The image resolves to show Master Windu settling back in the field of the holomessage, his shoulders shifting for a moment as he leaves the stern posture of the Head of the Order behind. He presses the tips of his fingers together, and gazes at the video recorder and, thus, Sifo-Dyas, even though it's a recorded message. “Heard you were out getting lunch.” Sifo-Dyas’s thumb hovers over the pause button. “Heard you volunteered to spot the High Council's, Sedawan.” Master Windu continues to stare into the camera for a moment, after using the old term that means both master and teacher, in partnership with padawan, and then grins. His teeth are bright against his dark skin, both easily distinguishable even with the blue tint of holo-tech. Congratulations. The video clicks off. The commlink chimes again, a new image message appearing in the holo-field. This one is mainly text. Sifo-Dyas sputters and then recovers. He holds the commlink out to me. “Here. Can you go give this to Dexter and tell him it's a takeout order?” “Little errand?” “Little errand.” I slide off of the humiliating booster seat, and then off of the booth seat and head over to the counter. Juggling the commlink from hand to hand to keep it from falling, I clamber up onto one of the stools. “No shoes on the stools,” orders Dex. “Not shoes,” I say. “Knees.” I grasp onto the counter with one hand and hold out the holocron in the other. “Please, for takeout.” Dex glances back behind me but I'm using all my focus to keep from falling into the gap between the stool and the countertop so I don't. “It's for the entire High Council. It's very important. I think it's a test for Master.” “Hmph, I've heard about your High Council.” “Why’s Quiggy complaining about them now?” Dex barks out a laugh and slaps his thigh. “Now I know you definitely know Qui-Gon. I wasn't too sure about those other guys,” he says with a wink.

“You can tell when they're going to happen now?” At least this question is accompanied by movement. I’m not capable of manhandling Sifo-Dyas out of the Archives, but Dooku certainly is. “Visions are complex neurological events. A complex neurological event always has a prodrome and a postdrome. It's just a matter of figuring out which occurrences are part of it.”

“What? You're having a vision right now?” Dooku’s hands flow over Sifo-Dyas like a medic searching for a wound, fingers prodding first at his face and then at his neck. It is borne with patience and fondness. “Not yet.” “Ten to fifteen minutes,” I say. Dooku stops, his thumbs hovering above the top line where the clavicles meet the sternum. “No one has to carry me now,” Sifo-Dyas says, smiling. His eyes are already closed but I know it's not a smile that would reach his eyes.

“It's okay. You can be my Padawan instead.” “What would you teach me, Master Araithana?” I wait for him to take and finish a sip of cap before I go for the jugular. No sense in making him choke. “Not to listen when the dark side says it has bikkies or cookies. It's lying. That’s how you get a mask that has an evil ghost in it.”

“Is this the new hot spot in the Temple?” Rael lets himself drop down into one of the chairs and unslings the satchel he’s carrying over one arm. Out comes a large bottle of water and a depleted sleeve of small cups. The only beverage allowed in the archives is water, and there is a strict limit to the quantity one can have in an open container at one time. Food in the archives will result in punishment that is supposedly just short of being considered cruel and unusual by the Yavin Code of 3980, signed into being after the Great Hyperspace War. “It's the archives,” says Anap, as if it should be obvious this is the best spot in the Temple. Sifo-Dyas focuses in on Rael. “What are you doing here? Willingly?” “Hey, I can use the archives if I want. Where’s Dooku?” “Saying hello.” The air quotes are implicit as Sifo-Dyas nods toward the circulation desk. “He's flirting with Madame Nu,” I clarify. “Flirting?” Anap asks and I remember that I'm eight and probably not supposed to know some things. “Being friendly,” Master Koth says diplomatically. “Very friendly,” Sifo-Dyas stifles his amusement as Rael looks at the circulation desk like a battlefield would be his preferred arena.

Master Si sips his second cup of caf slowly, humming a bit. I sit very still and wait. He opens his eyes and takes a long look at me. Then, he reaches over and pushes at my shoulder with one finger. I work my lower jaw around in a tiny circle at the outrage and lock my body into place. His push turns into a long poke but I don't allow him to shift me. He lets out a small noise of curiosity. He may be on his second cup, but the actual caffeine content is slow to replace the blood he claims takes too much of his native Minashee caffeine circulation. He reaches for my shoulder again and this time I grab his finger with both of my hands. He retreats before I can bend his finger back in a really uncomfortable joint-lock. He points at the air and then back at me. “Three means teeth,” I warn. His finger curls back down and he smiles. “You're doing much better than yesterday.” “A test!” “Yes.” “All tests must be stated to be tests.” “Only if the test is academic in nature,” he fires back. “This was medical.”

“Hello,” says Sifo-Dyas, smiling at me. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, blocking off a small section of the hallway. His teeth are very white against his radiation-tanned skin. A small dusting of freckles have been brought out by being the starshine of waiting for departure and landing clearance. He has a piece of gauzy kind of white cloth wrapped loosely around his neck like a scarf even though it doesn’t go with his coat. “’lo,” I manage to say. “Not good, huh?” He tilts his head back toward the hall. I shake my head.

Grievous, Grievous, Grievous, the Force sings to me, now that it knows I know. It has two items for me to pick from, hidden behind its back. In one hand, I have a gift. The Force pirouettes, smearing reality into an impressionist painting. In one hand, I have a knife. It turns, end over end, a coin tossed by fate itself, shattering light against the inside of my eyelids in phosphenes that burst like bubbles, rainbow-shining floating free above a sink full of dish soap, where the knife hides in the water, waiting for my unsuspecting hand to grasp it by the blade.

1. it’s finally me and you, and you and me, just us, and your friend Steve to:
2. it’s finally him me and you, and you them and me, just all of us, and your friend steve SHEEV to:
3. I need to be somewhere else where it’s not him (Sifo) and you (Dooku), and them (Hawk-Bat Clan) and me, all of us (S, D, HBC, Sha, Rael, Adi, Ilfre), and your friend Sheev.

GIF by xosailormars

“I know dying for the Republic is part of the job description but I would like to file a motion to postpone it.” I stare at Valorum’s face, making full use of the alleged spookiness of my pale eyes in his darkened office. I stare at him like a hawk-bat tracking a shadow moth. He doesn't flit all over the place, but I'm ready to pounce and rip something to shreds. “The job of the Jedi is not to die for the Republic,” says Valorum. There's a cloud around him of not just the creeping darkness present on this planet but a closer misery and the acceptance that comes when a person has exhausted all their options. “Oh?” I tilt my head to the side. I reach back into my memories of paper and ink and let the Force choose my words. “More Jedi deaths in the last twelve years than the previous fifty, wasn't it? Half a year ago? After Naeshahn and Ebor Taulk ended up on your doorstep?” Valorum pales. Master Si’s hand curves over my shoulder now, ready to pull me back. “Araithana, that's enough. It’s not the Chancellor’s fault.” The full-first name rebuke. I bite at the inside of my lips, trying to keep the words from spilling out. I don’t manage it. They slip from my grasp like everything else. “Three weeks.” “What?” Valorum’s response is simply rote now. “The Hutt holiday of Boonta Eve is on the seventeenth. Today is the second. There might be enough time.” “Time for what.” “You have a Sith.”

“No, you’re going to go out there and whenever a Senator asks your name, you’re going to put ‘Padawan Commander’ in front of your name. When they ask what you’re doing, you tell them you’re researching battle plans from the Droid Uprising of forty-five thousand years ago because you think they might be useful, but you’re not sure. That you’re studying for your medical triage exam, practising healing techniques on the younglings’ bumps and bruises. You look them in the eye and you tell them exactly how old you are when they ask.” I clap my hands and wave them off to the garden. “Oh, and one of you find Barriss and stand next to her.” I hear Lene’s familiar steps. “Dangerously close to insubordination.” I turn to her and smile a humourless smile. “I’m living up to my lineage.”

“The expression of disgust on your face renders it necessary that you tell me the contents of that holobook.” “It’s one of the ridiculous romance novels Skywalker loves.” “Why do you have one of his novels?” “Because all holobooks look the same unless you read the spine. He’s got my copy of First Days on Tython and I’m stuck with the purplest prose ever written, characters that seem to share a single brain cell between them, swooning, heaving bosoms, and a discreet cut-away as the lovers surrender to their mutual passion. The more tragic, the better. This one has Tiram and Ysaat. He’s escorting Ysaat to the planet where she’ll solidify an alliance by marrying their king, who’s thrice her age. They fall in love on the trip because it takes place before the invention of hyperspace travel.” “Why are you still reading it?” “It’s like a speeder wreck and I’m a coroner searching for missing limbs. Apparently this has been at the top of the bestseller’s list for almost a whole year. The king is apparently the best king his planet has ever seen. He’s introduced giving a speech on how he’s creating a system-wide socialist healthcare program. Ysaat should just marry him and wait for him to die, leaving her a wealthy widow. Tiram can be her boy-toy then. They’re probably going to have an affair, get caught, and then do something stupid like commit suicide in a we can’t be together in life so we’ll be together in death thing.” Dooku mouths the word ‘boy-toy’ like it’s an exotic phrase. “Now I’m just skimming to prove that I’m right about the ending.”

“I don't know,” I burst out, then flip my hood up over my head. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Everything feels wrong. A weight has fastened itself to me, a set of armour that impedes instead of protects. There's a shrieking, out-of-tune viol where the pegs have been twisted so far around that the strings are ready to snap like the negative reinforcement of an elastic band against my wrist each time a thought I don't want surfaces. He looks around and leads me off to the side, just beyond the entrance of a hallway that leads to the off-limits part of the station. It’s lined with fancy chairs that look more like sugar confections atop a cake than actual furniture. Master Si pulls one of the chairs over and sits in it, leaning forward until his head is on the same level as mine. “Hey, it's okay.” “No, it's not.” My throat constricts. “Then we'll make it okay, all right? Come here, breathe with me.” He cups my elbows and I rest my hands on the inside of his forearms, on the bracers he wears to keep his sleeves out of the way. They are more decorative than utilitarian, with elasticized lacing up the inside where the fabric of his sleeves bunches up. I clear my throat thrice and blink rapidly to clear my eyes. In for the count of three, hold for the count of seven, and then out for five. Again. And again. It takes a few more rounds than usual until the shrieking becomes more of a background hum. Still there, but quieted enough until it can be properly dealt with later. “Want a hug?” “Lean.” “No, I'm Sifo-Dyas,” he says like it's the pinnacle of wit, but straightens up in the chair so I can lean into his side. I swat his leg with the back of my hand like I've spotted a mosquito there. After a moment, I speak. “Come on, there are milkmen to stick pins into.” “Picked a particular poking pin?” “Illegitimacy of all milkmen claiming the title after the moon landing.”

“Little bits,” he promises, shifting on the cushion until his hands rest above his folded knees. He closes his eyes. “We’ll stop at the first thing that sounds familiar.” I try to think of how to describe Luke Skywalker. “Um. Sunshine. Warm sunshine. The weight of history. A starfighter in a swamp.” “Wings shaped like two leths joined together at their points?” “Yes.” A quick spike of pain flashes down the bond like a spark of static electricity, too quickly to be smothered. Master Si’s face doesn't move, but the training bond lets me see more clearly. He lifts a hand, eyes closed, reaching out for the starfighter in his future-memory. “Lifting it out of the water,” he says, his words forming slowly as if they are what is being dragged from the depths of Dagobah. “Okay, you can stop now.” I sit up.t “I think I can get it a little clearer.” It’s the same thing as rejecting painkillers because it’s not that bad, really. I grab his knee and give it a jostle. He opens his eyes and looks down at me. “I’m fine.” “You were about not to be.” “But I am.” “That's the same argument I use, except it's ‘but I can’.” Part of the tension he's been carrying around for the last couple of weeks eases from his shoulders.

“Do you know what it's like when all possible futures coalesce into one? It’s not an epiphany. It’s not a very nice feeling at all. It’s a collapse. It’s—it’s a death. A death of possibilities, of maybes, of, of hopes. It all collapses to a single point. Such hopes. All those possibilities collapsed down to a point, and—and all the maybes strangled by a single is, and now those hopes are shattered. There's all sorts of ways that futures are cut down. Krynda Hulis wrote about it like gardening. Prune this tree back to give that plant more light. Make sure the mint stays where it belongs. Stars, Ari hates mint. Do you know how long it took to find toothpaste that wasn't mint? I think I went to all the pharmacies in a five kilometre cubed area just to end up finding this weird, tree resin-flavoured toothpaste in some little Tionese grocery hidden in a tiny corner of the Embassy Mall. It tastes like someone doused a bunch of herbs in vanilla.” “You're delirious.” “I have a compound fracture in my left tibia that I forced back inside me that I'm barely holding in place with the Force and you're here to kill me.” “Not if—” “Part of keeping a garden is weeding it. No one ever thinks of the weeds. There are good weeds, like taraxa and chasuka. On some planets it’s weed, not a crop. Remember—remember when we ended up stranded on Aduba-3, out on the Triellus, because of the problems between the miners and those native priests?” “The Modirin Mining Concern.” “Of course you remember all the details. They were so mad that those priests were conducting funerals and burying the droids and cyborgs alongside the miners killed when that one chromium mine collapsed? And Rael raided that one maze-stalk field only to find out that there were still months to the harvest, so all the ones he brought back were underripe? Three days of taraxa leaves.”