Chapter 16: Jedi Time Out
If hell exists in the Star Wars galaxy, I'm convinced it looks exactly like the Jedi Council Chamber: twelve chairs, twelve Masters, twelve synchronized Disappointment Faces aimed squarely at me.
I stand in the center of the room like a kid called to the principal's office—except instead of doodling on walls or sneaking snacks, my crime is… sending family updates. To my aunt. And my brother. A little treason-flavored if you squint, apparently.
The High Council does not squint. The High Council glares.
Mace Windu stares down from his floating chair like I'm some particularly offensive traffic infraction he's been forced to adjudicate. He clears his throat with the solemnity of a man preparing to sentence me to death by paperwork.
"Ben Kryze," he begins, and I swear I can hear capital letters in his voice. "Communication breaches. Unauthorized holo-exchanges. Deception." He pauses exactly long enough for dramatic effect. "You are hereby placed on probation."
There it is. The guillotine drops.
I resist the urge to salute ironically. Barely. I always knew this day would come. Frankly, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Must be the will of the Force. Still, maybe I can get some mitigation here.
But before I can even open my mouth to defend myself, Master Yoda leans forward, ears angling like twin judge's gavels. He squints at me—squints, hard—like I personally keyed his starfighter and then blamed it on a Wookiee.
"Warned, you were," he says, cane tapping the floor once, twice. "Attachment… dangerous it is."
I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid blurting, Attachment is literally why half this Council exists, including me, because that feels like an argument best saved for when Master Windu is not in the room.
Also because Obi-Wan is sitting right behind Yoda, being aggressively neutral.
I mean aggressively. My dear maybe-probably-father is sitting in his seat like a statue sculpted out of polite British denial. Hands folded. Back straight. Expression serene. Except for one tiny muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw that screams:
I am going to pretend I know nothing about your crimes, son, please for the love of the Force do not drag me into this.
And honestly? Fair.
But that doesn't mean I'm wrong, either. You know how many Jedi were born without fucking being involved? One. Anakin Skywalker. And the Council didn't even want the little Tatooine slave boy!
Bunch of hypocrites.
Knight Quinlan Vos has had more lovers than General Grevious had arms. Master Mundi married a whole harem. And it's not like Baby Yoda sprouted from a hydroponic vat.
Meanwhile, I'm just standing here thinking: I didn't commit treason! I sent family updates! You know—normal, harmless things like:
"Hey Aunt Bo, I'm alive! Also, the Temple food still sucks."
But apparently this violates the sacred Jedi protocols of Not Having People You Care About.
Windu continues reading from his invisible script. "Your probation will include the following restrictions." He checks something on a datapad, though I suspect he memorized the list hours ago purely so he could recite it with maximum gravitas.
"One: No off-world missions."
Cool. Wasn't going anywhere anyway.
"Two: No external communications."
Rude.
"Three: Daily reflection hours."
Ah, supervised brooding.
"Four: Assigned community service tasks, at the discretion of Temple staff."
I blink. "So… chores," I say. Out loud. It slips out before I can stop it. "Ah yes. The ancient Jedi punishment."
Half the Council sighs in unison.
Literally in unison.
It's like they rehearsed it.
Even Plo Koon, who is usually the nice one, shakes his head in a way that feels vaguely parental. Ki-Adi-Mundi leans back like this is giving him a stress migraine. Shaak Ti pinches the bridge of her nose. Depa Billaba closes her eyes and maybe prays for strength. Even Kit Fisto's smile dims by two degrees, which is basically a tragedy.
And Yoda? He thwacks his cane again, muttering something in Yodish that I'm pretty sure translates to "Disaster child, he is."
Obi-Wan finally speaks, his voice calm and annoyingly reasonable. "Ben… perhaps a period of structured discipline will help you reflect on the consequences of your choices."
Translation: Son. Stop talking.
Mace continues, voice flat as Tatooine. "Your behavior jeopardized the Order's neutrality."
"Neutrality?" I blurt. "How am I—" I chop my own sentence in half when Windu raises one eyebrow in a way that triggers my survival instincts. "Right. Yes. I jeopardized. Very jeopardous. Mega-jeopardous. Continue."
Fantastic. Now I'm inventing words in front of the people who could legally ban me from touching a lightsaber until I'm twenty.
Saesee Tiin clears his throat. "Knight Kenobi, you were aware your padawan—"
"I am not his Padawan," I say reflexively, because I will die before acknowledging the Order's unofficial assumption that Obi-Wan is my dad. It's completely valid, but he has to admit it first. That way, we can all go "no shit!"
Oh, and also his Padawan is Space Jesus.
"—your initiate," Saesee amends, "was engaging in illicit correspondence?"
Obi-Wan's eye twitches again.
"No," he says, sounding exactly like a man who is very aware but has decided pretending otherwise is healthier for everyone. "I was not."
Yoda hums. Windu's expression remains granite. Plo Koon murmurs something about "troubling patterns."
My brain starts screaming because I recognize the energy in the room—this is the same vibe as when adults decide They Are Disappointed In You but also they're too Jedi to yell.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Much worse.
Windu leans back. "Do you have anything you wish to say before sentencing concludes?"
I absolutely do. I have so many things to say. None of them are wise, but when has that ever stopped me?
I raise my hand like I'm answering a school question. "So, hypothetical scenario—"
"No," Windu says instantly.
"But you didn't even hear it!"
"I do not need to." He gestures to the doors. Damn Shatterpoint, OP space power bullshit.. "Your probation begins immediately."
Well. That's that.
I bow, because I like living, and because everyone expects it, and because bending at the waist gives me a few seconds to swallow the huge wave of irritation boiling up behind my ribs. When I straighten, twelve pairs of eyes are still boring holes into me.
"I understand, Masters," I say in the most respectful tone I can manage.
Which is… passable. Probably.
Then I turn on my heel, the doors hiss open, and as I step into the hallway I mutter under my breath:
"This is fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine."
The doors slide shut behind me with the softest, most judgmental fwip I've ever heard in my life.
...
Everything is not fine.
This is outrageous.
It's unfair.
I storm down the hallway like an angry mop. I don't even mean to stomp, but the Temple floors are too damn polished, so each step makes this loud slap that echoes off the walls like I'm throwing a toddler tantrum. Which I guess I am. Except I'm twelve, so it's more respectable. Probably.
Probation. Actual probation.
I didn't duel a senator, I didn't steal a transport, I didn't even blow anything up this time. I sent messages.
Messages! To family! You know, those people the Council pretends Jedi don't have but absolutely do, because otherwise how is the Temple not extinct already?
Nope. No thinking about them. Not after Windu's "we will be monitoring your reflection hours" like he wasn't secretly enjoying telling a child they're grounded.
Fine. Whatever. First task: go to the meditation hall like a good little near-Padawan and sit there for an hour.
I march in like I'm entering a battlefield.
...
The Meditation Hall smells like incense and smug authority. It's dim and quiet—the sort of quiet that feels judgmental. A dozen initiates sit peacefully in their little circles of serenity.
I flop down onto my mat cross-legged, arms stiff at my sides. My back pops. My soul pops. I close my eyes because that's what you do here. Be calm. Be centered. Be mindful. Blah blah blah.
Thirty seconds pass.
Forty.
A full minute.
My brain: hey what if we think about everything we're NOT supposed to think about?
Me: NO.
Brain: okay but what if we do?
I exhale way too loudly, earning a shhh from some kid who looks seven. Seven! I have been shushed by a toddler with a braid longer than his attention span.
I inhale again. Slow. Deep. Even.
And then, without meaning to—
I start humming.
Very softly.
Dun… dun dun-dun… dun dun-dun…
The Imperial March.
Yes, I know it hasn't technically been written yet. Doesn't matter. It lives in my soul.
Another initiate cracks open one eye at me. I smile serenely, like the angel I obviously am.
He scoots away.
Within five minutes, I've mentally ranked every Council member by how quickly they'd die in a horror movie. (Yoda survives. Obviously. Windu dies because he refuses to run.)
Within ten minutes, I've come up with a new lightsaber kata that involves aggressively pointing at people.
Within fifteen minutes, I'm lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling like I'm manifesting a Force storm out of spite.
The attendant watches me the way one watches a malfunctioning toaster.
"Ben," she whispers, "try to empty your mind."
"Oh trust me," I whisper back, "I've been trying to empty it for years. This is as good as it gets."
She gives me a look that screams I'm writing this down in your file.
Mercifully, the hour ends.
I spring up like a freed prisoner and salute the room.
"Namaste," I say, and leave before anyone can throw a cushion at me.
...
Next stop: the training hall.
A stack of janitorial supplies waits for me. A bucket. A rag. Cleaning fluid. A droid that chirps unpleasantly like it also hates its job.
An instructor hands me a datapad labeled: DROID MAINTENANCE — BASIC CLEANING
I nod as though I'm going to follow instructions.
I am not.
I pick up the rag and begin wiping down a scuffed training droid. It's one of those spherical ones that zaps people for fun. I mutter to myself, because talking to machines counts as meditation in my book:
"You know, I wonder if binary has swear words."
The droid whirs.
I tap it once. Twice. "Come on, buddy. You can tell me."
It lights up. Emits a curious trill. My curiosity turns into a scientific urge. I poke a diagnostic port with the rag handle.
Suddenly the droid jolts awake like I dared it to.
And then—
It beeps something.
The supervising Knight gasps.
One of the other droids gasps.
I gasp.
"Oh," I whisper. "Binary has a lot of swear words."
The droid rolls forward and starts absolutely shredding every other droid in the hall. Not physically—verbally. Through beeps. Which somehow sounds even worse.
Another droid sputters like it's offended. A third whirls away in disgust. A fourth pretends it didn't hear the insult.
"Shut it down!" the supervisor cries, sprinting toward it.
I take this moment to decide that technically nothing that happened is my fault.
Which means I may quietly back away. Very quietly.
I slip out the side door just as the rogue droid starts dishing out insults about somebody's motherboard.
Not my problem. Probably.
...
"Ben!" calls a voice as soon as I enter the childcare wing.
The caretaker is a sweet old Mirialan who always smells like cookies. She waves me in with the kind of cheer only someone who's never been attacked by children can possess.
"We're short staffed. Please assist the initiates during playtime."
I look around.
There are at least fifteen toddlers.
Fifteen.
And every single one looks at me like I'm fresh prey.
"Uh," I say. "I don't think—"
It's too late.
I am swarmed.
They latch onto my legs. My arms. One jumps onto my back like a feral Tooka. One brandishes a foam lightsaber that's been sharpened on… something? It gleams. Gleams.
The caretaker claps her hands.
"Children! Today we're playing 'Capture the Sith'!"
They all turn and grin at me.
I die inside.
Before I can protest, someone shrieks, "GET HIM!" and suddenly I'm running for my life.
Foam sabers thunk into my thighs. My ribs. My pride.
A tiny Zabrak tackles me behind the knees. I go down like a sack of womp rats.
They pile on. Six of them. Maybe seven. Hard to count when your face is mashed into a carpet stained with juice boxes.
"I surrender!" I wheeze. "I SURRENDER!"
A toddler sits triumphantly on my chest and pokes my forehead. "Sith defeated."
I lift one hand toward the heavens.
"This is why Sith Lords happen!"
The caretaker gives me a gentle, approving thumbs-up like I did something noble.
I lie there for a moment longer, debating the merits of joining the dark side.
They don't make you do childcare on the dark side. Probably.
...
My final task of the day: help in the Archives.
I step inside and instantly feel watched by ancient knowledge. And also Jocasta Nu, who has eyes like a hawk and the soul of a standardized test.
"Ben," she says. "You will assist with scroll restoration. Handle everything with extreme care."
"Absolutely," I say.
Ten minutes later I'm reorganizing the entire scroll section by color.
Not age.
Not subject.
Not species origin.
Color.
It looks gorgeous.
The scrolls go from deep umber gold pale buff cream snowy white. It's soothing. It's perfect. It's symmetrical.
Then I hear the sharp inhale of someone discovering a crime.
"Stop that immediately."
I turn around. Jocasta Nu stands there with a look of horror usually reserved for Sith alchemy.
"It's aesthetically superior," I say helpfully.
Her face tightens in a way that suggests she's debating igniting a lightsaber regardless of her rank.
"I will exile you," she says flatly.
I believe her. Wholeheartedly.
She confiscates the scrolls from my hands and points to the door like she's banishing a demon.
I bow.
I flee.
I do not look back.
...
By the time I reach the hallway, my robes are wrinkled, my brain is fried, someone's toddler spit is drying on my sleeve, and my soul has left my body for greener pastures.
I lean against the wall and drag a hand down my face.
Day one of probation.
One.
I have thirty more.
I groan into my palms.
"…This is going to kill me."
And somewhere, deep in the bowels of the Jedi Temple, a training droid screams an insult in binary that I'm ninety percent sure translates to:
YEAH, THAT'S WHAT YOU GET.
...
Ahsoka balanced the paper-wrapped bundle of snacks in one hand as she crossed the courtyard, weaving between meditating initiates and a pair of Knights arguing over whether a lightsaber could be used to sauté vegetables. She didn't slow; she was on a mission. A very important, very compassionate mission.
Delivery of emotional support carbs.
Ben had survived his first day of probation, but from what she'd heard through the grapevine — specifically the "excited gossip" grapevine, which was always the fastest — he'd been attacked by toddlers, disgraced by scrolls, and may or may not have caused a profanity-laced uprising among the cleaning droids.
Which meant he needed snacks. Immediately.
She rounded the corner into the service wing, and there he was: sitting in the middle of his tiny assigned workroom, surrounded by tools and loose wires, brow furrowed with exaggerated concentration as he tinkered with a dust sweeper.
Except "tinkering" was too innocent a word. This was… surgery. Chaotic surgery.
The little cleaning droid whirred, beeped, and suddenly blasted a heroic orchestral DA-DA-DAAAA fanfare before sputtering into static.
Ahsoka blinked once. Twice.
Ben pumped his fist. "Yes! That's the sound I want when it detects dirt. Dramatic. Motivational. Like: behold, filth, your reckoning approaches!"
She sighed, amused despite herself. There was no part of him that understood the concept of "lying low."
"I brought emotional support carbs," she said.
Ben's head snapped up. His eyes lit like she'd just offered salvation itself.
"You saint."
He scrambled over, tripped on a wire, caught himself, and plucked a sweet bun from the bag with the reverence of a man receiving a holy artifact. He took a large, slow bite — so slow she could see the exact moment dopamine entered his bloodstream — and then slumped back against the wall with a groan.
Ahsoka set the rest of the snacks on a crate. "Rough day?"
He pointed at nothing in particular in a gesture of full-body exasperation. "They weaponized toddlers. TODDLERS."
She tried not to laugh. She failed.
"I'm serious," he insisted. "They work in packs. Packs, Ahsoka. They planned my downfall."
She offered him a protein puff. He accepted it like medicine and swallowed with the theatrics of a martyr.
Before she could tease him again, another presence slipped into the doorway — silent, sharp, and slightly rumpled.
Maris.
Her arms were folded. Her hair was doing that thing where half of it obeyed gravity and the other half defied it purely out of spite. Her expression was focused, intense — the kind of look that usually preceded something either incredibly wise or deeply illegal.
She took in the room. The snacks. The dismantled droid. Ben chewing tragically.
"The Jedi are hypocrites," Maris declared.
Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her lekku. "Maris…"
"No, I mean it." Maris stepped fully inside, boots tapping sharply on the stone floor. "If they can't handle a kid talking to his family, what good is this whole 'peacekeeper' thing? Peacekeepers don't cut people off from the people who give them peace."
Ahsoka felt the words hit, hard and uncomfortably true. She tried not to show it. Jedi philosophy was… layered. Complicated. Contradictory. Even she didn't fully understand it, and she'd grown up in the Order.
Ben snorted. "Stop tempting me into quitting."
Maris didn't flinch. "I am tempting."
"Please stop tempting," Ahsoka said, because she could already feel her heart rate climbing at the idea of explaining this to Master Yoda.
Maris adjusted her sleeves with all the authority of someone preparing a closing argument. "I'm just saying—maybe the Jedi wouldn't lose so many people to the dark side if they stopped forbidding anything that makes existence tolerable."
Ahsoka flinched again. Ouch. Accurate. Too accurate.
Ben raised a hand. "Hey, I fully support whatever speech you're giving. But right now? I support snacks more." He reached blindly toward the bag until Ahsoka nudged it closer.
He popped another protein puff into his mouth. "Okay. So. Long story short: I'm on chore duty for the foreseeable future. And I'd like to not die."
Maris crouched beside him. "Then don't follow the schedule."
Ahsoka's montrals buzzed with alarm. "Maris."
"What? It's a stupid schedule. Whoever wrote it hates him."
Ben pointed at himself with both hands. "Yes! Thank you!"
Ahsoka groaned. She hated how easily these two could drag her into trouble. Or maybe she just hated how she rarely resisted.
Maris nudged aside a screwdriver, sat cross-legged, and pulled the datapad containing Ben's assignments closer. "Let's see what we're working with."
Ahsoka sat too, because if she was going to stop them, she needed proximity. Also snacks.
The schedule was… dense. Unreasonable. A masterpiece of passive-aggressive bureaucracy.
Meditation hours. Cleaning rotations. Nursery duty. Archive work. Hallway sweeping. Meal distribution assistance. Laundry. Then back to meditation.
"It's a wonder they didn't add 'renovate the Senate Building by hand,'" Ben muttered.
Ahsoka scanned the list, her montrals tingling with secondhand stress. "I mean… it's structured. The Order likes structure. It's how we teach discipline."
Ben looked at her like she'd said, the Council would never lie to you.
"Ahsoka. They made me reorganize moldy scrolls for two hours."
She opened her mouth to defend the Archives and immediately failed to think of a single positive thing about the Archives besides "quiet."
"Okay," she conceded. "Maybe it's a little much."
Maris smirked. "So we change it."
Ahsoka rubbed her forehead. "We—Maris, we can't just rewrite a probation schedule. That's— that's—"
"Crime?" Ben offered hopefully.
"Punishable?" she countered.
"Revolutionary," Maris said.
Ahsoka stared at her for a long moment. Very long. Her heartbeat thudded like she'd sprinted the length of the Temple.
And then she sighed, shoulders dropping.
She wasn't blind. Ben wasn't hurt because he'd done something evil. He was hurt because the Order had punished kindness. Family. Connection. Whether it was technically "in the rules" didn't make it feel any less wrong.
"Fine," she muttered. "Show me what you want to change."
Maris grinned like someone who had just successfully corrupted a Padawan.
Ben scooted between them, brushing crumbs off his tunic. "Okay, okay. First of all: I'm not doing toddler duty again. Not unless I get hazard pay."
Maris flicked her fingers dismissively. "Delete it."
Ahsoka snatched the datapad back. "We can't delete it. They'll notice."
Maris leaned in. "Then move it. Swap it with something easier."
Ahsoka bit her lip. "…like laundry?"
Ben recoiled. "Laundry is not easier."
Maris took the pad from her. "It is compared to children with weapons."
"Fair point," Ben murmured.
Ahsoka hesitated, then tapped the screen and dragged the "Nursery Assistance" block into a later day. She felt a rush of adrenaline she absolutely should not have been feeling. "Okay. Fine. One change."
Ben cheered silently, arms raised.
"Next," Maris said. "Meditation hours."
Ahsoka stiffened. "We cannot change meditation hours. The Council monitors them."
Ben groaned. "Of course they do. They want to make sure I'm spiritually suffering."
Maris tilted her head. "Do they monitor where you meditate?"
Ahsoka blinked. Oh no. She could see where this was going. "You are not going to meditate on the roof."
Ben's eyes sparked. "I am absolutely meditating on the roof."
Maris changed the location on the schedule.
Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "We are going to die."
"No," Maris corrected, tapping another block. "Ben will die. You and I will get stern looks."
Ben nodded solemnly. "Sounds about right."
The three of them worked in a huddle, elbows bumping, snacks disappearing steadily, as they rearranged his entire punishment roster into something survivable. The more they did it, the lighter Ben looked. Less weighed down. Less alone.
Ahsoka felt a small warmth unfurl in her chest. Yes, the Order was home. But home wasn't just rules and meditation. It was people. It was support. It was friendship.
Even if that friendship currently involved technically-sort-of-definitely modifying probation documents.
When they finally leaned back, the schedule looked… chaotic. Improper. Brilliant.
Ben whistled. "Wow. I'm going to get arrested."
"Not on my watch," Ahsoka said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
Maris smirked. "Welcome to the rebellion."
Ahsoka rolled her eyes — but she didn't disagree.
The three of them stared at their handiwork with the satisfaction of conspirators who knew, deep down, they'd regret this later.
For now, though?
It was perfect.
...
The Temple balcony was quiet at sunset, which should've been Obi-Wan's first warning. Ben Kryze never gravitated to quiet unless he was making the trouble rather than discovering it.
Sure enough, when Obi-Wan stepped outside, the orange light of the lowering Coruscant sun revealed a pair of booted feet sticking out of an access panel under the railing.
A muffled voice drifted out:
"—okay, if I reroute the fail-safes and the ambient light sensors, the whole courtyard will play the Duel of the Fates theme when someone walks by—"
Obi-Wan inhaled. Counted to three. It did not help.
"Ben," he said, with the softness of someone desperately trying not to sound like a parent despite absolutely being one.
Ben jolted so hard he smacked his head on the inside of the panel. "Ow— kriff—"
A moment later he wriggled out like an irritated Tooka, hair sticking up, face smudged with something suspiciously greasy. And, of course, he beamed.
"Master Obi-Dad. Fancy meeting you here."
Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "That title is not— I never— Ben, what are you doing?"
Ben held up a screwdriver with the pride of a child offering a dead lizard. "Improving morale."
"I see," Obi-Wan said, though he did not.
Ben scooted aside to show off the gutted maintenance panel, wires everywhere. Obi-Wan was almost impressed. Almost. It took talent to commit this level of unsanctioned engineering.
"You are," Obi-Wan said carefully, "very much not allowed to be touching that."
Ben shrugged. "In fairness, I am technically touching it less than earlier."
Force help him, the boy delivered nonsense with the confidence of a seasoned politician. Obi-Wan flashed back to Anakin telling him, 'Relax, Master, the fire wouldn't have spread if the sprinklers hadn't malfunctioned.'
He was too tired for this.
"Ben," he said, straightening his shoulders into his best-possible Jedi authority posture. "We need to talk."
Ben whipped upright as if bracing for impact. "If this is about snacks in the dorms, Ahsoka started it."
"It is not about snacks."
"Oh. Then I'm definitely innocent."
Obi-Wan exhaled. The sunset cast gold on the Temple stones, painting the scene warm and gentle—completely inappropriate for the conversation he was trying to have.
He began the familiar script. The script he was required to give. The script every Jedi Master had to deliver at least once per month, especially around Skywalkers and Skywalker-adjacent entities.
"Attachment leads to—"
"Disappointment, existential dread, and three-hour lectures," Ben cut in. "Yes, I know."
Obi-Wan blinked. "That is… not quite how the Jedi phrased it."
Ben leaned against the railing, arms folded, posture obnoxiously relaxed. "But accurate."
The worst part was that the boy wasn't entirely wrong.
Obi-Wan rubbed his temples. "Ben, the Council's concern—"
"—is that I care too much, think too much, breathe too much, talk too much, blink weird, and sneeze with agenda. Yes, yes, I've heard the gossip."
"That is not— Ben, please let me speak."
Ben's mouth snapped shut with theatrical innocence.
Thank the Force.
"Your communications with your family…" Obi-Wan began slowly, choosing each word with surgical precision, "were unexpected."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Harmful? Dangerous? Treason-adjacent?"
"No." Obi-Wan dropped his arms, letting the honesty settle between them. "They scared them."
Ben stopped.
It was small—just a subtle shift of weight, a brief stillness—but Obi-Wan caught it. The humor didn't vanish. It never did with Ben. But it flickered, as if someone had cupped a hand around the flame.
Obi-Wan softened. "They thought your connections could compromise you."
"Maybe," Ben said quietly, "say that instead of treating me like a toddler who licked a power socket?"
"I have never treated you—"
Ben just looked at him.
Obi-Wan paused. "Well. Not intentionally."
A corner of Ben's mouth twitched upward.
Obi-Wan sighed, feeling some tension dissolve, replaced by weary affection. "Ben… it isn't wrong to care for people outside the Order. But the Council must ensure you can make decisions even when your emotions are involved."
Ben shrugged again, but it was looser now. "I know. I just… I don't like being punished for giving a damn."
"That," Obi-Wan allowed, "is fair."
They stood there a moment—the boy pretending he wasn't emotionally affected, and the Jedi Master pretending he wasn't warmed by the boy's stubborn loyalty.
It was Ahsoka in miniature. It was Anakin in miniature. It was Satine.
It was… everyone he'd ever failed to keep in the neat, tidy boxes the Jedi preferred.
He cleared his throat before the moment got too soft.
"Well then," he said briskly, "let us return to the topic of—"
Ben perked up mischievously. "How the Jedi should unionize?"
"What? No—"
"Form a labor board?"
"Ben—"
"A secret underground support group for emotionally constipated Knights?"
Obi-Wan made a strangled noise. "That is quite enough."
Ben grinned wildly. "You know you love me."
"I—" Obi-Wan blinked, tripped on his own dignity, and started over. "I tolerate you."
"Affectionately."
"Occasionally."
Ben looked far too pleased.
Their banter slid back into place as naturally as breathing, like they'd both been holding it back to maintain the tension quota.
Obi-Wan gestured at the maintenance panel. "Now. Regarding this disaster. Why, exactly, were you tampering with it?"
Ben hesitated.
And that alone told Obi-Wan everything.
The boy was bored. Lonely. Restless. Probation had cut away large chunks of his world, and he was filling the gaps with chaos because empty space felt worse.
It wasn't deep reflection. Just an instinctive understanding. The kind a tired mentor developed after too many young troublemakers drifted through his training room.
Obi-Wan crouched, inspecting the mess of wires with a face full of resignation. "Did you at least turn off the power before—"
A spark shot out, nearly singeing his beard.
"…Ben."
Ben winced. "In my defense, I forgot."
Obi-Wan closed the panel firmly, decisively, heroically.
He held out his hand.
"Give me the screwdriver."
Ben tucked it behind his back like a rodent hoarding food. "No."
"Ben."
"What if I need it later?"
"For what?"
"Emergency morale improvement."
"Ben."
Ben sighed dramatically and slapped the screwdriver into Obi-Wan's palm as if surrendering a cherished heirloom.
Obi-Wan confiscated it with all the gravitas of a war general. "This stays with me."
Ben muttered, "Authoritarian."
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
The sun dipped lower, bathing them in deep gold. For the first time all day, Obi-Wan felt the tension in his shoulders lighten. Ben did that. In the most aggravating way imaginable.
Obi-Wan straightened. "Come along. You're assisting me with evening duties."
Ben groaned. "Slave labor."
"Character development."
"Ugh."
Ben trudged after him with the enthusiasm of someone being marched to their doom. Obi-Wan ignored every exaggerated sigh.
...
I was supposed to be reorganizing the Temple's emergency ration storage.
Which, in Jedi terms, meant moving boxes while being supervised by a droid whose vocabulary had recently expanded to include very not safe for work phrases in binary. Through no fault of my own!
Naturally, I was not reorganizing anything.
Instead, I was crouched behind a stack of Temple-issued supply crates with a datapad and two accomplices who were absolutely going to get blamed for this later.
Ahsoka peeked over the top of the crates like a morally conflicted meerkat. "Ben… why are we hiding? Again?"
"Correction," I whispered. "I am hiding. You and Maris are my security detail."
"Great," Ahsoka muttered. "So I'm complicit."
Maris crouched on my other side, arms folded, eyes glinting with the eager menace of someone ready to start a small, polite insurgency. "What's the objective?"
I grinned. "Behold."
I turned the datapad around with a flourish. On the screen, in bold lettering, was:
THE ORDER OF REASONABLE ATTACHMENTS
(name pending review)
Ahsoka inhaled sharply. "Ben."
Maris leaned in. "Oh, I already love this."
I scrolled down proudly.
MOTTO:
At least we talk about our feelings.
Ahsoka pressed her hand to her face. "No. No. Absolutely not. Ben—"
But I wasn't done.
CORE FEATURES
— Sabacc Nights
— Snack Breaks
— No Lectures from Mace Windu
— Occasional Twi'lek dancers
Maris cleared her throat pointedly. "Respectfully, that's objectifying."
I blinked. "Oh. Fair point. Uh—"
I edited it with a few taps.
— Occasional acrobatics
Ahsoka stared at me like she was trying to telekinetically slap me. "This is a terrible idea."
"This," I said, "is the BEST idea."
Maris nodded solemnly, as if approving a war plan. "I support the schism."
"It's not a schism," I whispered, offended. "It's a micro-schism. A snack-funded micro-schism."
Then I heard footsteps.
Heavy ones.
Not good.
Ahsoka shoved the datapad into my hands. "Turn it off!"
"I'm trying!" I hissed, mashing random buttons.
Maris grabbed my arm. "Hide it!"
Ahsoka grabbed my other one. "Hide yourself!"
This resulted in all three of us flinging ourselves sideways behind the crates in total panic. In the chaos, I dropped the datapad, Ahsoka tripped over it, Maris tripped over her, I tripped over both, and suddenly we were a three-person disaster sandwich.
Ahsoka's knee hit my shoulder.
Maris's elbow dug into my ribs.
Someone's foot — Ahsoka's, probably — pressed directly against my cheek.
"Ben," Ahsoka whispered urgently, breathless and furious. "This is NOT helping your probation."
"No," I whispered back, "but it's GREAT for morale. Also, get your foot out of my face."
Ahsoka jerked it back. "Sorry."
Maris shifted, accidentally kneeing me again. "Also sorry."
"I am going to die under a pile of Force users," I hissed. "And not even heroically."
The approaching footsteps stopped at the entrance of the storage room.
I held my breath.
Ahsoka held hers.
Maris held hers and tightened her grip on two of my belt loops like she was prepared to drag me straight into the Shadow Realm if necessary.
The droid supervisor's grumpy voice echoed:
"BLEEEP WHIIIR—"
The three of us froze so hard we might as well have been carbonite.
The droid scanned the room with the loud, judgmental beep of someone who'd seen too much teenage stupidity for one lifetime.
Then:
"BoodOoo."
Its footsteps moved away.
The moment the droid vanished, we collapsed into whispered groans.
"Okay," Ahsoka hissed, sitting up. "That was awful. I'm getting too old for this."
"You're twelve," I said.
"And yet here I am," she replied, "participating in a cult behind the storage crates."
"It's not a cult," I said. "It's a very sane alternative support network."
Maris raised an eyebrow. "With acrobatics."
I nodded. "Obviously."
Ahsoka slapped the datapad back into my hands. "Ben. You cannot form a breakaway Jedi order while on probation."
"Sure I can," I said. "I'm already halfway through the bylaws."
Maris leaned against the crates like the world's most supportive gremlin. "He has a point."
"No, he does not have a point," Ahsoka snapped. "He has a problem."
"Actually," I corrected, "I have twelve problems. They're called the Council."
Ahsoka groaned.
Maris fist-bumped me.
"Okay okay okay," I said, waving them both down. "New idea. We launch quietly. Underground. Subtle. Exclusive membership. Initiation ritual pending."
Ahsoka stared at me. "Tell me the ritual doesn't involve snacks."
I stared back.
She sighed. "Ben."
Maris shrugged. "Snacks build loyalty."
"SEE?!" I whispered loud enough to not be a whisper at all.
Ahsoka silenced us both with a glare. "No more cult."
"It's—"
"No more micro-schism."
"Fine," I said. "Then it's a club."
Maris nodded. "A dubious club."
"Still counts," I said.
"But," Ahsoka added sharply, "whatever this is? It stops tonight. No more planning. No more meetings. No more—"
The door slammed open.
All three of us jolted.
The droid rolled in at full speed, shouting:
"WhhhhhIIIIIRRRRRRR!!"
I would like to clarify that this was not my fault, but everyone believed it was. Including me.
"RUN!" I yelled.
Ahsoka didn't need to be told twice. She bolted.
Maris followed, snatching the datapad out of my hand on the way.
I scrambled after them as the droid accelerated, swearing loudly in Binary:
"BRRRRRrrrrBBBB—
CCCCLLLLI—
BBBBBEEEEDDDD—"
We tore down the corridor, sliding around corners, dodging startled Padawans.
Ahsoka screamed, "Ben, why is that droid cussing us out?!"
Huh. Didn't know she spoke binary.
"Character development?! How should I know!"
Maris grabbed my arm. "LEFT TURN! LEFT TURN!"
Ahsoka grabbed my other arm. "STOP GIVING DIRECTIONS, YOU'RE TERRIBLE AT THEM!"
We skidded into the main hall, nearly crashed into a Mon Calamari Knight, ricocheted off a pillar, and kept running, the enraged droid clattering behind us yelling:
"WHHHHEEEeeeeEEE!"
We vanished around the corner.
The droid did not.
But its furious, disappointed screech echoed beautifully through the entire Temple.
Honestly?
Worth it.