All the Broken People

by Virodeil

Summary:

Jedi Master Feemor has a lot of roles and at least a handful of identities.

And then, when the clones start to blank out and turn against the Jedi, he starts to accumulate younglings, too.

And it doesn’t stop just there.

Notes:

• For Malicean.
• Inspired by [Restricted Work] by BitterChocolateStars (Log in to access.)

Hello, folks! Welcome to yet another WIP of mine. I hope you will enjoy it. And, as per usual, please have little faith for my updating schedule and the swiftness of the plot-pace. As it is, I aim to post a monthly update, and I posted this fic in the first place only because I have at last passed the 1st leg of the journey, which took 7 chapters and 9 months of writing. Previously, Malicean was the only audience as well as informal beta-reader for this personal indulgence of mine. ☺

Content-wise, I would like to notify you at the start that this is not a clone fic, nor quite a Jedi fic, although the clones might appear later on and most of the main characters are Jedi. It is more of a… survival fic, and a road-trip fic. Also, although the tag says the divergent point for this little universe is the end of the Clone Wars, it actually starts long before, in that Feemor approaches Obi-Wan Kenobi after the death of Qui-Gon Jinn and gets close to him. But we will not see any Obi-Wan Kenobi here except for some reference here and there. You could assume that canon more or less goes as canon does, outside of Fee’s sphere of influence, up to a certain point that we all will likely see for ourselves without being informed in advance about.

This fic was inspired by others bearing the same premise out there, especially A Friend in Dangerous Times is a True Friend Indeed by BitterChocolateStars. I am not one for genocide – even the Sith, if they were not evil and kept to themselves, but this is not it – and would like to rectify at least some of it, just like others do. Also, not a few of the decisions of the higher-ups of the supposed good folks during the Clone Wars or even before that are simply barbaric, such as the formation of the Padawan Pack, and this I feel I must rectify. And Feemor might appear on just one comic panel in EU canon – one that I haven’t (and now can’t) read, even – but he is one of my most favourite beings in Star Wars, so here I would love him to outshine even his youngest padawan brother, hence the personal indulgence.

Additional warnings (not on the tags) will be posted in the chapter/end notes, but please tell me if I have missed something. Also, if you would like to suggest a character or three to appear, please do so! The first 7 chapters are finished, true, but even now I am still editing them, and there are potentially the tens other chapters later on. And I would always welcome discussions, thoughts, impressions and even suggestions for improvement about each chapter. I am notorious of churning out more contents when I am galvanised…

If you have read this far, thank you! And again, enjoy!
Rey

Chapter 1: When the Stars Fall

Notes:

Folks, here be the initial genocide that started it all. Non-graphic deaths of Jedi will be mentioned.

Jedi Master Feemor has a lot of roles and at least a handful of identities.

 

In the olden days, he would have belonged to the Auxiliary Corps, whose main task was to support all other branches, temples and concerns of the Jedi Order; the most Jedi in the Jedi Order, service-wise. Nowadays, however, there is no specific branch he can truly identify himself with and belong to; just a measly “Jedi Sentinel” noted on his profile, which is more of a self-identification than anything else.

 

Still, he is a Jedi.

 

And, right now, as the clones of Jango Fett that have been so quickly assimilated into Jedi life in at least the Coruscanti temple blank out and turn against those they were so respectful and even protective about, being a Jedi is fatally dangerous.

 

In the fabric of the Force, the various presences of his brethren – however dimmed they have been by war these three years – have already begun to be wrenched out, each leaving a gaping, empty wound and a trail of jagged, acidic darkness. Betrayal, loss and grief swamp all of his senses, and it is all he can do to keep from crumpling onto the floor.

 

Ironically, the urgency of the moment keeps him upright and move, move, move. The temple needs to be evacuated as soon as possible, and they might even have to leave Coruscant entirely.

 

That is, if the clones do not manage to gun them down first as they flee, or shoot them out of the sky should they reach that far.

 

Blasterfire and lightsabre humming clash with each other from various directions, echoing in the stone corridors beneath the stampeed of multitudes of feet and the quickly growing miasma of betrayal-anger-grief-loss-confusion-desperation.

 

Dimly, Fee wonders if this is what the Jedi of old felt during the Sacking of Coruscant.

 

Dimly, he notices beings in Jedi robes crumpled forlornly near so many scorches, also marked by those scorches, as he passes by on his way to the crèche.

 

Sometimes, living masters shove their padawans at him instead, when they are notified of where he is going.

 

The so-called Padawan Pack have even managed to track him down. They cling to him in the Force and nearly in reality, like they did after he and his “clean-up” battalion had managed to keep them alive through the wet, cold, muddy, blood-soaked horror that was Jabiim. The battalion shouldn’t have been there, wouldn’t have been there but for Obi-Wan’s personal plea, which the High Council and the High Command reprimanded both for after the fact.

 

But these flickering-but-there lights were worth it, and more.

 

And they are, even if he has to claw and bite and kick and punch for each of the lights he manages to keep alive for yet more minutes, hours, days, weeks.

 

Even so, neither fury nor desperation subsumes him. Even grief gradually becomes a distant thing, as he continues to summon the lightsabres of the fallen defenders to him for safekeeping along the way. The songs of the kyber are mournful and pained, but they also barricade him from the harsher, more poignant versions that the padawans generate, that the universe radiates, and he gratefully hides behind it for even a sliver of reprieve.

 

The barricade helps, too, when he arrives on the crèche level and finds that some clones have also wrought havoc there, if apparently not for long.

 

Not without casualties and fatalities, either.

 

But some crèchemasters are still standing, still here enough to help wrangle their charges and necessary supplies for emergency evacuation, so Fee focuses on just taking charge on the younglings who have recently lost their guardians, in addition to the padawans that have previously been entrusted to him and those that have sought him out.

 

The oldest and injured crèchemasters offer to guard their retreat to the hidden speeder bay, as they will not be able to keep up with so much physical exertion. Fee is grateful for their sacrifice, but he is not so grateful when they dump their charges on him: the youngest of the crèchelings and a mix of older ones. He can sub for a crèchemaster or clanmaster for a time, but he is not skilled in wrangling younglings indefinitely! Especially not this many!

 

*

 

There is a ragtag collection of various transports in the hidden speeder bay one level down; all unmarked, all supplied with bare necessities for an emergency evacuation.

 

Better yet, there are a series of storerooms with prepacked, labelled and updated personal kitbags for various species and other supplies just on the edge of it, where Fee can send the padawans and senior initiates to to raid while he quickly discusses with the other guardians about their choices of transports and directions.

 

In the end, he chooses a sturdy, spacious, thoroughly enclosed modified cargo landspeeder that can hold all of his charges plus their supplies, if squished together and even one on top of the other. He tells the others nothing of his route, and neither do they. It is enough that all of them know when to start and to which direction, staggering their departures so that this hidden gate into the temple remains hidden for yet longer.

 

This way, even if one of them gets captured, they will not be able to blab even under torture.

 

They will not lose too many of the younglings, too.

 

It is a very bleak, very harsh, very pessimistic outlook, perhaps, but every one of them feels that it is highly necessary for their very survival, at this point.

 

For that matter, Fee is to depart first, as he brings with him the very youngest of their people and the greatest number of younglings overall, not to mention the lightsabres of the fallen.

 

“The Order will survive with you,” Master Vant swears in their parting, and tears spring onto both of their eyes.

 

“With you, too,” he swears back, prays, demands, even as his eyes move away from hers and over her shoulder, to the row of anxious junior initiates that she will bring with her in a somewhat-too-small airspeeder towards CoCo Town.

 

There is no more time for more farewells, after that, not if Fee wants to keep to the agreed schedule, and he does need to keep it.

 

Still, Master Ali-Alann manages to stuff two more crates of rations into the driver’s cabin and who knows what else into the back with the younglings while Fee moves the overstuffed van slowly towards the opening gate, and the beleaguered driver cannot help but laugh.

 

With no little amount of tears in it, but he laughs.

 

*

 

The war touches the people living in the lower levels of Coruscant somewhat differently from those above.

 

Worse, arguably.

 

Prolonged power outages and stringent rationing of the already limited resources are the norm here, and Fee should have remembered that, prepared for it.

 

But he did not.

 

As it is, more than once, he has to find another, longer, more circuitous route, just to avoid gangsters that are ready to ambush a seemingly juicy target that is the visibly encumbered cargo speeder. And, in the end, when more and more of them seem to notice and prepare ambushes, he has to exert his well-bruised Force-sense to cover the transport in a bubble of `Don’t notice me. Go on. I am uninteresting.`

 

It thankfully works.

 

But only for the immediate area.

 

And only for a time.

 

The would-be ambushers wise up after a while.

 

Worse, they seem to coordinate with each other, after a few clearly separate attempts.

 

`Are we suspected of being Jedi because of the redirection?` Fee wonders, frets, fears. `I shouldn’t have done it, then!`

 

But it has already been done. And, in any case, he is so close already to his first destination: a shadow port run by Mandalorians for Mandalorians, placed deliberately away from their community here on Coruscant.

 

Well, it is meant for Mandalorians and Mandalorian-adjacents, to be exact. After all, Fee is not a Mandalorian, but Obi-Wan is a Mandalorian – a pseudo-Mandalorian, at least. And Obi-Wan is the one who set up this fallback point, more than a decade ago, after they had met each other for the first time and bonded over Qui-Gon.

 

Over being repudiated by Qui-Gon over a brighter, more promising successor, to be exact, though Obi-Wan was only almost repudiated.

 

Fee is twistedly thankful right now that he cannot feel bitter over it, even though more than three decades have passed since his own repudiation. He just cannot afford to feel anything at the moment, nor think about anything but the actions he needs to take in order to bring himself and all his charges safely off this deathtrap of a planet.

 

*

 

The agreement between Obi-Wan and the Mandalorians who ran this shadow port was that the individuals smuggled through it must comprise of mostly children. Mandos apparently have quite a soft spot for children, who knows. And Obi-Wan even said they have the saying “Children are the future.”

 

Well, it is quite apt, regardless, especially in this situation.

 

It is also partly why Fee took the landspeeder, which would have otherwise been a very foolish choice on an ecumenopolis that is mostly comprised of high-rises like Coruscant: The shadow port is connected to thoroughfares prevalent in the lower levels, as opposed to the skylanes in-between the blocks of high-rise buildings in the upper levels.

 

A Mando in full armour and armed from top to bottom comes out just as his overburdened, overheated conveyance whines and whinges its way into the parking lot of the shadow port. They demand his security key the moment he rolls down the window beside him to show them his face.

 

It’s not something to resite, but a prepared conversation that both need to do correctly. And Fee is heartened for once since the sudden, senseless killings started when both pass muster.

 

“You are in a hurry,” the Mando states in an accent that is not Coruscanti, afterwards. Fee fights not to snarl back. But maybe it shows on his face nonetheless, for his interlocutor… raises their hands, palms out, and brings their forearms together side by side as if magneted together into place. As if surrendering, or showing him that they do not mean – cannot do – harm to him and his, or maybe even both.

 

“No news yet round here. We know nothing. I wanted to know,” they defend themself behind that barricade, somewhat apologetically. Fee relaxes. His guess was spot-on, then.

 

Still, “Let’s go inside first,” he demands, implores, snips back, too anxious for control, for propriety, let alone for the infamous Jedi mask.

 

The Mando cocks their head, radiates curiosity so much through posture alone that their muffled presence is no bar to it. But still, they usher the van into a more private, enclosed corner and even wait near its nose while Fee goes round to the back to check.

 

Their easy compliance is fortunate. But even if not, Fee still must do this first, before anything else.

 

What is in the back is very important.

 

There is no future without children, after all. Even the Mandalorians know that.

Chapter 2: The Birth of a Clan

Notes:

I was astonished at the welcome this fic received. A reader – manyfandoms1969 – even marked this fic rec! It's so hard to wait a month to post, because of that, and I am posting at the earliest opportunity. (it's already the 11th in my timezone, at least!) I hope you like this update.

Also, I wanted to let you know, should the muse be kinder or I be more impatient (even more than now LOL), the schedule might just be adjusted. I admit I could have finished Chapter 8 by now, likely, but then I got distracted by writing a fic featuring a Garen Muln that discovered the stasis pod of an ancient mand'alor… (And, speaking of which, might you be interested in reading such a fic?)

There is no warning for this chapter, except if you would count an excess of exposition a warning. It's a foundational chapter, after all. But at least there is a new character at the end?

Anyway, enjoy!
Rey

For the price of current news, reliable contact frequency and the van that will be soon rendered into parts, the refugees receive a private room to rest safely in for a time and each a new identity, an all-in passenger ticket to… anywhere but the Core, really, Fee is not being picky right now, as well as an additional coverage for their excess cargo, decent sustenance until the departure time, and each a clean and sturdy if basic datapad – primarily to store identity and ticket information, although the Mando also emphasises that it could store learning modules, such as a Mandalorian integration module.

 

It is… acceptable. In a certain light, it is generous, even. Fee is just worried about where they will end up in, what they will do afterwards, and how, given that they are about to lose their transport.

 

Not that they can keep it, he knows. The gangsters must have noted down various details of the van, might have even traced it to the shadow port, and will likely sell the information to whoever might pursue them later. Rendering it for parts is the safest option for all involved, because of it alone.

 

Still, he rues it. And still, he clasps forearms with the Mando, seals the deal, seals the promise of obscurity.

 

*

 

It is hard to come up with a simple, believable story that encompasses a single human-variant male adult, fifteen adolescents and young adults of various species, thirty-one children and prepubescents of even more species, and twenty-eight infants of also multiple species.

 

It is made harder by the fact that Fee has to think about it fast in order to help solidify their new identities while wrangling all those younglings, who are distraught by either snapped bonds or the general horribleness of the Force right now, who cannot even dress themselves in a non-Jedi way.

 

The clear, fussy if well-meaning interest the unnamed, unknown stranger heaps on all the stressed beings under his care – including himself – just makes it even worse, actually, although it serves to help him feed all the hungry bellies, also to provide a refresher and a seemingly unending free-of-charge supplies for one to relieve and clean oneself, not to mention the little but useful things each of them receives.

 

In the end, Fee takes a liberal amount of inspiration from what Obi-Wan told him about the social structure of Mandalorian society, as well as a sidewise translation of their current situation and snippets of the mundane realities on the worlds he has ever been to.

 

He places himself as an administrator in a Coruscanti orphanage with wealthy patrons, who recently cut ties with the orphanage, all of a sudden and without even a stated reason. Sadly, the annual rent of the orphanage’s building was simply beyond the means of the lone administrator and handful of caretakers, not to mention the upkeep of so many lives on Coruscant in wartime. So, quite regretably, it had to close down and the children must evacuate.

 

The employees themselves no longer had their livelihoods because of the sudden severence, thus they could no longer afford to live on such an expensive world. No side-jobs or other homes to fall back on, either, as their energy had been spent on just caring for the children or the orphanage, and the said orphanage had used to provide room and board on top of their salaries. So they chose to withdraw their salaries from the bank and sell what they could sell from the orphanage building itself, in order to move off-world with each a portion of their charges.

 

Fee thought to seek sanctuary for himself and his portion of the orphans with the Mandalorians. And, as a few self-claimed-good Mandalorians he and his fellows have encountered throughout the years insisted that “children are the future,” that children will be safe both in a Mandalorian transport and with Mandalorians, Fee got the largest portion of the children to evacuate and take care of for an indefinite amount of time. The most difficult, too, arguably, as not a few of the children were newly admitted to the “orphanage,” victims of war whose parents and guardians sacrificed themselves for them to be delivered safely to Coruscant, only to find that the orphanage was closing down.

 

When the oldest children then asked and found that Mandalorians have clans and they were going to go on a Mandalorian transport, they wanted to be in a clan of their own. The younger ones clamoured for it, in fact, as they had no wish to be parted from each other in such an uncertain – therefore “scary” – time. So Fee created a clan for them all, albeit informally for now, and named it Benau, after the alias Obi-Wan used while guarding the Dutchess of Mandalore while they were on the run about two decades ago.

 

Fortunately, the younglings accept the story as it is when he tells it to them! It is already weird and awkward enough, having to come up with such a big and encompassing lie quickly and unilaterally decide on it as their collective cover. He would not know what to do if they objected.

 

Still, they have questions. Chiefly how he truly came up with the name of the nonexistent clan. Which makes him tell them about Obi-Wan and the latter’s official-turned-undercover mission in Mandalore Space. Which makes them ask more about Obi-Wan and Mandalorians and Fee himself and all.

 

It is quite fortunate, truly, that their Mando host has been kind enough to house them in a decently large and surveillance-free room adjacent to the private parking lot, while they wait for the creation of their new identities and the departure time of their ride. They would have long been discovered as Jedi refugees despite all the precautions for these questions alone!

 

He is nevertheless grateful that this – of all things! – manages to perk them up. It has proven a good distraction for Fee himself, too, allowing him to avoid thinking about the implication of the snapped bonds.

 

Also, he manages to cut the impromptu Q-and-A session off before their Mando host returns with the identity cards and transport tickets for all of them, and still have just enough time to caution his charges about being careful with their words. He is not certain that they will heed it, especially the younger ones, if maybe by accident instead of defiance, but what can he do other than this?

 

*

 

The tickets the Mando bought for these refugees are for a trip bound for Concord Dawn, which is the farthest destination with incongruously the cheapest fare.

 

It is understandable, in and of itself. Fee can understand it. Paying for interregion all-in liner tickets for seventy-five individuals must be expensive, not to mention the special requirements not a few of them have, although the charge for the additional cargo ends up getting waved away with the assurance that the Mando will provide these passengers special cargo netting to attach the excess cargo to their beds or pools. Besides, Fee did not specify any destination when they struck the deal, did he.

 

Still, Concord Dawn…!

 

Fee is torn between relief that they will be far away from Republic Space and terror that they will instead be smack-dab in Mandalore Space. Farther away from the border than even Mandalore, at that, although not by much.

 

Mandalore Space is just a step above Hutt Space, for Jedi.

 

A step above in that they will potentially be killed instead of enslaved.

 

Or rather, Fee and the senior padawans among the younglings might be killed while the younger ones might be taken in by force. Which is no better than enslavement, in all the ways that matter.

 

But, again, what can he – any of them, truly – do?

 

*

 

Among the padawans, five are senior padawans while the other ten are junior ones.

 

The moment the Mando is out of the room, having innocently, ignorantly delivered the soul-trembling information regarding the destination of their flight and the physical proof of it, Fee hastens to appoint the senior padawans as his assistants and the junior ones as their assistants. He further assigns them each a clan of initiates, and himself the two clans of crèchelings, in addition to the overall responsibility of “Clan Benau.”

 

“Let’s hope we don’t have to part ways,” he tells them all seriously, afterwards. “But we can’t just depend on hope. We must prepare. This is in case we must separate ourselves from each other. Now, let’s make sure each of our groups has the necessary supplies. Leaders, your task is to keep in mind what you have and what you need, but not the real identities of anybody in your respective groups. Do not write down any personal details anywhere, or talk about them unless among only ourselves and in a safe space.”

 

Oh, he is not a good orator. He is not even a passable orator. But he has led group missions a handful of times before, and these last three years have taught him amply about taking command of thousands at once.

 

Given that, the talking is the easy part.

 

It does not help that they are all exhausted, heartsick and shaken. It also does not help that they must do “grown-up” things while taking care of and paying attention to – read: playing with – the littlest ones among them.

 

And then, rather unexpectedly, seeing that the departure time is still half a day away, the Mando is back.

 

And they are toting a surly child who looks so much like the clones.

 

A child who is garbed in prison inmate uniform.

 

“This is Boba of Clan fett. Male. Human variant. Twelve years old,” the Mando verbally jumps in before Fee can say anything. “The Republic took him. I took him back. His friend is outside. Bring him wherever you go, or at least to a good family on Concord Dawn. Bring his friend or not, your decision. I give you list of good contacts for cheap supplies and lodgings for this. Tell them Rix Tenau sends you.”

 

Fee glares at them – Rix Tenau? – but he takes care that the child – Boba Fett? – sees nothing of it.

 

The damned Mando is putting him between the Sith and the crysalid, proverbially speaking. And, however generous they have been, he does not appreciate this complication on top of everything else.

 

Because Boba is a child – no need to emphasise his age! – and it would be cruel to deny him help for whatever reason. Un-Jedi-like. But Fee is already in charge of sixty-nine other children, with the help of only five grieving half-growns!

 

Besides, the child’s very name is infamous, even to one so removed from the centre of the gossip like Fee. Clones talked with each other, after all, and communication block was rarely implemented between all the forces, and Fee had a good rapport with those under his command, enough for the gossip to trickle into his ears.

 

They said Boba was also a clone, the only clone that Jango Fett – the Jedi-killer, the progenitor of the clones, the would-be assassin of Senator Amidala of Naboo – had acknowledged as his child.

 

They said that Boba tried so much to kill “High General Windu,” and caused a shipful of fellow clones to die in the process, whether indirectly or not.

 

They said that the Republic took Boba into custody… and Fee had no idea what happened after that. Because the war’s pace, intencity and cruelty picked up, just then, and he was too busy trying to keep himself and his battalion alive and safe while executing their back-to-back missions.

 

And then, hours ago, ages ago, they stormed the temple, stormed the Jedi, killed the Jedi, like their progenitor on far-away, long-ago Galidraan, except in a far-greater scale.

 

Not his battalion specifically, true. The 701^st “Clean-Up Crew” was last orbiting what remains of Humbarene, somehow ordered to monitor and guard the now-dead world by High Command, while Fee himself was ordered to report in in person for a special mission by the High Council – the High Council who were not there anymore when he arrived, headed en masse to the Senate. But still.

 

Now, the question is: What will Boba do, willingly or not?

 

And Fee just cannot ask him that. Not directly. Not just now. Partly because defiant children are contrary children, the older the worse, Mandalorian or not. Also partly because the uniform he wears is familiar.

 

Fee has put about a handful of highly dangerous, adult criminals in that prison.

 

`DAMN IT!`

Chapter 3: By the Skin of Our Teeth

Notes:

Hello, folks!

Well, the posting date should have been 2 days from now. But 9/9 sounds neat, and I have been antsy about how people might receive this bit of worldbuilding (which honestly will stretch until long, long after, but this is the beginning), and Chapter 8 is nearly finished, so…

Ahem. Continuing. There is no warning here, just perhaps underlying and briefly spiking panic of people on the run.

By the way, this fic has seen a few people withdrawing comments from the comment section. I admit, it's pretty upsetting, especially since they are either neutral or encouraging. I know it's your prerogative as a reader, but, just, did I do something wrong? If it's because I haven't answered your comments yet, I'm sorry but RL is oftentimes demanding and I need to set aside time to reply properly instead of purfunctorily and in a rush, but, each time, I had read the review/response at least once and rather looked forward to replying to it.

But, anyway, I hope this chapter will be enjoyable for everyone.

Rey

Boba’s “friend” turned out to be Bossk.

 

And, in just one sniff, the trandoshan bounty hunter ferreted out one of Fee’s identities: Mor the bounty hunter, elusive and pricey and infamous for taking jobs that end up breaking up slave rings, but most infamous for the cold war “a handful of gutsy individuals” had with the Hutt Council a few decades ago.

 

Fortunately, he agreed to keep his mouth shut in exchange for keeping Boba safe, which Fee was already going to do in any case but wouldn’t likely ever tell him. And, even more fortunately, Bossk is so far not known for being a double-dealer or – surprisingly – much of a loophole-seeker.

 

But times are changing, so things can happen that did not happen before, and there are still various ways to extract information from unwilling minds and mouths.

 

For now, though, the beleaguered Jedi master is left with only the helpless worry it generates, as he herds his horde and their baggage out of the waiting room. It has been twenty long hours since they firstly came into that temporary sanctuary, and fee is already missing it, but they cannot afford missing this chance of escape, either, in both senses of the word.

 

They cannot afford seeming suspicious or out of the ordinary, too, and it’s impossible to smuggle seventy-six individuals – most of them being little children – anywhere, anyway. So they tromp down the main way instead of a side passage to reach the landing pads, to reach the shuttle that will ferry them up and out of Coruscant’s atmosphere to their ride.

 

Their Mandalorian liaison has briefed them about it: Shuttles will ferry passengers and cargo to and from the main ship called – admittedly amusingly – the Scoop, which will in turn run along routes that pass by worlds where Mandalorians have long established their presence, including – of course – Mandalore Space proper. They have not said anything beyond this titbit, however, and since then speculations have germinated and multiplied among these refugees, including the horde’s frazzled leader.

 

But then again, when one otherwise has to face the on-going sense of death of Force-sensitives tearing ragged holes in the fabric of the universe, and the umpteenth fiery argument between one Boba Fett and one Zule Xiss, and the various complaints and tantrums of the scared, confused, tired, homesick, heartsick, bored younglings, such innocent wondering is a true delight, is it not?

 

Well, he hopes that it is innocent indeed, that he has no need to worry about if the Mando has been setting them up to be captured by slavers or clones instead. He has neither the time nor the energy to snoop about to check for himself and make sure of it!

 

*

 

Thankfully, the rather short trip to their shuttle’s designated landing pad goes smoothly, although Fee would have preferred that those they encounter along the way – not all are Mandalorians, or at least not outwardly Mandalorians, curiously – not pay so much attention to them.

 

Thankfully, also, the luggage and person checks before they board the shuttle go quickly and professionally, with nearly no comment from the fully armed and armoured port officers.

 

Even more thankfully, the officer who checks Elora’s person only remarks, “Make sure you have the safety on or don’t assemble them at all during the flight up to the Scoop, ad. No firefight permitted aboard the shuttles or maa’sen – the big ship, the… parent ship – or you will be booted off and not allowed up again. You can book time at the firing range or training salles on maa’sen, though,” when they find two disassembled blasters plus cartridges cleverly hidden among personal items in her large, overstuffed belt pouches.

 

Fee blanches, feels his heart seize, feels like the floor were dropping beneath his booted feet, feels numb and jelly-like and distant, and cannot possibly describe even to himself his sheer gratitude on the fact that this is a Mandalorian space for Mandalorian ships run by Mandalorians.

 

The Coruscant Guard would have had a valid reason to arrest Elora and probably also Fee as her guardian for this, if they were in an official Republic starport.

 

As it is, he splutters a mortified, chagrined, faint explanation-excuse-apology to the port officer that he did not closely check what his charges bring with them, too preoccupied with trying to wrangle so many children and youths all at once by himself.

 

It is a miracle that the officer just chuckles commiseratingly, helmet and shoulders tilted in what might be amusement, and shoos them along with neither platitude nor comment.

 

Given all that, his relief that the shuttle – medium-sized, one among three in the hangar – looks perfectly ordinary that he would bet one would not see it as a Mandalorian transport is very much a near-forgotten footnote.

 

*

 

The interior of the shuttle’s cabin, which is separated from the cockpit and other possible areas by firmly shut, near-seamless doors, is made up of seats and otherwise plotted spaces for specialised seating requirements only, enough for about one hundred and fifty beings. Furthermore, placement of passengers is apparently based on physical requirements, for seats at the back look larger and sturdier, the space otherwise more spacious, while those in the middle look like they are meant for infants, young children and adults from small species. And, judging by the symbols – numbers in Mando’a, probably? Although they look strangely familiar – on the tickets that correspond with those on the headrests of the seats and on the floor of the empty spaces, their Mandalorian liaison has booked seats for the older members of Fee’s party nearest the middle area.

 

He quickly matches up symbols and counts from the rear to the front, then calls out his conclusion over the low, interested murmuring of his charges, “We are on Seats Thirty-Two until One-Hundred-and-Eight starting from the back, younglings.” Then comes the task of settling the crèchelings as securely but as quickly as possible in their designated places.

 

The initiates jostle for what they deem prime spots, meanwhile, but thankfully Mak and the other senior padawans are up to the task of wrangling them, although Yohl gives up mid-way and goes to help Fee instead, given that, as a kushiban, he is barely taller – and sometimes shorter – than the little brats. Fee just has to instruct the helpers once to alternate the seating between the youngest and the oldest, and, “Please, make sure everyone is secured to the seats.”

 

Happily, by the end of his current task, he finds that he does not even have to change any seating or tighten any strap. It would have been disastrous for him, given how barely settled and fairly grumpy the little brats look and feel.

 

He is not as grateful, however, when he finds that he has been reserved a spot by the lane but nearest the kiddy area instead of the entrance to the cabin. Even less so when Windo reasonably argues, “You gotta be close to the cr… umm, the little ones, don’t you, M–Sir?”

 

He does not make a fuss only because it would likely create a fuss. Not only among his charges, at that, because he is not ignorant that a few of the other passengers – those who have no armour on them whatsoever, all humans with almost invariably blond hair and blue eyes, he notes – grumbled and whinged about how slow the procession to their own seats was, while Fee and his helpers were trying to settle the little ones.

 

It also has not escaped his attention that, ironically, it’s the Mandos with armour who shut them up.

 

*

 

`Now is proving time,` Fee thinks as the cabin doors shut, the shuttle hums louder, and the takeoff procedure begins, although he knows it only by the routines he is familiar with from other transports and the cadence of the words, given that the announcements are all in Mando’a.

 

He sometimes heard his parents say it, he remembers, although he can no longer remember their voices, faces and scents, or in what language they said it, and it seems apt for this situation. The shuttle is yet to clear Coruscant’s space, after all, while wartime protocols round the heart of the republic has gotten more and more and more stringent, executed by traffic controllers that are authorised to call for detainment and boarding, and even lethal measures if the flagged vessel resists.

 

And some of the padawans remember this titbit, it seems.

 

Beside him, Tae grips his hand with bruising strength, and the boy probably does the same to Elora, who sits on the latter’s other side. And, in front of them, there are a few sharp, tense intakes of breath, probably from Windo and Kass and Mak.

 

Regardless, soon enough, inevitably, the floor jerks a little under his seat, under his boots.

 

He holds his breath. `Lift-up.`

 

`Takeoff,` he notes when the floor tilts upward to the front, then levels up, then swings a little to the left, then to the right, then up again.

 

And it continues thus, on and on and on, varying only in duration and to which side the shuttle shifts.

 

Only belatedly, accompanied by a sense of clammy relief and nauseated foolishness, does Fee realise, `Oh! We are in the Undercity, aren’t we?`

 

His breath whooshes out, just so, carrying with it all his unused, unnecessary load of adrenaline.

 

He has forgotten that they are still likely hours away from even joining the uppermost skylanes, and that is if traffic is not bad, and if there are no new wartime checkpoints that he did not know about.

 

Being a Jedi of the KnightCorps who had nonetheless been spending most of three decades away from Coruscant, who usually spent his time solely in the top hundred levels whenever he was back here, it is so easy to forget this kind of thing.

 

It’s so easy, too, to forget that so many younglings are paying close attention to him, and that the oldest ones are all frontline soldiers. And he realises it – again belatedly – only when many presences now crowd the edges of his mind, clamouring nervously for an explanation of this seeming evasive manoeuvre.

 

`What a responsibility….`

 

He sends out his current best approximation of the sensation of a calm, ordinary day to them all, in response, and nudges them to pay attention to their calm surroundings.

 

A passenger who sits across the lane from him is even asleep, looking tired but content and unbothered, their helmet off and cradled in their lap.

 

He sends them that, too, then warns them the best he can that this leg of the journey will likely last for some time.

 

Given all that has happened thus far, including the recent stupid scare, the resigned and/or grumpy complaints he receives in return is a relief.

 

The lack of verbalised or – Force-forbid! – acted complaints, even more.

 

*

 

Queuing in one of Coruscant’s infamous traffic jams has never been this interminable.

 

The new checkpoint just after the ship has cleared the lower levels – and there is indeed a new one! – is the main contributor of it. But the raw, gaping, oozing wound the Force now sports, pooling together after the bulk of the senseless murders of Fee’s brethren has trailed off like acidic slime, is a close second.

 

Worse, the refugees cannot do any kind of meditation to alleviate it, because it would likely exacerbate the matter and might attract the attention of fellow passengers… or even the Sith in the Senate, whom the High Council went to confront – from what Fee knew last – and never came back.

 

Fortunately, although it has taken so long in his admittedly warped reckoning, the shuttle is at last free to ascend to the upper atmosphere, then low orbit, then beyond.

 

Fee relishes being pressed into the synthleather-covered padding of his seat as their ride accelerates into lightspeed. He would have grinned like a feral thing, even, if he were alone. But, as it is, `Oh, Force, thank you!`

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Please share your thoughts and impressions of the chapter with me?