15-16

Orbit of Ringo Vinda, Ringo Vinda System

Eucer Sector

Trying to procure ships in the Confederate Navy was like trying to wrestle half a dozen cats into a bag. Which is to say, nearly impossible, unless you have catnip.

"Look," I reasoned, "You know who my sponsor is, after her campaign, she's going to need ships. Replacements, repairs, refits. She can do that here, if with a bit of convincing."

Catnip, in this case, was obviously cash. Or clout. While not as great as Kuat's, Ringo Vinda's orbital shipyards also served a double purpose as a supply distribution hub. It was in close proximity to the Perlemian Trade Spine, yet also not exactly on it. And that meant it was a hassle and a half to capture, while also able to preside over the entire theatre. All of the major Separatist-backed starship manufacturers had leased out docks here, and were working in close proximity with the Ringo Vindan government.

Think of the manufacturers as franchisors, and the entire orbital station as a single massive franchisee. All the cats were already in the bag; now I only had to wrestle a single bag of cats.

Isquik Tors stroked his facial tentacles, "The Pantoran herself as our sponsor… that is enticing."

Maybe because I had been out of the social circles for too long–because I was actually fighting the war, mind you–I had missed out on the whole 'Pantoran' debacle. See, General Tann's species was a closely kept secret by… well, even the people keeping the secret were secret. In any case, some cheeky officer started calling her the Pantoran because of her blue skin, and it became a little inside joke.

Pantoran rolled off the tongue easier than Wroonian, you see.

Then some blabbermouth accidentally referred to her as that in a press conference, and it was all over. Anybody keeping up with the war, or even random military geeks, now knew General Tann as the Pantoran. I found it mildly funny. I don't think she will, however.

"Hmm… very well," Tors finally said, "I have a feeling the board will be pleased–so long as you uphold your end of the deal."

"This will undoubtedly be a profitable relationship," I agreed, "Now, about my ships…"

"Ringo Vinda has eight star frigates on hand," the Quarren produced a datapad and guided me onto a wheeled transport to tour the graving docks, "Newly built. Two are still going through their trials."

A data package was sent to my own tablet, which included all the relevant specs and information about the ships in question. Frigate 1027RV, Frigate 1028RV… I scrolled on, noticing they haven't even received their transponder IDs yet. Tors wasn't lying, these ships were fresh from the oven.

In comparison, my Repulse and Renown are old women. Old, murderous ladies with a plentitude of kills under their belt, but still outdated nonetheless. That being said, I had no intention of changing my flagship. Repulse is mine, and I have poured too much effort and sentiment into that hunk of durasteel to swap her out for what amounts to a shiny new toy.

Sure, retrofitting her into a C3 frigate took time and money, but my efforts in wooing Senator Singh had paid off well. Repulse was a brand new ship by the time she left Raxus Starbase.

"Is it safe to assume these ships have much of the intel suites stripped away for austerity?" I asked.

They were, because I could see it in the specs. But I wanted to confirm.

"Didn't expect a field commander like you to ask about backend hardware," the engineer said, "But you're right. Most of that space has been replaced with updated sensor packages and fire control systems."

I tapped the tablet with my fingernails, "How many of the older models do you have? The originals."

Isquik Tors' eyes narrowed, his tendrils rustling, "Those don't have guns."

Ah. He thinks I'm up to some funny business. Which, granted, I was.

"I intend on using them to spy on Republic military channels," I clarified, "With the First Fleet absent, it is paramount we stay vigilant."

Tors nodded slowly, "Hm… if you're intending on parking them between transceivers, I suppose there's no need for guns. And it's not like we'll miss them… but the higher ups will. I'm willing to buy your excuse, sir, but others won't."

I smiled thinly. He thinks I'm going to use the frigates not to spy on the Republic, but to spy on the Confederacy's government apparatus. He thinks I'm digging up dirt on the politicians. Literally anybody else would buy my explanation without batting an eye, but of course the engineer will pick up on my intentions. It's his job to know what these frigates can and cannot do, I suppose. Also because he's into some shady shit regardless.

And he was right. It's simply that I intend not to spy on politicians, but Sith Lords masquerading as politicians.

The HoloNet was a physical object–countless physical objects, in fact. The HoloNet was the millions of hyperwave relay stations littered across the galaxy and the S-threads that linked them all into one intricate web made of countless matrices. When the only other method of interstellar communication was sublight transmissions, these relays represented the only practical form of long distance contact.

And it was expensive to operate. We're talking about millions of space stations strewn throughout the galaxy here, can you imagine their upkeep? It was affordable all considered, thanks to economies of scale, but the service gets pricey quickly.

Then, by process of elimination, who could send messages from Coruscant to Serenno; a distance that was essentially halfway across the galaxy? Voicemails were cheap, voice calls were accessible; videomail and you'd have to be middle class, middle-upper for live video; holograms on the other hand? Ah, now we're reaching population percentages you can count on both hands.

Then, who can send full resolution, low latency, full-body rendered live holocalls across that same stretch on a regular basis? That's getting into the super rich territory, or at least those with government privilege.

And now, what if the galaxy was at war, and the HoloNet was cut right down the middle? And with the Non-Communication Law recently passed by the Republic Senate, which outlaws any form of communiqué between Republic and Confederate officials? Know what you were looking for, and it's remarkably easy to find it by elimination. That's why transmissions were typically encrypted–even more so for the privacy conscious–and usually nobody has the time, money, or effort to crack them.

And that's where the Munificent-class star frigate comes in. Originally designed by the IGBC to serve as what was essentially a mobile hyperwave transceiver. Mass produced, and they created their own comms matrix isolated from the HoloNet in order to securely process financial transactions. That matrix was still being employed by the Confederate military, in fact.

It's impossible to tap into S-threads, but I can still take a page out of the IGBC's playbook and park a Munificent right next to a relay, and listen in–or more daringly, redirect the transmissions through the ship itself. All I had to do was find the most direct S-thread between Coruscant and Serenno, find one of the relays it runs through, and slice into it. Fuck, common bounty hunters can do it, why can't a literal espionage frigate fitted with state of the art tech?

Palpatine and Dooku can encrypt their transmissions as much as they'd like, but that'd just make the thread easier to find. Shit, I don't even need to be that specific. Dooku contacting anyone on Coruscant? With my frigates, I can crack open any amount of encryption. The automation was just icing on the cake; I can just leave them there and check in once in a while.

I have three years. I have time. I have money. And I'm more than willing to put in the effort.

Truthfully, I was making it up as I went along. But building up a case against Dooku to present to the Senate was a good start–and so was crafting new command codes for my fleet, as I didn't want to get Mustafar'd. I'd need to get my hands on some engineers for that… another task for the bucket list.

"Then turn them into warships," I suggested, "The first wartime frigates were those with barbettes taped onto their hulls. I'll tell the board we need as many ships as we can get for defence."

Tors hummed in agreement, "We won't be able to fit the superheavy cannons, but you won't need that. The comm packages will also need some touching, but we can make it work. You have the credits for this?"

"Dare to ask General Tann that?"

I don't think General Tann will pay much attention to a few million more credits in the bill… but if she does, well, I'll let future me deal with that.

He laughed, "Right, right. Does the Pantoran want Lucrehulks to go with that order?"

"Providences," I corrected, "Not the dreadnought kind. Should be cheaper than battleships."

The Quarren checked his stock, "You're in luck, sir. We have two old destroyer models, and one carrier. But if your pockets are deep, QFD is running trials for three of our latest carrier-destroyer variants right here in the system."

Not sure if I like the whole combining niches thing. In my experience, when someone tries to have their cake and eat it, it leads to overengineering, unreliability, and worse performance in both aspects.

"These carrier-destroyers," I leaned back, "Are they reliable?"

Tors' eyes shone, "I see what you're asking. Trust me, they're more expensive for good reason. More hangar volume, but not by sacrificing emplacements. I'll tell you a secret; all we did was revise our design, installed new automation systems, removed vestigial hardware, and ended up with a lot of wasted space."

"So all you had to do was shuffle around the internal systems a bit to get more hangar space."

"That's right," he grinned beneath his tendrils, "Everything aft of amidships? That's all birdnest now. Tell you what; buy these, and I can get you a discount."

Right. This was a business to them. These new carrier-destroyer variants were a new product, and they needed advertising. Many captains will likely have the same doubts as I do, and wanted to use me as a flying billboard. Selling out it is.

"...Alright," I finally agreed, "I'll get the three."

"Great, great…"

I tuned him out as we passed by the prow of a half-built Recusant-class star destroyer. Its frame was still skeletal, and huge mechanical arms hanging from the ceiling were lowering a massive dome of armour onto the warship's spine. Kind of looks like a magnified version of fitting together a plastic model… which I suppose was the point.

"How does fitting a droid brain into a warship work?" I asked.

Tors side-eyed me, "A Recusant's superstructure is specially designed to house the droid brain. It's not as easy as installing software, so you can't just rig it to a frigate, if that's what you're asking. Just buy a Recusant, if you want a droidship."

"They don't have a very good reputation," I commented, "I hear they perform well in wargames, but not on the field."

"Because people keep using them wrong," the Quarren grumbled, "You can't ask a computer to act on the fly–you have to program it in advance, which is why they work in wargames. Formation flying, lines of battle, any manoeuvre that needs high levels of coordination between vessels; you won't find a better ship. But you can't just charge them in and start brawling, because then you're asking the brain to program itself while in battle."

I eyed the ship again, noticing how its bow was so much more heavily armoured than its rear. Coordination, huh? I wonder how they would perform in a battle lattice… or–

"What about on the strategic scale?" I probed further, "Synchronised jumping, hit-and-fades; stuff that's taxing on the astronav."

"Read the documentation and write the code for it," he shrugged, "Like I said, as long as you don't overstep their operational parameters, they'll perform perfectly. That's how it is for all droids."

…Huh. Is that so?

"Get me four Recusants–" Tors looked at me in surprise, "–And your best software engineers. I want to try something."

⁂

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

The sun was rising over Coruscant, twilight's gloom chased away by the glory of a new day upon the strumming heart of the Republic. Even amidst the greatest conflict the galaxy had seen in a millenia, the blazing soul that was Coruscant never faltered in its relentless march onwards. Life goes on.

Anakin stood in the centre of the training grounds, surrounded by ornate tiling and drifting leaves of gold. The ancient tree that stood there was a comforting presence, but Anakin did not feel it then. Just as he did not realise dawn had once again graced the capital.

Unlike the capital it nested in, the Jedi Temple stood like a solemn mausoleum over the sea of transparisteel. The Clone Wars was a mighty hand that had flung the Jedi throughout the stars, leaving only a few senior Jedi Knights in the temple at any time. How many of those fighting out there would never return to this place? Force knew. Anakin felt like he did too.

The answer was too many.

The Jedi Temple was mourning. These days, it seemed like it always was.

Anakin was mourning too, in his own way. For his Masters, his fellow Knights, and for the brothers-in-arms he fought besides. He had thought to clear his mind by working off his stresses in these grounds, but ended up standing vigil the entire night. If Obi-Wan saw this, the Jedi Master would undoubtedly say something along the lines of 'so you finally found a way to meditate, have you Anakin?' His lips quirked at that thought.

But war was like a cog–it went on unceasingly, mercilessly. His time was consumed by meetings, debriefings, press conferences, endless paperwork, banal bureaucracy, and… funerals. Too many funerals. Master Mundi, Master Koth… two councilmembers lost in a single battle. It was a sobering affair. If the war wasn't yet real enough, it was now.

And when Anakin wanted nothing more than to visit his recently freed men, he had to find out they had been transferred to a deep space medstation. Visitors unallowed, presumably because it was being swarmed by Republic Intelligence.

I'm a Jedi General, Anakin fumed silently, if anyone has the right to see his own soldiers, it's me!

"Anakin," a familiar tone awoke him from his reverie, "Have you been standing there the entire night?"

"Obi-Wan," Anakin holstered his saber and swung around, "...And, who's this?"

A young Padawan, a Togruta girl, and yet a tween from the length of her lekku. And her height, Anakin added dryly, and her height. She's tiny. A child. Dismay rose in his throat like bile.

"Anakin, meet Ahsoka Tano, my new Padawan," Obi-Wan gestured, "Ahsoka, meet Anakin Skywalker."

Ahsoka looked up at him with large, starry eyes, and it made him feel sick, "I'm at your service, Master Skywalker."

The girl tried to be restrained, but couldn't help from giving a broad smile. All teeth, too. Sharp, dagger-like teeth. Because Togruta were natural predators, and she bore the vestiges of her ancestors.

I'm no Master, he wanted to say, and I'm not who you think I am. Anakin's stomach sank even more. But it distracted him from his brush with darkness, and he seized the chance. A change of problem was as good as he'll get.

Anakin ignored her, "We're at war, Master. This is the worst time to train a Padawan; they're a liability."

"Hey!" Ahsoka protested, her eyes narrowing, "I'm not a liability!"

The little Togruta drew herself up to her full height to make herself look larger, which wasn't saying much.

Anakin whipped around, his eyes frozen into chips of ice. Ahsoka shrunk back at his glare, face falling. He crossed his arms.

"Really?" Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, "You weren't… most of the time, anyway."

"Seriously?"

"The best way to learn is on the job, I think you can agree," his old Master said, "For both the Master and the Padawan. The Council has convened, Anakin, and Master Yoda believes it is in your best interest to take on a Padawan."

Anakin had to hold back from outright snarling, "You're kriffing kidding me. I can't take a Padawan."

I can't trust myself with one. Not when so much is at stake. Not when I can fail–and lose them too.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to retort, but slowly closed it soon after. His old Master must've felt something in the Force, as he gave Anakin a meaningful look.

"Ahsoka, why don't you find your friends?"

The Togruta craned her head to look up at both of them, and Anakin could see her previous image of them–and yes, he did know what image the HoloNet presented them in–crumbling within her eyes.

"Y-Yes, Master," she hesitated, "...I'll go find Scout."

Obi-Wan waited until her presence in the Force retreated, "I know what the war does to you, Anakin. I'll admit, Ahsoka isn't what I expected in terms of self-discipline, but neither were you. Give the thought a chance."

You don't know what it is to love, Master. Or to lose. You didn't even know your own mother.

Anakin didn't know what to think of his former Master–and he still called him Master. Once, it was all so simple; Master and Padawan. Now? Sometimes, Obi-Wan represented safety and stability, and other times he was an overbearing sibling who held him back or competed with him.

And you didn't want to take me as a Padawan, did you? You only did it out of duty.

"Look at this way," Obi-Wan led him back into the Temple, "If you want to be a Master, training a Padawan to Knighthood is a requirement."

Anakin would have been enthusiastic at that, once. Now, he wasn't sure if he even deserved the esteemed title. From where he stood, Jedi Master seemed so far over his head. Too far.

He brushed it off–Anakin often found himself ambushed by unwanted thoughts. He has faced countless battlefields, Korriban or Jabiim or Christophsis or that Tusken village on Tatooine, and he has faced them over and over in his nightmares. But it was one thing to face the ghosts of his failures, and another to face the sporadic resentment he felt towards a master and friend he cared about.

He wasn't sure which was harder.

When he shared that with Padmé, she was taken aback.

And besides, that wasn't the whole truth, was it? After all, what was Obi-Wan Kenobi if not a collection of half-truths and hyperboles? Anakin knew him too well, he didn't even need the Force.

And Obi-Wan knew that too.

"Fine," Obi-Wan finally sighed, "The truth then. Jabiim and Christophsis have done a number on us, and we need more Jedi on the field. COMPOR is doing a swell job of keeping up appearances, but the entire Grand Army is reeling."

"We're losing too many Jedi," Anakin said softly.

"Too many everything, Anakin. Christophsis was the straw that broke the bantha's back," Obi-Wan replied grimly, "Yularen and his officers are raising hell in the Admiralty. High Command is forced to reorganise its operational theatres after virtually losing an entire Sector Army, and we haven't received any word from Admiral Wurtz either. They've been heckling Jedi Command for more commanders and generals, and that means more Jedi."

We've failed then, Anakin thought bitterly. Was this what the Clone Wars made of them? A bunch of jaded soldiers exploiting the enthusiasm of children to toss them into grinding jaws of the Separatist war machine, under the guise of for the greater good? Anakin considered himself lucky; he had long been tempered by previous experiences before the war began. But these Padawans?

How many will emerge from the crucible of war hardened and resolved, like he did? How many will emerge warped and broken, or shattered? How many will not emerge at all, their legacy being a name and date typed into a routine obituary? Obi-Wan said the best way to learn is on the job, and it was. Because with the state the galaxy is in, you only get to fail once.

"And if I say no?" he asked obstinately.

Obi-Wan shrugged, "The Council will get you assigned one anyway. Look, the Apprentice Tournament is in a week. Why don't we go over and see if anyone catches your eye?"

"I thought it was postponed because of the war."

"Well, now it's been advanced because of the war."

A single sentence that weighs so heavily, Anakin closed his eyes. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to feel the safety and warmth of Padmé's embrace.

⁂

Orbit of Ringo Vinda, Ringo Vinda System

Eucer Sector

The station's war room was large, to say the least. It was once a boardroom, but had all of its conferencing systems ripped out and replaced after Ringo Vinda shifted its stance into wartime economy.

A state of the art ARENA holoprojection table dominated the vast majority of the central space, appearing larger than it was thanks to all the consoles and control panels needed to operate the thing. Even more holoprojectors peered down from above, and when all activated, could turn the entire room into a three-dimensional battlespace. Or, they could project the figures of hundreds of Separatist captains and commanders all glaring at the head of the table–me.

The war room was large. I knew it, because I stood in it when it was empty.

But when even the walls had to be used as monitors to accommodate the number of commanding officers stretching on into what seemed like oblivion, I felt both claustrophobic and chilly at once. Clearly, no expense had been spared, because there was not a single hazy blue spot among them. If I hadn't known they were holograms beforehand, I would've believed I just stepped into a live amphitheatre. I could make out their exact skintones, and even the colours of their eyes.

I didn't know whether to be more impressed by the virtual image tech, or by all the comms frigates breaking their backs to make this possible.

As I waited for the last attendees to drop in, I focused on scanning the faces to see if I recognised any. It was somewhat awkward, because I'd have to turn around to face the dozens of men and women standing behind me–but soon the system beeped that we had reached the maximum number of participants for the holoconference.

Honestly, already far beyond my expectations. Really goes to show just how monotonous it was operating out of the Foundry.

Even then, nobody spoke for a long time. We were all sizing each other up in silent power plays; scanning uniforms for allegiances, reading ranks to formulate a totem pole, and even blatantly searching names. But most were staring right at me. Most with plain curiosity, to see what all this was about, some with recognition, and others with displeasure. I spotted Rel Harsol among them–based on Calli's description–trying to merge himself with the crowd.

I cleared my throat, and leaned forward, resting my palms on the rim of the table–painfully conscious to not accidentally toggle a switch and make a fool out of myself.

"I am Commodore Rain Bonteri, attached to General Sev'rance Tann of the Confederate Second Fleet," I met as many I could in the eye, "Some of you know me, most don't. But all of you know where I've fought."

Of course they did. Anyone who has served under the Second Fleet and survived until now boasts as shiny a portfolio as one could get this early in the war.

"You summoned us for a wargame, Commodore," a Muun commander pawed his chin, "What sort of game requires this much importance?"

There were mutterings of agreement. I had to thin the crowd for this to work.

"I am unable to force any of you to stay," I ignored him, "This wargame will require you to feed ARENA with data from your ships, and the session may take a whole day or even more. If you are unable to accept these conditions, I advise you to leave now. But be aware that your invitation was a one-time affair; you will be unable to return."

A ripple rang through the accumulated officers, and almost immediately the number of them plummeted by half without a sound. The room suddenly became a lot more spacious.

"Second, you will acknowledge my authority as the ranking officer in the room," I said firmly, "This will be a sober affair, and if you are unable to act with the dignity of your rank, I will have you leave."

"Your authority?" A Neimodian captain pressed, "Who will play the other side? What about their authority?"

"ARENA will be our opponent," I answered plainly.

A Sullustan scoffed and disconnected, taking a handful of others with her. The remaining few suddenly became a lot more unsure about the whole affair. I peeked at my tablet–33 remaining. It was a good number.

"Alright, sir," the Muun sat down, his chair materialising beneath him, "What's the scenario?"

"What's your name, Commander?"

"Commander Horgo Shive," he replied, "Of the Havoc Squadron."

I nodded at Vinoc, who had been still until now. The Commander moved towards ARENA and loaded in the scenario–an expansive star map of the Perlemian Trade Spine and its adjacent regions burst out of the table in all of its three-dimensional glory. Half a hundred pinpricks popped up around several systems, standing for the assets of the officers still present.

"Pardon me," a thin human spoke up, "This is Captain Jorm of the fuel tanker Aurora. This invitation was sent to all naval captains…"

Captain Jorm trailed off as more and more eyes stopped on him, and he shrunk slightly. His worry was obvious; are auxiliary ships really needed here? Despite being among ranking peers, it was apparent he and the other auxiliary captains were viewed as lower standing.

"You will find that the Aurora may be the most important ship among us, Captain Jorm," I smiled.

Another person left wordlessly. 32 people left.

"Is that so…"

"Shall we begin?" I swept across the room, before nodding sharply, "The situation is as such; a Republic fleet has been spotted gathering at Lantillies, conceivably to launch an assault on Raxus. The enemy will be the Open Circle Armada and Cerulean Spear Fleet. However, ARENA may also mobilise the Blazing Claw Fleet and Third Mid Rim Army if necessary."

Commander Trilm's brows furrowed silently, but another human officer was less courteous–

"Has serving the Pantoran denigrated your mind, Bonteri!?" the captain snarled, "We have what– a hundred ships among us? Open Circle and Cerulean Spear have three times that number shared among them! Forget the other two, Malachor will sooner be colonised before we are able to defeat them!"

"...What's your name, Captain?"

The human snapped upright, heels clicking neatly, "Captain Aviso of star destroyer Bronze Serpent, sir!"

"–Captain Aviso is correct, sir," the Neimodian added, "This is Captain Krett of battleship Fortressa. With all respect, the Pantoran is not among us. We have neither her skill nor genius."

"Agreed," I circled around ARENA, resisting to flinch a I passed through the hologram of a Aqualish captain, "That is why the conditions of our victory is not to defeat this force, but to delay them long enough for the First and Second Fleets to reinforce us."

"Our objective is survival," Commander Vinoc summarised, "This is Commander Vinoc of star destroyer Crying Sun."

Silence continued, but a different kind. It was one with turmoil boiling beneath the surface, a stolid determination tinged with bubbling excitement. See, not every officer on the Perlemian was a result of nepotism. The Separatist cause was built on the backs of Separatist worlds, and Separatist worlds possessed Separatist officers. Experienced officers, veterans of local planetary or system conflicts. Some even fought in the Stark Hyperspace War, or Andoan Wars. Commander Merai himself was a veteran of the Quarren War.

These were the people I was looking for. Soldiers who were willing to treat a wargame not as a game but as a strategic conference, and had enough discipline to do so for hours. Mostly because they have done so before, when they served their homeworlds' Planetary Security Forces. My way of filtering them out was blunt and erroneous, but it did the job. As long as I have a core of veterans, I can build a coalition around them when the time actually comes.

"Very well," Captain Aviso was struggling to hide his grin, "I think I speak for all of us when I say you have our attention."

"Aye," Rel Harsol spoke for the first time, "This is Captain Harsol of star frigate Sa Nalaor. Where do we start, Commodore?"

"We must be wary of any incursion from the Gordian Reach," Commander Shive pointed, "So we should start with our forces stationed at–"

"No, Commander Shive," I broke in, "We start the scenario with our ships exactly where they are now. After all, if we move them to the front, we will be giving ourselves away."

"Pfassk off," Commander Trilm crossed her arms, "This is Commander Calli Trilm of the Clysm Fleet, stationed in Salvara. You all better have your shit together, because I'm the one about to get mauled."

Even as she said that, however, there was an amused smile on her face. Captain Krett laughed weaselly in his Neimodian way, as did several other captains. Meanwhile, I toggled a button, and half of the star map turned into a hazy red.

"Red represents enemy territory and the fog of war," I said, "Every standard day in-game will be two hours here. Once this session is over, the recording will be deleted from the system. Have all of you synced your feeds?"

There was a chorus of agreements, and the officers took their places around ARENA–the pins of their ships blinking to green across the map as they checked in. For a brief moment, the red haze flashed, revealing hundreds of enemy pins amassing around Lantillies and Phindar, before disappearing. Someone chuckled nervously.

"Hold on," Captain Harsol raised a hand, "You never told us how long it will take for reinforcements to come."

"A standard month."

There was sweating now, though in excitement or anxiety I couldn't tell. Maybe both.

"The mission is to survive for thirty-five standard days," I announced, "Let's begin

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

The stark white walls of the Temple's Combat Training Centre have been recently cleaned, just as the new mats had been laid down in anticipation of the annual Jedi Apprentice Tournament. The apprentices in question were lined up against the wall in their best tunics, freshly washed and presentable, yet nervously glancing up at the growing number of Jedi Knights and Master on the mezzanines.

The point of the day's rounds wasn't to win, but to simply catch the attention of a potential master. But they were children, and winning was the only thing on their minds.

After all, Scout thought faintly, we're the chaff. Most Padawans were chosen immediately after the Initiate Trials, which served much the same purpose as the Apprentice Tournaments. Those who didn't were called drifters; purposeless apprentices who wander around the Jedi Temple until they're picked up by a master. There was also the Service Corps-or Force-forbid, leaving-but the vast majority held out on hope.

Hope until the next Tournament, which represented their greatest chance to get chosen.

Which was ironic, because Scout had been one of those lucky enough to be adopted by a Jedi Master after her Trials. To this day, Scout didn't know what Master Chankar Kim saw in her-a sentiment doubtlessly echoed by everybody in the Jedi Temple. The simple fact was, the Force was weak in Scout.

Too weak. Some days she could pull a glass off a counter with her mind and bring it to her hand… but more often it would slip on the way and smash into the floor. Or explode into a shower of milk and splinters as if squeezed.

But it was there. Just enough to be noticed by a Jedi Seeker when she was a toddler. Her family, as it was said, was dirt-poor, and her parents had begged the Seeker to take her away from their life of abject poverty. To this day, Scout has been haunted by the idea that her mother and father-and siblings, if she had them-are still trapped in the slums of Vorzyd V, while she alone escaped.

She alone had the chance to make their sacrifice worth something. Scout wouldn't know what she'd do if she failed. You didn't have to be a Pau'an to catch the way the Jedi Masters talked together in low voices when she went by. Nor did you have to be Togrutan to notice how the other apprentices rolled their eyes at her, or laughed.

When Master Chankar picked her up, she thought she had finally made it.

Three months later, Scout read Master Chankar's name on a casualty report. Geonosis, it said. Master Windu led Master Chankar-and all the rest-to their deaths on some Force-forsaken planet in the Outer Rim.

The orphaned Padawan wanted to rage at it all. If her whole life hadn't been one massive cosmic joke from the very start, she would've broken right then and there. It was sheer will-sheer, bloodyminded un-Jedi-like rage against the Separatists, against the Jedi Order, against the Force, and against herself-that kept her fighting against the destiny fate had in store for her.

Because now Scout was an orphaned, ageing Padawan with no discernable skill with the Force. And the only person who ever saw anything in her had bled her life out on alien dirt, and now nobody will ever know what they had seen.

Scout was out of chances, and everybody knew it. This tournament will make or break her-and breaking meant pretending a hoe equivalent to a lightsaber, and that ploughing the mud of a crop field was the same as exploring the galaxy. And Scout wasn't about to break yet. She narrowed her eyes.

"Hey, Scout!" Scout whipped around like a tightly wound top, "-Woah! Relax!"

It was the Ahsoka, a personable Togruta in the same age bracket as her

"Relax, Scout!" Ahsoka repeated cheerily, "I know you got this!"

Easy for you to say, Scout thought ungraciously. Ahsoka was witty, well-liked, and more than deft with the Force. She was Togruta too, and her hunter's instinct, eyesight, and reflexes let her trounce everyone easily in the sparring matches. Jedi Masters had been lining up for the right to choose her as their Padawan as soon as she passed her trials. And guess what, now she's got the Obi-Wan Kenobi.

If Scout didn't know her friend any better, she would think Ahsoka had come down here to mock her. But no, the Togruta was just too good-natured for her own good.

"Thanks," she forced out.

"Hey, don't worry!" Ahsoka continued, "You're really good at combat, almost as good as me! Just relax and use the- just trust your skills!"

If Scout's smile had been any tighter, it would be a razor-thin line drawn across her face. Ahsoka laughed awkwardly, before suddenly grabbing her shoulder and pointing up to a spot on the overlook.

"Look there," she whispered confidentially, "That's Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker! Doesn't that mean Skywalker's looking for a Padawan? If you win this, we could go on missions together!"

Oh yeah, Ahsoka's really digging it in now. Thanks Ahsoka.

Still, Scout paid her friend's wishful thinking some heed. She stared up at the Hero With No Fear. He must have it easy, being the Chosen One. He could join the Jedi Order thrice the age of the rest and immediately shoot up to Jedi Knight without any effort. But that's what you can do when you're the Chosen One. She had read all the accounts of his daring deeds, which all might as well have been written by love-smitten journalists. It made her want to spit.

I don't think he'll want a Force-less nobody as his Padawan.

Suddenly, his eyes tracked down her stare and met it. It felt as if the room's temperature had dropped to freezing, and Scout hastily diverted her gaze. Was that his Force presence? Scary.

"Yeah… I'd like that," Scout lied.

⁂

The Apprentice Tournament advanced via sudden death, which meant that once you lost, you were done. This was absolutely perfect for Scout. She was among those who had advocated for a single-elimination format, arguing that in the real world no enemy would offer a best of three.

Or more accurately, Scout herself wasn't willing to offer a best of three. Because Scout was a skilled fencer the same way a Krish duelist was a skilled fencer; with dexterity, strength, stamina, and nothing about the Force. She didn't have the luxury of that cheat, which meant that any prolonged engagement would leave her at a disadvantage. Her opponent will always have more options.

Scout had to make her rounds short and swift, and that usually meant using trickery. And trickery only works once. Ergo, the fewer matches she had to fight, the greater her chances were of winning overall.

The first matches began, starting with a Cerean girl named Ami-Kat-Ayama and Farls, a Theelin boy with mottled skin. Scout's mind settled into a calculating state, ignoring the anxiety threatening to burst out of her gut. She had to do this right. Farls was one of their best martial artists, swift on his feet and as wily as a Dxunian stalker. Ami-Kat-Ayama, however, wielded a double-bladed saberstaff that made her fighting style unorthodox and frankly terrifying.

For good reason. The training lightsabers they used were powered down to their lowest settings, but that didn't mean they were painless. A single touch was like branding your skin with red iron-it made your muscles scream and nerves jumble into frays, leaving behind a vibrantly bloody welt that can take a week to heal. Unbearably painful.

Scout knew this better than any initiate in the hall, because she had made a habit of zapping herself with her lightsaber a few times every day in preparation for this tournament. The reason was simple. The matches were open combat, and would only end when one yielded or took three hits from a lightsaber. The pain of getting struck however, meant that you weren't going to last very long after taking your first hit. Because pain was distracting, and Scout was determined not to let that pain ruin her chances of winning. She couldn't afford to lose.

In any case, Ami-Kat-Ayama wasn't a very calculating fighter. Like most apprentices, she tended to trust her own strength and the Force, rather than make the kind of preliminary observations that earned Scout her nickname. Ami-Kat's could afford not to-as could all the others-but Scout didn't have the same luxury. She simply wasn't intuned enough to let the Force do her homework for her.

Scout had taken to observing every potential opponent in the weeks leading up to this moment, learning their styles. Even if she wasn't confident, at least she was prepared.

Which is why she knew that so long as Farls keeps up the blindingly furious pace he's known for, and stays out of Ami-Kat's saberstaff range, he will emerge victorious in the end.

She was proven right less than ten minutes later, with the Cerean strewn across the padded floor and nursing a scorching burn on her stomach. Ami-Kat only had to slip once for Farls to sneak in a strike, and the Cerean all but fell apart under his offensive. Scout recorded the bout in her mind, and steeled herself to fight the Theelin boy later.

First, she had to win her match. Scout was against a human boy named Eda'Ni, and even she had to feel somewhat sorry for him. He was on the smaller side, and though Scout wasn't a very large girl herself, her advanced age meant she towered over him by a head.

Following the ritual, she bowed and presented her lightsaber to the old Master Sinube, the year's tournament overseer. He checked her saber settings, before nodding-Scout could almost hear his neck creaking as he did so. After Eda'Ni did the same, they were finally arranged opposite each other.

Scout slowed her breathing, drowning out the clamour of the audience. Eda'Ni's eyes were large and bright, actively poking holes in her stance. He was at a disadvantage, and both of them knew it.

Master Sinube's cane struck the floor-and Scout surged forward with the speed of a sandscorpion, her ice-blue lightsaber bursting to life and striking down on Eda'Ni's head in a vicious arc. The boy caught her overhead just in time, sweat gathering on his brow as he struggled against Scout's greater strength.

Scout then relaxed without warning, and Eda'Ni shot upwards-leaving his abdomen open. She pivoted on a foot and punished him with a powerful side kick that sent the smaller boy reeling backwards, gasping for breath. Scout pressed the offensive, spinning around to reorient her legs before lunging into a flying flèche.

Eda'Ni had barely presented his lightsaber again before she knocked it out of the way and jabbed her's straight into his sternum. The boy yelped in pain-a black bruise already apparent through his charred tunic-and backtracked hastily. Scout caught herself with a heavy footfall, before taking off once more, striking twice again into his chest-and it was over.

Scout blinked, suddenly realising they were at the edge of the arena, with the boy nearly backed up against the wall.

Master Sinube's cane struck the floor again, "Match."

Scout's lightsaber deactivated, and she offered the boy a hand, "Sorry about that. Maybe next time?"

Eda'Ni accepted it begrudgingly, "Yeah. Hopefully next time you won't be here."

Scout untensed herself, smiling apologetically. The audience was silent-her style just now was un-Jedi-like, she knew. That kind of aggression was rarely taught, and almost never seen, in the Temple. The match must've taken no longer than a minute, she thought. Eda'Ni never stood a chance.

She glanced up at the mezzanine, catching gazes of disapproval and recognition in equal measure. There was some clapping, which she took as a win. Scout still felt sorry for her opponent, but he would have another chance next year. She wouldn't.

Her next match was, expectedly, against Farls. If the Theelin boy gets into his flow, it's already over for Scout. Realistically, Farls was much more talented as a fighter, but Scout had the upper edge in speed and strength. If this was a straight match, Scout could see herself win, but when the Force was added to the equation… she wasn't confident about her chances.

"That was ill of you," was the first thing Farls told her, "You will find that an opponent your own size a much harder fight."

Scout narrowed her eyes, "Try me."

Then, Master Sinube pulled the rug out from under them. The entire room snapped the pitch black darkness, and the twinkling spots of night vision lenses on the upper floors were the only sources of light left.

"Many apprentices insist the tournament ought to reflect the real world," Master Sinube's voice was resounding, "In the real world, optimal conditions are rare and fleeting. Often, you must fight in the dark."

His cane struck the floor.

Both she and Farls kept their lightsabers silent, knowing whoever ignited first would give themselves away. Scout remained still as a tree, eyes wide as saucers and hairs rising on her arms. Everything was amplified; she strained to hear every creak and whisper; the audience breathing, the rustling of cloths and tunics… and the soft thumping of footsteps.

One might think the playing field was now decisively tilted against her, but it was much the opposite. Scout had one major advantage; for all of her pathetic talent in the physical side of the Force, she did have a gift for foresight. Or as the Masters called it; precognition. When she sparred, Scout would have micro-visions, and would know what her opponents were going to do next before they knew it themselves.

Her tendency to read a situation just a bit faster than everybody else is what originally earned her the nickname Scout.

Come at me Farls, she thought, I don't need my eyes to see you. Seems like the living stars are finally looking out for me.

An electric spark in her mind-and Scout sidestepped just as a cerulean blaze consumed the space she was once standing in. Farls likes to strike from below like a snake. Scout jabbed downwards at the same time, her blade lashing out and retreating like the tongue of the lizard.

The room plunged into darkness again. For several minutes, they both duelled in a dance of footwork, not sabers. Orienting, shifting, and reorienting in the gloom. Every so often, their lightsabers would ignite and shut off like fleeting candlesticks, daring each other to make their move.

His next move won't be with his saber.

Farls' was a martial artist, and used his body as much as his lightsaber. Scout has observed him long enough to know what he was going to do, all she needed was for the Force to tell her where he will come from.

… Now!

Scout hopped as her opponent tried to sweep her legs out, her lightsaber blazing to life and slashing downwards. Thwack-an audible wince of pain, and the presence retreated. Farls came again, this time his lightsaber pierced upwards at her neck. Scout backpedalled too late, and his lightsaber blazed straight through her tunic, searing into her midriff as if it was a steak.

She batted the thrust aside, holding in a terrific scream, lightsabers clashing in a flurry of sparks. Slash, slash, parry, feint-jab-parry, slash… ! Only Scout's nifty Force talent saved her from a face full of Theelin fist. She grabbed Farl's outstretched arm and tugged him off his feet, grappling the smaller boy and throwing him to the floor, using her ruined side to pin him down.

He tried to sweep her legs out again-coming precariously close as her knees weren't able to lock in time-as Scout brought her saber to bear and ignited it twice, striking him both times, right before falling on top of him.

Clang! The lights flickered back on.

"Match," Master Sinube announced in his slow, measured way.

"Hey!" a complaint gurgled out of Farls' gasping lips, "That wasn't fair! She can't do that!"

Scout rolled off to the side, leaving the two apprentices beside each other.

"Can't do what?" she wheezed, just as tired.

"Turn your lightsaber on and off!"

"On the contrary, young one," Master Sinube's beaked face loomed over them, "That was an impressive display of Tràkata, my dear. Some may find it dishonourable, but is that an issue when it wins you a fight? There are no rules against it, and the match goes to Scout."

Tràkata, was that what it was called? Scout had never heard of it, and from the excitable muttering from the other initiates, neither had any of them. In honesty, jabbing in quick succession by toggling her saber just seemed intuitive. She snuck a glance above, and saw several Masters looking at her in interest. Even Master Yoda!

It was silent as she picked herself up, but then someone started clapping. It was Obi-Wan Kenobi, with an enigmatic smile on his face. Soon, the applause grew, and she spotted Ahsoka enthusiastically cheering her on from beside her master. Scout looked down, flushing, remembering to pick up the groaning Theelin and drag him to the side, where they were then swarmed by the other apprentices.

The next two rounds passed by smoothly; first against Mill Alibeth, Zabrak girl who, unlike the rest of her species, was way too mellow and almost afraid of her own blade. Next was against Klossi Anno, an older Chalactan girl who Scout drew into a conversation and struck in surprise.

The final match saw her pitted against Teo Gronn, and this time it seemed like the audience had doubled in size. Honestly, she had half-foreseen Teo Gronn being a finalist, but the prospect still terrified her even as she stared him in the eye.

The reason? Teo was an older Duros boy, in the same age bracket as her. Both of them were orphaned Padawans seeking a new master, and both their previous masters had fallen on Geonosis. It was far too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence, and she had a feeling that the twinkle of mischief in Master Sinube's eye had something to do with it.

Except, Master Chankar died before taking Scout on a mission, while Teo already has several under his belt. The Duros was taller, stronger, and far more experienced than her.

Master Sinube's cane struck the ground, signalling the start of their fight. Teo's lightsaber burst out in a brilliant green blade, his bleeding red eyes tracking her silently. Stang.

"Mind giving me the win?" Scout tried as she ignited her own blue blade.

"I heard quite a bit about you," Teo exchanged, cutting a little flourish with his saber.

"Good things, I hope."

"I saw your match with Farls."

"So not very good things," she replied, "You know, you've already been on missions. Can't you let me have some?"

"You can barely use the Force," he shifted his footing, "What good is going on a mission if you aren't coming back?"

Scout grounded her teeth. He's taunting me.

"Are you saying your master-and mine-could barely use the Force?" she shot back.

Teo almost paused in surprise at the callousness of her retort, warily tilting his head up at the audience of Knights and Masters. Scout didn't-she kept her eyes right on him.

"I see the rumours are not exaggerated," he said slowly.

"I pride myself on my-" Scout exploded forwards in a flying flèche.

Teo snapped his blade up in a parry, skillfully locking their blades together in a bind and using his superior strength to push her back. Scout braced against the floor, gritting her teeth as she felt her blade come dangerously close to her own face. Taking a risk, she released one hand from her saber and twisted out of the way-letting their locked blades smack the floor as she kicked in his knee and swivelled around to his back.

Now half-kneeling, Scout pressed their still-locked lightsabers down to ground and trapped him in a headlock with her free arm. Teo gurgled something, headbutting her with his enlarged skull in order to break free. But if there was one thing Scout's combat style was known for, it was her chokeholds, and even as the stars got knocked into her vision, Scout tenaciously held on, tightening her grip.

"Yield!" she demanded.

"No!"

Teo's skin began to purple as he grew increasingly desperate for air. Spittle came out of his lips as Scout took the chance to smack his lightsaber out of his hand-scoring a point-before reinforcing her strangle with another arm.

"Yield!"

"N-o!"

In a sudden fit of renewed strength, Teo struggled to his feet and mule kicked her in the gut. With her lunch nearly disgorging from her belly, Scout was forced to release him and scramble back-just as the Duros recalled his saber with such an ease it made her stomach cramp in envy, and whipped around violently, catching her right in the face.

This time, Scout did scream. And she screamed loud enough that for a moment her pain was the only audible sound in the chamber. Because having her face pummelled by what was essentially a graviball bat and cooked medium rare at the same time was not a pleasant experience.

"Sorry!" Teo's eyes were wide, an expression shared by many.

Even the unflappable Master Sinube seemed to be internally debating whether or not to stop the match, while Ahsoka looked just about ready to leap down from the overlook and rush to her aid. Scout huffed painfully, tenderly touching her cheek-and reeling from the stinging shock. One of her eyes was tearing up-no, one of her eyes was bleeding. Stang, was the only thing in her mind, I'm now fighting half blind.

"You can't continue," Teo said sternly, pointing his saber, "Yield."

The ugly bruise wringing his neck could be plainly seen.

"One-one," Scout gasped, blinking the blood from her eye, "Try me."

She charged again, coming in at slant that challenged both their footworks. Teo met her head on in a shower of sparks, blue and green reflected off the Duro's red eyes in a milky white colour. The boy shoved her off, and Scout used that momentum to press down on his blade to leverage a somersault over his head. She landed in a roll, whirling around to catch Teo's blade in a high parry.

But this time, it was Teo who had the better of her. He advanced with a series of cuts and feints that came in blindingly fast, but the subtle nudging of the Force prompted her to parry the real slashes and ignore the feints. This couldn't continue, obviously, as getting trapped on the defensive was a death sentence for her.

She lured her opponent into a rhythm of slash, parry, slash, parry, slash-and then dived in order to tackle him to the ground. Teo leaped and flipped, twisting mid air and landing in a perfect fighting stance. Scout followed through with her dive, turning it into a roll and jumping back to her feet.

He's afraid of physical contact, Scout realised. He relies on his lightsaber too much. Alright.

Teo launched a new offensive, coming at her like a raging storm, every strike of his lightsaber like a hurricane of green thunder. Scout should have been able to keep up-she was the best duelist of her bracket!-but she soon realised the Duros was using the Force to slow her down, until it felt like Scout had to drag her limbs through water.

In a panic, she prayed to whatever star was looking out for her and grasped Teo's leg with what Force she had, wrenching forward by just an inch. His face strained near imperceptibly as Scout grabbed it just a little too hard, but that was all it took for her to disengage her blade and jab at his now overstretched thigh. Two points to me. He admirably sucked up the pain, but Scout wasn't about to let up.

She lunged again, catching his torso in a clinch and attempting to knock him down. Scout underestimated his size and weight, to say the least, because Teo all but picked her up and slammed her into the ground. Teo stomped on her hand, forcing her to release her lightsaber, before kicking the weapon away. Scout groaned.

Both of them were wheezing heavily now, and with all the brutal assaults it had taken, Teo's one knee was wobbling precariously. Still, the Duros was standing over her from what seemed like a vast, impossible height. Scout wondered whether she had enough strength to summon her lightsaber with the Force, even as Teo's crackling emerald blade was lowered to her throat.

"Yield," he gasped for breath, a triumphant expression on his face.

"… No," Scout met him in the eye, unable to feel the Force come to her fingers.

Teo's expression morphed into puzzlement, "What? But you've lost."

Scout gave up trying. The throbbing pain in her head made it far too difficult to concentrate, and blood was pooling in her right eye now.

"Don't feel like I've lost yet," she groaned, feeling her previous injury flare up.

"You're mad," Teo declared disbelievingly, "What am I supposed to do, strike you while you're down?"

"Y-Yeah," Scout subtly tilted her head to let the blood drain out, and to catch a better look of his legs, "I'm not yielding, so it's still three hits. See, like this-"

Scout sucked in a lungful of air, and grabbed Teo's blade with her left hand. Screaming internally, she clenched her jaw in agony as her hand began to blister and peel and cook. Two-two now.

"H-Hey!" Teo shouted, attempting to pull his blade free, "What on Malachor are you doing!?"

Scout didn't let him, instead tugging him back to her-and then sweeping her legs to knock him off his feet. As the Duros boy fell, Scout mustered what strength she had left to climb on top of him and wrench his lightsaber out of his grasp. Grabbing it by the hilt with her remaining hand, she deactivated it and slammed it into his head.

"Yield!"

"What!?"

She whacked him again, this time pointing the blade emitter downwards.

"Yield!"

"No!"

Teo grabbed her by the waist and attempted to throw her off, and with her free hand now thoroughly scorched down to the muscle, Scout couldn't stop him. Instead, she stabbed his lightsaber into his eye and pushed it down, prompting a howl of pain.

"Yield!" she screamed desperately, "Or I'll ignite this kriffing saber!"

Teo froze, carefully, slowly moving his hands away as if attempting to placate a wild animal.

"Y-Yeah, sure," his voice cracked, "I yield."

Master Sinube struck the ground, and Scout released a breath she didn't know she was holding. She rolled off him, and Teo breathlessly plucked his lightsaber out of his eye, leaving behind a bloody circular welt. He blinked, dumbfounded.

"Now you know what it feels like," Scout gasped, sweat running down her face in rivulets.

"Match!" this time, Master Sinube's voice was booming, "Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy is the victor of this year's Jedi Apprentice Tournament!"

The audience broke into applause, and even some whooping from the other apprentices. Scout was too exhausted to hear it.

"Good match," she dragged herself to her feet, offering a hand to the Duros, "Maybe next time."

Teo bore a baffled smile as he accepted her help, "You're crazy, Esterhazy. But that's what makes this a 'real' fight, right?"

"Yeah," she grinned.

The applause was still mounting as Scout slung Teo's arm over the shoulder and made for the infirmary. Shaking off offers of help, she left the hall with her head raised high and prideful. I won. I made it.

⁂

"Did you two have to maul each other so terribly?" Master Caudle, the resident Jedi Healer, scolded them.

"He started it," Scout pointed to the cot beside her accusingly.

"W-What!?" Teo spluttered, "You're the crazy one who grabbed a lightsaber with your bare hands!"

"Indeed," Master Caudle wrapped a bacta patch over her burned hand, "I don't know why I should bother healing you, if you are going to make a habit of grabbing people's lightsabers."

"I won," she raised her chin defiantly, "It's worth it."

"For how much longer, young one?" their attention was captured by the infirmary doors sliding open, "Until you burn off all your fingers? Because try that in the real world, and you will find yourself short of a hand."

"M-Master Kenobi!" Scout yelped, before spotting the crown of a wrinkled green head "Master Yoda!"

Teo sat up straighter by instinct, hiding a wince. Scout tried the same, but Master Caudle pushed her back down with the click of their tongue. Behind Master Kenobi hobbled Master Sinube, as well as Master Skywalker. Ahsoka was but a midget behind them, peeking from the back and waving enthusiastically.

Scout decided Master Caudle had the right of it, and shrunk further into the sheets, "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"Abnormal, your style is," Master Yoda chastened in his wizened way, "Very dangerous, to yourself and your friends."

Oh no, I've botched it up. Was this the Force's way of reprimanding her, is some kind of cosmic karma?

"What Master Yoda is saying is that we've decided the Jedi Temple cannot contain you any longer," Master Kenobi explained gently, "You will be assigned a new master immediately."

Teo's breath hitched, and Scout could only stare at the assemblage of Jedi blankly.

"See!?" Ahsoka jumped at her, grabbing her hand and shaking it wildly, "I told you! This is going to be so cool!"

"N-Not the hand," Scout whimpered, tears welling up, "Not the left hand…"

"Wha-? Oh!" the Togruta yelped, immediately releasing her, "Sorry!"

Master Yoda thumped the Togruta on her head with his cane, "Patience, you must learn, Padawan Tano. Good for you, Master Kenobi will be. And you, Padawan Esterhazy. Pack your belongings immediately, you will."

"W- What?" Scout stammered.

Everything was moving too quickly! First Master Yoda said she was dangerous, and now she's got a new master? Who?

The ancient Jedi carefully prodded her cheek with his cane, "Ears damaged, have they? Along with your face, hm? To be Anakin Skywalker's Padawan, you are."

Face… Scout touched her face tentatively. Teo's saber had done a number on her, the pinkish scar across half her face notwithstanding. Wait, Anakin Skywalker?

She swivelled around to check whether she had actually heard correctly, but Toma was only able to make a pretty good imitation of a gaping fish, his red eyes wide and staring. Not at her, but over her shoulder.

"I'm over here, Padawan."

Scout snapped about, suddenly face to face with the Anakin Skywalker towering over her. His eyes were sunken, though his eyes were like twin blue suns in the blackness of space. His face was smileless, instead bearing a severe grimace that made Scout feel like she had already done something wrong.

"Master Skywalker," she caught her voice, "I am at your service."

For some reason, despite her greatest wish fulfilled and her life's goal accomplished, Scout didn't feel any elation. Everything she had done until now, everything she had strived for; driving herself to the top of class after class, studying late into every night until star maps danced before her aching eyes. Astrocartography, unarmed combat, hyperdrive maths, starship engineering, lightsaber technique, electronics-everything no other apprentice bothered with because they didn't need those skills to be noticed because they had that cheat called the Force.

Everything for this moment, and she was chosen by the greatest Jedi Knight of all time. And she didn't feel an ounce of pride or joy, as if she was infected by Master Skywalker's dourness. Scout came to the realisation that the Hero With No Fear on the holofeeds may not be the same person standing before her.

"A dangerous master for a dangerous Padawan, hm?" Master Yoda tittered at a joke only he found funny.

"It will be difficult," Master Skywalker said bluntly, "And I will not go easy on you. You will be pushed harder than you've ever been in the Temple, both physically and mentally. Can you handle that?"

Off to the side, Master Kenobi was shaking his head in amusement. When he saw her gaze, he offered a lopsided, yet reassuring grin.

Feeling resolved, Scout tilted her chin upwards, "I've survived this much, Master Skywalker."

The edges of his lips tugged, but Scout thought there was a hint of pain in it, "I tell that to myself everyday… Tallisibeth, was it? You have guts, Padawan; I think you might survive us yet."

And then there was determination. The same determination that has been her only constant companion through her short life. Scout looked up at Master Skywalker and thought; I'm going to do this right