pressing L3 + R3 to take a nap

Still. He finds himself avoiding little Mandalore these days, the old words and armour too familiar, ghosts gone sour. He also finds himself avoiding the main news channels, though the government-mandated one always buzzes in the back of the diner, mercifully drowned out. So, it is with all this reluctance, that he looks at what his nephew is trying to show him one evening. some news article or other on his comm, something the whole city seems to be in a twitter about - something that had the word ‘Jedi’ on everyone’s mouths, and god but Dex doesn’t want to hear another death, another massacre a -

‘No, Dex, you should really see this.’ It’s something in the tone that finally makes him look down. Rell hasn't sounded that giddy in years.

And then Dex sees the image in the comm, and the whole world becomes static.

He was wrong, it’s not really a news article, just the clipping of the media from one, and then a bunch of complied hand-held photos, clearly taken by random citizens across various socials.

And there, on the screen, is a human with a bright yellow lightsaber, a giant sabre staff as long as the man is tall. He looks like a workman, heavy jacket and trousers made for construction, with broad shoulders and cropped hair.

That stance though - that stance is Obi Wan, is Anakin. It’s like something out of the Clone Wars propaganda, the faint outline of the Jedi temple glowing behind this stranger. Kriff but even the hair looks like Obi Wan’s used to, golden under whatever false light he’s near. It’s devastating, the deja vu offset with the empire’s cog burning through the banners on the temple. It’s also electric. The man’s face is thrown into shadow but there’s no play acting here, feet sure and steady, some stance or other Dex remembers from the war holos. Even if it wasn’t - Jedi impersonators had stopped years ago. The clout isn't worth the death sentence.

Nobody has seen a blade that isn't red on Coruscant in nearly a decade, and now there’s one the colour of the old Jedi guards, blazing in over-bright pixels across the screen.

Dex looks up at his nephew, tears in his eyes.

He won’t see out the Empire. His joints ache every morning, and he knows his heart is failing him, even if he makes sure he stays upbeat coming home back from the doctors’. However long the Rebellion takes, he will not see its completion. He knows this.

But for just one night, he lets himself dream, thinking of that figure in blazing contrast to the imperial palace. Thinks also of the man’s rough wear, heavy-duty and commonplace. It’s a far cry from Obi-Wan’s understated linen, Ahsoka’s heirloom beads, but in some way also, it fits - better. It speaks of a Jedi order that have evolved, that have come back with heavy calluses and worn in coats, brushing elbows with the people they serve. Dex had loved Obi-Wan the Jedi, but had also loved Obi-Wan the man. Had loved that version first, from the first interaction. The tired thirty year old, who could have been any other father, the soldier come back from the mid-rim who just wanted a nerf sando, extra spicy, and to hear about Dex’s family. The uncle, the pilot, the teacher, the parent just worried about his family in the war. The part that never seemed to be allowed in the interviews or war promotions, that the general public didnt think existed.

This shadowy figure from the current broadcast looks both stepped out of myth, awash in molten light, but also - out of any union meeting. Any factory floor, bar room, mechanics shop. And maybe that’s what they need. The Jedi have been so vilified for their faith, for holding themselves aloft, but there is no separation in this image now. The face is in shadow, but the hand has visible scars across the back, the knees patched through.

When Dex goes to sleep that night, he is truly, honestly, hopeful.