“This planet,” Mace says quietly, “is not a place that was meant for you.” Kix doesn’t move from where he’s sitting, just watches the shadows shift and shiver as the trees stir around them. There's no wind, just the steady rumble of thunder above them, the flickers of the lightning, and hiss of leaves and stems and branches moving on their own, bending away from the violet glow of Mace's lightsaber, the muddy hem of his robes. “I think it suits me just fine,” Kix says, and it’s soft because he doesn’t need to shout. There are better ways of being angry right now.