Baze Malbus

Because this is Milliways, when Baze requests a workshop for fireworks making, he gets one tall enough that he can test them indoors, soundproofed to the outside.

The challenge is to make a firework that sounds interesting and is possibly scented. But first, he must learn how to make a firework that, well, works. That requires a lot of trial and error.

He pastes shells, wrinkling his nose at the odor of the wheat paste. The shell innards include fuel, an oxygen producer, a binding resin, and color-producing agents all carefully mixed into a recipe. Baze weighs black powder, praying he doesn't blow his hand off. He blends potassium nitrate, charcoal, dextrin, and sulphur to make a "Tiger Tail" orange set of stars--the components that give fireworks their color.

His first attempts are duds. The first one has air holes near the time fuse--or spolette, as it's called. The second has too much black powder. Next come misaligned stars and a misplaced trigger. Then he learns he wasn't pasting the shells correctly. He corrects what went wrong with each version, and finally shoots off several orange peonies with resounding booms.

Next, he works on how to make a firework that sounds interesting. He learns that fireworks filled with lead oxide crackle, and narrow tubes create whistling sounds. There are also "screaming turbo candles," which screech. He builds several working prototypes of varying sounds and colors, learning how to measure out chemicals for each one.

Good. Now to figure out how to work scent into a fireworks show. He could just permeate the space with a sapir-infused mist, but where's the fun in that? Then, one night, while he's blowing bubbles into a bantha milk glass with a straw, the idea to use smoke-filled bubbles dawns on him. He takes apart a bubble machine and rebuilds it to produce bubbles filled with smoke using dry ice. Bar provides the oils that produce sapir scent, and Baze spends the next few days rebuilding several bubble machines to produce the thousands of bubbles he wants for a good show. The only downside is that Chirrut won't be able to see them to pop them. Baze will have to make sure plenty pop around him, to get the full effect of the scent.

Throughout this process, Baze has kept his cards close to his chest. He hasn't told Chirrut anything, except for the fact that Baze is making fireworks. The show on their birthday is mostly for Chirrut, but if other people enjoy it, that's great! Baze is looking forward to the party. He purchases 10,000 Roman Candles to round out the fireworks show, and continues experimenting until the day of.

Baze has been waiting for this day--the seventh of the second month--for weeks.

He's been keeping a secret from Chirrut: when they visited the temple for the last time after it fell, Baze retrieved his stash of sapir tea from its hiding place--behind a brick in the wall of a closet in the training hall, untouched in the raid.

Now, Baze has woken up early, before Chirrut, to prepare the tea. The larger Jedhan waits the requisite thirty seconds for their tap water to turn from red to black to something approximating clear, and then fills the kettle. Carefully separating the proper amount of tea leaves from what remains of the block, he fills the pot's strainer with sapir. The process is meditative, and silent--save the whistling of the kettle, which Baze removes from the heat as soon as possible. He pours the water into the pot, encouraged by the scent of green and growing things--a scent he hasn't smelled in far, far too long.

He allows the tea to steep for a few minutes, and then crosses to his sleeping friend, only to gently shake him awake. It's been years since Chirrut has had his tea, and Baze wants it to be the first thing he has upon waking.

"Happy birthday, Chirrut," Baze says with a soft, pleased smile, pressing the cup of precious sapir into his friend's hand.

The raiders came with a small army. Baze wasn't quite sure what had happened until it was over. A visiting Jedi, Taza Madowki, fought for the Guardians, lightsaber flashing. Baze fought for the kyber, staff swinging. Chirrut fought for...

Oh, Force. Chirrut. Chirrut was injured.

Now, Baze is curled up next to his prone friend on the stones of the courtyard, trembling. Baze shouts at him, pleading, and Chirrut struggles to keep his eyes open, to keep his grip tight on the larger man's hand. The smaller man coughs up more blood.

The Jedi touches Baze on a cold shoulder, and he barely even feels it. He glances up at her, only to see her pink lips moving, but hears no words. She moves to Chirrut next.

Baze knows--he just knows--that Chirrut broke his ankle stepping into that rabbit hole during the sparring match with Ganymede. The larger man sucks in a breath as he holds his smaller friend in a bridal carry, carting him from the sparring grounds to the infirmary. Baze's concern screams in the Force, try as he might to remain nonchalant.

After they reach the infirmary, Baze gently sets Chirrut down on the exam table, crinkling the paper under him. The larger man locates the scanner, and starts booting it up. He growls as he carefully removes Chirrut's boot, revealing both swelling and bruising.

Then he passes the scanner over the bone, and frowns at the results.

"Well, you broke it," he snarls, worry scraping his temper raw. "We'll get some bacta, and after that, I'm taking you straight to bed."

Baze knows he shouldn't let Chirrut do it. It's a stupid idea.

Baze knows he shouldn't, and he's gonna let him do it anyway.

The two Jedhans have managed to maneuver a monster truck from the garage to the outside. It's the middle of the night, so--as Baze prays to the Force--they shouldn't hit anyone. Ibani is out and about, ready to provide healing should they strike any small animals or people.

Because Chirrut is going to drive.

Baze describes the brake and gas pedals--but especially the brake--and places Chirrut's hands on the wheel at ten and two. The larger man talks about gear shafts, and tire friction--which is something they're not used to--and how the engine works, courtesy of his research. He paints a picture of the muddy and blessedly empty terrain and pays particularly close attention to any trees in the distance.

And then he holds onto his seatbelt for dear unlife.

The young Guardian, Baze, has a secret.

He's managed to smuggle something soft and small and adorable into his room, without alerting any of the Masters or the little acolytes he's supposed to be training at the moment. Now he's waiting for Chirrut, stroking the baby animal and hiding at any random noise from the stone corridor.

(OOC: Continued from here.)

Master Sheotar leads the boys to a Spartan, underground chamber perfumed with burning incense and lit only by candles. Thousands of them. Baze looks around, shell-shocked. He's never been this deep in the temple before. He clings to Chirrut's hand and describes the surroundings in a boyish whisper.

"Is this the boy?" a deep-voiced Twi'lek woman in brown robes says, her hands folded in her giant sleeves. "Which one do you wish me to question?"

"Chirrut," Master Sheotar says, stopping in front of her at the end of the chamber, "this is Taza Madowki. A visiting Jedi. She has some questions for you."

The delectable scents of roasted, imported squash and pumpkin fill the Temple of the Kyber today, as the harvest festival of Jedha is in full swing. Baze has been greeting pilgrims who are here to see the kyber all day, and has decided to make a beeline for the kitchens. Caramel Gor apples await him, and he licks his lips as he heads down the halls, keeping an eye out for Chirrut.

The threat of the newly-established Empire is a persistent, gnawing sensation in the back of Baze's mind, one he tries not to pay too much attention to. Chirrut has decided to stay and protect the kyber, and Baze has begrudgingly chosen to remain by his side. All Baze can do is try to remain cheerful, despite the peril breathing down his neck.

It's a younger Baze and a even younger Chirrut that rest in the Temple of the Kyber today, with Baze reading aloud from a Jedi text. The air is freezing cold as they recline on woven mats, leading the two acolytes to shiver profusely.

Baze finishes the scroll he was reading and rolls it up, nudging Chirrut in the leg with a foot. "Hey, Chirrut," Baze says. "Are you even paying attention?"

Young Baze was never the most patient of people. That award belongs to his friend, Chirrut--or so Baze thinks. So when the elders of the Temple of the Kyber told him that he would be the one running the children's martial arts class, he balked.

"Hello," Baze says, entering the class where the children--ages anywhere from six years old to nine--are waiting for him. He steps lightly despite his massive bulk, and stands at the front of the lined up students. "My name is Baze Malbus, and I'll be teaching you today."

"Hello, teacher Baze," the students say in unison. Sort of. There are a few stragglers.

"It's time to learn how to breathe. First, make sure you're standing up straight," Baze says, clasping his hands behind him to keep from fidgeting. "Next, we'll draw a breath. Pretend you're sucking air in from the bottoms of your toes to the tops of your heads..."