Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I never liked beginnings. They always start with too much hope.”

She didn’t realize they’d entered The Republic City until the soft orange glow of the downtown skyline flickered into the edges of her window. It was nearly 2AM, and the kind of quiet that felt like a trap — not silence, just the sound of everything hiding.

Ahsoka leaned against the cool glass of the van’s backseat, knees drawn to her chest, earbuds pressed in tight. The cracked leather squeaked when she shifted, but no one heard. They were all asleep.
Well, almost all.

Her foster brother — Cal — sat two seats ahead of her, still upright like a soldier on watch. She could tell by the way his spine was lined against the seat and how his arm was still perfectly draped over the armrest. Posture like that wasn’t an accident. He was… sharp. Too sharp. Too neat. The kind of person who had color-coded his notebooks in 4th grade and probably never cheated on a test. She didn’t trust him.

The foster dad — Greg — was driving. Both hands on the wheel, 10 and 2. The kind of guy who cleared his throat before speaking and always smiled like he was afraid you'd cry.
The foster mom — Susan — had long since nodded off in the passenger seat, one hand curled beneath her jaw, her phone face-down in her lap.

They’d been on the road since sunset, and Ahsoka hadn’t said a word since they passed the “Now Leaving Lothridge County” sign five hours ago. She didn’t see the point. This wasn’t a beginning, just a different flavor of the same game. Same girl, new wallpaper.

Her playlist looped quietly, one earbud half-out so she could still hear the car’s hum.
🌀 “Youth” by Daughter
🌀 “Mount Everest” by Labrinth
🌀 “Runaway” by AURORA

Songs that felt like half-memories and fully broken people.

The city lights grew brighter. First came the high-rises, then the way the sidewalks cracked from tree roots, the rust of old signs, the blinking red lights of corner cameras. She didn’t know much about Endor Pines, but Greg had described it as “peaceful.”
She didn’t like the word peaceful. Usually meant boring… or fake.

“You’ve been in the system since you were five,” the last social worker had said.
“It’s normal for you to not feel safe with stability.”

Ahsoka had nodded. Not because it was true, but because she wanted the conversation to end.

Four foster homes in total.
First one was a couple who kept beer in the fridge like it was water. They weren’t cruel, just broken in a way that made kindness feel accidental. She stayed four years. Long enough to know when to leave the room. Long enough to stop expecting breakfast.
Second one lasted six. A quiet suburban pair who took her to school every morning and told her she had “a good heart.” But good hearts don’t stop divorces. The mom moved to Scarif. The dad never wanted kids in the first place.
Third home? Short-lived. Six months. Ran away three times. Slept in abandoned buildings. Ate peanut butter with a plastic knife in a laundromat. She was almost proud of that one — it made her feel like she had teeth.

And now here.
Fourth house. Fourth city. Fourth chance.

Or whatever.

They passed a wide wooden sign etched with floral patterns and the words:
“WELCOME TO ENDOR PINES – A Breath Between Worlds.”

Ahsoka blinked slowly.
What kind of yoga cult tagline was that?

The van turned down a curved road flanked by towering pine trees, their shadows reaching across the pavement like claws. She watched her breath fog up the window, just faintly. Summer was ending, but the city air still felt heavy. Too warm for comfort. Too soft to trust.

Greg cleared his throat. The first real sound in a while.

“We’re almost home.”

Home.
That word always felt too big. Like a shirt five sizes too large. It dragged behind her like something she'd trip on.

The house was beige. Of course it was beige.
Clean driveway. Trimmed hedges. Porch lights that didn’t flicker.
Ahsoka stared at it like it was an alien landing pod.

She stepped out of the van, her old backpack slung low on her shoulder. Scuffed Converse. Black hoodie. Chipped nail polish. Everything about her looked like she'd stopped caring years ago — and maybe she had. Or maybe she’d just gotten good at acting like it.

Cal helped carry the boxes. Of course he did.
Greg unlocked the door. Susan yawned and mumbled something about tea.

Inside, the house smelled like fresh paint and lavender dryer sheets.
Too clean. Too quiet.

Her new room was upstairs.
Corner window. Desk. Twin bed. One of those fake inspirational quote posters on the wall. “You Are More Than Your Mistakes.”
She stared at it long enough to feel nauseous.

She didn’t unpack.
She didn’t brush her teeth.
She just sat on the bed, hoodie still on, earbuds in.

She opened her notes app. Typed something without thinking.

"My name is Ahsoka Tano. I don't feel safe.
I don’t feel anything, really.
But if this place burns — I wanna be the one holding the match.”

Then she locked her phone.
And watched the moonlight stretch across the wall like something waiting to be noticed.

Chapter Text

The dream didn’t scare him.
It never did.

But he woke up the same way every time — gasping, sweaty, chest rising like something had punched the air out of it.

Anakin Skywalker sat up in bed, bare chest heaving, curls damp at his forehead, jaw tight. His sheets were tangled around his legs like they were trying to hold him still. He hated that. Anything that tried to hold him still.

For a second, he just stared at the wall. The paint was peeling in the upper corner again. Water damage, probably. The whole building was falling apart, like a dying body being kept alive by duct tape and government funding. But what could you expect?
This was Tatooine Heights.

A place where even the name felt like sarcasm.

His bedroom was dark, lit only by the red glow of the digital clock: 2:47 AM.
The hum of a busted ceiling fan. The low rattle of the fridge leaking downstairs. The sweet, putrid stench of someone cooking onions at a cursed hour.

Home, sweet hellhole.

His eyes drifted around his room like they were searching for something to anchor to. Posters on the wall — faded, taped corners curling with age. A broken hoverboard leaning against the closet. A cracked phone charging from a wire so frayed it looked like it could ignite at any moment.

But none of it helped.
The pressure in his chest stayed. That tight, hot “I don’t want to be here but there’s nowhere else” kind of feeling.

And then —
THUD.

Followed by a scream so loud it might've come from hell itself.

"I SWEAR TO THE STARS I SAW HIM! HE CAME OUTTA THE DAMN WALL!"

Anakin sighed. Deeply. Quietly.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a folding chair being thrown, followed by another voice, presumably the hallucination’s — because nobody real would talk back to Old Man Varnak.
At least, not unless they had a death wish or a high alcohol tolerance.

"DON’T YOU LOOK AT ME WITH THOSE SPACE LIZARD EYES, BRENDA! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!"

Brenda hadn’t existed since 2009. She’d died. Cancer. Or moved.
Either way, she was gone. But to Varnak, she never left.
She just changed rooms.

Anakin rubbed his eyes with both hands, dragging them down his face like maybe they’d peel off the last layer of the nightmare. No luck.
Varnak's tirade carried on, now banging something metal against a radiator —
the universal theme song of Tatooine Heights at night.

Still not blinking, Anakin reached across his bed, felt around blindly until his hand found the handle of his bottom drawer. He pulled it open slowly, no creaks — he'd already fixed the hinges weeks ago with oil from the garage.

Inside:

A lighter.

A crumpled pack of cigarettes.

A tin Altoids box full of... well, it wasn’t mints.

And a folded note his mom had written him once.
He didn’t read it anymore. But he kept it.

He pulled out a single cigarette. Tapped it against the edge of the drawer like a nervous tic. Then tucked the pack and lighter in his hoodie pocket and moved toward the balcony door, bare feet silent against the cracked tile.

Shmi was asleep, finally.
She worked the early shift at Dex's Diner and the late one at the library front desk. If she ever found out Anakin smoked —
Well, she wouldn’t yell. That’s the problem.
She’d look at him, with those tired, kind eyes and that deep kind of disappointment that doesn’t explode — it just settles into your ribs and stays there for months.

He couldn’t handle that.

He opened the balcony door without a sound.

The city hit him instantly: warm, stale air, mixed with exhaust and burnt toast and whatever terrible smell the fourth floor was always generating. The sounds of sirens in the distance. A stray cat hissing in the alley. Someone yelling "Bro, I SAID NO ONIONS" three buildings down.

He exhaled slowly.
Lit the cigarette.
Brought it to his lips.

First inhale. Hold.
Let it burn a little.
Then release.

The tightness in his chest didn't go away, but it shifted.
Like something was at least listening.

He leaned against the railing, bare arms against cold steel. From here, he could see the flickering neon from Watto’s junk shop, a few blocks down. Somewhere, R2 was probably still up, doing tech stuff in that glowing garage of his.
And C-3PO? Probably reading poetry in the bathroom. Or texting someone the word "indubitably."

Anakin liked them. He just didn’t know how to say it.

“HEY! YOU STINKIN’ LIZARD-BRAIN! I’LL KILL YOU TWICE!”

Varnak again.
This time throwing what sounded like a toaster.

Anakin didn’t flinch. He just took another drag.

This was life in Tatooine Heights:
You smoke on the balcony while your schizophrenic neighbor threatens the afterlife.
You listen for footsteps that might mean your mom’s coming.
You stare out at a city that doesn’t see you.
And you wonder if maybe... maybe one day it might.

Chapter Text

Even at 6:45 AM.

And especially when someone (read: Cody) forgot to set the alarms.

“REX. REX, GET UP. NOW!”

The door slammed open like a bomb went off, and Rex shot up in bed, sheets half off his torso, hair flattened on one side like a dying porcupine. His clock blinked red:
6:47 A.M.
Bus leaves at 7:10.
And school? Across town.

“Oh no.”
“Oh hell no.”

He leapt out of bed, tripped on his own shoes, and slammed his shin against the edge of the dresser. Somewhere down the hall, someone knocked over a chair, and then—
A scream.

“WHO TOOK MY BLACK HOODIE?!”

That was Fives.
The more dramatic twin.

Rex burst into the hallway, nearly colliding with Wolffe, who looked just as grumpy and twice as chaotic in the mornings. His hoodie was on backwards, and one shoe was untied.

“Don’t push me,” Wolffe growled, rubbing one eye.
“I’m not pushing—!”
“EVERYONE OUT OF THE DAMN BATHROOM!”

The twins had locked themselves in the bathroom.
It was always the twins.

Echo and Fives, both in 12th grade, shared the personality of two energy drinks and a political podcast.
Echo knocked once. “Occupied!”
Fives added, “Also, in crisis!”

Downstairs, Cody, still in partial police uniform, was scrambling eggs like he was diffusing a bomb.

His badge hung half-buttoned on his shirt, coffee still untouched on the counter, and his expression screamed:

"I didn't ask for this many teenagers in my life but here we are."

“You’ve got ten minutes!” he shouted. “Eat, brush, shoes, bags — in that order!”

“WE CAN’T EVEN GET INTO THE BATHROOM!”
“SHUT UP, WOLFFE!”
“YOU SHUT UP!”
“I’M ALREADY DRESSED, SUCKERS,” Fives called smugly from behind the door.
“AND YOU STOLE MY DEODORANT!” Wolffe howled.

Rex made it into the kitchen half-dressed, hoodie halfway on, backpack half-zipped.
He grabbed a slice of toast straight from the rack — no plate, no shame — and tried to tie his shoes while chewing.

Cody didn’t look at him. He just handed him a banana and muttered:

“Tell your brothers if they miss the bus again, I’m driving them to school in the back of a squad car.”

“Motivating,” Rex said, through a mouthful of bread.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. That sounds sick.”

Wolffe finally kicked the bathroom door open like a scene from an action movie.
Fives and Echo stumbled out, teeth brushed but hair still wet. Fives had eyeliner on. Echo had one sock inside out. Neither looked remotely school-ready, but neither cared.

They passed Cody like raccoons at a campsite — grabbed toast, shoved backpacks over their shoulders, and darted for the door.

“WE’RE GONNA MISS IT!”
“RUN, RUN, RUN—”
“WHERE’S MY HISTORY FOLDER—”
“YOU DON'T EVEN TAKE HISTORY, FIVES!”

Outside, the sky was cold and blue, the air thick with the smell of cheap detergent and street steam.
Kamino Edge had that sterile-yet-chaotic suburban vibe. Clean sidewalks. Tech trash bins. Hovering mailbots.
The school bus was already blinking its signal at the corner.

“GO! GO! GO!”
“MY SHOE’S UNTIED!”
“TIE IT ON THE BUS!”

They sprinted like their lives depended on it — Echo almost face-planted, Fives tripped on Wolffe’s backpack strap, Rex powered forward like a linebacker with three seconds on the clock.

The doors hissed open.
The driver rolled her eyes.
They scrambled aboard.

Rex flopped into a seat near the back, heart pounding.
Echo sat beside him, adjusting his earbuds. Fives was already flirting with someone in row 2.
Wolffe was grumbling into his hoodie like he’d been forced to endure the worst version of reality: mornings.

Rex leaned back.
First day of week

Same people,same school,same rules...

Chapter Text

The bathroom smelled like lemon cleaner, mold, and whatever ancient sin lived beneath the third sink.

Obi-Wan Kenobi turned the faucet off with the back of his hand and exhaled slowly, watching droplets of water drip from his chin like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence he never meant to speak aloud.

He’d been in there too long.
Long enough to hear the first period bell ring from the hallway.
Long enough to know no one would notice.

His hands braced the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Water pooled at the edge of the ceramic. A fluorescent light above flickered — weak, like it was deciding whether or not to give up.

His tie was crooked.
He didn’t fix it.

He looked up into the mirror and saw a face he didn’t quite recognize.

Tired green-blue eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Short, dark blond hair with just a bit of silver threatening the sides. A well-groomed beard, trimmed to professionalism — the only part of him that ever stayed consistent.

His shirt was slightly wrinkled.
The sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
A blue cardigan draped over his shoulders like a professor out of place in the real world.
And beneath it all — the hum of something ancient. Something he never said out loud.

He splashed water on his face again.
It didn’t help.

That’s when it hit him.
The memory.

Uninvited, of course.
They always were.

Eight years old.
Spring break.
Tulips blooming in the backyard.
He remembers because he stepped on one by accident running up the porch stairs.
She didn’t answer when he called her.
The house was too quiet.
She was sixteen.
There were pills.
And blood.
And silence louder than any scream.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Then reached into his inner blazer pocket, fingers brushing against the small orange bottle.
He didn’t need to read the label.
He knew what it said.

Kenobi,Obi-Wan. Sertraline. 50mg. Take daily with food.

He dry-swallowed one. No hesitation.

He stood there for another thirty seconds, just staring at the mirror like it might eventually apologize.
Then he fixed his collar, adjusted his cardigan, and left the bathroom.

The hallways of The Republic City Public High School were alive in the worst way.

Squeaky sneakers, half-finished mural projects, buzzing lockers, someone screaming “I DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH HER!” three doors down. Teenagers everywhere — laughing too loud, pretending not to cry, filming TikToks in stairwells. A broken vending machine with a sticky note that just said “use force.”

Obi-Wan passed them all like a ghost in a crowd. A few students nodded to him —

“Mr. Kenobi.”
“Hey, Teach.”
“You look tired.”

“I am,” he said under his breath.

He made his way to the cafeteria — a too-bright, too-cold open space with chairs that always squeaked no matter how gently you sat down.

And behind the counter, right on cue, was Dexter Jettster, head lunchman, unofficial school therapist, and the only person Obi-Wan could tolerate before 9AM.

“Hey Dex,” Obi-Wan murmured, rubbing his temple.

Dex — massive, hairy arms, apron stained with decades of cafeteria sins — grinned without looking up.

“Coffee?”

“You know me too well.”

“I know your bones, Kenobi.”

He began pouring. The smell hit Obi-Wan immediately: burnt, bitter, too strong. Just the way he liked it.

Near the mop sink, Jar Jar Binks was valiantly losing a battle against a puddle of orange juice and shame. The mop made a horrid squeak every time he pushed.

“Meesa sorry, Obi-Wan! Floor very… slippery this mornin’!”

“You say that every morning,” Obi-Wan replied, sitting down on the bench by the window.

“And every morning it be true!”

Jar Jar slipped a little but managed to stay upright, flailing like a giraffe on ice skates.
Dex handed Obi-Wan the coffee and leaned on the counter like it owed him rent.

“You look like hell, by the way,” Dex said casually.

“Thanks. I try.”

“Rough morning?”

Obi-Wan took a sip. Burnt perfection.
He let the silence stretch a moment.

“Bathroom lighting is brutal.”

Dex snorted.

“You need a day off. Like, a real one. One where you don’t come in to ‘just grade a few papers.’”

Obi-Wan shrugged.

“What would I do with a day off? Sleep?”

“Sounds amazing, actually.”

Jar Jar, still mopping, added:

“Meesa think day off should be hot tub day! Maybe floatin’ noodles. Maybe tropical music!”

“Jar Jar, no one is letting you in a hot tub again after last year,” Dex muttered.

“That wasn’t meesa fault, that tub was possessed!”

They chuckled. Quietly.
Obi-Wan sipped his coffee and looked out the window.

The courtyard was slowly filling with students.
The wind carried leaves across the pavement in spirals.
Somewhere, someone was playing music on a Bluetooth speaker — too loud, too fast, too teenage.

He sighed, leaned back, and let the warmth of the coffee settle in his chest like a temporary shield.

Another day had begun.
And he was still standing.

Chapter Text

The homeroom classroom at The Republic City High School always smelled like pencil shavings, lavender sanitizer, and burnt projector dust.

Padmé Amidala sat at her usual desk — third row from the front, by the window — with one leg crossed over the other, her iPad open, her planner color-coded, and her mechanical pencil clicked exactly twice before she began underlining the homework assignment from the night before.

Her lip gloss was rose gold.
Her nails were almond-shaped and freshly manicured.
Her earrings? Gold moons — subtle enough to say “elegant,” but loud enough to whisper “rich.”
She looked like she belonged in a magazine spread titled "How to Be Effortless Without Actually Trying."

She was trying. So hard.

Her friends surrounded her like orbiting satellites. There were four of them total — the Core Four, as people whispered.

Sabe, the edgy one with a nose ring and a sketchbook full of questionable portraits of hot dead poets.

Dormé, the future politician, always defending her toxic ex in the group chat.

Teckla, the quiet one who had read The Bell Jar too young and now only wore black.

And Padmé — the calm center of the storm, the only one who actually took notes.

“—and I’m telling you, she definitely got a nose job over summer break,” Sabe was saying, twirling her pen like a dagger.
“No way those nostrils are natural.”

“Or she got stung by a bee,” Dormé offered innocently.

“Stung by five bees,” Teckla muttered without looking up from her phone.

They all cackled.
Padmé smiled politely, scribbling down the reading schedule.

She wasn’t really listening.

Her mind was already three steps ahead.
Student Council meeting at lunch.
Lit essay due Thursday.
Need to email Obi-Wan about the guest speaker series.
And—

Her eyes flicked up, scanning the door like she had just felt a shift in the air.

She had.

They walked in.
Loud. Unapologetic. Exactly two minutes before the bell.

Anakin Skywalker led the way — all lanky limbs and reckless charm, like a thunderstorm wearing sneakers. His black hoodie was half-zipped over a faded The Smashing Wampas band tee, and the chain around his neck swung slightly with each step. His jeans were torn at the knees — not fashionably, just… lived-in. Like him.

Next to him, rolling in with chaotic joy, was R2 — his custom electric-blue wheelchair decked out in stickers ("My other ride is a Jedi Starfighter", "Trust Me, I'm the Smart One"), and he was holding an iced caf in one hand while making animated gestures with the other.

C-3PO trailed behind, looking like he belonged at a Model UN conference. His khakis were pressed. His shirt tucked. His tie just a little too tight. He was already mid-rant about something:

“—and I’m telling you, Anakin, that is not a reasonable amount of caffeine for a human adolescent!”

“Good thing I’m barely human then,” Anakin quipped.

R2 snorted.
C-3PO groaned.
Padmé’s pen paused mid-sentence.

She looked up.
Just in time for Anakin to look right back.

Their eyes met across the room like the climax of a song.
His eyes were the color of the sky before a thunderstorm — not quite blue, not quite gray, but charged.
A half-smirk tugged at his lips.

Padmé’s stomach dropped.
Not dramatically — she was too trained for that — but just enough that she had to look away.
She flipped her iPad screen up like a shield and focused aggressively on her planner.

“You okay?” Sabe whispered, raising a brow.

“Fine,” Padmé said coolly, highlighting a sentence that didn’t need highlighting.

She wasn’t going to look at him again.
Absolutely not.
Not even a glance.
Definitely not—

BRRRRRRRRRRING.
The bell sliced through the tension like a guillotine.

Anakin dropped into his seat at the back, slinging his backpack down like he was in an action movie.
R2 beeped something rude under his breath.
C-3PO was still muttering about health code violations.

Padmé clicked her pen once.
Sat up straighter.
And decided that none of it mattered.
She was focused.
She was fine.
She was not thinking about the boy with the hurricane in his eyes.

Chapter Text

The third floor hallway smelled like old textbooks, grape-flavored vape smoke, and the vague desperation of juniors trying not to fail pre-calc. The lockers were all painted the same institutional beige, like they were trying really, really hard not to have a personality.

Ahsoka hated beige.

She walked through the double doors with the kind of energy that said I don't care — shoulders square, chin tilted just enough to say don’t talk to me unless you’re gonna be interesting. Her black boots echoed down the floor, rhythm steady like a song only she could hear.

Her backpack was heavy with notebooks she probably wouldn’t open.
Her earbuds were in, but the music was off.
Too many people. Too many eyes.

Yeah.
She felt it.

The stares.

It was the same in every new place — that subtle shift in the air, like people were inhaling at the same time. Some were quick glances. Others just… lingered.

The girl with the vitiligo skin like watercolor clouds on brown.
The one with dark blue eyes that didn’t flinch when you looked back.
With box braids dyed midnight black with cobalt tips, pulled back into two high knots, and the rest falling past her shoulders like she didn’t care if people stared.

Because she didn’t.

Not anymore.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, side-eyed a couple of whispering girls by the lockers, and kept walking like she was on a runway and the floor was hers.

Class 11C.
That was hers.
That was the one they wrote on the stupid orientation paper.

Only problem?

There were seven damn classrooms on this floor.
And none of them were labeled in any way that made sense.

She paused in the middle of the hallway, eyes scanning the doors like they were trying to trick her.

“Great. Cool. Love that for me,” she muttered under her breath, dry as sand.

That’s when she saw him.

He was leaning against one of the lockers, arms crossed, earbuds in. His uniform shirt was slightly wrinkled like he hadn’t bothered to iron it — or maybe like he’d tried and gave up halfway through. His skin was a warm, sun-worn brown, and his hair was short, buzzed, dyed this strange yellow-blonde color that somehow worked on him.

Golden boy energy — but like, in a troubled prince of the neighborhood kinda way.

He wasn’t talking.
Wasn’t looking at anyone.
Just vibing in his own quiet space, like he was used to the chaos and just let it roll past him.

Until she got close.

And he looked up.

And it was like something dropped in the atmosphere.

For a second, they just… stared.

Ahsoka didn’t blink.
Neither did he.

It wasn’t awkward.
Not really.

It was one of those rare moments where two people just recognized each other, even if they didn’t know why yet.

And then, because she was her — and because she didn’t like wasting time — she took one earbud out and said,

“Yo. You know where Class 11C is?”

The boy blinked once, straightened a little, and then pulled his own earbuds down. His voice was deeper than she expected, but not rough. Chill. Like he didn’t rush through words unless he had to.

“Yeah. That’s mine too. Come on.”

He turned like that was that, like she was just supposed to follow.

So she did.

They walked side by side for a second.
Not talking.
Not not-talking either.

She caught him glancing sideways once.
Just once.

She smirked.

When they reached the door, he pushed it open and held it there, not looking at her. That was fine. She was used to boys not knowing what to do with eye contact.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“You’re new, right?” he asked, still not looking.

“Nope. I’ve been haunting the building for years,” she said with a dry smile.

That made him chuckle.
Just barely.
But it counted.

“I’m Rex,” he offered.

“Ahsoka.”

She stepped inside.

And just like that —
The noise of the hallway swallowed itself again.
The door closed.

And something unspoken started to stir.

Chapter Text

The air in Room 314 was stiff with too much air conditioning and too little patience.

Mr. Mace Windu stood like a statue at the front of the room, his posture military-straight, his suit perfectly pressed — charcoal gray with purple accents, because of course he wore purple. He didn’t teach so much as command, and his voice? It carried like a sermon at a church you didn’t want to be in.

“...and what do we call this period in galactic colonial history?” he boomed, chalk tapping against the board in sharp staccato.

No one answered.

He didn’t wait.

“Anyone? No? We’ve been covering the Clone Planet Reforms for the last three weeks. And yet somehow, all I’m seeing is fifty faces staring at me like I’m speaking Huttese.”

He turned. Slowly.

And locked eyes with the one kid he knew would be half-listening.

“Skywalker. Enlighten us.”

Anakin blinked.

He hadn’t been paying attention. At all.
His elbow was on the desk, chin resting on his palm, eyes somewhere near the window — somewhere between Padmé’s lashes in first period and his mom’s tired voice this morning asking why his grades were slipping.

He didn’t even know what the question was.

So he guessed.

“Uh... was it the... Astro-Federation Rebellion?”

A sharp inhale.

Mr. Windu’s face didn’t move, but you could feel the irritation in the way his brow tensed.

“That is not only incorrect, but historically illiterate.”
“Are you even present, Skywalker, or just using this room to daydream?”

A few students snickered.

Anakin opened his mouth to answer — something smartass, probably — but right then, a gentle nudge came from his right. Barely perceptible.

He turned slightly.

C-3PO, seated beside him, his posture absurdly straight for a teenager in a navy school vest, slid a small folded note across the desk with theatrical caution.

In crisp, perfect handwriting, it read:

“Kaminoan Peace Accords, 2247.”

Anakin smirked, flicked the note away like it was a fly, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry, sir. I meant the Kaminoan Peace Accords of 2247.”

A pause.

Mr. Windu didn’t blink.

He looked at Anakin for a long second, then made a mark in his clipboard like it physically pained him to admit the answer was right.

“Correct. Though I suspect your comprehension is purely cosmetic.”

Anakin gave him the tiniest, most irritating grin he could muster.

“Still correct though.”

More snickering. This time louder.
Even Windu had to breathe before he could continue.

Mace Windu didn’t teach like most teachers.
He didn’t ramble. He lectured.
He didn’t joke. He challenged.
And if you slipped up — even once — you were on his list.

Anakin had been on that list since sophomore year.

Something about his attitude.
Something about the way he slouched.
Or maybe it was just that Windu could smell a rebel from a mile away.

And Anakin?
He never pretended to be anything else.

Still, even rebels had to pass History.

And if it took a note from a neurotic protocol droid in a school vest to survive another 90 minutes of Mace Windu’s academic battlefield, so be it.

As Windu launched back into a timeline about outer rim decolonization efforts, Anakin slouched a little deeper into his chair. He glanced sideways at C-3PO, who looked absurdly proud of himself for the rescue.

“Thanks, Threepio,” Anakin whispered.
“Anytime, Master Anakin,” Threepio whispered back, then corrected himself:
“I mean—uh, classmate Anakin.”

Anakin smirked.

His attention drifted again. This time, maybe towards that exact seat across the room where Padmé always sat with one leg tucked under her, pretending not to look at him.

Windu’s voice thundered again, but Anakin was already far, far away.

Chapter Text

The final bell had rung a full twelve minutes ago.

But Room 209 was still soaked in that strange after-lesson quiet — the kind that hummed with leftover teenage energy, smelt vaguely of cafeteria fries, and left behind just enough teenage angst to make the air heavy.

Obi-Wan sat at his desk, surrounded by open notebooks and half-hearted essays from 9D. The stack was... uninspiring. Someone had drawn a full comic on the back of their worksheet titled “General Grievance: The Math Teacher from Hell.” Another had only written “Sorry, I was spiritually unavailable this week” in swooping cursive and then left the rest of the page blank.

“Spiritual unavailability,” he murmured to himself, setting that one aside.
“Honestly... mood.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back slightly in the creaky desk chair that had been broken since the second quarter of last year and was now held together with hope and three paperclips.

That’s when the door creaked.

He looked up, expecting perhaps a straggler, a lost freshman, or Force-forbid—Skywalker come to "borrow a pen" (read: "distract him until detention started").

But instead...

Silence.

No one there.

Or rather — no one visible.

Ah. Right.

There was a slight scuffle of sensible leather shoes.
Then, from below the line of desks, a head popped up.

Short, bald, brown-skinned with deep folds of age at the edges of his face. Thick glasses perched on his nose, dressed in a three-piece tweed suit with elbow patches and a vest that had actual tiny pocket watches stitched into the lining.

Professor Yoda.
Philosophy and Ethics.
Height:4 feet 7 inches
Power: Immeasurable.

“Mr. Kenobi,” came the gravelly voice, wise and dry, as Yoda used his walking cane to help himself fully into the room,
“See your door handle, I could not. Again it was. Too high.”

Obi-Wan blinked slowly.

“Yes, apologies. I believe the maintenance crew promised to install a lower one… three years ago.”

Yoda gave a sharp hmmph, then waddled forward like a determined duck with tenure.

He hopped onto the spare chair across Obi-Wan’s desk — yes, hopped — like he’d done this a thousand times, and to be fair, he probably had. His legs dangled a good ten centimeters off the ground, swinging with philosophical purpose.

“Grading, are you?” he asked, eyeing the mess of adolescent existential crises before him.

“If one can call it that,” Obi-Wan muttered, tapping a pen against a particularly incoherent paragraph about the ethics of lightsaber duels as metaphor for sibling rivalry.
“Half of them clearly copy-pasted from Wookieepedia. The rest are… creative.”

Yoda chuckled, a gravelly sound like dry leaves rubbing together.

“Creative minds, dangerous minds, they are. You remember that, hmm?”

Obi-Wan raised a brow.

“I was creative. You gave me detention for three weeks straight.”

“A good decision, it was.”

Obi-Wan actually laughed. The kind of laugh that startled even him — sharp and rare, more real than anything he’d let out in a week.

Yoda didn’t smile — not visibly. But his eyes gleamed in that way they did when he was pleased but wouldn’t dare admit it.

“You don’t come here to reminisce, Professor,” Obi-Wan said after a beat, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair again.
“Did you need something?”

Yoda tilted his head, like a bird listening to time itself.

“The boy. Skywalker. Trouble, he is.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t move.

“He’s...complicated,” he said.

“Dangerously so.”

There was a pause between them — long enough for the hallway noise to filter in. Students laughing. Lockers slamming. Someone playing a saxophone off-key from the band room again.

Yoda’s voice dropped an octave.

“The pain he buries, deep it goes. Dark it grows, if light does not reach it.”

Obi-Wan looked away.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for another moment — mentor and mentee, teacher and former student, still locked in the old dance of seeing too much and saying too little.

Yoda finally pushed himself off the chair like a weighted coin being flipped, straightened his vest, and tucked his cane under his arm.

“Careful, you must be. Watchful. But not afraid. Afraid... leads nowhere worth going.”

Obi-Wan nodded once, slowly.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Yoda moved to the door, paused.

“Install that damn lower handle.”

And with that, he disappeared out of the room — leaving behind only the scent of peppermint tea and faint, nagging wisdom.

Obi-Wan sighed.

Graded one more essay.

And found himself writing more than a few comments in the margins that sounded an awful lot like Yoda.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria air was dense with the smell of greasy bantha nuggets, microwaved noodles, and that one suspicious vat of "Womp Rat Stew" that nobody touched but somehow never ran out.

Rex slid into the plastic seat across from Echo, who was already halfway through his blue raspberry drink pouch and dissecting his nuggets like they owed him money. Fives, as usual, had his chair turned sideways so he could manspread dramatically, and Wolffe — little freshman menace that he was — sat rigidly with his tray untouched, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“So,” Fives started, pointing his fork like it was a microphone, “who had the worst morning?”

Echo didn’t even look up.

“You did.”

Fives gasped, slapping a hand to his chest.

“Rude. Accurate, but rude.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head.

“You tripped over a pom-pom and faceplanted in front of the entire cheer squad, Fives.”

“That was a tactical fall,” Fives countered, wagging a finger. “I was distracting them from Echo’s escape.”

Echo snorted into his juice box.

“You mean your escape. From Samantha, who literally tried to beat you with a glitter baton.”

Fives shivered theatrically.

“She said she liked violence as foreplay. I thought she was joking.”

“She wasn’t,” Wolffe muttered, stabbing a limp piece of lettuce.

“Why are your exes all terrifying?” Rex finally asked, amused despite himself.

Fives looked thoughtful for a half-second.

“They’re not all terrifying.”

Echo raised one eyebrow.

“Name one.”

Fives opened his mouth. Closed it.

“...Okay, fair.”

They all cracked up — even Wolffe, whose laugh was more of a grunt, but still counted.

Rex leaned back in his chair, arms folded, smiling quietly as the others bickered and chirped at each other like feral loth-cats. The cafeteria bustled around them — students shouting across tables, someone attempting to trade two milks for a brownie, and an actual food fight brewing over by the sophomore section (which, honestly, was kind of expected at this point).

But Rex’s mind wasn’t really on milk trades or Fives’ questionable dating history.

It was on her.

Ahsoka.

She’d walked into class like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation — head high, steps unhurried, as if the world could turn sideways and she’d still be standing. Her dark skin glowed under the shitty fluorescent lights, and the vitiligo patches across her cheeks caught the sun like a pattern of constellations. Her hair was braided, dyed at the ends, cool black fading to icy blue, and when she’d looked at him — just for a second — Rex swore time hiccuped.

And now, she sat four tables down.
Eating pasta.
With earbuds in.
Reading a book.
Like she wasn’t the most beautiful person he’d ever seen in his entire seventeen years.

Maker.
He was so screwed.

“Earth to Rex?” Fives waved a hand in front of his face. “You’ve been staring into the void for like, two minutes. Is the meatloaf talking to you again?”

“What?” Rex blinked. “No. I’m just... thinking.”

“About the new girl?” Echo asked, smug.

“Pshhht.” Fives leaned in dramatically. “The one with the eyes that could start wars? And the vibe of someone who definitely owns brass knuckles?”

Rex’s ears went red.

“We’re just in the same class.”

“And you’ve been watching her for three periods straight,” Wolffe added dryly.

Fives grinned.

“Awwww. Little bro has a crush.”

“Shut up.”

“He wants to hold hands under the table and talk about their shared trauma.”

“I will end you.”

“Okay but imagine the wedding. It’d be iconic.”

“I’m not— We’re not—”

Echo leaned back with a loud siiiiip from his drink pouch.

“Let him simp in peace.”

Rex buried his face in his hands.

Across the cafeteria, Ahsoka lifted her gaze from her book for a moment — and their eyes met.

Just for a breath. Just a flicker.

But it was enough.

Rex froze.
She didn’t look away.

Not immediately.

When she finally did — smirking just slightly — it felt like gravity decided to punch him in the chest.

“Okay,” Fives muttered beside him, watching the whole thing, “that was hot.”

Wolffe just shook his head.

Echo leaned over, grinning.

“Good luck surviving this year, lover boy.”

And Rex, for once in his damn life, was speechless

Chapter Text

The bathroom tiles were cold against her back.

Padmé slid down the stall door slowly, heels clicking once before she tucked her legs in and pulled her knees to her chest. Her breath was shallow — not quite a panic attack, but something dangerously close. Something that lived just behind her ribcage, coiled and waiting.

“Just breathe, Padmé. In, out, like you practiced.”

But even her own inner voice sounded tired.

Ten minutes ago, she was sitting at their usual lunch table under the skylight, flanked by Sabé, Dormé, and Teckla, all mid-giggle over someone's breakup that had apparently “ended in holographic tears and public humiliation.”

Sabé was reenacting it with wild hand gestures. Dormé kept checking her reflection in a spoon. Teckla was busy calculating who’d be next.

And Padmé had laughed.
Like she was supposed to.

Smiled, like nothing felt heavy.
Nodded, like her stomach wasn’t twisting.

“You’re so quiet today,” Dormé had said, leaning in.

“Just tired,” Padmé lied smoothly, picking at her salad. “Didn’t sleep well.”

And she’d meant to stay. Really. But then Sabé brought up that one rumor about Anakin Skywalker — how he’d ditched detention by climbing out a second-story window with R2 holding his backpack — and the table had exploded in shrieks and commentary.

Padmé didn’t even look up.

She mumbled something vague and excused herself with a polite smile.
Her hands had trembled the whole walk to the bathroom.

Now here she was.
Hiding.

From her friends, of all people.

The air inside the stall was slightly too warm, laced with the floral sting of cheap soap and whatever industrial cleaner they used on the sinks. Outside, a faucet dripped. Some girl blew her nose in the far corner, then left. Heels clacked. Silence again.

Padmé let her head rest gently against the side of the stall, eyes fluttering shut.

She hated this.
Not the friends. Not the school.
But this… pressure. This performance.

Being Padmé Amidala was like living under a microscope — flawless, polite, sharp, beautiful, kind, top of her class, council president. A model student. A role model.

No one cared if the role model cried in the bathroom.

Her fingers twitched around the edge of her pleated skirt.
She focused on the feeling of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. Grounding. Tiny details. Just like her therapist taught her.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

She repeated it like a mantra, lips barely moving.

Because if she didn’t…

She didn’t know if she’d get back up.

The door creaked open.

Padmé froze — breath caught in her throat.

Sabé’s voice echoed lightly across the tiles.

“Padmé? You in here?”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

After a moment, the door clicked shut again.
The sound of high heels grew fainter.
Gone.

And Padmé exhaled — slow and quiet, like deflating.

Just five more minutes.

Then she’d fix her hair. Reapply gloss. Re-enter the cafeteria like nothing happened.

Because that’s what Padmé did.

Even when her lungs felt like sandpaper.
Even when her heart was buzzing in the wrong rhythm.
Even when all she wanted was to be left alone.

Chapter Text

The classroom was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too bright.

Fluorescent lights hummed above her head like a bad migraine, and the window didn’t open enough to let real air in. It smelled like disinfectant and dry-erase markers and stale teenage sweat. Gross. Familiar. America.

Ahsoka slouched in her chair, one leg kicked out, textbook half-open in front of her just for show. She wasn’t reading it. Not really. Her eyes were moving across the lines, but her brain was somewhere else entirely.

Actually, her brain was kind of doing that floaty thing it always did after too much newness. A tight coil in her gut had been slowly winding up since 8 a.m., and by now it was all the way locked in. She felt like she could snap any second.

Why the hell do schools here feel like prisons and malls at the same time?
Why do they make you sit still just to “prepare you for the real world”?

Tch.

She already knew the real world. It didn’t care about algebra.

Only two people were in the room.

Her.
And the tall-ass white dude pretending not to look at her every three minutes.

Ahsoka cut her eyes up over the edge of her book. There he was again — Mr. Kenobi — standing at his desk, flipping through some student papers, a red pen in hand.

And yep. Definitely just glanced at her.

Again.

The hell do you want, old man?

He didn’t look like a creep. But then again, none of them ever did at first.
He looked tired. Like, soul-deep tired. Trim beard, slouchy tweed jacket, soft brown hair slightly falling into his eyes. Eyes that were weirdly blue and green eyes. Like glacier water and forest mix.

And he was grading, like a good little teacher. But…

Every once in a while, those blue eyes would flicker up — like he was checking if she still existed.

I do, bitch. Loud and clear.

Ahsoka shifted in her chair, made sure her book was very much covering her chest, her hands gripping the edges tight. She didn’t say anything. Just held the man’s gaze for a full second longer than necessary.

He looked away.

Damn right.

Still... Something about his vibe wasn’t giving predator. More like… distracted history nerd. Or one of those teachers that tries way too hard to relate to “the youth.” She wasn’t sure yet. The jury was still out.

Finally, finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

“You’ve read that same paragraph five times now.”

Her eyes snapped up.

“…You countin’?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking just slightly. Not smug, not creepy — more like amused.

“No. I just know the feeling. Hard to focus on The Republic’s Economic Downfall when your mind is elsewhere, hm?”

Ahsoka stared at him, not answering.

She could shut this down. Hard.
She’d done it before. Easy.

But he didn’t sound like he was teasing her. Didn’t sound condescending either.

So she tilted her head.

“…You always this nosy or just when the new girl sits alone?”

Obi-Wan chuckled under his breath.
It was annoyingly charming.

“Only when the new girl is clearly smarter than she lets on. And pretending not to be bored out of her mind.”

Ahsoka’s mouth twitched.

Okay. He got one point.

“Maybe I am bored outta my mind. Maybe this place is trash.”

“Then we agree on something,” he said, stepping away from the desk, arms folding casually. “I’ve worked here five years and haven’t figured out how the vending machines are always broken and the clocks are always wrong.”

That got a tiny snort from her. Barely audible.

Obi-Wan caught it.

“So, Miss Tano…” he said, gently. “How are you settling in?”

That caught her off-guard.

She blinked.

“…Why do you care?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Because I remember what it felt like. To be the only one like me in the room.”

That landed harder than she wanted it to.
She hated that he might get it.

She leaned back in her seat, arms folded across her chest. Closed posture. Armor on.

“Whatever. I’ll live.”

Obi-Wan nodded like he respected that answer.

Then turned back to the desk.

Didn’t press. Didn’t push.
Just let her be.

And weirdly… Ahsoka didn’t hate that.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun bled gold across the school courtyard. Shadows stretched long over cracked pavement, and the scent of metal, sweat, and cafeteria fries still hung in the air like a ghost.

Anakin stood with his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, leaning against the edge of the campus wall near the bus stop. Beside him, R2 beeped and buzzed softly in his backpack, while C-3PO, wearing an oversized beige blazer and thick glasses like a worried librarian, nervously checked the bus schedule for the third time.

“I must remind you, Master Anakin, we are precisely three minutes behind our usual departure, and it is not optimal—”

Anakin tuned him out. His eyes were elsewhere.

The lot was buzzing — students flooding out of the main building like released pressure. He could hear music blasting from someone's speakers, overheard the back-and-forth of Endor Pines kids mocking the Naboo Hills uniforms, the usual chaos.

But something was off.

His eyes locked onto a scene unfolding near the lower parking lot entrance.

A group of seniors — he recognized them by their dark navy Hothridge jackets — had circled around a girl in a tan Tatooine Heights uniform. She looked cornered. Defensive. Her backpack had been ripped open, books spilled across the ground.

One of the Hothridge guys — tall, buzzcut, looked like he lived in a gym — shoved her shoulder with the back of his hand. Not playful. Mean. She stumbled.

Anakin felt something shift in his chest.

Nope.

He started walking before he even knew what he was doing.

“Anakin, where are you— oh dear, oh no—” Threepio flailed behind him.

R2 let out a low warble.

Anakin reached the group just as one of the Hothridge boys — smirking, chewing gum — nudged the girl’s bag across the pavement with his shoe like it was trash.

“Don’t touch that.”

The words came out low, even. Controlled. But his eyes burned.

The Hothridge guys turned, one by one.

Their ringleader sneered. “Look who it is. Skywalker. Came to play hero, huh?”

Another one laughed, cracking his knuckles. “Tatooine Heights got dogs now?”

“She’s just a joke, man,” the first one spat. “We were helping her find her dignity. Guess it got lost with her last GPA.”

The girl tried to back away, but one of them blocked her path.

Anakin stepped forward.

“Back. Off. Now.”

The first punch came fast.

Anakin ducked under it.

The second — he caught it mid-air, twisted the guy’s arm back, slammed a knee into his gut.

Someone shouted.
A girl screamed.
Phones came out instantly — the kids forming a circle like a gladiator pit.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

Now it was chaos.

Another guy lunged at Anakin — got clocked straight in the jaw.

A third tried to grab him from behind — Anakin threw an elbow, connected hard, and sent the guy stumbling into a trash can. It toppled. The crowd howled.

“SKYWALKER’S SNAPPING—”

R2 beeped wildly from the backpack.

C-3PO was screaming something about rules and “bodily harm!”

And still, fists were flying.

One of the Hothridge guys tackled Anakin down, fists pounding — but Anakin rolled, twisted, brought his legs up, kicked the guy off him. Asphalt scraped against his palms. Blood. Noise. Adrenaline.

He hit her first, Anakin thought, rage buzzing in his teeth.
He shoved her. You don’t get to walk away from that.

Just as Anakin was rearing back to land another blow—

“STOP! STOP RIGHT THIS DAMN SECOND!”

A wild voice bellowed from the edge of the chaos.

All heads turned.

Enter Security Officer Hondo Ohnaka, in full chaotic regalia: leather jacket, aviator shades (even though the sun was setting), and a slightly crooked sheriff’s badge pinned to his chest like a joke he never explained.

“Now what in the name of Yavin is going on here!?” he barked, pushing students aside with flair. “You kids tryin’ to recreate the Clone Wars in my parking lot?!”

The Hothridge boys started backing up, hands raised.

Anakin stood, shirt stretched, lip bleeding, chest heaving. He didn’t look scared. Just done.

Hondo paused. Took off his sunglasses slowly.

“Skywalker,” he said, almost affectionately. “You again.”

Anakin didn’t reply.

Hondo exhaled dramatically. “Boys, boys, boys. Always swingin’ fists before brains. This is why I drink at lunch.”

A girl from the crowd snorted.

Another started whispering “legend” under her breath.

The Tatooine Heights girl picked up her bag silently, eyes wide.

Hondo pointed at Anakin and the Hothridge guys.

“You five — with me. Now. And if I find out anyone got this on school TikTok, I swear I’ll confiscate every damn phone in this district.”

The crowd groaned.

Anakin wiped blood from his nose, glancing toward the girl as she vanished into the crowd.

He didn’t regret it.

Not a second.

Chapter Text

The detention room was quiet — the kind of quiet that didn’t comfort, but stretched, coiled and uncomfortable, like a poorly buttoned collar.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat at the teacher’s desk near the window, back straight despite the uncomfortable plastic chair. In his hand, a red pen hovered above a stack of ungraded essays titled: “Does Power Corrupt Absolutely?” The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He let out a soft sigh and glanced up.

Anakin Skywalker sat a few desks away, slouched so low in his seat it was a miracle he hadn’t slid to the floor. His hoodie was wrinkled, one eye darkening into what would be a glorious bruise by morning, and his knuckles were raw. Again.

Obi-Wan didn’t speak.

He hadn’t, not since they'd walked into the room — not since he'd read the fight report Hondo had scribbled in some kind of pirate shorthand.

Anakin tapped his fingers against the desk in a steady rhythm:
Tap-tap. Tap... tap. Like a defiance he couldn't quite kill.

After nearly ten minutes, Obi-Wan finally broke the silence.

“You know,” he said, voice dry as sandpaper, “detention is typically meant to be a deterrent.”

Anakin didn’t look up. “Maybe it’s not working.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow, leaned back, arms crossing. “Clearly.”

A beat.

Anakin stared out the window now, jaw tight.

“They were messing with a girl from our district,” he said, finally. Quietly. “I didn’t plan on fighting. I just… couldn’t walk away.”

There it was.

Obi-Wan studied him for a moment. That barely restrained energy. That loyalty that burned too hot. That need to act, to protect — even at the cost of everything else.

“And what happens next time?” he asked. “When fists don’t fix it? When it’s not a schoolyard but a street? A system? A war you can’t win with a punch?”

Anakin didn’t reply, but his eyes narrowed. Obi-Wan saw it — the flicker of frustration. And beneath it, a wounded kind of shame.

Obi-Wan’s voice softened.

“You're not wrong to want to protect people. You just have to learn how.”

Anakin scoffed. “Yeah? And who’s gonna teach me that?”

It wasn’t venomous — not really. Just tired. Young. Searching.

Obi-Wan held his gaze.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just... real. Like something unsaid had been spoken after all.

But then the door creaked open.

And everything in Obi-Wan’s body went still.

“Excuse me,” came a warm, lightly accented voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

He turned slowly — almost hesitantly.

There, standing in the doorway with a stack of folders in her arm and the scent of lavender and paper trailing behind her like a memory, was Satine Kryze.

She looked almost the same.

Golden hair swept back in an elegant knot, tailored cream blouse tucked into a high-waisted slate skirt, silver pendant catching the low light just below her collarbone. Her posture was perfect — always was — but her expression was soft, neutral, the way only someone who’d once known all your secrets could manage.

Obi-Wan stood instinctively.

“Satine.”

“Obi-Wan,” she said, almost politely, but something flickered behind her eyes — the ghost of a thousand nights spent debating Kant and kissing in university dorm kitchens. “Sorry to intrude. The principal asked me to come find you. He wants to speak with Anakin.”

Obi-Wan blinked, then turned to Anakin. “You’re excused.”

Anakin stood, slow and stiff. As he passed Satine, his gaze flicked between her and Obi-Wan. Then he snorted.

“This is weird.”

And with that, he was gone.

Satine smiled slightly after him. “Charming.”

Obi-Wan exhaled. His voice was quiet. “He’s a good kid. Too much fire, but… a good heart.”

She looked at him then — really looked.

“Reminds me of someone I used to know.”

Something in Obi-Wan’s throat caught.

“It’s been a long time, Satine.”

“Yes. And yet,” she said softly, “some things haven’t changed at all.”

The silence between them was thicker than anything detention could offer.

And the air… had suddenly become a battlefield of unsaid things.

Chapter Text

By the time they made it back to their boxy, steel-gray apartment in Kamino Edge, the sun was already sinking into the cold chrome horizon, casting long shadows across the white-tiled floors. The neighborhood was quiet, too quiet — as always — the kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful, just... *processed*. Like someone had filtered all the life out of it in favor of order and symmetry.

Inside the apartment, however, it was a different story.

“I SWEAR TO EVERY STAR IN THE GALAXY, FIVES—IF YOU USE THAT CHEAT CODE ONE MORE TIME—”

“IT’S NOT A CHEAT CODE, IT’S CALLED *HAVING SKILLS*, YOU NEANDERTHAL!”

Echo and Fives were seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the low entertainment unit, both gripping controllers like their lives depended on it. The TV screen flashed violently as an explosion consumed one of their avatars — Echo’s, judging by the loud groan that followed.

“You glitched through the *wall* again! You know what? I hope you get flashbanged into the next game update.”

“Love you too, bro.”

Their argument was almost musical in its rhythm — a back-and-forth honed by years of shared bedrooms, broken consoles, and unfinished homework. Rex had long stopped trying to intervene. It was background noise at this point, like static in his brain.

Across the room, at the dining table — a heavy, industrial thing made of repurposed alloy — sat Wolffe, hunched over a tablet and frowning at a digital worksheet.

His Physics assignment glared back at him.

“Okay,” he muttered, “if velocity is increasing *and* acceleration is positive, then the force should—ugh.”

Rex, sprawled in one of the kitchen stools with a protein bar in hand, tilted his head at the screen.

“Didn’t Plo Koon say this was about momentum transfer in vehicle collisions?”

Cody, who had just set down a steaming mug of caf and shrugged off his heavy Kamino Edge precinct jacket, walked up behind them. His posture was crisp, but his eyes were tired — he had that perpetual *cop-who’s-seen-too-much* look, but with a hint of big-brother exasperation.

“You guys still on this problem?”

Wolffe groaned. “He wants us to calculate how airbags reduce force using real-world math. And then write an essay about it.”

“And then write an essay,” Cody echoed, mockingly. “Because clearly solving equations wasn’t enough trauma.”

Rex laughed, pushing aside his wrapper and pulling up a spare chair. “You were good at this crap in high school, right?”

Cody smirked. “Good enough to avoid detention. And I’ve seen enough crash reports to fill a data vault. Okay—Wolffe, show me your scenario.”

Wolffe flipped his tablet around. A 3D sim hovered above it, showing a stylized crash between two different vehicle types: one with an airbag, one without.

“So you’re supposed to show that the airbag extends the time of impact,” Cody explained, “which decreases the force felt by the passenger. Newton’s Second Law — F = ma — but since the deceleration is spread out over a longer time, less force hits the body.”

Wolffe blinked. “That... actually makes sense.”

Rex leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still sounds like something only a man who reads accident reports for breakfast would say.”

“Hey,” Cody shot back. “Better that than spending five hours getting shot at by some drunk Bothan in Mustafar Row because he thinks his speeder talks to him.”

At that moment, Fives piped up from the living room, waving his controller.

“Want help, Wolffe? I got this stuff on lock.”

Echo snapped his head around. “You *failed* Physics, genius.”

Fives raised a finger. “*We* failed Physics.”

Echo shot him a death glare. “Correction. *You* cheated off me on every quiz. And I failed because I was too busy covering your ass in Chem class!”

“Because you love me.”

“Because if I didn’t, you’d be arrested for setting fire to a fume hood!”

The controller flew across the couch.

Cody sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Why did I ever think adopting four teenage was a good idea?”

“You didn’t adopt us,” Rex reminded him. “You just never moved out fast enough.”

Cody chuckled dryly, sipped his caf, and resumed helping Wolffe break down the equations. Rex watched them from the corner of his eye — the big brother dynamic layered over the gruff mentor persona. It made Rex feel safe, in a way he never talked about. Like maybe no matter how loud things got, no matter how crazy school or Kamino Edge or life in general became... Cody would always hold the line.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the sounds of shouting, arguing, calculator taps, and distant speeder traffic wrap around him like a blanket made of noise.

And for a moment, everything — even the sterile walls of Kamino Edge — felt just a little bit like home.

Chapter Text

The dining room in the Amidala household gleamed the way it always did: polished silverware, plates arranged in perfect symmetry, a vase of lilies in the center of the long mahogany table. Everything was beautiful. Everything was quiet.

Padmé sat with her back straight, her napkin folded neatly on her lap, trying not to notice how hollow the silence felt between bites. The only sound was the faint clink of utensils against porcelain, her father’s deliberate cutting of roast, her mother’s glass setting back on the table.

They never argued. They never laughed. They simply… existed across from one another.

Finally, as though a timer had gone off, her mother, Jobal Naberrie looked up, her tone as smooth and practiced as ever.

“So, Padmé,” she asked, “how was your day?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. Or maybe it was. Padmé could never quite tell. The question always came in the same even cadence, like reading from a script. Not curiosity, not warmth — just ritual.

Padmé hesitated, fork hovering midair. Her day had been… complicated. Lunch with friends who didn’t really listen, classes that dragged, a quiet ache for something more than Naboo Hills’ polite façades. And yet, staring into her mother’s poised expression, she couldn’t bring herself to unload any of that.

“It was fine,” she said instead, smiling tightly.

Her father,Ruwee Naberrie nodded as though that settled it. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and returned to his meal.

“Did you finish your assignments?” he asked, without looking up.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good.”

And then, silence again.

Padmé chewed slowly, her gaze drifting to the lilies in the vase. Even they seemed trapped in perfect stillness, petals locked into position as though afraid to droop.

Her parents did not ask about her friends. They did not ask what made her laugh today, or what made her angry. They did not ask who she was becoming.

Every evening was the same: one perfunctory question about her day, one about her work, and then retreat into silence.

Padmé wanted to scream sometimes, just to break the pattern. She wanted to tell them that “fine” didn’t mean anything, that maybe she didn’t want to be fine, that maybe she wanted to be understood.

Instead, she folded another piece of roast into her mouth, chewing carefully, silently.

Her mother smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Her father refilled his glass of water.

And Padmé felt the familiar weight settle in her chest — the weight of being seen, but never known.

Dinner at Naboo Hills was always beautiful. Always flawless.

And always unbearably quiet

Chapter Text

The walls of her new room still smelled faintly of paint, like someone had scrubbed too hard trying to make it feel fresh, new, hers. But it wasn’t hers. Not really. It was just another place she was expected to exist in — four beige walls, a bed shoved against the corner, and a desk that looked far too clean, far too untouched to ever belong to her. Ahsoka sat cross-legged on her bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the dim light of her phone screen reflecting in her eyes. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard of the Notes app. Day ???: Still feels weird. Still feels like I’m just… passing through. Like no matter how much I unpack, I’ll never belong here. And honestly? I don’t know if I even want to. Everyone keeps saying ‘new start, new family’ like that fixes anything. But all I feel is tired. Tired of smiling. Tired of pretending. Tired of holding my breath in a house that isn’t mine. She hit “return” and kept typing. And then there’s Cal. The new ‘brother.’ He doesn’t talk much. At least, not to me. He just studies. Always. Like textbooks are his only friends. Which is fine, I guess. But… it’s weird. He’s weird. Like he’s allergic to fun. Allergic to breathing. Allergic to… being human, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t get him. And I don’t think he gets me. A sharp sigh escaped her as she dropped the phone onto the blanket, letting it buzz faintly before going still. Across the room, at his desk, Cal hunched over a thick stack of papers, pen moving furiously as though the fate of the galaxy depended on him solving every equation in existence before dinner. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t push them up. He probably didn’t even notice.
The scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room. Over and over. Like a metronome, steady and relentless. Ahsoka leaned back on her elbows, staring at him. He looked so… intense. Like he’d die if he missed a single note in his margin. She wondered if he ever had friends, or if his textbooks and color-coded highlighters were enough to keep him company. She wanted to say something. Anything. But every time she thought about breaking the silence, her throat tightened. Instead, she muttered under her breath, mostly to herself, “You know, normal people watch TV or something.” Cal didn’t look up. “Normal people also fail exams. I’d rather not.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he’d said the same line a thousand times before to anyone who dared interrupt his marathon of academic devotion. Ahsoka blinked. “…You’re so boring it’s actually impressive.” That made him pause for half a second — pen hovering mid-sentence — before he continued scribbling again, unbothered.
Ahsoka rolled her eyes, but a small smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. There was something almost comforting about how predictable he was. She picked her phone back up, opening Notes again. Correction: Cal isn’t weird. He’s boring. And boring might actually be worse. But maybe boring is safe. And safe isn’t the worst thing right now. Her chest ached as she typed the last line. Still… I kind of miss chaos. I kind of miss me. She locked the phone and set it face down beside her, staring up at the ceiling. Cal’s pen scratched on and on, filling the room with steady rhythm.
And Ahsoka thought, not for the first time, that maybe she’d never really fit anywhere — not in this house, not at school, not even inside her own skin. But at least, for now, she wasn’t completely alone.

Chapter Text

The playground in Tatooine Heights had long since rusted into something closer to a graveyard than a place for children. Swings creaked in the midnight wind, their chains rattling like tired ghosts. The slide leaned a little to one side, graffiti carving it up with names of kids who had already grown out of this neighborhood, or hadn’t made it that far.

Anakin sat on the edge of the old carousel, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, the ember a tiny star in the dark. The other kids — some from his block, others from the next — hovered in groups under the cracked lampposts. They laughed too loud, cursed at each other, passed bottles and joints around like currency. None of it really touched him. Not tonight.

His mind was still in that office.

Principal Palpatine’s office.

The place smelled of lemon polish and old leather, like it had been scrubbed raw of anything human. Shelves of books lined the walls — not dusty textbooks, but literature, the kind that made him look cultured: Shakespeare, Cicero, thick biographies of dead politicians. On his desk sat a single lamp, the light bent downwards, so most of the room stayed in shadow. Palpatine himself seemed to prefer it that way.

He was tall, thinner than you’d expect for a man his age, with a face lined just enough to make him look dignified rather than old. His hair, silver and combed immaculately back, never moved out of place. And the smile — that smile. Too calm. Too knowing. The kind that never reached his eyes.

“Mr. Skywalker,” he had said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”

Anakin had obeyed, though something in him bristled at the way the man’s gaze pinned him down, dissected him like a lab specimen.

The whole conversation had been like that. Polite words, spoken in that slow, deliberate tone Palpatine used — the kind of tone that made you feel as though you weren’t just answering questions, but confessing something deeper.

He’d asked about the fight. The Hothridge kids. The girl.

Anakin had clenched his fists in his lap, trying to keep his voice steady. They started it. They were on her. Someone had to stop them.

Palpatine’s smile had curved just a little higher. Not judgment, not disapproval. Amusement.

“Yes,” he’d said softly. “You protected her. How… noble.”

But there had been something else there, beneath the words. Something hungry.

And then he had leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk, his eyes catching Anakin’s like hooks.

“You have potential, Anakin. Raw, unshaped potential. I see it in you. Strength. Passion. Do not let anyone make you ashamed of that. Not even the teachers who… may not understand.”

Mace Windu’s face flashed in his mind at that — the way the man barked his name in class, the disdain in every syllable.

Palpatine had noticed. Of course he had. The principal noticed everything.

And then, the part that really stuck with him, the part echoing in his chest even now under the broken streetlights of Tatooine Heights:

“You don’t belong to their world, Anakin. You’re… more. Different. And difference frightens people. But don’t ever forget — it is also what makes you powerful.”

Powerful.

The word pulsed in his veins now as he flicked ash into the dirt.

Around him, the other kids were shouting, arguing over something stupid, their voices jagged and meaningless. Anakin didn’t care. His head was filled with that office, that voice, those eyes that seemed to peel him open from the inside out.

For most kids at Republic High, Palpatine was the ideal principal: charming, articulate, someone who remembered names, who could talk donors into giving more money, who shook every parent’s hand like they mattered.

But to Anakin? He was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something that felt like standing on the edge of a rooftop — terrifying, yes, but thrilling too.

And maybe, just maybe, that was why he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, heat singeing his fingertips. Anakin cursed, tossing it into the dirt and grinding it out with his heel.

Above him, the swings rattled again in the wind, carrying a sound almost like laughter.

Anakin shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tight.

Powerful.

The word echoed. And he hated how much he wanted it to be true.

Chapter Text

The dream was soft around the edges, hazy, like a film reel left too long in the sun.

Satine was laughing. That sound — rich, unrestrained, warm — rolled across the little campus café where they used to spend too many afternoons. Her blond hair caught the late autumn light filtering through the window, turning it into strands of gold. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, blue eyes sharp as ever.

“You can’t possibly mean that,” she was saying, smiling at him in that infuriating, devastating way she had when she thought he was being too rigid, too serious. “You don’t honestly think morality can be reduced to rules on a page, do you?”

Obi-Wan remembered how he’d bristled back then, how easily she could get under his skin. He’d raised his coffee cup, defensive, hiding behind a smirk.

“Rules exist for a reason,” he’d said, younger, cockier, but already fraying around the edges. “Without them, it’s chaos.”

“And without compassion,” she countered smoothly, “it’s cruelty.”

The warmth in her voice when she’d said that had stayed with him long after. Her words always did.

In the dream, he reached across the table. He remembered the way her fingers brushed his, tentative but electric, like they both knew there was something dangerous in touching. Like touching meant admitting they cared.

He opened his mouth to tell her something — something he never had — but then the sound cut through the scene.

The shrill blare of his alarm.

Obi-Wan jerked awake, heart hammering. The dream shattered like glass.

His ceiling came into focus: off-white, cracked in the corner where the plaster had peeled, shadows stretching across it in the half-light of dawn. He blinked, disoriented, until the red digits of the clock on his nightstand forced themselves into clarity.

5:00 a.m.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin was clammy, his chest heavy with the kind of ache no amount of sleep could ease.

For a moment, he stayed there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pull Satine’s laughter back into his head. Trying to remember her warmth, not the silence that followed their ending. But already it was slipping away, leaving only the echo of loss and the sterile rhythm of the alarm still buzzing at his side.

Obi-Wan reached over and silenced it. The room plunged into stillness.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. His small apartment was quiet, filled with the kind of early-morning chill that seeped into his bones. Papers stacked on his desk, essays to grade, notes from his own university courses scattered in uneven piles. A life that looked organized from the outside, but always felt one step from unraveling on the inside.

He thought of Satine again, unbidden. The way she had looked at him — eyes like winter skies, fierce and impossibly kind at once. The way she had believed in him, believed he could be more than a man bound by rules.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to shake the weight of it. The dream, the memory, the ache that came with waking alone.

It was only five a.m. He had hours before the day demanded anything of him.

And still, he felt tired already.