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Strawberry
Even from space, Lothal’s wounds could be seen. Through the Imperial-made smog, the scars of strip mining and weapons tests could be seen criss-crossed across the planet’s surface. Even the sea wasn’t unaffected – with algal blooms, invasive species and a rather large oil spill or two. To some, the planet was finished.
Ezra Bridger wasn’t one for giving up. Lothal had suffered storms before, but its people survived. Even if a house was broken, if ancestral positions were lost, you rebuilt with what memories you did have – the same house, but made from new stones.
True, you were supposed to move on from where the tornado happened, but when had he or Moreena ever cared that much about tradition? Together, they’d rebuild the Lothal they cared about – the Lothal they’d imagined as children.
The buzz of the chronometer shook Ezra out of slumber. Bleary thoughts and memories still mingling, he pulled a pillow around his ears – only to receive a flick to the back.
“Hey Mo,” he mumbled.
“Breakfast,” she murmured, poking him when he tried to snuggle closer, “your turn.”
Stretching and yawning his way to the galley, Ezra smiled at the scent of the bread finishing off in the auto-baker. Pouring some of the bag of mixed beans into the hydrator, the twenty seven year old sat down by the small dining table. As his hands started on fixing the latest damaged droid parts, he let his thoughts wander.
There were still battles going on. Still planets in need of liberation. Sometimes he felt selfish that he’d stepped away from it all, that he’d left the fledgling New Republic and Skywalker’s even newer Jedi Order. But the fighting had worn on him, the killing was breaking him apart. Here he was a healer, a councillor. Here he…
He woke to the smell of Caf. A cup shoved under his nose, to be precise.
“Try to actually make breakfast next time?” Moreena smirked, before turning back to the soup. Adding the last of the herbs, she poured the bean soup into bowls, rolling her eyes when Ezra levitated his towards him rather quickly.
“So,” Ezra said, once they’d almost eaten their fill, “did the New Republic give us any more cash overnight?”
“’fraid not,” Mo replied (through a mouthful of buttered bread), “we might have our problems, but there’s a lot of planets like this one.”
“There aren’t, though.”
“The thirteen-year old you would try to rob someone who spoke like that!” she chuckled, idly braiding his hair.
“He believed it, though,” Ezra yawned, walking towards the fresher, “even if he’d never say it.”
Almost any task which seems impossible can be broken down into simple steps. So it was with restoring Lothal. A normal day went a lot like this:
- In the morning, they’d fix cleaner droids, draft petitions to charitable types and go through their budget.
- In the afternoon/evening, Ezra would enlist the help of Loth-rats and other animals to spread grass seeds or sniff out toxins and explosives. Mo, meanwhile, would manage the droids that did much the same.
- During the night, they slept – with interruptions whenever scavengers tried to steal the old eco-droids, smog scrubbers or analysis satellites they’d rigged up. Then, they’d take off in the ship they lived in, and defend their home’s future.
Their lives weren’t all work, of course. Both had spent far too long giving their all not to relax a little now. Thus, Ezra would often come home with a nuisance of loth-cats – often coating the galley or work area in a furry carpet. Moreena guessed there might be a degree of spite to the fun – after all, she’d mocked him for not being able being able to tame them, back when they were children.
Life wasn’t perfect, but these days it was hopeful. With all that was lost, they were grateful for that much.
Blueberry
“My name’s Ezra Bridger.”
“And my name is Reann Tomvig.”
“Broadcasting live from the Starbird III, today we’re going to discuss the anti-imperial protests in the Riparian Sector.”
“Now, the local governor is essentially a figurehead for the Sector Commander-“
“Who we might as well call a warlord at this point, given how he’s fighting even the other Imperials.”
“Thank you Ezra, now – while he’s suppressing the knowledge on how weak the supply lines are for his troops – Commander Praxon is still a very dangerous individual…”
Ezra often felt he was a fraud. People compared him to his parents all the time, claiming he was continuing their work, but they spoke out when everything seemed hopeless, when almost no-one seemed to be acting against oppression. Compared to that, what was he doing? Wasn’t he just promoting the New Republic, which was already taking some quite amoral actions?
Reann had never been happier. Imperial service always emphasised how unimportant an individual was – bar The Emperor, of course. She’d never felt she’d amount to anything, coming from an unimportant part of an unimportant planet, yet now she knew she could make a difference, that she and Ezra could help the oppressed, give them hope again.
Now, while instability was perhaps on the horizon, Reann and Ezra were quite the team. Their work wasn’t just limited to broadcasting, of course. Both of them had seen enough suffering to last lifetimes, and they’d be damned if they wouldn’t help as many as they could.
“This is Starbird III, broadcasting live. Free your slaves, Captain, or prepare for combat.”
Apricot
“Now Pypey, the goal of a Jedi is to be balanced,” Ezra began, his teacher-ly disapproval being somewhat reduced in effectiveness by the fact he had to look up at the teenaged Ithorian’s eyes. “Your lightsaber skills are pretty great, but I won that round because you didn’t focus enough on your defence”
“But I scored the first hit! How didn’t I win?” Pypey said, frustrated anger spilling through the training bond.
“Well,” said Ezra, feeling rather nostalgic, “you win by surviving. I hit several vital spots with my training blade, but you only hit my off hand.”
Pypey sighed, mollified for the time being. Ezra had a feeling he’d have more questions being thrown his way soon enough, but for now he set Pypey on some form drills, and let his awareness stretch out.
It was hard, to be both a Jedi and part of the world. Kanan always made it seem effortless, but Ezra found it tough these days. He had an inkling of what the Clone Wars must have been like now – to be under the control of a government he couldn’t quite trust absolutely, who wanted a warrior, not a mystic. Still, Mara Jade could do it – and she had far more of a reason to find it difficult than him. A nudge to his awareness told him she was landing – thus, with some reluctance, Ezra got up from his meditation, and went to put the kettle on.
“Master Mara, Master Mara?” the Ithorian yelled, running over as she opened the door of the Jade’s Fire.
“Yeah, Scrawny?” she said, squinting as her eyes adjusted to Lothal’s sunlight.
“Master Ezra’s always talking about staying balanced in combat, but you’re always more aggressive than him. Does that mean he’s wrong?”
“Well, possibly – no one has all the answers.” She replied, suddenly serious. “Remember that Pypey, it took me far too long to learn.”
“Oh.” Pypey mumbled, “What would you teach me then?”
“Nothing too different, in this case. After all, if I’m a little too aggressive, then Ezra’s too passive. We balance with each other – and we know we can rely on that.”
Red Velvet Cupcake
Ezra was like the wind, Jai Kell reflected.
He’d first appeared almost half a life-time ago, a breath of fresh air in the dull routines of Lothal’s Imperial Accademy. Dev Morgan (as Jai knew him then) was brash, cocky and always one step ahead – forcing improvement through competition. Together they spurred each other on to greater heights. Jai even daydreamed of them together in Imperial Service, rising the ranks side by side, respected soldiers in the New Order.
Then everything changed.
Dev betrayed him, pushing him off for (what seemed to be) no reason. He started spending more time with Zare. Perhaps this was when he first thought of Ezra like the wind – changing on a whim, without pity. Of course, Dev had been part of something bigger. Dev told him of the Inquisition, how they’d “harvest” those like them for their own goals. How they’d torture them both into being as ruthless and broken as they were.
In fear, he’d fled with his parents. In fear he’d left behind all the certainties he’d known his whole life.
It was much later he really started to understand Ezra. He’d kept in contact – the odd heavily encrypted message every month or so – but there wasn’t much you could talk about like that. Dev was always vague about his life, and Jai had nothing to talk about, so conversation was often vapid.
It was after Alderaan he changed. After the catastrophic loss of life – so horrible even he could feel it – he signed up for the rebellion proper. There he met Dev again, on some Galactic backwater, and learnt his name was Ezra.
They were almost always together, after that. Jai was an excellent shot still, and with Ezra’s help he honed his danger sense to useful levels. He even became a good pilot – better than Ezra at least! But he wasn’t a Jedi. Ezra tried, he knew, but either Jai was too weak with the force, or he’d left it too late. Either way, he couldn’t meditate like Ezra, couldn’t connect with others like him. Sure he wasn’t worthless, he knew that much, but he often felt like a hanger on – like a pilot fish to Ezra’s shark, or just a kite being buffeted whichever way the winds known as Ezra blew.
Sometimes though, when they were apart – or when Ezra looked at Jai like he was everything that mattered in the galaxy – he felt like he were a sail. Like Ezra filled him, gave him direction. Like life wasn’t random chance - that they were meant to be together.