Qui-Gon takes Obi-Wan to an exotic festival for his 18th birthday. His plans for a surprise backfire in a pleasant way. Set several years before TPM.

In which Kix figures some things out, and human pregnancies do not happen overnight.

Agen digs his fingers into the silver-veined bark, smiling a little. Pushes upright, flicking his hair back behind his shoulder, and pulls his outer robe off, draping it over a branch. “A trooper in distress,” he says, stepping forward. “I believe Jedi are supposed to rectify such things.” Two pairs of dark eyes snap to him, and Fives's widen with glee. He wriggles harder under Echo's pinning weight, like a landed fish, and cries, “General Kolar, help! I'm being overrun!”

When the massacre of the Tusken Raider village is uncovered, Anakin is recalled to Coruscant to face the Council's inquiry into his actions. Agen Kolar takes his place leading the 501st in a treacherous assault on forces trying to conquer Champala, but no one is happy with Anakin's sudden removal, his padawan and Torrent Company least of all. With little support in a campaign that's rapidly spiraling out of control and strange happenings starting to plague the battalion, Agen is in over his head, and Champala's oceans are more than deep enough to drown them all at the first misstep.

This, Fox thinks, staring up at the fabric of the tent above him, is absolutely not what he remembers from before he closed his eyes. Right along with the realization comes the desperate, sinking sort of feeling that what he was most afraid of happened again. One step down the hallway in the Senate, heading somewhere, and then—

“I presume,” Mace says with a flicker of amusement, ghost-white fluttering in the corner of his vision, “that that relief isn't solely for my own benefit.” Ponds has the decency to look chagrined. “I'm glad you're safe, sir. When the droid hit you…” He pauses, meets Mace's eyes, and his expression is a little rueful, a little grim. “Not everyone took it well.”

Boba Fett likes to be in control. Din Djarin feels more out of control with every passing day. Giving control over to Boba would make both of them happy. Din just doesn't understand why that has to be so complicated. (Or, rebuilding an entire culture is hard. Boba helps, more or less.)

Fox was fine, most days. He went on patrols, chipped away at the mountain of datawork in his office, delicately soothed the egos of ruffled Senators. (Helped the medics forge decommissioning certificates. Went on missions for the Chancellor that left him shaking apart in the sonic.) And on the days that Fox wasn’t fine, they had a system.

Fox was no stranger to being used as a subject for Palpatine's experiments and Sith rituals. But when Palpatine decided to test out a mysterious artifact on Fox, the results were beyond what anyone could have anticipated.

Anakin wasn’t sure how to ask, so he didn't. Instead, he waited until Master Kenobi fell asleep and stayed up to tinker in the dark, building his own scanner out of parts stolen from the trash. The chip was in his right thigh.

Quinlan can’t take it anymore, and if he sticks around for one more minute, he’s going to have a reaction that’s entirely inappropriate given the discussion that’s happening above his head.

“What will happen to me now?” Anakin asks much later, voice very quiet as they make brief, fleeting eye contact in front of Qui-Gon’s blazing pyre. Obi-Wan doesn’t have an answer for him. ----- “I swear to you, Anakin Skywalker, no one is going to own you while I breathe,” she tells him fiercely.

“Those are some thick gloves you're wearing,” Quinlan observes, light. “And here I thought the weather was actually behaving today.”

It’s probably a bad sign that Cad Bane, of all people, is judging his life choices.

Everyone is whispering that a Jedi saved the Mand'alor’s aide.