#talaar mendal

[hermitmoss]

oh, for the comfort of a friend

first time publishing my oc jedi historical figure, written for the sole purpose of doing something nice for my incredible friend @weary-hearted-queen.

812 words, fic below cut.  Fair warning: I have not yet proofread it, nor has it been beta’d.  I can make no promises about fic quality. 

Muna flashed the drug dealer a feral grin, spitting blood onto the ground and glancing over at the flashing, sirened speeders that bore the emblem of Coruscant Police. “Next time you decide to call someone a slave, you should really check to make sure that they can’t put you in wrist-cuffs and march you off to a nice new home.”

She reached for her lightsaber and ignited it, regally ignoring the trickle of blood sliding down her unprotected neck.

The human’s face paled, and he seemed, for a moment, glued entirely to the litter-covered, duracrete ground. “You – you’re a – a Jedi.”

“Yes, I am,” said Muna shortly, pulling out a pair of cuffs as promised, “and you, sir, are under arrest.”  And racist shithead as well, but I probably shouldn’t add on that bit out loud.

She slipped the restraints onto the unresisting man, disdaining handling his unfired blaster and blood-wet knife and instead waving them directly over to the waiting speeder.

She shoved him, not gently, in the direction of the police droids.  “Now, let’s see about that nice, cozy cell in prison, shall we?”

The wound from the criminal’s knife, poorly thrown and even less sharp, had been easy enough to deal with, she reflected that evening as she pulled on a pair of embroidered coarseweave pajamas, and a deep turquoise over-robe over that.  A bacta patch and a shot for infections – the blade had been a little rusty, and the mission hadn’t exactly been in the well-maintained Upper Levels of Coruscant – and all she was left with was a faint line just below her throat.  And even that would fade away in a day or two.

That he had called her a slave, though, and some other things she had no mind to repeat, even in her brain – just because she was Twi’lekki – that had hurt, and, like all mental wounds, would take longer to heal than any physical ones.  Is that really what the galaxy sees of my people – servile possessions and underpaid dancers?  

She wished that Yoda were here – he understood a constant battle with other species’ assumptions and prejudices – but he was away in the Inner Rim, settling some inter-system dispute. Barely even a youth, he was already becoming the Council’s darling, pegged for his own seat once Master Vaunk retired.

This was all well and good for Yoda, but didn’t mean she had to like it.

For all her attempts to stop it, her mind started replaying the human’s words.  What do you think you’re doing, you filthy slave? Go back to your Master and try that on him, why don’t you?

There was a gentle knock at the door to her rooms, and she snapped her focus back to the there and then.

“What is it?”

“Talaar Mendal.  I heard about your mission.”

Muna scowled – did word have to get around so quickly?  She liked Talaar, a gentle, soft-spoken Zabrak librarian, and considered her a friend, but she would have preferred to have told about it herself, if she had told her at all.  “Come in.”

The door slid open, and Talaar, still dressed in her tunics but her hair brushed and freely hanging about her shoulders, entered and perched herself on the edge of an organiform seat. “Thank you.”

Muna realised Talaar was waiting for her to speak, and ignored the urge to fiddle with the threads at the hem of her robe.  “I – I know you’re probably expecting me to burst out into some rant about how angry I am, or upset, or offended, but I’d really rather not.”

Talaar smiled softly.  “I was not expecting that, Muna.”

“Then why did you come here, if you didn’t think that I wanted someone to talk to?”

Again with the smile.  “I do think that you want someone to talk to actually, but I know that that’s not me.  As a librarian, however, I have the privilege of initating private Temple contact with any Jedi out in the field.”

A pause.

“I think it’s about the sixteenth hour on Balamak.  Negotiations should be over for the day.”

Muna found herself smiling, then bowed to Talaar in gratitude.  “Thank you, Talaar. Can you bring the holocomm in here?”

In response, she stood and produced it from one of her voluminous pockets.  “I take my leave, Mun’Pavakim.”

Muna noted the use of her proper name as she walked into her bedroom to make the call.  Evidently Talaar was trying to make a point not to be ashamed of who she was, or something similarly well-meaning and cliche.

Like the Hells I’m ashamed, she decided, and keyed the co-ordinates into the comm.

“Hello there, leaflet.  How are things progressing?  Boring as usual?”

Yoda’s grainy, transparent blue ears rose in feigned indignation, and for a moment – just a moment, mind, one of the millions upon millions of moments throughout her life – it felt as though the universe was at peace.