Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Trouble

Blood is in the rocky waters

Hide away your sons and daughters

Eat you alive

Levels

Better put your head on swivels

Dancing with the very devil

Butter to knife

(‘Sharks’ by Imagine Dragons)

“Getal-ika. You really can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

One of the shadows asked, their voice long-suffering, while another cackled with amusement, while nonchalantly sitting on the unconscious body of the huut’un who had  the misfortune of having been ambushed by the said shadow.

“It’s not my fault that the trouble follows me!”  The scruffy interloper argued, glaring at the … what, mummified shadow who was holding them by the back of their oversized shirt like the being was some kind of an unruly tooka.

This was what one Jaster Mereel had to deal with on this fine, auspicious Taungsday.

There had to be one day. Just one day, when he was free of all the chaos that usually followed his people like a starving striil would after a bantha steak.

The unofficial Mand’alor had to fight the impulse to pinch the bridge of his nose to alleviate the throbbing in his head.

Was one day really too much to ask for?

Mentally, he prayed to Manda, because Ka’ra knew that one more… unconventional surprise like that and he would scream.

True, the ad saved his life – he never would have expected Montross of all people to be an aruetii -  but now it was clear why the bastard had been so insistent on taking up that karking contract with Kordans.

He would’ve been marching into Manda, if it weren't for his unconventional… saviors.

Ade.  Not that Jaster had anything against kids, but… ade.

Half-starved, dirty, and if Jaster ever found out who was the dar’manda enough to let the adiike wander onto the battlefield without protection, or at least beskar-gam and weapons.... there would be Hel to pay.

The tiny redhead had saved him in the nick of time, while the other… four? Had efficiently demolished the opponents, despite being smaller, weaker and under armed.

Though, weaker was not really the adjective Jaster would have attributed to them. Not after he had seen them fight.

“Where is Ray?” The redhead asked, seemingly giving in into not being let go onto the solid ground. Jaster would have approved of the method, because judging by the jare’la ways they did had been fighting, this was an efficient method to keep them out of trouble.  He was also a bit insulted at being so completely ignored after the fact.

“Sniffing about, you know how he gets.” Another shadow, on Jaster’s left, grunted out and Manda, would they at least wear a bell! Jaster almost had a heart attack at hearing them behind his back.

“And no, I am NOT wearing a bell at your convenience.” The shadow growled at him before dragging him down.  Jaster sat down with a heavy thump.  Even if the shadow-ad was  smaller than Jango, Jaster had enough of experience and healthy fear  to heed his temporary baa’ur’s command. The second shadow snickered again, and Jaster would’ve felt offended if he had any energy, but the headache and blood loss weren’t exactly conducive to feeling more complex emotions right then.  “Now sit pretty and be a good little patient.  You can’t afford to lose more blood than you already did. I don’t have the equipment to replenish your blood -  and no, you are NOT offering to be a blood donor!”

They threateningly pointed at the scruffy redhead who glared at him. “But Ta’ray!” The redhead protested, almost pouting, “He needs – “.

“No buts!” The now-named baa’ur snapped back at him. “Or did you forget that you have donated your blood less than a half of a tenday back … and at your age, you are already critically malnourished!”

“Ad, don’t.” Jaster interrupted the baa’ur, inwardly cringing at the shadow's pressure on his shoulder.  Strong for an ad, no doubt. Dimly, he wondered what kind of species they were, to be so strong. He ruled out wookiees, and he didn’t have enough arms to be a besalisk –

“Like he said.”  Another of the shadows said, this one cuffing the back of the head of the first shadow,  earning an expletive and a fast snap with a knife, which they dodged easily, while plucking the redhead into their hold. “E’tad is finishing perimeter check. Threat neutralised.” They reported and was it just Jaster’s imagination but they sounded the same as the others?

The redhead’s shoulders sagged, before they perked up again. “Are they safe?” He asked, concern on his sallow face, blue eyes, too big for an ad, looking at the shadow beseechingly.

The puppy pout earned them a rough ruffle of hair, making them squeak. “Yup.  Me and Resol also had a bit of a spat with the Prime and we may have roughhoused him a bit – “

“Kriff you. We all agreed that I had dibs!”  The baa-ur snapped, glaring at the smug bastard, and the redhead, as much as Jaster could see, rubbed his face with one dirty palm, the exasperation practically rolling off of them.

This seemed to be an everyday occurrence for them, and Jaster felt for the young being.

“Can you please stop already?”  The redhead flicked the shadow on the nose, causing them to grumble, but not letting them on the ground.

Jaster closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself.

Getal-ika was apparently the leader, even if those shadows were faster, stronger and loved to cuddle him.  Jaster didn’t understand but understanding would come after -

“Where’s Jango?” He managed to ask, hissing a bit when the baa-ur began to sew the edges of the wound together.   Well, at least it was a clean enter-and-exit wound, and the ad seemed competent…. too competent, almost.  It was like having a mini Mij at the improvised bedside, only without grumbling and threats to his continued existence.

“Green and red beskar? Having twin WESTAR pistols?”   The shadow who held Getal-ika asked, tilting their head.

Desperately, Jaster nodded.  “Yes!  Have you seen – nngh -  my ad?”

“Oh. That was Prime?”  The shadow asked, genuinely surprised, and this time, Getal-ika groaned, hiding his face at the shadow’s heck.  “Please, tell me you two didn’t-“

“What?  I ain’t no liar, darling.  He was a bit uppity for my tastes, so… I may have taught him a lesson or two. “

“He’s a kid!” Getal’ika’s voice became a bit too high-pitched for Jaster’s senses. But Jango being called a kid? Jaster couldn’t help, but be offended at the behest of his ad.

Never mind that the kid in question already had a verd’goten,  his own band of grunts and was more or less considered to be a ven’alor by the majority of Haat’ade.

“You - you just can’t kick the shebs of everyone that offends you!” Getal’ika spluttered.

“I am not kicking yours. Satisfied?”  The snarky retort earned the shadow a small slap on their chest.

Jaster closed his eyes, intentionally not questioning just what Jango had done, to earn the ass-kicking/ire of two of the two shadows at once.

The day may have been saved by a bunch of gremlins and a tiny, red-haired ad-ika.

But Jaster had a nagging hunch that his life and the future of Haat’ade had just become a lot more troublesome.

Chapter Text

"Ord'ika! Ordo? You've been a naughty boy again, haven't you? Come here."

This was the last thing he had heard from Kal-buir.

Before it all had gone to haran.

He almost wished that he had been still slated for reconditioning - it would have been at least more manageable than this -  this -  whatever it was.

Groaning, his body pulsing with agony, he tried to turn onto his back.

Everything hurt.  Not that he and his siblings weren’t used to pain - those karking Kaminiise ensured that they had an extensive experience of it in different ways, shapes and forms.

Back then, they had been holding the barracks down and then, someone had thrown in some kind of a glowing black sphere -  if he hadn’t known better,  Ordo would’ve thought that Mereel or Jaing were fucking with them, the shebse, but with the situation as it had been,  there had to be a work of someone else.

Or maybe it was just one big, fucking coincidence.

Ordo hated coincidences.  

Especially when they resulted in him freezing his shebs off in what seemed to be some kind of a demented training simulation.

Because it had to be a simulation.

No clothes.  Feeling like he had gone twenty rounds with Prime and lost all of them. No -  on a cursory check -  weapons of any kind on his person.

And his voice was all wrong, too.

The fuck?

 Half an hour later, he was clothed in an oversized tunic and heavily modified trousers of some idiot who had tried to kill him because, yes, in this place, kids were apparently to be hunted and offed because of some fucked up principle, that the kids were enemies.

The dustball of a planet he was currently stranded on was named Daan, and there was a civil war between the Daan and Melida people, contended by the so-called Young. Ordo didn’t know much about the third faction, though judging by the man’s cursing, they were bound to be at least more interesting than grown-ups, especially someone called Obi.

Munching on a piece of dried meat, he made a face at the meager collection of weapons he had managed to scavenge.  It was nothing like DC-17 hand blasters or a rotary blaster cannon.  These were so old they were borderline antediluvian.  In a surprisingly good condition for their age, too.  At least knives were reliable and properly sharpened.

Making one last cursory check and tap down, he stood up and looked around.

Time to find his brothers.

While Ordo wasn’t exactly happy with being made for the jetiise, - this party line was shady as fuck, Ordo knew his history -  this one was taking the cake.

Mawat was an idiot.

Even as hot-headed as he was,  he should have known that going solo to retrieve additional bacta was a suicide run.

It was for a reason that only Obi was sent out on such missions, because he had magic -  Obi could deny and  tell them that it was Force until  he was blue in the face, but  Mawat knew better. Everyone of the Young knew better, only Obi was still dumb enough to insist that his magic was Force.

That still didn’t change the fact that Mawat was an idiot.

An idiot who had been caught and the Elders would be trying to use him against the Young.

And of fucking course, because Mawat had wanted to be a hero, nobody knew that he was missing and the chances of him being rescued were  practically zero.

He had been thrown into the cold room, his hands and ankles tied and his head hurting from the slaps.  Wehutti didn’t really spare his strength. 

Luckily for Mawat, the Elders had some other business before they would turn their attention to him.

Unluckily, he was stashed in the cold room.  The space, by definition, was used as some kind of a primitive freezer -  it was actually a hole, dug deep into the ground and then the stones were placed in - roughly hewn,  thick, and this kind of special stone was very good at leeching and retaining cold.  In better times, it has been used as a place to store meat and other edibles, but now, it was converted into a holding cell.

The cold room didn’t have any  windows, and the only exit was by the door that was locked  from the outside. Mawat gulped. The meat in the cold room could be stashed in fresh, and next morning, it would be hard and cold as a stone.  His grandmother had often taken him along, because despite her advanced age, she was still a good hunter and Mawat had learned lots from their walks together.

Sadly for Mawat, his grandmother had perished - had been killed, presumably by one of the Melida’s soldiers for the simple trespassing on what they claimed was their ground.

Mawat knew differently.

They had murdered his grandmother  just because she had been carrying a pair of freshly caught wild rabbits.

They had been talking,  his Gran declined giving them both of the rabbits, but offering one, because she had  Mawat to feed -  and one of the cowards shot her.

Mawat saw everything. But who would have believed a small, skinny kid, who was a Daan?  They hadn’t seen him, concealed as he had been under the foliage, but ever since then, Mawat’s heart burned with rage at the injustice.

A month later, he had joined with the Young, using his knowledge and skills on how to hunt wildlife to trap and kill different prey -  the Elders.

Twelve summers old now, his auspicious career as a vigilante was nearing its inglorious end.

Mawat would never betray the Young.  But there was no chance for him to get out of this trap alive either.  Either he would freeze to death, or, if there were any mercy, he would try and piss off an Elder into killing him.

“Oh, great.” Mawat groaned, wincing at the sharp pain zinging up his jaw.  “Great going, genius. “

He snorted, coughing a little with the blood rushing through his nose and dripping down his face.

“Darla would laugh herself sick. And Nield would skin me alive.”

He tried to roll and wiggle up in order to lean against the wall, wincing at the freezing cold temperature digging into his back.

Groaning and wiggling, he failed to hear a skittering sound before a corpse-cold hand grabbed his shoulder, kickstarting an additional shot of cold bolting through his body.

Mawat’s eyes widened and there, he remembered  Cerasi telling him  that there were corpses stashed in those  rooms and – and   those corpses moved, eating the people thrown in –

“AAAAAH! HELP! HEEELP!”

He screeched, his lungs working overtime, as he tried to yank away from the cold corpse that was about to have him for a lunch, right now - !

Mawat was an idiot.

There  was an annoyed groan, and then,  Mawat’s head was being thwacked by one of those corpse-cold hands.

“Ne’johaa!” a voice barked at him, and because Mawat was still screeching like a crazed banshee, the hands in question relocated themselves on his shoulders and shook him as if he were an unruly tooka.

Hyperventilating, Mawat sobbed, still trying to jerk away, but the hands were mercilessly holding him  still.

“Would you fucking shut up!  You are giving me a headache!” A young voice barked out, and there was a warm breath on Mawat’s face and –

Since when did corpses talk?

Swallowing his heartbeat back into his lungs, Mawat sniffled. 

“P-Promise not to e-eat me?” He bleated out, looking -  or at least trying – at the person holding him.

The person sighed, exasperated.

“You are far too skinny to be any sort of good meal for anyone, kid.” The voice said gruffly, and Mawat twitched, offended.

“Who are you calling a kid -  you are a kid, too!” He snapped back, glaring, only to earn another cuff at the side of his head, causing him to yelp and whimper at the double dose of pain from his jaw and nose, along with head.

“I am not a ki – “ his roommate started, heated, the voice reverberating off the walls in a mocking echo.

“Me’ven? What kind of a Sith spit sorcery is this?”

“What? You are a kid, that’s all there is to it!” Mawat snapped back.   Yelping, he felt himself unceremoniously dropped back against the wall.

“Haar’chak.” Small slapping noises followed the curse, while Mawat tried to blink the tears out of his eyes.  

“Is that another one of those crazy simulations?” The kid -  Mawat was sure that this was a kid who was trapped with him -  asked, shuffling around.

“What simulation?  You are not the Young, are you?” Mawat bristled, his body tensing to ready itself either to fight (with what?) or flee (how?) from what he was now sure was Wehutti’s plant.

“You are one of the Elders, aren’t you?” He spat out, kicking, and by the muffled squeak, he managed to hit a part of his captor.

“Wanna make me talk? Tough luck, Elder.” Mawat sneered, kicking again, but now, his feet were caught in a vice grip and yanked down, causing him to yelp.

“Oh?  You have trousers?” The person -  Mawat was on the fast track of being convinced this was some kind of a bad ghost, asked him.

Mawat’s spine was dunked into the sort of chill that didn’t have nothing with the low temperature of the cold room.

“Excellent.” The voice purred out and then, the evil ghost yanked and Mawat –

Mawat screeched again.

“You fucking pervert.” Mawat spat out as he trailed after his savior.

Said savior was thankfully clad in the skirts of one of the grunts – she-grunts?  -  who came to retrieve him for the questioning.

Mawat was keeping his trousers on only by the virtue of them being too small for the pervert in question.

The savior – pervert shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, kid.”   He snapped.

Mawat was fairly sure that the pervert was male, considering he didn’t even try to deny his perverted nature.

He was sporting a too-tight light gray blouse, his shoulders bulging under thin fabric, while his head was obscured by a scarf, only letting a pair of eyes peek out.  No shoes to speak of, exposing the slender ankles and strong calves belonging to a fit and fed body.

If it weren’t for the pervert’s brutal takedown of Mawat’s captor, despite her being a woman, Mawat would’ve thought that he was a Melida.

“Are you a Daan?”  He hissed at the being.  The pervert was armed with the sole slug thrower, while Mawat grumpily accepted a small hunting knife.

“I am a pervert.”  Mawat’s savior deadpanned. “Shut it, kid.”

Growling, Mawat followed his rescuer.  If only to kick him in the balls… later.

Chapter Text

Jaing had a headache. One moment, they were defending themselves within the Arca barrack to escape reconditioning, and the next moment, there was a flash bang having been detonated among them - then Jaing woke himself cold, younger and with his shebs naked for the world to see in dome Ka’ra forsaken corner of galaxy he didn’t recognize from their lectures.

It definitely wasn’t Coruscanta or Kamino-yaim or any of the planets they had been deployed on in their short service stint before the Senate raised a stink about them being uncontrollable and other similarly charming descriptions.  The last he heard was Kal’buir’s voice calling out to Ordo.

(Kriff, they should have been more careful. When he would find Ordo Jaing would kick his miserable shebs for being such an idiotically trusting shebs’alor. They should have never trusted Skirata.)

The next he heard was artillery screaming above his head - people screaming, cursing, bombs being thrown, and the ground was trembling under the force of the assault.

Live rounds.  Live rounds, for kark’s sake.  Jaing felt his heart freeze and breath catch before he forced himself to assess the surroundings further.

No weapons, under some kind of a frozen shrubbery, conflict happening around him, and yeah, not ideal, but Jaing had been dealt worse and survived.

Or at least that was, until someone tripped, yelped and fell on him.

Quick as a snake, Jaing snatched the being, belatedly noting it was too small to be an adult, and judging by their squeak, barely a kid.

There was a struggle when the kid in question tried everything to bite him. Their body was skinny and covered in an oversized jacket crudely sewn together. Jaing involuntarily wrinkled his nose - the kid stunk to high heavens.  Their heartbeat was a bit too high and thready, and Jaing wanted to say something, but before he could, the Varathian skunk in humanoid guise headbutted his - or at least tried to, they were barely high enough to reach his chin, and Jaing was trained for this kind of thing and –

“OBI! HELP!” The child – no, a demon in a kid’s skin trapped in Jaing’s hold screeched, its piercing voice cutting through his eardrums like rusted saw about to shatter into pieces.

‘Oh kark.’ Now Jaing was truly kriffed. But in his defense, he hadn’t expected to be surprised and ambushed by an adiik of all things and there was no instruction manual on how to disable that kind of howler monkey safely!

Panicked, he tried to slap one hand on the wailing kid’s mouth because it was bad, bad manners to become the target of an enemy’s fire just by announcing their position.

And then, there they were here.

Later on, Jaing would have sworn they were an incarnation of Kad Ha’rangir himself,  blazing blue eyes, matted red hair and covered in blood, the fury making them seem larger than life, despite their gaunt face and emaciated body.

They were armed with an ancient sniper gun and a crudely made knife. For a moment, Jaing thought he was done for.  Much to his surprise, the being didn’t attack him - Instead, they glowered at Jaing and they snatched the kid out of Jaing’s shock-slackened grip and they retreated a fair few steps. He was then thrown a knife - despite its crude appearance, it was a surprisingly balanced little thing - and then, the redheaded kid grabbed the little demon, hauling it on his back and jumped over him, vanishing into the shadows.

It had happened so fast that if it weren’t for Jaing’s eidetic memory and a couple of footprints in the snow, he would have thought he had dreamed the entire thing.

He didn’t have time for pondering, though. Now that he had a weapon, it was time to get himself some clothes, information and food.

A’den had a time of his life. No, really.  No supervision, no idiots - well, aside from those who crossed his path and added to his loot and no Ordo to ruin his fun.

Aside from the minor problem of finding himself on a backwater planet with no capable spacecraft, that is.

Another minor problem was that he wasn’t with his aliit and some chakaar’e thought that hunting kids was a good idea for a pastime.  They had thought that A’den would be an easy target, and A’den was only too happy to disabuse them of this particular notion.

A boy glared at him, while the girl tried to play peacemaker. Not A’den’s problem, not really.  He had saved those two by chance, because the boy was being an idiot, trying to attack the man -Elder-who had caught the girl, trying to drag her back for some reason.

Well, A’den didn’t have time for being a hero. A slug to the head of the shabuir nicely saved both problems at once.

 And promptly spawned the third one.

Third problem was, the two brats in question sticking to him like some kind of stubborn Alderaanian burrs.

Fourth problem was, that the man - Elder - in question was apparently the girl’s uncle and of-karking-course, this opened a whole new can of worms.

So A’den was now stuck with a snarling puppy of an overprotective boy, a girl who played peacemaker and overly enthusiastic (desperate, really) recruiter for some group, dubiously named The Young.

When Kal’buir adopted them, he remarked that they would be living in interesting times, and just now. A’den was beginning to wonder if their old man had known that he had essentially cursed them.

Ka’ra damn it, where was Mereel when A’den needed him?

He wasn’t a social butterfly, thank you very much, and babysitting was not his preferred choice of occupation, either.

Because one more yap (threat) out of that overinflated puppy (boy) and A’den would happily murder him, no questions asked.

Kom’rk was, surprisingly, the lucky one out of his batchmates.

Though currently, he didn’t feel very lucky.

Finding himself in the sewers - literally - was a funny sense of luck.

A’den would laugh his shebs off, he just knew it.

Because he was in the middle of a group of ikaad’e, buck naked and on the wrong end of a several guns, held by too small hands, skinny faces glaring at him like he had just murdered their favourite tooka.

Awkwardly, he tugged a spare blanket around his hips.

“Um…” He swallowed, trying to make his eyes wide and scared, like an akk-pup. He knelt, lifting his arms to show that he didn’t have weapons.

“Can I talk to your leader? Please?”

‘Look cute. Look cute and harmless. Look cuddly.’  He chanted in his mind. ‘Like tubies. Tubies are harmless. You are a tubie. You are harmless. You are small, cute and cuddly.’

He flashed the girls an uncertain smile, tilting his head to look more vulnerable. There was a faint coo, but the cooing girl was immediately sharply elbowed by her two compatriots.

Kom’rk felt the cold sweat gathering at his spine.

The tooka eyes didn’t work on that bunch, and loath he was to admit, but…. He was out of options. At least non-lethal ones, anyway.

There was some rummaging, whispering and then, one of the shadows slunk away, and Kom’rk’s shoulders involuntarily relaxed. All he had to do now was to wait.

The stand-off was the worst. Nobody spoke. The guns were pointed at him, small hands trembling under their weight, dirty faces staring at him. There was a baby in the corner, starting to fuss, but aside from some restless shuffling and urgent whispering, nothing.

The trainers on Kamino would have been impressed by this bunch, Kom’rk couldn’t help but think.  They may not have had the best weapons, but their grit and stubbornness were worthy of respect.

He suppressed a shiver. Even underground, there was a chill in the air, despite a trio of meager braziers in the corners of the room sputtering out weak flames and a paltry amount of warmth needed for the kids to survive.

Kom’rk tried to breathe shallowly, in an effort not to inhale the scent of sewers and stale excrement permeating the air. There was also something greasy and burnt hanging in the air, causing him to twitch his nose.

Finally, there was a small commotion, and the group parted like the sea in front of another … being?

They were dirty, bloody; their eyes blazed blue from the emaciated face with eyebags that already looked deep enough to give any self-respecting medic an aneurysm.  They were holding a kid on their back, their hair, red like old blood, a mute warning to all.

They were smaller than Kom’rk, tiny.

And Manda, but they really reminded Kom’rk of a feral baby tooka, all big eyes and tilted head. And ready to bolt - either to attack or flee.  Kom’rk would bet on attack, though, this baby tooka had claws and they were not afraid to use them.

There was a small stare off, Kom’rk watching the leader, and the leader - being?- watching him right back.

Kom’rk inhaled, prepard to present his case

“How the fuck did you get in? Is there some kind of a hazing ritual going on right now?”

And then, the baby in the back of the room screeched.

Obi-Wan had a headache.

This day had gone to hell in a hand basket. First, Mawat had disappeared. This would’ve been anything noteworthy because Mawat often vanished off into woods to forage or to check the traps, but the kids had reported that he hadn’t come back yet. And this was the first instance of bad feeling.

Secondly, their last mission was a bust. He had managed to save the kids, though Darla had stumbled onto some naked idiot in the woods and had been taken as hostage.  Luckily for Obi-Wan, the naked idiot hadn’t really known who they were, so the ex-Padawan had easily snatched Darla back. And then he had promptly done the stupid, tossing the naked idiot in question a knife - one of the good ones, and now Obi-Wan had Regrets.

Thirdly, both Nield and Cerasi were still off the grid and it was making him antsy.  What ought to have been a routine snatch-and-grab of supplies - because both Nield and Cerasi said that Obi-Wan shouldn’t worry and just focus on diversion – and Obi-Wan had to concede. With the oncoming blizzard on the horizon, they couldn’t be picky whether or not to make an ambush to gain more supplies. Winters were bitter, and the babbies needed all the supplies and care they could scrimp together.

The headache was due to migraine the moment he had seen the idiot sheepishly kneeling in the middle of the babbies, hands in the air and a semi-clean blanket around his naked hips.

Well-fed, dark-eyed and dark-haired, his skin warm in the muted light. He could’ve been one of the Daan.

He was also a carbon copy of the idiot in the snow.

Perfectly harmless.

And nobody knew how or even when he came in.

And a very real danger.

But… The Force was still.  Obi-Wan inhaled. And then spoke.

“How the fuck did you get in? Is there some kind of a hazing ritual going on right now?”

The babbie began to cry, snatching Obi’s attention. Not even hearing out the Idiot number 2’s answer,  Obi-Wan elbowed past him, snagging the babbie up and to his chest, humming as he turned to go to the improvised changing table.

That didn’t mean the kids lowered their weapons.  

Their quarry, however, looked lost. For all of his mass and looking well-fed, he appeared to be thoroughly out of their moment.

“Hazing ritual?” he parroted, blinking.  Obi-Wan concentrated on unwrapping the babbie and changing the diaper, humming all the way.

“There was idiot number one out in the snow.“ He paused, as he cleaned the babbie’s bottom with a wet corner of the clean rag before drying him. The babbie babbled and gurgled at him, their bright eyes blinking slowly, trying to recognise their caretaker.

“You, my dear, are an idiot number two. I don’t know how you managed to get in there without our watch noticing you. Judging by your accent and appearance, though, you are not Melida or Daan. Ergo, hazing.”

Babbie wrapped again, he passed it to Sali, who quietly took it, hunching protectively over the small life, singing as she clumsily held a bottle of watered-down down warmed-up milk for the babbie to drink. Turning around, he looked at their uninvited guest again.

There was a pause when the idiot number 2 processed Obi-Wan’s words.  The man - boy blinked and then shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Then, he spoke up again.

“You saw my brother? And you didn’t take him?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow twitched. “I gave him a knife.” He snapped, bristling with irritation. “If you want more, you are welcome to go out and join him. In fact, I encourage you to do so!” He snapped back, stepping toward the idiot, who stilled and then ducked his head, flushing with embarrassment.

“Ni ceta. I didn’t mean to accuse you of… Not caring.” The strange boy bit his lip, ducking his head in shame.

A strained silence stretched between the two of them, interspersed by Sali’s humming and babbie’s small snuffling sounds.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to rest, but with the issues building up since the troublesome duo’s disappearance, all of the General’s work fell on him.

“I don’t have time for this. “He mumbled under his breath. “Rasa!” He called out “Get some clothes for this idiot.  And if we have shoes – “

“Re’sol.” The idiot in question cut in. Obi-Wan stilled.

“My name is Re’sol, Getal’ika.” The boy smiled widely, dark eyes glinting akin to a hungry nexu’s.  He lowered his arms, and Obi-Wan felt a shudder of unease crawl up his spine.

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes.  “I am not adopting you, and I didn’t ask.” He snapped back.

The boy’s smile, if possible, widened even more.

“You can’t stop me from adopting you, though,” He pointed out cheerfully. “And you gotta admit that Re’sol is a better name than Idiot number two.”

The children looked at the verbal Balorian tennis match between the two of them, some fascinated, some stifling giggles and some still looking wary. Most of the guns were lowered down, not that they would shoot, considering the intruder was kneeling in the middle of Babbies.

Obi-Wan glared. “I reject your adoption, and you are still idiot number two.”  He snapped back.

“Ooh. So I have to earn it?” Re’sol - no, Idiot number two asked, fluttering his eyelashes. Obi-Wan gritted his teeth before forcing himself to smile.

“But of course. Do me a favor. Get the Idiot number one and get the fark off of this planet.  Nobody here has the time to babysit you in the middle of the war.”