Archive of Our Own ^beta

Obi stared in awe at the package that was brought in, before turning his attention to Ruyot’alor Ruusan.

“Can I really work on this, alor?” He asked, voice tinged with wonder and reverence.

The woman smiled. Their resident conservationist was simply too adorable for words. “Lek Ob’ika. The ruyot’ramikade stumbled across this as they were excavating some ruins near Bralsin.” She glanced down at her pad, reading the field report Alor Lu had sent along. “Unfortunately, the beskar is in poor condition so they weren’t able to give an assessment on the overall condition of the beskar’gam.”

Obi nodded, already grabbing his own pad. No doubt to place the crate in quarantine, so that he could kill any insects that had made themselves at home over the last few centuries and any other microorganisms.

She left him to it.

Head bowed, the library’s smallest conservator placed his hands on the package that had recently left quarantine. “Su cuy’gar.” He breathed softly. “Be solus nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

He waited, drifting in the currents of the Force, before softly, a wind brushed across his mind. A humid breeze filled with loam and heat, and kara.

Su cuy’gar, taylir’ika. It seemed to say, brushing his shields affectionately. Letting him know it was alright.

Obi-Wan reverently began to remove the different pieces of beskar’gam from the crate, taking the time to place it in ascending order.

Every piece of beskar could tell you something. Not only the way they fought, or how they might have died.

The most interesting stories were about the lives of those who wore it.

How they lived.

Were they healthy? Were they happy?

Were they sad?

Had they loved?

It could be known, just by how the beskar’gam had been cared for, while its owners were alive. The delicate paint swirled around a greave. A small notch that had never been repaired on the poleyn. A newer piece of metal, between the seams of the right pauldron.

When Alor Lu had sent over her report, she had simply said that they had found several pieces of beskar’gam. How many, she didn’t know and that the pieces were in terrible condition.

It was important to find the number of persons that might have once worn this armor.

To learn the common traits and different features that were unique for their timeframe and location.

He hummed, looking at the poleyn that didn’t match the one he had already placed down. It was considerably larger, with several seams in order to make it more flexible. The child placed it on a separate table, sleeves of his pink sweater carefully pinned up so that they wouldn’t get in the way.

More pieces came out of the box.

…Faulds.

…Cuisses.

…Brassards.

…Sabatons.

…Vambraces.

…Greaves.

…Pauldrons.

…Cuirasses.

…Gorgets.

And last…

Obi breathed, chest tight as he carefully removed the buyce. Setting one down.

There were two sets of beskar’gam laid out on either table, only one of them missing a buy’ce but both relatively intact.

A hand touched the karta’beskar on the right.

This set was so incredibly small. So distinctly unlike the others they had found.

It almost looked like…

Eyes wide, Obi contacted Ruyot’alor Ruusan.

It almost looked like it had belonged to an ad.

Satine sighed as they took their seat, her disdain for the entire event evident on her face. “Do we really have to be here, and placate the True Mandalorian’s farce of academic pursuit when we all know they’re only happy shedding blood and terror throughout the galaxy.” She sneered, ornate headdress nearly smacking the face of a guard.

Her father patted her hand comfortingly, silk robes rustling at the movement. “I know my dear. This entire event is ridiculously comical, but it is a good opportunity for us to highlight just how wrong Jaster and his True Mandalorians are.” He winked at her, smug smile creeping across his painted lips. “And once the Republic see just how morally corrupt they are—“

She smiled back. “They’ll support our faction, and together we will bring peace to Mandalore.” The teen finished.

The Duke nodded. “Exactly my dear.” He turned back to regard the stage as a small form creeped out. “Exactly.”

Myles came home, intent on feeding his ad and maybe steal a few kisses from his cyare only to come across the sight of Ob’ika crying. Face hidden from where it was pressed against unyielding beskar, Jan’ika’s arms wrapped around him tightly.

“What happened?” The pantoran teen asked, rushing over to his family’s side.

Brown eyes looked up at him, before flicking back to their ad.

As Jango relayed the contents of their ad’s latest conservation project, Myles felt his eyes water.

An adiik’s beskar’gam.

Strong blue arms enveloped his family into a hug, and together they remembered the one who was not gone…

Simply marching far ahead.

“Obi-Wan!” Master Kortra exclaimed, smiling at the holo of his favorite student. The child had proven to be an excellent conservator, and the nautolan may or may not have stolen him from Madame Nu as his successor.

There was nothing more sacred amongst the Librarian’s Assembly, then the Ancient Call of Dibs, after all.

She’d rained down fire and dust like a krayt-dragon emerging from its lair. But Kortra was firm. He needed someone skilled and knowledgeable to replace him when he retired, and little Kenobi was proving to be everything he had hoped for in a potential successor.

The biggest challenge would be stealing him away from those mandos.

“H-hi, Master Kortra.” Came the soft voice of Corpsmember Kenobi, and Kortra frowned. Upon closer scrutiny, the child’s eyes were puffy and his nose was running. Almost as though he’d been crying.

He leaned closer. “Is everything alright, Obi?”

A nod, before the child shook his head.

“What happened?”

Obi-Wan explained the situation, and Kortra’s heart clenched at the knowledge that the youngling had been handed a set of armor that might have belonged to a being not much older than him when they died. There were many difficult challenges to being a conservator.

Because it wasn’t merely objects or artifacts that they worked with.

They were little pieces of people’s lives.

Treasured items whose preciousness could not be measured in credits, but in how dearly they had been cared for in life. How obviously well-loved or well-used an object was. The way it could reveal glimpses of a past that could only be imagined.

It was never easy, touching the broken pieces of a person’s being. It was hard. Incredibly so.

So Kortra told Obi-Wan the advice his own master had given him so many years ago.

“What?!” Qui-Gon asked, looking at his grandmaster with disbelief.

The man simply nodded, tapping his gimmer stick decisively. “To Mandalore, you must go. Presence, requested it is.”

He’d only gone to the Room of a Thousand Fountains to meditate.

Not get wrapped up in some mission to Mandalore, so soon after his last one.

“Do I have to go?” He asked, voice most definitely not creeping towards a whine. He was a jedi knight for Force sake.

His grandmaster hummed an affirmative.

A loud sigh broke out through the hall, followed by an irritated scream.

He was definitely whining.

“State of repair is negligible.” Obi said, recorder taking notes as he assessed the piece. “Both sets of beskar’gam has suffered from extensive flood damage. Textile fibers have rotted away in places, and laces which attach beskar to the body have been harmed.”

Blue eyes continued to take in every detail, carefully picking up a cuisse and turning it over. “Inner padding on left thigh guard has sustained water damage, what appears to be some type of animal leather, and has solidified into a warped position.”

His blue and orange sweater kept falling off a slim shoulder as he completed his examination. Stitched mythosaur skulls grinning manically across his sleeves. “Karta’beskar for the smaller set is different from similar examples of beskar’gam from this era and second set does not have one at all.”

He paused his recording, grabbing the smock Jan’buir had bought him just the other day.

Goggles on, a grin swept across the youngling’s face.

Now for the fun part!

“Su cuy, be copikla bu’ad! I was thinking that we could get lunch together! There’s this new place that opened up nearby, that sells tiingil—“ Jaster started, only to trail off when he finally caught sight of his grandson.

Ob’ika looked up at him, blue eyes wide behind the protective goggles he wore and hair damp with splattered mud.

A smile broke out across the ad’s face. “Su cuy Jas’ba’buir!”

Jaster laughed, before snapping a holo. Knowing Jango would want a picture of how adorable Ob’ika looked in a soaking wet smock, mud streaked across his cheek.

There was already a spot on his desk that it was going to go.

Jocasta scowled when she caught sight of a familiar mess of brown hair. “Oh no, what are you doing here?” She sniped.

Beside her, Kortra grit his teeth.

This was supposed to be a nice trip. Their invitations had come over three months ago, and they’d even snagged VIP passes. Of course, knowing the mand’alor and one of the presenters probably helped.

Kortra had packed his bathing suit, for Force sake.

Knight Jinn simply shrugged. “Master Yoda informed me that my presence was requested by Duke Kryze.” He folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his tunic. “There is a conference that Jaster Mereel is holding, which the Duke believes—“

He was cut off with a wave of frail hands. “What that cultural genocidal megalomaniac thinks is of no import.” Jocasta growled, finger pointed at the taller man threateningly. “If you ruin this conference, there will be consequences not even your grandmaster can save you from.”

Kyber bright eyes glared with an unholy light, glimmering in the dim light of the hangar bay, as though some beast were coiled up and ready to pounce at the slightest indiscretion. The man swallowed.

Suitably cowed, Jo turned back to her colleague and started to discuss how excited she was to hear the keynote speaker, Kortra chiming in every now and then on the paper they’d published ahead of the event and Jinn prayed that this would all over soon.

He still didn’t know why he had to come, if two masters were already attending.

Unbeknownst to him, a cackle escaped the venerable form of the Order’s Grandmaster.

Work for sure, this will. Yoda thought, watching as the ship lifted out of the hangar. New great-grandpadawan, I shall have.

This called for some stew.

Where did he put that swamp rat?

A smile broke out across Obi’s freckled face as he slowly took the fabric down from it’s drying rack. He’d found a recipe for papurgaat‘sal—a type of dye made from the astringent, unripe juice of varos fruit—in an old book and had used it with great success to achieve that brilliant scarlet that the surviving kute had been.

He’d already cleaned out the seams and inner caches, smoothing out chips and cracks with fine grit cloth. Speaking with a goran had helped him reinforce the more brittle areas of the smaller set of armor. Consulting a baar’ur and examining prime sources helped him narrow down the species that might have worn the larger set of beskar’gam. Though without a buy’ce, it would be difficult to ascertain for certain.

“Resortation of beskar’gam B.1657 is proceeding well. Overall length comes out to a little over 2 meters without buy’ce, and anatomical features on cuirass indicate potential weight of over 95 kilograms. In addition to the missing karta’beskar which began with the introduction of other humanoid species to mandalorian culture, it’s possible the owner was a taung.”

Obi grinned, before turning back to the smaller set. “Beskar’gam B.1658(a)—“

“Hurry up master!” Quin cried, tugging on the man’s robes.

Tholme sighed. “Patience, young one.” He tried to work his sleeve out of the boy’s grasp, only to growl in frustration when the grip tightened.

Quin swung wide, betrayed eyes up at him. “But master,” he whined, “I have to give Obes his present!”

A bag nearly met Tholme’s face as his padawan enthusiastically gestured with it, as though to back up his claim.

There was a faint throbbing in his left eye. “Quinlan—“

He started, only to give up as his apprentice let out a cry that would have made a varactyl proud. The boy was gone with a flash of brown dreadlocks, tackling a tiny red-headed blob that was probably Obi-Wan.

“Here.” A familiar voice said, a tiny glass of alcohol held out to him.

It burned going down, spices heavy on his tongue, and Tholme fought not to choke.

“Master Tholme?”

Kark no!

He turned, making out a shabbily dressed figure trying to make their way over.

Mand’alor Mereel grinned at him, brown eyes laughing. “Another one?” He asked.

The Jedi master simply nodded. He was going to need it, if Qui-Gon “I-Follow-the-Will-of-the-Force-Like-an-Idiot” Jinn, was here.

Oh kriff, I need to keep him away from Quin. Another glass was placed in front of him, which he downed quickly. This was supposed to be a nice little vacation. He bemoaned, before accepting a third glass.

Jaster grinned as he greeted the assembly before him, buy’ce set on the podium. “Su cuy’gar, sers and fellow mando’ade. I welcome you to Keldabe’s First Taylir Ruyot Urcir.”

Polite clapping could be heard from the Evar’aade’s Section, while several boisterous ori’ramikade near the front shouted. “Oya!”

The jetiise were their typical serene selves, with the exception of Quin’ika, who was practically vibrating in his seat. Though the dikut that looked like he had lost a fight with a hairbrush seemed to be asleep.

Jan’ika was glaring in their direction, no doubt having clocked the slumbering sha’buir.

Jaster hurried to continue before an incident could occur. “We have many exciting speakers who will be presenting their research today. First and foremost, is the Ruyot’Alor of the Mand’alor’s Library. Ser Ruusan Xillip.” A Zabraki woman took the stage, hair carefully braided so that with her horns it looked like she was wearing a crown.

She nodded. “Thank you Mand’alor. The Library of Keldabe had been working to restore—“

Kortra waited impatiently, while Jocasta made a note to get Ruusan’s comm number. She’d love to pick her brain on database security protocols—the Temple’s system was severely outdated. Almost any bum off the street could come in and potentially erase who knows what from the Archives. It would be most beneficial if she were to receive an alert when someone attempted such a feat.

The nautolan master sighed. “When is Little Obi-Wan coming on?” He asked.

“He’s the fifth presenter.” Jo said, having memorized the program.

Jinn snored, and both of them shot him a glare.

“Anecdotal evidence of the presence of tihaar in Mandalorian society could be traced back to the Dha Werda Verga, in over two hundred different verses.” Ruyot’Ramikad Greize said, lekku twitching as xe spoke.

Tholme leaned forward eagerly.

“A colorless alcohol by the name ti’taaringla was anecdotally mentioned, and based off of the descriptions of the drink being made out of the dried fruits of Manda’yaim’s ancient forests it is believed that the drink was in fact an earlier version of tihaar. Verses denote its use as largely ceremonial in nature—“

Quin groaned, flopping back in his seat. “When is Obes going?”

“Shh!” His master said, eyes riveted to the speaker.

Quinlan sighed dramatically.

Satine frowned when she caught sight of the tiny figure that stepped on stage. It was that jedi youngling! The one who wanted to study armor of all things.

She rolled her eyes. Boys were so barbaric.

Jaster smiled at Ob’ika reassuringly before turning back to address the audience. “We have heard from many distinguished scholars and speakers this morning, and our next presenter is one that I am personally honored and privileged to introduce as our keynote presenter. It has nothing to do with the fact that he happens to by my bu’ad…” He teased, earning a few laughs from the audience, and a frown across the Kryz’ika’s face. “I present Taylir’ika Ob’ika be’Mereel.”

Obi fidgeted as his ba’buir introduced him, trying not to wrinkle the light brown cardigan he was wearing.

He folded his arms across his chest, breathing heavily, only for his fingers to brush the embroidered lothcat across the chest. Quin’s force presence was like a balm across his battered shields. The overwhelming WarmthAffectionPride echoing in his mind, as he traced it with his fingertips.

Breath in. I can do this.

He stepped on stage, accepting the kovyn pressed to his brow, before Jas’ba’buir took his seat.

Myl’buir and Jan’buir were grinning up at him. The pantoran holding up a banner that said “That’s my ad!”

Quinlan was waving and cheering. “GO OBES! WHOOO!”

Even Master Jo and Master Kortra were there, the former smiling softy, while the latter grinned.

Breath out. I can do this. He thought one final time. Oya!

“Carbon testing, which was obtained from scoring found across the beskar, has allowed us to date both B.1657 and B.1657(a) back to the time of Mand’alor the Ultimate.” He pressed a key on his pad to cycle to the next image. “Phenotypical features in the cuirass and pauldrons, as well as the fould, and lack of a karta’beskar allows us to hypothesize that the owner of this beskar’gam was taung. Making it one of the most complete sets of taung armor that has been found. However, it is difficult to confirm with absolute certainty without the presence of the buy’ce.”

Everyone was watching him.

You can do this.

Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan flipped to the next image. “While this is intriguing, the find I was most excited about is B.1657(a).”

A diminutive set of beskar’gam appeared on the screen. Scarlet kute complimenting the deep red painted across the armor, light grey highlights restored to full glory. “It was unusual, to find a set of beskar’gam so small—especially as there is no record of a species that height having been on Manda’yaim during that time period.”

His hands shook, before he carefully curled them into his sleeves. “Additionally, with the presence of a karta’beskar, and the relative lack of scoring or weapons, we can conclude that this was not a suit of armor that was owned by an adult.”

The eyes upped their intensity.

“It was owned by an ad.”

No one moved. Obi-Wan hurried to continue. Flicking to another image. “They were most probably a foundling, based off of the similarities between both sets. Observing the alii’gai’aliik, we can hypothesize that they belonged to the same al’iit as the owner to B.1657.”

Another image, this one with an estimate of different stages of development for a prepubescent human. “Calculating average height and weights of humans and baseline humans, and comparing them to the average density of human remains dated to that time period, we can state that the owner was between the ages of 12-15.”

Another slide. “Complete beskar’gam is traditionally presented following the completion of a verd’goten, reaffirming the afore mentioned estimate.” Lips dry, he took the opportunity to take a sip of water. “But, with the lack of blaster related damage—“ He began, only to be cut off by a shrill voice.

“This exercise in pseudo-historical quandary is a mockery of everything we hold dear!” Satine cried, standing tall in her teal silk dress. “A child!” She yelled, pointing at the display. “A child was forced into armor before they were even of age! How much more violence must stain the sands of Mandalore before we can begin to reclaim our planet?”

“Your…y-your grace, if y-you would—“ Obi tried, only to be ignored.

“You stand there,” she continued, voice pitched so that it reverberated throughout the auditorium, “and you pretend.” Her eyes narrowed. “You pretend that knowledge can be gained from a bloodied piece of a barbarian’s armor! Claim that we can learn by opening the festering wound of our violent past!” She twirled to address the rest of the audience, as though she were an actress in a holofilm. “That we can gain more wisdom, from observing the horrendous hallmark of a culture that placed children in warfare!”

Her father was smiling proudly up at her, making no moves to end her performance, and Obi-Wan shrunk into the podium. “Armor is a reminder of our ugly, brutal, history. As long as we wear it, as long as we preserve it, we can never evolve! Constantly called to fight thither and yon, spilling blood and war across the galaxy!” She whirled back around, her eyes frenzied. “I say no more! I say we destroy these horrific reminders of a Mandalore long gone! Let us start remembering Mandalore anew!”

The New Mandalorians erupted into thunderous applause, and even Master Jinn started clapping. Nodding every now and then, as though silently agreeing with her statement that it was palatable to commit cultural genoicide in the name of peace. In the name of progress.

Something hot rested underneath his collarbone, burning and brilliant in its intensity. His spine straightened as though it were made of beskar. Eyes hardening until they were as blue as the depths of a star about to implode. “You’re wrong.” He said, voice quiet but reverberating throughout the room.

Blue eyes met his own. “Oh?” She asked, head tilted in mock sincerity. “How can I be wrong?”

You can do this. Oya.

He breathed.

“Ba'jur bal beskar'gam,
Ara'nov, aliit,
Mando'a bal Mand'alor—
An vencuyan mhi.”

He crossed his arm over his chest in salute, the Ha’at doing the same. He repeated the oath in Basic. “Education and armor.” Another breath in. “Self defense.” Jan’buir was looking up at him affectionately, while Myl’buir looked like he was seconds away from crying.

“Our tribe.” The Ha’at raised their arms in salute.

“Oya ad’ika!“

“Our language.”

He met his ba’buir’s proud eyes. “Our leader.” Obi turned back to look at Duke Kryze’s daughter. “All help us survive.”

She scoffed, “That’s just a form of war-mongering propaganda that has been used to rationalize centuries of violence!”

“No.” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked them back. “No. It shows how much our ancestors worked to ensure we survived. To ensure the future of their ade.”

He cycled to a different image, a close-up of the cuirass. “This cuirass was made of an alloy that was very costly to make—but would have sustained heavy damage if it had ever seen combat.” Another image. This one of the cuisse. “This piece was modified, additional supports put in place to stabilize the left femur! And looking at the boots, we can see they offered additional support to the arches and toes.”

His fingers trembled with emotion, and he swallowed back the heavy sob that was working its way up his throat. “We can surmise that the ad most likely suffered from a congenital condition which placed them in immense amounts of pain every time they walked.” He met her gaze once again. “This armor would have been the first thing they had owned which would have helped alleviate it.” Another breath, this was less shallow. “It would have helped them to feel loved, and valued. To feel cherished and protected.”

“That proves nothing!” Satine tried, only to be interrupted.

“It proves everything!” Obi-Wan didn’t care that he was full on crying now. The stress of the event, and working on another adiik’s beskar’gam having left him emotionally raw. “Education and armor.” He cycled back to the first image, showing the complete set. “Beskar’gam is expensive to create. Ade receive pieces as they grow, both to help them become more familiar with the weight, and to help spread out the cost.” He was speaking quickly, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. “But this is a complete set, for an ad that in all likelihood still had room to grow. Why would their buir’e or al’iit go through the process of purchasing a set if it would need to be resized in a couple of months?”

The question was rhetorical, but a few members of the audience rose their hands.

Obi didn’t even see them, too focused on getting out everything that was swirling about in his mind. “Because the time of Mandalore the Ultimate was dangerous.” He admitted, allowing his eyes to drop. “It was violent. The Great Sith War had just ended, and splintered fragments continued to populate the outer rim.”

Swallowing, he continued.

“Prior dealings with the Republic of that time had left the Mandalorian sector volatile and bereft in a region of space that did not have a centralized power. Life spans for beings were incredibly shorter than what they are now, and economic opportunities were less.”

The brilliant scarlet of the dyed kute caught his eyes. Such a tiny detail, to add color to a undersuit. Almost frivolous, unless it was seen for what it was. Honoring a parent.

Making an ad feel loved in a new environment. “How could the mando’ade of that time keep their ade safe? How could they provide for them?”

He pointed at the image. “Education and armor.” He flipped through until he got to the vambraces, having found whistling birds in the smaller set that would have been enough to stun an enemy. “Self-defense.”

The painted red beskar shined from how well he had polished it. “Our tribe.”

He cycled to an image of the karta’beskar, that once removed revealed an inscription on the back. Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Nikocha. “Our language.”

“By uniting under a common leader, the Mandalorians ensured their survival and economic prosperity for future generations.” Satine continued to stand, her shoulders back like some grand martyr standing before a barbarian horde. Perhaps that’s how she saw herself. Perhaps that’s how she perceived everything the Ha’at Mando’ade stood for.

She was wrong.

“Do you even know what beskar’gam stands for?” He asked, not even giving her a moment to respond. “Translated it means metal skin, and just like all skin it lives and breathes with history. With purpose.” He zoomed in on a delicate swirl of a greave. “Each and every piece is unique, whether it is handed down or forged anew. Each and every piece is special, because of how it was cared for and worn by the person who owned it.”

He shook his head. “You see a blood-stained remnant of the past.” Obi swallowed harshly. “But I see a work of art, made even more precious because it is art that has a purpose. It wasn’t only meant to provide them with a sense of protection in unstable times, but to help them establish an identity amongst a society that had been insular and isolated before they began taking in other members.”

Eyes traced the homogenous Kalevalan features of the Evar’aade, before returning once more to the duchess-in-waiting. “You see barbarianism and tyranny, when beskar’gam represents equality and egalitarianism.” He pointed at her, resplendent in expensive silks and glistening jewels.

“You stand before us in fabric that would feed an average family for over a month.” She blushed hotly at the comment, and opened her mouth only to be cut off. “Your headdress was harvested from the mines to the South, where living conditions continue to deteriorate under your father’s rule, because there is nothing to protect them from being raided by spacers desperate for precious minerals.” Duke Kryze turned a bright shade of puce.

“You wear these clothes to denote rank, and status. To emphasize an outdated notion of a patrimonial prerogative of birth over that of merit.” Obi-Wan pointed to the beskar’gam pale fingers shaking. “Anyone can earn the right to wear beskar and swear the resol’nare. No matter your circumstances of birth or past. Whether you are taung or human, or anything in between, the metal skin becomes your own and you become one with the kara, embodying a tradition and legacy that can be traced back to the very heart of Manda’yaim.”

“Education and armor. Self defense. Our tribe. Our language. Our leader. All help us survive.” A tear fell onto the pad, and then another. “Isn’t that, something worth saving? Isn’t that worth preserving?”

Silence.

Before Master Jo stood up, a smile bright across her face as she began to clap. Master Kortra right beside her, grinning as he applauded.

Several more followed, standing up and clapping, their Force signatures filled with pride and awe.

“Oya! Oya! Oya!” The assembled ruyot’ramikade shouted, Ruyot’Alor Ruusan chief among them.

His buir’e were smiling at him with proud looks on their faces, while Jas’ba’buir looked like he was crying.

In a huff and swirl of teal skirts, Satine was gone. Her father trailing after her worriedly as the rest of their delegation sat there looking gobsmacked.

As the conference ended, Obi was met by his family who told him how proud they were of him, before he was swept up into familiar tan arms.

“Oh my Force Obes! You were brilliant! Quin cried, hugging him tighter.

A blush erupted across Obi’s face as his best friend tapped their foreheads together softly, grinning like a loon. Even though Quinlan had no idea of what the gesture meant, about how much he meant to him, Obi closed his eyes, and leaned into the touch.

And all about them, the kara sang.

“No Jan’ika.” Myles sighed, pulling his cyare back before he could murder the jet’ika.

Jango growled, trying in vain to escape. “That dikut’la jetii is taking liberties with my ad!”

He went for his blasters, only to have his hand smacked away. A pout was directed in the other teen’s direction. “I wasn’t going to shoot him anywhere important… “he huffed. Just a leg…or maybe the shebs.

Myles pressed a kiss to messy brown curls. “Of course you weren’t.”

Pre stared at the recording that had been posted on ChubaTube, before turning wide eyes to his buir. “Are you sure we can’t adopt him?” He asked, making his eyes just a smidgen bigger.

That copikla ad was full of mando’kar and the way he verbally eviscerated that airhead Kryz’ika had warmed him to the cockles of his petty little heart.

Buir sighed, eyes disappointed. “Sorry Pre’ika, but Mereel’s dikut’la ad has already claimed the foundling.”

Pre bit his lip, turning back to watch as the ad’ika continued to emphasize the importance of beskar’gam before turning back to regard his father. “Do you think if we offered to donate some beskar’gam in need of repair, that we could get joint custody?”

Another sigh was his response. “I don’t think anything, short of swearing the resol’nare to Mereel and offering up the dar kad’au would work.”

Pre’s big tooka eyes shot towards his buir who lasted all of 10 seconds, before grumbling and accepting the offered comm.

“NO! I WILL NOT SHARE JOINT-CUSTODY WITH THAT OSIK’LA SHABUIR HUTUUN!”