Fools Don't Change, Stones Don't Bleed

Chipped

Gullipuds, Cade called them, small creatures that are instead of playing balls on Corustant's lower levels. Slimy and chubby, the same colour as the future victim's face – tawny, and with spikes on their sides.

"Don't you think, Cade, he's kriffing annoying," Shado crossed his arms, creasing from his friend's overly wide grin, "but I'm too young to die."

"I personally would die just to see him crying and shitting his pants," shrugged Cade. Azlyn burst into laughter behind his back. She had filched the boots from Wolf Sazen's quarters and now waved them like banners.

That Zabrak was a real child prodigy, Kol Skywalker's padawan, who put him on pedestal more than he did his own son. Wolf had still been underage when he'd already become philosophy and natural science instructor. He held his head high and had no friends – nobody in their right mind would hang out with someone who can only talk about the Living Force and the nature of time. Once Shado and Cade had bargained nice seats at a shockboxing bout from their Nautolan mate who served the local Hutt, but in the game night Sazen had appeared behind their backs and dragged them through the crowd and corridors of the Academy right to the offering table at Master Skywalker's study. Until the very morning Cade had been complaining that Sazen follows him everywhere and aims to be his personal teacher.

"Interesting tastes you have," snorted Shado, watching as his friends tried to stuff small, as if filled with water, living bubbles into boots. Supposedly, their mucus was poisonous.

"I'll rip your tentacles off if you just breathe a word to anyone." The fist was stiff, dirty and cool when Cade jokingly smeared it across Shado's cheek. The Twi'lek aloofly said "Ouch."

The sun and hot aroma of dust clouded in the training hall, sweat glistened on Shado's blue arms – lunge, another, Kol Skywalker didn't go soft on a teenager. He knew how important it was for Shado to become a swordsman. Not only he fenced like he breathed, but he was of clan Vao too. Skywalker was redheaded and bronze-tan human, he radiantly smiled and exuded warmth. He was the total antipode of his son.

"You sure do like violence, youngling Vao," Kol reproachfully pointed out, blocking the hailstorm of manoeuvrable attacks.

Yes, yes, Shado bore this calibrated joy within, this passion in cool-blooded dance of feints and swings, rightful like punishment for sins.

"Words are insignificant," uttered he, landing on the other side of the ring. "If your offspring has taught me something, it's not to succumb to provoking."

Muscles were aching from battle excitement, from the flickers of pride and favour in Kol's eyes. False sabers were humming, every strike resonated into the joints, and Shado swirled, and Shado whipped up into the air, whirling his double-bladed staff – the symbol of surprise and abruptness, like the times when Cade didn't call Twi'leks 'wormheads'.

One day was Vao twins' Lifeday. Astraal came to gift Shado their father's lekku bands and armour gauntlets, which she'd found through Imperial Mission. Shado was ashamed that he only had battered construction set in exchange. They were playing some old fighting hologame, and Astraal told how she'd hacked the missionary school's database. And then Cade broke into their shared quarters, and, at the sight of Astraal, whistled.

"Shado," Cade licked his lips, "what's this cake you have here? Can I have a bite?"

There was no cake in the room.

"Brother, there's some moron came." Astraal poked Shado with her elbow. She'd never called anyone names before.

"Yeah, such garbage gets here sometimes," responded he with annoyance. His sister was laying with her head on his chest and was stubbornly winning. He should had moved her.