Reformation Year 981.05.07
Coruscant

Shmi had been torn on how to share knowledge of their family's survival with Anakin. Obi-Wan definitely didn't want his name attached, not recognisably, and it had taken Shmi a while to devise a story that was true without offering the full truth. It did help that Anakin and Qui-Gon had been offworld for a couple months on an assignment. But now they were home, sitting at her table, and Shmi couldn't contain it any longer. Her son deserved to know.

"I have some good news," she started. She immediately had Kitster's attention: he'd known there was something bothering her for a while, but she'd begged the need for the rest of their family to hear it at the same time.

Qui-Gon's eyebrows arched. "And yet you seem troubled by it?"

Of course he would notice. Shmi sighed. "No, it's good. It could just… be better. I received a comm from my sister."

"No way!"

"Wizard!"

"Your sister?"

Shmi held up her hand to forestall their questions. "Part of our family, the trading clans we traveled with, were released from slavery by a kind Mandalorian. He's adopted them all into his clan for their safety, and helping them start a new life on Mandalore." She grinned, feeling again the warm rush of excitement that came with knowing she and Anakin weren't the last of the Skywalkers. "It's not all of our family, but-"

Anakin launched himself around the corner of the table to hug her tightly. "That's amazing, Mom! He just rescued them?"

"You have family?!" Kitster squawked. The roll he'd been buttering before Shmi's news distracted him crumbled onto his plate as he squeezed too tightly.

"I haven't been told the whole story, but he did apparently take a job for the explicit purpose of winning and freeing them," she admitted. She doubted even Ruuli had been told everything, but they knew Obi-Wan had been injured severely in the process.

Of course, Anakin's next question was, "Can we go visit them?"

Qui-Gon shifted in his chair, frowning. "I don't know if that would be wise. Not all Mandalorians are fond of Jedi." He glanced at Shmi. "Do you know what faction he aligns with?"

She shook her head and squeezed her son once more before shooing him back to his seat and handing Kitster a napkin with a frown. "I know Clan Bastra's farm is some hours northwest of Keldabe-"

The Jedi Master made a displeased noise. "True Mandalorian. Not as hostile as Death Watch, but there's still a long and unpleasant history between them and the Order. You said Bastra?" At her nod, he leaned back, stroking his beard; Shmi really wished he wouldn't do that at the table. "Bastra is a Corellian surname, a very common one. It's old Corelisi for shipwright, from the days before Corellia developed space travel. I wonder how they came to be Mandalorian?"

Shmi relaxed a bit, relieved that Qui-Gon had assumed the clan was older than it was in truth. "I can ask if they would welcome a visit," she offered hesitantly. "Ruuli - my sister - already knows that you're Jedi. It might not be a problem." Obi-Wan might wish to be elsewhere, of course, but calling ahead would offer enough warning.

Anakin aimed his saddest nexu kit eyes at Qui-Gon, who sighed. "I suppose it can't hurt to ask."

Mandalore

In Zoh's defense, she'd completely lost track of the days. There was just so much going on - setting up the vhett, At'tha's business with Nym, getting their armour, preparing for exams…. And even though her dad had insisted he wasn't the one in charge of the vhett or even their aliit, everyone had been looking to Zoh for her judgment on things since At'tha and the others had left to meet up with Nym. And then their old crewmate had turned up unexpectedly; it was just bad timing on her part, but Zoh had felt the need to be a gracious host. It helped that she recognised Tovari from the few group holos they had around the Sunflare, and the others had shared a few stories of their time on the Eidolon Hazard.

She was so wrapped up in explaining the details of the fields, the orchards, the way they were trying to make the best use of the land, Zohli hadn't noticed that by the time she, Cabur Jango, and Tovari had headed for the house itself, there was nobody else out in the fields.

The moment they entered the main hall, Zoh froze. Everyone was there, staring at them, like there was some formal greeting party for their unexpected guest she hadn't been aware of.

And then all the kids, including Boba, mobbed her, screaming, "Happy birthday, Zozo!"

Whilst fielding hugs and the array of handmade beaded bracelets the kids offered, she stared at the assembled adults, who were grinning at her confusion. "I totally forgot…."

"Your buir didn't," Jango said. He gently pushed through the littler ones clinging to Zoh's knees and hugged her tightly. "Briikasë gotë'tuur, ad'ika."

She squeezed back; it wasn't the same as At'tha's hugs, but Jango was just as warm and affectionate in his own way. "Vor entyë, Cabur."

Their aliit had taken advantage of her being outside, and the long tables were covered in party food. Jango had kept her too busy prepping for their climbing trip to investigate the wonderful cooking smells earlier, and she threw him a dirty look. He only laughed and helped Boba load his plate.

Their guest was delighted to be included; all the kids wanted to sit next to Zohli, but the adults guided them away, leaving spaces for Jango and Tovari beside her. Tovari gave her a bemused smile. "I feel like a guest of honour instead of unexpected."

Jango leaned forward to look past Zohli and arch an eyebrow at the woman; he clearly had some mistrust of her being from the Sundari faction, but was willing to put it aside for now. "Mandalorian hospitality dictates courtesy for guests. But you're also extended family, in a way. Unless you don't want to be included among Scogar's vodë?"

Oh, that was a weird thought. Zoh knew her At'tha and Tovari had been together for a short time, and that they were still friends. If even Jango was asking if she wanted to be included, it said something positive about his impression of her during the few hours they'd been walking the vhett.

Blinking in surprise, Tovari smiled. "You know? I would."

Jango's grin went toothy and devious. "Excellent. Then as family, you would of course let us know about his more youthful indiscretions. So we can defend his honour properly, of course."

Zoh rolled her eyes. "You know he loves sharing his embarrassing stories. They're the best way to tell us all what not to do without him looking all bossy."

Tovari laughed. "There's always a few stories that aren't suitable for the younger ones. Did he tell you about the time he kept our captain from getting shivved in a bar by distracting people with sleight of hand tricks?"

Wide eyed, her mouth full of braised nuna, Zoh shook her head.

"Right," the woman started with a grin. "So we'd just wrapped up a delivery on Ord Cantrell..."

She had a few other stories that had the adults within hearing range howling with laughter. Jango was definitely appreciating them, and Zoh let herself relax for the first time since At'tha left. It sounded like her dad hadn't been in a very good place when he'd met Tovari and the others, but had tried his best anyway. Tovari was a good storyteller; she knew how to build tension just right and then break it with a joke.

"Then there was the time he was helping the Protectors on Concord Dawn-"

"We've heard this one," Jango interrupted with a grin. "He dropped a ceiling on the slavers and then decided he had to fight a Wookiee."

Tovari's eyes glinted. "Did he tell you he took that job to take a break from being around the Duchess, though?"

Zoh tilted her head. "Which Duchess?"

"Officially, he was acting as a bodyguard for Satine Kryze, Duchess of the New Mandalorians. Unofficially, she was trying to make his assignment a lot more, um, personal."

Jango was suddenly very interested. "I knew he guarded her for a while, but they were involved?"

Nodding, Tovari confirmed, "For a few months. They were really not well suited to each other, but I guess there was a bit of lingering childhood crush involved." Her grin widened and she aimed it squarely at Jango. "Not that you would ever have a problem with that?"

Cabur Jango had never struck Zohli as being the jealous type, and it definitely wasn't jealousy that crossed his face for a moment; maybe a bit of horror, really, since from what Zoh understood, Duchess Satine was technically usurping Jango's position.

Then his eyes lit up and he grinned back. "Oh, I like you. We're gonna have to keep in touch."

Boba finished licking sauce from his hands and looked up at his buir. "When can we show her?"

Jango popped the last of a pastry into his mouth and stood up. "As good a time as any. I'll be right back," he said, touching Zoh's shoulder with a funny little grin.

Zoh squinted at Boba. "You guys got me something, didn't you?" Boba bounced in his seat in response, his grin covering half his face. Zoh shook her arms, the colourful bracelets clacking and chiming against each other on her wrists. "But I already got presents."

"Mmm this's special. Because you're verd'ika," Boba insisted. Some of the adults near them shushed him, although they were more amused than anything else. So everyone was in on this.

Tovari distracted her. "You've been with Scogar a while, right?"

"Almost four years." Zoh rolled her eyes fondly. "He'll say he doesn't know anything about being a parent, but he seems to be doing a better job than my birth parents did. I barely ever saw them except for progress reports from my tutors. It's nice to have someone who wants me to be part of their life, you know? He was even willing to let me leave when I turned thirteen Standard, if I didn't want to stay."

The woman nodded. "Some parents just can't see their kids as being people. Scogar's not like that. I think he really needed someone to take care of. But don't tell him I said so," she added in a loud whisper with a wink, and Zohli laughed.

"Hey, Zoh. Come on up here." Jango was standing at the railing on the first balcony level, holding his hands behind his back.

Zoh groaned as she got up and swung her leg over the bench; everyone was being so dramatic today! As soon as she reached him, her Cabur pulled one hand from behind his back, revealing a lidded jar full of tiny folded flashpaper stars.

"Firstly, a trader tradition. Each star has a wish for you from one of your aliit. I've been told that you need to burn the stars to carry the wishes to She Who Watches the Path; we'll do that once it starts to get dark out."

Zoh accepted the jar reverently and hugged it against her chest, grinning down at everyone below. "Thank you!" For a people who'd had next to nothing for so long in captivity, offering wishes was often all they could afford.

Jango waited for the cheerful calls to subside before announcing, "The second isn't really a Mandalorian tradition, but I have the feeling it's going to become one for Aliit Bastra." He brought his other hand out, and Zoh gasped. She bent to set the jar of stars carefully on the floor and reached for what he offered her.

The beskad was sheathed in black leatherette with the same harness rig as At'tha's; the hilt and guard had been blued and buffed to a smooth matte finish that absorbed light. Zohli pressed the release catch and drew it partway from the sheath, revealing the glossy blue-silver of real beskar. She swallowed hard. "But I've never trained with a blade…."

Cabur Jango grinned. "It's from all of us, but particularly your dad. He wants to start training everyone in blade work, including you."

"I'm not-" worthy "-ready for something like this."

Ruuli called from her seat below, "Then you will just have to learn!" and everyone laughed.

Jango smiled and rested a hand on her shoulder. "You will be," he murmured, and then staggered half a step back as Zoh surged forward to hug him.

Tovari returned home to Sundari well after sunset in a bit of an overstimulated daze after only a day away.

To say she had been merely impressed by the place Scogar - Obi-Wan (could he not just choose one name?!) - had put together with his new clan would have been a vast understatement. The compound was large, but subtle rather than marring the landscape. When she'd asked about the visible polyculture, everyone had said it was Scogar's idea; the results prevented the soil from being depleted, and reduced the need for pest control.

And there were so many people. She hadn't been prepared for that. Scogar's daughter - she'd known Zohli existed thanks to Feid's infrequent text updates, but never in any real detail - was already taking after her father, and it was thrilling to see. The protectiveness radiated toward her by the man who could only have been Jango Fett was precious; there was definitely something between Scogar and Fett, and while Tovari wasn't certain how she felt about that for her friend's sake, the erstwhile Mand'alor was clearly invested.

The celebration had been a mixture of Northern Mandalorian traditions - namely the food, so much food - and something that was distinctly Clan Bastra. Tovari hadn't known they were all former slaves until Zoh had been presented with the jar of wish stars. At their urging, she'd upended the jar over the courtyard firepit at twilight, the chemicals embedded in the strips of flashpaper burning in different colours and making little flares of sparks, sending fragrant smoke into the air.

"It's a shame Scogar's not here for this," Tovari had commented. Fett had merely shrugged.

"Business waits for nobody; if Zoh didn't have exams starting in three days, she'd likely have gone with him. This is the first birthday the clan's had here, where they feel truly free, but there'll be many more soon enough."

Fett was another factor entirely. He had a reputation, and among the New Mandalorians it was not a favourable one. He was a brutal warrior, vicious and cold-blooded- everyone knew how he'd led his people from the age of fourteen, and how he'd killed several Jedi (the number varied between retellings) with his bare hands. What the stories always failed to capture was the man's simple humanity. He loved his son; he clearly was on the edge of adopting Scogar's daughter outright. And although he was Scogar's partner, he had chosen to leave clan leadership to Scogar's immediate kin, standing in support of Zohli. He knew politics and diplomacy, and had a playful streak that revealed itself when he was at ease among company.

What sort of leader might Fett have been had Galidraan not happened? Would he have been able to unite his Mandalorians against Death Watch; could he have negotiated an arrangement with Satine? Tovari's gut said he could have, provided Satine had given him half a chance.

It was a shame Scogar had been away; she only had herself to blame for not comming ahead. Mercenary work didn't seem to be scarce; not for a competent person with a ship and a crew, anyway. Tovari was glad it was working out for him, even if Satine found it upsetting.

Satine could deal. Despite her insistence, not everyone was suited to the lifestyle of a committed pacifist. Tovari could have told her that about Scogar from the start, but the Duchess had a perplexing blind spot regarding the former Jedi and his obvious inclination to fight in others' defense. Unlike Tor Jiro, Scogar was not content to accept Satine's directive to sit back and claim inaction as the high ground-

Tovari closed the door to her quarters behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. Only the lamp on her desk was lit, casting a warm, diffuse light through the front room. As Ethyne Matsuuri's ward, she'd grown up in the palace, among the New Mandalorians and their philosophy; but that didn't mean she'd come to agree with their point of view. She understood where it was coming from, but if she were really being honest with herself, pacifism didn't suit her any more than it did Scogar. Or her aunt; Ethyne Matsuuri had started her career in service to Duke Arden, who had been friendly with Jaster Mereel whilst measuring his actions more judiciously than the Mand'alor did. The New Mandalorians hadn't always been so vehemently anti-violence: Arden and his predecessors had supported the citizens standing in self defense. Arms and light armour had been kept, if not worn daily, and Mando'a had been more commonly spoken in the palace, not merely something people used to show off how educated they were. The government of Sundari had been merely anti-expansionist for several generations, content to let the North do as they liked.

Then the tragedy of Vizsla's Clan Wars had changed all of that, and when it was over, Satine had pulled in the rug and slammed the door. Sundari's closest ally was now Kalevala.

She had thoughts about Kalevala that were really inappropriate for someone in her position. But it was impossible to be in charge of Sundari's Interstellar Trade Commission without being aware of the history and the bureaucracy that tied Sundari and Kalevala together. It was difficult not to be bitter about it at times.

Tossing her jacket over the back of the sofa, Tovari grabbed her datapad and opened the message application. The least she could do right now was actually let Scogar know that she'd visited before he heard about it from someone else.

Reformation Year 981.05.08
Ylesia

As a diplomat, the majority of Feemor's missions took him into hazardous territory: wars, border disputes, political succession conflicts. Jedi negotiators were only ever summoned when all other avenues had been exhausted - or if one party suspected the other of plotting foul play. He had starved in trenches, been poisoned more than once, slept on bare floors, and fought three duels in the name of someone's honour.

He had never been required to clean a t'landa Til's 'fresher. His eyes watered from the reek, and he didn't dare to think about what he was touching as he scrubbed the basin with the simple sponge he'd been issued.

The treatment of the pilgrims here, on its own, would be sufficient to report the operation. Feemor had visited the Temple of the Whills on Jedha, where the adherents performed their own chores rather than leaving the work to droids. There was something to be said for working together with one's fellows in common purpose for the good of the community; what was practised on Ylesia was not that.

The t'landa Til who ran the operation, and the Hutts who treated Ylesia as a holiday resort, resided in opulence, served by the pilgrims. All the cooking, cleaning, maintenance, and frequently, litter-bearing, was done by people who had arrived here seeking enlightenment and meaning in their lives. The pilgrims' diet was restricted, and definitely did not provide sufficient calories to support the hard physical labour they were expected to perform. Existing on the brink of exhaustion made most humanoid sentients highly suggestible and reduced one's ability to think clearly. It made them more susceptible to the Exultation.

Feemor thrust the sponge into the bucket of cleaning solution; the pungent liquid sloshed and stung in the micro-cuts on his bare hands. He'd endured two Exultations now, and his head pounded sickeningly at the memory. At the end of each day, the pilgrims gathered at a pourstone edifice called the Altar of Promises, where High Priest Teroenza would preach a bit about oneness and visions he professed to have, a litany was said, and then Teroenza or one of his other priests would perform the Exultation. The t'landa Til's soft throat sac would inflate with air and then vibrate at frequencies beyond the range of human hearing; Feemor had done his research on the species, and academically knew that this was little more than the male t'landa Til's mating call. The frequencies, however, affected humanoid brainwaves, and the people surrounding Feemor reacted as if they had been dosed with a fast-acting narcotic drug. The pulses battered at Feemor's shields, and it was all he could do to pretend to react positively whilst not vomiting up what little he'd been given to eat at the evening meal beforehand.

It was a primal manipulation of the Force as well as sound; to a t'landa Til female, the pulses were the equivalent of a lovely song or pleasant perfume. Both times had left him feeling like he'd received a concussion; only his own physical exhaustion and a few minutes of surreptitious meditation whilst pretending to pray had allowed him to sleep at all.

The whole operation was insidious. Feemor had learned from talking to some of his roommates that once a pilgrim had been around a few months, and had good references from the "Sacred Ones" - the t'landa Til and the Hutts who visited - they might be chosen for the sacred duty of working in the factory, where they could sit in relative comfort, wrapping medicine.

From the description, the "medicine" in question was raw glitterstim, likely shipped in from Kessel for processing. The pilgrims had to work in complete darkness to prevent the minerals from activating and losing their potency; they were issued special goggles which allowed them to see what they were doing. The job might have been seen as prestigious, but glitterstim fibers were too brittle to wear even the thinnest hand protection; the pilgrims who had been in the processing facility the longest were showing signs of a low-level addiction from the splinters that sliced their hands and got into their bloodstream.

It was horrifying, and Feemor's only goal now was to steal a comm from a guard and see if the Master of Shadows' contact would be able to get him off the planet and back to civilisation.

He finished scrubbing, emptied the bucket down the drain, and hauled himself to his feet, his knee complaining from the abuse of having to kneel for several hours. He couldn't even draw on the Force to soothe the ache, because he didn't know whether the t'landa Til could sense it.

There were voices approaching from outside, and as Feemor emerged into the larger bathhouse, one of Teroenza's subordinates passed, leading a group of guards and some rough-looking mercenaries. Feemor tucked himself back against the wall and bowed his head the way the pilgrims did, surreptitiously looking for an exposed comm unit he could palm.

The old Togorian female he'd seen before; she was a bodyguard for this particular priest. Following them and apparently listening intently as the priest extolled the virtues of the operation was a big man who looked similar to a Nautolan, save the fact that he had nostril slits in place of a nose - Feeorin, Feemor's memory supplied. They were rare in the larger galaxy; the species had been pushed to the brink of extinction after the destruction of their homeworld thousands of years before. The other mercenary was a Mandalorian in green armour, and Feemor's spine stiffened a little at the sight. Never mind the risk he was currently running as a spy - because he was spying, here - Mandalorians had little love for Jedi. If they found out who he was….

He could have sworn that for just a moment the Mandalorian looked straight at him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Feemor reached for calm. Mandalorians deserved their reputation as competent mercenaries; this one was merely checking everyone they saw. It wasn't personal. And if they noticed Feemor's tension, well, more than one pilgrim had come to Ylesia to evade a price on their head.

He chanced a glance at the group. The final guard at the rear was bored and inattentive; it was a simple matter to ease the comm off its clip on the back of the man's belt with a tug of the Force. The shapeless pilgrim robes had deep pockets for carrying tools around, more than large enough to conceal the stolen comm.

The opportunity to use it didn't arrive until after dinner, when there were a few minutes to wander the place that was called a "garden" - really a slightly tamed stretch of the jungle between the mess hall and the Altar of Promises. Feemor tucked himself behind a large bush with pink flowers that stank like sewage, pretending to pray whilst carefully plugging in the number he'd memorised.

It was answered almost immediately. "I don't recognise this comm code, which means either you're selling something, or someone I trust gave it to you." The voice sounded like it belonged to a humanoid; the accent was eerily familiar. "Who is this and what do you need?"

During his hours spent scrubbing, Feemor had composed a message in his head. "A friend gave me this code to use if I'm in trouble, and believe me, I have a high bar for what I consider 'trouble'. I'm undercover, investigating a slave operation, and I have my intel, but I can't get offworld without help. I don't know who I can trust here."

There was a pause and a sigh from the other end. "This is… not an ideal time. Where are you, and how long can you hold out? I might be able to send someone."

"Hutt space, a planet called Ylesia. Security is tight here-"

"Ylesia? Really?" They sounded alarmed. "We're on Ylesia, investigating a cult."

The rush of relief almost knocked him over. The Force was with him. "We're probably at the same place, then. Look, I'm undercover as a pilgrim, I don't have a lot of opportunities to meet anyone who isn't also a pilgrim, but-"

"I have some freedom around here. Meet me at this time tomorrow. There's a big tovowen tree to the right of the gate-"

The tree in question was ancient, its long boughs sagging under their own weight nearly to the ground. The evening shadows underneath would provide some cover. "I know it. I need to ditch this comm, but I'll try to steal another later."

"Don't take unnecessary risks, friend. We'll talk tomorrow."

The surge of hope kept Feemor going even through the miserable headache the Exultation brought on, and the next day seemed to drag interminably while he shuffled from place to place polishing gaudy trophies and artifacts on display around the priests' residences. He had enough background in archaeology to recognise several pieces that were clearly stolen from their cultures, and several more that were carefully crafted fakes - not that he would ever inform the t'landa Til.

By the evening meal, he was ready to vibrate out of his own skin. He inhaled the bland meal they'd been given - vegetables boiled to within an inch of their lives and a steamed protein cake with the consistency of soft cheese - only just remembering to slow down so as not to draw attention. The sinking sun made long shadows on the spongy moss that covered the open ground beyond the wall, and Feemor stepped aside from the cluster of pilgrims on their way to the Altar of Promises, acting as if he had a pebble caught in his sandal.

The tovowen tree with its thick, rubbery fronds was just far enough from the gate that a soft-voiced conversation wouldn't be overheard, and Feemor ducked under the low-hanging branches.

Someone was already there, and as Feemor's eyes adjusted to the deep shade, his heart caught in his throat.

It was the Mandalorian.

Obi-Wan hadn't even been on Ylesia a full twenty-six hours before deciding the place was vile. Karrrkal had arranged an introduction to Priest Haskatil, the t'landa Til she was currently serving as a bodyguard, and the priest's immediate greed and vanity - the idea that he might be the only one on the planet with a real Mandalorian guard, and the prestige that suggested - had been almost nauseating. Haskatil was mid-level in the pecking order, with aspirations above his station, and the t'landa Til valued appearances almost as much as the Hutts did.

The urge to grab Nym and Karrrkal and call for a pickup had been powerful, but Haskatil had been eager to show off in front of his peers, escorting 'Gren' and 'Mando' around the cult compound and preening. They had the opportunity to see the full extent of the operation, including the workhouse, and Obi-Wan had his helmet recording everything.

Haskatil had insisted they bracket him while he dined with the other priests, but immediately thereafter both they and Karrrkal were dismissed.

"Is time for Exultation," Karrrkal explained on their way to the barracks in Haskatil's villa for dinner. "Guards not welcome at Exultation, is unpleasant anyway."

"I need to see it," Obi-Wan said quietly, and she nodded understanding.

"In half hour, I take you. You turn off outside audio on bucket, yes? I plug ears." She pulled a plasfiber box from a pouch on her bandolier and rattled it. "Make sick otherwise."

In keeping with his cover as a strict traditionalist, Obi-Wan got to take his meal alone in the small bunkroom Haskatil's majordomo had assigned to him. The food was pretty good - Haskatil had boasted about acquiring a decorated chef for his staff - and he'd nearly finished eating when his comm chimed.

His personal comm. Obi-Wan squinted at the incoming code before answering, "I don't recognise this comm code, which means either you're selling something, or someone I trust gave it to you. Who is this, and what do you need?"

And then things went from complicated to difficult. The number of people who even had his personal code could be counted on two hands, and most of them knew better than to share it. The people who might do that were limited to Quinlan, Siri, and Bail Organa, and the caller's admission to being a spy confirmed that.

The fact that they were also on Ylesia and already embedded as a pilgrim meant he could remove the Senator from that list - there was no way Organa could have got someone there so quickly. Which meant the spy was likely a Jedi, and Obi-Wan wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. But the man sounded desperate and a little strained, and Obi-Wan wasn't inclined to just leave someone in this stinking pit if he could help it.

He told Nym and Karrrkal later, when they were on their way to see what the Exultation was about, skirting around the outside of the compound walls through the soggy jungle.

The older woman snorted. "Impressed Jedi send anyone here. No Republic influence in Hutt space. What would Jedi do?"

"There's two possibilities," Obi-Wan answered with a shrug. "They bring it before the Senate, a committee is formed to go over the collected evidence, and then Republic contacts the Hutts and demands an inspection of the operation here, but only if they can find evidence that the pilgrims or spice are being sent into Republic space. Otherwise? It's more likely the Jedi might petition the Senate for sanction to act independently. They'd send envoys to the t'landa Til, the operation would be swiftly buried and transferred to another location, possibly someone would attempt to assassinate the Jedi envoys-"

"Someone like Mandalorian bodyguard, hmm?" Karrrkal gave him a knowing grin that bared a lot of sharp teeth.

"I'd rather be long gone from here before it gets to that point. Not because I don't think I can take on a pair of Jedi, but because I know I can. And in this case, I'd rather help them out than fight them."

"Hrmm." Karrrkal ducked low and led them through a clump of flabby undergrowth to the edge of the treeline overlooking a sort of amphitheatre carved into the gentle slope of the hill. "Think it past time this get shut down."

At the bottom of the basin was a pourstone dais and a large structure designed to amplify the speaker's voice. The amphitheatre was filled with pilgrims, while High Priest Teroenza paged idly through a thick book of actual flimsi propped on the lectern. What followed was a fairly basic religious sermon, even if Obi-Wan cringed at the philosophies the priest was spouting - underneath the flowery language, it was a shallow sort of spirituality that rang hollow in the Force. The pilgrims believed in it, but their priest clearly did not.

At Obi-Wan's side, Nym grumbled, "They really believe this shit?"

"People who are desperate to find meaning in their lives will accept anything that makes them feel special," Obi-Wan murmured back. "Everything about this setup is designed to take advantage of these people, wear them down until they're utterly dependent."

Karrrkal's solid elbow knocked against his pauldron. "Time. Ears off." Nym shoved the plugs she'd found for him into his ear-holes, while Obi-Wan turned off the external audio feeds for his buy'ce and focused on the currents in the Force around them.

He had enough experience to recognise the feedback between preacher and congregation: similar to the flow between a teacher and students, but striking on a deeper level. What the Exultation did, however…. He knew what it was, what Teroenza was doing with his species' mating call. It was a cheap trick, but it was taking the feedback connections with the pilgrims and cannibalising them; using the pilgrims' trust and tractability to alter the pattern of their brain waves. The monitoring package in his HUD was registering ridiculous aural frequencies, and from the way both Nym and Karrrkal were pressing their hands to their temples, it wasn't nearly as pleasant as the pilgrims thought it was. At least, not without the sound component.

It was a triple-pronged psychic assault. Obi-Wan had been witness to many horrible things in his life; this particularly reminded him of the Re-Learning Circle on Kegan, where non-conforming youth were subjected to a battery of brainwashing techniques to enforce compliance. Except the pilgrims of Ylesia were here of their own free will, seeking something better from life, trusting in the priests to help them, and the cult of The One And the All brainwashed them into slavery.

Something ice-cold had taken root in his chest; Nym looked at him sharply, so some of it must have shown in his posture. The Exultation wasn't over - Karrrkal had said it lasted about five minutes - but Obi-Wan had seen enough. He backed into the undergrowth and stalked away. It was no longer enough to simply sour the Trade Federation's relations with Teroenza: the operation needed to be shut down, in such a way that it could never start again. Putting a blaster bolt between Teroenza's eyes would be little more than vengeance: momentarily satisfying, but ineffective against the greater problem.

A big hand caught his arm, and Obi-Wan swung around with a vibro-shiv already in his hand before he realised it was Nym trying to get his attention. He turned his external audio pickups back on.

"-okay? You look like you're about to murder yourself a t'landa Til."

"Murder is too kind," Obi-Wan grated through clenched teeth.

"I'm with you, there." Ire seethed in Nym's eyes. "Are we changing the plan, then?"

"I'm going to dismantle this place piece by piece if I have to." Obi-Wan paused, breathing through it. He could be furious and calm at the same time; fury alone wouldn't get him a workable plan. "There's a Jedi spy among the pilgrims I have to meet. I'll see if I can't get them to agree to more drastic measures than simply getting offworld. In the meantime, we play along with Haskatil, see if we can't get access to their business records and make copies. We need as much hard evidence as we can possibly get, as quickly as possible."

"Can help with that," Karrrkal announced quietly as she came up behind Nym. "Have access codes. Not mine," she added with a grin. "Credits here good, but not better than knowing Mand'alor lives. I go with you, yes?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "You'd be welcome. Come on, we need to do some planning. And we need intake records."

By the time Obi-Wan was sneaking off to meet a Jedi under a tree the next evening, they had a workable plan and a rough time frame. The rest would depend on what the Jedi had to say.

He didn't have to wait for long: a tall, lanky blond human ducked under the branches and rubbed his closed eyes to force a quick adjustment to the deep shadows. The surge of fear the moment he saw Obi-Wan in full beskar'gam was unfortunately predictable; Obi-Wan chose not to give them time to panic.

"Hello there. We seem to have a mutual acquaintance who likes to hand out comm codes."

The Jedi's eyes went wide. "The Master of Shadows has a Mandalorian on speed dial?"

Well, that answered a few questions. Obi-Wan wasn't entirely certain how he felt, knowing the most mysterious of the Senior Masters had enough interest in his life to give out his personal comm code to a Jedi going undercover. But whoever they were, they clearly preferred a hands-off approach he could appreciate. "I doubt they know I'm Mando'ad, we've never met. I'm surprised they even know I exist. But there's only three people who could have shared my comm with them, and they're all Jedi I've worked with before. Does that soothe your doubts, al'jetii?"

The Jedi squinted at him suspiciously. "Depends which Jedi."

He seemed to be several decades older that Obi-Wan, so Quinlan and Siri's names wouldn't mean much. That left… "Nejaa Halcyon."

The Jedi sagged with relief. "I know him. He's a complete bastard."

"He really is. His son's dating my vod," Obi-Wan added, just to gauge his reaction.

The Jedi's eyebrows shot up. "Valin isn't possibly old enough for that already, is he?"

Obi-Wan grinned; the conversation was having the right effect, reassuring the Jedi that this Mandalorian, at least, wasn't interested in hurting him. "He made Knight not too long ago."

The Jedi rubbed his forehead. "How time flies. Ni Feemor Okarr."

The name rang a faint bell, and Obi-Wan resolved to look that up later. "Ni Scogar, aliit Bastra. I'm guessing you're here on behalf of the Order. What do they intend to do about this place?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Feemor folded his arms, scowling. "I'm a diplomat, not a spy. The Senate can't do much more than give Teroenza a metaphorical slap on the wrist in terms of his business deals. Judicial has no jurisdiction out here. The Order might come shut the place down, but odds are high it'll just start again somewhere else, and switch to using middle-men for their financials."

Obi-Wan nodded. "That's about what we assumed the situation would be."

Feemor cast an appraising look at him. "Surprising. I wouldn't expect a mercenary to know that much about Republic politics."

"It's a hobby. So the long term is a mess. What's your short term goal?"

"What I care about most is the people - and finding out if they've sold anyone else, and to where. And then getting offworld with that information before they know I've got it." The Jedi smiled awkwardly. "You might have better luck finding that information than I would-"

"I already have it. We sliced their files last night." At Feemor's stunned reaction, Obi-Wan gave a dry laugh. "We rescued some of their victims and came in looking to shut the place down. Unfortunately, this is now the biggest glitterstim processing location in the galaxy, since Nar Shaddaa's industry came under new management. If we scrub the place off the map, it creates a power vacuum that someone worse might fill."

The older man ran his hands back over his hair. "Either way is a straight drop to Hel. I don't know about you, but I'd almost prefer to take my chances with the power vacuum. What they're doing here is obscene."

The power vacuum was the problem, but Obi-Wan had some ideas about that. Not that the Order needed to know. "I'm with you on that front. So here's the plan: I have some friends with me here. We're going to stage a hit on this place, make it look like private mercenary action to rescue a couple of high-class pilgrims. There's royalty hiding here, did you know that?"

"What? No!"

"Indeed." They'd uncovered that particular tidbit by comparing the pilgrims' intake names and HoloNet searches. "Their families are offering a lot of credits for their return. So we'll use that as a distraction. I'm collecting as much data on their 'Exultation' as possible, and I'm going to send that to a few journalists, generate some bad press to counteract the cult's public image. If you can find some pilgrims here who seem conflicted, who haven't fully bought into the lies and would be willing to make in-person interviews, so much the better. I'd do that myself, but…." He gestured to his full beskar'gam, and the Jedi nodded in understanding - a fully armoured and masked Mandalorian looked threatening even when asleep. "Your Jedi can do… whatever it is you do for the people in these situations, and my people will see to making sure the economy doesn't collapse on the vulnerable."

Feemor was squinting at him again. "Why do you care so much, Bastra?"

Shrugging, Obi-Wan said, "Because I prefer to leave less suffering in my wake rather than more. Plus, this is a bit of unfinished business. I didn't consider that aspect when we took Krayn out a few years ago, and while I won't take responsibility for others' actions, we probably strengthened the Ylesia operation as a result."

"That was you?"

"In part. How did you think the Master of Shadows got my comm code?" Obi-Wan hesitated, remembering Siri's reaction to some of what they'd had to do, Nejaa's response to his idle machinations on Corellia. "I generally have my own way of handling matters, but… for the sake of cooperation, is there anything you'd prefer I avoid? I can't make promises, but I can make an effort on your behalf."

Feemor's lips twitched, and he said, "I'm surprised you didn't say you would try."

Master Yoda strikes again. Obi-Wan snorted. "That word has too much baggage attached to it."

"It really does." The chime of a bell from the amphitheatre marked five minutes before Exultation, and the Jedi sighed, "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. Two requests. One: please don't kill anyone. As tempting as it may be, they should face justice."

"Master Jedi, you know as well as I do that true justice rarely touches the powerful." It had been a hard lesson to learn, and Obi-Wan had learned it young.

"Death is not justice, regardless of whether they've had a trial or not," Feemor said firmly. "And secondly…. Let's not drag this out longer than necessary? I'd very much like to go home."

Obi-Wan laughed humorlessly. "Trust me, al'jetii, the longer we're here, the higher the risk of me killing someone gets." He reached into one of his pouches for a small case. "Before you go, this is a micro comm set. Don't risk stealing from a guard again; the last one was quite upset at his loss."

"You just happen to carry this around with you?" Feemor asked even as he slipped the tiny support wire over the top of his ear. Under his hair, nobody would notice it or the activation button that hid behind his earlobe; the greater concern was the throat pickup, which needed to be in a specific location, but it couldn't be helped. With luck, the man's growing beard would distract from it.

"It never hurts to have a backup." He grinned, letting it colour his tone. "Try not to lose it."

"If it's lost, it had nothing to do with me."

More likely a guard would remove it from his person. But Feemor was no stranger to subterfuge, and Obi-Wan had the deep, lingering feeling that he could trust the man. "Ret'urcye mhi, Feemor. We'll be in touch."

The Jedi smirked and had enough nerve to wink before scuttling out from under the tree. Obi-Wan waited a few more minutes before returning to Haskatil's villa, where Nym and Karrrkal were waiting in his bunkroom.

"Is he onboard?" Nym asked as soon as the door was closed.

"He is. Time to make another call," Obi-Wan replied. He dug the comm scrambler out of its hidden compartment in his bag and set it on the bed. Roz was going to be so thrilled with this one.

.

Mando'a translations:

Briikasë gotë'tuur - happy birthday

al'jetii - Master Jedi

Ni - literally "I". A short, casual way to introduce oneself

Ret'urcye mhi - farewell (literally "maybe we'll meet again")