A Lesson in Applying Historical Events to Contemporary Strategic Decision-Making

[Ivy]

Today was important.

Extensive analysis confirmed as much for Ivy. It was important based on a variety of assessment criteria. It was important because of what organic units called a "first impression". It was important for demonstrating his ability and viability as a member of the Citadel teaching staff; and also in fostering a compliance and willingness to learn in the Cadets of his class. That in turn was important for establishing his "cover", ensuring his ability to move freely about the Citadel and assist Unit Jibral whenever required.

There was more to it than that though, a leftover fragment of miscalculated code that did not quite align with what Ivy's operating system considered logical. It was important because, for the first time since he had been liberated from the Separatist Droid Army by the Galactic Republic, the situation felt as if it fulfilled something close to Ivy's intended function. He had been constructed to lead armies; to function as a General on behalf of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. The Republic and the Empire had thoroughly scrubbed his prior loyalties from his operating system, but that intended purpose still lingered. Yes, he had used his tactical analysis subroutines to benefit the Empire, the Black Archives, and Unit Jibral on occasion. His programming was certainly put to some sort of use. But it was as an advisor, not a leader.

Ivy wondered if Unit Jibral knew; wondered if this was intended as some sort of reward for his performance. Ivy was not programmed to respond to such an organic concept, and yet he found it acceptable. More than acceptable. It was a situation where the positive factors vastly outweighed the negatives. His skills were being applied more efficiently and more correctly than they had before. A class of Cadets was a far cry from a battalion of battle droids, but it was an improvement. The error in his operational parameters had shrunk. It was... nice.

On the subject of Unit Jibral, Ivy was aware of his absence. It was logical that he be there, to assist if it was required; and Ivy had calculated a high statistical likelihood that he would attend. That he had not was erroneous, and vexing. Ivy's predominant calculation was that Unit Jibral was attempting to engage in the organic practice of indirect sentimental communication, using his absence to project confidence in Ivy's ability to execute this mission - this lesson - without need for backup or contingency. Ivy found that choice to be outside the acceptable parameters for operational risk factors; but such was the scenario he was faced with, and his operating system would merely need to adapt.

Standing stoically at the front of the lecture hall, dactyl manipulators clasped behind his back, Ivy moved subtly and occasionally to avoid the appearance of being offline, and watched as his students slowly filed into class.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Today was just another day.

Another day of getting up early, giving himself a good stretch and a nice scratch after rolling out of bed, then stumbling into his sonic shower. With the rare exception of field assignments, it was the same morning which Hal had grown used to in the Citadel, and even the view out the window of his private accommodations no longer gave him the thrill it had when he'd first arrived back at the old Jedi Temple. No, there was nothing special about today, Hal told himself, tugging on his shirt and trousers, then lacing up his boots. It'd be another day of classroom lessons, then some physical training, followed by either more classes, or practical skills application, then a few hours of down time before bed. The same as it had been for six months.

A quick stop at the mirror found Hal working styling wax into his headfur, and combing it neatly into place. In that moment he transformed from Halajiin Rabeak, Jedi Knight, into Kyle Rayner, Imperial Knight Cadet. Then it was off for breakfast, followed by the first of his morning classes.

The hallways ebbed and flowed with bodies as the time ran by, everyone on their own precise schedule, and every cadet knowing where he or she needed to be. This morning would be the first day of a new class, and while Hal had forgotten what the class was even to be about, he at least knew to be on time for it. Datapad and stylus in paw, he filtered into the classroom and took an open seat, only then looking up to see that there wasn't an instructor, but a droid.

Great. First day of class and already the instructor was out, or sick, or whatever, so they had a substitute bot. Hal's brain prepared itself for incoming daydreams.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Jed."

It came from behind. A small voice amongst the crowd, made clear only by his tedious familiarity with it. He kept walking.

"Jed!"

Louder, now. And sounding a little out of breath. He turned a corner, and narrowly avoided a squad of cadets marching double time down the corridor.

"Hey, Jed! Oof!"

There was an awkward clatter that stopped Jeryd in his tracks. He turned just in time to see the marching cadets vanish around the corner, leaving their victim, Nebbil Hoob, to deal with the consequences of his own inherent clumsiness. In a few strides, he closed the distance between them, picked up a fallen data pad, then helped Nebbil to his feet. The datapad was thrust into his chest, and Jeryd was once again on the move.

"I waited for you," he said, "Where the hell did you go?"

"I was in the 'fresher."

"Still?" Jeryd's disbelief remained forward-facing, "Well, you've made us both late."

"Well... it's your fault."

"Here we go."

"If you hadn't talked me into trying that... that..."

"Thousand Spice Flambooma," Jeryd shook his head, "You need to grow yourself some balls, Neb."

"What I need is to grow myself a new arsehole, Jeryd," Nebbil hissed, "Thousand Spice Flambooma? Yeah, no kidding. I felt every single one of them on the way out."

Jeryd felt the corners of his mouth pulling themselves against his better judgement. The flambooma was a famous dish that traced its origins back to Tattooine, where everything was hot and would probably kill you. Back home, he and his brother, Aryn, would compete to see who could endure their father's flambooma longest, before reaching for the water. He probably should've known that his buddy, Nebbil, was no match for the mighty constitution of the Redsun boys. Okay, so he had known. And it was totally worth it.

When they finally arrived at the lecture hall, Jeryd was relieved to discover that there were still some cadets yet to arrive. He stepped inside, and stopped so suddenly that Nebbil bumped into him. Is that...? He recovered quickly, prompted forward by the collision, and passed by the droid at the front of the hall. No, not any droid. Ivy. The surprise was buried deep, at once, replaced by genuine curiosity. He wanted to go over to him, to say 'hello,' and find out what he was doing there in the first place. But he couldn't. For, as far as everyone else was concerned, Jeryd Redsun had never seen this droid before. And it had to stay that way. So, instead, he glanced back to his buddy, and jerked a thumb in Ivy's direction.

"What's with the droid, huh?"

Nebbil shrugged. Even to someone as curious as him, a droid was just a droid.

And there was Kyle Rayner. Sitting on his own again. Asshole.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was an intolerable smart mouth, who seemed to take an especial pleasure in annoying him, then perhaps Jeryd would feel even a modicum of pity for the guy. And, judging by Kyle's perpetual state of being alone, it was clear he wasn't the only cadet who felt that way. There it was, again. That bastard conscience, niggling away at the walls of his stubbornness. He sighed. Maybe it was time to try and make things work with the little furball. They were all in it together, after all, and besides, Kyle Rayner had skills. Jeryd respected that about him. He was like one of those vintage superspeeders: fast around the circuit, but probably smelled of feet. A fixer-upper.

So, he and Nebbil both made their way towards him, sidling along the empty row until he squeezed past, and chose the neighbouring seat. And, as he sat, Jeryd let rip a thunderous fart that resounded throughout the lecture hall. A moment of stunned silence, as every cadet rubbernecked in their direction. Not missing a beat, Jeryd turned to his neighbour, a picture of disbelief.

"Jeez, Rayner! Really?" Then it hit him, the aromatic aftershocks of the Thousand Spice Flambooma, and his face twisted with disgust, "Seven hells, that's rank! Go see a doctor, man!"

He stood, and tactically retreated down the row with Nebbil, who was behind him, probably making apologetic puppy-dog eyes at his old friend, Kyle. Once they were seated, he resisted the urge to look back, and instead clamped down on his own shit-eating grin.

[Xi Vanadís]

Ugh.

Xi Vanadís looked up from her datapad just long enough to confirm the identities of the Cadets making a scene. Hoob. Redsun. Rayner. Her expression momentarily adjusted into one of abject disgust, more at the Cadets themselves than at the stink they'd caused, before slackening back into it's usual mask of mildly hostile apathy.

There were many things to detest about the Citadel. The fact that they were all squatting in Palpatine's old basement was bad enough, but that the Citadel had once been the Jedi Temple irked her greatly. The fact that the halls were haunted by It was as if the Imperial Knights were trying too hard. Look at us. Look at how we've replaced those dastardly Jedi Knights and their traitorous ways. Marvel at how legitimate we are. Bask in our appropriated trappings of status. It was, in a word, lame.

Those three, though? They, along with almost all of the other Cadets she had met so far, were the dictionary definition of the term. Hoob was just plain cowardly. Redsun was the kind of jackass who thought he was more charming and capable than he really was. Rayner was practically indescribable; there wasn't a single negative descriptor that couldn't be applied to him somehow. And people wondered why Vanadís kept to herself; wondered why she buried herself in her studies, and her computer systems, avoiding the insufferable moments when she was unavoidably forced to endure her fellow students. It was a testament to her willpower that none of the Cadets had turned up dead yet under mysterious circumstances.

At least their tutor was a droid; today, at least. Vanadís liked droids. They followed simple rules. Thought in understandable ways. Didn't do stupid things that they weren't programmed to, or drop noxious gas bombs in the middle of lecture halls. Didn't broadcast their emotions in a constant background ambiance of everything from nerves, to arrogance, to teenage lust. Vanadís had read about the Clone Wars, and frankly it sounded like heaven. Even the Republic, with it's hyper obedient clones, programmed for compliance since birth, would have been a welcome reprieve from the world that Vanadís had been subjected to; but it was the Separatists, with their vast armies of mechanoids, entire starships with barely a living soul aboard, that had seemed most welcoming to her mind.

So sure, there was the whole betraying the galactic government thing, and the siding with greedy, slimy, furry, filthy non-humans thing. That alone would have been enough to ensure Vanadís stayed loyal to the Republic; and that same aversion was what kept her firmly loyal to the Empire without even the faintest contemplation of running off to the Alliance, or worse to go live in the jungle with a bunch of Jedi refugees. Vanadís was happy where she was. Not happy, but happy, you know?

Vanadís let out a sigh that began in the very depths of her soul, and went back to scrolling through her datapad, waiting for their tutor - a droid, thank the gods - to impose some semblance of discipline on the class.

[Onika Zepparah]

There was a lot to get used to for a Chiba district halfbreed who'd just landed in the Citadel. Reveille was an hour earlier than she was used to at school. Physical training? A whole different planet. Walking down the hall and passing by columns of Stormtroopers, Imperial officers in uniforms she'd only just begun to differentiate, and greasy-haired politicals with their starched suits and New Order pins? Every fifteen minutes Onika was fighting the urge to duck into a fresher or a maintenance closet, or just slip into the shadows and disappear like she'd done so often back at home. Just this morning a COMPNOR shill in a business suit and her blonde hair in a tight bun had seen her between classes and smiled. Smiled. What was she supposed to do with that?

But at least there was one thing that was familiar, and that was class. Class still dominated her days just like it had back at Tarkin Memorial. Class meant she could melt into the crowd, just another girl in a school uniform, sitting somewhere in the back with her head bowed so her candy-pink face wasn't as noticeable. That was her whole guiding philosophy as long as the Imperial Knights insisted on the ludicrous fantasy that she could make it as one of their cadets. Just don't be noticed. Maybe that way they wouldn't realize when she was gone.

She had held back away from the door as the main body of students trickled into the classroom, but made sure to enter before she could be considered a straggler. She quickly read the composition of the room - the usual cliques who sat together, the usual drifters who held themselves apart. There was the weird furry one who was old enough that it seemed strange to share a class with him. At least he meant she wouldn't be the most alien being in the room, and he tended to draw so much attention that all she had to do was stay away to gain camouflage by proxy. Then there was the sullen fuzz-headed girl who seemed to loathe everyone and everything in the immediate vicinity. Yeah, not going near there. Onika's ruby-red eyes drifted to the right side of the fourth row - practically empty. She could sit at the end and be a whole five seats away from the nearest cadet, with Kyle at the opposite end to draw stares.

She slipped into place and laid out her datapad and stylus, one window open to her class notes, another to the series of half-finished and abandoned sketches she'd been doodling during lectures. When the big blonde jock lumbered by with his scrawny, freckled hanger-on, she drew herself in as small as possible. And then came the spot of juvenile classroom theater, with peals of laughter and loud squawking protests. The jock turned the other way, and Onika clutched her datapad and tried to focus all her energies on him: Sit somewhere else sit somewhere else sit somewhere--

Jeryd plopped into the seat next to her with a thump and a creak of plasteel. Onika's fingers uncurled from her datapad, and she sank into her seat, resigned.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The sun fell directly upon Hal's loose, dry headfur, and would have warmed it were it not for the rush of wind blowing past him as he cruised among the skyscrapers in a brilliant red, topless Fjerarrji speeder. At his side sat a gorgeous blonde woman, whose curves made her barely-there dress feel it was the luckiest square meter of fabric in the galaxy to be wrapped over them. Hal was all smiles behind his Giovanna sunglasses, shielding his pink eyes from the sun, as well as the sparkle of his diamond-encrusted wristwatch, while a thousand-credit silk shirt flapped in the breeze, half-unbottoned to bare much of his magnificently-sculpted chest.

"Where are we going today, baby?" the blonde asked, her hands wrapped around his right arm as to draw confidence and security as she so clearly needed a big, strong, rich, powerful man to complete herself.

Hal grinned, flicking the speeder into a dive before seamlessly leveling back out and hanging a right toward a massive casino resort tower. "Think we're gonna go break the bank at this place, kitten," he replied. He didn't know her name. It was probably something like Candi, Kelli, Misti, or Hildegard - or any of the other perfectly suited to the vapid, beautiful, swimsuit calendar model sort. "Then maybe I'll invent a new year for you, so you can sell even more calendars."

The bimbo smiled, no sign of intelligence behind her plastic features, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Oh, honeykins, you're the best, richest, most handsome, most talented in bed, most daring, luckiest, smartest person in the galaxy!"

"I know, babe," Hal smiled. A swoop down onto the valet pad, and his nose wrinkled. Had some heavy truck just passed by and he hadn't noticed? Garfife, this casino reeked! It smelled like a -

In that moment, Hal's daydream vanished entirely, replaced by a sulpherous cloud of oppressive, omipresent stench which stung his eyes and caused his sensitive nose to wrinkle shut in protest as it burned. "Oh, fuck!" he exclaimed, and moved to wave the fart cloud off, when he realized he'd been set up. All he could do was glare and attempt to not breathe as Jeryd and Nebbil sauntered off back down to sit at the other end of the row. A thousand temptations came to Hal in that moment, his mind shifting gears from daydream to a rapid succession of revenge tactics.

He could give Jeryd the mother of all wedgies, he could trip him, split the seat of his pants, pants him, give him a Force nut-smack, among other ideas, but all would give away his telekinesis, which he'd managed to keep under wraps thus far. No, revenge would have to discrete, silent, and deadly.

Sitting there scowling, the Nehantite formulated an even better plan, drawing upon the tactic which had allowed his escape from the sawmill on Phindarr. Through the Force, he identified the molecules in the air around him, concentrating any which shouldn't be there, and had been supplied by the human's traitorous digestive system. They were wrapped in a layer of nitrogen, compressing the biological weapon into roughly the size of a hypergolf ball, then passed beneath the seats to find the perpetrator's backside. Only there did the bubble of nitrogen split, ejecting its compressed contents straight up.

After all, it was only fair to have he who smelt it turn out to truly be the one who dealt it.

[Jensen Par'Vizal]

Were these his peers? That single horrific thought kept echoing as he watched the other cadets and their shenanigans from a suitable perch near the back of the auditorium. It was like watching the miserable ingrates in the drunk tank across from his holding cell all over again except these people were smaller, somehow louder, and... Well better smelling was questionable at best. Knight Jibral - or whatever fancy title that guy toted about - was to blame for this. He'd been perfectly happy about to be lost to Coruscant's penal system but nooo, someone at the Empire had taken an interest in his rather blatant if not unfortunate abilities and had given him an ultimatum and well, here he was.

There was a certain benefit to being the designated FNG among the cadets. He hadn't bothered to learn most of their names and they hadn't bothered to learn his - yet. With luck that wouldn't change much but since when was luck ever on anyone's side except the chosen few? At least they weren't trying to drag him into whatever nonsense was unfolding that caused a suitable roll of Jensen's eyes towards the ceiling. Merciful Force above save me from these frakking morons.

To spare himself some sanity the new cadet returned his attention to the datapad he had propped against his knee. Jensen hadn't totally blocked everyone out, after all. You had to make allies to survive. If that was true for penitentiary life, then it probably was triple fold in an academy like this.

Vanadís -

Droid a ruse? Here's to hoping a Knight pops out and starts removing tongues. Nail them to the wall as an example.

Jensen allowed himself a slight chuckle at the mental image.

[Xi Vanadís]

The message came through as a soft vibration in her datapad. Her eyes darted in Jensen's direction for a split second, catching a momentary glimpse of the back of his head. Extra effort was dedicated to her carefully crafted mask of apathy, making sure that no reaction or expression managed to sneak its way onto her face as she read the words. A split second later, perfectly synchronised thumbs surged into action, a tandem pattern of tapping hammering out her response.

Tongues? Gross.

Her eyes glanced up at the droid, evaluating the subtly shifting mechanoid figure, searching for signs or tells that Par'Vizal and his theory might be right. Sure, it seemed a little weird that a class would be conducted by an artificial intelligence instead of a real flesh-and-blood instructor. She hadn't heard of anything similar happening with other classes, and it wasn't as if there was anything in the pre-release materials - that she'd only read to gauge how boring and pointless the course was going to be, obviously.

A ruse didn't add up, though. That wasn't some protocol droid standing up there; not some Imperial unit that had been arbitrarily sent to stand in front of them. Maybe this was some sort of warped logic that the Imperial Knights had cooked up. A class on history, taught by an actual piece of history. Kinda made sense, in a weird, stupid, and lame sort of way.

Besides, that's a Super Tactical Droid. As in Separatist. As in Clone Wars.
Doubt the Knights have one of those hanging around for pranks.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Hey."

No time was wasted in striking up conversation with the new girl. She was cute, in a pink kind of way; the ear cones were a little strange, though. Still, after two months of sharing a communal dormitory with a squad of multi-species cadets, there wasn't much about aliens that freaked him out, anymore. There were some exceptions, however, where tentacles, and extra rows of teeth were concerned, but those were the sorts of aversions he considered healthy.

And, speaking of aversions, if this girl sunk any further into her seat, she was going to end up on the floor. Jeryd took a moment to survey the lecture hall, and its inhabitants. Was it him? With some reluctance, he recalled his first days at the Citadel, and the leagues he'd put between himself and every other person around him. Just thinking of it made him uncomfortable, as if, in rummaging through the dusty shelves of memory, he would somehow dislodge a small niggling doubt that had been left behind. No need to put the new blood through all that, he thought. And he leaned in, to speak in a warm undertone.

"You must be new here, right? I'm..." The smile soured under the influence of a new stench, "...Jeryd."

He could feel his face starting to prickle pink. Where the hell had that come from? He speared Neb with a murderous glance, but Neb was just as dumbfounded. Jeryd's brow knitted in thought. His flatulence had been so potent that it had survived this far. Incredible. Before he turned back to the pink girl, he wrestled his childish amusement into submission. His face became a picture of sincerity.

"I'm sorry. I swear... that wasn't me."

[Onika Zepparah]

"Hey."

It was a noncommittal response, just returning service at this point. Onika wanted to fly under the radar, and you didn't do that by being rude. Still, Jeryd's presence made her uncomfortable. He had that loud, ostentatious, man-about-campus swagger she'd come to associate with the children of the New Order elite, and those tended to relate to her in one of two ways. She wasn't looking forward to finding out which camp Jeryd slotted into.

Her red eyes skated toward him for a moment as she tried to calculate the precise level of fake pleasantry necessary to satisfy his curiosity, and then the smell hit, and she coughed and blinked her watering eyes. "Oh, frelling gods." She covered her nose and mouth in a cupped hand, and then something about the mixture of pride and contrition on Jeryd's face put her over the edge. She tried to stop it, but that just meant the laughter came out as a protracted snort.

She sat up in her seat, shoulders shaking, and cleared her throat and managed to tamp down most of the giggles by the time she pulled away her hand. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Oh - that was swinging too far the other direction. She grabbed her stylus and started tapping on her latest sketch. It didn't have a face yet - just a humanoid figure, a strapping male, standing as if waiting on a street corner for the next transport. She realized she hadn't given her name yet. Okay, then. He could ask for it if he wanted it.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Only the prettiest ones."

The words scarcely made it past the rows of white teeth that were boldly on display. Jeryd watched the girl, expectantly, waiting for the flutter of shy laughter, and the blushing that was to follow. After a moment of silence, in which the girl's head remained bowed in studious prayer, he realised something had gone wrong. But she'd given him all the signals: the giggling, the flirtatious remark... the giggling! It had been the perfect setup, and he'd returned the banter like a seasoned pro. So, Pinky had no time for his wit, but found his nasty arse gas hilarious? What was that all about? Slowly, the smile faded in retreat.

"So," he began, then cleared his throat. He leaned over, just enough to catch a glimpse of the sketches on her datapad, "What are you drawing?"

[Firenne Khapst]

The benefit to being one of the last to filter in to the lecture hall was that she could choose her seat with the utmost care.

As with any gathering of her fellow cadets she'd endured until this particular session, Firenne chose to set herself apart. The brunette moved through the space and the other milling students with an efficient, graceful stride, giving a few particular cadets a decidedly wide berth given the noxious fumes they seemed intent on producing. Her expression was even and left no stray thought upon her features to be deciphered, head tilting a fraction to acknowledge the greeting passed to her from an already seated cadet as she moved past.

She slowed and eventually stopped at the end of a mostly empty row and set down her sleek datapad. Fingers smoothed out the uniform gracing her frame before she took her seat, legs crossed at the ankle and back straight as she took in the sight the rest of the room proffered to her vantage point. Dark eyes flicked over the seated cadets and made mental notes of who was seated beside whom and how the social structure seemed to have evolved yet again. Moments like this, Firenne mused, made her miss Korriban and her loyal tuk'ata hound that much more.

Anyone else would have likely given a wistful sigh and stared off into nothing until the droid standing behind the lectern began the programmed instruction. Instead, the woman flicked the switch of her datapad and removed the stylus from it's place, preparing a fresh, blank file for her notes with the date, time, and lecture title at the top.

[Khoovi Wan]

The door opened and closed one last time, admitting a small Shistavanen youngling in full cadet uniform with the cap placed smartly between his ears. His name was Khoovi Wan, and he was ten years old.

He glanced around the lecture hall, and frowned to himself. These places were always so loud and energetic before the classes started, and it took a considerable force of will to keep all that energy from infecting him and pushing him to wander around and discover everything.

"At least I'm not late," he murmured to himself before walking up the stairs to find an empty seat.

"Aw, so cute!" one of the older girls cooed. He ignored her.

"What, is he the teacher's pet or something? Can't be a cadet. He's way too small. Maybe a mascot?"

He ignored that too.

'I don't know if this is the sort of thing you're looking for, but if this is what you want, I'll help you. You're going to do great things.'

He found a seat and clambered awkwardly into it, setting his datapads and notepad with the stylus onto the desk, and then fiddling with the controls until he wasn't sitting on his haunches to keep his nose above the desk top.

[Valk Raithune]

Valk entered the lecture hall, eyeing the seats of the small amphitheater with the seriousness of an analyst. He tucked his pad and stylus under one arm, carefully negotiating the stairs until he determined where he would sit.

Satisfied with his choice, the Pantoran dropped into an open seat next to Firenne. He said nothing at first, neatly arranging his study aides on the desk in front of him. Stylus to the right. Equidistant from the datapad and the edge of the desk. Computational aid on the left. Again, the spacing was important. Tap, tap, tap. Perfect. A little self-satisfied grin on his face, Valk only now took notice of his nearest colleague.

"I see you picked out the optimal seating zone too."

That's why she'd chosen to sit here, wasn't it? Valk's smile lingered until he didn't get a requited agreement.

"Because of the even acoustics, diffuse ambient lighting, instructor-to-student visibility, and ease of egress in the event of sudden orbital bombardment."

[Firenne Khapst]

A faint hint of a raised brow swept across her expression, her featured remaining otherwise even as she lifted her attention from her datapad. She considered, for a moment, the statement that had been made. The optimal seating zone, with all of the factors then listed in efficient order as evidence to bolster the words.

Firenne tilted her head to the side and conceded that he had a point. While she'd certainly taken some of the factors mentioned into account, she had not considered the ease of egress in her choice.

Her attention turned to the Pantoran beside her and she offered a slight smile that didn't quite reach her dark gaze. "I did indeed, although I find I must admit I failed to consider the ease of egress when choosing my seat." This time, she did loft a brow, though she did so in query, not in annoyance.

"Firenne Khapst. And you are?"

[Onika Zepparah]

Onika just let Jeryd’s ham-fisted flattery drift into space and choke on vacuum. It could have been harmless. Could have been meant in the same self-mocking tone she’d been trying for herself. Or he could be seeing the same thing every wegman at Tarkin Memorial saw when they looked her way - alien territory already conquered by the Empire, as if her hair and freckles were nothing but proof someone had already planted humanity’s flag in her gene pool.

She swiped a few more lines into the figure on her ‘pad, then realized they were forming the contours of an Imperial Knight in armor. She sighed through her nose and swiped the drawing aside, revealing a scroll of sketches. Men, women, children, some with hair, some with lekku or horns or fur.

“Just… people,” she said with a shrug. “Things I’ve seen. It helps me think.”

The scroll paused on the slim figure of a Twi-lek woman, standing in a heroic pose with her shoulder squared proudly. Onika stared at it, considering.

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd watched as the girl swept through her collection of sketches. Only half-interested in the artwork, he allowed his gaze to slide back to her face, instead. She had cute rounded cheeks, a nose like a button, and full purple lips. He found himself wishing she hadn't put her hand to her mouth when she laughed. Not once had she looked his way. Deflated, he returned to the artwork, and, after a moment, his eyebrows climbed in surprise.

"They're good."

And they were. Not that he had an eye for art. His rules were simple: if there were signs of craftsmanship, and it was something he couldn't do, it was good. Yet, these sketches had an intimacy to them that led him to believe that they were inspired by the people she saw, and they were also, somehow, sad. Jeryd couldn't explain it. He wasn't one of those pretentious stimcaf-swilling students who stared at painted squares for hours, and saw the meaning of life, but, in those small rough sketches he thought he caught a glimpse of the quiet artist beside him. He'd leave her in peace, then. But, not before he found out who she was:

"You never told me your-" His question faltered. He looked up, distracted by Khoovi, and the rowdy reception he received. That annoyed him. Khoovi was one of the most committed and capable cadets on the programme, and, by virtue of his appearance, he was reduced to an amusing novelty in the eyes of his so-called peers. He stirred in his seat, and raised a hand to gesture the diminutive Shistavanen in their direction, but he was too busy ignoring everyone to notice. He frowned, and sent his gaze trawling through the rows of cadets below, plucking out the dickheads. If any of them started on Ivy, there'd be trouble.

[Maalik]

Just in time, the door opened once more, revealing a tall, thin but powerful looking figure in a uniform that was clearly brand new. The man had a curious but dangerous air about him, like a wild animal suddenly released into an enclosure at a zoo. Far older than most of the Cadets in the room seemed to be, Maalik was a late addition to the class in almost every sense, having only arrived on Coruscant the previous night.

The planet, with its great towers and busy, speeder-filled skies had left him in a state of perpetual glee and awe, although the foulness of the air and the lack of greenery depressed him somewhat. Reassurance came from a small leather pouch on his belt, filled with seeds and cuttings of various plants from the jungles of Wayland. A little piece of home. He would protect it and, in turn, it would protect him.

Dropping into a chair at the back of the classroom, Maalik reclined, a happy amusement plastered across his face. With eyes ringed by mysterious black markings, he looked around the room, seeing the different species that were mixed into the class. He had seen more new species in the past twelve hours than he ever could have dreamed of. And droids! He had seen broken ones before but never a operational one. As he waited for this particular droid to speak, Maalik examined the datapad with which he had been issued with all the grace of a technophobe. Giving up promptly, he tossed the datapad onto the desk with an audible sigh.

"Stupid little trinkets..." he muttered, aggrivated now.

[Siyndacha Aerin]

She'd always been a keen student, always focused and present - this was no exception. A head of ashen-white hair pulled back, a pale face inset with silvered-blue eyes, all clear evidence of a significant Echani lineage and set above the tidy uniform and lithe body of one Siyndacha Aerin as she passed from the rear of the hall, giving little more than a faint smile for the japes and a wrinkle of her nose at the lingering stench on her way to the front, some two minutes before Maalik. The front, where she always sat, year after year in her compulsory schooling and advanced education, a habit for which there was no reason to break. She sat several seats to the right of centre, and fixed the droid with a look that would have seen into Ivy's soul if the unit had one.

Then her attention turned to her datapad, thoughts on the droid ruminating behind what she was going to do next: eavesdrop on any surreptitious communications occurring in the room. It wasn't as if remote hacking the average 'pad was a difficult prospect... oh, not at all. Only the droid would be more or a challenge out of all the artificial items in the lecture hall, and she didn't needed the aid of an electronic interface to attempt an invasive on the Clone Wars-era construct. Aerin made herself privy to the messages between Vanadis and Par'Vizal, and began tapping away, with an interjection.

Whatever the reason for this, they wouldn't leave us alone with a droid unless it could defend itself.

She paused.

From me, in particular.

Her eyes lifted, considering Ivy once more, and whether to test herself against this anachronism. On the one hand, it would disrupt the class, and likely pin her as a show-off. Social implications, hmm. On the other hand... there were unknowns. What she knew of the S.T.D's weaknesses could have been resolved to put Ivy in this room, in that position of authority. Sindy settled into the back of her seat, a hand posed about her mouth and chin in thought.

[Ivy]

"An astute observation, Unit Aerin."

Ivy's vocabulator cut through the ambient noise and chatter of the lecture hall, volume and frequency carefully modulated to attract and draw attention from the entire class. It was Unit Aerin who earned the main focus of his ocular sensors however, an unwavering orange gaze that perceived far more than the typical optical light that organic eyes could process. Analysis of her oculesics and facial cues was processed and catalogued, added to the already comprehensive database of information that Unit Jibral had helpfully provided for each Cadet scheduled to attend this class. Her particular proficiencies had been flagged and noted, but Ivy considered them of minimal concern: one was not constructed by a nation at war with the Jedi, and modified by Inquisitors tasked with their capture without picking up a few safeguards and countermeasures along the way.

The droid's gaze moved from student to student, facial recognition subroutines identifying each of them, and marking their chosen locations within a virtual recreation of the lecture space. A background process was initiated to analyse any interactions and avoidance, noting which Cadets appeared to have overt and covert alliances or kinships, and which appeared to be isolated - both voluntarily and not. Of particular note was Unit Redsun, and his as-yet unsuccessful preliminary efforts towards a procreative encounter with Unit Zepparah.

"While the rest of you have been exchanging insults, gossip, bodily emissions, and flirtatious banter, it appears that Unit Vanadís and Unit Par'Vizal have already taken this lecture's subject to heart, and have begun a strategic analysis of their present situation."

Just as the spoken conversations between the Cadets had not escaped Ivy's notice, neither had the electronic conversations being bounced between certain data devices within the room. While certainly more covert than their loud and raucous peers, Ivy was somewhat disappointed to see the lax efforts in security and encryption being exercised by the Cadets in question. Perhaps some instruction in electronic countermeasures was in order, at a later date.

The droid continued to speak as he stalked across the teaching space towards an idling holoprojector.

"To answer the question that they have been subtly debating: yes, I am a Super Tactical Droid as developed for the Separatist Droid Army during the Clone Wars; and yes, I am to be your instructor for the foreseeable future. Your intended instructor sends his apologies, but -"

The holoprojector was triggered, filling the air above the Cadets with a floating, glowing, and slightly blue-washed depiction of a training duel between two Imperial Knights, displaying in graphic detail with full audio the events that had left the scheduled instructor not only unable to teach on this particular occasion, but also without several significant portions of his anatomy, thanks in no small part to some woefully lacking lightsaber discipline.

"- an unfortunate training accident has left him in need of significant medical attention."

The footage was allowed to loop through for a second time, Ivy taking the opportunity to record the reactions of each watching Cadet for later scrutiny. Ivy waited until the agonised shrieks ended before reaching for the holoprojector controls once more, the footage disappearing from above them. A few heavy strides were taken, returning Ivy to the central point of the teaching space, feet and shoulders orientated in line with the student seating.

"My formal designation is Special Tactics Experimental Prototype Four, or STE-IV. In my experience, organic units typically abbreviate this to Ivy; a not particularly imaginative pun on the Tionese numerals for four."

Taking Unit Jibral's advice, offered the evening prior, Ivy selected an arbitrary point among his audience, choosing to focus his ocular receptors on Unit Redsun.

"I will at this time accept a few reasonable questions of a personal nature. This is not a courtesy that will be extended in future lectures, so -"

Ivy's head twitched momentarily, accessing the database of idioms and vernacular that he had recently compiled.

"- speak now, or forever hold your peace."