Water in Our Bird Bones
Clone x OC Week - Day 3, Conflict || Wolffe x OC
Event Masterlist
SUMMARY: Of all the brilliant ideas the Senate’s come up with, a Core World dance troupe performing for the men for “morale” was up there on Wolffe’s list of Stupid Things Politicians Do. Still, the reprieve is nice. That is until he’s confronted with some ugly truths about his armor…and his dancing abilities.
Word count: 3.3k
Tags & Warnings: social & political commentary I guess, environmentalism, descriptions of canon typical violence, brief talks about terrorism and violence, folk dancer oc, inspired by Tibetan folk dances, Wolffe learns to dance
“You’re delusional. What you’re suggesting is treasonous. I know the Chancellor; he is a good man!”
Wolffe had his helmet off, so he had to fight to keep an impassive face. For all Skywalker bitched about how he “wasn’t a messenger bird” for the Chancellor, he sure was quick to come to the old politician’s defense.
She looked at Anakin. A small, lithe frame, a good head shorter than the Jedi. Wolffe recalled her name was Mirjala, when she’d introduced herself to them walking off a ship ramp with flashy, glittery eye makeup. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Wolffe noted, with some unease, that she seemed unsure how to react. Almost frightened. He couldn’t blame her—the General was quite a bit taller and definitely broader, with an accusing stance that was anything but friendly. If it were one of his brothers, he’d smack the dumb kriffer up the back of his head for being so imposing on a being so clearly smaller and weaker. He exchanged a small glance with Rex. She breathed in.
“Do you…. do you know why this troupe exists, Knight Skywalker?” Mirjala asked politely, fiddling with her fingerless gloves—plucking at the woolen fibers. Around them, people bustled around moving boxes and setting up the large stage.
“No,” General Skywalker replied tersely. General Koon made to intervene but Skywalker plowed on. “How does this relate?”
“Humor me.”
Wolffe watched Skywalker twitch, half amused at the man’s clearly volcanic temper and half wanting to tell him to sit the kark down.
“Fine.” Skywalker bit out, giving Wolffe another reason to want to put his face to a cheese grater. Fucking bantha balls, how could they let this man have a child. “Tell us why.”
She bit her bottom lip. Still pulling at fibers, but looking unperturbed, oddly enough.
“Twenty years ago, you could find our dances anywhere on Alshaka.” Her face turned distant. Not so much looking at them as she was looking past. “My people have always loved art. Our greatest achievements were our monuments. Every child learned the steps to the Geshan in their afterschool hours. Our most popular places were our museums, our theaters, our studios.”
The small woman exhaled shakily.
“And then, ten years ago—I was only nine at the time—there was an uprising. A civil war, of sorts. It had started as a small band of extremists, who claimed that we were being kept docile and happy with our arts because it made us easier to control. A laughable sentiment, really, as our arts were our greatest export in the sector and it made us loved. But slowly, the small band grew larger. Louder. But it all changed when a private military group, an off-world PMC, decided to throw their lot in with the extremists. And suddenly it wasn’t so much a small band of malcontents as it was a makeshift army.”
Mirjala closed her eyes. Glitzy blue paint covered her eyelids, lined with rhinestones.
“I’m sure you can infer what happened next. They destroyed everything. Eight thousand years of history. Burned.” Mirjala murmured. Her voice, however soft, commanded their attention entirely. “We begged the Republic for aid and, to their credit, they did give it to us. They got rid of the extremists, stopped the riots and the lootings and the burnings, on only one condition.”
She opened her eyes. Staring straight at Wolffe, he suddenly felt naked. Perceived.
“May I see your vambrace, Commander?” She inquired politely.
He looked around. Skywalker’s face was unreadable, but General Koon gave a weary nod. He unclipped his right vambrace that didn’t have his comms, and handed it to her. She took it gently.
Handling the piece of armor with care, she turned it over in her bird-like hands. Wolffe almost wanted to snort. That thing had been through shitty mud-filled sinkholes and Seppie-made acid rain; it could survive more than a little rough handling.
“How long have you had this for, sir?”
He wanted to laugh. She definitely shouldn’t be calling him sir.
“A year and ah half ma’am. Lost my first in a downed ship.” He said crisply. She nodded.
“It’s served you well.” Wolffe thought she was looking at his banged up vambrace with a little too much reverence. Everything on him was standard issue stuff. Still, she handled it carefully.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She ran her thumb over the strip of gray paint, and traced the edges where the polish chipped. “You’ve taken great care for it. The plastoid is holding up remarkably for its age. ”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She handed the vambrace back to him with a soft smile. Downturned eyes.
“They gave us humanitarian aid and representation in the Senate as a system on the condition that we allow the Republic to mine our lands for peraleum. Plastoid is produced from peraleum.”
“My people were left scarred from the uprising. The streets were quiet. There was nothing to celebrate when we were burying by the masses. Our grief was too great. There was too much damage. The surface of Alshaka is tough, and it takes great time to create proper burial sites. Many families, mine included, had to burn their dead because it would take too long to properly bury them, and the bodies would rot. My brother now sleeps with the wind, instead of in the earth with our ancestors.” Wolffe watched her eyes follow his vambrace as he gently clicked it back in place, feeling a bit like he should apologize for even wearing the armor.
“I’m sorry,” Skywalker offered. It was mournful, something also on the tip of Wolffe’s own tongue, but it sounded too pathetic for what she was saying. “Your people have suffered greatly. But that has nothing to do with the Chancellor.”
You also haven’t told us about why this troupe exists, Wolffe mentally added.
He stayed silent.
“My people have recovered much faster than was thought possible thanks to the economical boon that is the peraleum mining industry. But it’s left our land barren and poisoned our air from the fumes that come from processing plants. In turn, we have fueled the Grand Army of the Republic by supplying its soldiers with armor.” Mirjala nodded towards where Wolffe and Rex stood. “But sometimes I wonder whether this would have happened had that period of instability not granted the Republic foothold in our land. The same PMC that nearly destroyed us would later dissolve and find work as trainers on Kamino. To train soldiers. Sanctioned by Chancellor Palpatine’s administration.”
You could hear a pin drop in the silence she left, Wolffe thought. One look at Rex’s stiff shoulders told him he was as tense as Wolffe.
“We dance on the stages of Coruscant, stomach the degradation of our art for your ignoble elites who view us as exotic puppets, for charity. For the children back home.”
She inhaled sharply. She bowed.
“Thank you for inviting us here to perform for your brave soldiers, we are honored. We will dance here. However tell your Chancellor we will not perform for his private gala, as we are a charity organization of prestigious dancers, not circus monkeys at his beck and call.” And with that, she disappeared into the throng of people.
Wolffe stood by the edge of the stage, tapping his foot impatiently. Dancers in colorful, cascading costumes passed by. There was going to be a dance performance meant to boost morale for the men. They were an elite core-world troupe that people in the upper echelons of Coruscant would apparently sell their left kidneys to get tickets to see. Elite, artistic, and so far up above his pay grade. Ha.
He noted that they seemed to move in flocks, tittering with bird-like hands and gliding across the floors like clouds. In contrast, his and the 501st men looked worn. Dirty. Clusters of men slumped over, finding busywork for their hands cleaning blasters and such. And each time the two groups met, it was like watching water roll off stones. Dancers flowing gracefully past clumps of walled-off, weary men.
“Commander,” a soft voice greeted him. He looked up to see Mirjala. She had on a long royal blue skirt lined with fur and a fitted yellow top the color of wheat. Without the fingerless gloves on, he could truly see how delicate her fine-boned hands were, connected to slim but well-defined arms. Her hair fell in two braids woven with silky blue ribbons. She smiled kindly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I am sure you are quite busy.”
Truth be told, he could be using this time to catch up on reports. Still, he afforded her a small shrug. There was something in the fact that this curious woman, dressed like a folklore, had called him over that pushed away his irritation. “What do you need?”
She smiled prettily, this time with teeth, giving Wolffe a somewhat foreboding feeling.
“No.”
Mirjala rolled her eyes.
“Oh please, you haven’t heard me out yet.”
“I am not dancing on a stage.” True to his title, his tone was commanding; expectant that she listen without question.
“It wouldn’t be onstage,” she protested. By now she was sitting cross-legged on the stage, her skirt pooling around her, though that still gave her some height above the broad soldier, so she crouched down to meet him eye-level, propping her head on her hands. “We’ll come down to the floor and invite all the audience members to join us. I just want you to be the first.”
“Why?”
Mirjala fought against her second eye-roll of the day, but the commander’s deadpan expression told her he caught it. Her mouth twitched.
“Because,” she began patiently, mentally pretending this was just a petulant child she was speaking to. It is just a bothersome student, she told herself. “Your men are understandably tired and a little wary of us.” She waved a hand at the clusters of people, separated like oil and water. “I want you to be the first one to join us because then others would be more likely to follow your example. They’ll be comfortable once they see their commander and fellow soldier join our dance. The idea is everyone can dance together and have fun.”
“But why?” For a fully grown man fighting a galactic scale war, Wolffe was surely competing with her youngling students for the most Mirjala eye-rolls in one conversation. Skies, she could hear a whine in his voice.
“It’s to make the performance engaging. Meaningful,” she emphasized. She huffed, immediately seeing the disinterest in him. He did have an excellent poker face, but she could sense the disdain from his pointed silence. “Commander, it’s nice and all to watch people perform in front of you. However I’m sure I’m not the only one to notice how removed the dancers are from your soldiers. We can dance however much we want and as well as we can, but there is a fundamental difference between us.” He scoffed.
“Because we’re clones?”
“Because we have fundamentally different experiences of life,” Mirjala corrected. “What resonates for us won’t resonate here. Our dances are all nice and pretty to you, I’m sure. But it’s totally different if we can immerse the troopers in a dance; connect and celebrate on the same level.” Mirjala was well aware of what their position was. This was a Senate ordered performance; a paltry offering to “boost morale” for the soldiers dying for their political squabbles. None of the troopers here care about glitzy, shimmering dances. Not with any real depth at least. To them, they were just another band of merry little Core worlders ordered by the Senate to twirl in pretty dresses as a bandaid solution to their struggles.
She could see the gears turning in the commander’s head. Daring to push it, Mirjala clasped her hands together and looked at him with wide, doe eyes.
“Please, commander,” she implored softly. “I think it could really cheer them up.”
He held her gaze stonily for a long moment.
“Fine,” he groused. “It’s a good idea, but I can’t go up there.”
“Why not?” Mirjala pressed. She was so close to getting him to agree!
“Can’t dance.” He grumbled with a glare, looking like the world was at fault for giving him these inabilities.
“Oh! I’ll show you.” She quickly stood up, brushing off her skirt. At his reluctant look, she waved him up frantically. “Come on, it’s easy. The steps are easy.” Hesitantly, Wolffe jumped onto the stage in such a clean jump that she envied his ease of movement. He was clearly well-trained and athletic. He stood beside her at the center of the stage awkwardly.
“You can set your helmet down,” Mirjala offered.
“Right.”
He set the thing to the edge of the stage, more gentle than he normally would. After hearing her talk about his vambrace, it felt wrong to just throw it.
“Okay,” she cheered. “Just start with your hands at your sides, loose and relaxed. Now first just swing your arm from the back, going up into a circle, and coming down on the opposite side in front of your torso.”
Wolffe swung his arm.
“Okay, good, again!” Mirjala gave him a thumbs up. “Just less I’m gonna hit you and more gentle.” She demonstrated the movement again, making her arm arc over her head before laying it softly in front of her. “Now try it with your other arm.” She wanted to giggle, seeing his face scrunch in concentration.
“Yup, just one arm up and down. Other arm, up, over, and down. Softly, softly. Yup, that’s good! Big circles!” She cheered, doing a happy little jump while he waved his arms around like a fool, making Wolffe feel like a particularly accomplished ceiling fan. He glared at Sinker and Boost, who were snickering from beneath the stage.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” Mirjala murmured, moving her body to block the pair from sight. “Performance is all about confidence. Okay, now let’s add the legs. Just lift one leg in a small hop—opposite leg, opposite arm—and move in time with your arm circles. Yes, yes! Soft hands!”
Wolffe relaxed his hands.
“Ok, but hands strong!”
“You just said soft hands.”
“Yes, soft hands but strongly.”
“Pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.” She ignored his muttering.
“Loose and relaxed, instead of looking like you’re about to form fists.” Mirjala reprimanded playfully. “But still you need to put energy in them so your hands are straight and long. It’s should lengthen your lines.”
“Like this?” Wolffe tried, uhh, energizing his hands. The blasted woman just giggled. He did not pout.
“Relax, relax,” Mirjala wheezed between giggles. She took a hand into hers and shook it. “You’re overthinking it and it’s making your hands clam up.” Mirjala stroked his hands, holding his large palm and brushing his fingers out from their curled positions.
“You’re very concentrated on getting it right,” she continued, patting his gloved hand. “But you need to relax and enjoy the dance. Don’t think about anything, just enjoy how your body feels. Relish in the movements. Let it connect through you. Be free.”
Mirjala looked up to realize a blush was steadily creeping up the commander’s neck. She released his hand with a gentle smile.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Stars, he was acting like a cadet.
“Not any logical sense, no,” she agreed. “But dance is about emotion, not logic. Let’s try again. Just circle your arms and try to connect it through your body.”
“I look like an idiot.” He didn’t want to admit to grumbling, but Wolffe knew he sounded more petulant than he’d like. His ears burned, knowing this woman was watching him fumble around.
“All dancers start this way. Unsure, because all we do with our bodies these days is work, work, work. Even I did.” Mirjala glanced at him. His eyes were downcast, clearly not believing her. “But you have a better start than most.” She grinned when she saw him look up, eyes snapping to hers questioningly.
“It’s true.” Mirjala continued, smiling reassuringly. “Since you’re so athletic, your movements are sharp. Clean. Many dancers have to work hard and build up the muscles to have such clear movements. But you already move fluidly, aware of your own body and of each muscle, thanks to your training.” Mirjala watched him slowly brighten up—well, brighten up as much as he could.
“Alright,” he sighed.
“Okay, let’s just do this arm movement together.” She began whistling a simple tune. One arm up and over, and then the other. She continued until Wolffe started to keep up, his movements getting less tentative with each try. Plucking up his courage, Wolffe then added in the little hop. One arm up and over with a hop, and then the other, repeat. Mirjala smiled at him blindingly, and he was surprised to find himself grinning back. Faster and faster, they danced. In time with her simple, cheery tune, they hopped around onstage wildly. Wolffe felt himself get more comfortable, throwing his arms in the air quicker and quicker.
He then- shit. Wolffe stumbled and his hand hit hers, squarely nestling his palm into hers.
He made to pull away and apologize but she just grabbed his other hand and began spinning them around hand in hand. Her whistling grew louder, and grew faster and jauntier. He found himself humming along. Wolffe followed her lead and bounced with each step. They spun around the stage, making her thick blue skirt flare out in dazzling circles around her. Wolffe took a step towards her, taking the lead, and twirled her, one arm holding her hand above her head. Someone below the stage wolf-whistled, but he ignored them.
“The next part of the dance, we hold hands in a large circle,” she explained to him, breathless. Following her lead, he released one hand so they stood next to each other with only one pair of hands linked. He copied her movements of bouncing each step on the balls of his feet, traveling to the left of the stage, and then to the right. But once he got bored of it, he began twirling her again with one hand. Mirjala stopped whistling to laugh. He watched her throw her head back, a flush in the apples of her cheeks from smiling so hard.
Eventually, when they were both tired and breathless, they slowed to a dizzy halt and flopped down in the middle of the stage, lying side by side.
“You really love dancing.” Wolffe watched her relax in the sun, seemingly soaking it all in. A light sheen of sweat coated her forehead and flushed cheeks, and he had no doubt he looked the same.
“Yes,” she breathed. She closed her eyes and exhaled, smiling. “The feeling of it, the freedom. The stage beneath my feet and the air under my arms. When I dance, I’m free.”
She turned to him, settling heavy eyes on him. “Thank you, Wolffe.”
“For what?”
Mirjala smiled, and Wolffe thought it made her shine brighter.
“I haven’t danced like that in a long time,” she admitted, sounding a bit shameful. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my troupe, but we’re all…you know, dancers already. We’re all…” she trailed off, searching for the word.
“Too good?” Wolffe offered, somewhat sarcastically but also recognizing her meaning. She huffed, and he took it as an affirmative.
“We do the same things with only a few variations, and we dance like circus monkeys for the Coruscanti rich and elite. They don’t get it. Art is emotion, and it is for the people. Everyone. And we put everything in it: our grief, our pain, our blood. But they buy up all the tickets, hoard our shows, and give them away to their rich friends as bartering tools for their next political campaign, and watch us all like a menagerie of exotic birds. Donating to our charity cause like giving sour jogan fruit to beggars. They don’t get it. That’s not how it should be.” She looked at him, and he felt like his soul was on display.
“Fuck the Senate,” he managed to squeeze out. She broke out laughing, shutting her eyes and breaking their eye contact to guffaw, and Wolffe felt like he got his soul back. Or maybe she still had it, because his head was spinning and he felt all too light.
“Yeah, fuck those guys.” Mirjala grabbed his hand and lifted it, beaming, and looking like a woman from folklore.
“This is what it should be.”
A/N: The dance Mirjala and Wolffe do is inspired by Tibetan Guozhuang folk dances! It’s meant to be a big dance with many participants, usually community members, in a circle while singing. From what I understand, it seems like a big communal bonding experience where people of all ages join and dance together, from grannies to little kids, and I’ve even seen videos where even foreigners were brought in and everyone vibes together, and I just think it’s beautiful. And Mirjala’s costume is heavily inspired by traditional Tibetan wear. Also sorry to Anakin stans, but he's a bit of an ass in this one. Also, you've probably caught on, but the beginning is a thinly veiled commentary on how environmental protection is gutted for the profit of corporations, and how that usually impacts low-income marginalized communities the most. I'm about as slick with “peraleum” as George Lucas is with naming the greedy corrupt senator Halle Burtoni (Halliburton is a fracking company)
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