In Confidence - 10.098

[Abarai Loki]

It was late in the afternoon when Loki was laughed from the scrapyard and stumbled onto an empty road. Guss, the resident droid-mutilator, appeared in the doorway to his workshop with four arms folded over his swollen gut. He had a grin like a scimitar. When the young Jedi tossed him one last scathing glance, he was overcome with another fit of phlegmy laughter which put a wobble in his bulbous folds. The wind picked up, buffeting the Jedi onwards with hot lashings of dust, while he nursed his wounded arm. He clutched tight with a wince and glanced down to survey the damage for what must've been the tenth time. His sleeve was torn, exposing his once-white undertunic, which glistened ruby red in the sun, and beneath, there was a deep angry gash that stretched almost the length of his forearm. Between hisses of pain, he sighed.

Abarai Loki was a creature of habit: his every day was a regimented timetable of Jedi duties and inconvenient necessities like washing, and sleeping, and eating. Although, admittedly, he was rather fond of that last one. In recent months, his air-tight schedule had wavered, owing to an inexplicable need for an extra hour's sleep in the morning. And, succumbing at last to his new biological requirements, Loki had adjusted his routine accordingly, and all had been well once again. So, it was a source of great personal frustration to him that his one single dalliance with spontaneity had been met with such sanguineous misfortune.

It came about when his fellow Jedi, Wei Wu Wei, had offered to oversee his afternoon class. In the wake of a recent dueling incident between Draiya Naaianeya and Akasha Khan, Wei had taken an interest in the ebon-furred Orryxian and wished to have a hand in her training. Had it not been for the fact that Wei was an exceptional swordsman himself, Loki would've never agreed to such an imposition, but, as it was, it provided him with a perfect means of escape. Besides, he suspected a temporary change in teacher would not go unwelcomed by his troublesome students. Was it they he'd been escaping from?

Whatever had been the cause of his flight, his place of refuge took the form of a scruffy scrapyard on the outskirts of the site, where he sat amongst small mountains of ancient droid parts, encircled by a feeble wire fence. If there was one thing he knew how to do, other than swing a lightsaber, it was mend droids. It was a skill he'd honed from a very young age: he started by disassembling his master's dullard of an astromech droid one uneventful morning; then, he progressed onto reprogramming his personal tutor, a quavering protocol droid, to give it better manners; there was much he learned from the maintenance droid, especially once its head was removed, and then there was the probe droid he had stalk his brother, Roku. Years later, once he was able to not only dismantle droids, but rebuild them, he'd used his skills to barter passage from one nefarious world to the next, until at last he found his Jedi brethren. And in the time since, he'd learned a hard-hitting fact of life: droids were much easier to fix than padawans.

Unfortunately, it appeared he'd bitten off more than he could chew in an especially large load-lifter, upon whose sad decomissioned bulk he'd attempted to operate. His tool of choice had been a small fusioncutter, which had once been part of an astromech's arsenal, by the look of it. The cutter gave an angry hiss as it came alive, spitting blue flames at the rusted metal, which at once started to glow and split. The load-lifter woke with a lurch and a great mournful groan of rusted joints. Loki, who had been so startled by the sudden resurrection, did not react in time to avoid the flailing plate-like hands and suffered a grizzly wound to his arm, courtesy of the jagged weathered metal. He had attempted to stem the flow of blood using his own Jedi healing powers, of course, but with no success at all. Perhaps it had been his state of shock or the severity of the wound that hampered his efforts; it could've been Guss's obnoxious rolling laughter that had driven him to distraction, or perhaps something else...

When he finally arrived at the medical center, he was filthy and weather-beaten. Outside, a storm howled, churning torrents of dust and sand through the air, which began to quickly accumulate about his feet, until the door closed behind him with an indignant huff. Pale-faced, and bejewelled with flecks of crimson, he trudged forward and slumped miserably into an empty seat. Around him, the waiting room was quite empty, and he hoped it would not be long before his arm was treated, and he could put the whole sorry affair behind him. Far behind him.

[Serena Laran]

The doors swished open, the entry swirling with wind and dust as a cloaked figure walked inside. After the first set of doors closed, the person took a moment to peel off their outer cloak, giving it a shake before the inner doors opened. Serena Laran walked inside the newly completed medical center after a long afternoon of Council business, finding the lobby empty save for the admittance droid at the desk. Check that - almost empty.

She walked over to the lone occupant of the modestly sized waiting room, her cloak folded over her arm, and placed a hand on the slumped Knight's shoulder. "Knight Loki, there is no need for you to wait, I can see to your injury." It had been easy enough to diagnose his problem just by looking at him. She nodded toward the doors that led into the treatment area on the first floor. "One of our medics is sick, believe it or not, and I suppose Doctor Aras is seeing other patients."

As she spoke she ushered Abarai through into the inter sanctum, pausing only to hand her dusty cloak to a startled orderly, and found an empty exam room. "Take a seat and I'll see to your arm."

[Abarai Loki]

By the time Loki had noticed the arrival of Serena Laran, she was already towering over him, with her hand planted upon his shoulder. On his feet in an instant, he greeted the Jedi Master with a bow, or the closest approximation of one he could manage, given their sudden proximity. She smelled clean, but that was not important. And in no time at all, he was being led from the waiting room and into a bright and immaculate room. In the middle of the room there was a repulsor bed, floating beneath a convoluted web of criss-crossing diagnostic implements, attached to slumbering computers and a humming droid. There were sealed cupboards and chests around the edge of the room, all sterile white and new, and worktops adorned with datapads and tools. What a long way they had come from the tents that divided examination rooms and operating theaters with screens of canvas.

Loki did as instructed: he took a seat upon the floating bed, and peeled back his soggy sleeve to expose his lacerated arm. In the stark light of the examination room, his wound was revealed in all its splendour: five inches in length and, after a ginger probing, he figured it to be about an inch deep. He shook his head at the sight of it, and when Serena approached, he offered his arm for inspection with a hint of sheepish regret.

"It's just a flesh wound."

[Serena Laran]

"It will need to be cleaned," she said, after taking his arm and giving the laceration a look. Serena pulled a tray from the wall, it's extension arm allowing it to be placed in an appropriate position, and Knight Loki rested his injured arm on it while she found the cleansing foam to spray into the wound.

"And how did this happen?"

[Abarai Loki]

"I was salvaging old droid parts in the scrapyard, when a load-lifter... took exception to my work."

He finished with a slight nod, partly to conclude his story, but mainly to acknowledge his own success in colouring the incident with the most neutral tones in his palette. The blanks were left for Master Laran to fill in, which she did with one look at his dark glistening wound. She resurfaced from an open cupboard with a silver cannister in her hand, which Loki assumed to be some sort of sterilising agent, and gave it a shake. Eyes on the cannister, he found himself nodding again, absently, as he pictured the great hulking droid that injured him.

"It was an ancient thing. Rusted and rotten," he said, and then scowled, "A scrapyard is the best place for it, really."

[Serena Laran]

Serena "mmm"ed neutrally to his suggestion, and liberally sprayed the wound and surrounding arm with a pink foam. It would sting initially but there was a mild anesthetic in the foam that helped soothe the exposed flesh. The foam bubbled up and then disappated, and Abarai barely even blinked.

She pulled up a rolling stool, and sat by the bed. "There don't appear to be any metal slivers left behind. A clean wound. Still, you should probably have a shot of antibiotics to circumvent any infection from bacteria that was on the lifter." Serena looked at him. "I can start the healing process with the Force, but it will need some stitches as well, to keep it closed. Or, just stitches, it is up to you."

[Abarai Loki]

First, Loki drew himself up with a measured intake of breath, and then, nothing. He froze, eyes fixed on the wall, as if searching for an answer upon its blank and wholly-uninteresting surface. There were implications in both of his options, woven with subtlety deep into Serena's words, whether she realised it or not. If he asked Serena to use her healing powers on him, that was almost an outright confession that he, a Jedi Knight, was incapable of tending his own wounds. However, to refuse Serena's offer would be pig-headed and disrespectful of her generosity. No, he would take the healing. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be marked with battle-scars from a decrepit load-lifter. Then, when he opened his mouth to speak, words failed him. But, he thought, what if that made him appear vain, or worse, a coward? Did Serena Laran expect her Jedi to be tough and unflinching in the face of bodily mutilation? And how long could the silence go on before she thought him a complete fool?

"No," he blurted, then, after a beat, "I mean, yes. Please do encourage my wound to heal, Master Laran."

And, as he felt his face starting to prickle pink, he explained, "My lightsaber instruction will suffer the longer I am wounded, you understand."

[Serena Laran]

"Of course," Serena agreed, readying the thread and curved needle. She needed only to steady the edges of the wound so that it no longer gaped. A full healing session could be done, the entire thing done with the Force, but it had been a long day and she wanted to conserve her energy for the rest of the evening at the hospital. The spray would have numbed the area by now, and whatever pain remained the knight was more than capable of resisting.

"Try to hold still," she murmured, and began the first stitch. "How is that going, by the way? The lightsaber instruction." She tied off the first stitch and began another.

[Abarai Loki]

"I am... mostly pleased with the progress the padawans have made in recent months."

And it was true. He was pleased, mostly. His expression betrayed not an ounce of satisfaction to his superior, however, as she busied herself with his wound. The threading needle created phatom pricks of pain in his arm with every stitch, and he imagined what it would feel like without the anesthetic, with its acrid smell and unmanning shade of pink. In the silence that accompanied Serena's work, he considered his words: that he was not completely satisfied was, in itself, a confession of sorts, so he decided to elaborate.

"Since our arrival on Ossus, we have experienced an influx in the number of new initiates joining our ranks. In the past, the padawans were divided into three different classes, each determined by skill. Now, there are four classes, to accomodate the broader spectrum of lightsaber proficiency."

He hesitated, in an attempt to identify the source of his displeasure. And then, he frowned and said:

"It seems to me, now, that there is more that divides the students than skill alone."

[Serena Laran]

Serena tied off another stitch and pondered the Knight's words...and the possible meanings behind them. "And what else is it that divides them, Abarai?" Four classes, four different proficiencies. It was no wonder he had had an accident and hurt himself, the teenager was most likely exhausting himself with the workload he had taken on. He performed his duties without complaint, a stoic young man whom the Council had great trust in, but she decided he was being stretched too far, too fast.

In fact, she knew very little about him, other than what she had observed first hand. The previous council members had never had doubt in his abilities, and she did not either. He was, however, one of the youngest Jedi knights she'd known, even if his skill was not in question. The young reacted to responsibility in different ways - some by shirking duties and rebelling, others by remaking their whole life around said responsibilities. It didn't take a Jedi to know which one Abarai was.

[Abarai Loki]

He could sum up his complaint in one word:

"Discipline. Some of these initiates possess not a shred of it, and as a result they lack the will to learn and the capacity to improve. Frankly, such students are a detriment to the training process and their fellows suffer for it."

And so did he. His wound was already half-sealed by Serena's effortless needlework. If she had heard him speak, she showed no sign of it, engrossed as she was in her work. It seemed to him that Serena Laran was not given to lengthy speeches: she listened patiently, and offered brief and courteous replies. Normally, that was all Loki ever wanted in a conversation, and it was scarcely what he got. And now that he was faced with someone who was delightfully tactiturn, he found he wanted the exact opposite. What was wrong with him? Must he tease words from her once sentence at a time?

"Master Laran, have you ever had a... difficult student?"

[Serena Laran]

She thought for a moment, and shook her head. "No - and also yes. All students are difficult in their own ways. Teaching Morgan and Rhianna was challenging, but once I figured out how best they learned and what their strengths were it became easier." Serena tied off the second to last stitch and pressed the curved needle into the damaged flesh for the last time.

"Draiya is not an easy padawan," she smiled ruefully, pulling the thread tight carefully, "and she certainly could use more practice with concentration and concern for her fellows. Perhaps you should get back to me in a year." Serena fastened the stitch and cut the thread.

"There you go."

[Abarai Loki]

He looked down. A row of neat and perfectly symmetrical stitches punctuated his wound at even intervals. So perfect was Serena's work that not a speck of red showed between the folds of knitted skin. Once she had kick-started the healing process, Loki was certain there would be no scar - a thought which provided him with a disproportionate amount of relief. He gave a stiff nod.

"You have a very skilled hand. I should like to see it holding a lightsaber sometime; your swordsmanship would be a sight to behold."

[Serena Laran]

"Surgical strikes," she quipped, smiling as she began to clean up. "Perhaps we could spar sometime, no doubt I could use the practice."

[Abarai Loki]

"I welcome the challenge."

The words came naturally, betraying a sudden resurgence in enthusiasm. Talk of lightsabers and dueling always had that affect on him. But instead of pursuing the topic further, he hesitated, recalling something Serena said earlier. Teaching was a challenge... but it was not a challenge Loki welcomed in the same way he would a duel. A thought occurred to him:

"Teaching is not unlike dueling, is it?" His question required no answer. He continued, "If your approach is unsuccessful, you change tactic. You discover the strengths and weaknesses of your opponent - or, in this case, a student - and you exploit it to your... their advantage."

Resurfacing from his reverie, he considered Serena anew, "Master Laran, will you teach me to teach?"

[Serena Laran]

She put away the supplies, trashing the used needle and assorted blood soaked gauzes in a biohazard container, considering young master Loki's request. "Teaching is less of a duel than a dance, Abarai." She sat across from him, more than happy to continue their conversation. "As a teacher you role is more that of a partner in learning, rather than an antagonist trying to beat a lesson into a thick skull. To take the duel comparison to it's natural conclusion. Student and teacher should not be opposing forces."

[Abarai Loki]

"You are telling me a teacher is like a diplomat, negotiating with his student to reach terms that are agreeable and mutually beneficial?" Loki was desperate to remove the dancing analogy from the discussion, "The student is rewarded with a learning experience that is both rich and satisfying while the teacher-"

His train of thought lost, Loki's puzzled expression creased with irritation. The discussion bothered him: it was exactly the sort of hypothetical waffle to which his peers were so often given, and he'd fallen prey to it. Analogies and conjecture were of no use to anyone. He folded his arms and changed his approach.

"Draiya Naaianneya is a promising padawan with an abundance of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, she seems to be under the impression that maturity is something that applies only to cheese. Akasha Khan is fiercely talented and utterly beligerent. My master would've found them both unworthy. Master Laran, I believe we are too soft. A pupil should have discipline to receive a master's training. It should not be expected of masters to accommodate the whims of ill-disciplined children."

[Serena Laran]

"Of course not," Serena said. "One can adjust to someone's learning style without throwing discipline out completely. Draiya learns by doing. Others learn best by repetition, or writing things down to cement it into the memory. When it comes to a purely physical activity, like the lightsaber, all need to learn by doing... but some may thrive under pressure while others wilt under an instructor's fierce gaze. One cannot just shout at their students and assume they will all learn equally."

[Abarai Loki]

"I do not shout at my students. In fact, rarely do I have to so much as repeat myself."

Loki was aware, even as the words left his lips, that what he said was for his own reassurance more than anything else. There was a note of uncertainty that turned his statement into a question. His master never had to repeat himself, but then, he was not his master. For that he was grateful beyond measure. Then why, the question begged, had he been trying to emulate his teaching methods all this time?

"Ironclad discipline and unwavering loyalty were the cornerstones of my own training. When my brother challenged our master's authority, he was dealt a lightsaber wound to the thigh; it was weeks before he could walk properly. Suffice it to say that disobedience was an issue never again. I grew up assuming that was the Jedi way but, from what I understand, things were done differently at the Jedi Temple."

[Serena Laran]

Serena smiled, a little wryly. "It was a bit different than that, yes." Abarai's master did not sound like he had been a pleasant person. She had long suspected that the boy had been taught by a Jedi even more stern and demanding than he was, but she wasn't exactly pleased to be right. "Knight Thalios Dremmel, my master, required attention, punctuality, and discipline. He never physically hurt or threatened me - if I was hurt while his padawan it was usually my own fault. He was gentle, compassionate, but fiercely loyal to the Temple and it's ideals. He was a highly regarded diplomat, and he imparted as much of his knowledge to me as he could.

"I don't mean to make it sound as though he was not a warrior. Master Dremmel was skilled with the lightsaber, and during the Clone Wars, when diplomacy failed..." her voice trailed off, a distant look in her eyes.