A/N: As my friend qwertuiop678 requested, Ezhno and Quinlan meet and generate the chaos of a small nuclear explosion. This is part 1; part 2 will come soon. This is six months post-Ventrux, so Ezhno is just barely sixteen here. (He's one and a half years older than Obi). Between chapters 24 and 25 of The Silent Song.
Gold Head-Stripes, Gold Tattoos (Part 1)
"An' 'ere yer are, clean an' tidy an' all!"
Ezhno tightens the last fastening on the pristine new nappy and gives the bawling baby a wide smile. It would appear his canines are rather more prominent than a human's, though – Togruta genetics tend to lean in that direction – and so the human baby writhes with combined fear and displeasure.
"Ent no point in doin' that now, I ent 'earing ya, ya lump o' pastel blue…stuff," Ezhno says pointedly, picking up the infant firmly under the arms and placing her back in her cot. The wing of the Temple crèche is calm and dark in the late watches of the night, and the row of hover-cots hum calmly through the soles of Ezhno's bare feet as he makes his way across the chamber, checking each one. The other dozen or so babies slumber peacefully in their individual, transparisteel-topped cots, apparently undisturbed the howls of their sole awake counterpart, as opposed to their Togruta carer.
Ezhno mutters a word in gratitude to the inventor of soundproof cot-covers and heads back to his only awake charge.
The baby is flailing in her blankets, mouth open and face red, fat tears trailing down her dark, chubby cheeks. Ezhno takes this to mean she must be making quite the racket. He places an orange-skinned, long-fingered hand on the front of her little onesie, and feels the shudder of her wails though his palm.
"'Kay, 'kay," he soothes, picking her up again and allowing her to bury her face in the space between his left and back lekku. He pats her back gently, as he was taught to do, and feels her breaths calm, and hiccups fade.
It takes the better part of half an hour for the baby to calm down enough for Ezhno to put her back in her cot. She curls pliantly into her blankets as he leans over, presses a kiss into her curly hair, and closes the cot cover. Ezhno makes one more round of the floating cots, feet sure on the wooden floorboards, and then circles back to the pallet wedged in a corner of the room.
He stretches out flat with a luxuriant groan, curving his back like a loth-cat. The pallet molds into his aching face; he barely remembers to scrabble for the baby-monitor alarm before succumbing to slumber.
Barely two hours later, Ezhno is abruptly awakened by a buzzing between his fingers. He cracks open one golden-brown eye to squint at the flashing, vibrating alarm in his hand, and shuts his eye again.
Five seconds later, he musters enough courage to open both eyes and frown half-lidded at the dawn light filtering through the window. A glance at the row of cots reveals a flashing light from one of the cots: blue.
Blue, for unidentified liquid detected.
Ezhno wonders for a moment if the people who made the monitoring equipment had some bizarre sense of humour. Unidentified liquid in a sealed baby cot can only be one of two things.
Two seconds later, he is up, and one-point-seven metres of cranky Togruta teenager crosses the room to soothe yet another baby with fluid-containment issues.
He is late for morning classes, because he thought he would just take a quick kip after cleaning up baby number fifteen (astonishing, really, because there are only thirteen babies in his assigned chamber) and ended up snoring completely past morning bell. The buzzer had somehow slipped under his pillow, and it going off had no effect on him at all.
Ezhno careens into Level II Galactic History five minutes late, the uniform marking him as ward of the Order crumpled and loose. He gives a bleary smile in response to Knight Ima-Gun Di's coolly raised eyebrow, and heads towards his seat in a gangly hurry. The students in his row, mostly junior padawans, shift aside to let him pass.
The Kajain'sa'Nikto Knight keeps a keen blue eye on him for a moment longer before commencing his lecture.
Ezhno focuses on the Jedi's lips, blinking exhaustion out of his own eyes. Reading humanoid lips has its similarities between each species, but the Kajain'sa'Nikto have a certain scaly quality to their skin that makes lip-reading the species particularly challenging.
Knight Ima-Gun Di's eyes flick to him for a moment, and then the Jedi turns casually towards Ezhno's side of the classroom, almost facing him fully.
Grinning, Ezhno sits back. It is much easier to understand the lecture, now.
All the padawans in the row in front of him suddenly whip their heads to the left.
Ezhno turns far more slowly. It is obvious that there must have been a terrific noise of some sort, judging by the dents in the wall where the hinged double-doors have very obviously smashed into either side of the doorway when they were thrown open.
Standing silhouetted in the white light of the corridor beyond is a young kiffar male sporting a grin as dazzling as the gold tattoo on the bridge of his nose, spread across both cheekbones.
"Hey, Master Di," he says, stepping into the classroom. The glint of a padawan braid peeks out from between masses of well-arranged dreadlocks, but the hand he raises in greeting is followed by an extremely rumpled sleeve and tunics stained with a variety of interesting marks, from engine oil to something that looks suspiciously like muja juice.
Ezhno tilts his head as he watches the other boy speak. The kiffar boy enunciates things very differently from most Jedi; he speaks with drawn-out vowels that change his facial expression with every opening of his mouth.
"Padawan Vos," Knight Ima-Gun Di replies, with a telltale drop of his shoulders. "I assume you have just returned from a mission."
"Yep," the padawan says, popping the p with an obvious smack of the lips. "A six-month whopper. Master Tholme said since this is mid study-cycle, I should just turn up to class and see what you would advise me to do, yeah?"
Knight Di waves him towards the other students. "Sit next to mister Ezhno, here. We'll sort out a compact study schedule for all your missed material later." That done, the knight turns back towards the holoprojector.
"Oh joy," Quinlan mouths to himself as he stalks up to his seat. He may have not said it out loud, but to Ezhno, he might as well have shouted it.
But then Ezhno catches Knight Di speaking again out of the corner of his eye, and hurries to catch up.
Fifteen minutes later and six months into the events of the Tarisian civil war, Ezhno feels a tap of a 'saber-calloused finger against the back of his hand. He waits until Knight Di pauses to draw breath before flicking a quick glance at his datapad to check if it is still transcribing the lecture as it should.
He notices two things.
One: yes, although his datapad is still recording every word the Kajain'sa'Nikto knight is saying, this does not make the lecture any less dull.
Two: Padawan Vos has pushed a piece of flimsy in front of him, and if Ezhno thought his handwriting was bad, Vos's is definitely worse.
Hey, Goldie, you're either verrrry concentrated on master I'm-Gunna-Die's lecture or you're a stickler for rules. I just whispered a greeting five times and you didn't even blink. Speaking of which, you're not a Jedi, are you? Explains the whole "mister Ez-No" thing that I'm-Gunna-Die had going on there. And your clothes. And also why your Force-signature isn't as bright as anyone else's. Anyway, what was my point? Oh yeah – I'm Quinlan Vos. Not at your service. Or anyone else's. But yeah, hi and all that.
Ezhno looks up to ensure that Knight Di is still speaking – it would not do to look away for too long when the lecturer knows one's primary means of paying attention is by lip-reading.
Ezhno pulls his datapad closer to himself and begins to touch-type an answer to Quinlan's message while keeping his gaze locked onto Knight Di. He senses a minute shift from his left as the Kiffar boy leans closer to read it.
Hey, Ezhno types, My name's spelt Ezhno. Just Ezhno. I don't like "Goldie", so don't use it. I didn't answer you because I'm deaf, and I need to lip-read to keep up with what Master Di is saying. No, I'm not a Jedi. I'm a Ward of the Order, and that means I get to sit and write notes and take exams and things, all for free, if I work a day or two of the week. I'm-Gunna-Die is good nickname for him. I don't think I can ever un-hear it now. Get it?
Just as Ezhno finishes the last part, Knight Di abruptly closes his mouth and throws a stare in their direction. Ezhno freezes in place, hands pausing over his datapad, before realising that the knight is staring not at him, but at the boy beside him.
"Is there something amusing about the subject of civil war, Padawan Vos?" Knight Di says, eyes narrowed.
Ezhno realises with a start that Quinlan must have laughed out loud upon reading the end of his message.
A glance to the side reveals the latter half of Quinlan's reply.
"–find that I've been missing some really interesting stuff these past six months," the Kiffar padawan finishes, flashing a wide grin.
Ezhno turns back to the waiting knight, who wears a distinctly unimpressed expression.
"Indeed," Knight Di says. "We shall have to remedy that."
Under a scrutinising blue gaze, neither Ezhno or Quinlan move a muscle in the remaining half-hour before lunch.
Ezhno expects lunch to be fairly dull. Both Obi-Wan and Huei are off-planet, and Garen had mentioned something about flying lessons the previous day. A glance around the wide second-level refectory reveals that Bant and Reeft are nowhere to be found.
Then again, there's always food.
He has just collected a double tray and jumped eagerly into a seat when someone sets down another tray opposite him, so forcefully that Ezhno feels the tremor of the table under his wrists.
Ezhno looks up. "'Ey," he greets, a little warily. He has never quite seen a Jedi like Quinlan Vos before.
"Hey," Quinlan replies as he slides languidly onto the bench. "Mind?"
"Nope."
"Appreciated." Quinlan makes an extraordinarily strange expression as he works up some spit and spits it into his hand. "Nice to meet you just now, Ezhno."
Ezhno stares at the calloused hand that is extended across the table, dripping spit onto the plastiform tabletop, and slowly begins to grin. He stands, works up a mouthful of togruta spit, and gobs it into his own hand.
"Eyyyy! A Jedi wiv 'n actual idea of 'ow ter meet people!" he exclaims, shaking Quinlan's hand enthusiastically.
Quinlan pumps Ezhno's arm with equal verve. "You're the only other person within a klick who's not afraid of spit!"
The Jedi sat at the surrounding tables appear either disapproving or disgusted; Quinlan glances over Ezhno's shoulder and pushes him hurriedly back into his seat.
Master Windu, he mouths at Ezhno's questioning gaze.
"'E starin', like?" Ezhno half-whispers, unsure of the volume of his own voice.
A pause. "Nah, he's gone back to eating."
Ezhno shrugs, wipes his hand on a napkin, and digs into his double-portion of food. Quinlan copies with gusto.
"So," Quinlan says through a mouthful of food – Ezhno is both gratified Quinlan waited until Ezhno was looking up to speak, and disgusted with having to lip-read around food – "How long you been here?"
"'Bout six months, like," Ezhno replies. "Came in from Ventrux wiv lil' Obi an' 'Uei."
"Kenobi and Tori, then." Quinlan picks up a fork and goes to spear a meatball, but suddenly makes a face. Grabbing a napkin, he begins to polish the fork with vehemence.
"Wot ya doin'?" Ezhno asks.
"This fork was last inside Master C'Baoth's cheek," Quinlan replies shortly, scrubbing fiercely. "I know the kitchens must have cleaned it, but I'm gonna clean it a bit more, because Master C'Baoth, you know."
"I dunno, really."
"Big, green, bearded snake-slug. Don't tell anyone I said that."
"Righ'," Ezhno says, chewing on a tasteless cube of…something. He reaches for a glass of blue milk to wash it down.
Quinlan inspects the fork. "I've been here for three years now, and the food doesn't get any better, trust me."
"I'll take wha' I c'n get."
Quinlan skewers him with a perceptive look. "Parents?"
"Didn' much like me deaf. Yours?"
"Murdered."
"Ouch. Sorry, mate."
"Yeah."
They both go back to eating for a while. Ezhno finishes his food and leans back, groaning.
Quinlan has both boots on the table, now. He waits until Ezhno has cracked open an eye before speaking. "You look tired."
"Crèche duty," Ezhno moans. "Them sticky lil' things needta be changed every half-hour, I swear. Thought I were choosin' the easier option, like, when they tol' me 'bout jobs. Twice a week, they said."
"You should do a bunk and run for it."
"Can't. Those lil' tots may be sticky, but they need me."
"What do you do in your spare time?"
"Hack stuff," Ezhno says, proudly. "I'm wizard wiv datapads n' things."
Quinlan takes his boots off the table and leans forward, a spark of mischief in his dark eyes. "I have an idea."
"Yeah?"
"You like holo-games?"
"I'm wizard at 'em too, though they ent allowed 'ere."
"Then meet me in the Temple Plaza tonight at three hours past evening bell," Quinlan says, eyes gleaming now. "There's a place I know."
"Yer allowed out?" Ezhno says, picking at his teeth.
"Does it matter?"
"Huh. Yer righ'. Seeya tonight."
Quinlan's tattoos stretch as he grins. "Yeah, see you, brother."
Blinking at the sudden epithet, Ezhno watches the kiffar boy wave jauntily and run off.
Huh. Quinlan Vos.
A new friend.
Ezhno wipes his still slightly sticky hand one more time on his uniform, and goes to put away his tray, grinning widely enough that a passing master frowns at him.
Four tables away, Mace Windu stares steadily at Ezhno's retreating back for a moment; but then Adi Gallia says something, and Mace files the thought away for later.
A/N: Expect much chaos. Thanks for reading, and leave a review if you like 3
