Chapter Text

1 

I Really, Really Screwed Up 

It’s been a very long deployment, and Anakin’s never been quite so happy to be home as he is tonight.

 As soon as he was able, he escaped from the Jedi Temple and flew to Coruscant’s Federal district. Blurry eyed, he docked his speeder at the landing platform attached to Padme’s penthouse and slumped over the console for a few moments, gathering the will to move. After that, it was a stumbling struggle up the steps to the glass doors that led into the sitting room. 

It was spotless as usual, the moon shining through the glass ceiling and washing the purple carpet and furniture a vague shade of gray. Padme was curled up beneath a blanket on the couch, her curls, messy from being crammed under one of her Senate wigs all day, were sprayed on the pillow under her head. 

She woke up with a murmured “Ani, you’re home” and a grin that made Anakin’s exhaustion melt away. He lifted her into his arms then and carried her toward their bedroom. She tucked her head against his shoulder, yawning widely. 

“I waited up for you,” she said. “I tried to, anyway.” 

“I noticed,” he said as he laid her on the bed. She wriggled beneath the covers and pulled them up to her chin in a girlish sort of way, eyes half lidded and lips still smiling. Anakin smiled back. He was the only one who got to see this side of Padme — the youthful wife rather than the pressured senator.

“How long are you here for?” 

Anakin stripped off his battered armor and dirty robes, exchanging them for the cotton pajamas Padme kept for him. “Longer than a day. Maybe a good stretch of time for once.” That would be nice, although he wasn’t not sure what he’s going to do with himself. “The 501st and the 212th are on leave, so Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and I are too.” 

Padme actually managed to open her eyes all the way at that piece of information. “All of you?” 

“Yeah.” He crawled into bed next to her. Maybe he should have been insulted that she couldn’t wake herself up to properly greet the husband she hadn’t seen in several weeks, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to do so either, so he wasn’t going to judge her. Frankly, he didn’t have enough life left in him to do anything but sleep. “Apparently, they were using up all their bacta on us, and the healers went on strike until command sent us back.” 

“That’s good.” Padme snuggled closer to him, pressing against his chest. “Tomorrow…” She paused to yawn. “Tomorrow I’ll greet you properly and remind you why you married me and all that…” Another yawn interrupted her. “All that other bantha dung. Oh, that sounded bad, didn’t it?” 

Anakin laughed, breathing in the scent of her perfume. “Not when I’m so tired that half my brain has stopped working.” 

“Oh, Ani, when did we become a boring old married couple?” 

He drapeD an arm over her and she knit her fingers with his. “About fifteen minutes after we got married.” 

Her voice was faraway when she spoke next, like she was already drifting off. “Well, at least it took fifteen minutes.”

A few seconds later, her deep, even breathing told him she was asleep, and — blissfully — he followed her example a minute later, reveling in the softness of the mattress and the warmth of the blankets after weeks spent on the front. 

He tumbled through restful darkness. It was wonderful, it was everything, and it did not last nearly long enough before the relentless knocking started. 

Now he’s awake, dragged out of a very nice dream that involved Padme’s lakehouse on Naboo and copious amounts of food that wasn’t ration packs, and someone is still hammering on the door. Groggily, he nudges Padme. “Is Sabe coming to stay with you?” 

There’s a long groan from beside him, and Padme throws a pillow over her head. “No. My handmaidens have their own apartment. Stupid. Shut up.” Then, as an afterthought, she adds, “My love. Shut up, my love.” 

“There’s someone knocking.” Anakin’s having trouble forming words. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but his body apparently shut down as soon as it registered that he was safe, and it’s not planning on coming back online anytime soon. 

“No, there isn’t.” When Padme’s tired, she defies reality. “It’s two in the morning.” 

Oh, fun. That means Anakin’s officially been awake forty eight hours. He might cry. He tries again, clipping his sentences in an effort to get through to her. “Someone. Door. Knocking.” 

“Sleep. Having,” she replies. Making a vague hand motion she says, “You go check it.” 

Anakin blinks for a few moments. There’s some reason that’s a bad idea, but his brain isn’t interested in forming coherent thoughts at the moment, so he gives up trying to remember. Mostly, he just wants to make the noise stop . Besides, what’s the harm? It’s his apartment too, after all. 

Grumbling, eyes still half shut, he climbs out of bed and starts toward the bedroom door. “Can I kill whoever’s outside?” 

“No,” comes the muffled answer. “Wrong.” She pauses. “Two more minutes and you can.” 

Anakin nods, shuffles out of the bedroom, and crosses the sitting room to the apartment’s door. There are alarm bells going off in the back of his mind, but he’ll deal with them later. He pulls the door open, putting on his best glower. “What the kriff are you doing pounding on our door at this hour?” 

Ahsoka is standing on the other side of the door, covered in dirt, and her eyes stretch wide when she sees him. All at once, the reason he shouldn’t be the one to open the door hits Anakin like a barrage of blaster fire. 

“Snips?” he croaks. 

“Skyguy?” She stares at him for a moment, and then seems to crumple, her eyes filling with tears. 

Oh, no. He doesn’t have enough sleep stored up to deal with this. 

Wrapping her arms around herself, Ahsoka half sobs, “I really, really screwed up.” 

Chapter Text

2 

That Awkward Moment When…

Anakin stares at Ahsoka, and her tearful gaze travels over him, taking in his pajamas, which, for Anakin, consist of cotton shorts that expose an embarrassing amount of hairy thigh and an even more embarrassing amount of unhairy chest.  

Kriff, he’s never going to be able to look his padawan in the eye again. 

After another agonizing minute, Ahsoka pulls herself together another to ask, “What are you doing in Padme’s apartment?” at the same time as Anakin says, “What do you mean you screwed up?” 

Ahsoka sniffles. “I asked you first.” 

“I’m your master?” Anakin tries, but she’s already won. You can’t pull rank when you’re wearing itty bitty cotton shorts. 

“Why are you in Padme’s apartment?” she asks again. 

Anakin thinks the hour and his attire make it really obvious, but he’s not sure if anyone’s had the Talk with Ahsoka yet — he certainly hasn’t, but Plo Koon might have. “I’m… she…” He tries again. “We —” 

“Ani! Don’t open it!” Padme explodes out of the bedroom, tripping on her long nightgown, which is just barely opaque enough to not be traumatizing to Ahsoka, and tries to tackle Anakin away from the door. Of course, a petite senator in a gauzy nightdress isn’t enough to knock him down, but he does manage to catch her before she tumbles to the floor and swing her to the side in order to use up her momentum.

Bare feet sliding on the carpet, Padme manages to regain her balance. Her eyes fall on Ahsoka, and she lets out a thin squeak of horror. 

“Yeah, the door’s already open,” he tells her wearily. 

“Ahsoka?” Padme tries for a smile, but it mostly just looks manic. “What are you doing here? Ani… I mean, Knight Skywalker is here because I thought I heard a disturbance. ” She nods fiercely, like she’s proud of herself for coming up with a plausible excuse. “Yes, and he was in the area, so he —” 

“And he happened to be wearing only underwear at the time?” Ahsoka looks like she’s rethinking her whole life. 

“Well, the complex’s security guards are doing strip searches because of, um, suspicions of Separtist agents, and Ani — Knight Skywalker — was in a rush to get to me, so he —” 

“— Didn’t take the time to put his pants back on?” 

“Yes.” Padme bites her lip, and Anakin wants to sink into the floor. “No. I mean… Oh, kriff. ” 

“Padme.” Anakin shuts his eyes for a second, trying to fight down a wave of dizzy exhaustion. “Lothcat’s out of the bag already, you can stop.” 

Padme subsides, staring at Ahsoka with a furrowed brow and a pleading expression. 

Ahsoka keeps her arms wrapped around her waist. “So you two are sleeping together?” 

Anakin’s face feels like it’s on fire. “No!” 

“You aren’t sleeping together?” 

“No. I mean, yes, we are — oh, kriff — but we’re married. First. We got married first.” His mother drilled that into his head enough when he was a child. Amavikka know that depurs love to separate slaves from each other, so to form a bond without a binding contract, which offers at least some protection from separation, is considered the height of foolishness among the children of Ar-Amu. 

Beside him, Padme looks mortified. “Please let this be a dream,” she murmurs under her breath, pinching her arm desperately. 

Ahsoka nods slowly, and she still looks on the verge of bursting into tears again. “How long?” 

Anakin tosses caution to the wind. There’s no point in keeping anything back now. If Ahsoka’s going to tell the Jedi Order about them, it doesn’t matter how long they’ve been married. He’s getting kicked out either way. “Since I became a knight. Right after the Clone Wars started.” 

Her lower lip trembling a little, she nods again. “Oh. So since before I even became your padawan.” 

Anakin doesn’t like where this is going. “...Yes?” 

“And you never told me.” The tears in her eyes threaten to spill over her lids, and she looks terribly small and skinny standing outside the door, dwarfed by the size of the hallway. “Because you didn’t trust me.” 

Oh no. Anakin exchanges a look with Padme. This isn’t heading to a good place. He’s going to need to do some serious damage control with his padawan’s emotions, and by that, he meant Padme was going to have to do some serious damage control with his padawan’s emotions. 

“Ahsoka, are you all right?” Padme takes a step forward, managing to look concerned instead of exhausted. 

A small shake of her head. “No.” A choked down sob. “I came to ask you for help, Padme, but you don’t trust me, and now after this, n-neither of you are going to trust me ever a-again!” Ahsoka covers her face with both hands and starts to cry in earnest, which is shocking enough to act like a shot of caff for Anakin. 

He ducks through the door, looking both ways down the hallway, and guides her inside the apartment. He deposits her in Padme’s arms, since a crying padawan is too much for him. 

Padme strokes Ahsoka’s back and leads her over to the couch so she can sit down. The dirt covering the young togruta is leaving stains all over Padme’s white nightgown, but neither she nor Ahsoka seem to notice or care. 

“There,” Padme says, settling down next to Ahsoka, while Anakin hovers awkwardly by the armrest, shivering in the chill air. He keeps thinking he should grab a robe, but he’s not awake enough for the thought to trigger action. “It’s all right,” she murmurs, resting her cheek on in the space between Ahsoka’s montrals. “Just tell us what happened.” She catches Anakin’s eye and mouths, Get some clothes on!   

That finally gets him moving. He hurries to the bedroom and pulls his robes back on, hopping on one foot as he pulls on his boots and almost falling over in the process. After careening against Padme’s dressing table and grabbing hold of it to regain his balance, he totters back into the living room. Halfway there, he realizes his tunic is on backwards, but he decides he doesn’t care. 

When he reaches the couch, Ahsoka’s sobs have quieted slightly, but her head still hasn’t emerged from where it is buried in the folds of Padme’s nightgown. 

“Come on,” Padme prompts gently, dragging Anakin down so he’s sitting on Ahsoka’s other side. “We’re not going to be angry, Ahsoka. Just tell us what happened.” 

“We’ll help you, Snips,” says Anakin, when Padme’s raised eyebrows tell him to speak. “Whatever you need.” 

Ahsoka hiccups and lifts her head, revealing a tear stained face. “Okay,” she manages, wiping her eyes. “It all started when we got back from the front, when you and Obi-Wan were updating the war committee…” 

Chapter Text

3 

Here’s What Happened 

Ahsoka frowned as the door to the committee’s office slid shut. Anakin and Obi-Wan were inside, giving the senators an account of what had happened on the front. It hadn’t been the best deployment in her estimation, since they hadn’t advanced the line or carried out many successful strikes against the Separatists, but the senators wanted to know everything anyway. And apparently Ahsoka wasn’t needed in this meeting, which she was trying not to be annoyed about. 

“We weren’t trying to exclude you,” Anakin says indignantly from beside her. He’s finally dressed, which is a relief. “It’s classified.” 

“Ani, be quiet,” Padme scolded. “Keep going, Ahsoka.” 

The Senate building was bustling, as usual, but it was the afernoon before a two week break for Life Day, so the crowd had a certain excited, frenetic energy to it, as everyone tried to check enough items off their to-do lists to allow them to enjoy their holiday. Ahsoka leaned against the wall by the door and amused herself by watching the passersby. 

Senator Organa passed by her, caught her eye, and smiled. “Padawan Tano,” he said in his deep, kind voice. “I thought you were deployed on the Outer Rim.” 

“We’re back for Life Day,” she said. “And because the healers were worried if they used anymore bacta on Anakin and Master Kenobi they would overdose and die.” 

“I didn’t think that was possible.” 

“It isn’t,” she replied. “But the healers were still worried, because they had to grow two new organs for Master Kenobi in two weeks, and Skyguy got his whole femur shattered by a clanker, and that took so much bacta.” 

“What happened?” Padme glares around Ahsoka at Anakin. 

“That is a gross exaggeration,” Anakin protests. “It didn’t shatter it, it just fractured it in a lot of places, and the healers completely overreacted —” 

“Anakin Skywalker!” 

“Now you’re the one interrupting Ahsoka. And I’m not even limping.” 

“Are you two finished?” Ahsoka snapped. “Thank you . ” 

“I see,” Senator Organa replied, with a fond smile. “Those two keep you on your toes, don’t they?” 

Ahsoka knew it was mostly the reverse, but she agreed anyway.

“You bet it’s the reverse,” Anakin says resentfully. “You’re the reason for Obi-Wan’s new spleen.” 

“Ani,” Padme reproaches. 

They continued their conversation, as Senator Organa seemed to have already finished most of what he needed to do. Ahsoka remembered Obi-Wan commenting on how the Alderaani senator was much more conscientious and efficient than many of the other members of the Senate, so she wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t hustling to prepare for the Senate’s temporary recess. 

As she listened to Senator Organa story about the Life Day he met Breha’s extensive family, Ahsoka watched a knot develop in the traffic. Across the wide thoroughfare, Senator Taa was talking to an aide, a thin slip of a twi’lek girl. He gesticulated wildly, his lekkus wobbling with his movements, and the twi’lek girl shrank back a little. 

Ahsoka frowned, drumming her fingers against her thigh. Even if the aggression seeping into the Force, like decay contaminating water, hadn’t told her that Senator Taa was angry at the aide, his body language and the throaty shouts that carried over the noise of the crowd would have. 

“And then the nerf steak caught on fire,” Senator Organa continued, and the fire suppressant systems failed, so all of us had to leg it out of the house while Breha commed the fire brigade. That’s how all us — me, Breha, her family, and all the servants — ended up standing in the snow, watching the house burn down.” He stopped to laugh. “We were lucky it was their little mountain chateau, not the palace back at the capitol. It was all right, anyway. Her parents had been looking to remodel.” He shook his head. “What about you, Padawan Tano? Have any Life Day celebrations at the temple gone spectacularly wrong?”

Ahsoka thought about the time when Quinlan Vos indulged in a little too much ambrostine and got lost in the depths of the temple. Everyone — including the younglings in the creches — had been enlisted to go find him, an endeavor which devolved swifty, especially after Master Fisto, with his famously bad sense of direction (on land at least), had gotten lost as well. Rather than relating that particular incident, she said, “Sorry, but what’s going on over there?” She jerked her chin toward Senator Taa and his aide. 

Senator Organa followed her gaze, and his expression immediately soured. “Ah. Senator Taa is in fine form today.” 

“But why?” 

“Koyi, his aide, made an error with his schedule today, and he missed a meeting.” 

“So she made a mistake.” Ahsoka narrowed her eyes at Senator Taa, who was still yelling at Koyi, who looked near tears. “He should just let it go.” Force knew she made dozens of mistakes every day, and Anakin never berated her like Senator Taa was doing to Koyi. 

“You’ll find Orn Free Taa is rarely so reasonable as that,” Senator Organa said darkly. “Not all leaders are as kind as your masters, dear.” 

They should be. Ahsoka curled her hands into fists as Senator Taa threw up his hands in exasperation, and Koyi flinched away, like she thought he might actually hit her. 

That was it. By the time she stopped to think, Ahsoka was halfway across the corridor, chin to her chest, glaring at the senator. She was close enough to hear him now. 

“You think I’m running a charity house? Don’t think I won’t send you back to Ryloth!” he shouted. “No clan to protect you, how long do you think it will be before the slavers pick you up?” 

“Padawan Tano, I wouldn’t —” Senator Organa started, but it was far too late. 

“Leave her alone, sleemo!” Ahsoka snapped, coming to a stop just short of Senator Taa and Koyi. “She didn’t mean to mess up your schedule.” 

Senator Taa stopped mid bellow, his mouth open in an almost comical way. Koyi flicked her eyes toward Ahsoka briefly and then looked at the floor, hunching her shoulders. She had one of her lekkus trailing over her shoulder, and she held onto the very tip, almost as if it were some kind of nervous habit. 

“Excuse me?” Senator Taa turned toward her, looking like he’d bitten into a rotten piece of fruit. “Who are you?” 

“Ahsoka Tano,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height. 

“Ah.” Senator Taa’s expression was not pleasant to look at. “Knight Skywalker’s Togrutan whelp.” 

“Snips.” Anakin puts his head in his hands. “You never tell people who you are when you’re about to throw sand in their water.” 

“Throw sand in their what now?” 

“It’s a Tatooian saying,” Padme explains. 

“Oh. And Obi-Wan says you’re always supposed to introduce yourself, even if you’re about to fight someone.” 

“Not when you’ll get me in trouble too!” 

“Yes.” Ahsoka lifted her chin. “I’m a padawan learner, and the Jedi wouldn’t approve of the way you’re treating your subordinate.” The word subordinate made her feel professional and grownup — like Obi-Wan, who always used the biggest words possible. 

“The Jedi don’t have authority in the Senate, Padawan Tano,” Senator Taa said, advancing toward her. He wasn’t a particularly tall twi’lek, but Ahsoka was a small, slight togruta, so he still cut an imposing figure, standing over her. She held her ground. She had fought General Grievous, after all. “Nor do you,” the senator went on cuttingly. “Frankly, I don’t even know why we allow your master to set foot in this building, with his reckless disregard for protocol. It’s a wonder he was ever made a knight after the pathetic showing he and Senator Naberrie made on Geonosis.” 

Ahsoka felt a growl building in the back of her throat, her predator instincts trying to overcome her better judgment. As the rumble of her growl reverberated in her montrals, she thought about how slow the corpulent senator probably was, how easy it would be to pounce on him and bring him down with a swift bite to the throat. Her ancestors had hunted the dreaded akuls, so a useless senator like Taa would be easy prey. “ Don’t talk about my master like that,” she said through gritted teeth. “He’s the greatest Jedi in the order, and you’re just a stupid senator who cares more about keeping your cushy position than taking care of your people!” Ahsoka’s lips curled back, revealing her fangs, which she knew unnerved most people. “I’ve talked to twi’leks. They hate you. I don’t think you even won reelection last month. I think you cheated. Maybe you even paid the Techno Union data slicers to sway the results your way.” 

Senator Taa spluttered. “They’re rumored to be allied with the Separatists!” 

Ahsoka leaned forward, a snarling smile on her face. “I know.” 

Now Padme puts her head in her hands. “Ahsoka, you can’t just accuse someone of that.” 

“Well, I know that now .” 

“No, but she’s got a point,” Anakin says. 

Senator Taa opened his mouth, probably to hurl some vile insult at her, but Senator Organa swept into view before he could, putting his arm around Ahsoka’s shoulders and starting to guide her away. “I’m so sorry, Orn Free,” he said in a polite rush, shoving Ahsoka ahead of him. “Children, you know. They haven’t yet learned to master their impulses.” 

“ He hasn’t either!” Ahsoka tried to jerk away from Senator Organa, but he was stronger than she gave him credit for. “What kind of kriffing, Sith cursed sleemo —” 

“That’s enough, Padawan Tano,” Senator Organa said, giving her a meaningful look. “I’ll take her to my office so she can wait for her master without disrupting any Senate business.” 

“You do that, Bail,” Senator Taa said, directing a venomous glare at Ahsoka, who growled low in her throat. “I’ll be speaking to the Jedi Council about you,” he told Ahsoka in a low, furious voice. “Perhaps they will have to reconsider giving a padawan to someone so young and inexperienced as your master.” 

He stalked away then, and Ahsoka watched him go, shoulders heaving. Koyi followed on his heels, but she paused to flash a grateful smile over her shoulder at Ahsoka. That was something at least. 

“Come on,” Senator Organa said, guiding her away. “I have gingerbell tea from Alderaan and some candies imported right from Shili.” 

Ahsoka thought about telling him that she was a Jedi padawan, fourteen years old, and too old to be pacified with candy, but she didn’t. Shili candies were too tempting to pass up, even angry as she still was. 

“So what happened then?” Anakin demands. “Bail’s aide told Obi-Wan and I that you were helping him, and he’d send you back to the Temple later.” 

“I’m getting there, Skyguy!” Ahsoka’s getting to the worst part of the story, and tears are threatening again. 

“I can’t believe you got me in trouble with the Council. Again.” 

“Ani, is that really important right now?” Padme keeps one arm wrapped around Ahsoka’s shoulders, heedless of the dirt still covering her. “Finish your story, Ahsoka.” 

It took several hours of eating candies and roundly abusing her least favorite senators with Senator Organa to calm Ahsoka down. By the time she felt relatively levelheaded again, it was dark outside and the building had grown quiet. 

“You need to go apologize to him,” Senator Organa said kindly, surrounded by empty candy wrappers. 

Ahsoka wanted to tell him he was crazy if he thought she was going to do something so humiliating, but he had already stayed in the Senate building far longer than he had to, all to comfort her. “But he’s a kriffhead,” she said. 

“I know.” Senator Organa smiled. “A lot of senators are kriffheads.” 

“Well, that’s not great, is it?” 

“No, but we have to work with whoever is elected.” 

“I don’t think he —” 

“But you can’t prove it,” he interrupted. “It doesn’t do any good to make baseless accusations.” 

Ahsoka slumped in her chair. “Someone’s got to say it,” she muttered. 

“Everyone’s saying it, dear. Just not to his face.” 

“Fine.” Ahsoka slumped lower, becoming more annoyed when Senator Organa gave her an affectionate look. She wanted to inspire fear, not fondness. “He doesn’t deserve an apology.” 

“I guess not.” Senator Organa leaned back in his chair in imitation of her posture. “But you might be able to convince him not to make trouble for you and your master with the Jedi Council.” 

Ahsoka chewed her lip. She hadn’t thought of that. 

“How could you not have thought of it?” Anakin demands, aggrieved. 

“He’s still here,” said Senator Organa, in a wheedling voice. “He’s actually staying late for once — I heard him say this morning that he had a late meeting. You’re lucky. He’s usually the first to leave.” 

“Lucky,” scoffed Ahsoka.

“Go on,” he prompted. “Just get it over with.” 

“Fine,” she said again, standing up. She was training to be a Jedi. She was a soldier. She’d done harder things than this. 

“Happy Life Day, dear,” Senator Organa called as she headed for the door. 

“You too,” she said, because Anakin was always telling her to be nice to people who were nice to you. It was partly a Tatooian thing, she knew. In a harsh desert world, you made friends whenever you could, because a good friend was sometimes the difference between life and death. “Thank you for all your help.” 

“Thank you for giving Orn Free an aneurysm. Breha is going to love hearing about it.”

Ahsoka smiles at him and leaves, making her way through the empty Senate halls toward Senator Taa’s office, which is near the top floor. It’s creepily quiet, and the deserted corridors and chambers seem forlorn without the constant bustle that usually typifies the Senate building. The only inhabitants are the droids, mostly cleaners, that are taking advantage of the holiday and giving the place a deep clean. 

When she reached Senator Taa’s door, she steeled herself. This was just like any difficult campaign, except the only casualty was her pride. “Time to grovel,” she muttered under her breath and knocked on the door. 

There was no answer. Frowning, she knocked a few more times with the same results. Now she was starting to get unjustly annoyed, which wasn’t going to make apologizing any easier. After a moment’s thought, she passed her hand in front of the scanner by the door to see if it was unlocked. 

The door slid open by itself, revealing an opulent office that looked out over Coruscant’s northern skyline. The place seemed empty, but the senator’s chair was pushed back from his desk, askew like someone had gotten up in a hurry. The holo computer was still active too, which meant either Senator Taa was planning on returning or he’d forgotten to turn it off before he left. 

“Oh, this isn’t good,” Anakin murmurs. 

Ahsoka moved further into the office, looking around. The back of her neck prickled, and a cold pit opened up in her stomach, although she wasn’t sure why. “Senator Taa?” 

No answer. 

She walked around the desk and swallowed down a scream. Senator Taa was on the floor behind his desk, staring up at her with empty eyes. He lay there in two pieces, cut in half by a lightsaber. She could smell the scent of burned flesh, and it clung to the back of her throat. 

He was dead. Murdered. By someone with a lightsaber. 

Ahsoka had never seen something like this before. She’d seen battle, seen clones shot down by blasters, but lightsaber fighting in the Clone Wars was a strangely sterilized thing. Mostly the only casualty on the enemy side were droids, cut apart. It felt no different than attacking practice dummies during training. 

But this? This was a being, with a heart and a soul, and he was cut in two, savagely. 

Bile stung the back of her throat, and she threw up onto the floor before she thought to stop herself. It puddled on the carpet, and panic swelled in her throat. When investigators came, they’d find her biosignature in that. They’d know she’d been here. A Jedi padawan. With a lightsaber. Who’d last been seen screaming at Senator Taa. Who went to see him, at night, alone. 

She had no alibi. Senator Organa might vouch for her, but he was home by now. He wouldn’t know for sure if she’d truly gone to apologize to Senator Taa or kill him. 

Ahsoka stumbled back, and her back hit something. She panicked, thinking it was a person, and spun around. It was only a potted plant, but her sudden movement knocked it off balance and it lurched into her, sending both her and the plant tumbling to the floor. Soil spilled all over her, and her lekkus were crushed painfully beneath her. 

Breathing hard, she scrambled to her feet, boots slipping in the dirt. Her legs were so shaky from throwing up and from shock that her knees gave out as soon as she tried to take a step. She fell again, landing hard. Rolling to the side so she could get up, she found herself staring right at Senator Taa, his head lolled toward her just enough that he seemed to be staring right at her. She screamed and rocketed up, bashing her montrals against the underside of his desk in the process. Tears of pain stinging her eyes, she clawed her way to a standing position. Her hand caught the motherboard of the holocomputer and dragged it to the floor with such force that it shattered in fragments of plasteel and transparisteel. 

Clinging to the edge of the desk for support, Ahsoka took some unsteady steps back again, trembling. Her montrals thrummed with pain, and her heartbeat roared in her ears. She needed to get out. She needed help. Someone she could trust, who would be calm and know how to fix this. 

She ran. 

Chapter Text

4 

I’m a Mature and Responsible Adult

Anakin stares at Ahsoka for a stretch of time, and Ahsoka looks back at him, making little mewling noises that make her sound like a youngling. Finally, he stands up, running his fingers through his hair as he tries to order all the details of her story. Then he says, “Wait a second. You came to Padme’s apartment.” 

“Yes,” Ahsoka says slowly. 

“And you didn’t know we were married.” 

“No.” She looks like she’s wondering where he’s going with this. 

“So you didn’t know I’d be here.” 

She shifts uncomfortably. “Yes.” 

“So you went to Padme for help instead of me, your master who cares about you very much? ” 

“Is this really important right now?” asks Padme. She looks shell shocked, leaning back against the couch cushions, with her stained nightgown spread out around her like a snowdrift. 

“Yes,” Anakin says. “I would’ve helped you, Snips. I am helping you.”

Ahsoka sighs and rubs her eyes. “Skyguy, if Padme weren’t here, what would be your plan to get me out of this.” 

He shrugs. “Easy. First step is fake your death and send you to Shili with a false identity, and then —” 

“And that right there is why I went to Padme.” 

Anakin gives her a reproachful look, but Padme does have a point. There are more important things to be thinking about currently. “So basically you implicated yourself in Orn Free’s murder?” Privately, he thinks the dead senator is no great loss, but he’s not going to say that. He does try to be a good example. He fails most of the time, but he tries. 

“A little bit,” Ahsoka says in a small voice, hunching lower on the couch. 

“Okay. Okay.” Anakin starts to pace. “We can handle this. We’ll figure it out. Padme?” 

“We need to find out who actually killed him,” she says, chin in her hand. She has a contemplative look on her face, and Anakin is glad for the hundredth time that he married someone who’s good in a crisis. “And we have to figure out how to keep Ahsoka out of trouble.” 

Ahsoka hugs her knees to her chest. “I should turn myself in and explain, right? That way they won’t suspect me as much because I won’t have hid.” 

“Kriff, no, don’t do that,” Anakin says, at the same time as Padme says, “I don’t think that’s the best idea.” 

“What do you mean?” Ahsoka looks back and forth between them, childish in her anxiety. “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” 

“Ahsoka.” Padme lays her hand on Ahsoka’s knee. “Think about the current political climate. We’re in the middle of a civil war. Tensions are running high, especially in the Senate. Now a senator has been murdered, either by a Jedi or a Sith, and someone comes forward, saying that were at the murder scene, alone?” She shakes her head. “There’s already anti-Jedi sentiment among the Senate and even among the people… They think your Order is out to grab power during a time of chaos. You won’t get fair treatment.” 

“They’ll use you as a scapegoat,” Anakin says, cutting to the chase. “They’ll want to sweep this under the rug as quickly as possible, even if that means pinning the blame on you.” The next part is hard to say but he makes himself say it anyway. “The Jedi Order too. They’ll also be invested in closing the case quickly, because we depend on the support of the GAR in the war.” 

“They’d… they’d do that?” Ahsoka tips her head up toward him, young and naive and not yet disillusioned about their illustrious Order. 

Anakin thinks about how the Jedi told him to stay away from his mother, how they would have told him to ignore his nightmares about her death if he’d asked them. He says, “Yeah. They would, Snips.” 

She digests that. “Then what are we going to do?” 

Anakin takes a deep breath and meets Padme’s eyes, asking a silent question. Should I? Lately, he’s been away from her, separated by war, and there’s been no one but Obi-Wan and Rex to temper his impulsiveness. It’s nice to have Padme by his side for once. 

Padme nods slowly, twirling one of her curls around and around her finger, like she does when she’s thinking hard. “We’ll protect you, Ahsoka,” she says, glancing at Anakin. 

Anakin nods and checks that he has his lightsaber. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to go back to the Senate so I can see what happened for myself.” 

“I’ll make caff,” Padme says, overcome with a fit of anxious domesticity. “You’ll need your wits about you.” 

Chapter Text

5 

Bad Decisions 101 

Anakin stares at the halfway destroyed office, mouth agape. There’s dirt sprayed across the white carpet, ground into it by Ahsoka’s boots. The motherboard of the holo computer is indeed broken, lying on the floor in about a dozen pieces, which is impressive considering it fell onto carpet. The vomit has settled into the grain of the rug, rather disgustingly, and at the center of it all is Orn Free Taa’s swiftly cooling body. 

“Wow, Snips,” he says, holding the portable cup of caff in his prosthetic hand. “I think… I think you under -sold this.” 

“Yeah?” Ahsoka stands near the entrance to the office, unwilling to venture further in. “Is it that bad?” 

“A little bit.” Anakin gestures to the dirty footprints scattered throughout the room, the evidence of a panicked scramble. “You’ve laid it out for them. Your biosignature all over everything, and then footprints. I mean, they can find you with those alone. All they’ve got to do is ask, ‘Hm, what size four and a half wearing Jedi was in the Senate building around the time Orn Free died? Ding, ding — Ahsoka Tano!” He points at her exaggeratedly, and she gives him a hooded look, a shadow of her usual spunkiness appearing. 

“You’re not making me feel better,” she says reproachfully. 

“You’re the one with freakishly small feet.” 

“Skyguy.” 

Anakin takes a long drink from his caff. “I’m just saying.” Honestly, he’s just thankful he’s not — for once — the progenitor of this particular mess. He studies Orn Free’s body, frowning. There’s the creeping cold of the Dark Side permeating the whole office, but he’s not going to tell Ahsoka that. She’s frightened enough.

The presence tastes bitter on his tongue. It’s powerful too, so much so that he can almost see the shadow of it, dimming the yellow toned light of the room. That alone is telling, because seeing into the Force in that particular way isn’t one of Anakin’s talents. He can only imagine what a skilled empath like Knight Bant Eerin might see. 

“What are we going to do?” asked Ahsoka. She’s looking at him in a dependent, trusting way, like she’s a normal padawan who thinks her master can touch the stars, not the disrespectful, capable, and feral child she actually is most of the time.  

Anakin sighs, setting his cup down in the corner and putting his hands on his hips. “We need to make it look like you were never here.” 

“That’s illegal,” Ahsoka says, rather lamely. 

“Yes, it is, Snips.” Anakin claps his hands together. “But so is the Senate using my padawan as a sacrificial lamb.” 

“I didn’t mean to get you caught up in this.” 

“It’s all right.” He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m not already defying the whole Order.” 

“I won’t tell anyone. About you and Padme.” 

“I know. And if you were going to, I’d knock you out and lock you up on Naboo.” He grins at her. “I’m a hardened criminal.” 

Ahsoka actually laughs at that, even though it’s a thin, strained laugh, and they set to work. Or, more accurately, Anakin sets to work, and Ahsoka tries to help but instead ends up sequestered in a corner, calling advice to him. 

It's an hour of scrubbing and disinfecting and collecting contaminated items before Anakin is satisfied. He sends Ahsoka scurrying back and forth to the emergency medkit station down the hall to retrieve the right cleaning and disinfecting supplies. A few reprogrammed cleaning droids are enough to take care of the dirt, footprints, and vomit, and they’re deactivated and stuffed inside a trash bag taken from one of the janitorial closet. Anakin reflects that Padme is about to gain three cleaning droids, whether she likes it or not, and wonders if there’s room for them at the Naberrie homestead on Naboo. 

Together, he and Ahsoka stand the potted plant back up and take a final turn around the room, making sure they haven’t missed anything. The cleaning skills Anakin picked up when he was Watto’s slave back on Tatooine are finally coming in handy, at least, because the room is spotless, if you ignore Orn Free’s body. 

Ahsoka takes a deep breath. “I think I’m going to throw up again,” she says faintly. 

Anakin claps a hand over her mouth. “Don’t you dare .” 

When she appears to have recollected herself, he takes his hand away. “Better?” 

She nods. 

“Good.” He studies the broken pieces of motherboard he collected. “It’s lucky you broke this,” he says, “or else data slicers might’ve been able to retrieve information from it and see that the last thing Orn Free did was write you up.” They checked the record of outgoing messages on another senator’s computer, and there hadn’t been anything sent to the Jedi Council, which meant — thankfully — that Orn Free had never gotten a chance to tell the Council about Ahsoka’s behavior. 

Maybe Anakin shouldn’t be so glad about that, since the reason he couldn’t was because he was dead, but he’s happy regardless. 

“I didn’t even think of that,” she says, eyes widening. 

“I know.” He shakes his head. “You’d make a terrible murderer.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” 

“Not right now it isn’t.” He gives the room one last look and nods. “That’s all we can do. We’ll keep the motherboard. Maybe Padme knows someone who can figure out what’s on it. With any luck, there’s information on it that’ll tell us why he was murdered.” 

Ahsoka hesitates in the doorway. “We’re just going to leave him?” She flicks Anakin a guilty look. “Are we going to find out who killed him? He’s awful, but he didn’t… he didn’t deserve this .” She hugs herself, shivering. “Maybe I should just turn myself in. Maybe it would be better, and —” 

“Snips.” He lays a hand on her shoulder. “If you admit you were in here, they’re not going to even investigate. They’re going to say you killed him in a fit of temper, and he’ll never get justice. This is the only way.” 

“What about tomorrow? What about when someone finds him?” 

“We’ll figure it out then. Come on.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her out into the hallway. “We don’t want to keep Padme waiting — she’ll worry.”  

Chapter Text

6 

Never Do Anything Major After Eight O’clock at Night 

If Anakin were a different person, he might think tonight has been the most stressful night of his life so far. To be fair, his padawan did show up at his door in the small hours of the morning, outing his secret marriage, and took him to see a gruesomely murdered senator. 

But he grew up on Tatooine, where, frankly, gruesome murders were a regular part of each week. Sometimes it was a slave who was killed, other times it was a freeborn, and sometimes it was someone in the Hutt organization who had angered the wrong people. Very rarely it was a depur. 

So Anakin’s seen dead bodies from the time he was in a sling on his mother’s back, squinting against the blowing sand. He’s also been in tense situations before, and he’s had to clean up the scene of a death before. He remembers when he was seven years old, his friend Kitser’s depur decided that Shmi should join him in his bed that night. Anakin doesn’t really remember what happened, but he remembers the after — Shmi standing over the depur with a bloodied rock in her hand, her hair hanging in her face. He remembers her swiftly starting to clean everything up, removing every trace of herself. He remembers moving to help her, her trying to push him away, and him refusing to leave. He remembers the terrified silence of after, when the other depurs investigated. He remembers his mother wrapping warm light around them, hiding them both from the depurs’ suspicion, and he knows now that the light was the Force. 

None of that’s even counting surviving a death arena on Geonosis or being a Jedi General in an intergalactic war. Or hiding a marriage from an organization of telepathic and empathic people. 

Tonight would honestly be barely a blip on Anakin’s radar if it weren’t for Ahsoka being involved. He hates seeing her pull her limbs in as she walks beside him, her shoulders hunched as she tries to make herself seem small. That’s not the Ahsoka he knows. 

“We’re going soon,” he promises. “But I need to get to the security hub and wipe the footage, all right? Did you run into any droids?” 

“Um…” She just stares at him with big blue eyes, unsure. 

“Snips, this is important. Did you run into any droids?” 

He sees her pull herself together, the loose strands of her calm braiding together in the Force until she straightens up and walks with the calm, graceful posture of a soldier. “No. I didn’t see any, except the cleaners you took care of.” 

He nods. “Good. Then there’s just one last job.” 

They hurry through the Senate halls, and Anakin’s never seen the place completely empty — not for any Life Day in his memory. It’s all the Chancellor’s doing. He made the leave mandatory for everyone, even the general staff, and said that any essential business could be conducted virtually if necessary. The stress of the war was wearing everyone down, he said, and working oneself to the bone wasn’t a recipe for victory. When the measures were announced, Anakin got an earful from Padme about how the Senate was already ineffectual enough without giving them a two week vacation, but it’s certainly coming in handy for him and Ahsoka tonight. 

They reach the security hub without incident, without even running into any mouse droids, and Anakin moves to the door panel, intending to hack his way in, but the panel has already been destroyed by the cruel slash of a lightsaber. He exchanges a look with Ahsoka. “I think someone’s been here before us.” He unhooks his own saber, gripping it tightly in one hand. The hilt fits against his palm with the same practiced familiarity of a friend, and just holding it is reassurance enough. He slides his thumb against the button on the side of the hilt, and the saber burns to life, sky blue against the scarlet carpet of the corridor. 

Beside him, Ahsoka bites her bottom lip, her fangs peeking out, and takes out one of her sabers, flipping it into a backhanded grip as is her habit. It flares green with a golden edge to the corona of light that bleeds off it. “Do you think they’re still there?” 

“I don’t know.” He flexes his fingers against his saber’s hilt. “Wouldn’t that be convenient.” 

She gives him a look. “No, it wouldn’t be, Skyguy.” 

“Sure it would.” He grins at her. “Then you wouldn’t be implicated anymore.” Then he shoves the door open, charging into the dim room beyond it. He pivots in a complete circle, scanning the space and casting out his senses to see if there’s anyone living inside besides him and Ahsoka. Neither his eyes nor the Force tell him anything, and Ahsoka gives a small shake of her head when he glances at her for confirmation. 

“It’s just us,” she says, the glow from the holo screens lining the edges of the room reflected in her eyes. 

Anakin nods, still keeping his saber lit. The room is quiet. The only sound is the gentle rush of static, coming from the holo screens. They’re all filled with the tangled snow of static, and there’s a dark shape on the floor in front of them. The gray toned light bounces off a metal body, and a closer look reveals that it’s a security droid, with  a lightsaber cut across its midsection, nearly separating its waist from its legs. “Someone else already did our job for us,” Anakin murmurs, a hot burst of anger in his chest making his hand tighten around his saber. “ Fierfek ,” he hisses under his breath when his eyes fall on the restraining bolt fixed to the droid’s chest, the one that prevented it from leaving its post or defending itself. 

Ahsoka moves closer to him. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says, a bitter twist to his voice. He knows this isn’t the problem right now, but seeing it still burns. “Droids. We give them every piece of ourselves — emotions, loyalty, thought… We give them everything except freedom.” 

“But… they’re just droids.” 

He looks at her, and he can’t be angry. Because Ahsoka is Coruscanti, born on Shili or not. Of course she thinks that. “And Tatooians are just slaves.” 

She blanches. “That’s not what I meant —” 

“I know. But it comes to the same. R2’s not just a droid, is he? He’s a person. The only thing that separates him from that guy is this.” He crouches down, lightsaber held out to his side, and taps the restraining bolt. He sighs. “It’s not… Never mind. Come on, we have to hurry.” He stands up in one smooth motion and strides over to the main control panel. He jimmies it open, and the wires inside are torn and melted into an unrecognizable tangle. The physical backup drive is also broken. It looks like it was torn apart from the inside out, which is something only a Jedi could do. 

Or a Sith. 

“They destroyed everything,” Ahsoka says, looking over his shoulder. 

“Well, yeah.” Anakin shoves the panel shut, glad he thought to put on his gloves before he left Padme’s apartment. “Whoever it was didn’t want to be caught either.” 

She swallows. “Those feeds could’ve cleared me, couldn’t they?” 

Anakin shrugs. “Maybe. There aren’t cameras in the private offices. If the killer avoided the ones in the corridor and everywhere else, the only person on video would’ve been you.” Or if the killer hid themselves with the Force, he thinks. Ahsoka hasn’t gotten the hang on that yet — she’s got one of the loudest presences in the Force that he’s ever seen. It’s difficult for her to dim it. “We have to go.” 

“What are we going to do?” She follows him back out into the corridor. “They’re going to find Senator Taa’s body. There’s going to be an investigation.” 

“I know.” He pulls her close and quick marches down the hall, heading for the building’s covert exit, meant for senators trying to avoid the public’s eye. His speeder is there, waiting for them. “We’re going to join it.” 

Ahsoka drags her feet. “No? No, we’re not!” 

“We’re on leave , Snips. Who else are they going to ask? Everyone else is going to be busy fighting the kriffing war. It’ll be us, Obi-Wan, and whoever else is available.” 

“But if they think a Jedi did it, they’re not —” 

“The Council won’t stay out of this,” Anakin replies, ducking into an elevator and pulling Ahsoka with him. “Ground floor,” he says off handedly, and the elevator begins to descend. “They need the Senate just as much as the Senate needs them. They’ll be all over it. And no one’s going to think it’s a Jedi — not out loud anyway. They’ll say it must’ve been a Sith, and the Coruscant Guard and we Jedi will work together as a show of unity.” 

“What will they do when they can’t find who did it?” 

The elevator door opens and they hurry through the main atrium, with Anakin heading down a smaller side corridor that had the shadowed feel of an unfrequented place. “Well, unless Ventress or Dooku confess , there’s no real way to know for sure it’s them. And them infiltrating our Senate building to do nothing except kill the Rylothi senator isn’t going to satisfy anyone.” He sighs, swiping his hand in front of the panel set in the wall to open the door that lets out onto a disused side street that is halfway lost within the Senate complex. “That’s when the questions will start coming. And the accusations.”

“Against us?” 

He looks at her. “Against the whole Order. We need to figure it out before then.” He shivers, cold brushing him like an unfamiliar hand. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if the Senate decides that one of their number was murdered by a Jedi. 

“And if we don’t?” 

He pulls her close again and rests his chin in the space between her montrals, and a strange sort of purr rumbles in her throat, a togrutan way of showing affection. He didn’t know many togrutas before Ahsoka, but she’s made him an expert at translating their quirks, noises, and body language. He’s also learned that exposing his neck at all during an argument makes her think he’s conceding defeat, which is very annoying when he’s trying to convince her she’s being stupid and he tips his head back to the sky in exasperation. That usually leads to Ahsoka crowing about how she knew she was right and Anakin backtracking and trying to convince her that, no, he’s still the one who’s right. “We will, Snips. You and me.” 

“And Padme.” 

“Yeah.” Anakin blows air out between his lips, shaking his head. “Not going to be able to do it without her, to be honest. Come on.” He guides Ahsoka out into the side street, and she climbs into the speeder first, tucking herself low in the seat. Anakin sighs, scrambles in after her, and tugs gently on her padawan beads in an effort to cheer her up. There’s nothing more to do after that, except drive back to Padme’s apartment and desperately try not to run any red lights. The last thing he needs is Coruscanti law enforcement getting a picture of him and Ahsoka speeding away from the Senate building in the small hours of the morning. 

They use the docking platform attached to Padme’s penthouse, rather than the front floor. This is a long habit for Anakin, but as Ahsoka jumps out of the speeder, she gives him a dirty look. He has a moment to be relieved that she’s recovered enough to do this before she says, “So that’s why Padme had this installed. I always wondered.” 

Anakin’s cheeks grow hot, and he curses internally. He’s been fantasizing about a universe where he can tell Ahsoka and Obi-Wan about the best thing that ever happened to him, but he didn’t think it would come with so many awkward questions and so many meaningful looks from Ahsoka. 

It’s unseemly. She’s fourteen. She shouldn’t know enough about this yet to look at him with that teasing gaze. 

She seems to read his thoughts. “Rex told me.” 

“About what? Padme and I?”

“No.” She gives him a Look. 

“Oh. Oh. That. Kriff, well, I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

“Me too.” 

He glares at her. “Shut it, padawan.” 

“Will do, Master.”

“You’re back!” Padme dashes out onto the landing platform, regrettably still in her gauzy nightgown, although she’s pulled a dressing gown on over it. She throws her arms around Anakin, almost knocking him over. “I was so worried.” She goes to kiss him, her eyes flick over to Ahsoka, and she freezes. “Hello, Ahsoka.” 

Ahsoka folds her arms, leaning back. “Hi.” 

Padme slowly extracts herself from Anakin’s arms, clearing her throat and smoothing out her dressing gown. “Ani, I know I said I wanted children, but I think, um, I’ve changed my mind.” 

“Me too.” 

“Too late.” Ahsoka’s fangs peek over her lip as she smiles. “Padawans are like kids. Fives said so.” 

“Yeah, Fives says a lot of things.” 

“He’s usually right.” 

“That is demonstrably untrue.” 

“He said you and Padme were secretly married.” 

“What?” Anakin splutters, forgetting about Orn Free Taa for the moment. “How the kriff did he figure that?” 

“You lost it when you saw he had a pinup of Padme, and then you banned all pinups and posters from the 501st.” 

“There are pinups of me?” Padme has the gall to look flattered.

“Lots,” Ahsoka says. “They call you their Nabooian angel.” 

“Yeah, well, she’s my Nabooian angel,” Anakin retorts, putting a protective arm around Padme. “They can go jump in a Sarlaac pit.” 

“Ani,” Padme reproaches. Then she looks at Ahsoka again, whose face has gone closed and frightened again. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want to go back to the Temple,” she answers in a low voice. “What if they come for me? What if the Sith comes?” 

Padme glances at Anakin, a question in her gaze, and he rolls his eyes in response. Of course she’s not going back to the Temple. “Like kriffing hells I’m leaving you at the Temple,” he says grumpily. “You’re staying with us. Till this is all over.” 

A relieved smile stretches across her face. “Thanks, Skyguy."

Chapter Text

7 

Wake Up, I Brought Breakfast

It’s quite difficult, Anakin finds, to sleep when you’re separated from your wife (who you love very much and haven’t seen in over a month) by a gangly fourteen year old padawan who elbows people in her sleep. He’s somehow perched near the very edge of Padme’s massive bed, and Padme’s all the way on the other side. They’ve managed to find each other’s hands, and he’s got his fingers knitted between Padme’s, stretching his arm across Ahsoka to reach her.

It’s not so bad, really. It’s not often that Anakin has two of the people he considers family together in one place. It’s nice to not feel pulled in a hundred different directions for once. All his people — Padme, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan, the 501st, and the 212th — are on Coruscant. He never realizes how hard it is to breathe when everyone is all scattered until the rare times when everyone is together come.  

Once he gets to sleep, it’s lovely. Until the ear piercing ring of his communicator digs its way into his sleeping brain like a burrowing womp rat. Anakin growls, swears in Huttese, and slaps at the communicator. Half of his groggy mind is convinced it’s somehow his alarm, and the other half just wants to crush the source of the noise, communicator or not. 

“Make it stop,” Ahsoka groans, burrowing against his side. She’s never understood the concept of personal space, even when she hasn’t commandeered a large portion of his bed. 

Her montrals poking into his jaw wakes Anakin enough for him to realize it’s two communicators — his and Padme’s going off. Padme’s is even more annoying than his. Instead of the standard tone that comes with the communicators (Anakin’s tried to change his, but the Jedi aren’t allowed to because it’s “unbecoming”), hers sings out a tinny instrumental version of the Nabooian anthem. 

His lovely, wonderful, precious wife does nothing by halves, and that includes patriotism. 

“Padme,” he grunts, shaking her hand up and down in an attempt to wake her. “Padme, your comm.” 

“I’m gonna break it.” Ahsoka rolls over and tries to crawl across Padme to the comm on her bedside table, but Padme displays the fighting skills she learned as queen and holds Ahsoka off easily. She grabs her communicator with her eyes still shut. “Ani, answer yours. It’s probably important. Don’t accept it if it’s a holocall.” 

“I’m not stupid,” he mutters, reaching for his comm. His head spins, and he tumbles out of the bed, landing hard on the carpeted floor. “Ow. Shut up,” he says preemptively, because he sees Ahsoka leaning down in his peripherals, mouth open to say something mocking. She closes her mouth, looking disappointed. 

Clawing back to his feet, he fumbles for the communicator, answers it, and shoves it against his ear. “What?” he asks, with no preamble. In the background, he hears Padme talking to someone, far too coherently for a woman who got hardly any sleep last night. 

“Good morning to you too, Anakin,” says Obi-Wan bemusedly. 

Kriff. Anakin raises his eyes skyward and starts to hunt for his boots, which he kicked off earlier, right before he fell into bed. Ahsoka sits in the middle of the bed, watching him with interest. “Hi, Obi-Wan.” 

“You sound… pleasant.” 

“Well, it’s a beautiful morning.” Anakin catches Padme’s eye and mouths, Where are my boots? 

Padme, whose curls can only be described as a nest built by a deranged bird, points to the fresher attached to the bedroom, although Anakin doesn’t at all remember putting them in there. 

Who are you talking to? he mouths, pausing on his way to the fresher. 

Giving him an exasperated look, Padme holds the communicator away from her ear, covering the microphone, and says, “Riyo.” 

“Who?’ 

“ Senator Chuchi. ” 

“Why?” 

“Because she’s scared. The Coruscant Guard called her. About the body .” She gestures toward his comm. “Talk to Obi-Wan.” 

Ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach, Anakin plasters a smile on his face and says, “What makes you call so early, Obi-Wan?” Is it early? He’s lost all sense of time. 

“Leave’s over, I’m afraid. At least unofficially. Senator Taa’s been murdered.” 

Anakin pushes all the surprise he can muster into his voice. “What? Senator Taa?” Ahsoka gives him a wide eyed look and opens her mouth to form a question, but he shushes her with a tense wave of his hand, which makes her snarl at him. He’s inured to fangs at this point, so it doesn’t have the intended effect. 

“Yes. In the Senate building, sometime last night.” 

Anakin presses his lips together. “That’s insane.” There’s a chime in his ears, signaling that someone sent a message to his communicator. 

He pulls the communicator away from his ear for a second to check it, and it’s a text from Ahsoka that says, Be a better actor. 3/10. He gives her a Look, and she gives him one right back. Mouthing womp rat at her, Anakin puts the communicator back against his ear. “What’s going on? Does anyone know anything?” 

“The Coruscant Guard is already on the scene,” Obi-Wan says. “The Council has dispatched a complement of whatever Jedi were on leave to assist — there weren’t any on duty who were available.” He sighs. “We’re stretched thin, and now this. The Rylothi senator, dead in his office.”

“It’s terrible,” Anakin agrees, trying to pull on his boots without dropping the communicator. 

“It’ll be okay, Riyo,” Padme says, in a gentler and kinder voice than Anakin can currently, as she drops down to help him with his boots. “No — no, Riyo, stay in your apartments unless they call you. Don’t look into it. No, don’t . The Guard can handle it. Promise me, Riyo. Thank you.” She fastens up Anakin’s last boot. “Yes, bye. Stay in touch.” She hangs up then, sending Anakin a questioning look. He just shakes his head. 

“We’re needed at the Senate,” Obi-Wan goes on. “The Guard wants to interview all the senators who are still planetside, and the Council said they hinted at something concerning, that they didn’t want to discuss over comms.” 

Like how Orn Free was killed with a lightsaber? “Okay, I’m on my way,” he says, and Ahsoka, still sitting in the middle of the bed, lost in a nest of blankets, looks mildly panicked.

“No, not yet. We should check on Padme first. She’s still in the city, and I want to make sure she’s all right. Meet me at her apartment.” 

Anakin’s breath stalls in his throat. Frantically, he mouths to Padme, He’s coming here! To Obi-Wan he says, “Padme’s apartment?” 

“Yes. You do know the way, don’t you?” 

With his eyes shut. “Of course I know the way,” he says scathingly, trying to cover the panic in his voice. “I’m actually in the area right now. Ahsoka wanted to go out.” Padme is moving around the room like a whirlwind, collecting his sparse belongings, the ones he brought with him and the ones he keeps hidden at her apartment, and shoving them under the bed. Ahsoka helps, until she accidentally touches a set of his pajama shorts, shrieks, and retreats back to the bed. 

Is the speeder put away? Padme mouths urgently at him, pointing in the vague direction of the landing platform. 

Anakin rolls his eyes. Of course the speeder is away, locked in the enclosure that connects to the platform. Did she think he was going to leave that beauty, an antique that he augmented with cutting edge technology, out in the elements? Yes, he mouths back with an affronted air. 

“Good,” says Obi-Wan. “I’m nearly there. I’ve brought breakfast. We probably won’t get many chances to eat today.” 

Anakin freezes. “Okay. See you soon.” He hangs up before Obi-Wan has a chance to say goodbye. “He’s almost here. He brought breakfast.” 

Ahsoka’s eyes widen. 

Padme stands by the bed, one of his cloaks bundled in her arms. “Oh, kriff .”

Chapter Text

8 

Why Is Your Window Open, Padme? 

Padme’s standing out on the landing platform, checking to make sure the speeder is away, when she sees her husband leap out of her bedroom window and swan dive toward the street below. A moment later, Ahsoka follows, turning a somersault halfway down. 

She’s too used to the Jedi and their ways to be worried. That’s one way to get down there in time to meet Obi-Wan, she thinks, heading back inside. The wind outside is freezing cold, cutting through her dressing gown. Of course, Anakin and Ahsoka’s swift exit means she’s left to make the apartment presentable for Obi-Wan’s arrival, which means setting one of the cleaning droids Anakin brought back from the Senate on the dirt stains Ahsoka left on the carpet and the couch and bundling the last of Anakin’s things in a closet she never opens. 

She has time then to tie her dressing gown around herself to hide her nightgown, which is most definitely a my-husband-is-on-leave sort of nightgown, and try to rearrange her curls into something that doesn’t bring to mind a lightning struck long haired tooka. She’s just finishing fluffing her hair when her doorbell chimes softly.

Taking a deep breath, Padme heads to the door, but Threepio, who’s just come out of sleep mode, beats her to it. “Shall I see who it is, my lady?” he asks in his high strung way, each word carefully enunciated. 

Padme presses a hand against her chest. Calm, she tells herself. Be calm. You know how to keep secrets. Nothing’s changed. Except for the fact that Ahsoka knows. And except for the fact that the three of them are conspiring to cover up a murder, the investigation of which could lead to the destabilization of the relationship between the Jedi Order and the Senate, along with the entire war effort. 

Kriff, she’s glad Riyo told her about the murder. This way she has an excuse to seem frightened. “Yes,” she tells Threepio, dropping her hand back to her side. “It'll be Anakin and Ahsoka with Obi-Wan.” 

He pauses. “My lady… weren’t Master Ani and Lady Ahsoka already here? ” 

Padme waves a dismissive hand. “They jumped out the window, Threepio.” 

“Oh.” He processes this in his droid way for a moment. “Again?” 

“Yes. They left it intact this time, I see.” 

“That’s a small mercy,” he says primly and opens her door. 

It is those three on the other side, standing out in the hallway. Anakin’s hair is wind tousled, Ahsoka’s friendly smile is forced, and Obi-Wan is bemusedly holding a croissant, a disposable cup of caff, and flimsiplast bag.

“Oh, good morning! This is a surprise. What brings the three of you here?” She schools her expression into one of friendly confusion, stepping aside to give them room to enter. 

Obi-Wan comes in first, movements brisk as always, and Anakin and Ahsoka steal in after him, sending her frightened looks while his back is turned. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, Padme,” he says, worrying at the edge of the flimsi bag. “But there’s a situation at the Senate building.” 

“I already know,” she says, grateful for Riyo’s call. Now she doesn’t have to act surprised. “Senator Chuchi commed me a few minutes ago. Senator Taa’s been murdered, hasn’t he?” 

“I’m afraid so.” Obi-Wan looks serious. “Last night, in his office. The three of us came to check on you, and to tell you that the Coruscant Guard has summoned all the senators who were onworld last night to the Senate to be interviewed.” 

“Interviewed?” It’s only years of political experience that keeps the croak out of Padme’s voice. “Oh. Because we’re…” She doesn’t say the word suspects , but Obi-Wan intuits it anyway. 

“No, nothing like that,” he says, although Padme’s certain he’s telling a kind lie. Anakin’s tense expression behind him confirms her suspicion. “They only want to see if any of you have information regarding Taa’s death.” 

Or if any of you are a secret Sith, she adds silently. “I see.” 

“I brought breakfast,” Obi-Wan offers, holding up the bag. “I assume you haven’t had it yet.” 

I haven’t had sleep either. “Yes, thank you,” she says, as he pulls a honey infused croissant out of the bag and hands it to her. He also gives another croissant — the special Outer Rim kind that are filled with pureed grub — to Anakin, who almost brightens at the sight. He does love those disgusting things. He passes the last one to Ahsoka, and the rich tang of Shili spices fills Padme’s nose.

“It’s cold in here.” Obi-Wan steps past Padme, his cloak swishing around his legs, and Anakin locks eyes with Padme, urgent and questioning. 

What? she mouths, while Obi-Wan is preoccupied by dodging the cleaning droid that’s currently zig zagging across the carpet. 

The window, he mouths back. 

What? 

Window. Did you close the window? 

Padme stands with her mouth half open. Did she? Oh, kriff — 

She turns around just in time to see Obi-Wan peer down the hallway into her bedroom. The covers are trailing off her bed onto the floor in a waterfall of luxurious fabric, and right there, halfway under her bed, is the pauldron of Anakin’s armor, the Republic sigil painted on it in incriminating scarlet. Her heart rises into her mouth, and she looks at Obi-Wan, a hundred explanations crowding into her mind. Anakin starts reaching for his backup blaster. 

He’s going to stun him, isn’t he? Her husband is going to stun his former master, and she’s going to have to figure out what to do next, lest Anakin continue to wing it.

Then Obi-Wan says, “Why is your window open, Padme?” 

Ahsoka, who was anxiously biting into her croissant, chokes on a mouthful and doubles over in a fit of coughing, and Anakin hurriedly takes his hand away from his blaster.

Fighting down a fit of nervous laughter, Padme says, “Oh, it was, um, stuffy last night. Terribly so. Sabe turned the heating up before she left yesterday — she’s always cold — and I was suffocating, so I opened the window. I must have forgotten to close it.” 

“You’ll catch your death cold,” Obi-Wan says reproachfully, in the way that always reminds Padme that he essentially raised Anakin and has ingrained paternal tendencies. He heads into the bedroom before Padme can protest, and she supposes boundaries like that are blurred since the time Obi-Wan and Anakin both burst into her room in the middle of the night to save her from being assassinated.

She hurries after him, getting in front of the pauldron as quickly as possible, and Obi-Wan closes the window, shivering. While his back his turned, she kicks the armor under her bed, the sound of Ahsoka coughing still audible in the next room. 

“That’s better,” says Obi-Wan, checking to make sure the window is locked. He turns and looks at her earnestly, and Padme tries — really tries — to not think about how Anakin spent part of last night in the bed behind her, wearing little cotton shorts. “Please be more careful, Padme,” implores Obi-Wan. “Anyone with a speeder and some skill could’ve come in last night, and with Senator Taa…” 

He doesn’t have to finish. “I understand,” she says, feeling horribly guilty for keeping things from him. “I’ll make sure I’m secure from now on.” 

Relieved, he smiles. “Thank you. Try to pass on some of your good sense to my padawans, will you?” 

“Ahsoka’s my padawan, not yours!” comes Anakin’s indignant voice from the next room. 

“I will,” Padme says, wondering if last night counted as “passing on her good sense”. She thinks not. 

Obi-Wan nods. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, I suppose? Once you’re ready, we should head to the Senate.” 

“Of course.” Padme presses her lips together. Kriff, kriff, kriff. 

“Do you need your handmaidens?” 

“Oh, no.” She does not want to explain everything to Sabe and the others, not yet. “I won’t need their help — I don’t need a Senate gown, just something everyday.” 

“Nothing you have is everyday, Senator Amidala,” he says fondly. 

Nothing about today is everyday. “It’s called a fashion sense, Obi-Wan.” 

He smiles at her and leaves. Ahsoka’s finally stopped choking, and Obi-Wan stops beside Anakin, speaking quietly to him. 

Padme shuts her bedroom door, breathing out slowly. This is going to get complicated. 

Chapter Text

9 

Three Jedi, Two Senators, and One Droid in a Closet

Anakin is nursing a pounding headache from sleep deprivation, and it’s not made any better by being stuck in the Senate building. The Coruscant Guard ambushed them as soon as they arrived, shuffling Padme off to a room to wait for the interviews and herding Anakin, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and a few other Jedi who were on leave up to Orn Free’s office. 

The whole hallway has been blocked off with energy barriers and holographic crime scene tape. Anakin ducks through the bars of light that cover the senator’s door and swallows down a sigh. 

He was just here. 

It is spotless, though. He will give himself that — he can kriffing clean up a crime scene. He’s not certain it’s something he should be pleased about, but he’s pleased regardless. 

“As you can see,” Jorgenson, the head investigator, says, “whoever did this knew to clean up after themselves. We haven’t found any discernible biosignatures anywhere, and hardly any physical evidence.” He looks eminently displeased about this, and Anakin can’t help but feel a little guilty. Until he remembers the time Jorgenson called the clones “disposable”. The guilt swiftly fades after that. 

Looking at Orn Free’s body, tucked under a sheet, Anakin is glad that he made Ahsoka wait with Padme. She doesn’t need to see this again. Frankly, he’s not particularly interested in seeing it again, not after all the quality time he spent in this office last night. 

“I understand this is a case of great importance and sensitivity,” Obi-Wan says carefully, “but I do not understand why you called the Jedi in so quickly, before the preliminary investigation was even complete.” 

Oh, Anakin knows why. 

“I’m wondering the same thing.” Sian Jeisel, a devaronian Knight about Obi-Wan’s age, somehow manages to look challengingly at Jorgenson without actually changing her expression. It’s something to do with the way her canines are just visible behind her slightly parted lips, Anakin thinks.  

Instead of answering, Jorgenson nods to one of the other investigators, who stoops down and pulls back the sheet. 

Anakin tries to look as grave and shocked as everyone else does at the reveal of the bisected body. 

“Sith hells,” Obi-Wan hisses, and if he’s cursing, that means he’s seriously been thrown off kilter. During Anakin’s childhood, he adopted a no swearing policy to counteract Anakin’s habit of spewing Huttese profanity, and he never fully processed that Anakin grew up. Before acquiring Ahsoka, Anakin used to think it was annoying that Obi-Wan still saw him as a youngling, but that he has a stupid youngling of his own, he understands. 

“Ventress?” suggests Master Tholme tightly, arms folded across his chest. He’s the picture of a Jedi General, with his broad shoulders and scarred face. “Dooku does enjoy using her as his assassin, but I haven’t heard of any plans to infiltrate Coruscant from Quinlan’s spy network.” 

“There’s no way they breached our security measures,” Jorgenson says, snootily in Anakin’s opinion. 

“They wouldn’t have risked it even if they could,” Sian says with certainty. “Not unless they thought they could eliminate a high value target, like the Chancellor. And he wasn’t even on Coruscant last night.” 

“I agree,” Obi-Wan says. “Tragic as it is, Orn Free’s death won’t have any far reaching consequences to the war effort. The Ryloth offensive will continue, and the Rylothians will hold a special election for their next senator. Why would the Separatists risk one of the few Sith they have on their side to do something like this?”

Anakin swallows hard. He hadn’t thought of that last night. His brain runs through the new information with dizzying speed, propelled by adrenaline. By the time Jorgenson opens his mouth to speak again, Anakin already knows what he’s going to say. 

“The prevailing theory,” he says, “is that it was not a Sith who committed this crime.” 

“Who else carries a lightsaber?” Sian looks doubtful. 

Jorgenson just looks at them, until Obi-Wan says, “Oh, I see,” in the kind of voice that usually implies that whoever he’s talking to just lost his respect forever. 

“You suspect a Jedi,” Tholme says darkly, voicing what no one else wants to.

“I follow the evidence,” Jorgenson replies. “Either a Sith risked everything to somehow make it past our defenses, or a Jedi with the access and trust necessary to get into the building did this. Which seems more likely to you?” 

“We risk our lives every day on behalf of this Senate.” Tholme’s jaw works. “On behalf of the Republic. Yet you suspect us of murdering one of the people we serve?” He takes a step forward, but Obi-Wan lays a steadying hand on his arm. 

“Peace, Master Tholme,” he murmurs. To Jorgenson, he says, “Why have you called us here, if we are suspects?” 

“Because the Chancellor trusts the Jedi.” Jorgenson looks like he disagrees with the Chancellor. “He’s trying to keep this quiet to prevent a bloodbath in the media, and he believes that if one of your number did commit the crime, the rest of you will be relentless in searching them out. Is this true?” 

Anakin’s mouth is dry. He thinks of Ahsoka, and how she was the last Jedi known to be in the Senate last night. His stomach turns to lead. Jorgenson is right. The Jedi will be ruthless, but they will be careless too, some of them. The regard of the Chancellor is riding on this case, and if the Order loses his confidence, they lose the Senate. Just as Anakin suspected, closing this case will be the Order’s top priority, probably even if it means convicting the wrong person. 

“It’s true,” Sian says cuttingly. “We will help you find the killer. Jedi,” she adds with emphasis, “or not.” 

“Good.” Jorgenson smiles thinly. He nods to one of the other investigators, and they bring forward a clear bag. Inside it is a familiar object. Anakin only just manages to keep his horror from showing. 

It’s the caff cup Padme pushed into his hands last night. The one he left in the corner of the office and forgot about. 

Oh, kriff. He tries to tell himself it’s all right, because he wore gloves, and because the cup is self sanitizing, meaning his bio signature won’t be on it, even though he took a drink. But then Jorgenson holds the bag out to them and asks, “Is it true that Knight Vos is skilled in retrocognition?” 

“You’ve heard correctly,” Tholme answers. “He’s in the field right now, however.” 

“Recall him,” Jorgenson orders. “Tell him has Life Day leave. Special dispensation from the Chancellor.” He hands Tholme the caff cup. “We need to see what he can glean from this.” 

* * * 

Ahsoka can hardly breathe when the Coruscant Guards come to bring her and Padme to the room set aside for interviews. She prides herself on being strong, unshakable in a crisis, because she’s a soldier, which means she needs to be that way. But she’s terrified now, and she can’t control that. It’s not so much the murder that’s shaken her. It’s more the idea that the Jedi Order that she loves, that she respects, that she’s sworn herself to, would sell her out for political expediency.

Subtly, she moves closer to Padme, who is wearing a simple — well, what counts as simple for Padme — day dress. It’s a floor length dark red gown, with long, flowing sleeves that have cutouts, exposing her shoulders. Catching Ahsoka’s movement, Padme flashes her a reassuring sort of smile, the jewels from the diadem she wears trailing down the middle of her forehead and twinkling in the light. 

A distance between them, one Ahsoka didn’t realize was there until it was gone, has disappeared, and she thinks it’s because Padme’s no longer keeping secrets from her. 

Secret marriage aside, Anakin and Padme are the two people Ahsoka trusts the most — besides Rex and the rest of the 501st. Whatever the Jedi Order and the Senate do or don’t do, she knows they’ll never betray her for anything.

They arrive at a conference room with wide windows that look out over the skyline. Ahsoka can see the Jedi Temple in the distance, which doesn’t help the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Already seated in the chairs lining the long, ornate table are several senators. She recognizes them — Riyo Chuchi, Mon Mothma, Onoconda Farr, and Bail Organa. 

Adrenaline stabs Ahsoka when she sees him, and he lifts his eyes to look at her, brow creased with worry. 

He knows. Kriff, he knows. He knows that I went to his office. She holds his gaze and manages a tiny shake of her head. Please, Senator Organa. Please. 

He doesn’t say anything, and across the room, with Obi-Wan and the other Jedi, Anakin is watching him too. She feels his anxiety through their bond, like a noise that sets her teeth on edge. The wheels in his brain are turning, working through potential plans — she can tell that just by looking at him. 

“Please take a seat,” a guard tells Padme, gesturing to the table. Glancing at Senator Organa as well, Padme slips into a chair beside Senator Chuchi, who immediately takes her hand in a death grip, her golden eyes wide and anxious. 

At a signal from the same guard, Ahsoka hurries to join the Jedi, squeezing in between Anakin and Obi-Wan. Her croissant from earlier has turned sour in her stomach, and she fights the urge to drop her chin to her chest, protecting her throat as though she’s in a physical fight. 

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice and interrupting your holiday recess,” one of the guards, with the red bars on a commander on his uniform, says. “I am Commander Jorgenson, the lead investigator in this case. As you have been told or have heard, Senator Orn Free Taa was murdered last night, in this very building. You have been called here because all of you were present in the Senate yesterday and were still on world when the senantor was murdered.” 

“Are you saying we’re suspects? ” Senator Chuchi asks. 

“Of course that’s what he’s saying,” Senator Mothma says in a clear, calm voice that Ahsoka envies. “It’s only logical.” 

“We’re only gathering the facts,” Jorgenson says. “None of you are suspects. We are simply trying to eliminate people and create a picture of what happened yesterday.” 

“Of course,” Padme says, hands folded in front of her. Her back is straight, and she shows no sign of being worried. “Please ask as many questions as you need to, Commander.” 

Jorgenson dips his head in acknowledgement. “Let’s begin then with you, Senator Amidala. Can you tell me what you did yesterday and where you were at the time of the murder?” 

“Gladly,” Padme says, still with infinite poise. “I spent most of the day in the Senate, finalizing things for my upcoming leave. I also met with the war committee to hear General Kenobi and General Skywalker’s update on the Ryloth front, and then I returned to my apartment, where I remained the whole night.” 

“Kenobi, you and Skywalker were in the Senate yesterday?” Jorgenson turns toward the Jedi with an accusing air. Ahsoka forces herself not to shrink under his gaze. “When were you going to find the time to tell me?” 

“Many Jedi were at the Senate yesterday,” Obi-Wan answers calmly. “As there are every day. The Temple will send you documentation that will clear all of them, including Anakin and I.” He carefully doesn’t mention Ahsoka, and of course he wouldn’t, because he lost track of her in the Senate. He’ll assume Anakin knows where she was, or someone else, and he’ll gather that information once the Coruscant Guard isn’t breathing down their necks. 

It won’t even cross his mind that Ahsoka is involved. 

“I see,” Jorgenson says, somehow still managing to sound like he suspects each and every one of them of murder. He refocuses on Padme, who looks back at him implacably. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts last night, Senator?” 

“My handmaidens,” Padme answers without hesitation. “Sabe Amidala in particular will vouch for me, as she spent the night to keep me company. My handmaiden Dorme helped me prepare for bed last night, so you may speak to her as well.” 

Jorgenson nods. “We’ll be doing that.” He pivots again, facing Senator Organa, who has finally managed to tear his eyes away from Ahsoka. “What about you, Senator Organa? Where were you last night?” 

Ahsoka holds her breath. He can end everything right here and right now. All he has to do is say he was with Ahsoka, until she went to see Senator Taa alone. 

“I spent the day in the Senate building,” he begins. “The same as Padme. Later in the day, I came across Padawan Tano having a disagreement with Senator Taa.” 

Ahsoka curls her hands into fists. Almost imperceptibly, Anakin moves closer to her. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Senator Organa incriminates her, but she’s certain he won’t abandon her. Beside her, Obi-Wan sends her a sideways look, a silent question in his eyes. 

“Padawan Tano?” Jorgenson looks at her, and Ahsoka looks blankly back. “What happened after that?” 

“I intervened when Senator Taa became inappropriately aggressive,” Senator Organa continues, “and took Padawan Tano back to my office to wait for General Skywalker. I had a few tasks left to complete before I left, and she graciously agreed to help me. When her master stopped by later, I told him I would escort her home when we were finished and thanked him for lending me his padawan.” 

Cold crawls over Ahsoka’s skin, combined with a flare of desperate gratitude for Senator Organa. He’s lying to them. He’s lying to them, very carefully, for her.  

“After we finished, I returned her to her master’s care and went home to my Coruscant apartment, where I holocalled with my wife until I went to bed. My bodyguards will tell you I didn’t leave my apartment again until you called me this morning.” 

“I see,” says Jorgenson. “What about you, Padawan Tano? Where did you go after Senator Organa left you?” 

Her mouth is drier than Shili dust. She forces herself to swallow and says, “My master met me, and we went to —” she nearly says they went to the Jedi Temple, but the records won’t corroborate that “— the barracks to spend time with our battalion.” And now she’s dragged the whole 501st into this. All her muscles are tense knots. 

“I can vouch for her,” says Anakin easily, as if Jorgenson isn’t pinning Ahsoka down with his gaze. “So can Captain Rex. 

He can? Ahsoka keeps her face neutral with difficulty. 

“He and I went over mission reports late into the night, and Snips fell asleep in the middle of it.” Anakin chuckles, and it’s almost scary how good he is at lying. “Left us to do all the work.” 

“You seem to have it all laid out,” Jorgenson says. 

“Are you trying to imply something, Commander?” Obi-Wan asks, in an overly warm, friendly voice. “I already told you the Order is happy to cooperate, and General Skywalker and his padawan have answered your questions.” He smiles, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What else do you wish us to do?” 

Jorgenson presses his lips into a thin line, reading in between the lines of Obi-Wan’s question. “Nothing beyond what you’ve already agreed to,” he says tightly. “At least for now.” 

Obi-Wan dips his head. “We’re at your disposal.”

Nodding, Jorgenson begins to question the other senators, who all have similar alibis to Padme and Senator Organa. Ahsoka only half listens, her mind whirling. Of course Rex will lie for Anakin. That’s not even a question. But Senator Organa is protecting her too? Why? 

When the senators finish recounting the previous day, Jorgenson dismisses everyone, with stern warnings to remain available by comm and not leave Coruscant until he verifies their alibis. The Guard leaves then, and the senators disperse, along with the Jedi. 

“I’ll head back to the Temple and update the Council,” Obi-Wan says when they’re out in the hall. “Sian, tell Master Gallia that we need her to liaison with the Senate and try to get out ahead of this thing.” 

“No one knows how he died, though,” Sian points out. 

“They will,” Tholme interjects grimly. “You can’t keep a thing like this quiet for long. And the way Jorgenson questioned Ahsoka and Anakin is going to plant suspicions in the senators' heads — we’re lucky it was mostly our allies in there, and not one of the anti-Jedi representatives. That should keep a lid on this for longer.” 

“Got it,” Sian says,  hurrying off. 

“I’ll recall Quinlan,” Tholme says. He sighs. “He’s not going to be happy about this. Last I heard, he was making inroads with the Separatists — thought he was going to get good info soon. Maybe even access to Ventress. Wouldn’t that be wonderful.” 

“Only Quin would be upset about coming home,” Obi-Wan says. “Even Anakin likes being on leave.” 

Ahsoka thinks she finally knows why that is. She glances over at Padme, who has joined them on the pretext of speaking with Obi-Wan, but she gives nothing away when Ahsoka meets her gaze. Senator Organa is behind her, talking to Senator Mothma. 

She needs to find a way to talk to him — thank him, explain, something. 

“Could General Skywalker perhaps escort me home?” asks Padme. “I sent Captain Panaka ahead to Naboo, since I planned to leave today.” She dazzles everyone with a bright smile that gives away none of her anxiety. “I think he’d have a heart attack if he knew I went through the city alone after something like this.”

Anakin answers before Obi-Wan can. “Yes, of course. Ahsoka and I will take you.” 

Obi-Wan sighs. “I suppose I can get the records together for Commander Jorgenson on my own.” 

“I thought so,” Anakin says, clapping Obi-Wan on the shoulder. “Come on, Snips. We can catch a transport back to the Federal District.” He hustles them off then, perhaps a bit faster than necessary. 

Once they’re alone, he breathes out a massive puff of air and pauses to slump against the wall. “That was so much worse than going into battle. Padme, are your handmaidens going to be on board with this?” 

“I’ll comm Sabe to let her know the Guard is coming,” she says. With a toothy smile, she adds, “My handmaidens would help me cover up a murder I was actually involved in, Ani. What about Captain Rex? Is he going to go along with your story?” 

“That’s where I’m heading right after I drop you off.” Anakin runs a hand through his hair. “I’m never going to hear the end of this. Luckily the 501st know how to keep their mouths shut,” he says, “because it’ll be all around the battalion in a day. Rex won’t keep secrets from them.” 

“They’re not going to go to the Guard?” Ahsoka asks, her unsteady pulse thumping in her montrals. “They’re loyal to the Republic, so they —” 

“They’re loyal to you and I,” Anakin interrupts. “Not the Republic. Not the Order.” 

“But —” 

“Snips, Rex has been lying for me almost since I’ve known him. He knows about Padme. Who do you think covered for me all the times I snuck off to see her when we were in between missions, or when I holocalled her during deployment?” 

“Oh.” A lot of things Rex has said to Obi-Wan and the other Jedi recontextualizes itself. “Kriff, he’s a good liar.” 

“Language,” Padme admonishes, as if she hasn’t done her fair share of swearing in the last twelve hours. “If Rex and Sabe have our backs, what about Bail?”

Anakin shakes his head. “Yeah, he really pulled us out of the fire. I thought it was all over until he —” 

“Until I what?” As if summoned by their discussion, Senator Organa appears around the corner behind them, brown eyes scrutinizing them. 

“Bail.” Padme whirls around, her voice going up an octave. “We were just —” 

“I covered for Ahsoka because I can’t believe she would hurt anyone,” he interrupts, holding up one hand. “But I want an explanation, or I’ll tell the Guard everything.” 

“Here?” Padme manages. “Right now?” 

Senator Organa just looks at her, immovable as a mountain. 

“Fine,” Anakin snaps at length, looking both ways up and down the hallway. “But not out in the open.” He crosses the corridor and yanks open the door to a maintenance closet. “Everyone, in.” 

“Pardon me?” asks Senator Organa. “Are you asking the prince consort of Alderaan to get into a closet? ” 

“Yep.” Anakin waves him forward. “Get in.” 

“Are you going to murder me?” 

“Only if you annoy me.” 

The senator seems to accept this and steps inside the closet. Anakin hurriedly pushes Ahsoka and Padme in after him and ducks inside him, pulling the door shut. Everyone crowds inside, awkwardly close together and choking on the smell of the cleaning solution the janitor droids use on the floors. Ahsoka is crammed in between Padme and Senator Organa, and Anakin is pushed up against the door. 

“All right,” he says. “No one should find us in here — Padme and I always —” 

“ Ani .” Padme’s voice holds miles of warning, and she gestures toward Ahsoka. “She doesn’t want to know about this.” 

“Oh, kriff, is this your makeout closet?” Ahsoka grimaces. “Gross.” 

“I see we’re not even trying to keep this part a secret,” says Padme under her breath. “Almost a whole year with no one finding out, and now two people in the span of a night.” 

“This part I already knew,” says Senator Organa. “I never was able to congratulate you, Padme. Breha and I are very happy for you and General Skywalker.” 

“How do you know about that?” Anakin splutters. 

The senator gives him a fond look. “I’m no stranger to hiding a relationship,” he says, referring to how he and Queen Breha had to keep their romance a secret until shortly before their formal engagement. “I know the signs.” 

“Oh, great,” Anakin says, while Padme pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Does anyone else know?” 

“Breha’s family. And mine.” 

“Oh, so only two clans. Nice.” 

“We don’t keep secrets.” 

“I can tell.” 

“Can we get back to the point?” Ahsoka asks in a small voice. She’s started to get claustrophobic. “I didn’t kill Senator Taa, Senator Organa.” 

“You were the last one here, little one,” he says, but there isn’t doubt in his voice. He doesn’t truly suspect her. 

“I went to his office, to apologize like you said. I didn’t want my master to get into trouble because of me. But when I came in, he was already dead, and then I panicked and knocked things over and left my bio signature everywhere, and so I went to Padme, and Anakin was there, and I told them everything, and Anakin helped me clean everything up because he said the Senate and the Order would use me as a scapegoat.” She takes a deep breath and looks at Anakin. “Is that everything?” 

“Yeah,” he says, looking impressed. “Except for the dead droid in the security station.” 

Senator Organa regards that all with a mixture of annoyance and incredulity. “You disturbed the integrity of the crime scene?” he demands. Turning to Padme, he adds, “And you allowed this?” 

“Whoever it was didn’t leave any evidence,” Anakin says. “I looked. They knew what they were doing, and they didn’t even leave an impression behind in the Force, which most murderers do — they can’t help it. It might not reveal who they are, but it will be there. But there was nothing in Taa’s office, except all the excuses the Senate needed to throw Ahsoka in jail for the rest of her life.” 

The senator considers this. “Do you have any idea who did it?” 

“A powerful Sith,” Anakin says immediately. 

“It couldn’t possibly be a Jedi?” 

Anakin’s eyes are dark. “Anyone who does that isn’t a Jedi anymore, Bail. And the Jedi have their faults, but there is no one in my Order who would do this. Not a single one of them.” 

“You can’t approach a murder like this,” Senator Organa says. “You can’t rule anyone out unless they have an alibi or couldn’t logically have done it.” His gaze is deadly serious. “This must be finished properly, even if it was begun… just begun horribly .” 

“I said I was sorry,” Ahsoka mutters. “Thank you for covering for me, Senator Organa,” she adds more respectfully, sending a small smile up at him. 

The senator smiles back. “Call me Bail, little one. Now that we’re sharing an illegal secret and lying to the Senate, Jedi Order, and Guard together, I think we should be on a first name basis.” 

She grins at that, even though the prospect of hiding this from all those entities is terrifying. 

“Now that all our secrets are laid bare,” Padme says in an irritated, sleep deprived voice, “can we please get out of the closet?” 

Anakin starts to say something, then stiffens. “Wait,” he hisses, holding out a staying hand. Ahsoka tenses too, casting out her senses in the Force. It’s a mere second before she notices what Anakin did. 

Obi-Wan’s presence, coming down the hallway. It’s warm and brings to mind a steadily flowing river, dappled with light. It’s also filled with purpose, inexorably heading down the corridor toward their closet, intent on its closed door. 

He knows they’re in here. He’s sensed them, because Ahsoka hasn’t yet learned to conceal her presence, and Anakin didn’t bother because he thought they weren’t being followed by any Jedi. 

“Oh, Sith cursed hells ,” Anakin whispers, eyes widening. “How am I going to explain this to —” 

“That’s it.” Padme lurches forward just as Obi-Wan reaches the door. She drags it open, revealing his blankly stunned face and pulls him inside. He lets out a muted yell, and R2, who was trundling along behind him, rolls in after him, beeping bemusedly. 

“What are you doing , Padme?” Obi-Wan reels against a rack of cleaning supplies, looking first at Padme and then at Anakin, Bail, and Ahsoka. There's a long, uncomfortable pause. “Why are all of you in the closet together?” he asks slowly.

“Um…” Anakin looks like a child caught in wrongdoing. Ahsoka reflects that he’s wonderful at lying to Obi-Wan, unless Obi-Wan bothers to question him, even the slightest bit. “Would you believe Padme and Bail were showing us the impressive array of cleaning products the Senate uses?” 

Obi-Wan looks at him like he’s regretting every single one of his life choices. “No, I wouldn’t.” 

There’s another very long silence, during which Anakin’s hand slips over to his blaster again. A hard look from Padme pulls him up short, and he never draws it.

Finally, R2 beeps, They’re covering up the murder, you fripping idiot. 

“We’re not covering it up,” Padme amends desperately, wringing her hands. “We’re protecting Ahsoka.” 

Obi-Wan blinks a few times. “But she was in the barracks last night.” 

“That’s not, um…” Anakin clears his throat. “That’s not strictly true. From any point of view.” 

“Anakin…” 

“She… well, she…” 

“She stumbled across Orn Free’s dead body, contaminated the scene, and came to us for help,” Padme says in a rush. “Anakin cleaned it up to protect her.” 

“ Anakin .” 

“What was I supposed to do?” 

“Come to me for help!” 

“I wasn’t even in the Temple, and you know what you would’ve said.” 

“The barracks are two steps away from the Temple, you could have —”

“I wasn’t in the barracks!” 

“But you said…” Obi-Wan looks back and forth between Anakin and Padme, and Padme raises her eyes to the ceiling in a this might as well happen kind of way. “Oh. You were with Padme last night.” 

“No,” Anakin says reflexively. 

Obi-Wan just looks at him. “I already knew, Anakin. About you and Padme. I’ve known since Geonosis.” 

“Of course you did.” Padme looks like she might cry. 

“Given that you practically kissed each other right behind me after we dueled Count Dooku, I’d be hard pressed not to notice. Not to mention how Anakin is always ready to drop everything the second you’re in danger. Not to mention that you still wear the japor snippet he carved you. Not to mention the time I found one of Anakin’s cloaks in your office. It was all very obvious.” 

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” Anakin’s voice is choked, and Ahsoka hears months of built up fear in it. 

“I couldn’t ,” Obi-Wan snaps, glaring at Anakin. “You think I wanted to take that away from you, after everything? All I could do was pretend ignorance, lest we both get ejected from the Order. I could barely admit it to myself, much less to the Council.” 

Anakin meets Obi-Wan’s eyes balefully, but Ahsoka can feel his fear through the Force. If Anakin cares what anyone thinks, he cares what Obi-Wan thinks, and Obi-Wan has a responsibility to convey this information — about the marriage and the murder —  to the Council. The question is will he honor the responsibility, or his friendship with Anakin?  

“Are you going to tell people?” asks Padme, in a carefully measured voice. 

“About what?” Obi-Wan looks at her, almost sardonically. “The murder you covered up, or the illicit affair?” 

“Marriage,” Bail corrects helpfully. When four pairs of eyes turn on him, he shrinks back apologetically. “Never mind.” 

“Oh, wonderful ,” Obi-Wan says. “A marriage. Now it’s binding .” 

“Kriff, yes, it’s binding!” Anakin draws himself up to his full height, which is several inches taller than Obi-Wan. “I love her. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I still do. And nothing — not the Jedi, not their rules — is going to make me believe that’s wrong.” 

His words hang in the air, defiant and explosive. Obi-Wan’s jaw works, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Well?” Anakin demands, his anger giving him confidence Ahsoka knows he doesn’t feel. “Are you going to shout it from the rooftops? Are you going to let Ahsoka go down for something she didn’t kriffing do?” Obi-Wan hesitates, and Anakin’s brow lowers. “If you expose us, I’ll tell them all about how Korkie Kryze is your son, not Satine’s nephew.” 

Obi-Wan turns white. “How the frip do you know about that?” he spits. 

Anakin falters a little. “Well, I didn’t know for sure until just now,” he admits. “But I suspected because I used my brain. He looks just like you, Obi-Wan, come on!” 

“So you’re blackmailing me?” 

“No.” Padme steps forward, sending a quelling look in Anakin’s direction. “We’re asking you to help us. Please, Obi-Wan. You know Ahsoka’s innocent. You know Anakin is the best Jedi there is, married or not. Please. Help us find who really killed Orn Free” 

Obi-Wan is quiet again, but his presence in the Force has become a raging river, rapids flowing over sharp rocks. Then he says, “I’ll do it. But we’re doing it my way.”

Chapter Text

10 

We’re Still in This Closet 

In the back of his mind, Anakin still thinks Padme should’ve let him stun Obi-Wan, but the rest of him is dedicated to trying to process the fact that Obi-Wan knew . He knew, all this time, about Anakin’s love for Padme, about their relationship. And he didn’t tell anyone, even though he was on the Council and even though as his former padawan, Anakin’s adherence or lack of adherence to the Jedi Code was technically his responsibility. 

“Do you have a plan of action?” asks Obi-Wan. He’s got that particular look on his face — the one he has when he’s decided to take everything in stride. From what Anakin’s heard, he learned that approach as a survival tactic while he was Qui-Gon’s apprentice. “A vague outline? Anything?” 

“Stay out of jail?” Ahsoka offers. When Obi-Wan looks at her like he wants to take her back to the creche with a return slip stuck to her forehead, she looks down and says, “No, not so much.” 

Obi-Wan raises his eyes to the ceiling, in imitation of Padme earlier. “You’re neck deep in this, and you don’t have a plan? ” 

“We know what we want to do,” Padme says defensively, clearly insulted at being lumped together with Anakin and Ahsoka. “We just don’t have a clear idea of how. Yet.” 

Obi-Wan presses his hands together and speaks slowly, as though he thinks they might misunderstand otherwise. “When you cover up a murder, you want to have a clear plan for getting yourself out of the mess .” 

“It’s not like we had a lot of time to decide what to do!” Anakin protests. 

I think we should kill Jorgenson, R2 says cheerfully, making everyone look at him askance. 

“We’re not killing a commander of the Coruscant Guard!” Obi-Wan says, banging R2’s dome. 

“Don’t be stupid, R2,” Anakin says, shaking his head. “They’d figure out it was us. What we need to do is discredit him so he —” 

“We’re not doing that either!” Padme glares at Anakin, and he lifts his hand in surrender. “We’re not doing anything else illegal.” 

“Except…” Ahsoka ventures slowly, and everyone looks at her. She bites her lower lip. “The caff cup that they found in Senator Taa’s office. The one they’re taking to Knight Vos.” 

“Oh, kriff.” Obi-Wan slumps back against the wall. “I’d forgotten about that.” He fixes Anakin with a Look, the same Look that he used when Anakin was a padawan. It has even less of an effect now than it did then. “Anakin, you idiot .” 

“I’m not the one who made the caff,” Anakin retorts, transferring Obi-Wan’s look to Padme, who looks highly affronted. 

“It was late!” she says, folding her arms in an elegant swish of silky fabric. “You were asleep on your feet, and I was anxious, and it seemed like the thing to do. The wife thing to do.” She manages to say it in a way that makes Anakin feel guilty enough to want to crawl into a hole in the ground. “You’re the one who left it in the office.” 

Anakin considers this for a moment and decides that his best course of action is to blame Ahsoka. “Snips! Why didn’t you tell me I left the cup?” 

She is having none of it. “Because I thought my master was smart enough to keep track of his own caff.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, so he plows forward. “We need to get that cup back. As soon as Quinlan gets his hands on it, he’s going to know that I was in that office. Who took it back to the Temple?”

“Tholme did,” Obi-Wan says, tugging at his beard, which is a sure sign he’s starting to lose his calm. “He said he was going to lock it up in one of the science labs until Quin came back.” 

“Great.” Anakin rolls his shoulders. “I’ll get in there and steal it back.” 

“You can’t do that,” says Bail, speaking up for the first time. “The Guard already suspects the Jedi, don’t they? They’re looking for an excuse to investigate the Temple. I know Jorgenson, and he has connections with anti-Jedi senators. They’ll be pulling the strings on this, and nothing would be better for their narrative than a crucial piece of evidence going missing from Jedi custody. Even better, it would serve as confirmation that a Jedi did commit the crime, because who else would be able to access a secure lab?” 

Anakin grimaces, resting his hand on the hilt of his lightsaber for comfort. Bail’s right. If the cup goes missing, Jorgenson will focus all his efforts on pinning the crime on a Jedi. “So what are we going to do?” 

Kidnap Quinlan, R2 suggests. 

“How is that better?” asks Obi-Wan in a long-suffering voice. “How is murdering a Jedi in the Temple not going to throw more suspicion onto the whole Order?”

Spoilsport, replies R2 with a high pitched whine. 

“We can’t let him read the memories in that cup,” Padme says, and her tone makes Anakin remember that it’s a caff cup they share. Quinlan definitely can’t get a hold on it. Being thrown out of the Order aside, Quinlan will never let him hear the end of it if he finds out about Padme through the memories in the cup. 

“I’ll talk to Quin.” Obi-Wan shuts his eyes briefly, probably wandering exactly what he did to deserve this. “He’ll listen to me.” 

“Oh, great, so more people can know.” Anakin rolls his eyes. “Two clans, one battalion, one senator, and two other Jedi are now in on this.” 

And two droids, R2 adds. 

“I haven’t told my extended family yet ,” Bail points out. 

“It won’t be long before Quin gets back,” says Obi-Wan doomishly. “It’s not like he has a battalion to gather or anything. Just him.” He takes a deep breath. “All right. I’m going to the Temple to get the documentation together for Jorgenson. As soon as Quin’s back, I’ll get him on our side. You two,” he goes on, stabbing a finger toward Anakin and Ahsoka, “get to the barracks and get your story straight. Then send the testimonies to me so I can get them to the Guard. Try not to create any more messes on your way.” 

Anakin gives Obi-Wan a sour look. “Fine.” 

“I’m going to investigate Orn Free,” says Padme, a statement that sends a stab of adrenaline through Anakin. Does she always have to put herself right in the center of the action? He’s going to go gray before his time at this rate. “I’ll try to figure out why a Sith would be interested in killing him. Versé can see if there’s any data left on the motherboard you brought home — maybe there’s something there that can help us.” 

“ You have Orn Free’s holoscreen data? ” Obi-Wan asks, aghast. 

“I broke it,” Ahsoka says, looking shamefaced. “And got my bio signature all over it.” 

Obi-Wan puts his head in his hands. 

“We should also speak to Koyi, Orn Free’s aide,” says Bail, who appears to be fully onboard with their illegal endeavors. “The reason he was at the Senate so late was that he missed an early morning meeting because of scheduling mishap, and since Koyi scheduled it, she might know something about it.” 

“Yes, do that.” Obi-Wan looks relieved to have someone relatively levelheaded on their team. “And, for the love of the Force, don’t do anything stupid until I come back with the cup. Please?” 

“No promises,” Anakin says, opening the closet door.

Chapter Text

11

Senators, Not Rock Climbers 

Padme gives the faux cliff face rising up in front of her a dubious look. She’s changed into what Anakin fondly calls her “adventuring outfit”, so climbing the wall won’t be a problem, dress wise. However, that doesn’t change the fact that Padme’s physical skills lie more in marksmanship and Nubian martial arts. Climbing has never been her strong suit. Sure, she managed to get to the top of a stone pillar in the Geonosian arena, but she’d been motivated by a monstrous beast snapping at her heels. And she’d still gotten a set of scars across her lower back for her troubles, which means every time she wears a midriff revealing clothing out in public, she’s besieged by politely horrified exclamations of “What happened to you?” from strangers. 

Needless to say, ever since Geonosis, she’s disliked heights and climbing even more than she did in the years before it. “Are you positive Koyi came here?” she asks Bail. 

Bail, who, despite growing up on a mountainous planet, shares her negative feelings toward heights, frowns at the climbing gym. It’s run by twi’leks, and it’s named the Ryloth Experience, since its manufactured red cliffs and gorges are meant to simulate the planet’s terrain. The ceiling is made of glass so that the sun streams through it, bathing the fake stone in warm light. 

It’s pretty, but apparently Koyi is somewhere in here, climbing. And no matter how many times the proprietors tell Padme that the antigravity belt encircling her waist will catch her if she falls, they still have to free climb a kriffing cliff to get to Koyi. 

“Her friends say the is her favorite spot,” he says. “And the owners say she’s here.” 

“And I just saw her,” Padme says gloomily, pointing at a twi’lek who’s halfway up the cliff face. She recognizes the girl from the picture the Senate had on file, and her sunshine yellow skin and slight form make her stand out. She swears in Huttese, and Bail side eyes her. 

“Did you learn that from General Skywalker?”

“His mother,” she answers, striding toward the cliff. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to meet it head on and stare it down until it blinks. It takes her a moment to figure out the handholds, but the cliff isn’t meant to be as difficult to climb as a natural one. It’s probably easy for a twi’lek like Koyi, but all the handholds do for Padme is stop it from being quite so impossible. 

The special gloves given to her by the Corellian running the front desk give her extra grip, stopping her from slipping and allowing her to climb with less fear of losing her grip. She’s still terrified, obviously, but at least she can assure herself it’s irrational, which is a small comfort. 

Bail is right beside her as she climbs. It’s clear he as more experience than she does, even if it’s also clear he hates it. Rather than looking down, Padme keeps her eyes fixed on the twi’lek above them, who effortlessly scrambles higher, her bare feet gripping the rock with practiced ease. 

Usually, Padme likes Rylothians. They’re tough and family oriented and don’t let anyone mess with them. Today, however… Today she hates them. 

Ten feet below Koyi, her foot slips, and she lets out an involuntary shriek, pressing against the wall to regain her balance. That catches Koyi’s attention. She peers down at them, deep brown eyes puzzled. “Sen…Senator Amidala? Senator Organa?” 

“Hello,” Bail manages, groaning as he pushes up on Padme’s back, giving her enough support to allow her to get past a particularly finicky part of the climb. “How are you this fine day?” 

Koyi keeps looking at them, her lekkus hanging over one shoulder as she tilts her head. “I’m well,” she says, clearly attempting formality. Padme admires her for it, because she imagines it’s difficult to do when you’re currently hanging off a cliff. 

“That’s wonderful,” Bail says, panting. 

Koyi clears her throat. “How are you, Senator Organa?” 

“I’m doing quite well,” he answers, the last word turning to a grunt when he hauls himself higher. 

There’s a short silence, and Koyi asks tremulously, “And you, Senator Amidala?” 

Maybe Anakin is rubbing off her, but Padme’s in no mood to be senatorial. “Fantastic,” she snaps, pulling herself up onto a thin ledge and balancing there shakily. 

“Senator Organa?” 

“You already asked him!” 

“May we speak to you, Koyi?” calls Bail in a friendly voice that’s the tonal opposite of Padme’s. “About Senator Taa?” 

Koyi almost loses her footing, sending loose scree raining down on Padme’s head. “No,” she blurts out. “I mean — I’m sorry, but, no. I have to go.” She starts to climb again, this time far more quickly. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Padme forgets her fear and lurches after her, hurtling up the cliff. If she stops to think about what she’s doing for one second, she’s going to fall, so she keeps her mind carefully blank. That’s where the annoyance comes in handy. She catches up with Koyi just past a wide ledge that’s meant to act as a rest point. 

“Let me go!” Koyi kicks, but Padme hangs on grimly. Being in politics since she was a child has taught her persistence. 

“Let us talk to you, or I’ll make both of us fall,” Padme says, which isn’t so much of a threat when antigravity belts are involved. It’s still terrifying to her, but Koyi seems more swayed by her senatorial authority than by the fear of falling. 

She stares down at Padme with round eyes, looking young and small. “I didn’t kill him,” she whispers tightly. 

“We don’t think you did.” Padme’s anger melts away like snow in the sunlight. “You weren’t even in the building, Koyi. The Guard can prove that — they probably already have.” 

“Come down here please,” Bail says, kneeling on the ledge. Padme lowers herself into a sitting position next to him, and, after a moment, Koyi drops down and lands in a graceful crouch. She’s humming with energy, ready to run again at any moment. “Why are you so afraid, little one?” he asks, sending a gentle smile her way. 

Koyi’s eyes are full of tears. “I didn’t mean to see it,” she says, voice hardly louder than a breath. “I didn’t mean to.” 

Excitement mixed with dread rises in Padme’s chest. “See what?” 

Shaking her head, Koyi shrinks away. “I can’t .” 

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Bail assures her. “I’ll make certain of it. You have my word.” 

She wrings her hands, long fingers knitting together. She’s terribly young, Padme realizes. Is she even old enough to be eligible to be an aide? “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“Whatever it is,” Bail says, “I hold enough power to meet it. I’m more than a senator; I’m also the prince consort of Alderaan. My queen can act outside the Senate, and together we can find a way to protect you, even if Coruscant sees fit to send the entire GAR after you.” His mouth quirks into a smile at that, but Koyi’s face stays stiff and serious. 

What did she see to make her so afraid? To make the idea of an army coming after her not seem outlandish? “Please, Koyi,” says Padme, reaching out to clasp the twi’lek’s hands in hers. “Tell us what you know. We want to help.” 

Lower lip trembling, Koyi squeezes Padme’s hands. “I… I…” She fights for the words, looking all around her like she thinks someone might be listening in. Then, she seems to gather her courage, breathing deeply through her nose and humming a snatch of a Rylothi tune that Padme doesn’t recognize. Finally, she says, “I was supposed to schedule a confidential meeting for Senator Tac yesterday morning, but I messed up the timing. He didn’t make the meeting, and he was furious at me.” She stares fixedly at the ruddy stone beneath her feet. “I tried to fix it — reschedule it for the same day — and I did it. The only time I could manage was late — his very last meeting of the night.” 

Koyi’s words stall, and Padme reads the fear in her eyes. “You saw who the meeting was with, didn’t you?” She keeps her voice low, cold creeping over her back. 

“I didn’t mean to.” Koyi shakes her head. “I didn’t, but I saw it, and I…” 

“Who was it?” asks Padme urgently. 

Koyi lifts wet eyes to her face. “It was Chancellor Palpatine.” 

Padme’s instinctual reaction is disbelief. The Chancellor has led them through war. He even tried to help her protect Naboo during the Trade Federation’s blockade, and he stands outside the corruption in the Senate. When it comes to Anakin, he’s one of the few besides Ahsoka and Obi-Wan who treats Anakin like a person , rather than the Hero With No Fear. He’s a good man. “Are you sure?” she finally says, trying to keep her tone neutral. This is too important to let her personal feelings get in the way of finding out the truth. “He left the Senate early, to check on the status of the new troops at Kamino.” That was the kind of ruler he was, taking time out his well deserved Life Day holiday to oversee a crucial part of the war effort. 

“I’m sure,” Koyi says. “Senator Taa knew he was going to show up, and he sent all us aides home ahead of time. Like he didn’t want to see.” 

Bail’s brow furrows. “Perhaps the meeting was classified, and the Chancellor couldn’t risk anyone knowing he was back on world,” he suggests. 

Dread solidifies in the pit of Padme’s stomach. “What time was the meeting set for?” 

“Midnight,” says Koyi, looking as if she wishes she hadn’t spoken. 

Padme takes a long, slow breath to calm her beating heart. Without really consciously deciding to, she reaches out to Anakin with her mind, until his presence brushes up against her, warm and strong. They’ve been married just a year, but she still knows every part of it, and its familiar pattern soothes her. The bond, when they discovered it, surprised Anakin, because it was reminiscent of a master and student bond, except deeper and different. Since the Jedi never get married, she supposes they don’t know much about its effects on Force sensitives. 

“The Guard said Orn Free died between midnight and one in the morning,” Bail tells her quietly, and she knows that already. It’s why her head is spinning. He can’t have done it. It doesn’t make sense. 

“I shouldn’t have told you.” Koyi shrinks away. “They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me like they killed him.”

“No.” Bail leaves no room for argument. “We’ll protect you. We don’t even know it was the Chancellor. Perhaps he had his own reasons for keeping the meeting secret, and someone used his transport to sneak through the Senate’s security.” 

Padme prays that’s the case, but even it is, it still means there’s a Sith planted somewhere deep in their government, someone with access to the Chancellor, to his classified meetings. 

There’s precious few people like that. 

And it still doesn’t rule out Palpatine. 

“Koyi,” says Bail urgently. “My bodyguards are down below us. I’m going to take you to them, and a contingent will be assigned to protect you and take you to Alderaan. Once you’re there, they’ll bring you to the palace, and you’re to ask for sanctuary. Queen Breha will grant it to you, I’ll make sure of it. No one will be able to touch you there. I swear it.” 

She shakes her head, trembling. “You don’t understand. Senator Taa was afraid. Really afraid. I’d never seen him like that, and if they can get to him, they can get to me, and I —” 

“Koyi,” Padme interrupts, trying to press all the certainty she can into her voice, “it’s going to be all right. We’ll protect you. We’ll figure this out.” 

“But you need to go,” says Bail. “Right now. Come with me.” 

Koyi looks at him blankly for a moment, like she’s trying to process what she’s gotten herself wrapped up in, but finally she nods. “Yes, Senator.” 

“Take care of her, Bail,” Padme implores as they begin the climb down. “I’ll meet you back at my apartments.”

“What are you going to do?” 

“Meet with my handmaidens.” Padme thinks about the broken pieces of motherboard Anakin brought home. The answer to Orn Free’s fear, to why he contacted the Chancellor is with those pieces — some buried chunk of data that survived the ordeal. She’s certain of it. “Versè has some data slicing to do.”

Chapter Text

12 

In Which Obi-Wan Engages in Some Mild Kidnapping 

Taking on a padawan, Obi-Wan has decided, was the stupidest thing he ever did. Truly. Nearly every annoying or stressful part of his life could be traced back to the moment Qui-Gon foisted Anakin on him (although the first day Anakin smiled at him remains his best memory, but he’ll never tell anyone that).

 He took on Anakin, and suddenly his every waking moment was consumed by worry. Was he eating enough? Was he growing quickly enough? Was he missing his mother badly? Was the Jedi Council cross examining him again? Was he making friends? Did he feel safe? Could he defend himself? Was he ready to be knighted? Was he kriffing eating bugs again? 

And all those worries are a constant reminder of how bad Obi-Wan is at living according to the Jedi way.

Be mindful of your feelings. Oh, he was mindful of them, all right. So mindful of them that it sometimes takes him hours to fall asleep at night, because he is worrying over Anakin, Padme, Ahsoka, Satine, Korkie, and Cody. 

Which leads neatly into his failure at not having attachments. Obi-Wan tried to deny that for years, but he gave up at the outbreak of the Clone Wars, when he watched his padawan and a horde of other padawans — just children still, far too young — be knighted in response to the war. The clenching in his stomach and the creeping cold and the burning desire to scream that this was wrong told him everything he needed to know. 

He will put Anakin and the others before the Temple, before the galaxy. He will hide Korkie and Satine from the Temple forever if necessary, because he doesn’t put it past any of them to cut him off from Mandalore “for his own good”. He’s too crucial to the war effort to simply banish from the Order. It’s the same with Anakin. He’s the Chosen One… If the Order finds out about Padme, they won’t throw Anakin out. They’ll find some way to manage him and keep him away from her. 

Obi-Wan isn’t going to let that happen, and he isn’t going to let them convict Ahsoka of a crime she didn’t commit either. He won’t let their fear rule him, even if it means he isn’t a Jedi anymore. 

Because maybe he isn’t. He doesn’t know what he is anymore. If he’s not a Jedi, then he has nothing. He is nothing, but he’s still enough to help Anakin and Ahsoka. 

Sighing deeply, Obi-Wan walks through the Temple courtyard and into the main building. It’s bustling, but the traffic is thinner than he remembers it being — before. Before the war. The padawans aren’t messing around in the corridors, trying to avoid classes. The few that are in the Temple are quiet and focused, following on their masters’ heels. Their eyes are far too old for children, and Obi-Wan catches sight of one junior togruta padawan with a long scar running down from the tip of one of his montrals to the end of the corresponding lekku. The initiates are locked away in the salles, learning basic saber forms and preparing for the day, the one that is coming all too soon, where they will be thrown into combat. Even the crechlings are serious, the ones who aren’t sequestered in the creches running errands for padawans and Knights. 

He pulls his attention away from the pervading sense of wrongness and focuses on locating Quinlan in the Force. His signature is unique and easy to identify — bright and spinning and with a self assured cast to it that is the essence of Quinlan. He’s already returned to the Temple, and from the harsh edge to his presence, he’s not happy about being recalled. 

Obi-Wan can’t think of a way to get the cup back without letting Quinlan in on what’s going on, so he’s about to get way happier (he never can take anything seriously). Shaking his head, Obi-Wan forges through the Temple’s vaulted corridors, toward the lower level where the labs are. Jedi nod at him as he passes, but they’re tense and hurried. Some have silent questions in their eyes, because the news has no doubt spread that he’s the one handling the documentation that will clear them. 

Obi-Wan swallows. He believes — he has to believe — that the killer is Sith, some unknown one, perhaps within the Senate, who slipped through the cracks in Coruscant’s defenses, but he still can’t help but wonder if one of the familiar faces he passes is the face of a killer. 

He shoves the thoughts down. He can’t think that way. 

Of course, as soon as he pushes those worries away, the old ones about Anakin spring to the surface. Padawans, Obi-Wan has realized, never grow up. Not in their master’s eyes. Anakin is twenty standard years of age, an adult in almost every world in the Republic, but Obi-Wan looks at him and still sees a towheaded nine year old with an attitude problem and a fierce compassion that got both of them into trouble more than once. He still feels the burning need to protect him, no matter what. 

As he reaches the entrance to the lab, sensing that Quinlan is on his way, Obi-Wan wonders if the kiffar has had any better luck letting go of his padawan. Given the way Aayla and Quinlan are still joined at the hip, he thinks not. It’s surprising to see businesslike, pragmatic Aayla warm when she’s around her old master. She laughs more and acts more like the twenty-one year old she is. Conversely, Quinlan grows up a bit around her, becoming quieter and wiser. Not by much, because he’s still Quinlan, but enough to notice. 

Feeling a little better about his relationship with Anakin, Obi-Wan opens the access pad beside the door. Qui-Gon had a pastime of locking him into and out of places during his apprenticeship, so there are few locks Obi-Wan finds difficult to get through. This one, even sealed with an emergency code, only takes him a minute. The door opens, and he slips inside, reengaging the lock. He settles against a table to wait for Quinlan. It’s tempting to get the caff cup and either run or have it safely in his hands, but the first option is out of the question and the second will put Quinlan’s guard up, which Obi-Wan desperately wants to avoid. He’s not sure what he’s going to do if Quinlan isn’t on his side. 

It’s a few agonizing minutes before Quinlan breezes into the lab. His tall frame is more wiry than it was when he left the Jedi Temple, like he lost weight in the interim. His dreadlocks and the yellow stripe tattooed below his eyes are the same, but he looks weary, which is unusual for him. 

“Obi-Wan?” He stops just inside the lab, gifting Obi-Wan with a signature Quinlan grin. “Couldn’t wait to see me?” 

Obi-Wan gives him a flat look. “Hardly, Quin.” For a Jedi several years his senior, Quinlan always acts younger than he actually is. 

“You wound me. Truly.” Quinlan folds his arms. “What do you know? Tholme seemed pretty shaken on the comm — well, shaken for him. Which is perfectly calm for anyone else. Do they really think it was a Jedi?” 

“Yes.” Obi-Wan tries not to look toward the locked cabinet that holds the caff cup. “Death by a lightsaber in the Senate… It’s bad. And everyone either wants a quick answer or wants an excuse to cut us off.”

“Great.” Quinlan bares his teeth into an uncharacteristically bitter smile. “I hate politicians.” 

“So do I.” Obi-Wan keeps his mouth in a straight, neutral line, because he’s well aware that he had a child with a politician. But Satine is special. Infuriating, but special. 

Quinlan cracks his neck in a businesslike way. “Well, once I look at that cup Tholme told me about, I can clear this whole thing up. I hope.” He starts toward the cabinet, access card pinched between two of his fingers. “I can’t wait to rub it in their faces.” 

Adrenaline stabs Obi-Wan, and he clears his throat loudly. “About that…” 

Quinlan must read something in his tone, because he turns, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” 

Obi-Wan is very rarely lost for words, but he is quite suddenly speechless. He swallows. “Well, what if the cup’s not the killer’s? It would be stupid for them to have left something so obvious behind, after they cleaned the scene so thoroughly.” Stupid, indeed. “What if it’s an aide’s, or someone else innocent?” 

Shrugging, Quinlan turns back to the cabinet. “I guess we’ll figure that out. I’m just here to read the memories.” He starts to unlock the cabinet, but Obi-Wan clears his throat again, more insistently this time.

“What is it, Obi-Wan?” He turns back, pressing his lips together. 

There’s nothing to do except dive in and hope Quinlan doesn’t hit the alarm by the door. “Do you know Padme — I mean, Senator Amidala?” 

“The former queen of Naboo, heavily involved in the Battle of Geonosis? Yeah, I may have heard of her.” 

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm right now, Quin.” 

“What a tragedy.” 

Obi-Wan takes a calming breath and continues. “And Anakin?” 

“Yes, I kriffing know Anakin.” 

This isn’t going well. “The aggression isn’t helping either.” He puts on his most prim voice, the one that makes everyone think he knows exactly what he’s doing all the time and is confident enough to be pompous about it. 

Since Quinlan’s known him since they were both teenlings and was around when Obi-Wan was developing that voice, it doesn’t work. “Can you cut to the point? Are you capable of doing that?” He pulls the cabinet door open and reaches for the cup, with the clear intention of forcing Obi-Wan to continue. 

What he clearly doesn’t expect is for Obi-Wan to bodily tackle him away from the cabinet, so they both stumble against the wall. Quinlan swears and pushes him away. “What was that for? What is it about that cup?” 

“It’s Padme’s cup.” There. He said it. Part of it, anyway. 

Quinlan’s eyes widen. “You’re telling me Senator Amidala is the killer?” 

“No.” 

“Then what are you telling me?” 

“I’m telling you Anakin had the cup.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Padme gave it to him.” 

“Again, why?” 

“Because he was at her apartment.” 

Quinlan looks ready to throw some punches. “ Why ?” 

“Because they’re married.” 

Quinlan stares at Obi-Wan, agape, and then abruptly lunges for the cabinet. There’s an undignified scramble that ends with Quinlan jabbing an elbow into Obi-Wan’s ribs — he always fought dirty when they were padawans — and snatching the cup off its shelf. He tumbles to the floor, carried by his own momentum, and Obi-Wan strains toward the cup. As his fingers brush the cup, it’s clear from the look in Quinlan’s eyes that it’s already too late. 

Sprawled messily on the floor like a couple of wrestling younglings, they look at each other. Then Quinlan yells, “Anakin was at the crime scene? ” 

Obi-Wan lunges forward and claps a hand over his mouth. Quinlan gives him a furious look. “Try not to alert the entire temple.” 

Wriggling free and jumping to his feet, Quinlan starts to pace. “Aren’t I supposed to do that? Obi-Wan, did they kill Senator Taa?” 

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan says. “You know they didn’t. Couldn’t the cup tell you?” 

“The cup isn’t omniscient!” snaps Quinlan, shaking it in front of Obi-Wan’s face to underline his point. “All I see is Anakin in the office, and in Padme’s apartment.” 

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” 

“Unfortunate? Obi-Wan. ” 

“If the memories had been more detailed, they could’ve cleared him and Ahsoka.” 

“As if anyone’s going to believe my testimony on this. Not when I’m your friend.” 

“So you do believe me?” 

“Of course I believe you. If Anakin’s going to kill anyone, it’s going to someone on the Council, and it’s going to be out in the open.” 

Obi-Wan privately agrees. “Thank you, Quin.” 

“He’s married ? For how long?” 

“Nearly a year, I believe. I’m not sure exactly when they got married, but I rather think it was directly after Geonosis.” 

“And you knew?” 

“You didn’t?” 

“Why were they there? In the office?” 

“To clean it up. Ahsoka stumbled upon it and accidentally implicated herself. Then, Anakin, being Anakin, acted rashly and sanitized the whole area to protect her.” 

“Do they know who did it?” 

“No. But we’re probably the only ones who have the tools to find out. We have Bail on our side as well, so his connections should be helpful.” 

“You have Senator Organa working for you? ” 

“He knew about the marriage too.” 

“Of course he did.” Quinlan sinks into a nearby chair. “I might need to go get a sedative from the healers. This is a lot to take in. It’s like finding out you have a secret love child or something.” 

Obi-Wan narrowly avoids choking and giving everything away at that. “You’re handling it well,” he manages. “Quin, I need you not to tell anyone. You know they won’t get fair treatment if you do.” 

“Of course I’m not going to tell anyone,” he says. “I’m going to go buy a drink . Kriff. ” 

“And you’ll tell them… you’ll tell them you couldn’t get anything from the cup?” 

“Yeah. Lie to the Council. What else is new? I’ve got your back, Obi-Wan.” 

“Good.” He grins, relieved. “I have to go. They’ll be needing me. I’m afraid to leave them alone now, in case they cover up another murder.” He laughs weakly and turns toward the door. He’s halfway there when Quinlan’s voice pulls him up short. 

“You can’t trust me,” he gabbles out. “I’m terrible at lying to Tholme, you know I am. And Aayla. I’ll tell them everything, and then Aayla will go to the Council, and then it’ll be a disaster.” He fumbles for his communicator, pulling it out of his pocket. “I was already starting to comm someone — probably Tholme!” 

It’s then that Obi-Wan becomes aware of his communicator vibrating. He pulls it out of his pocket and sees Quinlan’s name on the screen. “Quin, you’re calling me .” 

Quinlan gives him a haunted look, shaking his head. “Don’t answer it.” 

Obi-Wan is struck by the very un-Jedi urge to cry. He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Pull it together, Quin. We need a plan. You just… you have to leave the Temple for a while.” 

“Won’t work. I’ll still have to lie to Tholme, and he and Aayla call to check in. Try again.” 

“You could offer some ideas.” 

“Unless you want to kill me and have Anakin clean up the mess, I don’t have any. I need to disappear, and if I just leave, they’re going to think I somehow did it.” 

A terrible, stupid idea strikes Obi-Wan. He’s almost certain it’s a result of Anakin’s influence, and he’s highly resentful of it. “What if you left against your will? With the cup?” 

Quinlan gives him a hooded look. “No. I know what you’re thinking, and, no. It’ll never work.” 

“We could leave through the lower levels. No one goes down there.” 

“It’s going to throw more suspicion onto the Order!” 

“It buys us time.” 

“No. No way.” 

“We’re doing it.” 

“No, I don’t agree with this plan.” 

“I never agree with yours.” Obi-Wan smiles sunnily at Quinlan, who glares back at him. “I’m kidnapping you, Quin. Don’t worry. Padme’s apartment is lovely.” 

Chapter Text

13 

When I Said I Wished Ani Could Bring His Friends Over, This Isn’t What I Meant

Anakin pauses for breath after spilling the whole story to Rex, as well as Fives and Echo, who were unfortunately in Rex’s quarters playing sabaac with him and refused to leave. Sitting beside Anakin, perched on the very edge of Rex’s bed, Ahsoka offers a tense smile that’s a failed attempt at winning winsomeness. 

Rex is still where they found him, cross legged on the floor at the head of the triangle of sabaac players. He’s listened quietly, his mouth slowly opening in disbelief as the narrative unfolded. Echo was quiet too, but he’s massaging his temples like he feels a migraine coming on. 

Fives is not so diplomatic. As soon as Anakin finishes talking, he says, with an impish grin curving his lips, “You were in a closet with General Kenobi. Wait’ll I tell Cody about this.” 

Anakin sighs deeply. “Do you have to bring him into this?” 

Echo speaks up. “We don’t keep secrets from the 212^th.” 

“You don’t keep secrets from any of your brothers apparently.” 

“That’s not true,” Fives interrupts. “I once painted the words ‘I love Ventress’ on the back of Jesse’s helmet, and I didn’t tell him for weeks. None of us did.” 

“Anyway,” Echo says, “we have to tell the 212^th. They’re in our same barracks. If we’re going to corroborate your story, then they’ll have to as well.” 

“So you’ll do it?” Ahsoka lifts her head, all eager vulnerability, and if Rex or any of the other clones somehow finds it within themselves to say no to that, Anakin wants lessons, because he’s horrible at saying no to Ahsoka in the best of circumstances. 

“Of course we’ll do it.” Rex finally joins the conversation, sounding very tired. “What’s one more life changing secret? We’ve kept the Padme one well enough. Most of us.” He directs a glare at Fives, who spreads his hands in surrender. 

“It was one pinup. And it was before I knew they were married. Speaking of, General, nice job. You really nabbed yourself someone way out of your league.” 

Anakin grimaces. “Thanks, Fives.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Rex says, resignedly sorting through his cards, “but how bad is it if this whole story gets out?” 

“How bad do you think, Rex?” Fives asks, laying down a sabaac card that makes Echo swear. 

“Disastrous.” Anakin grimaces, running over the events of the last twenty four hours with a stunned sort of acceptance. “Expulsion from the Jedi Order for me, Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan, probably arrest too. Padme would get removed from her office and also arrested. Bail too.”  

“Bail’s in on this?” Rex chokes and nearly drops his cards, while Fives falls over onto his back, laughing hysterically. 

Echo prods him, rolling his eyes. “Can you try to be serious?” 

“No,” Fives manages, still screaming with laughter. 

Ahsoka puts her head in her hands, and Rex raises his eyes toward the ceiling. “With all due respect, General, this is going to end in disaster.” 

“Like most of your other plans,” Fives puts in, drawing in hoarse, laughter laden breath.  

### 

Versè’s had an interesting day. It started with a panicked Padme barging into her and the other handmaiden’s apartment at the crack of dawn and thrusting a bag full of various office items — including a shattered motherboard — in Sabe’s arms and saying, “Hide this, please.” 

Of course, Sabe, being Sabe, didn’t question this and immediately buried the bag in the depths of the handmaidens’ shared closet, tucking it under the structured skirt of an impressive Senate gown. Rabe’s hoped it wouldn’t wrinkle the gown, and Eirtae asked if Padme needed to hide in the closet too. Anakin, she added, would also fit. 

Versè, half asleep at the time, didn’t add that half the Jedi Order would fit in the closet if Padme wanted. She hoped Padme didn’t, though. One Jedi was enough trouble, especially since their particular Jedi was married to Padme. 

Versè remembers thinking — naively — that her dear mistress would settle down when she got married. She was a spitfire idealist who saw no problem with inserting herself right into the center of danger (much to Versè’s and the others’ dismay), but all of them — except Sabe, who arguably knew Padme best — hoped her fanatical loyalty to family would prevent her from endangering herself after marriage. 

A bare week after Padme and Anakin’s wedding, the blushing bride proved them wrong and Sabe right, because she managed to get herself kidnapped by the Separatist Alliance and nearly gave everyone, especially Anakin, a heart attack. 

Of course, Anakin was no better. 

Later that same morning, Padme commed them all and told them a very careful, very fraudulent alibi that was meant to verify her whereabouts for the night before. She said the Coruscant Guard might show up to question them and would they please corroborate the story?

Sabe didn’t hesitate, and Eirtae said she could knock the guards out if necessary, although she didn’t think that would be a tactically sound move. 

Padme proceeded to beg them not commit any acts of physical violence against the Guard, and everyone agreed. 

When the guards showed up, an hour or so later, Versè discovered that the promise wasn’t easy to keep in the face of Commander Jorgenson’s pompous attitude. It was clear by the end of the interview that Eirtae and Sabe were both two inches from shooting him with their blasters, and Versè was wondering how hard it would be to hack into some of his personal accounts and change all his passcodes, just to annoy him.

The event was so disruptive that when the doorbell to Padme’s apartment rings a few hours afterward, Versè considers just not answering it. That is, until Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice filters into the apartment. 

“Hello,” he says in a mild, friendly voice. “Is this a good time?” 

Versè turns around and looks at the other handmaidens, who are scattered around the living room. They have their own apartment, but when Padme’s in trouble, they prefer to stay at her place as much as possible. “Is this a good time?” 

Rabe looks up from anxiously styling Eirtae’s blonde locks — which are more novel than Padme’s and the other handmaidens’ brown hair — and says, “How would we know?” 

Sabe rolls her eyes and comes over the door. “What is your business?” 

“Oh, hello, Sabe,” Obi-Wan says, still friendly, although there is a strained note to his voice. Versè raises her eyebrows at Sabe. It’s impressive that he can tell them apart just by their voices, since they’ve all long ago fallen into the habit of using Padme’s royal accent when they speak, which makes all their voices nearly indistinguishable. Usually, it’s only Padme or Anakin who can differentiate between them using only sound, no matter the accent. 

“Why are you here?” repeats Sabe. 

There’s a long pause. “I’m doing Anakin a favor.” 

“One that involves Senator Amidala’s apartment?” 

“Well, it only makes sense. They are married.” 

On the couch, Dorme and Yane choke on their tea. Eirtae surreptitiously reaches for her blaster, but a quelling look from Dorme stops her. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Versè says through the door, wincing. She’s not as good at lying as the others — at least not in person. She’s wonderful at lying over the net. 

Sabe swats her shoulder and makes shut up signals with her hands. Versè just shakes her head helplessly. 

“Versè, I already know. This isn’t a trick. And I do need to come in.” 

“I could shoot him,” Eirtae offers, almost hopefully. She’s not been fond of the Jedi since their rules forced Padme to keep her marriage a secret like it was some shameful thing. “We hide the body. No one would ever know.” 

“Eirtae,” Yane reproaches. “That’s awful.” 

“I’m not ruling it out,” says Sabe, crossing her arms. 

“I can hear you,” calls Obi-Wan. “I hope you are aware.” 

Well, they weren’t until right now. Versè purses her lips, shooting the door a dirty look. 

“Even if I were trying to trick you, your reactions would’ve already confirmed my suspicions.” 

“He’s right,” Dorme says, rather resentfully. 

“That doesn’t mean he gets to say it.” Sabe’s jaw works. 

There’s a long sigh from beyond the door.

“Oh, for kriff’s sake.” Yane gets to her feet and stalks across the room. She yanks the door open to reveal Obi-Wan, who looks nervous and rather sheepish. There are cobwebs on his robes and cloak, and smudges of grime on his face. 

“Good afternoon,” he says pleasantly. “May I come inside?” 

Yane steps aside and waves him in. 

When he’s standing in the middle of the living room, with everyone looking at him like he’s some kind of strange sideshow attraction, Eirtae says in her blunt way, “You look terrible.” 

Obi-Wan looks down at his clothing, grimacing. “Yes. I unfortunately spent the some time in the lowest levels of the Temple today and crawled through several disused air ducts.” 

“Why?” Sabe perches on the arm of the couch directly in front of Obi-Wan, with the air of someone who has yet to rule out shooting him. 

Obi-Wan shifts, fiddling with his cloak until the way the pleats lay pleases him. “How much has Padme told you about the, er, situation?” 

The look Sabe gives him is inscrutable. “Which situation? There are usually several going on. Padme is a senator in the middle of a civil war, after all.” 

Obi-Wan sinks onto the nearest couch, almost crushing Yane’s embroidery. She always embroiders when she’s nervous. “One of the more recent ones,” he says, clearly reluctant to be specific. 

Versè knows he’s talking about what happened the night before, but she can’t help but think about how what he said does very little too narrow things down. Recent situations with Padme involve averting an assassination attempt, mending a rip in her favorite gown mere minutes before she had to appear in the Senate, and sending Dorme to an early morning meeting as her proxy after Padme inexplicably contracted some kind of stomach virus a few days before Anakin came home on leave. 

“Oh,” Sabe says casually, “do you mean the Senator Tac incident?” 

“Yes,” he says, slumping at little against the couch now that they’re all finally on the same page. “That one.” 

“What does that have to do with why you’re here?” 

Instead of answering, Obi-Wan pours himself a brimming cup of tea and takes a deep drink, acting like it’s an alcoholic beverage rather than the soothing brew it actually is. When he swallows, he says,  “Oh, you’ll understand shortly, assuming he didn’t get lost.” 

“Assuming who didn’t get lost?” Sabe bristles. 

Obi-Wan just points to the wide, transparisteel doors that lead out onto the landing platform. Almost as if summoned by him, a speeder zooms into view, with a Jedi Knight who Versè thinks is Quinlan Vos riding it. 

He jumps onto the platform, programming his speeder’s autopilot and sending it whizzing off in a seemingly random direction, which makes Versè raise her eyebrow. After that, he lopes up the steps and through the doors, stepping into the living room with a charming smile plastered on his face. 

Charming smiles have absolutely no power over Nabooian handmaidens, so he finds himself pinned down by half a dozen irate gazes. Even Yane, the kindest of them, looks suspicious. 

“Hello?” Quinlan tries, looking like he’d very much like to back away. 

Sabe side eyes Obi-Wan. “Why is he here?” 

Obi-Wan sucks down more tea. “It’s complicated.” 

### 

Padme likes to think she’s in reasonably fit. She can run and fight and do whatever she needs to in order to survive, but apparently climbing sheer rock walls is where her body draws the line. She’s aching all over by the time the transport drops her off at her apartment. The security guards give her strange looks as she goes inside, eying the red dust that streaks her outfit. Padme straightens her jacket and lifts her chin, daring them to comment. They don’t, of course. They’re paid too well to ask a senator why she had dirt on her face. 

She’s yawning in spite of herself when she reaches the door to her apartment. Her sleepless night is catching up with her. Truthfully, the only reason she isn’t curling up in the hallway and going to sleep is the thought that Chancellor Palpatine might be somehow involved in Orn Free’s death. The idea sends adrenaline humming through her system, especially when she remembers that she helped him get into office. 

If he’s corrupt, she’s partially responsible for any damage he causes. Her beloved Republic, and she might’ve helped install a killer as the head of the government. 

As if things weren’t already bad enough. 

She opens the door, hoping her handmaidens chose to spend the day in her apartment, rather than theirs. The sight that greets her makes her blink several times and pinch herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming. 

Her handmaidens are indeed gathered in her living room, but Quinlan Vos is on one of the couches, penned in on either side by Eirtae and Sabe, who are both giving him baleful, suspicious looks. As a rule, neither Eirtae nor Sabe are particularly fond of the Jedi — apart from Anakin and Ahsoka. Obi-Wan is on probation. 

Speaking of Obi-Wan, he is in the living room too, sending a thin smile in her direction, a cup of tea white knuckled in one hand. Beside him, Anakin balances on one arm of the couch, and Ahsoka is cross legged on the floor at his and Obi-Wan’s feet, nibbling nervously on some kind of scone that smells of Mandalorian spices. 

The source of the scones is Echo, who is bustling around the kitchen. As Padme watches, he pulls another tray of scones from the oven, wearing the floral heat glove that Yane bought for Padme as a joke last Life Day. Fives is with him, grumbling as he washes the dishes piled in the sink, a clutter of mixing bowls, spoons, and teacups. 

Last of all, Rex and Cody are sitting on the couch opposite to Anakin and Obi-Wan, a symphony of complementary colors in their blue and orange painted armor. Cody offers her a smart salute, while Rex rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head, like he’s saying, It’s not my fault, whatever you think. 

Padme clears her throat. “Ani?” 

Anakin looks up from the scone Ahsoka passed to him. “Yes, dear?” 

“Why are all these people here?” 

“Well, the clones wouldn’t stay behind, and Obi-Wan brought Quinlan, but he’s got to explain why.” Anakin grins a devilish grin that makes Obi-Wan glare at him over his cup of tea. “It’s a great story, you’re gonna love it.” 

“Ah.” Padme presses her lips together. “And Echo is…?” 

“Oh, ignore him,” calls Fives from the kitchen. “He cooks when he’s nervous, and lying makes him really kriffing nervous.” Ignoring the steaming scone Echo lobs at his head, Fives adds, “He’ll be done soon.” 

Versè walks up to Padme and holds out a plate piled with Echo’s culinary creations. “Scone?” 

“I think I will,” says Padme, picking one up and sinking into the armchair nearest the door. “What’s this about Quinlan?” 

“It’s all Obi-Wan’s fault,” Quinlan says cheerfully, carefully buttering a scone and using his knife to salute her. 

Anakin settles himself more comfortably on the couch and looks at Obi-Wan. “Go on, fearless leader. Tell her.” 

Obi-Wan takes a prim sip of his tea. “I brought Quin here.” 

“Yes,” Anakin says, exaggerating the word. “But how? And why?”

Obi-Wan glowers and mutters, “I hate children.” 

“I’m sure the General only did what he thought was best,” Cody says, nodding to Obi-Wan. He doesn’t sound at all convinced, though. 

“Sure he did,” Anakin replies, while Ahsoka watches her two masters have a silent argument that involves Obi-Wan lowering his brows and Anakin setting his chin in his hand with a you tell them or I will sort of air.

“I…” Obi-Wan begins at length. “I… Well, I suppose you  could say I, er, kidnapped him.” He sips his tea, studiously avoiding Padme’s appalled gaze. 

“You would have to say that,” Quinlan puts in. “Because that’s what you did.” 

“Obi-Wan.” Padme balances her scone on her knee. “Why did you kidnap a Jedi Knight and bring him to my apartment. And why did you tell him about the… about the…” 

“Murder?” supplies Quinlan. 

“Marriage,” Anakin corrects. “She means the marriage.” 

“Oh, that,” says Quinlan. 

“Yes, that.” Padme doesn’t even try to keep the biting sarcasm from her voice. 

“I figured that out myself.” 

Obi-Wan bursts into a fit of harsh laughter. “No, you didn’t! I had to spell it out for you, kriffhead.” 

“Only because I didn’t think Anakin had enough game to get the former Queen of Naboo.” 

Padme pushes her fingers through her hair. “Obi-Wan, why did you kidnap Quinlan?” 

“Because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” replies Obi-Wan with a morose air. 

“It’s true.” Quinlan leans back, crossing one boot over his knee. “I’m an eminently honest person.” 

Ahsoka chokes on her scone, and Anakin says, “That’s a lie.” 

“So tell me — exactly — how many people are involved in this conspiracy?” Padme braces herself. 

“Well.” Ahsoka shifts around on the floor so that she’s facing Padme. She looks eager to be helpful, setting her elbows on her knees, her back ramrod straight. “There’s you, me, and Anakin. And now Obi-Wan and Knight Vos.” She starts counting off on her fingers. “And the 501st. And the 212^th too, because the 501st didn’t want to keep things from them.” 

“Naturally,” Padme says weakly. 

“Don’t forget Bail,” says Anakin. 

“Senator Organa’s in on this?” Quinlan’s eyebrows go up. 

“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Obi-Wan starts to pour himself another cup of tea, but then he reaches for the Corellian brandy that’s also on the table. Silently, Anakin moves it out of his reach, earning him a frown from Obi-Wan, who picks up the teapot instead. 

“No,” Quinlan says, imitating his accent, “you neglected to mention it.” 

“Ah. My apologies.” 

Quinlan makes a face and holds out a caff cup to Padme, which she recognizes as the one that would’ve incriminated Anakin. “Here, I brought this back. Obi-Wan nearly lost in it the air ducts in the Temple basement.” 

“You nearly lost it, you mean,” Obi-Wan says waspishly. 

Before Padme can throw something at both of them, a knock sounds at the door, making everyone jump. When no one immediately moves to get it, the handmaidens all look at each other, having a silent argument about who would be the one to see who it was. After a moment, Rabe sighs and gets up, moving like the carries the weight of ten galaxies on her shoulders. 

“Who is it?” She rests her forehead against the door. 

“Senator Bail Organa, for Senator Amidala,” comes the response. 

Rabe looks at Padme. “Should I let him in?” 

Padme makes a noncommittal gesture with one hand. “Why not?” 

After Rabe opens the door, Bail pauses just over the threshold, taking in the crowded room. “Hello… everyone,” he says, eyes lingering on Echo, who is whipping up another batch of scones, and on Quinlan, who wiggles his fingers in greeting. 

“Don’t ask,” Padme says. 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Is Koyi safe?” Padme straightens, trying to look more like a senator. Clinging fatigue weighs her down, and her scone is rapidly turning sour in her stomach. She hopes she’s not about to have another bout with the stomach virus again. In this situation, it would be even more inconvenient than before. 

Ahsoka startles, her brow furrowing. “Koyi was in danger?” A growl — probably involuntary — builds in the back of her throat. 

“She’s safe now, little one,” Bail assures her, coming to sit on a cushion beside her. The sight of the prince consort of Alderaan sitting on her floor almost sends Padme into paroxysms of hysterical, sleep deprived laughter, but she manages to control herself. 

“Why was she in danger?” Ahsoka looks back and forth between Padme and Bail. 

When it seems like Bail’s leaving the explanation to her, Padme shifts forward in her seat. “Koyi told us something when we spoke to her. Something that… Well, if it’s true, she could be in jeopardy, which is why Bail sent her to Alderaan so Queen Breha could protect her.” 

“It’s that serious?” Obi-Wan knows as well as any of them that seeking sanctuary with the Queen of Alderaan is no small thing. “What did she say?” 

The words stick in Padme’s throat. “She told us that Orn Free had scheduled a secret meeting with Chancellor Palpatine, for the night he was killed. Koyi wasn’t meant to see it, but she did accidentally.” 

The silence that follows her statement is like an explosion.

Anakin just stares at her, and Obi-Wan says, “But the Chancellor was off world — he left yesterday morning.” 

“I know,” says Padme. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” 

Anakin fiddles with the glove covering his cybernetic hand, a nervous habit he recently developed. “We’re not really saying it could’ve been the Chancellor, right? He’s loyal to the Republic.” 

“He says he is,” Quinlan points out. “But this whole war has put him in a nice position politically, hasn’t it?” 

“He’s done nothing but help us,” Anakin says, a defensive note coming to his voice. Padme reaches out to him through their bond, marveling at how instinctive it’s become, and soothes him. “Truth brings light, Ani,” she says, “not darkness. If the Chancellor is innocent, then our investigation will reveal it. We need to get to the bottom of this. It might’ve been someone stowed away on the Chancellor’s ship who killed Orn Free — perhaps Palpatine himself is in danger from an agent within his inner circle. Truth, Ani. It’s our only recourse.”

Anakin takes a deep breath, and his presence is warm against her mind, like his hand is in hers. “All right. What’s our first step?” 

“We need to figure out if the Chancellor made it to the meeting,” says Bail. “I’ll put some of my agents on it. If there’s no record of his reentry, he must have come secretly. Maybe there’s a blind spot in atmospheric security that he slipped through, or else a border agent might have information to share.” 

“Versè.” Padme turns to her handmaiden, who immediately straightens up and swallows down her scone. “I need you to try to find out what was on Orn Free’s holo screen. What made him call a classified meeting with the Chancellor?” 

“I’ll do what I can,” says Versè. “The motherboard’s pretty damaged, but there might still be data left on it.” 

“I’ll help.” Echo turns away from the stove, the apron he’s wearing over his armor spattered with batter. “501st has some cutting edge slicing programs.” 

“Good.” Padme breaks a piece off her scone, more from anxiety than from desire to eat it. “Quinlan…” 

“He has to stay here,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve got to go back to the Temple and get all our alibis submitted to the Guard, and Anakin and Ahsoka actually have to make an appearance there too.” 

“Of course he does.” Padme breathes in slowly. Nausea cramps her stomach. “You can sleep on the couch, Quinlan.” 

Anakin twists to fix Obi-Wan with a judgmental look. “What was that about not doing anything stupid, Obi-Wan?” 

Chapter Text

14 

Handmaidens and Clones Get Things Done 

Fives loves his brother Echo. Especially after losing the rest of the Dominos, Echo is his closest brother in the 501st, both in age and trust. Captain Rex calls them the Domino Twins, which is a bit of an oxymoron, given that all clones are identical, but Fives gets what he means. They’re inseparable, to the point where even the Jedi, who — outside of General Skywalker, his padawan, their friends, and a few select others — are usually fairly oblivious to clone dynamics, have started to notice. 

Fives doesn’t particularly like being noticed by Jedi he doesn’t trust. When Jedi notice you and find you capable, they tend to send you into battle. That’s how Hevy, Droidbait, and Cutup died. It’s Fives’ worst nightmare to go through that again, this time with Echo. In the short time he’s been a soldier — and kriff, it feels like forever, but it’s really not been very long — Fives has learned that generally only people who care, really care, about clones are other clones. General Skywalker and Kenobi, along with Commander Tano, their padawan, are the exception, not the rule. 

Needless to say, Echo is Fives’ favorite brother. But he really needs to loosen up, or else Fives might kill him. 

“That’s illegal,” Echo says, leaning over Versè’s shoulder with an affronted look on his face. The glow of the holoscreen lights his face blue, accentuating the frown lines on his forehead. 

Versè rolls her eyes. “Everything we’re doing is illegal,” she says, completing an operation involving the broken motherboard and the holoscreen that Fives is never going to understand.

“No.” Echo straightens up, prepared to deliver a lecture on regulations. Fives raises his eyes to the ceiling and leaves Rex’s quarters — the most private place in the barracks — and heads to the kitchen. 

When he comes back, munching on a slice of fried Mandalorian bread that Echo baked in a fit of anxiety the night before, Echo’s still going. Fives curses to himself under his breath. He was hoping to avoid this completely. 

“…Subsection 5 of GAR regulations states that, when there is well founded concern for the security and safety of the Republic, carefully regulated slicing may occur in the interest of protecting and preserving the —” 

“Echo.” Fives sinks onto the edge of Rex’s bunk. Rex is sequestered in the corner of his bed, reading a book on his datapad, and he frowns at him for the invasion. “Shut up. Please.” 

“All of you could shut up,” Rex suggests, flicking to a new page in his book with a resigned air. He’s not pleased to have to sacrifice his quarters for this endeavor, especially since Versè and Echo have been holed up here for days, but there’s not much choice if they want to guard against a surprise visit from other battalions or — worse — other Jedi. 

Everyone ignores him. Echo gives Fives a hooded glare, and says, “What is not legal, however, is hacking into the Senate database.” 

“What’s definitely illegal,” Versè retorts, “is covering up a murder, but we’ve already done that, haven’t we?” 

“That’s not the point —” 

“How is it not the point?” 

“We don’t have to compile illegalities upon illegalities, especially not if we —” 

Fives lets out an exaggerated groan, pulling his hands down his face. “I will stun both of you.” 

Versè sighs gustily. “If I get into the database,” she says, “I can maybe find a backdoor into Taa’s private files. If I do that, we can find his passcodes and maybe break through the encryption on what’s left of the motherboard’s data.” 

“If you get into the database,” Echo says, shouldering his way closer to Rex’s holoscreen, “you’re going to get flagged, and they’ll trace your signal back to this location.” 

Rex stirs. “That doesn’t sound good.” 

“Which is why I disguised my signal, like you told me to do three hours ago. If they trace us, they’re just going to get bounced from Naboo to Jakku and back.” 

“Oh.” Rex settles back against his pillow.  

“Then what’s taking so long?” Echo is practically breathing down Versè’s neck, and she looks on the verge of tearing out his jugular. Given that she’s one of Padme’s handmaidens, Fives has no doubt that she can if she tries. “The longer you spend in here, the more likely they lock you out.” 

“I don’t know,” Versè says, with infinite sarcasm. “Maybe it’s because the Senate has some of the best cybersecurity in the Republic!” 

“Move over.” Echo pushes her aside and takes over. He starts doing more things Fives doesn’t understand, burrowing through layers and layers of data. Versè sits back and watches, and it’s clear from her frown that Echo is having more success than she’d like him to. 

Even so, it’s still another interminable hour and a half before he sits back and says. “Got it, but I don’t know how to sift through the files to get the right one — their organizational system is a travesty.” 

“Get out of my way.” Versè shoves him away from the holoscreen and starts scrolling through all the files with dizzying speed. Rex is asleep on his bed, datapad resting on his chest, but Fives is enamored in spite of himself. 

After fifteen minutes, Versè says, “Found it!” She’s just copied it down when the screen flares red, turning the light in the rom a disturbingly bloody shade. “Just in time too.” 

“I told you they’d lock you out,” Echo says, a triumphant note to his voice. 

“I never argued about that,” she snaps. “Just hook up the motherboard and enter the passcodes, will you?” 

“Already doing it.” Echo reconnects the motherboard to the holoscreen, using the stripped wires they pulled from it. The display that pops up on the holoscreen is decidedly corrupted, glitching even as Fives looks at it, but there’s an input box for a passcode, and Echo enters one using the external keyboard they juryrigged to replace the motherboard’s smashed one. 

The screen changes to a barely legible file directory, with rainbow colored glitches striping it. 

“That doesn’t look great,” Fives says, nudging Rex awake so he can witness their triumph — Fives supplied the snacks, so he’s definitely taking some credit for this victory. 

“It was dropped on the floor,” Echo replies, with forced patience. “How did you think it was going to look?” 

Versè, who has been running through whatever files she can access, stops short. “Echo?” Her brow furrows, and she leans closer to the screen, pushing her dark hair back from her face. 

“Yes?” Echo abandons what was probably going to be a lengthy description of the mechanics of corrupted data and turns back to the screen. By then, Versè is pointing at an icon that’s different from the others. Instead of a name, it had a row of asterisks, denoting a classified and encrypted file. 

“Is that a datastick?” She asks the question like she already knows the answer but wants confirmation. 

“A datastick?” Fives gets up from the bed, Rex following, and leans over the back of Echo’s chair. “There wasn’t a datastick in the motherboard, was there?” 

“No, there wasn’t,” Echo says, squinting at the icon. “But this is saying there is.” 

“Well, who’s wrong?”

Versè chews on a strand of her hair for a moment — a surprising habit for someone of her social standing — and snatches up the central piece of motherboard, almost yanking out the wires in the process. 

“Careful!” Echo looks aghast at her haste, but she ignores him, prying off the cracked back plating to reveal the network of circuitry and wires inside. “What are you doing?” 

“On Naboo,” she says, tongue clamped between her teeth as she nudges wires aside, “sometimes people with something to hide conceal their datasticks inside their devices.” 

“Would you be one of those people?” Fives asks, dodging the smack Rex aims at the back of his head as soon as the words leave him mouth. 

Versè ignores him. “Usually there’s a subroutine that hides their icon from view, unless you turn it off, but I think that must’ve been messed up when the motherboard broke. People wire the datasticks directly into the circuitry so they’re invisible. Like this.” She practically pounces on something within the motherboard’s inner workings. Fives peers over her shoulder and sees the datastick in question. 

“Clever,” Echo says, as Versè frees the stick from the connections holding it to the motherboard. “It doesn’t look damaged.”

Versè smiles a frightening smile that reminds Fives that she’s trained as a slicer in order to wage war against Padme’s enemies if necessary. “No, it doesn’t. Want to do the honors?” 

“It’s your discovery,” says Echo, ever obsessed with fair play. Versè’s smile widens into a genuine grin, and she sticks the data stick into their holoscreen’s port. 

As the new file loads, everyone leans close to the holoscreen, until their heads are almost touching. Fives is just about to remark that Versè’s perfume is overpowering when information explodes onto the screen. 

“Sith hells,” Versè breathes. “You’re seeing what I’m seeing, right?” 

Oh, Fives is. His hands clench on the back of her chair as she scrolls through transaction records. The memos accompanying them make him sick. 

Twi’lek female. 16 standard years. Blue coloring. Marked down for scar on left side of the face. 

Devaronian male. 24 standard years. Ideal for manual labor. 

Nubian female. 6 standard years. Potential Force sensitive. 

Haruun cal male. 4 standard years. Potential Force sensitive. 

“He was trading slaves,” Rex says in a cold voice, jaw clenched.   “Kriff.”

“Then whoever killed him did the galaxy as favor,” spits Fives. The transactions are varied. Some indicate Taa purchased slaves himself and sold them off to another buyer at a profit, and others seem to involve him acting as a middle man between two buyers and taking a cut of the money. The main buyers seem to be the Hutt clans, the Pyke Syndicate, and Zygerrian slavers, but several Separatist affiliated organizations are also in the records. 

There are dozens of twi’leks on the list. Most of them are identified as native to the Ryloth system, and Fives’ blood burns in his veins. The senator was selling off his own people while they struggled against invaders. 

“Look at this.” Versè shifts to another section. This one seems to be a written exchange between two parties that doesn’t involve Taa. At the top of the page is a note that says, I thought you’d find this interesting. We should get out ahead of this unless we want to lose buyers to the Hutts. 

“What is this?” Rex leans closer, his eyes moving back and forth as he reads. “They’re… they’re talking about clones. About us.” 

Cold creeps over Fives as he starts reading too. From context clues, he gathers that the Hutts are one of the parties, and they’re looking to buy some kind of computer chip from the unknown other entity. 

We’ve heard great things from a mutual friend about your work. We believe the science is applicable in other areas, the Hutts write. 

Our contract is exclusive, the other party responds. 

We’re prepared to make it worth your while. 

What follows is a long argument over prices and contracts. The discussion of the clones doesn’t come till later, and the hair on the back of Fives’ neck stands straight up as he reads it. 

The clones in the GAR are reported to be unmitigated successes,  write the Hutts. How do you have such widespread control of their actions? 

We don’t, the other says. The behavior chips make them naturally more compliant and less questioning. With a strict training program by the Jedi, supervised by our own scientists to make sure it has the highest degree of success, the clones are all the GAR require. 

We’ve heard different. Compliance is necessary in slaves, but the clans are looking for more than that. Are you able to provide it, or have we been misled? 

We are able to provide what you want and more, the other responds, sounding almost insulted at the implication. Our behavior chips are set to override the cerebral cortex in response to certain preprogrammed commands. It is simpler if the clones’ compliance is voluntary, but these subroutines ensure their unconditional obedience. 

How much can you promise? ask the Hutts. It’s difficult to override a sentient’s natural survival instinct. 

Not for us. If you desire, we could send you chips with a command for runaway slaves to kill themselves programmed in. Is that what you were looking for? 

The communication abruptly cuts off, as if this was all Taa’s friend was able to retrieve. Wordlessly, Versè moves to yet another section. This seems to be the bank records of a company called Damask Holdings, and there are several transactions highlighted. All are credit transfers made to the Kaminoan prime minister and to Kamino’s Science Cooperative, the same entity responsible for the clones’ creation.  

Everyone’s quiet now, their faces slack, and Fives holds his breath as Versè continues to explore the information on the datastick. There’s a history of Damask Holdings, which is a dead end, although it does name Hego Damask as the founder and notes his death, more than a decade prior to the Clone Wars. The next few pages are all more information about the company, and they’re damning. 

“It’s a shell company,” Echo murmurs. “I don’t understand.” 

Versè goes to the last page, and this details an investigation done by the senator into who inherited Damask Holdings’ assets after Hego’s death. They seem to have been spread out between several companies, but further records reveal those companies to be shells as well. Taa appeared to have followed the trail deeper, beyond those companies, until he came upon a single name, buried deep beneath pseudonyms and false identities. 

Sheev Palpatine. 

Fives stumbles back from the screen. Rex and Echo seem frozen, and Versè’s hand goes to cover her mouth. 

“It’s not possible,” she whispers. “He… No, it’s insane. It’s crazy.” 

“Is it?” The hot venom in Fives’ voice surprises him. “Think about it, Versè. Taa finds this, and he dies? Right after he schedules a secret meeting with the Chancellor? Look at the date on this file. He wrote this up the day before he died.” His heart is beating unevenly against his ribs. There’s pressure building up in his skull, and no matter how much he tells himself it’s not real, that it’s an imagined pain, brought about by the idea of a chip being inside his brain, he can’t stop panic from wrapping its durasteel hand around his diaphragm. “What the kriff did they put in our heads?” He fights to draw breath, looking to Rex for help. “Captain?” 

Rex doesn’t answer. He has one hand cupped against the side of his head, his eyes wide and disbelieving. 

“Versè,” Echo says, urgency turning his words clipped and harsh, “you need to get out of here.” 

She turns to look at him, confused. “What? I don’t understand —” 

“If this is true,” he says, pulling her to her feet, “and we’ve got these things in our brains, you’re not safe with us. They could flip a switch, and we’ll lose control.” The color has drained from his tan skin. “You need to go. Right now.” 

He’s right. A whining fills Fives’ ears, and he sways as dizziness surges. No one’s safe. Not the clones. Not the people around them. 

Not the whole kriffing Republic. 

As Echo is pushing Versè toward the door, it slids open. Hardcase appears on the other side, breathing hard, and Fives thinks, If the chip activates right now, it could make me kill him. It could make me kill my brother. 

“Hardcase?” Rex seems to pull himself together, and his voice is steady. “What’s wrong?” 

Hardcase swallows, trying to catch his breath. “Captain — sir, you need to come see the news. Right now.” 

Rex moves immediately, pushing past Hardcase like a breaking storm, and Fives rushes after him, Echo and Versè on his heels. The biggest holoscreen is in the common room, which is packed with brothers, all crowded around the screen. 

Fives shoves his way to the front, clearing a path for the others too. Versè ends up beside him, tipping her head back to see the screen.

It shows an aerial view of the Jedi Temple, which is besieged by media, both on foot and in aircraft. The outer courts and streets around the Temple are filled with protestors, surrounding it and advancing like an angry tide. Fives is able to read some of the holosigns floating above them, and the bread in his stomach curdles. 

Down with the Jedi! 

The Order is a traitor to the Republic!

Murderers. 

“A leak from an unnamed member of the Coruscant Guard has rocked Coruscant and the Republic today,” a newscaster says, as the screen changes to a shot of the protestors that’s angled in such a way as to make the viewer feel like they’re in the midst of the protestors. “As many already know, Senator Orn Free Taa was brutally murdered in his office last night, and both the Senate and the Guard refused to release his cause of death, or anything else about the case. 

“However, a brave informant came forward and revealed the crucial information those who profess to protect us were keeping from the people. Senator Taa was killed with a lightsaber, in the very heart of the Republic, and the Guard does not suspect a Sith operative. In fact, our informant tells us that the Guard believes a Jedi to be responsible, and certain members of the Senate confirm that a Sith would not have been able to breach Senate security to kill Orn Free Taa. A Jedi, known by both the Guard and our august Senate, would have.” 

The view changes again, this time to a live feed of the Temple steps. Jedi Guardians are assembled in ranks in front of the entrance, ensconced behind energy shields. Rocks and rubbish, hurled by the crowd, rain down on the shields, but the Guardians don’t flinch. 

“Even more damning, it has come to light that a crucial piece of evidence, given to trusted Jedi for analysis, has disappeared from the Temple, along with Knight Quinlan Vos, who is believed to have been kidnapped. Knight Adi Gallia, liaison to the Senate, tells us there were signs of struggle where the cup was being kept and that there is no sign of Knight Vos. However, she declined further questions, as did the rest of the Jedi present at the recent press conference. 

“The Jedi Order has been instrumental in the war effort, but there are many who question their ties to the Senate, wondering why an apolitical body works so closely with our governmental body. There is worry that the Order has an undue influence on Senate representatives, directing legislation from behind the scenes. This brings their trustworthiness into question, an issue that is compounded by the fact that Count Dooku, the military leader of the Separatist Alliance, is a former member of the Order.” 

On Fives’ other side, Rex has his comm to his ear. “General Skywalker and Commander Tano aren’t answering,” he says when he sees Fives looking. There’s suppressed panic in his eyes, but the only outward sign is the way his fist, balled against his side, trembles. 

“The question we must now ask,” the newscaster continues, “is are the Jedi truly loyal to the Republic? Or have they been traitors all along?” 

Versè reaches out and takes Fives’ hand, squeezing it as she watches the screen with wide eyes. “I need to find Padme.” 

“We’ll help you,” he says, speaking for Echo automatically. There’s no way either of them are letting her go out alone in all this. Especially not with how close the barracks are to the Temple. 

“This is a disaster,” Jesse says, shaking his head. “Sir? What do we do?” 

Rex is forging through the crowd, heading for the exit. “Fives, take Hardcase, Fox, and Dogma and go to Senator Amidala’s apartment. When you’re there, contact the others and tell them to meet you. Explain what we learned. Echo, you stay here and brief the squad on Senator Taa’s discoveries.” 

“Yes, sir!” Fives and Echo say at the same time. Then Fives calls, “But what are you doing?”  

“I’m going to kriffing find the General and the Commander before the mob does.” 

Chapter Text

15

The Tides Are Changing

Rex bursts out of the barracks, not even having bothered to put on his helmet. He’s only wearing half a kit right now, his reserve blaster holstered at his side, but there’s no time to go back and get better prepared. 

He doesn’t even trust himself with more armor and weapons. The skin of his scalp burns, a constant reminder that his mind is not his own. Everything he’s done in his life up till now has been influenced by the chip in his head. And at any second, it could take over. It could wipe his mind clean of who he is and turn him into a weapon. Which is what the Republic has wanted the clones to be all along. Their personhood is a drawback to them, not an advantage. That much has always been clear. 

There’s a chip in his head. 

He can hear the mob from here, even several blocks away from the Temple. He tries to comm Anakin and Ahsoka again, but there’s still no answer. A pit opens in his stomach, cold and endless. 

Good soldiers follow orders. The mantra repeats in his head as he runs down the sidewalk, and it takes on a newly sinister tone that freezes his blood in his veins. Emergency transports whiz past him, heading in the direction of the mob’s epicenter. Their lights paint everything red and blue. 

There’s a chip in his head with the power to take away everything he is. 

Good soldiers follow orders. 

Chancellor Palpatine commissioned the clones and then lied about it. 

Good soldiers follow orders. 

The Kaminoans created the chip, and it must’ve been under his direction. 

Good soldiers follow orders. 

He’s loyal to the Republic. 

Good soldiers follow orders. 

The Republic isn’t loyal to him. 

Good soldiers follow orders. 

He explodes out of a side street and into the thoroughfare that spills into the Temple’s outer courts. It’s packed to the brim with people, so angry that their voices have ceased to be individually discernible. They’ve all become one long shout that surrounds Rex and sends adrenaline pumping into his limbs. 

He can see the Temple now, with the Guardians on its steps. The soaring walls that surround it are spattered with red paint, dripping down the stone like blood, and someone has spray painted WARMONGERS across the wall that abuts the outer courtyard. There’s an almost continuous rain of rotten food and rubbish being hurled at the Guardians’ shields and at the wall itself. 

How did this devolve so quickly? Rex stops to catch his breath and take in the scene. He knew the Jedi had their enemies in the Republic, but he never thought for a second it would be this easy to whip up a mob of this size and intensity. 

Someone’s pulling the strings. The thought rises to his mind unbidden, but it makes a frightening amount of sense. Palpatine was supposed to keep Orn Free’s cause of death under wraps, but it still somehow got leaked, in a way that cast the Order in the worst possible light. Rex looks around at the crowd, and he can’t help but wonder if there were people whispering in their ear before this, telling them Jedi weren’t trustworthy, that they were somehow responsible for the war. 

Good soldiers follow orders. But who has been giving the GAR orders? Palpatine, with his sweeping emergency powers, has final say in every troop movement, every battle fought, and every deployment. 

There isn’t time to think about this. He needs to find his general and his commander — right now. 

Praying they’re in the Temple, he forges forward through the crowd, elbows out. They move around him, assuming at first that he’s another protestor, and he’s almost at the front when someone grabs his arm. 

“You’re a clone!” It’s a mirialan male who’s speaking. “He’s a clone!” 

Now everyone turns to look at Rex, surrounding him like a pair of hungry akuls did once on Shili. Only then, he had his brothers for backup. 

Shouts and accusations pummel him like stones, until he feels dizzy. This isn’t like war. These are the people he serves, the people he’s fighting for. And they’re screaming at him. 

“Are you coming to protect the Jedi?” 

“What are you hiding?” 

“Why aren’t things getting better?” 

“Murderer!” 

“Freak of nature!” 

“You’re helping them take over! You’re supposed to be helping us! ”

“My family died on Christophis. Where were you?”

The last demand is punctuated by a stone, thrown at his head. It slams into his temple, making him stumble sideways. He cups his hand against where it hit, and his fingers come back red. Blood stings at his eyes. His heart rate picks up — all he can think about is the chip and what might happen if the impact somehow activated it. 

I am me. I’m Captain Rex of the 501st. They can’t take that away from me.

“Kriffing sleemo!” Someone shoves him from behind, making him topple. “They should’ve thrown all of you into the sea on Kamino. How can we trust soldiers who aren’t even people to defend us? All you’re doing is making everything worse!” 

Rex lands on his knees and catches himself with one hand. Red crawls in his vision, and it isn’t from the blood leaking over his brow ridge. 

Soldiers who aren’t even people. How dare they. How kriffing dare they.

He lurches to his feet, so savagely that everyone draws back like they’ve been struck. He turns in a circle, glaring at each of his attackers in turn, and he knows he must look frightening, with his war hardened face and his worn armor and his bloodied face. He balls his hands into fists, bracing his feet, but he never reaches for his blaster. No matter what they do, he won’t fire on civilians. 

Because he’s a good soldier. 

“Listen,” he bellows, a snarl coming to his lips, “the GAR is doing it’s karking best . We put our lives on the line, day after day, for all of you! If you want something to change, then kriffing enlist and fight yourselves. Stop sending me and my brothers to win your battles!” He pauses for breath, panting and swiping blood out of his eyes. 

There’s a pocket of stunned silence around him, buttressed by the rippling shouts of the surrounding mob. Rex is still trying to process what he said when he hears Anakin’s voice rise above everything else. He’s at the top of the Temple steps, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka at his side. 

“Rex!” Ahsoka waves her arms at him, throwing Anakin a frightened look. 

“I knew you came here for the Jedi,” the mirialan spits, drawing closer. “You’re not even on our side. You’re on theirs .” 

Rex doesn’t answer. He tries to push his way forward, but the crowd closes around him, blocking his path. Over their heads, Anakin is still visible. He starts toward the steps, but a pair of Guardians block his way. Obi-Wan starts saying something to them, with an air of forced calm, but Anakin just shoves them aside and bounds down the steps, throwing himself right into the middle of the mob. 

Rex swallows down a yell of panic as his general briefly disappears in the crush. After a second, he reappears, hands spread wide as he pushes people back with the Force, making them slide against the old stone courtyard and thoroughfare. He’s being infinitely careful, and there’s no way what he’s doing can injure anyone, but cries of alarm still rise up. Some people who feel far enough away from him to be safe start throwing rocks. They bounce off the bubble of protection around Anakin, which only stirs the crowd into a greater frenzy. 

It only takes him a minute to reach Rex, throwing his arm over his shoulder like he would if Rex were injured in battle. “What the kriff are you doing here?” he demands, pulling Rex back toward the Temple. “You and the rest of the 501st should stay as far away from the Temple as possible right now. Didn’t you hear? They’re accusing the clones of sedition, right along with the Jedi.” 

“I must’ve missed that part of the broadcast,” Rex says. His head hurts, and not from the rock. There’s a chip in my brain. They’re right not to trust us. “I came to find you, General. You weren’t answering my comms.” Here he musters enough energy to glare at Anakin, who grimaces. 

“There’s signal jammers going in the Temple,” he says. “It must’ve blocked your calls. We had slicers trying to get into our database, and they almost released the classified list of all the active Shadows before we shut them down and set up the jammers.” 

“Kriff.” It just keeps getting worse. 

They start up the steps, and the crowd roars after them. Rex doesn’t dare look. He doesn’t want to see the hate in people’s eyes. 

They’re right, in a way. There is something terribly, terribly wrong in the GAR.

The Guardians step aside just long enough to admit them into the Temple’s inner courtyard, drawing back together before the mob can crash in after them. The sound is much more muffled within the Temple walls, and Rex stares around at the courtyard, with its ornate trees and the mosaics built into the surrounding walls. It’s beautiful, but it looks so out of place in a galaxy at war. 

“Rex!” Ahsoka dashes up to him, yanking off one of the fabric vambraces she wears around her arms as she does. She stretches up and uses it to soak up the blood leaking from the cut on his temple. He smiles gratefully and fights the urge to draw away from her. 

I’m not safe.  

“Are you okay?” She stares up at him, full of earnest youngling affection. 

“A little pebble isn’t enough to take me down,” he assures her as Obi-Wan comes up behind her, face tight with anxiety. 

“Please don’t ever do that again, Captain,” Obi-Wan says. 

“Don’t plan on it.” He glances around to make sure they’re far enough away from the Guardians to have privacy. “We need to get to Padme’s apartment,” he says in a low voice. “Versè found something, and I can’t explain it here.” 

Ahsoka mewls like a tooka kit and draws closer to Anakin, although Rex knows she’ll never admit that’s what she’s doing if someone asks. “It’s bad, isn’t it? I can tell from your face.” 

Rex looks down at her, wishing he had a better answer. “Bad enough to change the course of the war.” 

Chapter Text

16 

Tell Me There’s Good News 

Ahsoka wants to go back to bed. It’s been a terrible week so far, sprinkled with conspiracy, murder, and just way too much hugging and kissing between Anakin and Padme. And she’s not even going to touch the revelation that Obi-Wan has a kid. Another kid, if you’re counting Anakin, which Ahsoka knows Obi-Wan does. 

Now, to top it all off, a mob is besieging the Temple, what feels like the entire Republic is up in arms against the Jedi Order, and Fives and Versé have just finished relaying everything they learned from Senator Taa’s datastick. 

Ahsoka’s lunch is threatening to make a reappearance, and she wraps her arms around her midsection, curling into a tighter ball on Padme’s couch. Everyone else is similarly scattered about the room, shrinking beneath the news. Except for Anakin. He’s standing in front of Fives and Versé, like a general receiving a report. 

His presence in the Force has gone silent, suffocating like the hard vacuum of space. It’s frightening. She keeps reaching out to him, but there’s just emptiness. He’s retreated so far into himself that she can’t even sense the glow of his power. 

“I don’t understand,” Padme says in an uncharacteristically small voice. “You’re saying… you’re saying they put chips in your heads? That control you?” She shakes her head, not quite in disbelief but something close. “It… Why? You’re already doing… You’re already soldiers, you’re already fighting. If they haven’t needed to activate them, then why are they still putting them in?” 

“And why is it a big secret?” Quinlan puts in, from his position on the floor. He’s surrounded by handmaidens on every side — and not because they enjoy spending time with him. 

“Because it’s evil ,” Versé snaps suddenly, her face darkening. 

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he replies, frowning at the implication. “But think about how they could swing it, if they wanted to. It’s just for the people’s protection. It’s to ensure success. It’s the stave off desertion.” He glances at Fives and Rex as he speaks, shifting as though suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s a lot of things you could say, and people would believe it.” 

“We’ve seen how they treat clones,” murmurs Ahsoka. She keeps reliving the way the mob surrounded Rex, and she can’t stop flicking her eyes toward the scabbed over wound on his temple. How could someone do that? “He’s right.” 

“What makes it harder to spin,” Quinlan goes on, “is keeping it a secret. This comes out, and they have a lot of questions to field and a public relations problem that’s not going to be simple to fix.” He pauses to shoot a glare at Obi-Wan. “Kind of like the fallout of you kidnapping me . How’s managing this absolute kriffstorm going for you?” 

Obi-Wan rubs his face and takes a long drink from the bottle of Corellian brandy on the living room table. “Not too well. Thank you for asking.” 

“So they kept it a secret because they don’t want people to know why the chips are in our heads,” Rex says. He’s standing by the doors that lead out onto the landing platform, backlit by the afternoon sun. He sounds halfway across the galaxy when he talks, and Ahsoka aches to wrap her arms around him. She stays frozen on the couch, because shame is creeping up through her chest, bitter in the back of her throat. 

She’s part of the system that perpetuates this — that uses the clones. She never quite realized it, until she heard the mob’s screams of freak and listened to Fives explain about the chips in a carefully measured tone. If she were Rex and Fives, she wouldn’t want to see another Jedi, another member of the Senate, ever again. 

That thought makes her eyes sting with exhausted, unshed tears, but she holds them back. Now isn’t the time. It’s not fair to cry. This isn’t her calamity. 

“And so the question remains,” says Bail, chin in his hands. “Why?” 

“Why the chip, and why did Chancellor Palpatine pay for the clones,” adds Obi-Wan. “Does that mean he knows about the chip? Why did he hide?” 

“Because he’s behind all of it ,” comes Anakin’s snarl, harsh and grating in the face of everyone else’s quiet. He stands stock still, his posture rigid and unchanging, but his presence awakens again in an explosion of light and fire. The power of it sends a brief stab of pain through Ahsoka’s head, but it fades quickly, leaving behind relief that she can feel Anakin through the Force again — that she isn’t alone inside her own head anymore. 

“We don’t know that for sure, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, gentle and soothing, but Ahsoka knows it’s not going to help. She thinks Obi-Wan knows too. 

“Like kriff we don’t.” Anakin whips around to face him, and it’s admirable that Obi-Wan doesn’t flinch under the glare he hurls at him. “He did this, Obi-Wan. He told the Kaminoans to put those chips in, and he’s been using the clones ever since the war started.” He barks out a laugh, all hard edges. “All this time. He’s been playing me all this time.” 

“It’s not your fault, Ani.” Padme goes over to him, slipping her hand into his limp fist. He leans against her, softening like he won’t for anyone else — not even Ahsoka or Obi-Wan. “None of us knew. I helped put him in power. We trusted him. This isn’t your doing.” 

Anakin looks down at her. “I thought he was my friend,” he says, quieter now, with a newly shattered quality to his words. It hurts to hear. “I thought he cared .” 

“I know.”  

“I think he’s the one who orchestrated the leak,” Bail puts in after a moment of silence. He leans forward in his chair, a focused expression on his kind face. “It’s all too coincidental. Killing Orn Free didn’t go as planned, and he’s trying to throw suspicion and attention elsewhere. It makes sense. We’ve only made things easier for him.” 

“That’s speculation,” Rex says. “With all due respect, Senator.” He lifts his hand to touch the cut on his head, almost unconsciously. “We don’t have enough information. We know Chancellor Palpatine paid for our… for our creation.” He stops for a moment, eyes shutting briefly as he hand moves from his cut to the side of his head, like he’s reaching for his chip. “We know the Kaminoans implanted control chips in all of us, presumably with secret orders programmed in, ready to be enacted whenever necessary. We can assume Chancellor Palpatine ordered this too. We know the Hutts and Kaminoans share a mutual friend. We know that before Senator Taa died, he seemed intent on either confronting or blackmailing the Chancellor. What we don’t know is the why , like Senator Organa said. We need to find that out before we move forward.” 

“No,” Anakin says tightly, his hand going to his lightsaber. “We need to find him and kill him where he stands.” There’s vitriol in the way he speaks that Ahsoka’s only heard on the rare occasions when Anakin talks about his past, about his masters when he was a slave. 

“We can’t do that,” Sabe says. She’s sitting on the arm of the couch closest to Quinlan, looming over him. Her long dark hair hangs over her shoulder, straight instead of curly like Padme’s is. “However much we want to,” she adds, sighing with a regretful air. “Who’s going to listen to the Chancellor’s murderer?” 

“And who’s going to let us help Rex and Fives and the other clones?” says Ahsoka, twisting her fingers in her lap in order to stop herself from reaching for her lightsabers too. “They’ll just make them keep fighting, with the chips in their heads.” 

“We need more, Ani,” says Padme, tipping her head back so she can look him in the eye. Just watching his face, it's clear that of all of them, Padme will be the only one he listens to. “Remember what you said Obi-Wan told you when you were building your lightsaber? The more time you spend focusing the crystal, the more powerful the blade.” She grips his hand. “We need more time. We need enough to take him down in one blow, in a way that won’t make everything fall apart.” 

Anakin looks doubtful for several moments but finally nods. “One blow is too quick for him,” is all he says. 

“If we’re looking for more information, we need more plans.” Bail stands and begins to pace, while Obi-Wan strokes at his beard. Ahsoka leans closer to him, drinking in the comfortable familiarity of that habit. If Obi-Wan is still stroking his beard, things can’t be so terrible. 

“You and I have to track Palpatine’s whereabouts the night of the murder,” Padme says. “There has to be something — someone who will talk to us.” 

“We’ve looked.” 

“We have to look harder. It’s a big planet, Bail, with a lot of security. Someone has to know something.” 

“I think capturing the mutual friend will answer our remaining questions,” says Obi-Wan. “Even identifying him could tell us much.” He lifts his gaze to Anakin then, and Ahsoka sees a silent question in his eyes, one that Anakin shrinks under. 

“You don’t have to go with me,” Obi-Wan says. 

“Yes,” Anakin answers, and his pain burns through the Force. “I do.” 

“Go with you where?” Ahsoka asks. She hates being left out, especially now. 

Anakin’s jaw works. “Tatooine.”

Chapter Text

17 

Skywalker, Breaker of Chains

It’s been too long since Anakin’s been to Naboo. Even if he’ll be there less than a day this time, he’s glad to be going. Especially since it will get him and everyone else off Coruscant for a while. 

In the past day, the situation has gone from bad to almost intolerable. The clones who are on leave can’t step outside the barracks without being attacked, either verbally or physically. The Jedi Temple is completely sealed off, and there’s already been an attempted bombing that was foiled just in time by Plo Koon and his Wolf Pack. 

And things are still getting worse. After verifying the alibis Obi-Wan sent over, the Coruscant Guard summarily kicked the Jedi off the case, and the Senate temporarily — or so they said — banned them from the Senate building. Their alibis may say they’re innocent but no one — not Coruscant, not the Guard, and not the Senate — believes them. 

After what he’s discovered, Anakin’s just fine with that. None of it matters anymore in the face of the revelation about the control chips. 

Bail’s staying behind on Coruscant to continue his investigation, but Padme insists that everyone else needs to spend some time offworld. She’s afraid — that's easy enough for Anakin to tell. Afraid that someone will cross them off, afraid that someone involved in Palpatine’s conspiracy is going to expose them. 

Afraid, because Anakin’s returning to Tatooine again after he sees everyone safely to Naboo. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she confesses to him, after Obi-Wan and Ahsoka have gone to fabricate an offworld training mission for the 501st and 212th. As far as the Order will know, they’ll be on an uninhabited moon, running drills. The Council approved it right away, since all of them agreed that the clones were better off away from Coruscant — both for the GAR’s image and for the clones’ safety. What they don’t know is that the clones will be safely ensconced on Naboo instead, with doctors trying to figure out how to remove their chips. 

And that no one’s going to make them return unless they want to come back. 

“I have to.” He pauses in packing what little he has into the speeder that will take him to the barracks. “I have to.” 

“That planet is hell. ” She hugs herself, uncharacteristic venom souring her voice. “There’s a reason you —” 

“I know.” Anakin closes the distance between them and pulls her close. She leans into his chest, head on his collarbone. Force, he loves her. “But I’ve been gone too long. It’s… it’s not the Amavikka way, to abandon the children of Ar-Amu, when you have the power to help them.” 

She lifts her head, brown eyes meeting his blue. “You’re not just going to get information, are you?” She already knows the answer. That’s clear from the set of her jaw and the tears she’s holding back for his sake. 

Revenge is not the Jedi way. But this isn’t kriffing revenge, and the Order’s held him back for too many years. “No. It’s time, Padme. There’s more at stake than just figuring out what’s going on.” 

Her eyebrows draw together, and she grips Anakin’s hands. “I’m scared.” 

“Don’t be.” He manages a confident grin. “You’re the one leading the charge against the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. I’m just messing around a backwater world on the Outer Rim.” 

She laughs, but there are tears hiding behind it. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” 

“I’m taking Obi-Wan with me, and Rex and Cody won’t stay behind. I’ve got supervision.” 

“No.” She shakes her head. “ Promise me, Ani. Promise me that this is a fight you’ll come back from.” Her hands stretch up and knit into his hair. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Part of it is.” 

“ No. ” 

She always thinks the best of him, no matter what. Padme Naberrie, who finds the whole Republic wanting when weighed on her scales of morality, can’t see her own husband’s cowardice and inaction. “I promise,” he says, “that I won’t let any kriffing Hutts or depurs get me.” He lifts her chin with a finger. “I’m Ekkreth, and no cage can hold me. I am the one who brings rain and walks free in the sky. I am the Slave Who Makes Free.” He leans down and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “And it’s time to stop running.” 

“Just… come back to me.” 

“There’s nothing I want to do more.” His throat swells, and he swallows down a lump. He can’t tell her the truth. It’ll be easier if Ahsoka or Obi-Wan tell her — after. 

Chapter Text

18 

Happy Life Day, Obi-Wan Kenobi 

It feels strange to be flying in a gunship with the clones and not be heading toward a battle. Obi-Wan keeps catching himself checking over his armor, making sure his lightsaber is securely hooked onto his belt, and looking at his comm to ensure he hadn’t missed any messages from command. He has to keep reminding himself that they aren’t on their way to a warzone. They’re going to Naboo, which isn’t on any frontlines. More than that, they’re going to the Naberrie estate, which feels about as far from the war as you can get. 

Or maybe it isn’t. He’s not spent enough time around Padme’s family to know for sure, but if they’re anything like her, it’s not likely to be a particularly restful time. Anakin seems happy to be going, which unfortunately probably means his in-laws are like him. That doesn’t bode well. 

“We’re preparing for our final descent, sir,” the pilot, Hawk, calls from the cockpit. “Senator Amidala’s ship has already landed, and the Naberrie security team has signaled we’re clear for landing.” 

“Good,” Obi-Wan answers. “Go ahead.” 

As the gunship burns down through the atmosphere, Anakin turns to Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, looking so serious and worried that for a split second, Obi-Wan thinks he’s about to confess to covering up another kriffing murder. Then he says, “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you…” 

Ahsoka groans, and Obi-Wan puts his head in his hands. “What?” he says, slumping back against the wall. “What is it? Did you kill someone? Do you have a second wife? A couple of kids?” 

“It’ll all make sense once we touch down,” he says, cryptically enough that Obi-Wan has the urge to strangle him, which is decidedly unbefitting of a Jedi. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” demands Ahsoka, hands on her hips. “Do you know this one, Rex?” 

“No,” Anakin says, before Rex can answer. “No one knows this one, except Padme.” 

“I can’t take much more of this.” Obi-Wan shuts his eyes to fight off a surging headache. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” asks Ahsoka, a distinct whine to her voice. 

“I didn’t tell anyone this, Snips,” he says swiftly, probably trying to stop an emotional outburst from her before it erupts. Obi-Wan remembers when Anakin was fourteen — navigating his many emotions was like trying to dance in a minefield. He can only imagine it’s even more complicated with a teenage girl, especially one with just as strong a personality as Anakin. 

“But why?” 

“Because I didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“That’s not an answer!” 

“It wasn’t about you,” he says, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I trust you — I promise. I didn’t want you to have to lie for me, Snips. That’s all.” 

“Lie about what?” 

He grins at them both, and there’s the clunk of the landing gear extending as the gunship, along with the others in its fleet, settle onto the landing field. “It’s a good secret. Promise.” 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Obi-Wan mutters. The gunship doors shunt open, allowing light to spill in.

 It never seems to be cloudy on Naboo — he thinks he heard Padme say once that they usually have dense mist instead of rain. It seems strange to him, because he happens to enjoy rain, but he can’t deny that Padme’s world is beautiful. The Naberrie estate is perhaps one of the most beautiful parts of it, all sweeping fields that roll down to a huge, picturesque lake, edged by a thick forest. Up the slope of the lawns, the Naberrie manor, sprawling and a prime example of Nabooian architecture — all stained glass and airy towers, is perched on the top of the hill, with terraced gardens and wide pavilions that look out over the lake. 

The gunships in the landing field, with two full battalions of armored clones spilling out of them, seem horribly out of place until Obi-Wan looks past the landing field and sees the ranks of prefab houses waiting for the clones, complete with several medical facilities that appear to be staffed by a mixture of Alderaani and Nabooian doctors. 

He doesn’t understand how Padme and Bail pulled this off, and he wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t seeing it. 

They lied to the Republic and the Order to get here. They stole two battalions of clone troopers. They’ve covered up a murder. They suspect the Supreme Chancellor of conspiracy and treason. 

This isn’t where Obi-Wan ever expected his life as a Jedi to go, but kriff it all if he doesn’t finally feel like he’s actually doing the right thing. Maybe for the first time since they took Anakin from Tatooine. 

“Over here!” Padme appears from the shadow of her transport, its mirror sheen blinding in the sunlight, and runs over to Anakin, flanked by her handmaidens. She takes his hand, leaning close to him, while the handmaidens surround the two of them and watch everyone with a touch them and die glare. It’s unexpectedly sweet to see their protectiveness extended to Anakin. On Coruscant, they’re entirely focused on Padme, but here on Naboo it’s clear they feel safe to let their true affection toward Anakin show. Almost all of them are a few years his senior, and they stand around him like older sisters, ready to protect him and Padme from any danger. 

Anakin slips his arm around Padme’s waist and kisses her hair. The simpleness of the gesture, the loving habitualness of it, catches Obi-Wan off guard too. It hurts like a vibroblade to the gut to think that he and Padme have been deprived of a normal relationship, made to feel ashamed of something that’s clearly beautiful. Something that clearly makes both of them happier than they ever would’ve been apart. 

Obi-Wan remembers how that feels. 

He remembers he and Satine running away from that feeling. The pain of what came after — the consequences — is like being stabbed in the gut with a vibroknife every time he thinks of it. 

“So. Anakin.” He clears his throat, shoving the thoughts away before they burn him, and turns to his padawan — who is still so young, really. A child, just like Ahsoka. “What’s this secret?” 

Anakin’s mouth purses into a mischievous grin, one Obi-Wan’s learned to dread, and points in the direction of the estate. Obi-Wan, along with Ahsoka, turns just in time to see Padme’s family explode out of the manor. Her mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, and two nieces. As they reach Anakin and Padme, the handmaidens relax, and there’s a general commotion, full of hugging and exclamations of “Happy life Day!” and “Did you see the houses Grandmére and Grandpére put up for your friends, Uncle Ani? We didn’t have enough room in the house, even though Mére really tried to find a way to fit everyone.” 

Padme ends up six year old Ryoo clinging to her hand, and Anakin swoops a three year old Pooja onto his shoulders, grinning like Obi-Wan hasn’t seen him grin since the war started. 

“Was this the secret?” Ahsoka lets a fascinated Pooja reach down and touch her diadem. “I already knew about Padme’s family, Skyguy.”

Anakin rolls his eyes and points. Sighing, Obi-Wan turns again. 

A woman walks across the lawn, her blue dress — a much richer one than the gray one he last saw her in — swishing around her legs. Her brown hair hangs loose, and seeing her again makes Obi-Wan realize just how much Anakin takes after her. 

Shmi Skywalker is alive. 

“Ani.” Her Amatakkan accent is pronounced still, and her smile is as bright as both of Tatooine’s suns when she looks at him. “Have you been making trouble, rainstorm?” 

“Amu!” He hands Pooja off to Sola, Padme’s sister, and elbows his way out of the tangle of the Naberrie family. It takes him a few strides to reach her, and he catches her up into a hug, spinning her around. 

Her feet are bare, and they don’t touch the ground. 

Shmi Skywalker is alive. 

“Put me down,” she cries with a laugh, and it dawns on Obi-Wan that he never once heard her laugh in the short time he knew her. He thought life on Tatooine had beaten all the joy, all the mirth out of her. “Put me down, Ani! I have to yell at you for being so foolish — Ani!” 

He finally sets her back on the grass, but she doesn’t yell at him. She just holds him, like him coming home to her still feels like a dream. 

The Jedi Order did this. 

Shmi Skywalker is alive. 

“Skyguy?” Ahsoka steps forward, timid. 

Anakin looks back over his shoulder. “See, Snips? Told you it was a good secret. This is my amu — my mother.” 

Ahsoka gives him one of her Looks. “You said she was dead. You told me —” 

“I lied.” 

“Why the kriff did you do that?” 

“Language,” Padme reproaches, covering Pooja and Ryoo’s ears. 

“I told you. I didn’t want you to have to lie to everyone else — about where she was, about what I did.” 

“But what did you do?” 

“I saved her. I got her off Tatooine. And the — the rest of my family.” He points toward the manor yet again, and another group of people has emerged onto the lawn. There’s a man about Shmi’s age, with a weatherbeaten, no nonsense face, and beside him is a young couple, maybe a year or two younger than Padme and Anakin. Obi-Wan remembers Anakin mentioning a step family he left behind on Tatooine. He supposes these must be them. “I brought them all here.” 

He saved her. The casual way he says it hits Obi-Wan like a stone thrown at his head. Nearly a year of war, of pushing down his own grief to try to soothe his padawan’s, and Shmi wasn’t even dead. The chaotic first weeks of the war are forever emblazoned in Obi-Wan’s memory. The swift deployment of the Order and the newly minted clone trops, and the news of Shmi’s death, coming right on the heels of his first visit to Mandalore since he was a stupid twenty year old, of his discovery of the child Satine had hidden from him for fourteen years, of the rage and pain that came right after, of the desperate need to push it to the side and be there for Anakin. 

He wouldn’t be Qui-Gon, who let his own grief infect every part of his relationship with Obi-Wan. No. He wouldn’t do that. Especially not when his padawan — still so young, still so kriffing young — needed him. 

And all this time, Anakin was lying to him. 

He shouldn’t be angry. It’s not the Jedi way, and he should be rejoicing that Shmi is safe and free. That’s all Anakin ever wanted. He doesn’t, however, care. “I was so kriffing nice to you,” he grates out at length. Anakin focuses on him, a familiar grimace on his face — the same one he got every time he and Obi-Wan clashed when they were master and padawan. His Obi-Wan is about to yell and be annoying face.  

“You were,” Anakin says, taking advantage of the pause. “I really appreciated it.” 

“So nice, and the whole time you were lying to me. Not just about Padme, apparently, but everything! You know half the reason I didn’t tell the council about your affair —” 

“ — Marriage,” interrupts Anakin, frowning. 

Obi-Wan swallows down a scream of frustration at the interruption. “ — About your affair was because I thought you’d just lost your mother, and how the kriff was I supposed to take her away too, after all that? In the middle of a kriffing war?” 

Padme sighs and covers her nieces’ ears again. 

“I thought,” Obi-Wan goes on, “‘Oh, my poor padawan, knighted before his time, orphaned, alone, and all of the sudden a general of a battalion? He needs me, and he needs Padme, so Sith hells to whatever I’m feeling! Sith hells to whatever the Jedi Code says!’ And then it turns out that this whole time that you not only still have your mother, but you’ve secreted away your entire extended family here. What, marriage wasn’t enough for you? Did you go looking for more parts of the Code you could break? What’s next? Is Padme pregnant now? Are you going to have a kid? Why not — I mean you might as well have the whole trifecta of attachments. You’ve never done anything else by halves!” He stops then, hauling in a long breath, watching bad temperedly as the rest of Anakin’s family gathers around him and Shmi. All three of them give Obi-Wan identical reproachful looks. 

Anakin watches him, hands clasped behind his back. After a moment, he asks, “You done?” 

Obi-Wan pushes his hands through his hair and decides to ignore the mildly shell shocked stare Ahsoka’s giving him. She’s not used to seeing him lose his temper like this, but for Anakin it’s old, comfortable territory. He’s always had a knack for getting under Obi-Wan’s skin, even when he was a youngling. “For now,” he answers finally. 

“Good.” Anakin is so unaffected by his outburst that Obi-Wan almost wants to try again with another one, even though he knows it will have the same result. Anakin knows him well enough to know when he’s truly angry, and when he’s just venting. “Are you going to say, ‘Hello, Amu,’ now?” Anakin gestures to his mother, who is regarding him with an almost amused look. 

With a pang, Obi-Wan realizes that yelling must be very frightening for her, in the normal course of things. He’s lucky he didn’t give her a panic attack. Either a year of freedom has done her an astronomical amount of good, or she, like Anakin, can see right through him. 

It’s probably the second option, which is kriffing annoying. 

“Hello, Am — oh, frip.” Obi-Wan raises his eyes skyward, gathering his strength and trying not to hear the giggles coming from Pooja and Ryoo. He’s already sworn more today than he has in eleven years. It’s all Anakin’s fault, just like his ingrained habit of not swearing is. “Hello, Lady Skywalker.” He finds it within himself to sweep into a bow that makes Shmi shake her head and smile. 

“Just Shmi,” she says. “I remember you, dear. Your hair grew.” 

Thank the Force it did. “It’s good to see you again,” he says, straightening up and gluing the shattered, fragile remains of his calm back together. “Please know that, despite all, er, insinuations to the contrary, I’m really very glad to see you alive.” 

“And I’m very glad to be alive,” she says. Her Amatakkan accent grows thicker when she’s trying not to laugh, he thinks. “Ani says you’ve all come to conspire behind the Republic’s back.” 

“Well, we —” 

“Good,” she interrupts, a suddenly savage tilt to her lips. “It’s long overdue.” 

He blinks at her, and the motherly smile is back on her face. It’s not a lying smile, but it doesn’t show the full breadth of her character. She hides behind it, just like she hid behind her persona as a meek slave on Tatooian. 

Shmi steps forward, her hand extended. He takes it and kisses the back of her palm, which startles her, like she was thinking he would shake her hand. 

As if he’d ever do something so unmannerly. 

“Thank you for allowing me to take care of your son,” he says, because it feels like the right thing. 

“Thank you for returning him to me,” she responds. Looking around, she says, “What do you think Master Kenobi? Lunch first, and then some light espionage planning?”

He almost chokes at her directness and fails to cover it, because Cody is snickering the background after he finishes coughing. “That sounds acceptable to me, Lady — I mean, Shmi.”

She takes Anakin’s arm, leaning on him as if her weight will keep him safe on the ground, not up in the air doing stupid things as always. “Happy Life Day, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Chapter Text

19 

Oh, I’m Literally Positive 

Padme never realizes just how much she misses Naboo until the second she steps out of her transport and takes a deep breath of her home planet’s air. Coruscant never seems to have enough oxygen — it’s always ruined with the bitter tang of exhaust or pollution from the world’s many factories, especially since manufacturing began to exclusively focus on weapon and warship production. 

Given that the manor’s banquet hall, while expansive, is nowhere near large enough to house almost two thousand clones, Life Day lunch is an open air occasion, hosted on the bank of the lake, where a huge pavilion has been set up, crammed with tables that buckle with food. Padme’s not sure where her family found these caterers, but they seem to be taking everything in stride, beyond a few perplexed looks in the direction of the clones, which Padme can’t blame them for. 

Most families don’t invite two whole battalions of soldiers to their Life Day celebrations. Most families don’t have four Jedi present either. 

The Naberries have never been like most families. 

Padme sits on a log near the edge of the lake, watching Anakin. He’s under the pavilion, surrounded on all sides by laughing clones. He’s challenged Quinlan to an arm wrestling competition, and — since Obi-Wan made him use his non cybernetic arm — he’s not making much forward progress. He and Quinlan are evenly matched, and Ahsoka is cross legged on their table, cheering for Anakin, while Obi-Wan eggs Quinlan on. The clones are split down the middle, with the ones from the 212th taking Quinlan’s side and those from the 501st taking Anakin’s side. 

She can’t help but smile. Anakin’s always like this before a battle, no matter how high stakes the situation is. He turns it all off and lives completely in the moment. It’s leftover from growing up as a slave — she knows that much for sure. Amavikka take joy and rest where they can get it, and they learn at a young age that terror of the future only ruins the present. Tomorrow is never guaranteed, so Anakin’s learned to live from second to second. The clones are like that too, and the shame of having not put two and two together weighs heavy on Padme’s shoulders. 

They’re slaves, just like Anakin was. 

No. Like Anakin is. Because he’s never been free, not once in his life. He’s not a slave to Watto any more, but he’s still enslaved. To the Jedi Order, to their stupid kriffing prophecy, to the war, and to the secrets he has to keep. 

And now he’s going back to Tatooine, and she’s terrified he’s not going to come back. He’s walking right into his nightmares. Knowing Anakin, he won’t even look back — he’ll just face them head on, because that’s who he is. Sometimes Padme wishes she married a coward, rather than the Hero With No Fear. 

“Padme?” Shmi’s voice behind her startles her, and Padme nearly tumbles backwards off the log, just barely catching herself with one hand. 

“Amu.” She presses a hand to her chest, catching her breath. “You scared me.” 

“Sorry.” Shmi sits down on the log beside her. Her dark hair hangs long down her back, moving softly with the wind. Every now and then, a streak of sun bleached blonde will emerge from her brown locks, revealed by the breeze. “Are you all right?” 

Padme shakes herself. “Yeah, of course. Of course I am, Amu.” It always gives her a warm feeling to call Shmi her amu . It doesn’t give her a warm feeling to lie to her. 

Shmi raises an eyebrow. “You’ll find I’m very hard to deceive.” Her hand, rough and more worn than it should be at her age, finds Padme’s, squeezing. “What’s wrong?” 

Padme’s jaw works. “I’m not supposed to tell you first,” she says shakily, pressing her lips together. “It’s practically a rule.” 

Shmi just looks at her, her gaze going from Padme’s face to her midsection and back. “So. How far along are you?” 

Padme looks at her lap. “About seven weeks. It must’ve happened during Ani’s last leave — we were so happy to see each other that we just didn’t think. And I’ve been so busy that I didn’t even realize I was late until a couple days ago. The throwing up was also a clue.” She pauses, pressing her hand against her womb. “Ani and I are going to have a baby.” A smile spreads over her lips, even as her lungs clench up. This was never the plan — not for years. Not till the war was over, not till Anakin figured out what he wanted to do about remaining in the Jedi Order. Not till they were finally able to tell the truth about everything. “I’m scared, Amu.” She shifts on the log to face Shmi, her chest aching, straining toward Shmi because she wants to be held. She hasn’t confided in her own mother yet, because wonderful as Mére is, she won’t understand the cold terror that turns Padme’s insides to ice. Not the way Shmi will. 

“Are you sure you’re pregnant?” 

“Oh, I’m literally positive.” 

Her brows knitted together, Shmi rubs her thumb against the back of Padme’s hand. “Are you going to keep him? Or her?” 

Padme flinches, a flare of fight or flight adrenaline rising in her throat, choking her, making her chest tremble. It turns her already fragile stomach even more bitter. “ Of course. ” There’s more heat in her voice than she intends, but Shmi doesn’t seem affected. 

“Good.” Shmi tightens her jaw. “I just didn’t know. I know the Republic allows it, and you —” 

“I’d never do that,” says Padme, fierce and low. Her hand presses harder against her middle, like she can shield her baby from the galaxy. She’s never loved anyone — not even Anakin — like this. She’d crawl across burning coals for this baby. She’d lose everything just to protect her little one. “There are a lot of things the Republic allows that are wrong. Like that . Like slavery.” 

Shmi turns away, staring out over the water. “I was lucky — with Anakin. Gardulla sold me before anyone found out I was pregnant. If I’d still been his when I started to show…” She shakes her head. “He didn’t have any use for babies, and they don’t exactly sell well. He would’ve… he would’ve killed Ani.” There’s an old rage in her voice, and for a moment, Padme almost doubts that Gardulla would’ve been able to pull it off, powerful Hutt or not. “Watto,” Shmi goes on, “well, he was just happy he got two slaves for the price of one.” 

“I’m sorry, Amu.” Padme slides closer and leans her head against Shmi’s shoulder, because it’s all she can think of to do. 

“This thing you and Ani and the others are doing.” Shmi cups Padme’s head with one hand, her thin fingers knitting into her hair. “You’re out to change things like that. Change the Republic. The galaxy. Aren’t you?” 

Padme laughs a little. “You make us sound like Separatists.” 

Shmi looks down at her, brown eyes immovable. “You’re not?” 

“The Separatists are war criminals.” She sits up, shaking her head. “We’re not them.” 

“No. You’re not. Because as far as I can tell they haven’t done a single kriffing thing to really help the galaxy. All they’ve done is get a lot of people killed because they were too afraid to take part in the war they started. They sent droids and warmongers to do their dirty work instead. Of course, the Republic has done the same thing.” She fixes Padme with a look that makes her feel like Shmi is peeling her open, reading every one of her thoughts. “Do you still want to be a Loyalist, in the face of that?” She turns toward the clones. Ahsoka is riding on Rex’s shoulders, and he is grinning like Padme’s never seen him grin. This has become far bigger than just keeping Ahsoka safe. “In the face of everything you’ve learned? There’s no middle ground in this fight. There never was.” 

“No.” Padme shuts her eyes for a moment. “I used to think there could be, but I was wrong. I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t build the Republic,” says Shmi. “And you didn’t corrupt it. But you have a chance — we all have a chance — to finally change things. Be a new kind of Separatists. Not fighting for any government or corporation or personal interest. Fighting because it’s kriffing right , and because the other side is fighting for something kriffing wrong. ” 

“Like how Ani’s going to liberate Tatooine?” Padme sighs. “I’m sorry about that too — when I came there the first time, I should’ve —” 

“Should’ve done what? There was nothing you could’ve done without the approval of the Republic, Padme.” 

“I know that…” She twists her fingers together. “But I don’t want to let Ani go. Not to Tatooine. I should, but I don’t.” 

“I don’t either,” says Shmi, staring ahead, toward where Anakin is. He’s in the process of catching Ahsoka as she falls off Rex’s shoulders, his hair hanging in his face as he yells at her to not be such deadweight. “I don’t want any of them to go, and those are my people I left behind. The only thing that gave me peace after Ani left with the Jedi was the knowledge that he wasn’t on Tatooine any more.” 

“But when the war started to break out, you tried to get to him.” 

“I knew the Jedi were peacekeepers,” says Shmi. “And I knew Ani would be right in the middle of the danger. I wanted him safe. I still want him safe. But this is what he’s been called to do, whether I like it or not. He wouldn’t be Ani if he stayed home, if he ignored people when they needed help.” A thin smile curves her lips. “If I’m honest, I don’t like the idea of you going up against the corruption in the Republic either. At least depurs attack you to your face. People like the ones you’re going to fight… They’ll stab you right in the back.” 

 “That’s why I carry a blaster.” Padme fingers her holstered blaster, a small silvery one of Naboo make — meant to circumvent traditional weapons scanners. She could carry it into the Senate without anyone knowing if she wanted to. With the way things are going, she might have to. “So I can shoot them before they get close enough to stab me.” 

Shmi laughs a little. “You’re perfect for my Ani.” She sobers. “You’re afraid he won’t come back.”

It’s not a question. 

The cold fear sweeps back over Padme, like someone shoved her into an icy pool. “Yes. I… he wouldn’t promise me.” 

Shmi is contemplative for a moment. “Ani doesn’t like lying, for all that he does it. It’s war, my dear. There aren’t any promises, so he won’t make any. You haven’t told him about the baby?” 

“I’m afraid it will distract him. Get him killed. And I don’t want to stop him.” She puts her head in her hands. “This is all he’s ever wanted to do. And…” 

Shmi holds her close. “And if you don’t tell him now, it means he has to come back.” 

“Yes.” Padme bites back a sob. 

A gentle kiss touches the top of Padme’s head. “I know my son,” Shmi says. “There’s nothing in the galaxy that will stop him from getting back to you. Do your part here, and trust that he’ll come back to you and the baby. And if he doesn’t…” Shmi rests her chin on Padme’s head. “We’ll fly to Tatooine ourselves and burn the depurs’ palaces to the ground until we find him.”

Padme closes her eyes, breathing out slowly. Durasteel resolve grows inside her. A new war has begun, and she might not be exactly sure who the enemies are yet, but she kriffing certain of what and who she’s fighting for. 

Chapter Text

20 

Ekkreth Is Coming

It was late at night when they finally left Naboo. Anakin would’ve been bone tired if not for the adrenaline turning every moment as sharp and clear as transparisteel. Both the 501st and 212th wanted to come, but Obi-Wan said — and for once Anakin agreed — that some should stay behind to get checked out by the doctors. He tried to get half of both battalions to sit the battle out, but only a quarter of the 212th listened. The 501st didn’t listen at all. 

The last thing Anakin wants to do is lead any of the clones into danger, but he’s still glad to have them by his side. There aren’t any beings in the galaxy — besides Obi-Wan and Ahsoka — that he trusts to watch his back more than he trusts them. 

He’s not naive enough to think the clones are only coming to support him, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and Quinlan, and that suspicion was confirmed when Rex stopped him as he was getting on the head gunship. “The people on Tatooine,” he said, voice even gruffer than normal, “they’re slaves too?” 

“Yes,” Anakin said. He looked at Rex, the familiar set of his jaw, that always signaled when his mind was made up about something. The moonlight bounced off his shaved head and lit his worn armor, repainted to look like a mercenary’s, in washed out silver light. This is his friend, still standing by his side after everything. 

Your slave. He’s your slave. Anakin turned his head away. How had he gotten here? How had he looked away and looked away until he was blind to the atrocity playing out around him? Apologies rose to his lips, but he pushed them down. They wouldn’t have meant anything then.

“Are we going to free them?” asked Rex. 

Anakin forced himself to look him in the eye again. “Yes. We’re going to free all of them. And kill some depurs while we’re at it.” 

That satisfied Rex. Anakin’s word is enough, because Rex still trusts him. Anakin doesn’t understand how. 

The navicomputer chimes to signal that they’ve reached Tatooine, and there’s a lurch as Anakin’s gunship drops out of hyperspace. “We're in orbit, General,” calls Hawk from the cockpit, looking back over his shoulder. 

Trying to ignore the cold pit growing in his stomach, Anakin makes his way to the front of the gunship, peering through the view screen. Tatooine curves beneath them, pale and just as barren as he remembers it. The suns will just be rising on the surface, their light peeking over the horizon and promising a scorching day, as usual.

Cold spreads over Anakin, the bone deep kind that he remembers feeling often as a child, despite the hot climate. Now, he’s old enough, trained enough, to realize it’s the Dark Side he’s feeling. There are no Sith on Tatooine, but the whole planet is still smothered in darkness. 

“Is everyone else in position?” asks Anakin, bracing one hand on the back of Hawk’s seat. 

“Yes, sir,” he responds. “General Vos’ and General Kenobi’s ships are leading the other squads. They’re waiting for your order to begin descent.” 

Anakin looks back over his shoulder at Ahsoka, who is sandwiched between Fives and Echo. “Last chance to hang back with the ship, Snips.” 

She folds her arms. “We’ve gone over this. Where you go, I go.” 

“It’ll be dangerous. The people here, Ahsoka… They won’t hesitate to kill you. Or worse.” 

“And that’s different from every other battle I’ve been a part of, how exactly?” 

“It’s people this time. Not droids. Sentients.” 

“I know . And can we really call slave owners sentients?” 

He shakes his head. “I won’t be able to look after you the whole time.” 

“Come on, Master.” She tips her head, smiling in the reckless way he knows she learned from him. “You know I’m the one who’s always looking after you.” 

“We’ll take care of her, General,” Fives interrupts. He rests his elbow on Ahsoka’s shoulder, making her roll her eyes in fond annoyance. “When you can’t, we brothers will be there. Right, vod’ika ?” He grins at Ahsoka, and she smiles back, even as she ducks out from under his arm. 

Anakin didn’t know the clones were learning Mando’a. “Thank you, Fives.” Why doesn’t he hate us? Why don’t they all hate us? 

“What else are brothers for, General?” 

Nodding, Anakin turns back to the cockpit. “Give the order, Hawk. Take us down.” 

The view screen glows as their gunship arrows through the atmosphere, flanked by the others. Tatooine’s surface looms before them, and unlike other worlds, there aren’t any clouds to punch through. Instead, the blue sky mists into existence around them once they’re through the atmosphere. As they approach their destination, the blinding dawn cuts across the sand dunes and lights Mos Espa in harsh shadows.

Needles of ice stab Anakin’s stomach and crawl down his back, nauseating. He moves one trembling hand to his lightsaber. I am not a slave any more. I am not a slave any more. 

I am a Jedi Knight. I am Anakin Skywalker, and I’ve come to free my people. 

His breath starts to come faster, and he wishes he were as stupid and young as he was when he came here before. It’s been barely a year, but war’s made him acutely aware of his own mortality. And the mortality of the people he cares about. 

Against his will, his eyes find the far gate of Mos Espa, trace the arch of it, and follow the path beyond it, which leads out into the sands. Echoing screams of troublemaker slaves as they are dragged through it and out into the barren dunes press against his ears. The muted thuds of their bodies hitting the sand, the click of detonators being activated, and the sound of the detonators exploding, ripping bodies apart and leaving the sand stained red. 

He’s never lived in Mos Espa, but he remembers it happening in Mos Eisley. Remembers Amu covering his eyes, burying his head against her shoulder. But nothing could block out the explosion, or the tidal wave of pain that slammed into him through the Force and made him black out. 

His breath comes faster, dragging at his throat. Then there’s a hand on his arm, and Ahsoka is beside him, her diadem catching the glow that filters in through the view screen. She smiles up at him, a timid, soft smile that’s reminiscent of the one she gave him when he asked her to be his padawan. The images melt away in the light, and he takes her hand.

“Skyguy?” She squeezes his hand. “You good?” 

“I am now.” He manages to smile back at her. “Are you?” 

She shivers a little. “I don’t like how this place feels.” 

“Yeah, me either.” He swings her hand. “You ready to change it?” 

“Yeah. Can we?” 

“I don’t know, Snips, but I personally don’t think the Dark Side stands a chance against you. Look at you.” He nudges her head with his free hand, and she grins, all fangs. “You’re adorable.” 

The ship lurches a little as it settles onto the landing zone just outside the city. Anakin’s not about to touch down in the bays within the city. They’re perfectly designed by the Hutts to be perfect traps, so that any unwanted visitors become like womp rats in a barrel, easy to pick off. 

“We’re in position, sir,” Rex says, coming over. “The main attack force has landed, and the others are heading to the other cities and waiting for our signal.” The other troopers assemble behind him, all dressed like common mercenaries. Anakin and Ahsoka have disguises as well, along with Quinlan and Obi-Wan. Even the ships were repainted — through mass effort on everyone’s part  — to look like GAR gunships repurposed by spacers, which usually happens when the GAR is forced to abandon lost or damaged ships. 

“Good.” Anakin makes sure his lightsaber is securely hooked to his belt, hidden beneath the long coat he wears, and puts his cybernetic hand on his blaster. The grip feels unfamiliar beneath his fingers, but he’s still a relatively good shot. And with the Force helping him, he’s an impossibly good shot. 

The gunship doors trundle open, letting in a blast of hot, dry air. Anakin breathes it in as sand peppers his face, and he slips right back into being Amavikka, right down to the way he walks across the sand, using a particular kind of technique that keeps him balanced on the top of the shifting grains. Around him, Ahsoka and the clones slog through it like the Core Worlders they are, and he can’t help but feel a bit smug. 

“Remember,” he says, as Obi-Wan, Quinlan, and their squads fall in around him, helmets on to conceal their faces from unwanted attention. “No lightsabers unless you’re inside the palace, and don’t show your face under any circumstances. As far as anyone knows, we’re soldiers for hire who are out for a little revenge.” He glances to his side. Obi-Wan is there, just slightly behind him. Anakin’s led missions before, but normally Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from backseat commanding. Not so today, however. 

This is Anakin’s world, Anakin’s fight, and Obi-Wan knows it. 

Ahsoka puts on a pair of aviator goggles that hide her face well enough to protect her identity. She rolls her shoulders, eager to go, because she’s a fourteen year old who has no idea of the sheer evil they’re about to face head on. “Let’s do this.” 

They march on the city. Anakin leads the way, Ahsoka beside him. His coat swishes around his legs, and his squad follows him, all precise formations and dangerous edges. Obi-Wan and Quinlan are right behind him, with their respective squads. The walls of the city close in around them, sheltering them from the stinging, burning wind. Anakin doesn’t look to the right or left as they pass through the streets, following the thoroughfare that leads directly to the Hutts’ palace. Passersby stop and stare, and slaves shrink back into the shadows. 

“Owen.” Anakin stops when they reach the main square. His stepbrother insisted on coming with them, riding in Obi-Wan’s gunship. “Go.” 

With a swift nod, Owen slips away from the group and disappears into one of the alleys with the practiced ease of a Tatooian native. He’ll alert the Freedom Trail to what they’re doing, so they can be ready to lend support and shelter those who can’t fight. 

Before they can’t start forward again, a depur comes up to them, all obsequience and false respect. It’s clear he’s a depur from his rich clothes, dyed dark colors that will bleach in the suns if exposed too long. But depurs are never outside too long. 

“My friends.” He sweeps into a bow, and Anakin hates him. He straightens up, and Anakin hates him. He’s well fed and healthy. When he smiles, his teeth shine white. There isn’t a single one missing, and it’s all Anakin can do not to shoot the man down right then. This man has a complete smile, an unscarred body, and Amu has neither. “What brings you to Tatooine? Are you looking to buy, perhaps? I have many fine specimens for sale, if you would follow me.” 

Anakin stares down at him, for so long that the depur takes a step back. “I have already been bought and sold twice in my life,” he says, in curt Amatakka. The knife sharp edge to his words makes the depur take a step back, his gaze flicking towards Anakin’s gun. “I’m not here to buy anyone, sleemo.” 

The depur takes them all in, fear blooming in his grayish eyes. “Then why are you here?” 

A smile as wide and deadly as an akul’s mouth spreads over Anakin’s face, although the man can’t see it. “We’re just here to speak with Jabba the Hutt.” He leans closer. “ And you’re in my way .” 

The depur steps aside, stumbling over his steps in his haste, and Anakin plunges onward. Obi-Wan’s eyes are on him, heavy, and Anakin knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

Bought and sold twice. Once by Watto. And once by the Jedi Order — or, more specifically, Qui-Gon Jinn. 

Anakin meant exactly what he said. 

They’re still attracting stares, and murmurs follow them like flocks of birds. Just outside of the main square, the slave markets begin. They march through ranks of large, heavily secured cages. Inside the cages, sentients of all ages and species lift their gaze toward them and just as quickly look down again. The smell of sweat, filth, and waste is heavy in the still air. There’s the faint sound of someone sobbing, and some slaves Anakin sees have fresh scars marking where their detonator was implanted. The detonators are programmed to migrate, traveling through the body until their short lived battery runs out, so the scars don’t point to the detonators. That would be too easy. 

Anakin’s scar is on the back of his neck, but his old detonator found its way to just behind his lowest rib. 

One of the cages they pass houses a twi’lek woman with indigo skin. She’s beautiful, with willowy limbs and memorable black eyes, but terrible scars, still relatively fresh, cut across her face, covering her skin with a twisted map of warped, half healed wounds. One scar drags her lips down into a permanent snarl, and another bisects her brow bone, tracing down her cheek. Anakin wonders if she can still see out of that eye. 

There’s a little twi’lek girl next to her, a lighter shade of indigo, and she clings to her amu’s hand with eyes that are too big for her gaunt face and that have seen too much already. 

He has nothing concrete to back it up, but Anakin knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the mother twi’lek cut up her own face, probably in a desperate attempt to avoid being sold as someone’s concubine and separated from her daughter. He’s seen it happen before, with many women, but especially twi’leks. 

It won’t work. There’s always some sleemo who doesn’t care what she looks like, or who prefers the scarred ones. Anakin’s seen that before too. 

Not today. Not anymore. 

He breaks away from everyone else and approaches the cage. The twi’lek shies away from the bars, avoiding his eyes. She shields her daughter with her body, staring at the ground in front of Anakin’s boots. 

“Do you speak Amatakka?” He keeps his voice low, both for her sake and to avoid being overhead. 

A long pause as she hunches her shoulders. Then, finally, a short nod.

“Good,” he replies, switching to Amatakka. What little Coruscanti accent he’s picked up over the years burns away in the heat of the suns. “I need you to listen — this is important.” He wraps one hand around the bars. “Help is coming. I need you to spread the word. Tell the others, tell them to get ready.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and the twi’lek finally meets his eyes. She shakes her head, like she doesn’t believe him, like too many years of fear and hopelessness have built up for belief to be possible. “You lie.” There’s more spit and heat to her words than her body language suggests, but he supposes he should’ve expected nothing less from a woman willing to mutilate her own face for the sake of her daughter.  

“No.” Anakin swallows and shakes his head. There’s not much time to convince her — they can’t allow Jabba time to prepare. “I’m not. I swear on all the water I have that I’m not.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m Amavikka, just like you.” 

She startles at the name. It is secret — secret from any and all outsiders. The depurs don’t know it, most freeborn don’t know it, and the Hutts definitely don’t know it. It’s a simple word, but it’s also a battle cry. It’s a continual, dogged, savage refusal to let the depurs shape their identity. 

They’re not possessions. They’re not objects. They’re not commodities. 

They’re Amavikka. 

“You?” The twi’lek is still doubtful, her lips pressed together, her stance shifting like she wants to run. She has her daughter’s hand clamped in hers still, but the little girl is staring at Anakin with a desperate hope that churns like a sandstorm. 

“Me.” Anakin spreads his hands. “Please. Just spread the word, and I’ll prove it to you. Dukkra ba dukkra. Please. ” 

The twi’lek lifts her chin. “Who freed you? Who brought you freedom?” 

“No one. I found it myself.” 

“You’ll free us?” 

“That, or I’ll die trying.”

Her ebony eyes are hard. “What do I tell them so they believe me?” 

A gust of wind makes it over the city walls and makes a whirlwind of sand around Anakin’s feet. With it comes a scarlet bird, small, and it darts overhead, like a drop of blood against the hazy blue sky. 

Anakin stands there, the wind whistling around his head and the bird crying above him. “Tell them Ekkreth is coming.” 

Chapter Text

21 

Outside Looking In 

The path up to Jabba’s palace is long and winding, cutting through cliffs that soar up on either side of it, but the onlookers vanish as soon as Obi-Wan and the others set foot on the road. It’s like it’s cursed somehow, and Obi-Wan wouldn’t be surprised if it were. This whole place feels cursed. He sees it more now than he did the last time he was here — back when he was Qui-Gon’s padawan still. 

He doesn’t remember Tatooine as well as he should. He spent most of his time on the royal transport, and the memories of that are all overshadowed by Qui-Gon’s death and the screaming, tearing, burning grief that came with that. 

What he does remember is Anakin. Small, hair bleached nearly white by the suns, and with a personality that bounced off the walls of the transport. In spite of that, Obi-Wan’s first impression of Anakin was that he was very young, and very frightened. He curled up in the corner of the ship, shivering, until Padme came and crouched beside him, draping her wrap over him to help warm him up. Obi-Wan would’ve gone if she hadn’t — or he likes to think he would have. 

His future padawan’s personality began to reveal itself when he was on Coruscant, standing before the Jedi Council. Obi-Wan remembers that better than Tatooine. The callous way they questioned him, the biting way Anakin responded, and — Obi-Wan recalls this vividly — the careless way his master nominated him for knighthood, just to get Obi-Wan out of the way so Qui-Gon could train Anakin. 

Resentment grew inside him after that, a tangled black knot behind his ribs, but that all melted away when Anakin looked up at him during Qui-Gon’s funeral. Bewildered, shell shocked, still shivering, Anakin gave him the most vulnerable, desperate look Obi-Wan has ever seen on his face, then or since. 

That was when Obi-Wan promised to train him, and it was when he decided he didn’t care if he was perpetually in the shadow cast by Anakin’s light, he didn’t care if Qui-Gon chose Anakin over him,  and he didn’t care — for the first time in his life — what the Council said. 

He just cared about Anakin. Before he acquired Anakin as a padawan, Obi-Wan hadn’t thought he could love someone so deeply, so unreservedly. So suddenly . The immediateness of it nearly overwhelmed him that first day, when Anakin caught his hand as they boarded a ship that would take them back to Coruscant. The rush of protectiveness cut through the fog of grief that had shrouded him since Qui-Gon’s death, and he knew right then that he would live, fight, and die for this scrappy youngling. When the eyes of the Order turned to them and Obi-Wan felt them thinking attachment, he buried those feelings deep, hid them where he hides his love for Satine, and played the perfect master when they were watching. He didn’t let them take his padawan. He learned from what happened with Satine, and he didn’t — and still won’t — abandon Anakin. 

Anakin is many things to Obi-Wan. His padawan and his partner in crime. Alternately his son and his little brother. His comrade in arms and the one Obi-Wan trusts to always have his back. His shadow and the source of the gray hairs peppering his beard. He’s Anakin. 

Never once to Obi-Wan was Anakin a slave of the Jedi Order, but apparently that’s what Anakin believes. And it breaks Obi-Wan’s heart, because he’s right.

“Anakin?” He catches up to his padawan in the shadows cast by the surrounding cliffs. Even out of the sun as they are, the heat is still unbearable. It’s no wonder Anakin spends so much of his life feeling cold, if this is where he grew up. “Are you all right?” 

Anakin lifts the visor of his helmet, obviously feeling safe enough to do so now that they’re away from prying eyes. He looks at Obi-Wan with bright blue eyes, and the stubborn hopefulness within them hasn’t changed or dampened since he was nine years old. “I’m always all right, Master.” 

Nowadays, Anakin only calls Obi-Wan by his honorific when he’s decidedly not all right. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, my very young padawan.” Anakin hated being called that just a year ago, but Obi-Wan has a feeling it’s comforting now. In a galaxy at war, things that hearken back to childhood and simplicity take on an entirely new light. 

“Are we counting the secret marriage?” 

“No, I’d actually forgotten about that.” Obi-Wan takes off his outer cloak — a royal blue affair that he would never be seen in at the Temple — in hopes he’ll be cooler without it and drapes it over his arm. He’s only in his tunic and breeches now, colorful in a way that makes him think of the pirates that roam the galaxy. It’s not a favorable comparison, and he misses his normal robes. 

“Well, there you go.” Anakin throws him a sidelong grin. “Not the biggest lie I’ve ever told.” He speeds up, seeming eager to reach Jabba’s palace, but Obi-Wan catches his arm. Sometimes it feels like he’s been chasing after his padawan for most of his life, but it’s always been worth it. 

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s been pronouncing his name wrong all these years, and he still is now because he can’t break the habit. He realized it when he heard Shmi say his name on Naboo, in her native Amatakkan accent. A Coruscanti accent butchers the name, and he never knew. It’s a comparatively small thing, but it feels like just another way he’s hurt Anakin without even knowing it. “I didn’t know.” He keeps his voice low, so none of the others can hear him. “I didn’t know how you felt. If I had, I —” 

“I know, Master.” Anakin smiles. It’s an infinitely forgiving smile, one Obi-Wan is certain neither he nor the Jedi Order really deserves. “I didn’t really know either — not for a long time.” He slows his pace a little, so that Obi-Wan’s not fighting to keep up any more. 

“When did you… What made you see?” 

“Padme.” They step out of the shadows and into the blazing sunlight again. Obi-Wan can feel his skin burning — he can almost hear it. “When I married her, I realized that was the first time in my life I was doing something I wanted, Sith hells to whatever my masters said. And that… that was when I decided I wasn’t going to be a slave any longer. I went back and brought Amu and the others to Naboo, and I stayed married to Padme, even though it meant lying to everyone. Even you.” He doesn’t look at Obi-Wan when he speaks, and for a moment the only sound is their boots crunching against the gritty stone ground. “Of course,” he continues at length, “that was before I became a kriffing slave owner myself.” 

“That’s not what you are.” 

“It’s not?” Anakin shakes his head. “How, exactly? I own a whole battalion of men bred for battle, who are forced to fight and die in a war they didn’t even start, for a Republic that doesn’t care about them. And when they do run away, try to choose their own fates, we call them deserters and drag them back. Just like depurs . Instead of tripping their detonators, we just court-martial them and shoot them.” 

“Anakin —” 

“You think it doesn’t happen just because we don’t see it or hear about it? Just because the Jedi aren’t the ones on the firing squad? I know because Rex told me. There’s a reason the clones don’t run, and there’s a reason we don’t see the ones who do. The Order just doesn’t like to ask about it, because they don’t kriffing want to know .” 

Obi-Wan is silent for a minute. There’s nothing he can say in response to that. It’s true, and it’s everything he’s been avoiding thinking about, ever since he set foot on Kamino and saw the clones for the first time. He thinks of Cody’s fierce loyalty, the way he’s always two steps behind Obi-Wan, watching his back and catching his lightsaber whenever it falls, and suddenly General seems too close to depur . “You’re right.” 

“I know.” 

“If you’re a slave owner, then I am too.” The words stick in Obi-Wan’s throat, thick with shame. 

“I know that too. Every battalion leader in the Order is.” 

They round a switchback in the road, and the palace is visible above them, set on a pinnacle of rock that overlooks Mos Espa. Obi-Wan tries to imagine growing up under its shadow. It’s not pleasant. 

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin looks over at him again, still with that same hopefulness in his eyes. “I need to know where you stand.” 

“I should think it’s obvious, padawan mine.” 

“No. Not on this. This…” Anakin shrugs. “It’s easy. We’re fighting evil — it’s clear cut. But if we go forward with this, it’s not going to be so simple. Keep following this path, and it’s probably going to bring us up against the Order. If they choose to support the Republic, we’re going to have to pick a side.” He glances at Obi-Wan. “You’re going to have to pick a side. And I know what the Order means to you.” 

Obi-Wan swallows. The Order was his family — the only family he ever knew. They took him in, they raised him, and he pledged his loyalty to them, which isn’t something he does lightly. 

But then he promised Anakin he would train him. And then he grew closer to Padme and met the clones and took Ahsoka under his wing, and suddenly the Jedi Order wasn’t his family any longer. 

They were. 

“If I don’t make it out of here,” Anakin goes on, his words yanking Obi-Wan out of his thoughts, “I need to know you’ll stay in the fight.” He looks back at the clones following along behind them, and he looks far older than his twenty years. “I need to know you’ll fight for them, and for everyone else caught in the middle of this. Even if it means leaving the Order. Maybe even leaving the Republic.” 

Obi-Wan is quiet for a moment. Leave the Order. Leave the Republic. Two things he couldn’t picture himself doing just one year ago — Sith hells, even a week ago. But his eyes are open now, and he can’t close them. And he can’t pretend the solution is easy, that decades of corruption in the Republic and inaction by the Jedi can be resolved in time to help the clones in a meaningful way, especially if the Supreme Chancellor is indeed a traitor. 

He knows what course they’re on. He’s known since they found out about the chips in the clones’ heads. 

“My allegiance is with you,” Obi-Wan says finally. “And with them. I swear.” 

Anakin nods. “This is the path to peace, Master. I know it.” His voice trembles. “We just have to be brave enough to walk it.” 

“But you don’t need me to promise this,” Obi-Wan says, as they begin the final climb toward the palace gates. His heartbeat skips, like it always does before a battle. “Because nothing is going to happen to you.” 

Anakin grins at him and pushes the visor of his helmet back down. “Sounds like you’re pretty attached .” 

Obi-Wan glowers at him, dropping his cloak in the dirt just outside the gates so that it doesn’t hinder him during the battle. “So disrespectful.” 

“I learned from the best.” Anakin turns to face the gates, and everyone falls in behind him. They left half of their squad back in Mos Espa to prepare things there, so their numbers are diminished, but with four Jedi ready to fight, Jabba is in great danger. “Is everyone ready?” 

“Yes, sir,” says Rex, taking up position at Anakin’s side. Ahsoka flanks him, looking terribly small, but there’s a hunch to her shoulders and growl rumbling in her throat that tell Obi-Wan she’s going to be just fine. 

Anakin takes a deep breath. “All right. They’ll have seen us coming, so we go in hard and fast. They have one chance for surrender, and after that we give no quarter. Don’t hurt any of the droids or the people in gray — they’re slaves just like the people in the city. Understand?” 

Everyone nods, and Anakin steps toward the gates. Obi-Wan braces himself for weapons fire from the ballistic cannons set on the parapets, but none comes. Instead, Anakin braces his feet against the sandy ground and bellows, “I’ve come to speak with Jabba the Hutt!” 

Chapter Text

22 

The Sandstorm 

Anakin stares down the gates to Jabba’s palace. He keeps expecting to be afraid, but everything’s gone flat and disconnected. This is what he needs to do, this is what he trained to do — even if he tried to pretend it wasn’t — and this is what he will do. For his mother, for his stepfamily, for Kitster (if he’s still alive), for every other slave on Tatooine. 

“I’ve come to talk to Jabba!” he yells again, spreading his hands to show he’s not carrying any weapons at the moment. “I have a mutually profitable offer for him!” Anakin bites the inside of his cheek. This is the crucial part of the plan, that will hopefully get Jabba to do the monumentally stupid thing and open the gates. He glances back at Rex and Cody for confirmation, and they nod. He turns toward the gates again and shouts, “I have a squad of deserter clones for sale, with activated control chips! I heard you’re interested in this kind of merchandise.” He sweeps a hand behind him, and in rote succession, the clones take off their helmets, keeping their faces carefully blank. 

It’s like purposefully living through a nightmare, and Anakin can’t let himself think about it for too long. One step at a time, he thinks. 

“I’m willing to barter,” he says. “I have more, out in orbit around the planet.” They’re all throughout your cities, you sleemo. “Let me in, and we can talk business. I’ll even tell you how I got a hold of them and activated their chips.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence, and it’s only years of practice at hiding his feelings from the Order and a year’s practice at staying calm in battle that keep Anakin from allowing his tension to show on his face. After a few endless minutes, there’s a rumbling that shakes the ground, and the gates trundle open, revealing the cavernous entrance into the palace’s lower complex. 

There’s a squad of Jabba’s guards on the other side, of various species. They have their weapons primed and ready, pointing at Anakin and the others. He gives them an irritated look, and behind him, Obi-Wan asks, “Is this how you conduct all your business?” in a demeaning tone, with a thick Coruscanti accent that just makes it sound more superior. 

At the center of the group is a twi’lek male with pale, almost white skin. His lekku are so long that he keeps them wrapped around his throat and shoulders like some kind of stole, and his red eyes are cunning as he smiles at them with sharp fangs. 

Anakin wonders how many of his own kind he’s seen sold into slavery. 

“Please.” The twi’lek waves them inside. He has a heavy Huttese accent, but he speaks Basic well enough. “His Eminence Jabba the Hutt is interested in what you have to say.” 

“Oh, is he?” Anakin saunters into the palace first, letting everyone else follow behind him. As the cool shadows close over him, the smell of the palace fills his nose. These are the lower levels, where Jabba never goes, and it’s clear that no one’s trying to hide what this place truly is. 

He smells blood in the breeze coming from the cooling systems. It’s coppery and bitter on his tongue, mixed with the scent of exhaust from badly maintained machinery — probably something to do with the filtering system for the cistern that is hidden in the foundations of the complex. He can hear it — and feel it — clunking away somewhere deep below him, a constant background thrumming with the edge of disrepair to it. 

The biggest kriffing supply of clean water on Tatooine, and Jabba doesn’t even properly take care of it. 

“We are wondering,” the twi’lek says — in a low, skin crawling sort of voice — as everyone gathers behind Anakin, “why you would be willing to part with such valuable items.” 

The rage coming off Rex and the other clones colors the Force scarlet, like blood in water, and Anakin has to fight to keep from drowning in it. “That’s Jabba’s business,” he says, letting his arms hang by his side, his fingers twitching toward his lightsaber. The last clone enters the palace, the shadows muting the colors of his armor, and Anakin draws in a slow, silent breath. 

Then the gates close behind them, cutting off the light spilling in from outside. In the dimness, the twi’lek’s smile widens, all fangs that glisten in what little light there is, and Anakin almost laughs at him. The twi’lek expects them to be intimidated, even afraid. After all, it’s no small thing to be locked inside Jabba’s palace with all his forces. 

But, then again, it’s no small thing to be locked inside your own palace with Ekkreth and all his friends.

“Will you come this way?” The twi’lek hisses softly, a dominance display, and gestures toward a set of steps that lead up toward the palace’s higher levels. “Jabba is waiting.” 

“Actually…” In his peripherals, Anakin sees Quinlan move toward the gate controls. “I was thinking we could go see him on our own time, if that’s all right.” 

The twi’lek blinks, the beginnings of a snarl curling his lips. “Jabba the Hutt does not —” 

“Jabba,” Anakin says, leaning close as he wraps his hand around the hilt of his saber, “is going to die today. But you don’t have to.” 

Quinlan draws his saber in a burst of green and slashes it across the gate controls, leaving a glowing wound behind. There’s a spitting flare of sparks, and the emergency lights in the palace flick on, painting everything a washed out yellow. The clones jam their helmets back on and raise their blasters, and Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka ignite their sabers and stand in a familiar triangle formation, ready to block any shots coming from the opposing side. 

None come — yet. 

The twi’lek stumbles back, his breath stuttering and stalling in his throat. “You… you — you’re Jedi!” 

“He’s not very fast on the uptake, is he?” Ahsoka flips her twin sabers into a backhand grip. 

“The Republic has no jurisdiction here,” the twi’lek says, quiet and dangerous. He takes another step back, letting the armed guards surround him. 

“We’re not here on behalf of the Republic,” Anakin answers. 

“Then why are you here?” 

Anakin smiles, flexing his hands against his saber hilt. The heat from his blade is familiar against his face. “There’s a twi’lek woman, out in the market. She’s so desperate not to get sold to some warlord and torn away from her daughter that she took a blade to her own face . Do you know her? Do you even know her name?” 

The twi’lek shakes his head, licking his lips nervously. 

“That’s why we’re here.” Anakin advances, almost daring them to shoot. “We’re giving you one chance, sleemo. Surrender, right now — you and all your soldiers. This is your only shot at surviving, and I’m not going to offer it again.” 

The twi’lek tightens his jaw. “You think I’m more afraid of you than Jabba?” 

“You will be.” 

“Your friends are going to die down here, in the dark,” the twi’lek says, lifting one arm. “And those who survive, Jabba will feed them to the Sarlaac and make you watch .” He brings his arm down, and the guards around him open fire, crimson blaster light competing with the yellow emergency lights. 

Anakin springs into action, his lightsaber moving before he has time to think. Blaster bolts bounce off it in all directions. Guards fall all around, holes burned in their chests. The clones behind Anakin start firing too, their shots blazing through the air next to him, almost scalding his skin. Rex is right beside him, face fixed as he fires shot after shot, with a pinpoint accuracy that sends the enemy formations crumbling. 

Ahsoka dances out ahead of everyone else, darting right into the midst of a clump of guards. Her lightsabers move in a blur as she spins and twists like a dancer, and when she leaps away again, there isn’t a being left standing in the group. 

Obi-Wan and Quinlan work in tandem, one defending while the other attacks, bringing down enemies with simple skill. One of the guards leaps on Quinlan when his back is turned. There’s a scramble, and Anakin tries to fight his way over to help, swinging his saber like it’s a club, the Force lending strength to his blows, but Obi-Wan is there before the guard can wrestle Quinlan to the ground. His lightsaber flashes once, and the guard’s head topples to the floor, his body slumping down to join it. 

It’s almost too easy to cut through the rest of the guards. If he hadn’t known these soldiers were the ones who caught runaway slaves and detonated others, Anakin would have wanted them to give up. Even so, he pauses when he reaches the last guard standing — a gamorrean. Anakin catches his eye, giving him a chance to drop his weapons, but he barrels forward anyway, a battle ax raised, and Anakin drives his saber through his chest, ripping it out as he falls. 

There’s nothing beautiful about this, but he believes there will come something beautiful after it. A light after the darkness, and he keeps his eyes on that.

Shoulders heaving, he turns to the twi’lek, Obi-Wan coming to his side as he walks forward. No one’s been injured badly that Anakin can see, but Hardcase is nursing a shallow slice on his forearm, from a stray blade. 

“I warned you,” Anakin says when he reaches the twi’lek. 

There’s no answer, just a desperate scramble backwards as the twi’lek raises his gun, pointing it, not at Anakin, but at Ahsoka — the smallest and youngest of them. Her eyes widen, and she yanks up her saber. Anakin’s already moving, but the twi’lek falls before he reaches him, half a dozen blaster wounds peppering his body. 

Any of the clones with a clear shot all fired on him at once, because there’s no one in the galaxy who can threaten their little Commander and live. 

Ahsoka catches her breath, looking around with a shell shocked expression that Anakin doesn’t have time to soothe off her face. She manages to grin at Chatterbox and the other clones who shot the twi’lek, and they nod at her. 

Anakin wonders if he could find it within him to fight with and protect depurs , even kind ones. He doesn’t think he could. 

“Keep moving,” he says, shoving everything away. There’s just no time. “We push toward the throne room.” 

Already there is the sound of reinforcements coming, and everyone forms back up, starting up the stairs. It’s a bottleneck, but that serves them well when they meet the second attack force. There’s nowhere for anyone to run from the lightsabers, and blaster bolts fly thick and fast, scorching the walls and filling the air with the scent of burnt ozone. 

Then the second wave is dead, scattered along the stairway. They keep going, and Jabba’s forces keep attacking. As they head deeper into the castle, they split into squads, each with one Jedi at their head, and clear the different rooms. In one, Anakin finds a host of a gray-clad slaves, huddled on thin mats. They’re emaciated, with hollow eyes and parched lips. They stare at him with terror on their faces. The light from his saber is reflected in their eyes. 

“Run.” He gestures toward the door, speaking in Amatakka in the hopes they’ll listen to him. “Straight down the steps until you reach one of the lower windows — the gates are sealed. Don’t go to the city — it’s about to get very dangerous there. Go to then nearest house that’s on the Freedom Trail, and you tell them if they’re not ready to kriffing get ready. And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone the Jedi freed you. Understand?” 

A slip of an old woman gazes at him, taking in his saber and the bodies visible behind him. “Are you Amavikka?” 

There isn’t time. “Yes.”

Years of hope burn within her all at once — it’s an inferno in the Force. “Is the rainstorm coming?” 

He inhales deep, trying to catch his breath. “Yes, Grandmother. Yes, it is.” 

She stands in one motion, remarkably smooth and graceful for her age. She gathers her tattered skirts around her, and all the slaves get up too, clustering near her. Anakin gestures at them one more time, wild and desperate, and they start running, pushing past him and flooding down the stairs in a gray stream. 

Now, that is beautiful. 

There are more slaves to send after them as they continue onward. A few take up arms and stay by their side, war and hate twisting their faces and their scars weeping blood and grief in the Force. Anakin doesn’t know why these slaves choose to face Jabba instead of run from him, and he doesn’t want to know. It’s enough to feel why. 

The final push to the throne room is the worst. Ahsoka just barely ducks beneath an ax blade, plunging one of her sabers into her attacker’s stomach. Quinlan catches a blaster bolt to his saberarm. He goes down on one knee, saber still gripped tight in his hand. A devaronian sights down his gun at him, but he tosses his saber into his left hand, catching it and flipping it into a backhand grip that mimics Ahsoka. He blocks the shot, green overwhelming the red, and sends it slamming back into the devaronian. 

Two clones go down, blaster shots black and bloody, and Anakin almost swallows his tongue, but the wounds look survivable. Kix drags them both to safety behind some pillars, and Anakin and Obi-Wan kill the perpetrators together. 

Then — blessedly — it’s quiet. So quiet that a whining fills Anakin’s ears, and his heartbeat beats unevenly against his ribs. He helps Quinlan to his feet and turns to face the throne room door. It’s highly secured, but it’s a surprisingly small door for what it is and where it leads. 

Jabba is on the other side, useless and cruel and selfish and everything Anakin’s been taught to despise. “Echo,” he orders, “open the door.” 

Echo is there in a moment, despite the long cut running down one side of his face. It will scar, but clones have never objected to features — even scars — that set them apart from their brothers. 

It takes a few minutes for Echo to break the lock, and the only sound is the gentle drip drip drip of the blood leaking down Quinlan’s arm and falling from his fingers. 

As soon as the door opens, Anakin marches through it, his boots clattering on the steps that spiral downward. At the bottom, there is finally daylight visible again, slanting through wide windows at the front of the throne room. They look out over the moisture farms Jabba owns, stretching out toward the Dune Sea. 

Anakin lifts his lightsaber high. There are Hutt affiliated soldiers positioned all around the room, but the slight tremble to their stance tells him exactly what they think of their chances of survival. Everyone else slips into the room behind him, quiet and deadly as vibroblades to the stomach, and put themselves into a neat attack formation that mirrors their opponents. 

It’s only then that Anakin can force himself to look toward the rolling dais near the front of the room. Jabba is there, reptilian eyes huge and cold and staring. He’s sprawled on his dais, with a twi’lek dancer crouched on the ground in front of him, a collared chain leashing her to his dais. His gaze pins Anakin down, and he remembers the visits a younger Jabba made to Mos Eisley, mostly on Boonta’s Eve. He remembers having to kneel on the edge of the street when his dais passed, and remembers Amu keeping his head down, terrified the Hutt’s gaze would fall on them. 

Well, now it has. 

“Who are you?” Jabba speaks in Huttese, voice croaking and thick from the spice he’s spent his life taking. 

Anakin meets Jabba’s eyes steadily, because he is free, and he fights for all those who still aren’t. “I’m Ekkreth.” 

Jabba blinks slowly. He’s heard the name before, that’s clear, but he doesn’t know its significance. Yet. “We can still deal, Ekkreth,” says Jabba. “It’s not too late. Kill me, and you get my wealth — a fraction of the riches we Hutts have. Work with me, and I swear on the souls of my ancestors you will be rewarded beyond any of your dreams.” 

Anakin laughs a little. There’s a bitter edge to it. “I think it’s your own soul you should worry about, Jabba.” He takes a step forward. “I’m not here to make deals with you, or touch a single one of your credits. I’m here to liberate my people.” 

“Surrender, Jabba,” says Obi-Wan coldly. “It’s over. You have a chance to live — take it.” 

A chance to live until the Amavikka decide on a way to execute him, but Anakin doesn’t say that. 

Jabba blinks slowly, almost languidly. Then his soldiers explode into action, like a sandstorm swelling up from the ground, churning and powerful and upon you before you have time to blink. 

Anakin rises to meet them, his lightsaber swinging. Blaster fire flashes, but he doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. His saber twirls almost of its own accord, deflecting the shots away from him and everyone else. The Force is singing in his ears and trembling in his chest — it’s singing the old songs he used to hear when he was a little boy. The ones Amu said were the songs of the desert, a thousand voices riding on the wind. 

Soldiers fall around him, but he keeps his focus on Jabba, whose attendants are trying to get his dais out through a secret exit at the side of the throne room. They’re dressed in gray, ragged clothes hanging off their scrawny bodies. Anakin breaks through a cluster of guards and skids to a stop just before the rancor pit, pinned down by two gunmen on either side of him. Through the whirling blur of his saber, he meets the slaves’ eyes. They’re all hollow and broken and devoid of light, but those same eyes follow their brethren, as they fight alongside Anakin’s forces. 

“The rainstorm has come!” He sends a blaster shot ricocheting back into the twi’lek who fired it. The slaves still stare at him, hands on the handles of Jabba’s dais. “Are you Amavikka or aren’t you? Will you help your depur escape the storm?”

There’s a frozen moment where the blaster bolts seem to burn past Anakin in slow motion. His breaths are loud in his ears, and his saber hilt is sweaty against his palm. 

Then, as one, the slaves step away from the dais. The tall, weatherbeaten man at their head makes an Amatakkan sign with his hand — the sign of the rainstorm. Jabba screams at them, in Huttese, in Basic, in wordless bellows, and he tries to escape on his own, but he’s never going to make it in time. His indulgence, the prosperity built off the bent backs of slaves, weighs him down. 

Anakin bares his teeth and strides forward, raising his lightsaber high, ready to strike on behalf of a hundred generations of Amavikka. The blade glows in Jabba’s eyes, and he raises his stubby arms in a feeble defense.

Just before Anakin leaps at him, the throne room goes quiet, and everything is still, like the desert right before a sandstorm screams over the dunes. A wide smile comes to Jabba’s slimy lips, and Anakin turns around, his heart thudding against his ribs. Dread coils in his stomach like a snake, heavy. 

Two devaronian guards have Ahsoka pinned between them. One has his gun jammed against her temple, and the other sets it against her throat. She lifts her chin high, eyes wide, and spreads her hands to indicate that she doesn’t have her sabers. Anakin sees that already — they’re clenched in the free hand of one of the guards, gripped tight enough that she can’t yank them free with the Force. Not before one of them shoots her, anyway. 

She meets his gaze and projects Sorry sorry sorry through their bond. 

Anakin’s world narrows. A rushing sound fills his ears, and it takes all his self control to stay rooted in one place, to not tear this entire room apart, because that will get Ahsoka killed. 

Everyone else is frozen too, even the few soldiers left standing. Obi-Wan’s face is a storm, and through the remnants of their apprenticeship bond, his rage pulses into Anakin. 

“Let her go.” Anakin stares the two devaronians down, and he kriffing hopes they’re terrified . 

“Do we look like idiots to you?” spits one of the devaronians. “Don’t try any of your Jedi magic. We’ll blow her head off before you can do anything.” 

“Don’t listen to them,” Ahsoka says, voice strained from how far her head is tilted back. “Tatooine’s freedom is more important, just —” 

“It’ll be all right, Snips,” he interrupts. The Force swirls around him, nearly visible, a thousand voices joined in a song of battle, and he wraps it all around himself. He needs to be fast. He needs — 

Twin snapping sounds, bone crunching against bone, ring out. Necks break surprisingly quietly. 

The devaronians crumple together, almost at the same time. Their heads loll at awkward angles, spines poking beneath the skin where they shouldn’t. Ahsoka lurches away from them, snatching up her sabers and running to Anakin’s side. She plasters herself there, her lips curled back in a snarl and hoarse growl ripping out her throat, almost like a scream. 

“Than…Thank you,” she says in a small voice, shoulders heaving as she blinks hard, eyes wet and teeth still bared.  

Anakin shakes his head. “It wasn’t me.” His eyes flick over to Obi-Wan and Quinlan, but they look blank. A moment later, Rex emerges from the cluster of clones who are subduing the last of Jabba’s soldiers. His eyes are an inferno, and blood leaks from his nose, making a scarlet trail across his lips and down his chin. He stalks over to the two fallen devaronians and draws his gun in one jerky movement. Then he shoots both devaronians, dead as they are, over and over. There’s a stiffness to his face, like he’s unmoored from the moment — or trapped in it — and the recoil from his gun makes him unsteady in his stance, because he’s not bracing himself properly. 

“Rex.” Ahsoka sheathes her sabers and tears herself away from Anakin’s side. She creeps forward, and Anakin nearly calls out a warning, afraid one touch will shatter Rex, but as soon as he hears her voice, Rex turns, his gun hand falling to his side. Trembling. 

“Commander.” His voice is a tightly controlled explosion. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, Rex.” She lays a hand on his cheek, and the fire in his eyes extinguishes. He leans into her hand, and Anakin sees blood coming from his ears too, clumping into the folds. 

“Rex?” Obi-Wan steps forward, wary. “Did you…?” 

“I think I may have, sir,” says Rex. He reaches up to touch the blood on his face, like he just noticed it. “I think I may have.” 

The world tilts, a dozen assumptions crumble, but Anakin doesn’t have time for any of it. He turns back to Jabba, who is huddled on his dais. Pathetic. Useless. A waste of kriffing space. 

The Force turns to a scream around Anakin, a harsh drumbeat filling his ears. It might be his own heartbeat, but to him it sounds like the rhythm of war, a signal to attack. It flies out from him, like a bolt fired from a blaster, and clamps down on Jabba’s throat like a krayt dragon on her prey. 

The sound of Jabba choking feels the room, and it buries into Anakin’s ears, horrible and just and satisfying all at the same time. He raises one hand, fingers curled into claws. Jabba’s eyes bulge. He strains for breath, mouth open, tongue hanging out. 

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s hand is on his arm. “Your people will decide —” 

“They’ve already decided.” The twi’lek dancer, who has been huddled as far from the battle as her chain allows, lurches toward one of the dead soldiers. She snatches a knife from his belt, spins around, and leaps at Jabba, with all the grace and dexterity of a dancer. She lands on the dais, her chain rattling behind her, and jams the knife into Jabba’s throat. There’s a squish as she twists it, green blood leaking all over her yellow skin. She puts her face inches from his, as the light in his eyes burns out and blood runs down her arm. “That’s for my numa , sleemo.” She rips the knife sideways, flaying open his throat and sending up a spray of blood, and shoves away from him, retreating as far her chain reaches. She keeps hold of the knife, squeezing it tightly enough for her knuckles to show pale beneath her skin. 

Stunned silence presses down on the throne room, until Fives begins to clap, along with several other clones. 

The twi’lek turns to Anakin. “Were you telling the truth?” she asks, in a way that says his answer is very important. “About being Ekkreth?” 

Anakin nods. “I was.” 

She breathes deep and bites her lip. “Good. Then cut my kriffing chain.” In harsh, sweeping movements, she draws the symbol for the rainstorm — the symbol of freedom — on the wall beside her, tracing it out in Jabba’s blood. She slaps her palm beneath it, making a long fingered print that smears when she lifts her hand.  

Jabba the Hutt, Daimo of Tatooine, is dead. 

Chapter Text

23 

Yan Dooku Has a Bad Day 

Yan Dooku dislikes going to Tatooine. It’s a dirty, disreputable, cutthroat planet, and not the sort of place he enjoys spending his time. Unfortunately, the Jabba the Hutt — along with the Pyke Syndicate, the other point in the Spice Triangle — is an invaluable part of Dooku and his Master’s plans. Ostensibly, Jabba is on the Republic’s side, grudgingly selling them medicinal spice that will be synthesized into painkillers and antibiotics, but he lends far more support to the Separatists, providing them all the funding they’ll ever need to keep their droid army running for years to come. Dooku has assured him that a Separatist victory will mean no more interference in his business, from trading slaves to running illegal spice. The Separatist Parliament isn’t aware of this, of course, but they’ve never shown much interest in the details of the war, so Dooku barely even has to lie to them. 

So when Jabba sends him a wave through the encrypted channel that is set up between his stronghold and Tatooine, Dooku has no choice but to go. He leaves Ventress in charge of troop movements — which is terrifying but unavoidable — and takes his personal ship to the sordid backend of the galaxy. To Tatooine. 

According to Jabba’s message, the leak within his court — the one that had led to Dooku’s Master having to kill Orn Free Taa before things got further out of control — may have gone further than he initially thought. Dooku’s trying not to think of the implications of such a thing. Master Sidious’s entire plan hinges on no one realizing he is the puppet master behind both sides of the war. If the information about the control chips reaches the Jedi or the Senate and causes them to investigate, everything could fall apart. 

Dooku hopes that, whatever hell the twi’leks believe in, Orn Free is currently burning in it for all the trouble he’s caused them. 

A bright Tatooian afternoon almost blinds him as he enters the planet’s atmosphere. Endless dunes spread out before them, the light from the twin suns catching the minerals and natural spice deposits found in the sand. The ground sparkles, but the the rippling movement of something huge — probably a krayt dragon — beneath the sand spoils any idyllic beauty the scene might have had. Tatooine is very good at doing that. 

Dooku flies straight toward Mos Espa, still fuming. The environmental controls of his ship are working overtime already, just to keep the heat of the day from turning the cockpit into a sweatbox, and he doesn’t like the strain it’s going to put on the engine. 

Curse Orn Free Taa. 

He soars over the city, probably lower than is strictly considerate, but there’s no one down below him of import. Only lowlifes, thieves, and slaves. 

Rather than landing in one of the public bays, Dooku heads to Jabba’s private landing pad, situated near the top of the palace. He sends codes ahead so that Jabba’s anti aircraft guns don’t shoot him down and sets down in the center of the pad. Once the controls are locked — one can never be too careful on Tatooine — Dooku braces himself and opens the rear ramp. 

A blast of heat slams into him immediately, and he squints his eyes against the bright sunlight as he steps out onto the landing pad. A dry wind stirs his hair and makes his robes snap, but it does nothing to cool the air. In fact, it’s so hot that it’s almost scalding. 

Gods of his ancestors, he hates Tatooine. 

“What are you doing, standing around?” he snaps at the two guards that are off to the side of the platform, positioned on either side of the door that leads into the palace. “I’m here to see Jabba the Hutt.” 

The two guards, dressed in full armor, come forward then. They have their helmets on, concealing their faces, and Dooku suspects their armor has some kind of internal cooling system, which he envies. He doesn’t see how they could survive the heat otherwise. 

“Jabba is in his throne room, sir,” says one of the guards. His voice is garbled by the amplifier in his helmet. “We’ll take you to him.” 

“Finally remembered how to do your jobs, I see,” he says, striding ahead of them. They catch up at the door, and it slides open when one of them scans a keycard in front of the pad — an antiquated way to secure places, but Tatooine has never and will never be on the cutting edge of progress. 

Inside is dim and blessedly cool. Dooku takes off his cloak and drapes it over his arm, standing up straighter to make up for the informality. The two guards lead him down the corridor to a set of steps that spiral down toward the throne room’s level. 

It’s quieter than Dooku remembers it. Last time he was here, there were slaves running up and down the stairs on errands and the sound of music coming from the throne room — one of the Jabba’s many parties. As it stands now, it’s eerily silent. 

“Is Jabba having a rest day?” Dooku asks, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. He can’t abide useless, indulgent beings, and Jabba is the epitome of both those things. 

“You could say that,” says the guard with the keycard as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The outer chamber, a pillared affair meant to inspire fear and awe, is empty. There’s a fresh bloodstain near the throne room door, with a trail of drips leading right up to the door. Dooku grimaces and wonders what half dead slave Bib Fortuna dragged before Jabba today. He hopes whatever happened doesn’t get in that way of what he’s come here for. 

“Where’s Fortuna?” Dooku stops just short of the throne room door. Usually, his visits to the palace are plagued by Bib Fortuna’s sly smile that has far too many teeth for comfort. 

“Engaged elsewhere,” the guard with the keycard responds shortly as they begin to descend the steps. 

Something brushes the back of Dooku’s neck, movement in the Force, like a breath over his shoulder. A whisper reaches his ear, soft but urgent. 

Danger. 

His hand jerks toward his lightsaber, but the guard behind him kicks him hard in the back. The impact sends him pitching forward, and he tumbles down the last few steps, rolling to a stop on the throne room floor. A thud sounds at the top of the stairs — the door sealing. 

Aching all over, coughing from the kick to his back, Dooku gets to his feet, reaching for his saber again. 

“I don’t think so.” The Light Side of the Force surrounds him, burning like he just stepped into a fire, and his lightsaber is ripped from his side. It whizzes across the room and snaps into Anakin Skywalker’s hand. 

Anakin Skywalker. Sitting in the disused throne at the head of the room, one foot up on the seat, his elbow casually resting on his knee. He has Dooku’s lightsaber dangling in loosely in his fingers, as though it’s nothing. 

Jabba’s prone body is slumped one the floor to the side of the throne, a long green smear showing it was dragged. Behind him is a pile of more corpses, all, it appears, members of Jabba’s army. 

Snarling, Dooku reaches out with the Force, trying to snatch his saber back, but Skywalker puts up a shield of the Light, as easy as breathing. And no matter how hard Dooku tries, he can’t get past it. 

“I suspected you were the mutual friend Orn Free’s files mentioned,” he says languidly, turning the saber over and over in his hand. “A snake like you fits right in here.” 

“I’m going to cut off the rest of your limbs, you scraprat,” he says, clutching his ribs as he straightens up. 

“No, my dear Count Dooku,” says Obi-Wan Kenobi, emerging from the shadows at the edges of the throne room. “You won’t.” Two other Jedi follow him, forming a triangle around Dooku. One of them is Skywalker’s padawan, Ahsoka Tano, and the other is — gods of his ancestors, he’s going to kill him — Master Tal, the Jedi turncoat Ventress has been in contact with. He’s not so turncoat after all, it seems. 

Dooku turns in a slow circle, letting the Force wrap around him. He doesn’t need his lightsaber to fight, but he does need it to go up against four trained, armed Jedi. 

Lit by the glow from the Jedi’s lightsabers, armored men step into view. The light paints their faces in strange shadows, but their features are instantly recognizable. 

“I see you’ve brought your clones,” he says. 

“We thought this whole thing sounded fun,” one of the guards who brought him here says, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. He takes off his helmet, revealing shaved blonde hair. “And we’re not anyone’s clones.” 

The other guard stops beside him, removing his helmet as well. This one has brown hair, but a tattoo on his temple in the shape of a stylized 5 sets him apart from the rest of the clones. He says nothing, but the look in his eyes as he glares at Dooku says volumes. 

“What are you doing here, Skywalker?” Dooku turns back to him. “Neither the Jedi nor the Senate has any authority on Tatooine.” 

“We’re not here on behalf of either of them,” says Skywalker. “And the Separatists aren’t supposed to be here either, but Jabba had a direct link to you set up, so get off your moral high ground.” 

He’s silhouetted in the light streaming in from the tall windows. There’s a twi’lek woman perched on the arm of the throne. Dooku didn’t notice her before, but now that he has, his eyes immediately catch on the bloody knife clenched in one of her hands. There’s more blood streaked up her arm and sprayed across her face and clothes. All green. 

So she is the one who killed Jabba. Interesting. 

“Then why are you here?” Dooku watches Kenobi and the other Jedi out of the corner of his eye, but they don’t advance. If he can get a hold of one of their sabers, he can cut his way out of this easily. 

“To liberate my people.” Skywalker gestures to the twi’lek, along with several other slaves who are standing amongst the clones. “This is Lira — say hello.” When Dooku hesitates, Skywalker ignites his saber with an explosive thrum and points it at him. “I said, ‘say hello.’”

The Light Side of the Force surging around him, hotter than the twin suns outside, Dooku sweeps into a courtly bow. “Greetings, Lira.” 

Lira spits on the floor in response. “Go to hell, kriffhead.” 

Anakin nods in approval. “Nice one, my lady.” Lira smiles and uses her knife to carve symbols into the arm of the chair, all while maintaining a disturbing amount of eye contact with Dooku. 

“Like I said,” Skywalker goes on, gesturing with his saber as he speaks, “I’ve come to free Tatooine. That’s my main purpose. But I figured, while I’m here, I’ll take some time to figure out what you and our beloved Chancellor Palpatine put inside my friends’ karking brains.” He sweeps his saber to point at the clones, and the Force is a fire around him. Dooku takes a step back before he can stop himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, putting as much disgust into his voice as he can muster. “Chancellor Palpatine is your leader. I have no part with him. Have you finally lost your mind, Skywalker?”

Skywalker gives him a hooded look. “Has he always been this bad at lying, Obi-Wan?” 

“I believe so,” answers Kenobi thoughtfully, “but I haven’t paid enough attention to him in the past to be sure.” 

“Me either.” Skywalker focuses on Dooku again, his gaze hard. “But I have finally been paying attention to the Chancellor. I’ve learned a lot. Like how he’s the sole inheritor of Hego Damask’s fortune. Like how he’s the one who gave Sifo Dyas the money to fund the creation of the clones. Like how he’s been paying the Kaminoans off ever since, probably to keep their mouths shut. Like how he was the last one to see Orn Free Taa alive.” Skywalker stands and crosses the room until he’s standing right in front of Dooku. His lightsaber burns at his hip. “Like how he’s the Sith behind everything — the one you told Obi-Wan was pulling the strings.” 

Dooku breathes in, his jaw clenching. Skywalker’s presence in the Force is overwhelming, like staring into the sun. It presses down on him like a weight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Skywalker lifts his saber and sets it close to Dooku’s neck, so close that his skin begins to burn in the heat coming off its blade. “I think you should understand where you stand, Yan — can I call you Yan?” He ignites Dooku’s own saber. The blade flares scarlet, but then it turns gold, a sun breaking over a bloody morning horizon. He puts it against the other side of Dooku’s neck, crossing the blades so they crackle and thrum against each other. “I don’t need you,” he says, baring his teeth. The mixed blue and gold glow from the sabers bounces off them and lights his face. “I came here to kill slavers, and from what I can see, you’re just as much a slaver as the rest of them. And if I don’t kill you — which I’m very much itching to do — my people will. Unless you make yourself useful and tell me what Palpatine did to them.” He jerks his chin toward the clones. “And what he plans to do to the rest of the galaxy while you’re at it.”

Cold crawls over Dooku, in spite of the heat of the sabers. If he moves just a fraction of an inch, the twin blades will cut into his neck. 

It’s all imploded. All of his Master’s carefully laid plans are crumbling before his eyes. He told Darth Sidious that Anakin Skywalker was too dangerous to be left alive, but his Master never can resist a shiny new toy, especially not one with power like Skywalker has. That, along with his belief that he is superior to every other being in the galaxy, will be his downfall. 

And Dooku is nothing if not someone who knows when to desert a sinking ship. 

“You win, Skywalker,” he says, lifting his chin high to avoid the sabers. “My Master commissioned control chips that were to be inserted in each clone’s brain before they were decanted.” 

Skywalker smiles. “Already knew that one.” He shifts the sabers closer, and Dooku flinches. 

“Kenobi, control your Tatooian brat,” he says, casting his eyes over to Kenobi. 

He shifts his stance and shrugs. “I’m afraid I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’ve been trying since he was nine years old, my good Count. Anakin is a law unto himself.” 

Skywalker’s smile widens. “And I really want to kill you, so you might want to remember some helpful information fast. What do the chips program them to do? Comply, yes, we know that already. But what orders did the Kaminoans program into them?” 

Vicious triumph blooms in Dooku’s chest. If his tenure as Darth Sidious’ apprentice must end, it will end on his own terms. “They’re programmed to kill the Jedi,” he says, letting his words fall like blows.  

Skywalker’s face goes stiff, and  Tano mewls faintly, like a kit in distress. 

“He’s lying.” Master Tal — although that probably isn’t his name — finally speaks. “I don’t care how powerful those chips are, they can’t make the clones do that. Think about it, Anakin. Rex killing you? Cody killing Obi-Wan? It’s not possible. There are some things you can’t force someone to do, no matter what technology you have on your side.” 

Skywalker is distracted enough that Dooku can step back, away from the sabers. No one stops him. There’s a quiet murmur spreading through the clones, and Kenobi glances over at them, a new watchfulness in his eyes. 

Dooku smiles inwardly, making sure to maintain a fearful facade on the outside. If Skywalker or Kenobi or any of them bothered to probe, they would realize his deception, but no one is focused enough to do that. 

Their love, as always, betrays them. He can only imagine how powerful Skywalker would be if he stopped letting weaker people get in his way. Perhaps Kenobi too, but his power has always paled in comparison to Skywalker’s raw ability.

He takes another step back, and there is finally relief to his burning skin as the Dark rushes into the room, taking advantage of the Jedi’s distraction. It’s cold and familiar, an ice bath at the end of long day in the heat. 

He draws in a breath. You want to see what the chips do, Skywalker? I’m delighted to oblige. “Clones,” he says in a ringing voice, “execute Order —” 

There’s an arm around his throat, squeezing hard enough to choke off his words. Dooku grips the arm, tries to thrust its owner away with the Force, but the muzzle of blaster is jammed against his head before he can. The sound of it powering up is loud in his ears, vibrating in his skull. 

“Go on.” It’s a clone’s voice, and he shoves Dooku down to his knees, keeping his arm clamped down on his throat. “Try to say something. Make my kriffing day.” 

Dooku fights for breath. Skywalker comes to stand in front of him, the other Jedi gathering behind him. “What were those words?” he demands in a tight voice. He positions his blue saber so it’s pointing down at Dooku’s heart. “Fives, let him talk. If you start to say anything that sounds suspicious, I’ll kill you.” 

“Not if I shoot him first,” Fives says, a snarl close to Dooku’s ear. “I guarantee my trigger finger is faster than your parking mouth, hu’tuun.” He releases the pressure a fraction, and Dooku hauls in a breath that burns all the way down.

“What were those words?” asks Skywalker again. “Tell me.” 

“The trigger.” Dooku’s voice is hardly more than a croak. “To activate their chips.” His lips curl. “To make them kill you.” 

There’s a stretch of silence, and Dooku fees terror and anger ripple through the Force, and he soaks it up like it’s sunlight. 

“It’s true, sir.” The blond clone speaks up, and the fear on his face bolsters the Dark even more, flowing into Dooku. Not that it does him much good right now. “I… I’ve been having nightmares about those words. About doing that. Been having them since I was a kid.” He swallows. Dooku almost laughs around the pressure from Fives’ arm. So the clones do have some inkling of what they were created to do. His Master will hate that if he finds out. He never does like it when people think for themselves. 

“I have too,” another clone says, voice cold and stiff. Disbelieving. “Chatterbox has too. He told me.” 

More clones join in, quiet and ashamed, and this time Dooku does laugh, especially when Kenobi flinches when one of a troopers in orange armor, with a scar on his face, comes up behind him. The trooper sees the flinch and backs away.  

“Shut it, Seppie,” says Fives, tightening his grip on his throat. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Why?” Skywalker’s voice is a ship’s engine about to overload. “Why program them to kill us?” 

Dooku just looks at him. “You don’t know anything, youngling.” 

Kenobi takes a step forward. “Enlighten him.” 

“Think about it,” says Dooku. “Engage your diminutive brains and think about. Anti Jedi rhetoric spreading over the Republic. A clone army under your command, one that no one outside the Jedi Order really trusts.” He laughs again. “Your order of peacemakers managed to acquire your own army, and you thought the Republic would just accept it? My Master has everything he needs to concoct some false story and label all you Jedi traitors. And he has a firing squad surrounding all of you at all times. He can pull the trigger any time he wants to.” 

Skywalker stands rock still. “Rex, are the 501st comms still linked to the GAR network?” 

“Yes,” the blond clone, Rex, answers. “212^th too. We’re on leave, so they’re not calling, but —” 

“Sever the link,” Skywalker orders. “Sever it right now. Comm the others, and everyone back on Naboo, and tell them to do the same. No one is to answer anything from any official channels. And we have someone who isn’t a clone screen all incoming messages that aren’t from our people. Do it now.” 

“Yes, sir.” Rex hurries off, already pulling out his comm. 

Dooku shakes his head. “You think you can stop him? It’s already to late.” He looks to Kenobi. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Now do you see?” 

“You could’ve ended this before it began,” says Master Tal, low and furious. “You’ve brought this down on all of us.” 

“The galaxy needed a change,” says Dooku. “The Jedi were holding it back. You still are.” 

“This isn’t change,” Tano spits, jerking toward him. Kenobi sets a hand on her shoulder to hold her back. “This is murder! This is wrong.” 

“You can’t have change without spilling blood, little one.” 

“If he has all he needs,” Kenobi interrupts, “why hasn’t he activated the clones yet? Ended this?” 

“Because.” Dooku slides his gaze over to Skywalker. “He wants your padawan, Kenobi. He’s been grooming him to be his sword for years now, right under your nose.” 

There’s a sudden surge in the Force, a roaring in Obi-Wan’s presence, leaping toward Anakin, curling around him and whispering mine mine mine don’t hurt him I’ll kill you. “If Palpatine wants my padawan, he can just try to come and take him. Anakin isn’t anyone’s to own. Not ever again.” 

“Oh, but he believes Skywalker will join him willingly,” says Dooku, with a sly smile. “He’s seen the darkness in him. He knows what Skywalker did to those Sand People a year ago, when his mother died.” The confused looks Kenobi, Tano, and Tal flick toward Skywalker make Dooku’s smile widen. “Oh, you never told them, Skywalker, did you? About what happened. About how you killed all of them — men, women, younglings. Tell them. Go on.”

“Skyguy?” Tano is hesitant, her face uncertain. 

Skywalker stares at the floor for a moment, and then he begins to laugh. Harsh, mocking laughs, filled with mirth. “Is that what you heard?” He lifts his head, eyes glinting. “Is that what you told your Master happened?” 

“Anakin, what’s going on?” Kenobi frowns. 

Skywalker ignores him and crouches down in front of Dooku. “Here’s the thing — my amu is alive. She’s alive and well — safe. What really happened that day is I came to Tatooine to find her gone. Taken, by Tuskens.” He laughs a little more. “I went to find her, but she didn’t need my help any more. She’d been rescued. By other Tuskens. Because here’s a funny thing — the depurs lied to us about them. We should’ve picked up on it years and years ago, because depurs lie about everything — and I think the homesteads and towns on the edge of the Wastes did. 

“See, we were all led to believe the Tuskens were savages, sadistic monsters who’d drag you to their camps and torture you to death if you ran away. And some of them are that — although most of the bad ones are far more interested in the pay day they get for returning runaways. But a good portion of them are just… Sand People. Desert nomads, looking to carve out a life on this rock, same as the rest of us. And they don’t hold with the ways of the other Tuskens, so they try to help where they can. Like when they saved my amu, brought her back home.” 

“Then why lie?” Dooku stares at Skywalker, jaw clenched. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to leave my amu again.” He glances over at Kenobi. “And I couldn’t have the Order breathing down my neck, keeping me away from her. So they needed to think she was dead. And I couldn’t have Jabba finding out about the Tuskens helping us, so I made up a story, a terrible one, and gave it to people who would carry it to Jabba, and then I gave the story of the Tuskens to the Freedom Trail, so they would spread it to everyone else who was on their side.”

 He grins. “I guess it found its way to you.” He leans a little closer. “The funny thing is, the story came easy, because I might’ve done that. If I’d found her dead, if I pictured that, I saw that kind of rage — the kind that could kill the guilty and the innocent alike. So I guess Palpatine was right — once. But once I knew that about myself — saw it — I brought it into the light, and it burned up. It doesn’t have power any longer. I’m free. In a way you will never be. Darkness can’t survive the light.” He rummages in a pocket of his tunic, flicking off one of the sabers to free up a hand. “Speaking of light overcoming darkness,” he says, pulling a small metal disk out of his pocket, “I’ve got something I want you to watch. A little liberation I’ve got planned.” 

He reaches out and presses the disk against Dooku’s throat, what little isn’t covered by Fives’ arm. There’s a click and a sudden searing pain as what feel like needles embed themselves in the tender skin. He tips his head back, straining against Fives, trying to scream, but no sound comes out. 

“Let him go,” says Skywalker, nodding to Fives. His voice is faint through the whining in Dooku’s ears. “It’s safe. I promise.” 

Fives unceremoniously drops Dooku, letting him catch himself with his hands. He thrusts a hand up to his throat, touching the disk and the hot skin around it. His fingers come back dotted with blood. He opens his mouth, furious questions rising to his lips, but his lips move without sound. 

Skywalker comes up behind him and hauls him to his feet. “It’s weird, right?” he remarks, in an aggressively gregarious tone. “Not being able to talk. That thing’s paralyzing your vocal cords, keeping you quiet for as long as you have it on. It’s a little toy of slavers who want their slaves to stop doing pesky sentient things like talking. Or screaming.” He claps Dooku on the shoulder. “No saying trigger phrases for you. Come with us, Count. Let’s go free a planet.”

Chapter Text

24 

The Rainstorm

The wind whips around Anakin, howling and smelling like spice. He climbs the last step, pulling Dooku along with him, and steps onto the tallest tower of Jabba’s palace. It’s open to the air, with a sweeping view of Mos Espa. Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever been so high up on Tatooine before — Mos Eisley was a low lying city, and Amavikka don’t have time to go climbing the desert cliffs. 

This is where Jabba’s lieutenants — or on rare occasions, Jabba himself — make announcements, their voices and figures broadcast by holocapturers to every city and home on Tatooine. 

And Anakin has a very special announcement planned. He just hopes the other squads and the Freedom Trail members are ready. He hopes the twi’lek woman spread the word. 

“Set it up, Echo would you?” Anakin nods to Echo, who followed him up here, along with Rex, Cody, Obi-Wan, Quinlan, and Ahsoka. Half of their squad stayed down in the palace, conducting sweeps for any guards or Amavikka they missed, and the other half — led by Fives — is on their way back into Mos Espa, to support the clones there. 

“Yes, sir.” Echo snaps a salute, formal as ever, even after everything. He circles the tower, activating holocapturers as he goes. Anakin takes a deep breath. This is the moment, the one he’s been having dreams and nightmares about since before he left Tatooine. 

Is the rainstorm coming? 

Yes. 

“Quin, Ahsoka,” he says, “get down to the palace gates and get ready to receive refugees. The Freedom Trail are going to be bringing people here for shelter — you contacted Owen, right, Cody? Told him we took the palace?” 

“Yes, General,” answers Cody. He shakes his head. “I don’t think he believed me.” 

“Is he bringing people anyway?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Quin?” 

Quinlan, who was on his way down the steps with Ahsoka, pauses. “Yeah?” 

Anakin presses his lips together. “Look after Snips, all right?” 

Quinlan smiles a little. “I will. I’ll make sure if any dying is going to happen, it’s me.” 

Ahsoka swats him. “Don’t say that!” 

“You’d better,” Anakin says, ignoring Ahsoka’s aghast face. “Or I’ll kill you myself.” 

Quinlan grins and hurries off. Ahsoka pauses. “Skyguy, you’ll be careful. Right?” 

Anakin pushes Dooku over to Obi-Wan and walks over to her. He tugs on her padawan beads, a fond gesture that always annoys her. She wrinkles her nose at him but doesn’t move away this time. “Yeah. Careful as you’ll be.” 

“That’s not very careful.” 

“Then I guess you’re going to have to take extra precautions.” 

Her face crumples a little, then she stretches up and throws her arms around his neck. “Promise me.” 

He rests his chin on the space in between her montrals. “I’m invincible, remember?” 

“You’d kriffing better be.” 

“Language,” he admonishes, disentangling himself from her. “Now go.” 

She hugs him one last time and clatters down the steps. 

“You should go with her,” Anakin says to Obi-Wan, moving back to the center of the platform, into the white ring that marks the broadcast area. 

Obi-Wan is gripping Dooku firmly by the arm, lightsaber at ready in case he gets any ideas about using the Force to pull the silencing device off his throat. “I’m staying with my padawan,” he says. “I go into battle when you do.” 

“Fine.” Anakin shakes his head. Then he adds, gruffly, “Thank you.” 

Obi-Wan smiles. “Always, padawan mine.” 

“We have the all clear signal, sir,” Echo reports, taking up position by the control station at the edge of the platform. “All squads say they and the Freedom Trail members are ready to go.” 

Taking a deep breath, Anakin puts his helmet back on, so that no one watching the broadcast will see his face. They can’t let Palpatine know who freed Tatooine. “ Fire it up then, Echo.” He sends a wild grin in Dooku’s direction. “Ready to see something beautiful, Yan?” 

Dooku only grimaces, and Anakin laughs. 

“We’re live, sir,” Echo says, at the same time as Anakin sees a blue hologram of him burst into existence above the broadcaster in Mos Espa’s main square, far below. 

Now, or never. He takes a deep breath. It takes no effort at all to recall the story, even though the last time he heard it was when he yet a slave on Tatooine, sitting in a circle of other children and listening to a grandmother tell the story of Ekkreth and the rainstorm that swept the depurs away. “Listen, children,” he says, beginning in the traditional way, “here is a story. Once, Ekkreth came to a city in the dunes, and he saw the children of Ar-Amu suffering…” 

* * * 

Kitster moves bent double through the tunnel, flinching every time sand rains down on his head. These tunnels, connecting the Freedom Trail stops in Mos Espa, have stood for years, but all it will take is a krayt dragon hunting too close to the city for them to crumble. 

And Kitster’s luck has never been good. 

When he reaches a bend in the tunnel, he turns to help Rilli forward. She has her head down, long spice-copper colored braid hanging over her shoulder, and one hand on her swollen stomach. The strands of hair falling loose from her braid are plastered against her sweaty forehead, and the look she gives Kitster when he takes her hands cuts him like a lash from a whip. 

“We’re almost there, akku,” he murmurs, guiding her around the bend. She squeezes his hand. “Just hang on.” 

“Mm.” She stops, bracing her hand against one of the support posts, her eyes shut in pain.

“Contraction?” 

“How kriffing perceptive of you,” she grates out, as he puts pressure on the small of her back, trying to alleviate some of the pain. 

Kitster almost laughs, which loosens the tension in his lungs some. This happening now was never the plan, but even so, Rilli is still Rilli. “We’ll get help. It’s going to be all right.” 

“They’re getting closer together, Kit.” She breathes out slow, starting forward again. “Baby’s coming.” 

“I know.” 

“We’re not going to make it to a transport.” 

Kitster knows that too. He keeps hold of her hand, and they keep going. Every few minutes, Rilli has to stop, her lips clamped together to stop from screaming, as another contraction bears down on her. He stays with her through them, singing the songs his amu used to sing to him when he was scared, songs about Ekkreth and Leia and Amavikka who learned to ride the sandstorms like the stormwinger birds. 

The contractions are just two minutes apart when they finally reach the trapdoor that leads up to their next stop. Kitster reaches up, the healing incision on his side — from where a singer removed his detonator — stinging, and bangs on the door. Sand rains down, settling on his hair. For a split second, fear freezes his blood. What if no one comes? What if the refuge was discovered? 

Then the trapdoor opens, warm light flooding into the dim tunnel, and a woman peers down at them. She’s not a depur or an enforcer — Kitster can tell that much just by looking at her — but her brow is creased with worry. 

“Ar-Amu save us,” she says, her anxiety turning her voice into a whisper, “you’re not supposed to be here!” She catches Kitster’s hand and helps him out of the tunnel and into a low ceilinged basement, lit only by soft lanterns, easily extinguished in the event of enforcers coming to investigate. 

“I don’t understand.” Kitster reaches down and pulls Rilli into the basement. Her hand is slick with sweat, so much so that he has to grip her wrist to get enough traction. 

As soon as the woman sees her, she covers her mouth with one hand. “Oh, kriff. Is she —” 

“Yes.” Rilli leans against Kitster, every muscle in her body rigid as she fights through another contraction. “For a while now actually.” 

“We need help,” Kitster says, throwing the woman a desperate look. “We don’t have time for a transport, but we’ve already got our detonators removed. As soon as the baby comes —” 

“You don’t understand,” the woman says, wringing her hands. “They weren’t supposed to send any more people. You’re in danger here, the city is —” 

“What the kriff are you doing here?” A burly young man descends the basement steps. “I told the Trail not to bring any one else to the cities. We’ll be overwhelmed as it is, trying to keep everyone safe.” 

“Owen?” Kitster does a double take. “You left, when Amu Shmi did. What’re you doing here? Is everyone back?” 

“Just me,” he answers. “You can’t be here, either of you.” 

Rilli slams her fist down on a table next to her, and the thud makes everyone jump. “Someone tell me what’s going on or I swear to the kriffing stars, I’ll start punching people!” She starts to say something again, but her words turn into a muffled cry as a contraction sneaks up on her, almost making her double over. 

Owen takes a step back, shaking his head. “It’s the rainstorm, ikkal. It’s come.” 

Rilli lifts her head, panting. “That’s just a story.” 

“Not any more. My upan, Anakin, he’s come with an army to liberate Tatooine. And he needs the Freedom Trail’s help, and we can’t take any more people, not when a bloodbath is about to start.” 

“Ani?” Kitster’s heartbeat fills his ears. “He’s back? He’s alive?” 

Owen nods. “See for yourself.” He flicks on a rickety old holo, and a blue figure springs into view. It’s a man, wearing armor and a helmet, so Kitster can’t see his face, but there’s a ghost of familiarity in his tone, a timbre that reminds him of Anakin. 

“… and he saw the children of Ar-Amu suffering,” Anakin says. “Ekkreth then took on the shape of an old slave, with a back bent from years of service, and walked among them. He found a young slave girl, and asked, ‘Daughter, why do you weep?’ 

“And the girl said, ‘Oh, Grandfather, I weep because everyone who promised to help us has betrayed us.’ 

“Ekkreth answered, ‘Don’t be afraid. There will be rain, and it will free Ar-Amu’s children.’ 

“With a harsh laugh, the girl said, ‘There is no rain in the desert. It’s just a story.’ Then she walked away, leaving Ekkreth there.” 

“What he’s doing?” asks Kitster, still gazing at the hologram. 

“Giving us the signal.” Owen takes a blaster from the rack in the corner and sticks it in a holster at his side. “We’re the rain.” 

Just then, Rilli cries out, catching herself with the edge of the table to stop from falling to her knees. Water rushes out from her, wetting her skirts and making a puddle on the floor beneath her. 

“Oh, that’s not good,” says Owen. 

“I’ve got you.” The woman takes Rilli by the shoulders and guides her to one of the cots set up in the room. “If you’re her husband,” she says to Kitster, “you should get over here.” 

Kitster starts to move forward, but Rilli holds up a hand. “No,” she pants, gripping the woman’s hand. “Kit, you need to go with Owen.” 

“What?” He stops beside her. “No, I’m staying with you.” 

“No,” she says again, pushing a hand against his chest. “You need to help them — our brothers and sisters. You’re free — now you have to go back.” 

Tena the Unfettered. 

“I can’t leave you.” 

Her eyes drift shut for a second. “Yes, you can. I’ll be all right. The people out there, they’re the ones who need you. Go.” She manages to stretch up and kiss him, the fingers of her free hand knitting in his hair. “Make a free world for our baby.” She presses her forehead against his. 

Kitster closes his eyes. “Te masu em lukkema.” 

“And you are mine, nalu.” 

He pulls away from her, clinging to her hand until the last second. Then he turns to Owen. “Give me a blaster and tell me where you need me.” 

* * * 

“Ekkreth went deeper into the city and saw an amu, who was watching her two children play. He came and sat beside her, and he asked, ‘Amu, why do you weep?’ 

The amu said, ‘I cry for my children, because they will never know freedom.’ 

“‘But they are children of Ar-Amu,’ said Ekkreth. ‘Why do you not tell them the stories of the Amavikka and Ekkreth and the Eldest Sister, so they might know freedom in their hearts and minds?’ 

“‘Because,” the amu replied bitterly, ‘those are just stories, and they do not save lives.’ 

“‘Oh, but, Amu,” Ekkreth said, taking her hand, ‘they do. How else will the children of Ar-Amu remember that they own themselves and no chain can hold them? Don’t be afraid. There will be rain, and it will free Ar-Amu’s children.’ 

“The amu stood and walked away from him. ‘That is just a story too,’ she said. ‘There is no rain in the desert, and there will be no freedom.’” 

Maru watches Ekkreth’s broadcast from the slave cages. She holds her daughter’s hand and reaches up to touch the rough scars on her face. 

She did what he asked. She spread the word, told the other slaves that Ekkreth was coming. Some laughed and called her crazy, but they grew quieter when the strange, armored men returned to the city. They went completely silent when several of them moved among the cages and, so subtly and carefully that Maru only noticed because she’s learned to notice everything, stuck tiny bombs to each gate, so small that you can only see them if you look closely. 

One of the men lifted his helmet enough as he passed to send a friendly grin at Alla, Maru’s daughter. She smiled back, and it’s been long days since Maru has seen that smile. 

It’s funny. Her amu and ipu named her after Maru, the one who hid the pieces of the moon after Ekkreth stole them back from the Depur, the one who brought water and light when both were thought to be lost, and now Maru is part of the coming rainstorm that will free the Amavikka — or so the man Ekkreth promised. 

She thought she left behind fancifulness years ago, exchanging it for a cold hard realism that kept her daughter alive and by her side, but a smile curves her scarred lips regardless. It feels like she’s part of an Ekkreth story, and in a way, she supposes she is. 

Scooping up Alla, she settles her on her hip, even though she is almost too big to be carried, and rests her forehead against Alla’s. 

“You own yourself,” she whispers in Alla’s ear, “and no chain can hold you.” 

As Alla clings to her, Maru steps back from the cage doors, bracing herself. 

* * * 

Jesse presses against the wall next to the doorway, heart beating against his ribs. Appo is on the other side of the door, his blaster held at ready. They and the rest of their squad successfully infiltrated the signal tower that controls all the detonators of the Mos Espan slaves, without letting any of the controllers know. The guards — enforcers, General Skywalker called them — couldn’t stop them. Jesse and the others made sure none of them had time to scream and alert the controllers. 

Now all that’s left is this room — the control room at the very top of the tower. Inside are the enforcers who ensure that the transmitters the individual depurs use function. With this tower gone, none of them will work, and the slaves will be free to fight and run, even if they still have their detonators inside them. 

Jesse breathes deep. They need to take this room quickly and completely, because if the enforcers have a chance, they’ll hold every slave in Mos Espa hostage and stop the liberation before it even begins. 

Catching Appo’s eye and signaling the brothers behind him, Jesse begins to count down with his fingers. 

Three… Two… One! 

He presses the keycard he stole from one of the guards against the panel by the door. It slides open. He and Appo spin inside, the other troopers pushing in behind him. Jesse takes in the situation inside the room in a snap. 

Three enforcers at each console. Already reaching for the switches that likely arm the detonators. 

I don’t think so. Jesse shoots two of the enforcers in the head, trusting Waxer, who is watching his back, to take down the third. He does. On the other side of the room, Appo and Dogma shoot the other three. The last one falls with his fingers inches from the activation switches. 

Jesse turns in a circle, sweeping the room, and lets himself breathe again. There’s no one else. “Appo, status report.” His mouth is as dry as the sand that seems to permeate every corner of Tatooine, even this room, which is high above the dunes. 

Appo activates his comm and listens for a moment, a slow grin spreading over his face. “The other squads took their towers too. Every single one of them.” He looks at Jesse, and it’s clear this whole thing is personal to him, like it is to all of them. 

If the people of Tatooine can be free, then they can be too. Jesse’s never really dared imagine that before. He thought the nameless ache in his chest would fade if he dedicated himself fully to the Republic, to fighting the war. It’s why he has the Republic’s symbol — a cog — tattooed on his face. It was a desperate attempt to make it all mean something, even though it didn’t work.

It’s hard to find meaning in a war you were forced to fight. 

But this… this is a conflict Jesse can get behind. “Good. Set the charges and be ready to blow this thing. Comm Tup and tell him to set up the signal jammer, and tell him to tell the other jammer teams to do the same.” 

“Yes, sir,” Appo says, heading off to direct the brothers tasked with setting the charges. 

In the sudden quiet, Jesse turns his ear to General Skywalker’s broadcast. 

 “‘That is just a story too,’ she said. ‘There is no rain in the desert, and there will be no freedom.’

“Ekkreth went away very sadly, and he walked until he found a grandfather, weaving a basket in the shade of a scrub bush. He sat beside him and asked, ‘Why do you weep, Friend?’ 

“Then the grandfather said, ‘Because the children of Ar-Amu have lost hope, and do not tell each other stories any longer.’ 

“‘Don’t be afraid,” replied Ekkreth, feeling even sadder. “There will be rain, and it will free Ar-Amu’s children.’ 

“‘Even if the rain does come,’ said the grandfather, ‘I don’t believe they will see it, because they have waited too long and don’t look to the sky any more.’ 

Ekkreth became very angry. ‘The children of Ar-Amu are strong and free, and they will never stop looking to the sky for rain.’ But he did not believe it.

“Eventually, Ekkreth left the city and took the shape of a red bird. He flew out over the dunes, weeping all the while. He passed over his eldest daughter, Leia, and she demanded to know why he was so mournful. Ekkreth cried, ‘Because there will be no rain!’ and flew away. He flew and flew, past the outlying cities, past the farthest wastes, until he reached the very center of the desert, where he collapsed in exhaustion. 

“There was no end to his tears, and they wet the sand around him, until he was sitting in a puddle of salt. Then Ar-Amu came to him, and her steps shook the ground. 

“‘Why do you weep, Sky-Walker?’ she asked, in a voice that would have made even Leia flee. 

“‘Because your children have let their hearts and minds become enslaved,’ whispered Ekkreth, his head down. ‘They don’t believe the rainstorm will come.’” 

“Charges are set, sir,” Appo says, coming up behind him and interrupting the broadcast. 

Jesse turns away from the hologram. “Good job. Let’s get out of here.” 

* * * 

There’s a ripple of unease spreading through the slave market. Fives stands still in the midst of it, positioned near the cages. The rest of his squad is spaced out intermittently around the square, ready and waiting for everything to begin. They’re more heavily armed than they would otherwise be, which is luckily not out of the ordinary on Tatooine. The extra weapons aren’t for them, though. They’re for the slaves in the cages, so they can arm themselves as soon as they’re free.

Anakin’s broadcast is coming in loud and clear throughout the market, and it makes it easy to pick the depurs out of the crowd. They stop and stare, a dark, frightened look coming to their faces at the mention of the name Ekkreth. 

Fives grins under his helmet. Good. They should be afraid. He focuses on the broadcast again, waiting for the end.

“‘Because your children have let their hearts and minds become enslaved,’ whispered Ekkreth, his head down. ‘They don’t believe the rainstorm will come.’ 

“Ar-Amu was silent for a long time. Ekkreth thought she had gone away, but then a drop of water landed on his head. He looked up to see her crying, tears rolling down her face. Her tears fell like rain, landing on his head and drenching his shoulders. As she wept, clouds gathered around her head, heavy and black. They blotted out the twin suns and wreathed the desert in darkness. A cold wind sprang up, taking the tears with it and spreading them across the dunes in a curtain of raindrops. 

“Ekkreth stared upward in shock. ‘You are crying,’ he said. 

“‘I am weeping for my children,” Ar-Amu replied, her face as fierce and wild as the storm that is brewing. The clouds are a maelstrom over her head, furious and powerful. The wind tears at her hair. ‘The rain has come. Go, Sky-Walker, and tell them.’ 

“‘They will not look up and see,’ protested Ekkreth. ‘They won’t believe me!’

“Ar-Amu leaned close. “It only takes one. And they will tell the others.’ 

“Spurred by her words, Ekkreth took to the air and flew back to the city, pushed along by the wind. He soared above it, a drop of blood in a black sky, and saw one young boy standing on the roof of one of the houses. He was looking up.

“With a triumphant cry, Ekkreth dove down and alighted on the edge of the roof. The boy smiled when he saw him and asked, ‘Are you Ekkreth?’ 

Ekkreth shifted into the form of a young man and smiled back. ‘I am, child. Who are you?’ 

“‘I am Lukka,’ the boy answered, for lukka meant free. ‘Has the rainstorm really come?’

“‘It has,’ Ekkreth promised. ‘You must go and tell the others, for they do not look to the sky as you do.’ 

“‘I will,’ the boy said, as thunder rumbled and lightning lit the dunes white.” 

Fives sets one hand on the holster of his gun and meets Maru’s eyes. She nods at him, eyes flinty. She and the others are ready. 

* * * 

Anakin takes a deep breath and keeps going, his eyes on the signal tower in the midst of Mos Espa. “‘I will,’ the boy said, as thunder rumbled and lightning lit the dunes white. He ran and told the others, while Ekkreth circled above, ready to lead the people to the secret places, where the depurs would not find them. 

“‘At first, the other children of Ar-Amu did not believe, but Lukka made them look up. Then they saw the clouds, black like freedom, and felt the rain on their faces and believed. The depurs did not understand the rain, and they cursed it, but the children of Ar-Amu laughed and danced. They tasted the drops, which were salty like tears, and they knew Ar-Amu had sent the rain.

“They gathered together beneath the clouds, and the depurs became very angry and threatened them. Then thunder roared, so loud that everyone thought it was Leia. A bolt of lightning burned down from the sky, leaping from Ar-Amu’s hand, and struck the tower that controlled the detonators the wicked depurs had put inside her children. As the tower burned and crumbled, the depurs cried out in fear, and the children of Ar-Amu rose up and defeated them. 

“The rain poured down and flooded the desert, turning the dunes into a sea as it washed away the depurs. The children of Ar-Amu ran to the depurs’ ships and stole away in them, flying out across the new sea. They followed Ekkreth to a secret place, where they lived free forever and ever, never to be slaves again.

“This is the story of how the rain came and how Ekkreth and Lukka led the children of Ar-Amu to freedom.” Anakin pauses, hearing the echo of all the times his mother told him this story, all the times various grandparents told it to him, and all the times he and Kitster whispered it to each other. He remembers telling Padme that, if they ever had a son, they must name him Lukka, because he hopes — always hopes, has never stopped, not since he was nine and left everyone behind — that his people will find freedom. 

And now they will. “I tell you this story to save your life.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the signal tower goes up in a torrent of flames. Down below, in Mos Espa, there are the sounds of dozens of smaller explosions — the locks on the slave cages blowing up. 

It’s not quite lightning from the hand of Ar-Amu, but it will do. “Amavikka,” Anakin says, feeling the Dark shrivel and cringe away from the Light, like a beaten dog, like the tiny, pathetic thing it really is,  “slip your chains. The rain has come.” 

Chapter Text

25 

Shout Your Freedom 

Explosions ring out in the square, a fiery drumbeat that sends depurs scattering in all directions. As the fires burn out, the slaves inside the cages move forward in a single wave. Fives catches Maru’s eye again and unholsters two of his extra guns. She nods. 

The slaves kick open the doors and flood into the square. That’s when all hell breaks loose. 

Enforcers rise to meet the slaves, screaming obscenities, lashing out with whips and swords and guns, but they find themselves caught between the slaves and the brothers, as Fives sends his squad charging forward. The three forces clash together with a sound like a thunderstorm, and there aren’t ranks or orders to follow, just a desperate need to stay alive and break free of the crush. 

Fives pushes his way toward the freed slaves until he reaches Maru. She has her daughter shoved behind her, two men on either side of them, gripping stones to throw at any depurs or enforcers who think Maru will be an easy target. Panting, Fives pushes one of the guns into her hand, handing the other to one of the men. All he has left to give after that is a small backup blaster, which he passes to the other man. Then he spins to face the oncoming enforcers, lifting his own blaster high. 

They stutter to a stop in the face of armed slaves, but Maru hefts her gun and shoots one of them in the head. Fives and the two men open fire on the others, carving a path forward. 

“You need to get Alla out of here!” bellows Fives. “Find a man called Owen Lars — he’ll take both of you to safety.” 

For a split second Maru looks like she’s going to argue, but then she scoops her daughter up and starts running, Alla’s face tucked into her neck, lekku streaming behind her. 

There isn’t an enforcer alive who can stand in her way. She disappears into the fray, clearing her way with her gun, ducking and weaving as well as any trained soldier. 

Fives goes back to back with one of the men, as more brothers come to support them. They’re near the center of the conflict, clawing their way outward, toward the edge of the square where they’ll have more avenues of retreat. 

A tiny devaronian boy dashes out of the slave cages, ducking past Fives. He makes a grab for him, trying to cry warning, trying to tell the boy that he needs to get to Owen and safety, but it’s already too late.  An enforcer melts out of the battle and snatches the boy up. He clamps him against his chest, gun to his head. 

In the space of a moment, there’s a pocket of dead silence in the middle of everything. Fives stares at the enforcer and the boy, gripping his gun and wishing, wishing, wishing that he is certain he could fire fast enough to strike down the enforcer before he can hurt the child. 

But he isn’t. 

“Let me through,” the enforcer snarls, jamming the blaster against the boy’s temple. “Give me protection, and the kid lives.” 

“Ipu! Ipu, help!” The boy’s voice is shrill and panicked as he wriggles in the enforcer’s arms. Fives breathes out slow, trying to quell the shaking, burning rage that he knows will make him lurch forward like an idiot and get the boy killed. 

“Shut up.” The enforcer tightens his grip on the boy. “No one’s coming for you!” 

“Like hell they aren’t.” A burly togruta with scarred montrals emerges from the crush of people behind the enforcer, and he leaps on the man before he even realizes the togruta is behind him. He slams into the enforcer and knocks him to the ground. The devaronian boy tumbles down with them, but he twists free as soon as he hits the sandy stone, darting a safe distance away. 

Fives jerks forward, ready to help, but the togruta is already on top of the enforcer. The man tries to get his gun up, shove it in the togruta’s face, but he knocks it aside and pins the enforcer’s arm to the ground. The enforcer cries out, eyes wide as he struggles under the togruta’s grip, but then the togruta closes his jaws around the man’s throat and tears it open with his teeth. 

The enforcer’s scream turns to a gurgle and dies away. 

Fives just stares. He knows little Ahsoka has all the trappings of a predator, but he’s never seen the deadliness of a togruta on fully display before. 

The togruta jumps up, blood staining his mouth and running scarlet down his neck, and picks up his son — the devaronian. He fixes Fives with a look that says he’s next if he even thinks about hurting the kid. 

“That way!” Fives finds his voice again and points to a house at the edge of the square, where Owen is. “There’s people there that will get you and your son away from the battle.” 

The togruta growls, hunching low over his son. He doesn’t believe him. 

“I swear,” Fives says, pausing to shoot another enforcer that tries to trap them against the nearby cage’s wall. “It’s the Freedom Trail — they’ll prove it. Just go!” He fires again, bringing down another enforcer. “Run!” 

The togruta finally listens. He dashes in the direction of the house, falling in with a clustered group of parents and children. Several brothers and armed slaves flank them, defending them as they move through the battle. 

Fives refocuses on the fight, forging forward. Weapons fire and the sounds of fighting fill the whole city, coming from beyond the square now. Every slave in Mos Espa is rising up against their depurs , and Fives thinks fiercely that it is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

When shots begin to rain down from the roofs of the surrounding buildings, he’s convinced for a horrible second that its the depurs and enforcers, that they’ve taken the high ground, but then an enforcer that has him and some of his brothers backed up against the wall of a house topples with a burnt out hole in his head. 

A freeman on the opposite roof pauses to give Fives a two fingered salute, and he grins. The Freedom Trail fighters have come, and they’ve brought their own rain. 

* * * 

Kitster catches up little Shona, a mirialan youngling, in his arms as he and a dozen other younglings, flanked by their parents, burst out of the emergency tunnel that leads out of Mos Espa. It comes out in a sheltered cluster of rocks that is located behind Jabba’s palace. It’s hidden from the view of the city and palace, with a snaking canyon that leads to a secret landing field, but a wide open space is useless to the Amavikka right now. The depurs have taken to their ships and are raining fire down in the hopes of quelling the rebellion. Kitster saw the slave quarters in the city go up in flames, but he laughed at the depurs for thinking that the Amavikka are stupid enough to stay in there in the middle of a revolution.

This, however, is a different matter. The path to Jabba’s palace, to safety — and Kitster can’t believe the palace is a refuge now — lies across a stretch of open ground, peppered with scrub bushes that offer no cover. He’s already made the crossing once with another group, but this time will not go as smoothly. Now, the depurs will know where they are, if they were paying attention last time. 

Kitster is Amavikka. He’s too much of a realist to hope that the depurs missed their previous run. 

“Run as fast as you can,” he directs, turning to the children who are old enough and fast enough to cross on their own. The others, the little ones, are safely ensconced in the arms of adults. Kitster tries not to think about how even the fastest of them can’t outrun a ship. “Don’t stop until you’re inside the mountain.” He points to the pinnacle Jabba’s palace sits on. There’s a crack running down the cliff in front of them, a narrow canyon, cut off from the sky, that leads to the cistern under the palace. There, Anakin’s people and the other refugees are waiting for them. 

The younglings nod with wide eyes, and the parents clutch their charges closer to their chest. Kitster adjusts his grip on Shona, feeling her bury her face in his neck, and faces the open space that spreads out before them. 

Jabba’s palace looks impossibly far away. 

It’s now or never, he thinks. “Go!” He takes off at a sprint, Shona bouncing in his arms, his feet pounding against the sandy ground. The others spill out after him, into the blinding sunlight. 

Kitster’s breath tears at his throat as he runs, sliding on the shifting. There’s the scream of a ship above him, and he turns his eyes to the sky. A depur’s hunter ship, the kind sent after runaways, bears down on them. He takes it in with a resigned kind of acceptance, even as adrenaline surges through his body. He doesn’t think he’s ever run so fast before. 

The first volley of shots strikes the ground just behind them. The  rapid fire explosions are so loud that the force of them almost knocks him over. Shona screams next to his ear as sand and fragments of stone rain down on them. A shard of rock catches him hard on the arm, leaving a swiftly reddening slice behind. 

“Keep going!” he bellows, the dust thrown up by the explosion burning his lungs as he inhales it. “Don’t stop!” 

The ship circles around again, all deadly edges and savage wings, and this time is approaches from ahead of them. Kitster has a perfect view of its guns heating up, red eyes against the blue desert sky. 

It won’t miss this time. 

He still doesn’t stop running. 

Blaster cannons fire, and he braces himself, but no explosions shake the ground. The depur’s ship whizzes over their heads, chased by another hunter ship, this one painted crimson. The depur soars upward, trying to get out of range of the other ship’s guns, but its pursuer seems to predict the move before it happens and arrows up after it. The depur banks to the right. The other ship spins beneath them and swoops upward, cutting in front of them. It fires again, and the depur’s ship goes down in a ball of fire. 

Though he can’t see who is piloting the ship as it zigzags over their heads, turning a loop that is almost like some kind of salute, Kitster knows, knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it’s Anakin Skywalker flying it. There’s no one else in the galaxy who flies like that. 

Kitster and the others reach the crack in the cliff, and he sees his charges safely inside it, the coolness of the stone a relief after sprinting in the hot sun. He passes Shona to a young togrutan girl that is waiting for them in the canyon, and when he turns back, the ship is still there, chasing down two other hunter ships that got too close to the crossing. 

It is there every time Kitster leads another group across, watching over them like a red bird. 

Like Ekkreth. 

* * * 

 Crouched in the cool banquet hall of Jabba’s palace, the largest room in the place by far, Ahsoka watches the continually growing crowd of younglings, elders, and others. Most of the able bodied people who stay are parents, who keep their children clustered around them, but some parents who bring their children to the palace then leave to help in the battle, to build a free world for their families.  

Ahsoka can’t imagine how that feels. She wants to be out with them, fighting and struggling and killing the slavers that fill her with bone deep rage, but Quinlan won’t let her. He’s confined her to the palace and tasked her with looking after the refugees. She knows it’s an important duty, but she can’t settle even so. 

As the suns track across the sky, the puddles of light coming through the tall windows moving with them, she listens to the updates on the battle that come through her comm. Before he left, Rex patched her in to the 501st and 212 th ’s combined channel, and now she strains her ears, mouth dry, praying, praying that she doesn’t hear terrible news. 

That Anakin is dead. 

That Obi-Wan is dead.

That Rex is dead. 

That their whole plan has failed and the slavers are coming to take back the palace and the cities and kill anyone who resists. 

“Mos Elrey is taken,” a clone she doesn’t recognize says over the comm, and with a tense thrill, Ahsoka marks the city off on the rudimentary map of Tatooine she has on her datapad. Another hour, and someone says, “Mos Pelgo has surrendered to the freedom fighters,” and Ahsoka cuddles Shona, who hasn’t let go of Ahsoka since the man with dark hair handed her over, and crosses it out on the map. 

“Bestine surrendered.” 

“Anchorhead is liberated.” 

“Mos Doba and Mos Anek have been taken.” 

She’s helping Lira patch up a squad of freedom fighters who were med evac’d from Mos Espa when the news that Mos Entha is free comes through the comm. Lira starts crying then, because she was born there, and Ahsoka holds her and cries too.

The suns are low in the sky, and many of the younglings are sitting in a circle around Lira, listening to her tell them stories, and there’s a sudden flood of messages over the comm, dozens of smaller cities and towns surrendering to the freedom fighters almost at once. 

Anakin’s voice comes over the comm then, tired but burning. “We took Mos Eisley.” 

Ahsoka starts crying again. 

It’s the middle of the night, and everyone’s clustered around the comm with Ahsoka. There’s only one city left on Ahsoka’s map, circled in red. Mos Espa. If Ahsoka strains her ears, she can hear the sound of weapons fire and flying ships, filtering through one of the open windows. 

The moons are high in the sky, painting everything silver. The breeze coming through the open windows is cold, but no one stirs to shut them. Any movement, and they’re afraid they won’t hear the announcement. Ahsoka knits her fingers with Lira’s and tries to not to fidget, lest she awaken Shona, who is fast asleep on her lap. 

The comm crackles to life. Ahsoka jerks, waking Shona despite her best efforts. Lira squeezes her hand, and everyone holds their breath. 

It’s Rex who brings the news. “The slavers surrendered,” he says, fierce and proud. “Mos Espa is ours.” 

The cheer that rises up is deafening. Everyone leaps to their feet, and Lira drags Ahsoka up, pulling her into some kind of whirling Tatooian dance that leaves Ahsoka breathless. Lira is laughing, and she has a beautiful laugh and equally beautiful smile, even if she seems out of practice at both. A dozen disparate songs rise up, twining together into an indefinable melody as more people join the dance, heads thrown back and feet stamping out a rhythm. It’s a beautiful, chaotic crush of people hugging and laughing and dancing, until Ahsoka’s head spins.

At length, she manages to free herself, leaving Shona to dance with Lira, and snatches up her comm. “Rex,” she says, comming him directly. She has to speak loud to be heard over the joyous commotion. “Rex, where’s Anakin?” 

There’s a stretch of time before he answers. “He’s here, Commander. In Mos Espa, the main square.” 

She doesn’t wait to hear more. She drops her comm and dashes out of the banquet hall, running through the palace until she reaches the windows that are serving as the main exits, with the gates still out of service. She jumps down, landing with a crunch on the road outside and pelts toward the city. 

There are still clones and Amavikka everywhere, clearing away bodies or securing the enemies who surrendered, but Ahsoka runs past all of them, not stopping until she reaches the square.

 Anakin is there, just like Rex said. A makeshift infirmary has been set up, and he’s moving among the beds with Obi-Wan, using the Force to heal people or put them into healing trances. 

He sees her as soon as she steps out into the open. A tired grin spreads over his face. “Snips.” 

“Anakin.” She flies across the square and throws herself at him, almost knocking him over. She tucks her head beneath his chin and chokes on a hysterical laugh. “You did it.” 

He holds her close, something he never would have dared to do among the Jedi Order. “We did it,” he says, and she thinks he’s crying. 

She doesn’t tease him for it, because she’s crying too. 

Chapter Text

26 

Anakin Skywalker Is Extra, As Always  

Anakin’s not sure he’s ever been quite so tired. He hasn’t really slept — not properly — in over a week. He, Obi-Wan, Quinlan, and most of the high-ranking clones are running on stims, caff, and stubbornness. Ahsoka would be right next to them if Anakin didn’t force her to sleep occasionally. Usually the best way to do that was to pass her the nearest unattached youngling and say they needed a nap. He would usually find her fifteen minutes later, passed out with the child curled against her. 

Obi-Wan, being Obi-Wan, has tried that trick with him a couple of times the past week and half, but Anakin’s grown out of his padawan gullibility, so it doesn’t work. 

There just isn’t time to sleep. His every moment has been filled with all the details of freeing Tatooine and making sure it stays kriffing free. The first order of business was marshaling together a standing army. Obi-Wan had been surprised that so many of the freed slaves eagerly signed up, but Anakin wasn’t. His people knew, maybe better than anyone, that peace didn’t just come. You had to fight for it, and then be strong enough to keep it. 

Besides, the Amavikka have been systematically disarmed and oppressed for their whole lives. Anakin knows how good it feels to have a weapon in your hands, after it has been denied to you for so long. 

After that, everyone gathered the depurs’ ships together onto the disused landing field outside Jabba’s palace — which is swiftly becoming the center of operations. It’s a rudimentary air force, made up of disparate types of ships, but it will be enough to protect the Amavikka, Anakin thinks. Especially given that the many of them are talented pilots, skilled enough to put most of the ships’ previous owners to shame. 

In between putting together the army and air force, the Amavikka and clones rounded up all the slavers and criminals who had survived the initial battles and dumped them in prison with Dooku. When a proper legal system is in place, they’ll decide what to do with them, even Dooku. Anakin hopes — savagely — that they choose to toss the lot of them to the Sarlaac. 

Once all that was done, Anakin personally contacted all the criminal organizations he knows do business with Tatooine and told them — in no uncertain terms — that this world was under Ekkreth’s protection, and if they were planning on trying to invade and fill the power vacuum left behind by Jabba the Hutt, they wouldn’t survive to return home. 

Given that he had Jabba’s corpse suspended behind him, slowly spinning on a chain, along with the bodies of several other notable slavers, he thinks they believed him. They might give Tatooine trouble anyway, but Anakin thinks the Neutral Systems, who pledged their support as soon as Tatooine declared neutrality, will offer enough protection and deterrence to stop any conflicts before they truly begin.

The palace — slowly being renamed the Sanctuary — has remarkably functional medical facilities, and they’ve been swamped since the liberation. All the singers in Mos Espa are working from dawn to dusk each day, removing detonators from the Mos Espans and the Amavikka who fly in from other cities. Anakin was there when Lira’s detonator was removed, and he held her while she cried. 

Aside from all that, he’s been busy helping Quinlan organize a reunion initiative. He sent out a broadcast, instructing all Amavikka who were separated from either family or spouses to converge on the Sanctuary, in the hopes that people torn apart by the slave trade can be reunited. That’s what Anakin’s been spending the most time on, helping new arrivals find who they’re missing. Those hours are the happiest, when he helps put families back together. The best part was when Maru’s son, tall and strong, came to the palace, dusty and tired, and Maru collapsed against him, sobbing. They had both thought the other was dead. 

More come every day, and he wonders whenever he watches the never-ending stream how long it will be before all the broken families are put back together, before all the suspected losses become certain ones. Before the Amavikka can rinse the taste of slavery and oppression from their mouths. 

He is Amavikka, and Amavikka are realists, so he doesn’t tell himself stories. It will be years and years before the wounds of the past fade, generations before they are gone completely. 

But his people are accustomed to hard things, and they are willing to wait and take joy in the moment. They will be fine. That’s enough. 

It’s known to most of the Amavikka and freeborn that he is Anakin Skywalker, the first Tatooine born Jedi in a thousand years. He’s not afraid of them letting the news spread to the Republic or Palpatine, however. Not with the way they keep fondly calling him their Jedi — when they aren’t calling him Ekkreth — and standing around him protectively whenever they get a chance. His people are nothing if not good at keeping secrets, especially from those they don’t trust. 

And a Republic full of Core Worlders? Anakin’s people definitely don’t trust something like that. 

The hardest part by far as been setting up a new infrastructure to replace the old one. Most of the cities have sheriffs and marshals appointed, and Kitster, Lira, and Maru have turned into the people who have all the answers and direct whatever Anakin doesn’t. He thinks they’ll be the leaders of Tatooine — whatever that looks like for Amavikka — by the end of all this. Tatooine will be in good hands if they’re at the head of things. That helps Anakin sleep easier at night, when it all starts to feel like too much. 

On top of everything, trade had to be revamped. No one is eager to sell to the Republic any longer, and the criminal underworld that used to run their spice is out of the question. They’ve settled on the Neutral Systems, who, from the holocalls Kitster and Maru have had with them, are supremely grateful to have an influx of medicinal spice, especially after the Trade Federation has been doing their best to cut off their supply, and the Republic has been withholding theirs, citing war shortages. The Neutrals are even willing to pay the higher prices that come with the industry not being supported by slave labor any more. It will take some time to get everything reorganized, but Anakin believes it’s possible. 

After the liberation’s success, he believes anything is possible. 

He just wishes he could be there to see Tatooine grow and find its place in the galaxy, watch them turn up their noses whenever the Republic comes begging. 

He’s finally found a moment to himself, and he’s standing on the broadcast tower in the palace. The suns are high, but he doesn’t notice the heat any more. He’s been back on Tatooine long enough that his body has fallen back into well worn rhythms. The wind flows around him, dragging his hair sideways and bringing a fine shower of sand with it. 

There’s footsteps behind him. He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. A grim sort of resignation burns in his chest. He’s put this off for long enough. 

“General?” Rex comes to stand beside him, taking off his helmet so he can feel the breeze on his face. “You wanted me?” 

“Yes.” Anakin clears his throat. “There’s something… something I needed to give you.” He reaches into his robes — he doesn’t bother wearing his armor within the palace any more — and pulls out Dooku’s lightsaber. He’s been carrying it around, a reminder of a victory he hadn’t thought possible, but now it’s time to give it to the person who actually deserves it. 

He holds it out to Rex. “Take it. You’re a Force user. You should have it.” 

Rex takes a step back, confusion furrowing his brow. “I’m no Jedi, sir.” 

“Good.” Pent up anger turns Anakin’s voice tight. After everything he’s learned, he can’t hide from the truth about the Order any longer. They’re complicit in slavery, and they would’ve brought about their own destruction through their compromise. “That’s a good thing, Rex.” 

“Sir, you’re a Jedi.” 

“I don’t know what I am.” Depur. That’s what he is. “But I do know I don’t want to be part of the Order any more, not unless they change.” 

Hesitantly, Rex takes the saber from Anakin. The grip fits in his hand better than it ever did in Dooku’s, and he turns it over and over in his hands, feeling the grooves of the hilt with his fingers. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “Too bad it’s a Seppy’s.” 

“It’s yours now,” Anakin says. “Ignite it.” 

Rex gives him a doubtful look, stepping back, but he thumbs the activation switch anyway. The blade bursts to life, golden and the light of it is reflected in Rex’s wide eyes. “It’s…” He shakes his head, breathless. “You didn’t tell me you could feel it, sir. Feel it — like it’s alive.” 

“You never asked,” Anakin answers with a shrug. “You look good with it. You know, Ahsoka’s been dying to teach you how to fight with it, but don’t let her teach you that kriffing reverse grip of hers. No matter how much she talks it up. And Obi-Wan is probably going to make you study Soresu, but it’s not the only style out there that’s worth learning. Don’t listen to him.” 

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, looking rather bemused. “And what will you teach me?” 

“Nothing.” Anakin unhooks his lightsaber and lays it on the floor nearby. He kneels down, and he hates kneeling before anyone, but with Rex… It’s all right. He can do that for him. “Because you’re going to kill me.” 

Rex stares at him, all blank eyes and a suddenly tense stance. “Sir… with all due respect, what the kriff ?” 

“All the others got to kill their depurs ,” Anakin says, stomach clenching. He’s going to miss everyone so much. “Force, I heard even old Watto died during the liberation. Do you know how rare it is to be able to say, ‘I outlived by depur ’? I got to say it. Now you should too.” 

“General —” 

“I’m not your general, Rex. Stop calling me that. I’m your depur , your master, I’m everything you should hate.” He hauls in a breath, because he has to make Rex see . He’s too kind, too loyal, too forgiving. “How many times have I led you and your brothers into battle, when I knew some of you wouldn’t make it to the other side?” 

“That’s war —” 

“ No. This isn’t an army, Rex! It’s a kriffing death squad. You, your brothers, you’re all born to die in a war you didn’t start, that you didn’t agree to fight in. There’s not a government in the galaxy that will value their soldiers’ lives when they can just buy another batch whenever they start to run out! And I…” His voice cracks. “I let it happen. I helped it happen. I let them make me your depur , and you followed me into battle, and I got your brothers killed. How many in the 501st, since the war started?” 

There’s a short stretch of silence. Then Rex says, “Nearly a thousand.” 

“So half the battalion in a year. Half of a battalion of brothers, dead because of me.” 

“Because of the Separatists.” 

“ Because of me .” 

“You can’t save everyone.” 

“I could have. If I hadn’t gone along with the Council, those men would be alive. I could’ve saved all of them.” He rests back on his heels. “So kill me. For the brothers that aren’t here today. You can just roll my body off the tower, all right? It’ll get lost in the rocks, and the buzzards’ll eat it up before anyone even has time to find it. And you can tell Padme someone else killed me — an escaped depur or something. She doesn’t have to know. Go on. With the lightsaber, just do it. Or you can do it slow if you like, although I have to say I’d prefer if you —” 

Rex shuts off the lightsaber and bashes Anakin on the side of the head with the hilt. White flashes. Anakin topples sideways, clutching his head. “What the Sith hells was that ?” He asks, sitting up halfway. “I said with the lightsaber, not by beating me to death!” 

“Shut up,” Rex snaps, throwing the saber aside. “Just shut up , Anakin.” 

Anakin freezes. “You didn’t call me General.” A slow grin spreads over his face, despite the throbbing pain in his head. 

“That’s because my general isn’t a kriffing, star-cursed moron ,” Rex answers in a trembling, barely controlled voice. 

Still rubbing at his head, Anakin says, “I think you’re mistaken. I’ve always been a moron.” 

“ Shut up .” Rex is breathing hard. “You want me to be free and all that karking nonsense? Then listen to me. I’m not going to kill you, Anakin. None of my brothers are looking to kill Jedi — if you think that, then you don’t know us at all. Whatever you did, whatever General Kenobi — kriff, whatever Obi-Wan — did, we forgive you. You didn’t see. Now you do. That’s enough for us.” 

“You should hate me.” 

“And you should stop kriffing tell me what I should or shouldn’t do and feel,” spits Rex. “I make my own choices.” 

“But I —” 

“I know what you did. I know what all of you Jedi did. That doesn’t matter any more.” He takes a deep breath. “What matters is what you do now. You freed Tatooine, you figured out about our control chips, and you got us off Coruscant. What about now? Are you going to help us free our brothers? Or are you going to bow out and let the Republic and the Order get away with this?” He extends his hand to Anakin, fingers splayed. “Do this, and we could end up in some interesting situations. On the bad side of the Order and the Republic, if they don’t go along with us. You ready for that?” 

Anakin stays on the floor a moment, looking at Rex’s proffered hand. He reflects on how similar this question is to the one he asked Obi-Wan. “Are you?” he asks, because if there’s anyone who is going to have trouble with that, it’s Rex, not Anakin.

“I’ll figure it out.” 

Anakin catches his hand and lets Rex haul him to his feet. “Then I’m in.” 

“If you ask me to kill you again,” Rex warns, “I’ll hit you so hard that your grandpadawans will feel it.” 

Anakin laughs, and he can breathe again for the first time in days. “Understood.” 

Chapter Text

27 

And Baby Makes Three… Or Four? 

Padme knows she should be asleep in her bed, instead of shivering in the cold as she sits at the top of the steps leading down to the docking platform attached to her penthouse. For the sake of her baby, at the very least. But she can’t make herself sleep, not when Anakin and the others are finally returning from Tatooine — and not a moment too soon. The Senate recess is over, and she’s been back on Coruscant for several days. The clones are still on Naboo with her and Anakin’s family, under the care of the doctors. The updates coming in have been encouraging. The chips were removed without any complications, and the recovery is fast. 

Now they just have to figure out how to get the chips out of all the clones, before Palpatine catches on to what they’re doing. 

That’s been the worst part of being back on Coruscant and back in the Senate. She’s working right under Palpatine’s long nose, and she swears he knows that she’s up to something. It’s probably just paranoia, but she’s been carrying her blaster into the Senate every day, concealed in a holster accessible through her skirts. Dorme took great pleasure in sewing the hidden slits in her skirts that allow her to reach the holster when it’s strapped to her thigh. Fashion with a hidden, deadly edge is her handmaidens’ favorite thing. 

The results of Bail’s investigation only made everything worse. After calling in every one of his favors and asking enough questions, he finally found someone in planetary security willing to talk. A young border guard noted there had been a carefully constructed security and surveillance blackout in Senate airspace the night of Orn Free’s death, and that he had seen the Chancellor’s ship return to the Senate building, less than an hour before the senator’s death. He’d assumed that Palpatine was heading to some kind of classified meeting that had a lot of Separatist attention, hence the blackout. 

Padme would have thought that too. If she hadn’t known about the meeting Orn Free had with him. 

All the information they’ve gathered paints a damning picture, and Padme is livid. Her Republic is under the control of a Sith, the scum of the galaxy, and it seems he’s orchestrated an entire war just to gain power.

And he was planning on murdering the whole Jedi Order. Which meant he would have killed Ahsoka and Obi-Wan. 

And he tried to turn her husband to the Dark Side. 

Padme likes to consider herself a forgiving, compassionate person, but she wants to see Palpatine skinned alive for this. She’d like to help . 

People have died. 

The sound of a speeder engine cuts through her thoughts. She jumps to her feet and runs down the steps, reaching the platform just as Anakin pulls up. He stumbles out of the speeder, exhausted, and catches her up in his arms. Burying his face against her neck, he says, “I missed you,” in a muffled voice. 

“I missed you too.” She lets him lift her feet off the ground, for once enjoying that the fact that she’s short, and breathes him in. He smells like the soaps in her family’s fresher, but there’s the lingering smell of sunlight and sand that she thinks is Tatooine. “How are Rex and the others?” 

“They’re fine,” he says, as they walk inside. The apartment is warm, and Threepio is in standby mode in the corner. R2 elected to stay on Naboo, probably because Padme’s parents unashamedly pamper him. “The doctors got the chips out all right when we got back from Tatooine, and they were nearly recovered when I left. Council declared their leave over and sent them out to search for Quinlan, which obviously means they’re hanging around him back on Naboo. Ahsoka’s ‘helping’. I’m supposed to be too, but I needed to see you. Obi-Wan’s at the Temple, coordinating more search parties. Quinlan’s having the time of his life, making everyone look for him.” 

“I can imagine.” Padme lays one hand on her stomach, trying to think of the best way to tell him this. 

“I can’t stay long — we’re going to Kamino next, as soon as we can figure out the best approach. We need you to chaperone Obi-Wan on a mission to Mandalore, to beg Duchess Satine for help. They’ll fight if you aren’t there.” 

Padme already knew all this — in fact she’s the one who suggested the mission to Mandalore, after they agreed to help Tatooine — but she lets Anakin keep going, partly because he looks pretty when he talks and partly because it enables her to put off breaking the news to him. 

“While you’re on Mandalore, you need to put together all our evidence against Palpatine, so we can release it all at once, like you said. It’s got to be after we fix the clones, or else he can just trigger them and get people killed. Do you —” 

She can’t put it off any longer. “Ani, I’m pregnant.” 

Words die in Anakin’s throat with a wheeze. “You’re… Sorry, what?” 

“I’m pregnant?” 

“Pregnant?” 

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” 

She huffs at him. “No, Ani, I just had five positive tests for some other reason. Yes, I’m sure.” 

“How…” He swallows, searching for the words. “How far along are you?” 

“Eight weeks.” She chews her lip. “I found out — I found out right before you left for Tatooine.” 

He blinks for several long seconds. “And you didn’t tell me?” 

“I couldn’t, Ani! What if you got distracted, and that got you killed? What if you didn’t go, and that got everyone else killed?” She hugs herself. “I was scared.” 

He runs a hand through his hair. “Well, now I’m scared. Are you still scared?” 

“Yes.” She laughs a little. “I’m terrified.” 

“Well, that’s not good! One of us should have it together.” 

“Then I vote it’s you!” 

“You —” He shuts his eyes, like he’s counting. “This is a bad time. Maybe the worst.” 

“You think I don’t know that? It’s not like I planned this, Ani!” She looks up at him, hands cupped over her womb, and she suddenly feels intensely vulnerable. “Are you… are you happy?” 

Anakin opens his eyes, face softening. There’s a stretch of silence that seems to push everything else out — the horror of the Chancellor’s treachery, the worry over the clones, and the fears about the future — to create a still, almost holy moment that is just between them. His hand comes up to cup her face. “I am, nalu . I’m really happy. Are you?” 

“Yeah.” A smile comes to her lips. “Do you think we’ll be good parents?” 

He pulls her against him, one hand on her stomach, pressed over her own hands. “I think you’re the best amu our little one can ask for.” 

She sighs, head against his chest. “I’m glad you’re going to be their ipu .” 

“Oh, good, so we’re definitely not using the Naboo words for mother and father?” 

She swats him. “You play shameless cultural favorites. But yes. And the baby is learning my language too.” 

“Fine,” Anakin concedes. He rests his chin on her hair. “I hope it’s a girl.” 

Padme laughs again. “I hope it’s a boy.” 

Chapter Text

28

Return of the Closet 

Obi-Wan loves the Jedi Temple at night. It’s never exactly quiet, since the Temple amounts to what is basically a small city, but there’s a definite lull in foot traffic, and the moon peers in through the tall windows, turning the hallways silver. 

It’s comforting to know there are still things about the Order that he finds beautiful, because as soon as he set foot inside the Temple, he was almost overwhelmed by a surge of instinctive disgust, which hurts . He loves his Order, but now that the revelation about the clones has stripped off his self-inflicted blinders, he can’t ignore its sins any more. 

Complicity in slavery. 

Over involvement with a political entity. 

Detachment from the things that matter. 

More care for dogmatic adherence than for truly adhering to the spirit of being a Jedi. 

It’s all right in front of him, but he doesn’t have the energy to think about it right now. He just wrestled with the Council for several hours, fabricating an entire Quinlan-hunting mission that supposedly followed their also fabricated training mission. He thinks they bought it, but Yoda seemed to looking at him suspiciously. Obi-Wan just hopes he’s imagining it. 

Directly after meeting with the Council (and justifying his every decision, as they always make him do), he went to put together search parties for Quinlan, making sure to send them to areas of the galaxy where they aren’t likely to run into Separatists. The Senate refused to allow them to use the clones to resolve a “Jedi issue”, which makes Obi-Wan’s blood boil, even though he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to send clones on a pointless mission. He’s relieved he doesn’t have to order them around, period. 

Now he’s exhausted, the chaotic two weeks on Tatooine catching up to him. Dimly, he registers that he’s on his way to experiencing a serious stim crash, and it’s all he can do to stumble toward his quarters. 

Anakin’s off hiding in Padme’s apartment, which Obi-Wan is sure means there’s lots of kissing going on. It shouldn’t make him as uncomfortable as it does, since he’s still technically a married man himself (and he has a child, which is more than he can say for Anakin), but the idea of his padawan-child being married makes him incredibly uncomfortable. 

Besides, Anakin and Padme make him think of Satine. Ever since he discovered their marriage, he’s been missing her like a limb. Things never properly finished between them. There was a whirlwind teenage romance while he and Qui-Gon were protecting her, accelerated by constant close quarters and high adrenaline, followed by a mutual breakup since they both thought their love wouldn’t last. Then, a few years later, a rekindling when both of them realized that being apart hurt like walking on broken transparisteel. Shortly after that, a secret marriage that probably closely mirrored Anakin and Padme’s own wedding. Then — at the time unbeknownst to him — a son, who was likely conceived shortly before fear — of leaving the Jedi Order, of the political scandal, of resenting what had been given up for togetherness — drove them apart. 

They never actually divorced. Marriages in Mandalorian culture were private, but their divorces tended to be public affairs. Since neither intended to marry again — Obi-Wan because of the Jedi and Satine because she had sworn off it, in the unequivocal way that defined her core character — divorce wasn’t necessary. They simply separated, and as the years passed, Obi-Wan stopped thinking of himself as married, stopped dwelling on remorse over his mistake, over the pain it had caused Satine. 

Then he discovered Korkie, and his world shattered and put itself back together in an entirely different way. He shattered and came back together in an entirely different way. 

Suddenly husband and father came before Jedi when he thought about himself. And though at the time he couldn’t leave the Order to be with Satine and Korkie, not if he wanted a safe galaxy for his son to grow up in, Obi-Wan’s starting to realize that he’s been leaving the Jedi Order, one way or another, for a year now. 

That’s probably why helping Anakin has been so easy. 

He staggers around a corner and nearly runs into Bant. The silvered eye Mon Calamari reels back, a laugh coming to her face. “Obi,” she gasps out, grabbing him before he loses his balance. “Look where you’re going.” 

“Sorry.” He shakes himself, trying to wake up. “It’s been a long day.” 

“I know…” She trails off, squinting a little. 

Oh, kriff. He hates being friends with an empath sometimes. Bant has figured out every secret he’s ever tried to hide from her, including his marriage to Satine. She didn’t tell anyone, and he’ll always be grateful for that. 

But right now she has that look on her face, the one that means she’s reading the emotions bleeding off him and is about to say something. He’s been subconsciously avoiding the Temple for this very reason.

Kriff, kriff, kriff. She might not know anything for sure, but there’s suspicion rising on her face like a dangerous tide, and he can’t have her sounding the alarm. 

“Bant… it’s not what you think,” he says. 

She gives him a look, her eyes half slitted in a way that says, Nothing good starts with that sentence, Obi. She opens her mouth, and adrenaline electrifies him. 

“No, no, don’t talk .” He casts around for some place private, and his quarters still feel too far away. There’s a maintenance closet right next to them. Wild abandon fills Obi-Wan, and he yanks it open. “Get in.” 

“ Get in? ” Bant gives him another look, and he remembers this same expression from when they were padawans. She had it whenever she criticized one of his plans. 

Granted, she was usually right, and they got in trouble with their masters any time they went along with his ideas. But that’s not the point now. “Yes, get in!” He shoves her, and they squeeze inside. He slams the door shut behind them. 

Bant twists around. “Obi, what’ve you done?” she snaps. “Why do you feel so guilty? And unsettled?” She frowns at him. “And you aren’t worried about Quin at all. Why?” 

He blinks at her a few times, trying to think of what to say. 

Bant glares. “Stop trying to hide what you’re feeling!” 

“Stop nosing around inside my head then!” Obi-Wan swears that no matter how old both of them get, no matter that they’ve both raised a padawan, they revert to their childhood selves around each other. 

“If you want me to stop, then don’t be suspicious.” She folds her arms implacably. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing’s going on.” 

“Then why did you push me in a closet?” 

“I thought it would be funny — I was messing with you, Bant. To lighten the mood.” 

She looks highly unimpressed. “Try again, Obi. You feel awfully guilty when you lie. You know something about what’s going on. Tell me.”

“Bant —” 

“I’ll scream. ” 

He glares at her. “You are the worst .” 

She taps her foot, waiting. 

Maybe he can tell only some of the truth and avoid the rest — somehow. “I know where Quin is.” 

“You what?” She says it too loudly, so he claps a hand over her mouth. She kicks his shin and wriggles free, glowering again. “How? Where is he?” 

Obi-Wan clutches his shin, fighting the urge to hop on one foot. “He’s fine — perfectly safe, in fact. He wasn’t kidnapped at all.” 

“He wasn’t?” Bant’s eyes — if possible — get wider. “But that means that he… He stole the cup himself? Or left willingly? Obi, did he —” 

“No, of course he didn’t,” he says. “You know Quin, Bant. Besides, he was halfway around the galaxy when Orn Free died.” 

“Then why did he leave with the cup? Why is he acting kidnapped?” 

Obi-Wan opens and closes his mouth for a moment. “In the process of investigating, he and I uncovered a conspiracy — to frame someone. The cup was crucial to the plot, and Quin took it upon himself to take it out of the picture while I continued to investigate.” 

“Oh, that’s utter bantha dung,” Bant says, pushing his shoulder. “You’re worried about Anakin — and Ahsoka.” She pauses, squinting at him again. “ And Senator Amidala. And all the clones. Why?” 

“I am not!” 

“What are you hiding, Obi?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Fine.” She straightens her robes and draws herself up to her full height, which isn’t very tall. “Then we can go tell the Council about the conspiracy you discovered, and they’ll be able to help.” She turns toward the door. 

“No!” Obi-Wan grabs her and pulls her back. “Don’t do that.” 

The look she gives him can only be described as triumphant. “Why?” 

“Because it will put you in danger.” 

“ Why? And how are Anakin, Ahsoka, and the others involved?” 

“Because…” 

She rolls her eyes and moves toward the door again. Fully understanding that she’s baiting him into telling her what she wants to know, Obi-Wan hauls her back again. “Fine! I’ll tell you. But you have to promise — swear to me — that you won’t tell anyone else. Especially the Council.” 

Bant shakes her head. “What are we, younglings? What trouble have you gotten yourself into, Obi?” 

“Bant, this is serious. You can feel what I’m feeling, you know I’m telling the truth.” 

“Now you are.” She looks bad tempered. “Tell me everything.” 

“Everything… Everything is a lot.” 

She leans back against the closet wall, crossing one ankle over the other. “I’ve got time.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t. Obi-Wan wants to sleep . “I suppose I’ll start at the beginning?” He lets the full brunt of his resentment hit her in the face, but she’s unfazed. 

“That seems like a good place.” 

“Fine, then.” Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “It started with Orn Free’s murder…” He lets the whole story unfold, and Bant’s mouth opens wider and wider as she listens. He leaves out Anakin’s marriage, because it’s not his secret to tell, and manages to make it sound like Ahsoka involved Anakin and Padme separately. 

When he finishes, Bant has a shell shocked look on her face. Then, entirely unexpectedly, she throws her arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and starts sobbing. 

He staggers back — Bant might be small, but she is solid — and starts rubbing her back automatically. “Bant? Bant, what’s wrong? Is it the clones?” 

“No,” she wails. “I mean, yes, but, no .” 

“That doesn’t make sense. I need you to explain, please.” He holds her away from him. He’s used to weathering her emotional outbursts. Being an empath, she feels more than anyone else, and it can be overwhelming. She was a tantrum prone toddler, a sensitive youngling, and a volatile teenager, and now she is a highly empathetic adult, who suffers the occasional meltdown. 

Bant wipes her eyes, lips still trembling. She seems to try to pull herself together, but she brings to mind a vase, hovering right on the edge of a counter. One push in the wrong direction, and she’ll shatter again. 

Obi-Wan’s very good at not pushing in the wrong direction. “Bant, what is it?” 

“It’s…” She takes a shaky breath. “It’s the Chancellor — Palpatine. Sian and I have been investigating him for months now. Ever since Mace convinced her to join the fight — after she left, you know. We haven’t found anything concrete, but now this —” 

“You’ve been investigating the Chancellor?” Obi-Wan’s starting to think everyone’s keeping secrets from him. “Why?” 

“I don’t get a good feeling from him, Obi. I never have, and it only got worse after the war. He feels wrong. And smug. And one time, I was in a meeting with him and some other Jedi, and bad news from one of the fronts came in, and, Obi, I swear he felt happy. I thought maybe I was crazy, but…” 

“But he’s a Sith Lord.” Obi-Wan slumps against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Oh, come on, Obi? What would you have done? Taken it straight to the Council, played by the rules.” 

“No, I wouldn’t have! Did you not listen to my whole story? I didn’t do that.” 

She fixes him with a look. “That was for Anakin, Obi.” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“He’s different. You’re different with him. You always have been.” She shakes her head. “You’ll do anything to protect him. You’ve just proved that.” 

He wants to tell her she’s wrong, but she isn’t. 

“But the clones.” Bant hugs herself. “Oh, Force .” 

“I know.” 

“They’re programmed to kill us?” 

“Not of their own free will, but yes.” 

“ Force. ” She looks over at him, silver eyes even bigger than normal. “What are you going to do?” 

“The only thing I can do. Get the chips out, get them out of the war.” 

“But then we don’t have an army, Obi.” 

He spreads his arms, and he can’t stop his next words from being blunt and almost harsh. Not after what he saw on Tatooine. “It’s not my problem. If the Republic didn’t want their army stolen out from under them, then they shouldn’t have built it out of enslaved sentients.” Tension builds in his chest. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Bant disagrees — if she tells the Council or the Senate about the plan to free the clones. There’s never been a time in his whole life when Bant hasn’t been a staunch ally. “Are you going to help me? It’s not going to be easy. And it could get us kicked out of the Order.” He laughs a little. “It will definitely get us arrested if we get caught. And likely executed if Palpatine has any say in the matter.” He pauses, watching her face. “Please, Bant. This is wrong. You know it is.” 

She swallows hard. “I know. I’m in.” 

“You are?” 

“Of course I am,” she says with a scoff. “What kind of person would I be if I wasn’t ?” 

“Oh, so you are planning to get the clones out of the GAR? Excellent.” Plo Koon’s warm voice fills the closet, and Obi-Wan turns to see him peering in. 

Bant shrieks, and Obi-Wan startles so hard that he nearly throws out his back. “Plo!” he gasps out, shoving Bant behind him in a desperate attempt to hide her involvement. “This isn’t what it looks like!” 

“‘Isn’t what it looks like?’” Bant hits his shoulder. “You make it sound like we’re making out, you idiot!” 

Plo just looks at them, and Obi-Wan swears he’s laughing behind his breathing apparatus and light blocking goggles. “Don’t be afraid,” he says calmly, sliding into the closet and closing the door behind him. “I am, as little ‘Soka would say, in the know .” 

He sounds so gleeful about it that Obi-Wan needs to take a moment. While he’s processing, Bant says, “Master Koon?” in a squeaky, querulous voice, and now Obi-Wan is certain Plo is laughing at them. 

“Commander Wolffe told me everything,” Plo says, folding his hands in front of him. He looks so placid that Obi-Wan has the irrational urge to scream. 

“When?” he manages weakly, because after everything, he’s fallen into the mode of well, this might as well happen. 

“Life Day,” Plo answers, while Bant tries to catch her breath in the background. “We were fortunate enough to be on leave, and I spent the holiday with them.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t mention that this is frowned upon in the Order — attachments and the like — because Plo knows that very well. He just doesn’t care. “And they…?” 

“Well, I believe they felt guilty, keeping things from me. Especially on the holiday.” Deep affection fills Plo’s voice, and Obi-Wan wonders why he and Anakin didn’t bring him into this right away. “Eventually, Wolffe told me the whole story.” 

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “And how — exactly — did he find out about it?”

“He said Waxer, from the 212 th , told him.” 

Obi-Wan raises his eyes to the ceiling. Of course. Waxer never can keep his mouth shut, especially not around brothers. He wishes it had been someone like Fives, so he could blame this on Anakin or Rex. 

“He is terrified,” Plo says, fondness turning into a protective anger that isn’t befitting of a Jedi but makes Obi-Wan trust Pro all the more. “All of them are.” 

Although Obi-Wan can’t picture Commander Wolffe being afraid of anything, he believes Plo. “So are the 212 th and 501st,” he says. 

“I assume you have a plan.” Plo looks back and forth between them. “I wasn’t aware Bant was involved, but I imagine you, Anakin, and little ‘Soka are preparing to help our friends? I was coming to find you in the hopes of helping. Otherwise, I intended to get the Wolf Pack off Coruscant myself.” 

Obi-Wan wonders if this is what going mad feels like — watching all these normal people, the paragons of stability he’s known all his life, take to conspiracy like a fish to water. “Er… Yes, we have a plan.” 

“Excellent.” Plo’s eyes crinkle up as he smiles. “Where shall we begin?” 

Obi-Wan forces himself to think like a Master, and not a padawan who just found out that his teachers can break the rules too. “I’ll add your battalion to the search party rotation, and you can take them to Naboo to get their chips removed. Beyond that, our next step is to reconnoiter with Duchess Satine of Mandalore, in the hopes of getting her support, and we also must get Shaak Ti to our side and stop the creation of new clones.” 

“And save the children and the younglings that are already made,” Plo says, a quiet undercurrent of anger giving each of his words a sharp edge. 

“And one of Padme’s handmaidens thinks there’s a kill switch built into the chips,” Obi-Wan adds, remembering Versé’s excited explanations after she studied one of the extracted chips. “Palpatine might not even know about it. If it’s on Kamino, we can shut off all the chips at once.” 

Plo nods, and he opens his mouth to say something else, but Obi-Wan’s comm goes off before he can. It’s Anakin, so he answers it, because he can’t afford to let calls go unanswered any more, no matter what’s going on. “Anakin?” 

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin sounds breathless. Obi-Wan can’t decide if it’s brought about by fear, excitement, or exertion. “Something… Well, something’s happened, and I need to talk to you. Now. Right now.” 

“What is it?” Obi-Wan is acutely aware of Plo and Bant listening in, Bant with her I told you so expression. He didn’t answer it just because it was Anakin, regardless of what she thinks. 

“Um…” Anakin’s voice grows distant, like he’s talking to someone else. Probably Padme. 

Force, Obi-Wan hopes this isn’t a marital question. He’s not going to answer that kind of question. Especially not in front of Plo and Bant. “Anakin, I’m rather in the middle of something.” 

“Padme’s pregnant.” 

Obi-Wan’s sure he’s heard wrong. Surely, surely, his padawan isn’t that stupid? Padme definitely isn’t that stupid. “She’s what ?” 

“What?” Bant asks, leaning closer. “Who are you talking about?” 

“She’s pregnant, Obi-Wan?” 

“What do you mean she’s pregnant? Padme can’t —” He cuts off sharply, looking at Plo and Bant, who look back at him. He clears his throat. “Er…” 

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin sounds suddenly suspicious, like he’s reading Obi-Wan’s mistake in his tone. “ Who’s with you? ” 

“I’ll call you back,” Obi-Wan says and hangs up.

Bant grins, because another marriage to hide is nothing to her. “I suppose congratulations are in order?”

Obi-Wan just wants to go to bed. 

Chapter Text

29

Operation: Get All the Clones Off Coruscant 

Padme’s not sure how her apartment ended up filled with people again — people who shouldn’t know about her and Anakin’s marriage. Or pregnancy, for that matter, but she’s still gotten an excited congratulations from Bant Eerin and a hug from Plo Koon. Sian Jeisel looked rather uncomfortable with the whole thing, but she still smiled and asked if Padme knew the gender yet. She said she didn’t, and that she and Ani wanted it to be a surprise, and then she asked Obi-Wan what they were all doing here. 

He shrugged helplessly and went right for the Corellian brandy. Anakin joined him this time, offered some to Padme, remembered she was pregnant, cursed, and hid it behind his back, like he could pretend he hadn’t done anything. 

Padme remembers, fondly, the days when this apartment was her and Anakin’s sanctuary. The haven of their — intermittent, because of the war — married bliss. Now it seems to have turned into the impromptu headquarters of their little group of seditionists, and she’s starting to get tired of people knocking on her door at all hours of the day. 

“I take it Obi-Wan told you everything,” she says, sitting on the counter in the kitchen, which means everyone has to crowd in there with her. She takes a bit of vengeful pleasure in it as she swings her slippered feet back and forth. Anakin stands next to her, nursing a cup of brandy and eying the newcomers distrustfully. 

“Yes,” Bant says. “Unless there’s another covered up murder or catastrophe waiting to happen that he neglected to mention.” 

“Probably not.” Obi-Wan takes a gulp of his brandy, looking exhausted. Padme would almost feel bad for him, if not for the fact that he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut . Although, at this point, she supposes it’s better that more people know. It makes it harder for them to be silenced if Palpatine finds out what they know. 

“I liberated Tatooine,” Anakin says flatly, lifting his glass as though in a toast. He also looks dead on his feet, and he reached for caff initially, but Padme hid it. She knows full well that he’s running on stims, and she’s not about to let him add more caff to the mix. He needs to crash, whether he likes it or not. 

Sian chokes. “You what?” 

“I told him it was impulsive,” says Obi-Wan, shaking his head sagely. 

Padme kicks him, since he’s close enough. “No, you didn’t! He was all for it,” she told Sian. “They nearly both got themselves killed.” 

For whatever reason, Anakin takes a particularly long swig of the brandy at that. 

“But I’m proud of them,” she added, smiling at Anakin. 

“You… liberated… Tatooine?” Bant blinks hard. “I didn’t think that was possible.” 

“Not with two battalions of clones, a lot of dedication, and several hundred thousand angry slaves it isn’t,” Obi-Wan says. 

“That’s just the line the Jedi Order told when they took me in.” There’s no heat in Anakin’s voice when he speaks, just bland acceptance. “To make themselves look better for just letting Tatooine alone.” 

“Oh.” Bant shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Anakin.” 

He shrugs. “All fixed now.” 

“Did you kill Jabba the Hutt?” asks Plo. He’s in the corner of the kitchen, looking utterly at ease. 

“I didn’t,” Anakin says. “A twi’lek named Lira did.” 

Plo nods, impressed. 

“We need to get moving,” Obi-Wan says, setting aside his brandy. “Padme and I are leaving for Mandalore in a few days, and we need a team to go to Kamino and deactivate the chips. That’s the main priority, and if you can get Shaak on our side and take the clones with you, then do it.” 

“I will go,” Plo says immediately. 

“So will I,” Sian says. 

“And Ahsoka wants to come,” Anakin adds. “She told me before I left.”

Padme sighs. She wishes Ahsoka would stay in one place, where Padme knows she’s safe . Why does she have to be so kriffing similar to Anakin? “Of course she did.” 

“I’ll handle the clones from Coruscant’s end,” Anakin says. “You said some battalions got special permission to help with the search for Quinlan, Obi-Wan?” 

“Only because they wouldn’t stop asking.” Obi-Wan shakes his head, and Padme thinks again that none of them deserve the clones. 

“Then we can send them to Naboo. Bant, Sian, you need to get yours added to the rotation. We can evacuate them, right along with the Wolf Pack.” 

“What about the others?” Sian twists her hands together. “And the ones already deployed?” 

“We have to gather as many as we can,” Plo says thoughtfully, tapping his chin, rather like Obi-Wan strokes his beard. “Perhaps we can stage a conflict — one severe enough to reroute many battalions to reinforce us?” 

Anakin grins a little. “Oh, I like that. What about the Jedi who are in charge of them?” 

“I can send them searching for Quin or some such,” Obi-Wan says, now stroking his beard. “We can say we don’t need more Jedi, just more soldiers to hold the line.” His mouth twists a little. “It’s not like the Council will object to not putting more of their own people in danger, and the Senate is still allowing us enough control of troop movements to pull this off. In case that changes, though, we need to move fast.” 

Plo looks altogether too excited about deceiving the Council, the Senate, and the non-clone part of the GAR all at once. “It should be fairly simple to fabricate a large-scale conflict on some out of the way planet,” he says. “I will look through the Archives for a plausible location for a Separatist attack. It shouldn’t take long.” 

“That will still leave battalions of clones out of the loop,” Bant says, hugging herself in a way that makes Padme think she really wants to be hugging the clones. “How are we going to give all of them a chance to leave — if they want to?” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Obi-Wan says. “But I think there will come a point where going public will be unavoidable.” 

Padme nods. They’ve already discussed this at length, usually when they should all be sleeping. “I have my handmaiden Versé running teams of slicers working around the clock to find dirt on Palpatine,” she tells Bant. “Ahsoka also requested that they make sure the special election for the new Rylothi senator is secure.” She shakes her head. “Ryloth might actually have a fair election for once. I hear Cham Syndulla is running against someone closely affiliated with the Trade Federation.” 

“Let’s hope Cham wins,” Anakin says fervently, grimacing. If there’s anyone who hates the Federation as much as Padme does, it’s probably him. He’s never forgiven them for what they did to Naboo. 

“He might be on our side,” Sian says. “I’ve met him. He’s… Let’s just say he told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of us using a clone army to fight our battles.” She grimaces. “At the time, I wasn’t ready to listen.” 

“Speaking of, Bail and I have started lobbying for civilian enlistment initiatives,” Padme goes on. “Once the clones leave, we’d rather the Republic wasn’t defenseless. With any luck, we’ll be able to get more senators on our side and actually make something happen. At the very least, it will be some sort of advance warning.” 

“Good,” Plo says. “Although, if you’re correct and this war is the result of the Chancellor’s machinations, then our goal should be ending it as soon as possible. I believe the Separatist Parliament could be made to see reason, if the full scope of things was revealed to them.” 

“Especially since Dooku’s not around to whisper in their ear any more,” Anakin says offhandedly. 

“What do you mean he’s not around any more?” demands Sian, almost dropping her cup of water — she declined the brandy — in shock. “What happened to him?” 

“Oh, he’s in prison on Tatooine.” 

“He’s what? ” 

“In prison. On Tatooine.” Anakin grins widely this time, despite the stim crash. “Did I not mention that?” 

“No, you didn’t.” Sian glares, not at him, but at Obi-Wan. Who sighs deeply. 

“I am not at fault for my padawan’s incorrigibility,” he says, not looking up from his brandy. “Not any more, at least.” 

Sian doesn’t look convinced, but she lets the matter drop. 

“Without Dooku, our task is much easier,” Plo agrees, appearing to have decided to breeze past the issue of Dooku’s capture. Padme’s glad of it. “Perhaps the Parliament can be convinced to agree to an armistice.” 

Anakin grunts. “Not likely.” 

“Try to be optimistic, my love,” Padme says, nudging him. She doesn’t share his opinion of the Separatists. They are irresponsible, disconnected from their own war, and gullible, but they aren’t cruel or malicious — merely deceived. She has hope that if they are made to see the truth, they will reconsider their part in the war. Hopefully, the Republic will agree to a ceasefire when that time comes. 

With Palpatine at the head of the government, nothing is assured.  

“I imagine this goes without saying,” Obi-Wan starts, “but I’m going to say it anyway. All of those who take part in this venture have to be prepared to go all the way.” He fixes Sian and Plo with a hard look, excluding Bant — likely because she already agreed. “No matter where this takes us, we must follow it through. For the clones’ sake.” His face turns sober. “They would do it for us. Now it’s our turn to fight for them.” 

Sian nods fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she says. “The Council never should’ve let something like this happen.” She pauses, like she’s wrestling internally, and then adds, “None of us should have let this happen.” 

“I believe you know where I stand,” Plo says placidly, tucking his hands inside his sleeves. 

“Good, then.” Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “Then let’s get started. After,” he says, taking Anakin’s cup away from him, “we all get some kriffing sleep.” 

“I need to make lists of the battalions that can be added to the search parties,” Anakin protests, indignant. 

“You’ve been up for days, Anakin. Go to bed .” 

“ Master! ” Anakin reverts to a padawan for a moment, glaring at Obi-Wan. Despite everything, Padme can’t help but smile, and her hand goes to her womb instinctively. If their baby is a boy, will he look like Anakin? She hopes so. 

“Bed, padawan mine.” Obi-Wan shoves him bodily out of the kitchen and helps Padme down from the counter. “You have a pregnant wife to look after, I have an estranged wife to meet in two days, Plo has a fake battle to stage, Sian has to prepare to infiltrate a cloning facility, and Bant has to help you get as many clones as you can off Coruscant. And we can’t do any of that if we’re all overdosing on stims.” 

Plo, who was following them out of the kitchen, halts, with Sian bottling up behind him. “You have a wife?” 

Obi-Wan winces. “Perhaps,” he says. 

Anakin yawns broadly. “He has a son too.” 

“ Anakin .” 

“What? You told them all about my kid.” 

Chapter Text

30

Something Rotten in Kamino 

Ahsoka is cold, and not just because the gunships don’t have the best environmental controls. As they fall into orbit around Kamino, an icy chill crawls up her legs and settles in her chest, until breathing makes her ache. It’s the Dark Side, she’s sure of that. Anakin’s always saying she’s particularly sensitive to it, because she’s still young and hasn’t experienced it as much as he or Obi-Wan. 

Given the way he and Obi-Wan go pale and shivery every time they encounter the darkness, she’s not sure it’s something that goes away with age. She’s not sure she wants it to. She’d rather feel the darkness coming than have it sneak up and surprise her. 

The gunships plunge through the atmosphere, toward the storm clouds that swirl in a tangled dark blue mass below, and she curls her hands around her saber hilts. 

The Council is always warning against the dark, acting as though the light is easily overcome, but Ahsoka prefers to believe Anakin, who always walks forward without fear. He’s stared darkness in the face a thousand times over, and he promises her that the light always rises to meet the dark if you walk in it, rather than in the shadows. Ahsoka likes the way he and Obi-Wan talk about it — they make it sound easy and comforting, like turning on the light when you’re afraid. The Council makes it sound like a burden, like she’s constantly walking on a narrow bridge, with darkness waiting on either side if she misses a single step. 

If fear is the way to the Dark Side, Ahsoka sometimes wonders how the Council justifies the unease and fear that cling to everything they say. She wonders if they even notice how it goes against everything else they teach. 

“Are you ready, little ‘Soka?” Plo is next to her, gripping one of the handholds that hang from the ceiling. He sways gracefully with the movement of the ship as they break into the atmosphere, and she grins at him. He’s the only person in the world she depends on even close to as much as she depends on Anakin. 

“Ready as I can be, Master Plo,” she says. She’s not the best at subtlety, but she thinks she can play her part just fine. They’re coming to Kamino under the pretense of reviewing the next batch of soldiers set to join the Wolf Pack, the 501st, and the 212 th , which gives Wolffe, Rex, and Cody an excuse to come with them. Sian’s battalion is still back on Coruscant, hopefully set to be flown out to Naboo within the next few days. She explained the situation to them before she left Coruscant, and Plo told Ahsoka that he saw her clone commander, Scrapper, hugging her in the barracks after she told him. 

Ahsoka will never tell Sian this, but she thinks that’s adorable. 

Rain sluices their ship’s view screen as they touch down on one of the station’s piers. Ahsoka grimaces. She’s never liked Kamino, and she hates the idea of Rex and the other clones having grown up here. The first time clones see the sun is when they’re called to battle, and the thought makes Ahsoka burn, even as a freezing wind rushes into the gunship as soon as the doors open. It brings soaking rain with it, and she shivers, hunkering down in her cloak and pulling the hood tighter around herself. 

They cross the pier in a huddle, heads down against the wind. Versé sticks close to Ahsoka. She’s disguised as Sian’s padawan, down to a padawan braid that stands out amidst her brown curls. They needed a slicer to get into the mainframe and find the chips’ kill switch, and Versé didn’t trust anyone else to do it. The Kaminoans don’t keep up with which Jedi do or do not have a padawan, so they won’t even question her presence. 

Even so, it’s odd to see her in simple Jedi robes and a brown cloak, especially since Padme’s handmaidens’ usual attire can only be described as flamboyant. 

Cold light wraps around them as they reach the facility’s nearest entrance. A Kaminoan is waiting for them, and she lets them in, all tall elegance and an impassive face. 

“Masters Koon and Jeisel,” she says in a graceful sort of monotone, inclining her head to Plo and Sian. “Padawans,” she adds, glancing over at Ahsoka and Versé. “I am Nira Timii.” 

She doesn’t greet R2, who is on Ahsoka’s other side, or Rex, Wolffe, and Cody, who are standing just behind Plo and Sian. Ahsoka wonders if she would’ve noticed that slight before all this — she hopes she would have. She hopes it would have bothered her just as much as it  is now. She has to stop her hands from twitching toward her lightsabers, as her whole mind screams, They know about the chips. They know about Order 66. 

“Greetings,” Plo says, bowing. “We’ve come to look in on the latest batch of troopers. To see how their training is going. I believe several of the newest squads are set aside for my battalion.” He nods to Wolffe, who watches Nira like he expects her to attack at any moment, which isn’t unusual for Wolffe. “And I’ve brought Captain Rex and Commander Cody on behalf of their generals so they can also check the status of their future battalion members.” 

Nira smiles, but it’s a cold smile that makes Ahsoka have to swallow down an instinctive growl. This Kaminoan has eyes like an akul, and that puts her hackles up immediately. She doesn’t like being around bigger predators than herself. “Of course,” Nira says. “If you will come this way.” She gestures down the long white hallway, which curves to follow the shape of the facility. 

“One moment,” Sian says, stepping forward. She has a friendly smile on her face, one Ahsoka is certain she’s faking. “These padawans,  Tané and Ahsoka, were hoping for a tour of your facility. We in the Order feel it’s important that our padawans understand where our brave soldiers come from.” 

For more reasons than one, Ahsoka thinks, biting back another growl. 

Nira actually looks at Versé and Ahsoka now. “I see,” she says, voice still smooth, and so toneless that she almost sounds like a droid. “I will call someone to escort them.” 

“Thank you,” Sian says. She turns to Ahsoka, Versé, and R2. “Master Plo and I will meet you later.” There is a pointed message in her words that Ahsoka doesn’t miss. “Captain Rex will stay with you. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a chance to see his old home again.” 

Ahsoka almost chokes at that. “Yes, Master,” she says instead, trying to seem bright and excited. 

Versé pipes up too. “See you later.” She’s pitching her voice higher, clearly aiming to sound younger than she actually is, and her Nabooian accent is nonexistent. The effect is startling and convincing, and it’s all Ahsoka can do not to stare at her. 

Sian nods, and Nira leads her, Plo, Wolffe, and Cody away, leaving Rex, Ahsoka, Versé, and R2 alone. The Masters will find Shaak Ti and try to get her alone so they can explain the situation. To move forward, they need her on their side. 

 It’s only a few minutes before another Kaminoan, a male this time, appears. He’s even taller than Nira, and his huge eyes seem to look right through Ahsoka. 

“Greetings. I am Duon Konn.” He dips his head, and Ahsoka hurriedly bows. Versé is ahead of her, already sweeping into a graceful bow that reminds Ahsoka that she’s been involved in politics since a very young age. Behind them, Rex snaps into a salute. 

“Hello,” Ahsoka says, since she really should take the lead. She knows more about Jedi protocols that Versé does, no matter how effortlessly Versé has slipped into her role. “Have you come to show us around?” 

“I have.” A smile curves Duon’s lips, so Ahsoka smiles back, open and friendly. Quite the opposite of how she feels, but the lying expression comes more easily than she expected. “Will you please follow me?” 

He starts down the corridor, and Ahsoka hurries after him, letting her hood fall back. Versé stays by her side, and Rex and R2 bring up the rear. She would much prefer them beside her as well, but that’s not according to protocol. 

The facility is cold, just a few degrees below a comfortable temperature, and the light does little to warm it up. They pass different viewing windows. One looks out over the mess hall, where hundreds of identically dressed clones eat at tables. Ahsoka can hear their lively chatter even from so far away, but none of them look toward the windows. Likely, they’re so used to being watched from above that it doesn’t even register any more. 

The worst part of the tour is when they reach the gestation chambers. There are dozens of them, each filled with rank upon rank of artificial wombs, each housing a baby. Ahsoka watches them, taking in the unborn clones, all at different stages of gestation, and hurts. With half an ear, she listens to Duon explain the decanting process at length, and when he switches to describing their careful screening process, which allows them to terminate any genetically imperfect clones, anger builds in Ahsoka’s chest until it feels like her ribs might break. She almost cries with relief when Duon finally moves on, leading them toward the laboratories. 

The Jedi Order supports this. The Jedi Order works with these monsters , to whom a sentient life is nothing more than a scientific experiment, an intellectual achievement, a thing to be bought and sold, and a genetic code that they trademarked. 

Ahsoka’s never been truly ashamed to be a Jedi, but she is today. At least on Tatooine, she could pretend that the Jedi didn’t know or understand the full scope of what went on, but she knows for a fact that they are perfectly aware of what the Kaminoans do. 

If Shaak doesn’t listen to Plo and Sian, Ahsoka might punch her right in the teeth. 

As Duon leads them past several laboratories, continuing to explain the cloning process, Ahsoka catches Rex’s eye. They’re in a more isolated area, with hardly any foot traffic and no surveillance. If they’re going to move, now is the time.

Rex gives her a tiny nod, focusing on Duon, who’s walking ahead of them. Without warning, he closes the distance between them and locks an arm around Duon’s throat. He lets out the beginning of a startled cry, but it dwindles into a choking sound as Rex tightens his grip, squeezing. 

“Go on,” he grunts, as Ahsoka and Versé step back to give him space and R2 cheers him on in binary. “Go to sleep.” 

Duon struggles for a minute more, feebly striking out at Rex’s arms, and goes limp. Rex lowers him to the floor, grimacing a little. “Been waiting to do that, ever since the skrag opened his mouth.” 

“Me too,” Ahsoka says feelingly. 

Versé darts forward, a syringe in her hand, and inserts it in Duon’s neck, pushing the plunger down. “There,” she says, tucking the syringe back into her robes. “He won’t remember any of this.” 

“Good.” Rex straightens up, readjusting his armor. 

If everything doesn’t go according to plan, they can hopefully return to Duon and convince him that he simply passed out, with no one on Kamino knowing what they did. 

If everything does go according to plan, it’s not going to matter what Duon says. 

“Help me move him,” Rex says, grabbing Duon’s arms. Ahsoka hurriedly helps lift his feet, and together they lug him over to one of the disused labs. They settle him inside and seal the door. He’ll sleep for hours, or until Versé gives him the antidote. 

“Where to now, Versé?” Ahsoka asks when she and Rex emerge from the lab. Rex dusts his hands off, looking a little dazed. She can only imagine how strange it must be for him to attack one of the people who essentially created him. 

“The schematics I found had all the real stuff — the places they actually use — on the lower level. They’ve got a mainframe access up here, but it’s public, and I doubt the full database is accessible from it.” 

“So down?” Rex stops by an elevator. It’s one for scientist use only, with a lock on it. Without missing a beat, he sticks the access key, which he must have lifted from Duon, into the port. The light beside it flares green, and the doors roll open. 

“Down,” Versé agrees. “Lowest level. It was all shielded when I tried to run scans when we were in orbit, and there’s a whole section not listed on either the official or unofficial schematics.” 

“Great,” Rex grunts as he presses the key that sends the lift all the way down, below the water line. “And if we run into more Kaminoans?” 

“We won’t.” Versé is bent over her data pad, which she’s wired into the elevator’s computer. “I’ve got a backdoor into their systems from here. I’m faking a biohazard incident — a containment breach in one of their immunity labs. It’ll send everyone to the isolation levels from processing, while the droids sterilize everything.” She grins, tucking her hair behind her ears with one hand as she works. “‘Course, I’m disabling the cleanup protocols, but they won’t know that. And there’s no surveillance down there either.” There’s a rather evil glint in her eye as she asks, “I wonder why they don’t want any records of what goes on?” She pulls her data pad free and tucks it into the pouch beneath her cloak. “Done. By the time we’re down there, everyone should be evacuated.” 

Rex looks at her, a little awed. “Don’t tell the others, but I think you might be my favorite handmaiden.” 

Versé tosses her head and beams at him. “You have good taste, my friend. 

“You’re definitely mine,” Ahsoka says, as the elevator reaches the bottom level. On instinct, she goes for her lightsabers as the doors open. 

They reveal a deserted room, an atrium with several doors branching off it. Yellow lights flash, signaling a biohazard, and there’s no sound except for faint alarms. 

“This way,” Versé says, hurrying forward. She leads them through the door straight ahead of them and down a long corridor that ends in a room packed with servers, cooling equipment, and holocomputers. There’s a central data core in the middle of the room, shielded behind transparisteel. 

“Welcome to the actual mainframe access,” Versé says under her breath, making a beeline for the nearest holocomputer. She settles in front of it, plugging in her datapad and starting her hack. “Give me your secrets, you kriffing sleemos,” she says vengefully, staring down the computer like it’s the enemy, instead of the Kaminoans. 

“How long?” asks Rex, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Long as it takes,” Versé answers. “But not long enough for the Kaminoans to catch us.” 

“Good.” Rex takes up position by the door, watchful. “Go as fast as you can.” His hand goes to the scar on the side of his head, still pink and new. Ahsoka walks over to him and slips her hand into his, pressing close to him. She doesn’t have the words to comfort him, the words to tell him that she’s sorry, so, so sorry, but she can let him know she’s there. She’s on his side. 

“Excuse me?” A voice behind them — a child’s voice, with a pronounced Kaminoan accent, electrifies Ahsoka. She jerks away from Rex at the same time as he spins around. 

There’s a girl — maybe eight years old — standing in the corridor outside the mainframe room. Her blonde hair is shorn short, and she stumbles back a little when she sees their warlike stances. Seeing a scream building on her face, Ahsoka hurriedly raises her hands and softens her expression. “It’s all right,” she says, dropping to one knee so she’s not so much taller than the girl. “It’s all right, we’re not here to hurt you.” 

The girl eyes her, but her focus is on Rex. “You’re a clone,” she says slowly. 

“Yes.” Rex crouches too, waving off Versé. “I’m just here to… to help my brothers.” 

“You’re a clone,” the girl repeats. “Like me .” 

Rex blinks. “I’m sorry, but —” 

“Oh, I know I’m a girl. Nala Se says she wanted to see how the process would work on the opposite gender, you see. But I am a clone, like you. Hello! I’m Omega.” She smiles brightly, previous fear forgotten. “I haven’t seen any of my other brothers ever — just my little brothers. I’ve always wondered what you were like.” 

Rex just stares at her. “I don’t understand…” 

“What do you mean you’re helping our brothers?” Omega interrupts. “I didn’t think any of you were allowed down here, except me and my little brothers. Nala Se says it’s because we’re special and we’re going to make the army better, but I don’t want my brothers in the war. It sounds too scary.” She looks up at Rex. “Are you in the war?” 

“I am,” he answers, looking to Ahsoka for help, but she just shakes her head. “Please, little one —” 

“Omega.” 

“Omega,” he amends. “I need you to explain — slowly — what’s going on? Why are you down here?” 

She huffs a little, but still answers cheerfully. “I told you. We’re special — Nala Se made us. That’s why I look different. My brothers look different too. They’re still in their pods. Nala Se put us there when the alarms went off, but then the droids didn’t come, and my pod didn’t seal, so I thought it might be a mistake. That’s why I got out, to see what was going on. I made my brothers stay, just in case it was dangerous. I’m supposed to take care of them while they’re still small.” She straightens, like she’s pleased to have such an important job. 

Rex sways a little, still crouched, so Ahsoka takes over. “I’m sure you do a very good job.” She glances at Versé, who is still in the middle of hacking into the database, and prays Omega doesn’t ask too many questions before they can explain. 

Because they will have to explain, and if this girl is Nala Se’s “special” experiment, then she and her brothers need protection now , regardless of whether or not Shaak Ti agrees to help them. “Can you take us to see your brothers?” asks Ahsoka, standing up and extending her hand. 

Omega looks at her hand for a moment but then takes it trustingly. Clearly, she’s been raised to trust authority figures, no matter who they are. “They’re this way,” she says, tugging Ahsoka forward. 

They start down the corridor, along with Rex, and Omega chatters the whole way. “I have four brothers,” she says, halfway skipping as she walks. “They all named themselves, but I helped. Hunter’s the oldest, but only by a couple of minutes. Crosshair’s the youngest, and he pretends to be grumpy about it, but I don’t think he minds.” 

“Oh?” Rex manages weakly, probably still processing the fact that he has a sister , which all the clones previously considered an impossibility. 

“Yeah,” Omega says. “I’m the oldest right now, but I won’t be for long. Nala Se says my brothers will grow awfully fast.” She looks sad for a moment. “I wish they wouldn’t.” 

Ahsoka thinks of the geneticists Bail sent to Naboo with the intention of repairing the defect that accelerates the clones’ aging. “We might be able to help with that,” she says before she has time to think. Rex meets her eyes, and she realizes they don’t have to talk about it. They both know there’s no way they’re leaving these children down here. It’s a relief that she’s not the only one thinking it. 

“Really?” Omega lights up, her eyes nearly sparkling, and the sudden rush of protectiveness that slams into Ahsoka almost knocks her over. 

“Yeah.” Ahsoka swings her hand, the way she remembers Plo doing when she went for walks with him as a youngling. “We have our own scientists that are trying to make sure all your brothers don’t age so fast.” 

“I’d like that,” Omega says, stopping outside a door. “They’re just in here. They’re going to be so happy when I tell them.” She leans close, whispering conspiratorially. “They didn’t want to grow up so fast either.” 

“I understand,” Rex says, his voice surprisingly gentle. 

Omega presses her hand against the panel by the door, and it slides up, revealing a laboratory that looks out onto the ocean. The lightning above the waves is so bright that the flashes illuminate the water like sunlight. Against one wall of the lab are five protective pods with transparisteel doors and airtight seals. One of the pods is empty, with the door hanging ajar, but the other four have young boys in them — Ahsoka would guess that they’re about five or six years old, although she has no idea what their actual age is, since clones grow so quickly. The most startling thing is how different they are from each other. There’s a clear sibling resemblance, but they don’t look like the other clone children Ahsoka has seen, which means they’ll grow to look different from their older brothers. 

She doesn’t understand how that’s possible, but at this moment she doesn’t care. 

As soon as the boys see Omega, they push their pods doors open and scramble toward her. One of them, the one who looks the most similar to the other clone younglings Ahsoka has seen, hurries to stand in front of her, watching Ahsoka and Rex suspiciously. Two of the others — a stocky boy who looks like he will grow into a formidable man and his gangly brother, with a narrow jaw instead of the typical clone’s broad one  — look up at them with open curiosity, smiles that match Omega’s coming to their lips. The last one is tall and thin, with strangely gray hair and pursed lips. He stands back from everyone else, arms folded. 

“Who’re you?” he asks imperiously. “Meg,” he says, addressing Omega, “who’re they?” 

“He’s a brother,  Crosshair!” the stocky boy exclaims, bouncing a little. He tugs on Rex’s hand. “Have you fought in the war?” 

“He has,” Omega says proudly. “I think he’s a big shot too. Are you a big shot?” She tips her head back to look at Rex. 

“I suppose,” Rex manages. 

“Are you a commander, captain, or general?” the boy who looks the most like Rex asks, peering out from behind his dark hair. 

“Stupid,” the gangly boy says, nudging him. “Clones can’t be generals, Hunter.” 

“Shut up, Tech.” Hunter pushes him back, glaring. “Are you a commander or captain?”

“I’m a captain.” Rex lets Tech poke at his armor while the stocky boy catches up his hand and tries to see if he can pull him forward. He can’t. 

“I’m Wrecker,” the boy chirps. “You’re big. D’you think I’ll be as big as you when I grow up? Hunter says he’s going to be taller than me, but I think he’s wrong. Do you think he’s wrong?” 

Rex doesn’t seem able to answer, so Ahsoka glances between Hunter and Wrecker, mentally estimating their future heights. “I think you’re going to be taller,” she tells Wrecker. He whoops, which earns him a bad-tempered glare from Hunter. 

Meanwhile, Crosshair has positioned himself right next to Omega, with his arms around her in a protective way. She seems quite content to be manhandled and hugs him back placidly. 

“What’re you here for?” asks Hunter, absently catching Wrecker when he loses his balance trying to topple Rex. 

“We’re here…” Ahsoka looks at Rex, and then she crouches down so she’s on Hunter’s level. “We’re here to take you somewhere safe, where you can all be with your brothers. Does that sound nice?” 

Hunter eyes her doubtfully. “Why?” As if sensing his unease, all his siblings, even Omega, gather around him.  

“Because…” Ahsoka struggles to find the right words. “Because Nala Se and the other Kaminoans have done some bad things, and because you shouldn’t have to fight in the war. If we take you to your brothers, you can grow up — at a normal speed — and be safe and happy.” 

“What bad things?” 

“Um… Well, there are these chips, little one, and they —” 

“You mean the things Nala Se and the others put in the babies’ heads after they’re decanted,” Omega interrupts, voice suddenly subdued and serious. Her blue eyes are clouded, and she reaches out to touch one side of Hunter’s head. Her fingers part the hair, revealing a thin white line — the mark of an old incision. 

Ahsoka’s breath catches. These boys have chips in their heads, and they’re so small . “Yes. Do you know about them?” 

Omega hugs herself. “I’ve seen Nala Se put them in. She says I’m not supposed to tell anyone, and that they’ll make my brothers better soldiers. But I don’t like them. They make me feel cold.” 

Force sensitivity, Ahsoka thinks. After Rex, she isn’t surprised. “That’s because they’re bad, little one,” she says gently. “They can make your brothers do things they don’t want to.” 

All four boys shudder and move closer to Omega, who ends up trying to hold four hands at once. It would be sweet if Ahsoka weren’t so angry at the Kaminoans at that moment. 

“Can you get the chips out?” asks Omega. 

“Meg, we don’t know them,” protests Hunter. “We should wait for Nala Se.” 

“She puts the chips in you,” Omega says fiercely, accent thicker in her distress. “She won’t let us leave. And this is a Jedi. We can trust her — she’s the kind of person who’ll be your general when you’re grown up.” 

Hunter still looks wary, but he doesn’t disagree. 

“How are you going to get us off Kamino?” asks Omega, a little timidly. “I don’t think the scientists will like it.” 

“We’ll handle it,” Ahsoka assures her. “Can you go wait in the mainframe room with your brothers? There’s a nice lady there — her name is Versé. And there’s a fun astromech called R2. He’ll look after you while Versé works.” 

“And you’ll come back for us?” Omega’s eyebrows draw together. 

“We will,” Rex says, setting one hand on her head in a reassuring gesture. “I promise.” 

“Okay.” Omega gathers her brothers to her like a mother bird gathering her babies and sets off down the corridor with them.

Once she’s out of sight, Ahsoka turns to Rex. “Tell me you’re as angry as I am.” 

“Angrier,” Rex answers. 

“Oh, good. I’m not crazy.” 

“Comm General Koon,” he says.

“Already doing it.” Ahsoka snatches up her comm, pulling it out of her pocket. It takes Plo a moment to answer — probably he needed to find somewhere secluded. 

“How are things going, little ‘Soka?” he asks. Just hearing his warm voice makes Ahsoka feel a little calmer. 

“They’re fine,” she says in a rush. “We got to the mainframe room, and Versé’s doing the hack. But there’s a problem.” 

“What is it?” 

“There are younglings down here — clones, but different. There’s a girl, and her brothers don’t look much like Rex at all. But that’s not the point. They’re all alone, Master Plo, without any adult clones to look out for them, and I don’t know what the scientists are doing to them down here, but I do know the boys have control chips. I’m not sure about Omega — the girl.” She pauses for breath. “You have to get Master Ti on your side, because we can’t leave them here if you don’t. Please tell me she listened to you.” 

Plo sighs loudly. “She was… somewhat receptive. We managed to get her alone and tell her about the control chips, but she wants to speak to the Prime Minister about it.”

“Is she stupid? ” Ahsoka bursts out, forgetting for a moment that Shaak Ti is a Master and — supposedly — deserving of her respect. “Doesn’t she realize that will get us all killed ?” 

“I don’t believe so,” Plo says, a heavy disdain filling his voice. 

“Tell him to bring her down here,” Rex says suddenly. “Versé should be able to give her all the proof she needs, and Omega and the kids won’t hurt our cause either.” His face darkens. “And if this doesn’t convince her, then we’ll figure something else out. We’ll shut this place down, one way or another.” 

Ahsoka’s not sure how they’re going to do that without Shaak Ti, but she trusts Rex. “Master Plo, Rex says to bring her down to the mainframe room. I can give you directions.” 

“Do you think that will convince her?” 

Ahsoka exchanges a glance with Rex. “It has to, Master Plo.” 

Chapter Text

31

Old Married Couple 

Sundari hasn’t changed much since the last time Obi-Wan was here, nearly a year ago. Mandalore is still a barren wasteland, with Sundari built inside a biodome to make it habitable — an oasis in the broken remnants of the once lush planet.

He doesn’t have many good memories here. He did once — he remembers the night he returned for the first time. 

Twenty years old, still a padawan with short hair and high hopes, and he flew to Mandalore in a daze after almost dying on a mission and knowing , knowing beyond a doubt that he still loved Satine. That their separation four years prior had been a mistake of laughable proportions. He begged an audience with her, in the early hours of the morning, and prayed that she felt the same. 

When she stepped into her throne room, she was a vision even with a scowl twisting her face at being woken up. She always hated having her sleep disturbed. 

“What business does the Jedi Order have on Mandalore?” she demanded, all cold imperiousness. 

He lost his words — he loses them around no one but her. All he said was, “The Order didn’t send me.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I missed you.” 

He remembers a falter in her queenly stance. A softening of her face. “You did?” 

“Every day.” He stepped forward. “I have been lying to my master, to my friends, and to myself. For years.” 

She laughed then, a bit hysterically. “And you chose now to tell me?” 

“Well, I almost died, and —” 

“ Obi-Wan. ” 

“I don’t want to live without you. I don’t want to die without you either. And if that makes me a terrible Jedi, then… I can live with that. But if you don’t feel the same, I’ll leave.” 

“ Di’kut, ” she said, and she was across the throne room in an instant, because Satine never does anything by halves, and that includes loving someone. 

But that memory’s tainted now, and so is the brief, wonderful bliss that came after it, during the two weeks they were together as a married couple. He knows now coming to Mandalore and marrying her impulsively was the second stupidest thing he ever did, and the most stupid thing he ever did was convincing himself the best thing for both of them was to separate. 

The Jedi Order and the Code had him in a stranglehold in those days. It was before he lost Qui-Gon, before he gained Anakin, before he had to remake his whole world to fit a small nine year old with a big mouth and a stubborn streak as wide as a hyperspace lane. 

They don’t have him now. They lost him the day he laid eyes on his son. But by then the damage was already done. 

Now he’s standing in her throne room again, fourteen years older, his best friend’s wife by his side, and so much has changed. For the first time in his life, there’s nothing and no one keeping him and Satine apart. 

Except each other, of course. They’ve always excelled at that. 

The doors on the other side of the room rumble open, and Satine steps into view, her elegant court gown brushing the polished floor. Her personal guards file through the door after her and take up positions along the throne’s dais, impassive in their beskar’gam . They aren’t armed, of course. Satine has clung more tightly to her pacifist beliefs since the war began, since she exiled the old guard — the soldiers of past Mandalorian wars. 

“I thought you didn’t hold with beskar’gam, my dear,” he says, and he knows his words are cold — which is frankly unhelpful to his and Padme’s cause — but he doesn’t care. 

Satine sits down in her throne, her stained glass patterned skirt settling around her, and watches him with sharp eyes. She feels the knife-edge of his words. He's sure she does. She knows better than anyone that he doesn’t use pet names with her unless he’s angry. Unless she’s his enemy. “I am not a fool, General Kenobi,” she answers, and the pointed use of his title, rather than his name, hurts exactly as much as it was meant to. “I may not feel the need to arm myself as your Order does, but I am not so naive as to leave myself and my people defenseless.” 

Obi-Wan grinds his teeth. Kriff, he remembers when Satine used to be sensible. She never liked war, never held with the violent ways of Mandalore’s past, but she didn’t deliberately blind herself to the realities of life. War has broken her as well it seems, even though she keeps Mandalore out of it. “I just thought they were symbols of the violence you hate so much.” 

She smiles, and it’s a deadly smile. “Your lightsaber is far more so.” 

“Ah, is that why you took it from me at the door?” 

“I don’t allow weapons in my palace.” 

“You don’t allow weapons anywhere,” he says. “It’s a wonder more of your people haven’t been killed by the Death Watch by now. I seem to remember a certain terrorist attack the last time I was here, and your response — well, your lack of a response.” 

“I will not be judged by someone with blood on their hands.” 

“Then I suppose you’ll have to take my tongue as well, my dear. Don’t all the old poets call the tongue a weapon? Perhaps you should silence all the voices that don’t agree with you, so you aren’t subjected to that violence. ”  

Satine laughs and looks down a little, contemplative. Her posture is straight, her shoulders a graceful line, and there’s a particular set to her jaw that tells Obi-Wan everything he needs to know. She’s furious — the kind of furious only he can ignite in her. 

Good. Every time he sees Satine, he thinks things will go differently. That he’ll keep his head, that his lungs won’t seize up, that he’ll be able to say the apologies that crowd onto the tip of his tongue. 

Then he lays eyes on her, and he sees Korkie in her nose and the shape of her face, and all he can think is, Fourteen years gone, fourteen years with him lost to me, and I can never get them back. 

And that’s when his pulse starts to thump in his neck, and the words start spilling out, the words meant to cut, meant to try to make her feel a fraction of his pain, because she kept his son away from him. And she hasn’t said sorry. She allows him to holocall with Korkie, but he feels how she begrudges each moment, how she looks at him like he’s the one who broke this. 

And he isn’t. He may have left, but she’s the one who lied. 

“Duchess Satine?” Padme speaks for the first time, throwing him a sidelong look that begs him to shut up. There’s a mildly terrified look on her face. Obi-Wan doesn’t think she’s ever seen him like this. That’s the difference between her and Anakin. This would make Anakin laugh, but Padme worries. “We’ve come to discuss a highly sensitive matter with you, pertaining to matters of galactic security. We’d like to request a private audience.” Her eyes flick toward the guards. “Without your protection detail.” 

Satine raises an eyebrow. “As you may know, Senator Amidala, I refuse to involve my world and people in your war, so I think you would be better off bringing this matter before someone else.” Her tone implies the words, Someone who cares. 

Obi-Wan wonders how bad it would look if he hit one of the pillars. It’s not very Jedi-like behavior, but Sith hells, it would feel good. 

“With all due respect, Duchess,” Padme says, unfazed — and oh, Obi-Wan envies her for that — “it’s not that kind of matter.” 

“Well, what kind of matter is it?” Satine drums her fingers on the arm of her throne. She’s losing patience just as rapidly as Obi-Wan is.

“It’s about our army,” Padme answers. She doesn’t say anything more, but somehow her tone conveys volumes, enough that Satine shifts just slightly to face Padme. There’s a subtle shift in her expression, turning it from closed off to intrigued.

“Leave us.” She signals to her personal guard. Their captain glances at her for a moment, a question in his body language, but then he and his subordinates fall into formation and leave the throne room, sealing the door behind them. Satine settles back on her throne, because she’s not going to give them the courtesy of a face to face conversation yet — oh no, they have to earn that. “We’re alone now,” she says. “There aren’t any recording devices in here.” 

“Well, at least you’re not a police state,” Obi-Wan says. “Yet.” 

“No.” Satine smiles again. “I think you’re confusing us with the Loyalist planets.” 

Padme walks forward, managing to pointedly tread on Obi-Wan’s toe on her way, and stops near the foot of the steps that lead onto the dais. He follows her, trying not to limp. “You and I have always agreed that using a clone army is a serious violation of every ethical and moral code that the Republic is supposed to hold to,” she says, tipping her head back to look at Satine. 

“Yes.” Satine lifts her chin. “I don’t seem to remember you doing much to stop it, Senator.” 

Padme presses her lips together, and shame rises up from her in the Force. Obi-Wan takes a step forward then, because there’s no one in the galaxy who has the right to make Padme feel like that, not when he’s around to stop it. Seeing him move, Padme extends a hand to stop him. Biting back a curse, he listens, attempting to regain his sense of reason. Now is not the time to cause another scene. 

“It’s true,” says Padme. “I didn’t try to defend the clones like I should have. I believed we were too deeply entangled in the war to enact reforms that would ensure they had the same rights as other sentients. But we’ve discovered something — something that’s opened my eyes to have foolish and… and cowardly I’ve been.” Heat enters her voice at the last part of the sentence, her fists balling at her sides. “What I’m going to say next is going to sound crazy, but you must hear me out. Lives depend on it. Please.” 

In the pause that follows, Satine stands up, her skirts rustling around her, the gems sewn into them catching the sunlight as she moves, and walks down the steps until she stands in front of Padme. “I’m listening.” 

Padme lets out a short breath, a smile spreading across her face as she does. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t make me regret it.” 

“You won’t.” Padme draws herself up to her full height. “The murder of Senator Taa opened up surprising avenues of investigation for myself and some of my allies, including General Kenobi.” 

“You mean illegal avenues,” Satine translates, but she doesn’t say anything more. She seems to be withholding judgment, which is truly a miracle. 

Padme chooses to ignore what she said and continues. “In the course of our investigation, we discovered corruption in our highest halls of power. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine lied to us. He was responsible for the creation of the clones, and he commissioned them with control chips in their heads, which override their capacity for choice.” She pauses to take a deep breath, probably to calm the storm of anger that is roiling around her in the Force. “These chips, when activated, turn the clones into living weapons, with the sole purpose of wiping out the Jedi Order and opening the door for the Chancellor to seize even more power than he already has. Furthermore, we have reason to believe him to be the architect behind this war. A Sith Lord, manipulating both sides to further his own ends. My people have a way to deactivate the chips and a plan to protect the clones, but we need allies and shelter, specifically from a neutral planet, with a ruler dedicated to peace and sentient rights. We need someone like you. Please, Duchess.” 

Satine regards Padme. The light from the windows catches in her blonde hair and makes her blue eyes seem even more piercing then usual. There’s a new edge to her demeanor, one that makes Obi-Wan keep looking around for threats. “You understand,” she says, “that this plan of yours, even coming here to speak to me, is tantamount to treason against the Republic.”

Padme flinches and looks down. “I’m aware,” she says. “I’m doing this to protect the Republic — if such a thing is still possible.” She raises her eyes, brown eyes burning into Satine’s blue. “The Chancellor stands against us, stands against the foundations of liberty and justice the Republic was built on — no matter how far it has strayed from them now. To preserve it, to fight for it, I must do this. More than that, the laws that will name me a traitor for freeing the clones are wrong . If I truly serve the people — all the people — I am without choice. I must break them. If I don’t, that is when I will become a traitor.” 

Satine smiles again, softer now, but now she pins Obi-Wan down with her gaze. “And you trust a Jedi to help you?” The way she says the word Jedi makes Obi-Wan’s chest clench. “The generals of the GAR? The Senate’s mercenary army that fights their war for them?” 

The contempt in her voice is too much for Obi-Wan. “We aren’t mercenaries. We’re peacekeepers , but you never could understand that.” 

“Not mercenaries?” She laughs a little, a derisive laugh that’s like a stone thrown at him. “Tell that to your Senate-backed fundraisers and tax funded stipends, General. ” 

“There are trustworthy Jedi,” Padme says. “There are Jedi leading the mission to free the clones right now. My… my husband is one of them.”

Satine startles. “You — your husband?” 

“Anakin Skywalker — I think you may have heard of him. When the news of Tatooine’s liberation reaches the Core, think of him.”

“Jedi don’t marry.” 

“Then I suppose he isn’t a Jedi. Wouldn’t that then make him trustworthy? And by that same logic, I would expect you to trust your husband, Duchess.” Padme gestures to Obi-Wan, blithely ignoring the shocked panic flaring on Satine’s face. “After all, he hasn’t been a Jedi for over a decade.” 

Satine’s facade cracks for a moment, and Obi-Wan isn’t above being tickled about it. “You told her?” She says it through her teeth, and he is abruptly reminded just how good she was with a blaster, before she swore off all weapons. 

“Not exactly.” Obi-Wan smiles brightly at her, because it would be incredibly satisfying to be the reason his pacifist wife takes up a weapon again. “But recently I find myself hating secrets .” He packs as much venom as he can into the word and hurls it at her. 

Satine doesn’t miss his meaning. “And recently I find myself exquisitely tired of the Order,” she fires back.

“As do I.” His mouth twists. “I don’t deny its faults any more. I don’t deny that it is involved in a terrible sentient rights violation. But we clearly present a problem to our dear Sith chancellor, so perhaps we are not so untrustworthy as you seem to believe. Perhaps we are the ones who will fight most passionately for the clones when our eyes are open. After all, they’re our brothers in arms. To you, they’re an idea. To us, they’re a reality. They have faces and names. So perhaps, my dear, you would do well to not paint us all with a broad brush, as you are so wont to do with everything and everyone who displeases you. Perhaps you should look past your own resentment and realize that my former padawan, his padawan, four of my friends, and another Council member are putting their lives on the line to help the clones and make a better galaxy. What have you been doing again? Making all those passionate speeches in the Senate about the evils of war and cloning? You might be interested to learn that a kriffing Sith Lord isn’t going to be defeated with well written speeches and nonviolence , and that peace is usually bought with the blood of good soldiers.” He stops for breath, his shoulders heaving as he glares at her. She glares back, her royal persona all but gone, and suddenly they’re sixteen again, quarreling often enough that Qui-Gon started keeping score and understanding each other so deeply that it doesn’t matter. 

Padme looks back and forth between them, taking a subtle step back like she’s afraid to get caught between their dueling gazes. 

Satine moves forward until she’s right in front of Obi-Wan, close enough that he notices the beskar ring on a necklace around her neck and thinks, She kept it.  

“You always, always have to be right, don’t you, Obi-Wan?” she says, spitting each word like it’s an effort not to shout them. “The stars will burn and fall if — Force forbid — you’re ever wrong.” 

He grimaces at her. “I think perhaps, Satine, you’re describing yourself.” 

A humorless smile plays around her lips. “Come with me,” she says. “Both of you. I have something to show you. Now that I know you’re trustworthy .” 

Chapter Text

32 

One Way or Another

Ahsoka has always looked up to Shaak Ti. She’s calm, poised, graceful, and competent. Ahsoka wants to be a Jedi like Anakin, but sometimes Shaak seemed to be the Jedi Ahsoka should be. 

She doesn’t think that any longer. Shaak came to the underwater labs willingly enough, but the cold, detached look on her face put Ahsoka’s hackles right up. She finds herself disliking the Jedi Master more and more with each passing second.

As Shaak leans over Versé’s shoulder, taking in the streams of data that prove everything Plo and Sian told her, Ahsoka cuddles Wrecker closer. He plopped down on her lap a few minutes earlier and started chattering in her ear about the chemical combinations necessary for different kinds of explosive ordinance. Apparently, he plans to be the demolitions expert for his squad of brothers when he grew up and entered the world, and he’s been applying his swiftly maturing brain to the subject since he learned to read. 

This is the child — the sweet, open hearted child — that Shaak is content to leave in the hands of the Kaminoan Prime Minister, who allowed his scientists to put a chip in his head that can make him a prisoner in his own body. 

Ahsoka isn’t going to let that go any time soon. Sith hells to whatever the Jedi Code says. 

“Well?” Sian stands just behind Shaak, arms crossed, fingers drumming against her bicep. “Believe us now?” 

Shaak straightens up. “I had to be sure.” 

“Yeah, you did,” Sian says. “So you were going to go to the person responsible for this and ask him about it. Don’t lie. You were kriffing afraid, and you would rather have an easy solution than a hard one.” 

Shaak fixes Sian with a hard stare. “This is the fate of the Republic we’re talking about. I don’t take it lightly.” 

“No.” Plo’s voice leaves no room for argument. “This about the six million clones enslaved by the Republic. It’s their fate we’re talking about.” 

“They’re programmed to kill us! You want to keep that a secret?” 

“We have to, unless you want Palpatine to trigger it early. That’s why we’re here. To deactivate the chips. You’ve seen what Versé is doing.”

“And what happens after that?” Shaak shakes her head. “We deactivate the chips, then what? It won’t end the war.” 

“We get the clones to safety.” 

“It’s not as simple as that, Plo,” Shaak says. “What happens to the Republic — to the citizens — when we steal their army out from under them?” 

“We don’t know,” Sian interrupts, taking a sharp step forward, “but the clones’ lives are just as valuable as everyone else’s. Abandoning them isn’t a solution.” 

“Then what is the solution?” 

“I don’t know, Shaak,” says Sian, shrugging. “I think the person who thinks the clones are worth less than other citizens should be responsible for thinking of the way out of this.” 

“That isn’t what I meant.” 

“But it’s what you said.” It’s Rex who speaks, and Ahsoka looks toward him. He stares at Shaak, his helmet tucked under one arm, and Cody and Wolffe stand on either side of him, offering silent support. “And I have to admit, Shaak, it’s a sentiment I’m kriffing tired of hearing.” 

Shaak bites her lip. “I am sorry, Captain. Truly. And I don’t care what name you call me by — General or Shaak or anything you please. I care about the people who will be left defenseless if you and your brothers leave the army.” 

There’s a faint smile on Rex’s lips. “Don’t care what I call you, huh? How does ‘Master’ sound? It’s what the slaveowners on Tatooine liked their slaves to call them. You know, before Anakin killed all of them and freed the slaves. And before we caught Dooku and threw him in prison.” 

“You what?” Shaak falters. 

“So when I tell you I don’t intend to abandon anyone, I want you to understand what that means.” Rex closes the distance between them. “It means that I’ll be there for the people the Jedi Order leaves hanging. The people of Tatooine. My brothers. My sister. ” He gestures to Omega. “I’ll stay in the war. But on my terms. For once. Maybe without the Chancellor pulling the strings we’ll actually have a chance at winning.” 

“A galaxy at peace, Shaak.” Plo lays a hand on her arm. “Surely that’s worth anything.” 

“It’s treason,” Shaak says, but there’s a tremble in her voice. 

“It’s the right thing to do ,” Ahsoka says from the floor, glaring at Shaak. “We can’t go through proper channels. This is the only way. And the proper channels are what got us here!” She stabs her finger toward the holocomputer, where Versé is still locked into her hack. 

“You don’t understand, little one,” says Shaak. “You’re only a padawan, you —” 

“You’re afraid.” It’s Omega who speaks now. She’s huddled on the floor behind Rex, her knees up to her chest. Her brothers — aside from Wrecker, who is still on Ahsoka’s lap — are settled around her. “You don’t have to be so scared,” she says, tipping her head back to look at Shaak. “My brothers will protect you if you ask nicely.”

“I’m not afraid,” Shaak says, her voice softer for Omega’s benefit. “It’s just —” 

“But you are afraid. I feel it.” Omega wraps her arms around her knees. “I feel lots of things. Sometimes after Nala Se comes back from speaking with you, she feels proud. She thinks she’s very clever, because you and the other Jedi believe everything she says.” 

Shaak crouches down, brow wrinkling. “What do you mean, little one? When you say you feel things?” 

Omega shrugs. “I just do.” 

“She has the Force, Shaak,” Plo says. “Accept it.” 

“It’s not possible. Clones are Force null.” 

Ahsoka laughs harshly, because she sees it now. Everything that made Anakin storm down to the hangar to tinker with ships whenever he had to speak to the Council during a deployment. Everything that made Obi-Wan look over at Anakin with the silent question of, Are we going to do it anyway? Everything that made Anakin answer with a resounding yes every time. 

“Something funny, youngling?” asks Shaak, a growl in her throat. 

Ahsoka curls her lips back to reveal her fangs. “Lots, Master.” 

“This is a serious matter. I hope you know that.” 

“Oh, I know. I know that really well, because I was there when the doctors cut the chip out of Rex’s brain.” 

“We don’t have time for this.” Rex unhooks his lightsaber from his belt and ignites it. Shaak jumps back, her eyes widening, even though Rex keeps the blade low by his side. 

“How do you have a lightsaber?” she manages, hand pressed to her chest. 

“Anakin gave it to me,” Rex says. “After he found out I was Force sensitive.” 

Shaak watches the saber, one hand straying toward her own weapon. “Are you threatening me, Captain?” 

Rex shakes his head. “No. I just want you to know that we’re not leaving Kamino until we have this facility under our control. And we can do that with or without your help.” 

“No, you can’t.” 

Rex twirls his saber briefly, its thrum filling the room. “Watch us.” 

“We could use your help, Shaak,” Sian puts in. “Please.” 

“But we don’t need your help,” Wolffe adds, face impassive and cold. “If I have to go through every mad scientist Kaminoan in this facility, I will. We’ve got two battalions waiting for us on a transport in orbit — that’s more than enough to take this place.”

“That sounds rather Dark to me,” Shaak says. 

“No.” Plo steps up to her side. “What’s Dark is standing aside and allowing the Kaminoans to continue their deception in the name of the moral high ground and political expediency.” 

“I can’t ,” Shaak says, and she sounds genuinely sorry. “It’s… I need to speak to the Council. To the Senate. We can’t make these decisions on our own.” 

“We don’t have a choice.” 

“Please.” Omega crosses the room to Shaak. “You’re our generals. The Jedi are supposed to help us.” She catches up Shaak’s hand, and the Force explodes around Ahsoka, bright and spinning. 

Shaak falls back, almost dragging Omega with her. There’s another surge in the Force, and then something snaps as Shaak jerks her hand free. “What… what was that?” Her breath is ragged, and a faint mewl escapes her throat. 

Omega shakes her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean to.” 

“What did you see, Shaak?” Plo helps steady her. 

Shaak swallows, trembling. “Memories. Of them.” She points to Omega’s little brothers. “As babies. Nala Se was putting the chips in their brains, and they were screaming .” 

Omega flinches and steps back so she’s surrounded by her brothers. “I remember that. She didn’t put them to sleep, because it was too dangerous. It was awful.” 

“And there were flashes…” Shaak squeezes her eyes shut. “Jedi, dying. Shot down, burning, screaming, oh Force. Darkness suffocating me, drowning me. I was watching it, and I couldn’t stop it.” 

“Those are our dreams,” Cody says from beside Rex. His voice is quiet and even, but Ahsoka can feel him in the Force — it’s just a facade. “Every night, we have them, until the chip comes out.” 

“You don’t have a chip, Omega,” Rex says. “How do you know about them?” 

Omega shrugs, hugging herself. “I see them sometimes. When my little brothers sleep.” 

“Oh, Force.” Shaak murmurs an oath in Togrutan. She ducks her head, lekku hanging long over her shoulders. 

“Understand now?” Ahsoka asks, as Wolffe lifts a shaken Omega into his arms, glaring at Shaak like it’s her fault. “That’s the future Palpatine wants. It’s what he’ll bring down on our heads if we go to the Senate or the Council before the chips are deactivated. And he won’t let the clones leave the army — not willingly. He wants this war.” She hugs Wrecker tighter. 

“He feeds on it,” Sian adds. “It’s what we learned, isn’t it? When we were younglings. The Dark Side thrives on hatred, on selfishness, on evil. How much do you think a Sith Lord is loving a war where neither side is in the right, where there’s slavery and corruption on one side and neglience and war crimes on the other?”

“Everyone, shut up.” Versé sits back suddenly. “I’m through. I’ve got control of the chips.” 

The whole room falls silent, so suddenly and completely that Ahsoka can hear the distant rumble of thunder through the walls. She shifts Wrecker off her lap and jumps to her feet, pushing her way over to the holocomputer. It’s all laid out — the kill codes for the chips, right along with the activation codes. She curls her hands over the back of Versé’s seat, gripping it tight enough for her nails to dig into the fabric backrest. A savage smile spreads over her face. You tried to hide it. You tried to control them. It didn’t work. 

You lose. 

Shaak is beside Ahsoka, and her huge brown eyes are stretched wide. Her lips part, and for the first time, she looks truly angry. “Stars above.” 

“What are you waiting for?” Wolffe snaps, striding over, Omega still in his arms. “Burn the kriffing things!” 

“Now, Versé!” Plo adds, leaning over her shoulder. 

It’s such a simple command. Of course the Kaminoans would have wanted it to be, in case of an emergency. A simple password, stars in a text box, and it is enough to change the course of galactic history. And it will — Ahsoka feels that in her bones. 

The moment itself is anticlimactic. A single keystroke, and the kill codes are uploaded into the chip network. Ahsoka pictures the lines of code tearing through the chips, ripping apart their programming like akuls on a rampage, leaving the chips blank and useless. 

“Is it done?” Sian’s jaw works. 

“Yeah.” Versé pushes a hand through her curls. “It’s over.” She looks back over her shoulder and grins at Rex, Cody, Wolffe, and the children. “Feel any different, little ones?” 

“Yeah.” Crosshair reaches a careful hand toward his head. “It’s quieter now.” He gives a little laugh, which Ahsoka instinctively feels is out of character for him. “Meg, it’s really quiet.” 

Omega squirms out of Wolffe’s arms and throws both arms around Crosshair. The Force washes over Ahsoka, full of Light, and it’s driving away the darkness. She feels it go at the Dark Side with its teeth and claws out. Feels the Dark Side start to run. “It’s really… You did it, Versé.”

Versé tilts her head toward her. “Did you ever doubt me?” 

Ahsoka nudges her, a grin coming to her face, one that is swiftly overwhelmed by a laugh that bubbles up from her throat and turns into tears as she covers her mouth with both hands. “They’re okay. It’s over. They’re okay.” Tears still welling in her eyes and burning in her nose, she turns to Shaak. “You’ve seen it. You’ve seen everything. What are you going to do about it?” 

Shaak seems to force herself to look away from the screen. Her gaze falls on Omega, who is currently being buried by excited little brothers. Their laughter fills the room. “I don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do.” Ahsoka grips Shaak’s arm. “You know exactly what the right thing is. You know exactly what to do. You don’t have to be scared.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to want to protect them.” 

Shaak finally looks at her, brown eyes wet. “Then help me find Nale Se,” she says, a throaty snarl filling her voice as she reaches for her lightsaber. 

Chapter Text

33 

And You Thought Anakin’s In-Laws Were Intense

Satine leads them out of the throne room and into a highly secured area of the palace. Her soldiers eye them as they pass, and Obi-Wan really wants to ask them if they know where Satine is taking them. And if it’s some kind of secret kill room, because if so, he would like to know ahead of time, especially since he doesn’t have his lightsaber. 

Padme keeps looking at him, like she expects him to explain what’s going on. As if he knows . He’s married to Satine, he’s known her since they were both sixteen years old, and he has never been able to figure her out completely. Finally, after Padme gives him yet another meaningful look, he clears his throat and says, “If I may ask, my dear, where are we going?” 

“You may not, my dear .” Satine doesn’t even look back over her shoulder as she sweeps onward, down a long set of steps. Her train trails after her, its stained glass pattern forming an image of the mythosaur from Mandalorian legends. It’s a strangely violent thing for his pacifist wife to have on her dress, but Satine is nothing if not a living contradiction at times. 

“Will you help the clones?” asks Padme, quickening her pace to catch up with Satine slightly. Her lips are pale, and Obi-Wan remembers with uncomfortable clarity that newly pregnant mothers tend to experience morning sickness. 

He hopes if she throws up it isn’t on him. At this point, he’s not against her vomiting all over the train of Satine’s dress, however. 

“That was never in question,” Satine says. She leads them through a security door into what appears to be a tunnel. A secret kill room is seeming more likely every moment, and Obi-Wan moves closer to Padme. He’ll never hear the end of it from Anakin if he gets Anakin’s pregnant wife killed by his wife. “What is still in question is whether I will help you .” 

At the end of the tunnel, they emerge into some kind of underground hangar with the open end looking out over the wasteland outside the city. There are ships docked in neat rows, and Satine makes a beeline for the nearest transport. Flighthands hurry over to her, and she murmurs instructions to them. Half go to ready one of the transports, and the other half head off into one of the tunnels that branch off from the hangar. They return a few minutes later, with members of Satine’s guard following them. Their faces are hidden beneath beskar helmets, and they’re armed with blasters at their sides. 

And knowing Mandalorians, a visible weapon means there are certainly more concealed on their person. 

“Satine…” He walks forward so he’s standing next to her, arms folded. “I thought you had a moral objection to weapons.” 

“Oh?” Satine takes the blaster that someone from her guard hands to her, along with a holster. She straps the holster around her waist and slips the gun inside it. “I suppose I’m a hypocrite. Come with me.” She turns abruptly and marches to the ship, disappearing inside. The guards follow her, shepherding Obi-Wan and Padme along with them. 

His wife — and kriff, he still thinks of her that way, doesn’t he? — hasn’t touched a gun since the Naboo Crisis. Or at least, that’s what he thought. That’s what she told him. Starting to feel a little dazed, Obi-Wan settles into the back of the ship, across from Satine, while one of the guards takes over the cockpit. Padme smiles rather nervously as she sits next to him. 

“Are you going to tell us now?” she asks as the ship takes off, rocketing up toward the sky. “Are we… Are we leaving the planet?” 

“You could say that,” Satine says, unconcerned. The blue of the sky outside mists to black, the planet curving away beneath them. 

“I think you would have to say that,” Obi-Wan corrects, peering toward the viewscreen. “Satine?” 

She leans back in her seat, hands folded in front of her. “Yes, Obi-Wan?” 

“Where are we going?” 

“Concordia.” 

Beside him, Padme chokes and covers her mouth with one hand. Obi-Wan shifts away from her, hoping she doesn’t choose now to throw up. “ Concordia? Where the Death Watch has its home base? You do remember them, don’t you?” He sketches a vague helmet shape in the air. “Wear a lot of armor? Hate you? Want to kill you? ” 

Satine smiles, the kind of smile that he remembers from their teenling years — the one that meant she was two inches from throttling him. “Yes, my dear, I do remember. Although the visual aid was very helpful. Truly, I don’t know how I’ve survived without you these fourteen years.” 

“ Satine. ” 

“ Obi-Wan. ” 

“ Both of you .” Padme puts her head in her hands. “I happen to be in the very worst stage of pregnancy, so if you could — please — act like rational adults, that would be wonderful.” 

Satine takes a second to process that information. “You’re pregnant?” 

“Yes.” Padme lets her head rest back against the wall. “These Jedi husbands… They seem to have a propensity for knocking people up.” 

“Mm. That they do.” Satine gives Obi-Wan a significant look, and he gives her one right back. If there was anyone who was better prepared for a wedding night, it was the woman who didn’t grow up in a belief system that discourages romance and everything that comes along with it. Satine basks beneath his gaze, unaffected as usual, and says, “How far along are you?” 

“About eight weeks,” Padme replies. 

Satine presses her lips together. “This isn’t the worst stage.” 

Padme sits up a little. “It isn’t?” 

“No.” Satine shakes her head. “Wait until your organs start to move, and you can’t reach your feet any more.” 

“Oh, kriff .” Padme slumps again. “Are you taking us to the Death Watch so they can kill us?” 

Satine shakes her head. “No. You’re perfectly safe, Padme.” 

“I thought so.” Padme shuts her eyes and seems to focus her whole attention on staving off her nausea. Given that they’ve begun a turbulent descent through Concordia’s atmosphere, he doesn’t blame her. 

“I note you didn’t promise I was safe,” he says to Satine. 

She looks placid, swaying with the turbulence. “That’s true. I didn’t.” Her smile is toothy and altogether infuriating. “You’re a Jedi, though.” They land on the moon’s surface with a jolt, and she stands. “I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.” 

He stands too, pausing to help Padme to her feet. Satine forges toward the lowering ramp, and he hurries to catch up with her, pulling her to a stop just outside the ship, his boots crunching in the gravelly ground. “I don’t have my lightsaber , my dear. Someone took it, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

“I haven’t.” Satine tips her head back to look toward the sky. The half light dims the sheen of her blonde hair and shadows her face, and he wishes she wasn’t beautiful. It’s highly inconvenient to try to argue with someone you find beautiful, especially when you’ve been separated from them. “I remember Master Qui-Gon telling us that the Force is a weapon in and of itself.” She throws a challenging look in his direction. “A real Jedi doesn’t need his lightsaber to fight, isn’t that what he said?” 

Obi-Wan lets his eyes go hooded. “My master had many interesting ideas.” 

“Like allowing his padawan to have a teenage romance.” 

“Yes, that — among other things.” Obi-Wan grits his teeth. “But that’s the big one.” 

“I don’t know if you can blame him,” Satine says, tucking her hair behind her ear with a sarcastic sort of coquettishness. “He wasn’t at all involved in your proposal.” 

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to reply, but there’s the roar of jetpacks overhead. He drops into a battle stance, staring upward, and picks out six Death Watch soldiers flying toward them, their jetpacks making trails of smoke behind them. He pushes Satine behind him, so she’s next to Padme, and reaches for his lightsaber on instinct. 

His belt clip is all that meets his hand, and he inhales deeply, trying to calm himself, as the Death Watch soldiers descend. “Satine,” he says, “if they don’t kill you, I will. ” 

“Oh, such romance!” Satine snaps, striding forward before he can stop her. “Let no one ever tell you that you don’t know how to speak to women, Obi-Wan.” 

“Padme,” he says, putting out one arm, “stay behind me. Tell me you still have that sensor-fooling blaster of yours.” 

“Oh, I do.”

“Get ready to use it.” 

“But Satine said —” 

“My wife is a deeply misguided person,” Obi-Wan says, bracing his feet as the soldiers land, gravel swirling in the wake of their jetpacks. “Get ready to use your gun, if only to annoy her.”  

“I heard that, General ,” Satine says. 

Kriff, we’re back to my title, he thinks, calling the Force to heel. 

The head soldier, wearing beskar’gam painted blue, reaches up to take off their helmet, which is covered in white markings meant to resemble an owl’s face. There’s the sound of the helmet unsealing, and the soldier pulls it free and tucks it under her arm. 

It’s a woman, with red hair shorn short and held back by a metal helmet interface , and Obi-Wan knows her. “Bo-Katan?” He relaxes his stance just a little and glares at Satine, even though her back is to him. 

As he predicted, she feels his gaze, regardless of the fact that she can’t see it. “Yes, Obi-Wan. This is my sister.” She closes the distance between her and Bo-Katan and wraps an arm around her waist. To Obi-Wan’s growing disbelief, Bo-Katan returns the embrace, looking at Obi-Wan with a triumphant quirk to her lips. 

“I…” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Well, that was a well kept secret. What, bad for your political image if people find out that your sister joined the terrorist group that’s been tormenting your people? How can you be working with the Death Watch, Satine? They bombed —” 

“You mean the carefully planned operation that took out exactly one person — the assassin that Count Dooku sent after Korkie?” Satine smiles again. “That bombing?” 

“The… what?” Obi-Wan’s head spins, the words flying around, until he locks on to two of them. Korkie. Assassin. “Someone tried to kill Korkie?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly popular, Obi-Wan.” Satine lifts her chin. “In a galaxy that wants war, neutrality is a difficult position to take. Which is why Mandalore isn’t neutral.” 

“It’s not?” Padme asks dumbly, pushing past Obi-Wan. “I’m going to need an explanation for that.” 

“We aren’t Separatists,” Bo-Katan says with an easy shrug. “We aren’t Loyalists either. We’re fighting our own war — against the real enemy.” 

Obi-Wan presses his hands together and takes another breath. “All right, you, Bo? Terrorist. Which happens to mean that, unless you’re pointing a gun at me, you don’t get to talk .” 

“That can be arranged,” Bo-Katan says. “You are the sleemo who broke my baby sister’s heart, after all.” One hand strays toward her blaster, but Satine grabs her wrist without even looking. 

“She’s not a terrorist, Obi-Wan,” says Satine, sounding insulted on Bo-Katan’s behalf. “The other Death Watch members aren’t either. They never have been. It’s a ruse — a cover. They’re my army, and Bo is their general.” 

Obi-Wan knows his mouth has fallen open, but he doesn’t have it in him to close it. “Satine…” He speaks slowly, because he thinks she might be suffering from some kind of serious mental break. “You’re a pacifist. ” 

“No,” she says, speaking equally slowly, “I’m a peacemaker. There’s a difference, but people tend to stop listening to you when you start spouting ridiculous rhetoric from the perceived moral high ground.” She shrugs. “I wanted people to stop listening to me so that Bo and the others could work.” 

Obi-Wan just shakes his head, because none of it makes sense, but after the last few weeks, he’s ready to accept anything.  “Work on what ?” 

“Unearthing the corruption at the core of the Republic,” Satine says, as though that should be obvious. “Something’s wrong, Obi-Wan. I first noticed it after the Naboo Crisis, but I think it was going wrong long before that. Someone’s pulling the strings — manipulating all of us. A Sith Lord, on both sides of the war, just like you said. No one in the Senate would listen, nothing got better , and I saw the signs in the stars. We were heading to war, and I could hear someone laughing behind the scenes.” Her brow furrows, frustration burning in her voice. “I needed to do something. And I couldn’t do it through the Senate. So I made them stop looking at me. I pretended to get rid of my army — I made myself not a threat, even when the war started. Everyone with information worth having was willing to deal with the Death Watch, tell them things they never would’ve told a legitimate army.” She looks him right in the eye. “But I didn’t have the answer, the identity of the person behind all this, until you and Padme walked through my door and told me it was none other than Chancellor Palpatine and that you want my help defeating him.” 

Bo-Katan startles. “It’s who? Oh, that kriffhead, I should’ve known.” 

“So all this time?” An odd numbness spreads through Obi-Wan, chased by rising heat. “You’ve been lying to me? About Korkie? About the Death Watch? Even about your kriffing beliefs ?” 

Padme moves a little away from him, swaying slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling a little lightheaded. I…” Whatever she was about to say next is overwhelmed by the sound of retching as she vomits onto the gravel. Obi-Wan rushes over to hold back her many braids, and Bo-Katan looks skyward with pursed lips, while Satine grimaces in sympathy. 

Padme straightens up, her face wane. She wipes her mouth and says, “I was going to say something, but I think that conveyed my feelings rather well.” 

Obi-Wan makes sure she’s steady before letting go of her hair, and he stalks over to Satine, stopping when they’re toe to toe. The smell of her perfume — the scent she’s used ever since he’s known her — surrounds him, and it brings back a thousand memories. “Someone tried to kill Korkie?” His voice trembles, and he balls his fists by his side. 

The look Satine gives him does nothing to calm him down. “I handled it.” 

“I don’t care if you handled it,” he says, and a year of anger makes his voice a knife. Satine takes a step back, her face darkening. “You didn’t tell me. Someone tried to kill my son, while I was on world, and you didn’t tell me.” The world narrows until it’s just the two of them, caught beneath the stars above Concordia. Obi-Wan’s heart thumps against his ribs as a surge of adrenaline makes him tremble. 

“Your son?” A disbelieving laugh claws its way out of Satine’s throat, even though it’s clear she tried to choke it off. “You didn’t raise him. You weren’t there. I was. He’s my son.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him — Padme, probably — but Obi-Wan doesn’t care. Not my son. Not my son. His breath comes faster, and he can’t control the volume of his voice any longer. “You hid him from me! You kept me away!” 

There. He’s finally said it. No more being a Jedi about it. No more trying to tell himself it was the will of the Force. He’s lost fourteen years. Fourteen years where he could have been a father — Korkie’s buir . He missed his birth. He missed his first smile and his first laugh. He missed him learning to roll, then crawl, and then walk. He missed the unsteady first steps. He wasn’t there to catch him when he lost his balance. 

And now Korkie is halfway grown. He’s brave and principled like Satine, with a kind heart and an unequivocal sort of moral compass that reminds Obi-Wan of Anakin. He’s his own person, growing into himself every day, and Obi-Wan wasn’t there to see it happen. He wants to be there for the rest — wants to be a father — but he can’t without Satine letting down the walls. There will always be a gap. Memories he doesn’t have. A history he can’t be a part of. All those years are gone, gone, gone, and he’s never getting them back. 

His son is alive and well, but Satine is right. Korkie isn’t his son. She stole him. 

“You left.” Satine is breathing hard too, and there’s far more than a year of fury in her words. “You’re the one who left. For your master, for the Order, for everything you promised you were leaving behind. You left us. I just didn’t ask you to come back.” 

Obi-Wan just stares at her, mouth open. “I left because you pushed me away! I thought you — you ended things long before I went back to the Order.” 

She laughs again, and this time she doesn't try to hide it. “Oh, please. You didn’t want to stay. I just decided to preempt the problem.” 

“Preempt the problem?” Obi-Wan stares at her disbelievingly, while Padme sidles away from them and Bo-Katan glares at him, silently supporting Satine. “ Preempt the problem? Do you even hear yourself — oh, that’s right, I forgot! You always hear yourself. You just love the sound of your own voice. It’s other people you don’t listen to. Like me. When I said I was in it for the fripping long haul!”

“You could’ve said it until you were blue in the face, Obi-Wan,” Satine says, making a sharp gesture with her hands. “It still wouldn’t have made it true. You weren’t going to tell the Order until they forced you too. Qui-Gon asked where you were, and you told him you were on a sabbatical. A sabbatical.” She spreads her arms. “Why wait to tell them? If you knew you were never going to return?” 

“I was afraid, Satine. I was leaving everything I knew.” 

“I know. And I also knew you didn’t want to. I wasn’t going to live a life with a man who resented me. I wasn’t going to be a regret. And I wasn’t going to let you throw your life away either. I loved you too much for that.” 

“You loved me enough to push me away, you mean.” He clenches his jaw. “That wasn’t love — it was fear.” 

“And you’d know all about fear. You Jedi are petrified all the time, but you never do anything about it. So I did .” 

“And what about our son? When you found out you were pregnant, you didn’t tell me. For fourteen years you didn’t tell me, and you were hoping you’d never have to, weren’t you? I would have died not knowing if I hadn’t seen him last year. Tell the truth, Satine. Were you ever going to tell me?” 

She lifts her chin. “Were you ever going to leave the Order?” 

He runs one hand down his face, trying to get his temper under control, trying not to scream at her. “For Korkie, I would have.” 

“I know ,” she says, and there’s a bitterness in her voice that tastes like brine. “I won’t have my son be your obligation, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” 

And there it is. “My obligation?” His voice rises. “My obligation? I’m a father — that’s… that’s my responsibility. It’s my honor! If Korkie is an obligation, he’s one I would have been overjoyed to fulfill, but you never even gave me that chance!” 

“Then what was I?” Her eyes are wet, and she yells the words hoarsely, cracking on the last part. “What was I?” 

Obi-Wan just looks at her. “You were everything I wanted.” 

She nods, biting her lip. “But you still weren’t ready to leave the Order. You tell the truth now. You can lie to yourself, but you’ve never been able to lie to me. Even if I hadn’t drawn back, would you have left?” 

The words stick in his throat, but he forces himself to say them, even though he can only muster a whisper. “I don’t know.” His stomach drops — half with relief, half with dread. 

Satine presses her lips into a broken sort of smile. “I wasn’t going to wait and see. You meant too much to me. I didn’t — I didn’t want us to end up hating each other.” 

Obi-Wan swallows. “Good job.” 

“Yeah.” She wets her lips and looks down. “I suppose you’re right. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I… I did it to protect you. So you didn’t have to make the choice. And if anyone knew Korkie was my son, the Order would know he was yours too, and you wouldn’t have a choice any more. You’d have to leave, and I couldn’t do that to you. So I told anyone who mattered that he was Bo’s. And then later… later, when I started to regret it, I couldn’t trust you with Mandalore’s secrets. Not when you and the Jedi were working so closely with the Chancellor.” She looks at him, every inch a proud Mandalorian. “I did it for you, and I did it for Mandalore, but I am sorry.” 

Sorry. It doesn’t give back fourteen years. It doesn’t make Korkie regard him with anything more than a cautious, spring-green sort of affection. But it’s something. “I’m sorry I left,” he says, meeting her eyes, which takes every bit of willpower he has. “In fact, I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess of a marriage in the first place.” 

A real smile finally crosses Satine’s face. “I’m not, Obi.” 

The warmth in her voice, combined with her calling him by a nickname she tormented him with when they were sixteen — one that became precious to him because it came from her — makes it easier to breathe. “Well, I suppose you are entitled to your bad judgment,” he says, and she laughs a little. She still sounds on the edge of tears, but the fury is gone from her. It’s gone from him too. It will be back, no doubt, but for now they’ve reached a fragile peace. 

Straightening up, Satine smooths her hair, unconsciously shifting closer to Bo-Katan, as though she’s drawing support from her elder sister. The way Bo-Katan moves forward, just a little, so that she’s shielding Satine, along with the way Satine relaxes once she’s behind her shoulder, is infinitely familiar to Obi-Wan. It’s what he does for Anakin, what he’s seen Anakin do for Ahsoka, what Quinlan still unconsciously does for him. The instinct of the elder sibling — by blood or not — to protect the younger never dies it seems, no matter how much time passes. 

“Mandalore will help you,” says Satine, dipping her head to Padme, who smiles broadly and graciously, as though in an attempt to pretend that nothing happened. “I never thought I would see a day where the Senate and the Jedi would stand together against the Chancellor, but perhaps my imagination was lacking.” 

Padme stretches out a hand and grasps Satine’s hand. “I think all of us were lacking in imagination. Once the terms of our alliance are settled, we will return to Coruscant and pass on the good news to the others.” 

“Good.” Satine nods. “Some of Bo’s soldiers will escort you back. Secretly, of course.” 

“Can’t have the whole galaxy knowing you’re friends with known terrorists,” Bo-Katan says, still eying Obi-Wan like she might use him for target practice later. 

Obi-Wan, however, is past caring. “I’m not leaving,” he says. “I’m afraid you will have to leave without me, Padme.” 

“What?” Padme looks at him askance. “Why?” The word gets small as it leaves her mouth, and understanding lights her face. “Oh.” 

“I’m staying for as long as I can.” Obi-Wan turns to Satine. “If I have your permission, that is. My place is on Mandalore. And with my family.” 

Satine starts, her eyes widening, and it seems she can’t stop a pleased, nervous smile from coming to her face. “Y…yes, that will be all right. Korkie will be happy to see more of you.” 

Bo-Katan mutters something about Korkie not being the only one, but Obi-Wan decides to assume he didn’t hear her correctly. 

“Excellent.” Obi-Wan clears his throat and studiously doesn’t look at Padme, who he is sure is going to relate this entire incident to Anakin in excruciating detail. His padawan is never going to respect him again, and if Anakin knows, Ahsoka will know soon enough. Then, if she knows, it will be all around the 501st, and by extension the whole army. 

He hates these children of his sometimes, especially the ones who are adults but still somehow his children. 

But, at least their actions have brought him back where he belongs. He can thank them for that. 

Chapter Text

34 

In Which the Kaminoans Lose Their Investment

Ahsoka steps back hurriedly as Shaak Ti plunges her lightsaber through the last security door, the one that the prime minister and his cabinet members have taken shelter behind. The metal glows, melting lumpishly around the saber, and Plo joins her, driving his saber into the door as well and dragging it in an arc. 

The facility is staffed by a rotating skeleton crew of scientists, and as soon as the clones from the destroyer above started marching through it, the prime minister put the whole place on a lockdown, sealing everyone in with security doors after all the Kaminoans fell back to several highly secured rooms. Most of the clones are trapped, but those with Jedi backing them up — Quinlan came with the other clones — have been steadily cutting their way toward the Kaminoans, with Versé directing them using schematics and hijacked security cameras. 

While in hiding, the prime minister tried to activate the facility’s automated defenses and send a distress signal out — presumably to Palpatine or to their capital planet. Ahsoka only knows this because Versé jacked into the mainframe and intercepted the commands, shutting down the defenses and smothering the distress signal. 

Lama Su, prime minister of Kamino and head scientist of the cloning initiative, is about to have a very bad day. 

Versé is on a holocall with Ahsoka, a miniature hologram on her  wrist comm. She has a fascinated Tech plopped in her lap, leaning back against her with his tired but enthralled gaze glued to the screen in front of them. “They’re still in there,” she says, eyes flicking back and forth as she scans her holoscreen. “Longnecks tried to get out through their bolthole, but I locked them down. Gave them a taste of their medicine.” She grins savagely, and Ahsoka is almost afraid of her. Almost — the fact that she has her chin resting on Tech’s soft hair cuts down on the intimidation factor slightly. 

“We’re almost through,” Ahsoka answers, watching Plo and Shaak cut a large circle in the door, while the clones supporting them look on. “Status on the other units?” 

“Everyone’s all through,” she answers, tapping rapidly on her keyboard for a moment, absently letting Tech press the enter key. “Yours is the last one.”

“Nala Se?” asks Rex, holding his lightsaber at ready. Its golden light seems extra warm against the facility’s cold light and the stark white surroundings. 

“No one’s reported finding her,” Versé answers. “Which means she’s probably with the prime minister.” 

“Perfect.” Shaak slashes her saber through the last part of the door, yanking it free, and Plo throws up a hand and uses the Force to knock the cut piece of metal free. It hits the floor on the other side of the door with a reverberating crash, chased by the sounds of the Kaminoans inside crying out in surprise and fear. 

Shaak is the first through the opening, stepping through the hole with careful grace and neatly avoiding the glowing edges. Plo follows, Ahsoka on his heels. 

The windowless room beyond it is bare, except for an exposed security door set in one of the curved walls — probably the bolthole Versé was talking about, previously concealed inside the wall. 

There are four Kaminoans inside. Lama Su, Nala Se, and two other scientists Ahsoka doesn’t recognize but who are high ranking, judging by their clothes. She hardly has time to lift her lightsabers before Shaak lurches across the room and shoves Nala up against one of the walls, her saber pressed near the scientist’s long throat. 

“Master Ti!” Nala manages, voice strained but still fighting for control. “What’s the meaning of this? I don’t —” 

“I would advise you to be quiet,” Plo says, in a decidedly unfriendly way. He advances on Lama, his saber held low and ready at his side, while Ahsoka moves to cover the last two scientists, with Rex and several other clones backing her up. “My friend Master Ti is angry. And we Jedi… We are not used to being angry.” He eyes Nala, and Ahsoka swears this is the first time she’s ever been intimidated by him. His gaze is unknowable behind his goggles, but there’s a stiff, hard set to his jaw and a carefully restrained energy in his stance that puts her on edge. 

“And do you know what that makes us, Nala?” Shaak asks, pressing close until her face is only inches from Nala’s own. “Dangerous. Very, very dangerous.” 

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Lama warns, backing into a corner in an effort to get away from Plo. 

“Anything foolish?” Plo raises his brow ridges. “Little ‘Soka, would you say what we have done so far constitutes as foolishness?” 

“I think so.” Ahsoka twirls her lightsabers, more to unnerve the scientists than anything else. She keeps thinking of how Duon described the genetic screening and the termination of the “defective” clone babies, of how Omega and her brothers have never seen the sun or interacted with any of their other brothers, of how the Kaminoans knew exactly what Palpatine planned for the clones, and she finds it hard to feel anything but hate for the beings in front of her. “After all,” she goes on, “we’ve taken over their home base, slapped most of them in binders, and, oh yes, brought down their sophisticated control chip network.” 

Neither Nala nor Lama can hide their reaction to that, and Ahsoka smiles sunnily at them. 

“Control chips,” Shaak snarls. “In sentient beings. How can you even begin to justify that?” 

“The same way, I think,” Nala says, with infinite control, “that you and your Republic justify using a clone army.” 

Shaak spits a curse in Togrutan, one Ahsoka knows would get her in terrible trouble if she said it around Obi-Wan, and brings her lightsaber closer to Nala’s neck. “You think you can do this and get away with it? It’s not just Jedi Knights who would have died. It would’ve been padawans — younglings . They trust the clones to protect them. We trust the clones to protect them. It would’ve been a slaughter, on both sides.” She shakes her head, like she’s trying to comprehend. “How could you?” 

“Again. The same question could be asked of you.” 

“And it has been asked, Lady Se,” Plo says. “Asked and answered. I think you will find that our answer is clear.”

Lama Su’s fishy eyes flick from Plo’s lightsaber, to his face, and back again. “What do you want?” 

“Many things.” Plo glances back at Wolffe, who is near his side, as always. “I want time to turn back, so I can help my Wolf Pack before any of their number are lost in a war orchestrated by a madman. I want to see Chancellor Palpatine judged for his crimes. I want my Order to have made a different choice.” An ache fills his voice at the last part, and Ahsoka ducks her head a little. She wishes that too. “But I imagine you are asking what will cause Master Ti to take her lightsaber away from your compatriot’s throat.” His lips twitch into a smile again. “I believe your complete surrender and the lifting of the lockdown protocols that have caused us so much inconvenience will suffice. What do you think, little ‘Soka?” 

“I think it’s the least they can do.” Ahsoka angles her sabers downward so they burn against the white plasteel floor, which warps and shimmers in the heat. 

“What will you do if we surrender?” Lama swallows visibly, and he looks so pathetic that Ahsoka almost loathes him more. It’s clear he’s not used to not being the one in control. 

“Not kill you,” Rex offers, his lightsaber thrumming. Nala and the other scientists stare at him like they can’t believe he’s wielding it. “Enough of an incentive?” 

Lama looks at him for a moment and nods. “Very well. We surrender, Master Jedi.” He dips his head in some kind of bow, but Ahsoka doesn’t like the smile on his thin lips. “You truly cannot fathom what you have gotten involved in.” 

“Oh, we ‘fathom’ it just fine,” Ahsoka says, imitating his accent in the most mocking way she can. “Lift the lockdown, kriffhead.” 

“Such lovely manners from a padawan.” Lama moves to a panel set in the wall and presses his long fingered hand against it. “Your master must be very proud.” The security door behind them rumbles open, in spite of the melted hole through its middle. The sound of more doors opening all over the facility echoes through the corridor they came through.

“He is,” Ahsoka replies, tilting her head. “I helped beat you, didn’t I?” 

Shaak pushes away from Nala with a grunt, snapping her saber back to her side. Her shoulders heave, and there’s a long growl building in her throat that sets Ahsoka’s teeth on edge. 

Nala slouches just a fraction, pressing up against the wall, and lays her fingers against her throat, like she’s making sure it’s still intact. “And what will you do now, Jedi? You may have won this facility, but how will you prevent the Republic and the rest of your Order from taking it back? I can’t help but notice you have yet to call for reinforcements.” 

Ahsoka grins. “Oh, don’t worry. We have plans.” 

* * * 

Shaak didn’t expect to be so happy to leave Kamino. She’s spent a year here, and she can’t pretend she wasn’t happy to have some space between her and the bureaucracy of the Jedi Council. Here she felt like she was doing something that had meaning — that would help the whole Republic. 

She thought that it was better that she was here, watching over the clones and making sure they weren’t mistreated. It was a morally fraught situation, she reasoned, and she just had to do the best she could. There was a war to be fought, and innocent citizens who needed protecting. She believed what she was doing mattered. That there was no other way. 

A year too late, she’s realized how wrong she was. It took a youngling, not even old enough to be out of the creches if she were a Temple child, to finally make Shaak see. 

It was never complicated. It’s always been simple. 

Clones flow around her, faces alternately confused, excited, and unsure as they hurry through the facility, toward the gunships that are waiting for them in the main hangar. Plo and Sian commanded the whole fleet of them to launch in order to convey the clones to the destroyer that’s in orbit. The transport has gone smoothly so far, with all the cadets, their youngling siblings sticking close to their sides, filing onto the ships in practiced ranks, tense and wide-eyed. She can only imagine what they’re feeling, realizing that the Republic they were ready to serve cares nothing for them, the Chancellor they swore loyalty to betrayed them in the most ruthless way, and the Jedi they would fight under are in danger of dying by their hand. Or they were, before Versé sent out the kill code. 

The much younger clones, the toddlers, babies, and the ones still gestating in their pods, have been more complicated to move, but the Kaminoans thankfully have a set of specialized ships in case of an emergency. They had to force Nala Se and a few other scientists to show them how to transport the pods and set them up inside the ships, attached to the specialized life support. Shaak helped with that, and she caught herself staring at the little things — some hardly as big as the space between her first and second knuckle, with translucent skin and tiny, curled bodies. She’s never really seen them before — seen the truth of what they are. They’re just younglings, innocent and precious, and she was content to send them into battle. 

Not any more. Never again. 

She stands in the hangar, hands clenched at her sides as she watches the last batch of clones scramble into the gunships. The Kaminoan ships are nearly full, brimming with chattering younglings and wailing babies. There’s just the last set of gestating clones, and a squad of their brothers are loading them in as Shaak watches. 

Then they’ll leave. They’ll leave this cursed place behind. 

How many lives would’ve been saved if she had opened her eyes even a few months earlier? And what about the Council? How can they condone this? Surely they see — Master Yoda is a thousandfold wiser than she is, and yet he allows this. Why? She doesn’t understand. When did the Jedi become so blind? 

It’s fitting, she supposes, that Anakin Skywalker is the one who brought them back into the light. The Council has always believed he is destined for great things, but as always, they believed they understood what those things were. 

She thinks they were wrong. About many things, but definitely about Anakin. 

There’s a presence behind her, and she looks down to see 99, the clone caretaker of all the cadets and younglings on Kamino. His head is bald, and his face is prematurely wrinkled, with one side drooping a little. There’s a hunch to his back, making him stand unevenly, but the smile he directs at her is possibly the kindest she has ever seen. She’s always liked him, especially since he managed to inspire Domino Squad to actually pass their training. She smiles back, although she’s sure it looks forced.

“It’ll be all right, my lady,” he says, looking toward the clones still boarding the ships. “We’ll get out okay and figure all this out. I hear the chips are already dead, so that’s half the work done.” He nods briskly. “Things will be unsteady for a while, but they will even out after a while. They always do.” 

His certainty shores her up a bit, in a way she didn’t realize she needed. “Thank you, 99.” She looks at him again, and the next words spill out before she really thinks. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m responsible for all of this — I should have looked more closely, I should have stopped them from deploying you, I should’ve stopped the genetic screening, I…” She stops, chin dropping to her chest. “I should’ve protected you. Please forgive me.” 

99 is silent for a moment, and she almost thinks he’s going to refuse. She wouldn’t blame him. Then, he says, “It’s all right, my lady. I forgive you. I think we all do. You weren’t trying to hurt us. Half of us didn’t even realize we were being hurt.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” she says fiercely.

“Guess not,” he concedes. “But you’re helping us now, aren’t you? Everyone sticks their foot in it sometimes, but what matters is whether or not you try to fix your mistakes.” 

“This is a bit more than, er, sticking my foot in it, 99.” 

He shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, conceding again. “But you’re our lady, Master Ti. You’re the first kind voice we hear that’s not from a brother. You’re the one all those cadets go into training trying to impress.” Another shrug. “You’re part of us, my lady. Family. Makes it easier to forgive.” 

Her lips part a little. “I don’t deserve that, 99.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Some days, a good chunk of my brothers don’t deserve it. Doesn’t change anything. Family isn’t something you deserve. It’s something you’re given, and it’s something you choose.” 

“But —” 

“Oh, come on, my lady.” He shakes his head, giving her another wide smile. “Don’t make it all complicated. It just is. ” 

She presses her lips together, pressure building in her nose and burning her eyes. “Thank you, 99.” 

“It’s nothing.” He nods to one of the Kaminoan ships. “You riding with us?” 

“If that’s all right.” 

“I told you,” he says reproachfully, “don’t complicate things. Our lady can always ride with us.” 

Shaak thinks she really might cry as she follows 99 toward the ship. She doesn’t deserve his kindness, or his regard. Or anything, really. Her crimes against him merit a harsher reaction, but she has no right to tell him or any of the clones how they should feel — Force knows she’s done that enough in the past. 

But she will do everything she can to be worthy of being their lady. That’s a promise she makes to herself as she steps onto the ship, surrounded on every side by brothers calling to each other. 

She will be their protector, whatever it takes. 

* * * 

It’s strange to be on a destroyer that’s inside a planet’s atmosphere. It’s even stranger to be on a destroyer that’s filled to the brim with cadets and younglings who are either shellshocked or so anxious that they can’t stop talking. 

He’s somehow ended up with Omega clinging to his hand, with her little brothers grouped around them both, and he and the younglings stand on the unusually crowded bridge stare down at the facility, partially obscured by lashing rain. 

That is his first home, where all his best and worst childhood memories live and where he and all his brothers (and one sister) were born. For better or worse, it’s where he came from, but it’s not where he’s going. 

“Are you scared?” Omega’s voice is small, and she tips her head back to look at him, gaze uncertain. 

“‘Course he’s not scared,” Hunter says authoritatively, probably trying to sound older than he is because he is scared but doesn’t want to admit it. “He’s a captain in the army. They’re never scared.”

Rex squeezes Omega’s hand. “I am, little one. A little.” He winks at Hunter. “Captains have to be afraid sometimes. It means you care about your men.” 

Hunter wrinkles his nose, apparently disliking the idea that being an adult and a captain doesn’t equate to fearlessness, but some of the tension leaves Omega’s shoulders, and she offers a small smile. “I’m scared too,” she whispers, and her childish belief that she was hiding her fear is so endearing that Rex almost hugs her. 

“Me too,” Hunter puts in, clearly very annoyed by this fact. He leans his head against Rex’s side, glaring through the view screen as though that will take away his fear. 

“It’ll be all right,” Rex says, hoping his sounds reassuring. The truth is, he has no idea if this will be all right. It’s unprecedented, it’ll cause upheaval all through the Republic, and it’ll definitely — definitely — make all of them traitors. But they don’t have any other choice, and he doesn’t want another choice. He wants to see this happen, wants it with all his might. 

“We’re in position,” Ahsoka says, joining them. She bounces on her heels, hugging herself and just barely stopping her teeth from chattering. “The facility’s empty, and Sian says Lama Su and the scientists are all secured in the brig. Which is more than they deserve,” she adds darkly. Shaking herself, she looks at him, a question in her eyes and worry in the wrinkles in between her brow ridges. “Are you ready?” 

Ready as he will ever be. It feels strange to be the one giving the order, but none of the Jedi seem particularly anxious to take command unless it makes sense to do so. He has a feeling that Shaak will never issue them an order again. 

He draws in a deep breath, memorizing the shape of the facility, the way its walls curve and the elegant arrangement of the different sections. Waves assail it on all sides, heaving and foamy and angry, like teeth snapping at it and trying to drag it down beneath the water.

And it’s completely empty, with even the droids safely sequestered on the destroyer and the Kaminoan ships. Ahsoka wouldn’t let them leave any behind. 

Everyone is waiting for him to speak. He shuts his eyes and lets the triumph overwhelm him, even though it halfway hurts. When he opens his eyes, he nods to the weapons officers and says, “Send it to the bottom of the ocean.” 

They leap to obey, and weapons fire rains down on the facility. Explosions burn orange and red against the endless rain and the hungry gray ocean. Support posts collapse, whole sections tear free and crash into the waves, swallowed up in an instant. In a few short minutes, it’s over. The facility, which has withstood a hundred years of constant storms and hurricanes, disappears beneath the ocean it has so long fought against. 

There’s a stretch of silence afterward, until Ahsoka says, “Well, that’s certainly going to shake things up.” 

Chapter Text

35 

Two Faced Conversations

Padme hasn’t seen the Senate in such an uproar since the first days of the war, when dozens of politicians realized that the war they’d so long courted had finally come home to roost. As she hurries down the halls toward the Senate chamber, she has to dodge around representatives, aides, and members of the Guard.

Unlike last time, she knows far more than they do. The news of the Kaminoan cloning facility’s destruction has just reached Coruscant, after a cruiser sent to transport the latest batch of graduated cadets arrived at Kamino to find nothing but empty ocean. The only trace left was some rubble, light enough to be borne to the surface by the waves. No bodies have been discovered yet, but with ocean currents and such, it’s possible no one will ever be recovered. 

Padme knows no bodies will be found, because there aren’t any to be found. The Republic’s supply of clones is cut off, and no one in the Senate knows why. Except Padme and Bail, and the very last thing they’re going to do is tell anyone. Padme would like to keep her head firmly attached to her shoulders, and while the Republic has favored lethal injections for several hundred years, she wouldn’t put it past them to revive beheading for this particular brand of treason. 

Treason. She still can’t quite fathom the idea that she’s turned on the Republic she’s sworn to serve. Padme remembers appearing before the Senate as a young queen, a naive girl entering galactic politics for the first time, and being certain that the stories of the great Republic were just that — stories. Whatever the government was in the past, it had long been corrupted into a barely functioning bureaucracy that served no one except the elite. She still thought that when she was sworn in as a senator, but it was personal then. This was her Republic, she decided, and she would fix it or die trying. 

Apparently, there was a previously unforeseen third option: espionage. 

She holds the embers of her hope close to her chest, trying to hang on to the belief that the Republic can be saved. But those embers grow dimmer each day, and after a year of conflict that put the worst parts of the Republic on full display, they were already nearly dead. As it stands now, she’s no longer at all sure the Republic is salvageable. A substantial part of the Senate openly supports a manufactured slave army. Senators fawn over Palpatine, either blind to his lies, party to them, or careless of them. The Jedi Order has failed the people, and if the leak about Orn Free’s murder means anything, at least a part of the Coruscant Guard is neatly in the Chancellor’s pocket. 

The more Padme fights against Palpatine, fights to free the clones, the less she wants to be associated with the Republic. And frankly, she’s not certain anything meaningful will come from releasing the information she, Anakin, and the others have gathered. It might only get them arrested, and that isn’t acceptable. 

Discussions were had on Mandalore, during a holo conference with Satine, Bail and Breha, and Queen Jamilla from Naboo. And, during those discussions, the subject of secession was broached — something Padme still finds hard to believe. She finds it especially hard to believe because she was the one to bring it up. It isn’t something she ever thought she would consider. It’s Separatist talk, everything she’s lobbied against for years now. But she’s starting to think the Separatists have a point — at least when it comes to the ideals that drive them.

Secession had not been the controversial topic that Padme anticipated. Queen Breha, peaceful and civic minded as she is, said she had been considering the matter since the Naboo Crisis, when she first realized how much control corporations and federations had over the Senate, and how little the plight of the people meant to the Senate. Satine has been, for all intents and purposes, seceded for just over a decade now, waging her own secret war against the corruption at the heart of the Republic. 

As for Jamilla… Well, she had been in the camps on Naboo during the Crisis — just a child at the time. She toes the political line in public, making sure everyone believes that Naboo is a loyal member of the illustrious Republic, but Padme knows the truth. Over the past ten years, Naboo and her people have been steadily moving further and further away from the Republic, in heart and soul, if not in action. There’s a reason Jamilla so readily agreed to shelter clones on Naboo. Why she has enlisted doctors, sworn to secrecy, to help with chip removal, and why she smiled a small, venomous smile the entire time. 

Naboo is peaceful. It’s the Emerald of the Republic, a bountiful, green planet full of kind, gentle people who never hesitate to open their homes to those in need. 

And perhaps all that is true. But that is also a front that Naboo projects to the rest of the galaxy, one borne of long habit and a tradition of coming at the enemy from behind, when they least expect it. The real Naboo is one of secrets and of a bitter determination to do what is right, damn the consequences. It is silvery guns hidden away in thrones, young handmaidens trained to fight and die for their queen, beautiful gowns that conceal listening devices or weapons, and frivolous parties where bargains are struck and wars are averted. 

All this meant Jamilla was the easiest to convince, because whether she knew it or not, she has been waiting for this opportunity for a decade, and the people of Naboo knew that full well when they elected her. 

Padme remembers feeling different from the rest of her people. Now she doesn’t, and secession is sounding more and more like a viable option if it becomes necessary in order to protect the clones and fight Palpatine. 

She marches down a curving hallway that leads to the antechamber that connects to her senatorial pod, flanked by Eirtae and Sabe, her most combat trained handmaidens. They’re both armed, with the kind of blasters that can pass through Senate security. Padme’s own blaster is a reassuring weight at her side, concealed in a holster accessible through a secret slit in her gown. 

She’s so focused on her thoughts that she doesn’t realize there’s someone in front of her until Eirtae closes a hand over her arm in warning. She lifts her head to see Chancellor Palpatine, with two of his guards on either side of him. His bluish eyes smile when he looks at her, and there’s not a strand of his smoothed back white hair out of place. His elegant scarlet and burgundy robes hang off him, neat and covered in rich embroidery. There’s not a hint of who he really is on his face, only the kind old mentor she remembers from her younger years, but she has to swallow down revulsion in order to meet his gaze in a friendly manner. 

That’s how Palpatine works, she realizes. He gets to you when you’re young, and he becomes a confidant, a mentor. He takes advantage of the loyalty you feel, and he uses it. It’s what he did with Anakin, and she aches to rip out her blaster and shoot him in the head, because he tried to take her husband away from her. 

And she’s not the only one in danger any more. It takes all her self control not to lay her hand against her stomach protectively. He’s a Sith Lord. Can he sense her pregnancy? Can he hurt the baby? 

“Senator Amidala, my dear,” he says, bowing his head in a greeting. “I assume you’ve heard the news about Kamino. We truly live in unprecedented times.” 

Padme watches him for a second, wondering how angry he is about losing the Kaminoan facility. He hides it well. “Yes,” she says, and it’s not hard to sound unnerved and breathless. “Does anyone have any idea what happened?” 

“No,” he replies. “Whoever did this left no trace.” 

“It must have been Separatists,” she says. “Who else would want to deal a blow like this?” Heartbeat in her ears, she reaches out to Anakin through her bond with him like he instructed her to, and his presence swells in her mind, shielding her thoughts and feelings from Palpatine. It’s like someone draped a blanket over her and put a false holo broadcast over the top to keep Palpatine from realizing a shield has been put up. If she focuses, she can almost hear the false front, chattering and anxious over whether or not the Separatists will carry out some kind of second strike.