Chapter 9: The Bonds We Forge… In Detention
The crèche cafeteria was loud enough to rival a podracing pit. Metal trays clattered, utensils scraped, and the chatter of a hundred initiates bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Even the kitchen droids had started barking orders—well, synthesized barking, but close enough.
Ahsoka grabbed her tray and shuffled into line. The day's breakfast options were standard Temple fare: blue milk, grain puffs, and nutrient blocks cut into geometric shapes that looked more like tools for building than food. Ahsoka took a triangle one, just to prove she was brave.
At first, things went smoothly. Everyone loaded up their trays under the watchful sensors of the kitchen droids. But then, as always, the competition began.
"Three rolls!" an initiate crowed from a nearby table, triumphantly biting into one.
"Four," another shot back, flashing a grin as he tucked his extras under his robe.
Ahsoka smirked. The unspoken game was simple: how many extra servings could you Force-pull onto your tray without being caught by the kitchen droids? Everyone knew the rules, even the droids—who beeped in mounting exasperation every time a serving vanished mid-air.
Ahsoka was good at the game. Not the best, but good. She casually waved her hand by her side, tugging a second roll off the counter and onto her tray with a whisper of the Force. The droids didn't even twitch.
"Not bad," Ben whispered beside her. His eyes gleamed with the kind of scheming mischief that usually meant trouble. "But you're thinking too small."
Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. "Too small?"
He gestured toward the far end of the counter, where an entire serving tray of sweet rolls sat under a warm heat lamp. "That's the real prize. Why bother fighting over scraps when you can seize the supply lines themselves?"
Ahsoka groaned. "Ben, don't—"
But he was already stretching out his hand, muttering something about "logistical supremacy" under his breath.
At first, it looked like he might actually pull it off. The serving tray trembled, hovered an inch off the counter, and began to drift toward them. Ahsoka's jaw dropped. He's actually doing it.
Then the tray tilted.
The sweet rolls slid in slow motion.
And the blue milk—an entire pitcher precariously perched beside them—went with it.
The crash was deafening. Rolls scattered across the floor like grenades, and a tidal wave of blue milk drenched Ben from head to toe. The splash caught Ahsoka across the front, soaking her tunic and montrals.
The cafeteria froze.
Then the laughter started.
Ben stood there, dripping blue milk, blinking as if he hadn't entirely processed what had just happened. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he said:
"Tactical supply lines are more fragile than I anticipated."
Ahsoka wiped milk from her eyes and scowled. "You're impossible."
That only made the laughter louder.
The kitchen droids wheeled over in a fury, beeping indignantly as they started scooping rolls off the floor. "Unauthorized food manipulation! Violation of rationing protocols! Report will be filed!"
Ben gave a sweeping bow to the nearest droid, dripping milk onto the tiles. "I accept full responsibility for this operation's failure."
Ahsoka was about to snap at him again when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.
Maris.
The Zabrak initiate was sitting two spots down the table, quiet as always, her expression unreadable. While everyone else was pointing, laughing, or whispering, Maris casually lifted one hand beneath the table. A lone sweet roll slid across the surface, landing squarely on Ben's tray.
Ben blinked at it. Then at her.
She didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge what she'd done. She just broke off a piece of her own roll and chewed, as if nothing had happened.
But Ahsoka saw the quick flicker of Ben's smile, the way he straightened just a little taller, milk-soaked tunic and all.
Ahsoka frowned. Maris wasn't the type to play games. And she definitely wasn't the type to help Ben.
So why did it feel like something had just shifted?
Ahsoka didn't know. But she knew one thing for sure: breakfast in the crèche cafeteria had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
… as had many other things.
...
The Archives were alive with silence. That was how Jocasta Nu preferred them: the hush of knowledge settling around her shoulders like a robe. The faint hum of the security fields, the even fainter shuffle of initiates' boots on the marble floor, the occasional tap-tap of a datapad stylus—these were the sounds she cherished. The galaxy outside might rage with skirmishes, politics, and endless noise, but here? Here was order. Here was clarity.
She knew, of course, that her initiates didn't always see it that way. To them, the Archives were dusty halls, filled with static files and old Masters too long-winded for their own good. Not these two, though.
Ahsoka Tano was pure light. Jocasta had watched her dart between the shelves, montrals swaying, eager to quiz herself on obscure battles and the names of long-forgotten Consulars. She could hardly keep still long enough to absorb a full lecture, but the joy she found in learning was undeniable.
And then there was Ben Kryze. Older than most of his crèche-mates by a year, and sharper than most Padawans Jocasta had trained herself. He devoured history like it was a meal, asked questions so incisive they sometimes cut deeper than she'd like, and had that dangerous Mandalorian attachment streak that made half the Council nervous.
Yes, he was trouble. Bright, inquisitive trouble. Which was why Jocasta found herself unsurprised when Ahsoka Tano appeared at her desk with a far-too-bright smile.
"Master Nu," Ahsoka chirped, hands clasped behind her back. "Did you ever tell us about the First Great Schism? The one with the Hundred-Year Darkness?"
Jocasta's brow arched. The Togruta's timing was impeccable—almost too impeccable. "I believe I did, young one. Twice, if memory serves."
Ahsoka's grin widened, the picture of guileless innocence. "I think I forgot some parts. Maybe you could explain again? Especially the, um, politics part. With all the Dark Jedi. And the armies. And—"
Jocasta allowed herself the faintest sigh, smoothing her robes. Yes, this was a distraction. A transparent one. She glanced past Ahsoka's twitching montrals, toward the holoterminals two aisles over. She did not need to look to know who had slipped behind them.
"Very well," she said at last, steepling her fingers. "But politics, initiate, are never so simple as you younglings imagine. The Hundred-Year Darkness began with pride, as most things do…"
She launched into the tale, watching Ahsoka nod rapidly, laugh at her own questions, and stumble through clumsy attempts to appear fascinated. Jocasta hid her smile. She would play along—for now.
It was almost flattering, being part of their little conspiracy. They thought themselves clever, these two, and in truth, they were. Jocasta had spent decades among younglings who showed no spark of curiosity at all. That these two loved knowledge so dearly, even when they abused it, warmed her old heart.
Still. She would let Ben Kryze hang himself with his own cleverness, just long enough to learn a lesson.
...
"Excuse me, Master?"
The voice belonged to Tallo, the Mon Calamari initiate from the same crèche. Jocasta turned to find him shifting uncomfortably, datapad clutched in webbed fingers. His head-fins twitched with visible unease.
"Yes, Initiate Tallo?"
"I think there might be something wrong with the Archives."
Jocasta inclined her head. "The Archives are never wrong. But you may explain."
Tallo shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "I think… well, there's a planet that had its name changed."
"Ah." Jocasta hummed with understanding. "That does happen. Many worlds have different names prior to being settled. But, as colonists make their home, they tend to make their mark. Little by little, the bird makes its nest."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense. But, why would they change the name of Coruscant, the Core World of the Republic to… Uranus."
A long, terrible pause followed. Jocasta blinked once. Slowly.
"…my what?"
Tallo hastily turned the datapad around. Sure enough, bold as day, the entry for Galactic Republic Capital had been updated. CORUSCANT—struck through. URANUS—typed in, complete with a small holoprojection of a pale blue gas giant floating where the ecumenopolis should have been.
Ahsoka made a small choking noise.
Jocasta Nu rose, her robes swishing like a thundercloud. She did not storm—storming was for the young. But her presence filled the chamber with a gravity that made even the security droids shift uneasily on their tracks. She swept past rows of shelves and terminals until she came to the source.
And oh, yes. She found plenty.
Mustafar: A beautiful winter vacation for the whole family! Come for the slopes, stay for the nice cool breeze! Don't forget to bring a jacket!
Kamino: Not flooded. You're flooded.
Endor: Official mascot—murder bears.
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
On one hand, she should be furious. An initiate had exploited a vulnerability in the archival index, no doubt thinking himself terribly clever. On the other hand… the backups were intact. Every alteration neatly logged, every override easily reversed. The child had even highlighted the faulty code that allowed the tampering in the first place.
It was vandalism—but it was usefulvandalism.
Jocasta straightened, smoothing her expression into calm neutrality. She could feel eyes on her—the initiates waiting to see how the dragon of the Archives would roar. Instead, she folded her hands.
"Curious," she murmured. "Quite curious."
Of course, she would correct this. Of course, she would assign penance. But perhaps she would also… encourage it. A child who could find such flaws could help protect the Archives.
Yes. Perhaps the punishment would be… more work.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "I believe," she said, turning toward the wide-eyed initiates, "that I shall have a word with Initiate Kryze. Once he decides to stop hiding."
A shuffle from the next row over, followed by the quiet clunk of a datapad hastily dropped.
Jocasta Nu pretended not to hear it.
After all, the chase was always the best part.
...
You know what's dangerous? Not lightsabers, not blaster fire, not Sith Lords in black cloaks with questionable breathing habits. No—far worse than all of that is boredom.
And let me tell you, when you dump a dozen Force-sensitive kids in a common room with nothing to do after sparring drills, boredom becomes a war crime.
Which is why we have holo-chess.
Only problem is, holo-chess is boring too. The little figures are bland, the strategy predictable, and the computer AI snores itself to sleep if you play solo. So naturally, I took it upon myself to improve the system. Enhance it. Elevate it.
Translation: I hacked it.
And oh, did I outdo myself.
The board flickered to life in the middle of the room, and instead of the usual geometric holo-pieces, we had—drumroll—members of the Jedi Council.
"Wait," Ahsoka said, pointing. "Is that… Master Yoda as a pawn?"
"Correction," I said, proudly crossing my arms. "That's eightMaster Yodas as pawns. Quantity is its own quality."
Sure enough, a row of tiny green Yodas shuffled forward, each clutching a lightsaber half their size, muttering things like 'Win this game, I shall,' and 'Strong with the Force, this opening move is.'
Ezra—I mean, not that Ezra, different Ezra, the Nikto from another class—snorted and nearly fell off the couch. "Please tell me Mace Windu isn't…"
"Rooks, yes," I confirmed, grinning as the tall holo-Mace figures materialized in the corners of the board. They crossed their arms, scowled, and radiated general disapproval.
Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "You're going to get us arrested."
"Arrested? No, no. At worst, expelled. Possibly launched into the sun. But think of the artistry!"
I gestured grandly as the rest of the board populated. Depa Billaba as a bishop, Kit Fisto grinning far too widely, Plo Koon wheezing politely, Shaak Ti looking like she regretted existing on this board at all. The real masterpiece, though? The queen.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen," I said, as the holo figure of my most favorite (and definitely not my father) Jedi materialized, looking impossibly noble with a tiny animated cape.
"Really?" Ahsoka whispered. "You made your… you made Obi-Wan the queen? He isn't even on the Council!"
"Yet." I argued. "He's due for a promotion. Besides, why not? It's strategically powerful. Very versatile piece. No symbolism whatsoever."
None that I'll confess to, at any rate.
And then came the king: Master Yaddle.
"Why?" Ahsoka demanded.
"Because no one ever expects Yaddle," I said solemnly.
We had barely gotten two moves in when the door hissed open and in strolled Quinlan Vos, radiating trouble magnet as always.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "What do we have here? Unauthorized holo-gambling in the youngling common room?"
"Not gambling," I said quickly. "This is… a cultural enrichment exercise."
"Cultural enrichment, huh?" He strolled closer, peering at the board. His grin widened. "Is that Yoda? As a pawn?"
Eight tiny Yodas turned in unison and said: 'Flattered, I am.'
Quinlan slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. "Oh, I love it. Alright, I got twenty credits on the Togruta."
Ahsoka blinked. "Wait. What?"
"You're playing, right?" Quinlan said, tossing a chit onto the table. "I bet you beat Ben inside of ten moves."
"I—wait, what—" Ahsoka sputtered. "I didn't agree—"
"Thirty on me," I cut in, swiping Quinlan's chit before Ahsoka could. "And if she loses, I get snacks for a week."
Ahsoka glared at me. "Oh, it's on."
The game began with all the subtlety of a podrace crash. Ahsoka played aggressively, sending her Obi-Wan queen flying across the board with zero hesitation. I countered by ordering one of my Yodas to march right into the line of fire.
"Sacrificing Yoda already?" Quinlan asked.
"Strategic retreat," I said.
The pawn-Yoda turned to me and grumbled: 'Betrayed, I am.' Then it dissolved in a burst of static as Obi-Wan sliced it in half.
"Sorry, Master," I muttered.
And I was sorry. But sacrifices needed to be made.
It was all going well until about move five, when I decided to make things more interesting.
See, technically, holo-chess runs off a standard entertainment grid. Which, if you happen to accidentally upload a "combat simulation patch" onto it… well, things get spicy.
I nudged the command lines on my datapad, and suddenly, instead of politely shuffling across the board, the holo-Maces drew their sabers and began dueling the opposing pieces.
"Oh no," Ahsoka groaned.
"Oh YES," Quinlan said, delighted. "This is the best day of my life."
The Obi-Wan queen performed a flying leap, cape fluttering dramatically, and bisected three Yodas in a row. Plo Koon counterattacked by unleashing Force lightning, which I swear he has never used in real life.
"Don't worry about accuracy," I told the group. "It's about vibes."
And then the board exploded.
Literally exploded. Sparks shot out, the holo-field went haywire, and suddenly we had Council members battling full-size in the middle of the common room.
"RETREAT, RETREAT!" I yelled, diving behind the couch as two Maces dueled each other by accident.
"RETREAT TO WHERE?!" Ahsoka shouted back, dodging a very polite Plo Koon as he tried to Force-push the wall.
Quinlan, instead of helping, doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell into the fire-suppression system.
That was when Jocasta Nu walked in.
"Children," she said flatly, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the chaos. "What… is happening here?"
I sprang to my feet, brushing sparks off my tunic. "What? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a normal, wholesome holo-game."
Behind me, a holo-Shaak Ti tackled a holo-Kit Fisto into the couch.
Jocasta raised one eyebrow. "I see." She stepped closer, fixing me with the gaze of someone who has catalogued every bad excuse since the dawn of the Republic. "Would this… mishap… have anything to do with the technical difficulties I discovered in the Archives earlier today?"
I froze.
"Why would you ask me?" I squeaked. "Surely, you don't think I… No, never. I—I didn't even know we had Archives."
Ahsoka buried her face in her hands again. Quinlan wheezed.
"Ah," Jocasta said, with a terrifyingly calm nod. "I see. Detention."
Just when I thought my doom was sealed, Maris Brood swooped in out of nowhere like some kind of goth guardian angel.
"Wait," she said, stepping forward. "It was me. I changed the settings. My fault."
My jaw dropped. "You—what?!"
"Don't look so shocked," she muttered, crossing her arms. "You'd just get yourself expelled."
Jocasta studied her for a long moment, then glanced back at me. "Hmm. Very well. Detention… for both of you."
"WHAT?!" I yelped.
Ahsoka faceplanted into the couch cushions. Quinlan roared with laughter, then added another chit to the table. "Double or nothing that they don't last a week before another incident."
Jocasta turned to him. "And you, Knight Vos, will be explaining to Master Windu why I found you encouraging underage gambling."
Quinlan's grin faltered. "…Oh."
I smirked. "Guess we all lose, huh?"
Quinlan shot me a look, then ruffled my hair on the way out. "Kid, you're gonna be the death of me."
"Working on it," I said cheerfully.
And thus ended the Great Holo-Game Fiasco.
For now.
...
Detention at the Jedi Temple wasn't exactly what I pictured.
When Master Tyyvak lumbered into the room—seven feet of shaggy Wookiee with eyes like molten patience—I braced myself for doom. This was the Jedi equivalent of being grounded by a thunderstorm. She didn't roar, didn't even growl. Just handed me and Maris Brood a stack of flimsi-sheets and a stylus each, then pointed at a row of cushions.
"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."
That was it. No dramatic lecture. No punishment chamber. Just… handwriting practice.
I glanced sideways at Maris. She sat cross-legged, her stylus already scratching dutifully. Me? My hand cramped just looking at the pile.
Well. If I was going down, I wasn't going down quietly.
"Bet you," I whispered, leaning just far enough over my cushion to annoy her, "that I can misquote the Code five times before she notices."
Her eyes flicked toward me, then down at my sheet. The tiniest smirk tugged at her mouth. "You'll be lucky to make it to three."
Challenge accepted.
I started innocently enough: There is no emotion, there is… really suspicious frowning. Nothing. No growl from Tyyvak. No sudden Wookiee wrath.
Two lines later: There is no ignorance, there is… a very questionable sense of style in Jedi robes.
Still nothing.
By the fourth misquote, Maris was biting her lip, shoulders shaking. She wasn't laughing out loud—Force forbid she actually break her tragic, brooding aura—but she was laughing. And that felt like a win.
"You're going to get us skinned alive," she hissed.
"Oh, come on," I said. "It's educational. She's testing our creativity."
"Pretty sure she's testing how long until I strangle you."
We went back and forth like that for a while. I threw in bad puns. She sniped at my handwriting. By the time I reached There is no chaos, there is… definitely chaos, Master Tyyvak let out a very long, very tired Wookiee sigh.
Which is Jedi Master for: You two are hopeless.
Before she could redirect us, the doors swished open and salvation arrived in the form of Master Jocasta Nu.
"Master Tyyvak," she said, voice perfectly polite but carrying that librarian authority that made every youngling sit up straighter. "If you would be so kind as to release these two into my custody, the Archives could make good use of their… energy."
"Take them," Tyyvak rumbled without hesitation.
And that's how I ended up in Jedi Archives detention. Which, for the record, is about a thousand times worse than copying the Code.
Jocasta handed us datapads and directed us to the endless shelves. "Data entry," she said briskly. "Cataloguing, cross-referencing. Do not tamper." Then, surprisingly, she looked directly at me and added: "And thank you, young one."
I blinked. "Wait—thank me?"
"Yes. One of the planets you altered during your… prank—Kamino, I believe—was already missing from the Archives. Deleted." Her lips pursed dangerously. "Not by you, of course. Long before your arrival. But when I find whoever tampered with my Archives…" She paused, as if remembering she was supposed to be the embodiment of Jedi serenity. "…I will be very disappointed."
I decided then and there that I never, under any circumstances, wanted to disappoint Jocasta Nu.
I don't scare easily, but—yeah. Apparently, librarians can be more terrifying than most Sith.
So we typed. And sorted. And cross-referenced. Hours of mind-numbing, finger-cramping cataloguing.
At one point, I leaned toward Maris and whispered, "I take it back. The Wookiee was merciful."
"You don't say," she deadpanned.
But the thing was—underneath the sarcasm, she was actually talking. More than usual. Enough that, once I was sure Jocasta was out of earshot, I surrendered to a moment of emotional sincerity.
"So… thanks. For covering for me earlier. With the holo-chess thing. You didn't have to."
Maris didn't look up from her datapad. "I know."
"Then why?"
Her fingers froze for a second. Then she sighed, turning just enough to meet my eyes. "You're one of the only kids who actually talks to me. Not just at me, or about me. To me. And… you're funny. Sometimes." She jabbed me lightly with the stylus. "Don't get a big ego."
I stared at her. "Wait, so you do like me?"
Her cheeks colored, and she turned back to her datapad quickly. "I said don't get a big ego."
But I caught it—the tiniest laugh, slipping past her guard.
And I swear, it was the first time I'd ever heard her sound… normal. Like an actual kid, not some ghost on the sidelines.
"So, what's your favorite thing about me? Is it just my sense of humor, or—ah!" Should have quit while I was ahead.
"Hmm. I think it might be the sounds you make when your punched. Like music to my ears."
...
The summons from the Council came with all the subtlety of a detonated thermal charge. Obi-Wan had barely stepped out of the creche wing when Anakin came striding down the hall, boots echoing against the Temple's smooth stone, already tugging on his outer robes as if the Force itself had told him to hurry.
"They want us in the war room," Anakin said, his voice sharp with anticipation. "Urgent briefing. Sounds like Outer Rim."
Of course it did. It always did these days.
Obi-Wan smoothed a hand down his own robes, wishing for once that the galaxy would wait until morning. "We've only just returned," he murmured. "You'd think the Council could allow a single uninterrupted night."
Anakin smirked. "They're not exactly known for their sense of timing."
Obi-Wan didn't reply, because his eyes had already drifted down the hall toward the dormitories. He could feel Ben's presence as one feels a hearthfire on a cold night—steady, warm, stubbornly bright. The boy was asleep, most likely tangled in blankets like he had been earlier that evening, whispering dreams under his breath.
It struck Obi-Wan with sudden, inconvenient force that he might not be here when the child woke.
Anakin followed his gaze, groaning. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're thinking of going back in there."
Obi-Wan arched a brow. "And if I were?"
"You're going to wake him," Anakin said. "And then he'll cry. And then you'll have to give one of your legendary speeches about patience and responsibility, and neither of you will sleep. And then we'll both be late for our 'urgent' mission. Again."
"That was one time," Obi-Wan said, a touch more stiffly than he intended.
Anakin folded his arms, grin widening. "Face it, Master. You're basically his dad."
The words landed like a blaster bolt disguised as a joke, one he clearly had no idea would strike so close to home. Obi-Wan gave him a long, level look, the kind of look meant to quell Padawan insolence. Unfortunately, Anakin had long since grown immune.
"I am not his father," Obi-Wan said at last. His voice was cool, measured. "I am his… guardian."
"Uh-huh," Anakin drawled. "Sure. Because guardians hover outside doorways debating if they should tuck their kids in again before they go save the galaxy."
Obi-Wan refused to dignify that with an answer. He did, however, find his feet carrying him back toward the dormitory door.
Inside, the room was washed in the soft blue glow of the Temple's night-lights. Ben lay curled on his side, hair sticking out at improbable angles, the faintest crease still between his brows as though he were frowning even in sleep. The boy never truly relaxed.
Obi-Wan stood there longer than he meant to, silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He imagined kneeling, shaking Ben awake, telling him gently that he'd be gone a while but would return soon. He imagined saying—Force help him—the words he had never been able to say to anyone:
I'll come back for you. I promise.
But promises were dangerous things. The Jedi Code warned against them for good reason. Promises tethered you, and Obi-Wan could not afford to be tethered. Not again.
So he let the boy sleep.
"Sleep well, young one," he whispered instead, so low even the Force barely caught it.
When he turned back, Anakin was leaning against the doorframe with the air of someone who had been eavesdropping shamelessly.
"You're hopeless," Anakin said.
"On the contrary," Obi-Wan replied smoothly, gathering his robe around his shoulders. "I am perfectly rational."
"Rational dads don't sneak goodnight speeches."
Obi-Wan brushed past him. "If you continue to misuse the word 'dad,' I may begin to suspect your vocabulary is shrinking."
Anakin laughed all the way down the corridor.
Obi-Wan did not laugh. He only walked faster, as though distance could smother the guilt that clung to him like smoke. He knew what Ben would think come morning. The boy had been abandoned once already. He would see this departure as proof of it happening again.
And yet Obi-Wan still hadn't woken him.
...
I was sprawled out on my bunk, arms folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended me. Which, honestly, it probably had. The Temple ceilings had this smug way of being high and polished and impossibly out of reach, like they were mocking you for being stuck beneath them. Fitting metaphor for the Order, really.
Ahsoka was curled up cross-legged on the opposite bed, quietly fiddling with a datapad. She hadn't said anything since Obi-Wan and Anakin left. Didn't need to. The silence already said enough.
"I hate this," I muttered, not bothering to look at her.
Her montrals tilted toward me. "Hate what?"
"The rules." I rolled onto my side, glaring at nothing. "You can't tell me Obi-Wan doesn't care. I'm not blind—I'm just not supposed to sayit. It's ridiculous. Like if we just ignore it, it'll go away. Even him! He's supposed to be this whole Jedi ideal, all detached and serene, but I've seen the way he looks at me sometimes. Like… like he wants to say something. He just won't."
Ahsoka's fingers stilled on the datapad. She didn't interrupt. That only made me go on harder.
"Oh no, attachments are dangerous," I said in my best mock-Master-Windu voice. "Because apparently love is worse than letting a bunch of kids run around unsupervised hacking the holo-net and nearly blowing out the Temple servers. Which, by the way, was totally educational."
That at least earned me a twitch of her mouth, but she didn't laugh.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's like they want us to pretend we're droids or something. No family, no ties, no feelings. Just… obedience. Meanwhile Obi-Wan can barely look me in the eye half the time, and I can't say a thing about it. Because, you know. Jedi."
The datapad clicked as Ahsoka set it aside. Her voice was softer than usual when she finally spoke. "I get it."
I blinked at her. "You do?"
"Yeah." She stared at her hands in her lap. "I don't even remember my family. Not really. Just… flashes. And I tell myself it doesn't matter because I have the Jedi now, because I have you. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder what it would've been like to still have them. To know them." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "And the Jedi say I shouldn't wonder. But I do anyway."
I shifted uncomfortably on the bed, because what was I supposed to do with that? Feelings weren't exactly on the Temple curriculum. So, naturally, I did what I always do: covered it with sarcasm.
"Well," I said, forcing a grin, "we could always start our own Order. Rule one: free dessert at every meal. Rule two: we're allowed to hug."
Usually that sort of thing got at least a laugh, if not a snort. But this time Ahsoka just looked at me, eyes big and serious in the dim dorm light.
"That doesn't sound so bad," she whispered.
The grin slipped off my face before I could stop it.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Just two kids in the dark, talking about things we weren't supposed to want.
It's tough being a Jedi.