Editorial
“I’m just saying, Tavi,” her father swirled his wine like he was giving a boardroom pitch. “We have a Chief Sustainability Officer position open at Mobquet. You apply, come with me…” He paused to really look her in the eyes. “I’ll make a few calls.”
Tavi forced a polite smile and brushed her fingers along the pattern on the edge of her plate. The Skysitter was unusually busy that night, its usual mumbles of soft conversation overtaken by the clinking of glasses and occasional laughter from several tables. Their private table, secluded in the corner with a view of Coruscant’s skyline, was a privilege few could afford, and she secretly appreciated her mother’s insistence on securing it. She took a long breath before sipping her wine and responded to her dad’s usual out-of-touch suggestion. “Right,” she muttered, “because nothing screams credibility like ‘hired by my dad.’”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Damian replied. “You have your degrees, you’d pass with flying colours.”
“Or,” her mother interjected, “maybe you could do something creative. A lifestyle holomag like Poise, or—”
“That’s fashion, Ma,” Tavi stabbed her steak a little harder than necessary.
“You’re stylish,” Raya countered.
Tavi let out a quiet, exasperated sigh. “That’s not the same as—”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that suede bag you’ve been carrying lately,” Raya interrupted, her manicured finger pointing across the table. “The one from…” She searched for the name. “What’s it called? That Chandrilan brand? Very minimalist.”
“The Bow. It fits my stuff,” Tavi replied, deadpan. “And I have the money.”
Her mother smiled knowingly. Tavi’s justification was more revealing than she intended. “Well,” Raya softened her voice, “I just want you to remember you don’t have to make life so hard for yourself. There are easier ways to…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely across the room.
To what? Tavi wanted to ask. Succeed? Belong? Prove herself? She stabbed another bite of steak instead, dragging the silence just long enough to feel uncomfortable. Damian cleared his throat. “She’s doing fine, sweetheart. Aren’t you, Tavi?” His eyes met hers again. It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
“Sure,” she replied. “Fine.”
But she wasn’t, not really. The private table, the wine, the quiet undercurrent of this could all be yours if you just played along - it was suffocating. And yet, there was a part of her that felt guilty for resenting it. They were trying, in their own way. It just wasn’t her way. She thanked whatever rich people gods when the conversation shifted back to a safer ground - Mobquet’s new speeder line, a new restaurant her mother wanted to try. Tavi let the words wash over her, her attention drifting to the sea of lights and shadows outside the window. Her holocam sat in her bag beneath the table, and for a moment, she thought about the photos she’d taken that week back on Ord Mantell. Those images felt a million miles away from the opulence of Skysitter. And yet, they were the only things that felt real.
“Do you have an assignment coming up?” Raya pulled Tavi back to the present.
“Maybe,” Tavi pushed her plate aside. The steak was good, perfectly cooked as always, but she’d lost her appetite somewhere between her father’s Mobquet pitch and her mother’s fashion holomag suggestion. “I’m applying for a grant. Sentient Relief Network’s Galactic Centre for Crisis Reporting.”
Raya raised her eyebrows. “That sounds prestigious.”
“It is. Very prestigious.” Tavi let the affirmation hang in the air to make her mother squirm. Then she leaned forward, and rested her elbows on the white tablecloth. “I have four starting points.”
Her father looked up from the rim of his glass with that restrained sceptical expression of his.
“One,” Tavi ticked off a finger, “youth radicalisation in wartime. Two, the revenge cycle - how it plays out among the Jedi, and by extension, the clones, since they’re the blunt instrument of this whole war effort.”
“Light dinner conversation,” Damian muttered, earning a glare from Raya.
“Three,” Tavi continued, ignoring him, “the clone perspective on Fett’s actions and the prolonged impact on their identity and ethics. You’ve heard of that news, right? Finally went live earlier this morning.” She looked at them one by one. “Boba Fett, apparently the unaltered clone of the prime clone Jango Fett, tried to murder a Jedi General.”
Damian frowned, but not at the news itself. “And that’s what you’re focusing on?”
“Part of it,” Tavi said with a shrug. “The last point’s still a bit broad - systems that create insurgents. I’m trying to refine it.” She knew she was blabbering, intentionally throwing out academic jargon and grim subject matter to bore her parents into silence. If she was lucky, they’d wave her off and stop pushing their agenda down her throat.
It almost worked.
“Systems that create insurgents,” Damian echoed, setting his glass down carefully. “That sounds… dangerous.”
“It is dangerous,” Raya interjected. “Do you really need to dig into something so… volatile? You could focus on something safer, more—”
“More palatable?” Tavi’s tone was sharper than she intended.
Raya folded her hands neatly in her lap. “No, I just mean… something less likely to put a target on your back.”
“That’s kind of the point, Ma. The galaxy doesn’t need another fluff piece about Republic victories. It needs someone to dig into what’s happening underneath - the real consequences, the things people don’t want to talk about.”
“Like what?” Damian asked as a matter-of-factly. “For all I know, it’s all fair and game in this… war. The Republic looks after their clones, you know? Your uncle Kael works in the Senate.”
Tavi felt heat rising to her chest at the mention of her uncle. Kael Drezz, senior aide to some middling Core World senator, had never hesitated to flaunt his "insider knowledge" of Republic politics at family gatherings. His anecdotes about committee meetings were treated like gospel at the dinner table.
“The same Kael who thinks the Jedi are infallible?” she couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “Who talks about ‘strategic collateral’ like it’s a cost of doing business?”
“Kael understands the realities of governance,” Damian said. “The Republic didn’t start this war. They’re defending themselves, protecting systems like ours from Separatist chaos.”
“And you think that makes it okay? That because the Republic didn’t fire the first shot, they’re absolved of everything that’s followed? The supply shortages, the occupations, the refugee camps? Tell me, Pa, has Kael ever visited one of those camps? Because I have.”
Damian’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Raya interjected. “Tavi, your father isn’t dismissing your work.”
“No, Ma, he’s just saying it’s unnecessary,” Tavi rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Damian countered. “I’m saying it’s more complicated than you think. The Republic is holding this galaxy together. Without it—”
“Without it, systems would have to govern themselves. Imagine that,” Tavi chuckled sarcastically.
Raya sighed. She placed her hands flat on the table and glared at her equally stubborn husband and daughter. “Enough, both of you. This is supposed to be a pleasant dinner, not a Senate hearing.”
Tavi finally slumped in her chair. Across the table, Damian fixed himself, continued drumming his fingers lightly against his glass.
“You know,” Tavi said after a moment, “the clones don’t get a vote. They fight for a Republic they didn’t choose, under generals who see them as tools, not people. And no one questions it.”
“I’m not saying the Republic is evil,” she continued. “I’m saying it’s not perfect. And someone has to say that out loud.”
Raya reached out and brushed her hand on Tavi’s arm. “You’ve made your point, sweetheart,” she said gently.
“I don’t think I have,” she murmured. She turned her attention back to the skyline.
It was already 0200 when Tavi finally pushed back from her desk, her eyes burning from hours of staring at her portable terminal’s bright screen. The first draft of her project proposal and pitch sat open in front of her - exploring systems that perpetuate cycles of war and radicalisation, starting with the Fett case.
But that was only half the battle.
Beside it, another document filled the screen, a proposal addressed to the Communications Bureau of the Grand Army of the Republic. If she wanted her project to get the green light, she’d need to lay the groundwork. That meant securing access beyond her usual Senate hearing ID, which might get her through a press checkpoint but wouldn’t unlock the investigative depth her story demanded. She pitched it as a collaboration. Preliminary interviews, starting with the Fett case, would serve as both a proof of concept and a way to establish trust. The GAR wasn’t known for opening up to independent journalists, but Tavi knew how to work the angles - highlighting the importance of humanising the war effort, of capturing the clones’ perspective in a way the public rarely saw.
Still, it was risky. The Republic might grant her access, but that access would come with strings attached.
Through the Eyes of the Warborn: Exploring Youth Radicalisation and Identity in the Clone Wars
Summary:
This project seeks to investigate the intersection of war, identity, and radicalisation within the context of the ongoing Clone Wars. By focusing on key narratives, such as the attempted assassination of Jedi Master Mace Windu by Boba Fett, the unaltered clone of Jango Fett, it aims to illuminate how cycles of violence are perpetuated, particularly among younger generations born into conflict. This exploration will examine the systemic conditions that lead to these cycles, including familial legacies of violence, cultural displacement, and the militarisation of youth.
The latest submission for the grant proposal was due by 2359 on the next day. Tavi’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard for a moment, triple-checking the formatting of her final attachments before she uploaded the document to the Sentient Relief Network’s submission portal. She hovered her cursor over the "Submit" button, and clicked it.
One proposal down.
She moved on to the other tab, where her email to the Communications Bureau of the Grand Army of the Republic was waiting.
“.....This reporting aligns with ongoing efforts to provide the galactic public with nuanced perspectives on the Clone Wars. I believe the stories of those directly involved - clones, Jedi generals, and their leadership - are essential to capturing the sentient cost and ethical questions of this conflict. I welcome the opportunity to discuss this further and collaborate on a framework that aligns with Republic protocols.”
It was sincere - more sincere than she’d like to admit. Satisfied, she clicked “Send.”
Tavi hadn’t expected to find herself seated in the pristine, faintly intimidating meeting room of the GAR’s Communication Bureau just two days after sending her email. The efficiency surprised her; she’d expected layers of bureaucratic red tape, weeks of waiting, and maybe a rejection buried in her inbox. Instead, here she was, under the fluorescent lights of a room that felt like it had been designed to intimidate.
Across from her sat Chiko Renalla, the head of the bureau. Her auburn hair was tied neatly back, not a single strand out of place, and a portable terminal and some flimsi forms sat on the table in front of her. Tavi’s printed proposal, an old-fashioned touch she’d stayed up perfecting the night before, also laid open in front of her.
“You know, Ms. Drezz” Renalla began, “we already have journalists and holographers embedded on the frontlines. Official correspondents with clearances and protocols. What exactly are you offering that we don’t already have?”
Tavi took a moment before responding, she averted her gaze to take in her surroundings. The room was so clinical, so impersonal, that she could see a reflection of herself in the sheen of the metal table. Her hair was still slightly unkempt from the morning rush, and she hadn’t bothered to swap her usual work boots for anything more formal. She wondered if Renalla had noticed.
“I’m not here to rewrite Republic press releases,” Tavi said finally. “I’m here to report on what’s beneath the surface - the ethical complexities, the sentient cost. Your correspondents highlight victories, showcase valour. I want to write about the resilience behind those moments, the cracks in the system that lead to them.”
“And you think the GAR is going to give you unprecedented access to poke at its cracks?”
“I think the GAR knows it’s not perfect,” Tavi said, her voice steady, though her heart beat just a little faster. “But transparency can be a strength. And stories like these? They’re what people remember long after the war’s over. They’re what humanize an army made of men bred for battle.” She paused. “Have you ever run a trust measurement survey about the GAR?”
“What are you implying?” Renalla stopped typing on her portable terminal.
Tavi shrugged. “Nothing more than what I’ve seen and heard. You already know the numbers from systems like Alderaan, Chandrila, and the other core worlds. They adore the clones because the war hasn’t reached them. But on the Mid Rim? The Outer Rim? Systems like Ryloth or Ord Mantell? The sentiment isn’t the same. Those people see the GAR differently. The Republic’s presence is... complicated.”
Renalla pressed her lips into a thin line. “And you think writing about this ‘complication’ is going to help morale?”
“I think pretending it doesn’t exist does more harm,” Tavi replied without hesitation. “Morale isn’t built on blind faith. It’s built on trust. And trust comes from showing people the truth, even when it’s not flattering. Maybe especially when it’s not flattering.”
Renalla studied her for a long moment. She turned to her portable terminal and typed something - from the sound of it, a long paragraph. Tavi could tell from the clicks of the keyboard and the way her eyes occasionally gazed to the void to think.
After what felt like an eternity, Renalla finally closed her terminal and crossed her arms. “You’re either incredibly brave or incredibly reckless, Drezz. I haven’t decided which yet.”
“Maybe both,” Tavi offered a professional smile.
“I’ll have my team run your clearance,” Renalla cleared her throat. She looked at the press ID lying on the table. “You’ve been covering the Senate a lot, yeah?”
“Mostly,” Tavi replied, watching as Renalla picked up the badge and inspected it.
“Who’s your usual contact?” Renalla asked, still examining the ID.
“Like most of the journos in the press area - Commander Fox,” Tavi answered. “And, uh… who’s the other clone trooper with the grey uniform and…” She gestured vaguely around her head. “Shaved sides?”
Renalla arched a brow. “Lieutenant Torch?”
“That’s the one,” Tavi nodded.
Renalla set the badge back on the table. “Torch is one of our Public Affairs liaisons. He handles Senate press briefings, coordinates access for the holonet networks - makes sure you all don’t wander where you’re not supposed to. I’ll check with him and Fox about your credentials. If they vouch for you, we’ll move forward.”
“Tavi,” Lieutenant Torch greeted as he took her press ID to scan it. She was queued behind a dozen other journalists, all waiting to get into the designated repulsorpod for press to cover the session.
“Hey, LT,” she took the ID back once he handed it over. “Where’s Fox?” She looked around him.
Torch jerked his head across the convocation chamber where Commander Fox stood near the central podium, flanked by two other high-ranking clones. The Chancellor’s arrival was imminent, Tavi concluded by judging the tightened security. “Mm,” Tavi hummed, filing that away as she adjusted the strap of her holocamera.
“Trying to get unprecedented access, huh?” Torch muttered as he continued checking IDs for the other journalists. “Chiko mentioned something about it yesterday.”
Tavi didn’t answer, instead she fished out her datapad from her bag to check her notes. It was better to keep other conversations going, there was a queue of other journalists behind her, conversations about her project should somewhat be confidential. “What’s on session today?”
Despite the line of journalists behind her, Torch didn’t seem to mind stopping to talk. Tavi had become something of a fixture among the Coruscant Guard - one of the few independent journalists who always showed up for senatorial sessions and hearings, and one of the even fewer who treated them like actual people. She wasn’t above a quick hello, a smile, or occasionally bringing pastries and caf when she knew it would be a long day. “They’re making moves on the Fett case,” Torch continued scanning the IDs of the journalists behind her, occasionally glancing back at her as she stood next to him. “Word is, some senators already have bills in hand - youth policies, Republic oversight. Meant to ‘address the issue,’ whatever that means.”
He beckoned her to come closer. “Heard from the boys up there - an escape pod full of cadets was just located. The Jedi might be heading to Vanqor soon to comb the crash site. Ya didn’t hear it from me.”
“Got it.” Tavi nodded before waving to a fellow journalist that she knew, ready to go to the press repulsorpod together. “Can’t believe I didn’t know your name until Chiko mentioned it during our meeting.”
Torch raised an eyebrow, scanning the ID of the next journalist in line. “What, you’ve been coming here for a while and never bothered to ask?” Yeah, he probably mentioned it once but it didn’t register in Tavi’s head. She simply shrugged at the question.
The lieutenant snorted, stepping aside to let another journalist through the queue. The ID scanner beeped quietly, and he handed it back without looking away from her. “Get your quotes and stay out of trouble, Drezz. I’ll vouch for you for that access. I’m sure Fox will too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”