Author's Note: Many have doubted this sequel would ever see the light of day - including myself. It probably wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the wonderful laloga - awesome writer, wonderful beta and all around good nuna egg - who gave this harried scribbler her time, counsel and both patient ears. A million thanks and one for the bank.

Wastelands is part of my overall Mockingbird-verse and second in The Mockingbird Series. For more information and preceding stories, please visit my profile page. Whether to read the prequels or not is a decision I leave to my dear readers - but it wouldn't hurt. For those of you already tuned to the Ro-and-Wren-Show, I thank you for your patience and wish a happy reading.

The Star Wars franchise has and always will, belong to George Lucas and the authors and producers who've brought his characters to life and into our living rooms. No copyright infringements are intended on my part. My OCs, however, are my creative property.

Keep Calm and Read On! impoeia.


Chapter One: Backdrop

"Life does not treat you fairly or unfairly, it merely is. It is up to each of us to be fair, or unfair."

- Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn to the Dark Jedi Xanatos


Nightbrother village, Dathomir, Outer Rim Territories

39 BBY….

Surely he'd been misnamed at birth.

It was not the first time this thought occurred to Feral, but it was certainly reinforced as Bellicose tore through his meager defenses to ram the end of his spear into Feral's stomach. Feral doubled over, gasping for air, desperately clutching his own spear. He thrust the weapon forward, hoping to drive Bellicose off, but the Nightbrother deflected Feral's attack on his bracers and drove his own weapon down in a double-handed grip. Feral's knees gave; he dropped and rolled, Bellicose's spear driving into the arena's hard ground, just where Feral's head had been moments ago.

The younger Zabrak scrambled to his feet, but Bellicose kicked him behind the knee. With a bellow of pain, Feral went to his hands and knees. Bellicose knocked the spear out of Feral's hand; the weapon went skittering towards the ring of watching Nightbrothers.

Feral tried to lunge after his weapon, but Bellicose blocked his way. He jabbed the blunt side of the spear into Feral's side, throwing the younger man onto his back. With Bellicose's shadow looming over him, Feral tried to scramble back. Bellicose raised his weapon, red light shimmering off the blade tip as if dipped in fresh blood.

"No!" Savage broke from the crowd, coming at Bellicose with all the raw strength and fury of a rancor. Feral's older brother rammed Bellicose in the shoulder, knocking the other Nightbrother to the ground.

"That's enough." Savage moved to stand between his brother and Bellicose, one hand extended back to Feral.

Feral gratefully took the hand, allowing his brother to pull him to his feet, but his cheeks were a flaming gold with shame.

"This is Feral's match, Savage." Brother Viscus stood off to the side, hands folded behind his back as he watched the scene unfold. As so often, his face revealed nothing except a lasting disapproval for everyone and everything. "It is not your task to save your brother from his weakness."

Savage turned to stare at Viscus, while Feral hung his head, one arm wrapped around his aching ribs. All eyes were on the two brothers and Feral wished he had the courage to move aside and simply disappear in his brother's shadow. But that would have merely compounded his failure of this day - his life.

"I merely thought," Savage spoke slowly, the way he always did when saying something of import - words did not come as easily to his brother as strength, "that Bellicose would appreciate more of a challenge." His grey-green eyes slid to the Nightbrother; Savage's mouth hardened. "Like me."

They were the right words to say, but Feral winced nevertheless at their sound.

If possible, Viscus' frown deepened, but when he said nothing, Savage moved to pick up Feral's dropped spear.

Bellicose had meanwhile regained his feet, swiping absentmindedly at a small cut high on his chest. A result of his fall and not of a blow landed by him, Feral noted with chagrin.

Savage spun the spear lazily as he faced Bellicose, back still to his younger brother. "Leave this to me, Feral."

"Of course, brother." Feral backed away, his eyes moving between the two combatants. Bellicose was tall, sleek with muscle and he held the spear in an expert grip; his fight with Feral had left him barely winded. But Savage was even taller, his muscles even more defined and though he'd been battling all day, his body betrayed not the slightest tremor of fatigue. He extended his spear towards Bellicose in the customary salute and gesture was as if the spear were an extension of himself, the wood and metal as if grown from his flesh.

Back amongst the ring of watching Nightbrothers, Feral watched, part in pride and part in envy, as the two combatants began circling each other. Bellicose twisted his spear this way and that, showing off his prowess while simultaneously daring his opponent to attack first.

Savage just watched him, grey-green eyes fixed not on his opponent's weapon, but on Bellicose's body, where the true tells of his intent would be made clear.

Finally, Bellicose had had enough. The posturing ended and the Nightbrother abruptly attacked, bringing his spear down in a vicious overhand intended to cut deep into his opponent's shoulder. But Savage was no longer there.

His brother fell to the side, rolled, jabbing his spear between Bellicose's legs and twisting the long shaft.

Bellicose bellowed as he went down, shifting his weight to take the fall on his hands, while still keeping a grip on his spear.

Savage darted in with the unrelenting swiftness of a Kodashi viper. He drove the tip of the spear between Bellicose's shoulderblades.

Feral flinched back as the blood swept over Bellicose's orange skin. The blades of the weapons were blunted for practice, but the Nightbrothers did not pull their punches.

Brother Viscus had caught his reaction and frowned at Feral. Shamefaced at his weakness, Feral turned his attention back to the fight.

Despite his wound, Bellicose was getting back to his feet.

"Stay down," Savage warned.

Bellicose growled and thrust his spear at Savage.

Savage deflected the blow; the ring of metal on metal echoed across the Crucible. With a growl of his own, Savage lunged.

The fight was over in another four seconds.

Savage cut through Bellicose's defenses and slammed the butt of his spear into the Nightbrother's solar plexus. As Bellicose doubled over, the blunted edge of Savage's spear found his neck and bit.

Feral's stomach churned and despite Viscus' presence, the younger Nightbrother closed his eyes and turned his head away and didn't look again until the cheers echoed off the Crucible's steep walls.

Bellicose was slung between two elder Nightbrothers, limp and bleeding, his feet dragging over the stony ground as he was carried away - to be nursed back to health, or culled if his injuries proved too grievous.

That was the Nightbrothers' way.

Spear casually balanced over one wide shoulder, oblivious to the blood that coated the weapon's point and slowly dripped onto the Crucible floor, Savage watched them carry his erstwhile opponent away.

The reddish light slanting through the jagged peaks of the arena's walls was at the right angle to catch on his brother's golden skin, shining off the sweat that coated his bare torso even as it cast the tribal tattoos into deeper shadows. The contrast was, as always, striking.

"So young, and already so fierce."

Feral started at the sound of Viscus' voice; the village leader had come to stand next to the younger Nightbrother while Feral had been distracted by the sight of his older brother.

"Barely sixteen and already Savage has joined the ranks of our best warriors." In the crags of the village leader's face, Viscus' green eyes stood out like hard shards of emeralds - cutting and full of judgement. Feral never failed to be cowed under that hard stare. "He will take my place as village elder, no doubt," Viscus continued, as if unaware of Feral's discomfort. "Or be Chosen, when the Nightsisters come again."

Feral tracked his brother's progress as Savage left the arena to join them.

"It will be as you say, Brother Viscus."

How could it be anything else? Savage was as a Nightbrother should be: strong, proud, a formidable combatant and fierce warrior. But he was also protective, sheltering his younger brother against the cruelties of this life.

Because I am weak and in need of protection. As thankful as he was towards Savage every time his brother stepped in front of him to take a blow that would have sent Feral to his knees, a small part of him - a corner of his soul that went mostly hidden from the world and even Feral himself - burned at every display of his brother's superiority.

So tall and straight and powerful. Why could I not have inherited some of the gifts Savage has in such bounty?

"Yet not all Nightbrothers can aspire to such greatness."

It was as if Viscus had read his very mind and Feral shuddered a little.

"When the branch proves weak," the elder continued, "the greater tree must shake it off, to preserve its strength for the good of the whole."

In other words, Feral thought, I should prepare myself to die quietly in some honorable fashion, before I can bring shame to the village before the Nightsisters.

Feral was saved, as always, by his brother.

Savage sauntered up to the two Nightbrothers, his eyes tracking warily from Viscus to Feral, despite the casual lean of his body. His bloody spear was still poised over one shoulder.

"Feral. Brother Viscus." Savage jerked his chin in acknowledgment to his brother, before bestowing a more formal greeting on the village leader.

"You fought well, Savage." Viscus turned towards the younger man, obviously pleased. "Every day you grow stronger. You make our village proud."

"I only wish to do right by my brothers." He turned his towards Feral as he said this, an obvious message to the elder Zabrak.

"Don't we all." Viscus eyed the two brothers, before placing a friendly hand on Savage's forearm. "But remember, Savage, that concern may not overshadow a Nightbrother's overall duty."

With that final piece of advice, Viscus took his leave. Feral was only too happy to see him go.

Savage harrumphed, tapping the spear once against his shoulder, before tilting his head at his brother. Though only a year apart, Savage was a good handspan taller than Feral, who, even after a decade of strenuous training, remained slender as a reed.

"What did Brother Viscus have to say to you, Feral?"

Feral gave as casual a shrug as he could, beginning to gather up his training weapons as the Crucible emptied out and Domir began to set. "Many good things about your future, Savage, for the most part."

"I bet." Savage gave a snort, absently wiping at a thin cut trailing blood beneath one eye.

"He wants you to take his place as village leader, once his strength wanes."

Others might swell with importance at such news - village leader was the highest honor a Nightbrother could aspire to - but Savage responded with a casual roll of his broad shoulders.

"That day might come, but not tomorrow or the day after. Brother Viscus is strong, yet."

And deadly, Feral silently added. Not a fortnight past, the village leader had killed a fellow Nightbrother in hand-to-hand combat. "But it will come," he said suddenly, fiercely, overcome by a swell of pride and conviction for his brother. "You are already the strongest in our age-group, Savage. When you challenge Viscus for leadership, he will fall."

A slight twitch of the lips was the only indication that Savage was pleased at the idea.

"Perhaps, brother. But that day will not be tomorrow," he said again.

But come it will, went unspoken between them.

So casual. It never ceased to amaze Feral, the easy acceptance with which his brother approached life. Whether it was his prowess in battle, his natural strength or the destiny life had in store for him, Savage took it all in confident strides.

It is his birthright.

"Come, brother, let's go eat." Savage grabbed Feral's weapons for him, shouldering their weight along with his own as if it were nothing.

Feral followed obediently, the long shadow of his brother sheltering from the stabbing rays of Domir's last light.

"Do you think Bellicose will survive?" Savage finally asked, his eyes tracking along the bloodtrail the wounded Nightbrother had left behind.

Feral eyed his older brother indulgently. It was so like Savage, to attack with all he had, then worry about the consequences when nothing could be done about them. His brother, at least, had been aptly named.

"The healers will see to him and if he does, he will be stronger for the experience."

"And perhaps he will want to fight me again." A smile flitted across Savage's face. "That would be good. He is a worthy opponent."

He runs towards battle, while I do my best to hide from it.

Yes, Feral had definitely been misnamed at birth. If only a fraction of his brother's gifts could have been bestowed upon him…..

Then we could stand together in the arena, as brothers. But as it was, Feral could only hope that he would not hold Savage back, even as he clung to the stronger tree, in fear of being cast off.


Jedi Temple, Coruscant, Core Worlds

30 BBY...

Mace Windu paused in his perusal of the Archives' great stacks.

It was late. Aside from the venerable Jocasta Nu and a handful of overly zealous Padawans, the halls of the Jedi Archives were deserted. Stopping before a collection of holobooks concerning the life and reproduction of the various crustaceans found on Dac and other ocean planets, the echo of his footsteps soon faded.

Those of his stalker died away a second later.

Still contemplating the various titles before him, hands casually clasped behind his back, Windu addressed the empty air. "After four days of continuous pursuit, don't you think it is time to end this game, youngling?"

A momentary, embarrassed hesitation, then an unruly mop of platinum blonde hair popped out from behind one of the towering bookshelves. Beneath messy bangs, a pair of large, teal eyes stared at the tall Jedi Master in astonishment and chagrin.

"You knew." Her tone sounded awed and slightly accusatory.

Windu inclined his head towards the youngling. "I'd be a poor excuse for a Jedi Master if I didn't, wouldn't I?"

The youngling blinked, cocking her head to the side as she regarded him gravely for a moment, then burst out into a spontaneous giggle.

The Force laughed with her; the Korun Jedi felt it as a tiny shiver that was no less bright for its lack of strength. His lips curved in response almost against his will. Obviously heartened by this gesture, the youngling left the sheltering shadows of the stacks; one tiny hand was left to rest on the ancient wooden bookshelf, as if the little girl were ready to pounce back behind it at an instant, like a tumble bunny diving down its burrow.

Face-to-face with his pursuer for the first time, Windu gave the girl a quick once-over with a practiced eye.

She was Human, though the teal shading of her eyes was unusual enough to suggest a possible Near-Human ancestor somewhere further back in her lineage. The unruly hair he'd noticed earlier hung all the way down to her waist, framing a slight body and oval-shaped face, with the chubby cheeks of youth. She was quite small. Coupled with the delicacy of her frame, guessing her age was difficult.

The overall impression was that of a bird he could have sheltered in one hand. There was the faintest impression of familiarity about the child - one Windu could not immediately identify.

Apropos of nothing, the child blurted out, "Your head's all shiny," and blushed to the roots of her hair - which was in desperate need of a comb.

"So it is," he responded, as grave as if he were addressing a fellow Council member. He bent to one knee before the youngling to even things out between them. Still, she had to crane her head back to look him in the eye.

"And you," he continued, "are surely missing from your bed, youngling."

The blush deepened and she dropped her gaze to her bare feet. "Sort of," she mumbled.

He couldn't help but cock an eyebrow. "So you are merely 'sort of' out of bed? How, pray, does that work?"

She peeked at him from beneath the tangle of bangs, and he felt her Force-touch brush against his mind, gauging his mood. He responded with a mild pulse of curiosity and little else - anything sharper, he sensed, and this little bird would take flight, only to resume this game of hers again, no doubt.

"I put pillows beneath my blanket before sneaking out," she finally admitted, then cocked her head to the side, eyes going up towards the ceiling. Windu felt her stretch out through the Force, a tiny wavering light straining to bridge the distance between the Archives and the younglings' dormitories. "Master Du Mahn doesn't know I'm gone," she concluded, then added with a grimace, "yet."

So she was one of Du Mahn's charges. That narrowed it down, somewhat.

"Master Du Mahn is wise in her ways. I know her to be an excellent caretaker and instructor. I have, for example, never heard of her being remiss in installing manners in her students."

"Oh." She looked at him, down at her wriggling toes, then back at Mace. "Right." She straightened and almost - almost - came to eye-level with him, before giving a proper little bow. "I'm Ro-Roweena Arhen, if it pleases, Master Windu."

"Arhen." The name was as familiar as her face and suddenly, Windu placed her. "You're Padawan Garett Arhen's younger sister."

"Yes." At the mention of her brother, the Arhen girl's entire face lit up with pride and love. "And you brought us to the Temple." Sudden doubt crossed her mobile features. "Remember?"

Dantooine. Unnaturally heavy spring rains. The mudslides. A single hopper, buried beneath the mud and already filling. The sudden flare of life - of the Force - and two small children, brother and sister, clinging to each other - the last survivors.

"I remember." He looked at her then, not with his eyes, but with the Force, seeking out the shatterpoints that crisscrossed within and about this child - and comparing what he found.

The lines were thin, spidery, but pulsing with color. The last time he'd seen Koth and his Padawan, Garett Arhen had been a bright flare in the Force, the shatterpoints of his Force-aura far-reaching, but steady. A good omen for a Jedi, who might one day help change the galaxy, turn it away from the darkness Yoda sensed on the horizon. But the sister was unsteady. He could feel the shatterpoints tremble beneath his gaze, ready to shift or shatter at a moment's notice. She reminded Windu of a of a broken viewscreen, flickering and shifting as if it couldn't decided on what channel to run.

Not the most promising of starts.

"Why have you been shadowing me this past week?" He cocked an expectant eyebrow at her, one hand dangling from his knee as he waited.

"Weeelll," she dragged the word out, toes curling and uncurling against the marble floor as she shot a quick look over her shoulder, as if hoping for backup. "I was….well….I was sorta…."

He waited patiently for the youngling to collect herself - they had all night, if need be.

"IwannabeyourPadawanprettyprettyplease."

He blinked. "One more time, youngling. And this time, try spacing your words."

She took a huge gulp of air, skinny chest pressing against her tunic, which hung untidily off of one shoulder. Was anything about this child organized?

"I want. To be. Your Padawan." Roweena spaced each word out carefully, as if tasting them. "Pretty please?"

He was taken aback, both by the boldness of the request and the confused maelstrom of hope and desperation the youngling was broadcasting.

"That is not how these things are usually done," Windu temporized. And it wasn't, a Master generally approached a potential Padawan after at least a token discussion with the Counsel, but Windu was also wondering if he was ready for another Padawan - and if it was wise for him to take a Learner right now.

There's a storm on the horizon; the Sith have returned. Young Kenobi had seen - and battled - one.

And where there is one, there's another. Always two there are - Master Yoda said so himself.

Windu did not doubt that if there was to be another war between Sith and Jedi that he would be in the midst of the conflict. The question was, did he have a right to drag a Padawan into battle with him?

A Jedi is the bulwark against darkness, he reminded himself. Small this child might be, but she would grow into a member of the Order and raise her lightsaber against injustice and the dark side. She would need to learn to stand and fight either way.

"And why me, youngling?" he asked. He could think of several reasons - his status, his reputation, his prowess with the Force and lightsaber - but wanted to hear it from her.

The face she turned up at him was surprisingly solemn; the little round chin she struck out undoubtedly stubborn. "I'm ten," she declared, as if this were somehow shameful.

He wouldn't have guessed her more than eight. "Go on."

"The rest of my clan, the other Squalls, they're all advancing, taking classes with Master Drallig and Che. Three are already Padawans. I'm..." she licked her lips, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Master Sinube is still training me."

Ah. The elderly Cosian Jedi primarily taught the basics of Force- and lightsaber usage to younglings between the ages of six and eight. For a child of ten to still be under his tutelage spoke volumes of Roweena's Force-abilities - and her likely future place within the Order.

The AgriCorps is not a shameful destination, merely a different part of the Order, he reminded himself. They serve to the best of their abilities, like all of us. Even if those abilities were more meager than those of the average Jedi.

She must have seen some of his thoughts on his face - or felt them in the Force. She bowed her head slightly, the mass of unruly hair slipping over her shoulders to fall down her skinny chest in a curtain.

"You brought me to the Temple, Master Windu," she said quietly. "If you were my Master, no one could say I didn't belong in the Order - that I'm not a real Jedi."

"A real Jedi," he said, light censure in his voice, "serves, youngling, and does not seek for glory."

"I don't want glory," she burst out, teal eyes flashing. Then she blinked. "'Kay, maybe a little. But I really...I-I just want to be a Jedi."

Don't we all?

"I can be a hard taskmaster," he warned.

Hope flared around her. "I can keep up," she declared stoutly. "And I'll be ever so good. You'll see." There was a vulnerability to her face, a softness that was tempered by determination and a fretful awareness of her own precarious position.

He'd seen that look before, on younglings who'd felt their thirteenth birthday loom large, with no potential Master in sight. Roweena knew she was heading to the AgriCorps, but was determined to fight for her place within the Order tooth and nail.

"Just…" She bit her lip, but held his gaze.

"Yes?"

"Just give me a chance to prove myself." The words were half-plea, half-whisper. She almost added "please"; Windu could see the word on the tip of her tongue, but the youngling determinately bit it back.

He should send her back to bed and spend the rest of the night meditating over his options, searching the Force - and perhaps Yoda - for advice. It was no light thing to take a Padawan, but a grave responsibility. That would be the prudent decision.

But there was something in the set of her shoulders, in the way her eyes tilted up at him, as if he were her last salvation, that strongly reminded him of his former Padawan, Kalinda, now two years a Knight. She too had stood on the brink of relegation to the AgriCorps, after losing her first Master and subsequent knee injury - and the Order would have lost a true Knight in the bargain.

"Very well, youngling." Windu inclined his head towards her, both in a nod of confirmation and solemn promise. "You will have your chance, however…"

Whatever sage advice he'd been about to give was lost in her sudden squeal of total delight. She leaped at him, thin arms wrapping around the Korun Jedi's neck in a fierce hug.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He returned the hug, tentatively, mostly out of reflex, but also because he did not miss the desperation in the tightness of the child's embrace.


The next day...

The dojos at the top of the Tower of First Knowledge weren't anything like the ones i the Tranquility Spire, where Ro's classes were usually held and she couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated. Everything here was so grand.

Bronzium statues lined the walls, reaching all the way to the second-story balcony; in their shadows, Ro felt like a gnatfly caught under the disapproving glower of a regal pride of rock-lions. The floors were wood, polished to such a high sheen that she could see a distorted reflection of herself in it. That alone had impressed her to such a degree, that she'd slipped her shoes and socks off before daring to tread on the dojo's pristine floor.

None of this was helping to settle the flewt swarm currently doing cartwheels in her belly.

There was so much riding on these next few minutes. Her whole future...

"You're early, youngling."

Ro yelped and dropped the training lightsaber; it clattered to the floor, making her wince.

Mace Windu, as tall and as imposing as the bronzium statues, strode into the dojo. He barely made a sound as he walked, she noted, fascinated, despite the fact that his feet were clad in sturdy boots.

The Korun Master waved a hand as he approached and her training lightsaber flew into his hand. Windu weighed the weapon for a moment, inspecting the hilt closely.

"From the Temple armory," he observed. "You've not yet had your Gathering, then."

"No, Master." But she hoped she would, and soon. Constructing your own lightsaber was the first step to becoming a Padawan - and another milestone between Ro and the AgriCorps. She hoped.

Windu nodded and handed the weapon back to her. "A lightsaber is a Jedi's life, youngling. You should take care to hold on to it more thoroughly."

He sounded so stern; Ro wondered if Master Windu ever smiled or laughed. She'd always wanted a Master who laughed and told jokes.

It doesn't matter so long as he is my Master, she reminded herself.

Tentatively, she reached out to take her lightsaber back.

Master Du Mahn and Garett always complained that she talked too much, but under Windu's dark stare, all she could manage was a meek, "Yes, Master."

She felt so clumsy, tongue-tied. Should she have answered him with something sage from her classes? Too bad she couldn't recall anything more sage at the moment then, "Try not to cut your own head off."

Padawans weren't supposed to chatter, though. Padawans were supposed to listen and learn and since she was terrified of uttering the wrong peep and totally ruining the moment, Ro convulsively swallowed back every single word that came to mind.

The result, was a rather uncomfortable silence, where Jedi Master and Initiate merely stared at each other.

Finally, Windu said, "You will be fighting in bare feet?"

"Uhm." Ro looked down at her naked toes, then towards the corner where she'd left her shoes and socks. They seemed miles and miles away. "Yes?"

"Very well." The tall Korun pivoted on his heels, walked back several paces before turning to face her once more. His lightsaber was suddenly in his hand - Ro hadn't even seen him reach for the weapon. "Arm yourself, Initiate."

"Wh-what?" Her mouth was suddenly dry, but that was alright, because all the wetness seemed to have simply slid down to her palms, until she almost dropped her lightsaber a second time. She'd surely heard wrong. "We….we're going to fight?" Her voice rose to a squeak.

He looked down the proud prow of his nose at her.

"Your skills with a lightsaber are part of the fundamentals that make a Jedi. You wish to be my Padawan? I'm giving you the chance to show me what you've learned."

"B-but I…." It hit her then, that she'd actually never considered just what this chance she'd begged Windu for would entail, but a lightsaber duel with one of the most renowned Jedi in the Temple - second only to Master Yoda himself - had certainly not been it.

Windu waited patiently and somehow that made her even more nervous. Ro took a step back, then another, on the verge of running.

The Jedi Master merely raised an eyebrow. "I'm waiting, youngling."

And suddenly, Ro was furious. "You're Mace Windu; I can't beat you!"

"In a fight? Undoubtedly. Simply by standing there? For a certainty." His lightsaber sprang to life, a beam of purple light that cut through the dojo.

Reflexively, Ro thumped the activation button to her own lightsaber. The blue blade looked tiny and inadequate when compared to the Jedi Master's. Both hands wrapped around the hilt, but as always, the grip felt awkward to Ro, as if her right hand wanted to do something other than what her left was doing.

Windu slid into a battle-stance, his movements a study in grace and precise. Master Sinube had always said that the lightsaber should be an extension of herself; watching Master Windu, Ro finally understood what he'd meant. The lightsaber in the Korun's hand seemed to be a living thing, sprouting out of the Jedi's palm and moving as nimbly as one of his fingers.

Ro swallowed. Windu hadn't done more than move into the opening stance of a lightsaber duel, and already she felt beaten.

I don't stand a chance. Just like she never stood a chance when her clan-mates played Force-limmie, bouncing the ball effortlessly through the air, while she'd been left running breathlessly after it, or, more recently, simply delegated to the sidelines.

Ro's entire face felt like it was on fire. It was so unfair. If this was Windu's idea of giving her a chance to prove herself worthy of being his Padawan, he might as well have just said "no" and spared her this humiliation.

I'll lose no matter what. She took a step forward. And another.

Windu watched her come. "Standard duel rules; three points decides the match. Understood?"

Her mouth felt like she'd taken a big bite out of Tatooine's Dune Sea, so Ro simply nodded.

"Very well. Begin." And just like that, he was right in front of her.

Ro gasped and threw herself backwards, her lightsaber coming up in an instinctive block, but she might as well not have moved at all. Windu's lightsaber slid past her defenses as if they didn't exist, the tip barely grazing the edge of her sleeve. Then one of his big hands grabbed the edge of her robe, keeping Ro from falling flat on her butt. The Jedi Master gave her a slight shove and Ro stumbled forward. But she'd absorbed more from her lessons than she'd thought, because her body was already whirling around, lightsaber at the reader, before her mind had fully grasped what had happened.

"Your reflexes are good," Windu observed, "but you are unfocused. Stay in the moment."

Where I'm getting my butt handed to me with a big red ribbon.

She tried to attack. Ro went through the moves of Shii-Cho, Form I of lightsaber combat, as she'd done a hundred - a million - times under Master Sinube's critical eye. Her focus narrowed to the Marks of Contact, trying to get her lightsaber blade close enough to scare a hit.

Just one hit. Just one. Maybe that'll be enough. It has to be enough. What more can he expect?

It was like chasing points of light. Windu evaded each and every one of her attacks, not even raising his lightsaber in defense, but merely angling his body so her blade slid right past him. The Jedi Master moved with the liquidity of a cool mountain stream and she felt nothing from him in the Force.

No boredom, or interest or even the bundled attention that lingered on Ro's tongue like a sting. Mace Windu was a pool of serenity that revealed nothing, only reflected herself back at her.

By the time he landed his second point on Ro, a small streak of char just on her right shoulder, seconds had passed. Ro was panting, swear darkening the hair at her temples and the nape of her neck, where she'd gathered it in a loose tail.

Windu's robes weren't even ruffled.

"Your technique is flawed, youngling. Giving yourself over to emotion will only hold you back."

Ro wiped the sweat off her brow, aware of the fact that he was deliberately giving her the time to catch her breath, to reset and try again.

"It's all I have," she answered hoarsely.

He didn't look as if he believed her.

And out of nowhere, like they usually did, a stray bit of music came to Ro. She couldn't place it, and didn't have to. What mattered was that it was sweet and smooth and her body began to sway in rhythm.

She was in the music now.

Ro spun; no standard lightsaber move, but a graceful pivot on the ball of one foot, her lightsaber close like a dancing partner. Windu moved to intercept her, but Ro this time, it was like he was moving in slow-motion. Ro could see the purple afterglow his saber left in the air as it came at her. She leaped.

The song was stronger now, more in her head than her ears, and somehow...golden. She snatched at it, even as her body bent in a backwards flip that sent brought her well above Windu's arc of attack.

It was like she'd stepped out of her body, yet Ro'd never been so aware of the air brushing against her bare skin, or the tickle of hair on her cheek, the rustle of her robes.

Something soft and light ghosted across her forehead, as if someone were trying to tickle her with a feather.

And Ro found she wanted to laugh, because this…..this was joy and fulfilment and flight and….the Force!

And no sooner did she touch it, then it was gone again.

The golden glow vanished with the suddenness of a light switch being flipped and flight abruptly turned to fall.

Ro cried out as she lost her balance, still partially midair. In a panic, she waved her arms, but that only unbalanced her further. She came down wrong, her left foot barely touching the dojo's floor before it went sideways beneath her weight.

The pain was blazing and Ro cried out a second time, more shrill than before. She barely managed to not impale herself on her lightsaber by dropping the weapon and bracing what was left of the fall with her hands, as she'd been taught.

The dojo's floor was cool as it pressed against her forehead and smelled citrusy and piney all at once.

Tears stung Ro's eyes and she let them fall - as she'd fallen.

"Roweena," a huge shadow fell over her. "Are you-"

The concern in Master Windu's voice was too much.

Red-faced, burning from humiliation and pain, she screamed into the Master's face: "It's your fault!"

He froze, as if slapped.

"Your fault!" she repeated, hot tears scorching her face. It was just too much. Weeks of planning, of finding the best routes to sneak out of the younglings' dormitories, working up the courage to talk to the one person who could protect her from the fate - the shame - that had been looming large since she'd been eight years old and confronted with the immovable object of a ball.

The hard, cold knot of jumbled feelings beneath her breastbone, growing for over two years, shattered all at once and poured out of Ro: the disenchantment, the frustration; the fear and the daily humiliation she'd been forced to swallow, so she could be a good Initiate - a good Jedi.

It tasted like ash.

"You'll never let me be a Jedi. Not you, or Master Sinube or Master Yoda. No one! You're never giving me my chance. Never!"

"I believe we're done here." Master Windu's face might as well have been cast of alusteel; it was all hard planes and unforgiving angles. His tone was ice. "Remain where you are, Initiate. I'll call a Healer."

Ro's head dropped back to the floor, her body shaking from sobs. "All I could do was fail."

Windu paused in the act of rising, looking down at her. "I never required you to do otherwise."

She looked back up at him, startled by the words, but he was already on his way out of the dojo, back straight and rigid. He never looked back.

Ro curled up on herself then, hurt ankle pulled close to her body, and wept.

She felt small, alone, desperately wishing to be back in the song that had been hers for that one, glorious moment. But even that had failed her.

Worse, though, was the feeling that she'd failed the test - and now she wasn't even sure if that had ever meant the match.


Tipoca City, Kamino, Outer Rim Territories

28 BBY….

The armored elbow hit him just below the chin, snapping his head back violently. His bare feet slipped on the rain-wet duracrete and Alpha-20 went flying.

For a moment, the clone cadet had an unhindered view of the black sky above, with its roiling cloud cover highlighted by the sharp tines of lightning.

Then he broke through the surface of the ocean and the waves swallowed him.

Wrench hit the water hard, the impact jarring his spine and forcing all the air from his lungs.

The waves closed in around him, as dark and cold as the sky.

Wrench had a final glimpse of the world above, merely a pinprick of light as a fork of lightning stretched out over the clouds before the saltwater flooded his nose and mouth and eyes.

He clamped his eyes shut and tried to blow the water out of his nose, but he only started choking, which drove more water down his throat.

All clones had been taught to swim, so Wrench kicked out with legs, arms stroking through the blackness - but he no longer knew which way was up or down.

Fear was spiky; a crackle in his veins and far, far colder than the oceans of Kamino.

Just as his lungs felt ready to burst, the synthrope around Wrench's waist was pulled taut. The cadet screamed as the rope cut through his bare flesh, unmindful of the water choking him, as he was janked back….up!

Wrench's head popped out of the roiling waters.

The wind drove rain against his face with the force of PEP rounds, but Wrench didn't care. He heaved in great gulps of air, even as he coughed up the water he'd swallowed. His nose was clogged; his eyes burned; his vision was blurry. High above his head, the reversed bowl of Tipoca's underbelly stretched for miles and miles.

He had a second to orient himself before the next series of waves caught the cadet up again and swirled him about like a tooka cat's plaything.

The waves crashed against the pillars of the city and broke up, losing some of their monstrous momentum, but not enough for the young clone to swim against.

He was pulled under again, breathing water, then slammed against something unyielding. A clamp, like a giant fist, seized Wrench, squeezing his chest until he was certain his ribs shattered. The water pressure kept him pinned to that hard, durasteel something…. squeezing…..squeezing….

His mind seemed to detach from his body, as life was squeezed out of him. And then the pressure shifted and that great fist turned into an open hand, slapping him to the side.

Wrench didn't have the breath left to scream again as his naked body slid against the ice-cold pillar, bits of exposed skin temporarily sticking to the freezing durasteel. His left arm was wrenched behind his back, almost up his shoulder as he was finally free of the pillar.

His arm was surely broken and the pain of it was the only warm spot in his entire body.

Wrench's body had almost given up the fight to breathe air again, when he reached the end of his tether and the snythrope snapped him back to the surface.

A moment's respite; a hastily indrawn breath and he was down in the wet darkness once more.

The next time the waves tossed him, they threw him right into the ladder reaching back to the platform; despite the numbness that had overtaken his body, there was simply no mistaking the press of rungs against his side. His left side.

He was already being pushed past the ladder again.

There was no point in gritting his teeth - his mouth was already full of water - so he screamed with heartfelt pain as he forced his broken arm in-between the rungs. The ocean tugged at him, wrenching the arm further until the broken bits of bone ground against each other and threatened to pierce his skin.

But he held on, until he could twist about and grasp the first of the rungs with his other hand. His bare feet, just lumpy bits of ice, slipped off the durasteel and the undertow threatened to pull him back under. Wrench bared his teeth against the storm and refused to relinquish his hold.

With agonizing slowness, he fought his painful way up, out of the darkness of the ocean and into the shadow of Tipoca.


His palm slapped down on the platform, but Wrench barely felt the wet duracrete beneath his fingers. He was so cold that his hands and feet barely felt attached to the rest of his body. His hand slipped and he scrambled madly for a fingerhold, pushing his weight up and over the rim of the platform until he could dig in with his elbow. Numb as it was, his left arm hung uselessly at his side.

Wrench dragged his head and shoulders over the rim, shredding the skin of his elbow as he did so, but he barely noticed. The wind was as cold as the ocean and he was shivering so hard, his teeth clacked together.

An armored boot materialized out of the darkness, coming down on his hand.

The clone cadet shrieked in agony; writhing, his numb feet almost slipped off of the ladder, but the boot pinned him in place as relentlessly as the waves had against Tipoca's massive pillars.

Lightning cracked high overhead, once, twice, thrice, illuminating the scene in shuttering light.

Through the driving rain, Wrench could see himself reflected in the T-shaped visor of Jango Fett's helmet.

"Learned your lesson, ARC trooper?" The Mandalorian's voice, made tinny and crackling by the helmet's speakers, was pitched just above the howling of the wind. It was a cold voice, as cold as the storm and the oceans of Kamino, but Wrench heard the underlying growl - the fury.

The cadet twisted his head so as to stare into Fett's eyes through the visor, exposing as he did so the thin, angry red line of a puckered scar that ran from the right corner of his mouth all the way up into his cheek.

"Y-yes...s-s-sir." The words were hard to get out past the chattering of his teeth, but Wrench soldiered on, grimly determined. "Ne-next b-b-bomb in your quarters, will have bio-biometric s-s-sensors!"

"You think this is a joke?" The boot ground harder into his hand, crunching bone and cartilage. Grey edged itself into Wrench's vision, but he refused to cry out a second time and bit his tongue instead until his mouth filled with warm blood.

"You want to die, you miserable little chakaar? Is that it?"

It was difficult to determine where Fett's armored outline ended and the night began - the saltwater in his eyes burned, crusting in his lashes and making his vision an uncertain thing - so Wrench bared his teeth at it all.

"You," he spat, spraying bits of blood onto the duracrete, "first!"

The pressure on his hand suddenly disappeared as the boot lifted.

Wrench felt himself slipping and tried to maneuver his broken arm around the ladder's fastenings.

"This wasn't enough?" Fett snarled. "Do I have to beat sense into you by the inch?"

Wrench jerked his chin up to reply, and barely caught sight of the boot as it swung back down, hitting the clone cadet square in the breastbone. His fragile grip was shattered and Wrench was falling once more, away from the dubious safety of Tipoca and back towards the unforgiving waters.


The second armored figure was harder to see, the black beskar'gam merging almost seamlessly with the shadows cast by the storm and the white blaze of Tipoca city. The strill at his side was little more than a grey shade, ducked low beneath the torrents of rain and grumbling its displeasure at being out in such weather.

Walon Vau didn't like it any better than his pet strill, but he was just as happy to leave behind the sterile confines of Tipoca for the dark chaos of the storm.

Besides, when the Mand'alor called, the warriors rallied. No matter how foul the weather.

"Bit of extracurricular activity?" he asked, once he'd joined Fett at the edge of the platform.

Fett didn't answer, just kept staring down at the storm-tossed ocean.

Vau looked as well and could just make out a tiny figure struggling against the waves before being swallowed up again by the water.

"That the one?"

"He almost killed Boba," Fett snarled in turn.

"'Almost' doesn't collect the bounty." It was a favorite saying amongst bounty hunters and one Vau knew Fett lived by. Vau and the rest of the Cuy'val Dar might consider themselves Mandalorians first, bounty hunters second, but everyone knew it was the exact opposite for Fett. He might be their Mand'alor, but it was an open secret that he took more pride in the title of greatest bounty hunter in the universe.

Still, it had been a brilliant little set-up, all things considered. Not every cadet - even an Alpha-ARC - would have come up with the idea of lining the interior of the doorway to Fett's private quarters with thermal det tape, rigging the door to blow as soon as it opened. A tidy booby-trap and effective; Boba would have been a blood-smear on the walls if that cleaning droid hadn't overtaken the boy on its rounds.

"You'd best watch him," Vau warned. "The little shabuir's smart."

"He hates me."

As opposed to the rest of the Alphas, Vau thought, who were in fearful awe of their genetic template.

"Double the reason to keep an eye on him."

"Or give him to the aiwha-bait," Fett growled.

Vau turned his helmeted head to consider his leader. "Then do it and stop wasting your time. A soldier who can't be controlled has no place in an army."

Next to Vau, Lord Mirdalan sneezed in agreement.

Fett ignored them both. It wasn't easy to tell where a Mandalorian was looking at any given moment, given the HUD's wrap-around capabilities, but the Mand'alor's visor was still fixated on small, pale figure fighting the black waters.

When the silence continued, Vau spoke again. "Or give him to Skirata. Kriff knows Kal enjoys coddling the crazy ones."

"No." The word cut across the storm like a thunderclap. "He's mine."

"Fett…"

"He almost killed Boba," Fett repeated.

Vau tried again. "It would be better-"

"He almost killed Boba!" The third repetition was a roar and the storm roared with him. "Jaster's legacy and mine and that waste of genes nearly blew up my son! No, Vau, Alpha-20 won't go anywhere. Not until we've finished this."

And that, Vau reflected, was that. Whatever kindness had motivated Fett to spare the ad'ika flailing below the same fate as Alpha-19 all those months ago had disappeared in the fireball that had almost taken Boba's life. The cadet had crossed a line and there was no turning back now - for either of them.

Vau spared a moment's sympathy for the cadet hanging at the end of his synthrope, before saying, "And what do you want of me?"

For the first, Fett turned to face Vau. The rain pelted off of his armor in fat drops, collecting in the pits and scratches - Fett wore no good beskar, but a less resilient and cheaper durasteel alloy.

"To help me," a gloved finger pointed down at the wild sea, "break him."

The poor shabuir. He'd have been better off reconditioned.

Rain ran down the edge of his buy'ce as Vau inclined his head towards Fett's shadowed outline. "As Mand'alor commands."


Wrench managed to catch hold of the synthrope, only for the thin cord to tear through his skin all the way down to the bone. He howled before the waters closed in around him once.

He gagged and heaved as his belly filled with saltwater, growing lightheaded as less and less oxygen flowed through his system. It was so cold, so terribly cold, that he'd even stopped shivering. Naked but for the synthrope tied around his waist, Wrench wanted nothing more than to float and let the darkness close in around him.

But as cold as he was, as tired as he was, there was a burning in the pit of his stomach, a fire just beneath his breastbone that grew with every crash of the waves, every bit of forked lightning and rolling thunder.

Asher, he thought, as he struggled against the ocean's pull.

And again, Asher, as he broke the surface for a hasty gulp of air.

The lightning flared and in its afterglow he saw Jango Fett's face - the face he and every other clone would one day grow into and the fires grew and grew until Wrench felt himself burn inside, despite the freezing temperatures outside.

It should have been Wrench the Kaminoans had taken. It should have been Fett that had died.

But it had been Alpha-19 - Asher.

Hate kept him warm. Hate kept him alive. Wrench screamed his brother's name into the storm.