Chapter 15: The Clone Conundrum
Council conspiracy. 1900 hours.
Suspects: every single Jedi with a chair.
Also: every single vent shaft on this floor, because none of them are designed for twelve-year-olds with investigative spirit and the upper body strength of a tired womp rat.
"Kriff," I muttered, trying to shift an elbow without rattling the durasteel. "These vents are uncomfortable. I wish I could take a seat."
The air was warm, stale, and humming faintly from the Temple's environmental systems. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. Beneath me, the Jedi Council's voices echoed through the metal — calm, disciplined, suspiciously coordinated. I angled the tiny commlink closer to the vent grille and tapped it on.
"Council Conspiracy," I whispered into it, lowering my voice to a gravelly tone that I thought sounded appropriately noir. "Investigator Kryze on scene. The hour is late. The suspects are discussing a mysterious army no one ordered. I suspect—"
A crackle interrupted me.
"Ben," Ahsoka's voice came through, exasperated. "Why are you whispering like that?"
"Atmosphere," I hissed back. "This is an operation, Fulcrum. You don't just talk. You narrate."
Maris's voice joined in, softer and delighted. "Is this the part where he does the accent again? I like the accent."
"It's not an accent," I said. "It's investigative texture." First Korkie, now Maris. Am I actually starting to lose my accent? Say it ain't so.
"It's weird," Ahsoka countered.
I grinned despite myself, twisting the commlink back toward the Council chamber. The voices below grew sharper, echoing faintly through the vent like ripples in a pond.
"…a clone army, commissioned by the Jedi Order," Mace Windu was saying, his tone clipped. "For the Republic."
There was a beat of silence so heavy I could feel it through the metal.
Oh no.
Right. That's not supposed to happen yet. Cool, cool, cool, everything's fine, I'm not hyperventilating, you're hyperventilating.
I bit my lip hard enough to sting.
The war wasn't supposed to start for another few years. No Geonosis, no droid army mobilization, no Separatist conflict breaking open yet. And here we were—already knee-deep in Kaminoan paperwork and genetic soldiers.
I must've done something. Or changed something.
Butterfly Effect. Space Edition.
Ahsoka's voice cut through my spiral. "Ben? You still alive up there?"
"Define alive," I whispered. "If you mean 'breathing rapidly and questioning my entire understanding of causality,' then yes."
"What?"
"Never mind. Nothing. Totally fine. All good in the morally ambiguous neighborhood."
Maris hummed thoughtfully. "You sound pale."
"I'm in a vent, Maris. Of course I'm pale."
Below me, Master Yoda's voice echoed—low, measured, carrying that weight of someone who already knows too much.
"See into this, I cannot. Clouded, the future is. Disturbing, these revelations are."
"No kriffing kidding," I whispered before I could stop myself. The only good news was that the word "kriff" was really growing on me. It was like fuck, but I could use kriff in polite company.
Ahsoka immediately whispered, "Ben, don't—"
But it was too late.
The grille creaked.
Every muscle in my body froze. I tilted my head an inch—just enough to see through the slats.
Yoda was looking directly at me.
Not vaguely in my direction. Not suspiciously at the ceiling. At me.
Those big green eyes locked onto the vent like he'd been expecting me to monologue up there this whole time.
"He knows," I breathed.
Ahsoka hissed back at me. "Of course he knows! He's Yoda!"
Yoda doesn't know everything, Ahsoka. If he did, he never would have trusted Darth Palps, and he would've been way more productive about this whole, clone army thing.
Maris was the voice of reason. "What if he's just staring at the vent because he hears something?"
"Obviously he hears something," I hissed. "Have you seen the size of those pointy, green ears? They're like the biggest part of his body! He's old, not deaf!"
I pressed myself flat against the duct, holding my breath.
For a terrifying moment, no one said anything below. Just quiet murmuring and the faint hum of the Temple's atmospheric systems.
Then Yoda spoke again, slowly.
"Watchful eyes, the Temple has. Curious, its students are."
Mace Windu frowned. "Something you'd like to share, Master?"
Yoda's ears twitched. "Nothing. Yet."
I did not breathe for the next thirty seconds.
I kept quiet, frozen. Letting my mind wander through the very real possibility that I completely, and utterly screwed something up. And not even having the faintest idea of what that something was.
By the time the Council session adjourned, my entire spine hurt from staying still. The Masters filed out one by one, their robes trailing like stormclouds below. I waited a full minute after the doors hissed shut before whispering into the comm again.
"Situation update," I rasped dramatically. "Council dismissed. Secrets abound. Investigator Kryze remains undiscovered, though shaken. Morale: medium. Knees: low."
"Are you done being weird?" Ahsoka asked.
"Unlikely."
I inched backward, elbows scraping against the narrow walls. The vent was tighter than I remembered on the way in. Or maybe panic was expanding me. Either way, I was halfway to freedom when my boot hit something metallic.
Clunk.
The sound reverberated like a temple bell.
"Ben," Ahsoka said, voice sharp. "What was that?"
"I don't know. Could've been… air pressure. Or fate punishing me for hubris."
"Get out of there before someone—"
The vent panel beneath me shifted.
It wasn't a full drop, thank the Force, but it opened just enough for a rectangle of light to spill through. Below, a maintenance droid was rolling by, humming to itself.
"—before someone finds you," Ahsoka finished dryly.
"Too late for that!" I whispered, flattening myself against the top of the duct as the droid paused. Its sensor light swept upward, scanning.
I waved a hand instinctively. "You saw nothing."
The droid beeped once, rotated, and continued on its way.
"Force persuasion," I whispered proudly. "Still got it."
"Pretty sure that was just a coincidence," Maris said.
"Pretty sure you're just jealous of my espionage skills."
"I'm pretty sure you're going to fall out of the ceiling one of these days."
"That's a tomorrow problem."
...
Or a today problem. You see, after I crawled to the maintenance hatch, I was sweating and possibly allergic to recycled air. The vent spat me out into one of the upper corridors, just outside the meditation wing. I rolled onto the marble floor, gasping.
"Mission accomplished," I said between breaths. "No witnesses, no injuries, no—"
"Initiate Kryze."
I froze. Slowly, I turned my head.
Plo Koon stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, amber goggles reflecting the corridor lights.
"Hi, Master Koon," I said weakly. "Fancy seeing you here. I was, uh, doing… maintenance."
He tilted his head. "Maintenance."
"Yep. Temple security sweep. Very important. Authorized by…" I squinted like I could read the nearest wall. "Uh. Me."
There was a long silence. Then, mercifully, his mask made that soft, amused hiss. "Your enthusiasm for Temple security is admirable. Though I suggest you leave the vents to the droids next time."
"Yes, Master," I said quickly.
He nodded once and continued down the hall. Only when he turned the corner did I whisper into the comm again: "And that concludes today's episode of Jedi-Cop. Tune in next time for more thrilling near-death ventilation adventures."
Ahsoka laughed. "You're going to get grounded forever."
"Probably," I said, brushing dust off my tunic. "But at least I'll have the moral high ground."
Maris groaned. "Don't—"
"—try it?" I said.
"Ugh."
...
If there's one thing I've learned about the Jedi Archives, it's that they don't forgive and they never forget.
Well — Jocasta Nu doesn't, anyway.
So when I got dragged out of the Council Tower vents and reassigned to "research duty," I figured this was it. My punishment. My exile. My eternal reward: filing dust reports for a librarian who could probably kill me with a footnote.
But when I arrived, she was… smiling. That was new.
"Ah, Initiate Kryze," she said in that deceptively gentle tone that made 'Initiate' sound like 'repeat offender.' "Since you seem so curious about Council matters, perhaps you can assist me in compiling the historical ethics records concerning Kamino."
"Kamino?" I repeated, like an idiot who'd just been asked to summarize his crimes out loud.
"Yes," she said sweetly, guiding me toward a terminal that looked older than Yoda. "A fascinating case study in moral ambiguity. You'll find the archives under 'Clone Development: Societal Impact.'"
I sat down. The terminal hummed to life. Jocasta folded her arms.
"Consider this," she said. "A constructive outlet for your curiosity."
Translation: You're on thin ice, young man. Research your way out of it.
...
An hour later, I had a datapad full of notes that read like the ramblings of a particularly anxious philosophy student.
Clone = people? Question mark.
Born soldiers — literal army babies?
Growth acceleration = child labor, but with extra steps.
"Programmed loyalty." Yikes.
I scrolled further. Kaminoan methodology, genetic reinforcement, behavioral imprinting — it was all so… clinical. No compassion, no pause. Just endless reports written like they were describing a line of appliances instead of people.
"So they're born soldiers," I muttered under my breath. "Like, literally bred to die for us. That's… fine. Totally fine. Nothing dystopian about that. It's not like I'm reading the origin story of a galactic tragedy or anything."
From the next terminal, Jocasta's voice drifted over. "Muttering to oneself is often a sign of deep reflection, Initiate. Or guilt. Which is it in your case?"
"Yes," I said automatically.
She actually chuckled at that — soft, surprised, the sound of a librarian caught briefly off-guard. "You're an unusual student, Kryze."
"I've heard that before," I said. "Usually right before I get detention."
"Then let's ensure this research remains purely academic."
"Right," I said. "Academic. Sure."
But it wasn't. Not really.
Because I'd seen these soldiers — in another lifetime, another medium. I'd seen them laugh, joke, disobey orders. I'd seen Rex risk everything for his friends, Fives uncover a conspiracy, Cody shoot Obi-Wan in the back. They were heroes and victims at the same time. Living proof that being good doesn't save you from being used.
I scrolled to another entry — Behavioral Conditioning and Obedience Training, Kaminoan Doctrine. The first line made my skin crawl:
"Compliance is the foundation of survival."
Yeah. That sounded healthy.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "You know," I said out loud, "if I ever start a list called 'Bad Things the Jedi Accidentally Approve Of,' this would be item one."
Jocasta didn't even look up. "The Jedi did not commission the army," she said smoothly. "No matter what some might claim. The Kaminoans were approached by one man — Master Sifo-Dyas. And even that account is… disputed."
"So the Order's off the hook," I said.
Her eyes flicked up, sharp. "We are never 'off the hook' when lives are involved, Initiate. But facts matter."
"Sure," I said. "But… we're still gonna use it, right?"
She froze. Just slightly — like she hadn't expected that question from a twelve-year-old. "That's… a difficult question to answer."
"That's what people say when the answer's bad," I said quietly.
Her gaze softened, but her voice stayed firm. "The army belongs to the Republic, not the Jedi. We serve as peacekeepers, not generals. Naturally, we detest the subjugation of sentients. But cloning is… not a simple matter. What we will do, Initiate Kryze, is our best."
I nodded — because that's what a good Jedi-in-training would do.
But deep down, the words "our best" felt like a Band-Aid on a sinking ship.
"'It's complicated,'" I said, mostly to myself. "That's what they always say right before the ominous music starts."
Jocasta looked amused again. "I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, tapping the datapad. "Just making a note for tone."
...
We worked in silence for a while. I skimmed through Kaminoan ethics dissertations — which, by the way, are the worst bedtime reading in the galaxy. All formulas and detachment. I'd expected at least one moral crisis, but apparently, the Kaminoans had outsourced empathy to their spreadsheets.
There was a line buried in one report that stuck with me:
"Ethics are inefficient. Perfection requires singular purpose."
I stared at it for a long moment.
That's what they thought perfection was — obedience without conscience. A species that worshipped control so completely that they'd bred an entire generation to die for it.
I wondered if any of the clones ever felt that. If any of them ever looked around Kamino's endless white corridors and realized they weren't supposed to dream.
Then I realized — they did.
That's what made them human.
"Initiate Kryze," Jocasta said, pulling me back. "You're frowning."
"I was just thinking," I said. "The Kaminoans… they designed the clones to be loyal. To follow orders without question."
"Yes," she said carefully. "As all soldiers are expected to."
"But they didn't give them a choice," I said. "That's not loyalty. That's programming."
"An interesting distinction," Jocasta mused. "And yet, many beings act from conditioning — cultural, religious, even Jedi discipline. Are we, then, programmed too?"
I blinked. "…Okay, that's unsettling."
She smiled faintly. "Ethics usually are."
There was something oddly comforting in that. Maybe because it meant she had thought about all this. That someone here, buried under the layers of doctrine and politics, cared.
"So what happens next?" I asked. "With the army, I mean."
"That depends on the Council," she said. "And the Senate. You may yet have a front-row seat to history."
Great. Just what every time-traveling preteen wants: front-row seats to an ethical disaster.
Jocasta closed her terminal, then gestured toward mine. "You have a thoughtful mind, Ben. I'm assigning you to assist the Senate delegation reviewing the issue. Since you're so… interested in ethical collapse."
"Wait—really?" I blinked. "That's a thing you can just—assign?"
Her smile widened. "In the Archives, Initiate Kryze, everything is an assignment."
I sighed, collecting my datapad. "I'm starting to understand why people turn to the Dark Side. Less paperwork."
"Then perhaps," she said lightly, "you should reflect on why so many of them start as students."
That one landed. Hard.
I gave a small, awkward bow. "Thanks for the existential crisis, Master Nu."
"You're welcome," she said serenely.
...
If there's one thing worse than a moral crisis, it's a moral crisis with homework.
Jocasta Nu didn't just hand me a datapad full of Kaminoan ethics reports. She handed me a mission: deliver them to the Temple's Senate liaison office "for consideration by the Republic Committee on Defense and Armament."
Which was a fancy way of saying: Take this folder to the grown-ups before they accidentally start a galactic war.
So there I was, clutching a glowing datapad like a bomb made of bureaucracy, wandering the Temple's upper corridors and praying I didn't run into anyone with more authority than a cafeteria droid.
The Force, naturally, has a sense of humor.
"—and I assure you, Senator Organa, the situation is being handled delicately," said a familiar voice up ahead.
I froze.
There, standing outside the liaison chamber, were two of the most famous people in galactic history — one future rebel hero, one doomed queen.
Bail Organa was every bit as composed as the holo-feeds suggested: tall, elegant, diplomatic posture set to medium concern. Next to him, Padmé Amidala looked like the personification of "politely unimpressed." Her senatorial robes shimmered under the Temple's soft light, perfectly pressed, perfectly regal, perfectly terrifying.
And she looked so much like my childhood crush, Natalie Portman.
My brain chose that exact moment to forget how to walk normally.
She turned, noticed me hovering nearby, and smiled with professional warmth. "Oh! Hello there. Are you the messenger from the Archives?"
Okay. Deep breath. Don't panic. Don't say anything stupid.
"Excuse you," I said immediately, "I'm an unpaid intern in moral philosophy… also a Jedi, I guess. But that part should be obvious, considering I'm twelve and live here."
Smooth. Nailed it. Definitely not panicking.
Padmé blinked, then laughed — softly, but genuinely. "My apologies, Initiate…?"
"Kryze," I said, straightening my tunic with as much dignity as a dusty twelve-year-old could muster. "Ben Kryze."
"Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo," she said, extending a hand. I stared at it a second too long — half because she was being nice, half because holy kriff it's Padmé Amidala in 4K reality.
I shook her hand. Probably too long. Definitely too awkward.
Bail smiled kindly, stepping in. "And I'm Senator Organa. Pleasure to meet you, young man. I take it you're assisting Master Nu?"
"That's one word for it," I said. "Another would be 'indentured servitude.' She calls it 'educational.' Tomato, tomahto."
Padmé hid a grin behind her hand. "And what kind of education is Master Nu assigning you these days?"
"The ethics of mass-producing soldiers," I said, maybe too fast. "Light reading."
That got their attention.
Padmé's brow furrowed. "You mean the Kamino situation?"
"Yep." I lifted the datapad. "Clone army. Mystery commission. Possible intergalactic identity theft. The usual."
Bail chuckled under his breath. "You certainly don't mince words, Initiate."
"I try not to," I said. "Words are expensive, and I'm unpaid."
Padmé's expression softened — intrigued now, not amused. "And what do you think of the clone matter, Ben?"
Oh no. She was asking me for an opinion. This was a trap. Politicians love asking children questions that turn into headlines.
But my mouth apparently didn't care about self-preservation.
"Well," I started slowly, "it's complicated. Clones are people — or at least, they should be. But they're made to fight a war they didn't choose, by people who won't have to fight it themselves. That's… kind of messed up, right?"
Padmé's eyes widened slightly. "You're very well-informed for a Padawan."
"Initiate," I corrected automatically. "Still working my way up to hypocrisy."
Bail laughed — an actual, proper laugh. "You remind me of someone I met, you know. It was Initiate Kryze, yes? Would there happen to be any relation to a Satine Kryze?"
"As a Jedi, I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility that may have relatives." I answered, diplomatically.
"I'm sure." Bail's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Well, regardless, I certainly hope you're relatives are proud of you. I can only hope to one day have a child as academically inclined as you are."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," I said. "I think she turns out okay… if a little racist against Wookiees for no apparent reason."
Leia Organa, on the off-chance you heard about this somehow, like, maybe through the World Between Worlds or something, I just want you to know: I stand by what I said. Give Chewbacca a medal, damn you!
Padmé tilted her head, studying me. "You have a rather unique perspective, Ben."
"Yeah," I said. "I get that a lot."
What I didn't say: I also happen to know you're about to fall for a guy who hates sand and will one day massacre a village, choke you, and enable a galaxy-wide fascist regime, so maybe steer clear of moody Jedi with mommy issues.
…But sure, keep it light, Ben. Keep it casual.
That's when I felt a familiar ripple in the Force — bright, overconfident, and radiating the energy of someone who once crash-landed a starfighter just to make an entrance.
Oh no.
"Senator!" Anakin Skywalker's voice carried down the hall, boyish and cheerful. He rounded the corner, cloak billowing dramatically — because of course it did. "I'm sorry for the delay, Master Kenobi was—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing next to Padmé.
"Ben?"
"Anakin," I said, as neutrally as possible. "Fancy seeing you here. You know the Senator?"
Padmé blinked. "We've met."
I nodded sagely. "Sure. Met. Right. Definitely nothing galaxy-changing about that."
Anakin frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… moral philosophy."
Padmé looked amused again. "Well, perhaps your moral philosopher can join us for the Temple tour, Master Skywalker."
"Actually," Anakin said — and was that a tiny blush? — "he has assignments."
"Right!" I said, clutching my datapad like a shield. "Assignments! Research! Very important stuff about… ethics and… consequences and… destiny."
Bail arched an eyebrow. "Destiny, hm?"
"Yeah," I said weakly. "Trying to avoid it."
Padmé smiled kindly. "You're a curious one, Ben Kryze."
"You have no idea," I muttered.
An awkward silence lingered — the kind that comes right before someone says something history-defining — and I decided it was time to leave before I accidentally spoiled the entire prequel trilogy.
I bowed quickly. "Well, this has been enlightening! Nice meeting you both. Good luck with the whole 'governing a galaxy' thing. No pressure."
Padmé actually laughed. "Thank you, Initiate Kryze."
As I turned to leave, Anakin leaned in just enough to whisper, "You're acting strange, even for you."
"Thanks," I said. "It's a gift."
And I walked away before I could make things worse.
...
The corridor was blessedly empty again. I exhaled hard, pressing my back to the wall.
Okay. Survived a conversation with Padmé Amidala without blurting out "you die in childbirth but don't worry, your kids are fine, they're going to kiss each other, one day." That's progress.
My commlink crackled suddenly.
"Ahsoka to Ben," came the urgent voice. "You're gonna want to see this."
I straightened. "What happened?"
"The clones," she said, her tone sharp with disbelief. "They're here. In person."
For a second, I thought I misheard.
Then my stomach dropped.
"What do you mean here?"
"In the Temple hangar," she said. "The Council's meeting them right now."
I looked down at the datapad in my hands — Kaminoan ethics glowing back at me in cold blue light.
Of course they were here. Of course it was starting already.
"Copy that," I said, voice tight. "On my way."
I took one last look down the corridor — where Padmé and Anakin were walking side by side now, talking quietly. The future was already unfolding, and all I could do was watch it happen.
Butterfly Effect, Episode II. Attack of the Dominos
...
It started with the sound of boots.
Dozens of them. Perfectly synchronized.
You'd think the echo of identical footsteps wouldn't be unsettling, but it is. It really, really is.
Ahsoka stood beside me, leaning over the balcony rail with her elbows propped like we were watching some parade. Maris had her hood up, the picture of quiet judgment. I was doing my best to pretend like I wasn't seconds away from morally combusting.
Below us, the Republic's newest military acquisition was marching in formation. Rows of identical men in identical armor — white plastoid, blue-accented pauldrons, blaster rifles at their sides. Every movement landed with mechanical precision. If you didn't look too close, you could almost believe they were machines.
Almost.
"So…" I started, because silence was unbearable. "Moral greyness looks good in armor."
Ahsoka snorted. Maris did not.
One of the clones glanced up — not at us specifically, but in our direction. His visor caught the sunset and flared gold. For a second, I saw my reflection in it: a scrawny Initiate, hands stuffed into too-long sleeves, trying not to feel small.
The clones turned another corner. Another perfect pivot.
And then they were gone, swallowed by the next platform level, off to wherever the Senate's shiny new army gets its paperwork processed.
"I still don't get it," Ahsoka said. "Who made them? Why Kamino? Why now?"
"Because the galaxy's running out of good ideas," I muttered.
She looked at me. "That's not helpful."
"Wasn't trying to be."
We fell into silence again, the three of us leaning over the durasteel rail. Airspeeders streamed past below — thousands of them, golden trails weaving through the neon haze. Somewhere down there, people were buying dinner, arguing about holonews, kissing someone goodbye. Completely unaware that a secret army had just been delivered to their doorstep.
It should've felt triumphant — like, hooray, the Republic finally has a defense force! But instead it just felt… wrong.
Manufactured.
Maris finally broke the quiet. "They didn't feel like droids."
I blinked at her. "What?"
"When they walked by," she said, still staring at the spot they'd disappeared. "I could feel them. In the Force. Not faintly, either. Like a chorus — too precise, but alive."
I hesitated, then reached out too. Just a touch, like dipping a hand into a current you're not sure is safe.
There they were.
Bright. Sharp. Patterned, almost. A thousand ripples of life, identical and distinct all at once. It was like hearing the same note played perfectly by a hundred voices — beautiful, but unnatural.
I pulled back. "Yeah," I said quietly. "They're real."
"Of course they're real," Ahsoka said. "They're people."
"Yeah," I echoed. "That's the problem."
I don't know what I expected from seeing them up close. Some kind of clarity, maybe. Instead, my brain just kept spinning.
Because I knew them — the idea of them, at least. I'd seen what they'd become: soldiers with names, jokes, friendships. Heroes who'd fight and die for people who didn't even know their serial numbers. Rex, Cody, Fives, Echo… all just waiting to be born into a war no one had started yet.
Except now the timeline was off. The army was here early.
And I had no idea what that meant.
What if Palpatine pushed sooner? What if the Separatists rose faster? What if Order Si— Nope. Not saying it. Not thinking it. Not even alphabetically approaching it.
Still. The thought stuck. Because even if I didn't say it, it existed.
"So what happens to them?" Maris asked.
"Huh?"
"The clones," she said. "The Senate commissioned them for… what? Defense? Peacekeeping?"
I shrugged, helpless. "You're asking the wrong existentially terrified twelve-year-old."
"Ben."
I sighed. "Okay, fine. They'll probably get stationed in garrisons, patrolling spaceports, looking impressive. Until someone gives them a reason to shoot."
Ahsoka frowned. "That's not fair."
"Neither is creating life in a lab and calling it patriotism," I said before I could stop myself.
She gave me a look. "You sound like Master Yoda."
"Yeah, except when he says stuff like that, it sounds wise. When I do it, it sounds like sarcasm with trauma."
Ahsoka elbowed me, smiling faintly. "That's your brand."
I didn't argue. She wasn't wrong.
A transport rumbled overhead, casting long shadows across the platform. The light caught on my hands — pale against the durasteel, trembling just a little.
"I keep thinking about what Jocasta said," I murmured.
Ahsoka tilted her head. "About what?"
"That the Jedi didn't commission them. That we didn't ask for this. But we're still going to use them. Pretend it's for peace, for balance, whatever helps us sleep."
Maris' voice was soft. "Maybe they'll want to fight."
"Maybe," I said. "But what if they don't know they can choose?"
That shut everyone up.
For a while, the only sound was the city — speeders, air currents, a chorus of distant engines. Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the Temple, a training saber activated and someone yelped. Probably Gungi again. The kid never remembered to duck.
It was such a stupidly normal sound that it almost broke me.
I turned away from the edge, suddenly exhausted. "I'm gonna go have an existential crisis somewhere with snacks."
Ahsoka grinned. "Cafeteria?"
"Obviously. Philosophy burns calories."