Chapter 3: Lessons in Misconduct
The Jedi classroom was the most peaceful place in the galaxy.
Which meant it was designed to crush the soul of every child inside.
The walls were smooth and gently curved, with dimmable light panels and a full 360-degree sound field calibrated to promote "receptive learning." The seats were arranged in concentric circles like we were about to perform a ritual or be judged by a tribunal. Probably both.
The instructor was a human Knight named Master Solin, and she had the calm, focused voice of someone who had not been raised around Mandalorians, explosions, or me.
"This morning," she said, "we'll continue with galactic civics, followed by Jedi ethics, and then Temple history before midday meal."
The chorus of "yes, Master" was murmured with robotic devotion. I said nothing. I was busy balancing a stylus on my nose.
Ahsoka elbowed me.
Rude.
I dropped the stylus onto my datapad and gave her my most innocent expression.
"Pay attention," she whispered.
"I am. I'm absorbing the lesson through osmosis."
She didn't dignify that with a reply.
...
Master Solin gestured and the holoprojector lit up, showing a calm blue map of the Republic's Core Worlds.
"Who can tell me why Coruscant holds both symbolic and practical power within the Senate?"
Hands went up. Everyone wanted to impress her.
I did not raise my hand. I answered anyway.
"Because it's the only planet where politics, money, and crime live together in a beautiful, dysfunctional space triangle."
Pause.
Solin stared at me for a second.
"Ben," she said carefully, "please only speak when called upon."
"Right. Sorry. That was just a vibe-based answer. I'll wait next time."
...
We moved on to Jedi ethics, which, in fairness, sounded exciting—but was mostly just memorizing the same three principles in increasingly vague wording. "Service to others. Harmony with the Force. Selflessness of spirit." Which are all great concepts if you're a monk with no hobbies.
"Why don't Jedi vote?" I asked, halfway through the second slide.
Solin blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Well, like—if the Jedi are peacekeepers, and peacekeepers operate under the authority of the Republic Senate, shouldn't we vote on laws? Or at least influence policy? Seems like it'd make more sense than sitting in a tower going 'hmm yes the war is troubling.'"
Several kids gasped.
Ahsoka slapped a hand over her face.
Solin's smile stayed frozen in place like a carefully chilled dessert. "That's… a complicated question."
"It feels like a simple one."
"Well," she said slowly, "Jedi serve as neutral agents of the Force. We do not hold political positions, lest we become entangled in agendas."
"So the answer is 'yes,' we're powerful enough to make a difference, but we choose not to because it's awkward."
She blinked. "We believe in leading by example."
"Hm. Cool. Totally clear."
"Ben."
"Yes, Master?"
"…Please take notes."
...
I doodled a senator with four arms holding four briefcases. Then gave him little speech bubbles that said "We value the Jedi's input" and "Please stop breaking our windows."
I moved on to Temple history, which was mostly a bunch of ancient names and battles with very few lightsabers involved. I tried to engage. Really. But when the question came—"What does the Rule of Two mean in Sith philosophy?"—I didn't even hesitate.
"It was invented at a party," I said.
A beat of silence.
Solin squinted. "Pardon?"
"Yeah, some old Sith Lord—Darth… Spiral or Spinach or something—got drunk on power, looked at his apprentices, and thought: 'Two's a good number. Like a buddy system, but mean.'"
Ahsoka looked ready to combust.
"That's not even close to correct," she hissed.
"It's closer than you'd think."
...
Eventually, Master Solin stopped calling on me, which I took as a reward.
But honestly? Underneath all my nonsense, some of it was interesting. The Jedi didn't just fight—they protected trade routes, mediated civil wars, settled disputes that spanned whole systems. They were like diplomats, warriors, and therapists rolled into one… which, honestly, sounded exhausting.
And the Code—stupid as it sometimes sounded—wasn't about never feeling things. It was about what to do with those feelings. Like anger. Sadness. Or the very specific emotional experience of being four feet tall and told you couldn't have a lightsaber yet because "your inner peace is undercooked."
We finished with a short reading on Jedi lineage and the passage of teaching through generations. There was a whole bit about legacy and reverence that I totally skimmed.
"Ben," Solin called, as the class filed out for midday meal.
I paused. "Yes, Master?"
"…I appreciate your curiosity."
That was a dangerous sentence to give me.
She continued, slowly, carefully: "But I encourage you to consider the wisdom in learning before questioning."
"Oh," I said. "I question while I learn. Saves time."
She closed her eyes. Breathed very slowly.
I bowed, as respectfully as I could manage without falling over.
"Thank you for the education," I said, sweetly. "The part where I asked about voting was my favorite."
Then I sprinted for the hallway before she could assign me reflection meditation.
...
Ahsoka caught up with me at the lunch queue, arms crossed.
"You know that someday you're going to be too tall to escape consequences."
"That sounds like a tomorrow problem."
"You're lucky Master Solin didn't feed you to the archives."
I grinned, grabbing a tray. "I don't know, I think she likes me."
"She patted her lightsaber when you said Darth Spinach."
"A show of trust."
"She muttered 'the Council's going to hear about this.'"
"A sign of admiration."
She shook her head.
But she was smiling.
...
Ahsoka Tano took her training blade the way a warrior might accept a gift from a king: reverently, seriously, and with the mild expression of someone trying very hard not to bounce in place from sheer excitement.
She gripped the smooth hilt with both hands, let it hum softly to life—just a focused blue training beam, not a real saber yet, but still—and settled into her opening stance.
It was finally time.
Lightsaber Day.
Most of the initiates around her were still fumbling with foot placement, or shifting nervously like the saber might ignite backward and take out a kneecap. Ahsoka just adjusted her weight forward, knees bent, elbows high, jaw tight with focus.
She had been waiting for this.
Ever since arriving at the Temple—ever since hearing stories about Master Luminara's precision, or Master Windu's unbeatable form—she'd imagined the moment she'd finally hold one.
And she wasn't going to waste it.
Which was why the sound of Ben Kryze humming the Galactic Heroes theme while spinning his blade like a carnival baton was, frankly, unbearable.
"Ben," she hissed.
"What?" he asked, mid-spin. "I'm practicing flair."
"It's not supposed to twirl."
"It could. What if I get surrounded by enemies and need to distract them with interpretive movement?"
She stared.
He smiled. His lightsaber slipped out of his grip and smacked him in the knee.
Ahsoka sighed and turned back to the instructor.
Master Tyee was tall, Togrutan like Ahsoka, but older and more elegant—her montrals curled down like polished stone, and her voice cut like sunlight through still water.
"The blade is not a toy," she said, without looking at Ben. "It is not a dance partner. It is not an accessory. It is a truth."
"Yes, Master," the class chorused.
Ben raised a hand. "What if the truth has a nice rhythm?"
Tyee closed her eyes like she was asking the Force for patience.
Ahsoka didn't even bother looking at him. She just muttered, "You're going to get flung into the ceiling again."
The students fanned out into lines across the dojo floor, matched by height and experience. Ahsoka squared off with a Rodian girl who looked as serious as she felt. They went through the forms slowly—one step at a time. Guard. Cut. Parry. Guard again.
She adjusted her grip instinctively, holding her blade with the emitter slightly angled back—less defensive, more redirective. She didn't know the names of the forms yet, not really, but her hands were already learning.
Shien, a little voice whispered in the back of her head. The path of deflection. The path of return.
Across the mat, Ben was… improvising.
Ahsoka caught sight of him mid-lunge, spinning sideways with far too much enthusiasm, nearly crashing into his sparring partner—a Duros boy who promptly dropped his blade and fled sideways like a startled Tooka.
Ben froze mid-pose, one foot in the air.
"I meant to do that," he called. "That was a test of spatial awareness. He passed."
"Ben Kryze," Master Tyee called. "Form. Now."
"Yes, Master!" he chirped, dropping into a wildly exaggerated ready pose that looked like a cross between fencing and jazz hands.
Tyee rubbed her temples
...
Later, as the class paired off again for flow drills, Ahsoka ended up across from him.
She tried to hide her smirk.
He noticed anyway.
"I have improved," he declared. "Witness my form."
He lunged again—faster than before, surprisingly fluid—then stumbled as his foot caught on his own robe.
Ahsoka grabbed his arm and yanked him upright before he could fully faceplant.
He blinked at her.
"You are the wind beneath my footing," he said solemnly.
"You're holding the hilt too low."
"What?"
She stepped behind him, adjusted his grip with both hands, and nudged his elbow up.
"There," she said. "Better balance. Less risk of smacking yourself in the face."
Ben raised the blade. Tried the move again. Slower. Cleaner.
"…Oh," he said. "That does feel better."
"Told you."
"Do I owe you my life now?"
"You owe me lunch."
"Done."
They stayed like that a beat longer than necessary. Twin sabers buzzing quietly, not yet dangerous—but full of future potential.
Ben turned to face her again, eyebrow raised.
"You're kind of good at this," he said.
She didn't smile. Not really. But her grip tightened.
"So are you," she said. "When you're not pretending you're in a holo-drama."
He grinned.
Then immediately dropped his blade again.
The Jedi Archive lecture hall was as quiet as a tomb and twice as intimidating.
Polished stone walls. A holoprojector the size of a starship engine. Rows of tiered seating built for initiates who didn't swing their legs, fidget constantly, or kick the chairs in front of them.
So naturally, Ben was all three.
Ahsoka adjusted her seat and straightened her spine. She liked lectures. They were structured. Logical. There was usually a test afterward, and she loved tests.
Ben, beside her, was already tilting sideways.
"I think I can see my soul leaving my body," he whispered, voice low and dramatic. "Tell my snacks I love them."
Ahsoka elbowed him without looking.
The doors slid open, and the room sat up straighter as a tall, robed figure entered—long beard, longer face, and the kind of forehead you could land a speeder on.
A few students gasped in awe.
Ben leaned over and whispered, "Behold, Master Forehead. He sees all. Especially droid attacks on wookiees."
Ahsoka covered her mouth with her hand and pretended not to snort.
"Good morning, young ones," said Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, bowing his head solemnly. "It is an honor to speak with you today about Jedi diplomacy, responsibility, and the moral burden of authority."
Ahsoka sat forward, ears perked. Her montrals twitched with interest. This was important. This was real Jedi stuff. She could already feel her mind focusing, drawing in the knowledge like sunlight through a lens.
Ben poked her side with the stylus he wasn't using.
"Moral burden," he whispered. "Translation: 'Oops, we accidentally caused another galactic incident.'"
"Shhh," she whispered back.
"I'm helping you internalize the lesson."
"You're going to internalize my fist."
"Compassion, Ahsoka. Jedi virtue."
Ki-Adi-Mundi spoke in long, careful sentences.
He described the role of the Jedi in planetary disputes—how they must remain impartial, even when injustice seems obvious. How the Council must weigh each intervention with solemn clarity. How peace, not politics, is the goal.
It was… inspiring, in a way Ahsoka hadn't expected.
She already knew she wanted to be a Knight, but this was more than lightsabers and stances. This was about wisdom. Knowing when not to act. The restraint to let the Force guide you.
She raised her hand.
The Master nodded.
"Yes, young one?"
Ahsoka stood, speaking clearly. "If the Jedi serve peace, but the Republic chooses war, how do we serve both without compromising either?"
A quiet passed through the room.
Ki-Adi-Mundi smiled—not the patronizing smile adults gave when kids asked a "good try" question, but something… thoughtful.
"A valuable inquiry," he said. "One that even Masters must meditate upon. The answer lies in our intent. We do not serve power. We serve balance."
Ahsoka felt the words settle in her chest.
They mattered.
Then Ben's hand shot up.
Ahsoka's eyes widened. No.
"Yes, young one?" the Master asked.
Ben stood, completely composed.
"If the Jedi Code is about principles," he began sweetly, "why are most of our rules about procedures? Like, are we wise monks… or space librarians with lightsabers?"
A beat.
A long, long beat.
Ki-Adi-Mundi's face was a lesson in composed confusion.
"…That is a… very interesting way to phrase it."
"I'm workshopping," Ben said, nodding. "But seriously—how much of the Code is the Force, and how much is committee meetings?"
Ahsoka groaned softly into her sleeve.
Ki-Adi-Mundi gave a deeply Jedi answer: "There is wisdom in tradition. But not all tradition is wisdom. What matters is the will of the Force."
Ben sat down slowly, nodding like he'd just solved mortality.
"Translation," he whispered: "'Yes.'"
The lecture wrapped after several more high-concept metaphors and historical footnotes. Ahsoka kept her eyes front and center, even while Ben continued passing her little datapad sketches—one of Ki-Adi-Mundi's head orbiting a council room like a moon, another of a Jedi duel with the caption "Emotion is forbidden, but swordfighting is encouraged."
She was going to confiscate his stylus one day.
But later. For now… she was sort of glad he was here. Even if he never shut up.
...
After the class ended, Ahsoka was collecting her notes when Ki-Adi-Mundi approached her.
"You asked a very mature question," he said kindly. "The Temple needs minds like yours."
She beamed. "Thank you, Master."
He glanced behind her, where Ben was pretending to be tangled in his own robes. "This is most severe."
"…Is your friend always like that?"
Ahsoka didn't even pause. "Only when he's awake."
...
There are few moments in life when one can truly say: I have peaked as a person.
One of them is sneaking into a restricted meditation chamber, rewiring the ancient swivel base of a High Council meditation chair to rotate exactly 30 degrees every fifteen seconds… and living to tell the tale.
I am a legend.
I am also trying very hard not to laugh while Master Mace Windu discusses the sanctity of inner stillness.
"This chamber," he said in his Very Serious Voice, "is a place of discipline, control, and attunement. The Force cannot speak through chaos. Only calm."
Thirty seconds passed.
His chair turned slightly.
Nobody noticed. Yet.
I breathed through my nose, zen as heck.
We were seated in a wide circle of plush floor cushions, bathed in soft natural light filtering through transparisteel skylights. Everything smelled faintly of temple incense and expectations.
Mace Windu sat in the central instructor's chair—one of those big meditative ones with the carved base and unreasonably perfect posture enforcement. Probably designed by a team of Jedi chiropractors.
The thing was ancient. And now, slightly motorized.
"You must learn to release distraction," Windu continued. "To breathe with purpose. To hear the Force not as a whisper, but a current. Always flowing."
Whirrrr.
The chair moved again.
A full thirty degrees now. He was no longer facing the class. Just… slightly to the left.
Ahsoka kicked me under the cushion.
Don't you dare, her eyes said.
I am innocent, mine replied.
Windu paused, slightly adjusting his shoulders. He didn't turn the chair back. Just kept going. Like a professional.
I was sweating from the effort of not bursting out laughing.
"Emotion is not the enemy," Windu said next. "Attachment is. The inability to let go."
I nodded sagely, like I hadn't spent the morning requiring a High Council Jedi Masters seat as a joke. If anything, my ability to let go may be a little more compromised than most.
The chair turned again. A little more noticeable this time.
Now he was at a three-quarters angle. Speaking to a wall.
No one dared comment.
A few students were visibly holding their breath.
Mace didn't even twitch. He just kept going.
"In your future training," he said slowly, "you will be tempted to act from impulse. To embrace your instincts without discipline. This is the path to failure."
I don't know, Master. Acting on my impulses seems to be working pretty well, for me.
His chair turned again.
Now he was facing the back of the room.
He didn't move. He didn't speak.
Silence fell.
I did not blink.
Slowly, very slowly, Master Windu rotated the chair back to center. By hand.
Or rather, with the Force.
He looked at each of us in turn.
Measured.
Serene.
Terrifying.
Then his gaze landed on me.
He stared.
I stared back.
This was the final duel. The arena of wills. The Force may bind the galaxy, but this—this was personal.
The seconds dragged on. Students began to squirm.
Windu didn't blink.
Neither did I.
We were locked in combat.
Somewhere, a bird called. It was probably judged.
But, it was at this point, staring directly against the Master of the Order, that I remembered this was the Jedi with the secret bullshit ability of shatterpoint. I may have chosen a poor target.
At last, Windu stood.
"I trust," he said softly, "that you will reflect on this lesson."
He left the chair slightly turned to the side.
Message received.
...
That evening, I found a note on my bunk.
No signature. No handwriting.
Just a single line, printed with eerie precision:
You are being watched.
I taped it to my wall like a trophy.
"Worth it," I whispered.
...
Obi-Wan stood silently at the back of the room, arms folded behind his back, posture carefully neutral.
Just observing.
Not interfering.
Absolutely not checking in on the child he had definitely not fathered during a deeply inadvisable offworld affair with a Mandalorian duchess during their late teenage rebellion years.
He was simply… present. A supportive presence. For morale.
Master Solin, seated cross-legged at the front of the class, continued her lecture on the intersection of Jedi philosophy and planetary law. The initiates around her listened attentively, datapads balanced on their laps.
Well.
Most of them.
Ben Kryze was seated off-center, one knee tucked under the other, his pad held diagonally like it had personally offended him. He appeared to be doodling a lightsaber duel between two Senators.
Ahsoka Tano—smaller, straighter, sharper in posture—kept glancing between her notes and Ben's sketchpad like she was silently weighing the merits of homicide.
Obi-Wan allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile.
They balanced each other. Force help them all.
"…And in systems where local marriage law conflicts with the Republic standard," Solin was saying, "Jedi neutrality must be maintained. You are not arbiters of morality—only of peace."
Ben raised a hand.
Solin hesitated.
"Yes, Initiate Kryze?"
Ben looked entirely innocent. That alone should have been cause for alarm.
"So. Not to, like, derail the entire class. But—hypothetically—what happens if a Jedi does get married?"
Obi-Wan stopped breathing for exactly one second.
Solin blinked. "They… don't. Jedi are forbidden from forming attachments."
"Right, right. That's the rule." Ben nodded, faux thoughtful. "But what if the marriage happens before they join the Order? Like, baby wedding. Weird, but legal in some systems."
Ahsoka sighed so hard montrals twitched.
"Also," Ben added, "what if it happens offworld, under a different name, and no one tells the Council? Would that still be attachment? Or is it just… aggressive privacy?"
Solin was staring like her soul had briefly exited the building.
"I—Initiate—"
"Or," Ben continued, "let's say two Jedi fall in love, but they never marry. A proxy does it. Technically it's a union. Does that count? Do they have to divorce? Do we even have divorce paperwork?"
Ahsoka's head hit the desk with a gentle thunk.
"I swear," she muttered, "this is your third loophole question this week."
"I'm a scholar," Ben said.
"You're a menace."
Obi-Wan rubbed the bridge of his nose, face angled just enough to remain hidden behind a decorative pillar. He was pretty sure his ears were red. Which was impressive. For someone with a beard.
Solin attempted a response: "The Jedi Code—"
Ben cut in cheerfully, "—is mostly interpreted by the Council, right? So, technically, if the Council allowed it—"
"Stop," Ahsoka begged.
"—then it's not a violation. It's an exception. In fact, what about the legend I heard of Master Ki-Adi-Mundi's wives—"
"Rumor!" Ahsoka snapped.
Ben blinked. "What?"
She turned to him, exasperated. "It's a rumor about Master Mundi having a harem, not a legend! How could you have a legend about someone who's still alive?!"
Ben leaned in, solemn. "Ask Mickey Mouse."
Ahsoka blinked. "Who?"
Ben stared at the ceiling. "The most powerful being in the universe. But we're getting off topic."
Solin had begun blinking very fast. Obi-Wan suspected she was dissociating.
Ben sat up straighter, undeterred. "All I'm saying is—if love is forbidden, but marriage is legally binding, where's the line? Couldn't two Jedi marry under local law, live in separate systems, and just… emotionally detach about it? What are the rules, here?"
Obi-Wan looked up at the ceiling and said a prayer to the Force.
It didn't answer.
Of course it didn't.
The lesson ended shortly afterward.
Solin dismissed the class with what was clearly a fabricated excuse—"self-study hour," she called it, but it had the tone of "I need a nap and a drink and maybe to scream into a pillow."
The initiates filed out quietly.
Ahsoka gave Ben a sideways shove as they passed him.
"You're going to get us banned from lectures."
"I'm helping us all learn," Ben said, grinning.
"You are not."
Obi-Wan watched them go. He couldn't help it.
Ben glanced up as he passed.
Their eyes met.
Ben gave a subtle, raised-eyebrow look that said I know.
Obi-Wan gave a subtle, exasperated nod that said No you don't.
Then Ben winked.
And Obi-Wan Kenobi—Jedi Knight, galactic peacekeeper, veteran of the Melida/Daan and Naboo crisis—swore under his breath.
"Force help me," he muttered. "He's mine."