There was another boy there at the base of the balcony outside of Meng Shi's window, where Meng Yao liked to sit: a boy few years older than him, taller, in finely made clothing that would normally make Meng Yao itch all over in futile envy, but the other boy’s eyes were white around the edges in a way that was immediately, painfully familiar. “Someone’s chasing you?” Meng Yao asked, and the boy’s eyes widened even further, surprised, but he nodded in confirmation. “There’s a trellis around the left side – can you climb up? I'll hide you.” "Thanks," the boy said, later, once the man he called Wen Ruohan had left. "My name is Nie Mingjue. What's yours?"

Feral gets kidnapped by a Jedi Master. It's the best thing that's ever happened to him. Aka how Plo Koon’s foray into Sith-napping saved the galaxy, featuring galactic road-trips, daring expeditions into Sith strongholds, plenty of soul-searching, pirates, the Death Watch, senators with big blasters, more pirates, and three brothers who weren’t prepared for any of it.

The light overhead isn't from Minion island's overcast sky but instead a steel plated ceiling shining down fluorescence, glass and plastic bottles rattling on shelves against the walls. Everywhere there's monitors and familiar machinery and the distinct tang of antiseptic, sharp beyond the memory sense of blood and snow. For half a second Law looks at it all very blankly and thinks, What The Hell. Is he dreaming. Is he hallucinating. Is he just plain dead. His sight-line completes the rotation of this impossibility to fall upon speckled jeans and a long sweeping coat. And the man standing in front of Law has the blankest expression Law's ever seen. And the man standing in front of Law has Law's father's face. Underneath Law's blood-slicked fingers, Cora-san's pulse shudders. (This is a story where the past and the present collide. Wherein thirteen year old Trafalgar Law and twenty-six year old Rocinante tumble sideways through time-space via the blue desperation of a newly eaten devil fruit, from Minion island to a future distant. Right, unwittingly, onto the submarine deck of a another Law shortly after Doflamingo’s fall.)

“Are you going to kill me right here, Mand’alor?” Obi-Wan manages. Fett freezes, his hold loosening, and shoves away from him as if burned, getting to his feet. Obi-Wan coughs, looks up to where the man is watching him with some strange mix of emotion. His shields are exceptionally strong, for a null. “There is no Mand’alor,” Fett says finally, and walks right out of the room. (Or: 15-year-old Jedi Padawan Anakin Skywalker crash-lands on Kamino on the one day a cycle when the seas are calm and the storms abate. At the time, he doesn’t think much of it. Later—much later—he will come to see it as an omen.)

The clones were supposed to be identical soldiers, flawless and efficient products. Instead, they were friction, disorientation, nonconformity. Or, As Kafer writes, ‘Disability too often serves as the agreed upon limit to our projected futures.’ This is me imagining different.