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At first, Hondo doesn’t believe anyone when they say that the Jedi have been killed. “I know the Jedi,” he laughs at one bartender. “Kenobi would never be so stupid. Killed by a bunch of clones? That would be the day.” He has respect for clones and their skill, but the idea was ridiculous. (Although he remembers that the Jedi trust too easily. Except Kenobi and Skywalker, they’re smart.) He does not listen. Florum doesn’t always get reliable news.

Then one day the small one, Ahsoka, appears at his compound. She’s less small now, taller and prettier and a lot less fun. “What are these rumors I hear about the Jedi?” Hondo laughs. Ahsoka isn’t dead – he knew it wouldn’t be true, that the Jedi were killed. “I keep telling people your kind are too clever to get themselves killed by their own army, eh?”

Ahsoka doesn’t look clever. She looks hurt, and lonely.

Hondo is too old and too tough to be pained by the look in her eyes. Certainly too tough. He is a pirate captain, a powerful leader of a rough crew. “It is… just a rumor, right, little Jedi?”

“I’m not a Jedi,” Ahsoka says, and it’s strange how dejected she sounds. She has never been the type to be depressed. “And it’s not a rumor.”

Hondo Ohnaka won’t deny a thrill of horror for what a galaxy without Jedi would mean. It’s not that he liked the Jedi. They got in his way. They were shiny, idealistic, and a little crazy. But they kept chaos at bay. A little chaos was good, but even Hondo couldn’t function when everything was bad.

He’s not sure, though, why he feels a little sick and choked, why his eyes suddenly flicker and he can’t trust himself to speak. He looks down and waves his hands a little. “Ah well, you can’t win all of them, Jedi.” Certainly he doesn’t miss Kenobi or Skywalker.

“You don’t fool me, Hondo,” Ahsoka says wearily, sitting down across from him on a stool and waving for a drink.

“Fool you? Come on, Ahsoka, when am I not honest?” Hondo was a great liar. But he was also truthful! Sometimes. Maybe not today.

One of his crew hands her a dirty mug full of a drink Hondo privately calls firegrease, and he almost warns her because that stuff is potent, but she downs it in a gulp, cringes, and tosses the mug back at his crewman for more. “Today you’re not, for one,” she says. She manages a smile and that looks more like her. It’s reassuring.

Not that Hondo needs reassurance, because he is fine. “How did they die, then? Not really the clones?”

“The clones.” Ahsoka shakes her head. “I don’t know why. Or how.”

“You Jedi – sorry, the Jedi, which you are not one of, are too trusting. Just because you have troops who seem to obey you doesn’t mean they’re loyal.” He nods meaningfully to his men. They betray him a lot. They aren’t like clones, of course, but still. He nods, swallows, looks around while Ahsoka gets her second mug of firegrease. Crazy Togruta. “Kenobi? Skywalker? Tell me they were smart.” Tell me they aren’t dead.

“Anakin is dead. I think he died protecting the Jedi younglings.”

Ah, children. Skywalker, for all his anger, was always soft. Hondo has to admit that he himself would risk more than he should for children. Strange how much his throat hurts, like he’s the one who’s now downed three (three? he should tell Ahsoka to stop) cups of firegrease. And his eyes sting. Maybe he has been drinking too much today.

“Kenobi?” he presses. He has always joked that he was friends with Kenobi. Good thing that isn’t true. He likes Kenobi, sure, but friends? Hardly.

“I think… I don’t know, I haven’t heard from anyone. But I think he’s dead, too.” Ah, kriff, is Ahsoka crying?

Hondo doesn’t understand why his chest suddenly tightens, why he has to look down and shake his head. He feels heavy and exhausted and older than he’s felt in a long time. It doesn’t make sense. Kenobi is just a Jedi who Hondo had always cheated and played games with.

Kenobi had also spared his life and actually been an entertaining conversationalist, a worthy opponent and a better ally.

Hondo isn’t soft, but he feels like he is, for a moment. It’s the way Ahsoka is crying and nursing her drink, the way someone so confident and fiery is now alone and tired. It’s the way the galaxy hasn’t felt right for a long time, even if he can’t admit it. It’s the way he suddenly remembers a wry smile, a cool voice, both infuriating and welcome, a blue saber and powers that are so strange but seem like they belong (even though he hates trying to fight Jedi, Jedi don’t fight fair).

He does not admit, then or ever, that he cries. He can feel liquid pooling against the rims of his goggles, but he will not say anything. Instead he loudly, gruffly clears his throat and stands, raucously clapping his hands and shouting, “Well, my old mother always said if something bad happens, drink your sorrows away and eat as much as you can! How about a feast then, little not-Jedi?”

Ahsoka slams her mug down on the counter, hard, and slides off her stool. “Sounds fine for you, Hondo, but I can’t stay. I just came to find out if I could trust you as a source of information. I have to hide, and I need someone I can trust.”

“And you think you can trust me?” Hondo laughs, but he knows (and she knows) that he would not give her up. Not to whoever killed all the Jedi, whoever killed Kenobi and Skywalker. He has always claimed some sort of honor, and this is no different. “Get out of here, Ahsoka.” He is more quiet then, taking her arm, leaning down. “You can trust me, but not my men. I will contact you, if you give me the means.”

Ahsoka nods and goes, leaving her mug and tucking her arms around her stomach. All of Hondo’s men know Ahsoka, know what she is. Once she is gone, he will convince them he’s told the ones who hunt her where she is. He will convince them that she’s dead.

Hondo Ohnaka lies a lot. But he is honest a lot, too. And today will be a day for both.