i.
TRUTH, HONOUR, VISION
✶
"Everything I am is tangled up in myself, such that no part of me knows how to be."
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Haat, ijaa, haa'it. Fallon Kryze repeated the words in her head, again and again. Haat, ijaa, haa'it. Truth, honour, vision. Words used to seal a pact, in the native tongue of Mandalore, Fallon often returned to them when things were difficult. In this instance, things weren't exactly difficult, but she found comfort in them nevertheless. The desert planet of Phindar was scorching, and the heat seared through her robes like acid. Running the Mando'a over again and again and again kept her focused.
Built for peace but weaned on war, Fallon was the fifteen-year-old intersection between conflict and calm—if not by blood, then by her upbringing in the Jedi Order. Mandalorians were warriors, and they always had been, but in recent years, Clan Kryze had chosen to wear pacifism instead of Beskar-steel armour. Fallon was a warrior of a different kind. Two sides of the same coin.
A coin she was unwilling to toss. Truth, honour, vision.
Would you leave your destiny up to fate? Would you let the cosmos decide what you're going to be?
Who you're going to be?
Sometimes, it was difficult to understand not just the conflict within her, but the one around her, too. The Clone Wars had been raging across the galaxy for just over a cycle now; Fallon could remember the moment it had begun, the exact second the Republic began to falter. Her Master of a few months, the reputable Kil Vizsla, a man of perfect words and perfect appearances, had been called away to Geonosis on a rescue mission to help retrieve the captured Obi Wan Kenobi.
By the time he returned, the war had begun.
She didn't know who the enemy was, at that point. Even now, she only truly understood the enemy when it was right before her, at lightsabre's length, when she didn't have to stop and think.
Moments like these, on planets like Phindar, where even despite the sizzling heat that formed false pools of water in her vision, she could see clearly who the enemy was.
The enemy: a droid. Sand-coloured, it was a lone puppet of fuses, wires, and pre-programmed intelligence. The heat rippled in the surrounding air as it trudged in Fallon's direction, her position still undetected.
She watched it, eyes narrowing. A bead of sweat dripped down her temple as she rose slightly above the sand. It would notice her in a moment—she had to act swiftly, before it alerted her presence to others. And there would be others.
Fallon stood quickly, sand shifting off her robes as she pulled her lightsabre from its home on her hip. The droid lifted its skull-like head with mechanical ease, its blaster lifting as well—but it was too slow. Fallon lunged forward, activating the weapon as she hurled the sabre through the air. A flash of blue light and the distorted cry of a droid—
The cut was clean. Closing her fist, Fallon compelled her lightsabre back into her palm before advancing to crouch by the hissing mess of circuitry. She stowed away her weapon, giving it a gentle pat as it clicked comfortably back into its place on her side. Fallon wondered why she even bothered to reassure herself with her adage. Taking down the droid was easy, and if she weren't on Phindar, she'd have barely broken a sweat.
Still. When the droid army had flooded Geonosis, the planet well known for its red earth and arid heat, the Republic—and the Order—had quivered, terrified of what their arrival meant.
A war.
With Kil gone, Fallon had been left on Coruscant, in supervised care at the Jedi Temple. Surrounded by other Padawans, in a similar position, she remembered all their reactions as they learned of the war. Some showed it on their faces, features drawn into distinct concern; others' fears manifested in knuckles tightened around the hilt of their lightsabres; some even managed to hide their feelings completely, mask it all behind a picture-perfect façade. But none of them, except for Fallon and her posse of fellow Force-sensitive Mandalorians, had ever known war. They were terrified.
They had every right to be.
There was something terrifying about an army of artificial intelligence, hidden behind metal husks. Maybe it was how easily the soldiers were manufactured, and how vast the Separatists' wealth appeared to be. Maybe it was the fact that in small numbers, like this poor lump of steel, they were easily controllable, but on the battlefield, they were overwhelming. Maybe it was that they weren't alive, not really, and nothing was lost when they died, because they never had anything in the first place.
Maybe it was that. That no matter how many droids were destroyed, the Republic would always have more casualties, more flesh rotting on their ledger, more bodies piling up on their conscience. The Separatists had only a scrapyard spread across the galaxy to show for their failures; the Republic had mass graves, rushed funerals, grieving families.
Fallon gave the droid's head a gentle push. It lolled to the side, lifeless (as if it had any life in the first place), its eyes flickering for a few seconds before fading to darkness. Sighing gently, she dragged the still-warm remains back over the dune with her, casting her eyes around the torrid sands. As she had first assumed, the droid was alone—perhaps sent to scout the area. Either way, its mere presence still posed an issue: was there a Separatist occupation on Phindar? Was one on its way?
The girl sat down on the sand, heels digging into the dune. Phindar, hidden in the cluster of planets that comprised the Mandalorian sector of the Outer Rim territories, was nothing like the other worlds in its sector. The native Phindians were a reptilian race, genetically-equipped to burrow beneath the harsh surface, where their tunnel-like civilisation was anchored to the planet's core. Phindar was lone, in that respect, and for that Fallon was grateful—she much preferred the cool climate of her home, Mandalore.
Fallon closed her eyes. She and another Padawan had accompanied Kil to Phindar on orders from the Republic to determine whether the Phindians had entered an alliance with the Separatists. Mandalore and its surrounding star system had pledged its allegiance to the Council of Neutral Systems, but Phindar had always been a weak link. (And even though it wasn't the Jedi's place to convince Phindar to join the Republic's side, especially if it would undermine the Neutral Systems' efforts in staying out of the war, Mace Windu had insisted that the Phindians should at least be checked up on.)
(Just in case.)
Master Windu supposed that sending Jedi of Mandalorian origin would reduce the chance of unnecessary conflict; Mandalore had always been sympathetic to the Phindians. However, gauging by the very obvious presence of Separatist droids on Phindar, conflict would be unavoidable.
Fallon scanned the landscape, the dunes peppered with small glass domes that each served as an entrance to the underground network of tunnels. Kil had disappeared into one beside a Phindian representative, flashing a wry smile. His parting words had been in Mando'a: "We don't want war, Fal. Not here."
He was right. The last thing Mandalore needed was another war. Civil conflicts had been raging for centuries, both on and beneath the planet's surface. Power and privilege and all the shades of spite in between had forced Mandalore into war after war after war—only recently had Fallon's home elected to take a more peaceful route. The movement, known as New Mandalore, was led proudly by Fallon's aunt—Duchess Satine Kryze of Kalevala. To Fallon, it was an interesting, if not somewhat abrupt transition (though Satine would argue it was a long time coming.) Mandalore had long been the home of elite combatants, and the image most associated with the planet was that of its traditional warrior: the man made of metal with his epochal helmet, forged with knife-sharp precision from Beskar steel, born for battle and bred with the insatiable instinct to kill. In recent years, the man to encourage these rumours had been the bounty hunter Jango Fett—the genetic base of all the clones that comprised the Republic Army—who had no real association with the Mandalorian culture, but whose reputation served it all the same. Brutal. Ruthless. Unstoppable. That was the Mandalorian way.
Fallon scrunched her nose. Brutal. Ruthless. Unstoppable. Those words meant nothing these days; they were synonymous with the Sith now more than the Mandalorians. It was a birthright (a birthright of violence) no longer hers to claim: if she had been born a few generations earlier, perhaps, if she had blessed a different family in a different time with her arrival, she might have left the womb with her fingers itching for wholesale murder, the desire to wreak havoc and military devastation tearing through the seams of her skin.
But that was not her fate, apparently. The cosmos had carved her a different path—one of peace, of the Living Force. Fallon supposed that if any part of her was a true peacekeeper, it would come from Satine, who would most certainly argue that a Jedi was no peacekeeper at all. Nevertheless, the woman was graceful as she was resolute, and since her youth had enforced a pacifist regime, intent on keeping Mandalore out of another war, whether on home soil or otherwise. Those who disagreed had been cast out to Mandalore's moon, Concordia, and left to fend for themselves. Satine's sister—whom Fallon had never known, or if she had, time saw to it that she could no longer recall—was one of them. Fallon was curious as to how Satine felt about the existence of a Mandalorian loyalist within her own family. (But she would never ask. Though she had her own struggles with balance and inner conflict, with the dichotomy of war and peace and justice somewhere in between, the last thing she wanted was to undermine Satine, or to upset the order Fallon knew the woman had strived so hard for.)
Then again, Fallon, Satine's own niece, was a Jedi, and that status was weighted just the same: a soldier is a soldier no matter which side of the war they're on, no matter how right they think they are.
Fallon shared many things with Satine. The same eyes, bright and blue as the ice caves of Ilum. The same steel-blonde hair that encircled her shoulders, halo-like. The same smile that came slow and steady, that flicked up at hidden corners on her lips, that was like an animal nearly-extinct: rarely seen, and coaxed out into the open only by those it was sure it could trust completely.
But she did not share her strict resolve. Satine, despite her pacifist ways, had a sharpshooter's aim in how she achieved her ambitions; she had cast aside the notions of love and family with both hands, so that they may be used to shape the Mandalore she wanted to see. Fallon, however, was a half-measure—and although many would say that that would constitute a weakness, Fallon did not see it as such. If she were exactly like the warriors of old, she would be nothing more than a glorified soldier, nothing but a vicious soul with no desire for anything other than honour and glory for her people. If she were a peacekeeper in the way Clan Kryze wished her to be, she would be no Jedi: there was a grey area somewhere between war and peace and she believed, solemnly, that as a member of the Order it was her task to find it.
Until then, she would sit in the sand.
Or perhaps not. Fallon opened her eyes, letting the crucible-hot wind weave through her hair, and scanned the landscape—freezing when she caught sight of the approaching patrol. Flattening against the dune and ignoring the invasive feeling of sand on her cheek, Fallon waited a moment before lifting her head.
Five, six, seven battle droids moving her way. The air rippled around them, the heat shifting to project false images of water in the air. Fallon squinted, before dipping back beneath their line of vision. We don't want war. Not here.
Well, this definitely answered her question. The Separatists were here, undoubtedly. But how would she tell Kil? The dome he had entered was set into the sands far behind the approaching patrol; there was no way she could sneak past them and remain undetected. The vast wasteland offered her no protection, from both the elements and the droids' attacks.
She could attempt to take them. But what would Kil think of that?
"Kryze!"
Fallon snapped to attention, eyes narrowing as she searched for the source of the familiar voice, like honey used to trap flies. The sands shifted and the speaker revealed themselves, melting away from the flaxen landscape to stand before Fallon with a wolfish smile gracing her lips.
Even though stealth had never been the way of either Jedi or Mandalorian, Hiro Wren had mastered the art of becoming invisible. At first, it had been a hobby, something to pass the time at the temple between training sessions and sage advice given by various Jedi masters. The girl, short but built like a dancer, had begun her craft fumbling. It was almost comical how easily she was detected, how quickly Fallon and the rest learned the tell-tale signs of Hiro's presence. It was always her hair that had undone her—an ash-brown sheath that lagged split-seconds behind Hiro as she tried to disappear.
Something godlike, Hiro's beauty was enviable—many questioned as to why she was so dedicated to losing attention instead of capturing it. Who wouldn't want eyes that were like glowing embers in Kalevalan light, or a smile that made many consider returning Mandalore to a monarchy, with Hiro sitting pretty in the crown?
One day, Fallon had awoken to find Hiro's hair cropped close to her scalp, and that was that. She hadn't been caught since.
And that had come in handy more times than Fallon could count. Whether it was to scout ahead, or to surprise Fallon with a hug, Hiro's skill was undeniable and indispensable. She was a storm on the horizon—whether she would break or blow over was yet to be decided.
The girl crept over to Fallon soundlessly, the sand barely shifting beneath her weight. Bored with her post by the ship, she'd left its protection up to the protocol droid and made her way across the barren terrain. "You should cut your hair—it's so bright, it's going to get us killed."
"I've never been any good at that. Getting us killed is your specialty." Fallon rolled her eyes as she pulled her hood up over her hair. "What, do you want us to match?"
"Something like that. Masters Kryze and Wren. We could be a matching set."
"Masters? I think we're a bit far off from that one, Hiro." Fallon nudged her in the arm, directing her attention towards the approaching patrol. "Especially now."
"It's just a bunch of metal, Fal. We can handle it."
"Yes, but are we allowed to? We have orders."
"Who cares for orders?"
"Many of the Jedi Order, if not all?"
"I've seen some other padawans and their masters. They don't follow orders."
"Oh, really? Which ones?"
"Master Skywalker and Ahsoka. I was with them in Christophsis last week. He never disciplines her publicly." Hiro paused thoughtfully. "Probably because he does things that warrant discipline, too."
Fallon shrugged, as if that meant nothing. "Well, our masters aren't so forgiving."
"Yours is. Mine is—"
"Hiro, watch yourself." Fallon warned, arching an eyebrow. Hiro's master, Adi Gallia, was one of the Order's most esteemed members; unlike Kil, she had a place on the High Council, and often took Hiro with her to the front lines of the war. Fallon was envious. "Any Padawan would be honoured to be in your place. Master Gallia is—"
"—Strict, and old-fashioned." Hiro's expression was filled with malcontent. "She's obsessed with Jedi tradition."
"And what's wrong with that? We're Mandalorian. Tradition is what we do best."
Hiro's expression soured. "You sound like Master Vizsla."
"I've taken his teachings to heart. Is that so bad?"
"No, I suppose not." Hiro unfastened her twin sabres from her back, tossing them gracefully between her hands. "But the Duchess would be horrified. Her niece, a loyalist?" She gave a shark-toothed smirk as she shook her head. "Disappointing."
Fallon narrowed her eyes. "Wow."
"Just kidding, blondie." Hiro finally looked over at the patrol. They had stopped at one of the domes. "Still—haat o'r an nuhune." Many a truth is said in jest.
Fallon elbowed her gently and crawled higher up the slope. "I hate you."
"Oh, I'm sure."
"Come on, let's deal with this quickly. I want to be off Phindar as soon as possible."
"So you can go back to your boyfriend on Coruscant?" Hiro didn't join her, and instead flipped onto her back. Her arms bowed out beneath her head, and her hair—now grown out to just above her chin—flush against the sand, she looked like she had no intention of moving ever again.
"No." Fallon said sharply as she rose, brushing the sand off her torso. "Cuy ogir'olar. It's irrelevant, and you know it. Focus."
"I am focusing—"
Fallon shot Hiro a glare as scorching as the Phindian sun blazing above.
"—on your wedding!" Hiro grinned like she was the greatest comedian in the cosmos.
"We aren't allowed attachments."
"Does Chrysaor know that?"
"I do. It seems like you don't." Equal parts embarrassment and anger coloured Fallon's cheeks a bright red. Hiro had always been painfully observant—and she had always wielded words as weapons, if not as well as her sabres then better. Fallon hated her integrity being doubted, even if it was just a joke.
(And even though she'd known Hiro her whole life she still couldn't quite tell when she was being serious or not. In instances like these, it saved her stress—and braincells—not to focus on it.)
(Besides: no matter what Satine believed, or Kil taught, Fallon would always uphold an image of unfaltering loyalty to the Jedi Order. Whether she agreed with her aunt or not, or whether she embraced Kil's preaching of a Mandalore past meant nothing; she had made a commitment, and she planned to keep it.)
(What was Hiro on about, anyway? Chrysaor Rook, boy-shaped weapon, golden-haired and golden-tongued, would never risk his place in the Order. Not for anything, especially not a girl.)
Without another word, Fallon began to walk towards the dome, her head held high and her hand on her sabre. Striding with purpose (and spite), she threw Hiro a dark look, challenging her to follow. The girl didn't move—she didn't even bother to look up.
"Look! There's a Jedi!" One of the droids looked up, its voice robotic and distorted. "Open fire!"
The first droid to open fire went crashing through the glass at the flick of her wrist—the second was down by her sabre. The third managed a shot from its blaster but Fallon was too fast, ducking and weaving and slicing through its torso with practiced ease. Kil had said that she shouldn't rely on drills for use in combat, that a battle was nothing like a training room, but for once, she had the evidence to argue against him. It was almost pathetic how predictable the droids' attacks were, if you could even call them that. (Flailing attempts would be more accurate, in her opinion.)
Number four didn't even have a blaster. It crumbled, a mass of metal limbs, as Fallon cut through its legs like butter. Five shot a blast of light that seared through the shoulder of her robes and burned off the top layers of her skin: she bared her teeth like an animal wounded and thrust her sabre into the droid's chest, ignoring the pain.
Fallon danced around the blasts of her remaining two adversaries, the soles of her boots crunching against the glass, leaving grooves in the sand. Her injury was heavy on her shoulder, and the sun did nothing but suffocate her. Phindar was so hot, and she was so tired. . . she could smell cooked meat, and her stomach twisted at the realisation that she was the source of the festering miasma. Fallon looked at her shoulder and grimaced, catching sight of exposed flesh and puckered skin.
The sixth droid took advantage of her distracted state and fired a starburst of blasts. Fallon deflected each shot, her sabre a pinwheel of cobalt-blue light as she advanced forward. She forced the droid back through the empty husk of the dome, finally cutting it down when it caught its head on the frame.
The girl cast a glance around the dome, the sun beating down on her skin, the heat relentless against her flesh. What she wouldn't give for Phindian scales—for something more than bones and skin, something that wasn't so easily penetrable, so easily broken. She clutched her shoulder, cursing viciously in Mando'a. She wasn't looking forward to seeing Kil's expression when he learned of her injury—and worse still, her actions.
Somebody would be on library duty for eternity. Fallon wasn't looking forward to the task. Nevertheless, she felt a sense of pride—even though it had been a small squad, nothing like what she and Kil had faced together as a matching set, she had still done it all on her own.
She deactivated her sabre and slipped it back into place just as she heard Hiro's voice, sharp as the point of a knife as it cut through the air: "Kryze!"
It was a million things at once. Hiro's voice, clear for a moment but then suddenly distant; the crackling of glass behind her as the seventh droid raised its blaster; the guttural, electronic cry of the Separatist footsoldier as it was pulled backwards by the invisible strings of a merciless puppeteer and impaled on the point of a bright-blue blade.
Fallon stared. If she'd have blinked, Fallon would have missed it. If Hiro had, Fallon would be dead.
The dark-haired girl was by her side in an instant, a sabre in each hand and a darkly triumphant look painted on her face. "I feel like there was a much more peaceful way to handle that."
"Oh, clearly." Salvaging what she could of her pride, Fallon tried to stand straighter but only succeeded in sending a sharp twinge of pain to her shoulders. "Thanks for stepping in."
"Thought I'd make history and stop us from getting killed, for once." Hiro rolled her eyes. "Stop you, at least."
"I appreciate that." Fallon reached out to touch Hiro's arm gently, a sign of gratitude, but winced with pain—she had used her bad side. "Damn it!"
Hiro's eyes narrowed as she twisted her neck to look at Fallon's shoulder. Her pretty face contorted into an expression of concern, the satisfaction in her eyes snuffed like a flame. "Sit down. I'll find Master Vizsla."
Fallon didn't move. She didn't say a word. Humiliation made a home in her chest, ugly and blistering like the skin (or lack thereof) on her shoulder. She would have to answer to Kil—not just for instigating a fight, but for failing to finish one. The next time she saw Satine, she was sure she could expect a lecture, too.
"Fallon, sit down." Hiro's voice had lost its knifelike quality. It was times like these she was a little less destructive, a little less like wildfire. A little more like warmth. She was the sun, not the beam of light magnified by a vicious child through glass that melted insects alive. "Fallon."
Her shoulder felt like acid. Haat, ijaa, haa'it.
"Fallon, are you listening to me?" Hiro appeared suddenly in her periphery, side-stepping over to block Fallon's view of the horizon. The blonde girl blinked, half-offended and half-indifferent. "Stay here. I'll find Kil."
"No need." Both girls' heads turned so quickly that whiplash was a palpable risk. Kil Vizsla stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, his expression indecipherable as it often was.
Limned by Phindar's endless sun, he looked larger than lifesize. Taller than many he encountered, the Jedi's head was inches away from brushing against the dome's crown; with his chest straight and salient, he was easily bigger than both Fallon and Hiro. Nearing his fourth decade of existence, his sand-coloured hair was mixed with spiders' silk silver, and his eyes creased at the corner with a mix of inherent kindness and an oversaturation of exhaustion. Mandalorian pride shone like sunlight through stained glass—you could see it in the squareness of his shoulders, held high with honour, in the look in his eyes that gleamed like a freshly-polished war medal.
Calm as the shifting sands, he cut a look to the glass littered beneath his feet, then to the heaps of metal strewn around them, and finally, to Fallon's shoulder. His face remained impassive, a neutral ground. Perhaps she wouldn't suffer library duty after all. "What happened here, Fal'ika?"
"I saw a patrol of battle droids advancing, Master. I intended only to conduct recon, as you instructed, but they detected me and forced my hand. I should've been more careful, or waited for your support, but I didn't see any other immediate solution. I injured my shoulder, sir, and Hiro helped me."
Kil glanced at Hiro. "Is this true, Padawan Wren?" he questioned, his words needling.
"Yes, Master." Hiro nodded solemnly. "Every word."
Kil nodded, slowly, then all at once. "Fallon, why were you unable to defend yourself?"
"I—" She wasn't sure what he wanted her to say. Did he want her to admit weakness? Or to assert herself? Even though the pungent smell of burnt flesh and dried blood had steadily dissipated, her head ached. It was too much to think about. "Haat, ijaa, haa'it," she whispered to herself.
"Fallon?" Kil clicked his tongue.
"I didn't think. I thought I had dispatched all of them. It was my own fault, for celebrating a victory before I achieved one." Her words sounded rehearsed and robotic. "My confidence saw me caught off-guard. I'm sorry, Master."
Kil paused. Fallon heard Hiro suck in a deep breath beside her; her fellow Padawan was used to harsh discipline from her master, and Adi Gallia's reckonings were one of very few situations she couldn't disappear from. Fallon knew better than to bother to brace herself, but she closed her eyes nevertheless, in case Kil had had a change of heart.
But he hadn't. The man merely nodded—slowly, then all at once, like the tide rolling in—and smiled. "I see. And you've learned your lesson, my child?"
Fallon nodded vigorously. "Yes, of course. It won't happen again."
Kil clasped his hands together, his smile warm and boyish. "Then there is nothing I've to lecture you about. We can depart now—back to Coruscant—and get you fit to fight another day."
Hiro exhaled sharply with relief.
"May I ask what you discussed with the Phindians, Master?" asked Fallon, as Kil beckoned her and Hiro to follow him back over the dunes.
"Of course. They are well aware of the Separatist occupation on the surface of their planet—"
"As are we," Fallon interjected with a smile. Kil returned it.
"Yes. But they assured me, and by extension, the Republic, that they have no intention of accepting the Confederacy's offers, however seductive they may be. The people of Phindar wish to remain completely neutral."
Fallon nodded, casting a glance at Hiro, who shrugged. "And you're okay with that?"
"Of course. It's not my place to convince them to join the Republic—I'm a peacekeeper, not a politician. As are you, Fallon."
The girl looked over at the steel-and-circuitry carnage, lips twisting, but elected to remain silent. They moved back to the ship in comfortable silence, and Fallon only spoke again when the three were safe within the confines of the craft.
✶
"What's the look for?" Sitting at the edge of the medical bay bed, Fallon watched Hiro as a droid tended to her wound with pre-programmed position. The ship hummed as Kil, somewhere above, guided them through Outer Territory debris and home to Coruscant.
"You said something, before. Neither Master Vizsla nor I caught it."
"So?" Fallon gritted her teeth as the droid sprayed the burn with antiseptic.
"What did you say?"
"What does it matter?"
"Just tell me, blondie." Hiro tipped her head to the side, leaning back against the wall opposite. They had both tracked sand into the medical bay. "I'm only curious."
Fallon furrowed her brows. "Haat, ijaa, haa'it."
"Truth, honour, vision?"
"Yes."
"I didn't realise you found faith in mere words, Kryze."
"Well, where else would I find it?" Fallon smiled wanly, rolling her shoulders as the medical droid backed away, finally allowing the fatigue to course through her body. "In you?"
Hiro snorted, as if to say: Maybe. "Get some rest, Fal. I'll wake you when we're close."
Fallon nodded as Hiro moved soundlessly from the room, perhaps to polish her lightsabres in the post-combat routine she followed with exact precision, or to find a hiding place somewhere on the ship she could call sanctuary until they landed at the Jedi Temple. Either way, Fallon was too tired to care.
She lay herself down, flicking off the fluorescent light that hung in the alcove overhead. Where would she put her faith? If not Hiro? If not Chrysaor, her "boyfriend" back on Coruscant? If not Kil?
If not herself?
This was a decision to make some other time. Fallon closed her eyes, already acclimatised to the cold of the ship, and let herself drift into dreamless sleep.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
off to a shitty start, guys!! wooo, let's go!!
phindar isn't really elaborated on in any of the research i did for it, but the phindians ARE a reptilian race so i thought the planet would either be super cold or super hot (or super wet?). since the general climate of the mandalorian system is mild i thought i'd go with hot.
i've got this fic pretty well planned out but i will apologise in advance: there are only so many ways to describe a droid. also, i ran out of ways to write about sand (anakin skywalker type beat) so sorry for the redundancy. let me know what you thought lol
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