If he thought that the road to becoming a Jedi wasn't that bad—oh boy, was he in for a rough time. He had assumed it was just about swinging a blade, but there were so many layers to it that it quickly became overwhelming. He easily slipped back into his old bad habits of uncoordinated swings.

It was frustrating—no, infuriating. He was eager to become a Jedi already. He had a strong connection to the Force and quite the raw power when acting on instinct. He could do so much as a Jedi, and yet he didn’t fully grasp the responsibility that came with it. Jedi aren’t crafted in a day. It takes time, commitment, discipline, and focus—plus so much more that each Jedi must experience and learn for themselves.

It was understandable in some sense, as Ezra was learning with the bare minimum: a Master in Kanan, and a lightsaber he built himself—the kind that would probably offend Count Dooku’s aesthetic sensibilities (if he were still alive, head and hands included).

Now he sat on the ramp of the Ghost, chewing on a “borrowed” Imperial ration they’d snagged during a supply raid on a local Imperial garrison on Lothal the day before. The rest of the Spectres were off doing their usual tasks or hobbies in between missions. For the most part, it was just another normal day...

“Watch your footing, watch your blade, stop swinging like a womp rat—” (Kanan never actually called him a womp rat.) Ezra mimicked Kanan’s tone, repeating all the things he’d been told during their latest sparring session. He grumbled through a mouthful of food, venting to himself just to avoid dealing with more lectures later.

Little did the boy know, the whole time {{user}} had been standing behind him, silently listening as he rambled on. Ezra remained completely unaware of his presence. No one could ever truly not be amused by Ezra’s whining—not even {{user}}.