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Jul. 30th, 2024 09:57 amThe people of Venezuela have become a hope and inspiration for many other countries. I wish with all my heart for the people of Venezuela to win.
https://mstdn.party/@aliyn_raven
https://mstdn.party/@aliyn_raven
Jul. 30th, 2024
My Own Game - 3
Jul. 30th, 2024 11:20 pmA long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.
— 3 —
Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.
When enemies fly around the schoolyard like volleyball, it's nice. But it raises unnecessary questions.
There was never much bullying in my school. And yet, there was always some of that nastiness. Of course, I was the most favourite victim. So I knew perfectly well where the surveillance cameras were located, which would immediately raise the alarm if their AI noticed something prohibited.
Chris, Thara and Mgono smashed one of the cameras with something long-range. I don't know how they got it past the security indicators. It was probably a simple homemade slingshot, like on the primitive planets. But it doesn't matter.
The real problem was the Force. After about half a minute of me trying to break free, an invisible wave came from somewhere and threw the assholes in different directions.
I was afraid they would break their bones—I hate this trio, but I hate harming people even more. Even if they barely fit the definition of "people." And the wave obediently reduced its intensity; these three idiots escaped with bruises.
When Chris, Thara and Mgono were pushing me around like a ball, everyone in the yard tried hard to pretend that nothing was happening. But as soon as the three of them started pretending to be birds, a general howl arose. The guards came running, the teacher on duty, and I, along with the three chumps, were taken to the principal.
"I didn't expect this from you, Mx. Gwalchtan!" he exclaimed.
"And did you expect it from these gentlemen?" I asked, nodding at the trio. "And did nothing to prevent vandalism and violence?"
The principal's eyes bulged out indignantly, and he launched into a speech about how it was not for me to judge the behaviour of adults.
"The mass media will be interested to know about victim-blaming," I interrupted him. "And about violence."
"Are you blackmailing me?" The principal instantly became furious. "You brought a weapon to school!"
The trio behind me were silent and even tried to breathe every other time. They were stupid, but they had been to the principal often enough to understand: if you were caught breaking the rules, you had to try to impersonate furniture, blend into the wall, then the punishment would be less severe.
"Did I bring a weapon through your security?" I said sarcastically. "The Parents' Council and the Trustees' Committee will also be delighted. By the way, what did this trio use to break the camera? Didn't they hurt themselves with these same weapons because of their clumsy hands?"
"You are suspended from classes for a week for insolence and arguing!"
This is serious. Being suspended greatly reduces your personal score for university admission. Even if you do well on the national exam, your personal score may not be enough to apply to a good university.
I tried to smile politely:
"And the mass media will find this a very interesting topic."
"The mass media will bring down the stock price of your father's company," the principal said through gritted teeth.
"My Mum is a trader now and a crisis manager in the past. She knows how to make stock rise out of a scandal. But this school has no specialists. And my parents will be very proud that I am defending my honour from unfounded accusations."
The principal hissed in anger—in the literal sense, he is a reptiloid, and some things are beyond his control, just as humans cannot control the reddening of their faces.
"You will study only remotely until the state exam," he decided. "To preserve your health. I will call the speeder and the escort droid now. And the three of you," he nodded at Chris, Thara, and Mgono, "go to the classroom. I will have a special talk with your parents."
I sat down in the visitors' chair, watching with some glee as the trio turned sour. They were too stupid to realise the danger the mass media was to their parents' business, and they were confident that they could get away with bullying because it was approved by their parents, but the magic phrase "stock quote" still pressed the panic button in their empty heads.
Chris, Thara and Mgono left. I traced a flower on the upholstery of the chair with my finger. Phones are forbidden at the school; they have to be handed in at the entrance, so waiting is boring. I hope the speeder and the free droid (both of which constantly carry out the principal's orders) will come quickly.
The secretary-droid's communicator on the principal's desk reported that Major Tucker urgently wanted to see him regarding the Mx. Gwalchtan case.
Interesting. Tucker is a retired Army officer who teaches military science to high school students. I only know him because of his beauty (he is tall, has big green eyes, brown wavy hair, antique features, and the same figure), the girls and some boys in our class often talk about him and look forward to when they grow up to prepare for the army—as if that would stop them from being schoolchildren and little pieces, and Tucker would become so stupid that he would forget about it.
Two years of conscript military service are mandatory for everyone in Kadvir; we have to protect our neutrality. But there are many different types of service, not just running around with a blaster. Dad served in a unit that repairs and maintains droids in government-run nursing homes for the disabled and elderly. His mother was ill, his father had died, and he had to manage businesses that employed many people. Daytime service in nursing homes allowed him to at least attend to the affairs of Gwalchtan-TNC in the evenings. And my Mum needed to save more money for her parents for a down payment to buy her own bakery and needed extra scores for the university to get a scholarship. So my mother chose combat service; she was a heavy fighter pilot on the border. She didn't miss the opportunity to improve her staff manager skills, attended various additional classes, and quickly became a crew commander. And at the university, immediately after entering, she received certification in three subjects and was able to spend this time learning additional skills. Well, with a good down payment, she easily took out a mortgage.
But that's not the point. How does a high school teacher know about a thirteen-year-old schoolkid, and why does an army person need someone who is doomed to receive the stamp "Unfit for all types of service" in their personal file?
"Mx. Klharr," Tucker began, barely greeting, "Mx. Gwalchtan's essay has attracted the interest of the Youth Military Academy. I must discuss the possibility of a transfer with them."
"What?!" I said at the same time as the principal.
"What kind of transfer can there be," asked the principal, "if physical training is not available for Mx. Gwalchtan?"
"Don't exaggerate, Mx. Klharr," Tucker chuckled. "This is a regular middle and high school. No one there forbids you to replace physical education with a library if your child has health problems. Except that the Youth Military Academy has a special uniform, military history, and strategy tasks. It was in the latter that Mx. Gwalchtan distinguished themselves. Their essay proved interesting to the Academy due to a very original analysis of the Battle of Vistlavia. And yes, it was I, as befits a Major in Kadvir's army, albeit retired, who presented the essay to the Educational Council at the Academy. Mx. Mary Davidson came to me to consult about the grade that Mx. Gwalchtan's work deserved."
Wow! I actually wrote such an essay for another project on logic—the Battle of Vistlavia was in history at this time, and it seemed to me that it illustrated well the problems that we studied in logic.
I didn't think anyone read the essay except Davidson, the logic teacher. She didn't even single out my essay from the others. She silently gave it an "Excellent" and that was it. The history teacher didn't say anything either.
The sensor horns on the principal's head spread out in irritation. He didn't like a student with problems, but he didn't want to lose the goose that lays golden eggs, that is, awards at competitions and scores in the school's rating.
"Mx. Klharr?" said Tucker.
"The question of transfer is decided by Mx. Gwalchtan's parents."
"But only after the student expresses their free opinion about what subjects they want to study and where. If you want, after me, Mx. Gwalchtan will talk to a psychologist."
"You're both free," the principal muttered. "Major Tucker, after the conversation, take Mx. Gwalchtan home and talk to their parents."
Tucker led me to his small office on the teachers' floor, pointed to the guest chair, sat down in the work chair, and said:
"I want to dot all the i's, Mx. Gwalchtan. Your essay really interested the Military Academy, but they will write to your parents without my participation. I must talk to you about something else." He made a movement with his hand, and a bottle of soda and two glasses flew from the shelf by the wall onto the table. And I felt a wave of Force. It turned out to be pleasant.
Oops... Tucker is a refugee from the Guard or the Order.
"I don't want to be either a Sith or a Jedi," I said. "Sith see enemies everywhere, and Jedi find Dark Force at every turn."
Tucker raised an eyebrow. It was either an irony or a surprise.
"I've heard that crippled and poor children are psychologically much more mature than their biological years. But you've gone a bit overboard with your age. Don't rush to grow up, buddy. Enjoy the carefree childhood while it lasts."
Yeah, my parents are smarter. They never said such nonsense.
"Childhood is a prison," I said. "Therefore there can be no child who does not want to become an adult as soon as possible."
"Be kind enough to explain, Mx. Gwalchtan," Tucker said discontentedly.
"You are under someone's control all the time; you are forbidden many things, and you must get permission for everything. And at the same time you constantly hear that at eighteen you will be in charge of yourself. And the law will guarantee you the right to speak, obliging the world to hear you. But until then, your opinion doesn't matter."
"Have you talked about this with your parents?"
"Many times," I answered. "Mum and Dad warned me that the world will always treat a cripple like a child, so if I want to be free and heard at eighteen, I need to learn independence and maturity early."
Tucker was surprised, thought about it, and said reluctantly:
"You are lucky with your parents."
"Very lucky," I nodded. "But I have a question for you, Major Tucker. My Mum says that a good army is not held together by obedience but by iron jawed. A good soldier must always be ready to make his own decisions and act independently, because the big shoulder straps cannot see where the charges are flying at you and the civilians behind your back."
"That's right," Tucker nodded. "A soldier has orders, but they act according to the situation, and if their willfulness ends in failure, they will go to hard labour for many years, but if one succeeds, they will be greeted as a hero. Remember the recent events in the Frontier Belt? A huge gang of terrorists attacked Kadvir's territory on the planet Ivrion. It was an agricultural sector with a small number of border guards. And the crew of one tank, four conscript girls, who were busy with another training raid, didn't listen to the order to return to the base but went to check on the village nearby. If they had died, everyone would have said, "To hell with them, the fools, but it's a shame about the tank." If the girls had been captured, everyone would have been angry that they had to be rescued to be brought to justice. But these young ladies repelled the attack of a large group of terrorists and saved the village. Houses, fields, and people were not damaged. The award to these brave and resourceful ladies was presented by the president in the Main Hall of Celebrations, and all of Kadvir learned of their feat."
"Sassy, self-confident, and unpredictable," I said. "That's what made them heroes, and that's what saved people. But why did those qualities of Anakin Skywalker cause so much negativity in the Jedi Order? After all, a Jedi always acts alone, far from the possibility of requesting reinforcements; they must bend a negatively minded and violence-used environment; they must be unpredictable in order not to be killed and, moreover, to complete the mission. I think the Sith have the same: a step to the right or left of the intended line is a crime, although reality requires a different approach."
"Anakin is a mediocre creature," Tucker said. "Just a bag of midi-chlorians. Anakin himself was worth little. Take the Force away from him, and he'd be an unremarkable office plankton or a repairman in a shop. There are crowds of such people on every corner, and they all cost one galactic credit per bundle. The Jedi have a truly tragic history." Tucker sighed and paused. He took a sip of soda and said: "Qui-Gon Jinn. With his intellect, unconventional thinking, and diplomatic talent, he would have made a brilliant career in any transgalactic corporation or in the politics of any country. And for the Jedi, he was like a suitcase without a handle, which is inconvenient to carry, but they don't want to throw him away so that the enemy doesn't get him, and they are afraid to put him in the garbage shredder because it will cause general indignation. I don't understand what made him stay in the Order. Same with Oliver Nullen and Ghrao Myodi with the Sith."
I thought about what was said. Qui-Gon's personality didn't attract my attention, but this seems to be due to inexperience and insufficient knowledge of life. I am only thirteen, and this is not enough to fully analyse the situation. I need to find more information, think about it, talk to my parents, and think it over again myself.
"You have done a lot of good work, Mx. Gwalchtan. But you have much more to do. And this work is too hard for a child. I am not afraid to tell you this, because you are mature enough to assess your capabilities sensibly. And I offer you my help. Your parents know nothing about the Force, do they?"
I bit my lip. Maybe I was wrong, and my silence doesn't save Mum and Dad but puts them in danger? And not only them. Gwalchtan-TNC gives thousands of people a living. During his army years, Dad gave up his dream of becoming a combat pilot to save the company.
But I'm not just a naive child with the Force who can be used in their games. I'm also a valuable hostage and the heir to a not very large but quite tangible fortune. There are too many who want to gain my trust and manipulate me for money.
There is a third reason for hesitation and doubt. My parents, sincerely wanting to save me, destroyed my health. I can't blame them; I don't know what I would have done if Forsean had been my child. But I don't want them to do something like that again, trying to protect me.
I need the support of someone who knows not only the Force. This person must also know the Order and the Guard well.
But how sincere is Tucker in his desire to help?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.
— 3 —
Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.
When enemies fly around the schoolyard like volleyball, it's nice. But it raises unnecessary questions.
There was never much bullying in my school. And yet, there was always some of that nastiness. Of course, I was the most favourite victim. So I knew perfectly well where the surveillance cameras were located, which would immediately raise the alarm if their AI noticed something prohibited.
Chris, Thara and Mgono smashed one of the cameras with something long-range. I don't know how they got it past the security indicators. It was probably a simple homemade slingshot, like on the primitive planets. But it doesn't matter.
The real problem was the Force. After about half a minute of me trying to break free, an invisible wave came from somewhere and threw the assholes in different directions.
I was afraid they would break their bones—I hate this trio, but I hate harming people even more. Even if they barely fit the definition of "people." And the wave obediently reduced its intensity; these three idiots escaped with bruises.
When Chris, Thara and Mgono were pushing me around like a ball, everyone in the yard tried hard to pretend that nothing was happening. But as soon as the three of them started pretending to be birds, a general howl arose. The guards came running, the teacher on duty, and I, along with the three chumps, were taken to the principal.
"I didn't expect this from you, Mx. Gwalchtan!" he exclaimed.
"And did you expect it from these gentlemen?" I asked, nodding at the trio. "And did nothing to prevent vandalism and violence?"
The principal's eyes bulged out indignantly, and he launched into a speech about how it was not for me to judge the behaviour of adults.
"The mass media will be interested to know about victim-blaming," I interrupted him. "And about violence."
"Are you blackmailing me?" The principal instantly became furious. "You brought a weapon to school!"
The trio behind me were silent and even tried to breathe every other time. They were stupid, but they had been to the principal often enough to understand: if you were caught breaking the rules, you had to try to impersonate furniture, blend into the wall, then the punishment would be less severe.
"Did I bring a weapon through your security?" I said sarcastically. "The Parents' Council and the Trustees' Committee will also be delighted. By the way, what did this trio use to break the camera? Didn't they hurt themselves with these same weapons because of their clumsy hands?"
"You are suspended from classes for a week for insolence and arguing!"
This is serious. Being suspended greatly reduces your personal score for university admission. Even if you do well on the national exam, your personal score may not be enough to apply to a good university.
I tried to smile politely:
"And the mass media will find this a very interesting topic."
"The mass media will bring down the stock price of your father's company," the principal said through gritted teeth.
"My Mum is a trader now and a crisis manager in the past. She knows how to make stock rise out of a scandal. But this school has no specialists. And my parents will be very proud that I am defending my honour from unfounded accusations."
The principal hissed in anger—in the literal sense, he is a reptiloid, and some things are beyond his control, just as humans cannot control the reddening of their faces.
"You will study only remotely until the state exam," he decided. "To preserve your health. I will call the speeder and the escort droid now. And the three of you," he nodded at Chris, Thara, and Mgono, "go to the classroom. I will have a special talk with your parents."
I sat down in the visitors' chair, watching with some glee as the trio turned sour. They were too stupid to realise the danger the mass media was to their parents' business, and they were confident that they could get away with bullying because it was approved by their parents, but the magic phrase "stock quote" still pressed the panic button in their empty heads.
Chris, Thara and Mgono left. I traced a flower on the upholstery of the chair with my finger. Phones are forbidden at the school; they have to be handed in at the entrance, so waiting is boring. I hope the speeder and the free droid (both of which constantly carry out the principal's orders) will come quickly.
The secretary-droid's communicator on the principal's desk reported that Major Tucker urgently wanted to see him regarding the Mx. Gwalchtan case.
Interesting. Tucker is a retired Army officer who teaches military science to high school students. I only know him because of his beauty (he is tall, has big green eyes, brown wavy hair, antique features, and the same figure), the girls and some boys in our class often talk about him and look forward to when they grow up to prepare for the army—as if that would stop them from being schoolchildren and little pieces, and Tucker would become so stupid that he would forget about it.
Two years of conscript military service are mandatory for everyone in Kadvir; we have to protect our neutrality. But there are many different types of service, not just running around with a blaster. Dad served in a unit that repairs and maintains droids in government-run nursing homes for the disabled and elderly. His mother was ill, his father had died, and he had to manage businesses that employed many people. Daytime service in nursing homes allowed him to at least attend to the affairs of Gwalchtan-TNC in the evenings. And my Mum needed to save more money for her parents for a down payment to buy her own bakery and needed extra scores for the university to get a scholarship. So my mother chose combat service; she was a heavy fighter pilot on the border. She didn't miss the opportunity to improve her staff manager skills, attended various additional classes, and quickly became a crew commander. And at the university, immediately after entering, she received certification in three subjects and was able to spend this time learning additional skills. Well, with a good down payment, she easily took out a mortgage.
But that's not the point. How does a high school teacher know about a thirteen-year-old schoolkid, and why does an army person need someone who is doomed to receive the stamp "Unfit for all types of service" in their personal file?
"Mx. Klharr," Tucker began, barely greeting, "Mx. Gwalchtan's essay has attracted the interest of the Youth Military Academy. I must discuss the possibility of a transfer with them."
"What?!" I said at the same time as the principal.
"What kind of transfer can there be," asked the principal, "if physical training is not available for Mx. Gwalchtan?"
"Don't exaggerate, Mx. Klharr," Tucker chuckled. "This is a regular middle and high school. No one there forbids you to replace physical education with a library if your child has health problems. Except that the Youth Military Academy has a special uniform, military history, and strategy tasks. It was in the latter that Mx. Gwalchtan distinguished themselves. Their essay proved interesting to the Academy due to a very original analysis of the Battle of Vistlavia. And yes, it was I, as befits a Major in Kadvir's army, albeit retired, who presented the essay to the Educational Council at the Academy. Mx. Mary Davidson came to me to consult about the grade that Mx. Gwalchtan's work deserved."
Wow! I actually wrote such an essay for another project on logic—the Battle of Vistlavia was in history at this time, and it seemed to me that it illustrated well the problems that we studied in logic.
I didn't think anyone read the essay except Davidson, the logic teacher. She didn't even single out my essay from the others. She silently gave it an "Excellent" and that was it. The history teacher didn't say anything either.
The sensor horns on the principal's head spread out in irritation. He didn't like a student with problems, but he didn't want to lose the goose that lays golden eggs, that is, awards at competitions and scores in the school's rating.
"Mx. Klharr?" said Tucker.
"The question of transfer is decided by Mx. Gwalchtan's parents."
"But only after the student expresses their free opinion about what subjects they want to study and where. If you want, after me, Mx. Gwalchtan will talk to a psychologist."
"You're both free," the principal muttered. "Major Tucker, after the conversation, take Mx. Gwalchtan home and talk to their parents."
Tucker led me to his small office on the teachers' floor, pointed to the guest chair, sat down in the work chair, and said:
"I want to dot all the i's, Mx. Gwalchtan. Your essay really interested the Military Academy, but they will write to your parents without my participation. I must talk to you about something else." He made a movement with his hand, and a bottle of soda and two glasses flew from the shelf by the wall onto the table. And I felt a wave of Force. It turned out to be pleasant.
Oops... Tucker is a refugee from the Guard or the Order.
"I don't want to be either a Sith or a Jedi," I said. "Sith see enemies everywhere, and Jedi find Dark Force at every turn."
Tucker raised an eyebrow. It was either an irony or a surprise.
"I've heard that crippled and poor children are psychologically much more mature than their biological years. But you've gone a bit overboard with your age. Don't rush to grow up, buddy. Enjoy the carefree childhood while it lasts."
Yeah, my parents are smarter. They never said such nonsense.
"Childhood is a prison," I said. "Therefore there can be no child who does not want to become an adult as soon as possible."
"Be kind enough to explain, Mx. Gwalchtan," Tucker said discontentedly.
"You are under someone's control all the time; you are forbidden many things, and you must get permission for everything. And at the same time you constantly hear that at eighteen you will be in charge of yourself. And the law will guarantee you the right to speak, obliging the world to hear you. But until then, your opinion doesn't matter."
"Have you talked about this with your parents?"
"Many times," I answered. "Mum and Dad warned me that the world will always treat a cripple like a child, so if I want to be free and heard at eighteen, I need to learn independence and maturity early."
Tucker was surprised, thought about it, and said reluctantly:
"You are lucky with your parents."
"Very lucky," I nodded. "But I have a question for you, Major Tucker. My Mum says that a good army is not held together by obedience but by iron jawed. A good soldier must always be ready to make his own decisions and act independently, because the big shoulder straps cannot see where the charges are flying at you and the civilians behind your back."
"That's right," Tucker nodded. "A soldier has orders, but they act according to the situation, and if their willfulness ends in failure, they will go to hard labour for many years, but if one succeeds, they will be greeted as a hero. Remember the recent events in the Frontier Belt? A huge gang of terrorists attacked Kadvir's territory on the planet Ivrion. It was an agricultural sector with a small number of border guards. And the crew of one tank, four conscript girls, who were busy with another training raid, didn't listen to the order to return to the base but went to check on the village nearby. If they had died, everyone would have said, "To hell with them, the fools, but it's a shame about the tank." If the girls had been captured, everyone would have been angry that they had to be rescued to be brought to justice. But these young ladies repelled the attack of a large group of terrorists and saved the village. Houses, fields, and people were not damaged. The award to these brave and resourceful ladies was presented by the president in the Main Hall of Celebrations, and all of Kadvir learned of their feat."
"Sassy, self-confident, and unpredictable," I said. "That's what made them heroes, and that's what saved people. But why did those qualities of Anakin Skywalker cause so much negativity in the Jedi Order? After all, a Jedi always acts alone, far from the possibility of requesting reinforcements; they must bend a negatively minded and violence-used environment; they must be unpredictable in order not to be killed and, moreover, to complete the mission. I think the Sith have the same: a step to the right or left of the intended line is a crime, although reality requires a different approach."
"Anakin is a mediocre creature," Tucker said. "Just a bag of midi-chlorians. Anakin himself was worth little. Take the Force away from him, and he'd be an unremarkable office plankton or a repairman in a shop. There are crowds of such people on every corner, and they all cost one galactic credit per bundle. The Jedi have a truly tragic history." Tucker sighed and paused. He took a sip of soda and said: "Qui-Gon Jinn. With his intellect, unconventional thinking, and diplomatic talent, he would have made a brilliant career in any transgalactic corporation or in the politics of any country. And for the Jedi, he was like a suitcase without a handle, which is inconvenient to carry, but they don't want to throw him away so that the enemy doesn't get him, and they are afraid to put him in the garbage shredder because it will cause general indignation. I don't understand what made him stay in the Order. Same with Oliver Nullen and Ghrao Myodi with the Sith."
I thought about what was said. Qui-Gon's personality didn't attract my attention, but this seems to be due to inexperience and insufficient knowledge of life. I am only thirteen, and this is not enough to fully analyse the situation. I need to find more information, think about it, talk to my parents, and think it over again myself.
"You have done a lot of good work, Mx. Gwalchtan. But you have much more to do. And this work is too hard for a child. I am not afraid to tell you this, because you are mature enough to assess your capabilities sensibly. And I offer you my help. Your parents know nothing about the Force, do they?"
I bit my lip. Maybe I was wrong, and my silence doesn't save Mum and Dad but puts them in danger? And not only them. Gwalchtan-TNC gives thousands of people a living. During his army years, Dad gave up his dream of becoming a combat pilot to save the company.
But I'm not just a naive child with the Force who can be used in their games. I'm also a valuable hostage and the heir to a not very large but quite tangible fortune. There are too many who want to gain my trust and manipulate me for money.
There is a third reason for hesitation and doubt. My parents, sincerely wanting to save me, destroyed my health. I can't blame them; I don't know what I would have done if Forsean had been my child. But I don't want them to do something like that again, trying to protect me.
I need the support of someone who knows not only the Force. This person must also know the Order and the Guard well.
But how sincere is Tucker in his desire to help?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game