Clone Wars Oneshots (and some Bad Batch)

#8: The Sergeant and the Unjedi

   "That's a fine helmet," she said in an attempt at conversation. It had detailed crimson and gold sigils, and the alloy section that formed the eyepiece T of the visor was jet black, and there were telltale scrapes and gouges as if some huge creature had clawed at it. "Does Fi still have Hokan's armor?"

  Skirata nodded. "Certainly does," he said. "Niner said he could have it, and he keeps it stashed in his locker."

   "Nice," Morgana said, somewhat awkwardly leaning against the wall. She thought of Ghez Hokan, and how she had nearly killed Darman because she'd mistaken him for Qiilura's brutal enforcer simply because of that sinister helmet with its T-shaped slit. Fi had the helmet now, and that was because Morgana had taken Hokan's head off with her lightsaber, nearly a year and a lifetime ago when she was still afraid that killing would turn her into her master.

   Old master, she reminded herself. The armor was red with a distinctive gray trim; she remembered that vividly.

   Mandalorian helmets didn't look half so fearsome now. The shape was familiar, even welcome. But she had to remind herself sometimes that Skirata–and most of the training sergeants who had been recruited to forge boys like Darman into elite commandos–had been Mandalorian mercenaries hand-picked by Jango Fett. She wondered if she would have seen Skirata the same way nine months earlier, had he been her enemy on Qiilura. She doubted it, especially since she still wasn't sure quite what to think of him.

   "Packing or unpacking?" She asked, again attempting small talk.

   "Packing," Skirata replied. He lifted the fabric bags carefully and they made a metallic clunk sound; ah, so they were weapons. She was hardly surprised. "We can't operate out of here. Officially we're off duty and on indefinite leave." He laid the armor plates in the bag and layered the clothing between them, then slid in the fabric-cased weapons. It occurred to her that this was probably all he owned, the nomadic mercenary ready to move on to the next war. It was rather how she felt at times, only she carried a lot less weapons. "Are you squeamish, General? I mean ethically squeamish."

   "I'm not a Jedi, Sergeant," she replied.

   "Well, that answers a lot of questions I didn't ask."

   She pushed down the urge to lash out, and it was a lot harder than she would've thought. "If I'm not a Jedi, then I'm not a General," she said, her calm, even tone masking her growing frustration; she thought he would understand her decision, given all the general dislike for Jedi among Mandalorians, but perhaps she was wrong. "And if you want a specific answer, then you need to ask me a specific question."

   "Do you know what black ops means?" He asked.

   "Yes..."

   "I thought you might. I had no idea you'd be coming back with Omega right now, but you spent four months with Zey on Qiilura turning the locals into guerillas to fight the Seps, right? And before that you survived when Master Fulier didn't, and before that you avoided being found when the Jedi were looking for you. So I reckon you're pretty handy in a scrap." She frowned; he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as if he wanted to avoid offending her. And besides that, she could feel a burning curiosity within him, nearly boiling to the surface but not quite making it past thought.

   Ah.

   He wanted to ask about Krell, but for some reason, he was holding back. Perhaps he didn't know how to broach the subject, what with all the rumors floating about. Morgana didn't blame him; it wasn't like she knew how to talk about something like that with a stranger any better than he did. So she decided she would let him figure it out.