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Chapter Text

”Offworld is one of the oldest and richest mining companies in the galaxy,” Clat’Ha told him. “And they didn’t get that way by letting others compete with them. Miners who get in their way tend to die.”

“Who’s their leader?” Obi-Wan asked.

“No one knows who owns Offworld,” Clat’Ha said. “Someone who has been around for centuries, probably. And I’m not even sure that we could prove he or she is responsible for the murders.” ~Jedi Apprentice: The Rising Force (pg43)

Obi-Wan tried to release his anxiety to the Force as he took in the ship that would take him to his new life.

An old Corellian barge that looked like it was held together by plasti-tape and spite, the Monument was deeply scarred and pockmarked from its travels through space. Obi-Wan had never imagined what his future would entail—aside from nebulous dreams of knighthood—but he didn’t think it would begin with the dirtiest ship Coruscant had ever seen.

As he watched, a collection of Hutts and Whiphids boarded, bypassing clusters of spindly Arconans who whispered amongst themselves nervously. It was at that moment he realized the datapad with his room assignment had been left behind. What am I supposed to do? He thought worriedly, blue eyes darting through the bustling spaceport in search of a crew member who might be able to direct him. Is there anyone I can ask for help?

Each moment that passed, with no helpful face in sight, Obi-Wan’s dismay at the situation grew. Barely out of Temple, and already at a loss. Biting his lip, the former initiate blinked rapidly in an attempt to keep frustrated tears at bay. No wonder no one wanted you.

Just when his despair had grown to unmanageable lengths, a friendly voice broke through his thoughts.

“Hey there,” they said, “you lost?”

A boy a year or two older than Obi-Wan with a mess of inky black braids pulled into a sloppy bun at the nape of his neck, had stopped in front of him. Curiosity was reflected within the older boy’s dark eyes, Force buzzing with sincerity and concern.

Obi-Wan nodded. “I’m uh,” he swallowed nervously, “I’m headed to Bandomeer, but I lost the datapad with my room assignment,” he admitted softly.

“That’s alright,” the other boy replied jovially. “M’headed there too! Bet there’s a crew member onboard who can point ya in the right direction” gesturing toward the ship, a toothy grin broke out across the other boy’s face. “I’ll help ya!”

Returning the grin with a hesitant smile of his own, Obi-Wan allowed himself to be steered forward.

“M’Quin,” the boy—Quin—introduced, shooting a friendly wink down when he caught Obi-Wan looking.

“Obi-Wan.”

“Nice to meet’cha Obes,” Quin replied cheerfully, completely disregarding Obi-Wan’s pointed side-eye at the nickname. “You here by yourself?”

Nimbly avoiding a Hutt’s tail as it slithered onboard, Obi-Wan found the interior of the ship was just as desolate as its exterior. Perhaps more so, given its dim lighting and the musky scent of moldering fur permeating the cramped space. There was something else there, though it was probably better left unidentified.

He nodded.

Quin hummed. “Just me and m’dad,” the older boy said. “Bandomeer’s ‘sposed to have lots of opportunities for folks like us, so we’re hoping the trip is worth it.” Obi-Wan took in the threadbare worksuit, the patched jacket faded grey with age. Aside from the leatheris gloves, it was obvious they were old and just a little on-the-side-of too-big as opposed to baggy.

Probably hand-me-downs, Obi-Wan thought, fingers scratching against the rough material of his initiate robes. Despite their simplicity, Jedi clothes were sturdily constructed and could last a long time in all sort of conditions. Supplied by the Temple Quartermaster, though some lineages preferred to hand down certain pieces, initiates and padawans never had to worry about what they would do if they outgrew their wardrobe. He’d never thought what it would be like for those outside the Temple.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Obi-Wan said sincerely.

Quin stopped, dark eyes once again trained on Obi-Wan’s face. As though considering. He opened his mouth—

“Quin you better not be up to some mischief,” a gruff voice exclaimed.

Both boys turned. A man, wearing a similarly worn worksuit, had just rounded the hallway. His eyes swept from Obi-Wan to Quin, a grizzled brow raised in question.

“Dad!” Quin said. “This is Obes,” Obi-Wan ducked as the older boy gestured wildly, “m’helping him find his room.”

The eyebrow turned towards him.

“Hello sir,” Obi-Wan greeted politely. “I’m Obi-Wan. Quin’s helping me find someone who can point me towards my room. I uh, lost the pad with the number…” He trailed off sheepishly.

Face softening, Quin’s dad offered him an amused smile. “Down that corridor,” he nodded towards the hall he’d just exited, “three doors down on your left. You’ll find the ship’s quartermaster. They should be able to point you in the right direction.”

Obi-Wan bowed. “Thank you sir!” Turning back towards the other boy, he offered a shy smile. “It was nice to meet you Quin, thank you for your help.”

As he left, the other boy’s voice echoed behind him.

“It was nice to meet you too Obes!” Quin yelled. “We’re bunked in B-47, feel free to stop by anytime!”

As his padawan watched the other boy leave, Tholme could only sigh with fond exasperation.

“Do you think it wise to tell him where we’re staying?” Affection trailed down their training-bond, negating the sternness of his words.

Quinlan shrugged, eyes trained down the hall. “He’s by himself,” Quinlan muttered. “Almost had a panic attack when I found him.” Teeth dug into the meat of his lip, a habit they still hadn’t been able to break. “Think it’s his first time away from Temple.”

Tholme had recognized the boy’s initiate robes. It was concerning he was here without an escort, but they had their own priorities to deal with. “It’s important to keep your mind on the mission,” Tholme gently reminded. “Though we’ll do what we can to make sure he gets to Bandomeer safely.”

His padawan was still staring down the hall, eyes fixed on where they’d lost sight of Obi-Wan.

“Quin?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said, “just a feeling.”

Tholme lead them back to their quarters. It was a four day flight from Coruscant to Bandomeer, assuming they weren’t waylaid by pirates or suffered mechanical difficulties. Plenty of time to worry about his padawan’s first official mission as a shadow-in-training. And, Tholme thought wryly, look out for an initiate.

Obi-Wan offered up a grateful smile as he exited the cramped office.

Quin’s dad had been right. The moment Obi-Wan had introduced himself and mentioned his assignment with the AgriCorps, the quartermaster—an Arkanian woman, who’s silver hair was cropped close to her skull and wore a dingy grey flightsuit with a logo that might’ve been the Monument fifty years ago, when it was still shiny and new—had quickly pulled up his information on the ship’s mainframe and directed him where to go.

A-12 wasn’t too far away from his newfound friend. Obi-Wan privately hoped the other had been sincere when he’d extended an invitation to stop by. It would be nice to have a friend, he thought.

Rounding the corner, Obi-Wan had just enough time to gasp, before his back met the wall painfully. A meaty green fist followed, grabbing a handful of his robes, before lifting him slightly off his feet.

A Hutt stared down at him coldly, green-gold eyes narrowed with disgust. “What do you think you’re doing, rat?” They hissed.

Two Whiphids stood behind them, hands on the blasters at their waist. A quick look revealed that the hall was entirely empty. He was trapped.

Swallowing dryly, Obi-Wan tried to release his fear into the Force, but it was hard when there was a Hutt glaring down at you with two friends who looked like they’d rather shoot him than help him.

“I-I,” He swallowed again, throat tight. “I’m j-just going to m-my r-r-rooom?”

If Hutts had eyebrows, Obi-Wan didn’t doubt that this one’s would be raised dubiously. As it was, a slimy grey tongue came out and slid across their lips, making Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkle at the foul scent that wafted from its disease-ridden gums. “That a question maggot?”

“N-no s-ser,” Obi-Wan stuttered out anxiously. “I-I’m a passenger h-here.”

The Hutt snorted. “Sure ya’ are, and I’m a Wookiee,” cold eyes trailed down to the bag Obi-Wan had dropped. “Search him,” they said to the Whiphid on their left. “No doubt he’s a spy from those slugs over at Arcona Mineral.”

“W-wait,” Obi-Wan protested, making a weak attempt to grab his belongings only to groan as he was once again slammed against the hard metal of the ship’s hallway. “Y-you can’t just—“

The Hutt leaned in dangerously, and Obi-Wan gagged as its foul stench only intensified at the forced proximity. “I think you’ll find I can do whatever I want,” a cruel smile worked its way across the Hutt’s face. “Goodnight, maggot.”

Pain blossomed, hot and sticky, before the world turned dark.

A whimper slid past Obi-Wan’s swollen lips as sharp artificial light pierced the darkness.

Rhythmic whirring echoed in his ears, a sound that was familiar, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. His face felt like it was on fire. His body ached, as though he was just one giant bruise, and Obi-Wan struggled to remember what had happened. I was headed towards my room, wasn’t I?

“Hey kid,” a husky voice soothed. “Just take it easy. You got a nasty bump on the back of your head.”

Fluttering his eyelashes open—why were they so heavy?—Obi-Wan winced at the blurry figure, though his eyes were able to focus after a few seconds. A human sat next to him, dark green eyes narrowed in concern. There was a med-droid hovering nearby, applicators methodically applying an assortment of bacta and glue to the worst of his injuries. So that was the whirring noise.

“Wh-where,” Obi-Wan grimaced at the copper-taste of his mouth, and swallowed. “Where am I?”

Reddish-brown eyebrows rose in surprise, before amusement lit across their face. “Medical,” they supplied. “You remember what your name is?”

Slowly working his way up, Obi-Wan gratefully accepted the proffered arm, taking in his mysterious helper as he did. Their hair was the same reddish-brown, tucked under a dusky orange cap that matched their worksuit. A green triangle was the only decoration.

“Obi-Wan,” he said. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

His guest smiled. “Clat’Ha, she/her.” She regarded him for a moment. “You’re not one of ours, and I know you’re not part of the crew,” her green eyes turned considering, “what are you doing here Obi-Wan?”

Hadn’t someone asked me that? Cold green-gold eyes and a meaty fist flashed through his mind. That’s right, there was a Hutt... A quick glance revealed his bag was missing, and the boy slumped defeatedly. The last few pieces of home he’d managed to take with him were gone.

Clat’Ha’s question was kinder than the Hutt’s, but the sudden mistrust in her voice had Obi-Wan cringing back. “O-on assignment from the Jedi Temple,” he replied quietly. “I’m on m-my way to the ArgiCorps outpost on B-Bandomeer.”

“You’re a Jedi?” Clat’Ha asked, clearly surprised. “What’s your beef with Offworld?”

“I’m…” Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how to answer. Am I still a Jedi? He wondered. Even though his dreams of knighthood were well and truly passed, the Jedi Service Corps were still part of the Jedi Order. Maybe I am? “Offworld?” He asked instead.

Though Clat’Ha looked like she had questions, she thankfully allowed Obi-Wan to steer their conversation away from his questionable Jedi-status. “Those Hutts and Whiphids onboard? They’re part of Offworld Mining Corporation,” a thick finger tapped the green triangle on her worksuit. “I’m the chief operations manager for their competition, Arcona Mineral Harvest.”

’No doubt he’s a spy from those slugs over at Arcona Mineral.’ The Hutt’s words played back in his mind.

So that was what he meant. “T-they mentioned A-Arcona,” Obi-Wan admitted quietly.

Clat’Ha snorted, grim amusement dancing across her features. “I don’t doubt it,” she replied. “Although we’re just a local corp, we’ve managed to snipe some of Offworld’s most experienced miners over to Arcona with our equal-profit model.” At his questioning look, Clat’Ha explained.

“Offworld has overseers and chieftains who retain the bulk of profit a mine produces, while their laborers receive a pittance—if they’re paid at all. But at Arcona, everyone gets an equal share of the profits.” Dark green eyes turned to the patch on her worksuit, expression shuttered. “It’s helped to expand our operations, but its also put us right in Offworld’s crosshairs.” For the first time since he woke-up, Obi-Wan realized how young Clat’Ha looked. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Maybe a year or two older, though that was pushing it. To be so young and have the weight of an entire organization on her shoulders, Obi-Wan winced in sympathy.

“If everyone gets an equal share,” Obi-Wan started, grimacing with pain, “does that mean everyone has equal ownership?”

The heavy expression that had worked its way across the woman’s face broke as she offered Obi-Wan a tiny smile. “You’ve got it in one kid,” Clat’Ha said. “Anyone who joins with Arcona is given part-ownership of the organization.”

It sounded like a fair business-model, Obi-Wan quietly reflected. “Then who own’s Offworld?” He wondered.

What little progress he’d made in lifting Clat’Ha’s spirits vanished at the question.

“No one knows who owns Offworld,” the woman replied, voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Probably a being that’s been around for centuries—Offworld is one of the oldest and richest mining companies in the galaxy.” Hey eyes darted nervously to the entrance, as though weary of being overheard. “Whoever owns it, they didn’t get there by letting people get in their way,” she leaned in and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but copy the movement. “There’s been rumors about crews vanishing in cave-ins, despite the mine’s previous stability. Of workers who simply disappeared and executives found dead, victims of a random mugging gone wrong.”

The fear-horror-uncertainty that quivered in her Force presence made the hair on his arms stand up. “If that’s true,” He said, voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “then why are you both on the same ship?”

There was a deep shame that lingered in Clat’Ha’s eyes. “Despite our growth, we’re still a tiny local who can barely afford the fuel it took to offload our cargo,” she admitted. “Our options were limited. By the time we found out Offworld had chartered the same vessel, it was too late to cancel.” It was left unsaid that Arcona Mineral probably couldn’t have afforded to—not with the amount of workers that were currently onboard and looking to get back.

But something didn’t add up. “Why did Offworld get onboard if they knew you’d be here?” Obi-Wan asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

If things were as bad as Clat’Ha said they were, then surely neither company would want to be in close proximity to the other, let alone for the four days it would take the Monument to transport them to Bandomeer.

“Offworld stays rich because they use the cheapest labor and transports possible,” Clat’Ha said. “Not to mention they trade in intimidation and shady business dealings.” She cast another surreptious glance towards the door, before returning to Obi-Wan. “You’ve just entered the middle of a war zone kid,” standing up, she made her way towards the exit.

Before she left, Clat’Ha turned one last time, her dark green eyes shadowed with something Obi-Wan couldn’t name. “Be careful, Obi-Wan.”

He was still mulling over his conversation with Clat’Ha hours later. Obi-Wan idly pushed around the nutri-paste on his plate, doing his best to stay out of sight from the gathered Hutts and Whiphids in the ship’s mess. The Arconans, he noted, stuck to their clusters.

No one knows who own’s Offworld…

…one of the oldest and richest mining companies…

…cave-ins…workers disappeared…executives found dead…

Then finally, Clat’Ha’s solemn face before she left. ’You’ve just entered the middle of a war zone kid,’ she’d said. Her dark green eyes glinted with an emotion Obi-Wan couldn’t voice. ’Be careful Obi-Wan.’

She’s scared, Obi-Wan thought, spoon letting out a distant screech as it scratched the bottom of his tray. Why haven’t the Jedi investigated?

“Hey, Obes!” A familiar voiced shouted, causing Obi-Wan to glance up.

Quin stood there, a broad grin on his face as he almost smacked a nearby Whiphid with his tray as he offered Obi-Wan an excited wave. Behind him, his father let out an exasperated sigh, though his expression was fond. He murmured a quiet apology as the boy flounced across the mess, agilely darting through the crowd before happily dropping his tray with a resonating thunk.

“Were you able to find your bunk?” Quin asked, already shoveling a heaping spoonful of nutri-paste into his mouth. Obi-Wan noticed Quin had left his gloves on as he ate. Is he worried about germs?

Seeming to notice where Obi-Wan’s attention had drifted, the other boy offered a sloppy grin. “Nerve damage,” he explained cheerfully, before shoving another spoonful into his mouth.

Obi-Wan simply nodded.

A quieter thunk sounded beside them. Quin’s father offered him a tired smile. “Hello Obi-Wan, I hope you don’t mind if we share your table?” He cast an amused look towards his son, who sheepishly continued to stuff his face with food. “Quin sometimes forgets he’s supposed to ask.”

Despite the stress of the situation from earlier in the day, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but return the older man’s smile. “That’s okay sir, I’m happy to share.”

The man waved his hand. “You can call me Thom.”

Obi-Wan grinned. “Yes Thom, sir.”

Thom elbowed Quin teasingly. “Maybe you can learn something from your friend here, huh?”

Quin mumbled mutinously into his tray, but didn’t glance up.

“Were you able to find the quartermaster?” Thom asked, turning his attention back to Obi-Wan. There was a scar that ran down the left side of his face, and Obi-Wan distantly wondered how the older man had acquired it. “Settling in okay?”

The man’s eyes traced his swollen face with concern, and Obi-Wan belatedly realized he probably looked like he’d been in a brawl with a trash-compactor and lost. Beside him, Quin finally looked up from his food, face creased with worry.

“Kid?” Thom’s voice was gentle in a way he couldn’t remember hearing since he’d turned twelve. “Is everything alright?”

Blinking wetly, Obi-Wan could only nod.

“Someone do that to you?” The man asked, a dangerous edge to his voice though the Force hummed with warmth-protect-concern. Quin’s fingers tightened around the neck of his spoon.

Blue eyes darted towards the tables Offworld had claimed, before meeting Thom’s dark eyes.

“Accident,” Obi-Wan finally managed, unable to hold the other man’s gaze.

If Offworld was as dangerous as Clat’Ha said they were, he didn’t want his new friends involved.

’Bandomeer’s ‘sposed to have lots of opportunities for folks like us, so we’re hoping the trip is worth it’. Obi-Wan blinked. “A-are you with Arcona Mineral?” He asked, trying to be nonchalant about it, though judging from Thom’s bemused expression, he’d failed.

Quin snorted. “Nah,” he said, taking a hefty swig of muja juice. “Dad and I are what’cha’d call freelancers.” A trickle of juice trailed down Quin’s chin as he spoke.

Thom rolled his eyes as he threw a napkin in Quin’s direction. “What my son is trying to say, is that we do a little bit of everything—though usually we try to avoid mine work.” At Obi-Wan’s curious expression, Thom smiled. “With Quin’s nerve damage and my bum-knee, the payout’s not really worth the hardship.”

Having finished wiping his face, Quin nodded.

Obi-Wan hesitated. “Have either of you heard of Offworld?” He asked carefully, voice nearly lost to the general clatter of the mess.

Thom’s brows furrowed as his eyes once again traced Obi-Wan’s injuries, though Quin was already nodding.

“Oh yeah,” the other boy agreed, leaning forward conspiratorially. Obi-Wan followed. “Rumor is, they were responsible for what happened on Varristad.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head in question.

“Haven’t heard about it?” Quin asked in a shocked whisper. “About five years ago, the bio-dome for a local start-up malfunctioned—it’s an anti-ox planet, which made it really difficult for most species to even live on it.” Quin explained, voice low. Beside them, Thom rolled his eyes but didn’t contest his son’s claims, and Obi-Wan felt a shiver run down his spine.

“What happened?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Nearly a quarter-of-a-million workers died,” Quin whispered. “Company had to claim bankruptcy, which allowed Offworld to buy up all the mineral rights. People died and Offworld made a fortune.”

Grief. Obi-Wan realized. That was the emotion in Clat’Ha’s eyes before she’d left. Her eyes had been filled with grief. Who did she lose? He wondered. If she was as young as he thought she was, she’d have been twenty at the time. A parent? Sibling?

“And Offworld was responsible?” Obi-Wan chanced another look across the mess. Could one company really be behind so much tragedy?

Quin opened his mouth, but his father gripped his shoulder. Thom’s face was somber as he regarded them. “There’s speculation,” he admitted, “but nothing concrete.” You didn’t get to be as old or as profitable as Offworld without having raised corporate espionage to an art form. “You should eat kid,” Thom advised, nodding to Obi-Wan’s plate. “Best to keep your strength up.”

And as his companions turned to their own meals, Obi-Wan recalled Clat’Ha’s warning. ’You’ve just entered the middle of a war zone kid,’ dark green eyes filled with grief.

’Be careful Obi-Wan.’

Obi-Wan was smiling as he left the mess. Quin and Thom were great dining companions, with the older boy sharing wild tales of their escapades across the galaxy. His father, used to Quin’s theatrics, patiently corrected the more outlandish details though he allowed the boys their fun. Obi-Wan didn’t think he’d ever had such a wonderful meal before.

It’s nice, he thought, having a friend.

He had friends at Temple—Bant, and Reeft, and Garen.

They’d grown up together, learned together, dreamed together.

But now the dream had ended, Obi-Wan would never become a Jedi Knight. May never see the Temple again.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that of his friends, Bant was the only one to say goodbye.

Maybe I can comm them when I get to Bandomeer.

Entering the room code the quartermaster had provided, Obi-Wan froze as the door slid open.

Master Jinn stared back at him, equally surprised.

“Initiate Kenobi,” the Jedi master greeted. “What are you doing here?” A bag was placed in the overhead compartment. There was a meditation mat set in a corner of the room. Master Jinn had obviously been here for some time.

Obi-Wan frowned. “T-the quartermaster said my b-bunk was here.”

Master Jinn raised a condescending brow. “The Temple secured these accommodations for my mission to Bandomeer,” he said serenely. “The quartermaster must have been mistaken.”

He turned back to the datapad in his lap, apparently done with the conversation.

But Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what to do. The quartermaster had told Obi-Wan that this was his room assignment, and the ship was already operating on its sub-light systems. Where am I supposed to go?

“Master Ji—“

“Initiate Kenobi,” the older man interrupted, turning once again to face him. “You are not my responsibility,” Master Jinn said, voice kind despite his indifference. “My mission to Bandomeer is classified by the Senate, you do not have the clearance to know its particulars. I’m afraid I can’t help you, even if I wanted to.”

Biting his lip to keep from crying, Obi-Wan offered a shaky bow as the Jedi dismissed him. Again.

The door slid closed with a definitive click.

Where am I supposed to go? Obi-Wan thought, tears finally bursting through the dam they’d been fighting since he’d received news of his reassignment. Where can I go?

He remembered warm laughter and dark eyes, a grizzled face that shone with genuine concern as it took in his injuries.

’We’re bunked in B-47, feel free to stop by anytime!’

Sniffing, Obi-Wan wiped his eyes.

He hoped Quin had been sincere in his offer of stopping by.

“Ow. Owwww. Master! Ouch! There’s a person under there y’know!” Quinlan grumped.

Tholme raised an unimpressed brow, cloth held in one hand.

They were turning in for the night, and while Quin’s idea to disguise his qukuuf had been clever, it also meant his poor padawan was now facing the reality of his brilliant plan.

This wasn’t their first mission, but it was Quinlan’s first official mission as a shadow-in-training. Quin wouldn’t just be introduced to their investigative techniques or intelligence networks, he’d also have to learn how to maintain an alias. Which was why Tholme had allowed him to create their covers for this mission.

Including their disguises.

He gestured with the cloth. “Your instincts were good,” he said. “A qukuuf is too distinctive, and would have stood out on Bandomeer when the majority of the population is a mix of baseline humans, Meerians, and Arconans.”

His padawan smiled at the praise. Tholme huffed in amusement. “However, you’re the one who decided to use makeup instead of synth skin, which means that applying it and removing it are part of the basic maintenance for your cover.”

Quinlan nimbly dodged when Tholme moved. “I’ll just sleep with it on, it’s fine!” The young teen groused. They were barely into the beginning stages of removing the heavy cosmetics he’d applied earlier in the day, and the boy was already over it.

“You’ll get acne if you sleep in it,” Tholme remarked, feinting left.

“That’s okay, I hear acne is very in this year!”

Just as Tholme was seriously contemplating tackling his wayward padawan, a soft chime echoed through the cabin. They looked at eachother.

Sub-light systems were already active as the ship’s passengers prepared for their sleep-cycle. It was unusual for anyone to still be out and about, let alone to buzz their room.

Wordlessly, Quinlan’s hand reached towards his hair, fingers grasping the vibro-blade he’d hidden there while Tholme discreetly palmed his own weapon.

He made a quick movement with his hand.

Stay out of sight. Wait for my signal.

Quinlan quickly signed out an affirmative before fading into the shadows of their cramped cabin.

Steadying his breath, Tholme sent out a discrete probe through the Force, only to receive sadness-anxiety-fear-hope back. With a barely visible frown, he entered the lock codes.

The door slid open.

“Obi-Wan,” Tholme breathed out, surprised to find the boy outside their cabin. “Is everything alright? It’s late to be wondering about by yourself.”

“Sorry sir,” Obi-Wan replied, head down. Tholme belatedly realized there were tear tracks on the initiate’s swollen face, thin arms wrapped around himself tightly, as though seeking comfort. What the kriff happened? “I just, I—“ the boy sniffed, ducking his head further. “I’ll just go.” He trailed off, making to turn away until Tholme reached out to stop him.

“I thought we’d gotten past all that ‘sir’ stuff at latemeal kid,” Tholme said, voice gentle. Something must’ve happened on the way to his room. “Quin said you’re free to stop by anytime, and he meant it.” Obi-Wan offered a wet sniffle, and though his head was still ducked, he hadn’t tried to leave again. “Did something happen?”

“I—I just-“ lower lip trembling, Obi-Wan finally glanced up. His eyes were red with tears. “I lost my r-room number, a-and the quarter master—but then M-master J-Jinn told m-me it was a m-mistake and—,“ What the kriff if Jinn doing here? The boy waved his hands despairingly, and Tholme noticed how the kid didn’t even have his bag with him. Had he lost it?“—I d-don’t k-know where to go…”

Something wasn’t adding up here.

Obi-Wan—who was still in his initiate robes—had been sent to Bandomeer without an escort. A planet that had a limited Jedi presence. Qui-Gon Jinn was apparently onboard, though he’d traveled separately from Obi-Wan, and secured his own accommodations. There was distinct lack of braid in Obi-Wan’s hair, and it was odd he’d received an assignment via pad instead of the council of reassignment…

Either way, as the senior Jedi onboard wasn’t willing to take responsibility for a Temple-raised youngling, Tholme would have to step-in. “You can stay with us,” Tholme said, already guiding the trembling initiate inside as he discretely tucked his weapon back into its hiding place. “It might be a little cramped, but we’d be happy to have you.”

Quinlan exited the fresher, face a smooth tan, which meant he’d reapplied the make-up hiding his qukuuf while they’d been speaking. He projected pride-good thinking-well done down the bond, and Quinlan shot him a small smile, before greeting his friend.

Upon finding out that Obi-Wan’s belongings had disappeared after an unfortunate incident with a Hutt, Tholme had to quell his padawan’s rage, as the boy offered an extra pair of sleep clothes he’d packed to the sniffling Obi-Wan.

When Obi-Wan went into the fresher to change, master and padawan shared a look.

Obi-Wan was theirs now. They weren’t going to let anything happen to him.

They were just finishing up first-meal when a familiar bob of reddish-brown hair darted across the mess in a confident stride. Obi-Wan turned.

Clat’Ha looked like a woman on a mission, face twisted with impatience as a young Arconan trailed after her.

An elbow nudged him gently. “Who’s that?” Quin asked around a mouthful of food.

Wrinkling his nose, Obi-Wan lightly shoved him back. “That’s Clat’Ha,” he replied. “She’s the chief operations manager for Arcona Mineral.”

Thom looked up from his caff. “The mining corporation?” He asked curiously.

Obi-Wan nodded, pushing up his sleeve before it could get any gravy on it. Quin had provided him with a spare worksuit he’d packed, and while it might have been baggy on the older boy, Obi-Wan was nearly swimming in excess fabric.

“She looks mad,” Quin observed, stealing Obi-Wan’s mug of tea and taking a noisy sip. “Wonder what’s got her so worked up this early?” He ignored Obi-Wan’s cry of indignation with an ease that belayed the fact they’d only known each other for a day.

Once he’d successfully managed to get his mug back from Quin’s thieving hands, Obi-Wan frowned. Why is Clat’Ha so upset?

His eyes sought out the woman’s form, only to startle when he realized she’d stopped at Master Jinn’s table, and from the looks of it, she was arguing with the Jedi Master.

Thom followed his gaze. “Who’s that?” He asked, idly tracing the rim of his mug.

Swallowing, Obi-Wan looked down at his half-finished breakfast. “T-that’s Master Jinn.”

“Wonder what business she has with a Jedi.” Quin remarked, swiping the nerf bacon from Obi-Wan’s plate.

He darted another glance towards the miner. Why was she arguing with Master Jinn?

Before he could think about it further, Clat’Ha’s angry voice cut through the mess like a knife.

“—and you expect me to believe it’s just a coincidence that the thermocoms for our tunnelers disappear!?!”

“Thermocoms?” Obi-Wan asked, unfamiliar with the term.

He allowed Quin to steal the rest of his bacon as the other boy explained. “It’s uh sens’r that reg’lates dah coo’ing sys’ems,” crunch, crunch. “Tunn’lers ge’ hawt!”

“How hot?”

A napkin was shoved in Quin’s face before he could speak. Thom’s eyes were stern as he stared at his son, who grudgingly wiped his mouth.

“Let’s put it this way,” Thom said. “With the amount of friction that happens as a tunneler drills through layers of rock, the hull can get hot enough to fry a tip-yip in two minutes.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. What could that do to a sentient being?

Thom nodded grimly.

”Sie batha ne beechee ta Jemba?” A booming voice shouted. The entire mess grew quiet as the biggest Hutt Obi-Wan had ever seen slithered forwards.

Clat’Ha’s face turned an angry, flushed red, while Master Jinn remained serenely seated beside her quivering form.

“No, Great Jemba, we’re simply discussing an issue with a few tunnelers,” Master Jinn replied.

“That’s the Offworld exec that was stationed on Varristad,” Quin whispered.

Jemba slithered closer, his gargantuan frame towering over Clat’Ha’s slight frame. “Choy?”

Before Master Jinn could answer, Clat’Ha growled. “I know you stole those thermocoms you sleemo!”

While the Whiphids behind Jemba bristled, the Hutt merely laughed. “Je? Moocha? Ha, ha, ha!”

Master Jinn calmly got between the two executives. “Do you know what may have happened to Ms. Clat’Ha’s equipment?”

The Hutt’s green-gold eyes narrowed, slimy grey tongue sliding across its lips. ”Chess ko, jeedai,” Jemba hissed. “Mo meendeya jee-jee nopa pateesas.”

Master Jinn raised his hands placatingly. “I ask with all due respect, Great Jemba. I apologize if my question offended.”

Obi-Wan leaned closer to Thom. “Why is he being so nice to them?” He asked quietly.

Thom’s eyes were trained on the chaos happening across from them, but he leaned down to answer. “Offworld outnumbers the crew three-to-one, it would be in no-one’s best interest if a fight broke out.”

Jemba smiled smugly. ”Koth,” the Hutt boomed. But before they could move, Clat’Ha swung around Master Jinn’s still form and got right up in Jemba’s face.

“I know it was you,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “I know you’re responsible for this, and I won’t rest till you get what you deserve.”

Jemba’s smile turned cruel. “Kava do solo?” They asked mock-sweetly. “Ta rocka rocka wermo. Juma-na?” Laughing as Clat’Ha gasped, Jemba slithered away. Their guards followed.

Master Jinn tried to put a comforting hand on Clat’Ha’s shoulder, only to be pushed away.

Before anyone could say anything, she left.

“What’d they say?” Obi-Wan asked worriedly, looking from Master Jinn to Clat’Ha’s retreating form. “What was that?”

Quin bit his lip. “Jemba asked about her brother…if…,” for the first time since he’d met him, the older boy looked uncomfortable. “It wasn’t good Obes.”

The rest of the mess slowly returned to their meal, now that their entertainment for the morning had ended.

Except the Arconan who’d trailed after Clat’ha as she spoke with Master Jinn.

Obi-Wan observed them as his table mates finished eating.

While they had the distinctive triangular head and flat face all Arconans possessed, Obi-Wan noticed they were slightly shorter. With skin that looked more green than the more common grey. Glowing green eyes swept across the mess hall nervously.

Thom stood, causing both boys to look at him. He offered them a reassuring smile.

“I’m gonna go check on a few job postings I put in for,” he nodded back towards their cabin, “so if you two want to explore, feel free. We can meet here for mid-meal.” As he began walking, Thom shot a quick glance back at their table. “And keep him out of trouble.”

Quin held up a solemn hand. “Don’t worry dad, I’ll look out for Obes.”

The man snorted. “I was talking to Obi-Wan,” he said dryly.

Obi-Wan laughed at Quin’s outraged squawking as Thom walked away.

Once he was gone, Obi-Wan waved to the Arconan.

“What are you doing?” Quin asked, grabbing the untouched biscuit on Obi-Wan’s tray. He slid it over to the other boy.

“I’m going to ask them what happened.” Obi-Wan said matter-of-factly.

“But why?” Quin was frowning as he chewed. “We a’ready kn’w wh’t h’ppened.”

But Obi-Wan felt like he’d finally found a purpose on the Monument.

Even if he couldn’t be a knight, he could still be a Jedi. He could still stand up to the injustices of the Galaxy, starting with the missing thermocoms. Quin might not understand the sudden fire lit in Obi-Wan’s chest, but he was sure the other boy would support him regardless. That’s what made Quin, Quin.

The Arconan, who’d noticed the wave, shyly walked over.

They reminded Obi-Wan of the stray tooka he’d taken care of as a youngling, with their big green eyes and twitching fingers. Lula had been much the same, before Master Ali-Alann had told Obi-Wan that the Temple was for younglings and Jedi—not little tooka kits.

“May we help you?” They asked softly.

Obi-Wan frowned, looking behind their guest before shooting a questioning glance at Quin. His friend shrugged.

“Um, I’m Obi-Wan and this is my friend Quin,” he waved, “what’s your name?”

The Arconan took the offered seat. “We are Si Treemba,” they introduced.

It was a little strange Si Treemba kept saying ”we” even though they were alone. Obi-Wan wondered if it was simply a mistranslation of pronouns or if there was more to it than that. Either way, it was a little different but not terribly so.

“Are you okay? Things looked like they got a little heated. Is it okay to ask what happened?” Si Treemba had been with Clat’Ha as she argued with Master Jinn. Had trailed into the mess with her, as a matter of fact. Which meant they knew more than anyone else about the situation, except for maybe Master Jinn and Clat’Ha herself. They might have a clue about what happened to the thermocoms.

The Arconan bowed their head sadly. “Thank you for your concern, Obi-Wan,” Si Treemba sighed. “We were asked by Miss Clat’Ha to check on our new tunnelers this morning—it’s one of our jobs,” Si Treemba proudly informed them. Both Obi-Wan and Quin offered suitably impressed looks so the Arconan could continue. “But when we did our routine inspection, we noticed the thermocoms had been removed and the coring couplers were damaged.”

Quin frowned. “Damaged in what way?” He’d abandoned what was left on Obi-Wan’s tray as Si Treemba spoke, dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“The outer casings had been stripped,” Si Treemba replied mournfully, their earlier pride at having such an important job vanishing. “The wiring that would carry out the command to disengage the tunneler was cut.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a scurrier?” Obi-Wan knew that although the mouse-droids did a good job of keeping pests out of ships, some still managed to sneak through. With a ship as dirty and ill-cared for as the Monument, it was unfortunately the more-likely explanation.

A nod. “We found no chew marks,” Si Treemba whispered. “The cut was clean.”

“And you’re sure the tunnelers had their thermocoms before they were loaded on?” Quin chimed in. “Lotsa gangs and other bad folk in a spaceport, might’ve decided to nick something small that could fetch a profit.”

Obi-Wan hadn’t thought about that! What if the thermocoms weren’t even on the ship? What if they were still on Coruscant? The hope that had been building when he finally thought he could help someone, began to flag. What can a Temple-reject do that a fully trained Jedi Master can’t?

But Si Treemba was nodding. “We are sure,” they said seriously. “Miss Clat’Ha insists we check the tunnelers everyday, there’s a report.” They waved their hands. “It shows the thermocoms were there yesterday, and that the coring couplers were undamaged.”

So several machines that were managed by Arcona Mineral were deliberately damaged, either by Offworld or by someone who’d want Offworld to take the blame. Obi-Wan thought, sipping his lukewarm tea. Could Clat’Ha have done it?

The woman was incredibly angry when she’d walked in.

Dark green eyes flashed with grief. ‘You’ve just entered the middle of a war zone kid…be careful Obi-Wan.’

Then there was whatever Jemba had said about her brother, though Quin refused to translate it.

They know each other. Obi-Wan thought. Either through whatever happened on Varristad or as competing executives.

But Clat’Ha had seemed genuinely terrified of the fact Offworld had charted the same ship to take them to Bandomeer, and they couldn’t have known Master Jinn would be on the same flight. He’d told Obi-Wan his mission was classified.

An attack of opportunity?

“Is it very hard,” Obi-Wan started, “to remove thermocoms?”

Si Treemba shook their head. “Not if you’re familiar with tunnelers, all of the major sensors are located in the central drive of the engine core.”

Quin seemed to be following Obi-Wan’s line of thought. “And is it normal for them to be part of a routine inspection?” The older boy asked.

The Arconan thought for a moment.

“Most of the machinery Arcona Mineral has are second-hand,” they explained. “So we routinely check parts that are more susceptible for wear-and-tear, like the thermocoms.”

So not exactly normal, but not unusual either.

“Hey Si Treemba,” Obi-Wan looked up, “would you be able to show us the tunnelers that were damaged?”

After double checking his counter-surveillance device was engaged, Tholme pulled out his encrypted comm and dialed a familiar number.

Typically, most handheld comms couldn’t be used in hyperspace, but this wasn’t a typical device. It was specially designed by the Temple’s Technical Division for shadows, which meant that in addition to being highly encrypted, it also allowed shadows to communicate anywhere in the galaxy. Theoretically.

He didn’t have to wait long until a familiar grinning face appeared, tendrils pulled back with a strap of leatheris. “Why hello there,” the Nautolan greeted salaciously, big black eyes alight with humor. “How goes the mission?”

Tholme rolled his eyes. “Well, all things considered. We’ve got a Temple initiate onboard, two competing mining companies, and Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Kit’s forehead wrinkled. “What the kriff is a Temple initiate doing onboard a vessel like the Monument?”

Tholme would like to know that as well.

“I’m not sure, but Quinlan’s practically adopted him so it’s likely you can ask him that yourself.”

Laughter met his dry response.

“But moving on, do you happen to know why Jinn might be en route to Bandomeer? According to Obi-Wan, he said he’s here on a classified mission for the senate.”

It was highly unusual that the Council of First Knowledge hadn’t been apprised of Jinn’s mission parameters. Especially as they’d already sent a team to Bandomeer to continue their investigation of Offworld. The councils did their best to ensure their respective members wouldn’t interfere with any current missions. But with an initiate onboard, in addition to an infamously blunt consular Jedi, it seemed as though there’d been a communication breakdown somewhere down the line. One that could very easily cost Tholme and his padawan the mission.

Just lucky that Jinn probably won’t recognize us, he thought wryly.

Kit shook his head. “My source inside the governor’s office hasn’t indicated any official request has been sent for Jedi intervention,” he clicked his teeth. “If it’s a senate request, it didn’t originate from here.”

That was far more worrying than a simple communication breakdown.

“What’s the word on the ground?” Tholme asked.

The Council of First Knowledge had decided to send an advance party to gather intelligence on the planet prior to Tholme’s arrival. Although it had been a risk to send the Nautolan given their rarity on Bandomeer, it had proven beneficial as the other shadow had access to information most shadows would have had difficulty getting too.

“Disappearances have gone up, especially in Bandor, after several local mining chapters switched over to Arcona Mineral,” Kit shared, the normal smile on his face thinning. “There’s been an influx of activity on Offworld’s deep sea mining platforms.”

Tholme hummed thoughtfully. “You think the disappearances are related?”

Kit shrugged. “It’s possible,” he allowed, “a good place to make people disappear, but I haven’t been able to get near enough to verify.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Tholme assured. “Anything else?”

They needed to end this quickly, he didn’t like how many competing interests were onboard, but he needed to get a lay of the ground before they landed.

“There is one thing,” Kit said. His forehead was creased. “There’s rumors about a new Offworld exec taking over their Bandomeer operations.”

Tholme frowned. “Not Jemba?” It had been a surprise to find the Hutt onboard, as he typically preferred to stay planetside. All of their previous intelligence on Offworld indicated he was the current executive who’d taken over the corporation’s Bandomeer portfolio.

Kit shook his head. “No, that’s what’s odd. I haven’t been able to find a name, but supposedly it’s a human male, aged between twenty and twenty-five.”

That was incredibly young for a company like Offworld to entrust such a large investment too. Jemba might have been problematic, but he had a history of turning a profit for the company and ties to some of the major syndicates. Why would they be replacing him?

Deciding they’d been on long enough, Tholme nodded. “We’ll be planet-side in about two days, we’ll rendezvous then.”

Offering a cocky grin and one last flirtatious wink, Kit signed off.

Cheeky bastard.

“So this is where you keep the tunnelers?”

Quinlan had to admit Obi-Wan had good instincts, the younger boy getting Si Treemba to open up about his experience with Arcona Mineral, how long he’d been working with the company, and about Arconans in general.

Turns out Arconans were hatched in nests, that could range anywhere from twenty to thirty individuals being born at a time. As a result, they had no sense of individual self, instead looking at the world as a collective whole—the ubiquitous we of their vocabulary. They did everything together, having evolved to rely on one another completely. Where one Arconan was, their community followed.

Would I have been able to get Si Treemba to have revealed so much if I was by myself?

One of the first things he’d learned as a shadow-in-training was that of the various sources of intelligence that was available, the most essential—and unfortunately most unreliable—was sentient-intelligence. There might be entire divisions devoted to intercepting comms or signals from hostile organizations, but shadows relied on intelligence that could only be gathered from other sentient beings. Their emotions and unique perspectives often revealed more about a situation than hard data ever could.

Quinlan had an advantage in some regards, due to his psychometry, but he still hadn’t quite mastered the ability to foster camaraderie with potential informants. Not like Master Tholme or Knight Fisto.

I wonder if Obes would be interested in shadow-training? He thought, turning to look at his friend.

Obi-Wan looked ridiculous in the dingy blue worksuit he’d borrowed, though Quinlan couldn’t help but think it was kind of cute. There was just something about the other boy, something Quinlan wasn’t sure was the Force or his own instincts, that told him Obi-Wan was someone he could trust. Maybe I can convince Master to train the both of us…

Si Treemba nodded. “Yes, Miss Clat’Ha had already leased the cargo hold for the machinery before we’d boarded.”

Quinlan glanced at the keypad. It was a generic model, one found on most ships and easy to splice. It didn’t even require a passcode, simply a pre-programmed keycard that Si Treemba had pulled out of a pocket. Easy to duplicate or lift with no one the wiser.

“D’ya know how many folks have access to the hold?” Quin asked.

Another lesson he’d learnt was to try and narrow the pool of suspects as quickly as possible. Right now, their potential suspects were too many to count. It could’ve been someone from Arcona Mineral hoping to place suspicion on Offworld, just as easily as it could have been some underling hoping to climb through the ranks.

Not to mention a crew member hoping to make a quick credit.

The Arconan frowned as he counted out on his fingers. “We do, as does Miss Clat’Ha. A couple of senior miners and the safety engineer.” His frown deepened, before lighting up. “As does the crew, for safety reasons.”

Alright, twenty or so potential suspects is a lot more manageable than a couple hundred.

Obi-Wan was inspecting a nearby tunneler. “Do you know if anyone from Offworld uses this hold?”

That was actually a pretty good question. Quinlan was kind of disappointed he hadn’t thought about it himself.

Si Treemba shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

And we’re back to a couple hundred. Holding in his sigh, Quin took a closer look.

The tunnelers were obviously old, though in suprisingly good condition. A bit like a hover-us, the digging equipment was stationed towards the front of the vehicle, while further down there was an entrance for miners to get on and off as needed. There was a control panel just to the left of the cab. From the outside, it didn’t look like anyone might have tampered with it—but looks could be deceiving.

Obi-Wan was frowning. “Just how big are thermocoms?” He asked.

Si Treemba held apart his thumb and index finger to indicate their size. It was small, about three inches or so. “They are very small, easy to conceal.”

From the look on Obi-Wan’s face, Quinlan could tell his friend was willing to tear apart the entire ship in his search. Not wanting to go though the various storage rooms, lounges, or cabins the Monument boasted—not to mention the trash compactor, yuck—Quinlan made a quick decision.

“Hey uh, Obes?” He whispered.

His friend shot him a curious glance, but obligingly leaned closer. Master Tholme was probably gonna blow a gasket at Quinlan for ruining their cover, but they needed this information. “Can you distract Si Treemba? I’ve got an idea on how to find out what happened to those thermocoms but I need some privacy to do it.”

Although his look of curiousity deepened, Obi-Wan didn’t ask any questions. Something Quinlan was absurdly grateful for.

“Hey Si Treemba, how long have you been working for Arcona Mineral again?” Obi-Wan asked, already leading the other boy further down the cargo hold.

“Oh, well we have been—“ as the two carried on their conversation, Quinlan carefully pulled off one of his gloves. It was risky, especially seeing as these vehicles were second-hand, but he might be able to get the most recent impression off it, which could lead them to the saboteur. He’d have to try.

His palm met cool durasteel.

”I’ve got a great deal for you,” a rodian salesman grinned.

“Stupid hunk of junk’s malfunctioned again—“

A woman with reddish-brown hair was inspecting the tunneler, making notes on a datapad as she went.

Si Treemba, carefully inspecting each part of the tunneler, wanting to impress their new boss. Hands tracing the couplers and exhaust vents. Taking in the various sensors and belts, making a note on his pad with each piece he looked at.

A cold presence in the Force, anger and cruelty emanating from their being. It had been easy to swipe the keycard off that stupid Meerian. Two drinks in and already boasting about the fleet of vehicles Arcona Mineral had secured on Coruscant. A few credits slipped to a crew member, and the cameras monitoring the hold were turned off.

The Hutt smiled. Jemba would be pleased.

Quinlan gasped as he came back to the present, hand trembling as he worked his glove back on.

Obi-Wan was looking at him with concern, their Arconan companion nowhere in sight.

“S-Si Treemba?” Quinlan asked, voice shaky.

“He said he’d go check with Clat’Ha if there’d been any progress on the missing parts,” Obi-Wan answered, pale brows furrowed. “Are you—“

Quinlan cut him off. “We need to get back to our room,” he said hurriedly. “I know who took the thermocoms.”

“So, just to sum it up,” Tholme began, dark eyes going from his guilty padawan to Obi-Wan. “You both decided to investigate the missing parts, without informing a responsible adult, despite the fact you knew we’re currently in the middle of a corporate showdown between Offworld and Arcona Mineral.”

The boys flinched.

“Secondly,” Tholme ticked off. “You somehow managed to enlist an Arconan into your plans, and entered a secure cargo hold.”

Quinlan glumly stared ahead as Obi-Wan offered a hesitant nod.

“Last, you managed to blow your cover barely two days into our mission and reveal a rare Force gift in front of an initiate—though you felt it was worth it, since you managed to uncover the identity of the saboteur.” Tholme concluded. “Was there anything I missed?”

Obi-Wan looked up, blue eyes apologetic. “It was my fault sir. Quin was only trying to help,” he looked down. “I thought if I found out what happened to the thermocoms, I could still be…” swallowing, the boy seemed to grow even smaller. “…that I could still be a Jedi…” The last bit was said so quietly Tholme had to lean in to hear it.

“If you should punish anyone, it should be me.”

Quinlan glared at his friend. “No way Obes!” He turned back to his master. “I was the one who decided to risk our mission. Obes was doing a great job gathering intel, but I didn’t want to do the footwork in searching for the parts!” His dark eyes were filled with fiery determination. “It’s my fault master, punish me!”

“Quin—“

“Obes—“

“Enough.” Both boys startled, wide eyes turning back to Tholme. “No one is getting punished,” the Jedi master sighed.

Although it wasn’t ideal, Quinlan was right.

They didn’t have the time, or the manpower, to search the entire ship top to bottom. Not to mention the potential risks that such a search could have presented. The Monument was one giant powder-keg waiting to blow. His padawan had chosen discretion over valor, even though it meant exposing his Force-sensitivity.

He crouched down, making sure to meet both boys’ eyes. “I’m proud of you two,” Tholme said quietly. They looked surprised at the comment, though he made sure to send sincerity-pride-amusement down his bond with Quinlan. His padawan blinked wetly. “I won’t say I’m impressed at the way you put yourselves in harm’s way,” they both looked away embarrassedly, “but it was a good call to gather intel from a primary source and secure a list of potential suspects.”

Obi-Wan flushed a soft pink, while a smile curled at the edges of Quinlan’s lips.

Tholme looked at Obi-Wan. “Since the loth cat’s out of the bag, Quinlan and I were sent to investigate Offworld’s business dealings on Bandomeer,” the initiate stared, even as his padawan shot him an incredulous look. “Don’t give me that look Quinlan, your friend is exceptionally clever and probably would have figured it out if given half the chance.” His padawan pouted, while Obi-Wan let out a quiet giggle. “Obviously we’d appreciate your discretion, our mission depends on it.”

The boy was nodding before Tholme finished. “Of course master, I wouldn’t betray you or Quin like that. I promise.”

The Force rang with his sincerity, and the shadow couldn’t help but smile. “I know that youngling,” he assured. “But as shadows, our identities are held even from our fellow Jedi. For their safety, and ours.” He stressed.

Pale brows furrowing, Obi-Wan tilted his head. “Then why is Master Jinn aboard, sir?”

He flicked the boy’s forehead. “I thought we already talked about all that ‘sir’ nonsense,” Tholme groused. Obi-Wan’s face turned chagrined. “But that’s a very good question Obi-Wan.”

Quinlan, apparently feeling left out, sent a quick nudge through their bond. “We weren’t informed by CoFK that another Jedi was being assigned to Bandomeer,” he commented, though the nudge was inquisitive.

“No padawan, we weren’t,” Tholme said. “Though considering we also have an initiate onboard, in addition to Master Jinn, I feel there’s more at work than a mere communication breakdown.”

Obi-Wan flushed darker.

“Do you know why you’re on the Monument?”

Playing with a stray thread on Quinlan’s spare worksuit, the initiate shrugged. “Master Vant said I’d been reassigned to AgriCorps. Said it didn’t matter my birthday wasn’t for another four weeks, the ship I was supposed to head out on was already prepping to leave.”

Quinlan frowned beside him. “You didn’t meet with the Council of Reassignment?” He asked.

Tholme was similarly confused. Crechemasters weren’t in charge of informing initiates of reassignments, and they certainly didn’t send their charges on public vessels to their supposed posting. “Obi-Wan,” Tholme said softly, “did you even choose the AgriCorps?”

Blue eyes glanced up at him in shock. “Choose?” He asked, surprise coloring his voice.

Quinlan’s frown deepened. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re allowed to choose which corps you’d prefer if you’re not selected by a master.” His nose scrunched up. “Reassignment never mentioned that?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I never met with them,” he answered.

This was not how things were done. What the kark was going on at the Temple?

Deciding that they’d address the mystery of Obi-Wan’s reassignment later, Tholme turned the conversation towards a different topic. “Regardless of how you got here, I’m glad you did.” Obi-Wan’s look of surprise faded into something more vulnerable, and beside him, Quinlan offered his own sweet smile. “Even though it might not be the safest, I’d prefer if you’d accompany Quinlan and I as we complete our mission. We can take you back to Temple once we’re done, and figure out what happened then.”

“Really?” Obi-Wan asked, mouth quivering as he held Tholme’s gaze. “You’d—you both w-want me?”

Quinlan was nodding enthusiastically, projecting yes-YES-YES!!! through the Force. Tholme was more restrained though equally as sincere in his response. “Of course you have the opportunity to decline, but you’ve already shown a remarkable knack for investigating and I need all the help keeping this one,” he nodded towards Quinlan, “out of trouble.”

“Hey!”

But Obi-Wan was still looking up at him, expression heartbreakingly insecure. “R-really?” He asked, voice small. “N-no one wants me.”

Gangly arms wrapped around Obi-Wan’s skinny form, before the boy was pulled into Quinlan’s chest. There was a soft oof as he collided with the padawan, though he didn’t fight Quinlan’s sudden embrace.

“You’re awesome Obes,” his padawan murmured, burying his face in ginger locks. “I’m sorry those koochoos at Temple can’t see that, but we can see it for ourselves. You’re awesome, and don’t let anyone ever tell you anything different.”

There was a wet sniffle in the vicinity of Quinlan’s chest.

Tholme nodded. “You’re wanted Obi-Wan, more than you know.”

After several minutes had passed, where both shadows assured Obi-Wan of how much they wanted him there and the initiate shyly agreed to stay with them for the duration of their mission, Tholme turned back to Quinlan.

“You said you knew who’d stolen the thermocoms,” he started.

“Right,” Quinlan said, finally releasing his hold on the smaller boy.

Obi-Wan tried to straighten out the wrinkles on his borrowed clothes, though it was a lost cause. Quinlan rarely had clothes that weren’t wrinkled to begin with.

“I got a few different impressions, but the last one was the most recent.” His padawan explained the emotions coming off the being who’d stolen the sensors, how they’d been deliberate in their plan to get to them and had even paid off a crew member to turn a blind eye to the theft.

In the middle of his explanation, Tholme’s pad chimed. He opened his inbox to find a message from the bridge.

“It was a Hutt, but not Jemba,” Quinlan concluded. “They were hoping it would impress him enough that they’d get a promotion.”

Tholme looked up from his pad. “That’s gonna be hard,” the Jedi master said, expression grim. “Jemba’s dead.”

The last two days aboard the Monument were tense, its passengers doing their best to avoid one another.

Jemba had been found dead in his stateroom, guards stationed just outside.

Though there were no obvious signs of foul play, suspicion had instantly fallen on Clat’Ha. Everyone who’d been in the mess that morning recalled her threat of Jemba getting what he deserved.

Fortunately, the chief operations manager for Arconan Mineral had several witnesses who placed her on the opposite side of the ship at the time of Jemba’s death. Despite the alibi, the woman still received dirty looks from the assorted Offworld employees. Including a Hutt who Quinlan identified as the saboteur.

Obi-Wan realized it was the same Hutt who had accosted him outside the quartermaster’s office.

Everyone breathed a quiet sigh of relief when the Monument finally docked in Bandor.

Quin checked the headscarf one last time, giving an experimental tug. He grinned when it remained stationary, not a single lock of hair exposed.

Obi-Wan’s red hair was far too recognizable, and they didn’t have the materials required to dye it. Not that Quin wanted to, the younger boy’s ginger curls were simply precious. Tholme had been considering a cut, until Quin quickly recommended a headscarf, remembering they were common place on Kiffu and wouldn’t look out of place in Bandor due to the air pollution.

Sacrificing one of Tholme’s tunics to the cause, much to Obi-Wan’s embarrassment and the Jedi master’s amusement, Quin had spent the last two days tucking and hemming the material, then showed Obi-Wan how to wear it.

He smiled. “Got your stun baton?” He whispered.

As an initiate, Obi-Wan hadn’t received any prior instruction on non-Jedi weapons, which meant the vibro-knives Tholme and Quin favored were out of the question. Luckily, Master Tholme had packed a few non-lethal weapons, and it was the work of a moment to teach Obi-Wan how to use it.

His friend nodded, subtly patting a hidden pocket of the borrowed worksuit.

Beside them, Master Tholme smiled. “Boys,” his voice was soft, “welcome to Bandomeer.”

Chapter Text

We have our doubts that Offworld Corporation will allow us to operate freely. Let us just say that the corporation has a history of making competition disappear.” ~ Jedi Apprentice: The Dark Rival (pg 14)

Kit offered a cheerful smile to the server as they passed his booth.

Bandomeer as a whole was a desolate world, its air a thick, polluted grey dusted with coal and a myriad of other particles he really didn’t want to think about. With one small land mass, which was home to the sole city—Bandor—the entire planet was enveloped by a glistening black ocean. Even the water hadn’t managed to survive centuries of mining.

As soon as this mission was over, Kit was going to spend a ten-day in his favorite pond in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. At least.

Probably more. This planet was doing his lovely skin absolutely no favors.

But the Council of First Knowledge had selected him as the vanguard for this mission for a simple reason. Kit was one of their leading shadows when it came to gathering sentient-intelligence. Whether it was flirting, fostering a network of informants, or decoding a target’s chemo-signals, Kit was able to access and accurately interpret more raw-intelligence than some of the order’s most senior shadows. A fact the council regularly took advantage of.

Feeling a familiar Force presence, Kitt turned towards the entrance. He blinked. Two younglings trailed behind the older shadow.

It would seem Quinlan had adopted the initiate.

Taking the opposite side of the booth Kit had secured for their meeting, the Nautolan couldn’t help but notice how both Quinlan and Tholme urged their initiate to take the place closest to the wall. Effectively ensuring their most vulnerable member received the most protection.

Big blue eyes looked up at him curiously, excitement-anxiety-hope trailing out of the boy’s pores in a rush of chemo-signals though the emotions were shielded with a level of skill that surprised him.

Clever. He thought, a genuine smile gracing his lips.

“I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost,” Kit laughed, signaling a server.

Tholme scowled. “That was once, and I still maintain you’d purposely provided me with bad intel on the rendezvous point.”

Raising a hand to his chest dramatically, Kit donned his best offended look. “Me? Mislead a colleague?” He clicked his teeth. “I would never.”

Kit sent the tadpole a wink as he giggled, face scrunching up adorably underneath his navy headscarf. Beside him, Tholme’s padawan snickered.

Once the server had taken their order, the older Jedi got straight to business.

“Jemba’s dead and several vehicles for Arcona Mineral were deliberately sabotaged on our way here,” he murmured quietly.

“Of natural causes, or are we suspecting something more sinster?” Kit asked.

“Average Hutt lives up to a thousand years,” Tholme raised a grizzled brow, “Jemba might’ve been old, but he wasn’t that old.”

They quieted down as several mugs were set down, Tholme and Quin offering a polite nod while the tadpole chirped a soft thanks.

Quinlan wordlessly dipped a small antivenin strip into each of their drinks, nodding once the strip turned blue—indicating the absence of any potentially toxic agents in the liquid. Smart.

“I’m assuming from your padawan’s caution, we’re thinking poison of some kind?” Kit asked, thanking the initiate as he was handed a fresh drink. A bright smile was sent his way.

Tholme shot his padawan an encouraging glance.

The boy took a deep breath. “No apparent marks on the body, the vic was found in his stateroom with armed guards at the door. Main suspect was several hundred meters away on the opposite side of the crime scene with multiple witnesses confirming her whereabouts for time of death.” Next to him, the initiate was taking down notes on a battered pad.

Kit inclined his head. “And the suspect?”

At his master’s nod, Quinlan continued. “Clat’Ha, chief operations manager for Arcona Mineral. Day of the murder, she had a very public argument with the vic concerning the deliberate sabotage of three of her tunnelers. We also know there was some sort of prior beef between them,” Quinlan sent a quick glance at his friend before continuing, “the vic had insinuated things about the suspect’s brother.”

Interesting. Whatever it was, Quinlan didn’t want the younger boy to know.

“We’re sure the sabotage was deliberate? Not someone from Arcona’s camp?”

Tholme shook his head. “Quinlan and Obi-Wan investigated the issue, and were able to find corroborating evidence that while Jemba may not have ordered it, the sabotage was done in his name.”

Tholme had mentioned an Obi-Wan in their comm. So that was the tadpole’s name.

“Well it certainly sounds like you had an exciting trip,” Kitt laughed, taking a sip of his drink.

Tholme offered a dry smile. “No more than usual,” the older shadow agreed. “Any news on your front?”

“I spoke with my contact in the governor’s office, she confirmed that SonTag hasn’t submitted a request for a Guardian of the Peace,” shooting a glance towards the younglings, Kit lowered his voice. “Which means that someone outside Bandor has requested a Jedi presence. Do we know anything about Jinn’s mission?”

At this, Obi-Wan perked up. “He said the mission was classified from the senate,” the boy said, voice soft. “But he did share that he was personally requested.”

Tholme looked at the boy curiously. “When did you find this out?”

Obi-Wan fidgeted with his cup, it was a tell they’d have to train out of him if they were going to keep him.

“I stopped by his room before we left,” he admitted. “I didn’t think he’d believe it, if I didn’t bother him to try and take me as his padawan one more time. I thought he might let some more information about his mission slip.”

Tholme’s mouth dropped open, while Quinlan was grinning like the tooka that ate the canary. Kit’s smile grew.

Clever tadpole indeed.

“I see,” Tholme said after a moment. “Were you able to gain any further intel?”

Their clever little tadpole nodded, eyes bright. “Hmm-hmm.” He hummed. “Master Jinn also received a letter when we landed, it was delivered by courier.”

“Were you able to see who the sender was?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, I could only make out a bit of the message before Master Jinn hid it away.”

“What did it say?” Kit asked, intrigued.

Obi-Wan consulted his pad—which now that Kit was looking at it, looked like it was written in futhark of all things. Clever and devious, Kitt thought. The boy was clearly attempting to keep his notes private, but instead of using a cipher he’d simply turned to a nearly illegible alphabet filled with an unnecessary amount of ovals. But as the official alphabet of Naboo, it wouldn’t be too out of place for a human-boy to have on their datapad.

“I have been looking forward to this day,” Obi-Wan read. Quinlan slung an arm around the younger boy’s slender shoulders, a proud smile on his face.

“Obes here is a natural,” he exclaimed, much to the other boy’s embarrassment, though Kit detected the sudden rush of pleased-happy-bashful leaking through his chemo-signals.

Tholme was sending the initiate a soft smile. “Good job little one,” he praised.

Obi-Wan flushed pink, an action that emphasised the smattering of freckles across his nose and the arch of his cheeks. Rather like a nautolan youngling, Kit thought.

“So, with the tadpole’s intel,” Kit began, endearment dropping from his lips without thought, “we can assume that whatever the game, it’s been designed to Jinn himself.”

Tholme shot him a look, though Kit didn’t know what to make of it. After a moment, the other man nodded.

“I think that’s a fair bet,” he said. “Do we have any further intel on who the new Offworld exec is?”

Kit clicked his teeth. “No,” he sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “Just that it’s a human male, aged between twenty to twenty-five. I couldn’t even manage to get how long he’s been with the company.” It was point of frustration for the Nautolan.

Obi-Wan let out a sudden sound, causing everyone to glance at the youngling. Turning a dark red at their combined attention, the boy slunk deeper into his seat, nearly burying himself in the excess fabric of his faded blue worksuit. Quinlan was looking at him with concern, though Tholme had a more considering expression on his face.

“Something you’d like to share Obi-Wan?” He asked.

Face still an alarming shade of red, Obi-Wan hesitated. “Um…j-just rumors. Crèche gossip, really.”

Kit leaned forward. “Gossip is some of the best intel tadpole,” he said, sending the boy a reassuring wink when he glanced at him. “It’s up to us to parse through what’s credible and what’s false.”

Tholme shot him another look, though he turned his attention back to Obi-Wan after Kit simply raised a brow-ridge in question.

“Kit’s right,” Tholme replied. “Anything could be helpful, would you share what you heard?”

At Quinlan’s silent encouragement, Obi-Wan continued. “The crèche says Master Jinn lost his last padawan in a great battle—“ he trailed off, glaring when Quinlan jabbed him with a pointy elbow. “—supposedly it happened nine years ago.” He threw an elbow back, causing Quinlan to let out a pained grunt.

Tholme ignored them. “I remember that,” there was a frown on the older Jedi’s face. “According to the report, Jinn stated his padawan died on a mission to the boy’s home planet.” Dark eyes met Kit’s. “Do you remember what the boy’s name was?”

He thought for a moment.“Xanatos,” Kit said. “Xanatos du’Crion.”

Tholme’s eyes were grave. “Is it possible Jinn lied? Could Xanatos still be alive?”

Before Kit could answer, a huge explosion rocked the cantina. Several patrons were knocked to the floor in the aftershocks. Tholme threw himself over the younglings while Kit braced himself against the wall, table hindering any potential help he could offer.

From a nearby window, they could make out a column of smoke drifting from a pile of rubble. A tower laid in ruins, the other leaning precariously. As the cantina watched, it continued its perilous descent—helpless against the enthralling pull of gravity. A second rumble trembled across the room as it fell.

Several of the cantina’s patrons gasped in dismay, a couple of Meerian’s holding a hand to their mouths in horror.

“Where was that?” Tholme asked quietly, voice nearly lost in the ensuing chaos that erupted.

Kit’s turned to him, face devoid of its usual smile. “That was the Home Planet Mine,” he replied. “Offworld’s main competition in Bandor.”

Tholme held back a sigh as his padawan paced about the room impatiently.

Following the explosion that took out most of Home Planet Mine’s facilities, Kit had taken Obi-Wan to see what type of intel they could gather from the workers. Intent on gathering any clues to be found amongst the rubble, Tholme and his padawan had headed towards the mine.

It was a tragedy.

A hundred lives had been lost to the explosion, with forty miners in critical condition after being trapped underground. In addition to that, hundreds of workers had been displaced—one of the towers having collapsed on top of their living quarters. Their main administration building was completely destroyed, as well as their fleet hanger.

Home Planet Mine was hoping that a few of their vehicles had survived, but it would take weeks to clear the rubble. Not counting the time it would take to service any of the vehicles that had, through some miracle, made it out unscathed.

A tragedy, and a very costly one for the local mine who’d partnered with Arconan Mineral Harvest.

He had to force Quinlan to leave before the boy touched anything. No one should have to feel so much pain and death, especially not his padawan, who’d been exposed to it far earlier than Tholme would’ve liked. Even if it could have expedited their investigation, is was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

Now they were just waiting for Kit and Obi-Wan to get back.

He hadn’t missed the way Kit had called Obi-Wan ’tadpole’ or the pleased expression on Obi-Wan’s face at the Nautolan’s sincere praise. The kid had a knack at fostering relationships and potential informants. One quite similar to Kit’s.

I wonder if Kit would be interested in a padawan?

Before he could give the idea more thought, the aforementioned pair finally returned.

As Quinlan checked over his friend, Tholme turned to his fellow shadow.

Kit’s smile was strained, though he offered the older man a warm wink. Incorrigible flirt.

“What have you found out?” He asked.

“Not even going to check me for boo-boos?” Kit asked, eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m hurt Tholme.”

In the background, Quinlan had finished his inspection and was now guiding the younger boy towards a table with some takeout they’d grabbed.

“You’ll live, I’m sure,” was the drab reply, much to Kit’s delight.

Honestly.

“Well, while I managed to work my network, Obi-Wan here,” he shot a pleased grin towards the youngling who smiled around a mouthful of nerf burger, “used his own network amongst Arconan Mineral.” There was a gleeful edge to his tone, as though proud that an initiate barely out of his training robes had already fostered a web of contacts on a mission.

Far too much like Kit indeed.

“Before we go over our findings, what of your own investigation?” Kit asked.

“SonTag was there helping coordinate emergency services, while VeerTa organized the volunteers,” Tholme said.

Tholme knew from his briefing that SonTag was Bandomeer’s current governor, while VeerTa was the leader of the Home Planet Mine. A local Meerian, she’d been incredibly outspoken about the exploitation of their planet by outside corporations and had been critical of Offworld Mining, specifically. Although young, she’d already played an instrumental role in helping form the Home Planet Party, which was likely to become the next majority by mid-terms.

“Master Jinn was there as well,” Tholme added quietly, soft enough that neither boy would hear it. “Aiding in the search-and-rescue for the miners who’d been buried under the rubble.”

Kit nodded. “That would track,” the Nautolan replied. “The governor had a meeting scheduled this morning with Master Jinn and both mining corporations. The meeting was rescheduled at the last minute to take place in her offices.”

Tholme’s frown deepened. “Where was the original location?”

“Home Planet Mine,” Kit said, forehead wrinkled.

“Do we think the attack was deliberate? A way to clear the board of its major players?”

It would be quite a stroke of luck, to get two mining execs and a politician who was known for being an environmental hardliner out of the picture. Not to mention the fact Home Planet Mine was likely going to have to file for bankruptcy, leading to the collapse of the Home Planet Party, who depended on the mine for their war chest.

And with Offworld losing two executives so closely together, the company was unlikely to send another. Although they were known for unscrupulous—often violent—dealings with their competition, they also had a penchant for knowing when an investment had soured. They wouldn’t risk further resources on a planet like Bandomeer when there were other planets available.

Though the list of companies who’d be willing to go head-to-head with Offworld was frighteningly short. If it was a deliberate attempt, there would be fierce retribution.

Kit’s eyes lit up at the question. Instead of answering, he turned towards the quietly chatting boys. “Obi-Wan?”

Looking up and noticing he’d somehow gained the attention of both Jedi, Obi-Wan carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin and pulled out his pad. “I ran into Clat’Ha and Si Treemba on our trip,” Obi-Wan said carefully. He shrugged at Tholme’s questioning look. “Clat’Ha was surprised I wasn’t with Master Jinn, but I told her I was actually with the AgriCorps in case she saw him.”

Clever. Obi-Wan Kenobi had no relation to Qui-Gon Jinn, and the man believed Obi-Wan had been officially reassigned to the Agricultural Outpost on Bandomeer. It was a load of kark, and Tholme had a sneaking suspicion who was responsible for the boy’s mysterious reassignment, but he’d have to deal with them later.

Quinlan grinned at the younger boy. “Good thinking Obes!”

Flushing a light pink, Obi-Wan continued at Kit’s encouraging nod. “Clat’Ha said their engineers were reporting a mechanical failure of one of their sensors in a sub-level of the mine.” He looked at his pad. “D Region, Core 5. They’re saying a mixture of volatile gases managed to trigger a chemical reaction that caused the explosion.”

Quinlan frowned, qukuuf wrinkling at the action. Tholme had managed to wipe off the layers of cosmetics they’d applied that morning to hide it. To his amusement, the teen had acquired a pimple from having slept with make-up on three nights ago when Obi-Wan had come to stay with them. Quinlan had been pouting about it all day.

“Sensors again?” The boy asked, face twisted with incredulity.

Tholme had to agree, it was a bit too convenient that several of Arconan Mineral’s vehicles were sabotaged with missing thermocoms days before Offworld’s leading competitor suffered a mechanical failure of a crucial sensor.

But Obi-Wan was already nodding, as though following their train of thought. “I asked Si Treemba about that,” he said. “According to him, the mine is under twenty-four-hour surveillance by local Meerians.”

“So unlikely to have been deliberately sabotaged,” Tholme said.

“Unless someone paid off the guards,” Quin added. He shot his master a look. “That Hutt bribed a crew mate to get to the thermocoms, and they’re probably pissed their attempt at a promotion was waylaid by Jemba’s death.”

Kit stepped forward. “That’s the thing, Offworld has already pledged their resources in helping Home Planet Mine to rebuild.” The Nautolan’s eyes were wider than usual. “Over two hundred droids and a quarter of a million credits have been allocated to the reconstruction, as well as the offer to house any displaced miners in Offworld’s facilities.”

Tholme’s frown deeper. “Awfully generous of them,” he muttered. That was not Offworld’s usual playbook. What was going on here? There’s more to it than corporate espionage.

“There’s another thing,” Kit said. “The Offworld exec who was supposed to be at the meeting? His name was recorded in Governor SonTag’s appointment book.” The Nautolan blinked. “It was Xanatos du’Crion.”

Jinn’s old padawan was alive.

“What do we do now?” Obi-Wan asked, ignoring Quin as he stole some tubers off the boy’s plate. His red hair was mussed from being hidden under a tightly wrapped headscarf and dust had settled on his borrowed worksuit. Despite the clear exhaustion on his face, his eyes were lit up with excitement.

He truly was turning out to be the most surprising addition to their party.

Instead of answering, Tholme turned to Quinlan. This was supposed to be a learning mission for him after all.

His padawan chewed thoughtfully. “We’ve g’therd s’nti’nt ‘ntel,” chew, chew, “now’s t’me fo’ syst’ms ‘ntel.”

Tholme nodded proudly, while Kit shot him a look, a wide grin on his face.

“Now it’s time to break into Offworld,” Tholme said, stealing one of his padawan’s tubers. “Nothing impossible,” he popped it into his mouth.

Quin would like it to be known that he didn’t approve of this plan.

Not at all.

Knight Fisto was great and all, and sure he was pretty funny, but that didn’t mean Quinlan trusted him to keep Obi-Wan safe.

That was his job.

Why hadn’t Master Tholme paired them together? They’d already proven they made a good team.

Probably because two unaccompanied children would be a red flag, a reasonable voice chimed in. It sounded frustratingly like Obi-Wan. Stupid voice.

“What do you two slugs think you’re doing?” A cold voice asked.

Offworld’s corporate headquarters on Bandomeer was just as dull and lifeless as the company it housed. A slab of dark pockmarked stone that blended in with the mines around it, the entire building was one giant tomb with nary a window in sight. Even its lobby offered a bleak outlook of the company’s mission-statement. A cavernous expanse of rough concrete, with a smattering of azurite here and there to provide a touch of color.

There was a Hutt manning the security desk, though their large bloated eyes were sagging with boredom. There was a pad set beside them, which they were currently scrolling.

Quinlan didn’t stop moving. It had been easy to splice through Offworld’s security mainframe and clone a couple of work-chits that would get them through the door. As long as they looked like they belonged there, everything would go smoothly.

His master just waved a lazy hand over his shoulder. “Cleaning crew,” he replied. “Need to start the rounds, heard there’s some bigwig planetside.” Master Tholme had dropped his voice an octave or two, and had affected an accent that closely resembled the local Meerians. Although Tholme was too tall to have passed for a member of Bandomeer’s native species, it would help sell the idea they were from here.

The voice hissed. “You’re supposed to use the service entrance.”

Quinlan could feel a bead of sweat work it’s way down his forehead, though he didn’t bother wiping it. His master gestured towards their cart. “Wouldn’t fit, was told to go through the front.”

There was a sigh behind them.

The Hutt hadn’t looked up from their pad. “Fine,” they said. “Start on Horizon Thirty, Mr. du’Crion will want a clean office.” Another swipe. “I’ll remove the security controls on that turbolift since you can’t use the service one.” A red light flashed twice over a lift that was labeled Restricted.

Master touched the brim of his hat. “Much obliged,” he grunted.

Two minutes later and they were on their way to Xanatos’ office.

“Now padawan, can you tell me why mind-tricks wouldn’t have worked in that situation?” Master Tholme asked, quietly enough so it wouldn’t be picked up by the security camera. He glanced at Quinlan out of the corner of his eye.

Thinking for a moment, Quinlan finally wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Because Hutts are immune to Force manipulation,” he said, equally quiet.

Although his master simply nodded, he could feel the pride-good job-well done through their training bond, and Quinlan couldn’t help but smile.

He’d been Master Tholme’s padawan for over a year now, and while he knew his master cared for him, Quinlan really wanted to impress the older Jedi. Show him that he was taking his training as a shadow seriously.

This was their first mission with Quin as an official shadow-in-training. It had to go well.

As the lift chimed, indicating they’d reached their destination, Tholme turned to him. “Let’s get this done quick, eh?” He asked, once again with his slightly altered voice.

It was a code they’d developed early into his apprenticeship. ”Done quick” meant Quinlan could use his psychometry so long as he didn’t touch anything that may potentially trigger psychic backlash. It was a fine balance, one they were still practicing, but Quin understood what his master was telling him.

The quicker they could get in and out, the more secure they’d be.

Although Xanatos was currently on an exploration trip towards Bandomeer’s northern mine quadrant, with Knight Fisto and Obes in pursuit, there was no telling who else might try to access the executive’s office while he was away.

Quinlan nodded.

“Master Fitso?” Obi-Wan’s voice was quiet.

He’d enjoyed working with the Nautolan Jedi the day prior, and had been genuinely excited when Master Tholme had paired them together to tail Xanatos as he inspected some of Offworld’s new holdings in the planet’s northern mine quadrant.

They were currently holed up in a rundown cafe, tucked into a booth that afforded them a view of the entire hover-lot, including Xanatos’ shiny chrome speeder. Obi-Wan had his pad out, though the stylus was tucked inside a fold of his headscarf. Master Fisto had gone out and purchased a set of coveralls that were closer to Obi-Wan’s size than the borrowed worksuit from Quin, material a dark brown that reminded him of Jedi robes. The stun baton was in a side pocket.

The older Jedi turned his big black eyes towards the failed-initiate. “You can call me Kit,” he grinned, teeth glinting.

Obi-Wan could feel himself smile in return. “Master Kit,” he began, somewhat awkward now that he’d broken the companionable silence that had been lingering between them since they’d sat down. “Um, is it always like this?”

He tilted his head, a few green tendrils sliding across his shoulder at the motion. “Is what like this, tadpole?”

Flushing softly at the term, Obi-Wan shrugged. “Um…your work?” He tried again. “Is…work like this?”

A glint of understanding shone in those black eyes.

“Aw,” grin softening into something more sincere, Master Kit made a side-to-side motion with his hand. “There’s a lot of waiting, listening, and watching involved—much more than we’re lead to believe as younglings.” He said, voice lightly teasing.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help but laugh. It was true.

In the creche, they were only given a very brief overview of what a shadow even was—partly for security reasons, he thought—though it seemed more like a deliberate effort by their crechemasters to keep easily influenced younglings away from anything they considered dark. Having spent time with Master Tholme and Quin, who both felt like bright lights in the Force, and now with Master Kit who shone in a similar manner, Obi-Wan knew that shadows weren’t really dark.

It was more that their missions took them to the darker places of the galaxy, ones filled with more injustice than a sheltered initiate raised in the heart of the Jedi Order would ever be able to understand.

Shadows were part monster-under-the-bed, part superhero. Jedi who were able to blend into the very shadows they had taken their name from, who slipped unseen through the dark and dangerous corners of the galaxy. Doing whatever was necessary, to keep the Light alive.

Obi-Wan certainly hadn’t imagined them sitting in a brightly lit cafe, waiting on their target to finish an inspection of a slab of grey rock.

Master Kit was still smiling as he took a sip of caff. “There are generally three parts to any investigation,” he said. Ticking them off on his fingers, as he went. “Gathering, analyzing, concluding.”

He glanced up to see if he was following along.

“So what we did yesterday, and what we’re doing now?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Exactly right, tadpole,” Master Kit praised, sending a rush of warmth through the Force. “Gathering can look different, but all of it is done with the same purpose.”

Remembering the man’s words from the cantina the day prior, Obi-Wan tilted his head. “To parse through it.”

The knight’s eyes twinkled. “Right.”

Furrowing his brow, Obi-Wan took a sip of the milk-tea the older Jedi had ordered for him. “And the last?”

Leaning closer, Master Kit lowered his voice. “That all depends. Sometimes we need to seek conclusions from a…higher authority,” his forehead was creased meaningfully. He probably meant the Council of First Knowledge who, according to Quin, controlled all intelligence operations in the Order. “Other times, we must act in a way we believe the Force asks us too.”

Obi-Wan thought that over.

Across from him, Master Kit perked up. “It looks like our glimmerfish is jumping the line, tadpole.”

Sending a surreptitious glance towards the lot, Obi-Wan froze as he saw a dark-haired human board the chrome speeder.

Xanatos was heading back early.

The office was a bust, until Quinlan touched a far wall and discovered a hidden inner-office. As Master Tholme took the filing cabinet, Quin tried the server mounted over the desk.

“Password.” A mechanical voice chimed.

Kriff. Of course it was password protected! Touching the terminal with naked fingers, Quin closed his eyes, only to open them a second later. Really?

“Crion.” He said.

“Password accepted.” The voice replied, screen lighting up as Quinlan navigated through its files.

What the kriff was the point of a secret room if you were going to make your password the name of your kriffing dad? That just seemed like lazy security to Quinlan, though he shouldn’t complain.

Made their job easier.

“Anything of interest?” His master asked, snapping a few holos as he went.

Quin frowned as he looked at the files. “Records for what they’d provided to Home Planet Mine,” click, “some invoices regarding their fleet vehicles,” click, “quarterly earnings reports.” Quin’s frown deepened. “Hey master?”

A hum.

“What’s the market price for azurite?”

His master paused. “Smaller pieces can range from about twenty to fifty credits a pound depending on their mineral composition, if I recall correctly,” the frown was audible in his master’s voice. “Why?”

Nodding towards the screen, Quinlan answered. “Because their second quarter earning report states they netted over six-hundred and eighty million credits for about eight million pounds of azurite.”

Even if Offworld had sold at the upper end of the margin, that was still over two hundred million credits then they should have made. Something wasn’t adding up here.

Master Tholme leaned over his shoulder to take a look. “It seems that their net earnings for the last twelve quarters are well above market value,” he mused thoughtfully. “Were you able to find their investment reports?”

Clicking on another file, Quin sighed when he realized it was written in code. Kriffing moof-milking sleemo son of a Hutt!

“I’ll see if I can find a hard-copy,” his master assured. “Keep going over their earnings, see if anything sticks out.”

They continued for a few more minutes, until Master Tholme’s comm beeped.

Sharing a look, his master answered it. “Yes?”

Knight Fisto appeared in screen. “You’ll have to finish up, our target is on their way back.”

Cursing, his master ended the transmission while Quin signed out of the screen.

In three minutes, they were gone with no one the wiser.

“Alright,” Kit said once they’d all met back at their safe house, “what do we know so far?”

Quinlan, who was in the process of wiping off layers of tan paint from his face, paused. “They’re making a kriff-ton more than they should in their quarterly earning reports,” the padawan stated, flushing at the dark look his master shot him for the language.

Obi-Wan tilted his head. “How much more?” Their tadpole asked.

Where’s he going with this?

Sending a mystified look to his master, Quinlan shrugged. “Upwards of two-hundred million credits,” he answered.

Obi-Wan pulled out his pad. “That can actually explain a lot!” He chirped, twirling the stylus between his fingers excitedly. Quinlan stared at his friend in bewilderment.

“I guess, but we don’t even know where their investments go. It was all coded.”

Obi-Wan began scribbling. “But did you know most mines aren’t as solvent as you think they are?”

At their look, he explained.

“Okay, so mines usually have very limited liquid capital,” he drew a circle on his pad. “Most of their capital is tied up in physical assets, like mines, vehicles—“

“Droids?” Quin asked.

A happy nod. “Yeah! And then there’s intellectual capital like ore rights and geotechnical readouts.” Another circle, this one smaller. “Which means that typically, mines operate at a deficit until they can regain their losses with each quarter.”

Tholme seemed to be catching on. “But those prices are dependent upon the current market, which can experience levels of inflation or deflation.”

Another nod. “Right, as a result they’re more susceptible to cyclical market conditions—mines that operate at a higher deficit are more likely to experience bankruptcy during an economic downturn when their commodity prices are lower than usual,” Obi-Wan explained, drawing a couple of arrows to indicate their connection.

Quin’s eyes lit up. “And because most of a mine’s assets are tied up in physical capital—“ he started.

Obi-Wan’s grin was the brightest thing Kit had ever seen. “They usually don’t have enough liquid to pay for operational costs until they can offload their inventory.” Here he wrote out a quick little equation.

(Current assets - Inventory) ÷ Current Liabilities

“This is the one of the formulas creditors use to determine how solvent a mine is,” Obi-Wan said, underlining it with his stylus.

Quinlan squinted. “So if they’re going to turn a profit…,” he bit his lip in thought. “They have to make sure their current assets and inventory outweighed their liabilities each quarter.” Squinting harder, Quin turned to his master. “How would Offworld guarantee to make over market value for their inventory each quarter?”

Tholme considered this, a hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “They couldn’t,” He said. “Not with all the regulatory and environmental factors to consider, in addition to a fluctuating market.” He shared a look with Kit. “Unless they had a way to control the market.”

Kit turned so he as facing Obi-Wan. “What are other potential liabilities?”

Obi-Wan tapped his stylus against the pad. “Besides commodity prices, there’s operational costs of sentient-capital,” he said.

“Which Offworld cuts by utilizing the cheapest labor they can find,” Quin scowled.

Tholme and Kit shared another look. The sudden increase in disappearances of local miners and the influx of activity on their deep sea mining platforms.

Was it possible Offworld was using slave labor? Oh, Kit didn’t doubt that if one were to look, they’d find work contracts on file that showed each laborer had willingly signed on for a predetermined length of time, with wages commensurate upon completion. He also didn’t doubt that if such documents existed, they were far less ethical then they appeared.

“Any others?” Tholme asked.

Tapping away at his pad, their tadpole scrunched his nose in thought. “There’s also ore grade and recovery,” tap, tap, tap, “and debt levels.”

Quinlan was staring, mouth agape with shock while Tholme’s eyes gleamed with pride.

“W-what?” Obi-Wan asked, turning pink at the scrutiny.

“How do you know all of that?” Quinlan finally asked.

Obi-Wan scratched his nose. ”I learned about it in Master Kiphin’s galactic economics course,” he said quietly.

Tholme raised a grizzled brow. “Isn’t that a senior padawan-level course?”

If possible, their tadpole looked more embarrassed. He mumbled something that vaguely sounded like a yes, and Quinlan continued to stare at him in shock.

“How did you go this long without being snatched up by a master?” He asked incredulously.

Before Obi-Wan could do more than flinch, a flurry of black dreadlocks tackled the smaller boy in his seat, a small oof echoing in the enclosed space. Quinlan had wrapped his arms around his friend’s flailing form, tucking his face in ginger curls. “Their loss,” he stated firmly. “We called dibs, right master?”

While Obi-Wan stared at Quinlan in shock, Tholme simply laughed. “We’d be able to keep him much longer if your affection didn’t have the unfortunate side-effect of depriving him of oxygen,” the man said dryly.

Quinlan hurriedly eased his grip.

Grinning Kit summarized. “So Offworld is somehow gaining above the going market rate for their inventory, while keeping their operations costs and other factors low.” He paused. “If we can’t see where their investments are going, what would their creditors tell us?”

Giving up on his attempts to escape, Obi-Wan huffed within Quinlan’s hug. “There’d have to be a consistent influx of credits to cover their costs and any drops in production output.”

“Master Kiphin did a thorough job in your education,” Tholme commented.

Another blush, though it was slightly hidden from being squished against Quinlan’s chest. “I thought it was interesting,” he mumbled. “Especially the supplemental reading.”

“You are such a nerd,” Quin said.

Obi-Wan sighed.

“So their creditors would most likely have deep pockets, potentially be connected to some of the major market worlds or have ties with the commerce guild to ensure the price of their product didn’t drop below a certain value,” Kit mused.

“And be able to handle any potential regulatory changes on planets where Offworld has a presence,” Tholme added.

The room grew quiet as they all thought about that.

After a moment, Tholme sighed, slumping down beside the boys. Hands moving to his left knee, the older shadow slowly began to work the joint. “I think it’s for the best if we hand this case off to a more seasoned team,” he said. Stretching out his leg with a wince.

He stopped any complaints before they could begin.

“We’ve gathered some great intel,” Tholme allowed, “but not counting the corporate espionage, price-fixing, and potential market manipulation—,” he leveled each boy with a hard look. “—there’s still a dead Offworld executive, a former Jedi-padawan who’s replaced the dead exec, missing workers, and Qui-Gon Jinn to deal with.”

Kit hid his snort at the younglings’ fallen expression.

“There’s no shame in admitting when you’ve swam beyond your depth,” Kit added, attempting wisdom.

Tholme groaned. “That only makes sense if you’re an aquatic species Kit!”

It did? Kit looked away. It had always made sense when Master Gulki said it. Could something have changed since he was a youngling?

After soliciting a promise from each of the boys they’d accept Master Tholme’s decision, the shadow sent them off to bed.

Even though he should have been thinking of what he’d need in preparation of their departure, all Kit could think about was Quinlan’s surprised question as he looked at his friend. “How did you go this long without being snatched up by a master?”

How had their tadpole not been taken on as a padawan yet?

Offering a half-hearted wave as Tholme said goodnight, Kit wondered.

What did one need, to take a padawan learner?

Tholme probably knew, he has Quinlan after all. He’d ask in the morning.

Chapter Text

"It took longer than even I imagined for you to figure out it was me. That noble head of yours can be so thick. Foolishly, I continue to give you credit for some intelligence."~ Jedi Apprentice: The Captive Temple (pg 58)

With Master Tholme in meditation, and Master Kit occupied with his comm, Obi-Wan was left to Quin’s tender mercies for the bulk of their return flight home.

Not that he didn’t enjoy spending time with the energetic padawan, because he did, but Quin had somehow got it into his head that since the Council of First Knowledge had sent a skyspirit-class courier to pick them up, it was the perfect opportunity to improve Obi-Wan’s “terrible” hand-to-hand training.

Which meant every morning, right after first-meal and all the way until mid-meal, Obi-Wan was forced to perform modified katas shadows and shadows-in-training learned for when they couldn’t use a lightsaber. Quin, despite his chaotic tendencies and enthusiastic personality, was actually a really good teacher.

And Obi-Wan was grateful for the instruction, but he’s pretty sure his bruises had bruises at this point.

“C-can,” Obi-Wan slumped forward, hands on knees, “c-can we take a b-break?” He gasped out, gratefully accepting a bottle of water from a barely out of breath Quinlan. That nerfherder.

Quinlan’s frown caused the pretty golden stripe across his face to scrunch up, and Obi-Wan had to resist the sudden urge to poke it. For their training, his friend had tied up his dreads into a messy nerf-tail and donned robes that were similar to the initiate robes Obi-Wan had left the Temple in. These however, were sleeveless and even though the other boy was only a year or two older, his arms already showed the results of countless hours worth of training.

Obi-Wan had always been tall for his age, but next to Quin he looked like a gangly bean sprout.

“If you can do maneuver fifteen with no mistakes,” Quin finally compromised, breaking Obi-Wan from his musings, “we can take a break for the rest of the trip home.”

Home. Obi-Wan thought glumly.

The Temple had been home for most of his life…but was it still home? Could he call it that, after he’d been sent away? After he’d been dismissed, as though the past decade he’d lived there had meant nothing? What if they send me back?

Master Tholme had shared doubts on the validity of Obi-Wan’s reassignment, had stated it was suspicious how he’d been dismissed without an escort and was sent to an outpost instead of a training facility. He convinced Obi-Wan to come with them so they could present their findings to the Council of First Knowledge before the mission was handed off to a more experienced team, and then speak with the Council of Reassignment.

But no-one had wanted Obi-Wan before he’d left.

Why would that have changed, now that he’d been gone for two weeks?

Blinking, Obi-Wan took another sip of water. “Could w-we do maneuver twelve instead?” He asked. That one was far easier, all Obi-Wan needed to do was bring his elbows down sharply to break the grapple and grab the mock-stunner at his waist.

“Nope,” Quin said cheerfully, popping the “p” obnoxiously. “Maneuver fifteen, no mistakes or we continue till mid-meal.”

Bantha turds! Of the twenty different moves Quin had been teaching him, maneuver fifteen was the one he struggled with the most. Similar to maneuver twelve, Obi-Wan still had to break a hold, but instead of twisting he needed to somersault out to increase the distance between him and his attacker. Adding to the difficulty, it was modified for Obi-Wan specifically after Master Kit mentioned he had a zenji needle back at the Temple which would go well with Obi-Wan’s headscarf.

Quin had jumped on the idea, and after badgering the pilot for a training dart—did all shadows carry around an arsenal of weapons?—until the poor togruta acquiesced, he hauled Obi-Wan off for practice. Now, with a different scarf Quin had made him just for training, Obi-Wan would have to complete the maneuver, grab the dart that was tucked into his scarf, and fire it towards his assailant.

Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan got into position.

Kit smiled as the comm connected, a familiar blue face filling the screen. “Lotus flower!”

He smiled. “Hello there, Master Ky!” His master’s smile deepened.

Kylira Vintari was a chagrian Jedi master who’d been forced to retire from the shadows early due to medical reasons, though that didn’t prevent her from teaching Kit everything he knew about intelligence work.

“Are you almost home? Does tadpole have any allergies?” She asked. “How’s his spice tolerance? I was thinking of making pakarna.”

Master Ky, unlike her Champalan counterparts, had spent the majority of her life on assignment in the Outer Rim and developed a taste for spicy dishes. A trait shared by most of their lineage.

Smile softening, Kit inclined his head. “We should reach Coruscant in about a day,” he replied. “I’m not sure how well tadpole can handle his spice, so a back-up dish wouldn’t hurt.” Glancing towards the hanger Quinlan had converted into a training room, he lowered his voice. “Were you able to submit the flimsiwork?” Kit asked.

His master nodded, lethorns bobbing at the movement. “Yes, it’s already been approved by the Council of First Knowledge and Reassignment’s in the process of reviewing it.” She assured.

He leaned closer. “And the other thing?” Kit asked, voice nearly a whisper.

Master Ky offered him a sharp, toothy smile. “Located and secured, you should see it once you get back.”

Conversing for another ten minutes before Master Ky signed off, Kit leaned back in his seat.

I hope tadpole says yes, Kit thought, mind drifting to the box his master had placed in his apartments.

Tholme raised an amused brow as Obi-Wan wilted in his seat. “Training go well?” He asked.

Before the exhausted boy could answer, his padawan flounced into the ship’s mess, a grin plastered across his face. “Obes totally nailed it master!” He exclaimed. “ Me and Obes’ll be kicking Hutt and taking names!” Quin held out his fist.

Obi-Wan’s noodle of an arm rose shakily, before tiredly tapping his fist against Quinlan’s.

Laughing, his padawan turned away from the boneless heap. “We need sustenance!”

Snorting, Tholme gestured towards the cupboards. “By all means, help yourself.”

As his padawan rummaged through the galley’s scant offerings, Tholme sat down beside the exhausted youngling. “You could just tell him no,” he said softly.

A blue eye blinked open. “He likes teaching me,” Obi-Wan said, just as soft. “I don’t think he gets to feel good about a lot of things,” the eye turned towards Quin’s muttered curses. “I like that teaching me does that,” a soft shrug. “Not to mention it’s a lot of fun.” Both eyes blinked open to look at him. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

Snorting under his breath, Tholme allowed himself to be sworn to secrecy.

Obi-Wan was right, unfortunately. Due to his late start at the Temple and his struggles to control his gift, many Jedi had looked down on Quinlan as a youngling. There were even mutterings about how training him would only hasten the boy’s fall. They didn’t see the traumatized child who’d witnessed his parents’ deaths. Who was forced to relive it after he’d touched his mother’s hand.

They didn’t care about the fact that even amongst the Force-blessed Vos clan, Quinlan’s gift for psychometry was nearly unprecedented. That despite having their own well-established Force traditions, Sheyf Kurlin Vos had petitioned the Jedi to train his nephew in managing the boy’s gifts. Nor did they care that in addition to losing his parents, Quinlan also lost the last of his family in a bloody coup orchestrated by his aunt.

All they saw were the nightmares that seemed to cling to Quinlan’s slight form, the haunted look of his eyes, and proclaim his destiny was shrouded in darkness.

Although the shadows had accepted Quinlan without reservation, it had been hard for him to receive the same type of acceptance from his age-mates. Having Obi-Wan around had helped develop his padawan’s confidence in ways Tholme never would have guessed.

“Would it be okay if I look over those files again?” The boy asked, breaking Tholme from his musings.

With a wry grin, Tholme slid over his pad.

Master Kit walked in right as Quin was settling down beside him, a slightly battered package of blue cookies held up in offering.

Obi-Wan ignored Quin’s smug smile as he accepted one.

“Going through those holos again tadpole?” Master Kit asked, amusement in his Force signature.

Obi-Wan flushed.

Although they’d agreed it would be better to hand the mission off to a more experienced team of shadows, Obi-Wan found himself returning to the files Master Tholme and Quin had managed to obtain from Offworld.

There was something there, the Force kept nudging him to pay attention, he just didn’t know what it wanted him to pay attention too.

Distantly, Obi-Wan heard Master Kit share that Master Jinn had recused himself from the Bandomeer mission, and was currently en route to Gala.

What is it? He wondered.

Like Quin said, all of Offworld’s investments were in code which meant that a team of the Order’s cryptographers would have to decipher them. There were the quarterly earning reports, which were strange in and of themselves, since they regularly brought in above-market returns.

There was another encouraging nudge from the Force.

What do you want me to see?

Unbidden, his conversation with Clat’Ha flashed through his head. “No one knows who owns Offworld,” Clat’Ha said, voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Probably a being that’s been around for centuries—Offworld is one of the oldest and richest mining companies in the galaxy…”

He looked back at the earnings reports.

Offworld couldn’t be functioning on debt capital alone, or they’d never turn a profit. If they attempted to build a new mine on a planet that lacked their desired ore deposits, a single operation could easily drain their resources. But the company was too old to have venture capital, and most investors were probably client worlds to begin with, so any revenue they made would simply go back into Offworld’s coffers.

Could it be revenue-based financing? If Offworld received external funding based on a percentage of future revenue, that could explain why their quarterly earnings were so big. Especially if the funding source has ties to the galactic markets like Master Tholme thinks.

Exiting out of the tab, Obi-Wan read the small note Master Tholme had written on another page. He frowned.

“Master Kit?” Obi-Wan asked, turning.

The Nautolan Jedi smiled. “Yes tadpole?”

Ignoring the rush of warmth that came with the name, he gestured towards the pad. “Master Tholme wrote you’d reported rumors about a new Offworld executive on Bandomeer…”

Quinlan looked up, mouth blue from the amount of cookies he’d eaten. “Yeah, Xanatos.”

Nodding, Obi-Wan turned back to Master Kit. “But…Jemba was supposed to be the Offworld executive in charge of Bandomeer...right?”

The older Jedi nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “We thought it strange, but the rumors were just that, rumors.” Master Kit blinked. “Until Jemba died.”

Quinlan froze, hand hovering in the air, blue cookie clenched between tan fingers. “You don’t think…” he trailed off.

“Offworld is responsible for Jemba’s death?” Master Kit asked. He shook his head, tendrils flying. “It makes sense, not to mention how could Xanatos have arrived ahead of his colleague’s death? We were in hyperspace the entire route, reports couldn’t have been sent until we breached Meerian space.”

Quinlan considered this. “And how could he already have a secret office with a personalized passcode in Offworld’s headquarters?”

Master Tholme joined them, a frown on his face. “But why would Offworld kill one of their own executives? Especially one like Jemba, who had a reputation for yielding high profits?” He took a sip of caff. “Xanatos doesn’t even show up in the company records until he appeared on Bandomeer.”

“Revenue-based financing,” Obi-Wan muttered.

They turned to him.

“Huh?” Quinlan asked.

Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan explained his theory about Offworld receiving external funding in exchange for a percentage of future revenue. “It would explain why the earnings reports are so high every quarter, especially if there is a way for them to fix their prices.”

Master Tholme rubbed his jaw. “Return on their investment,” he ran a rough hand through Obi-Wan’s hair. “Good job, kid.”

“But how did Xanatos have the credits to even get involved with Offworld?” Quin asked. “He’s an ex-padawan, we’re not exactly flush with dough!”

Master Kit hummed. “Reports stated that after his father’s rule was overthrown, Xanatos fled with the remnants of the Telosian treasury.”

“Just how much was that?” Master Tholme asked.

The answer was a little under three billion credits.

Quin whistled. “You could buy a lot with that many credits.”

“Like a lucrative position in one of the galaxy’s oldest and richest mining companies?” Obi-Wan asked.

Master Kit leaned forward. “But why would Xanatos waste his fortune on a world like Bandomeer, its major export is azurite?” He picked up a pad. “Offworld has thousands of more lucrative worlds, why that one?”

The letter.

Obi-Wan looked up. “Because Master Jinn was there.”

Yaddle hummed. “Sure you are?” She asked, watching as Tholme pushed a red-headed youngling forward.

His padawan, Quinlan, was shooting the boy an encouraging smile.

“Um, we d-don’t have corroborating evidence m-master,” Initate Kenobi stuttered. “B-but our intelligence d-does support our theory.”

Barely two weeks with Tholme and his padawan, and already the boy was thinking like a shadow. Yaddle was not going to let Yoda get his claws on this one.

“And Xanatos?” Master Vilbum asked.

Kit stepped forward, a hand on little Kenobi’s shoulder. “As Obi-Wan has stated,” he shot a warm smile towards the boy, “while corroborating evidence is difficult given Offworld’s history, eye witness accounts place Xanatos planet-side before Jemba’s death and receipts from both the Governor’s Office and Bandor Central Couriers, state he was aware Qui-Gon Jinn had been assigned to Bandomeer as a Guardian of Peace.”

Tyvokka growled. “We investigated the request, and traced it back to the Senator for Naboo’s office. A team has already been assigned to take a deeper look into the senator’s business dealings.”

Yaddle’s old padawan leaned forward, the durasteel of her hair catching the fading rays of Coruscant Prime through the northwest tower’s windows. “Are we able to determine if Xanatos was approached, or did he approach Offworld?” Jocasta asked.

There was a considering hum from the team of shadows. Little Kenobi bit his lip.

“An idea you have?” Yaddle asked. “Speak it, you must.”

Barely flinching at the overly enthusiastic elbow he received from Padawan Vos, Kenobi looked up at Kit.

The Nautolan smiled in response.

Yoda definitely wasn’t getting this one for his lineage. Kylira would tear the grandmaster apart if her lotus flower was denied their tadpole.

Yaddle only felt a bit guilty at the desire to witness the chagrian’s wrath, but she released it to the Force.

“There’s really three things we’d need to ask masters,” the boy said, scratching his cheek.

Yaddle smiled.

“Oh?” Jocasta asked, lips curled in a fascimile of a smile. “What would that be?”

He started ticking off his fingers. “One: Where could Xanatos hold that many credits, without anyone asking questions? Two: If he was approached, who would know he had the credits to spend? Three: If he approached Offworld, who did he know that could easily contact Offworld’s leading directors?”

Padawan Vos crowed with delight while Yaddle’s fellow councillors looked at the boy in shock.

If the boy didn’t have a padawan braid in his hair before this meeting was over, Yaddle was claiming him for herself.

“He’s a bright one, that cub of yours,” Master Tyvokka growled, a smile on his furry face. Although Kenobi flushed, Kit simply grinned, pulling the startled initiate closer in agreement. ”There’s very few financial institutions capable of holding that many of credits,” the Wookiee master mused.

Adi Gallia nodded. “There’s the InterGalactic Bank of Kuat, Niro Eleven, the Bank of Aargau—“

“M-master?” A nervous voice asked.

Kit smiled. “Yes padawan mine?”

Big blue eyes glanced up at him, a lustrous pearl glistening against ginger locks. “W-what if Master Vintari d-doesn’t like me?” Obi-Wan asked, hands fretting with the hem of his sleeve.

Gently, Kit worked his tadpole’s fingers away from the material. Quin had worked on the robe for three weeks, and would be incredibly upset if Obi-Wan managed to wear a hole through the fabric before his first lineage dinner.

“Your grandmaster will love you,” Kit promised, warmth-love-sincerity trailing through their bond.

At the reassurance—both verbally and mentally—his padawan calmed, chemo-signals still a little anxious but not dangerously so.

After checking the boy was ready, Kit knocked.

Almost before his hand left the door, it slid open, revealing an exuberant blue face. “Lotus flower!” Master Ky cried, pulling Kit into a hug. The chagrian Jedi was projecting love-excitement-happiness in the Force, and Kit sent a small wink towards his gobsmacked padawan.

Master Ky, as though sensing where Kit was looking, let him go. Turning to face the red-haired youngling who was trying his best not to melt on the spot, his master beamed. “Tadpole!”

Kit could only watch as his master pulled his padawan into a warm hug, nearly smothering the boy with the sheer flood of emotions she was releasing in the Force. Without letting go of her grandpadawan, Master Ky dragged him inside.

“Oh you’re so sweet, look at you!” Master Ky crooned, oblivious to Obi-Wan’s mounting anxiety. “You’re precious. Lono!” She cried, gesturing to Kit’s lineage-aunt, “Come take a look at my sea-anemone!” She turned back to Obi-Wan with an expectant look. “Do you like pakarna?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Obi-Wan nodded.

”Sheev Palpatine—the Senator for Naboo—has been arrested on charges of racketeering, conspiracy to commit mass fraud, and insider trading,” A pretty pantoran chimed, flashing a smile to the camera before holding up a hand to the comm at his ear. ”In other news, Offworld Mining Corporation, one of the oldest and richest mining companies in the galaxy has filed for bankruptcy after allegations of slave labor and corporate espionage were leveled against Offworld executive Xanatos du’Crion. du’Crion, a former Jedi-padawan, took control of the company’s Bandomeer portfolio—”

With a huff, Darth Plagueis flicked his hand. The screen shattered.

Chapter Text