Work Text:
Explicit instructions from the senate: begin a dialogue if you can, do not hesitate to use force, but only if Death Watch opens hostilities first, etc., etc., etc.
Lando glances down at the datapad for the sixth time this trip. The Lady Luck will pull out of lightspeed soon, and he wants to be sure he’s committed the message from the New Republic to memory and more importantly, is completely clear on the use of blasters.
Chewie reclines in a passenger seat, free of piloting duties. The seat creaks dangerously, a reminder to Lando, once again, he needs to invest in sturdier parts.
The wookiee mutters something about politicians and their tactics.
“Is it that obvious?”
Returning to Cloud City to repair Imperial damage was the least Lando needed to do after Endor, and the people were surprisingly forgiving. They did not forget the deal he made with the Empire, but neither did they forget what he did to overthrow it.
But the politics of the mining facility are limiting and after four years back, Lando knows he can act on more within the New Republic itself.
Running is a starting point and another campaign couldn’t hurt. (Unless it kills him, but luck’s generally been on Lando’s side.)
Chewie laughs, remarking even after all these years, it is still odd seeing both him and Han taking on something bigger than themselves.
“Gotta try something new every once and awhile. After this, Han’s settling down for the family thing and I’m trying politics.” A pause and then, “So I’ve got it easier.”
In a grave rumble, Chewie reminds him not to let Han do anything stupid.
“Didn’t Leia also tell you to not do anything too stupid yourself?”
Chewie shrugs she may have, just as the Lady Luck pulls out of lightspeed.
Though Mandalore is still not in sight, Lando readies his blaster at his side.
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Bringing the Falcon down onto Mandalore might be their only real chance of a fast getaway if (when) this whole thing goes belly-up, but Han doesn’t want to risk anyone else getting their hands on her.
Chewie and Lando already had their close shave with Death Watch and Han wants to be as inconspicuous as possible. The Falcon may be the fastest there is, but she’s now, unfortunately, one of the most recognizable.
Down in the dirt, Han scans the horizon through electrobinoculars. It is a landscape not unlike Tatooine, in many respects: endless sands occasionally littered with towns and cities; the horizon broken by stony mesas.
Not much to fight over in Han’s opinion, especially since most of the cities have shattered; worn into the sands of the rest of the system.
And the one before him is about to go the same way.
In the late afternoon sun, Han can faintly make out Imperial agents and the Mandalorians who sided with them being lined up.
The blaster shots echo off what remains of the city. Though from where he is positioned, he cannot make out the faces of the executed, the executioner changes for the last shot. Han’s looked through enough of the files to guess, even from a distance, it’s Katan.
It must be someone whose really done Death Watch in over the years, enough to warrant a personal hit from the new de facto head of the system. Han doesn’t look away, and where youthful indifference used to be, there is a faint discomfort.
He imagines what Katan’s face looks like as she pulls the trigger. The face flashes of Leia’s; rage and determination and vengeance, though she would never consider everything resolved with one blaster shot. (Still, she could be capable of it and it terrifies him.)
The face is also Mara. If he told her he thought that, she’d laugh grimly. It is Ahsoka years ago, he assumes, and it may have been him. Luke’s the one he can’t picture with a vicious enough streak.
A dozen crumpled bodies no longer hold Death Watch’s direct interest and they begin to go their separate ways; Han loses Katan in the shuffle. The scouts he came for run towards the south end of the city.
It won’t be long until dusk and it’ll be safer for Han to retreat back to the shuttle to let command know where Death Watch’s headed next and to call Leia.
What he wouldn’t give to be back, wrapped around her and not letting go.
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The rainstorm dampness clings. Mara catches Set pulling back the urge to kick at one of the puddles as they walk towards the Senate Building.
Unlike her, Set’s taken to the meditative aspects of the Force more readily. In private, Luke despairs he’s a bit hopeless with the preliminary lightsaber work. Mara rebuts Luke’s the same, which results in a rebuttal of Luke’s own.
And now Set’s to be left behind for gods knows how long.
Luke, Leia, and Ahsoka are all wary of being dragged into the conflict to wield lightsabers and the Force. It’s ridiculous to think the senate wouldn’t ask for experienced commanders in dealing with Death Watch, whatever their background.
It’s the first time they don’t look down their noses at Mara’s past, and maybe serving at the behest of the senate isn’t the proper Jedi way, but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel a little good to finally put her war record to use, whomever it was for.
And regardless, letting Death Watch loose in the galaxy is not serving as a guardian of peace as far as she’s concerned.
Ahsoka remembers and Mara studied what Vader had to do to subdue them the first time. There’s no need for repeats.
Luke walks ahead with Set; Ahsoka slows her pace to fall in step with Mara. For a while both pairs remain silent as they move from their den of concentration and training to the chaotic and frantic bubble of the senate.
Set speaks to Luke, “Master Organa’s going to meet with me tomorrow, right?”
“Only if we have to leave for Mandalore tonight, which probably won’t be the case.”
Mara understands Set’s feeling of neglect by one’s master. The difference is Luke feels as badly for leaving him.
Luke puts a hand on his shoulder, “She’ll do what she can in my place and I’ll come back from the front as often as I can.”
An almost empty promise; how many times can Leia claim she’s seen Han since he left months ago? It’s in earnest and well-intended though, as is most everything Luke does, which makes the corner of Mara’s mouth quirk up.
Ahsoka speaks quietly and only to Mara, “And another generation who only knows war.”
“But we’re keeping him out of it. That’s what counts right? No more child soldiers.”
Mara’s used to peace now, but oh, battles are in her blood. She doesn’t know how the Force will ever fully scrub that reflex from her memory.
“I hope so.” Then on a sigh, “It’s going to be a long war.”
Mara nods, white-knuckled fists tucked under her cloak.
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“Do you think Karrde knows who’d be supplying them with blasters like that?” Han asks the holo of Lando.
If Lando responds with a word or a shrug, Han doesn’t know because the image and sound short out right then. He tries calling again, but the signal is either jammed or dead.
Han shoots Luke a look, then throws himself back on the reclining med cot.
Unable to reach Lando, definitely unable to reach Leia, to tell her Chewie just dragged him off the battlefield with a leg wound from a blaster shot which was both a severe burn and bleeding quite a lot.
Not telling her feels like lying, but eight months pregnant and he doesn’t want to worry her unnecessarily, not when the med droid says a night in the bacta tank should put him back on his feet by the end of the week.
Han counts on Luke’s discretion to not relay that bit of information along to Leia. Luke who doesn’t look like the same person Han left behind on Coruscant almost five months back, even if it is just a beard. (Impractical or not, Han shaves.)
Mara’s changed too; softer around the eyes, maybe, but mostly, cropped hair. (“Who needs it whipping around in all this wind?”) Ahsoka is a constant, but they all serve as painful reminders he and Chewie aren’t home.
He can’t hold Leia himself, listen to her complain about the usual senatorial roadblocks, about how their son has made her balloon into comical proportions. (Not that Han’d care. It’d be in the flesh and not over unreliable holos.)
Han limps over to the tank, hoping the night knocked out in the goo will pass quickly.
“You should have let me save you instead. Then I could have finally walked away with a clean slate,” Luke jokes off-handedly.
It’s when he puts his weight on his foot that Han realizes how much the blaster wound hurts.
Through gritted teeth, but with some put-on cheeriness, “Nah, you still owe me for that time with the bounty hunter on Zygeria. Besides, Chewie’s set on the life debt, so you might as well be too.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get used to it,” Luke half groans back.
As he moves to leave the temporary medical facility, he turns back to Han.
“I’m not going to say anything, but it would be better if Leia heard about this from you first.”
And she will, once Han’s assured he can stand again without wanting to use every obscenity he’s picked up over the years.
----------
Mandalore’s a lost cause.
The New Republic accepts this for the time being. It’ll let Han go home even for a little while.
All the New Republic’s generals take the rear as they retreat, the first ones to go down if Death Watch catches up. Through the booming ion cannon fire, the blaster shots, and the dust kicked up by the armies of thousands, Han sees Katan (short, iron-haired, and the terrifying force of will he imagined) leading the charge of her own troops.
Capturing Katan ends the war.
Years of smuggling have taught Han this: opportunity must be seized at all costs.
He yells to Mara, who’s got the nearest battalion, turns on his heel and runs.
It isn’t just Jedi who can dodge shots, whatever earlier scrapes he’s gotten himself into. Mara screams something in his direction, but he’s not listening; now he’s on a mission.
The distance shortens to mere hundreds of meters. Katan catches sight of him and Han swears she’s grinning.
Forget capture and, later that day, guilt comes; forget what Leia and the rest of the government think, forget what the repercussions of killing would bring – Han has a clear shot.
Unfortunately, so does Katan.
Han throws himself to the ground and behind cover as Katan fires first. Even if this war goes on forever, he promised Leia. He has to get back and years of smuggling also taught him the first rule to living: run like hell.
Katan yells to his retreating back, “Next time, Solo!”
When he makes it back to the base, regrouping and readying to retreat to the blockade, he spots Mara first.
“Karrde is right. You are the stupidest smuggler in the business.”
Catching his breath, “Why do you think I got out?”
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“Not now, too soon” is the tiny hum in the back of her head, if she could hear it over her own screams and the beeping mechanical equipment.
The meeting feels like it must have been days ago, even if sense says it was only a few hours.
The woman whose water unexpectedly broke doesn’t feel like the one whose head might be made of lead, whose spine is sore, and whose legs are numb. She practiced her meditative trances; she was getting good at them – now fallen by the wayside.
Leia is rushed to the nearby medical frigate, with only herself and a hassled senatorial aide in the shuttle over. Leia can’t say she blames his flustered state, but still yells at him to call Han at least five times.
Little good that does. She wonders as she’s wheeled into the medical bay if she should have asked him to try Ahsoka.
Alone with only her fight with nature and herself, everything that’s wrong crowds her head, frustration and exertion spill out in tears.
Padmé Amidala surrendered her babies within hours; the injustice of it strikes new and Leia cries because she wants her mother here with her, if she can have no one else.
If only the war wasn’t so ill-timed or the pregnancy wasn’t – no. Leia stops herself, letting out a large breath, either instinctively or because the droid told her to.
It takes one last push and Leia lets the flood of the Force wash over her as Prestor is laid in her arms, small and soft.
He is better than anything she could have planned for. She only has gentle and loving thoughts to caress him with, as with her hands and words.
“My beautiful boy. Our beautiful boy. It’s only mother now; your father’s off making the galaxy safe for you, as are your uncles and aunt. And I am too, but you do not leave my side until you can.”
Leia brushes and coddles Prestor until he falls asleep. Not long after, her own eyelids droop. A droid must have lifted the baby from her arms, because she hears herself protest.
When she wakes, Luke sits, holding Prestor. Leia sits up, stretching the soreness out.
“Did you hear from Han – speak to him at all?”
“He’s on his way.”