To the Victor Go the Spoils

They're at it again.

Jedi Master Mace Windu's dark eyes narrowed appraisingly as he gazed over the observation balcony railing, into one of the largest salles in the Temple's extensive dojo level. He watched the progress of the sparring match below, confident that the opponents were far too absorbed in their playful combat to notice his critical presence on the upper deck. After all, had they been aware that the senior Council member was audience to the practice session, their mutually abusive camaraderie would surely take on a less…unrestrained….tenor.

"Ah, master! You fight like Old Man Puuler back on Tatooine," the younger of the two duelists scoffed, grinning.

"Do enlighten me," his companion drawled, leaving a scorch mark on the wall behind the younger man's head, as the latter ducked away from a lightning-quick decapitating blow.

"He used to wave his cane around at all the street urchins…and fart!" This time the dark-haired youth almost stumbled back against the wall, defending himself from a storm of blazing attacks. The air already smelled of ozone and fairly rang with the buzzing echo of the low power energy blades.

They've been at it for a while, too.

"So that's where you learned all your charming manners. I wondered."

The rhythm of the battle subtly changed as the opponents switched to a more aggressive form. Blocks and strikes and counterstrikes whirled around the floor of the broad practice chamber, a dizzying torrent of blue light. The two men locked their blades together, each pushing against the other's stance, arms straining, teeth bared.

"Old man."

"Upstart whelp."

They broke apart and rejoined, now leaping and flipping and spinning wildly in an ever increasing pace, sabers screaming in the still air as they met and clashed and parted and clashed again.

"You bore, me, Anakin. It's like a tedious duel with Ventress…really.."

The ensuing blows were so fast it was impossible to distinguish offense from defense, or separate the different strokes. The Force surged and danced around them, ecstatic.

"Is ….that …why you're so….hot and sweaty…?" Anakin panted, half-choking on his own laughter.

Mace's eyebrows lowered slightly. Decorum, gentlemen.

A simultaneous Force-push sent them sprawling meters apart, only to spring back into the fray with hardly a breath's pause. The floor was taking quite a beating – their repeated downward slashes and sizzling blocks carving a series of long gashes into the polished wood. A maintenance droid cringed in one of the ceiling's corners, too terrified to move from its hiding place, even in the face of such wanton destruction of its precious realm.

"You can't hope to compare, Anakin. She's far better looking than you."

"What?" The younger Jedi rolled backward to avoid a devastating sweep and threw out one hand. A second saber flew from its place on the rack into his outstretched palm, and immediately sprang to life. "Look! Guess who I am now!" His mirth shook the Force, rippled across the wide room, as he launched himself into a renewed assault, wielding both blades with deadly precision.

"Your technique is worse than ever, Ventress. Have you been taking lessons from Master Skywalker, perchance?"

Anakin pressed his attack, hammering at his friend's defenses, mercilessly striking and slashing with both blades in a blinding, erratic sequence. He ducked his chin down onto his chest and leered. "Come hither, Kenobi…" he smirked in a falsetto voice. "You're so damned cute when you're mad…Surrender now and I promise only to spank you –ow!"

Mace passed a hand over his face. Force help me.

"That's what you get for using Anakin's moves," the elder Jedi smirked in his turn, having disarmed the Ventress doppleganger and sent him-her crashing to the floor. Anakin scrabbled backward wildly beneath a series of burning strikes aimed with casual grace at his ankles and shins, and found one of the fallen sabers in time to defend himself from a death-blow. Twisting to his feet, still losing ground, he picked up the pace again, grunting with effort.

"You're gonna pay for that, master!" he gasped.

Calmly maintaining the upper hand, Kenobi smiled blandy. "With what? I have no worldly goods or attachments - unless you are sentimental enough to count my former Padawan…and he's completely worthless."

"You are about to lose this match, old man – again. I'd watch my mouth if I were you, or I'll have to make the penalty a real corker."

Blue blades slammed together, slipped apart, screeching and spitting. The noise was terrible. Feet pattered, slid, shuffled, pounded. Breath came hard and fast.

"I'd watch my back if I were you," Obi Wan advised. "Master Windu is in the observation balcony."

Anakin risked a split-second's glance in the direction of the balcony, shock and dismay written all over his young face – and the fractional lapse in concentration was all his mentor needed. Coming under his opponent's guard and locking his blade to the side, he swiveled in on his heel, slammed an elbow into Anakin's midriff and sent him crashing flat on his back again, a saber blade humming at the hollow of his throat.

Mace released a breath of grudging admiration, but kept scowling nonetheless.

"You really should be more mindful of your surroundings, my young friend," Obi Wan advised, gloating over the loser sprawled on the hard floor.

"That was totally dishonorable," the young Jedi complained.

His friend cocked an eyebrow. "No..that was smart," he corrected. " I wouldn't expect you to understand. Don't bother your pretty head about it."

Anakin let his head drop back against the floor. "I'll get you back next time," he promised with an exhausted growl.

"A Jedi shall not know revenge," Obi Wan admonished. "Now..what shall the penalty be? Hmmm…" His blade remained hovering philosophically above the young man's collarbone.

"Please…not the creche again, master. Show mercy."

"Are you begging? How unbecoming. The crèche it is."

Anakin groaned. "More diapers."

"I've spent a great many years cleaning up your chiszk, Master Skywalker. It seems only fitting that you get a taste of your own medicine. There is a lesson to be learned in every situation or assignment."

"Okay, okay. Shut the kriffing saber off and quit the lecture. I need a shower."

"Such disrespect, I'm surprised your master never taught you better." With a sardonic flourish, Obi Wan deactivated the training saber and clipped it at his belt. Anakin sprang to his feet and pushed the locks of damp hair off his forehead, shaking his head with a bitter grin.

"I really am gonna kill you someday."

"Not if you keep fighting like that," his friend chuckled.

They fell into step side by side, heading for the changing rooms. Forgotten, or ignored, Mace watched them depart, a frown shadowing his dark features even further.

Something will have to be done about this.

It took a very early riser indeed to beat Master Yoda out of bed. Sometimes Mace wondered whether the ancient Jedi ever slept at all. Even during his apprenticeship so many, many years ago, he had wondered whether his diminutive master actually curled up in a bed and slumbered, or whether he simply spent each and every night in sustained meditation. This morning was like any other. Although the hour was well before dawn, by the time Mace reached the venerable Jedi's door, Yoda was already up and brewing a pungent tea.

Two cups, to be precise.

Far too experienced to be unsettled by the master's foresight, he gravely accepted the offering and folded his long frame onto one of Yoda's small meditation cushions. This was part of the solemn ritual of visiting the Master; everyone who crossed this threshold found himself de facto feeling awkward, large and clumsy, an oaf among things too delicate for his handling. The sensation of being disproportionate was humbling, and it afforded the ancient one no end of private amusement at the cost of beings who in the physical sense towered over him. He loved to spit in the face of the universe's predilection for superior size. He was its one, its greatest, contradiction.

"Hmmmmm…" the old one began, shifting and squirming his own way onto one of the worn mats. "To bring me news or to seek counsel, do you come, Master Windu?"

Mace folded his hands in his lap pensively. "Both, master."

"Ahhhh." The pointed green ears rose a notch. "Seen something which disturbs you, you have. Tell me."

"This truly is personal, master. I have no formal or justifiable complaint. I'm afraid…I find myself unsettled." The tall man's face twisted a little as he admitted the weakness; he was accustomed to strength and certitude.

"Happened before this has," Yoda reminded him gently. " Not a dire novelty, is it. Forget you do, perhaps. But remember very well do I when easier to unsettle you were."

Mace smiled at the reminder; there had been a period of his life, many decades previous, when he had come to Yoda with every unsettled feeling, every question and objection and frustration. Now they carried the heavy load of the Council's leadership together. But it was true that somewhere, deep in his heart he knew he could still turn to the tiny Master for advice, on even the most trivial of matters.

"It's Kenobi and Skywalker. It's good to have the pair of them back at the Temple, at least for a short time. But I saw them sparring last night."

"Sparring?" Yoda grumbled. "Very disturbing." His voice rasped in such a low octave that even Mace looked up in alarm, only to find the luminous green eyes subtly mocking him, gleams of mischief swirling in their depths.

Mace sighed. He was not finding it easy to pinpoint the source of his perturbation.

"They insult and taunt each other the entire time, Master."

A small clawed hand waved this aside. "Yes, yes. This is the way with some Jedi. Harmless is it. Do the same yourself, on occasion, with Master Plo or others. Trifling amusement is it, not path to Dark."

"I know that!" Mace had to check himself. If he felt frustrated, it was because he was not bold enough to honestly name what it was that disturbed him. He searched his heart more deeply, looking for the answer. Such a trivial thing to have worked so obstinately upon his infamous steel nerves. … "They make a kind of game out of the katas…out of our traditions. The lightsaber should be carried with honor, not like some child's toy."

Yoda studied him for a moment, and then widened his eyes in feigned surprise. One hoary hand gripped the hilt of his own small weapon. "Oh….think you that play too much they do?"

"I do not judge, master. Especially Obi Wan. But…it still unsettles me."

"In the Force, play and work one thing are. Begrudge them laughter in these dark times, do you?" Yoda's tone was soft, but the words held a warning, too. Joy was fleeting for those who spent their lives on the front lines of the war. Many eccentricities should be seen through the lens of compassion. And he, Mace, ought to know better.

He bowed his shaven head, accepting the well deserved if unspoken rebuke. And yet that feeling still niggled at him, persistent and unpleasant. "Master…." He said, blurting it out like some youngling cowering before his own august personage in the Council chamber. "They assign ridiculous penalties to the loser! It isn't right!"

To his horror and mortification, Yoda nearly toppled off his own mat with laughing. Chortling and snorting in his own uniquely shameless way, he righted himself and wheezed at the tall man sitting before him, "Yes, yes. Observed this I have."

"I take it you are amused," Mace replied dryly.

"Amused?" the ancient Master repeated, innocently. "Most grateful, I am. Polished these floors on hands and knees, Obi Wan did last week. Very good work. Better than droid."

"You won't let the cleaning droids in here anyway." Mace felt his ill temper lighten a bit.

"Hmmm. Same thing said he, ho ho ho hee hee hee. Also worked in gardens. In that no harm is there. Young Skywalker have I seen in kitchens. And often also in crèche, with tiny younglings. Healthy, is it. A form of rest for ones who know not how to do so properly."

Mace brushed one calloused hand over his smooth scalp. "I have no explanation for my objection to their behavior," he admitted. "But it's still there."

"Hhhmmmmph." Without warning, humorous, indulgent Yoda was transformed into stern, teaching Yoda. The gold-flecked eyes narrowed and gave Mace a look that every Jedi secretly dreaded. Yes, even him – Jedi Master Mace Windu. He cringed inwardly as his heart was scrutinized with such piercing ease.

And then the gimer stick caught him painfully across the knee caps. "Ha!" the ancient Master chuffed. "Envious are you. Foolish. Include you they will in their play if only you ask. Now go – waste not more of my time."

A nonsensical statement – since they were scheduled to spend most the morning closeted together in the Council chambers. But Mace understood that the subject had been dismissed. He sat stunned, unwilling to believe, at least for the moment, that Yoda had spoken the truth.

"Always right, I am," the Master snorted. "Now go. Meditate on it further, you should."

"Yes, master. Thank you."

Now what are they up to?

Mace pursed his lips together as he studied the scene unfolding below him. Tonight he was careful to shield his presence in the Force, blending into the shadows of the balcony and into the currents of the Light, so that he might avoid detection. He had spent what little free time he had this last busy day meditating on Yoda's words. He had to admit he was still rankled…though now his disapproval centered on the suspicion that he harbored an unworthy enviousness.

Am I too serious?

Anakin Skywalker entered through the main doors, shoving a large storage crate before him.

"You're late," Kenobi scolded him, already standing in the center of the spacious practice room.

"But I'm worth the wait," Skywalker grinned back, reaching up a hand to push his unruly mop of tangled, loose-curling hair out of his face. Mace frowned. The boy was a Jedi Knight and a General, but he looked like the lead singer from a disreputable outer rim synth-band. It was disgraceful.

"And what have you there?"

The young Jedi opened the crate with a wave of his hand and withdrew a small round object. From his observation post Mace could see that the entire large bin was filled with similar objects, of various shapes and sizes. "Cam-droid. I've been collecting since Cordovia. Got about forty two, plus a couple busted probe units."

Kenobi ran a hand over his beard, hiding a smile. "Holo-net droids?"

Skwalker smirked, activating the little reporter bot and setting it to hover near the ceiling. "I hate 'em."

"Hate is an inappropriate passion," the older Jedi reminded him. "I suggest we limit ourselves to a heartfelt need to scrap and obliterate every last one of them."

"Of course, master. I bow to your wisdom in all things." More droids came out of the box, each one activated and set to hovering at the edges of the room. Soon the space resembled a holo-map of the galaxy, full of floating stars and planets. The droids blinked their tiny lights and waited, humming gently on repulsors like a swarm of insects near a flowering shrub. "I've been fixing 'em all up…just finished today – after my pleasant morning with the younglings. By the way, did you know it was laundry day?"

Obi Wan indulged in a long, sly shrug.

"You did, you wily son of a gundark," Skywalker accused.

"Anakin. How many times must we go over this? I know everything."

Oh really? I would wager you both still have much to learn, the silent observer on the balcony thought.

Skywalker rolled his eyes in a most disrespectful manner. "Okay- rules of today's match. Whoever scraps the greater number of droids wins."

"I see. And I presume we will be expected to …ah, impede…one another's efforts?"

"Of course."

"Excellent." Kenobi brought his blade into brilliant life and saluted his friend. "In light of the of the inevitable mess, I'll think up some penalty involving the garbage collection facilities."

Skywalker swung his blade in a dramatic arc and began prowling around his mentor. "Dream while you can, master. You'll be in the food service line in the refectory at five tomorrow morning."

That settles it.

Mace folded his long cloak over the railing and vaulted gracefully into the center of the room, directly between the two competitors.

"Master Windu! " they exclaimed in unison.

"This looks far too amusing to pass up," the tall Jedi master informed them blithely. He extended a hand to summon a training saber in to his grip. "You don't mind if I join you?"

It was difficult not to laugh at the stunned expressions on their faces. Obi Wan managed to conceal some of his confusion behind his beard. Convenient, that. Too convenient, Mace decided. Only a member of the Council for four months now, Kenobi still wasn't certain where his new prerogatives began or ended. It was a brave new world in which he might call Mace Windu a colleague – and he hadn't quite adjusted to the new unspoken protocols. As for Skywalker, the boy had never had the slightest regard for protocol. His gaping look sprung entirely from a healthy sense of self-preservation. Mace didn't possess his reputation in the dojo for nothing, and he could give even the "Chosen One" a run for his credits in a contest with sabers.

"It would be our honor."

"Please, master."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

The contest began without further hesitation. Immediately three lightsaber blades were slashing and weaving through the wide space, and hover bots were frantically whirring to avoid destruction. It was a small miracle that any of them did get struck; each Jedi was constantly outmaneuvered by the other two. Attacks were parried, Force-pushes met with others, wild leaps toward a droid near the ceiling interrupted by another body sailing forward to intercept the first. The exercise quickly escalated into a no-holds-barred battle in which far more than saber skills were tested. Agility, speed, cunning, and sheer determination were pitted against one another in equal measure.

Mace was surprised to feel himself grinning like a initiate as he threw Skywalker over one shoulder and Force-shoved Kenobi into a wall before somersaulting in a tight loop to slash one of the droids to bits. Its disemboweled circuitry rained down on their heads, clattering against the floor.

"Thirteen!" he announced.

"Me too!" Skywalker barked, not to be outdone. The footing was dangerous – molten and sparking droid parts lay everywhere, strewn wildly across the entire practice arena. The maintenance droid was shrieking in consternation in a far corner. Poor thing was going to be neurotic after watching its cybernetic counterparts so mercilessly dissected for sport.

"Twelve," Kenobi panted – but then he sprang against the wall, the ceiling, the far wall, and straight out into space, severing another droid as he did so. "No – we're even!"

With only four possible targets left, the match turned in on itself, the three duelists vying to subdue one another before any of them had a chance to jump for the droids. The small spheres were pulled and pushed every which way with the Force, jerking and spinning erratically as they were caught in a conflicting net of impulses and pushes. Blades sang and crashed together as the three Jedi tried to overpower each other long enough to get in a hit at the hovering and now badly malfunctioning cam-droids.

Mace felt the perspiration running freely down his neck and back, and laughed out loud. Force, it feels goods to just let loose like this!

Soon the score was fourteen each, about equivalent to the number of burns and bruises they had left on one another's arms and legs with well-placed blows. In an ordinary sparring competition, the fighting ended when a strike was made; but the rules here were more…advanced. The remaining droid spun in a tight circle above, screeching a long electronic scream of despair. All three Jedi reached out a hand to pull it toward themselves, in three separate corners of the salle…the Force surged…

And the cam droid exploded, its carapace shattering and its circuits and transistors slamming into ceiling, floor and walls in a violent shower.

"That doesn't count! Tie! " Skywalker yelled in outrage.

They all three stood, chests heaving, staring at one another for a moment.

Mace crouched, jumped straight up in to the far corner near the roof, and bisected the Temple maintenance droid with one sweep of his blade. Its two halves and his booted feet landed on the wooden floor at the same moment.

"Fifteen," he said with satisfaction, powering down the training weapon. Neither of the others dared contradict him. They simply deactivated their sabers and made the customary bows.

"You got lucky, master," Skywalker addressed Kenobi. "Master Windu saved you from another bitter defeat at my hands."

"You should be the one thanking him, Anakin. I was going to make your penalty particularly gruesome on account of your smart mouth."

Mace flashed his white smile. "Who says either of you are off the hook?"

They turned to him with horrified comprehension dawning on their faces.

"I am the winner," he pointed out. "So I think it's time I assigned each of you the appropriate penalty."

Kenobi raised his eyebrows and folded his arms, giving Skywalker a complicated and indecipherable look. The young Jedi shifted a bit uneasily. "Uh….nothing against the precepts or the Temple rules, of course, master," he mumbled.

"I should think not," Mace growled, enjoying the moment of suspense. "Hm. Kneel and hear my decree."

Obediently they each dropped to one knee before him, in the traditional posture of humility, casting each other a furtive look of mingled fear and humor.

"Skywalker," Mace declared. "You are getting a haircut."

"What?Oh, no!"

Kenobi was quivering with suppressed laughter. "I'm sorry, Anakin. That's the penalty and you are honor bound to comply."

Skywalker's answering scowl was a sight to behold.

"As for you, Kenobi…" Mace drawled, walking in a circle around his fellow Council member, rubbing a hand against his chin in thought, "You…will be shaving. It all comes off. All of it."

And now Skywalker's scowl transformed to howls of delighted laughter. Mace's affected frown melted into a grin as Kenobi stared up at him, dumbfounded and horror-stricken.

As Mace exited the salle, there was a lightness in his step that he hadn't felt since the war began, or possibly since he was appointed to the Council fifteen years ago.

To the victor go the spoils.

Mace Windu stood patiently with his arms folded across his broad chest, savoring the palpable ripples of disturbance in the Force as Beito Yonbu, the tall, thin Dorovian who served as barber within the Temple precincts, sheared off the masses of dark stringy hair. Anakin Skywalker's expression could only be described as a pout . Resignation to fate, especially to loss, did not come easily to the young Jedi.

Beito Yonbu hummed as he worked, snipping off liberal amounts of hair around ears and in the back, and then stood back to contemplate his handiwork. The result was certainly longer than the regulation Padawan style – as a small concession to the boy's recently earned rank of Knight– but not much. Skywalker was now crowned with an unruly halo of dark tufts and spikes. Not perfect, but a definite improvement, Mace decided.

"How's that, Master Windu?" the barber drolled, his deep-set eyes alight with the mischief in which he had been made willing conspirator. "Sufficiently humble and contrite?"

Skywalker's eyes were absolutely mutinous. "No," Mace chuckled. "But it's a good start. Besides, I'm anxious to see the rest of the sentence carried out."

Anakin stood and brushed a few stray hairs off his tunics, mouth twisted in a comical line. He shot a glare at Obi Wan Kenobi, who had been silently watching – and thoroughly enjoying - the young Jedi's humiliation from a corner of Beito's small workspace. The barber cleaned up and then began stropping an old fashioned razor. He paused to peer at Kenobi from under his jutting eyebrows with a well-rehearsed expression of sinister delectation.

"Now," Mace commanded, in his best displeased Councilor voice. "Allow me." He politely relieved Kenobi of his cloak, tossing it casually across a nearby bench. Skywalker settled in to wait, his mortification quickly dissolving into gleeful anticipation of his mentor's punishment.

"Do your worst," Kenobi growled bravely at Beito, settling stiffly in the chair recently vacated by his former Padawan. Mace looked on, unrelenting.

"Oh, I shall, I shall," Beito assured him, a wicked smirk creasing his lined face even more. "I'm quite sure you deserve it."

Ten hilarious minutes later, and Beito had indeed done his worst, finishing the deft torture by slapping liberal quantities of highly astringent tonic on the newly-shaved skin. Eyes watering, the now beardless Jedi master surveyed his own reflection with such a look of pained outrage that Mace and Anakin – and Beito – burst into unrestrained laughter.

"Nobody on the Council is going to take you seriously with that baby-face," Anakin choked out.

Coloring a deep crimson, but somehow managing to stand with utmost dignity and composure, Kenobi favored the young Jedi with a singularly withering look. Mace chuckled. "Excellent work, Beito. Very humble and contrite."

The barber bowed his thanks and hummed away at one of his favorite tunes as he set about cleaning up, and the threesome turned to leave.

Master Yoda was waiting for them just outside the door.

"What is this?" he grunted, peering up curiously into the faces of the three Jedi exiting Beitos' workspace. "Look like stray pups dipped in flea-bath, these two do. Lost something, have you, young ones."

"Just a little pride," Mace smiled.

"Hm," the ancient master snorted. "Plenty to spare, I think."

Mace grinned even more hugely than before. "Master," he bowed.

"Need to speak to you, I do," Yoda continued, lips pursing as he continued to regard Skywalker and Kenobi with inquisitive green-gold eyes. "An announcement to all younglings and Padawans made, this morning was."

"Oh?"

"Hm. Found destroyed in one of the training rooms, a maintenance droid was. Such actions not permitted are. A matter of discipline."

"How odd that the remains were not disposed of," Kenobi remarked, with utmost seriousness. A tiny tremor of amusement shuddered in the Force.

"Totally irresponsible oversight," Skywalker agreed, pompously. "We cleaned up one of those practice rooms ourselves last night, didn't we master?"

Kenobi nodded, eyes wide with what Yoda knew to be exquisite irony. "Indeed, we did. How exceedingly strange."

Yoda's piercing gaze flitted to the dark face of Mace Windu, who was regarding the other two Jedi with half-hooded eyes. "What did you say in the public announcement, master?" he inquired.

"Hmph. Person responsible is to step forward and make reparation. Set example for older students. Important it is. Destruction not to be encouraged."

Mace passed a hand over his face and then directed a long, burning look at the two younger Jedi, who stood with expressions of detached interest and innocence on their faces. The Force was tight with barely controlled laughter.

"I'll turn myself in later," Mace sighed. "It's only right."

The tension in the Force multiplied painfully as Yoda turned solemn eyes up to him and gravely nodded. "Yes," the master agreed, mirth dancing like invisible flames around him. "A good lesson that will be for all."

Skywalker looked like he was going to spontaneously combust if someone didn't get him out of here soon - and Kenobi's now-visible dimples were deepening into striking grooves. Mace gazed from one to the other. It might have been either man's idea, really, but the understated cunning of it was trademark…

"Kenobi," he growled.

"Master Windu," that person responded with a very, very deep bow, enough to hide his crumbling mask of calm.

"Uh…master Yoda? If we might be excused…?" Skywalker asked, in a shaking voice.

Yoda dismissed them with an absent-minded wave of one clawed hand. As they rounded the corner and entered the adjoining concourse, their sudden explosion of laughter echoed off the floors and walls, setting the Force alight with shared mischief and delight.

Mace shook his head. Blast it!

"Now, Master Windu," Yoda was saying, leaning on his gimer stick and cocking his head to one side. "Discuss an appropriate penalty we should, hmmmm?"

And so it was that later that late that very night, Jedi Master Mace Windu found himself painstakingly repairing the damage the upper level salle's flooring, filling in each gash and burn mark with an epoxy and varnish compound. He worked slowly on hands and knees, accepting that everything –everything- had a purpose and meaning in the Force.

After all, he had earned this task, fair and square. It was true what they said:

To the victor go the spoils.