Clones and Muja Fruit

By Famira Damaris

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars.
Author's Notes: One-shot from a clone to another clone. Based on the random clone falling out the Laarty from Fi's section of Simple Things. I also fail hard at titles for stories, so if anyone thinks of a better one, feel free.
Summary: Everyone on Kamino knows of Boba Fett. One clone accidentally meets him and receives more than he expected.

Italics for emphasis, effects, slang
Archive: Go for it, just tell me if you are.

Clones and Muja Fruit

Everyone on Kamino knows Boba Fett.

Like everyone on Kamino, CC-4551 knows of Boba Fett. He knows of his fellow clone's "father" Jango Fett, has even seen the man occasionally wander around the training halls in Tipoca City with that particular rolling gait of his, inspecting the products of his genetics with dark eyes that exude pure confidence.

But he hasn't actually met him face to face. The same goes with Boba Fett.

Not that there's time to be wasted wandering around Tipoca City looking for this legendary Boba: CC-4551 has a full, full schedule of flash instruction and trying not to be killed today by his fellow clones. He likes flash instruction well enough because all it requires is sitting still in his little instruction cubicle and obediently taking in years worth of visual and audio information. At first it gave him overload headaches after each session, but after his first week of the live-fire exercises, CC-4551 decided that something as minor as a headache was light-years better than being dead.

He is six point five years old bearing on seven, but the idea of being dead is still scary.

Death is supposed to be terrifying, his instructor Tegan Khorda says almost every day, which is why I'm teaching you how to avoid getting killed. The batch instructor's not Mandalorian, but she teaches survival; that alone makes her worth listening to in CC-4551's opinion. The Gamma batch isn't sure just exactly where Khorda's from, but she speaks with what they know now is a clipped Coruscanti accent. The accent is contagious – CC-4551's run into a clone or two from the other batches in the full-scale exercises, and many of them don't sound like him and his brothers.

They are the same genetically, but he thinks that what he knows and what he sees are two different matters.

Boba Fett, however, is inherently different even if he came from the exact same genetic stock as CC-4551 did.

That's all he knows. It's enough to make him curious but not enough to distract him from his daily dose of shrapnel dodging. Today is going to be a special day, according to Khorda, because today they are going to start splitting off into what she calls specialty fields. She doesn't slip into the slang and euphemisms like CC-4551 knows the other instructors and their clones do – no, she says exactly what he means, like any polite civilian, only CC-4451 knows for certain Khorda thinks about a hundred and one different ways to kill a man when she turns that distant smile on you.

Khorda scares him, like any good batch instructor should.

The female doesn't care for the slang and euphemisms, but she does allow one concession – the day she met the batch, she made it clear that if they felt they wanted to name themselves, they should. If they wanted to keep to their designation numbers, that was fine too. That is the only freedom they will ever have and Khorda feels that she has no "right" in saying if they must or must not have a true name.

CC-4551 doesn't have a name yet, but he would like one. A good, strong one. Some of his brother clones like to call him Shag – they've learned somehow that means slave in Hutteese, but then again, they've taken to calling everyone that with the same kind of morbid humor they've inherited from Khorda. So it's not really a name, then, if it's interchangeable with just about any one of his brothers.

He stands at attention now, back ramrod straight, with the members of his squad as Khorda makes her daily rounds. She moves like a predator, prowling about the ranks of over one hundred clones with her hands clasped behind her back, her crisp uniform impeccable with no creases. Next to CC-4551 stands his brother CC-4478 – he decided to call himself "Rang" last night, something CC-4551 needs to remember now – who watches Khorda make her way with that slight tilt of his head that betrays his curiosity.

"Big day," Rang says out the corner of his mouth.

CC-4551 keeps an eye on Khorda. "She looks distracted."

"Word's Jango Fett's out on some kind of leave," Rang says. "She's got to look after his batch until he's back; 'course she's distracted."


"You said it."

Everyone knows of Jango Fett's own batch – they're supposedly pure Jango, a bunch of crazies who only happen to share accelerated aging with the rest of the clones. CC-4551 wonders if that means Boba as well, but decides he's got better things to be thinking about. Performing well for Khorda, for starters. She's almost on them now, at random asking for a trooper's rifle and inspecting it. Those she deems unacceptable she returns and gives their owners a hard cuff and a look that makes words unnecessary. No one flinches.

She's reached three unacceptable rifles by now.

"Three!" she barks. Her short crop of boyish hair shines a pretty shade of blue in the overhead lights.

CC-4551's convinced that she's not just some eccentric human; instead he believes she's a near-human, a Theelin judging from the way her hair looks more like feathers than actual hair despite the spiky crew-cut. There's also that strange set of faint splotches ringing her cheeks and scalp – aqua isn't really the color of human freckles, as far as the clone knows. Still. It doesn't matter what species she is. Or where she was born.

She is Tegan Khorda. She is their instructor. That's all her clones need to know.

Currently she is angry and distracted. They don't make a good mix.

"Three! What's wrong with you all?" Khorda shoves the offending rifle into the chest of its irresponsible owner hard, throwing him back a step. "I've been instructing you for over six kriffing years. I'd like to know that my clones can at least maintain their own weapons!"

No one replies. They know Khorda and they know it best to let her anger vent aloud than try to defuse it.

The female Theelin clasps her hands behind her back, marching down the ranks, her thin lips compressing in a line of disapproval.

"Three is three too many," she continues, eyes flicking over Rang, over CC-4551 standing beside him before passing to the others. "Two of the rifles could have jammed if this was live-fire. The other wasn't even assembled properly. All three would have resorted in the deaths of your brothers," she stabs an accusing finger at the three guilty clones in turn. "When one fails, all fail. You have just effectively killed off every squad here due to your negligence."

CC-4551 knows what this means. Another thirty kilometer run with triple kit. In the rain.

"Unacceptable," Khorda says. She looks upset for a moment, but it could just be she's thinking of their punishment for gross negligence; she's never liked having to get creative about them. She turns quiet. "You're all lucky I'm not Kaminoan."

The Theelin leaves it at that.

CC-4551 can't help a shudder at her words, though. It's chilling to think what the Kaminoans will do if they find out about this – they're known to cull entire batches just because of performance mistakes like the three rifles. That thirty kilometer looks a lot more appealing when things are put in their proper perspective. The clones turn as one, watching their instructor pace down one column of young men and come up another. CC-4551 feels the urge to fidget, to shift weight on his other foot, but he suppresses it hurriedly.

Khorda passes his column.

"This can't keep happening," she growls to her clones. "You want to kill yourself? Fine. That's your choice. But I won't sit for that kind of careless attitude getting the other men around you killed just because you have an idiot death wish."

She jerks her chin to the side. Without having to be told, the three singled out men step out of their places and stand apart behind her shoulder in one movement. They look emotionless, but CC-4551 can see that faint flicker of fear in their eyes. They don't know what Khorda will do. No one does. For all they know, she might decide to turn in these "defects" to the Kaminoans and sweet-talk them into letting her keep the rest. It's happened a few times with other instructors.

"The rest of you, listen up."

Everyone's stock still. They listen.

"Same drill. Thirty kilometers with triple kit. Any screw-ups and you start over."

Khorda starts to turn away to the three clones behind her and thinks better of it.

She drops the bombshell almost casually.

"I won't be supervising you for most of today, but rest assured I will know if anyone cuts corners."

Even the disgraced clones behind her look thunderstruck. A day without Khorda in their lives is unimaginable – for as long as they can remember, the woman and her clipped Coruscanti accent have been with them from dawn to dusk, as inevitable as the roiling seas underneath Tipoca City or the daily downpour of hard gray rain. CC-4551 swallows. Next to him, he's aware Rang's staring, wide-eyed. This is unprecedented.

"Rest up, hit the 'freshers, pack it in and get fed," Khorda says. "I'll be running you into the ground to assess your places in a specialty field; if you don't throw it all up tonight when I'm through with you, I'll know you haven't eaten."

The Theelin doesn't give her clones a chance to mull it over, glowering, and snaps her fingers impatiently. "Get going, the lot of you!"

CC-4451 is curious to know what's going to happen to the three clones picked out, but he doesn't get a chance to find out – at Khorda's signal, his body reacts instinctively from years of training even before his mind catches up, breaking out into a run, his brothers in their deep red fatigues pressing against him as they do the same in one surge of motion. Each man doesn't want to be the last of the pack, but even the competition to be in the lead is orderly – no clone falls behind these days

But those three did, CC-4551 thinks.

The thought plagues him even as he struggles along with his brothers in the rain.


"No sign of Instructor Khorda," Rang says in the mess hall. "Maybe she got killed by Jango's ARCs."

CC-4551 frowns. Like every batch they sit together just like they sleep and fight together – the other hundreds of clones around them in the mess look like them, but they are strangers, glancing at him without the recognition he's used to seeing in his immediate brothers. Talking about their instructor while she isn't here eating with them seems wrong somehow. And the thought of her dead is downright alarming.

Next to Rang another clone leans in. He's doing that slight quirk of the eyebrow that tells CC-4551 he's the one called Simil.

"What are we supposed to do after we finishing eating?" Simil asks, thoroughly bewildered. "I don't think she'll be back before we finish."

Rang shakes his head.

CC-4551 digs into the food cubes. They're nutritiously lacking in taste. "She didn't give us any orders. I think," he pauses hesitantly, unsure, "I think we can do what we want until she gets back."

Rang and Simil stare at him as if he's sprouted another head.

CC-4551 might as well have; the idea of having free time is just as alien to him as it is to them.

"What else are we to do?"

No one can find an answer to that.

The evening meal is subdued without Khorda going over the day with her clones. CC-4551 isn't the only one unnerved by her absence; the entire batch is shifting restlessly. They're used to hearing the Theelin's clear Coruscanti accent up and down the length of the table as she goes over what they did well and did poorly that day, her head of blue hair clearly visible compared to the sea of the black hair of her soldiers. She is hard, unforgiving, but she is consistent. Prudent.

CC-4551 tries lagging through his meal and finds that Khorda hasn't returned by the time the last of the food cubes disappears from his tray. He can't lag any longer, not when there's a line of another instructor's clone batch waiting for the tables. He picks up his empty tray, follows Rang to the disposal unit – as clean and white as everything else in Tipoca City – and exits out into the long, curving hall connecting the mess with the living quarters.

Rang is at a loss. "I'm guess I'm going to catch up on sleep, if Khorda plans to run us through the grinder tonight."

"Same," Simil says.

CC-4551 decides that he's not tired. It's strange to decide for himself, but Khorda isn't here to herd her clones to their sleeping quarters. "I'll see you in a bit then."

He doesn't know where he plans to go – he hasn't ever decided to just walk for recreation before – but he knows at least not to go beyond the boundaries. But most of Tipoca City isn't officially off limits, so he supposes that he can pretty much go wherever he pleases. It's a freedom he's not sure he likes. It's too much freedom. He wanders at random up the white, curving streets of Tipoca City, avoiding the occasional Kaminoan sliding gracefully with long strides in the opposite direction.

He is being judged by those alien eyes. So far he is judged as acceptable.

CC-4551 intends to be as acceptable as long as he possibly can.

He is about to turn back when he finds himself in a series of corridors he's never seen before. He knows just about every landmark in Tipoca, every lab he's ever been in, every imperfection (there are not many) outside in the rain slicked walls, but he has never, ever been where he is now. Worst yet is the fact that a Kaminoan is gliding his way now, too close to duck down another corner and alarmingly near; this is so distracting that he almost misses the little human boy at the Kaminoan's waist.

CC-4551 stares despite himself. He is seeing himself several years ago, a miniature clone of a clone.

This is Boba Fett.

Boba Fett has a head of curly dark hair, but unlike all his other "brothers", his hair is long in comparison to the crew cuts CC-4551 is used to seeing. He also has a little snub nose, and it's like looking into the past of three, four years ago. CC-4551 almost forgets about the female Kaminoan holding Boba's hand. Almost.

"Why Boba," the Kaminoan says, her voice melodic and measured and showing no surprise. "We have an unexpected visitor."

Boba Fett is six years old and looks it. CC-4551 is also six years old; physically he is in his early teens.

"That's a clone?" Boba asks. He sounds surly. Sullen. "He's so old, Taun We."

CC-4551 stiffens. He knows all about Project Coordinator Taun We.

Taun We bends down to be closer to Boba. She does it gracefully, curving exactly at the waist, like the Alderaan willow trees that CC-4551 has seen in his flash instruction sessions. Alderaan willows make poor cover and are highly flammable.

"These clones have accelerated aging, Boba," says Taun We. She turns her silver eyes onto the clone in question. "Your designation number and your age, please."

It's all CC-4551 can do to keep from outright trembling in fear.

"My designation number is CC Four-Five-Five-One. I am six years old, ma'am," he says, relieved to find his voice is steady. He supposes he should explain just what he's doing out of rank. "My training instructor is Tegan Khorda – she didn't leave us orders when she left to assume command of Jango Fett's ARC's, ma'am."

"Oh?" Taun We does that Kaminoan version of a shrug, holding up her slender hands. "Then I believe I will have to speak with Instructor Khorda about this when she returns from her…additional duties. Having time to idle isn't productive. Such time would be better served either carrying out your biological functions, such as sleeping or eating, or going over the day's curriculum."

CC-4551 agrees, but says nothing. Little Boba looks at him straight on, without blinking, taking him in with open, almost confrontational curiosity. It suddenly occurs to CC-4551 that Boba knows what clones are and knows he's also a clone.

"You're in the commando program, yes?" Taun We asks. Her silver eyes don't harden with any emotion at all, like Khorda's does, instead remaining aloof with only a kind of politely medical interest.

"Yes ma'am."

"Boba, do you know what a commando is?"

Little Boba glances at CC-4551 and then back at Taun We with his dark eyes. "A commando is anyone specially trained in the military for the element of surprise: a small group of soldiers who hit hard and fast with extreme prejudice against specific targets."

CC-4551 blinks. Boba sounds almost like a clone too – must be from Jango Fett's influence.

"Correct," says Taun We. "You've been keeping up with relevant lessons, I see."

Boba only manages a tight little smile, too adult for his child's face. It would look fitting on Rang or Simil, but not on a face that's several years too young, in his book. Taun We appraises the clone commando standing in front of them.

"CC-4551, I will give you an order, seeing as your instructor thought it fit to give you none," Taun We says. "I give you the task of watching after Boba here, until I return. You are to return to his quarters until I come back. I will then escort you to Instructor Khorda myself, to inquire the reason for this…" the Kaminoan purses her thin lips with delicate distaste, "free time."

She doesn't leave him time to protest (not that he would, but he now feels a curious clench in his gut as if it's dropping out from under him. It's not the usual type of fear), instead turning to Boba. The six year-old stares up at Taun We without any fear at all.

It's a bit unnerving, actually. CC-4551 wants to warn him to cut it with the attitude until he realizes that Boba is Taun We's charge, not her product.

It's an important distinction.

"Boba," Taun We says, and from the shift in her Kaminoan accent of Basic, she clearly values Jango's personal clone much higher than CC-4551. "I would like you to go over your lessons once more with CC-4551 here, as a kind of…learning experience. You may see first hand the products of your father's excellent genetics. He is a credit to your species."

The disarming, too-young six year-old before CC-4551 only nods. The two watch Taun We glide away, her steps graceful and unhurried. CC-4551 is aware that Boba is staring at him. He doesn't know how to react. Being able to look at a short, younger version of himself in the present isn't something he feels comfortable with, but he puts up with it because he has to.

Boba stares at him and suddenly turns away, leaving the taller clone behind him to follow. They make their way through the streets, taking a winding shortcut through one of the incubation facilities, the walkway rising up and cutting through countless towers of glowing blue tubes. It's rather pretty, in a kind of eye-catching way, and CC-4551 can't help but stare, taking it all in and knowing this is one of those memories that he will carry within him years after the fact. The fact that there appears to be little human shaped blobs in those glowing blue tubes doesn't faze him at all.

He can see the Kaminoan techs down below, though this particular factory is so big that he almost feels like he's floating. It's an illusion, naturally, and while he knows humans need to have an up or down, the Kaminoans didn't look at all bothered, their silver forms seeming to drift from one station to another, checking on the progress of the blobs of flesh that he knows will be future brothers.

The shortcut takes them to a large series of domes, higher than he is used to. Obviously private quarters; probably for the batch instructors and the other nonclones and non-Kaminoans.

Boba accesses one of the doors set into the painfully white corridor. It hisses open, giving CC-4551 his first glimpse of a private room. It's a lot of space for one person, especially for someone as small as the clone before him. He thinks back to the barracks in Lower Tipoca City, to the white rooms and the hundreds of bunks, and realizes that this really is an alien world to him.

"This's my home," says Boba, stepping in. "It's just me and my Dad."

Dad – oh. That's another term for father, isn't it? Must mean Jango Fett. CC-4551 takes cautious step into the room and it's all he can do not to want to make sure the room is clear before entering. The boy ahead of him doesn't care, instead walking forward into a larger part of the room with a couch and flopping down, staring at him until he comes forward and remains standing. It's still raining outside, the sea roiling gray and lined with foam outside the slicked window; despite the change of rooms, Kamino is still the same.

"So you got a name?" Boba asks, almost belligerently.

The clone shakes his head.

Boba sniffs in disbelief. "You just reply to your designation number?"

"Yes," CC-4551 says, wondering if he should be adding sir. Taun We didn't tell him too, but he doesn't know how to address this miniature not-him. "Our batch trainer did say we could choose a name if we felt the need to have one," he adds. "Not everyone does."

Boba chews on that, looking right into the clone's eyes intently. "Taun We told me all about clones. She said that my Dad had the best genetic stock out of all the others," he looks proud. "She said because of Dad's genes, all his clones will be better than the normal humans. She said they will be the greatest army the galaxy has ever seen."

CC-4551 supposes that's true, although he thinks that if normal humans involve people like Tegan Khorda – tough, frigid, there – then Taun We might want to reassess the facts. He finally decides it's safe to sit down and does so, aware that Boba is still looking at him and knowing there is nothing to be done about it.

"She also said that I'm a clone, because I asked, and Taun We never lies," Boba looks down, fiddling with an invisible thread on his blue pants. He looks up with that confrontational stare that CC-4551 knows he will remember. "So I guess you're my big brother."

CC-4551 can't help himself. He wants to know what this little miniature clone thinks about that, about what has never been mentioned back in the Lower Barracks. "Is that bad?"

Boba crosses his short arms. "I dunno. What do you think?"

This definitely doesn't have to do with the lessons Taun We mentioned.

"I…I don't know," CC-4551 says, thinking it over, his face drawn with concentration. "It's not good or bad, it just is. It's fact."

"Good answer," Boba suddenly grins, and startles the other clone by scrambling over the top of the couch and accessing something behind it, his feet just touching the seat of the couch. "You hungry?"

He just ate, but he can't say no to Taun We's favorite clone. "A little."

Boba closes a cabinet with a hiss of the seal, and comes up with a pair of brilliant red globes, orange spots speckling the surfaces. CC-4551 stares at them without any recognition. They look like some kind of fruit, but he can't for the life of him identify them. Boba tosses him one without warning, eyebrow quirking up in a mix of amusement and delight as the larger clone catches it perfectly without any fumbling at all.

"It's good. It's a muja fruit, Dad brought them back a few days ago."

CC-4551 looks at it, committing the speckled texture of the muja fruit to memory, and finally takes an experimental bite after watching Boba do the same.

He freezes.

There is no description for it, other than that there is an actual taste and his mouth and brain don't know what to do yet with this new, unexpected information. After the explosion of taste, it seems to melt in his mouth after a few seconds, prompting him to take another bite. It's…it's good. He still can't describe the taste – he simply doesn't have the vocabulary for it – but he knows he likes it and that seems like a start. He polishes off the muja fruit.

Boba's not finished with his. He licks his lips, looking at CC-4551 over his muja fruit.

"You like muja, huh?"

CC-4551 nods earnestly.

Boba remains half sprawled on the couch, gazing at the clone across from him for a long moment. It's a bit strange to realize that unlike his brothers Simil and Rang, he can't tell what Boba's thinking just by his eyes. They are brown just like his, but they are as alien as Khorda's. Like looking into the glass of the Fett's living room, black compared to the bright interior, and seeing only his reflection in the window.

Without warning, Boba hops of the couch, and disappears through one of the doors. When he comes back, he's got a thin knife in his small hand. He holds it like any respectable clone would, unconsciously holding it like a tool but prepared to change it to a weapon given proper provocation. Boba uses it now to cut carefully around his bitten portion and holds out the rest to CC-4551, sticky muja juice staining his fingers a reddish brown.

"Here, you have the rest."

CC-4551 reluctantly takes it.

"Can I name you?" Boba suddenly asks, looking up from licking his fingers clean.

"If you feel the need to," CC-4551 says, knowing that he'll take whatever name little Boba Fett gives him, if only because he has given him a taste of something wonderfully strange and new and knows it will probably never happen again.

Boba flashes a grin again. "I want to call you Muja."

That's a good, short name, CC-4551 thinks. It's also very relevant, as Khorda would say, and it does hold a special meaning, even if it's just the memory of sharing a strange, speckled fruit with Jango Fett's clone son one bizarre afternoon.

Muja it is, then.

"Okay," says Muja.


Boba Fett is still a mystery.

He is too young for his age, six for six instead of six for thirteen. He can go where he wants and do what he wants in Tipoca City without having to worry about being corrected or forced to conform to the Kaminoan cloners' exacting standards. He is a clone like everyone else and yet he is singularly unique, favorite of Taun We and Jango Fett.

He also has given Muja a taste of something different. He gave him his name.

Even though he has a feeling he won't see this odd, short little clone again, Boba Fett has made a lasting impression on him. Mystery or not, Muja believes that Boba will be something special, as unique outside in the galaxy as he is here in Kamino. And it is only because of Boba being at his side, holding his hand just because he feels like it, and loudly feels like going for a walk, that Muja manages to stand his ground when they come across Taun We, followed by Tegan Khorda.

Khorda is also dogged by the three clones singled out in the morning's inspection. Muja stares. He's surprised they're still alive instead of being terminated for their poor performance. They do look very pale – shaken, even – and he guesses that maybe they just haven't been taken to the Kaminoans yet.

"Here we are, Instructor Khorda," Taun We says, "One of your clones, safe and sound."

Muja stands at attention despite himself, and tries to quietly untangle Boba's fingers from his. Boba refuses to budge, watching the three clones behind the Theelin batch instructor. Khorda flicks a glance from Boba, to Muja, and finally to Taun We, in that order, as if she can't be bothered to feel any embarrassment for a loose clone running around unchecked in Tipoca.

"I would like to know why your clones were given time off," the Kaminoan female frowns slightly.

Khorda has to tilt her head up, but she meets Taun We's silver eyes without blinking.

"I gave my clones some time off because I felt they needed it," Khorda says, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm planning to start separating them into specialty fields and that means they need an hour or so to get creative about it. With all due respect, Project Coordinator, they are my responsibility."

Taun We laces her delicate fingers together. "Giving your batch free time is very unorthodox, Instructor."

"Then I'll take responsibility should something go wrong."

"Their free time could have been spent doing something more productive."

"I'll be the judge to say what is productive, ma'am, unless you have a better definition I'm unaware of."

Muja and the other three clones are watching the exchange wide-eyed, going from Khorda to Taun We and back to Khorda as if waiting for the Theelin to resort to blows. Despite her furrowed eyebrows, Khorda is remaining civil, though her Coruscanti accent is particularly frosty right now. If there is anything she absolutely hates, it is someone questioning her ability to do a job, especially one as involved as training hundreds of clones for an unspecified number of years. Muja glances down at Boba; the little boy has an intent, almost predatory look on his face, and Muja can't tell if he's smiling or not – or why, if so.

But he knows that today Boba Fett is learning something, and that is how to stand ground against a Kaminoan and win.

Taun We falls quiet. Her white lips press together slightly and she dips her head in a graceful nod of concession.

"Very well, Instructor," she says. "You are the expert in matters of combat; I am not."

Khorda smiles a humorless smile. "Thank you for being so reasonable."

"May I inquire why there are three more units with you? If there are any faulty, we would be happy to replace them for you."

The Theelin instructor doesn't quite pale, but Muja thinks her aqua freckles darken a bit, like a human's annoyed flush. She doesn't glance behind at the three brothers behind her, who have gone pale.

"They're fine," Khorda snaps defensively. "I just took them with me to learn a thing or two about Jango's ARCs."

Muja gapes. No wonder they look almost sickly! They are lucky to have all their limbs attached if they were fraternizing with ARCS. He feels a bit surprised that Khorda doesn't hand them over to Taun We; maybe having to spend a few punishing hours with Jango's crew is worse. He looks down. Boba Fett has a smug I knew it expression, as if he can just tell where the three clones have been just from looking at them. It makes sense, Muja supposes, seeing as he was probably able to recognize his father's handiwork.

Khorda looks his way. It's time to go. Muja finally manages to disentangle his hand from Boba's and hurriedly takes his place behind Khorda, falling into rank with his brothers out of habit and feeling better to be surrounded once more by familiarity.

Taun We bends down and takes Boba Fett's hand in her gray one, and dips another nod Khorda's way.

"Jango Fett will surely be back soon, Instructor, and I am certain he appreciates your double effort concerning your own batch and his ARCs," Taun We says, and turns to leave. "Come along, Boba."

Muja watches Boba Fett disappear down the halls. He only has the memory of that muja fruit and the name he has been given, but that is more than he could have asked for this morning. He has a memory, a taste, a name and he is back with brothers. Muja is back with Tegan Khorda and everything seems to be right in the world again.

"I hope you got some food in you," Khorda grumbles as she leads them back to the Lower City Barracks. "Because I'll be able to tell if it's not on the floor when I'm done with you and I'm not in the mood to get angry today."

"I ate, ma'am," Muja says, thinking of the red, speckled fruit. "I'm ready."