Reading Time: 80 Minutes

Title: OB-1
Series: OB-1
Series Order: 1
Author: Sunryder
Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Family, Kid!fic, Science Fiction
Relationship(s): Gen, background pairings
Content Rating: PG
Warnings: Discussion-Child Abuse, Discussion-Sexual Abuse, Discussion-Slavery, Self-Harm,
Word Count: 79,685
Summary: For over a thousand generations, Jedi Knights have been the guardians of peace and justice in the Galactic Republic. Force-sensitive children are brought to the Jedi Temple and there taught the ways of the Jedi. Throughout their youth these children undergo many trials, the last of which is to be chosen as an Apprentice before they turn 13. Despite his skill and talent in the Force, Obi-Wan Kenobi has been caught fighting another Initiate and deemed too angry to become a Jedi Knight. The Youngling has been expelled from the Temple to join the Agricorps instead…
Artist: Spennig

---

---

Chapter One

22 hours ago, Obi-Wan won the Initiate Tournament for the second year in a row.

He’d won.

Obi-Wan sucked in a shaky breath. In for a four count, hold for seven, exhale for eight. It was harder than box breathing, but he needed it. The four-count breath had stopped calming him the moment he stepped on the turbolift for the last time.

Last time.

The thought cut like an elbow to the stomach.

But Obi-Wan had to think it.

Obi-Wan won the Initiate Tournament and six hours later he was cast out of the Order. Cast out and sent to the Agricorps when three days ago Obi-Wan had needed help from his botany instructor to complete his standard growth assignment because he couldn’t get the plant to do what it was made for and bear fruit.

Obi-Wan shuddered out a breath. He refused to cry again. He refused.

He wanted to blame Bruck for this – he’d wasted his last night in the Temple too angry at the other boy to sleep – but it wasn’t…

The thought tasted like bile on Obi-Wan tongue, but it wasn’t Bruck’s fault.

Yes, Bruck had bullied to the others, but Obi-Wan had let Bruck goad him into fighting, and Obi-Wan had hidden his injuries from the healers so Bruck had the opportunity to lie and make it look like Obi-Wan had attacked him, which was why Docent Vant had turned up with cold orders that Obi-Wan was leaving in the morning, three months before he was old enough to age out. (Obi-Wan had tried to argue, but Docent Vant didn’t care. She never cared when Bruck was involved.)

Obi breathed again, steadier.

It wasn’t Docent Vant’s fault either, because Obi-Wan had been given a second chance. He’d said his goodbyes, endured Bruck’s smug triumph over a breakfast Obi-Wan couldn’t make himself eat, and then, like a gift from the Force itself, there had been Master Yoda.

Master Yoda, who didn’t believe Obi-Wan had attacked Bruck without cause. Who’d asked questions. Who had Obi-Wan and Bruck fight again for Master Jinn. Master Yoda had given them their own tournament, just the two of them, one final show for one of the best Masters in the Order.

Obi-Wan had won again, but it hadn’t mattered. Bruck had scuttled out of the room, ashamed for lying and losing three times in a row, but Master Jinn hadn’t cared. He’d been disappointed in the way Obi fought. He’d called Obi-Wan aggressive.

He’d… he’d told Obi-Wan it was better not to train him because he had too much anger. He said “There is too much risk you will Fall to the Dark side.”

Then he’d left.

Master Jinn had left Obi-Wan standing there alone in the training salle after saying the cruelest thing he’d ever heard.

Obi-Wan held on for the doors to close behind Master Jinn before he started to cry. Deep, sucking breaths like he’d had the wind knocked out of him while the sound of his own shattered sobs echoed off the walls of the empty training room. Obi-Wan had stumbled into the showers and cranked up the hot water, drowning the sound of his own sobs while he sank into a ball on the cold, stone floor.

He’d wept until he had a headache and his body couldn’t manage any more tears. Then he’d peeled himself off the floor and stumbled back to the locker room, where a Senior Padawan had been uncomfortably changing into his sparring clothes, pretending like he hadn’t heard Obi-Wan because he couldn’t think of anything to say. The clean civilian clothes sitting on the bench beside the small pack holding all Obi-Wan’s possessions could only mean one thing. And no Temple Padawan knew how to help with that.

A scant twenty standard minutes ago Obi-Wan had used his numbness to dress in long-sleeved layers under a plain, high-necked tunic – obi but no belt, because keeping his lightsaber didn’t mean Obi-Wan needed it to hand like a Padawan would. It was the standard Corps uniform, save for the robe, which Obi-Wan kept because Quinlan had complained to him about how cold it was in space. Obi-Wan had pulled his new-to-him but outdated-to-rest-of-the-galaxy comm out of his pack, checked his strange travel instructions, and travelled to the top of the Jedi Temple.

The directions sent him up a turbolift he’d never used before at the back of the regular maintenance hangar. Then to mouth of one of the small, special-clearance docks on the Temple’s flat top. There just enough space for a vessel to come in for a hover landing before it slipped into a maintenance hangar that was too small and too full of a variety of ships and speeders to be part of the regular maintenance bays.

For a moment, Obi’s curiosity had sparked, but it wasn’t his place to ask questions anymore.

It was his place to leave the warm, mechanical safety of the Temple hangar and step into the useless sunshine where he was swept away by the never-ending wind atop so tall a building.

Obi-Wan had tugged his hood low, balled his hands into the sleeves of his tunic, and then tucked them into his cloak, like he still was an Initiate trying to look like a Jedi. Then he hunkered down in the gap beside the door, trying to keep his feet on the ground because the last too-strong gust had dragged him several feet.

All that left was for Obi-Wan to breathe through the pain and wait.

No. He could hear the soothing rumble of his Crechemaster in the back of his mind asking him how he really felt. His mind’s eye opened the ‘feelings chart’ that had been hung in almost every room of the Creche.

Obi-Wan was… well, he wasn’t angry. (Though the little voice in the back of his head wanted to be.) And he was sad, but worse. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and didn’t count his breaths. “Emotions are to be felt, my little ones,” Crechemaster Hoowrirl would say. (Then she’d hold them while they cried. She hadn’t held Obi this morning. Just hugged him, told him he would be well, and sent him on his way. Like… all those hugs didn’t matter now that he wasn’t good enough to stay.)

So, there was hurt. And behind that came grief.

And… no, they both fizzled out soon after.

Obi-Wan’s chest was tight, like there were a hundred different emotions trying to shove their way out of his heart, but they were all… bottlenecked? Too many?

He breathed again, trying to settle and pick just one emotion out of the mess to examine. To free up some room before he exploded under the strain. The hurt was what kept bubbling up and making him cry, so Obi-Wan tugged that out and held it his mental hands.

Yes, Crechemaster Hoowrirl had just given him a hug, but it had been a good one. A backbreaking, all-encompassing hug that someone could only get from a Wookie, wrapped in their strong arms and thick fur like the fuzziest of weighted blankets. And her eyes had been glossy.

Maybe… maybe Crechemaster Hoowrirl had been sad to see him go? (Then why didn’t she take him as a Padawan? Why didn’t she tell anyone that Obi-Wan didn’t deserve to be thrown out three months early?)

No!

Obi shoved down the flash of anger. He didn’t want to be angry with Crechemaster Hoowrirl. What could she have done? Crechemasters didn’t take Padawans. (And he didn’t want to take care of babies the rest of his life. Babies were the only thing worse than plants.) And maybe she had told someone that Obi was good and should’ve stayed, but maybe they didn’t listen to her either?

But it didn’t matter, because Obi-Wan was never going to get to know. He was never going to see her again, and he was going to get on a ship to a planet he’d never heard of and be stuck taking care of plants.

Fail to take care of plants.

Obi-Wan dragged his hood down over his face and growled into his fists because someone would’ve heard the screaming.

Overwhelmed.

That’s what he was feeling.

Yes, he was more than sad. And he was more than tired. And more than grief, and more than angry, and more than hurt. More than everything bad he thought he’d ever felt, with a thousand questions running around his head, all of them that he’d never have answered. It was too many things. Obi-Wan was overwhelmed. And he couldn’t—he didn’t want—he couldn’t unpack it all standing here.

He didn’t want to.

He had a headache from too much crying. The kind of thing only a big glass of water and a nap in a bundle of crechemates could cure, but he wasn’t going to get either one of those. If he unpacked any more, he was going to cry, and he didn’t think he could anymore.

Chirp. Chirp. _Chirp. _Chirp. Chirp. ^Chirp?

Obi slipped his fists and hood up and looked down at the source of the sound.

It was a small, white, box droid variant, with a curved head that fit over the top of its body like a lid, little arms connected in front by a scanner bar.

Oh, Binary.

Chirp. Chirp. _Chirp. _Chirp. Beep. ^Chirp?

Obi-Wan took a long moment to remember his lessons and translate the sound.

<<Unaccompanied Younglings are not allowed on this deck.>> It chirped again with the air of rote beeping, like it had given this lecture a hundred times before.

“I’m not…” Obi-Wan swallowed back the flare of grief/anger/heartbreak at having to say out loud that he wasn’t a Youngling anymore. “Apologies.” He pushed the hood off his face and gave the little droid a bow. “My itinerary instructed me to wait for my transport on this dock but the wind…”

This droid was one of the rare sub-types equipped with a light panel for a face, a rectangle with two bands of pixelated light that narrowed at Obi-Wan like a Human’s eyes glaring at his nonsense.

Obi-Wan hunched at the disapproval. Even a droid didn’t want him here. “Sorry.” He murmured and braced himself to not get blown off the top of the Temple when he stepped outside.

Only, <<Passenger transport does not occur on this dock.>> the droid beeped.

“What?”

<<Passenger transport does not occur on this dock. Only transport of materials and vehicles.>>

“Um.” Obi-Wan blinked and tried to parse that statement of into what an Organic would be implying. “Apologies, again. But my orders were for this landing pad.” The droid tilted its little head and somehow the eyes narrowed more. “I checked it twice because I’d never been here before. I promise. But I can—”

<<Show me your commands.>>

“What?”

<<Your commands. Show them.>>

Obi-Wan hesitated. Did the little droid mean his itinerary? The droid zipped forward on its single, multidirectional wheel and knocked into Obi-Wan’s foot before it held up its scanner bar with a little wiggle, like ‘come on, Organic, I don’t have all day.’

Obi-Wan shrugged off his pack and pulled out the palm-sized comm/ident system Docent Vant had given him last night. The comm held his new marching orders and enough identification to move throughout the galaxy when one didn’t have the easy recognition that came with being a Jedi. Since the droid was small enough that Obi could’ve cradled it against his chest like some of the Crechelings did with their stuffed tookas, Obi-Wan took a knee to show the droid his itinerary.

The droid brushed his handlebar past the screen with a flare of blue light and a beep of connection. His eyes narrowed to just a few pixels while he processed.

The droid beeped something that Obi took as a ‘hmm,’ then released a rapid string of beeps, chirps, whistles, and a buzz that Obi-Wan was pretty sure wasn’t Binary. Or at least, nothing they taught in class.

“Pardon?”

<<Identification.>>

“What?”

<<Identification!>> The Beep. Buzz. of the question got particularly buzzy that time, so Obi-Wan hastily flipped to that portion of his new comm. It took him a moment, and the impatient droid popped a cord from a panel atop its arm and jacked right into the comm to ravage it for details.

<<OB-1 is not cleared for departure.>>

“Obi-Wan.”

<<OB-1.>> The sequence of beeps very near his name managed to sound like the droid considered Obi-Wan an idiot.

Since Obi-Wan was about to leave the Temple forever, it wasn’t worth the argument. “Sure.”

But then, the droid just sat there, head tilted forward like it was waiting for Obi-Wan to say something, but Obi didn’t know what.

<<OB-1 has no commands in the system.>> It repeated.

“I don’t know what that means.”

<<OB-1 is not cleared for departure.>>

“What?” Obi-Wan flipped the device back around, careful not to tug out the droid’s cord, only to see his travel orders right there in the almost black and white of old screens, A pick-up confirmation for a private aircar, departure time to take a shuttle from Coruscant’s space docks up to an orbital station, a boarding window for the massive transport vessel heading to Bandomeer, and his room assignment on the ship.

Obi-Wan looked up at the droid, who Obi was beginning to think had been programmed to have permanently narrowed eyes. “But… my commands are right here.”

<<On device.>> The droid pointed its handlebar at the comm. <<Not in the system.>>

A new feeling was starting to bubble up in Obi-Wan’s chest. Hope tangled with the sick twist of grief and hurt.

Did this mean he wasn’t going? Was it all a mistake? “What does that mean?”

The droid gave a low buzz that sounded closer to an Organic’s hmm. Then it nodded its head and wheeled away, whistling, <<Follow me.>>

“Where are you going?”

<<Follow!>>

Obi-Wan took half a step into the safety of the hangar when an aircar zoomed over the Temple and came in for a hovered landing. It was an open aircar, bright red, fancier than the taxis the Younglings sometimes took for special trips. The driver left the engine running as he snapped his goggles over brow ridge spikes and onto his forehead. “Hey kid, you my ticket?”

Muscle memory took over. (One of the first lessons for Force-sensitive children was a special kind of stranger danger. They were never to go without verification.) “Who are you looking for?”

The little droid bumped into Obi-Wan’s shin and he stepped out of the way. “I don’t have a name, just a pickup order and this dock.” The driver hollered over the wind. “Boss had to call me in from halfway across town because I’m the only person on shift with the clearance to come up here!”

Even though he knew it wasn’t there, Obi-Wan checked his comm for specifics about the aircar or identification on the driver. The droid bumped again, so Obi took it for the gesture it was and stepped all the way out of the hangar and onto the landing pad. “What’s your destination?”

“Landing pillar Enth-75.”

That was right. Obi-Wan’s shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a mistake. He was leaving. His comm buzzed in his hand, probably the aircar company finally confirming that their driver had arrived for pickup.

“That sound right to you, kid?”

The droid did a little shimmy and charged full-force into Obi-Wan’s shin. “Ow!” On one leg he hopped out of the way. His comm buzzed again, and this time Obi-Wan glanced down to see a rapid and growing stream of text, all of it in the blunt form of Droidspeak translated to Basic.

“How did you get into my comm?”

The droid popped the cover on his thin connective cable and bounced the arm like, ‘I downloaded everything, you idiot.’

“You hacked me?”

<<Hacked?!>> The droid beeped in offense. <<Hacked?!>>

“Right, sorry, not hacked.”

The comm buzzed its way out of Obi’s hand. He scrambled to catch it and accidentally smacked the holo-project button, popping up the tail end of the text stream.

MO: No! OB-1 is not cleared for departure!

MO: OB-1 has no commands in the system!

MO: OB-1 must be verified!

The droid – MO, apparently – zipped around and ran into Obi-Wan from the other side. Obi stumbled back, and MO did it again, and again, bumping Obi-Wan back into the hangar.

“MO!” Obi tried to object and not get bruised at the same time.

The comm buzzed again.

MO: OB-1 come with me!

MO: OB-1 not cleared for departure!

“Just get on board, kid!” The pilot called. “The droid isn’t going to chase you!”

Obi-Wan stumbled around MO to get some space before he ran, but the little droid didn’t chase. Instead, he twisted his handlebar and tugged it apart, putting the whole handle on one hand and a sparking electroprod in the other.

“MO.” Obi-Wan held up his hands and tried to soothe.

The prod just sizzled.

Obi-Wan’s comm buzzed again, but he didn’t have to look because the droid beeped, <<OB-1 will come with me!>>

MO considered the matter settled and zipped into the hangar, which looked like a blackened cave of nothing against the sunlight. The little droid obviously expected Obi-Wan to follow or get shocked into compliance.

“Now, kid!” The pilot called.

Before Obi-Wan could move, MO came speeding back. The little droid extended its arms a few inches and beeped, <<Come!>> while it yanked its handlebar back, like gesturing him to get one with it. <<OB-1 comes with me!>>

“As amusing as this is, kid, I’ve got a schedule to keep! Are you coming or what?”

Obi-Wan was supposed to.

No matter what MO said, Grandmaster Yoda had put the orders on Obi-Wan’s device himself. What was a droid to Master Yoda? Obi-Wan had been kicked out twice. Told he was too angry and going to Fall by one the few Masters in the Order who would know. He was supposed to get in that cab.

Obi-Wan should meditate and ask the Force, or call someone in charge, or at least tell the cab to wait while MO checked the system and verified that the orders were as right as Obi-Wan knew they were.

But Obi-Wan still held that tangled mess of overwhelmed grief/hurt/anger all glazed over by the twisted sense of stolen hope. If he poked at any of them, they’d all going bubble up and leave Obi-Wan there for another hour trying to make sense of things.

But at this very moment, they were still.

And in that stillness, all Obi-Wan knew was what he wanted . What felt right, no Force and no orders behind it.

And that was enough.

“Or what!” Obi-Wan shouted over his shoulder, and ran. MO gave a gleeful hop on his one wheel and went zipping into the dark hangar, Obi-Wan right behind.

Chapter Two

Obi-Wan darted through the hangar, barely holding back the urge to laugh at his own audacity. They darted around a disemboweled skyspeeder, two Organics halfway buried in and calling to one another while they negotiated repairs. Obi-Wan rolled under the arms of a massive loading droid shifting supplies that MO didn’t notice. Then they ran down the side of the long, wide hangar, bright light coming through the rectangular skylights that extended the whole length of the room and bounced off the warm, tan stone that filled the hangar the same as the rest of the Temple. They wove around a dozen other working droids, all of them popping out of MO’s way, but getting into Obi-Wan’s, his pack bouncing against his back while he tried to duck around them.

They darted through the single door in the hangar’s wall and Obi-Wan stumbled as he slammed the door behind them and just breathed for a moment, a bright smile on his face as he turned and… woah.

A nest of mouse droids scampered about the floor and a bloom of hover-drones droids popped in through open holes in the wall, ceiling, and floor. They all danced around the holo-screens that flowed around something behind the center counter. All offset by the haphazard array of padds that teetered in piles on every flat surface, including the counter and the row of waiting-room chairs next that lined the wall next to the door.

Obi-Wan shuffled along the chairs to stay out of the way but get a better view of the back wall. It was crammed full of padds at least two deep being ‘sorted’ by half a dozen mechanical arms hanging from the ceiling. One arm would pluck a padd and put it away somewhere else, while another arm took the padd behind the first slip it into the forest of pneumatic tubes that Obi-Wan had mistaken for large hover-drone holes, sucking the data away to who knew where. (The Temple Library had the same system, but those tubes only went through the library.) It was a mess of technology Obi-Wan had never dreamed of mixed with technology Obi-Wan had only seen in history books.

Obi-Wan blinked at the controlled chaos and could almost feel the room vibrating with the continuous whirr of droids.

Despite the sea of droids, there were no others that looked like MO, his little white body visible as he passed the mouse droid docking stations and zipped up the side of the counter with a magnetized hiss. Obi-Wan ducked his head to avoid any hover-drones and scrambled around the mice to get to MO, who’d been ranting the entire way across the room.

Momentum thunked him into the counter and whatever Obi-Wan was going to say to calm MO down sputtered in his throat. Tucked behind the counter, just low enough that Obi-Wan had only been able to see an ovular head rotating around like an oddly-shaped astromech was… a probability droid.

The rotating head was attached to a pedestal base with a dozen different panels he could see – some of them popped open with the spindly arms of a medical assistant droid. Obi-Wan watched one arm tap away at a floating holo-screen, then spin around the droid’s main body on a horizontal ring to the other side, then slide vertically up to grab a padd from one of the arms suspended from the ceiling. All of the arms – both body and ceiling – were in constant, dizzying motion.

But the droid didn’t stop there. Its pillar body connected to a large, square platform with docking stations for the droid zooming in and out. They’d land to upload, then go shooting off, back to their duties. The platform extended to the back wall and up into more the blinking lights external memory storage that stretched the whole length of the room until it abutted the shelves full of padds that had first distracted Obi-Wan when he came in.

If Obi-Wan had to guess, the droid had started like an astromech with a columnar body in dark, matte grey. Then it added memory banks as its processing capacity went up. Now, it was trapped in one place, enough memory and processors that Obi-Wan was probably looking at the smartest being on the planet.

The droid ignored MO’s complaints right until MO popped a panel on his arm – near the wrist of the hand he could free up for sparking – and shot a closed grapple at the screen the droid seemed to be paying the most attention to.

At least, Obi-Wan assumed.

The droid’s ovular head was pointed towards the screen, though only two of the seven eyes were focused on it. The largest eye was a standard, astromech photoreceptor, but another eye was long and narrow, twisting to extend and shrink as it zoomed in and out. The rest of the eyes were smaller and of all different colors, twisting around the head horizontally, vertically, widening and narrowing, like the chaos of the room had all been narrowed to the droid’s strange face.

As the screen went careening off to the side, the probability droid blinked the largest photoreceptor then spun around to look at MO, who wriggled and resumed its binary rant.

<<This is procedural system failure #462 in the last solar cycle! The failure has reached critical mass!>>

The droid extended its massive head just high enough off the pillar that it could tilt its massive head, like asking a question.

MO fritzed out a beep that Obi-Wan didn’t need to speak binary to assume was a curse word. <<Organics do not respect the system! They do not file the correct requisition forms and take the wrong ships! And they do not notify us of necessary repairs!>> MO rolled back and forth along the counter’s length. <<They take supplies and do not notify! They return and do not say so! They leave without permission! And now—and now! They send half-formed Organics without proper commands!>> MO whirled around and shoved his little arms at Obi.

The probability droid had its face and main photoreceptor on MO while he ranted, the rest of its arms and eyes going about their business. But with MO’s announcement, everything froze for just a moment. If Obi-Wan didn’t know better, he’d say the droid was stunned. Everything jolted back to work, but all seven of the eyes whirled around to fix their attention on Obi-Wan.

One of the ceiling arms came down and grasped the front of Obi’s tunic and tugged him until his ribs pressed against the counter. The head extended further from the pedestal; all the attention of its massive processor turned on him.

Obi-Wan shouldn’t have felt so seen. It was a Force-blind droid. But he felt like the droid knew everything Obi-Wan had ever done and all the thoughts that had brought him here.

After a long, quiet, breathless moment, the droid swiveled one eye to MO.

MO shimmied so hard the counter shook, and gave a string of beeps that roughly translated to, ‘You’ll never believe what happened.’

Obi-Wan reached out and patted MO atop his head. “Take a breath.”

MO went backed to his narrow-eyed default, and even the probability droid managed to convey the same by zooming out one eye.

Obi blushed. “I apologize. That was inconsiderate. I’m afraid I don’t know what techniques droids employ to calm their subsystems.”

<<I do not need to be calm! When I am calm people ignore procedure!”

“I didn’t ignore procedure, MO. My orders said to go.”

MO fritzed in irritation popped out the connective cable and shot it like a dart across the space between counter and probability droid and straight into one of its ports to infodump. Obi-Wan’s face appeared on one of the floating screens. The holo that went with his file was the only thing that stayed steady while text flashed by.

“What are you doing?” Obi-Wan asked, but neither droid answered.

Momentarily – Obi-Wan’s file couldn’t be much to such processing power – the Droid… hmmed. Obi-Wan didn’t know where the sound came from since it felt less like a sound and more like the room vibrating. Whatever the sound meant, MO beeped in smug accomplishment as the Droid’s head retracted back to center.

<<OB-1 will wait here.>> MO chirped.

“I’ll what?”

<<OB-1 will wait here.>>

The probability droid released Obi’s tunic and retracted to the ceiling, only to come back and smooth the ruffle in his clothes then retract again.

The whole thing was so surreal that Obi-Wan didn’t fight when MO rolled off the counter and nudged Obi-Wan towards the row of chairs. Then the little droid zoomed off towards the door. “Wait!”

MO skidded to a stop. “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

<<Until.>>

Obi just blinked. MO rolled back and reached out with his handlebar to give Obi-Wan a gentle pat to his knee, then went zooming off again.

All right?

Obi-Wan found the smallest stack of padds on a chair and checked with the probability droid – ID: Trion flashed across a hovering screen – before he moved the stack someplace else and curled up with his pack on his lap, just waiting. Soon enough the chaos of the last few minutes faded, giving Obi-Wan enough to space to realize what he’d just done.

He’d been kicked out of the Order, but he hadn’t gone. Someone was going to figure that out and Obi-Wan’s only excuse was ‘a mean little droid told me my orders were wrong.’ He was supposed to be a Jedi and he’d let a tiny droid boss him around?

(Well, apparently, he wasn’t supposed to be a Jedi. He was too angry for that. And now, he was too spineless for that.)

Obi-Wan’s comm beeped with a reminder that his boarding period was about to begin. Obi sucked in a breath and thought for half a moment about trying to get to the ship anyway now that MO was somewhere else, but that would require going to the regular docking station and getting a taxi with credits he didn’t have. And, according to MO, without orders allowing someone underage to leave the Temple.

A mouse droid rolling to the pile of padds on the chair next to Obi-Wan cut off his panic. The droid scanned the barcodes on the end of each padd in the stack. Then, like a disjointed crane, the droid extended an arm from its head and flicked out a flat, two-pronged hand. It slid the fork under the top six padds, precariously balancing them as it moved them to the next stack, then came back for that seventh padd. Again, it slid the fork under and lowered the crane arm down until the padd rested atop its head. The droid zipped over to a corner where one of the wall arms plucked up the padd, scanned it again, and slid it on the shelves, where the bulky, outdated padds were now at least three padds deep.

The whole endeavor took the droid about three minutes from beginning to end, so Obi-Wan cleared his throat. An Organic would’ve known what he was doing, but the droids didn’t. So, Obi-Wan cleared it again – this time for courage – and said, “Excuse me?”

Trion swiveled an eye to him.

“I could help with the padds?”

Two more eyes joined the first, one of them the telescope which narrowed in at Obi-Wan. He took a guess that it wasn’t in MO’s suspicion, but in question. “I am capable of sorting them. I promise.”

The hovering holo-screen closest to Obi-Wan twisted around to face him and, “Truth?” appeared.

“On my honor as a…” Obi-Wan swallowed, because he wasn’t a Jedi anymore. But still, he straightened his spine because, Jedi or not, his “On my honor,” still meant something.

Another eye joined the first three, but Trion stayed narrowed. “Master Nu lets me reshelve materials in the library.” Obi-Wan said, and even to a droid, Master Nu’s particularities with the texts was well known. Trion nodded his head and three mouse droids came out with the same floating screen and their list of requests.

They worked together in the quiet for a while, Obi-Wan handing things off to the mouse droids and getting nudged along every so often by one of Trion’s arms. The work was just busy enough that Obi-Wan sank into the rhythm. It was almost meditative. At least, until Obi-Wan slipped that direction and some part of him remembered he was waiting on tenterhooks ‘until,’ and he tensed again. It wasn’t real peace, but it was close enough that when MO came bursting through the office door, Obi-Wan jolted a padd right out of his hands.

The padd soared up and over, caught in a head tentacle by the Nautolan Jedi who came in behind MO.

He was tall and broad, with teal-skinned tentacles tied back from his face and large-framed goggles perched like a crown above huge, black eyes.

That tentacle was the only part of the Jedi that moved, because the rest of him slammed to a stop to stare at Obi-Wan like he’d thought MO had made him up. “Oh.”

Obi-Wan blushed. He wasn’t—this wasn’t what he—ugh.

“Right.” The Jedi slipped off the googles and dropped them on the newly-cleared chair next to the door. “Uh, hello.”

MO ex-vented. <<Not the accurate location.>>

Trion’s longest arm reached across the room, plucked up the goggles and hung them on a hook by the room’s back door. Obi-Wan hadn’t asked, but this Jedi before him in his work-ready clothes – Corps trousers and just an undertunic with sleeves rolled up to his elbows – might be the person in charge of the docks.

<<Told you.>> The beeping managed to sound so tired, like the Crechemasters when they caught children painting during naptime. <<OB-1 was being sent away without any proper exit procedure.>>

Trion beeped – low like a foghorn Obi-Wan had seen in a documentary about his home planet. One of the floating screens left its orbit around Trion and centered itself before the Jedi. Obi-Wan caught sight of his holo, but couldn’t tell what text Trion had highlighted. He tried to see, but one of the highlights started flashing to make sure the Jedi noticed.

MO kept talking the whole time, faster and more intricate binary than Obi-Wan could follow. But from what he could understand, MO switched from a rant about departure procedure and requisite exit documentation to… something about the Council of Reassignment?

Obi-Wan’s own holo-screen switched from the list of padds he was sorting to text of MO’s complaints. (Obi-Wan tried to catch up on the conversation while he leaned around and mouthed ‘Thank you’ at one of Trion’s eyes.

<<OB-1 has had none of the required meetings or training with the Agricorps. He was being sent to Bandomeer. Bandomeer!>> MO screeched. <<The only reason we have an Agricorps representative there is to make sure the planet does not collapse under the lack of mining restrictions! Bandomeer is flagged for only short-term visits because there is so little that be done there while the current government remains in control. It is accessible only to skilled Agricorps operatives, preferably with Shadow training, and a combat rating of four because it is known for pirate activity. OB-1 does not meet any of those tags!”

The Jedi kept reading as he plucked a rag from his sparse toolbelt and scrubbed grime off his hands. (His fingertips were a dark, dusky red that faded to something almost purple at his wrists before his bulky forearms got back to teal. At least, from what Obi could see. The Jedi had his hands and forearms wrapped instead of wearing work gloves.) He touched the screen with clean hands and flipped through several pages. “Are you sure he hasn’t had any meetings?”

<<None!>> MO whistled like a tea kettle.

“You mean—”

<<Not that they did not log them because they are idiots who do not understand procedure. We cross-checked. He has not had them.>>

“They might be on the—”

<<I checked!>> MO objected. <<Trion checked all the systems here and I went up to the office to interrogate the inept droids up there. We checked! OB-1 has nothing!>> The poor little thing was vibrating in frustration.

“OB-1?” The Jedi looked away from the screen to Trion. Obi-Wan bowed as an answer.

“Uh, huh. And why—”

<<That is his name.>> MO huffed.

Trion flashed something on the Jedi’s screen and his brow ridge raised along with several tentacles over his forehead. Obi-Wan tensed and tried to be subtle as he leaned around to peek, but the Jedi just turned the screen around entirely to show him. “Apparently, you’re such an efficient padd-sorter that Trion says you deserve a proper designation.”

Obi-Wan pinked in pleasure. “That’s nice. Thank you.” He gave the screen’s frame a pat.

The Jedi hmm-ed. “Tell me, OB-1, what is the name non-droids use for you?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master.” Obi bowed away, hands clasped before his stomach like he hadn’t hung up his cloak and rolled up his sleeves to sort padds.

“Pleasure to meet you, Initiate Kenobi. I’m Master Brair.”

“Not—” Obi cleared his throat again. “Not an Initiate anymore, Master.”

And that… that made everything come crashing down.

All the thoughts Obi-Wan had been ignoring all afternoon roared up like they’d just been waiting for him to say it out loud in front of another Jedi. In front of someone who had the ability to tell MO he was wrong. To put Obi-Wan in one the ships outside and take him to the dock before time ran out and get him on the way to Bandomeer. Someone who would understand that Obi-Wan was supposed to be on that ship but had taken the out, had exploited a droid technicality to be a coward. A Jedi Master who would know that Obi-Wan wasn’t supposed to be here and hiding had proven that even more.

“Breathe, little one.” Master Brair murmured, and Obi-Wan found himself nudged into the chair with his between his knees. One of the Nautolan’s tentacles wrapped around Obi-Wan’s wrist to take his pulse while the Jedi murmured soft words of calm.

“I’m sorry.” He croaked.

“For what?”

“I panicked.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t. It was…” More of the Jedi’s tentacles twisted through the air, like fingers running through water. “I’d say you were overwhelmed.”

Obi-Wan nodded. Yes. He was overwhelmed again. Or still, maybe. He’d been content to be numb while he worked, trying to release all the grief/hurt/anger and ignore it at the same time, which meant he hadn’t done either.

Obi-Wan drew in several deep, meditative breaths and shoved all those emotions back down because this wasn’t the place to take them out one by one and sort through them. He straightened up and said, “I’m sorry.” This time with conviction.

With a zig-sag striped tentacle still wrapped around Obi-Wan’s wrist, the Master Brair cradled Obi-Wan’s cheek so softly he had to fight back the overwhelming urge to cry. “Emotions are not something we need to apologize for, only for the actions we take because of them. All right?” He waited for Obi-Wan to nod, which was all he could manage because he had to scrunch his face to keep the tears from falling. Instead of asking questions like Crechemaster Hoowrirl would’ve, the Master Brair ignored the chemosignals his tentacles could surely sense.

“Now, did you catch everything MO told me?”

“Most of it.” Obi-Wan nodded. He waited until Master Brair turned around before he scrubbed at his eyes to catch the tears before they could fall.

Master Brair hesitated a moment, like he wasn’t sure quite what to do, then he grabbed one of the empty chairs and pulled it to sit before Obi-Wan.

But then the Jedi didn’t say anything, so Obi-Wan thought he might’ve misunderstood, but the Nautolan’s tentacles all gave a wiggle, like they were shaking themselves out. “Well.” Master Brair cleared his throat. “I don’t doubt MO and Trion’s explanation, but we Organics do tend to tell things a little differently. What brought you here today?”

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath to center himself and tried to tell the story with a level-head. As much as he wanted to start with Bruck, or no one listening, or the feelings bubbling up at the back of his throat, he was still– well, he wasn’t a Jedi. But he was still good, and that meant telling the truth.

Obi-Wan grabbed the comm from his pack and started with the orders. “I was scheduled for an aircar pickup this afternoon at the dock outside of your hangar. MO saw me outside and asked to see my clearance. He informed me that, although I had the orders on my comm, they weren’t ‘in the system.’ He insisted I come back here to figure things out. So… I did.” His options weren’t nearly as convincing when he said it out loud.

“Uh huh.”

MO beeped to say something, but Master Brair held up a hand to stop him. “But why are you here?”

Obi-Wan thought he’d covered that. He flicked to the pick-up order and showed it to Master Brair again. “Because my orders said the aircar would pick me up outside.”

“Yes, but why are you here?”

Oh. Obi-Wan curled in on himself at being so immediately asked why he was still in the Temple. Part of him had hoped that whatever Jedi found him would say it was all a mistake, that he belonged here and deserved to stay. But to have the first Jedi he found – the Jedi MO had brought back in triumph – wonder why Obi-Wan had stayed… it hurt. As much as he wanted to complain or blame MO for keeping him here, Obi-Wan would be honest.

“Because I didn’t want to go.”

“What?” Master Brair’s face scrunched as much as a Nautolan’s could – which was to say, not much at all – but his tentacles twisted on themselves like tangled noodles. Obi-Wan didn’t know much about Nautolan tentacle language, but the Jedi’s tone said he was confused.

All right. No matter what else, Obi-Wan was brave. He could do this. “I stayed because I was hoping that it would all turn out to be a mistake. That I wouldn’t get sent away. I thought…” Obi-Wan licked his lips and looked down at the comm he twisted between his palms. He couldn’t look a Jedi Master in the eye while he said it. “Master Yoda saved me once today and I thought he might do it again if I gave him enough time. I know now that he’s not going to. That I should’ve been grateful for just getting saved once. But I… I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want it to really be over.

“And then I didn’t go, and my comm has been buzzing because I missed my boarding time, and now I can’t go, but I… I can’t go back.” Obi-Wan’s voice broke. “They sent me away. But I stayed when I wasn’t supposed to and now, I can’t leave because they might send me to someplace worse than the Agricorps. Though, I can’t imagine anything worse than Agricorps.”

“Why is it the worst?”

“Plants.” Obi moaned. “I don’t do well with plants. I think that was my real punishment for fighting . Not being sent away three months before I turn 13. My punishment is spending the rest of my life working with plants.” Obi-Wan clenched the comm. “Do you think there was a lesson I was supposed to learn from that? Something about humility or the parts of the Force I didn’t learn in the Temple and why I wasn’t good enough to become a padawan?”

“Okay!” Master Brair said, like it wasn’t okay at all. Obi-Wan’s head snapped up, but the Jedi didn’t look scolding. He looked… well, if Obi-Wan had to put a word to it, he looked panicked. But that was hard to tell with a species whose eyes were already so large. But his hair tentacles were all hovering a few inches off his shoulders. (Obi-Wan would never be so crass as to compare an aquatic species to a tooka, but the lifted tentacles reminded him of raised fur.)

“Okay.” Master Brair repeated, hands up like Obi-Wan was a small furry creature who needed to be calmed down. Which somehow made all the things Obi-Wan had just spilled out even more mortifying. “You just… sit here.”

The Jedi Master popped up and went through the back door Obi-Wan hadn’t asked questions about. Which, based on the little Obi-Wan could see in the dark room, wasn’t an office, but a bedroom. Obi heard the metal slide of a file drawer opening and paper crinkling. Then the Jedi popped his head back out and asked, “Trion, are any of the snacks I have on hand fit for human consumption?”

Obi-Wan startled. He’d been preparing himself for Master Brair to call someone to take him away.

<<OB-1 is near-human.>> MO beeped. He beep/whistled in two different tones simultaneously. Which the floating holo-screen said meant ‘Stewjoni’ in binary.

“Okay? Same question.”

“My friend Bant is Mon Calamari.” Obi-Wan said. The Jedi Master looked discombobulated and Obi was beginning to suspect Master Brair didn’t get a lot of Younglings in this part of the Temple. “I’ve eaten her Fish Flake Fluffs before.”

Master Brair furrowed his tentacles like springs. “I’m Nautolan and even I don’t really like Flake Fluffs.”

“Then why do you have them?” Obi-Wan nodded at the package in the Jedi’s hands.

“People keep giving them to me as gifts.” He shrugged. A list of compatible treats flashed up on one of the holo-screens. “Ah. Great. Most of what I have is compatible.” He ducked back into the room and came out with an armful of pre-packaged treats that he dumped on the chair next to Obi-Wan.

MO hissed-sizzled and used the electroprod hand to zap two of the packages, which Master Brair picked up and tossed through the bedroom door. He hesitated, like there was something else he was supposed to do, then sat. Then he pulled the chair forward, then nudged it back again, all while his tentacles twisted over on themselves. “Uh, are you not hungry?”

Oh. The snacks were for him.

Obi-Wan reached for a bag of chips mild enough that he wouldn’t mind vomiting them back up. The taste of food on his tongue was enough to remind his body that he was still a teenage boy and Crechemaster Hoowrirl called then all trash compactors. Obi-Wan inhaled a bag and a half before he calmed down and looked to Master Brair for what came next.

Master Brair opened his mouth, paused, then riffled to the bottom of the stack for a bag of cookies that Bant said were ‘only for adults.’ He chomped into one and with a heaving sigh, slouched down into his chair. “Obi-Wan, what happened before you got your orders?”

Obi-Wan froze. Master Brair brushed off his red, cookie-crumb-covered fingers and put his hand on Obi-Wan’s knee. “Trion showed me plenty of other things, which you saw. But we Organics tell stories a little differently than droids.” Obi-Wan hesitated and the Jedi Master said, “Please.”

Well, there was nothing Obi-Wan could do about that.

“Yesterday was the Initiate Exhibition.” Master Brair nodded, though Obi-Wan hadn’t seen him there. “It was my last chance to get noticed by a Master before my birthday. I didn’t. So,” Obi-Wan shrugged, “I was sent away to the Agricorps.”

Master Brair hesitated. “That’s it?”

Obi-Wan nodded. MO shrieked something that didn’t translate into binary but was close enough to ‘no it’s not!’ to make sense.

“That’s basically it, Master Brair.”

“Ugh.” His tentacles flinched back. “Just Brair. Brair Fawchiid if we’re being technical, but land-based Humanoids can’t really pronounce the surname.”

“I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan flinched.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just biology. Besides, I think you’ve got more pressing worries than trying to speak Nautila.” Master Brair leaned forward and handed Obi-Wan one of his cookies. “Now, is that really it?”

Obi-Wan hesitated and focused on the cookie. “Bant says these are only for adults.”

“Aquatic adults. They don’t have any… adult substances for land-based mammals.”

Obi-Wan hmmed and took a bite. The cookie was like chocolate, but… damp? If damp could have a flavor.

Master Brair nudged Obi-Wan’s toe with his own. “Think of this as the chance to tell someone who cares. A chance you might not ever get again. After all, the truth can’t make your situation any worse.”

Obi-Wan sighed and chomped another bite. “I thought Master Jinn would take me. I was sure. Master Yoda even told me we would be a good match. But Master Jinn rejected me.” Another forlorn bite. “I fought my best. I won. The whole tournament!”

“Very good.” Master Brair nodded along.

“But Master Jinn said I was too angry. I fought too harshly. Then, Bruck – who I beat by the way.“ He appreciated Master Brair’s serious nod. “When we went back to the creche he started saying specist things to Bant, and he tried to hit Reeft, and I couldn’t just let him treat them that way! So, we snuck into one of the training rooms and fought. But Bruck,” Obi-Wan spat, “went to the healers and pretended like I’d cornered him in some hallway and beaten him up.

“Last night Docent Vant gave me my orders to leave and told me my temper meant I was getting thrown out early.” Master Brair handed him another cookie. They weren’t really helping, but a cookie was a cookie.

“What did Docent Vant say when you told her what happened?”

Obi-Wan snapped the cookie in half. “She said I was lying.”

“I believe you.”

Obi’s head snapped up. “You do?”

“I do.”

“What—what does that mean?”

One of the floating holo-screens shoved its way between them and Master Brair’s tentacles stiffened at whatever it showed him. “It means I have some questions for you.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach rolled at whatever he’d done that had the Jedi so upset, but Obi-Wan’s preferred screen settled beside him with Obi-Wan’s file open. Or rather – according to the highlighted text – his file with the Reassignment Council. Another word flashed.

Just one word in the summary at the top of the page, marking him as a Knight.

Obi-Wan straightened in his chair.

That… Knight?

Trion shifted the screen to a sub-page and scrolled to the bottom, which held an entry marked yesterday afternoon, written right after his win in the Senior Initiate Exhibition Match. Battlemaster Drallig had summarized the fight – including Master Jinn’s public refusal – before he said, ‘Initiate Kenobi isn’t angry, he’s frustrated.’ Then it turned into notes about recommended further lightsaber training and the Battlemaster’s willingness to aid whichever Master chose Obi-Wan in a combat growth plan. ‘The boy is talented now and he has the potential to be a future Battle Master in his own right.’

“Have you seen your Reassignment file before?” Master Brair asked, startling Obi-Wan out of his shock that Battlemaster Drallig, one of the greatest swordsmen in the Order, was willing to train him.

“No, sir.”

“I thought not. I’ve read hundreds before, so let me tell you, yours doesn’t say anything about you being suited Agricorps.”

“Then how…” Obi-Wan took a fortifying bite of cookie and said, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Tell me, Obi, how did your exit interviews go?”

“Exit interviews?”

“Right.” Master Brair sighed. “It doesn’t say anything about that, but sometimes The Rass Council doesn’t log things in the file. So.” With a flick of his fingers, Master Brair nudged both screens away so he could look Obi-Wan in the eyes. “Let me make sure I have everything straight. Yesterday, after you won the Initiate Tournament, you had a fight with…?”

“Bruck.”

“Bruck. You fought– and tended to your own injuries, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.”

Master Brair made a wet grumble of a noise. “Just Brair, Obi.”

Obi-Wan blushed at the familiarity, but repeated, “Brair.”

“Perfect. Then, last night, after the fight, Docent Vant gave you orders to leave for the Agricorps. You woke this morning, said goodbye to your friends, then came to my dock to wait?”

Obi-Wan hmmed. MO didn’t hiss at him, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the little droid narrow his eyes and hunch its head down in a glower.

“Ah, something else happened?”

Obi-Wan put his hand on MO’s head to stop him. He could say it. “On my way to the dock, Master Yoda summoned me to the training room.” Brair held up a cookie, but Obi-Wan shook his head. “Bruck was there. And Master Jinn.”

MO nudged Obi’s hand in a silent agreement that Obi-Wan could pet him if he needed to. Obi-Wan turned all his focus on stroking the little droid’s head while he recited the facts like they weren’t ripping out his soul. “We fought again. I won again. Master Jinn said I had too much anger, again. This time, he told me I was going to Fall.”

MO rolled off the chair and up into Obi’s lap where he shimmied down like his tiny bulk would keep Obi-Wan from going anywhere.

Brair leaned forward and held the cookie under Obi-Wan’s nose. “Wooriidunng.”

Obi-Wan took the cookie. “I don’t know what that means.”

“There’s no word for it in Galactic Standard. The closest translation would be banthashit.”

Obi choked on his chocolate.

“You’re not angry, Obi. Maybe you are when you fight, I don’t know. But Master Drallig says you’re not, and out of anyone, I think he’d know the difference between good and anger and bad anger when someone is fighting. But I can tell you that right now, even when you’ve been thrown out of the Order for something you didn’t do, you’re not angry. You’re hurt.”

“I’m afraid,” Obi-Wan murmured, like a secret.

“We all fear sometimes.”

“But it leads to anger.”

“But you’re not angry yet. That’s what matters. So,” Brair leaned back in his chair and Obi-Wan made himself look up.

“You said goodbye to your friends, then you were summoned by Grandmaster Yoda for one final match with Bruck as a show for Master Jinn. Jinn rejected you.” If Obi-Wan didn’t know better, he’d say that Brair had the same befuddled tone Obi-Wan got when the teaching masters praise Bruck for being clever. “Then you took your bag and headed to my dock, where MO found you.”

“Yes.” They both paused and looked to MO, waiting for him to object to all the details the Organics had left out. But MO whirred from the crisscross of Obi-Wan’s legs where Obi-Wan had been absently petting him with one hand while he snacked on cookies with the other. Brair smiled.

“Have you spoken with anyone else since the fight?”

“Yes, sir.” A brow ridge and single tentacle went up in the same, smooth motion. “Brair.” Obi-Wan corrected.

“Who?”

“I showered in the locker rooms after the fight and there was a Senior Padawan there when I came out. I don’t know their name, though.”

“What did you talk about?”

“They just said hello. They were…”

“Yes?”

MO nudged Obi’s hand to make him keep stroking. “They could tell I’d been crying and they were uncomfortable.”

Brair let Obi-Wan move on. “And In the last few weeks, have you met with anyone from the Rass Council?”

“Rass?”

“Short for Council of Reassignment.” Brair laughed to himself. “The real name gets a little cumbersome when you have to use it often.”

“No. At least, not anyone who said they were on the council. But I don’t know who sits on it, so I might’ve met with them and didn’t realize.”

“They would’ve identified themselves.” Brair soothed, like he could tell Obi-Wan was ashamed to admit what had turned out to be an important gap in his knowledge. “And they would’ve talked to you about which Corps you might want to join, and covered the basics of the Agricorps.”

“No. Definitely not. Docent Vant is the only one I talked to. And… she just told me I was going. We had lessons on it, though. But no private conversations.”

“No Master T’un?” Brair asked, the image of a blue Besalisk appeared on the floating screen, so elderly he looked more like a blob than a person. Obi-Wan definitely would remember meeting him.

“No.”

“And no private conversations with someone who identified themselves as being part of the Council of Reassignment who spoke to you about the Educational Corps?” Obi-Wan shook his head no. “Medical?” No again. “Exploration Corps?”

“No, Brair.”

“That’s exactly what your record reflects.” He tapped the screen. “But I wanted to check because sometimes documentation gets misplaced. Especially on the Rass Council.”

MO did an off-tone whirr, angry at the idea of poor documentation.

“My record?” Obi asked, absently stroking the droid.

“In particular, the part of your record that talks about future plans.”

“Trion showed me some of it.”

“Which part?” Brair asked, with genuine curiosity.

“He showed me what Master Drallig had to say about my fighting yesterday.”

“Good, I assume?”

“Very.” Obi flushed, and Brair’s tentacles curled in pleasure at whatever chemosignals Obi-Wan gave off in his pleasure.

“That’s good. Master Drallig has always been an excellent record-keeper. He understands the value of tracking progress.” Obi-Wan cocked his head in question. “Whenever a Jedi interacts with an Initiate, we’re supposed to note if the child displays a particular aptitude for something, or if they say the Force spoke to them about a particular path, things like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s supposed to help the teachers know what extra training an Initiate might like, or help them find a Master, or help determine who would do better in the Corps.”

Obi-Wan stilled with the same certainty that came when a problem unfolded to a correct answer on a test. “Mine doesn’t saying anything about…” He stopped himself from saying, ‘the Corps.’ “About being good with plants.”

Brair smiled, and said, “No, it doesn’t,” like he was replying to what Obi had really meant to say. “In fact,” Brair twisted his screen around. “Master Drallig has years of notes here about your brilliance with a lightsaber.”

Obi-Wan’s cheeks flamed red. Years of notes? Years of saying he was brilliant?

Brair’s smile turned into a smirk. “And Master Nu has marked you down as being inquisitive, trustworthy, a good librarian assistant, and capable of putting research materials back where they go.” The bundle of mouse droids beeped an affirmative from where they hadn’t stopped their labors while Obi and Brair spoke.

Obi-Wan scrubbed at an invisible spot on MO’s head. Brair just waited, letting the silence drag on while Obi-Wan decided whether to speak or not. Obi-Wan swallowed and decided honesty was worth it. “It says Knight, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Brair rested his hand on Obi’s atop MO’s head. “Not a single note saying anything other than Knight.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to ask how they all could’ve been wrong. What came out was the same thing, but different words. “And the first time? Is there a note in there about when I was little, and I knew I’d be a Knight?”

“Yes. It’s here.” Brair gave the back of Obi’s hand a squeeze. “The Force doesn’t lie.”

“Then I don’t…” Obi-Wan twisted in the Jedi’s grip and clung their hands tight. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I’m going to find out.”

“What?” Both Obi and MO’s heads popped up.

“You stay here with Trion and MO and help them with the padds. And be sure to remember that Organics need food, MO.” He flicked the droid in the forehead. “Particularly growing ones.”

“What—what are you going to do?” Obi-Wan trusted him, but what if Brair told someone that Obi-Wan hadn’t gotten his flight and they made him leave?

“Hey.” Brair cradled Obi-Wan’s cheek with his palm, while a hair tentacle wriggled its way free to brush over Obi-Wan’s temple. “You weren’t supposed to leave. It was a documentation problem, wasn’t it?”

“Well, so you say, but—”

“MO is right. You don’t have clearance to leave the Temple, and you certainly don’t have clearance to leave the Jedi Order.”

“But… Grandmaster Yoda.” Obi said, baffled and hesitant.

“He was wrong. The Council of Reassignment was supposed to have – how many meetings, Trion?” Brair glanced over his shoulder at the screen where Trion brought up a graph.

<<At least two, on average, seven.>> MO beeped.

“They were supposed to have seven meetings with you before putting you on that flight.” Brair said.

MO ex-vented, because that wasn’t how averages worked.

“But they didn’t have one. Someone messed up, and it wasn’t you, Obi-Wan.”

“What do I do?” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked at the sudden onslaught of hope.

“You help Trion. Then you have him put in a call for someone to drop you off some better food than snacks – I’d offer you my ration bars, but I don’t think they’re Human-anything compatible. And you stay here.”

“Am I hiding?”

“No.” The tentacle flicked him in the forehead. “I just don’t want anyone filling out any more wrong paperwork and sending you off planet without your exit meetings.”

“I don’t…” Obi-Wan trailed off, and Brair waited. “Maybe I did have my meetings and I misunderstood?”

“You didn’t. Your record doesn’t lie.”

“But—” Obi-Wan couldn’t stand the thought that he might’ve been meant to leave the Order the entire time and just hadn’t noticed.

“Why don’t you address that gap in your knowledge about the Reassignment Council and process? Master Nu’s notes say you hate gaps in your research. Maybe Trion will let you borrow one of the padds that actually connects to the Temple intranet.”

“Why don’t they all?”

MO hissed from Obi-Wan’s lap and began ranting about system failures and how just because they were droids the Organics upstairs didn’t think they needed updated technology. Brair smirked and gave Obi-Wan a tap to the forehead before he went to handle the documents and left Obi-Wan in the safe embrace of droids.

Chapter Three

It only had been five years since Brair’s own stint on the Rass Council, so he knew full how he ought to have handled the misplaced Youngling hiding in his outer office.

Protocol dictated a visit to T’un, Master of Initiates. Together, they’d look at his file, scour the stacks of unprocessed flimsi on the Besalisk’s desk to make sure there wasn’t some departure Order pending or some missing subfile that Brair had missed in his review. T’un would be horrified that the boy had fallen through the cracks and he’d do everything in his considerable power to make sure the child ended up where the Force wanted him.

And then the clouds might start raining frogs.

Which, on Coruscant was more likely than T’un doing his Force-forsaken job.

What would really happen is T’un would hear Yoda’s name and Obi-Wan would be on a shuttle to his undeparted spaceship before the end of the sentence.

Despite the call of protocol, Brair made it halfway up the Tower of Reassignment before he flicked the turbolift buttons in the override sequence and sent the compartment back down to the main floors.

Brair’s frustration had almost hunted down Qui-Gon Jinn and ruined all the electronics in the man’s room as punishment for being such a damn hypocrite that he let his own fear twist reality so much that he thought this quiet, kind boy had the potential to turn to the Dark. But Jinn fancied himself a savant with the Living Force so he’d consider it a blessing to sit with naught but his plants in the technology-free dark.

Yes, along with notes about Obi-Wan’s ability to resolve fights among the Initiates, and potential as a Battle Master, and rare skill at putting things back where they came from, there were notes in Obi-Wan’s file about passion and fire, and worries about attachment, because those were traits to be trained out of a Youngling before they became a Knight. Or relied upon, depending on the Master. (Brair remembered the rage boiling under young Mace’s skin. Rage that had led to a new Lightsaber Form and a brand-new seat on the High Council. Passion didn’t have to mean Fallen.)

He couldn’t go to T’un, and he couldn’t confront Yoda, and he didn’t want Jinn to ruin the boy with his hypocrisy. Which meant the only thing Brair could do was take the turbolift right back to his own hangar and devise a better plan than either crashing into the wall of bureaucracy or crashing his fist into Jinn’s face.

But then, there was Obi-Wan.

The boy accepted Brair’s not-quite-true explanation that the people he needed to talk to weren’t available with a nod like he was used to adults lying, then he started asking follow-up questions about the Reassignment system. Genuine, sincere questions, more interested in the process than most of the people Brair had served with in his time on the Rass Council.

‘Just a few questions,’ Brair said to himself. Just enough that the boy could find the proper direction to look to discover this whole mess wasn’t his fault. Then Brair would look up who was sitting on the Rass Council now and message them, and he could get back to his nice, quiet hangar and all the projects that were waiting for him. But the boy’s questions were thorough, like he had a thesis to write and he was excited about it.

Somehow, Brair found himself elbow deep in one of the starfighter repair jobs, with Obi-Wan cross-legged atop a crate and MO beside him, not making a noise but snickering at Brair all the same.

“So, to recap, there are four major Councils that preside over the Jedi Order: High, First Knowledge, Reconciliation, and Reassignment.” Obi drew a knot of four overlapping circles on the padd Trion had given him, and his circles appeared on the floating holo-screen that had been following Obi around like a tooka. (Brair thought it must be the pets Obi-Wan kept giving it. His screens never seemed so loyal.)

“Yes. And that’s what it looks like on paper, but in reality, it’s more like,” Brair waived at the screen, which zipped over so he could tug one of the circles to the top, making the shape less like a square and more like a triangle with the High Council on top and the other three on the bottom. The Councils were still interlocking, but one was clearly in charge (and more valued, but Initiates needed to understand basic structure before they could understand politics).

The screen zoomed back, and Obi-Wan furrowed. “That’s not how the chart is drawn in class.”

“And that’s why we all need practical experience before we can master something.”

Obi-Wan hmmed and turned his impressive attention back to his notes. He clearly didn’t get it, but the boy was open in a way that tempted Brair to gossip. But Obi-Wan was twelve, so no.

“The High Council is the ‘high’ council.” Obi-Wan recited from his screen. “They guide the entire Order and serve as an advisory body for the Chancellor.”

Since Jocasta’s retirement from the High Council a decade ago, the members were also virtually all diplomats who wrapped themselves up in galactic politics instead of the day-to-day running of the Order.

But again, the boy was twelve, so Brair just nodded and got back to trying to dislodge a melted chunk of debris from the engine.

“The Council of Reconciliation works with the Senate and handles interplanetary disputes through the Order’s diplomats and ambassadors. The Council of First Knowledge oversees Initiate curriculum, the archives, the holocron vaults, and the Shadows.” Obi-Wan drew new circles attached to the circle for First Knowledge and marked them as ‘Librarian’s Assembly’ and ‘Shadows.’

Brair could taste the boy mulling on something. (That wasn’t quite how it felt, but the sensation of chemosignals soaked through the sensitive skin of his tentacles didn’t translate when spoken above water, and definitely didn’t translate into Basic. So, taste.)

“That… seems like a lot.” The boy murmured to himself about the Council of First Knowledge. (And it was, but the Jedi who led the Order were all diplomats and thought their jobs were the hardest in the world. But again, twelve. And Obi-Wan’s file said he was been slated for a diplomatic track so he might’ve been indoctrinated already.)

Obi-Wan jotted down notes on the margin of his padd, which turned up on the holo-screen before MO beeped at it that they were for OB-1, not looking. Based on the question marks, Brair assumed they were future research subjects (the first being ‘Shadows…?’).

“Then there’s the Council of Reassignment, which is over the service Corps and all non-Padawan Initiates.” Obi-Wan said like a quote.

There wasn’t a question in there, so Brair focused on trying to lever a blowtorch into the bowels of the engine. MO’s beeps were too quiet to eavesdrop, though they didn’t stay that way because the little droid always had something to complain about. (Honestly, that’s why it took Brair so long to listen to MO when he said he had an Initiate in the office. There’d been a stretch about 75 years ago under the last Head of the Technical Division where Younglings made a game of sneaking in to the hangar and stealing something interesting as proof. MO had never gotten over it and he ranted about anyone who looked less than 30 being a thieving Youngling. Imagine Brair’s surprise when it was an actual child.)

But now, the boy and droid were having a real disagreement. Though, Obi was typing instead of speaking, which meant he was trying to keep it private. Brair tried not to eavesdrop, but it was difficult when MO’s beeps were so… enthusiastic.

“You can ask me, you know.” Brair said, and both boy and droid jumped. “I might have the answer.”

“Non-Padawan Initiates.” Obi-Wan repeated. “MO says that means every Initiate because none of them are Padawans.”

“And you say?” Brair kept his eyes on plugging in the scanner to run a diagnostic.

“Everyone who’s not a Padawan-track Initiate.”

“MO is right.” The droid shrieked in pleasure and did a whirling victory dance. Obi-Wan had that flash of wounded pride that all youth did – hopefully just youth. Obi-Wan seemed like the kind who’d grow out of it with practice – but the wounded pride quickly gave way to confusion because his curiosity was more important.

“But the Council of First Knowledge—”

“FN.” Brair interrupted.

Obi just blinked.

“The High, Rass, Rec, and FN Councils, for short.”

Obi-Wan licked he lips and thought. Brair pretended the diagnostic cord needed his attention.

“But it’s a K.”

Brair laughed. He hadn’t been expecting that, and shrugged. “The terminology was been around long before me.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and scratched some notes in the corner of his document, murmuring terms to himself.

“Your question?” Brair prodded.

“Right. The FN is in charge of curriculum for Initiates, but the Rass is in charge of the Initiates themselves?”

“Yup.”

“That seems…”

“Ridiculous?” Brair looked up with a grin.

“I was going to say inefficient.”

“It’s that too.”

“Why is that way?”

“Because the Rass used to be in charge of Initiates who weren’t on the Padawan track, those who wanted to enter the Corps, while the FN was in charge of training Initiates who’d go on to become Knights in the traditional sense.”

“What happened?”

Brair wanted to say pride. Or the Ruusan Reformations. Or their dwindling numbers, or a dozen other factors layered on top of other factors. But again, the boy was twelve, so he said, “All sorts of things.”

Brair didn’t need to read chemosignals to know Obi-Wan didn’t like that answer.

“It sounds like the subject of an excellent research project to me.” Obi kept his glower, but flipped to a new page on his padd and began scribbling notes. “Though, perhaps a project for the future?” Brair said as a reminder that Obi-Wan had other things to do today.

And oh, there was the boy’s pride. That was an impressive glower for a child. As though he was mortally offended that anyone would accuse him of distraction. It was adorable. Brair smiled at him, which made Obi blush as he realized he’d been glaring at a Jedi Master like a meddling friend. The boy cleared his throat and got back on topic.

“The four service corps that the Rass Council oversees are the Educational Corps.”

“Educorps.” Brair added.

“Medical Corps.”

“Medcorps.”

“Exploration Corps.” Obi grinned.

“Exploracorps.”

“And the Agricultural Corps.” And there went the pleasure of the game.

Brair almost sneezed at the burst of shame chemosignals from the mere mention of where Obi-Wan might have been. Brair released a flood of comforting chemosignals of his own, then remembered the little near-Human couldn’t sense them. He stepped away from the ship and dropped down to the crate to press his side against Obi. “They’re called Agricorps.”

Obi-Wan pressed on, and against Brair’s side. “Educorps hold the Librarian’s Assembly, and all the Temple’s instructors and logistics. Away from the Temple, Educorps provides ‘instruction to the disadvantaged throughout the galaxy.’”

“Interestingly, they’re the smallest branch of the Corps.”

“Why?” Obi asked.

Brair shrugged. He’d never been one for teaching, so it made sense to him.

“I assume the next smallest is Exploracorps?”

“Nope. Medcorps.”

“Who are they led by?”

“The Circle of Healers.” Obi-Wan made a note on what was beginning to look like a sea of indistinguishable text. “They’re stationed in the Temple’s Halls of Healing, as well as in Republic Central Medcenters throughout the Core.”

“It seems like there should be more of them too.”

“There should be probably be more of all the Corps.”

“Next is Exploracorp, then?”

“Yup. Their official name is the Archaeological and Research Division, which doesn’t sound like they should be led by a group called the Captain’s Conclave. Hence, Exploracorp.”

“The intranet says they do system mapping and archaeological expeditions on research vessels that can examine all the artifacts they find.”

“They do. They have a whole fleet of Praxeum ships that function like mobile Temples. They’re spectacular. We follow the old schematics from Master Raltandret, a shipbuilding Artisan who lived 2,000 years ago and we haven’t had to change a thing. The Praxeums last virtually forever. We haven’t had to build a new one in the last 200 years.”

Obi-Wan smiled up at him like Brair was the adorable child.

“What?”

“That’s the most you’ve said about anything the entire time.”

“I like ships.” Brair waved his hand to encompass the large hangar full of his personal projects. Obi-Wan giggled.

“I think…” Brair leaned into the boy while he found his words. “I think if my orders turn out to be correct and I get sent away, I’d rather go to the Exploracorps.”

Brair ran through the list of basic ‘so you have to deal with a Youngling’ instructions he’d been given years ago and tried not to make things worse with his answer. “You’d be brilliant at that.” MO glowered at him and Obi’s screen flashed with a silent message so Obi-Wan wouldn’t miss it in translation.

MO: My Organic is not going anywhere.

Obi shouldn’t go anywhere, but if the Grandmaster of the Order had skirted the rules and tried to throw him out of the Order, Brair would’ve thought about fleeing to the edges of Wild Space too. Instead, he let his tentacles wind around the boy’s shoulders like a hug.

He could finish their list, but Obi-Wan had probably searched Agricorps first and knew full well they were tasked with providing food for underprivileged systems, with plenty of research laboratories and massive greenhouses that kept the galaxy fed when the few Ag worlds refused to give up their crops for anything less than hyperspace lane robbery.

“MO says you know all this because you sat on the Rass Council five years ago?”

That was not the question Brair was expecting. “I did.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Because you’re only supposed to serve a five-year term.”

“On all the Councils?” Obi twisted around to look at him, baffled.

“All of them have some seats that are for a lifetime and the rest of the seats have time limits. I couldn’t tell you the breakdown on which Council has what limits.” Brair could taste another question lurking, but Obi-Wan wasn’t ready to ask it. The boy tasted of hesitation and worry, and Brair hated that he kept getting the boy comfortable, then the negative emotions would bubble back up.

He’d tried to soothe them earlier, and that just made things worse. So now, he sat for a long moment, long enough that Obi-Wan’s scent changed back to curiosity and the boy’s mind flipped back to his research notes in a silent decision not to ask whatever thought was still thrumming at the back of his head.

Brair left him be and went back to the diagnostic that was going to tell him what he already knew: he was going to have to take out the entire engine and start from scratch.

He could’ve kept talking. Could’ve explained that all the Councils were stagnant, few sticking to the time limits or term limits that were supposed to infuse them with new ideas and prevent the hierarchy that had crippled their Order.

But how could he explain to a child whose future relied on the Council of Reassignment that the only reason the Rass Council still stuck to their limits was because Jedi didn’t serve on the Rass Council because they were the best and brightest, but because they’re the only ones with the time.

Five members sat on the Rass Council, one representing each of the four Corps. It was always a beast to get some member of the Exploracorps back in the range of Coruscant for the five-year term – right now Brair believed it was Eno Cordova, just like it had been every-other five-year term for the last thirty years, and only because the man’s area of archaeological specialization was Tython, a planet less than a day away from Coruscant by hyperspace travel and with enough transmission buoys along the way to get live communication.

Last Brair checked, the Educorps representative was working on improving the school system in Coruscant’s underbelly, the Medcorps ignored five-year terms and just rotated on an annual basis through whichever healer in the Temple had a Padawan who needed to stay on planet. He couldn’t have named the Agricorps representative for either love or money. Though, he couldn’t have named the Agricorps rep when he was on the Council himself, either.

Brair had been the Exploracorps representative, even though he’d never ventured into Wild Space himself. Eno had just completed a term, earning his five-year reprieve, and it was time for the Praxeum ships to be checked over. That made Brair, the Head of the Jedi Order Technical Division and Master of Artisans the perfect appointment so he could strongarm enough funds to make the upgrades happen.

Before that, Brair had spent his entire adult life trick-swimming his way out of an appointment to any of the seats on the Rass Council. He’d almost been caught when he advised the Agricorps on technological advancements for growing on other planets, by the Exploracorps when integrating new technology into their ships, and by the Educorps on tech training when he spent too long in the galactic academies and training schools giving guest lectures on ship repair. With that kind of crossover, Brair knew his time would come, it was just a matter of which Corps would lack someone to fill their spot first. With the Praxeum reviews, his wave had finally come in.

Brair’s experience described everyone who’d served on the Rass Council. Every one of them ended up there because they were the only one in range who could do the work. None were there for Force calling or passion, just proximity.

Four seats filled with people from the Corps who would rather be someplace else, and one seat, one lifetime appointment, was filled by Master T’un, the Master of Initiates, who had overseen the Temple’s children for the last 200 years.

The man who Brair blamed for the angsting pre-teen being snuggled by a droid in Brair’s hangar.

A lifetime as a Master in the main Jedi Temple on Coruscant, plus time spent on the Rass Council, had both taught Brair that everyone in the Order and Corps considered the Initiates a self-sustaining system. What problems they heard about from their own Padawans were written off as biased youth, or the role of Crechemasters to fix, or that someone else would notice and pick up the load so the problem would end up managed.

But a dozen Jedi doing something small and simple couldn’t fix the problem of T’un.

T’un was old, and not in that charming way that so many elderly Jedi managed where they spoke in helpful riddles and encouraged people to take naps. He was old and outdated, and After dealing with the Besalisk for five years, Brair knew and the old man wasn’t just slipping, he’d slipped.

Which would be acceptable on its own. Jedi didn’t throw people away because they were aged. They simply found a new way to make themself useful, even if that extended no further than life advice and a reminder that mortality came for them all.

But despite the efforts of every Rass Councilor for the last hundred years, T’un refused to share any of his duties. The only people he let help him were Senior Padawans stuck in the Temple for some reason, and even those he would rotate through every few months, keeping them for just enough time that they’d get good at the job before they were sent back with their Masters to the field. Which left T’un to sleep at his desk and somehow let an Initiate like Obi-Wan Kenobi get cast out of the Temple with less than 24 hours’ notice and no Reassignment meetings to even give the boy a choice.

The more Brair looked at Obi’s file, the more certain he grew that T’un had just let Obi-Wan go without any of the procedure they were supposed to follow. Any of the procedure that Brair and his Rass Council had fought for. Brair wagered with himself that Obi-Wan’s file had appeared on T’un’s desk in hard copy flimsi and T’un had signed off on the expulsion without a second thought.

Honestly, if it wasn’t impossible, Brair might’ve thought the utter lack of detail in Obi-Wan’s file meant T’un didn’t file any information and someone had just handed Obi-Wan orders to leave the Temple. But the Temple systems were required to ask T’un permission before letting Obi-Wan leave the building, even for a field trip, let alone for expulsion.

But it also should’ve been impossible for an Initiate three months away from aging out of the Order to never have a single meeting with the Rass Council. Today was the day for impossible things.

As much as Brair wanted it to be, this wasn’t just T’un’s fault.

It was all of them. Everyone who’d served on the Rass Council and everyone who’d see the red flags yet assumed that if everyone lifted just a little bit of the burden, T’un would be able to handle the small load he refused to yield.

Yet, it wouldn’t be them who bore the consequences of the Council’s assumptions and T’un’s pride, it was Obi-Wan.

Brair bit back the impulse to track down whoever on the Rass Council was on-planet and shout at them until they sorted the problem. Obi-Wan might have his conversation with the Council and get the Exploracorps posting he could live with, or he might find himself a Master, and Brair could tell himself the problem was solved.

But T’un would still be there next week. And…

The problem that haunted Brair, the glitch in the code, the flaw in the system, the piece of the puzzle that had him on his feet tuning machines that didn’t need it, skipping dinner, and cleaning each of his tools by hand was that Obi-Wan had been sent to the wrong dock. Jedi only came to Brair’s dock when they needed his expertise. No one did regular pick up and drop offs up here, not even Shadows.

Obi-Wan and his specific orders to this dock gnawed at Brair. Something was strange. T’un shouldn’t have given Obi orders to leave without meeting the Rass council first. The option shouldn’t have even been available in the system without verification that the boy had all his exit interviews and the requisite training courses. Worse, Obi-Wan shouldn’t have been assigned a pickup on Brair’s dock without MO’s approval.

No, worst of all, the thing that Brair was beginning to suspect would haunt his dreams, was what would’ve happened if Obi-Wan hadn’t been sent here. If MO hadn’t been a fussy bolt-bucket? If Brair didn’t have the experience to know there was something wrong with the boy’s records? There were a dozen ‘what ifs’ raging around Brair’s head, a dozen ways this could have fallen apart and seen Obi-Wan sent to Bandomeer, no one the wiser.

And if that was the case: how many other Initiates have been sent away, no one there to ask questions?

Everyone in the Corps hierarchy knew T’un was a problem. He was half the reason none of them wanted to serve on the Rass Council. But none of them did anything about it.

Oh, they all nudged him and the High Council, they all tried to put forward people who could ‘help’ T’un and handle the bulk of the work without T’un noticing, maybe cajole him into retirement. But none of them did anything. They were all too concerned about insulting one of the oldest Masters in the Order.

When had Brair sat on the Council he’d said to himself that it was a matter of politeness. It was trusting his superiors to know the will of the Force on the matter of their children.

But sitting there, watching Obi tilt his screen so MO didn’t have to stretch to read it, stroking a hand over the prickly little droid’s head, Brair could admit to himself what he hadn’t been able to say for the last ten years: it was fear.

Brair’s old master had been a practical woman, an ancient Jedi who had followed the path of the blade until a neurological illness rendered her lightsaber useless, but had left her with twenty years still to live.

Sitting there and staring at this child, Brair could hear his old Master’s voice say that fear didn’t just lead to hate: fear led to worry, to rumination, to inaction, to a dozen other things that could be a hundred times worse than fear.

And the Rass Council had spent goodness knows how many years ruled by fear. Fear that they would put their all into trying to fix the system and be told no. And that fear had let T’un stay and hurt their children.

They all thought– No. They all told themselves in their fear of confronting the problem, their fear of finding facts and looking at the data, that T’un and his office were merely less effective than they could have been, but not failing. (Brair would never be too afraid to rip apart an engine and make sure it would work. If was perfect, he could put it back together just as it was. Why should he have been afraid to rip apart the Reassignment system?)

Brair set aside his scrubbed tools and realized that at some point the sun had gone down and the droids had moved a lamp to illuminate his workstation. It wasn’t terribly late, but definitely past bedtime for an Initiate. Obi-Wan leaned against the wall, nodding off beside a stack of wrappers from near-Human-appropriate ration bars. (They hadn’t been in Brair’s stash. He assumed MO sent a mouse droid to the commissary to snatch them.)

This boy who’d had his world stripped away him. Like a machine, Brair could see the fine material that made him. Strong metal, flexible too, enough to vibrate but not break. Room enough to grow. Room enough if the adults around him gave him space to do it.

Brair tucked away his tools and Obi-Wan straightened at his approach. “I haven’t seen meditation like that before. Cleaning things.”

Frightfully clever boy. Brair’s own Crechemaster hadn’t understood that his need to tidy putting his thoughts in order the way others did in meditation. “Same principle as moving meditation, just greasier.”

Obi-Wan had questions. Brair thought that might be Obi-Wan’s permanent state of being: curious.

“I’ll teach you. But tonight, you go to bed.”

Brair twisted Obi-Wan’s floating screen to face him and tapped out a quick message before he put the system into stasis for the night.

“Bed?” Obi-Wan croaked.

“Bed.” Brair tugged Obi-Wan to his feet – waited while the boy scooped his new padd into his pack and picked up MO – then nudged him into Trion’s office. “My quarters are water-filled, so I can’t take you back home with me tonight. But if you don’t mind, I have a cot in my personal office for nights when I don’t want to make the trek back to my rooms.”

“Trek?” The boy waved goodnight to Trion as Brair guided him through the back door to what was supposed to be a spare storage room/office and substituted as quarters. Trion raised an arm and flapped one of the claws in a wave.

“All the aquatic rooms are in the lower levels of the temple, close to the water filtration system and the aquifers in case of flooding. Same reason all the anti-oxygen rooms are located around the Temple’s outside edge: just in case.”

“Has that been a problem?”

“Not in my lifetime, but Trion can tell you more tomorrow.”

Asleep on his feet, Obi-Wan still stripped off his boots and tucked them under the cot and put his outer tunic in a floppy fold atop one of the boxes before he collapsed into bed. Brair tugged the spacer’s blanket over the boy and knew better than to object when MO rolled up the metal bedframe and dropped into the crook of Obi’s arm.

That was surprisingly easy. Brair headed for the light switch and the door, but, “Wait,” Obi-Wan dragged himself up with blinking eyes. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not. I won’t head back to my room tonight. I’ve got a spare floor futon and I’ll sleep out here with Trion.”

“But,” Obi-Wan shook his head, trying to make himself stay awake. “Tomorrow.”

With a wriggle of his tentacles Brair released soothing chemosignals that wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. He’d hoped the boy was too tired to be anxious. He came back in to stroke a hand through the boy’s greasy hair. “Tomorrow we’ll find out what went so wrong anyone thought you should be sent away.”

Obi-Wan nestled back down. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The boy was asleep between one breath and the next. Brair stayed there for a moment, enjoying the peace in the Force and the peace in the boy’s own chemosignals. He knew the boy was still worried, but how much was hard to grasp until he had a baseline of real calm to compare it to. After everything they’d been through today Brair knew the boy was exhausted, but he wasn’t scared.

Brair tucked the blanket a little tighter. “You’ve got the watch MO.” The droid beeped an affirmative, then snuggle in and powered down to sleep mode. Brair left the room, then stepped through the office, giving Trion a pat as he went since that seemed to work for Obi.

Despite his usual watchfulness, Trion didn’t bother to warn Brair about what was waiting outside.

Brair shuffled out of the room, the weight of the day and the scope of what was to come finally hitting him. He leaned against the wall, opposite a grey-shrouded Jedi, covered from the tips of her fingers to the breathing mask on her face, covering every inch of skin while she eavesdropped on their goodnights.

“You haven’t called me here to meet your new Padawan.”

“No.” Brair rolled his head along the wall to look her in the goggled eye. “I’ve called you here because you’re the bravest person I know and I need your courage.”

Chapter Four

Ruzry laid beside Brair until exhaustion took him before she began her work. As much as Brair was the one asking her to see out this task, he was also her only witness at the moment. That meant she’d poured him foul-smelling algae tea and let him vent with a few guiding questions. Then she’d had to talk him out of doing anything solely on the word of a broken-hearted twelve-year-old. She’d stripped off her masks, turned the biofilters down far enough that Brair could get a real read on her, and let her body and her chemosignals snuggle him to sleep.

Task 1: Complete.

Task 2: was slipping into the sad little bedroom Brair occupied more often than not to take the comm from the child’s pack. It took a few moments to download all the materials and electronic traces to her own, just long enough for her to reach out with skills only Shadows were taught and confirm that unless the boy was skilled at hiding, his aura was clean.

Exhausted, stuffed up in the way that only came from a good cry, but clean.

In a rare fit of a patience, MO waited until she was done downloading before he whirred barely louder than his own internal fan, <<You handle this?>>

She nodded. Talking would wake the boy and everything else identifiable was covered to prevent any pheromone leakage from upsetting the boy’s dreams any more than reality already had. The droid nodded his head and snuggled back down, which couldn’t have been comfortable for the child since MO was a box, but he was out cold and didn’t seem to mind.

Trion was brilliant, as always, and had a loading bar waiting for her as she left the room. The security footage from the hangar and surrounding areas would be uploaded to her private server by the time she made it to the office.

“Ruzry?” Brair croaked, the movement of his systems enough to rouse him when her warm body walking away wasn’t.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered and slid a hand over his tentacles.

He slouched back to the bed. “Why are you up?”

“Security footage.”

“What?” He jolted.

“Sleep.” She popped the bottom half of her mask with a hiss and gave him a kiss, soft and soothing and the way to derail every argument. “I don’t doubt your boy, but it’s easier to prove footage than a child’s testimony.”

He hmmed out agreement then slipped back to sleep, helped along by her own soothing pheromones. It took a minute more to unwind her arm from Brair’s clinging tentacles. Brair was defensive of the boy already. It was adorable.

Diurnal as the Jedi Temple was, she came across no one in the dead hours between ‘quite late’ and ‘early morning’ as she retreated to the portion of the Temple dedicated to the Shadows, where their dark artifacts could be contained and interrogations could be ignored by all that went on in the upper levels. Given the last thousand years of ‘golden age,’ large portions of the Shadows’ territory had been converted to standard criminal investigation and those Sentinel practicalities of handling evil that the Consulars would never understand. Despite the dead hours of night, several of the evidence rooms were occupied by Jedi, Shadows, and Corpsfolk of various kinds, some involved in a case and others who just loved their jobs.

Ruzry didn’t need much, just a computer smart enough to parse through all the footage and track little Obi-Wan’s last hours in the Temple. She began with Brair leading the boy into his office to tuck him into bed and rewound at 4x speed through the last 36 hours, through the hangar, broken-hearted leaving a locker room with no cameras, into a small salle with no cameras, to his breakfast in the commissary, to the creche – which had cameras on their own server that she sent the computer to retrieve as scantly as possible – back to the dinner, then a conversation with Jinn, and back until the boy was declared the winner of the Initiate Tournament, everything broadly matching the testimony he’d given.

Ruzry set the computer to do its best to track the movements of Yoda, the blond boy who’d been dragged into all of Obi-Wan’s agonies yesterday, and Jinn. Then she turned to the comm files and immediately verified that MO was right: Obi-Wan’s orders weren’t anywhere in the general access system. Further, the boy didn’t have an official Council seal releasing him from the Order and there was no record of his assignment to Bandomeer. (Ruzry sent a query to the Bandomeer Agricorps station to find out if they even knew Obi-Wan had been sent to them. It would likely take a week to get back, if anyone was checking their system at all.)

The computer beeped with Creche footage, which showed a melancholy morning with Obi-Wan’s friends as he divided his few possessions among them, a night spent weeping that she rewound through faster, and pacing in his room, and back to a Docent the computer labeled as Vant handing Obi-Wan the comm and, based on the boy’s broken expression, the orders to leave.

But, according to every speck of data on the computer system, the only place those orders existed was the comm currently in Obi-Wan’s pack.

Which meant that after breaking for a few REM cycles to prepare herself for the day, Ruzry went to the Creche where she could watch the elder children be melancholy. Obi-Wan was the main topic of conversation, with a bundle of three – a female Mon Calamari, a wrinkle-faced Dressellian, and a male Human – huddled in a group, ignoring their homework to mourn the loss their friend, and almost everyone else worrying that if Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn’t chosen as a Padawan, what chance did the rest of them have?

Ruzry paid particular attention when the Mon Calamari collapsed into the Human’s arms and groaned about asking Docent Vant for Obi’s comm number to make sure that his ship had departed safely. “But Docent Vant said I should give Obi time to get settled before I contact him.”

The Human scoffed. “She means that we should forget about Obi and never call him at all.”

“Maybe not.” The Dressellian tried to argue, halfhearted. The Human didn’t even bother rolling his eyes.

Of course, with the terrible timing of children, that’s when the thoroughly-defeated blond and a troupe of sycophants came gloating over. “Oafy-Wan got exactly what he deserved.”

Ruzry would’ve assumed the Human would been the one to snap up and shove a finger in the boy’s face, but it was the Mon Calamari. “If anyone deserves to be thrown out, it’s you, Bully-Bruck!”

The little Mon Calamari didn’t have Ruzry’s ability to sense emotions, so she couldn’t feel the sick sense of shame bubbling away in the blond. It wasn’t the wounded pride of a boy who’d lost twice to his archnemesis, but a bone-deep belief that there was something wrong with him. The boy must’ve assumed that with his rival gone, Jinn would pick him. But now Obi-Wan was gone, and the blond was still unchosen. His options were even worse than they were yesterday because if he couldn’t beat Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan was sent away, what did that say about him? (What’s more, few Humans – let alone the young ones – understood themselves well enough to parse the tangled web of pheromones and chemosignals that said the blond was twisted up in envy, loathing, and a crush on the best in the class.)

Before the children could come to blows – which the little Mon Calamari would see through, no matter how much she knew she would lose – Crechemaster Hoowrirl stepped in with a low growl that cut through the fighting.

“Bruck.” She summoned the boy with a word. Despite lacking Ruzry’s pheromone knowledge and having only a Wookie’s enhanced sense of smell, Crechemaster Hoowrirl’s centuries of experience probably meant she understood the tangle the boy was feeling. She sent the boy to his room so he had a few minutes to himself to angst before she tried to talk to him, which was a mercy.

The Crechemaster sent the gawkers to their separate corners for a brief meditation. Then she scooped the three friends into her massive arms and let them snuggle. None of them pretended to be too mature.

“Why did he go?” The Human’s voice cracked on unshed tears.

<<I don’t know, dear ones.>> Like a cloak weighing down her bones, Ruzry could feel the grief and disbelief, even in the old Master. <<It is all right to feel our feelings. But what must we do?>>

“Think before we act.” The three said in harmony.

<<Yes, my dears. Now, go join the others in meditation.>>

But the old Master stayed there. And since no one had gotten anything over on the Crechemaster in the last hundred years, she tugged a pillow from the pile and dropped it on the ground next to her with a pat. Ruzry slipped from the unnoticed shadows and joined her.

<<I don’t have any compatible Initiates for you.>> She rumbled.

“I know.”

<<Then what brings you to my halls? You don’t take Creche duty. Shadows are rarely assigned it. Only for soul healing, and you haven’t needed that in ages.>>

“I am here to ask you about Initiate Kenobi.”

Hoowrirl narrowed her furry brows. <<Why?>>

“You know I can’t tell you and contaminate your testimony.”

She growled. <<Is he well?>>

“Yes. I swear it.” He was probably eating brunch and running around with MO right this very moment.

“What do you need to know?”

<<Why did Docent Vant give him the orders to be sent away instead of you?>>

The Crechemaster snarled. <<Because I would’ve objected.>>

“Are you often in a position where you have to object to an Initiate’s placement?”

<<No. The instructors and I have enough experience to nudge children in the right direction. Sometimes they surprise us with a passion we didn’t expect, or the Force directs them to a Master we wouldn’t have chosen. But outright objections are rare.>>

“And Obi-Wan?”

<<Is meant to be a Knight all the way to his little bones.>> Her work meant Ruzry placed little stock in prophecy. (It was people’s belief in the words that made them come true.) But the tenor of the Crechemaster’s rumble made her believe it entirely. Like it was fact.

“Then what happened?”

Hoowrirl gave a subvocal snarl so the children couldn’t hear, but Ruzry could feel Hoowrirl’s anger. It wasn’t Ruzry’s place to soothe the Master, but the part of her that had been a child in the Crechemaster’s care still wanted to. <<I don’t know. I didn’t even know Obi had been sent away until the children came to me crying that they’d all said their goodbyes at breakfast. I barely caught him for a hug before he left the planet.>>

“That seems…”

<<Insane? Suspicious? Ridiculous?>>

“All of the above.”

She barked her agreement. <<I’m surprised you didn’t hear about the yelling match I got into with Yoda, but he swore to me it was the will of the Force.>> Ruzry made note of that. It was all but admitting that the invisible orders had come from him.

“Do you think so?”

<<I think I’m scared for one of my cubs.>> Which was all the answer the Crechemaster was going to give.

“What did Docent Vant say when you confronted her?”

Hoowrirl scoffed. <<She said she imagined ‘the Grandmaster’ gave her the orders because I’m too soft on the children and Yoda probably wanted to spare me the pain of sending away one of my favorites.>>

“What did Yoda say when you asked him?” Perhaps he had more than implied that the orders were his?

<<He just patted my hands. I had to spend my evening meal ripping apart training droids.>>

That was not the answer Ruzry needed, and the Crechemaster had started to repeat herself. Different words, yes, but all saying the same thing. “Tell me about Docent Vant.”

Hoowrirl’s rumble was sad. <<She is not here for the love of the children. She’s a recent Knight. Belongs to the Librarian’s Assembly. Why she chose an assignment in the Creche, I don’t know. But she will not stay here long. Nor would I want her to.>>

With the sixth sense known only to those who dealt with children, the Crechemaster knew it was time to go check on the blond, before the squirming ball of teenage angst could take a turn for the silent. And with the sixth sense known only to a Shadow, Ruzry thanked the Crechemaster for her help and wrapped herself in shadows. She pretended to leave the Creche until Hoowrirl disappeared up the turbolift to the private rooms, then stepped back in and went to find Docent Vant.

Who was… as described.

Vant had been placed with a group of Younglings old enough to have been through their Gathering, but not so old as to be looking for a Master. She seemed unaware of the discomfort that had infected the older children today, too absorbed in whatever she was reading on her padd to care about the sudden bouts of crying or the frantic edge to the children’s work, like they all had something to prove.

No one with an ounce of compassion would have Vant be the one to tell a child they were leaving the Order. When one of the children broke down into tears at getting a problem wrong, she snapped at them for interrupting and told them to try again.

No, Vant shouldn’t be trusted with emotional heavy lifting. Though, Ruzry had to admit that Vant’s aura didn’t feel spiteful. She didn’t feel the sense of triumph that would linger after ruining the life of a child if she had done it on purpose.

Though, that didn’t stop Ruzry from knocking over a bucket of paints, making Vant scramble to gather them before the children could make a mess. Ruzry stuck a chip in Vant’s abandoned tablet – the first time she’d put it down all observation – and created a back door that would grant her access to all the woman’s files, just in case. There was little more to be gained by watching the woman herself, but her shift would continue for several more hours, giving Ruzry plenty of time to search Vant’s quarters.

Being a Lieutenant to the Master of Shadows came with certain perks, including code overrides that let her walk into Vant’s rooms without having to slice. (The use of the code would raise a system flag and she’d be getting a query in the next few minutes from the Master of Shadows, which Ruzry considered a faster way to set up the appointment they needed to have anyway.)

Docent Vant’s rooms radiated an aura of disgruntled peace, which was… well, it was better than the alternative. The woman clearly didn’t loathe her job with the children, but she wasn’t happy either. Ruzry plugged a jack into Vant’s computer and let the splicing tool do its work while she sorted through the spare padds and occasional sheet of flimsi on the woman’s desk. The search wasn’t thorough, because only two steps away from the computer the splicer beeped that it had found the files Ruzry was looking for.

There in plain text, downloaded to a subfile labeled “Kenobi, O-W” were Obi-Wan’s expulsion orders. The splicer beeped again, pulling up a Temple intranet message from Yoda with the files attached and a message with nothing more than instructions to deliver, no justification offered.

Ruzry sighed at the idiocy.

She adjusted the splicing tool’s parameters to download everything while she searched Vant’s intranet messages for things with Yoda’s signature. The green troll popped up a few times in her inbox. Nothing as terrible as sending Obi-Wan away, but all were occasional reminders to Vant that Obi-Wan… had a Master waiting for him.

Ruzry stepped away from the computer to stretch and make sure sleep deprivation hadn’t gotten to her.

No. Every message included the same.

They varied, some of them mentioning other Knights and Masters who Yoda noticed expressing an interest in Obi-Wan, reminding Vant that Obi had ‘a Master waiting for him’ – the same vague phrase every time, and no Master named – and all implying that he’d like Vant to warn them off.

Vant’s messages back were little more than confirmation that she’d done as asked. Nothing so crass as asking what she’d get in return.

Ruzry tapped her fingers across the desk and let the splicer finish its job. The information was close, nearly damning, but not quite enough. She needed more if she was going to make the accusation she knew she had to.

@@@@@

<<Is your processor faulty?>> MO demanded. <<Does OB-1 need to go in for repairs?>> The droid poked him with the electroprod hand, electricity safely tucked away. <<OB-1’s photoreceptor has been focused on the wall for three minutes and OB-1’s auditor receptors are not functioning.>>

“Brair is sending me away.” MO’s hand sparked and Obi-Wan scrambled out of the way. “Stop that!”

<<You are having a logic error. I need to reset it.>>

“I’m not!” Obi-Wan had gotten a good night’s sleep for the first time in two days and now he was finally thinking clearly. “Brair is waiting for something. He’s wound up and tense, and he keeps glancing at the corners like he’s expecting someone to pop up.”

MO slid his Beeeep down a disbelieving scale.

“He is. He’s obviously waiting for someone to come and take me back to wherever failed Initiates go and send me away.” Obi-Wan’s argument was convincing enough that MO stuck the prod back into his handlebar. “The ship to Bandomeer has already left, so they can’t send me there. And that’s something, I suppose. I think when they show up, I’ll just ask to be assigned to Exploracorps instead of hoping they figure it out. To be safe, I put together all my bad biology assignments to prove that I’m not a good match for Agricorps.”

MO rolled into Obi-Wan’s lap and looked up at him, little head cocked to the side.

“I don’t think I’d like Medcorps or Educorps, but I could handle them, you know? I think I’d really like the archaeological section of the Exploracorps. Did you know that the University of Alderaan grants automatic acceptance to any student who transfers from the Jedi Temple? They have a team dedicated to studying the ruins at Ossus. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

MO stretched out his handlebar and bumped Obi-Wan under the chin, tilting his head up to look the droid in the photoreceptors. <<OB-1 is not going.>>

“MO,” Obi-Wan sighed. “They’re not going to let me stay just because you demand it.”

MO gave an offended whistle and popped off Obi’s lap, a straight shot from the corner where Obi-Wan had been hiding and into Trion’s office. Obi-Wan let him go, only to have the droid zip back and spark the prong at him because he was supposed to follow. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but obeyed.

<<I do not understand Trion’s fondness for Organics. Your wiring is faulty.>>

“I’m not faulty, MO. I’m realistic.”

He gave a shrill whistle that was the droid equivalent of an angry shriek. <<OB-1 is giving up!>>

The new stacks of padds lining the chairs all trembled at the uncontrolled Force rumble of Obi-Wan’s pain. He wasn’t ‘giving up,’ it simply was! He put a hand on the stack of padds and breathed through it, forcing himself to remember that MO didn’t understand how the accusation hurt, and he had to let it go.

MO whirred in preparation for another rant, but Trion must’ve reached out with a nudge of code to shut him up.

‘We control our actions,” Crechemaster Hoowrirl always said. Obi-Wan couldn’t control the pain, but he could control whether or not he lost his temper.

MO whirred again, Obi-Wan clearly taking too long to answer, but Trion reached out and set a claw on MO’s head, keeping him quiet.

In the corner of his vision Obi-Wan saw text flash across the screen, something Trion didn’t need to do when communicating with MO, but Obi-Wan had noticed that the probability droid tried to make the Organics feel included.

Trion: OB-1 is defragging.

MO squealed like broken breaks in horror.MO: OB-1’s system is so inefficient it requires this?

Trion: Organic systems must be inefficient. Their neural networks are too complicated. Also, OB-1 is young. His system will get more efficient as he gets older.

MO: But he is still only generating incorrect information. His processing is flawed! He is discounting all data that does not support his hypothesis!

“What?” Obi-Wan asked, the distraction of their conversation doing more to pull him out of his temper than deep breathing. “What other data could there be?”

<<Brair will not let OB-1 be sent to Exploracorps.>>

This was a different kind of hurt and some part of Obi-Wan had thought he’d be immune to it by now. “It’s not within his control, MO.”

<<He will not. He promised.>>

One of Trion’s screens pulled up a soundwave of audio from last night. Brair’s calm voice echoed around the room as he said, “Tomorrow we’ll find out what went so wrong anyone thought you should be sent away.”

“Promise?” Obi-Wan’s own voice sounded raspy and young, half-asleep. It shouldn’t have been asking for something that Brair couldn’t promise, for all the Master said, “Promise,” in return.

“Grownups lie.” Obi-Wan croaked around the urge to cry.

MO whirled on Trion with an angry squawk.

The massive probability droid fixed all seven eyes on Obi-Wan while his preferred screen slid across the room to face him so the text would be clearly visible.

Trion: Brair has taken steps.

“What steps?”

Trion tilted its oblong head and put another hand on MO’s head.

Trion: Brair has not shared details with you.

“What…” Obi-Wan meant to ask about ‘what details,’ but he choked on his own tears and the fear that had been stewing in the back of his mind all day boiled over. “What’s happening?” He pled.

MO froze. <<OB-1 is leaking. Trion—>> Obi-Wan could almost see the code pings that were a droid version of tapping. <<Something is wrong in his system.>> The poor droid started vibrating so hard he sounded like he was fritzing, desperate with the want to fix it. The want to zap everyone. To keep OB-1 on his dock forever.

Trion rumbled in a deep hummm that shook the room. The screen flashed with new security footage, this time from the hangar’s interior, at just the right angle to see Trion’s office door.

Brair was there, leaning against the door with a dark-robed and masked figure before he took them by the hand and led them into Trion’s office. Obi-Wan didn’t understand.

<<Master Ruzry.>> MO beeped. <<Best of the Organics. Most efficient.>>

“Who… why?”

The footage shifted to a personnel file with virtually every detail blacked out.

“She’s a Shadow,” Brair said from the door. Obi-Wan squeaked and whipped around like Crechemaster Hoowrirl had caught him trying to float the snack jar.

“I’m sorry!”

“For what?” Brair didn’t sound like it was a test, but still.

“I snooped.”

“No, you didn’t. You asked a question and Trion answered.” Brair dragged off his gloves. “If anything, I’m sorry. People don’t usually like updates from me unless I have something concrete to tell them. I didn’t think you’d want something vague.”

“Vague is better than the worry.” Obi swallowed.

“Fair.” Brair nodded. “At this point, all I can say is that she’s looking.”

That was less satisfying than he’d hoped. “Looking at what?”

“Looking for the problem in an engine is different than looking for a problem in a computer system. Or a problem with people. Ruzry does people.”

Obi-Wan was still terribly confused, but he tried. “She’s… she’s looking into my ‘problem?’”

“Just so.”

“But…” Brair settled into one of the chairs, waiting with a soft expression while Obi-Wan put it together. “What if she…” Obi-Wan’s voice dropped to a whisper, like saying it out loud would make it true. “Finds out I should leave.”

“As I said yesterday: you haven’t met with anyone on the Rass Council. You haven’t been reviewed for a proper placement. And every spec of your file has you marked to be a Knight. You won’t leave.” Brair waited for Obi-Wan to nod, then waited a bit longer because Obi-Wan’s face and Brair’s tentacles probably told him that Obi-Wan was still thinking. Soon enough, Brair took the silence as a cue and tugged his gloves back on to get back to work.

Obi-Wan just stood there, trying to process.

Yes, Brair said that all of the documentation indicated Obi-Wan should be allowed to stay and become a Padawan. But Brair had also said that something had gone wrong in the system which led to Obi-Wan being sent away in the first place. Which meant that if Brair’s Shadow friend discovered that Obi-Wan was supposed to stay, that didn’t mean he would.

Not going to Bandomeer didn’t mean Obi-Wan would get a Master. He didn’t have a Master two days ago, and only Master Jinn had even looked at him after he won the Tournament. And now, Master Brair said he would stay for another three months until his birthday, but what difference would that make?

Obi-Wan knew that he ought to go back to his research project on the Reassignment system. He could plan for the future in case he did get sent away. And if he didn’t, he would have a paper to show for all his trouble, something impressive he could pass around to the other Initiates for when they were ready to graduate. He should be calm, and studious, and patient, and Light, and not angry, and hope that would be enough to make someone choose him to train.

But, Obi-Wan’s brain couldn’t help asking: what if Brair was wrong? What if someone had made a note after yesterday’s fight and Obi-Wan was supposed to be sent away, the note just wasn’t in his file yet? As much as Obi-Wan knew he ought to sit in the hangar and write a paper that might earn him a master, he couldn’t have a Master if he couldn’t stay.

Obi-Wan propped his elbows up on the counter and looked Trion dead in three of his seven eyes. “We need to help.”

---