Chapter Text
C-3PO
The ship’s silence is almost worse than that horrible din which overtook Endor’s moon after the Death Star’s destruction. All the beating of drums and shouting, the nonsensical singing and triumphant chants of the victorious rebels. Not to mention the Ewok inhabitants still seeking to pay him homage as their divine ‘Golden One,’ the fulfillment of some prophecy or other. Bringing him food he could not consume and gifts more suitable for a Princess such as Mistress Leia than a protocol droid of his standing.
Yes, it was simply horrible; but the silence is worse.
Well. Almost.
C-3PO should be in his recharge cycle, but instead his lamp-like eyes blink warily in the dark, shifting at every slight noise. Every creak, every groan, every shift in the cargo, it all lights his circuits on fire with anxiety.
“You’re still up?” The voiceprint is Luke’s. He sounds tired.
“Oh, Master Luke,” 3PO exclaims quietly. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“Nah, you’re not disturbing me, 3PO.” Luke offers a weary smile, then scrubs his hands over his face and shakes his head a little. As if that might alter the depleted state of his organic battery. “Couldn’t sleep, is all.”
“I could procure a warm drink for you, if that would help. Captain Solo does have some modest offerings aboard.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m all right.” Luke settles on a crate next to 3PO’s charging station. “You having trouble sleeping, too, 3PO?”
“If you will excuse the correction, Master Luke, droids do not ‘sleep’ as organics do. Though I understand the confusion, as your sleep does resemble a droid which has powered down.”
Luke waves a hand. “You know what I mean. You’re having trouble charging?”
“Oh. I see.” Organics and their imprecise language; 3PO doesn’t think he’ll ever grow accustomed to it. “It is not that, Master Luke. It is simply…so much has transpired. I do not think I can power down while I’m still processing it all.”
Luke laughs. “I know how you feel.” He stares out the window at the starlight, stretched into lines as the Millennium Falcon careens through hyperspace. He is silent for a long moment (forty-three seconds to be exact) before he speaks again. “I miss him, you know.”
“To whom do you refer?” 3PO prods when Luke falls silent for another thirteen seconds with no indication of continuing. “We have lost many rebels and friends over these years of battle.”
“My father,” Luke clarifies, still watching the stars streak by. “I hardly knew him, and he did really terrible things, but…there was good in him. He proved that, in the end. But I never got the chance to…I guess I just miss my father.”
“I don’t,” C-3PO interjects with certainty. “He nearly destroyed all of us.”
“It’s different for you, though. He isn’t part of your family,” Luke counters with a faint lift to his lips that 3PO processes as ‘sadness.’ “Wasn’t part of your family,” he corrects quietly. “I can’t help thinking how everything might’ve turned out different, if I’d gotten to know him sooner.”
“I for one think it is for the best that we never knew him.”
“You’re probably right, 3PO.” Luke tears his gaze away from the stars and smiles at the protocol droid, again in that sad way. “No sense in trying to change the past.”
“Quite right, Master Luke,” 3PO affirms. “Quite right.”
The moment C-3PO’s Maker gave him sight was the moment he knew fear.
The dark had been a comfort.
In the dark, there was nothing to see, and therefore, nothing on which to fix his fear. What use was sight to a protocol droid, anyhow? Etiquette was the primary function for which his Maker had programmed him. Etiquette, and simple chores.
Besides, metal hands worked just as efficiently without the light as with it. In his dark, little universe there were only the voices of the Maker and his mother, the electric buzzing inside his scrap-metal chassis, and the sounds of the bustling city beyond their threshold, a distant thing which was easily ignored.
While blind, he could imagine a kinder world; a smaller world.
Now, he saw his naked frame and all the little ways the exposed wires could break or rust away to nothing. He saw the dire state of their hovel, how tiny his Maker was. He saw the throngs of people bustling beyond the hovel window, a crowd of immense proportion he could never hope to navigate.
It was all too much. Too real. He couldn’t bear it.
“He’s perfect.”
A girl regarded him steadily, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. She was talking to his Maker in familiar tones as they discussed the details of his construction.
‘Perfect,’ she’d said. Flattery was a new experience for 3PO, and not an unpleasant one. “Oh. Perfect,” he repeated quietly to himself. With those kind words, C-3PO’s world expanded just a little more. How delightful. How unexpected.
He staggered to his feet, walking unsteadily across the floor as he took in his surroundings with fresh visual units. There were others here, with his Maker and Mistress Shmi. Two strangers, one old and one young, and–
[Your parts are showing.]
A cheeky, rather rude little astromech unit. He introduced himself as R2-D2, before commenting on the state of 3PO’s bare chassis. And then he had the audacity to laugh. Such impertinence!
But the droid’s words rang with warning, repeating in recursive strings within C-3PO’s code. He could not help but imagine the harsh suns frying his memory cells; or think of overheating without enough coolant to regulate his temperature; or picture the coarse sand whipping through his unprotected servos and damaging his core processor.
It wasn’t his Maker’s fault. Of course not. His Maker had built him well.
But surely even a cheap metal shell would have sufficed? He would have accepted junkyard scrap, just to ease his worries.
And yet…’perfect.’ The girl thought he was perfect, just the way he was now. The catastrophizing strings all terminated at that single word: perfect.
If all organics were as kind and gentle as this girl and his Maker, he could get used to meeting more of them.
R2-D2
R2-D2 rolls through the dark interior of the Millennium Falcon, too restless to stay put at his charging station once the battery is full. He feels better roaming about the ship, more like himself when he’s on the move. Even if almost everyone else is still asleep.
It’s been a few days since they left Endor’s moon – and all the celebrations – behind. He misses the festivities and the noise. The ship gets too quiet. Unless you count Han and Leia’s bickering, or C-3PO’s constant prattling, which he definitely does not.
Tonight, however, the ship’s quiet is cut by the sound of voices drifting from the bay. That’s where he and 3PO dock during their recharge cycles.
R2 had already known 3PO wasn’t powered down. The protocol droid had tried to hide it, but the lamplight of his eyes was a dead giveaway, even while shuttered. Not to mention the way he flinched at the slightest noise, whimpering a little in that robotic voice of his that was made to replicate organic speech.
He wasn’t whimpering now, but holding a low conversation with Luke. Curiosity propels R2 forward, back into the bay. He whistles a short greeting, startling C-3PO. Luke merely smiles, waving at the astromech.
“Seems we aren’t the only ones awake,” Luke says.
R2 whirs an affirmative, then sends an inquiry to 3PO: [Still rattled from the fight?]
“Hardly,” C-3PO answers in his typical dismissive manner. “I am doing quite well, thank you.”
[Is that why you’re so jumpy?]
“Jumpy!” 3PO sounds affronted. “I am not jumpy, you oversized bucket of bolts.”
R2 whistles an unconvinced note, then gently rams against the protocol droid’s legs. [Then why aren’t you charging while everybody sleeps?]
“Oh, because you’re so busy charging,” 3PO retorts, not an answer.
[I already finished.]
“All right, you two,” Luke cuts in before the argument can escalate any further. “How about we all try and get some rest? Power down for the night. We’ll be out of hyperspace in a couple of days, and we can discuss everything that’s happened then. Sound good?”
C-3PO seems mollified, settling back against his charging station. “Yes, Master Luke. You are right, of course. This is no time to be sitting awake.” R2 snorts, but the protocol droid ignores it. “I shall endeavor to set aside my processing for the morning.”
R2-D2 whirs an uncertain note. His battery is full, and he can’t imagine sitting still another moment. He beeps twice, defiantly, at 3PO before rolling off into the belly of the ship again, the faint demand of “R2! Where are you going?” following him out.
R2-D2 never felt more free than while in the droid socket of an X-Wing. Soaring through space, making split-second decisions that would mean the difference between life and death for him and his pilot. It was exhilarating.
Some said Anakin’s recklessness had gotten into his code, that the foolhardy nature of General Skywalker had affected his personality core. Corrupted him, somehow.
R2 didn’t think so. He’d always had a brash streak to him. It was only that he’d rarely had the chance to show it. There were certain expectations of a droid who served under the Queen.
And then Padme had gifted him to Anakin, and the rest was history.
Anakin and Obi-Wan liked R2 just the way he was. He'd saved their Jedi skins more times than he could count (though if 3PO were here, he could probably give an exact number.) Over the course of the Clone Wars, R2-D2 had found ample opportunities to exercise his quick-thinking and problem solving skills.
In the heat of battle, you had to react fast.
“Watch out for those buzz droids, R2!” Anakin’s voice crackled over the comm.
R2 beeped an acknowledgement.
It would take more than a few buzz droids to best R2-D2!
He zapped them with his probes, instrument panels flying open to emit the buzz-killing static. Each one fell from the X-Wing with a scream and R2 whirred in triumph.
“Nice going, R2.” Anakin swung the X-Wing around so it was level with Obi-Wan’s and R4’s ship. “Now all we gotta do is get onboard that Star Destroyer.”
Whatever this fight might bring next, R2-D2 knew one thing for certain: they would face it without fear.
C-3PO
Lights flicker as the Millennium Falcon leaves hyperspace. C-3PO watches them nervously, counting the millisecond intervals between the flickers. Could it be a hyperdrive malfunction? Faulty wiring? What if the Falcon drops out of the sky, crash-landing on some desolate moon all because Captain Solo forgot to clean the carbon-scoring from his ship?
That would be a most inauspicious end to the rebel heroes, that’s for certain.
R2-D2 rolls up behind the fretful protocol droid and bumps against his legs. [What’s got you so worked up?] he chirps.
C-3PO turns away from the large window, arms akimbo, to regard the little droid. “Oh. It’s just you,” he remarks dryly. “If you must know, I think that there is something wrong with this ship.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my ship, Goldenrod,” Han interjects as he leans out of his captain’s chair. “Just sit tight, we’re coming up fast on the rebel base.”
“Sit tight?” 3PO sputters. “But, Captain Solo, where am I supposed to sit? There are no more chairs.” His eyes flick between the four occupied seats within the cockpit: Han and Chewie at the controls, Luke and Leia strapped into the seats behind them.
Chewbacca barks a loud, throaty laugh as he presses several buttons along the instrument panel, the ship shuddering in response. But 3PO hadn’t intended the question as a joke; in fact he was being quite serious.
“It’s a figure of speech, 3PO,” Luke answers in Captain Solo’s stead. “Han just means to wait until we’ve landed.”
“Wait for what?” 3PO mutters. “For the ship to scatter us across the planet’s surface?”
R2 prods him with a small probe arm, whistling: [Don’t be such a fusspot.]
Easier said than done. The ship rattles on reentry, which does absolutely nothing for 3PO’s already fraying nerves. He grasps onto R2’s dome when the ship lists to the left, muttering “Oh, I hate flying” under his breath.
By some miracle, the Millennium Falcon doesn’t fall to pieces around them before the rebel base comes into sight.
The base comprises a central, squat building with a circular roof, and landing pads which extend from it like spokes on a wheel. To the east lies a dense forest; to the north, white-capped mountains; and some fifteen clicks southwest, a curved coastline shimmering with black sand.
Ground crew members wave lighted batons in the air, directing them towards a landing pad along the ocean side of the base.
Only once they make landfall does 3PO release his hold on R2. The droid whirs at him petulantly, waving his probe arm, before rolling away.
3PO totters after on unsteady legs, calling: “R2, wait for me!”
R2 is pulling his scomp link from the door panel just as 3PO enters the main corridor. Four seconds later, the hatch hisses open and a boarding ramp lowers. C-3PO disembarks after the over-eager astromech, glad to be free from the cramped interior of the near-derelict YT-1300 light freighter.
The ground crew ignores him; he is only a protocol droid, after all. While some of the crew begin running checks on the freighter, others greet Master Luke and his companions.
3PO stays well out of the way. There must be a technician somewhere on this base who can help him recharge his rather depleted battery.
There is still much to be done, now that the war has ended. At least the worst is over.
C-3PO had not seen how this day could possibly get any worse. And yet, the universe always managed to surprise him. This was turning into a nightmare.
Oh, when he got his hands on that impatient little astromech unit! Well! He was going to have some very strong words with R2, once this was over.
Shove him onto an assembly line, would he? None of this would be happening now if R2 had just listened to him!
The droid factory (what a dreadful place!) was in full production, machines busy building other machines. It left a sour feeling in his circuits. Master Anakin had built him by hand, carefully selecting each component which made him the droid he was today. And it hadn’t been a machine, but Mistress Shmi, who had finished the work after Anakin won his freedom.
That was how it was supposed to go.
But now! Now! He’d been torn apart like common scrap, becoming nothing more than raw material for the war machine. His severed head attached to a factory-model body, marching to orders which he could not circumvent.
And where had his own body gone?
“R2-D2, get me out of here!” he shouted.
The assembly line carried him inexorably onward. It ended in a large chamber, filled with row upon row of identical battle droids. 3PO’s ill-fit body marched forward, falling into line with the rest of its brothers.
What did I do to deserve this? He hoped that R2 was staying out of trouble, at least. And that Anakin and Padme were safe. Of course, if their masters had needed their help, they would have asked for it. But try telling that to R2-D2.
An indeterminable amount of time passed with him just standing there, adrift in a sea of droids. His time-keeping functions were located in his main chassis, along with the rest of his body. Without them, time stretched forever forward and behind, endless and meaningless. Perhaps this was his life now. Standing in the silent dark, a statue without purpose.
But even as resignation set in, a mechanism groaned, and daylight cut across the metal horde from the rising gate.
Oh, what next? 3PO was afraid to even find out.
As one, the battle droids turned right and began marching forward. The familiar whir and crash of lightsabers reached 3PO’s audio processing units (at least those were still intact), their noise constant and overlapping.
So Anakin was no longer the sole Jedi on Geonosis.
Their platoon stepped into the arena. Then the mismatched body lifted its blaster and took aim.
“There’s been some terrible mistake!” C-3PO’s head exclaimed in despair as he fired. “I’m programmed for etiquette, not destruction!”
But the battle droid beneath him wasn’t stopping. This body reacted faster than C-3PO could warn away the Jedi who came into range, responding to some internal sensor he could not access. However, the Jedi Masters were called ‘Masters’ for a reason, and every blast was deflected with ease.
3PO felt a simmering frustration, not his own, transmitting through the circuitry that wired his head to this foreign body. A sort of battle fever, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
“Die, Jedi dogs!” C-3PO’s voice proclaimed, relaying an intent so abhorrent that abject horror quickly followed. “Oh, what did I just say?”
R2-D2
“What did I just say?” Han throws his hands in the air.
“Oh, do you need help remembering your words?” Leia retorts. “We have many holo-recorders at our disposal here. Take your pick, we’ll start keeping a log since your memory’s failing you.”
Angry color rises in Han’s neck, a sure sign of an impending argument which, frankly, R2-D2 doesn’t want to watch. He rolls over to Luke sitting in the hallway, whistling the question over the escalating shouts.
“Oh, them?” Luke says with a heavy sigh. “Don’t worry, they’ll work it out eventually. Just arguing over who’s gonna pilot the Millennium Falcon after she’s been patched up for our next mission.”
[Mission?] R2 beeps excitedly. [What mission?]
Luke laughs, patting R2’s dome.
“Well, the Emperor’s gone, but the Empire’s still got outposts everywhere,” he answers. “We’ve got fewer ships than rebels who wanna help, and Han’s an important figure in the rebellion now. Leia’s trying to convince him that he shouldn’t be flying off on his own, it’s too reckless. You can guess how that went over.”
[“No one’s flying my ship but me?”]
The corner of Luke’s mouth quirks into a smile, then leans in conspiratorially. “Leia doesn’t really agree with the decision, either. It’s something Mon Mothma asked her to talk over with Han. But Han especially doesn’t agree, and, well, I think they’re more used to arguing than agreeing.”
A burst of raised voices from the hangar seems to confirm this assertion.
Luke stretches his arms up and settles back on the bench, hands laced behind his head. “Eventually, Han’ll realize Leia doesn’t like the idea of hiding out here any more than he does, and they’ll work it out between them that they’ll both go in the Falcon together.”
[I’m going, too,] R2 declares.
“Are you?”
[I wanna help. Sitting around here is boring.]
“Boring?” Luke laughs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. All that bureaucracy that comes with safely deconstructing an Empire can get kind of dull. But we wanna do this right, without disturbing people’s lives too much.” He stands, dusting off his trousers, and motions for R2 to follow. “Tell you what, why don’t you come with me instead?”
[Depends. What’s your mission?] R2 feigns nonchalance, though his wheels send him rocking back and forth with anticipation. Luke always gets the best missions, after all.
Luke’s eyes go distant and wistful as he walks, expression softening. “I’m gonna find all the Jedi survivors.”
“The Jedi have tried to overthrow the Republic.”
Those words coming out of Anakin’s mouth felt wrong. Like someone had taken R2-D2’s motivator out and stuck it back in upside-down.
“I can’t believe that!” Padme retorted, echoing R2’s own feelings.
R2-D2 whistled and beeped urgently at C-3PO, turning to his friend for insight. The protocol droid paid closer attention to all the politics than R2 did; maybe he could explain this.
But 3PO merely hushed him. “Whatever it is,” he said in a low voice, “we’ll be the last to know.”
“Anakin, what are you going to do?” Padme placed a hand on Anakin’s chest, worry clouding her face.
War. They were talking about war.
And not the kind he’d been through with Anakin–one with clear sides, with a cause worth fighting for. Freedom and democracy and unity. The things Padme loved. The things Anakin had enlisted for, climbing the ranks to the post of General faster than anyone could scarce believe.
You couldn’t be a hero in this kind of war.
“The Separatists have gathered in the Mustafar system. I’m going to end this war.” He said it with such confidence, but it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t a mission from the Jedi, nor from the Senate. What was the Chancellor thinking?
R2 whirred restlessly, shifting from leg to leg, his visual receptors following Anakin as he paced the landing pad.
“Well, he is under a lot of stress, R2,” C-3PO commented, trying to comfort the worried little astromech. R2 could almost laugh. It was usually the other way around with them. R2 goading 3PO into action, trying to distract him from his spiraling, recursive thoughts in the only way he knew how.
Seeing Anakin like this had him rattled. And he didn’t like that feeling, not one bit.
Anakin broke from the embrace with Padme as he asked her to wait for him, then motioned for R2 to follow. R2 mounted the starfighter as 3PO said “Take care, my little friend” in farewell. Then they were lifting away from the city lights, bright as stars beneath them, and shooting off into the black for one final mission.
C-3PO
“Mission? What mission?” C-3PO demands shrilly from the over-eager astromech. “Isn’t the galaxy already saved?”
He concedes that there is much to be done in the way of building a new government. Discussions to be had, diplomats to elect, perhaps even a few parties to host. But a mission? That’s rebellion talk; there’s nothing left to rebel against.
Unless…oh, but what if there is?
[It’s top secret, so I can’t share the details. But if you want to come with, we could go ask Luke about it,] R2 suggests in his goading way.
3PO doesn’t like the sound of ‘top secret,’ although his curiosity is piqued, much as he hates to admit it. Anyhow, he suspects the astromech unit might be exaggerating about the secrecy of this mission.
After a long moment of deliberation (73.21 seconds to be exact), 3PO finally caves. “All right, fine. We’ll go and speak with Master Luke. But I’m not promising anything! It’s been far too long since I’ve had a proper tune-up, and I’m not keen on ruining this perfect polish.”
Luke is in the docking bay repairing his ship when the two droids find him. R2 whistles and beeps an excited salutation, and Luke rolls out from under the small fighter.
“Hey there, R2!” He greets as he removes his work gloves. Then, with a mix of surprise and warmth: “3PO! It’s unusual seeing you all the way over here. How was the tune-up?”
“Oh! It was quite excellent, Master Luke,” 3PO gushes. “The replacement motivator runs like a charm. And they buffed out all the dents in my shell! I feel like a new droid.”
“Glad to hear it, 3PO.” Luke claps him on the shoulder. “Now, what can I do for you both? Or are you here for a friendly chat?”
“Not that I don’t enjoy your company immensely, sir, but we are here on some small matter of business,” 3PO starts, before R2 cuts in rudely: [3PO wants to know about your mission so he can join us!]
“Really?” Luke looks between the droids with amusement. “You wanna come on my mission, 3PO?”
“Well, that entirely depends on the mission’s nature.”
Luke’s smile broadens. “R2 said much the same.”
R2 beeps an emphatic denial, but there’s no teeth to it. 3PO doubts R2 would ever turn down a chance to leave this base, no matter the mission.
“Erm, Master Luke…” 3PO asks, “what is the nature of your mission?”
“R2 didn’t tell you?” Luke’s eyebrows arch in surprise, and 3PO shoots a Look at R2. Secret mission, was it?
R2 merely whistles, the picture of innocence.
“I don’t mind explaining,” Luke says, putting away his tools as he talks. “Thing is, I figure there’s gotta be more than just Old Ben who tried to hide from the Empire. Other Jedi who survived the purge. I’m gonna find them, and then we’re gonna rebuild the Jedi Order. Or my own version of it, anyways.”
Jedi who survived the purge?
3PO glances over at the little astromech unit. The purge was before 3PO’s time, but not R2’s. He’d learned early on in their acquaintance not to ask about it. All he knew was that R2 had lost his dearest friends on that day, every one of them.
“Very well,” 3PO says with gravitas. “I will join you.”
“What are you doing?” C-3PO demanded as R2-D2 dragged Padme’s unconscious body across the ground. “You’re going to hurt her! Wait!!”
3PO rushed down the ramp and into the oppressive heat, shooing the astromech unit away with agitated jerks of his arms. He bent to his knees, cursing his limited range of motion as he slid one awkward hand under Padme’s head and then another beneath her legs.
[The baby! Be careful of the baby, 3PO!] R2 insisted with rapid, worried beeps.
“I am being careful,” 3PO retorted. He shifted into a better position for the load-bearing task, then cranked his joints by increments until he’d lifted Padme in his arms.
“I’ve got a good hold on her, but…I’m worried about my back,” he admitted. The pistons in his midsection groaned with each step, pushed far past their load capacity. “I hope it’s able to hold up under this weight.”
It was arduous work, getting Mistress Padme safely aboard. R2 nipping at his heels wasn’t helping, but he could understand the little droid’s worry. He felt it, too.
His back almost gave out as he lowered Padme into the cot, seizing once halfway through the bending motion.
R2 whirred at him in alarm.
“I’m all right, R2,” he reassured despite his own overclocked systems. “I just need to take it slowly.” He finished settling Padme in the cot, then collapsed into a chair beside it.
The interior lights of the skiff felt too bright; optical data was coalescing into a meaningless blur. 3PO shut off his visual processor while he ran a systems check on his internals. Nothing had broken irreparably, thank the Maker. He might ask Miss Padme to replace some of his parts, anyways.
[There’s someone outside!] R2 beeped, interrupting his diagnostics. 3PO turned on his sight again, eyes shuttering slightly as he adjusted to the sudden flood of optical data.
“Did you see who it was?” 3PO asked, glancing warily towards the ramp.
But R2 was already rolling away from him and out of the ship.
It took another sixteen seconds for 3PO to follow. He must have broken something in his back after all, with the way everything whirred and screeched as he stood. The open door gaped at him with the promise of more danger. Danger that he was woefully unprepared to face.
Still, he couldn’t leave R2 alone out there.
3PO’s heat sensors spiked, even just walking down the boarding ramp. It had gotten worse since bringing Padme inside, with lava boiling up in great gouts all around the platform.
At least he recognized the approaching figure as a friend.
“Master Kenobi! Master Kenobi! We have Miss Padme on board,” 3PO fretted as Obi-Wan approached the skiff in a daze, R2 at his side. “Please, please hurry. We should leave this dreadful place.”
He’d watched more than one bridge to the mining complex come down into the lava flow; it was only a matter of time before the skiff met the same fate.
Obi-Wan boarded, then stopped at Padme’s bedside, stricken. 3PO stopped, too, looking uncertainly between Master Kenobi and the cockpit.
There wasn’t time for this.
C-3PO entered the cockpit and sat down in the captain’s chair, taking the controls. He was glad that R2 had insisted he install a flight module. [Just in case of emergencies], the astromech had said. It had meant cutting out one of the lesser known forms of communication from his data banks, to free up the space. But he thanked the Maker (and R2, he supposed, begrudgingly) that this flight module had instructions for an emergency take-off.
Obi-Wan eventually joined him, his face drawn, speaking just enough to give 3PO the coordinates for their destination.
But R2 stayed with Padme for the rest of the flight.