Bastila Shan was the ideal example of perfect Jedi calm. Her back was rigidly straight, her legs crossed, her large blue eyes clamped shut just below that bulging red vein in her forehead.
Bastila Shan was meditating until the seductive desire for homicide subsided.
She had been told that this mission, this race to the Star Forge, whatever a Star Forge was, would be perilous. Bastila could readily accept peril. She could accept being forced to work with a hodgepodge mess of street urchins, Republic pilots, Mandalorians, Wookiees and not-quite-Jedi without so much as a "no thank you" on her part, she could accept the ever present lure of the dark side, she could even accept waiting to take a shower after said hodgepodge crew of street urchins, Republic pilots, Mandalorians, Wookiees and not-quite-Jedi beat her to the refresher. The close confines of the Ebon Hawk may have done wonders to remove any semblance of dignity, but she clung to what little advantage turning her nose up at the crew and shooting icy glances gave.
But there was a breaking point. Some things were inexcusable for the Council to request of her, even if the fate of the galaxy, like they were so quick to claim, rested upon it.
That bond between Bruce Mullin, the unwitting amnesiac Dark Lord Revan, had been slowly whittling away at the last shreds of her sanity. To be tied to such a miasma of potential dark side energy would have been horrific enough, intimidating enough, but to think that the destroyer of worlds was nothing more than a thirteen-year-old boy. Sometimes she would look at him and see nothing more than a laughing, insolent child, a baby.
Unfortunately, this child was in the midst of spiking hormones capable of producing many a lurid dream that would spill over into Bastila's thoughts, courtesy of their bond.
She had half a mind to tell him that he had no idea what Twi'lek genitalia was really shaped like, but she was too afraid that his dreams might absorb that information and attempt to compensate.
"No way."
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're afraid."
"Republic Senate rules, bantha-breath. I don't play Nar Shaddaa."
"See and I always thought you were blue. I didn't realize you were really yellow."
"See, I always knew you were a moron. It feels good to be right."
Bastila tried to tune out their voices with the soft grinding of her teeth. Earlier on, she had convinced herself that the reason the headache remained was simply because she wasn't trying hard enough. Now, she was forlorn enough to admit that the headache was named "Bruce Mullin." She could only feel relieved that both Juhani and Carth agreed with her and helped to enforce a strict ten o'clock curfew for the ship's youngest members.
This was the only time that Mission would take the time to forget that she couldn't stand Bruce, coincidentally. The adult crew had to trade off in shifts to make sure that the children didn't try anything melodramatic or sneaky well past their bedtime.
"Oh, wow. Don't mind me, I'm just going to… You look three seconds away from a meltdown, sister."
"What?" Bastila blinked and rubbed at her temple with a hand. "I'm sorry, Carth, I wasn't paying attention. Today's been stressful to say the least."
Carth Onasi's eyes trailed down the corridor towards the starboard dormitories that echoed with the indignant shrieks of a blue Twi'lek. "I can imagine. To be honest with you, I still can't imagine what possessed the Council to lay all that responsibility on someone so young."
She smiled, knowing full well there was no possible way to respond to that truthfully. "The Council does what it feels is for the best."
"Oh don't give me that," he snorted. "Are you not allowed to tell some lowly Republic pilot or something?"
"Bruce may be young," Bastila said, "but he's quite talented."
Carth sighed. "I wasn't talking about Bruce. I was talking about you, Bastila."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Let's be real, here." The older man shook his head and chuckled to himself. "I'm old enough to be Bruce's father. Mission's too, if you want to get technical."
Bastila raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I suppose you're going to tell me next that you're old enough to be my father, as well?"
"Don't push it, lady, I'm being serious here." He placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that may have been second nature to him, but sent her muscles tensing. "What kind of game is this Council playing at, really? Bruce might come in handy, yeah, but he's a kid. If this really is the fate of the galaxy, that means they're relying on you to save it. And that's an awful lot even without the title of babysitter tacked onto it."
"I'm afraid you're speaking logically, Carth." With a final kneading motion into her temple, the headache began to fade. "That would lead me to assume that you're not well-acquainted with the ways of the Force."
Carth grinned at her. "Careful or I might just start to see you as a woman instead of a Jedi."
"I'll be sure to remember that." Bastila plucked his hand from her shoulder and dropped it.
"Come on!"
From the way the voice started out low and trailed upward to squeaky heights it had to be Bruce. Bastila silently counted to ten and tried to will whatever was happening into calm. The loud crash followed by Bruce's angry cries switching over into horrified wails said it was not to be. There was no passion, there was peace. Peace.
"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean—"
"Listen you kriffing brat, I'm speaking Basic so I'll only say it once. Touch my fire whiskey, I break your hands. Touch my weapons or armor, I kill you. Come near me again, I will hurt you."
"So I'm old enough to die, but not drink? This sucks!"
Carth exchanged a glance with Bastila. "I'll take care of this one. I'm so glad you're in charge of this."
He offered her a sympathetic pat on the back before he trotted off towards the commotion. With a sigh, Bastila closed her eyes and feigned meditation once more.
"The galaxy is doomed," she murmured.