Green Fields of Home

[Amos Iakona]

Jedi Academy, Ossus

A frown of concentration furrowed Amos' brow as he mustered his focus, staring out through his closed eyes at the world the Force showed to him. It was like watching the ocean, but only being able to see the waves: perceiving the shape and placement of the rocks only from the foam as the sea crashed against them. The waters shifted, as he willed them to, shapes moving across the surface like the shadows of ships. One boat slid into another; components settling into the places where they belonged. The flotilla swirled and twisted, the many shapes coalescing into a simple, uniform singular. There was a click; a sound of completion.

Amos' eyes opened. The waves vanished. The shape dropped from where it had floated, clunking against the surface of his makeshift desk.

He stared at it, his creation: his first lightsaber. It was an important step; a rite of passage on the road to knighthood. To the uninitiated it was merely a weapon, a laser sword used to devastating effect by the knights of the Jedi Order for centuries. To a Jedi, it was far more. Your lightsaber was a reflection of who you were: one of the few avenues for self expression that the Jedi Code allowed. Every choice was important, and none were taken lightly. The shape of the hilt had to feel comfortable, and match the knight's style. The material needed the right weight and the right heft. The placement and style of the controls. The design; simple or ornate. Some lightsabers represented an aspiration. Some lightsabers represented a memory. Some represented where the Jedi had come from; some where they intended to go.

The hilt that rested before Amos was all of those things, and neither. The design was simple, and as slender as science would allow, built for function over form and more akin to the hilt of a vibroblade than a lightsaber. Long before he had found himself amongst the Jedi, Amos had already been an accomplished swordsman; one of his toughest obstacles was to unlearn what he had learned, to regard the lightsaber as something new rather than simply treating it as a sword with a more effective blade. Rather than challenge his flaw he had chosen to embrace it: the earliest Jedi had learned to adapt from swords to 'sabers, and thus the first form, Shii-Cho, had been born. Amos embraced that form, and tailored his lightsaber into a lesson: a weapon on the cusp between the old and the new, to remind him to always adapt.

The metalwork was dull but robust: burnished durasteel, rather than the dull warmth of wood or the polished sheen of a more expensive metal. It was no ordinary durasteel however, but rather the remains of a battle scarred hull plate, salvaged from the Astral Queen, the ship that had been home for many years. More than just nostalgia, the Queen's hull was a reminder of the years he had spent escaping from his past, fleeing from his life as an Imperial before fate and the Force had led him to the Rebellion, and then here. The grip too was in a similar vein, wrapped in fabric torn from the lining of his old Scout Trooper uniform. Amos reached out, fingers wrapping around the hilt, keeping a grip on his past.

The activation stud was an aspiration: small and recessed, it required accuracy and concentration to find and use. His lightsaber was not a weapon that could be activated without thought; not a weapon compatible with his flawed and quick-to-anger nature. To become a Jedi he would have to leave that part of himself behind, or at least keep it under calm control; and so to activate the weapon that would so readily identify him as such, he would need to exhibit the same.

Most profound and personal of all however was what lay within. With cautious reverence Amos rose to his feet, and stepped towards the centre of the room. Embedded at the core of the weapon was something Amos would never have expected. The crystal was a sight he had seen a thousand times over, an innocuous stone that his mother had worn on a simple chord around her neck for as long as he could remember. He'd never thought anything of it, just a harmless accessory that his father had suggested he keep as a way to remind him of her. Amos' surprise when he had discovered that the crystal was pure enough to focus the energy of his lightsaber was profound: for one of the first times since he had become aware of his sensitivity to the Force, he truly felt as if it had a will that was acting. The prospect that the Force had great plans that even remotely involved him was troubling; instead he merely chose to believe that somehow, the Force had a certain sense of sentimentality.

The power stud depressed, and the lightsaber burst into life, violet plasma humming and crackling as the air collided against it. Amos watched as his hands made a few careful motions; the blade sang in satisfaction at being awake and alive. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the memory that explained the poetic convenience of it all played through his mind. He had been just a child, back home on Naboo, playing witness to a rare parade of soldiers from the Gungan cities beneath the swamps. He remembered vividly the way their energy shields had rippled into life, the purple waves of energy a clear contrast to the greens and blues of the land and sky, and yet somehow comfortably at home within them. He recalled an account of Master Windu at the Battle of Geonosis, a purple blade at home amongst the blue and green of his fellow Jedi. He dwelt on the challenge that his instructors strove to help him overcome: to regard the lightsaber as a shield as well as a sword; to use it to parry, deflect, and reflect anything an opponent might throw at him. It all fit, all slotted together into a singular whole as neatly and perfectly as his lightsaber had. Too much to be coincidence then; and while Amos was unsure of what to call it, he did not deny that it was.

Amos swept the lightsaber through a few slow arcs in front of him. Not bad, he mused to himself. Not bad at all.

[Desmond Nil’vak]

"Quite an interesting choice of colour." The voice had spoken from the doorway in a hushed, even tone as if the barer of it was unused to the sound it produced, or perhaps simply that he felt shame at having chosen to allow words to penetrate the sound of a new blade with its creator's approval.

Poor people skills could be attributed to all of it, but mostly it came from the simple fact that Desmond was making a concerned effort to interact with the others at the Jedi Temple. His arrival had come shortly after the new home of the Jedi Order had been established, but his journey there had started a far greater time ago. Fate wasn't exactly the word that the man would choose to use, his would be a more graceful acceptance of the Will of Ashla. It had been weaving around his life since as a child, barely past his sixth birthday that he was left at the Monastery on Dantooine that was to become his home. He had not been so alone then, though while Desmond had taken everything the Brotherhood had to heart such was not the fate for the younger of the two brothers. The twisting powers of Bogan had wormed their way into the very nature of the man that Desmond had once swore to protect and keep after. That too was simply accepted, though not without the unavoidable sensations of guilt that the elder that had failed not only the brother who was linked by birth, but those who were linked by faith. Two boys, blessed by the gifts of the Force, forever separated by their beliefs.

It had been almost a year since he had discovered the remains of all he had known burned to nothing but ash and glowing coals and several months since he had been raised up from the ruins and brought among those who saw the Light similarly to how he had always believed. Quiet meditation had taken up most hours until one of the elders of the Order had suggested that Desmond attempt to adapt more towards the path that Ashla had now lain before him. He could not remain within the archives and his dormitory alone. It was even suggested that he seek out someone to further educate him in the ways of The Force and its applications, but Desmond still had difficulties believing he was even marginally worthy of possessing the ability to be in-tune with the very life force of the Galaxy. It was, as best as he could word it, an arduous task that he felt not nearly ready for but one he could no longer question. So the smallest of steps was taken, the barest of words spoken, if only to understand another that had not lived the same life as he that had been called upon such duty.

"My sincerest apologies," he offered. "I did not mean to disturb you."

[Amos Iakona]

Amos eased his thumb against the power stud, and the lightsaber fell silent. He turned, and mustered not a smile: but at least the closest approximation that his stoic features regularly managed.

The last vestiges of the Jedi Order and it's successors that had gathered here on Ossus were an ironic assortment given the name: far too chaotic and varied to ever be considered a Jedi Order. Even the temple they had adopted, a relic of a bygone era, had become wild and untamed after centuries of neglect, and Amos could not imagine how it could possibly be turned into the kind of monument of rebirth and rebuilding that the Jedi hoped. Then again, his mind reminded as it dredged from the historical studies to which Amos had been subjected, many would have said the same about the ruins of Tython when the Jedi had returned there nearly four millennia ago. The Force was life, and apparently it could breathe new life into even the deadest of ruins.

Amos considered himself one of the least orderly of the Jedi refugees that were trying to build a home here: not a disparaging reflection upon his skills or self for a change, but rather an assessment of who he had been in the years before he'd found his way to the Wheel. A soldier and sceptic to his core, Amos felt more at home in the wilderness beyond the temple than he did inside it. To him, the solitude, isolation, and reflection that Ossus allowed felt more like hiding: perhaps not from the Empire any more, thanks to the peace that the Alliance had brokered, but certainly from duty and obligation. The Jedi were supposed to be the defenders of peace, law, and order, and yet here they were hiding in ruins doing little to defend even themselves, let alone such lofty ideals.

He was not the only one who seemed or felt out of place however; and he felt a certain kinship with the mutually exceptional Desmond. In the past, Amos would have relished being isolated and alone; but lately the appeal had been scoured away from that notion.

"And you didn't," Amos replied, the gruffness of his voice merely the natural product of his vocal chords rather than the result of any negative emotion, "So no apologies are necessary."

He gestured towards an overturned cargo crate that approximated a makeshift chair, but remained standing himself for a few moments longer, his eyes contemplating the air where the lightsaber blade had been a few moments before. "I read somewhere that the colour of a Jedi's lightsaber used to mean something," he explained quietly. "Blue, yellow, green; all representing the kind of knight you were, the way you and the Force worked together, the role you played in the galaxy."

He shrugged, a single breath of laughter creeping out. "Didn't feel like I fit with any of them, so I found something a little different. Lucky for me, I had an old souvenir from someone who meant - means - a lot. Lucky coincidence that I was able to use it; gives me a way to have a little piece of her always with me."

[Desmond Nil’vak]

As his fellow trainee spoke Desmond slowly walked towards the crate that had been offered as a place to rest, but given Desmond's more scholarly pursuits since arriving at the Compound he opted to remain in his current predicament; one could only remain seated for so long before they became restless. It had always been a fault of his at the Brotherhood. The other coenobites had mastered sitting still for hours on end, able to be at peace with their seemingly infinite patience. Only he and one other ever seemed to have the problem of endless fidgeting as if something within them demanded action. Desmond had learned to internalize such impulses, letting his mind do the wandering his body often could not - if only to recite lengths of work he had memorized over the years. Not the most exciting pursuits, but he had been determined in his discipline if nothing else.

For the moment though, his attention was fully on Iakona and he felt a pang of something. He did not want to call it envy, for it wasn't nearly that strong. Nor was it regret for what might have been, it just simply was. There was no halting the sense that he wished he could relate in such a way, to have something physical to remember those who had been important in forming the man he now was. Desmond found himself once more unable to keep the image of the young man whose features echoed his own from his thoughts, focusing upon the smile that had once been full of dignity that had turned to malice. He still could not pinpoint exactly when that had changed...

Desmond forced himself to push the thought from his mind and give a small nod. "It suits you, I think. The past helps to shape us, good or bad. It's seems providential that you can carry on her memory in such a way."

[Amos Iakona]

The sentiment carried across with ease, but Amos couldn't help a small smile at the florid language with which Desmond always expressed himself. It was a side effect of nurture, imposed upon him by the quasi-religious surroundings in which he had been raised: a stark contrast to the grunt and gruff people Amos had grown up with. Many people might - and did - find it frustrating or unnerving, but Amos found it strangely reassuring. Others distanced themselves from the odd monk from Dantooine, but for some reason Amos found him strangely reassuring.

"I understood maybe thirty percent of what you just said," Amos teased with a good-natured grin, carefully attaching his lightsaber to his belt. The new weight felt strange and yet reassuring: he'd worn training 'sabers before, and had carried blasters most of his life, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was because he'd fashioned the weapon himself; perhaps it was the sentiment behind it; perhaps it was simply a matter of what it represented. Either way, with it fastened to his belt, Amos felt himself stand a little taller.

He watched as Desmond did his usual routine of not sitting and trying not to fidget; restlessness was another common trait between the two of them, though they handled it differently. Restless frustration seemed to fill Desmond with energy, whereas Amos was more inclined towards suffering in slumped silence, and testing to see whether or not the Force granted I wish I was somewhere else requests.

"Come on," he chuckled, crossing the room in a few quick strides to clap Desmond on the shoulder. "I'm famished. Lets go eat."

[Desmond Nil’vak]

Ah yes, another item on the list of many that Desmond was finding alarmingly difficult to adjust to - making ones own schedule. While there was a certain arrangement of time that most others within the Temple seemed to allow to dictate their actions while awake, there still was only a vague sense of when things were to occur. Meals, perhaps, had been the hardest to gauge. There had been tones back at the monastery, bells that chimed and sang out harmonies that spoke of when such things were to take place. Here, on Ossus, there was no such indicator and while the dining area never was at a lack of food or individuals it seemed, it was oft times that Desmond found himself failing to remember to actually go there. It had been a rather unexpected moment of lightheadedness and the realization that his hands were shaking so much he could barely hold a datapad that had had forced Desmond to realize he had gone his first two days at the Temple without eating - it wasn't a mistake he planned on repeating but more often than not he would have to rouse himself from being lost in thought to force himself to care for needs other than spiritual.

An agreeable smile and a nod of his head formed Desmond's reply - he never had been a man of many words, something else that he was attempting to cure to become more appropriate by others standards. Iakona seemed of similar mind at times, only his words held the weight of one who seemed to know their potential value. It was remarkable how vastly different and yet alike two individuals could be.

Desmond found himself falling into step next to the more experienced Padawan as they headed towards the refectory. "Might I inquire as to what prompted you to construct your lightsaber at this time? I've only found that it is to be expected, but I fear texts are rather unspecific as to when exactly in one's training that is."

[Amos Iakona]

It was strange, hearing a question like that levelled at him with utter seriousness.

Anyone else in the reconstituted Jedi Order looked at him and saw anything but a Jedi. He lacked the discipline, he lacked the focus, he lacked the mild manner that was such an archetypical component of what most of the galaxy thought a Jedi should be. He couldn't even grasp certain basics, his mind to stubborn and set in it's ways to perform iconic feats like deflecting blaster bolts; he swung like he was trying to hit a ball with a bat, not brush aside danger with ease.

Desmond new none of that. Desmond had no cause to see a distinction between Amos and the other Jedi, because to him they were all equally different from what he had learned to expect. His upbringing had sheltered him from those conceptions and notions; he was one of the few people on Ossus who Amos didn't feel he had to prove himself to with every action.

"Before the Purge," Amos answered, filtering through the half-remembered Jedi lore that he'd researched himself to find this very same answer, "Young Jedi would travel to secret locations to seek out their crystal and construct their lightsaber, before they had even been selected to be taken as Padawan. It was a transition, setting aside the training blade of a Youngling in exchange for a genuine weapon. Normally it was something that occurred at the decree of the Jedi Council, but -"

He trailed off, a frown forming on his brow.

"I don't know. I guess it just felt like the right time."

Leaving that notion to linger, Amos led them out through the weave of corridors and prefabricated buildings into the shadow of the temple ruins, and the scattered commune that had become the Jedi's new home; for now, at least. It was supposed to be a bold step, putting down roots on this world with all it's ancient heritage and significance, but Amos found believing it a struggle. The Jedi had made a home on Vortex. They'd made a home within the Wheel. Just as there, there was no feeling of permanence here; not yet at least. Nothing had been done that could not be undone; nothing had been put in place that could not be swept away or taken with them the next time their exodus continued.

It was apt though, he supposed; an Order in ruins seeking refuge in ruins.

The door to the commissary swung open as the two Padawans entered, an all too familiar sight meeting Amos' gaze. No matter where you were or what company you were in, whether it was Scout Troopers on Naboo, SpecForce on Bothawui, or apparently the cocktail of Alliance Engineers and Jedi here on Ossus: put a few bench tables in a room, set up a station to serve passably edible food, and the scene winds up just the same. New people played the same roles, fell into the same social clusters, sat in the same groups, laughed at the same jokes with different words -

This, Amos mused with a sense of nostalgia, feeling more at peace here in this familiarity than he did anywhere else on this world. This feels like home.

Then, amidst the pleasant chaos, his gaze settled upon something else that was much less pleasantly familiar. She looked a little different than the last time he'd seen her - longer hair, more curls, less space hobo chic - but undeniably it was the same girl who stood sentry in front of the canteen, carefully ladling food into a segmented tray that was balanced atop the headpiece of an even more familiar droid. First his cousin had misappropriated the damn thing; now her.

His body tensed.

"Stay perfectly still," he uttered in a hushed tone to Desmond. "If we don't move, maybe she won't see us."

[Cleo Némain]

Of all the moments that Cleo liked best, lunch was on top of the list. Okay, maybe it came just under that moment when she first woke up and saw the sun shining because when back on The Wheel the suns were all stars and you didn't get that pretty rainbowy effect as it broke through some clouds when it came up over a mountain. Cleo always made sure to watch it. Just like she always made sure to watch when the sun went down and caused the exact same effect only reverse but somehow the colors were all different. Mornings were pink and purple, evenings turned orange and then blue and then black. Okay so lunch was number three then, definitely number three behind sunrises and sunsets and watching other Jedi train and trying to focus on her own powers that just didn't want to seem to work like everyone else's and those moments when she just ran on the dirt outside the compound because it felt good and even better when you got to a grassy place and took off your shoes and could feel the plant matter squish under toes and felt like you actually were connected to something because she hadn't seen that sort of thing before because Nar Shaddaa and all the ships on The Wheel didn't have grass. Yes, lunch came right after that. Maybe it was beaten out by breakfast. Pancakes are amazing.

Despite what everyone else seemed to think of the food, Cleo liked it because it had been made for them. Even if it was more out of necessity than the kind of homecooking that people swore tasted better because of secret love ingredients. Didn't matter to her. So she always took a little bit of everything. Little being the key word. She wasn't a giant towering person like...

Cleo felt a twinge. Something. Like a small gnat had buzzed by her ear but the buggie was now no where to be seen and so she looked up from Tripples who was being kind enough to hold onto her tray and across the others and spotted...

"Mos Mos!"

She waved, because that was what you did when you saw someone who was your friend - even if they didn't know it yet. Aside from him just being there she noticed something new. He was brighter. The colors that swirled around him had added something to them. Purpleish inner glow to the normal rusty earthy tones that Mos Mos had. It looked better that way, another piece of a puzzle that was fitting into its right and proper place so that the edges were coming together and you could start really putting in the filling. The big guy wasn't alone though, standing next to him was another of the Bright Spots that she had come across sometimes in hallways and the occasional group class. He'd always stuck to the side but Cleo noticed him, noticed the faint yellowish whiteish spark. It was like a candle that was flickering because the wind kept blowing on it and wouldn't let up and wouldn't let it grow any bigger but the flame wasn't orangeish at all because it burned hot but not too hot. Cleo somehow knew it was because he was smothering it for one reason or another. People did that sometimes, she'd seen it in a mirror every so often when it came to her own coppery colored sparkles that wove around her like pixies or fireflies.

"Uhh..." She looked at her tray, decided that was enough food to feed probably four Cleos and since she was just one she needed to stop taking so much, and then quickly darted out of the line before waving for her bestest droidy friend to follow. "'Mon Tripples! Gotta fin' a spot tha's got all kinna room f'rra three of us an' you. Tha's your job. 'M gonna grab Mos Mos anna other guy cause nobodies should eat on their onsies. Nah tha' either of us two-pairs are all onna owns, bu' yeah."

Cleo waved Tripples on. "Y'know wha'a mean."

[Trip]

Trip proceeded with the instructions that the Jedi with the broken vocabulator had given, though with considerable less haste than she had mustered.

Considerable processing power was being devoted to analysing the gyroscopic data in the articulated disk-shaped sensor module mounted to the top of his chassis - language recognition protocols flagged the term head as a common organic description of the module - in order to maintain the stable balance of the cargo that Mistress Cleo had placed upon it. It was a considerably more complicated task than it would have initially seemed; a particularly significant issue was Mistress Cleo's haphazard weight distribution, and the fact that the nutritional delivery platform was misaligned almost seven millimetres from the optimal point of balance.

Trip had considered expressing this fact to Mistress Cleo, and requesting her assistance in rectifying his stabilization conundrum; but while Trip was not by programming a protocol droid, he had begun to compile various analysis subroutines based on his observation of typical behaviours by the various models of organics he had encountered since his activation. Various invaluable advances had been made to his software to aid with social integration, including the download and modification of a meteorological analysis packet, the statistical predictions of which seemed essential to the greeting rituals of certain organics. It was a constant source of prediction error that organic units displayed such a broad spectrum of software capabilities: an even more significant probability outlier when the absence of any sort of direct input port required all new protocols to be compiled based only on visual and auditory data streams.

It was the conclusion of Trip's self-programmed protocol suite that the organic unit Mistress Cleo might suffer a comprehension error in regards to a request for stabilization assistance, which might in turn trigger an unintended exception from her emotional subroutines. Based on observations of organic behaviours, he had noted that acceptance of a task, such as his role as nutritional courier, generally severed the initiating party from any obligation towards ensuring it's completion, and attempts to reverse the process transfer often provoked a negative feedback situation. Though Trip had no desires in a literal sense, he had classified triggering negative emotional responses from Mistress Cleo - and any other organic units - as the lowest possible priority, and had set the avoidance of such situations to one of the highest.

As Trip trundled through the nutritional distribution complex, he was forced to rely on passive sensors to survey the allocation of seating, his active sensors unfortunately locked in a forward-facing direction due the cargo platform balanced atop his sensor module. Fortunately, The Maker had equipped his chassis with a variety of useful systems; a small ancillary sensor dish had extended from behind a concealed panel, and was in the process of blasting his surroundings with harmless waves of electromagnetic radiation to construct a virtual image of what his active sensors could not currently perceive. Analysis software identified a candidate location; a stretch of table containing several seats on both sides to facilitate the most mathematically shrewd distribution of organic units; and separated by 3.73 metres from the nearest cluster of humanoids so as to allow the organics to obey the base programming function that required them to disperse themselves with as much distance between social clusters as the space allowed. It was a noteworthy distinction between cybernetic and organic units: droids were programmed to cluster into the smallest and most efficient volume possible, akin to the molecules in solid matter; the majority of organic units on the other hand obeyed more gaseous dispersion laws, expanding to fill whatever volume was available.

Marking the chosen location as his target destination, Trip ran more calculations, factoring in the height of the table and the approximate weight of the laiden nutritional delivery platform. Servos in his forward wheel struts adjusted, increasing the altitude of his sensor module by a small fraction. More power was applied to his drive units, increasing forward velocity for approximately 2.4 seconds; and then the current was suddenly cut, magnetic brakes engaging to bring the unit to an instant halt. Unsecured however, the nutritional delivery platform maintained it's momentum, until friction with the surface of the table brought it to a calculated stop in front of the seat where his analyses concluded Mistress Cleo was most likely to select.

His wheel struts shifted again, raising his sensor module to allow him to sweep an active scan across the table, confirming all of the inferred telemetry he had based his previous calculations on.

"Objective successful," his vocabulator announced, to no one in particular.

[Cleo Némain]

They didn't move. Neither Mos Mos or the candle guy. Was like when someone said that an ikopi was all caught in the oncoming lights of a speeder and suddenly found it couldn't move. Not that Cleo would know, she'd never seen an ikopi. Or driven a speeder. But the look that Mos Mos was giving her was one of those deals where the person was trying oh so hard to look at just about anything but you, whereas candle guy was studying her curiously between confused darting glances back at Mos Mos' direction. Silly boys.

Cleo let herself one tiny moment of stillness. It wasn't quite stillness granted as she had clenched her hands and all but shivered in excitement before she suddenly sprang forth in a walk that wasn't quite a walk but wasn't quite skipping but it definitely wasn't running because you weren't supposed to do that indoors. Either way it came to a stop just in front of both of them and she reached out and suddenly put a tiny bony finger to Mos Mos' chest.

"Ya look diff'ren." The accusing stare melted into a shy smile because Cleo couldn't keep up any sort of pretend game that she was mad at him. "'s nah bad or nothin'. Jus' diff'ren."

Before Mos Mos or his buddy could try and work out any sort of reply to that she was off again, exploding with unrelenting joy at seeing a familiar face. "I got Tripples ta get us a space!" Not even looking at the droid she perfectly pointed right at him. "Sa ya dun hafta go anna look ferra nother space cuzza I got ones all lined up. Been a bit, Mos Mos!"

The pout that suddenly formed on her wasn't faked but maybe was overdone a bit. Cleo wanted him to know she wasn't exactly happy with what she was about to say next. "Tis like yer 'voidin me erra somethin'. Dun do tha'... I dun know manys here anna more keep showin' up an' they wan' nothin' t' do with me anna..."

A deep breath was taken before she bit her lower lip to stop that whole line of thinking. It was sad and Cleo didn't like being sad because being sad usually meant you were afraid of something, even if that something was just being alone. But fear wasn't a good thing, as she'd been told. Fear when it didn't lead to sadness lead to anger or something but of course sadness could also lead to anger towards what caused the sadness in the first place. Either way - it was bad stuff and she wanted nothing to do with it! So with that derailed and crashing somewhere behind her in a pretty fiery explosion that only she could picture happening but could still somehow feel the warmness of the flames that came from it all she snapped her attention on the candle guy.

"Who'se y' friend?" The mischievous grin she had given fell to the wayside quick enough as she looked back to Mos Mos, not hiding the sadness as it slunk all forward thought again. Sadness was bad and all but lying about being sad was far worse. Not that Cleo was sad but it was hard making new friends and Mos Mos was a friend or about the type that she wanted to be her friend and he was always grumpy and she was hoping the quiet candle guy wasn't going to be grumpy too because that was just going to be too much. "Y'nah gonna tell 'im ta go anna 'void me too, are ya?"

[Amos Iakona]

The accusation stung more than Amos expected it to. Perhaps it was the fact that while Cleo uttered it half in jest, her words rang surprisingly true.

He found the girl unsettling, that was probably the best word for it. It wasn't just that her sunny optimism clashed with his gruff and bitter attitude towards life, though that didn't help. It wasn't just that her weird speech patterns and persistent talking grated on his nerves, though they did. It was what she said in between the scatterbrained rambles: those faint whispers of deep and utter perceptiveness that no one, let alone a hyperactive child, should be aware of. In the face of a calm, centred, wizened Jedi, it was easy to grow accustomed to those sorts of things tumbling from their mouth, but for Cleo it was something he couldn't bring himself to get used to.

What stung worse was that he had helped force Cleo into a situation similar to himself. His nature and his attitude kept him isolated, struggling to fit in with the rest of the Jedi; the friendships he had formed with people like Desmond were him gravitating towards similar outliers. Yet, in his short-sightedness, he had intentionally distanced himself from someone else who was exactly the same, and in doing so had helped to compound the loneliness of a young woman who had wanted nothing from him aside from attention and friendship.

More words from Master Aamoran's lessons floated through his mind: Be mindful of what your opponent is thinking, and why; especially when your opponent is yourself.

"No, I'm not."

Amos almost didn't recognise the softness in his voice as he spoke; after so many years of hearing his father's gruff tones escaping his throat, it was strange to hear the gentle cadence of his mother.

"Cleo," he introduced, "This is Desmond Nil'vak. He grew up in a monastery on Dantooine where he learned about the Force a totally different way than the rest of us. You should ask him about it, sometime; I think you'd actually find it pretty interesting. And Desmond -"

He hesitated, something strange and unfamiliar happening to his lips; an involuntary smile of a kind that he hadn't mustered in longer than he remembered.

"- this is my friend Cleo Némain. And if I'm honest -"

He let a hand gently rest on her shoulder.

"- I've kinda missed her being around."

[Cleo Némain]

Cleo beamed. Well, Cleo always kinda did beam because that's just what she did. Smiling came easy for her and she never really had to fake it because there was no sense in faking stuff especially if you genuinely could find something to be happy about almost all the time. But those smiles were different from the one she now had because this one, THIS one was full of all sorts of unexpectedness. Mos Mos was gruff but she didn't mind but Cleo definitely liked this side of him, it made his colors shift again and become a tiny bit brighter. So needless to say that as soon as his hand came to rest on her shoulder she squeaked a little before suddenly plunging forward and wrapped her arms around the big guy in a really tight hug because everyone knows that tight hugs are the best kind.

"Missed y' too!"

She didn't let go of Mos Mos as she looked over at the Candle Guy that Mos Mos had introduced her to. A squint came to her as she looked at him, forming the right thing in her head before it escaped. "An' hi Dessles. 'M glad y' nah onna Dantoolan' no mores."

[Desmond Nil’vak]

The entire exchange utterly vexed him and it wasn't entirely due to the girl's accent. He had never met anyone so exuberant in his life. Even the flicker of doubt that had crossed the girls features contained a boundless energy that was entirely incomprehensible. All in all, it had stunned Desmond into silence as he attempted to simply comprehend her. It wasn't until Amos made the introductions that he managed to pull himself from the contemplation. His attention snapped back to the current scene and he gave a small nod at Cleo.

"I'm quite glad myself that I am no longer there, all things considered." Dessles? He couldn't even begin to formulate his opinion on the girls' seemingly chosen nick name for him or to decide whether to be flattered that she had given him one so quickly. "And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cleo."

The fact the girl seemed to defy possibility and somehow managed to smile even greater was another thing that baffled him in that moment, but the thought could not be held on to for long. Desmond felt strange, and a glance away from the tiny red haired girl hugging Amos to the rest of the mess hall proved why. Many eyes had settled on the trio and an overall hush had seemed to envelop the room. Apparently Cleo's outburst had been enough to attract enough attention of those nearby. Suddenly finding himself within the target range of unexpected attention was decidedly uncomfortable, Desmond decided.

"Perhaps it would be best if we moved along?" A casual glance was directed towards the serving area. "I believe we are becoming a bit of an exhibition..."

[Amos Iakona]

Amos couldn't remember the last time someone had clung to him the way that Cleo now did; he wasn't sure if anyone ever had. It flooded him with the strangest mixture of thoughts and emotions. Panic came first, then reluctance at her complete ignorance of the carefully cultivated air of threat that Amos used to stop anyone from getting too close. Each passing second eroded and corroded his resolve however, and by the time that Desmond suggested that they move, his reluctance had mutated, now aimed solely at the notion of her stopping.

With far more effort than he felt he should have needed, Amos adjusted his expression into one of mild frustration, and turned it on Desmond. "Grab me something?" he asked, an arm unconsciously settling itself around Cleo. "Nothing that's green, and nothing that's still moving, if there's a choice. I need to -"

To what? Amos knew the sort of thing that he was supposed to say; some gruff disparaging remark. Something about going to see what Cleo had done with his droid, given how, despite having been left in his custody by his real owner, Trip seemed far more interested in spending his time with anyone but him. Some allusion to finding a crowbar to prize off the mynock that had attached himself to him. Some false claim that made it seem like he wasn't actually glad of the sentiment; that it didn't mean the world to him that someone, regardless of who, was actually this glad to see him. Something to pretend that on this weird planet, surrounded by all these weird Jedi, in this weird new life for himself that he wasn't even sure he'd done the right thing by choosing, it didn't actually mean something that there was a person who seemed glad he was here. That was what everyone would have expected Amos Iakona to say. That's what he would have, should have said. But for once he didn't want to. For once he didn't feel inclined to growl at everyone and keep them at arm's length. For once he was just glad to have a friend.

"- get a head start on being a less terrible friend," he decided on, the arm around Cleo squeezing a little. "We'll be wherever the little droid went. I'm not exactly hard to spot."

[Cleo Némain]

Cleo looked up just enough to see Candlish Dessles give some sort of nod that looked like he was all sorts of confused but not really confused but maybe thinking he was but actually knew everything all along under everything... and then he was heading into the line of foodstuffs which was good because everybody should eat. Was a struggle for some peoples and what with the Jedi being nice enough to make sure everyone didn't starve it was really something no one should avoid no longer. But that looked like it was settled which meant... Oh! Right! Mos Mos! Like Cleo could really go and forget about him, not with him actually not trying to step away or make some sorta excuse to run off or anything else.

"Wha's this bouts bein' a terribles friend? Who y' bein' terribles ta, Mos Mos? I dun think tis anyones. Nah like y' capa-cape-capilb... Nah like y' can bez. Nah you. Others maybes, bu' y're nah like tha'." She was certain, just certain he'd made a mistake about that sort of thing.

Even if Mos Mos had been bad to someone it wasn't her. Maybe he'd been terrible towards Dessles somehow? Or maybe Tripples? Nah, still couldn't be true. She figured maybe some food would set him right, then. Your brain didn't work so good when it was hungry, after all.

[Amos Iakona]

Something flickered in Amos' expression, a hint of a smile that was sad, but not really. What was Cleo's deal? Was she just plain incapable of thinking anything negative about anyone? Somehow he doubted it, and for some reason that made him feel... strange. It was one thing to know you were gruff and acerbic, and that people only ever grew to like you if they were really determined about it, or were basically left with no other choice. That always left you feeling as if friendship was precarious and fleeting, though. One wrong move, and they could be gone; only two ways to react to a possibility like that. Either you spend your days crippled with anxiety, in fear of the inevitable that you've already decided you can't do anything about; or you just surrender to it, and stop caring. Just accept that people come and go.

If it could happen with Jaden, it could happen with anybody. Hurt less when they left you if you trained yourself not to care.

Cleo though, this was something different. It felt like getting on her bad side was impossible. At first it had seemed annoying, as if no matter what he tried, Amos wouldn't be able to be rid of her; but now? Now it felt like a blessing. Her attachment to people felt more like gravity than friendship: no matter how far you went or how fast you got there, eventually, inevitably, gravity was going to get it's paws on you again, and there was nothing you could do about it. The same way he surrendered to the inevitability of people eventually leaving, maybe he should surrender to this, too.

"Okay," he muttered; was that a little bit of embarrassment in that modest expression, too? "Be a better friend, then."

He offered her a shrug.

"Aren't many people around who seem to like me," he pointed out, as if it was just a casual observation, no big deal. "Need to spend more time with the people that do, when I find them."

[Cleo Némain]

"Well 'en ye's founded two atta leas'!" Cleo nodded because she was sure of that fact.

It was a fact. She liked Mos Mos and Dessles seemed to like Mos Mos and so that was two. Tripples made three so at least was correct in numbers too. There HAD to be more out there as well. She'd met some of them when she first came to the Wheel. There'd been that piloty guy and some other folks, weren't there? Yes. Yes there was. So at least two was correct and good.

Dessles was off getting foodstuffs for him and Mos Mos so Cleo grabbed her friend's hand and tugged him off towards the table that Tripples had picked out. It was a good table too, not too far centered and in the middle of everything but not all up against one wall to be all grump either. Just to be sure she gave it a small shove with her foot when they were close enough. It didn't move, not even one bit. That was perfect. Though tables with a little wobble were fun sometimes because they had character, it was better for most people when they were good tables and sat nice and still.

She scrambled into place in front of the tray of food that Tripples had delivered for her. The food was poked at with her fork, not because she was testing it or grossed out by it - though that happened sometimes - more just idleness happening until Dessles got back because eating when others weren't wasn't good manners.

"Sa' wha' ye's been upta? Learnin' stuffs?? They dun let me learn a lot. Mas'er Navi is alla business alla times anna th' classes are t' big fer mes normally. I fell sleepy las' time I tried! I dinna wanna bu' was alla talks an' 'istories bu' nah stories an... 'mma bad padathin'"

[Amos Iakona]

In a whirlwind of casual affection and friendliness that Amos was absolutely sure was misplaced, the man-wookiee found himself seated at the table under unexpected interrogation and scrutiny from Cleo. This was another aspect of friendship that Amos was neither familiar nor comfortable with. With Jaden, there hadn't been any need for small talk: they were pretty much around each other 24/7 for the entire decade or so they'd known each other, there was no mystery about what the other did... bowel movements and fornication included. Then there was Desmond, who he supposed was a friend of a sort, but their conversations centred more on their training and the lessons that they had learned than on themselves. This idea of sharing? Of talking about himself for any stretch of time? The discomfort was deep, and left Amos feeling like he'd rather pull shrapnel out of open wounds.

And yet: Cleo. You didn't ignore Cleo, it wasn't possible. You didn't leave her questions unanswered, she just sorta agitated the responses out of you with her hyperactivity; your options were surrender and go with it or hold back and get annoyed when you tell her anyway more or less.

He threw her a lopsided grin. "Let me guess. Jedi History with Master Aamoran, huh?"

Carefully he snuck a hand over to the edge of Cleo's tray and swiftly swiped a small bean-like lump of green, flicking it upwards with his thumb and catching it effortlessly in his mouth before Cleo had the opportunity to protest.

"Don't think you're the only one who struggles to stay awake in his classes. He's an alright guy, I guess, but when he starts talking about that Ari-whatever woman and her stupid ancient proverbs, my eyes just sorta glaze over." A slight frown tugged at his brow, a momentary thought flitting across the front of his mind. "Not Desmond though, he seems to love that sorta stuff."

[Cleo Némain]

How did he do that? Was it a Force trick??

Cleo picked up one of the beans from her tray and tossed it into the air, one eye closing because you didn't want to end up with a bean-eye but you had to keep one open so it could see what you were doing and her mouth opened and she darted towards the object but it refused to cooperate. It was supposed to go in her mouth! Not bounce off her cheek and go rolling on the floor. Tricky beans. They couldn't be trusted, Cleo decided. She'd have to keep an eye on the rest on the tray so they didn't go getting the idea of joining their cohort on the floor.

"Ah like when he talks 'bout 'er. She sounds all kinds'a pretty anna smar' an' likka for'in' cookie sorta dealie."

Cleo skewered a lone bean with one of the prongs of her fork and immediately felt bad for now it pierced the poor thing. It didn't deserve that. Bad enough it was going to get all mashed with her teeth, it didn't need to be poked through firsthand! She glanced up at Mos Mos to see if he was aware of the misconduct, but he seemed blissfully unaware. That was good, she didn't want him to know that she'd done the bean wrong. It was lifted to her mouth where she quickly whispered an apology before popping it into her mouth.

Like was proper, Cleo made sure to finish eating and swallowing before going back to talking.

"An' 'course Dessles likes it. He wassa scrib scribe thin'." Her voice lowered so that only Mos Mos could hear "Then e'erybody turned all ashy an' he came 'ere. Needsta stop 'urtin' 'imself fer it, though." Cleo glanced conspiratorially over at Dessles. He hadn't told her none of that and she wasn't quite sure he would be so happy with her telling Mos Mos. They were all friends though and there shouldn't be secrets around friends, even if you didn't want to admit stuff. 'Specially stuff that others could help you make feel better about.

"Nah answer question, though. What'chu been up ta? They don' let me play witha ligh'sabers anna such yet. Say 'm too reckless."

[Amos Iakona]

Ashy. It took a moment for Amos' mind to process what that might mean; and then the sudden gravity of it hit him like being wrenched from hyperspace like a black hole. Not that Amos had ever pried, but no wonder Desmond never said much about where he'd come from. No wonder he was so quiet and restrained. Something as horrific as that in your past, emotions must have pretty much been a liability when you tried to keep it together.

Cleo's continued interrogation stopped him from dwelling on those thoughts for too much longer. Amos didn't know what to say. He didn't think of his day in terms of notable things that occurred; life just happened, it was a thing that you just tolerated and soldiered on with. Aside from routine boring classes, failing miserably at most of the complex Force skills they tried to teach him, glowering at the infant Padawans to see if he could get any of them to run away, wondering where his little cousin Wyl had got to -

"- I made my lightsaber today."

He heard himself say the words before he even really thought about them. Here was the kind of thing you were supposed to share: those little feats that you felt quietly proud about. Normally Amos wouldn't have drawn attention to it - attention was something he hated, hence his aura of standoffishness to encourage people to avoid and ignore him as much as possible - but now was probably the time. It'd save him having to think of something new to talk about for a few minutes, at least.

Carefully he unhitched the hilt from his belt, and settled it almost reverently onto the table beside him. "It's not much," he admitted, suddenly feeling a little self conscious about showing it to Cleo at all, "But it's mine."