heels, her eyes fixed determinedly on the wall, but T3 could see her mind was turned inward. In her lap, her hands twisted around each other, picking at her fingers.

“You’re a slave, right?” she asked. Her hands paused and her eyes flicked over to Anakin. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted. “I am.” He gave a twitch of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. “It’s alright. You can ask stuff, if you want. I might not answer, but you can ask.”

Mission swallowed and held Ani’s eyes. “You’ve been… sold, before, right?”

Anakin shifted his legs until he was sitting, the brush still in-hand, forgotten. “Once, when I was little. Three, I think. Gardulla the Hutt lost us betting on the podraces. ”

Mission nodded, her eyes darting down to her hands again. When she spoke, her voice echoed with something a little lost, a little desperate. “How did you deal with that? You know, with being,” Her mouth creased at the corner as she picked at her palms. “Ripped away from everything you’d ever known?”

T3 barely kept his lights from flashing in alarm, even as his circuits whirred. Ripped away? He dove through his memory banks, shifting through the information for something that would fit. Taris? No, she hated that place, she’d left voluntarily. Something to do with her brother? T3 didn’t know a whole lot about Organic relationships, so he didn’t know if there was something about that that would qualify. But, then why hadn’t this come up before? By his calculations, most of the crew was more than qualified to answer that. Almost all of them could have helped her, without question. No, T3 decided, and discarded the information on Griff. He knew enough about Organic relationships to know that she trusted them–She would’ve come to them. So, what happened since they were separated?

But Mission looked sad and hesitant in that Organic way that he couldn’t fix, so he kept the questions and concern that he was almost vibrating with quiet.

Anakin, for all that he had pestered T3 with questions about his model and Mission about the crew, didn’t ask. T3 knew he saw something, knew that there was a whole lot behind that question that Anakin didn’t know. But he looked at Mission, and there was no judgement in his little face. T3 knew there must be questions straining fit to burst, just like the ones whirring through his processor, but not one left Anakin’s lips.

“My mom,” he said, and his voice sat easy and simple, understanding, in the air. “She’s my family. So, it didn’t really matter that everything else was gone,” Anakin ducked his head and fiddled with the brush in his lap. “I still had her, so it was okay.”

I still had my family.

Mission’s eyes drifted to T3. He looked back, meeting her eyes with his sensors and rolling forward slightly. With a deep breath, the nervous tension tightening her limbs eased, like she’d just come out of an oil bath (and what T3 wouldn’t do for one of those at the moment). She didn’t smile, but the hints of one pulled at the corners of her mouth. T3 gazed in wonder at Mission, and then Anakin. He wished he could do that, pull the rigidity from his Crew’s limbs with a couple words. They weren’t meant to be that stiff. They were squishy and soft and seeing them like that made T3 anxious.

“Mission?”

T3 jolted in surprise at the new voice, and turned to look. Jolee stood in the doorway, shoulders bowed forward, his attention fixed on Mission. He looked tired, his sleeves pushed past his elbows and face sprinkled with dust that stood out against his skin and tinted his grey goatee tan.

Mission pushed herself to her feet, her eyes locked on the crewmember in the doorway. “Jolee,” she said, surprise tinged with relief lifting her voice.

“Hey, kid. Are you—” he cut off with a soft ‘oof’ as Mission collided with his chest. His arms came up around her automatically. “Hey, hey, kiddo,” he said, gruff voice immediately softening into something concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I’m—I’m fine, really. Promise.”

Jolee raised an eyebrow that Mission, short and with her face turned into Jolee’s tunic, couldn’t see.

T3 caught movement at the edge of his sensors, and turned as Anakin stood.

“I think I’ll leave you guys to it. Here,” he said, and set the brush down in front of T3. “For when one of them remembers.”

Anakin shot T3 a half-smile, and went to squeeze past the two hugging in the doorway. Before he could make it all the way past, Mission’s hand snaked out to land on Anakin’s shoulder. T3 could just pick up a soft “Thank you”, and then he was gone.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about? Or am I guessing?” Jolee asked, pulling back so he could look at her.

“I’m just glad to see you, is all.”

“Hmph. And I’m a Wookie’s Uncle. Spill it, kid.”

Mission hesitated for a moment, her mouth twisting. “I think we should wait for Canderous,” she said.

Jolee’s impressive eyebrows drew together as his face pinched. “Is there a reason you need to wait for the nerf-herder?”

“Well, I’m not sure I can explain it, if I’m being totally honest,” Mission said.

Jolee stared at her with a flat expression for a moment before sighing.

“Fine, fine. It can wait for the Mandalorian,” he grumbled. “But I lost my patience for bullshit along with my hair, you’d do well to remember that.”

Mission’s mouth quirked upward. “Sure thing, old man.”

T3 had about reached the end of his patience for sad Organics, so he let out a sharp blat. Mission and Jolee looked down at him, surprised. He rolled into Mission’s leg (one of his main forms of communication, because his Organics were absolute banthashit at anything other than a few curse words and obscure forms of Binary slang they’d picked up over the years). He wanted to know what was wrong, and if he wasn’t good at it, he would get another Organic to figure it out. His crew was not allowed to be sad. It was a new rule. Rule number four: Crew was not ever allowed to be upset. Specifically Mission Vao, who called him ‘buddy’, and hugged him even though he couldn’t feel it, and gave him an oil bath when he was having a bad day. It was a rule now. It was going in his programming, and just like the other rules, no one in the crew was ever allowed to know about it.

Unfortunately, his build-up for incessant pestering was derailed with a knock echoing through the house.

________________

“Who’re you?”

Juhani looked down at the little boy standing in the doorway. She blinked. He was maybe seven or eight, sun-bright blonde hair and sky blue eyes that peered up at them, a dose of suspicion scrunching his brows as one hand clenched on the door frame. Juhani reached out into the Force, an instinct born of Jedi training and a life of hardship. 

She blinked again. He was there, in the Force, but his actual Force presence slid away from her like water over stone. Flashes of bright, burning starlight danced at the edge of her senses, but by the time she caught them they were already gone. She shot a look over at Bastila, and saw her brows furrowed together.

Juhani shook herself out of her bewilderment as Carth stepped forward. 

“We’re part of Mission’s crew.” he said, and Juhani glanced over to see his eyes soften at the sight of the kid. “Canderous said she and Jolee were here.”

The kid’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh,” He looked up at Zaalbar and smiled. “You must be Big Z! Mission told me about you.”

Juhani could see the desire to ask the kid where Mission written in the line of Zaalbar’s shoulders, but a voice from inside the house cut him off.

“Ani?”

The little boy, who Juhani assumed was Ani, turned to look behind him at the voice. He took a shuffling step to the side as a dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway behind him. Guarded, dark eyes looked over them as she absently wiped her hands with a cloth. Juhani could see the family resemblance. It was in the line of her jaw and the set of her mouth, the steadiness of her stance. Her shoulders were heavier, though, and the lines of her face tired as she looked at them. Her Force presence was different too, subtle and warm, like a warm desert breeze. It sat around her like a second skin, drawn in tightly.

The little boy, Ani, caught the edge of the woman’s skirt. He looked up at her, but her gaze didn’t break from them.

“It’s Mission’s crew, Mom.”

“I see that, Ani,” the woman said. Her eyes traveled over them, and Juhani couldn’t help but shiver as that piercing gaze landed on her. It felt like the cool grip of the Force, made sharp and wary and watchful. But it was gone when those eyes left her, and Juhani lost the feeling before she could decipher it.

“Well,” the woman said, settling her hand on her son’s shoulder, “You’d better come in,”

She motioned them inside, pulling Ani after her as she stepped out of the way. Juhani glanced at the others, but Zaalbar was already ducking through the door. Carth just gave her a “what can you do?” shrug, and followed him. Bastilla stepped through next, and Juhani figured that was as good a direction as she was going to get. 

It took her eyes a second to adjust to the sudden darkness. When they did, she found herself in a small living area. It was large for slave quarters, if small by other standards. Sparse, but well-tended furniture dotted the room, a few hand-spun rugs, and a plateless droid propped up against the left wall, and a table near the door. Along the walls, archways led off into other rooms.

The woman smoothed a hand over her son’s hair. “Ani, could you go get our guests?”

Ani nodded and disappeared through one of the archways. The woman shook her head, but a fondness pulled at the corners of her eyes.

“Anakin, move—”

It was a familiar voice that caught Juhani’s attention as it grew louder. Around her, she could see the others focus in on it too. There was the scuffle of footsteps, and then Mission stepped though the door, Jolee on her heels and a sulkily beeping T3. Juhani’s heart swelled at the sight of them. They looked a little dusty, a little tired, but hale and whole.

“Mission,” Juhani said, relief filling her voice. She stepped forward before she could stop herself, but Zaalbar got there first. 

Mission looked up at him and sighed as he brusquely patted her down.

“Big Z, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Zaalbar ignored her, and continued. Finally, satisfied that Mission was intact, he stepped back. Mission raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Making sure,”

She huffed. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Carth wisely decided to step in before that conversation could go any farther. “It’s good to see you’re alright, Mission.”

“Yeah, well,” Mission shrugged, “The Skywalkers kept me pretty safe.”

Juhani’s gaze jumped to the woman. Fondness and a bit of protectiveness lingered in her eyes as she looked at Mission and Zaalbar. She seemed to sense Juhani’s eyes on her, and her gaze shifted to meet Juhani’s own.

“I do not believe we’ve been introduced,” Juhani said, stepping forward and offering the woman a smile. “I am Juhani. This is Carth, Bastilla, Zaalbar, and HK-47.”

The woman nodded at her, answering her smile with a pleasant expression. “Shmi Skywalker.”

“Thank you for taking care of our crew. It is much appreciated.”

Shmi shook her head. “Think nothing of it.”

“Regardless,” Bastilla interjected. “Thank you.”

Shmi nodded her head in Bastilla’s direction. “Well, I should get back to Aleema. You are welcome to stay here, if you wish.”

“Is she alright?” Juhani asked quickly.

Shmi fixed her with another one of those looks. The ones that made her feel like Shmi saw more than she should have.

“She needs rest and time to heal, but she will be fine. You’re welcome to see her when you’re free.”

An unexpected tightness gripped Juhani’s throat, so she nodded. Shmi gave her a soft smile, one she recognized from the older women in the slaveyards. The brand, etched in the soft inner skin of her forearm hidden beneath her sleeve, twinged.

“Anakin,” the woman said softly, “Why don’t you help me with Aleema?”

Let’s leave them to talk went unsaid, but Anakin heard it anyway, and followed his mother into the back room.

It was just the crew, now. Juhani picked her way across the room and around Zaalbar toward Mission. The girl startled as Juhani pulled her into her arms. She froze for a moment beneath Juhani’s embrace. Hesitantly, her arms came up to wrap around Juhani’s back.

“I am glad to see you,” Juhani said into the top of her head.

Mission’s grip tightened, hands shaking. Juhani gathered her closer, concern growing in her gut.

“Mission? Are you alright?” she asked.

Jolee was suddenly at her side, a hand coming to rest on Mission’s back where Juhani’s arms weren’t. Juhani shot a look at Jolee, searching for an explaination, but Jolee’s attention and an unhappy frown were fixed on the back of Mission’s head.

“I’m alright,” Mission said, but it was muffled into Juhani’s shoulder.

Juhani pulled back. Mission looked up at her with a determined expression, the same one that she wore after Griff had mentioned the Exchange. She was pretending to be fine, and Juhani didn’t like it, but she let it be. She gave Mission’s shoulder’s one last squeeze before letting her arms drop. She stepped back, and Zaalbar was there a moment later, a steady presence at Mission’s side.

Carth, thankfully, provided a distraction.

“How’d you get here?” he asked Mission. “Aleema brought Jolee and T3 here, and we followed them through the Force, but I don’t know how you ended up here.”

“Anakin got me out of a sticky situation when I first woke up. He dragged me here afterward, and I just kinda went with it.”

“What ‘sticky situation?’” Carth asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

“Well, this slaver sleemo decided to pick a fight. Kicked me right awake.”

“You were attacked by slavers?” Bastilla asked, alarm coloring her voice.

“One slaver, thank you,” Mission said. “And I handled it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Carth said. “I just don’t think any of us like the idea of you being kicked awake.”

“I’m fine!” she said, glaring up at Carth. “Everything’s fine.”

It was obvious he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t push.

“Speaking of,” Jolee said suddenly. “You all alright? No blaster shots or booboos that need patching up?”

“I think we made it out okay,” Carth replied.

Mission’s brows furrowed. “What happened?” she asked.

“Answer: Juhani started a brawl. It was most enjoyable,” HK-47 declared gleefully.

Juhani fixed him with a glare. “HK!” she hissed.

“Objection: That is what happened, is it not?”

Shame, hot and thick flooded through her throat. It burned in her chest and curled around her vocal cords. The eyes of the others in the room were suddenly too much, and she dropped her eyes to the floor, hoping they wouldn’t judge her. She hadn’t meant to hit that man. Aleema had asked her not to. But she acted out of instinct, out of fear, out of anger. She hadn’t thought, she had just acted, had seen Xor when he was long gone, long dead. It was a stupid thing, it put Aleema in danger, put her family in danger.

“I—I did not mean—”

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she did her best not to flinch. She forced herself to look up into concerned, brown eyes. Carth lightly squeezed her shoulder, and she swallowed around the knot in her throat.

“It’s alright,” Carth said softly. “I’m sure HK didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Clarification: Indeed, I did not mean to cause you distress. If it’s any consolation,” HK added, “The meatbags on this planet almost certainly deserved it.”

Carth winced a bit. “Thank you, HK.”

Bastilla was watching her, concerned, over Carth’s shoulder. Bastilla’s Force presence brushed against her’s, a quiet reassurance, and after a moment she felt the light grey wildness of Jolee gently bump against her.

Juhani took a breath. She gathered herself back together, taking solace in the concern of her crew.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright,” Carth assured her. “Why don’t we all sit down? My feet are killing me.”

The others agreed, and they settled around the dining table near the door.

“This is a nice place, very cozy,” Carth said once they were seated. Juhani would have bristled at the implied insult, but he sounded completely sincere.

Bastilla interlaced her hands on the table. “It was very kind of Shmi and her son to offer us shelter.”

“Yeah, they’re nice people,” Mission said.

“Hey,” Carth said. His attention was on Jolee and Mission at the other end of the table. “Do you know what Canderous meant by ‘I’ve got an explosive on me that I need to get rid of?’”

Mission sat forward, eyes wide in alarm. “Explosive?”

“It’s Aleema’s slave chip,” Jolee cut in, gruff and obviously not thrilled with what he was saying. Juhani straightened, eyes intent on Jolee. He rubbed at his goatee. “They’re a control method. Slave owners can trip ‘em with the press of a button, and then, well.” He gestured with a hand. “You know.”

Juhani closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. She really did put Aleema in danger. Put Jolee in danger, asking him to carry her. And T3, he was sturdier, but he might not have made it out of an explosion that close. She took a breath and released some of her shame and guilt into the Force.

“That’s horrid,” Bastilla said. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

“They’re not too terribly common. Expensive—newer technology. Unreliable, too. Half the time they blow up on you before you can get your hand on the trigger.” He humphed. “Not many owners are willing to risk the profit loss for a bit of extra security.”

“You think Canderous’ll be alright?” Mission asked.

Next to her, Zaalbar snorted. “He willingly took a grenade to the face on the Leviathan—he’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, well,” Carth muttered, low enough that only Juhani heard him. “Let’s hope so.”

________________

Canderous didn’t run. In a place like this, running meant drawing attention, and any attention was the wrong kind. His steps were measured, deliberate, and the kind that ate up distance without anyone noticing. Dust sat thick in the air from the many feet as people hustled toward their various destinations, and Canderous tried not to cough as he forced his way past a variety of rough characters. One turned to tell him off, but one look at the scowl on Canderous’ face sent him skittering.

Canderous’ grip tightened on the gauze in his hand. He needed to dump this chip. His options were limited, at the moment. The outskirts of the city were still a good distance away, and he wasn’t sure if he could make it in time. Normally, that wouldn’t bother him. He’d find some back corner to dump it and let some poor bastard be caught in the explosion. Hell, he’d still do it. But this was a slave planet, and the chance one of them would be caught in the crossfire didn’t sit well with him.

Canderous turned down an empty alley, considering if he could pry a door open, toss it in, and run. The market was still in full-swing. There should be at least a few unoccupied houses. The thick stone would be enough to contain most of the explosion, it would work. He was about halfway down the alley, and he could see a few buildings on the other side that looked promising.

The chip in his hand warmed suddenly, and it was Canderous’ only warning.

Pain exploded through his arm. The world was fire and pressure and pain as his side collided with something solid, a sharp crack as his head sit stone. The ringing in his ears drowned out everything else as something slammed into his front, and the world stopped moving.

Slowly, awareness crept in, righting the way the world spun. Canderous coughed, sand coating his mouth. That, of course, was the moment the pain really hit him. He gritted his teeth and hissed. His body screamed at him, but he locked it in his throat. Aching pain stretched through every limb, sharp on the back of his head, and the sickening feeling of his ribs shifting in his torso. Concussion and broken ribs, he thought, and it felt like trying to catch cotton on the wind, hazy and in reach only if he concentrated. 

Canderous shifted, sand grating against his skin, and this time couldn’t stifle the groan. His right arm was agony. Fire, white-hot and trembling, scorched through the limb. There was little sensation from his hand, and that worried him. He breathed through the pain as something sickly like burnt flesh curled in his nose.

“Fuck,” he growled, and he could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears, cheek pressed against the rough grains, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”

He took another breath. Alright, fine. This wasn’t his first hyperspace jump. Cracked ribs, probably blast lung, a demolished hand (that was going to be a bitch to heal), a concussion, at least one busted ear drum, unknown internal injuries. He’d had worse. Hell, that grenade on the Leviathan had been more painful than this. But he couldn’t move yet, not until his healing mods did a little bit of work, which meant he had to lay here, vulnerable, in a Tatooine back alley, after an explosion that was sure to have attracted attention. 

God fucking damn it.

He shifted on the sand, slowly, painfully sliding his left, working hand down to his blaster. There was no way he’d be able to shoot it in his condition, but laying there without some kind of weapon in his hand was not his idea of a good time. This much damage, it’d be about three minutes until he could at least walk again. He just had to hope that no one found him before he could fight back. 

A thought occurred to him, slow through the concussion. He could speed up the process a little bit, though. Slowly, Canderous shifted his weight and drew his hand back from his blaster. It left him feeling exposed and vulnerable, but he needed his hand free to reach the pocket high on his vest. His fingers were stiff, but he managed to get the pocket open. After a moment of searching, his hand closed around an adrenal stimulant, and he drew it free. He popped the cap off with his teeth and with practiced ease, jabbed it into his leg.

He let the casing fall from shaking fingers. He breathed and set his hand back on his blaster, trying to let his healing mods do their work. He’d feel better once his ear drums knitted themselves back together. It was a slow, unpleasant sensation, but it was better than the shifting in his abdomen and the prickling beginnings of sensation in his right hand.

Tension, painful with his injuries, raced through his limbs. He counted the seconds as he lay there, his body slowly stitching itself together. He needed to get up and get going before someone came investigating. Two minutes down, just one more to go.

A hand, calloused and firm, landed on his shoulder. Canderous stiffened because of course he wouldn’t be so lucky. Faintly, he could hear a voice, but the ringing in his ears was still too loud. Ignoring the way his body screamed at him and how his stomach rolled, he quickly flipped onto his left side and drew his blaster with pain-stiff hands.

A Togruta woman stared back at him over the barrel of his blaster. She was on her knees a couple feet from him, a loose collection of brown robes gathered around her, and a faded, threadbare blue shall curled around her shoulders. Her headtails reached to her knees, dark purple-red stripes so wide that it looked like the base color. Her montrals curled up from her head and back. Older, his mind supplied. Her skin was dark for a Togruta, deep maroon broken only by white markings that curled around the edges of her face like claws, a line down her chin and slashes from her jaw up toward her cheekbones. Her eyes, framing in swaths of white, regarded him seriously. She looked distinctly unimpressed.

Canderous didn’t loosen his grip on the blaster. His hand was weak, but his aim steady. They stared at each other for a moment. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Canderous still couldn’t make out the words over the ringing in his ears. His expression didn’t change, and after a moment the woman repeated herself, louder.

“—that thing down before you hurt someone.”

It was faint, but he could heel his healing mods doing their job, and her voice was clearer by the time she finished her sentence.

Canderous’ aim never wavered. “Who’re you?” he asked. Even to his own ears, his voice was rough and scratchy with injury. His lungs protested the usage, but he ignored it.

“The only thing standing between you and some back alley slaver with a knife.”

“Comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Canderous could respect that. He didn’t lower the baster though. “I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.”

The woman very pointedly looked down at Canderous’ mangled hand, tucked against his chest, and back to his face. She hummed. “And when, inevitably, someone else comes to investigate a chip explosion, you’ll be able to fight them off, will you?”

Canderous bared his teeth. “I’ll handle it.” He eyed her over the barrel of his blaster. “Why’re you so keen on helping me?”

“You’re not a slaver or a slave, and yet you walked out of Shmi Skywalker’s house with a slave chip.”

Canderous’ grip tightened on the blaster and, unconsciously, his lips peeled back into a snarl. “How would you know that?”

“An armed, dangerous man knocked on a door in the slave quarters. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Canderous glared at her for a moment. He didn’t like the idea of someone watching him, knowing where he was going (the crew was there—if someone went after them he’d make this world burn). But a spark of recognition stayed his hand. When he first entered the slave quarters, looking for Mission. There was an old Togruta that had been tracking him. Looking out for the others in the district.

Slowly, Canderous lowered the blaster. “That’s fair.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth ticked upward in a wry smile. Canderous holstered his blaster as she pushed herself back on the balls of her feet.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

Canderous grunted and nodded. “With help.”

She slid forward and held out her left arm, palm up. He grasped her forearm, and her fingers closed around his. Moving carefully, she slid her other arm underneath his damaged shoulder. Canderous gritted his teeth against the movement. Slowly, she stood, lifting him with her as he painfully got his feet underneath him.

His face was twisted in a permanent glower by the time he was standing. The woman paused as Canderous breathed slowly through his nose, adjusting to the change. She didn’t say anything, just waited calmly. 

Canderous looked at her and nodded after a moment. Carefully, she slid his good arm under her back headtail and across her shoulders. Her hand grasped his forearm, and her other arm came around to rest on his waist. His ribs gave a stab of protest, but it was less than it had been before.

“Where to?” she asked.

“The Skywalkers’,” he said, voice rough as sandpaper.

Canderous and the woman made their way to the end of the alley, Canderous leaning on her heavily and limping on legs that didn’t want to respond. They paused at the opening to the main street. The woman cast a look around, searching for something. Whatever it was, she must not have seen it, because she urged them forward a moment later, and they slipped into the street traffic.

Every step hurt. It was nothing he hadn’t handled before, but it was certainly unpleasant. He couldn’t say he enjoyed the feeling of his body healing itself, either. Nothing could ever quite prepare you for the feeling of your ribs setting themselves, the shifting and spikes of pain that hurt more than the first break. Neither could anything equip you for the slow, itching, crawling reconstruction of a hand, tendons and nerves twining around each other in a way he was far too aware of. Canderous just did his best to breathe evenly through his nose, letting the smell of sand and heat distract him from the pain zinging through his body.

Canderous had made it a fair distance away before the chip had gone off, and it was a bit of a walk until they made it back to the Skywalkers’ home. The suns moved further into the East, and as they hobbled through the city the bright, merciless sunlight shifted into molten gold. It was intense with the power of two suns, and it cast the city into sharp relief, highlighting some in gilded honey and leaving others in long shadow. It was oddly pretty, in the same way the reflections dancing off a knife were pretty. A distraction from the danger underneath.

Canderous watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. The deep red in her skin shone out where the sunlight touched her face, and turned her white markings gold. Somehow, she gave him the same impression.

Eventually, Canderous spoke.

“Don’t think you ever introduced yourself,” he said.

She kept her face forward, just like he did, but he could tell he had her attention. “Hahsan,” she said.

“Canderous.”

“Well met, Canderous.”

Canderous huffed, a strange sort of amusement behind it. “I suppose pointing a blaster at someone could be called ‘well met’.”

Her expression didn’t change. “That’s not how you greet everyone?”

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Oh, he liked this one.

They turned a corner, and vaguely familiar houses rose on either side of them. A few people here and there dotted the street, but they paid them no mind. Canderous put that down to Hahsan’s presence at his side. She led them down another street and around another corner, and a familiar red durasteel door.

Tatooine was quiet as they reached it, the only sound the scuffing of their feet against the sand. They stopped at the front step.

Grimacing, Canderous drew his arm back from around Hahsan’s shoulders. She caught his arm, but let go when he stood under his own power. She reached up and knocked on the door, before stepping back to stand next to him. 

A moment, and the door slid open.

Shmi blinked, brows pulling together as her eyes landed on Hahsan. “Hahsan? What—” She cut off as her gaze moved to Canderous. Alarm flashed across her face and her eyes widened.

Belatedly, Canderous remembered that his arm, although mostly healed, was coated in dried blood. It stretched up his arm to his shoulder, and spattered across a good portion of the rest of him. There had to be a decent spray on his face, too. Shmi’s eyes darted down to his right hand, and Canderous saw the pieces click together in her mind.

“Come in, both of you,” Shmi said, stepping aside

Hahsan shot him a look, but Canderous shook his head that no, he was fine. Accepting his answer, Hahsan gathered her robes together and stepped up and into the house. Canderous followed after her, his hip twinging in pain.

Hahsan gathered her robes together and stepped through first. Pain twinged though his hip as he stepped up, but Canderous ignored it as they entered the cool interior.

Carth, Bastilla, and Jolee sat at the table by the door, quietly talking. Their conversation halted as they caught sight of him, and immediately all three were on their feet.

“Canderous?” Carth asked, alarm coloring his voice.

Canderous waved him away. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Jolee said immediately.

“Don’t sweat it, old man. Healing mods did most of the work already. Nothing you can do.”

Shmi came up behind him, eyes concerned and face hard. Her hand rested on the back of his shoulder.

“Would you let one of us take a look at you?” she asked.

Canderous almost said no. Almost. But Shmi’s gaze was unwavering, and behind her there were lines of worry in his crew’s faces, the frown on Jolee’s face hiding the concern in his shoulders, Bastilla’s concealed anxiety and Carth’s open alarm.

Hahsan piped in suddenly, looking just as unimpressed as she had earlier. “You couldn’t walk when I found you. Let them fuss.”

Canderous sighed as the crew’s worry grew. Fine, he’d humor them.

“You can look me over while I get this off, If you’re that attached to the idea.”

Jolee started toward him, a scowl on his face, and Canderous knew that he’d be listening to Jolee mutter some very unsavory things about him for a while.

“There’s a refresher to your right,” Shmi said, motioning to one of the doors. “You’re welcome to use it.”

“Thank you,” Canderous said.

Shmi waved him off. “I’ll send Anakin with the first aid kit.”

He nodded to Hahsan, and a smile touched her lips as she nodded back.

Jolee herded Canderous over to the refresher, grumbling all the while as Shmi and Hahsan disappeared into the back room and the others slipped off into other parts of the house.

Canderous hit the entrance key, and stepped into the ‘fresher, Jolee just behind him. It was small, a little cramped, but there was enough room for a sink, toilet, and a sonic shower.

Canderous moved forward and flicked on the Sonic shower. He heard Jolee and Anakin’s voices at the door as he slid off his vest, setting it on the shower floor so that it was under the sonic’s range.

The door slid closed with the soft sound of hydraulics. Canderous stuck his arm underneath the sonic, letting the vibrations start to strip the blood from his skin. There was the click of plastisteel behind him, and the quiet rustling of bandages.

“Mind turning around?” Jolee asked. “I’m not getting any younger here, you know.”

Blood still clung to his arm, but Canderous drew it back anyway, knowing Jolee would get grumpier the longer he waited.

“Wouldn’t want you to keel over before I’m done,” Canderous said as he turned around.

Jolee just shot him a look as he rifled through the first aid kit perched on the sink. He set aside a couple items and turned to Canderous. He motioned to his right arm.

“Arm,” he said, and Canderous held it out.

Jolee took it with firm, but gentle hands. He started at his shoulder, pressing at the joint. Slowly, he moved down the arm, checking for damage as he went, pressing here and there at odd points. He paused when he reached Canderous’ hand. The skin from his elbow to his fingertips was a light pink, the evidence of a new dermal layer. But his hand was the brightest, staring up at them like an accusation.

“So much for not getting horribly, recklessly injured, hmm?” Jolee asked.

“This one isn’t on me, old man.”

Jolee sent him an unimpressed look. He tapped Canderous’ hand and made him flex his fingers one by one, hand resting on the inside of his forearm against the tendons as he watched the range of motion.

“Mission was upset earlier,” Jolee said suddenly as Canderous tightened his hand into a fist under Jolee’s direction. “Wouldn’t talk about it. Said it needed to wait for you.” Jolee looked up and met Canderous’ eyes. “Know anything about that?”

Canderous held Jolee’s gaze as Jolee straightened, and he knew something in his expression told him the gravity of what he asked. “It’s something the whole crew needs to hear, and I’m not repeating myself.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Jolee muttered.

Canderous didn’t respond to that, because Jolee’s feeling was right. He just raised his arms as Jolee probed at his ribs. Canderous winced, and Jolee’s scowl deepened.

Jolee humphed as he stepped back. “Your ribs haven’t quite settled yet.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Canderous said dryly.

Jolee ignored him as he stepped back to the first aid kit. “I’m not going to bother asking if you’ll let me wrap them.”

“No point to it. They’ll be fine in an hour or so.”

“Painkiller?” Jolee asked. He raised an eyebrow at Canderous’ look. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’re moving. You’ve got more aches and pains than I do in the mornings.”

“If I say I’m fine again, will it stick this time?”

“Figured I’d ask.” Jolee packed up the kit and slung it under an arm. “Tell me if anything gives you trouble. That’s not a request, either.”

“Fine, fine. Now unless you’d like to stick around and see me get undressed, get out.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Jolee grumbled.

Canderous waited until the door slid closed behind him. Careful of the pulling in his ribs, he stripped out of his shirt and tossed it into the shower, next to the vest. He stepped in after it, under the showerhead.

Canderous was used to washing off blood, and he did so with businesslike efficiency, scrubbing at his arms and face. He ran his clothes through the same treatment, letting the sonic lift the worst of the stains from the material.

It didn’t leave him a lot of time to think, but he found his mind circling around to Mission, and the looming conversation. She hadn’t told them. Which was good, that wasn’t news the kid should be breaking to anyone. But it meant that Canderous had to do it. He sighed. He was blunt, and forthright, and never said anything he didn’t mean. But this required some tact, and tact was not something he regularly employed.

Canderous pulled his shirt back on, slinging his vest over his shoulders as he secured his blaster. He’d make do.

He palmed the ‘fresher door open. The crew was waiting for him, sat around the table. Mission turned at the sound of the door. She waved him over, and he slid into the empty seat next to her.

Juhani leaned forward across the table as soon as Canderous had sat down. “Are you alright?” she asked, concern and something like guilt in her eyes.

He waved her off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Healing mods fixed the worst of it.”

“You had us worried,” Bastilla said.

“Query: Is blowing yourself up going to become a habit? If so, I’d be happy to help.”

“HK,” Carth admonished. 

Canderous just laughed. “If it happens again, I’ll let you help.”

T3 beeped in alarm and rammed against HK’s leg. HK whacked the little droid on the head in retaliation, and they dissolved into an argument in binary that Canderous didn’t understand, but he caught more than a few curse words thrown in there. The rest of the crew watched with various amused or exasperated expressions.

Canderous took advantage of the distraction and leaned over to Mission.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m okay.” Canderous didn’t really believe it, but he let it go, nodding. Mission bit her lip, her eyes darting to the others at the table. “I haven’t told them, yet.”

“Tell us what?” Carth asked.

That caught the attention of the rest of the crew, and they looked at the two of them, a question on their faces. Jolee watched them, intent. Mission looked up at him, imploring, something a little fragile, a little desperate in her eyes. Canderous set a hand on her shoulder, and relief dashed across her face.

He looked around the table, at Zaalbar, T3, HK, Bastilla, Carth, Juhani, Jolee, and something heavy settled in his chest. “It’s been a while since we were on Tatooine,” Canderous said. 

The others looked at him expectantly, uncomprehending, because yes, of course, it’d been a year. But there was a terrible suspicion in Jolee’s eyes, and a whisper of something in Juhani’s. Canderous didn’t know how to put this delicately, so he didn’t.

“It’s been four thousand years.”

________________

Sometimes, when the galaxy was a little too harsh, a little too cruel—When the memories would claw at the barriers in her mind, just give in, let go, think of the power—Revan would sit in the Ebon Hawk’s cockpit and look at the stars. Let the swirling vortex of hyperspace wash over her in the dark cockpit. It was even better when they were in realspace, and she could count the stars, say their names in her head. There was something soothing about it, curled up in the pilot’s seat, with the leather soft against her feet, creaking softly under her weight, and the universe laid out in front of her. 

Carth would catch her sometimes. He’d stand in the doorway, lean against the frame, watch her. She thinks that is was just as much of a comfort to him as it was to her. She struggled with the weight of everything crushing on her shoulders, how many fates hinged on her decisions.

Tonight, Revan rode across the Tatooine desert on the back of a bantha, her guide at her side, and looked up at the stars.

The Chief’s words echoed through her mind. Four thousand years. The Force had brought her four thousand years into the future. For a purpose, Chief Saleh had said, even as Revan felt the weight of the world settle on her shoulders again. They hadn’t known why, but the desert never whispered without a reason, and never had it been so insistent. Revan had felt an ache in her soul at that, the one that spawned from the stories whispered about her, awed voices quieting as she passed, the way sometimes people looked to her like she held the answers, the future, on her tongue. It hurt, that realization that she wasn’t done, that she couldn’t rest. The Force curled around her as she rode, soothing, but it was not sorry.

The time stretched in front of her like a chasm. Revan didn’t want to shoulder this again, not really. Not in a galaxy she no longer knew (so much could happen in four thousand years). But she would, because her crew was here and her crew would need her. And, well, she had never been good at letting things be. She would do what she needed to do again, alone (not alone, the Force whispered. Not alone. Home, home is here–)

Revan took a breath. Softly, the desert filled her lungs. The bite of cold tempered by the heat still trapped in the sand, slowly leeching into the air. Up, down, up, down, and the steady rise and fall of the bantha’s footsteps quieted the worries racing through her mind. Here, now, she reminded herself. Just breathed in the round desert air, let the soft noises sooth her in the silence of the dune night. Tomorrow, she would have to make plans. Use the strategic mind that beat back the Mandalorians and scared the Jedi and convinced a galaxy to follow her. She gazed out at the dunes, shadowed in dusk and darkness, and let the air flow from her lungs. Tomorrow, she would start to weave. But for now, she took solace in the quiet.

Hours passed like that, as Revan slipped into her own version of meditation to the quiet clinking of buckles and the soft huff of the banthas.

Revan had been surprised when Saleh offered to have someone guide her to the nearest town. When she asked why, Saleh had nodded toward the Sandperson who had guided her to the enclave (Ch’Chiec, as she had learned). He vouched for you.

Revan’s hand had gone to the japor snippet, and the Chief nodded. Revan had to wonder what she’d done to earn that.

She still wondered it now, with the Sandperson in question riding quietly beside her. Somehow, she hadn’t been surprised when he had been the one to show up outside the enclave, the reins of two banthas in-hand. They hadn’t interacted since he offered to boost her up into the saddle, but there was a quiet sort of companionship in it that Revan hadn’t expected. Sandpeople were a very hostile people, and for good reason. They didn’t like outsiders, had only tolerated her at Anchorhead because she had proven her worth.

She didn’t understand it, but she would do her best to deserve that trust.

Eventually, lights appeared on the horizon. They drew closer, and it solidified into silhouettes of the slanted walls and round domes she remembered from Tatooine. Four thousand years, and the architecture stays the same.

About a mile from the city, Ch’Chiec slowed. Revan reigned hers in as he came to a stop. She looked to him as he motioned to the bantha, and then to the city in the distance. She got the message, and started to dismount. She would need to go on foot from here. She landed with a soft thump on the sand, and Ch’Chiec held out his hand for the reigns. She placed them in his palm.

Revan watched as Ch’Chiec tied the reigns around the pommel of his saddle. He looked down at her when he was done. 

Revan met the eyes of his mask, and bowed. Thank you, she sent through the Force, but she knew he could read the message anyway.

He stared down at her for a moment, silent. Eventually, slowly, his head tipped the smallest bit forward. Revan stepped back as he tugged on the reigns, and she watched as he turned the bantha’s around and started forward, back toward the enclave.

Revan turned toward the city, lights glowing against the yellow of the sand. It was a pretty sight, simple. The sand crunched under her foot as she stepped forward, and the sound followed her as she walked, a shifting whisper, loud in the quiet. Slowly, as she walked, voices from the city flitted over the dunes and joined the whispering sand. The city was quiet, and sleepy, but not quite asleep. Noise from bars and gambling dens spiked sharp, like a bark of laughter in a busy room or the sharp poke of a splinter, given rounded edges only by distance.

Revan paused at the very edge, at the first building, resting a hand against the stone, rough and worn under her palm from the countless winds and sandstorms that had battered the edges of the city. She dragged her thumb over it, let it catch against the skin. Here, she'd leave her rest and starlight. Tatooine needed sharp minds and sun-sharp teeth, and so did her crew. The Force glided across her skin, an intangible presence that left warmth in its wake. Something shimmered in the threads of it, familiar, like her own heartbeat or the sing of a kyber crystal in her hand.

Home, the Force whispered. Home.

She followed it, down back alleys and through still-populated streets, skirting around corners and across the city. It led her to a street lined with tall, oddly-shaped buildings. She followed it to a door at the bend in the street, half-blocked by a staircase on the building next door.

She came to a stop in front of the faded red durasteel. Dusty, scratched, a muted burgundy in the uneven half-light cast from further down the street. There was a warmth in the Force, an anticipation and a quiet urging. There were people sleeping, inside, soft dreams and the muted Force presence that comes with rest.

Revan knocked. She waited for a long, long moment, and the door slid softly open.

Carth's face, heavy with slumber as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, peered down at her. He froze, drowsiness vanishing as his eyes sharpened on her face. Something like disbelief, like relief and breathless joy, stretched across his expression. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy with sleep.

“Revan?”

Revan smiled up at him.

“Hey, Carth.”

Chapter Text

Carth reached out with lightning-quick arms, spilling out onto the step to meet her. A laugh burst from her throat as he crushed her to his chest. Relief, giddy and genuine spilled out in the Force, and she stumbled back from the strength of his hug. Breathless, warm joy spilled through her chest, and she clutched tighter to him in return. Carth. Her Carth.

His lips moved against her hair, and it took her a moment to realize he was breathing her name.

Stumbling, Carth half-spun her around. It was clumsy, and slow, and their feet tangled together. Instinctively, Revan tightened her grip as her heel caught on the front step, and then the world tilted as they went tumbling through the open doorway. The air punched its way out of Revan’s lungs as they hit the floor, and she heard Carth laugh.

She smiled, her side aching from the impact, Carth’s arms wrapped around her still. It was uncomfortable, a mess of limbs and cold stone hard beneath them, but she could feel the rise and fall of Carth’s chest, and decided she didn’t much care.

(Home, home, the Force whispered, and it was not so urgent now.)

The scuff of scrambling footsteps caught her attention, and Revan looked up. The light, faint and weak, slipping through the open door, was just enough to make out the indistinct lumps of blankets–and Mission. She stood in front of a spill of blankets, staring, an unfamiliar loose tan shirt hanging from her shoulders, too-large grey pants rolled up at the ankles, her headdress gone. Something vulnerable, glass-fragile like the balance of a feather-sharp knife on skin lay where the dim light touched her. Her eyes were locked, frozen, on Revan’s face.

Carth’s hold loosened, and movement caught Revan’s eye. He was watching Mission, something kind and terrible in his face.

When Lena had held Mission’s hands and explained that she’d wanted to take her with them but Griff had refused, when Mission had broken open the cell door in the Sandpeople Enclave only to be met with a brush-off and a get-rich-quick scheme, when they had walked into the Czerka office on Tatooine and Griff was nowhere to be found, there had been a look about her. She had it now, frozen with her eyes on Revan. It belonged to her brother. It belonged to losing her brother.

She knew. It was a sudden, horrible realization, and Revan felt the weight of all her burdens. She untangled an arm from Carth and held it out to her, giving a small smile as weary sadness settled in her heart.

It broke the spell that had kept Mission still. She picked her way towards them with quick feet, but hesitated just beside them, something uncertain across her face as she looked down at the two of them. Carth barely cast her a glance before he kicked her legs out from underneath her. She yelped, tumbling down between them. Her elbow landed in Revan’s gut, but she just grinned, and warmth spread through her as as Mission burrowed into her chest. Carth’s arms came up, curling over her own. He smiled at her over Mission’s head

There was the soft shuffling of cloth against stone, and then a lightly furred yellow arm slid over her stomach. Revan glanced back over her shoulder and met Juhani’s eyes, briefly, the gold shining in the darkness. Juhani blinked once, a slow thing. Then she was curling her arm more firmly around Revan’s middle, pressing closer as her eyes slid shut.

“Not exactly the wake-up call I was expecting, kid.”

Revan looked up, smiling softly at the sight of Jolee standing by a pile of blankets, exasperation visible in the half-light. But fondness curled at the edges of his eyes as he raised an eyebrow.

“You’re welcome to join,” she said.

He snorted. “With these knees? No thank you. I’m too old to be lying on the floor.”

“That is rather unfortunate,” Bastilla sniffed, and Revan twisted her head to see her kneel next to Juhani’s head. A hand settled in Revan’s hair, resting lightly against her skull. A pleased flush settled across her cheeks as Revan graced her with a warm look.

“Some of us like sleeping,” Zaalbar grumbled from somewhere across the room. Revan couldn’t twist her neck to see him, but she was pretty sure that large lump was his legs.

“I’m sorry, did our esteemed leader’s return wake you up?” Canderous asked. His tone was mocking and caustic, barking across ‘esteemed’, but only in the way most of his words tended to be. He stood against a wall, hand casually resting on his blaster with his eyes on the door. The old black shirt and tan pants were rumpled slightly from sleep, sock-footed, missing vest, belt, and holsters his only concessions for sleep. She caught his gaze for a moment, took in the casual state of dress and the ease in his posture. He blinked slowly, like Juhani did when she was content. Safe, then.

Zaalbar huffed, the blanket atop his legs shifting as he drew it more firmly around himself. “Yes.”

“What about you, Canderous?” Revan asked, watching him carefully. “Not going to join?”

He shook his head slightly, eyes flicking deliberately to her and back to the open doorway. “I’m good.”

Not while you’re there and the door is open, she read. Good man. But, regardless, it was an unnecessary vulnerability, and they shouldn’t offend whoever’s hospitality by leaving their door open in the middle of the night.

“I think,” she said to the clingy bastards wrapped around her, “That there are more comfortable places than the doorway.”

“I’m good,” Mission said, face still pressed into Revan’s chest.

Carth rolled his eyes. He disentangled himself from her and sat up, drawing Mission with him. She fought half-heartedly, but Carth was stronger. “She’s got a point,” he said.

Mission humphed like Carth had done her some great disservice, but acquiesced. Revan patted the arm around her stomach lightly, and Juhani tightened her grip briefly before drawing away, Bastilla’s hand disappearing from her hair.

Revan pushed herself to her feet. With a quick flick of the Force, the door slid closed, taking the little light with it. There was rustling noise, and then the lights flickered on. Piles of blankets and a couple pallets laid lumped across the floor, spilling over onto a few hand-spun rugs. Sparse, but well tended furniture sat pushed against the wall. Along the walls, archways led off into other rooms.

“Oh,” came a voice from behind her. A young boy with atrocious bedhead stood in one of the archways, blinking sleep from his eyes. He squinted at the door. “How’d you do that?”

“Oh, sorry Ani,” Mission said, sliding out of Carth’s lax hold. “Did we wake you up?”

Ani shook his head. “No, not really.” He yawned. “You must be Revan,” he said, and there was something curious, a little sharp, in his expression. Then he smiled, and the feeling of sunlight mingled with the brush of the Force constantly at her skin. “I’ll go get Mom—she’ll want to know you’re here.”

Swiping at his eyes, he pattered back through the archway. The faint warmth of sunlight still glowed against her face, but she let the feeling go as Juhani leaned over to rest her head against Revan’s shoulder. She looked down at her with some concern as she wrapped an arm around her.

“Tired,” Juhani said softly. “It has been a long day.”

Revan brushed a hand up and down her arm. “Can’t imagine the trouble you lot got into without me.”

Carth snorted. “Started a street fight, is what we did.”

“Canderous and I had nothing to do with that,” Mission interjected.

Jolee glowered. “Canderous got his fool self blown up.”

“It was a city-fight, if we’re arguing specifics,” Zaalbar grumbled from his blankets.

“Snitch,” Juhani hissed.

Revan felt a headache building behind her eyes. These were adults. Excluding Mission, who apparently was not involved, they were all adults, and she couldn’t leave them for five minutes. She probably could have found them within the hour if she’d woken in the city. Just follow the trail of destruction.

“So you’ll argue that, but won’t say hi to Revan?” Mission asked.

Zaalbar didn’t so much as twitch. “Revan, I’m glad you’re alright. Your crew is full of idiots and I am sleeping.”

“You seem to be quite awake to me,” came a new voice.

A dark-haired woman in loose home-spun brown stood with one hand on the archway. Ani, looking slightly more dead on his feet, hung just behind her.

“Ma’am,” Zaalbar started, but the woman waved him off.

“No, don’t let me disturb your rest.” The words were spoken softly, but there was strength in that voice, a hint of humor.

She looked tired, but the old soaked kind of tired that had been worn into her like feet over a dirt path. It was in the lines of her face and the weight of her shoulders, the rooted stance. And it was in her eyes, as they moved to Revan. Not old eyes, really, but ageless ones, ones Revan had seen in the mirror once or twice. She stepped forward into the room, one hand brushing fondly against Ani’s head as he fought a yawn.

Revan dipped her head. “Hello, ma’am. I apologize for the intrusion, and, well, the late hour. I’d tracked my crew here and didn’t expect one of them to open the door.”

The woman shook her head. “It’s alright. Some of your crew’s introductions were… a far sight more dramatic.”

Jolee grumbled something Revan couldn’t catch, and Zaalbar snickered. Faint amusement tugged at the corners of the woman’s mouth.

“Thank you for not turning them out on their asses.”

Her eyes glinted with something like laughter as a small smile snuck onto her face. “They’ve unfortunately endeared themselves to my son, so I’m afraid I’m rather stuck with them.”

“I’m even more sorry, then.”

The woman actually did laugh, then. She offered her hand. “Shmi Skywalker.” 

Her Force presence settled just above her skin, the subtlety and warmth of a desert draft. Her hand was warm and calloused and her grip firm when Revan took it. 

“Revan. Thank you, truly, for your hospitality.”

The woman smiled softly, something kind. “Think nothing of it.” She cast a look at Juhani, half-dosing on Revan’s shoulder as she drew her hand back. “My home is open to your crew. You are welcome to join them, here.”

“Thank you,” Revan said.

“I have work tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to sleep. Ani should be here in the morning. A friend is sleeping in the spare room, so don’t be alarmed if you see her. Jolee,” she said, turning to the man in question, “I’ll check on Aleema before I leave, but I’d appreciate it if you would look in on her tomorrow.”

Jolee nodded, and Shmi gave them a smile before stepping lightly back through the archway, Ani, who had been sliding further and further into unconsciousness as they spoke, following behind her.

Carth’s arm brushed against hers, and she turned to look at him. “Talk in the morning?” he asked with tired eyes.

“In the morning,” she said, and knew the others were listening as well. 

Carth’s hand slipped into hers, and, slowly to account for Juhani, he guided her over to a pile of blankets with his sullust leather jacket and blasters laid beside it. She nudged Juhani awake and lowered her down to the pile as Carth moved his belongings against the wall. Juhani sagged against Revan’s leg as she shrugged out of her outer layers, handing them to Carth. He took them from her, setting them against the wall with his own as the rustling of blankets from the rest of the room announced the other’s return to their own sleeping spots.

Revan met Carth’s eyes and looked down at Juhani, a silent question. He shook his head fondly, but leaned down to guide a half-asleep Juhani down into the blankets. There was the scuff of stone behind her, and Revan turned to see Bastilla, an armful of bedding pressed against her chest. Revan gave her a warm look and a slight nod, and she melted in something like relief. Bastilla handed her a blanket, and Carth looked up as Revan settled it partway over the bedding. His eyes caught on Bastilla, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes assured her it was alright, though.

Soon enough, there was a larger sleep area, and Revan settled down between Juhani and Carth. Juhani, asleep on her stomach, shuffled unconsciously closer, one hand curling awkwardly into the fabric of her shirt. Carth nestled in against her back, curling one arm beneath her head and the other around her stomach.

“I get dibs,” he murmured to Bastilla. 

Bastilla rolled her eyes and laid down next to Juhani, drawing a blanket over them as she went. She settled down with an arm across Juhani’s back, fingers barely brushing against Revan’s stomach.

“No Mission?” she said quietly, mindful of Juhani’s sensitive hearing.

“Zaalbar’s got her,” Carth muttered against the back of her neck.

Carth’s heart beat against her back, and she could hear the breathing of her crew around her. Her crew was there, in the Force, grouped around the room. There were three more dots, further in the house, flashes of starlight, a desert breeze, and weaker ripples across an oasis.

Revan closed her eyes, and slept.

Chapter Text

Awareness didn’t filter slowly in. There was no soft creeping of consciousness, no careful trickle of sensation—like a slow pour of water into a cup, gradual and syrupy. Canderous hadn’t woken up like that in a long time. Somewhere in his memories, there was a hazy morning on Manda’yaim, sunlight warm against his skin on a tiny bed that seemed so big to him at the time, sunbeams shining through the curtains in his bedroom on his family’s homestead. Sometimes, he could almost smell the Vormur blossoms that grew wild around the house, carried in on the breeze. But just like the house, those feelings were lost things buried in blood and carnage, sharp teeth dulled on the decades. Other skills had been honed in their place. Awareness, now, came upon him between breaths, all at once.

The blanket shifted against the skin of his arm as he inhaled—slow, steady, no different from slumber. It was an ingrained habit, built on days when the information gleaned before the people around him knew he was awake was invaluable, and not one Canderous was keen on breaking anytime soon. The blanket was a bit rough, and it caught on some of the scars along his upper arm. He let it sit there, as he listened into the quiet of the morning. 

Soft, steady breathing. A snuffle, from somewhere nearby, and the odd wheeze that Carth made when trapped on his side for too long. But it was still, and calm.

He let his eyes flicker open. The blankets rustled as he sat, pooling at his waist as he cast an eye around the room. 

Sunlight shone through the high alcove windows, slipping in from other rooms’ skylights, little particles of dust catching in the soft half-light of morning. Canderous’ eyes fell to his left, to where Mission and Zaalbar lay. Her loose, borrowed shirt had twisted around her in the night, trapping her on her stomach sometime shortly after she’d commandeered Z’s arm for a pillow. He didn’t seem to have minded, his other arm having migrated to rest heavy, protective, across her back. The light caught a hint of drool resting in the corner of her mouth, and Canderous was sure Zaalbar would be cleaning that out of his fur once he woke. Zaalbar had backed Mission up when she’d made the executive decision that Canderous’d be sleeping next to them, dragging him away from his spot by the door, though, so Canderous’ sympathy was minimal.

Tucked in the corner, a lump of blankets rose and fell with the steady breaths of a being in sleep. Only the top of Jolee’s head peaked out, the slightest shine catching on his bald head. He’d stolen the few cushions and retreated there last night, both from the sunlight and the general dumbassery he claimed the rest of them exuded. They’d let him take them, because he was a crotchety old bastard on the best of days, and sleeping on the floor already guaranteed it would not be the best of days.

Across the room, the vague forms of Juhani and Bastila curled together under a thin blanket. Bastila had pinned Juhani to the floor, upper half draped across her back and pressing her torso into the bedding. Canderous could just catch the upper part of Juhani’s face, and the edge of Bastila’s. Both were completely slack, loose and restful in a way that spoke of deep slumber. Carth was still asleep as well, going by the wheezing noise. He was sprawled on his side to the left of Juhani, blanket tangled around his thighs and mouth slightly open. Canderous’s gaze lingered on the gap between Carth and Juhani, taken now by Carth’s hands lightly tangled in the bedding.

With a quiet rasp, the blanket slid away from his legs. Stiff hips protested as he stood, careful not to disturb the peaceful tangle of Mission and Zaalbar beside him. The barely-there, soft sound of his socked footsteps trailed after him as he padded carefully to the kitchen archway.

The room was lit decently well, courtesy of the uncovered skylight. The sun was still hazy, for Tatooine, touching on the worn, old stove and tiny counter space pressed against the wall, the dried herbs hung from the ceiling, the utilitarian sink and reed-woven scrap basket tucked away in the corner. It touched on the small stone table in the corner, on dark hair and tan hands clasped around a ceramic cup. 

Revan glanced up from her drink as Canderous stepped through. She gave him a smile, something small.

“Morning,” she said quietly.

Idly, her eyes tracked him as he lowered himself into the seat across from her, creaking a little under his weight. “Morning.”

He shifted slightly once he was seated, trying for a good position on his back. Ceramic scraped lightly against stone, catching his attention as Revan slid her cup over to him. It was some sort of white drink, maybe milk, bright against the brown of the clay. It rippled as he curled his hand over the top of it, brought it up to his mouth. The first taste was odd–his best guess was a kind of milk tea, an odd combination of floral and earthy, with a hint of something sharper. Not bad, though. He swallowed the swig and handed it back to Revan’s waiting hands.

“Not bad.”

Revan nodded and took a sip. “Hashan made it for me, before she left,” she said, once she’d swallowed.

“Nice of her.”

“She’s a nice woman.” A smile touched at the corners of her mouth. “Reminds me a bit of you and Jolee.”

Canderous raised an eyebrow. “I’ve shot people for less.”

Revan just shrugged, unconcerned and unrepentant. “Good thing you’re not in the business of shooting me.”

“Anymore.”

“Anymore,” she agreed with a hint of amusement pulling at her mouth.

She took another sip, and passed it to him again. It was a little less odd on the second go around.

Canderous’ eyes traveled over her as he handed it back. She had left her outer layers in the other room, sitting at the table in just the loose green of her undershirt and slightly wrinkled pants. Her hair’d been pulled back, though, into the knot on the back of her head she favored when working on her swoop bike. It made the tiredness around her eyes, the distance pulling at the set of her jaw, all the more apparent.

“You alright?” he asked after a moment

“Fine,” she said. Canderous just continued to stare, and her eyes flickered up to meet his, unabashed. “I’m not really the one to be worried about, right now.”

Canderous’ mind flicked back, involuntarily, to Mission, shaking against his side. To the way she buried her face against Revan on the floor, to the look in her eyes when she dragged him over to her and Z’s sleeping spot with a grip on his elbow. The image of Carth’s face, denial and the panic that started to rise in his throat before he swallowed it down with anger, and then the tenuous lock on his emotions that resolve and confusion made. Bastilla’s blank look of shock, the way her Jedi front drew up with a wave, even as Juhani noticed and grabbed her hand.

“You know,” Canderous said after a moment, and he was beyond unsurprised. “Don’t you?”

The nod was accompanied by a short sigh. “Yeah. I know.”

He mulled that over as she took another pull from her cup and traded it over again. “How’d you figure it out?” he asked over the rim.

Revan stared past him for a moment, pensiveness flashing across her face. She drew her hand back, disappearing under the table to rummage in her pocket. With a soft clack, she set a small black sphere on the table between them.

It shone in the light, like oil and gasoline iridescence. Carefully, Canderous picked it up, holding it in his palm and watching as color caught in the dark surface. He recognized it, too.

“A Krayt dragon pearl?” he asked.

She nodded, looking at it like she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “We’re old friends.”

Canderous’ eyes darted down to the pearl in his hand, at the swirls of green and blue shimmering into view in the light, the subtle purple that sunk through the black–oh.

“Fuck me,” he said.

Revan snorted, a sharp burst of air through her nose. “Yeah.”

Canderous set the pearl down, pushed the cup back over to Revan, figuring it would do in pace of something stronger. “How the hell?”

“A Sand Tribe found me, gave me a ride to the city,” she said, taking the cup but leaving the pearl. She nodded at the offending object. “They had that on them, said the desert told them to find me, to ‘lead me home’.” The last part came out rounded and slow, like she didn’t quite like the outcome.

“Isn’t that good? Might give us a way back,” he asked mildly, genuinely curious.

Revan tapped her nails slowly against the table, shooting him a slightly sardonic smile. “We both know my definition of home isn’t a place.”

Canderous paused for a moment, thinking of the way she loved Carth, the subtle fussing over Mission and Bastilla and Juhani. The smiles she sent to Zaalbar, how she spent hours with HK-47 on offensive measures and got into the guts of the engines to help out T3, how she ate Jolee’s cooking no matter how disgusting it was. Thought of the way she loved them.

“We aren’t going back, are we?” he asked.

Revan took a breath. “No,” she said on the exhale. “No, I don’t think we are.”

Quiet reigned in the kitchen for a few moments, like the glass-fragility of morning—the surreal disconnect from the rest of the world, when everything was sharper and yet all the softer for it. It was calm, almost painful. The kind of painful that existed because you knew it wouldn’t hurt you, but it would someone else that you didn’t want hurt. Like the space before mourning. Not for themselves, either of them—Canderous had always traveled light, and that encompassed personal connections (all Canderous had he carried with him, now), and Revan’s memories, the ones that weren’t shoddy collections of knowledge and muscle memory and glimpses of something she couldn’t quite grasp (and if sometimes he sat with her in the cockpit while she clutched her head and rocked at the sudden recollection, at the ragged edges that floating in her head, the others didn’t need to know)–the memories that mattered, those started and ended with them. 

But there was Carth, happy and angry and achingly joyful at knowing his son was alive, at being given a second chance to show him he wouldn’t leave. Bastila, and coms from the Coruscant MedCenter that she would disappear into the storage area to take, her mother’s voice already filtering through. Zaalbar’s genuine happiness, if still reserved, when looking at Bacca’s sword, a tangible symbol that he could go home, one day. How Mission made a cake with Jolee and Big Z, on a day they all knew was Griff’s birthday, but didn’t say anything about. Jolee and Juhani and HK and T3, all who had roots and histories.

“It’s one shitty hand of cards,” Canderous said, and the words scraped out sounding tired and a little sad.

“The shittiest.”

There were a few more moments of quiet, where they just breathed that in. Canderous gave an attempt at a smirk, and it was a little flat, but it worked well enough. “Least it’s not the Leviathan.”

Revan’s mouth twitched up at the blunt attempt to lighten the mood, but she let it slide. “We don’t talk about the Leviathan.”

“You mean you and flyboy don’t talk about the Leviathan.”

“You blew yourself up with a grenade.”

Canderous shrugged it off. “Eh, regular Taungsday.”

“So I heard,” Revan said over the rim of the cup as she took another sip, eyebrow raised. “That a habit I should be worried about?” she asked.

Canderous sighed and leaned back in the chair, thinking of Hahsan and Shmi and Anakin and a bloody woman laying on a metal table. “Honest answer?” Revan looked a little surprised, gaze sharpening, but nodded. “Maybe.”

She stared at him with piercing eyes, cup poised in front of her mouth. “You’re going to turn me grey,” she said after a moment.

“Damn,” he said. “I had my money on HK.”

“HK,” Revan said pointedly, “Gives me advance warning when he sets explosives.”

Canderous just stayed silent, stealing the cup and taking another sip. He knew better than to start an argument he wasn’t going to win. But she kept her eyes fixed on him as he swallowed and set the cup down with a quiet clack, and his mouth creased at the corners.

“It wasn’t planned.”

“I figured.”

Canderous’ eyes met Revan’s, patient and expectant, waiting for him to continue. But there was tension there, lingering at the corner of her eyes. 

They teased Carth for his concern, groaned and fought Jolee when he dragged them to medical and forced “nutritious” stews of questionable edibility down their throats, but it was Revan they’d find haunting the main hold in the night, unable to sleep.  She would sit with them, if they were laid up in the med bay, fall asleep in the chair. Revan was many things, a General among them, but military pragmaticism had died a quiet half-death with her memories, and compassion had twisted up from those bones like lotus blossoms granted sunlight and food after long starvation. When Canderous had spent the night in the medbay after that building on Ord Mantell had collapsed on him, it was Revan he had caught a flash of when he woke. She was gone by the time he was truly aware, but there was chair pulled up next to the bed, and blanket crumpled on its seat.

Revan did not like them hurt. She could not stop them, wouldn’t dream of attempting to (for someone who’s memories were stolen, she knew the score of the galaxy well), but she loved them. Canderous figured she could at least know why.

“It was a slave chip,” he started, and Revan’s eyes sharpened. “Friend of Shmi’s needed hers out, and Jolee stepped in. I volunteered for disposal.” He shrugged. “Didn’t lose it in time.”

Canderous watched Revan as she took that in for a moment. There was a little dawning realization, the visual expression of her mind piecing things together into a picture she could reference.

“Okay,” she said after a moment, eyes never having left him, “Okay. Jolee look you over?”

“Have you seen the old man on a war path?”

“Let me rephrase,” she started, “Did you let Jolee look you over?”

Canderous huffed, but nodded. “Clean bill of health.”

“Good.” The word was matter-of-fact, but so genuine that Canderous was almost touched.

He smiled, just a hook of a lip, less an expression of happiness and more a twitch of a thing meant to stand in place of affection. Revan just hooked her hand around the cup and drew it towards herself.

“Juhani,” Revan said after a moment. “How is she?”

How is she handling a slave planet, in a time where chips are standard?

“Nothing’s burning, yet.”

Revan just rubbed her eyes. “Didn’t Carth and Z say something about a street fight?”

“Nothing was technically on fire.” Revan’s mouth twitched up at the corner, and she looked up at him. “Can’t blame her for wanting to kick the shit out of some sons of bitches,” he added, and if it bit softer under the gruff tone than he intended, he knew Revan wouldn’t mention it.

“Even if you could,” a voice spoke suddenly from behind him. Revan’s eyes were focused over his shoulder, body unconcerned and relaxed, so Canderous didn’t snap around, but he did twist in his seat to see. In the archway stood Shmi, hand braced against the stone. She looked tired, exhaustion tugging at her eyes, but her dress was neat and hair cleanly braided. “I expect that girl is blaming herself plenty.”

“It’s a bad habit of hers,” Revan said, giving Shmi a tired, but genuine smile. “Good morning, Shmi.”

“Good morning,” Shmi replied, watching them still from the doorway. “You two are awake early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Revan shrugged, a wry, fond cast to her features. “I love Carth and Juhani dearly, but they put off heat like nothing else.”

Amusement twitched at Shmi’s mouth. “We don’t need more of that, here.” Canderous snorted. That was certainly an understatement. Her eyes slid from Revan to him, lighting briefly on the cup between them. “And how are you feeling, Canderous?”

“Fine, Ma’am,” he responded. The low-level ache the floor had left him with had faded as he and Revan spoke. It wasn’t what she was talking about, but Canderous’ patience for concern was running thin.

Shmi eyed him for a moment. Hummed. Faintly, her dress rustled as she stepped into the room. “Then perhaps you could lend me a hand,” she said, stopping in front of the stove.

“Sure,” Canderous said, because he was rough around the edges, but those edges included manners and some decency (neither Juhani or Revan could ever hear him think that, although what part of “some decency” they’d argue with varied).

Revan’s eyes followed him as he stood, stone scraping against stone. Shmi waited for him at the countertop next to the stove, a pestle and mortar cradled in her hands. She placed it in his once he had stepped up beside her.

“Four stems from these,” Shmi said, touching three bundles of herbs dangling against the wall. Canderous set the mortar on the counter carefully and reached to do as she asked. “There are h’kak beans and tezirett seeds in there,” she motioned to a set of cloth-covered bowls tucked in the corner of the counter as the first stem broke in his hand. “A handful of each.”

The herbs were brittle in his fingers, muted tans and dusty greens flaking against his skin. They worked in companionable silence, the quiet snick of Shmi’s knife as she sliced through a gourd and the rattle of jars their backdrop, the feel of Revan’s eyes watching his back all the while. The tezirett beans were a shocking orange, bright against the skin of his palm—He’d never seen beans quite that shade before. He let them slip from his hand and into the mortar. The seeds, mid-sized round things that fit in his hand like uncracked walnuts, joined them with quiet clacks. 

He ground his herbs and seeds and beans into a fine dust as Shmi lit the stove, poured in white-tinged juice from the gourd into a copper pot. Blue bantha milk tipped from a clay jug, and then Shmi’s hands were stilling his.

He let the pestle fall from his fingers to rest against the side. Her hands wrapped around the mortar, and she took it with a nod.

“Thank you,” she said. Canderous just watched as she tipped the contents into the pot. It simmered on the stove, milky opaque with just the slightest hint of brown. “You should sit down,” she said after a moment. “It needs to sit for a few minutes.”

“I’m fine standing,” he said, ambivalent.

She just turned her gaze to him. “You should be easy on yourself, for the moment.”

Canderous raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am,” he said, “Believe me, that is far from my worst injury.”

She looked at him, met his eyes with an unwavering stare, and her voice when she spoke was something steady and too solid to be gentle. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, anyway.”

Canderous was familiar with kindness, in a distant sense. He had little use for it, and like everything else he didn’t have a use for, it was discarded for something he did. He knew the limits of his body, knew the hours of sleep it needed and how long it could function on what, knew the food it took to keep it going and how to treat it so it kept working. 

Kindness from his crew, he allowed—most of them, anyway. HK would rather be dead, which was what Canderous liked most about him—but that was more for their benefit than his. Kindness, compassion, towards himself was not something he needed. Or wanted. His muscles worked and his blood pumped and he could throw a punch—that was good enough for him. He had already resigned himself to an excess of mother-henning from his crew, and he’d be damned if he sat back and let someone else be added to their number.

“I’m fine standing,” he reiterated.

“Do you just not want to sit with me?” Revan’s voice called, her voice laced with amusement, as if she knew exactly what was running through his head, and that the deck was already stacked against him.

“With you?” Canderous asked, turning to look back at her. “Never.”

“Charming,” she said dryly, but her mouth quirked up in something resembling a smile. 

“Then perhaps you could grab a couple cups from the cupboard?” Shmi interjected. “We’ll need two.”

Canderous angled his head to focus on her, ignoring Revan entirely. That, he could do. “Which cupboard?”

“On the left,” Shmi said, an unconscious nod in that direction accompanying the words.

Canderous grunted in acknowledgement and moved to retrieve them. He was careful not to encroach into Shmi’s personal space as he passed her. It was one of the few courtesies he allowed most people on principle. Shmi didn’t seem uneasy in his presence—a rarity in itself—but Canderous was all too aware of how quickly that could change.

There were only four cups left in the cupboard, a mismatched set of clay and wood. An odd number for just Shmi and her son, but Canderous suspected it was rarely just the two of them in this hovel. 

He snagged the wooden ones. They’d be less likely to break. “Here,” he said.

“Set them on the counter over here, would you?” Shmi requested, stirring one last time before taking the simmering pot off the heat.

Canderous complied, his eyes flicking from Shmi to the now-empty burner.

“It has to cool,” she explained, though Canderous hadn’t asked. “Otherwise it would burn your tongue.”

Canderous doubted the pain would even register, but he nodded. “Speaking from experience?”

Shmi smiled. “Anakin has always struggled with patience.“

“Not you?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I value my tongue far too much.”

A corner of his mouth tugged up and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. “He’s a good kid,” Canderous said, because there was an expectant air that felt like it needed filling, and that was always a safe bet to say to a parent. It was true, which helped.

Shmi’s face… brightened, for lack of a better word. Not a brightness that came from some internal source, like deep sea creatures and break lights, but when you turned your head to the sun and closed your eyes, when firelight danced across your face and you felt the warmth on your skin. How the moon shines; bright because it faces something too bright to look at.

“I am very lucky to have him,” Shmi said, and there was such love in her voice that Canderous was almost uncomfortable listening to it, like he was intruding on something he had no place in. “Mission is a very bright child. Very kind,” she added.

A snort burst from him. He shook his head at the implication lurking beneath that, leaning back from the counter. “Oh no, the kid isn’t mine. I’m not exactly parent material.”

Shmi inclined her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth. It made her seem more awake, more alive. “Parent, no,” she agreed. “But an Uncle, yes?”

Canderous could feel Revan’s self-satisfied stare on the side of his face, and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Arguing won’t do me any good, will it?”

“It absolutely will not,” Revan called, and Canderous turned to shoot her a look, again. She met him with an actual smile, this time, just the barest hint of teeth flashing behind her lips. He paused, gaze on her.

Revan’s eyes were lit with that damned thing that’d drawn him to her in the first place. Oh, he liked to say he’d followed her for the battles, for the thrill of the fight, and that was true, but it wasn’t why he stayed. It wasn’t the fire of battle, a driving rage or need for purpose. It was something simpler than that—a bright I’m alive, a beckoning you’re alive, too. It was hand extended silently before her, an undemanding invitation (my hand will always be open to you, you need only take it). There was something undeniably alluring about it, in that it wasn’t alluring at all. It simply was. Canderous couldn’t speak for the others, but he thought that might be part of why they’d stayed, too. 

But then her gaze shifted to Shmi, drawn by movement as the woman reached for the pot on the stove, and the light didn’t fade from her eyes. Tempered, maybe, to something softer. Less a beckoning and more a reminder. But it did not fade.

Canderous sighed, and resigned himself to yet another person he would have to allow kindness from, after all.

Shmi sprinkled one last thing into the pot before taking it off the heat and bringing it over to the cups with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it countless times before, not a single drop so much as touching the lip of the pot as she moved.

“How fortunate that there’s something else to do with your mouth than argue,” she said as she poured him a cup. She filled the second one, setting the pot back on the stove, and then waited.

Canderous wrapped a hand around the smooth wood, the faintest hint of warmth bleeding through. The smell of it was similar to what Revan had—sharp and not quite earthy. Shmi’s was softer, the subtle burn of spices not quite so potent. He brought it to his face and took a cautious sip. Unmistakably, it was the same drink. Different variations, maybe, but the same at its core.

“It’s sweeter than Hasan’s,” Canderous said, if only because the silence seemed to demand a response from him.

Revan’s eyes sharpened a bit, but she seemed content to remain quiet and observe.

“She has her own recipe.”

Canderous paused. There was something in the way Shmi said that that made him turn his gaze to her and stare. “Should I have made this?” he asked after a long beat.

Shmi was quiet for a moment, looking up to meet his gaze head-on. “You took a blow meant for one of us,” she said, and he had never seen hard eyes that soft before. “You should have lost an arm, your hearing, perhaps your vision.” She held up a hand to stop his response. “You’re whole. You’re lucky. Aleema would not have been. We would not have been. That is not nothing.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me.”

“I am not,” Shmi said. “I am not.”

Canderous stood there for a moment, the taste of the tea on his tongue, and nothing to say. A beat, and then Shmi’s hand came up to rest, lightly, against his arm, and he let her.

“Go sit with your crewmate. I need to get this to Aleema before I leave.” She looked toward Revan, then, but spoke to both of them, her voice almost regretful. “Anakin and I… we can’t house you indefinitely. But we have enough at the moment. Your crew is welcome here for a few days more, at least.”

“Thank you,” Revan said, and it was nothing but grateful.

Canderous looked at Shmi as she turned to pick up the other cup. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and it was rough but it worked.

She patted his arm one last time, and then slipped back out through the door.

The cup in Canderous’ hand felt no heavier than it did before, and as he looked down at it, some part of him thought maybe it should. He leaned back against the counter, took another sip. It just tasted of tea.

A grind, stone against stone, and Canderous looked up to see Revan’s attention on him, his chair pushed out from the table.

He pushed off the counter, his footsteps a barely-there padding against the floor. Stone against stone, and a creak as Canderous lowered himself back into the chair. Revan reached out a foot to hook around the nearest leg of it, her shin bumping companionably against his.

“Well,” Canderous said, settling back in his seat. “That was something.”

“Far too meaningful for this early in the morning.”

“I wasn’t aware our earlier conversation counted as meaningless.”

She kicked him sharply under the table, but he just smiled with too many teeth. He took another sip of the tea, and passed it across the table to share with Revan.

“So,” he said, and his tone was steady and solid as she brought it up to her mouth, “What’s the plan, boss?”

The cup hit the table with a quiet clunk, and Revan’s eyes darted across his face. Something like a storm, like the turn of tides, like the immutability of rocks and mountains grew across her own.

“I think,” and oh, there was a bit of Revanchrist, “That this is as good a place as any to set up roots.”

Canderous did not like Tatooine. It was Jagi’s grave, the place where his old Creed died, the site of Griff’s betrayal and Bastila’s father’s last resting place. Tatooine was a harsh planet built on scraping by. It was a slave planet, now, above all else. But Revan had never been able to let things lie, to let them go, to do anything but fight for something better, and Canderous was her right hand above all else.

“Yeah,” he said, and smiled something bloody, “I think it is.”