Chapter 22: PROXY Problems
Sith meditation, I was discovering, was mostly just lying down while angry.
Not the calming kind of lying down, either. No gentle breathing. No "let your thoughts pass like clouds." It was more… brooding horizontally. Occasionally punctuated by pacing. Or seething. Or getting up to punch something, realizing that hurt, and then lying back down again, angrier.
I was on my back on the cold stone floor of what had once been—according to the murals and half-melted statuary—a Sith Academy training hall. Now it was more of a workshop-slash-recovery-space-slash-place-where-ambitious-acolytes-had-probably-died-screaming. The ceiling disappeared into shadow, and the air smelled faintly of ozone, old dust, and regret.
Every muscle in my body hurt.
Not in a satisfying, I-trained-hard way. In a my bones are actively mutinying against me way.
A few meters away, Maris was sitting cross-legged on a cracked plinth, elbows braced on her knees, chin in her hands. Her eyes were closed. Her horns were scuffed. There was a healing salve smeared across one cheekbone, applied with all the care of someone who deeply resented needing it.
She looked like she was meditating.
She was not meditating.
She was glaring at the universe with her eyes shut.
Wrath had called it "centering."
I suspected that was Sith for simmer until you're ready to explode again.
I tried to breathe the way the Jedi taught. Slow in. Slow out. Let the Force flow through you, not from you.
The Force, apparently, had other plans. It flowed like it was annoyed with me personally.
I shifted, hissing as something in my ribs protested.
"Don't move like that," Maris said without opening her eyes.
"Don't tell me how to suffer," I muttered. "I'm doing great."
"You made a noise like a dying tooka."
"It was a strategic dying tooka."
She snorted.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the deeply unwelcome realization that this—this miserable, aching, half-functional aftermath—was probably Wrath's idea of progress.
Sith training was not about balance.
It was about endurance.
About how much you could hurt and still stand back up.
Or, in my case, how much you could hurt and still pretend lying on the floor was a tactical decision.
My comm chimed.
Once.
I ignored it.
It chimed again.
Maris opened one eye and glanced at me. "If that's the Jedi again, tell them you died."
"I tried that last week."
"And?"
"Apparently funerals require bodies." Which is a bullshit policy, considering some of us can apparently turn into a pile of clothes, when we die.
The comm chimed a third time.
Then a fourth.
Then, because the Force clearly hated me, it started vibrating against the stone like it was trying to escape.
I groaned and fished it out of my pocket, holding it at arm's length like it might bite me.
Ahsoka's name glared up at me.
I sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that came from the soul.
Maris smiled, eyes still closed. "You should answer that."
"I really shouldn't."
"You really should."
"I could throw it into a pit."
"You already tried that. It climbed back out."
She wasn't wrong. Sith architecture had excellent signal coverage. I suspected it was deliberate. Every time I try to throw my problems away, they get chucked right into my face. The message was not lost on me. Address your issues, or be crushed by them.
I thumbed the accept control.
"Ahsoka," I said. "Hey. Wow. What a surprise."
Her face filled the holo, and for half a second I felt an intense wave of relief. Familiar robes. Familiar montrals. Familiar expression that was somehow exhausted, irritated, and concerned all at once.
Then she opened her mouth.
"Stop screening my calls."
I winced. "Okay, first of all, rude. Second—"
"I covered for you during roll call. Again," she said, steamrolling straight over me. "Master Yoda asked where you were. Again. And before you say anything, no, 'independent study' is not a valid answer when you have been 'independently studying' for twoweeks without permission."
Maris snickered.
I shot her a look. She grinned wider.
Ahsoka continued, clearly just getting warmed up. "Do you know how hard it is to lie to the Jedi Council? I had to imply you were both sick, and then Master Windu started asking follow-up questions, Ben."
"That sounds like a personal choice he made."
"Do not get sarcastic with me," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I am very tired."
That… gave me pause.
Ahsoka tired wasn't unheard of. Ahsoka this tired was.
Her shoulders were slumped. There were faint shadows under her eyes. She looked like someone who had been holding something together with stubbornness and caffeine, and was running out of both.
"I can't keep doing this alone," she said, quieter now. "Covering for you. Explaining why you're not here. Pretending I don't know where you went. It's—Ben, it's starting to feel weird. People are noticing."
That set off a small, cold knot in my stomach.
That was bad.
That was really bad.
"Okay," I said quickly. "Okay. I hear you. We hear you. Right, Maris?"
Maris opened one eye again. "I hear that she's mad."
"See? Group awareness."
Ahsoka gave Maris a flat look through the holo. "You're both unbelievable."
"That's not fair," I said. "I am extremely believable. I just happen to be… occupied."
She stared at me.
"…What are you doing?"
I hesitated. Just a fraction too long.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Ben."
"Okay," I said. "We can't talk about it right now."
"Ben."
"But," I added quickly, "I promise. We'll think of something. We'll figure this out. We'll get back to you later."
Her expression shifted—not angrier, exactly. Just… worn.
"Later," she repeated. "You always say later."
And I'm starting to feel a little bad about it, too.
"I know."
"Just—" She exhaled, long and slow. "Just don't disappear, okay?"
"I won't," I said, and meant it. "I know I haven't been… the bestfriend, lately. But I promise, I will make it up to you, alright? It won't be long."
She held my gaze for a second longer, then cut the transmission.
The holo winked out.
Silence settled back over the chamber, heavy and echoing.
I stared at the comm for a moment, then let my arm fall back to the floor.
"Well," I said. "That went… bad."
Maris opened both eyes now. "That went predictably."
"I feel guilty."
"You should."
"Wow."
She shrugged. "You're the one who keeps telling me to be honest."
"I never told you that."
"Oh." Maris blinked, looking almost apologetic. "Sorry. I meant you were doing just great, champ."
That, miraculously, did not help.
Before I could respond, the air in the chamber shifted.
It was subtle. The kind of thing you didn't notice unless you were Force-sensitive, and possibly already traumatized.
Pressure gathered. Not oppressive—Wrath rarely wasted effort on that—but present. Like gravity deciding to pay attention to you specifically.
I sat up with a groan as the holocron activated.
Red light spilled across the stone, coalescing into the armored, masked figure of the Emperor's Wrath. He stood as he always did: hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect, presence vast and quietly suffocating.
He had clearly been listening.
"Your communications are inefficient," Wrath said mildly.
I blinked. "I'm sorry, do Sith usually critique calling etiquette?"
"They do when it reveals a strategic vulnerability."
Maris tilted her head. "Our vulnerability being… friends?"
Wrath regarded her. "Your vulnerability is absence."
That cold knot in my stomach tightened.
"The Jedi," Wrath continued, "are not blind. You are unaccounted for. Patterns emerge. Questions follow."
I swallowed. "We're working on it."
"Irrelevant," he said. "The solution is simple."
Maris crossed her arms. "Oh, this should be good."
Wrath's gaze shifted to me. I had the deeply uncomfortable sensation of being evaluated like a problem that had multiple acceptable answers, none of which involved my comfort.
"If the Jedi demand your presence," Wrath said, "then give them something that resembles it."
I frowned. "I'm sorry, can you say that again, but less… ominous?"
He did not.
Maris stared at him for a long second. "…Are you telling us to fake our own existence?"
Wrath turned his helmeted head toward her. "That would be redundant."
She scowled. "I don't like that answer."
"I am informing you," Wrath said, voice perfectly even, "that unless you wish the Jedi to know you are missing, then you should give them the impression that you are found."
Silence followed.
I felt something click into place at the back of my mind. Something awful. Something clever. Something that had Wrath written all over it.
"Oh," I said faintly.
Maris looked at me. Then back at Wrath. Then back at me.
"…Oh," she echoed.
Wrath's presence receded slightly, the lesson delivered.
"Rest," he said. "Tomorrow, we address logistics."
The holocron dimmed.
I lay back down on the stone, staring up into the shadows.
"We cannot keep skipping school," I said.
Maris smiled slowly.
"No," she agreed. "But we can think of new ways to keep them on their toes."
And that was when I knew—deep in my bones, somewhere beneath the bruises and bad decisions—that this was about to get much, much worse.
...
Maris decided—about twelve minutes into the scavenging—that she hated Sith droid bays almost as much as she hated learning Sith meditation.
Which was impressive, because that had involved a lot of screaming and at least one incident where Ben had tried to "channel his frustration" and instead Force-pushed a wall hard enough to crack it.
To be fair, the wall had it coming.
She despised walls, truly. Always trying to box her in. Keep her out of places. Of course, these walls were among the creepiest.
The droid bay was vast, cavernous, and aggressively haunted by bad ideas.
Rows of inactive training droids lay scattered like corpses across the floor—some humanoid, some insectile, some shaped in ways that suggested the Sith had once looked at the concept of ergonomics and laughed. Ancient simulators loomed along the creepy, creepy walls, their interfaces dark, cracked, or still faintly glowing with corrupted power.
Everything smelled like rust, ozone, and ambition that had gone horribly wrong.
Maris stepped over a collapsed rack of limbs, nudging a severed photoreceptor with the toe of her boot.
"This one definitely tried to murder its owner," she said.
Ben, crouched nearby and elbow-deep in a disassembled torso, didn't look up. "Yeah. But the motivator's intact."
"That's not comforting."
"Oh, don't make it a thing. They're droids! And not even smart ones. It's not like they were ever even alive."
She watched him work for a moment, head tilted. Fair. Possibly robophobic. But fair.
Ben was… weirdly focused.
Not his usual distracted, overthinking, three-steps-ahead-but-forgets-the-ground-he's-standing-on kind of focus. This was quieter. Methodical. He laid parts out carefully, cleaned connections with a scrap of cloth, and tested components with small, precise nudges of the Force.
It was almost—annoyingly—competent.
She turned back to her own pile of salvage and immediately sliced her knuckle open on a jagged edge.
"Force—!" She hissed, shoving the bleeding finger into her mouth on reflex.
"Careful," Ben said absently. "Those casings are durasteel composites. Very, very sharp. They don't forgive mistakes."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she snapped. "I forgot I was supposed to be good at this."
He glanced over then, eyebrow lifting. "You're good at a lot of things."
"Name three."
He paused. "Stabbing. Intimidation. Creative violence."
She considered. "…Acceptable."
They worked in silence for a bit after that, broken only by the occasional clang of metal, muttered curses, and one alarming moment when a dormant training droid twitched and both of them ignited their sabers on pure instinct.
It did not move again.
Eventually, Ben straightened, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So," he said, carefully casual. "I had a thought."
Maris immediately frowned. "I don't like how you said that."
"It's a good thought."
"That's worse."
He held up a small, circular component—an emitter core, ancient but salvageable. "You know PROXY droids?"
Her brow furrowed. "…The assassination-training ones?"
"Yes."
"The ones that adapt to your fighting style and then try to kill you."
"Yes."
"The ones that are illegal in at least three systems."
"Also yes."
She stared at him. "…Continue."
Ben's eyes were bright now, that familiar spark of inspiration lighting up his expression. "We don't need to go back," he said. "We just need something to make the Temple think we're there."
The idea landed.
It sat there for a second.
Then it unfolded in her mind, ugly and brilliant and deeply irresponsible.
"Oh," Maris said slowly. "Oh, that's evil."
Ben smiled. "Wrath approved."
That explained a lot.
As if summoned by his name, the air shifted again. The holocron's glow flickered to life near the bay's entrance, Wrath's armored figure resolving from light and shadow.
"Deception," Wrath said, "is a valid tool."
Maris crossed her arms. "And here I thought you were going to say this was a terrible idea."
Wrath regarded her. "Perhaps. But it is a… creative one. I'm inclined to see it performed. Please, do not disappoint me as much as your last teachers."
She grinned. "I like him."
Ben snorted.
Wrath said nothing further, which Maris had learned meant permission granted. His presence faded, leaving behind the oppressive quiet of the bay and the sudden weight of what they'd just agreed to do.
Build replacements.
For themselves.
"Okay," Maris said, rolling her shoulders. "Ground rules. If mine turns into a creepy murder version of me, I'm destroying it."
Ben hesitated. "…That's sort of the default."
"Ben."
"I'll put in safety limits."
"Ben."
"Multiple."
She nodded, satisfied.
They got to work.
Ben's approach was infuriating.
He planned.
He sketched rough schematics on the dusty floor with a piece of chalk he'd found somewhere (she did not ask). He calibrated joints by hand, aligning servos with delicate Force adjustments. He tested vocal modulators, rewrote response trees, and spent an unreasonable amount of time on tone.
His PROXY started taking shape quickly—humanoid, proportioned to match him almost exactly. The faceplate was smooth at first, then gradually refined, features softening as he adjusted projection matrices.
When he finally powered it up for the first time, it tilted its head slightly and smiled.
"Hello," PROXY-Ben said gently. "Are you experiencing discomfort? Your posture suggests strain."
Maris stared.
Ben stared.
The droid clasped its hands. "I can prepare a hydration reminder if you'd like."
"…Why is it nice?" Maris demanded.
Ben frowned. "I wanted it to be believable."
"Right. So why is it nice? You're not a nice person."
"That's rude."
"That thing looks like it would apologize if someone stabbed it."
PROXY-Ben turned to her. "I'm sorry if my presence is unsettling."
Maris recoiled. "Oh no."
Ben rubbed his face. "Okay, maybe I overcorrected."
"Maybe?" She circled the droid warily. "Ben, this is like if a hug learned how to walk."
PROXY-Ben nodded solemnly. "Physical contact can be grounding."
"I hate it."
Meanwhile, Maris's PROXY was… different.
She did not plan.
She assembled.
Parts snapped together with the Force guiding her hands, intuition filling in gaps where knowledge failed. The chassis came together solidly enough, limbs proportioned correctly, armor plates locking into place with a satisfying clang.
She ignored Ben's concerned glances.
"I know what I'm doing," she said, absolutely lying.
The head took longer. Facial mapping flickered between expressions—some too sharp, some too flat—until she forced it to settle on something that looked enough like her to pass at a glance.
Good enough.
She powered it on.
PROXY-Maris's eyes lit red.
It immediately turned and punched the wall.
The impact echoed through the bay, stone cracking as dust rained from the ceiling.
Ben yelped. "Why did it do that?"
Maris stared. "…Diagnostic test?"
The droid squared its shoulders. "THE WALL STARTED IT."
Ben slowly turned to her.
"It's working great," Maris said quickly. "Shut up."
"It punched the wall," he said, as PROXY-Maris followed up with another blow. "… twice." He finished, abruptly.
"THE WALL LOOKS HOSTILE," the droid insisted.
Maris crossed her arms defensively. "I am not a mechanic. I am a space wizard. Would it have killed the Force to lend a hand?"
PROXY-Maris turned toward Ben. "ARE YOU A THREAT."
Ben raised both hands. "Nope. Friendly. Extremely non-threatening."
PROXY-Ben stepped forward. "It's okay. We're safe here."
PROXY-Maris stared at him.
"…I DON'T TRUST YOU."
"That's fair," Maris muttered. "I don't either."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, then reached out with the Force—firm, precise—and shoved a few subroutines back into place.
The droid's posture relaxed slightly.
"…I will tolerate the wall," PROXY-Maris said grudgingly.
Ben let out a breath. "We need to fix that."
"We will," Maris said. "Later."
She looked at the two droids standing there—one kind to a fault, one barely restrained—and felt something twist in her chest.
They weren't perfect.
But they were close enough.
Close enough to fool the Temple.
Close enough to buy them time.
Which meant this was really happening.
They weren't just playing at being Sith anymore.
They were committing.
...
It turns out that building two incredibly advanced, illegal, borderline-sapient PROXY droids is not the hardest part of faking your own existence.
The hardest part is that the Jedi can feel you.
This is something that, in hindsight, I really should have remembered sooner.
We're standing in the ritual chamber—one of the few open Force spaces in the Academy that doesn't immediately try to murder you or whisper encouragement about betrayal—and I'm staring at my PROXY with mounting dread.
He's standing perfectly still.
Too perfectly.
He looks like me. Moves like me. Breathes in a convincing approximation of lungs doing their thing. If you squint, he even feels like me—not just a hologram overlayed onto cold robotic steel. It's warm. Almost passable for alive.
But the Force?
The Force says nothing.
It's like staring at a person-shaped hole.
Maris squints at her own PROXY, head tilted. "Huh."
"That's not the reaction I was hoping for," I said.
She waves a hand through the air around it, eyes unfocused as she probes with her senses. "Yeah, no. This is bad."
"How bad?"
She grimaces. "If a Jedi glances at them casually, maybe fine. If they stop and actually pay attention—"
"They'll know immediately," I finish.
"Yep."
I scrub my hands over my face. "Great. Fantastic. We might as well have built cardboard cutouts."
PROXY-Ben looks concerned. "Is something wrong?"
"You have no idea," I muttered.
Maris circles PROXY-Maris, who is glaring suspiciously at a scorch mark on the floor.
"I don't like this," Maris said. "I hate when plans fall apart because of metaphysical nonsense."
"It's not nonsense," I said weakly. "It's the Force."
"Same thing."
She straightens and looks at me. "We can't send these back like this. They'll notice the difference in like five seconds."
"I know."
"They already think something's off."
"I know."
"And if Master Yoda looks at them—"
"I KNOW."
I pace. Badly. The floor here is etched with old Sith glyphs, most of which mean something along the lines of power through suffering or this was a terrible idea but we did it anyway. I'm pretty sure at least one of them is laughing at me.
"We need presence," I said. "Something… anchored. Something that convinces the Force we're there, even if we're not."
Maris's lips purse. "You're talking about projection."
"I'm talking about projection," I agree. "Which is a problem."
She gives me a sideways look. "Because…?"
I stop pacing.
Because Luke Skywalker died doing that.
Because the only Force projection I've ever seen on that scale, with that distance, required such an obscene amount of energy that it burned him out completely.
Because I have absolutely no interest in being remembered as tragic footnote number three in a saga already drowning in them.
Because if I die doing something stupid, I know how this goes. The universe replaces me with some shiny new protagonist nobody asked for. Some Mary Sue, who's unbelievably good at everything. And with a bullshit origins background. Probably Palpatine's granddaughter. Again.
I take a breath. "Because projection on that level is supposed to kill you."
Maris blinks. "Oh."
"Yeah."
She winces. "Okay, yeah, that's… not ideal."
The air shifts.
Wrath manifests without ceremony, his presence snapping into place like gravity suddenly remembering it exists. The temperature drops a fraction. The Force thickens, heavy and attentive.
"You are thinking too narrowly," Wrath said.
I look up at him. "With respect, you're a ghost in a box. Your risk tolerance is different."
His helm tilts. "You are not attempting illusion."
"No," I said. "I'm attempting not to die."
Wrath ignores that. "The Jedi technique you reference requires continuous output. A complete replication of self. That is not what I am suggesting."
Maris folds her arms. "Then what are you suggesting?"
"An echo," Wrath said. "Anchored."
I frown. "Like… Force voicemail?"
Wrath pauses.
"…Yes," Wrath said slowly. "That analogy is acceptable."
Maris snorts.
Wrath continues, unbothered. "You will not project yourselves. You will leave behind residue. A controlled impression. Enough to disrupt perception."
I swallow. "Disrupt how?"
"The Jedi do not observe the Force in isolation," Wrath said. "They interpret patterns. Flow. Absence is noticeable. Noise is not."
That… actually makes a disturbing amount of sense.
"So," I said carefully, "instead of pretending to be us perfectly, we just… confuse them."
"Yes."
Maris's grin is sharp. "I love confusing Jedi."
Wrath gestures, and the ritual chamber responds. The glyphs along the walls glow faintly, not with the aggressive hunger of earlier rituals, but something subtler. Binding. Anchoring.
"You will extend a fragment of your presence," Wrath instructs. "Not thought. Not will. Impression."
My stomach knots.
I step forward anyway.
I reach out to the Force—and stop short.
Luke Skywalker standing on Crait. The effort. The strain. The way he smiles like he knows what it costs.
I do not want to be that brave.
I do not want to be that dead.
"Ben," Maris said quietly.
I glance at her. She's watching me, expression serious in a way that always throws me off. No jokes. No smirk. Just… trust.
"We're not doing it his way," Maris said. "We're cheating."
I huff a laugh. "We are good at that."
Wrath's voice cuts through. "Begin."
I take a breath.
Then another.
I reach—not outward, but inward. I find the shape of myself in the Force. Not my thoughts. Not my emotions. Just the outline. The weight I leave behind when I move through a room.
And I don't send it away.
I push it down.
Into the PROXY.
The sensation is… wrong.
Like pressing my palm into cold glass and feeling resistance push back. The droid hums softly as the anchor engages, circuitry lighting up in response to something it was never meant to hold.
My head aches immediately.
"Easy," Wrath said. "You are not pouring. You are imprinting."
I grit my teeth and adjust.
The ache fades to a dull throb.
The Force around PROXY-Ben… changes.
Not warm.
Not alive.
But present.
Like static.
Maris lets out a low whistle. "Oh, that's gross."
I open my eyes and nearly sag with relief.
It's not me.
It's not even close.
But it's something.
We repeat the process with PROXY-Maris.
She does it faster. Sloppier. The echo she leaves behind is sharper, more jagged. The droid immediately twitches and punches the air.
"STOP LOOKING AT ME," PROXY-Maris snaps at nothing.
"Yeah," Maris said proudly. "That's my girl."
I laugh despite myself, then wince as the headache spikes.
Wrath steps back, observing.
"At a distance," Wrath said, "you will be indistinguishable."
"And up close?" I ask.
Wrath pauses.
"…Convincing enough."
Maris grins. "That's Sith for 'we'll deal with it later.'"
I slump onto the stone floor, exhausted.
"So," I said weakly. "To summarize. We built illegal murder droids. Gave them fake Force vibes. And now we're sending them to the Jedi Temple. Did I miss anything?"
Maris plops down beside me. "When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
I stare at the ceiling. "Is there a way to say it that doesn't sound bad?"
She tilted her head, in quiet contemplation.
"Hmm." She clicked her tongue. "We get to have our cake, and eat it, too… no. Um… we're not… technically skipping class, anymore. Ugh. I'll think of something. It'll come to me. Let me think…"
I close my eyes.
Somewhere on Coruscant, Ahsoka is absolutely going to sense something weird and hate all of this.
And somehow?
That makes it worse—and better—at the same time.
...
Ahsoka felt them before she saw them.
It wasn't a sharp sensation—no spike of alarm, no sudden flare of recognition. It was softer than that. Like pressure equalizing. Like a room settling once the door finally closed.
Ben.
Maris.
Relief hit her so fast it made her dizzy.
She slowed her pace automatically, fingers curling in the loose folds of her sleeves as she walked the upper corridor that wrapped around the Temple's inner gardens. Sunlight streamed through the tall transparisteel windows, casting long, golden bars across the stone floor. The Temple hummed around her—distant voices, training remotes whining somewhere below, the low, constant presence of hundreds of Jedi living their lives.
And there—there—two familiar impressions moving through the Force, threading back into the pattern they'd left behind.
They're back.
Her shoulders dropped a fraction. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been holding herself together until that moment. Two weeks of deflecting questions. Two weeks of improvising excuses. Two weeks of smiling at Masters and hoping no one looked too closely at the cracks.
They came back.
She turned the corner—and nearly collided with them.
Ben stopped short immediately, reflexes sharp as ever, and bowed.
Actually bowed.
Ahsoka froze.
"Good afternoon, Ahsoka Tano," Ben said warmly. "It's good to see you. You appear… fatigued."
She stared at him.
Maris was beside him, arms crossed, scowling at a training remote hovering nearby like it had personally offended her.
Ben straightened, offering Ahsoka a gentle smile. "Are you well? We were concerned about the burden placed on you in our absence. If there's anything I can do to help—"
Ahsoka blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…Why are you being nice?"
Ben's smile didn't falter. "Because you're our friend."
Her montrals twitched.
That was… correct. Technically. But something about the way he said it—measured, careful, like he was selecting each word from a list—made the back of her neck prickle.
Maris, meanwhile, had taken a step closer to the training remote. It buzzed nervously.
"You," Maris said to it. "What's your problem?"
The remote beeped in confusion.
Ahsoka glanced between them. "Maris."
The Zabrak didn't look away. "It's hovering wrong."
"It's… floating."
"Exactly."
The remote made a defensive whine and drifted a few inches higher. Maris's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, now you're mocking me."
Ben cleared his throat. "Maris, perhaps we should focus on reestablishing our routine."
Maris finally looked at him.
Her expression shifted—just slightly. Something uncertain passed over her face before the familiar scowl snapped back into place.
"…Don't tell me what to do."
She jabbed a finger at the remote. "And you—"
The remote fired a stun bolt on instinct.
Maris swatted it out of the air with the Force and punched the remote square in the chassis.
It exploded in a shower of sparks.
Silence echoed down the corridor.
Ahsoka stared at the smoking wreckage.
"…Welcome back," she said weakly.
Ben winced. "I apologize for that. Property damage is regrettable."
She turned to him slowly.
He looked… right. Same posture. Same face. Same familiar weight in the Force—sort of. But his eyes were too attentive. Too soft.
Ben Kryze did not apologize for things like that. He usually justified them. Or blamed someone else.
Ahsoka smiled.
That was the first mistake she'd learned to make around her friends.
"Wow," she said brightly. "You two sure look… refreshed."
Ben inclined his head. "Rest can be restorative."
Maris snorted. "I hate rest."
There. That was better.
Ahsoka stepped closer, folding her arms. She let her presence brush against theirs—not probing, not searching. Just feeling.
Something brushed back.
Static.
It was subtle enough that most Jedi wouldn't notice unless they were looking for it. A kind of background hum where there should have been motion. Like the Force was filling in blanks it didn't fully understand.
She didn't comment on it.
Instead, she smiled wider.
"So," she said, "remember that time in the creche when Ben tried to convince Master Drallig that the scorch marks on the ceiling were 'experimental art'?"
Ben's brow furrowed. Just a hair too late.
"I believe you're referring to an incident involving… thermal residue?"
Maris barked a laugh. "You told him it was a commentary on the Jedi Order's rigidity."
Ahsoka's grin sharpened.
"Yeah. And then you tried to sell it."
Ben nodded. "I recall attempting to contextualize the damage."
Attempting.
Ben had absolutely believed he could sell it.
She leaned in. "And what did Master Drallig say?"
Ben hesitated.
"…He was unconvinced."
Wrong.
"He grounded you for a week," Ahsoka said lightly, "and then assigned you to scrub the practice floors because you tried to negotiate your sentence."
Ben's smile twitched.
Maris frowned. "Wait, no, you tried to—"
Her eyes flicked to Ben. Narrowed.
"…Huh."
Ahsoka felt it then. Not triumph. Not anger.
Confirmation.
She pressed on.
"What about the bet?" she asked. "The one with the sparring droids. You know, the one you lost."
Ben tilted his head. "I don't recall losing."
"You lost," Maris said immediately. "Badly."
Ahsoka laughed. "You owe me five credits."
Ben reached into his robe without hesitation and produced a cred chip.
"I believe this satisfies the debt."
She stared at it.
Ben Kryze never paid up immediately. He argued first. Always.
She didn't take the chip.
Instead, she reached out and flicked it back into his hand.
"Keep it."
Ben blinked.
Maris was watching him now, eyes sharp, head tilted like she was studying a malfunctioning weapon.
Ahsoka sighed.
There it is.
She stepped back, expression softening—not into anger, but into something tired.
"Okay," she said quietly. "That's enough."
Ben's smile faltered. "Ahsoka?"
She met his eyes. Really met them.
"You didn't come back," she said. "You sent substitutes."
Maris stiffened.
Ben didn't react at all.
That was answer enough.
Ahsoka laughed once, short and breathless, rubbing her face with both hands.
"Oh. You absolute idiots."
Ben frowned. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," she said, lowering her hands. "You're not him."
Maris crossed her arms. "We pass inspection."
"You pass surface inspection," Ahsoka shot back. "You don't pass friendship."
She stepped closer again, voice dropping.
"You know how I knew?" she asked. "Not the Force. Not the static. Not even the fact that Ben suddenly cares about my emotional wellbeing."
Ben opened his mouth.
She cut him off.
"You didn't argue with me."
Silence.
"The real Ben would have pushed back. Joked. Deflected. Made it about something else because he hates being confronted."
She turned to Maris.
"And you," she said, softer, "you would've insulted me by now."
Maris's jaw tightened.
Ahsoka swallowed.
"I'm relieved," she admitted. "I felt you come back and I thought—finally. I don't have to lie anymore."
She looked between them.
"But you're not back," she said. "You're hiding."
Ben's head dipped, just slightly.
"I'm sorry," he said.
It sounded real.
That was the worst part.
Ahsoka closed her eyes, breathing through the frustration, the worry, the affection tangled up beneath it all.
"Tell them," she said finally.
Ben hesitated. Then nodded.
"We're buying time," he said. "Please trust us."
Maris met Ahsoka's gaze. For once, there was no sarcasm there.
"We'll come back," she said. "Really."
Ahsoka studied them both.
Then she exhaled.
"…I hate you," she said. "But fine."
She stepped past them, already turning away.
"But if either of you die," she added over her shoulder, "I am haunting you both."
Ben brightened. "That's reassuring."
Maris smirked. "She cares."
Ahsoka didn't turn back.
She waved once, fingers loose.
And kept walking—already planning exactly how she was going to keep this lie standing.
Because if there was one thing she was good at?
It was covering for idiots she loved.
...
The Force-linked feedback snapped shut like a door slamming in my face.
Not painfully. Not violently.
Just… abruptly.
One second, I was standing in a sunlit corridor of the Jedi Temple, watching a very convincing version of myself apologize for property damage he absolutely did not commit.
The next, I was back on Korriban, blinking dust out of my eyes, knees slightly bent as my body recalibrated to gravity that felt personally hostile.
I exhaled and rolled my shoulders.
"Well," I said. "I think that went well."
Maris made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl.
"They lasted," she said, checking the readout on the Sith projector array, "for like five minutes before Ahsoka outed them."
I squinted. "Five minutes is pretty good."
"Five minutes is terrible."
"Maris," I said reasonably, "that's Ahsoka."
She glanced at me.
"Our best friend," I continued. "The girl who can tell I'm lying before I've finished the sentence. Frankly, if they could fool her, I'd be worried about AI replacing us."
She paused.
"…Okay, that's fair."
I let myself relax a little, leaning back against the cold stone wall of the chamber. Korriban's temples didn't do comfort. Everything was jagged angles, carved reliefs of long-dead Sith doing unspeakable things to one another, and an ambient sense of judgment.
Even the air felt disappointed in you.
The holoprojector hummed softly behind us, the image of Coruscant dissolving into static as the PROXYs fully disengaged. Somewhere, light-years away, Ahsoka was already turning this whole mess into a workable lie.
I winced.
She clocked it fast.
Of course she did.
Ahsoka didn't need the Force to tell when something was wrong. She felt people the way other Jedi felt disturbances—through patterns, rhythms, the emotional shape of things. You could fake memories. You could fake mannerisms.
You couldn't fake the way you cared.
I dragged a hand down my face.
"At least she wasn't mad," I said.
Maris snorted. "She threatened to haunt us."
"Affectionately."
"Obviously."
We fell quiet for a moment.
The chamber stretched around us—antechamber to a deeper tomb, lit by red-glowing braziers that burned without fuel. The walls were carved with ancient Sith script, the letters sharp and aggressive, like they'd been etched by someone holding a grudge against the stone itself.
This was where the Holocron of the Emperor's Wrath preferred to manifest.
He said it helped with the atmosphere.
Personally, I thought it was because he enjoyed looming.
I shifted my weight, boots scraping softly against the stone.
"Hey," I said, more quietly. "Do you think she'll be okay?"
Maris didn't answer right away.
She was staring at one of the carvings—a Sith warrior standing atop a pile of bodies, blade raised in triumph. Her expression was unreadable, which for Maris usually meant she was actually thinking.
Finally, she shrugged.
"Ahsoka?" she said. "Yeah."
I waited.
"She barely has to cover for us now," Maris continued. "I bet she's having the time of her life."
I laughed despite myself.
"Yeah," I said. "Lying to the Jedi Council. Gaslighting half the Temple. Running interference for two idiots training under a Sith ghost."
"She loves a challenge."
"That… she does."
The humor faded slowly, leaving something softer behind.
I trusted Ahsoka.
That was the problem.
If anyone deserved honesty, it was her. And instead, we'd handed her a half-truth wrapped in a promise and asked her to hold the line.
We are coming back.
Eventually.
The braziers flared.
The temperature in the chamber dropped—not physically, but emotionally, like someone had sucked all the warmth out of the air and replaced it with expectation.
Maris straightened immediately.
I pushed off the wall and turned.
Red light coalesced at the center of the chamber, forming into a towering armored figure—broad-shouldered, masked, draped in heavy robes that looked like they weighed more than I did.
The Emperor's Wrath regarded us in silence.
Even as a holocron construct, his presence was… a lot.
Power rolled off him in slow, crushing waves, disciplined and contained, like a weapon locked behind multiple safeties.
When he spoke, his voice was filtered through the mask—deep, resonant, and utterly unimpressed.
"You are finished," he said.
"Yes, sir," I replied automatically.
Maris crossed her arms. "We were multitasking."
The Wrath turned his masked gaze on her.
She did not flinch.
I was proud. And terrified.
"You split your awareness across interstellar distance," he said. "Maintained autonomous constructs. Engaged in deception. And returned without error."
He paused.
"…Adequate."
Maris blinked. "Was that a compliment?"
"No."
I sighed. "I'll take it."
The Wrath's attention shifted to me.
"Your emotional attachments," he said, "remain a liability."
Ah. There it is.
I met his gaze, spine straightening.
"They're also the reason the PROXYs held as long as they did," I said. "They weren't just running scripts. They were anchored."
"Anchors can be cut."
"They can also keep you from drifting into the abyss," I shot back, then immediately wondered if I'd just committed a Sith faux pas punishable by lightning.
The Wrath was silent.
Then—
"Hm."
That was it. Just a single, thoughtful sound.
"I will not order you to sever them," he said finally. "Not yet."
Maris raised an eyebrow. "High praise."
"Do not mistake tolerance for approval."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The Wrath's gaze returned to me.
"Your control," he said, "has improved. Your deception is inelegant, but effective. Your instinct to reassure without revealing operational detail was… sound."
I blinked.
"…Thank you?"
He ignored that.
"However," he continued, "you hesitate."
I felt it then—him pushing, not with brute force, but precision. A probe sliding along the edges of my thoughts, stopping just short of places I didn't let anyone see.
"You worry about those you left behind," he said. "You fear the cost of your absence."
I swallowed.
"Yes."
"Good," he said.
Maris and I both froze.
"Fear," the Wrath continued, "informs you of what you value. The Sith who claim to transcend it lie—to themselves, if no one else."
He stepped closer, the red glow intensifying.
"You will not become strong by pretending you do not care," he said. "You will become strong by deciding what you are willing to risk."
The pressure eased.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"…So," I ventured, "still passing?"
The Wrath regarded me for a long moment.
"Your assessment," he said, "is ongoing."
Maris groaned. "Of course it is."
The holocron's light began to dim.
"Rest," the Wrath commanded. "Tomorrow, we continue."
And then he was gone, the chamber returning to its usual oppressive quiet.
I slumped immediately.
"Wow," I said. "I think that's the nicest anyone's ever been to me while standing in a murder tomb."
Maris smirked. "He didn't threaten to kill us. That's growth."
I looked back toward where the holocron had been.
Ahsoka. Coruscant. Home.
"We'll come back," I murmured, more to myself than anything. "Soon."
Maris bumped my shoulder with hers.
"Yeah," she said. "We will."
Hopefully, Ahsoka wouldn't be having too much fun without them.
...
Ahsoka felt a disturbance in the Force.
The kind that meant she was very quickly going to have absolutely no fun.
It was a sudden spike of emotional turbulence in the Force—raw, unfiltered, and radiating in all directions like a warning siren no one else bothered to install. Anakin Skywalker was approaching, and he was upset about something.
Which narrowed it down to… everything.
She considered, briefly, turning around.
She did not make it three steps.
"Ahsoka."
She stopped, closed her eyes for half a second, then turned with the calm resignation of someone who had already accepted her fate.
"Yes, Anakin."
He was standing in the sparring hall doorway, lightsaber clipped to his belt, expression twisted into that particular combination of wounded pride and righteous indignation that meant he was about to talk at her for a while.
Ahsoka smiled politely.
This was a mistake.
"I need to talk," Anakin said.
Of course you do.
"About…?" she prompted, already knowing the answer would be all of it.
He exhaled sharply and gestured for her to follow him into the hall. Training remotes hovered lazily nearby, unattended. Ahsoka noticed—with a small, petty flicker of satisfaction—that PROXY-Ben was there too, standing off to the side in a neutral stance, hands folded, posture immaculate.
Good. Witnesses.
Anakin started pacing.
"I don't get it," he said. "I mean, I get it, but I don't get it."
Ahsoka nodded. "That sounds frustrating."
He shot her a look. "You don't have to do the Council Voice."
"I absolutely do."
He ignored that.
"I've been thinking about what you said. And you're right. Obi-Wan is on Mandalore," Anakin continued. "With Padmé."
Ahsoka kept her face carefully blank.
"And?"
"And they're alone," he said, like that explained everything.
Ahsoka waited.
"They're negotiating," he added. "Politics. Diplomacy. Feelings."
"Anakin," she said carefully, "those are three separate things."
"They're all terrible."
He dragged a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him in visible waves.
"And I wasn't invited. Why wasn't I invited?!"
Ahsoka tilted her head. "You're… not a diplomat."
"I could be!"
"You stabbed a trade delegate last year."
"He insulted Obi-Wan."
"Still counts."
Anakin scoffed. "They don't trust me."
Ahsoka considered pointing out that the Jedi Council trusting Anakin Skywalker unsupervised around emotionally complicated situations was a statistical anomaly, but she valued her continued existence.
Instead, she said, "You're very passionate."
"I am right."
"Those aren't the same thing."
He paced faster.
"And now I'm stuck here," he went on, "while they're off on Mandalore, and everyone keeps acting like it's fine, and it's not fine, because what if something happens?"
"To Mandalore?"
"To them."
Ah.
Ahsoka softened, just a little.
"They're both very capable," she said. "Obi-Wan has survived worse than Mandalorian politics."
Anakin stopped.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
Of course it wasn't.
He turned to face her, expression darkening.
"I hate being told to let go," he said. "I hate being told it doesn't matter."
Ahsoka folded her arms, settling into what she privately called Deadpan Support Mode.
"No one said it doesn't matter."
"They imply it."
"That might be projection."
He glared. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being calm."
She shrugged. "It's a skill."
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped, brow furrowing.
"And it's not just that," he said. "It's… everything."
Here we go.
"I left my mother behind," Anakin continued. "On Tatooine."
Ahsoka's stomach tightened.
"She's alone," he said. "Still a slave. I haven't even heard from her since I was nine-years old."
Ahsoka blinked. "You… don't call her?"
He scoffed. "She doesn't have a holo."
"… How would you even reach her?"
He waved a hand dismissively. "Through Watto."
Ahsoka frowned. "Who's Watto?"
Anakin smiled faintly, like he was reminiscing. "Oh, just this guy who owned me," he said. "And still owns my mother."
Ahsoka stared at him.
"…Nice guy."
He said it sincerely.
Ahsoka's brain short-circuited for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "What?"
Anakin had already moved on.
"And everyone keeps saying I should be grateful," he continued. "That I should be happy. But I can't stop thinking about it. About her. About all the things I hate."
He gestured vaguely.
"Sand," he added.
Ahsoka nodded. "Famously."
"And children."
She blinked. "I—what?"
"They're loud," he said firmly. "And they get everywhere."
"That's… not—"
"And sometimes," Anakin continued, voice lowering, almost thoughtful, "I dream about killing a bunch of sand children."
Ahsoka froze.
"And their parents," he added quickly. "Of course. Killing the children first, though. So they don't have to live as orphans for the remaining minutes of their lives."
Silence filled the sparring hall.
Ahsoka stared at him.
The Force itself seemed to pause, as if waiting for an adult.
I am not qualified for this.
"Okay," she said carefully. "That's… a lot."
"I know, right?" Anakin said, relieved. "Thank you for listening."
"I am actively dissociating."
He didn't notice.
She glanced desperately around the hall.
No Masters in sight. No Knights. No Council members. Just her, Anakin Skywalker, and—
"Anakin," PROXY-Ben said gently, stepping forward. "That sounds like a great deal of unresolved anger. Have you considered constructive outlets for those feelings?"
Anakin recoiled.
"Why is he being so… reasonable?"
Ahsoka answered without thinking. "Because he's fake."
Anakin squinted.
"What?"
"What?" Ahsoka said brightly.
"You just said he's fake."
"I did not."
"Yes, you did."
She tilted her head, eyes wide and innocent. "I think you're projecting again."
Anakin frowned. "No, I definitely heard—"
"Anakin," PROXY-Ben said calmly, "sometimes stress can cause auditory misperceptions."
Ahsoka shot the droid a grateful look.
Anakin hesitated.
"…It can?"
"Yes," PROXY-Ben said. "Especially when compounded by emotional suppression and inadequate support structures."
Anakin stared at him.
"I hate that," he said. "Why do I hate that?"
"Because he's fake," Ahsoka said again, very softly.
Anakin whipped back around. "There! You did it again!"
She gasped. "Did what?"
"You—"
"Anakin," she said patiently, placing a hand on his arm. "You're tired. You're stressed. Obi-Wan is on Mandalore. Padmé exists. Sandexists."
His scowl wavered.
"That is a lot," he admitted.
"Yes," she said. "So maybe take a break."
"…Maybe."
"Go meditate."
"I don't like meditating."
"Go hit something."
He brightened. "I do like that."
She smiled. "See? Go on. You'll feel better."
He nodded, then paused, glancing suspiciously at PROXY-Ben.
"…He's still weird."
"Everyone is," Ahsoka said. "You get used to it."
Anakin huffed, then finally unclipped his lightsaber and headed toward the training mats.
As he walked away, Ahsoka sagged with relief.
She turned to PROXY-Ben.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I think you just saved the galaxy."
"You're welcome," the droid replied warmly. "If you ever need emotional support, I am available."
She smiled weakly.
"…You're still fake."
"Yes," PROXY-Ben said cheerfully. "But I care."
Ahsoka rolled her eyes, somewhat fondly. It was at least close to something the original would say. Ben, she thought fiercely, somewhere across the stars. You owe me.
And then she went to find an adult