Chapter 18: The Totally Normal Humanitarian Mission
It started with me doing something extremely responsible: studying.
And not even the fake kind of studying where I stare at a screen until my brain slides out my ear and hope the Force uploads the lesson into my skull. No — I was genuinely, legitimately, enthusiastically analyzing the forbidden holo-chip I had absolutely not stolen from the Restricted Archives the night before.
(There's a difference between "stealing" and "borrowing indefinitely." I don't care what the Temple legal department says.)
The chip buzzed faintly in my hands, projecting a dim red map across my desk. It was the kind of red that screamed ancient curses included and please sign the waiver before opening. Several glyphs pulsed in the corner — jagged, angry characters shaped like someone lost a fight with a chisel — and then, right on cue, the projection blinked and locked onto a set of coordinates.
Coordinates that pointed to a barren desert world.
Coordinates accompanied by a faint, ominous musical sting.
I frowned. "Okay, dramatic, but points for presentation."
The little map rotated slowly, casting the glyphs across my walls like angry fireflies. The accompanying text translated itself into something approximating Basic, though it was clearly trying its best to terrify me: Site of Ancient Trials — Entry Forbidden — Jedi Council Oversight Required — Extremely Evil, Probably.
The word "Probably" was doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.
I leaned back in my chair, steepled my fingers, and said the most academically responsible thing possible:
"…Well. This looks educational enough."
My brain — traitor that it is — immediately started filling in the details: the desert wind, the lost corridors, the curses whispered by long-dead zealots. The awe. The mystery. The fact that I definitely, absolutely should not go there.
And that's when it hit me.
That quiet, tiny, beautiful moment where a bad idea evolves into a full plot.
You know the moment. The exact second where curiosity wins, consequences lose, and you can practically hear the Force whisper, Do it. What are they gonna do, put you on more probation?
I grinned. "This is either going to be genius or catastrophically stupid."
Naturally, that's when Ahsoka walked in — because the universe likes to send me warnings disguised as friends.
The door hissed open, and she poked her head in with a snack in one hand and a datapad in the other. "Hey, Ben, I—"
She froze. Her eyes went wide.
She stared at the projection, then at me.
Then back at the projection.
"Oh no," she breathed. "Ben. No. Not even a little no. A planetary-level no."
Now, Ahsoka is usually pretty expressive, but this was the kind of expression that deserved its own holocomic. I could practically see the internal calculation:
Ancient Sith planet freshly grounded friend forbidden maps me = disaster.
I lifted my hands defensively. "Before you say anything—"
She pointed at the glowing red glyph pulsing on my wall. "That's Korriban. The bad world. Remember?!"
"I know!" I said, as if this helped my case. "Isn't it cool?"
"It is the opposite of cool! It's— it's—" She sputtered. "It's the warning sticker of planets!"
I opened my mouth to reassure her, but before I could summon even one lie shaped like optimism, Maris Brood slid dramatically through the doorway like she'd been eavesdropping the entire time.
Which, knowing her, she had.
She took one look at the map, smirked, and announced, "Field trip."
See, where Ahsoka was the little angel on my shoulder yelling "STOP," Maris was the gremlin on my other shoulder whispering "What if we pushed the big glowing red button?"
"Thank you, Maris," I said, gesturing grandly at her. "Finally, someone who understands academic enthusiasm."
Ahsoka blinked at both of us. "Academic? You think going to Korriban counts as academic?! That's like saying touching a live electrical conduit is a science experiment."
"Well…" I said carefully, "technically it could be—"
"No."
She stabbed a finger in my direction. "Your probation just started. Just started. And your first response is 'Let me go somewhere known for producing mass murderers.'"
"But think about it," I countered, rising from my chair with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be confident. "If the Jedi won't tell me things, I'll just go ask their enemies' ghosts. Academic integrity."
Ahsoka stared at me like she was trying to Force-push sense back into my skull. "You are not seriously considering going there."
"Oh, Ahsoka," I said, clapping a hand to my chest. "I'm not just considering it. I'm actively planning it."
Maris placed her hands on her hips. "Do we pack weapons? Concealed blades? Emotional support knives?"
Ahsoka whipped toward her. "Don't encourage him!"
"I'm not," Maris said, deadpan. "I'm encouraging us."
This was exactly why we should not be allowed to hang out unsupervised.
I waved toward the projection again. "Look — desert world, ancient ruins, probably cursed. But educational! Imagine all the lost knowledge. Jedi history. Force philosophy. Maybe even the secret to why the Council thinks everything fun counts as a felony."
Ahsoka dragged both hands down her face.
I continued undeterred, "And realistically—realistically—it can't be that dangerous. We're not going to touch anything. Or awaken anything. Or open any ominous sarcophagi with the words 'DO NOT OPEN' carved into them."
Maris raised a hand. "What if it's already open?"
"Well, then that's a safety hazard," I said. "We'd be morally obligated to check."
Ahsoka pointed at me like she was leveling a blaster. "Ben. Korriban literally eats Jedi."
"I eat a lot too," I said. "We'll get along."
She let out a long, slow exhale. One of those breaths where you can physically see someone reevaluating all their life choices. "This is… this is madness."
"To be fair," Maris said, "it's not his worst idea."
"That is not comforting!" Ahsoka yelped.
I slapped my hands together decisively. "Look, we'll be fine. We'll take a shuttle. We'll fly low. We'll be in and out before anyone knows we're gone. Simple."
Ahsoka blinked once. Twice. "Ben. Please tell me you're not planning to—"
"Steal?" I corrected. "Nooo, Ahsoka. Not steal."
She relaxed a hair.
"We're going to borrow."
She tensed again.
Maris gave a thumbs-up. "Do we bring snacks?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "Absolutely. Good initiative."
Ahsoka made a strangled noise. "No. No! We are not going anywhere! We are not stealing—borrowing—a ship! You are on probation, Ben! PRO-BA-TION!"
"Ahsoka," I said, putting on my most innocent smile, "how hard could stealing a ship be?"
"WE'RE NOT STEALING—"
...
Obi-Wan Kenobi was having a very long day.
And when his version of a long-day ranged from bailing his erstwhile padawan out of another sky-speeded joyride, or accidentally discovering an entire clone army… well. Suffice it to say, he's come to expect the unexpected.
Which was why when he had justsettled into what might have passed for meditation if he squinted hard enough — the kind where the Force felt peaceful, quiet, and very deliberately pretending not to comment on his life choices — it did not come as a surprise to him when his comm chimed with the specific tone used only for Council directives.
Not even a hint of surprise, in fact. Only a very healthy sense of dread.
The holo flickered to life, displaying the Council chamber and several Masters who wore matching expressions of concern. Not annoyance. Concern. That was worse.
"Knight Kenobi," Mace Windu said, voice clipped. "Due to recent political developments surrounding Mandalore's declaration of independence, the Council has reassessed our diplomatic strategy."
Obi-Wan felt his shoulders tense immediately. Mandalore. Satine. Independence. Politics.
The exact things that usually meant his week was about to fall apart.
He listened as they detailed the situation: Satine's declaration had caused ripples throughout the Mid and Outer Rim. The Republic was rattled. The Senate was fracturing.
The newly announced Confederacy had already begun spreading propaganda about Mandalore being "ripe for alignment." Satine was resistant, but isolated. And now that Mandalore had publicly offered sanctuary to the clones — citizenship, even — tensions were rising faster than the Jedi could file diplomatic briefings.
Which meant, naturally, they were sending him.
"Given your familiarity with Mandalore," Ki-Adi-Mundi added delicately, "you are the most… experienced candidate for this advisory role."
Experienced.
That was one word for it.
Emotionally compromised was another.
Romantically entangled if you asked Quinlan Vos.
A disaster waiting to happen if you asked Obi-Wan himself.
He masked the tightness in his chest with a polite nod.
"I understand, Masters."
There was a pause — just long enough for Obi-Wan to sense a second directive waiting in the wings.
"And," Windu added, "regarding Initiate Kryze…"
Ah. There it was.
He braced himself.
"…we understand you requested to bring him."
Obi-Wan startled, though only inwardly. He had asked — quietly, tentatively, knowing full well how it would be received. He had worded it carefully, too: Ben may benefit from witnessing peaceful diplomatic processes on his ancestral world. He'd chosen that phrasing specifically because it sounded responsible, professional, and definitely not because he wanted his son somewhere he could keep an eye on him after the Archives debacle and the Council reprimand.
The Council did not agree.
"It is our decision," Mace said, "that he remain on Coruscant."
"His probation remains in effect," Plo Koon added gently. "Reflection, not adventure, is what he requires now."
Obi-Wan managed not to sigh aloud. He only felt it — that faint, aching tug in his ribs that came from wanting to protect two worlds at once and failing at both.
He bowed. "Of course, Masters."
After the message ended, he stayed seated for a few minutes, staring at the darkened comm.
It was the right decision. Rational. Reasonable. Entirely logical.
And yet it felt wrong.
Ben, for all the chaos orbiting around him like debris caught in a gravity well, wasn't dangerous. He wasn't reckless without cause. He was curious. Passionate. Searching.
And increasingly lonely.
Obi-Wan stood, took a breath, and headed for Ben's quarters.
If he couldn't bring the boy with him, the least he could do was explain it himself.
...
The door to Ben's room slid open with a soft hiss after he knocked. Ben appeared in the frame looking… alarmingly innocent. Far too innocent. The kind of innocence that Obi-Wan had learned, through hard experience, only appeared when Ben was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent guilty of something.
His bag was half-packed on the bed behind him — not a normal bag, either, but one of the Temple-approved travel satchels initiates used for off-world training. Inside, Obi-Wan spotted rations, a multipurpose tool, two datapads, and something that looked suspiciously like a pilfered maintenance passcard.
Ben froze when he saw who it was. "Oh — Master Obi-Wan. Hi. Um. I was just… meditating."
Obi-Wan blinked, then glanced meaningfully at the bag.
Ben followed his gaze, then said, "Active meditation. You know. Movement. Packing. Contemplative… organizing."
The lie was terrible.
Spectacularly terrible.
Almost performance art.
Obi-Wan folded his arms. "I see."
Ben smiled with the fully unconvincing charm of someone who had no idea how obvious he truly was. "So… what's up?"
Obi-Wan stepped inside, though he didn't comment on the bag. Not yet. He could feel the tension rolling under Ben's surface like a tide. Whatever the boy was planning, he didn't want to humiliate him by calling it out immediately.
Instead, he said gently, "I've come to tell you that I've been assigned a new mission."
Ben's eyes lit with interest — too quickly. Obi-Wan detected the unmistakable spark of hope.
"Mandalore?" Ben guessed.
Obi-Wan nodded.
Ben's face split into a grin that made Obi-Wan's heart simultaneously warm and ache. "Can I come?"
There it was.
Pure, earnest eagerness.
And Obi-Wan had to extinguish it.
His chest tightened as he spoke. "I asked the Council."
Ben stilled. Just for a moment. But Obi-Wan felt the flicker of emotion — restrained, but sharp.
"And?" Ben asked.
Obi-Wan gave him the softest expression he could manage. "And they declined."
The hope drained from Ben's features in slow motion.
"Oh," he said, voice light, careful. "Right. Because of my probation."
"Yes."
Obi-Wan wished he could offer something gentler, but the truth stood like stone. "They believe reflection will benefit you more at this time."
"They say that," Ben muttered, "like reflection and adventure are different things."
Obi-Wan actually laughed — small, quiet, rueful. "Indeed. Personally, I've had some of my best epiphanies under blaster fire."
Ben blinked. "…I think I'm starting to understand why the healers don't like you."
Obi-Wan smiled faintly. "Yes, well. They rarely appreciate my insights."
He hesitated, watching Ben try — and fail — to mask his disappointment. The boy's shoulders had pulled in slightly, tension ghosting through the Force around him. Not anger. Not even frustration.
Just… confinement.
Obi-Wan's voice softened. "Ben."
The boy looked up.
"I am proud of you," Obi-Wan said. "Truly. Your curiosity, your initiative, the way you care for others — these are not failings. They are strengths. Even when they create… complications."
A faint, surprised laugh escaped Ben. "Complications. Yeah. That's one word for it."
Obi-Wan stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Ben's shoulder. It was as close as he could allow himself to come to embracing him outright. "I worry," he admitted quietly. "Not because I believe you reckless, but because the galaxy is shifting. Forces are moving faster than even the Council can track. And I don't want to lose you in that chaos."
Ben's throat bobbed in a swallow. He was quiet for a long beat.
Then he nodded. "I'll stay put. I promise."
Obi-Wan let out a relieved breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you."
Ben smiled — small, almost shy. "Have a safe trip. And… tell my aunt—"
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.
"My actual aunt," Ben amended quickly. "Bo-Katan. Tell her I said hi… unless she joined Death Watch. Then, just tell her to stop it. Threaten her with peace lectures. She hates those."
Obi-Wan chuckled.
They exchanged a mutual, gentle nod — the quiet warmth of an almost-family goodbye they couldn't have in words.
Obi-Wan turned to leave.
He paused at the doorway.
Something tugged faintly at his senses — not danger, exactly, but… misalignment. A thread pulled taut. Something just a little off.
He glanced over his shoulder at Ben, who stood there watching him with the perfect stillness of someone who desperately did not want to draw attention to the duffel bag behind him.
Obi-Wan frowned.
Then — after a second's hesitation — he let it go with a sigh.
He was probably just overthinking it.
He left the room.
In hindsight, he really, really shouldn't have.
...
The Jedi Temple hangar has a very particular smell—ionized engine coolant, polish, and the unmistakable scent of responsibility. Which is why stepping into it while actively planning a felony feels a bit like walking into the Healer's Ward carrying a flamethrower. I swear the walls know. They judge.
"Act normal," I whisper, which is immediately the least normal thing a person can say.
Ahsoka elbows me. "You saying that makes it worse."
Maris doesn't respond because she's already ten steps ahead, slinking between tool carts and landed starfighters with the grace of someone who alternates between ballet and petty crime. She hops onto a walkway rail, dangles for exactly one dramatic second, and drops behind a parked shuttle like a particularly smug cat.
I inhale deeply. The hangar is busy—busier than last time. Probably because the Council is having some kind of Very Serious Argument about Mandalore, the Separatists, and the Clones, which means all the pilots and mechanics are on high alert.
Speaking of said Clones, I'm still not entirely sure what the Republic's stance on them is, yet. But they have been making themselves very friendly with the Jedi. Ordinarily, that'd be a good thing.
But right now, that was a very bad thing for me.
Security wise.
Clone troopers in orange-striped tech armor made themselves at home loading crates into transports. A pair of Temple Guards stand in very obvious do not commit shenanigans positions by the primary console. A flight officer is barking orders at a pair of Jedi Knights who look like they'd rather be anywhere else. I spot at least three adults who could ruin our entire afternoon with a single stern look.
Perfect. Nothing raises the stakes of a stupid plan like witnesses.
We duck behind a stack of ration crates marked PROPERTY OF REPUBLIC RELIEF DIVISION — which feels like foreshadowing, considering my very logical and not-at-all insane plan to disguise our stolen ship as a food relief shuttle.
"Well," Ahsoka whispers, staring around the corner like she's scouting a battlefield, "this is officially the worst idea you've ever had."
"Incorrect," I whisper back cheerfully. "It's top three, at best. And besides—terrible ideas are the birthplace of legends."
Ahsoka stares at me the way Masters stare at malfunctioning droids. "That's not a saying."
"It is now."
"Ben," she hisses, "we are literally about to steal a shuttle."
"Borrow," I correct. "We're borrowing a shuttle."
"You don't plan to return it today."
"…Future returning is still returning."
Ahsoka opens her mouth—no doubt to deliver a lecture involving phrases like gross misconduct or why does the Force even let you live—but she freezes as a loud clank echoes through the hangar.
We both peek around the crates in time to see Maris climbing the side of our target shuttle like it personally offended her. She wedges her boot in a maintenance seam, pulls herself up, and pries open the cockpit hatch with a level of enthusiasm that suggests she was waiting her entire life for this moment.
Ahsoka pinches the bridge of her nose. "She moves like gravity is just… a suggestion."
"She rejects your mortal physics."
"She rejects everything."
"I admire that in a person."
Ahsoka shoots me a look that could peel paint. "You admire exactly the wrong things."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't—Ben, focus."
Right. The plan. The brilliant, flawless, absolutely airtight plan that I will definitely regret later but also probably brag about for years.
I tap the holopad strapped to my belt, Obi-Wan's ID tag tucked neatly beneath it like a guilty secret. He's being deployed. The Council assumes he's leaving the Temple shortly. That means his clearance is active. All I have to do is slip it through the terminal, file a fake flight plan, and hope I don't get arrested before we even get on the ship.
Easy. Simple. Worst case scenario, we become cautionary tales for future generations. Which would be a legacy, technically.
I take one step toward the central console.
Ahsoka grabs the back of my tunic so hard I choke. "No!"
I wheeze. "Ahsoka—this is—this is obstructing history—"
"You were about to use the Force on a guard!"
"I was going to nudge him! Mentally! Very gently! Like tapping someone on the shoulder. With telekinesis."
"That is still a felony!"
"You don't know that for sure."
"Yes I do! I actually pay attention in class!"
Traitor!
I clear my throat, adjusting my tunic like I meant to almost choke. "Fine. Plan B."
Ahsoka blinks. "There's a Plan B?"
"Of course there is. I always plan ahead." (I absolutely do not always plan ahead.)
Before she can say another negative, energy-killing, future-legend-destroying word, I slip around the crates and stride confidently toward the primary console—because adults can sense fear, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction.
Clone mechanics bustle around me, carrying hydrospanners, calibrating stabilizers, shouting about misaligned thrusters. I try to blend in with the vibe of competence, which is difficult considering I currently radiate the vibe of a kid sneaking into the kitchen at 2 a.m. to steal cake.
I slide Obi-Wan's tag into the terminal.
The console lights up.
A flight officer walks directly toward me.
I smile at him with all the ease of someone absolutely not about to commit grand theft starship.
He squints. "Initiate. Should you be—"
A sudden thoomp echoes behind us.
Everyone turns.
The shuttle's landing ramp has dropped—no, slammed down—like a guillotine, missing a passing Initiates class by approximately one finger-width. A group of five children scatter like startled loth-cats.
Ahsoka screams internally.
I scream internally.
The Temple Guard screams externally.
And Maris leans out of the cockpit hatch with the most unapologetic expression I've ever seen on a humanoid face. "Oops."
The flight officer sprints toward the chaos.
I yank the ID tag out of the terminal and shove it back into my belt like it personally betrayed me.
Ahsoka grabs my arm, dragging me backward so fast my boots squeak. "Do you understand how close that came to flattening three ten-year-olds?!"
"I would never allow harm to come to children," I say, offended. "Intentionally. Besides, the ramp missed. We should congratulate Maris on her precision."
"That wasn't precision. That was entropy wearing boots."
We skid behind the crates again just as two clone mechanics jog over to help the Padawan class regain their footing. A Temple Guard starts lecturing Maris from the floor. Maris, incredibly, appears to be pretending she can't hear him.
Ahsoka rounds on me. "We're so getting arrested."
I glance at the shuttle, engine lights glowing faintly, ramp still halfway extended like a tongue. I glance at the distracted adults. I glance at Maris silently mouthing get in losers, we're committing space crimes from the cockpit.
Then I grin.
"Correction," I announce, hands on hips like someone who absolutely deserves confidence. "We're getting promoted."
Ahsoka blinks. "Promoted?"
"To cautionary tales."
She stares at me like she's weighing whether to strangle me or join me.
The Force swirls through my chest—wild, warm, expectant. I feel a terrible idea crystalize into destiny.
This is happening.
This is so very, very happening.
...
There are many things a rational person would do when preparing to steal a shuttle from the Jedi Temple hangar. Meditate. Review escape paths. Perhaps reconsider their life choices.
I, however, am proudly slapping a giant REPUBLIC FOOD RELIEF TRANSPORT sticker onto the hull like I'm trying to win a prize for Most Overcompensating Cover Story.
Unfortunately, I forgot Galactic Basic is not spelled exactly like English.
Ahsoka stands behind me with her arms crossed. "Ben… you spelled 'Relief' wrong."
I look at the sticker.
I look at her.
I look back at the sticker, where RELEEF stares back at me like a taunt.
"Shhh," I whisper. "No one reads anymore. We're totally fine."
I am, internally, screaming. Kriffing Basic. Half the letters have different phonetic values and the grammar is a war crime. How am I supposed to remember that ei makes the long vowel sound here when it makes the completely opposite sound in other contexts? I didn't ask to be multilingual in space wizard languages.
I just wanted to move things with my mind, and chop things with lasers. Is that really so wrong?
Ahsoka huffs, "They literally doread, Ben. It's a government hanger."
"Government spelling," I argue, "is famously flexible."
Before she can reply with the kind of judgment only a Togruta pre-teen with moral high ground can wield, Maris strolls by carrying a crate labeled SWEET BANTHA COOKIES — BULK like it weighs nothing. She thunks it into the shuttle's cargo hold with the confidence of someone who has fully embraced the chaos inside her soul.
I gesture at her like she's evidence. "See? Look at that. Authenticity."
Ahsoka raises an eyebrow. "Authenticity?"
"Yes." I count on my fingers. "One: relief shipments often include food. We are helping the needy."
"By bringing cookies to… Korriban."
"We don't judge the nutritional needs of ancient Sith ghosts."
Ahsoka rubs her face.
"Two," I continue cheerfully, "long flight needs snacks."
She points at me. "The second one is the only honest part of this entire operation."
"Honesty is about intention."
"No, it's about truth, Ben."
"Well, that explains a lot of my grades."
She groans.
Maris hops back out of the cargo bay with a datapad under her arm. "We're short six crates. Should I steal more?"
"No!" Ahsoka blurts.
"…But also yes," I add, because what is moral consistency if not a boundary I choose not to recognize?
Maris grins and saunters away.
Ahsoka turns to me like I'm personally responsible for unleashing her. "You can't encourage her. She doesn't need encouragement. She needs supervision."
"Which we are providing!"
"We are not providing supervision, Ben. We are committing a crime."
"Do you ever get tired of being the responsible one?"
"Yes," she says instantly.
We share a moment of mutual understanding: the Force has done us both dirty with our role assignments today.
I slap another sticker on the shuttle. This one I spell correctly. Mostly because it only says FOOD, and thank the stars that's spelled the same in both languages. Some throngs really are universal.
I step back to admire the work: our modest Jedi shuttle now looks like a very enthusiastic third-rate charity project. The decals are slightly crooked and definitely peeling at the edges. The cargo ramp is hanging a bit low because Maris kicked the hydraulics earlier. And the whole thing smells faintly like ration bars.
Perfect. Exactly the kind of ship no one wants to talk to.
I'm halfway through adjusting my robe in what I hope is a "yes, I am a legitimate relief worker" fashion when I notice a clone trooper approaching. He's wearing officer markings—orange stripe on the pauldron, helmet tucked under one arm. He walks with that mix of discipline and mild exasperation that defines clones currently living as temple houseguests.
He stops three feet from me. "Initiates," he says, giving us a polite nod. "Cargo inspection."
Ahsoka stiffens.
Maris whispers from inside the shuttle, "Don't let him see the snacks."
I step forward and channel the full power of fake credibility. "Of course, sir. Absolutely. Happy to help you help us help the galaxy."
The clone blinks slowly. "Right. What's the mission designation?"
I hand him the datapad I forged earlier. "Humanitarian Route 2-Five-Seven, to… uh…" I fake a yawn to cover the pause. "Outer Rim. Food deployment for remote settlements."
He scans the file.
My heart races.
He frowns.
My soul leaves my body.
Then he nods. "Seems in order."
My soul re-enters, slightly crooked.
The clone walks to the cargo hold. Ahsoka and I follow like doomed schoolchildren. Maris attempts to hide behind a crate but fails miserably, since she is very clearly visible and also making direct eye contact.
The clone leans in, checks the first crate.
"Nutrient packs. Good."
He moves to the second.
"More nutrient packs."
He moves to the third.
He stops.
I freeze.
Ahsoka freezes.
Maris does not freeze. She casually picks lint off her sleeve like she isn't the architect of this disaster.
The trooper taps the crate. "Cookies?"
My entire brain short-circuits.
Without thinking—without even the barest consultation of the last three neurons I have functioning—I blurt:
"We're also delivering morale!"
Silence.
Echoing, vast, terrifying silence.
The clone turns his helmet in his hands. I can't read his expression, but I can feel the judgement radiating through the Force like a sunburn.
Then he shrugs.
SHRUGS.
"Well," he says, "settlers in the Outer Rim could use the boost. Carry on."
He signs the clearance.
Hands me the pad.
And walks away.
Ahsoka waits until he's out of earshot.
Then very quietly says:
"I hate that this worked."
I beam at her. "Faith, Ahsoka. Believe in the power of bold stupidity."
Maris hops down from the ramp. "Believing in stupidity is easy. We're surrounded by it."
"That's the spirit," I say proudly.
She smirks. "I meant you."
Before I can retort, a blaring alarm erupts from the far end of the hangar. Red lights strobe across the deck. Clone troopers jog toward the entryway, someone yelling about an equipment breach, and every adult pair of eyes becomes very, very distracted.
Which, of course, is our cue.
I feel the Force buzz through my chest like it's holding up a massive neon sign that reads RUN.
I sprint for the ramp.
Ahsoka sprints too, muttering something that sounds like "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die."
Maris is already halfway up the ladder to the cockpit, shouting, "Called shotgun!"
The three of us tumble into the shuttle—
—and the hangar falls away behind us as destiny, stupidity, and momentum collide in perfect harmony.
...
Ahsoka already knew this was a mistake. She knew it back in the hallway, when she first felt Ben's "I have a brilliant idea" aura radiate off him like a space heater left on too long. She knew it while they were sneaking through the hangar, and she definitely knew it when Maris started flipping switches with the gleeful recklessness of someone who wanted to see what would explode first.
But now, strapped into a shuttle that was technically flightworthy, watching her two best friends try to pilot like half-sedated Kowakian lizards… Ahsoka decided the Force had abandoned her.
Or worse — it was laughing.
Ben slammed his hand against a panel. "Shields up!"
The shuttle lurched so violently Ahsoka's montrals rang like tuning forks.
Maris, in the co-pilot seat, stared at the mess of buttons in front of her as though they were written in ancient Sith. "Which one is shields?"
"That—" Ahsoka tried to point, but the shuttle bobbed upward without warning. She grabbed the back of Ben's seat to steady herself. "The one that says shields! You know— the button literally labeled shields!"
"Oh," Maris said. "That seems too obvious."
She pressed it.
The shields came online with a bassy thrum, followed immediately by something sparking behind them. Ahsoka inhaled sharply.
"Did something just break?" she asked.
Ben grinned without turning around. "Not anything we need."
Ahsoka buried her face in her hands and reminded herself that she had, of her own free will, chosen these two as her friends. At this point, she couldn't even blame the Force. The Force had given her at least three opportunities to stop this. She'd ignored all of them. That made her just as guilty.
Maybe more.
The shuttle shot forward, scraping so close to the hangar wall that Ahsoka heard the paint peel.
"Ben!" she yelped.
"Relax! I know exactly what I'm doing!" Ben lied confidently, veering sharply to avoid a refueling tank. A group of clone engineers dove for cover. A few shouted something rude enough that Ahsoka decided she didn't want to know what it meant.
Ahead of them, two clone gunships lifted off the deck — elegant, steady, controlled.
The complete opposite of this.
Ahsoka's heart lurched. "Ben, you're heading straight for them—!"
Ben yanked the controls right as Maris simultaneously yanked other controls, and for one horrible second the shuttle twisted sideways like a drunk bantha attempting ballet. The gunships roared past, one above, one below, missing them by what Ahsoka was pretty sure counted as "legally unacceptable distance."
Her montrals buzzed. Her stomach buzzed. Her future disciplinary hearing buzzed.
If she lived that long.
"That was close," Maris said cheerfully. "We only almost died twice."
"Three times," Ahsoka corrected. "The first one was when you got into the pilot's seat."
Ben flicked a switch and the shuttle shot forward again, faster this time — too fast. Definitely too fast. Ahsoka grabbed her safety harness and braced.
The comm panel crackled to life as hangar control's voice exploded through the cockpit speakers:
"SHUTTLE 4-B, YOU ARE NOT CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF— DO YOU COPY? REPEAT: YOU ARE NOT CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF— WHO IS IN MY SHIP?!"
Maris blinked. "Should I answer it?"
Ben shook his head fiercely. "Absolutely not. If we don't answer, they can't yell at us."
"That's not how it works!" Ahsoka snapped. "Ben— we're stealing a shuttle!"
"Borrowing," Ben corrected. "Stealing implies we won't bring it back."
"Are we bringing it back?"
Ben paused, did the mental math, then shrugged. "We'll see how the day goes."
The comm continued blaring:
"SHUTTLE 4-B, YOU ARE ON A COLLISION TRAJECTORY WITH THE SOUTH TRAFFIC LANE— ADJUST COURSE IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL— HEY— HEY, WHO'S TOUCHING MY SHIP?!"
Ahsoka slumped lower in her seat and whispered to the heavens, "Why do I care about these idiots?"
Because she did. Against all logic. Against all self-preservation instincts. Against every warning the Force had ever tried to send her.
She cared about Ben, with his ridiculous optimism and even more ridiculous hair, and his unwavering belief that every terrible plan was one brilliant idea away from becoming legendary. And she cared about Maris, whose default emotional setting was "Chaotic Neutral, leaning toward Gremlin," and who treated danger with the same energy someone might treat a carnival ride.
They were disasters. Walking, Force-sensitive disasters.
But they were her disasters. And if she didn't make sure they didn't die… no one would.
Ben jerked the shuttle up and they shot through the hangar mouth, wobbling into open sky. Coruscant's air lanes unfolded before them — a bright, endless maze of traffic streams like glowing arteries.
The shuttle surged forward, narrowly avoiding a passing speeder with a furious honk. Ahsoka felt her lekku curl tight against her skull. "Ben, slow down!"
"Can't! Not until we're clear of the Temple airspace." Ben leaned forward over the controls, fully committed to the chaos he had created. "Almost there!"
A stern, clipped voice came through the comm: "Unidentified shuttle, this is Coruscant Traffic Control. Adjust course immediately— you are violating civilian lanes—"
Maris reached toward the comm switch. "Should I—?"
"No!" Ahsoka and Ben yelled at the same time.
Maris pulled her hand back with a pout. "Why do you two get to have all the fun?"
"We are trying to not die!" Ahsoka shouted.
"Speak for yourself," Ben said. "Maris and I are doing amazing."
Ahsoka stared at him. "…Ben, we nearly hit four things in the last thirty seconds."
"Which means we didn't hit them. That's skill, Ahsoka."
"That's luck!"
Ben smirked. "Skillfully applied luck."
Ahsoka thumped her forehead against the viewport and wondered if she could apply for asylum with the clones. They seemed nice. Orderly. Sane. She could live in their barracks. Learn their card games. Never fly with Ben and Maris again.
The shuttle jolted sideways as Ben executed what he confidently referred to as a "slight maneuver" and what Ahsoka referred to as "a cry for help."
Traffic lanes blurred around them, streams of speeders splitting like water around a rock — except the rock was on fire and making wrong decisions.
A speeder driver shouted something obscene through the window as they passed. Maris waved cheerfully.
Ahsoka pressed both hands over her eyes. She could already feel the punishment stacking up. The scolding. The formal reprimands. The "deeply disappointed" look from Master Yoda that made her feel like she'd kicked a tooka. The look from Master Plo, which would be worse because he'd still love her while she suffered.
She'd joined the criminals.
She was one of the criminals.
She was going to get a criminal record before she even became a Padawan.
Ben, because the universe refused to stop indulging him, let out a whoop of triumph as the shuttle burst free from the densest lanes and shot upward toward open sky.
"We did it!" he shouted. "We're officially fugitives!"
Ahsoka groaned long and loud, sinking so far into her seat she considered never emerging again.
Maris grinned back at her. "Hey, at least the view's nice."
Ahsoka stared at the ceiling.
"I hate both of you."
Ben whooped again, steering them toward the clouds.
...
The moment the shuttle stopped rattling like it was being piloted by two children with brain damage—because it was—my eyes locked on the navscreen lighting up with our destination coordinates.
KORRIBAN.
The word glowed in this deep, brooding red, pulsing like it wanted to warn me, Hey, kid, this is where Jedi go to die, get haunted, or make very poor life choices. The whole thing felt ominous. Dramatic. Heavy.
Then I realized the color setting was just set to "Alert Scarlet."
"Okay," I muttered, leaning forward and poking at the controls. "But what if we don't do 'blood of a thousand Sith' red? What if we did…"
I flipped a toggle.
The text turned bright green.
The ominous vibe died instantly, replaced with something that reminded me of Master Yoda. Or my trusty lightsaber. Or a salad. Granted, I hate salads, but at least I know I could annihilate them if I wanted to.
Much better.
I sat back, visibly pleased with myself. "Now that is a muchfriendlier ancient Dark Side planet."
Ahsoka leaned forward between the seats, staring like she expected the navscreen to burst into flames just for witnessing my existence. "Ben, why would you—why green?"
"Because it's less 'You will die horribly' and more 'Please enjoy your visit,'" I said. "Also it reminds me of Master Yoda."
Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure he'd be… thrilled."
Actually, I wondered what Master Yoda would say if he could see me right now, sitting in a stolen shuttle with two of the Temple's biggest agents of chaos, heading to the Sith homeworld. He'd probably sigh. Maybe do the disappointed slow blink. Or tilt his head and say something like:
Failed, I have.
I snorted. Out loud. Ahsoka gave me a look like he's finally snapped.
The starfield ahead of us stretched, elongated, and then—
FLASH.
Hyperspace swallowed everything.
I felt my heart lift, like it always did when the blue tunnel of light wrapped around the ship. Hyperspace was freedom. Adventure. Possibility. Consequence-free velocity.
…In theory.
Ahsoka settled into the copilot's seat with the energy of someone resigning themselves to a fate they had been warned about repeatedly and yet still walked into. She crossed her arms. Her montrals tilted slightly toward me — the Togruta equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
"You know we're making a huge mistake," she said quietly.
She didn't sound angry. Or scared. More like someone narrating the doomed choices of her own documentary.
I should probably feel a little guilt about that.
Instead, I grinned.
"Yeah," I said. "But imagine how cool it'll be if it works."
Her face did that thing where she wanted to be annoyed but couldn't quite get there because part of her also wanted to laugh. She looked away, muttering something under her breath about "idiots" and "terrible ideas" and "why do I like you people."
Behind us, Maris made a content little noise. I turned just in time to see her perched cross-legged on the emergency supply crate like some kind of smug gremlin queen, chewing a cookie with the serenity of a monk contemplating enlightenment.
"We're so dead," she said happily. "I love it."
"Wait—are you eating the cookies we brought for food relief?!" I leaned back over the seat, scandalized. I didn't even get to open the first pack!
Maris shoved another one in her mouth without breaking eye contact. "Maybe."
"Hey! Don't eat all of them! I want one!"
Ahsoka lifted her head, eyes narrowing like a predator hearing prey rustle in the grass damn her sharp, flawless instincts. "Cookies?"
"No," I said quickly. "No, these are mine. I called dibs. I'm the captain. I get a cookie."
"You're not the captain," Ahsoka said, already unbuckling. "And I want a cookie."
I clutched the crate reflexively. "These are my cookies. You left me alone for two minutes in the hangar and I almost died; I deserve these."
"You almost died because you're you," Ahsoka countered. "Gimme."
"No!"
"Ben." Her voice dropped an octave. Jedi Youngling Training Voice. The one that sounded like she was ready to swing a training sabers at my head. "Give me one."
"They are the last happy thing on this ship and I earned them!"
Maris, in the background, whispered like she was watching gladiatorial combat. "Good… fight."
"Maris, stop encouraging her!" I snapped.
"I'm not encouraging— I'm enjoying," she said, taking another slow bite. She was doing it on purpose. She wanted us to see the dramatics of the nibble. Sith behavior.
Ahsoka lunged for the crate. I yanked it away, scrambling backward across the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the bunk frame.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Personal space! These cookies are sacred!"
Ahsoka pounced again. I rolled.
"Ben, just give me one!" she shot back.
"No! The last time I shared snacks with you, you ate the entire pack and said it was 'accidentally on purpose!'"
"That was one time!"
"That was last week!"
"Children," Maris said, licking crumbs off her fingers, "please. There are more cookies in the box. I packed a lot."
We both froze.
Slowly, we turned.
She was sitting on the other half of the crate. The unopened half. The larger half.
Ahsoka blinked. "…Maris."
"Yes?" she said sweetly.
"If you had more cookies," Ahsoka said, "why did you—?"
Maris shrugged. "Drama."
There was a moment of silence.
I whispered reverently, "You are… terrifying."
Ahsoka nodded. "Yeah. I actually respect that."
Maris grinned like she'd just been handed an award.
I cracked open the untouched half of the crate and passed Ahsoka a cookie. She took it with the kind of gravitas usually reserved for treaties or small, fragile animals.
We sat there for a second, nibbling in relative peace. Hyperspace hummed around us. The cabin lights buzzed. A broken panel somewhere near the refresher made a sad little rattling noise.
And for a moment — just long enough for the Force to settle quietly around us — it hit me:
We were actually doing this.
We were on our way to Korriban.
The Sith homeworld.
Alone.
No Masters. No supervision. No permission. No plan.
Just three half-trained lunatics and a shuttle that handled like a half-melted datapad.
I felt a ridiculous, wild thrill spark in my chest. The kind that said, This is either the best idea I've ever had or the beginning of a disaster ballad future Padawans will sing while sweeping the Temple.
Ahsoka leaned her head back against the seat. "When we get arrested," she said, "I'm blaming you first."
"That's fair," I said.
"I'm blaming both of you," Maris added. "Equally."
"That's less fair," I said.
Ahsoka gave me this sideways smile — tired, stressed, fond in the way only a best friend can be while contemplating the legal consequences of your joint stupidity.
"You know," she said softly, "if somehow… somehow… we don't die?"
"Yeah?"
"This is going to be the coolest thing we ever do."
I felt my grin stretch.
"Oh," I said, leaning back and letting hyperspace blur into a blue river beyond the viewport, "I'm counting on it."