Ahsoka sat atop the outer wall of the base, legs dangling over the edge, watching the organized chaos below.
Her teacher was moving briskly between groups of clones, gesturing at datapads and half-assembled equipment, deep in what was undoubtedly another long discussion about power relays, shield harmonics, or supply logistics. Important, yes.
Still boring.
She tilted her face toward the sun, letting its warmth soak into her skin. At least someone was enjoying the afternoon.
Below, several clones were attempting what could only be described as a tactical mistake: supervising a company of B-1 battle droids tasked with painting themselves.
The droids chirped in unison, "Understood! Understood!" — and immediately descended into catastrophe.
One tripped over a paint bucket. Another attempted to assist and knocked over two more. A third carefully painted a line down its own photoreceptor, completely blinding itself before walking straight into a stack of crates.
Paint splashed everywhere.
Clones shouted.
"Hold still!"
"Not each other, you bucket of bolts!"
Three droids collided, fell backward, and vanished into a spreading pool of black pigment.
"Understood!" came the muffled reply.
Ahsoka clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing too loudly.
I could take them all down in less than a minute, she thought smugly.
Being a Padawan was definitely better than sitting in the Temple memorizing ancient star charts.
Her gaze drifted back to her teacher.
He's strange.
Amazing, yes. Powerful beyond question. But strange.
Sometimes it felt like he wasn't entirely like the other Jedi she had known. He spoke of obscure events, referenced eras most Masters barely mentioned, and trained her in ways that didn't quite match standard Temple routines.
He made her meditate for hours. Sent multiple training remotes against her at once. Forced her to use telekinesis under pressure until her head throbbed.
And he asked questions.
So many questions.
"Truth is born in argument," he liked to say.
Yesterday, she had finally asked one of her own.
They had been inspecting the new fortifications when she seized the moment.
"Teacher… what did you mean when you told Commander Kinaun that the Order had forgotten? Were you just trying to calm him down?"
He had turned slowly, folding his arms with an amused expression.
"You can say it plainly, stardust. 'Teacher, I think you lied shamelessly so the terrible commander would stop scolding you.'"
"No!" she had protested, heat rushing to her cheeks. "Jedi don't lie! I just—what you said—"
"What did I say?" he asked gently. "After Ruusan, the Order changed. Radically. Our place in the galaxy shifted. Knowledge was lost. Some things were deliberately discarded. Others were exaggerated."
"For example?"
"For example," he replied, "the rejection of emotion. The ban on attachment. The prohibition on family. Do you know how the original Jedi Code sounded?"
She blinked.
"It… changed?"
His smile widened slightly. "You didn't know that."
He rested a gloved hand lightly on her head before withdrawing it.
"Recite the Code as you know it."
She did, carefully:
> There is no emotion, there is peace.
> There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
> There is no passion, there is serenity.
> There is no chaos, there is harmony.
> There is no death, there is the Force.
"Correct," he said. "But that is not the original Code. It is a mantra composed by Odan-Urr, an ancient Keeper of the Archives, during a personal trial. He used it to center himself."
He paused.
"The older phrasing was different:
> Emotion, yet peace.
> Ignorance, yet knowledge.
> Passion, yet serenity.
> Chaos, yet harmony.
> Death, yet the Force."
The words had unsettled her. They felt… alive. Less rigid. Less absolute.
"Do you feel the difference?" he asked quietly.
She did — though she couldn't explain how.
He went on to describe the repeated devastations the Order had endured: the Jedi Civil War, the First Jedi Purge, the catastrophe on Ruusan. Each time, the most experienced Masters had fallen first. Knowledge fragmented. Traditions shifted.
"After enough losses," he said, "sometimes the simpler version survives."
She had struggled with that.
"What about attachments? Don't they lead to the dark side?"
"Attachments do not," he replied. "Loss of control does. Anger, jealousy, fear—those are failures of discipline, not consequences of caring."
He gestured toward the base below.
"When Jedi distance themselves too far from ordinary people, they become misunderstood. Feared. That fear breeds resentment."
She had never heard a Master speak that way.
He even criticized the prohibition on personal property, arguing that denying resources could weaken missions or cost lives.
"It would be absurd," he added dryly, "to solve the risk of falling to darkness by eliminating all possibility of living."
"That's extreme," she had muttered.
"Reality often is," he said.
When she pressed further — about Jedi who had fallen — he answered calmly.
"Every being is unique. Some confuse love with possession. Others can love selflessly. You cannot legislate morality into perfection."
Then, more quietly:
"There will always be those who choose the easy path. That is life."
She had tried to ask the question forming in her mind.
"Teacher… which Code do you follow?"
He had looked at her for a long moment.
"Which path am I walking? And which should you choose?" he translated gently.
She nodded.
"That is for you to decide, dust ."
And then he had walked away.
---
Now, sitting on the wall, Ahsoka watched him again as he coordinated supply shipments and reassigned engineers.
A teacher is supposed to guide a student.
He does guide me, she thought.
Just not by giving answers.
Below, another B-1 slipped and fell face-first into a paint bucket.
"Understood!"
Ahsoka laughed softly — but her thoughts remained heavy.
What conclusions am I supposed to draw?
And why does it feel like he's preparing me for something far bigger than this base?