Family Matters

[Amos Iakona]

Aim. Throw. Retrieve.

The Whaladon was not a large ship. Or at least, it wasn't large enough. Not for the liking of Amos Iakona. When the Wheel had first formed it had been sparsely populated; the cargo bays were half empty, and there were rooms throughout the ship that went unused. That was no longer the case though; not anymore. The Jedi population had steadily grown, with organised classes and training sessions run throughout the day, and spaces set aside for sparring, studying, meditation, and all manner of other things that a Jedi might find himself wanting to do.

Unfortunately, Amos didn't consider himself a Jedi, despite what his midichlorian count attested. The Jedi had always been considered paragons of justice: the highest example of nobility and virtue. Amos on the other hand was a paragon of just getting it done, and his only virtue was that he seldom spoke enough to cause offense; prudence and temperence via silence, as it were. And while he did attend classes, and practiced his Force abilities as he was instructed to - with some difficulty, it must be noticed - he could not bring himself to live a fully Jedi life.

He was a soldier at his core, and he could not fight the urge to live like one. A soldier on the Whaladon was like a caged animal; and without the convenient option of wasting his free time away in a blaster range or in the comfort of a nearby bar, he did as much as he could to keep his wits and skills sharp.

Aim. Throw. Retrieve.

The knives were carefully balanced, made by Amos' own hands to perfectly suit his requirements. They were crafted with Mandalorian methods that had been taught to him by his father and, while they were crafted from more rudimentary materials than the traditional Mandalorian alloys, the number of them that he managed to regularly conceal about his person had proven decidedly useful over the years.

The craftsmanship was such that each blade tumbled perfectly through the air; and his practiced movements ensured that it flew almost the exact same trajectory each time. At the end of it's flight, the knife collided with a sheet of polywood that Amos had managed to salvage, onto which a hastily-drawn target had been painted. While Amos hadn't quite mastered the perfection necessary to land the blade in the same hole each time, not a single puncture on the battle-scarred board lay outside the designated target area.

Not yet, at any rate.

Aim. Throw -

Before Amos managed to retrieve his most recent shot - a little high and right of the spot he was aiming for, but not by so much that it would make a significant difference if he was throwing at a soft target - a sound drew his attention to an arrival at his door. Part of him wanted to answer, knife-in-hand, for a little extra intimidation of whatever inconsiderate soul had decided to disturb his downtime.

Hulking, booted feet clomped across the deck, and a fist thumped into the door control, swooshing open the entrance to his overly cramped quarters.

[Wyl Staedtler]

The Whaladon was not a large ship. What it lacked in dimension, however, it more than made up for in sheer, undiluted magic. Just when it seemed there was nothing more to be had from the faithful vessel, she would produce an unexplored air vent that granted covert access to the crew quarters or a new resident who knew how to play a mean hand of Oh Hells or, once, a misplaced cargo crate that had sat unattended for hours before giving up and relenting to being opened, upon which an entire shipment of spur gears was discovered (and plundered.) As the population aboard grew, so did the opportunities for adventure.

Which was very important for Wyl Staedtler, already a very accomplished entrepreneur despite his modest age. Boys of his character could not hope to thrive in an environment which didn't give root to chance and change. The natural exuberance and keen curiosity that were synonymous with his name had been tempered somewhat by his Jedi training, true, but qualities that ran so deeply could not be wholly put to rein and so it was that the ever-widening world that had become their shelter was subjected to joyful, ceaseless scrutiny.

Today, though, it wasn't adventure which drove Wyl through the familiar corridors. Not entirely. Today there was something in the flavour of obligation in his wandering, a quest that carried not only determined curiosity but deep, personal ties that needed tending to.

Because until recently, Wyl had always thought himself the last of his people. A single conversation (http://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?p=378386#) with Inyos Aamoran had neatly shattered that particular notion and, with a little encouragement and direction from the man (literally; he'd drawn a little map and everything), the young padawan found himself tottering down one of the corridors that led through the living quarters, eying up the neatly stenciled designations outside each one until, all too soon, he found the appropriate combination of letters and numbers next to a plain, unobtrusive door.

Which he then proceded to stand in front of for ten minutes straight, staring wide-eyed at the steel-plated entrance, wondering if anyone had noticed him yet and whether or not it was too late to run away.

Wyl wasn't the sort who got nervous easily but then, this wasn't his usual brand of intrigue. A restricted shimmy through the intestines of the ship? Absolutely, no hesitation in sight. A meet and greet with his heretofore unknown relative who just happened to be aboard? Not bloody likely.

Unfortunately for the boy, a side effect of his sudden pitching stomach was that his limbs didn't obey with their usual grace. As he turned to abort the mission, one of Wyl's boots caught on the other and he tumbled, reaching a hand out to catch himself on the door with enough force that it was easily misconstrued as a rather confident knock. Flicking his tangled thatch of dark hair off his face, Wyl stared up at the door and watched with a kind of muted horror and fascination as it suddenly slid open, nearly sending him ass-over-teakettle in the process.

"Hi, I know you weren't expecting visitors," Wyl started in a rush, the rehearsed words escaping in a froth. He looked up, face freezing in a picture of shock. For a moment, the boy's mouth worked wordlessly and then he made a noise of startled disbelief, arms crossing over his scrawny chest. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me! It's you?!"

[Amos Iakona]

You've got to be kidding me.

That was a sentiment that Amos could get behind. Of all the faces he could have imagined being on the far side of the door, a young boy with mussed up hair would not even have made the list. He was initially willing to dismiss him as part of the "dumb Padawan who got the wrong room" category, but the apparent recognition brought a frown to his features; a total stranger would not act in such a familiar way.

He scoured his memory, searching for some clue of where the boy might know him from. He supposed it could be as simple as a meeting in passing, or some child who had seen him during training and was merely expressing his excitement at having recognised someone. But his words and tone seemed to hint at a greater significance.

He thought of all of the times in the past where he might have met infants; all the worlds he'd stayed on, missions he'd run; but as a Scout Trooper you weren't particularly recognisable, and it was only when the boy caught site of his face that the familiarity had seemed to strike home.

Then it dawned on him; and that recognition twisted his brow into a frown.

"You're that kid who stole my droid," he said, a growl colouring his voice.

[Wyl Staedtler]

The initial shock quickly evaporated at that, twin blue orbs suddenly becoming horizon lines as Wyl narrowed his eyes darkly. He stood absolutely no chance in an outright fight if things came to that - Amos' shoulders were nearly as broad as he was tall - but the boy wasn't above a few well-placed nail gouges if it meant getting in a bit of damage before being defeated. That it appeared things were already heading toward such an end was regrettable, considering they were family, but Wyl wasn't going to stand idly by and let such accusations be hurled. He was a lot of things, not all of them endearing or particularly good.

But he was no thief.

... not for real, anyway. Loki's lightsaber didn't count. Or the bits of scrap he salvaged from the flight deck that were only going to be incinerated anyway. Or the time he'd been stranded on Bespin without so much as his cloak, because that had been a necessary -

Whatever. The point was, he wasn't a dirty, rotten scoundrel who nicked whatever suited his fancy and Amos was sorely mistaken if he thought that Wyl would let an accusation like that pass.

"Trip," Wyl replied icily, adding extra emphasis to his mechanical little friend's name, "wanted to come with me and nobody'd blame him, either, since all you liked to do was give him orders like he was some slave from the mines. Besides, he couldn't have run off if it violated his code," the boy gave an exasperated sigh and let his head tip back with a groan, arms flying out to plead with the air for patience. "Don't you know anything about service droids? Inyos is delusional, we can't possibly be related."

[Amos Iakona]

Inyos. Delusional. Related.

Those thoughts floated through his mind, but frankly his thoughts were too busy being destracted by the pint-sized outburst. Trust a kid to get overly attached to some crummy old maintenance unit built from thousand-year-old blueprints. Despite the fact that it was a machine built to perform a task - a task that it often performed quite poorly, at that - this boy spoke as if Amos was some kind of scum slaver.

He considered a retort, making a token effort to screen out the worst of his usually profane-peppered vocabulary, but then the words drifted through his mind again.

Inyos. Delusional. Related.

Inyos Aamoran was a name he recognised. Not long before he'd found himself on Bespin - not long before he'd met the boy - his father had lured him with some stupid Mandalorian clan honour krast into helping him pay off one of the myriad favours he seemed to owe. There had been a journey to a planet; a rescue mission for a woman, though they'd ultimately come away with a man. The man had been Inyos Aamoran; and that had been the first time he'd felt a connection to the Force. Granted, it had taken a body-snatching encounter with the spectral ghost of a dead Jedi who claimed to be his uncle in order to get him jump-started; but at least he could feel it now, even if it did feel like he was fumbling all of the time.

He supposed he should have recognised the name faster; but with everything that had happened, he'd been a little too preoccupied with the revelation of his heritage and having been violated by a dead person to pay attention to the mysterious man that they'd accidentally rescued.

"I only have one living relative," Amos challenged, "And you don't look much like my father." He folded his arms across his chest, not backing down from the boy's accusations in the slightest. "You have some explaining to do: and I suggest you make it fast."

[Wyl Staedtler]

Amos was sorely mistaken if he thought that Wyl could be intimidated by a little posturing. The boy looked at the crossed arms, biceps bigger than his head bulging in easy promise, and then up to the expression painted across the older man's face, expectation clearly mixed into the shading. This was not the sort of figure used to getting anything other than exactly what he asked for.

Just as clearly, he'd never met someone like Wyl.

A tiny, lithe eyebrow perked up as if to say, really, is that the best you can do?, and Wyl rolled his eyes. With a weighty sigh, the boy leaned against the doorway and hooked one ankle over the other. He let the silence spin out for ten, twenty, thirty banthas before he yawned theatrically and shrugged his shoulders.

"I got nothin' to explain about Tripp," Wyl waved a hand dismissively. "That's settled, he made his choice. And of course I don't look like your dad, he's probably like a million years old and anyway, Inyos says that my dad was your mum's brother so it's not even genetically reasonable to say that I don't look like your father. That's like me saying you don't look like my mum. Which you don't, by the way," Wyl squinted, and then amended, "well, except she had brown hair, too. She brushed hers, though. I don't like wasting time with girly stuff like that, so maybe we are cousins."

[Amos Iakona]

The son of his mother's brother.

The son of Mandan Hidatsa.

Something about that hit him like a wave; some brush of emotion or half-fragment of memory, rattling around in the out-of-reach corners of his mind. He had no idea where it had come from, and it dissipated as quickly as it had come; but it left a strange residual feeling in it's wake.

He stared at the boy, and supposed he could see a little of his mother in there, somewhere; and there was perhaps some of his uncle too, though he didn't know Mandan's face nearly as well as his mother's. A few rambling allusions to his family was hardly conclusive proof of course; but there was something about the boy that felt strangely familiar. Maybe it was the Force trying to tell him that the kid was on the level; that everything he said was true. Maybe he was just mildly impressed at the kid for having some sort of spine, even if it did seem to be born more out of ignorance and defiance than genuine courage.

His eyes glanced up and down the corridor, making sure there weren't any witnesses in case the child proved too annoying to be allowed to live much longer.

"Alright," he grunted, letting his arms fall apart and taking a step back from the doorway that he mostly filled. "I guess you'd better come in."

[Wyl Staedtler]

With a swiftness that was disconcerting, the boy's face cleared of all stubborn malice and was replaced instead with a bright expression of cheer, like an ailing flower put to water.

"Hey, thanks!" Wyl exclaimed, pushing to stand and edge past Amos considerable bulk. It didn't matter that relations between them had been hostile only seconds ago. What was important about an invitation was that it sounded nearly like the word invasion, only dressed up in fancier clothes. The opportunity to trod through someone else's private world was far too great a temptation to pass up just because of a trifling bit of tension.

Wyl bounded to the centre of the room with a lightness reserved for children and stopped, twisting to first cast a broad survey around the modest space before starting over with a more discriminating eye. The basics were passed over with little interest - bedsheets and light fixtures were the same no matter where you went, unless visiting Taataani - but when he came to the knife hilts sticking out of the hung target, seven of them stuck fast like legendary blades of old, it was as though someone had socked him in the gut.

For a moment, one beautiful, breathtaking moment that seemed to unravel with slow precision until it didn't even seem real anymore, his lungs stopped working.

"Blast my stars!" Wyl launched forward like a guided missile, skidding to a halt in front of the makeshift range. One hand lifted up to stroke the handle of the lowest knife, awe making the motion seem almost timid. He peered over his shoulder, mouth agape. "Are these real, or are they just a prop to impress droids and women?!"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what sorts of droids this kid - whatever his name was - had been hanging out with, but the fact that he seemed to think that Amos' knife prowess was enough to impress women either reflected very badly on his experiences with women, or very well on Amos' prospects with the kinds of women the boy spent his time with.

Rather than answer the question directly, he reached upwards and into the cluster of dreadlocks lashed together behind his head, and from within them produced another of his concealable blades. With a practiced and fluid yet remarkably casual motion, he sent the knife tumbling across the room to join the rest.

"They're hand-carved," he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable recreating the scene where his father had explained the exact same facts to him. "Each one is perfectly scaled and balanced to suit the one who throws it. It's a Mandalorian tradition - my father called them goorar kal."

[Wyl Staedtler]

Any normal, well-adjusted being might have been a bit put out at having a knife fly past them with enough speed and proximity to ruffle their hair. Wyl, on the other hand, looked as though Amos had just granted him access to a credit account with unlimited reserves. For a moment it appeared that they were in very real danger of the boy having some sort of neurological fit, so violent were the enthusiast spasms of delight that distorted his features.

"That almost kissed my face!" Wyl proclaimed proudly, his voice gone high-pitched in an effort to contain his enthrallment. There was no need to worry. Anyone could see from the arrangement of blades in the wall and the hollow notches of past attempts that if Amos had really wanted to hit him, Wyl himself would have been pinned to the target.

Oh, Tak was going to be so, so jealous. He had a possible-cousin and yes, while he was a tyrant toward the droid species, he was extremely useful. And by useful, Wyl meant deadly. Who even carried knives around, let alone knives in their hair?

Practically vibrating with eager anticipation, the boy leapt to plaster himself against the wall and lifted his hand, slapping his palm flat against the target. He spread his fingers out, splaying the appendage like a squashed vent spider, and nodded at Amos.

"Come on, give it a go," Wyl jerked his chin up and waggled his fingers enticingly. "Try'n nail the spaces! Foul if you hit me, no second chances."

[Amos Iakona]

Amos stared at him with a mix of amusement and bemusement. Whatever part of the brain was responsible for fear, this boy was clearly lacking it; instead he seemed to have extra optimism and enthusiasm glands. Amos wasn't entirely convinced that it was a beneficial exchange in the grand scheme of things mind you; but for now at least it made the kid slightly less irritating.

He wasn't quite prepared to surrender completely, however. Summoning a few residual fragments of frustration, he managed to adjust his expression into a disapproving frown. "I am not throwing knives at your hand."

Instantly, he saw rebellion and defiance spring up in the child, and searched his mind frantically for some way to quash it before it bubbled out into another display like the one in the doorway. He grabbed hold of the first thought that occurred and ran with it.

"I don't know you well enough to know you won't flinch. What use is a cousin with only nine fingers?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Begrudgingly, Wyl had to admit that Amos had a point. He was quite assured of the steadiness of his own hands but the man barely knew him and couldn't be expected to yet fully understand the depths of Wyl's courage. The advancement of robotic limbs would no doubt be of little comfort to his maybe-cousin if his aim went askew and he did actually debilitate Wyl and the boy wasn't heartless enough to subject family to the crippling mental anguish and haunting guilt that would no doubt be the real misfortune in such a situation.

"Coward," Wyl clucked, shaking his head. Just because he wasn't going to force Amos to perform, didn't mean the man was getting off easy.

Tucking his hands in his pockets - with clear regret hanging bright in his eyes - Wyl sauntered over to stand in front of Amos, inspecting him with new interest. The boy drew a breath and held it, a question obviously waiting to be pushed out. It clung valiantly to pearly, sharp incisors and then it would be contained no longer, driving Wyl up onto his toes as he demanded, "Okay, okay, introductions later: how many knives are on your person right now?"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos yet again found a bemused stare on his face. This kid flipped from mood to mood faster than any being he'd ever encountered; a minute was all it took to transition from giddy enthusiasm to bitter disappointment, and on through into aggressive interrogation. He had absolutely no idea why the boy was on the Wheel - he guessed Jedi given his alleged father, but Amos had never met a Jedi quite like him - but he knew that if it fell through for whatever reason, he potentially had a bright future in Alliance Intel.

He sighed, and dutifully began producing knives from about his person - one from a cuff, one from a boot, one from his belt-strap, and another from within the folds of his hair. Each one was set down carefully on the small scavanged crate that passed for a makeshift table, a slight nudge making sure they all lined up perfectly.

"Only four," he said, with a slight note of disappointment. "It's a set of twelve -" He gestured towards the target to remind the boy where the others were. "- though in the Wheel I seldom carry more than six. In a climate-controlled environment like this ship, you can seldom get away with wearing enough outer layers to stow any more than that; but I try not to set foot on a starport or station without having the full set."

He trailed off casually, glancing vaguely around his cabin. His head nodded subtly towards one of the other salvaged container-tables, on top of which a chord-wrapped hilt and a carved wooden pistol grip protruded from a tangle of leather straps, scabbards, and holsters.

"Or without my blaster and vibrosword."

[Wyl Staedtler]

Only four. Usually twelve. Blaster. Vibrosword. This guy... this guy was a living, breathing armory!

In hindsight, Wyl supposed that it had been rather fortunate that he'd managed to survive their brief encounter on Bespin with all his limbs intact, although admittedly it would have a much cooler story if he had walked away with a minor wound or two, maybe a few scars that would have the other padawans whispering during sparring classes. Trip was a fine acquisition but the little droid had the unfortunate habit of correcting Wyl whenever he began telling war stories, most notably to state that they were largely fictitious. Scars, on the other hand, looked just as horrific as you needed them to.

From what the boy understood about genetics, the fact that his boy-I-really-hope-Inyos-isn't-wrong-cousin could shave the wings off a numa wasp in midflight meant that theoretically, Wyl was capable of the same thing. With the right training and a bit of practice, the latent capability that was no doubt lying dormant in his cells like a tyger ready to pounce would be unleashed. The possibilities of harnessing such skill were staggering.

With a casual expression, the boy reached out toward the array of blades and experimentally picked one up. The weapon was surprisingly heavy and not at all what Wyl had been expecting; from the effortless way that it's brethren had sprung from Amos' hand, the boy had half-supposed that each knife was as weightless and delicate as a bird.

"They're cool, I guess," the boy shrugged, slicing at air. "But they'd be no match for a lightsaber. I'm a Jedi, you know."

[Amos Iakona]

"Sure you are, kid."

The mention of lightsabers left an uncomfortable twisting inside Amos' gut. He and the archaic weapons were having something of a disagreement as far as his training went. When it came to duels, Amos was already a formidable swordsman; but he had spent his life training with single edged blades. The lightsaber was a weapon that was all edge, and his instructors criticised him heavily for not making more use of the weapon's capabilities, and telling him to unlearn what you have learned, and other such rhetorical dren.

Worse was the concept of deflecting blaster bolts. Amos couldn't get the hang of that at all. Despite this well-known gap in his ability, the instructors insisted on making him repeat the exercises again and again. He was deeply suspicious that his instructors might be harbouring a few dark side tendancies; that was the only way to explain their apparent sadism.

Luckily, the boy was providing a distraction for now. The funny thing was that his runt-cousin genuinely thought that describing himself as a Jedi was a threatening thing to say. If an Ewok had shown up and told him that he was a Wookiee, he probably would have had an easier time buying it: at least they were both furry with claws; this boy didn't look even remotely like a Jedi.

Neither do you, his mind pointed out, but he decided to ignore that particular thought.

"I'm a Jedi too, incidentally," he added, squaring his shoulders, managing to just about keep his amused smile out of the picture. "You have a name, Padawan?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

"Aron Racewing," Wyl replied with a cheeky widening of his grin. He set the knife down with a flourish, bright humour twinkling in the startling blue of his eyes. Clearly, the boy thought that he was hilarious and rightfully so: this obviously wasn't the first time that he and his supersized cousin had met but it was the first time they'd ever shared honest company with one another. The alias that he'd used last time seemed ridiculous in hindsight. Jeez, he'd been so dumb as a kid.

Although, wasn't it interesting that their initial meeting had turned out to be so prophetic? Amos had touted the declaration of being a Jedi as a sarcastic tool, yet here he was now, knives and all.

Wyl wondered idly how far Amos had progressed in his training. He didn't much look like the sort that gave in to meditation or spent his idle time trying to lift nuts and bolts with the power of the Force.

"Just kidding," the boy continued, curiously edging toward the compact lockerbox at the foot of the bed. "It's Wyl. And I am a Jedi. Why else do you think I'd be here? Duh."

[Amos Iakona]

Wyl. Well, at least it didn't sound like a made-up name, even if it was a little underwhelming.

Amos rolled his shoulders, a mix of a shrug and a reemphasis of his folded arms. His nose wrinkled as he curled his lip. "I dunno, Wyl. You don't strike me as the Jedi type to me. You seem more like a -"

He trailed off, completely at a loss for something that might be construed as an insult by a small child, but not something too severe. After all, he wanted to seem disgruntled and confrontational, but he didn't actually want the kid to cry. That would have just been awkward, and was most definately not something he was equipped to deal with.

"- passenger to me," he finished, deciding that was his best bet for now. What better way to insult the hyperactive, proactive child than by describing him as something that was utterly without purpose?

He pressed his point, adding a little background evidence for extra weight. "One of the mechanics for Rogue Squadron has a family aboard," he pointed out, nodding his head in an arbetrary direction as if he somehow new the exact current position of the Challenger. "How do I know you aren't just some kid who belongs to someone who's actually useful?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

A... passenger.

Wyl stared at Amos in blank horror for a moment. It occurred to the boy then that perhaps his cousin wasn't entirely sane and perhaps that was why Inyos had revealed their familial ties, to provide the poor creature with someone to look after him. After all, it was the only logical explanation as to how anyone could confuse Wyl with a mere passenger.

Ugh, the word even tasted filthy in his mouth.

Lips twisting distastefully, the boy silently counted to ten in Basic. It didn't really help but he supposed a little review never hurt anyone.

"I," Wyl stated slowly, gesturing to himself, "am not a passenger. That's ridiculous. That's beyond ridiculous. That's so far past ridiculous that it's in a different galaxy all together, a galaxy which I could fly to, by the way, because I am a pilot. A Jedi pilot."

[Amos Iakona]

Amos might have scoffed at that, had he remained in the education system long enough to understand what that word meant. At a guess, he felt that the term probably applied to the involuntary huff of dismissal that escaped his lungs.

A slew of possible retorts and rebuttals swam through his mind: jabs at the boy's age, stature, and all manner of other things, and how absurd that made his story sound. But a flutter of memory reminded him of a cantina fist-fight with a Sullustan pilot who'd been about the boy's height. A pang of embarrassment reminded him of an uncomfortable experience as a rookie on Naboo with what had seemed to be an older alien woman, but had in fact turned out to be a six-year-old from a species that matured alarmingly fast. Swiftly, his ammunition depleted, leaving him with nothing.

He sighed and his shoulders slumped, his mind rapidly tumbling in a different direction. Amos had been an only child; and a lonely child, thanks to the aggressive streak he'd inherited from his Mandalorian father. He didn't even know where to start when it came to interacting with a cousin, let alone a younger one.

"I need a drink," he grunted, stepping over to a small cooler crate, and hoofing the lid aside with a booted foot. He reached for a green glass bottle, lightly misted with condensation. He hesitated, a glance cast in Wyl's direction. "How old are you, kid?"