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Standing before the window of her official residence, Padmé is a figure carved from stillness. Coruscant appears golden against the setting sun — the Temple especially glowing like a beacon of unending guidance.
It is a strange realisation that a part of her more practical nature cannot begin to rationalise, but she senses the bond between Anakin and herself suddenly pulled taut. Fear. Longing. Confusion. Everything just feels so wrong.
Thus with eyes shut, Padmé breathes to ease the tightness in her chest. Palms press comfortingly to her belly. “There is nothing to be afraid of. All is well. All is…” A bolt of pain spears through the young woman’s abdomen then, sharp enough to draw a cry from her throat. She doubles over with one hand splayed against a nearby wall. It is nothing like the cautious twinges Emdee had warned her about. No, this feels too violent and immediate. “Not now…” she whispers to herself “No, not yet.”
It’s too soon. So once the pain fades, Padmé fumbles for her comlink with trembling fingers and manages to punch Anakin’s frequency — no answer.
Shiraya help her. There is barely enough time to swallow this budding terror before the agony returns, jagged and stronger, crushing any such breath from her lungs. Padmé bites down a sob when she tries again “Ani… please.”
Still nothing as a hollow ache begins to bloom beneath her ribs. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. Fear spikes so violently in her blood that she feels sick, breaths coming too fast and shallow now. Regardless. She presses a hand even firmer upon her belly, assurances soft to the baby, albeit through clenched teeth “I have you, my darling. Hold on. Just… stars, just hold on.”
The next contraction hits her like a tidal wave.
Chancellor Palpatine’s office has become a desecrated shrine of shattered transparisteel, scorched furniture and fallen Jedi. Lightning still dances in erratic flickers along the ruined window frame — blowing gusts of wind through its broken aperture and tugging at him like frantic hands.
His rage refuses to dissipate. Proudly does he hunch at the centre of devastation instead, form twisted by his own power and a ruined disguise that now reveals Sidious’ true visage collapsing inward like hardened lava.
Jedi Masters lie sprawled around him. Everything has gone according to plan and yet, Anakin Skywalker — meant to bear witness and become his apprentice — is nowhere in sight. Instead, this boy has grown unpredictable. The Sith Lord extends his senses outward like talons scraping across Coruscant then, seeking Skywalker’s familiar brightness. Where is the heat of his anger? The pathetic pulse of his desperation for love? Such emotions, usually so transparent, seem to have become a muddied tangle of threads he cannot immediately unravel.
Thus for the first time in longer than he cares to admit, Sidious feels something thin and sharp slide beneath his rubs. Not fear… but a cool awareness.
The Republic was always going to crumble. Always. In the grand scheme of it all, neither Sidious nor ‘Palpatine’ has ever needed Skywalker — but oh, does he want the boy. Even now he wants him with a hunger as old as the Sith themselves, for nothing is more delicious than a chance to turn the Jedi’s golden child into mockery. To bastardise the prophecy they have done nothing but squander anyway.
So much raw, untamed power contained in a single being. Having sculpted all that unprecedented potential from their most tender years, really, Skywalker was to be his masterpiece — and now? Could he still pivot toward the destiny Sidious has spent over a decade trying to prevent? Did the Sith Lord wait too long to secure his final leash?
There is also the matter of Padmé Amidala.
The one variable Palpatine himself has steadily lost control over these last few years — the one person whose presence in Anakin’s life resists corruption. A pulse of annoyance flickers through him, followed by uneasy doubt. If Skywalker truly is the Chosen One, and the Force has tethered him to that woman and their unborn children? They may very well be the fulcrum of his fate.
He will not risk leaving any root of simmering rebellion alive, because if love — the oldest and most inconvenient of attachments — still binds Anakin Skywalker? Then all may still be lost. A snarl coils up his throat. Sidious refuses to entertain such a possibility when victory is already so close, he can taste its sweetness.
Thus his transmission boots to life as planned and a singular message merges across the galaxy, addressed to every commander on roster. “Execute Order 66.”
The word spreads like a plague then.
“Commander Fox,” though he keeps one particular line on the holocall after “Additionally… dispatch covert units to locate Senator Amidala and all known associates under the Delegation of 2000. They are traitors to the Republic.” A pause and he contemptuously spits his final precaution “If you encounter resistance, do not hesitate to fire.”
The med-transport climbs away from 500 Republica, repulsors whining with its hurried ascent. Padmé has been carefully strapped to a side wall as knuckles turn white across the edge of her seat — shallow breaths measured in a desperate attempt to remain composed. Captain Typho of her security detail stands near the door meanwhile, boots planted to compensate for turbulence.
She had called him up from where he was running standard perimeter checks downstairs once it became clear that Anakin could not pick up his comlink.
Suddenly, another contraction grips her like a fist made of fire and she folds forward with a strangled gasp. Typho is beside her in an instant “Steady, milady. We’re almost to the medcenter.” She nods, though the world is blurring slowly. Padmé wants her husband. She has half a mind to demand their pilot make a stop at the Temple just so they can broadcast his name with an amplifier there and draw him out — but almost as if on cue? Said pilot calls back over the intercom “Approaching the midtown corridor. Traffic’s heavy, but we’ll make it through.”
Typho opens his mouth to respond when a shadow sweeps over the viewport. Padmé looks up to see two republic starfighters drop into formation beside them and for a heartbeat, she is hopeful that they’re part of the 501st.
… until one of them pivots and its tail gunner angles toward them. Typho’s face drains of colour. “Get down!”
The transport lurches violently as scarlet bolts rake across their hull. Padmé screams despite herself, absorbing an impact so jarring that her teeth clack together just as sparks burst from a nearby panel. “What in seven hells are they doing?!” She shouts as soon as the captain is close enough to hear her “Why are they targeting us?!”
Unfortunately, there’s no time for answers. Only survival. “Pilot, evasive manoeuvres!” Typho barks and they dive abruptly enough that her stomach flips; but not before a direct hit slams into their rear thrusters. The ship wobbles then and tips into a sickening spiral. “Brace! Brace!”
Padmé’s body jolts with every violent rotation despite Typho’s sturdy frame holding her in place. Vision turns into nothing more than streaks of colour until at the very last possible second? Their pilot manages to wrestle the ship out of its death spin. The landing is still a crash — just slowed enough that they skid across a durasteel platform carved into Coruscant’s dark underlevels instead, metal screeching before grinding to a rattling halt.
As smoke fills the cabin, she immediately unbuckles herself while Typho scans for threats “Senator. Stay behind me.” Padmé nods, chest heaving as she lets him help her off to then meet their pilot outside. He taps his earpiece. “Command, this is Captain Typho requesting immediate backup. Our transport has been attacked by Republic forces. I repeat, we were fired upon by—”
Static.
He switches channels.
“Lina Soh Medical Center. We have a pregnant senator in active labour. Urgent emergency request—”
More static. He switches again.
“Senate Guard — any unit — respond!”
Nothing.
“The comms have been jammed, milady.” He tries again and again, but every frequency is dead. Hands slide protectively around her belly as Padmé feels dread extend its spindly fingers like a cold hand. “I believe something larger is at play here, Captain.” Certainly worse than the whole planet simply going dark without warning.
She has seen precursors of this in private committee meetings. The quiet censorship, Chancellor Palpatine’s tightening fist. Thus grounded by the baby’s faint kicks against her palm, it helps Padmé think back to their own countermeasures. The Delegation of 2000 was meant to be diplomatic and nonviolent — but accompanying the petition she drafted with her colleagues were hidden assurances. Conversations behind sealed doors with external connections, loyal staff and senior Republic pacifists who had prepared contingency plans long before anyone dared to admit they would be necessary.
She steadies her breath. They must move.
“Pilot,” Padmé observes that the platform beneath them is dim; just one of countless forgotten ledges in Coruscant’s underbelly “Where is your astromech?”
He blinks. “Still in place, milady. R5-M2. I think it’s a little uh, damaged now… but functional. Why?” If she had learned anything throughout these last few years, watching this war twist the Senate while allies whispered amongst themselves in shadowy hallways — it’s that official channels can be controlled. Droids, less so.
“I need its short-range transceiver,” Padmé explains “We can try to piggyback onto the autonomous droid mesh. They pass encrypted maintenance packets between one another, and those aren’t subject to military jamming.”
Neither member of her lean security detail asks any further questions. They just move, Typho helping Padmé along towards R5-M2 who appears to be stuck in its designated cradle. The pilot nonetheless hands her a small console on which he uses for minor diagnostics.
She wastes no time punching the interface, overriding protocols recognised from briefings and half-forgotten emergency drills. The terminal eventually lights up with lines of code that only require her memorised commands. Never mind that she must type them in bursts — stopping every few seconds to breathe through the pain of labour.
Though it is almost like muscle memory since, years ago as a newly elected Queen, she had painstakingly mastered the art of ciphered phrases and hidden channels. How to evade detection by occupying forces, or slip information through blockades and hostile sensors. This feels like a brutal evolution of those early lessons, if anything.
R5’s dome flickers faster now, in any case, routing into the hidden subnetwork far below standard Republic monitoring. As soon as a coded pulse is sent out from their coordinates, all they can do is wait. Padmé rests her forehead against the astromech’s side for who knows how long until suddenly? She hears the faintest chirp.
A response!
“The signal is coming from twenty-two levels up,” Typho reads the translation onscreen and his eyes widen “Alderaanian signature. It’s one of Senator Organa’s!”
Before they can celebrate, however, the durasteel railing beside them explodes in a shower of sparks — blasterfire cutting straight through as clones flood the adjoining catwalk with rifles in position. The captain pulls Padmé behind him just as another volley scorches overhead. R5, on the other hand, trills noisily until a bolt slams into its dome and cuts their fragile line to Organa altogether.
Half a standard hour earlier.
“Senator Organa, you are hereby under arrest. Please surrender peacefully.” A ring of clone troopers starts to form around the Senate building’s landing platform as Bail slowly leaves his speeder with both hands visible.
“On what grounds?” He demands sharply “What crime have I been accused of?”
“By directive of the Chancellor,” their lead answers with mechanical indifference “You are to be detained for acts of subversion and collusion with known Jedi traitors.”
It hits like ice water, of course. Shock? No. Rather, a confirmation of everything they have been rallying against for months on end now. Still, he refuses to back down. “Traitors? This is an abuse of authority. I demand to speak directly with Chancellor Palpatine now and—” the first bolt aimed at his heart is far from a ‘warning’ shot.
Though Bail somehow dives back into his speeder as blasterfire erupts like a hailstorm, scorching the duracrete where he’d been standing just an instant before. His own security detail returns fire, taking cover behind struts and cargo crates, but they are woefully outnumbered three to one. “This is a sanctioned detainment!” The commander barks “Stop resisting arrest, Senator Organa!”
What? They opened fire first! Another volley tears across his back fender as he has no other choice but to shoot forward, clearing the platform in a single burst of acceleration — and despite swiftly dropping into lower traffic, laser bolts still streak past his windshield. Blast! The clones wasted no time commandeering two speeders and are now tailing him with frightening efficiency.
An authoritarian shadow looms over them all and Bail cannot outfly its insidious presence fast enough. He swerves hard into a narrow tunnel, hoping to lose them, but is eventually met with a dead end instead. The entire corridor has been locked down. A trap. His pursuers fan out to block any retreat behind him. “Senator,” comes a muffled voice “This is your final warning.”
Bail releases a deep exhale and squares his shoulders. If this is it? By the stars, he shall meet it standing. The clones level their rifles as soon as he leaves his speeder.
The man lifts both hands, prepared to speak his last words with whatever dignity this moment will permit — though a rising whine cuts through the tension. It grows fast. Too fast. Every helmet pivots, boots scraping with hesitation as somebody shouts “Incoming!” Yet their warning is swallowed by the roar of an engine pushed far past safety.
A swoop bike hurtles into the corridor’s mouth when it slams through an adjacent hatch. Metal shears. Sparks fan out in a shower of white-hot arcs. Shockwaves throw debris and scatter troopers aside like startled birds while the rider leaps off just as it begins to skid sideways, landing in front of Bail with inhuman precision.
Anakin Skywalker.
Cloak in tatters, face streaked with soot — and his right sleeve happens to be empty. Burnt where a cybernetic arm had once been. “Senator…” he ignites his lightsaber one-handed nonetheless, panting “Stay behind me.”
Scrambling back into formation, the troops immediately open fire and launch him into effect; blade blurring through the air in controlled arcs while making sure to angle every deflection into duracrete walls and ceilings.
Never toward the clones themselves.
Bail ducks low just as Anakin somersaults toward the bulk of these men to better disarm them. It takes a while, but with some Force assisted manoeuvres, the last trooper is finally stunned to unconsciousness.
“Are they dead?” The senator staggers closer, wide-eyed and shaking as he takes it all in.
“Knocked out. I’m not in the habit of murdering my own men even when they’re trying to kill me…” he gestures with his right stump “and they’re, unfortunately, getting better at it.” Despite danger pressing in from all sides, Anakin can’t help the smallest ghost of a smile at Bail’s abject horror. “Don’t worry. It was a prosthetic.”
“Oh.”
They waste no time piling into Bail’s speeder and shooting back out into the skylanes when a beeping distress signal interrupts what was meant to be an interrogation — on both their parts — but strangely enough, it comes through an encrypted line via his astromech droid. “That’s a Naboo signature,” Anakin reads the translation screen on his newfound companion’s panel “… Padmé?” The world shrinks to a single, trembling datapoint then.
He remembers that his comlink is nowhere to be found. Kriff! Just as quickly as the pings came, however, did they cut short. “Wait, I didn’t catch the coordinates!” Bail gasps in a panic only for Anakin to punch them into the navigation system himself “I did. Hit the throttle.”
Their speeder instantly becomes a streak of blue fire in the night and it isn’t long before Coruscant’s underlevels stretch before them like a jagged maze. Padmé’s coordinates pulse insistently on the console and it’s only once they’ve rounded what feels like an eternity of corner after corner that a harrowing scene comes into view: herself and Typho similarly outnumbered by armed clones.
Anakin leaps from high off the speeder without preamble then, lightsaber flaring to life in a brilliant blue arc and deflecting bolts every which way.
Padmé gawks when she sees him “Ani—!”
“Get in!” Hoarsely, he shouts over the din while Bail surges forward just a couple of seconds behind to receive them. Typho automatically helps her on even as she sends one last remorseful glance back to their pilot’s lifeless body by the transport ship. Though they do not have the luxury to grieve as Anakin finishes gathering her inside and following after into their escape. Once they reach the relative safety of Coruscant’s empty maintenance lanes, any such tension in that backseat quickly shatters.
Padmé sags against Anakin, body racked with sobs as the adrenaline of fear and pain gives way to raw relief. She buries her face in his chest, fingers clutched around the now tear-soaked tunic “I thought you were dead…”
The Jedi pulls her even closer by his left arm then, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. Her hair, her forehead, her hands. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs shakily “I’m here. I’m here now. I’ll never leave you again.”
From the front, however, Bail clears his throat as eyes flicker between them in a slow dawning realisation. “Ah…” he mumbles and that single syllable carries surprise and embarrassment altogether “You two…?”
Typho’s own head swivels from keeping an eye on their rear. A faint, albeit exasperated sigh soon follows. “Yes.” He answers rather simply “It’s a long story, Senator — and one they don’t have time to explain right now.”
Fair enough. Either way, the couple barely seem to notice anything outside their immediate bubble of relief. They stay entangled like that for a few moments until she gasps at the absence of his right arm. “I was ambushed at the Temple,” Anakin pulls back to regard her seriously “On my way back to you, they cornered me in the turbolift and...”
Her eyes widen “Why would they target you?”
“The Chancellor is a Sith Lord,” comes the bitter answer and each word is as carefully placed as though he still can’t bring himself to believe them “I’d made the discovery and reported it to Master Windu. He and several members of the Council were going to arrest Palpatine. Now, it seems he’s sprung his own trap.”
A hand flies to her mouth as though she’s been struck. “So, it’s true? We had our suspicions he was turning his sights on the Senate — but a Sith Lord?” Padmé trembles with dawning horror that the Republic she has been fighting for is indeed collapsing from inside and out.
“This explains everything…” Bail’s knuckles whiten around the controls, voice low “The emergency powers. The military overreach. He’s clearing the board.” Dark eyes flash in the rearview to meet Anakin’s probing gaze “The Delegation of 2000 has been targeted as well. Half our members have already gone into hiding. My own aides sent me a warning just before the channels went dark.”
Padmé’s breathing turns shallow, eyes darting as the final pieces snap together — every uneasy vote, every silenced critic. “All this time…” Though the rumination doesn’t last long. Anakin instinctively wraps an arm tighter around his wife when he feels her shiver, only for the young woman to stiffen with a sudden violence. “Angel?!” He panics when delicate hands begin to claw at his tunic and a sharp, strangled groan tears straight from her throat.
“Ani… it’s happening now.” She gasps, complexion paling even further as a palm presses to the underside of her belly. His own stomach drops. Of all the scenarios he had anxiously imagined? None of them included on a kriffing speeder, under fire. No… not now. Not like this. The visions he had fought so hard to suppress — dreams of her dying in childbirth once again flood his mind, vivid as a firestorm around them. “Padmé,” Anakin fights to keep his voice steady and calm for her “You’ll be alright. I swear it. I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”
Yet underneath, the gnawing fear persists.
“There is somewhere we can go!” Bail shouts over his shoulder nonetheless, punching the throttle as far as he can take it “Just hold on a little longer!” Coruscant blurs past in streaks of light — but for Anakin there is only her, their child, and the unyielding will to keep them all alive.
Bail takes them deeper into the lower levels than Padmé has ever been, guiding them through a maze of half-lit access corridors and abandoned frontage lanes known only to those who regularly deal with contingency infrastructure. The air grows cooler. The glow strips fewer and farther between. At last he angles toward what looks like a sealed duracrete wall, until a narrow slit of light appears and an iris door scans their careful approach.
“This is Alderaanian… off the record, at least.” He explains “It was built during the last major constitutional standoff. A delegation much like ours insisted on secure humanitarian sites in case martial law was ever declared. My grandfather oversaw the network.”
Anakin watches as the hidden door soundlessly reveals a narrow landing bay just big enough for their battered speeder to enter “You built shelters.”
“Options,” the senator affirms “No planetary oversight. It was meant to be a conflict-neutral medical waypoint for refugees.” A beleaguered breath leaves him “I never expected it to become necessary this soon.” The lights illuminate a clean, sterile corridor which should lead to emergency medbays and a sealed bacta pod.
Typho jumps out first, blaster drawn, to run a quick perimeter check while Anakin lifts Padmé — one-armed and with the help of the Force — following after Bail who is already activating the inner doors with a code.
“Come. The medical droids should be live now.”
Padmé is drenched in sweat as each wave of pain leaves her crying out even louder and clutching Anakin’s flesh hand with such ferocity, she might’ve forgotten that it isn’t actually his much sturdier cybernetic.
He never leaves his wife’s side, either way, murmuring encouragement in between her sobs and pressing gentle kisses anywhere that his lips can easily reach.
Emdees glide with efficient composure meanwhile, scanning vitals and calibrating the ancient but reliable birthing module embedded in their hardware.
Then with a guttural cry, the air shifts and a fragile wail eventually pierces through. Their baby is lifted into the glow of bright white medbay lights and Padmé collapses back onto her husband from sheer disbelief.
They think it’s done.
The droids exchange a flurry of beeps, however, and one turns its optical sensors toward them “There is another.”
Blue eyes widen. “Another…?!”
Padmé herself has only seconds to process this before the next contraction slams into her. Anakin’s breath catches, terror spiking in his chest. The visions. The nightmares. The screams. Still he shoves every ounce of these fears away, purely so she wouldn’t feel it bleed into their Force bond. “You can do this, my love…” he whispers fiercely against her hair instead “Just one more push.”
The second birth is faster, but harder. It has Padmé screaming with a strength she didn’t even know was left in her body. Anakin nonetheless supports his wife’s shoulders through each shuddering breath as he silently pleads with the Force to spare her — and then a second cry erupts like it’s shocked to be in the world at all.
Emdee employs the same gentle precision as before to announce “Infant two is stable.”
Padmé breaks, tears pouring down ruddy cheeks; positively overwhelmed when trembling hands cover her face. Anakin feels it too as his forehead drops onto her shoulder and relief nearly renders his body paralysed.
Two babies.
Two perfect children.
Everything moves so fast then and before long, the swaddled newborns are carefully placed in each of their parents’ arms. “They’re beautiful…” Padmé stares at the face nestled against her chest in wonder while Anakin keeps glancing between them all. “They’re perfect,” he grins “Padmé. You did this. You kept them safe.”
She finally tears her gaze away to smile up at him. “We did, Ani.” Thus for the first time all night, there is stillness. A quiet pocket of peace carved out against all odds.
It is during these precious few moments that Anakin and Padmé are content to be neither Jedi General, nor Senator responsible for the fate of an entire galaxy — but simply two parents holding their future for once.
Hours pass before anyone remembers the holonet terminal tucked into a corner of Organa’s hidden clinic. The world has shrunk to no more than sounds of newborn twins breathing softly — the rhythmic brush of fingertips across both Luke and Leia’s downy hair. Regardless. The galaxy is still burning and eventually, that truth forces its way back in. Switching the terminal on thus reveals a holonet flooded with emergency alerts and red banners.
“— multiple Jedi uprisings have been neutralised since the Order attempted to assassinate Chancellor Palpatine in an organised coup earlier today,” drones the announcer “We now go live to His Excellency’s Senate address.”
Anakin’s blood runs cold as more and more footage rolls in of his once-mentor declaring: “I am deeply saddened to inform you all that certain members within our Senate have been implicated in conspiracy and collusion with the Jedi. They have tried and failed to cast the shadow of Separatism over our great Republic, but alas! Take comfort in knowing that our enemies no longer have anywhere to hide. Arrest warrants have been issued for several individuals today… most notably Senator Amidala of my very own home, Naboo. This is what hurts most.”
Padmé freezes. Her children, barely hours old, already have a fugitive for a mother? “I knew opposing the war would make us targets… but he’s turning dissent into treason. It’s nothing short of rewriting reality altogether.”
In the face of his wife’s exhaustion, however, Anakin feels something hotter and sharper rise within him. Conviction. “He won’t get away with this,” he murmurs bitterly so as to not wake the sleeping infant in his arms “No matter how far his shadow spreads. We can’t let him win.”
Her eyes harden when they meet his, nodding.
The Republic is falling.
The Dark Side grows stronger.
… but their family is safe and somewhere, deep down, Anakin can still sense the Jedi scattered across a vast ocean of darkness like distant sparks. That tether very much remains alive and significant. There will be devastation ahead, yes. A fight they can’t possibly imagine. Yet in this hidden room beneath the city?
Hope is born twice over.