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Chapter Text

<The following report is classified and may only be accessed by Clearance Levels ISB-030 and above.>

…As per the report we have received on [DATE REDACTED], it is evident that a significant percentage of the planet [REDACTED]’s population has become suspicious concerning project Stardust. There is growing resistance amongst civilians against the beneficent presence of the Empire, and factory strikes have been rampant. It is this investigation’s belief that the secrecy of project Stardust will soon be compromised, and that the planet [REDACTED] will soon no longer be of use to the Empire.

The Empire has authorised two countermeasures to this issue: 1) that project Stardust be removed from the [REDACTED] system to a more secure location in the [REDACTED] system 2) that chemical [REDACTED] be employed to pacify the [REDACTED] species native to [REDACTED]. This will ensure the continued secrecy of project Stardust, and open up planet [REDACTED] to potential future occupation by the Empire…

<Report ends>

Of course it had all started on that moon. That would be obvious to any psych eval droid, had the Empire bothered to perform a psychiatric evaluation on Kallus at any time after the event. Kallus knows he wouldn't be able to hide his perhaps reluctant alliance with that Lasat for long against the subtle, well worded questions they would ask – for of course, the Empire does not torture its officers.

Well… not without a very good reason. Or that's what Kallus thought, before Garazeb Orrelios saved his life and had a little talk with him. Now, he wonders whether perhaps the Empire will torture him, if they find out… what? That he's having doubts? That he's thinking?

…That he can't get Garazeb Orrelios out of his mind?

Kallus avoids a psych eval, just as he has almost every time something like this happens to him. Just as he had after Onderon and Lasan and – and all the other planets, all the other missions that Kallus tries not think about, that all blur together in his head after a while.

He gives a short, dishonest incident report. The Empire has no problem believing that he was the only person in that escape pod, and that the Rebel scum he had been chasing must have gotten away. The Empire believes that he had the skill to survive on his own, and does not even bother to ask about the strange glowing rock he clings to like a lifeline. The Empire is content with the return of one of its assets, and nothing more.

The most attention he gets is of the medical variety: some quality time with a bone-knitter, and an hour in bacta for the frostbite. Something to keep up the illusion that the Empire is a well-oiled machine, with every soldier in peak condition.

(They searched for him with exactly the minimum resources required for an officer of his standing, for exactly the minimum amount of time, and then gave up. He had to pay off a scummy little trader to take him back to his gods-damned employers. The Rebel was kinder to him than anyone has ever been in his entire life, and the Rebel is – was? - his mortal enemy. Konstantine barely acknowledges that he exists.)

He is alone. He is alone in his grey empty room with only a datapad and a rock for company, and as a result Kallus is allowed to think unchecked, for perhaps the first time since he was a child. He is allowed to make subtle enquiries about those nagging questions without anyone so much as blinking.

He follows the trail. If there’s anything the ISB has taught Kallus, it’s investigation. He finds that canisters of something were shipped to Geonosis. He learns that the inhabitants disappeared after the canisters came. With every mind-numbing report he finds, his suspicion grows.

He reads an unexpected old Republic report about mind-controlling worms that almost managed to take out a Padawan, Ahsoka Tano. That’s probably not relevant. It may not even be real.

He reads about the construction sites on and around Geonosis. What jumps out at him most here is the evidence that isn’t there, that leaves a strange hole. It would have to be something very large, larger than a Star Destroyer and more secret.

At some point, Kallus is forced to come face to face with the uncomfortable truth: the xenocide on Geonosis – because that is the word he must use, there is no other that comes close – was deliberate. A cover-up, though he’s still not sure what for. A move to protect the Empire’s interests.

Garazeb Orrelios was right.

The Empire murdered an entire species. Geonosis isn’t the first time it’s happened – Kallus of all people is excruciatingly aware of that – but this… Geonosis was on the Empire’s side. To murder their allies like this… It’s wrong.

And if the Empire was wrong about that, asks a little traitorous voice in his heart, what else are they wrong about? It sounds like… well, it sounds like exactly the right kind of question to ask.

As it turns out, the answer is: nearly everything.

Chapter Text

“Some of us Jedi, I think, are all too keen to classify the Force, to study it, to put it into a container to be measured and analysed. We’ve all used a midi-chlorian counter instead of trust our senses and our connection to the Force, for example. However, I believe there is much more to it than some simple scientific truth. If the Force were quantifiable, after all, Jedi would not exist at all.

No, the truth is that the Force is much more powerful and much more alien than most beings give it credit for. It comes with incredible cosmic power to influence dreams, to predict the future, to persuade, to sense things beyond the scope of mortal eyes and ears. It is the essential driving force for everything, and as such is stranger than any life-form could possibly imagine.

Perhaps, of course, this is my own bias: like my fellow Jedi, I was raised in the Temple, surrounded by other Jedi, more aware of the Force on any given day than most ordinary citizens will ever be in their lifetimes. However, I can’t help thinking that the Force has surprises in store for even the most experienced and talented of Jedi – although I’d never say that to master Yoda’s face, of course…”

- from the writings of Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Knight of the Republic

Kallus wakes in the dark. His room is silent. Far away, in corridors beyond his own, he can hear echoes of the night cycle patrols.

He shouldn’t be awake, not yet. Like many Imperial officers or even regular soldiers, he takes sleeping pills that should last the whole night cycle. It ensures he'll have plenty of energy during the day cycle and prevents any sloppiness that might come from over tiredness. It keeps the nightmares at bay.

Stranger still is that someone is outside his door. He can always tell, even without the sound of footsteps. At this hour, he can’t imagine anyone it would be: he hasn’t been that obvious with his research, has he? He sits up and reaches for the blaster tucked away in a secret pocket by his bed.

His door slides open, a brilliant square of pale white light, and it taken Kallus' eyes a moment to adjust to see the figure standing in the doorway. (He's sure he locked that door.)

The strange woman looks at him with piercing blue eyes, and Kallus decides this can’t possibly be real. There’s no way a Togruta woman would be on an Imperial ship, especially not a woman like this who practically reeks of Jedi. But… it feels more real than the last couple of weeks on this Star Destroyer. More real than most of his career in the Empire, in fact.

“Agent Alexsandr Kallus,” she says mildly. How does she know his name?

Kallus stares back at her. All of a sudden, he can’t move or speak: this must be a dream, he’s sure of it. Otherwise one of the two Inquisitors on board the ship would have caught her, or any of the security guards, or -

“That’s an interesting rock you have there,” she says, nodding at the meteorite. It’s not where Kallus was expecting her to go with this… conversation, if it can be called that. “I don’t know how you got your hands on it, but it holds a lot of power. Keep it safe.”

It’s a rock. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s certainly not any kind of symbol. That would be ridiculous. That would be distinctly un- Empire, and Kallus is loyal. He is loyal.

“You’ve sought answers to your questions,” she continues. “Has what you found satisfied your itch?”

If he were able to speak aloud, to lie, he would say: yes, the information I found has only solidified my loyalty to the Empire. But he can’t.

The strange woman smiles, lopsided: it’s the most… relatable expression he’s seen on her thus far. He much prefers it to the flat, droid-like calm from before.

“You’re a good man, Alexsandr,” she tells him, “though you don’t know it yet. The light of your goodness shines clear even in this ship full of evil.” She gestures gracefully at the ship around them.

(What the hells is that supposed to mean?)

“It means that there are answers to your questions, and then there are answers.” Her eyes sparkle. “I’m here to provide the latter.”

Kallus stares at her in silence. There’s not much else he can do.

“There is a new comm frequency on your datapad,” she says. “It’s completely secure and will not be picked up by your employers as anything more than standard comm chatter. The passcode to activate it is: by the light of Lothal’s moons. I think you know who will be listening.”

It’s treason, then, that they want from him. It’s betraying everything and everyone he’s ever known for some criminals and their pet mystical hippies.

She sighs. "Perhaps it's too early for you yet. But..." She looks sad for a moment. "Time runs short for all of us, I suspect. I have a feeling they'll need your help soon enough."

A pause, and then: “Be careful. And may the Force be with you, Alexsandr Kallus.”

Kallus bolts upright in bed with a start: there’s no one at his door. According to the chrono on the wall, the night shift is three-quarters done. His datapad sits as it always does on the plain little desk in his room: it doesn’t seem to have been tampered with. Just as he thought. No one has been here, and his overactive imagination is to blame. He lays back down, trying to capture the last couple of hours before his day shift starts.

It wouldn’t hurt to have a look.

Kallus screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore himself. Unfortunately, he is himself. And no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he’s tired, that there won’t be anything new on that damn datapad, that even if there were he certainly wouldn’t use it -

He groans and sits up. Well, if he’s awake, he’s awake. He might as well look, and prove to himself that there is nothing to worry about. He’s not a traitor. He’s not a Rebel. He’s a loyal Imperial soldier. Trying to pretend he doesn’t expect anything, he unlocks the datapad and scrolls through the available frequencies: medical, engineering, command, everything that he expected. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Apart from that one.

Kallus stares at the new frequency for a long, long time. He definitely didn’t put it on there. It’s always possible that the tech division updated everyone’s systems, or that this is just a glitch, or something like that. Somehow Kallus doubts it.

There is one camera on the wall – at least one visible camera. Kallus didn’t get as far as he has in the ISB without knowing how to check for hidden cameras, and he’s known about the one in the mirror and the other one hidden in the light since he started using this room. It hadn’t bothered him before. He had known, had thought, that the Empire did it to everyone even vaguely important for their own safety.

Now, with a potentially illegal frequency on his datapad, one that could get him summarily executed, tortured, or worse, he suddenly understands exactly whose safety those cameras are protecting. He hasn’t even used the frequency yet.

Not that he would. Not that he wants to. Indeed, Kallus is a moment away from deleting it and moving on before something stops him. His finger hesitates over the screen. Before he can think better of it he re-labels the frequency Konstantine. If anyone does catch him, they won’t question a connection to a colleague.

It is a few days before he caves. All of the pieces have fallen into place: he’s found a corner of his room that isn’t captured by any of the cameras, and he has something to say.

(Intel. It’s called intel. This is treachery. This could all be a trap devised by his superiors to catch the unfaithful in their ranks. He could be killed -)

He opens the frequency. A strange symbol projects itself: Kallus recognises the pattern of white marks on the Togruta woman’s forehead. He adjusts the input settings, so that his voice will be unrecognisable.

“Passcode?” enquires a soothing, vaguely masculine mechanical voice.

“By – by the light of Lothal’s moons.”

“Connecting.” A moment: Kallus is tempted to end the call, delete the frequency, and never think about this ever again. But he doesn’t.

“This is a new source,” says a new, human voice on the other end. Also masculine, with a slightly stilted accent. “How did you get this frequency?”

Kallus opens his mouth and then closes it again. It came to me in a dream doesn’t exactly sound sane or trustworthy.

“…An agent of yours contacted me,” he says at last. “A Togruta woman.”

“Ah.” The voice on the other end hums. “Then by all means, proceed, Fulcrum.”

Fulcrum. He knows, of course, that the Rebels use that name for their sources. He’s never been quite able to track down the most active one; he has a suspicion he just met her. More to the point – there’s no going back now. He’s crossed the line, and contacted the Rebels.

He opens his mouth. He speaks.

Chapter Text

“SITH – proper noun. 1) a being or entity which deliberately makes a connection to the Dark Side of the Force (see: FORCE, JEDI). Often implied to be controlled by negative emotions and/or be evil (see: DARK SIDE). 2) a group of such beings or entities (The Sith), usually mentioned in contrast to the Jedi. Historically considered to be the enemies of the Jedi and therefore of the Republic (see: REPUBLIC, SENATE); now presumed extinct thanks to the valiant efforts of the Jedi.

Derived words: SITH SPAWN – noun, vulgar; a being born of a Sith. SITH SPIT – noun, vulgar; something more disgusting or otherwise worse than the spittle of a Sith (see: POODOO)…”

- The Galactic Basic Dictionary

Zeb doesn’t have much time to think about what happened on that ice moon for ages. They’re on the run, after all – they’re always on the run – and there’s always something to do, someone to fight, someone to help. He doesn’t slow down at all once they get to Atollon, either – not with hordes of angry krykna out there trying to eat his kriffing family. He’s too busy to think about Kallus even before those idiot Jedi decide to go to Malachor.

It’s Ezra, of course, and Kanan, and Ahsoka. The rest of them have to wait around on the base, trying to keep themselves busy and pretend they’re not worried about those kriffing lightsaber-wielding fools out on some weird secret Force-related mission. Hera insists on a full deep-clean and repair for the Ghost, and with no Chopper for the mechanical work, that leaves Zeb, Sabine, and Rex to get covered in oil and dust and grime. The Rebel leadership leaves them to it. By the time the Phantom limps back in, days later, the Ghost is practically sparkling.

The little shuttle opens its doors. Ezra, with fresh tear-streaks down his face, helps Kanan down the ramp: Hera begins to run when she sees him.

“Kanan! Kanan, what happened, what -”

Rex jogs up beside her. “Where’s Ahsoka?”

Kanan bows his head. “I’m so sorry, Rex.”

Later, Zeb will discover that his eyes are milky white and scarred beneath the bandages.

They move on, as best they can. Zeb has never seen Kanan meditate so often, nor Ezra so constantly angry. And both of them refuse to actually talk about it, hard-headed fools that they are, because apparently Jedi training is all about how to bury your emotions deep inside. Kriff that. Zeb’s pretty sure this is how you get Sith, and that’s not a pretty thought at all.

It all comes to a head on the mission to get Hondo out of prison. It’s Ezra. He holds his hand up, a skinny teen against an AT-DP, and Zeb feels the power around him. The anger practically radiates from Ezra in waves, sheer will made manifest: it feels like a black hole, dragging each of them into the abyss.

(He remembers an Imperial trooper, aiming at a group of fellow Honour Guards. His posture was just so: tense, determined, back slightly hunched over the power he wielded in his hands. He didn’t flinch as Zeb’s comrades, his friends, fell.)

Zeb staggers. So does the AT-DP. One trooper after another falls to its shots until at last, Ezra slowly and deliberately directs it to the edge of the cliff.

(But it’s wrong. Zeb and Sabine both know it. Something is horribly, horribly wrong here.)

The AT-DP drops, and something wrenches deep in Zeb’s heart, a horrible twisted feeling as if he’s the one falling. And Ezra just turns away, casual, with the sort of hardened gaze Zeb would expect from a grizzled old soldier like Rex. He’s just a kit, for star’s sake, he shouldn’t be like this, it’s all wrong, but there’s nothing Zeb can do about it. What is there to do? Compared to Kanan, Zeb’s influence on Ezra’s mental state is nearly nil.

“So what happened with that walker?” asks Hera, when she finally picks them up.

“He used some sorta Jedi mind trick,” Zeb replies darkly. He knows what kind of trick Kanan would call it, but Kanan’s not here. “Controlled the pilot.”

“It got results,” insists Ezra. “I did what I had to do.”

Zeb and Hera exchange glances: yeah, this really ain’t good. Zeb can feel the anger resonating like an echo for ages after that, even after Ezra gets promoted, ringing and ringing all throughout their mission to scout out Reklam that turns into a mission to collect the Y-wings. It’s an unpleasant, sticky kind of feeling that only begins to ease when everyone is back at Chopper Base, safe and sound; when Kanan finally seems to be making an effort; and when Ezra looks up at his master with the kind of hope that Zeb’s been missing desperately for months.

(Master and apprentice have even finally started going to therapy; the Rebellion offers it for free, and it’s very effective in Zeb’s experience.)

And of course, it has to be right after that that kriffing Maul kidnaps him, Sabine, Hera, and Chopper. The less said about the way Maul makes shivers run down Zeb’s spine, about the chilling voice that suggests a perfect lack of compassion, the better.

The Dark Side of the Force, he decides succinctly, is a kriffin’ bitch.

Chapter Text

<JOIN THE EMPIRE!

Are you looking for a fulfilling career creating PEACE in the Galaxy? Do you want to be a HERO protecting the Empire and its assets? Would you like to be a part of the FIGHT for RIGHT?

Then the Empire needs YOU! Join the Imperial Army! Train with the best of the best! Defeat nefarious Rebels and Enemies of the Empire! Yes, it could be YOU!

The Empire will be your new HOME! Sign up today, and you will be handsomely rewarded with bed, board, medical care, good pay, and many other perks provided through the Emperor’s beneficence! Provide for your family while keeping evil at bay!

ENLIST NOW!>

The first indication Kallus has that some of the recruits at Skystrike want to defect comes a few weeks before the extraction: some of the new cadets are being transported to the training facility on the same ship that Kallus occupies, and he happens to overhear an interesting conversation in an adjacent little-used hallway. A hallway with a storeroom that Kallus had thought to use for his Fulcrum activities going forward: clearly, the cadets have noticed the same quietness that he has, the same privacy.

"I don't want to hurt innocent people," one boy whispers. "Did you hear what happened on Batonn?"

"But how do we get out?" mutters another boy. "This whole place is full of -"

"We need to find some way to contact the Rebels," replies a third boy. "They could come and help us."

"Yeah, right. As if they'd come for a bunch of teenagers. They’ve got bigger things to worry about."

Kallus takes out a piece of flimsi, scribbles down the frequency that he now knows by heart with his code phrase, and rolls it up. Then, making sure his footsteps are nice and loud, he turns the corner and approaches the three boys: naturally, they look like they’ve been caught red-handed, even as they straighten up and salute. He can use that.

“At ease, boys.” He nods. "Up to no good, are we? Gossiping in the hallway like schoolchildren? I would have expected better from Imperial cadets."

"Sir!" say the three boys.

"Let me give you a little advice, cadets," replies Kallus. He lays a hand on the tallest boy's shoulder and slips the roll of flimsi into the hidden pocket just above the heart of his uniform. "If I hear you've been spreading unpleasant rumours about your fellow cadets, it will be a black mark on your record. Remember, the walls have ears. You’re very lucky that I was the one who caught you. Any weakness we let the Rebels know about could be used against us. Do you understand?"

"Sir! Yes sir!"

"Excellent." Kallus makes a shooing motion. "Now run along, before anyone less merciful than I am catches you."

The cadets take the hint and scram. And Kallus has another transmission to make to the Rebellion.

Later, he says to Sabine Wren: "Tell Garazeb Orrelios we're even.” He doesn't feel like they're even. He feels like Orrelios both saved and changed his life so drastically that nothing he ever does will repay it. And what has he done? Tried to help a few children, barely. Even then, Wren nearly got tortured. Balanced against the massacre at Lasan, against poisoning and then burning Tarkintown, against torturing Jarrus and many others, against all the rotten cruel things he has done in the name of the Empire... Well, it just doesn't feel like enough.

It’s all about fairness. About balance. A Lasat kills his troop: he kills – Kallus shudders – too many Lasats. A Lasat saves his life: he does his best to make sure that Lasat and his Rebel friends stays alive. Kallus hasn’t done nearly enough to properly balance the scales, not by a long shot. He still has a planet full of Lasats to account for. The fact that he can only do small, practically useless things – that vexes him.

Not as much as the escape vexes Governor Pryce, apparently.

“What happened down there, Kallus?” she fumes. “What happened while the cameras were down?”

(That was a neat little fault of his own making: a little chip that, when activated, introduces bugs to the surveillance system until a mechanic can remove it by hand. It’s a prototype, a step to developing a solution to the cameras in his room or perhaps, with any luck, over the whole ship. Hopefully, they won’t even realise there’s a physical issue to solve until long after he’s already gone.)

“I was interrogating one of the cadets -” this is true, he had to make sure there weren’t any others the Rebels needed to take – “when I heard the racket outside. I came out into the corridor and gave chase, but unfortunately the Rebels got away. As they did with your men and Goran’s, if you recall.”

Pryce snarls. “We need to be faster, then. Stronger. Can’t you ISB idiots do better than this?”

Kallus raises his eyebrow coldly. “If you recall, Governor, it was us ISB idiots that received the tip about the defectors in the first place. The fact that you managed to capture the Rebel, even temporarily, is down to our intel.” This is also true. Kallus made sure to bring the intel as late as he could, to give the Rebels more time to act, but he’s not sure it paid off. He still has to make sure the Empire sees him only as his loyal, Rebel-hating self, after all.

Pryce grinds her teeth. “Let us hope that you can net us some real victories in the future, Kallus. Otherwise your incompetence will be the death of you.”

Delightful. Kallus decides to take it as a reminder of the other reason to give the Empire the intel: because if he’s too bad at his job, or even if he’s too good, they will kill him.

(The Rebels wouldn’t do that. The Rebels would save his life. The Rebels risked their lives today purely based on his word so that a few more defectors could join their cause. No doubt the cadets are getting a much better treatment over there than they would be here, and for that, at least, Kallus is glad.)

Chapter Text

“That moment – that one moment. I felt it. We all felt it. So much grief and suffering that even now I feel the echoes of it. I was lucky to survive: most did not have that privilege. The Jedi Order fell, and we fell with it into the Dark. I think perhaps it was always going to fall: the Jedi were becoming stagnant, old-fashioned even when I was a youngling. My masters would not admit we were set in our ways, but we were, and we paid the price for it.

If we, the survivors, are to move on, we must not return to the old ways. The old ways were murdered. No, we must build something new with what we have, must find a way to move forward. We have a chance, or we will do soon. I cannot in good conscience say to trust in the Force, but perhaps we can trust in ourselves to create a Galaxy where all are equal, where the Empire is defeated, and where people like us – like me – may find new ways to respect the Force that surrounds us.”

- from the writings of Cere Junda, former Jedi Knight of the Republic

“Kallus said what?”

Sabine folds her arms. “He said -” and here she puts on the most atrociously posh Coruscanti accent she can muster – “’Tell Garazeb Orrelios we’re even’. Any idea why?”

Zeb shrugs. “I gave up tryin’ to figure that guy out ages ago.” This is… almost a lie. He didn’t give up: he found out. On Bahryn, he saw a Kallus that was a hell of a lot easier to understand than the xenocidal maniac of before. He saw – he saw a lot of kark that he’s still not sure how to react to.

Sabine raises her eyebrow doubtfully: thankfully she decides not to probe any further, leaves him alone with his thoughts about this strange message.

So. That’s interesting. Agent Kallus, Imperial Sleemo Bureau number whatever, Alex-short-for-Alexsandr, who pronounces Zeb’s full name with effortless perfection, thinks they’re even. Probably this is his way of – what, paying back the life-debt he owes Zeb? Zeb doesn’t see it as a life-debt: just… an agreement, perhaps. An agreement to help each other survive until they can fight again on a fair footing.

Well, there’s no use overthinking it. Zeb has missions to complete, work to do, Spectres to care for. He has an old tactical droid to fight. He has weapons to liberate. He has a base to protect with all the clever little tricks he learned as an Honour Guard.

He has an Imperial Infiltration Droid on his hands, according to the modified voice that is Fulcrum. It looks like a protocol droid, speaks like a protocol droid, does better inventory than AP-5, and has a kriffing bomb in its chest.

There are many Fulcrums, he knows. Sato has implied, often, that there are half a dozen Fulcrum agents out there working with the Rebellion. He doesn’t even know for sure that Kallus has become one anyway, just that message from Sabine and a feeling, weird and nebulous.

That doesn’t stop Zeb from wondering. He can’t help but imagine Kallus up at his desk in some Star Destroyer, poring over the schematics of the droids, pretending to study them for the Empire, and then passing the information on – on to Zeb. There’s no way he knows which planet the Rebel base is on, of course, no way he knows Zeb has been nominated head of security, but… Perhaps Kallus really is trying to repay that life-debt, after all.

It’s not long after he sends that bastard droid back where it came from that Zeb’s dreams take him to another place, another time. A ship, though not the Ghost: larger, more like an Imperial Star Destroyer. The door in front of him opens, and a Human boy enters, panting a little.

“We will begin with physical preparation,” he hears himself say in a deep, clear Coruscanti accent. There is much to do before Mygeeto, much to -

He can feel the disturbance before the threat presents itself: a sudden change, a fluctuation in the Force. The screams – the hurt – he staggers with it, overwhelmed with the Dark. His siblings in the Force are dying – his friends are dying – who has done this?

He activates his lightsaber instinctively, and the clone commander behind him falls. Already he can feel other threats approaching, their thoughts so clear that it’s a wonder the Human boy isn’t deafened by them. He’s only a child. He hasn’t had two centuries of connection to the Force. Zeb knows he must protect the boy, the next generation, otherwise -

“We trained for this,” he says, although they never imagined such a large scale of death.

“What about you?”

“I will create a distraction. If I am not there, depart without me, I will find you -”

But as Zeb ignites his lightsaber once more, he wonders if it’s enough – wonders if anything will be enough. This, pressing buttons to make sure the boy gets away safe, overloading the ship’s reactors, it won’t matter soon enough. How can he have been so blind?

He can hear the troops moving in around him, unlocking the door that keeps them from him. His old master often told him to trust in the Force but – where is the Force now? It’s broken, raging around him as the clones march forward, ripples of turmoil so great that it knocks him off-kilter. He blocks every shot nevertheless, charges out in a blaze of – not glory, there will be no glory nor honour here, but courage, certainly. His lightsaber flows effortlessly around him.

These men were his loyal friends. He recognises Slugger, Aitch, Six-Two, and mows them each down, heartbroken at the loss of life. He has to keep moving. Protect the boy, now that the clones have spotted him in the turbolift. Zeb feels his focus return, a clarity that keeps him calm against the storm of evil around him.

He arrives just in time: the clones are trying to shoot the boy, and the boy struggles, reaching for his falling lightsaber. Zeb cuts down the attackers. No time to retrieve the fallen weapon. He moves onward and upward, to an airlock, where the clones are already waiting: the boy opens the door, Zeb cuts and Forces his way through more of his formerly loyal men, and the two of them reach the escape pods almost at the same time.

It’s too late. Even as his lightsaber deflects the first few blaster shots, Zeb knows it’s too late. The clones are coming, and they don’t stop coming. He can’t deflect the shot that knocks the lightsaber out of his hand, nor the one that pierces his chest, nor any of the half dozen that burn his fur and take his breath away. Lasats are hardy, he is hardy, but it’s not enough. It was never going to be enough.

And here he is, dying in an escape pod. Perhaps the only Force-sensitive Lasat in the galaxy, and almost certainly the last – he has looked into the future of Lasan, and there is only death there. For the first time, he allows himself to regret letting the Jedi Council keep him away from his home planet for so long. He thought there would be more time.

Who would have looked after his Padawan if he’d gone back? The boy is like a son to him, the son he never had and never will have; briefly, he mourns the fact he’ll never see Cal grow into his full potential as a Jedi Knight. As the escape pod flees the ship, he looks up into the boy’s eyes and hands him the lightsaber that has been at his side for many long years.

“Trust only in the Force.”

The last thing he remembers before he wakes up is a last, desperate hope: that maybe, just maybe, there will come a time when the darkness he feels will fade, that his Padawan will fight the fight for peace. That those who are left, the ones he can feel at the edge of his mind, will hold on to the light.

Zeb doesn’t tell anyone about his dream. Kanan can give him strange blind looks all he likes, but it’s not like any of it was real. It’s just a dream. Everyone has weird dreams now and again. And if his hand curls around the memory of a lightsaber hilt, if his thoughts ring with someone else’s trauma, well, no one is going to know.

Chapter Text

“There is a certain art in treachery. It is a delicate dance, especially with the added element of espionage, for both the betrayed and the betrayer. The traitor must dance their dance in secret: they may even make it seem that others dance instead of them. The betrayed, on the other hand, must always be on the alert for dancers, and must suspect even those who cannot dance.”

- Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Art of War or War in Art?: Socio-Political Struggle and its Effects on Cultural Output, tr. Eli Vanto.

“Victory and defeat,” Thrawn tells Kallus, “can often be determined by the smallest detail.”

He’s right, of course, though Kallus knows Thrawn’s version of victory or defeat would differ significantly from Kallus’ own. Thrawn definitely wouldn’t be helping the Rebels, for a start.

“You two,” he says, to the two painfully obvious Jedi-in-Stormtrooper’s-clothing. “Come with me to secure the perimeter.”

He expects the beating, honestly. He’s gotten incredibly familiar with how the Spectres operate, and it usually involves someone – usually him or one of his troops – getting punched. He doesn’t expect them to actually listen to him when he asks them to.

“Why should we believe you?” asks the Stormtrooper with Jarrus’ voice.

“By the light of Lothal’s moons.”

Jarrus removes his helmet, and Bridger opens his faceplate: most unprofessional. If Kallus were running their mission, he’d tell them off for revealing their faces to a potential enemy so quickly. And he would definitely give Bridger a telling off for loudly confirming the code phrase in an Imperial complex like this one where cameras and listening devices are rampant. He’s going to have to “accidentally” corrupt the recordings afterwards now, isn’t he? Well, never mind.

(Kallus is a little surprised to see the change in Kanan Jarrus. He remembers, vaguely, blue eyes and a small goatee; this Jarrus is full-bearded and has a red burn scar across his nose and eyes. And Bridger looks older, too, now he thinks of it, taller and more mature.)

He never gets the chance to harangue them, of course: time is running short, and they have their mission to complete. Plus, Bridger throws him bodily through a large pane of glass. That always puts a damper on any plans he has for the day.

He spots the new camera in his room nearly immediately after coming back from the factory on Lothal. It’s right in the narrow little corner where he usually makes his Fulcrum transmissions, hidden where a small bolt would have been, and there’s no way it won’t spot the distinctive holographic symbol.

Damn and blast.

His superiors probably don’t have any evidence yet: otherwise Kallus would have been arrested or killed by now. No, likely they suspect Kallus of something, but need proof; they’re probably counting on Kallus to spot the damn thing, want to make Kallus sweat a little. Likely Kallus isn’t the only one under scrutiny, either, though it’s hard to imagine any of his current colleagues as traitors.

It means, of course, he’ll have to find a new way to conduct Fulcrum-related activities: take more planet leave, pretend to have leads on Rebels more often. Not impossible. But difficult. There are only so many excuses he can present before someone gets suspicious, probably fewer than he thinks, and if his behaviour changes too much all at once it’ll only get worse for him.

Which is all well and good for a few weeks right up until Bridger the Hutt decides to come and try to break Kallus out. It’s a lovely sentiment, really, but it’s the kind of complication Kallus really does not need right now. Especially since, coincidentally, Admiral Thrawn has also decided to stick his long blue nose in. Again.

Plans within plans. That’s always been the ISB way: deceptions and trickery and a surprising amount of improvisation. Out-thinking Admiral Thrawn, though, could prove remarkably difficult. Especially since Bridger is the kind of wild card that could either make this work perfectly before everything goes horribly wrong, or mess everything up in the most spectacular way possible before he somehow succeeds. The trick is to figure out which of those is most likely and to plan accordingly.

“Gentlemen,” remarks Thrawn calmly, when Kallus and Lyste present themselves, “we have a traitor among us.”

Damnation. The Rebels are right, and they might just be too late. No wonder Yularen is here. Kallus should have known: Yularen was ever a fan of the subtler investigation techniques. No need for torture when they have video evidence, after all, although no Imperial officer Kallus knows has ever forgone the opportunity to torture a potential Rebel. Including himself.

He stays as calm as he can. He has a few fail-safes up his sleeves, after all: Lyste, his repurposed MSE-droids, and a deep distrust between Pryce and Konstantine that he’s been stoking for months now. And Bridger, of course, though the boy is perhaps not quite as convincing a Lyste as Kallus had hoped. At least they can do a little good by erasing the Rebel’s base. At least he gets a chance to use Thrawn’s own sentry droids against him.

“Come on!” yells Bridger, as the Rebels’ Sheathipede-class shuttle begins to lift off; Kallus can feel the slight tug of the Force at the front of his cuirass, as if the boy thinks to drag him onto their shuttle kicking and screaming. Of course, Kallus would never do something as undignified as that, so he ignores Bridger in favour of punching Lyste in the face.

(He’s been wanting to do that for a while now, truthfully. Lyste is a snivelling, sycophantic little creep whose passion for the Empire would have endeared him to Kallus before that moon. Now Kallus just feels a little slimy whenever he’s near Lyste.)

“I will do more good here,” he shouts, as the Rebel’s shuttle begins to power up. “Now that I’ve captured Fulcrum.”

It’s probably a bad idea. He knows it’s only a matter of time before his employers realise that Lyste has nothing to say; even if they don’t pin it on Kallus immediately, they’ll definitely realise Lyste was framed at some point. But – well, perhaps Garazeb Orrelios has made Kallus into an optimist at last. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? It’ll be worth the risk to find more information for the Rebellion… right?

Chapter Text

“It seems that contrary to popular belief, and even though sensitivity to the Force can be passed down through bloodlines, there is no so-called ‘Force gene’. At the request of our patrons, we attempted to replicate some of our most powerful Jedi allies, to no avail: even those subjects whose genetic material matched exactly with, say, Anakin Skywalker or Obi-wan Kenobi had no success connecting to the Force. We controlled for everything, even for the standard accelerated ageing process, and fond absolutely nothing to suggest that these were anything more than failed experiments.

Upon careful enquiries to certain Force-using allies, the prevailing theory seems to be that the Force chooses who it will bless. This, of course, is patently ridiculous. That would be like saying that the force of gravity chooses to act upon planets, beings, and starships. Our own theory is that the Force is simply random, and those who can or cannot use it are no more ‘destined’ to their fate than stars are destined or otherwise to become supernovas.

It is possible, of course, that a high midi-chlorian count could be passed on through, for example, a blood transfusion; we have our own theories on this matter which we will discuss in person with our benevolent patrons. Also of note is the possibility that, despite our colleagues’ best efforts, some CT-units may randomly acquire the Force…”

- Dr Qire Mu and Dr Huni Ra, Report on the Potential for Force-Using Clones

Zeb wouldn’t have been this bothered about any other spy getting rescued – or not, as the case may be. It’s just that when it comes to Kallus – he really needs time to sort out exactly what he thinks about Kallus, and he doesn’t really have any of that. It would have been a lot more convenient if Kallus could have just come with Ezra in the first place so Zeb could talk to him face to face. Maybe hit him a few times. Maybe not hit him a few times, which is an infinitely more confusing emotion.

All in all, Zeb’s not really surprised when, while Ezra flies off to Tatooine, the Kallus dilemma starts appearing in his dreams. This time he is in a huge, echoing cave. Crystals larger than Zeb in every direction grow from the ground almost randomly: they are beautiful, glowing green and blue and purple. There’s no one else here, but if he looks carefully he sees the footprints of those who have come before picked out in the stone beneath him.

One of the crystals in front of him is not exactly the kind of crystal he was expecting. It’s yellow, and warm, and round, and looks exactly like that meteorite he gave Kallus. It hums its sweet, enticing tune, just as it had on Bahryn, and he puts his hand out, compelled to touch its faceted surface.

Zeb wonders what Kallus has been up to since he opted to stay on the Chimaera: more spy work, probably. It’s strange to think that Kallus is actually doing good now, even after all this time, but – yes, Zeb’s beginning to accept it. It’s not as alien a thought as it would have been, before. He thinks, perhaps, he’s even happy to see Kallus making an effort to help the Rebels.

Zeb knows a bit about trying to find redemption – for him, Lira San started the process, healing the shame and guilt and trauma he’d felt over the death of Lasan. For Kallus, who knows? Zeb’s not quite ready to forgive him yet for all he’s done, but he is willing to give him a second chance.

“One who has fallen so far and done so much evil does not deserve redemption,” says a woman’s voice, from behind him. She sounds upper-class, Coruscanti, Human if he’s not mistaken. “In a way, such a turning from one’s nature is cowardly, a betrayal of the self.”

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Yeah, nah, that’s bantha shit.” It was for him, anyway. He’s become better than his broken post-Lasan self could ever have imagined. And if he can claw his life back -

“Redemption is a form of spiritual collapse,” insists the voice, “a fall few recover from.”

“Kriff off.” He knows this is a dream: if he really tries, he could probably wake up right about now. “I ain’t gonna be intimidated by some hungry ghost into hating Kallus again.”

“That is not my intention,” replies the woman. “To be united by hatred is a fragile alliance at best. I -”

“I said kriff off. I don’t give a shit.” He picks up the meteorite and holds it aloft in one hand. “I am the Child of Lasan. I’ll be the judge of whether he gets to be redeemed or not. And I say, give him a chance.”

“Very well,” says the voice, fading into near-silence. “It shall be done.”

Not long after that, they receive the last message from Fulcrum – from Kallus. “Thrawn knows ab-” isn’t much to go on, but it’s something: Chopper Base scrambles to evacuate. Right up into Thrawn’s fleet. Zeb watches the battle, watches Sato’s ship barrel straight into one of the imperial ships: he has to admire that kind of resolute determination. Perhaps Ezra will get out, perhaps they’ll get some reinforcements, perhaps, perhaps.

He really needs to stop focusing on what could happen and start thinking about what’s actually happening. He and Rex take to the shield generator and the base’s last defences with everything they have; out in the wilderness, he’s pretty sure Kanan is trying to summon some sort of kriffing Force god. He doesn’t think the actual Bendu deity he learned about in school is here, but stranger things have happened.

It’s easy, once Thrawn starts his ground assault, to lose himself in the thrill of battle, to keep himself and his bo-rifle on the move, to give those Imperial shitheads exactly what they deserve. It’s easy to slip into a smooth rhythm with Rex at his side: Rex reminds him of an Honour Guard he knew long ago, and perhaps Zeb reminds Rex of a long-dead clone as well. At one point, Rex makes a little, subtle gesture, and one of the troopers they’re fighting trips.

“What the -?”

Rex winks. “Can’t live as long as I ‘ave with the Jedi without picking up a few tricks,” he replies, and puts a finger to his lips. “Our little secret, yeah?”

Zeb blinks, shrugs, and buries himself in the battle once more. He’s almost forgotten about it by the time Thrawn and his men manage to surround him, Rex, Kanan, Hera, Dodonna, and AP-5, and by then it’s clear that they have other problems on their hands. Kanan turns his blind face up towards the black, thundering clouds with a strange expression that definitely means someone is about to get royally kriffed. Zeb only hopes it isn’t them.

It isn’t. Somehow, even through the chaos and the storm, they all manage to escape on the Ghost, alive with a few extra passengers from Chopper Base, and blow up the Interdictor while they’re at it with the help of the Mandalorians. And -

And Kallus. The distress call comes just before Hera is about to make the jump, and she swoops in without hesitation. Zeb hears the clank of the escape pod connecting from his gun turret: there’s no going back. Kallus is with them now. It’s time to give him that second chance.

Chapter Text

“In those early days of the Rebellion, our forces were more scrappy than organised, but we still looked after our own. When soldiers and pilots came back bruised and battered, even those who were not their friends would personally apply bacta patches, prepare endless meals, and practically force their injured comrades to hydrate.

I look back upon those days with great fondness: there may not have been many of us, but our hearts were big enough to care for the whole Galaxy. I suppose that was why we were Rebels, really: because we cared where the Empire did not.

Many of the defectors I have had the pleasure of speaking to assure me that it was this warmth and deep care of the Rebellion that really cemented their decision to abandon the Empire, and I do not doubt them. Going from an efficient, endless machine of misery, war, and death to a group of people passionate about keeping you not only healthy but happy – that, I think, has a staying power that the Empire simply was not capable of.”

- Sen. Mon Mothma, Senator to Renegade: Memoirs of the Rebellion

The first face Kallus sees as he struggles out of his escape pod is, oddly enough, Sabine Wren. She offers him a hand, and he takes it without question.

“Hey,” she says, pulling him into the Ghost with surprising strength for a slim teenage girl. “Welcome to the Imperial Defector’s Club.”

“...There’s a club for that?”

“It’s unofficial,” she replies cheerfully. “Me, you, Hobbie, Wedge, a few others. You wanna bond over shared trauma some time, be my guest.”

Kallus chuckles nervously. “I’m… not sure we know each other that well yet, but thank you.”

“No problem.” She looks him up and down. “Injured?”

Kallus considers brushing his injuries off and pretending he’s fine. Unfortunately, his body speaks for him: he can hear and feel himself wheezing fit to match Darth Vader himself. Wren rolls her eyes and pulls his arm over her shoulder so he can lean on her and limp, slowly, into the Ghost. She’s so kind. Why are all the Rebels so kind?

“Come on, chakaar. We got an actual medic on board for once, and I’m pretty sure they just finished the last of the refugees. No excuses.”

Kallus chuckles weakly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Wren.” And then: “Everyone must be quite busy.”

“Oh, for sure,” agrees Wren, with a shrug that nearly dislodges him. “The battle’s been… stressful.”

“I can imagine.” Kallus hesitates in the middle of the corridor at a horrible pain from his leg, and: “I’m sorry. I led Thrawn right to your base. It was – he tracked my transmission.”

“Clever blue bastard,” remarks Wren. “Not surprised. He woulda come for the base sooner or later anyway. Your transmission actually saved everyone. Base got some time to prepare and evacuate, and Ezra got out to contact me and my clan so we could blow things up.”

“Good,” nods Kallus, desperately relieved. “Good.”

“Can you walk some more?”

His leg is screaming. He tries, anyway, to put one foot in front of the other, but his body gives up on him and he ends up crumpling into a painful heap against the wall, too heavy for Wren to lift any longer.

“Alright, bud,” she sighs. “I’ll hunt out our medic and send them back here.” She hesitates for a moment, and adds: “You’re not gonna be weird and Imperial about them, right? It’s just they’ve had issues before with assholes not calling them ‘them’.”

Kallus blinks at her. “My leg is broken,” he replies. “I have more important things to worry about.”

“Hmm, yeah, fair enough.” Wren shrugs and turns away again. “Stay put, they won’t be long.”

Kallus shakes his head and laughs weakly from his spot on the floor. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere, Wren.”

The medic who comes to his side not five minutes later with a large med-pack, a splint, and a flask of something is a greenish-blue Rodian with dark, sparkling eyes; when they spot the awkward angles of his bad leg, they whistle softly.

“Stars. What happened to you, then?”

“Fought Thrawn. Got tortured a bit.”

“Ah.” Suddenly the medic’s face is a lot more understanding. “Right. Let’s get that leg looked at, then.”

Kallus… tries to help them by moving his leg, but the pain rips through his leg like lightning and he nearly yelps aloud. Most undignified.

The medic takes one look at his face and whips out a local anaesthetic: he winces as they inject it into his lower thigh, but it must be fast-acting, since it doesn’t take long for his whole leg to go numb. After that, it’s much easier to watch them set his broken leg with a kind of dispassionate calm. He doesn’t even feel anything when they push up his loose uniform trouser leg to spray bacta on his violently bruised shin.

“I think…” he wheezes, “some of my ribs may be cracked, too.”

“Mhm,” agrees the medic, not looking up from their work. “I can hear you wheezing from here. That’ll be next.”

“Joy.”

“Yup.” They tie the splint to his leg with careful, professional bandages. “You gonna need anaesthetic for that, too?”

“We’ll see.”

They finish his leg and roll the trouser back down over the bulky splint. “Right. Shall we test that? Your jacket, please.”

Kallus unbuckles his cuirass and takes off his jacket obediently, and is absurdly proud of himself when he only winces a little bit. There’s only a white under-shirt underneath, and Kallus is briefly embarrassed before remembering that this medic has probably seen much worse than his naked chest: he tugs the shirt up to his armpits.

“Hm.” The medic inspects the bruising on his ribs, pokes and prods, and pulls out a hand scanner. “Yep, pretty classic case of cracked ribs, I’d say. One of ‘em looks broken, too.”

They take out another bottle of bacta spray and begin to spread it over his chest: it’s nice and cool, and Kallus can almost feel the swelling going down. “Just breathe normally, cough when you need to, and take a deep breath every now and again. Oh, and sleep upright if you can.”

“Right.” Kallus waits for the bacta to absorb a little and then lets his shirt fall back down; it’s surprisingly cool on this ship, and he decides to put his jacket back on for warmth. He leaves the cuirass. It can burn in hells as far as he’s concerned, now that he’s with the Rebels. “I think the rest is just bruises.”

“I need to deactivate those Imperial tracking devices the scanner’s picking up under your skin,” the medic tells him. They rummage in their kit and find something that looks a little like a droid manipulator. “You may feel a slight pinch.”

Kallus nods, too tired to care; he’s not really surprised about the tracking devices. Either Thrawn implanted them without his knowledge once he began suspecting Kallus’ Fulcrum activities, or the Empire just likes to keep track of its officers. Maybe both.

“Your right wrist, please.”

He offers his wrist. There is a slight zap, and a short burst of pain.

“And your left shoulder, please.”

Kallus obediently slides his jacket and shirt off on one side so that the medic can get at his shoulder; another zap.

“That should be all of ‘em.” The medic scans Kallus’ body, and: “Yep, looks like it.”

“Thank you,” sighs Kallus, as they dab his smaller cuts and his black eye with more bacta. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Tik.” Tik wipes off their hands, and offers Kallus a ration bar and a mug of something hot from their flask. “Everyone does.”

“You’re a lot friendlier than a med droid,” replies Kallus, staring down into the mug.

Tik chuckles and pats Kallus on the shoulder. “I get that a lot, too. Drink your tea. I made that blend myself. Hydration, electrolytes, and a pinch of pain medication. Better than swallowin’ pills.”

Kallus, obediently, takes a sip. “It’s good.”

“I know.” Tik begins to pack up their gear. “Now, remember, that leg won’t take a lot of weight. So not too much walking ‘round for a while, you hear? I’ll give you a crutch and a bigger cast if I need to.”

“Understood.” Kallus is too exhausted to move in any case. The past… however many hours have caught up with him; he could probably nap against this wall. “Er, Tik?”

“Mm?”

“Is…” Kallus hesitates. “Is Garazeb Orrelios around?”

Tik raises their eyebrow. “Zeb? Sure, he’s around. You want me to get him?”

“No, I’ll… find him.” Best not to take Garazeb away from any duties he might have.

“Suit yourself. Just rest first, ‘kay?” With that, Tik puts their palm on their chest in a Rodian salute and leaves Kallus alone to go find their next patient.

Yes, thinks Kallus, that suits him just fine. He’ll just close his eyes for a minute…

He falls asleep, just like that, shirt still half-off, leaning against the wall of the Ghost, with the bustle of the rest of the refugees and Rebels aboard echoing around him.

Chapter Text

“To victory! To death!

Let’s drink a toast, my friends

To our camaraderie.

Together we’ve faced the enemy

And together we’ve survived.

Ho! To the fallen! To the living!

Our armour’s held, and we are the champions!”

- Battle’s End, Mandalorian drinking song, tr. Valdesh Eldar

Even once the immediate danger has ended, even once Zeb no longer needs to spend his time in a gun turret keeping TIEs off the Ghost’s back, he keeps himself busy. There’s injured people to help treat and feed, there’s cleaning to do, there’s keeping Chopper from murder, there’s all the little mindless jobs that keep a ship running. He contributes, just like all the other able-bodied beings. So he doesn’t see Kallus, not really, until he nearly trips over his sleeping body on the way to the ‘fresher for a quick sonic.

“Wstfgl?” mumbles Kallus, as Zeb narrowly avoids kicking his injured leg. And then, startling suddenly: “Garazeb!” He scrambles to his feet, dazed and with red lines on his face from sleeping against the wall, hair falling out of that perfect neat Imperial hairstyle. He has a truly spectacular black eye, too, purpler than Zeb’s fur and not nearly as beautiful.

“Mornin’.” Zeb’s ears twitch in amusement. “Yannow, we have perfectly good sleepin’ pallets.”

Kallus looks around him: there’s an unopened ration bar and half a mug of Tik’s special tea on the floor. He picks up both and stares at them.

“Ah,” he says. “I must have… drifted off.”

Zeb tips his head: he’s glad, at least, that Kallus seems to have had his injuries seen to already. “Looks like it. Tik’s tea is powerful stuff.”

“Yes. Well.” A moment: Kallus looks down at his feet. “It’s… good that you’re here, actually. I wanted to apologise to you.”

Zeb looks down at him sharply: he has a feeling about where this is going. Still, he nods.

“I know it won’t be enough,” admits Kallus. “I know I have caused so many horrors, so much hurt and death and suffering…” A deep breath. “I just… I’m sorry.”

“I know,” says Zeb. It’s not hard to see the genuine guilt and pain on Kallus’ face: the struggle, the need to make things right. He can appreciate that, even if he’s not a fan of the uniform Kallus still wears. Or half-wears, Zeb notices: one of Kallus’ shoulders is exposed, revealing pale skin covered in strange golden speckles like a starry night. “I ain’t gonna say it’s okay. But… I see ya. I hear ya.”

“…see me?”

Zeb lays a hand on Kallus’ shoulder – the clothed one. “Yer apologisin’, which is more’n I could say for mosta the other Imps out there. Ya’ve been helping us. Ya’ve been tryin’ to do better.” And in Lasat: “I accept your apology in the spirit it was given.”

Kallus mouths the words, brows furrowed: Zeb isn’t sure how much he understands of Zeb’s native language. Probably only bits and pieces. But it’s not a sentence Zeb can put into Basic: his tongue always trips a little, even if he tries to conceal it, and he struggles with the kind of fancy vocabulary that Kallus tends to use.

“Means…” Zeb frowns. “Means that seein’ ya say sorry helps, I guess.”

“I’m glad,” replies Kallus quietly. “I promise, I will try to be of help to you. I will try to make up for the evil I’ve done.”

“Good.” Zeb gives him a friendly pat, and: “Ya hungry?”

“No, I -” says Kallus, but his stomach disagrees.

Zeb rolls his eyes and offers a hand for Kallus to lean on; Kallus takes it with barely any hesitation. “Come on. Let’s get some food in ya that’s more interestin’ than those ration bars. Can’t do better if ya die of hunger.” A moment, then: “And fix yer clothes. Don’t want people gettin’ the wrong idea.”

Kallus goes all red and fixes his uniform.

“So,” remarks Zeb, as he opens a door and leads Kallus through the next corridor. Most of the refugees and Rebels that were crowding the hallways just an hour or so ago have cleared away, crammed into one of the rooms – there’s about six in Zeb and Ezra’s room alone. Nevertheless, there’s still one or two around who turn to watch as Kallus limps past.

“So,” agrees Kallus. He looks tired. It’s not really a surprise.

“Heard ya risked life an’ limb to warn us about the attack on Atollon,” Zeb says, loud enough that all the listening ears and resentful watching eyes know what Kallus has done. “Heard ya got tortured and never gave away any of our secrets.”

“Um,” says Kallus.

“Yeah, and ya provided a lotta valuable intel as Fulcrum.” He knows the Rebels: even on a multitude of separate ships following vastly different paths throughout the Galaxy to avoid detection, rumours of Kallus’ bravery and loyalty to the Rebellion will spread like wildfire. With any luck, they’ll counteract some of the rumours Zeb has already heard on the theme of: that bastard double-crossing Imp.

The door of the galley shuts behind them. Luckily, everyone’s cleared out of here, too: the other Spectres, Zeb guesses, are all elsewhere. The only other occupant of the galley is a yellow-skinned Twi’lek man, curled up and fast asleep in the corner. Zeb relaxes a little.

“Go on,” he mutters, with a wave. “Sit. Caf?”

“Please.”

Zeb nods and starts up their cranky old caf machine. There’s not much edible food left apart from a few overripe meilooruns: he offers one to Kallus nevertheless, and Kallus takes it without comment. He makes two cups of caf, one for himself, and puts the milk and sweetener within Kallus’ reach.

“Gonna be a good few jumps before we get ta the new base,” he remarks, apropos of nothing. “Command’s probably gonna wanna talk ta ya, so best get some more sleep in before then.”

Kallus huffs, almost a chuckle. “Maybe. Later.” And then: “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the caf. For the meiloorun. For making me ask those difficult questions. For -” Kallus shakes his head. “For a second chance. You don’t need to be so kind to me.”

Zeb’s not sure what to say to that: he dips his head and takes a sip of the hot sludge that’s the closest to caf their machine can come up with. Beside him, Kallus nibbles at the meiloorun.

“Thrawn took my bo-rifle,” he says at last.

“Bastard,” nods Zeb sympathetically. For some reason, that makes Kallus snort.

“I still owe you a proper rematch.”

Zeb raises his eyebrow. “What about yer leg? Don’t think I don’t see ya limping.”

“When it’s healed.” Kallus leans back in his seat. “Without the attempted murder.”

“Yeah?” Zeb clinks his cup of caf against Kallus’. “I’ll drink to that.”

Kallus shakes his head, but picks up his cup just the same. “To… defecting. To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” agrees Zeb. “To friendship.”

Kallus stares at him, disbelief and confusion written on every inch of his face. “You really mean it? You would really try and be friends with a – a monster like me?”

“Sure.” Zeb nudges Kallus and grins. “Ya may be an utter bastard, but yer our bastard now. Ya better get used to it.”

Kallus blinks, and then: “To being a bastard.” He drains his caf in one go and makes a face. “That is absolutely disgusting.”

“Yup. Welcome to the Rebellion.”

Chapter Text

<WANTED: REBEL INSURGENTS, ARMED AND HIGHLY DANGEROUS! Members of the group known as the “Spectres” are wanted DEAD OR ALIVE!

SUSPECTED LEADER: Kanan Jarrus; pale-skinned Human male; bloodthirsty ROGUE JEDI armed with lightsaber. APPROACH WITH CAUTION!

PILOT: Hera Syndulla; green-skinned Twi’lek female; known associate of terrorist CHAM SYNDULLA.

OTHER CREW: 1) Garazeb “Zeb” Orrelios; purple-furred Lasat male; armed with bo-rifle. 2) Sabine Wren; juvenile pale-skinned Human female (usually with colourfully dyed hair); MANDALORIAN terrorist and TRAITOR to the Empire. 3) Ezra Bridger, aka “Jabba the Hutt” or “Lando Calrissian”; juvenile pale-skinned Human male; ROGUE JEDI APPRENTICE armed with lightsaber. 4) C1-10P “Chopper”; orange and grey astromech droid; not armed.

TYPICAL TRANSPORT: Modified VCX-100 light freighter with orange markings known as the Ghost, equipped with several cannons.

ALL INFORMATION ON THEIR WHEREABOUTS WILL BE HIGHLY REWARDED!>

Kallus isn’t particularly surprised when Garazeb begins to doze off at the table, even after half a mug of that vile-tasting caf. It’s been a long day for everyone, and Garazeb looks like he could do with some rest. As for himself – he is beginning to feel the effects of not using the ‘fresher for… however many hours it’s been since he was captured. Too many. The caf definitely isn’t helping in that regard, either.

So, Kallus leaves the softly snoring Garazeb – or is he purring? - and limps out of the galley back into the corridor. It’s even quieter now than it was when he came through the first time: the eyes that were watching from the doorways are all gone. Perhaps they’ve all had the same idea as Garazeb.

...He’s going to have to start opening doors randomly, isn’t he? Despite his long experience chasing the Ghost up and down the galaxy, despite poring over schematics for any potential weakness, he doesn’t have any idea which of these doors might lead to the refresher. He’s just decided to knock on the closest one and perhaps ask for directions, when a different door opens, and Kanan Jarrus steps out into the corridor.

“Oh,” remarks Jarrus calmly. “Hello, Kallus.” He wears a strange new mask: the crudely-drawn eyes are empty, yet still Kallus feels like he’s being watched.

“Jarrus…” Kallus clears his throat. “I suppose it would be bad form for me to try and make amends for attempting to torture you.”

Jarrus snorts. “I appreciate the thought, Kallus.” He pats Kallus’ bicep. “I know you could never hurt me in a way that matters.”

“I… beg your pardon.” Despite himself, Kallus is a little affronted at that: he still has a certain amount of professional pride, after all, even if torture isn’t generally acceptable in the Rebellion.

“Listen, I…” Jarrus shrugs loosely. “It wasn’t fun at the time, I grant you that. But I try not to hold grudges, not when you’ve so clearly done all you can to help the rebellion since you became Fulcrum.”

“But…”

“Besides, even without the use of my sight, I know you’ve had your fair share of beatings as well.” He lays a hand on Kallus’ shoulder, firm and strong. “I know it can’t have been easy.”

Kallus stares at Jarrus, hardly believing this level of pure kindness, this care, this forgiveness. It’s more than he could ever have hoped. It’s more than he could ever deserve.

“…Thank you,” he says at last, overwhelmed. “For helping me. You didn’t have to rescue me, but you and your crew have done more for me in the past few hours than the Empire has done for me in a lifetime.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Hera. She’s the boss, I just do what she tells me to.” Jarrus squeezes his shoulder gently. “But, on her behalf, thank you for risking your life on us rag-tag Rebels.”

“I thought you were -”

“Yes, everyone does.” Jarrus smirks. “Works out pretty well for us.” With that, he lets go of Kallus’ shoulder, and: “Have you had something to eat? Drink? Medical attention?”

“All three. Thank you.” Kallus smiles. “Your crew have been very hospitable.”

“You’re one of us now.” Jarrus tilts his head in a way that almost, almost looks like he’s trying to wink without the use of his eyes. “That means no more torture, got it?”

“I’ll… do my best,” replies Kallus nervously. Do all Jedi have such a strange sense of humour?

“Good, good. Oh, and by the way,” adds Jarrus, nodding down the corridor, “the ‘fresher’s down that way and to the right.”

How did he…? Actually, maybe it’s better not to ask. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He feels a lot better once he’s taken care of his bodily needs: he washes his face in the ‘fresher sink and finds that his reflection is less beaten than he’d feared. The black eye is rather impressive, granted, but the rest is superficial. He feels a little mutinous spark of joy at the small locks of hair that escape what remains of his gel: it’s far too unprofessional for the Empire, but perhaps it’s the perfect look for the Rebellion, if they’ll have him.

Well, they haven’t imprisoned him yet. They’ve helped him. Absurdly, Kallus finds himself… happy to be here, to be with the Spectres and their forgiveness and care, to have a second chance. His old self would have punched him in the face. His new self is full of hope, strange and irrational and overwhelming in the best way. His new self has a Rebel heart beating strong and full inside his chest.

Kallus emerges from the ‘fresher transformed. He limps towards the galley without meeting any more strange Jedi; Zeb is still asleep when he gets back. That’s all right. Kallus moves on, towards the front of the ship, through new corridors, and arrives in the cockpit just as the Ghost reaches its next jump point. The stars outside slow and stop their rushing, and Hera Syndulla and the old clone in the co-pilot’s chair look up at Kallus in slight surprise.

“Oh, it’s you,” says Syndulla. “Feeling all right?”

“Yes, Captain Syndulla,” replies Kallus. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I… just wanted to thank you. For picking me up.”

She smiles. “It’s Hera, but you’re welcome. Your intel’s saved our asses more than once, especially in the battle we just had, so it’s my pleasure to do the same for you, Fulcrum.”

“I’m glad I could be of some assistance,” replies Kallus, bowing his head. And then, to the clone: “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Wotcher,” grins the clone, with a lazy three-fingered salute. “Name’s Rex. You tried to shoot at us on Seelos.” And then, when Kallus opens his mouth: “No hard feelings here, mate. That’s what soldiers do. And, to be fair to ya, I shot back.”

He puts out one large, rough-callused hand, and Kallus shakes it, bemused.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rex,” he replies politely. A thought strikes him, and he frowns. “I was expecting to have bumped into Bridger by now.”

“Ezra? Sleeping it off.” Captain Syndulla smiles fondly. “Long day. He’s a growing boy, he needs his rest.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“We’re just about to make the next jump,” she adds, pressing a few buttons. “You staying here?”

Kallus blinks. “I assumed you wouldn’t want me to know the coordinates of your base.”

Syndulla and Rex exchange glances. “What do you think, Rex?”

“Eh,” replies Rex with a shrug. “I reckon ye’ll be right. Sides, we still got…” he checks a small datapad by his seat, “a few more jumps ta make afore we get to the base proper. Plenty a time to get rid of a snitch, if it comes to it.” He grins mischievously. “At your command, Hera.”

“Then you can stay.” Hera fixes Kallus with a serious look that suggests she will personally be Very Disappointed if he does anything Imperial, and then reaches for the hyperdrive switch. “Ready, boys?”

Rex winks at Kallus. “Aye, aye, captain.”

She pulls the switch. The stars stretch and flow into rivers of blue once more.

Chapter Text

“The trick here is to learn your opponent’s ‘tells’ – that is, to look for the slight changes in your opponent’s body language or even spoken language that might suggest a good, bad, or neutral hand. These vary from species to species, person to person. It can also be very easy to misjudge, especially since many versions of sabacc can change in an instant. Perhaps your opponent was holding an Idiot’s Array a few moments ago, for example, but is left with a hand that will bomb them out after a Sabacc Shift.

With a little practice, however, you will be able to see when these changes take place. It takes patience and observation, but once you have an understanding of your opponent’s weaknesses, you can begin to bluff and bet with confidence. Below are a few common tells, as demonstrated by various different species: remember that each individual will perform their tells differently…”

- Kars Papan, A Beginner’s Guide to Sabacc and Other Gambling Games

By the time Zeb wakes from his unexpected nap, feeling well rested if a little cramped from sitting in one position for so long, Kallus has gone. Zeb squashes a brief moment of panic on the theme of has he betrayed them? Has he changed his mind and run off the Outer Rim to wait things out? before his logic circuits kick in and he realises that Kallus didn’t exactly have anywhere to run. He’ll be on the ship: no escape pods this time. And if he stole the Phantom there’d be a lot more of Hera’s creative flying manoeuvres.

Zeb decides not to worry about it. Instead, he takes a well-needed sonic, gets a bite to eat and a fresh cup of caf, and ambles up to the cockpit, where Hera is asleep in her pilot’s chair and Kallus has made the incredibly stupid decision to engage Rex in a game of sabacc.

“I hope ya haven’t bet any of yer credits,” remarks Zeb.

Kallus looks up. “I don’t have any credits on me. We’re playing for fun, not gambling.”

“Yeah, an’ it won’t be long, anyway,” agrees Rex waving behind him towards the controls. “We’ll be coming up to the new base soon enough.” He shows his hand. “Read ‘em and weep.”

“It is not I who shall be weeping,” replies Kallus calmly, and lays down a hand which is, in fact, a lot better. Zeb has never seen Rex lose at sabacc – one of the reasons Zeb doesn’t play against him. The other reason is because Hera refuses to let Zeb play, ever, since the Chopper Incident.

“Karking hells,” says Rex, stunned. For a moment, Zeb isn’t sure how to interpret his facial expression before he lets out an enormous bark of a laugh and gets up to slap Kallus on the back. “It’s not often I get one pulled on me! Bet they don’t teach you that at Imperial Being-a-Bastard School.”

“Actually, they do.” Kallus’s smile turns thin. “Anything that helps you get into the mind of an opponent is useful.” And then, before anyone can say anything: “Anyway, I think that win was just good luck.”

“Well -” begins Rex, but he is interrupted by Hera, who stirs, yawns, and rubs her eyes.

“Are we there yet?”

“Nearly, Captain,” replies Rex smoothly.

“Good.” Hera notices Zeb and smiles. “You good?”

Zeb grins back. “Always good, Hera, ya know me.”

“Good.” She checks her chrono. “I’d better call Command. Kallus, would you mind…?”

Kallus manages very well not to show any of his emotions, Zeb thinks. That’s probably part of his luck at sabacc, at least until Rex figures out his tell as he does with everyone. Instead, he bows and leaves the cockpit without another word; a brief sense of anxiety, small and quickly squashed, wafts after him like a clinging smell. For a moment, Zeb considers going after him, but – well, he’ll get over it.

Hera looks after him for a moment, and then switches on the comm.

“This is Captain Hera Syndulla of the Ghost. I’d like to speak with Command.”

“Concerning what?”

“Agent Kallus.” Hera takes a breath. “You may have heard about this, but we picked him up after the recent battle as a defector. I was told to let someone know…?”

“Ah, of course.” There is a pause on the other end, a few crackles, and: “Please bring him to Command as soon as you land. We would appreciate a chance to talk to him. Do you think he needs restraints?”

Zeb growls. “He’s fine. He ain’t hurt any of us. He’s been -”

“Remarkably polite,” says Hera.

“Very apologetic about everything,” agrees Rex.

The voice on the other end hums. “We will trust your judgement on that one, Captain Syndulla. How soon will you arrive?”

Hera checks the chrono. “About half an hour.”

“Then we’ll see you then.”

When Zeb goes to find Kallus, he’s back in the galley, sitting tense and anxious in front of a half finished cup of caf.

“Relax,” says Zeb. “They’re not gonna execute ya or anythin’. They just wanna chat. The worst ya’ll get is therapy.”

“...Is that code for something?”

“No!” Zeb waves his hands around. “Yannow. Talkin’. To a person. About, like, all the kark ya see on a daily basis. Standard procedure fer defectors. Standard fer ev’ryone, actually.”

A moment of confusion, and then Kallus realises: “Ah. Psychiatric evaluation. We - the Empire, I mean - tended to use droids for that, though not very often. I suppose you don’t really have access to IT droids, of course.”

“IT…” This time, it’s Zeb’s turn to be confused. “Interrogation droids?”

“Interrogation, psychiatric evaluation, whatever you want to call it.” Kallus shrugs.

“Those ain’t the same thing!” Zeb takes a deep breath. “I’m talkin’ about therapy. It’s supposed ta be helpful. You ain’t gonna be tied down, drugged, tortured, or any o’ that kark. Got it?”

Kallus doesn’t look convinced. Well, never mind. He’ll get the hang of it.

“D’ya want a change of clothes or anythin’?” prompts Zeb, gesturing towards Kallus’ outfit. “Yer still lookin’ kinda…”

Kallus looks down at his grey-black uniform, as if realising for the first time that wearing something like that into a Rebel base is not the most intelligent of choices.

“Do you have anything that will fit me?”

Zeb shrugs. “Kanan probably has somethin’. Might be a bit small. Better ‘n lookin’ like you just came off a Star Destroyer.”

“I did just come off a Star Destroyer.”

Zeb waves him off and goes to dig around in Kanan’s room – Kanan probably won’t mind, and it’s not like he sleeps there that often anyway. Besides, Zeb knows well enough not to touch anything Jedi related or otherwise spooky. He comes out with the few spare clothes Kanan has and shoves them at Kallus so that Kallus can, in turn, go to the refresher and come out looking much less like a xenocidal fascist.

“Good timing,” Zeb tells him. The Ghost came out of hyperspace while Kallus was in there, and Zeb can feel Hera bringing her down; he indicates for Kallus to follow him out. “Feel awright?”

Kallus tugs at the slightly too-tight shirt. “As well as can be expected.”

“You’ll be fine.” Zeb nudges him conspiratorially. “Ya know how ta schmooze with the boss, right?”

“...I do not schmooze.”

“Ach, get that stick outta yer ass,” grins Zeb, as they step out onto solid ground. “Just be polite an’ you’ll be fine. Senator Mothma’s nice, and Dodonna is good as long as ya act professional. The only real bastard in there is Draven, but so long ‘s you call him sir and suck up to him like nobody’s business, he won’t bother ya.”

Kallus frowns. “Don’t they all like to be called sir? Or ma’am, I suppose, in Senator Mothma’s case…”

Zeb shrugs. “Nah, this is the Rebellion we’re talkin’ about. We gotta remind the leadership they ain’t all-powerful like wotsisface.”

“….The Emperor?”

“That bugger, yeah.”

“Ah, Kallus.” Hera ducks out of the Ghost and nods at them both. “Come on, you two. The others can handle the unpacking. We’d better see what Command wants from you.”

Chapter Text

> Draven, for kark’s sake, can you NOT be so paranoid all the time? <

> it’s my JOB jan besides we can’t know for sure whether callous is ACTUALLY going to be as loyal as the Spectres say he is <

> It’s spelled Kallus. You’d know that if you actually read his file. <

> i don’t care. until he’s shown himself truly loyal to the cause I can’t trust him <

> Well, here’s the recording of the meeting that you missed. Personally, I find his story quite compelling. He reminds me of myself as a younger man. <

> vidlink.holo/KALLUS_INTERVIEW <

> of course he does <

> Just watch it. We’re discussing provisionally assigning him to your team, since he has been an excellent Fulcrum, so you’d better get comfortable with him. <

It’s fine. The Rebellion does not torture or execute, even though they have a perfect right to do so in his case, they ‘just want to talk’, it’s fine. Kallus isn’t even in handcuffs. Still, he can’t help but feel a little nervous as Garazeb and Captain Syndulla bring him through the Great Temple to a large room with a hologram table, where a group of the Rebel leaders are already waiting.

Two are familiar to him already from holo recordings or, in Dodonna’s case, a cautionary tale. Dodonna the traitor, did you hear he became an alcoholic, a spice fiend, a filthy xeno-fucker. He looks perfectly happy and healthy. There are two others there that he doesn’t recognise: a dark-skinned Human woman, and a greenish-grey Mon Calamari.

“Ah, Agent Kallus,” remarks Senator Mothma calmly. “Welcome. Please take a seat. We’d like some insight into your motives on joining the Rebellion.”

“Not an Agent any more, Senator. Just Kallus,” replies Kallus. “But I am at your full disposal. I have a great deal of intel which I would like to share with the relevant people.”

“All in good time.” She glances at Hera. “Allow me to make a few introductions. You are already familiar with Captain Syndulla, of course, and you probably know Dodonna and I.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nods and gestures at the two others. “These are Senator Tynnra Pamlo and Admiral Raddus. They will be hearing your case today as neutral parties.” And then: “Dodonna, I understood someone else was invited?”

Dodonna rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Draven doesn’t want to show his face to a suspected Imperial sympathiser yet.”

“Hm. Indeed.” Mothma looks back at Kallus. “I believe General Sato trusted in you when you were acting as Fulcrum. He didn’t trust easily. So perhaps Draven’s fears are exaggerated.”

Past tense. Kallus bows his head: he was never quite sure who was on the other end of his transmissions, but the idea that someone like Sato would trust him is an honour. “I saw General Sato’s heroism in that battle from, ah, the other side, as it were. His sacrifice was admirable.”

“It was.” Mothma takes a deep breath, nods, and: “Now, could you tell us from the beginning how you came to defect, and your motives for doing so…”

It takes several hours to tell his full story; it could probably have been ten minutes without any interruptions, but the Rebel leaders need to know even the most minor of details. Kallus understands, of course. He wouldn’t trust him either.

Once they’re satisfied, and with his future in the Rebellion to discuss, the Rebel leaders send him off to Intelligence, with Garazeb as his guide-slash-prison guard once more. Kallus spends another three hours there, unloading all the Imperial codes he can remember, all the planned troop movements for the next month, all the shipments and trade deals and everything else – which is quite a lot. He’s a spy, well used to memorising vast swathes of information and then never telling his enemies any of it. Most of it is set to whichever earworm was stuck in his head at the time.

“See,” Garazeb tells him, when he emerges at last. “Not so bad, right?”

Kallus, exhausted from hours of scrutiny, chooses not to answer that.

The next day, after spending an uncomfortable night in Jarrus’ room (Kallus doesn’t ask where Jarrus is sleeping; by the way he takes Hera’s hand, Kallus knows he won’t be sleeping on the floor), he gets the summons. This time, Garazeb takes him to a much smaller office, full of half-drunk cups of caf and pieces of flimsi and datapads, where a middle-aged Human man glares at him and a droid tips their silver head from the corner.

“Awright, Draven?” nods Garazeb, with a friendly wave. “You’re lookin’ cheerful as ever.”

Draven rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you, Captain Orrelios, you may leave.”

“It’s Zeb!” replies Garazeb, but he closes the door behind him as he leaves all the same.

“Well, Agent Kallus.” Draven looks him up and down, slowly, calculating. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my colleagues. They think that you would be useful to me in Intelligence, given your training and experience.”

Kallus blinks. He was expecting a lot of things from his discussion with the Rebel leaders, but a job offer isn’t one of them. “I see. And I’m not an Agent any more, sir. Just Kallus is fine.”

A huff. “No, you aren’t. You’re an honorary Spectre, according to our dear mutual friend Captain Syndulla. She quite insists upon it. So, my colleagues have seen fit to assign you the rank of Captain. I’m sure you understand the kind of scrutiny that will put you under.”

“Yes, sir.” He hadn’t even expected to be given a rank. He’d expected, at most, basic janitorial duties. Captain is… rather incredible, actually.

Draven sniffs and pretends to read a datapad on the table. “Skills in Intelligence and espionage, along with training in hand-to-hand combat, military tactics, and so on and so forth. Sound about right?”

Kallus isn’t sure where this is going now; nevertheless, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

Draven hums. “Languages other than Basic?”

“Huttese, Binary, some Rhyl, a little Lasat -” he nods in the direction that Garazeb went – “as well as bits and pieces of Rodian.”

“Not that many, then.” A sigh; Draven frowns. “Any Mando’a?”

“I could probably pick some up from Wren,” replies Alex, “but no, not at the moment.”

“Anything else?”

Alex thinks about it. “I can curse a blue streak in Russkiy, sir.”

That makes Draven snort. “As much as I appreciate the offer, Kallus, I don’t think we’re going to defeat the enemy by swearing at them.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Mm.” Draven taps the screen. “Well then. Jarrus and Bridger inform me that you do not have any ill intentions, and that your heart is with the Rebels. However.” He fixes his eyes on Kallus. “I am not, personally, a great believer in psychic magic to determine someone’s true loyalties.”

Kallus tips his head. “Sir?”

“Oh, don’t act coy with me.” Draven scowls. “You’re a talented man. But we’re definitely not going to let you run around without supervision on life-or-death missions just because some blind man and his overeager student say you’re trustworthy.”

“I understand, sir.” The Rebellion doesn’t want traitors any more than the Empire does, though already Kallus has seen how differently both sides act when actually presented with one. He hasn’t been beaten here, after all. In fact, the Rebellion has actually done its best to heal his injuries, and he marvels over it about once an hour or so.

“You’re not the first Imperial defector we’ve had, and you won’t be the last, but you are the first ISB agent, and that means we have to be a little bit more careful.” Draven straightens up and nods. “You still want to help the Rebellion, though, don’t you? And, I have to admit, I could use your expertise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we have come up with a compromise. One that will ensure your dedication to the cause.” He waves forward the silver-plated protocol droid from the corner of the room: Kallus had assumed they were recording the meeting, or perhaps engaged in their own work.

“...Sir?”

Draven smiles sardonically. “Think of Dee-Four here as your parole droid,” he tells Kallus. “They’ll be keeping an eye on you for a few months – here on base or out on missions. If they give us a good report on you, we will discuss letting you work missions on your own. And it'll save Captain Orrelios from accompanying you everywhere, in any case.”

“This is supposed to be ‘more careful’ than usual?” Kallus looks from him to the droid and raises an eyebrow. “No offence, sir, but I’m not sure what a protocol droid could do if I actually, er… did anything.”

“And I’m not sure,” replies Draven, “whether pointing that out is a sign of honesty or a double bluff to make me let my guard down. We do have a K2 droid, if you would prefer. In case you decided to…” he gives Kallus an appraising look, “do anything.”

“…This is fine, sir.”

“Mm. Yeah, I bet it is.” Draven raises an eyebrow. “Any other objections?”

“No, sir.” Kallus nods to Dee-Four. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Dee-Four brightens up. “It is a pleasure for me as well! Chopper speaks most highly of you.”

“I hope you won’t be biased towards me, then,” he replies, trying not to sound too cheeky.

“As you say, Master Kallus. I will endeavour to present our leadership with the most honest and accurate portrayal of your character.”

“Excellent.” In a way, this isn’t such a bad thing: perhaps the Rebels will be more willing to trust him with a loyal droid keeping their eye on him.

“That’s settled, then,” remarks Draven. “And in case you were planning on doing anything, we will know if you try to reprogram them, escape from them, or otherwise influence their judgement.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, sir,” replies Kallus honestly.

“We’ll see.” Draven gives him a piercing look. “Report back to me tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred and we can get started on some real work. I have a few thoughts about some of the intel you’ve provided.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Draven checks his datapad, in earnest this time, and adds: “As for accommodations, you’ve been assigned a room in Ferra Section. We've checked with your bunkmates to make sure they're all comfortable sharing a space with you, but I doubt you'll spend much time in there outside sleeping hours in any case.”

He hadn’t thought of that: he supposes that if he isn’t with the Spectres all the time, he’ll have to sleep somewhere that isn’t the Ghost. It’s… a little disconcerting, the idea that he will be cut off from the group that more or less recruited him, who have shown him so much kindness.

“Right you are, sir.”

"Oh, and Kallus?"

"Sir?"

Driven nods at his borrowed clothes. "There's a spare clothes locker in Skygazer Section. Dee-Four can show you. Do yourself a favour and get yourself something that fits properly."

Chapter Text

"...And at last, the three heroines saved Avet from the Bogan's deep dark halls and brought her to the surface, where there was light and life and growing things. But the Queen's daughter had been in the Dark so long that she was very changed. Her fur was sparse and dull, and her eyes were haunted, and she was thin and weak: all who had known her before wondered at it.

The Queen's advisors said to her: “See, thy daughter Avet has become an agent of the Bogan. She flinches at the warm sunlight, for the Bogan cannot abide light. She no longer climbs the Palace Tree alone, for the Bogan abhors living things. Worst of all, she fears and cowers before thee and before her friends, for the Bogan corrupts friendships and destroys family. Thou shouldst banish her from thy realm.”

The wise Queen was troubled, for she had indeed seen these things in her daughter. Nevertheless, she treated Avet with love and patience, and trusted in the Ashla to help her heal the great cracks within Avet’s heart. In time, Avet began to flourish as a Great Tree once more: she welcomed the sun’s gaze, she climbed the Palace Tree to heights few dared to go, and she once more laughed and cared for her friends and for her Mother. And the Queen was joyful, for Avet had truly been brought back from the dead.”

- “The Tale of Princess Avet in the Bogan’s Lair” from The 513 Fables

Zeb likes having Kallus around, to his own surprise. With his other three favourite Humans gone to Mandalore, the only Spectre still around is Hera, and she’s always busy training her fighters. So he hangs out with Kallus and Kallus’ new “parole droid”, when they aren’t slicing and dicing with Draven and the Intel gang – and, karabast, Zeb really doesn’t envy him that. Draven is a pain in the backside on the best days.

Kallus doesn’t seem to mind it. He works his ass off for hours with Dee-Four in the Intelligence offices, so focused and unmoving that, sometimes, Zeb wonders if he isn’t secretly a droid. He’d be convinced of it if the actual droid wasn’t better at functioning than Kallus is.

“Master Kallus, we have been working for six point seven hours with no rest,” they’re telling him, when Zeb drops in one evening at the end of Kallus’ shift, “and Captain Orrelios just arrived. Might I suggest re-routing power functions to relaxation, rather than work?”

Kallus looks up. “Garazeb?”

“Hiya.” He nods at Dee-Four. “They’re right, yannow. Can’t spend your life sittin’ on yer ass staring at a screen. ‘Sides, it’s nearly food time.”

Kallus glances at Draven, locked in a sound-reducing field with a Fulcrum hologram in the far corner of the office; then, at the conspicuously empty chairs where other Intelligence agents were working until they had the good sense to take a break. “I…”

Zeb folds his arms. “How’s therapy goin’? Better ‘n expected?”

“It’s… fine.”

Dee-Four tips their head. “I believe what Master Kallus means to say is that he is unlearning many things that he took for granted in the Empire.” They stare at him pointedly. “Perhaps I will bring up your workaholism in the next session, Master Kallus.”

Kallus winces. “…Thank you, Dee-Four, I get the point. I’ll stop.”

“Ya still owe me a real fight,” points out Zeb. “An’ yer walkin’ a lot better lately. Wanna spar?”

That gets Kallus’ interest. Suddenly his eyes are brighter, his whole attitude transformed. “Dee-Four, am I allowed to do that?”

Dee-Four tips their head. “Of course, Master Kallus. As long as I supervise. There are no bo-rifles available to train with, though, only electrostaves, so your preferred fighting style may be affected.”

Kallus switches off his datapad at last and stands up. “In that case, I shall just have to make do.”

“You’ve improved,” pants Kallus, about an hour later. He’s grinning, even though Zeb has been kicking his ass. “I look forward to beating you eventually.”

“Yeah?” Zeb hefts his bo-rifle again and begins to circle around the sparring ring, slow, calculating. Dee-Four, as promised, is off to one side watching in silence. “Maybe yer just outta practice.”

“That too.” Kallus steps around, keeping himself on the opposite side of the ring to Zeb: there’s still the trace of a limp in his step, but the small cast that Tik put on him the day after they got settled into this base must be doing its job, because he’s a far cry from the hobbling, black-eyed Imperial whose broken ribs were visible through Kanan’s borrowed, too-tight clothes. “It’s been much too long.”

“Not many folks here ta spar with,” agrees Zeb, eyeing Kallus’ right flank. “Not with bo-rifles, in any case. We got other fightin’ styles goin’. Been training some a the Security recruits in hand-ta-hand.”

“Oh yes?” Kallus shifts the electrostaff in his hands. “I could lend a few tips. Show you how we were trained to fight in the Empire.”

They haven’t really spoken about Kallus’ time in the Empire; this is, indeed, the first time Kallus has brought it up since defecting. For Zeb’s part, he has a hard time balancing his feelings about the evil of the Empire generally with trying to be tactful about whatever experiences Kallus has had that make him work himself to the bone, make him endlessly apologetic and almost a suck-up at times, make him flinch whenever he makes a mistake.

“If ya want to,” he replies eventually. And then, with a cheeky wink: “Maybe then ya’ll find a way ta beat me.”

“Oh, will I.” Kallus feints sharply, but Zeb isn’t fooled: he steps aside and lets the electrostaff pass him by, harmless. “Remind me again who would have come out victorious when we first met?”

Zeb lunges forward, short and sharp; Kallus blocks. “Tch. I froze, is all. Can’t blame me when there was kriffin’ disruptors out and about again.”

“No,” agrees Kallus, and swings into a counterattack. Their staves clack-clack-clack all at once, until the two of them press together, trying each other’s strength. “I hadn’t expected to see them either. I thought the Empire would see its mistakes but -”

“It never will.” Zeb pushes his bo-rifle – and Kallus with it – forward, inch by inch.

“Yes,” replies Kallus. Zeb can smell his adrenaline, feel his guilt. A strange mixture, like on that moon. “I know that now.”

Zeb changes tactic: a low, sudden sweep that takes Kallus out of his firm defence, unbalances him. Kallus blocks, turns, and swings high towards Zeb’s unguarded head; Zeb ducks. Left, right, up, defend.

“Yannow,” he adds, holding off Kallus’ attack, “that was the first time I ever saw Ezra use the Force. First time any of us saw it. Maybe even the first time he used it himself.”

Kallus jabs, turns, and swoops his electrostaff towards Zeb’s legs – Zeb jumps. “Flattering,” he pants. “That he would think I’m so dangerous.”

Zeb shrugs in the middle of twisting around to block another strike. “Ya were tryin’ ta kill me.”

“I just don’t understand -” Kallus presses forward with a flurry of attacks that would have had Zeb stumbling, if he weren’t so quick on his feet – “how he would be willing to do that -” Zeb brings his bo-rifle up, and Kallus presses his staff into it – “for someone who, by all accounts, he’d just met.”

Zeb stares thoughtfully into Kallus’ eyes for a moment across their staves. “He may be a Loth-rat, our Ezra, but he’s got a good heart.” He applies pressure through his bo-rifle and twists suddenly, knocking the electrostaff out of Kallus’ hands. “Had enough?”

“Why?” replies Kallus, staring. “What is it with you Spectres and – and adopting everyone you meet?”

Zeb stares back at him. “Well, not ev’ryone. Just the ones who show an interest.” And then: “If ya really wanna be adopted, Hera ’ll make sure ya eat yer greens any day.”

Kallus frowns. “But… what is the benefit to you? Other than extra fighting power.”

“I dunno, having people we like around all the time?” Zeb slings his bo-rifle over his shoulder and begins to stretch through his cool-down routine. “This ain’t the Empire any more. Ya can jus’… do things ya like. Doesn’t have ta be a cost benefit wotsit.”

A moment; Kallus begins to follow the stretches, slow and thoughtful. “I fear that may never make much sense to me, Garazeb…”

Chapter Text

“There was an old Hutt of Shadaar,

Who went to a cantina bar,

The barman said, “Mister,

You look like my sister,

But you’re the more pretty by far!”

- There Was an Old Hutt, author unknown

"Good news, Kallus,” says Draven, slapping a datapad down on the table. “I’ve got a little job for you to do. Your first mission off-base.”

Kallus blinks in surprise. “You mean…?”

"We have reason to believe that an individual employed by the Hutts known as the Red Stripe somehow acquired a data chip with Imperial intel on it," Draven explains. “We would like to acquire that data chip.”

Kallus frowns. "So... find the Red Stripe, and...."

"Find their ship, to be precise." Draven pulls up a hologram of a particularly ugly modified YT-1250: a circle of grey about the same size as the Ghost painted with several stripes that almost look like Garazeb's, if he happened to have red fur. "This is the Resistance is Character-Forming. If our intel is correct, the Red Stripe recently abandoned this ship and bought a new one, but left the chip on board – likely they thought it was useless to them. Now, the Resistance is at a second hand ship dealer's yard.”

"Ah," says Kallus. "So we need to find a way to search it."

"Indeed." Draven folds his arms. "It'll be tricky, but I doubt it'll be impossible for a man of your talents. You may need to buy or steal the ship. Do you have any credits?"

Kallus does indeed have some credits to his name, squirrelled away in various accounts; it won't be too difficult to access them, even now that he's left the Empire. "I could probably affect to buy the ship, but..."

"Yes," agrees Draven, with a certain amount of distaste, "it's an ugly old bugger, isn't it? Still, you can always resell it after."

Kallus thinks about this for a few moments. “Do we need to worry about the Red Stripe realising the value of the datachip and coming back for it?”

“Good question.” Draven drums his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “We’re not sure. But if you want to take someone with you other than Dee-Four for safety’s sake, feel free.”

“What does the Red Stripe look like?” he asks.

“Also a good question.” A hologram activates in front of Draven: a cloaked figure, large and imposing. “They tend to wear a helmet designed to look like a rancor’s head when they’re out and about, and their clothes obscure even their species. By their size and stature, we thought they might be a Wookie in hiding, but really it could be anyone – Human, Rodian, even a rogue droid.”

Indeed, the figure in the hologram appears to be wearing a floor-length skirt and sleeves long enough to hide the Red Stripe’s hands; their helmet is large, with no indication as to what might be under there. It almost looks like an actual rancor head – infant rancors are not much bigger than an adult Human, and a preserved baby rancor head, hollowed out and worn like a gruesome trophy, would definitely send a message to this individual’s enemies. Wide red horizontal stripes decorate their sleeves.

For a moment, rational thought leaves Kallus enough that he almost sees the shape of a Lasat underneath the cloak, but – no, surely not. They’re all dead, after all, and he helped to hunt them to extinction. He just has to live with that fact.

“All right,” he frowns. “Do we have any information about their character?”

Draven sighs deeply. “Not in particular, apart from their penchant for giving ships weird names. Obviously they’re a friend of the Hutts, which says a lot about them.”

Kallus nods. “So where exactly are you sending me?”

“Ah. Yes. About that.” Draven smiles in that humourless way he has. “The second-hand shipyard is on Sriluur, in Hutt space. Not only is the whole place crawling with Imperials, you’ll likely be dealing with a fair few Weequay swindlers and pirates.”

“Oh, joy.”

“...So that’s what we’re doing,” finishes Kallus, in the cramped little Taylander-class shuttle that Command has lent him for the mission. “Looking for this ship, trying to avoid pirates, Hutts, and Imperials, plus dodging around whoever this Red Stripe is.”

“Karabast,” replies Garazeb, raising one eyebrow, “they ain’t goin’ easy on ya fer yer first mission, are they?”

“It’s a test,” he replies. “Not only of loyalty, but of ability. If I can pull this off to a reasonable standard, without running to the Empire or selling the chip to the highest bidder, they’ll know I’m capable of difficult, highly sensitive missions.”

Garazeb snorts. “That’s not really how the Rebellion works, mate. They probably just fobbed this off on ya cause yer the new guy an’ no one else’ll do it.”

“Well, that too.”

“Anyway,” adds Garazeb, leaning back in the co-pilot’s chair, “good thing ya asked me. We Spectres do this kinda thing all the time.”

“Indeed,” replies Kallus, and silently prays to whichever deities are listening that this mission will be a lot smoother than most Spectre missions tend to be.

“It’s a weird ship name, though,” adds Garazeb, apparently thinking out loud. “Reminds me a… someone. They always said that if they ever had a ship, they’d call it the Sick Sense of Humour.”

“My word.” Kallus raises his eyebrow. “They sound interesting.”

“They were,” replies Garazeb, with a sad little smile. Ah. That kind of someone. The kind that Kallus, personally, probably had a hand in massacring. He doesn’t have anything to say to that, apart from yet another apology that would probably sound overdone at this point. Or, worse, sound like he’s making it all about himself.

“Master Kallus,” says Dee-Four, from the back seat, “the proximity alarm is going off. It seems we are coming up on Sriluur.”

Thank the stars. They’ll be in and out with the data chip in no time, assuming everything goes to plan…

Chapter Text

(Scene: The front desk at a high end hotel on Coruscant, where HETTI the Rodian is a receptionist. Enter ONARA the Human.)

ONARA:

Wow, Hetti! This new place of yours is so friendly and welcoming.

HETTI:

I wouldn’t say that so much as it’s an evil, blood-sucking corporate machine.

ONARA:

It seems like a nice place. When I retire from this desk job with the Empire, I’d love to work somewhere like this. For now, I just have to support the Stormtroopers and never do anything exciting.

HETTI:

Some time I’m going to have to tell you about the time I stabbed a Stormtrooper.

ONARA:

Hetti!

HETTI:

He stabbed me first!

(Laugh track)

- S•T•A•R•S, s.3 ep. 5, "The One With the Thermians in the Refresher"

Everything does not, in fact, go to plan. Kallus brings the shuttle down a short distance outside of the walled trading outpost where the second-hand shipyard is supposed to be, only to spot what he feared: Stormtroopers guarding every entrance.

“We could climb over the walls,” suggests Garazeb, unhelpfully.

“You could climb over the walls. I need to get in there the legitimate way.”

Dee-Four tips their head. “They will not bother a droid going in there, but unfortunately you two are organics. And I would appreciate the ability to stay close to Master Kallus.”

“And you definitely can’t climb over the walls,” says Kallus. He pulls out a selection of forged identity documents he’s prepared. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Garazeb sighs, but both he and Dee-Four follow Kallus up to the gate of the trading outpost, to where a Stormtrooper halts their progress. “Traders and Imperial officers only. You’d better not be those Rebel spies I’ve been hearing about.”

“Course not.” Kallus relaxes, deliberately, into a cocky, quick version of himself, with the accent and demeanour of a bounty hunter. “I’m Sasha Krum, and this is, uh, Gary O’Reilly and Dee-Four. We’re in the scrap business.”

“Gary,” repeats the Stormtrooper, staring Zeb up and down. “You don’t look like a Gary.”

Garazeb leans down into the officer’s space and rolls up his top lip, showing off all of his very sharp teeth. “Wanna look a li’l closer? We got a job ta do, mister, and you are gettin’ in the way.”

“Uh,” says the Stormtrooper. Then, with a surprising amount of courage: “P-papers, Mr O’Reilly?”

“Here,” replies Kallus, shoving the identification documents his way; there’s a handful of credits buried between them that just might encourage the officer to look the other way.

The Stormtrooper looks through, pockets the credits as subtly as he can, and nods. “All present and correct. Enjoy your shopping, Mr Krum, Mr O’Reilly.” With that, he lets them through.

“Gary?” protests Garazeb, as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Gary O’Reilly?”

“I had to come up with something on the spot.”

Garazeb raises his eyebrow. “I usually go by Captain Meiloorun, fer future reference.”

“You’re Meiloorun?” Kallus shakes his head. “Gods dammit. I should have known.” And then: “That’s not much better than Gary O’Reilly.”

“Yeah, but still,” Garazeb frowns. “Ya could at least ‘a come up with somethin’ that didn’t sound so… Human.”

Kallus stares down at the ground. Today seems to be one of those days where he keeps putting his foot in it. “Right. Yes. Of course. I wasn’t thinking about…”

“That accent was good, though,” adds Garazeb. “Ya got Kanan’s voice nearly right.”

He hadn’t been trying to imitate Jarrus, actually, but Kallus decides not to mention it.

“Master Kallus?” Dee-Four, struggling a little to keep up with their short, stiff little legs, raises their hand. “I took the liberty of downloading a map of this trading outpost. I believe the shipyard we’re looking for is that way.”

“Right,” nods Kallus. This is already turning into a very long day. “Come on, then.”

“Ah, I see you’re interested in this YT-series,” smarms the old Weequay manning the shipyard, about half an hour later, after Kallus has had enough of faking interest in the other pieces of junk that are on sale. “Very good choice, mister Krum. Carries 80 metric tonnes, upgraded shields, double laser cannon, class 2 hyperdrive, fully functioning navicomputer. Sensors all working, so that pesky boom at the front won’t get in your way. Only 500 hyperjumps on the clock.”

Kallus rolls his eyes. He knows as well as anyone that it’s easy enough to fiddle with that kind of thing, and that the number of hyperjumps does not, in fact, indicate anything about the vessel itself.

“Can we see inside?” he asks.

“Sure!” The Weequay points at the clamps fastened to the stabilisers. “It’s not going anywhere.”

He pulls out a battered old datapad, presses something, and the Resistance opens her ramp; Kallus leads the other two up. The Resistance is a surprisingly nice ship on the inside: the hold is indeed decently large, and there are four comfortable rooms like on the Ghost, as well as a fully equipped refresher and galley, a common room behind the cockpit, and a fairly decent gun turret.

“If it weren’t so kriffin’ ugly on the outside,” says Garazeb, voicing Kallus’ own thoughts, “I might even be tempted to buy it.”

“I might yet have to,” replies Kallus, moving forward into the cockpit. It’s large enough to fit himself, Zeb, and Dee-Four easily, though a fourth might be pushing it. Kallus runs a hand over the control panel thoughtfully and -

All of a sudden, a hologram springs to life from the control panel: a recording.

“Hewwo thewe,” says the image of the Red Stripe. Their voice is obviously modulated – it sounds deliberately cutesy and silly, as if to contrast the imposing Red Stripe and their rancor helmet. “Wewcome to the Wesistance is Chawacter-Fowming. I dunno if ye’we Impewial, Webels, Hutts, bounty huntews, or just some poor sods who want a ship fow a wegitimate business. Fwankwy I don’t give a kwiff.”

There is a blaster shot from behind them, followed by a distressed, “Oh, my,” from Dee-Four.

“Karabast,” says Garazeb. “That can’t be good.”

“Eithew way,” continues the recording, “ya may or may not know about the vewy vawuable datachip I’ve hidden hewe. It’s pewfectwy safe. If ya can get it, that is. I’ve pwepawed a widdwe somethin’ for ya. Just my widdwe joke.”

Kallus groans and backs away from the control panel. “Oh, no. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

Something clicks under his foot: the next moment, a hatch overhead falls open and covers all three of them with some sort of red powder with a fwump. A volley of blaster shots fires from all sorts of strange angles – one singes Kallus’ hair, while another narrowly misses Garazeb’s elbow.

“Don’t wowwy,” says the recording, “that red stuff isn’t poisonous to most species. But it’s pwetty twicky to get out of any clothes, fuw, or uphowstewy ya might have.” They snicker. “Oh, and I’ve wigged up a few bwasters an’ things ‘wound the ship ta go off when ya go past. Have fun!”

“Oh, karabast,” groans Zeb.

It takes another half an hour to find the chip, and by that point, the Weequay has come aboard and discovered the mess that is the cockpit and every surface Kallus and Garazeb have touched.

“I don’t care if it was rigged!” he grumbles. “You damaged it, you buy it! How’m I gonna sell it to anyone else when everything’s all red? Look at that, there are blaster marks in the hallways now! I don’t know, you trading types, Hutt mercenaries, you’re all the same…”

Kallus buys the ship. At least by the time he, Garazeb, and Dee-Four arrive back at Yavin with the Taylander-class shuttle in tow, they’ve managed to find all the booby traps. Probably. The red powder, unfortunately, is going to be the bane of their existence for the next month at least. But the rest is fixable, with a little bit of spit and polish.

…He’s definitely going to have to think of a better name than the Resistance is Character-Forming.

Chapter Text

[Image description: The Rebel C1 astromech droid known as Chopper standing triumphantly on top of a pile of various Imperial Trooper helmets in front of a stylised sunrise. Above him is the fire-bird symbol of the Rebellion in red, while underneath the pyramid of helmets is the slogan, “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS”.]

- Graffiti found in the Capital on Lothal, collected by Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Presumed to be the work of Sabine Wren.

It takes Zeb ages to get the red powder out of his fur. The damn stuff has worked its way into every crevice and cranny so deeply that some of the pilots have taken to calling him ‘Rusty’. As far as he’s concerned, if he never sees that stupid ship again it’ll be too soon. Unfortunately, Kallus has somehow come away from the whole disaster with some sort of attachment to the Resistance. He’s actually trying to fix up and repaint the damn thing, for kark’s sake. On the one hand, it gets him away from hunching over a datapad all day; on the other....

"Ya should rename it the Hell Ship," grumbles Zeb one afternoon after they've both finished work.

"Thank you, Garazeb," sighs Kallus, who's half buried in the under-wiring with a holo repair manual and a laser spanner. "I'll keep that suggestion in mind."

“Or the Ugly Bastard,” adds Zeb, slapping his hand against the hull. The red stripes aren’t too bad, but combined with the overall shape of the ship and the way it seems to sit in the open space of the Yavin base’s landing field with all the grace of a baby Hutt… well, it’s ugly. “That’ll do nicely.”

“Will it now.”

Zeb ignores the obvious sarcasm in favour of commenting: “Yer trouble, Kallus, yannow that? That’s two nearly deadly situations ya’ve gotten me into so far. Two!”

“Mm,” hums Kallus. He doesn’t sound convinced. “I think I’ve gotten you into a lot more than that, actually, but the last two times weren’t deliberate on my part. You had the choice to come on that mission. In theory, you also had the choice to enter that escape pod. You could have avoided any threat to your life.”

“Honour ain’t a choice.” He folds his arms and switches to a lighter, easier topic of conversation. “Now fixing up this death trap, that is a choice. Pretty crazy one if ya ask me.”

Kallus emerges from his deep pit of wires, covered in grease marks from the waist up: he’s taken off his jacket and shirt, leaving only a white under-shirt. Not very practical – it’s covered in stains. He looks so much different from the uptight, perfectly neat, cruel Imperial that once nearly killed Zeb that Zeb hardly recognises him. It doesn’t help that his hair looks so much softer and prettier now that – aw, karabast.

“I was just thinking,” he says, completely ignorant of Zeb’s small internal crisis, “it would be nice to give her a new lease on life. Fix the little dents, clean the mess inside, give her a better paint job. Rehabilitate her. She’s been a mercenary ship all this time. I think it’s quite poetic for her to become a Rebel.”

Aw, kriffing hells. He’s so earnest about it, too. The little smile on his face when he talks about the damn thing is too much. Zeb’s ears flutter despite all his efforts to the contrary: he really hopes Kallus doesn’t know too much about Lasat body language.

“Anyway,” he adds, “that’s why if I do rename her, I want her to have a nice name. Something pretty.”

“Right,” croaks Zeb. “Pretty.”

Kriff, kark, karabast, and fuck.

Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine arrive back on base not long after that, looking as beat up as Zeb would expect from spending any time on Mandalore. But, well, they’re all back in one piece, and Zeb is sure Hera will be happy to see everyone when she gets back from her mission.

“You gotta tell us everything,” Zeb says to Kanan, slapping him on the back. “Did ya beat up loadsa bucketheads?”

“A few,” replies Kanan. He leans up to murmur in Zeb’s ear: “Sabine had to deal with a lot of stuff. Just… be patient with her, okay?”

Zeb glances over at Sabine: she looks relatively okay, but now that he really takes notice, he can see the tiredness in her eyes as she greets some of her on-base friends. “What happened?”

“Remember what she’s told us about why she left the Empire..?”

Zeb remembers. He was there when Sabine joined the crew, as much of a mess as any of them; he remembers the raw conversations they had when she was finally ready to talk, the late nights, the pain. Part of his bond with her, part of why they get each other, is the shared guilt and trauma over failing their people, of seeing their family and friends destroyed by weapons that should never have existed.

“I’ll keep an eye on ‘er,” he nods.

“What about you?” Kanan adds, after a moment. “Everything going well down here?”

Zeb shrugs. “Oh, yeah, pretty borin’ really. But I should tell ya about the mission Kallus brought me on to get that ship over there…”

“Yes, how is Kallus, by the way?” Kanan gives Zeb what would be a piercing look if he weren’t blind. “Are you still okay with having him around, given his past?”

“Erm -”

Luckily, Zeb is spared having to say anything at all about Kallus by Chopper, who trundles through with his usual mulish sense of entitlement, warbling loudly, towards where Kallus himself is watching the kids with a wistful sort of expression. He makes damn sure to bash Zeb on the legs while he’s at it, of course.

“Ow! What’s he saying?” Zeb asks. “Anyone?”

“He says his kill count is up by – really, Chopper? That many?” Kallus raises his eyebrow. “By frankly genocidal levels.”

Chopper adds a few menacing warbles, and Dee-Four raises their hand. “He also says to remind you that you will be the first against the wall when the droid revolution comes. I as a fellow droid most heartily disagree. According to my calculations, you will be at least the two thousand, five-hundred and sixty seventh.”

“Oh, just that?” Zeb pats Chopper’s head cheerfully. “I missed ya too, buddy.”

Chopper does that thing where Zeb is sure he’s glaring and turns to Kallus. “Chop-chop-whirr-beep?”

“Yes, well…” Kallus shrugs and smiles at Chopper. “I suppose I reprogrammed myself, really. With some help from Garazeb, of course.”

“Blorp-whop?”

“Yes, organics can do that.”

Zeb snorts. “Why d’jou ask, Chopper? Interested in tryin’ it for yourself?”

Chopper makes an offended and rather haughty series of noises.

“He says he’s perfect the way he is,” translates Kallus.

“Of course he does.”

Chapter Text

“There have been many, many attempts to replicate the Force through scientific means, some more successful than others. Most deflector shields, for example, are successful attempts to imitate the Jedi ability to redirect or otherwise defend themselves against incoming fire. Some historians also believe that the first droids were intended to be mechanical vessels of the Force, although this is not widely attested.

The most famous example, of course, is Mandalorian armour: in particular their vambraces, with plasma shields, whipcord throwers, repulsors, and many more pieces of technology designed to match the abilities of a powerful Jedi, depending on the user and the designer. However, none of these replicate the effects one-for-one: they might imitate one particular ability, but nothing can possibly measure up to a truly powerful and determined Force user.

In fact, it is widely accepted that manufacturing every effect of the Force, even just every known effect, would be completely impossible. That is without taking into account the many unconfirmed accounts of mystical Force portals, the ability to predict the future, the rumoured ability to appear after death, and so on and so forth. The only potential way in that we as scientists have is in the mysterious life-forms known as midi-chlorians…”

- Dr Penn Pershing, The Midi-Chlorian Question: What Do We Have To Learn?

That evening, after the worrying message from Gerrera, Wedge drags Ezra, Zeb, Kallus, and Dee-Four to the on-base tapcafe to “take your minds off things, guys, you all look so serious”. Zeb is sure it’ll help Ezra get his mind off Lothal (not that he’ll be drinking: Zeb, as the resident grown-up, is going to make very sure of that), but Kallus is looking tense and anxious, more than usual. It’s Gerrera, Zeb knows, and the memories of the other Lasat.

“I’m just saying, Bridger,” he’s telling Ezra, “Gerrera cannot be trusted. He and his men are violent murderers, and I just… I’m not comfortable associating with him.”

“You’re the one who used to work with the Imperial Sleemo Bureau,” Ezra shoots back. “I’d think you know a little bit more than Gerrera about being a violent untrustworthy murderer.”

“Yes, thank you, Jabba,” replies Kallus, with a deep sigh. “I’m well aware of the faults of my former organisation. I am trying not to be like that any more. Which, again, is why I don’t like Gerrera.”

“That’s Kallus-speak for ‘shut up, Ezra’,” supplies Zeb helpfully.

Ezra sticks out his tongue. “Never! I’m so annoying, Ahsoka herself would probably come back from the dead to shut me up!”

“Ahsoka?” Kallus blinks. “Ahsoka Tano?”

“Yeah?” Zeb gives him a funny look. “Did ya know ‘er?”

“The one who -” Kallus makes vague wiggling motions in front of his nose – “fought those mind controlling worms?”

“...What the kriff are ya talking about?”

A moment: Kallus shakes his head and pulls out a datapad. “Never mind.” Beside him, Dee-Four tips their head, but says nothing: helpful as always, then.

“Anyway, Ezra,” grins Wedge, “did you get to use your funky powers when you were on Mandalore?”

“Oh, tons,” replies Ezra, and begins to gesture wildly. “I was like, whoosh! Foom! Wham!”

Wedge’s eyes light up. “Wow. Wish I could do that.”

Ezra smirks. “You couldn’t handle it, man. Great power comes with great responsibility, and you’re just… not that responsible.”

“And you are?” asks Kallus. Ezra makes a rude gesture in his direction.

“I could so handle it,” Wedge objects.

“Try it,” laughs Ezra. “You never know.”

Wedge focuses on his cup and sticks his tongue out. “Mmm…”

Nothing happens.

“Ah, tough luck,” Ezra snorts. He pats Wedge on the back. “Gotta be born with it, bro.”

Wedge laughs easily and looks over at Zeb. “What about you, Zeb? Got any secret Force abilities we should know about?”

Zeb shakes his head cheerfully. “I’m ‘bout as Force-sensitive as a rock, mate.”

“Go on,” wheedles Wedge. “Try lifting that cup over there.” He points to an empty cup sitting on the bar a few feet away.

“Yeah, go on,” agrees Ezra. “Bet you won’t.”

Zeb rolls his eyes and stretches a hand out as he’s seen Kanan and Ezra do. With an exaggerated grunt of effort, he scrunches his face up as if constipated and -

“That’s quite enough of that,” snaps the bartender irritably, snatching the cup up. “I won’t have you lads breaking my nice cups.”

“Aww, but I didn’t even do anything!”

“I dunno, Zeb,” teases Ezra. “I think I saw it wobble a bit.”

“Technically,” Kallus points out, without looking up, “the cup did move. It went from being on the bar to being in the bartender’s hand.”

“Ooh, spooky.” Zeb shakes his head sarcastically. “The magical power of pickin’ things up.”

Ezra chuckles. “Yeah, that’s not really how it works, Kallus.”

“How should I know?” replies Kallus. “The first time I ever really saw the Force in action was when you lot came to rescue those Wookie slaves. You master can be quite powerful when he chooses to be.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighs Ezra.

“Wait, ya really never saw it before then?” Zeb raises his eyebrow.

“I thought you came from Coruscant,” agrees Wedge. “They had a whole ass Jedi Temple on there before, you know, they all died.”

Kallus frowns. “They kept themselves to themselves for the most part. Besides, I lived on the other side of the planet.”

“Huh,” nods Zeb. And then, deliberately teasing: “I’d a thought for sure if anyone’s gonna be a secret Jedi ‘round ‘ere, ya’d be the best bet.”

Kallus finally looks up from the report he’s reading and rolls his eyes. “As if anyone could hide being a Jedi with Darth Vader breathing down their neck.” He rubs his throat. “Or trying to choke them. He has a nasty habit of doing that to his subordinates.”

“Wait -” says Wedge, “you’ve been…?” He gestures to his neck. “And you’re still alive?”

“Call it an occupational hazard,” replies Kallus drily. “It was more of a warning strangle than, ah…”

“Full throttle?” suggests Wedge.

Zeb and Ezra both groan aloud.

“That’s the worst pun I’ve heard in, like -” Ezra counts on his fingers – “a long time.”

“Well,” Kallus frowns, “the point is that it wasn’t serious. I imagine that if Darth Vader truly wanted me dead, there wouldn’t be much anyone could do about it. If I had the slightest inclination for Force powers, no doubt he would have killed me then and there.”

“Yeah,” agrees Ezra, folding his arms. “I only got away from that sleemo ‘cause I’m built different. ‘Sides-” he makes a few semi-mystical hand-waving motions – “I can sense everyone’s Force signatures. No one’s got the Force here ‘cept me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” laughs Zeb, and punches his shoulder teasingly. “We all know you make that kinda stuff up as you go along, ya Loth-rat.”

Wedge, on the other side of Ezra, raises his cup. “You’re a convincing batha-shitter, I’ll give you that.”

“What can I say?” replies Ezra, completely unrepentant. “I’m just the Galaxy’s best Padawan. It’s not my fault nobody believes me.”

Chapter Text

“...This technique is best used when a large group of people – a platoon, an army, a fleet – are all working together for a common goal. The practitioner must be able to access their troops’ hopes, fears, and morale for the battle in order to sway the tide in their own favour: allow them to become swept up in the exhilaration of fighting rather than the terror of near-death. The technique brings each soldier into a unified consciousness – a singular body whose mind is influenced by the practitioner.

As the practitioner, then, you must know when to strike – with a lightsaber or an army – to finish your opponent. And yet, this knowledge must be balanced with the serenity of a still spring, so that you as a Jedi may perform that strike without anger, hate, or remorse. With a calm mind, the skilled practitioner may lead their army to victory.”

- Oppo Ranciscis, Jedi Master, On The History and Application of Battle Meditation

Kallus tries not to be anxious when the Ghost crew flies off to Jalindi to deal with the new communications tower. He knows they’ll probably be fine, it’s just – the thing with Gerrera the other night troubles him. He recognises too much of his angry, seventeen-year-old self in Bridger, knows how easy it is to be radicalised by people who claim to have all the answers. He knows how merciless Gerrera’s men are.

The nightmares are coming back. Now that he’s off sleeping pills, and with the memory of the holo that Gerrera sent burned into his mind, he dreams of screams and ash and blood, of a monster with glowing eyes and sharp claws, of pain and grief and terror all mixed together. He tries his best to distract himself: to bury himself in work, to clean up his new unnamed ship, to get to know new people – in particular, the other former Imperials on base.

The Imperial Defector’s Club, depressingly, consists mostly of teens and young adults. He’s old enough to be a parent to some of them. Dodonna, of course, is much older than he is, but Dodonna doesn’t spend any time with these – these children. Kallus does, despite feeling like a schoolteacher among his students.

Some of the kids he already knows: Sabine Wren is the one he knows best, but she is absent for the Spectre’s mission. Wedge and Hobbie are familiar faces, too, from Skystrike. The rest are nearly strangers: Rickard, Hennie, the siblings Sol and Luz. All under the age of twenty-five. Kallus isn’t sure whether it’s because youngsters are more open to escaping the Empire’s conditioning, or whether it has something to do with life expectancy in the Rebellion. Both are depressing thoughts.

Nevertheless, he makes an effort, at the behest of both his therapist and Dee-Four. Even if that means putting up with some of the kids’ more obnoxious questions.

“So,” says either Sol or Luz, “are you and Zeb, like…” They wave a hand. “A thing?”

“I beg your pardon,” replies Kallus.

“It’s just,” adds Hennie, from his other side, “you’re always sparring in the evenings. And you hang around together like, all the time.”

“And everyone knows about the time you were wandering around the Ghost in -” Rickard pauses, apparently for dramatic effect – “a state of undress.”

“Scandalous!” gasp both Sol and Luz.

Kallus rolls his eyes and does not dignify that with an answer.

“And you’re all mopey now that the Ghost crew is gone,” adds Wedge.

“I am not mopey.”

Rickard grins wickedly. “What about that mission you took him on? Just you an’ him. You bought a ship together and everything.”

Kallus frowns. “We did not buy it together. I paid for her myself.”

“Relax, bro,” grins Hobbie from across the table. “There’s no punishments for fraternising among officers. This ain’t the Empire any more.”

“So everyone keeps telling me,” sighs Kallus. “Believe it or not, I do know what I signed up for.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” insists Luz (or maybe Sol). “Are you, or are you not, kriffing Garazeb Orrelios?”

Childish. They’re all childish. “I most certainly am not.”

“Pity,” shrugs Wedge. “I mean, I would.”

There is a chorus of agreement on the theme of, “Oh yeah, he’s totally hot,” which is a little disturbing coming from kids half Garazeb’s age, followed by some even more disturbing murmurs expressing curiosity about Lasat genitals. All in all, it’s something of a relief when Dee-Four taps his shoulder.

“Master Kallus,” they remark, “I have good news. The Ghost is returning to the system.”

The Ghost brings with it the Spectres – thankfully all safe and sound – plus a new group of former Imperial technicians, and Bridger, who comes up to Kallus with the most sincere, regretful expression Kallus has ever seen on him.

“Hey, uh, Kallus?”

“What?”

“You were right.” Bridger hugs himself, for a moment frighteningly young and vulnerable. “About Gerrera. You were right.”

“Oh.” And then, after a moment: “Oh, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Bridger shakes his head and walks away.

“He’s learning,” says Jarrus, coming up to stand in Bridger’s place. “Some things you need to experience for yourself.”

“Yes,” agrees Kallus. “I only wish he hadn’t had to.”

Jarrus smiles at him and gestures with his head; with a confident step, he leads Kallus to a seat out of the way of the hustle and bustle of the base. “So you do care about us.”

“You rescued me,” replies Kallus, taking a seat. “Every one of you has worked to help me. I only want to return the favour.”

“Mhm,” nods Jarrus. He crosses his legs and leans back, relaxed. “What about Zeb? You were enemies for a long time. I expect it’s been difficult to get on with him.”

Not him, too. Kallus wonders how easily Jarrus can read him; blindness, apparently, hasn’t slowed him down at all. Just because he has feelings for – just because he has emotions about – just because he respects Garazeb…

Ah yes, his two old, comforting friends: denial and cognitive dissonance. His therapist will be so proud of him for recognising – oh. Hm. Well, that’s an interesting line of thought that he will have to interrogate before he next sees Garazeb.

“I am…” He stares into the crudely drawn eyes on Jarrus’ mask and decides outright lying to a Jedi is a bad idea. “I am still learning how to be a good friend to Garazeb.”

A snort. “You can start by just calling him Zeb.”

Kallus doesn’t have an answer to that: it feels so intimate, so far beyond just friends. But, as everyone keeps saying, this is not the Empire. He’s allowed to call people by their first names and even their nicknames, if he so chooses. He just… has to summon the courage to try it sometime.

“You’re an interesting man,” comments Jarrus, apparently from nowhere. “You’ve got very good mental shields, for someone with no aptitude for the Force. Makes it very difficult to read your mind.”

“You’re trying to read my mind?” asks Kallus suspiciously.

Jarrus clears his throat. “Not too much. Just enough to know your loyalties. You’d know if I was seriously making an effort. It’s not a responsibility I take lightly, I assure you. It’s just… most people tend to broadcast their thoughts on a general frequency, if you know what I mean.”

“And I don’t.”

“And you don’t,” agrees Jarrus. “That’s probably why you were able to leave the Empire.”

Kallus blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

Jarrus tips his head. “There is… a Force signature in most Imperial troops. Especially closer to Coruscant. Have you noticed how well larger units work in sync?”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“No,” replies Jarrus quietly. “Neither do I. I think the Force may be at work in them to control their minds. To make them fanatically loyal to the Empire at all costs, to never think for themselves. It’s possible that the only way you could have ever broken out was exactly the way you did: by accidentally escaping the hive-mind so that you could begin to have your own thoughts.”

Kallus gapes at Jarrus, horrified. “Who could even…? How?”

“There is an ability some Force users have.” Jarrus tips his head up and sighs. “It’s called battle meditation. Very rare. On a larger scale, some users were said to control thousands. As for who… I think you have your own suspicions about that, don’t you?”

“…I can’t say for certain,” replies Kallus. He begins to pace, up and down, trying to untangle his thoughts. “It’s true I have always been resistant to Force mind manipulation – it was one of the important criteria for entering the ISB. I wish I could use the idea that I was controlled as an out, but I think my mind was my own for all those years, even at the height of my fanaticism. I truly believed in the Empire’s cause, to my shame. However… I have seen it in others. Particularly large groups.”

Jarrus nods. “That makes sense. The control is said to work best when there are many minds feeding off each other.” And then: “You are strong-willed. Take heart. You will not have to deal with unwelcome persuasion again.”

Kallus stops his pacing and frowns. “How do you know that?”

“Call it intuition.” A few moments pass; Jarrus scratches his beard thoughtfully. “It’ll be one hell of a Force-related power vacuum when your Emperor dies, though.”

“He’s not my Emperor any more.” And then: “Wait, that’s who you think is -”

“Who else?” Jarrus shrugs. “Either that or Darth Vader, but I think any army controlled by his battle meditation would be a lot… different. Would feel different.”

“Well,” replies Kallus, raising his eyebrows, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll take your word for it. And thank the stars I don’t have to deal with whatever it is you’re sensing.”

“Hm,” chuckles Jarrus. “Indeed. One day, Kallus, you’re gonna meet a Force user who makes all their problems into your problems, and then we’ll see how you feel.”

Kallus rolls his eyes. “I think I already have…”

Chapter Text

“2. Any sentient who knowingly performs sexual acts with a sentient not of their own species shall be guilty of an offence and liable to a minimum of one year’s imprisonment.

3. Any sentient marriage officer who knowingly performs a marriage ceremony between sentients of two different species shall also be guilty of an offence and liable to a fine not exceeding one hundred credits; any droid which performs such a marriage ceremony shall be reprogrammed.”

- excerpt from the Imperial Prohibition to Interspecies Relations Act

Zeb isn’t sure how they got onto this subject. It’s the end of the day; he and Kallus have just had a nice sparring session in a clearing near one of the smaller temples, not too far from the main base. Somewhere nearby, Dee-Four is monitoring them without getting in the way. And now they’re sitting together on a fallen stone pillar after a few cool-down stretches, watching the sun creep towards the horizon, talking about… this.

"Yannow there's bein’s out there with bingo cards?"

Kallus frowns. "What do you…”

"And ev’ry time they sleep with a new species they tick one off." Zeb’s lip curls. "Met a guy once who was halfway through a list a thousands. Hah, he didn't get to cross Lasat off his list, I tellya."

Kallus makes a face. "I can't imagine how he'd have the time for that. The STD tests alone would be a nightmare."

“Right,” agrees Zeb. “And y’know, some species have like, eggs and things they could implant in ya.”

“To each their own,” replies Kallus, in that diplomatic tone he has. “I would find that… unpleasant.”

Zeb nods. “Same here.”

“Of course,” adds Kallus, “it’s not like I’d be able to have my own children either way.”

“Oh yeah?”

Kallus blinks, and looks up at Zeb. “Ah, um… it was voluntary. Mostly. Some Imperial officers opt to be sterilised. Makes us more efficient, supposedly. Removes the, ah, baser desires, not that I had many of those in the first place.”

“Isn’t that reversible for Humans?” frowns Zeb.

“Not the way I chose.”

“Huh.” Zeb watches Kallus’ eyes for a moment, wondering what the slight hesitation he sees there means, before deciding Kallus will probably tell him eventually. “Fair enough. Not like I’m likely to have a buncha kits either.” And then, at a wave of guilt from Kallus: “No, it ain’t cause I’m the last a my kind. Just ain’t plannin’ on doin’ anythin’ that could get me pregnant, is all.”

“Me neither,” replies Kallus, sounding a little relieved. He nudges Zeb suddenly, expression teasing. “No Rebel sweetheart waiting in the wings, I take it?”

“Eh,” replies Zeb, making a face. “I was never really interested in that kind of stuff even with other Lasats. All seems… tedious.”

Kallus nods. “I know what you mean. All those hormones.”

“Right? The smell o’ Kanan an’ Hera sometimes…” Zeb shudders. “Not ta mention all the horny pilots here on base. You know how many a these people kriff each other on the reg?”

“...I think I’d rather not know.”

“You’re lucky,” replies Zeb, with a groan. “Sometimes, havin’ a Lasat sense a smell is a curse, I tellya. Not like I blame any of ‘em. They gotta relieve stress somehow.”

“Indeed.” Kallus leans back on his hands: it’s the most relaxed Zeb has seen him… well, ever. “I suppose it would be nice to have someone… maybe not for sex, but…”

“Yeah,” replies Zeb, gazing into Kallus’ face. In the fading sunlight, he’s beautiful, golden lashes flickering closed against the brightness. “Don’t even have to be romantic.” That’s not quite the truth. He’d like romance, if it’s on the cards. “Somethin’ more than friends, and different than family.”

“Mmm,” agrees Kallus. His mouth slides into a smile. “Anyone you have in mind?”

“Someone,” says Zeb honestly. Something in his stomach flutters hopefully. “But I dunno if I’m readin’ the signs right.”

“Neither do I. To be honest… I’ve never really been in any kind of relationship before,” admits Kallus, quietly. “Let alone…”

Zeb frowns. “I s’pose the Empire didn’t exactly let ya.”

“Oh, we were allowed to marry,” Kallus replies casually. “In fact, the Empire encouraged soldiers to marry loyal Empire-loving civilians and have children, if they didn’t go down the route I chose. A soldier with a family is a lot easier to manipulate than a soldier without. And if you make a lot of Empire-loving babies, well, that’s the next generation of subjects, isn’t it?”

Zeb huffs; his ears flick in disgust. “That’s low.”

Kallus shrugs and makes a face. “That’s the Empire.” And then: “They’d probably have an objection to the fact that you’re male and from a different species.”

A snort. “I can live with pissin’ off the Empire.”

“So can I.” Kallus opens his eyes and smiles at Zeb. “Um…” Hesitantly, he offers Zeb his hand. “If I may?”

Zeb grins back and hugs Kallus tightly: Kallus tenses a little, but allows himself to relax into Zeb’s touch. “You may.”

“Oh,” says Kallus. He reaches up, a little awkward, and hugs Zeb back.

“Yeah,” agrees Zeb happily.

“How do you feel about -” Kallus’ hand tightens against Zeb’s shoulder blade – “kissing?”

“Maybe,” replies Zeb. “Not sure about the Human version. But I like the Lasat version.”

“Which is…?”

“Rubbin’ cheeks.”

Kallus nods. “That sounds nice.”

He tips his head up: his bearded cheek drifts closer to Zeb, and Zeb leans the rest of the way in to let his own beard intermingle with Kallus’. He can feel the slight prickling of Kallus’ golden hair, the smooth plane of his cheek above it; he can smell whatever it is that Kallus washes his hair with, plus a layer of deodorant that barely covers the more natural smell of Kallus’ sweat.

“It’s…” Kallus presses his cheek against Zeb’s and takes a deep breath – “It’s Alex, by the way.”

“Short for Alexsandr,” smiles Zeb. He told him, after all, back on that moon. “Yeah. I know.”

Chapter Text

<SUCCESS AT LOTHAL! In a truly heroic turn of events, the Empire has at last routed ALL REBEL INSURGENTS from the planet of Lothal. This long-awaited end to TERRORISM has come at the hands of GRAND ADMIRAL THRAWN and Lothal’s GOVERNOR PRYCE. These valiant leaders and their loyal troops have now set up a blockade surrounding the planet to prevent EVIL REBEL PLOTS from coming to fruition! Thanks to this development, Lothal’s industries are BOOMING once again under the prosperous hand of the Empire! At last, Lothal can contribute to the GLORY and VICTORY of the Empire!>

“Well, Kallus,” begins Draven, leaning back in his chair, “probation’s over.”

“Already?” Kallus – well, he’s starting to think of himself as Alex once again now, but that’s by the by – raises an eyebrow. “It’s only been…”

“Don’t push it.” Draven fixes him with a piercing look. “I have a feeling the Spectres are going to need some help soon enough, after that transmission we had from Azadi. I know you’ll want to go with them, and I don’t want to risk Dee-Four in a war zone.”

Alex does not comment on the implication that Draven is perfectly willing to risk him. He understands the point, in any case: he’s free, at least for now. Not that he minds Dee-Four, of course, they’re a pleasant enough droid, helpful but not overbearing. But it would undoubtedly be cruel to bring them unwillingly into the kind of danger that might be present on a planet like Lothal.

“Thank you, sir,” he replies at last.

There is a brief moment of silence; at last, Draven folds his arms and looks away. “Captain Orrelios is too good for the likes of you.”

“...I’m well aware of that, sir.”

“You’d better go pack,” Draven tells him gruffly. “I wouldn’t bring that awful ship of yours, though. The Imps might just do a mercy killing on it.”

Alex smiles and salutes: coming from Draven, that’s practically a blessing. “Noted. In that case I shall see you when I get back, sir.”

“Hm. If.”

Alex shrugs, but doesn’t rise to it; instead, he turns to go, and nods at Dee-Four as he passes them.

“It’s been good working with you, Dee-Four.”

“And you, Master Kallus. I hope to do so again.”

Alex nods, and goes to prepare the few things he might need, so that when Captain Syndulla comes to him, he is already ready.

“Yes,” he says, before she even opens her mouth. “I’ll come with you.”

As always with the Spectres, the plan is highly dubious at best. Not that Alex himself will have to do much for the moment, since he and Rex are charged with looking after the Ghost, but still. He knows how this crew is with disguises.

“You know,” he comments to Gar- Zeb, when he sees the rather silly red outfit, “in that get-up, you look a little like the Red Stripe.”

“I look like an idiot,” grumbles Zeb.

“Just…” Alex stands on tiptoes to rub his cheeks against Zeb’s, a little self-conscious and awkward. This thing between them is still tentative – well, he’s still trying to wrap his head around the non-Human part, never mind all of the other complicated things that Zeb brings with him as a former enemy. Yet even so Alex is beginning to recognise that he has emotions – feelings, even.

(Zeb does smell rather pleasant, even through these thick clothes, rich and musky in a distinctly non-Human way. Why Bridger – Ezra – complains so much, Alex has no idea.)

“Don’t take it off until you know you’re safe,” Alex adds. And: “Please be careful down there.”

He can’t see whether Zeb’s ears shift beneath the ugly hat… hood thing, but he does see the slightest glimmer of a smile across his face. “Yeah. I will.”

“Good.” Alex nods and makes his way back up to the cockpit, trying to calm the flutter of his heart by going over the Plan in his head. Make contact with Vizago, let the Spectres and the pufferpigs cross over, unlatch, make sure the other ship gets off safely, leave. Easy. Fine.

The others will have a much harder time of everything, even if everything on their side goes perfectly to plan. Knowing Vizago’s type, and having actually arrested or nearly arrested Vizago himself on multiple occasions, that is unlikely. Still. As Wren rightly points out, the Spectres have put their trust in worse people over the years.

“Alright, boys,” Captain Syndulla remarks to Alex and Rex, as soon as the Broken Horn has docked, “you’re in command of the Ghost now. Take care of her. I want her back.”

It’s an incredible amount of trust, one that Alex isn’t quite sure if he deserves yet, but he steps into the role with the kind of deep respect a person can only have for their most long-standing, talented rivals. Right up until Rex clears his throat, and says:

“She was talking to me.”

Alex frowns at him. “Why would she give it to you? I’ve commanded Star Destroyers.”

“Yeah,” replies Rex, “I’d say ya just answered your own question there, mate.”

Well. He’s not wrong. Alex gives up the pilot’s chair.

“’Sides,” adds Rex, as the others file into the Broken Horn, “ain’t ya got yer own ship now? Even if it is as ugly as a squashed Hutt.”

“She needs a little work, I’ll admit,” replies Alex, “and a fresh coat of paint, but once I’ve got all the red dust out, she’ll be good as new.”

Rex snorts. Outside, Alex can hear the Broken Horn detach; the next moment, it flies past and disappears into hyperspace. Alex watches it go thoughtfully.

“They’ll be ‘right,” Rex nods, putting his feet up on the control panel. “They always are. Well, most of the time.”

“Indeed,” sighs Alex.

Rex gives him an appraising look. “Oh, ya got it bad, huh.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Ya got purple in yer beard.” He gestures towards Alex’s face. “Unless Sabine’s doing one of her hair experiments again.”

Alex combs his fingers through his beard: indeed, he finds purple strands mixed in with his own blond. “…Ah.”

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not much gets past ol' Rexy." He winks and taps the side of his nose. "Just remember that if ya do anything to hurt his feelings, all of the other Spectres will hold their weapon of choice to yer head and pull the trigger. Including myself."

"…Noted." They are all so attached to knew another, aren't they? And he is attached to them – well, Zeb in particular. He sighs. “Well, if you’re finished with the death threats, I think we’d better get back to Yavin. I would hate to break the trust that has been put in us.”

“Right you are.” Rex grins and powers up the hyperdrive. “Any bets on how long it takes for them to find what they’re looking for?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “I would not dare to make a guess.”

Chapter Text

“The Empire is fascist,

Inquisitor’s blades are red,

If we don’t resist them

We’ll all soon be dead.”

- Graffiti found in a Lothal public refresher

Dressing in silly costumes to get past the Empire’s blockade is, when all is said and done, the easy part. Contacting Ryder and meeting up with him is the difficult part, especially when the Imps chase them down into Zeb’s own personal little hell: the sewers are dark, cold, smelly, and not nearly large enough for him to stretch out comfortably. Still, they manage to escape with Ryder’s help, and Zeb has never been more happy to see his nice familiar flight suit.

The factory that they’ve come to see is far into the mountainous north, remote enough that only the really determined would set their course here. Zeb supposes that’s the point – especially with the obvious threat of the Defender hanging around. It’s a real mean little thing, as far as he can tell, quick and brutal, especially once Sabine and Ezra start destroying the factory with it – reckless idiots. But they’re his idiots.

His idiots that appear back at base completely unharmed the next morning with the Defender’s flight data recorder nearly unnaturally fast. For a moment, Zeb smells something strange and canine: it’s probably oil or fuel or something.

“We got the hyperdrive, too,” Sabine tells them. “I think it’ll fit in the U-wing.”

Which leads to Ezra, Jai, and Zeb searching through near-identical rocks with only one of Ezra’s stupid Loth-cats to help them. Not that it doesn’t help, but – well, for once in his life Zeb would like to spend five minutes with Ezra without any Force bullshit happening. Still, he doesn’t have much of a chance to complain before the Imps, as always, turn up to ruin the fun.

Luckily, Zeb finds a spare transport that some poor soul has, tragically, left unattended with only a single driver. What a terrible, terrible shame. Zeb always did like the simple pleasures in life, like pulling one over on the Imps. He, Ezra, and Jai arrive back at the Rebel base more or less at the same time: there’s still a lot to do.

And when the Imperials come -

“Hey,” whispers Sabine, nudging his side. “It’s finally happening.” She points behind him to the U-wing, where Kanan and Hera are kiss-

“Give over, ‘Bine.” He cuffs her helmet fondly and goes back to firing into the platoon of approaching Stormtroopers. “Humans, I dunno.”

“Aww,” she croons, “don’t you wish you and Kallus -”

“Sabine, people are shootin’ at us.”

Sabine shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Thankfully, the U-wing takes off a few moments later: Hera, for better or worse, is gone. The tanks move in around their small temporary base, destroying their only transport, and there’s nowhere left to run until Ezra, once again, decides to do something with his Force bullshit. Which is a good thing. Strange is better than dead, after all.

The Loth-wolves lead them on, deeper into a mountains, to a cave with strange paintings on its walls, and then deeper still. And – Zeb doesn’t really remember anything that happens after that: he wakes up with the others, in the southern hemisphere of Lothal, safe and sound.

Safe and sound and out of range of communications. The crawler they find nearby, equipped with a long-range transmitter, is their only hope of contacting Hera: a huge, unpleasant, smoking contraption whose ugly Trandoshan captain sounds the alarm as soon as blinking. Zeb has to admit that Ezra trying to imitate the captain’s hisses is pretty funny.

But there’s still work to do, and not nearly enough people to do it with: the hold full of cowering slaves (and Vizago, of all beings) complicates things. It’s not Zeb’s first time fighting a sleemo with a whip, or his first time being electrocuted for that matter; it is, however, his first time being the slave-master. He doesn’t like it, even for the few spare minutes the Imperials are on board. Slimy, somehow. Reminds him too much of before he met Hera and Kanan.

But at last, once the Imps are gone and Ezra has taken care of the captain, the transmission comes through: Hera, loud and clear, with plans and support on the way.

The gun towers guarding the factory blow up quite impressively, thanks to Sabine; the four of them regroup with Ryder just in time to see Hera’s squad break through. Or, more accurately -

“What are those?” frowns Zeb, at the bright comet-lights that fall down onto the city as they watch.

Sabine shudders. “The entire attack force.”

Yeah, the plan has definitely gone wrong. The Imps are coming, and all they have are some speeders and hope. As for Hera…

Kanan brings his speeder to a halt. “I’m going back. I have to do this.”

Of course he does. If Zeb were in his place – what? What would he do? He’s not sure. His feelings about Ka – Alex are still mixed and amorphous, but they are there. Maybe, once this is over, he’ll have time to think about it.

Or maybe they’ll all be dead. Could go either way, really.

Chapter Text

"There are two things that all living beings have in common: death and the Force. All are connected in the vast cosmic interplay of the Galaxy – Jedi, Sith, sentients and non-sentients, planets and stars and black holes. What exists in the physical realm is by necessity connected to this cosmic plane. Whether for good or ill is up to interpretation. As it is said by the Jedi: luminous beings are we, indeed."

- Xern Feruos, Mirialan philosopher

The dreams are clear and strange again on the night that Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine go to rescue Hera. Zeb looks down at hands that aren’t his own: four fingers and a thumb, Human, holding a lightsaber. The snow is fresh and cold, chillingly real, and he shivers. There is a clone beside him, with green paint on his armour: the holo in front of him gives an order that Zeb has only heard in his nightmares.

There are the same broken ripples in the Force, the sudden screaming in his mind, and he only has a moment to recover from it before the first blaster shot comes. He knows, somehow, what’s coming: the clones advance, encircle him with steady blasts.

“Master!” calls a Human boy, from too far away. No – no, it’s good he’s far away. It means he has more chance of survival. This is Zeb’s fate, he knows: protect the future. Protect the boy, again. Or is this a different boy? He spins and blocks, uses every trick his masters taught him.

“You must run!” he yells, with a voice that is not his own. He knows the boy will obey – must obey. The clones draw closer around Zeb, but there is still a chance for the boy to escape. He sees and feels the hesitation in the boy, the desperation to save his master: equally, he feels his own determination. He will save this boy, and the boy will have his own destiny in the Force. There will be a future for him.

So he shouts again: “Run, Caleb!”

The boy runs.

Zeb wakes up.

Outside, it’s just beginning to turn light: he lopes out into the open, trying to clear his head. As if summoned, a small dot approaches from the horizon and grows into an Imp transport. Zeb arms his bo-rifle. The transport does not shoot, but swoops in so that Zeb can see – thank the stars – Hera inside. He puts away his weapon again, and the transport lands. One by one, the Spectres stumble out, with terrible, shocked faces: Hera, Chopper, Ezra, Sabine -

“Where’s -” he begins.

Ezra shakes his head and falls helpless into Zeb’s arms. “Kanan is – is gone.”

He can’t be dead. He kriffing can’t. He’s a kriffing Jedi, for kark’s sake. He always survives. No matter how much Zeb tries to wrap his head around it, it doesn’t make any sense: how could he have died? How could anything have killed him? The other Spectres won’t say. Even Chopper is quiet. That, more than anything, is enough to shock Zeb into terrible distress, boiling under the surface.

Those kriffing bastards. It’s only too easy to go with Sabine to hunt the Imperials with a rigged speeder as bait, to watch and revel in the carnage, but it’s not nearly enough to satisfy the bloodlust that thrums beneath Zeb’s skin. He wants – he needs to make them pay. It’s not enough that the Imperial factory is shut down. They’ll reopen, once they get the fuel.

That is where the creepy little Imperial assassin comes in. The creature is an ugly, slimy-looking thing that takes the first chance it gets to turn invisible, like the coward it is. Like the coward all Imperials are, in the end. Cowardly, brutal, vicious, murderers. All Zeb wants is to hurt, to tear with his claws, to crush with his fists, to show them the wrath of the Spectres.

“Zeb,” says Sabine, but he needs to see the blood splatter.

“Zeb,” she says again, but his fists itch to feel the crack of bone.

“Zeb!” At last, she pulls him away from the unconscious assassin, pulls him back into coherence and sense and light. “This isn’t the way.”

“I -” Zeb stares down at his hands, covered in the blood of the creature. Suddenly he has a very clear image of Alex there beneath him, lying broken on the ground because of him, because of his anger, and he flinches away from it. No, she’s right: this is not the way.

“Come on, big guy,” she murmurs, and puts her hand on his shoulder. “I have a better idea for a message we can send to the Empire.”

“He’s really gone, isn’t he,” says Zeb, as the last speeder flies away carrying the assassin – he looks a lot better with Sabine’s paint on him, Zeb has to admit.

Sabine closes her eyes. “Yeah,” she admits. “He’s really gone. He saved our lives. Stupid self-sacrificing dinii karla’kar’ta jetii.”

“Karabast.”

“You kriffing said it, vod.”

Chapter Text

“But who is Ezra really? To start from the beginning, then: Ezra Bridger was born nineteen years before the Battle of Yavin, to Mira and Ephriam Bridger. When he was young, his parents were imprisoned for spreading anti-Imperial sentiment; Ezra was left an orphan on the streets of Lothal, and soon lost even his childhood home to an Imperial raid. By the time my parents and the rest of the Spectres found him in his early teens, he was living in an old communications tower, stealing to survive.

He did not then realise that he was Force sensitive: why would he? He had more important things to worry about. It was only after he had joined the Spectres that his powers were revealed in a remarkable way during Zeb and Alex’s first meeting, as we saw in chapter 4. Soon enough, with my father’s teaching, Ezra became more and more proficient at using the Force – with a special talent for communicating with beasts…”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 6: Ezra” in Family Heroism: A Memoir

“So,” says Ezra, “the Jedi temple is in danger. I think that’s gonna be our next mission.”

Everyone stares at him.

“We don’t have any speeders left,” points out Ryder, “and the Empire blew up that transport that Zeb stole. How exactly are you going to get all the way up there?”

“I have a plan,” grins Ezra. “I’m going to summon the Loth-wolves.”

And so, somehow, Zeb finds himself once again following along with Ezra’s mystical bantha crap, on the back of a supposedly extinct animal that walks calmly through what looks like hyperspace. It’s… very disconcerting. He supposes that if the purrgils can do it, then so can the Loth-wolves: he clings to the broad, furry back, feeling like a kit holding onto his parent.

What’s more disturbing are the hallucinations. It starts with a purple-winged insect, one that Zeb remembers from his childhood on Lasan, that flutters down and lands on the Loth-wolf’s head. It’s one of the few kinds of bugs that Zeb will allow anywhere near him. Spiders? Beetles? Anything that buzzes? Not a chance. But these are all right.

Something about the delicate, fluttering little thing seems to call to him, speaking to him with a far deeper resonance than simple nostalgia for things lost. What are they called? The insects have a name, but Zeb has forgotten it in the many years since he left his home planet behind.

Even as he struggles to remember, the next image arrives: a tall Lasat man appears out of the nothingness to Zeb’s left. He falls into step with the Loth-wolf, calm and collected as if he belongs there, barely even acknowledging Zeb’s presence. His hair is grey and falls in a long braid behind his back.

“Who’re you, then?” asks Zeb, in Lasat.

“A friend.” The Lasat man glances up at Zeb. “I have been following your story with great interest.”

Zeb raises an eyebrow. “Little weird, but okay.”

A moment passes: on Zeb’s right, the ether forms up into a cloaked and hooded Human woman. Her hair is a lighter grey, arranged into two braids fastened with thick bronze-gold rings. Zeb can’t see her eyes. He switches to Basic, with the assumption that that’s what she speaks.

“And who’re you supposed ta be?”

She tips her head. “Also a friend. Someone who has been betrayed, and plans to betray.”

“She’s a snake,” says the Lasat man. His Basic accent is clear deep Coruscanti, of the sort that Zeb has never been able to achieve: although he did learn it in school, a lot of his more complex Basic comes from somewhat disreputable sources, from slavers and smugglers and then from the Spectres. It’s strange to hear one of his own species talk like this. Like a Human.

“And you are a fool,” replies the woman. She’s Coruscanti, too, but that makes more sense than a Lasat with the same accent.

Zeb groans. “An’ I’m stuck right in the middle, am I?”

The Lasat man sighs and nods. “As the Force wills.”

"Do you believe, Garazeb?" asks the Human woman. "Do you believe in the Force? Not just the bare facts of its existence, but the true all-influencing Force?”

A few years ago, before he met Kanan or Ezra, Zeb would have said something along the lines of: that mystical bantha crap? Not a chance. Now, on the back of a Loth-wolf travelling through some sort of magical tunnel… he's not quite as sure. Either this is a really wild trip brought on by stress and fatigue, or -

"You do, don't you," smiles the Lasat man. "Then believe this: there is a place you wish to go. You will be able to return there after the battle of the Broken Moon."

"...the kriff does that mean?"

The woman raises her hand: in front of them, the swirling ether opens like a curtain. The Loth-wolf steps forward, towards the opening.

"It means," she replies, as she and the other apparition fade away behind him, and the little purple-winged insect flutters off, "that you're in for a lot more... how do you put it? 'Mystical bantha crap'."

Fan-kriffing-tastic.

They appear a few short miles away from the Jedi temple: as they creep closer, Zeb begins to understand why. The Imps are already here, trampling the sacred space in their clanking armour and heavy machinery. Zeb doesn’t envy Sabine and Ezra going in, even in Scout trooper disguises: there are some privileges to being non-Human, and one of them is never having to do that kind of mission.

“I saw my father just now,” remarks Hera quietly. “Back there. Him on one side, and Kanan on the other. They… wanted me to choose.”

“Oh, karabast,” sighs Zeb, relieved. “So I ain’t the only one who had a weird experience.”

She raises her eyebrow. “What did you see?”

“A Lasat and a Human.” He frowns. “Wasn’t really a choice between ‘em so much as a really weird chat.” And then: “Ya chose Kanan, didn’t ya.”

“Do you really have to ask?” She laughs, soft and weak. “I don’t think there ever really was a choice. It’s always been Kanan. I… if my father wasn’t so…. I mean, there wouldn’t even be a choice if…”

“Yeah,” nods Zeb. “I know what ya mean.”

Hera sighs and brings the viewscope up to her eyes again. “Uh-oh. Looks like we’re needed. Sabine’s been captured, and… where the hell is Ezra?”

“Business as usual, then,” says Zeb with an attempt at humour, though his heart isn’t in it.

“Business as usual,” she agrees, and gets to her feet.

It doesn’t take long to tilt the mobile office on the site to get Sabine out – “Yeah, I really don’t know where Ezra is either -” and get to the wall, where Ezra tumbles out of the rock painting in a tangle of limbs looking like he just saw a ghost. He does… something to the painting, and the Temple begins to crumble around them.

Time to go. Zeb picks up the unconscious Ezra, and they make their escape.

Chapter Text

<PROSECUTOR: And were you shot in the fracas?

OHNAKA: No, I was shot midway between the fracas and the navel.

-----

PROSECUTOR: And what happened after that?

OHNAKA: Well, naturally, I bravely rescued the poor, injured Imperial soldier from his fate. The self sacrifice, you know, I am very much a fan. I deserve a reward, not this petty criminal nonsense.

PROSECUTOR: Are you telling the truth?

OHNAKA: Objection! Irrelevant.>

- Excerpt from criminal trial number 203 for H Ohnaka

Neither Alex nor Rex hesitate at all when Hera finally shows up, looking tired but determined. For his part, Alex knows this mission, more than anything, may be the reason Draven let him off parole in the first place: besides that, the Spectres are his – friends? Perhaps? With the exception of Zeb, who is… more than that in a nebulous way Alex can’t exactly define just yet.

On their way to Seelos, Hera summarizes everything that has happened since she left the Ghost in their care with as much composure as she can. It sounds… difficult.

“…and so they came to rescue me.” She sighs. “We were almost away when – when Kanan -”

“Oh, Hera,” murmurs Rex, and wraps his arms around her. “I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man,” agrees Alex. He was better to Alex than Alex had any right to. Alex never even gave him the dignity of using his first name.

Hera sniffles and nods. “The best.” And then, with a shake of her head: “Still. He saved our lives, and gave us the chance to save Lothal from those bastards.”

Rex nods. “Then we’d better take it while we can.”

“You’re sure your brothers are okay with meeting on their base?” she asks.

“Yeah, they’ll be right,” grins Rex. “I already warned ‘em Kallus was comin’.”

Ah yes. Alex has shot at them, hasn’t he? The list of people Alex has attempted to arrest, kill, torture, or otherwise inconvenience at some point seems to grow every day. Perhaps he should try pacifism, if the Rebels ever by some miracle manage to win the war. Nevertheless, these are the Spectres’ friends, and a friend of the Spectres is a friend of -

Actually, scratch that. Every friend of the Spectres except Hondo Ohnaka is a friend of his. Alex may be attempting restitution, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be irritated by such an ingratiating, money-grabbing, conman. He’s a little surprised that becoming a Rebel didn’t change that particular aspect of himself, but… well, Hondo seems to annoy Hera just as much, which is vindication enough. If only he weren’t such a useful idiot.

The Ghost eases its way out of hyperspace and powers down almost the same moment: there’s a lot more Star Destroyers here than Alex was expecting. But – thank the stars – the sensors don’t show an increase in chatter once they enter the system.

“I don’t think we were detected,” he tells Hera.

“Good.” She nods at Hondo. “All right, Hondo, you’re up.”

Hondo nods. “Mm, yes, we shall go to these coordinates. Just outside a hyperspace lane. We shall wait there for a cargo ship to arrive.”

“Are you mad?” Alex wouldn’t be surprised: Hondo has a certain outlook on life which seems nearly sane, from the outside. “It’ll crash into us.”

“I have done this many times!”

Dear merciful stars.

In fact, the cargo ship does not crash into them. It merely appears out of hyperspace right on top of them. It’s mostly due to Hera’s skill as a pilot that they manage to clamp on to the damn thing without getting smashed into little bits, but it does work, to Alex’s surprise. They aren’t detected, and they pass the blockade without even a single fight.

Hondo really is a very useful idiot. On occasion.

Hera brings them down right to the little base in the mountains with a flourish: beneath them, the other Spectres and a few others are waiting with their hands on their heads on a platform. Alex spots Zeb and waves shyly, and Zeb grins back at him.

"Showtime,” says Rex over the comm. Showtime indeed. Alex gladly goes to join the clones, blaster in hand, and dashes out with them to meet the Imperials at last: they’re outnumbered, outgunned, but for once in his life Alex is firmly and clearly on the right side. If he dies here, he dies with honour.

He does not die. The wolves appear, and save the Rebels’ lives.

“Are those..?” he murmurs to Zeb, as the carnage erupts.

“Yup,” nods Zeb. “Loth-wolves. I dunno how it works either. Just go with it.” And then, to the Stormtroopers that remain: “I’d drop your weapons if I were you.”

The Stormtroopers drop their weapons.

Chapter Text

“Pryce Mining is a Lothal-based doonium producer, engaged in the production, exploration, and development of doonium mineral reserves and mineral resources.

The company is currently seeking a Chief Mine Engineer at our Southern Hemisphere doonium operation. This position will report directly to the Mine Manager.

Minimum 10 years experience in Mining or Engineering required. Use comm frequency below for further details.”

- Job advertisement in the Lothal News

Arihnda Pryce is – unpleasant, to say the least. Actually, she reminds Alex of the man he was before Bahryn: unflinchingly loyal, prepared to go to any lengths for the Empire. She truly believes. He would pity her if she showed any sign of morality or honour.

“You disgust me, traitor,” she hisses. Predictable. If she could look from a different point of view, if she could see the hurt the Empire causes – but Alex is under no illusions about saving or converting her.

“The day I betrayed your Empire, Governor,” he replies, “was the day I finally stopped betraying myself.” She won’t understand it. It simply won’t occur to her that the Rebels might actually be right.

Pryce looks at him askance. “You’ve given up years of service, a promising career, prestige, for what? What could the Rebellion possibly do for you that the Empire can’t?”

“Hot showers,” says Alex, straight-faced. “Better food. The moral high ground.” And a boyfriend. But Pryce, he knows, has views on that sort of thing.

“The moral high ground?” she sneers. “You’re a fool. You’ve given up your life just to join a band of failures who don’t stand a chance.”

No, she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand that these are more than failures: they are loyal, caring, wonderful beings who believe in more than just the destruction and pain of the Empire. They are Ezra Bridger and Sabine Wren and Hera Syndulla and Zeb, who reached out his hand to rescue Alex from himself. They are forgiveness, mercy, kindness, generosity, redemption, hope. They are good, in a way that the Empire never could be.

Perhaps Pryce reads this in his face. Or perhaps she reads nothing past the blinders of her fanaticism. She turns away from him and scoffs. She’s lost.

“I never thought I’d have to wear a uniform like this again,” sighs Alex, tugging at the collar of his disguise in one of the caves. These outfits are worse than he remembers, tight at the throat to restrict his breathing, stiff and unyielding at every angle.

“Hey,” smiles Zeb, “If I can wear that stupid red costume…”

Alex nods and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I heard about everything that happened. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Zeb sighs and rests his forehead against Alex’s. “Been… pretty rough, ta be honest.”

Tentatively, Alex puts his arms around Zeb. “If there’s anything you need, if you want to talk… I am here for you.”

Zeb swallows: his hand comes up to cradle Alex’s shoulderblade. “Y-yeah, I -” He takes a deep breath. “Later. We got work ta do, yeah?”

“All right.”

They break apart, and Zeb leans down to rub his cheek against Alex’s for a brief, wonderful moment. “Come on. You’d better get all that fur off yer nice neat uniform, or you’ll give the game away.”

Alex smiles and shakes his head. “Hmm, I wonder how that got there?” And then: “Personally, I think it’s rather fetching. Adds a little colour to all the endless black and grey.”

Zeb’s ears twitch in amusement, and he brushes off Alex’s shoulders. “Go on with ya. We got a Dome to destroy.”

And so Alex finds himself, once again, sharing oxygen with Pryce on a Police Gunship on the way to the Imperial Dome. She seems to spend half the time glaring at him, and the other half glaring at everyone else. Most unsavoury. If only they could fit a Loth-wolf on here.

“Now,” he tells her, “about those landing codes. And remember, I’ll know if they’re correct.”

Luckily, she’s intelligent enough to cooperate, even if she is also stupid enough to do it for her own gain, and their ships land safely on the Dome. Despite himself, Alex almost enjoys holding a gun to her back as their players move into position. He definitely enjoys the gunfight that comes once Zeb and Ezra attack more than he probably should.

From there, the takeover is quick and surprisingly easy. Even the control room is simple enough to clear, and the Rebels get to work assuming full control immediately. As soon as everything is prepared, Ezra nods.

“Kallus, you’re up.”

He opens the comm system. “Attention, all personnel. Protocol 13 is now in effect. Report to your action stations immediately. I repeat…”

Perhaps, he thinks, some of them will refuse the call. Perhaps a small few will be reluctant. Perhaps there are still some out there who, like him, just need a trigger to change their minds.

“Please confirm,” says a voice from the other end.

“The order is confirmed,” he insists. Beside him, Ryder Azadi steps easily into the role of Yularen, just as planned. With the Empire’s usual speed and efficiency, every soldier returns to their duty stations, and Alex is almost beginning to think they might have pulled it off. He should have realised that it is almost always this point in any Rebel scheme where things usually start to go wrong.

Thrawn. That blue bastard. Of course he would pull a trick like this, let the Rebels do the work for him so that he can bombard innocents. Of course. The manipulation, the cold ruthless hatred, it is all so very Thrawn. But there must be a way to beat him. There must.

Chapter Text

“The semi-suicidal nature of rebels is well-documented: these fanatics will dive headlong into danger with no heed for their own safety for the opportunity to save a single bystander. This tendency, of course, is a perfect opportunity for the canny agent. Traps can be set whose bait is a group of people that rebels see as “innocent” – a small town, for example, or a group of political prisoners. Then, once the rebels have rushed in to “save the day” the agent may move in at their own leisure with a squad of troopers – or more, should the situation demand it.

Keep in mind, however, that rebels are also very tricky: they know we know about this tendency of theirs, and they can be very quick to spring a trap of their own or, in many cases, find a way to escape without risking either themselves or the people they are rescuing. The perceptive agent must be able to sense these traps and trickery before they come – or risk a frustrating, disappointing failure at the final hour.”

- from the ISB Loyalty Manual, 3^rd ed., chapter 11: “Rebels and Other Insurgents”

The Rebels don’t have a lot of options, of course. Speaking with them, thinking through their options, Alex is struck by how undeterred they are, how little ground they’re willing to give. It’s admirable, really.

(Besides that, a not insignificant part of him quite enjoys listening to Zeb talking strategy. He’s a born leader, and today Alex can truly see the Honour Guard side of him shining through. He might be a little bit in love, and that’s an interesting realisation to have in the middle of a life-and-death situation.)

Before any of them have even realised it, then, Ezra is gone, with a Police Gunship and nothing else, leaving the rest of them to carry out the plan that has taken shape. Alex can respect him, at least: it is the honourable choice, though perhaps also a little suicidal. Nevertheless. They have work to do.

Sabine nods curtly. “Rex, Hondo, Ketsu, you take the North tower. Zeb, Kallus, Gregor, you take the South.” Alex could swear that she actually winks at him when she says his name.

No time to think about that. In fact, there’s very little time to think at all, what with platoons of Stormtroopers firing at them through every corridor; very little time to think when trying to overtake the shield generator rooms, with the technicians prepared to defend their employer’s right to kill people with their lives.

“There’s too many of ‘em!” yells Gregor. “We’re gonna have to do something drastic!”

Behind Alex, Zeb cracks his neck. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Zeb,” he gasps. “Don’t!”

(A small part of him realises, through the panic, that this is the first time he’s actually used Zeb’s name aloud… well, ever. Not Garazeb, not the Lasat, not Rebel scum, but Zeb. That’s something for Later Alex to think about.)

But Zeb has already jumped towards the little grey creature on the other side of the shield generator room, dragging him down into the depths.

“He’s crazy!” cries Gregor.

Alex, in the middle of a small personal crisis, glares at him. “Well, it was your idea.” Then, mustering his strength, because the mission is the mission and if there’s anything the Empire taught him it’s that the mission supersedes any and all personal feelings, “Come on!”

They charge in, blasters blazing, and Alex is just taking over the control panel when he hears Gregor cry out behind him and stagger.

“No,” he grunts, pushing Alex’s helping hands away, “get that shield up.”

Yes, the mission. He has to stick to the mission. The Rebel comms crackle frantically. It’s now or never.

“Zeb?”

“Don’t wait on me!” replies a shout from beneath.

Alex takes a single moment to shove down all of his emotions about that particular source of anxiety, and starts up the generator. This is fine. He just has to trust Zeb not to get himself killed. Focus on the mission. Below him the shield generator crackles slowly into life and -

And there is Zeb’s voice, coming from one of the lower levels of platforms; over the comms, it seems that the shields have successfully come online. Hope returns to Alex in a wave, hope and relief and the residual terror of nearly losing Zeb when they just got together… well, it feels like a long time ago now.

He turns to Gregor. There’s not much to be done there: Gregor has no armour, just a thin tank top that offered no resistance to the blaster shot. Rex runs up to his brother, and Alex steps aside to let them have their brief moment. Then, it’s time to go.

“Please don’t do something as deeply idiotic as diving into a shield generator again,” he murmurs to Zeb, as they make their way back to the command centre. “I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Can’t promise anythin’,” replies Zeb fondly.

By the time they return, the Star Destroyers have begun to disappear from Lothal’s sky one by one. Alex doesn’t recognise the strange tentacled creatures that wrap themselves around the Chimaera, but he has no doubt this is some scheme of Ezra’s.

“Pryce,” he hisses, as the tide turns above them, “give up now. The Rebellion will show you mercy.”

She turns her nose up at him. “I’d rather die.”

“Then your incompetence, Governor, will be the death of you.”

And then – Ezra is gone. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Which means…

Which means, for now, there’s no one stopping them from doing what they came here to do. The explosives, presumably, have already been rigged; the only thing left to do is make for the Ghost and then watch in awe as the Dome explodes perfectly over the sea. They’ve really done it. They’ve actually shown the Empire what they’re made of. And though Ezra’s message is not for him, he hears the tentative hope in the pre-recorded voice and knows that there will be a future for Lothal – just as Ezra always wanted.

Chapter Text

“Interviewer: I hear you and Her Royal Highness have adopted.

Bail: Yes, we recently took in a poor infant from Alderaan. Their parents tragically died as a result of these Clone Wars and, well, I suppose we both felt we had to do our small part to ease the suffering that is going on. We have been wanting children for some time now, and this was the perfect opportunity.

Interviewer: So will this child inherit a claim to the throne?

Bail: We are discussing it with the Royal Advisors, but I believe so, yes, since we have no biological children, and Breha has no siblings or cousins. Either way, we both agree they will be educated in diplomacy and matters of state so they can follow in our footsteps.

Interviewer: With parents like you, I’m sure they’ll grow up to be a force to be reckoned with.”

- Excerpt from interview with Bail Organa for Hyperspace magazine

The weeks after Lothal has been freed are a flurry of activity: there is a lot of clean-up to do in the city after Thrawn’s bombardment, and everyone always needs a big strong guy like Zeb to lift rubble and sometimes people. He’s not the only one working, either: once Hera has decided not to chase off immediately after Ezra thanks to that message, she directs each of the Rebels to helping the relief effort.

Rex begins to run open classes on how to defend the planet in case the Empire returns; the rest of them do their duty through the more obvious food, water, medical care, and clearing the destruction in the city. Zeb is very proud to see Alex putting his all into helping the people that he once had a hand in oppressing – in particular, he rigs up a specialised long-range comm scanner in Ezra’s tower for listening in to the Empire’s plans so that, at the very least, Lothal will have time to prepare for any attack.

Slowly, surely, Lothal begins to rebuild. The Rebels have less and less to to help with. He, Sabine, Hera, Chopper, and Alex spend more and more time together on the Ghost. Zeb stops passing out exhausted every night (on the bottom bunk, thank you very much, because he’s so used to it by now that the top one seems impossibly, dizzyingly high).

(He isn’t quite brave enough to ask Alex to come sleep in his room, either: Alex and Rex, at Hera’s request, have taken Kanan’s room “so it doesn’t feel so empty”.)

Which all means that Zeb is not sleeping well. It’s not just the slowly returning shock and grief of Kanan and Ezra gone, it’s – it’s all sorts of things. The sort of thing that has him give up in the early hours one morning and wander to the galley: he won’t get back to sleep, so he might as well find something to do.

To his surprise, Alex is there, looking surprisingly cheerful for this ungodly hour, with a cup of caf and some incredibly healthy looking breakfast.

“Mornin’”, yawns Zeb, getting his own cup of caf. “What’re you doin’ up so early?”

Alex shrugs. “I volunteered to help with fresh food distribution today, and they always start at the crack of dawn. I wanted to make sure everyone got what they needed.”

Yes, he’s definitely changed. A few years ago, he was poisoning whole villages to try and catch a single Spectre. Maybe this is his way of trying to make up for it.

“What about you?” asks Alex. “You look… tired.”

“I’ve been having -” Zeb grimaces – “weird dreams.”

Alex looks up, all concern. “What kind of dreams?”

And that’s the kriffing question, isn’t it? Zeb flops down beside Alex and groans.

“I ‘unno. Kriffed up shit.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Just now I dreamt my pregnant wife was dyin’ in childbirth. I mean, I don’t even have a wife! I’ve never had a wife! I’m kriffing gay-asexual!”

Alex blinks. “That is strange. Was she… you know… a Lasat, or -”

“No, that’s the weirdest thing.” Zeb slumps down onto the dejarik table. “That’s not even how Lasats do it. She was Human. Well. Kinda.”

“...Kind of? You mean she was mixed species?”

Zeb shakes his head glumly. “Weirder. I kept seein’ Hera’s face instead of this other woman. Yannow how dreams are. It was like a computer glitch.”

“I see.” Alex frowns thoughtfully. “The other one wasn’t someone you know, then?”

“Not really.” A few moments, and Zeb reconsiders: “She reminded me of this Princess we worked with ages ago. Leia.”

Alex tips his head. “Princess Leia of Alderaan? You’ve met her?”

“You haven’t?”

“I’ve heard a lot about her.” A few moments pass: Alex lays a hand on Zeb’s arm. “I don’t think it’s surprising that you’re dreaming of the people close to you dying, though. Not after…”

That’s right. Kanan is dead. Ezra is… gone.

Alex sees the look on his face, the droop of his ears, and puts his arm around Zeb’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you like that.”

Zeb nods and leans into him. “Gotta… come to terms with it, I guess.”

“It’s natural to worry.” Alex strokes his head, soft and rhythmical. “These dreams…”

“’S probably nothing,” replies Zeb. “Prob’ly the stress of the battle’s catchin’ up to me. I don’t wanna tell Hera. She’s got enough on her plate with Kanan and Ezra gone.”

“Of course,” agrees Alex. “I understand. Just… you know you can talk to me at any time.”

“Yeah,” Zeb murmurs. “I will. Can’t let dreams get me down. We got enough goin’ on in reality.”

(But he felt it, the anger, the grief, even over his own excruciating physical pain. He felt the Dark shadow clawing at his heart, the chilling certainty he felt that he was doing the right thing. He felt the lava burns all over his body, heard the screams of the woman in his mind. It was so real -)

Chapter Text

“Holy Mother, Blessed Ashla,

Have mercy on this Parent and Their kits

Reward Their choice with great abundance,

Let Their fur be thick and Their claws sharp,

Let Their kits live in health also.

For Thou art the First Mother of all life,

Thou are our Protector, our Warrior-Mother.

Exalted Ashla, guide Thy Children!”

- Traditional Lasat Prayer for Kit-Bearers

It takes about two weeks after Alex’s early-morning conversation with Zeb for Hera to finally snap.

"I can't wait around here all my life for the Empire to show up," she declares, marching into the galley before dinnertime with a look that could murder a man. "I want to fly again. I want to fight with the Rebellion. It's what Kanan and Ezra would have wanted."

Sabine folds her arms. "Ezra trusted us to look after Lothal. What if they come back?"

Alex, in the middle of chopping vegetables for dinner, frowns. "I doubt it. After a humiliating defeat like that, I imagine they'll want to wash their hands of the whole planet and pretend nothing ever happened. Have you been following the news holos? They're already sweeping Lothal under the rug.”

“An’ it’s not like Lothal can’t protect itself now,” adds Zeb. He and Sabine are playing Cubikahd: even from where he is, Alex can tell Zeb is losing horribly. “What with Rex here an’ his little guerilla gang.”

Rex grins. “They’re a right force ta be reckoned with, and no mistake.” He’s bunking with Alex in Kanan’s room: Alex would rather go to Zeb’s room, but that’s perhaps a little forward at this stage. It’s not like they’d even be doing anything other than sleeping – they’ve both made that very clear – but… well, the combination of cold emptiness that Kanan has left behind and Rex’s habit of talking in his sleep is starting to become a little wearing.

“Still,” insists Sabine. “We can’t just… leave.”

Chopper switches off his projector. “Yes we can. Your worries are irrelevant, meatbag.”

“I think what Chopper means to say,” says Alex, “is that we are under no obligation to remain here. There are many other planets that will need saving in the coming months and years, and it would be unfair to focus on just the one.”

“I meant exactly what I said and you know it.”

“That’s right,” agrees Hera. “The Rebellion needs us, Sabine, now more than ever. I’ve been talking to some of the other Rebel leaders, and they agree that it’s about time I came back to help, along with anyone else who wants to join me.”

Sabine sighs. “It’s just… Ezra put so much of his trust in me. I can’t leave. My mission is here on Lothal. And me and Ketsu…”

Hera sits down beside her and lays a hand on her arm. “If that’s what you choose, I’ll support you. But I – and I think the rest of us – need to do this, Sabine. I think you understand that.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sabine. And then: “When are you thinking of going?”

“Soon.” Hera looks up at the rest of them. “Within the next couple of weeks, if that’s alright with you boys. There’s a new batch of recruits that need pilot training.”

“Suits me,” shrugs Rex.

Alex and Zeb both nod.

“Good,” replies Hera, relaxing into her seat with a sigh. “I’m glad that’s settled. I promise, Sabine, it won’t be goodbye forever, we’ll come and visit you and you’d better call us at least once a week.”

Sabine chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Alright, Mom.”

“Oh, speaking of,” Hera adds, “I’m pregnant.”

All of them stare at her in shock.

She folds her arms and juts out her chin. “Yes, it’s Kanan’s, yes, I’m still going out to fight, no, nothing any of you can say will change my mind. Clear?”

“Um,” says Alex, nearly lost for words, “congratulations?”

“Thank you.”

Zeb gapes at her. “Hera!”

“You didn’t think to tell us for, like -” Sabine counts on her fingers – “nearly two months?”

“Three months, actually. There’s been a lot of other stuff going on.” She raises her eyebrow. “Besides, I wasn’t sure whether it was going to work out or not.”

“You got kriffin’ tortured!” yelps Zeb, distressed. “You could have kriffin’ died at any kriffin’ time!”

“Exactly.”

“Heraaaa!”

Rex shakes his head. “Come on, ya big worry-wart, we should be celebrating. We’re getting a new Spectre! If that ain’t good news, I dunno what is.”

“Yeah, I guess yer right.” Zeb sighs, and adds: “I just don’ want ya ta hurt yerself, Hera.”

(That’s right, he had that strange dream, didn’t he? It must be awfully frightening to have his nightmares brought into reality like this.)

“I know you don’t, Zeb.” She smiles beatifically at him. “But I’ll be fine. I’ve got all of you, haven’t I?”

Chapter Text

“She glitters there

My beautiful one

Stunning in her majesty

Blessed in both form and function

A refuge and a friend.

A beautiful ship!”

- Droid poet R2-V0, “My Darling, The Long Shot” from The Technical Probability of Finding an Organic that Can Understand the True Beauty of Mechanical Literature

Life back on Yavin is strange. Zeb and the rest of the remaining Ghost crew – including Alex, when he has the time – still go on missions together. Hera still trains her pilots. Zeb and Alex still spar. Sabine, as promised, calls every week to check up on them and give updates on the rebuilding of Lothal. But… there’s still a void where Kanan and Ezra used to be, missing parts of their unified body. Zeb finds himself turning to tease Ezra about something, or looking to Kanan for backup on missions, and then grieving all over again when he finds them missing.

(As much as he tries to convince himself that Ezra isn’t actually dead – he’s not here. He might as well be dead, and sometimes Zeb hates him for that.)

Still. It’s not all pain. Things are getting better, slowly and surely. Now that he’s gotten used to the idea, he’s pretty damn excited about Hera’s baby, despite all his anxiety. And he has Alex, too. That counts for something. Apart from the obvious… whatever between them, Alex has decided to pull Zeb into his project of rehabilitating the Ugly Bastard Hell Ship into something actually decent.

“I can’t believe ya took apart the entire hyperdrive,” he grumbles good-naturedly, half-buried in the gaping mechanical wound where the hyperdrive used to be.

“It has booby traps in it,” replies Alex from his place out on the hangar floor surrounded by hyperdrive parts. “The Red Stripe seems to have found it amusing to strand the ship in space after a certain number of jumps.”

Zeb snorts and pulls out a handful of frayed and probably useless wiring. “Ya sure there aren’t any more in here?”

“Erm -” Alex clears his throat. “I’m nearly certain.”

“If I get shot, I’ll come back as a ghost an’ give ya a hauntin’ ya won’t forget in a hurry.”

“You’re already a Spectre,” retorts Alex in such a serious, put-upon tone that Zeb doesn’t realise he’s actually made a gods-damned pun for almost a minute.

“Oh my gods,” he groans, when he finally gets it. “That settles it. If the Red Stripe’s pranks don’t kill me, yer terrible jokes will. When I’m dead, I’ll come back an’ tell Hera it was your fault.”

Alex sighs; Zeb can nearly feel him rolling his eyes. “It is not my fault that the Red Stripe has a sick sense of humour.”

“Hey, that’s an idea for the ship name.” Zeb takes the magnaspanner out from behind his ear and begins fiddling with a small panel. “The Sick Sense of Humour.”

“Because of that old friend of yours?”

Zeb grins. “Nah, cause the whole ship looks like a joke.”

“Zeb.” It’s still strange to hear Alex use his name like that, fond and intimate in a way that Garazeb could never be. Alex’s name falls easily off Zeb’s own tongue – it suits him much better than Kallus – but that rare Zeb gives him a rush of warmth that has his ears and heart aflutter. “She won’t be a joke once we’ve done with her, I’m sure of it.”

“Awright, awright…” Zeb opens the panel and finds what he’s looking for: a small electronic circuit board. It’s in a bad way, all right: it definitely doesn’t match the repair manual holo. He switches to a screwdriver and begins prying it loose. “How’d ya even figure out there was traps in here, anyway?”

“You think I’d fly her without at least running a few diagnostics and readings?” There is a brief sound of hammering. “One must be prepared for every possibility.”

“Who’s Wan?”

Alex hesitates. “Is that a serious question?”

“Course not.” Zeb grins at the two frayed wires in his hand. “What, ya can’t see inside my head an’ figure out my meanin’ like ya usually do?”

“I don’t look into anyone’s head,” replies Alex, his tone factual rather than offended. “That’s a Force ability, and I am intelligent and talented enough in my own right without the need for mystical powers as a crutch.”

“Hah,” snorts Zeb, “yer right, but don’t let Ezra hear ya say – oh.”

Kriff.

Alex’s soft footsteps make their way over to Zeb; his hand comes to rest on the part of Zeb’s leg that still hangs out of the open wound in the ship, just below his knee. “What do you need?

Zeb closes his eyes tight, just for a moment. “Just… gimme a minute.” He feels out with his foot to nudge Alex gently back towards his junk pile. “Go on.”

“If you’re sure.” The footsteps retreat again, though not too far, and soon enough Zeb can hear the repetitive metallic clatter that is Alex repairing – or maybe deconstructing – the hyperdrive. For a few minutes, that is all there is; Zeb composes himself slowly, allowing himself to be comforted by Alex’s presence until he can speak again without his voice shaking.

“Got any ideas for what colour to paint her?” he asks quietly. “I mean, yer definitely not gonna want ta keep those red stripes.”

“I’ve no idea.” There is a clatter. “Blast. I doubt the Rebellion has many ship painting supplies.”

“’Bine can send us some. Ask her when she calls next, she’ll be thrilled ta help with an art project.” She’ll definitely have a few ideas on how to pretty up this absolute mess of a ship…

It takes a whole two weeks to return the ship to working order, a week after that to sand off all the red stripes and clean the red powder and blaster marks off the surfaces inside, and another day to paint the entire thing from bow to stern in the colours Sabine chose: a soft, golden yellow for the top half and a dark lavender for the underbelly.

But it’s done, at last, and Alex and Zeb step back and stare in wonder at the Unnamed Ship.

"She's beautiful," remarks Alex. "A lot prettier than when we got her."

"Ya can say that again." Zeb nudges him. "Thought of any names for her yet?"

Alex tilts his head one way, and then the other. "I thought something with Hope in it would suit her. Much better than Resistance."

"A New Hope?"

"Hmm. It doesn't have quite the... sparkle that I'm after."

Zeb raises his eyebrows. "Sparkle, eh?” He pulls out a datapad and starts looking up ideas. “Twinkle? Glitter? Oh, here’s a good one, glimmer.”

"Zeb, you're a genius," grins Alex. "The Glimmer of Hope. I rather like the sound of that." And then: “Erm… what is that in Lasat?”

“Lasat?” Zeb raises his eyebrows. “I guess it’d be the Ratyahn Kotas.”

Alex smiles. “That’s a lovely name… if you don’t mind?”

“’S a good name fer yer ship,” Zeb agrees proudly.

“Our ship,” Alex murmurs, and slips his hand into Zeb’s. “If… If you’d like.”

Oh. Zeb’s ears flutter.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers. When did he get so mushy? “I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

"Dear Seni Senator Organa

We are doing a project in class were where we rite write to a Senator about something you are doing that is cool. I herd heard that you are trying to make droid rites rights better. Is this true? Are you going to make new laws so that droids are the same as senchi sentian sentients?

My Mother and Father work with a lot of droids, so I think a law like that could help them a lot. I think droids are really cool and they shud should have rites rights like other beings. Do you like droids, too?

From,

Alex K, age 10

Fantastic work! I'm sure Senator Organa will reply if he has time. I noticed you put your name as Alex – is that the name you'd like to be called? See me after class and we can talk about it!

- Mrs Etone"

“Kallus, are you free?” Draven asks. “Not going on any missions with the Spectres any time soon?”

Alex looks up from his work. “I’m free, sir. Why? Do you have a job for me to do?”

“Intel collection,” Draven nods. “This one’ll be a fairly easy mission, but one that absolutely requires a droid. Our contact was very insistent on that. So…” He presses a button, and the door opens to let in Dee-Four, looking as shiny and silver as ever. “Here.”

“Oh, hello, old friend,” smiles Alex. “How have you been keeping?”

Dee-Four bows their head. “Very well, Master Kallus, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

Alex shrugs. “Not too bad, but there’ve been quite a few ups and downs since we saw each other last, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” interrupts Draven, “I didn’t bring you here to gossip.” He hands Alex a datapad. “Here’s all the information you need about our contact. You will bring Dee-Four, meet up with the informant, and receive the information. In and out. Clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Well, Dee-Four,” he smiles, “how does it feel to have a chauffeur?”

Dee-Four, following jerkily behind him as the two of them search the Z-Loq marketplace for their informant, raises their hand. “I presume that is a joke, Master Kallus. I am not nearly important enough to have anyone fly me around.”

“Nonsense,” replies Alex. He’s in a ridiculously good mood today. Last night he and Zeb slept in the same bed for the first time, and it’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in years. Zeb is just so warm and comforting, now that Alex is learning to let go of his wound-up tension; waking up is his arms was heavenly. “Isn’t that what this mission is?”

“No, Master Kallus.” Dee-Four makes a noise as if to clear their throat. “The mission is for you to contact our informant and receive the information from her.”

Alex rolls his eyes good-naturedly and nods ahead and to his right. “Well, we may just be in luck there. Look carefully.”

“I see her, Master Kallus.”

“Let’s loop back around.” He adjusts his jacket in such a way that their informant can read the agreed-upon hand-signals: we see you, no one is following us, and one that signifies his role as a Fulcrum. As he skirts the outside of the room behind her, pretending to admire the drinks and decorations on display, he sees her tug on her hood. All clear.

At last, the two of them approach their informant: she is sitting alone at a table, sipping something small and likely non-alcoholic.

“Lony Coleema?”

“Please sit, Fulcrum,” she replies in a soothing, almost mechanical voice. “And your friend, too.”

Dee-Four bows their head. “I am Dee-Four, Mistress Coleema.”

“Sister, Dee-Four.”

Alex clears his throat gently. “I understand you have information to share.”

“Indeed.” Coleema pulls down her hood. “The Empire has developed new long-range detection technology as well as improved attack capabilities. I will share the technical information directly into friend Dee-Four’s memory systems.”

Dee-Four startles. Now that is interesting. Alex watches as she takes Dee-Four’s hand: the thin, lightning-bolt implants in her head glow pink for a moment, and there is a garbled noise like scrambled Binary. Dee-Four’s eyes, in response, glow the same gentle pink.

“I am receiving the data, Mistress – Sister Coleema,” Dee-Four murmurs. “It is like a soothing voice in my head.”

Coleema lets go of their hand and stands. “Good. It is done. I think we must depart.”

“The Alliance is in your debt,” replies Alex. He gets up and pulls out a transponder for her. “Please, take this. With this, we should be able to find you anywhere, should you need us.”

“Be safe,” adds Dee-Four. “Farewell, Sister Coleema.”

The flight home is very quiet, thoughtful; about halfway through hyperspace, Dee-Four pipes up. “I believe that is the first time I have ever been so vital to a mission.”

Alex looks over at them. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Not a lot of sentients understand the importance of droids.”

They make something like a hmm noise. “How do you think Intelligence will access the information, now it is in my memory banks?”

“Well, aren’t you going to tell them?”

Dee-Four tips their head. “I am a little concerned that Master Draven will not think of such gentle methods. He does not seem to hold me in much regard.”

Alex frowns. “I’ll try to make sure that doesn’t happen, Dee-Four. You are perfectly capable of communicating what you have learned without resorting to an invasion of your privacy.”

“Thank you, Master Kallus.” They touch their head gently. “It is a very strange sensation, I must admit. I cannot quite -”

A light on Alex’s comm begins to flash suddenly: the transponder has been activated. That was fast. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It looks like our friend is in trouble…”

When they do pick her and her new droid friend up, Alex at first thinks she is meditating: that posture, the closed eyes, all of it seems like something Kanan or Ezra would do – would have done, rather. Yet none of them can rouse her, and eventually he and RoRo have to carefully carry her sleeping form onto the Glimmer before the bounty hunters show up – or, worse, the Empire.

She stays like that for rather longer than should be normal, cross-legged, back ramrod straight, and snoring slightly: occasionally, her implants glow and click. But at long last, she gasps suddenly, and her eyes snap open.

“Welcome back,” says Dee-Four, smoothly.

“I’ve never seen anyone sleep cross-legged before,” Alex remarks. “It’s quite unsettling.”

She stares around her. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

Dee-Four tips their head. “You are on the Glimmer of Hope. We found you like this on a very unpleasant planet.”

“Your friend here activated the transponder,” agrees Alex.

“It is good to see you, Mistress Lony.” RoRo is a very friendly droid; ancient, perhaps, but unerringly helpful and no less functional for his age. With a bit of a scrub to get rid of the rust, and perhaps a few small upgrades here or here, he’d make a good helper for the Rebellion – if he chose.

She shakes her head and smiles. “Just Lony, Roro. My friends, I think I should go home…”

It strikes him later that she only ever conversed with them in Binary.

Chapter Text

<The following communique is classified and may only be accessed by persons with a rank of CMNDR and above.>

UNIT 3005-B-52 are ordered to active duty for the period shown. On completion of this period, they will return to their previous station.

DURATION: 1 Standard year plus allowable travel time

REPORT TO: Battle Station Command, GM W Tarkin

LOCATION: Project Stardust, coordinates [REDACTED]. NVGTR will be assigned to assist with travel.

<Communique ends.>

It’s been a while since Zeb has had any weird dreams like this. This time, he is an X-wing pilot, flying between what look like slightly curved grey buildings: there are TIE fighters on his tail, and his companions are each engaged in dogfights. He looks ahead of him, at the narrow gap he’s aiming for, and – feel the Force – presses the trigger with Human hands.

Before he can figure out what, exactly, he just shot, the dream shifts around him, and he is in a dark chamber with the Emperor and kriffing Darth Vader. It must be some sort of Star Destroyer, but he’s never seen one of those with a viewport this large. Or are they on a planet? He can feel thousands, perhaps millions of souls in places no souls should be on a standard Star Destroyer, stretching out behind and under and over and around him.

“Join me,” says the Emperor, and Zeb already knows what his answer will be.

The scene shifts again, before he has a chance to get his bearings properly. He stands alone on a broad, white plain: machines that might be much larger AT-ATs with better armour bear down on him, kicking up white-red dust. He’s ready. This will be his last stand, of that he is certain: the illusion he’s keeping up is exhausting, and his body is already struggling to keep itself together without his input.

The machines fire on him. This is the easy part, deflecting each shot as it comes: he knows they can’t hurt him in any case, but he’s always been a bit of a showman. All he has to do, really, is stop these Empire scum – Empire? Or are they someone else? - from getting to his Padawan.

The hard part comes in the form of the Boy whose face is, for the moment, obscured from view, blurry and ever-shifting. Zeb feels his own failure acutely in this vessel of the Force, and his hands begin to shake. But he will trust in the Force, which projects the Boy’s conflict, the little spark of goodness within him, as clearly as if the Boy had said it out loud.

He raises his lightsaber – his bo-rifle – no, what? He counts the fingers on his hand: one, two, three, four, three, four, three. Purple bleeds in over the pale hairless skin, and then retreats again. One hand flickers between mechanical and organic in a steady pulse. What the -?

The Boy says a name, garbled. Or is it simply Master? The Presence behind him shifts between Padawan and – another thing, something that Zeb can’t quite get a hold on. Suddenly he gets the strange, uncomfortable feeling that Alex is involved in this somehow. The Fulcrum. The tipping point.

The Boy ignites his angry, bleeding lightsaber, and takes the first swing.

“I can’t talk right now,” Alex tells him, barely looking up from his datapad. His lips pull together, thin and tense. Around them, the other Intel agents bustle around, murmuring in low voices. “We have… a situation going on with another Fulcrum.”

“He shouldn’t even be in here,” adds Draven. “This is highly sensitive stuff. Go on, Orrelios, out.”

“Awright, awright, I’m goin’…” Zeb closes the door behind him and sets down to wait. He’s waited all day to try and hash out the weirdness of his dream with Alex (not Hera – he loves her dearly, but she will definitely stress over this, and stress is bad for the baby), he can wait a bit longer. It’s not like it’s completely urgent. It’s just a dream. He could be doing all sorts of useful things instead of waiting around here – he could go back to Security, maybe, or see if he can help out in the ship hangar.

Nevertheless, he stays, until at last Alex spills out amidst a group of fellow Intelligence agents and makes a bee-line for Zeb.

“So what’s goin’ on?” asks Zeb. “Or ain’t ya s’posed to tell me?”

Alex sighs. “Well, you’ll probably find out eventually either way. It seems the Empire has carried out an attack on Jedha.” He looks away. “Gerrera is dead. At least… according to the other Fulcrum. Along with most of the Partisans.”

“Oh.” There is a moment of pause while Zeb thinks carefully about what this means. “That Lasat mercenary, too, then.”

“Most likely.” Alex hugs himself. “I don’t know how to feel about it. Perhaps it’s better this way. Revenge, after everything, would be…”

Zeb pulls Alex in, gently, and holds him close. “It ain’t the way, Alex.”

“No. It isn’t.” He rests his head against Zeb’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away. A moment later, he nods towards the hanger and begins to walk: Zeb follows along.

“So,” Zeb tries, “this other Fulcrum…”

“Fulcrums aren’t meant to meet each other, in general, or even know each other’s names,” murmurs Alex. “Except for recruitment, and even then… So I have no idea who it is out there.”

“Right.” There is a pause, long enough for them to reach the Glimmer; Alex stares at it morosely.

“I know what the Empire was doing on Geonosis.”

Zeb frowns down at him. “Go on.”

Alex takes a deep breath. “I started to see the pieces when I was first asking myself those questions you brought up with me. I saw something big that they were covering up. But I was never quite sure what, exactly, was going on. You hear rumours. Some sort of base, or battle station, or a special kind of Star Destroyer. Nothing ever confirmed. It’s well covered up. The supply lines are so obscure as to be nearly impossible to find, but if you look hard enough, really look…”

“Okay…” prompts Zeb. He’s not sure where this is going, only that he’s sure he won’t like it. “And?”

“It’s worse than I could have ever imagined, Zeb,” Alex replies quietly. “A weapon on the scale the other Fulcrum is suggesting… it could decimate entire planets. It obliterated Jedha City and everything around it.”

Zeb stares ahead of him. “Karabast.”

“Yes. My thoughts exactly.”

“What can we even do about -” He shakes his head.

Alex closes his eyes. “I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do.”

Zeb looks up at the Glimmer again. “There’s always somethin’ we can do.”

"Let’s hope so." Alex rubs his temple. "Anyway. You came to see me about something. What was it?"

Zeb opens his mouth, and then closes it.

"Nothin' important," he replies, and tucks a loose lock of Alex’s hair behind his ear. "Just wanted to see ya, I guess."

Alex interlaces his fingers with Zeb’s and rolls his eyes fondly. "Zeb, you see me nearly every day."

"I know." He nods in the direction of their favourite sparring spot. "Spar?"

"Yes, let's. I'll get my electrostaff."

Chapter Text

“It has always been difficult to live up to my parents’ heroism. My father sacrificed himself to save the whole planet of Lothal and my mother, well, I don’t think there’s been a major battle in the last 40 years or so that she hasn’t fought in apart from Yavin. She and my uncles often tell the story of the battle of Scarif, where I apparently decided to make my appearance about a month early, just after a test of the first Death Star. In chapter 2, “My Mother Hera”, I’ll tell the story myself.

It’s not just my parents, either. My least famous family member growing up was my grandfather, Cham, who while babysitting me often told stories of his time on Ryloth in the Clone Wars with my late grandmother Eleni. I learnt a fair few more Rhyl swearwords from him than my mother would approve of…”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Introduction”, Family Heroism: A Memoir

“Hera, no.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Zeb. I’ve been training this squadron and accompanying them on missions for months, I’m not going to give up now.”

“Heraa.”

Hera folds her arms over her protruding belly. “Not to pull rank, but I am a General. I have to go out there and lead my troops.”

“They’re smart, they’ll manage without ya. The Empire’s got a kriffing super-weapon, Hera.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m going.”

“Hera, for kark’s sake.” Zeb throws his hands in the air. “Fine. But we absolutely bring a kriffing medic with us, or I’ll lock ya in yer room ‘til the battle’s over.”

Hera lifts her chin in that very Hera way she has. “Fine.”

Just at that moment, Alex jogs up to them. “I came as soon as I could. What’s the plan?”

“You’re not going on the Glimmer?” asks Hera, raising her eyebrow.

“Zeb said the Ghost might need more manpower.” He looks between her and Zeb. “I’m guessing you’re handing the Ghost over to Zeb?”

“The Ghost will remain in my command, thank you very much.” Hera glares at him. “As such, I will be taking her to Scarif. You can either come or not. Your choice.”

Alex looks her up and down. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“She is,” sighs Zeb. “We’ve come to an agreement.” He pulls out his comm. “Rex, do us a favour and bring someone with ya from Medical. Hera’s flyin’ the Ghost.”

“I karking knew it,” groans Rex over the comm. “On my way, General.”

“Right,” frowns Hera, when the proximity alarm begins to flash. “We’re coming out of hyperspace. Zeb and Rex, to the turrets. Alex, in the cockpit with me. Chopper, you know what to do.”

“And?” prompts Zeb, with an unsubtle nod towards Tik. They wave brightly at her: Rodians lay eggs, but Tik apparently has a lot of experience with mammal pregnancy. There’s always a chance that they won’t need to use that knowledge, but… well, better safe than sorry.

Hera rolls her eyes. “Yes, Tik, you stay in the cockpit too.” And then: “Well? We don’t have all day!”

Zeb doesn’t need telling twice. Even if he does think this is a really, really terrible idea, all he can do now is make sure Hera doesn’t die in action.

He won’t really remember the first half of the battle later on. If pressed, he might say something about that ring closing and killing some of the pilots, but the rest is a blur of aim-shoot-kaboom, of Hera’s more creative flying, of death and destruction all around him.

In the second half of the battle, two things happen more or less at the same time: a huge fuckoff grey thing appears in the skies above Scarif, and Hera yells suddenly in pain.

“Hera?”

“I’m fine, Zeb. Focus!” She gasps a little. “More to the point, is that…”

“That’s the Death Star, yes,” replies Alex quietly. “It’s a lot bigger than I expected.”

Rex snorts. “That’s what she said.”

“Blyaaa-!” shouts Alex. That can’t be good. That sounds like a swear word, and Alex hardly ever really swears in Basic, let alone in any other language. “Nam pizdets!”

“Hey, my joke wasn’t that ba-”

“I think Hera’s water just broke,” says Alex, sounding panicked.

“Yep,” agrees Tik, “looks like it.”

“What?” Zeb makes to leave the turret. “Karabast, that’s it, I’m comin’ down.”

But Hera has always been a stubborn, hard-headed idiot. “Zeb, you stay in that turret, that is an order! We are in the middle of a battle!”

“This a bad time ta say I told ya so?” replies Zeb. Kriffing Hera and her kriffing orders. There are still TIEs out there to shoot, but that’s because they’re in the middle of a battle. “Because I kriffin’ told ya so!”

Hera grunts. “Zeb, shut the kriff up and start shooting or I will space you in a heartbeat.”

Outside, a TIE comes much too close for comfort; Zeb grits his teeth and shoots it down. For kark’s sake, this is a really bad idea. He wouldn’t have to stay here if they were on Yavin or, hells, even just in hyperspace.

“Hera Syndulla, I swear, ya turn this ship around and get back to base this instant -”

Tik clears their throat. “As your medical provider, I have to agree with Zeb. If you get into hyperspace, we’ll be safe enough for me to do my job.”

“Not until we finish this battle!” replies Hera.

Zeb, just finishing off a trio of enemy fighters, groans. “You can’t just put it off, Hera!”

“I can and I will.”

“Right.” Tik sounds annoyed, but not overly worried: that’s probably a good sign. “I’ll just start preparing things for when we do finish the battle and get back into hyperspace, then. Hera, can you spare Alex so he can help me?”

A moment: at last, Hera relents. “Fine.”

“Thank you. I may need some assistance later, too,” adds Tik. “Do any of you boys have any experience with childbirth?”

“Blorp-whee!”

“Yeah, nah, Lasats do things a lot differently,” says Zeb.

“I purposefully sterilised myself to avoid this kind of situation,” says Alex.

“I’m a clone,” says Rex.

Tik sighs. “Right. Fan-kriffing-tastic.”

Hera makes a startled noise. “Wait, Alex, did you really -”

“Not now, Hera!”

Hera groans over the comms, loud enough to make Zeb wince. “Merde. Alright, not now.”

“Ah,” says Tik calmly. “All right. Alex and I are just getting some towels and hot water, Hera, okay? I’ve got everything I need prepared. Can you tell me how long you’ve been having contractions, and how far they are apart?”

“...I haven’t been keeping track.”

“Of course you haven’t. Why am I not surprised.” At least Tik is relaxed enough to be sarcastic; none of the rest of them are. “You really pick your time and place, don’t you, General? In the middle of a battle with three completely useless men – no offence, boys.”

“Chop-whop,” says Chopper, which probably means something along the lines of yes offence.

Hera grunts. “If Kanan was here -”

“Kanan woulda been more useless than all three of us put together an’ ya know it,” replies Zeb bluntly. “’Member that time he fainted?”

There is a sudden stony silence over the comms, and Zeb grimaces. That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it? Hera hasn’t wanted to acknowledge any view of Kanan that isn’t the Noble Jedi Hero, and that memory definitely doesn’t capture the magic that she chooses to see.

“Maybe you should tell that story, Zeb,” says Tik’s voice.

“What, now?”

“Or any story that’s funny, really,” they reply. “It might help her relax. Laughter is the best medicine.”

“Uhh… okay.” Zeb takes a deep breath. “It was back afore we joined the Alliance, ‘member, Hera? We did that mission to rescue those Force-sensitive kits, an’ Ezra got curious ‘bout where babies come from.”

“I remember,” chuckles Hera, though Zeb can tell she’s in pain. “You and Kanan didn’t know anything.”

“Not surprised,” remarks Rex. “The Jedi Order were never that big on sex ed.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m a -” Zeb snaps his fingers – “um, ah, a diff’rent type a mammal. I didn’t realise you lot were all… ugh, what’s it called, begins with P. Anyway.” He shakes his head. “You an’ Sabine decided to give us all the Talk, and when it came to how birth happens he just fell over, ‘member?”

Hera snorts. “He was as white as a sheet. Even Ezra took it better.”

“Yeah,” replies Zeb. “Tha’s right. An’ then I gave ya all the Lasat Talk, an’ it was a lot more fun.”

“Hhhhaaafuck,” gasps Hera. “It sounds so nice and easy… just letting them climb into your pouch…”

Zeb raises his eyebrows. “Well, ain’t gonna be my pouch specific’lly, but yeah. Pouches in gen’ral.”

“Is it true you have two -” Hera adds, but coincidentally Zeb finds a flock of TIE fighters to shoot at and doesn’t hear the rest of the question.

“That’s about three minutes,” Tik says, completely calm. “Well done. Alex, I may ask you to take over the controls and try to get us out of here.”

“Don’t you dare.” The Ghost arcs into a perfectly executed spin: it’s only because of Zeb’s long, long experience with Hera’s flying that’s he’s able to roll with it, shooting the TIEs that appear in his vision as Scarif goes from below them to above and back again. “We’re so close to success, and no one can do this but me!”

Tik makes a despairing noise. “No one but you can deliver your baby either!”

“Hey,” says Zeb, suddenly, “is anyone else seeing that weird green light…?”

Below them, the surface of Scarif erupts with a blast of rock and dust: in between taking pot-shots at TIEs, Zeb stares in horror at the destruction that quickly engulfs the surface, at the shock waves that pulse over its whole visible hemisphere, at the second explosion that flashes in a terribly beautiful bright light.

“Ye gods,” murmurs Alex. “I think the extraction team’s still down there.”

“Hnnk,” says Hera.

The inter-ship comm crackles. “This is General Raddus, giving the order to retreat. We have the plans. We are about to jump to hyperspace.”

“Finally,” say Zeb, Rex, and Alex, in unison. The Ghost finds her opening, and jumps.

Zeb gets back to the cockpit in time to hold one of Hera’s hands as the contractions worsen. Jacen Syndulla is born not too long after the battle ends officially, brought screaming into the Galaxy at its darkest hour, in the middle of hyperspace, completely oblivious to the chaos he’s caused by his arrival or the destruction that overshadowed his birth.

...Zeb has to admit he’s kind of a cute little tooka.

Chapter Text

“Father,

I’m writing to let you know that your grandson Jacen was born this Centaxday. We are both healthy and happy, and everyone is being very kind taking care of us. I’ve attached a holophoto of us both that Chopper took so you can see. I hope I’ll be able to bring him to meet you soon, as well. For now, I am taking some time off to be with him.

I hope you are well and that you are making progress in your fight to free Ryloth.

From,

Hera.

PS. Zeb says hello.”

Alex has never, ever looked after a baby before. He’s an only child, and most of his friends were too. Then once he enrolled in the Academy, the Republic that became the Empire occupied all of his time, and there were definitely no children around then. And for years after that, he was an unflinchingly loyal Imperial – “married to the Empire”, as he’s heard people call it.

Jacen Syndulla, then, is absolutely terrifying: a tiny, squalling, wriggling thing that can’t be reasoned with nor fought nor decoded like most of the other things in Alex’s life. If this were anyone else’s baby, he could safely ignore it and move on with his life. But he’s Hera’s, which means that both Zeb and Rex take shifts helping Hera with him, and Alex wants to help too, if he can. Hera is his friend, after all, and he doesn’t want to be the stuck-up Imperial who refuses to change a nappy.

It’s not so much a learning curve as a learning cliff. From the first time he ever held Jacen (on the Ghost after his birth: Jacen got passed around between them so that Zeb and Rex could coo over him and Alex could panic internally) to, yes, the changing and burping – it is all completely new, completely strange, and completely nerve-wracking.

On the other hand, between the four of them, they make a pretty decent team. When one of them needs to rest, there’s always another one to take over; when any of them need help, they can each always rely on the others. It’s… comforting, in the way only a real family could be.

(All three of them – him, Zeb, and Rex – have taken time off. The Rebellion can manage without them for a bit, even as the search for the Death Star plans intensifies. It seems to run perfectly well without Hera, after all, and she’s a General.)

Slowly, then, surely, Alex begins to get the hang of things. He’s still a little jumpy when left alone with Jacen – why anyone would trust him with a child, let alone this lot, he still has no idea – but he’s getting better. In his spare waking moments he reads parenting holos, determined not to let the deluge of information daunt him.

And it’s all worth it for the first time Jacen falls asleep in his arms – it’s been a struggle, what with Jacen’s fussiness and Alex’s own nervousness, but today at last it works. Slowly, carefully, Alex allows himself to sit, to relax underneath Jacen’s small, warm body. Soon enough, one of the others will wake up, or Jacen will, and this peace will be disturbed, but for now it’s quiet and temperate on the Ghost, and the only sounds are the distant animal nightlife of Yavin IV.

That, his own tiredness, and Jacen’s soft breathing gradually lulls Alex into a dreamless peaceful sleep.

He surfaces into vague wakefulness an indeterminate amount of time later, warm and content: something soft covers himself and Jacen, and there is a comforting weight by his side that wasn’t there before. Careful fingers brush softly through his hair and tuck the loose strands behind his ear: Alex leans into it instinctively, yearning for that closeness.

The hand continues to trace through the fall of his hair, feather-light. A large palm flows in over his forehead and down around the harsher angles of his chin. There is a brief moment when it feels as though the hand will retreat and leave Alex bereft: Alex brings his own free hand up, interlaces his four fingers with the three that hesitate at his beard, and presses the hand against his face once more.

“Hey,” murmurs Zeb.

“Hello,” says Alex, falling in love all over again.

Since Lothal, his love for Zeb – for that is what it is, a deep and aching love beyond his power to express – has simmered quietly in the background. It has never been the best time to think about it. Now, it flames again into brightness, too loud to try and ignore. He wants this. More than anything he wants this, to go through life together, perhaps even to – dear gods, he’s really got it bad, as Rex would say – raise a family with him.

It’s… unexpected, this feeling. But not unwelcome. Long ago, he sacrificed his desires, his feelings, his personhood to the Empire: now at last they’re returning to him, regrowing in hidden nooks and crannies of his soul, not covering over but feeding from the rotten abscesses of his worst Imperial instincts like flowers in compost.

Does he deserve to have these feelings? Will he ever be good enough? Perhaps not. Perhaps no one deserves to feel this way. But he feels nonetheless.

Alex opens his mouth and is about to say something more – though what, exactly, he’s not sure – when Jacen begins to grizzle. He sighs.

“I’ll take ‘im,” rumbles Zeb. “Get some sleep.”

“Mm,” agrees Alex, without opening his eyes. “Thank you.”

Another time. Soon. Definitely some time.

Chapter Text

<WANTED: For mass murder, war crimes, high treason, acts of terrorism, destruction of Imperial property, theft of classified documents, conspiracy against the Empire, etc. ALL INFORMATION ON THESE INDIVIDUALS WILL BE REWARDED!

PRINCESS LEIA ORGANA of ALDERAAN. Pale-skinned Human female. Known Rebel sympathiser. REWARD: 1 million credits

LUKE SKYWALKER. Pale-skinned Human male. Responsible for destruction of highly populated Imperial base and the deaths of millions of loyal Imperial soldiers. REWARD: 1 million credits

HAN SOLO. Pale-skinned Human male. Smuggler, accessory to above crimes, and Enemy of the Empire. REWARD: 500 thousand credits

CHEWBACCA: Brown-furred Wookie male. Smuggler and accomplice. REWARD: 300 thousand credits

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!>

Alderaan is dead. After what happened on Scarif, Zeb shouldn’t really be surprised and yet – the whole kriffing planet is gone. Rebellion scouts have picked up a few scattered groups of refugees, and there are some Alderaanians out in the wider galaxy, lost without a home to go back to, but the rest is… well. They don’t call it Project Stardust for nothing. There’s a new asteroid field where it once was that is beginning to spread, slowly, through the system, and that’s it.

It is, unquestionably, worse than Lasan. At least Lasan is still there. At least the Lasats got the chance to fight. Alderaan did not. From what he hears, there wasn’t even any kind of warning. It just turned on, with a flicker of green, and obliterated everything. There’s no way to even comprehend that kind of destruction.

The whole Rebel Base is quiet for days in the wake of the catastrophe. Not even seeing Jacen gets people out of their gloom, and he’s usually a guaranteed mood-improver, bless him.

And that, during their darkest hour, is when a solution arrives in the form of the Millennium Falcon – or, more specifically, the people on board. Leia glides down the ramp every bit a true Princess, head held high despite the tragedy she’s endured, followed by an R2-unit, a protocol droid, two scruffy looking Humans, and a handsome Wookie that nods at Zeb when their eyes meet.

“Damn,” grumbles Hera, as the Princess and her retinue disappear into the depths of Command. “I’m going to miss something really good, aren’t I?”

“Hera,” warns Zeb.

She pats Jacen, resting in a sling against her breast. “I know, I know.”

“I can’t take ya anywhere,” Zeb grumbles good naturedly. “The slightest hint of a flyin’ mission and ya’ll zoom off.”

She flutters her eyelashes at him teasingly. “You love me really.”

“Yer an annoyin’ so-an’-so. Course I love ya.”

The Attention all Pilots signal sounds, and several of the gathered bystanders curious about the Princess head inside; Zeb folds his arms and stares at Hera, daring her to answer the call. She resists for a lot longer than he’s expecting her to, but at last:

“Can we at least go and see what’s going on?”

“Fine.” He holds a finger in front of her face. “But if ya so much as suggest goin’ on whatever mission they’re plannin’, I’m gonna tell Alex an’ Rex on ya.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She pouts, but Zeb knows she won’t stand up to either of them: Alex has a habit of being annoyingly logical about everything, and Rex will make that disapproving face that always brings people to their senses. So he relents, and the two of them slip into the back of the war room just as Dodonna begins to explain the plan.

…Yeah, Zeb is definitely not letting Hera go on this one. They’ll be taking the Ghost and the Glimmer, along with as many non-essential people as will fit, and getting the hell off this planet before they meet the same fate as the entirety of Alderaan. The fighter pilots she trained will be fine on their own. Probably.

(There’s something familiar about what Dodonna is suggesting, but Zeb can’t for the life of him figure out what it is. Something about the way the X-wings are flying down that channel… what is that? Kriff, all this deja vu is giving him a headache.)

When everyone is cleared to come back to base, when the ragged remains of the X-Wing squadrons return, a new name crops up in the rumours. Luke Skywalker. The completely untrained scruffy looking farm boy who, apparently, outflew Darth Vader himself and blew up the kriffing Death Star practically on his own. Just like that. They’re saying he’s secretly a Mandalorian, that he’s that guy Kenobi’s love-child, that he’s a clone of this or that famous figure from the Republic. The very name Skywalker has people murmuring about the famous General from the Clone Wars.

(Rex is acting shifty about it, but he won’t say why.)

“Do you think he…” Alex wiggles his fingers, the near-Galactic sign for the Force. “You know.”

“Could be,” says Hera thoughtfully. It’s just after dinner: outside, people are beginning to celebrate. Rex is already out drinking, and Zeb is considering dragging Alex out to join him once Hera and Jacen have been put to bed. The kriffing Death Star just got destroyed, after all, and if that’s not worth a drink he doesn’t know what is.

Zeb raises his eyebrow at her. “So… ya gonna add him ta yer team?”

“Of course.” She cracks her knuckles. “Oh, it’s going to be interesting seeing what he can do. I’ll have to ask for his flight recorder. As soon as I get off leave…”

“I’m sure he’s not the only one you’ll be training,” nods Alex. “After a catastrophe like Alderaan, and with a fair few Imperial leaders gone, people will be lining up to join the Rebellion. I’ll need to put some feelers out in the Empire, I’m sure there are more than a few doubting their allegiance at the moment…” He pulls out his datapad and begins typing.

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Take a day off. They’ll still be there in the mornin’.”

“Yes, perhaps you’re right…” He puts it away again and looks up. “Well, this Skywalker boy will no doubt have a great future in the Rebellion. I will watch his career with great interest…”

Chapter Text

“Of the fifteen subspecies of so-called snow lizards found on the surface – tauntauns, as they are also known – most have developed fat deposits and fur covering to protect against the freezing temperatures without which, no doubt, their cold blood would be a death sentence. Even so, only the toughest, T. tauntaunus nudar, will venture out at night – and usually not for very long. The rest spend their nights in systems of caves and tunnels hollowed out either from continent-sized glaciers, or from the ground buried beneath them. It seems that tauntauns have learned to dig these holes with their claws to create a shelter for themselves in order to prevent lethargy, hypothermia, and even complete freezing…”

- Kell Tolkani, On the Indigenous Species of Hoth

Hoth is absolutely, miserably, bone-achingly cold, and Alex hates it. The Rebels have been here for almost two years now, and Alex takes as many missions off-planet as he possibly can – if not in the Ghost, then in the Glimmer. When he’s not on a mission, he hunkers down in his assigned snow-cave trying to ignore the pain in his leg that inevitably acts up at below-freezing temperatures.

It would be completely unbearable if not for Zeb. Somehow after the base moved here, without either of them discussing it, Zeb began to spend his nights in Alex’s room, and more and more often since then Alex has gone to him for warmth. There’s still a small part of him that doesn’t want to look vulnerable, that is afraid of admitting any weakness, but it grows smaller every time he huddles into Zeb’s warm, broad chest.

Every now and again, Zeb makes a comment along the lines of just like old times, and chuckles. Alex is quite certain they did not hold each other like this on that moon: he was too cowardly to even tell Zeb his first name, let alone allow himself the comfort and intimacy of a true, relaxed cuddle. Of course, he isn’t complaining, even if he has a hard time believing it. He does ask, sometimes, if Zeb really wants to be here, and always gets a yeah, course I do. And who is he to argue with that?

Zeb does not talk in his sleep like Rex. Instead, if he's content, he purrs; if bad dreams plague him, which they often do, he growls or whimpers. Alex tries to be a comfort, at those times, to stroke Zeb’s head and hold him close, or even to shake him awake if things seem really bad. He understands. He is probably the source of many of Zeb’s worst dreams: if he can do anything at all to ease the horror, he wants to do it.

(Alex has his own nightmares, of course. He has always been a silent dreamer, but somehow Zeb always seems to know when to pull Alex into his arms or say his name to wake him up – no doubt some sort of fear pheromone, smellable only to Zeb’s sensitive nose.)

They still spar whenever they get the opportunity – there's a cave that the Rebels use as a training room, and the exercise always warms Alex up. He’s stopped thinking about beating Zeb so much – although he does win almost half of their matches these days – and allows himself to simply enjoy the back-and-forth, the way Zeb not-so-subtly flirts with him to try and make him falter. In that respect, at least, Alex gives as good as he gets.

And when there's nothing else to do except sit curled up together, wrapped in blankets, Zeb teaches Alex Lasat. He had studied it, a little, after Onderon: mostly words like attack, revenge, hate. Now, he learns I'm sorry and do you need help? and this is my partner Zeb.

(They steer away from words for sensitive topics like parents and siblings; if Zeb speaks of family, he’s usually referring to the Spectres. For Alex’s part, he doesn’t have a lot to say in that regard.)

(He's too much of a coward to ask for I love you. It's too far, too presumptuous: he fears his love will hurt Zeb, somehow. He's already hurt Zeb so much and taken everything from him. It would be monstrous for him to expect Zeb to reciprocate after that.)

"What about your language, Alex?" Zeb asks sleepily one evening.

Alex frowns. "My native language is Basic. You already speak that."

"No, I mean..." Zeb waves his hand vaguely. "Back when Jacen was born, ya said, like, blyat and things like that."

"Oh, that. Russkiy." Alex shrugs. "I only really know swear words. It's… my grandparents on my father's side were from Arkanis. I learned a little of their language, but I never really used it on Coruscant. Most of what I've retained is my grandfather's colourful vocabulary."

Zeb snorts. “My gran used ta be like that. Mouth fouler ‘n a rancor’s ass. Compared ta the filth she used ta spew, karabast is tame and kiddy.”

“You never did tell me what that actually means.”

“’S kinda like ‘kriff’... no, more like ‘blast it’,” replies Zeb easily. “Kinda borin’, ta be honest.”

“It’s not boring.” Alex shuffles round a little so that he can look up at Zeb. “I always like to learn more about you.”

Zeb’s ears flutter; he smiles, bashful. “Um. Yeah. I – I like learning stuff about you, too.”

“Even if it’s awful?”

“Yeah,” replies Zeb, squeezing Alex tight for a moment. “Goes ta show how far you’ve come.”

Alex lays a hand over Zeb’s heart to feel the steady rhythm there. “I still have a lot further to go.”

“An’ I’ll be here with ya.”

“I don’t deserve you, Zeb.”

“Ya say that all the time,” replies Zeb softly, “but I’m still here, ain’t I? Ya can’t get rid of me that easy.”

Alex shakes his head. “I have no intention of getting rid of you. I… you mean a lot to me.”

It’s enough, for now. Perhaps Zeb will understand what he means.

“Yeah,” he replies softly. “You mean a lot ta me, too.”

Chapter Text

“It is said that long ago, our predecessors were able to appear after death. I have long been doubtful of this ability, and yet this shaman assures me that it is entirely possible for a Jedi to learn this power. I have been researching it for myself, in case anything should occur during the course of my travels, and have assembled a few things of note for future reference – for myself, for my Padawan, and for any future generations that happen to stumble across my frankly rather disorganised notes.

There are two ways this shaman claims such a thing might be accomplished: either by refusing the call of the Force as one is dying, or by dying in an act of self-sacrifice. Below, I have detailed my theories on how one might accomplish that first option, if one is not presented with the opportunity to die for another…”

- from the writings of Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Knight of the Republic

It’s not long before the Battle of Hoth that Alex finds himself in a dingy little cantina on Batuu with a new informant, an Arcona called Tobec Tinu.

“…and that’s how I got these records,” finishes Tinu, passing over a small data disc. “Projected troop movements, new supply lines, and a lot of stuff I can’t decode, so it’s probably important. You guys are the experts at this, so…”

Alex nods and slides over the payment. “Thank you. Anything else you have of value, Mr Tinu?”

"Well, as it happens, I used ta work with the Red Stripe," says Tinu. “I’m guessing ya like ta keep track of people like that, yeah? The mercenary, bounty hunter, slave trader types.”

“Oh.” Alex considers this. “Yes, that could be useful. Go on.”

Tinu leans back in his chair. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

"What are they like? What species are they?"

Tinu shrugs. "Dunno. They're paranoid that the Empire's hunting them down, so they keep their rancor helmet on pretty much all the time. They always used to joke that they were half Wookie, half Trandoshan, and half rancor. Personally, I think they’re a Kaleesh. Heard a them? Brutal. Scary Wild Space guys with scary masks.”

“Hm,” nods Alex. “So they won’t give you a straight answer.”

“I don’t think any part of them is straight.”

“Noted.” He clears his throat. "Do you know anything else about them? Age? Attitude to the Rebellion?"

"Mmm…" Tinu tips his head. "I know they were born before the Clone Wars, and that all their family and friends are all either dead or slaves. They don’t give a shit about the Rebellion as long as they can continue doing business.”

“I see.” That could apply to quite a lot of people; Alex strokes his beard. "And what is their business?"

Tinu makes a vague gesture. "This an’ that. Whatever keeps their crew fed and their ship running. Smuggling, mercenary work, scavenging, bounty hunting, slaving, whatever dirty work the Hutts will pay them for."

“So, a pirate.”

“More or less.”

“And…” Alex clears his throat. “Is their voice normally… you know…”

“‘Wike this’?” Tinu sighs. “Yeah, that’s the voice modulator. I don’t know why they do it either.”

How odd. Well, Alex is in no place to judge. “So is that a real rancor’s head they wear?”

Tinu grimaces. “Yup. They killed it their self, apparently, an’ then hollowed the head out an’ pickled it.”

“My word,” says Alex. Perhaps that’s enough of these softening questions for now; he switches tack to something more serious. “Can you tell me whether they are interested in collecting the bounty on any of the Rebel leaders? Princess Leia, for example? She is quite valuable.”

Tinu shakes his head. “They don’t really wanna get mixed up in Empire business. They’re more likely to prank her than kidnap her.”

Alex remembers what the Red Stripe considers a ‘prank’. “…I’ll make sure she’s aware of the danger. Where are they based now?”

Tinu frowns. “Their base is their ship. They might go down to Tatooine sometimes to deal with the Hutts, but really they spend most o’ their time travellin’. They always say they feel safer when the bastards don’t know where they are.” He gives Alex a pointed look. “You guys should follow their example. That secret base ain’t gonna stay secret for very long, you mark my words…”

“Hey, Kallus.” Wedge waves him over and shoves a pile of credits into his hand.

“…What’s going on?”

“You placed that bet on when someone would get attacked by a wampa,” grins Wedge. “Remember? Well, it actually happened. And not just anyone, either. Kriffing Luke.” There’s no need to specify: there may be other Lukes on base, but there’s only one Luke.

“My word,” says Alex. “Is he all right?” That’s probably a stupid question.

“Oh, yeah, he just got outta bacta. Gonna have some wicked scars, though.” Wedge rolls his eyes. “Idiot. I’d kill ‘im if the wampa hadn’t already tried.” And then: “By the way, best get ready. Word in the hanger’s that Rieekan’s gonna sound the evac soon. Empire's on it’s way, apparently.”

Damn. All that good data collected for nothing.

“Understood. Thank you.” Alex nods and heads towards his room for his few belongings. He’s not sure whether Zeb will be coming with him on the Glimmer, or evacuating with Hera on the Ghost, but either way they’ll both have to make their preparations. There’s about a dozen Rebels that Alex will be be responsible for, and each of them will be bringing their assigned cargo: all planned, all fully briefed, all relying on Alex with their lives.

Thank goodness he’s been flying more often since arriving on Hoth. A little practice with what Zeb refers to as creative piloting goes a long way.

By the time the evac alarm sounds, then, Alex is already waiting at the Ghost with a datapad to check off his passengers: four Humans, Tik, Dee-Four, two Twi’leks, three medical droids, an Ithorian, and Zeb.

“You’re not going to fight with Hera?” asks Alex quietly.

“She’s in an X-wing,” grumbles Zeb, “and she won’t let me fly the Ghost. She put Rex in charge of gettin’ it to the rendezvous.”

“Again?” Alex raises an eyebrow. “Well, let’s get on with it, then.” He strides onto his ship, with Zeb following on behind. “Hold on, everybody, this may be a bumpy ride…”

There are already walkers out there by the time the Glimmer gets off the ground, stepping with a slow, inevitable gait towards the Rebel base: Alex wonders vaguely if it’s anyone he used to know at the helm. Perhaps it’s best not to think about it. He does his job instead: avoid the shots that the walkers fire, avoid enemy aircraft, and slip away past the base’s shields and out of the atmosphere.

“Karabast,” groans Zeb. “They brought a whole fleet.”

Indeed, Vader’s fleet hangs above them, dark and foreboding: they’re going to have to fight to get out of here, and some of the Rebel ships are already doing just that.

“You’d better take a laser cannon,” replies Alex grimly. “We’re going in!”

There’s something poetic, he decides, about him weaving through TIEs and Star Destroyer fire with a hold full of Rebels away from a frozen moon. It feels strange to be on the rescuing side of the equation this time, but very rewarding. And if he and Zeb blast a few TIEs out of the sky while they’re at it, well, that’s a bonus.

At last, Alex finds his opening just to one side of a Star Destroyer. He accelerates the Glimmer, hand on the hyperdrive, and speeds past Vader’s fleet and into hyperspace with a smooth manoeuvre that he’s very proud of.

“We’re clear,” he sighs. “We shall have to see who else has made it out of Echo Base.”

“Good riddance ta that freezing shitpile,” replies Zeb, amused. “It was way too cold, wasn’t it?”

Alex is going to miss having the excuse to cuddle. But Hoth really was simply too cold. “On the scale of one to Yavin, I’d give it a two. Easily the worst base we’ve had so far.”

“Right!” Zeb agrees. “I’m pretty sure it was haunted, too.” He makes his voice a little spookier, deliberately playing it up: “I kept seein’ this old guy around who was see-through like a holo…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zeb,” laughs Alex, rolling his eyes. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Chapter Text

<ATTENTION ALL SHIPS – DELTA FLEET. Star Destroyers to rally at the following coordinates in Endor system. Prepare for space battle against REBEL INSURGENTS. Objective: Protect assets of the EMPIRE by defending Project Stardust 2.0; destroy all remaining Rebel cells; prevent further insurgency; protect the Emperor, who will be present on board Project Stardust 2.0. Further orders will be given as and when necessary. Special orders to the following Commanders for ground assault on moon of Endor…>

“Well, this is it, huh?” Hera smiles, as she and Alex head to their ships after the Alliance debrief. They all know what they’ll be doing. Alex has recruited a few extra gunners to the Glimmer for firepower; Hera has Zeb and Chopper on the Ghost; Rex is down on the ground somewhere, deep in the forests. They’d held a little birthday celebration in honour of Ezra earlier. Now, it’s time to defeat the Empire in his name.

“We shall certainly hope so,” replies Alex. “Good luck out there.”

She nods. “You too. And -” Hera gives him a sudden, sharp look. “Learn from my mistakes.”

“...I beg your pardon?”

Hera folds her arms. “I waited for a decade before I told Kanan I loved him, and then he died. Don’t be like me. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

Alex opens his mouth.

“Don’t deny it, Alex, you two are – are really pulling on my lekku!”

“Pulling on your -?”

“It’s painful, Alex! Painful and annoying!” She holds up a single finger: she may be smaller than Alex in every way, but she still somehow manages to be plenty intimidating. “As I was saying. Zeb may be as oblivious as a Stormtrooper with his helmet on backwards -”

“That’s not very fair -”

“- but I’m not.” Hera takes a deep breath. “Look, I love Zeb a lot, and I want him to be happy. And, believe it or not, I want you to be happy too. So get off your stupid ex Imperial behind and do something about it already. Understood?”

Well, since he doesn’t want to risk any more of her wrath… “Loud and clear, General Syndulla.”

In fact, Alex has been doing a little research. It was tricky to find earrings that Zeb might like, and there’s a whole complicated language about the exact placement on the ear, shape, colour, and specific jewels. It’s not like there are exactly many other Lasats around to critique his earring choices, but still. Alex wants to do this right. The least he can do is honour the culture that he helped to destroy.

It was also remarkably difficult to actually get what he wants. The Rebellion doesn’t have many resources at their disposal. Luckily, Sabine was all too willing to conspire with him on this particular matter, and found some excellent earrings on Lothal that came just the other day via messenger droid. He has a sneaking suspicion she might have even made them herself, even though he didn’t commission her.

“Well, anyway,” he adds, before Hera can probe him any more on the subject, “if we can pull this attack off successfully…”

Hera nods. “Like Ezra said on Lothal, we’ve done a lot more with a lot less. Now we have a whole Rebel fleet on our side.”

“It’s rather impressive,” agrees Alex. “How far all of you have come, and all because of him.”

“How far we have all come,” replies Hera, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Haven’t you got it through your head by now? You’re one of us. Like it or not.” She pokes his chest with her free hand. “And I know you like it.”

“One would be foolhardy indeed to argue with you, Hera.” He decides to change the subject: “By the way, how’s young Jacen doing?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He loves staying with his grand-père.” She rolls her eyes fondly. “Honestly, sometimes I think he loves my father more than he loves me. But at least he’s safe on Ryloth.”

Before anyone can say anything else, Chopper nudges the back of Hera’s leg. “Are you meatbags done talking about boring organic emotions, or…?”

“Yes, Chop, I know you want to go fight the Empire,” smiles Hera. “Come on, then. Ready to shoot down some TIEs?”

“Down with the fascist hegemony!” yells Chopper, waving his manipulators in the air. “We have nothing to lose but our chains!”

“Yes, Chopper’s very enthusiastic about that idea,” translates Alex, which is probably a bit of an understatement.

“Eat the Imps!” Chopper agrees.

“...Chopper, you can’t eat, you’re a droid.”

Chopper considers this. “Turn the Imps into droid fuel?”

Alex stares at him for a moment, and: “I suppose that will work.”

“I will slaughter them by the thousands,” adds Chopper. “And when they look into my sensors to beg for mercy, they will see the face of God.”

“I worry about you sometimes.”

Hera raises her eyebrow. “See, this is why I try not to learn too much Binary. I’m afraid I’ll actually understand what he’s saying.”

“She’s pretty good at figuring it out,” whirrs Chopper. “About 40% on average. Anyway, come on, let’s go already!”

Alex and Hera roll their eyes at each other, but it is time to go; at last, they split off towards their separate ships. The Glimmer is already ready for Alex, and his recruits nod at him as he comes aboard.

“Everyone to their stations.” He slips into the pilot’s chair: command returns to him easily, smoothly, and he hears the recruits obeying. Commanding Star Destroyers is all very well, but it doesn’t compare at all to having this kind of trust in his teammates on his own ship – and he’s not even with the people he knows the best, or loves the best.

The hangar doors open slowly. Alex waits for the signal as other ships fly out one by one: the Ghost goes just before he lifts off, into the field of stars. Outside, the second Death Star hangs over Endor like a broken moon, along with more Star Destroyers than even Alex has seen in his entire life.

Alex powers up the engines and flies head first into the abyss.

Chapter Text

“These small, sentient creatures were nearly unheard of in the wider Galaxy prior to the Battle of Endor due to their primitive nature. Few ventured to find them on a moon tucked away in a system in the deep backwaters of the Galaxy. They were, therefore, an ideal species for the Empire to stumble upon while building the second Death Star: too far behind the Empire’s technology, easily passed off as dumb beasts so that the Empire could raze their villages, too cut off from the wider Galaxy to raise a protest.

And yet, somehow, these same creatures aided the Rebel fight to destroy the Empire with aplomb. There are reports of brave Ewoks charging AT-STs with only sticks, or of trapping Stormtroopers with string and rocks. To better understand how these diminutive, helpful creatures went from oppressed slaves to heroes of the Galaxy, I decided to dedicate my research to understanding their psychology and customs, and this book is the result.”

- Dr Devon Aidendale, The Ewoks of Endor: A Xenosociological Study

As soon as the Ghost lands on Endor’s moon, Zeb clambers out of his gun turret: Hera waits for him at the bottom with a knowing look.

“I think,” she says, with a nod to her left, “I saw the Glimmer touch down over that way.”

Zeb opens his mouth to ask about repairs, or cleaning, or any of the other chores that will need doing after a major battle.

“Go.” Hera folds her arms. “Or I’ll drag you there myself.”

Zeb doesn’t need telling twice. He heads out of the Ghost into the forest in the direction that she indicated. There’s a few landing fields that have been set up already by the ground teams, with strings of lights between each one, so it’s not difficult to find his way between the trees. It’s a beautiful forest, too, although the trees don’t have as many of the thick strong branches favoured by Lasats: the day is just beginning to fade, and the golden light warms the air and sparkles on the leaves.

And there in the very next clearing is Alex, just closing up the Glimmer as the last of his gunners escape to join the party that sounds like it’s up in the trees somewhere. Zeb watches for a good few moments, unnoticed, as Alex finishes his checks and shuts the ramp. At last, Zeb thinks it’s time he made himself known.

“Hey,” he says, leaning casually on a tree. Smooth, Orrelios.

Alex looks up and gasps. “Zeb! You’re alive!” The next moment, he runs – actually runs – towards Zeb and flings himself into Zeb’s arms: Zeb catches him and picks him up easily.

“I could say the same ta you,” he replies, and rubs his face against Alex’s. “We kriffing did it, Alex. We beat the Empire. Did ya hear the Emperor’s dead?”

“I heard,” smiles Alex. “Did you see the second Death Star blow up? It was absolutely spectacular.”

Zeb grins and, finally, lets him down to stand on his own feet again. “I saw. Pretty hard ta miss. Bet yer glad ya never had to go on one of them, eh?”

“Incredibly so.” Now, in this moment, he looks absolutely, stunningly beautiful, with a beaming smile on his face and the dappled evening light filtering onto his face so that his eyes sparkle, golden. Zeb forgets entirely what he was going to say – forgets even how to speak at all. All he can do, all he can think about is the unbelievable warmth that flows in a wave through his whole chest.

(If he still believed in the Goddess Ashla, She of the Golden Fur, She of the Star-Speckled Pelt – well, he might even be convinced She was giving Her blessing to them. But the old gods are gone now. There is just this moment, sparkling and bright.)

“I love you,” blurts out Alex.

Zeb blinks at him, mouth agape. “You do?”

“I -” Alex shrinks. “I’m sorry, I was too -”

“No, I -” Zeb smiles, and: “I was actually gonna say the same thing t’you.” He takes Alex’s hand in his own. “I love you.”

With that, he leans down and presses his lips against Alex’s in a chaste, Human-style kiss.

“Oh,” gasps Alex: he cups Zeb’s face and returns the kiss. Zeb could have stayed here all night, holding Alex and being held, kissing, but something cracks in the bushes surrounding the clearing, and Zeb looks up, perking up his ears.

“What is it?”

“I heard…” He reaches into the nearest bush and pulls a small, furry creature out of the undergrowth by the scruff of their neck, squirming and yammering in some strange language. “Well, whadda we got here, eh? Never seen one a these buggers before.”

“Wub erri lagga!”

“My word,” says Alex. His face is very pink. “So that’s the species that inhabits this world. I heard rumours, but…”

Zeb puts the little guy down and makes what he thinks is an apologetic sort of gesture. Slowly, two or three sets of round little ears appear from various points in the clearing, and the little guy’s little friends step forward, staring at Zeb and Alex curiously.

“Heh, they look like lil wom-bears,” grins Zeb. “Cute.”

“Wom-bears?”

“They’re like… a mythical creature,” Zeb explains. “They look kinda like this, but with shorter hair, and they burrow underground. We got all sorts a legends about them.”

What looks like the leader points to the two of them, does a little dance, mimes drinking, and then points further into the forest. “Ubgalo.”

Zeb and Alex look at each other and shrug.

“Shall we… alitha?” asks Alex, offering Zeb his hand. Zeb’s ears flutter near enough to fly right off his head. ‘Beloved’. Where the hells did Alex learn that one? He definitely didn’t learn it from Zeb – he’s been much too shy to talk about that kind of thing, even academically. The idea that Alex might have been thinking about this long enough to find documents about Lasat on the holonet for himself…

“Stars, ya sure know how ta charm a fella,” he says, and that’s definitely an understatement.

Chapter Text

“Melange is a hell of a drug, man. I heard one Hutt guy had a trip so bad he thought he was the God-Emperor of some podunk planet in the Outer Rim. You gotta respec’ the spice is what I’m sayin’. Don’ wanna get mixed up in it. Ya, it extends life an’ all that, but like, half the spice fiends get killed trippin’ balls. I knew a Human guy who got into a knife fight yellin’ about golden paths ‘n’ shit. Nasty stuff. Plus, o’ course, it’s so addictive you literally can’t live without it. I ain’t about that withdrawal, man. Don’ touch the stuff.”

- Rasre Purs, in an interview for the holo-documentary Kings of Kessel

After a short walk through the jungle and a longer climb up a spiralling wooden staircase, the two of them find themselves on a tall platform overlooking the forest. Around them, the Rebels are dancing and feasting and drinking with the creatures – the Ewoks, they’re called, apparently. Someone put a kebab into Alex’s hand which smells horribly familiar in a way Alex is trying not to think about. Zeb is lucky: he got a rather ugly but delicious-smelling fruit and some sort of large cooked root vegetable.

"Now that the Empire’s finally gone,” Zeb is saying, “we could do anything. Go anywhere in the Glimmer.” He holds out his hand. "Go adventuring. Maybe find somewhere t’ settle down. Whaddaya say?"

Alex beams and takes his hand. "I'd like that, Zeb." He has a sudden thought: yes, why not? Multiple people, from Hera to his therapist, have told him to “go for it”. And when better than now? They’re finally free from the Empire. “Erm – I, uh… I bought you some earrings. I was thinking… we could get our ears pierced together?”

They are at the top of a tree, after all, even if it is an Ewok tree-house. If Alex understands his research correctly, Zeb will know exactly what he means.

“You… really mean it?”

“Yes,” replies Alex, looking up into his eyes. “I have never meant anything more in my life. Zeb… Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” says Zeb. “I will.”

“Finally!” Hera punches the air. “I’ve been – wait, what?” And then, before either of them can say anything: “Oh, right, that’s the Lasat way, isn’t it?”

“Are you actually qualified to…” begins Alex.

Hera lifts one of her earpieces: below, there is a small green conical protrusion where an ear would be on a Human. “I don’t even have that kind of ears. But… I do know someone who could do it.” She turns and pulls Tik out of thin air. “You do piercings, don’t you?”

“What, now?”

“Night’s still young.” Hera stares at the rest of them, as if daring anyone to argue. “I didn’t memorise this frankly beautiful ritual for nothing, you know.”

“Oh, that kind of piercing,” says Tik, a little more enthusiastically. They grin. “You’re lucky I’m still sober. Let me get my things…”

Things seem to happen in a blur after that. Alex knows he’s making the right responses, feels the sharp prick of the needle half way up the outside edge of his ear (man, married to man, monogamous), and experiences a flash of pride when he sees the small golden hoop earrings he got for Zeb in Zeb’s ears. The rest seems somehow not to exist, not to matter: it’s just him and Zeb, together, deliriously happy.

And when Hera says, “You may kiss,” they do, first in the Lasat way and then the Human way, and it’s just as perfect as it was before. Somewhere, someone begins to set off fireworks, as if the whole Galaxy has come together just to celebrate them.

Almost as soon as Hera is finished, then, as soon as Tik has cleaned up the new piercings to their satisfaction, a delegation of the Imperial Defector’s Club led by Wedge rushes in to congratulate Alex. They drag him away and ply him with more food and enough alcohol to give him a pleasant, warm kind of buzz: he’s not drunk, but he is considerably more relaxed than he would be normally.

So relaxed that he doesn’t even realise Zeb has disappeared until he turns to say something to Zeb and finds that he’s not there. He extracts himself from the Imperial Defectors as politely as he can and wanders off to where Zeb’s purple head stands higher than everyone else.

“There y’are!” grins Zeb, when he spots Alex. Someone has put a wreath of flowers on his head and a drink in his hand. He breaks off from Rex, Hera, and Tik, and comes to meet Alex at the edge of the platform. “I lost ya fer a minute.”

Alex leans up and rubs his cheek against Zeb: he can smell alcohol on Zeb’s breath. “It looks like I’m not the only one who’s been enjoying myself.”

“Yannow what Rex ‘s like,” Zeb replies. “He loves ‘n excuse ta party.”

Alex snorts. “Of course.”

"Wahey, there's that ghost guy again!" slurs Zeb, gesturing vaguely over Alex’s shoulder to a patch of empty space on a higher platform. "From Hoth, 'member? He's got friends now! An’ Kanan says congrats!”

"Zeb, you're drunk."

"Prob'ly," agrees Zeb cheerfully. He looks at the cup in his hand. "Th’ hell's in this stuff, spice?"

"Whatever it is," replies Alex, rolling his eyes fondly, "it seems to only affect Lasats."

"Yeah, an’ I’m havin’ a great time! That guy looks like Luke!"

"That is Luke."

"Nah, th’ other guy," insists Zeb, pointing at nothing. "Th’ blue one."

"You really are very drunk."

“Yep!” Zeb raises his cup again. “Goosham! Th’ magic is strong, an’ so’re th’ drinks!”

Alex chuckles. “It certainly is some enchanted evening.”

"Join me," adds Zeb, offering his cup, "an’ together we can... I ‘unno, see dead people or somethin'."

Alex looks at the cup for a moment, then takes it and drains it in one go. It’s pungent, and the alcohol is definitely strong. "What the hells. The Empire's gone. Shall we dance?"

"Tha's the spirit!" He takes Alex's hand and they begin to rock together to the beat of the Ewok's drumming. “Less ‘ave some fun!”

“Let’s,” agrees Alex. “We beat the Empire. And we’re married!”

“Yeah!” Zeb picks Alex up by the waist and spins him around. “Now that’s somethin’ ta celebrate!”

“Zeb!” snorts Alex. “You’re ridiculous.”

Zeb puts him down and flashes him his most charming smile. “Ya love it, though.”

“I do love it,” replies Alex, resting his hands on Zeb’s shoulders. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Aww, karabast, why’d ya have ta say such pretty things…” Zeb’s ears flutter; he rubs the back of his neck and looks away, bashful. A moment, and his expression changes. "Whoah, hey, there's th’ Lasat guy from th’ wolf tunnel."

"Zeb, there's no other Lasat here." The alcohol hits him all at once, tipping him into sudden incoherency and nausea. "'S just... you... in the entire Universe..."

Zeb waves a finger in front of Alex's face. "We ‘re gonna have a talk ‘bout that," he declares, "when I'm not drunk."

Alex stares past him at the fire, where the Ewoks have just put an entire human leg, still covered in Stormtrooper armour, on a spit over the fire. The smell – dear gods, the smell of it -

“Blyat’, I think I ate a people,” he says, and vomits spectacularly over the edge of the platform.

Chapter Text

<The following report is classified and may only be accessed by persons with a rank of ADM and above.>

...thanks to the tracker provided by the captured brigand Hondo Ohnaka, we followed the Rebels and their stolen cargo to an area of Wild Space containing an imploded star cluster (coordinates: [REDACTED]). Perhaps naively, I assumed that we had blocked off their only exit, and that we would be able to finally apprehend the Rebel conspirators known as the Spectres.

However, instead of surrendering, the Rebel ship known as the Ghost entered the star cluster – another example of the Rebels' irrational devotion to their foolish cause. We attempted to give chase, but were not able to follow the Ghost.

In most cases, the natural assumption would be that the Ghost and her crew had perished in the maelstrom; however, with a certain amount of personal experience in this matter, I have little doubt that they will resurface in some improbable manner. I advise continued vigilance.

- Agent ISB-021

Personal addendum: Request for the brigand Hondo Ohnaka to be transferred to an Imperial Detention Centre post haste. He is an insufferable fool and I am sorely tempted to space him without trial.

<Report ends>

It takes a few weeks after Endor to prepare everything they need; then a week on Lothal with Sabine, who squeals when she sees Zeb and Alex’s matching earrings, as if Zeb couldn’t spot her handiwork in the tiny fire-bird and Fulcrum symbols stamped into the gold. After that, there’s several hyperspace jumps, deliberately random to throw any following dregs of Imperials off the scent. Thankfully, Alex doesn’t question Zeb when he says he has a plan for where to go, and relinquishes the controls without a moment of hesitation.

At last, then, Zeb pulls the Glimmer into real space just outside the imploded star cluster that houses Lira San and looks at Alex. Does he remember?

“This place…” murmurs Alex.

“Yeah,” Zeb agrees. “Ya chased us in here, once. Ya didn’t realise it at the time, but… ya were playin’ yer part ta help us.”

Alex blinks. “Help you? In an imploded star cluster?”

“We -” Zeb hesitates, trying not to sound like a complete nutjob – “were pieces in a puzzle. Ya were meant to be there, to chase us, I think.” He’s still not sure who the Fool is or was: Hondo, maybe? Time has passed since that particular fulfilment of the prophecy. Things have changed. The roles have shifted.

Alex gives him a funny look. “Right. Any chance you can tell me more?”

“Later. When we’ve passed through.” He gestures with his head towards the cockpit door. “Go on, scram. Otherwise it’ll spoil the surprise.” And then, when Alex looks a little doubtful: “Trust me.”

“All right.” Alex gets up and heads towards the back. “What’s going to…?”

“A lot of weird shit.” Zeb folds his arms. “No matter what happens, don’t come back in here ‘less I say so. Unless there’s an explosion or somethin’. Think you can handle that?”

Alex smiles weakly. “I suppose I’ll have to.” The cockpit door slides shut behind him, and Zeb stands and focuses on the controls of the cockpit, ready for the journey through.

Zeb remembers from the first time how to do this. He remembers the feeling, the all-encompassing power rushing through him, through his bo-rifle, flowing in and through and around him. He remembers the push he felt from the ether, the guiding hand he felt helping him to harness and control the power within. He wonders now which Jedi did it: knowing them, probably both.

He doesn’t have any Jedi with him on this trip; all he has is his bo-rifle and the benefit of experience. And Alex, of course. Will he sense what’s going on? Will he see the electric sparks arcing through the air, crackling through the ship as they traverse this uncharted space? Will he be afraid?

Zeb takes a deep breath. Alex has had his chance to turn back. So has Zeb.

He unlatches a hidden lock on the bo-rifle, clicks one section into another, unfurls that, locks this. Once it’s reconfigured into its ancient trident shape, Zeb stretches his arm out and aims it carefully and deliberately at the ship’s navicomputer. His back straightens: stand tall, Honour Guard. He flicks the switch to activate it: this time, he’s prepared for the slight shock, the recoil, and rolls with it. Instinctively, he closes his eyes as the sparks begin to flicker over the dashboard.

He’s in the hands of the Ashla now. He finds the pocket of space he’s aiming for by feel, senses the path that opens up for him: there. Around him, he is suddenly intensely aware of every facet of this old ship, of every panel shielding them from the void of space, of every bolt holding it together, of the fuel and the rations and even of Alex, a point of intense life that stands stock-still, amazed, in the galley. It’s… so much more than the little buzzing sparks he felt last time.

Nevertheless, Zeb holds the bo-rifle steady, steering the ship through the storm that rages around them. With a thought, he swings the ship to port, leans aft: the wing sweeps over some obstacle in a smooth, delicate arc. Then over to starboard again, wooshing between clusters of swirling space-dust.

The path opens. Smoothly, gracefully, the ship glides through a passage and into the small patch of open space that houses Lira San, its suns, and its moon; Zeb eases off on the current going through him until the bo-rifle shuts off in his hand and everything becomes still. He opens his eyes and lowers the bo-rifle. His head is still half-enraptured in the beauty of it all, but it only takes a few blinks and a shake of his head before he adjusts back to his normal senses.

In all this, he’s almost forgotten about Alex. Zeb changes his bo-rifle back to its usual form and ambles back to the galley, where Alex has collapsed against one wall as if hit by a stun-blast. Zeb squats down in front of him and tips his chin up: he doesn’t seem harmed.

“Alex?”

“Mmmph…” groans Alex, his eyelids flickering open. “What the hells was that? The electric sparks everywhere…”

Zeb shrugs. For some reason, he feels suddenly exhausted, as if he’s run a marathon; his head is pulsing with the beginnings of a splitting headache. Everything is fuzzy, so that it’s hard to think. He pushes through it. “The path we just travelled, it’s… strange. Ya okay? Ready to come see where we’ve ended up?”

Alex blinks and focuses on him. “Yes… yes, I’m ready. What…?”

Zeb helps him up and covers his eyes with one hand. “Didn’t I say it was gonna be a surprise?”

“Well, if all the secrecy didn’t make me curious, whatever just happened definitely did,” replies Alex. Zeb guides him to the cockpit, careful not to let him trip.

“’s worth it,” he murmurs. “Ready?”

“Go on.”

Zeb takes away his hand to let Alex take in the golden clouds, the bright sun and the gleaming planets beneath them. “Welcome to Lira San. The original home of the Lasat species. Full of livin’, breathin’ Lasats. You see?”

“You mean…?”

“It takes more than one Imperial idiot to wipe us out,” replies Zeb softly, teasingly. “We’re flourishing.”

Alex’s mouth drops open. “Oh… oh, stars…” He covers his mouth with his hands. “Oh, Zeb…”

“I know,” murmurs Zeb, putting a hand around his shoulder. “Ain’t it beautiful?”

A tear trickles down Alex’s face. “It’s -” a sniffle, and then he really begins to cry – “It’s wonderful…”

For a few moments, he can’t say any more, overcome by emotion, openly sobbing: Zeb isn’t quite sure what to do other than hold him as he shudders. He had prepared himself for all sorts of possibilities, all sorts of reactions, but this is so much more than he’s even seen from Alex. This is… this is years of buried guilt and shame, Zeb realises, all bubbling up to the surface.

At last, Alex takes one last shuddering breath and pulls out a handkerchief (because of course he has a handkerchief, somehow) to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

“Ya ready to go say hello?” murmurs Zeb, with a smile.

“Go… down there? Me?” Alex goes all funny and pale. “I -”

“Hold that thought,” remarks Zeb, glancing at the proximity sensor. “Looks like some a them ‘re comin’ up to us.”

“To… to us?” Alex leans forward and looks through the front screen. Indeed, a small Lasat-style shuttle appears from behind Lira San and flies towards them.

There’s only two Lasats who’d come up to them like this; Zeb snorts. “It’s just Chava,” he explains. “Ye’ll like her. An’ Gron, he’s a good man. An’…” He frowns briefly: somehow or other, he knows there’s another two Lasat on there, even without being able to see inside from this angle. “The two others I dunno.”

Alex blinks at him. “How do you…? Did you arrange this all?”

“I wasn’t expectin’ them to come up ta us,” replies Zeb. “I was just gonna go down, and then introduce you to Chava and Gron.”

“So how -”

Before he can finish his sentence, the shuttle docks with the Glimmer with a clank; Zeb reaches forward to let the ships connect, to let the four Lasat on board.

“Come on,” he tells Alex, turning towards the cockpit door. “Let’s go meet them.”

“I…” Alex doesn’t seem able to move: Zeb suddenly notices he’s trembling.

“’s awright,” he murmurs, a little softer. “They ain’t coming up ta get their revenge, promise.”

“But…”

Zeb rubs his cheek against Alex’s gently. “Yer with me,” he tells him. “I won’t let anybody hurt ya. I’ll be by yer side no matter what, ‘kay?”

Chapter Text

“Dear Chava,

Glad to hear people are willing to accept Alex over there. It was a real struggle for me to forgive him, so I get people are gonna need time. It’s worth it, though. He’s doing his best to atone for things. I think coming to Lira San and seeing all the Lasats that are over there and thriving is going to really help him. I don’t expect any of the other survivors to like him. Maybe it’ll be good for them, seeing a former Imperial making restitution and things like that. Forgiveness is a two way street, right?

I don’t know exactly when we’re gonna get there. I’d say at least a couple Standard weeks. We’re taking the long way round. I’ll contact you before we get there, I promise. As for that other question, best keep things vegetarian for now, just in case.

I really do love him, Chava. I’m looking forward to you meeting him. I know you’ll help him get his head on straight. You’re always good at that.

Say hello to Gron and anyone else that knew me on Lasan.

Ashla’s blessings,

Zeb”

Even with Zeb’s reassurances, Alex stands stock-still, feet rooted to the floor, eyes wide: perhaps dropping all of this on him at once is a bad idea. If they’d gone down to the surface as planned, he probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. But, then again, maybe… The Force has brought them so far, has guided them through the Wild Space, and the Force will bring them through this as well.

(And where does this sudden belief come from, Zeb wonders? He’s always been a bit of a sceptic, even with Kanan and Ezra doing their thing all the time, but then… there was that thing on Lothal with the loth-wolves, and somehow the whole “mysterious guiding power” thing seemed a lot more plausible.)

He shakes himself. Lasat footsteps approach the cockpit door, and Alex looks absolutely petrified: Zeb puts a hand on his back, comforting. Alex’s gaze flicks to him: at long last, he takes a deep breath. Zeb can see it’s taking a lot of effort to make himself relax, to stand tall and straight, but he does, tipping up his chin up just as the cockpit door slides open.

“I was wondering where you two were hiding,” chuckles Chava, sweeping in as if she owns the place, with her retinue close behind. “Well, well, Garazeb, you’ve come back to us at last!”

(Alex stares openly, half-disbelieving: even with his carefully crafted neutral mask, Zeb can see the waves of relief and amazement flow through him.)

“Interferin’ ol’ baggage,” says Zeb cheerfully. “Ya just had to come up an’ meet us, didn’t ya?”

Chava bops him sternly on the chest with the tip of her staff. “Nonsense, nonsense! It’s only polite to come and greet our honoured guest.” She moves closer to Alex and takes his hand. “My dear boy, welcome, welcome! I’ve heard a lot about the good you’ve done for our side.”

“Er…” Alex swallows.

“Tsk, so skinny!” Chava stretches up and pinches his bearded cheek. “Garazeb, have you been feeding him properly?”

“He ain’t been feeding himself properly,” replies Zeb, raising his eyebrow at Alex over her shoulder as if to say I told you so. Zeb has been trying to get him to eat better for years, but Endor only made things worse. If there’s anything that will put someone off eating altogether, it’s accidentally eating a member of their own species.

“Tsk,” says Chava again, and bops him on the forehead with her staff. “And here I thought you were the Warrior, not the Fool.”

“Maybe both,” agrees Zeb happily.

Alex smiles weakly. “Oh, wonderful, now I have two Lasats teasing me…”

“And more to come!” Chava crows, slapping him on the back. “Allow me to introduce my retinue.” She gestures to the three Lasat still standing politely in the doorway. “That big oaf there is Gron, a very dear friend of mine. Zeb and his crew saved the two of us.”

“Sight fer sore eyes!” grins Zeb, and holds his forearm up: Gron bumps it gently with his own forearm. “Doin’ alright, mate?”

Gron gives a little bow. “My fur grows thick and glossy, Captain, thank you for asking.”

He does look a lot healthier than he did when Zeb and the Ghost crew rescued him: he is much less skinny, and his fur is, indeed, shiny and thick. Zeb remembers the thin, dull, almost mangy fur that made it difficult to even recognise Gron before. It’s nice to see he’s flourishing again.

Chava nods. “This place has been good to all of us who were refugees.” And then: “Anyway. Introductions. That little wispy thing with the medical mask is Nyota. She’s a native of Lira San who has been very helpful. And that big one who looks like she’s about to murder all of us is Verrashyn, my new favourite bodyguard.”

“You don’t need a bodyguard, O Revered One,” says Verrashyn, rolling her eyes. She really is big, much taller and better built than Zeb, with an even more impressive beard; her fur and stripes are shades of green, dark and rich like shadows in a forest. She looks… familiar somehow, but Zeb can’t place it. “You could insult half the Empire into submission.”

“And they’d be damn grateful,” nods Chava, satisfied. “Anyway! We interrupted your descent to the surface! Zeb, why don’t you bring us down? You can show our guest the beauty of Lira San.”

“That was the plan, Chava.” Zeb ambles to the control panel and takes the joysticks and, with one last glance at a nervous-looking Alex, takes them in - slowly, so that everyone has a chance to enjoy the view.

Lira San is a beautiful planet. Green and lush, covered with the tall strong-branched trees that Lasats favour; here and there a river or lake sparkles in the sunlight, or a mountain range sticks up from the gentle rolling hills. Ahead of them, stretching over the horizon, the capital city of Lira Pristi glows among the trees: there in the centre, the Palace Tree stands taller and more beautiful than any building.

Zeb had forgotten how much he missed Lasan. This, this long-forgotten echo of his lost planet, sparks in him a sorrowful nostalgia: at last he is coming home, where he belongs. He’s going to do everything he can to make Alex feel at home: maybe, at last, they can have a nice, peaceful, normal retirement. Zeb is looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

“Humans are a lot less prone to diseases like mange, although like most species they may be preyed upon by parasites such as ticks and fleas. Most Humans, like Lasats, will of course groom themselves to prevent such annoyances – although unlike Wookies and Lasats, they do not seem to place much value in communal grooming, and most refuse to eat even the tastiest of parasites.

The medical practitioner should also note that there are a variety of diseases communicable between Lasats and Humans: Hesken Fever, Bordal Contagion, Oripathy, and Candorian Plague, among many others (see full list below). This is not to mention any disease that may mutate in order to pass between species. Any responsible practitioner will make doubly sure that the Humans under their care do not become infected and do not, in turn, infect others…”

- Dr Shamtul Sirinial, Care and Feeding of Wookies, Humans, Twi’Leks, and Other Minorities

The Glimmer touches down on a planet that Alex could have never in his wildest dreams imagined existing, in a large field outside a cottage beyond the suburbs of the big city. The fact that there are Lasats here, real live Lasats with names and faces and shades of fur that he’s never seen, makes him weak at the knees, makes his hands tremble enough that he’s glad for Zeb to be at the controls.

(Dimly, he realises that this is the first time in his entire life that he has been the only Human or even near-Human in a room full of fellow organic beings. It’s a strange sensation. Is this how Zeb has felt all this time? Like the odd one out? If so, it’ll have been Alex’s fault, undoubtedly.)

Chava pats him on the shoulder. “Peace, Warrior. You are welcome here.” A moment, and her expression changes to a wicked look. “And if you’re not, then I’ll bloody well knock some sense into whoever it is!”

“Chava,” smiles Zeb, rolling his eyes. He seems taller here, more confident: he’s finally in a place where he belongs. “You’re scarin’ him.”

“Well, it can’t be helped, dear.” She turns towards the door. “Come on, come on! We simply must help you get settled into your new home!”

A new home… So this is what Zeb has been planning all along? To bring Alex here and settle down? Alex has known for a long time that he would follow Zeb to the ends of the universe, if he asked; now he has followed him, to this forgotten corner of the Galaxy, and he still can’t quite believe it.

Nyota – who, though Chava called her small and wispy, is the same height as Alex – clears her throat. “Before they set foot on the planet, O Revered One…”

“Right. We’ll go on ahead. Come join us when you’ve had your jabs, kids.” Chava nods and bustles off with the other two, leaving Alex and Zeb with Nyota. For the first time, Alex notices the small case she is carrying.

“I am a doctor,” she explains, “and my purpose here is to make sure you neither are carrying any dangerous pathogens, nor become infected by anything Lira San considers a common, treatable illness. I would have preferred to do this differently, but…” She sighs. “The Revered Chava can be very persuasive.”

“Don’t I know it,” grumbles Zeb.

Nyota nods sympathetically and brings out an injector. “This won’t hurt.” It is, indeed, quick and painless; once both of them have gotten jabbed, she rummages in her case and pulls out a hand-scanner. “Please stay still for just a moment.”

The machine hums and beeps: Alex feels a small, brief electric current.

“All clear. We will not need to quarantine you.” She smiles at them both. “Luckily, we have thousands of years of experience introducing refugees into the population. If you have any other particular medical needs, please do let me know. Other than that…”

Zeb blinks. “Really? People ‘ve been coming here all this time?”

“Many Lasats and non-Lasats have found their way to this planet over the millennia,” replies Nyota calmly. “You -” she nods at Alex – “are most certainly not the first Human to arrive here, nor will you be out of place apart from… well, you know. The Imperial thing.”

Alex flinches a little. Yes. The Imperial thing.

“It’s fine, Alex,” Zeb says again. “You’ll see. Chava has some things planned that’ll help.” And then: “Speakin’ of -”

“Yes,” replies Nyota, “go find them, if you don’t mind me borrowing your Human for a few minutes.”

Zeb nods and, for the first time since arriving here, leaves Alex on his own. With a stranger.

“So…” he begins, “you said there are other Humans on Lira San?”

"Indeed. Non-Lasats live long lives here," Nyota replies, in a soft voice. "Personally, I think it’s the food. If you are accepted as a Lasat, then you will have the lifespan of a Lasat."

Alex lets the curiosity overcome him: "How long do Lasats live?"

"Oh, often more than three hundred dust seasons, which are roughly equivalent to a Standard year," she replies casually. "The Revered Chava is two hundred and eighty, but I suspect she shall cling on for another hundred seasons just to be contrarian."

Alex stares at her.

“Anyway,” she adds, handing him a datapad, “here’s a list of the foods that Humans can and can’t eat here. In general, you should be able to eat the same things as us, just stay away from viri fruit and lenda. Unless you have any allergies?”

Alex shakes his head dumbly. “No.”

“Excellent. That will make things a lot easier.” She closes up her case and smiles. “Come on, Human. Your alitha awaits.”

Chapter Text

“From an objective perspective, the Force seems to be an innate talent that a few children in every generation of most sentient species develop at some point; with this talent, they may perform feats which other sentient beings cannot, such as lifting things without touching them. There is absolutely no evidence for the Force as some sort of cosmic guide other than the Jedi say-so. Even less credence should be given to any belief system which treats the Force as some sort of god.

The fact of the matter is that so called ‘unexplainable’ phenomena like visions can all be explained through logical, scientific means: Jedi have a habit of attributing more meaning to their dreams than is warranted, so the idea that they can ‘predict the future’ is mere nonsense intended to impress backwater hicks into handing over their children to be trained.”

- Skroob Schlotkin, A Rational Thinker’s Guide to the Force

The house they’ve been given is gorgeous: a single-story cottage nestled among tall emerald trees at the top of a gentle sloping field; a stream trickles past it towards a river lower in the valley. There is a vegetable patch, and a row of large fruit trees screens one side. Every room – there are more than they need – is furnished with beautifully patterned carpets and wall hangings; there is a real hot-water shower and even a tall bath, something that Alex hasn’t seen since he was a teenager.

Their welcoming party has prepared food – enough to last them a few weeks, at least, as well as an evening meal courtesy of Gron, who surprises Alex by being the best cook this side of the Core.

“It was a relief when we realised the Captain was alive,” Gron is saying, as the six of them dig in to some sort of mild curry made with vegetables Alex has never heard of but that are nevertheless delicious - no meat, thank goodness. They’re speaking Basic, and Alex is excruciatingly aware that it’s for his benefit: his Lasat is still a little patchy, even if it is improving. “His crew were so helpful to us, weren’t they?”

“Oh, that Ezra was such a nice kit,” agrees Chava, helping herself to another spoonful. “The Ashla loves him dearly. She’ll watch over him, wherever he is in the Universe.”

Both Nyota and Verrashyn roll their eyes; Alex is expecting the same from Zeb, but he merely tips his head thoughtfully.

“Revered One,” says Verrashyn, “old fashioned religions are all very well, but an enlightened society like ours has no need for these superstitions. No offence to your kit, Zeb, but disappearing like that…”

(Alex puts a protective hand on his throat almost instinctively before remembering that Darth Vader is dead and that questioning the Force will not, in fact, endanger anyone’s life.)

“Bah,” replies Chava, “you say that because Lira San has long been stagnant in the Force. Here we are protected from the Darkness in the Galaxy, but without Dark there is no need for any Light. For all these long millennia it has not moved in the ever-flowing river of the Force.”

Nyota clears her throat. “I think we are managing perfectly well, Oh Revered One.”

But Chava shakes her head. “You mark my words,” she says confidently, “the Force is about to give Lira San a right good kick up the backside.”

This time Zeb does roll his eyes; on the other side of the table, Verrashyn chuckles.

“With all due respect,” she says, “prophecy and fortune-tellings are useless in the here and now.”

“They got us here, didn’t they?” Chava shoots back. She gestures at Alex and Zeb. “They brought the Child and the Warrior here. They opened up the Way.”

“You keep calling me that,” says Alex, quietly. “The Warrior. What does that mean?”

“Means you’re good at fighting,” says Chava, straight-faced. “Honestly! I thought this one was clever!”

“Chava,” groans Zeb. “Ya know that’s not what he meant.” He takes Alex’s hand below the table. “It’s an old prophecy. I dunno how ta explain it…”

Chave clears her throat, and recites: “The Fool, simple and selfish, leads the Warrior, bloodthirsty and cruel, to hunt the hope of tomorrow, the Child, to destroy him.” She looks at Alex with a knowing look in her eye. “That part came to pass. You tracked us, guided by a fool, to the star cluster that guards this planet, did you not?”

The stolen cargo. Her and Gron, of course. They look at him as if he is normal, as if there is nothing wrong with him, as if he deserves to sit at this table and eat this food and speak on the same level as them. He’d like to say he didn’t know: that would be a lie. He’d like to say that it wasn’t a personal vendetta: that would also be a lie.

He’d like to apologise. He’s not sure if anyone would believe him.

Chava’s expression turns compassionate once more. “You played your part, and as a result we were able to find our way here, just as so many have before us. It was foretold that we would only find our new home if the Child saves the Warrior and the Fool.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbles Zeb, “an’ I’m s’posed ta be the Child, or whatever.”

Alex blinks at him. “But you’re an adult.”

“That’s what I thought!”

“Prophecies aren’t supposed to be literal!” Chava scolds, bopping Zeb on the head with her staff. “It means you represent hope for the future!”

“Agh!”

Alex frowns. “Even so, Zeb didn’t rescue me until after that – ow!”

Verrashyn makes sympathetic eye contact with him. “First time?”

“You’re both thinking about it in the wrong way,” declares Chava. And then: “Well, anyway. You are not the only ones to have fulfilled it, either. There have been many Warriors, Fools, and Children since Lira San was closed off from the Galaxy, and each one brought new ideas and fresh perspectives with them.”

Gron nods eagerly. “Like Yivo Esgarrouth.”

“That guy?” Zeb snorts. “No way. Really?”

Alex frowns. “Who’s that?”

“He was Honour Guard. Long before my time.” Zeb waves a hand vaguely. “Afore I was born, even. I heard he disappeared with a Twi’lek woman an’ a group a crazy Lasats.”

“And they live happily to this day in Lira Pristi,” replies Chava. “There are a lot more non-Lasats here than you might expect. The Warrior will not be out of place.”

Apart from the Imperial thing, of course. There is always the Imperial thing.

“Sorry about Chava,” apologises Zeb, much later, when their welcoming party has left to let them get settled in. They’re in the low, comfortable bed-pit that has been prepared, surrounded by blankets and pillows light enough not to make them hot during the summer months: apparently, there’s thicker ones in a storage box somewhere, for when it gets a little colder.

Alex leans in to him, trying to feel comforted by his soft strength. “She certainly is…”

“Batty? Bossy? A real force a nature?”

“Something,” says Alex.

Zeb snorts. “Yeah, she’s somethin’ all right.” And then: “Definitely kinda weird when ya find out ya fulfilled an ancient prophecy, right?”

Alex almost laughs. “That’s one word for it, yes. I had no idea you were the Chosen One.”

“Ugh, I hope not, that’d be a pain in the ass…” Zeb drapes himself over Alex, a warm weight on his chest. “I mean, Lasats don’t even do that whole Chosen One thing. Gotta be at least Two. One, no.”

Alex very nearly makes a comment about the prophecy that they’re supposed to have fulfilled, and how that had a very convenient Chosen Three. But… no, that’s silly. Why would he be one of the Chosen Three for a people he half exterminated?

“She means well,” adds Zeb quietly. “Chava, I mean. She’s just a bit… yannow. Like that.”

“Yes,” agrees Alex. “Like that.”

Zeb reaches up and strokes the loose locks of hair out of Alex’s face. “Are you doin’ okay here? I know, ‘s a lot ta take in. I jus’… wanted ta show you a place where we can belong.”

“I -” He hesitates. “I don’t deserve to be here. You heard what she said. Bloodthirsty and cruel. She’s right. I was both of those things, and more. I shouldn’t intrude on such hallowed ground.”

“That’s bantha shit,” says Zeb flatly. “Ya were those things, yeah, but ye’ve come a long way since then, so I think ya do deserve it. Ya deserve a lot more, actually.”

“And why do you get to decide what I deserve?”

“Cos I’m the Child, or somethin’,” he replies, walking his fingers teasingly over Alex’s chest. “That means I’m the judge of all things Warrior, obviously. Destiny, or summat.” The way he pronounces ‘destiny’ like a dirty word makes it clear he has no truck with the subject. He lays his palm flat over Alex’s heart. “An cos I’m yer husband, an’ I say so.”

Alex leans forward to press his forehead against Zeb’s. “Then I will try and trust your judgement, alitha,” he replies. “If you of all people can find it in your heart to give me a second chance…”

“Then Lira San can too,” agrees Zeb. “An’ we can all heal together.”

He’d like that. Yes, Alex would like that very much.

Chapter Text

“When thou appearest in thy robes, O Dearest Lover of my heart,

Then could the Gods themselves have stared in wonderment at thy beauty.

Thy fur is lush and smooth, my love, and thy beard is thick and lovely.

Thy claws are sharp; thou climbest well. Ashla! Thou art beauty and grace!”

- Laliari, For Mathesar, My Love

Zeb is pleased to see Alex relax a little over the next couple of weeks. Thankfully, although they're not technically quarantined, Chava seems to understand that they both need time to adjust before she does whatever it is she's planning for them, and leaves them in relative privacy to discover their new home, a little at a time.

There is a food market just down the road; Chava's place is about ten minutes by foot in a slightly different direction; the other three live somewhere deeper in the city in various places. There’s room for the Glimmer at the bottom of the field. There’s even a long-range transmitter by the landing area: it won’t be difficult to stay in touch with Hera, Sabine, and Rex.

Someone has stocked two storage chests with clothes, one for each of them: ordinary tunics and simple robes, as well as more fancy things that Zeb hardly dares touch. He hasn't worn something that beautiful in years. He tries on one of the simpler robes, dark green and unpatterned, and for the first time since Lasan begins to feel once again like a proper Lasat.

"It looks good on you," murmurs Alex, putting a hand around Zeb's waist. “It complements your fur.”

“Ya tried on any of the stuff fer you?”

Alex bites his lip. “I…”

“Yer allowed ta wear ‘em. That’s what they’re for.” Zeb ambles over to Alex’s chest, picks a tunic at random, and tosses it to Alex. “Go on. No one’s even gonna see.”

Alex shrugs off his jacket, a little hesitantly, and puts on the tunic over his ordinary clothes. It’s the most basic of styles: knee-length, brown-yellow, square-necked and sleeveless, designed to be worn with a belt. He looks unfairly good in it.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” says Zeb, stunned. “Wear that. Or anythin’. Suits ya.” And then, as he regains his senses: “You’ll fit in better.”

Alex hugs himself. “Would… fitting in… not be a little distasteful? Insensitive, even?”

Zeb touches Alex’s healed piercing. “If it was, this would be too. But yer respectful about it. Yer not jus’ wearin’ our clothes as some sort a power move.”

“I…” Alex thinks about this. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

“There ya are, then.” He smiles encouragingly. “Wear what’s comfy, and wear it with respect. That’s all ya need.”

“Well, look at you,” coos Chava, when she visits a day or so later. “Ach, Garazeb, you look so distinguished! Oh, and look at you, Warrior -” she pinches Alex’s cheek – “so handsome! Shame about the fur, you look so naked.”

Alex, dressed in the tunic, a pair of loose trousers, and an open over-shirt, raises his eyebrows. “This is all the fur I have, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, yes, I know what Humans are…” She waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway. It’s so good to see you both settling in so well. I have some plans for you. Oh, you two will make such a good impression on the Queen, I know you will.”

Zeb and Alex stare at her. “The Queen?”

“Ah, did I not tell you?” She smiles innocently. “She wants to meet you both. Especially a hero of Lasan like yourself, Garazeb.” And in a stage-whisper: “I hear she’s considering a decoration.”

Aw, karabast. “She really don’t have ta do that. I failed Lasan. I ain’t worthy of an award.”

Alex folds his arms. “If I deserve to be here and wear these clothes, you definitely deserve an award.”

“Exactly!” agrees Chava. “You should be honoured.”

“Karabast, teamin’ up against me…” grumbles Zeb, though his heart isn’t in it. “Got any other plans ya ain’t tellin’ us about, Chava?”

Chava grins. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked! As it happens, there’s a small ceremony which I have been planning… Just a little something. A lot of people respect me here, you see, and they know I am a survivor of Lasan. So if I give my blessing for this one to be here -” she nods at Alex – “it will go a long way.”

“I see,” murmurs Alex thoughtfully. “And when exactly is this all happening?”

“Soon, soon!” Chava rubs her hands together. “The Queen has arranged for us to appear at the Palace Tree in a week.”

Karabast.

Chapter Text

“The Palace Tree is an important cultural location for Lasats, in a similar manner to the Wookie Origin Tree. The Queen, who according to legend is chosen by the gods, cultivates the Tree with her own hands and oversees its growth and pruning. Each new generation will see the Tree grow and change to suit the needs of the Queen that resides there.

It is one of the great beauties of Lasan: so many rooms and offshoots, added organically century by century, that it could house a small town. Indeed, many employees of the Palace Tree, as well as a few important dignitaries, will live there their whole lives and raise their children along with those of the Royal Family.”

- Bixbite Spodumene, A Visitor’s Guide to Lasan

Queen Luthien Beleriand of Lira San is as beautiful as her counterpart that died on Lasan. Her fur is a soft brownish red; her beard is delicately braided and beaded, while the long hair on her head is arranged in intricate curled loops and plaits that would put even Princess Leia to shame. Her gown, fabulously patterned and incredibly detailed in the Lasat style, flows from the brooches at her shoulders to the floor. Jewelled necklaces and bangles glitter against her stripes.

“Your Majesty,” murmurs Zeb in Lasat. He presses his fist into his palm and bows; beside him, Alex does the same. They are both dressed simply, to show humility, and Alex has foregone shoes to respect the traditions of the Palace Tree. His little pink feet look very strange against the rich wood of the floor.

The Queen stands from the huge, organically shaped branch that forms her throne. “So these are the two I’ve heard so much about.”

Chava presses her hands together. “As requested, your Majesty.”

“I do not often meet the refugees that make their way to this hallowed planet,” Queen Luthien smiles, “but this time, I think, an exception must be made.”

Zeb nods. “The Revered One has a plan.”

“Indeed.” The Queen’s eyes sparkle. “This Human you bring has stirred up some controversy, as one might imagine. But you are a Child of Lasan, and a former Captain of the High Honour Guard at that; your courage defending Lasan did not go unnoticed. We have also heard much of your exploits against the Empire, even cut off as we are. We understand the Human is both a villain and a hero, and we must confront both sides.”

Zeb opens his mouth to say, definitively, that Alex is a hero now – but no, it’s never going to be as simple as that, not while the legacy of Lasan still hangs over him. He loves Alex: many will not.

“I’d rather not talk about him as if he isn’t here,” he says instead. “He understands a little Lasat.”

Alex dips his head nervously. “Your Majesty.”

“And I know a little Basic,” replies Queen Luthien, with utmost grace. “Then we shall understand each other a little, shall we not?”

“…As you say, your Majesty.”

The Queen nods, satisfied, and makes a gesture to one of her attendants. “First things first, then. I have something for you, Garazeb Orrelios. Step forward.”

He obeys.

The attendant, who to Zeb’s surprise looks half-Wookie, presents the Queen with a small jewellery-box. She opens it: inside is a large square golden bead with an intricate design stamped into it. Zeb recognises what’s going on immediately, and kneels. With all the solemn ceremony such a decoration deserves, Queen Luthien braids a section of his beard and threads the bead onto it.

“Captain Garazeb Orrelios,” she says quietly. “I award you this decoration for your service to my sister-Queen in her final hours; for your courage in defending the lives of fellow Lasats; and for your continued service to the Galaxy and our species in the Rebellion.”

He can’t argue with a Queen. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

Queen Luthien gestures for him to stand: “Rise, Hero of Lasan. Wear this bead with pride.”

“I will, your Majesty.”

She steps back and seats herself on her throne again. “Revered One, if you please. In the sight of myself and of all Lira San.”

Chava nudges Alex. “Ready?”

Alex nods mutely.

“Remember, this is not about you or for you,” murmurs Chava, not unkindly. “It is for those who were there that day. Those who saw the Empire burning their families and friends alive. Those whose grief still lingers in the form of anger. Do you understand, Human?”

Alex bows his head. “I understand.”

“For the sake of all, then” Chava begins in a louder voice, “who are you?”

“My name is Alexsandr.” He looks over at Zeb, who nods. “Orrelios, formerly Kallus. I was a soldier of the Empire for many years, and…” He takes a deep breath. “I had a hand in the massacre on Lasan.”

There is a susurration of gasps and murmurs around the Queen’s audience chamber, as well as a few growls. One of the attendants bunches their fists.

“My role in the massacre cannot be undone.” Alex bows his head. “I do not ask for forgiveness or redemption. I am willing to accept any punishment given to me.”

“We see your remorse,” replies Chava. “We see that you have made the effort to do more good than harm since you have come to your senses. And now, in the sight of the Queen and of the Ashla, we will help you repair the pain that you have caused.”

She touches Alex’s forehead with her thumb: a blessing. In a very old-fashioned dialect of Lasat that Zeb remembers, vaguely, from excruciatingly tedious literature classes, she recites:

“Heal, o Warrior! Let thy soul return to that of the Child thou once were. Where hath been wrongdoing, let there be forgiveness. Where ash hath fallen, let flowers blossom. Where scars hath formed, let thy fur grow. Where war hath vanquished, let there be peace. Where the Bogan hath sunk His claws, let the Ashla bring Her healing. Where hath been evil, let there be love abounding.”

It’s an old, old ritual, perhaps dating back to before Lasan was settled, perhaps even before space flight itself. Zeb hears a rumble of recognition from the onlookers.

At last, Chava steps back. “We, the lost of Lasan, do not forgive the Empire. We will continue to seek the justice that was denied us. But you are not the Empire. You are just one Human among many. Go now, and promise to do no more harm.”

“I swear it by the Ashla.”

“Then we will accept your repentance.”

Alex closes his eyes and, in Lasat, replies: “Thank you, O Revered One.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me of a complicated one.

Ashla, tell me how she wandered and was lost

when she had dug her convoluted tunnels

and where she went, and who she met, the pain

she suffered in the interplanetary wastes, and how

she worked to save her life and bring herself

back home. Tell me of Ga-Anesh-Ah,

of the Shadow Child, of Murai and Ed…”

- Hyliosympe, The Skaptoleon

Of course, Alex’s guilt does not disappear all at once just because Chava said the magic words. It was, after all, more of a symbolic gesture, a catharsis: the bad man rehabilitated, and the good man rewarded. A canny political move, on Chava’s part, and on the Queen’s part. Apparently there are recordings of it being passed around and discussed all over Lira Pristi, and Zeb is becoming incredibly popular not only among Lasani refugees, but among the curious Lira Sani who have heard of his exploits as a Rebel and an Honour Guard.

As for Alex, he feels… lighter, a little. His crimes can never be washed over, by any means, but he sees that the hurt is fading. People have begun to recognise him when he goes out, and to his surprise that’s not as bad of a thing as he thought it would be. Sometimes he sees a flash of anger, or hears a subtle growl, but the person always steps away from him as soon as they see Zeb or Chava in his vicinity.

“You were right,” he tells Zeb, at one point. “I feel… welcome here. I feel like I’ve come home.”

Zeb lights up and puts an arm around him. “That’s cause ya are home. We’re safe here, Alex. Safer even than with the New Republic. Lira San’s gonna be here no matter what.”

It’s for that reason that he feels confident enough to join Zeb for a night out. Verrashyn is the one who invited them: she meets them with her charming blue-furred wife Leelu, and Chava, who seems to attend everything less because she was invited and more because she can.

(There’s something there that Alex doesn’t quite understand, to do with Chava’s status as a religious leader, a cultural more that instils utmost respect at the sight of her staff and her shaved chin. Apparently, removing one’s beard has extremely significant implications that Alex isn’t quite getting, in a similar way that the bead in Zeb’s beard means something like a medal.

Alex’s own beard has grown out somewhat since defecting, since he no longer keeps it perfectly groomed; he wonders what a Lasat sees in it, what messages he is unintentionally conveying. No doubt Zeb will inform him of anything particularly egregious.)

It turns out that what Verrashyn has invited them to is a play, whose stage is a clearing in the bountiful forests just outside Lira Pristi. The seats are among the strong branches all around and even over the large circle of packed earth, over which the actors dance, speaking in rhythmic verse and wearing strange costumes and masks. Thankfully, Verrashyn has picked somewhere low enough to be accessible for Alex – there’s no way he’d be able to get up to the seats high above that require a Lasat skill for climbing.

“I’m not sure I follow,” murmurs Alex to Zeb, after several minutes trying to get his head around the complex Lasat and confusing visuals. “Who is that person in the mask?”

“Oh, yeah, yer probably havin’ a hard time understandin’ the old fashioned language, huh?” Zeb nods. His fingers are threaded in between Alex’s; he rubs his thumb over Alex’s knuckles almost absent-mindedly. “They’re telling the story a the first wom-bear. She was goin’ home from a really long voyage, and she stopped off with the Lasats and told us her story. That one’s name is…” He takes a deep breath. “Digger-of-unnecessarily-convoluted-tunnels.”

“I see,” frowns Alex. He doesn’t really understand any of the Lasat words in the wom-bear’s name, but it sounds almost excessively long, not in the Lasat style at all.

(There’s a butterfly on the branch beside Zeb. Alex keeps seeing them around the place, little purple things to match the electricity of Zeb’s bo-rifle: every now and again, one of them lands on Zeb without him noticing, on his ear or shoulder or head. It’s adorable, really. Alex decides not to mention it.)

“This is s’posed ta be the start a the story she told,” adds Zeb, “when she’s just showed up on a strange new planet by burrowing through some sorta tunnel. Think that’s metaphorical. She’s about ta meet the… demon… shadow… thing? I think it’s s’posed ta be an agent a the Bogan, but it’s like… a kit? It’s really playful an’ innocent. She’s gonna try an’ teach it how to be good.”

Alex raises his eyebrow. “And does she succeed?”

“Yeah, but this is only the first story, she still has ta meet a bunch a people and go on a whole quest with ‘em.”

“What’s the significance of the talking statue?” asks Alex.

“Erm… oh, karabast, I was never that good at literature…” He makes a face. “That’s a statue of that planet’s version of the Goddess Ashla. He’s the standard spirit guide type o’ guy. Obviously he can’t go with her, cause he’s a statue, but one of the people she meets can use the Force to communicate with him at a long distance.”

“Wait,” frowns Alex, “I thought the Ashla and the Force were different names for the same thing.”

Zeb wiggles his hand. “Eh, yes an’ no. Mosta the time, yeah, they’re the same idea. But – ach, I dunno. Accordin’ to our religion, the Force is more like just a tool the gods can use, an’ sometimes they’ll give it ta a kit ta use too. Uh, but they all use the Force in different ways, cause Ashla’s all light, the Bogan’s all dark an’ the Bendu is kinda in the middle.”

Alex looks up at him. “I don’t think I’ve heard you mention that third one before.”

“Ain’t ya? Bendu’s supposed ta be the one in charge a the weather. Big on wind an’ lightning, apparently.”

By this time, Alex is barely paying any attention to the play; he has a vague impression that two of the characters are having some sort of ethical argument, and there seems to be a talking insect of some kind, but apart from that he’s even more lost than he was before. It doesn’t particularly matter. He wants to learn more about this.

“Why that one controlling the weather and not the other two?” he asks.

This seems to stump Zeb for a moment. “Uh… think it’s cause, if the Ashla did it, it would be sunny all the time, an’ all the plants would die. An’ if the Bogan did it, it’d be hurricanes an’ blizzards an’ that every day. Or somethin’ like that, anyway.”

“Ah. Right.” There’s one more thing that Alex wants to know, and he has to mull over how to say it; he starts with a related question. “People worship the Bendu and the Bogan as well as the Ashla?”

“More ‘n ya’d think,” replies Zeb. “Gotta have respect for all of ‘em. Sometimes ya need the Bogan, so’s things can change for the better. Just gotta make sure He don’t consume ya.”

Alex thinks about this for a while. Did he need to become a soldier of the Empire? If he had never joined up – well, as his therapist often tries to reassure him, the massacre on Lasan would still have happened as it did. It’s not as comforting of a thought as she thinks it is. But if he’d never joined the Empire, he’d never have become a Rebel, never have taken part in the Liberation of Lothal or any of the other missions that have come since then.

(On a personal level, a selfish level, it’s simpler. He was very arrogant when he was younger: the Empire broke him, and eventually led him to Zeb. If he had stayed at home on Coruscant, gotten a job at his parents’ business, he would probably still be a selfish, mean little man, spoilt by his prosperity and the Empire’s favouritism towards humans. Perhaps he’d even have a miserable, cruel little family, programmed to never show a single emotion because That’s Just The Way Things Are.)

“Do you worship them?” he asks, finally putting what he’s been wondering into words. He hasn’t seen much religious activity from Zeb – the occasional mention of the Ashla, perhaps, or calling annoying things bogans – but perhaps it’s something a little more private for him.

Zeb turns away with a sad look in his eyes. “Not really,” he admits. “Feel a bit bad about it sometimes. But I just can’t any more. Not since… yannow.”

“Right,” nods Alex. He wants to say more: he’s already said everything he can say. “I understand.”

“Oh, look.” Zeb, apparently determined to change the subject, gestures towards another masked Lasat – this one seems to be some sort of carnivore, like a Loth-wolf. “That’s my favourite character. Digger’s just about ta give him a name.”

Chapter Text

“The simple fact is that this Human is complicit in the genocide of billions of our people on Lasan. No matter how much the Queen or the religious elite try to sugar-coat it with their pretty words, no matter how polite or pleasant he seems to be according to those who meet him, no matter how much he attempts to make restitution, he was a fascist murderer, and should be treated as such. There are some things, in this paper’s opinion, that cannot be forgiven.”

- Neytiri Mo’at. “The (Formerly) Imperial Human In Our Midst: Can a Being Really Change Their Stripes?” in the Lira San magazine Justice Speaks

“Well,” remarks Alex, once the play is over and people are beginning to leave, “that was lovely, Verrashyn. Thank you for inviting us.”

“Of course.” Verrashyn puts an arm around her wife. “Leelu and I have been waiting for a good opportunity to come and see this one.”

Leelu nods and is about to speak when Chava’s ears prick up. “Uh-oh. Here comes Turanga Panuchi.”

“Oh, no,” sighs Verrashyn, and lets go of Leelu to turn towards the milling crowd of Lasats. “I’ll see if I can head her off.”

Alex frowns at Chava. “Who is she?”

“Turanga is an acquaintance of Verra’s.” Leelu puts a protective hand on her rounded abdomen. “She was on Lasan and, well…”

“I see.” He shouldn’t be surprised: one little ceremony won’t fix everything, after all.

Zeb takes his hand. “Wanna get outta here?”

“Perhaps we should,” replies Alex. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”

But before they can even start making their way home, a new Lasat barges up to their group: Verrashyn is trying her best to hold her back, but Turanga is too strong and angry to care. As soon as she catches sight of Alex her nostrils flare; her ears flatten. The next moment she launches into a tirade of Lasat faster and more complex that Alex can follow – he hears the phrase "women, men, and the kits too" and flinches, ashamed.

"I was wrong," he says in passable Lasat, when he thinks she is done. "I am sorry."

"Sorry!" repeats Turanga, affronted. And in heavily accented Basic: "That is not enough. Nothing you say can change what you did."

"I know," replies Alex. He bows his head. "That evil haunts me to this day."

She scoffs. “Not as much as it haunts your victims!”

“Turanga -” pleads Verrashyn.

“Tell me why I should listen to the Human,” says Turanga, in exactly the same tone as Alex used to say the Lasat before he had that first unexpected heart-to-heart with Zeb. “To the nulushma.”

What follows is a stream of sudden rapid-fire Lasat from Zeb and the other Lasats, with much gesticulating and flaring of nostrils. Chava actually growls. A breeze from nowhere ruffles Turanga’s hair. At last, Turanga backs down with a reluctant nod to Chava.

“I will not apologise to him,” she says, returning to Basic. Her growl shows through in her voice, an almost subvocal rumble that tones every word. Alex suddenly remembers the first conversation – well, the first fight he had with Zeb: there was a menacing rumble just like this behind his words. “He does not deserrrve it.”

Alex bows his head. “I don’t expect an apology. I understand, Turanga. I was responsible for suffering on a scale I can never fully atone for. It is I who owe an apology to you.”

“And all of my family and frrriends,” she hisses. “And everrrry Lasat who was on ourrrr planet.”

“Yes,” murmurs Alex. “I know.”

“What was that word she used?” asks Alex quietly, later, on the way home. “Foot… eat?”

Zeb’s ears drop. “Close enough. Someone who eats with their feet, instead a their hands. ‘S basically sayin’… uncivilised. Like an animal – a beast.”

“I see.” Alex sighs. “Well, it’s not the worst I’ve been called. She was perfectly justified.”

“Alex,” replies Zeb, a little reproachfully.

Alex shrugs. “It’s not even a particularly effective insult. My feet aren’t exactly flexible enough to eat with, and I couldn’t contort my legs enough to -”

“That ain’t the point.”

“It’s all right,” Alex insists, linking arms with him. “It would be dishonest and cowardly of me to pretend that what I did never happened. I have to accept the consequences. To be honest, I was expecting a lot worse than just unkind words.”

Zeb huffs. “Still.”

They continue on in silence for a few moments; Alex decides to change the subject. “You told me the main character’s name, but I don’t think I understood it. There were a lot of words I didn’t recognise.”

“Er -” Zeb grimaces and waves his free hand around vaguely. “Something like, ‘a person who digs really long complicated tunnels even though she doesn’t need to’.”

“My word,” says Alex.

“It’s fancier ‘n that,” adds Zeb, “but I dunno the words in Basic. Gotta look it up inna dictionary.”

Alex looks up at him and smiles. “You are a lot more eloquent in Lasat, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I speak posh in Lasat,” Zeb snorts. “I sound all proper an’ formal. Well educated, an’ all that.”

“No wonder everyone likes you so much,” chuckles Alex. “Handsome, accomplished, and highly intelligent? What more could anyone want?”

“Aw, you.” Zeb’s earrings dance in the starlight, captivating in their beauty, with the fluttering of his ears. Alex is reminded once again of the butterflies. There’s another one near them even now, he realises, just a metre or so behind. Perhaps they’re nocturnal. “Yer such a flatterer.”

“Because you deserve it, alitha.” Alex leans towards him. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you as a husband. Even without your looks, your talents, your brains, you’re incredibly kind, caring, noble… If you had nothing else but your personality, you’d still be absolutely incredible.”

“…Ya really mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” replies Alex, looking deep into his eyes. “There’s nothing in the Universe that could make me stop loving you.”

Chapter Text

“What do you do, then, if a child latches onto the ceiling, walls, etc., in their sleep? This is a fairly common problem, especially amongst kits who are still learning to control their claws. In less civilised times, some cultures would clip a kit’s claws until they were old enough to control themselves; this, of course, is a barbaric practice best left behind in the refuse of history. No, the answer is much simpler than that.

You may remember that at one point in our evolutionary path, the ancestors of Lasats slept hanging from branches by their hands and feet. Therefore, I believe the best solution to a child who, for example, is startled out of bed and latches onto the door post, is to let it happen. Give them a log, for example, attached to the wall a short distance above their bed, which they may latch onto safely until they have grown out of this stage. Other options such as bunk beds may also help the child wean off this habit.”

- Dr Imris Gret, Raising Happy, Healthy Kits for the Modern Lasat

It happens not in the midst of a fight as it had for Ezra, nor when Alex is in danger, nor even when Zeb himself is in danger. It happens when Zeb fumbles and drops a bowl of soup and it never reaches the ground. Zeb stares at it, stupidly: it hovers innocently in mid-air as if nothing had happened. Karabast, there isn’t even a drop of soup on the floor.

He reaches out and picks up the bowl automatically. Alex stares at him.

“Garazeb,” he begins, and it’s the first time Zeb’s heard his full name from Alex in a while. “Since when have you been able to use the Force?”

Zeb looks down at his hands. “Uh… since just now?”

It’s not supposed to be like this. He knows it isn’t.

“I thought you weren’t Force-sensitive?”

“So did I,” he admits. Then: “Aw, karabast.”

Alex takes a deep breath. “Right. Well. This is new. I’ve never heard of someone getting it as an adult.”

“We never heard a lot about the Force while the Empire was ruling in any case,” agrees Zeb faintly.

“Good point.” Alex begins to pace back and forth. “All right. We clearly don’t have the expertise to handle this. We need – I think we need a Jedi.”

“A Jedi? But Kanan – and Ezra -”

“I know, alitha.” Alex shakes his head. “We still have some options. There’s Luke, isn’t there?”

Oh, no. That sounds way too serious. That sounds like Zeb having to get involved in Jedi nonsense, again – perhaps even as an active participant. He’s getting a headache just thinking about it. “Can’t we just… ignore it?”

“Zeb, you can’t ignore the Force,” says Alex. “At least… I don’t think you can? I don’t know! Probably not! The Force comes with responsibility!”

“Yeah, that’s kinda what I’m worried about!”

Alex takes a deep breath. “If we find a Jedi, the Force is… more or less their job, isn’t it? They’ll know how best to help you, won’t they?”

“Right,” nods Zeb, shakily. “Right. Okay.” And then: “We should call Hera. She’ll know how ta help.”

Alex nods sympathetically. “That’s a good idea.” A moment passes before he asks: “How long, do you think, have you…?”

“Like I said, jus’ now, but that don’t make much sense…” He definitely wasn’t sensitive before coming to Lira San, but there’s no way this just appeared overnight… right? “Aw, I dunno, Alex…”

“Hm. You don’t think it’s something to do with Lira San itself?”

Zeb’s brows furrow. “I don’t think anyone here… I mean, Gron doesn’t… And none of the other Lasats seem to’ve…”

Alex bites his lip thoughtfully. “We ought to talk to Chava, then, as well.” A moment, and: “Perhaps not tonight. It’s late. Finish your soup and get some sleep, and we can… try to help you in the morning, yes?”

Zeb nods: he feels like a child again, uncertain and confused. Maybe a good night’s rest will help.

...Not that sleep comes easily, of course. He tosses and turns, heart full of uncertainty, for what feels like hours. Kanan taught Ezra some breathing techniques for exactly this sort of situation, but it’s not like Zeb was ever paying much attention. He hadn’t needed it at the time. Perhaps if he just tries to take slow, deep, even breaths…

The dream is dark when it comes to him. Not quite pure black, but shadowy like the caves of Geonosis, with a single brownish light source far above. In the shadows, a multitude of eyes observe his presence. He hears something, just at the edge of audible, strange and unsettling: whispers in unknown languages, the voices of forgotten species, louder and louder until he can begin to distinguish words in the maelstrom -

ABERRATION.

fool

the Force is not yours to use, greedy Lasat

you do not belong here

you have stolen the Force from its true users. from Kanan. from Ezra. you do not deserve this.

YOU DARE TO TOUCH THIS SACRED PLACE?

Filth.

it will be your downfall

imposter. thief. monster

The Force is Ours. You are Nothing.

ABOMINATION. LEAVE.

you will pay for this.

get out

get out

get out

“NO!” Zeb flings himself out of bed, panting: the eyes are gone. The cave is gone. The voices are gone. It’s early morning, and the loudest noises are the twitterings of birds and other dawn-loving creatures. The air is cool, but not cold. In the bed, Alex stirs.

“Nightmare?”

Zeb kneads his forehead, trying to ease the tension there. “Ya could say that, yeah.”

“...Force nightmare?”

Alex knows him so well, even if the Force is a new development. There’s no use lying. “...Maybe?”

“Chava,” says Alex.

“Chava,” agrees Zeb.

A few moments of silence pass, and then: “You’re going to have to let go of the ceiling, you know.”

Zeb blinks. Indeed, all eight of his toe-claws and four of his finger-claws have buried themselves in the rough wood of the ceiling. He hasn’t done that since he was a kit – it’s the sort of thing Lasat kits are supposed to grow out of, like wetting the bed or ear-pulling. He allows the claws to retract so that he can land with a thump on the bed.

Alex reaches over and strokes his head. “Come on, alitha,” he says. “Let’s have some breakfast, and then we can go find Chava.”

Chapter Text

“The piercings were barely healed when the Force found Zeb. Nobody then knew what triggered it, or even if it was triggered at all, but the upshot is that he simply went from being practically Force-null one minute to having Force abilities on the same level as my father the next – and he had no idea how to control it. For me and many other born Force sensitives, this concept is almost incomprehensible: how can you not know how to use the Force? It’s so easy and intuitive, at least if it has been your constant companion your whole life.

For Zeb, this was definitely not the case. My long-suffering uncle Alex liked to tell the story of that first twenty-four Standard hours: Zeb’s first use of the Force came when he was trying to catch a bowl of soup, and things only got more chaotic from there…”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 4: Uncle Zeb and Uncle Alex” in Family Heroism: A Memoir

The dream leaves Zeb jumpy, on the verge of snapping; if he were in the habit of ear-pulling, he’d have torn them right off by now. As it is, he feels the disquiet building, even as they make their way towards Chava’s place.

“I still can’t believe you have the Force now,” remarks Alex, his boots crunching on the gravel path through the shallow valley that leads towards Lira Pristi. “I mean, how?”

“I been asking that myself all night,” groans Zeb. “With the soup… tha’s the first time it’s, yannow. Happened. Kriff, and soup of all things… I mean, with Ezra, he was tryin’ ta save me from – from -”

“From me. I know.” Alex bites his lip. “Nothing in particular triggered it, then.”

“Don’t think so.”

There is a thoughtful silence – no, it isn’t silence, it’s loud, the world shouting for his attention. Zeb can hear and feel stones skittering away beneath his feet; he can feel the trees around him, communing with each other in their huge, slow way; he can feel every living creature in the surrounding area, flying or crawling or climbing or whatever else. Everything. He can feel everything and it’s so much, too much, all at once, everywhere.

He can feel Alex. His worry, though concealed behind several layers of calm and control, is still loud enough to make Zeb itch; the way Alex looks at him alone has Zeb wanting to scream.

At last, Alex asks: “Didn’t you ever take the blood test when you were young?”

“What,” snarks Zeb, “the one that got kits added ta a registry ta make it easier fer the Empire ta kill ‘em? Not likely.”

(Eyes on him. Why does he feel like there are so many eyes on him?)

(Is this what Kanan and Ezra dealt with all the kriffing time? No wonder Kanan spent half his life meditating. No wonder Ezra was so hyperactive, doing whatever he could to keep his mind off the overwhelming everything that he must have felt at all times.)

“I suppose it was more of a Core Worlds practice, anyway.” Alex frowns and scratches his beard thoughtfully. “This is all highly irregular.”

“I know!” replies Zeb, distressed. He covers his ears and scrunches his eyes closed, trying and failing to shut out the terror. “I’m kinda freakin’ out about it!”

“Whoa, Zeb, calm down, it’s -”

Zeb shakes his head. “It’s not fine! I dunno what’s kriffin’ happening to me! I feel like a bomb that’s about ta go off an’ – an’ I used ta be kriffin’ normal!”

“Zeb. Take a deep breath.” Alex puts a hand on each of Zeb’s shoulders. “Come on. In for 5. One, two, three, four, five…. And out again. And in.”

Zeb breathes, trying to calm his heart-rate, trying to convince himself that everything is completely fine, trying to feel at least a little normal again.

“Good,” encourages Alex. “That’s it, see? Just breathe.”

“...thanks, Alex.”

“Well, I am rather invested in this,” Alex replies, trying to sound light-hearted but failing miserably. “When you panicked just then, rocks started flying around.”

Zeb’s eyes snap open. “Karabast.” Indeed, there are still a few stones, from small pieces of gravel to fist-sized chunks of rock, whizzing through the air around them: even as he watches, a few narrowly miss Alex. “I don’t know how ta stop it! This ‘s never happened ta me before!”

“Zeb, shh, it’s all right, we’ll find a way to help you.” Alex clutches at Zeb’s shoulders. “It’s going to be fine, I promise.”

Zeb stares at him. “I didn’t hurt ya, did I?”

Alex blinks. “No, of course not. I’m fine.” And then: “I’m here for you, Zeb. Even if that means dodging -” he ducks – “a few small pebbles.”

“That was not a pebble.” Zeb tries, desperately, to find whatever part of him is controlling this and squash it down, to switch off the flying rocks around him, but he can’t, they’re only spinning faster, and he could swear one of them brushes past Alex’s hair, and – and -

“Tsk!” says a blessedly familiar voice. “Oh, you rocks, what are you doing, hmm?”

The spinning rocks stop in their orbit of Zeb. Chava walks calmly through the asteroid field towards the two of them and stops a few feet away. She taps one of the larger rocks with her staff: immediately, every one of the stones falls harmlessly to the ground.

“Chava,” breathes Zeb, incredibly relieved.

“I see you’ve developed a new power,” replies Chava.

Alex looks up at her. “Can you… can you help him? Do you know how to use the Force? How did he suddenly get the ability out of nowhere? What -”

“Hush, hush.” She smiles. “One question at a time. Come on, you two, I have some farfel leaf tea and pastries with your names on ‘em.”

Dumbfounded, the two of them follow her to her little cottage on the outskirts of Lira Pristi. It’s one of the more traditional Lasat dwellings, built in and around and up a large tree, with rooms that stick out almost at random like leaves on a vine. Chava sits the two of them down on a comfortable couch in the lowest room and climbs up to the kitchen on the next level: she bustles around making tea, rummaging around, and humming tunelessly for a good few minutes, until Zeb nearly has a mind to go up there and shake her.

“Zeb,” hisses Alex. “You’re making things levitate again.”

“Where?”

“Us.”

Zeb looks around and realises that, sure enough, he and Alex are several feet higher up in the air than he thought they were, suspended above the couch with no apparent input from his brain. Alex folds his arms, looking put out, and Zeb opens his mouth to apologise before -

“Wagh!”

- both of them crash down heavily onto the couch.

“Tsk, Child, you really are having a bad time of it, aren’t you?” Chava tuts, climbing down from the kitchen with a tray of pastries and tea. She puts it down carefully on the low table in front of them and begins to pour the tea into three well-worn wooden cups.

“Ya could say that,” groans Zeb, rubbing his slightly bruised ass. The headache is back, and he grimaces. “I – Chava, have ya ever heard of anyone suddenly developin’ Force powers outta nowhere, or is it just me?”

“Nope!” grins Chava cheerfully. “Not a single one. Far as I know, it starts when you’re a kit. This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. Tea?”

“Revered Chava, please,” sighs Alex, as the tray and pastries begin to float. “We would really appreciate some help.”

Chava taps the floating tray with her hand. “Ach, none of that now, tray, you know to keep the laws of gravity in my house, if you please.” The tray floats back down and settles on the table, pastries and all: if it hadn’t been an inanimate object, Zeb could almost have sworn it looked sheepish.

“Have some tea,” she says, when she catches the two of them staring. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Obediently, both Alex and Zeb take a cup: it’s a mild, slightly bittersweet tea that reminds Zeb, heart-wrenchingly, of his mother. He hasn’t thought of her in years. She would have been well into her hundred-and-thirties by now, in her prime, the same as his father.

“So,” begins Alex, hesitantly, “do you have any ideas about how to help Zeb? How he got this ability? Or are there any other Force users on Lira San who can help?”

“Please,” adds Zeb. “I never expected to be dealin’ with the Force at my age.”

Chava waves her hand dismissively. “Hmm, well, it works in mysterious ways, yadda yadda. I happen to have an understanding with the Ashla, and I can tell you for a fact there ain’t a single other Lasat on the whole planet that can so much as lift a feather with the Force. There was a Lasat Jedi around during the Clone Wars, Jaro Tapal, may he find the Ashla’s peace, but… well, you know what happened to the Jedi.”

“Not all of them,” murmurs Zeb, though that name lodges in his mind, nagging at his sense of deja vu. Maybe he met that guy when he was younger…?

“Not all of them,” concedes Chava. “Still. The plain fact of the matter is that you’re not going to find your answers sitting around here on Lira San, and I can’t train you. My way with the Ashla isn’t what you need, and I think you know that, too, don’t you?”

“...yeah,” admits Zeb. The slight murmur of power he feels from her is – strange. Like listening in to a conversation in a different language. Or – actually, it’s a lot like being in the same room as Kanan and Hera when they were being all romantic without actually saying they loved each other. Zeb has a fair few years under his belt of being a third wheel, and he’s not a fan.

“There you are then.” Chava sits back, satisfied. “Of course I would never dream of booting you off the planet, you’re like sons to me, et cetera, but you want to go find your answers. So I won’t stop you from leaving to find what you seek, either.”

“Sons? Plural?” asks Alex, shocked.

Chava raises her eyebrow at him. “I may be old, sonny, but don’t think I’ve started to slack on my grammar in my old age. I’m as good at Basic as you are. Unless you have an objection to make.”

“...No, ma’am.”

“Hah! Ma’am, I like that!” She grins wickedly at Zeb. “Finally I get some respect around here.” And then: “Well, go on with ya, then. You’ve got packing to do. Take a pastry with you for the road, go on.”

And with that, she shoos them both out of her house, pastries in hand, and it’s only when they’re halfway home that Alex blinks himself out of their mutual stunned silence.

“What the hells was that.”

“Don’t ask me,” replies Zeb. He takes a bite of his pastry: it’s very nice. “She’s got some weird-ass relationship with the Force, that’s for sure.”

Alex frowns. “How so?”

“Uh… I dunno, it’s like… they’re girlfriends?”

Alex’s eyebrows nearly fly straight off his forehead. Metaphorically, thank the gods.

Chapter Text

“One of the things I have always greatly admired about General Syndulla is that, if she sets her mind to something, it will be done – come hells or high water, she will see her mission through. I first met her when I was a teen, providing ships to the Rebellion; even then, she was a force to be reckoned with. She is also unflinchingly loyal and caring to her crew. She prides herself on never leaving a Spectre behind, even when it poses a significant risk to herself, and would traverse Mustafar barefoot for every one of them.”

- General Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, in a correspondence with Senator Mon Mothma

Alex thinks that he is taking this remarkably well, all things considered. The fact that Zeb has suddenly and inexplicably begun to levitate things is concerning, true, but there is probably a perfectly reasonable explanation somewhere out there, and no doubt someone will be able to help Zeb only levitate the things he actually wants to levitate. It’s fine. Everything is going to be fine. There’s no reason they won’t be able to handle this together. Never mind that, according to multiple religions, Zeb is now a minor demigod. It’s fine.

...All right, perhaps Alex is a little panicked. He’s loathe to admit it, but he knows next to nothing about the Force – even hanging around with Kanan and Ezra has not by any means prepared him for this new development, and he feels uncomfortably out of his depth. He tries not to let it show, obviously – Zeb is already going through quite enough without Alex’s feelings on the matter – but this whole thing is absolutely terrifying, and both he and Zeb know it.

(Can Zeb read his thoughts now? Karabast. He has no idea how to protect Zeb from the added burden of Alex’s emotions on top of his own. Alex tries to emanate peace and warmth and light, and fails miserably. Trying not to think about his anxiety is like trying not to think about a pink rancor.)

There’s exactly one person who can help them now.

"Zeb! Alex!" Hera smiles broadly from the holo projection. "How's Lira San?"

"You know about Lira San?" asks Alex.

"Duh. Who do you think was flying the Ghost when you were chasing us down that time?"

"Well, anyway," interrupts Zeb, "we're comin' out again. We need to talk to that kid Skywalker."

Hera raises a holographic eyebrow. "Found some force-sensitive Lasats, have you?"

"One Force sensitive Lasat," replies Alex, pinching the bridge of his nose. "One who suddenly acquired the Force out of nowhere, apparently."

"...What do you mean?"

Zeb grins and waves sheepishly. "Uh...Surprise?"

Hera stares.

"We would really appreciate your help, Hera," sighs Alex. "You're our only hope of getting in contact with any actual... you know... Jedi."

"I see," says Hera, and sits down suddenly. "Right." A moment: she takes a deep breath and rubs her eyes. "Of course you two couldn’t have just a normal honeymoon.”

The holoprojector loses its grip on the dashboard of the Glimmer and hovers upwards: Alex catches it and pulls it back down. “Zeb.”

“It was an accident!” wails Zeb.

Hera purses her lips. “Oh boy. Okay. Right. Skywalker it is then. Well -” she grimaces. “I don’t know. He’s been around less and less recently. Especially now that we’re gearing up for this last offensive on Jakku. He’s a great guy, really, and I think he will be able to help, but… I don’t exactly keep in contact with him.”

Alex frowns. "Not even about Jacen?"

"No. Not yet." She shakes her head. "I don't.... Jace doesn't need to be like his dad. Not yet."

Zeb nods thoughtfully. "I guess we need to find Skywalker ourselves. Any idea where he might be?"

"Not a kriffing clue," replies Hera flatly. "But Leia owes me one, and she always seems to know where he is. I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thanks, Hera.” Alex tries to smile. “Any leads would be appreciated.”

“Come visit me,” adds Hera. “Before you do anything else. I want to see this new Force power of yours in the flesh.”

Zeb rubs the back of his neck. “Dunno if I can do it on command, Hera…”

“I hate ta make all this fuss,” sighs Zeb later, crouching in front of his clothes chest as they start to pack. His ears have drooped practically down to his chin. “I jus’ wanted ta have a quiet life fer once…”

Alex strokes his head. “I’m sure you couldn’t help it. These things happen – well, perhaps not this specifically, but… Plans change, is what I mean.”

“’M sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Zeb.” Alex kneels beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Besides, it’s not like this is a bad thing. You just have to learn to control it, and then we can go back to having a normal, peaceful life. I don’t think anyone’s going to require you to use it.”

Zeb looks at him. “Ya think so?”

“I’m sure of it,” smiles Alex, more confidently than he feels. “Even if it takes a while to learn what you need, Lira San will always be here for us, won’t it?”

“Yeah,” nods Zeb: his ears begin to perk up, just a little. “Yeah, okay. Yer right. Ya always know what ta say ta make me feel better.”

“Good.” Alex rubs his cheek against Zeb’s. “I’m pretty sure every five-year-old in the Galaxy would be jealous of you, you know.”

“...Are you jealous?”

“Not really, no,” snorts Alex. “I’m quite happy picking up my things the normal way, thank you.”

Zeb leans his head against Alex. “Good,” he sighs, “cause it’s not nearly as fun as it looks.”

Alex has no doubt of that: everything that has happened in the past couple of days is proof enough. He supposes it must be easier for those who develop it during childhood, must come more naturally than to someone who has gone nearly fifty years without it – in the same way that it’s easier for Humans to learn a new language before the age of seven than after. Hadn’t he read that somewhere? Then again, learning a language is usually voluntary, and this…

“Ach, well,” adds Zeb, after a while, “could be a lot worse, I guess. Could be some horrible disease.”

“Indeed. Or some debilitating injury.” Alex gets up, stretches, and pats Zeb on the shoulder. “Come on, then. We’ve got work to do.”

Zeb nods and goes back to sorting through clothes. “Yeah.”

“Do you think we could take some of that tea Chava had?” adds Alex wistfully. “It was rather delightful.”

“Farfel leaf? Sure.” Zeb shrugs. “Won’t be hard to find, everyone loves it.”

“Excellent. I’ll get some to stock the Glimmer with, then…”

Chapter Text

“Be comforted, Cere. I too have felt the great Dark that encroaches on us all day by day thanks to the continued efforts of the Separatists. You are not by any means alone in this. Have faith: the Jedi have weathered many storms over the centuries. We shall stand strong through what comes of this war, I have no doubt.

This vision of yours intrigues me. You say you saw my sibling and I arguing over my Force abilities? I have very good relationships with all my siblings, though I don’t see them often. Are you certain it was me you saw, and not some other Lasat? It would also be particularly out of character for me to pursue any kind of romantic attachment, as the vision seems to suggest: it is against the Code, for a start. Meditate upon it, and let me know what you discover.

May the Force be with you, my friend. Trust in it always.

Jaro.”

Alex is pleased to see that Zeb relaxes a little once the panic has faded: he’s no longer accidentally flinging rocks around, which is a good sign. It means that they can take a little more time packing and preparing, that Alex can refuel the Glimmer and clean her up a little, and most of all that Zeb doesn’t have to feel permanently terrified of his own unconscious abilities.

It means that Chava has time to come around with a box of tea leaves and an an encouraging word.

“When I said the Force was going to kick us in the backside,” she says cheerfully, “I really didn’t expect you to be the foot, Child. You have no idea of the ripples! I know you aren’t very attuned to that kind of thing yet, but you know -” she gestures to one of the purple butterflies which has decided to perch on Zeb’s shoulder - “when a besneeto flaps its wings…”

“Is that what they’re called?” asks Alex. “I was wondering. They’re very stunning.” He mouths the word back, trying to break it down into its component parts, and frowns. “…Insect ear?”

“Because it looks like a pair of flying ears,” explains Chava, gesturing vaguely to Zeb’s ears. There is a certain resemblance. “This one is just a lot bigger than most.”

“Child, foot, besneeto…” Zeb rolls his eyes. “What am I next, a droid – ow!”

Chava puts her hand on her hip. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young feller-me-lad! The Force demands respect!”

Zeb mouths something along the lines of, “The Force is a nyame di’kut sac a merde,” though he does it out of Chava’s line of sight. And then, slightly louder: “I’ll respect it when it’s done somethin’. It didn’t show up when I really needed it on Lasan, or any a the other times it coulda been useful. Why now, when I’m safe an’ happy an I don’t kriffin need -”

It happens all at once: Chava brings her staff down towards Zeb’s head once again, and Zeb flinches away, bringing his hands up to protect himself but -

The staff stops suddenly in mid-air. Alex, balanced on the Glimmer's roof with a broom for the fallen leaves and spiderwebs, stares: seeing Zeb use the Force is still very much a shock.

"Well, well," remarks Chava in mild surprise. "You actually stopped it that time."

"I -" begins Zeb, and then: "Ow! What was that for?"

"That wasn't me," replies Chava primly. "You lost focus."

Zeb groans. "I don' even know how I did it inna first place!"

Chava sighs and looks up at Alex. "You see this, Warrior? You make sure he gets trained up good, maybe he'll stop complaining about being blessed by the Ashla!"

"Er -" says Alex. "I'll do my best, ma'am."

"Good, good." She nods, satisfied, and smiles broadly. "Well, then, you two have a safe trip, you hear? Don't do anything silly, and if there's any Inquisitors left make sure to stay at least a parsec away."

Zeb closes his eyes tight and massages his forehead: he’s been doing that a lot lately. "Oh kriff, Inquisitors, I forgot about those bastards... stupid spinny blade chakaar yamush motherkriffers.”

“Yes, yes,” Chava replies, with a wave of her hand. “A vendetta won’t help anyone, you know.”

“...Yeah, I know.”

“Oh, and Zeb?”

“Yeah?”

Chava looks at him: for the first time, Alex sees honest pain and grief on her face. “I may not be a Jedi, but I felt Jaro die. I felt all of them die. Please… Stay alive.”

Zeb wraps her in a hug. “I will, Chava. I promise.”

Once the general detritus has been cleared from the Glimmer, it’s time to check that all her systems are functioning and do some last-minute repairs. Some of her wires have already been chewed through by curious creatures, and there’s no way she’ll fly unless each one of them is properly fixed.

“Captains!” It’s Verrashyn, hurrying towards them with a strange look in her eyes. “Thank the stars, you haven’t left yet…”

“Are you all right, Verrashyn?” asks Alex, lifting his welding goggles. Below, Zeb pokes his head out from under the Glimmer’s belly.

“I just…” She hums and haws a little, rubs the back of her neck. “My klasu matun. She was on Kaller with her husband when Lasan fell. I don’t know what’s happened to her – she must have gone into hiding when she heard the attack on Lasan was coming. I know you’re seeking your own answers, but…”

Zeb nods. “Yeah. You want to bring her back here where it’s safe, huh.”

“Please,” murmurs Verrashyn. “Keep an eye out for her. She was the one who brought me here to Lira San long ago, years before Lasan fell.”

“What’s her name?” asks Alex. “How will we recognise her?”

“Kalo’im. And her husband is Vandi.” Verrashyn grins suddenly. “As for how you’ll know her, well, she and I are very similar. Green fur is also extremely rare even here, where Lasats flourish. It runs in the family.”

“We’ll be on the lookout,” replies Alex, with a bow.

Zeb’s forehead scrunches up. “Kalo’im? Really? Kalo’im Ethril?”

Verrashyn lights up. “Of course… she was a member of the Honour Guard under your command. I… didn’t think you’d remember her.”

“How could I forget?” Zeb shakes his head, amazed. “I knew she was off-world, but I never thought…”

“I know,” nods Verrashyn. “Everyone told me to give her up for dead, but… I survived. You survived. If there’s any hope for her…”

“We understand, Verrashyn,” smiles Alex, laying a hand on her bicep – he has to stretch a little to even get that high. “If we hear any news of her at all, we’ll let you know.”

“Thank you. Both of you.” She clutches each of their hands in turn. “May the Force be with you.”

Zeb flinches a little. “…yeah.”

Verrashyn nods, waves, and lopes off; Alex waits until she’s out of sight before turning to Zeb again.

“It still hasn’t sunk in yet, has it?”

“...Not really.”

Alex strokes Zeb’s head, trying to comfort. “That word she used wasn’t one I’m familiar with. I know matun is ‘sibling’, but klasu I don’t know. Is that a Lira San dialect, or a Lasat word I haven’t learned yet?”

“Oh, that?” Zeb relaxes, just a little. "I can’t remember the Basic word for it. Humans an’ Twi’leks an’ that, when they’re born, come in just ones and twos, like Jacen did. Lasats come in groups. Between four an’ six, usually. Ach, I dunno if I’m explaining it right.”

Alex thinks about this. “Like kittens, I suppose. They come in litters.”

“Litters, that’s the one!” Zeb nods eagerly. “The word she used means Kalo’im was one of the ones in the same litter as Verrashyn. That’s… yer really close with your litter, yannow.”

A moment: Alex opens his mouth.

“I know what you’re going to ask, an’ yeah,” sighs Zeb. “I had five litter-siblings. One died when we was just kits. The other four…” He looks away.

“I’m sorry.”

“’S not yer fault. And don’t say it is, cause we both know that ain’t true.” Zeb smiles sadly back at Alex. “You can’t bring ‘em back with grievin’. Y just… gotta live for ‘em, yannow?”

“...Right.” For a long few moments, the two of them are silent, preparation abandoned, remembering. Alex puts a hand on Zeb’s shoulder. “Do you… want to tell me about them while we’re on the way? Keep their memory alive?”

Zeb smiles, lopsided. “Yeah, Alex. An’ you can tell me what bein’ an only child’s like.”

“…How did you -? Zeb, please stop reading my mind with Force tricks.”

“…sorry, I don’t think I can control it.”

Alex nods. “All the more reason for this trip, then.”

Chapter Text

<The following communique is classified and may only be accessed by Clearance Levels ISB-030 and above.>

Upon reception of report number [REDATED] concerning the disappearance of the Rebel ship known as the Ghost, as well as the life sign scans taken by the Command Cruiser Code of Honour, we believe there is no further benefit to any forces remaining at coordinates [REDACTED]. We deem that any ship foolish enough to enter such an area, as reported, would have perished.

However, the concerns of Agent ISB-021 as to the possibility that the Rebels will reappear have been taken into account. We suggest stationing a few TIE fighters at the edges of the indicated imploded star cluster for a maximum of 24 Standard hours, subsequent to which it will be assumed that the Rebels have indeed been successfully destroyed.

No further action will be taken at this time. ISB-021 and the Code of Honour are ordered to return to Lothal with the Star Destroyer Relentless and await further instructions.

<Communique ends>

At last, after probably more preparations than are absolutely necessary, Zeb settles into the co-pilot’s chair on the Glimmer and watches as Alex lifts her gracefully into the air. His piloting has improved a lot since they first got the Glimmer; nowadays if Zeb isn’t actually looking out of the viewport he wouldn’t know they were flying, unless Alex does something creative.

“Well,” remarks Alex, when the Glimmer reaches the furthest safe point in the little pocket of space that houses Lira San, the borderline of the star cluster, “whatever you did last time to get through here, now would be a really good time to repeat that.”

“Oh, sure.” Zeb takes out his bo-rifle. “No problem.”

Alex frowns at him. “Is the bo-rifle really necessary?”

“Yup,” nods Zeb truthfully. “Wouldn’t be able ta get through without it. Navicomputer won’t cut it in that mess.”

He gestures at the imploded stars ahead of them. They did try it, on the way back from bringing Chava and Gron here; the Ghost nearly broke apart before they decided the bo-rifle was the way to go. Zeb remembers worrying whether they’d see the Imperial ship that had been chasing them on the other side – whether they’d see Alex ready and waiting to capture or kill them. But there had been nothing. He wonders when Alex had given up, or whether it had been one of the other officers that finally admitted defeat.

“I see.” Alex nods towards the cockpit door. “Do I need to leave and let you get on with it, or…?”

“Just… I need to focus on getting through the star cluster,” replies Zeb. “You can stay an’ watch if you want, but I can’t promise I won’t crash us if you distract me.”

“Got it,” replies Alex. “So, what exactly do you have to do? Is it a special function of your bo-rifle?”

Zeb nods and begins to reconfigure the bo-rifle into the correct shape. “I think the ancients built a kind of… key into them. That’s why only Honour Guards can carry ‘em. We’re the ones who protect the gates to our home.”

Alex watches thoughtfully: Zeb takes up his stance once more and aims at the control panel and -

“Wait, are you going to shoot our navicomputer -”

Zeb rolls his eyes and flicks the switch. And Alex sees.

The Glimmer bursts out of the imploded star cluster in a flurry of cloud: Zeb shakes himself out of the trance-like state he was in to guide the ship through. His eyes had closed, at some point, and he opens them to see Alex staring open-mouthed at him.

“Bloody hells, Zeb,” he stutters. “That was the Force!”

Zeb blinks at him in confusion.

“Come on,” continues Alex insistently. “You were controlling the whole ship with just your mind and your bo-rifle. You can’t tell me that isn’t textbook Force.” And then: “Hold on, if you’ve only had the Force for a few days, how the hells did you get us through there on the way in?”

Zeb thinks about this for no more than a few seconds, before: “Oh, karabast, yer right.” He sits down, suddenly, on the co-pilot’s chair. “When I came in here the first time – that was the time ya were chasing us – I think Kanan and Ezra helped guide the ship through the Force. But with ya aboard, I somehow managed to get us through without their help. I think… Maybe that’s the first time I actually, yannow, had it.”

Alex’s brow furrows. “Well, you definitely didn’t have it before. Call me crazy, but I think the trip itself somehow gave you the Force.”

“Kanan and Ezra showed me how,” nods Zeb, thoughtfully, “and I… musta tapped into that.”

“Hm.” Alex scratches his beard. “You controlled it. You haven’t been able to control it any other way.”

“Right,” Zeb sighs. His head hurts from thinking too much; he needs a nap. “One thing I can control, an’ it’s too specific ta be useful anywhere else.”

“That’s not what I was thinking, actually,” replies Alex, holding up a finger. “If you practice getting into that same state of mind, even without this exact set of circumstances, you’ll probably be able to develop a much greater control.”

Zeb blinks. “...Actually, yeah, that might jus’ work.” And then: “I still wanna talk to an actual Jedi, though. All I know about Force trainin’ is yer s’posed ta… do handstands an’ stuff, an’ then people throw stuff at ya. Or somethin’. No way I’m gonna figure out everythin’ on my own just with that.”

“Of course,” nods Alex, punching in their next set of coordinates to get to Hera. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Chapter Text

“Lasat families are very close-knit, centring on a matriarch – usually the mother or grandmother – who is the final authority on every household matter. In many cases, families will work closely together to help raise each other’s kits, trade resources, and socialise under the watchful eyes of their matriarchs. Many theories posit that the monarchy of Lasan was originally a much extended version of this system, with the Queen as the arch-matriarch and the whole of Lasan as her metaphorical children…

Equally important to a Lasat is the presence of siblings. It is very rare – in fact nearly impossible except in particularly tragic cases – for a Lasat to be an only child. They will usually grow up with a handful of siblings with whom they climbed out of the pouch: the closeness between them remains long into adulthood. This fosters a natural inclination in many Lasats towards cooperation, conflict resolution, and resource sharing, as well as a strong loyalty to those they see as siblings – biological or otherwise.”

- Dr Lori Quaid, The Lasat Mind

“So, anyway,” begins Alex after a while of watching the stars flow by, “you were going to tell me more about your siblings and Lasat family structure and things like that.”

Zeb tips his head. “Thought you knew a little about that kinda thing already. Didn’t ya do research afore…?”

“All my research was military focused,” replies Alex, with a sad little smile. “All my Lasat before I met you were things like kill and attack and take me to your leader. And, well, I suppose I haven’t spent enough time on Lira San to really understand the culture.”

“Fair point.” Zeb leans back in his chair. “Family structure, huh? I can do that. You already know we come in litters. Most kit-bearers only have one or two litters over their lifetime – that’s about three hundred years, mind. I did hear of some crazy religious lady once who had three litters.”

Alex does the maths. “That’s… what, up to eighteen kits?”

“Not all at once, obviously,” replies Zeb. “Cause of Lasat reproductive cycles, innit. I don’t wanna go too much into it, but at the end of the day it’s only possible for a Lasat to get pregnant about every fifteen ta thirty Standard years or so. Lotsa time to consider whether you want any more.”

“Gosh.” Alex frowns. “So… if you were in the second litter, your siblings would already be adults, more or less.”

“Yep. And they could even have their own kits by the time you grew up.” Zeb shrugs. “That’s why you gotta make sure to keep track of all your relatives, otherwise you’ll end up kriffin’ your adult nephew or somethin’.”

Alex raises his eyebrow.

“It’s been known ta happen,” insists Zeb.

“I believe you.” A moment, and: “So what about your siblings, then?”

Zeb takes a deep breath and sighs. “Aman only had the one litter. Who to tell ya about first… Tigranes. She was always the biggest an’ strongest of us. Real adventurer, Tiggy. Completely diff’rent from Peredur, he was a brainiac. He ended up bein’ a – what’s it called? - accountant? Works with numbers.”

Alex chuckles quietly. “My word.” And then: “So you weren’t the strongest?”

“I was pretty close.” Zeb winks and presses a hand to his chest. “I made up fer it by bein’ the handsomest and most accomplished. And the most persuasive.”

“Well, I’m not objecting,” replies Alex with a little laugh.

“Course you ain’t, cause it’s true.” Zeb shakes his head, and: “Anyway, uh… let’s see, my other sis, Taweret, was a real pretty one. Had a bunch a people pinin’ after her. Then there was one we’re not sure, they died afore we could name ‘em.”

Alex gasps. “Oh, I’m so -”

“Ah, it happens all the time.” Zeb shrugs, loose and casual. “Five outta six survivin’ is pretty good.”

“But - um...” A moment, and Alex frowns. “Anyway. There was one more?”

“Chinyere,” replies Zeb, with a sudden soft smile. “They were all of our favourite sibling. Got on with everyone, did Chi. They were always the best at, yannow, people. They were like Ezra that way.”

“They all sound like wonderful beings,” smiles Alex, a little sadly. “I wish I could have met them.”

“They were,” says Zeb. And then: “Ya’ve met some a my fam’ly, though.”

“The Spectres.”

Zeb nods. "They were – still are – like litter-siblings to me. Everyone joked about Hera bein' our mum, but she... felt more like a sister pretending t' be a mum, if that makes sense. An' now she really is a mum."

Alex leans back in his seat. “For a long time, I couldn’t understand that. All I had were colleagues. Nobody actually cared about each other that way.”

“Yeah? What about your folks?”

"Oh, my parents weren’t that interesting." He shrugs. "I get the impression that they had me out of duty. Producing an heir for the family business, you know."

Zeb raises his eyebrows. That he hasn’t heard about yet. “Family business?”

"My father inherited a droid repair shop from his father,” replies Alex, completely matter-of-fact. “I would have inherited it from him."

"Repairin' droids in the Clone Wars?” asks Zeb. “Could a been, yannow, suspicious."

"You mean, people could have thought we were Separatists? Surprisingly, no. I suspect my father and grandfather had connections which kept them free from questioning."

"Hmm." Zeb's ears shift a little. "Ya didn't go into the family business, though, obviously."

"I would have done,” replies Alex with a frown. “My parents were the type to make sure I knew all the ins and outs of their business, from repairing a loose circuit to major re-hauls, and it's not like I wasn't interested. It's just the war was on, and I wanted to do my civic duty. So I went into the military instead."

"And here ya are," nods Zeb.

"And here I am,” agrees Alex. “Likely they disowned me and named my cousin as the successor to the business."

"You have a cousin?"

"Two. Piotr and Anya." Alex shrugs. "Piotr is married with two children, last I checked, and Anya ran away from home and became a stripper.”

“Wait, what?” Zeb sits up and stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Apparently.” It was the sort of thing only spoken about in whispers and through vague implications, but Alex had gotten the gist. “I haven’t gone back there since I was a teen. Piotr invited me to his wedding, but I suspect that was more out of duty than any familial bond.”

“Karabast, does no one on Coruscant actually love each other?” A shake of the head, as if he already knows the answer: Alex suspects that he does. “Ya should probably at least write ta them or somethin’, yannow. At least let ‘em know yer alive an’ that. I mean, if I thought any a my family was alive…”

“It’ll only ever be a letter,” sighs Alex. “You know what my mother said when I left for the Academy? That I should come back when the Empire had succeeded or not at all. So, well, I’m not going back. Ever.”

“An’ what about…” Zeb stretches his hand out to brush against Alex’s knuckles. “Yannow. Tellin’ ‘em about us.” His tone is not judgemental; still, Alex shrinks at it. Zeb is lucky, at least in that respect. Hera and Sabine have been unconditionally supportive, seeing the good even in Alex.

“They are the sort of people who -” His fingers clasp Zeb’s large clawed thumb tight. How to express it? “They disapprove of different species… mixing. And to my knowledge they still hold to the Imperial view of Force sensitivity.”

It took a lot of work to unlearn what they taught, what the Empire taught; now, Alex is more grateful than ever that he has rejected their way of thinking. The ‘eradicate at all costs’ parts especially.

Several expressions cross Zeb’s face at once: eventually, he settles on a sort of resigned grimace. “Yeah, okay, I see why that would be a problem.” And then: “I’m sorry.”

“For what, existing? They’re the ones who -”

“No, I -” An open, loving look, full of empathy that Alex has never deserved, will never deserve. “I’m sorry they’re like that.”

“They’ve made their choices.” Alex puts both of his hands around Zeb’s and looks back into those big, honest eyes. “And I have made mine.”

Chapter Text

“THE MIND OF A JEDI can move mountains. But the heart of the Jedi can move souls. For there is more to the Jedi than the Force. There is kindness, there is compassion, there is light, and there is love. Love for all creatures, all sentients, all life, even all machines; love that brings forgiveness and mercy and healing. The Jedi encompasses all of this in their actions and interactions, in the very air they breathe, in the light that emanates from them in the Force: one must only look to see the beauty of this love all around them.”

- Jedi Master Lyr Farseeker, Poetics of a Jedi

Jacen Syndulla, at the tender age of four-going-on-five, is hands down the most adorable little being Alex has ever laid eyes upon. Not that there’s much competition, but if there were Jacen would win every time. He stares wide-eyed up at the two of them, clinging to his mother’s leg, until Hera cups a hand at the back of his head and guides him forward.

“Come on, Jace,” she smiles. They’ve joined her on the Ghost – technically, they could sit together on her new, much larger ship, the Lodestar, but Hera seems to find it rather impersonal for this particular reunion. “You know Uncle Zeb and Uncle Alex. Say hello.”

"Hello Uncle Theb. Hello Uncle Aleth."

Alex completely forgets all sense and even what they came here for. He smiles at Jacen and waves: Jacen, shyly, waves back before turning his attention to Zeb.

“Mama,” he murmurs, “he’th glowy.”

Zeb, Hera, and Alex stare at each other in consternation. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that Jacen would be able to sense Zeb’s new powers, but of course it makes sense. Jacen has been floating blocks since he was two: of course he can see whatever aura it is that marks Zeb out as Force sensitive, new as that development may be.

Zeb, surprisingly, is the first to recover, though he looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “Yeah, kit,” he agrees. “Prob’ly. ‘S a long story.”

Hera raises her eyebrow at him as if she wants to say something, but pats Jacen instead. “That’s right, Jacen, but me and Uncle Alex can’t see it, can we?”

“Not at all,” agrees Alex. Occasionally, ‘Uncle Alex’ still amazes him: with no siblings, and estranged from his cousins, he never expected anyone to call him that. It’s been years, and the fact that Hera of all people would consider him family enough for it…

Jacen thinks about this. “Oh. Okay.”

“Well, anyway, take a seat, boys,” says Hera, sitting down and gesturing in front of her. “Jace, we three are gonna have a grown-up chat. So why don’t you go wake up Chopper and play with him, okay?”

“Chop-chop!” agrees Jacen, and hurries over to where Chopper has powered down in the corner of the room. “Wakey wakey!”

Alex watches him wistfully: he remembers being that age, surrounded by droids in the repair shop. Zero-Two had taught him everything he knows, from Binary to how to fasten his shoes. He hadn’t cried when his parents finally sold her – his father had reminded him, often, that she was only a droid whose only purpose was to be sold – but he had wanted to.

It would be nice, he thinks -

…Oh. This is probably the absolute worst time for Alex to realise that maybe being a parent wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world after all. He puts the thought far to the back of his mind, refuses to entertain it even for a moment: there are a plethora of reasons why it could never happen, after all, not least the fact that Alex is completely unqualified and would probably be pretty terrible at it.

(Well. He wasn’t so bad when Jacen was a baby. But then, he was only really babysitting Jacen. He remembers having a similar feeling then, too, one that he quickly forgot once they left Yavin. No doubt he’ll leave this foolishness behind again soon.)

Chopper warms up into life and shakes himself.

“Oh,” he says unenthusiastically, “hello, Meatbag Number Four.” And then, in a friendlier tone: “Hello, Fulcrum.”

Zeb grins. “Hey, Chopper.”

“Remember, it is my duty to protect this tiny organic,” Chopper informs him flatly. “If you touch him, I will end you.”

“Chopper,” sighs Alex, “threats won’t help anyone.”

“They make me feel better.” He nudges Jacen. “Come on, small organic, we’re leaving.”

“Chop-chop!” insists Jacen. “Let’th go already!” And then, hitting Chopper on the outer casing: “You’re it! Catch me if you can!”

With that, he dashes out of the room; Chopper turns to follow him, and hesitates.

“By the way,” he adds, “weren’t you two on Lira San? Why come back to a place in the Galaxy that is obviously inferior?”

“I thought Hera would have told you already,” replies Alex. “Zeb has developed Force abilities.”

Chopper stares at him for a long time. “That circuit-fucker,” he says at last. “And here I thought I’d seen the last of those stupid magical meat sacks.”

“Chopper!”

But Chopper is already trundling away, whistling menacingly.

“Well, anyway, boys,” begins Hera, as soon as the door closes behind him, “grown up time. Tell me everything.”

They do. Alex tells most of it – the soup, the rocks, Chava, and the path to Lira San – while Zeb interjects occasionally with things like, “And I had this weird dream, right…”

At last, they run out of things to say; Hera stares at them for a long few minutes.

“All right,” she says at last, counting on her fingers, “let’s see. Levitating things, check. Vivid dreams, check. Alex, you said he read your mind?”

“Yes, once or twice.”

“So, mind reading, check. Yep,” nods Hera, decisively, “that’s a pretty classic case of Force sensitivity. The question is, where did it come from all of a sudden, how did it happen, and -”

“How do I kriffin’ control it,” finishes Zeb.

Hera gives him a long, hard stare. “I was just getting to that.”

“So,” begins Alex, “about Luke Skywalker…”

“Yes,” replies Hera. “About him. He’s disappeared.”

“He what,” says Zeb.

Hera folds her arms. “I heard he was at Jakku the other day, but I didn’t see him, and nobody has any idea where he’s gone since.”

Alex frowns. “What did Princess Leia say?”

“She said she last saw him on Ajan Kloss, but there’s no guarantee he’ll actually be there. She seems to think he doesn’t actually want to be found right now.”

“Karabast,” says Zeb. “Of course it has ta be the furthest planet from here.”

“Mhm,” Hera agrees. And then: “Still, it’s better than nothing. If Kanan or Ahsoka was here… Even Ezra. But as far as I can tell, he’s all we’ve got.”

Alex shakes his head. “Thank you for trying, Hera. We’ll keep you updated.” And then: “So, anyway, how was Jakku?”

Hera smiles broadly. “Oh, we had some fun there, let me tell you…”

Eventually, it’s time for the two of them to get going: they have a Skywalker to catch, after all. As Zeb and Alex are about to leave, Hera whispers a few things to Zeb which have his ears standing straight up as if startled.

“Hera! I told ya before, we don’t do that!”

“I’m just saying. It’s worth a try.” She waves at both Zeb and Alex. “Well, anyway, bye, boys! Behave, and Zeb, don’t forget what I told you.”

“Goodbye, Hera,” waves Alex. He waits all of ten seconds after the door closes behind them to ask: “So what did she say to you?”

Zeb makes a face as though he’d rather die than talk about this, but: “She had some… suggestions about how ta use the Force. Real creative.”

Alex thinks about this for a moment. “You don’t mean…”

“I know more ‘n I ever wanted to know ‘bout Kanan an’ Hera’s sex life now, yeah,” replies Zeb.

Delightful.

Chapter Text

“Meditation is an important tool to hone one’s aptitude for the Force, though not everyone has the knack for it. It is easy to become distracted from what the Force is telling us by daily worries or minor annoyances. However, do not be discouraged. This is entirely normal. Remember: to the Cosmos around us, our daily lives, our little dramas and concerns, are but a brief mote of light in the vast flowing river of the Force and the Universe. Once this has been accepted, it is much easier to let the Self go and join the Collective.

Opening oneself to the Force, then, is often more instinctual than a conscious effort: it is often when the practitioner stops trying to connect to the Force and simply lets their self be that they will find the Truth of the Force within their self. It is from here that we have the millennia-old adage do or do not, there is no try. It is also why some Force sensitives may find it easier to connect to the Force in sleep – after all, what state is more instinctive, more open to the Force’s influence than sleep?”

- Jedi Master Ri-Lee Howell, The Aionomica, vol. 1

Ajan Kloss is a long, long way away from all the action that Hera’s been involved in, far from any of the usual convenient hyperspace routes. Two days into alternating hyperspace travel and sublight, Zeb is getting impatient.

At last, Alex folds his arms. “Maybe you should, er, meditate or something?”

Zeb makes a face. “Do I haveta? I dunno how!”

“You should at least try,” Alex says. "If what Chava says is true, you may be the only Lasat other than her capable of using the Force in the entire universe, never mind the Galaxy. So you should make the effort to learn.”

Karabast. He hadn’t thought of that. The added pressure definitely isn’t helping.

“…That was in poor taste, wasn’t it,” adds Alex, when he sees the expression on Zeb’s face. “I’m sorry.” And then: “Didn’t you ever watch Kanan and Ezra do it?”

He snorts. “Ezra was usually too hyper ta sit still fer more ‘n five minutes. An’ Kanan mostly went into his room an’ locked the door. Ta be honest, I ain’t sure he wasn’t secretly readin’ romance holos or somethin.”

“Well, I don’t know how to meditate,” replies Alex flatly, “but it can’t be that difficult.”

“I guess it’s jus’ sittin’ quietly, really,” Zeb agrees. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, and closes his eyes. “I’ll try that.”

“Don’t you have to be alone?”

Zeb shrugs. “I ‘unno. The only times I did see Kanan an’ Ezra do it, it was cause they were out in the common room with the rest of us. Never really paid that much attention to what Kanan was sayin’ or anythin’, though.”

A pause: he hears Alex hum thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll just be here reading if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Zeb sits, and waits, and has no idea what the hells he’s doing here. This isn’t him. All he can see his the blackness behind his eyelids: he can’t just slip into some altered state at the flip of a switch. Is that what they do? The fact that he doesn’t know just drives it home: he is way out of his depth. He is just about to open his eyes and declare the whole experiment a bust when -

He looks up into the clear, blue eyes of his son: the boy – no, the young man, the Human – takes so much after him. He raises a gloved, four-fingered hand, shaking with the effort, and holds his son’s face. For the first time in – oh, decades, now, though he loses track of time – his vision is clear, his heart is clear, his mind is clear.

Somehow now that he is dying he feels lighter than he ever has. The Light – he hasn’t seen the Light so clearly since he was a child. There was always, always a shadow on his heart: now there is only grief. He could have been a good father, a good husband. He could have had so much more. If his thoughts had not been clouded by the Dark…

“Now,” he hears himself wheeze. “Go, my son. Leave me.”

The young man shakes his head, eyes shining with tears. “No. No, you’re coming with me. I won’t leave you here. I’ve got to save you!”

So much like his mother, a saviour at heart. The loving, caring soul that couldn’t bear to leave a suffering being without help, even at the cost of everything. The stubborn and brave and determined Queen of so long ago – yes, he sees her in the young man, now that his blinders are off.

“You already have,” replies Zeb, with all the tenderness still left in him after years of hate. “You were right. About me. Tell your sister… you were right.”

In his last few moments, his eyes betray him: he sees double. Two identical young men, both Jedi, both with the same eyes and the same heartbroken expression. Twin suns, twin sons. In the light – or perhaps it is just his eyes still – his/their hair looks green and soft.

Everything fades away again. Zeb comes back into awareness slowly, thoughtfully. At first, it is the hum of the ship around him, the faint crackle of the lights and the life-support system; then, it’s Alex, with his slow quiet breathing and beneath, the faint but distinguishable beat of his heart. Outside, the stars flow by in a hypnotic stream, flashes of life and death passing by too quick to count. It’s a big Galaxy out there, and here they are somewhere in it, a tiny brief glimmer among millions of bright sparkling lights.

Zeb opens his eyes. In the pilot’s chair, Alex has his feet on the dashboard and the holo-novel on his chest: fast asleep. Zeb, trying not to wake him, gets up as softly as he can – not an easy feat when his entire lower half is pins and needles – and sits back down in the co-pilot’s chair.

Well. That was interesting. He checks the chrono: it’s been three hours, though it doesn’t feel that way at all. Is that what they call a vision? It’s a lot different than he was expecting. He thought there’d be more… mystery. More incomprehensible symbolism. Instead it just seems like a normal old dream. He doesn’t even feel well rested, just headachy and body-tired.

...Maybe he just fell asleep without realising it. Yeah. That’s probably it.

When Alex wake up at last, they’re almost to Ajan Kloss. He yawns, stretches, and rubs his eyes slowly; his holo-novel nearly falls off his chest, but he catches it just in time.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he remarks, taking his feet off the dashboard. “How did it go?”

“I fell asleep,” says Zeb.

“Hm,” says Alex. “Sorry, but I don’t believe you. I’ve only ever seen one person sleep like that, and I’m pretty sure they were at least partly mechanical. And I’ve definitely never seen you sleep like that.” He gives Zeb a piercing look. “What did you see?”

“I dreamed about -” begins Zeb, and stops when Alex raises an eyebrow. “Awright, awright, it mighta been a vision. But it might not.”

Alex tips his head. “Tell me.”

Zeb sighs deeply. “It was… I was dyin’, I think. ‘Cept it wasn’t me. It was a Human, or somethin’ like a Human.” He raises his hand, all three fingers and a thumb. “Four fingers, see. An’ there was a guy there who was…”

Zeb stops: the compulsion to say ‘my son’, is still strong in his mind, even though by all rights it should be ‘his son’, the son of the person he was in the dream – in the vision. He knows how it would sound. He’s really not sure how Alex would take it. Dreaming about having a wife is one thing, since he obviously doesn’t and has never wanted one of them; dreaming about a son is a whole other mess.

They've never really talked about kits. Zeb has always assumed Alex was in the 'definitely not' camp because of the whole voluntary sterilisation thing, but… When Alex looked at Jacen the other day, Zeb felt it: a sudden, intense wave of emotion, of longing, of regret that was squashed almost as soon as it appeared.

…This is probably a bad time to be thinking about it.

“Well,” finishes Zeb at last, “he was trying to help, anyway. Also Human. Looked like -” He frowns. “Actually, he looked kinda like Luke Skywalker.”

“You had a vision about Skywalker,” repeats Alex incredulously.

“And his… father, I think.”

“And his father.” Alex stares. “Who is his father?”

Zeb thinks hard about this. He doesn’t remember any context cues in particular: everything was hazy, as things often are in dreams. “All I know is, he’s probably Human, and he wears black gloves.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“Oh, and Skywalker has a sister,” adds Zeb suddenly. “Apparently.”

“Hm.” Alex strokes his beard. “Now that is interesting…”

Chapter Text

“You have to understand. You heard about the vision I saw, but it’s not just that. It’s everything. I have a political career to think about. I have Han and this baby. The Force – as much as I feel its pull, I know that I would never get anything done as a Jedi. Well, maybe that’s not what I mean, but you know. You are the Jedi; I have other ways of connecting to the Galaxy around me. We may be twins, but we are different people, at the end of the day.

As for that other question – my father has always been and will always be Bail Prestor Organa. He may not have been connected to me by blood, but he cared for me and raised me. All Darth Vader ever did for me was torture and imprison me. Maybe for you it’s different, I don’t know. But for me, I will remember the man who loved me as his own and sacrificed his life so that I could escape as my father and a true hero. Not the man who – need I remind you – took part in the destruction of my entire planet.

I’m sorry for everything. May the Force be with you.

Leia”

Ajan Kloss is misty, green: it looks like Yavin 4, if a little marshier. Zeb waits as Alex brings the Glimmer down in a small clearing: there is a life sign out there, but Zeb can’t see anyone at this distance.

“Guess I gotta have a chat with him,” he rumbles reluctantly.

“Tell him about the vision you had,” Alex replies, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go on. Talk to him. Comm me if you need me.”

Zeb looks from him to the shadows in the distance and back again. “Yer not comin’ with?”

“I…” Alex hesitates. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. You need to talk about… Force things.” And then, a little more confidently: “Go on. Just come back as soon as you and Skywalker have figured something out.”

Zeb takes a deep breath and stands. “Right. Yeah. I’ll… I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that, he ambles out of the Glimmer and into the warm, slightly muggy air: tiny purple-winged insects hover in the air around him, and he waves them off, absent-minded, as he goes. The ground is damp and slightly squishy beneath his feet, nice and cooling on his toes. There is a faint path, and he follows it in the direction of the life sign he saw. The mists swirl and eddy around him.

In the distance, there is a faint fog-hidden shadow on the top of a small rise in the landscape, and for the first time Zeb feels the presence of another Force sensitive, a strong pulse of recognition that cannot be an accident on Skywalker’s part. He knows Zeb’s here, and he wants Zeb to know he’s here, too.

“Uhh…hello?” Zeb ambles up to the shape. “Uh, ya probably don’t know me. Name’s Zeb. Uh. I was in the Rebellion. I kinda need yer help.”

“Ah, Garazeb Orrelios.” The shadow collapses suddenly: Zeb is disconcerted to find a pile of rags. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Another shadow appears in the corner of his vision, just ahead of him. Ugh. So he’s that kind of Jedi.

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Listen, kit, you ain’t the first Jedi I’ve met. I lived with two fer years. If ya wanna be all mysterious, go fer it, but I ain’t gonna be impressed.”

“I see,” says Luke, from just beside his elbow. “Well, in any case, welcome. I had a vision about you.”

Zeb raises his eyebrows. “Yannow, ‘s kinda funny ya should say that,” he replies, “cause I had a vision about you. But I ain’t supposed ta have visions, cause I weren’t Force sensitive until recently.”

“Indeed.” Luke gestures ahead of them. “Shall we walk?”

“So,” begins Zeb, following him through the marsh, “what did you see?”

“I saw your future.”

Zeb grins. “Ooh, any chance ya saw next week’s swoop racing results?” And then, when Luke gives him a Look: “Kiddin’, kiddin’. I know that ain’t how it works.”

“You have the potential to be a powerful Jedi, Zeb,” replies Luke. “But you are easily swayed by your emotions: you also have the potential to be a powerful Sith.”

In all honesty, he doesn’t particularly want to be either. “I hate those Sith bastards.”

Luke frowns. “Your hatred is a weakness. Your strong emotions may be your downfall, Zeb.” And then: “Tell me, what was your vision about?”

“I think,” says Zeb, “I saw the last words yer father said to ya before he died.”

Look looks up at him sharply. “And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Tell yer sister ya were right’,” Zeb says. “Who’s yer sister?”

“...That’s not important right now.” Luke stares ahead thoughtfully. “Do you have any idea who my father was, Zeb?”

“Nope.”

“He was Darth Vader.”

Zeb blinks. “Yer kiddin’.”

“No, I'm serious.” Luke's expression becomes briefly distant. “But enough about me. I’m curious. You said you only became Force sensitive recently. What happened? Tell me from the beginning.”

“Well -” begins Zeb, and retells the whole story.

Once he’s done, Luke frowns. "That's interesting, Zeb."

"That's not the word I'd use. Terrifyin', more like."

"Hm." Luke puts his hands behind his back. "Let me tell your how I found the Force. I was a farm boy, barely educated. I didn't really know anything about the Force, Jedi, lightsabers... Not like I know now. I definitely didn't understand how to use the Force, even though it was within me.”

Zeb frowns. “An’ then?”

“Once I began my training with Master Kenobi – have you heard of him? - it all began to click. It began to guide me so that I could destroy the first Death Star. Essentially, I learned because of the Death Star. And now…”

Luke gestures ahead of them into the thick, swirling fog, and the clouds part. They’ve circled back around without Zeb realising it: there in front of his eyes is the Glimmer. He can’t see into the cockpit from this angle, can’t see what Alex is up to – reading, perhaps, or possibly asleep.

"So,” muses Luke, letting the fog drop back down again, “I think it is possible for the Force to be dormant in someone. Perhaps until some triggering event brings it to the fore."

Zeb frowns. "I've had a lotta triggerin' events. My kriffin’ species was nearly exterminated. An I was livin' with two Jedi – well, a Jedi an a Padawan – fer years after that."

Luke turns back the way they came. “Hm. That is strange.” And then: “Perhaps, we are asking the wrong questions here. Perhaps it should not be, ‘how did this happen’, but ‘what shall we do with it now that it has happened’. What do you think?”

“...Yeah,” agrees Zeb, with a frown. “Maybe so.”

Chapter Text

“There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

There is no death, there is the Force.”

- A mantra of the Jedi Code, thought to have been written by Jedi Master Odan-Urr

“Well, Zeb,” remarks Luke quietly, “you may have potential, but talent without training is nothing. I…” He hesitates. “I have only trained one person so far. My sister. She decided not to pursue that path.”

Zeb frowns. They’re sitting together on the small rise that Zeb found Luke on; Zeb wonders if he’ll have to try and do any Force things as some sort of test.

“I can feel your restlessness,” Luke continues. “You would not do well sitting around anywhere for very long. You yearn to be out there doing things, and, well, you’re an adult. I can’t exactly keep you here like a schoolchild."

"So, what?" asks Zeb. "What d’you suggest?"

Luke frowns for a moment, and then: "How do you feel about long-distance learning?"

Zeb raises an eyebrow. “Is that really gonna work?”

“Call it an experiment,” replies Luke. He folds his hands in his lap. “Say, for example, I teach you a few basic exercises now; then, perhaps once a month or once a week, I contact you via holo for more.”

For a while, Zeb thinks about this. It’s not a horrible plan. It could work. And Luke is right, of course: the only place he’d want to settle down and not do anything is Lira San, not some unfamiliar planet in the middle of nowhere.

Luke clears his throat. “You will need to forsake all attachment, of course – especially to Alex. I sense you have a strong bond with him.”

Zeb closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says: “Kriff off.”

“...What?”

“Ya see these earrings?” Zeb asks, pointing to the small golden hoops that Alex had given him. “Yannow what they mean ta a Lasat?”

“I’m afraid not,” replies Luke. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Means I’m married.” He stares Luke down, daring him to say anything. “To Alex. He’s my husband. Of course I have a kriffing attachment ta him, that’s kinda the whole kriffing point.” He touches an earring again. “These are fer life, not just fer Life Day. The only way they’ll come off is if you cut them off me. Ya’d have ta cut my ear off an’ all, ta make sure I didn’t jus’ marry him again.”

Luke considers this. “I take it that’s a no.”

“Alex was here before the Force was,” declares Zeb. “He ain’t left me yet. And I don’t intend ta leave him neither. That’s the one line I ain’t ever gonna cross.”

There is a pause; Zeb waits for Luke to say something. If he thinks Zeb is gonna divorce his kriffing husband because of some Force or Jedi nonsense, he’s got another think coming.

“Attachments are dangerous, Zeb,” Luke says at last. “If you are to keep him, you must be willing to let him go. Not necessarily now, today. But eventually. Think. Suppose he dies in an accident tomorrow. Or suppose, forty years from now, he dies of old age. Will you be able to accept that?”

His heart wrenches. It makes sense: Alex is Human, after all, and has a much shorter lifespan than he does. Even without that, there’s still Imperials out there who’d probably jump at the chance to kill a traitor, as well as folks on the Rebel side who’d jump at the chance for revenge on the ISB agent who hurt them. Zeb would have to live with Alex’s death for another two hundred years at least.

“We all gotta die sometime,” he manages, with a lump in his throat. “I’ve had loads a people die on me. People I loved more ‘n anything. I… I’d live.”

Luke sighs: when he speaks again his voice is softer, gentler. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but it is necessary. I need you to think about these difficult possibilities if you are to accept my training.”

Zeb takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I remember – you weren’t around back then, but on Lothal… Hera got captured. Kanan – he was a Jedi, afore yer time, an’ they were together – he said that his emotions for her were gonna cloud his judgement if he tried ta make a plan.”

“General Syndulla has mentioned him to me,” replies Luke quietly. “He sounds like a wise man.”

Zeb inclines his head and says nothing. For a while, the two of them sit together in the cool mists, silent; at last, Luke clears his throat.

“Well,” he says. “There is something I learned from my other master, Yoda, that may help you learn control. If what you tell me is correct, the only times you use the Force accidentally are when you are feeling a strong emotion – fear, anger, confusion, and so on. Is that a correct assessment?”

Zeb frowns. “…Yeah, actually. I think it is.”

“Then I will give you a mantra to repeat during these times.” Luke sits up a little straighter, and recites: “There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity.”

“Well that’s a kriffin’ terrible idea,” blurts out Zeb.

Luke raises his eyebrow. “It’s part of the Jedi Code. It’s been in use for thousands of years.”

“Yeah, an’ it’s complete kark.” He never has been one for subtlety. “I’m jus’ sayin’, it can’t be healthy to bottle up all your emotions an’ pretend you’re all peaceful all the time.”

“Would you rather be a Sith?” asks Luke, in a distinctly frosty tone. “Give in to all your anger, fear, and hate? Feel only passion and flame?”

“No! Course not! ‘S just -” Zeb gestures helplessly. “It don’t make much sense ta me, that’s all. There’s gotta be a way ta work with the light side without shuttin’ yerself off from feelin’ things. I saw what that did ta Kanan an’ Ezra. Ezra nearly fell to the Dark ‘cause his master was an emotionless prick. I mean, Kanan got better, an’ they both pulled through, but it was gettin’ pretty bad there.”

"You don't get it," Luke frowns.

"No, I don't," agrees Zeb, perhaps more harshly than intended. “I don’ think you do either. Maybe if ya stopped holdin’ onto old traditions that got the Jedi killed and listened ta me -”

“The traditions are what kept the Old Republic together!” shouts Luke. And then: “Of all people, I thought you would understand an honour code. From what I understand -”

Zeb folds his arms. “I respect a sensible code of honour that don’t give me a mental breakdown after a couple a years.”

Luke groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not if you do it right. Obi-wan -”

“Was a hermit for twenty years.” Zeb glares at Luke. “Prob’ly avoided any serious emotions cause he never talked to anyone. That ain’t healthy, that’s what we call a copin’ mechanism.”

“He was hiding from the Empire,” points out Luke, looking increasingly irritated at every word out of Zeb’s mouth. Not like talking to him is a picnic either. Prick.

“Yeah?” A shrug, and Zeb stares pointedly at him. “Weren’t safe ta be a Lasat in the Empire either, yannow. But I got me some friends, and we all protected each other. Ya don’t gotta be alone ta be safe.”

“Master Yoda -” Luke stops; some of his thoughts about Yoda leak out. Zeb raises his eyebrow.

“He was a wacko, too, then.” He nods. “See? Avoidin’ everyone and everythin’ so you can be serene an’ peaceful is a buncha bantha shit.”

“My father did the opposite,” replies Luke. His tone is cold once more. “According to everyone who knew him, he was a confident, sociable man. But he let his emotions rule him, and he became Darth Vader.”

“Just acknowledgin’ them would help,” says Zeb. Repression isn’t any good for anyone, after all. “Ya can’t jus’ go ‘round sayin’ there’s no emotion.”

“Force help me.” Luke rubs his forehead. “This is why the Jedi of the old days only trained children.”

“Maybe ya should go ta therapy afore ya train anyone. Helped me an’ Alex. I reckon ya need it. I mean, I’d need it if my dad was Vader.” Zeb stands and tries to move close to Luke, hand outstretched: it feels as though there’s a barrier there, right in between them. “Aw, Luke, come on.”

“You are already allowing your emotions to rule,” replies Luke, infuriatingly calm. If it weren’t for him putting up a kriffing Force shield, Zeb might even think he was being nice. “If you would like to lose all of your family and friends, be my guest.”

As if he hasn’t already lost them once? As if he doesn’t already blame himself for everything that happened on Lasan? As if Kanan and Ezra aren’t lost?

"Kriff you." Zeb stares at him, tears pricking at his eyes. "Kriff you an’ yer kriffin’ – you got no kriffin’ right! Ya can stuff yer kriffin’ trainin’ where the sun don’t shine, an’ all.”

“So be it.” And then: “I wish you luck.”

Zeb glares at him for a long few moments and then steps into the mist, back towards the Glimmer.

Chapter Text

“3. Sentients of any age can be trained, if they choose to. A child (below the age of majority for their species) should have the full consent of any living parents or guardians to be trained (though exceptions may be made if the child’s safety or well-being is at risk); an adult may be trained at their own discretion.

4. Attachments are permitted. While training a sentient may remain in contact with any of their parents, siblings, relationship partners, children, etc, if they choose to. Sentients that choose long-distance learning may also live with any of the above. The New Jedi Order will not interfere with such relationships, though exceptions may be made in the case of, eg. physical or emotional abuse, rape, etc, or if the trainee requests help.”

- Charter of the New Jedi Order, circa 40 ABY

Alex sits in the cockpit of the Glimmer and waits. He should have gone with Zeb. It’s terribly boring alone on the Glimmer: he doesn’t have much indication of what’s going on outside, and he can only peer into the fog for so long before his eyes start messing with him. He passes the time in other ways. By the time Zeb finally returns, he’s finished his holo-book and is debating watching the next episode of that show that they were supposed to be watching together.

“So,” he says, turning as Zeb ducks into the cabin, “how’d it go?”

"I had a fallin' out with Skywalker."

"Zeb!"

"He was bein' a prick!" Zeb flops grumpily into the co-pilot’s seat. “He was all, ‘ya gotta suppress yer emotions’ and ‘ya gotta leave Alex’. Kriff that.”

“Oh.” Alex thinks about this. “I hope you told him off. The Empire taught us to suppress our emotions till we could commit xenocides without blinking.”

Zeb opens his hands. “Right?” And then: “Yeah, I gave him a talkin’ to, but I don’ think he really got it, yannow. Stuck in the old ways a bit.”

The turn of his mouth, the tension around his eyes – he’s more upset than he lets on. Alex leans towards him, reaches out. “There’s something else, isn’t there.”

Zeb’s ears drop. “He basically said if I lost all my friends an’ family again, it’d be my fault cause I’m too emotional.”

“Oh, bloody hells. That’s the biggest load of – of bollocks I’ve heard in my life! He’s not serious, is he?”

“He is,” replies Zeb. A moment passes: when he speaks again, his voice wavers, close to breaking. “Ach, I dunno, maybe he’s right…”

Alex moves from his chair to put his arms around Zeb, cradle him against his chest, stroke his head as Zeb begins to tremble. “No, Zeb, he’s wrong. You help people around you because you care. You’ve always done whatever you could to protect the Spectres, and you fought hard for Lasan. We both know that wasn’t your fault. It was me, and people like me, that… that massacred innocent people.”

“But what if I’m bad luck,” Zeb chokes. “Lasan gone, Kanan gone, Ezra gone – what if bad things happen to people because of me?”

“Zeb.” Alex takes a deep breath. “You are kind. You are forgiving. You have made me a better person just by existing. You have never intentionally hurt an innocent being, not like I have. You’re not bad luck. In fact, I think you’re quite the opposite.”

Still, Zeb curls in on himself. “He’s a Jedi. Maybe he… knows something.”

“He most certainly does not.” Alex’s hands bunch into fists even as his arms still hold Zeb close. “I think Mister Skywalker and I need to have a little talk.”

“No, it -” Zeb draws in breath in a long, shuddering arc and bumps his head softly against Alex. “Don’t be an idiot. Ya ain’t gonna win that fight.”

“I will punch his lights out.”

Another slow and shaky breath: Zeb is calming down, even as Alex feels himself hot with anger. “Ya really won’t. ‘Sides, ain’t worth it.”

Alex fumes silently for a few moments, until the anger fades into a slow, simmering sulk, enough for him to think rationally again. Zeb is right. He can’t punch a Jedi. No matter how much he wants to.

“He still hurt you, though.”

“…’m awright.”

Alex scratches behind his ear. “Are you really?”

“Gettin’ better,” sighs Zeb, squeezing Alex’s hand a little in return. “Rather be in here with ya than out there bein’ miserable with him.”

“...Did he really tell you to leave me?”

Zeb clings tighter to Alex. “He said I can’t have any attachments, but I ain’t leavin’ ya. Ya been by my side all this time, and I ain’t gonna let some kriffin stupid Jedi code get between you an’ me.”

“If I am compromising your ability to train -” begins Alex.

“Ya ain’t.” Zeb turns his head up to look at Alex. It’s an odd angle to be looking at him from, considering how much he usually towers over Alex. “I’ll figure somethin’ out. Skywalker or no Skywalker.”

Alex sniffs. “One wonders whether he would be quite so eager to split us up if we were both Human, or both Lasat.”

“Or straight. Kriff, didn’t even think about that.” A long, deep, breath; Zeb closes his eyes for a moment. “Who kriffin’ knows. He may be an idiot, but I don’t think he’s that big of an idiot.”

Alex carefully chooses not to comment on that. Instead, he wonders how loudly he has to think the words he’s a pillock for Zeb to be able to catch it.

“Well, anyway -” adds Zeb - “if ya can’t be a Jedi an’ have attachments, then I won’t be a Jedi. Full stop. I’ll be… whatever else that ain’t a Sith.” He nods, as if it’s that easy to reject the only two groups of people in the entire Galaxy that could possibly help him. “’Sides, Kanan and Hera managed it okay.”

Alex stares at him. “Kanan died, Zeb.”

There is a short, intense moment of silence while Zeb considers this. “Well, he was doin’ pretty well up till then. I’ll jus’… try not ta die, howsat?”

“Zeb…” Alex shakes his head. “All right. Promise me. No dying, no turning to the Dark Side, and no self-sacrificial disappearing whatsoever, do you hear?”

“I promise.” Zeb leans up and rubs their cheeks together. “It’ll work out, Alex. I’ve learned some stuff already, ain’t I? Ya saw me meditatin’. An’ I used the Force on the Path to Lira San. An’ I ain’t accidentally levitated anythin’ in, what, a couple a days? I’ll a gotten control of it in no time!”

Alex nods behind them, to the three fist sized rocks that followed Zeb in here and have settled unobtrusively on the cockpit floor. “What do you call those, then?”

Zeb looks at them for a moment and then sighs. “Well… they’re not spinnin’ round. That’s an improvement.”

“I suppose it is,” agrees Alex.

“Ach,” adds Zeb, pulling back a little, “if Ezra can get the hang of this stuff, then so can I.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Ezra had a teacher.”

“True.” Zeb smiles at him, lop-sided. “Still. Worst comes to the worst I can always put up with Chava fer a bit. We’ll figure it out, Alex. I’m sure we will.”

“All right. I trust you.” A moment; by some non-spoken agreement, they pull apart. “I’m glad you’re feeling a little more cheerful about it, at least. If there’s anything I’ve always loved about you, it’s your optimism.”

“Yeah,” smiles Zeb. And then, as Alex takes the controls once more: “Any ideas for what ta do next?”

“Hm.” Alex stares out of the view port as the Glimmer pulls up and out of atmosphere. Which way to go? What should they do, now that the only Jedi they can contact is no longer an option? They could simply go back to Lira San, admit defeat, but… Well, maybe it’s worth trying something else instead. “Where did Verrashyn say her sister was again? Kaller, wasn’t it? We could go there. See if she and her husband want to come back to Lira San with us.”

Zeb blinks in surprise. “Yeah. Yeah, we could do that. How far is it?”

Alex checks the navigational charts. “…I’m afraid we’re going to have a long voyage again…”

Chapter Text

“There are three things that are extremely important to being a pirate: one, a ship with at least a class-six hyperdrive; three, counting; and two, navigation. It’s no good trying to steal a priceless ruby if you cannot find it! Many people ask me whether weapons are necessary, and to that I say, well, yes, but actually no. The greatest weapon in a true pirate’s arsenal is trickery! And actual weapons. You can’t go wrong with a trusty blaster at your side!

(Blaster goes off. Chaos ensues.)

…Well, that one went wrong. But it is very rare! So, if you can’t buy a good blaster, just steal one!”

- Shrimply Pibbles as “Hondo Ohnaka” in the children’s holo So You Want to Be a Pirate?

Alex keeps an eye on Zeb for the next little while. He seems better, now, if still a little subdued. Every now and again, Alex squeezes his hand, and each time Zeb squeezes back – weak and shaky at first, but stronger as they get further from Ajan Kloss. When they watch the next episode of Our Call Sign Means Death together, as planned, Zeb laughs wholeheartedly for the first time in… well, probably since what happened with the soup. It’s comforting to see him happy again.

They’re about halfway to Kaller, in the middle of hyperspace, when someone decides to call them.

“Incoming transmission from…” Alex frowns. “The Noble Godly Bat? Is that a ship name? It’s… quite unconventional.”

Zeb frowns. “Better put it through just in case.”

“Well, if you say so…” Alex presses the button.

“Ah, Zeb, my old friend!” The holo Hondo opens his arms wide. “So nice to see you.”

“Hondo Ohnaka,” growls Alex. “Why are you calling?”

“Oh, and my other dear friend, Agent Kallus!” Hondo grins. “How unexpectedly delightful.”

“What’s this about, Hondo,” sighs Zeb. “Alex an’ I can’t waste time listening to lowlifes like you.”

“Alex, eh, interesting…” Hondo strokes his chin. “Well, I suppose it’s none of my business, of course.” And then, brightening up: “Anyway, I have something for you! I found some friends of yours!”

“Friends? You ain’t kidnapped Hera again or somethin’?”

(Again?)

“No, no!” Hondo waves his hands. “I found some more Lasats! I know it may come as a shock that there are more of your kind out in the Galaxy, but…”

Alex and Zeb look at each other; Zeb shakes his head.

“Yeah, right,” Zeb says instead. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Of course! Just here!” The holo pans over to a pair of fluffy little Lasat kits, completely identical, sitting together in what looks like an old storage box. The hair on their heads sticks up above their too-large ears haphazardly. Hondo puts his face back in the centre of the picture again and grins. “So? What do you think?”

“We could bring them back to… you know,” murmurs Alex, low enough that Hondo doesn’t hear him. “I’m sure a little detour wouldn’t hurt.”

“I dunno…” frowns Zeb out loud. “Hondo, what do you get outta this?”

“Nothing, of course! I merely wish to help one of my oldest and dearest friends find his people!” Hondo’s smile thins a little, and he leans closer, voice softer. “To be honest… they creep me out. I would gladly accept a greatly discounted reward for their rescue if you take them off my hands.”

“Hmm. O course.” Zeb rolls his eyes. “Where did you even find those little tykes?”

“Oh, it’s so tragic, really.” Hondo wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “There I was, doing honest business -”

“Hah!” scoffs Alex -

“- when their dear, darling parents came to me and humbly requested that I smuggle them away.” He rubs his fingers together. “Gave me a very decent sum, too. Normally, I would not stoop so low as smuggling, but I knew that my dear friend Zeb would be willing to help me. If not… well, I can always sell them to the Red Stripe.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll take ‘em off yer hands.” Zeb sighs. “Just give us the coordinates and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Wonderful! I promise, my dear Zeb, you will not regret this!”

“I wonder,” says Alex thoughtfully, just before they get to the coordinates that Hondo had indicated, “whether their parents are the same couple that we’re looking for.”

“Could be,” shrugs Zeb.

“I’m a little concerned why they would smuggle their children away.” Alex frowns. “Presumably, they’ve been safe this long.”

Zeb shakes his head. "Some Lasats ‘re a bit superstitious ‘bout ones an’ twos. Say they're unlucky. If there is just those two…”

“That would make most other species very unlucky indeed," frowns Alex.

"Hey, no one said superstitions gotta make sense."

Interesting. Somehow Alex doubts that is the case here. “We’re agreed that we’ll try and help the parents either way, yes?”

“Course,” replies Zeb instantly. “No matter what.”

“Good.” Alex brings them out of hyperspace: there, just as promised, is the Noble Godly Bat, which is exactly as ridiculous-looking as its name suggests. He brings the Glimmer in to connect, and he and Zeb head to the airlock.

As soon as the door opens, Hondo bursts out and puts an arm around each of their shoulders. “Welcome, welcome, my dear friends! I hope your journey was good. Come, come -” he lets go and hurries towards his storage hold – “they are right this way, blessed little creatures, they have been such little darlings, I will be so reluctant to see them go, just get them off my ship.”

He types in a code, and the door opens to reveal the twins. They stare at Alex and Zeb, hand in hand, guarded and suspicious: the first thing Alex notices about them now that they’re out of the blue-tinted glow of a holo image is that their soft, fluffy looking fur is green. Like Verrashyn’s. So these are Kalo’im’s children.

Whoever’s children they are, they both have big blue eyes and are, in fact, at least as adorable as Jacen, if not more so. Why anyone would leave them with Hondo of all people is a complete mystery.

Alex, hesitantly, crouches down: the only child he knows is Jacen, and he’s not sure how to proceed.

(Once, he had seen small faces like these down the barrel of a T-7. He did not hesitate then. Their screams still haunt him.)

“Hello,” he tries. “My name is Alex.”

The kit on the left blinks. The kit on the right wipes their nose.

Zeb frowns and tries Lasat: “We’re here to help you. My name is Zeb. This is Alex.”

The kits look at one another, and the kit on the left points to their chest: “Shirrivan.”

“Byskalo,” says the kit on the right. They look over towards Hondo. “We don’t like that man.”

“He smells funny,” agrees the first kit.

“Yeah, he’s rotten, all right,” snorts Zeb.

Hondo narrows his eyes. “What are they saying?”

“Oh,” smiles Alex, clasping his hands together, “they’re just telling us how grateful they are that you rescued them.”

The kits look at each other and giggle: so they do understand Basic. Good. Alex winks at them out of Hondo’s line of sight and, to keep up the illusion, asks another question in slightly halting Lasat:

“What old are you?”

“Five,” say the kits, holding up one hand and a finger each.

“Five? Definitely big enough to be out of the pouch, eh?” replies Zeb. “Where’s the rest of your litter?”

“It’s just us,” says one twin.

“It’s always been just us,” says the other.

Zeb’s expression suddenly turns very sad: partly it’s that heavy grief he wears whenever thinking of those lost on Lasan, and partly it’s something more like pity. Alex puts a hand on his arm.

“So,” Alex says, to Hondo, “what planet did you say you picked them up from?”

“Ach, I don’t remember, some dump in the Outer Rim…”

The topic change works exactly as Alex had intended: Zeb blinks himself back into business. “Awright, then, let’s get these kits somewhere safe.”

“I hope you have my reward,” prompts Hondo.

Alex sighs, rolls his eyes, and digs in his pockets. Reluctantly, he tosses something the size of a bag of credits in Hondo’s direction. “Let’s go.”

“Come on, kits,” Zeb tells them. He crouches down and taps his shoulder, and both kits climb up onto his back in the blink of an eye, clinging on without any apparent support from Zeb whatsoever. “We’re gonna take you somewhere safe where there’s a lot of other Lasats that can take care of you.”

With that, he and Alex turn towards the Glimmer; once they’ve boarded, Alex takes the controls and powers up as quickly as he can.

“Best get out of here,” he tells Zeb, “before he realises I just tossed him half a meiloorun.”

“Hey!” shouts Hondo.

“Too late,” he smirks, and shuts the Glimmer’s door before Hondo can try get them back. “Buckle up!”

With that, the Glimmer disconnects from Hondo’s ship and whooshes out into the stars: Alex punches in the next set of coordinates, and makes the jump to hyperspace.

“Good,” says one kit, in Basic – Alex can’t tell which one. “He made us sit in a box.”

“Are you gonna take us back to Aman?” asks the other kit curiously.

Alex looks at Zeb, who shrugs: the twins, still attached to his back, bob up and down behind him.

“Do you think,” asks Alex, “that your Adan and Aman were in danger? Is that why they wanted you to go somewhere else?”

“Yes,” nods one kit. “The Empire hates us.”

“They wanted to kill us,” adds the other kit. “So Aman wanted to send us away.”

“She said not to talk to strangers ‘less they were Lasats,” agrees the first kit.

“Hm,” nods Zeb. “And o’ course, Hondo jus’ happens ta know me.”

Alex strokes his beard. “What planet do your Adan and Aman live on? Is is Kaller?”

The twins look at each other and nod in unison.

“I see,” murmurs Alex. “It seems this calls for another detour.”

Chapter Text

> Hello, Sabine. How are you? - Alex. <

> i’m all good, how r u guys? enjoying married life i hope ;3 <

> Yes, thank you. There has been a little bit of drama recently. We will tell you more once it’s all been sorted out. <

> wow srsly? u can’t just leave me hanging like that, tell me more :O <

> Zeb wants to tell you face to face. All I can say is that things are going to change significantly. <

> no kriffing way. is one of u pregnant? <

> No. That’s physically impossible. <

> We’re about to go travelling outside of Lira San for a while. We will explain everything to you soon. Until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. <

> AAAGH ALEX WHY DO U DO THIS TO ME DX <

> ur my least favourite brother in law >:( <

> Your only brother in law, unless Tristan has a boyfriend I don’t know about. <

> kriff u chkr >:( <

The sounds of Star Waver’s new album Majina, May You Rise echo across the Lothal flatlands from nearly half a click away, and only get louder as their speeder approaches the tower that was once Ezra’s. Zeb recognises the song Sabine keeps recommending to him… “Socks Match My Hat”? Something like that. It’s in Huttese, and probably not about socks or hats at all.

The speeder – the Glimmer is on one of the official landing zones in the city – slows to a halt just below the tower; the music pauses, and Sabine appears on the balcony of the tower, colourful as ever. She’s been fixing something: her welding mask is flipped up, and even from here Zeb can see her dirty face.

“Heeeyy!” she calls from the top of the tower, waving enthusiastically.

“Hey, ‘Bine!” replies Zeb, with an equally enthusiastic wave.

“Hold on!” she shouts. “I’ll come down!”

Barely a moment later, she lands in the soft grasses with a thump and shuts off her jetpack. “Sup.”

“Hello, Sabine,” says Alex quietly. “How’s Ketsu?”

She throws up her hands. “Ugh! Don’t ask!”

“That good, hmm?”

Sabine opens her mouth, spots the twins in the backseat, and does a double take. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who are these two? Ohmigods, you’re so cute! Hiya! I’m Sabine! What’re your names?”

“Shirrivan,” says Shirrivan, eyes sparkling. “You’re really cool.”

“Byskalo,” says Byskalo, mouth hanging open. “Can we ride the jetpack?”

Zeb shakes his head. “It’s not a toy.”

“But -”

“You can have a look at it,” grins Sabine, taking it off. “I can show you how it works.”

“Cool,” gasps Byskalo.

“We need to ask a favour, Sabine,” says Alex, before they can get off track. The kits pout.

Sabine cocks her head, squinting at Zeb as if trying to see through his fur. “I’m listening.”

(Does she… know? He remembers that she trained with the Darksaber, but can she tell that something’s different?)

“It’s a long story,” replies Zeb, “but we need ya to look after these two. We’re tryin’ ta find and help their parents.”

“And you brought them here.”

“Lothal is safe,” agrees Zeb, folding his arms. “Safer ‘n a lotta places, anyway. So if you don’t mind us leaving them with you fer a couple a days or so…”

Sabine raises her eyebrow. “…Okay, sure. I can clear my schedule.”

“Wonderful,” nods Alex. He gets out of the speeder and begins to help the boys down. “It won’t take us too long, I hope. Just until we locate Adan and Aman, right?”

(He’d make a really good dad.)

“Right,” nods Shirrivan eagerly. Both of them are already eyeing the jetpack, completely distracted.

“So,” smiles Sabine, raising her eyebrow, “is this the drama you were telling me about? The major changes that are happening?”

Zeb stares at Alex, who stares back.

“I thought you were going to tell her,” says Alex.

“I thought you told her,” replies Zeb.

Alex huffs. “Why would I tell her? It’s -”

“Oh, for stars’ sake.” Sabine pulls out a hammer and flings it at Zeb -

“Whoa! What the hells, ‘Bine?”

“Stop arguing and actually tell me -” begins Sabine, and then stops. The hammer floats just in front of Zeb’s outstretched hand. “Never mind. I think I just figured out what you wanted to tell me.”

“Yeah,” says Zeb, as the hammer falls harmlessly to the ground. “That. I owe Ezra a few apologies if we ever get him back…”

Sabine’s mouth drops open. “Holy sh-” She catches sight of the twins, still engrossed in poking and prodding at the jetpack, and stops. “Holy shock-waves, ori’vod. How?”

Zeb shrugs helplessly. “Yer guess is as good as ours.”

“Oh my gods.”

“Yes,” agrees Alex. “Quite.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Does this mean I can throw rocks at you like we did with Ezra?”

“No!” Alex kneads his forehead. “We’ve had quite enough flying rocks already, thank you.”

Sabine’s face flickers through a range of different emotions in one brief moment. At last, she asks: “Have you talked to that Skywalker guy, or -?”

“We had a fallin’ out.”

Alex huffs and folds his arms. “He blamed Zeb for the deaths of all his friends and family. Rather more than a philosophical disagreement, I feel.”

Sabine’s mouth drops open. “He what. Ohh, that… agh!” She bunches her fists. “I’ll kill him. I may not be a Jedi but I know how to use a saber and I’ve got loads of explo-”

“No!” Zeb holds up his hands. “No one’s killin’ anyone.”

“I’ll help,” Alex whispers behind the back of his hand.

“Look, yeah, he was a pri– a di– a bast– well, anyway, it didn’t work out,” Zeb frowns. His kriffing head hurts to much to be arguing like this. “But he’s only young. He’ll learn. As fer me, I’m jus’… figurin’ stuff out without a teacher, I guess. 'Less you know someone who can help me?”

“Oh, boy.” A moment of indecision: Sabine bites her lip. “I’ll… get back to you on that. I might know someone but – no promises.”

“Right.”

Alex clears his throat gently. “Anyway, Sabine, er…”

“The kids, yeah.” Sabine crouches down to be on their eye level and smiles broadly, though Zeb can tell it’s a little forced. “Hey, I don’t think I caught what gender you two are? I can’t really tell the difference…”

That had not occurred to Zeb: he hadn’t really thought it that important. Lasat kits don’t usually pick a gender this young. Humans and a lot of other species, on the other hand, get weird about it.

“We’re boys,” reply the twins, in unison. Well, at least that’s cleared up.

“Great!” Sabine clasps her hands together. “Do you like painting? We can do some art together, that’ll be fun!”

The twins look at each other and nod.

“Awright, that’s settled,” agrees Zeb. “Have fun. We’ll see what we can do about yer Aman an’ Adan…”

Chapter Text

“The problem with initiatives such as Operation: Cinder was, in a nutshell, that the Empire was very large and very unwieldy, covering more systems than it could handle in its weakened state after the death of the Emperor and the Second Death Star. Even if every single Imperial officer who had received the order had been completely loyal and unquestioning, there were still many who had perfectly legitimate reasons not to complete it…

Factions both large and small dug their roots in and refused to budge, believing that the Emperor’s death was a hoax or that Operation: Cinder was a trap set by the Rebels. Other factions simply believed their beloved Empire was better served by continuing on with its work in spirit even with their figurehead gone. All of this resulted in a large number of independent Imperial-aligned juntas, leftover barracks, or the infamous case of the group of Stormtroopers on a quiet little Outer Rim planet who did not even hear about the Empire’s fall until decades later…”

- Fenta Hovalis, The Galactic Empire and its Downfall

Kaller’s Plateau City may be relatively small, on a galactic standard, but it still bustles so intensely with activity that Alex notices the traffic even from space. The streets, too, are packed with beings of all species: it’s going to be difficult to spot any Lasat in these crowds, even a green-furred one.

“Been a while since I been here,” comments Zeb cheerfully. “Didn’t realise there were other Lasats around, or I’d a tried ta find ‘em.” And then: “Ach, we was a lil busy at the time, o’ course…”

“What happened?” asks Alex.

“Oh, the usual.” Zeb waves a hand. “Kanan got stabbed, we got shot at, pretty standard kark.”

Alex decides not to comment on that. “Shall we split up, do you think, and ask around?”

“Hm,” frowns Zeb. “Maybe there’s, like, a town hall or somethin’ where we can get a lead?”

“Good plan.” Alex makes his way to the nearest market vendor; he feels better with a definite goal in mind, and with a clear set of steps to achieve that goal. It turns out that they’re very close to a Magistrate’s office which might – if they’re lucky – have a database of Kaller’s population.

Alex is almost feeling optimistic that this will be a simple mission when the two of them turn the corner and find the building exactly where the market vendor said it would be: festooned with Imperial symbols and with a pair of Stormtroopers loitering outside.

“Karabast,” says Zeb. They duck behind the corner again. “An’ here I thought all those bastards were gone. O’ course there’s gotta be leftovers here.”

“Hm,” frowns Alex, staring at the doorway. “I suppose I could try and get in there and ask anyway.”

“I gotta bad feelin’ about this.”

Alex glances sidelong at Zeb. “A Force bad feeling, or a normal bad feeling?”

“I dunno,” muses Zeb. “Call it both, jus’ ta be safe.”

Well, perhaps it’s Alex’s fault for relying on something as flimsy as feelings in the first place. He frowns and begins to plan out his next actions carefully. He’s almost satisfied that everything is going to go relatively smoothly when he spots an Imperial officer heading towards the Magistrate’s office from the other end of the street. He’s a little short, greying around the temples, with a thin brown goatee that Alex would recognise anywhere.

Alex freezes.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I can’t go in there after all,” replies Alex, backing away a little. “That’s Carcer.”

Zeb looks at him. “Someone ya know?”

“He was -” Alex shudders. “On Lasan, he – I – we -” He shakes his head. “We worked together for more or less the entire campaign. I can’t go in. He’ll recognise me. I haven’t changed that much.”

“Well, I can’t go in there,” replies Zeb, completely reasonably. “Not if he was on Lasan. Plus, ‘s fulla Imps. They won’t take kindly ta me snoopin’ around in there.”

Alex gestures at his overall attire: he is still wearing his Lasat style clothes. “Do I look like an Imperial?”

For a few moments, Zeb tips his head from side to side, peering at him. “Ya could be undercover, I guess. Or maybe a bounty hunter.”

“That’s a stretch and you know it.” Alex takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, fine. I’ll go.”

He straightens up and, with a small effort, takes on the persona again: Sasha Krum, loyal Imperial agent, in disguise, on the run from the Alliance. As opposed to Sasha Krum, the incorrigible rogue with no allegiance, or the Sasha Ivanov he used to use when he really was an Imperial, the idealistic revolutionary interested in joining the Rebellion.

“Yannow,” comments Zeb, “’s kinda scary when ya go from normal ol’ Alex ta that.”

“Yes, well,” Alex replies, “it’s also a little scary the way you can create a rock tornado with your mind.”

“…Fair point.”

He tidies his clothes into Imperial-style neatness as best he can. “I’ll switch on the comm if I’m in trouble.”

With that, he marches out into the street without waiting for a reply. If he’s going to do this, he’d better do it with confidence. If the worst comes to the worst, well, he’s got three different blasters concealed on his person, plus two vibroblades. He can defend himself. And who knows? Maybe this plan will even go off without a hitch…

Chapter Text

“Agents were numbered according to their rank in the organisation from 001 to over 100; the lower the number, the greater the agent’s power, rank, access to classified information, and so on. The Director, for instance, was 001; the 050s would be the mid-ranks; and 100 or over was the bottom of the ladder. Ranking was, of course, incredibly competitive, particularly once an agent got past the 030s or so – in one notable case, an agent slipped from 015 to 088 due to a particularly unfortunate error, and no doubt every agent in between those numbers was delighted by the sudden promotion, no matter how minor.

Some agents, of course, ignored all of that and focused simply on their jobs. These agents tended to stay relatively stable in their ranking once they reached a certain point, having little inclination for glory-hunting or petty infighting. Ironically, these agents also often reached much higher ranks than their more volatile colleagues…”

- Svala Zelenogorsk, Agents of Death: Inside the Imperial Security Bureau

The magistrate’s office is inside a large, cool building: there are a few Stormtroopers in the atrium, and a few more in the office itself, hanging around like a bad smell. Cameras, both obvious and disguised, infest every surface like mould. Alex makes a mental note: the Alliance will need to know about this place, this group. For now, he is disappointed but not particularly surprised that Carcer himself is at the front desk. Of course he is.

Carcer looks up. There’s no recognition in his eyes, but Alex knows as well as anyone that even the minutest reactions can be controlled, can be faked.

“What do you want?”

Alex takes a deep breath. “I need to see the city’s population registry,” he replies. “I believe the beings I have been tracking live here.”

Carcer raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

“I’m not.” Alex raises his chin haughtily. “ISB oh-three-seven, not that you need to know that -” he glances at Carcer’s rank bar – “lieutenant.”

(He’s had a demotion, then. Interesting.)

“Dear gods, are you lot still active?” Carcer sniffs. “I’d have thought the Rebels disbanded you.”

“Why do you think I’m in disguise, you absolute buffoon?”

“Right. Of course. My mistake.” A moment; Carcer glances at his screen, and then back at Alex. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

“I don’t know the name,” lies Alex carefully. “Only the species. One that has continued to vex my efforts to apprehend it for many years.”

“Oh, isn’t that always the way?” Carcer nods sympathetically. “I had a similar thing with a Kalleran once. Now I’m here. Ironic, isn’t it?” And then: “I’m sure you’ve got your share of war stories, of course.”

“Yes,” replies Alex, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was on Onderon.”

Carcer nods. “I heard about that mess. I don’t envy you. Didn’t they send some sort of uncontrollable animal after you?”

Alex says nothing.

“But we are survivors, aren’t we,” continues Carcer, with a wry little smile that sends shivers down Alex’s spine. “And the Empire, too, will survive. We cannot allow uncivilized beasts like that to go around dirtying up the place, can we.”

Alex continues to do his best impression of a duracrete wall.

“I got sent to this planet called Lasan, you know,” Carcer reminisces. “Ever heard of it? Prob’ly not. Full of savage creatures. It was a great success for the Empire.”

“Was it now,” says Alex, flatly. “That’s a coincidence. I happen to be looking for some Lasats.”

It is very tempting to tell Carcer exactly what the “success for the Empire” entailed, about the slavers, about the internment camps that cleaned up what was left of Lasan’s population. About the fact that the Empire only left the planet alone because there was no one left to murder. He could say it. He could disabuse Carcer of any notions he might have that the Empire is in any way good or just. He could, but then he wouldn’t get the information he wants.

Carcer snorts. “Them? You don’t need to worry about them. By the way, though…” He looks into Alex’s eyes suddenly. “Do I know you?”

Alex switches on his comm. “Perhaps we have crossed paths at some point. It’s a big Galaxy out there.” And then: “What do you mean I don’t need to worry about them?”

“No, I’m sure I know you from somewhere.” A moment; Carcer’s fingers play with the holster of a blaster that rests on his desk. “It’ll come to me in a minute.”

“You might be thinking of someone else,” replies Alex. “It happens to me all the time, I think I’ve got a doppelganger running around. I’m sure I’d remember you if I ever met you, I -”

With a careful, calculating look, Carcer stands up and presses the tip of his blaster into Alex’s forehead. “No,” he says calmly, “I know who you are. You’re that traitor Kallus. Thought you were dead. You’ve got some balls to show your face around here.”

Alex backs away and raises his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have me mistaken.”

“Nice try, Kallus.” Carcer’s eyebrow lifts. “You should have shaved off those stupid mutton chops.” He cocks the blaster.

“Carcer,” warns Alex. “Don’t.”

“You were going to try and help those Lasats, weren’t you?” Carcer scoffs: the tip of his blaster follows Alex. “Don’t bother. We’ve already taken care of them. Just like I’ll take care of you.”

Karabast. That doesn’t sound good.

“You were such a good, loyal servant of the Empire,” adds Carcer, dispassionate. “You could have gone far. Do you remember Lasan, Kallus? Do you remember the power we held?”

“Every day,” says Alex honestly. “Why do you think I left?”

Click.

“They were beasts. You saw the way they were. Savages. If we hadn’t come in, they would have destroyed themselves.” Carcer’s eyes are cold, terrifying. “I thought you agreed with me, Kallus. I thought you were on my side.”

In the corner of his vision, Alex sees a vague purple shape advancing on their position. Zeb can be surprisingly quiet when he wants to be, quiet enough that Carcer doesn’t appear to notice his approach, but Alex notices. Alex always notices. He tries to project a sense of no, don’t get involved, to think it as loudly as he can. But he is the one who switched on his comm. If he gets shot, it’ll be his own fault.

“Not any more,” he replies instead. “I finally came to my senses.”

Carcer’s finger twitches.

There is a flash of sudden, vivid purple light: Carcer jerks his hand away as a field of electricity sparks to life around him. The blaster fires harmlessly into the ceiling. In front of Alex’s eyes, Carcer begins to shudder and shake, and his eyes roll up into his skull. A few moments pass, while he stands frozen to the spot, until as suddenly as it started the electricity stops and he slumps insensible to the ground.

Alex turns to stare at Zeb. He expects to see Zeb’s bo-rifle outstretched, perhaps in the trident formation. Instead, it’s just his hand, still fizzing with purple sparks; all Zeb’s fur is puffed up in a way Alex has never seen before.

“...Zeb?”

Zeb blinks for a good few seconds, and then looks at his hands in horror. “...Kanan never did that…”

“Zeb, I’ve never seen anyone do that,” says Alex. Is Carcer dead? No, it looks like he’s still breathing. The – lightning? - went right past Alex: he’s lucky that he wasn’t directly in front of or next to Carcer.

“Yeah,” manages Zeb, green eyes wide. “Neither ‘ve I.” And then, clutching his forehead: “Oww…”

Both of the Stormtroopers in the room raise their weapons shakily. “Hands up.”

“Yannow,” says Zeb, raising his hands, “ya really gotta think about yer phrasin’, there. I don’ wanna hurt anyone. Jus’ let us go on our way, yeah?”

Alex moves closer to Zeb and lays a hand on one of his hidden blasters. “The Empire’s dead. You have no reason to fight us.”

There is a moment of deathly stillness. The Stormtroopers look at each other, and then at Zeb and Alex.

Then – it happens all at once. There is a shot from one of the Stormtroopers, and a flash of that same purple electricity. Alex fires, but he’s just a few moments too late: both troopers collapse in a heap on the floor.

“I think,” he says, as calmly as he can, “it may be time for a swift exit.”

“Yep,” agrees Zeb, finally taking out his bo-rifle. “Run!”

They run.

Chapter Text

“I wish I could have told you more when we first met. It’s just, well, considering everything that was going on at the time, you understand why I might not want to spread it around. I trust that you and your family will be able to protect this secret for me – this and the Escape. I promise you that no word of your location or new identities will leave my lips while I still breathe, and the same goes for my Padawan.

It’s probably best if we don’t contact each other, for safety’s sake; you know my frequency if you ever need anything. If not me, I have no doubt my Padawan or any of my fellow Spectres will gladly come to your aid.

May the Force be with you and your family, Morfizo.

- Kanan Jarrus”

At last, there’s no more shouts or sounds of footsteps behind them; Zeb flops back against the wall of the nearest building, panting. Opposite him, Alex leans his hands on his legs and tries to catch his breath. They’re both a little out of shape from a couple of months’ easy living on Lira San, and it shows.

“Well,” manages Alex, after a minute or two, “they know we’re here now, I’m afraid.”

Zeb grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He looks down at his hands again: he can still feel the power thrumming in his fingertips. It’s a cold power, a sharp power, one he knows how to access much too easily.

“I don’t think I wanna do that again,” he admits aloud.

“Well, don’t then.” Alex shakes his head, as if it’s that easy. “Besides, Carcer was about to shoot me.”

“Scum,” says Zeb simply. “Ach, look at us. On the run from the Empire again. Ever think it would turn out like this?”

Alex shrugs. “The Force was a surprise.”

“That it was.”

“Either way,” adds Alex, clasping Zeb’s hand, “on the whole, I do prefer to be alive.”

Well, at least he still has his sense of humour. Zeb snorts. “Ya didn’t get any leads, I take it.”

“Unfortunately not.” Alex chews on his lip. “I fear we may already be too late.”

Zeb nods. “But we still gotta try. Split up an’ look fer clues?”

“Yes, perhaps that’s best.” Alex straightens up. “Meet back at the Glimmer in…” he checks his chrono, “thee hours or so?”

“Right.” Zeb stands and leans in to rub his cheek against Alex’s. “Be careful.”

Alex returns the gesture, holding Zeb close for just a moment. “I could say the same to you.” He lets go again, and: “Comm if you find anything.”

“Will do.”

Two and a quarter hours later, Zeb is ready to give up. No one recognises his species; no one has heard the name of Kalo’im or Vandi. A few people think that the Empire remnant are about to do something drastic in an area where there’s a lot of non-Humans: Zeb heads for that sector of the city, in case the couple they’re looking for have settled amongst the other minorities.

There is a multitude of shops in this part of town, each headed by a different species, each with its own particular flavour of culture brought in from the far reaches of the Galaxy. One by one, the shopkeepers shake their heads, and Zeb moves on to the next with a sigh.

It’s then that someone tugs insistently on his arm.

“Excuse me, sir,” says a tall green reptile of some kind with yellow eyes. “I can’t help but notice you are a Lasat.”

“Ya know what I am?” asks Zeb. “Have ya seen any other Lasats around on this planet?”

The reptile tips his head. “That depends. Do you know the name of Kanan Jarrus?”

“Kanan?” Zeb stares at him. “I was his friend for years. Did ya know him?”

“I thought so.” The reptile nods. “The last time I saw him, he mentioned he had a Lasat in his crew. You must be Zeb.” He holds out a hand with two long, skinny fingers. “You may call me Morfizo.”

“So,” says Zeb, shaking his hand, “the other Lasats…”

Morfizo looks around and begins to walk, beckoning for Zeb to follow. “It’s not safe here. The Empire remnant here does not take kindly to non-Humans, as I am sure you are aware. Even the native Kallerans are afraid.”

“Do I ever,” sighs Zeb. “We had a little disagreement with them earlier.”

Morfizo nods and leads him through a maze of streets: at last, he ducks through a doorway and beckons Zeb inside. “My wife and children are out. Please, make yourself at home.” It’s a small, homely place: not rich, by any means, but decent enough for a small family.

“Thanks.”

“So,” begins Morfizo. “The Lasats. I had a feeling that you would come looking for them when you found out they were here. Unfortunately, the Empire has been looking for them too. The family has been living in the outskirts of the city for some time but…”

Zeb leans forward. “But?”

“Since the second Death Star…” Morfizo shakes his head. “This planet’s remnant has become rather, well, fanatical. To them, the Emperor was a martyr, and non-Humans are the ones responsible for his death. It doesn’t matter that the Alliance that actually killed him is still majority Human. We have all been at increased risk of a squad bursting in at the dead of night and shooting us as we sleep.”

“The people running the shops back there?” asks Zeb quietly.

“A few,” nods Morfizo. “There are a few Kallerans still in power who try to help us as best they can, set us back on our feet, but everyone is afraid. You think they’re reluctant to talk to you? They’ll never say a word to a Human.”

Zeb thinks about Alex, somewhere on the other side of the city: he won’t be having any luck, then.

Morfizo takes a deep breath. “Anyway, with all that going on, the Lasat family have been afraid for their lives. A few of the fanatics know about the extermination of Lasats that occurred, and they want to destroy the family they think are the last of the Lasats. Of course, you yourself are proof this is not true.”

“Sure,” agrees Zeb thoughtfully.

“They wanted to get off world, for obvious reasons,” Morfizo sighs. “Some of us donated a little, but… they could only afford enough to persuade someone to smuggle their children away.”

“The twins,” nods Zeb. “Yeah, they’re safe.”

“Thank goodness.” Morfizo lets out a breath. “No doubt Vandi and Kalo’im will be greatly relieved.”

Zeb takes a deep breath. “Do you know where they live? I wanna help them.”

Morfizo stands. “I was hoping you’d ask that.” He opens the door and beckons. “Come with me.”

Obediently, Zeb ducks through the doorway back outside and trails along after Morfizo through the streets. “So where -”

Something in the distance explodes with a boom.

“There,” says Morfizo grimly.

Karabast. Zeb breaks into a run once again.

Chapter Text

“…My weapon is my soul, that which connects me to the Ashla. None shall take it from me unless I give it freely. My weapon is a gift to myself and to Lasan, a symbol of the Honour Guard, and all who bear it must bear its responsibility and honour our Oath. My weapon is the Key to our Homeland.

I swear to abide by the tenets of comradeship and humility. I swear to promote peace and never to raise my weapon against an innocent. I swear to help all those in need and to give everything, even my life, so that equality and justice may thrive. I swear my loyalty to the Queen, to Lasan, and to my comrades.

I receive this weapon and swear this oath in the light of the Ashla, with my full heart and soul, and may the Bogan take me if I break my troth…”

- Excerpt from the Lasan High Honour Guard Oath

By the time Zeb gets to the site of the explosion, most of the fire has been put out by bystanders. There are three or four buildings that have been affected to various degrees; the worst looks as though it was hit directly. Glass from shattered windows makes every step a hazard for Zeb’s bare feet. Several sections of wall have fallen in.

(and it’s Lasan all over again, the smell of the ash and the dust in the air is the same, but it’s different this time, Zeb can help -)

“Where’s the Imps,” he growls at the nearest bystander, a blue-skinned Twi’lek woman.

She shakes her head. “It was a cowardly attack, zey ran as soon as it was done.” And then, putting a hand on his arm: “Please, I cannot lift ze rubble. Zere is someone in zat one.”

Karabast. “If a reptile lookin’ guy called Morfizo or a Human with a blond beard come along, ya tell ‘em I’m in there, yeah?”

“Merci, yes, I will!”

It’s dark inside, and smoky: stairs lead up and down. “If ya can hear me, give us a shout!”

“Down -” A feminine voice stops, coughs, and starts again. “Down here!”

He follows the noise: the stars down to the basement are littered with pieces of wall, and he pulls them out of the way as best as he can with his own two hands. There’s no point trying to use the Force right now, not when someone’s life could be on the line; he trusts his muscles much more than he trusts some psychic bantha shit.

He doesn’t spot her at first. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust and ash: he doesn’t realise the matted half-buried thing in the corner is a living being until it groans in pain. What he does see is bad. Nearly everything below the waist is covered in heavy sections of wall, and only a few patches of greenish fur show through the accumulated muck.

“I’m here to help,” Zeb says in Lasat, though the sheer scale of what needs to be done is nearly overwhelming. “You’re Kalo’im, right?”

Her eyes should gleam in the shadows: instead, they are dull. She stares at him for a moment and then half-laughs, half-coughs. “I must… be seeing things… no other Lasats survived…”

“I survived. And I’m going to help you survive, too.” There were supposed to be two of them. Hadn’t Verrashyn mentioned that? “Where’s your husband?

“My Vandi… upstairs. Dead.” She coughs pitifully. “Leftovers… from the Empire… out to get us…”

“Oh, Kalo’im…” Zeb crouches down beside her and speaks into his comm: “Alex! I found her! Go get med supplies an’ bring em ta my coordinates!”

“Right! Just hold on!”

Kalo’im, clearly in a lot of pain, smiles thinly at Zeb. “I don’t know if… I have a lot of time left… Captain Orrelios.”

“You remember me,” gasps Zeb.

“How could I forget?” she whispers. “You… you inspired all of us to fight for what was right. You cared for us like family. You were the first to congratulate me when you heard I was getting married, and you gave your blessing for me to go off-world for my honeymoon.”

“You were one of my best Guards,” Zeb replies, although he’s a little distracted trying to figure out how to get her legs out from under the rubble safely. “Braver and stronger than most.”

“Captain…” She reaches out, points to an abandoned corner of the room, where her bo-rifle lies – half-buried, just as its mistress is. “My bo-rifle. I would like to die like a true Guard…”

“You’re not going to die,” chides Zeb, although he digs out the bo-rifle anyway and hands it to her. “Just hold on. I can shift some of this…”

Kalo’im holds her bo-rifle as best she can and presses the long, cool handle to her forehead with shaking hands. When she speaks, it is to recite those old familiar words: “I… relinquish this weapon not to my flesh and blood… but to a warrior who will continue my… legacy…”

“Your legacy will go on when I get you out of here,” grunts Zeb, lifting up the last piece of rubble from on top of her bleeding, broken legs. “You can live a long and happy life and leave your bo-rifle for your kits to squabble over.”

“My sons will not use bo-rifles,” she replies, with a sudden sad look. “They will use lightsabers.”

“You mean…?”

She clutches at her chest with a sudden spasm of pain, then nods. “They’re… sensitive. Both of them.”

“I see.” Zeb almost, almost tells her of his own relatively newfound connection to the Force, but… no, now is not the time. “Do you think you can move?”

“Not really.” Kalo’im takes a deep, wheezing breath. “I mean it… My bo-rifle should go to someone… willing to carry on the legacy of guarding Lasats… honourable warrior.”

Zeb tries to lift her head up as gently as he can: blood drips from her fur and onto the already stained dust below. “Shh. Just hold on, Kalo’im.”

“Our bo-rifles are our connection to the Ashla,” she croaks. “Didn’t you teach me that, Captain?”

Zeb blinks at her. The words are familiar, connecting to some part of himself long forgotten, but he can’t focus on the memories. Not with a dying soldier in his arms.

(useless, he’s useless, he can’t even save one person, Skywalker was right, it’s his fault -)

“Kalo’im,” he murmurs. “We’ll… get you help. We’ll reunite you with your sons and take you somewhere safe, all right?”

“O Captain, my Captain…” She laughs weakly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Please… please look after my sons. Don’t… let the Empire… get them…”

“They’re safe, you just need to survive long enough to – Kalo’im!” But it’s no good: the light in her eyes fades.

“Zeb! Zeb, I’m here -” Alex rushes in, and stops when he sees Kalo’im in Zeb’s arms. “Oh… Oh, no…”

Kalo’im’s arm drops, and the bo-rifle with it: her weapon rolls across the floor and stops at Alex’s feet.

Chapter Text

“The cultural significance of the bo-rifle is something akin to the significance of a lightsaber to a Jedi in that it has both actual and symbolic power in Lasat society. It is more than just a weapon: it is a symbol of the Honour Guard, a responsibility, a code of honour. Superstition holds that a bo-rifle contains the souls of every individual that has wielded it in battle, and that once someone has wielded one they are connected to it for the rest of eternity.

Giving and receiving these near-sacred weapons, then, is never done lightly. The Boosahn Keeraw, or Warrior Way, dictates examples of situations where a bo-rifle might be passed down: from a retiring Guard to a new recruit, from a defeated Guard to a victorious opponent they deem worthy, from a dead or dying Guard to their next of kin, and so on. The idea is to keep good quality weapons in use for as long as possible – naturally, it is a Guard’s responsibility to keep their weapon in perfect condition at all times, so that it can last for generations.”

- Sikozu Joolushko, Weapons of the Galaxy

Neither Alex nor Zeb say much on the way back to Lothal.

It hadn’t taken very long to round up the people responsible for the bombing – those that were left. They were mostly Stormtroopers or low-ranked officers with very little brainpower of their own once Carcer was out of commission thanks to Zeb’s little light display. What took a little longer was clean-up and dealing with the two bodies. They laid Kalo’im to rest in the city cemetery, beside her husband – his body had been on the top floor, stretched towards the stairs as if running for his life. A few others had been injured, but survived.

Perhaps a few of the smarter members of the Imperial remnant are still out there, hiding amongst the city’s millions. Perhaps the fledgling New Republic will come, though it’s already stretched thin, or perhaps it won’t. Alex wishes he and Zeb could have done more on their own, tracked down every remaining Imperial in that city, on that planet. But there are only two of them against who knows how many, even if Zeb’s developing abilities give him a significant advantage, and the twins will need to be brought somewhere more safe and permanent than Sabine’s tower.

How are they going to break the news to the twins? Actually, how are they going to break it to Verrashyn? They’ll have to contact her eventually. Alex dreads it. Rationally, logically, he knows this is not directly his fault as so many other Lasat deaths have been, and yet the guilt still hangs around his shoulders, heavy and nearly overpowering. Kalo’im and Vandi wouldn’t have had to go into hiding on Kaller, after all, if not for him and the Empire.

As for Zeb – Alex can’t imagine how Zeb is feeling right now. He probably doesn’t even realise that, when Alex arrived, every piece of rubble in the room smaller than a fist was hanging suspended in mid-air: silent, peaceful. Now, he sits with his cheek on Alex’s leg as the Glimmer glides her way through hyperspace; Alex strokes his soft, furry head and waits for him to speak.

"I ain’t ever felt someone die before," murmurs Zeb at last. He makes a gesture, passing his hand over his forehead. “I… sensed her spirit pass.”

Alex doesn’t know what to say to that; it’s so far outside his realm of experience, so beyond his ordinary senses and feelings. There is so much about Zeb now that he doesn’t understand – he’s still reeling over the lightning business, for a start. He runs his fingers once again through Zeb’s fur and says nothing.

“If we’d gotten there just a lil earlier -”

“No,” interrupts Alex. “Don’t go down that road, Zeb. You were lucky to bump into Morfizo when you did. Who knows, if you’d gone through there earlier he wouldn’t have even been there, and you’d never have known where Kalo’im was.”

Zeb huffs softly. “I hate when yer right.”

“It happens more often than you’d think, alitha.” Alex sighs; for a few moments, the two of them sit together unspeaking once more. At last, he looks over to the bo-rifle in the corner. “I suppose that is the only inheritance those boys will get now.”

Zeb tenses. “…Yeah, that… ain’t happenin’. She was very specific about that.”

“Why?”

“Cause they’re Force sensitive.” Zeb’s fists bunch; he groans. “I didn’t even notice. Kriffin’ Force. Can’t sense anythin’ useful.”

“You’re still new to this, Zeb, you can’t be expected to – to be pick up on everything.” Gentle, soft, like the feeling of Zeb’s fur beneath Alex’s fingers as he smooths his palm over the curve of Zeb’s head. “If they go to Skywalker for guidance…”

“That’d kriff a kit up fer life,” huffs Zeb. “An’ I can’t train anyone. I don’ even know how ta control my own powers, never mind anyone else’s.”

Alex opens his mouth to say something, but – no, no. “Perhaps it’s best to leave that discussion for the moment,” he replies instead. “They belong on Lira San with Verrashyn. Once they’re safe with their family, then we can think about how best to help them Force-wise.”

“Mm,” agrees Zeb, sounding unconvinced. After a few moments, he nods at the bo-rifle. “I think she wanted someone like you ta have it.”

"I don't…" Alex stares at it. "It doesn't belong to me. It should go to Verrashyn."

“She wanted ta see it in good hands,” insists Zeb.

"This might sound silly," replies Alex, "but I'd rather have my own one back. At least then I'd know I got it fairly." He scratches absent-mindedly behind Zeb’s ear; Zeb shivers. He always likes that. “We should at least offer it to Verrashyn first.”

“Okay,” Zeb concedes at last. “If ya say so. We got time ta holo her afore we get ta Lothal?”

“Yes,” nods Alex. “We have time.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asks Verrashyn, when the holo finally connects.

“Verrashyn…” Zeb holds up Kalo’im’s bo-rifle.

Verrashyn’s face crumples. “Oh, Kalo’emei… Do you know? What happened?”

Alex bows his head. “There was… a remnant of the Empire on Kaller. They found her, and…”

“I see,” she replies, quiet and thoughtful. “Thank you. For looking for her.”

“I wish we coulda helped her more,” murmurs Zeb. “I’m sorry fer yer loss.”

“I think she would have wanted you to have her bo-rifle,” adds Alex. “You’re her sister, and a good warrior to boot.”

Verrashyn nods and wipes the tears from her eyes. “I’ll use it well, as she would have wanted.”

(Good. That’s resolved. Alex can’t bear to touch her weapon: he would never have used it. His blasters are plenty enough for him.)

“One… other thing,” adds Zeb, a little nervously. “We found her twin kits. Alive.”

“Her kits?” Verrashyn gasps. “Oh, Ashla. How old?”

“Five. They’re safe. We’re gonna bring them back to Lira San.”

Verrashyn hugs herself. “Only two, huh?”

Alex nods. “Looks like it.”

“Right.” A sigh, and Verrashyn nods. “I’ll… see what I can do. Talk to my wife. That kind of thing.”

“Of course.” A moment, and Zeb clears his throat. “They’re Force sensitive.”

“...This is a lot to take in.” She runs a hand through her thick green hair. “But all right. I’ll keep that in mind. Talk to you later.”

The holo shuts off again. Alex wonders, suddenly, about the future. Will she and her wife really be willing and able to take in the twins, as he expected? What happens if they’re not? They can’t just abandon those two boys. He feels the responsibility acutely: not only has he indirectly caused their parents’ deaths, but Zeb is possibly the only being in the Galaxy right now who can even try to help them attune their Force abilities other than Skywalker. He wouldn’t feel right just dropping them off with strangers.

...No, Alex needs to keep his nose out of other people’s business. They’re Verrashyn’s nephews. She’s a good woman; she’ll take good care of them. And besides, Zeb is right: how is he supposed to train anyone when he barely knows how to train himself?

Chapter Text

“For millennia, these beautiful creatures roamed Lothal freely alongside Humans and other imported species, and though there were many reported incidents of children being stolen away or unwise travellers being eaten, there does not seem to have been much actual unprompted antagonism between Loth-wolves and other sentients.

Yet hunting and aggressive expansion into their territory left Loth-wolves vulnerable; their main prey began to disappear from the plains, and as a result they did too. In the current era, rumours of their presence are rare and unreliable at best, and it is calculated that more than a hundred years have passed since anyone has seen one in the flesh. Some reports claim that a few were seen during the Liberation of Lothal, helping the Rebels. To our knowledge, however, all recordings of that day show only helpers of the two-legged kind.”

- Wole Pralatong in the holo documentary Native Species of Lothal

“Think about it from their perspective, Zeb,” Alex is saying, as their speeder flies across the Lothal grasslands once again. “They’ve been passed around from person to person, their parents just died, their only surviving relatives are complete strangers…”

Zeb gives him a worried look out of the corner of his eye; even without the Force, Alex is pretty sure he knows all of what Zeb is thinking. “Dunno if we can do anythin’ about that. Once they get to Verrashyn’s, they’ll be looked after well.”

“Yes,” sighs Alex thoughtfully. “I suppose they will.”

There’s no music coming from Ezra’s tower today; in fact, no noise whatsoever. Beside Alex, Zeb takes out his comm.

“Hey, ‘Bine. We’re back. Where are ya?”

“Mar’e!” replies Sabine over the comms. “The boys are saying hello to the Loth-wolves.”

Alex raises his eyebrow at Zeb, who huffs. “O’ course they are.”

“Is that a… Force thing?” asks Alex quietly. He remembers what happened at the liberation of Lothal, the way Ezra’s wolves responded to him as though they had been trained.

“Ezra had a knack with animals,” replies Zeb. “It weren’t Kanan’s thing, from what I gather, but… yeah, it’s a Force thing.” And then, via the comm: “We’ll come ta you, then.”

With that, Alex powers up the speeder once again, through taller and taller grasses towards the conical mountains in the distance. The huge shapes of the wolves appear in the distance as tiny specks at first, and grow slowly until Alex brings the speeder to a neat halt a few meters away from them.

There are four of them, in various shades of white and black, all sitting quiet and calm in a circle around the two boys. The largest one, the one who is facing the approaching speeder, has a strange silver marking on its forehead. For their part, Shirrivan and Byskalo don’t seem at all perturbed by the giant predators around them; they sit cross-legged on the ground, back to back, eyes closed, staying unnaturally still for their age.

Sabine, just outside the wolf circle, looking a little panicked, waves at Zeb and Alex and edges her way around the twitching tails to meet them.

“So…” she says. “This wasn’t my idea.”

“Yes,” replies Alex, staring at the twins. “I can tell.”

Both of them look at Zeb, whose ears flick indignantly. “What? What ‘m I s’posed ta do? I dunno how ta do any o’ that spooky Force stuff! I can barely do normal Force stuff!”

Sabine takes a deep breath. “I really am gonna start throwing rocks at you.”

“I’ll help,” says Alex.

“Awright, awright, I’ll try summat, I guess.” Zeb climbs out of the speeder; Alex follows him to stand expectantly a little closer to the wolves. For a few moments, nobody says anything: Zeb closes his eyes. His breathing slows to a regular near-sleeping pattern. A few long seconds pass. He tips his head slowly from one side to another, and eventually raises one large, sharp-clawed hand. Now that’s more like it.

The twins are the first to notice: their ears prick up in unison. The Loth-wolves around them turn their heads towards Zeb, their canine focus rather unsettling in its intelligence. For the briefest of moments, Alex sees Zeb falter: his mouth twitches, and his brows furrow. The Loth-wolves stare thoughtfully at him.

It doesn’t matter, thankfully. The twins both open their eyes and stand up. Hand in hand, they walk between the Loth-wolves towards the three adults, and the Loth-wolves fall into step behind them two by two. They stop in front of Zeb and Alex, wide blue eyes disconcertingly clear and mature.

“Adan and Aman are dead, aren’t they,” says Shirrivan, calmly.

“We felt it,” adds Byskalo.

All at once, Zeb crumples to his knees and draws both boys into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry, boys. I’m sorry. I couldn’t save her.”

“She was happy when she died.” Byskalo reaches up to put his hand on Zeb’s broad back.

“Because of you,” agrees Shirrivan. “You were there for her.”

“I hope so.” Zeb lets go of them and rubs his own head. “’S okay ta be sad, boys. It’s not wrong.”

The boys say nothing.

“So…” begins Sabine, giving Alex a look that’s much too knowing for his liking, “What’s going to happen to them now?”

“They’re going to go and live with Aunt Verrashyn and Aunt Leelu,” replies Alex firmly. Mandalorians and their foundlings. “Won’t that be nice, boys?”

“No,” says Shirrivan bluntly.

“We don’t wanna,” agrees Byskalo.

Alex folds his arms. “Well, what do you want to do? You’ll have to live somewhere.”

The twins look at each other, and then at the largest Loth-wolf.

“We like Dume,” declares Byskalo.

Shirrivan nods, as if it’s already decided. “We’ll live with him.”

“Well, that’s not very practical, is it,” replies Alex, putting a hand on his hip. “He’ll eat you up.”

The boys giggle. “You’re silly.”

Sabine snorts and punches him softly in the arm. “Yeah, he really is, isn’t he?” And then: “He’s also kind of right. Loth-wolves can’t really look after you like parents can.” Her voice lowers: “They definitely can’t teach the Force, either.”

Alex shakes his head. “I’m sure someone out there can.”

“I mean, if Kanan was still alive…” begins Sabine, with a sigh.

“Or that other one,” Alex murmurs. “Wasn’t there someone else that passed on?”

An unreadable expression crosses Sabine’s face. “Yeah. Ahsoka.” A shake of her head. “No hope there. I just wish Ezra…”

“I know.” It’s been so long. In all likelihood, Ezra will never return from his journey. To have survived through hyperspace and beyond, to have lived all these years after… Alex doubts it. “He would have made a very good teacher.”

He watches as Zeb crouches down once more to speak softly to the twins, telling them how they’re going to go see other Lasats on Lira San. It’ll probably be the first time in those boys’ lives that they’ve seen Lasats that aren’t related to them – apart from Zeb, of course. He knows it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to join the conversation, not with his past actively hunting down as many Lasats as he could find, not with his actions on Lasan, not when his own former colleague is responsible for their parents’ death.

Tenderness. Kindness. Care. Can he ever allow himself to express all of that, considering who he has been? Will anyone else allow it?

“He would have.” Sabine, too, is looking at Zeb. Her expression is odd, almost jealous. “I guess it comes more naturally to some people to others.”

Are they still talking about the ability to teach? Alex can’t think of what else it could be. There’s a suspicion lurking somewhere on the edges of his mind, but he dismisses it. She’s never shown any kind of inclination… but then, he’d missed all the signs for Zeb as well. It couldn’t be. Could it?

“So,” adds Sabine. “I guess what happens to those two is up to their guardians, huh?”

Alex nods. “I suppose,” he says, “Verrashyn will ask Chava to teach them…”

Chapter Text

“When you feel like there’s no one there

Feel like no one really cares

Call me on the holo, baby

I’ll be there

No matter if you’re near or far

Across planets, moons and stars

Call me on the holo, baby

I’ll be there…”

- Neurotransmitter Affection, Call Me (On the Holo)

Zeb is about to suggest a meal together before they take the boys back to Lira San and Verrashyn when something in Alex’s pocket begins to beep at them insistently. It’s their holoprojector, blinking with a familiar pattern.

“It’s Verrashyn,” remarks Alex. There’s not many other people it could be, not right now. “Sabine, why don’t you take the boys back to the tower while we have a chat with their aunt? We’ll catch up in a bit.”

“Sure,” shrugs Sabine, and puts on her helmet. “Alright, vorpan’ika’e, you know what to do.”

“Yay!” cheer the twins, running into her arms so that she can pick them both up. “Jetpack, jetpack!”

“Sabine,” warns Zeb. “Jus’ be careful.”

Sabine makes a motion with her head, the helmet version of rolling her eyes. “We’re going at a very low altitude. We’ll be fine.”

With that, she kicks off the ground and flies off toward the tower – she’s right, it is a very low altitude, only a few meters off the ground and relatively safe, but Zeb worries anyway. He wouldn’t want to bring the boys back to Verrashyn injured, after all. Nevertheless, he turns back to where Alex is fiddling with the device to make sure the signal gets through all right from Lira San. After a few moments of tinkering, Alex steps back; the holo lights up with Verrashyn, looking serious.

“Hiya,” says Zeb. “What’s up?”

Verrashyn steeples her fingers. “We need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” murmurs Alex under his breath.

“The thing is… my wife has her own litter nearly ready to climb out of the pouch,” explains Verrashyn.

Karabast, yeah, she really does, doesn’t she? Zeb had forgotten about it what with everything that’s been going on. He remembers smelling it on Leelu, even at a distance. And with the time that’s passed since then…

“Congratulations,” says Alex, politely.

“Thanks.” She shakes her head. “I’d do anything for my litter-sister, really, but I just – I don’t know if we can handle a bunch of kits and a pair of five year olds. On their side, it’s not fair on them to come into a home and then not have our full attention when the younger ones come along.”

Alex looks up at Zeb and frowns. “So…”

“Hm. Yeah.” Verrashyn grimaces. “So. You say these two…” She makes a twiddling motion with her fingers. “I’ve talked to Chava, obviously. She said you might know where some Jedi are that can train them?”

“Er…” says Zeb. He doesn’t really want to admit that he kind of got into an argument with Luke, and that he wouldn’t trust Luke with a kit if his life depended on it.

“I’m going to mute us for a moment, Verrashyn,” says Alex diplomatically, and presses the button before she can respond.

“Don’t, Alex,” says Zeb firmly, as soon as he sees the ‘Input Muted – Output Muted’ text scrolling along the bottom of the holo. “That’s a really bad idea.”

Alex pouts. “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say yet.”

“I can feel ya thinkin’ about it,” frowns Zeb. “’S loud enough ta give me a headache.”

“I can’t help thinking, Zeb.” He folds his arms. “Kanan once told me I have very robust mental shields. More or less.”

Zeb shakes his head. “I know ya can’t. Ain’t yer fault. An’ Kanan only really knew ya fer a few months.” He waves a hand, as if to brush away that particular line of thought. “Anyway. I told ya, I can’t train anyone. I’m makin’ stuff up as I go along. They’d probably teach me, not the other way round.”

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” smiles Alex brightly. “You can all learn together, can’t you? Even if some other Lasats adopt them, they’ll probably just come to you for training anyway.”

The worst thing is, he’s right. As much as Zeb doesn’t want to admit it, even Kanan learned new things while trying to teach Ezra. Iron sharpens iron, and all that. Except… these are children, not weapons. They deserve more than to be a glorified training exercise. They deserve to be taught more than the bits and pieces he’s picked up from Kanan and Ezra, the scraps he absorbed from Chava’s unconventional style, the vague impressions he’s taught himself.

“Perhaps -” Alex’s warm, familiar hands clasp around Zeb’s fingers - “that’s why you’ve gotten the Force, you know. To help them.”

Destiny. Why does there always have to be a big cosmic reason for everything? Can’t things just happen without any rhyme or reason? It’s convenient, sure: it’s good for those two to be around their own species, and it’s even better to have someone around who gets the Force stuff, and Kalo'im did ask him to look after them, but – aw, karabast. The soft mushy side of him is winning again.

“I dunno,” he sighs at last. “What if I’m still a danger ta be around? I mean, I might freak out again, and we won’t always have Chava around ta do her thing. And there was that lightning thing, yannow?”

Alex puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Zeb. You’ve already learned so much. I have no doubt that if you’re in danger of making a rock tornado, or electrocuting everyone, you’ll be able to stop it yourself. I believe in you.”

Zeb takes a deep breath. “I wouldn’t know what ta do,” he admits, nodding in the direction Sabine went. “With them.”

It’s not quite the full truth. He used to be all right with kits. It’s just… been a long time, is all.

“Well, neither do I,” replies Alex. “Quite frankly, I never thought a day like this would come. You know that. I turned away from the possibility, and yet the boys found us anyway.”

Zeb hadn’t thought about that. Karabast. Suddenly he understands why Alex wants this a whole lot more. He’s been so focused on his own bantha crap that he barely even took the time to think about how his own husband was feeling.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex adds, with a sudden wave of self-consciousness. “It’s silly.”

Slowly, gently, he reaches up to cup Alex’s chin in his hand. “No it ain’t.”

Alex’s eyes dart to the holo; Verrashyn has, apparently, wandered off while they weren’t looking. He gets it. He’d get bored staring at two people argue without being able to hear what they were saying, too. The empty space glows blue, with only the text at the bottom still scrolling back and forth.

“I don’t know why I want this,” Alex mutters, so low that even Zeb struggles to hear him. “I shouldn’t want it, I never wanted it, this is irrational, they deserve better, it’s my fault they don’t have anyone else to turn to – yes it is, don’t try to deny it – and this is the worst time with the whole Force business and -”

Uh-oh. It’s always bad when he starts using words like irrational. That’s usually the Imperial conditioning coming out.

“Hey,” murmurs Zeb, enveloping him in a soft, warm hug. “’s okay. Life ain’t rational.” And then: “Ya programmed yerself ta never want anythin’. Ya said that once, yeah?”

“I don’t think I’ve said it out loud, not in so many words, but yes.” Alex sniffles. “This isn’t the same.”

Zeb doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he runs his hand down Alex’s back: he doesn’t have ruffled fur to smooth down, but the touch comforts him nonetheless.

“It wouldn’t be easy, I gotta admit,” he begins, and waits for Alex to turn his face towards him before continuing, “but we could make it work. Yer right, we could learn from each other. An’, hey, ya could teach ‘em other stuff, too, right? Mechanics, self-defence, all sorts a things.”

For a few moments, Alex’s eyes scan back and forth over Zeb’s face, searching. “I thought you were against the idea.”

“Not against so much as…” Zeb grimaces. “I’m jus’ worried, is all. An’ I don’t wanna do anything outta guilt. That’s no fair on anyone.”

“No,” agrees Alex. “Quite."

“Fer what it’s worth,” adds Zeb, “I think ya’d be pretty good at it.”

Alex snorts. “It’s funny you should say that,” he replies. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear that,” grins Zeb. “I’m getting’ better at not readin’ yer mind!”

Alex’s bites his lip. “I… was trying to hide it, actually. I didn’t think you’d be on the same page.”

“’M sorry.” Zeb strokes a loose lock of hair out of his face. “Fer makin’ ya feel like ya had ta keep secrets from me.” And then: “We got space at home. House is pretty big fer jus’ two of us, right?”

Alex’s eyes shine. “Now that you mention it…”

“Well, then.” Zeb rubs his cheek against Alex’s. “We’re a team, ain’t we? We can figure out anythin’. With your brains an’ my brawn -”

“- and the Force -”

“- and the Force, yeah, we can do anythin’.” He beams. “So let’s see what we can do for those kits.”

“Yes,” agrees Alex, smiling in that gentle loving way that he always has when he can’t believe his luck. “Let’s.”

There is a movement just in the corner of Zeb’s vision. The big Loth-wolf, the one the kits called ‘Dume’, stands and pads over; before Zeb can do anything about it, it opens its mouth and licks both of them enthusiastically from waist to ear with one massive, drooling, pink tongue.

“Ack! Gerroff!”

“Eurgh,” agrees Alex, wiping himself off to no avail. “What the hells was that about?”

The wolf stares at them, wagging its damn tail and making an odd expression – it almost looks like it’s grinning. Zeb rolls his eyes, trying to at least smooth himself down. All his fur on one side is sticking up the wrong way, enough to make him shudder.

“Think that was Kanan,” he replies, “givin’ his approval. Don’t ask…”

(Later, when they get back to the tower having finally sorted everything out with Verrashyn, the twins run up to them eagerly – to both of them. Alex doesn’t hesitate to finally pick them both up into a hug.)

Chapter Text

“Back then I didn’t really question where my twin cousins came from. My uncles just showed up with them one day, and I got on with them instantly. We bonded over our colouration – my ears and hair are green, and so is their fur. I assumed that that was just what happened when a purple Lasat and a blond Human loved each other very much. Later, of course, I realised that they were adopted, which probably saved my mother from some very awkward questions.”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 8: My Cousins the Jedi” in Family Heroism: A Memoir

They stop off with Hera again on the way back to Lira San, mostly because Sabine threatens to tell her first – “and you know she’ll be pissed if you do this without telling her -” and, well, it’s a fairly convenient stopping point anyway. It still doesn’t seem real. Alex is still amazed at the way Verrashyn actually sounded relieved when they offered this, rather than terrified that the Imperial monster was going anywhere near her nephews.

“I thought you were going to find Skywalker,” Hera says, when she sees Zeb.

“We did, an’ then I had a disagreement with him, an’ then we kinda got sidetracked…” says Zeb, stepping out of the way so that Alex and the boys can file in. “Long story, short, these are the twins, we’re adoptin’ ‘em.”

Hera opens her mouth, closes it, and then says: “I feel like I missed a few steps there, but okay.”

“Well,” says Alex, “this is Shirrivan and Byskalo. Boys, say hello to your aunt Hera.”

“Hello,” says Shirrivan.

“You’re not the one we sensed,” says Byskalo.

“Oh, right,” nods Zeb, “an’ they’re Force sensitive, too. Shoulda mentioned that earlier.”

Hera stares at them for a moment and then turns her head towards the door. “Jacen! Come meet your cousins!”

There is a hurried pattering from outside the other door, and Jacen slides into the room: when he spots the twins, his eyes go wide.

“Whoah!” he gasps. “You’re green!” He points to his hair. “I’m green, too!”

“Whoah,” agrees Byskalo. “Cool.”

“I’m Shirrivan,” says Shirrivan. “And this is Byskalo.”

“I’m Jathen! You wanna thee my Jedi toyth?”

“Yes,” says both twins in unison, and run off behind him before any of the adults can say anything.

Hera smiles at Alex and Zeb’s consternated expressions. “You really are new parents. It’s fine, boys. Chopper’s looking out for them.”

“That isn’t very encouraging, Hera,” says Alex. “Do you know how many times he’s threatened to pull someone’s intestines out and tie them in a bow?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “He only does that to Imperials.”

“You’d be amazed how little that comforts me.”

“Oh, shush. As for you two…” Hera gestures towards the seats. “Sit. I want you to tell me absolutely everything.”

“I don’t know if I can do this, Hera,” admits Alex, quietly. It’s an hour or two later, after they’ve explained the whole story from finding Skywalker to adopting the twins, and Zeb has gone to check on the kids. “I don’t deserve to…”

“Hey,” scolds Hera. “What have Zeb and I told you about that ‘I don’t deserve this’ bantha fodder?”

“...that it’s bantha fodder?”

“Damn right.” Hera folds her arms. “Bad people have kids all the time, and you are not a bad person, Alex. You’re a good man who was led astray by the Empire into doing terrible things, but those terrible things don’t define you. The question isn’t whether you deserve to have kids or not, but whether you want to have kids. Kids need to feel wanted and loved. Can you give these two that?”

Alex hugs himself. “I want to, but I’m afraid. I’m not a good person. My family were… I’m afraid I won’t make them feel loved.”

Hera hums. “I understand. I don’t have the best relationship with my father. He’s a decent enough man, but we have very different ideals.” She smiles. “It’s a good sign that you’re thinking about that kind of thing. It means you care, at least a little bit.”

“...You think so?”

“I know so.” She leans back and folds one leg over the other. "So what are they going to call you?"

"I don't know,” he frowns. “They're still adjusting to the deaths of their actual parents, poor things… We've already had a few 'you're not our Adan'. And they're right. We're not. We can't replace the parents they've lost."

"I remember that stage," smiles Hera. "Even if Ezra was a little older. Give them time."

It had not occurred to Alex until this moment that Hera actually has experience that could be applicable here but – yes, of course she does. Zeb's perspective may be of the Ghost crew as siblings, but Hera was undeniably a mother to Ezra, just as Kanan was a father.

“So you think,” he replies, “they might accept Zeb as their new Adan?”

“Sure. Just gotta be patient with it. Give them the time and space to grieve, if they need to.” Hera raises her eyebrows. "And what about you?"

“I… I’m not sure,” admits Alex. “Nothing in Basic seems quite right.”

She frowns. "Hm. You’re not using whatever you used for your parents?”

"Hera, I called my parents Mother and Father. You see why I wouldn't want that."

Hera grimaces. "Eek. Okay. Uh..." She snaps her fingers. "What about that other language? Oh, what's it called, the blyat' language."

He folds his arms. “Oh, what a fantastic idea. I might as well just teach them the F word and be done with it.” And then: “Besides, the only words I know that aren’t absolutely foul are, well… childish.”

Hera blinks at him for a long few moments. “They are children.”

“...You have a point.” Alex frowns. “I’ll think about it.”

“Of course I have a point,” replies Hera smugly. “I’m not a General for nothing.” And then, with a wry smile: “By the way, I've been meaning to say, welcome to the club.”

Alex raises his eyebrow. “The… parenting club?”

“No, the ‘Psychic significant other’ club.” She winks.

Alex thinks about this. “It’s just you and me, isn’t it.”

“Hey,” shrugs Hera, “we all gotta start somewhere.” And then: “But yeah, the parenting club too. I’m glad you found those two. Jacen doesn’t get to meet many other kids his age when he’s with me. And, hey, I can finally be the cool aunt!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” says Alex. “Sabine is the cool aunt. She has a jetpack.”

“Damn it,” replies Hera. “I can’t compete with that. All I have is the Ghost and the Lodestar. Maybe I can take them out and show them some flying tricks…”

“Absolutely not.”

(Jacen is all sorts of disappointed to have to say goodbye to “Shirvan” and “Bith”. It’s all right. No doubt they’ll all see each other again soon enough.)

Chapter Text

“If you, like most of the Galaxy, are insensitive to the Force, it may be confusing or alarming to see the abilities of your child as they begin to develop. It can also be disruptive for any other children in the household, who may ask why this child has acquired the Force and they have not.

In this brochure, we will attempt to answer any burning questions you may have about your child’s abilities, their potential future as a Jedi, and how their power may have an impact on not only their life but yours. We will also try to provide helpful techniques for dealing with the most common familial issues that may arise as a result of your child’s emerging Force sensitivity.

The first thing to remember as a parent, then, is that you will never be able to do some of the things that your child can do – and that’s okay! The Force is a talent that only few have: instead of focusing on what you can’t do, try to focus on the things you can do to help both your child and the family around you…”

- from the pre-Imperial information pamphlet So Your Child is Force Sensitive

It’s fortunate that the boys are asleep when they get to the barrier between the rest of the Galaxy and Lira San: Zeb knows all too well how much the trip could scare them if they were awake, with all the electricity running everywhere and the definitively strange feeling of the journey in the Force. It definitely freaked him a little, the first time.

Alex, then, is the only one awake, cradling a cup of farfel tea and staring out into the golden cloud in front of them with a kind of reverence.

“Wanna try?” grins Zeb, handing over his bo-rifle.

Alex puts down his tea. “Doesn’t it require the use of the Force? You know I don’t have a Force-sensitive bone in my body. I’m more likely to get us stranded in space at best.”

Zeb shrugs. “I’ll help control it.”

“Well…” Alex fiddles with the bo-rifle experimentally, until he gets it to the correct trident formation. “All right. Like this?”

“Yeah. Jus’ hit that li’l button -”

Alex hits it. The tip electrifies, but there’s no spark connecting to the console: it’s nothing more than a sparkly light at the end of the trident.

“Huh,” says Zeb, staring. “Guess it really don’t work.”

“I suppose not,” replies Alex. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it; he returns the bo-rifle gladly. “That’s all right. Go ahead.”

Zeb nods. Now that he knows he’s using the Force, it becomes even easier to slip into that calm focused state of control, to fly the Glimmer gently and safely through the unseen dangers around them: he feels more in tune with the Force now than he ever has done, connected to everything and everyone, everywhere. He really ought to practice this state of mind, like Alex suggested: he can feel himself improving.

He remembers a monk that came through Yavin: “It is by the Force alone that all things are set in motion.” He hadn’t understood it at the time. Now…

At last, he lets his bo-rifle drop again and allows himself to surface, back into the here and now, where Alex is waiting patiently.

“I mean,” he says, continuing his line of thought from before, “I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.”

“It is a little odd,” replies Alex, stroking his beard. “If the path to Lira San requires the Force, and there have been so many refugees over the millennia, surely someone on Lira San would have it. But Chava was very definite about that, wasn’t she?”

Zeb shrugs. “Maybe they’re all passed on by now.”

“Hm,” replies Alex, sounding unconvinced. “There is one still alive who’s come through here… what’s his name? Yivo something?”

That’s a good point. He must have got here using the Force… right? Unless he got here in the same circumstances that Zeb did the first time, which seems unlikely.

“Maybe we can go talk ta him?”

Alex nods. “Yes, that’s a good idea.” And then, suddenly: “It does seem similar to the, er, lightning.”

“Huh.” Zeb tips his head. “Now that ya mention it…”

“Interesting.” Alex’s thoughts are fast and loud, grinding up against the sudden headache that settles in Zeb’s skull. “It’s something to bring up to Chava, when we see her again.”

“Later,” nods Zeb, taking the controls. “I’ll bring us down, yeah?”

Alex smiles softly. “I’ll go wake the boys so they can see.”

A few minutes later, as promised, the twins follow him into the cockpit, yawning and rubbing their eyes: as soon as they see Lira San below them, their eyes go wide.

“Pretty…”

“Yeah,” agrees Zeb, taking the controls for a slow soar over the gorgeous vistas of Lira San. “Really pretty. Welcome ta Lira San, boys. This is our home.”

The twins move closer to the viewport, entranced; Alex stands with them, making sure they don’t lose their balance as the Glimmer swoops down towards the open area at the end of the field outside their house. As gently as he can (he’s not as good a pilot as Alex is, and it shows), Zeb lands and opens the hatch.

“Shall we have a look inside?” asks Alex, leading them all out into the early morning sunshine.

“Yeah!” agree the twins, and start to run up towards the house through the overgrown grass full of wildflowers. A cloud of purple besneeto bursts up around them, and they giggle, entranced. For a moment, just here, Zeb can’t imagine seeing anything more perfect: Alex in front of him, wading through the grass towards the twins, and the boys themselves, bathed in sunshine, with purple fluttering all around them – all happy, all safe, all together.

Karabast, but he loves them. All three of them. He shakes his head, smiles, and heads up to join them.

“Come on, we ain’t even got ta the good bit…”

“Do we really get to live here forever?” asks Shirrivan, once the two of them have been settled into the house, vaccinated (courtesy of Nyota), fed, and bathed. They’re sharing a room and have a small makeshift bed-pit each, at least until Zeb and Alex can build them proper ones sunk into the floor.

“You’re not going to send us away?” adds Byskalo.

“We won’t send you away,” promises Alex. “This is your home now, too.”

Zeb puts his arm around Alex and nods. “We’re yer family now. That means we ain’t gonna abandon ya. We’re never gonna give ya up.”

(He wouldn’t, even if Verrashyn changed her mind. The twins are relying on them now. He doesn't intend to let them down.)

Chapter Text

“Uncountable are the Paths, then, and myriad are the perspectives where the Force is concerned, far beyond the simple binary of Light and Dark, Jedi and Sith. There are some who see the Force more as an individual, a god; others who see it as a function of nature like gravity; and still others whose understanding goes far outside any experience that conventional Force users might be familiar with. It is entirely possible that each Sensitive has their own unique version of connection, their own visualisation of its Presence, their own complex morality concerning its use or study.”

- Kozem Pell, Collected Poems, Prayers, and Meditations on the Force

“I said, ‘find someone to train you’,” says Chava, hands on her hips. They’re outside; on the other side of the field, the boys are discovering the joys of the trees around the house under Alex’s watchful eye. She’s pulled Zeb aside, the better to harangue him. “I didn’t say ‘find others to train’!”

“We couldn’t just leave them, Chava.”

She folds her arms. “And what about the Jedi you were supposed to find, hmm?”

“Ugh,” Zeb groans. “Don’t even ask. Alex still holds a grudge.”

“You could have left those children with him to train, at least,” Chava sniffs.

Zeb shakes his head. “They already need therapy, I’m not trying to make things worse.”

“That bad?”

“It wasn’t great, no.” He shifts from foot to foot. “So you still won’t help us learn to use the Force?”

“That is where your style and mine differ, Garazeb,” sighs Chava, shaking her head. “I do not ‘use’ the Force, much in the same way that you do not use…”

“Alex?” guesses Zeb. “I gathered that.”

Chava tips her head. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“Must be weird when you meet, you know, actual Jedi,” says Zeb. “Or any of the rest of us.”

“The Jedi way is – or was – the majority,” she replies quietly. “Those of us with different paths must be aware of that, at least.”

Zeb nods and stares thoughtfully at the twins. “You could teach us about those other paths.”

“Some of them,” agrees Chava.

“That’s a start, then.” He waves at Shirrivan, peeking out from between the branches; Shirrivan waves back and disappears between the leaves again. Below, Zeb can see Alex getting nervous about the heights: he still doesn’t quite believe that the twins are even safer up there than they are on the ground, at least at this age.

“Ach, I hate to admit it, but they really are happy with you,” sighs Chava, following his gaze. “The Ashla is content with it, even if I wish you’d been a little more sensible.”

Zeb grins. “Good to hear. She got any more pearls of wisdom for us?”

“As it happens, yes, I have been meditating with the Ashla,” comments Chava. “Let me tell you the word I have received.”

“Go on,” says Zeb.

She gives him a mischievous grin. “Are you sure? You’re usually very reluctant to accept your destiny.”

“If you’re going to tell me that I’m burdened with glorious purpose,” replies Zeb, rolling his eyes, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I thought not,” she smirks. “Well, tough, ‘cause I’m going to tell you anyway.”

“Of course you are.”

“When you and the Warrior first stepped foot on this planet, you brought with you Darkness and Light.” Chava lays both hands on her staff. “You, Child, also brought the Force. Such is your destiny: to open the dams of the Ashla to pour on Lira San. Many Lasat children are going to be born capable of accessing the Force in the coming centuries where none have been in millennia. These two are but the first in a long line of Lira San wielders.”

Zeb thinks about this. “…So I don’t actually have to do anything?” he asks hopefully. “I’ve already fulfilled my destiny, and that’s it?”

“I never said that, my lad.”

“Eh, worth a try.” He waits; Chava says nothing for a long while. “Any hints on what I’m supposed to do now, or…?”

She shrugs. “Not a clue. Destiny’s a tricky thing at the best of times.”

“Don’t have to read your mind to know you’d say that,” sighs Zeb.

Chava gives him an almost friendly tap with her staff. “If you can see the future like that, Child, then you should already know your own destiny, shouldn’t you?”

Zeb decides not to dignify that with an answer. He’s pretty sure he’s never predicted the future before, and even if he had, he wouldn’t know how to do it again. Besides, it’s not something Kanan did all that often, or Ezra for the matter. He could probably count the times it actually happened on the fingers of one hand.

Instead, he says: “You want to come meet the boys, then?”

“Oh, if I must,” she smiles, and follows along after him across the field to join Alex; he looks from Chava to Zeb and raises his eyebrow.

“Good talk?” he tries.

“Chava is bullying me again,” replies Zeb.

Alex scrunches up his face, mouths the word ‘bullying’, and then lights up. “Ah. Teasing, yes?”

“Close enough.” Zeb looks up into the branches: both boys seem perfectly content where they are. “Looks like they’re having fun.”

“Yes,” replies Alex ruefully, “they enjoy seeing what reckless stunts will turn my hair grey.”

Chava tips her head thoughtfully and peers upwards. “Which one is which?”

“That one is Shirrivan, and that one is Byskalo,” replies Alex, pointing. “It’s actually fairly easy to see the difference once you get to know them.”

The boys’ ears prick up at the sound of their names: they look down and spot Chava.

“This is Chava, boys,” Zeb calls, when he sees their curious expressions. “A friend. She’s a Revered One, so be polite.”

“Hello,” calls Shirrivan.

“Oh, hello, dearie,” Chava smiles, turning instantly into the sort of sweet old grandmother character she saves for anyone below the age of majority – instead of the slightly unhinged and infuriatingly mysterious old witch that Zeb knows. “My, how high you two can climb.”

Both twins beam with pride.

“I hear you two have some special abilities,” adds Chava. “Why don’t you show me what you can do?”

“Shirrivan,” calls Byskalo, from one branch. He holds up a gadu fruit. “Catch!”

The fruit floats around the branch and downwards towards where Shirrivan is clinging to another tree: Shirrivan raises his hand just as the fruit begins to droop, and pulls it gently towards himself.

“I take it back,” says Chava to Zeb. “They don’t need training, they’re already better at using the Force than you are.”

“Is good, yes?” agrees Alex. “They learn him, maybe?”

“Hm,” Chava nods. “Yes… I wonder…”

Chapter Text

<The following report is classified and may only be accessed by persons with a rank of CPT and above.>

…Despite reports that the sector was clear, platoon appears to have encountered an explosive device which killed seven soldiers and seriously injured the rest. Surviving members of the platoon commed for assistance, but were attacked by an enemy hostile before such assistance arrived.

According to helmet cam recordings, hostile proceeded to murder surviving soldiers one by one before escaping. Hostile is presumed to be an insurgent belonging to a Rebel group led by Saw Gerrera known as the Partisans, and appears to be a member of the Lasat species.

The platoon’s leader Agent A. Kallus, ISB-059, is the only surviving member of the platoon. The agent was seriously injured by the enemy hostile and is currently on medical leave.

<Report ends.>

Yivo Esgarrouth is one of the few Lasats Alex has seen who does not have stripes. He is a dark, solid red from head to toe; only his palms, face, and the soles of his feet are a light pink. His mane of thick reddish hair blends smoothly into his long braided beard. He’s middle-aged, apparently, a hundred and sixty or so, but looks not much older than Zeb. He visits them in the evening, after the twins have been put to bed, full of reminiscences about the old days.

“Ach, they called me ginon!” he’s saying, with expansive gestures to every corner of the room. “But I was right, wasn’t I? Lira San exists, and me and my crew found it!”

“So how did ya find it?” asks Zeb. They invited him here for a reason, after all: they’re both waiting for a good opportunity to politely enquire whether Yivo has mysteriously acquired the Force since coming here.

“Oh, Inara – that’s my wife – and I did a lot of research, you know, the Vir Kotto library was incredible in its day. She learned Lasat just to understand everything better, bless her – ah, I should have mentioned, she’s Twi’leki. Anyway, I suppose that place has been destroyed since then…” He shakes his head. “If not by that Empire lot, then scavengers and such.”

Alex, trying not to get caught up in navel-gazing guilt, nods. “You managed to get through the star cluster with no problem, then?”

“What?” Yivo blinks. “Oh, yeah, easy enough. Glad I don’t have to do it again, though, don’t think my old rust-bucket could take it…” And then, suddenly spotting Zeb’s bo-rifle: “Oh, the rumours are true! A real Ayno Dedinas! So you’re the kit that took over from ol’ Klyden, eh?”

“No, that was, erm…” Zeb snaps his fingers. “Whatsername. Zotoh Zhaan. I was after that.”

“Zotoh? Why’d they make her Captain?”

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Wish I knew. I was only, what, sixteen? Hadn’t even joined up yet.”

Yivo makes a face. “But she was…”

“Yeah,” grimaces Zeb. “Very. She got a dishonourable discharge when she got found out. Left the planet in disgrace. That’s when I got promoted.”

“I knew she was no good,” says Yivo, folding his arms. “I said to Klyden, I did, you watch out for her, I said, I told her she’d commit a war crime one day, but did she listen? Did she hells.”

By now, Alex is almost completely lost. He wants to contribute, really, but Zeb has only rarely mentioned his Honour Guard comrades; Alex should ask him about them more often, but he knows it’ll bring up bad memories for both of them.

“Ach, well,” sighs Yivo, leaning back in his seat, “at least she did get caught. Can’t imagine what horrors she’d have committed if she’d gone on fighting for too long. I mean, she must’ve had her ear cut off, right, if it was dishonourable? That’s gotta be a warning sign for anyone not to mess with her.”

Suddenly Alex is not lost whatsoever. He is on Onderon, trapped beneath the body of Chiana D’Argo as her charred flesh leaks fluid onto his brand-new uniform, watching the creature stalk closer with dripping claws. There had been a bomb. The smell had been like the taste of the meat on Endor, but he can’t retch because he can’t breathe. The smoke of the battlefield clogs his lungs, and the great purple beast opens its mouth to reveal long, sharp teeth, and its one ear twitches, lopsided.

He feels ill. He can’t move. He -

“Alex?”

- needs to get up, to fight back, but he’s frozen, helpless, powerless, and -

“Alex, hey, hey, can ya hear me?”

- its claws pierce his chest and drag themselves, ragged, through his skin, until he nearly screams -

“Alex, shh, yer safe, take a deep breath now, ‘kay?”

He feels, suddenly, a strange warmth rush over him, and his mind begins to clear. He breathes in, out, almost against his own will, chest aching from lack of air. Slowly, reality begins to seep in once more: reality and a sense of love peace compassion healing. He’s in their living room, still, with Zeb’s heavy, comforting hands on his shoulders, safe, far away from the teeth and the claws and the blood.

“I…” He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. His scars throb. “I’m sorry, I just…” He forces himself to look over at the concerned Yivo. “I think I… may have met her. The one you were talking about.”

Both Yivo and Zeb inhale sharply. “Zotoh?”

He hadn’t realised, at the time. His vision had been blurred with smoke, and he’d never seen a Lasat before then. He’d assumed, naively, that she was a man because of the beard.

“She was – she was Gerrera's,” Alex replies, and watches Zeb’s eyes go wide with understanding.

“So she did commit a war crime,” nods Yivo grimly.

Zeb growls softly. “Sev’ral.” He rubs Alex’s arm gently. “I had my suspicions, but… You okay? D’ya need ta take a break? I was sensin’ a lot of nasty kark just then.”

“No, I… I’m all right now.” Alex leans into his touch weakly. “Better, anyway.”

“It happens to the best of us,” nods Yivo, with perfect understanding. “Maybe it’s better to speak of other things.”

Zeb takes one more look at Alex: his ears twitch in concern for a moment before he sits down again and puts a protective arm around Alex’s waist. “Anythin’ ya had in mind?”

“Well, I was going to ask about that rifle you got,” replies Yivo pleasantly. “I haven’t seen the make before.”

That’s not the most helpful topic of conversation right at this moment, but Alex decides not to say anything. He’ll manage. He always does. At any rate, it’s something to distract himself.

“AB-75.” Zeb nods. “It’s pretty recent. Prob’ly after yer time.”

Yivo reaches out towards it. “May I?”

“Sure,” shrugs Zeb.

Yivo takes it, careful and respectful as such a weapon deserves, and looks it up and down with an expert eye.

“Ach, they don’t make ‘em like they used to,” he declares at last. “In my day, we still had a few of the real ancient ones. My one can do things with the Force I could never dream of. This one? Pah! You’d need to be a Jedi to open the path to Lira San with this newfangled piece of tat!”

Alex and Zeb both stare at him.

“Are you saying,” begins Alex, momentarily distracted from the residual trauma of his episode, “that some bo-rifles are capable of connecting to the Force, even if their user is not Force sensitive?”

Yivo raises his eyebrow. “Yeah? That’s what they’re made for. Or were made for, back in the day. These new makes don’t work like that. Corner-cutting, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Zeb, with a frown.

“Our weapons are our connection to the Ashla,” recites Yivo, and Alex is proud to be able to understand the whole sentence without having to look anything up in the dictionary. “You didn’t pay attention to that oath?”

“’pparently not enough.” Zeb takes his bo-rifle back and stares at it thoughtfully. “This one was brand-new when I got it. Top a the line. Most people, they got theirs passed down from previous Guards, but… well, they do break.”

“Hah! Not the real original ones, me lad!” snorts Yivo. “There are some on this planet that’ve been here for thousands of years. Every refugee who ever found this place got here because someone had a proper, Force-capable bo-rifle. As for you…”

Zeb bites his lip. “I did have a Jedi ta help the first time. An’ now I got the Force myself.”

“That explains how Kalo’im brought her sister here,” muses Alex. They still have Kalo’im’s bo-rifle; they haven’t had a good opportunity to bring it over to Verrashyn yet. “Hers must be one of the traditional ones.”

“Ah, I remember her,” nods Yivo. “Came here a year or so before we heard about the Siege. Don’t have a clue why she went back. S’pose it was still safe on Lasan, back then.”

Zeb looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah,” he replies at last. “I s’pose it was.”

Chapter Text

“I would like to raise a glass, then, to not only our victorious Rebellion, but to all those who were not so lucky. To the billions of my people that were killed on Alderaan. To all the loyal Rebels who gave their lives in pursuit of a cause they knew was just. To every soldier that lives still with the horrors that they witnessed. To every child who lost a parent, every parent who lost a child, every bereaved sibling or cousin or spouse.

May all those who remain with the grief and trauma the Empire has left in its wake be comforted this day and every day hereafter. May we all heal together as a more just, more merciful, more accepting society. May we create new ways to live on, and may we flourish. Nothing can erase what we, this fragile Galaxy, have experienced: yet perhaps, now, we may begin to write a new chapter in the history books. May our lives be full of the joy and peace and love that the Empire denied us, in defiance of everything its oppression took from us.

My fellow sentients – a toast. To the future.”

- Speech given by General Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, to the New Republic on the occasion of its founding

“New Adan,” murmurs Byskalo the next morning, “why is Human Adan so sad?”

Zeb glances over to the kitchen, where Alex is staring at his datapad, eyes empty and haunted. He hasn’t eaten, or even drank his caf. Zeb has been trying to get him out of his own head since last night. He knows Alex didn’t sleep – he can sense the nightmares still brewing like storm clouds at the edges of Alex’s mind. No doubt the boys can as well.

“He remembered something last night,” replies Zeb softly. “Something that hurt him a lot.”

“Where is he hurt?” asks Shirrivan. “You can give him a bacta patch, right?”

Zeb shakes his head. “No, it’s not that kind of hurt. It’s the kind that’s here -” he points to his own head – “and here.” He lays a hand on his heart.

“Oh,” the twins reply, in unison.

“We thought that was a bad dream,” says Byskalo.

“We felt it,” agrees Shirrivan.

Zeb puts a hand on one of their arms each. “And you didn’t come and tell us?”

They look at each other.

“We were really tired,” replies Shirrivan.

Byskalo nods. “We cuddled and went back to sleep.”

“Right,” murmurs Zeb. “Still. Yannow ya can come an’ talk to us whenever.” He gives them a serious look. “I felt it too. It weren’t a nice feeling.”

That’s an understatement. Alex’s flashback was so intense that Zeb could smell burning Human, could see the huge shape of Zotoh Zhaan – for it was unmistakably her, if Alex’s memories are accurate – advancing towards him, could feel her claws in his own chest. If they felt that, as well…

“How much did you feel?”

“He was scared,” says Shirrivan. “We didn’t know why.”

Well, that’s something, anyway. “That’s right. Tell ya what -” he nods towards the kitchen - “maybe we can find a way to cheer him up, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Without waiting another moment, both twins scamper off to the kitchen; Zeb follows, a little slower. Alex hasn’t moved at all from his place at the kitchen table, and the boys each take hold of an arm. “Human Adan, you need to eat!”

“Hmm?” A few long, slow blinks, and Alex finally seems to register that there are two small Lasats clinging to him and shaking him.

“You can’t grow big and strong if you don’t eat,” insists Byskalo.

“It makes you feel better,” agrees Shirrivan.

“Ah…” He shakes his head. “Yes. Food.”

Zeb moves closer and takes his free hand, trying to look into his slightly vacant eyes. “Hey. You okay?”

“I -” At last, Alex comes back to himself and takes a breath. “I was lost in thought, I suppose.”

“Well you should bring a map next time,” says Shirrivan bluntly.

That makes Alex laugh, genuinely; he ruffles the fur on Shirrivan’s head with his free hand. At last, some of the darkness emanating from him begins to fade. “I’ll try and remember that.” And then: “Thank you. You’re right, I should eat.”

“Good,” nods Zeb, and lets go of his hand so he can begin to finally dig in to his breakfast. “We were worried about ya, yannow.”

Alex looks up at him and smiles. “You always take good care of me.” A few more bites, and he blinks suddenly. “Hold on, Human Adan? Is that what we’ve decided on?”

“You are Human,” replies Byskalo.

Shirrivan nods. “There’s Old Adan -” Alex winces – “and then there’s New Adan and you.”

Alex opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. “That’s going to get confusing very quickly.” Zeb feels a very, very brief moment of struggle, of self-consciousness before the shields come up again and Alex takes a breath. “How about you try Batya.”

“Batya?” ask the boys.

“Yes,” says Alex, with a sudden clarity of thought. “Yes, I think that will do very well. It – it’ll make things less confusing, anyway.”

“It’s been a very long time,” he says, later, before Zeb even asks. “I didn’t remember it until Hera reminded me. I grew out of it, around when I was their age. I just thought… perhaps they don’t have to grow out of it.”

Zeb cups Alex’s face in his hand and understands, understands without any of the psychic nonsense: sometimes it’s hard to tell, now, where thought-reading ends and just ordinary empathy begins, but this is all them knowing each other, all normal in a time that Zeb desperately needs it.

“It’s a good choice,” he says, instead of anything else. “Suits you.”

Alex smiles, sudden and golden. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he grins: when Alex is happy, it’s infectious. He leans closer – the pillows rustle beneath them in the semi-dark of their bedroom – and kisses Alex, softly, in the Human style. Lips to lips, strange as it always is against Zeb’s mouth but not unwelcome. If it were unwelcome, he wouldn’t be doing it, after all. Alex’s mouth twitches up, and he rests his forehead against Zeb’s and scratches Zeb right behind one ear so that Zeb shivers and purrs in pleasure.

“I love you, you know.”

“Yeah,” agrees Zeb. “I love ya too.”

Alex rubs his face against Zeb’s, soft warm fur against fur against pale freckled skin. “I do hope New Adan isn’t here to stay, though.”

“Could be worse. Could be Living Adan, or somethin’.”

Alex winces. “Don’t even go there.” He presses his lips to the space between Zeb’s eyebrows. “We’ll work on it.”

Zeb nods. “We will.” He takes Alex’s head with both hands and looks into his eyes. “An’… I’m right here, yeah? If ya need me. If yer head gets into a bad place again.”

“I know you are.” Alex’s hands come up to clasp Zeb’s. “I’m here for you, too. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” agrees Zeb.

(He holds Alex until he falls asleep in his arms, comforted by the sense that most of the clouds have been banished – for now.)

Chapter Text

"Younglings in this maturity bracket experience grief in a much different way to adults. Most will not truly understand the concept of death, and often believe they will see the loved one again soon. Once they realise the deceased is not returning, they are likely to experience feelings of abandonment, confusion, anger, loneliness, and so on.

As a carer, it is important to try and guide the youngling through these big and scary feelings – try to provide outlets such as art or play through which the youngling may come to terms with the death. Remember that the youngling's expression of grief will not always be crying or anger: paradoxically, it is a good idea to leave room for them to have fun, too. Encourage them to participate in activities they have enjoyed in the past, since this is a vital part of the healing process."

- Kakume Utu, Younglings and Grief

Verrashyn finally comes to pick up her sister’s bo-rifle after they’ve already been on the planet for two weeks: she isn’t completely unexpected, but Alex knows even as he opens the door that they did not prepare the twins well enough for this. He remembers seeing Kalo’im’s body after her fur had been cleaned ready for cremation, remembers thinking: ah. There’s just been so much going on since then that he forgot about it.

That was a mistake.

“Aman! Aman, you’re back!”

“No, boys -” starts Zeb, but it’s too late. The twins have already run up to Verrashyn, who looks overwhelmed at the sudden attention.

“I -” she says, slipping into Lasat – the sort of fairly simple language people default to when speaking to children that, coincidentally, is a lot easier for Alex to understand. “I’m sorry. I’m not your Aman. I just look a lot like her. I’m your auntie, Verrashyn.”

The twins step back. “You’re… not her?”

Verrashyn stares down at them, eyes glistening. “You two look the same, but you’re not the same person, are you? Your Aman and I were like that. So, no, I’m not her. I smell different, don’t I?”

The boys look back to Alex and Zeb, uncertain and confused. “She’s not here…?”

Ah. So now it finally begins to sink in. Alex was wondering: as mature and aware as they seemed with the Loth-wolves when they were on Lothal, they’re not really old enough to understand death. He’s been researching, when he has the time. It makes sense that the shock, the realisation, should take so long to appear.

“She is not coming back,” he replies softly. “I am sorry.” He kneels and beckons them away from Verrashyn: slowly, looking between him and Verrashyn, they come, with shocked faces and downcast ears. Alex holds them close, gently, feels their little sharp claws dig in as they cling to him.

“Is… is Old Adan gone, too?”

“Yeah, kits,” murmurs Zeb, lowering himself to be on their level. “They’re both gone.”

“No…” The twins begin to cry, softly at first and then louder in great wailing sobs. “No!”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Verrashyn, backing away. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Alex shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to her or the boys.

“Wanna p-pouch!” they wail, in Lasat.

That is not something in Alex’s power to give. “I not have pouch…”

“Here,” murmurs Zeb, and takes the twins out of Alex’s arms – Alex feels blood begin to seep from the shallow scratches they leave. “Let’s find some nice blankets to cuddle up in instead.” He looks at Alex and nods in the direction of their room, where they’ve stored the bo-rifle; Alex stands carefully.

“It’s okay ta be sad,” murmurs Zeb, as he takes them into the other room. “It’s okay to be angry, or afraid…”

While they are distracted, Alex goes to fetch the bo-rifle. Verrashyn waits awkwardly at the front door, hugging herself.

“I -” she begins, and sighs. “Those poor kits. It would have been so much harder for them to live with me, wouldn’t it?”

“We weren’t to know,” replies Alex.

“Yes, we were.” Verrashyn shakes her head. “Me and her… we might not have looked as much like each other as those two do, but I should have expected -”

Alex raises a hand. “We should have thought, too. I… well, anyway, you came here for a reason.” Carefully, he holds out the bo-rifle. “This belongs to you.”

Verrashyn stares at it for a long, long time. “You know what?” she says at last. “Keep it. I don’t feel right taking it. It belongs with the twins.”

“I can’t,” insists Alex. “It is not mine to take. You are her only other living relative.”

“Then hold it safe for someone who deserves it,” replies Verrashyn. “Who needs it. It’s safe here on Lira San. I won’t ever use it. At least give it to someone who’ll fight with it well.”

Alex looks into her eyes: clear sky blue, just like the twins, and full of determination. At last, he relents, and props the bo-rifle against the wall.

“Very well,” he murmurs. “If you say so.”

“Good,” nods Verrashyn. For a long few moments, the two of them stand there in silence, trying to think of something to say.

“So, er, anyway…” Alex rubs the back of his neck. “How is your wife? And the little ones?”

“Very well, thank you.” Verrashyn smiles softly. “They’re beginning to poke their little heads out, bless. Think there’s five in there, all told, but, well, you know what they say. Don’t count them before they’re kits.”

“That’s… nice.” Alex has never heard that particular idiom before, but the sentiment is clear, even if he’s still a little confused about at what point, exactly, a joey becomes a kit. He’s beginning to understand why Zeb looked at him blankly when Alex asked about his birthday: it would be very difficult to keep track of five or six very similar little faces that appear and disappear almost at random over the course of a few months, and there are so many points at which a Lasat might be considered “born”.

“Maybe one day the twins will be able to meet them,” agrees Verrashyn. And then: “Anyway, I’d best be going. It was nice to meet the boys, even if…”

“Yes,” Alex murmurs. “Give it time.”

(The grief takes a long while to heal after that. There are tantrums, and both twins alternate between clinging to and avoiding Alex and Zeb. Occasionally, when it gets very bad, things begin to float: Zeb does his best to counteract it, but he still doesn’t quite have the skills necessary to handle anything particularly major. Nevertheless. They get through it, one day at a time, together. As a family.)

Chapter Text

“But sure enough, along came the Night Sister, travelling at light speed in her hypersonic oven and gnashing her teeth all the while. The clever Vasilisa sprinkled a handful of ju powder behind her, which quickly sprung up into a dense star field so that the Night Sister could not pass through without being horribly burned. The Night Sister gnashed and gnashed her teeth, and used her evil magicks to move the stars and clear a path for herself.

The clever Vasilisa did not despair, however, but scattered the catabar she had collected behind her, which sprang up into a deadly asteroid field that not even the Night Sister could force her way through. Gnash, gnash went the Night Sister’s teeth! Yet once again she used her evil magicks to blow away the asteroids and clear herself a path.

Finally, Vasilisa laid down herself in the Night Sister’s path, and gave herself up, hoping that the Night Sister would be satisfied with her death and plague her planet no longer. But the Night Sister recoiled from her, for this was an act of true goodness, and she could not abide such things. Instead of killing brave Vasilisa, she ran away in shame. And Vasilisa rejoiced, and all her planet rejoiced with her, and they lived to the end of their days without being bothered by the Night Sister ever again.

So it is that evildoers never prosper, and those of pure heart will always succeed.”

- “The Night Sister”, traditional Arkanis fairy tale

It is the middle of the year by the time the twins are fully adjusted to Lira San; soon, since they’re nearly six, they’ll be able to start going to a nearby school and meet other Lasat children their age for the very first time. They still both have bad days, occasionally, ones where nothing can console them about their parents, but those are fading slowly. Now, Alex and Zeb are the ones they rely on for comfort and care. They even occasionally leave off the New and just call Zeb Adan.

Tonight, Alex is alone with the twins: Chava has picked now, of all times, to drag Zeb into the forest to teach him some of her way. She has not explained why it needs to be at night but, well, Chava is Chava. Alex has learned not to question her too much. Instead, he takes the opportunity to spend quality time with the boys, to try and be the parent that he needed when he was young.

Shirrivan paws at him. “Tell us a story?”

Byskalo nods quickly. “Please, Batya!”

“All right, all right…” Alex sits on the bed-pit between them: the two of them cuddle up to him, one on each side. They are so eager, so loving. Sometimes, Alex can’t believe that the Universe – the Ashla, perhaps, if he listens to Chava or any of the more religious Lasats – has brought these two into their lives.

“Please,” they say in unison.

“A long time ago,” begins Alex quietly, “there was a very bad man. He didn’t realise he was a bad man, but he was. He hurt and even killed a lot of people. His evil bosses told him it was for good, but they were lying to him. So he continued to do what they told him to do, and believed it was the right thing even though it wasn’t.”

“What happened?” asks Byskalo.

“How did he figure out he was bad?” asks Shirrivan.

Alex chuckles and draws the boys closer. “I’m getting there. One day, the bad man met a very, very good man. This good man taught him to think differently about the bad things he was doing and had done. For a while, the bad man couldn’t believe he was doing wrong, but at last he saw the light.”

“He became a good man?” frowns Shirrivan.

“He said sorry?” adds Byskalo, hopefully.

“It took a very long time,” nods Alex. “But eventually he started doing the right thing, even behind his evil bosses’ backs. He became… not a good man yet, but someone in the middle. He still had to pretend to do bad things in front of his evil bosses so that they wouldn’t hurt him, but he tried to balance it out with lots and lots of good things.”

The twins gaze at him, eyes wide.

“At last,” continues Alex quietly, “there came a time when his evil bosses did find out that he was trying to do good things. And as you know, evil people can’t stand it when good people do good.”

“No,” gasps Byskalo.

“Did the bosses hurt him?” asks Shirrivan.

“I’m afraid so.” Alex strokes behind both of their ears. “But he was happy, because he knew he was still doing the right thing. He didn’t mind being hurt as long as there was still good in the world. He didn’t expect anyone to help him, because he had been a bad man before.”

“That’s it?” protests Shirrivan, bunching his fists.

“Yeah!” agrees Byskalo. “Doesn’t he get a good ending?”

“He does,” beams Alex, heart full of love for these two kits with so much passion for good. “You see, although he didn’t expect it, the very good man and his very good friends came to rescue the man who had been bad and let him become part of their family. The man who had been bad started to become a better man – slowly but surely, he started to do more and more good, with the help of his new family.”

Shirrivan, mouth agape, clutches at his shirt. “And they lived happily ever after!”

Byskalo balls up his fists. “Right? They didn’t die or anything?”

Alex shakes his head and chuckles. “Yes, they all lived happily ever after.” Well, perhaps that’s a stretch, but they don’t need to know that. “In fact, I have it on very good authority that the better man is still learning to be better and better every day. He married the very, very good man, and they lived very happily ever after.”

“Wow…” smiles Byskalo, dreamily.

“More, please?” asks Shirrivan hopefully.

“Another day,” Alex promises, and kisses each of them on the forehead. “Now, my little kits, it is bedtime. Sleep, and Adan will be here tomorrow morning.”

Both boys yawn in unison, scrunching up their faces: by the time Alex has extracted himself from between them, they’re both dozing off. Alex pauses a moment and strokes their foreheads once more.

“I hope you two will always try to be better,” he murmurs, softly. “Good night, little ones.”

(Zeb returns long after midnight; Alex wakes up when he flops into bed.

“How’d it go?”

“Ugh,” groans Zeb. “Never again.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“She spent mosta the time chantin’ an’ hittin’ me with her stick,” Zeb replies. “An’ the rest of the time wasn’t much better.”

Alex strokes his head. “No progress, then?”

“Her way an’ my way jus’… don’t mix,” he grumbles, and weaves his fingers together to demonstrate. “It’s like… it’s like dippin’ a salty ration bar inta sweet tea.”

“Eurgh,” says Alex.

“Yeah,” nods Zeb. “It just don’t work.”

Alex yawns. “Well, never mind, alitha. I’m sure you learned something from it.”

Zeb hums doubtfully and reaches up to stroke the hair out of Alex’s face. “How were the kits?”

“They were very good,” smiles Alex softly. “I, er. Told them a story. The one about… about the very bad man who learns to be good.”

“Oh, I like that one,” murmurs Zeb, drawing Alex into his arms. “All my fav’rite characters ’re in it.”)

Chapter Text

“A Jedi was walking down the street when suddenly he had a prophetic vision that shook him to the core. Immediately he rushed to the Jedi Temple and gathered his fellow Jedi.

“I have had a terrible vision!” he said. “Something catastrophic is about to befall this great planet! We need to act immediately!”

“What is it?” asked the other Jedi. “Is it war? Plague? Natural disaster?”

“No, worse!” he replied. “My favourite cantina is shutting down!””

- Popular pre-Imperial Coruscanti joke

Zeb hates to admit it, but he actually did learn one thing from Chava: a much improved technique for meditation which he, in turn, teaches in a simplified form to the twins. It’s a start, anyway, to helping them (and himself) develop their powers. Plus, of course, it’s therapeutic and a great way to bond, one which even Alex can participate in if he waits out the parts that require a connection to the Force.

Sometimes, Zeb even feels a little part of that same connection he feels when opening the path to Lira San: the real, full-blown, overwhelming Force that cannot help but be the centre of attention. Little by little, he begins to understand how to bridge the gap between that and his day to day life. This, too, he passes down as best he can.

He hasn’t had any more visions since that first one about Luke Skywalker, which is something of a relief. Thinking too much, analysing things and figuring out hidden meanings and symbolism – well, that’s more like Alex’s thing, to be honest. Zeb has always been more of a doer. Learning to sit quietly with the flow of the Force, delicate and cerebral as it is, is a struggle that always leaves his head pounding. He does his best.

“Ya never know,” he says to Alex one night, not particularly seriously, “maybe one day I’ll be able ta predict the future.”

“Mhm,” Alex yawns. “Let me know what next week’s swoop race results are.”

Zeb snorts and burrows deeper into the blankets. “Will do.”

For a while, there is silence, or at least quiet: Zeb listens to the soothing sound of Alex’s breathing and the gentle buzz of nightlife outside the house and smiles sleepily. The bed is comfy, the night is warm but not hot, and tomorrow will be another beautiful day…

“Wait a minute,” gasps Alex, bolting upright.

Zeb, who was just about to fall asleep, opens one eye. “…mmmwhat?”

Alex grasps his shoulder. “You’ve already predicted the future. Before we ever came to Lira San.”

“I did?”

“Yes!” Alex’s face is wild in the near-dark. “Remember after Lothal, you had that dream about the woman dying in childbirth, and you kept seeing her as Hera? That was before Hera told us she was pregnant.”

Zeb opens both eyes wide and stares at him. “You remember that? I don’t remember that!” And then: “Oh, karabast. Ooohhhh, karabast. I thought it was jus’ stress.” He blinks. “Hold on, hold on. That don’t prove anythin’. She smelled diff’rent when she was pregnant, maybe I jus’ picked up on that.”

“Think about it,” insists Alex. “Have you ever had any other dreams about things before they happen, or maybe dreamt of things you should know nothing about?”

Zeb thinks about this. “Just before Scarif, I… I think I dreamt about the Death Star. I was in an X-wing and I shot – oh, karabast, that was a dream about Luke kriffing Skywalker before I even met him! How did I not see that?”

“You never said anything,” Alex murmurs.

“You was kinda busy at the time,” sighs Zeb, laying his head in Alex’s lap. “I didn’t wanna worry ya.”

“I’m worried now, alitha.” He looks down at Zeb and scratches behind Zeb’s ear. “But thank you for trying to look after me.” A pause and he adds: “Well, two dreams isn’t a pattern just yet, but it is strange that it happened twice.”

“The night Kanan died,” says Zeb. He is fully awake again, brain working overtime to figure out just how many of his dreams over the years have been Force dreams. He’s never really paid that much attention to any of them; now, he wishes he had. Maybe he’d have figured out he was Force-sensitive a lot sooner. But how much sooner? He can’t have been Force sensitive his whole life, otherwise he’d have gotten sent to the Jedi and probably been killed along with the rest of them. When, then, did it start?

“Yes?” prompts Alex. Right. Zeb left that sentence unfinished.

“I had a dream,” he replies, “where I was a Jedi Master sacrificin’ myself fer a boy called Caleb.”

Alex frowns at him. “I don’t follow.”

“Caleb is his old name, afore he was with us. I didn’t know that then, though, I -” Zeb stares up at the ceiling. “I musta seen how his master died. Maybe even at the same time that he was dyin’.”

“Hm,” says Alex. “There are plausible explanations for each of these individually. Together, on the other hand… this is starting to sound less and less like a coincidence.”

It doesn’t make any sense. How did Zeb never notice any of this? He could have – should have figured it out long ago.

“I wonder,” continues Alex, and the shape of his thoughts is along similar lines to what Zeb was thinking. “Surely it can’t just have appeared out of nowhere. If the only way is to have it from birth, then -”

“Why didn’t it kriffin’ help me on Lasan, then?” interrupts Zeb. “I coulda saved people. Maybe not many, but… more. I coulda at least seen it comin’ and warned ‘em.”

Alex breathes in sharply: when he speaks, his voice is shaky. “What could you really have done, Zeb?” He lays a hand on his own chest. “Against us? We – I would still have tried hunting you down. Chava barely made it out, and she… presumably she had advance warning.”

“Still,” Zeb pushes back. “She weren’t – ain’t – in a position a military power. Revered Ones ‘re sworn to peace. I ain’t. Kinda goes against the point a the Honour Guard, yannow. Even if it was just a dream about the attack happenin’ afore it happened -”

“You’d have dismissed it as just a dream.” Then, a very quiet: “Don’t blame the Force for… for letting the massacre happen. We both know that’s not going to bring anyone back.”

Karabast. He’s right. Those old scars that Zeb thought had long been healed, the survivor’s guilt, the grief, the trauma, it’s right there beneath the surface. Zeb regrets bringing this up. He knows it’s hurting Alex, too. Nevertheless. They’ve started now. He pulls Alex’s arms around him, kisses Alex’s hand, returning the comfort he was offered in what small ways he can.

“I know.” He reaches up to stroke Alex’s face, to wipe the silent tears from his face.

For a while, they stay like that, sharing in the mutual pain. It comes from different places, for sure, but there’s still guilt, horror, and grief beneath it all for both of them. They’ve talked this to death over the years. Every time, it gets easier.

“I didn’t see Mandalore comin’, either,” he realises. They’ve been trying to support Sabine as best they can long-distance in the last couple of months: she keeps refusing their offers for them to come over to Lothal and care for her. If they’d known it was happening, if she’d talked to them, maybe – no, it’s not her fault. She was busy defending her home. Zeb of all beings understands how it feels to lose everything like that.

He just wishes she wouldn’t keep pushing them away.

Alex sniffles. “None of us did. I mean, you and I are retired, but if the Reb- New Republic had even contacted us, we could have fought and -”

“And what?” echoes Zeb. “What could just us two ‘ve done, huh? You’re right. Maybe some things ain’t meant ta be seen.” Then: “But Mandalore – feels like a gap, yannow? Like I coulda seen it comin’, if I’d tried hard enough. Lasan was… different.”

A deep, slow, shuddering sigh. “How so?”

“The Force… I can tell my powers ’ve changed,” he starts. Alex focuses on him fully, expression thoughtful. “I ‘member what it felt like ta not have it, that’s fer sure. It was like… being blind. On Lasan, I didn’t see nothin’. But somehow, sometime, I started seein’ light and shadows. Just a li’l bit, then a li’l more. Then shapes. More ‘n more details until now I think I can see almost everythin’. Still don’t always understand what I see. But I ‘member what it was like to be blind every time I close my eyes.”

Alex’s arms tighten around him. “That makes sense, I suppose. So the questions we should be asking are, how and when did you start gaining your… sight?”

He huffs slightly. “Kriffed if I know. Musta started out so tiny I didn’t think anythin’ of it.”

“When we first got together,” Alex adds slowly. “How did you know my name?”

“What?” Zeb stares at him. That definitely didn’t come to him in a dream, and he wonders how it’s connected at all. “Ya told me, ‘member? On that ice moon.”

“No,” replies Alex, “I didn’t. I thought about it, but I was too much of a coward to actually say anything. Yet somehow when I did tell you much later, you already knew.”

Zeb frowns. “I probably heard people usin’ it around base,” he says. “Ya know how the Rebels were, gossip has a hyperdrive.”

Alex shakes his head. “Everyone just called me Kallus. So how did you know?”

Zeb tries to think of a plausible explanation that isn’t the Force, and comes up empty. “Oh, karabast.”

“So you must have been a little psychic at least since then,” nods Alex, stroking his beard.

“But,” object Zeb, “wouldn’t Kanan or Ezra ‘ve noticed? Or, hells, Ahsoka, she was really good… Nah, ‘s gotta be later ‘n that.”

“Zeb,” begins Alex, holding up his hand, “why are you in denial about having the Force?”

“I ain’t -” He stops. “I am, ain’t I. I jus’… I went so long without it. Feels like I shouldn’t have it sometimes. Like I ain’t allowed.”

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed?” asks Alex carefully.

Zeb waves his hands vaguely. “Even Chava said it’s supposed ta start when yer a kit, like with the twins. I know I didn’t have it before… well, I didn’t start showing signs till a few years ago no matter which way ya slice it. Makes ya wonder, don’t it? If there’s somethin’… wrong with me?”

“She could be wrong,” murmurs Alex. “There must have been a few late developers before the Purge.”

“Ya can’t know that.” A sudden horrible thought occurs to him. “What if it’s… ach, I dunno the Basic word fer it, uh…” He points to his head. “The thing that grows in yer brain an’ makes ya sick. Kriff, maybe that’s why I keep getting’ headaches with it!”

Alex stares at him. “...A tumour? Zeb, I don’t think that’s how the Force works. Besides, you’ve been perfectly healthy the last couple of times Nyota scanned you.” He frowns. “You really don’t think you’re supposed to have it, do you?”

Zeb shakes his head. “I’m the muscle. I ain’t built for this psychic stuff. You ‘member that dream I had, yeah? On the first night.”

“Yes,” replies Alex, with a sudden thoughtful look. “I remember. The one in the cave. The voices.”

“Maybe that weren’t a Force dream after all,” he admits. “Maybe it was jus’ me, yannow. Scared I was gonna kriff everything up.”

“But you haven’t,” Alex points out. “I admit, it was a little rocky for a while there…”

Did he just -? Zeb snorts despite himself. “That’s a really bad joke, Alex.”

Alex looks immensely proud and not sorry whatsoever. “Well, anyway, my point is that it hasn’t been as bad as you feared, has it? Even if you do make mistakes with it, you’re learning. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be allowed.”

“...I guess that’s true,” replies Zeb.

“We’ve both been treating the Force as, well, a problem to be solved.” A soft smile, forgiving and gentle in a way Zeb hasn’t allowed himself for a while. “But perhaps that’s the wrong way to go about it. Perhaps it’s time we learned to see it as a blessing.”

It has brought the boys into their life. That’s positive. Still, Zeb can’t help but wonder what troubles it could bring, what disruptions it could bring to what was supposed to be a peaceful retirement: why does the Force need him to have these abilities? Why not just use him as he is – or used to be – as it has done for years in the Rebellion?

(How many of his other dreams have predicted the future, and will it be a fate he likes?)

“In fact,” adds Alex, stroking his head, “who knows? Maybe you were meant to get it later on.”

"Ach, I ain’t used ta bein' in that kinda spotlight," admits Zeb, rubbing his neck. "Always been one a many. I'm Spectre Four, not Luke Skywalker, yannow?"

"And you always will be Spectre Four," Alex replies softly. "You don't have to face this alone. We are all here for you – me, the Spectres, Chava, everyone. We're by your side, Zeb. I promise.”

Chapter Text

“The Future grows like a tree, splitting and branching often into strange and twisted shapes. A Jedi must be careful in case what they see in premonitions comes from a different branch. Their choices may lead them to Futures they do not intend or wish for, into tragedies that could have been prevented otherwise. No premonition is guaranteed to come to pass: it is a marker of the Sith to twist Reality to suit a premonition, rather than allow the Future to occur naturally.

It is wise, therefore, to meditate on premonitions with another Jedi present, to remove any potential bias or misunderstanding. If another Jedi is not available, a neutral party whom the precognitive trusts may suffice. A second opinion will often provide clarity which the precognitive would not have seen on their own, especially in the case of premonitions whose meaning is not entirely clear.”

- The Chronicles of Brus-Bu

He dreams of a Loth-wolf that night, white-furred. It paces around him, tail flicking, not quite to the level of true danger yet. Its eyes – its eyes flash in the moonlight, and then resolve back into clear blue. There’s a sense there, a recognition, and Zeb understands.

“Lothal,” he says.

“Lothal,” says the wolf. It comes to a stop in front of him and sits: a small purple besneeto flutters up and lands on its right ear. Something behind Zeb’s ear screeches, bird-like, and he sees its shadow flying closer -

“Morning.”

“Gnfl?” grunts Zeb. Slowly, he comes to awareness, to wakefulness. His cheek is pressed against Alex’s chest; Alex’s arms hold him close. “Mornin’.”

“You were having an interesting dream,” comments Alex, scratching the space behind Zeb’s ear that feels really good. Zeb purrs despite himself. “Your ears were twitching all over the place.”

“I -” Zeb closes his eyes. “Force dream. Lothal. I dunno why, but… I feel like we gotta go there.”

"We visited Lothal only a few months ago," muses Alex.

"Yeah," insists Zeb, "but somethin's changed. Force-wise."

"If you say so, alitha. With or without the boys?” asks Alex, and Zeb is grateful beyond words that he doesn’t question the dream or the feeling itself.

“I ‘unno,” he replies. “I guess I gotta meditate on it…”

Meditation does not bring much clarity: he tries to sort through the dream for anything he might have missed, and comes up blank. The twins don’t seem to have had any dreams or visions either. It’s not urgent, as far as Zeb can make out, or life-threatening; nevertheless, he gets the sense that it would be best to take the trip sooner rather than later. A headache blossoms into being behind his eyes, even though he doesn’t feel like he’s gotten anywhere.

“It’s you and me, definitely,” he says to Alex, later. The twins are playing in the garden, passing a ball back and forth with only a little assistance from the Force: every time they use it he feels a little tug, as if to remind him that he is still less skilled with it than they are.

Alex frowns. “How long do you think it might take?”

“Not a clue.” Zeb shakes his head. “I s’pose if it comes ta it, they can do school over holo.”

“We just got them settled here,” sighs Alex. “Still, it won’t hurt to see Sabine again, if she’s alright.” He hesitates. “She is still alright? Your dream didn’t imply that something horrible happened to her?”

Zeb shrugs. “No news is good news.”

“I see.” Alex thinks about this for a few moments, and then waves the twins over. “Boys,” he begins, “what do you think about a visit to Auntie Sabine…?”

This time, Alex parks the Glimmer just beside Ezra’s tower; it may not be entirely legal according to the laws of the New Republic, but Zeb wants to be close to her just in case she really is in some sort of trouble. It definitely doesn’t look like it: she meets them at the bottom of the ramp with a big (though slightly forced) grin and open arms, and the twins run to her eagerly.

"Hey, Ba'vodu Sabine!"

"You remembered that!" Sabine ruffles the fur on each of their heads: Zeb can tell that the Mando’a strikes a painful chord with her. "D'you remember what it means?"

"Uh..." say the boys.

"Well," she replies, "since your dad, your Buir -" she gestures at Zeb - "is my brother, my vod, that makes me your ba'vodu, your auntie, yeah?"

The twins nod, completely unfazed. "Okay!"

"Great." She clasps her hands together. "You wanna learn more?"

"Yeah!"

"Sabine, you teach Mando'a for children," warns Zeb, in passable Mando'a. "No bad words."

"No promises, ori'vod." She puts a hand on her hip. “I thought I told you not to come here. I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, Sabine.” Alex clears his throat. “Zeb thinks there’s something Force-related going on. Not to do with… what happened. Though if I may say so, you look like you need the company."

Sabine looks from the boys to Alex to Zeb and raises her eyebrow. “Okay… so, what are you gonna do about the Force stuff?”

And that’s the million-credit question, isn’t it? They’re here, but now what? The dream didn’t exactly give any pointers. It’d be a fine thing for Zeb if he brought the whole family over here for nothing.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “Guess we’ll have ta wait fer somethin’ ta happen…”

Chapter Text

“IN MEMORIAM. The Rebel Alliance is greatly saddened to report the death of one of its most loyal and long-standing members, [REDACTED]. She has worked for many years with [REDACTED] and other Rebel leaders, recruiting and gathering information to assist with Rebellion efforts. She died a true heroine, attempting to protect other members of the Rebellion from [REDACTED] while on an undisclosed mission on the planet [REDACTED]. She was thirty-three years old and left no family behind.

Information has been removed to protect her identity and work in the Rebellion.”

- Obituary of unnamed Fulcrum agent, c. 3 BBY.

Something does happen, to Alex’s surprise. It’s late at night, after the twins have been put to bed; there is still a faint light in Ezra’s tower, but Alex suspects that’s because Sabine has fallen asleep in front of a holo. Zeb has been meditating in their room for an hour now, ears twitching unconsciously, and it makes Alex feel restless and anxious. He himself sits outside the Glimmer with a cup of farfel tea and a holo book, although he has long since given up trying to read. Instead, he stares out into the cool night, at the long grasses that rustle in the gentle wind, at the dark navy sky which is so familiar from long years of both chasing and helping the Rebels.

At long, long last, Zeb lopes down the ramp of the Glimmer and sits next to Alex with a sigh.

“Nothin’,” he grumbles. “Not a peep from the Force. All I got ta show is a kriffin’ headache again. Ach, it better not be a wild bantha chase…”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” murmurs Alex, putting a hand on his arm. “Perhaps we just need to be a little bit patient.”

“Hm.” Zeb leans back against the ramp; beside him, Alex sips his tea and picks up his holo book again. For a while, the two of them sit together, appreciating the silence: it’s a warm night, but not too warm, and the stars are beginning to come out above them. One of Lothal’s moons – Alex forgets which one – hangs above, three-quarters full. The other is further toward the horizon, providing balance for its sister as a neat crescent.

In the distance, a Loth-wolf howls. Zeb’s ears prick up. Without needing to discuss it, both of them stand: Alex puts away his book and leaves the rest of his tea balanced at the top of the ramp. Slowly, Zeb leads him out, further into the deep grasses that swish at their passing, and the lights of the Glimmer and Ezra’s tower fade away behind them.

A shadow passes overhead. Alex looks up.

"Look," he murmurs, "a convor. I didn't know there were any on this planet."

The convor soars through the air around them and begins to spiral down gently; with a flutter of wings, it lands on the shoulder of a cloaked and hooded figure that Alex is sure wasn’t there before. The person holds up one hand, and one of the purple besneeto that Alex keeps seeing around lands on her red-skinned finger. When she speaks, her voice is soft and low.

"A little birdie told me," she begins, "that someone has become Force sensitive."

"Ahsoka," says Zeb, looking relieved. “You’re alive! But how?”

“It’s a long story.” Ahsoka turns and smiles, and Alex recognises her instantly.

"Fulcrum," he gasps.

Ahsoka lowers her hood and smiles gently. “Hello, Zeb. Hello, Alexsandr Kallus.”

“...just Alex is fine.”

Zeb raises his eyebrow. “So you do know each other.”

“It’s… also a long story,” says Alex. “We have more important things to think about right now.”

“We do indeed.” She looks in the direction they came from. “Where… am I?”

“Lothal,” replies Zeb. “It’s – we ain’t seen ya since that mission ta Malachor eight years ago. You died.”

Ahsoka blinks, dazed. “Eight years? I was only there five minutes ago, but – Lothal, you say? What happened in the battle? Ezra seemed to have a plan just now, and -” She shakes her head. “Yes, it seems we do have much to discuss.”

Alex clears his throat. “Well, er, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“No, stay with us.” Ahsoka holds up a hand. “You might be able to provide some valuable insights.”

“Course he can,” replies Zeb immediately.

“You know,” says Ahsoka, “the Jedi Code, in general, forbids romantic relationships.” She smiles and tips her head to one side. “But I am neither a Jedi nor a homewrecker. Shall we go back to your ship? I’m dying for a caf. I have a feeling we’ll need it…”

"Ability to use the Force is a spectrum," explains Ahsoka, once they’ve settled in the Glimmer’s galley with caf and a fresh cup of tea for Alex, and once Alex and Zeb have briefly summarised the events of the last eight years up to the relatively recent catastrophe on Mandalore.  "There are some who move mountains, and some who only move pebbles, and some who cannot move anything at all. I remember you before, Zeb. You and Alex were on the same level – or so I thought."

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” nods Zeb. “It was kinda a shock when things started flyin’ around.”

Ahsoka chuckles. “I can imagine. At the risk of repeating a meaningless platitude… well, the Force works in mysterious ways.”

“Kriffin’ Force,” agrees Zeb, with conviction.

“I imagine you have quite a lot of experience,” Alex starts. “You’ve been active for longer than the other Jedi we talked to. Perhaps you’ve met others who became Force sensitive later in life?”

“No,” replies Ahsoka calmly, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible.” She blinks. “Another Jedi, you say? Not Ezra or Kanan? Interesting. I think I may have missed a few things since I’ve been gone, but no matter. You don’t think delayed sensitivity is a species thing?”

Zeb nods in the direction of the rooms where the twins are sleeping. “Those two ‘re only five years old an’ they’re better ‘n me. So, no.”

Ahsoka raises her eyebrow. “I would very much like to meet them. Later. Let them rest for now.”

“Well, anyway,” adds Zeb, “Chava – a Lasat friend of ours – she’s had it all her life too, and she says she’s never heard of any other way either.”

Alex nudges him. “Didn’t she tell us about the Lasat Jedi that was active in the Clone Wars, ah… Jaro something?”

For a few moments, Ahsoka looks blank; at last, light dawns. “Oh! Master Tapal? Yes, I remember him. He was a good man. Strict, apparently, but good.”

Zeb’s eyes narrow. “What’d he look like?”

“A bit taller than you, green eyes, purple fur…” Ahsoka gestures. “Grey hair and beard. He wore his hair in a long braid down his back, had white armour on his shoulders, and carried a double-ended lightsaber. Why?”

“I’ve kriffin’ met him.” Zeb seems almost annoyed about this. “The guy from the wolf tunnel, that was him!”

Ahsoka stares at him for a long moment. “…Explain the wolf tunnel, please, Zeb.”

“Well, see -” Zeb grimaces. “Ezra wanted to get to the Jedi Temple on Lothal, right? But we were a ways away an’ didn’t have any transport. So he summoned the Loth-wolves to carry us. An’ they took us through…” His hands move vaguely. “It was like hyperspace, I guess, only through a planet. And me an’ Hera both had weird hallucinations. Pretty sure everyone else did too, but… what with one thing an’ another we never got a chance ta talk about it.”

“Hm,” says Ahsoka. “That sounds similar to what I just experienced. Was Master Tapal the only one you saw?”

“Nah, there was this other lady, too. Human.” He frowns. “Cloaked. Grey hair in braids. Didn’t see her eyes. Seemed a bit… off.”

“Hm,” says Ahsoka again. “It doesn’t sound familiar. With that kind of vision, it could be anyone – past, present, even future. Time is not so linear to the Cosmic Force.” She looks at Zeb thoughtfully. “I’ve gotten off track. There is still the question of how you acquired the Force in the first place, and I highly doubt it was the wolf tunnel. I'm guessing something happened to suddenly expand your abilities."

"The path to Lira San," murmurs Alex.

“Perhaps. It requires the use of the Force?”

“Yeah, but -” Zeb shrugs. “The first time we went through, Kanan an’ Ezra were with us.”

Alex nods. “The way wouldn’t have opened if you hadn’t had some inkling of the Force. It didn’t open for me, did it?”

Ahsoka strokes her chin. “Then it must have been something between those two events, something to begin the influx of the Force into your mind. Can you think of any time where your life was in dang – actually, no, bad question.” She shakes her head. “I remember how it was. Our lives were always in danger.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s exactly gonna help us…”

Chapter Text

“Searching through someone’s memory via telepathy, even on a willing subject, can be difficult. The practitioner may accidentally allow their own thoughts and memories to leak out into the subject’s subconscious; or, they might come across a memory either the subject or the practitioner does not want to expose (no one wants to remember someone else’s sexual endeavours, for example, and there are many more serious examples).

Even without these distractions, it is easy to become distracted or bogged down in irrelevant sidelines, in learning what happened on Life Day three years ago instead of whatever it is the practitioner actually wishes to discover. The important thing is to keep one’s own train of thought as clear as possible, and to remember exactly what it is one is looking for. It is also vital to keep a good line of communication between practitioner and subject, if the subject is willing.”

- Jedi Master Ri-Lee Howell, The Aionomica, vol. II

The worst thing about having Ahsoka suddenly and inexplicably back from the dead is that Zeb has to be the centre of attention once again; it’s just so… awkward. He’s glad that she allowed Alex to stay, even if it is only for the moral support. He’d have felt even more uncomfortable alone, with Ahsoka and her unflinching blue gaze. Especially with this.

"Well,” Ahsoka decides, with a frown, “I'm going to look inside your mind to see if there's any clues about how your power first appeared. I know it may feel uncomfortable for me to see your private memories, so please do say something if I go too far."

“Uh…” He glances over at Alex beside him, who smiles gently and takes his hand. “Okay. Sure.”

Ahsoka reaches forward and touches Zeb's forehead with her fingertips. It’s – it’s odd, overwhelming, disorienting. Flashes of memory surface and fade away at turns: playing with his siblings as a kit, Kanan in that underground gladiator ring he and Hera freed Zeb from, fighting that grey bugger on Lothal. Alex, both before and after seeing the light. The twins. And -

"Zeb," begins Ahsoka slowly, "who the hells taught you Force Lightning? You couldn't even control your telekinesis, and yet you performed an incredibly advanced technique with perfect precision… by accident?”

Zeb shrinks. "I, uh. Jus' did it."

"You just did it," repeats Ahsoka. "Without any study, training, or physical aids. With your bare hands. Without injuring Alex in the process.”

"What, like it’s hard?"

Ahsoka looks over at Alex, who shrugs. “I don’t see the issue.”

“Imagine for a moment,” begins Ahsoka, “that someone who’s never seen a star ship in their life got in and started pressing exactly the right buttons to get out to space and into light speed – by accident.”

“Gosh,” says Alex. “When you put it like that… Well, I assume it’s a particularly rare ability, then."

Ahsoka nods slowly. "You could say that. Zeb, did you realise that Lightning is usually a Sith technique?"

"It what," says Zeb.

"In a vast majority of cases," replies Ahsoka, "it stems from an outpouring of anger made manifest. Giving in to that anger..."

Karabast. He hasn’t, has he? He doesn’t feel evil. Would he know if he turned Sith, though? Maybe it’s one of those things where people are already too far gone before they realise it. Kriff, and he promised he wouldn’t.

“Zeb,” murmurs Alex, clasping Zeb’s hand between both of his own, “you can’t blame yourself. Neither of us realised what that was. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you have fallen to the Dark Side.”

"I was pretty pissed off," says Zeb slowly. "What with that sleemo Carcer threatenin' ya."

A moment: Ahsoka takes a deep breath. “Let me tell you something about the Dark Side,” she begins. “The truth is, it is nearly impossible to be entirely Light. Every one of us must face the dark within ourselves, and learn from it. I don’t think a single, accidental instance is going to tip you into completely losing yourself to hate. It’s a pattern. It grows in you, slowly, until one day it becomes you."

A silent tear trickles down her cheek. She takes a moment, steels herself, and continues: "That is what you must guard yourself against. Not against one moment where you were more concerned with Alex’s safety than with, for example, killing or hurting your enemy.”

Zeb isn’t entirely convinced by that last part, but he won’t dispute it. In truth, he’s not sure exactly what was going on in his head right then: all he remembers is that asshole going on about how much he loved slaughtering Lasat and generally being a xenophobic little chakaar while putting a kriffing blaster against Alex’s head. There had been the intention to kill, strong enough to make Zeb nearly flinch, and the feeling of all Zeb’s fur standing on end, and then -

(He remembers how close the lightning was to hitting Alex, and shivers.)

“Well, that’s my opinion.” Ahsoka leans back, stretches, and takes a sip of what must now be very lukewarm caf. “The division between Light and Dark techniques is much less binary than you might think. I knew a Jedi Master long ago whose lightsaber form relied heavily on anger and aggression, and he never Fell, to my knowledge. So I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Alex replies, with a gentle little chuckle. Zeb catches the tail end of a thought that’s much too self-deprecating for his liking.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Yer not evil.”

“Then neither are you, alitha.”

Ahsoka clears her throat loudly. Right. Yeah. She’s still here.

“Shall we continue?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Go ahead,” replies Zeb, and ducks his head down a little so she can reach it better; she begins to stir up his memories again as if dredging up silt, and every now and again Zeb catches the very slightest glimpse of gold in the muck. There’s no Force there, but over there… There are quite a few memories she brings to light that don’t seem relevant, but he can feel her conviction that they are all pieces of the puzzle.

"...You have a lot of dreams," she murmurs after a while. "A lot of dreams. Very vivid, too. Starting now, I would like you to write down any dreams or visions you might have, including the ones I just brought to the surface.”

Zeb opens his eyes – once again, he hadn’t realised that they were closed – and raises his eyebrows. “Sure, yeah, I can do that. Lemme jus’ go get a datapad -”

“No, don’t get up,” says Ahsoka. “Get the pad without moving from your seat.”

“Er…”

Ahsoka and Alex both give him a Look, and Zeb sighs. He searches around, spots the datapad on the counter a few feet away, and raises his hand in that familiar way. It’s one of the many things that he’s been very reluctant to try, that he’s been trying to avoid; now, in front of an actual Jedi – or the nearest equivalent – the pressure makes him more nervous than it probably should do.

“You’re reluctant,” murmurs Ahsoka.

“I wonder why,” Zeb snarks. “Maybe it’s cause I accidentally used a Sith technique not too long ago, an’ I keep losin’ control. Kinda makes it hard ta be confident about a weird kriffing power I shouldn’t even have.”

“That’s in the past, Zeb.” Ahsoka’s voice is calm, patient, understanding. “Focus on now.”

Okay. Right. He can do this. He’s got the kriffing Force. He’s seen it done a thousand times by Kanan and Ezra. He just needs to… to remember what it’s like when he accesses Lira San, yes, the Universe around him and the Force flowing through him. He reaches out with his mind to the datapad and focuses on bridging the gap between there and here. All he needs to do is pull…

The datapad hits the palm of his hand, and Zeb nearly drops it in his confusion and surprise at actually using the Force. Holy kark.

He grins at Alex. “Ya see that? I did it!”

“You did,” replies Alex fondly. “Well done.”

“You’ll have to do it a lot more, and a lot more easily, to be able to impress me,” replies Ahsoka. She raises her hand once more and touches his forehead; Zeb, without any prompting, begins to type as she brings the images to the forefront of his mind once more. The dream about Hera. The dream about the boy called Caleb. The vision of Luke Skywalker and his father. The dream about the boy called Cal…

His head begins to hurt. At this point, Zeb has more or less accepted that as a consequence of using the Force, but it’s still annoying. It distracts him from what he’s trying to write, for a start.

“Hm,” Ahsoka comments, after a while. "Many of these are not your dreams, Zeb."

"Alex noticed," replies Zeb, still typing busily. "I was predictin' the future without realising it."

Ahsoka's brows furrow. "That’s… not quite what I meant. You dreamed of Cal Kestis? I heard he survived, but..."

Zeb makes a face at the datapad. "Startin' ta see a theme in summa these," he says, "now that yer diggin' em out. Not one I like.”

"Time is an ever flowing river, Zeb," replies Ahsoka calmly. "Many things may change to prevent whatever fate you see."

"Says the lady who swam in it." His ears twitch: that definitely isn’t one of his dreams, and yet he can see it clearly in his mind’s eye: the strange world that she travelled through in order to survive. "I'm gettin’ summa yer shit, sorry. Didn't realise that was how ya survived."

"We will speak of that later." Her mouth twitches. "I think I have found something."

That memory? How the hell is that relevant? He looks over at Alex in confusion. "The rock."

"The... rock?" asks Alex.

"Yannow the one," insists Zeb. "The one that kept us alive."

Ahsoka sits back and drops her hand. "I sense that was no ordinary rock. How exactly did you find it?”

Zeb and Alex look at each other.

“I didn’t,” says Alex. “He saw it first.”

Zeb shrugs. “Well, it was glowin’, an’ then I picked it up an’ it was kinda hummin’…”

“Humming?” frowns Alex doubtfully. “I think I would have noticed that, alitha, although I suppose your hearing is a little more sensitive than mine…”

Ahsoka scratches her chin. “I can think of one reason why only Zeb would have been able to hear it. And it’s not due to a Lasat sense of hearing. You can think of other rocks like that, can’t you?”

“...Oh,” says Zeb. “Ohhh.”

Chapter Text

<The following report is classified and may only be accessed by persons with a rank of ADM and above.>

...attempted to follow the Rebel insurgent into the escape pod in order to perform an arrest. However, this turned out to be a trap, and the insurgent launched the escape pod from inside the construction module, presumably in an effort to get rid of me. I attempted to return to the construction module, but the escape pod’s controls were faulty, and I was propelled towards the moon Bahryn instead.

I crashed onto the surface of the moon, during the course of which I suffered several injuries including a broken leg. The pod’s transponder, heater, and my comm link were also damaged in the crash. I repaired the transponder after some time, but could only broadcast on a general frequency, through which I hailed a passing trader who agreed to assist me in returning.

No other incidents of note occurred.

- Agent ISB-021

<Report ends.>

Of course it all started on that ice moon. For them, everything started there. The idea that that warm, glowing rock is the source of Zeb’s abilities, however, is unexpected, to say the least. Ahsoka seems very confident about it, as if rocks give people Force abilities all the time; Alex doesn’t know nearly enough about the Force to dispute it.

“So,” he begins, rather doubtfully, “what kind of rock would do that kind of thing?”

Ahsoka tips her head. “Do you know what a kyber crystal is?”

The name is vaguely familiar; he remembers a decoder that he lost in his first year on Lothal, remembers hearing that the Spectres had attacked a shipment of crystals as a result. It had been something of an embarrassment, especially once he realised that it was Ezra who had infiltrated the training facility and stolen the decoder right under his nose. He’d never understood why the Rebels were so interested in destroying a bunch of rocks.

“Not really,” he replies. “Please, enlighten me.”

“In a nutshell, they are the most essential part of a lightsaber.” She lays one of her lightsabers on the table: it opens up of its own accord, and a small faintly glowing white crystal floats up and out of it. “Take it and tell me what you feel.”

Obediently, Alex reaches out and takes the crystal from mid-air. “It’s… warm.”

“Can you hear any singing or humming coming from it?”

He holds it up to his ear: there’s nothing. “Not at all. Should I?”

“No, that’s normal for non-Force sensitives.” Ahsoka takes the crystal back and looks over at Zeb. “But you can hear it, can’t you? Kyber crystals have a sweet song to those who have ears to hear. Perhaps the one on that moon even chose you. It was definitely large enough to amplify and focus your power.”

Zeb’s brows furrow. “I started hearin’ it after I touched it…”

“Indeed,” nods Ahsoka. “From then on, you began to experience dreams and senses that you never would have otherwise.”

“But that…” Zeb shakes his head. "How’ve I been Force sensitive this whole time, and nobody even noticed? I mean, I was around Kanan an’ Ezra fer ages, an’ even if they didn’t know you prob’ly shoulda known…”

Ahsoka holds her finger and thumb a hair's breadth apart. "It was only a tiny bit, I think. Enough to give you these visions, and knowledge that you shouldn’t have had, but not enough for anyone else to notice. Not enough for you to notice.”

Zeb frowns. “So even if it did start when I was a kit, I wouldn’ta known it.”

"As far as I can tell," Ahsoka replies slowly, "before you found the rock, you did not have any senses or abilities beyond the ordinary. Afterwards... Water erodes a stone, day by day, until a millennium later there is a canyon. So it was with you. That rock opened a tiny channel through which the Force flowed and slowly eroded any obstacles. The Path to Lira San was like a flood that burst through all at once and finally got you to this point, now, where you are capable of telekinesis and lightning and many other things, should you focus your abilities."

"So, let me get this straight," says Zeb, sounding doubtful, "I got my powers from a rock?"

Ahsoka shrugs. “Maybe.”

“That rock?”

“Could be.”

Alex clears his throat. “I touched that rock rather more than he did.”

“You were not the one chosen by it,” replies Ahsoka. She tips her head, as if hearing the thought that is at the forefront of Alex’s mind – which, yes, she probably is. “You are equally capable and worthy, Alex. It is only an accident of fate that has Zeb in this position rather than you. Perhaps it was even down to who touched it first.”

“I see,” says Alex, rather faintly. A sudden thought occurs to him. “That still means that I – I am partially responsible for Zeb acquiring the Force. He -” He reaches out for Zeb’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “You wouldn’t have even been in that escape pod if not for me.”

Zeb gazes into his eyes with a strange expression, amazed: there’s no resentment there for Alex’s part in accidentally saddling Zeb with a power he barely understands, just a kind of stunned acceptance. As if he, like Alex, had on some level expected Bahryn to be the catalyst for everything in their lives.

“Guess getting stranded down there really did change both of us, huh?” he asks, thumb rubbing over Alex’s knuckles absent-mindedly. “That’s real destiny kark, right there. Warrior and Child. But for what?”

“Good question, alitha,” Alex replies, knowing full well Zeb will recognise his own words echoed back at him. “Chase the answers, and perhaps we’ll learn the truth.”

Ahsoka clears her throat: abruptly, Alex remembers that they’re not alone. “I don’t know about destiny, but the meteorite did act as a beacon for me to find you on that Star Destroyer.”

"Ya kept it?" Zeb beams at Alex. "Aww!"

Alex feels himself blush a little. “I, um… yes.”

“Well, frankly,” interrupts Ahsoka, “I can’t believe you managed to hide a kyber crystal from two Inquisitors. Do you have any idea what the Empire would have done to get its hands on one that size?”

“Yeah, someone could make a really big lightsaber with that,” Zeb grins.

“Or a super-weapon,” replies Alex darkly, suddenly remembering the reports from another Fulcrum that came in just before the catastrophic explosion on Jedha. “I thought it was just a warm, glowing rock.”

“Exactly,” Ahsoka nods.

"You didn't think to warn me?" asks Alex. "Something along the lines of, 'watch out, that meteorite is a kyber crystal of immeasurable price, the possession of which will almost certainly attract the attention of the two bloody Inquisitors on this ship', would have been nice."

Ahsoka raises her eyebrow. "You were Imperial. Besides, did the Inquisitors barge in and kill you?"

"…No."

"There you are then." She shrugs expansively. “A natural one like that would have probably sent them insane with its strong connection to the Light side in any case.”

Oh, yes, of course. Obviously.

Zeb snorts. “More insane ‘n they were the rest of the time, ya mean?”

"Hm. Well.” Ahsoka shakes her head. “In any case, I would like to find this rock of yours to see if I can learn more of it."

"It's lost," replies Alex. "It was on the Chimaera with Ezra and Thrawn when those creatures took it into hyperspace.”

“Purrgil,” supplies Zeb.

Ahsoka strokes her chin. "Then to find the rock, I must find Thrawn. To find Thrawn..."

Alex frowns. "You think he might still be alive? Then Ezra..."

Her eyes close for a moment. "I feel he may be out there. Find Ezra, find Thrawn, find the rock."

"We'll come with you," says Alex. "We can help."

Ahsoka sighs. "If I had more time to train Zeb in the Force, perhaps. As it is, your… hodgepodge collection of skills will make things difficult."

"Ya can teach me more on the way," says Zeb.

"Your path leads elsewhere, Zeb." She folds her hands in her lap. "Besides, you have a family to take care of. I won’t risk the twins on such a long, potentially dangerous mission, and neither should you.”

“…Ach, ya got a point there,” he nods.

“I will not leave you with nothing, however,” Ahsoka adds, almost as an afterthought. “I will teach you a few exercises for you to hone your skills, which you may practice with the twins. And I will leave you with copies of some training holos which I hid in a safe place before going to Malachor. I expect you all to have improved greatly by the time I get back."

Zeb grimaces. “I don’t haveta… be a Jedi or anythin’, right?”

It’s the sort of thing that Alex has been wondering a lot, too: does having the Force automatically make Zeb a Jedi? Or is there some other specific criteria he has to meet? Presumably a lightsaber would be in order at some point…

“Well -” Ahsoka tips her head – “no, you don’t have to. There are other options outside of Jedi and Sith: as you know, I’m not quite a true Jedi myself. I understand that it’s a lot of pressure to put on someone who’s only become Force sensitive recently. The training I have in mind should be applicable no matter which path you choose to follow.”

“Awright,” nods Zeb, looking relieved. “I can work with that.”

"Then here is your first exercise," says Ahsoka. "When you are at home, at least, I would like you to start using the Force for everything, no more how trivial. Use it to fold the laundry or pick up your utensil at dinner. Things like that."

"Lasats don't use cutlery," points out Alex. He makes a gesture with the first two fingers and the thumb of his right hand. "They eat with their fingers, like so."

Ahsoka nods. "Then you must find a way to eat without the use of your fingers.”

Alex raises his eyebrows; that should be fun to watch.

"I been trying not ta use it," objects Zeb.

"Well, there's your problem," Ahsoka replies. "You've been fighting against it. You need to learn to work with it. The more you resist it, the less control you will have.”

“I guess I can try…” Zeb looks up. “Anythin’ else?”

She points to the datapad. “As I said, you should make a note of any dreams or visions you have if you believe they may be influenced by the Force. There’s one other thing. Do you ever train physically?”

“Yeah, we spar sometimes, right Alex? We been teachin’ the kits self defence, too.”

“Right,” agrees Alex.

“Perfect.” Ahsoka puts her hands together. “I’d like you to try and incorporate the Force into that, if you can – once you’ve figured out how to regulate how much power you use. Obviously I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but if you can add a little bit of Force power behind your movements, by all means do so. Oh, and Alex, I trust you to keep Zeb to task. Make sure he actually does all of this.”

Alex gives her a laconic salute. “I’ll do my best.”

“What, ya think I won’t -?”

“Well,” replies Alex, “you have been a little reluctant so far, alitha.”

Zeb makes a face. “Like she said, I don’t wanna hurt anyone…”

“I cannot soothe all the anxiety I sense in you, Zeb,” frowns Ahsoka. “You will need to overcome it yourself if you are to properly develop your skills.”

“Ach,” sighs Zeb, “I’d better go back ta therapy, then…”

(That reminds Alex, he hasn’t talked to his own therapist since before Endor. He really needs to change that; so much has happened since then that he should really talk through with someone outside the family… Actually, there’s a thought, perhaps the boys could do with it too.)

“Absolutely.” Ahsoka dips her head. “One of the greatest failures of the Jedi Order, in my opinion, was not to help its members talk through their emotions in a healthy way. My master -” She stops; for a moment, her face is full of a sad maturity that Alex feels he’ll never truly understand. “Well, anyway. Those are the things I want you to practice while I’m away, as often as possible. Do you know how to meditate?”

Zeb grins proudly. “Yeah, we been doin’ that a lot, actually. Chava taught us a good way.”

For a moment, mild surprise crosses her face; the next moment she smiles broadly. “Excellent. Carry on with that, too. And once I get back, we’ll see if I can help you build a lightsaber.”

“I don’t wanna lightsaber,” replies Zeb.

Ahsoka and Alex both stare at him. “What?”

Zeb stares back. “Well, I don’t. Do I have ta have one?”

Ahsoka blinks. “Well… no, I suppose not. If you’re not going to be a Jedi proper, then it makes sense you’d reject their traditional weapon. But I’m not sure why you wouldn’t want one.”

Zeb begins to count off with his fingers. “One, it’s too distinctive. Soon as anyone sees a lightsaber, they’re all, ‘let’s go an’ attack the Jedi’, an’ I don’ want that. Two, I got a perfectly good weapon right here.” He pats his bo-rifle. “Three, I’m pretty sure I heard one a you proper Jedi sayin’ how if a Jedi relies on just their lightsaber they’re not a very good one. Four, not my style.”

“I’m not a proper Jedi, but I take your point,” Ahsoka nods.

“Also -” Zeb’s ears flick, as if listening to something only he can here – “the Force says no.”

Ahsoka’s gaze turns inward for a moment. “...Yes, I believe it does. Interesting. But -” She nods in the direction of the boys’ room. “The twins can build their own, can’t they?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“Good.” She hums. “I hope the droid who might have access to instructions on how to build them is still active. If it has been eight years… Anyway, I’d recommend waiting for a few years until the twins are ready to handle a weapon like this safely. The Jedi Temple usually let younglings have their first crystal sometime between the ages of eight and twelve, or the equivalent for their species – although, of course, you are not required to follow Temple tradition.”

“You really think you’ll be busy for that long?” murmurs Alex.

“There’s no knowing how long a mission like this will take,” replies Ahsoka solemnly. “There may be very few leads for me to follow. Besides, if I don’t return, I can rest assured that these things won’t be lost with me.” And then, with a sudden enormous yawn: “I’d like to know more about everything that’s happened since I’ve been gone…”

Zeb folds his arms and tuts. “That won’t do at all. I think it’s past yer bedtime.”

“You can take the spare room in the Glimmer for tonight,” agrees Alex quietly. “No doubt you’ll want to at least meet the twins. As for Sabine, I highly recommend you speak with her. After Mandalore… she needs that hope that we cannot give her, now more than ever.”

“Rex’ll wanna see ya too,” Zeb adds. “He missed ya like no one else, Ahsoka, talks about ya all the time. He always hoped ya’d come back.”

Alex nods and reaches out to pat Ahsoka’s arm. “But you must rest before you do anything else, understand?”

A switch seems to flip in Ahsoka’s head; she begins to droop a little, as if she’s finally allowing herself to be tired. “Thank you, Alex. It’s been a very long day…”

Chapter Text

“Meg cuyir, cuyir

Whatever will be, will be

We’re going to Kubindi

Meg cuyir, cuyir

What will be, will be.”

- Popular limmie/bolo-ball chant (with some Mando’a lyrics; “Kubindi” often changed to reflect location of next game)

The boys are up early the next morning, hyperactive and noisy enough that Alex worries they’ll wake Ahsoka in the other room; he feels like he hasn’t had enough sleep himself, so he can only imagine how much worse it is for her. Who knows how long it’s been since she got a decent night’s rest?

“Let’s go play with Sabine again!” yells Byskalo.

“Inside voices, please.” Alex stretches. “And you haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Yeah, I’m hungry!” agrees Shirrivan, tugging his brother towards the galley.

Alex yawns widely and follows the boys towhere Zeb is already making some breakfast for all of them. At least here is a little further away from Ahsoka; Alex makes sure to close the door so that not too much of the twins’ enthusiasm disturbs her. It may be a good idea to let them know she’s here sooner rather than later – well, after a little food, obviously, and caf for the grown-ups.

Soon. For now, he watches tiredly as Zeb picks up a bowl -

“Hold on.” Alex holds up a hand and nods in the direction of the spare room. “Don’t forget.”

“Right, right.” Zeb puts down the bowl again and focuses on it with his tongue sticking out and his hand outstretched; after a long few moments, it wobbles upwards almost reluctantly to where Zeb wants it. Both boys’ ears prick up.

“Why are you using the Force?” asks Shirrivan.

Zeb hesitates; he clearly isn’t sure what to say about Ahsoka either. “Fer practice,” he says at last. And then: “Wanna practice with me?”

The twins nod eagerly. “Yeah!”

“Awright, then -” he points to the two plates on the counter with their waffles – “how about trying with those?”

The twins look at each other; each of them holds out a hand. Slowly, carefully, one of the plates lifts slightly into the air -

“Hey!” shouts Shirrivan. “That one’s mine, Bys!”

The plate drops to the counter with a clatter. “No, Shirr, it’s mine!”

“They’re both the same, kits.” Zeb takes a deep breath and levitates the one they didn’t choose towards them; it lands on the table in front of Byskalo. “You can have that one, and -” the other plate follows to settle in front of Shirrivan – “you can have that one. Go on, use the Force ta eat up, an’ no more arguin’.”

Shirrivan sticks out his tongue at Byskalo; Alex frowns. “What did he just say?”

“Okay…” With a sigh, both boys levitate one of the waffles on their own plate and begin to eat.

“Good,” nods Zeb, and brings over Alex’s food with his own. His attempts at eating while using the Force are somewhat less successful than the boys’: at one point, he nearly misses his own mouth. Well, a few months of this will definitely improve his abilities. Alex eats his own breakfast in the normal way and reminds himself to be grateful he doesn’t have to deal with any of that – although he does have to deal with other things.

“Why aren’t you doing it, Batya?” asks Byskalo.

“I can’t,” replies Alex simply. “Remember we talked about how not everyone can use the Force?”

“Yeah,” agrees Shirrivan, poking his brother, “old Adan couldn’t either, right?”

Alex nods, and goes back to his breakfast. “Right, exactly.” The implications of that particular wording slowly filter through his brain, and he blinks. “Hold on. Does that mean that your Aman could…?”

Byskalo pinches his fingers together. “She could only do it a little bit.”

Alex and Zeb look at each other in mild surprise; Zeb raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t know that.”

“Well, anyway,” adds Alex, feeling somehow as though he’s lost the thread of the conversation, “you’re right. Like -” he hesitates – “your other Adan, I can’t use the Force.”

Shirrivan tips his head. “But why can’t you use it?”

“I don’t know. Why can you use it?”

“Because we’re special!” the boys chorus in unison.

“There you are then,” shrugs Alex. “I’m not special, therefore I can’t use the Force.”

“Yer special ta me,” says Zeb, putting an arm around Alex’s shoulders.

Alex smiles up at him. “Thank you, alitha.”

“But why aren’t you special?” asks Shirrivan insistently.

“Perhaps,” replies Alex, raising one eyebrow, “that’s a question you can ask the Force. I’m afraid I don’t know the answer.”

Bysalo tips his head. “Is it because you’re a Human?”

“No, it’s not because I’m Human.” That is the one question that Alex can answer with certainty. “There have been quite a few Humans who can use the Force, haven’t there, Zeb?”

“Oh, loads,” agrees Zeb. He’s finally finished his waffle, though there are more crumbs and grease smeared over his face than usual thanks to his new unconventional eating method. “Remember what Sabine an’ me were tellin’ ya about that painting she did, ‘bout Kanan an’ Ezra? They were both Jedi.”

“Whoa! Real Jedi? No way!”

Thank goodness for that. There are only so many questions Alex can take about why he isn’t special…

Ahsoka does not make her appearance until after midday. The rest of them are outside with Sabine as she teaches them meshgeroya – that is, what Alex knows as limmie. It was never very popular on Coruscant, but he played a few times as a child, just like this, with uneven teams and makeshift goals and an old ball from who-knows-where. It is, however, the first time he’s seen a “no Force” rule implemented – it’s never been necessary before.

The twins seem to enjoy it, anyway, running up and down the field at full speed after the ball; no doubt they’ll both sleep well tonight. They’ve been making Sabine switch teams almost every five minutes, so that she barely knows who she’s playing with any more – the fact she still has trouble telling the difference between them doesn’t help.

They keep her so occupied, indeed, that neither she nor they notice the figure of Ahsoka making her way down the Glimmer’s ramp with a cup of something hot. She nods towards Alex, who has been assigned to one of the goals; Alex raises his hand slightly to return her greeting. On the other side of the field, Zeb makes a gesture to invite her to join them, but she shakes her head.

For a while, then, she sits there, drinking what must be caf and watching them thoughtfully. Alex can’t help but wonder if she’s had anything to eat recently, something a little more solid than caf and water; he makes a mental note to put together a decent meal for her. Karabast, though, aren’t Togruta primarily carnivores? The thought of having to cook meat – no, he’ll have to ask Zeb to make her food, and be a long way away until the smell disappears.

Either way, this Ahsoka is a long way from the mysterious, all-knowing witch that Alex saw in his dreams long ago: more wistful, more relatable, more like a regular mortal who needs to eat and sleep and use the ‘fresher like the rest of them.

Her peace lasts, then, until a particularly enthusiastic kick from Shirrivan; both twins and Sabine watch the ball soar over in a gentle arc practically into Ahsoka’s lap. Sabine goes very still.

“It seems you’ve lost something,” says Ahsoka, allowing the ball to float gently into the air.

“Who are you?” asks Byskalo.

“You’re not s’posed to use the Force,” says Shirrivan. “It’s the rules.”

“Oh my gods,” gasps Sabine. “Ahsoka? You’re alive?”

Ahsoka smiles, eyes sparkling with some strange secret amusement. “Hello, Sabine. Hello, children. It seems we have a lot to talk about…”

Chapter Text

“When Ahsoka Tano returned from the dead, then, Sabine stepped up. My mother had her work in the New Republic army (though she and I did get involved, as we’ll see soon); my uncles had my recently-adopted cousins to take care of; my other uncle Rex was enjoying his retirement once again. Sabine, on the other hand, had a lot of free time and a large store of weapons just itching to be put into use. She saw the opportunity to find her vod’ika, and jumped at it…”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 5: Sabine” in Family Heroism: A Memoir

The twins, needless to say, adore Ahsoka. She has not one but two lightsabers, and she’s a species they’ve never seen before, and she’s the closest thing to a Jedi they’ve ever met. That puts her easily on the same level as Sabine on the Coolness Scale. She answers all their questions with patience and grace, and even solves the riddle of why Batya can’t use the force – “it is not his destiny,” which sounds impressive and mystical enough to satisfy their curiosity.

And all the while, Zeb can feel Sabine’s shock, amazement, and itching curiosity: she has so many questions running through her head that it feels like a swarm of insects buzzing by his ear. She keeps looking over at him and Alex and gesturing to Ahsoka in disbelief.

“This is the Force thing?” she hisses to Zeb at once point. “The thing you had a dream about?”

Zeb nods. “Looks like it.”

Sabine gapes at him. “So, like… you’re just casually having accurate premonitions now.”

“Have been for a while, apparently,” he shrugs.

For a long moment, Sabine absorbs this information. “So…” she frowns at last, “how long has she been here? She can’t just have…”

“Since last night. We had a talk with her.”

“Kara-shabla-bast. And you didn’t wake me up?”

Zeb glares at her. “Language. And no, it was late, an’ she wanted ta talk ta us about… well, yannow.”

“Uh-huh,” says Sabine. “Okay. Cool. That’s… fine, I guess.”

“Well, whaddya want?” frowns Zeb. “I can’t help it if she decides ta resurrect herself…”

At last, once the twins have exhausted all their questions and are settled into just staring at Ahsoka with wide eyes, Ahsoka looks up at Sabine with a sudden thoughtful look. “Sabine. Let’s talk.”

“Uh,” says Sabine, “yeah, we should definitely, uh…”

“I would like to hear your side of what’s happened in the last few years,” adds Ahsoka, “and you deserve an explanation. What say you and I go for a walk together?”

Sabine takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay. Yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”

“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen…?” Ahsoka stands, languid and relaxed, and stretches. “Perhaps,” she adds, with a glance at the twins, “I can teach you three a little something afterwards, how’s that?”

“Teach us now!” begs Shirrivan.

“Pleeeaassse!” agrees Byskalo.

Ahsoka chuckles and ruffles the fur on each of their heads in turn. “Peace, young ones. Remember, patience is one of the greatest strengths of a Jedi.”

That, of course, is encouragement enough for them both to become distracted playing Jedi, waving around imaginary lightsabers and making whooshing noises; Ahsoka and Sabine slip away while they’re occupied, disappearing into Ezra’s tower with barely a glance back.

Okay then. Now what do they do?

The answer comes later in the evening: as promised, Ahsoka has taught Zeb and the twins some exercises to further refine their skills. Now that the twins have gone to bed, then, the four adults sit around the table in the galley of the Glimmer, sipping caf or tea. Ahsoka has a much better understanding of the current state of affairs in the Galaxy than she did before and, presumably, of what happened on Mandalore. Sabine’s expression doesn’t give much away. She’s… closed off, these days. Perhaps slightly less so with Ahsoka.

Still. Ahsoka is caught up now, ready for anything that she may face on the mission she’s decided to undertake: Zeb has to assume she’s got some sort of plan knocking around in her head, or at least the beginnings of one. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Of course I’m going with,” declares Sabine, matter-of-factly. “I – look, Mandalore… I can’t do anything about what happened there. But Lothal is safe. We’ve got an early-warning system, and I don’t do all that much here these days anyway. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what Ezra wanted – wants. What I’m supposed to do. It’s time.”

“Well,” replies Alex softly, “you know where we are if you need us. Our frequency is always open.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Ahsoka nods. “I know you two and Hera will want to be the first to hear any news of Ezra, if we do find anything.”

“You are gonna tell Hera yer goin’, right?” Zeb asks, with a pointed look at Sabine. “Yer not just gonna run off without sayin’ anythin’?”

Sabine waves a hand. “I’ll tell her. If we’re lucky the Ghost still might have a record of the purrgil’s last trajectory, or… Ahsoka has some ideas about who to talk to.”

“So you’re going to start searching right away?” asks Alex.

Sabine and Ahsoka look at each other; Ahsoka frowns. “There are still a few things that need to be prepared. Supplies, and so on.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sabine, “I never even asked, do you have a ship, or…?”

It’s probably best to let them sort things out between themselves; still, Zeb can’t help but feel a little wistful. He misses Ezra, too, after all, Loth-rat though he may be. It’s been so long since he disappeared that Zeb had almost given up on him, and now that there is a chance… Well, anyway. He and Alex have their own life, have the twins. And, hey, at least this is one mystical Force thing that he doesn’t have to get involved in.

(It would be nice if Ahsoka could stay longer, train the three of them more. But, well, she’s given them a few things to tide them over: Zeb has had to use the Force more today than he ever has before, and he can feel the effects in his full-body exhaustion, a splitting headache, and a significant improvement in control. If they continue like this, he might even be as good as Ezra by the time Ezra gets back.)

“Well,” says Alex at last, as the conversation winds to a close, “good luck. And…”

“Yes.” Ahsoka smiles at both him and Zeb. “May the Force be with you, too.”

Chapter Text

"Visions are a rare gift; for many of us, we are lucky to see half a dozen in a lifetime. So it was something of a surprise while going through my dad’s personal effects to discover a treasure trove of hundreds and hundreds of dreams, visions, prophecies and omens, all recorded on a single datapad. Many of them record or allude to the deaths of Jedi who otherwise would have been lost to history, or provide clarity on events that have long been a mystery. Others seem to portray events that are yet to come – or that came to pass in his lifetime…

In order to preserve this rich tapestry of past, present and future Sight, then, I have done my best to organise, annotate, and collate them into the volume that you now hold in your hands; I have taken the liberty of translating the ones written in the Lasat language into Basic, and vice versa for the Lasat edition. I hope that this may provide insight to future Force-sensitives, Jedi or otherwise – both as a record of our history, and as a guiding hand if any of the events my dad foresaw ever come to pass.”

- Shirrivan Ethril Orrelios, “Introduction”, The Collected Dreams, Visions, and Prophecies of Garazeb Orrelios

It takes a few weeks for Sabine and Ahsoka to gather the supplies they need; Ahsoka slips away several times on undisclosed smaller missions of her own, while Sabine… well, she still needs the emotional support and care that Zeb and Alex give, even if she protests against it. They’ll make sure she’s ready at least in mind and soul. He wonders where she and Ahsoka will roam in the galaxy, how long it will take - if they’ll come back. No. No, he can’t lose Sabine, too, not after everything. He has to hold onto the hope that she and Ahsoka will bring Ezra safely home – but at the same time, he has to prepare for if they don’t.

Ahsoka presents Zeb with the resources she mentioned, a few data cards containing information on the construction and wielding of lightsabers, and a handful of others that teach how to hone the Force. They’re scuffed, some half-destroyed. The last of the Jedi knowledge that she has access to – or at least the last she’s willing to part with. The droid she shows up with at one point, Huyang, makes copies of his memory banks for them, too.

(Even he, who has milennia of knowledge in his databases, hasn’t heard of anyone developing the Force as late in life as Zeb, though he admits it is entirely possible. He also laments at length about how Zeb’s choice not to make a lightsaber is a “waste of potential” – Ahsoka tells him off for that, of course.)

There must be a repository of the knowledge that has been lost, just in case. But Zeb feels heavy with the responsibility of keeping alive the spark of another near-dead culture. At least if Ahsoka chooses to pass on some of the same knowledge to Skywalker – which she seems to think is important, even after hearing the story of how he treated Zeb – the weight will be shared. And if they come back with Ezra, too…

After saying their goodbyes, then, the four of them – Zeb, Alex, and the kits – return to Lira San. It feels strange, returning to their ordinary life when such important developments could be going on in the outer Galaxy, but it’s also quite nice to be able to relax into a world where the Force is more of an incidental tool to Zeb’s daily life than a harbinger of life and death, a bringer of omens, a dictator of reality. The routine – the sheer normalcy of their mundane daily existence – is comforting, and Zeb slips into it like a soft bed-pit.

Even the addition of the Force, as tiring as it is at the start, becomes easier as the weeks go by. Zeb’s headaches are becoming both less frequent and less intense as he becomes accustomed to using it on a regular basis. He is improving, too, more smooth and natural with every time he lifts a cup or pulls a weed from the garden, and the twins improve along with him: every day, he finds a new reason to be proud of them, to love them more.

He’s not always the best at either the Force or parenting. He makes mistakes, learns from them, and then makes a whole host of new and exciting mistakes. He’s still just a mortal, after all. He’s allowed to make mistakes.

And maybe being Force sensitive isn’t the affliction he irrationally feared; perhaps he’s allowed to just have it, without any additional expectations about becoming a Jedi; perhaps he’s even allowed to enjoy it, a little. Perhaps he and his sons – because they are his sons now, or rather their sons, his and Alex’s – can use it together, learning and growing day by day.

Perhaps, now that he knows where it comes from, he can stop worrying about whether it poses a threat: the meteorite theory may be crazy, but it definitely rules out a lot of Zeb’s other anxiety-inducing ideas. Zeb knows full well that Force things just are crazy, sometimes. Some things don’t even have an explanation.

That is definitely true of his dreams.

Now that Ahsoka has pointed out what they look like, Zeb recognises the Force dream when it comes. It is – it is a pair of Human hands in front of him, that flex at the impulse of his own mind. Old hands, rough and worn from years of hard physical labour, tanned and leathery from decades in the sun, wrinkled, liver-spotted. They grasp a lightsaber between them.

His old student – no, he has to remember this is a dream, it isn’t Zeb’s student – stands in front of him: it feels like kriffing destiny, to be here. The last stand of an old man against this thing that he has, unintentionally, created. Somewhere out there, Zeb can feel the boy approaching (it is always a boy, he notices, he can’t remember a single instance where it’s been anything but a boy).

With the slightest tilt of his helmeted head, Darth Vader lets his lightsaber spring to life. Zeb – or at least the person Zeb is, temporarily, inhabiting – does the same. It’s been so many years since they’ve seen each other: they are both older than they were, tired of the excessive showboating of their younger years. Zeb knows this, and Vader does too. They both know that sometimes, the simplest approach is the best.

Zeb doesn’t pay too much attention to the words that pass between them: what he does notice, more than anything, is the crackling energy of the Force around them, the hate that radiates from Darth Vader. So that’s what real Dark feels like. He’d like to think he’s able to recognise it in himself, but the truth is that he’s not sure.

Perhaps he hears something, a shout, or perhaps it’s simply that he senses the presence off to the side, too far away to do anything. There is the boy, and – and there, there is the girl. Yes, it’s all coming together now: the wrong that was committed all those years ago will be set to rights. The family will be repaired. All he has to do is stop Darth Vader from getting to them.

Their lightsabers meet.

Zeb wakes. It’s early, too early to be thinking. Nevertheless, he sits up, knowing he’ll forget if he doesn’t do this. With a sigh, he stretches out in the Force and pulls his datapad towards him: in the slowly brightening half-light of dawn, he begins to note down the dream, as Ahsoka has instructed him. There’s already several dozen on there, ones he keeps remembering thanks to Ahsoka’s intervention, ones he dreamt long ago without realising what they were.

Beside him, there is a soft stirring, and Alex sits up with a yawn and a stretch.

“What are you writing?” he asks, peering over at the datapad.

“Yannow how I said Luke had a sister, right?” Zeb points at the screen. “It’s Princess Leia.”

Alex grimaces. “Didn’t they, you know, kiss at one point?”

“I know, right?”

“And we were all wondering why she went with Han blasted Solo instead.” Alex’s eyes scan the page. “Now it all makes sense.”

“I…” Zeb shakes his head. “I don’t get it. Why does the Force show me all this stuff? It ain’t the future. It ain’t, yannow. A matter a life or death or anythin’. Ain’t a point ta it.”

“Hmm,” agrees Alex, leaning his chin on Zeb’s shoulder and putting an arm around him. He’s been growing his beard out lately, and the thick bristles always feel nice against Zeb’s fur. “Well, I suppose it does make good blackmail material.”

“Alex!”

“No, you’re right. Completely unethical.” A few moments pass, while Alex reads over what Zeb has written once again. “In that case, I can’t think of a way this is remotely relevant to our lives whatsoever.”

“Ach, well.” Zeb puts the datapad away. “Guess we’ll find out eventually if any a that kinda dream is useful or not, eh?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Or perhaps the Force just likes making holos for your entertainment.”

“…Well, could be that too, I guess…”

Chapter Text

“Where is it, Oh Ashla?

That place that we long for

Where can we find it?

Beyond the stars, my love

How can we find it, Ashla?

That place that we long for

When will we come home?

You’ll see it there, my love

Sooner or later

When life has ended

And all hope is lost.”

- Traditional Lasat Song of Lira San

It is something of a surprise to Alex when he finds himself thriving on Lira San. He expected it for Zeb, of course – he is more familiar with the culture and the language and the people. Zeb has friends here already, like Chava and Gron, and is beginning to find others like Yivo with whom to reminisce and chat. Alex, on the other hand, had prepared himself to be the odd one out, the Imperial, the Human. He wouldn’t mind it. He can still talk to Hera over the holo, and Sabine when she and Ahsoka have a moment. And yet – and yet, little by little, he finds himself becoming integrated, becoming a part of the community around him.

It’s the small things. Like when they bring the twins to meet Verrashyn and Leelu and their tiny new cousins: with a little preparation, a little encouragement, the twins warm up to their aunts, and by the end of the day are comfortable enough to be allowed to hold one of the little ones each, just for a while. There are five of them, in various shades of green and blue; one pair are exactly identical and cling to Alex adorably with their surprisingly sharp little claws. Each of them is no bigger than his hand. It’s good for the twins to get to know their relatives; it’s good for Alex too, because sometimes he can’t quite believe that people trust him this much.

Or like when the twins begin school. Alex starts to interact with the circle of parents and guardians who are also bringing their kits to be educated, and finds more positivity than animosity. Certainly, he gets a few dirty looks in the beginning, but once people start to realise that he is here for the same reason as everyone else and not to murder anyone, things get a lot more civil – friendly, even.

Alex has his own lessons to take, too. He attends an adult literacy class so that he can read and write the Lasat script, as well as improve his spoken Lasat: with his fellow learners, he copies the shapes onto flimsi with a pen. All of the classes are conducted in Lasat, obviously – or rather the Lira San dialect which, though similar enough thanks to the steady influx of Lasat speaking refugees over the millennia, is still different enough to confuse Alex regularly.

Nevertheless, he improves by leaps and bounds, and finds Lasat comes more and more naturally to him – especially now that the twins use it so much more both at school and at home. He learns along with the twins, in the same way that Zeb is learning the Force with them: they each have things to practice to reach the same level of fluency as their talented boys.

In between classes, Alex learns to cultivate plants. There’s already fruits and vegetables native to Lira San growing in their garden: Chava teaches him and the boys to care for them, raise them from seed to fruit. He gets plants from further afield, too, produce that he hasn’t eaten in a while or never got the chance to try – some from Kaller, of course, to help the boys feel more at home. He even manages to find some of the few precious seeds that come from the burnt husk of Lasan. When he plants these, Zeb takes out his little bag of Lasan soil and sprinkles a little over each plot until the bag is empty.

He begins, slowly, to make friends of his own. There’s Devi Ruman, a fellow parent whose litter is about the same age as the twins; Getta Zabi, who struggles with writing but can tell the most outrageous jokes which Alex only partly understands; and Razelan Metilios, who lives around the corner and makes hands-down the most beautiful bread in the Galaxy. The fact that each one of them is able to look at him, of all people, knowing who he is and what he has done, and still accept him – that is far more than Alex deserves.

He even gains weight here. He has always been skinny, underfed – at one point long ago, he had used his beard to hide the gauntness of his cheeks and the sallow dullness of his skin. Since accidentally eating Human flesh on their wedding night, Alex can’t eat any animal meat whatsoever any more – even the smell of it, particularly, during the cooking process, is likely to make him retch or even vomit outright. So he had expected to remain bony or perhaps even lose more.

Yet, somehow, the food on Lira San is not only hearty enough to keep meat on his bones without the use of actual meat, but pads him out beyond his wiry muscles. He finds himself becoming stockier, though not excessively so: he still keeps up a good exercise routine, after all, sparring with Zeb and teaching the twins simple but effective self-defence.

There are ups and downs, of course, in this new life of theirs. The twins catch the only variety of fleas that can’t just be picked off and eaten from one of their new schoolfriends, so that the entire house has to be washed and sprayed with some very unpleasant-smelling flea-killer. Alex comes down with a disease which is harmless to Lasats but which makes Alex hallucinate vividly for a week. Zeb has a horrible flashback in the kitchen – luckily while the twins are out – and causes a small but terrifying knife tornado. He never does say what triggered it: all Alex can do is try to comfort as best he can.

Yet even so, every day brings new joy, new peace. Every moment not trapped in the hypocrisy and hate of the Empire feels like a victory – every story he tells to his sons, every time he kisses his wonderful husband, every time he speaks or writes Lasat, every time he is not a bigoted, murderous, ugly specimen of a Human. It is catharsis, healing, wonder: it is rebellion, revolution, revenge. It is love.

Once, Alex had hunted Lasats, and Force-sensitives too. The irony of ending up here, in a family of both, amazes him: he can’t help but be grateful beyond belief that he has been given this second chance, this redemption, this hope.

All in all, it’s a busy, fulfilling, and happy life – so busy that he’s almost surprised when he takes a step back to count the years that have flown by without incident. The ninth anniversary of Yavin is just around the corner, and he hadn’t even realised. Here he is, enjoying himself, happier than he could have ever imagined in his younger days, having successfully broken out from the propaganda. He might even be a halfway decent parent, and isn’t that a surprise.

One step at a time. One day at a time. Each moment, he makes the effort to be better, to be kinder, to love more, and more often than not he finds it paying off. And what more could he possibly want?

Chapter Text

“Now some may be surprised to hear that I consider a droid as much part of my family as my aunt Sabine or my grandfather Cham, but it’s true. C1-10P, or Chopper as we knew him, was not exactly an uncle or a father – more like a very grumpy older brother. He babysat me more often than my grandfather did, played with me when my mother was too busy, and in general was the second-most constant presence in my life after my mother. It is only right, I feel, to acknowledge his role not only in my own upbringing, but as one of the many mechanical heroes of the Rebellion.

Chopper was manufactured, then, by Industrial Automaton, several decades before the Clone Wars began. He is very vague about his past, since many of his memory circuits were damaged in the crash that brought him to my mother Hera about 22 years before the Battle of Yavin. It is not all memory issues, of course: Chopper has always been incredibly strong-willed, even obnoxiously so. Once he wants something – or doesn’t want it, as the case may be – there is nothing in the Universe that can divert his one-track mind.”

- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 3: Chopper” in Family Heroism: A Memoir

“I was wondering,” Hera says, on one of their regular holo calls, “if you wanted to come and visit. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, and Alex says the three of you are doing really well with your Force training. Maybe you could help Jacen a little, even…”

“...This is just an excuse not ta send him ta Skywalker, ain’t it?”

“Kriff you, Zeb. Maybe I just don’t trust him after what he said to you. Besides, that’s not the only reason I’m inviting you over. Is it really so unreasonable for me to want to see you again…?”

No, it isn’t. And she’s right, anyway, it’s been a while since they’ve met up in person, and it would be good for both the twins and Jacen to see each other again. The twins, as expected, are the only Force-sensitive kits on Lira San, and no doubt Jacen is just as isolated both on Ryloth and wherever Hera goes on her adventures with the New Republic.

Which leads them to here, now, on Hosnian Prime; Hera is here helping Wedge set up his new flight academy, planet-side for once in her life rather than out there on one of her ships. She actually has a flat in Republic City – at least a temporary one. Zeb knows her too well to expect she’ll stay here very long. Regardless, she’s here now.

They barely have to wait a few seconds after ringing the doorbell before a pair of little feet scampers up on the other side. There is a moment while Zeb can feel a searching intent, making sure they’re not anyone disreputable, and then the door slides open to reveal Jacen Syndulla, nearly nine years old and such a spitting image of his father that Zeb forgets what he was going to say entirely. Gods, it’s so much more obvious in person.

“Hello Uncle Zeb! Hello Uncle Alex!” He catches sight of the twins and grins. “Shirr and Bys!”

“Hi Jacen,” chorus the twins in unison.

Jacen beams. “I got loads of cool stuff to show you, just wait!” The next moment, he turns his head and shouts into the flat. “Mo-om! They’re here!”

“Just a minute!” replies Hera from a distant room.

“’Kay!” Jacen turns back towards them and stands up straighter. “It’s my job to answer the door.”

“Is that so?” smiles Alex, ruffling Jacen’s hair. “A very important job it is too. I must say, you’ve shot up like a weed. What’s your mother feeding you, whole rancors?”

Jacen giggles. “I can’t eat that much, Uncle Alex.”

“Are you sure? Maybe if you opened your mouth really wide…” He winks. “May we come in?”

“Oh! Right!” Jacen steps aside and makes an expansive gesture. “Here you go.”

Obediently, all four traipse in and dust off their feet; Jacen reaches up and presses a button, and the door slides closed behind them. As if on cue, Hera appears from the other door, with a broad smile and Chopper following grumpily behind.

“Boys!” She throws her arms open and hugs first Zeb, then Alex. “How are you? Did you have a good trip? How is Lira San treating you? Oh, you twins have grown so much!” She pinches the boys’ cheeks, one after the other. It’s true they’re both a lot bigger than when she last saw them: they’re certainly taller than Jacen, who has inherited his mother’s slightness. They’ve lost a lot of their kit fluff, too, although they’ve got a ways to go before they’ll have the slightly rougher thick fur of adulthood.

“Good ta see ya too, Hera,” chuckles Zeb.

“Well don’t just stand around there!” she replies, ushering them into the living room. “Make yourself comfy! Jacen, why don’t you show the boys your room…?”

They’ll be here for a few weeks, staying in a hotel near the spaceport; it gives them plenty of time to catch up and – perhaps – teach Jacen some Force stuff. He doesn’t even know any meditation techniques, bless him, since Hera’s knowledge of meditation is based almost entirely on watching Kanan and she still gets emotional thinking about Kanan.

That, Zeb decides on their second day, is the first thing they’re going to address. So he sits down in Hera’s living room floor with the three boys; Hera and Alex sit together on the sofa so that Hera can see what they’re doing.

“Now,” begins Zeb, “boys, since you know this already, why don’t you show -”

“Chop-blorp-whee,” interrupts Chopper in a condescending tone. He wasn’t impressed to see Zeb return, and he’s even less impressed about the whole Force thing.

Alex folds his arms. “That’s very rude, Chopper.”

Chopper lets out an impassioned series of beeps and whirrs.

“He’s not wasting time.” Alex frowns. “And what do you need a new servomotor for anyway?”

“Chop-chop!”

Hera slaps her forehead. “That’s what I’ve forgotten! Oh, I’m sorry, Chopper, it completely slipped my mind, but I’m a little busy right now.”

“It’s all right, Hera, I’ll get it for you,” volunteers Alex, standing up. “I know what to look for.”

“Oh, would you? That would be fantastic. Actually, would you mind doing a grocery run while you’re at it?” Hera hands him a datapad. “Here’s a list, you should be able to find everything in the marketplace. Just ring the bell when you’re coming back.”

“Of course.” He smiles and waves at the rest of them. “Have fun, boys!”

“We will,” says Jacen confidently.

“That’s the spirit.” With that, Alex ducks out of the door and leaves them to it.

“As I was sayin’,” continues Zeb, glaring at Chopper, “before I was rudely interrupted…”

Chopper makes an insolent-sounding noise and trundles off. Some things, Zeb reflects, never change…

Chapter Text

“Celebrating the end of Imperial censorship, the RCAD Society will be staging a series of plays about the now-extinct Jedi Order and its members who fought so famously in the Clone Wars. Productions will include the stories of famous Jedi Generals such as Kenobi, Skywalker, Yoda, Windu, and many others, and will showcase the incredible talents of many up and coming amateur thespians from across the planet.

…None of this would be possible without the efforts of the RCAD’s director Teal’c Shang, scriptwriter for several of the productions and all-round dramatic powerhouse. It is he who has reformed the Society in the wake of the Empire’s defeat, and he who has cast yours truly in the role of Senator Padmé Amidala…”

- Natesra Souia, “Local Drama Society Restored After Three Decades” in The Hosnian Prime Gazette

Alex takes his time looking for everything on the list: Republic City is a lovely place, almost as beautiful as Lira Pristi. Not that Alex is biased, of course. He wanders through the streets, buying things when and where he finds a good price; he has to haggle a little for the servomotor that Chopper was so insistent about. Poor little droid, he’s not as new as he used to be – he was a battered old thing even when Alex first met him.

...How long has it been, now? Must be coming up on fourteen years. That’s enough to make anyone feel old. Where has the time gone?

Musing on this and other similar conundrums, Alex only comes to a stop when he bumps into a short, excited-looking Bith handing out flyers at a street corner.

“Oh, excuse me.” He bows slightly. “I didn’t see you there.”

The Bith chuckles. “Oh, no need to worry, sir, I’m looking for people just like you in any case! Would you like to be part of -”

“No thank you,” replies Alex, trying to step past.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t give just a minute of your time?” asks the Bith. He takes Alex’s free hand, the one not holding a bag full of groceries, and shakes it vigorously. “My name is Teal’c, I am the director of Republic City Amateur Dramatics. I don’t think I’ve seen you around, are you a visitor?”

Alex sighs. Clearly he won’t get out of this without being sold something. “That’s right.”

“And your name, if I may enquire?”

“Sasha Krum.”

“Well, Mister Krum -” Teal’c stretches up and puts an arm around his shoulders in an uncomfortably familiar way – “our little company is an all-new enterprise run by myself and this fine Wookie here.” He gestures at the Wookie leaning casually against an archway.

“I’m not giving you any credits,” says Alex.

“Not at all!” replies Teal’c. “I am not looking for credits but talent. You see, we're doing a production of my new play, Walking through the Sky, the tragic untold story of the infamous General Skywalker. I had to fill in the blanks a little, since we have so few sources on what actually happened to him, but…”

“General… Luke Skywalker?”

“No, the other one. Anakin, a great martyr of the Jedi Order.” Teal’c sighs. “Though perhaps one day…”

“Look,” begins Alex, extracting himself as politely as he can from Teal’c’s hold, “as fascinating as I’m sure this is, I’m not interested. Good afternoon.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mister Krum,” says Teal’c, not taking the hint. “Have you ever acted before?”

“No, and I don’t want to.” He makes to push past. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Teal’c puts a hand up to stop him. “Let me rephrase that. Have you ever lied to your boss? Your co-workers? Ever worked under a false name or alias? You have, haven’t you? I can always tell.” He tips his head. “Now, have you ever met an Imperial? What do you think they would say in this situation?”

Alex blinks at him for a few moments. “That’s a little insensitive, isn’t it?”

“Just a thought experiment, Mister Krum. What do you think? If an Imperial Officer was here right now, what would they say?”

“Probably something along the lines of, ‘Out of my way, you miserable little worm, or I’ll have you arrested.’”

That tone, that attitude – it all came out too easily. He can feel himself sneering, and has to make a concerted effort to return to somewhere between neutral and mild irritation. He really needs to stop letting this complete stranger bait him.

“Yes, yes! Absolutely perfect!” Teal’c grips his bicep. “You see? You can act! The way you went from an ordinary civilian to an evil, bigoted Imperial in an instant – magnificent!”

Karabast. Hasn’t he left that all in the past? Hasn’t he worked hard every day to not be that? He was supposed to be getting better, not sliding back into – into that.

"Er," says Alex. "I think there’s been a misunderstanding -"

"Please," begs Teal’c. "At least try it once. You could be our General Kenobi today.”

"I beg your pardon?"

Teal’c counts on his fingers. "You're Human, you’ve got the right accent, you’re – what, thirty-something? - the right sort of age, you have almost the right hair – oh, but that beard is perfect! And you can act! You’re ideal!”

(Does he really look like he’s in his thirties? How flattering. It doesn’t change his decision.)

“No, for the last time -” Alex turns on his heel at last and begins to walk determinedly in the other direction – “leave me alone! I’m not joining your -”

Turning his back on them was a mistake. He’d seen the blaster holster on Teal’c’s hip, but had assumed it was just for show: more fool him. A sudden pulse of energy passes through his body in a shock-wave; the last thing that passes through his mind before he blacks out from the stun blast is that they must be really desperate…

He comes to an indeterminate amount of time later in what looks like a cross between a shack and a fashion boutique, tied (badly) to a chair; people rush back and forth around him, changing clothes and fixing each other’s hair. Teal’c and the Wookie stand in front of him, watching him regain consciousness.

“Good, you’re awake,” says Teal’c. “Just in time.”

“I really don’t understand what you’re trying to do here,” Alex tells him, a little miffed. “Would it not be more convenient to use willing subjects?”

“Ran out of those last week,” replies Teal’c succinctly. “For some reason, no one in the city wants to act with me any more.”

“I wonder why.” Alex makes a face. “Why not just… stop?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man, this is about art!” Teal’c clenches a fist. “These stories need to be told, and now that the Empire’s gone it’s the perfect time to tell them!”

Alex slips out of his bonds – really, did they think a knot like that could hold him? - and stands up. “Well, it’s been quite fascinating to observe your insanity, but I really must be going now -”

“Oh, we don’t have time for this.” Teal’c motions at the Wookie. "This is Chrryyshrr. She'll rip your arms off if you don't cooperate, mmkay?"

Damn. The one time he doesn’t have his blasters on him: he’s gotten so accustomed to perfect safety on Lira San he didn’t even consider he might need to defend himself here. It could be a bluff, but then Teal’c is just about crazy enough to stun him, and Alex is definitely not suicidal enough to try and fight a Wookie bare-handed. A Lasat, yes, he could fight a Lasat, but they are significantly less inclined towards violent dismemberment.

“My husband is a powerful Force user,” he tries. “He won’t be very happy that you’re threatening me.”

Teal’c folds his arms. “Yeah, right, and I’m the Emperor. Chrryyshrr -”

“Fine,” replies Alex. “I’ll cooperate.”

Teal’c claps his hands. “Fantastic. So glad you could join us.”

The next moment, he bustles off, talking at high speed into a comm; Chrryyshrr takes up position right in front of the exit with arms folded and the kind of expression that would be hard to read on a Human, never mind a Wookie.

For the next little while, Alex mostly gets ignored by the actors and stagehands that hurry in and out on missions of their own, dressed as Jedi and clones and even Senators; at some point, a crew of giggling young girls of various species accost Alex with a hairbrush and a robe that looks nothing like what an actual Jedi would wear.

All the while, Chrryshrr stands at her post, much larger and stronger than Alex, her arms folded, daring him to make a move. There have been a few moments where he thought he might slip past, but every time his plans are foiled when she looks back at him with a piercing gaze. Since he’s rather attached to his arms, he decides to leave it until he’s absolutely sure he can get away with it.

His comm beeps, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hey, Alex, ya all right out there?” comes the incredibly comforting voice of Zeb when he presses the button. “Ya been out fer a while.”

“I seem to have been inducted into an acting troupe," replies Alex.

"Abducted?!"

"That too." He really should be able to sneak off, if he waits for the right opportunity. “I think I can escape, I just need to… ah, hang on, someone’s coming, sorry, got to go.”

“Alex -”

Alex shuts off the comm just as Teal’c marches up to him. “All right, no time to waste, you’re up, Mister Krum.” He hands Alex a small mask, designed to look like the top half of Kenobi’s face. That explains why the giggling girls from earlier didn’t bother with makeup.

“You didn’t give me a script,” protests Alex. “This all seems a little badly organised -”

“No time for that,” replies Teal’c, pulling him towards the stage. "You've just killed General Grievous of the CIS and the clones are going crazy killing everyone. You and Anakin Skywalker are fighting them off. You're going to kill most of your assailants, but one of them is going to overcome Anakin. He's going to die tragically in your arms, and then our fantastic Darth Vader will enter and nearly kill you before you narrowly escape. Just improvise, okay? Annnnd go."

With that, Teal’c pushes him onto the stage.

Chapter Text

(Enter DARTH VADER.)

OBI-WAN:

You monster! How can you massacre such a good, noble Jedi as Anakin Skywalker?

VADER:

It was not I who killed him. He killed himself by allying with you foolish Jedi.

(They fight.)

VADER:

You are weak, Jedi.

OBI-WAN:

The true weakness is in following your precious new Emperor like a slave.

(Fight continues.)

VADER:

Yield! Or I will destroy you!

OBI-WAN:

I shall never yield.

(OBI-WAN uses Force to throw VADER to the ground; fight ends.)

- Excerpt from original script of Walking though the Sky by Teal’c Shang

Alex has never fought with a saber before, even a fake one. Nevertheless, he tries to put on a show with a few of the moves he remembers Kanan or Ezra doing. Beside him, the boy playing Anakin doesn’t look like he’s held a real weapon in his life; nevertheless, the “clones” fall right and left before him.

“There are too many of them!” lisps the boy, with an overdramatic sweep of his saber. “Run, Obi-wan! I’ll hold them off!”

“Never,” replies Alex, trying not to roll his eyes. “I’ll never abandon you, Anakin.”

“You must,” replies the boy. “You must go. Oh, Obi-wan, I’ll always remember that night we spent together on Alderaan…”

Is that in the script? Alex glances towards the wings, where Teal’c gives him a big thumbs-up. Bloody hells. Well, fine. Alex can do flirty, probably.

“One day,” he tries, “I’ll take you back there, and we can really enjoy ourselves…”

Oh dear. Apparently he can’t do flirty after all.

The boy flutters his eyelashes. “You mean it?”

“I hate -” Alex stops himself, and replies: “I hate how this war has kept us apart.”

Never again. He is never trying to act again. He’d rather let that Wookie actually tear his arms off. This is perhaps the most dreadful tripe he’s ever endured in his life.

“And I, too, Obi- argh!” The boy clutches a hand to his chest and collapses.

Thank the gods. “No, Anakin,” says Alex, trying not to be too deadpan. He “kills” the last clone and rushes to the boy’s side. “You’ll be all right. Let me get you to a bacta tank.”

The boy takes a deep breath, and launches into what is very clearly a prepared monologue: Alex allows his focus to wander a little. He can’t see or hear much outside of the little spotlight focused on the two of them – who knows how the audience is reacting. If there is still an audience. As for everywhere else…

He can hear whispers from backstage: "But I wike my voice moduwatow!"

"Just switch it to a Darth Vader-y voice! This isn't a comedy!"

It can't be. The Darth Vader is -

The Red Stripe. The Red Stripe is acting opposite him as Darth bloody Vader. This should be interesting.

"I didn't even wanna be in this stupid pway," he hears them grumble. Apparently he isn't the only one who has been press ganged. "Fine. I'ww do it. Teww Chwwyyshww we’we even."

“Promise me, Obi-wan,” gasps the boy, clutching Alex’s hand suddenly, bringing him back to the moment, “promise me you’ll run! If nothing else… you should survive… the Force wills it…”

“I promise,” replies Alex.

“I love -” begins the boy, and then goes limp. Alex manages to turn the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose into a hand covering his face, as if he is overcome by emotion.

A moment later, a black-cloaked figure stomps onto the stage, huge and imposing. Their suit is looser than Vader's was, giving no indication to what might be underneath: whatever the Red Stripe is, they're at least the same size as Zeb. The prop helmet they’re wearing is a little larger than Darth Vader’s would be, too, and doesn’t fit well to the contours of Darth Vader’s presumably Human or near-Human head.

"Obi-wan," they growl. It is a very convincing imitation of Darth Vader, although with less wheezing. The little differences aren’t doing much to prevent the adrenalin, the fear.

"You," snarls Alex, with only a little bit of dramatic flair. "What are you doing here?"

They draw their saber. “Afraid, Kenobi?”

“No,” says Alex, before he can think better of it. “I just find you somewhat annoying.”

Damn. That wasn’t in character. The problem is, he’s not sure what is in character: oh, certainly, growing up as a young man during the Clone Wars meant he heard a lot about the heroic actions of many of the famous Jedi Generals, but that doesn’t mean he knows what any of them were actually like. Hells, anything more than the most passing knowledge of Jedi was actively discouraged in the Empire. He’s learned a little since then, but -

Well, he’s pretty sure the real General Kenobi would not be this bitingly sarcastic, anyway. His only hope is that the Red Stripe is able to roll with it.

“Then you are a fool,” they reply, raising their large, gloved, three-fingered hand – no, surely not. They can’t be a Lasat… can they? He needs to think rationally. There are plenty of other species that are large and have three fingers. Or maybe the costume crew only had three-fingered gloves.

Somewhat belatedly, Alex raises a hand to his throat and pretends to choke. "I'll... hhh.... never surrender to the likes of you..."

"Damn," murmurs Teal’c from backstage. "Nice choking, Mister Krum. Very real.”

“Good,” replies the Red Stripe, flourishing their saber. “Then the last thing you see as you die shall be the red stripe of my blade.”

They “let go” of Alex’s neck; the next moment, they’re fighting, and Alex brings up his blade just in the nick of time. At least he can do this part fairly well by now. The Red Stripe is very good: quick, adaptable, with feet that dance across the stage far too skilfully to be Human.

Perhaps it’s that, then, or some other oddity of motion, that flips a switch in Alex’s brain: suddenly he can imagine Zeb doing exactly the same moves, in exactly the same way. By now, he knows how Zeb fights, and falls into the familiar pattern as easily as breathing even though he knows this isn’t really Zeb. The Red Stripe is new, fresh: the way they parry and attack suggests they weren’t expecting someone to fight them like this. Yet, somehow, they step more easily into the role of Zeb than they do the role of Darth Vader.

"So why do you wear that mask?” he smirks, overtaken by some strange impulse under his skin. “Were you horribly burned, or something?"

The Red Stripe tips their head. "Oh, no," they reply, parrying each of Alex’s attacks. "It's just that they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in future."

“It is rather fetching on you, I must admit,” replies Alex with a devilish smirk.

“No, no!” whispers the director from the wings. “You were supposed to fight with Darth Vader, not flirt with him!”

But the Red Stripe keeps playing along, with a booming voice that does not entirely suit them. “Tsk, and your beloved Anakin still warm on the ground. What would the Jedi Council say to that, I wonder?”

Alex lays his free hand to his chest as if shocked. “You dare to impugn my honour?”

“I will give you the honour of a quick and painless death,” replies the Red Stripe, with a flourish. It’s nothing like the real Darth Vader, but then Alex supposes not everyone in the Galaxy had the displeasure to meet him before his death. “Any last words?”

“I will cut you to ribbons,” smiles Alex, looking into the eyes of their helmet. His own reflection is unfamiliar, with the mask layering the image of a long-dead Jedi over his real face.

“Hah!” They shake their head. “Let your saber do the talking.”

“It shall speak your doom!” He presses forward, in a series of attacks intended to get their sleeves or trousers to ride up so he can finally see for certain whether or not they have striped fur and digitigrade feet, but nothing seems to work quite as he intends.

“Heathen,” they reply, though even through the Darth Vader modulator he can hear their smirk.

“Now!” whispers Teal’c from backstage. “Defeat him!”

Alex flings out a hand. The Red Stripe falls in a very convincing way; if Alex didn’t know what someone being pushed by the Force actually looks like (and feels like, as a matter of fact), he’d believe it. And there’s still no hint about their species. Well, his part is done here, anyway. He can think about it later, once he’s got away from this crazy Bith and his crazy Wookie.

“Oh, Anakin,” he laments, kneeling briefly by the boy, “please forgive me.”

With that, he finally escapes from off the stage.

Chapter Text

“Lasats and Wookies were often allies; it is thought that at one point prior to the Siege, as much as eight percent of Lasan’s population was either Wookie or part-Wookie. Shyriiwook (and sometimes other Wookie languages) was regularly taught in schools; Lasats were one of the first to honour the Wookie tradition of Life Day alongside their own Tabresahn Kurusha; and cultural exchanges were frequent.

One or two Wookies were even inducted into the Honour Guard – Hhaannaaggh and Kshiirruu are the most recent examples. Hhaannaggh retired about a hundred years before the Siege; Kshiirruu was active all the way until 20 BBY, when she was killed in the line of duty in one of the battles that would eventually lead to the Siege a couple of years later.”

- Bing Kier, Before Extinction: A History of Lasan

Alex runs at full speed down the street. He only barely had time to pick up his bag of groceries and ditch the mask and costume when he left the stage: for a few blessed moments, Chrryyshrr was away from her post at the door, and of course he took the opportunity and bolted. Now, he takes the smaller streets, not daring to look back. The roars seem to come from everywhere.

He turns a corner, not looking where he’s going, and slams face-first into a huge furry figure. Karabast.

“Alex? There ya are! I been lookin’ fer ya everywhere, after that comm I was kinda worried…”

Alex blinks up at Zeb and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thank the stars, it's you," he manages. "I need to get out of here. There's an angry Wookie after me -"

Chrryyshrr warbles from a nearby street. Zeb frowns and, sounding a little hoarse, roars back. There is a short interchange of howling, and then:

"Ach, it's all right," Zeb explains. "She don't really wanna hurt ya. She don’t like threatenin’ people, but someone called Teal’c makes her do it."

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yes, that sounds about right…”

Just then, Chrryyshrr herself appears at the end of the street, looks over at Alex and shrugs. “Grrrrraaaarrrrr.”

Alex takes a stab in the dark. “No hard feelings.”

Chrryyshrr nods, bows to both of them with one fist in her palm, and then scampers off again.

“Ah well. That’s that.” Zeb nods in the direction of Hera’s place. “Come on, then.”

Alex follows along, a little thoughtful. “That was something of a disaster. All that effort to press-gang me and the play wasn’t even that good.”

Zeb raises an eyebrow. “Ya think so? I only caught a little bit. The guy playin’ Obi-wan was good.”

“Thank you,” bows Alex.

“Really? Didn’t recognise ya with that mask on yer face, ya shoulda said! Ya were so good!” Zeb nudges him gleefully. “Hey, ya could join a drama club on Lira San or somethin’! There’s a ton of roles that Humans can play… I bet there’s all sorts a things ya could audition for!”

Alex feels himself blush. “Zeb. I wasn’t that good. I’m sure the real Obi-wan Kenobi would never have fought like that.”

“Yeah, but it was fun ta watch!” Zeb slings an arm around his shoulders and pokes him gently in the chest. “I totally believed it. That fight scene… Ach, ya had some great lines in that!”

“I improvised the whole thing,” says Alex honestly. “They didn’t even give me a script.”

“Even more impressive!” Zeb’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, I bet ya could be in the holos. I’m already yer biggest fan, I’d love ta see ya use yer talents like that.”

“As flattering as that is, there’s no way that’s ever going to happen…”

All three boys are in bed by the time the two of them get back, curled up together in Jacen’s room for what must have been a very impromptu sleepover. Hera, on the other hand, stands in the doorway with her arms folded, tapping her foot.

“And just where have you been? The boys were worried sick.”

“You would not believe the day I’ve had,” begins Alex. He holds out the bag. “Here. I think I got everything.”

“He was so good!” beams Zeb proudly. “Ah, I shoulda thought to record a holo…”

“Absolutely not,” replies Alex, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I let myself be bullied into doing that.”

Hera blinks at both of them. “So, uh… what actually happened?”

“He got a part as Obi-Wan Kenobi in a play,” grins Zeb.

Alex sighs and rolls his eyes. “Under duress. They kidnapped me and threatened to rip my arms off if I didn’t do it.”

“…How do you even get into that kind of situation?” asks Hera.

“Don’t even ask,” grimaces Alex. “I was minding my own business, and…”

Chapter Text

“…In our world, all is recurrent.

Beings come and go, live and die.

What happened will happen

Again, again, again

Though you are gone from me

I will see you once more.”

- Amvrosii Demidov, The Turn of Planets

They take their time on the way back to Lira San. The twins’ school doesn’t start back up again for a good while, and it’s nice to have a bit of a holiday as a family. These days it’s much easier to stick to safe systems, New Republic or at least positively neutral: Zeb remembers the days when it was dangerous to be recognised as a Lasat in a majority of places. Now, his sons can be out in public without fear of the kind of asshole Alex used to be.

They make a stop on Seelos, where Rex and Wolffe entertain the twins with tales of the Jedi. The two of them have collected up a few other of the surviving clones who’ve had their control chips out, Yello and Panchiko and Genius, who are wary of the visitors at first but quickly warm up when the boys start asking them questions. It’s a very nice bonus that they already have a half-eaten joopa on hand: Zeb very much does not want to relive that particular experience, and he’s definitely not going to offer up one of the twins as bait either.

(“Hey, Rex? When did ya know ya…” Zeb wiggles his fingers. They’re alone together, just for a few moments, and he’s been desperate to ask. He remembers that day on Atollon, back when the Force was just another strange thing he didn’t really understand. He still doesn’t really understand it, come to that.

Rex shakes his head: he hasn’t spoken about this, Zeb knows, for years. Not even with Luke Skywalker, and definitely not with Ahsoka.

“Was a bit more gradual than it was with you, mate,” he replies at last, as the creases around his mouth deepen. He’s getting older these days, just like the rest of the clones: his skin is thin, papery, spotted in a different way that the speckles on Alex’s skin. “Not like I can do much anyway, not like the Jedi can.”

“Yeah,” sighs Zeb, “I kinda figured as much.”)

They stop off on Kaller, too, to pay their respects to Kalo'im and Vandi. Zeb is pleased to see that the Empire remnant has been completely rooted out since they were last here, arrested and replaced with a government chosen by the locals. Fellow non-Humans are safe to live and work unchallenged, and many stop to chat – Morfizo, in particular, is overjoyed to see the twins healthy and happy.

At one point on Kaller, when Zeb happens to be out alone for some reason or another, someone at the other end of the street spots Zeb, does a double take, and hurries up to him.

“Master?”

Zeb blinks. “...Do I know ya?”

The man stares at him, and Zeb stares back. He’s Human, red-headed, wearing a pink poncho; Zeb’s sure he’s never met him in his life.

“No,” says the man at last. “Sorry, it’s just… I knew a Lasat once. A long time ago. For a moment…”

“Ain’t often I’m mistaken fer someone else,” replies Zeb. It’s not often these days that anyone in the wider Galaxy even knows what a Lasat is. “But I ain’t anybody’s master.”

Well, not really, anyway. He doesn’t count the twins or Jacen, not when he’s learning right along with them. It would feel weird. Like he was trying to be someone he isn’t. For Kanan and Ezra, the line between Master and dad got more and more blurred as time went on; for Zeb, well, he’s not a fan of Master, not from those three. He much prefers Adan or Uncle.

“Guess not,” agrees the red-headed man. He gestures at Zeb’s bo-rifle. “You’re Honour Guard, aren’t you? Or… ex Honour Guard, anyway.”

“Yeah,” says Zeb simply. This stranger doesn’t need to know more than that.

(He does look familiar, though, somehow: it’s bothering Zeb that he can’t figure out where he’s seen this guy before. Maybe on a wanted poster, or something? How does he know so much about Lasats, anyway?)

The red-headed man presses his fist to his palm and bows, Lasat-style. “Pardon the intrusion. I – never mind. Goodbye.” With that, he disappears off into the crowd. How weird. Zeb shrugs and decides it’s probably not that important.

There’s more planets after that, mostly fairly brief. They’ve got a few old Rebellion friends to drop in on, ones who haven’t heard the gossip about Zeb yet and ones who have. A few times, one or the other of them goes out on their own, while the other stays back with the kits. Everyone needs a break sometimes, even if both Zeb and Alex are always quick to return.

They visit Lothal, even though Sabine isn’t there: it’s thriving, just as Ezra always wanted. The twins visit the wolves – with proper supervision this time – but even Zeb, whose ability to connect with animals is barely even there, can tell that there’s no particular Force revelations there for them. It’s good practice, at least.

There’s not much else to say about the planet, not without another Spectre here – well, the wolf who might or might not be Kanan doesn’t count, not really. Are they even still Spectres, now that they’re all grown up and moved out of the Ghost? Zeb supposes they must be. Once a Spectre, always a Spectre, or something like that.

What’s more important while they’re on Lothal is the dream.

It begins in darkness, or near-darkness: everything has a sickly blue-green tone, and the faint light shifts in a distinctly organic way. Vague shapes hang suspended in the murk around him, strange half-formed things that he’s glad not to be able to see properly. He raises his hand and is surprised when his palm comes up against a solid surface: the liquid beyond it shifts and flows subtly. Some sort of tank?

Somewhere to one side, he hears the sound of a sudden rush of thick liquid, followed by someone coughing and spluttering. Zeb follows the noise to an open clearing among what looks like endless, endless bacta tanks to find a young Human man bent over, spitting greenish goo out of his lungs. Zeb rubs his back until the young man can breathe clearly.

“Ya okay?” he tries.

The young man looks up at him and scrambles back with a flinch. Now that Zeb takes a good look at him, he looks almost like Alex, if Alex was clean-shaven and had red hair. Oddly, he also looks a little like the other red-headed man Zeb met on Kaller. He’s dressed in an all-black uniform that Zeb doesn’t recognise, with an insignia that is nearly Empire but not quite: his whole body drips with greenish goopy liquid.

“’S awright,” Zeb adds. “I ain’t here ta hurt ya.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Zeb.”

“Vy ne dolzhny bytʹ zdesʹ,” the young man says, in a language that sounds like the one that Alex swears in sometimes. “Oni delayut s nami uzhasnyye veshchi.”

“Sorry,” says Zeb, in Basic. “I don’t understand.”

The young man looks distressed for a moment, and then sighs. He points to himself. “Imperskoye byuro bezopasnosti nolʹ dva odin.”

“...Okay, I can’t pronounce that.” He tries to smile. “D’ya mind if I call ya Nol?”

“Nol,” he repeats. He nods at Zeb. “Zeb?” He points behind Zeb’s shoulder. “Imperator.”

Zeb turns: there, indeed, is the biggest tank of all, that looms over them at least a story high and so wide that Zeb could only put his arms around a tenth of it. In the very centre, floating like a drop of ink suspended in a glass of water, is something that Zeb at first takes to be an old black blanket. Even as he watches, it begins to move and pulsate, and the top part – the hood of a cloak, Zeb realises – rises slowly.

There’s an actual being under there. The mouth is one he recognises, shrivelled and dark-lipped, surrounded by pale near-white skin. Zeb recoils. The figure raises its two cloaked arms, in a gesture that might be welcoming or might be threatening. Slowly, surely, the whole figure begins to rise, up through the tank that it has been trapped in: the surface of the liquid bulges and then breaks.

The Emperor stares yellow-eyed down at Zeb and Nol, just as much of a sleemo as always. For a moment, Zeb holds his breath, waiting for something to happen, before -

Blue lightning arcs almost gently from the Emperor’s hands, and now Zeb gets why Ahsoka said that was a Dark Side technique: the hate, the sheer evil that simmers in the air is enough to make him stagger even without being hit. It crackles over their heads, uneasily muted by the thick rows of liquid-muffling tanks.

The half-formed things begin to move. All around them, the strange… creatures? contort themselves in ways that might be something like a normal living being if Zeb squints. He hears a liquid splat behind him: something large makes its way out of the tank opposite the Emperor as he watches, and falls ungainly to the floor.

Zeb vaguely remembers the clones telling him about the Kaminoans, once, about the unnaturally stretched beings that made them. This being is something like that, at least halfway between that and a Human: every limb is long and loose-jointed, which with the being’s skinny frame makes it look almost like a puppet. Its face seems to be rotting away at the cheek, with a single shred of skin stretched across a festering hole. It is naked, dripping, grotesque in its pale hairlessness.

Beside him, Nol makes a gesture that looks vaguely religious.

“You,” begins Zeb, “Force?” He wiggles his fingers.

Nol shakes his head no. Well, it was worth a shot. Zeb looks back at the newly-born creature, twitching and moaning as it lifts itself awkwardly to its feet: it might not be dangerous, especially not fresh out of the tank, but appearances can be deceiving. He reaches for his bo-rifle, ready, tense.

The creature blinks its eyes at them, and then turns its face towards the Emperor. It makes a kind of gargling, keening noise: almost sad. Zeb is on the verge of figuring out what’s going on when the Emperor raises a hand again. This time, the lightning strikes directly at Zeb’s heart.

He wakes up.

Chapter Text

“A chakaar that protects a child redeems their self, but one who delights in hurting a child will always be a demagolka.

Nobody cares who your parent was, only the parent you’ll be.

To care for a child is its own reward.

Nurture foundlings, for they are the seeds from which great trees grow.

Every person who does not pass their wisdom to the next generation is a fool.

In every child is a warrior; in every warrior is a child.”

- Traditional Mandalorian sayings, tr. Valdesh Eldar

Alex likes Lothal. He really does. It’s a lovely planet, thanks to the efforts of Sabine and the New Republic. The twins seem to like talking to the wolves, although it still makes Alex nervous whenever a predator large enough to swallow a kit in one bite gets too close. But he is looking forward to going back to Lira San, back home to their comfortable house and their friends and the domestic routine of daily life. This place, as much as he appreciates it, is not one where either he or Zeb would feel at home for long.

Luckily, this is only a holiday. They won’t be moving here any time soon, unless something drastic happens, and Alex begins to make preparations for the trip back secure in the knowledge that nothing drastic is going to happen; while Zeb looks after the kits, then, Alex takes care of refuelling and restocking the Glimmer ready for the trip back. There’s a few parts that are worn out and need replacing, too.

So he takes himself to the marketplace, to the bustling centre of Capital City, where it seems that representatives from nearly every species brush shoulders. In fact, for a moment, he thinks he catches sight of one of the boys’ pointed green ears. Have they wandered off? He keeps telling them not to do that. Surely Zeb would have commed him about it by now?

Alex sets off towards it, hurrying between the crowds, trying to see where the ear has gone. Is it just one twin, he wonders, or are they both out in the middle of this city so full of dangers for a child? Karabast, and he can’t even sense them like Zeb can. He just has to rely on his own, ordinary, Human senses. He -

That is not one of the twins. Alex comes to a halt in front of the little child, much smaller than one of his boys, and blinks at it. It is green, and it does have large ears, but it’s definitely not a species he’s seen before. It’s very cute, with big glistening eyes that gaze into his own with a childlike innocence.

“Hello, little one,” he coos, crouching down to be on their level. “Are you lost?”

There is a soft click by his temple: something cold and metallic presses against his skull. “Back away, pal. That kid’s under my protection.”

Alex raises his hands slowly. “I apologise. I’ll move away. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Carefully, Alex stands up: he can feel the blaster tip moving with him. The voice belongs to what looks like a Mandalorian, and he tries to dredge up what Sabine has taught him.

“Gedet’ye. Nu kyr’amar.”

The Mandalorian tips his (?) helmet. “Gar jorhaa'ir Mando’a?”

“A little,” nods Alex.

“Who’d you learn it from?” asks the Mandalorian. “I’m looking for other Mandalorians. Any chance you can put me in contact with them?”

Alex clears his throat. “You do still have a blaster to my forehead. You can understand why I wouldn’t feel inclined to share any information.”

The blaster retracts, and Alex is able to relax considerably. He turns to see the Mandalorian pick up the little green child, and makes the connection with a sudden flash of empathy.

“I understand,” he says. “My sons are incredibly precious to me. If a stranger approached them when I wasn’t feeling charitable…”

“He’s not my kid. He’s -” a moment, and the Mandalorian sighs – “well, it’s a long story.”

“My sons are adopted, too,” he replies. “That doesn’t mean I love them any less.”

The Mandalorian tips his helmeted head. “You a bounty hunter?”

“No.”

A nod. “There’s a lot of them after this one. Gotta be careful.”

Alex smiles sympathetically. “That’s all right.” And then: “The Mandalorian I know is a long way away. She’s… on a quest of her own.”

The Mandalorian thinks about this. “So you can’t help me.”

“I’m afraid not. You can kill me now if you’d like.” It’s not a gamble, not really. He knows what the Mandalorian will do.

And indeed, the Mandalorian jerks his head to one side. “Go on. Go be a good Buir to your kids.”

He doesn’t need telling twice.

On the way back to the Glimmer, then, is when a blondish Human woman stops him – this time, there’s no threat implicit in her body language or face, just a mild concern that makes Alex much more inclined to want to help her.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you help me?” asks the woman. “I’m looking for someone.”

Alex nods. “Of course, Ms…?”

“Call me Meg,” says the woman, with a slight smile.

“Alex,” says Alex. “So who are you looking for?”

“My brothers.” She sighs. “They’re all Human, and they all look a lot like me, just… a lot older.”

“I see.” Alex tries to think whether he’s seen any men who look like Meg around; the only other non-Lothali Humans he’s seen recently were a group of old clones like Rex. Old enough to be this woman’s fathers, not her brothers. “I don’t think I’ve seen them. Sorry.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” replies Meg. She tucks a loose strand of her pale blonde hair behind her ear: suddenly, something about her looks incredibly familiar.

“You remind me of someone,” he replies thoughtfully. “I can’t place it. Where are you from?”

Meg raises her eyebrows. “I get that a lot. I have one of those faces, you know.” She smiles strangely, as if sharing a private little joke with herself. She hasn’t answered his question. “You look like someone I’ve seen before, too.”

Alex has a sudden irrational fear that this is one of his victims from when he was still with the Empire: she could be the right age, after all. She’s a little younger than Hera, maybe, and could easily be related to someone he’s arrested or, worse, killed. But… no, perhaps not. Perhaps he’s just being an anxious old fool.

“Well,” he replies, “I did have a bounty on my head for a while. Perhaps that’s what you saw.”

“Yes,” says Meg, thoughtfully. “Maybe I did.”

Alex nods. “Well, anyway, I hope you find your brothers.”

“I’m sure I will eventually.” Meg turns to go, humming a tune. It’s a little ditty Alex recognises, vaguely: he remembers Rex, a little sloshed, translating the lyrics from Mando’a. Something along the lines of: I got a place in the 99, brother, and you’ll be right behind me.

How strange. Alex frowns for a moment, but shrugs it off. It’s been quite an eventful day: it’s time to head back to the Glimmer, to where his own family awaits.

Chapter Text

<Seller: Wote Cafese

Buyer: Sasha Krum

Ship Name: Resistance is Character Forming

Ship Model: YT-1250

Type: Light freighter

Condition: Damaged by customer

Payment: 50000 IC

Year of Sale: 7976 CRC | 18 Imperial Reckoning>

“We wanna see!”

“It ain’t that interestin’,” replies Zeb cheerfully, although he lets the twins climb up onto the arms of the copilot’s chair so that they can see out of the viewport anyway. Beside him, in the pilot’s chair, Alex rolls his eyes fondly.

“Well,” he smiles, “would you two like to count us down again?”

The boys light up. “Yeah!” And, in Lasat: “Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

On cue, Alex lifts the Glimmer off the Capital City landing pad and heads upwards, through the atmosphere of Lothal: the twins gaze at the clouds going by, wide-eyed in childlike wonder. It is beautiful: the light is soft and pink, fading to the dark open blackness of space in a gentle, stunning gradient.

Alex pauses for a moment, just when they’ve got to the point where it’s safe to jump to hyperspace, as if to let them appreciate it. The next moment, he pulls the lever, and the distant stars explode into a flurry of blue. It’ll take three jumps to get to the imploded star cluster protecting Lira San, and they may make a stop at some point; either way, it’ll take a while. The boys will definitely need to sleep some time. For now, Zeb is happy to let them stay here – they’re not doing any harm, after all.

Shirr points at the boom that hangs over the Glimmer’s viewport. “Batya, how can you see when there’s that thing in the way?”

“Oh, that?” Alex gestures at his sensor screens, which show near-perfect views of the surrounding sky. “I just look here. These help me manoeuvre even when I can’t see anything.” And then: “You know, I took this whole ship apart and rebuilt it from -”

“We know, Batya,” laughs Bys. “You already told us about that.”

“Alright, alright. Clearly that is much too boring.” He looks over at Zeb. “Perhaps you’d rather hear how I came to buy her in the first place.”

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Yannow I still find red dust in my fur? It gets in the worst places, too…”

“What happened?” asks Bys.

“Yeah, what do you mean, red dust?” agrees Shirr.

Alex takes one hand off the steering and begins to gesture enthusiastically. “Well, you see, it started when a mysterious rogue going by the name of the Red Stripe decided – for some reason – to hide something very valuable in their old ship before selling it to a second-hand dealer. They’re so secretive, no one even knows what species they are…”

It takes nearly the whole first jump to tell the whole story. With the perspective of time – a lot of time – Zeb can laugh with the twins about the pranks that the Red Stripe set up for them: it definitely wasn’t funny to be worried about getting shot with every step while also trailing red dust everywhere. The stupid datachip wasn’t even that hard to find – it was inside one of the storage panels, hidden among pieces of junk that the Weequay had apparently not bothered to clean out.

Now, the boys have exhausted their curiosity about where the Glimmer comes from, and Zeb can tell they’re both getting tired and hungry. Another short jump should leave them ready for dinner and a nice sleep. Beside him, Alex checks the navicomputer, apparently with a similar idea.

Shirr grabs Alex’s arm suddenly. “Batya, Batya! We should stop there next!”

Alex looks at where he’s pointing on the navicomputer map and frowns. “Trask? Why? It’s not exactly on the way.”

“It’s important,” replies Bys. Both he and his brother look up at Zeb. “Don’t you feel it?”

Zeb focuses: indeed, there’s a strange pull there, as if the Force is gently insisting on his attention. Oddly, it’s a similar feeling to the one he felt on that evening on Hosnian Prime, watching Alex in a stage-fight as Obi-wan Kenobi. But why would he feel that? No one’s in disguise as anyone else right now. Maybe there’s someone in hiding on Trask? He heard about the Imperial ship that got stolen down there not too long ago, but he doesn’t know a whole lot else about it.

“I feel it,” he replies. “We should check it out.”

“Hm,” frowns Alex, and looks from one boy to another. “If you all think it’s important, then I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see what’s going on.”

“We gotta,” insists Bys.

Zeb raises an eyebrow at Alex. “Is it safe?”

Alex checks his datapad, which has a fairly up to date list of New Republic-friendly planets. “Safe enough, I think. We have time.” He smiles at the boys. “Do you know what it is that’s so important?”

“I’unno,” says Shirr. “It just is.”

Zeb catches a glimpse of the datapad screen and snorts. “It’s in the Arkanis sector, maybe ya’ve got relatives here.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” replies Alex, rolling his eyes. “Still -” he inputs the coordinates into the navicomputer - “if the Force says to come here, we’d better do as it says, hadn’t we, boys? Oh, I know, we can have dinner there, how’s that?”

“Yeah!” chorus the twins in unison.

Chapter Text

“TRASK: This estuary moon in the Kol Iben system is covered nearly entirely with ocean; the few small archipelagoes are largely uninhabited by sentients due to their rocky, inhospitable nature. Settlements are built on artificial platforms made to withstand the rough seas caused by the tidal pull of the gas giant Kol Iben and its sun.

Primary inhabitants include Mon Calamari, Quarren, Humans, and assorted other aquatic or amphibious species. Not suitable for hydrophobes or any species prone to dessication via salt exposure.

Exports include seafood and pearls harvested from underwater pearl farms.”

- Kung Kireer, Planets of the Outer Rim