The Clone Wars raged across the galaxy bringing terror and destruction. Anakin Skywalker is an arrogant, stubborn, Jedi. Addison Avery is his feisty, just as argumentative counterpart. Both recovering from tainted pasts, pairing up the worst Jedi Kn...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ADDYS FIRST PERON POV
Oh, the joys of Jedi training with the ever-so-patient Anakin Skywalker. It's like trying to teach a bantha to dance; you're both just going to end up frustrated and one of you might lose a limb. But hey, who am I to judge?
So there I was, after my beauty sleep which is just a fancy term for passing out from exhaustion after Anakin's latest "patience-building" exercise. And let's not even get started on my skills—or lack thereof. I'm about as useful in lightsaber training as a screen door on a starship.
Fast forward to the present, and my stomach's growling louder than I'd prefer. Breakfast it is. I throw on my slippers—then tossed on a pair of brown robes and headed out the door.
Walking into the grand dining hall of the temple, I flung open the sliding glass doors with the Force. Striding through the chatty hall, I huffed, scanning my surroundings.
And there he is, my new general, brooding alone at a table like he's plotting the downfall of the Sith with his morning coffee. I walk over, a devilish grin on my face.
"Heeeeyyy," I drawl,
"What, Avery?!" he snaps.
"I dunno, just thought I'd come over and sit with you," I reply, my voice dripping with excess sarcasm.
"Great! Take a seat!" he retorts with his brows furrowed.
I plop down, elbows on the table, head propped on my hands, and give him the once-over. He's decked out in his Jedi armor, all red and dark gray, looking like he's ready to charge into battle or a fashion faux pas.
"What?!" he growls.
"What's with the dress?" I ask innocently, poking the rancor with a stick.
It's not the attire that's the issue; I've seen enough in my time to appreciate all sorts of fashion choices. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that nothing gets under the skin of a man with a lightsaber faster than questioning his wardrobe choices. Especially when he's as touchy as a thermal detonator with a faulty timer.
Anakin's confusion over his wardrobe choice was the highlight of my morning. "The dress? What dress?!" he exclaimed, as if the concept of clothing was as foreign to him as a peaceful negotiation with a Hutt.
"The dress you're wearing right now," I pointed out, unable to resist the urge to poke fun at him.
"I'm not wearing a dress." He glanced down, and the realization dawned on him. "Shut up," he muttered, his voice as low as his patience threshold.
The laughter that followed was uncontrollable, bouncing off the walls of the dining hall like a blaster bolt in a closed room. Anakin's face turned a shade of bright red.
"O-oh god," I managed between fits of laughter, tears streaming down my face.
"It really wasn't that funny," he grumbled, his tone as sour as blue milk gone bad.
