For Jaylen, his regular routine was a little more practical than those of the other Barshas: Every day, A1-­ A1 had a new stack of datapads filled with news from Corellia and beyond. And every day, he carried them to the living room, where he took his late-­morning caf and breakfast.

This morning, as he organized his stack of datapads, something caught his eye—­something that gave credence to the “Barshas in denial” theory.

As Jaylen loaded up today’s Coruscant Daily Newsfeed, he heard the mechanized servos and whirring of a droid passing by with a tray. “Oh, thank you,” he said as a droid placed a small plate of fruit and a cup of caf on the table.

Except . . .

Was that droid arm covered in a jacket sleeve?

“Excuse me,” Jaylen said, a hand up to flag the droid. This droid was different than most of the others; it showed up about two weeks ago as a replacement or new staff or something. No one said anything, not even A1-­ A1, so Jaylen figured it was part of the property’s maintenance and replacement routine.

But still, a jacket?

Jaylen squinted at the details in front of him—­ a dark green coat that barely fit the bulky droid, seams nearly bursting apart at the shoulders. And for the first time, he ­really looked at this new addition, because something seemed different. It was bigger, for one, probably an entire head taller than a standard protocol droid. And its form, from the broad shoulders to the angular skull, well, it looked much more intimidating.

“What do you want?” the droid asked, its vocabulator presenting a male vocal tone.

This droid could definitely work on his manners a bit. “I was just wondering,” Jaylen said, “where did you get that jacket?” Down the hallway, more droid footsteps approached, and he looked to see that, yes, that servant droid also wore a jacket.

“Roisem found them in the supply closet.”

Jaylen’s head tilted at that. Most servant droids addressed his parents as Lady Barsha and Master Barsha. Strange that this one was programmed to use her first name. Though a smirk came over his face as he thought about just how much that might irk her. She would, of course, have to speak to a droid long enough to notice first.

“She thought it would improve the atmosphere of the compound,” the droid said.

“The atmosphere?” Jaylen asked. That did sound like something his mother would do.

“Her exact words were, ‘I feel much more at home now. Droids are so cold, aren’t they?’ ” The droid stood in a frozen stare as Jaylen stifled a laugh, the absurdity of it all becoming too much.

“What’s your registry number?” Jaylen asked.

“I am . . . ” The droid continued speaking, although from the adjacent room, as Nnytyl cheered at his blitzball broadcast, his roaring cheers blunting out the first part of the droid’s identification. “. . . Endee-­ Five-Seven-­Seven-­ Seven.”

“Well, thanks again for the delivery. Oh, you might want to get that jacket tailored. You’re a little bit big for a protocol droid,” Jaylen said as he took a sip of caf.

“I am a repurposed ­Bee-Ex commando droid. I was not designed to wear tight-­fitting coats.”

A commando droid? Suddenly, Jaylen understood why the thing seemed so intimidating. Not that long ago, this droid fought clones. Now he served caf in a tropical prison. Still, that did make sense—­ those droids had to be used somewhere. What was the droid’s designation again? Jaylen had missed the first few digits. “Okay. Endee-­Five-­Seven-­Seven-­Seven,” he said, going off the part he’d heard. He rubbed his face, palms brushing over emerging stubble. “That’s a mouthful. Is it okay to call you Endee-­Five?”

“I have no preference.”

“All right. Well, your jacket looks nice, Endee-­Five,” Jaylen said.