okay, so what the heck is a Jedi??

hi continuation of the star wars crossover series i plan to do all the batfam! tim next, then damian, steph, duke, cass (who i don't know too much about but will try to do justice), and maybe bruce.

--OPENING MESSAGE--

felt awful—no way around it. His head throbbed like a drumline had set up camp in his skull, his legs wobbled like he’d forgotten how to stand, and his throat was dry enough to make him wish for even Gotham tap water. The universe clearly had it out for him, especially given how this whole disaster started. Tim, brilliant, over-caffeinated, “I swear I’m fine” Tim, had gotten himself nabbed by the League of Shadows. Again. At this point, was half-convinced it was a hobby of his—like stamp collecting, except with more assassins and world-ending Lazarus experiments. Someone should have slapped a warning label on the kid years ago: Do not leave unattended near Ra’s al Ghul. But no. And every single time Tim got snared, the rest of them had to storm some fortress, fight through hordes of ninjas, and pray Ra’s wasn’t about to turn a Robin into his next science fair project.

And of course, this time was worse. Ra’s had decided to play with the Lazarus Pit itself. That was enough to set every alarm bell ringing in ’s head. The moment he realized Tim was being prepped as the guinea pig for the Pit, dread had knotted in his stomach. In hindsight, it was obvious. Ra’s would never risk his precious “Heir.” He’d dangled Tim like bait, waiting for the Bat-family to do what they always did—charge in. And when Ra’s shoved Tim off the catwalk toward the bubbling, tainted Pit, hadn’t hesitated. He shoved Tim out of the way, taking the plunge himself.

As the green swallowed him, the last thing he saw was Ra’s’s smug, satisfied smile. It hit him then—Ra’s had planned this. From the start. The whole fight, the chaos, the trap. One of the Bats was always meant to go over the edge, and had handed himself over on a silver platter. He hated that it worked. He hated that his family would tear themselves apart trying to undo whatever Ra’s had done. They’d never let go, never stop hoping. That was who they were. And that hope was the last thing on his mind before the Lazarus waters swallowed him whole.

When he came to, he wasn’t in chains, wasn’t surrounded by guards. Just cold stone beneath him, darkness pressing in. Ra’s’s confidence said more than a monologue ever could. Whatever had happened in that Pit, the Demon believed it had stuck.

Exploring didn’t help his nerves. No dungeon bars—just a crumbling temple, walls carved with old symbols, half-consumed by jungle. South America, maybe. It was oppressive, humid, buzzing with insects, alive in ways that made his skin crawl. He pressed on, pushing through the foliage, until explosions cracked through the air.

Blaster fire.

Not gunfire, not bombs—something else. When stumbled into the edge of the clearing, he froze. White-armored soldiers firing glowing bolts across the battlefield, metal-clad droids exploding in showers of sparks, green and red cutting through the night. The fight was pure chaos—like Gotham on a really bad day, except with lasers.

When the smoke cleared, hunger drove his choice. He trailed after the human-looking soldiers. Robots didn’t carry food, and wasn’t about to try eating glowing jungle beetles.

He almost got away with it.

Captured and hauled into camp, he noticed quickly that his “guards” weren’t exactly A-list. A flimsy pat-down, sloppy handcuffs, and—for reasons that made zero sense—they let him keep his escrima sticks. Even his domino mask hadn’t been touched. They kept whispering “Jedi” like he was some kind of... wizard-knight? had to bite back a laugh. Of all the possible misunderstandings, this one was almost flattering. If his acrobatics and nightsticks made him look like their version of a space monk, fine. He could work with that.

Escaping was insultingly easy. He slipped free of the cuffs, stretched the stiffness out of his wrists, and crouched low. With a flick, he slid one escrima free and cut a hole in the canvas. Outside, clone soldiers patrolled in eerily perfect formation, every step in sync, every voice the same. It unsettled him—the lack of individuality. Soldiers bred for war, stripped of choice. They reminded him of the worst Gotham had to offer, the way the system ate kids alive before they even had a chance to decide who they were.

Slipping past the guards, he crept toward the largest tent. Inside, he found crates of weapons, maps, and finally—something new. A sleek, compact blaster pistol. He turned it over in his hand, weighing the alien design. Light, fast, efficient. Different from his usual gear, but adaptable.

A grin tugged at his mouth. If these people wanted to mistake him for a Jedi? He could fake it. Acrobatics, escrima sticks, a little showmanship—he’d been selling impossible feats since he was nine years old. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know what war he’d stumbled into, but he knew one thing for certain:

Grayson could play this part.