Spy Wars - ClawedandCute (Adi_Fire) - Star Wars (2024)

Chapter 1: The Great Discovery

Chapter Text

The Great Discovery

Anakin isn’t entirely certain how you are supposed to act at a formal funeral, especially one where they were literally burning the body in front of you. Who does that? How do they deal with the weird meat-but-not-meat-don’t-think-like-that smell? Does no one notice his foot is sticking out of the fire? Are they going to take care of that?

He makes an effort to refocus, distracting himself by taking a peep at Padme, who is looking really pretty in the firelight.

Anakin’s never really been to a funeral before, much less a Jedi one that is attended by a bunch of Jedi Masters and high ranking officials, so he’s honestly just winging it. What’s appropriate? What isn’t? Are you allowed to tell people you’re hungry? Is that awkward with the weird meat smell?

At the very least, he’s fairly certain you’re not supposed to tell your new teacher that you saw the Chancellor of the Republic — who is currently standing just two people away from you — at the slave markets on Tatooine, having some of his underlings buy some people for him and subsequently using some kind of scary magic lightning to electrocute the one who tried to run away.

Amu says Anakin isn’t the best in social situations, but even he knows that would put a damper on the solemn, silent mood that defines the funeral at the moment.

But what is Anakin supposed to do? Wait? That seems like it would be dumb, and Obi-Wan already told him that he hated slavers, so he would care if Chancellor Palpatine was one. Right? He’d want Anakin to tell him.

Though this is his master’s funeral, so Obi-Wan is probably really sad. Anakin would be sad too, if he weren’t so distracted by Chancellor Palpatine.

He’s going to tell him. He has to. Shoring up his courage, Anakin reaches out and tugs on Obi-Wan’s sleeve. It seems to take a minute for the movement to register, but then he turns to look at Anakin, tipping his head down toward him. His hood shadows his face.

Oh boy. He really does look sad.

“Anakin?” He speaks in a whisper. “What’s the matter?”

“Um…” Anakin peers around Obi-Wan and Padme and sneaks another look at Chancellor Palpatine. “Um…”

Obi-Wan takes his hand. “Don’t be afraid, Anakin,” he says in a gentle, even voice. “You will be a Jedi. I promise.”

Anakin blinks at him. How does a Jedi so completely misread a situation? He always thought they could read minds. “No, no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need to talk to you, please. Alone.”

Obi-Wan just stares at him for a long moment, like he can’t quite believe Anakin asked him to leave his own master’s funeral early. It’s not like Anakin doesn’t miss Mr. Qui-Gon too, but this seems more important.

“Please,” Anakin repeats, giving him his best tooka-kitten eyes and drawing his eyebrows together in the way Amu always said made him look sweet and naive. She laughed when she said it, because Anakin is neither.

Obi-Wan sighs heavily. His face cycles through several different expressions — the familiar progression of an adult deciding to humor Anakin and be the reassuring grownup in the situation. “All right.” He glances at the other bystanders, murmurs something in the dark skinned Jedi’s ear — Master Mace, Anakin thinks his name is — and slips into the shadows surrounding the covered pavilion where the funeral is taking place, tugging Anakin along with him.

In a moment, they’re walking across one of the moonlit lawns that surrounds the palace. Anakin is so enamored by the grass beneath his boots — actual grass! With little flowers shaped like stars! — that he forgets why he wanted to talk to Obi-Wan until they come to a halt in a secluded grotto with a fountain bubbling in the middle and drooping rose trees hiding them from view.

“What’s the matter, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, stopping in front of the fountain. “Did something frighten you? Did you have a question?”

Anakin tips his head back to look at Obi-Wan, deciding that this definitely could have waited until after his master’s funeral. “Um. Well, here’s the thing…”

“Oh, Force.” Obi-Wan pinches his nose. “What did you do?”

Outrage rises up in Anakin. “I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s what you said after you blew up the Trade Federation ship.”

“Artoo did that!”

“Anakin.” He puts a special, Coruscanti-accented spin on the last syllable.

“Master.” Anakin puts his own special, Tatooian-accented twist on it.

They look at each other. Obi-Wan seems on the verge of tears.

Well. No time like the present. “I know Chancellor Palpatine from Tatooine because he came there once to buy slaves, and his hood fell back, and I saw his face, and yes, I am sure, and I do remember him because one of the slaves tried to run away, so the Chancellor zapped him with this scary lightning that came from his hands, and now Padme’s made him your leader, and I think that’s really bad, so I wanted you to know.” Anakin hauls in a deep breath, turning expectant eyes toward Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s mouth is open. He looks much less like a Jedi when it’s like that. Right now he mostly just looks stupid and a bit blank. Anakin stretches up on tiptoe and pokes his chin until he closes his mouth.

The silence stretches uncomfortably long. Obi-Wan just keeps blinking, like he’s a droid with a malfunctioning logic unit. Anakin sticks his hands in his pockets and sways back and forth, scuffing the ground with one foot.

Obi-Wan still doesn’t say anything. Tilting his head back again, Anakin asks, “Are you… okay?”

Obi-Wan’s mouth opens and closes a few times. No sound comes out.

“Do I… Do I need to, like, call someone?” Anakin takes a half step back, looking over his shoulder. “I could get —”

Life surges back into Obi-Wan. He jerks forward and grabs Anakin by the shoulders. “No. Don’t call someone. Don’t tell anyone, you can’t tell anyone about this. Do you understand me, Anakin?”

Anakin raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Of course I understand,” he says, shaking himself free. “What do you take me for? Secrets,” he adds as he sticks his nose in the air, “are in my blood. You’re the one who has to be careful. I don’t even know if Corries can keep a secret.” He squints at Obi-Wan, who is starting to look pale, even washed out as he is by the light of the moon. “Are you sure you’re okay, Master?”

Obi-Wan nods — a bit too quickly and cheerfully. “Oh, of course, Anakin,” he says and takes several unsteady steps backward. “I’m always —”

The back of his calves hit the edge of the fountain. Anakin opens his mouth to cry warning, but Obi-Wan has already lost his balance, arms pinwheeling, mouth opening into a strangled scream.

He topples back into the fountain with a tremendous splash.

# # #

“Okay.” A half hour after his unfortunate, unplanned swim, Obi-Wan is sitting on the edge of the fountain, shivering in his still drenched cloak, and trying to make sure his new padawan doesn’t get himself assassinated. “Repeat the plan back to me.”

Anakin gives him a hooded look. “But —”

“Just do it. Please.” There’s a headache building behind his eyes. Is this what having a padawan is like? Constant, soul-crushing worry combined with nerve-fraying annoyance? No wonder Qui-Gon aged so much in the eleven years of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship.

Anakin wrinkles his nose and folds his arms, but he obeys. “I keep my mouth shut about this, except I can tell Padme because we need her help. You know she’s going to tell her handmaidens, right?”

Obi-Wan is already starting to suspect that Anakin’s natural perceptiveness is going to become a pain in the neck as much as it will probably also become an asset. “A foregone conclusion, yes. Keep going.”

Sighing dramatically through his nose, Anakin says, “So we tell Padme, and she does all the boring stuff to try to find evidence to prove that he’s really a Sith Lord. What’s a Sith Lord again?”

Obi-Wan buries his face in his hands. “Anakin.”

“Whatever. It’s like an evil magician — I remember that much. Anyway, she does all that, and we try to gather information on our end, which will be total wizard, and whatever we do, we don’t let Chancellor Palpatine know we know. We can’t even tell the Jedi Council because they’ll ‘kriff things up like they did on Naboo’.”

Not lifting his face from his hands, Obi-Wan says, “Language.”

“You said repeat back the plan!”

“I didn’t mean exactly.”

Anakin huffs. “Well, anyway, there. I did it.”

“You forgot the most important part, padawan mine.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Anakin lifts a finger in clear imitation of the stance Obi-Wan took when he was giving the order. “Under no circ*mstances am I supposed to do anything stupid without you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Fine, I added the stupid bit.”

“Anakin.”

“Master.”

Obi-Wan considers crying. “All right. All right, we can handle this. It’s going to be quite all right, Anakin, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

Well, I was! And am. “We should rejoin the others,” he says. “I’ll tell them you were overcome with emotion and needed time alone.”

“Do you have to make me sound like a baby?” There’s a distinct whine to Anakin’s voice. “And wait, wait!” He grabs Obi-Wan’s hand as he tries to stand and tugs him back down onto the fountain’s edge. “We need to decide on codenames.”

“On what?” Obi-Wan uses his free hand to massage his temple.

“Codenames.” Anakin elongates the word, like he thinks Obi-Wan is either deaf or stupid. “For the mission, and for us.”

“Anakin, we don’t really need codenames. In fact, they’re likely to —”

“Of course we need codenames! How’re you supposed to keep something a secret if you’re not using secret names?”

“But —”

“Please?” Anakin draws his brows together and makes his eyes big. “I really miss my amu, and we used to do stuff like this together, so it would really help to do it with you.”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. “That is absolute rubbish, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Anakin grins. “But I do miss my amu.”

“Oh Force.” Obi-Wan raises his eyes toward the starry sky. “What codenames were you thinking of?” He’s going to regret this. He’s definitely going to regret this. How is that he’s had Anakin for five minutes, and he’s already yielding to his ridiculous requests?

“Operative Ekkreth for me,” Anakin says, nodding as though he’s given this a lot of thought. Maybe he has. It seems like a nine year old sort of thing to do.

“Ekkreth? What does that mean?”

Anakin shakes his head. “No, that’s a secret. I can’t tell you, not for years yet. See, I can keep a secret.”

Obi-Wan presses his lips together. “Okay, and what’s my name?”

A split second after he realizes that he should definitely, definitely not let Anakin name him, he says, “Operative Mullet.”

“I —” Obi-Wan reaches behind him and clutches at his ponytail, scandalized. “It’s not even a mullet!”

Anakin’s grin flashes bright and white in the night. “It’s gonna be.” He slides off the edge of the fountain and dances away. “That’s your name now. No take backs!”

Is it too late to ask Mace to train him? Probably it is, now that they share a deadly secret. “Very well.” He lets out a sigh the size of the galaxy. “Is that all?”

“Nah, we gotta name the whole thing too.”

“And I assume you already have a name selected.”

“Yep.” Anakin’s smile stretches wider. “Operation Fountain.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t clearly remember the progression of events that ended with him tossing Anakin into the fountain, but he does know it involved a lot of undignified scrambling and a lot of strangled laughter from Anakin.

As Anakin surfaces, shaking his hair back from his face and hurling a lilypad at him, Obi-Wan doesn’t feel at all regretful. It’s not as though the fountain is deep enough for Anakin to be out of his depth. Even though he can’t swim, he’s perfectly safe.

Oh kriff. He’s going to have to teach Anakin to swim, on top of leading a conspiracy against the Chancellor.

Operative Mullet, he thinks to himself, you may have bitten off more than you can chew.

Chapter 2: The Poisoning Caper of Anakin’s Tenth Year

Chapter Text

The Poisoning Caper of Anakin’s Tenth Year

Padme didn’t really know what to think when Obi-Wan and Anakin asked her for a moment alone before they left. Things have been strange since Qui-Gon’s funeral — the two of them have been distant and reclusive. Obi-Wan, she understood. He is far older than she is, after all, and he is grieving his master (does he blame her?). But Anakin? She thought he was her friend; at the very least she thought he had a crush on her, which she wasn’t above finding flattering.

In a way, it was a relief to finally be able to talk to them face to face without anyone else listening.

That is, it was a relief until Obi-Wan opened his mouth and told her the most karked up story she’d ever heard, with Anakin chiming in occasionally.

As they finally finish, Padme sinks onto the couch in her private receiving room — one of the few places in Theed besides her bedchamber where she can be truly alone. For a long moment, she focuses on her breathing — in and out, in and out — and then she utterly forgets herself and explodes, “The Chancellor is what?”

Anakin swats Obi-Wan on the arm. “See, Master? I told you she wouldn’t take it well if you told her.”

“She’s taking it better than I did,” Obi-Wan says, eyeing Padme like he’s wondering if he’s going to have to catch her if she faints.

If Padme wasn’t occupied with mentally screaming, I helped a Sith Lord become Supreme Chancellor, over and over, she’d be insulted at that. Naberrie women don’t faint.

“How do you know that?” asks Anakin. “There’s not a fountain around.”

Padme doesn’t care to know what that means. “All right. All right.” She pulls in a deep breath and looks at Anakin. “You’re sure about this, Ani?” Really, really sure?

Anakin scrunches his lips into an awkward, sideways smile. “Yeah. It’s not something I’m gonna forget, you know? Sorry, Padme.” He stretches out an awkward hand and pats her shoulder. “If it helps, I’ve never known a nice leader — ‘cept for you, I guess. On Tatooine, Gardulla rules everything, and she eats people sometimes.”

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan draws him back. “I don’t think that’s helping.”

“We have to…” Padme’s not really certain what they have to do. Impeach him? That’s hardly possible — the Senate’s not going to believe a nine year old’s testimony. To them, it will sound like nothing more than an outlandish story. A silly waste of time.

Padme wishes it were a silly waste of time. “We have to do something,” she finishes lamely. It’s not a very queenly sentence, but it’s what she has.

“We’re already doing something, though!” Anakin frees himself from Obi-Wan’s grip and comes over to sit on the couch beside her, practically bouncing with excitement. In spite of herself, a smile that matches Anakin’s own spreads across Padme’s face. He tends to have that effect on her.

Mère would probably say that he reminds her how to be a child, but she always says ridiculous things like that. Padme’s problem is forgetting how to be a child — at least, that’s what all her councilors say.

But maybe they’re wrong. “What are you doing?” She looks back and forth between Anakin and Obi-Wan. Anakin is beaming like the summer sun, and Obi-Wan is pinching the bridge of his nose, like he feels a migraine coming on.

If Anakin tends to make her smile, then he tends to give Obi-Wan a headache.

“We’re going to take him down,” Anakin says, leaning closer to her so he can whisper it. “Master Obi-Wan promised. It’s gonna be a secret mission, and we need your help.”

Padme bites her lip. “He’s the Chancellor, Ani. He’s powerful, I don’t think we —”

“We beat the Trade Federation,” Anakin points out. “And Master Obi-Wan killed Darth Maul, right? I think the Chancellor’s counting on everyone being too scared to try to fight him — depurs are always like that — so we have to prove him wrong. It’s the only way. Please help us, Padme.”

Padme glances at Obi-Wan, waiting, she thinks, for him to object. This is a ridiculous plan. She knows it is. They’re three people — a newly knighted Jedi, a nine year old former slave, and a twelve year old queen of a backwater planet with hardly any political power.

Obi-Wan just shrugs, a little helplessly. “He’s right.”

“Kriff, get a holocording of that,” Anakin says with a grin. “He’s never gonna say it again.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Language, Anakin.”

“But I am speaking Basic!”

“Not that kind of language, and you know it.”

Padme startles herself with a laugh. “Okay.” She presses her lips together. “I’ll help you.” If she’s really honest with herself, this is half the reason she got into politics. Naboo’s history is full of brave queens and politicians, uncovering corruption and overthrowing would-be tyrants before they could fully subjugate the people. “What do you need me to do?”

“We need you to delve into his background,” Obi-Wan answers. “Secretly. Try to find anything we can use against him, anything that will tell us what his plan is. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” At least, she can try. “What will you do?”

“We’ll gather information on Coruscant and watch his every move,” Obi-Wan answers. “If nothing else, we will make certain that we aren’t ignorant of his plans, even if we can’t yet stop them.”

Padme nods. “You’ll be careful?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “That’s rather ridiculous coming from you, Your Majesty.”

Padme quirks an eyebrow. “Nobody said I couldn’t be a hypocrite,” she answers primly.

“Yeah,” Anakin says, leaping to her defense. Then he leans closer and whispers, “What’s hypocrite mean in Basic?”

Obi-Wan laughs then. “I’ll explain later, Anakin. In the meantime…” He bows to Padme. “Welcome to Operation Fountain, Your Majesty.”

“Just Padme, please. And welcome to what now?”

“It was Anakin’s idea.”

“It’s to keep things secret from the Chancellor,” Anakin says, bouncing a little again. “So we’re calling our whole plan Operation Fountain.”

“Why?”

“No reason,” Obi-Wan says.

“Obi-Wan fell into a fountain when he found out,” Anakin says at the same time, prompting another nose-bridge-pinch from Obi-Wan.

Padme laughs once more. “I see.”

“And I’m Operative Ekkreth,” Anakin goes on, laying a hand on his chest, “and Obi-Wan is Operative Mullet.”

“He picked it,” Obi-Wan says with a long-suffering sigh. “Not me.”

Calling up all her diplomacy skills, Padme says, “I think… I think your hair looks dashing.”

“Lying doesn’t become you, Your Maj — Padme.”

Looking down to hide the smile that threatens to break over her face, Padme asks, “And what’s my name going to be?”

“Operative Angel,” Anakin responds instantly, and Obi-Wan throws his hands up in the air.

“Oh, of course,” he snorts.

“I like it,” Padme says. “And not just because it annoys Obi-Wan.”

“Oh, surely not,” interrupts Obi-Wan, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Neither of you would ever be so immature as to do something like that.”

“Exactly.” Padme lifts her chin, but the effect is somewhat spoiled when she chokes on a stifled laugh. Obi-Wan sighs deeply and goes to sit on the couch opposite hers. “There’s one more thing,” she says when he’s settled. “One more thing if I’m going to help you.”

Obi-Wan raises one eyebrow. “And what is that, Padme?”

She slides a conspiratorial look at Anakin, who blinks back in surprise. “What do you know about the Freedom Trail, Ani? Can you put me in touch with them?”

Anakin grins. “I think you’re my new favorite person.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, though he looks as excited as Anakin does. “You always do have to make things more complicated, don’t you, Padme?”

“What can I say, Obi-Wan?” Padme crosses one leg over the other, pulling herself up into a royal posture. “I just think Operation Fountain would be better if there was a partner mission — Operation Twin Suns, if you will.”

“Operation Rainstorm.” Anakin’s teeth shine out from his thin face as his grin widens. “That’s what we’ll call it.”

“Operation Rainstorm then.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Then I suppose we have work to do.”

# # #

All in all, the first several months of Anakin’s apprenticeship go better than Obi-Wan expected. There’s certainly an adjustment period at the Temple (most of that adjustment involves convincing Anakin that the other padawans he spars with are not, in fact, trying to kill him and that biting your opponent is very rarely acceptable), but Anakin settles in well enough. What helps the most is when Padme sends a transmission informing them that Shmi, Kitster, and an impressive host of Anakin’s other friends made it to the new Nabooian branch of the Freedom Trail and are safe.

The transmission was in code, one of Anakin and Padme’s design apparently, though when the two of them had time to come with it, Obi-Wan has no idea. Anakin spent a happy fifteen minutes at their shared kitchen table decoding it, swinging his legs back and forth and humming to himself.

Afterwards, Obi-Wan has time to wonder if this course of action — reconnecting Anakin with his mother, in violation of Jedi custom, and giving him a direct link to Padme, who he very clearly has great affection for — is the wisest. It’s certainly not the most orthodox. It might even be heretical, though he doesn’t dare interrogate the Code to be certain (plausible deniability — or playing dumb, really — might be his only escape route if the Council finds out what he’s doing).

One way or another, he’s started down this path, and he’s rather obligated to finish it. It’s not like he can separate Anakin from Shmi for a second time, and they need Padme.

And, if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), he doesn’t want to stop. He has a feeling Anakin would be far less happy if anything were different, and following the Code frankly got the Jedi Order in this situation in the first place.

Not long after Padme’s transmission, there is a tersely worded one from Shmi — sent to Obi-Wan, not Anakin. The gist of it — editing out the more colorful language and creative threats — is basically that Shmi is of the opinion that if the Jedi Order is “stupid enough to let an evil wizard make it to the highest elected office in the Republic”, then she doesn’t particularly trust them with her son.

Obi-Wan blames Anakin entirely for passing on the term “evil wizard”.

It takes many back and forth transmissions — with Obi-Wan’s getting progressively less flowery as he grows more frustrated — to convince Shmi that it is best for Anakin to learn the ways of the Force so that he can protect himself from evil wizards (Obi-Wan uses the term under protest). Anakin adds his own transmission to the argument, which mostly boils down to, I really, really, really want to be a Jedi, Amu, please let me.

Irritatingly, that’s probably what sways Shmi in the end. It’s difficult to say no to Anakin in the face of his earnest writing style, complete with hilariously egregious spelling errors.

In the end, Operative Miracle (Shmi’s name translated into Basic) and Operative Womp Rat (Kitster’s name, translated into what Anakin apparently feels is his animal essence) join Operation Fountain, demonstrating once again the difference between how Anakin treats the men in his life and how he treats the — admittedly few — women in his life.

Things progress with relative smoothness after that. Padme continues her investigation into Palpatine’s background, finding out nothing of real use. He lost his parents to marauding spacers when he was still a teenling and was taken in by a man named Hego Damask, who died several years before the Invasion of Naboo. His rise to power in the Senate was quicker than usual but unremarkable otherwise. Frankly, he had done little to distinguish himself until he was elevated to Chancellor of the Republic.

On the Coruscant end of things, Obi-Wan and Anakin haven’t found much of import either. Palpatine seems interested in ensuring that the Republic is seen as unified, even though his policies toward the Outer Rim are — by Padme’s estimation, at least — lax. Beyond that, Obi-Wan thinks he’s allowing the Senate to spend too much and run up too high a debt with the Banking Clan, but he can’t hit upon a clear reason as to why.

There’s nothing to do but keep searching, although Obi-Wan finds it hard to believe they’ll ever find anything of use. After all, if Palpatine made it this far, he’s obviously very good at covering his tracks.

A few months later — just after Anakin’s tenth birthday, celebrated with a “diplomatic” trip to Naboo — a communique from Palpatine reaches his and Anakin’s shared apartment, inviting Anakin to tea in his office.

Alone.

Obi-Wan grips his datapad in both hands, the communique pulled up on it, and paces up and down the living room, muttering treasonous things under his breath. When a missive from the Jedi Council arrives, requesting that he “endeavor to honor the Chancellor’s wishes to promote a strong relationship between the Senate and the Jedi Order”, Obi-Wan sends Anakin to play with Aayla under Quinlan’s supervision (or, what counts as supervision when Quinlan is involved) so he can pace up and down and mutter some more, this time with added swearing.

After an hour and comm call with Shmi — she was just as incensed as he was, and the mutual rant that followed was quite cathartic — Obi-Wan manages to compose a response to the Council that doesn’t sound like an insult but that also informs them, in no uncertain terms, that Anakin won’t be meeting with any politicians, elderly or otherwise, without his presence. Then he accepts Palpatine’s invitation, acting as though he didn’t even notice it was addressed to Anakin alone.

Palpatine is going to find that Operative Mullet and Operative Ekkreth come as a pair.

# # #

Endeavoring to keep his grandfatherly smile plastered across his face, Sheev waves goodbye as Anakin and Obi-Wan leave his office and disappear down the corridor beyond it. As soon as his office door slides shut, he lets the smile fall off his face and shuts his eyes, breathing deeply to compose himself and wondering how best to accqire some small living thing to slowly choke the life out of. That always made him feel better, but it was such a chore to dispose of the evidence.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is going to be a problem. His presence turned what should have been the easy matter of ingratiating himself with Anakin and planting the seed of a deeper relationship into an unmitigated, migraine-inducing disaster.

Sheev had been subtle. So subtle! But it hadn’t mattered. No matter what he said, no matter what clever wedges he attempted to drive between them, Anakin and Obi-Wan presented an obliviously united front. Obi-Wan simply breezed past his hidden barbs as though he didn’t even hear, and Anakin met each one with a blank look and an utterly genuine response that somehow trampled all over the careful groundwork Sheev was attempting to lay.

Either the boy is a simpleton, has no concept of subterfuge, or is some kind of political genius.

When Sheev made the innocent insinuation that Anakin might be finding it hard to be away from his mother and homeworld, hoping that Obi-Wan would jump in and attempt to crush any appearance of attachment before it even made itself known, but Anakin just chirped, “Oh, not really. I know I’m where my amu wants me to be, and I love the Jedi Order! Master Obi-Wan is the best, and I’m learning how to use a lightsaber. D’you want to hear about my friend Aayla Secura?”

Sheev, in fact, did not, but he said yes anyway and was forced to listen to a fifteen minute story about how Aayla and Anakin had managed to prank Kit Fisto and Plo Koon. It was less than riveting and ended with Anakin shifting even further into Obi-Wan’s personal space — what right did a former slave have to be so comfortable with a new adult so fast? — and explaining how he had accidentally become a vital part of their plan by distracting the two masters at just the right moment. Setting his hand on top of Anakin’s head, Obi-Wan looked fondly annoyed and falsely modest, all at once.

How Sheev hated him in that moment, and in every moment that followed.

Turning away from the door, Sheev takes a few seconds to study the setting sun through his office window, clasping his hands behind his back. This state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue. At the moment, Anakin is far too happy; Sheev would even go so far as to say that he loves Obi-Wan, confidently and unreservedly. That just won’t do, not if Anakin is going to be of use to him later. As long as Obi-Wan remains in the picture, Anakin won’t be isolated enough for Sheev to do his work.

Obi-Wan Kenobi has to die.

# # #

Anakin wouldn’t say that his and Obi-Wan’s visits with Palpatine are boring exactly, but they are awfully repetitive. Mostly they involve sitting in Palpatine’s stuffy, too-red office and drinking tea that tastes nothing at all like Amu’s tzai or Obi-Wan’s concoctions — that is to say, it tastes kriffing awful — and dodging the many passive aggressive remarks Palpatine makes about Obi-Wan and the Order in general.

To entertain himself, Anakin’s just started playing dumb in an attempt to force Palpatine to explain what he means in plain terms. Usually Palpatine gives up after the second “What do you mean?” because it’s difficult to keep playing the kind grandfather if you’re explaining to someone that you just implied that their master didn’t care about them.

Today’s meeting is at least different. Palpatine seems less interested in trying to unsuccessfully badmouth Obi-Wan and more interested in getting him and Anakin to try the new tea he imported from Shili.

Sitting in his customary spot at the table set near the office’s window, Anakin sniffs the tea, trying not to look as dubious as he feels. At least it smells better than the usual brew. He takes a cautious sip and is immediately assaulted by the taste of spice and earthy herbs, combining in a way that makes the inside of his nostrils burn. It is only a feat of self-control that keeps him from spitting it out all over the table — over, even better, spitting it right in Palpatine’s face as revenge for the crime just carried out against Anakin’s taste buds.

Swallowing with difficulty, Anakin says, “Thank you, Chancellor.” He pauses to haul in a cooling breath. “It was a —” he borrows one of Obi-Wan’s favorite phrases “— an enriching experience.” He stifles a cough. “You’ll probably love it, Master Obi-Wan,” he adds. Obi-Wan — for reasons Anakin cannot fathom — loves the spicier variety of teas, especially the Mandalorian ones. He said once that he got used to them when he was still a padawan, but he didn’t deign to elaborate further, no matter how much Anakin pestered.

Obi-Wan, engrossed in trying to redo Anakin’s padawan braid, which fell out when he and Aayla spent the morning competing to see who could jump from the highest object without getting hurt, acknowledges him only absently. “I am sure, padawan mine,” he says, nodding along with whatever Palpatine is saying — Anakin mostly stopped listening when the tea set his mouth on fire.

“Ani is quite right,” Palpatine says with an encouraging smile. “This particular blend is a delicacy on Shili, Knight Kenobi. You must try it.”

Obi-Wan takes the last hairband out from between his teeth — this one red to symbolize Anakin’s proficiency with mechanics — and ties it into Anakin’s braid. Sometimes his mannerisms remind Anakin of the harried crechemasters he’s seen, corralling all their female crechelings — the ones with hair, at least — in the mornings and braiding their locks into neat styles before they go to their lessons. “Of course, Chancellor,” he says, moving Anakin’s braid to hang over his shoulder. “Do try not to let it come undone again,” he tells Anakin with a stern look.

“Master Yoda says there is no try,” Anakin replies, grinning.

Obi-Wan sighs and reaches for his cup. “At least you’re listening to your lessons,” he says. “That’s some consolation.”

Anakin opens his mouth to respond, enjoying the irritated look that whisks across Palpatine’s face when he realizes that the conversation is moving on without him, but the image of Obi-Wan suddenly going stiff and clutching at his left side before tumbling out of the chair, teacup shattering on the floor beside him, slams into his mind with such force that he almost gasps out loud.

The tea. Obi-Wan’s been teaching him to listen to the Force more, and there’s no kriffing way Anakin is going to ignore what basically amounts to a shouted warning.

Obi-Wan’s fingers brush against the elegantly sculpted handle of the teacup. Anakin leaps into action with a small percentage of a plan — it’s always been enough in the past. Mostly all he knows is that he needs to make sure Obi-Wan does not drink that tea.

“Look!” Taking advantage of the fact that he’s the only one directly facing the window, Anakin jumps to his feet, letting his knees bash into the table with just enough force to send Obi-Wan’s tea spilling across the surface. “That speeder is gonna crash into that building!”

Pushing his chair back to avoid the tea, Obi-Wan twists to follow Anakin’s pointing finger, and even Palpatine turns his head to look. A tricked out red speeder zooms by. It really does look out of control, careening toward one of the shining buildings that rise up around the Senate. It banks sideways just in time and skims back in between the floating lights that mark the skyway. A second later, a drone police shuttle screams after it.

“Well.” Obi-Wan carefully sets the cup upright. “That was exciting.”

“Indeed,” Palpatine says, eyeing the puddle of spilled tea. “Young pilots these days.”

“I’m really sorry about the tea.” Anakin stays on his feet and makes no move to mop up the tea. He has no idea what Palpatine put in there, and he’s not about to touch it.

“He’s growing like a weed,” Obi-Wan offers as he gets to his feet too, pulling Anakin to his side. It doesn’t really look like he’s putting distance between Anakin and Palpatine, but it’s definitely what he’s doing. “Doesn’t know where his limbs end or begin — you understand, Chancellor.”

“Of course.” Palpatine smiles his twinkly smile, which would sway Anakin slightly if he didn’t know for a fact that this creaky, smiling old man can shoot lightning out of his fingers. “I remember being that age. Very vaguely, of course,” he adds with a chuckle. “I’ll pour you another cup, Knight Kenobi.” He reaches for the teapot, knobbled fingers made up entirely of angles.

Adrenaline jolts through Anakin. “No — sorry.” He grins sheepishly, glancing up at Obi-Wan and hoping he’ll go along with the act. “We really can’t stay any longer. It’s my fault, really, Chancellor — I forgot that my master and I have a meeting to get to. He asked me to remind him, but I’ve just got a brain like a sieve.” He tips his head back so he can Obi-Wan better. “Do you remember, Master? By the fountain?”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Yes. Yes, of course, thank you.” He turns back to Palpatine, laying his hand on Anakin’s shoulder as he does. “My apologies, truly. Come along, Anakin. We’ll be late.”

Palpatine gets to his feet. “Yes, yes, I understand. We must do this again soon.”

“Absolutely.” Anakin speaks before Obi-Wan can, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the door. “I can’t wait. Thank you again. See you later!” He scurries through the door, Obi-Wan on his heels, and inhales a deep breath of non-tea scented air.

A half hour later, safely ensconced in their apartments, Anakin tells Obi-Wan everything. Obi-Wan ends up sitting on the couch, hands steepled in front of his face.

“You’re quite sure?” he asks, tapping his fingers together.

Anakin rolls his eyes from his perch on the kitchenette counter. “Yes.”

“Well. That makes things rather interesting. I wonder what kind of poison it was.”

Anakin squints at Obi-Wan. “How does that possibly matter?”

Obi-Wan continues as if he didn’t speak. “I imagine it would have been something untraceable. From your vision, it seems like it would have sent me into cardiac arrest, which would have been ruled as natural causes.” He shrugs in an appreciative sort of way. “It’s clever, don’t you think?”

Anakin just stares at Obi-Wan. In a moment of clarity, he realizes this must be how Obi-Wan feels most of the time about him. “He tried to kill you.”

“Yes. We’ve been over this, padawan mine. It’s a promising sign, actually.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for this explanation.”

“It means I’m a problem.” Obi-Wan smiles faintly. “I’m an obstacle between him and you. That tickles me.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“This whole operation was your idea,” Obi-Wan points out.

“No, the name was.” Anakin wrinkles his nose. “What are we going to do?”

“Well, first of all, not drink or eat anything Palpatine gives us going forward, unless we can be certain it isn’t poisoned.”

“No, really? I mean about Operation Fountain.”

“We continue it.”

“And?”

“And…” A slow smile spreads across Obi-Wan’s face. “We remain thorns in Palpatine’s side as we do so.”

“Oh, we’re already kriffing wizard at that.” Anakin grins back.

“I agree. And language, Anakin.”

# # #

To neither his nor Anakin’s surprise, the poisoning attempts continue. It’s not every time they visit with Palpatine — and they do try to avoid visits that involve eating or drinking — but it happens often enough that having an elected official try to murder him begins to feel like old hat, even when Palpatine branches out to other methods of attempted assassination.

In the second month of Anakin’s tenth year, Obi-Wan narrowly avoids death by anaphylactic shock, when Corellian nut shavings “mistakenly” end up in his salad during a mind-numbing outdoor Senate gala that the Jedi were required to attend. He is only saved by Anakin, having tasted the nuts in his own salad, vaulting over the mahogany table, shouting something about a wasp in Senator Mothma’s headdress. He managed to kick over Obi-Wan’s salad in the process, and the whole commotion ended with Senator Mothma’s headdress knocked askew — she was appreciative of Anakin’s attempted protection nonetheless — and Obi-Wan’s salad scattered across the table.

Obi-Wan neatly loses his appetite after that, and he and Anakin leave early.

By the fourth month of his tenth year, Anakin’s newfound clumsiness — used to disguise his careful ruining of Palpatine’s plans — becomes almost legendary around the Temple. Once, Siri, his sabermaster, pulled Obi-Wan aside to say that she had never had a student who was poetry in motion with a lightsaber in his hand and a badly crafted limerick without one. Aayla remarked that Anakin didn’t need anything to trip and fall, except his own feet. Even Yoda said, “Graceless, the boy is. Worry for his neck, I do.”

Obi-Wan just smiles and nods along with everything everyone says. It’s honestly amusing, especially since he’s seen Anakin climb over their apartment’s furniture, his eyes glued to his datapad, without ever once losing his footing.

Anakin himself took gleeful pleasure in pulling out his faked clumsiness at the worst times — usually when he wanted people to underestimate him right before a sparring match.

At least he’s stopped biting people and just started obliterating them with his training saber. That’s all Obi-Wan can really ask for.

In the fifth month of Anakin’s tenth year, Obi-Wan discovers that his speeder’s power cell is set to overload and explode in a way that will look like a tragic accident. Inconveniently, he discovers it in flight over Coruscant, with Anakin in the passenger seat beside him — which surely wasn’t part of Palpatine’s plan. Giving Anakin the throttle and crawling into the cramped maintenance alcove beneath the console was not Obi-Wan’s idea of a good time, but he did manage to stop the overload.

However, given that Anakin learned to fly in a podracer on Tatooine, he got more than a few bruises for his troubles and had to shout to Anakin that slamming into a barrel roll was not an appropriate way to avoid a traffic jam. Anakin had protested that it had worked, hadn’t it, and Obi-Wan had to explain that that was not, in fact, the point.

The argument ended in a stalemate and with Obi-Wan resolving to never let Anakin fly again.

By the seventh month of Anakin’s tenth year, both of them are starting to get annoyed.

“It’s not even that interesting anymore,” Anakin complains one morning, which makes Obi-Wan think that this is perhaps not the kind of childhood that produces a stable adult.

Of course, Obi-Wan probably isn’t stable either, and he’s been fine, so he dismisses the worry. “I know a way we can make it more interesting, Operative Ekkreth. After all, our meetings with the Chancellor are the perfect opportunity to get close enough to gather information. From, say, his datapad.”

The grin Anakin gives him can only be described as evil. “How much are you willing to bet I can hack in without him ever finding out?”

“Laundry duty for a month,” Obi-Wan replies.

Laundry is the absolute bane of Anakin’s existence. “You’re on.”

The opportunity doesn’t arrive until the eighth month of Anakin’s tenth year, when Palpatine drags him and Obi-Wan to a celebration of the anniversary of Naboo’s liberation. Anakin, being a padawan, is mostly exempt from the more boring parts of the weeklong party, and he absconds to the Naberrie homestead to spend time with his amu, Kitster, and his other friends, who have all been enfolded into the Naberrie family, to the puzzlement of their neighbors — though said neighbors are too polite to ask questions. At some point after the opening ceremonies, Sabe takes over for Padme, but Obi-Wan thinks he’s the only one outside of the queen’s entourage who notices. He is almost certain that Padme disappeared to her family’s house, and his suspicions are confirmed when Anakin returns to their quarters in the palace that night, hair soaked and padawan braid undone again, declaring that swimming isn’t scary when it’s Padme and her père teaching him.

“They don’t throw me into fountains,” he says as Obi-Wan labors over his braid.

Spitting a hairband out into his palm, Obi-Wan says, “They would if they spent more time with you, padawan mine. In between all of your swimming adventures, did you tell Operative Slicer her part in the plan?” Operative Slicer is Versé, one of Padme’s handmaidens, and at fourteen, she’s already a terror to behold.

“‘Course I did,” Anakin snorts. “She’s gonna turn his datapad on remotely and slice through the first firewall, and then I’ll do the rest ‘cause my datapad’s not traceable.”

“One day you’ll tell me how you managed that.”

“Sure you want me to?” Anakin grins. “It’s totally illegal.”

“Never mind.” Obi-Wan ties off the last hairband just as Anakin ducks away. “I’ll distract him long enough for you to break through.”

“Sure you can?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Obi-Wan turns toward their apartment door, ready to lead the way down to the ballroom where the closing feast and dance is being held. "A little bird in the Force told me that my wine’s going to be poisoned. I’m sure Palpatine will want to stick around long enough to see the job done this time.”

A half hour later, in the ballroom, Obi-Wan is regretting his part in the plan. The ball portion of the evening is set to start after two speeches — one from Padme and one from Palpatine, which is why he has his datapad — but it means that Obi-Wan is forced to corral Palpatine close to Anakin, who is sitting at a nearby banquet table with his datapad, for the duration of Padme’s strategically lengthy speech.

Evil wizard that he may be, Palpatine is exceedingly boring to talk to.

“One can only hope that Queen Amidala’s trade agreement with Ryloth and Mandalore will help protect her people from further blockades,” Palpatine is saying. “After all, they are two of the few planets left that don’t have any connection to the Trade Federation.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees, peering around Palpatine to check on Anakin’s progress. Without looking up, he makes a subtle circling motion with one finger, indicating that he needs more time. Obi-Wan sighs. His wine glass is cradled in one hand, the deep crimson liquid sparkling innocently beneath the ballroom lights. His one source of entertainment in this entire conversation is stringing Palpatine along by periodically almost taking a sip of the wine.

The Chancellor is far too self-possessed to follow Obi-Wan’s aborted drinks with his eyes, but Obi-Wan can sense him wanting to.

“But it is worrying,” Palpatine goes on after Obi-Wan becomes “distracted” once more and lowers his glass. “The Federation helps tie the galaxy together, and Naboo directly circumventing it may only deepen existing divides. What do you think, Knight Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan thinks that if Anakin doesn’t hurry up, he’s going to stick a fork in his ear and puncture his own eardrum to escape this conversation. “I understand Naboo’s reticence,” he says, not really listening to his own words. “After all, the Federation betrayed them. It isn’t their responsibility to make amends — it is the Federation’s.”

“Perhaps,” Palpatine answers. “It is a difficult situation, of course. I would hate to see it spiral further. Naboo is a prized member of the Galactic Republic, after all. It would be distressing to see her pushed further away from her member planets.”

Through their padawan bond, he hears Anakin snort. As if he cares.

Are you almost done?

Nearly. Do you have any idea how much boring bantha fodder he keeps on this thing?

That’s not very encouraging. And language.

Kri — I mean, blast! I can’t get this last file open. I need just a bit longer.

With half an ear, Obi-Wan listens to Padme’s speech. She’s drawing to a close, which means Palpatine is up next. We don’t have much more time, Anakin.

Make time. Do something ridiculous. Trip and sprain your ankle. Fake a heart attack. I do kar — things — like that for you all the time.

“Knight Kenobi?” Palpatine’s voice pulls Obi-Wan’s attention again. “Aren’t you going to try your wine? It’s the finest vintage available — it would be terribly rude to abstain at a celebration like this.”

Obi-Wan very nearly tells Palpatine exactly where he can stick this wine — Anakin must be rubbing off on him — but manages to restrain himself. He eyes the wine, swirling it around in his glass to give himself time to think. Anakin, hurry up!

Anakin makes a sign in the coded language they’ve been developing — a rude sign that he came up himself.

Swearing in sign language is still swearing, padawan! “Ah, I would, Chancellor — truly I would, but I… I have decided to stop drinking.” Oh joy. Where did that come from?

Palpatine’s eyebrows go up. “Oh? What prompted this?” Behind him, Anakin shuts off his datapad and gets to his feet.

“Self-reflection,” Obi-Wan says, rather desperately. “It wouldn’t do for a Jedi to become attached to an altering substance. And —” Anakin passes by, probably on his way to update Versé, and Obi-Wan grabs him and drags him to his side. “And Anakin doesn’t like drinking. Do you, Anakin?”

Anakin gives him a briefly blank look. “Oh. Oh! No, I don’t.” He contrives to look cunningly vulnerable, all ten year old former slave. “I hope you understand, Chancellor,” he says with big eyes. “With my past, it’s just…” He trails off, meaningfully, letting his listeners fill in the traumatic blanks.

Palpatine immediately shifts into grandfather mode. “Oh, of course, my boy,” he says. “I understand.”

Hoping his grimace looks like a smile, Obi -Wan sets his drink down on an outgoing tray to be disposed of and hurries to make their excuses, explaining that he wants to congratulate Padme on her success in helping Naboo recover from its ordeal with the Federation. Palpatine nods and says he hopes they’ll enjoy his speech, which means they have to listen to it now.

As soon as they’re far enough away, Obi-Wan sighs, long and loud. “Well, I hope that was worth it.”

“What do you mean?” asks Anakin, lips tilting in a way that means he’s already guessed.

“I’ve just resigned myself to never drinking again. I hope whatever you found was damning.”

“Padme says drunkenness is vulgar.”

“She,” Obi-Wan says, ducking backstage so they can meet Padme, “does not have to raise you.”

“Come on, Master. You know you love me.”

“As much as champagne, though. That’s the question. What did you find in that file?”

Anakin wrinkles his nose. “Not as much as I wanted to. Some transmissions to a Rim world that I couldn’t decode and this one word. Kamino. D’you know what it means?”

Obi-Wan sighs, scanning the crowd of stagehands for Padme’s familiar headdress. “No, unfortunately not. Hopefully we can find out.”

After informing Padme of their findings — not with words but with their sign language, meant to be disguised as everyday gestures — the three of them end up trapped in the audience gathered around the ballroom stage, listening to Palpatine’s speech. It’s about as dry as Tatooian sand, and Obi-Wan again considers his fork in the ear plan.

That is, until Senator Orn Free Taa keels over with a glass of wine in his hand. Things get a lot more exciting after that, with people screaming and getting their glasses of wine as far away from themselves as possible. Orn Free is rushed to the hospital to have his stomach pumped, and an investigation reveals that one of the barrels of wine was contaminated with botulinum — probably because of an error during the fermentation process. Dangerous, yes, but nefarious, no.

At least, that’s the official story. Obi-Wan has no doubt that the contaminating barrel is meant as a decoy and that the toxin in his cup was measured out to be deadly before he ever made it to a hospital.

The glare Padme directs at Obi-Wan across the chaotic ballroom is evidence that she put two and two together. Obi-Wan grimaces, and Anakin signs, You’re gonna get it. Not for the first time, he wishes Padme were a normal thirteen year old, one who wasn’t quite so proficient at sniffing out conspiracies.

Like clockwork, she materializes in their apartments later than night, having miraculously dodged her guards and her handmaidens. Wrapped in a dressing robe elaborate enough to be a gown all on its own, she proceeds to bawl both of them out in hushed, hissing tones. She starts with insults and savagery, demanding to know how she’s supposed to be part of this operation if they insist on keeping things from her and asking Shmi to keep things from her, but eventually she dissolves into something approaching tears, which sends a thrill of panic through Obi-Wan and makes Anakin hurry to hug her, throwing him an entirely unearned reproachful look in the process.

“Where would I be if you died?” Padme asks with a sob. “Where would Ani be? We kriffing care about you, you have to talk to us! I could have helped.”

“Language,” Obi-Wan offers weakly and ducks beneath the ornate slipper she hurls at his head.

Not for the first time, he’s powerfully glad Anakin is a boy, rather than a girl. He may be hard to deal with at times, but he never ends up weeping in a dressing gown in the middle of his sitting room, contriving to make Obi-Wan feel like a complete monster.

Then, in the tenth month of Anakin’s tenth year, Padme manages to remind Obi-Wan of exactly why he didn’t want to tell her.

“You tried to poison him?” he bursts out once the three of them are safely locked inside the kitchen in the Naberrie homestead, which was swept three times for bugs. He and Anakin managed to come for Life Day, disguising the trip as a training mission.

Padme, sitting primly on the counter — a habit she surely picked up from Anakin — nods, while Shmi moves around her, helping Padme’s mère and older sister Sola prepare Life Day dinner. Neither Padme’s parents, sister, nor Shmi seems at all concerned that Padme turned toward assassination with such ease and speed. Shmi just gave her a fond smile (frightening in its casualness), and Sola grinned broadly and said she was proud that Padme was following in the footsteps of the queens who came before her.

Obi-Wan decided then and there that he didn’t want to delve into Naboo’s history to find out exactly what Sola meant, but he is starting to suspect that, as Nabooian monarchs go, Padme has been rather tame up until this point.

Obi-Wan sinks onto the bench that surrounds the breakfast, pinching the bridge of his nose. Anakin is crosslegged on the table behind him, peeling potatoes with a placid air. He isn’t bothered by Padme’s actions either.

“Why?” Obi-Wan manages at length, irritably picking a peel Anakin flicked at him off his sleeve.

“Because he tried to kill you,” Padme responds, nibbling on one of castoff crusts of bread that surround Sola’s cutting board, where she is industriously cubing spiced bread for the stuffing. “I was defending you! It’s not even murder.”

She says it like this absolves her of everything connected to the attempt. Obi-Wan just stares at her for a long moment, while Anakin entertains himself by flicking more peels onto his sleeve, clearly wanting to see how long it will be before Obi-Wan starts throwing them back at him.

“He didn’t die, though,” Padme says, pursing her lips and putting her chin in her hand. “Horrible old man. I gave him just the right dose of hemlock too! He should have died.”

Obi-Wan decides not to touch her disappointment with a ten foot pole. “He’s a Sith Lord, Padme. They’re very hard to kill. I doubt he even noticed.”

“Well, that’s a mercy,” Jobal, Padme’s mère, says cheerfully, bending over a cavernous pot of sauce. “We’d be in horrible trouble if he had.”

Obi-Wan gives Padme a flat look. “Wouldn’t we just, Operative Angel.”

She gives him an unrepentant look in return, and Shmi — the traitor — gives her one of the toffees she just finished making. Sucking on it, Padme says, “Well, we’d be in even worse trouble if you were dead, Operative Mullet.”

Though conscious that his grown out padawan cut is now indeed a mullet, Obi-Wan stops himself from fastidiously smoothing it — mostly because Anakin has now incorporated those movements into their sign language. Apparently, he both fixes his hair and strokes his growing mustache and beard with increasing frequency. “No more poisoning elected officials,” he says sternly, dropping a peel on top of Anakin’s head and shaking the rest off his sleeve and onto the table.

Padme narrows her eyes. “No more leaving me out of things.”

Their dueling gazes war across the kitchen for several long minutes. Sola murmurs, “Catfight,” under her breath as she passes, which is enough to make Obi-Wan give in.

“Fine,” he says. “Deal.”

Anakin nudges Obi-Wan. “Can I try to poison him?”

“No,” Obi-Wan, Shmi, and Jobal say at once.

Anakin and Padme share a persecuted look.

Chapter 3: The Adventure of the Failed Assassination

Chapter Text

The Adventure of the Failed Assassination

The ringing of his comm pulls Anakin out of a well deserved dead sleep. Grudgingly, he grabs it and tries to force his sleepy mind to focus enough to read the caller’s contact.

Honestly, you’d think the galaxy would have the courtesy to leave him alone after he (and Obi-Wan, but Anakin feels he really carried this particular mission) almost died resolving a feud between two noble Pantoran houses. It turned out House Menjora had not, in fact, kidnapped Shula, beloved daughter of House Senoll. It also turned out that House Senoll had not, in fact, abducted Coran, cherished son of House Menjora. It turned out that Shula and Coran were madly in love and had eloped together while neglecting to tell anyone about their plans.

That particular choice had finally given the two houses an excuse to unleash about eighty years worth of hatred, and Obi-Wan and Anakin had ended up on opposite sides of the main square of Senjora City, trying to restrain the two families from fighting to the death then and there. The wispy matriarch of House Senoll was surprisingly strong and more tenacious than any eighty-three year old had any right to be, and the brick-shaped patriarch of House Menjora somehow, by some miracle, managed to almost wrestle Obi-Wan to the ground. Anakin is never, ever going to let his master forget about almost getting beat up by a senior citizen. It’s days like these that really make being a Jedi worth it.

Things were just hovering on the edge of spiraling out of control (Obi-Wan, nursing his black eye — courtesy of the Menjora patriarch — that night before they went to bed had argued that things were already long out of control) when Shula and Coran had ridden into the square on the terrifying scaly beasts that were Pantora’s excuse for domesticated mounts and made an impassioned plea for peace and understanding. It was moving, tear-jerking, and memorable, but it was not what persuaded the Senoll matriarch and the Menjora patriarch to call for an end to the conflict.

What was powerful enough to unite the two rival houses was the mutual, incandescent fury that gripped them at their respective runaways worrying them so much, and did they know how frightened their parents and siblings had been, and had they thought about anyone other than themselves at all?

That had been around when Shula and Coran had discovered the bone-quaking fury that could be awoken by familial hypocrisy, so they had yelled about how their families had made it so they couldn't do anything but run away, about how their selfishness forced them to elope. Anakin thought they made a very good point when they said that the clash in the square served as proof that telling their families before they got married wouldn’t have ended well, but given that he had spent an entire night searching the forest outside the city for them, he sided with their elders, which was, frankly, a new experience.

He and Obi-Wan left the two families to sort things out with cutting words, rather than cutting weapons, and retreated to the rooms set aside for them by House Lulo — the third noble house in the city, who were all very tired of their feuding neighbors — to get some sleep.

And some apparently meant two hours. Before someone woke them up by calling them.

“Anakin.” In the bed across the room from him, Obi-Wan buries his face into his pillow. “If you’re not going to answer that, please throw it out the window before I break it.”

“I don’t know who it is yet.” Anakin levers himself up onto his elbows and squints at the comm some more. His brain isn’t cooperating with him. “It could be important.”

“Not more important than my rest,” Obi-Wan says into his pillow. “My ability to restrain myself from murdering Chancellor Palpatine is inversely proportional to the amount of sleep I get.”

“I know,” Anakin uses the Force to turn on the room’s light. Obi-Wan only lets out one pained scream. “I remember the Incident.”

The Incident happened when Anakin was fourteen and had had to sit on Obi-Wan to stop him from going to the Senate to run Palpatine through after he heard he’d requested a private audience with Padme, who happened to be onworld at the time. Then, when Obi-Wan wouldn’t calm down, Anakin dragged him to Dexter’s Diner, comming Padme on the way, and she canceled her meeting with Palpatine (“I’m so sorry, Chancellor. Something’s come up — terribly important. Yes, vital to Naboo’s security. Again, my apologies.”) to come and talk Obi-Wan down, which involved Dexter himself practically sitting on him. Dexter, who had seen too much in his career as a diner owner on Coruscant to be curious any longer, did not ask why the Queen of Naboo, inexplicably in his grease trap of a diner, kept yelling, “I would have been fine, Obi-Wan,” across the table while Anakin kept trying to get Obi-Wan to drink some soothing tea.

After the Incident, Padme promised to bring her handmaidens to any future meetings with the Chancellor (“They’re meant to act as my doubles, Chancellor. Nothing can really be private from them, not if they’re to do their jobs.”), and Obi-Wan agreed that he wouldn’t kill Palpatine unless he could be sure he wouldn’t be executed afterward. Anakin didn’t agree to anything, and he’s very proud for managing to weasel his way out of making any promises.

“Well, there you go,” Obi-Wan says, using the Force to turn the light back off. “You should let me sleep.”

In the sudden darkness, Anakin finally manages to read the contact name. He turns the light back on with a wave of his hand. “It’s Padme.”

Groaning, Obi-Wan flicks the light back off, somehow managing to do it passive aggressively. “You can talk to her with the light off. And do it quietly, please. You two are insufferable enough in the daytime.”

“That would be convincing if you didn’t love us,” Anakin answers. “And it’s the emergency number.”

Now it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to use the Force to turn on the light. He rolls out of bed, somehow managing to get his feet under him before he hits the floor.

Anakin is not so fortunate. Somewhere in the past nine years of pretending to be clumsy, he formed a bad habit of actually being clumsy. As he scrambles to his feet, rubbing his shin, answers the comm. “Padme? Are you okay? What happened?”

“Finally,” she says, loud enough to blow out the comm’s speakers briefly. Her snap is so potent that Anakin checks the hand holding the comm to make sure he isn’t bleeding. “I thought you were both dead. What’s the point of an emergency number if you don’t answer? I always answer, but you two think you’re so important just because you go galavanting around the galaxy like a pair of —”

“Are you okay?” This is the most important question, but Padme doesn’t tend to answer the most important questions first. Usually, Anakin has to repeat himself a few times.

“Oh.” Padme’s tone changes entirely. “I’m… I’m fine,” she says, in her most I’m-not-fine-at-all voice. It is, in fact, her I’m-about-to-cry-but-former-queens-don’t-cry voice. The first time Anakin heard this voice was when her sister Sola got married and moved out (to the house across the street, but it still broke Padme’s heart). The most recent time he heard it was when Sola nearly miscarried her second child, little Pooja.

“Padme.” Obi-Wan manages to wrest the comm away from him and shove it to his mouth. “What happened?”

“Nothing! Just… just my transport, um, kind of blew up. On the Senate landing pad,” she adds, as if location makes much difference.

“It what?” Obi-Wan shouts it so loud that Anakin can picture Padme jerking away from the comm.

Anakin yanks it back. “What do you mean it blew up? Are you hurt? Is anyone hurt?”

“Everyone’s fine.” Padme’s voice is swiftly moving from not-fine-at-all to verge-of-a-breakdown-not-that-I’ll-ever-admit-it. “I’m fine, my handmaidens are all fine, my personal guard is fine… The ship… the ship is not fine, but I figured out that it was going to blow up because I felt a tremor through the floor when we were disembarking, even though the engines were supposed to be shut down, and Anakin told me when he was teaching me how to repair a damaged hyperdrive that if that happens, then the engines are still cycling, which means they’re going to overload, and, well… Explode.” She coughs slightly. “Violently. But I’m fine. Completely.”

Before Anakin can respond, there’s the sound of a muffled scuffle, several feminine voices calling out encouragement, and an outraged squawk from Padme. Then Sabe’s voice comes through the comm. “Don’t listen to her, Ani,” she says. There is more scuffling in the background. Anakin can easily picture her holding Padme off with one hand. “She’s scared, and Palpatine’s sticking his long nose in this whole thing, going on and on about how she needs protection, even though he’s probably the one behind it. He’s trying to use it to get her off Coruscant before the vote for the Military Creation Act.”

“Sabe!” Padme’s voice is several octaves past adorable, and Anakin is going to make sure to tell her as soon as he sees her again. “Give it back! You might be taller than me, but I swear to the kriffing stars I’ll —” There’s a thump and a grunt from Sabe, signaling that Padme has jumped onto her back.

A sigh gusts through the comm’s speaker. “My ladies,” Captain Typho says in a tired voice, “you are representatives of the Republic.”

No one responds to that, but judging by the sound of Eirtae laughing in the background, the other handmaidens are winding down from their near-death experience by holotaping Padme’s and Sabe’s fight.

“Just get to Coruscant,” Sabe says, sounding winded — probably because Padme is currently hanging from her back. “We need to get out ahead of this. Palpatine and the Council want to assign her a Jedi bodyguard if she won’t leave Coruscant, and I think we all know that having them assign someone like, say, Mace Windu or Luminara Unduli or even Kit Fisto isn’t going to end well, especially not in light of our mutual endeavors.”

“Not to mention,” Padme says, also out of breath (presumably from hanging off Sabe’s back), “that if I have to deal with any Jedi besides you or Obi-Wan or maybe Quinlan Vos, I’ll go mad and nobody wants to see that happen.”

Obi-Wan jerks the comm closer to him, nearly knocking Anakin over in the process. “Are they considering assigning Quin?”

“I don’t know — maybe. Why?”

“Retrocognition, Padme.”

There’s a stretch of silence as everyone involved in the call considers exactly how many objects in Padme’s apartment are full of years worth of treasonous or downright heretical memories.

“Fine, Sabe’s right,” concedes Padme. “Get to Coruscant. We’ll… I’ll make sure they assign you two.”

By that, Padme means she’ll kick up such a fuss that the Council will comm Obi-Wan in thinly concealed shambles, asking him to please handle Padme for them.

“But I am fine,” Padme adds, in a voice that dares Anakin and Obi-Wan to doubt it.

Anakin takes the dare. “If you’re not smart about this,” he says, “I’ll sic Amu on you.”

After a moment of silence, Padme says, “All right, I am very slightly rattled.”

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, but Anakin says, “I am so proud of you. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.”

“You’re the biggest kriffing hypocrite in the galaxy.”

“I’m aware.”

“Hurry up and get here so I can yell at you in person.”

“For you? Anything.”

Obi-Wan grabs the comm from him. “Enough. I can barely tolerate the two of you in the daytime. You’re intolerable in the small hours of the morning.”

“Aw.” Anakin grins at him. “We love you too, Master.”

“Yes,” Padme agrees through the comm. Her evil smile is thick in her voice.

Obi-Wan glares at Anakin and then glares at the comm, as though Padme can see him scowling. Though, the three of them have been together long enough that she can probably sense it. “We’ll be there as soon as we can,” he says, just before disconnecting.

# # #

Yan Dooku feels just a little bit like crying, but he is of far too proud a generation and too noble a bloodline to succumb. “What do you mean it didn’t work?”

Jango Fett shifts from one foot to the other. If Yan didn’t know better, he would think Jango is hiding under his helmet, rather than just wearing it for security reasons. As it is, he still suspects it.

“Well?” Yan breathes deeply. “Explain yourself.”

“Senator Amidala appeared to… detect the bomb before it went off. She evacuated her ship just in time.”

“But how? How could she know? You are a Mandalorian, Fett. I was laboring under the impression that incendiaries were your strong suit.”

Jango manages to give him a flat look, even though his helmet. “They are. No one should have been able to detect it until it was too late. Only a fabulously gifted mechanic or pilot would have been able to see it coming.”

“And the senator is neither.” Yan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps her handmaidens are. No one truly knows anything about them.” He drops his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Senator Amidala is refusing to leave Coruscant with a protective detail. You need to try again. If you can’t kill her, then just ensure that she isn’t present for the vote.” Jar Jar Binks may be able to argue and vote in Senator Amidala’s stead, but he has no political pull without her. If Senator Amidala is forced off Coruscant, then the bill is as good as passed. All that will be left after that is to find a way to “reveal” to the Republic that Nute Gunray, in concert with Yan and other high ranking members of the Separatists, is building a droid army.

And if she dies, all the better.

One way or another, war is inevitable.

“The Jedi Council has dispatched Obi-Wan Kenobi and his padawan Anakin Skywalker to protect the senator on Coruscant.”

Master Sidious was almost certainly behind that. He takes every opportunity to push Skywalker and Senator Amidala together. Yan would almost find it amusing, if it weren’t so irritating. “Of course they have,” Yan says. “You’ll have to try again. And if you must fail… do so aggressively enough that Senator Amidala is left with no choice but to go into hiding. Perhaps try something other than a bomb this time, as the child can’t even die conveniently.”

Jango eyes him. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Yan shuts down the comm connection. He’s definitely getting a migraine out of this.

# # #

Anakin scrubs at his hair as the turbolift speeds upwards towards Padme’s penthouse. It’s far from the first time he’s come here, but it is the first time in a long time he’s taken the elevator, rather than simply landing at the attached speeder dock (after having horrified Obi-Wan with his piloting yet again).

“If you’re trying to make it look less like you stayed up all night and caught two hours of sleep in the back of a cargo ship,” Obi-Wan says, “it’s a lost cause.”

Anakin leaves off trying to make the cowlick at the crown of his head lay down and scowls at Obi-Wan. “Your hair doesn’t look messy.”

Obi-Wan reaches up to smooth his locks, realizes what Anakin just baited him into doing, and frowns before dropping his hands back to his sides. “Yes, because I take care of it.”

“More like you’re obsessed with it, Operative Mullet,” mutters Anakin just as the turbolift arrives in the penthouse foyer, neatly preventing Obi-Wan from retorting. Tugging on his padawan braid (a habit Obi-Wan has desperately been trying to break him off since he was ten), Anakin wanders into the foyer, searching for Padme or one of her handmaidens. “Padme!” he calls out. “We’re here! Where are you? Master Obi-Wan’s got a —”

Mace Windu emerges from the sitting room beyond the foyer. His eyebrow tilts as his ever familiar Skywalker-this-behavior-does-not-become-you blooms over his face. Beside Anakin, Obi-Wan draws in a sharp, strangled breath.

— Massive guilt trip for you. “A plan for your safety and security,” he finishes after masterfully swallowing a coughing fit. “Hello, Master Windu.”

“Padawan Skywalker,” he says. “Is this how you greet all our elected representatives?”

No, Anakin thinks but does not say. Just Padme and Jar Jar and sometimes Bail, but that’s only because Master Obi-Wan was in his wedding party.

Obi-Wan seems to come back to life. He sends Anakin a stern look. “My goodness, my young padawan,” he says, with only the faintest note of desperate terror in his voice, “have some respect! I’m so sorry, Mace. He’s still learning.”

In the moment of silence that follows, Anakin sends Obi-Wan the flat, irritated look that leads most people — from the Jedi Council to the Senate representatives they’ve met — to believe that he and Obi-Wan just barely tolerate each other. Neither he nor Obi-Wan make much effort to disabuse people of that notion; it’s far too convenient a misconception. “You’re right, Master,” he says through his teeth. “I’m sorry.” Using their sign language, he adds, I’m so going to get you back for this. You can’t handle the retaliation.

To which Obi-Wan responds, also using the sign language, Your padawan braid’s falling out again.

Rather than checking it, which is what Obi-Wan wants him to do, Anakin says, “Where is Senator Amidala, please?”

Mace gestures through the doorway that leads to the sitting room. “She’s just in here. We have been discussing our options.” His tone strongly implies that recent events have made him wish that Anakin and Obi-Wan were not one of those options. “Come with me.”

Anakin follows Obi-Wan into the sitting room. As always, it’s dominant color is purple. The sun spilling in through the open front of the apartment drenches the two curving sofas in light and sets the flyaway hairs that float loose from Padme’s elegantly coiffed hairstyle on fire. She catches Anakin’s eye as he comes in.

It occurs to me, she signs, that I should have warned you about Mace.

You think? Anakin answers, glad that they’ve developed their sign language to the point where they can easily hold two conversations at once without anyone else knowing.

If you could both focus, Obi-Wan interjects.

In response, Anakin idly smooth backs his hair, and Padme tucks a stray lock of hers behind her ear — very deliberately. Messing with their hair in a fastidious fashion is their universal way of telling Obi-Wan to shut up.

“Master Kenobi,” Padme says, getting to her feet with a perfect and expensive senatorial smile. Then her smile becomes wider and more genuine. “Ani. It’s been too long.”

“It has,” Anakin agrees. This is true enough. It has been more than a week since he saw her in person, which is quite a long time for the two of them.

The important thing here is to make Mace Windu, the only outsider in the room, believe that it has, in fact, been years since they saw each other. Anakin thinks their last sanctioned in-person encounter was when he was about eleven.

It’s time to slather on the awkwardness. He was born for this moment. “You’ve grown,” he adds, looking at the ground as though blinded by some kind of radiance emanating from Padme. “Grown more beautiful, I mean,” he adds in a rush.

There’s a deep sigh from Obi-Wan’s vicinity. Mace winces visibly, like he just died a little inside. Behind his back, Sabe, standing amongst the other handmaidens, bites back laughter. Even Captain Typho’s mouth twitches.

Padme just looks at him for a long moment, letting her smile hover about her lips several heartbeats past uncomfortable. “Oh, Ani,” she says at length, with the demeanor of someone stepping on an ember to put it out, “you’ll always be that little boy I knew on Tatooine.”

Anakin clears his throat to cover the way he has to choke off his laugh. Then he maintains a nerve jangling level of eye contact with Padme until Obi-Wan sighs again and drags him down onto the couch opposite her.

Mace slumps in relief and turns back to Padme, who is settling back onto her couch. “Now that everyone is here, Senator,” he says, “I must ask you to please reconsider leaving Coruscant. It is not safe for you here.”

Padme inhales. Anakin leans back against the couch cushions and signs, Get ready for the show.

Obi-Wan reaches out to start redoing his padawan braid. I almost feel sorry for Mace, he signs.

Anakin is nothing like so kind. I don’t. It’s too amusing to feel anything but delighted.

# # #

“I’d like to say I’m big enough to not say I told you so,” Sabe says, standing in the exact center of Padme’s bed with her arms protectively wrapped around her, “but I’m not. So. I told you turning off the cameras in here was a bad idea.”

As Padme watches Captain Typho gather up the remnants of the poisonous worms Anakin cut in half with his lightsaber, she says, “I didn’t want people watching me.”

“It wasn’t people. It was Ani and Obi-Wan!”

“And I… drool when I sleep.” Padme shivers in the breeze that’s coming through the Obi-Wan shaped hole in the window. When he gets back, assuming he isn’t a smear on the pavement below, she’s going to give him a piece of her mind. And he accuses her of taking risks. She’s not the one who jumped out the window of a penthouse. At least Anakin, despite all his usual recklessness, ran to get a speeder.

Of course, they both left her behind. Something about her being in a nightgown and it kind of defeating the purpose of her being protected if she was out gallivanting across Coruscant in pursuit of her would-be assassin.

Just like when she was thirteen and wanted to poison Palpatine, there is oppression everywhere she turns.

“Padme.” Hands too occupied with holding her to do a traditional facepalm, Sabe settled for faceplanting into the back of Padme’s shoulder. “He’s disgustingly in love with you. Seeing you drool is going to change exactly nothing.”

“He is not in love with me!” Padme protests. She has no idea what Anakin is in relation to her, and she’s not going to ask.

“Sure.” Sabe climbs down off the bed. Captain Typho leaves to dispose of the worm corpses and — if previous patterns hold true — to get himself a massive cup of caff to fortify him for further trials. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Ani stole a speeder from the apartment building’s garage,” Sache informs everyone, coming into the bedroom. She picks up the hem of her nightgown and delicately steps over the stain left on the carpet from when Eirtae, not content to leave the worms simply bisected, crushed one of them into pulp. “People are complaining.”

“Oh no,” Eirtae says in the most sarcastic voice possible. She’s perched on Padme’s vanity, scraping worm remains off her slipper with venomous enthusiasm. “Whatever shall we do.”

Padme rubs her temples. “Just tell them I’ll pay for the speeder.”

“Too late.” Sache shrugs. “I already told them exactly where they could shove their speeder and their complaints.”

Padme falls backward onto her bed. “Who let Sache deal with other people? What happened to the rules?”

“I’m tired,” Yane offers as she bustles back into the bedroom, carrying a mug of hot chocolate that she shoves into Padme’s hands. “So my judgment was off.”

“I personally just thought it would be funny,” Eirtae says. She flicks worm gunk off her manicured fingernails.

“We all knew that, Eirtae.” Yane shakes her head and dodges the gunk Eirtae aims at her.

“So.” Sabe sinks onto the edge of Padme’s bed. “What have we learned?”

Padme glowers at her. “Invest in some good pest control?”

“No. We’ve learned not to sleep alone when people are trying to kill you.”

Padme sighs. “You’re all sleeping in here tonight, aren’t you.”

“Oh no.” Yane sits on her other side and pats her knee. “You’re sleeping in the sitting room with all of us.”

Padme would protest — she’s a senator, she’s their employer, they don’t have a right to boss her around — but it would all fall on deaf ears, so she doesn’t bother. Instead, she sips her hot chocolate in a silence that is only broken by Rabe imploring Eirtae to please stop cleaning the worm body parts off her slipper in front of her. She is ignored.

At length, a minor commotion outside the bedroom signals Anakin and Obi-Wan’s return. They appear a few moments later. Obi-Wan has the windblown, shellshocked look that means he was assaulted by Anakin’s piloting, and Anakin’s undone padawan braid is flowing loose over his shoulder.

“Did you get them?” asks Padme around the edge of her cup.

“In a manner of speaking.” Obi-Wan sidesteps the stain on the carpet, takes the mug of caff that Yane — beverage fetcher for everyone — hands him, and casts a regretful look at the hole in Padme’s window.

Anakin, ignoring all propriety as he has since she met him, stretches out flat on the floor, heedless of the worm bloodstain. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Sabe stretches her legs out and rests her feet on Anakin’s chest as though he’s a glorified ottoman. “Bad news.”

“I think he was asking me,” Padme says.

“And after the worm incident, I don’t trust your judgment.”

“The good news,” Anakin says, ignoring them both, “is that we managed to catch up to the assassin. She was a shapeshifter, and she said someone paid her to do it.”

“Well, that’s some information at least,” says Padme. “Where is she?”

“Oh, that’s the bad news. She’s dead. Someone we couldn’t see shot her with a poisoned dart before she could spill all the relevant details.”

“However,” Obi-Wan puts in from near the door, “the good news is we have the dart. We’re late because I took it to Dexter’s.”

“He didn’t want anyone official getting wind of it, since we’re pretty sure Palpatine is the one paying everyone.” Anakin tilts his head back to smile at Padme. “He’s so suspicious. I couldn’t be more proud.”

“More good news,” Obi-Wan says, with a quelling look in Anakin’s direction, “is that Dex could identify it. He said it’s from Kamino.”

“Kamino,” Padme says slowly, excitement fluttering in her chest. “As in…”

“Yes, that Kamino. Terribly interesting. Bad news, I now have to find a way to investigate Kamino without playing right into Palpatine’s hands.”

“And the last bit of bad news.” Anakin sits up on his elbows. “We updated the Council about the attempt, and it got to Palpatine, and —”

“He’s not giving me a choice any more, is he.”

“Nope!” Anakin pops his lips on the word and smiles dazzlingly at her. “But on the bright side, we get to go to Naboo and see your family!”

Padme turns to glare at Obi-Wan. “This could have all been avoided if you had just let me poison him when I was thirteen.”

“Yes, because I’m sure that would have gone off without a hitch,” Obi-Wan says.

Padme huffs. “You’re keeping us both in the loop about your whole investigation. On comms, all the time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything less, Operative Angel.”

Chapter 4: The Stealth Gambit

Chapter Text

The Stealth Gambit

Obi-Wan is trying not to be annoyed. Given that he’s been trying and failing to do so for the better part of two days, he doesn’t have much hope. After working so hard to keep his and Anakin’s discovery from reaching the Council’s ears, it all came undone when the autopsy of the dead changeling revealed that the poison in her system was of Kaminoan origin as well.

It took nearly a day to find out where Kamino was. Dexter had insisted it lay on the far edge of the Outer Rim, nearly beyond Republic territory but not yet within Separatist space, but a search of the Archives revealed nothing. Nothing, except for the fact that someone had deleted all the information about Kamino from the systems — much to Madame Jocasta’s fury.

It was an enterprising youngling who suggested pulling up a star chart of the space surrounding where Kamino should be according to Dexter and setting a course for the empty space.

Why that hadn’t occurred to anyone except a gap toothed five year old, Obi-Wan couldn’t say, but it was the most concrete help he’d received from the Jedi Order in a decade.

Go to Kamino, the Council said. Get to the bottom of this.

As if he hadn’t been trying to get to the bottom of this for ten years. As it stood, he — a relatively young Knight — a former slave child, and a young queen turned senator had gotten farther than any of them had.

After seeing Anakin and Padme off (Palpatine had indeed forced Padme off Coruscant, sending her undercover on a refugee ship to Naboo) and promising that yes, he would keep them updated over comms, he climbed into his starfighter, dragging R4 along because Anakin kept muttering about how R4 never got to go anywhere and get “enrichment”, and headed toward Kamino.

Needless to say, as his ship lands on a circular platform, he is not impressed. Never before has he felt more resentful of Anakin and Padme, who get to spend time on Naboo — a green paradise of a planet — while he gets to investigate a world that, judging by the thickness of the gray-black cloud cover and the sheer quantity of rain assailing his starfighter from all sides and flooding the platform, has never seen the sun.

“Your beacon pinged.” Anakin’s voice crackles in his ear comm. “Have you landed? What does it look like? Do you see anyone?”

Obi-Wan pulls in a slow, steadying breath and counts to ten. “Operative Ekkreth, if you could give me a moment to actually shut my engine down, I might have more information for you.”

“Well, get to it!”

“And hurry.” It’s Padme this time. “I’m going to lose my mind from boredom.”

A voice that sounds like Jobal floats in from somewhere in the background. “Oh, I’m so sorry it’s so trying for you not to be somewhere with people trying to kill you every two minutes!”

Ruwee says, “Oh, go easy on her, Jobal. Everyone has to have a hobby.”

As the rise and fall of an argument between husband and wife fills the background, Anakin says, “Are you out of your ship yet?”

“No.” Obi-Wan pulls the hood of his cloak up and pops his canopy. He’s drenched instantly. Water cascades over the edge of his hood and starts puddling in his lap. A curse falls from his lips as he hauls himself to his feet, gathering the already soaked folds of his cloak around him.

“Could you not?” Padme sounds like she bit into something sour. “Pooja and Ryoo are here, and you’re on speaker.”

“Oh, of course I am.” Obi-Wan is certain espionage is not supposed to be a family activity, but it’s his own fault, really. He’s the one who decided to partner with a nine year old and a twelve year old a decade ago. It was inevitable that their respective families would get involved. “Because that’s normal.” He climbs out of his ship and jumps down onto the platform, which is lost in several inches of water. He won’t be walking toward the building visible ahead of him; he’ll be wading.

“What’s it look like?” asks Anakin.

“Wet,” answers Obi-Wan bad-temperedly. “It looks wet.”

Back on the starfighter, R4 gives a resentful burble as water sluices down his sides and drops down the protective bubble that surrounds his slot in the starfighter’s hull. Obi-Wan gives him a hooded look and says, “I take it you’re not coming with me.”

R4’s photoreceptor narrows.

“Don’t give me that look,” Obi-Wan turns away and starts toward the shaft of bright white light spilling from the transparent door up ahead of him. “Anakin made me bring you. You’re clearly spending entirely too much time with Artoo.”

“Hey!” Anakin says, in the tone of habitual offense. “Artoo is wonderful.”

There’s a sound like he’s been elbowed away from the comm and Padme asks, “Could you possibly elaborate on ‘wet’?”

“It’s raining, Operative Angel,” Obi-Wan says, in the flattest voice he can muster. “I’m surrounded on all sides by ocean in some kind of stilt city, and the sky is actively trying to drown me.” He stops in front of the door, squinting in the light. He’s just wondering if he’s supposed to knock, since there doesn’t seem to be an exterior access panel, when a tall being with an endless neck ending in a small, fishlike head appears.

It takes all of his willpower not to jump. A small, hospitable sort of smile curves the being’s lips, and it reaches out with elegant fingers, brushing them across a patterned part of the door. The pattern flares with white, and the door opens.

“What is it? You’ve gone quiet.” Anakin’s voice tickles his ear. “What’s happening?”

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan manages, tipping his head back — and back — to look at the creature. “I am Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I —”

“Ah, a Jedi. We’ve been expecting you. I am Taun We.” The creature — who seems to be a woman — folds her hands in front of her and steps back to allow him inside. Though going into the strange, overly sterile hallway visible beyond the door isn’t the most appealing thing, staying out in the rain is worse, so Obi-Wan follows her inside.

“What does she mean, they’ve been expecting you?” asks Padme. “Who is that?”

“I don’t think he can exactly describe her, now can he?” Anakin says. Then, in a rather pained voice, he says, “Pooja, akku-ku, please don’t pull on Uncle Ani’s padawan braid. That’s attached. Yes, attached. No, it’s not like Auntie Padme’s wigs. Because those aren’t real. Because they’re too complicated. No, I can’t take out my braid. Because it’s part of being a Jedi padawan. No, I don’t have to keep it forever. When I’m knighted, it gets cut off. No, that doesn’t hurt. Because hair can’t hurt. Well, no, it hurts when you pull it because it —”

Padme interrupts him, voice so loud that it takes all of Obi-Wan’s self control not to flinch as it echoes down his ear canal. “Sola! Come get your daughter! Because we’re in the middle of a secret operation, that’s why!”

As Sola retrieves Pooja with a few distracting apologies said directly into Obi-Wan’s ear, he finally manages to croak, “Expecting us?”

“Yes, of course.” Taun We glides off down the curving white hallway. The light is such that it makes her edges seem soft and hazy, like an overexposed holo. “It has been many years since your people contracted us — we worried you may have forgotten about us.”

“Contracted you?”

“Yes.” Taun We curves her neck to look back over her shoulder. “Were you not informed?”

“Obi-Wan, play along,” Padme says urgently, as if he were stupid enough not to.

“Oh, no, no.” He calls up a smile. “I was just confused for a moment. Please do show me all you’ve done.”

“That was passable, I guess,” Anakin says as Obi-Wan trails after Taun We.

Obi-Wan crams down the urge to mute them both.

“As you’ll soon see,” Taun We says as they reach a straightaway lined with windows with opaque shields covering them, “our scientists have exceeded all our quotas. There are a million units fully developed, with six million more on the way.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Units?”

“Six million?” adds Anakin. “What the kriff are they making?”

“Yes.” Taun We inclines her head in a gracious nod and reaches out to trail her fingers against another pattern set into the wall. As soon as it lights up beneath her touch, the opaque shields lift up to reveal a huge hall that spreads out beneath the straightaway, which appears to be some kind of observation deck. The hall is full of tables that are packed on both sides with men in utilitarian red jumpsuits. As Obi-Wan moves closer to the nearest window, it becomes obvious that each of the men are identical to each other, right down to the shape of their nose and the focused furrow of their brows.

“They…” Obi-Wan fumbles for the right words. “They are very impressive. I didn’t think cloning was possible on such a large scale.” He emphasizes the word cloning, just in case Anakin and Padme aren’t listening.

“Cloning?” they both say at once, nearly blowing out his eardrum. He winces. They’re listening.

“With our proprietary technology,” Taun We says, guiding him down yet another hallway, “it is a simple matter. All our products are fully matured and ready for the battlefield within seven years, and with our recent advancements, our next batches should be ready in four.” She stops in front of another massive observation window. Beyond it is a cavernous room that seems to stretch upward forever. It is filled with ranks upon ranks of pods that, upon closer inspection, each contain a gestating baby. As Obi-Wan watches, an automated droid arm detaches a pod containing what looks like a full term baby from the wall and slots it into place on a moving conveyor belt, where it and dozens of other pods are carried out of view.

“So.” He swallows. “You’re creating soldiers?”

“Yes, just as we were commissioned to do,” Taun We answers. “They are conditioned to follow orders without question and are genetically modified to be nearly unstoppable in battle. Each are masters of strategy and various forms of combat. We believe the brain chemistry of their donor made them uniquely suited to a career as soldiers.”

“Amu!” Anakin’s voice is in Obi-Wan’s ear yet again. He thinks about muting his comm. He doesn’t. “Someone’s violating sentient rights again!”

“Oh, what else is new?” comes Shmi’s faint, indignant response.

“Their donor?” Obi-Wan lifts a brow. “Who would that be?”

“Jango Fett,” replies Taun We, leading him past the second observation deck and down another painfully sterile white corridor. Outside the windows that line its walls, rain slashes down and the ocean rolls like a restless sleeper. “A Mandalorian exile — a simple bounty hunter but more than sufficient for our purposes. We’re on our way to meet him now. I am certain you will be satisfied with our choice in genetic template.”

“A Mandalorian?” Anakin says. “You think he’s the one who went after Padme? I got a glimpse of the guy who took out the ‘shifter. Looked Mandalorian to me. Especially his stupid jetpack.”

Jealous much, Operative Ekkreth? Obi-Wan thinks as he keeps trailing after Taun We while simultaneously trying to absorb the concept that someone — some Jedi — commissioned cloners, who have been building an army for the Republic for an uncertain number of years.

But all records of Kamino were wiped from the Archives — an action that could only be undertaken by a Jedi.

And Palpatine is somehow involved, which says nothing good.

“The killer was a Mandalorian?” There’s a sound like Padme hit Anakin on the shoulder.

“Did I not mention that?”

“Not so much, no. You were too busy lying on my bedroom floor.”

“Not in that way,” Anakin says to the surrounding Naberrie and Skywalker families. “To be clear.”

“Ani,” Sola says from somewhere close by, “trust me. No one thought you meant it that way.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“That I am at peace with leaving you alone with my daughter?” Ruwee says, his voice coupled with the sound of him sipping caff. “No.”

Obi-Wan pulls in a deep, silent breath and wishes he could reach through the comm and strangle all of them at once. Just ten years ago, he was free to live his life without two families’ worth of voices in his ear at once. When he was a padawan, he thought knighthood involved freedom and adventure.

Thus far, it has involved more babysitting and reminding people of their bedtimes than he expected (Padme and her handmaidens were the worst offenders — Anakin could at least be counted upon to pass out semi-regularly, no matter how much he insisted he wasn’t tired).

“How did you get him to agree to donate his genetic matter?” Obi-Wan asks. “It is a rather… unusual request. How much compensation did he demand?”

“No monetary compensation,” Taun We replies, stopping in front of another section of patterned wall that Obi-Wan’s come to understand signals a nearby door or window. “All he asked for was an unaltered clone. A son, he said. We found it quite strange, but I am given to understand that Mandalorians have very strong ideas about family and preserving their clan name. Even in exile, I suppose.” She reaches out and trails her long fingers over the patterned wall.

“‘Very strong ideas about family,’” snorts Anakin over the comm. “That’s why he sold his genome and decided that only one of the results was his kid.”

“Hush,” says someone who sounds like Sabe, though Obi-Wan can never tell the handmaidens apart from their voices alone. “I’m listening.”

Oh, so now it’s important to be quiet? Obi-Wan thinks as the door shunts open, revealing a sparse living space with windows that look out over the gray, angry ocean. There’s a small kitchenette off to the side and a small bedroom opening off from the opposite edge of the apartment, from which a man in a simple blue uniform — a higher quality version of the red uniforms Obi-Wan saw the clones wearing — emerges. Following at his heels is a young boy with warm brown skin that matches the man’s and dark hair that curves around the edges of his forehead in soft waves. He throws Obi-Wan a suspicious look as he ducks around the man’s legs and shuts the bedroom door.

However, it doesn’t shut before Obi-Wan’s eyes snag on a neatly stacked pile of beskar’gam that bears a stunning resemblance to the armor he caught a glimpse of on Coruscant when the changeling’s killer fled into the night.

The man — Jango Fett, Obi-Wan supposes — steps into his line of vision as soon as the door closes, casually herding him back toward the kitchenette. The boy hangs back near the bedroom door, which leaves Taun We standing in the narrow hallway near the apartment entrance. In the enclosed space, she seems to stretch even taller.

“Jango,” she says in her calm, even voice, apparently unaware that the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a dull knife, “this is Obi-Wan Kenobi, a representative from the Jedi Order. He’s come to check on our progress. Knight Kenobi, this is Jango Fett and Boba Fett, his son.” She gestures to each of them in turn.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Obi-Wan, sending a perfunctory smile in Boba’s direction — one he returns with a scowl — and refocusing on Jango. “Your clones are quite impressive, Jango. You must be very proud.”

“Seriously?” Anakin’s voice jangles against Obi-Wan’s nerves. “That’s what you’re going with? Could you sound creepier?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” says Padme. “It’s just how he is.”

“Well, I think he needs to change!”

“And you don’t?” She puts on the deep, brainless voice she uses whenever she imitates Anakin. “‘You’ve grown — grown more beautiful, I mean.’”

“Hey, that was to mess with Mace, and you were just as bad —”

Disguising the movement by tucking a section of his soaked hair behind his ear, Obi-Wan turns them down until their argument isn’t much louder than a whisper. Sweet relief. If only he could do that to them in person.

“I can hardly take credit,” Jango answers. “I provided the material, but it was the Kaminoans who did all the work.” Here he gives Obi-Wan a narrow-eyed smile. “Forgive me, but I can’t help but wonder what brings the Jedi here, after leaving this facility to its own devices for so long.”

“Your mother,” Anakin snorts. “That’s what brings us here.”

Obi-Wan returns Jango’s smile with a pleasant one of his own. “Oh, just curiosity.” He slips past Jango and paces over to one of the windows. “You’re quite far out here — nearly out of the Republic. Do you ever make your way to the Core?”

“Occasionally,” Jango says with a shrug. Behind him, Boba ducks back inside the bedroom. “On business.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan folds his hands inside the sleeves of his cloak. “And has that business taken you there recently? To, say, the Federal District of Coruscant?”

Jango clasps his hands behind him. “Before I answer that, I have one more question for you.”

“And what would that be?”

Lifting a placid eyebrow, Jango asks, “Who are you on comms with?”

Obi-Wan freezes.

“Oh kriff,” whispers Anakin into his ear. Then he adds, in a considerably more aggrieved tone, “Now is not the time to yell at me for swearing, Sola!”

Obi-Wan beams at Jango and lifts a finger to his ear to turn the comm’s volume back up. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

# # #

Anakin and Padme sit in an awkward huddle on the floor of the spacious Naberrie living room, listening to the sounds of a fight coming in over the comm. As a volley of blaster shots ring out, Padme, looking distractingly pretty in a blue skirt and long sleeved blue top that reveals her midriff, turns to Anakin and asks, “Do you think he’s winning?”

There’s an unidentifiable grunt on the other end of the comm, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone skidding through a deep puddle.

“How should I know?” Anakin leans closer to the comm. “I’ve been here as long as you have. Obi-Wan,” he says into the comm, “are you winning?”

There are more grunts and the muted thud of blaster shots being deflected off a lightsaber blade.

“I think he’s a bit busy at the moment,” Jobal says from her position on the nearby couch. The rest of the Naberrie family is gathered around her, pressed forward and listening with great interest.

“This Jango’s a Mandalorian?” Amu asks. She’s on the floor with Pooja in her lap, attempting to get the gum Padme gave her out of her honey gold curls without cutting them off. Anakin could have — and did — tell Padme that giving a three year old gum, even the special gum she bought from Little Shili on Coruscant, was a bad call, but she hadn’t believed him because apparently she’d already been reading law books when she was three years old or something. Anakin is always losing track of where Padme’s education begins and ends, but he’s pretty sure there’s a law degree in there somewhere.

What’s missing is the common sense to not give her nieces gum.

“Yes,” Padme answers.

Amu makes a noncommittal sound, which may be more in reference to the gum than to Obi-Wan’s situation. “Well, then my credits are on the Mandalorian.”

“What?” Padme twists around. “You can’t just bet against Obi-Wan!”

“Well…” Sabe, the only handmaiden besides Eirtae to come along to Naboo rather than staying behind to protect Dorme, Padme’s proxy in the Senate, shrugs. When Padme gives her a betrayed look, she says, “Look, I’ve known too many Mandalorians.”

There’s a flurry of cursing on the other end of the comm, coupled with the thunder of running feet and the distant roar of a jetpack. “So have I!” Obi-Wan manages to gasp out.

Anakin leans in toward the comm again. “You’re going to explain that someday, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Obi-Wan replies, shortly before there’s the meaty thud of someone cannoning into him. Padme cringes, Jobal lets out a gasping, sympathetic, “Oh, dear!”, and Amu nods in a vindicated way.

“Master Obi-Wan?” Anakin ventures.

By way of reply, there is a slithering sound, a succession of thumps, a muted swear, and a truly massive splash. After that, there’s only a dull roar that Anakin manages to identify as water.

“He fell in?” Padme throws up her hands. “Oh, him and falling into bodies of water!”

“Where’s all your sympathy gone now?” Anakin gives her a look.

She throws it right back. “Shut up. Obi-Wan,” she says into the comm, “remember the breathing exercises I taught you.”

“But don’t do them now,” Sabe says, rather too sardonically for the situation, so Anakin nudges her stretched out leg with his foot. “That wouldn’t be a great idea.”

“Look for the bubbles,” Padme adds, also kicking Sabe. “Follow them to the surface.”

Another splash crackles over the comm’s speakers. Then Obi-Wan, gasping and coughing, croaks, “Shut — up!”

“Oh, good, he’s alive,” Sabe says.

“Are you still in the water?” Sola calls.

There’s quite a lot of spluttering, and then Obi-Wan yells, “What do you think?”

“I think someone’s snippy,” mutters Sola, as Obi-Wan continues to cough and presumably swim toward solid ground, wherever that is.

Before anyone can say anything more, a dull, harmonic roar emanates from the comm, vibrating the floor under Anakin. After some frantic splashing, Obi-Wan yells, “What in the Light’s name is that?”

Then he’s screaming and yelling, but given that it’s more enraged and frightened than pained and that it’s sprinkled with a not insignificant amount of swear words, Anakin’s inclined to think Obi-Wan’s just fine. After a cacophony of something like flippers slapping in puddles of water, the air fills with Obi-Wan’s waterlogged coughs.

“You… okay?” Anakin asks hesitantly.

Instead of a response from Obi-Wan, Jango’s voice sounds from a short distance away. “That’s frustrating. I hoped you’d drown. Did you use your Jetii magic to make it save you?”

After another fit of coughing — Anakin almost tells Obi-Wan to check to make sure he didn’t lose a lung — Obi-Wan says, “Oh, I wish that were true.” His boots squelch as if he’s standing up. “I was hoping you drowned too.”

“I’m scrappy,” Jango offers.

More coughing. “I… I do believe I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Jetii.”

“Mandalorians,” Obi-Wan manages, voice gaining strength and heat. Padme and Anakin exchange a look. He’s working himself up into a rant. Anakin can sense it. “Mandalorians! You are always so — kriffing — stubborn. Running around like you know best, never giving a thought to anyone else! If you’re not trying to kill me, you’re trying to disarm me and going on and on about the evils of weapons and warfare! As if there aren’t people actively trying to kill you, as if they would just listen if you tried your oh-so-cultured method of talking them down.”

There’s a pause before a confused sounding Jango says, “I’m not trying to disarm you. I’m… I’m definitely doing the first thing.”

Huffing out a frustrated breath, Obi-Wan says, “I know that. Obviously I wasn’t talking about you. Keep up.” He deflects a blaster strike with his saber, the sound singing through the comm’s speakers. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have problems with you, running around and picking and choosing which offshoots of your genome are yours. Sith hells, do you have a god complex or are you just supremely selfish? That combined with trying to kill me, which is just plain uncivilized. I only asked you a question. Don’t you understand that I have people to get back to? You’re a father, you must have some idea of the stress I’m under — all I ask for is some Siths-damned consideration, and instead you try to shoot me in the face! And I have it worse than you do, far worse, because I happen to have more than just one child to look after! And mine are so — much — stupider — than — yours — is!” Each of his words is punctuated by a blaster shot. “They’ve no concept of personal safety! At least yours has the common decency to wait on your ship! If mine were here, they’d be running at you like so many rabid akuls, and I’d have to deal with it!”

“I have no idea what the kriff you’re talking about!” yells Jango.

“Does it look like I care?” There’s a thud, like Obi-Wan just threw Jango into something solid. “Mandalorians.”

“Um.” Anakin clears his throat. If Obi-Wan keeps talking, certain secret things are going to become less secret. “Master, you’re clearly working through some things here, but —”

“Shut up!” comes Obi-Wan’s dulcet response.

“I wasn’t talking,” Jango howls back.

“Not everything’s about you, demogolka!”

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me!”

There are not many words after that, just quite a lot of shooting and fighting. Anakin and everyone else listen in a cowed kind of silence. Periodically, Sola covers Ryoo and Pooja’s ears when the swearing switches to Basic or Nabooian.

Anakin wasn’t even aware Obi-Wan knew so many curse words in so many different languages.

“I taught him that one,” Sabe says proudly after a particularly creative Nabooian one reaches their ears.

“I could tell,” Anakin answers.

Finally, after a particularly explosive volley of weapons fire, which sounds like it came from a ship rather than a blaster, Obi-Wan pants, “I lost him but managed to get a tracker on him. I’m getting in my starfighter to follow him.” There’s a short pause, and then Obi-Wan explodes into a muttered tirade about how he forgot to close the canopy of his starfighter, creating the puddle of water he is apparently sitting in now.

Anakin is aware of the button on the console that evacuates foreign material from the co*ckpit, but Obi-Wan isn’t.

Anakin doesn’t deign to share it. Maybe later he can use it to blackmail Obi-Wan into telling him exactly what happened to him on Mandalore.

“I’m shutting off my comm,” Obi-Wan goes on. Unspoken, he adds, So I can get some kriffing peace and quiet. “I’ll ping you when I touch down again.”

“You’d better,” Padme says. “There’s nothing good on the holonet right now.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.”

# # #

Many hours later, the sun is setting and the Naberrie and Skywalker families are again gathered around the comm. Everyone exchanges significant looks.

“He hasn’t pinged us,” Kitster announces, quite unnecessarily.

“He could still be flying,” Jobal says, although she doesn’t sound at all convinced.

“We could remotely activate his beacon to be sure,” suggests Padme. “Then we’d at least know where he is.”

There’s another long stretch of silence. Everyone looks at each other again.

“So,” Anakin says. “Are we going to find him or not?”

Predictably, Operative Mullet seems to have found himself in a spot of trouble.

Chapter 5: The Geonosis Extraction

Chapter Text

The Geonosis Extraction

Obi-Wan has gotten used to things not going according to plan. Being knighted for killing a Sith wasn’t the plan. Acquiring a padawan three seconds after being knighted wasn’t the plan either, and partnering with two younglings to try to bring down the leader of the free galaxy, who happened to be a secret Sith, certainly wasn’t the plan.

Likewise, getting caught after five minutes of furtive exploring on Geonosis, the planet Jango Fett fled to, didn’t throw him off very much. Discovering a Separatist droid factory didn’t either. Even his grandmaster swanning into his cell and trying to get him to join the Separatist Alliance, while simultaneously making dire warnings about a Sith hidden in the Senate and accidentally confirming that Palpatine was leading both sides of the burgeoning conflict, didn’t really faze him. Frankly, Obi-Wan had to hold himself back from saying, “No, really?” and giving Operation Fountain away.

When Dooku left his cell in a dramatic huff, cloak flaring out behind him, Obi-Wan took a few moments to applaud himself for his restraint before the Geonosian guards grabbing him reminded him that Dooku’s parting words were something to the tune of, “Then you will face execution!”

While unfortunate, that particular turn of events didn’t really move Obi-Wan. It was almost boring; he expected more of Dooku.

What did throw him for a loop — and in hindsight, it truly shouldn’t have — was seeing Padme and Anakin being wheeled into the arena after him and chained to the two poles next to him.

As the Geonosians flutter away, chittering amongst themselves, Anakin rolls his head toward Obi-Wan and gives him a grin that’s brighter than the Geonosian sun. “Hi, Master.”

Obi-Wan slaps him in the face with a hooded look and curses Qui-Gon — not for the first time — for dying. He should be the one having to deal with this, while Obi-Wan is at home in the Temple, doing sensible things like planning how to rescue his idiots.

Unfortunately, he’s coming to understand that he is also an idiot. It’s not a pleasant revelation. “Why are you here?”

“We got worried,” Padme says, and despite the situation, she manages to make it sound like Obi-Wan grossly trampled etiquette into the dirt and spat on it for good measure. “You didn’t ping us.”

“So we came to rescue you,” adds Anakin, utterly insufficiently and utterly unrepentantly.

Obi-Wan takes a moment to bang the back of his head against his pole before briefly lifting his gaze to the manacles around his wrists. “Good job.”

“You’re welcome,” Padme says from between her teeth. She’s busy taking something out of her mouth — a long straight pin, from what Obi-Wan can tell. For some obscure reason, she’s wearing a bright white jumpsuit, as if that’s appropriate attire for a supposed stealth rescue mission.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “I’m incredibly grateful to see my two young charges also be slated for execution. It’s a personal dream of mine. I’ll be sure to thank you again when I get to watch you both die.”

Padme makes a rude gesture in their sign language and keeps fiddling with her pin and her manacles. Obi-Wan shudders to think what her plan is, especially since he’s currently witness to the results of her last one.

“Don’t worry, Master.” Anakin’s grin is wide and entirely situationally inappropriate. With his manacled hands, he signs, We’ve got a plan.

Obi-Wan raises his eyes to the bronze sky. “Oh Force. We’re all going to die.”

“Don’t be so negative,” Anakin says as the gates at the other end of the huge arena rattle open. “We’re going to be fine, we just need to — oh Light, those are bigger than I expected.”

Three huge creatures emerge from the gates. One is a rough skinned red and black bull-like beast with a single horn spearing up from the end of its nose, the second is a green nightmare with entirely too many legs, and the third is some kind of huge cat with a horde of eyes and a mouth like a great slit.

Predictably, the nightmare heads Obi-Wan’s way. He presses back against the pole, summoning the Force to try to unlock his manacles before the thing can reach him. “You were saying?” Beside Anakin, Padme starts furiously working her pin into the lock of her chains.

“Okay, well, I know this looks bad.” With irritating speed, Anakin unlocks his manacles and starts on Obi-Wan’s — wonderful, he can die knowing his padawan is better than him at fine-tuning the Force. “But we only have to hold out a little while.”

Obi-Wan’s cuffs drop open at the same time as Padme’s do. Before he can yell, “Don’t be a fool, you’re not a Jedi!” at her, she’s already using her chain to scale the pole. Instead, he shouts, “A little while?” at Anakin.

“Well, it’s not as if this was Plan A!” Anakin braces himself as the bull creature charges toward him. To his right, the cat heads right for Padme, who is already halfway up her pole. “It’s Plan B — when Amu realizes we’re —”

“When Amu?” Obi-Wan dodges around the nightmare as it lurches at him, sliding between its legs and coming up behind it. It spins, but not before he uses the Force to snap one of its legs. It screeches, spinning on him, and it occurs to him that kriffing it off is perhaps not the best plan. “You brought your mother?” He ducks beneath a wild swipe the nightmare makes with its front pincer. The pincer, deadly sharp, whistles above his head like a blade.

Anakin backflips out of the way of the bull’s charge and somehow manages to lasso it with his chain, briefly tying it to his pole. “I didn’t bring her. You know she brought herself, and you should be glad of it because —”

“And I suppose you brought Operative Womp Rat too?”

“Well, was I supposed to leave him home?”

“You were all supposed to leave yourselves home!” The nightmare advances on Obi-Wan again. He retreats and ends up pressed against Anakin’s back as the bull and nightmare both herd them toward the poles again. Just behind them, Padme is crouched atop her pole, beating the cat back with her chain.

“Well, it’s a little late now, isn’t it?” Through the Force, Obi-Wan feels Anakin stretch out to the bull, trying to connect with it.

Eyeing the advancing nightmare, from its sharp teeth to its snapping pincers and rolling eyes, Obi-Wan decides there isn’t a point in trying to do the same with it. Judging from Anakin’s strangled yell behind him and the thump of the bull landing on its side when Anakin hurls it away with the Force, he didn’t have much luck with the nonlethal path either. “I don’t suppose,” Obi-Wan says, hitting another of the nightmare’s legs with the Force again, “that Operative Miracle is close to executing Plan B?”

“Well —” Anakin hauls Obi-Wan sideways as the bull charges past them, slamming into Anakin’s pole with enough force to knock it down “— she wasn’t expecting us to get captured.”

“Why in the stars wasn’t she expecting that?” Obi-Wan yanks Anakin into a somersaulting roll just in time to avoid the nightmare scything off both their heads as it leaps over them. It cannons into the bull, leaving a long gash down the thing’s scaly side, and the two of them scuffle on the dusty ground for a few spare seconds, giving Anakin and Obi-Wan time to back towards Padme’s pole in an attempt to distract the cat from her.

When the cat does whirl on them, muscles bunching as it prepares to pounce, and the bull and nightmare leave off fighting each other in favor of mauling the two causes of their pain, it occurs to Obi-Wan that this was not, perhaps, the smartest course of action.

“Oh kriff,” Anakin says feelingly as the three creatures advance on them in a pincer formation, leaving them no option except to back up against Padme’s pole.

“Language,” Obi-Wan manages with a weak laugh. “I never thought I’d say this, but what the hell is your amu doing?”

“Her best,” Anakin offers.

“That’ll be on our tombstones!” Just as all three of the creatures throw themselves at him and Anakin, Obi-Wan wraps his arms about Anakin’s waist, hauling him against his side, and pushes off from the ground. The Force buoys them both up, and they careen toward the top of Padme’s pole.

Obi-Wan hits the edge of it hard, the air whooshing out of his lungs, but Anakin manages to land on the top of it without knocking Padme off her perch. A second later, he and Padme are both clinging to the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic and dragging him onto solid ground. Another second, and the three of them are huddled in a strange triad at the top of the pole while the three creatures prowl beneath them. The air is filled with a mixed symphony of growling, chittering, and lowing.

“Good job,” Padme pants in a sarcastic imitation of Obi-Wan’s earlier tone. “You’ve managed to unite all three of them in hatred of us.” With a swipe of her chain, she knocks the cat away from them again as it tries to claw its way up the pole. Below, the bull backs up, scuffing one massive foot against the ground and lowering its head in preparation to charge.

“We were trying to help you,” Obi-Wan snaps back, grabbing her wrist to stop her from overbalancing and tipping over the edge. “Which wouldn’t have been necessary if both of you had stayed on Naboo where you belonged! Stars, you can’t even let me get executed in peace.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Anakin says, knocking the bull aside before it can crash into the pole and bring it down. “We didn’t want you to die. We’re the worst.”

“You are so —”

“Shut up, both of you!” Padme reaches back behind her and grabs them both by the hand, squeezing tightly. “We’re not going to die arguing.”

“Why not?” Anakin laughs weakly. “It’s how we live.”

“Shut up, Ani. If we’re going to die, there’s something I have to say, and you can’t interrupt, because otherwise I’ll never get it out —”

“Oh no.” Obi-Wan raises his eyes to the sky and almost wishes for a swift death. “You are not doing this now.”

“I said don’t interrupt me.”

“This is not the time!”

“I might not have time later. If it bothers you so much, plug your ears!”

“Force, you’re both worse than Shula and Coran.”

“Hey!” This is from Anakin, grunted out amidst him interrupting the bull’s charge again, at the same time as Obi-Wan breaks another of the nightmare’s legs.

“Who?” Padme manages to throw Obi-Wan a simultaneously confused and furious glare before turning back to Anakin. “It doesn’t matter. Ani, if we’re going to die and even if we aren’t, I need you to know — I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

There’s a stretch of silence, broken only by the cat yowling below them, in which Obi-Wan has time to wonder if padawans are returnable. Then Anakin yells, “You love me?”

“You didn’t know?” Obi-Wan snatches the chain from Padme and whacks the cat in the face as it scrabbles at the top of the pole, teeth snapping. It falls backward and hits the ground hard, giving Obi-Wan enough time to unfavorably reassess his padawan’s intelligence. “How did you miss it?”

“I thought we were just friends! I thought I loved her, and she would never —”

Padme twists and peers around Obi-Wan, mouth open. “You love me back?”

Just then, hurling himself off the pole seems like a viable option. He can’t believe he’s spent ten years operating under the assumption that Padme and Anakin are smart enough to pull off a secret operation meant to undermine the leader of the free galaxy. “Apparently, everyone knew this but you two!”

Neither of them are listening to him. They’re too busy staring at each other like they expect to find the answers to the galaxy’s biggest questions in each other’s eyes, which leaves Obi-Wan to fend off a three pronged attack from the creatures below alone. Amid his cursing, Padme says in a breathy whisper, “I love you more than anything.”

“Not more than I love you,” Anakin returns, squeezing past Obi-Wan (nearly tipping him off the pole in the process) to catch Padme in his arms and kiss her passionately enough to make Obi-Wan throw up in his mouth a little bit.

This is, of course, when the droid factory and fortress go up in flames as a series of explosions deep in factory foundations go off at once. The deep throated booms tremble in Obi-Wan’s chest and send the three creatures and the audience in the arena’s stands scrambling for cover, but Anakin and Padme don’t even come up for air. Obi-Wan grabs them both to steady them as the ground shakes and the pole lists to the side.

“It seems that Operative Miracle finally enacted Plan B,” Obi-Wan yells over the sound of the factory collapsing in on itself. Dust billows up and half chokes him. Padme and Anakin still don’t react. “Thank the Light someone has their head in the game.”

In response, Padme sinks her hands deeper in Anakin’s hair. Anakin pulls her closer against himself.

“Really, thank goodness I have support. I’d really be lost without you two.”

Cracks appear in the floor of the arena, sand spilling down into them. Flames engulf the factory. The air fills with escape shuttles.

“You know,” Obi-Wan says as the pole tilts some more, “I’m not sure your amu thought this extraction through.”

Demonstrating for the first time that her hearing is still somewhat intact, Padme extracts a hand from Anakin’s hair long enough to flap it at him. Anakin just uses one hand to sign, She has it handled.

Before Obi-Wan can find a way to answer, the roar of ships overhead drowns out thought. Hair whipping across his forehead, he tilts his head back to see a Republic destroyer, flanked by a dozen gunships, descending on the burning factory. As he waves an arm in the air to try to get the gunships’ attention, he says with a vengeful thrill, “The Republic’s here, operatives.”

This is finally enough to get Anakin and Padme to spring apart as though they’re similarly charged magnets. Scrubbing a hand through his hair and clinging to Padme lest she overbalance on the tilted pole, Anakin says, “Do you think they saw that?”

Obi-Wan looks first at him and then at the imploding factory. “No. No, I think they were otherwise occupied.”

# # #

In the chilly briefing room of the destroyer, Mace pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s go over it one more time,” he says, wanting to do the exact opposite. “You left Naboo against express orders, and then what?”

Anakin, somehow bright eyed in spite of the late hour and the fact that he had spent the day avoiding execution, says, “I told you — Senator Amidala and I went to the droid factory to investigate and try to rescue Master Obi-Wan since his last transmission gave us reason to believe he was in trouble.”

“And you thought this was a good idea, why?”

# # #

“I already told you,” Padme answers from her side of the briefing table, endeavoring to sound exactly like a rebellious teenling caught with deathsticks. “It wasn’t Padawan Skywalker’s idea — it was mine.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Adi says. She considers putting her head down on the table but decides that wouldn’t be appropriate behavior for a Jedi Master and member of the Council to engage in. “I asked you why you chose to disregard the Chancellor’s orders and go to Geonosis.”

“Well, I thought it was quite obvious,” Padme says. She manages to wordlessly convey her impression of Adi’s intelligence. It isn’t favorable. “I wanted to find out who was trying to kill me.”

“By delivering yourself to their doorstep?”

# # #

“I’m not impressed by their actions either.” Obi-Wan massages his temples. “I’m sure my padawan had the best of intentions as always, but he and the senator were clearly acting emotionally.”

“Yes,” says Tholme. As he drums his fingers against the edge of the briefing room table, he reflects that he never expected Quinlan to demonstrate more tactical forethought than Obi-Wan, but here they are. “But we weren’t speaking of their actions. We were speaking of yours.”

Obi-Wan gives him a wide-eyed, innocent look that Tholme remembers vividly from his and Quinlan’s padawan days. “My actions? I was simply fulfilling my mission.”

“By going into Separatist territory,” Tholme says. “Alone. Without notifying anyone.”

“I did notify Anakin and Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan points out, having the temerity to sound offended on his own behalf. “Since it wasn’t feasible to get a signal to Coruscant.”

“And Anakin and Senator Amidala simply didn’t forward your message on to Coruscant as you asked them to?”

Obi-Wan gives an openhanded shrug. “You know how padawans are.”

Yes, Tholme does, but even Quinlan never infiltrated an enemy fortress with a civilian in tow. It’s vaguely frightening that Obi-Wan is taking this so in stride.

“Besides,” Obi-Wan goes on, “I didn’t ask them to sabotage the factory.”

# # #

“And how,” Mace says, “did you manage to get a hold of such a… volume of explosives at Padme’s family’s home?”

Anakin sets his chin in his hand. “You’d really have to ask the Naberries that.”

Mace doesn’t dare.

# # #

“The explosives?” Padme shrugs — shrugs. Adi reassesses her entire opinion of this tiny Nabooian senator — for perhaps the fifth time since she started this debrief. “I’m a public figure, and I’ve got lots of enemies. You have to have heard about the huge bounty the Hutts have got on my head for my antislavery work. My parents just want to keep me safe.”

Adi blinks several times. “By keeping military grade explosives in, where? The kitchen?”

Padme shakes her head scornfully. “Not the kitchen.”

# # #

“I think they were in the basem*nt, actually,” Anakin says. “Like I said, you’d have to ask the Naberries. I was busy, you know. Protecting Senator Amidala.”

Mace just stares at him wordlessly and vows to never set foot on Naboo again unless it is absolutely necessary.

Given recent events, it is probably going to be necessary far more often than he would like. “Protecting Senator Amidala,” he repeats, hoping that hearing the words from someone else’s mouth will alert Anakin to the sheer insanity of his story so far.

“Yes,” Anakin says, emphasizing the word like he thinks Mace missed something.

# # #

“Of course I’m satisfied with Padawan Skywalker’s protection,” Padme snorts, folding her arms.

“Even though his time as your bodyguard ended with you being sentenced to execution?” Disregarding all professionality, Adi rubs her eyes with both hands. Never before has she been driven closer to catatonia by someone barely old enough to buy her own alcohol.

“I told you, that was my idea.”

“I see.” It was also, apparently, Padme’s explosives as well. Or her family’s explosives, really.

“And he’s still my bodyguard,” adds Padme in the defensive, imperious tone of a rich girl who is used to getting exactly what she wants.

# # #

“Look, Tholme.” Obi-Wan pushes his hair back from his face. “They confuse me as much as they do you, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Ideally,” Tholme says, “monitor their incendiary usage.”

“I wasn’t even there!”

“Yes, but you still raised a padawan who thought that infiltrating the presumed stronghold of the people trying to kill his protectee with his protectee was a good idea.”

Obi-Wan gives him a flat look. “We both know that Anakin has always been like this. If anything, I’ve been a mitigating influence.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Without me, he probably wouldn’t have thought it through long enough to bring the explosives.”

Tholme huffs out a laugh and slumps back in his chair.

“And again, it was Senator Amidala’s idea. Not Anakin’s.”

# # #

“You do understand the Republic is at war now, yes?” Mace pinches the bridge of his nose again. He definitely has a migraine coming on.

“Of course I do,” Anakin answers, with exactly the opposite of the level of respect that is due to a member of the Jedi Council. “I mean, Count Dooku wasn’t exactly subtle. Something about our deaths being the opening volley? I don’t know, I stopped listening.”

“You stopped listening. To the man who was about to kill you. The Sith Lord.”

“Yes.” Anakin lifts an eyebrow. “You keep doing that — can you not hear me or something?”

# # #

“Frankly,” Padme says, “you should be thanking Padawan Skywalker and I.”

“Oh?” Adi sits back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. She can’t wait to hear this. “How so?”

Padme gives her a grin that is as wide as a tooka’s after it manages to steal the cream. “Well, it seems to me that the two of us managed to win you the first battle of the war, all on our own. If I were you, I’d be capitalizing on this for morale.”

# # #

“I mean,” Anakin says, “Senator Amidala really was incredibly brave. I hear the clones are already calling her the Angel of the GAR.”

# # #

“On my way here,” Padme goes on, “I think I did hear some of the other Jedi calling Padawan Skywalker a hero. They’re quite right, wouldn’t you say?”

# # #

“Despite the recklessness of their actions,” Obi-Wan says, standing up in a way that signals that — whatever Tholme thinks — the debriefing is over, “I am of the opinion that commendations are in order for both of them. Don’t you agree?”

# # #

Several hours later, Mace, Adi, and Tholme gather in their own debriefing room and share a bottle of Concordian wine.

“They’re insane,” Tholme offers around the edge of his glass. “All three of them. Clinically. And that’s me talking.”

“I’m not sure what to make of Senator Amidala,” Adi says, “but I rather think being queen so young did something to fundamentally unbalance her.”

Mace snorts. “No, I think that’s just a function of being Nabooian. You didn’t hear Skywalker talk about her family and their basem*nt of explosives.”

“No,” Adi admits, “but I did hear the senator talk about them. Apparently she has a Hutt bounty on her head big enough to buy a small moon, and her parents feel that grenades are the best way to protect her.”

“Is that even legal?” asks Mace, pouring himself more wine.

“On Naboo, apparently.” Tholme swirls his glass in between his hands. “Senator Amidala authored some impressive self defense laws during her tenure as queen.”

Adi almost chokes on her wine. “Of course she did. I’m starting to understand why she and Anakin get along so well.”

“Now do you see why I let Kenobi deal with the pair of them whenever possible?” Mace shakes his head and stares contemplatively at the wall. “They’re bad enough when they’re not blowing up top secret Separatist outposts and kriffing off Sith Lords.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Tholme says, lifting his glass in a tired toast.

# # #

The Naberrie family watches the grainy video footage of the factory collapsing in on itself. The footage has been playing on every news station on the holonet for twenty-four hours straight, but this is their first opportunity to watch it since Shmi, Kitster, and Sabe arrived home from Geonosis — dusty, battered, and triumphant.

“Do you think you used enough explosives?” Sola asks in her dryest voice as several spires of the factory implode at once. The center of the factory glows like the mouth of hell. “Are you really, really sure?”

Kitster flops down on the sitting room couch, sending up a puff of dust that makes Jobal narrow her eyes at him. “We left plenty in the store, okay?”

“Speaking of the store,” Sabe says, “you might want to hide some of it. I think the Jedi Order is a bit interested in the contents of our basem*nt right now.”

Ruwee presses his lips together. “Of course they are.”

Shmi, engrossed in combing the dust and Geonosian blood and gunk from her hair, sighs. “Ani had to explain how he got the explosives somehow.”

“Did he have to tell them the truth, though?” asks Sola.

“Honesty is the best policy,” Jobal says, sounding as though she doubts her own words.

Sola gives her a look. “Even when you’re conspiring against the Chancellor of the Republic?”

Jobal shrugs and gets up. “Just help me hide the armory before they get here, mon ange.”

Chapter 6: Mission: Wedding

Chapter Text

Mission: Wedding

“Now?” Obi-Wan stares at Anakin and Padme across the terrace that looks out over the lake. The Naberrie manor is a sprawling affair, with a lawn that rolls down to a forest ringed lake and a basem*nt large enough to arm a not insignificant number of people.

It also has a second basem*nt — smaller but no less serviceable — possessing the distinct advantage of being secret. As an armory, it’s rather cramped, but given that it also houses all the holocrons that contain the data they’ve collected on Palpatine, as well as all their plans and information on their antislavery operations, Obi-Wan prefers being cramped to being beheaded.

But none of that matters right now. Right now Obi-Wan would almost rather be beheaded than deal with the two children he accidentally adopted, who are frankly old enough to know better, who both have at least one biological parent. “Tell me you’re joking. Tell me that you both took a whiff of spice and are just coming off a high. Tell me you're not that stupid.” He clasps his hands. “Please.”

Anakin reaches up to smooth his hair — their universal sign for shut up, Obi-Wan — and Padme just holds up her left hand, which now boasts a ring that is absolutely a product of Jobal’s jewelry box, especially since Anakin hasn’t had any time to procure a ring himself.

Obi-Wan is silent a moment, suppressing the scream building in his chest, and finally manages a weak, “Why?”

Anakin shrugs. “Well, when else are we going to have the time?”

Obi-Wan considers the logistics of picking him up and hurling him in the lake. Given that Anakin is six feet tall and about twenty pounds heavier than he is, it doesn’t seem worth it. “Anakin.” He presses his hands together. “There is a war on. You didn’t miss that, right? Geonosis? The droid factory? The fact that Jedi are being drafted into the GAR?”

“You forgot about the fact that Palpatine’s behind it all,” adds Padme. “And playing both sides of the war, if what Dooku said is anything to go by.”

Pausing to wonder if it’s possible that the explosion on Geonosis took out Dooku as well (he doubts they’re that lucky), Obi-Wan says, “Yes. That.”

“That’s exactly the reason we’re getting married now,” Anakin says, as if that makes any sense at all. “We might not have time later.”

“Exactly,” Padme agrees, nodding. “It’s only practical.”

A disbelieving laugh creaks out of Obi-Wan’s throat. “Practical?”

Padme narrows her eyes at him. “Yes.” She says it like a threat.

“Padme.” Obi-Wan pulls in a deep breath. “You didn’t know you were in love last week. This is anything but practical.”

“I knew I was in love. I just didn’t know about him.”

“Me too,” Anakin adds. “So you see, we’re actually on the same page, which makes this the perfect time.”

Obi-Wan feels a muscle in his eye start to twitch. “No, it isn’t!” He gesticulates like he’s trying to land a ship, hoping the movements get his point across more clearly. Judging by Padme and Anakin’s expressions, they mostly just make him look unhinged. “The practical thing to do would be to…” He struggles for words. “To not do this,” he finishes, grimacing.

Anakin raises an eyebrow. “Is that really the best you have, Master?”

Obi-Wan is silent for a long moment, letting the sound of birdsong from the trees surrounding the lake fill the gap between him and Anakin and Padme. They look very angelic, the pair of them, with the summer sun streaming down and the creamy stone of the manor behind them.

For a second, he can almost believe they aren’t the source of his hypertension. “I don’t suppose my natural authority as your master counts here?” he asks, letting himself hope for just a moment.

Anakin grins, dazzlingly. “Nope! Besides, I’m getting knighted when we get back to Coruscant, remember?”

Obi-Wan has been trying to forget. An Anakin Skywalker without the restraint of a padawan braid isn’t something that bears thinking about. “So there’s nothing I can do to stop you?”

“Nope!”

“Can I at least withdraw from the proceedings?”

Padme gives him a look. “What do you think?”

Obi-Wan sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. “Now?”

This is, of course, his way of saying yes.

# # #

Anakin tips his head to one side, examining the frosting Sola is whipping for the wedding cake. “I think you need to add more purple coloring.”

Sola whips her head toward him, blowing the strands of hair fallen loose from her bun out of her face in one bad tempered huff. Two bright spots of red mark her cheeks, summoned by the heat from the huge oven. “What?”

Anakin looks back at her steadily, leaning both elbows on the stone counter. Sola stopped scaring him years ago. “It’s too yellow. You need to add purple.”

“Ani —”

“It’s for Padme.” He lifts widened, liquid eyes to her.

Sola redoubles her glare. “And when did you learn color theory?”

“Sola, I’ve spent over half my life with your family. I didn’t have a choice except to learn color theory. You, Padme, and Jobal spout it off every five seconds.” He taps the counter. “Add more purple.”

Sola lifts her spatula from the bowl and points it at him. “I’ll kill you and bury you in the woods.”

“As long as you add more purple and wait till after the wedding.” He jerks forward and kisses the Sola’s temple, catching her head in one hand. “Love you!” he says, dodging away before Sola can daub frosting all over his face in retaliation.

“You can’t run forever!” she yells after him as he beats a hasty retreat.

Spinning on his heel and pausing in the archway leading from the kitchen to the dining room, Anakin grins at her. “It’s my wedding day, Sola. I’m not running, I’m flying.”

Sola can’t keep back a fond smile at that, even as she beats the icing like its a recalcitrant horse. “Go find Obi-Wan, Ani. Mère is getting Pooja and Ryoo into their dresses, and we’re trying to find Sabe.”

Anakin is just about to do what she says, but her last words make him stop with one foot poised in the air. “Trying to find Sabe?”

“She’s undercover in town — checking for assassins, you know.” Sola sighs and pushes her hair back from her face.

“Because in this family they’re a real possibility?”

Sola rolls her eyes. “Yes. Go.”

“Tyrant,” he says fondly before obeying and ducking out into the dining room. He turns in a half circle, searching for any sign of Obi-Wan, and is greeted by the sight of his master lurching through the paned double doors that lead out onto the terrace, almost shattering them in his haste. Eyes wild, he closes the gap between him and Anakin and grabs him by the shoulders, gripping tightly.

Anakin stumbles back. “Obi-Wan? What’s going on? Did you accidentally walk in on Padme changing or something? Because if you did, I might have to kill you in ritual combat, which would be really —”

Obi-Wan’s face is very close to his. He spits the next words in several panicked exhales. “Palpatine — is — here.”

Anakin chokes. “Where?”

“Does it matter?” Obi-Wan starts shoving him in the direction of the silverware closet, ignoring Sola as she stands frozen in the archway between the dining room and kitchen, her spatula dripping icing all over the floor. “Him being in a fifty mile radius of here is a death warrant for us.”

“And how is shoving me into a closet going to help?” Anakin braces himself against the doorway and half twists around. “I’m supposed to be here.” Just like Palpatine isn’t supposed to be here.

“Anakin, look at what you’re wearing.”

Anakin spares a half second to look down at himself, remembering anew that he’s currently dressed like a Nubian groom, all cream tunic and a surcoat embroidered with a combination of the Naberrie and Skywalker house emblems. All in all, he’s a walking Jedi Code violation, right down to the wedding ring sitting in the pocket of his surcoat. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Obi-Wan shoves him inside and throws a bundle of clothes in after him. “Change. Don’t make noise. Ruwee’s stalling Palpatine outside, but he won’t be able to for long.”

Anakin clutches his clothes to his chest. Nearby, there’s the sound of furious clattering in the kitchen — probably Sola either throwing the wedding cake out the window or disguising its true purpose. “What’s the plan?”

Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow. “Same as always. Lie through our teeth.”

“Consistency is nice.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Obi-Wan pauses in hauling the closet door shut to give Anakin a manic sort of grin. “The Jedi Council’s here too.”

Anakin almost drops his clothes. Sometimes, he thinks his life is the galaxy having a laugh on him. “Oh kri —”

The closet door slamming shut cuts him off.

# # #

“Padme, we have a problem,” comes Obi-Wan’s voice from behind her.

Halfway into her wedding dress and halfway out of her slip, Padme shrieks and spins around, clutching oceans of white silk and lace to her, and her attending handmaidens — Eirtae, Yane, and Sache — all make an aborted grab for their knives.

Obi-Wan is standing just inside her bedchamber, one hand firmly clapped over his eyes.

“What are you doing in here?” Padme endeavors to yank her slip further down around her waist without subsequently shoving her gown down and undoing all her hard work in covering herself. “Why didn’t you knock? Do the Jedi not have a concept of modesty because I swear to the stars I will beat it into —”

“Padme. Problem.” He signs it too, like he thinks she isn’t listening.

He’s not exactly wrong on that front. “What problem?”

There’s the sound of one of the outer doors opening and closing, echoing through the house because of queer trick of acoustics.

Voices rise and fall in the distance. Among them is a distinctive voice, just barely laced with a Nabooian accent, but he can’t be here —

Obi-Wan freezes midsign. “All right, upgrade that to an emergency.”

“Why is Palpatine here?” she hisses out. Never in her life has she wished more powerfully to be completely dressed.

“Oh, and the Jedi Council.”

“Why?”

Obi-Wan throws up his hands, remembers that he’s supposed to be covering his eyes, lets out a muted yell, and spins around. “Because the galaxy is laughing at us, clearly!”

“But we’re —”

“I know.”

“And the house —”

“I know. We just have to hide it.”

“Hide a wedding?”

“I already hid the groom!”

“You what?”

He waves his hands, sweeping away her words. “I’ll explain later. You need to not be in a wedding gown. I need you with me to get out ahead of this.”

“But what about Shmi and —”

“Family friends — it’s not like Palpatine or the Council know what Anakin’s family looks like. Palpatine probably doesn’t even know her name.” Obi-Wan starts toward the door, still not turning around. “I’ve got to go help Ruwee. Hurry.”

“You know,” Padme spits savagely, wriggling out of her gown and letting her slip’s skirt fall back into place, “None of this would be happening if you’d just let me poison him when I was thirteen.”

“Oh stars!” Obi-Wan lurches out into the hallway and disappears from view. “You have to let that go someday.”

Muttering under her breath, Padme drags on her simplest day gown, ignoring Yane’s attempts to help. “You know what? I hated him before, I did, but now it’s kriffing personal.” She marches toward the door, tying her sash around her waist. “Now he’s interrupted my wedding. His days are numbered.”

# # #

Anakin manages to change into slightly less incriminating clothes without knocking over the racks of silverware in the closet — a feat he’s going to demand gratitude from Jobal for — and slips out into the open again. There’s still an ominous commotion from the kitchen, but when Sola briefly appears all she does is stab a finger in the direction of the front foyer, where several very recognizable voices are filtering from.

Having learned long ago not to defy Sola when she has that particular expression, Anakin ducks into the corridor that leads to the foyer and emerges from it just as Padme emerges from the opposite corridor. There’s a distinctively harried air to her — not that anyone who didn’t know her would notice — and the look in her eyes is very briefly murderous as she stops in front of Palpatine and dips into a curtsey before inclining her head to the assembled members of the Jedi Council — Mace and Adi.

“Chancellor,” she says, with a bright and fastidiously genuine smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Before Palpatine responds, there’s the sensation in the Force of Obi-Wan, appearing out of the third entrance to the foyer, laying a shield over everything and hiding their true intentions from either Palpatine or Adi and Mace.

It’s probably all three, actually.

“Well, we simply had to visit the Angel of the GAR,” Palpatine answers, with the kind of crinkle eyed smile that makes Anakin wants to acquaint his face with wall — repeatedly. “And our other two heroes of Geonosis,” he adds, nodding to Anakin and Obi-Wan.

Anakin bows and calls up a look of fondness — which isn’t difficult once he remembers the time he laced Palpatine’s food with ipecac syrup as a way to get back at him for all the poisoning attempts. There was nothing like the memory of Palpatine’s skin going waxy as he stood very quickly and announced that he needed to cut the visit short for personal reasons to bring a smile to Anakin’s face. “We were just doing our jobs, Your Grace,” he says.

“And doing them quite well, if the reports I’ve heard are anything to go by,” says Palpatine, eliciting a muffled choke from Adi and a visible wince from Mace.

Across from Anakin, Obi-Wan meets Mace and Adi’s gaze with lifted brows, daring them to inject their opinions. Both of them abstain, but that doesn’t stop Mace from looking pained or from exuding an exhausted sort of disapproval into the Force.

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan says, coming to stand next to Padme — likely more to corral her than protect her, “I would rather he didn’t do his job so well if it means more near death experiences.” He gives Padme a narrow look. “It was quite distressing.”

Padme smiles again and says, “Oh, Obi-Wan, you’re so droll,” while simultaneously tucking a loose curl behind her hair.

Shut up, Obi-Wan.

Never one to not support Padme in kriffing off Obi-Wan, even in a situation like this, Anakin flicks his padawan braid back over his shoulder. “We were only trying to help you, Master.”

“Yes, you can hardly fault the boy for that,” Palpatine says.

Deciding not to let that one pass, Anakin says, “Oh, he can. It just won’t change anything. What brings you here, Masters, Your Grace?”

“Oh, we simply wanted to discuss security measures for Senator Amidala once her trauma leave has passed,” answers Palpatine, folding his hands in front of him. “After all, she’ll still be a target. It wouldn’t do to lose the Angel of the GAR, would it?”

Padme opens her mouth — in all likelihood intending to tell Palpatine exactly where he can stick his security measures — but Obi-Wan steps forward and tramples on the words before they pass her lips. “Shall we retire to the terrace to continue this conversation in comfort?”

“Yes!” A windblown looking Jobal comes into view, smoothing her skirts and generally trying to look like she didn’t run all the way up from the secret basem*nt, where she was doing final checks on the false identification papers she had drawn up for the latest batch of escapees from the Freedom Trail. “The terrace would be perfect,” she says, surely thinking of the unfortunate number of holophotos that dance on every surface in the sitting room, testifying to a decade of mutual association between the Naberrie and Skywalker families — with the damning addition of a singular Kenobi.

They’ve never had a need to hide the holophotos before, but apparently the Supreme Chancellor turned Sith Lord (or, rather, a Sith Lord turned Supreme Chancellor) visiting was an option. Assuming they all come out of this encounter unscathed, Anakin imagines there will be a pointed update to their security protocols, probably accompanied with no small degree of ranting from Obi-Wan and Amu, who choose to tag team everyone else at the worst of times.

Jobal leads the way up the corridor, past the kitchen — now ominously quiet, with Sola standing and smiling in the entrance like some kind of guardian — and to the frosted terrace door. She reaches out to open them, but Amu opens them from the other side first, slipping through the narrow gap and all but slamming the door behind her. She covers her haste with a bright smile and says, “Jobal, the garden party, remember? It’s entirely too busy out there for a meeting with such august persons as yourselves,” she adds to Palpatine, Mace, and Adi. There’s a twist of contempt to august, detectable only to Anakin and everyone else who knows Amu well.

“Oh, yes!” Jobal laughs, and it doesn’t sound like she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, even though she surely is. “I forgot. Silly me. It looks like we shall have to use the sitting room,” she says, raising her voice just enough for Sola to hear but not so much that it is suspicious.

Like clockwork, Sola exits the kitchen with a casual air, only hiking her skirts up and beginning to run when she’s out of view of Palpatine, Adi, and Mace. As the delicate patter of her slippers against the stone floor is joined by a few other sets of feet, no doubt handmaidens coming to help, Jobal gestures. “After you, Your Grace, Masters.”

Inclining his head in thanks — the simpering kriffhead — Palpatine starts for the corridor leading to the sitting room, flanked by Mace and Adi, and Amu, throwing a scowl at their retreating forms, ducks back outside.

As soon as all three of their backs are turned, Padme lurches forward with a murderous expression, and weaponless as she currently is, Anakin almost wants to see what would happen if she got a hold of Palpatine.

Unfortunately, Obi-Wan grabs her from behind before that happens and yanks her back, letting out a muffled grunt as she swings her feet off the floor in an attempt to break free. After a brief but fierce struggle, he manages to get her feet back on the ground, and this is approximately when Mace decides to look back over his shoulder, naturally followed by Adi and Palpatine.

They’re greeted by the sight of Obi-Wan and Padme gripping each other in a rather dramatic embrace, eyes wide. Anakin is just leaping to explain — though he only has half an idea as to how — when Obi-Wan says, “Apologies for the, er, emotional outburst,” in his stuffiest voice, releasing Padme and all but shoving her away as he steps back. Straightening his robes again, he says, “I just feel quite responsible for her after all these years, so it is a terrible relief to see her safe and well after everything that happened on Geonosis.”

Mace’s voice is weighed down by doubt. “I see.”

“He was so worried,” Padme supplies.

“She is a worrisome person,” Jobal adds, with only the faintest wrinkle in her brow betraying her tension. “Her and her ideals.”

“And tendencies toward blowing up droid factories,” says Anakin, happily laying his amu’s act of espionage at Padme’s feet.

“Yes, that,” Obi-Wan agrees. “So as you can see, she is not the easiest charge.”

“I see,” Mace says again, turning back around. Palpatine’s gaze lingers for a moment longer before he too turns and follows Mace.

Adi hangs back, squinting slightly. “A garden party?”

Padme lifts her chin. “Of sorts, yes.”

Adi presses her lips together. She doesn’t say, At a time like this? but the sentiment is clearly heard.

Sweetly, Padme says, “No one said I couldn’t enjoy my trauma leave.”

“No, no,” Adi agrees as she retreats a few steps down the corridor, pushed by the sudden and dangerous brightness in Padme’s eyes. Obi-Wan seems poised to grab her again, though Anakin would love to know how he thinks he’s going to be able to explain that one. “No, no one said that.”

Obi-Wan interrupts with a strained, too-high laugh. “That’s the Naberries for you!” He herds Padme forward without looking like he’s herding her. Against his thigh, he signs, Stand down, Operative Angel, I swear —

If you’d just let me kill him, Padme signs back.

Not going to happen! “Anyway,” Obi-Wan continues aloud as the four of them catch up with the others, “aren’t garden parties what we’re fighting for?”

Ahead of them, a pained expression passes over Mace’s face, and Anakin sees him make the distinct decision to not get involved. Clearly hiding a pained — or at least confused — look herself, Adi answers, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

“You should expand your horizons, Master Gallia,” Anakin says, slipping into the sitting room — thankfully vacant of both Sola and the holophotos — after her. When she lifts a brow ridge, obviously questioning if he meant to be disrespectful, he just looks back with wide, innocent eyes.

After all, she did contrive to trample all over his and Padme’s wedding. He can torment her a little bit — that’s allowed.

“What a lovely room,” says Palpatine in the particular vapid tone he uses when he would like to be doing anything else — like poisoning Obi-Wan, for instance. He settles into one of the antique armchairs tucked into the recessed window alcove, and Adi and Mace perch on the couch nearby, which leaves Anakin, Obi-Wan, Padme, and Jobal the settee. They all manage to squeeze onto it, but Obi-Wan and Padme end up next to each other, which isn’t going to help prevent rumors about them from spreading.

At least it’s better than the alternative, Anakin signs. You’re not the one marrying her.

I hate you, Obi-Wan signs back.

After a few painful minutes of small talk, Mace and Adi launch into the meat of the discussion — the proposed security plan for when Padme returns to the Senate. It’s eminently clear Palpatine put them up to it, even though he only rarely chimes in. While Padme is talking — well, protesting — Obi-Wan absently reaches for the plate of cookies that Sola brought in, that have been sitting unattended on the side table much too long for comfort, but Anakin forestalls him just in time with a surreptitious kick to the shin.

Honestly. Of all the things for Obi-Wan to forget about, Palpatine’s plans for his demise are perhaps the worst ones.

An hour later, they’re still talking. This is mostly because Adi, by dint of being the Senate liaison, lost her ability to reach a point years ago, but no small part of it is Padme’s fault, since she and the phrase “pick your battles” have never met.

Trapped in a sitting room with a Sith Lord or not, Anakin is fighting the urge to doze off, listing against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Assassination attempts are exciting, blowing up droid factories is exciting, but listening to people drone on for hours about things that don’t matter — because Padme has him, Obi-Wan, the handmaidens, and several dozen Tatooian agents embedded on Coruscant to protect her — is not.

What is exciting, in entirely the wrong way, is the sudden movement in the second entrance to the sitting room, a recessed affair that comes out a blind corner. Anakin, at the far end of the settee, is afforded a view through the opening that neither Adi and Mace nor Palpatine have, and as such, he has a front row seat to the moment when Sabe, apparently having entered the manor grounds through the tunnels left over from Naboo’s last great civil war and thus unaware of the manor’s visitors, appears, trailing a group of Amavikka refugees big enough to clump up behind her in a minor traffic jam when she jerks to a halt just out of view of the room at large. Judging by the way her eyes become saucers, she finally caught Palpatine’s voice.

Her mouth forms the word kriff, and she looks at Anakin like it is somehow all his fault, even though he isn’t the one who didn’t answer any of Obi-Wan’s frantic comms.

Apparently catching sight of Sabe, Padme inhales sharply and jams a subtle elbow into Obi-Wan’s ribs, taking advantage of the fact that Jobal, motivated by motherly rage and boredom in equal parts, is currently holding Mace, Adi, and Palpatine captive as she rants about the insufficiencies of Padme’s previous protection plan, about the unfair pressure it placed on Anakin, and about the lax security of the Senate that allowed the situation to occur in the first place.

Obi-Wan first chokes down a grunt of pain and then, when his eyes fall on Sabe and the Amavikka, he chokes down a yell, covering it as a fit of coughing.

Palpatine drags his pained yet attentive gaze from Jobal and turns it on Obi-Wan. “Knight Kenobi?” he queries, raising both eyebrows. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Obi-Wan manages, flapping a hand. Ahead of him, Sabe draws further back into the recess, but there’s nowhere else for her to take the Amavikka unless she opts to make the long and rather risky journey back to the tunnel entrance. “My throat is simply a little dry.”

“Would you like some tea?” asks Palpatine. He reaches toward the pot of tea occupying the table beside his chair, brought in by an enterprising Sola half an hour ago.

Any drink left next to Palpatine is potentially lethal. “No!” Anakin shouts before Obi-Wan can, voice far louder than he intended. As everyone looks at him and Sabe puts her head in her hands, he adds, “My master can’t have tea right now — he’s… he’s sworn off it for spiritual purposes.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to protest — his self preservation instincts seemingly overwhelmed by his desire for this not to turn into a repeat of the alcohol situation — so Anakin cuts in and says, “Just temporarily. He wants to focus and center himself, is all.” He finishes things off with a winning smile, ignoring the way Obi-Wan is blinking at him and acting like someone hearing this for the first time.

Before anyone can notice Obi-Wan’s reaction, Padme jumps to her feet, muttering something about getting him a glass of water, and suddenly lists dramatically to the side, clutching at her head. The glazed expression on her face is so realistic that Anakin has to shove down a surge of adrenaline as he leaps up.

“She looks like she’s going to faint!” he cries out, catching her arm. “Padme, are you all right?”

“Oh dear.” Jobal is beside Padme in a moment, strategically drawing her toward the other end of the sitting room. “She always used to take funny turns as a child. Mon ange, are you seeing green spots?”

Everyone, even Palpatine, gathers around Padme.

“Quick,” Jobal says, “get her to the chaise lounge! She needs to lie down.”

Mace, apparently making the split second decision that the last thing Obi-Wan and Padme need is more contact, swoops in and lifts a limp Padme into his arms, carrying her over to the lounge.

“Perhaps some tea?” Palpatine offers again. If he can’t send Obi-Wan into cardiac arrest, Padme is apparently the next best option.

“No!” Jobal and Obi-Wan say at once. Jobal hurries to add, “The heat of it — it — heat always makes these things worse.”

As Mace lays Padme on the lounge and everyone’s back is finally to the sitting room at large, Anakin spins around and makes frantic signs to Sabe, who is leaning around the corner of the recess. As soon as he gives her the signal, she strikes out across the sitting room on tiptoe, the group of refugees following her like strange ducklings.

Once, when they’re halfway across the room, Adi nearly turns around, making noises about going to the kitchen for a cold cloth, but Padme lets out a sharp cry like she’s been shot, which makes Adi spin back around and clasp Padme’s hand. After that Sabe and the others break into a muted run. Obi-Wan covers the sound by making loud inquiries about what Padme is currently feeling, and in another few moments, Sabe and her group are out of view, hopefully snatched up by Sola and transported to the secret basem*nt.

Padme gives them a minute’s head start before she sits up, sweeping her hair back from her face and giving everyone a dazzling smile. “Well. It seems to have passed. Thank you, everyone. I am so sorry for the disturbance.”

“You’re all right now?” Mace lifts an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

Padme lifts her eyebrow right back. “Yes.”

“Oh, she’s always like this,” Jobal says, helping Padme back to her feet. “She recovers quickly. You saw her on Geonosis, after all.”

“We did,” Mace says. “It was…” He clears his throat. “It was eye-opening.”

Padme dips into a surprisingly graceful curtsey for someone who had been supposedly on the brink of fainting mere seconds ago. “I aim to keep people guessing,” she tells Mace. “I’m glad to have succeeded. Now, if you will excuse me, as it seems that this conversation is not going to be as short as we hoped, I need to inform my friend Shmi that the party will have to start late. I will return in a few minutes.” Before anyone can stop her, she starts in the direction of the terrace before pausing after a few steps, twisting to look over her shoulder. “Knight Kenobi? Aren’t you going to accompany me?”

Obi-Wan startles. “Me?”

“Yes. It’s possible I may feel faint, and I would prefer someone were there to catch me.”

“Ah! Ah, yes.” Obi-Wan hurries to her side and takes her arm. “Of course, my lady.”

“Padawan Skywalker,” Mace says with little preamble as he eyes Obi-Wan and Padme’s proximity to each other. “Go with them.”

A laugh bubbles in Anakin’s throat. He pushes it down. “Master Windu?”

“Obi-Wan should have backup,” Adi says when Mace seems at a loss for words, nodding fiercely. “In case… in case Senator Amidala falls the other way.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees.

By this point, Palpatine is very clearly suppressing a laugh, and for a brief, strange moment, Anakin is overwhelmed by a sense of fellow feeling. Thankfully, it fades quickly, and he scurries across the room to take Padme’s other arm.

With the expression of a woman who got exactly what she wanted without even asking for half of it, Padme leads them out of the room.

# # #

Really, it should be harder to ambush two Jedi and shove them into the silverware closet, but Padme supposes a decade of familiarity has given her an encyclopedic knowledge of Obi-Wan and Anakin’s weaknesses. As it is, it only takes her a few seconds to wrench the closet open and wrestle them inside, shutting the door behind her.

In the half light inside the closet, Anakin sighs. “Back in here.”

She eyes him. “You were in here before?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. But remind me that my wedding robes are shoved in with the good spoons.”

“Padme.” Obi-Wan’s words are drenched in the tone he uses only when he’s finding her particularly unreasonable. “Why are we in this closet?” As he speaks, he shifts a little, managing to elbow Anakin and step on her toe at the same time.

It is not a large closet. It becomes even smaller when Padme says, “I want to get married. Today. Now.” The three idiots masquerading as government officials have contrived to both ruin her wedding day, take up over an hour of her time, and send her family scrambling like rabbits when a predator invades their warren. There’s only one course of action left.

Ruthless and immediate retaliation against both Palpatine and the Jedi Council in the form of binding marriage vows.

“You do…” Obi-Wan seems to struggle to find the right words. “You do realize where we are, yes?”

“A closet,” Anakin supplies.

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware, thank you,” says Padme. She endeavors to straighten out her skirt without rattling any silverware. She fails. “I see no reason why that should matter.”

“You see no reason why —” Obi-Wan steeples his hands over his nose. “What did I do, Light? What did I do to deserve them? Padme, the holy man is —”

“— in the basem*nt,” she finishes.

Obi-Wan is silent for a moment, like the exact location is news to him. “The basem*nt.”

“Yes. Mère put him there.”

“Your mère…” He doesn’t really finish his sentence, just lets his words trail into nothingness with a sigh. “So how exactly do you propose you get married?”

“You’re a Jedi,” Padme answers, speaking slowly because if she has to explain his own religion to him, perhaps he’s not as intelligent as she once thought. “You can marry people.”

“I can what now? How in the stars do you know that? That’s not in the…” His gaze falls on Anakin. “Oh, it is, isn’t it? That’s just the kind of thing you’d know, Anakin, I swear —”

“I researched it and told her about it,” admits Anakin. When Obi-Wan just keeps looking at him, he adds, lifting his chin, “What? I wanted to be prepared. You never know when you or someone else might need to get married on the fly. Like now.”

“Yes.” Padme takes Obi-Wan by the shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “So I need you to marry us now, secret operations and unexpected Sith Lord visits be damned. We can revel in the sheer irony of Jedi being licensed to perform marriages later.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth like he’s considering defending his religion, but then he just sighs again. “What are a few more vows broken?” he says. “It’s not as though I’m anything but a hypocrite anyway.”

“And you love it,” Anakin says, settling into his place by Padme’s side and clasping her hand in his.

She squeezes back, a tremor of excitement passing over her skin. It’s almost funny to think that all of this started with Obi-Wan and Anakin taking her aside ten years ago to tell her an insane story that ended with Obi-Wan falling into a fountain.

It’s definitely funny to think that she and her almost-husband bonded over a mutual desire to overthrow the leader of the free galaxy. “We’re ready,” she says, smiling up at Anakin.

Obi-Wan folds his hands into the sleeves of his robes and shakes his head. “Well, then, I suppose we should get it over with.”

“Is that how an officiant usually begins marriage ceremonies?” asks Anakin with cheekily pursed lips.

Obi-Wan doesn’t even look at him. “Shut up, padawan mine.” He takes a deep breath. “We have come together today in this closet to form a highly ill timed union between Anakin Skywalker and Padme Naberrie, two young, highly irresponsible people with unreasonable expectations of their elders.”

Padme resists the urge to step on his toe. “We can do without the editorial comments.”

“No. No, we can’t.”

“At least do the short version.”

“Yes, because Light forbid they begin to miss us. I’m sure the silverware closet will be the first place they look.”

“Just keep going,” Anakin says.

Narrowing his eyes into a distinctly put upon look, Obi-Wan continues. “Having received permission from their requisite guardians —” here he pauses to look at Anakin. “You have my permission, by the way. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah,” Anakin says, not grateful in the slightest. “As if you could’ve said no after Amu said yes.”

Eyes well and truly slitted now, Obi-Wan says, “Anakin and Padme stand hand in hand on this day to bind themselves to each other until death severs the ties between them — whether this death is of old age or by the hand of yours truly still remains to be seen. Before the Light, myself, and, well, the silverware, they promise to be faithful to each other, to love each other, and in every way show themselves worthy of holding the other’s heart.”

“The silverware counts as a legally binding witness?” asks Anakin with a snicker.

Obi-Wan draws himself up, Coruscanti accent filling his nasal cavity and making him sound like he has a sinus infection. “If I say they do, yes.”

Anakin waves his free hand. “Okay, then. Go on.”

“Do you both promise to keep the vows stated above to the best of your ability, to always fight for each other, to remain at each other’s side even if all the stars are knocked loose from their orbits? Or even if our resident Sith Lord finds us in this closet?”

That particular thought doesn’t bear thinking of. “I do,” Padme says.

Anakin has eyes only for her. “I do too.”

“Thank the Light, it’s almost over,” Obi-Wan says, though even in the dim light of that filters in through the crack under the closet door, Padme thinks she catches the glint of tears in his eyes. “Then by the power vested in me by the Jedi Order — a power they never informed me of — I pronounce you husband and wife.”

As Anakin sweeps Padme into a kiss, sending down a waterfall of silverware that would have hit the floor with a crash if he hadn’t caught it all with the Force, Obi-Wan adds, “I also pronounce you both idiots, but I somehow doubt that will have any effect.”

Padme and Anakin pull apart, and Padme can’t keep the widest of grins from exploding across her face. Even Obi-Wan is smiling, but it is perhaps more pained than anything else.

“I seem to be cursed to always be in uncomfortably close proximity to your public displays of affection,” he says.

“Speaking of public displays of affection.” Anakin’s smile turns evil. “You do know that Mace thinks you and Padme are in love now?”

Obi-Wan grimaces. “I’m aware. I’m sure it will be a delightful conversation when I return to the Temple.”

As Padme pushes open the closet door, she turns to look back over her shoulder. “It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, absently drinking in Anakin’s face now that she can see it properly again. Her husband. Operative Ekkreth and Operative Angel. “You’re ancient.”

Obi-Wan freezes halfway out of the closet. Beside him, Anakin presses his lips together so hard that they almost turn white. “Padme, I’m thirty-four. I’m only twelve years older than you.”

“And?” She shrugs. “And you’re old enough to be Ani’s père!”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, nodding. “I had him when I was fifteen, me and my child bride!”

Padme lays a patronizing hand on his shoulder. “Now you’re being ridiculous, Operative Mullet.”

Obi-Wan glares at her. “I can’t wait until you see the other side of thirty. Both of you.”

As one, Padme and Anakin tuck their hair behind their ears.

Chapter 7: The Disinformation Campaign

Chapter Text

The Disinformation Campaign

Sheev isn’t used to things not going exactly according to plan, but the past decade has been an exercise in improvisation. He supposes it may be beneficial for him to get some practice, just in case anything ever goes catastrophically wrong, but he’s finding that there’s nothing more offensive than laying out a beautiful tapestry of carefully orchestrated events — all knocking against each other like dominoes, toppling toward the perfect conclusion — only to have a clumsy and socially inept padawan with the gall to have the greatest gifting of the Force that Sheev had ever seen, a sanctimonious Jedi Knight given an apprentice far too early, and a former child queen who looks at him with barely masked disdain trample all over the tapestry and knock the dominoes off course just enough to require a deviation from Sheev’s original plan.

At this point, Sheev has taken so many steps to the left that he’s no longer at all sure where he began, though he is still thankfully certain of where he is going.

Kenobi, however, still presents a problem. He’s managed to evade Sheev’s attempts on his life — with very little grace but an overabundance of luck — for long enough that it’s becoming clear that he knows more than he is saying.

But if the poster boy of the Jedi Order suspects Sheev of even the tiniest hint of wrongdoing, why hasn’t he gone running to the Council? They are still entirely oblivious — of that Sheev is certain. So why has Kenobi chosen to play what he knows so close to his chest? And why has he so clearly fallen into some kind of clandestine relationship with Padme Amidala, when it is abundantly clear that Anakin has feelings for her?

Sheev leans back in his chair, as the late afternoon sunlight drenches his office in gold, and steeples his fingers in front of his face. Perhaps the golden child of the Temple is not so golden after all. Not a Sith, exactly, but someone with enough of a thirst for power to take advantage of any situation presented to him.

Sheev could almost respect Kenobi if that were indeed the case, if only he weren’t simultaneously getting in the way.

Padme must not have all the information. For all her intermittent inscrutability, she doesn’t strike Sheev as someone who would use his plans for her own political gain, not when they risked her oh-so-beloved democracy. Kenobi must be lying to her, or she is simply blinded by love. Little girls are not so difficult to manipulate, after all.

Of course, if Kenobi thinks he can win this little game, he is a fool. Sheev is a consummate winner. He always has been. And Kenobi has — inadvertently or otherwise — given Sheev the perfect way to gain the upper hand in the fight over Anakin, the one he and Kenobi have been locked in for the better part of a decade.

How will Anakin feel to see the woman he loves pine for his former master?

Oh, Sheev can work with this. Even if his attempts to take Kenobi out of the game continue to fail, he can definitely work with this.

# # #

“All right.” Sitting on one of the low seats in Yoda’s apartments, Mace leans forward and presses his hands together. “Explain it to me one more time. Why should we give Initiate Tano to Skywalker to train?”

Yoda sighs heavily. “Explained it five times already, I have.” This is perhaps the first time Mace has heard Yoda irritated, but the dynamic duo that is Skywalker and Obi-Wan continues to push everyone on the Council to their very limit.

Mace gives Yoda a narrow look. “Explain it again .”

“Doubt my reasoning, do you?”

“No, Master. I just doubt that the barely knighted child that blew up the droid factory with explosives he looted from Senator Amidala’s basem*nt is ready for an apprentice.” Mace shudders. “Who knows what they’ll blow up together.”

“That is why, padawan our Skywalker needs,” Yoda says, tapping his gimer stick against the floor. “Responsibility, it will teach him. Balance. Wisdom. Self-assurance.”

Mace almost snorts at that. The last thing Skywalker needs is more self-assurance. Balance is perhaps a worthy thing for him to learn, if the balance Yoda is referring to is the ability to not trip over his own feet.

As if sensing Mace’s skepticism, Yoda adds, “A rite of passage, this is. Great things, Skywalker has to teach. Give him the chance, we must.”

There are definite shades of someone grasping at straws in Yoda’s tone. Narrowing his eyes further, Mace says, “You just don’t want to give her to Obi-Wan. That’s it, isn’t it?” From what Mace has heard of Initiate Tano from her perpetually exhausted crechemaster — who all but ambushed the Council and demanded that they take Initiate Tano off her hands now , before she “lost her kriffing mind” — Obi-Wan and Skywalker are the only available Jedi in the entire Temple who stand a chance of handling the child.

And of the two of them, Anakin is somehow the more favorable option. At least he isn’t romantically entangled with Senator Amidala and doing a bad job of keeping it secret. Obi-Wan must take Mace for a fool if he thought the fiasco at Senator Amidala’s home didn’t reveal everything.

Yoda sighs again. “Correct, you are.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mace says, “We will have to warn her.”

# # #

Ahsoka doesn’t know what the usual protocol for assigning an initiate to a Jedi Knight is, but she is fairly certain it doesn’t tend to involve the entire Council convening for a special meeting, specifically for her benefit. Standing in the center of the ring of chairs, she shifts from foot to foot, trying to remember if she did anything egregious enough to warrant a telling-off by the entire Council.

Master Windu is the first one to speak. “Initiate Tano,” he says. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

Casting a hopeful look in Master Plo’s direction and receiving nothing but a useless brow lift in return, Ahsoka says, rather helplessly, “Not in the slightest, Master Windu.”

Master Windu sighs and slides a bad-tempered scowl in Master Plo’s direction, leaving Ahsoka to grapple with the startling realization that the great masters could be just as petty as any average Jedi. “Plo was supposed to explain.”

Plo leans back in his chair. “Mace, my friend, I could not even begin to explain this debacle. Besides, you and Adi were the ones present for both the infamous debrief and the… incident on Naboo.”

Ahsoka blinks. Now she’s even less sure of what’s going on. “I’ve never even been to Naboo, Masters,” she tries.

Master Yoda gives her a sympathetic look. “About you, this is not, young one.”

“Well…” Master Gallia winces. “It is slightly about her. Incidentally.”

“Can somebody just tell me what’s going on?” At her tone, all the Council members turn judgmental eyes on her. She clears her throat and clasps her hands in front of her. “Masters,” she adds, by way of smoothing things over.

Shaking his head, Master Windu says, “What have you heard about Master Kenobi and Knight Skywalker?”

“Um.” Ahsoka scuffs one foot back and forth. “Well, I know they’re the heroes of the Battle of Geonosis. Master Kenobi discovered the Separatist operation, and Knight Skywalker managed to sabotage it before the battle ever really began. And I think Senator Amidala helped?”

For some reason, most of the Council looks like they’ve bitten into a rotten piece of fruit at the mention of Senator Amidala’s name, which does very little to clear anything up.

“There is more to this… pair… than that,” Master Gallia says at length. “Though that event is perhaps the most pertinent one to this conversation.”

“Adi.” Mace steeples his hands in front of his face. “Please at least try to get to the point.”

“ You get to the point,” she snaps back. “Master Yoda said you were going to explain!”

“That’s only because he doesn’t want to,” Master Windu mutters, low enough that it’s entirely possible he didn’t mean for Ahsoka to hear. He stands and makes his way into the circle to stand in front of Ahsoka. “We’ve called you here today, Initiate Tano, to inform you that you are being made Anakin Skywalker’s padawan, effective immediately. You will be sent to him on Christophsis today.”

Ahsoka narrowly avoids choking on her own inhale. Grasping for the right words — the words that wouldn’t make her crechemaster put her head in her hands and lament over her manners — she says, “But… Masters, I am very honored, but…” But Anakin Skywalker is the dominant rumor of the creche. He’s the padawan who was never a crecheling and never an initiate, who joined too old and makes headlines on the holonet more often than any other Jedi except Master Kenobi — and that’s only because they tend to share headlines. And Ahsoka is very, very, very sure he’s only been a Knight for a month.

“We are assured that Knight Skywalker is a perfect master for you,” says Master Windu, in the tone grownups tend to use when they’re lying through their teeth. “You will accomplish great things together.”

Ahsoka has no doubt of that, given that she’s the best initiate in her clan, but she frowns anyway. “I still don’t understand.”

“You will,” Master Gallia says in a voice of doom, which makes Master Windu raise his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. “You will.”

“One thing you must understand before you leave,” goes on Master Windu, laying both hands on her shoulders, “is that association with Knight Skywalker begets association with Master Kenobi. Now, Initiate Tano, while Master Kenobi undoubtedly has much wisdom to share, it is imperative that you do not imitate him.”

“Imperative,” echoes Master Gallia, as most of the Council nods like Master Windu has shared some particularly pithy truth.

Ahsoka takes a slow step back, raising both brow ridges. “...Why?”

“There is…” Master Windu turns a questioning gaze to Master Plo. “How much will she understand of this situation?”

Master Plo’s goggled eyes turn hooded. “She is fourteen, Mace, and she follows the tabloids on the holonet. She will understand more of it than you .”

“I see.” Ruffled, Master Mace turns back to Ahsoka. “What you must know is that Master Kenobi is currently… he is embroiled in an inappropriate relationship with Senator Amidala. A relationship of a… romantic nature.”

Ahsoka blinks again, several times over. “So they’re… sleeping together?”

Every member of the Council winces and shuts their eyes. Master Gallia mutters fervently, “I hope not!”

“We can’t say if it has gone that far,” says Master Windu.

“We do not,” says Master Plo placidly, “want to know.”

“I see,” Ahsoka manages after a moment. She twists her fingers together, brow furrowing. “But I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“We’re merely warning you,” answers Master Mace. He is beginning to look as though he would like to be anywhere else. “Master Kenobi, as much as he may seem a role model on the surface, is not an example you want to follow. It is better if you follow Skywalker’s lead entirely.” A strange, almost confused look passes over his face at those words. Ahsoka has the sudden suspicion that he can’t believe he’s saying them.

“Working to bring Obi-Wan back into the fold, we are,” offers Yoda, hands folded contemplatively over his gimer stick. “Not permanent, your caution will be.”

“However,” Master Windu adds meaningfully, “if you see anything out of the ordinary in Master Kenobi’s behavior or anything you think we would benefit from knowing, you must report it to us.”

Ahsoka isn’t entirely sure how they think she’s going to be able to ascertain what is out of the ordinary when she’s never met Master Kenobi before this. It doesn’t matter anyway, of course, because if there’s one thing the creche taught her, it’s that it doesn’t pay to be a tattletale. Obviously, the Council is so long out of the creche that they’ve forgotten this; otherwise, they never would have asked her.

“I understand,” she says, because her time in the creche also taught her that it is wrong to lie to the Council. “I’m ready.”

# # #

“But I don’t want an apprentice.” Anakin hauls open one of the extra coffins and checks to make sure it’s one of the ones that has a makeshift life support system installed. It does, which is no less than he expected. Kitster, whose underground connections have enabled them to hide a few units of fake coffins in at least every shipment, has never failed them yet.

“You certainly looked like you wanted one when you were sneaking behind enemy lines with her during the battle,” says Obi-Wan, pulling open another coffin and laying the lid on the ground with great care, probably in direct retaliation to the haphazard way Anakin dumped his on the floor of the cargo ship that bound for Kamino.

It’s not as if there’s any need to be quiet. Everyone is at the hub of base camp, recuperating and getting ready to ship out to wherever they’re being deployed.

Well. Almost everyone. “There.” Anakin checks the life support system of the last dummy coffin. “You’re all set.” He gestures to the nearest member of the group of 501st clones who decided it was time to desert — and by decided, Anakin means were finally convinced by the resident marketer of his and Obi-Wan’s newly minted Freedom Trail, 212th trooper Slick. It hadn’t exactly been the plan to read Slick in, but someone (Obi-Wan, but Anakin’s promised not to bring it up again) forgot to sweep the comms room as thoroughly as he was supposed to before answering a top-secret-in-a-not-at-all-approved-by-the-Republic-way call from Padme. At least Slick doesn’t know the whole story. He doesn’t know about Palpatine or about their plans to overthrow him — just their plans to help any clones who want freedom make a break for it. This was a concept Slick had exactly zero problems with, so it worked out quite nicely.

The clone — Gearshift, his name is — gives the proffered coffin a dubious look. “Sir, with all due respect —”

“He’s due very little,” Obi-Wan interjects, taking a seat on a crate. “Don’t bother with it too much.”

Looking like a man floundering in deep water, Gearshift ignores this and says, “Sir, all of us thought — or hoped — or rather — sir, the point of this whole thing is to get out of the war alive and, well, free. But these are heading to Kamino, to be incinerated. So my brothers and I are just wondering.”

“We’re wondering if you’ve thought this all through,” says Hawk. He’s the 501st’s best pilot, and Anakin might be sorry to lose him, if every aspect of the concept of a manufactured soldier didn’t make his skin crawl. Besides, he’s found a girl somewhere and wants to go to her, and far be it from Anakin to stand in the way of love.

“Hawk.” Obi-Wan sets his chin in one hand. “I can guarantee you that Anakin has thought nothing through for the better part of a decade, up to and including several major life decisions.”

“Yes, and the same applies to Obi-Wan,” says Anakin. He waves a hand to the coffin. “It’s perfectly safe. You see, you’re going to get attacked by pirates — we would send the ship off course, but we’ve done that the last few times. Got to keep the methods varied, you know.”

Halfway into his coffin, Hawk freezes. “We’re what , sir?”

“Not real pirates.” Anakin waves a hand at him. “Just my brother and about twenty of his friends.” He faces Obi-Wan, folding his arms. “And do you know what wasn’t thought through? Giving me a padawan!”

“The Council clearly thinks you’re ready.” Obi-Wan helps another clone into one of the coffins. “You should be proud!”

“Oh, don’t you dare start giving them credit now. The only reason they gave me Ahsoka was because they didn’t want to give her to you .”

Obi-Wan pauses to think this over, absently handing yet another wide-eyed clone into a coffin. Then he snaps, “Well, that’s just… that’s just entirely unfair! It’s that cursed rumor about Padme and I, I know it is. Not giving me a padawan. You turned out all right in their eyes, didn’t you?” He clucks his tongue sharply. “But no, apparently I am not enough of a Jedi to train Ahsoka.”

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin clears his throat and gestures to the cargo hold with one hand. “Look at what you’re doing.”

Obi-Wan takes a moment to look at the assembled clones, scattered coffins, and the various other clones in some of the coffins, with their heads just poking over the edge. “Yes, well, this ,” he says, making a vague hand motion to encompass either the entire hold or the entirety of Operation Fountain. “This is intentional. If I am going to be censured, I would like it to be for what I’m actually doing.”

“Yes, because that makes sense. They’re not censuring you anyway — or at least, they’re not doing it directly.”

“Passive-aggressively,” mutters Obi-Wan, as if he doesn’t have passive-aggression down to an art form at this point in his life. “I would prefer the direct approach.”

“Would you?” Anakin raises an eyebrow. “You’d really like them to ask you what you’re doing with your free — and not so free — time?” He moves to help Hawk fix his oxygen mask to his face. “That would be like me wanting them to go snooping for my or Padme’s wedding rings.”

Obi-Wan jerks his head up, sending him an urgent look across the cargo hold just as the gravity of what he just let slip hits Anakin. Glancing around at the clones, he tries for a laugh and says, “Listen, in return for so nicely getting you all kidnapped by fake pirates, could we keep this just between us?”

Wreathed in an oxygen mask, Hawk settles onto his back and gives Anakin a wry smile. “Sir, it was already just between us. We’ve known for weeks.”

They’ve only been Anakin’s battalion for weeks . “How did you find out?”

Gearshift sits up for a moment, resting an elbow on the edge of his coffin. “Commander Cody told us.”

Anakin flings a scowl at Obi-Wan. “And I wonder who told him that?”

Obi-Wan is unrepentant. “Trust between commander and general is important.”

“Of course,” says Anakin in his most cutting voice. “And does he also know about your plans to overthrow the lawful government?”

“His what ?” chokes Hawk.

“‘Our,’” Obi-Wan corrects. “And, no, I didn’t tell him because I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh, but my secrets are all right.” Anakin pushes Hawk’s head down. “Don’t worry about it. Get back in your coffin.” To Obi-Wan, he says, “You were just tired of everyone assuming you’re wooing Padme on the side.”

“It’s disgusting! She’s like my sister!” Obi-Wan bursts out as the last clone, with an irritated look at them both, climbs into one of the coffins. Anakin supposes they would have preferred to be the only topic of conversation during their daring desertion, but Anakin can’t help it if there are other crucial topics to be discussed. Namely, Obi-Wan’s complete inability to comprehend discretion when it doesn’t apply to him.

“Yes, well, I happen to enjoy being the code-following one in the Council’s eyes,” says Anakin, sending a reassuring grin in Hawk’s direction as he seals up the coffin, checking to make sure the secret mark is carved into the lid, allowing Kitster and the others to find the right coffins after they attack. “It’s so rare.”

“And so stupid,” says Obi-Wan.

Anakin purses his lips into an expression of mock sympathy. “Aw, is someone finding it difficult being labeled a black sheep? It must be so hard, especially when it’s not even because of all the treason.”

“You know, simply being a Knight now does not give you the right to —” Obi-Wan trails off, a creaking noise replacing whatever else he was going to say, as Rex steps out of the shadows at the foot of the cargo ship’s ramp.

Anakin freezes too, caught in the act of sealing another one of the coffins. Gearshift pops up in his coffin again and waves timidly at Rex. “Hello, Cap’n,” he manages in an overly cheery voice. “We’re deserting! Did we forget to tell you? Sorry, but we all thought it would be a bit awkward to ask your permission.”

Rex is a statue at the foot of the ramp. He doesn’t even blink. “Commander…” He clears his throat. “Commander Tano told me where you were.”

She’s a bit more observant than Anakin gave her credit for if she noticed them sneaking off, but her telling Rex only serves to underline what he told Obi-Wan earlier: they cannot read her in on Operation Fountain. Anakin stands by what he thought when he was nine — Corries are bad at keeping secrets.

Of course, the goal was to not tell Rex either, who is a bit too honest for something like Operation Fountain, but he’s starting to think that ship has sailed.

“Would you mind telling us how much you heard?” asks Obi-Wan in a pleasant voice that is about two inches from a breakdown. “It will help us figure out how to move forward.”

“All of it. Sir.”

Obi-Wan smacks his lips. “Ah. Well, that complicates things.”

“No, what complicated things was deciding to bring down the leader of the free galaxy,” Anakin says, striding toward Rex. Stopping in front of him, he sticks out his hand for Rex to shake and says, “We’ll tell you all about our operation on one condition.”

The look Rex gives him can only be described as dubious. “And what condition would that be, sir?”

“You can never, ever tell Snips.”

Rex’s eyes move from Anakin, to Obi-Wan, to the 501st deserters, and finally to the coffins. Probably he is reviewing his — admittedly brief — association with Ahsoka and assessing her ability to keep confidential information confidential. Anakin can actually see the moment he remembers how she nearly crushed Anakin with a giant piece of rubble not an hour after she met him. “Deal, sir. I just have one question.”

“What is it?” asks Anakin, bracing himself for a question he either can’t answer or one whose answer Rex won’t like at all.

“Senator Amidala really isn’t cheating on you with General Kenobi?”

Behind Anakin, Obi-Wan puts his head in his hands. “I’m going to kill Mace.”

# # #

Cad Bane is not unused to strange jobs. People hire him because he gets things done, and they tend to pay him enough that he doesn’t much care what they ask him to do.

This time, however…

“Let me get this straight,” he says to Dooku, who has the demeanor of a man who expected this holocall to be shorter than it has so far been. “Y’ant me to infiltrate the Senate.”

Dooku sighs. “Yes.”

“Lock the Chancellor in his office.”

“Yes.”

“Take a bunch of senators hostage and demand the Republic release Ziro the Hutt.”

“Yes.”

“ Specifically take Senator Padme Amidala hostage, who everyone knows has a Jedi lover.”

“Kenobi,” supplies Dooku with another sigh. “Yes.”

Kenobi. As a rule, Jedi do not concern Cad — they dance about like little girls in a fight and are resultantly easy to trip up. However, Kenobi, and his shadow Skywalker, is another story entirely. The man, based on the rumors about his flirtatious encounters with Asajj Ventress, is not only able to duel multiple Sith and win but is also somehow able to hook a senator and a Sith assassin at the same time, without getting stabbed by either of them.

If Cad were interested in romance, he would be envious.

“And,” Cad goes on, as Dooku seems to steel himself for this particular clarification, “y’want me to do it at a time when you’re certain Kenobi’ll be… occupied with Senator Amidala.”

This affirmative seems to stick to Dooku’s tongue. “Yes.”

“And y’want me to kill Kenobi, if I can.”

“Yes.”

Cad considers this for a moment. “And how much are y’paying me?”

“Six million credits.”

“Well, in that case.”

# # #

“It may shock the two of you to hear this,” says Obi-Wan from his position leaning up against the wall beside the door to Padme’s office, “as you both are laboring under the impression that the galaxy revolves around you, but I did actually come here for a reason other than to watch the two of you disappoint the Jedi Order.”

Padme and Anakin both come up for air at long last. Padme remains perched on the edge of her desk, and Anakin moves to sit beside her, casually wrapping an arm around her waist while she tucks her head against his neck.

After almost a year of marriage, Obi-Wan would have thought the pair would have stopped being so irritating, but it seems there is no statute of limitations on the annoyance they can cause him.

“What is it, Obi-Wan?” asks Padme, patting her hair, which does very little to remedy the situation Anakin’s embrace caused. She doesn’t even attempt to do anything about her lipstick, leaving it smeared halfway across her cheek and also reddening Anakin’s lips. “And thank you for helping Ani sneak in here.”

“Oh, a thank you?” Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. “I’ll have to write that one down. I never get one of those.”

“Hey, Obi-Wan.” With a grin, Anakin pushes his hair out of his face.

“You can tell me to shut up, but I don’t have to listen.” Turning back to Padme, Obi-Wan says, “The Council sent me to give you my report on the status of the Rim offensives, so that you could bring it before the Senate today.”

Padme blinks. “But you kept me updated on that the whole time you and Ani were deployed. I already know everything.”

Obi-Wan spreads his arms. “Well, I couldn’t very well tell them that, could I?”

“So what I’m hearing,” says Padme with a wide smile, “is that you did come here just to sneak Anakin in. You don’t have anything else to do.”

“I think he also missed you,” says Anakin, leaning back to catch a shaft of sunlight coming from the wide window behind Padme’s desk. “Almost as much as I did.”

“Yes, but that feeling is rapidly dissipating.” Obi-Wan sighs. “I don’t suppose you found out anything new while we were gone, Padme?”

She gives him a look. “If I had, don’t you think you two would’ve been the first to hear? No one’s heard anything new, but we did manage to get a pretty large group of clones out — mostly the ones sent to the hospitals here after they got labeled not fit for combat any more. Shmi’s people got them before they were sent back to Kamino. She says they’re settling in on Tatooine.”

Liberated Tatooine is becoming quite the haven for deserter clones. Currently, the planet is the perfect hiding place, since exactly no one of galactic importance or influence sets foot there, especially not since a mysterious force — the Skywalker family, but that tidbit of news never hit the holonet, thanks to Versé — overthrew the Hutts and set up a representative government.

If Tatooine’s constitution was extremely reminiscent of Naboo’s and if the writing style brought to mind many of the various bills Padme had penned during her tenure as queen and then senator, that was no one’s business and — most importantly — couldn’t be proved.

“Did you find out anything?” asks Padme archly, kicking her heels against the side of her desk. “You were the one out there flirting with Sith assassins.”

Obi-Wan bangs the back of his head rhythmically against the wall. “It was one assassin, and as I told you, Anakin, Rex, and Ahsoka a thousand times, it’s a battle tactic. I was trying to distract her.”

“Did it work?”

All of Ventress’ comebacks, some suggestive enough to make the remnants of the Jedi in Obi-Wan cringe, flash through his mind. “Not so much, no.”

“It did wonders for the rumors, though,” says Anakin with a grin. “The Separatists are all calling him the whor* of the Core.”

Padme looks back and forth between the two of them. Then she bursts out laughing, so violently that she slides off the desk and onto the floor before Anakin can catch her. Leaning down, Anakin says, “Catchy, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan gives them a flat look. “I hate you both.”

Before Padme can stop giggling long enough to respond, a knock sounds on her office door. A second after that, Bail’s voice emanates from the intercom. “Padme? Do you have a moment?”

Padme jerks to her feet with all the speed of a bolt of lightning and grabs Anakin’s legs, flipping him over the desk backward so that he tumbles behind it in an ungainly tangle of arms and legs. Only his Jedi reflexes save him from landing harder than he did. Aggrieved, he calls from behind the desk, “What the kriff was that for?”

“You need to hide,” Padme says briskly, utterly unconcerned — and why would she be when Anakin had gamely orchestrated similar tumbles to maintain his cover as a clumsy and accidental foiler of Palpatine’s assassination attempts? “You’re not even supposed to be in here. Questions will be asked.”

“Oh, so people will think you’re sleeping with both of us,” grumbles Anakin, even as he crawls beneath the desk, hiding himself from view. “Big deal.”

“It is a big deal to me. Obi-Wan may be the whor* of the Core, but I would like people to view me as strictly monogamous.” Padme stops in front of Obi-Wan and ruffles up his hair before he can stop her, also taking a moment to smear some of the lipstick on her cheek on his neck.

He catches her hands before she can do anything else. “ What are you doing?”

Padme gives him a bright but rather unbalanced grin. “Keeping our cover. It’s much better if everyone suspects that I’m in love with you, isn’t it? There’s no evidence of that .”

“Thank the Light,” Anakin mutters, muffled by the desk.

“Do I get any say in this, Operative Angel?” asks Obi-Wan. He can already guess the answer, of course. He hasn’t had a say in anything — despite being ostensibly in charge — for over a decade.

“None at all, Operative Mullet,” replies Padme, heading over to the office door. Pointing in the direction of her desk, she adds, “Now go over there and look guilty.”

As Obi-Wan does as she asks — because it’s easier than arguing with her — Padme smoothes her hair one last time, does her best to pat her lipstick back into place, and opens her door.

Bail enters immediately, head down over his datapad. “Oh, good, you’re here,” he says, forging forward. “They’re starting the meeting early — I hope you have the revised arguments prepared. Mon does her best, but she doesn’t argue like you do.”

“She’s an only child,” Padme says, by way of explanation.

“I suppose the galaxy has to find ways to maintain balance somehow,” Bail muses, finally looking up from his datapad. His gaze darts over Obi-Wan as he picks up Padme’s datapad from her desk, clearly intent on finding the arguments she promised him. “Hello, Obi-Wan. Back from the front, I see.” He either ignores or doesn’t see Anakin’s lightsaber, sitting forgotten on the edge of Padme’s desk.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, flicking a wide-eyed look in Padme’s direction. She just shrugs and signs, He’s overworked. Give him a second .

True to Padme’s word, Bail lifts his eyes from her datapad a moment later and actually looks at Obi-Wan, taking in the smudge of red on his neck and the matching mess of lipstick on Padme’s mouth. Then, to Padme, he says, “You could at least try to hide it. As a courtesy to the Jedi Order.”

“Hide what?” asks Padme, raising both eyebrows.

Anakin’s mental laughter echoes through his and Obi-Wan’s bond, and it’s all Obi-Wan can do to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, I’m not certain what you mean, Senator Organa,” he says. “I only came here to deliver a report to Padme.”

“You were in my wedding party, Obi-Wan,” Bail says, shaking his head. “You know I’m not stranger to this sort of relationship. But,” he goes on, “I suppose this is as good a way as any to handle it. It isn’t as if the Order will really investigate you, not when they need you on the frontlines.”

No, Anakin agrees in Obi-Wan’s mind. But they will annoy the kriff out of you.

Then it’s lucky I’m used to being annoyed, Obi-Wan answers, as pointedly as he can.

I know you can do better comebacks than that .

Breezing past Obi-Wan — apparently having given up on counseling him and Padme to be more careful — Bail says, “The arguments look all in order,” he says. “We should go, before that coward Ask Aak gets everyone to mark us as absent.”

“Yes.” Padme shakes out of the folds of her gown and sends Obi-Wan an apologetic glance. “Yes, of course. You can find your way out, can’t you, Obi-Wan?”

Bail actually rolls his eyes. “I’d be surprised if he couldn’t find his way in and out with his eyes shut,” he says under his breath, opening the door.

Armed strangers spill through the doorway as soon as it is open, leveling blasters at Padme, Bail, and Obi-Wan. As Obi-Wan slams a mental stay command at Anakin, one of the strangers — a weequay — jerks forward and grabs Bail before either Obi-Wan or Padme can move. Jamming a blaster to his head, the weequay snarls out, “Disarm, Jedi.”

This is the last time I facilitate one of your romantic encounters , Obi-Wan tells Anakin, unhooking his lightsaber from his belt and handing it over to the weequay. Beside him, feigning enough fear to appear like a normal person, Padme backs up to the desk, using her wide skirt to hide Anakin’s lightsaber. As her hips bump against the front of her desk, she reaches behind her and grabs the lightsaber before bringing her hand in front of her again in one smooth motion. The hilt is concealed, high in her wide, flowing sleeve. Padme’s got your lightsaber. I can’t see this ending bloodlessly.

I almost feel bad for the bad guys, says Anakin. Oh wait, no I don’t.

Just try to generate a minimum amount of chaos with your rescue attempts. Out loud, he says, “How did you get in here? What do you want?”

The weequay gives him an unimpressed look. “Move.”

Obi-Wan holds his ground. As a Jedi, he really should make some kind of token effort to save these clueless idiots from themselves. “You would do well not to make an enemy of a Jedi,” he says. “Perhaps you’ve heard what happened on Geonosis.”

The weequay’s lips curl back. Another one of their attackers — an assassin droid — grabs Obi-Wan and hauls him forward. The third, a tall and skinny woman with washed out gray skin and ponytail stretching down her back, grabs Padme and shoves her into the corridor, almost making her trip.

Anakin’s voice sounds through Obi-Wan’s mind. Satisfied your moral considerations?

Obi-Wan eyes the skinny woman. Yes.

Thank you.

# # #

As soon as the office door slides shut, Anakin crawls out from under the desk and assesses his options. He’s not armed, which is an unfortunate situation that’s set to be remedied inside of a few moments. Crouching down next to her desk, he braces his shoulder against it and shoves. With the carpet fighting it every inch of the way, the desk slides aside, revealing a panel of the carpet that lifts up. Beneath it lies the durasteel compartment, built into Padme’s floor, that contains her arsenal.

Grateful that Padme finally found the time to add his biometric signature to the compartment’s database, Anakin presses his thumb against the scanner. The light on the lock flashes green; the compartment’s lid unseals.

Inside is a veritable horde of blastors, vibroblades, and explosives. Slinging a bag full of thermal detonators over his shoulder and grinning, Anakin says, “Angel, these are so illegal. Stars, I love you.”

He grabs a blaster and tucks it into his belt as he stands.

At least three hostiles somewhere in the — mostly empty — Senate — probably more. Undoubtedly, they’ve locked down the building by now, and since the Coruscant Guard has yet to run in guns blazing, they must be trapped in their barracks. Whoever is behind all this was prepared. They must know the Senate inside and out.

With that in view, the perpetrator becomes obvious.

“Come on, Palpatine,” Anakin mutters as he forges toward the door. “You’re never going to manage to kill Obi-Wan, why do you keep trying? It’s just boring at this point.”

As things stand now, it’s Anakin and a weaponless Obi-Wan and Padme against an entire team of highly skilled mercenaries.

Anakin grins again as he steps out into the corridor, checking to make sure it’s empty. He likes those odds.

# # #

It’s probably bad hostage etiquette to stop listening to your captor, but Padme’s been around enough megalomaniacs in her life to recognize Cad Bane as one about two sentences after he introduces himself. After that, she mostly tunes him out — something about all of them being under his power, something about the Chancellor having no choice but to capitulate to his demands and release Ziro the Hutt, something about everything going smoothly if they all just obeyed him.

Padme has bigger problems at the moment: namely, Riyo. She’s caught sight of Anakin’s lightsaber, curled in the cradle of Padme’s fingers and hidden in her sleeve, and unfortunately the holonet has been obsessed enough with Anakin and Obi-Wan since the war began for Riyo to know whose lightsaber it is on sight.

That is to say, it’s Anakin’s, not Obi-Wan’s like it should be.

As Riyo flicks her increasingly urgent, wide-eyed looks, Padme manages to pen Riyo over in a corner of the antechamber Cad locked them.

“Padme,” she hisses under her breath as Cad continues to monologue in the background — something about rules now, but as Padme has no intention of following them, she sees no reason to pay attention. “Why do you have Ana —”

Padme cuts her off with a sharp glare, one that says in no uncertain terms that if Riyo doesn’t shut up right now, she will out her and Fox’s relationship to the entire room.

Correctly reading Padme’s expression, Riyo clamps her lips shut. This silence, however, only lasts for a few blissful seconds before she whispers, “But is he? Here?”

“Does he look like he’s here?”

“But you —”

“Just trust me, Riyo.”

There’s another few seconds of wonderful quiet before Riyo says, “Last thing — how are you with both of them at once? Isn’t it — don’t they — well, aren’t they jealous?”

Padme just stares at Riyo for a long moment, considering the logistics of being romantically entangled with Obi-Wan and Anakin simultaneously and fighting the urge to throw up at the thought. Then, she replies, “They get me out of the deal. They’re willing to deal with the downsides.”

This is perfectly true, of course — just not in the way Riyo thinks.

Before Riyo can reply, Cad’s self-satisfied, twangy voice rings out across the antechamber. “Excuse me, Senator,” he says, turning his ruby red gaze on Padme, “but I’m getting the feeling y’aren’t listening to me.”

Padme turns to face him, weighing her options. She could either morph into a frightened senator, or she could remain herself.

It’s been a long year, so she chooses the latter. “I’m afraid you simply weren’t being very interesting,” she answers, icily.

With a heavy sigh, Obi-Wan steps in front of her — an action that’s definitely not going to make any rumors abate — and blocks Cad’s view. “You’ll have to excuse her,” he says, though he doesn’t give Cad a reason why he must do this. Apparently, in Obi-Wan’s view, excusing Padme is a simple fact of life that shouldn’t be questioned.

It would be more touching if this didn’t speak to how frequently she annoys him.

Cad’s demeanor continues to make him exquisitely slappable. “Ah, the great General Kenobi. It looks like the rumors are true.” He doesn’t elaborate on what those rumors are , but everyone in the room — even the mercenaries — look at Obi-Wan knowingly.

Padme supposes it is easy to think he’s acting as her white knight, if you’re brain dead enough to label every expression of protective affection as romantic.

Continuing to labor under the illusion that Padme remotely cares about him, Cad goes on. “I assure you, Senator,” he says, “that whether y’find me a scintillating conversationalist or not, I will get what I came here for. You’ll find that I’m entirely in control, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter.”

“We deeply appreciate you laying that out for us,” answers Obi-Wan, reaching behind him to clamp a staying hand on Padme’s arm because, infuriatingly, he knows her well enough to know that her next impulse would be to draw Anakin’s lightsaber and go for Cad’s head. “We’ll just be over here, being quiet while you enact your clearly watertight plan.”

Cad narrows his eyes at this but apparently decides he has better things to do than make Obi-Wan regret his sarcasm.

Not that he could, of course — no matter what he did. Obi-Wan never regrets his sarcasm. Padme’s been trying to get him to for over a decade, to no avail.

Through a feat of both strength and will, Obi-Wan manages to drag her over to the clump of captive senators, which includes Riyo, Bail, Mon, and — unfortunately — Ask Aak.

“It’s imperative we stay calm,” says Obi-Wan in undertones. “If we don’t panic —”

“Stay calm ?” spits Aak. “That’s your plan? Why aren’t you trying to get us out of this? Gods of my ancestors, we could have gotten a useful Jedi, but instead we get the whor* of the Core.”

Obi-Wan winces. “I see that moniker has made it home. How lovely.”

“Senator Aak,” says Padme, giving the foul man her sweetest smile, “if you talk to Obi-Wan like that again, you’ll regret it.”

Aak throws her a poisonous look. “Oh, and what will you do? Who is going to listen to the girl who is sleeping her way through the Jedi Council?”

As Obi-Wan chokes and takes a step forward, only to be forestalled by Padme’s hand pushed against his chest, she says, “Well, Aak, this same girl also knows exactly what happened to that relief package that the appropriations committee approved. Would you like me to share it with the entire holonet?”

Aak blinks — which for a being with four eyes is a bit of spectacle. Then he turns to Obi-Wan and bows slightly. “What I mean to say, General Kenobi, is that we are very gratified to have you on our side.”

Obi-Wan regards him. “It’s my pleasure, Senator.”

Bail leans over to Padme and whispers, “What did happen to the relief package?”

“Oh, you’ll hear all about it when my tell-all hits the holonet in a few days,” she whispers back, pausing to smile at Aak like nothing in the whole galaxy is wrong. He looks appropriately terrified.

Bail laughs. “You are a cold, cold woman, Padme Amidala.”

Patting her hair, Padme says, “Thank you, I know.”

“That being said, you do have a plan to get us out of here, don’t you? Before the Chancellor is forced to release Ziro?”

Fighting down a snort at the idea that Palpatine is being forced to do anything, Padme gives Bail an arch look. “What makes you think I have any sort of plan? I’m a senator, not a soldier. And Obi-Wan doesn’t even have his lightsaber.” She laughs lightly. “Honestly, Bail, it’s like you think I’m some kind of commando.”

Bail just looks at her.

She clears her throat. “It’s percolating.”

# # #

Humming to himself, Anakin sets the last trap on his way to the Coruscant Guard’s barracks. The thermal detonators are already in place on every main entrance and exit to the Senate — ready to render the lockdown irrelevant.

Reaching the access to the Guard’s barracks, which are attached to the Senate, Anakin sets the last thermal detonator at the foot of the sealed door and hefts his blaster. As soon as the door goes, all the available mercenaries are going to converge on him. In the commotion, Padme can hopefully get his lightsaber to Obi-Wan and start the breakout on her end.

Anakin grins again as he crouches behind a pillar and clenches the detonator’s remote in one hand. After six months on the front lines, this is going to be easy .

He hits the switch.

# # #

Cad is not easily unnerved — twenty years as a mercenary tends to forge nerves of durasteel — but the tiny senator with the ridiculously complex headdress of wrought silver and the sharply angled eyebrows that make her look like she is perpetually imagining his violent death… She unnerves him.

Thankfully, nothing in his contract with Dooku says every senator he takes hostage has to survive. In truth, he can’t imagine Dooku being anything but grateful to him for getting rid of one of the loudest senators in the entire Republic.

Turning away from the group of hostages, who have all fallen silent since the Chancellor set the necessary wheels in motion for Ziro to be released, Cad comms Robonino. “Status report,” he grunts into his comm. “Our smokescreen set?”

“Handled, boss,” replies Robonino, in a nasally voice characteristic of Patrolians. “Ready to go at your word.”

“Good. Ziro’s almost here. Soon as he is, I’ll have everyone fall back to where I am, do cleanup, and make our exit. Soon as I give you the signal, you blow this place.” That should serve as enough of a distraction to ruin any trap the Chancellor is going to try to set for them. All security forces will converge on the Senate to try to rescue him

Cad wonders if he’ll get a bonus from Dooku if he manages to kill the Chancellor.

“Got it —” Robonino is cut off by the distant boom of an explosion, from somewhere closer to him than Cad. Still, the floor beneath Cad’s feet trembles. Dust rains down from the ceiling. Every senator looks at him with wide eyes, drawing together into a tighter knot as a murmur of confusion rises up from their ranks.

Every senator, of course, except for the thrice damned Padme Amidala. She is looking at him with a barely concealed smirk as she and Kenobi stand hand in hand, like they think they’re the lovers from all the old myths.

“Robonino.” Cad doesn’t take his eyes off Padme. Rather than being intimidated, she only smiles wider. “Report. What happened?”

“There’s a —” Robonino’s voice cuts off sharply. Static fills the line.

Cad tries someone else. “Shahan. Come in.”

Only static.

Padme actually giggles.

Moving faster now, Cad opens a line to his assassin droid. “HELIOS , ” he says. “Status report.”

For a second, there’s only static, but then a click sounds over the line. An unfamiliar voice — one that elicits a broad smile from Padme — says, “Sorry, HELIOS can’t answer right now. He’s kind of in pieces.”

Cad tightens his grip on his comm. “Who is this?”

“Death,” says the voice. Then, glee coloring his words, he adds, “Stars, I’ve always wanted to say that. Haven’t I always, Obi-Wan?”

Cad finds himself casting a questioning look in Kenobi’s direction. He simply gives an open handed shrug and says, “He always has.”

That’s around when Cad figures out who it is. “Skywalker,” he spits into his comm.

“Well, kriff,” says Skywalker. “There goes my dramatic reveal. Oh wait.” A series of rapid fire explosions shake the entire building. For a split second, Cad thinks Robonino set off the smokescreen early. Then the door to the antechamber blows inward, almost crashing into Aurra, who dances aside, flinging a disgusted look in Cad’s direction.

“There it is!” comes Skywalker’s cheerful voice. “Hey, Obi-Wan! Plan Seven!”

“Oh, gods of my ancestors,” Kenobi mutters under his breath, while Padme continues to look like she just got the best news of her life. “I hate Plan Seven,” he says, pulling Padme back away from the center of the room.

Cad is no one if not someone who knows when it is time to beat a smart yet hasty retreat. He jerks toward the door. Aurra, the only member of his team left, does too.

A glowing, circular chunk of the ceiling falls from above them, bearing one Anakin Skywalker on it. He manages to fire off a shot from his blaster at Aurra’s retreating back as the schutta abandons Cad, hightailing it through the antechamber’s ruined door.

Skywalker and the ceiling chunk land with a crash that makes every senator stupid enough to not already be on the floor to hit the deck. The only senator who doesn’t is — predictably — Padme. She races forward, pulls a kriffing lightsaber out of her sleeve, and shoves it into Skywalker’s hands. As Skywalker ignites it, Cad decides that the time has to try to fulfill at least one part of his mission.

He yanks his blaster up and fires at Kenobi’s head.

Skywalker snaps his hand up and catches the bolt using his Jedi magic. Casually holding it still in midair, he says, “That was rude.” He cranes his head around to look at Kenobi. “That was rude, wasn’t it?”

“Very rude,” Kenobi agrees.

Cad runs then — the fear over what might happen as Skywalker passes Padme his blaster is greater than the shame of running away. As he bursts through the ruined doorway, he shouts into his comm, “Robonino, now!”

Hopefully, Robonino is still alive to set off the explosives.

# # #

“Do you think it’s safe to say this day hasn’t gone according to plan?” asks Anakin brightly.

“I think it’s finally looking up,” Padme says, starting after Cad. Obi-Wan catches her arm before she can get very far, managing to dump her back beside Anakin. She flings him a poisonous look. “He’s getting away . ”

“We have bigger concerns, Padme. The building is on fire, thanks to Anakin.”

Anakin narrows his eyes briefly. “Wow, you’re welcome for rescuing you.”

“We can get Cad Bane another day,” Obi-Wan goes on, foiling Padme once more — because he’s just a kriffhead, apparently.

“You never let me kill anyone ,” she hisses.

“That’s because senators,” he says, emphasizing the word, probably in hopes that she will decide maintaining her cover perfectly is more important than stabbing Cad through the eye, “don’t tend to kill people.” Still gripping her arm, he says, “I assume you’ve cleared our exit, Anakin?”

Anakin spreads his arms. “What do you take me for?”

Just as he speaks, another series of explosions rumble above and below the room they’re in. The Coruscant Guard — certainly gathered by Anakin — hurtles through the antechamber’s door just ahead of a fireball that sends everyone hitting the deck once more.

Picking himself up off the floor, Fox runs up to Anakin. “Sir,” he manages through gasping breaths, “they set blasting charges — was coming to tell you. We need to get out — now.”

“Oh, of course ,” says Obi-Wan, without anything approaching the gravity the other senators so clearly expect him to have. “Are all of us here, then? Who else is in the building?”

“It’s a ghost day,” Padme says. She stops struggling; some things — few things at the moment, but still — are more important than exacting revenge on Cad Bane. “Just us who are here and the Chancellor, on the top floor.”

“The Chancellor will never make it out on his own,” Bail says. As if to underline his point, the floor buckles just a bit, like the building is tapping them on the shoulder and reminding them that they are very, very high off the ground but they could reach it very quickly if the right support beams collapse.

Padme opens her mouth to say something derisive, but Anakin lovingly kicks her shin before she can.

Sometimes she thinks she married him just to have him around when she’s about to lay Operation Fountain bare to the galaxy.

Besides, however much she would like to let a collapsing building solve their little Palpatine problem, he’s not the only one locked up in his office. His administrative assistant, a young Nabooian named Tsuni, will be with him. “Tsuni is with him too,” she says.

With their luck, a collapsing building probably wouldn’t have killed Palpatine anyway.

“All right.” Obi-Wan claps his hands together. “Anakin, take the Guard and evacuate the senators. I’ll need Padme’s clearance to get up to the Chancellor’s office, especially if everything is still on lockdown.” He catches Anakin’s eye. “All right?”

Everyone else in the room — excepting Riyo, who, based on what Padme told her earlier, is probably drawing her own sordid conclusions — looks at Obi-Wan like they’re wondering why he’s asking his former padawan for permission to go somewhere with his current lover.

Rather than clearing anything up for anyone, Anakin says, as dust rains down from the ceiling and smoke begins to fill the air, “There’s no one I trust with her more than you.” Then, spinning around and calling the Guard to his side, he yells at everyone at large, “All right, get your tails moving! We will not be discussing the implosion of this building in committee, we’re just going to book it.”

Lurching toward the doorway with all the senators following him like ducklings, Anakin throws a grin over his shoulder at Padme. “Have fun saving the Chancellor!”

She manages to sign, This is not funny, Anakin Skywalker, before he moves out of view.

“Come on.” Obi-Wan snatches up her hand and takes off at a run. They’re halfway up the corridor and just about to — stupidly — brave the turbolift when Bail catches up with them, almost tackling Obi-Wan in his haste to get them to stop.

“Wait,” he pants, clutching at a stitch in his side. “I have — I’m coming with you.”

“No,” says Obi-Wan, extricating himself from Bail’s grip. “No, you have to go with Anakin. Padme and I can handle this.”

“No!” Bail throws Obi-Wan a furious look. “I don’t trust you with her, Obi-Wan — gods of my ancestors, you are too old for her, what are you thinking? You’re not the man I thought you were if —”

“Bail!” Padme steps in front of him. “This is not what you think.”

“Padme, I know you —”

“No, you really, really don’t.” She grits her teeth together. “Really, whatever you’re thinking, you are not correct.”

“I’ve heard rumors about him, Padme! Rumors about him and a certain other planetary ruler —”

That’s when Obi-Wan jerks forward to clap a hand over Bail’s mouth. “ Absolutely not,” he says. “Bail, we do not have time for this.”

From around Obi-Wan’s hand, Bail gives him a look that Padme has come to learn means he has no intention of backing down, even if the building crumbles around them. Which, frankly, it is liable to do.

The time has come for unilateral decisions. Removing Obi-Wan’s hand from Bail’s mouth, she says, “I’m married to Anakin Skywalker.”

That actually silences Bail. Amid the sounds of lower floors collapsing somewhere far below, he stares at them both. Predicting his next question, Padme adds, “And, no, I’m not cheating on him with Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan is like a brother to me. For the love of the Force , he’s like a brother to me. What we are doing is secretly working to free clones and overthrow Palpatine, since he is the Sith Lord behind this whole war.”

By now, Obi-Wan has his head in both hands. Padme spares a moment to pat his head. “It’s fine,” she says, “Bail’s been looking for a reason to oust Palpatine for years. Haven’t you, Bail?”

Mutely, Bail nods. “So you’re… you and Obi-Wan aren’t…”

“Oh, for the love of — I told you, we’re in a conspiracy together!” Padme snaps her fingers. “ Keep up, Bail! Now, we’re going to go rescue the stars-damned Chancellor because we can’t just leave Tsuni to die. Are you coming or not?”

Bail hesitates. “But he has your lipstick on his neck?’

Growling, Padme makes a sign with her hands — one Anakin developed for their language — so violently that Bail takes a step back. Flicking a glance at Obi-Wan, he asks, “What was that?”

“It was a very rude word in sign language,” she says. “A language I developed with my husband and my not-lover — Obi-Wan. Now.” She smoothes her hair. “Like I said, my not-lover and I are going to go rescue the Chancellor and hopefully bring down his regime in the future. Are you coming or not ?”

Still vaguely slack jawed, Bail reaches out and hits the call button for the turbolift.

# # #

Sheev expected a lot of things when he contracted Cad Bane. He expected the job to succeed, for one. He knew better than to expect Kenobi to die — ten years of failed attempts had made him give up hope on that — but he certainly didn’t expect Kenobi to send Cad running. In hindsight, he should have predicted that Anakin wouldn’t be far from Kenobi’s side.

What he did not, on any level, expect was for Cad to blow up the Senate on his way out .

Expecting things is Sheev’s forte, and if Kenobi thinks he can take that away from him by enacting the sort of strategies that a drunken idiot who couldn’t find his way out from beneath a bar table would laugh at, he’s going to be surprised — lethally and permanently so.

If the infernal man would just die .

“Chancellor!” Tsuni, the most irritating assistant he’s ever had, runs in from the receiving room that attaches to his office. Apparently she’s given up trying to break through the seal on his office door. Hopefully, she’s finally willing to simply die and let him crawl his way out of the wreckage of the Senate in peace whenever it deigns to make its way to the ground.

“What is it, Tsuni?” he asks, endeavoring to look like he actually cares if she lives or dies — like he isn’t rooting for the second option.

“Well, Your Grace…” She gestures behind her, just as Padme, Kenobi, and — of all people — Bail Organa burst into Sheev’s office.

Skidding to a halt, arms spread wide for balance, one hand locked in Padme’s, Kenobi says, “Chancellor! We’ve come to rescue you!”

That’s around when the floor starts collapsing.

# # #

When Tracene Kane woke up, she didn’t anticipate receiving an emergency call from her broadcasting agency, telling her to get on a ship now because mercenaries had invaded the Senate and taken hostages. As she circled the Senate in her ship, her cameraman crammed next to her at the open door, she did not anticipate the foundations of the dome to explode in great balls of fire.

When the Chancellor’s office, way at the top of the building, starts to fall apart, Tracene thinks there is nothing else that can surprise her.

But then Obi-Wan Kenobi — the Great Negotiator, the general of the 212th battalion, a member of the august Jedi Council, and the whor* of the Core — emerges from the shattered office window, clinging to Padme Amidala — former queen of Naboo, current senator of the same planet, and Obi-Wan’s alleged lover — with one arm and dragging the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic — leader of the free galaxy, the greatest politician of the current age, and the chief of the war — with the other, while Senator Bail Organa — scandalous husband of Queen Breha of Alderaan, the friend of the Jedi, and head of the GAR oversight committee — supports him from behind and drags another woman along with him.

“Zoom, zoom, zoom!” Tracene elbows her cameraman, hard. The Republic is very used to catastrophes at this point. The bombing of the Senate is news, but not the kind of news that will make Tracene’s career — not in these days.

The news that will make her career happens approximately two seconds after her cameraman zooms in.

As Obi-Wan manages to shove everyone onto the fragile remains of the ledge, heading in the direction of the Chancellor’s still intact private speeder dock, a section of the ledge crumbles beneath Padme’s feet. Arms wheeling, she tumbles backward into empty space with a scream even Tracene can hear.

Obi-Wan moves like lightning, catching her and hauling her against him as she clings to him. After that, they all manage to make it to the speeder deck and throw themselves onto the waiting speeder, jetting away just before the office slides down the side of the dome in a terrifying freefall.

It’s all very moving and riveting, but Tracene is more interested in Obi-Wan’s hand placement when he grabbed Padme. She can’t stop herself from excitedly gripping her cameraman’s shoulder. “I just got a kriffing promotion.”

# # #

“So.” Adi grinds the heels of both hands into her eyes. “Here we are again.”

Anakin, dust stained and scraped and scratched up within an inch of his life, grins at her. “It’s nice. Kind of a tradition.”

Adi resists the urge to strangle him. “So. You were with Obi-Wan in the Senate.”

“Yes.”

“When the hostages were taken, you evaded capture.”

“Yes.”

“And you laid traps for the mercenaries and stole their weapons?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought the thermal detonators were a good idea?”

“They were a good idea! How was I supposed to know Cad Bane had set charges in the basem*nt?”

“And the Coruscant Guard?”

Anakin abruptly sobers. “They died, carrying out their duties. I tried to get everyone out, but I couldn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” Adi offers.

Anakin nods. Then, clearing his throat, he says, “Shame about the Senate dome, huh?”

# # #

Mace drags himself into Tholme’s apartment, grabbing the bottle of Corellian whiskey off the shelf in the kitchen without even looking and collapsing onto the couch, cradling it against him. Adi is already there, and judging by the way she looks like she recently got hit by an out of control speeder, she finished debriefing Skywalker.

Tholme wordlessly crosses the room to get glasses from the kitchen. “I take it every senator in the galaxy has been calling you to account for what happened to the Senate dome?”

“Yes,” Mace answers, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if becoming a hermit is an acceptable reaction. “But that’s not the issue.” He holds up his datapad, which is open to the front page of the biggest holopaper in the Core.

On the other couch, Adi leans forward to squint at the screen, while Tholme peers at it from the kitchen.

It takes them both several seconds to process the blurry image that is the focus of the entire article. Then Adi curses and slumps back into her seat. “We’re going to need to assign him some emotional control classes.”

Mace cracks open the whiskey and takes a long drink, not bothering with a glass. “You think?”

# # #

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin wanders into Padme’s living room, with the kind of glazed expression he used to get when Obi-Wan tried to teach him galactic history. Judging by his windblown appearance, he just flew in on his speeder and came in through the private dock Padme had attached to her penthouse years ago. “Why does the Galactic Times have a picture of you holding Padme’s butt?”

“What?” Obi-Wan, having blacked out on Padme’s couch when he finally managed to disentangle himself from the aftermath of the Senate dome’s collapse, jerks to his feet and takes the datapad Anakin hands him. There is indeed a picture of him and Padme on the front page — it is of the moment he saved her from falling off the top of the dome.

And his hands are indeed in an exceedingly unfortunate place.

“What’s going on?” Padme emerges from the hallway leading her fresher, her curls lying in wet hanks over her shoulders and leaving wet marks all over the shoulders of her elaborate dressing gown. “Ani, where’ve you been?” She curls an arm around his waist and presses a kiss against his cheek, giving him one of her most angelic looks. Then her eyes fall on the datapad that Obi-Wan is still holding, and she curses like a spacer.

“‘The whor* of the Core Finds the Angel of the GAR Has Equally Angelic Curves’?” she reads. “Obi-Wan, why are you holding my butt?”

Obi-Wan gives her his most sardonic look. “If I said it was the best handle within reach, would you hit me for implying that your rear is in any way large?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wasn’t thinking, I was grabbing.” Obi-Wan resists the urge to make the rude sign Padme made at Bail earlier at both of them. “And this —” he waves a hand to encompass the entire situation, up to and including the collapsed Senate dome “— is entirely due to the two of you and your cursed libidos. You both started this rumor. You made this bed, you get to lie in it.”

“That would be fine,” says Padme, scrolling through the article, “but the entire galaxy seems to think I’m in a different bed.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Padme purses her lips. “It’s possible the story has gotten away from us, a bit.”

“Oh, you think?”

Anakin falls onto the armchair adjacent to the couch, putting his boots up on the gleaming coffee table and ignoring the irritated scowl Padme directs at him. “Does anyone want to hear where I was?”

Obi-Wan sighs and rubs his temples. “Where were you, Anakin?”

“Why, thank you for asking.” Anakin leans forward. “I was in a very enlightening meeting with Chancellor Palpatine — in his emergency office, which isn’t a phrase I ever thought I’d say.”

“You went to meet him alone ?” say Padme and Obi-Wan at the same time.

“Oh, you’re gonna be glad I did. You know how we thought this whole thing was just another assassination attempt gone wrong?”

“It isn’t?” Obi-Wan has to raise an eyebrow. “I was almost shot in the head.”

“No, no, it was. But I think he’s got a different plan now.”

“And what would that be?” Padme folds her arms. “What horrific idea has that vile snake had now?” She narrows her eyes at Obi-Wan. “You should have just let me kill him.”

Obi-Wan lets that pass. “What’s his new plan, Anakin?”

“Oh, it’s really simple. He’s angling to use Padme to get me to hate you — just like he used Amu when I was a kid.” Anakin takes on an affected, offensively thick Core accent. “‘Oh, dear boy, it must be so hard to want what you can never have. Obi-Wan can never let you have anything that is just yours, can he? And so blatant about it, when you have worked so hard to be a faithful Jedi, a faithful friend.’” Anakin rolls his eyes.

Padme is practically vibrating. “‘Just yours’? I’m not a piece of meat . I’m going to kill him.”

“No, I am,” Anakin contradicts. “But first, I’m going to play along.”

“I sense you have a plan,” Obi-Wan says. “And historically, that has either been very good, or very bad. Very bad being ‘accidentally helping to collapse the Senate dome’.”

Anakin throws up his hands. “For the last time, my thermal detonators did not compromise the structural integrity of the building!”

Padme looks up from the datapad. “That’s not what page two of the article says.”

“Oh Force .” Anakin puts both hands over his face. “Well, a little bad publicity is going to help me play my part ever so much better.” Between his fingers, a wide, positively evil grin is visible. “What do you think, Obi-Wan? Me, the moody, jilted lover? Dark Side material?”

“Ani.” Padme comes to sit on the arm of his chair. “You’re sitting in a purple armchair. You couldn’t look less like Dark Side material.”

“Yes, but you’re blinded by love. Picture me in his office, ranting about Obi-Wan and you and the Order — I won’t even have to lie for that one! Light, telling the truth will be new and fun.”

“And if he thinks you’re coming around,” Obi-Wan says, sitting up straighter, “he’ll be more likely to perhaps accidentally let something about his true plans slip.”

“At the very least, I’ll be closer to him — might find things out that way.”

“Mm.” Obi-Wan steeples his fingers in front of his face. “This might be interesting.”

“So that’s a yes, right? I was going to do it anyway.”

“I’m aware. And, yes, it’s a yes.”

“Wonderful.” Padme kisses Anakin again, a bit more passionately than Obi-Wan would like, especially in front of his freshly brewed tea. “Do you need Obi-Wan to grab my butt a few more times so you have material to work with?”

“Padme.” Obi-Wan makes the rude sign. “Shut up.”

Padme presses her lips together. “I wonder what Bail is going to say. And speaking of scandalous romances, what did he mean about another planetary ruler?” A predatory smile curves her lips.

Before Obi-Wan can open his mouth to try to find an answer that doesn’t involve I’m married to and estranged from the duch*ess of Mandalore, his comm rings. So glad is he to have a distraction that he doesn’t even check to see who is calling before he answers it.

He regrets that oversight the moment he hears Mace’s voice on the other end of the call. “Well, what did you want me to do?” he shouts into the comm as soon as Mace finishes speaking. “Let her fall? My deepest apologies, Mace — next time I’ll make sure to grab her chest and really give the tabloids something to talk about.” With that, he hangs up and all but throws his comm on the end table.

Anakin gives him a sympathetic smile full of thinly concealed laughter. “Productive conversation?”

Obi-Wan gives him a look utterly devoid of humor. “They want me to take emotional management lessons. With Ki-Adi.”

Padme crumples into paroxysms of laughter and falls backward off Anakin’s armrest.

# # #

Several hours after the news of the Senate dome’s collapse reaches Yan, Sidious — a rather battered version of him — comms him.

Eyes even more acidically yellow under his dark hood than usual, he says, “Your mercenary tried to kill me.”

Yan reminds himself one more time that this isn’t a laughing matter. “I imagine he was trying to do me a favor, Master. You are, after all, the leader of my enemies.”

Sidious seems to take a deep breath. “In the future, apprentice, be sure to make these contracts more airtight.”

Yan nods. Then he says, “I take it Kenobi didn’t die, then?”

Sidious hangs up on him.

# # #

When Dooku comms — whether to demand an explanation for why the job went wrong or to try to get a lock on his coordinates so he can send his droids to kill him — Cad studies the contact for a few long seconds, trying to decide if potentially salvaging some part of his fee is worth the risk of encountering Skywalker, Kenobi, and Senator Amidala again.

With great conviction, he blocks Dooku’s contact. “Never again,” he says, setting a course to the furthest reaches of the Outer Rim.

Chapter 8: Dezinformatsiya

Chapter Text

Dezinformatsiya

Tracene has never had as much fun as this, nor has she ever had such a lucrative, long running story. The picture of Obi-Wan and Padme from the collapse of the Senate dome went viral within minutes, infecting the entire holonet — even spreading to the Separatists.

Before the fire of the first picture dies down, Tracene is determined to make another headline. If she keeps this up, maybe she can retire early. With a smile, she opens up the unmarked communication she received from one of her anonymous sources. It’s shaky holocam footage of an encounter between Obi-Wan and Asajj Ventress, the Separatists’ famed Sith assassin.

It is decidedly more familiar than a duel between two enemies should be. Tracene would wager the two of them are too busy flirting — outlandishly so — to even be properly trying to kill each other.

The wheels turning in her brain, she settles deeper into her desk chair, opens a new window on her datapad, and begins drafting a new article.

# # #

“You know,” says Cal Kestis, lying on his back on the floor of the clone barracks on his master’s ship and reading Tracene Kane’s most recent article, “I always thought General Kenobi and Queen Breha might have something going on.”

Jetlag, the 13th battalion’s clone captain, looks up from cleaning his blaster. “Don’t be crazy, kid. Queen Breha and Senator Organa are joined at the hip.”

“Then why does Senator Organa act so odd around General Kenobi then?” Cal sits up on one elbow. “When me and my master had a meeting with them a couple of weeks ago before we deployed, I swear Senator Organa was acting funny.”

“Kid might have a point,” offers Kel, who is polishing his armor in the far corner of the barracks. “I hear some senator caught sight of Organa and General Kenobi arguing right before the dome collapsed — though why they were crazy enough to stick around and watch when the place was blowing up, I don’t know.”

“Why would he choose then to fight with him?” demands Jetlag, twisting around to look at his brother.

Kel shrugs. “Love makes you do crazy things.”

“Either way,” Jetlag says firmly, “it’s none of our business. We’re soldiers, not gossips.”

Reluctantly, the battalion agrees, and Cal goes back to his article with a sigh, wondering if General Kenobi really called Asajj Ventress dearheart in the middle of battle.

# # #

Bail, unceremoniously barging into Padme’s apartment as he is wont to do any time it is occupied, drops a datapad under Obi-Wan’s nose. “This is the last time I let you hide a deserting clone under my desk during an official meeting. Someone — probably that little redheaded padawan — has grossly misread the situation.”

Peering over the edge of his caf cup and lamenting the disruption of his brief leave, Obi-Wan reads the headline out loud. “‘Anonymous Sources from the 13th Battalion of the GAR Speculate About an Illicit Affair Between Queen Breha of Alderaan and the Negotiator’.” He sighs deeply. “Would it help you to hear that the clone had potentially incriminating information about Palpatine?”

Bail raises both eyebrows. “Did it pan out?”

Obi-Wan takes a slow sip of caf. “Not so much.”

“Then no. It doesn’t help.” Bail pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to go comm Breha.”

Obi-Wan reads past the headline, gaze falling on a particularly irritating turn of phrase. “Padme!” he yells, craning his head back so he can see over the back of the couch and into Padme’s attached kitchen, where she is sitting on the counter and eating something smothered in chocolate to help her recover from the Senate gala she was forced to attend last night. “They’ve got a name for us.”

Padme rubs her temple with one hand. “Fascinating. What is it?”

“Obidala.”

She takes a large bite of her chocolate concoction. Mouth full, she says, “Will you let me kill the journalist?”

“No.” Turning back to Bail, Obi-Wan says, “And you can be as miffed as you like, Bail, but it’s not my fault that clones and padawans both are incurable gossips. There’s a reason we haven’t told Ahsoka about all this yet.”

Comm out to call Breha, Bail gives him an unimpressed look.

# # #

As the proprietor of a nightclub that’s really a front for the galactic Freedom Trail, Zeri lives her life on the edge. Things tend to go more smoothly — or, at the very least, blow up in her face less — when she expects anything and everything to happen or go wrong. However, even her imagination reaches its limits sometimes. There’s no way she can predict everything.

And Mace Windu, walking into her nightclub for the first time in twenty years, falls squarely into the category of kriffstorms she didn’t see coming.

As he moves across the dance floor to the bar, head on a swivel as he takes in all the changes she’s made over the years — namely, the removal of the dancing platforms and poles — Zeri kicks out under the bar, the toe of her heel jamming into Sabe’s ribs as she crawls under the bar with a half a dozen escaped prostitutes, heading toward the secret entrance to the nightclub’s basem*nt, which serves as the hub of Coruscant’s Freedom Trail operations. In hindsight, that might not have been the best call, as Sabe just barely manages to stifle her cry of pain. Turning a fierce gaze on Zeri, she signs, What is it?

Using her rudimentary knowledge of the Freedom Trail’s sign language — a strange and complex beast, capable of getting across full sentences in a few subtle movements — Zeri says, Jedi. Mace Windu.

Shutting her eyes briefly, Sabe makes the sign for kriff and then says, Handle him, before continuing her slow crawl toward the secret entrance.

Zeri very nearly kicks her again. Handle him? Handle him? It occurs to her then that perhaps it would have been a good idea to inform Sabe and the rest of the Freedom Trail of her history with Mace, but it feels unfair to blame herself for not predicting that it could all become relevant in the span of five seconds.

Plastering a smile on her face, she leans on the bar and sets her chin in both hands as Mace comes to a stop in front of it. A breeze generated by the movement under the bar plays across Zeri’s legs, stirring the folds of her silk dress as Sabe and the other women worm across the floor on their hands and knees. Zeri does her best to pretend it isn’t happening. “Well,” she says as Mace takes a seat on one of the stools lining the bar, “look what the tooka dragged in. It’s been a long time, love.”

At the word love, Sabe freezes and cranes her head toward Zeri. She signs kriff again. Zeri resists the urge to sign You think? right back at her.

Still looking around the nightclub — mostly empty since it’s midmorning — Mace says, “I didn’t want to come.”

Fighting down the flare of actual anger at that, which threatens to overcome her common sense, she says, “How charming.”

“No, I…” Mace sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I needed to ask you something.”

Please don’t let it be about the Freedom Trail, thinks Zeri. “Oh? What’s your question?”

Mace looks both ways before answering, as though checking for listening ears. Why he thinks the cleaning lady, clear on the other side of the room, presents a danger Zeri isn’t sure, but she waits as patiently as she can. Finally, Mace settles himself and faces her. “Are you in a… relationship with Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Of all the things Zeri pictured Mace saying — from “I still love you” to “Hey, do you remember when we accidentally got high off the spice the Pykes were smuggling under that stage over there and you stabbed one of them through the eye with your high heel in a fit of spice-fueled adrenaline?” — asking her if she was having a fling with the whor* of the Core wasn’t one of them, though in hindsight it probably should have been. Beneath the bar, Sabe startles so hard that she bangs her head against the underside of it. Thankfully, the thump is too muted for Mace to hear.

“Am I…” Zeri blinks. “What?”

“Please just tell me the truth,” says Mace. “Whatever was between us is over, but I would rather not read about this in the tabloids, and there’s already rumors that Obi-Wan frequents this place. And given that you’ve removed all female entertainment… I can’t think of another reason. It’s not as though he drinks any more.”

Zeri grasps for her words, but they’ve all deserted her. Still huddled under the bar, with several confused prostitutes next to her, Sabe furiously signs, It’s a trap. Kriffing slimeball wants testimony. You need that or irrevocable evidence to bring someone before the Council for breaking the code. Don’t tell him anything.

Zeri has time to manage the swelling rage at the idea that Mace is not, in fact, mourning the death of what could have been before the click of her office door — located at the top of the metal steps behind her — sounds.

“Zeri,” comes Obi-Wan’s voice from up above, “you’re all out of shampoo, do you need me too…” He catches sight of Mace; his voice dies in a creak.

Mace lifts his eyes toward Obi-Wan, while Zeri winces. “Hello, Obi-Wan,” he says. “Come here often?”

Zeri turns to see Obi-Wan frozen on the metal balcony outside her office door, caught in the act of ruffling a towel through his still damp hair. He must have stolen into her fresher to use the shower after smuggling a whole group of deserting clones out through the sewers. He was supposed to use the one at the safehouse, but perhaps he was in a rush.

“Not so much,” Obi-Wan says, clearing his throat.

Mace looks at Zeri. Remembering what Sabe said, she just shrugs and says, “There’s nothing between him and me. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He shakes his head. “You know, Obi-Wan, it’s bad enough that you can’t control yourself, but the way you don’t even try to hide it makes everything worse. You’re humiliating the Order. And Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan nods, letting his towel fall to the floor and straightening his robes. “I’ll take that under advisem*nt.”

Mace snorts, turns on his heel, and storms out of the nightclub. Once she’s sure he’s gone, Zeri turns back to Obi-Wan and hisses, “Use your own shower, fool!”

Obi-Wan hisses back, “No one thinks I’m even using my own bed, why should I bother whose shower I use?”

# # #

As is becoming a far too often occurrence, the Council settles themselves into their seats in the Council room, studying the latest Tracene Kane article that’s been loaded onto all their datapads. This one is titled “Love Triangles and the Inner Circle: How Obi-Wan Kenobi Revealed a Twenty Year Old Scandal By Having a Dalliance with Master Windu’s Alleged Former Flame”. After reading it through, everyone turns accusatory eyes on Mace.

He slouches in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say anything to the press.”

“Well, somebody did,” says Adi, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Zeri must have.”

“Why in the galaxy would she do that?”

“Fame. Money.” Mace waves his hand vaguely. He’s long given up trying to ferret out the meaning in Zeri’s action. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Old flame, was she?” asks Yoda, turning his piercing gaze on Mace.

Mace returns it unflinchingly. “Until all of you find a way to control Obi-Wan Kenobi, you cannot censure me.”

“I, for one,” says Adi with a sigh, “would like to know who Tracene Kane’s source is.”

# # #

“Versé.” His harsh voice pulling her out of her work, which currently involves hacking into Rush Clovis’ bank account and draining it to fund Operation Fountain’s more expensive endeavors — because no one said vindictiveness couldn’t fuel innovation — Obi-Wan, miniaturized in the corner of Versé’s screen, holds up a datapad bearing the latest Kane article. “I know this was you.”

Unperturbed, Versé slices her way through Clovis’ last firewall, reflecting that really should have chosen a banking establishment with better security. “Don’t make me mute you, Operative Mullet,” she says.

“Versé.” No less grating on holocall than in person, Obi-Wan glares at her. “Were the current rumors just not enough for you?”

Placidly, she sets the virus she crafted loose and lets it suck away all of Clovis’ money and funnel it into a triple secured and concealed bank account, protected by half a dozen shell companies and managed by an establishment far out of the Republic’s jurisdiction — because Versé isn’t stupid, unlike Rush Clovis. “The more eyes on the ridiculous lies,” she says, “the fewer eyes there are on what we’re actually doing. I mean, Palpatine will hardly see the whor* of the Core as a real threat.”

“No more being an anonymous source,” snaps Obi-Wan. “I can hardly show my face in the Temple as it is.”

Versé smiles. “You may want to brace yourself for the next article then.”

Obi-Wan’s face is a storm. “What article?”

# # #

“Padme.” Nearly tripping over her own feet, Riyo rushes into Padme’s office in the half rebuilt Senate, dodging the tarp that’s folded on the floor from when the construction droids were painting earlier. “Did you see the latest Kane article? Tell me you didn’t.”

Caught in a shaft of sunlight that spills through the window behind her — shadowed with smudges of builder’s putty — Padme doesn’t look up from her flimsiwork. “Don’t worry about it, Riyo,” she says in the most placid voice Riyo has ever heard come out of her mouth.

Naturally, this sends a spike of adrenaline through her. Padme is many things, but she is rarely calm. She must hate me! “It’s not true, Padme,” she gabbles out, pressing her hands against the edge of Padme’s desk. “I swear it isn’t. I would never — you and him — and I… I don’t understand it, but I would — and me and… Well, you know.”

Padme finally looks up. The loose frizzles of hair about her head catch the light and make a flaming halo. “Riyo. It’s fine.” Something like a smile plays over her lips. “I never thought I owned Obi-Wan.” She looks down at her flimsiwork again. “We’re hardly exclusive,” she says, managing to remake Riyos’ perception of her in three words. “I have other relationships.”

Riyo digests this, the words of the article spinning around and around her head. Then she bursts out, “But I am exclusive! But not to General Kenobi!” Fox is the last survivor of the Coruscant Guard — the very last thing he needs is to think Riyo is being unfaithful.

Padme continues to be unconcerned. “Clearly the media thinks otherwise.” She writes her signature at the bottom of the page with great flourish. “It’s all right, Riyo. They get me wrong too.”

“They do?”

“Certainly.” Padme looks up again, showing her teeth in a smile. “They miss half my men.”

# # #

“Versé did what?” The comms room on the Negotiator shakes with the force of Obi-Wan’s yell. Cody sighs and turns down the volume on his helmet speakers. He’ll just have to remember to turn it back up later, lest there be a repeat of the Felucia incident, which Rex still teases him about to this day.

Unperturbed on the other end of the holocall, Padme folds her arms. “It was necessary. I thought someone might suspect that Riyo and Fox are together, and nothing good would happen to Fox if their relationship came to light. I had to throw suspicion somewhere else.”

“But on me? Again?”

Padme shrugs. “You’re an easy target, Obi-Wan.”

Cody can’t help but agree.

# # #

Ahsoka has come to accept — and even appreciate — that her apprenticeship will never be normal. Other padawans have training schedules. Other padawans have comprehensive exams to test their knowledge. Other padawans use appropriate honorifics to refer to their masters (Ahsoka, in the heat of battle, has many times referred to Anakin as “Hey, you!”). Other padawans don’t have the Council calling their personal comm to ask them for information on their grandmaster. Other padawans don’t have people pointing at them on the street and say, “That’s the one whose master helped blow up the Senate!” or, “Her grandmaster is the whor* of the Core!”

Other padawans certainly didn’t have their master plant himself in front of the shared meditation room aboard the Resolute and refuse to let them pass.

“Obi-Wan’s using the room,” says Anakin, holding up both hands to forestall her. “You can’t go in.”

The way he says it makes Ahsoka raise a brow ridge. “What do you mean he’s using it?” she asks, more to be a kriffhead than anything else. If she’s going to be covering for them constantly, she might as well have fun doing it. “Why can’t I use it too?”

There’s a thump and a grunt from inside the room, followed by a feminine voice, saying something Ahsoka can’t make out. Her eyes snap wide, and she takes a lurching step back.

Anakin’s expression doesn’t change, though he does take a corresponding step forward. “He’s busy.”

There’s a clattering sound from the meditation room, like someone swept the neatly stacked incense bowls off their shelf. Ahsoka’s stomach turns over. “With who?”

Anakin lets out a nervous laugh. “What do you mean?”

A muted yell that sounds like Obi-Wan filters through the airlock. Anakin purses his lips. Ahsoka taps her foot. Another yell reaches the corridor. Anakin shifts from foot to foot. After another second, he says, “I should probably go help him.”

Ahsoka’s eyes stretch wider, as do Anakin’s. In the voice of someone falling over themselves to backtrack, he adds, “Not like that — no, it’s — just… Go practice your lightsaber forms in the hangar. Go on, scat.”

Ahsoka folds her arms. “I already practiced my forms.”

“Wonderful! Practice them again.” As the woman’s voice comes again, saying something Ahsoka is certain she should be glad she can’t understand, Anakin grabs her by the shoulders and turns her around, pushing her up the hall. “While you’re at it, get Rex.”

Ahsoka half turns. “Rex?”

Anakin tips his head to one side, like he’s thinking something over, and then recoils. “Mind out of the gutter, padawan!”

“I would love to, but my grandmaster lives there, so how else am I supposed to understand him?”

“Just don’t try.” Shepherding her further up the hall while reaching behind him toward the meditation room airlock, Anakin unlocks it and says, “Don’t forget about Rex,” just before he ducks inside the room, slamming the airlock behind him.

Ahsoka stares, open mouthed, at the airlock for a few seconds before turning on her heel and storming toward the hangar. She’s halfway there when her comm rings.

It’s Mace Windu’s contact — of course. Long used to having the members of the Jedi Council in her contacts — with insulting names no less, since they have a habit of calling her late in the night when she just crawled into bed after a long campaign — Ahsoka answers him, reflecting that all of the Council’s senses must be attuned to Obi-Wan and Anakin. There’s no other explanation for the precise timing of all their calls.

“Padawan Tano,” says Mace as soon as his hologram pops up above her wrist. “Do you have anything to report?”

That’s one thing Ahsoka can appreciate about Mace: he never bothers with preamble. Adi Gallia can hold her up for fifteen minutes before she gets to the point, Yoda tends to go off on unintelligible tangents, and even Plo wastes time asking after her health, but Mace always gets straight to the point. After six months as Anakin’s padawan and six months of the Council all but living inside her comm (and thus inside her ears), it’s refreshing.

It doesn’t make dodging through the minefield of not-lies any easier, of course.

Ahsoka purses her lips. “Oh, nothing new, Master,” she says, which is perfectly true. Obi-Wan disrupting things with his dalliances — or whatever he’s doing — and Anakin covering for him with varying degrees of success certainly isn’t new. “Just my master being my master.” She finishes it off with a sunny smile — the same one she used to use to get out of trouble in the creche.

Mace gives her a hooded, unimpressed look, long wise to the fact that she has been carefully telling him and the Council nothing of import for the past six months.

Sometimes Ahsoka feels like reminding him of the no-snitching rules of the creche, but she imagines that a Council member — and one so long out of the creche no less — wouldn’t understand.

“Nothing new?” he parrots back to her, both eyebrows raised.

Ahsoka flattens out her lips and shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“Your master and grandmaster disappeared for two weeks during your last campaign,” says Mace, crossing his arms. “There were reports that they were dead.”

Ahsoka had read those reports and had kept everything under control with Rex’s help, but she’d never been able to work herself up into any kind of true worry, mostly because Padme Amidala hadn’t ceased to continue her daily business of making problems in the Senate. Ahsoka’s learned to use Padme as a sort of barometer — if she deviates from her routine or — worse — supposedly returns to Naboo for an unspecified amount of time after Obi-Wan and Anakin get themselves into trouble, then there’s cause for worry. If she doesn’t, Anakin and Obi-Wan are sure to turn up no worse for wear within a month or so. “There were,” she says. “War can be so unpredictable.”

“They somehow turned up on Zygerria.”

“Yes,” Ahsoka agrees.

“There were also reports that Queen Miraj was overthrown by an unknown entity. Further investigation confirmed that a representative government has taken her place on Zygerria.”

“I know!” Ahsoka smiles again. “Lucky, isn’t it?”

“And you have no reason to believe that these two events are connected to Obi-Wan and Skywalker’s disappearance?”

Ahsoka has every reason to think that but absolutely no proof. She shrugs. “They told me it was a woman who overthrew Miraj after she captured them. They never saw her face. I don’t have any idea who she is, but isn’t it a good thing she chose right then to strike? Think what could have happened to Obi-Wan and my master if she hadn’t done something!”

Mace’s eyes go even more hooded. “Imagine,” he says flatly. “And what are your thoughts on this situation, Padawan Tano?”

“My thoughts?” Ahsoka widens her eyes. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying, Master. After all, I’m still so young, and Master Skywalker is ever so much wiser than I am. I usually just go off his reports.”

Mace takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. “If you had to speculate —”

“I wouldn’t. It just wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“I give you leave to do so, padawan.”

Ahsoka wrinkles her nose. “I think only my master can do that.”

“And where is he?”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Busy!”

“Padawan Tano —”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” Ahsoka quickens her pace. “Master Skywalker told me to practice my lightsaber forms.”

“Padawan —”

“Please call me when you have more questions! I live to serve the Council.” Ahsoka hangs up before Mace can say anything more and releases a long breath, shoulders slumping. To the empty corridor, she says, “They do not deserve me.”

# # #

Mace gazes at his now silent comm for a moment before turning an accusing glare on Yoda, who is sitting on the hassock across from him, looking as placid as ever. “What did I say when you first suggested giving Ahsoka Tano to Skywalker?”

Yoda avoids his gaze, lifting his teacup to his face and taking a sip. “Recall, I can’t,” he says. “Old, I am. Slip away, details like that do.”

“It was very simple. One word, in fact. Surely you remember.”

Yoda only continues sipping his tea, ears laid back against his head like they always do when he’s being pulled into a conversation he would rather avoid.

“Don’t,” Mace supplies after a moment. “The exact word I used was don’t. And you ignored me.” He gestures to his comm. “And now we’re reaping the rewards! I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“Loyal, she is,” Yoda says at length. “Predicted this, we should have.”

Mace throws up his hands. “You think?”

# # #

Rex doesn’t know what he expected to find after Ahsoka, huffy as she usually is after Anakin brushes her off, told him to go meet Anakin and Obi-Wan in the port side mediation room, but a disgruntled Obi-Wan wrapped in a towel, an amused Anakin, a ruffled Asajj Ventress, and an irritated Quinlan Vos — sporting a black eye — wasn’t it.

Only not reaching for his blaster because Anakin is laughing his tail off, Rex manages a hesitant, “Sir?”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Obi-Wan says, possibly more out of habit than because he thinks Rex is actually ill-informed enough to make certain assumptions.

“Sir,” Rex says, “I couldn’t tell you what it looks like.”

Gingerly touching his bruised eye, Quinlan, who Rex thought was on a mission in the Outer Rim, says, “You hit me.”

This makes Anakin laugh harder but does very little to clear anything up.

Obi-Wan cuts a sideways glare in Quinlan’s direction and gestures to the fresher that opens up off the room, meant to be used for showers if Jedi came here after a session in the onboard salles, which Obi-Wan clearly had. “You crawled out of the vents while I was in the shower.”

“And you completely overreacted!” Quinlan gestures to the vaguely destroyed meditation room. The floor is scattered with the shattered remains of incense bowls and puddled with a not insignificant amount of water.

“I didn’t know it was you! And you brought Dooku’s witch with you, what was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think with your brain, not your fists!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

Ventress, perched atop a pile of cushions says, “I did find the part where his towel fell down particularly amusing.”

That’s around when Anakin falls onto the floor laughing, arms wrapped about his middle as he kicks his feet. Obi-Wan gives Ventress a look of deep aggravation, clutching his towel protectively around him, and says, “Why are you here?”

“We were trying to tell you,” says Quinlan, somehow managing to make it sound as though this is all his fault. He has a soaked sponge in his hand, steadily dripping on the floor. Rex can only assume Obi-Wan, sans his lightsaber, hurled it at him. Judging by the water droplets sparkling in Quinlan’s dreadlocks, it found its mark on his head. “But you wouldn’t stop yelling.”

“I happened to be feeling particularly vulnerable at the time,” Obi-Wan grits out, gesturing to his towel. “And I thought you were on some mission on the Rim!”

“Technically, I was. But less technically, that was a lie.”

Obi-Wan lifts both eyebrows in a dangerous expression. “Oh? Was it now?”

“I was tasked with infiltrating the Separatist Alliance and gathering information.”

As one, Rex, Obi-Wan, and Anakin all look at Ventress, who is cleaning under her nails with the knife at her belt and placidly ignoring them. Anakin clears his throat. “And how’s that going?”

Quinlan glances at Ventress. “It’s going well, thank you.”

Obi-Wan studies Quinlan’s face for a moment. “No,” he says. “No, you didn’t. I swear, Quin. I swear.”

Any confusion Rex had about what Quinlan is meant to have done is cleared up when Obi-Wan jumps to his feet, nearly dropping his towel again, and yells, “The entire galaxy thinks I’m sleeping with her! And you have to go and make it more complicated? I could kill you and dance on your grave. I just might.”

Quinlan is unmoved in the face of Obi-Wan’s rage. “You’re one to talk about making things complicated. You’re trying to overthrow the Chancellor with your padawan and the senator of Naboo!”

There’s dead silence for a long moment. At length, Anakin says, “I’m a knight.”

Narrowing his eyes, Obi-Wan asks, “If — hypothetically — we were doing that, how did you find out?”

Quinlan sets his chin in his hands and sighs deeply. “Obi-Wan,” he says, “don’t try to outspy the spy. I know you’ve been planning this since Geonosis.”

“Since the aftermath of the Battle of Naboo, actually.” Obi-Wan badly conceals the note of triumph in his voice.

Quinlan blinks. “Oh. That’s… longer than I expected.”

“And Bail is helping us too.”

“Well, I knew that one.” Quinlan shakes his head. “Anyway, Asajj and I want to help.”

Anakin squints. “Ventress wants to help?”

Sending a beguiling look in Anakin’s direction, Ventress says, “Do you know what happens to me at the end of the war, little Jedi?”

“You’re not that much older than me, Ventress. And I assume you don’t get a nice retirement package.”

“Nice guess.”

“It also helps that she hates Dooku and Palpatine,” adds Quinlan. “So anyway, she wants to be a double agent and inform on the Separatists to you and Anakin. Help you in your… whatever this is too.”

“Operation Fountain,” Anakin supplies, while Obi-Wan lifts his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “It’s called Operation Fountain.”

Quinlan grins. “Well. Filing that away for mocking later.”

“I’ll drown you,” Obi-Wan tells him conversationally.

“But then you wouldn’t have my help.” Quinlan pauses to count on his fingers. “Because I’d like to be a triple agent. Triple? I think it’s triple.”

“It’s triple,” Rex confirms. It feels like the thing to do.

“So what do you say, Obi-Wan?” Quinlan spreads his arms. “Want our help?”

Anakin gets to his feet and gestures vaguely in Ventress’ direction. “I’m still confused about her.”

Ventress blinks slowly at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I am.”

“She’s fine,” says Quinlan, putting an arm around her shoulders. “She’s with me.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline again, and Rex suddenly wishes he were anywhere else. “Oh, ‘with you’?”

“Yeah, about that.” Quinlan laughs a little. “All those rumors about you and Ventress have been really helpful, I’ve got to say.”

The room goes silent again. With narrowed eyes, Obi-Wan turns toward Quinlan and folds his arms tight around his chest, heedless of the fragile knot holding his towel up around his hips. “Quinlan.”

Quinlan lifts his gaze to him, face sunny. “Yes, Obi-Wan?” Behind Obi-Wan, Anakin takes several steps back, throwing Quinlan a wide-eyed, warning look that Quinlan apparently feels at peace ignoring.

“Did you start the rumors?”

Quinlan tips his head to one side. “Now that’s a little complicated.”

“I’ll kill you!” With a roar, Obi-Wan hurls himself at Quinlan with enough force that Rex is relatively certain it’s only a miracle of physics keeping his towel up. As Ventress scrambles out of the way and abandons Quinlan to his fate, Anakin leans back against the wall, apparently content to wait this out.

Sighing, Rex readies himself to intervene before they either have to explain to the Council why Quinlan somehow ended up in the Resolute’s medical wing or before Obi-Wan’s towel is lost entirely.

He just prays Ahsoka stays in the hangar and doesn’t choose this moment to lose patience with Anakin keeping her out of things.

# # #

Yan enjoys when things go according to plan. He prides himself on always knowing which is the winning side and on outplaying all his more emotional counterparts — such as Yoda.

One thing he can neither abide nor prepare for is the unpredictable. The nonsensical. The ridiculous beyond belief.

Obi-Wan Kenobi — and by extension his former padawan Anakin Skywalker — is all of these things. Yan is not quite sure how Qui-Gon managed to produce someone worse than he was, who is also not in possession of any of the redeeming qualities that made Yan almost respect Qui-Gon, but he did it.

And yet somehow Obi-Wan continues to outplay Yan, even though most of the moves he makes seem to be in the direction of every single — and perhaps not so single — woman in the galaxy. If she breathes, she is on Obi-Wan’s radar.

In spite of this, Yan just lost Ryloth to the Republic — to Obi-Wan and Anakin’s clone battalions, specifically — and none of it makes any sense. There must be a wolf in his flock.

A female one, enticed by Obi-Wan’s apparent animal magnetism.

Yan settles back into his chair, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers in thought. The moonlight makes the green stained glass window behind him glow, casting an odd aura over his whole desk. Nodding to one of his droid guards, he says, “Bring him in.”

The droid moves to obey, pacing over to the great door of Yan’s study and hauling it open with a heavy rumble. Two more droids appear on the other side, dragging a figure between them. Head drooping and covered with a black hood, the prisoner only puts up the vaguest of struggles as the droids pull him toward the desk, his long legs kicking against the polished marble floor. They dump him in front of it, but he’s on his feet again in a second, in spite of the way his hands are bound behind his back — with Force suppressing binders, since Yan isn’t about to take risks in his own manor.

At a signal from Yan, one of the droids pulls the hood off the prisoner’s head, revealing a rather ruffled Anakin Skywalker. Blowing his hair back from his face, he says, “You’re interrupting my leave,” as if that is Yan’s greatest offense.

Yan crosses one ankle over the other under his desk. “That was rather the point, boy,” he says, reflecting on how touching Anakin breaks most, if not all, of Sidious’ rules and deciding that what Sidious doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I couldn’t very well snatch you out from under the nose of the Jedi Order. Where were you going to spend your leave?” Sidious has never yet been able to figure it out — a former slave like Anakin is naturally secretive, covering his trail so well that even Sidious in all his power loses track of him.

Anakin gives him a flat look. “With the secret wife I’ve been hiding from the Jedi Order.”

Yan sighs. “I see you’re going to make this difficult. At least come up with a less ridiculous lie.” One would have to be blind and imbecilic to think that Anakin Skywalker, a golden Jedi in comparison to Obi-Wan, would have the will to keep up a relationship amidst all his covering for Obi-Wan’s dalliances.

“I am difficult,” replies Anakin. “What do you want, Dooku? Information? You know I’m never going to give it. If you’re fixing to pull out the thumbscrews over where I’m going for my leave, do you really think it’s going to get any easier from here?”

Yan smiles. “The information I want has nothing to do with the war.” This is patently untrue, as — to the misfortune of everyone — Obi-Wan’s various liaisons are irrevocably entangled in the war by their very nature.

“Oh, this is going to be good.” Anakin shakes off the droids when they try to grip him by his elbows. “What do you want to know?”

Yan gathers himself to ask a question he has never wanted to know the answer to. A question that is crass and tacky, yet — unfathomably — the outcome of the war may depend on its answer. “Just who is Obi-Wan sleeping with?”

There’s a short silence. Anakin blinks. “Like… Do you want a list?”

A list? “Do I… need a list?” Yan feels rather ill.

“Unless you want to be here for a while… yeah, probably.”

Thinking it over, Yan decides that the blame for this dysfunction rests squarely on Yoda’s shoulders. Otherwise, it might be his fault that Qui-Gon raised a padawan apparently completely incapable of controlling his urges, and that can’t be right. “Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be,” he snaps, ignoring the accusatory way Anakin raises his eyebrow at the outburst. “Just tell me, boy, who in my army has fallen into Obi-Wan Kenobi’s bed?”

Anakin chokes a little bit. Then, after a moment, he says, “Again, would you like a list?”

Yan balls his hands into fists at his side and imagines just how satisfying it would be to punch Obi-Wan’s brat in the nose.

That’s around when the window behind him explodes inward in a shower of green glass and a clustered group of shadowy figures hurtles through the opening, disappearing into the darkness at the edges of the room as soon as they land. Within seconds, every droid in the room except the two holding Anakin is torn apart, green smoke materializing out of nowhere and seeming to rip them in two from within.

Two more people land on Yan’s desk, leaving scuff marks across its polished surface. Yan tips his head back toward them, lurching backward and snatching for his lightsaber. The person on the right side of the desk is Quinlan Vos, grinning at him like this is all some kind of fun game, and the one on the left is Asajj Ventress, his apparently traitorous apprentice. She’s dressed in full Nightsister garb, their traditional face paint melding with her tattoos and making her look even more formidable than normal.

In one smooth, synchronized turn, Quinlan and Ventress lop the heads off the droids holding Anakin, and with one wave of his hand, Quinlan unlocks Anakin’s binders.

Now facing three fully trained Force users, Yan takes another step back. This is exactly the kind of unpredictability he was trying to avoid.

Ventress flashes him a predatory grin. “Consider this my resignation.”

Anakin peeps out from behind her, lackadaisically igniting his lightsaber. “You know,” he muses, “if Obi-Wan really is romancing your allies, what made you think it was a good idea to kidnap his former apprentice and bring him into the heart of your territory?”

Begrudgingly, Yan has to concede that Anakin has a point. It’s an unfortunate culmination to an already misbegotten series of events. Rather than admitting his tactical error out loud, he says, “I suppose Obi-Wan Kenobi seduced you to the Light?”

Ventress glances at Quinlan and shrugs. “If it makes you feel better, yes.”

Then she strikes, along with Quinlan and every Nightsister in the room.

Still stinging from his previous oversight, Yan does what any intelligent person ought to do when ambushed by a horde of Nightsisters.

He backflips out of the window.

# # #

For once, it is not Anakin Skywalker on the other side of the briefing table. Resisting the urge to massage her temples, Adi says, “So you managed to rescue Anakin, but Dooku got away?”

Sitting with his boots propped up on the edge of the table, Quinlan nods. “We really did try.”

“‘We’ being you, Asajj Ventress, and…?”

“The Nightsisters, like I said.”

“And the fact that the Nightsisters haven’t allied with the Jedi in… ever was… What, to you?”

Quinlan shrugs. “I don’t know. I personally thought they seemed nice.”

“Nice.”

“Well, a little prickly, but can you blame them? I think they just need more sunlight on Dathomir.”

“Sunlight.”

“Yes.” Quinlan picks at his teeth with a fingernail. “Are we almost done? It’s been a long day.”

“No.” Adi drums her fingers on the tabletop and wishes she could be anywhere else. She knew she should have forced Tholme to do this, even if the man kept going on and on about Quinlan being his former padawan and how that represented a “conflict of interest”. With how things haven’t made sense since the Battle of Geonosis, Adi feels they are all far past petty concerns like conflicts of interest. “And you say that Asajj Ventress is now on the side of the Republic?”

Quinlan tips his head to one side, considering. Then, popping his lips decisively, he says, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Adi grinds her teeth. “How far would you go?”

“I don’t know,” says Quinlan again, spreading his hands in a noncommittal gesture. “She likes me well enough.”

“Yes, let’s circle back to that.” Adi wants to do anything but. “You said you and Ventress had a… relationship?”

“Sure,” Quinlan says. “But I was focused on the mission. It’s nothing you have to worry about. Just doing what I had to do.” He folds his hands behind his head. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

Adi stares at him, open mouthed, for a moment. “Rumors from within and without the Separatist army say that it was Obi-Wan she had a relationship with. What do you have to say to that?”

“Nothing, really.” Quinlan is entirely unconcerned, and Adi wants to cry. “I didn’t ask. It’s possible she was, but like I said, me and her is nothing you have to worry about. I mean, if we were attached to each other or some such other heresy, do you think she’d be in the wind right now?”

Adi flicks her eyes down to the silver ring on Quinlan’s left hand. “Mm. I don’t remember that being there before.”

Quinlan glances down at it and waves her away. “That’s nothing. Incident on Cato Neimoidia.”

“Then why are you still wearing it?”

“Honestly? I kind of like it.” He holds it up. “It’s a bit dashing. And it fends off the ladies. Maybe we should get Obi-Wan one, what do you think?”

Adi points to the door. “Get out.”

“Well, kriff, all right.” Quinlan stands up with much obnoxious scraping of his chair. “Someone’s touchy.”

Adi keeps pointing to the door.

Quinlan pauses, hand on the door. “I take it this means I’m not getting a commendation for this?”

“Out.”

Holding up his hands, Quinlan ducks outside, leaving Adi alone. She stays where she is, scowling down at the datapad on the table. After a moment, she opens the report she’s been compiling and starts deleting strategic information.

The Senate and the Chancellor have access to all the Order’s reports, and there are certain… internal matters they simply don’t need to know about. Goodness knows the Order is humiliated often enough in the tabloids; there’s no need for them to start humiliating themselves in their official reports as well.

As she concocts a new report, filled with carefully concealed gaps, she reflects that Anakin really is surrounded with the most emotionally undisciplined adults she’s ever seen. It must take great fortitude for him to be as competent a Knight as he is.

# # #

“I don’t want to do this,” Obi-Wan says, since he is nothing if not a purveyor of negativity. Sabe doesn’t want to do this either, but she doesn’t go around whining about it. One would think that after almost twelve years of this, he would be used to doing the ridiculous.

“None of us do, Operative Mullet,” she says through her teeth, glancing toward the double doors that lead out onto the hotel balcony. The last rays of the sunset fire the buildings visible beyond the doors a burnished orange. It would be pretty, if she didn’t know wolves in the form of the paparazzi were hidden all throughout those buildings, operating off a carefully anonymous tip from Versé. “But if Padme and Ani are going to break into the Senate and copy Orn Free Taa’s hard drive, then we need convincing evidence that she and you were elsewhere at the time. Or else Palpatine is just going to suspect that you stole her codes — or maybe she gave them to you, I don’t know. So we have to do this. I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are.” She pats her hair. “I have to say, I still make a convincing Padme, even after all these years.”

Obi-Wan gives her a flat look. “You’re twenty-seven, not forty-seven. And yes, you look like her twin, but that’s beside the point. There’s something I haven’t told you that makes me very uncomfortable with —”

“We’re all uncomfortable.” Sabe grabs him by the tabard and shoves him toward the doors. “But we agreed to do this. So.” With a finally stumbling turn, they’re through the doors and out onto the balcony. Before anyone can snap a clear enough photo of Obi-Wan’s face, she presses her lips against his and shoves her hands into his hair, taking a vindictive sort of pleasure in messing it up.

With an equal sort of vindictiveness, Obi-Wan embraces her and kisses her back, apparently deciding if he was being forced to do this, he might as well go all the way.

Sabe can see the headlines now.

# # #

“I don’t suppose we can positively identify him from this photo?” asks Adi hopefully as she eyes the front page article detailing Padme and Obi-Wan’s amorous encounter in a high class hotel in the Federal District like it is something disgusting a tooka threw up onto the rug.

Slumped deep in his seat, Mace looks at her from the other side of the ring of chairs. He’s starting to think the Light is trying to tell him something with all this. He isn’t sure what, but whatever it is, it’s being screamed at him over and over again. He has a headache. “What do you think?”

“There’s no need to get testy,” Adi says, with equal testiness.

“Stop.” Ki-Adi holds up a hand. “We cannot let him divide us.”

Plo laughs, causing everyone in the room — even Yoda — to throw him a bad tempered look. “He’s having an affair,” says Plo. “Not running some sort of shadow war.”

“I think I would prefer the shadow war,” says Mace, sighing.

# # #

The anonymous leak that revealed Orn Free Taa’s illegal activities and led to his subsequent impeachment is cause for celebration amongst the 501st and 212th, since no one who had been on the ground during the Rylothians offensives had any love for Orn Free. So jubilant is everyone over that breaking story that it almost overshadows the other breaking story, which is — by this point — arguably more important to the Republic at large.

Padme Amidala and Obi-Wan Kenobi have finally been caught together, and kissing no less. Ahsoka saw the image from the article and immediately wished she could scrub it from her brain. Apparently it isn’t clear enough for Obi-Wan to be legally identified, which means that the Council’s hands are still tied. Given that they’ve been blowing up her comm since the story dropped, Ahsoka isn’t above feeling a certain amount of vengeful satisfaction over the whole situation. Maybe they’ll see it as judgment for asking her to inform on her grandmaster, but that’s probably expecting too much.

Amidst all the clamor of the barracks-wide party being held on the Resolute, Ahsoka catches sight of the man himself — Obi-Wan Kenobi — staggering in late, with the hunted look of a man who has endured several unpleasant holocalls with the Jedi Council over the past day.

Looking at him, Ahsoka abruptly decides she’s had enough. Some things can only be tolerated for so long before the tolerator completely loses it and begets a bloodbath, and Ahsoka thinks it wise to demand answers before she reaches that point. For the good of the war effort.

“Master Kenobi.” She manages to corner him against a row of bunks, folding her arms and widening her stance when Obi-Wan tries to dodge sideways. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m rather busy, little one,” says Obi-Wan, attempting to sidestep her again. Two years association with Anakin Skywalker and many clones — all of whom are taller and stronger than her — have caused Ahsoka to develop a center of gravity that makes her more brick than girl, so she doesn’t budge, even when Obi-Wan tries to politely move her aside. “Can it wait?”

“No.” Ahsoka narrows her eyes. “What the kriff is up with you, Master?”

Obi-Wan gives her an innocently baffled look. “Up?”

“Don’t play dumb! The articles, the disappearances, the suspiciousness, dragging Skyguy into everything, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that Rex and Cody are involved too! Something’s going on, and whether it’s a harem or something else, I’m entitled to know.” She almost stomps her foot in emphasis but manages to stop herself. As her words die away, it occurs to her that she would rather not know if it is indeed some kind of strange harem, but it’s too late to take it back.

Obi-Wan looks at her for a long moment. “I’m running a shadow war against the government, with the intent of overthrowing Chancellor Palpatine.”

The irritation simmering behind Ahsoka’s ribs boils over into plain anger. “If you’re going to lie,” she snaps, turning on her heel and stalking away, “at least try harder.”

# # #

From behind his desk, Sheev regards Anakin as he lies flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face, on one of the scarlet couches that are scattered throughout his office. The datapad, with the most damning article yet, is on the floor in between them where Anakin flung it when he saw the object of his boyish affections kissing his former master.

Steepling his fingers in front of his face, Sheev waits, occupying his mind by trying to work out just how Kenobi managed to get Orn Free impeached — stealing a valuable ally from him in the process — without ever setting foot in the Senate dome.

“I think,” Anakin says in a throbbing voice after several more minutes, “that I hate him.”

Being that Sheev does too, it isn’t difficult for him to say, feelingly, “I understand, my boy.” Beyond his own feelings about the cursed Kenobi, even Sheev has to admit that he is misusing Anakin quite badly, and he’s not even doing so elegantly. “And even after taking her from you, he isn’t satisfied, always seeking another woman to entertain himself. She would be much happier with you.”

Lifting his arm from his face and turning painfully soulful eyes — that are seasoned, at long last, with an encouraging edge of rage — on Sheev, Anakin nods. “I want more,” he says. “I want her. And I know I shouldn’t.”

Sheev smiles to himself. “I understand,” he repeats.

# # #

The picture is the last straw. It even came at an offensive moment, when Satine was enjoying a rare peaceful breakfast, without any terror attacks from the Death Watch, without irritating ministers trying to get her to seek help from the Republic, without comms from the Senate trying to do the same, without communications from the Jedi Council regarding Mandalore’s precarious position among the neutral systems to be read and summarily deleted.

She hadn’t even been looking for the article. It had popped up on her datapad as an urgent news alert — the unmitigated gall of that Tracene Kane’s news agency to treat tabloid gossip like real news — and assaulted her just as she took a sip of her tea.

Her tea ended up sprayed halfway across the long — and thankfully empty — mahogany table in the palace’s dining hall and her fork ended up embedded deep into the table’s surface, though she doesn’t remember how it came to be like that.

Breath coming in heaving gasps, Satine pins her gaze on Padme as she sinks her hands entirely too deep into Obi-Wan’s hair, which has grown long since she last saw him in person.

“That,” she spits out — and somehow her knife ends up in a similar position to her fork — “is my husband, you schutta.”

# # #

Recently inaugurated into the Senate via a special election, Cham Syndulla sets his chin in his hand and braces himself for another long, boring, and ultimately pointless Senate session. He’s unsure why this one was called — he rarely pays attention past the initial call to assembly, unless it seems like the session will be one of the important ones. Those are few and far between, and this one — from what he remembers, it is to hear some duch*ess from a neutral system complain, probably about the war — does not seem like it will be one of them.

At long last, Mas Amedda’s long and droning speech concludes, and he calls the visiting duch*ess to the floor. Idly, Cham watches a pod detach from the edge of the circular chamber and float out towards the center, letting the words of the blonde woman flying it drift in one ear and out the other. Since she practically oozes offended privilege, he can’t imagine anything she says will be something he needs to remember.

Then the woman climbs onto the edge of her pod, unpinning the long cloak that hangs down her back and tucking the hem of her skirts into her jeweled belt, and yells, “Padme Amidala of Naboo, you have trespassed against my honor! Come out and face me, hu’tuun!”

Cham definitely pays attention after that.

Chapter 9: Blowback

Chapter Text

Blowback

“Turn on the Senate livestream, turn on the Senate livestream!” Tracene’s intern, Kayli, practically dances into her office, lekku flying out behind her as she jerks toward the holoscreen set into the wall by the window.

Nursing a headache, Tracene looks up from the draft of her new article — this one about the alleged connection between Obi-Wan Kenobi and the duch*ess of Mandalore — and gives Kayli a flat look. “I don’t care what petty insults they’re hurling at each other today or what caustic speech Senator Syndulla is making. I’m busy. There’s almost no information on Kenobi’s year on Mandalore, which makes me think it’s all been scrubbed from the holonet, which makes me think that there’s something big here. So please, Kayli, just —”

“Trust me.” Kayli turns on the holoscreen. “This is going to solve all your problems.”

Tracene raises an eyebrow and deigns to lift her gaze to the holoscreen, just in time to see duch*ess Satine Kryze of Mandalore climb up onto the edge of a Senate pod, tie her heavy skirts into a knot, and tuck them into her belt like she means business.

“Padme Amidala of Naboo,” she howls across the Senate dome, “you have trespassed against my honor! Come out and face me, hu’tuun!”

“Oh my stars.” Tracene snatches up her datapad and dashes for the door. “Record this to our servers, Kayli!” she yells over her shoulder.

She needs to get down there, and she needs to get down there now.

# # #

Kitster is just settling down next to Sola, ready for another one of their highly enjoyable sessions of watching the Senate livestream and mocking all the representatives they don’t like, when Satine Kryze calls Padme a coward and accuses her of trespassing against her honor.

While Sola sits wide-eyed and frozen beside him and the camera droids helpfully zoom toward Padme to give viewers an up close look at her reaction — because whoever runs the Senate livestreams and programs the droids knows full well that no one watching cares about politics — Kitster leans over the arm of the couch and cranes his head toward the archway behind it, which leads to the kitchen, where Amu and Jobal are alternately baking cookies and arguing over the finer points of Operation Rainstorm’s plan to overthrow the Hutts. “Amu! Jobal! You’re going to want to get in here.”

“What is it?” Even perpetually soft spoken Jobal sounds annoyed as she follows Amu into the living room, dusting flour off her hands and tucking a grenade — the efficacy of which she and Amu were just arguing over — into her apron pocket. “Kit, mon ange, we’re really very — oh Light, what is she doing?” Jobal stabs a finger toward the holoscreen as Padme yells something at Satine that sounds very much like a Nubian curse and climbs onto the rim of her pod, tossing aside her Senate wig as she does so and revealing her tightly braided curls. “Shmi, explain this, because I know this isn’t from me!”

Pointedly flicking her gaze down to the grenade in Jobal’s pocket, Amu says, “Well, I missed the beginning, but clearly she’s decided she’s not backing down from some kind of fight. I approve of this behavior. Don’t you?”

Jobal flings a maddened look at Amu. “I meant for her to fight injustice, not…” She glances back at the screen and goes pale. “Not the duch*ess of Mandalore!”

“She’s a pacifist,” offers Sola, leaning forward on the couch.

“I don’t think she is any more,” says Kitster, as Satine leaps from her pod to the next pod over, which happens to be host to the now very startled senator of Mon Calamari.

Jobal turns back toward the kitchen. “I need to comm Queen Neeyutnee before this becomes a diplomatic incident.”

“Too late.” Eyes still glued to the screen, Sola holds out her comm. “She’s already calling me.”

Jobal takes the comm, appearing to steel herself as she gives Amu a narrowed eyed glare. “I hope you know I’m going to find some way to blame this on you.”

Amu has her comm out to call Anakin and Obi-Wan. “I hope you know,” she says, laying a hand on Jobal’s shoulder, “that the Queen is never going to believe you because Padme just so happens to be a perfect copy of you.”

“Oh,” Jobal huffs, flapping a hand at Amu.

“If you’re going to holocall her,” Amu calls as Jobal moves to a quieter corner of the living room, “you might want to put that grenade somewhere else. It’s sticking out, and…” Amu shrugs. “Bad look on official channels.”

“I know,” Jobal snaps, snatching up the grenade and setting it on a side table, before apparently remembering that Pooja and Ryoo are playing in the next room and moving it to the fireplace mantel.

Once she answers her comm, a miniaturized version of Queen Neeyutnee pops up. She looks rather frazzled, and her headdress sits askew on her head.

“I’ve seen it,” Jobal says in a rush. “Operative Miracle is already trying to send Operatives Ekkreth and Mullet to defuse —”

“The Prime Minister of Mandalore commed me already.”

“Almec?” Amu half turns. “Oh, he’s a useless kriffhead, don’t —”

“No, not Almec,” says Neeyutnee in a manic sort of voice. “He’s been deposed.”

Jobal looks from the screen to Neeyutnee and back. “In the last five minutes?”

“Mandalore moves quickly,” says Neeyutnee with a helpless little flip of her hand.

“Well, who did they elect in his place?”

Snorting at Jobal’s chosen verb, which is in Kitster’s opinion a very unqueenly sound, Neeyutnee replies, “Bo-Katan Kryze.”

Jobal chokes. “Who?”

Amu pushes in next to Jobal. “The leader of the Nite Owls? The Death Watch Nite Owls?”

“I don’t know anymore,” snaps Netyutnee, straightening her headdress. “All I know is Bo-Katan wants to know why our senator has shamed her little sister in the public square.”

“How has she shamed her?” demands Jobal, at the same time as Sola lurches to her feet and says, “You tell Bo-Katan that I want to know why her little sister is trying to bait my little sister into a fight.”

“What trying?” Kitster points at the screen as Padme manages to break free of JarJar Binks restraining grasp and leap to Riyo Chuchi’s pod, heading in Satine’s direction. “She’s succeeding.”

“And you know what?” Sola turns back toward the screen. “I support it now. Beat her into the ground, Padme!”

# # #

Obi-Wan’s comm is vibrating against his wrist, displaying the string of numbers that denotes Shmi’s contact, but given that fully half of the Jedi Council just invaded his apartment, there’s no way he can safely answer it.

Standing in his small kitchen, pot of tea in hand, he lifts his eyebrows and asks, “Can I help you?”

Mace looks very tired. “Have you checked the Senate live stream this morning?”

Obi-Wan wrinkles his brow, carefully ignoring the message Shmi just sent to his comm, which simply says, Angel’s being stupid again. “I’m sorry? Masters, I do all I can to avoid the Senate at all costs. Politicians and I don’t get along.”

At this, Adi, standing behind Mace, chokes, but Yoda’s quelling look keeps her from saying anything.

Mace draws a deep breath. “You may want to tune in.”

“I’m not sure why I would do that, Master Windu.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Ah.” Sighing, Obi-Wan sets down his teapot, sends a quick prayer to the Light that Padme hasn’t reached poisoning Palpatine levels of recklessness, and pulls up the livestream on his datapad.

On the livestream, Padme is in Riyo’s senatorial pod for some reason, apparently engaged in a heated argument with her. Her handmaidens are visible around the edges of the cameras’ field of vision, as they leap from pod to pod like akuls on the hunt. Pausing in her argument with Riyo, Padme hurls a glare at all of them and spits out, “Don’t you dare! This is my fight.”

Obi-Wan dares to think she’s referring to whatever is happening between her and Riyo, but then the cameras swivel dramatically and zoom in on a terrifyingly familiar face.

At long last, Satine Kryze has made her way back to the Core.

“For the love of the stars and —” Obi-Wan bites off the swear and looks up at the Council members, calling up a magnanimous smile. “Well, this doesn’t seem like a good use of taxpayer credits, does it?’

Yoda raises a hoary eyebrow, though judging by the subtle tilt of his mouth, he at least is able to see the humor in the situation. “Know what this fight is about, do you?”

Obi-Wan calls up his most innocent look. “Why would I know anything about it, Master?”

“Oh, no reason,” says Adi with a sarcastic little flip of her hand. “For some reason, we just had this deep suspicion you were involved.”

Pettiness briefly gaining the upper hand, Obi-Wan replies, “Might your personal feelings be clouding your judgment, Master Gallia?”

At that, all the other Council members eye Adi. After a moment of blankly returning their gazes, Adi hisses and says, “Oh for the love of the stars, he didn’t mean it like that. I’m fifteen years older than he is. We’re not lovers having a tiff. Stars.” With a huff, she folds her arms against her chest and snaps, “Be serious, Master Kenobi!”

Before Obi-Wan can protest that he is being serious, it’s just that his life has been one long joke for the past twelve years, Anakin appears in the doorway behind the councilors. Judging by the way he skids to a halt when he sees them, eyes wide, he didn’t expect to find them here. In short jerking motions, he signs, We need to get to the Senate right. If not to stop this, then to enjoy the show.

Obi-Wan’s irritated expression must have given him away, because the Council turns around then. Hurriedly, Anakin disguises his unsubtle signs by smoothing back his hair and offering the Council one of his winning smiles. “I just came to see if Obi-Wan needed helped defusing the situation in the Senate,” he says brightly. “Senator Amidala is used to us, and Obi-Wan understands Mandalore’s culture, so I thought —”

Gaze softening, Mace says, “Good thinking, Skywalker.” He turns back to look at Obi-Wan. “If only all of us shared your level headed approach.”

Hearing Anakin described as level headed is almost too much for Obi-Wan, but he manages to reel in his sarcastic response, more in interest of getting to the Senate faster than to avoid disrespecting the Council. That particular ship sailed months — possibly years — ago. “Yes,” Obi-Wan says through his teeth. “I’m so lucky to have him.”

Adi narrows her eyes at him. Obi-Wan narrows his right back.

“We should…” Anakin clears his throat and squeezes through the gaps between the Council members to take Obi-Wan’s arm. “We should go. Before someone pulls out some kind of unsanctioned blaster and starts shooting.”

Well acquainted as they all are with Padme, everyone’s eyes widen at that thought. “Yes,” Mace says, nodding hurriedly and stepping aside. “You should. You’ll be able to calm them down, I hope?” He gives Obi-Wan a significant look.

Obi-Wan presses his lips together and holds back another sarcastic comment. “Them?” He gives an open shrug. “I haven’t spoken to the duch*ess in many years, so I can’t attest to my ability to calm her, but Padme trusts me. As a friend,” he adds quickly.

Anakin ruins this addition by snorting and badly covering the noise with a cough. Sympathetic as the Council is to his supposed plight, they graciously overlook the outburst.

“Please.” Adi seems to be trying to maintain her calm, though the effect is spoiled by her having been forced to proclaim less than a minute ago that she was not, in fact, having any sort of dalliance with Obi-Wan. “Go.”

Exchanging a look, Obi-Wan and Anakin slip out into the corridor, leaving the councilors in a vague huddle in Obi-Wan’s living room.

They both manage to restrain from breaking into a run until they are out of sight of the Council.

“This is your fault,” Obi-Wan hisses to him as they run.

“How do you figure that?”

“I’ll find a way!”

# # #

When Satine Kryze, after making a short, perfunctory speech that Padme mostly ignored, climbed onto the edge of her pod and accused Padme of trampling her honor, Padme came to several conclusions very quickly.

The first conclusion was that Satine was Mandalorian, and that Obi-Wan and Mandalore have always been irrevocably intertwined — from the tea Obi-Wan drinks to the obscure cultural customs he invariably knows and the swears he breaks out when he’s under stress.

The second conclusion is that Obi-Wan was romantically connected to a Mandalorian woman, as made obvious by his rant to Jango Fett on Kamino. As also made obvious by his rant, it ended badly.

And while Obi-Wan flirts with everyone not biologically (not that they’ve found anyone) or spiritually related to him, Padme has managed to ascertain his type by dint of careful study over the years. It is very specific, though the galaxy believes otherwise. The women he truly finds attractive are invariably blonde, blue-eyed, and willowy, as well as being in possession of an edge that might cause some people to label them as “unhinged”.

In a word, his type is Satine Kryze, which leads neatly into Padme’s third conclusion: this is the woman who broke Obi-Wan’s heart.

And that would be entirely unacceptable, even if the self-absorbed woman hadn’t also decided to humiliate Padme in the middle of the Senate. Listening to Palpatine drone on and listening to stupid senators put forth their useless and self-serving bills is already bad enough; Satine is the last straw.

Padme has been itching for a fight for the past twelve years, and she’s finally about to get one.

“You think you can beat me?” she yells across the dome as she leaps from Riyo’s pod to a Banking Clan representative’s pod, taking special pleasure in the pau’an’s startled jerk when she lands. “Just come and try it!”

“You think you can kiss him out in the open and get away with it?” In a single graceful leap, Satine crosses the gap between the pod she was balancing and lands on the chancellor's pod, to the extreme chagrin of both Chancellor Palpatine and Mas Amedda. As Mas Amedda calls for order, Satine ignores him entirely and wrests his staff from his hand. He’s so shocked that he doesn’t even resist, allowing her to twist it out of his grip and tuck it under one arm as she leaps to Mon Mothma’s pod, nearly braining her with the staff in the process. Backing away, Mon makes a very clear choice to not get involved.

“I never kissed him!” says Padme, entirely truthfully, as she leaps down from the Banking Clan pod and lands on Bail’s pod, several yards below.

“Liar!” comes Satine’s response. She jumps from Mon’s pod to the next, leaving only a single pod separating the two of them. On the edges of the dome, Fox and the replacement Coruscant Guard prowl about in their pod, but none of them make a move to intervene.

Given that an archaic law from the early days of the Republic makes provisions for physical fights between senators, for both political and personal differences, Padme doesn’t blame them.

Without asking, she snatches up the staff with the Organa crest on it that Bail carries and faces the pod separating her and Satine. “You keep telling yourself that.” Padme moves the staff into an attack position. “You keep telling yourself that it’s my fault you’re not with him, and not because you chose something else over him!”

At this, Bail — likely only privy to about half of the context of the argument — coughs and whispers, “You know what he’s like. It could be entirely his fault.”

Padme throws a glare at him over her shoulder. “You stay out of this.”

“Absolutely not. If you’re going to use my staff to beat a planetary leader to death, I’m going to be involved.”

Padme opens her mouth to say something — she’s not certain what, but she knows it’s going to be derogatory — when Satine howls out a battlecry and leaps the gap into the pod between them, which houses Ask Aak. At the sight of Satine hurtling through the air toward him, he displays the first sign of intelligence Padme have ever seen from him: he jumps from his pod to the one floating beneath him, almost crushing a Trade Federation delegate in the process. Padme can almost — almost — forgive him for being Ask Aak now that she’s witnessed that.

Now balancing on the empty pod, Satine brandishes her staff in Padme’s direction. “Let’s settle this now. Unless,” and now a small smile crawls across her lips, “Naboo is too frightened to face Mandalore.”

“Oh dear.” Bail sits down and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, correctly realizing that Satine has gone too far for Padme to ever back down.

As if — as if — Naboo would ever be frightened of Mandalore. Naboo can do anything Mandalore can do, and it can do it in heels.

“That’s funny,” Padme says, as the Senate falls silent and every representative in the dome looks at each other and silently accepts that, yes, there is going to be the first duel within the Senate walls in several hundred years. “I was just going to ask the same about Mandalore.”

Satine shows all her teeth. “Mandalore never loses a fight.”

“Mandalore used to never lose.” With a yell, Padme pushes off from the edge of Bail’s pod and catapults toward Satine.

# # #

As Senator Amidala and Satine clash in a clamor of staff against staff, Bo-Katan spins away from the holoscreen set up in Satine’s throne room, which is currently occupied by a not insignificant number of Nite Owls and Pre Vizsla's corpse, notably missing his head.

Bo-Katan hadn’t woken up this morning intending to lead a coup against the man she had previously believed to be Mandalore’s savior — or at least a very good way to get back at her sister for both marrying a Jedi and having the most intolerable political ideas — but then the news had come that Satine was appearing before the Senate for the first time since before the war started. Then the news came that the schutta senator of Naboo thought she could steal Bo-Katan’s little sister’s husband and get away with it. And then Pre Vizsla said something unutterably stupid — something along the lines of, “Ah, so that whor* did bed a Jedi,” and followed it up with a lewd joke involving both Satine and the Nabooian senator. Minister Almec, having smuggled the Death Watch onto Mandalore to give a report while Satine was gone, had laughed.

Quite suddenly, getting back at Satine didn’t seem quite as important as ripping Pre Vizsla’s tongue out and making Almec regret ever being born.

Luckily, there were far more people in the Death Watch loyal to her than she thought, and before she knew it, she was standing in Satine’s throne room, surrounded by Satine’s many bemused councilors and guards, all of whom apparently felt that Almec being dead was good riddance to bad rubbish and who were extremely glad to have someone, even Bo-Katan, ready and willing to replace him.

It helped that she was wielding the Darksaber at the time.

It was at that moment, when Satine’s councilors met Bo-Katan and the other Nite Owls, all spattered with blood, and didn’t blink before asking her how she wanted to deal with this affront to Mandalore’s honor, that Bo-Katan was at long last moved to consider that Satine might have a point about Mandalore valuing violence over peace.

Then Bo-Katan ordered the nearest councilor to comm Queen Neeyutnee of Naboo to demand an explanation.

“Prime Minister,” one of the councilors, who Bo-Katan remembers from her childhood but whose name she can’t recall for the life of her, says as she turns to face him, “shall I ready the army for war?”

As everyone in the room looks hopefully at Bo-Katan — who is starting to think that Satine’s philosophical and cultural reforms did not have quite as deep of an effect as previously thought — she says, “Army?”

The councilor gives her an innocent look. “The duch*ess is a pacifist,” he says. “Not stupid.”

Bo-Katan considers this, wonders what Satine would want her to do, and remembers that not only is she older but she also wasn’t stupid enough to marry a Jedi. Her opinion holds much more weight. “What allies do we have?”

# # #

In the Senate entry hall, a call comes through Anakin’s comm. Not daring to stop as he and Obi-Wan whip past aides, Senate guards, and visitors — all of whom are also on the way to the dome, probably with the intent to watch the show — he answers it.

Queen Neeyutnee’s miniaturized form pops up above his comm. “We have a problem.”

Beside Anakin, Obi-Wan gives a rather manic laugh. “Oh, a new one? Or is this still the current one?”

“Your Majesty,” Anakin adds, more to ensure that Padme doesn’t have Neeyutnee on her comms later, complaining about how disrespectful Obi-Wan is.

“A new one,” Neeyutnee replies with a pinched smile. “Mandalore is threatening war.”

As they whip around a corner, so close to the dome now that the commotion inside it is audible, Anakin yells, “What?” loudly enough to turn heads and make Neeyutnee wince and cover her ears.

“That was my reaction,” she replies. “Shortly before Bo-Katan hung up on me.”

Obi-Wan grabs Anakin’s wrist as they run, nearly pulling him over, and puts the comm close to his face. “When who hung up on you?”

Anakin yanks his arm back. “Focus, Obi-Wan!”

“Tatooine has already pledged support to Naboo,” Neeyutnee goes on, “but it didn’t deter Bo. Because,” and she says this through her teeth, “Zygerria has pledged support to Mandalore. Care to tell me why that is?”

Anakin exchanges a quick look with Obi-Wan as the Senate walls blur past. “Let me put you on hold. I have to make a quick call.”

# # #

“You installed who as the new leader of free Zygerria?” Obi-Wan’s voice is so loud and indignant that it nearly blows out the speakers on Shmi’s comm.

Wincing, she glares at him — though it doesn’t seem like he’s going to remember that she’s both older and wiser than him any time soon — and says, “I ‘installed’ no one. The liberated Zygerrians elected him in the first free election Zygerria has known in several centuries.”

Sola pops up behind her, bristling. “It was a historic accomplishment,” she says, in the kind of tone that holds an implicit threat. Obi-Wan, Sola clearly feels, is being both unfair and ungrateful.

“I don’t give a kriff what it was!” snaps Obi-Wan, running in hologram form above her comm. “How do you let Arla Fett become the queen of Zygerria?”

“I think the concept of a representative government and constitutional monarchy is eluding you,” Sola says, leaning over Shmi’s shoulder. “We didn’t let anything happen. The people made their choice.”

Obi-Wan makes a sign at her that might be a swear or might be a general exclamation — it’s impossible to tell with how fast he’s running. “But Arla Fett?”

“In all fairness,” Shmi says, feeling that she may have done Operation Fountain an accidental disservice, “she was operating under a false surname. Apparently.”

“Oh, apparently.”

# # #

When Bo-Katan threatened Naboo with war — because no one shames her little sister and gets away with it — she didn’t expect Tatooine’s leader, a masked woman with a vocal modulator, to comm her and tell her in no uncertain terms that if Mandalore struck out against Naboo, Tatooine would bring all their power to bear against Mandalore.

Given that Tatooine, obscure and remote as it is, somehow managed to overthrow the Hutts and has been raking in money ever since the spice mines were liberated, the threat made Bo-Katan pause.

What it did not do, however, was prepare her for the comm that came in only a minute later, from the recently freed Zygerria.

It wasn’t the comm itself that was surprising so much as it was the person making the call.

Bo-Katan didn’t recognize her at first, but then the blonde woman, who identified herself as the queen of Zygerria, gave her name.

“I am Arla Fett,” she said, making her words like an insult and a challenge, and then everything immediately made sense. Of course she was a Fett. Of course she was still alive.

Of course she was somehow the elected ruler of kriffing Zygerria.

After a long stretch of awkward silence, all Bo-Katan can manage is a weak, “Hello.”

Satine always was better at the talking-to-other-people part of leading.

Arla raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re going to war with Naboo?”

Bo-Katan shifts noncommittally, eyeing Pre Viszlas’ dead body, now shoved in a corner of the throne room, and also eyeing the pitched battle going on between Satine and Padme on the holoscreen set into the wall near Satine’s throne. It’s been an interesting morning, to say the least. “Perhaps,” she says.

“Then Zygerria will support you,” Arla says. She narrows her eyes. “On one condition.”

Bo-Katan sighs. “And what is that?” She hopes it is Obi-Wan’s head on a stick — that seems appealing at the moment.

“I want my nephew.”

Silence falls across the throne room. Ignoring the frantic shushing motions the councilors are making at her, Bo-Katan says, “Which nephew?”

Arla’s face settles into an expression of such fearsomeness that even Bo-Katan is glad that light-years separate the two of them. “Boba,” she says. Then, “What do you mean? How many do I have?”

It then occurs to Bo-Katan that disconnected as she probably was on Zygerria, Arla might have heard about the clone army but not about who they were clones of. It’s a miracle she knows about Boba — perhaps Jango managed to get a message to her.

Perhaps he neglected to mention the other clones in that message. If Satine had made the monumentally stupid decision to sell her genetic material to cloners, she certainly wouldn’t tell Bo-Katan unless she had to. Little brothers like Jango Fett must be rather similar to little sisters like Satine, in that they would both do anything to avoid a lecture.

Overwhelmed by a surge of fellow feeling for Arla, she says, “Would you like the conservative estimate or…?”

Arla’s face goes shuttered. “Excuse me. I need to contact the Jedi Order.” She says Jedi Order with the same inflection as a tooka hacking up a hairball might.

# # #

Anakin hurtles onto the small balcony that connects to the Nabooian senate pod when it’s docked just ahead of Obi-Wan. Skidding to a halt at the edge of the balcony, he looks out across the atrium. Padme and Satine are on a pod near the center, locked in fierce combat. As Anakin watches, Padme ducks beneath a swipe of Satine’s staff and uses her own staff to knock Satine’s legs out from under her. With a cry audible across the dome, Satine goes down, her blonde head disappearing behind the edge of the pod.

Anakin whips around to send a triumphant grin Obi-Wan’s way. “Hah. My wife is winning, and Miss So That’s What Happened on Mandalore is getting her tail kicked.”

With the expression of a man on a swift road to disassociation, Obi-Wan lifts his gaze to the pod. “Just wait,” he says, almost placidly. “And watch.”

As Padme is leaning down, either to grab Satine and start punching or to check that she’s all right, Satine’s feet appear from below and slam into Padme’s chest hard enough to send her reeling backward. While she’s regaining her footing, Satine appears to perform a kip-up and lurches across the pod at her, staff in hand.

Now Obi-Wan slides a satisfied smile in Anakin’s direction. “That always was her favorite move.”

Anakin shakes his head. “We need to get over there.”

“Oh, of course you have a sense of urgency now that it’s your wife losing.”

In the midst of preparing to leap into the gray, Anakin startles so hard that he almost falls off the edge of the balcony. “She’s your wife?”

“Prioritize, Anakin.”

“Trust me, I am!”

Before either of them can leap from the balcony to the nearest pod, which happens to be Bail’s, since he flew closer as soon as he caught sight of them, Anakin’s comm rings again. “Oh, what now,” he snaps, yanking it up to his face to answer it. “What?” Slightly too late, he recognizes Adi Gallia’s unamused face.

“You both need to intervene,” she says. “Now.”

“We are aware,” says Obi-Wan bad-temperedly, pausing at the edge of the balcony to gauge the distance between the ledge and Bail’s pod.

“No, you’re not.” Adi folds her arms. “Arla Fett is threatening to wage war against the Jedi Order if we don’t turn the clone army over to her.” Giving a bright, manic smile, she adds, “Did you know she was the new queen of Zygerria?”

Honestly, Anakin replies, “I didn’t even know she was alive.”

“She expressed loyalty to Mandalore, so the duch*ess may be able to walk her off the ledge.” Adi says this in a way that makes Anakin think she is rooting for a literal ledge. “But only if she is thinking clearly. You must break up the fight and make duch*ess Satine and Senator Amidala see reason again, or else we will have two new wars on our hands.”

Three, Anakin thinks, guessing that it is only a matter of time before Arla turns her wrath on Kamino as well.

It was such a peaceful morning.

# # #

Chest still throbbing, Padme twists away from Satine, managing to snatch hold of her staff in the process. As her heart roars in her ears, she swings sideways, using her momentum to rip the staff free from Satine’s grip. She throws it over the side of the pod, and it becomes a golden blur as it falls, turning end over end until it disappears.

There’s a muted intake of breath from all the watching senators. In the chancellor’s pod, Palpatine covers his face with one hand, as though struck with a sudden headache.

Padme whirls back around to face Satine, blowing loose strands of hair back from her face with a huff of breath and thumbing blood away from her split lip. “What’s your plan now, my lady?” she asks with a laugh, spinning her staff into an attack position.

Satine tips her head to one side with a savage little snap. “To show you why you don’t cross a Mandalorian.”

“Oh, well then be sure to be very clear.” Padme shows her teeth. “Your reasons why have been pretty weak so far.”

Satine springs forward, fast enough and with little enough warning that Padme uses the split second before she body slams her to regret her previous jibe. Then they’re both reeling against the edge of the pod. Crushing Padme’s spine against the edge, Satine manages to grab hold of her thumb and wrench her hand open. With another rough twist, she yanks Bail’s staff out of Padme’s hand and hurls it over the side. As it falls from view, she turns back around with a snarling smile and says, “How’s that for clear, princess?”

“Queen.” Padme kicks Satine hard in the soft flesh of her thigh. Sucking air through her teeth, Satine jerks back, giving Padme enough space to shove her away. “I was a queen. Of a planet.”

Shaking a few wayward curls back from her face, Satine says, “And now you’re just my husband’s little side piece. Stars, have you no self-respect? At least he married me.”

“I’m not having an affair with him,” says Padme, but she says it in just the right way to make it sound like she’s lying. The resulting flare of incandescent rage in Satine’s eyes is its own reward, and almost makes up for the way she lunges forward and fists a hand in Padme’s braids, using them as leverage to spin her around and throw her against the side of the pod.

Wheezing, Padme pushes away from the edge, facing Satine again. “I can’t believe,” she manages, “that you married him and didn’t stay with him. How could you do that?”

“I didn’t leave him,” snaps Satine, shaking herself like a dog. Sweat stands out on her brow, and her skirts are starting to slip free of the knot at her belt. “It was a mutual decision, we — oh, why the kriff am I telling you this?” She strikes out at Padme again, but Padme steps sideways, managing to kick Satine in the shin on the way.

Head still throbbing from her pulled hair, she says, “Then why do you care who he romances?”

Satine shoves her hair back from her face. “It’s the principle. It’s honor. It’s the fact that you’re nearly two decades younger than he is, and frankly…” Satine flattens her mouth and gives Padme an almost pitying look, sniffing. “You’re only about half as attractive as me. And only about a third as intelligent, going by your continual presence in the Senate”

When Padme bothers to consider such things, she likes to think of herself as the sort of woman who doesn’t let the stupid things people say — especially as they relate to her physical appearance — affect her in any way. It is, she remembers saying often, the best revenge.

As Satine’s last sentence leaves her mouth, Padme finds that she is, in fact, very much the sort of woman who cares. Up until this point, the fight has been mostly about Obi-Wan and his broken heart, but in a moment, it shifts to being about making Satine eat her words.

Padme launches herself across the gap between her and Satine. A look of distinct regret flashes over Satine’s face just before Padme’s fist impacts with her nose. As blood spurts, Padme flashes a tooka grin.

Head snapping sideways, Satine rolls with the punch and comes up on Padme’s flank. Before Padme can block, her fist cracks against her jaw. White sparks pop in her vision. She staggers sideways and, in a surge of adrenaline, manages to gather her wits enough to throw another punch in Satine’s direction.

Someone catches her arm before the blow lands. She twists around to see who it is and is greeted by Obi-Wan’s rather reddened and sweaty face. “You see, this is what happens when I’m not around to hold you back.”

There’s a hoarse yell of fury from Satine’s vicinity. Padme turns back around. Anakin has managed to grab Satine around the waist, holding her back from inflicting the revenge she clearly desperately wants to mete out — preferably on Padme’s face.

“Well, if it isn’t the unfaithful whor* himself,” Satine hisses, too low for the camdroids surrounding them to pick up her voice. “You know, I didn’t believe any of it before, but now I’ll believe anything. What lover did you have to tear yourself away from to get here?”

“Adi Gallia,” says Obi-Wan, definitely loud enough for the camdroids to hear — though they won’t have context. When Satine seems to inflate, he winces. “No, wait, that was an ill-timed bit of sarcasm, don’t — Satine, this is not the time. You and Padme need to calm down, your people —”

“Calm down?” Satine screeches in a register high enough and loud enough to silence the Senate. “You want me to calm down?”

Anakin raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You are so bad with women.”

It is then that Satine whips her head around to glare at Anakin. The silence is so thick that the Senate seems to be holding its breath.

“It occurs to me,” Anakin says slowly, eyeing Satine, “that we made a tactical error when we decided who to grab.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says quickly, in the tone of someone warning another person about a wild beast sneaking up behind them, “you’ll want to let go before —”

Satine jams her elbow into Anakin’s ribs. The air rushes out of his lungs with a whoosh, and Padme’s stomach cramps in sympathy.

Obi-Wan sighs. “Before she does something like that.”

# # #

As Obi-Wan manages to snatch hold of Satine before she can do yet more damage to Padme’s face — he has time to appreciate that, even after all these years, Satine isn’t willing to hurt him — Anakin moves in front of Padme and blocks her from enthusiastically continuing the fight. Padme is also unwilling to hurt him and is thus thwarted.

Yes, this should have been their first approach. At least it’s Anakin’s ribs that are bruised, not Obi-Wan’s.

“My ladies —” Obi-Wan almost says calm down but stops himself just in time. “You must consider the rippling effects of your actions. Your people will follow after you into anything — even conflict!” Tatooine and Zygerria would also apparently follow (thankfully Bail, Breha, and the rest of Alderaan aren’t quite that stupid), which is information Obi-Wan didn’t ask for, especially during an otherwise restful morning.

His words are entirely ignored because Padme chooses that exact moment to yell hoarsely, “My world could obliterate yours before your people even thought to look up at the sky!”

Satine lets out a high laugh. “Would this be before or after your people surrendered because they broke a nail?”

“Is this what defusing a situation feels like?” asks Anakin, stepping sideways to block Padme’s path again. “Don’t they call you the Negotiator?”

“Any time you want to engage,” snaps Obi-Wan in response, glancing at the camdroids again. He can almost hear the entire Republic crunching on Mantell Mix while they tune in to the livestream.

Anakin spreads his arms. “I’m not experienced in matters of the heart, Master,” he says with a grin.

At that, Obi-Wan almost starts an entirely new fight, this time between him and Anakin, but he restrains himself. Then, as Satine lurches forward again and almost pulls his arms out of his sockets, inspiration strikes. Leaning close so he can speak into Satine’s ear, he says, “Your sister has killed Pre Vizsla, overthrown Minister Almec, and taken his place.” Breathing the next words into her ear, so soft that no one, not even the camdroids, can hear, he adds, “And I need to talk to you — please.”

Satine freezes, and so does Padme, whose eyes widen as she takes in Obi-Wan’s words. “She what?” she jerks out, finally relaxing in Obi-Wan’s grip.

Sighing with relief, Anakin relaxes a little and smiles at Padme. “Also,” he says, “Queen Neeyutnee’s been trying to get through to you. She has some things to say.”

Padme narrows her eyes and massages her bruised jaw. “I’m not going to apologize.”

“No, of course not,” Obi-Wan says. “Heaven forfend. However, it may behoove both of you to give at least the appearance of unity, given that the galaxy can’t really handle another war.” He looks most particularly at Padme when he says this, hoping she will return to sanity and remember Operation Fountain’s overall goal.

Padme’s jaw works as she glares at Satine. Satine scowls right back, wiping blood away from her nose. At length, Padme says, grudgingly, “I suppose we could call a truce. I would have beaten you anyway.”

Satine laughs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” After a pause, she adds, “Mandalore’s neutrality is too precious to waste on the likes of you. With that in mind,” she says, turning to Obi-Wan, “would you please escort me to the nearest comms room so I can speak to my sister?” As she speaks, she unknots her skirts and lets them fall back around her legs in orderly, only slightly wrinkled and bloodstained, folds. With a delicate hand, she blots more blood from her nose. Wordlessly, Padme passes her a handkerchief taken from one of the deep pockets of her gown, and Satine, equally wordlessly, accepts it.

It’s the most diplomacy the galaxy has seen since the Clone Wars began.

“General Kenobi?” As though she wasn’t just fighting over her right to be the sole keeper of his heart, Satine raises both eyebrows at him. “Will you accompany me?” From her tone, it is unclear if she intends to kill him as soon as they’re alone.

Obi-Wan looks deep into her eyes, considers saying no, remembers that he’s never been able to refuse her anything, realizes that someone needs to explain Operation Fountain to Satine, and says, “Of course, my lady.” He sweeps into a deep bow, ignoring the camdroids and the transfixed senators, and smiles at her.

Anakin, apparently seizing on this moment of all times to be proactive in the charade of unrequited love he’s putting on for Palpatine, holds out his arm to Padme. “Could you be persuaded to allow me to accompany you to the medical wing, my lady?”

Calling up a magnanimous smile, Padme takes Anakin’s arm, unknotting her own skirts and pushing back the strands of her hair plastered across her forehead in a spiderwebbing pattern. “Of course, General Skywalker.”

# # #

Sheev doesn’t move from his pod as it lowers back down into his ready room at the bottom of the atrium. As the opening to the dome above him reseals itself, he slumps back in his seat, ignoring Mas Amedda as he — equally shellshocked — leaves the pod and shambles away.

“What,” he says to himself, with more enraged confusion than he’s felt in decades, “the kriff was that?”

If that was a strategy, he has no idea what it was. If Obi-Wan Kenobi is indeed working against him, Sheev is no longer at all sure in what direction.

He runs a hand down his face and shakes his head. “What the kriff,” he says again.

# # #

“So you see,” Shmi finishes, standing in the communications room in the Naberrie manor, “that’s why you can’t attack the Jedi Order. It will ruin all our plans, and it could even mean your nephews will have to fight longer. Besides,” she adds grudgingly, “some Jedi are quite wonderful people. Shockingly few of them, but some. The best thing you can do for your nephews is work with my people and I, not against us.”

Arla Fett, realized in a life size blue hologram, just stares at her, eyes half squinted. After a long stretch of time, she says, “Explain to me again why it’s called Operation Fountain.”

Shmi pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “It begins with Obi-Wan Kenobi being clumsy under times of stress…”

# # #

Rather than immediately comming Bo-Katan, Satine corners Obi-Wan in the comms room, shoving a finger against his chest. “So what is it?” she snaps, each word like a slap. “What is that you’re so desperate to tell me? Do you really have endless amounts of lovers, like the tabloids say? Perhaps a few illegitimate children, scattered about the galaxy? Out with it, Obi!”

Noting her use of her nickname for him, Obi-Wan stares down at her, taking in her blue eyes, which, livid as they are at the moment, are as bewitching as he remembers. Though there is an unfortunate amount of blood smeared all over her face, she somehow manages to look graceful — though he is willing to admit he might be biased. “You haven’t aged at all,” he says.

Satine draws back for a moment, forehead wrinkling, but then her fair brows crash down over her eyes. She stabs a finger in his face. “Don’t try to flatter me, Obi-Wan Kenobi! I want the truth, and I want it now — or I’ll march right to the Jedi Council and recite our wedding vows at them!”

Obi-Wan takes both Satine’s hands in his. “I’m not being unfaithful to you, Satine,” he says. “I swear.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m running a shadow war with the intent of overthrowing Chancellor Palpatine, who is the Sith Lord that Count Dooku warned us about,” he says. “I would have told you years ago, I swear, but I didn’t want to put you in more danger than you were already in. And as soon as all this was over, I was always planning to go to you on Mandalore, if you would take me. The lies about my romantic escapes weren’t my idea, and I didn’t think to tell you because… Well, because I thought you’d know I would never do that to you. But I understand I should have, and…” He squeezes her hands. “I am so very glad to see you.”

Satine’s lips part as she stares at him. For a minute, she doesn’t speak. Obi-Wan is preparing himself for her to call him a liar again, or for her to run for the guards, when she whispers, “You were going to leave the Order for me?”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Y-yes, but that wasn’t the detail I meant for you to focus on. You did hear about the —”

Satine lurches forward and kisses him.

A second into the kiss, he forgets about Palpatine entirely.

# # #

Reclining on the ornate throne, Bo-Katan regards Satine as she stands at the foot of the steps leading up to it. She looks much more disheveled and worn than she usually does, with bruising about her eyes and a bacta soaked bandage over her nose. Her skirts hang about her like burial shrouds someone yanked up from the ground — wrinkled, tattered, and concerningly bloody.

“So,” Satine says. Her voice echoes about the empty throne room, and she casts her eyes toward the bloody smudge on the floor where Pre Viszla’s corpse lay only recently — the councilors felt it was bad form to leave it there for the duch*ess to see.

“So,” Bo-Katan agrees.

“What prompted…” Satine waves a vague hand to encompass the bloody smudge, the Death Watch’s — well, what’s left of the Watch — peaceful presence within the palace grounds, Almec’s imprisonment, and Bo-Katan’s new status as the prime minister of Mandalore. “All this?”

Bo-Katan shifts in her seat. “Pre called you a whor* and a Jetii bedder. And Almec agreed.”

Satine purses her lips and nods. “You’ve called me that about a hundred times.”

“Yes.” Bo-Katan gives her a hooded look. “And those terms are largely true. However, I’m the only one who gets to use them.”

“Oh, I see.” Satine adjusts her skirts, though Bo-Katan doesn’t know why she bothers. They’re a lost cause. “So are we good now? No more joining a terrorist group that hates me?”

“As long as you won’t try to disarm Mandalore again.”

“I’d be a bit of a hypocrite now if I did,” says Satine. After a moment, she adds, “Does all of Mandalore know that I married a Jedi?”

“Most of them have guessed, yes.”

“Are they going to depose me?”

Bo-Katan snorts. “You think too highly of them. Almost all of them are too pleased that you managed to seduce our ancestral enemy to even think of doing that. They feel this is a victory for Mandalore.”

“What do you feel?”

“I feel that you are an incredibly embarrassing affront to our lineage,” replies Bo-Katan. “But you’re my incredibly embarrassing affront to our lineage.”

At that, Satine smiles broadly, and Bo-Katan is unfortunately not as immune to finding her little sister adorable as she thought. As she’s digesting that irritating realization, Satine says, “You’re in my seat.”

# # #

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Masters,” says Anakin as he stands in the center of the circle of chairs in the Council Room. “You want to bring Obi-Wan to trial for breaking the Jedi Code?”

“Yes,” says Adi, feeling a headache developing between her eyes already. “Obviously. Did you not see the same display we did today?”

“Well, yes,” answers Anakin, still giving all of them confused looks, “but duch*ess Satine never said Obi-Wan’s name.”

“Yes, but it was quite obvious.” Adi grits her teeth and turns to Padme Amidala, who is standing by Anakin’s side and looking far more innocent than she has any right to look. “Senator Amidala, would you be willing to testify that duch*ess Satine attacked you because she felt your relationship with Obi-Wan Kenobi trespassed against one she had with him?”

Padme blinks a few times. “I don’t have a relationship with Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Adi exchanges a look with the rest of the Council. Yoda is looking down at his gimer stick like he’s considering banging his head against it. “Come now, dear,” she says, knowing the diminutive is a mistake the second it leaves her mouth. “There’s no point in hiding it any longer. The galaxy saw it! You must respect our customs and allow us to deal with Obi-Wan — perhaps… perhaps he will choose you over the Order.”

Padme lifts a sharp eyebrow. “As General Skywalker said, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s name was never mentioned. As such I’m not sure why it is relevant to these proceedings. Frankly, Masters, I thought that I was called here to discuss repairing relations between Naboo and Mandalore.”

As that was item two on Adi’s agenda, she says nothing. Filling her silence, Mace says, “If the fight was not about your relationship —” at Padme’s intake of breath, he hastily amends, “— alleged relationship with Obi-Wan Kenobi, what was it about? Clearly it was relational in nature. You cannot deny that.”

The look Padme levels at Mace says that she can deny whatever she likes, please and thank you, but she says, with a derisive snort, “Obviously it was about another man, whose name must remain confidential.” She straightens up, clasping her hands in front of her. “It is a private matter, and the man in question wishes to stay out of the public eye.”

Adi tries to organize what Padme is saying into something neat and believable that she can put in a report. “You fought over this man in the Senate,” she says. Then, in case Padme didn’t get her meaning, she adds, “During a session that was beamed to the galaxy.”

“Yes,” Padme says. “Nonetheless, the matter is sensitive, and not one I will share with the Order — or the galaxy for that matter. If you care to think back over what happened, you will note that the man in question’s name is still a mystery. Thus, I have clearly succeeded in protecting him from public scrutiny.”

Adi rather thinks Padme has — somehow — succeeded in yet again hiding her relationship with Obi-Wan, while simultaneously not hiding it at all. In a desperate last stab at something productive coming from this meeting, Adi casts her eyes toward Anakin.

He smiles at her, and for a moment, she thinks he might at long last give up on protecting Obi-Wan from censure. “I can confirm that Obi-Wan and Senator Amidala aren’t in a relationship,” he says, blithely trampling over Adi’s hopes. “Did you have any other questions, Masters?”

# # #

As Padme lies flat on her back on the couch in her apartment later that evening, icing her swollen jaw, Obi-Wan leans over her. “Do you have any inkling of the trouble you caused for me today?”

Padme deigns to lift her gaze to him. “I defended your honor,” she says.

“No,” he says, while Anakin drifts into the apartment and tucks a blanket over Padme as he passes — because he is nothing if not disgustingly in love. “You gave me ulcers and nearly started three wars.”

Waving him away with her hand, Padme says, “But I got you your wife back.”

“But you nearly ended my marriage first.”

“Semantics.”

“Padme.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me poison Palpatine.”

Suppressing a scream, Obi-Wan turns away. “I’m going to bed,” he announces.

Rummaging through the kitchen cabinets for something to eat, Anakin turns toward him, grinning. “Taking anyone with you?”

Obi-Wan picks up a pillow and hurls it across the apartment at Anakin.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

The Junior Operative Situation

Anakin’s eyes flutter open to the sight of sunlight flooding through the windows of the plasteel shanty he and the clones erected together when they set up the base camp a few weeks ago. He and the 501st, along with Obi-Wan and the 212th, have been stationed on Haruun Kal to help hold the line against the Separatists. He’s relatively certain they’ve only been sent here to get them away from the Core, but given that Versé has invented roughly ten new dalliances for Obi-Wan over the past few weeks — all meant to strategically distract the galaxy from Operation Fountain’s more revolutionary doings — he can only imagine the collective migraine the Jedi Council is nursing.

That’s their problem, however. Not Anakin’s.

He swings his legs out of bed, shaking off his woolen blanket and cracking his neck. It was a good night’s sleep, which is a rare occurrence when he’s away from Padme. With the fighting having calmed down a bit over the past few days and the Separatists pushed back beyond the jungle surrounding their position, today is shaping up to be a good day. Maybe even a restful one if he plays his cards right.

Stretching, he makes his way over to the door and pulls it open. Then he steps outside and almost trips over a basket, set neatly on the rickety step leading up to his shanty. Reeling against the doorframe, he catches himself just before he falls, managing to get a good look at the contents of the basket in the process.

A rosy cheeked baby stares up at him, an inquisitive wrinkle forming on its — his — her — its — brow. Anakin gazes back at it — her — him — for a long moment. Then, lifting his head to look toward Obi-Wan’s neighboring shanty, he howls out, “Obi-Wan!”

# # #

As Anakin tries unsuccessfully to stop the baby — a girl, going by the pink blanket she’s wrapped in — from sucking on his finger, Obi-Wan reads the hastily scrawled note tucked in the basket. “This says she’s Force sensitive,” he says.

The baby starts to float away, up and out of Anakin’s arms, and he manages to yank her back against him just in time, shooting Obi-Wan an irritated look as he does. “No, really! Does it say anything else? Anything helpful? Or does it apologize for leaving a baby in a kriffing warzone?”

Obi-Wan scans through the letter. “No. No apology. The author just says she rescued the baby from some Hutt mercenaries on Felucia. We were the closest outpost to there, so she came here. She couldn’t think of anything else to do except give the baby to the Jedi.”

“Is Amu’s network not known?” snaps Anakin. He’s rocking the baby in an unpracticed sort of way, which makes it look more like he’s preparing to fling her across the room. “‘Couldn’t think of anything else to do’ — what a disgusting copout. How do you know it’s a woman?”

Obi-Wan turns the letter around, revealing looping, slanted letters. “Woman’s hand.”

Anakin shakes his head. “You are so sexist.”

“And a womanizer, according to the tabloids. But, no, it’s simple graphology.”

Putting on his faux Core accent, Anakin says, “‘It’s simple graphology.’ Stars, you sound like such a kriffhead sometimes. Here, take her — I’ve got to comm Padme and tell her what happened.” He holds the baby out to Obi-Wan, awkwardly.

Obi-Wan dodges away, adrenaline spiking through him. “Oh, absolutely not. You’re the one who wants to be a father — you keep her. I’ll comm Padme.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Anakin narrows his eyes, a sly smile creeping across his face. “What? Are you scared? She’s just a baby. Didn’t you grow up around a million of those in the creche?”

“No.” Obi-Wan backs up further, taking out his comm. “My experience with children starts with you, at nine.”

“They didn’t let you take care of the crechelings, did they?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Stars, you’re who the crechemasters are going on about when talk about the Dropper!”

“It was once, and it was an accident, and I —” Obi-Wan stops himself and draws a deep breath. “I was fourteen. Those crechemasters are just the most unforgiving pack of bats I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“Would this include Ryss, your crechemaster? ‘Cause I can tell her you said that.”

Obi-Wan glares at him and pulls up Padme’s contact. “And I can leave you out here on the Rim, strung up in a tree. Don’t tempt me.”

“It’s so funny that you think that when you work closely with my wife and my mother.”

“They would sympathize.”

“When have they ever taken your side?”

Obi-Wan is just about to send him a scathing reply when something in the delicate internal balance of their newly acquired baby girl suddenly goes horribly, irreparably awry. At least, that is Obi-Wan’s best theory, based on the earsplitting wails that begin to rip out of her throat, bouncing off the walls of the shanty and unsettling something deep inside Obi-Wan — latent paternal instincts, perhaps — that leaves him needing to fix it now.

In another few seconds, as Anakin swings his hips in an arc that does nothing to lessen the visual of him ramping up to throw the baby, Cody and Rex duck their heads through the open door, grimacing at the noise.

“Sir,” Cody tries.

Rex is less respectful. “Can you put it back?”

“Her,” Anakin says, managing to make it sound as though Rex gravely insulted him, rather than the baby. “And do you understand how birth works?”

Rex gives him a look. “I’m a clone, sir.”

“You can’t use that excuse forever.”

“I think I can, sir.”

The baby’s wails increase in volume. Anakin shifts his grip on her, tucking her against his shoulder and patting her back in the rhythm of a marching song. He sends a persecuted look in Obi-Wan’s direction. “Comm Padme. Now. Tell her to send for Amu. And tell her the baby’ll need a wet nurse.”

Fives pokes his head in behind Rex and wrinkles his nose. “What in the galaxy does the moisture level of the nurse have to do with anything?”

Anakin scowls at him over the baby girl’s wispy curls, opens his mouth to respond, shakes his head, and turns to Obi-Wan. “And while you’re at it, explain wet nurses to Fives.”

“Never mind.” Fives disappears from view. “I don’t want to know.”

In another few seconds, Padme’s voice emanates from Obi-Wan’s comm. “What is it? I’m busy — Ask Aak is appealing his corruption charges, and I want to be there to laugh at him when…” She pauses. “Is that a baby?”

Rather than answering, Obi-Wan just flips his wrist over so the camera on his comm is pointed at Anakin.

Anakin holds up the baby. “Help.”

# # #

“No, no, no, no, no.” Sola, a squawling baby tucked up against her chest, pushes her way into Padme’s apartment just long enough to dump the baby in Padme’s arms. “No.”

Padme moves the baby higher against her chest. “Shmi was supposed to find her a family!”

“Oh, that was the plan.” Sola moves past Padme, and with passive aggressive fervor, thumps a bottle, its various accouterments, and a canister of formula on her kitchen counter. “That was the plan, but that plan went out the window the first night she spent at home, with Merè and Perè.”

“What, did they want to keep her?”

Sola spins around, huffing her curls out of her face as she sets both hands on her hips. “Oh, no. Quite the opposite.”

“What?” Padme huddles protectively over the baby. “What could she possibly have done? She’s barely five months old!”

Sola presses her lips together. “Where should I start? First of all, the manor used to have windows. Remember those? Stained glass, beautiful, several hundred years old?”

Padme’s stomach sinks a little. “Yes?”

“Well, they’re gone. Shattered outward, into the garden. That’s what happens when a Force sensitive baby gets angry, apparently.”

“But we’ve dealt with babies like her before, I don’t understand —”

“We’ve never had anybody like her,” says Sola. “Stars, if we had I might have conceded that the Jedi Order has a point about Force null parents not being equipped.” At Padme’s glare, she adds, “I said might. But, Padme, no one slept last night. And the scraps of sleep we did get, she gave us all nightmares!”

“Nightmares?” Padme peers down at the baby’s face. She looks far too sweet, with her squishy cheeks and murky eyes, to give anyone nightmares.

Sola’s expression, however, belies this assumption. “Yes,” she says. “All of us. From the refugees hiding in the attic to the holy man in the basem*nt.”

“The holy man?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re fixating on. Yes — the one who was going to perform you and Ani’s marriage ceremony. He’s been quite helpful.”

“Yes, I know that. I mean, why was he there?”

“Oh, he was inventorying our armory for us. For the strike against the Hutts. Kit’s fighters technically should do it, but it’s so tedious, and they had other things to do, so —”

“No, Sola.” Padme sighs. “Why was he at the house at all? In the middle of the night? On the day before services at the temple?”

“Oh, I’d lost track of the days.” Sola shakes herself. “That must be why he looked so frazzled when he left. I think he was late for services.”

“Sola.”

“Oh, yes, right. I’m not myself, you know — on account of not getting sleep. He was there because he’s taken a fancy to Shmi.”

“He’s what?”

“Padme. Focus.” Sola points sharply to the formula and its accessories on the counter. “All her feeding things are there, though I read if you’re desperate enough, and she’s hungry enough, you can lactate even if you didn’t give birth, so good luck with that. You’ve got her blanket. I couldn’t bring the cradle, but you can just buy one.” She lifts her eyes to the ceiling, lips moving. “I think that’s everything. I’ve got to get back — husband’s away with Perè on a mission. Had to leave Ryoo and Pooja with the holy man, and I don’t know how much more stress the poor man can handle. You all right? You know how to take care of babies, don’t you? You were so good when Pooja and Ryoo were little.”

Padme just stares at her. “Sola. I’m a senator. I’m — I — I can’t take care of this baby! And what makes you think she’s not going to wreak havoc here, if she was so bad back home?”

“Oh, she likes you.” Sola waves a hand dismissively. “You must feel like Anakin to her. She won’t do anything here. I think, anyway. Either way, you have a cleaning service — you’ll be fine!”

As Sola starts toward the door, apparently laboring under the impression that she is allowed to leave, Padme jerks forward and catches her arm. “Sola, how am I going to explain a baby? I can’t exactly say she’s mine, now can I? It’s summertime! I’ve been wandering about in belly shirts. Trust me, the paparazzi have been waiting and watching for a pregnancy. They’re going to know this girl isn’t mine.”

“So what if they know it’s not yours?” Sola shrugs, like Padme is overreacting. “It’s none of their business where you got the child.”

“And if I kidnapped her?”

“Please. Shmi forged you some lovely guardianship papers.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Look, Padme, there are no other options.” Sola folds her arms. “This little kriffing…” She pauses to pull in a deep breath. “This little miracle has gone and bonded with Anakin and Obi-Wan — as best we can tell, anyway. Until she can communicate, she’s not going to be happy unless she’s with you or them.”

“And this is just…” Padme shakes her head. “Your best plan?”

Sola grips both her shoulders. “No. It’s our only plan. She likes it when you swing her back and forth — like you’re going to chuck her across the room. I blame Anakin for that. Good luck!”

“Sola —” Padme takes a few steps forward, but by the time she does, Sola is already out the door, tossing a “Love you!” over her shoulder and slamming the door shut.

That leaves Padme, standing in the exact center of her living room, with a baby in her arms. Pursing her lips, she looks down at the little girl. “Well, you’re going to need a name. Now, before the tabloids give you one.”

# # #

Anakin didn’t particularly mean for Obi-Wan to follow him home when he finally arrived on Coruscant for a well earned leave — brought about by the sudden end to the siege on Haruun Kal, which was courtesy of Dooku calling in reinforcements to help the Hutts fight a guerilla war that came out of nowhere.

Well, it came out of nowhere if you were ignorant to the movements of Operation Fountain. If you weren’t, it was the culmination of many months of planning and surreptitious planting of explosives.

If the Hutts go down in less than a month, Anakin’s going to lose a bet with Kitster.

“You know, Obi-Wan,” he says as the speeder draws up at Padme’s balcony, “you do have your own apartment.”

Obi-Wan, half asleep in the passenger seat of the speeder, gives him a slitted look. “I’m aware.”

“It’s well appointed.”

“Some might say that.”

“Private, too.”

“Less so, now that the Jedi Council likes to drop by.”

“You could lock the door.”

“Well, that’s considered rude.”

“Oh, so now being rude to the Council is not an option?”

“It isn’t when they’ll call the Jedi Guardians to batter down the door to try to catch me in the act.”

“Oh?” Anakin climbs out of the speeder. “What act?”

Obi-Wan wakes up enough to glare at him. “You know what act.”

Anakin sighs and puts his hands on his hips. “So there’s no chance that you’re going to leave me and Padme alone tonight? After a long deployment?”

Obi-Wan slides out of the speeder and joins Anakin on the balcony. “None whatsoever. Do you suppose Padme’s ordered dinner?”

“Do you suppose if I pushed you off this balcony you could use the Force to catch yourself before you hit the ground?”

“Most likely, but I would pull you down with me. I imagine that would kill the mood.”

Signing something rude at him over his shoulder, Anakin turns and makes his way into the apartment’s living room, passing between the gauzy curtains drawn across the balcony entrance. “Padme! Are you here? Two guesses who’s with me!”

Padme emerges from the fresher that opens off the hallway leading to the bedroom. She has a distinctly frazzled look, and there is a white, runny stain smeared down the front of her blue day gown. The source of the stain is — Anakin assumes — the very familiar baby girl cradled in her arms. One hand clumsily knotted in Padme’s curls, the baby yanks, eliciting a hiss of pain from Padme.

Anakin pulls to a halt just short of her. “Padme? Is there… is there something you want to tell me?”

Padme lifts her head to give him a manic smile. “Oh good! You’re home!” She holds up the baby. “We’re foster parents!”

Adjacent to Anakin, Obi-Wan takes a few sidling steps toward the docked speeder, but Anakin snakes out an arm and catches hold of the back of his cloak. “Oh, don’t you dare. She said we, Obi-Wan.”

“This marriage has only two people.”

“Oh, does it?” Anakin twists his hand tighter in Obi-Wan’s cloak. “You never act that way.” He takes the baby from Padme and places her in Obi-Wan’s arms. “Here’s your bed. Lie in it.”

# # #

“Senator Amidala?” Palpatine’s voice — as infuriating as it normally is — draws her attention away from Asajj — which is what Anakin christened the baby the first night, after she screamed from sunset to sunrise, causing him to call her a monster and come to the conclusion that Asajj was the only appropriate name.

When Obi-Wan pointed out that Ventress stood a chance of finding out the baby’s name and that naming her after one of his supposed lovers wasn’t the best way to fly under the radar, Anakin just shrugged and said it didn’t sound like his problem.

That was around when Padme accosted Anakin and forced him to change Asajj’s wet nappy.

“Yes?” She adjusts Asajj’s position so that she can suck on her bottle more easily. They were using formula, until Anakin found out about it and was horrified enough to order her bantha milk all the way from Tatooine, paying for overnight shipping.

Granted, he used her money to do it, but that’s been a constant their entire marriage.

“Is…” Palpatine seems to be reaching for the right words. “I was wondering if you perhaps needed help hiring a nursemaid? I’m sure one of my aides could help you, assuming you and your attendants are too busy.”

Padme smiles at him with all her teeth. “Oh no, thank you, Chancellor. I have the situation well in hand.” She strokes back Asajj’s curls as she speaks.

Palpatine eyes her a moment. So do all the other senators in the conference room. “I see,” he says at length.

Across the table from Padme, Riyo shifts around her flimsiwork — probably to give her hands something to do. “Padme…” She clears her throat. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Padme lifts an eyebrow and pretends to think it over. Then, she says, “No.”

# # #

“It’s not mine,” snaps Adi Gallia from her seat in the Council Room. She seems on the verge of drawing her lightsaber.

Undeterred, Mace narrows his eyes at her. “Are you… Are you very sure?”

Adi grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes. “No, Mace, I’m actually quite stupid. I missed an entire pregnancy! In fact, I even missed the act that led to the pregnancy.”

“Protest much, you do,” says Yoda.

At this, Mace has to tamp down the urge to strangle Yoda, who, judging by the amused expression on his face, only spoke in order to stir up the fires of Adi’s rage. “Grandmaster,” he says, endeavoring to keep a modicum of respect in his tone, “perhaps we could focus on the problem at hand.”

“The problem at hand,” says Adi as she jerks to her feet, “is Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

Yoda watches her placidly for a moment. “No proof the child is his, we have.”

“We don’t have proof it isn’t,” points out Plo. “Which, with Obi-Wan, is proof enough.”

“That is not how the law works,” Ki-Adi says.

“Besides,” Adi interjects suddenly, apropos of nothing, “does that child look remotely half-tholothian?”

Plo smiles a little. “Genetics work in strange ways, Adi. Why, I once saw a half-twi’lek child who exhibited almost no twi’leki characteristics. Perhaps this child takes after her father more than her mother.”

It is at this point that Adi yanks off her shoe — a sandal, appropriate for the hot summer weather — and hurls it at Plo’s head. He catches it with the Force and throws it back at her.

That marks the end of sane, respectable discourse in the Council chamber that day, but that thankfully gives Mace the space necessary to make the executive decision to do a paternity test on the child. As a member of the Jedi Council, he can requisition the appropriate genetic material from whatever medical provider Padme takes the baby to for her first checkup.

After that, it will be a simple matter of using the samples they have on file from Obi-Wan to determine paternity.

Or lack thereof, Mace supposes, though that seems unlikely.

# # #

Tracene reflects that Padme Amidala, though small and not traditionally strong, is one of the most intimidating women she’s ever had the pleasure — or displeasure, depending on how you looked at it — of speaking to.

“You want to interview me?” Padme peers at Tracene over baby Asajj’s wispy head of hair. She is currently cuddled in an infant wrap across Padme’s chest, cooing beguilingly at the Senate minutes visible on Padme’s datapad.

Wanting to less and less by the moment, Tracene replies, “Yes! I think it could be a powerful piece — very inspirational for all the mothers out there. After all, you’re a senator, heavily involved in the war effort, and yet you manage to look after a baby all on your own!” She studies Padme for a moment. “You are doing it all on your own, yes?”

Padme gives her a wolfish smile. “I am her only official guardian, if that’s what you mean.”

That is not at all what Tracene meant, but she lets it pass. “So will you allow me to interview you?”

Padme tips her head to one side. “I suppose it depends. You’re sure this has nothing to do with my alleged affair with Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Tracene spreads her hands and smiles. “What alleged affair?”

Padme points to the door. “I have much work to do.”

“But —”

“Get out, Lady Kane.”

# # #

“What do you mean the doctor found an anomaly in her brain?” Anakin hunches protectively over Asajj, as though he weren’t just lamenting the end of his and Padme’s carefree days together.

Padme, looking on the verge of unraveling, says, “I mean exactly what I said, Ani!”

“Well, what did the doctor say to do?” Obi-Wan endeavors to make his voice calming, but the effort seems to pass both Anakin and Padme by.

“She referred her to a specialist,” snaps Padme. “And I don’t know what to do because I don’t trust Core doctors, especially since this one donated to the campaigns of all my least favorite senators last election cycle, so —”

“So,” Anakin says, cuddling Asajj closer, “we’ll take her to Naboo. One of the queen’s doctors.”

Obi-Wan takes a moment to picture what the tabloids will say about him, Padme, and Anakin all being off-world at the same time — even if they’ll supposedly be on different planets. Then he says, “When do we leave?”

# # #

In the wee hours of the morning, when Asajj’s test results come in, Shmi — her holy man at her side — has to throw herself to the ground to avoid the spray of glass coming from the Naberrie manor’s recently repaired windows.

This, she finds out later, is what happens when two powerful Jedi find out that the baby in their care has a modified slave chip in her head.

When the news comes that the chip has a Kaminoan design to it, all of Jobal’s glassware explodes and embeds itself in the dining room and kitchen walls.

A few days after that, when the emergency scans done on a random selection of clones show chips of similar design embedded in all of their brains, Jobal ends up breaking most of the dinnerware herself, leaving Anakin and Obi-Wan the households mirrors, which they — predictably — shatter.

# # #

Anakin is absorbed enough in Operation Fountain’s burgeoning plans to embark on a stealth mission to Kamino to figure out just what is going on that he almost doesn’t notice Plo sidling up to him as he goes through his katas in the salle.

After almost taking off Plo’s head with his saber and subsequently apologizing for it, he wipes the sweat from his brow. “What is it, Master Plo?”

Plo makes a show of correcting Anakin’s form, demonstrating the kata himself. Then, through the side of his mouth, he says, “There is a test result,” he says, “which will be coming through the database by the end of today, that you may want to intercept.”

Anakin freezes halfway through his kata, twisting to look at Plo. Plo only peacefully continues moving through his kata. “Master?” Anakin tries, hoping for further elaboration.

“It seems a task right up your alley, young one,” replies Plo. “As you excel at preventing certain… scandals from seeing the light of day.”

Anakin wrinkles his brow. “Scandals?”

Plo sighs. “To do with the people close to you.”

Anakin runs through the people close to him. It’s a long list, so Plo’s hint does very little to clear anything up. At this point, he’s covering for approximately everyone in his life in some way or other. “Master, you’re going to need to be more… specific.”

Plo gives him a sidelong look that makes Anakin remember that in the eyes of the Council, his circle of acquaintances is much smaller than it is in reality. “Your master, young one,” he says, with only a little bit of annoyance in his voice. “Obviously your master. How have you protected him so long when you don’t have a scrap of guile in you?”

Anakin bristles. “I have a scrap of guile — plenty of scraps!”

“Of course you do, young one.” Plo lays a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Of course.”

Feeling entirely patronized, Anakin says, “What test result?”

“Think it over.” Plo sighs. “Think it over.”

Anakin does. Then it hits him. “How dare they order that without his consent! Or Padme’s consent! Or — or the baby’s consent!” Whether or not Asajj can actually consent — given that the powers of speech continue to evade her — is immaterial. “Thank you for telling me, Master Plo.”

“I trust you’ll know what to do with this information.”

Anakin nods. “I do.”

Given that Obi-Wan is in no shape or form related to Asajj, he’s not going to do anything except smile sunnily at the Council when they inevitably ask him if he tampered with the result.

Whatever they’ll think he did, they’ll never be able to prove it.

And with any luck, it will drive them entirely mad.

# # #

“Barriss. Barriss. Barriss.” Ahsoka manages to successfully pick the lock on the door to Barriss’ sleeping quarters on the Resolute — temporary, since she’s only been assigned to the 501st for a few weeks.

In the darkness, she can just barely see her lurch upright, fumbling for her lightsaber. Judging by the swear that leaps from her lips, she banged her head on the top of her berth in the process. “Who’s there?” she snarls. “I’m armed, I’m a Jedi, I’ll —”

“It’s me.” Ahsoka ignites her lightsaber so they can both see. The green glow of it bounces around the entire room and is sudden enough to make Barriss clap one hand over her eyes, cringing away. “Stop screaming.”

Gingerly, Barriss drops her hand from her eyes and squints at her. “Ahsoka? What are you doing here?

Ahsoka leaps onto the end of her bed and crouches there, still gripping her lightsaber in one hand. “Anakin’s planning something.”

Barriss sighs and slumps back against her pillows. “Can you be more specific?”

“With Master Obi-Wan and Rex and Cody and maybe Senator Amidala, I don’t know.” Ahsoka grits her teeth, fuming. No one ever tells her anything. She’s been a padawan for almost three years, but still it seems that almost everyone in her life is keeping secrets from her. It’s maddening. “But they keep going into all these secret meetings, and I don’t know exactly what they’re planning, but I do know it’s got something to do with Kamino. But nobody ever says! Nobody ever includes me, nobody even bothered to explain the baby, and I’ve had just about enough, so I thought —”

“No.” Barriss scrubs at her face, trying to wake herself up. “Absolutely not, Ahsoka. We’ll both get caught, and our masters will —”

“We won’t get caught, don’t be ridiculous.”

“We will.”

“Fine, and suppose we do. What would the Council do? They don’t have any leg to stand on with all Master Obi-Wan gets away with.”

“Whatever you’re planning is bound to go wrong.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Yeah. But that’s why I’m bringing you!”

Barris sighs. “Fine. When?”

“Next inspection on Kamino is in two days.”

“Lovely.”

Chapter 11: The Burned Mission

Chapter Text

The Burned Mission

The Republic’s maximum security prison isn’t exactly the coziest place in the world, but Ahsoka swears the temperature in her, Barriss’, and Fives’ holding cell drops fifteen degrees when Anakin, his cloak thrown over his pajamas, walks into the viewing room outside of it. He is followed by Padme in her dressing gown, duch*ess Satine (also in her dressing gown), Obi-Wan in a calf length nightshirt that Ahsoka would have laughed at in any other situation, and Rex in nothing but his blacks and his kama, hastily belted around his waist.

For some inexplicable reason, Anakin also has Padme’s foster daughter Asajj cuddled against his chest in a baby papoose.

Ahsoka opens her mouth to say something — she’s not exactly sure what — but Padme holds up a single finger and turns a freezing glare on the three CSF agents set to guard the cell. “I’m their legal representation,” she says.

The senior agent blinks. “Senator Amidala? But you’re —”

“I could show you my law degree from Theed University,” she interrupts, with the kind of smile that cuts. “Or I could just call your supervising agent and ask why you put two teenlings in the same cell with a grown man, if you would prefer.”

The senior agent glances at Fives. “Senator, we tried to separate them, but the padawan bit six agents…”

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka bristles. “It wasn’t me. It was Barriss!”

“Barriss.”

Barriss, who has gamely assumed a criminal persona, just gives Obi-Wan a baleful glare.

Padme still doesn’t take her gaze off the senior agent. “I’m their legal representation,” she repeats.

“I… I know, Senator,” the senior agent says slowly. “You said.”

Satine appears behind Padme’s shoulder, prompting the three agents to take a collective step back. No doubt they remember the incident in the Senate. “She means get out,” she offers, helpfully. “She needs to counsel them privately.”

“Senator, you are aware of the severity of this situation, correct?” The senior agent has the air of a man grasping at straws.

Padme has the air of a woman about to pull out a blaster and start shooting. “Agent, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me if I understood the seriousness of losing the Kaminoan cloning and training facilities. In fact, I won’t destroy your entire career if you leave. Right now,” she adds when he hesitates. “Go on.”

“She’s serious,” Obi-Wan offers, folding his arms. “She’s a very vengeful person.”

Ahsoka sees a question pass over the senior agent’s face — probably something along the lines of “Then why do you cheat on her constantly?” — but he never asks it. Instead, he gathers his two subordinates and beats a hasty retreat.

As soon as he is gone and the door is shut and sealed, Anakin faces the holding cell and throws his arms out to his sides. The jolt almost wakes Asajj. “How, Snips?” he demands. “How in the hell did you and Barriss and Fives get arrested for treason and espionage?”

“And how,” adds Obi-Wan, “did you manage to delete the entire Kaminoan database in the process?”

“And melt all their hardware,” says Fives. “Don’t forget that.”

Obi-Wan pins him down with a glare. “Yes. Thank you, Fives.”

Ahsoka scuffs her foot over the floor. “We can explain,” she says. “I swear.”

# # #

TWELVE HOURS EARLIER…

The weather on Kamino is what it always is: rainy, windy, and cold. To spice things up, there is the occasional flash of lightning, rumble of thunder, and cold spray from a wave crashing into the support struts that hold up the Kaminoan facilities.

Hunching her shoulders against the wind, Ahsoka follows Fives and a few other ARC troopers from various battalions into the main hangar, where Shaak Ti is waiting. Today she will show off the latest batch of shinies to Fives and the other ARCs, and they will decide if they’re good enough to recruit into their battalions. As successful and vital to the war effort as the Torrent Company and other units like it are, the 501st and the other battalions with elite ARC units get first pick of the graduating cadets.

And given that Fives is from Ahsoka’s battalion and Captain Gree, another one of the clones sent to inspect the new legion of troopers, is from Barriss’, it wasn’t hard for either of them to talk their way into being included in the inspection.

It will be a learning experience for me, Master, Barriss told Luminara. After all, I might command my own battalion one day.

I want to go, Ahsoka told Fives after she successfully dodged Anakin and sneaked onto the transport. I’m going.

Once inside, it isn’t hard to slip away from the main group once the Kaminoan scientists and prime minister start droning on about the latest graduating group. Ahsoka can see Fives’ eyes glazing over when she ducks down a side corridor, dragging Barriss with her.

One good thing about infiltrating Kamino is that she doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in what the Kaminoans are saying. She can skip listening to them entirely.

“This is still such a bad idea,” Barriss hisses as they run down the empty corridor, sticking close to the walls. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Of course I do!”

“Oh? What’s your plan then, Ahsoka? Because you’ve neglected to inform me of it, if you do have one.”

Ahsoka stops next to a maintenance hatch and pulls out her multitool. As Barriss’ mouth slowly falls open, she manages to jimmy the lock and open the hatch, lowering it softly so as not to make noise. With an exaggerated motion, she gestures to the shaft beyond. “Your chariot. Elevator. Tunnel. Whatever, just get in.”

Barriss just stares. “And where are we going?”

It occurs to Ahsoka then that she might have underestimated Barriss’ trust in her. After all, this is the first real clarifying question she’s asked since Ahsoka barged into her room two days ago. Filing that away for future reference, she says, “The only place I can think of that Anakin and the others would be interested in: the classified level.” It’s not exactly a secret — the Kaminoans have never been shy about protecting their proprietary secrets, right down to the actual cloning process — but as far as Ahsoka knows, no Jedi, not even Shaak Ti, has ever seen the lowest level of the main Kaminoan facility.

And now that she thinks of it, she doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like it at all.

Barriss blinks. “Ahsoka. The cameras. The security systems. Have you thought this through at all?”

“Of course I have.” Ahsoka sits on the edge of the shaft and swings her legs over the edge. “Artooie’s on it.” Like joining the inspection, it wasn’t difficult to get Artoo to tag along.

Barriss squints. “Ahsoka…”

Mouthing a countdown, Ahsoka points at the lights in the corridor just as she reaches “one”. On cue, they flicker out for a split second before surging back to life — only this time glowing a dim yellow instead of a bright white. She grins at Barriss. “Oh no,” she says in the Kaminoan accent. “The storm’s knocked out our main power! Better switch to emergency generators, which are only powerful enough to keep the incubation pods online — not our complex security systems — because all the extra power goes to the stabilizers and shields! Of course, the vault is locked down tight the second there’s a power outage, but the ventilation shafts are on an entirely separate system to keep sterile air circulating through the facility. Even the vault.” Ahsoka grabs the ladder bolted to the side of the shaft and swings inside it. “And the maintenance shafts are still open too. Just in case they need to make emergency repairs, you know how it is.”

Barriss shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m kriffed off. I’m tired of no one ever telling me anything.”

Barriss sticks her head into the shaft. “Have you ever considered that maybe this sort of reaction is why?”

Ahsoka starts climbing downward. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.” Barriss sighs. “Wait up, I’m coming.”

# # #

PRESENT

Ahsoka pauses for breath and surveys the damage her story has done so far. Padme has her head in her hands — as if she hasn’t done dozens of more reckless things — and Satine just looks pale and vaguely sick. Anakin’s just looking at her with growing horror, while Obi-Wan has the expression of a man longing for a stiff drink.

Except he doesn’t drink.

After a moment of silence, Anakin bursts out, “You made Artoo hack into the Kaminoan power grid?”

Padme lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m so glad we swept this room for bugs.”

“I didn’t make him,” says Ahsoka, folding her arms. “I asked him. Artooie always does what I ask. I’m his favorite.”

At this, Rex snorts. “Oh, of course. You, he listens to.”

Anakin shakes his head. “I can’t believe you would be so stupid. How long did it take you to come up with this plan? Five minutes? You left so many traces; I know I trained you better than that. What were you thinking?”

Ahsoka lifts her chin. “That no one tells me anything.”

“Oh, don’t try to turn this around on me. I’m not under arrest for treason.”

“Yet,” Satine mutters under her breath.

Anakin narrows his eyes at Fives. “And how did you get involved? I sent you there to —” he glances at Ahsoka and trails off. “How did you get involved, Fives?”

“Oh, still not telling me anything!” Ahsoka throws up her hands. “And is anyone going to tell me why the duch*ess of Mandalore is here, or…?”

“No,” Anakin says. “Fives?”

“Sir,” Fives says, “I just want to go on the record first saying all this is not my fault.”

# # #

Fives was figuring out the best way to slip away from the rest of the group and do the recon Anakin and Obi-Wan asked him to do when Artoo — who Fives hadn’t even realized had disappeared — reappeared. Gree asked him where he’d been, and Artoo burbled out an immediate excuse that made Gree nod and move on.

It was an airtight explanation.

Too airtight.

As the rest of the inspection group rounds the corner, Fives corners Artoo. “What were you doing?” he hisses, trapping the little astromech against the wall and hoping his battle programming doesn’t “take over” again. There’s only so many “accidental” tasing incidents Fives can take before he just hefts Artoo out the nearest window so the sea monsters that populate Kamino’s vast ocean can handle him for a change.

Artoo looks up at him with a half lidded photoreceptor. Nothing, he chirped innocently.

Too innocently.

“Artoo. We’re in the same conspiracy — what were you doing?”

Artoo shifted his ambulatory struts placidly. I happen to be in multiple conspiracies. I’m integral.

“You’re about to be disassembled,” Fives snaps.

Artoo narrows his photoreceptor at him. Do that, and you’ll be in so much trouble with AN1. I think he might deactivate you.

“Kill, Artoo. The organic term is kill. Which is what I’m going to do to you if you don’t tell me what you were doing!”

A sound like a snort emanates from Artoo’s vocal processors. I was just hacking into the power grid for S0KA.

“Ahsoka?” Fives straightens up.

About two seconds after he realizes he hasn’t seen Ahsoka or Barriss in a few minutes, the realization about what they must be doing hits him. “Oh, kriff.”

# # #

Padme shakes her head at Fives, looking so contemptuous that he bristles. “I can’t believe you lost track of them both and didn’t even notice. You’re supposed to watch Ahsoka!”

“Hey!” Ahsoka pulls herself straight. This is a bridge too far. “I’m not some little kid.” Little kids, she is fairly sure, don’t get arrested for treason and espionage, but she doesn’t add that. It won’t help her case.

“Hush,” Anakin says, in that particular tone that sets her teeth on edge. “The adults are talking.”

“I’ll kill you —”

“What, and add murder to your litany of crimes? Keep going, Fives.”

# # #

When the power shut off and the emergency generators kicked on, Fives knew exactly where to go. “Idiots,” he mutters to himself as he slips through the quiet corridors. In the event of a power outage, the protocol is to gather in the central part of the city, since without the city stabilizers running on full power, the outer edges become more vulnerable to waves.

He doubts Ahsoka or Barriss knew about that protocol, but it’s a nice fringe benefit that’s allowing him to move faster than he otherwise would have been able to.

Swearing under his breath, he hurries into a service elevator with Artoo on his heels and hits the button that shuts the doors. “You hacked the power grid,” he tells Artoo. “Can you get the passcode that’ll take this elevator down to the vault level?”

Artoo manages to give him a flat look. What do you take me for? Of course I can.

# # #

“You can take the service elevators down to the vault?” Ahsoka twists to look at Fives. “That’s how you caught up with us so fast?”

Fives give her a coy smile. “How did you think I caught up with you?”

Ahsoka opens and closes her mouth, unwilling to say that frankly she and Barriss both thought he might have materialized miraculously after sensing that they were doing something illegal. It seemed like the kind of thing a member of the 501st battalion could feasibly do.

Barriss comes to her rescue. “We thought you found us another way, is all,” she says, which isn’t a lie. Barriss excels at that style of communication.

It will probably be very helpful during their trial.

Fives squints. “Sure you did.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t think to use the elevators,” says Anakin.

“I didn’t think they’d be so easy to use!” Ahsoka snaps back. Privately, she wishes she and Barriss had used an elevator. The maintenance shafts and ventilation system were both horribly cramped, and she and Barriss both have the bruises to prove it, adding injury to the insult of being arrested — literally.

Beside Anakin, Obi-Wan lets out a long sigh and lies down flat on his back on the floor, one arm tossed over his face. Anakin glances down at him with a raised eyebrow. “And what are you doing?” he asks.

“Rethinking my life,” replies Obi-Wan, voice muffled by his own elbow.

Satine leans over to peer down at him. The lacy hem of her dressing gown brushes his forehead. “Not all of it, I assume?” she asks, apropos of nothing.

“Don’t push it, my dear,” says Obi-Wan, also apropos of nothing.

Barriss exchanges a look with Ahsoka and mouths, my dear? at her. Ahsoka just shrugs and shakes her head. It no longer shocks her when the tabloids are right about Obi-Wan’s romantic partners. She’s really just confused about how Satine and Padme are managing to peacefully coexist in the same room, given what occurred the last time they shared a space.

“Keep going,” says Anakin. “We don’t have all night.”

“Literally,” Padme agrees. “Pretty soon the Jedi Council is going to realize that the CSF finished processing the three of them hours ago.”

Rex slides Padme a tired look. “And why do they think the CSF is still processing them?”

Padme bats her eyelashes. “I might have had Versé fake a communique fror two.”

“Oh stars,” groans Obi-Wan from the floor. “You know who they’re going to blame for this? Me.” He makes a vague motion with his free hand. “Fine. Finish your story. Maybe I’ll join you in there by the end of this.”

# # #

The vault isn’t what Ahsoka expected it to be. She thought it would be mostly laboratories, or maybe a central database with all of Kamino’s proprietary secrets. She thought there might be experiments running, new cloning techniques being tested.

She did not expect to be greeted by ranks and ranks of servers, all surrounding a central mainframe that refused to even turn on without a password. Over the hum of thousands of cooling fans, she says, “What is this place?”

Barriss, better with computers than she is, turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. “I don’t know, but whatever this is for, that transmitter?” She points to the transmitter that spikes out of the mainframe and travels upward until it is lost within the ceiling far above their heads. “It’s retrofitted to transmit signals and information galaxy wide. So whoever it’s sending information to, they’re receiving it wherever they are — instantly.”

Ahsoka shivers a little. Even the best GAR-issue transmitters and comms have a slight delay. Who could the Kaminoans be talking to or what could they be doing that required instantaneous transmissions?

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she whispers as she stares up at the transmitter.

As if summoned by her words, there’s a muted clatter from behind them — from somewhere within the server banks. Ahsoka spins around. There’s a flash of movement from an aisle close by. Heart climbing into her mouth, she draws her lightsaber and, motioning for Barriss to stay back, creeps toward the source of the sound. The aisle closes around her; the flash of movement retreated around the far corner. If she moves fast enough, she might be able to get the drop on whoever it is.

Letting her battle instincts take over, she whips around the corner in a lurching leap, igniting her saber as she does.

She almost trips over Artoo, who lets out a shriek of alarm that echoes through the whole room. Just beyond him is Fives.

Ahsoka has time to take in his face, which morphs into a yell in seeming slow motion, before she realizes that she can’t pull out of her strike before she hits him. She wrenches sideways, turning her leap into a roll. Fives’ arm comes up. Her lightsaber comes down in a blur of green, and —

# # #

“You hit him with your lightsaber?” Anakin’s mouth hangs open. Obi-Wan lifts his head briefly from the floor to shake it at Ahsoka before flopping back down. “How — you — I…” He gestures in a manic sort of way at the hasty bandage around Fives’ bicep. “I thought that was from resisting arrest, not from you — you stabbing him!”

“Lightly stabbing him,” Ahsoka objects, hugging her arms about her waist. “Lightly!” When Anakin just keeps looking at her, open mouthed, she adds, scowling, “He startled me!”

“He startled her,” Barriss agrees.

“I startled her,” Fives says with a dismissive flip of his hand, slumping down onto the bench that runs along the back wall of the holding cell.

Stroking Asajj’s soft curls like they’re the only thing keeping her stable, Padme says, “But I still don’t understand how all this led to wiping the entire database.”

“And melting the hardware,” Rex says. “And all the backups.”

Ahsoka glares. “Everyone, stop adding that! And we had very good reasons, all right?”

“Okay. All right.” Anakin pulls up one of the chairs that are scattered about the edges of the room and sits down on it, putting his chin in his hand. “I accept your premise. Explain to me what you found that made getting nabbed for espionage and treason the smart option.”

Ahsoka notes he focuses more on the fact that they got caught, and less on the actual crime itself. Interesting. Logging that away as well, she says, “Well —”

Anakin cuts her off. “Not you. Fives.”

Fives just shakes his head. “Sir, you’re going to laugh. Remember that, ah, mission we’ve been planning?”

Anakin purses his lips and shakes his head. “No. No, I forgot the most important mission of our lives.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic.” Fives prims up his lips. “Look, it went like this —”

# # #

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Ahsoka gabbles out as Artoo burbles with uncontrollable laughter behind her.

“You stabbed me!” Fives howls out as she drags him to his feet. With a jerk, he holds up his arm, cursing when the movement jars the wound, and reveals the blacked streak marring his skin. It isn’t deep or serious, but Ahsoka wouldn’t know that from the volume of Fives’ voice. “I can’t believe you stabbed me!”

“I said I was sorry! And what are you even doing here?”

“I followed you when I — no, hey, I’m not the idiot who sneaked in here without permission! What are you doing here?”

Hauling Fives over to the mainframe where Barriss is still standing, with a look of faraway horror on her face, Ahsoka crosses her arms and resists the urge to stamp her foot. “We’re down here because I’m tired of being left in the dark! I know Master Anakin and you and everyone are planning something, and I know no one’s telling me the whole truth! I’m through with it!” Then she does stomp her foot — once, decisively.

Fives grips her by both shoulders. “Have you ever considered that this kind of impulsive behavior is why no one’s told you anything?”

Ahsoka has not, in fact, considered that, but she’d rather die than admit it. Instead, she lifts her chin and says, “So there is an anything to be told. Hah! I knew it.”

Fives lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “You know, when we get back, General Skywalker is going to confine you to the Temple for so long. Come on.” With his good arm, he grabs her hand. “We’re going. You too, Barriss.”

Ahsoka digs into her heels. “No, we can’t go yet! You came here for a reason, and Barriss and I crawled through vents for this. Just look at the size of the transmitter. What signals are they sending out that are so secret? What’s hosted on all these servers? We have to know, Fives.”

Fives pauses, tipping his head to one side, as he considers her words. Whatever conclusion he comes to isn’t one he likes, going by the way his face wrinkles up with displeasure. “Kriff,” he mutters at length. “Okay, fine. You win. But fast. We’re going to be fast. No trace.” He glances down at Artoo, who has settled himself at Ahsoka’s side. “Artoo, can you hack through their firewall?”

Artoo doesn’t even dignify that with a response; he just trundles over to the mainframe and fits him scomp into the access point.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Fives says.

# # #

“I still don’t understand how this led to the treason,” says Anakin.

“And espionage,” reminds Obi-Wan from the floor.

“Getting to that,” says Fives. He glances at Ahsoka, and she scowls back. She was there when the damning contents of the main unrolled before their eyes, and she saw Fives panic, but he refused to explain the context he so clearly had.

# # #

“Oh kriff,” says Fives as he stares at the screen, now lit up after Artoo’s speedy hacking.

“That’s… How are they getting away with this?” Barriss shakes her head.

Ahsoka draws in a sharp breath. “We have to deactivate them all.”

# # #

“Turns out to run mind controlling chips implanted in an entire army’s head,” says Fives, “you need a really powerful transmitter, and you need all the chips synced up to the same data stream, sending all kinds of maintenance information to the central hub.”

# # #

“They’re selling these things to the Hutts too?” Ahsoka scans over the records Barriss pulled off, horror settling in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t understand. Why… why would they want to control the clones?”

“I guess now we know where Asajj’s chip came from,” says Fives. His jaw is tight.

Ahsoka turns toward him. “What? Asajj Ventress?”

“No.”

“Then who —”

“We need to shut this whole thing down. Fry the chips, wipe the database, everything.”

“No,” says Barriss, “we have to tell someone! Bring it to the authorities, or —”

Fives sets a hand on her shoulder. “No. No, we really don’t.”

“But —”

“Barriss, the authorities are behind this.”

Ahsoka narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”

He just looks at her, and there’s enough of a not-answer in his eyes for her to figure out that this is all part of what Anakin and the others haven’t been telling her. “What in the stars are you and Anakin caught up in?”

“That’s not important right now. Right now we have to destroy these chips, before it’s too late.”

“Fine.” It is not fine at all. “How?”

On Fives’ other side, Barriss leans forward with a truly evil smile stretching over her face. “Datastreams run both ways.”

Oh. Deciding Barriss would make a wonderful criminal, Ahsoka matches her grin and turns to Artoo, opening her mouth.

Don’t even bother asking, says Artoo. I can send a virus to all the chips to shut them down. He sticks his scomp into the access again. You’d all be dead without me.

# # #

“Wait a second.” Rex holds up his hand. “Where is Artoo?”

“Oh, he ran as soon as we got caught,” says Barriss immediately. “Ahsoka keeps calling him loyal, but he split the second things went wrong — I don’t think anyone even saw him.”

“I said,” Ahsoka says, “that he’s loyal to Anakin.”

“What about you?”

She gestures to herself. “Do I look like Anakin?”

“Finish the story!” Padme snaps her fingers to speed them along.

# # #

“Artoo!” Ahsoka leaps back from the main console as it begins to smoke. Behind her, the servers are whirring faster than before, until they almost sound like a tea kettle about to whistle. The scent of burning duraplast fills the air. “What was that virus?”

My best one, offers Artoo, retracting his scomp.

The servers burst into flames. The screen of the mainframe frizzes once before freezing into a rainbow colored glitch that hurts Ahsoka’s eyes. There’s the sound of electricity arcing, and then the screen itself explodes, showering them in fragments of transparisteel. Ahsoka ducks. Fire alarms begin to blare.

Don’t worry, Artoo says peacefully, flames reflected in his photoreceptor. I disabled the fire suppression systems.

“And that’s our cue to go,” says Fives, grabbing both Ahsoka and Barriss by the shoulders and herding them through the aisle of servers that’s the least on fire.

Ahsoka snatches a look over her shoulder to see the finer workings of the mainframe’s console melting into a puddle of duraplast and superheated transparisteel. Eyes widening, she asks, “Do you think the clones are going to be okay? With a virus like that in their chips?”

“Well, I’m fine, aren’t I?” Fives shoves them both toward a service elevator Ahsoka hadn’t seen before.

Just before she could reach for the call button, it slid open to reveal a half dozen heavily armed shock troopers and a few Kaminoan security officers.

Ahsoka freezes.

The crackling of fire and the blare of alarms turn the air solid. Mind blanking, Ahsoka offers the troopers and Kaminoans a shaky little smile. “I told Fives not to put his caff down next to the computer! Didn’t I tell him, Barriss?”

Barriss, equally wide eyed, nods vigorously. “You did. I heard you.”

At this, Fives sighs deeply. “I wish I could say I’m not affiliated with them,” he says, “but I am.”

That was around when the shock troopers stunned all three of them.

# # #

“I…” Anakin shakes his head, absently bouncing Asajj in her papoose. “I have no words.”

Obi-Wan gets up. “I have some.”

“We were never going to get a better chance again,” says Fives from the bench at the back of the cell. “I figured it was worth burning myself.”

“You could have at least warned us,” says Padme, in a voice of deep resentment. “Shot us a message. Left a holorecording on our comm.”

Fives gives Anakin a hooded look. “I tried. Somebody left their comm off.”

As all eyes turn to Anakin. He folds his arms. “It was family night!” he says. “I only get so much leave, and — I think we’re all forgetting who the real problem is here!” He stabs a finger in Ahsoka’s direction. “Her!”

“Me?” Ahsoka loses control of her vocal register entirely, sliding from her normal range to a screeching warble that makes everyone cover their ears. “I’m the problem? I wouldn’t even have been there if you had told me things! Even just something as simple as, ‘Hey, Snips, stay away from Kamino awhile. I’ll explain later.’”

“Oh, please, you would have done the exact opposite —”

“That is not true —”

“Obi-Wan always said you were payback, but now I’m really starting to see —”

“I’m sorry not all of us can be perfect padawans who cover for their master’s flagrant disregard for —”

“Hold up!” Obi-Wan raises a single finger in the air, pinching the bridge of his nose with his hand. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this. It is three in the morning. I was with my wife. I was asleep. I am not going to be subjected to this a second longer, so Ahsoka, Barriss, sit and listen because I’m not repeating this.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Barriss says, “Wife?”

Obi-Wan’s glare is truly fearsome. “What did I just say about listening?”

# # #

When Obi-Wan at long length stops talking, there’s an eternal stretch of silence, during which everyone looks at Ahsoka and Barriss.

“Well?” prompts Satine in a gentle voice. “Are you… are you all right? Did you both understand?”

Ahsoka wets her lips and opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Opens it again. Takes a deep breath. Then —

“Obi-Wan…” she says.

“Fell into a fountain, yes,” Anakin supplies. “You need to just move past that one.”

“...’s not a womanizer?” Ahsoka turns raised brow ridges to Obi-Wan, who throws up his hands.

“One day,” he says. “One day, just once, that won’t be the first thing people focus on.”

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen,” Anakin says. “Now do you see why I didn’t tell you? Do you see how dangerous this is? Look where you are! And Barriss too, and she… Wait a second.” He looks around. “Where’s Luminara? Shouldn’t she be here? Didn’t all of you get a…” With slitted eyes, he pins Barriss down. “Barriss, did you not call Luminara?”

Barriss shifts from foot to foot. “I’m afraid that’s sensitive information, Master Skywalker.”

“Oh stars.” Anakin lifts his eyes skyward. “That’s just great. Your master needs to know where you are.”

“Does she, though?” asks Obi-Wan, lifting his eyes hopefully to Anakin. “Does she really?”

Ignoring him, Anakin holds out his comm to Padme. “Call her.”

Wordlessly, Padme takes the comm and passes it to Obi-Wan. “Call her.”

Obi-Wan stares at the comm in his hand. “Why me?”

Padme smiles, dazzlingly. It’s the most terrifying thing Ahsoka has ever seen, and she memorizes the shape of it so she can imitate it later. “Because you love me.”

“Less and less by the second,” says Obi-Wan under his breath, even as he dials.

Next to Ahsoka, Barriss winces and stares up at the ceiling. “I’m so dead,” she whispers as the comm rings.

“If it helps,” Fives whispers back, “the penalty for treason is death, so you were dead anyway.”

“Wow!” Ahsoka gives him her best sarcastic smile. It still isn’t as terrifying as Padme’s, but it’s a work in progress. “Thank you! That does help.”

The comm stops ringing. As one, Ahsoka and everyone in the room leans forward to try to hear the conversation better.

“Luminara?” Obi-Wan says, scrubbing a hand through his hair and glaring at everyone. “Yes, it’s me — Obi-Wan. What? No. No! No, this isn’t — Luminara, don’t flatter yourself. No, I’m not trying to say you’re not attractive, I just — I never said that. No, I never did! I’m not looking for a relationship right now, Luminara, I’m very fulfilled — stop laughing. Stop. Stop it.” Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and mouths something at Anakin that looks like I will kill you and dance the hornpipe on your grave. “Are you finished now? Have you collected yourself? Remembered your august position? Gotten your mind out of the gutter? Yes? Good.” Now a grin that is almost as unhinged as Padme’s was uncurls on Obi-Wan’s face like a cat stretching in the sunshine. “That padawan of yours, Barriss? She’s awfully impressive, you know. So level headed, so obedient. A real credit to the Order. Yes, well, anyway, she’s just been arrested for high treason. See you at the CSF headquarters!” In one quick motion, he hangs up and hands the comm back to Anakin. “You’re welcome.”

Anakin takes the comm with the same sort of horrified care someone might handle a murder weapon.

“Well,” says Satine, “Light forbid we ever need her to help us in the future.”

Flattening out his lips, Obi-Wan nods. “Do you think the Jedi Council’s on their way now?” he asks Anakin.

Anakin tucks his comm into his pocket. “Well, it’s either Luminara and the Jedi Council, or it’s Luminara, alone. With a gun.”

Padme lets out a laugh that’s as thin as paper. “Oh, the joys of running a shadow war!” Letting her expression drop like a stone, she says, “And does anyone have an bright plans for how to get these three out of this that they want to share before the Council arrives?”

“Oh, for sure,” Anakin says. “I’ve got it all worked out. Well, mostly.”

Ahsoka lays a doubtful look on him. “Care to tell me? You know, one of the people who is going to be executed, probably?”

Anakin pauses to murmur soft things to Asajj, who is just waking up. When he looks up again, he grins. “Well, obviously we’re just going to kill all three of you before the execution.”

Chapter 12: The Exfiltration

Chapter Text

The Exfiltration

“All right.” Looking a little bit like a mad tyrant as he sits back on Padme’s couch — well, technically it was his too, or at least after almost three years of marriage, it should be his too, but Obi-Wan has never been able to start thinking of the apartment or anything in it as anything other than Padme’s — and steeples his fingers in front of his face, Anakin regards Obi-Wan, Padme, Rex, and Satine. “Does everyone understand their part in the plan?”

Obi-Wan bounces baby Asajj on his knee. “I understand the plan,” he says, “but I object to several parts of it. You’re going to essentially prostitute my wife to Palpatine?” This is, apparently, a crucial part of the plan. Palpatine, who is presiding as judge over Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives’ military trial — since the Jedi Order summarily kicked Ahsoka and Barriss out, to absolutely no one’s surprise — needs to be late to the trial so that it is postponed for long enough to send the defendants back into the cells at the heart of the Republic Center of Military Operations. Of course, they’d never make it back to their cell. Unknown insurgents — part of some group conveniently disconnected from any members of Operation Fountain — would swoop in and rescue them, leading the newly reformed Coruscant Guard (headed by Fox, who thankfully knew all about Operation Fountain and had somehow been kept from telling Riyo) on a merry chase across Coruscant before Anakin and Obi-Wan would appear and — heartbreakingly, tragically — be forced to kill all three of them, and a few insurgents for good measure. What with the deaths happening right by one of the shafts leading down into Coruscant’s undercity, no bodies will ever be recovered.

And what with the part of the insurgents being played by Arla Fett — always happy to kriff with the Jedi and the GAR, while saving one of her nephews — and some of the Amavikka agents embedded on Coruscant, the convenient terrorist group will disappear with Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives.

It’s not a bad plan. Obi-Wan just takes issue with one part. “That’s your best idea for how to make Palpatine late? Have Satine try to seduce him?”

Anakin shrugs. “Well, what other idea have you got?”

“Anything else.” Satine looks very tired. “Truly. Anything.”

“No, but you see, I have it on good authority that Palpatine enjoys toying with other people’s relationships, but he’s terrified of one of his own. It’s true.” Anakin nods definitively.

Satine gives him a flat look. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m really not. I’m in his office all the time, complaining about Obi-Wan and Padme and the sorry state of my life.” At this, Anakin steals Asajj from Obi-Wan and spends a long minute holding her and pretending to drop her until her gurgly baby laughs fill the apartment. When he sits down again, Asajj a content bundle against his chest, he continues, as though he doesn’t even notice the sheer irony of his life. “He hates intimacy. I promise you.”

Obi-Wan sits closer to the edge of the other couch. “Be that as it may, why does it have to be my wife? Why can’t it be Padme?”

Padme turns to him with an affronted look on her face. “Well, that’s nice ,” she says. “Fine protector you are! You’re both older than me, but sure! Let’s let the young one play seductress to the creepy old Sith Lord!”

“Wait, wait.” Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t do this. You can’t get livid at me when I treat you like my little sister and look after you, but then play it up when you want to get out of something.”

Unperturbed, Padme flips her curls. “I think you’ll find I can do whatever I want.”

Obi-Wan gives her a narrow look. “And why would that be?”

“Because.” Padme smiles beatifically. “I’m your baby sister.”

Satine lays a hand on Obi-Wan's arm, shaking her head. “Don’t even fight her on this, Obi,” she says. “I’m a little sister — you won’t get anywhere. Trust me.”

Obi-Wan considers this a moment. “I don’t suppose we could get Bo to do it?”

“Only if you want Palpatine dead and a whole new war on our hands.”

Obi-Wan would love for Palpatine to be dead, but they had neither enough proof nor enough knowledge of any plans he might have beyond the now defunct chips to kill him now. “Fine.”

Satine pats his arm. “I promise I won’t fall in love, dearest.”

Obi-Wan gives her a hooded look. “Oh, you’re so droll.”

“Getting back to the point,” Anakin says, snippy since it is, in all fairness, his padawan facing death row, “is there anything I’m missing? Anything that might interfere with this whole thing?”

Without a word, Rex points to Padme. He’s sitting on the far end of Obi-Wan’s couch, while Padme is perched on the arm next to Obi-Wan. At his accusatory point, Padme frowns and hunches lower on the couch. “I thought you were on my side,” she says.

Rex leans back and shuts his eyes, letting his head rest on the cushion behind him. “Anakin’s my general.”

“And I’m his wife .”

“And?”

“Padme.” Anakin sets his chin in his hand. “What happened?” Unlike Obi-Wan, he never asks Padme what she did. No, of course he doesn’t. That would require Padme to be at fault , and Anakin, in love as he is, operates under the assumption that the world is something that happens to Padme, even when it is, in fact, the reverse.

“You heard, didn’t you? About the debacle on the Dug homeworld? With that beast?”

Obi-Wan winces. He and Anakin very narrowly escaped being part of the debacle. For a very brief span of time, Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives’ idiocy worked in their favor.

“I couldn’t easily forget it,” Anakin snorts. “Mace still hasn’t shown his face around Obi-Wan. I think he’s scared.”

“As he should be,” says Obi-Wan. “He’s finally kriffed up, and I’m never going to let him live it down.”

Anakin gives him an arch look. “Very Jedi of you.”

“I thought so, thank you.”

“Anyway,” Padme goes on, giving them both a quelling look, “there was a vote put forth in the Senate today, to bring the beast here, to Coruscant.”

Obi-Wan, in the midst of taking a sip of his tea, chokes and almost sprays Padme. “Why ever would they do that?”

“Because they’re idiots,” replies Padme. “We’ve been over this — keep up. Apparently the thing’s got impervious skin. Even to lightsaber blades.”

“As Mace found out,” Obi-Wan says into his teacup. “Painfully.”

“Stop exulting,” Padme admonishes, and before Obi-Wan can finish spluttering over her sheer hypocrisy, she continues. “They want to study it, see if they can synthesize the material that makes up its scales — for new armor, I suppose.”

Obi-Wan stops sipping his tea for a moment, imagining why Palpatine might want the GAR, specifically the clones, outfitted with armor that could resist lightsaber strikes. Then when he accidentally shatters the teacup with the Force and spills tea all over Satine’s skirts, he stops thinking about it.

Moving her own skirts out of the way, Padme says, “Anyway, when the motion hit the floor, I tried to filibuster it with Bail, Riyo, and Mon, since we all possess at least some form of higher intelligence, but Palpatine’s new emergency powers did away with filibusters. So I told Mas Amedda, who was appearing on Palpatine’s behalf, ‘This is the most imbecilic idea you’ve had since our alliance with the Hutts,” and he said, ‘It is not good form to bring up such a dark chapter in this body’s history, Senator Amidala.’”

“Did you also tell him that you were part of the reason that the Hutt families fell apart and left the Republic creditless?” asks Anakin.

“No, I did not. I said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t if you weren’t going to bring that destructive behemoth into our capitol,’ and he said, ‘No one asked for your opinion, Senator,’ so I answered, ‘No one ever does,” and he said, ‘Have you ever wondered why that is?’ and I said, ‘No, I’m always too busy contemplating what spirit of foolishness possessed your mother to reproduce with your father,” and then he said, ‘You’re out of order,” and kicked me out. Sabe voted in my place.”

Anakin purses his lips. “So the vote went through?”

Padme rests her bare feet on Obi-Wan’s thigh, disregarding his personal space as she has done since she was twelve years old, and points toward the front of the living room, which stands open to let in the brisk breeze from outside. Through it and between the buildings is the massive shape of the zillo beast, suspended in a sling and carried by ten heavy gunships. Its shadow passes over the distant Jedi Temple like the omen of a stormcloud. “What do you think?” asks Padme.

Everyone pauses to watch the zillo beast’s progress. Satine clears her throat. “That is… quite large.”

“Yes, it is bigger than I expected,” says Obi-Wan.

“Almost one hundred meters long,” offers Anakin. “According to the report.”

Obi-Wan glances at him. “You read the reports?”

“Well, someone has to. Ever since you became the black sheep, you haven’t bothered.”

Obi-Wan can’t deny that. It is truly freeing to have nothing but negative expectations placed on him. Now if he does anything the slightest bit helpful or Jedi-like, Mace or Yoda or Adi will give him a faintly surprised look and a quiet thank you. “I just let Cody do it. He prefers it.”

Anakin eyes Rex. “Would you read the reports for me?”

Rex tears his gaze from the zillo beast. “Of course. And then I’d put transparisteel in your caff.”

“Ah.”

“It’s not that big,” says Padme, ignoring the conversation going on around her completely. She nudges Obi-Wan with her foot. “Where are they putting it?”

He sighs, picks up her feet, and puts them back on the couch cushion. Maintaining eye contact with him, she moves them back onto his leg, and he gives up. “How would I know?”

“Stars,” says Anakin, “if only you read the reports.”

“If you know so much,” says Obi-Wan, “then you tell her where it is.”

Anakin takes a moment to give Obi-Wan a supercilious look before turning to Padme. “There wasn’t any place big enough in the military R&R district, so from what I hear, they’re dumping it in a warehouse near one of the spaceports.”

“Well, that’s not even close to where Ahsoka’s going to be,” says Padme. She nods, throwing a nervous look toward the zillo beast again. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” echoes Anakin. “Fine.”

# # #

From the balcony of her office — a newer, better office now that she’s brought her news station more money and acclaim than they know what to do with — Tracene Kane tips her head back and watches the zillo beast as it makes its slow journey over the city.

She has the strangest premonition that things are going to go terribly wrong. For most people, this would probably be cause for alarm, but Tracene only feels a warm flicker of anticipation.

A disaster involving the zillo beast will surely make headlines.

And it might even draw her favorite trio — Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padme — out of the woodwork and into the limelight once again.

She drums her fingers on the balcony railing. She’s going to make the front page again. She’s sure of it.

# # #

Satine has done many things she never expected to do since joining Operation Fountain — espionage among them — but she can’t say she ever expected to find herself in Palpatine’s high rise office late in the evening, wearing her loveliest red gown. Obi-Wan objected to it, on the grounds that it was his favorite gown and the one she’d been wearing when he inadvisably proposed, but as Padme had pointed out, wearing a dress like that was rather the point.

Not that it was going to make much difference if Palpatine’s complete disinterest in romance of any kind was to be believed.

And, as Satine slipped into his office on the pretense of discussing the Trade Federation’s latest blockade of Mandalore (not that it mattered, what with Zygerria and Tatooine smuggling goods through the blockade as easy as breathing) and proceeded to perch on his desk with her hands clasped over her knees in a beguiling posture, she believed it. The shriveled old man leaned away from her so suddenly that he almost tipped his chair over backward. If it was possible, he turned even whiter.

“duch*ess Satine?” he ventures after a truly uncomfortable silence that Satine silently reveled in. “You said you wanted to speak to me about the blockade before I left for the trial?”

Satine leans closer to him, bracing her hands on either side of her and smiling in a way that shows off her red painted lips. “Oh, I was lying about that. I just wanted to see you .”

Palpatine is well on his way to crossing the border between pale and ashen. “Oh?” His voice is little more than a croak. His watery blue eyes flick down to her chest for the briefest of seconds before jerking back to her face. It takes all Satine has not to cackle. She’s hardly even afraid any longer. Her neckline isn’t anything approaching low cut, yet the Sith Lord who is playing both the Confederacy and the Republic for puppets is coming undone at the slightest hint that she might be a woman underneath all her layers.

Briefly, she wonders if it would be possible to get Palpatine to confess to all his crimes if they just found a woman willing to romance him long enough to send him into a nervous breakdown.

“My lady…” Palpatine clears his throat. “Could you tell me why you wish to see me?”

“Satine, please.” Satine wiggles herself closer to the edge of the desk and rests the tips of her slippered feet on Palpatine’s knees. He eyes the silver toes of her slippers as they peek out from beneath the hem of her gown like they’re scorpions threatening to sting him. “Stars, I’ve been aching to see you. Hold you. Kiss you…” Bracing herself, Satine leans forward.

Palpatine leaps to his feet with such speed that he trips over the hem of his own robe and very nearly falls down. “My lady!” he says, and then appears to not be able to come up with anything else to say. “My lady, ” he repeats, a little helplessly.

Cramming down a laugh, Satine conjures up a hurt look. “You don’t… You don’t feel the same way?”

“Not remotely .”

Oh, well this is a perfect set up for a scene. Satine excels at scenes . When she was small, she and Bo-Katan constantly scandalized their father with their tantrums. Satine was always the best at getting what she wanted. “How could you say that?” She lets her voice rise to an octave usually only reached by a yowling tooka. Palpatine cringes. “After all I’ve done for, after all my waiting, after I fought Padme Amidala in the Senate for you!”

Palpatine falters. “After you… What?”

“Oh, don’t pretend!” Satine pulls injured tears out of her bag of tricks and lets them brim over the edges of her eyes. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love her once! Don’t pretend she didn’t break your heart with Obi-Wan Kenobi! Don’t pretend, Sheev — not to me !”

It is then that Palpatine goes truly gray in the face, but he’s looking at something behind her. Spine tingling, Satine breaks off in her tirade and twists around.

In the doorway of the office are Tracene Kane, her cameraman, and Palpatine’s latest secretary. They’re all staring at her and Palpatine: the secretary with her mouth open, Tracene with the expression of someone who just realized Life Day came early, and the cameraman with the eye of his holocorder.

Satine purses her lips and regards them. “Hello,” she says. “Can I help you?”

There’s a whir as the holocorder turns on and starts capturing the moment. Palpatine turns even grayer, and really, Satine thinks he’s overreacting to the entire thing. One would think she’d performed some kind of dissection on his office table and started passing him organs with how he’s acting.

“No,” says Trace, grinning. “I don’t think you could help me more if you handed me your title on a silver platter.”

“Well, I’m not likely to do that.”

Palpatine finds his voice again. “It’s not what it looks like,” he manages faintly.

Satine rounds on him. “It’s not what it looks like?” She asks it in a low, dangerous voice. Anyone else — Obi-Wan, Anakin, her ministers, even Bo-Katan — would have known to roll over and show their belly at that tone, or at the very least ante up with some bared teeth of their own, but Palpatine apparently doesn’t possess that kind of practical intelligence.

He’s probably an only child.

“Of course it isn’t,” he says scathingly. “I hardly even know you, woman, and I couldn’t be less interested in —”

Before he can finish, Satine does what she has been longing to do for too many years to count. She hauls off and slaps him as hard as she can, thanking the Light that she’s not a citizen of the Republic and thus cannot be prosecuted in the same way.

As Palpatine reels sideways, his Red Guard rushes in, clad in red. Tracene howls for her cameraman to keep recording, the secretary tries to deescalate the situation, and Satine grabs the nearest guard and bursts into a sobbing story about how Palpatine had led her on and played her for the fool. “He only wanted me for my body,” she cries into the guard’s shoulder. He, nonplussed, freezes. By the time she gets to the part where Palpatine dismissed her advances and humiliated her in front of Tracene, he pats her awkwardly on the shoulder and, judging by the movement of his neck in the corner of her eye, shoots a cutting look in Palpatine’s direction.

The commotion that follows that is so loud, so all-encompassing, and so full of Tracene’s disbelieving and overjoyed commentary, that none of them hear the sirens or see the flashing red and blue lights of the GAR gunships rushing toward the Senate building until the zillo beast sets foot in the plaza outside the Senate dome, shaking the ground and sending cracks spiderwebbing across the paving stones.

Everyone in the office freezes once again. Palpatine stares at the zillo beast, a huge sinuous thing with glowing green eyes and the expression of someone with a short fuse who's been pushed far past their limit, and takes a few stumbling steps back away from the window.

Satine stares too.

Padme and Anakin were wrong.

All is decidedly not fine.

# # #

Everything had been going so well — flawlessly, in fact. That should have been Ahsoka’s first warning. Anakin usually pulled off his plans, but the final plan was never the same plan as the one he started with. Things always, always went wrong. It was the one predictable thing about being Anakin’s padawan or being in the 501st battalion.

So when Palpatine was indeed late to the trial, prompting the squad of shock troopers assigned to Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives to move them out of the courtroom and back to the cells at the bottom of the military center, and the “insurgents”, led by a disguised and violently delighted Arla Fett, infiltrated the center right on schedule (though infiltrated was a strong word when Fox had actually transmitted all the necessary codes and schematics to them the night before, meaning that, really, they just walked in with slightly more purpose and waving of blasters than the average person) to snatch Ahsoka and the others away from their guards, Ahsoka should have expected things to go suddenly and catastrophically wrong.

Yet somehow when they emerged from the sewers beneath the center and leaped into the waiting speeders as at least half of the Coruscant Guard thundered at their heels, Ahsoka’s limbs still seized up from shock when the zillo beast lifted its titanic head above the low roofs of the buildings that edged the nearby spaceport and roared .

Beside Ahsoka, Arla pulls down her mask long enough to say, “Well, that might present a problem?”

Buckling herself into the speeder with shaking hands, Barriss snaps, “You think ?”

Fives slams his hand down on the console of the speeder. “ Drive! ”

Unfortunately, the worst thing to do to Arla if you want her to do what you ask is order her around, so a vital few minutes tick by as Arla glares at Fives, and Fives, who also doesn’t take well to being ridden roughshod over, glares back. The standoff lasts until the zillo beast steps through the warehouse separating it from the street they were on and until Barriss spits a curse that would have scandalized Luminara, unbuckles her harness, slams Arla’s seat backward, squeezes into the gap she created, and hits the gas so suddenly that the Amavikka agents clinging to the bumper almost tumble backwards as she accelerates into traffic, pursued by speeders crammed with members of the Coruscant Guard.

Ahsoka, who did not have time to buckle herself in, grips her harness with all the strength of adrenaline fueled exhilaration and yells, “Barriss, do you even have your pilot’s license?”

Barriss, face locked in a snarl as she white-knuckles the speeder’s yoke, howls over the wind, “I failed the test five times, so Master Luminara said I had to wait until I was eighteen!”

Arla screams, “ Five times?” at the same time as Fives shouts, “You’re only sixteen !”

“I know!” Grinning madly, Barriss yanks the yoke sideways and sends them careening around a high rise building, close enough that Ahsoka could reach out and trail her hands over its transparisteel sides if she wanted to. “Luckily, I passed the combat piloting section of the course!”

One of the agents on the back of the speeder yells, “The object of the course was to get all your people through it alive, right? Right? ”

Barriss only gives a wild whoop in reply.

The zillo beast roars like he’s competing with her.

Ahsoka throws Barriss a grin. Whatever trouble they might be in, this still beats studying for their senior apprenticeship exams.

# # #

Anakin and Obi-Wan stand next to Mace in the Council Room at the top of the Temple, having been called there — presumably — for Mace to inform them that Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives had escaped and needed to be run down, and watch the catastrophe unfold. Or, more aptly, watch the catastrophe clamber its way across the city, leaving plumes of fire, damaged buildings, and scattered GAR gunships in its wake.

A few minutes ago, the scientist in charge of the zillo beast project pulled up to the Council Room in a speeder and, too frenzied to even bother with a speeder dock like a normal person, hammered on one of the windows until Mace opened it — something that hadn’t been done in probably fifty years or more — to let him in.

“Mace,” ventures Obi-Wan as he follows the zillo beast’s progress across the city. “Why is there a monster on Coruscant?”

Mace slides Obi-Wan a truly frigid scowl. “I don’t want to hear it, Kenobi.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want Jedi Guardians headed up Adi Gallia barging into my apartment in the middle of the night because I missed a few comms.” Adi, who Obi-Wan has learned from painful experience holds a grudge in the same way other people might hold onto their childhood security blanket, has not yet forgiven him for implying that the two of them had a relationship. She has yet to escape the allegations, and Obi-Wan has yet to sleep in peace in the Temple on the rare nights when he ends up in his apartment, rather than in the guest room of Padme’s with Satine. “In every life a little rain must fall.”

“Or, in this case,” says Anakin, “a very large zillo beast must tread.” He leans closer to the window in front of them. “Hey, um… Is it going toward the Senate dome?”

The scientist in charge of the project — a squirrely man who defected from the Techno Union and whose name Obi-Wan has never bothered to learn, mostly because he seemed like the sort of person who pinned bugs to corkboards not because he enjoyed studying them but because he liked watching them squirm as the pin went through their body — wrings his hands. “Yes, that’s what I was trying to tell you! She’s taken a dislike to the Chancellor, and I think —”

“ She? ” says Mace.

“Never mind that,” snaps Anakin. “You’ve let her loose and now she’s…” He trails off, turning a horrified gaze on Obi-Wan. “...Going to destroy the Senate dome.”

“Again,” agrees Mace, but Obi-Wan hardly hears him.

Satine. Satine is in the Senate.

At the top of it, in fact.

With Palpatine.

“You idiot!” Obi-Wan’s vision flares red. By the time it normalizes again, the scientist is down on the floor with a bloody nose, and his fist is throbbing. Anakin grabs him before he can punch him again, while the scientist cringes away. “You had one job, and you kriffed it up!”

“Kenobi!” Mace throws a shocked look at him as he helps the scientist to his feet. “Control yourself!”

“Sorry,” Anakin says in a rush, dragging Obi-Wan behind him. “He’s just — he — he has such a strong friendship with the Chancellor, you know. From my childhood — it… Listen, I’ll handle catching Ahsoka and the others, and Obi-Wan can lead the operation to stop this thing from killing the leader of the free galaxy.” As he speaks, Anakin backs up toward the still open window. “Good? Good. Okay, well, get to it!” He gives Mace a two fingered salute. “Senate dome won’t save itself!”

With that, he backflips out the window and catches hold of a passing speeder, whisking out of sight in a second.

Obi-Wan sighs and unclips his cloak from around his throat, letting it fall to the floor. The last thing he wants is for it to be whipping out behind him when he is — in all likelihood — scaling the curving side of the Senate dome to rescue his wife and his archenemy. “I hate it when he does this.”

Mace squints after Anakin. “I’ve never seen him do this.”

“Try living with him.” Ignoring Mace’s confused look, brought about by his belief that Anakin and Obi-Wan do not, in fact, live together any longer, Obi-Wan grabs the scientist by the scruff of his labcoat, lifts him off his feet, and shakes him — not particularly gently. “Now, listen, you cavefish, you caused this problem, and you’re going to fix it, even if I have to feed you to the kriffing zillo myself.”

“Kenobi.” Though he makes no move to save the scientist, Mace gives Obi-Wan a quelling frown as he follows him toward the open window. “What’s gotten into you? I know for a fact you wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on the Chancellor if he were on fire, so why —”

“Oh, there are more important questions to answer, Mace!” Obi-Wan hauls the scientist to the edge of the window and all but kicks him into the speeder he left there when he crawled inside ten minutes ago. “If you’re truly dying to know, one of my lovers is in the dome!”

Mace pulls to a halt just short of the window. “This is no time for flippancy!”

“No.” Obi-Wan jerks forward and snatches hold of the front of Mace’s tabard, swinging him sideways through the window and into the speeder. “No, it isn’t!”

He can’t believe they’re saving Palpatine. Again .

# # #

For the first time in her life, Satine sees politicians and reporters through Bo-Katan’s eyes and wonders why she didn’t commit treason harder than she originally did. Though, given that she’s currently Mandalore’s prime minister, she seems to be a case of becoming what she hates.

But regardless, Satine understands now. In the past ten minutes that Palpatine, Mas Amedda, Tracene, her cameraman, and all the other high ranking politicians who occupy the topmost floors of the Senate building have spent arguing about the best course of action, Satine and the poor secretary could have legged it to the turbolifts. And they would have, if not for the fact that the politicians, reporter team, and the kriffing leader of the supposedly free galaxy are blocking the door with their egos and ridiculously structured finery.

“ Move ,” Satine snarls at Mas, clinging to the secretary with one hand and grabbing one of Mas’s horns with the other hand and using it as leverage to shove him sideways. “Do none of you hear the sirens? They mean get the kriff out of the building!”

“And be on ground level so we can get crushed by that thing?” Senator Burtoni, the Kaminoan representative, lays a long fingered hand against her chest. “Are you mad ?”

“Livid,” Satine replies and kicks a Banking Clan representative in the shin when he tries to shove her aside. He responds with a truly vile Mandalorian slur. Before Satine can think of a response, the secretary’s knee comes up and meets the representative’s groin — violently. That’s really all the response she needed, so she moves on, still towing the secretary along behind her.

Just as the pair of them reach the office’s main door, something like an earthquake hits the dome and hurls everyone to the floor. Satine’s ears are ringing when she manages to scramble back to her feet, ripping her gown in the process. The lights in the room flicker once and die. Pressed next to her and clutching at her head, the secretary says, “What was that ?”

That’s the moment when the shadow of a huge head, silhouetted by the city lights, moves in front of the huge window of Palpatine’s office, and a glowing green eye the size of a fully grown man peers into the room.

Mouth dry, Satine points. “That.”

“Everybody, get back!” yells a guard, shepherding everyone backwards until they’re crushed by the door with Satine and the secretary. Having at long last regained their sanity, everyone tries the door at once, but with the power out, it’s locked down. It would take considerably more fiddling than they have time for to open it.

“We’re going to die,” whispers Senator Burtoni — very unhelpfully in Satine’s opinion.

With a deafening roar, the zillo beast swats the peak of the dome. The impact is another earthquake. Its clawed hand, the size of a transport ship, tears a gaping hole in the front of Palpatine’s office and through several of the floors above and below. Cool night air and a thicky, musty scent that must be essence of zillo beast reaches Satine’s nose.

Surrounded by the sound of screaming, the zillo beast leans back from the window a bit, turning its head to the side. Looking into the office. Searching. Scanning the faces inside.

Seeking out a particular person.

Suddenly understanding, Satine grabs Palpatine’s arm. “What,” she hisses, “did you do to it?”

Gray from the dim light and probably from fear, Palpatine turns toward her. “What?”

In the split second it takes for Satine to consider the morality of feeding a Sith Lord to a zillo beast to save herself and everyone else, the zillo beast roars again. Something in its eyes and the shape of the snarl it levels at the entire room tells Satine that it operates under a philosophy of guilt by association. “Too late,” she says. Beside her, the secretary has started praying, which Satine feels is an eminently reasonable reaction but one she hopes the woman can maintain on the go. “I have an idea! Everyone, hold hands.”

The sheer proximity of the zillo’s giant maw silences all disagreement. In a second, Senator Burtoni is gripping Satine’s free hand, and everyone else has linked hands back and forth across their huddled group. Palpatine turns to her, and for the first time since she first met him, she thinks she might see the faintest glimmer of respect in his gaze. Apparently, even Sith Lords aren’t immune to the terror a giant, unstoppable beast can evoke.

“What possible plan could you have?” he asks.

Satine takes a deep breath at the same time as the zillo does. Somewhere in the distance, sirens scream. She dearly hopes Obi-Wan is coming for her, or perhaps Anakin or someone from the 501st or 212th. “When it shoves its head in, jump. Jump onto its head and keep climbing. Don’t stop until I say.”

“ What ?” comes the unified response.

But then they’re out of time. The zillo beast lunges. So does Satine.

# # #

In Ahsoka’s two and a half year apprenticeship, Anakin ran through many different scenarios of how things could go wrong or deviate from the standard Jedi padawan to Jedi knight pipeline, but he has to admit, he never thought to add “getting into a fake standoff with his padawan, her best friend, and their clone babysitter”. Nor did he imagine said stand off taking place in a spaceport recently destroyed by a rampaging zillo beast intent on destroying the Senate dome for the second time in as many years.

He did picture having to fake Ahsoka’s death at some point, but he thought it would be due to some diplomatic incident that put her in the sights of a planetary monarch’s contracted assassins. He didn’t expect it to be because she stood accused of espionage — espionage she had literally, not allegedly, done — but in hindsight, that should have been Scenario #1.

So here he is, crouched behind a pile of crates with Fox and a dozen shock troopers, while Ahsoka and Arla pelt the crates with training blaster fire, which can’t actually harm anyone but makes a nice and convincing flash when it hits home.

A smaller crate, about four feet away from Anakin and slightly separated from the main pile, explodes in a shower of plasteel shards that pepper Anakin’s face and ricochet off his armor.

That was decidedly not a shot from a training blaster.

Anakin freezes and exchanges a look with Fox, who is sheltered on the other side of the pile. Using his rudimentary knowledge of Operation Fountain’s sign language, he signs, Oh, that’s not good .

# # #

Ahsoka jerks back behind the disused transport ship she, Barriss, Fives, and Arla and the other fake insurgents are hiding behind, which is conveniently docked near the edge of a shaft leading down into the undercity. “That wasn’t training fire!” She turns accusing eyes on Arla. “Anakin said you —”

Arla flicks her blonde braid over her shoulder. “I don’t deal in training blasters.”

Barriss twists toward her, wide-eyed. “But we could kill them!”

“Oh, now she cares about killing people,” mutters Fives. “But not when she’s driving .”

“You won’t kill anyone if you’ve got good aim,” replies Arla, unconcerned as she lurches out into the open long enough to fire at some of the shock troopers who were gutsy enough to leave the shelter of the crates. They jerk back behind them in a hurry.

Ahsoka and Barriss look at each other. “So,” Ahsoka says, “we’re Jedi, so blasters and us —”

“They’re not trained in them.” Fives jerks their blasters from their hands and gives them their lightsabers. “And I don’t want to see how well the Force helps their aim when they’re under stress.” With a Mando’a battlecry, he spins around the corner and paints a convincing picture of a man who’s willing to kill to get away, even though he doesn’t hit anyone.

Anakin jumps into view and bounces some more shots off his lightsaber, spinning it so they go wide instead of slamming into the transport ship Ahsoka and the others are hiding behind. Since no one else is in view, Ahsoka spares a second to grin at him and give him a thumbs up.

Anakin returns it, but Fox pops up a second later and manages to give her a decided thumbs down.

Ahsoka decides to ignore that. He’s always negative.

She ducks into hiding again and grins at Barriss. “Are you ready to die?”

Barriss gives a careless shrug. “Now is as good a time as any.”

Fives only shakes his head. “I finally understand how Rex feels,” he says. Ahsoka is relatively certain it’s an insult, but she’s not sure how .

There’s not time to mull it over. She has a part to play. Leaping out into the open and dodging through blaster fire with Barriss on her heels, she charges at Anakin with her lightsaber drawn.

# # #

When Fortune joined the shock troopers, he thought he’d mostly deal in drunken disorderlies, petty crimes, corruption cases, and maybe a few actual attacks, if the incident with Cad Bane at the Senate repeated itself. He never imagined he might watch a kriffing tragedy play out in front of him.

From his perch on one of the buildings surrounding the space port, where he was positioned to watch the perimeter in case the fugitives tried to escape the trap Skywalker and his contingent of shock troopers had led them into, Fortune has a bird’s eye view of the moment Tano and Offee burst out from behind the junker ship they were hiding behind and hurl themselves at Skywalker and his shock troopers. Being the only Jedi present, Skywalker leaps to meet them. It’s two against one — unfair even though Skywalker is a fully trained prodigy. His blue lightsaber cracks against Tano’s and Offee’s green blades.

Then Sergeant Fives runs out, twin blasters gripped in his hands. Fortune isn’t sure if he’s out to make a break for it while Skywalker is distracted or if he’s trying to protect the padawans, but it doesn’t matter. Before he reaches Skywalker, Commander Fox spins out into the open and fires on Sergeant Fives’ unguarded flank.

Three shots slam into his side. He stutters to a halt, half turning to direct a shocked look in Fox’s direction. He lifts one of his blasters. Fortune’s heart climbs into his mouth.

Fox shoots him again — four times in the chest. The explosive force of the shots is enough to drive Fives backwards. His boot hits the edge of the undercity shaft. He topples over the edge and falls out of view.

Tano screams something unintelligible as he disappears and spins back around to redouble her attack on Skywalker. She’s sloppy, though. She keeps leaving massive gaps in her guard, keeps making messy strikes that Skywalker easily blocks. The trio of them fight toward the edge of the shaft, coming so close to it that Fortune can hardly breathe.

When Skywalker finally does manage to make it past Tano’s guard, Fortune sees it coming a mile away: a sweeping slash that leaves a blackened mark across her prison jumpsuit. She goes still for a moment, staring at Skywalker, before she tips over the edge and disappears from view.

Offee is a storm after that, but she only last a few minutes before Skywalker is forced to dispatch her as well, kicking her over the edge of the shaft when she goes for his throat in a dying blow.

Once she’s dead, the rest of the insurgents scatter like rats when their nest is kicked. In a second, they’re gone.

And Tano, Offee, and Sergeant Fives are dead.

Down below, Skywalker turns to Fox, shoulders heaving from exertion. Shaking visibly, Fox pulls of his helmet and passes a trembling hand over his face. His lips move as he says something, but Fortune is too far away to make it out. Whatever he says is the last straw for Skywalker, however. Like something heavy dropped on him from above, he folds up and falls to his hands and knees on the pavement.

Fortune is close enough to hear his ragged scream of grief.

# # #

Even over the traffic of the shaft to the undercity, Ahsoka hears Anakin scream, not long after she lands with a muted thump on the cushioned bed of a cargo speeder, which was waiting for her beyond the view of the cameras in the shaft. If anyone checks the footage, they will see her, Barriss, and Fives fall limp and seemingly dead into the abyss and out of view. No one will bother looking for their bodies. There wouldn’t be much left of them once they fell to the lowest level of Coruscant, even if someone did manage to find their hypothetical corpses.

As soon as she hits the cushions lining the bed, she rolls sideways and crams herself next to Fives, which turns out to be a good idea when Barriss makes her landing, with such force that her head covering nearly falls off. Sitting up, she shoves it back into place and says, tipping her head back toward the top of the shaft, “Don’t you think Master Skywalker oversold that scream?”

“I was going to say that.” Ahsoka hauls her close as the speeder cuts right without warning and careens down an exhaust shaft — entirely illegally, but without cameras, there’s no one around to see it. “But I didn’t want to seem mean.”

“Since when?” asks Fives as he unbuttons his jumpsuit to reveal his white undershirt beneath. “I swear Fox singed me. Training blasters, my shebs .”

“I’m fine,” says Barriss, with no small degree of superiority.

“You didn’t get shot .”

“No, I got stabbed with a lightsaber and kicked in the chest, which is considerably worse, but the beskar weave shirts duch*ess Satine gave us did their job.”

“Yeah, for the people who don’t have lekkus trailing off their heads.” Ahsoka sticks the tip of her left lekku in her mouth, sucking on a burn. “I’m just lucky he had the intensity turned down, else I’d be lopsided for the rest of my life.”

“Those don’t grow back?” asks Fives.

She hits him. “We’re not lizards!”

“See, this is what I’m saying about you being mean!”

“Are all of you finished back there?” Kitster, who volunteered — and by volunteered, Ahsoka means Anakin commed him and made him — to be their getaway pilot asks. “Faking your deaths is a serious business. I would know. I’ve done it seven times myself.”

“I thought it was only five times,” says Fives.

“Well, you don’t know about the two other times. Because I take it seriously .” As he finishes speaking, the speeder, now with the retractable top above the bed put back into place, hiding Ahsoka and the others from view, explodes out into the open and arrows toward the spaceport on the far side of the city, where a Nabooian transport, innocuous on the outside, waits, with Padme’s father in the co*ckpit.

Ignoring the burgeoning argument between Fives and Kitster and trying not to be annoyed about how much of Operation Fountain she’s missed, Ahsoka crawls over to the tinted left window of the speeder bed.

Beyond the destroyed spaceport and the undercity shaft, the sinuous shape of the zillo beast is visible, surrounded by gunships with flashing red and blue lights and lit by the flash of weapons fire.

“Um, guys…” Ahsoka presses her palm to the window. “Something’s happened to the Senate. Again.”

Fives crawls over to her. “Oh kriff,” he says.

# # #

The zillo beast is so much bigger up close as Obi-Wan hangs out of the gunship he and Mace traded their mildly stolen speeder for. She never stops moving, thrashing and careening into the Senate dome and destroying more sections of it with every impact. Already it resembles something closer to a tumbled pile of children’s blocks than a dome. He dearly hopes it was evacuated before the zillo got there.

“What’s wrong with her?” he yells to the scientist over the wind and the sound of the zillo roaring. “Is she hurt? Has she gone crazy?” As he speaks, the zillo twists in a circle, her sweeping tail tearing a canyon in the plaza outside the dome. With her front arms, she claws at her back, even as her fifth arm whips about above her shoulders, seeming to be reaching for some place between her shoulder blades.

“I don’t know,” the scientist shouts back, clinging to one of the loops hanging from the gunship ceiling. “There shouldn’t be anything wrong with her!”

“Well, something clearly — oh my stars .” At that moment, the zillo finally turns so that Obi-Wan can see her back. Crouched in a cluster beneath the joint of her fifth arm and blessedly out of her reach is Satine, Palpatine, and what looks to be several other politicians, along with a good chunk of the Red Guard, Tracene Kane and her cameraman, and a very frazzled secretary. “Oh my stars,” Obi-Wan says again, since it is the only thing stopping him from hyperventilating at the sight of his wife — who doesn’t have good balance on a good day — on the wildly swaying back of a monster the size of a starliner. Spinning around, he grabs the scientist by the throat and shoves him up against the wall of the ship. Mace makes a half-hearted little jerk to stop him but appears to give up. There’s only so much he can take, apparently. “How do I stop her?” snarls Obi-Wan. “Can she be killed?”

“No,” gabbles the scientist. “No, we’ve never found a way to kill her, but —”

“But you got her into the city somehow! How? Tell me, right now!”

The scientist gasps for breath like a beached fish. “A sedative — we sedated her!”

“Do you have any now ?”

“No, she…” He swallows. “She destroyed all of it. She remembered, she didn’t… she didn’t want us to do it again.”

“You see,” says Mace, “this is why I said to leave her on Malastare .”

“Oh yes, Mace,” snaps Obi-Wan over his shoulder, “because that is the perfect solution. Who’s on Malastare? Oh, only Dugs! Well, that’s fine, no one cares if they die. So long as the pretty monster lives! And now look where we are! The duch*ess of Mandalore might die on our soil, and do you really think her sister is going to have a reasonable reaction to that?”

As Mace digests this — and looks like a man who bit into a bad piece of meat — Obi-Wan drops the scientist, who slides to the floor, coughing.

He has one idea.

It is not a good one.

It’s more of an Aankin plan, if he’s being honest.

Grabbing Mace’s arm and dragging him to the edge of the gunship, he says, “Get ready to catch people.”

“Get ready to what ?”

“You heard me!” Shoving off the edge of the ship, Obi-Wan launches himself toward the zillo beast.

# # #

Satine can’t bring herself to be surprised when her husband lands on the zillo’s back. Nor can she be surprised when Obi-Wan loses his balance and slides down the zillo’s spine. And when the zillo screams and spins around, snatching for him with her fifth arm, Satine decides that she cannot and will not stand for this.

Shoving through the senators and members of the Red Guard, she squirms as close to the zillo’s shoulder joint as she can. There’s a gap between the plates of her armor, too small for the gunships to reach and too specific for the heat of battle. But for right now? It’s the perfect side.

With a yell, she jams her fist between the two scales and punches the soft flesh beyond as hard as she can, digging her fingernails in for good measure.

The zillo howls, loud enough to seem to shake the world. She thrashes and almost knocks all of them off, but she forgets about Obi-Wan entirely as he scales the lines of her spine, using the great plates of her armor as handholds. By the time she calms enough to remember that there’s a new interloper on her back, he’s already out of her reach, clambering onto the space beneath her shoulder joint.

“Hello, lover,” says Satine, mostly to confuse people. If she’s going to die, she’s going to do it as she lived.

With great pettiness.

Panting, Obi-Wan acknowledges her with a sign no one else will understand or notice and gets to his feet, spreading his arms for balance. “Hello, there,” he manages, wobbling only a little when the zillo howls in frustration and slams both front feet down on part of the Senate, collapsing the central atrium entirely. “I’m here to rescue you. Please trust me and don’t struggle.” With that encouraging request, he reaches out his hand to Satine. “You first, my lady.”

Satine eyes his hand first and then his face, wondering if he actually thinks she’s going to flee to safety and leave him here. “No.” Twisting, she grabs the secretary and pushes her toward Obi-Wan. “Her, first.”

Obi-Wan stares at her for a long moment — longer, in truth, than one should generally stare at someone when balanced precariously on the back of an enraged zillo beast. Then he says, through gritted teeth, “Whatever pleases Your Grace.” His tone tells Satine that, should they survive tonight, he will get back at her for this in a variety of passive aggressive ways. He takes the secretary’s hand — and it’s a testament to the danger of the situation that she doesn’t even seem worried about being in such close proximity to the whor* of the Core — and leans close enough to her to say, “Don’t be frightened,” before he uses the Force to hurl her across the gap between the zillo and the ring of gunships surrounding her.

Judging by her wild screaming, the secretary didn’t listen to him, but even with her flailing for any handhold in the air, some Jedi — Mace Windu, Satine thinks, but it’s hard to tell from a distance — catches her with the Force and lifts her aboard a gunship.

Obi-Wan turns to Satine and the others with an easy smile that is somewhat spoiled by the zillo bucking and almost throwing all of her back and onto the plaza far, far below. “Who’s next?” he asks when they regain their footing.

Everyone except Satine stares at him in wide eyed, shellshocked horror.

In response, Obi-Wan extends a hand toward Palpatine. “Chancellor?”

Palpatine, far from a stupid man, doesn’t move toward Obi-Wan, but his Red Guard, clearly eager to have their charge off the back of a rampaging monster who wishes to see him dead, shoves him forward. He stumbles into Obi-Wan, and as Obi-Wan catches him, he hisses, low enough that only Satine overhears, “What’s your game , Jedi? Who do you serve?”

Obi-Wan gives him a blank look. “I serve the Republic, Chancellor,” he says. “Now will you jump for me?”

Palpatine plants his feet. “No. No, I don’t think I will.”

Satine weighs the likelihood that Obi-Wan will murder Palpatine by letting him fall. It doesn’t seem very likely, but even if he does, he’s the one who will have to give an account to the Light for it in the next life. She’s just operating under the information she has. With that in mind, Satine cries, “I won’t let you die here, just to save me!”

Then she kicks Palpatine squarely in the back and sends him toppling off the zillo. Obi-Wan catches him and hurls him — not gently — into Mace’s arms.

From there, it’s easy.

Well, easy isn’t really the right word to describe it. Easy didn’t tend to involve zillo beasts, destroyed senates, a path of destruction cut through a capitol city, or even a cameraman who was still, inexplicably, recording.

But it certainly wasn’t hard — or at least not as hard as the paving stones of the plaza would be if they fell.

Obi-Wan manages to throw everyone to safety without any incidents beyond the hundred times they all almost die, but when he reaches Tracene Kane, the last person left except for Satine, he hesitates.

Tracene stares at him with an open mouth. “ Really? ” she says. “Really? You’re going to let me die because of a few articles?”

“Three hundred,” says Obi-Wan. “Three hundred articles.”

Tracene, who has no survival instinct that Satine can see, smiles with all her teeth. “It’s about to be three hundred and one.”

“Goodbye,” Obi-Wan says, before grabbing her by her jacket and chucking her out into thin air.

Mace catches her, which is a good thing. A very good thing, because she’s an irreplaceable life and a creation of the Light.

If only she didn’t write so kriffing much.

“Your turn,” says Obi-Wan, catching up Satine’s hand.

“No.” She digs her heels in. “You’ve got a plan. Whatever you’re going to do, I’m doing it with you.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, like he’s going to argue, but then the zillo takes a jostling leap forward, crashing through several floors of the Senate and ending up crouched in the sorry remnants of the basem*nt level, with her head arching up through the open air that used to be the ballroom, where galas are held. Or were held.

“Fine,” Obi-Wan says. “But if we die, the only thing people are going to remember about us is whatever Tracene writes in her next article.”

“That was always going to be true.”

“Better not die then.” Gripping her hand, Obi-Wan takes off at a run up the curving slope of the zillo’s spine, using the Force to keep his balance and prevent the zillo from using her fifth arm the knock them off her body.

# # #

Mace thought he’d seen it all when Satine Kryze, duch*ess of Mandalore, whose planet had a tenuous relationship with the Republic on the best days (the worst being the day she fought Padme in the Senate and Mandalore almost went to war with Naboo), kicked Palpatine off the zillo’s back, but he changed his mind when he watched Obi-Wan and Satine, hand in hand, duck out from beneath the shelter of the fifth arm’s shoulder joint and sprint up the zillo’s neck while she had her head bowed to crush what looked like the fallen and shattered remnants of Palpatine’s high rise office in her jaws.

“What the kriff are they doing ?” He leans out of the gunship. Tano and Offee have already escaped; he does not want to explain to Yoda how he indirectly got his great-grandpadawan, embarrassment to the Order that he is, killed.

More than that, he doesn’t want to explain to Bo-Katan how her little sister died on Republic soil.

“Attempting to get eaten,” offers Senator Burtoni from her crouched position in the corner of the gunship farther from the door. “We should leave them to their fate. That thing could come for us at any second!”

Mace ignores her. It’s a long habit of the Jedi Order.

As he watches, Obi-Wan and Satine manage to crawl up the topmost curve of the zillo’s skull and wedge themselves against her eye ridge. She roars in fury, twisting and writhing amidst the wreckage of the Senate, but she can’t see them, and with her armored plating, Mace doubts she can feel them that well either.

High up as he is, Mace only just manages to make out the white shape of Obi-Wan's splayed hand as he lays it on the zillo’s slitted eye.

When the rippling shout of Sleep! hits him through the Force, it hits him what Obi-Wan is trying to do. Gripping the side of the gunship as he leans out into open air, Mace yells, “You are not Skywalker, you fool!”

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. As if summoned by his words, Skywalker appears, leaping from gunship to gunship as though they’re stepping stones in a river and swan diving toward the zillo beast.

# # #

Anakin lands next to Obi-Wan, who is crouched over Satine as he presses a hand against the zillo’s eye. The Force is full of his shouted command, demanding the zillo sleep. To his credit, she is swaying a little.

Laying himself flat across the zillo’s snout and throwing up a shield in the Force to stop her from clawing him off, Anakin shouts, “This is a stupid plan!”

“Really?” Obi-Wan isn’t even looking at him. Sweat stands out on his face as he concentrates. “I just thought to myself, ‘What would Anakin do?’”

“Now is not the time!” yells Satine, as if she never got into a fistfight with Padme during a Senate session.

Still, she has a point, even if it is a hypocritical one.

Anakin presses his forehead against the zillo beast’s armored skin and presses his own command through her skull, letting it seep into the twisting convolutions of her very old brain.

The zillo does not respond well to commands. Her roar is the whole world, and even with the Force, Anakin is very nearly thrown through the air.

It’s time for a different tactic.

If you sleep, he offers, I’ll make sure you go to a nice quiet planet with lots of food. No Dugs, no Jedi, no politicians.

The zillo beast pauses for a moment. Anakin takes this chance to draw in a much needed breath. After a second, she says, in a booming voice like thunder, Red-robe-man-bad.

Anakin can only assume she means Palpatine. Thanks, I know.

Very-bad. Stupid-evil-bad. Poke-sharp-things-into-me. Make-dark-plans-that-make-zillo-prey-go-away.

I’m sure.

Zillo-eat-for-you?

Anakin spares a moment to be touched. No, sorry. We still need him . The chips might be offline, but there’s no telling if that’s Palpatine’s only plan. Besides, he has the Republic and the Separatists so tightly twisted up in their own puppet strings that him simply dying won’t be enough to untangle it. He needs to be exposed — by his own words, preferably. Having the leader of the free galaxy eaten by a zillo beast won’t lead to peace and it certainly won’t stop Dooku from taking advantage of the power vacuum and taking over the Republic in Palpatine’s stead, or at least giving it a very bad day for a very long time.

Stupid-Jedi-also-make-stupid-plans?

Sort of, I guess. Sleep? Please?

The zillo considers this. Not-even-very-small-bite-of-bad-man?

No.

Jedi-no-fun. The zillo seems to think things over some more. No-more-bad-men-with-poking-things-and-poison? No-take-zillo-scales?

No more.

Fine. Zillo-sleep-now. Dream-stupid-Jedi-dreams.

I like you too, Anakin manages, before the zillo beast turns around twice and curls up in the ruins of the Senate like a tooka curling up on a blanket.

Rolling over onto his back, Anakin draws in another breath. “Well,” he says, staring up at the sky, studded by stars, gunships, and emergency aircraft alike. “That was easy.”

Satine answers with a wordless groan, and Obi-Wan says, “You were only here for the last five minutes!”

“The most important five minutes, clearly.” As the gunships begin to descend, Anakin quickly adds, “I killed Ahsoka, Barriss, and Fives, by the way.”

“Oh, good.”

“Don’t know how Luminara will react.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Very Jedi about it. You know here.”

# # #

After an endless debrief with the Jedi Council and the GAR oversight committee from the Senate, during which Anakin played the part of the grieving master, Obi-Wan found the time to duck out to answer Ahsoka’s comm telling them she was safe on Naboo, Mace almost came to blows with Mas Amedda about the fate of the zillo beast, Obi-Wan found time to duck out a second time to answer Barriss’s comm telling them they’d reached Naboo and explaining that she didn’t trust Ahsoka to remember to call, Padme got the chance to tell everyone assembled exactly what she thought about the Senate recklessly endangering the capitol and experimenting on a sentient being, and Obi-Wan ducked out a third time — bristling under the judgmental stares of the Jedi Council — to answer a comm from Fives, who apparently didn’t believe either Ahsoka or Barriss would be responsible enough to check in, Padme is finally able to crawl into bed next to Anakin, ignoring him when he grumbles about her not having any right to be tired after she got to sit out the entire debacle in a Senate bunker. She’s asleep in a moment.

Despite Anakin’s assertions, she truly is exhausted. Exhausted enough that it takes Anakin’s muffled yell and a knee slamming into her shoulder to rouse her from sleep.

As soon as her eyes open, she is greeted with the blurry image of Luminara Unduli kneeling on top of Anakin and doing her very best to choke the life out of him with her bare hands. Anakin lurches upward. She hangs on. The result of meeting of an unstoppable force and immovable object is both of them rolling off the bed and landing on the floor. Anakin manages to wriggle free and lunges for his lightsaber on the bedside table, but Luminara throws up a hand.

Anakin goes flying through the air as though struck by a giant hand, crashes through the bedroom door, and skids down the hall into the living room. Luminara pelts after him, and seconds after that, there’s the sound of a fight in the living room, combined with the sound of Obi-Wan and Satine yelling as they presumably ran out of their bedroom to try to stop Luminara.

Huddled on her bed, Padme spares exactly three seconds to convince herself she isn’t dreaming. Then she leaps out of bed and sprints down the hall into the living room. Luminara has her lightsaber, and so do Obi-Wan and Anakin, but they both seem reluctant to attack — probably because they’re remembering they just faked her padawan’s death and assumed she’d react calmly — which gives Luminara the opportunity to leap forward and take a wild swipe at Anakin’s head. He dodges, but her blade catches a hand of his hair, burning it off in an instant.

That’s when Padme decides she’s had enough.

Everything going very cool and remote, she marches to the kitchenette attached to the living room, rips a frying pan out of the cabinet above the induction stovetop, creeps up behind Luminara as she stalks closer to Anakin and Obi-Wan, heft the frying pan, and hits her across the head with it as hard as she can.

The clang echoes through the room. Luminara goes down like a sack of potatoes, leaving Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Satine staring at her. Slowly, they lift their gaze to Padme, who brandishes her frying pan. She does not feel the least bit sorry. “Well, someone had to handle it,” she snaps. “None of you were!”

“I see.” Obi-Wan eyes Luminara again. “So when I want fried eggs in the morning, you have no idea where a frying pan is, or if you even have one. But the second your husband is the one in need, suddenly you can find your frying pans half asleep in the dark?”

Padme stares at him. In a sudden jerk, she moves toward him, lifting the frying pan. Obi-Wan, long used to her, does not flinch, but Satine gives Padme a wild-eyed stare that dares her to do it and condemn herself to a rematch of their Senate fight.

Since Padme likes her nose intact and in its current shape, she relents.

In the silence that follows, all of them look at Luminara again. At length, Obi-Wan says, “I told you to check for tails, Anakin!”

Anakin gives him the aggrieved look of someone who knows they’re being blamed simply because they’re in proximity to the blamer. “I did .”

“Not well enough, clearly.”

“What are we going to do with her?” asks Satine.

Padme opens her mouth, but Obi-Wan silences her with a look. “We’re not killing her,” he says.

Padme glares. “I wasn’t going to suggest that. Stars, I’m not a monster. But we can’t very well let her go, can we? She knows about me and Anakin now, and you and Satine. If Palpatine or the Council get wind…” There’s no need to finish that sentence.

Anakin studies Luminara for another few seconds. “Satine,” he says, “how big is the cargo compartment of your speeder?”

# # #

Tyro has been a doorman at 500 Republica for almost twenty years now. He was a newbie still when then Senator Palpatine put forth a motion to have all the doormen of official Senate residences sign a confidentiality agreement that swore them to absolute secrecy regarding anything that happened within the walls of those residences — be it bribery, adultery, murder, or even treason. None of those things were mentioned explicitly in the written motion itself, of course. Palpatine couched it all very nicely, talking about how senators needed a place safe from prying eyes, from reporters, and from judgment. State secrets, he said, needed to be as safe within the walls of a senator’s home as they would be within the Senate.

The motion was passed and the nondisclosure agreements drawn up, declaring that doormen couldn’t speak of or be asked to testify about anything they witnessed or heard about or were told within senatorial residences. Not even the Chancellor could force them to speak. The agreement had a very specific clause about that, leading Tyro to conclude three things. One: As a senator, Palpatine was doing something he didn’t want former Chancellor Valorum to know about. Two: Due to a comedic twist of fate, Palpatine has left himself entirely in the dark about what happened behind the closed doors of 500 Republica and places like it. Three: Given that nothing about the confidentiality agreement had been changed or disputed, Palpatine has forgotten about it entirely.

Most of the time, Tyro doubts it causes him any real problems, but tonight, as he watches Senator Amidala, General Skywalker, General Kenobi, and duch*ess Satine all work together to haul an unconscious Luminara Unduli through the lobby toward a speeder waiting beneath awning outside, which is sheltered from cameras, he thinks it might be causing Palpatine a few .

However, Palpatine’s problems are not Tyro’s problems. They are, in fact, a source of his continual amusem*nt, especially since he has known about Senator Amidala and General Skywalker’s marriage since General Skywalker’s first night with her. More than that, he has known about the strange, familial trio Senator Amidala, General Skywalker, and Genera Kenobi form since Senator Amidala’s first day as senator. He also knows that they’re conspiring in secret, possibly against the Chancellor. If it were any other trio of people, Tyro would be bothered, but as it is, he likes Senator Amidala well enough that he’d support any coup she started.

Besides, General Unduli is clearly still breathing, which means no one’s murdered anyone.

“Hello, Tyro,” says Senator Amidala as she hobbles past, gripping one of General Unduli’s legs while duch*ess Satine grips the other. “How are you? How’s the family?”

Tyro dips his head in greeting. “Fine, ma’am. And they’re doing well — Ginny had her recital, you know. Did well, got a standing ovation and everything.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so — Obi-Wan Kenobi, why have you put your end down?”

General Kenobi had indeed dropped General Unduli’s left arm, leaving General Skywalker to carry the full weight of the upper part of her body, and now he lies down on the floor, throwing an arm across his face. “I’ve pulled my back out,” he says in a muffled voice. “Go on without me.”

Senator Amidala gives him a withering look. “You’ve pulled your back out,” she says, “lifting a five foot three Jedi woman with three other people helping you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you know…” duch*ess Satine gently lowers the leg she was holding and steps away, joining General Kenobi on the floor. “I have this thing on my shoulder — an old injury from the war — and it cramps up, and I…” She lies back. “I’m afraid I can’t help anymore either.”

Sighing resignedly, General Skywalker shifts his grip, slipping his hands beneath General Unduli’s armpits. Scowling at both General Kenobi and duch*ess Satine, Senator Amidala hooks her arms around General Unduli’s ankles and says, scathingly, “You’re both pathetic.”

“I can’t wait until you see the other side of thirty-five,” says General Kenobi as the pair begin to hobble towards the lobby doors. “Truly.”

Ignoring him, General Skywalker says, “So where are we leaving her? Your mother’s?”

Senator Amidala snorts. “Absolutely not. You already left your padawan, your padawan’s best friend, and your most talkative clone with her and Père. We’re leaving her with your mother.”

“Hah, that’s funny,” says General Skywalker as they push their way through the front doors. He uses the Force to open the speeder trunk, and the two of them manage to lever General Unduli inside it. As he slams the trunk shut, he asks, “So what option doesn’t end in a war between Tatooine and the Jedi?”

Senator Amidala sighs and considers a moment. “Breha?” she offers at length.

“Breha,” agrees General Skywalker.

Back inside, duch*ess Satine suddenly tilts her head toward General Kenobi. “Is this a bad time to tell you I’m pregnant?”

General Kenobi presses both hands against his face. His only answer is a wordless groan.

This is another one of those situations — one of many Tyro has faced over the years — that he isn’t going to touch with a ten foot pole.

# # #

Yan is in a meeting on Mustafar with the Separatist Parliament when the news about the destruction of the Senate dome comes through. A second after it does, a new Kane article drops. He’s set up notifications for them on his datapad, in a desperate attempt to keep up with Obi-Wan’s exploits, but this one is — for once — not centered on Obi-Wan.

As soon as Yan sees the front page holo — a grainy snap of Palpatine reeling from a truly impressive slap — and the headline, Chancellor or Philanderer: How Sheev Palpatine Might Have Bewitched Two Leaders in One Go, he bursts out laughing. When he reads further and learns that the two leaders in question are Satine Kryze and Padme Amidala and that Palpatine is, according to Satine herself, the reason for the infamous fistfight in the Senate, he slips from his chair and falls to the floor, howling with such wild laughter that the head of the Techno Union leans down to see if he is all right.

# # #

In the private bunker he’s using as his office until the Senate is rebuilt for a second time, Sheev resists the urge to put his head down on his desk and weep tears of rage as he regards Dooku, who is floating above his desk in hologram form. The faint smile playing across Dooku’s lips is enough to make Sheev wish he could Force choke people even if they were on the other side of the galaxy from him.

Clearly holding back laughter, Dooku says, “Let me see if I have this correct. First, you think Obi-Wan is somehow working against you, but then your pet Skywalker’s padawan, a clone, and the padawan of one of the most orthodox Jedi in the Order obliterate your operation on Kamino, even though the Kaminoans say they managed to salvage the chips functionality. You manage to catch all three saboteurs, hoping they’ll lead you to the mastermind, who you still think is Obi-Wan, but then a band of entirely unrelated insurgents — who plastered their manifesto, all about their moral objections to cloning and your emergency powers all over the holonet — swoops in and steals them out from under your nose. Then, as you’re trying to get them back, the zillo beast you thought you could use to help arm the clones against the Jedi when the time came goes on a rampage, aiming at you specifically. Then the man you thought was working against you risks his life to save you and says he lives to serve only the Republic. Then news comes that Skywalker has killed not only Tano but also Offee and the clone as well, meaning you’re never going to get any kind of answers. And then, just when you think nothing else can go wrong, Luminara Unduli disappears without a trace, suggesting that there are indeed Jedi working against, but just not any of the Jedi you previously supposed might be. And you still don’t know who might know what. And, to top it all of, you’re now the obsession of the tabloids. Is that about the sum of it?”

Sheev thinks of several new and interesting ways to kill Dooku when the time comes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I believe in the holopaper business,” says Dooku, with that cursed smile again, “they say ‘no comment’.”

Sheev comes up with a further eight ways he can kill Dooku. “We must move up our plans. The endgame starts now. Gather your forces and besiege the Outer Rim. Stretch the GAR as thinly as possible. Make things impossible. Make things desperate . ” He needs more emergency powers from the Senate if this is going to work. “And above all…”

“Keep Tracene Kane away from you?”

Resolving to dismember Dooku — slowly — Sheev says, “No. Keep Obi-Wan off Coruscant. Exhaust him and Anakin. Demoralize them. Do whatever you can to drive a wedge between them.” By now, Sheev almost feels sorry for Anakin, to have to suffer under such a selfish master. In a way, it’s like Sheev is doing him a favor.

“Whatever game Obi-Wan is playing,” says Sheev, leaning back in his chair, “even if he doesn’t know he’s playing it, he’s going to lose.”

# # #

Luminara wakes up with a throbbing headache. As she peels her eyes open and sits up, cell bars greet her unfocused gaze. Shaking her head, she blinks hard until her vision clears. A figure resolves out of the blur on the other side of the bars.

Breha Organa. Smiling, a bit awkwardly and apologetically. “Hello,” she says. “It’s good to see you awake.”

Rather than respond right away, Luminara looks around the space she’s in. It’s a cell, but a nicely appointed one, with a soft bed, books, a datapad, a makeshift kitchen area, and a separate fresher. She turns back to Breha. “What’s going on?”

Breha’s smile turns more apologetic. “The good news,” she says, “is that Barriss isn’t dead. The bad news is I can’t let you out of here until Obi-Wan, Anakin, Padme, and my husband bring down Chancellor Palpatine.”

Chapter 13: The Honeymoon Op

Chapter Text

The Honeymoon Op

“All right.” Yan presses two fingers against his temple, leaning into them. “Let me ensure I have this correct.”

In hologram form, Palpatine gives him a hooded look, not at all concealed by his heavy cowl. “I was eminently clear, apprentice.”

As amusing as it would be to contradict Palpatine — and relatively safe, given the light years that currently separate them — and explain to him that his past weeks spent dodging rabid paparazzi eager for all the sordid details of his love triangle with Satine Kryze and Padme Amidala have rendered him vaguely incomprehensible, Yan refrains. “I just want to prevent any miscommunications,” he says in his most diplomatic voice, which does exactly nothing to mitigate Palpatine’s glare. Naturally, it wouldn’t, since his most diplomatic voice is the one he uses when speaking to more primitive peoples, and Palpatine knows it. “I have received word that someone in my inner circle is set to defect to the Republic, and instead of eliminating this traitor, you want me to let things play out, just so you have an excuse to remove Skywalker, Kenobi, and Amidala from your presence for a time.” And, Yan adds privately, so you have a chance to further interfere with their love lives and torment Skywalker with what will never be. As the war has progressed and Palpatine’s obsession with the Kenobi-Skywalker-Amidala trio has grown, Yan hasn’t been able to help wondering if his master’s focus has come to center less on galactic domination and more on simply beating Kenobi.

Given that bringing order to the galaxy hinges on Palpatine’s power and planning, it’s not a comforting thought, though it is an entertaining one.

“Yes,” Palpatine answers.

Yan sighs. “I live to do your bidding, Master.”

# # #

Locked in one of the Temple’s situation rooms with a few other Council members, Mace stares at Tholme, mouth hanging open. “No,” he says. “No. There simply has to be a better plan.”

“Yes,” agrees Ki-Adi. “This… This is not wise.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Plo. “I think it could go quite well.”

“Nobody asked you, Plo,” says Mace through his teeth. He shakes his head. “I don’t care what intel you received, Tholme. I’m not sending the whor* of the Core — Kenobi, I’m not sending Kenobi — on an undercover mission.”

“Skywalker would be with him.” On the other side of the communications hub, Tholme folds his arms. “You cannot deny their record. It’s impressive. In terms of sheer miracles pulled off, can any other Jedi compare? The pair might have an unfortunate…habitual proximity to disaster, but they do manage to mitigate even the worst of disasters. Even —” here Tholme grimaces, no doubt thinking of the skeletal Senate dome, in the process of being rebuilt for the second time “— the incident with the zillo beast.”

“In terms of sheer embarrassment,” says Adi acidly, “can anyone else compare?”

There’s a long silence.

“There’s another problem,” Tholme says after a minute. “The mission needs someone accomplished in both subterfuge and possessing a deep understanding of Separatist politics — to help Obi-Wan and Anakin blend in. And the person who works best with them and is, by virtue of her past, exceptional at concealing her true intentions is…”

Horror clamps down on Mace’s throat. “No.” He shakes his head. “Please tell me you’re not talking about who I think you’re talking about.”

“Senator Amidala may be volatile,” says Plo, playing the devil’s advocate as usual, “but her record speaks for itself.”

Her record incidentally includes not one but two instances of the Senate dome collapsing — not to mention an entire droid factory on Geonosis getting blown up.

“And,” Plo goes on, “you cannot argue that Anakin and Obi-Wan are supremely dedicated to the Republic and the Order, especially after what transpired with the zillo beast and Anakin’s apprentice.”

At this, Mace side-eyes Plo. Everyone had expected him, of all people, to have an extreme reaction to Ahsoka Tano’s untimely death, but the person who had reacted emotionally was instead Luminara, which shocked everyone. Even in the face of that, Mace can’t help but regard Plo’s placidity with suspicion.

Kenobi has ruined him, wholly and entirely.

But unfortunately, he can’t argue his points. Whatever embarrassment Kenobi has brought the Jedi Order and whatever code breaking he engages in (still painfully unprovable), he is a good general, and he and Skywalker are perhaps the only pair of Jedi crazy enough to go on an undercover mission in deep Separatist space to help the defector Tholme has gotten word of escape. Senator Amidala, wreathed in scandal as she is, is certainly the only senator unbalanced enough to agree to such a plan.

And, even more unfortunately, the trio’s record only improves when they are put together. How, given the truly twisted interpersonal dynamics they must have, Mace has no idea. Skywalker must somehow be a stabilizing influence. It’s the only explanation he can think of.

“Regardless,” Mace says, turning away from Plo, “the three of them would need supervision. Besides, the plan you’ve proposed, Tholme, requires a fourth member. Who would that be?”

Tholme’s eyes track over to Adi, who freezes beneath the weight of his gaze. As Mace, Plo, and Ki-Adi also pivot to face her, she glares at them.

“No,” she says, taking a few steps away from the communications hub. “I refuse. I categorically refuse to be a part of this.”

Looking infinitely amused, Plo says, “You could perhaps attain revenge on Obi-Wan for the rumors he started about you by uncovering proof that he is indeed breaking the code.”

Adi pauses, tipping her head to one side and narrowing her eyes. Then, she says, “I’ll consider it.”

Sometimes, Mace truly has no idea whose side Plo is on, but he’s beginning to think he’s on the side of his own entertainment alone.

“One more thing,” Tholme says. “The meeting the defector set is at a honeymoon resort on Canto Bight. To blend in, the team would need to play honeymooning couples.”

It’s at the point that Adi lets out an anguished groan and puts her head down on the top of the communications hub.

# # #

“So,” says Mace, in the voice of someone in a great deal of pain, “you, Skywalker, Amidala, and Adi Gallia will go undercover at the resort, meet up with the defector, and extract him. If you get in trouble, Tholme and a band of Shadows will be standing ready for you. All you need to do is comm them. Do you have any questions?”

Obi-Wan, standing in the center of the ring of chairs in the Council Room, has many questions. Namely, why is he one of the only people standing between Palpatine and galactic domination? It’s more trouble than it’s worth. “I…” He sighs, glancing at Anakin. Though the Council won’t see it — partly because they don’t know Anakin well enough and partly because they simply refuse to see anything negative about him, since they decided he was a victim of the blowback of Obi-Wan’s supposed promiscuity — he is practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of being able to be Padme’s husband in public, even if only for an undercover mission.

Which leaves Obi-Wan with exactly one course of action. He cuts his gaze over to Adi, who is sitting to his right. She sees him looking, correctly reads his intentions, and opens her mouth to give a furious protest, half standing.

But it’s too late by then.

“I think Master Gallia and I should work together,” he says with a wide grin. The sheer frigid force of Adi’s outrage is like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head. “We’re so compatible. Wouldn’t you say, dear?”

As Adi stares at him, speechless, Obi-Wan reflects that there might be some fun to be had amidst all this.

# # #

Later that same day, a few hours before the ship scheduled to take him, Anakin, Padme, and Adi to the secondary location where they can board a luxury starliner bound for Canto Bight with all the other honeymooners, Obi-Wan goes to his apartment to pack — or, rather, he goes to Anakin and Padme’s apartment, the guest quarters of which he and Satine have appropriated to the extent that anything useful he has to bring with him on the trip is there, not in his Temple apartment.

The purpose of his Temple apartment at this point is mostly appearances. And, if those appearances are anything to go by, to gather dust.

It’s late enough that Satine is already in the bedroom when he slips inside, curled under the covers with her datapad, reading a book Obi-Wan managed to secretly procure for her from the depths of the Archives. It’s from the High Republic era — a time thousands of years in the Republic’s past, when Jedi were in fact allowed to marry. The name itself is incriminating: What to Expect When You’re Expecting a Jedi’s Baby.

As far as Obi-Wan can tell from his brief perusal of its contents, the advice boils down to, Don’t panic if your unborn baby reads your mind, and, Mild earthquakes during birth are quite normal; seek an earthquake-proof building. Neither is particularly reassuring, but luckily all Coruscanti buildings are built to withstand earthquakes, given the stacked architecture of the city.

“Darling,” he says, pausing at the foot of the bed, “how would you feel if I went on an undercover mission that required me to pretend to be married to someone else?”

Satine doesn’t look up from her datapad. “How long would you be gone?”

“A few days, at most. Assuming nothing goes wrong.”

“I’ll assume something is going to go wrong and budget a week before I send Shmi, Bo, and Arla a hysterical comm.”

“That’s wise.”

“Are you going to have to kiss this person or share a bed with them?”

“Only if the Light forsakes me.”

“Theologically impossible. Who is your soon-to-be fake wife?”

“Adi Gallia.”

At this, Satine finally looks up. Her mouth twitches; she chokes on a laugh. Pressing her lips together, she says, “Well, now my only objection is if you don’t holocord the entire thing so I can watch it to entertain myself when the morning sickness gets bad.”

“Oh, the joys of having a sympathetic wife,” Obi-Wan snorts, trying to find where he stowed his suitcase and the modified comms he and Anakin designed together. “And I can’t; the whole thing’s classified. You’ll have to read it in the official report.”

Satine snorts. “Because that’s not classified.”

Obi-Wan finds his suitcase, remembers nothing he has is honeymoon appropriate, leaves it behind, tucks the comms in his pocket, and kisses Satine on the forehead. “I love you, and I’ll see you soon. I should be home for your next appointment with the midwife.”

“I love you too. Have fun being married to someone else.”

Obi-Wan spares a moment to frown at her before he heads out to meet Anakin, Padme, and Adi at the spaceport.

# # #

The resort at Canto Bight is noisy, bright, and smells of different types of alcohol — many of which should probably never be mixed but, judging by the sheer amount of couples stumbling around the casino within the resort, have been regardless.

Padme cares about exactly none of that, however. All she cares about is the fact that she’s wearing her favorite gown — the backless, sunset colored one — and walking arm and arm with her husband out in public, even if the nanite veils she and Anakin are wearing have transformed their faces. She has been married to him for nearly three years now, but she thinks she’s giddier than any of the newlyweds they keep passing. Judging by the way Anakin keeps nuzzling her neck, he’s just as happy as she is.

Stretching up to kiss his jaw, Padme whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Anakin curls his arm tighter around her waist. “But do you know what I love almost more?’

Padme nods sagely. “Messing with Obi-Wan.”

“Exactly.”

“I feel the same way.”

# # #

Arm in reluctant arm with Adi, whose tholothian heritage is unchanged but whose face is rendered entirely different by her nanite veil, Obi-Wan watches Anakin and Padme try their luck at a roulette table. They’re so close that they might as well be sewed together at the hip. When the dice lands on Padme’s number, she lets out a crow of delight and twists around to kiss Anakin in celebration, while all the other couples around them cheer.

“They’re…” Adi looks a bit like she’s tasting something bitter. Obi-Wan imagines the experience of watching Anakin and Padme be married is rather a different experience when one thinks, like Adi does, that Padme is having an affair with Obi-Wan, has possibly had one with Palpatine, and could likely be having further affairs with an unknown amount of people.

Even when one does not think that, watching the two of them reach clinical levels of star-eyed affection, is not necessarily a pleasant experience.

“Nauseating?” Obi-Wan offers, finishing Adi’s incomplete sentence.

“Deeply so. Are they doing it deliberately?”

Obi-Wan eyes the pair of them, measuring the amount of time they spend staring into each other’s eyes and the frequency of the times Anakin strokes Padme’s curls back from her. They were doing it deliberately before, but this? This is just them being unreasonably obvious about their love, mostly because they don’t know how to be otherwise. “Unfortunately,” he says, “no.”

Adi narrows her eyes at Obi-Wan. “What have you been teaching Anakin?”

Anakin takes a sip of some ungodly drink that’s a virulent green, swirling noxiously around a salt lined cup, grimaces, and immediately spits it out. Obi-Wan sighs. “Not how to hold his liquor, clearly.”

“I thought you swore off drinking.” Adi’s voice heavily implies that she wouldn’t be surprised if he broke that vow, given his lax behavior toward certain other ones.

Despite the relative truth in that — he is a married Jedi plotting against the Chancellor, after all — Obi-Wan takes offense and lets it show on his face. “And I think Anakin’s utter inability to drink proves that.”

“I just hope it doesn’t blow our cover. We need to last till tomorrow, when the defector and his wife are set to arrive.” Adi sighs and turns back to the roulette table, watching Padme as she perches on the edge of it and whispers something in Anakin’s ear. Given that it’s Padme, it’s either a sweet nothing or a detailed breakdown of the locations of all the exits in the room, combined with a list of any suspicious people and their positions.

Or it could be both.

It’s probably both.

“They’ll be fine,” says Obi-Wan.

Adi has no idea how used to this Anakin and Padme are.

# # #

Anakin may be a Jedi Knight. He may be a full blown general in the GAR. He may be an integral part of a conspiracy against the leader of the supposedly free galaxy. He may be undercover with the goal of extracting a Separatist defector from enemy space. He may have been married for nearly three years.

But he’s still going to carry his wife over the threshold of the suite the Jedi Order — through several dozen shell companies — booked for them.

Once they’re inside, with Padme’s head tucked into his shoulder, Anakin surveys the room with his mouth hanging open. There’s a balcony directly across from the door that takes up almost one whole wall, with a transparent heated pool that has steam rolling off it. The entire suite is carpeted with Pantoran wool, which feels like clouds beneath Anakin’s boots. There’s an artificial fire pit sunk into the floor of the main room, surrounded on all sides by truly luxurious lounges, and another whole wall is taken up by a massive holoscreen with a gilded frame. Adjacent to that wall is a hallway lined with reproductions of fine art that leads into a sprawling bedroom with a bed the size of a small island sunk into the floor and scattered with pillows, furs, and silken sheets. Even the ceiling is a work of art, painted with representations of all the major galactic myths — from the angels the spacers speak of to the great scarlet dragon that’s said to have its den in the mouth of the largest black hole in the galaxy.

As Anakin sets her down, Padme leans forward to peer down the hallway at the bed. “However is a married couple supposed to sleep in that? We’ll lose each other in the night. I’ll wake up stranded on the far side.”

Anakin follows her gaze. “I think it’s a metaphor for how we’re supposed to always find each other, no matter the obstacles in our way.”

“Even if those obstacles are pillows made from Alderaanian silk?”

“Especially then.”

Padme turns on her heel and directs a dazzling smile at him, face flushed. “I love being undercover.”

Anakin cups her face in both hands. “Me too.”

“Do you want to get some of those complimentary His and Hers bathrobes?”

“I really do.”

# # #

Obi-Wan stands next to Adi, frowning at the honeymoon suite that was booked for them. In every way, it screams, “Begin your newly married life with luxury and wonderful memories!” Maybe he’s just been married for too long, but all he would like right now is to curl up next to Satine in their bed — well, in Anakin and Padme’s former guest bed — and mock one of the stunningly inaccurate Senate-sponsored documentaries about the Trade Federation crisis or the Mandalorian civil war.

Instead, he’s with Adi, who is eyeing the bed in the next room like a law enforcement officer might eye a suspected shoplifter. “So.” She clasps her hands in front of her. “Where are you sleeping?”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes at her and almost tells her he’ll be taking the bed, thank you very much, but his better instincts win out. Sighing deeply, he says, gesturing to the truly massive lounge that runs much of the length of the room, “The couch, of course.”

“Are you sure?” Adi straightens out her silver dress — a flounced affair that poofs about her calves and slips off her shoulders — and returns his narrow-eyed look. “I’m sure there’s all manner of women here, regretting their marriages already. Easy pickings for you.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and curses Anakin, Padme, and Versé all in one go. “You know, passive aggression isn’t one of the tenets of the Order.”

“Neither is promiscuity.”

“No, attachment is what’s forbidden. I can be as promiscuous as I like.” He smiles sunnily at her. “It’s a fine little loophole, isn’t it?”

“How does it feel to hinder years of relational progress and reassert gender stereotypes just by existing?”

“I wake up happy and fulfilled every day, thank you for asking..”

At that, Adi spins on her heel and stalks to the bedroom. Left alone in the living room, Obi-Wan raises his eyes to the ceiling and sighs. “I hate being undercover.”

# # #

When Padme, wreathed in a nightgown of blue silk with drooping sleeves formed from strings of pearl, wanders out onto her and Anakin’s balcony to drink in the moonlight and sees Obi-Wan climbing over the railing like some incompetent facsimile of a home invader, she jumps so far that she almost falls into the pool. As he drops onto the balcony floor, she clings to a deck chair and presses a hand to her chest, ashamed of herself for being so startled.

Of all the things that she should be used to by now, Obi-Wan entering her and Anakin’s private quarters by creative means is at the top of the list.

Wearing — with a grudging air — the red silk pajamas the resort provided, Obi-Wan straightens up and gives her a desperate smile. “Adi’s asleep. I am losing the last fragile scraps of my sanity. You and Anakin don’t have any plans, do you?”

Padme just looks at him and shakes her head. “No. No, we really try to leave our evenings open and our balcony doors unlocked. Because of you.”

“That’s so good of you,” Obi-Wan says, forging past her into the living room. “Do you have any food?”

Padme follows him inside. “No, we haven’t ordered anything yet.” They both wander down the hallway to the bedroom, where Anakin, also in the same red pajamas, is sprawled across the bed with a contemplative expression, stroking the fur blanket beneath him.

He barely stirs when Obi-Wan enters. “Hi, Obi-Wan. Escape the old ball and chain — I mean, Adi Gallia?”

Obi-Wan gives him a flat look. “You’re hilarious, truly. Move over. The couches in this place aren’t nearly as comfortable as they look. I’m about to slip a disk..”

Anakin raises an eyebrow, looking past Obi-Wan at Padme. “Do you remember when we had boundaries?”

“No,” Padme says.

“No,” Obi-Wan repeats.

“No,” Anakin agrees.

In another few seconds, all three of them are stretched out on the bed, with Obi-Wan in the middle. Resigning herself to the new course of events, Padme curls up next to Obi-Wan and lays her head on his shoulder, yawning as she listens to him and Anakin argue over thread counts and what animal they think sacrificed its skin for the blanket beneath them.

“You know,” Padme says when the two of them finally fall silent, after reaching an impasse when Obi-Wan was unable to convince Anakin that the fur was from a Hoth wampa, “I’d like to think I imagined Anakin and my honeymoon going differently when we finally did get one, but if I’m being honest, this is exactly how I pictured it.”

“It’s our own fault,” Anakin says. “We should have started excluding him much earlier than we did. It’s all about training.”

“Mm.” Padme props herself up on her elbow. “Do we want to order room service?”

Anakin turns hopeful eyes on her. “Ice cream?”

# # #

When Adi wakes to a silent suite, she’s almost ashamed that her first action is to leap from the bed and run down the hall to the living room, solely to see if Obi-Wan has indeed left the apartment, as the emptiness in the surrounding Force seems to indicate.

She skids to a halt just in front of the couch in the living room. Rumpled blankets on it testify that someone had at least tried to sleep on it, but it is deserted, along with the rest of the apartment. Obi-Wan is nowhere in sight.

Adi looks from the couch to the open balcony doors, mentally calculating the distance between their balcony and Anakin and Padme’s balcony, a single floor above them. It would be a feat of agility for a normal person, probably, but for a Jedi, it was the equivalent of a hop, skip, and a jump.

And Anakin, for all that he could be counted on for other things, could hardly be depended on to block any of Obi-Wan and Padme’s more amorous endeavors. Knowing him, he was more likely to simply make himself scarce. That was the sort of loyalty that Obi-Wan took for granted on a daily basis.

Balling her fists at her sides, Adi stalks across the room and out onto the balcony. Not tonight. Not if she has anything to say about it. If Obi-Wan is stupid enough to blatantly disregard the code and endanger the mission with a Council member along for the ride, then he's asking for this.

Balancing atop the balcony railing, the night wind whipping at her head tails, Adi tips her head back toward the balcony above her, eyeing the distance between her and the lowest part of the railing. Then she jumps, hands extended, and catches hold of it. From there, it’s a rather ungainly scramble until she rolls over the new railing and onto Anakin and Padme’s balcony, nearly falling into their pool — they got a pool? — in the process.

The living room just beyond the balcony is quiet and dim, but light spills down the hallway from the bedroom. Shaking her head and bracing herself for what she might find, Adi strides down the hallway and bursts into the bedroom at the end of it, exclaiming, “Ah-ha!” as she bursts through the doorway.

Then she freezes.

Whatever she expected to see, it wasn’t this.

Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padme are all sprawled side by side on the bed, in a posture that could only be described as platonic. Obi-Wan is at the center of the trio, half engulfed in a mound of pillows and wearing a cosmetic face mask of a truly heinous shade of green.. Anakin is on the right, buried in a fur blanket whose thickness affirms that even after leaving Tatooine so young, he still gets cold easily. Padme is on the left, leaning against Obi-Wan while she demurely rests her hand on a pillow on his lap so that he can finish painting her nails. Judging by the expression on his face, he is not pleased by the endeavor.

All three of them are slowly working their way through massive ice cream sundaes in crystal dishes.

As Adi stutters to a halt, Obi-Wan lifts his gaze from Padme’s nails to Adi’s face, unfurrowing his brow to raise his eyebrows at her. “Yes?” he asks in the sort of voice one uses on particularly dense people. “What are you ah-haing about, Adi?”

“I…” Adi no longer has the faintest idea what she is ah-haing about. “What are you doing?”

Obi-Wan makes a vague, patronizing gesture at the bottle of clear topcoat, bottle of dipping powder, bottle of gel polish, the handheld curing light, and Padme’s half done nails. “I should think that would be obvious.”

“But…” Adi tries to gather herself. “Why?”

Padme wrinkles her brow and uses her finished hand to get a scoop of her sundae. Swallowing it, she says, “My manicure chipped.”

“It was very tragic,” Anakin puts in, nodding.

“No,” Adi says. “I mean why…” She gestures helplessly at Obi-Wan.

“Why is his ice cream boring?” Anakin shrugs. “Because he eats like an old man. Can’t handle a flavor that isn’t vanilla.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Obi-Wan jabs an elbow at his ribs, but Anakin expertly blocks it. Then Padme directs a truly venomous glare at them both when the jostling almost ruins the intricate design Obi-Wan was in the midst of painting in gel polish on her middle nail. They both settle down after that, sheepish.

“No, I mean —”

“The face mask?” asks Padme.

“For the last time,” says Obi-Wan through his teeth, bent over Padme’s hand again, “we are in a resort full of young —”

“Which you are not,” Anakin offers helpfully.

This time Anakin does not manage to dodge the elbow to the ribs. “Full,” Obi-Wan repeats, “of young, thriving couples, and —”

“His eye bags don’t match the atmosphere,” Padme finishes, as if Obi-Wan doesn’t hold the power to ruin her manicure in his hands. Despite this, Obi-Wan just gives her a hooded look and begins curing her middle fingernail.

Adi would love to make assumptions about this and perhaps turn Obi-Wan’s demeanor toward Padme into proof of their romantic connection, but she’s too lost to do anything except stare at all three of them. All she can manage to do is sputter, “But — but — but…”

Anakin gives her a concerned look. He holds out one of the extra sundaes set up on the ornate tray table beside him. “Ice cream?”

“I…”

“Or, we’ve got co*cktails.”

“Mocktails,” Padme corrects, examining her finished hand with evident satisfaction. “We’ve all sworn off alcohol to support one of Obi-Wan’s lovers, since she’s pregnant.”

Adi chokes on her own inhale and almost lists into the door frame. “What?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t stir. “It’s a joke, Adi. I don’t have any lovers.”

“But those are mocktails,” Anakin adds. “Want one?”

Feeling rather faint, Adi feels her way over to the foot of the bed and sinks onto it. “I think I might.”

# # #

“All right, my turn.” As Padme settles herself more firmly against him, having switched sides with Obi-Wan, and draws a truly confused look from Adi, Anakin swirls his mocktail in its glass. “Never have I ever…crashed a speeder.” Predicting what Obi-Wan is going to say based on his sharp inhale, he holds up a finger and says, “Landing creatively is not crashing, Obi-Wan.”

Glowering at him, Obi-Wan takes a sip of his mocktail, and so does Padme. Adi does not.

“Unsafe pilots,” Anakin says. “Both of you. Master Gallia’s turn.” He slumps back against his pillows and stirs his spoon around in the puddle of melted ice cream at the bottom of his sundae dish. How Adi got roped into what amounted to an adult version of a crecheling game, he doesn’t know, but it’s better than her standing in the doorway of the bedroom, completely thrown off by having not run in on Obi-Wan and Padme trysting.

Adi gives Obi-Wan a shrewd look. “Never have I ever… kissed another Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “It’s not good form to use this as an investigative technique, Adi.”

“Aren’t you going to drink?”

“No. Aren’t you?”

Adi draws back, indignant. “And why would I?”

Obi-Wan sets his chin in his hand and smiles at her. “Just a certain little moment between you and Kit Fisto that Siri and I saw once.”

At this, Adi blushes a dark blue and takes a hasty sip of her drink. “I’d forgotten that.”

“Isn’t it lucky that commitment is against the code, but kissing your colleagues isn’t?” Obi-Wan nibbles on the stem of the cherry in his drink with a contemplative air. “I could’ve reported you if it were.”

“You wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.”

“Ah-ha, but unfortunately murder is against the code, so I believe I’d come out on top.”

“Hush, both of you,” Padme says, sitting up straighter so that she doesn’t spill her bright red mocktail down her nightgown. “It’s my turn.” After pausing to think, she says, “Never have I ever… lost control of a giant ravenous beast and accidentally turned it loose on the capital city of the Republic.” She looks expectantly at Adi, who grudgingly takes a sip of her mocktail.

“I voted against it,” she mutters.

“Oh, but you’re on the Council, so…” Padme shrugs. “Responsibility is so pesky, isn’t it?”

“That was a low blow,” Anakin says, in the most approving voice he can muster, which causes Adi to give him a look full of sheer betrayal. He just shrugs in response. Whose side does she expect him to pick?

“My turn.” Obi-Wan tries to sit up, finds that Padme’s legs are weighing down his lower half, and gives up. Awkwardly worming further up his mountain of pillows, he says, “Never have I ever… outright lied to the press.”

Anakin takes a long sip of his drink, and so does Padme. Adi just stares at Obi-Wan. “There’s no way,” she says. “No possible way.”

Obi-Wan lays a hand on his chest. “Why, Adi, I would never break the sacred code of honor of Never Have I Ever. How could you think that of me? Speaking of…” He gives her glass a significant look.

With a sigh, Adi takes a drink, eliciting a crow of shocked laughter from Padme.

“And you’re the Senate liaison!” Padme says, almost spilling her drink again. “Oh, for shame, Master Gallia. For shame!”

Adi gives her a look Anakin is becoming familiar with — it’s the look of someone who has been personally victimized by the rumors they’ve spread about Obi-Wan. “Oh, shut up.”

# # #

“All right.” Adi faces the dance floor, full of happy couples whirling to lively music or escaping the dancing in favor of the nearby buffet table. “We don’t know what he looks like, but he’ll be wearing Separatist Parliament regalia. You walk up to him, say the code phrase, and if — and only if — he returns it, find somewhere private and signal the rest of us.”

Obi-Wan, who has managed to acquire a headache proportionate to a hangover without touching a drop of alcohol, grimaces. “That’s half the people here, Adi.”

“No one said it was a perfect system.”

“I’m remembering a certain system meant to contain a zillo beast…” says Padme, surveying the dance floor with an innocent air.

Adi takes a deep breath, but her irritation in the Force is like sandpaper. Obi-Wan hides a smile. “Just go,” Adi says. “We’ve a limited time.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “How hard could it be?”

# # #

Anakin slips up to a young twi’lek man’s side as he chooses food from the buffet table. Clearing his throat, he says the code phrase. “Some say Wookiees are poor losers.”

The man turns to look at him, squinting in confusion. “Yes… I suppose? What does that have to do with me?”

Anakin sighs. “Nothing. Carry on.”

He spins to head back onto the dance floor and perhaps find Padme, but he collides with someone thick, tall, and hairy. Backing up, he peers up into the furious eyes of a seven foot tall Wookiee with dark fur, barred with taupe.

He roars something in Shyriiwook. The exact translation eludes Anakin, but the general meaning is eminently clear. He takes a hasty step back. “No offense meant obviously —”

# # #

Padme is just about to give a pau’an man the code phrase, when she catches sight of a giant Wookiee bearing down on Anakin. Sending a hasty smile in the pau’an’s direction, she books it across the dance floor to rescue him.

# # #

Adi watches Padme usher Anakin away from the angry Wookiee, calling apologies over her shoulder. “How,” she asks Obi-Wan, “did he manage to say the code phrase in front of the only Wookiee in here?”

Obi-Wan just shakes his head. “He has a gift.”

# # #

Fifteen minutes later, Obi-Wan has made exactly no progress, but he has gotten accomplished at repeating the code phrase in the blandest voice possible, while entertaining himself by reviewing potential baby names to run by Satine when he gets home.

All baby names, of course, flee from his mind when he hears Padme yelling in her most strident voice, somewhere near the edge of the dance floor. Spinning around, he strains his ears to make out her words and tries to locate her at the same time.

“You thought you could make a move on me?” she yells. “With your new wife ten feet away? And you thought I wouldn’t tell her? Are you blind, or did your parents drop you on your head too many times when you were a child?”

Ah. There she is.

Going toe to toe with a man twice her size.

And though he is only half as angry as she is, Padme doesn’t get angry like a normal person, so it’s already impressive that he’s managed to match half of her rage.

It’s also concerning.

Obi-Wan coughs and disengages himself from the latest Separatist politician he was preparing to give the code phrase to. “Excuse me.”

# # #

“It was disgusting,” Padme snaps, after Anakin and Obi-Wan manage to get her away from the man and his new wife, leaving them to dismantle their marriage in peace, and corner her by the buffet table. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Ideally,” Obi-Wan says tiredly, glancing at the crowd, “not make a scene.”

Padme crosses her arms and huffs at him, blowing loose curls of hair away from her face. “How long have you known me?”

“Too long,” Adi supplies helpfully, also watching the crowd.

Padme opens her mouth to give a presumably cutting response — Anakin would expect nothing less — but a slender Nemoidian woman comes up behind her and taps her on the shoulder before she can.

“Excuse me?” says the woman, as Padme turns. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Please,” Adi says fervently. “Do.”

“I was just wondering what you’d been saying about Wookiees?”

Anakin heaves a gusty sigh. “For the last time, I’m not trying to offensive —”

“No.” The woman presses her lips together. “I mean exactly.”

Adi steps forward a little, blocking the woman from the view of the crowd. “Some say Wookies are poor losers?”

“But the armless know the truth,” the woman responds immediately, before wincing. “That is horribly racist, no wonder that one Wookiee —”

“I’m sorry,” Adi says. “Our intel said we were looking for a man.”

“Then it was wrong, or someone made an assumption. I don’t know. But I’m the wife of one of the foremost members of Parliament, and I know all that they’re doing — I can’t stand by and watch. Please, can you help me?”

Anakin exchanges a look with Padme. “You mean to tell me this whole time, you knew we were here, and you let us make fools —”

“Of course we can help you,” Obi-Wan interrupts.

Anakin does have to admit they’re lucky he is able to keep his head in the game.

The woman smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

That is, predictably, the moment someone in the crowd opens fire on all of them.

# # #

Five hours later, after an animated chase through the resort, a panicked call to Tholme’s Shadows, a brisk jaunt through Canto Bight’s sewers, and a mad run across a landing field, pursued by Separatist assassins, Obi-Wan manages to pelt onto their escape ship just behind Anakin, Padme, Adi, and Thina — the defector. The Shadows stay behind on the planet to cover their escape as Adi hurls herself into the pilot’s seat and sends them surging up through the atmosphere.

There’s a tense moment when all the targeting alarms blare at once and Thina is moved to scream, but then Padme curses Adi out for not getting to the hyperspace control fast enough and all but throws herself across the lever.

Then they jump to hyperspace, and everything’s fine.

Until Adi puts the ship on autopilot, limps back into the passenger area, and asks, “What intel do you have for us?”

# # #

Clutching mugs of hastily made caff, all of them huddle in the ship’s tiny galley and listen to Thina’s story.

All of them, unfortunately, includes Adi Gallia.

In hindsight, they should have predicted this being a problem.

“He’s playing both sides of the war,” Thina says, hunkering low over her caff cup. She’s so absorbed in her own story that she doesn’t notice that the only one watching her in rapt horror is Adi. Anakin, along with Obi-Wan and Padme, is fighting the urge to shout, “This is old news!”

That would start a conversation he isn’t ready to have.

“But it’s more than that,” says Thina. “He’s planning to end it soon. It’s all coming to a head, and he’s going to use it to name himself emperor.”

“Emperor?” repeats Adi in a hoarse voice.

Thina nods.

“But how?”

This Anakin is interested in.

“He’s going to orchestrate a Separatist ceasefire. He has it all planned with Count Dooku. They’re going to use Grievous as a patsy and have him kidnap Chancellor Palpatine under the guise of forcing a Republic surrender. But Palpatine and Dooku are going to leverage everything by having Palpatine’s “rescuers” take Dooku hostage right back. Then he will negotiate a miraculous ceasefire with the Separatists.”

“And name himself emperor?” Adi shakes her head. “No, he’d need a crisis for that.”

“Exactly.” Thina looks down. “He’s going to use the Jedi. There’s been all that propaganda, remember? On both sides, about the Jedi being warmongers. He’s going to refuse to relinquish his emergency powers and trick the Jedi into trying to remove him from office — because they will, won’t they?”

“We’re sworn to protect democracy,” says Adi, with a dawning sort of terror. “If he broke the Republic’s charter by keeping his emergency powers, we’d be forced to…”

“And then he’d frame all of you for an insurrection.”

“But the evidence would —”

“No, you don’t understand.” Thina grips her caff cup more tightly. “There’s not going to be a trial or any sort of inquest. He’s going to use the fact that the war is on the cusp of reigniting to act swiftly and without mercy. He’ll wipe the Jedi out, and he’ll use the military to do it.”

“The clones would never —”

“He’s sure,” says Thina. “Very, very sure. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

Anakin does not underestimate Palpatine, but thankfully Palpatine is overestimating the cohesion of his plan. It’s good to know he doesn’t know that the chips have been deactivated. That could be very useful.

“I don’t…” Adi is pale and swaying a little. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” Padme chirps out, utterly unmoved by what she has heard. As Adi twists to look at her, she adds, “In three… two… one…”

As soon as the last number leaves her mouth, Adi’s eyes roll back into her head, and she slumps to the floor, sliding off her seat in the breakfast nook.

There’s a long stretch of silence. Thina’s eyes bug out wide.

“Padme,” Obi-Wan says, peering over his caff cup at Adi’s prone form, “what did you do?”

“I drugged her caff,” replies Padme, as though she thinks it should be obvious. In all fairness, it was rather obvious. Obi-Wan should have been quicker on the uptake, Anakin feels. “Don’t worry, she won’t remember anything that’s happened since we got onboard. We’ll just tell her she got stunned on the way in, and that it’s a crying shame that a rogue shot hit Thina.”

“Wha — wha — wha —” Thina’s eyes get wider. She starts the stand, hefting her caff cup as she does.

Seeing it is about to become a projectile, Anakin holds out a staying hand. “It’s all right, Thina. It’s all right.”

She turns wild eyes on him. “How?”

“We already knew all about Palpatine,” he says. “We’ve been fighting him for more than a decade, and we’re going to help you.”

Slowly, Thina sits back down. “How?” she repeats.

“Well, step one is faking your death,” Padme says cheerfully.

“Don’t worry,” Anakin assures her, reaching across the table to lay his hand over hers. “We’re very good at it.”

“Oh stars.” Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is not going to be a pleasant report to write.”

“At least we don’t have to explain anything to Adi or the Council,” says Padme. “Be grateful.”

“We’re going to have to soon, though,” Anakin says, tipping his head to one side as he considers Adi’s unconscious state.

“Come again?” Obi-Wan raises both eyebrows. “And when did we decide this?”

Anakin turns to grin at him. Everything is clicking into place wonderfully in his mind. “Oh, about fifteen seconds ago, when I figured out how we’re going to beat Palpatine.” His grin widens. “It’s going to be funny.”

Obi-Wan puts his head down on the table. “Why me, Light?” he asks in a muffled voice. “Why me?”

# # #

“Well,” Palpatine says over holocall, “at least you managed to kill her before it was too late.”

Yan still isn’t sure how his assassins managed it, given that the initial reports were that they didn’t, but he isn’t about to argue. “Yes,” he says. “It’s very fortunate. Our plans can continue.”

“Is Grievous on his way?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good.”

Yan hangs up and slumps in his desk chair. Sometimes, he has to wonder if there is a third entity controlling this war.

But that seems far fetched, so as always, he dismisses it.