It was hot. Stiflingly hot. If he squinted just right, he could make out the hazy blur of heat waves rising off the sandy pavement all around. Even, the Jedi thought, off the burnished surface of the badge identifying the man now purposefully waddling towards him as the dock official. Would he be able to make out heat waves rising off the top of the dock official's head if he stared hard or long enough? The Jedi pushed aside the speculation and turned his attention to the present.
"Credits! You docks, you pays. Ain't gorra negotiation." A chubby hand presented itself, and the Jedi followed it through eyes half-closed against the glare of the noonday Tatooine suns, until it reached a shoulder, which morphed into a fat neck, over which some rather flabby jowls had draped themselves. A face.
"By the Twi'lek goddess - hasn't anyone here heard of shaded parking?" questioned the Jedi. A soft snort followed by a girlish chuckle indicated Bastila's wry amusement and Mission's appreciation of a fine piece of vintage cultural blasphemy. "What's the fee - a hundred? You have to be kidding. No, you aren't. Oh, bugger. Tell me some part of this is going towards dock improvement..."
The dock official scowled. "You fink? Kriffing place bein' full of Jawas wot steal anyfink wot ain't welded down or ray-shielded, innit? An' them Tusken scumbags. And the Corp. ain't here for no community-buildin', innit? So, you gimme the dosh, we call it quits, geddit?"
He could literally hear Bastila groaning inwardly at the dock official's flagrant abuse of Basic. Feeling around in his pockets for the requisite credichips, the Jedi realized that he was short by about twenty. As he ducked back into the Ebon Hawk to retrieve the rest of his purse, Bastila called to him. "Get my credipouch too, while you're in there. I don't want to have to run back and forth in this dreadful heat."
The Force had a sense of humour. Contrary to Bastila's expressed wishes, they had spent the day running "back and forth in this dreadful heat". First to the Czerka office, then to the hunting-lodge, and after that, they had had to track down the shop of some 'Yuka Laka' and purchase a droid, because - for reasons unknown - someone had seen fit to build an assassination droid that spoke the Tusken language, but of course things couldn't have just run smoothly like a well-lubricated T-14 hyperdrive generator, could they? There had been what Bastila chose to refer to as "an incident" on the streets. With three Dark Jedi, no less. And then Bastila and Mission had had a little spat.
No, no. Correction: they had been running around like headless avians even before that, the Jedi thought. In fact, they had been 'running around' almost as soon as they landed on Tatooine. He'd emerged from the Ebon Hawk, credipouches in hand, to find both Bastila and Mission engaged in independent conversations with different women. The dock official scarpered as soon as he collected the docking fee. It wasn't difficult to guess why: Mission was practically screeching, and Bastila looked as if someone had just recited a list of the galaxy's choicest obscenities to her.
He had managed to defuse both situations, somewhat. Unfortunately, one of the successes had resulted in rather a lot more 'running around' being penciled into his very near future. Mission's brother, the Jedi thought, was a galaxy-class lump of snot: he was thoroughly incapable of staying on the straight and narrow for more than five minutes without supervision, incredibly immature, possessed of no forward-thinking whatsoever, and Mission would really be a whole lot better off without him, he was utterly selfish - and -
The Jedi sighed. It really would be pointless to attempt to enumerate all of Griff Vao's faults. One's datapad would simply run out of memory space even before the battery drained. Still, helping Griff to the best of his abilities would serve the dual purpose of practicing Jedi virtue as well as laying the foundation of a future object lesson on Griff's immaculate unreliability, for Mission. That, at the very least, would help secure Mission's future to some extent.
He sighed. There would be lots more 'running around' Tatooine again tomorrow, he was sure of that.
And now there were gizka on the ship, too. Bugger.
"I have an announcement to make," he told Bastila as he sat down across from her in the pantry, at breakfast. A lone gizka hopped forlornly across his feet. He scuffed at it, and it hopped away.
A look of mild alarm spread across Bastila's face. "What?"
"You really ought to put on some of that cream that Mission slathers on her head before she goes out."
"What? What cream?"
"Solar protectant, Princess. For your beautiful skin. Unless you prefer to look like a Zeltron - which, come to think of it, wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing unless you started to behave like one of them."
Bastila sat up straight. "A Zelt - really...! I - behave like - oh..! That's disgusting. How can you even think of these things, you're a Jedi, you - "
He cut her off and affected a hangdog expression. "I am a very bad boy. And you are an attractive woman."
"Yes, you are - no, I mean - what! You're ridicul - you say the most ridiculous things..!"
"Encouraging you to make peace with your mother is not ridiculous."
"No, she is ridiculous, not you!" She was frowning now. Of all the things he could have talked about, he had to mention the one thing that was virtually guaranteed to sour her day.
"You just told me you think I'm ridiculous. And that I say ridiculous things."
"That is not what I meant. And my mother is my business." She glared at him icily.
Better approach this one carefully, the Jedi thought. "Well, that is true. And I won't force you to make peace with your mother, either. But what's it going to cost you to do so? If she's having you on about her dying, you walk away the bigger person. If she's not, then you've saved yourself a lifetime of regret," he said mildly. "Either way, you gain." He stole a quick glance at Bastila, who appeared to have been struck by a thought. Pressing his advantage, he continued: "However, you stand to lose - morally, mind you, which is a priceless loss - if you don't make your peace with her. So, if you ask me - net gain, however minimal, beats an unquantifiable loss anytime. You might think it's ridiculous, but me? I'd choose net gain."
Gathering up a few energy bars, the Jedi stood to leave. "I'll be with the guys. Give me a shout when you're good to go, Princess."
The door clicked shut. Bastila stared at her half-eaten fruit salad, which had suddenly lost its appeal. Had she heard right? She had just been given a lecture on morality. By Revan, of all people. Revan.
Bastila thought it might be possible to die of embarrassment.
Carth and Canderous clapped the Jedi heartily on the back after HK-47 finished his recital of the day's events.
"Balls of durasteel, buddy - going in after a krayt like that...!" Canderous radiated manly Mandalorian approval.
"Oi! The man's a Republic soldier - of course he's got balls of durasteel - balls the size of Serrocco, we Republicos don't take 'em in any smaller sizes..!" Carth was not about to be outdone by the Mandalorian.
"Yeah? Well, maybe that'd explain why we Mandalorians crushed your precious Republic balls so damn easy! They don't stand up to a good nuking!" Canderous raised a hand and slowly drew his fingers in palmwards, graphically illustrating his point.
"And your Mandalorian balls are much better? For kriff's sake - real men don't wear metal panties in a hot zone!"
"Republicos don't wear 'metal panties' 'cos their balls can't take the heat! If you can't take the heat, get the kark outta the kitchen, flyboy!"
"Real men with real balls don't slaughter defenseless women and children!"
"Oh, yeah? And leaving the women and children defenseless is manly, huh? Yeah, real manly. Real balls you got!" Their mutual admiration of the heroics narrated by HK-47 was now forgotten, and Carth and Canderous were glaring at each other maliciously. HK-47's processor light was blinking furiously.
"Interested query: Are you two going to fight? Request: Might I be invited to partake in the hostilities? Will this be a fight to the death? Honest confession: I do so love fights to the death!"
Juhani's voice carried loudly from the cabin which she shared with Mission and Bastila. "What is all this talk about the male parts of the anatomy? I do not need to hear this! Bastila does not need to hear this. The child does not need to hear this! Please! So uncivilized!"
"Oi! Who are you calling a child?" Mission's riposte was immediate, and forceful.
The Jedi groaned audibly. He didn't need the Force to sense that things were going to take a downhill turn quickly if not defused.
"HK, there is not going to be a fight. Nobody is going to fight anyone. Carth is going to go to the pantry to have a long, cold drink. Canderous is going to have a shower." Fixing both veterans with a meaningful stare, the Jedi added, "Now." For a few tense seconds, the Mandalorian and the Republic officer continued their staring match. Then, as if in deference to a mutually-respected, unspoken command, both men broke away abruptly and stalked off in opposite directions.
The Jedi heaved a sigh of relief. Peace had been brokered - at least for now. He would really have to sit down and talk to one, or both men, about ceasing their hostilities soon - if this mission were to have any decent chance of being a success.
"Disappointment: Master...! You ruined everything!" HK sounded almost plaintive.
"No, I haven't, HK. I am merely helping you conserve... capacitor power for... your next... assignment." Great, thought the Jedi. Two war vets who want to punch the stuffing out of each other at every given opportunity, a cat lady with issues, a Wookiee who could use some serious de-lousing, a Twi'lek teenager who delighted in pranking everyone, an astromech droid that was obsessed with finding things to fix - and now a homicidal maniac of an assassin droid. Oh, and Bastila, who was always Bastila. HK-47 whirred and broke into his train of thought.
"Understanding: Ah, that is thoughtful of you, Master. I do so like to do a proper job of things. I am looking forward to killing something for you soon, Master!"
He quickly ordered HK-47 to shut down for the night.
"I have another announcement to make," he said to Bastila as she took the pilot's seat to commence her shift at the controls.
"You already made your point, and I want - I, ah... I want to say.. thank you." She flushed to the tips of her ears. Didn't he understand how embarrassing this was for her?
The Jedi didn't seem to notice her embarrassment, or pretended not to notice if he had. "I'm glad you sorted things out, but you're not letting me make my announcement."
Fine. Humour him, Bastila thought to herself. She leaned back in the seat and looked at her co-pilot much the same way a governess would have her charge. "It's not about my skin again, is it?"
"No, your Royalness. My eyes detect no downward revision in the standard of your beauty."
Bastila opened her mouth to make a retort, but the words died on her tongue when she realized that a compliment had been buried in that last statement. Or was she reading too much into it? Then she berated herself for having even read into the statement to begin with. Focus! she told herself, sharply.
"You are a very sweet talker. That is not a good thing for a Jedi to be."
"A Jedi should always be honest?"
"Precisely. You are learning."
"My sincerest apologies. Might I correct the error? My eyes detect only an upward revision in their estimate of your beauty. And I still have an announcement to make." She didn't look too bad with a tan, he thought. Evidently she had taken his suggestion about borrowing some of Mission's skin cream to heart, or she'd have been Zeltron-pink, likely worse, after all the 'running about' in the sun they had done today.
Bastila rolled her eyes - if he was in one of his playful moods again, there was little hope of stonewalling him: he'd continue to pick at whatever wall she threw up until he found a chink somewhere, and then he'd poke at it until she caved and smiled - which was what usually made the teasing and flirting stop - or until the serendipitous intervention of an unwitting third party abrupted proceedings. Juhani and Mission were fast asleep in their bunks, and if the sonorous reverberations coming from the men's cabin were anything to go by, the chances of one of the males turning up were slim indeed.
"You're never going to give up, are you?"
The Jedi flashed her his trademark grin, and shrugged. "On you, Princess? Never."
"Fine, fine. Let's hear it. This 'announcement'. Whatever it is."
"It has occurred to me, on reflection, that Griff Vao can be regarded as a test of my moral conviction. A Jedi might conceivably fall to the Dark Side from the simple desire to smack the snot out of him."
Tempted as she was to agree, Bastila reminded herself that the Dark Side was no triviality, especially not for him. "Don't think that just because you've decided to show charity to that rascal, it's put you out of the woods," Bastila warned.
"True," she heard the Jedi in the co-pilot's seat say. "But the presence of snot remaining in Griff Vao is a reliable indicator that I am - for now - not on the path to the Dark Side."
"I suppose it is. But that is no reason to be complacent."
"I know that." He was sitting up now, leaning against the low partition between their seats. His tone became serious. "Bastila, if ever I were to start going Dark, would you save me?"
Her fingers stopped their dance across the astrochart. "I... I don't know - I'd try, I guess." Her heart began to pound. Were his memories returning? Was this a portent of something to come? Had she - had the Council - made a grave miscalculation?
She needn't have worried.
"I just wanted to tell you that if you were ever in danger of... being lost, that I would do my utmost to save you... even if it meant giving my life." He got up and crossed over to the cockpit door. "Because I care for you, Bastila."
The door clicked shut, and Bastila was left alone, her mind afire.