Author's Note: This chapter consists of a series of mini-viggies - plot bunnies that wouldn't leave me alone, but never managed to grow into real chapters. But what the fudge, life is full of little teachable moments, so here's what my OCs learn from living together. Enjoy.
The Learning Curve
Onboard the Mockingbird
"Ro. Put. The kriffing. Spoon. Down."
"Give me back my pastry first."
"Not until you effing put down that spoon."
"I'll put down the spoon, when you give me my pastry."
"You fekking want this pastry, you throw away the karking spoon."
"The spoon wanders off when the pastry is back between my digits."
Jedi and clone trooper glared at each other from across the galley table; Ro with her spoon extended like a lightsaber and Wren with the much-debated-about loop pastry in his ungloved hand.
"Listen to me you kriffing Force-sensitive, jumped-up effing little tumblebunny, I'm not going to go through the same fraggin' thing every vaping morning. You're kriffing off the stanging sugar."
She gasped and clutched at her heart, as if shot by a blaster bolt instead of his ire. "Don't you never speak such heinosity, you heretic, blasphemy-colored, grumped-up buckethead."
Wren held up the loop pastry. "Last fekking chance, cheeka. Put down the fraggin' spoon or the pastry is kriffing history."
"You put that loop pastry down first!"
"Kripes." They were going in effing circles. "Fek this," Wren snapped and crushed the loop pastry in his fist.
The spoon clattered to the deck plates as Ro gave an enraged shriek and lunged over the table, straight at the clone.
Wren barely had time to take half a step backwards before Ro was on him, hissing like an infuriated vine cat.
"Pastry butcher!"
Jedi and clone went tumbling down, crumbs flying into the air while the spoon lay forgotten beneath the table.
Rule # 11: Never get into a kriffing fight with someone under 5'5.
Rule # 12: If Ro wants the sugar, fekking give her the sugar.
Odd Ends, Ansion, Mid Rim
Shiv found the lad in the inner courtyard, eschewing the wooden bench in favor of leaning against the tall wolgiyn tree that dominated the space. Not that Shiv blamed him; it was a warm day and the wind was pleasant, filled with scents that tantalized. It was just a strange sight, seeing the trooper outside and dressed only in his bodyglove, when he generally preferred to remain in his room or roam the city.
"What are you doing there, lad?"
Wren looked up from the helmet he'd been examining, shooting Shiv a bantha-dropping glare. "I'm no vaping 'lad, old wolf," he hissed.
Shiv cocked his ears. Like his adoptive daughter, the old Shistavanen wasn't so quick to take offense at Wren's brusque mannerism. It was a good thing though that Eda was out shopping. "My pardon. Allow me to try again. What are you doing there, curmudgeonly Human male?"
Instead of more anger, actual amusement flashed across the lad's face, momentarily making him look his chronological age. Wren let out an annoyed hiss of air and held up the helmet. "This effing piece of tech. Get thrown into one kriffing wall by a karking Wookiee and the damn thing is fekking scrambled to all Nine Hells." He grimaced. "I've been...trying to fix it," his lips twisted over the words, as if he were tasting bile, "but I can't get the vaping circuits to reconnect."
"Hmmm." Shiv hunkered down on his haunches next to the trooper, holding out his hand for the helmet. "Let me have a look."
The refusal on Wren's face was plain and automatic. "It's my vaping bucket. I can fardling fix it."
Shiv didn't waver, keeping his hand open and outstretched. "I'm sure. Any soldier worth his fur can maintain his own kit. But I could suggest a few mods."
Wren leaned back, studying Shiv carefully. His initial refusal was beginning to give way to skepticism, but Shiv could see the barest flicker of curiosity in those eyes. Fett hadn't ever liked anyone touching his armor either. In fact, the bounty hunter had turned the galaxy into a vaping unpleasant place while tracking down his stolen kit. But Fett had never been much of a soldier and Wren certainly was - and Shiv had never met a soldier who wasn't interested in the latest upgrades to his gear.
Wren tilted his head questioningly, curiosity winning out over his natural distrust towards any kindness. "What kind of mods?"
"Let me take a look at that helmet of yours and I'll see what comes to mind. It's been a while since I've handled an official piece of Republic military tech."
Wren ran his thumb over the edge of his grey and black helmet, tracing the outline of one of the scarlet lightning bolts as he mulled Shiv's offer over. Finally, the trooper sighed. "What the fek. Not like I can't kriffing requisition another one." He held out the helmet by one finger, but pulled it back just as Shiv reached out to take it. "You break it, old man," Wren said threateningly, "and you fill out the fekking requisition forms."
Shiv dropped his jaw in wry amusement. "Ah, flimsiwork. I remember it well. Got yourself a deal la-Wren," he hastily corrected as the trooper's eyes narrowed. The old Shistavanen took the helmet before Wren could change his mind and stood, shaking out his prosthetic leg before gesturing for the lad to follow. "Don't think I've shown you my workshop yet, have I?"
Wren got to his feet with the enviable ease of youth and Shiv tried not to feel nostalgic for past years at the sight.
"The little nuisance let me take a look."
Shiv ignored the dig at his daughter and instead clapped the lad on one shoulder. "Then let me give you the detailed tour. And while we're at it, you can tell me what they're teaching Republic soldiers these days about electronics."
Wren snorted. "That it's the cheapest kriffing creds can buy."
Shiv howled with laughter as he led Wren to his private kingdom in the north wing. He was going to enjoy this talk - and teaching the pup a few new tricks.
Location: Classified
The room was tiny, barely bigger than a supply closet, with a bed folded into the wall and a tiny 'fresher-cell tucked into one corner. It was also stuffy, with windows that wouldn't open and air coolers that produced no more than tepid, half-hearted puffs.
With no circulation, the stink of burst muja fruit, sewer, rotting garbage and sparklemint was becoming cloying and Ro wrinkled her button-nose, even as she wrung out her long hair. Fat, green streamers of a viscous liquid squeezed out of her hair, to dribble into the growing puddle at her feet. And she was wearing open-toed sandals, too. Yuck to the double-infinite degree.
Wren unlaced his vest and shook the garment out. Several raw scalefish fillets plopped down onto the floor, to be joined by burst packets of apple slug sauce. Wren inspected the vest like it might turn around and bite him, then kicked open the disintegration chute. "We never effing talk about this again." He dropped the ruined vest into the chute.
Ro patted down her jacket, felt something weigh down her outer pocket and reached inside. She squeaked as her fingers encountered something slimy and wriggling and pulled out a tiny furfish by its tail. "Eeeewww." Disgusted, she tossed the furfish into the sink, where it lay gasping. "Agreed."
Wren sniffed his shirt, grimaced at the overpowering stench of cabbage and sent it down the disintegration chute after his vest.
Ro experimentally shook one of her lightsabers, holding it close to her ear as she listened. What she heard didn't satisfy her in the least. She sighed and carefully pried off the hilt's covering, tilting it until the Old Janx spirit could flow out and join the green syrup at her feet.
In the corner, Wren's pack began to thrash again, the material bulging as the humming sounds increased. The two froze, Wren going for his blaster before remembering the Deece was covered in sewage and clogged with the remains of the gorm-worms. The humming turned into an outraged chirp and then quieted. Ro and Wren exhaled.
"I vote," she said, as she began to pick shredded sea cabbage from between her toes, "that we never chatter about this thing to any living sentient soul."
Wren considered his pants, running a hand over one leg and coming back with his palm greased with a purple goo of unmentionable origins. "Agreed."
Rule # 13: The you-know-what during the you-know-when on you-know-where never happened. Anyone who claims differently is to be treated with extreme prejudice.
Onboard the Mockingbird
Wren watched the caf run through the perculator, drumming his fingers impatiently against the worktop. Ro was still in the 'fresher and he wanted to drink his caf in effing peace before dealing with another cycle of lunacy, courtesy of his barvy little partner.
The perculator chuffed and sputtered hoarsely, before a thin stream of dark caf poured into the mug. Wren greedily inhaled the steam rising from the fresh caf and snatched the mug up as soon as the flow had cut off. Unmindful of the warmth pressing against the plastene and his palm, he swallowed a mouthful, savoring the scorching heat against his tongue. But beneath the bitter taste was another, slightly nutty tang. Wren eyed the mug, swirling the liquid around in his mouth.
Had Ro switched his plain GAR caf with one of those fekked-up flavored brands?
He swallowed and took another sip. On the second try, he could detect a distinct fungus-like flavor beneath the nutty taste.
What the gfersh?
"Stellar morning, Cookie," Ro chirped from the galley entrance.
Wren looked up to see the Jedi enter, dressed in a loose green tunic that reached to her knees and still toweling her long hair dry.
"What's for brekkie?"
"What did you kriffing do with my caf, cheeka."
Ro's eyes widened in surprise and feigned hurt. "I wasn't within nano-millimeters of your caf." She planted one hip on her fist, tossing the towel over her shoulder. "And I resent the accusation."
"Well something fekked up my caf." He sniffed it, carefully nipping at the steaming liquid. The taste was strange; too strange to say whether or not it was unpleasant as well.
Ro's expression turned thoughtful and she twisted one pale blond strand of hair around her finger. "Could be I didn't wash out all the ground dianoga larvae from the filter yesterday."
Wren spat his mouthful of caf clear across the galley. "Ro!"
Rule # 14: Touch the caf at your own karking peril.
Rule # 14a: That goes for the kriffing perculator as well!
Unagin, Outer Rim Territories
The youngling began to squirm impatiently in Ro's arms as soon as he saw the Wroonian female racing towards them.
"Mama! Mama!"
"Tarrin!"
The woman snatched the child out of Ro's grasp, sobbing as she held the boy close to her chest, covering his face and neck with kisses. "My darling. Sweetling." Tears were running unabashedly down her blue cheeks. Tarrin was almost as hysterical as his mother, clinging to her with all the determined strength of a three-year-old.
Ro stepped back to the Mockingbird's entry ramp, giving mother and son some much-needed space, while Unagin's police force ensured the docking bay remained off-limits to curious onlookers and holojournalists.
She looked up at Wren, who was leaning against one of the ramp's hydraulic pistons, watching mother and son from a safe distance. With his arms crossed over his chest and kitted up in his black and grey camo armor, one would think the tearful reunion left the trooper cold. But Ro wasn't fooled. Wren's initial misgivings about accepting the mission on their own time and risk had given way to a gingerly glow of satisfaction and a steadily growing sense of accomplishment, all of which served to calm his normally crackling Force-aura and tinge it the delicate colors of a clearing sky at dawn.
The Wroonian woman looked up and, seeing her son's rescuers, walked over to them with the joyful tears still fresh on her face and her son balanced comfortably on her hip. Neither looked like they were going to let go of the other any time soon. Though the past three days had carved deep lines of worry and exhaustion on her face, the bliss of having her child back in her arms made the woman beautiful beyond compare.
"Thank you," she said hoarsely and gave Ro a tight, one-armed hug. Ro squeezed back, basking in the radiance mother and son emanated.
"You two take care," Ro told them.
The woman smiled at her, then walked up the ramp towards Wren and, much to the trooper's consternation, awarded him the same grateful hug. Tarrin decided to join in on the fun and tried to squeeze Wren's armored middle.
Wren grew rigid, his face going blank and Ro felt him struggle with his instinctive need to push the woman away and his understanding that that would not be the appropriate response under the circumstances. Ro held her breath, wondering if she should interfere, but the Wroonian female was already loosening her hold on Wren, perhaps sensing his discomfort. But a mother would have her say, no matter what and so the woman placed a blue-skinned hand against Wren's cheek.
"Thank you," she said again. "Thank you so very much."
Wren's eyes flicked to Ro, seeking clues on how to react to this sincere gratitude. Ro quirked a pale brow at him, challenging him to figure it out by himself.
Wren's jaw tightened, but he managed to ground out a stiff: "Just doing my duty."
Ro bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and ruining the moment.
Mother and son were eager to return back home and having said her peace, the pair soon disappeared through the bay entrance. Outside, a police groundspeeder would be waiting to take them home.
Ro ambled up her ship's entry ramp, hands clasped behind her back and grinning like a total fool.
Wren eyed her sourly. "What?"
She elbowed him playfully, mindful of the plastoid plates. "Feels good, don't it?"
Wren glanced back to where Tarrin and his mother had disappeared to. "Yeah. Kind of does."
Onboard the Mockingbird
Peace. Quiet. Solitude. Finally.
Wren straightened the old tarp he'd found tucked away in the cargo hold, making sure every inch of the galley's table was covered. His weapons - all of his weapons, which amount to three Deeces, his dead blade, a dozen vibroblades and one blaster pistol he'd illicitly taken off of the body of a rare wet Sep commander - were spread out across the tabletop. His cleaning kit was laid out to one side.
Like all troopers - who literally lived and died by their kit - Wren was fanatic about cleaning his weapons, but it'd been a while since he'd had the time to do a thorough maintenance check.
Taking a seat, Wren started with the DC-15A, beginning with the blaster rifle and working down to the small firearms, just as it had been drilled into him all of his life. Dismantling the rifle was a matter of seconds and he could let his mind drift pleasantly during the work. Inspecting the pieces produced the expected result: while the major components like the barrel and muzzle only needed a good polish, carbon flakes had settled into the tiny grooves in the ignition chamber and the electromagnetic compressor needed adjustment.
His solitude lasted until halfway through his maintenance of the DC-15S blaster.
"Heyla, Cookie." Ro bounced into the galley, ebullience incarnate. "Whatcha doin'?"
Wren fought down a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. So much for peace and quiet.
"Well?" Despite being a Jedi, patience was not one of Ro's strong points. Leaning her palms on the table, she surveyed the orderly aligned weapons, her teal eyes bright with curiosity. "What's that?" She pointed at the Deece's folding stock, fully extended in order to receive a good oiling. The little nuisance was though, he was pleased to note, careful not to actually touch anything on the table. It seemed those effing Partnership Rules were actually sticking.
Wonders never fekking cease.
"It's a folding stock," Wren told her, pushing her hand away just in case Ro decided to forget rule three to four and smudge the light coating of oil he'd applied to the stock. "And what I'm doing is giving my kriffing kit a going-over." He glanced pointedly at the galley door. "Alone."
"Oh?" She cocked her head at him thoughtfully, the snapped her fingers. "That gives me a think." And she dashed off again.
Wren breathed a sigh of relief and settled back down to his task. But he'd no more than given the DC-15S' outer casing a wipe-down, then Ro was back, carrying her quetarra case.
Wren grimaced. "Cheeka," he growled in warning, but she waved his half-formed protests off.
"This'll be stellar fun," she insisted. "You need the table and I need the practice and audience. Perfect combo." She beamed at him and Wren closed his eyes, trying to get his rising temper back under control. He didn't want any kriffing company, but he knew the little nuisance well-enough by now to recognize another argument he wouldn't win. If he kicked her out now, she'd only spend the next vaping cycles moping. Better to take two or three hours of her silliness, rather than deal with her moods over days at a time.
Wordlessly, he turned his attention back to the task at hand, while Ro carefully unpacked her quetarra. Sometimes ignoring her was the hint that penetrated her barvy little brain.
Ro brushed her fingers over the instrument's eight strings, cocking her head this way and that as she listened and fiddling with the knobs on the long neck.
Wren tried to tune her out as much as possible. His DC-17 hand blaster had taken quite a pounding during their last mission. The trigger guard was bent and he couldn't fully slip his finger through anymore. Not something he could fix now, but he sketched out a few possibilities on a flimsipad, to go over with Shiv, once they were back on Ansion. As he worked, Ro settled into a quiet little melody, plucking at the strings with fingers that were slowly gaining mastery over the instrument.
Wren was putting the hand blaster back together when he actually bothered to listen to what Ro was playing.
The quetarra had a very different sound from the cello; brighter, far more lively and less grand, though the latter might stem from the fact that Ro still managed to hit the occasional sour note as she messed up some bit of fingering. Emotions flitted across her mobile face as she played and from time to time she mouthed the words to some song as she switched melodies.
It wasn't...completely annoying.
Ro looked up, blew her messy bangs out of her eyes and flashed him a grin, before turning her attention back to the quetarra. Fekking little nuisance knew she'd won.
Wren flipped the hand blaster in his grip, testing its balance, while the sounds of the quetarra moved to a steady background hum. And so far, Ro wasn't babbling her fool head off.
So it looked like he still had some sort of kriffing peace and quiet. And maybe he could do without the solitude, for the time being.
Odd Ends, Ansion, Mid Rim
Eda surveyed the dejarik board with a cool, calculating gaze.
"Mantellian Savrip to Esk-4."
On the board, the hologram of the Savrip leaped onto the designated square, taking another holomonster by the throat and strangling it. Her opponent's piece 'died' and dissolved. A small, satisfied smile curved Eda's finely shaped lips as the computer gave a chirp and the red light began to flash, indicating the machine was searching its databanks for a suitable counter move.
Reaching over to the low caf-table, Eda grasped the delicate porcelain cup and took a small sip of her kopi tea, savoring the exquisite fruity taste and her impending victory. She now controlled the center of the board - the most active area of the game - giving her pieces the widest range of movement. The computer would have to come up with some pretty tricks to turn the game around again.
The door to the library swished open and Eda frowned as the clone stepped in.
"What do you want?" she demanded frostily.
The clone sneered at her. His manners were as bad as she'd feared, but at least he'd learned by now to keep out of easy striking distance when in the same room as her.
"I'm looking for Ro."
"Obviously, she's not here," Eda said and gestured at the otherwise empty library. "And take your hands out of your pockets," she ordered. "Ham-fisted. You'll ruin the lining."
Naturally, his response was another glower and childish defiance.
Eda returned the glare with equal measure, not in the least intimidated. The original hadn't overly impressed her and certainly this cheap copy of Jango Fett didn't either. The man had been uncouth; the clone was a downright brute, no better than the scum that had crowded the Hutts' courts back on her birthworld of Nal Hutta. Even the simple white shirt and dark slacks he wore today instead of his armor couldn't disguise the distinct lack of polish and class.
Wren grit his teeth, his hands fisting in the pockets of his pants, but he didn't clear out as she'd expected him to.
"Have you at least fekking seen the little nuisance or is true what they say and the kriffing eyes are the first thing to go?"
Eda carefully replaced her teacup on the saucer and folded her hands in her lap. Half-lidding her eyes, she regarded the clone for a few seconds. "You," she began, "are a crude swine. Remove yourself from my presence." The computer warbled, signifying it was ready to continue and her attention drifted back to the dejarik board, casually dismissing Wren.
A shadow moved over her and Eda glanced up, noting with mild reprove that the clone was now standing on the other side of the board. His face was flushed with anger, the usually brown eyes almost black with the intensity of his feelings.
The koochoo was going to have to learn to do better, if he actually wanted to follow Ro undercover.
"You are blocking my light. And I do not require a parasol."
"You kriffing think I'm just some brain-dead chuff-scuker, don't you?"
She raised both of her elegantly curved eyebrows. "Not at all. I know you are."
Wren's lips tightened, like he was fighting back the urge to snarl at her. His eyes fell to the dejarik board and before she could protest, he'd taken the controls for the opposing monster army and was typing in commands.
"What are you...?" She fell silent as his grimtaash tackled her houjix, sucking the life out of the holographic monster and claiming the next square. Eda overflew the board and realized that Wren's army now controlled the long diagonal, from Aurek-1 to Herf-8, cutting clear across her center control.
She frowned, even as Wren began to smirk.
"What's the kriffing matter, old woman? Nothing to say?"
She flicked her fingers at him. "Since when do they teach cannon fodder fine tactics?"
His eyes flickered and the scarred corner of his mouth twitched. The motions were small, imperceptible to the untrained eye, but Eda had been reading sentients long before any clone trooper had even attained sentiency. Something about what she'd said was making him uncomfortable.
"They fekking don't. But I'm a fast learner."
They regarded each other for a few long, tense minutes. Finally, Eda gestured for Wren to pull up a chair.
"Sit," she told him. "Play. Show me what else you've..." her lips twitched over the word, "...learned."