Tatooine has a stinging beauty to it. The endless sand reflects exactly right under the blaring sunlight to induce a massive headache if you stare too long. Sand is in every gust of wind, every step, every breath. After the fullness of Kashyyyk, Mal can't help but wonder what once came before this barren golden sea.

Her arrival has served as a whip startling long awaiting chain reactions into motion. By some miracle Czerka has no idea the Ebon Hawk crew instigated their demise on Kashyyyk. They take one look at Mal's battle-ready stance and offer her a job. She would've refused were it not for Mission's desperate eyes and a Jawa's promise of Star Map secrets. A life for a life for a life. So Mal faces off with the glowing desert, a ragged cloth over her mouth and one hand shielding her eyes. Mission practically vibrates with energy at her side eager to rescue her brother. Bastila somehow manages to look graceful even with sand pelting her face.

"Query: Is there no faster way than walking through this desert?"

And their newest addition to the team, HK-47. They may have brought him as a translator, but Mal can't deny she's always wanted a murder bot.

"I thought you wanted some action after sitting in that shop for so long."

"Statement: My definition of action involves much more screaming."

"We can always take you back if this isn't exciting enough."

"Chiding: Master, you did not say you were a comedian."

Mal grins at Bastila. "Finally, someone recognizes my talent. I'm wasted as a Jedi."

"Indeed." She squints at the horizon. "Maybe your 'talent' will convince the Raiders to give up their hostages."

"You think so?"

"No."

Mission smirks back at them before slipping down a sand dune. "Walked right into that one."

Bastila watches her in contemplation. "I'm worried about her."

"Because of Griff?"

"Whether he's alive or not, I fear their reunion will end in disappointment."

Mal nods. "From what she's told me, he doesn't sound like the reliable sort. But Griff is her dear big brother and that hold doesn't slip away so easily."

"Family has a way of doing that I suppose." Bastila's eyes glaze over as something sharp pricks Mal from the inside.

She frowns, ready to push the conversation further when Mission's hard stop on top of a dune distracts her. "What is it?"

Mission turns and shrugs. "Some guy standing there waving his arms around."

Mal shares a confused look with Bastila and treks to the dune's crest. On the flat ground below stands a man surrounded by a circle of droids wriggling his arms in desperation.

"This place is so weird," she mumbles before heading down.

"Yes, you! Please help me!" The man looks like he wants nothing more than to burst into a full sprint, but he hasn't taken a single step. As they approach the panicked look smooths to an intrigue that makes Mal want to gag.

"Well…" the man eyes her and Bastila up and down. "Must be my lucky day."

Mal crosses her arms and glares. "Do we know you?"

"Aw I'm hurt. It's me, Tanis! From the hunter's lodge?"

"Oh." Mal places his face from the swirl of activity the day before. "Okay. Have a nice day." She spins on her heel to leave.

"Hey now, wait a minute! Can't you see I'm in distress?"

Mission looks doubtful. "Are you in distress?"

"No, I thought it'd be fun to stand here for hours without water. Maybe catch a nice tan. Of course I'm in distress!"

Mal sighs. "Alright Tanis. I suppose as a Jedi it's my solemn duty to help." Bastila rolls her eyes, but Mal catches the upward twitch of her lips. It makes the next five minutes of his explanation that much more bearable.

Mission looks ready to bolt. "Do we really have time for this?"

"Hey-"

"Statement: This female of his sounds quite intriguing."

"Now wait-"

Bastila tilts her head in what Mal recognizes as mock contemplation. "I vote we leave him."

Mal grins. "The group has spoken."

"Sure, yeah. Leave me here to waste away in the sun. I'll be fine." Mal lets her grin stretch with the silence as Tanis wriggles uncomfortably. "You are kidding, right?"

"Of course. Who do you take us for?"

She sends them to a twitching droid each and attempts to talk Bastila through the repair process.

"Not as easy as it looks?" Mal teases.

Bastila's face is scrunched in concentration as she casts her a side glance. "I really don't think now is the best time to teach me."

Mal shrugs. "More hands, less work. You're doing great."

"Yeah," Tanis cuts in. "You're a real natural with your hands." His eyes take a slow roam across Bastila's body. Mal clenches her jaw and before she can change her mind, she pulls the wrong wire off the droid in her hands. At least she's kind enough to shout, "Look out!" before flinging the droid close, but not too close, to Tanis's head. The heat of the small explosion singes his hair and sets him on a rant about "blasted women" and "always being attracted to the crazy ones." There's a hum of not-quite disapproval, not-quite thanks as Bastila catches her eye.

She's been getting better at that, sending Mal little nudges of emotions across their bond. And the more this thing grows between them, the less Mal seems to mind. It feels oddly comforting to know that wherever she is, no matter how alone she might feel, Bastila will always be within reach. Always listening. Always watching. You'll never escape her now. She shakes herself of the thought. And as Bastila successfully reprograms the droid and looks up at her with a rare unguarded smile, Mal knows they're in this together. Whatever this turns out to be.

That thought is what stays with her as they continue through the dunes. It stays as they climb through the sand dipping and cresting like waves in a storm. And it stays as Bastila and Mission exchange playful barbs that end with Mission sunk knee-deep in sand.

"Do be careful," Bastila's hardly concealing the smirk on her face. "The dunes are quite shifty here."

Mission drags herself out and glares playfully. "Oh I'll get you for that one, Bastila. Just wait," she promises before taking off ahead.

Mal can't help but be fond of these moments. Her growing crew slotting themselves together almost like… family. The sharp pain from earlier, the unease. She glances at Bastila.

"What you said earlier. About family. Was that experience talking?"

Bastila pauses, clearly taken aback by the sudden appearance of the question. She marches forward. Mal contemplates her next words carefully.

"Do you remember them?"

It's a long moment of shuffling before Bastila responds.

"My father was a treasure hunter. This place… it reminds me of him. Of all the ridiculous places we would travel to in search of the next great find. He worked hard, but I remember he loved me dearly. My mother, not so much. I remember her as a hard woman always pushing him to go out hunting. Never satisfied. She must've been happy when the Jedi took me away."

"I'm sorry. That sounds… unpleasant."

"It's in the past. I learned in time to let go of those feelings of attachment." Bastila watches her from the corner of her eye. "And you?"

"I don't know."

"I see." She sounds resigned as if she'd expected that answer. Mal tries again.

"I mean it, Bastila." Mal frowns as she thinks, digs for something tangible. "The feeling of a gentle hand on my head? The smell of my face pressed against their shirt? I don't know. I wish I did."

"What are you dragging your feet for?" Mission's voice brings her out of her reverie. The teen's body language screams impatience. "Let's go."

"We were discussing how complicated family can be." Mal stifles a groan at Bastila's direct approach. "Wouldn't you agree, Mission?"

Mission's frenetic energy sparks into defensiveness. "Seriously? Look, I already had this talk with Carth. Griff didn't abandon me. He was trying to make enough credits to send for me when he got kidnapped by those Tusken Raiders." The resulting silence seems to make Mission insecure. "Right, Mal?"

Mal would like nothing more than to dissolve into particles of dust instead of answering that question honestly. But under Bastila's penetrating eye she doesn't feel much like lying either. Mission shuffles forward to face her straight on.

"Mal?"

She sighs. "What do you want me to say, Mission?"

Mission's face takes on that special defiant quality that's usually reserved for her arguments with Carth. "I want you to tell me you believe me."

"Then I believe you, Mission."

Bastila shakes her head. "Don't lie to her."

"It doesn't matter." Mal feels the gaping hole of this conversation stretch out before her. The sooner it ends, the sooner we can move on. "She's not going to listen no matter what I say. Isn't that right?

"Why are you ganging up on me?" Mission's right hand fidgets at her side. Mal's gaze draws down to the black ring on her thumb. Mission spins it against her skin over and over, the movement almost hypnotically rhythmic. It lulls Mal in without meaning to, pulls her under the memories like a sharp tug underwater. I'll kill you. Even if it's back from beyond the grave, I won't let you go. I'll kill you. Mal inhales sharply, makes herself focus on Mission's hardened eyes. She's been speaking, her and Bastila exchanging sharp words Mal can't quite hear in this moment. She opens her mouth.

"I've been where you are now." They stop mid-sentence; both turning to stare at her outburst. Mal's tongue feels gritty and dry. "I thought someone was taking care of me. Would do anything to protect me."

Mission scoffs and crosses her arms, the ring still spinning wildly around her thumb. "Did you really? Or is this just another story?"

Mal stares her dead on and her hand freezes.

"She was a few years older than me. After my family… I was in a bad situation. She took me away from there. Made me part of her crew. Me and some other young kids. She was everything to us. We worshipped her, did everything she asked, anything to make her happy. But we were only kids, you know? Sometimes we messed up. And she'd hurt us hard enough to know not to mess up again." What a brutal irony. You'll never remember your parent's faces, but you'll never forget those cruel eyes. "It took me too long to understand that if someone says they're hurting you for your own good, that doesn't make it true. Family is complicated. I'm not saying your brother is as bad as she was. But from what you've told me, I don't think he's much better."

Mission holds her stare for what feels like eternity before turning away. Mal watches as she trudges forward with hands fisted in her pockets. Bastila moves toward Mal slowly, gaze a soft caress across her face.

"Mal…"

"Don't."

"Thank you."

She sighs heavily in response.

"I know you don't like to talk about the past-"

"So let's not."

She waits for Bastila to walk away, keeps her eyes trained on Mission's back. Instead she hears the crunch of footsteps moving closer. Mal grits her teeth and meets Bastila's gaze. The tenderness she sees makes her jaw ache.

"I worry about you sometimes," comes Bastila's whispered confession.

Mal's eyebrows shoot up to the sky. "I know."

Bastila gently shakes her head. "Not in the fun way."

Mal's alarm settles. "I know."

"You carry so much with you, always. I can feel the way it pulls."

"No offense, but I don't want you feeling anything of mine."

"This bond is not a one-sided deal. Every day it gets stronger. Every day I feel your anger underneath."

"And that's mine to deal with."

"But you don't. You let it fester and rot and I fear one day it'll take the rest of you with it."

"You're worried I'll fall to the dark side?" Mal chuckles dismissively. "Bastila, please. I've got a temper. It's not like I'm running around slashing innocent people down in the streets because of a bad mood."

"Not yet."

"Are you kidding me?"

"All it takes is one time. You let yourself be slowly poisoned until one day you cave in. You let the anger win. And then you let it win again and again until there's nothing left of who you were before."

She speaks of things she knows nothing about. Mal releases her grip, pushes that simmering rage Bastila thinks she knows so well out in full force. "Stop me then. That's your job, isn't it? You think I'm going off the deep end? Make me stop."

Bastila winces and that's when Mal feels it: the fear. Fear of Mal, of not being able to help her, save her, lead her on the right path. Bastila breathes deep. "I don't know if I can."

And the shock of those words dissipates the anger into a hollow feeling Mal can't name. Everything she's ever thought of Bastila comes back at once. Her youth, her bravado, the heavy burden the Jedi council placed on someone younger than Mal. A rising star in the heat of war with eyes from the top of both sides ruthlessly watching. No time for failure. No room to be dragged down by an unhinged smuggler-turned-Jedi.

Mal raises her left hand slowly and cups Bastila's cheek. There's a sweet mixture of vulnerability and uncertainty on her face. What could you have become if you'd been free to grow in peace? Mal breaks the moment by pinching her cheek, steps back as Bastila scowls.

"How about you give me a codeword for next time you feel worried."

"What are you talking about?"

"The anger. It's been there all my life. I don't think it'll ever go away completely. But if it gets bad enough that you can feel it, just shout something random like hydrospanner! That way I'll know to back off."

"That's absolutely ridiculous," Bastila smiles.

"Disgruntled observation: Organic meatbags are so emotional."

They whip their heads to the droid they'd all but forgotten. For something without an expression Mal has never seen a droid look so disgusted.

"What did you call me?" Bastila sputters.

Mal starts to grin. "Yeah, say that again."

"Don't encourage it!"

"Explanation: Master, I can't help it if organics are wet bags of meat. I don't understand how you survive with all those feelings and squishy parts."

"Ha!" Mal bursts into a laugh as Bastila covers her face with a hand. "Meatbag. You're pretty funny yourself."

"Force help me," Bastila mutters. "There's two of them now."