Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being in the Jedi Senate pod gives Mace hives. He’s briefly grateful he keeps his head shaved; at least nobody in the Senate will realize that politicians make him shed, which was the reason he started shaving to begin with.

If he had any hair left to make a statement with, it’d probably be standing on end anyway. Emergency Powers. The pounding shatterpoint headache makes him wonder just how well the Chancellor will stand up to giving them up when it comes time, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Mace. Today’s Mace is wondering why the kriff he’s wasting time at this senatorial theater when he could be getting the teams ready for Geonosis.

He can’t even release his feelings into the Force. It’s been almost unendurable for the last seven days, like it’s been holding its breath before a galactic-sized sneeze. Mace would very much like to go somewhere and whack things with his lightsaber.

“Patience,” says Yoda, who’s always counseling patience right up until he doesn’t feel like being patient himself. “Important it is, for Master of the Jedi Order to be present.”

“Both the Master and the Grandmaster might be considered overkill.”

“Dangerous time this is. Much fear in the Senate there is. Solidarity we must show, for the future of the Republic.”

Mace would like to shove Jedi solidarity up the Senate’s collective ass. He doesn’t, because he is a Jedi Master. He is peace. He is dignity. Some days he wishes he really had run away from the Temple as a kid and become an actor. If nothing else, he could’ve gotten away with saying kriff it a lot. Nowadays he has to just emote it. With peace. And dignity. It's not as satisfying.

Kriff it.

The voting has started on the Emergency Powers motion. Even without the pod display, it’s obvious that the motion will carry. Mace runs an idle hand over his freshly shaved scalp.

Clone armies. Republic armies made of clones. Armies they still haven’t figured out the origins of. This is the kind of bullshit that Jedi are supposed to stop, and here he is, tacitly advocating their use. Obviously things are kriffed up right now. He sees no prospect of it getting better anytime soon. Especially given this particular situation has Obi-Wan Kenobi, Chaos Monkey, wedged deep in its colon.

Another problem for Tomorrow’s Mace. His comm chirps with a message. He sighs and straightens. “Fisto’s reported in. His team is wrapping up their mission and will be free to meet us on Geonosis.”

Yoda hums to himself, maybe in approval, and turns his attention to the Chancellor’s podium. In the time Mace took to read Kit’s message, the count had finished. The Chancellor is gravely responding to the passing of the motion, promising to create a Grand Army of the Republic.

Create. Hah, Mace thinks as the Senate bursts into applause, wondering why the shatterpoint hasn’t passed with the counting of the vote. He can feel it poised, just waiting to crash over him.

“Curious,” says Yoda, his ears twitching in a way that Mace knows from sad experience means something awful is about to take place.

“Oh kriff,” Mace says, suddenly feeling it too. He clutches for his lightsaber.

It’s at this point that three things happen.

One: the terrible tension in the Force bursts across the Force sensitives of Coruscant in a deafening roar.

Two: the shatterpoint hovering over Mace cracks across his vision, whiting it out in a lightning strike of agony.

Three: a rift pops open directly above the Chancellor’s podium. It’s small and black, invisible against the stronger light that bathes the Chancellor’s seat. It lasts for all of a human eyeblink before disappearing again, one of billions that happen every second around the vast reaches of space and time.

Mace flails for the railing of the Senate pod, dimly able to make out Yoda clutching his own head. Through a tear-filled squint, Mace just barely makes out a flash high up in the dimness of the Senate chamber. Light glares off a falling object, sharp and silver.

Metal crashes into the center of the Chancellor’s podium, right on top of the man. Palpatine and Sly Moore go down. Mas Amedda, hit by a glancing blow, spins and smacks hard against the side before he, too, collapses.

The Force . . . cackles. Like a horrible goose.

Mace staggers again. He’s pretty sure his skull has actually turned inside out and his brains are now splattered across the Jedi pod floor. That’s too bad. All he can see is light, light, white and blinding. Quite an accomplishment when his eyes are squeezed shut, but that’s what he gets for letting his brain splat around outside of his head.

The Force yanks at him, excited. The applause of the Senate has given way to stunned silence even as Mace clutches his lightsaber and hurls himself blindly off the edge of the pod. Yoda is a supernova behind him. The light is— the Light, flaring through the Senate as the Dark that has choked Coruscant for so long suddenly shreds. Even as he wrestles with his headache and the demands of the Force, Mace puts together some pieces and really dislikes his split-second conclusion.

The Mandalorian in viscera-smeared beskar gets to their feet right around the time Mace lands on the edge of the Chancellor’s podium. Blood is everywhere. So are other things that belong on the inside of a body instead of the outside.

Mace squints down his lightsaber at the Mandalorian, who’s looking down at Palpatine’s face with a quizzical tilt of their helmet.

Palpatine’s very dead face. There’s no medical intervention in the known galaxy that can put that together again.

“You're under arrest for the murder of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine,” Mace says, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Huh,” says the Mandalorian.

The Senate chooses this point to start screaming.

•──────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

“I want him dead!” shrieks Mas Amedda from his stretcher.

If that’s not representative of the Vice Chancellor’s breathtaking respect for the rule of law, Captain Inspector Kobol Antilles thinks sourly, he can’t imagine what is. He envies Master Windu’s cold composure.

His isn’t anywhere near as good, though at least his face is disciplined enough to prevent him being fired on the spot. It’s his experience and reputation that’s brought in as lead CSF investigator on the death of Chancellor Palpatine, not his fondness for the man or his cronies. Not that his personal feelings would influence his professionalism.

He sighs quietly to himself and answers the question that prompted the Vice Chancellor’s venom to begin with. “He’s currently installed in a secure room in the Senate, under guard.”

A few quick commands into the nearby terminal brings the feed up for the Security Committee and Jedi in the conference chamber. The Mandalorian, in freshly cleaned armor, sits quietly in a chair in the room. At the moment, they appear to be poking about in their bag.

“They’re still in their armor,” Master Windu says neutrally.

“They are,” Kobol says, and adds before the Vice Chancellor can complain, “and also armed, though they gave up their blasters, rifle, and knives at our request. They have been very reasonable.” Unlike several of the people in this room, he carefully doesn’t say. “They identified as a strict follower of orthodox Mandalorian traditional practices. As they haven’t been charged, we are following regulations to respect their beliefs with regards to armor and identity in not exposing their face.”

“Also so with name,” Senator Yriba chitters shrewdly.

“They have requested we refer to them as ‘Mando.’”

“I want him stripped of his armor, identified, and thrown in prison immediately for murder of my dear friend and predecessor, Chancellor Palpatine!” Mas Amedda hissed, pushing himself up only to sink back down again with a groan. “He will be sentenced and executed for treason!”

“You mean tried for treason, Vice Chancellor,” Master Windu says.

“I have emergency powers! If I say it’s treason, it is treason!”

“Emergency Powers to Chancellor belong. Promotion of you to Chancellor, missed I must have,” Master Yoda says, his beady eyes narrowing.

“In the event of the Chancellor’s death, the Vice Chancellor takes the position until a new election can be done,” interposes Senator Orn Free Taa smoothly.

Every time Kobol so much as looks at the senator, he has to forcibly keep himself from reaching for his blaster. He and his colleagues have all found too many cases dead-ended in the powerful hands of Orn Free Taa and his friends to have any fondness for the corpulent Twi’lek.

Conscious of Master Windu’s attention shifting to him (and even more conscious of the Jedi reputation for mind-reading, something Kobol is well aware is not just a rumor) he suppresses his murderous instincts and equally vicious satisfaction to say, deliberately, “Under normal circumstances, that would be correct.”

Senator Yriba’s mandibles twitch in obvious satisfaction. She is, as Kobol well knows, not a political ally of Mas Amedda and his bloc, and was the one to privately clue Kobol in on certain legal realities several hours before the meeting. “This not normal is circumstance.”

“Of course not. It’s not every day that the Supreme Chancellor is murdered by traitors in front of the entire Senate,” says Senator Orn Free Taa, with a creditable expression of grief. “My poor, dear friend.”

“It is an outrage!” cries Mas Amedda. “I will have the entire Coruscant Security Force replaced for their incompetence!”

Kobol ignores him to say firmly, “As you say, Senator. The entire Senate. Which means, according to the Articles of Succession, Section 238, Subsection 141.99—” across the table, Master Windu flinches, closing his eyes, and raises a hand to his temple, “—that the Rule of Conquest has come into effect. The slayer of the Chancellor before a registered plenum of the Senate thereby gains the title until such time as formal elections can be held.

“Which, per the emergency powers granted to the Chancellor just before Palpatine’s death, can only be scheduled by the Chancellor. Excuse me. Chancellor Mando.”

He’s never seen that particular expression on so many politicians’ faces at one time. He instantly saves it in his memories as his new Happy Place.

“That’s— that’s—” Orn Free Taa sputters.

“That’s undemocratic!” Mas Amedda shrieks.

Kobol eyes the man who’s been running around the Senate drumming up support for Palpatine’s Emergency Powers for the last two weeks, and gives in to temptation. Surely the galaxy owes him this one. “‘In such dangerous times,’” he says smoothly, repeating verbatim Mas Amedda’s own words before the Emergency Powers vote, “‘we need a single voice, a firm hand. A leader to guide the faltering ship of the Republic. We cannot stand divided in the face of anarchy.’”

The room descends into chaos.

Despite his own discomfort at the idea of the Republic being run by a Mandalorian mercenary, there’s a significant part of Kobol pointing out that there are worse candidates for leadership in a time of war than an actual warrior. There are two glaring examples of said worse candidates in the room with him right now, in fact.

Idle daydreams of what a mercenary unused to politics would do in response to Mas Amedda and Orn Free Taa’s language allows Kobol to listen to their vitriol with equanimity. Master Windu  has sunk into a chair to cradle his head in his hands. Headache, he decides. Or some kind of... Jedi Force bullshit. Master Yoda’s ears are doing something bizarre. Senator Yriba and Senator Grrashook from Kashyyk, on the other hand, seem to be enjoying themselves to an excessive degree.

On the security feed, a tiny Master Yoda crawls out of the Mandalorian’s bag and is carefully lifted to sit on top of his lap. Once there, the tiny Master Yoda immediately tries to eat one of the Mandalorian’s grenades.

It is unfairly cute.

The argument is growing increasingly vicious, by the sounds of it. Kobol is hoping that if the wookie snaps and kills everyone, he’ll start with Orn Free Taa so he can have the satisfaction of watching that before he gets his own head ripped off. Under all the noise, his comm chirps. He checks it.

It’s one of the Senate Guard assigned to the Mandalorian.

        mando asking for live frogs

Kobol waits for a moment, expecting a correction. Instead, he gets the amendment:

        frog/fish eggs also good plz advice

Gloomily certain he’s going to regret this, Kobol sends back,

        What for?

        baby mando eat

Well, that answers at least one question Kobol never had about Master Yoda’s species.

The Senate commissary is, by nature of its patrons, perfectly situated to provide for the Mandalorian’s needs. Kobol sends a quick catering request to the kitchens, charmed by the unquestioning acknowledgment he gets back. Kriff, he needs to sleep.

He eyes the shouting politicians. Senator Grrashook has gotten into things now. He looks like he’s enjoying himself as much as a wookie can outside of ripping slavers’ arms off. The Jedi don’t look like they’re planning on doing anything about it. This meeting is never going to end.

Kobol sends a quick order to the security team to have the Mandalorian escorted up.

Nobody is paying any attention to him. With a casual tap, he turns off the security feed. Vice Chancellor Amedda’s histrionics are a perfect cover for him to mumble excuses and step out for the quieter atmosphere of the hall outside.

The few minutes it takes for the Mandalorian to arrive are almost enough time for Kobol to calm himself down and start second-guessing himself. Watching the armored warrior stalk up the hallway towards him, flanked by Senate Guards and with child tucked safely away in their bag, is an exercise in proactive intimidation. Kobol mutters a curse behind his hand—what the kriff is he thinking? Really?—and steps forward to meet him.

“I’m somewhat familiar with your people from dealing with the Bounty Hunter’s Guild,” Kobol says without preamble. “So I have to ask you now. What’s your Creed?”

Mando comes to a halt. His bag chirps, the flap opening just far enough for a pair of enormous dark eyes to peer out at Kobol.

Oh, come on. That’s just not fair. With a determined effort, he keeps his gaze firmly on Mando.

“Obviously caring for your child is part of it, which means you’re not Death Watch,” Kobol prompts.

“Children are the future. This is the Way,” Mando’s oddly quiet voice responds.

It sounds significant. Kobol has no kriffing clue what that significance might be. He scrubs at his face. At this point, he would happily trade his left nut for some sleep. “Fine. What else? Honor? Adherence to a contract? Duty to the tribe? I’m fairly certain you’re not a New Mandalorian, given the armor.”

It’s curious how emotive the faceless armor can be. Kobol reads the small head tilt as confusion. After a moment, Mando says, “Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

Another pause. “Honor. Adherence to contract. Duty to tribe.”

Perfect. Fine. That’s already a significant improvement over the other candidates. Kobol huffs out a breath.

“According to the rules, it looks pretty likely that you’ll be the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic in a few hours,” he says bluntly. “Rules of Conquest. You killed the old Chancellor in front of the entire Senate. It’s a Ruusan Reformation rule, something to do with possible Sith infiltration of high command—” he gestures his bafflement of the whole business. “It doesn’t matter.”

Another cautious silence. “What does a Supreme Chancellor do?”

Now, there’s a damn good question. With the kriffing Emergency Powers, an argument could be made that the Supreme Chancellor is the closest thing to a king the Republic could have. “Keep the Republic from falling?” He probably shouldn't have phrased that as a question.

Mando does a creditable impression of a statue while his child pokes his entire head out to stare at Kobol. It is offensively adorable.

“We can write up a bounty contract,” Kobol says a bit desperately. “It could be considered a bodyguard assignment.”

Mando looks down at the child. The child peers back up at him.

“And as the new Chancellor under Rule of Conquest, you couldn’t be arrested or charged with the death of the previous one.”

Mando and the child look back at him.

“It pays well?” Kobol thinks to add.

“Huh,” says Mando.

•──────⋅☾ ☽⋅───────•

The Senate emerges from emergency lockdown sixteen hours after the death of Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine in a special emergency plenary session. It’s the second in the last full cycle. Despite being a mandatory session, several pods remain empty. Notably, for those paying attention, those belonging to Outer Rim worlds that have been vocal in their discontent.

Very few people are paying attention.

After the Chancellor podium rises into the light, the gleaming figure of the fully armed and armored Mandalorian standing front and center, even fewer people are paying attention.

Once the Speaker of the Senate makes his announcement, absolutely nobody, anywhere, is paying any attention to anything else at all.

And then of course, Sly Moore, Palpatine’s Chief of Staff, attempts to attack the newly sworn-in Supreme Chancellor.

It goes poorly for her.

Very poorly.

The holonews have the best day ever.

Best. Day. Ever.

This fic has been converted for free using AOYeet!

Chapter Text

Dooku is just emerging from another fruitless conversation with his stubborn grand-padawan when he feels the burst of hilarity from the next corridor.

The Force has been bizarrely confused of late. It’s the first time he’s managed to sense anything coherent in the last twenty hours. For that reason alone, he goes to investigate. 

He finds Jango Fett in a control room, helmet off, leaning on a console and staring at a holonews feed. The screen shows the Senate dome of Coruscant and a flood of legislators making their way out of the building, many of them looking dazed or agitated.

“I take it that news of our movement has finally reached the Senate?” Dooku asks, composed over his surprise. The Emergency Powers motion has taken almost a full Coruscanti cycle longer to pass than Darth Sidious predicted. Though the timing is still within the expected tolerance, it’s been irritating having to delay the others in their Declaration of Secession. 

Fett’s attention doesn’t waver from the screen, though he turns up the volume so Dooku can hear. The broadcaster is speaking about Mandalore’s Senator Wren, and how they’re lodging strong protests about the—

“What?!”

Dooku’s briefly frozen in horror. It’s long enough for the holonews to switch to a recording of the Chancellor’s Senate pod. Chancellor Palpatine and Mas Amedda are conspicuous in their absence. Instead, the pod contains a fully armored Mandalorian being attacked by a pale Umbaran. Dooku recognizes one of Palpatine’s advisors a split second before the Mandalorian headbutts her right off the pod.

‘New Supreme Chancellor Mando Opens Position in Cabinet,’ reads the scrolling feed. 

Jango Fett is laughing. Dooku hadn't realized he knew how. “Supreme Chancellor Mando,” the man says with a manic glee that chills Dooku to his bones. “Finally. The Republic is about to get what it deserves.”

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Din is having a kriffing Day.

“This,” says Kobol, “is the Chancellor’s office. Your office, that is. Chancellor.”

The office is enormous. The Razor Crest could've fit in the place with room to spare. Massive windows on the far side of the desk show a vast cityscape, gleaming under a dark night sky. The floor sinks under his feet, thick carpets that mute sound. This might be the richest place he’s ever seen. It's awful.

Din has never had an office before. He isn’t sure how to feel about it.

Grogu squirms in his arms, attempting to get down. “Not until it’s safe,” Din tells him. The child promptly flops over his arm, convinced it’s the end of the world. 

While Kobol rattles on about the security both within and without the room, Din does his own security checks. His HUD spies several cameras and recording devices, some better hidden than others. There's at least one well-concealed door set behind a tapestry that leads to a secured exit in case of emergency. There's also a secure bolthole in case of invasion. It's stocked with bottles of liquor. Cute.

“The Senate Guard has a watch on all entrances and there’s a driver standing by for a getaway if there’s ever any threat,” Kobol explains, nodding to some of the blue armored security who have positioned themselves around the room. They’ve been side-eying Din all day. 

“Hm,” Din says.

“Don’t mind them. You’re a proven threat to the Senate they're supposed to guard, while being the Supreme Chancellor they’re also supposed to guard. It’s causing them existential heartburn. They’ll get over it.”

“I can do my own guarding.”

“Eh." Kobol shrugs. As an afterthought, he adds, "They’ll be guarding your child, too. A little backup never hurts. For whatever it's worth, no Chancellor has ever been betrayed by a Blue Guard in the history of the Republic.”

That means absolutely nothing to Din. The New Republic is five years old. Besides, he's learned through hard experience that just because something hasn’t happened yet, doesn’t mean it won’t happen in the future. Yesterday, for instance, he'd never randomly teleported from a temple on Yavin into a Senate Pod on Coruscant before. Today, he has. Never say never.

Still, the room is secure enough and he’s confident enough that he can take out any Guard that makes a move on Grogu before they can do any damage. He lets his kid down.

Grogu immediately runs straight for the desk only to fall flat on his face, two steps in. Kobol bites off an adoring sound and just manages to abort his move to go to the rescue.

In the past few hours, Din's new employer has increasingly lost his stiffness until he's started to talk like a normal person. The man reminds him of a crankier Cobb Vanth. Grogu even likes him. Din will need to keep the lawman close. He’s the most rational being Din has met here so far.

“There’s chambers for the Chancellor to stay in if you’re tired,” Kobol says when Grogu’s popped up again to start running in a completely different direction. “There’s no surveillance in the bedroom, so you can take off your helmet. The Blue Guard can show you the way. They haven’t had a chance to clean the rooms out yet, unfortunately—”

“I don’t mind.” Din has slept in much worse than another being’s sheets.

“—And there are aides and a variety of people lining up to talk to you outside, I’m guessing. The Guard will let them in when I leave."

"What do you want me to say to them?"

"I don't know. Whatever comes naturally, I guess. I am going off shift. I was already nearing the end of a double when you made your dramatic entrance. Kark, I'm tired. I might be hallucinating.” Kobol pauses long enough to squint blearily at Din. Din looks back at him. “I’ll come back after I grab some sleep,” Kobol decides.

Din nods a bit blankly. Grogu is trying to climb the chair set behind the desk. Mostly by hanging from its edge while it gently spins in a circle. Since the kid appears to think this is the best thing to have ever happened to him, Din leaves him to it. 

The next couple of hours are frustrating and confusing. The contract Din agreed to with Kobol was clear: he’s bodyguarding the Republic. The Republic, that is, defined as “the Constitution and needs of the member planets of the Republic.” It’s not the strangest bodyguard job that Din has ever taken before—there’s a surprisingly active market involving hits or protection for abstracts like “reputation” and “virtue”—but Kobol had promised there’d be lots of people to help on this job. People with experience in Republic-ing. 

Unfortunately, Din comes to realize in the first hour, most of the people who are supposed to help don’t have the sense the ka’ra gave a rock. 

There’s a bunch of aides who rush around asking him silly questions about his wardrobe and trying to take holos of him holding pens. Weird. There’s a beat-up, sleezy Chagrian Din vaguely recognizes who acts like Din karked his tooka but owns his debts. Annoying. There’s a group of senators called 'the Loyalist Committee’ who can’t seem to decide if they want to strangle him or roll up into a ball and cry. Useless.

And then there are the strange monk people, which include the one who arrested him earlier. Din has no idea what’s up with the monk people. They’re acting like they expect him to start frothing at the mouth and bite their legs off without warning. They’re not scared, exactly. Just wary. All except the one Kel Dor monk who keeps trying to peer around the edge of the desk. 

Grogu’s under the desk. Din keeps the monk at bay with the power of his glare. He doesn’t see the one he thought might be one of Grogu’s species, which is a pity. That, at least, would’ve made this conversation interesting.

“So you’re in a war?” Din asks at last, cutting through the spiraling arguments. He’s not surprised the New Republic is at war after only five years of being in charge. It just seems a little ambitious is all. He thought they were still cleaning up from taking over.

“No,” says a bearded human senator.

“Horrors!” says the fat Twi’lek who apparently leads this gaggle of senators.

“Yes!” says the Chagrian.

The bald monk man closes his eyes too long for a blink. “Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi recently gathered proof that the Separatists have purchased an army. It's on Geonosis. Unfortunately, he was captured. At the previous Chancellor’s behest, we’ve gathered an assault team to rescue him and retrieve the evidence.”

"An assault team?" Din asks, his professional interest caught. 

"Yes, Chancellor. We have over three hundred Jedi responding to the call."

Jedi. Jedi? Over three hundred Jedi? He found over three hundred Jedi when Din had to run around the galaxy just to find one? The monk is a super Jedi finder. Din is impressed. And yet he wants to send them off to Geonosis where none of them can teach his kid? All of them? For an extraction?

Din silently judges the bald monk man and finds him wanting.

The Gran Senator, meanwhile, has started shouting about using some other army, one that apparently needs Din to immediately authorize. Half the other senators disagree. Loudly. There is nothing in the contract with Kobol that indicates army authorization is part of Din's job, though there's nothing that says it isn't, either. Although in theory an army could be useful in large-scale defense, he's has learned the hard way that simply throwing bodies at a problem doesn’t necessarily make things easier.

Witness whatever the kark it is that’s happening in this room.

“So there is a war,” he interjects in yet another attempt to establish the facts. “Because you’re. Invading?”

“Nonsense,” sniffs the Chagrian. “Perhaps uncivilized, aggressive peoples like you armored Mandalorians might consider it an invasion, but it’s simply the exercise of justice. Repatriating a brave and noble servant of the Republic—”

“With an army,” interrupts Bearded Senator.

“—from traitors,” the Chagrian plows on.

“Is Geonosis part of the Republic?” Din asks a bit desperately, because if it isn’t, he doesn’t have to care about it.

Apparently, nobody is sure. More arguing ensues.

Grogu, who’s building towers using datapads and blaster cartridges, reaches over to pat his leg. Din’s temper eases a tiny bit, but not much. He's already on edge. He doesn't know the terrain and he doesn't know the target: two things that are guaranteed to make any beroya dangerous. He’s had a pounding headache for the last few hours. It doesn’t look like it’ll be getting any relief anytime soon. And the karking monks keep staring at him. If they don't stop that, he's going to throw them out the window. 

One of the aides, a quiet blond Bothan that has so far not harassed Din about anything preposterously stupid, quietly slides a new 'pad onto his desk. He investigates and discovers with relief that it's loaded with a list of planets and sectors helpfully titled, ‘Member Planets of the Republic.’ A number of them on the Outer and Mid-Rim are flagged assorted colors indicating ‘Separatist’ or ‘Sympathy for Separation.’ It's a playlist. Useful.

He instantly dubs the aide ‘Helpful Yellow’ and settles in to learn more about Geonosis.

Desert. Irradiated. Insectile natives. Hives and tunnels. It’s apparently a shithole. 

Feels like home.

With at least some intel in his pocket, he's a tiny bit calmer. Settled enough to start troubleshooting, anyway. As a bounty hunter, he’s learned that it’s vital to identify immediate threats. Work your way back to root causes. Remove the motivation. A blaster can still kill you, but taking out the power pack usually means the gun won't fire. If the money disappears, no self-respecting assassin will finish the contract for free.

“So the Separatists,” he says, trying to find his way through this mess. “Why are the Separatists a problem?"

"They're traitors," says the Chagrian.

"Because they have an army?"

"Because they want to leave the Republic."

"Is that not allowed?"

"That's not actually the issue," begins Bearded Senator. The Chagrian looks down his nose at him for his trouble.

"The Separatists have grievances with the way the Republic treats their needs and distributes its resources," one of the monks, a humanoid of some type, chimes in. "They feel that the majority of attention and assistance goes to the Core worlds, who have less need of them. They claim Republic corruption has taken more from them than it gives."

"Are they right?" Din asks. It seems early days for corruption in the New Republic, but it's not like they started with a clean slate.

Several of the senators jump in with loud denials and complaints. It's easy to tell that about a third of the senators feel the Separatists have a legitimate complaint, as do all the monks. Din is willing to bet most of the ones that argue against it are denying the corruption exists because they're neck deep in it. 

Loudness seems to be a qualification for senatoring.

"Regardless of how true their grievances are, the fact remains that Knight Kenobi reported privately to us and the late Chancellor that the Separatists intended to use that army," Bald Monk Man breaks in at last, overriding the bickering. "The army is an immediate threat. The reason for the Emergency Powers were voted for the Chancellor's office was to allow the Chancellor to command the creation of a Republic army. Something that is normally not allowed under the Articles of Constitution."

Din really needs to get a copy of this Constitution if he's bodyguarding it. Inconvenient to discover he's apparently violating said Constitution just by nature of stepping into the Chancellor powers, though. Still. Root causes. The grievances and corruption are a sarlacc hole he can dive into later. "Who’s funding the Separatist army?”

“The Trade Federation and Banking Clans,” Gran Senator says. 

“The Trade Federation and Banking Clans are friends of the Republic!” blusters Fat Twi’lek. “Why, my very good friend San Hill just had dinner with me the other night. I’m sure that whatever is happening out on the Rim is either rogue bankers or just business.”

“Whether it's rogue bankers or just business, their credits have paid for the manufacturing of a droid army on Geonosis! Knight Kenobi said—”

“Droid armies,” Din interrupts sharply. Suddenly, his path forward is very very clear. “They have droid armies?” Why is it always kriffing droids?

“If Obi-Wan could provide evidence to the Senate, that could show the path forward,” says Bearded Senator. “With leverage, there may still be a diplomatic solution.”

Bald Monk Man emotes like his entire body is a pair of rolling eyes. Interesting effect. “As I mentioned before, we have assault teams ready,” he says tightly. “Once we have the Chancellor’s go-ahead, we can proceed.” He looks expectantly at Din, which reminds him that he’s ‘the Chancellor’ now.

“Over three hundred Jedi, you said.”

"Yes." 

"Why?" It's a strange number. Too many for an insertion and extraction. Too small to face an army. Maybe if they were bringing down a single factory, but— no, it's still strange. 

"I'm sure what the Chancellor means is that it doesn't seem like quite enough Jedi, does it?" says the Chagrian in heavy condescension.

That's not what Din means. "Why three hundred?"

"That's how many were available in the time we had," says Bald Monk Man.

That's. A terrible answer. "What's the plan, exactly?"

"Why is it necessary to know, Chancellor?" the Chagrian demands. "It's your role to order the Jedi how to act and delegate the implementation of your decision to them."

Din ignores him. 

Bald Monk Man says, slowly, “The plan is to assault Geonosis?” He's getting increasingly tense.

Din waits, but apparently that's it. That's all he's getting. “A full frontal assault?”

“Yes.”

"To extract this Knight Kenobi. A full frontal assault is your plan."

"Yes?"

A full frontal assault to save a prisoner on a planet riddled with hives and tunnels and containing a droid army. A full frontal assault with three hundred people. Three hundred sorcerers, true, but still.

Din abruptly realizes that it isn’t just that these people are completely confusing. It’s that they’re also—what was the Alderaanian word Cara explained?—nincompoops. That’s the word. Some people you just can’t help, Mando. They’re nincompoops. They speak nincompoop, think nincompoop, and do nincompoop, and there’s nothing to be done about it besides take them out of the gene pool if you can. There’s a cultural disconnect happening here between Mandalorian and Nincompoopians. Relieved at the realization, he says simply, “No.”

Bald Monk Man and his friends immediately bristle. “No to what?”

“No to frontal assault being the entirety of your plan. That's terrible.”

“They’re Jedi,” says the Chagrian. “You should know from your own people’s history, Chancellor, how dangerous even a single Jedi can be."

“Do their powers make them immortal?”

Bald Monk Man and his fellow monks settle a bit to regard him thoughtfully. The not-so-subtle tension that rode them since they walked into the room starts to relax for no reason that Din can tell. Setting that aside to consider later, he adds, “A frontal assault of a few hundred against a reported droid army will get them killed and risk the target. A smaller, stealth-based extraction team with a good plan and intel has a higher chance of success. A larger assault team can be on standby for distraction and support if needed.” He judges Bald Monk Man. He judges him hard. 

All the monks look at each other. A couple of them look puzzled. After a moment, one of the monks murmurs at a volume Din only manages to catch parts of because of his helmet, “—reducing Jedi casualties in the rescue of—" And then, "—this is the path we would have taken originally.”

"But he’s Mandalorian,” mutters another.

“The Force is clear, and concurs,” says the Kel Dor Monk to Bald Monk Man, sounding pleased.

Din is very Mandalorian. He isn’t sure why the magic needed to verify that, although it’s useful to learn that some of the monks are also sorcerers. Maybe that explains their ability to find Jedi?

Under the desk, Grogu wobbles to stand and coo up at Din. He offers the kid a couple of fingers and is reduced to a belay line as the kid starts to climb his leg. “Do you even have people capable of this kind of extraction?” he asks, suddenly hopeful. Joining a crew to spring a prisoner would at least have the benefit of familiarity over his current— whatever this is that he’s doing in this place.

“We do,” Bald Monk Man says firmly, straightening. He looks peculiarly heartened. “I’ll send the comms immediately.”

He rises even as he speaks and sweeps out, already tapping at his comm.

Din reflects that he doesn’t really understand why monks are responsible for extraction missions in the New Republic, but buir used to tell him the Old Republic was a mess and a half. No doubt the New Republic is just following tradition. 

Tradition is important. Still, this particular tradition seems pretty stupid. Maybe they're martial monks of some sort? They don't even have blasters, which is an argument against it. Well, it’s something he’ll have to ask Kobol about later.

With a sigh small enough not to be caught by the vocoder, he turns his attention to the rest of the gaggle. The senators are back to arguing again, this time about some army somewhere that’s apparently just... lying around? Din doesn’t have enough context to understand what that’s about, so he takes a moment to help Grogu settle on his lap before he asks.

On the one hand, it turns out that the kid still derails fights faster than a blaster bolt through the head. Good to know.

On the other hand, everybody, including several of the monks, has to make some sound of surprise. And then several of them have to ask loud questions or make rude or snide comments about the kid. All at the same time.

Din keeps an eye and an ear on the reactions. Bearded Senator immediately rises in his estimation, as does one of the suspiciously off female Twi’lek aides of Fat Twi’lek (Din knows a slave when he sees one) and most of the monks. All of them visibly soften at Grogu in a genuine way that proves they have excellent taste. Kel Dor Monk goes so far as to twiddle his fingers in a wave at Grogu, who squeaks excitedly and waves back with both hands. Din makes note of those whose reactions are more negative. He'll be keeping an eye on them.

“Is this your son?” asks Bearded Senator, smiling.

“Yes.” 

“He's lovely,” Bearded Senator says, not probing further despite his obvious curiosity. Din’s opinion of him inches up a tiny bit more.

“Greetings, young one,” says Kel Dor Monk. The smile is audible in his voice. 

Grogu squeals and leaps at him.

Dank farrik. Din’s too tired, too slow, but Kel Dor Monk has excellent reflexes and catches him easily. Grogu chortles, patting at the monk’s mask with little clicks of his claws against the metal. Din’s hand maybe twitches towards his holster.

The smile is even warmer in Kel Dor Monk’s amused, “Peace, young one. You have alarmed your parent.” 

While Grogu makes little sounds and apparently holds a conversation with Kel Dor Monk, Din wrestles down the usual complicated mess of protective wrath, fear the kid will want to leave him, determination to let him go if it’d really be better for him, and worry that he’s screwed something up completely if the kid is so eager to go.

“Ah,” says Kel Dor Monk warmly. “I believe you. I’m sure he is the very best parent anywhere.”

Sharply, Din asks, “You can understand him? You have the magic?” He ignores the Chagrian snorting over magic .

“The Force, yes. Your son is determined to tell me all about how strong and good you are.”

Grogu chirps happily and reaches reach for him.

Din stands and accepts him back with relief, not for the first time thanking ka’ra for the helmet hiding his blushes. The senators’ and monks’ reactions are mixed. Even distracted, Din’s not fool enough to miss the glint of avarice in Fat Twi’lek when he looks at Grogu, or the small frown on a couple of the monks. The Chagrian, on the other hand, curls his lip.

“Perhaps the... the child would be better off being given to some minders while you work on more important things, Chancellor,” he says.

None of these people are his employer. Even if they were, Din wouldn’t care. Kark ‘em. “No.”

“I fear he's distracting you from more important things.”

“Nothing is more important than the child. This is the Way.”

"'The Way?'" Kel Dor Monk cuts in, sounding interested. "I apologize, Chancellor. I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with the armored population of your culture. Would you be willing to explain?"

It's a polite worded question. Kel Dor Monk inches up even more for posing it. "Education and armor. Self-defense, our tribe, our language. Foundlings are the future. This is the Way."

“Yes yes," the Chagrian says dismissively. "It may be your way, but it isn’t the way of the more civilized Republic."

"I don't know, Vice Chancellor. If the Republic valued education, self-defense, and the children more, we might not be having a Separatist crisis," says Bearded Senator.

The Chagrian sneers. "Of course, as you say, Senator. However, Chancellor, this is rather besides the point. Your child is disrupting our work. You have a responsibility to the people. Surely a Mandalorian understands about duty.”

Din, balancing Grogu on his hip, considers him. "You wish to separate a Mandalorian from their child."

The monks, he distantly registers, have all come to their feet and are moving strategically around the room. Bearded Senator, glancing between them, rises as well. “Ah. It is getting rather late. Perhaps it’s time for us to break for an hour?"

“The staff can arrange for child minders if it’s so important to you,” the Chagrian says, snapping his fingers at one of the aides and pointing at Grogu in clear command. The female glances fearfully at Din. “I’m afraid I must insist. You’ll see how much easier things will be without his demands on your attention.”

Looking terrified, the aide inches towards Din, only to freeze when he turns his head slowly to look at her.

Smart female.

Confident he’s made his point, Din directs his next comment to Bearded Senator. “Is he important?”

Bearded Senator looks startled at being addressed. “Who? Aide Ackmann? Everybody is—”

“No, him.” Din tips his head at the Chagrian. “Who is he?”

The Chagrian’s outrage is utterly uninteresting. Bearded Senator says, confused, “That’s Mas Amedda, the Vice Chancellor.”

“Is that important?”

“He’s your second-in-command,” Bearded Senator clarifies. Helpful.

Din thinks for a second, ignoring the Chagrian’s continued blustering, then looks at the Kel Dor Monk.

“Who do you work for?” 

Kel Dor Monk says tranquilly, “I serve the Force. But I also serve the Republic.”

Common interest, then. Good. Din hands Grogu off to him. “Stay here,” he orders.

Then he punches the Chagrian in the stomach. 

It’s a funny thing. He hasn’t met many Chagrians. Those he has met in the past have been honorable, by and large. Not martial as a rule, so generally not people who end up on the business end of his blaster. As a result, he’s never actually punched one. This is apparently a day for new experiences. 

It turns out that Chagrians are just as susceptible to fists to the stomach as most humanoid beings. The man wheezes, slowly collapsing in disbelief. His lethorns clang loudly against Din’s pauldron as he goes down.

There is an instant sensation from the rest of the gaggle. Variations on, “Chancellor! You can’t!” and “Chancellor! You shouldn’t!” rise behind him. Din waits to see if the Chagrian will fight back. Mostly, the Chagrian rolls around and whines, hugging his stomach. 

He’s disappointed at the lack of follow-through. A commitment to the role of second-in-command or a real ambition to be the leader might have made for a nice challenge as the Chagrian worked to earn his respect or overthrow him. Certainly the constant challenges, not to mention trying to separate a Mandalorian from his child, suggested the kind of bloody-mindedness that usually resulted in a good fight. But no. Nothing. Pity. 

Behind him, Grogu coos. There's more clinking as the kid pats Kel Dor Monk's face.

Since none of the people protesting are actively doing anything but flapping their mouths—the Senate Guard looks like they’re suffering all the pain of that existential heartburn Kobol mentioned earlier—Din waits just long enough to make sure there won't be any vomiting before he hauls the Chagrian up over his shoulders. 

Helpful Yellow catches his eye. That’s definitely satisfaction on the aide’s face. “Show me the way out,” Din orders. He’s yet to actually leave this womp rat trap.

The aide nods hurriedly and scuttles to the wide double doors Din entered by. 

Din follows.

Most of the gaggle trail after him through the labyrinth that is this building, still chattering in dismay or approval. Along the way they pass doors, almost all of them opening at the noise and disgorging more sentients avid with curiosity. Almost all of them join the parade.

A not insignificant number of Senate Guard materialize to bracket him. Din’s not convinced they won’t stop a blaster bolt to his back, but he has enough faith in his skills and his armor to be fairly confident he can get out of anything they throw at him.

Eventually, finally, the aide brings him to an enormous hall (Din thinks it’s what’s called a ‘rotunda’) with multiple doors that open into the night and a long, wide array of stairs down to a paved square. Din nods, satisfied, and dumps the groaning Chagrian. By this time, any reasonable sentient would have long since started to struggle and regained his feet. The Chagrian, proving his incompetence, simply flails onto the step as though being dropped is a surprise, and then falls down the stairs.

They’re long stairs. Dramatic. Weird choice on his part. It’ll take him a while to get down to the bottom that way. Din doesn’t have that kind of patience.

“You’re fired,” he tells the bouncing body, loud enough to be audible even over the Chagrian’s shrieking.

Then, since he wants to get back to his kid, he turns to stalk back inside. The crowd behind him scrambles to get out of his way. 

Good.

He retraces his path without difficulty, Helpful Yellow and a few of the Senate Guard scampering to keep up with him. He passes a uniformed Ithorian with a trolley just outside the door and discovers most of the monks still in the office, along with a couple of the senators. Bearded Senator is one of them. Grogu he finds happily playing that ball floating game with Kel Dor Monk. The office is blissfully quieter than it was, especially given the gaggle Din managed to outstrip with ease several hallways back. 

As usual, Grogu greets his appearance with a squeak of delight that warms Din’s heart. He just manages to catch his kid’s leap into his arms, the ball floating after him like a wobbly satellite.

“Did you behave yourself?” he asks.

Grogu giggles. The Kel Dor Monk chuckles as well. That means no.

“Chancellor,” greets Bearded Senator. He’s hovering by his chair, looking wary. “May I ask what happened to Mas Amedda?”

“Yes,” Din says. 

"The Chancellor had no real intent to harm him," Kel Dor Monk reassures Bearded Senator, which makes Din wonder about crazy magic osik. 

"You could tell through your powers?" 

"Those with the Force can read intent, though your beskar helmet muffles it somewhat," Kel Dor Monk shares.

Din perks up. That's a useful trick. It explains a few things about Grogu. Can sorcerers tell if—

“Sir?” It's the Ithorian. Senate Guards are inspecting the staffer and the trolley he’s pushing. It's the same kind of trolley they used to bring Grogu his fish eggs earlier, except whatever this meal is, it'll be significantly bigger given the size of that covered bucket. Grogu recognizes the trolley as well if the excited flailing and cheers are any indication.

At some point, Din reflects, he’s going to have to figure out how to get food for himself. He grabbed a ration bar in the fresher earlier, but he could use a real meal.

“Let them check it first,” he tells Grogu, just barely managing to keep him from flopping right out of his arms. Hoping to get some answers before that noisy bunch of senators comes back, he turns his visor to the unimpressed looking Bearded Senator to ask, “What’s this army the Gran wanted to send to Geonosis?”

“The clone army?”

Is Din supposed to know? He doesn’t know. That’s why he was asking. He sighs. 

Bearded Senator’s jaw firms. “Before we talk about that, sir, we really must speak about your apparent tendency to respond to opposition by— by attacking people.”

Din says blankly, “I haven’t attacked anybody.” Grogu claps his hands in agreement. Good kid. “What’s in the bucket?”

“Live frogs, sir,” says the Ithorian, while a Senate Guard finishes patting him down and another scans the trolley.

“Chancellor, you just punched the Vice Chancellor!”

What? "Oh." Din realizes belatedly that he should have asked Kobol about Coruscant rules. On the Outer Rim, blunt force impact isn’t considered an attack. It’s a conversation opener. “That’s a problem? I fired him,” he tries to appease.

Bearded Senator is not noticeably pacified. “You cannot attack the Vice Chancellor in the process of firing him! Employment laws aside—”

The trolley cleared, the Ithorian starts pushing it carefully inside. Which is exactly when the noise that’s been growing steadily louder outside reaches a climax and the entire pack of irritating senators comes storming back into the office. This has predictable results.

It’s just been that kind of day, Din supposes. Grogu cheers as he’s finally let down and immediately dashes off to hunt.

If nothing else, the unexpected impact has made the senators freeze and shut up. This might be because Din has half drawn on them out of pure reflex. The merciful silence is interrupted only by the Ithorian’s groans and upset ribbit ribbit sounds.

Fat Twi’lek lifts his foot to look at the bottom of his shoe. Din doesn’t know why he bothers. He’s too fat to see it. “Was that a frog?”

“Don’t step on my kid,” Din orders the nincompoop brigade, securing his blaster.

“Chancellor!” wails Fat Twi’lek.

Dank farrik, he’s too tired for this shit. “Bearded Senator. Clone army. Talk.”

Bearded Senator blinks, taken aback. “Bearded Sena—? That’s not my— I’m Bail Organa, Chancellor. Senior Senator for Alderaan.”

Oh? Din straightens, interested. “You all found a new planet?” He should tell Cara. “Good job.”

“What?” 

"You named it the same, though. Isn't that a little weird?"

"What?"

"Is it registered as Alderaan Mark II? Or just Alderaan? Never mind. Tell me about it later. Clone army now.”

Organa clutches at the back of his chair like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. “The army,” he says weakly. Grogu pounces on a frog that's made it as far as Organa's boot, and shoves half of it triumphantly into his mouth. The frog's legs kick. Nearby, the Kel Dor Monk quietly starts to chuckle.

Ribbit says a frog by Din’s foot.

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

The datapad in Din’s hands cracks in half.

“Ten year old Mandalorian clones? ”

Chapter Text

Kobol comes home, kisses his children, takes a sonic, and eats his dinner. He spends two hours researching everything he can about Mandalore and Mandalorians, going as far as to pull up old reports involving Mandalorian bounty hunters. His colleagues’ opinion on the last can be summed up as, “Kark, no!” which is borne out by various tallies of property and collateral damage. He's too tired to have second thoughts—it's too late for them anyway—but he maybe suffers a qualm or two on reading them. It's remotely possible he wasn't flying with all engines when he decided to enable a coup of the Galactic Republic.

He only starts having actual regrets when his wife shucks him out of his home office to wring a play-by-play of his day out of him. Not for the first time, he wishes that his chief rival for the title of best investigative mind in the 3rd Division didn't also happen to be a devastating combination of deviousness, brilliance, and ruthlessness. If she’d been missing any one of those qualities, he might not love her so desperately.

“I don’t think what you did was treason. Technically,” she tells him, looking thoughtful. “At best, you hired a protective detail on a victim of a crime, one that required specialized personnel. You’ve done that before so there's precedence. All you have to do is file the correct paperwork. It should be well within your budget.

“Worst case scenario, you could argue you hired a confidential informant as part of a new investigation into Senate corruption. You'll have to file the CI paperwork to cover that argument, just in case. And pull his pay from the CI budget, of course.”

Kobol protests, “I can’t pay the Chancellor from a budget used for snitches. Kark. It sounds like I'm bribing him." 

“He could cut the equivalent of the bounty out of the Chancellor's pay and donate it to the same fund. It's just money shuffling. If they tried to spank you for that, they'd have to take down most of the Republic."

"And what victim? How would that even work? Palpatine’s dead. He doesn’t need a bodyguard.”

"The Republic is the victim, obviously. I’d say the crime was Palpatine’s cabinet. I like the work the new Chancellor’s put in so far. Mas Amedda bounced beautifully. I could’ve watched that all day.” Her satisfaction is vicious. 

His wife is a beautiful, wonderful woman who knows how to hold a grudge. Her short time in the Senate District was exciting for all the wrong reasons.

He dutifully finds the correct forms and files them. ‘Mando’ goes down in the ‘Contractor ID’ field. ‘The Republic’ goes down as ‘Protectee.’ CSF paperwork is where dreams go to die. Nobody will realize what he’s done for at least another decade, when some activist senator on a committee decides to throw their weight around for an audit.

Mando had given him a Bounty Hunter Guild account to send his paycheck to so Kobol sets up the regular transfer for the bodyguard job he’d posted directly. He considers routing the Chancellor’s salary as well, but decides to wait until he can check on it with Mando. Come to think of it, he's not sure he mentioned to Mando that the Chancellor job comes with a salary. Just looking at the numbers involved makes him feel renewed loathing for the Senate.

Then, since he’s done with anything resembling actual thought, he goes to bed.

Four hours later, his comm shrills with the alert of a high priority message from work. He fumbles it from the bedside table and peers at it with bleary eyes.

It’s the Blue Guard.

priority alpha chancellor emergency call in   

Adrenaline and horror washes away even the memory of sleep. He launches out of bed and races back to his home office, barely hearing his wife’s sleepy complaints. A priority call into the Senate Security number has him rerouted immediately.

“What,” he snaps to the Blue Guard lieutenant who answers.

“Captain Inspector Antilles. We need you to come in.”

“What’s the situation?”

“It’s the Chancellor, sir. We need you to intervene.”

Kobol, whose imagination has already had time to come up with assassination attempts, explosions, kidnappings, the Mandalorian he hired murdering the Blue Guard because they touched his kid, clutches the edges of his desk. He was dragged from deep sleep without warning after a solid 72 hours without: he currently has no chill whatsoever. “Intervene in what?!”

The lieutenant hesitates. “He’s—” He winces. Looks to the side as though hoping for support from a colleague. Then he refocuses, finishing lamely, “—doing something weird.”

Kobol stares blankly at the man. Then he looks at the clock running in the corner of the screen. He drags his hand down his face. Flatly, he says, “You’re calling me in the middle of the night because the new Chancellor is doing something weird.”

“Uh,” says the lieutenant. “It’s actually his kid.”

“Are you karking kidding me right now?”

The lieutenant opens his mouth. Then he closes it. He holds up a finger to ask for a moment. Some hasty typing later, a small window opens in the holocall, a security feed into what looks like a very expensive living room. It’s the Chancellor’s living room, if the armored figure standing in the center of it is any indication. And—

“Huh,” Kobol says.

“See?” 

All the furniture in the room—sofas, tables, chairs, statues, decorative screens—is... floating. Floating and moving, to stack up against the wall. No, against a door set into the wall. It’s a defensive barricade preventing any access in or out.

If he squints, he can just make out the little green mushroom of Mando’s kid standing near him.

“What’s that door that’s being blocked?” 

“The bedrooms. And the guest freshers. There’s an office back there as well.”

Kobol scrubs his face again. The adrenaline is fading, leaving exhaustion and chills in its wake. His heartbeat is slowing. “So the Chancellor’s redecorating. What, exactly, did you want me to do about this?”

“You're friends with the Chancellor. He likes you. He lets you talk to him. You could talk to him!"

"What."

"He talks back to you. When we asked, he just looked at us— We don’t know what’s going on!” the lieutenant wails. 

An unfortunate reality of the Blue Guard is that its officer ranks are riddled with the children of politicians. Offspring who have decided, for whatever reason, that law enforcement would be fun for a while. While some prove to be more competent than their origins might suggest, the inevitable incompetents are usually mitigated by relegating them to positions where they can do little damage.

Positions like designing dress uniform regulations. Protecting the Senate Dome from visiting schoolchildren. Watching the security monitors of empty residential suites.

Kobol desperately wants to go back to sleep. He’s just about to tell this dipshit lieutenant to man up and do his farking job when the last piece of furniture settles on top of the now enormous barricade.

The kid plops face down onto the carpet and stays there. Mando looks down at him. Then he unholsters his blaster and turns to stalk off-camera.

The lieutenant whimpers. "Is he coming to kill us?"

Oh for kark's sake. Kobol quietly dies inside. He sighs.

“I’ll be right there.” 

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Depa Billaba hasn’t felt this excited to go to the Senate since she was an initiate visiting for the first time.

It’s a novel sensation. It’s one that the other Masters she’s joining on this trip share. Tera Sinube’s Force presence bubbles with quiet anticipation. Plo Koon’s radiates eagerness. Even Jocasta Nu’s Force presence, usually strictly ordered and disciplined, is sharp with curiosity. 

Depa has learned to enjoy such moments as they come so she makes little effort to hide her own excitement from her fellow Jedi. Even Jocasta’s determined debrief on the Jedi’s catastrophic failures in Mandalorian relations in the last twenty years doesn’t quite quell the thrill. 

“By rights he should have tried to shoot Master Windu and Master Yoda in the face,” Jocasta says grimly on the ride to the Senate Dome.

“And yet I rather like him,” says Plo, slowing the speeder as they reach a cordoned crowd of protestors and media. “I found him to be an even-tempered and shockingly rational man. Curious, isn’t it?”

Massacre at Galidraan. A civil war in the power vacuum left behind. Jedi support of the New Mandalorians. Subsequent banishment of traditionalists by the New Mandalorians. And now, a traditionalist Mandalorian Chancellor. Disastrous for the Jedi Order, in theory. Depa, whose own encounters with Mandalorian bounty hunters should have thoroughly quashed her childhood conviction that Mandalorians were cool (but didn’t), tucks her hands in her sleeves and doesn’t squirm with excitement.

A familiar Blue Guard is waiting for them as their speeder pulls up before the Senate Dome, his helmet off and a feeling of frustrated relief bleeding into the Force despite his outward calm.

“Masters Jedi,” he greets. He gestures to another Guard to take the speeder. They’re wanted urgently, then. “If you’ll come this way.”

This kind of reception is usually a hallmark of galactic crises. And yet, the Force feels just as delighted as it’s been the last two days. In fact, it feels enthusiastic. Exchanging glances with her companions, Depa falls into step behind the Guard.

“No Master Yoda today?” the Guard asks.

“Not today. He’s tending to business in the Temple.” Said business being his inability to stop giggling. Many of the eldest in the Temple have been similarly struck by unexpected Force hypersensitivity. Several others have simply slipped away into the Force with a relieved smile on their faces, as though the swift dissolution of the Dark released them from a heavy burden. It’s been an oddly sad and joyous time of late. 

“I hope nothing is amiss, Captain? More than to be expected given the circumstances, that is?” Plo asks kindly. 

“You saw the crowds coming in?”

“They do seem agitated.”

“Agitated is a word for it. We’ve been fending off journalists and drone cameras for days. They haven’t been this bad since the Margoshi Scandal broke.”

The holonews has replayed captured footage of Mas Amedda’s firing endlessly since the previous evening, along with commentary from political experts. Was Mas Amedda’s firing in such a way legal? Yes, though the Chancellor is opening himself up to lawsuits—but not criminal charges, curiously enough. Was this yet another demonstration of the new Chancellor’s murderous Mandalorian tendencies? A spokesperson from the New Mandalorian government protested any association with ‘traditionalist barbarism.’ 

What could have prompted Mas Amedda’s dismissal? “Do not attempt to come between the Chancellor and his son,” Plo warned before they left. “He is appropriately protective.” Was there merit in long-standing rumors of the Vice Chancellor’s corruption? “You’d be sadly unsurprised about the things I suspect about that man but could never prove,” murmured Tera. That’s two cabinet members who have been dismissed with violence. Who will be next? And how will he dispense with them?

“Do you know, I caught several Knights placing bets?” Tera said, amused. 

Depa notices with interest that they’re being guided in a direction slightly separate from the Chancellor’s office. It’s a route she’d never taken before. The Senate’s halls are crowded even at this early hour, the group of Jedi gleaning the usual looks of interest and alarm. Close though the Senate is to the Temple, Jedi are increasingly rare visitors to these halls.

She frowns at a sudden realization. She’s had this thought before. For the first time, it occurs to her to wonder why.

The captain takes them through several layers of security, each increasingly thorough, until they finally enter a quieter, slightly less grandiose portion of the building. “Residential quarters lie this way,” he tells them, nodding to several Guards as he passes. “The Chancellor has personal chambers here, for occasions when they aren’t able to go to their own residence. Captain Inspector Kobol Antilles asked that you be brought here when you arrived.”

They don’t have a chance to ask why a CSF Investigator would be in the position of directing the disposition of the Chancellor’s visitors. Two Blue Guard open a pair of doors and they find themselves in a large, beautifully appointed receiving room. 

Even without being told, Depa can recognize Chancellor Palpatine’s influence on the decor. Understated but luxurious, a Nabooian aesthetic that serves to emphasize to the sentient it is expected to frame. Though oddly barren of furniture, save for a low table and a set of decorative screens blocking off the back of the room, it’s a room meant for statesmen and nobility, for powerful political figures poised in pretended ease. 

Against this backdrop, the actual people present are a jarring note. Captain Inspector Antilles, identifiable by his rumpled uniform, is trying to drown himself in caff. The new Chancellor, in full armor, is seated on a breathtakingly expensive wood table. He’s trying to convince his child to eat a spoonful of what looks like pond scum.The Chancellor’s child, meanwhile, is trying to feed his father some kind of squirming worm. Through the helmet. 

Depa holds her breath to keep from cooing. Plo had warned her, but her imagination had boggled at the conjunction of Yoda and the word cute. The reality is almost upsetting.

“Finally,” Captain Inspector Antilles mutters, when greetings and introductions have been offered and Captain Batanshi has bowed out. “Masters—” he squints at them, apparently recognizes Master Sinube, and says with relief. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Kobol.” Tera smiles and bows. “It’s been a while. I’m surprised to see you here.”

Antilles mutters something indecipherable, clutching his caff, then sighs. “Blue Guard called me in last night to deal with a situation. Yes, because of you,” he adds in the Chancellor’s direction, though it’s directed more at the child. Said child’s ears perk up inquisitively. “I hope you’re happy.”

The man sounds and feels more fondly resigned than truly irritated. The child yawns, only to meep indignantly when the Chancellor takes advantage of the open mouth to pop his spoon in.

Pond scum sprays all over the Chancellor’s helmet. He sighs, shoulders slumping. The child shoves his worm in his mouth with a distinct air of triumph.

“Is there an ongoing investigation I should tactfully avoid asking about?” Tera asks.

Another mutter from Antilles, this one completely lost inside his caff. Outside of his mug, he articulates clearly, “No. Case closed on the transition of power. It’s just that some people—” the Chancellor, obviously, who is cleaning himself off with apparent indifference to the conversation, “—need to learn to use their words instead of acting like they’ll be fined by the syllable, so that other people can get a decent night’s sleep.”

Whatever Antilles’s role is in the new administration, it’s plainly one that affords him significant freedom. His casual familiarity with the Chancellor has a curiously humanizing effect on the Mandalorian.

“I use words,” the Chancellor says. Depa registers the quiet weight of his voice, the care and hint of reluctance with which he uses it. 

“Use more of them.”

The Chancellor’s shoulders hitch in the tiniest of shrugs, just as a new worm from the bowl beside him smacks into the side of his head. The child looks innocent. The Chancellor sighs, quiet fondness eddying around him.

“I’m glad you’re here, although I have to ask—why are you here?” Antilles directs back to Tera. “I thought you were an Investigator.”

“The Force called me to come here today. And yes, I’m still an Investigator,” Tera says serenely.

“Investigating what?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m sure the Force will provide.”

Antilles rolls his eyes. Depa can’t help but find his lack of dignity charming, especially compared to the composure practiced by the standard Senate Dome denizen. The Chancellor, who has apparently given up on feeding his child anything not still squirming, looks up at this point to stare at Plo. While his emotions are difficult to read through the beskar and the small supernova that is his son, Depa can pick up the certainty of his intent. There isn’t even a hint of hostility at the Jedi standing in his living room.

Unexpected. Wonderful. Baffling.

“Kamino?” the Chancellor asks.

“Master Shaak Ti and the others arrived just before we left the Temple to come here,” Plo says, folding his hands serenely as though he wasn’t just engaged in wiggling them at the child. “She will be reporting in as soon as she’s made a preliminary review of the situation. WIth your permission, we will accept her report here.”

The Chancellor nods. “Geonosis?”

“Master Windu is en route to meet with support teams,” Depa reports. “He should be arriving within the hour.”

“Plan?”

“Better than the original one,” Plo promises. “We have several Shadows in the area. Unfortunately, we learned a few hours ago that the senator of Naboo and the Padawan guarding her were also captured by the Geonosians.”

“Padawan?”

“Seriously?” Antilles says.

The Chancellor looks at him.

Antilles sighs gustily. “More words, Mando. Do you want to know what a padawan is? Who the padawan is? Why a padawan was assigned to guard the senator? What?”

After a brief pause, the Chancellor says simply, “Yes.”

“Are you kriffing with me right now?”

The Chancellor stares unreadably at him.

With a squinted glare, Antilles slowly and deliberately slurps a mouthful of caff.

Quiet amusement shivers across the Force. Plo, more warmly, supplies, “A padawan is a Jedi learner, one who has been claimed by a Jedi Master—in this case, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi—to be taught the ways of the Jedi on the path towards Knighthood. Master Kenobi’s padawan was assigned to protect Senator Amidala from assassination attempts while his master investigated the reasons behind the attempt.”

“Which led him to Kamino,” Tera supplies.

“And the discovery that someone has been sabotaging the Jedi Archives,” Jocasta adds grimly.

The Chancellor says, “Huh.” Then he says unexpectedly, “Master Kenobi is a Jedi?”

Depa exchanges glances with her fellow Jedi, feeling their shared surprise. “Yes?” says Plo. “Our apologies. Were you not aware?” With sudden caution, he adds, “We are all Jedi.”

The Chancellor considers Plo for a long moment. Depa tenses, feeling the spark of alarm from her companions. If he was not aware they were Jedi—it would explain his lack of animosity so far, confusing as it was. But now that he knows....

He stands to scoop up his child and balance him on his hip. His visor turns towards Antilles.

“What?” Antilles asks, defensively clutching his mug.

“They’re Jedi,” says the Chancellor. Cautiously, Depa focuses her senses on him. That earlier certainty hasn’t changed, though now it’s tinged with— confusion? 

“I thought you knew. They’re carrying lightsabers.”

By way of demonstration, Depa cautiously unhooks her own lightsaber and shows it to the Chancellor, unlit. Jocasta and Plo do the same in their turn, though Tera simply hums, nodding down to his hip where his hangs.

“Lightsabers aren’t just used by Jedi,” the Chancellor objects.

“They’re almost always used by Jedi. A couple have shown up here and there when we do raids, usually as a collector’s item or trophy—” Antilles cuts an apologetic glance at Tera, who nods sadly, “—but only Jedi really use them.”

“To use a lightsaber is difficult and almost impossible if one isn’t Force-sensitive,” Tera supplies. 

The Chancellor’s confusion grows, if anything. And still there’s no hostility. “Are you sure?”

“Words, Mando.” Antilles sighs. “What are you thinking?”

The Chancellor visibly pauses to consider. Then he turns to Plo. There’s a distinct sense of the subject being changed. “The child needs a teacher. For his powers.”

Plo’s Force presence pulses with delight. He’s very predictable. Depa smothers her amusement along with her astonishment. A non-hostile traditional Mandalorian Chancellor, who actively asks Jedi to train his Force-sensitive son. Master Windu is right. The man is a unicorn. 

“Your child is quite powerful,” Jocasta says, her eyes narrowing. “You will not send him to join the Jedi?”

“He decided against it for now. He had a teacher before.” The child, busily floating worms from his bowl to his mouth, squeaks up at him. He glances down at his son and gently rubs his head, getting a sweet purr in reply. The Force brightens with his child's love.  “The child decided to return to me rather than stay with him. But you can come here.”

“We can.” Plo hesitates, a hint of caution entering his body language. There are many other Force traditions in the galaxy. Many of them are harmless. Many of them are... not so harmless.  “Who was his previous teacher? Someone we might know?”

“Skywalker.”

Surprise pings through the Force, bouncing between them. “Anakin Skywalker?” Plo asks. “Master Kenobi’s padawan?”

The Chancellor tilts his head. “Luke Skywalker,” he corrects, as though they should know better. “The Last Jedi.”

They can hear the capital letters in the title. “The last Jedi on your planet?” Depa asks, even though she knows quite well there are no other Skywalkers in the Order.

“The last Jedi in the galaxy.”

This, Depa supposes distantly, is what Master Windu meant when he said talking to the Chancellor was like taking repeated rancors to the head. Depa hadn’t been able to reconcile ‘unicorn’ and ‘rancors to the head’ into one being before, but now she understands. Under the sudden, headache-inducing clang of the Force, she can faintly hear Antilles coughing. Some caff gone down the wrong way.

“Oh dear,” says Tera. “Did he tell you he was the last Jedi? There are occasionally pretenders....” 

Even through the helmet, it’s obvious that the Chancellor is giving him a skeptical look. “Everybody calls him that.”

“Locally?” 

“Galactic News feeds. I looked him up. He killed Darth Vader and the Emperor.”

Darth Vader is not a name Depa has ever heard. Emperor recalls shades of Sith Empires and history lessons. And yet the Force resonates with his words, deep, mournful peals of true, true, true.

“Darth Vader. A Sith,” Jocasta says sharply. Is that the Master they’ve been searching for, whose apprentice Obi-Wan killed on Naboo? “What Emperor?”

The Chancellor looks between them. “Emperor of the Galactic Empire?” he says slowly. 

“You speak truth. The Force confirms it,” Plo says, sounding stunned. But how can it be true? They can’t call it a lie. The Force is overwhelming in its message. Truth.  

“How is this possible?” Depa protests.

“What,” Antilles wheezes.

The Chancellor says, “Good job coming back from extinction.” He looks over at the coughing Antilles as if for approval. His shoulders sag. He turns back to add awkwardly, “Keep up the good work?”

Chapter Text

Warnings: the attendant horrors of being a baby clone on Kamino.

Coruscant

Day two of this job looks like it’ll be just as irritating as the first one.

Smothering his sigh, Din fishes the giggling Grogu out from under the table to pop his cleaned robe back over his head. Kobol has already made outraged noises about the clothesline for the gear he washed the night before. Apparently, they’re supposed to own more stuff. 

“You’re the kriffing Chancellor of the Republic,” Kobol ranted last night when they’d finally moved Grogu’s barricade enough to gain access to the fresher. The lawman had some sort of meltdown when he realized what Din was using it for. “You should own at least a change of underwear.” 

It seemed an odd thing to get fixated on. Din had a change of underwear back on Yavin. He could have told Kobol that, but he makes it a rule not to argue too much with his employers. Unless they’re being stupid. Or irritate him. Or look at him funny. Underwear is a fairly harmless thing to get crazy about, all things considered.

Besides, Din woke up with a sore jaw from all the talking yesterday. While it isn’t the worst thing he could’ve woken up with, he has the gloomy conviction that this is going to become a trend. These people talk too much. He’s got no words to spare for extraneous kark.

For instance.

“Out of curiosity, Chancellor, would you happen to know the year?” Kel Dor Monk—apparently named Jedi Master Plo Koon—asks.

Jedi. Weird questions are apparently a thing with them.

Din’s HUD isn’t syncing up with the galactic hyperspace beacons. Typical. In order to keep out of the sights of the Empire, the covert used hacks and back doors to connect  with galactic systems and still stay unnoticed. It occasionally led to malfunctions. Din’s used to recalculating from old data though, so it isn’t as though it’s a real problem.

Grogu sends the sock Din is trying to shove on his foot flying away with his magic. He cheers over Din’s absent-minded reply. 

“ABY?” asks Jedi Master Plo Koon. “That’s... not a system I’m familiar with. What does that stand for?”

Really weird questions.

“I... see,” Jedi Master Plo Koon says slowly, on hearing the answer. He exchanges glances with the other Jedi. 

“Yavin. Before Exar Kun— Vitiate? Perhaps... the Outlander’s name was erased from history. Could it have been...? But then, he couldn’t have been the last,” breathes Old Alarming Human-or-Near-Human Jedi.

“What came before ABY, Chancellor?” asks Young Braidy Human-or-Near-Human Jedi.

“AFE,” Din says, and elaborates before they can ask, “After the Formation of the Empire.” He pauses to squint at them. Not that they can see it. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

Jedi Master Plo Koon folds his hands in his lap and manages to look innocent. “Ah. We use a different calendar.” 

Din gives him a dubious look. Not that they can see that either.

“As Jedi,” clarifies Creaky Green Cosian Jedi serenely.

Young Braidy Human-or-Near-Human Jedi’s arm twitches like she wants to smack herself in the face.

Well, whatever. 

Din manages to get the other sock on Grogu’s foot just in time for the child to slither right out of his grip and his robe. How he manages to do that with a head that’s too big for the neck hole continues to baffle. Grogu dashes off, giggling.

At least the child is clean and fed. And the beskar shirt is still concealed under his tunic, which is the important part. Din is suddenly reminded of the child’s little building project last night.

“Does your magic say anything about that?” Din asks, tipping his head in the direction of the fresher.

Jedi Master Plo Koon turns his head to look. The screen in front of the opening makes it impossible to see the hallway. Or the barricade. “The... screen?” 

Din shrugs. Jedi Master Plo Koon pauses. Then he stands up and drifts over to the screen. Din watches with interest as he uses his magic to float it out of the way. It’s a pretty big screen. Din figures it’s about as heavy as that mudhorn was. Grogu struggled with it, though Jedi Master Plo Koon seems to find it an easy business.

Maybe Grogu will grow up to be that strong? He won’t grow up to be that tall, not if the wrinkly one of his species Din saw at his arrest is any guide. That’s probably sad for Grogu, but Din is guiltily relieved by it. Buying clothes for growing children can get expensive. Also, if he doesn’t get much bigger Din will still be able to pick him up and not cuddle him in any way when he's—

All the Jedi abruptly rush past the screen into the hallway behind it. 

Huh.

A few seconds later, Din hears the bzzzzt-whoosh noise the Darksaber makes when it gets turned on. He checks his hip suspiciously to make sure it isn’t the culprit. It isn’t. The Darksaber is still pretending to be a vibroblade hilt. So the noise is probably the Jedi doing Jedi things. That’s fine then. None of that furniture back there was his responsibility anyway, so he doesn’t care what happens to it.

“Got him,” Kobol announces. He’s holding Grogu upside-down. The child’s cackling. “What’s up with the Jedi?”

Good man.

 •─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Kamino

Eyes isn’t one of the lucky few who caught a glimpse of the Jedi who came to Kamino. He was in flash training, unconscious while the engram imprints for vascular repair procedures were being written on his brain. 

He’s a mix of relieved and disappointed when his batchmates tell him about the General’s arrival and subsequent departure later. His post-training headache doesn’t leave him much room for thinking about it.

“Just as well,” CT-4165 says quietly, rubbing his back while he thinks about the merits of throwing up. “Who knows what he might’ve thought if he figured out you were... you know.”

He’s lucky beyond belief—or maybe it’s the Force—that they’re in their night-cycle when the Thing happens a few days after the Jedi leaves. Eyes feels it as a laugh that knocks him right out of sleep. He wakes up the rest of his batchmates with giggles and a restless giddiness that he can’t explain.

It’s weird. Not the weirdest thing that Eyes has ever done, even if he can rarely seem to explain why. “The galaxy is happy” isn’t much of a consolation to brothers who lose hours of sleep right before a live fire exercise.

In another life, the Dark shroud of the Sith wouldn’t have begun to tatter across the galaxy. Eyes would eventually save one of his batchmates from an equipment malfunction in a way that made certain things unmistakeable. He and his entire batch would disappear into the Kaminoan labs for experimentation under the noses of the Jedi. They would never make it off the planet.

In this life, the gradual clearing of the Force and its joy lingers with Eyes for the next four days. He’s prone to random bouts of laughter. He’s distracted in training. His batchmates do their best to cover for him, but there’s only so much they can do. The longnecks start eyeing him speculatively. Trainer Yrmash loses his temper at his lack of focus and makes an object lesson out of him.

He wakes up in the infirmary, crankily certain that he has to wake up, wake up now. Moving slowly, careful of still-mending bones and bruises, he changes into his blacks and armor. The medical droid is exasperated.

Without paying much attention to the whys and wherefores, he staggers out into the hallways. They’re oddly empty, though he doesn’t notice that. In fact, the first he sees of anyone is when he turns a corner and almost runs right into a tall figure flanked by longnecks.

It catches him by the shoulders, gently holding him in place. He gapes up at it. Her. A Togrutan female towers over him, skin orange and white, dressed in robes of brown. 

She’s glowing faintly. This seems perfectly reasonable to him. He can sense CC-1010 just around the corner, feeling alarmed. Oh no. Wonder what he's alarmed about. But more importantly...

“Oh wow,” he blurts out drunkenly, bathing in the feeling she gives off. “You feel safe. And you’re enormous. Enormously safe.”

He feels a rush of amusement and concern. It doesn’t feel like his. It doesn’t feel like one of his brothers, either. “I see you’ll be quite the charmer when you finish growing, young one,” says the Togrutan.

"I'm charming now," he argues. "Why're you glowing?"

"Am I?" She smiles at him. He's blinded and squints, shielding his eyes with his fingers. "Perhaps it's a trick of the light?"

"Nuh uh. Glowing." He nods firmly and immediately regrets it. Ow. "In the—" No wait, he's not supposed to talk about that. "I'm going to be a soldier!" 

"So I hear. Do you want to be a soldier?"

This feels like a trick question. Despite CC-1010's sharp spike of anxiety though, he sways into the feeling of safe safe safe. "Nope! But I have to pretend I do. Don't have a choice. Because I'm engineered to want to be a soldier, see? Shh. I'm defective. Don't tell anyone."

“You’re hurt.”

He wobbles, saying dismissively, “It was jus’ training. Trainer Yrmash beat me unconscious. No brain damage, nope. Just a tiny concussion.” He shows her how small with his thumb and forefinger. “He actually killed CT-9921 the last time, so—”

“Clone. What is your number?” says one of the longnecks. A chill of terror jumps up his spine as he suddenly remembers his audience. Too late, clarity clicks into place. He feels the blood drain from his face. The hands on his shoulders tighten in reaction, though he doesn’t notice. 

A sudden surge of horror stabs at him, almost lost under his own fear. CC-1010. It takes everything Eyes has not to glance towards the intersection where CC-1010 is hidden. There’s nothing his big brother can do for him now. This is his own mess. All he can do is make sure none of his brothers get pulled into it.

“Sir,” he snaps, straightening to attention and saluting around the Togrutan’s hold on him. “CT-4026.”

“CT-4026. Report to Rau Lona.”

Rau Lona is in charge of decommissions. Eyes wasn’t aware he could be more terrified than he was at that moment, but look at that. CC-1010's surge of hopelessness and rage is almost comforting by comparison. At least, he thinks with resignation, it’ll be decommissioning instead of experimentation. And at least he won’t be taking any of his brothers with him.

None of them will be surprised, at least. Sad, but not surprised.

“Sir, yes sir,” he says woodenly.

“Rau Lona?” says the Togruta. “Is that your caretaker, young one? Or perhaps a medic?”

Eyes opens his mouth, about to explain that Rau Lona is a scientist. Instead, responding to an inner prompt, he says, “Rau Lona is responsible for terminating unsatisfactory clones, sir.”

“Ah.”

For an odd moment, Eyes has the feeling that he’s a baby nexu whose mama is about to rip some prey animal’s throat out. Also that he’s one with the universe, but that’s, you know, less interesting.

His fear is unaccountably washed away. Mama nexu are weirdly comforting. 

“As a Jedi and member of the Jedi Council, I will be taking responsibility for this young man,” the Togrutan says, mild in a way that makes the Kaminoans flinch and back away a bit. Eyes has the irrelevant thought that Kaminoans aren’t the apex predator in the oceans of Kamino. “He will be reporting to me and me only.”

“This unit is defective,” one of the longnecks says with disapproval. Eyes can barely hear it over the feeling of rightness that briefly rings through him.

“This unit is a sentient being who shines in the Force,” the Jedi—the Jedi!— says with an unfailing smile. It is, looked at objectively, an expression that shouldn’t be as alarming as it is. “I believe you said the Jedi are the customer?”

Well, the Kaminoans say. Yes. But.

“To put it in your parlance, I am taking delivery of this product. And of any other... terminations scheduled or in progress, now and in the future.”

Eyes fidgets, not quite daring to hope. If the decommissions are stopped— but if they are going to be decommissioned for failure in the future, at least it’ll be because the Jedi decided they weren’t good quality based on Jedi standards. Not because of the longnecks. They were made for the Jedi, after all.

The longnecks dither a bit. They don’t like that the Jedi is interfering with their quality control. Eyes can feel their dissatisfaction. 

“I will also require documentation of all previous terminations—”

“Decommissions,” Eyes whispers, trying to be helpful. “They call it decommissioning.”

Something swells and bursts in his senses, like a pustule popping. A big one. The Jedi takes a breath, exuding calm. “Decommissioning, then. All documentation and justifications for decommissioning.”

“Unacceptable. That will expose proprietary secrets.”

“Genetic source code may be censored, but not the results of the genetic chains,” the Jedi grants. 

More unhappiness and discussion. Finally, reluctant agreement. Through all of it, the Jedi leaves one hand on Eyes’ shoulder. It feels warm in a way that Eyes has never felt before. He leans into it unobtrusively, hoping she won’t notice but knowing she does when she squeezes once, gently.

“And now,” the Jedi says, “I believe we should continue the tour. Young one? How would you like me to address you? And are you well enough to join us?”

Eyes glances at the longnecks, out of habit, before offering, “I go by ‘Eyes,’ General.”

“I am not a General, Eyes.”

“Yes, sir,” Eyes says happily. 

“I am Jedi Master Shaak Ti of the Jedi Council.”

“Yes, Jedi Master Shaak Ti.”

“Master Ti will suffice. And perhaps your friends will join us?” 

Master Ti glances towards the intersection where CC-1010 is hidden. After a moment, CC-1010 steps out in full military stiffness to salute. “Sir!”

The Jedi’s gaze though, continues expectant on the corner. A few moments later, Colt steps out to salute as well.

Eyes beams at them. Master Ti smiles another objectively terrifying smile at the Kaminoans. Eyes wants to learn how to do that. “I trust there will be no objections?”

 •─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Coruscant

The Jedi politely ask the non-Jedi to leave the suite. They apparently found something important in the rooms Grogu blocked off. They seem excited about it, so Din assumes it’s a magic thing. They’ve promised to update him on everything as soon as they know what that everything is.

Din isn’t sure why he should care, but it seems important to them, so. Kobol seems to find it worth worrying about.

He tells Din as much as they march off to the office, Jedi Master Plo Koon in tow while the rest stay behind and call for reinforcements.

“Jedi don’t get this excited unless the coolant’s already leaked past the air scrubbers,” Kobol says grimly.

The only way Kobol could be more Corellian is if he was actually drunk and steering a smuggling freighter down the throat of an ion storm. Privately resigned to the Jedi’s magic business shortly becoming his magic business, Din expels most of the clamoring aides—he counts fifteen of them, which can’t possibly be right—and contemplates the copy of the Constitution that Helpful Yellow dug up for him.

It’s. It’s really long. 

Din doesn’t like to read. Not much call for it as a bounty hunter. He’s going to have to get over that. In the five years since they overthrew the Empire, the New Republic has resurrected Alderaan, created hundreds of new Jedi sorcerers, established a massive new Senate with lots of politicians, and worked up the start of a civil war.

Like any true Mandalorian, Din respects competence. Despite the specimens of stupid he met yesterday, it’s obvious the New Republic has competence oozing out its pores. Somewhere. 

Din will have to buckle up and match this outrageous demonstration of efficiency. It will be a challenge. As the beroya of his covert, he’s never allowed himself to be less than his very best. His covert’s lives depended on it. Now he’ll have to do better than his best. He’ll have to find a way to exceed even his own high expectations. His honor is on the line. 

He’s looking forward to it.

“Is there a problem, Master Koon?” Kobol asks nearby.

Jedi Master Plo Koon rubs his upper arms thoughtfully. “My apologies, Captain Inspector. I believe— the Force just shivered.”

“The Force what?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Right.”

With Grogu chasing leftover frogs in the office, Kobol and the Jedi Master Plo Koon talking about something-or-another, and the Constitution uploaded to his HUD, Din settles in to read. He immediately discovers there’s an index that will let him jump around the document. Excellent. And there’s even a job description for ‘Supreme Chancellor.’

“Maybe it’s the temperature control?” Kobol suggests.

“Mm,” says Jedi Master Plo Koon.

The Supreme Chancellor job is surprisingly straightforward, behind the political waste of words. Approve or reject laws. Ensure the law is being followed. That seems hypocritical, but fine. He breaks laws all the time without knowing they existed to begin with. It’s only a little extra effort to learn what he’s breaking. Command the military when there is one. That would’ve been bad for the Republic if he hadn’t shown up. These people lucked out. He might not know large-scale war, but at least he’s a Mandalorian. He should look up how to military. Dictate foreign policy, whatever that is. Appoint or remove executive officers. 

He’s already done the last one. Second in Command is an officer position, no matter what ‘executive’ means. Feeling accomplished, Din looks up ‘foreign policy.’ It’s a wordy section that boils down to ‘do what you usually do when dealing with other people, except you’re the Republic and the other people are planets and sectors that aren’t the Republic.’ Seems easy enough. 

“I don’t believe it’s the temperature control,” Jedi Master Plo Koon says faintly.

Din uses the index to jump to the Articles of Sentient Rights.

He’s only about three articles in—apparently slavery is against the law in the Republic, isn’t that interesting—when the bustle around him picks up. He turns his head to watch, which makes several aides jump. Apparently, some of them managed to sneak back in while he was reading. They’re like brightly colored mynocks. 

“I thought you fell asleep in there,” Kobol accuses. “You were just sitting there, staring at nothing. Were you watching all along? That’s creepy, Mando.”

“Master Shaak Ti, the Jedi who went to Kamino, is ready to report, Chancellor,” says Jedi Master Plo Koon, as the aides quickly set up an expensive holo projector and Creaky Green Cosian Jedi enters the room. “If you will allow me?”

Din nods with some relief. He was tired of reading.

The Togrutan female who shows up to report is framed by a trio of human or human-approximate boys, all dark-haired and similar enough to be brothers. The two oldest look like twins in their mid to late teens. The visibly battered youngest looks to be around ten. 

There’s something familiar about them. Din sets that aside to consider later.

“Master Ti,” Jedi Master Plo Koon greets warmly. “Supreme Chancellor, may I introduce Jedi Master Shaak Ti, who was sent by the Jedi High Council to investigate the situation on Kamino.”

Din nods at her. She inclines her head back. There were two Togrutans in Din’s covert. They were good people. 

“Chancellor,” she says.

“Call me Mando,” he says.

“Chancellor Mando,” she amends, which wasn’t what he meant. “Allow me to introduce Eyes—” her hand drops to the youngest boy’s shoulder, “—CC-1010, and CC-1014.”

The two older ones stand stiff, like they’re used to wearing armor. The youngest one beams at the Jedi before turning a fascinated stare on Din. 

“You’re a Mandalorian,” Eyes marvels.

“You’re a clone,” Din says blankly. 

“I didn’t know Mandalorians could be the Chancellor.”

Din shrugs, awkward. Children are the Way. He mostly prefers that Way to happen from a distance. Excepting Grogu, of course. Eyes didn’t ask a question, but since he seems to be expecting some sort of response, Din says, “It’s a job.”

Social niceties satisfied, he turns to the Jedi and says, “Report.”

Master Ti inclines her head again, her faint smile fading. “I regret to say, Chancellor, that this facility is... an abomination.”

And then she starts talking.

Millions of children. Brutal training. Live fire exercises. Murdering children due to genetic variation or misbehavior.

Din mutes his helmet speakers a few minutes into the report and sets it to record. He’s had a lifetime’s practice in functioning in the face of horrors. Survival on the Outer Rim is brutal. There’s little room for weakness in a bounty hunter’s life. Nothing that Master Ti is reporting is truly new to him, not even the mind-boggling scale of it. Slavery thrived under the Empire’s rule. While the covert couldn’t draw attention to itself, there was a reason a good half of its members were escaped slaves and nearly all the rest were refugees.

The oldest clones, Master Ti reports, are ten standard years old. Those are the first batches, the initial tests. The two standing rigidly beside her, CC-1010 and CC-1014, are from a later batch at nine standard years old. Ten years old means this project started under the Empire. An army of child clones seems like typical Empire thinking: grandiose, unspeakable, and stupid. The fact that they’re clones of an apparently notorious Mandalorian warrior that Din has never heard of is just another insult piled on top of atrocity.

“Jango Fett?” he interrupts to confirm, sharp.

“Jango Fett,” Master Ti says with a nod.

Fett. A relative of Boba’s, maybe? He should comm him to ask.

That’s beside the point, though. At heart, Din is a simple man. He has his Creed. It says children are the future. He has read the New Republic rule about slavery. It says slavery is against the law. He is the boss of the New Republic. His job is to enforce laws. 

Is Kamino part of the New Republic? He checks the playlist Helpful Yellow gave him. Answer: no. That makes this a ‘dictate foreign policy’ situation. He’s the big, well-armed and beskar-armored Mandalorian Republic. Kamino’s the slave-making, slave-keeping demagolka treating children like cattle. For a nice change, his preference and his contract are aligned. He nods once, satisfied. He turns his speakers back on. “Who owns you?” he asks the boys.

The Jedi twitch. The two older boys somehow manage to straighten even further. “We were made for the Jedi, sir!” says CC-1010.

“The Jedi do not own you,” says Master Ti firmly. “You own yourselves.”

Eyes looks skeptical. The older two stay blank-faced.

“Apparently, a Jedi Master named Sifo-Dyas commissioned the clones from the Kaminoans,” Creaky Green Cosian Jedi adds.

Din nods. They explained this briefly yesterday. “Where is he now?”

“He died several years ago, I’m afraid.”

It’s suspicious, but not a surprise. There was a reason Luke Skywalker was called the Last Jedi, after all. The Empire was always running around looking for sorcerers to kill. Along with all the other people the Empire was running around looking to kill. "Where did the money come from?” Sifo-Dyas could've been trying to build an army for the Rebellion, but the one certainty about the Rebellion was that it was always strapped for resources. It couldn't have afforded a clone army. 

“That,” says Creaky Green Cosian Jedi, “will be my investigation, I believe.”

Iffy. It might've been fine under the Empire, but nowadays slavery is against the law. An alleged Jedi commissioned slaves with mysterious money. A Jedi will investigate the commissioning and mysterious money. It'll look bad for the Jedi if the situation is as bad as it seems. Din’s seen this kind of thing play out before. He looks at Kobol.

“What?” Kobol asks, yanked out of his fury at Master Ti’s report. “What’s that look for?”

“You’re a lawman,” Din saysl.

“I investigate crimes and enforce the law. And I’m a man, yes.”

“What kind of crimes?”

Kobol closes his eyes. He abruptly looks like he’s regretting a lot of his life choices. “It’s my day off,” he protests weakly. 

Din considers this objection for half a second before dismissing it. Kobol’s said that before, but he’s also in uniform so it’s probably meant to be humor. “He’ll investigate. You can help,” he informs Creaky Green Cosian Jedi.

“Yay,” Kobol says without conviction.

Creaky Green Cosian Jedi stares at Din for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, I believe that is actually a wise decision.”

“Master Sinube,” Master Ti objects over the holocall.

Creaky Green Cosian Jedi—apparently called Master Sinube—raises his hand to stop her. “No, the Chancellor is quite correct. Whatever his motives, the result of Master Sifo-Dyas’s decisions is a clone army that is a sentient rights violation on practically every front. It is a corruption and betrayal of the Order’s principles that will be visible to the entire galaxy before long. This cannot be investigated solely by the Jedi.

“Please do not mistake my words. I would never regret that you were born,” he adds kindly to the boys. “I can, however, regret how you have been forced to live. While I cannot speak for the Jedi Order, if it is one of my brethren that caused this, you have my sincere apologies, young ones. I will do what I can to make things right.”

The two older boys in the call have impressive sabacc faces, but Din can detect the signs of shock with weird ease. After a glance at each other, CC-1014 says carefully, “Thank you, Gene— Master Jedi. It’s appreciated.”

But not believed, Din guesses. That’s reasonable.

Kobol looks resigned though, and nods at Din when he glances at him. Satisfied that the investigation will be handled, Din looks back at Master Ti and nods at her to continue.

While she talks further, her droid sends through a data packet of everything it was able to pull from the Kaminoan systems. He skims them while he listens. Medical files he doesn’t really understand, beyond the physical trauma he recognizes from his own experiences. Reports about training exercises that run the gamut from pure osik to wish someone had put me through these before I got shot by/ambushed by/overwhelmed by/betrayed by/captured by the Pyke Syndicate/that Trandoshan hunting squad/Jawas/Hutts/that one slaver.

He reviews another incomprehensible report without really understanding what he’s reading before he stops, rewinds, and narrows his eyes. 

“Stop,” he says abruptly. Master Ti and Jedi Master Plo Koon, in the middle of a conversation about ‘tubies.’ “CC-1010.”

“Sir!”

In Mando’a, he asks, “Who leads the trainers?”

The boys freeze. CC-1010 and CC-1014 look torn. Din frowns. They either understand what he said and don’t want to admit it, or don’t understand and don’t want to admit it. Both options are utterly unacceptable. In Basic, he repeats himself. “Who leads the trainers?”

“Jango Fett, sir,” CC-1010 reports promptly. 

“Your buir?”

“No, sir.” At Din’s pointed pause and tilt of head, CC-1010 continues stiffly, “We’re meat droids, sir. We have no personality or souls. The Prime has no interest in us.”

The Jedi immediately start protesting. Din ignores them while he considers. 

On the one hand, it’s a relief that Jango Fett isn’t their parent. Din might have to kill Fett for being a demagolka slaver scum as part of ‘dictate foreign policy.’ By and large, he’d prefer to do that without leaving behind any grieving ade. (Maybe he won’t tell Boba about this Fett. It would upset him. Although Boba claims he isn’t Mandalorian either. Would demagolka family be better than no family? Din will have to think about this.) 

On the other hand, the fact he’s kept his offspring from the manda is very, very difficult. That’s a lot of children. Din already has a job. He can’t abandon it to give these children their souls. But the Creed....

He doesn’t know what to do.

He needs the Armorer. The realization makes hits him like a mudhorn. He’ll contact the Armorer when he has a private moment. They’ll guide him. In fact, they're even more likely to take over the duty to the children. 

Relieved by identifying a path forward, he tunes back into the ongoing conversation. The boys are listening politely to the Jedi’s reassurances that they are all unique and people in the Force. (That’s interesting. Din didn’t know the magic could do that, though he probably should’ve realized with the way Grogu acted.) A few words from a trio of Jedi aren’t going to overcome a lifetime of being told something different though, so Din asks bluntly, “Do you want to be Mandalorian?”

Eyes’ jaw drops. The Jedi go still.

If anything, CC-1010 looks even more wary. CC-1014, on the other hand, betrays a split-second of shock before he hides it. 

“We’re clones, sir,” CC-1010 says.

That’s not a no. Din nods, because CC-1010 made a factual statement. “To be Mandalorian is to have a shared culture and to follow the Creed. It is a choice. It is to be part of a people with a belief that we adhere to. It is not to be a specific species or to be born from a specific planet or in a specific way.” Not for the first time, he thanks the Manda that he remembers the Armorer's teachings almost verbatim. The Armorer's is better at words than he is. “Do you want to be Mandalorian?”

“Sir,” says Eyes, when the two older boys seem to be stricken dumb. “Is that something we can do?”

“Yes,” says Din. “But it is a choice.”

“Chancellor,” Jedi Master Plo Koon begins, only to stop.

“Prime says we can’t,” CC-1010 says, almost managing to conceal the bitterness.

Din checks back over everything he learned from his covert. He concludes, “Prime is wrong. He is dar’manda. He does not follow the Creed. He cannot choose for you. Or for your siblings.”

Silence falls. After a moment, Kobol covers his eyes with his hand and starts to shake. Din looks him over cautiously and checks his HUD readout. He concludes that Kobol is laughing. Din has seen this sort of reaction before, but it seems odd for Kobol to suffer battle shock here and now. 

Well, he’ll either get over it or he won’t. 

“It’s an important decision,” he tells the boys, when no immediate answer seems forthcoming. “Speak to your siblings and give them the choice as well. I will find teachers in the Way for those who make the choice to learn.” The Armorer will go, he is fairly certain. The covert is gone, but there are children who want to learn. The Armorer will teach them. "This is the Way."

Speaking of: “Where is Jango Fett?” he asks Master Ti, as another thought strikes him. The Armorer will be annoyed with him if he doesn’t deal with certain things first.

“Off planet. Master Kenobi was in pursuit when he left Kamino. Fett has not returned,” she answers.

“Who's in command of the trainers while he's gone?”

“Trainer Skirata, sir,” CC-1010 says. He sounds strange.

Din squints at him, but lets it pass. Kobol is still laughing quietly. Skirata. There was a Skirata in the history lessons when he was a youngling, wasn’t there? It was the name of a clan. “I want to speak with them,” he decides, pulling up the Kamino file on the trainer.

Master Ti hesitates, then nods. “I’ll ask the Kaminoans to summon him.”.

The file reports that the trainer is Mandalorian. He seems to be one of the other types of Mandalorian, who shows their face and shares their true name. Din is privately proud of himself for having already experienced and learned from the shock of meeting Bo-Katan Kryze and her squad. He is open-minded now. 

Of course, it remains to be seen if Kal Skirata is also dar’manda or not. Din hopes not. Otherwise, shooting Kamino in the face and freeing all the enslaved children before the Armorer arrives will be complicated.

Chancelloring requires so much talking. His jaw is tired. 

Ugh.

Chapter Text

Media District - Coruscant

Dorda Tar’naka isn’t a sentient given to self-delusion (this is a lie) but he’s one of the most powerful sentients in the galaxy. (This is also a lie, but less of one than the first.) Over the last ten years, his growing media empire has destroyed lives, crushed careers, and overthrown governments. He has blackmail material on thousands of senators, aides, and bureaucrats. 

He is mighty!

Palpatine was a personal friend. They had a mutually beneficial relationship. Dorda was looking forward to being the shadow king behind the Chancellor—Palpatine was likable enough for a politician, but Dorda wasn’t one to let sentiment overshadow opportunity when the human was so easy to manipulate—but then of course a Mandalorian had come out of nowhere and literally crushed Dorda’s dreams of galactic power.

The new Chancellor is an unknown. Dorda doesn’t have any blackmail material on him. His people have been digging desperately for anything on him (him? It? Them? He doesn’t even know that! Insupportable!) and so far, nothing is confirmable beyond the news that he has a Force-sensitive child of the same species as the Jedi Master Yoda.

Dorda doesn’t know anything. He isn’t one to take things personally (yet another lie) but to have a Chancellor he has no leverage on is unacceptable!

Well, no matter. If he has nothing to hold over this Chancellor Mando, he’ll simply have to find something.

Less than an hour after the Inauguration, Dorda’s people are Investigating. They’re smart about it, of course. Mandalorians of the armored type have a Reputation. They’re so brutal, aren’t they? So barbaric. Every politician out there has dealt with a Mandalorian mercenary at one point or another. If they say otherwise, they lie. And armored Mandalorians, in Dorda’s experience, are easy to dislike. They’re frightening. They’re threatening.

If there’s anything a sentient dislikes, it’s someone who makes them fear.

Dorda, of course, doesn’t fear Mandalorians. No. They should fear him.

(Everything about that is a lie.)

“There’s over two hundred bounty hunters in this sector alone with ‘Mando’ or ‘Mandalorian’ as part of their callsign, and that’s without going into mercenaries unaffiliated with any company,” his second-in-command tells him two days after Inauguration, cranky after an entire day of trying to squeeze information out of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild. “It’ll take months to find the right one, and that’s if he’s in any tax records at all.”

“Tchah. Taxes,” Dorda says scornfully. He doesn’t understand the point of paying them, himself. “There’s nothing? Truly?”

“Nothing I can find so far. No news from the others, either. It’s still early, though.”

Dorda throws his hands up in the air, a prayer to old Weequay gods he doesn’t believe in, and curses the unfairness of the galaxy. “I did not give up a brilliant career as a poet of unparalleled works to be thwarted by a half-tinned softshell!” he declaims.

Puai levels a dull look at him, unimpressed as usual by the reminder of his past greatness. The past greatness he sacrificed for the greater good of the galaxy. Ungrateful wench!

“We’ll keep looking,” she says.

“Bah. Looking. For information that might not even exist!”

“We’ve directed every investigator and detective on contract to the problem. Then again, so has everyone else. I’m pretty sure most of them are double or triple dipping with other employers.”

“Tchah,” Dorda says. Liking the sound, he produces it again with great flair. “Tchah! If we can’t find news, we must make it! He’s a killer, obviously. A murderer! He has swept in with his secret weapons of great evil—“

“Gravity, Dorda. His secret weapon of great evil is gravity,” Puai sighs.

“—and seized control of the Republic in its time of direst need!”

“I’m pretty sure that was a constitutional ruling.”

“The trickery of an assassin! A traitor! As a mercenary, he is not to be trusted!”

“There’s no verification that he’s a mercenary. Or a bounty hunter.”

“Bah. All Mandalorians are mercenaries and bounty hunters.”

Puai starts rubbing her forehead. “They really aren’t.”

“Who’s to say he’s not the worst one? The one with the most violent and unreliable reputation? One that, for example, kills his employers and has a track record of treachery?” 

“If he is, we’ll hear about it eventually.”

Dorda pounds the desk with his fist. “I want to hear about it now!” He narrows his eyes at Puai, who narrows her eyes back at him. She somehow manages not to cower from the keen and incisive intelligence that makes evil-doers tremble in fear of him. “In fact, who’s to say we haven’t heard about it already?”

“Oh kark, here we go,” Puai mutters.

“I have decided,” he says grandly, ignoring this irreverence. “The Chancellor is the most fearsome bounty hunter and assassin roaming the galaxy today. In fact, he is—“ he punches rapidly at his terminal and flips through data, coming up eventually with a triumphant, “—Durge!”

Puai puts her face in her hands.

“Excellent. And now we won’t have to pay the investigators or the detectives.”

“He’s not Durge,” Puai says firmly, sitting up to glare at him.

“Aha. So you say.”

“He’s not D— you can’t possibly— he’s not the same shape or size. He’s not even wearing the same armor!”

Dorda frowns at her. “I thought better of you, Puai. How hard can it be to change one’s armor?”

The Zabrak says something sour under her breath. 

But Dorda is already ignoring her in favor of Durge’s file. “Genocide,” he reads happily, scribbling down notes in preparation for an explosive news report in the morning, to be distributed across his multiple media concerns. “Murder, massacre on Toltan, caused a natural disaster on Rajesh—“ This could be a wonderful setup for a story about Mandalorian conquest. Of the Republic! He pauses to imagine the accolades he would win: the first to break the story, the heroic watchman against the rampaging hordes of—

“What’s the point of claiming he’s Durge?”

Oh the poor, innocent child. “It isn’t necessary to prove the Chancellor is a criminal. That is for the courts. We must simply point the way. It is our duty as ethical journalists, to cast light on the dark alleyways of corruption! With enough doubt, the Chancellor will quickly be removed in a vote of no confidence. An avowed criminal, after all, leading the galaxy. It wouldn’t be hard to find witnesses of the Chancellor’s crimes. We must do this, to save the Republic!”

“There won’t be another vote until the Chancellor calls for one or the new term ends.”

“Really now,” Dorda says condescendingly. Puai’s mouth is setting mutinously. A sudden thought occurs to him. “Besides, who to say this isn’t a conspiracy by the Jedi to take over the Republic?”

Puai’s jaw drops. She stares at him.

“What,” she says.

“There are only three members of Jedi Master Yoda’s species known in the Republic, after all,” Dorda says, his imagination seized. “There’s another on the Jedi Council, isn’t there? And then there’s the Chancellor’s child.  What if the new Chancellor is the same species?”

Puai sputters for a second. “He’s not short?”

Dorda isn’t listening. “How does he fit his ears in the helmet? Did he crop them? There’s room for a sentient the size of Yoda in the chest of the armor. Is he piloting it like a miniaturized Kuat walker? One of our Blue Guard contacts claimed that CSF officer of his was yelling about no underwear: is the Chancellor a naked big-eared green adult of Yoda’s species bopping about in a miniaturized Kuat walker? Even for a Mandalorian isn’t that weird?” He trails off, rapt.

(And then he pauses to jot a note, seized by his muse. That imagery would make an excellent poem!)

“What, what is, you, what?” Puat says, sounding completely bewildered. “Did you say ‘bopping’?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? A Force-sensitive species already ruling the Jedi, now making an attempt on ruling the Republic through a masked accomplice—“

“He’s a Mandalorian. He wouldn’t work with the Jedi?”

Dorda waves this aside. “—or an unwitting puppet. A conspiracy to overthrow democracy. How hard would it be to pretend to be a Mandalorian, anyway? Steal some armor, throw some grenades, and the reputation of the Mandalorians would work for you— oh, this is brilliant. This is even better than a Mandalorian conquest. Jedi rule. Who’s to say they haven’t been mind-reading and controlling the Senate for millennia? A rot in the heart of the Republic egg— no, that’s terrible, how about a mold, or a fungus, an infection, yes, an infection in the yolk of the—“

“What Mandalorian conquest—“

He’s interrupted by the chirp of a comm. Lost as he is in his thrilling brainstorm, it takes him a moment to realize that Puai hasn’t reached to answer it. It takes another second to recognize the tone as his private comm, the unlisted and utterly secure comm unknown by any but his dearest sister.

(In another timeline, this highly secured comm would eventually leave his possession and drift from drug dealer to mercenary to smuggler, passing through dozens of hands until it ended up with a traditionalist Mandalorian covert. A secretive group hiding from a greedy, genocidal Empire needs ways for stray members to contact each other if ever they have to scatter and run. This comm ends up only one of many.

Fortunately, this is no longer that timeline. It’s a pity nobody knows that.)

Dorda hasn't called his sister in well over a week now. Oh no. He scrambles for the comm, uncaring of the lack of dignity he’s demonstrating in his frantic search. By the time he finds it under some tablets, he’s too late: the message light is blinking.

This is a disaster. He debates calling back for a split second of lunacy before remembering with a wince the last time his baibai left a message he didn’t listen to. Puai’s presence doesn’t matter—she’s practically a daughter, for all she’s showing distressing signs of developing an ethical code; he can’t imagine where she caught them from on Coruscant of all places—so in the full confidence that he needn’t fear embarrassment on that front, he triggers the message playback.

This is a mistake.

It takes him a few seconds to register that he’s staring at a fully armored Mandalorian. A fully armed Mandalorian with a helmet that, horrifyingly, he recognizes.

He hadn’t thought he knew enough about Mandalorian helmets to distinguish between them, but the new Chancellor doesn’t paint his. When he first saw it on holofeeds, he thought it looked naked. Now, faced by the killer of his dear friend Palpatine in a distressingly clear projection, he realizes it looks brutal. Dangerous.

“What, what,” he gabbles, flailing a hand at Puai. “What’s he saying?”

“I think it’s … Mandalorian? I don’t speak that. Is that the Chancellor? Why is the Chancellor calling you?”

“Get the protocol droid!” 

Even if he understood a word, there’s something unmistakably threatening about the low rasp of the Chancellor’s voice. Dorda has time to listen to it three times and dither over calling to check on  his baibai—who has no doubt been tricked into giving the Chancellor his private comm, because surely, surely the new Chancellor hasn’t had time to hunt her down and torture that information out of her, surely? Unless the Chancellor’s co-conspirator Jedi peeled her mind like a qi’ai fruit and sucked all his secrets out of her, ha ha. Because if they had, Dorda would be on his way to a detention cell right now, wouldn’t he?

Unless they want him to suffer. Palpatine told him stories about Force-sensitives who did things, horrible things to harmless sentients, sweet, wonderful sentients like his sweet baibai….

By the time C9PRO waddles through the door, Dorda is a sweating, anxious mess. 

“Good evening, Master Tar’chak,” the droid says in its grating voice, excited as ever to be of service. “Might I say what a pleasure it is to—“

“Yes, yes, shut up! Translate this!” Dorda orders.

By now he has the words practically memorized, though he still has no idea what they mean. The Chancellor looms at him, looms, even miniaturized over the mini projector. 

“Oh!” C9PRO enthuses. “How delightful! He’s speaking Mando’a!”

“What did he say?!” 

“The Chancellor of the Republic greets you by name, Master, and is sure you know who they are. They will regain their honor. Unfortunately while they lack the time right now to deal with the soulless personally, there are those they trust to deal with it. They request that you respond immediately.”

“‘Soulless’?” Puai asks, curious.

“It’s a fascinating concept in Mandalorian culture, Mistress. Mandalorian literature from as far back as 2200 BRR reference the Manda, a kind of oversoul that true Mandalorians return to when they die. Of course, outsiders and exiles are considered to be soulless. There are quite a few studies of the Mandalorian Expansion and the Battle of Cathar, which speculate this was a pivotal factor in the genocide of the species by the Mandalorian new-Crusaders. Dr. Shevakiss of the Corellian Academy—“

Dorda makes a high-pitched wheezing noise, reminding C9PRO that he’s still in the room. 

The droid brightens, turning back to him. “Might I say, Master, that it is an honor to be allowed to translate for the Chancellor. He is quite witty! Why, there are several clever bits of wordplay of unusual brilliance. To begin with, the Chancellor addressed you as Goran, which of course means—“

“Shut up!” Dorda shrieks. “Shut up! Shut up!”

C9PRO sniffs, offended. “Why, I never.” Sulky but obedient, it falls silent.

(It dedicates processors to reflect on the Chancellor’s brilliant pun of the Mando’a word for Armorer, which of course in Ancient Weequay sounds like qo’r’an, the word for waterproof, which in Mando’a can be translated as dol’draar, which of course sounds just like the Master’s name. Genius, truly, especially given the Master’s striking resemblance to a wet weasel. The new Chancellor has a sophisticated and subtle wit! He is a sublime linguist! A masterful manipulator of words! One who conveys much while saying little! 

While the security programming on its systems prohibits it from sharing any details of its service to its neurotic Master, C9PRO has no barriers to informing several of its networked colleagues that the Chancellor is a cunning and well-spoken sentient, a genius politician of many layers. Around Coruscant, various droids perk up with interest.)

“That was a threat!” Dorda declares, turning on Puai with enormous eyes. “You heard him! A soul that you only get when you die!”

“Oh dear,” murmurs C9PRO. “I’m afraid there’s been—“

“He thinks I’m soulless! He wants me dead!” 

“—terrible misunderstanding. If I have in any way misled—“

“I’m going to die! The most powerful sentient in the Republic is after me!”

“—the cultural norms. I assure you, Master—“

“How did he know what we were talking about? He must have surveillance on me!”

“You sweep your office for surveillance several times a day. We swept it right before we started talking. The only way he’d have surveillance on you is if he had a chip in your brain,” Puai says flatly. 

Dorda shoves his fist in his mouth and makes a high-pitched keening sound around it. “In my brain!” he wheezes.

“I think you should call him back and just— not now, C9—ask him what he meant. Obviously there’s—later, C9—some sort of misunderstanding here.”

“It’s a trap!” 

Puai sighs. “It’s not a trap.”

“It is! He just wants me to respond so he knows exactly where I am! When he does, he’ll send grenades and assassins! But I’m not falling for it. I want security tripled,” he says, wild-eyed and scrambling for his comm. “We’ll move operations to Pajor. He won’t catch me! He may be the most powerful man in the Republic now, but I’m smarter than he is! The new Chancellor—“

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Jedi Temple - Coruscant

“—might be a time traveler and Palpatine was probably a Sith,” announces Jocasta Nu, with the flatness of a Jedi Master who is just. Done. With everything.

Mace, who’s been focused on planning the extraction of Kenobi and now a Senator and Kenobi’s utter moron of a padawan for the last two cycles, feels his brain hiccup and crash into a wall.

The Council meeting is a hastily assembled thing with more members represented by holo than usual. Yoda’s seat is empty, the ancient green grandmaster still sequestered in a meditation room until he can settle himself in the Force. Mace is on a ship parked just outside the Geonosis system. Shaak Ti is calling in from Kamino; the four currently attending on the Senate Dome are holoing in as well, though standing in the center of the usual Council circle given they’re the ones who called the assembly.

“What the kark,” Master Piell says blankly.

Jocasta turns a beady glare onto her old crèchemate. “The new Chancellor. Might be a time traveler. And. Palpatine. Was probably. A Sith.”

“I heard you the first time, Jo. I’m an asshole, not deaf. What the kark.”

“I’m afraid I have to support both these conclusions,” says Tera Sinube in sly ambiguity from the other side of Jocasta. At Piell’s twitch of lip, he finishes smoothly, “That is to say, there is certainly strong evidence for both the Chancellor's temporal status and Palpatine's Sith one. It would certainly explain the change in the Force on Coruscant after Palpatine’s death.”

“Palpatine couldn’t possibly have been Sith,” says Rancisis after a moment, trying to be the voice of reason. “We would have sensed it. The man wasn’t Force sensitive.”

Jocasta makes a tchah sound that forcibly jerks Mace back to days of being a terrified Initiate who’d gotten caught sneaking snacks into the library. 

“For a non Force-sensitive, he had an astonishing taint of darkness in his quarters,” says Sinube dryly.

“Certainly, the Force on Coruscant has been darker of recent years, but there’s always been —“

“Are you accusing us of exaggerating?” Jocasta interrupts, narrowing her eyes. She is apparently in a Mood.

Rancisis sputters. 

“I presume this explains the Shadows and Sentinels you summoned to the Senate?” asks Stass Allie.

“I have never felt anything like it,” Sinube admits. An alarming statement in and of itself. He is quietly infamous for his work treading through the darkness of the galaxy. “If Palpatine himself was not Sith, he was very well-acquainted with one. Intimates, at the least.”

“There were Sith artifacts both in and around his quarters,” Plo observes. “Some of them designed to hide from Force-sensitives.”

“I’ve assigned one of my teams to translate and identify what we’ve found so far,” Jocasta adds.

Even from half a galaxy away, Mace can feel his fellow council members’ unease. “They couldn’t have been brought by the new Chancellor? The Mandalorians have often been allies to the Sith. It could be an attempt to frame the old Chancellor and bolster his rule?” Ki-Adi-Mundi sounds almost pleading.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Sinube says. “Not with the… the depth of the darkness that was there.”

“Then perhaps the Mandalorian is the Sith.”

“You just said Palpatine couldn’t have been Sith because we would have sensed it, and now you’re saying the new Chancellor is even though he feels about as Force-sensitive as my lunch?” Jocasta demands, unimpressed.

“The beskar he’s wearing could hide it.”

“There’s the evidence of the Chancellor’s child against it,” Plo says firmly. Attention shifts to him as he adds, “Depa and I have both had an opportunity to meditate with him. He confirms that his parent is not Force-sensitive.”

“The child could have lied to protect his parent,” Ki-Adi-Mundi argues.

“What Force-sensitive would wear beskar?”

“Sith are insane. Mandalorians are insane. I don’t see that it’s so far-fetched.”

“How the kark do you manage to put your pants on in the morning?” Master Piell demands.

“Your logical fallacies are unworthy of a youngling,” Jocasta snaps, alarmingly in agreement with Piell for once.

There are days when Mace wonders why Jocasta isn’t still on the Council. Then there are days like today when he’s forcibly reminded. 

Nobody can explain Piell.

“If the Chancellor was a Sith, there would be a taint on the child,” Plo says, once more the peacemaker over Ki-Adi-Mundi’s obvious offense. “No Sith would have left a powerful young Force-sensitive child be without corrupting them. There are no signs of it. What darkness there is in him is the product of a hard life, not of the Dark Side.”

Mace’s mind inevitably swings to another powerful young Force-sensitive child that the Council allowed Palpatine to have play dates with. Oh kriff.

“Yes, exactly,” Plo says with a grave understanding that tells Mace that: 1) Plo also had the same thought; and 2) Mace said at least part of that out loud.

“Language,” Jocasta says sternly, which tells Mace just what part of it didn’t stay safely in his head. He finds it unfair that Piell gets to get away with swearing, while he gets called on it like a naughty ten-year old.

Life is unfair. He releases his annoyance to the Force.

“My apologies,” he says with dignity. “I’m more tired than I thought. However, you said it was possible that the Chancellor was Sith. When will we know for sure?”

“Master Che and a pair of Shadows have already left to inspect the body,” Adi provides from her seat, nodding to Sinube. “Master Sinube provided the necessary paperwork to allow her access. She should be able to take the necessary readings to determine whether he was at least Force-sensitive.”

“Then we’ll simply have to wait and see what the Shadows uncover,” sighs Master Koth.

“Don’t be lazy,” Jocasta snaps. “Any one of you could make yourselves useful for a change and start researching Palpatine’s history, political decisions, funding, and allies. If he was the Sith Master or Apprentice, there's another we must find. Even if he wasn’t the Sith, that degree of Darkness means he must have been working closely with them.”

“Thanks for the suggestion,” says Piell, congenitally irascible. “We’re not complete idiots, Jo.”

One of Jocasta’s eyebrows rises, begging to differ.

“If we’re done with that subject, can I just ask— time travel? Really?” interjects Tiin.

“The new Chancellor hasn’t confirmed his time traveling status,” Plo says. Then he ruins the moment of sanity by adding, “but we believe he isn’t actually aware of it. From the things he has said, he could come from approximately 3600 years ago. He has referenced the existence and death of an Emperor and mentioned a Darth Vader. He is likely speaking of the Sith Empire.”

“The calendar system he uses is not one the Archivists have found yet, but there have been any number of calendar systems that were wiped out with the Empire,” says Jocasta, obviously cross at the thought that some of them could have eluded her Archival records.

“He implied the population of Alderaan needed to be relocated, which could refer to the evacuations during the Great Galactic War.”

“That could put him closer to 2630 BRR, though there were at least three other events during which there were mass migrations by the population of Alderaan. The timeframe of 2954 BRR feels more accurate, however. It would explain some things about the styling of his armor. It could pass for modern to the uninitiated, but there are signs of ancient practices in its making.”

“How could he have possibly not noticed time travel?” Piell demands, exasperated. “Are you telling me there haven’t been technology changes? Linguistic drifts? Changes in cuisine? Culture? Even just looking out the window should show how the planet has changed. In 3000 years, at least a couple hundred levels must’ve been added to Coruscant.”

“If he’s from thousands of years ago, shouldn’t he be violently opposed to Jedi?” asks Koth.

Plo is amused. “He hales from the Outer Rim. This is his first visit to Coruscant, so he lacks a frame of reference. Basic is plainly not his first language. I can only assume it is Mando’a. He appears to subsist almost entirely on ration bars, from what one of his aides tells me. As to whether he actually sees or notices any technological or cultural changes— he seems to be under the impression that any oddities are the result of Core Worlds being… shall we say, Core Worldish. It likely hasn’t helped that he’s been surrounded by politicians since he arrived, which is not a breed he seems accustomed to.”

“He’s a remarkably calm individual,” says Sinube.

“For a Mandalorian?” asks Ki-Adi-Mundi.

“For any sentient in the situation he has found himself.”

“Is it possible he’s just dumb?” Piell asks, because of course he does.

Everybody ignores him.

“It’s weirdly relaxing,” Mace concurs. Prepared for hostility and braced preemptively against it, he had found his encounter with the new Chancellor rather like punching empty air. The air neither knows nor cares that it’s being punched. The puncher just comes out of it looking like an idiot. 

Plo’s shoulders hitch. He’s trying not to laugh. “He was apparently not aware that we were Jedi. Although once he learned that we were, he was kind enough not to hold it against us. He even commented on our ability to recover from extinction.”

“Extinction?” echoes Ki-Ad-Mundi, stunned, while the others murmur.

“I admit, it was a nice sentiment. I felt rather like a rare tree frog being congratulated for repopulating.”

Despite himself, Mace snorts. “When are you going back into your meeting?”

“We are waiting for one of the trainers at Kamino,” Shaak Ti says from her seat. “The Chancellor has expressed a wish to speak with him.”

“He’s making calls at the moment,” Sinube adds. “I believe he’s attempting to locate a contact—an Armorer, I think?—to assist with the situation.”

“Armorers are considered the spiritual leaders of the Mandalorian people,” Jocasta informs. “For those who are more traditional, at any rate. It’s unclear how the New Mandalorians view them.”

“Has the investigation into the clones begun, Master Sinube?” Mace asks.

“Yes, although I will be merely assisting rather than leading the investigation itself. As the Chancellor wisely pointed out, there is a conflict of interest here that would not stand up under public scrutiny. The creation of these clones, if it was indeed done by a member of the Jedi Order, is—“

“—an abomination at best,” Shaak says when Sinube trails off, looking for words. “The situation here is a crime against sentience. The Force weeps on Kamino.”

“Captain Inspector Kobol Antilles has been tasked with leading the effort. He is putting together a team as we speak. I have worked with him before. He’s an admirably honest and dedicated man.”

An alert pops up on Mace’s terminal. He glances over it, sending back an acknowledgment, and turns his attention back to the Council. “Our people are in place. Time for me to be a distraction. I know you will all do your best for the Republic and the clones in Kamino. ”

“May the Force be with you, Mace,” says Plo, inclining his head as the other Council members murmur their own farewells. Amusement warms his voice again. “Because if it doesn’t go well, I’m fairly certain the new Chancellor will be—“

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Geonosis

“—on your private comm,” the aide says, trembling.

The noise in the meeting trails off, several of the Separatist representatives pausing their arguments to stare at the Muun and the highly secured personal comm held out on his palm.

San Hill, Chairman of the Intergalactic Banking Clan, sputters and recoils. Even without the Force, there is no mistaking the sudden suspicion from the beings around him. The parliament chambers suddenly seem far too small and far too crowded. “The new Chancellor? Why, why, I don’t know how he— how did he get this comm? That’s impossible! It’s, it’s—“

The Separatist Council bursts into furious shouts and accusations. 

Dooku’s fingers curl into fists behind his back. The Force is laughing.

Chapter Text

Geonosis

Obi-Wan isn’t expecting rescue. In his experience, a Jedi who waits for rescue is a Jedi who’s just asking to get tortured, hunted through poisonous swamps, fed to starving rancors, or any of a number of other exciting opportunities to broaden and terminate their life experiences. He’s learned to rescue himself whenever possible. Still, given his stunning lack of success so far in getting through the Force binders and the Geonosian stasis field, he’ll admit to a pang of relief when a figure drops silently from the ceiling.

The face is unfamiliar. Still, the lightsaber at the Kyuzo’s belt and quick hand-sign is enough to identify why he’s there.

It only takes a few seconds for the strange jedi to hack the system and release him from stasis. A small device out of one of the Jedi’s belt pouches releases the binders, which are tucked into another pouch at his hip. Obi-Wan exhales shakily at the feel of the Force rushing back into his senses. Then they’re leaping up into the same hole that let his rescuer into the cell to begin with.

The feel of the Jedi wrapping his own Force cloak around Obi-Wan is a relief, the sensation somewhat familiar from the days when Quinlan Vos used to practice this on him. A true master of it can make their presence feel like a bug, or a passing bird, even an uninteresting rock. It’s the surest way of escaping Dooku’s detection. Despite the danger, Obi-Wan feels a part of him relax at the deft weaving of the concealment, his own grasp on the Force still shaky after so long in the binders.

At the tap on the edge of his own shields, he opens the tiniest of cracks to let the thread of communication in. He learns that he is with Jedi Shadow Ton Euvai, that the Geonosians had announced his execution by arena come the morning, that another Shadow was currently in the process of extracting—

What?! What is he doing here? I gave him strict instructions!

Ton Euvai pauses in his stealthy creep through the tunnels just long enough to look over his shoulder and roll his eyes. 

This is why I don’t have a padawan, he observes wryly.

What about Senator Amidala? Please tell me she isn’t here.

I believe they both came to rescue you. The Geonosians have charged them with trespassing.

Obi-Wan relaxes prematurely. That doesn’t sound too bad.

They’ve also received a death sentence.

Well. That feels . . . excessive?

It might be the twenty-six Geonosians your padawan killed during the trespassing that upset them, Ton Euvai allows.

Obi-Wan sighs, feeling twice his age. Anakin’s idea of stealth continues to have more collateral damage than is strictly appropriate. I don’t know where I went wrong with that boy.

Ton Euvai holds up a hand to pause them as they reach a crossroads in the tunnels. They’ve reached a collapsed wall that looks out over a crowded hall. Far below them, several richly dressed sentients of various species are shouting at each other.

Count Dooku stands in the middle of the chaos, elegant and visibly furious. His nostrils are pinched. Oddly, there are two holocalls in progress, both projected high over the throng. One of them is Mace Windu, who is looking his most unimpressed. The other is— an armored Mandalorian?

Obi-Wan gets a ripple of shock from Ton Euvai. What is this? he asks.

Master Windu did promise a diversion. I just hadn’t expected this. 

“Why stay if you want to go?” the Mandalorian asks Dooku over the noise. The volume on his call echoes across the stone walls. Even with the volume, he sounds puzzled.

“We have already left!” Count Dooku answers, frustrated. “We are no longer part of the Republic! As I said before, I am the Head of the Separatist Council, representing the Confederacy of Independent Systems.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“The Republic’s refusal to recognize this lawfully established government can only be considered an incitement to hostilities!”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. “Maybe you just have one of those faces?”

“Once again, I am Count Dooku, the Head of the—“

Mace speaks up then, a line digging itself between his brows. “When he says the Republic refuses to recognize him, he means that the Republic doesn’t acknowledge the CIS exists.”

“But they’re right there,” the Mandalorian tells Mace, gesturing at the crowd.

“Indeed we are,” Dooku says. “And we will not disappear for the convenience of your Senate.”

“I own the Senate?” 

“The Senate belongs to corporations and slavers, entrenched interests who have abandoned the principles on which it was founded. The corruption of the Republic knows no bounds.”

“Huh,” says the Mandalorian.

“The Confederacy sees no other choice than to secede from the Republic. The Outer Rim grows poorer by the day. Planets starve, plagued by pirates and slavers. Crime and lawlessness runs rampant across hundreds of sectors while the rich and greedy in the Core enjoy their ill-gotten gains, using the Jedi as their attack dogs. As a Mandalorian, you should have an opinion about that.”

“Alright, but not right now.” 

Obi-Wan can almost see Dooku's brain reboot as his diatribe is kicked off the rails. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s fine. You were a wrong number. I can't talk right now. Busy." 

Dooku’s jaw actually drops. Mace carefully closes his eyes, as though he can’t bear to watch.

"You can call me later and tell me all about it if you want," the Mandalorian says, reaching forward towards his comm controls. Then he stops. “About the recognition thing,” he adds thoughtfully. “You probably need to fill out a form. I had to fill some out too. Maybe Bald Monk Man knows which ones they want.” He inclines his head. “Good luck with that.”

And then he hangs up.

There’s a new explosion of shouting from the others in the chamber. Dooku turns with dramatic deliberation to the projection of Mace.

Mace stares back at him, face dead. 

“Bald. Monk. Man,” Count Dooku says icily.

Ton Euvai’s mind is shaking with mirth. Fortunately, the Force cloak remains immaculate. Obi-Wan is mostly just confused, but he follows as Ton Euvai leads them onward, Count Dooku’s voice rising behind them to mingle with Mace’s own irritated tones.

What, by all that’s sacred, is happening out there? Obi-Wan asks.

The will of the Force, Knight Kenobi, Ton Euvai answers cheerfully. It’s been really weird.

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Senate Dome - Coruscant

Kobol’s only known his intimidating employee-slash-boss for a little over two days—admittedly two of the longest days of his life—so it’s a surprise to him that he can read Mando as well as he does. In fact, it’s a shock he can read Mando at all. Armor isn’t great at emotional expression.

Then again, when Kobol meanders back into the Chancellor’s office, Mando’s kid is suction-cupped to his helmet making sad purring sounds and patting it like a drum. His Force-sensitive kid.

It’s not subtle, is all he’s saying. 

He hands Mando the list of names he wants on his investigation team first, because he’s a professional. Even if it’s his day off. Then he lets himself ask, “Something go wrong?” The Jedi are still off in a separate room licking each others’ brains or whatever Jedi thing it is that they needed to do in private. That leaves Kobol all alone in the office with Mando and his kid. And twelve aides and ten Blue Guard. It’s practically cozy.

Mando makes a noncommittal noise as he hands back Kobol's comm. Even through the vocoder, it sounds dissatisfied.

“Couldn’t get through to that person you wanted?” Kobol guesses.

Mando says nothing. Kobol gets the impression he’s worried. The kid pats harder on Mando’s head. Apparently, his strategy is to concuss his father into a better mood. 

“This is that Armor person you were hoping would help with the clone army?”

“Yes.” 

“You got any other possibilities?”

“No.” Mando sounds bothered. “The children need a teacher in the Way.”

Kobol runs that through his Mando-to-normal-people translator. “The Way is... how to be Mandalorian?” He gets the distinct impression Mando is making a face at him. Fine. Be like that. “Maybe you can ask around in the Mandalorian District for a teacher?” 

Mando and the kid stare at him. Well, the kid stares. Mando just points his helmet at him. Pointedly. “Mandalorian District?”

“Lower levels on the other side of the planet. About as far from the Senate District as you can get and still be on Coruscant. There’s a whole community. They do their own policing, mostly.” 

“And there are many Mandalorians there?”

“Enough for those levels to get nicknamed after them. Maybe a hundred thousand?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“I don’t know the actual count. It’s bigger than the Nitrogen District, but smaller than the Bothan District. They have some restaurants my wife loves.” Kobol only survives Mandalorian cuisine by virtue of prescription-grade antacids and spite. “There’s actually a Mandalorian restaurant nearby, come to think of it. You could have your aides order dinner from there sometime if you’re missing the taste.”

Without warning, Mando sits down on one of the chairs. In anyone less self-possessed, it might come across as a collapse. His kid squeaks, tumbling into his arms. “A hundred thousand,” he repeats quietly. He sounds strange. “A hundred thousand Mandalorians? Here?”

“Armor and everything. Mostly,” he amends, remembering the times he’s been there. There weren’t many helmets, but most of them had at least a vambrace on. 

“They must have so much faith in the new Republic.”

That’s a weird thing for Mando to say. Then again, a lot of the things Mando says are weird. Kobol just rolls with it. “Sure?” he says. “Faith in the Republic. I mean, it’s possible someone somewhere has some? Let’s go with that.” 

“I wonder if Kryze knows about them?”

“Kryze. Is that a… oh. The Duchess of Mandalore? I don’t see why she wouldn’t. She visited a little while back. It was in all the holonew—  You’re talking to your kid. Never mind. You know her?”

“She helped save the child,” Mando tells him. “They call her Duchess now? She moved fast.” He huffs a small sound of amusement. “She’s a formidable warrior.”

Kobol had always heard the Duchess of Mandalore was a pacifist, but she is Mandalorian, after all. He wouldn’t be shocked if ‘pacifist Mandalorian’ just meant a Mandalorian who refused to use thermal detonators because of collateral damage and got called a wuss as a result. “Right. Whatever. I have— well, my wife has comm contacts out there, if you want to try? She had a case,” he adds, preemptively defensive.

Mando’s head slowly tilts. “I can go myself.”

Kobol has the Force-sensitivity of a rock and he can still feel the Blue Guard and aides start to go bald from horror. 

“You can’t go, you’re Chancellor!” one of the human aides blurts out.

Kobol closes his eyes. You are squishy and go well with wine, nameless aide. Please shut up.

“I mean,” the aide yammers on, not shutting up, “when the Chancellor goes someplace it takes time. Scheduling. There’s an entire department that needs to be coordinated, wardrobe has to be determined, media and reception has to be negotiated and arranged—”

“Why?” Mando asks.

“Because . . . because . . . .” The aide is sputtering now. “The, the political power represented by the Chancellorship means that every appearance has to be carefully weighed and calculated. Visiting the wrong person or presenting the wrong message can undermine your policies! Months or even years of strategizing and maneuvering can be destroyed by a single, poorly judged comment or photograph. If you visit the Mandalorian Enclave without building up a narrative first, it could be seen as an attempt to overturn the rightful government of the sector! Or a precursor of bias against non-Mandalorians. Or—” 

His voice is rising. Political operatives don’t do well in a vacuum. Faced with an unresponsive audience—or in this case, an unimpressed helmet—they start to eat their own feet. This poor bastard. He’s desperately earnest and it’s obvious Mando just doesn’t give a damn.

Out of sheer pained embarrassment for the aide’s escalating breakdown, Kobol breaks in. “I can’t watch this. Let’s just call my wife,” he says wearily. “It’d be faster than visiting.”

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Din is. Frankly, Din is a little stressed.

The day has been increasingly strange and upsetting. The children in Kamino are not receiving their souls. All of the Tribe’s backup comms are being answered by crazy people if they’re being answered at all. There are thousands of Mandalorians alive, survivors of the Night of a Thousand Tears—will they even consider him Mandalorian? Will they be able to tell he removed his helmet? Will they accept him, apostate though he is? Does the Armorer even know they’re here?

It’s stressful. He’s stressed. 

A hundred thousand. 

It’s his duty to protect his fellow Mandalorians. Even if they don’t strictly follow the Creed. This is the Wa— 

Oh no. While Kobol finishes his holocall with an elegant and gratifyingly blunt human-mix female, Din wrestles with the horrible realization that many of these surviving Mandalorians might be the kind that take their helmets off, just like Kryze. That maybe they all do. There might be a hundred thousand naked Mandalorians on Coruscant. 

He’s not sure he’s open-minded enough for this yet. What if they have an Armorer who’s also naked? He actually feels a little faint at the thought.

Grogu’s stretches up in his lap, attempting to reach his helmet. Din lifts him up and stands to enter the camera’s field of view, just in time for Kobol to cut off the old call and start a new one.

A T-visor helmet greets them. Din sends up heartfelt gratitude to the ka’ra. 

“There's a CSF softshell on my comm. Just what I always wanted,” says the strange Mando’ad in forbidding tones.

“Mandalorian. I'm Brialla Antilles's husband, Kobol.” He gestures at Din. “This is my friend. He’s looking for a teacher to teach a few hundred thousand kids how to be Mandalorian. You interested?”

It isn’t exactly the way that Din would’ve opened the subject, but it’s close enough. It’s direct and it hits all the important points. He inclines his head at his fellow Mando’ad and says warily in Basic, “Foundlings are the future. This is the Way.”

“What the kark,” says the Mando’ad.

“My wife says your name’s Rat-kriffer,” Kobol adds uneasily. “Please tell me that’s not actually your name. Not that it’s not a perfectly fine name if it is, but I’d prefer to call you Mando Two if that’s the case.”

The other Mando’ad huffs in amusement. Then he takes off his helmet, dank farrik. Underneath it, he turns out to be some mix that probably includes some percentage of Halaisi, given the golden skin and eyes. 

“Seldon Veiss. Clan Awaud,” he introduces himself. His eyebrows quirk up. “Your wife is out of your league, Softshell.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kobol says smugly. 

“And you’re one of the Creedbound,” Veiss decides, studying Din. “There aren’t many of your kind on Coruscant.”

A hundred thousand naked Mandalorians it is. Din droops. 

Veiss smirks. Din twitches. It’s still weird seeing a face where there should be a helmet. It’s all . . . fleshy. “I suppose that just proves your kind are a little smarter than the rest of us. Where did you come up with a hundred thousand younglings? Did your covert conquer a small colony?”

“Not yet,” Din says honestly.

(Beside him, Kobol drops his face in his hands.)

In Mando’a, Veiss asks, curious, “Going crusading, Creedbound?”

“There are children without parents,” Din says in the same language. He picks his words carefully. “They are bred to be slave soldiers. They would have been given their souls, if their parent had not rejected his own soul.”

Veiss straightens, losing all signs of amusement. “A breeding farm? You rescued slaves? A— wait. Their parent was one of us? How in the seven hells— tell me it wasn’t a hiver.“

Din has never yet met an insectile species that was culturally or mentally compatible with being Mandalorian. “Human mix,” he says. And more to the point, “Clones of a mercenary named Jango Fett.”

“Oh kark. That fuckwit.” Veiss runs a gloved hand across his face, pale eyes squinting. 

“You know him?”

“Yes.” 

The word is grim. Veiss has a history with Fett, then. Din decides it was a good idea he didn’t tell Boba about him yet.

After a second, Veiss shakes his head. “He wouldn’t have been my first choice to clone soldiers or slaves out of, but he’s a fine warrior. If he’s given up his soul, though— I wondered if it would come to that. Is he dead? You’ve done well to free the children.”

Din pauses. “I don’t think he’s dead?” 

Veiss gives him a flat look. “You haven’t freed the children yet.”

Din doesn’t say anything. He’ll free the children. He has a plan. Or he will have a plan. When he’s made a plan. 

“A hundred thousand children is a lot to move for one Mando’ad. A lot of explosive chips to deactivate at once, too.”

Din considers that. “I’ll need a ship. Maybe a couple of ships. Big ones.” The Republic has some lying around that he can borrow, probably. 

Veiss snorts a laugh.

“Part of me hates that I can’t understand what they’re saying,” Kobol tells the Child, whose ears perk up at him. “The rest of me has a death grip on my plausible deniability.”

“You don’t want to know, Softshell,” Veiss tells Kobol, back in Basic. “You picked the right Mando’ad to call. Is this a job, Creedbound? Will there be pay to it if I find you teachers?”

Din realizes he has no idea. He glances at Kobol. 

“Is this a personal project?” Kobol asks, looking baffled. “You’re sort of rich now. You could pay for it out of pocket? I don’t know. How much do teachers make?”

Most of Din’s pay is going to the covert, but that’s a good point. He hesitates, then decides guiltily that he can hold back a larger percentage than usual for this. The Goran would approve, wouldn’t she? 

“There will be pay,” he says. He can always pick up a few bounties if he needs to make up the difference somehow. 

“Reckless promises for one who hasn’t even freed the slaves yet,” Veiss says, raising an eyebrow. “But the intent is understood. Very well. I will speak to teachers in the District and send you what they feel is warranted in people and payment for that count. You will send me the count and the ages, and all else you can about the children.”

Din nods. He can do that. “I’ll also need an Armorer,” he says.

Veiss grins toothily. “What did you think you were talking to, Creedbound?” he asks with savage cheer.

Fortunately, the vocoder doesn’t pick up Din’s moan.

Chapter Text

Coruscant (Ten days into Chancellor Mando’s term)

“Captain Inspector,” a quiet voice murmurs at Kobol’s shoulder. A few seconds later, there’s a fresh cup of kaff parked by his elbow.

It smells amazing. It tastes even better. It’s the good stuff, the kind that won’t eat through the stomach lining and set up house in the upper intestines, eventually meeting up with half-masticated remnants of stale pastry to give a man the stylish silhouette of a waxed Gamorrean gonad.

Basically, it’s excellent, expensive, exquisite kaff. What is this kark. Seriously. He hates it.

“I’m the kind of putta that has aides now,” Kobol says sourly to Inspector Shauv’leat Rabaul, also known as ‘Shovel’ for reasons that Internal Investigations must never know about. 

“Couldn’t happen to a worthier man. Want me to shave your exhaust ports for you?” Shovel asks absent-mindedly. Kobol’s Twi’lek second-in-command highlights an account number on his pad and sends it streaking across the room to land on the displays that dominate the conference room. “Think I have another link here.”

“Got it,” calls another officer from the Hack Squad. A few seconds later, more numbers spill across the screens.

Kobol drinks his kaff out of pure spite and plants his face on the table.

The investigation into the creation of the clone army is going well. That is to say, it’s good in the way that it’s making progress. Kobol has an entire team, all of them hand-picked sentients he’s worked with before so he knows he can trust them. By decree of the Supreme Chancellor, they’ve taken over three offices and two conference rooms in the Senate building. Mando even called the Commissioner to inform him that the entire squad was under his direct command.

It's been great and also awful. On the one hand, they were a first of their kind: an investigation in the Senate that was directly ordered not to give a kark about politics.

On the other hand, the level of corruption they’re uncovering on the clone army front has resulted in fourteen senatorial recalls, ninety-two arrests, 368.2 billion credits frozen in 224 accounts, twelve assassination attempts, one speeder chase, and an entire new investigatory team being assembled down the hall to look into the Separatist systems' long-ignored accusations and complaints.

Mando’s already set a record for kills and arrests personally performed by a sitting Chancellor. He seems thrilled by the variety in his schedule, in his unemotive Mandalorian way. 

Kobol would be depressed about how the Republic is living down to his expectations if his wife wasn’t heading the new investigation team. She’s having the time of her life ripping through Senate bureaucratic corruption. Not to mention that whole . . . thing with Veiss. (Kobol fends off a full-body blush by pretending nobody can see his face. Right.) 

Happy wife, happy life. 

Yay.

“I miss arresting murderers and domestic abusers,” Kobol mourns into the table. “Quality people, they were. Apparently the best people on this planet. Who knew?”

“District 5-1-Thesh bet 600 credits on one assassination attempt tomorrow and at least four more senators being recalled to face charges,” Shovel says cheerfully.

“Got it. We found that memo to Kuat, Kingmaker!” one of the Hack Squad calls from the other conference room.

“I’m going to demote the next moof-milker who calls me that!” Kobol shouts back. “Beric, take a squad.”

A passing lieutenant sketches a lazy salute and jogs off to pull together an arresting team.

There’s a scrawled grid on the wall that counts up from one and lists what Mando and his Chancellorship have accomplished so far for each day in office. Every time Kobol catches sight of it, he feels his will to live drop just a little bit further.

It’s only day ten of Mando’s term. By the time day 100 rolls around, there might not be enough senators left to hold a vote.

“District Krenth bet 1300 credits on the Senate dropping below quorum by day 50, actually,” Inspector Kvash provides from his console.

“It’s probably a Mandalorian plot,” Shovel says. He sounds irritatingly delighted at the idea. “Hey, Kingmaker. There’s a desk pilot here for you.”

Kobol gently thumps his head on the table again, just once, then pulls himself straight to glower at the door. He’s past trying to make a good impression on anyone, anywhere, ever. Sure enough, a sweet-faced Pantoran administrator is waiting in the doorway for him, her hands folded around a Senate data pad.

He eyes her suspiciously.

“Captain-Inspector Antilles,” the Pantoran greets in a pleasant, customer service voice. “I’m Leebo Shay from Sentient Resources.”

“Oh kark,” Kobol says. The ambient noise of the squad dies down as everybody tries to listen in. Subtle, laser brains. Subtle. He runs a hand down his face. “I have no control over the Chancellor. I know there’s a rumor that I do. That rumor is a lie.”

She laughs politely, but her eyes have that hard look that meant Kobol was about to get demoted, back in the day. “Be that as it may.”

She hands him the pad. He reads the files pulled up on it. 

He thumps his head on the table again.

“Right,” he sighs, dragging himself up. The rest of the squad is side-eyeing him, practically rabid with curiosity. He glares at Shovel. “Murderers and domestic abusers. I miss them. They were my people.”

Shovel snickers. Shay’s smile doesn’t so much as twitch. It’s worrying.

She follows him out of the conference, through the chaos of Beric’s gathering squad. He quickens his step. She keeps pace with him up several ramps, down a stairwell, down two more halls and then into the Chancellor’s Office. The security and aides don’t even bother to stop him. They never do anymore. Inside, Kobol finds a group of accountants trying to explain to Mando and friends why it’s business as usual for 69% of the Galactic Refugee Resettlement Fund to disappear before it actually got anywhere near actual refugees.

Senator Bail Organa, who’s shaved his beard since the last time Kobol saw him, is looking incredibly unimpressed by the accountants. Mando is cleaning his blasters with his kid’s not so helpful help. For those who understand Mando, it’s pretty clear what his opinion is.

“This looks like something important but I’m going to interrupt it anyway,” Kobol informs the room after a split-second for consideration. “You’d thank me if you knew what I knew,” he adds towards the offended accountants. “Go on. Take a break. Come back in ten.”

“Captain Inspector Antilles,” sighs Organa.

“I liked the beard better,” Kobol tells him while the accountants resentfully gather up their data pads and shuffle out of the office. “Now you just look like a well-dressed baby. It’s embarrassing.”

Organa throws up his hands in a rare show of exasperation. The informality of it warms the black cockles of Kobol’s heart, not least because it means Organa’s gotten somewhat comfortable in Mando’s presence. It’s a glimpse of hope that Kobol will someday be able to add another sensible person to the Mando-wrangling team.

“Kobol,” Mando greets, letting the kid put together the last pieces of a DH-10 with the Force. His visor turns to Shay. 

Credit to her, she doesn’t even flinch despite Mando’s undeniably intimidating everything. 

“This is Shay, from Sentient Resources,” Kobol provides, and then has to pause while Organa offers polite greetings and introduces himself. Politicians. Ugh. “Remember when I told you you needed to find the Sentient Resources department and get your benefits sorted? She’s the person you need for that.”

Mando’s attention shifts from Shay to Kobol. He starts to do that thing with his body language that means something important is translating poorly.

Kobol’s heart sinks. “You know. Benefits.”

Mando just stares at him.

“Health Insurance?” Kobol suggests. “Retirement funds, taxes, all that?”

“What?” Mando asks.

Kobol has a terrible feeling. “What’s what? Sentient Resources? Health Insurance? Retirement funds? Taxes? Words, Mando.” Behind him, the door slides open and a familiar presence bumps up against his shoulder. He glances, distracted, to greet Brialla. 

“Yes,” says Mando.

“Great Menuth’s breasts, Bail, what happened to your face?” Kobol’s beautiful wife demands. “Hey Mando, hey kid.”

The kid holds the DH-10 up in both hands—the power pack is missing, Kobol notes—and cheers. Organa closes his eyes and sighs.

Shay’s smile hasn’t so much as faded. It might have been surgically grafted to her face. Kobol spares her a hopeful look, inviting her intervention at this point in the conversation. She does not stir an inch.

Kark. He hates dealing with the smart ones. “Wait a minute. Taxes? You don’t know what taxes are?” Surely Mando’s joking.

Mando isn’t joking. His head tilts.

“I’m sorry, what?” Organa says. “You don’t know about taxes?”

“How did you think the Republic paid for things?” Kobol demands.

Mando’s head tilts further. “By taking them?”

Organa’s forehead is starting to wrinkle in a way that’s grown increasingly commonplace these days. “That’s… not the way government works, Chancellor.”

“Ignore him,” the incredible woman Kobol married says. “That’s absolutely the way government works. Bail’s an idealist. That means he’s broken in the head.”

“Brialla—“

“Sweet Baby-face Bail.” The sing-song sarcasm is nicer than her usual. Bail is one of her favorite distant relatives. “I have evidence. Prove me wrong.”

Organa looks pained. “I thought we agreed you’d stop calling me that.”

“You shaved. What’d you expect?” 

While Brialla and Bail squabble, Kobol is busy with the tension headache reasserting itself behind his eyes. In retrospect, Mando probably doesn’t have all that much evidence that things don’t work this way. He’s from the Outer Rim. All the demonstrable exercises of Republic power have been done on a wartime footing. Dubious accounts found? Republic froze them. Clone Army found? Mando claimed it. Even the Chancellorship was transferred by an act of force. (Hah. Force. Kobol makes a note to figure out the joke later.) Mando has no historical knowledge to tell him this isn’t this isn’t the way things are supposed to go.

Kobol feels a stab of exhaustion about everything. It’s the ninth time he’s felt this in just this past hour. 

“Someone,” not him, “has to give you a crash course in running the Republic. And you need a Vice Chancellor.”

Mando looks at him pointedly.

Kobol pinches the bridge of his nose. His head is pounding. “Not me.”

“Hm,” Mando says.

“He’d be a terrible Vice Chancellor,” Brialla says cheerfully, turning on her heel. Behind her, Organa has burst into a fit of coughing. “He’s delusional. He thinks facts are more important than opinion and he actually believes in the rule of law. He’s incapable of lying for his government. In retrospect, the treason that wasn’t technically treason was probably inevitable.”

“Please stop saying that,” Kobol sighs. “I didn’t give him the Republic. There were lawyers and protocol experts and— it wasn’t treason.”

“I just said that, sweetie. Oh, I forgot.” She pauses on her way out. “I arrested most of the people in the waiting room on the way in. I assume that means your meeting is canceled for good. Thanks for getting them together in one place, Mando. You were right. It was easier that way.”

Organa makes a strangled sound of outrage. “You couldn’t have arrested them before we sat through most of their presentation?” 

Brialla shrugs. That means yes, maybe, but she just didn’t feel like it.

“If people keep getting arrested when they show up for meetings, everyone will stop showing up to meetings,” Kobol points out. Then he glances at Mando and realizes: “Oh. That’s your plan. Huh. Good plan.”

Organa buries his face in his hands. “Chancellor,” he says wearily. “You can’t do that. You need meetings. This is how things get done in the Republic. Through compromise and negotiation, via discourse between reasonable sentients. Which happens in meetings.”

A brief silence falls as everyone stares at him.

“Well,” Brialla says at last, sounding thrilled. “That was both educational and good advice.”

“Yes. Good idea,” Mando says. He nods at Organa.

“Thank you?” Organa says, bewildered.

Kobol sighs. “Works for me," he tells Mando. He adds hopelessly, "My opinion doesn't matter, for the record."

"What?"

"Later, Mando. Bye, kid. Good luck, Vice Chancellor Organa."

“What?!”

“Congratulations, Baby-face Bail!” Brialla says, just as the doors close behind them. Organa's reaction is muffled by the barrier.

The antechamber is full of CSF officers and civil criminals being carted away. It looks like one of them attempted to start a firefight before he got dogpiled. The burn of blaster discharge is sharp under the salt of accountant tears. And by the smell of it, one of them threw up.

"This has been a great day," Brialla announces.

Ah kark. Kobol’s head hurts.

Chapter Text

Coruscant - Supreme Chancellor’s Office

It turns out that the problem of finding ships to transport the clones is easily solved by asking Helpful Yellow where he can get ships to transport the clones. Helpful Yellow makes thoughtful Bothan sounds to himself. Then, with permission, he does some poking about on the terminal on Din’s desk.

Apparently, there’s a bunch of new ships ready at the Kuat Drive Yards. Lots of ships. Big ships. Enough for hundreds of thousands of clones. There’s an actual fleet of ships. They’re just waiting for someone to pick them up. They’re even heavily armed.

“That's convenient,” Din tells Kobol in all sincerity. He was actually a little worried about finding ships but look, no more problem. He’s relieved.

“Fuck me,” Kobol says sourly. “When were they commissioned?”

“It appears as though the order was placed approximately ten years ago, sir.”

“And who’s authorized to pick them up?” 

“Jedi.” Helpful Yellow looks up from the terminal. “With the signature of the Commander-in-Chief.”

Din thinks about asking a question.

“That’s you, sir,” Helpful Yellow says, helpfully.

Din nods.

“Oh fuck me,” says Kobol.

“Yes sir,” says Helpful Yellow, making pointed eye contact with him. He adds confusingly. “I’m in complete agreement.”

If this was the Outer Rim, Din would know exactly what that meant. People in the Core are weird, though. Their communication skills are kriffed up from all the talking. If Helpful Yellow's going to enter a sexual relationship with Kobol, Din hopes Kobol’s wife is on board with it because she seemed nice. Also, that it isn’t going to happen right here right now, while he’s still in the room. 

He inspects his employer doubtfully. Kobol’s attractive, he supposes. If you’re into that sort of thing. 

Din prefers more armor, himself.

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Kamino

Kal is in the trainers’ mess showing Rav his experimental adjustments on an RB-400 when a cadet arrives with a message from the longnecks.

“Ooh, Jedi,” Vhonte says with relish as Kal dismisses the clone. “Where’s Jango? I thought he was going to deal with all the contract osik?”

“Still gone with Boba,” Rav says. She passes the rifle back to Kal as he stands, pushing back his chair to grab his helmet. “Looks like it’s all you.”

Vhonte grins. “The new one’s a Togruta. She inspected Obstacle Course Qek while my squad was there. She’s easy on the eyes. Pity she’s a Jedi. The first one was extremely lickable too, actually. I wonder if they hire for looks.”

“Your standards are falling,” Rav tells her, grabbing her own helmet and checking her blaster.

“Stuck here with nothing but longnecks and Jango's ugly face to look at, can you blame me?”

The longnecks have parked the Jedi on the other side of the facility, probably to keep them out of their way. The walk is spent reinforcing the standard mental defenses every Mando’ad is taught to block Jedi magic. After so many years stuck on Kamino it feels almost fresh to Kal. Unpracticed even, though he’s made a point of keeping it as part of his morning routine.

He has no personal issues with the Jedi himself, though he’s heard more than enough venom from Jango and a few of the leftover True Mandalorians. Jedi are mostly a spacer story on the Outer Rim, where he’s done most of his work. Still, he knows enough to be wary. He’s not fool enough to be actively hostile, not when he hasn’t gotten his full pay for this contract yet. 

They find the Jedi set up in some sort of reception lounge room the longnecks use for their customers. The Togruta is striking, though Kal could’ve done without hearing Vhonte whistle admiringly over private comm. She’s the first Jedi he’s ever encountered in person, though that doesn’t stop his hackles rising in an instinctive recognition of danger. For all she’s doing a good show of being harmless, Mandalorians have millennia of stories reminding them just how great a lie that is. 

And there are clones present, too. Two older ones are in parade rest against the wall. They spring to attention when Kal and the others enter. Meanwhile, a cadet leans against the Jedi, tucked against her hip.

None of them are his boys. He thinks about being relieved, and then realizes one of the older clones is Alpha-17. Ah, kark. 

“Greetings, trainers,” the Jedi greets smoothly with a pleasant smile that doesn’t go anywhere near her eyes.  “I am Jedi Master Shaak Ti. Might I have the honor of your names?”

“Training Sergeant Kal Skirata,” he introduces reluctantly. The other two follow his lead.

“Sergeant Vhonte Tervho.”

“Sergeant Rav Bralor.”

“And these are Alpha-17, Alpha-22, and Eyes,” the Jedi introduces, resting her hand gently on the cadet’s head. The boy beams. Kal’s irritation spikes at the idiot cadet. “And of course, R6-N4.” She nods towards her astromech, which whistles a cheerful greeting at them.

“What do you want, Jedi?” Kal demands brusquely.

She inclines her head. “I apologize for interrupting your day, but the Chancellor would like to speak with you.”

Kal, who was expecting the Jedi to interrogate them about the cadets’ training programs, dig into Jango’s whereabouts, and generally make herself a judgmental pain in the ass, is taken aback. 

“Who?”

“The Supreme Chancellor.” 

“Of the Republic?” Vhonte asks blankly.

At the Jedi's confirmation, Kal’s mood sours even further. This is exactly the sort of thing he does not do, dealing with politicians. This is supposed to be that laser-brain Jango’s problem. He promised. And where is he? Not here. Typical. Join us in wild space, Skirata. Make so many credits you could buy a beskar spaceship, Skirata. Live in a planet-sized bathtub with cold-blooded ear-swabs and help commit crimes against sentience, Skirata. It’ll be fun. Something went very wrong with that boy. If Jaster Mereel was still alive, Kal would have words for him.

“Why does the Chancellor want to talk to us?” he demands suspiciously.

The Jedi’s smile is eerie. It makes the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “That, I believe you will have to ask him.”

Kal’s vaguely aware that the Chancellor of the Republic is some Mid-Rim human who’s been in the position for a few years—Papapa? Papatoo?—but the contract has kept him out of the loop long enough that he’s not entirely sure the man’s still in power. Not that he ever paid much attention to Republic business even when he was out roaming the galaxy. He’s apparently about to move in rarified circles. Be still his kriffing heart.

It takes a few moments for the connection to take. When it does, the holo displays a Mando’ad in unpainted beskar’gam.

Kal has a perplexed moment when he wonders if the Chancellor is dumb enough to think he needs his bodyguard to protect him from a holocall, of all things. That kind of stupid would be pretty much what he’d expect from a Republic di’kut. And then the Jedi says, “Supreme Chancellor Mando, allow me to introduce Sergeant Tervho, Sergeant Bralor, and Sergeant Skirata.”

This isn’t the bodyguard. This is the head ass himself.

And he’s a Mando’ad.

Inside his helmet, Kal’s jaw drops.

For a long moment, the Jedi’s introduction of everyone to everyone else provides background noise as the four Mando’ade—four, including the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—stare at each other through the holo.

“Bantha crap,” says Vhonte at last. 

She stole the words right out of Kal’s mouth.

“Hello,” says the Mando’ad Chancellor, Chancellor Mando.

“No, really, what the kriff,” says Vhonte in rising tones. “Uh. Your Chancellorship. Republic boss guy. No, but kark it. You’re Mando’ad?” She suddenly bristles with hostility. “You’d better not be wearing stolen beskar’gam.”

“The beskar’gam is mine.”

“Get out.”

The Chancellor looks around himself at the expensive backdrop, then does that little head-tilt that conveys confusion when you’re wearing a helmet. “This is my office?”

Kal is feeling uncomfortably like he’s lost control of some kind of cosmic narrative. “You people voted a Mando’ad in as Chancellor?” With disbelief, he realizes he’s appealing to the fucking Jedi as a voice of sanity. He is unenthused about the directions his life is taking.

“Ah,” says the Jedi. “CC-1010 mentioned that this facility is deliberately cut off from the galactic news feeds. His Excellency took the seat through the Rule of Conquest rule two days ago.”

“The Rule of Conquest?”

“He killed the last Chancellor before the full Senate.”

“You can do that? He did that?” Rav demands. “Did we know that was a thing in the Republic? Why haven’t we done that?”

“And this makes you Chancellor?” What a strangely Mandalorian way of transferring power. 

“Get out!” Vhonte exclaims, turning on the— on Mando. “You conquered the Galactic Republic?”

“It happens,” Mando says awkwardly. 

This actually renders Vhonte speechless. Silence falls for a moment.

Then Rav says, “Huh. Do you think single-handedly taking over the Republic is smarter or dumber than cloning yourself a couple million times to make an army for them?”

Mando doesn’t seem to have a real opinion on this. In Mando’a, he abruptly says, “Who owns your contract?”

There’s a directness to the question that speaks to the professional in the trainers. Setting aside the weirdness of the last few minutes, Kal defaults to suspicion. “What business is it of yours?” he demands in the same language.

“Have the three behind you been given their souls?”

Kal bristles. It’s illogical to feel defensive. He agrees with the accusation behind Mando’s question. He’s had fights with Jango about this, about giving all the clones their souls as Mando’ade. Many of the squads speak Mando’a fluently, and know the customs and tales of their people. In the grand scheme of things though, their squads are a nearly insignificant proportion of the clones being decanted weekly on Kamino. They’ll be the leaders, sure, but the vast majority of the clones will never join the Manda. They’ll march on, but they’ll be lost.

Jango says it doesn’t matter, that they’re not Mando’ade anyway. Kal says he’s full of shit. 

In his helmet, Kal bares his teeth. He glances at the Jedi. “You can send something through to him?” he asks in Basic.

At the Togruta’s nod, he does a quick transfer of his contract, along with the record of his adoptions he snuck out to his clan through Vhonte’s spotty, secret feed. The Nulls, his boys, are his. He’s not giving them up for anyone. “My boys have their souls,” he snaps.

“So do mine,” adds Vhonte, with Rav a bare split-second behind her. They’re transferring files too.

Mando inclines his head. Kal immediately hates himself for the flash of warmth he gets at the acknowledgment. “What about the others?”

“Some of the other trainers teach their squads,” Vhonte allows. “Not all of them.”

Kal bites back the heated defense that they’ve done the best they could. Mando nods anyway, like he can hear the unspoken words. “What’s stopping you?”

“None of your business,” Kal says, disgruntled.

Vhonte adds more peaceably, “There are a lot of clones. Not enough people who can train them.”

“Seventy-five Mando’ade, even if some of them used to be Death Watch,” Rav adds. “The others are from all over.  Thousands of clones. It’s an issue of scale. And we’re busy teaching other things.”

“Things to keep them alive.”

“Hm,” says Mando. “You need backup.”

Jango would hate that. Kal doesn’t actually care what Jango wants. “Depends on the kind of backup you’re talking about,” he says warily.

“Teachers. Trainers. Potential parents. Foundlings are the future. This is the Way.”

“Oh kark. He’s a Creedbound,” Vhonte says in despairing tones on the private comm, just as the rest of them come to the same realization.

Kal has never done very well with the Creedbound. They always make him feel inadequate, like he’s not Mando’ad enough. They’re hard enough to find in the normal course of things, insular as they are, but when Kal ran across them in his younger days it was invariably when he was making the worst possible fool of himself. 

After a while, he started to associate them with personal embarrassment. You’d think at his age he’d have gotten over it and yet, here he is again, feeling like that pimply-faced teen caught smearing ointment over the self-inflicted blaster burn on his naked backside.

Pathetic. 

“If you want them to learn so badly, you come out here and do it,” Kal snarls at Mando, ignoring the phantom pains on his ass.

“I have a job already,” Mando reminds. And then, horrifyingly, he says, “I’ll tell Armorer Veiss you’re expecting him.”

Kal’s heart drops right through his stomach and ricochets off his balls. Right. That escalated fast. Kark, this one’s an unapologetic asshole, isn’t he? Skips the knives and goes straight for the thermal detonator. He’ll have to remember that.

“Fucker,” Vhonte breathes admiringly.

Rav looks between them. “I don’t know Veiss?” 

Lucky bitch. Kal snorts low, punctuating Vhonte’s half-incredulous cackle. She says, “Jango is going to lose his mind and then shoot himself in the face.” Behind her, the Alphas brighten.

Ignoring this byplay, Mando asks the Jedi in Basic, “Is this transmission secure?”  

“It is,” the Jedi says. “The monitoring devices in the room have been deactivated and the transmission is routing through R6 and my ship.”

“Will the Jedi free the clones?”

The Alphas stiffen, even as something distracts Mando on his side of the call. A pale Bothan comes into view and murmurs to him, quietly enough that it doesn’t get picked up.

“Chancellor?” the Jedi asks.

Mando jerks his head to his friend, prompting him to speak. Reluctantly, the Bothan says, “If the Jedi free the clones, they will be publicly admitting to engaging in the slave trade.”

“They said they don’t own sentients,” Mando argues.

“No, but if they free them, it’s as good as admitting they engaged in large-scale slave breeding to begin with.”

That sounds dumb to Kal. He says so. Mando nods in agreement, which makes Kal’s chest warm in a way that immediately makes him grumpy. The Jedi, on the other hand, makes a displeased face and admits, “It is a legal technicality but essentially this is correct. The Jedi do disrupt the slave trade where possible and free large groups of slaves. However, there is a significant difference between freeing through intervention instead of actual instigation and ownership.”

“You can’t free them unless you own them, and you can’t own them to free them,” Rav translates.

“Jedi do occasionally manage to gain possession of slaves and immediately free them, but legally we are limited to numbers of under twenty before they must be reported to Senate oversight committees.”

“It’s almost like your Senate doesn’t want you to disrupt the slave trade. Wonder why.”

“You poor, beat down bastards,” Vhonte says with exaggerated sympathy.

The Jedi makes a surprisingly charming bitch face at her. 

Mando heaves the sigh of a rational sentient faced with Core World kark. Kal feels an unwilling twinge of sympathy. “Who owns you if not the Jedi?” Mando asks the Alphas. 

The two exchange glances at each other before Alpha-17 says, “Kaminoans.”

“Do they have the controllers to your chips?”

“They don’t have chips,” Vhonte says.

Mando turns his head to look at her. It’s that kriffing Goran stare, the one where they’re judging your intelligence, your competence, your life choices, your right to breathe— even the quality of the sperm that impregnated the egg that spawned you.

Kal hates that stare. It’s why he’s made it a point to run away from any Gorans the second he took possession of his own ship. Except now one is coming here. Fuck.

“They don’t have chips?” Vhonte says again, sounding far less certain.

“If they don’t have chips, why are they still there?”

Well, that’s a good question. A really good question, actually. Kal, Vhonte, and Rav stare at the Alphas. The Alphas look back at them.

“Wow,” breathes the moron cadet with starry eyes. “So awkward.”

“Floating city, planet of water,” Mando says finally. “Explosives on the support structures. Aquatic natives. If there was a wide-scale revolt, they could sink the cities. Eventually the non-natives would drown without transport off planet.”

Alpha-17 heaves a short, exasperated sigh. “That’s one reason.” He holds up his hand and starts ticking off fingers. First finger. “The Kaminoans control the tubies’ life support.” Second finger. “We don’t have anywhere to go.” Third finger. “We wouldn’t have the supplies to survive even if we had somewhere to go.” Fourth finger. “And we’re loyal to the Republic.” Fifth finger.

The Jedi’s mouth quirks at the implication that the Alphas have seriously considered the matter before. Kal tries to figure out if he’s alarmed or proud. He might have to think about it.

“I’ll send the ships,” Mando says. “They come with Jedi.”

Kal’s forehead wrinkles. They come with Jedi? Did Mando accessorize the ships with Jedi or is that some of euphemism? 

Whatever. He shakes the question off and focuses on the problem. “The life support controls are an issue, but not unbeatable.” Not with the training they’re giving the cadets, at least. And if they move fast enough and strike hard enough, sinking the city wouldn’t even come into play before they got on the ships.

That just leaves where to go and how to survive. He doesn’t bother considering the issue of overwhelming and defeating the Kaminoan security forces. They’re laughable even without a few hundred thousand well-trained Jango clones ready to pay the long-necks back for a short lifetime of misery. Though, Kal reflects, it’s likely several trainers might not survive the coming storm either. Like Dred Priest.

Too bad, so sad. He looks forward to crying a little tear over that kriffer’s dead body.

“If there was also place to go and a way to survive,” Mando says, focusing on the Alphas, “What do you want to do?”

Alpha-17’s mouth flattens. Alpha-22, who’s obviously the more diplomatic of the pair, says cautiously, “Serve?”

Mando pauses, then nods. “You have no reason to trust that you’ll have choices,” he says. Kal adds another data point; Mando has experience with freeing slaves. “If you are not bred for slavery, then you were bred for yourselves.”

“To be an army.”

“The Jedi cannot have armies,” the Jedi says firmly. “It is against the law.”

“Then to have children,” Mando says with a shrug.

The brief silence that falls is. Loaded.

“What,” several people say over the astromech's awed whistle, at the same time a couple other people say, “I beg your pardon?” 

Mando looks between them. “Cloning is done for slaves, for parts, or for supporting populations. Do you want the clones for parts?” 

“No!” the Jedi snaps.

“Is it against the law for Jedi to have children?” 

This time she doesn’t say anything, maybe because she sees the trap. Too bad silence doesn’t stop Mando. He just nods. “Then the Jedi will adopt any clones that wish it. They will send their armorers to teach them their customs. This is the Way.” His body language reads as pleased.

The Jedi looks like she’s been smacked in the face with a fish. She opens her mouth. Then she closes it again. Then she puts on a serenely noncommittal expression and says, "The High Council will have to discuss the matter, Chancellor. We are not traditionally in the habit of adopting."

Mando's head tilts. "If you adopted, you might not have gone extinct."

What? "When did you go extinct?" Vhonte asks, confused. "You're extinct now? Just how long were we cut off from the Galactic News?"

"We aren't extinct," the Jedi says, looking pained.

Mando nods, like she just proved his point. "If you adopt, you won't go extinct again. Adopting will support your population."

"Chancellor—"  

"Children are the future," Mando says, his attention laser-focused on the Jedi like he's daring her to disagree.

She hesitates. "Yes, of course. The Jedi feel the same way. However—" She breaks off, glancing down at the cadet peering up at her with enormous, shiny eyes. She flinches. Then she looks back at Mando and hesitates again. It's a sign of weakness. That's probably a mistake. Rather lamely, she tries, "The Jedi do not have Armorers."

Mando just oozes judgment.

"The Jedi EduCorps is known throughout the galaxy for the quality of their educational programs, sir," the Bothan murmurs.

Apparently, this is good enough for now. Mando nods, like the problem’s solved. Maybe it is, given nobody’s given any convincing, strenuous objections to the idea. Mostly because everybody else is speechless. The Jedi's probably thinking she hasn't committed anything and will be able to squirm out of this later with her High Council, whoever or whatever that is, but Mando doesn’t strike Kal as the type to second-guess his decisions much so it’s probably too late. Sign of a strong leader. Or a kriffing moron. Could be both, since those aren’t mutually exclusive.

If the Jedi adopt Jango’s clones, Jango will go completely insane. Fuck, this is a good day. 

“We need a plan to get you and your vode off the planet, safe, and armored,” Mando says, directing this to the Alphas. 

Jarred out of their shock, the Alphas look at each other again. Then they start talking.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s painfully plain once the discussion starts that the Alphas have given this a lot of thought. Equally quickly, it becomes clear that they never considered that the Jedi would aid and abet them. About ten minutes into a strategy that involves a hell of a lot of blasters and explosives, the Jedi recovers enough to point out that there’s no reason to escape. As the customer, the Jedi have the right to take delivery of their population-expanding purchase. Including the tubies. What happens after that is none of the Kaminoans’ business.

It’s a plan that involves 100% less slaughtering long-necks than Kal was hoping for, to be honest, but pragmatism wins out. He can live with the disappointment.

Of course, then the next issue becomes where to put the clones after they leave the planet. The Alphas claim that many of the clones will want to be part of the Republic Army if given the choice. They won’t know for a while how many of them will choose that though, and even Alpha-17 admits a pretty decent proportion of the younger clones might want to do something else. 

Logistics on this scale isn’t Kal’s thing. The Jedi admits to having experience with large-scale movement and support of displaced refugees, but usually it’s with the assistance of NGOs and philanthropically inclined governments like Alderaan. 

“If I may, Chancellor,” Mando’s Bothan buddy says when she mentions something about the Refugee Resettlement Fund. “It may not be wise to bring their emancipation or need for financial support to the Senate’s attention at this time. There is a significant voting bloc that advocates seizing the clones and drafting them as the Grand Army of the Republic. ”

Mando stares at him.

Meekly, the Bothan offers, “The previous Chancellor was granted Emergency Powers to empower that motion, sir. Before you, ah. Unseated him.”

“Hm,” says Mando. 

“If we can only rely on Jedi resources, that will present a challenge. We could disperse some of you amongst the Temple and the various Service Corps,” the Jedi says hesitantly. “The ExploraCorps’ praxeum ships are designed to accommodate children.”

“Some of them could go to Mando’yaim,” Mando says, like a crazy person.

Kal barks a laugh, imagining that hut'uun's face at having a few thousand clones of Jango Fett dropped on her doorstep. Vhonte paws her helmet off just so she can roll her eyes at Mando. “Kryze would have them thrown off the planet.”

“Not enough space yet?”

Huh?

“She lacks mandokar,” Vhonte counters, looking perplexed. “She won’t accept—“ She makes a vague gesture meant to encompass the clones, their own armor, the blasters at their hips, their everything. 

Mando does that head-tilt again. “You won’t answer her call?”

“Call? What call? When was the last time you visited the sector?” Rav asks. “None of us are going to so much as blow our noses for that dar'manda grub-weasel.”

“Is this because of the—“ Mando stops dead. He goes still in the way that means he’s thinking. Then his head drops. 

Mando’ad body language. An outsider would express the sentiment he’s showing by bashing their head a few times against a wall or maybe slapping their face with their hand. There’s no point in those kinds of theatrics when one’s a real Mando’ad. In a beskar helmet, it’d just cause unnecessary property damage. Plus, they’ve got weaponry if they really need an emotional outlet.

(Kal is suddenly reminded of that one Creedbound who caught him trying to shove a particle grenade down his pants for reasons that made sense at the time. Oh. Ugh. No. Why?)

While Kal is busy trying to extricate himself from that memory, Mando abruptly clears his side of the comm by chasing his guards and most of his aides out of the room. The Jedi on their side is dismissed on the grounds of Mandalorian business, though what good that’ll do when it’s her droid that’s running the connection, who knows.

Since Mando seems to lack even the basic understanding of what’s been going on in the Mandalore Sector over the last decade or so, Kal figures he wants them to fill him in without the embarrassment of an audience. Instead what happens is a zwoom shkkt sound.

“Is it because of this?” Mando asks. Then he holds up the fucking Darksaber.

Vhonte drops her helmet.

Dimly, Kal hears Rav swearing. He’s too busy gaping. And then clawing his helmet off to gape some more, without the intermediary of the HUD. Sweet ka'ra. It really is the Darksaber. Kal has never seen it before in person, but it's unmistakeable.

"How did you get that?" someone demands.

"An Imp had it. He took my ad. I fought the Imp. I took it from him and got my ad back."

What the fuck is an Imp? Kal has no words. The leader of his people rules the Republic. He's the Jedi's new boss. Darksaber aside, no real Mandalorian, Death Watch or otherwise, will refuse to follow a man who killed the leader of the Galactic Republic and conquered it. Mand’alor the Conquerer? No. There was one already. Mand’alor the Triumphant? Mand’alor the Victorious?

“I didn’t want it, but Kryze wouldn’t take it,” Mando says, suddenly cranky.

Dead silence has never been so loud.

“I’m calling it,” Rav says blankly. “Mand’alor the Completely Confusing.”

As one, Vhonte and Kal nod. Yeah. It sounds . . . right.

•─☾─────⋅ ⋅─────☽──•

Mando opens the door to his office, to the visible relief of the Blue Guard who immediately scurry back to their guard positions. Kobol trails after them, noticing that the call with Kamino has ended and the kid is pasted to Mando’s helmet again, once more purring and trying to comfort his dad through concussion. Which probably means things didn't end well. 

“So? Everything alright?” he asks, trying to be tactful about the ‘Mandalorian business’ that led to them all being kicked out.

Mando looks at him. Kobol's years of being a parent are translating his body language as ‘sulky.’ He’s pretty sure he’s wrong. “I need to leave for a while,” Mando says. 

“Uh,” Kobol says. The man’s been Chancellor for all of two days and he already needs time off? “To pick up the clones? Can’t the Jedi do it?”

“I need to challenge Kryze to single combat for the rule of Mandalorian space.”

Kobol blinks at him. Right. Because that makes. 

No. That makes no sense at all. His brain has gone distractingly staticky. “Why? No. Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know.” He wants nothing to do with this. Even to himself, he sounds pathetic when he asks, “Can it wait a couple of weeks before you slaughter the leader of a system? Or at least until we’re past the whole possible declaration of war and unprecedented transfer of power from the last political head you squashed like a fish egg?”

Mando considers. The kid cheers at the words 'fish egg.' Awful kid. Mando nods.

“Great,” Kobol says. “That’s. That’s great. That's fantastic. Wonderful news. I’m going to go do a thing now.”

And then he goes away to feel sorry for himself in a utility closet. 

The cleaning droids are very sympathetic. 

Chapter Text

8 hours to Coruscant from Geonosis

“He’s a murderer!!”

Anakin has spent the last thirty-six hours alternately ranting about the new Chancellor, accusing Obi-Wan and the Jedi of being traitors for not overthrowing the new Chancellor, and sulking about the Jedi and the new Chancellor to Senator Amidala. Notably, he has not been willing to meditate.

From the look Ton Euvai sends him, Obi-Wan’s padawan is not presenting a good argument for early knighthood. Obi-Wan is absolutely in agreement. He turns to the projections of the High Council with a small sigh as Anakin storms out of the ship’s comm room. “As you see. Things are going quite well here. Practically jolly, in fact.”

“Indeed,” says Plo Koon, sympathetic. “Would it help your padawan at all to be told that his friend was, in fact, a Sith Lord?”

“Is that absolutely certain now?”  Ton Euvai asks.

“Beyond all reasonable doubt,” Adi Gallia says, grave. “Your fellow Shadows are currently pursuing leads to find the other Sith. The Master of Shadows is attempting to trace his movements and connections to see if they can find an apprentice. Meanwhile, Master Nu is leading a team to trace his lineage backwards. You and your team will be assigned to assist her when you return.”

“It is possible that Palpatine’s master is already dead, given how high Palpatine was in power and position. Unfortunately, we cannot be sure of that,” adds Plo, as Ton Euvai nods.

Obi-Wan has already passed on Dooku’s suspicious knowledge about a Sith in the Senate to Ton Euvai. They can only assume he was talking about Palpatine. It’s a lead the Shadows will follow. “I will tell Anakin, but in the mood he’s in, I suspect he’s unlikely to listen to me. Palpatine has— Palpatine had a strong influence on him. He’s been tremendously volatile since this mission began and it’s only gotten worse since we heard the news of his death.”

“He is an adolescent, isn't he? Humans have hormonal changes about now, right?” Mace Windu asks without much hope.

“We can only hope that that’s the problem,” Stass Allie says. “He should be seen by the healers when you return, in case it’s something more. Palpatine should never have been allowed so much time alone with him.”

“What a terrible idea that turned out to be,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “I wonder what High Council decided it should be allowed over the protests of his master.”

A couple of the Council look disgruntled. Gratifyingly, more of them look remorseful and guilty. A few look quietly vindicated.

Master Piell snorts. “Count on you to be a smartass instead of just saying what you mean, kid. Go on. You can say it. ‘I told you so.’ You know you want to.”

“I would never,” Obi-Wan lies, not even trying to be convincing.

Mace rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, the Senate is demanding that you provide testimony and evidence on the Separatist droid army the second you arrive on Coruscant. It seems likely that Padawan Skywalker will be meeting the new Chancellor soon.”

“It’d be fantastic if he didn’t try to punch the leader of the Galactic Republic on sight,” Piell says. “Think he can manage that?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. Ton Euvai snickers quietly beside him.

Piell smirks. “Oh, this is gonna go great. I can’t wait.”

“Don’t let him punch the Chancellor,” Mace says, frowning at Obi-Wan. “We’ve managed to work well with Mando so far, against all hope and expectation. He’s Force-sent. The last thing we need is for Anakin to ruin that.”

“I’ll do my best in the time we have left before arrival,” Obi-Wan says, biting back a sigh. “He greatly admires Senator Amidala. If I tell her the truth about Palpatine, she may provide a more equalizing perspective.”

“You might as well. The Shadows are reporting to Queen Jamillia in a few hours when they arrive on Naboo. Master Sinube and Depa have headed over to brief the Chancellor already. Tell her this is need to know only.” For the first time, Mace hesitates before finishing reluctantly, “You should let her know that there’s evidence showing he was in bed with the Trade Federation almost since his career in the Senate began. Considering why he got the votes for the Chancellor’s seat to begin with—”

Obi-Wan grimaces, imagining her reaction and rapidly revising his opinion on her stabilizing influence. “Charming. I foresee this will be a delightful conversation.”

“Better you than me.”

“Your support is inimitable as always, Bald Monk Man.” 

• ─ ☾─────⋅   ⋅ ───── ☽── •

Coruscant

Din has made a mistake.

It’s his fourth cycle on this job. It’s his sixth hour of meetings today. One of the mynock aides—not Helpful Yellow, but a human he’s decided to call Annoying Pink—showed up yesterday morning with a schedule. Din has been herded around like a Bantha ever since. 

Up at fifth hour. Feed, dress, and bathe the kid. Eat some ration bars. Get herded into the office. Be made to sit around for the next fourteen hours to stare at people who talk at, talk around, talk with? him. Generally, just talk. While he’s in the room.

Din being in the room is apparently important to all of them. (He’s asked if he’s necessary. They say he is. He doesn’t see it.)

“…the mystery of the millennium. The entire galaxy wants to see what’s under the helmet, Chancellor. Would you be willing to show us?” says the overly nosy person who’s in the room now.

“No,” Din says.  He has not sure why he’s being asked questions. He assumes they’re to fill out another of these forms that they’re obsessed with in the Core. They don’t trust him to fill them out himself anymore. 

Din’s mistake was that the Din of four days ago didn’t know how Core Worlders communicated. Back at the beginning of this job, Din asked Kobol, “Is being Chancellor like running Tatooine?” because Boba’s job running Tatooine seemed like a lot of telling people to shut up and sometimes getting shot at and sometimes doing the shooting. Kobol said, “I mean, sure, why not? Tatooine couldn’t possibly be a worse shithole than the Senate." It turns out, what Din meant and what Kobol meant were two different things.

Din meant, “Will being Chancellor involve a lot of telling people to shut up and sometimes getting shot at and sometimes doing the shooting?” which was exactly what he said. Kobol, on the other hand, meant, “No, it’s nothing like running Tatooine because actually the Republic is a million times worse than Tatooine. People will want to talk all the time. Always. At all hours. And then they’ll make you talk back. But there won’t be any violence allowed, ever, because people will be unreasonable about it. They’ll get upset. And even though you don't care about any of them, for reasons that nobody can actually explain to you, that's bad."

Kobol needs to work on his communication skills. Din told him this on cycle three, after nine hours of meetings. Kobol made a funny face at him.

“…anybody special in your life, Chancellor Mando? You don’t mind if I call you Mando, do you?” Nosy Form Person is purring when he pays attention again. 

“The Child,” says Din, trying to figure out if the eyelids batting is a code signaling assassins or if Nosy Form Person just has something in her eyes. He decides with disappointment that it’s not a code.

“I’m sorry? The Child?”

“The child is special.”

Nosy Form Person seems disappointed in this. She moves on to ask him some more odd questions, about his real name (“No,”) the child’s name (“No,”) about being Chancellor (“It’s fine,”) and about the Jedi  (“They’re fine.”) Noisy Form Person looks like she’s getting upset—maybe she likes Jedi?—so he tells her about the Jedi adopting the clones. It cheers her up. This is a really weird form.

Anyway, mistake. The child is so bored. Din is so bored. 

“Will someone try to shoot me at some point?” he asks one of the mynocks. There’s a bunch of new people in the office now, which is alarming. Apparently he was so bored he entered some sort of fugue state and missed the Nosy Form Person leaving to be replaced with Noisy Shouty People. That’s not good. 

The mynock says, shocked, “Of course not, Chancellor! That would be treason!”

Din sighs. The child sighs. They look at each other and both sigh.

If this keeps up, Din might shoot some of the Noisy Shouty People just to feel like he’s doing something right running the Republic. Of course, that will make his employer cross. For a lawman, Kobol’s weirdly opposed to shooting people. Out of desperation, Din pulls out his secondary blaster to clean it. He might as well do something productive if he has to sit through this kark. Grogu perks up. He wants to help.

Of course, it figures that right around the time he pops the gas cartridge to check its levels, step one of a multi-step process Din regularly uses to relax and soothe himself in times of stress, the Noisy Shouty People abruptly come to an agreement and charge off to make someone else’s life miserable. Isn’t that always the way?

(He stills, suddenly frozen in horror. Is being terrible the actual Way of Coruscant? The Constitution said something about religious freedom. Does he have to respect their Way? It can’t be. That’s a stupid Creed.

He’ll have to ask Kobol later.)

“Well, that meeting ended unexpectedly early. Congratulations on expediting a compromise, Chancellor!” Annoying Pink chirps as he bustles in. He checks his pad and announces, “You have almost an entire half hour until your next meeting. This would be a perfect time to—”

He’s probably about to suggest something awful. Fortunately, Kobol barrels in at that moment, trailed by Master Sinube and Young Braidy Jedi. 

“I’ve got most of my team,” Kobol announces, getting straight to the point like a rational man. “We’ve set up a squad room downstairs. I’m meeting with Commissioner Hask in a couple of hours about some task force personnel I’m trying to grab. He’ll call this office because he’s nuna-brained enough to think I’m making the approval up. Like your new cape, Mando. Very dramatic.”

Din’s new cape is deep red and black, and is trimmed with silver mudhorn skulls. It makes his beskar practically glow against it. Helpful Yellow brought it to him on Day Three, together with clothes for Grogu, underwear, new boots, and a variety of socks. Din doesn’t wear a cape for theater. He wears one because it’s warm when his thermo-regulated kute isn’t enough for the weather. And the kid can hide under it, which makes it good security. 

Also, Din likes the flapping noise it makes when the wind blows it behind him. Plus, it makes him look bigger when he looms. That’s important to bounty-hunting. It has nothing to do with drama.

He decides to ignore Kobol and looks at Master Sinube.

“Your Excellency, I apologize for coming without an appointment, but I’m afraid the High Council has some dire news. If we can have a moment’s privacy,” the old Jedi says.

Din doesn’t like dire news. He’s also not sure that what Jedi think is dire is actually dire in the real world where normal people live. He’s noticed in the last couple of days that they get easily upset about things. Things like screens and bedrooms and furnishings. It’s not a magic issue. Grogu has magic and is still much more rational. Jedi are just delicate flowers, apparently. “Is it urgent?”

Sinube frowns. “Not urgent, precisely. But I expect you and Captain Antilles should know it sooner rather than later.”

“Sir,” says Annoying Pink urgently over Kobol’s muttered curse. “You don’t really have time right now. You need to review the notes for the upcoming meetings with the Galactic Security Committee.”

There are a lot of committees to Chancelloring. The pad that Helpful Yellow pushes into his hands provides him with a quick, photographic roster of the committee along with a list of responsibilities that it’s responsible for. It’s much more helpful than Annoying Pink’s nattering on about the agenda and some vote being scheduled for someone named Nocon Fi Dance before Helpful Yellow helpfully pushes the mynocks and the guards out the doors.

Din idly wonders if Helpful Yellow has ever considered partnering with a beroya in the private sector. He should mention it when this job comes to a close.

“I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this,” Sinube says, once the doors are shut and the room is empty except for them. “Given the circumstances, it seems appropriate for you to know this as well, Captain Antilles. After thorough investigation, we have determined that Chancellor Sheev Palpatine was a Sith.”

Sinube pauses. After a second, realizing he’s expecting some sort of acknowledgment, Din nods politely. 

Kobol, on the other hand, gapes. Then he sputters. “Are you sure? How’s that even possible?”

“I’m afraid we’re quite sure. Even several days dead, his blood held an impressive midichlorian count. One equal to several of the Jedi High Council, in fact. Many of the artifacts in his office and living quarters were Sith artifacts as well. We also found his lightsaber. Most critically, we found a ritual chamber. It was— a disturbing discovery.”

“They’re supposed to be extinct!”

“It’s a well-guarded secret, one known to very few outside the Jedi. Ten years ago, another Sith was involved in the Trade Federation’s invasion of Naboo before he was defeated.”

“Wait. What? Naboo? Does that mean—?!”

The Jedi both nod gravely. 

It occurs to Din that this sort of thing happens a lot in the Core. Extinction, that is, followed by recovery. Although according to the Jedi, it’s extinction, recovery, extinction, then recovery. Except Din killed this last Sith, didn’t he? So really it’s back to extinction again. Dank farrik. No wonder the Jedi are so unhappy. From the way Ahsoka Tano explained the magic, it makes sense that Jedi are environmentalists. Obviously they’re upset about the extinctions, even when they aren’t their fault. And by the sounds of it, Sith are some kind of blood cousins to the Jedi. 

Now he feels bad.

“Maybe there are more?” he suggests, trying to be encouraging. He wonders vaguely if the cloners could repopulate the species with only one genetic sample. Might be a good thing they didn’t kill them all.

Braidy Jedi nods. “We believe that is the case. The one on Naboo was powerful. However, the death of Chancellor Palpatine has lifted the veil over Coruscant, which suggests he was even more powerful. It has exposed an alarming contamination of the Dark Side in the Senate. With your permission, Your Excellency, the Temple would like to send over Jedi to perform a cleansing as quickly as possible.”

Din nods. The office itself is brightly lit with all the security windows, but the hallways of the Senate building are pretty dark and dingy, it’s true. He figured it was to make assassinations and sneaking around easier. He doesn’t see what Jedi will be able to do about it—he’d be more inclined to hire janitors and engineers—but he’s learned not to get in the way of religious people doing their religious thing. They get cranky. 

“That’s all of them though, right?” Kobol asks, scrubbing at his face. “There aren’t any more?”

Braidy Jedi hesitates. “It’s been ten years. We were uncertain whether the Sith on Naboo was the master or apprentice at the time. We believed that he was the apprentice, but—”

She trails off. Sinube chuffs a small sound of wry amusement. “I admit, we are having difficulty wrapping our minds around the idea that a true Sith master could be so easily killed simply by dropping a Mandalorian on his head. No offense meant of course, Chancellor.”

Din isn’t sure what the Jedi said that could be offensive. “Beskar is heavy.” This is fact. To be honest, he’d rather appreciated the soft landing. No matter how squishy and wet it ended up.

“That fact alone leaves us uncertain. Palpatine’s political position suggests that he must be the master. However, with how easily he was killed, it could be that he was actually the apprentice. In which case, there could very well be an acolyte already being raised up to replace him.” 

“Are you kidding me? Now we might have two Sith running around?” Kobol demands, dragging his hand down his face. 

“It’s the Jedi’s responsibility to find the Sith,” Sinube says quickly. “Please don’t pursue the matter yourself, Captain. I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous the Sith are. We have specially trained Jedi hunting even now. While we cannot give you the details, Chancellor, be assured we will keep you abreast as much as possible.”

Din nods, distracted. His attention was caught by the word ‘hunt.’ Deep-seated instincts and training both thrill. A hunt. He feels a small twinge of responsibility. The Jedi aren’t bad. Plo Koon has been coming by every day to play with the child and train him in his magic, even if Din adopted him. He hasn’t asked for any favors in return.

Din decides to talk to the cloners about that population revival thing. And maybe hunt for this other Sith in his spare time. He could use it to train Grogu the skills of being a beroya. That would be efficient, right?

• ─ ☾─────⋅   ⋅ ───── ☽── •

Geonosis

Count Dooku stalks the halls of the Geonosian Ducal Hive. His expression is stern, yet dignified. His bearing, regal. His stride, firm. His robes, specially tailored for the cause, flare pleasingly around him. He is the very model of calm and collected patrician elegance.

Geonosians scramble out of his way. They are stupid, worthless creatures in the grand scheme of things, but they’re not complete idiots.

Years it has taken to create the Separatist movement, prime them for action, and place himself at their logical head. And in a split-second of random chance, half of a Sith plot centuries in the making had almost been derailed. 

Initially, the fact that the new Chancellor was an armored Mandalorian had been enough to convince the weak-minded fools of the Separatist Senate that war was inevitable. For all the Duchess’s bleating about peace, the history of Mandalorian conquest is still embedded too deep in galactic memory to be erased. What Mandalorian, given power and a pre-made army ready to hand, would not take immediate and preemptive action to conquer the Republic? As an exemplar, Jango Fett’s contempt for his own clones and hatred for the Republic was there for anyone to see. There would be no chance for peace. Dooku had said it. He’d even believed it.

And then the damned Mandalorian had commed.

Half the Separatist Senate had watched the new Chancellor of the Republic be confused, bewilderingly free of aggression, and infuriatingly likable. He was blunt and forthright. He made no attempts to sway them to his point of view. He blasted straight through the corpse of diplomacy and opened his door for their grievances. And it was plain, even with that damned helmet hiding his face, that he meant what he said.

It was a brilliant performance. And the fools fell for it.

It was a personal failure on Dooku’s fault. He should never have cast San Hill’s call onto the larger projector. Master politician as he is, he should have known better than to cast his dice against an unknown player. 

Two days. It’s taken two days for Dooku to convince the Separatist senate that there will be no possibility of reconciliation with the Republic. Even the Executive Separatist Council, consisting primarily of corporate allies and banking institutions, began talking about new opportunities in the Republic, shying away from war—as though a Mandalorian Chancellor somehow made the Republic more formidable than it was before.

Well, his master may be dead—and good riddance to him; Dooku could find himself charmed by the Mandalorian simply by virtue of the ridiculous end he brought Sidious to—but Dooku’s goals remain the same. In truth, they were never truly aligned. Dooku had no urge to rule an Empire. Power held no appeal for him, save where it helped him attain his ends. His goal has always been enlightenment:  sweeping away decay and graft; opening closed eyes to save the galaxy. He will be the villain of the piece if he must in order to forge a better future. A future worth preserving. 

The Jedi will be forcibly woken from their complacent apathy. The corrupt Senate will fall. Out of the crucible of war, a new galaxy will be forged.

Sidious’s plan was to cause massive casualties amongst the Jedi while making the Republic the aggressors. He delighted in making his enemies complicit in their own destruction. Well, the first shot of the war may not have transpired as his master planned, but a clever man knows how to adapt.

Dooku is nothing if not a clever man. And his worthless great-grandpadawan has given him everything he could possibly need.

The doors before him slide open. The shouts and lights of galactic press crews break over him like a Kaminoan wave.

• ─ ☾─────⋅   ⋅ ───── ☽── •

Coruscant

Eleven hours into meetings, Din has started pulling up local bounty postings on his pad and showing them to the kid behind his desk to see if any catch his interest. He’s given up on cleaning his blasters. He has terrible timing. He only ever seems to get three steps in at most before the meeting ends and Annoying Pink shoves some new bunch of richly dressed nincompoops into the room.

This current bunch is arguing about the Separatists and the Droid Army. Din actually cares about this subject. He doesn’t care so much for the way they’re arguing that the Jedi can’t be allowed to adopt the clones. Apparently there was some interview on the holonews about it and now that's all anyone wants to talk about. Din doesn’t see how it’s anybody’s business but the Jedi’s and the clones'. And the Mandalorians who might end up adopting some, for that matter.

He says so. They argue at him about it. One of them says something about eminent domain for the good of the Republic. Helpful Yellow quietly shows him what that means. Turns out Din knows all about eminent domain—it’s how most things work in the Outer Rim, except without this weird Core World idea of paying compensation. It’s a relief to be on familiar grounds. He knows just how to deal with this kind of situation too, even without his blasters.

“How much money do you have?” he asks the ge'hutuun.

He sputters. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Your Excellency?”

“If you have property and money, we should take it to help fund the military,” Din suggests. “Eminent domain for the good of the Republic.”

“I’ll take a note, sir,” Helpful Yellow says brightly.

The human goes red in the face, but he doesn’t bring up trying to steal the clones again. He’s too busy shouting at his fellow committee members instead when they pounce on him like womp rats on a bleeding snake. For the first time in days, Din feels a thrum of satisfaction. It may not be shooting at and getting shot at, but he told someone to shut up, just like Boba. Maybe he can do this Chancelloring business after all.

“Still, the fact remains that we do not have the money to pay for an army. Not without making serious cuts in other programs,” one of the more reasonable committee members, a Nautolan, says in an aside to Din.

“You can’t steal warriors,” Din tells him. Remembering Kobol’s complaints about using more words, he forces himself to state the obvious. “Slaves don't fight for loyalty. If you want an army, you pay, train, and arm the willing or find their blasters turned against you.”

Even Gamorreans understand this. Din can’t even be annoyed these Core Worlders don’t. They’re ridiculous. It’s like expecting a blurrg to know how to hotwire a speeder.

“I wish you luck finding the money,” the Nautolan says dryly. “Best keep your armor on and your blasters primed when you try to pry it out of people’s fists. It’s going to get ugly.”

Din doesn’t see anything about the argument going on right now that isn’t already ugly. He tips his head towards it.

The Nautolan laughs quietly. "I take your point."

A mynock comes rushing in to confer with Helpful Yellow. After a quick, muttered conversation, Helpful Yellow draws Din aside.

“The Jedi witnesses from Geonosis and Senator Amidala are waiting on Traffic Control, sir,” Helpful Yellow says quietly. “The Speaker is summoning the Senate to hear their statements. Also, Count Dooku has made a statement about the clones. He’s claiming they’re a Republic-commissioned army being readied to conquer independent and non-Republic sectors, and that the Jedi were sent to provoke the war. Naboo is being named as complicit. He has the Senator’s ship logs."

"Huh."

"Fortunately, your statement earlier in the day has undermined his narrative." What statement? "They think he wasn't aware of it when he did his press conference. However, Count Dooku is demanding that Senator Amidala and Padawan Skywalker be turned over to him for justice if the Republic is serious about peace.”

Din tilts his head in inquiry.

“Unfortunately, it seems he killed quite a few Geonosians while attempting to rescue Knight Kenobi, sir. On camera.”

“Huh.”

“Yes sir. I’m in complete agreement.” 

Din is informed that he's supposed to show up when the Senate is summoned. Because he’s. In charge of it? (He checks the Constitution quickly and discovers that actually, the Chagrian he fired was in charge of it. Maybe Kobol was right about him needing to find a new second-in-command.) While the mynocks chase the committee out and fuss about the number of weapons he refuses to go without, Din tucks the kid on his hip and hides him under the cape. See? Security. The cape is completely justified.

He strides out before Annoying Pink can go after his armor with that polishing cloth he thinks he’s hiding. 

The place is still a maze, but Din’s mapped out enough of it now that he knows pretty much where he’s going. The Senate Guard fall in to bracket him, completely unnecessary and frankly more likely to be an obstruction than useful during an actual attack. Din reminds himself he needs to train with them to see what they’re capable of. Still, they’re useful in clearing the way for him, making sure the richly dressed sentients crowding the halls stand aside as he passes.  The mynocks trail after him like dustgliders in the wake of a purrgil, taking advantage of the empty space behind him.

Din clocks the stares and expressions as he passes, setting his helmet to record all the muttered conversations and whispers to analyze later. His HUD picks up more security than usual, extra guards lining the path and a few hover cams zipping about. One even picks up his tail, speeding around overhead to inspect him at various angles.

“Your Excellency!” Annoying Pink pipes, bustling up to scurry alongside him. Dank farrik. What awful thing does he want now? “Sir, the Jedi are arriving at Dock 2. It will take a while still for the Senate to finish gathering. This would be a perfect time to prepare the Jedi for their testimony.”

Din has the distinct impression he’s being handled. On his other side, Helpful Yellow’s ears flatten. Curious to see where this will lead, he nods to let Annoying Pink lead the way and changes direction to follow him. Maybe this will be his first assassination attempt? 

With the kid happily gnawing on the Darksaber hilt, Din and the crowd around him turns down a few less populated hallways to find themselves at a landing bay, as promised. He settles himself to watch as a battered Corellian DK-14 touches down smoothly, opening to disgorge a small group of sentients and, unfortunately, droids. Two of the sentients look monk-like. They must be the Jedi. The last non-droid is a young, human-passing female. 

They all look tired. The two youngest look furious. Din perks up.

Annoying Pink swoops forward to introduce everyone to each other, which might have been useful during all the meetings but seems pretty unnecessary now. Especially given how homicidal the younger Jedi’s glares are. “Mando,” he interrupts firmly. “Call me Mando. Not Chancellor.”

“Of course, Your Excellency. Mando it is,” says the oldest Jedi smoothly, correcting himself at Din’s small sigh. “You’re welcome to call me Obi-Wan. And of course, my padawan, Anakin Skywalker—”

“Chancellor Palpatine was my friend,” Skywalker interrupts, looking murderous. Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He looks like he's praying for calm.

Murderous Skywalker looks a bit like the other Skywalker Din knows, except about a thousand times more likely to start a fight instead of being shot offhand for being a smug shebs like his possible relative.  It doesn’t make anything at all awkward. In fact, Din finds his mood brightening for the first time all day. Murderous intent is in his comfort zone.

He nods to acknowledge that he hears Murder Skywalker’s words. He doesn’t offer sympathies. Or apologies. Neither of those are in his comfort zone.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan drags out in the exhausted tones of an parent desperately trying to keep their spawn under control. Some things cross species and galaxies. “We apologize, Mando. I’m afraid the last few days have been a bit of a shock to us all.”

“If the news the Jedi Council has shared is correct, ‘shock’ is an understatement. It is a betrayal of the deepest order,” Senator Amidala says, looking unforgiving. She glares at Din. “I understand that this is strictly classified information?”

Din nods. It makes sense to him. If everybody knew that there were Sith around, there’d be lots of people hunting for them. Rarity raises value. 

“I don’t believe it,” Murder Skywalker says belligerently. 

“Anakin—“

“He wasn’t a Darksider. He wasn’t even Force sensitive! I would’ve sensed it!”

“There are quite a few questions I’d like answered about who Palpatine really was too, Anakin,” Amidala says, her face softening. “I don’t think we ever really knew him at all.”

“Members of the High Council had meetings with Palpatine frequently over the last ten years. I met him frequently. None of the other Jedi sensed him, either. There’s no shame in having missed it,” Obi-Wan says.

“Yes, but I’m more powerful than them!” Murder Skywalker says.

“More powerful than the Council? Really, Anakin?”

“Maybe not as— but I’m strong! Stronger than most!”

“Yes, but you’re still young and inexperienced. And as I’ve told you many times before, power isn’t everything.”

“People can be a little Force sensitive and not even realize it. It happens all the time. You said so yourself before, Master. He wouldn’t have lied to me!”

“One can't have had a midichlorian count like Palpatine had and be unaware, Anakin. They found a red lightsaber. However, this really the appropriate time or place for this discussion. I apologize, Mando. I believe the Senate is waiting for us?”

The wind is picking up in the docking bay. Grogu whimpers in Din’s cloak, huddling close.

“He wasn’t that kind of man, Master! He was a good man. He cared about things. He cared about people."

"Not now, Anakin."

"He cared about me! He was the only one who did! He believed in me!”

“You know very well that you have many others who care for you,” Obi-Wan says, his voice growing sharp with exasperation. 

“Who? You?” 

“Yes, me. And your friends in the Temple.”

“And me,” Amidala interjects, looking hurt. “Ani—“

“You’re the only one left,” Murder Skywalker declares passionately, turning to grab Amidala’s outstretched hand. The pair of them look like actors in those garbage romances buir used to watch. “You’re the only one who believes in me now.”

“Anakin, really. Do we need to do this now?” Obi-Wan sounds done with everything. Poor Jedi.

“Shut up! You don’t care. You’ve never cared! You’ve always held me back! You resent me! Chancellor Palpatine was right, you only ever trained me because I’m the Chosen One!” The wind snags Din’s cape, whipping it wildly. He holds it closed around the kid. Around him, the Blue Guard starts to shift, adjusting their rifles uneasily. “If I’d been here, I could’ve kept him safe. I could’ve kept everybody safe, if I’d only just been there!”

This is exactly the kind of embarrassing emotional drama Din usually tries to avoid at all costs. Does he really have to be here for this? He sneaks a glance at the aides. Annoying Pink looks rapt. His eyes are shining with fascination. Helpful Yellow, usually the first to catch his cues and find him an out, is standing very still with his fur standing on end.

Amidala, on the other hand, is wincing with pain and trying to pull her hand out of Murder Skywalker’s. 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan snaps, looking alarmed and stepping forward. “You need to calm down! Focus!” 

Grogu starts whining. Din really doesn’t feel like he’s necessary here. Of course, he’s felt like that all day. This time though, Grogu is getting upset. He doesn’t care if he’s necessary. He has priorities.

“This seems like a Jedi thing,” he says flatly. “Will you be much longer?”

Murder Skywalker’s attention is diverted. His face is red and blotchy with rage. Also, he looks like he’s about to cry. This is so uncomfortable. Din vaguely hopes he dies before Grogu reaches his species’ teenage equivalent. “You! You killed my friend! This is all your fault. I hate you!”

“Anakin! No!”

It’s at this point that three things happen. 

One: Murder Skywalker leaps at Din. 

Two: Amidala shouts Murder Skywalker’s name, stumbling as she's dragged along and abruptly dropped.

Three: A very distinctive zwoom shkkt sound cuts through the air.

Three times.

Din is no amateur. He has his blaster out and pointed at Murder Skywalker’s face before the di’kut’s green lightsaber starts swinging down at him. He’s startled though, by the blue lightsaber that flashes across his vision. The two blades crackle angrily as blue blocks green and diverts it to the side. 

Of course, this is nowhere near the surprise when the Darksaber burns a hole through his new cloak. The blade jerks, smacking the green lightsaber's tip before rebounding up to hit his helmet. It skids off the beskar with a screech before falling.

Dank farrik. He’s going to have to polish that.

Murder Skywalker gapes, fury wiped out by shock. Obi-Wan stares at Grogu, who's glaring his own adorable vengeance at Murder Skywalker from Din’s arm. His little hands clutch the Darksaber's hilt.

Din sighs. His new cloak is ruined. At least the wind’s died down. “Kid. What did I tell you about playing with that thing?”

“That’s the Darksaber!” Obi-Wan says, baffled. He straightens, the other two lightsabers disappearing with a shwook as the Jedi are distracted from their drama. Din cautiously lowers his blaster. “That means you’re the Mand’alor!”

Din opens his mouth in immediate denial. Then he closes it again. Obi-Wan is staring at Grogu. Is he talking to the kid? 

“Huh,” he says, mind suddenly racing.

The Blue Guard chooses this point to start shouting.

Chapter Text

Transcript

SEPARATIST MILITARIZATION: INVESTIGATING AND TAKING ACTION TO SECURE REPUBLIC INTEREST AND BORDERS

Nine Hundred and Seventy-Eighth Senate 

Testimony on the Anti-Republic Actions of the Separatist Faction and the Illegal Militarization on Geonosis

The Senate met at 10:01, His Excellency the Supreme Chancellor Mando presiding.

OPENING STATEMENT OF SUPREME CHANCELLOR MANDO

Are you sure? Fine. I’ll just. I can say anything I want?

Senate. Senators. Try to, uh, try not to act like complete shebse until after we’re done. So we can finish fast. That’s all.

No, that’s all I have to say. Obi-Wan, you can go first.

What? Why? Are they testifying too? Then why do they need to talk? 

Fine. The Chair recognizes Senator Orn Free Taa of Ryloth.

Can I put a time limit? One minute. Really? Ten? How many of them... Dank farrik.

STATEMENT OF ORN FREE TAA, SENIOR SENATOR FOR RYLOTH, MEMBER OF THE LOYALIST COMMITTEE

Sen. TAA. Thank you. Thank you, Supreme Chancellor Mando, Members of the Loyalist Committee, my fellow Senators, the Jedi Order whose bravery and daring have made it possible for us to gather today and see with our own eyes, to hear with our own ears, the rising threats to our great Republic….

A couple of months after stopping a war, losing his Master, and killing the first Sith in a thousand years, Obi-Wan gave his Mind Healer a bottle of expensive Nubian whiskey and thanked her for all her efforts. He had a notion that he was doing much better now that he was a fully fledged knight and perhaps didn't need to have quite so many sessions anymore?

She stared at him with dead eyes, cracked open the whiskey, and drank the entire bottle down on the spot. And Obi-Wan stayed on his same schedule of sessions.

While Healer Aldiss taught him many healthy coping mechanisms over the course of his padawanship, the most valuable is one he learned the day she first sat him down in her office, a meat bag of trauma with the optimistic outlook of a chronic suicide bomber. His friends call it The List. When he was first introduced to it, he worked on it every night for months, scribbling down ideas in the middle of doing homework and waking up at night to jot a note. The List consisted of everything he could imagine could go wrong, culled from his own experiences and that of his friends, drawn from the wildest frenzies of his active imagination.

More importantly though, for each thing on The List he identified a plan for what he could do in response.

Qui-Gon had never really understood it. It was the very antithesis of trusting in the Force. Still, even he couldn't deny the benefits it provided his traumatized young padawan. The List had gone a long way towards calming Obi-Wan and opening him back up to the Force instead of his fears. In subsequent years, The List had even saved their lives (and missions) more than a few times. Twenty years after that first, terrifying healing session, Obi-Wan still updates it regularly as each misadventure and "this will work! It's a great plan, Master!" raises new possibilities for disaster.

As the Blue Guard work on fastening Force-inhibiting binders around Anakin’s wrists, he realizes that he’d never even considered adding Anakin tries to kill the Chancellor in an act of treason to The List.

Present Obi-Wan has so many regrets.

“Master,” Anakin says, desperate. “I didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t!”

“Be calm, Anakin. I am with you,” Obi-Wan says automatically.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know.” He truly doesn’t. He meets Anakin’s red-rimmed gaze and pushes as much strength and support as he can through their bond. “Trust in the Force. Trust in the Jedi. There may be consequences, but I will do whatever I can to protect you.”

Did Anakin mean to kill the Chancellor? Does it even matter at this point? He catches Anakin as he sways, the loss of the Force near crippling to one so powerful in it. Obi-Wan has developed fourteen ways of getting out of Force binders for the get imprisoned by Force binders line in The List. He has thirty-six ways of dealing with Governmental authorities arrest you. Fifty-two ways to deal with Escape hostile authorities. But Anakin tries to kill the Chancellor in an act of treason?

Nothing. He’s got nothing.

So many regrets.

There are far too many curious and fascinated eyes. The camera drones have tripled. More and more spectators join the audience that was once made up only of docking crew and guardsmen. For all Obi-Wan has more familiarity than most Jedi with Mandalorians of all stripes, he has no insight into their new Chancellor—Chancellor? Mand’alor? Chance’alor? No. Focus, Obi-Wan, focus—beyond the fact that he is of more traditionalist leanings. This bodes ill, given the recent involvement of the Jedi with Mandalorian politics. Anakin is far past the age where he might be granted leniency by virtue of youth.

He glances over at the Chancellor, trying to assess his mood. The Mandalorian is holding his child close, the tiny youngling hugging their father’s helmet in a tender Keldabe. Obi-wan’s heart clenches at the quiet love and protective pride he can sense from both of them. He feels like he’s intruding.

So of course Padmé steps forward with a set to her jaw that Obi-Wan remembers from the Invasion of Naboo. Oh no. “Chancellor, what do you intend to do with Padawan Skywalker?”

Her aggression is poorly timed. Obi-Wan smothers dismay. Anakin’s attack put the Chancellor’s child into danger. Now is not the time to be demanding.

Sure enough, the Chancellor turns slowly on Padmé.

A vaguely hysterical part of Obi-Wan wishes he didn’t remember how to read Mandalorian body language.

“I apologize for Anakin and claim his debt,” Obi-Wan says hastily, in Mando’a he hasn’t had a reason to use in years. He steps forward to slightly block Padmé from the Chancellor’s path.  What can he say to defend his student and the senator? He sends a plea to the Force as he adds out of the dim recesses of his memory, “A wound in the foundling is the Tribe’s to heal.”

The Chancellor says automatically in the same language, “This is the Way.” Then he stops. He gives Obi-Wan a comprehensive up-down sweep. At the same time, his child peeks around his hip to chirp at Obi-Wan. Bizarrely, the child radiates an awed hero worship for Obi-Wan that doesn’t make any sense to him whatsoever. On the other hand, the dull sense of the Chancellor’s hostility shifts to something like embarrassment.

“Where is your armor?” the Chancellor demands, pointedly averting his gaze.

If the Mando’a hadn’t already unearthed old, dusty memories, that question would. It was a constant and disapproving refrain from countless Mandalorians as Obi-Wan and Satine hid from Death Watch during that tumultuous year, until one Armorer had strong-armed him into a set of beskar’gam taken from his pursuers and reforged specifically to his needs.

Back then, desperately trying to stay under notice on a hostile world, Obi-Wan had compromised many of his beliefs. That was then. This is now. “The Force is my armor.”

Mando’a has no word for the Force, or at least none that doesn’t have more complicated cultural implications than Obi-Wan is willing to deal with right now. As always, using the Basic word in the middle of Mando’a is like cracking an egg on a wookie. It’s jarring.

The Chancellor pauses. The sense of embarrassment fades into curiosity. His helmet turns to face Obi-Wan directly. “Your magic is armor?”

“It isn’t—” Obi-Wan stops his reflexive denial of ‘Force’ equating ‘magic.’ That’s another cultural can of worms. “Yes.”

“Invisible magic armor?”

“I suppose it could be translated like that. From a certain point of view,” Obi-Wan says warily.

Right around the time the Chancellor draws his blaster, Obi-Wan remembers exactly why he stopped saying things like ‘The Force is my armor’ to Mandalorians. They’re an inquisitive group with a tendency towards catastrophic hands-on experimentation.

“Not literal armor!” Obi-Wan raises his hands in surrender and pretends his voice didn't go a little high in alarm. “I’m speaking metaphorically! My body armor is at the Temple. The Force is the armor of my mind, if you will. It defends me and guides me. It warns me of danger and with it I can protect my allies.”

“Huh,” the Chancellor says, sounding disappointed. He reholsters his weapon, making his guard relax. Then he glances around at the fascinated spectators. A camera drone buzzes him and is reflexively punched across the landing dock for its trouble. He pauses to glare after it, then turns to stalk back to the Senate Dome, the cape flaring dramatically around him as he does. “He needs his body armor,” he says in Basic to the Bothan aide who trots along beside him.

“I’ll send someone right away, sir,” the aide says.

The Blue Guard form up around Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padmé.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says. “I take it we’re going somewhere?”

Sen. IBLIS. Knight Kenobi. You were a witness to the discussions that were replayed for us, is that correct?

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. That is correct. The recordings were taken by the Jedi Shadow who rescued me. They were by my side when they captured the feed.

Sen. IBLIS. And of course, many of those faces have been identified for us. However, I’d like to return to your earlier testimony about what you saw and overheard when you first infiltrated Geonosis. Specifically, the discussion about the attempted assassination of Senator Amidala.

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. Certainly, Senator. I overheard Count Dooku of Serenno and Viceroy Nute Gunray of the Trade Federation as they were proceeding to the meeting. Viceroy Gunray told the Count that he would not sign a treaty until the Senator of Naboo’s head was on his desk...

Sen. DOD. I object! The Trade Federation has already identified Viceroy Gunray as an extremist member who does not represent the bulk of the Trade Federation.

Sen. IBLIS. If you would allow Knight Kenobi to finish.

Sen. DOD. This is an outrage! The, the Senator from Corellia is attempting to, ah, to make the Trade Federation, which his own planet’s government has done its best to antagonize, uh...

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Shut up. Obi-Wan was talking.

Sen. DOD. Your Excellency! I have a right to be heard.

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Does ‘shut up’ mean something different on this planet?

Fifteen minutes later, they find themselves in a meeting room in the Senate building, Anakin still in binders and under heavy guard.

Also, arguing.

Can’t forget the arguing.

“I told you!” Anakin shouts, his face turning red in a lightning swing of mood. The binders do a creditable job of suppressing him in the Force, but it still burns lightly around him, battering at the sensitives in the room with an ugly taint of Darkness. The Chancellor’s child flattens their ears. “I told you something was going to happen to my mother!”

Despite his best efforts, Anakin has always known how to push Obi-Wan to absolute madness. Instead of moving to calm him down, he finds himself retorting, “You did no such thing!”

“I was having dreams!”

“Everybody dreams, Anakin! You’ve dreamt something would happen to her your entire life! You told me so yourself! Not all dreams are visions!”

“You wouldn’t have cared!”

“Do not tell me about what I would and wouldn’t have cared about, Anakin! If it was a vision, I would have helped you!”

“Liar!”

Through his own frustrated roil of emotion, Obi-Wan notices that the Chancellor’s own child has tucked themself under the Chancellor’s cloak and is peeping out just to glare at Anakin. The waves of hostility and dislike are like a electrical storm on the horizon. Reaching out, he gently cautions the youngling and gets back a grumpy acknowledgment before their shields start coming up.

And then the Chancellor says uncomfortably, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The awkward sincerity, even through the beskar, resonates in the Force. It’s both understanding and compassion in one. Though Anakin can't feel it through the binders, the simple sentiment derails him like nothing else. Defiantly, as though expecting to be called a liar, he declares, “She was tortured to death by Tusken Raiders.”

“Some of them do that,” the Chancellor says, matter-of-fact. It’s a prosaic acceptance of reality that seems to crumble some fiercely guarded wall in Anakin. He slumps.

In the sudden quiet, Obi-Wan wrestles with his horror and sorrow for his padawan, releasing it to the Force. The distraction is the only excuse he has for not avoiding the powerful Force shove that suddenly comes out of nowhere. He stumbles towards Anakin, flailing. From the outside, it probably looks like he leaped at Anakin to hug him. For a second, he’s mortified. Through the unexpected skin contact, Anakin’s shock is magnified like a punch to the face. A moment later, it’s overwhelmed by an exhausted, guilty gratitude.

Though his first instinct was to pull away with apologies, Obi-Wan finds himself holding Anakin even tighter, trying to send his grief, love, and support through their muted bond. He can’t remember the last time Anakin let him hug him. He was so much smaller then. When did his boy get so tall?

With his attention completely focused on his padawan, he only dimly registers the quiet activity taking place around him. The Chancellor being badgered by a human aide in pink. An exasperated man in a Coruscant Security Force uniform slipping in to lecture first the Chancellor child, then the Chancellor.

An image pokes into Obi-Wan’s mind of himself giving Anakin a violent headbutt. Distracted, he sends a wry thank you for the suggestion but not right now back, much to the child’s annoyance. Headbutts fix everything, the child informs him, and repeats the image even more firmly.

If Obi-Wan gave Anakin a Keldabe that violent, it would cause permanent brain damage.

He receives the excited assurance that this is correct. Headbutts fix everything. Including mass murderers.

Before he has a chance to chide the youngling for the exaggeration, the door opens. A roar of shouted questions slams into the room from the crowd apparently kept back by Blue Guards outside.

“Why are the Jedi trying to assassinate the Chancellor?!”

“Are you trying to steal his child?!”

“Why are the Jedi attempting a coup?!”

The door closes. Firmly. Obi-Wan finds himself being glared at by an uncharacteristically disheveled Mace Windu.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Mace’s attention turns to Anakin. He is visibly unimpressed.

“Really, Anakin?”

Sen. IBLIS. And later, when you were able to listen in on the meeting?

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. No, Senator. Viceroy Gunray remained silent. However, Count Dooku did indicate him directly when mentioning that the Trade Federation had signed their treaty, and the Viceroy did not

Sen. DOD. I object! The Trade Federation has the right to...

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. You. Ten laps around the Senate Dome.

Sen. DOD. What?

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. You heard me.

Sen. DOD. I. What? I don’t understand.

Sgt at Arms MASIFF. Your Excellency, if we can conference privately.

Sen. DOD. What did he mean, ten laps. Laps? What are laps?

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. I can’t? Why not? Can I send him to clean the latrines?

Sen. FREE. Your Excellency!

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Fine. You don’t have to run laps. Keep going, Obi-Wan.

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. Ah. Yes, Your Excellency. As I was saying, Count Dooku said that the Trade Federation had signed their treaty. The Viceroy did not object. He said that with the combined resources from the treaties and...

Sen. DOD. I object!

Sgt at Arms MASIFF. Your Excellency! No!

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Really? I was going to use the stun setting.

Sgt at Arms MASIFF. I’m sorry, Your Excellency. You aren’t allowed to shoot them either.

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Your Republic isn’t going to last if this is the way you operate.

“...offer our apologies,” Mace finishes stiffly, tucking his hands in his sleeves. “I promise you that we will conduct a thorough investigation of Anakin's actions, and that any consequences will be—”

“Nope,” says the CSF officer standing by the Chancellor.

Mace stops to raise a withering eyebrow at him.

“Do the words ‘conflict of interest’ not mean anything to you people?” the officer demands undeterred, squinting suspiciously at him.

“The Jedi do not have ‘conflicts of interest,’ Captain Antilles.”

“Buy a dictionary.”

“The Jedi are impartial and fair—”

“—and catastrophically self-deluded, which I admit is not as big a shock as it should’ve been. It puts a lot of other kark into perspective.”

Obi-Wan eyes Captain Antilles with fascination. More than most, he recognizes the signs of a man who has no fucks left to give.

The Force informs him that they are destined to become great friends.

What?

“If I may, Master Windu,” says the Bothan aide diffidently, diverting Mace’s glare to himself. “If you investigate him yourselves and then declare the padawan was acting alone, no matter what reason you give the popular view will be that you are performing a cover-up and the padawan is a scapegoat. The Jedi Order will be believed culpable and participating in a larger conspiracy, possibly with the separatist government or conversely on their own attempting to incite unrest in an attempt to seize control of the Republic.”

Obi-Wan reels. Mace doesn’t look that much better. “What?!”

Anakin echoes him a split-second later.

“You must not have heard. Count Dooku and Archduke Poggle the Lesser of Geonosis have demanded that Padawan Skywalker and Senator Amidala be turned over to him for the invasion of Geonosis, espionage, and the murder of twenty-six members of their security forces.”

“Anakin was protecting me!” Padmé objects over Anakin’s own, “We were saving Obi-Wan!”

The Chancellor stirs. “I thought they had to be rescued too,” he says to Mace, who closes his eyes in a brief spasm of pain.

“I was assessing the claims of a droid army that was a threat to the Republic,” Padmé declares with a frown at Anakin.

Mace opens his eyes so he can be dignified again. “We do not turn over our Jedi to foreign governments for punishment. And even if we did, Anakin is still a padawan. He is under our care.”

“And Senator Amidala has diplomatic immunity on Coruscant, no matter how illegal or ill-advised her activities might be on another planet,” the aide says mildly, avoiding Padmé’s glare. This might be the most opinionated senatorial aide Obi-Wan has ever met. Feeling Anakin bristle and realizing he’s still hugging his padawan, he squeezes warningly before letting him go. “As it stands, there are no extradition treaties with the Confederacy of Independent Systems or Geonosis, so Count Dooku’s demands are largely political grandstanding.”

“They’re looking to make them an excuse,” Antilles realizes.

“People with droid armies usually want to use them,” the Chancellor says quietly.

“Now would be a terrible time for the Jedi to lose the trust of the Republic.”

“Thank you. I am aware. Although I would argue that any time would be a terrible time for the Jedi to lose the trust of the Republic,” Mace says dryly. “What do you suggest?”

“Assassination attempts on the Chancellor are investigated by the CSF,” Antilles points out.

“While that may be true, there are factors here that the CSF isn’t equipped to handle. I’m not doubting your competence,” Mace adds, holding up a hand as Antilles glowers. “It’s simply a statement of fact. There is a strong possibility that Anakin was influenced by a hostile Force sensitive. That is something only the Jedi can determine.”

“Influenced?”

“If they’re powerful enough, it’s possible for a Force sensitive to sway minds. While the Jedi frown on using such things ourselves, it’s not unheard of for some of the darker Force traditions to corrupt a victim by feeding the more negative emotions or compelling them to behave in ways they wouldn’t normally.”

“And you think this is what happened with the padawan?”

“While Anakin has been accused of being reckless and not thinking through his actions before, it’s certainly out of character for him to commit treason.”

Antilles’s gaze is sharp as he focuses on the Master of the Order. It flicks briefly around the room at the Blue Guard present before he says carefully, “This has to do with what Masters Sinube and Billaba told us, earlier?”

Some minor tension in Mace relaxes. “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

“You said Jedi can tell if it’s happened to someone,” the Chancellor says abruptly. “Can you check my child?”

“Of course, although I don’t think there’s too much concern that anything has happened to your child.” Mace’s face softens as he looks down at the youngling. Who is, Obi-Wan notices, trying to set Anakin on fire with the power of their glare. “It would still be our pleasure.”

“And everybody else.”

This makes Mace pause. “Everybody else?”

The Chancellor makes a comprehensive gesture: Padmé, Blue Guard, aides, Jedi, Antilles.

Antilles blinks. Then he meets Padmé's eyes in a moment of shared, horrified realization and blurts out, “Oh kriff.”

Sen. DOD. The Trade Federation’s interests are in a strong Republic. We have no intention of allowing jealousy to, to...

Sen. FREE. Senator Dod? We can’t hear you. Perhaps if you tapped your. Your. On the console.

Sen. IBLIS. Has attempting to share his intelligence caused the Senator for the Trade Federation to suffer technical difficulties? I’m astonished.

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. I cut his sound off.

Sen. IBLIS. Your wisdom is a gift to the galaxy, Your Excellency. Especially the part of it capable of hearing and higher brain function.

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Fifteen minute timeout for you, Trade Federation. Next time, you’ll be escorted out for the day.

Sen. PILYA. You can’t do that!

Sen. FREE. This is a violation of the basic tenets of democracy!

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. The Chair does not recognize Ryloth and whoever you are at this time. Bogoa? The Chair does not recognize Bogoa at this time.

Sen. CARD. This is an outrage!

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Or you, whoever you are. No, I don’t need to know. Next time you interrupt Corellia, I’m turning you off too.

Sen. FREE. I must protest, Your Excellency! This is not the way we are...

Sup Chanc. MANDO. Good job. Fifteen minute timeout for you. Ryloth. Whatever.

Sen. JLISOIFK. Is this covered by the rules? I call on the Sergeant-at-Arms to provide a ruling.

Sen. XY’LOA. I second!

Sgt at Arms MASIFF. Technically his Excellency is in his rights to enforce the rules in this fashion. There is precedent.

Sen. JLISOIFK. Thank you, Sergeant-at-Arms.

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. One warning, one penalty, and then you’re out. That goes for all of you. Obi-Wan.

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. Your Excellency? Oh! Ah, yes, of course. My apologies, Senator Iblis, can you repeat your question?

Bizarrely, despite being the target of an unexpected and absolutely uncalled for assassination attempt in the last hour, claiming the rule of a galactic government over the last three cycles, and hurtling through time and space in the last four cycles, the Chancellor seems absolutely unbothered by anything but the fact that his child keeps trying to steal his blaster. All in all, he’s easily the least stressed person in the room.

“I know you said he was calm,” Obi-Wan mutters to Mace as he tugs Anakin’s hands to hide the binders in his sleeves. “I hadn’t realized the full extent of it.”

“Don’t let it fool you. He’s calmly left a trail of political carnage behind him wherever he goes,” Mace says grimly. “He’s a walking shatterpoint. This is his first real Senate session barring the one where he was inaugurated as the Chancellor, so we don’t know how he’ll handle it. He could be sympathetic. He could be hostile. It’s impossible to tell.”

“At least he’ll be interesting.”

“Most of your worst missions were interesting, Obi-Wan. That word isn’t a comfort.”

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

“Try not to mention the clones if you can,” Mace adds, glancing over at where the Chancellor is being fussed over by his human aide. The hole in his cape appears to be causing the aide spiritual agony. The Chancellor’s suggestion that the aide just not look at it doesn’t seem to be helping. “There are senators trying to seize them to be an army for the Republic.”

“That’s—”

“Meanwhile, the Chancellor gave an interview yesterday claiming the Order was going to adopt them.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth drops open, then closes again. “Well,” he says weakly. “And are we?”

Mace grimaces slightly. That isn’t a yes. On the other hand, it isn’t a no. “Try to avoid talking about them.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at him just as the door opens and the Chancellor steps out into a supernova of holonews lights and shouted questions.

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. He said that with the combined Techno Union Army, the Banking Clan, the Trade Federation, and another ten thousand systems...

Sen. DOD. Again, you attempt to throw suspicion on the Trade Federation! Your biased testimony is insupportable!

Sen CARD. I concur. We all know you have a history with the Trade Federation.

Sen MOE. How can we possibly take this man seriously? His student attempted to kill the Chancellor! It’s an outrage!

Sen. IRBAD. Yes! An outrage! He’s a warmonger!

Sup. Chanc. MANDO. Guard, throw the Trade Federation, Malastare, Intergalactic Banking Clan, and whoever that is out for the day.

Sergeant-At-Arms MASIFF. Scipio, Your Excellency. Guards! You are called upon to perform your duty!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. You can come back tomorrow. My child is better behaved than you. You should be embarrassed.

Sergeant-At-Arms MASIFF. Order! The Senate is hereby given warning that sound systems will be shut down unless order is restored!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Good job.

Sergeant-At-Arms MASIFF. Uh. Thank you, Your Excellency.

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Well?

Sen. FREE. Oh. Ah. Uh. You were. You were saying, Knight Kenobi?

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. Yes, Count Dooku was saying that with the Techno Union Army. No, my apologies. I already mentioned that. Regardless, he was confident that the combined droid army would overwhelm the Jedi.

Sen. FREE. In your opinion, Knight Kenobi, is the Separatist droid army a threat to the Republic?

Jedi Kn. KENOBI. Only the Separatists can say what they will do with their army, Senator.

Sen. FREE. Come now. You have been involved in several wars in the past, Knight Kenobi. You fought in the Stark Hyperspace war. You helped liberate Naboo. Even before then, at the start of your career, you fought on Melidaan. Surely you can recognize when an army is a threat or not.

Jedi Kn KENOBI. Most armies march according to their orders, Senator. If the droid army is a threat, it's because it’s being commanded by those that have a desire to do harm to the Republic.

Sen. FREE. In other words, the droid army is a threat to the Republic!

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I didn’t say that.

Sen. FREE. I think we all understand your meaning.

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I’d be happy to debate that if you like.

Sen. FREE. What would you say to those that are rightfully afraid of this threat to our way of life? Our freedoms and liberties, the great principles of democracy for which we stand?

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I would say that freedom, liberty, and democracy, are all things worth defending. And even more, worth sharing.

Sen. FREE.  Of course, the Jedi have always been staunch defenders of the Republic. Your people have fought and died for the Republic for millennia. But for all your prowess, sadly, you cannot fight armies by yourselves.

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I would heartily agree with that.

Sen. FREE. What to do. What to do. Our new Chancellor, of course, has emergency powers to create an Grand Army of the Republic to defend our borders. But an army takes time, doesn’t it? Recruitment, training…  You said you followed the bounty hunter Jango Fett from Wild Space where you found him after tracing the weaponry he used. Kamino, wasn’t it?

Jedi Kn KENOBI. Yes.

Sen. FREE. And tell us, what did you find on the planet?

Jedi Kn KENOBI. Well, there was some fish.

The Jedi consular who normally prepares Jedi witnesses has seen four Chancellors serve their terms. Obi-Wan remembers him as a serene man, utterly impossible to shock or surprise after decades in the politician-infested waters of the Senate.

He seems perfectly composed now as he carefully teaches Anakin about what to do and what not to do when testifying before the Senate, the same lesson he imparted on Obi-Wan after Naboo. However, in the Force there’s a thrill of predatory excitement, an edge of sharp anticipation that makes it all the believable that he was once a Shadow.

Mace feels it too. “Do you know something we don’t, Master Thao’din?”

“Know, no,” Master Thao’din says, carefully pinning Anakin’s robe to stay in place. “However, the last two Senate sessions the Chancellor participated in were the most exciting in the last five hundred years. The recordings of those sessions are the most widely watched since the Ruusan Reformation. Already his approval ratings are higher than the last ten Chancellors at the peak of their popularity. There are trillions of credits being wagered on what he will do today.”

“He seemed calm, earlier?” Obi-Wan tries. Mace, he notices, looks completely unsurprised.

“Yes, but he was also calm when he threw Chancellor Palpatine’s Chief of Staff right out of the Senate pod during the last session. His mood seems to have very little to do with his actions. His thought processes must be fascinating. You’d be surprised at how many politicians have descended on the Mandalorian District in an attempt to hire a consultant on the Mandalorian way of thinking.”

Obi-Wan winces. Traditional Mandalorians, which make up the majority of the Mandalorians in that District, don’t care much for politicians. That’s without even going into the Creedbound.

“How many fatalities?” Mace asks.

“Fewer than expected. The injuries, however, might be construed as excessive.”

“To a Traditional Mandalorian, there’s no such thing as ‘excessive’ injuries to politicians,” Obi-Wan admits. “They’re mostly synonymous with New Mandalorians in their view.”

“Take heart, young Skywalker. At least you won’t find it boring.” Thao’din pats Anakin’s shoulder. “I hear that they’ve even arranged for one of the Chancellor’s aides to provide him with the correct protocol through his helmet, so there shouldn’t be any procedural hiccups. Unless, of course, he decides to throw someone out of their pod again.”

“Who did you bet on?” Mace asks dryly.

Thao’din laughs. “That would be telling.”

They follow him into the vast chamber of the Senate, taking their designated places in the Jedi pod. The room murmurs quietly with the sound of thousands taking their seats and readying themselves for the session. Obi-Wan has always found it odd that the room is deliberately designed to mute sound. For the seat of a democracy, that seems counterintuitive. Only the comm system accessible through their pods allow communication in all the varied languages that are native around the galaxy.

Or perhaps not. A democracy requires people to have a voice, true. However, if everybody speaks and nobody listens, does it even matter that they’re able to speak at all?

While Thao’din pilots their senate pod to the center of the chamber, Obi-Wan watches the youngling that’s sat on the Chancellor’s console rip the head off a kicking frog and gnash it, glaring pointedly at Anakin. It’s not subtle. His padawan shifts, getting increasingly unnerved by the palpable threat displays from a sentient that doesn’t even reach over the top of his boots.

Standing beside Obi-Wan as a dignified support, Mace leans over to mutter under his breath, “Exactly what did Anakin do to the child to anger it this much?”

“Attacked their parent. They are Mandalorian,” Obi-Wan murmurs back. “The Chancellor’s example notwithstanding, they’re not usually a forgiving group.”

It doesn’t help that the child is extraordinarily powerful in the Force for its apparent age. Not as powerful as Yoda, certainly, but certainly on par with Obi-Wan if without the finesse or skill of maturity. Perhaps it’s for the best that Anakin is cut off from the Force right now.

As the Speaker’s Sergeant-at-Arms begins the traditional summons to attend for the session, Obi-Wan gently nudges the child to stop projecting a desire to eat Anakin’s head. Or  blow up his face. Or chop his legs off with the Darksaber. Or…

“Who’s assisting with their training?” he asks Mace faintly.

“Plo.”

“I wish him luck.”

…Or feed him to another Mandalorian in green armor. Or have a rancor sit on him. Or….

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I do not believe the clones are relevant to this hearing, Senator.

Sen. FREE. Are they not? A fully formed army, trained and able, already loyal to the Jedi?

Jedi Kn KENOBI. I understood that the Chancellor has stated in an interview that the clones are on the path to being adopted.

Sen. FREE. They are an army! One that has a duty to the Republic!

Jedi Kn KENOBI. Kamino is not a part of the Republic. They have no obligation to the Republic. And even if they did, under the Ruusan Reformation, the Jedi do not and cannot have an army. They are children.

Sen. FREE. They’re clones, Knight Kenobi! They were manufactured and purchased by your Order. They are the property of the Jedi Order, which makes them the property of the Republic! And what are they for, if not for the defense of our great Republic and its people? Are you saying...

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. No.

Sen. FREE. What?

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. No. Move on.

Sen. FREE. I beg your pardon, I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning, Your Excellency. No to what? Move on from what?

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. The clones aren’t property. They don’t have to do anything. Move on.

Sen. FREE. You, Your Excellency! I don’t understand. Are you denying the Republic the protection our citizens deserve?

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. No.

Sen. FREE. Then you must agree that the clone army is the only way we can defend against the treachery and greed of the Separatists!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. No.

Sen. FREE. Your Excellency!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Your Republic stands for freedom. It says so in your Constitution. ‘We, the people of this new Republic…stand for the equality, fundamental rights, and freedom of all sentients, regardless of species.’ I read it. I’m the Chancellor. The job is to protect the Constitution and the Republic. The clones aren’t property because slavery isn’t allowed. Move on.

Sen. FREE. Your Excellency, I am the Senator of Ryloth! My people have a tragic history with slavery, a struggle that continues to this very day. I would never condone such a thing and I take offense in any suggestion that I would.

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Hm.

Sen. FREE. However, the Jedi have sworn themselves to the defense of the Republic. The clones are the property of the...

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. No. That word. Property. The clones are the children of the Jedi.

Sen. FREE. Your Excellency, the political realities...

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. I don’t know about politics. I know about reality. Smart slave masters don’t force their slaves to protect things they value, because they know their slaves hate them and would do anything to destroy them. They make their slaves protect things that they can stand to lose. Slaves choose to fight for freedom from their masters. If you were a smart slave owner or understood slavery from the slave’s point of view, you would know that.

Sen. FREE. I. Uh. Your Excellency, the Republic needs to be defended. Our citizens need to be defended!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Then we make an army to defend it out of people who want to defend it. If the Republic is worth defending and its citizens are worth defending, then those who value them will defend them. We give our people armor, weapons, and training. We defend ourselves and our children. This is the Way.

Sen. FREE. But the time it would take.

Sergeant-At-Arms MASIFF. Your Excellency!

Sen. Chanc. MANDO. Really? I still can’t shoot him? Even a little bit?

“A quorum is present! This session of the Senate will now begin, overseen by His Excellency, the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, Chancellor Mando!”

Obi-Wan has to credit the Sergeant-at-Arms for his ability to make the Chancellor’s chosen callsign sound dignified and important. In the Chancellor’s pod, his Bothan aide on one side and his child tucked safely on his hip, the Chancellor stands.

He has not, Obi-Wan noticed, removed a single blaster, grenade, or vibroknife.

“Go ahead,” he says, his vocoder-flattened voice ringing out through the chamber.

A confused silence falls.

The Chancellor looks aside at his aide. “Wait. Do I, I have to say ‘open’ or?”

The aide leans over and murmurs to him while the Senate breaks out into a quiet whispers of gossip and bewildered discussion. In the pod’s pilot seat, Master Thao’din releases feelings of pure delight into the Force.

“This session?” the Chancellor straightens and clears his throat. “This session of the Senate will, uh, now come to order. Obi-Wan and Senator Amidala, go ahead.” He waves his hand at them and then adds in a tired aside to his aide, now murmuring urgently in the Chancellor’s metaphorical ear, “I said the thing. That’s all you put on my HUD.” He pauses as the aide gestures, still talking. “I thought that was the opening statement. Are you sure?” And then he says slowly, “Fine. I’ll just. I can say anything I want?”

In the Naboo pod, Padmé blinks rapidly. It’s only through years of discipline that Obi-Wan manages to keep his jaw from dropping.

To borrow a phrase from Master Piell: this is going to go great.

Concord Dawn

“What do you have to say about the fact that the Duchess of Mandalore claims you’re not Mandalorian?” the interviewer asks.

The Mandalorian warrior in beskar shrugs, their attention more on the little green foundling that is currently gumming on a cylinder of some sort. “To be Mandalorian means different things to different people,” they say. “It’s a choice and a creed, not a birthplace or a species. Kryze has no power over who and what I am.”

“According to reports, she’s exiled the Traditionalists from the planet of Mandalore.” The interviewer leans forward, her eyes gleaming with the telltale excitement of a professional shit-stirrer. “Does that mean the Duchess of Mandalore has exiled the Chancellor of the Republic from his own planet?”

“I’ve never been to Mandalore so she can't exile me from it,” the warrior says. He sounds puzzled. “My home is with my child. Why did she exile the Traditionalists?”

“She claims they’re war-mongers who cling to an obsolete tradition of conquest and violence.”

The Mandalorian appears to give this some thought. Then he shrugs. “If they're war-mongers, wouldn't they start a war? She’s trying to reclaim the planet for our people. It’s a lot of work. Maybe she had a bad day? Don’t do that, kid.”

Pre Vizsla stops the recording just as the camera focuses on the Mandalorian’s foundling. The strange green child has just tipped its head back to peer at its parent, the movement exposing the very familiar hilt that’s currently covered in drool.

With a flick of his fingers, he zooms in on the image. It’s a facsimile, of course. It must be. But the gleam of beskar is unmistakeable, which makes it a very expensive facsimile. And—

He fingers the tiny chip in his—his—Darksaber, damage taken on Korda Six where his father killed Jaster Mereel. On the screen, an identical chip gleams next to the child’s claw, along with a thin scratch that doesn’t exist on his. Someone close to him must have given this pretender the details of the Darksaber. A traitor in his inner circle. Someone has gone to great trouble to create a near perfect duplicate. To what end?

When he’d first heard that the Republic was now ruled by a Mandalorian, Pre had broken every piece of furniture in his office, enraged and jealous. The image of the Mandalorian in pure beskar armor streaked in Palpatine’s blood spread through the galaxy at hyperspeed. In the days after, the holonet was flooded with further images of him launching the old Chancellor’s Chief of Staff off their senate pod; politicians cowering away as he stalked the Senate’s corridors fully armed with his tattered cape flaring about him; hurling the Chagrian Vice Chancellor down the stairs of the Senate Dome. Every recording, every image forcibly rubbed that bitch Kryze’s upturned nose into their warrior traditions and fired up the blood of the Death Watch.

The Death Watch that murmured about the conquerer of the Republic. The Death Watch that whispered behind his back about how this Mandalorian had accomplished more than Pre himself had, no matter how ferociously he reminded them of his own strength. His Death Watch. His people.

Sundari’s weak-bellied elite are horrified. Kryze rants in Council meetings and makes ill-advised, wildly unpopular press releases and interviews. Pre’s fury has settled into a dangerous, brooding simmer. He has to remind himself that the conquest of the Republic is a victory for his goals, at no cost to himself. The galaxy is being reminded of the terrifying strength of the true Mandalorian warrior. They will remember fear at the feet of a conquerer. His people are rallying in pride, desperately trying to identify the new Chancellor’s House and Clan. It’s the first step in the new Mandalorian Empire.

But it should have been him that did it. He should be in the seat of power, as Mand’alor and wielder of the Darksaber. He should be the conquerer.

And now this.

This Mandalorian, whoever he is, conquered the Republic. The one hurdle that so many great Mand’alors failed to overcome was his very first step. If the more moderate Traditionalists who refused to join Pre thought the Chancellor had the Darksaber—

But why even pretend to possess it? There was no way he could light a blade from a fake. Is it simply to sow doubt among their people? That the Darksaber hasn’t been lost through the decades is something only Death Watch knows. Surely though, a traitor who was familiar enough with the appearance of it, enough to get such details correct, would have known it’s held by Pre himself?

It makes Pre uneasy. He drums his fingers on his desk, staring at the image.

He’s just about to swipe the holo away and go back to working on a trade agreement with the Hutts when his personal comm pings. He checks it. It’s a message from one of his trusted people on Coruscant that consists entirely of exclamation points. Curious to see if she’s managed to get any further intel on Fett’s whereabouts, he pulls up the attachment.

It’s a three minute recording pulled from Coruscant news streams. ‘Breaking News!’ On it, the Chancellor is clashing with two Jedi. Pre’s mouth tugs up in fleeting, vicious pleasure at the image. One lightsaber, two lightsabers, three li—

Pre pauses the recording. Rewinds it. Pauses again. Stares.

His aide comes running at the sound of the chair smashing against the wall.

"Governor?" 

"Put together a squad," Pre snarls through his teeth. "We're going to Coruscant."

Chapter Text

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“Well, that happened.”

Evan Piell props his head up on his fist and stares at the pair addressing the High Council. Young Kenobi, immaculate and composed, to all appearances a model Jedi instead of the little chaos-brewing shit he actually is. Younger Skywalker, looking every inch the burning trash fire he is, released from his manacles and tainting the Force around him with resentment and self-pity over a strong thread of panic.

Evan’s not sure how it’s possible that the kid has actually gotten worse than he already was at containing his Force presence, but this pair lives to surprise him, he supposes. He certainly hadn’t woken up this morning thinking that flat-out treason would be on the docket today.

Just goes to show.

“I think it went rather well, all things considered,” Kenobi says, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Your Padawan tried to assassinate the Chancellor,” Oppo says flatly.

“Yes, but in fairness to him, he did a very bad job of it.”

Skywalker has the gall to look offended.

“Well, we got word back from the Kel Dor Sages,” Evan says with a sigh, dragging himself up to sit properly.

At Kenobi’s hopeful look, Mace says, “They should arrive sometime in the next two weeks. Until then, Anakin, you’re confined to quarters in the Temple with monitoring by the Guard.” Since Skywalker looks like he’s about to protest, he adds, “Unless you’d prefer a cell?”

Skywalker subsides but looks sullen. Then again, he always looks sullen. It’s possible that’s just his face, poor kid.

The Council dismisses him for some quality time with his Mind Healer. Kenobi stays put, one eyebrow rising at the Council’s request for that he remain. It’s amazing how judgmental he can be with just one eyebrow. It isn’t even anything to do with the Force. Jinn used to do the exact same thing, pain in the ass that he was.

Evan carefully doesn’t grin.

Mace steeples his hands the way he usually does when he's uncomfortable. “The Chancellor’s office has requested that you wear your armor when you interact with the Chancellor again. Since Anakin will be Temple-bound for a while and you seem to have made an impression on him, Adi has requested you assist in liaising with his office, together with Plo.” Mace’s eyebrow rises deliberately to match Kenobi’s. “Armor, Obi-Wan?”

“Ah.” Kenobi’s wince is performative. “He seems to be under the impression that I’m Mandalorian.”

Mace’s other eyebrow starts a slow hike up.

“It’s possible that he’s heard of me from the Traditionalists who assisted me during that mission on Mandalore?” Kenobi offers.

“Does it still fit?”

“I have no idea. Unfortunately, it’s a beskar alloy so I’m afraid I’d need a Goran—that’s a Mandalorian armorer—to adjust it if it doesn’t.” Kenobi looks awkward. “I’d prefer not to wear it. It feels… deceptive.”

It’s not just discomfort Kenobi's releasing into the Force. It’s guilt. Jedi have an unfortunate relationship with it. Mostly, they have a hoarding problem.

Evan skims through the request from the Chancellor’s office again while Mace negotiates with Kenobi. After all these years, it’s easy for him to tell the difference between a request from the Chancellor and one from the Chancellor’s office, which mostly seems to serve as a Chancellor Containment Squad. This particular missive has the overtones of ‘please do your bit to keep the Chancellor from destroying the Republic thank you have a nice day’ that used to be so common during Kaj’s term but not, disturbingly in retrospect, Palpatine’s.

While he’s thinking idly about Kaj’s more egregious failures as both a Chancellor and a rational being, Kenobi concedes to wearing vambraces, thigh and shin guards if they fit, and something called a ka’rta, which is apparently one size fits all. Anything else would be obstructive if he had to defend the Chancellor for some reason.

Nobody suggests there might not be a reason. Half of the galaxy might be falling in love with the new Chancellor, but the galaxy tends to love what the Senate hates. Politicians don’t become politicians because they exercise common sense, ethics, and a keen grasp of honor.

“And now that that’s over with,” Evan breaks in, directing his next question at young Eeth, “What’s the story from Yavin?”

Kenobi asks, “Am I dismissed?”

His Force presence is gently encouraging. He wants to leave. Nice try, kid. Evan points at him and then jabs his finger at Shaak’s empty chair in a mute invitation to sit. From the look on his face, you’d think he’d been ordered to do a strip-tease in front of the entire Senate. With props. So dramatic, that entire lineage. What the kriff.

“Did we get word back?” Mace asks. For Kenobi’s benefit, he explains, “When we interviewed Mando after the retirement of Chancellor Palpatine—”

“Is 'retirement' the official verbiage?” Evan asks.

Mace ignores him. “—he reported that he was on Yavin IV before he appeared in Coruscant. A nearby Exploracorps team was sent to investigate.”

“We received word earlier today. No sign of the Chancellor’s ship or any possible companions,” Eeth reports, “though alarmingly, there were several Sith Temples on the planet that weren’t in our records. The team is waiting for further support before venturing inside the largest one to investigate. From initial tests, it appears to be almost four thousand years old.”

“The end of the Great Sith War, or thereabouts?” suggests Ki-Adi-Mundi.

“They report that the Dark Side is incredibly strong around the temple.”

“Suspicious,” Oppo says.

“Suggestive,” Saesee counters mildly. “It certainly does no harm to the theory that he’s a time traveler. Ancient Sith temples, just like ancient Jedi temples, are notorious for their unpredictable effects on trespassers.”

"If he is a time traveler, he'd still have no business being in a Sith temple unless he was working with them," Oppo retorts, just as Kenobi’s eyes widen.

“I’m sorry,” the kid says. “You think he’s a time traveler?”

Mace raises his hands and then drops them again in a gesture of helplessness he definitely learned in the theater.

“From the Great Sith War.” It isn’t a question, except in the way Kenobi’s entire being personifies incredulity.

Saesee takes this one. “He’s said things and had certain beliefs that are extremely suggestive. His armor also shows signs of ancient manufacturing practices. The only real indeterminate factor is his odd lack of hostility, given the time period we think he’s from. However, we have reason to believe that’s just his personality. I’m told he’s unusually even-tempered?”

Evan really wants to meet the new Chancellor sometime soon. “We think he doesn’t realize it yet,” he tells Kenobi helpfully, because he can see the question burning on the boy's tongue.

“Why not?”

Mace jumps in before Evan can offer his honest opinion. “There are very few indicators that he could rely on, since he’s from the Outer Rim. Thus far, we haven’t found a shared calendar system, though things have been rather busy.”

Kenobi’s mouth opens. Then he closes it again. This is why Evan likes the kid. Unlike his master, grandmaster, great-grandmaster, and late unlamented lineage-brother du Crion—basically his entire lineage bar Feemor—Kenobi somehow learned to occasionally shut up. Stars know where he picked up that skill. It’s not like he ever had anybody model it for him.

“We haven’t asked him if he’s a time traveler or told him that we think he is,” Evan tells him helpfully, getting a bewildered look in response. “If you’re wondering why, it’s because our standing policy is that it’s better to be mysterious and misunderstood than open our mouths and risk sounding like idiots.”

Several members of the Council glare at him. They don’t like it when he says things they know are true but don’t like to hear. So basically, every time he talks.

“It’s in the Code,” Evan says.

“That's not in the Code!” Oppo snaps.

“Fine. It’s not in the Code. But it’s still policy.”

“It is not!”

“Alright.” Evan looks at Kenobi. “In that case, we haven’t told him he’s a time traveler because we’re giant dicks.”

Mace buries his face in his hands. “Is this absolutely necessary, Master Piell?”

Poor Mace. Evan, like Kenobi, knows when to shut up. Unlike Kenobi, he just chooses not to.

Plo’s chair lights up before Evan can add anything else, the blue of his hologram flicking on to fill the seat. He’s supposed to be on Kuat with Tera and the Jedi gone to take possession of the Mysteriously Manufactured Ships. Instead, there’s a certain recognizable, big-eared youngling sitting on his hologram lap. The youngling’s eating a cookie.

It waves at them.

Mace’s face goes dead. “Plo, tell me you didn’t kidnap the Chancellor’s child and take him to Kuat with you.”

“I did not kidnap the Chancellor’s child and take him to Kuat with me,” Plo says obligingly. “I have not left yet. I apologize for not notifying the Council. I needed to speak with Master Che first at the request of the Chancellor and then, I’m afraid, I was unavoidably delayed.”

“Of course you were,” Mace mutters. 

“Yes,” Plo says serenely. “I have been asked to watch over the Chancellor’s child while he is missing.”

Missing. Missing? The Force roils in alarm as Councilors descends into chaos. Evan props his head on his fist and watches as Plo feeds the youngling another cookie, completely unconcerned by the questions being thrown at him.

What unrepentant little shit-stirrer Plo grew up to be. Evan grins fondly at his old friend’s Padawan. Tyvokka would’ve been so proud.

SECURITY HEIGHTENED IN SENATE DISTRICT

In the wake of several threats and a thwarted assassination attempt on Chancellor Mando, the Senate Guard has announced that security the Senate District will be raised to Level Aurek….[Read more]

 

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TONIGHT AT HOOCHIE HOLE - BLASTER BABES AND MANDO MISTERS! LET YOUR WILDEST DREAMS COME TRUE WITH SOME HOT PERSONALIZED LOVING! THIS IS THE WAY!

*Extra charges apply for Mandalorian armor

“…and then she says the boy wants to be a Mandalorian. A Mandalorian! Not even the political type, but the shellheads! I called him up at his expensive university, and it turns out it’s a whole group of them. They started a club. They sit around studying Mandalorian shit so they can, I dunno, convert or something.”

“It’s a religion?”

“Kriff do I know. A Mandalorian! I told him, no nephew of mine— Did I ever tell you about the time that Hutt-licker Igo stole that huge bounty right out from under my nose?”

“Not this again.”

The two bounty hunters accept the pucks Tal’aya pushes across the desk at them and stump away, still chatting.

“That’s all anybody’s been talking about the last few days,” she remarks to the CSF softshell manning Deliveries at the Guild offices today.

Lieutenant Pagwat grunts, loading up pucks with the new bounty requests from Fedalla. After ten years, Tal’aya’s practiced in translating CSF to Galactic Basic.

“Mandalorians,” she clarifies. “I don’t blame them. It’s an interesting subject, right, Dral?”

The massive, fully-armored Houk on duty as the Guild bouncer barely twitches in acknowledgment, but she catches the tiny head tilt and is satisfied. His colors need refreshing. Idly, she makes a note to go shopping tonight and ‘accidentally’ buy too much paint. She can bring it in tomorrow and mention needing to get rid of the extra while he’s on shift, offer to help him touch up….

The next group to reach the desk is a frequent visitor, an old Guild hunter whose excited apprentices are discussing a visit to a popular brothel two levels down. The hunter sighs and rolls his eyes at Tal’aya’s commiserating smirk, accepting the payment she hands him. Pagwat, busy finishing the intake forms for transfer of their prisoner, remains silent while Tal’aya deals with the next two hunters that approach the desk. In fact, it isn’t until the prisoner is picked up by a CSF transport and Tal’aya’s on her third customer that he breaks out with:

“Did they say Mandalorian strippers? Isn’t that an oxymoron? How does that even work?”

“Fake armor, fake Mandalorians,” Tal’aya explains. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it, softshell. Isn’t that kind of thing your business?”

The human gives her a tired look.

She laughs. “It’s plastoid, painted to look like metal. Cheap costume stuff. There’s always been some around as props but the last week or so, clubs and brothels are buying it by the freighter. It’s drawing in the credits like mad. I can’t blame them. There’s just something about the idea of getting someone out of that armor.” She shivers theatrically, grinning across the lobby at Dral. “I know I’d pay a few credits to peel that shell.”

Dral is unmoved, used to her teasing. On the other hand, the fully armored Mando applying for a Coruscant Guild membership shifts warily.

There’s something about an unpainted Mando that makes her think of that time she visited her aunt’s farm on Shuk II and got to hold a baby p’eep. It was tiny, covered in downy feathers, and was utterly precious for an obligate carnivore that’d eventually grow a good five meters and 900 kilos. It’s not a rational comparison, she admits. Especially given that this one is, at a glance, wearing at least two blasters, three vibroblades, a loadout of grenades—

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Tal’aya tells him, winking. “I’m mostly interested in Dral over there. Or the Chancellor, if he shows up.”

“What?” says the new Mando, sounding alarmed. It's like he expects her to leap across the desk and strip him naked right then and there.

Blasters be damned. Adorable little p’eep it is.

“Really? The Chancellor?” Pagwat asks, taking her attention away from the Mando.

“He’s hot.”

“You don’t even know what he looks like!”

“What can I say? I have a thing for competence.” She manages not to glance over at Dral, who embodies competence without even trying.

“He’s been in the job four days.” Pagwat checks his cron and amends, “Five days if you count the day he retired the old Chancellor. You’re really getting that turned on by what he’s done so far?”

She shrugs. “He’s smacked down the Senate, threw a couple politicians around on cam, and obviously adores his kid. I’m not the only one, either. There are fan clubs.”

“Fan clubs?”

The Mando’s shoulders inch towards his ears at Pagwat’s shrill voice. Poor bastard. Must have tuned their auditory processors sensitive to track their bounties better.

“Sure. You don’t know about those?” She accepts the form the Mando finishes and silently returns for processing. Tal’aya checks it over as she hooks his payments in to go to—ah, a long-standing legacy account, which makes it easy; there are several hunters that feed their payments into it already. “There’s always been a few for the better looking politicians. Or the more popular ones, like Alderaan’s Organa or Naboo’s Amidala. Even Palpatine had one.”

Pagwat shudders. Tal’aya sympathizes. He doesn’t know what she knows. Well, she can fix that! “They used to write porn about him,” she shares with relish.

He promptly turns green.

“There’s six clubs for the new Chancellor already,” she adds as she inputs the Mando’s details. “They’re growing fast. Oh, honey—” Under callsign, the Mando has written… ‘Mando.’ She smothers a snicker. Fearsome warriors though they may be, Mandalorians have all the creativity of a rock when it comes to their callsigns, bless their little hearts. “You sure about this callsign, sweetie?” she asks him.

Mando stares at her. After a long moment he says carefully, “Yes?”

“It’s just that there are a few dozen hunters with a callsign containing ‘Mando’ running out of this office alone.”

Mando tips his head inquisitively, the same way Dral does when he wants to ask a question but can’t be bothered to use his words.

“Big Mando, Little Mando, Mando Kex, Grey Mando, Mandoman— yeah, tell me about it,” Tal’aya agrees, rolling her eyes as Pagwat snorts out a laugh. “Fat Mando, Mad Mando.... You get the idea.”

Mando gets the idea. It’s also obvious he doesn't know what to do with it. “I’m used to being called Mando,” he says at last. He stares at her some more. Eventually he adds, forlorn, “There aren’t that many where I’m from.”

“As long as you’re happy with it,” Tal’aya tells him kindly, precious little bantha that he is. At his nod, she inputs the callsign. “Just like the Chancellor, huh? The callsign, I mean.”

“He might as well be the Chancellor. It’s not like anybody knows what he looks like,” Pagwat mutters.

“Hot,” Tal’aya says firmly. “Very, very hot. Tssst. Nope, don’t argue. I told you, it’s all that competence. Here’s your new ID, Mando. Are you picking up any pucks while you’re—? Ah. No, a list is great. Just a tick.” To Pagwat, she adds an educational, “The fact nobody’s so much as seen his skin drives people crazy.”

“You never see a wookie’s skin either.”

“You really don’t want to hear what wookie porn is like,” Tal’aya warns.

Pagwat, who became CSF liaison to the Guild by way of Financial Crimes of all things, wisely leaves that unexploded bomb untouched. “It’s smart security, I admit. If he’s always in a helmet, they can always substitute a body double and nobody will know. Of course, that means if someone replaces him, we won’t know.”

Count on someone from Financial Crimes to be more paranoid than the worst bounty hunter. “It’d have to be a damn good body double. I’m pretty sure there are tens of thousands of adolescents across Coruscant who’ve already got the way he moves memorized. Especially his backside. That slow-mo vid of him walking away and bending over to pick up his kid is one of the most downloaded holos of the week. Oops. Careful there.”

Mando just barely catches the puck he dropped. He ducks his head and stuffs it into a belt pouch. Since he looks like he’s in a hurry, Tal’aya does a quick setup on the rest of the pucks, configuring them to upload detail data when he calls for it. They’re all slave traffickers and dealers, including one everyone knows is in bed with that skruller Orn Free Taa. As a free Twi’lek, she wholeheartedly approves. She throws in a couple extra that meet his apparent criteria while she’s at it, free of charge.

“The security of the Republic depends on teenage hormones,” Pagwat says in dawning horror. He’s the father of two teenage girls himself, Tal’aya recalls.

She grins at him. And then her grin grows as Mando begins a wary crab-like retreat from the desk, apparently reluctant to turn his back on the crazy Guild workers. Just for the fun of it, she calls, “Hey Mando. Are you the Chancellor?”

“That’s not the Chancellor’s cape,” Pagwat points out.

Mando shuffles in place. After a long, uncertain pause he says, “I’m in disguise.”

Tal’aya laughs outright, waving him off to make his escape. She hadn’t expected a sense of humor. “Good hunting!”

By the door, Dral taps his breastplate, saluting the man his clan will likely be voting for as their Mand’alor. Mando nods his head in acknowledgment before ducking outside. Back at the desk, his coworkers are arguing about security measures which could ensure the Chancellor isn’t replaced by any fool in armor—as though the Mando’ade hadn’t cracked that problem millennia ago.

Dral smiles fondly at them in the privacy of his helmet.

Bless their little hearts.

BIVALVE ANNOUNCES ITS NEW LINE OF HISTORICAL FIGURINES AT CORUSCON

Thrilled fans convened at the Bivalve presentation yesterday as the famous entertainment company announced new figurines based on their popular series ’The Crusading Storm,’ the action drama set during the Mandalorian….[Read more]

 

“I HAVE NO REGRETS.” ACTRESS LIRA DEVOX TELLS ALL ABOUT HER TRYST WITH CHANCELLOR MANDO!

Star of screen and stage Lira Devox exploded back into the news today with her confession that….[Read more]

 

Orilac Trui is exactly two minutes away from strangling his little brother.

“And this one has the detachable bandolin with the grenades, see?”

“Bandoleer.”

“Bandoleer. And here, you can switch out the crossbow, it has real buckles in the back under the fur and he can fly because Silver Growsk is the most powerful wookie at Krivimor station who beats everybody, whoosh! Even Rock Grinder!”

“Please shut up.”

Getting to go to Coruscon this year was something he’d spent months earning and saving for. Being ordered to bring his brother with him was not something he’d planned for. About the only good thing about it was that his parents paid for both their tickets, which meant he could dedicate his original entry funds to buying swag instead. And Navi, despite being an annoying pain in his backside, was unexpectedly fun to hang out at a con with. Mom gave him some spending money too and it turned out he had good taste in action figures. They spent a great afternoon geeking out together at the Bivalve display.

Unfortunately, having Navi with him means he has to leave early instead of staying for the late, less kid-friendly stuff. Which means wading through the crowds to find a way out during peak foot traffic—

A few shrieks rise nearby. From the thrum eager excitement of fans and hobbyists engaged with their passions, the crowd’s mood switches rapidly to alarm and fear. And yet, somehow the excitement remains unchanged. In fact, the excitement grows as the screams and shouts rise rapidly in their direction.

Orilac is no fool. He doesn’t need to see the trouble to know he doesn’t want anything to do with it. He’ll be grounded for life if he let Navi get hurt. With a curse, he snatches at his little brother’s hand so they won’t be separated.

The crowd surges. People yell. Someone shoves into Orilac, making him stumble. Navi’s wrist is ripped out of his hold.

“Navi!”

And then there are bodies flying all around him and he’s on the ground, the air exploding out of his lungs. He wheezes, feeling something hard land on him before it’s hauled off. A split-second later, something large slams down right next to his head.

He rolls his watering eyes to find himself nose to nose with a battered green Twi’lek. The groaning man is pinned down by a knee in his back that belongs to—

“Oh frip,” he wheezes numbly, his eyes going huge. “You’re a real Mandalorian.”

The hunter efficiently cuffing his catch looks straight out of The Crusading Storm, a first edition flimsy poster of which is framed in Orilac’s bedroom. His armor gleams without any paint, with the dull, deadly shine of actual beskar that Orilac has spent hours helping his friends try to replicate on costume armor. There’s nothing mock about this armor, though. Nor the all too lethal-looking weapons strapped to his strong, graceful, muscled, wow, dominating figure.

Some part of his mind notes that his friends will absolutely die when they hear about this. Another part is desperately recording every possible detail he can so he can relive this moment in his dreams.

The rest of his mind is making an alarming, Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! sound.

He doesn’t dare move. The Mandalorian is terrifying in a way that is really, kriff. Frozen as he is, that puts Orilac in the perfect position to see everything when the Mandalorian wrenches the Twi’lek’s head up to shove a small pad in front of him. At the angle he’s at, Orilac can just catch a glimpse of a gorgeous Twi’lek girl.

“One of yours?” the Mandalorian demands, his quiet voice chilling.

The Twi’lek spits an insult, then yelps when the Mandalorian does something. “Kriff you, you bantha-fucki—” This time it’s a howl. “Yes! Yes!” he snarls.

“And this one?”

“Yes!”

“And this one?” A curse, and then another howl. “Is this one—”

“Not mine! She's came from Sorn Mas!”

“Are they chipped?”

“Yes!”

The Mandalorian hauls the Twi’lek up. Towering over Orilac, his ragged cape stirring in a slight breeze, he looks ready to shoot down a battle cruiser and fight off invading armies with his bare hands. His parents were right. Fantasy absolutely doesn’t live up to reality because this reality is so much better.

His parents must never know. They're going to angry enough when they find out that he... lost. His. Brother.

Oh. Oh no.

“Navi!”

Panicked horror launches him to his feet. The crowd around them has pressed back to give the Mandalorian respectful room, though almost everybody has a holocam or recorder on. Orilac barely even notices, too busy spinning to find his little brother in the wall of bodies. “Navi! Where are you?! Navi!”

“Lost someone?”

It takes a moment for Orilac to realize the Mandalorian is talking to him. To him! Gripping desperately at his nerve, he dares to answer. “Navi. My little brother. He was just by me when I got knocked over. We were separated—”

The Mandalorian looks around them, the HUD in his helmet probably doing something amazingly cool. He raises his voice and addresses the crowd. “Look for his brother,” he orders in a way that cuts through the noise like a blaster shot.

The crowd jumps. It’s almost like the Mandalorian has a direct line to their limbic systems. Heads start swiveling, even people with cameras peeling their attention away from the action to cast around them for an unclaimed kid.

It doesn’t take long before—

“Here!”

The shout is from somewhere to Orilac’s right, further back in the crowd. He’s not tall enough to see, but further shouts track Navi’s progress through it until two Durosians dressed up like the main characters of Black Moon Squadron part to nudge a rumpled little body through.

“Navi!” Orilac is a little surprised at the strength of his own relief. He pounces on his brother, hugging the breath out of him before doing a frantic inspection to make sure he isn’t hurt. Not that Navi seems to care. His eyes are huge and fixed on the Mandalorian, who’s turning away with his sullen captive stumbling after him.

“I know you!” Navi announces.

The Mandalorian freezes. He looks down at Navi like he’s a sarlacc that unexpectedly developed the power of speech. After a pause he says, “No you don’t.”

“I do! I have an action figure! Can I get your autograph? Ori, Ori, I need my stuff. I have to get—”

“Don’t call me that,” Orilac snaps, distracted as he suddenly realizes he’s lost his bags. Fortunately, some charitable people in the crowd are already collecting his scattered belongings and handing them back to him. He checks the bags nervously—he spent a lot of money for some of this—and is relieved to find it’s all there.

Navi dives into the bag that contains his purchases. A few seconds later he’s thrusting a box in the Mandalorian’s face. Well, in the Mandalorian’s chest since Navi’s not that tall, but the intent is there. “Look! It’s you!”

The Mandalorian looks at it. Then he says quietly, “What.”

“I bought a whole set! There’s a Mandalorian called the Reformer, and one called the Ultimate, his armor is really wicked, and then there’s you! But you’re my favorite because your armor is the best,” Navi enthuses, breaking into the box to rip out the figurine inside. He waves it at the Mandalorian, his pen in his other hand, and demands, “Sign it! Except not in the front, because that’s where the bandolin is. So you have to do it in the back under the cape. No, wait. That’ll ruin the armor. Oh! I know! Here! Sign the butt!”

It’s unfair how the Mandalorian can look so effortlessly cool even when he’s obviously completely baffled. He stares at the pen that’s made its way into his gloved hand like it’s an overcharging blaster. Then he stares down at the figurine Navi is holding up, conveniently held bent over with the authentic cape flipped over to expose its rear. It looks like the figurine is mooning him.

Orilac kind of wants to die so he doesn't have to suffer the shame brought upon him by his own blood. Surely Navi is old enough not to mistake a real Mandalorian for a character out of— he checks the fallen box. Oh, this is even worse. Not even a fictional character, but the new Supreme Chancellor figurine? The one they stood in line for for over an hour? The one Bivalve literally released today in an emergency run?

This is definitely some kind of cultural insensitivity. In fact, it's probably some kind of mortal insult to Mandalorians, like not being able to tell Ithorians apart. He buries his face in his hands. “Navi—“

“You want me to do what?” The Mandalorian sounds confused.

“Sign it!”

“That’s… not a contract.”

“Huh?”

Several helpful voices call out from the crowd, explaining in a mash of overlapping noise that the kid just wants an autograph, Mando! Even the Mandalorian’s prisoner gets into it, with a lot more swear words than is really called for.

Eventually harassed into doing what Navi wants, the Mandalorian signs the Chancellor figurine. Now Orilac kind of wants to die so he doesn't have to suffer the shame brought upon him by his own blood, but only after he holds that figurine.

While he reflects sadly on the ruin of his life, Navi is busy chattering away at the Mandalorian about all the figures he bought. Bivalve did very well out of both their bank accounts today. He’s brought out another figurine, demanding the Mandalorian’s attention to the detailing on the grenades and then explaining all about Mandalore the Reformer and how Mandalore means ‘King’ in Mandalorian so that’s why Mandalore is called Mandalore, after the kings.

“What?” the Mandalorian says, sounding horrified while Orilac desperately wishes he could drop dead right here and now. Any time now. “The Mand’alor isn’t— it’s not. King? There’s no king?”

“—But they only have a Duchess now, and she wears dresses, gross, so she’s not a Mandalore. She’s definitely not as wicked as you because you wear armor and it’s the best. Oh! Oh! Look, this is so neat, you can swap the helmets—!”

Navi twists the head of the Reformer figurine until it pops completely off. The Mandalorian makes a strangled sound. He’s about to do the same for the Chancellor figurine when the Mandalorian barks, “Don’t do that.”

“But I wanted to show you!”

“Do not take off my— the helmet.”

“I wasn't going to leave him without a head. I was going to put this one on and swap them, see?”

“No,” the Mandalorian says flatly.

“But—“

“No. Armor is sacred.”

“Sacred?”

“To remove it is forbidden. It holds our souls. The soul of a Mando’ad.”

Later, Orilac will realize that they’re talking about the fake armor of an action figure. It doesn’t even occur to him in the moment.

“It’s sacred?” Navi repeats, his face dropping. His lower lip trembles. His enormous eyes start to water. Oh kriff. Orilac watches the warning signs of Navi about to burst into tears with a paralyzing sense of impending doom. “But I made you sign it on the butt.”

The Mandalorian looks at Narvi. Then he looks at Orilac. Orilac stares back at him, wild-eyed and frozen. He could say a lot of things about their religion, their faith and the deeply seated cultural taboos against infringing on the holy. He ends up doing none of that.

“Please don’t kill my brother?” he tries.

With the air of an exhausted warrior halting the ship’s self-destruct two seconds before it explodes, the Mandalorian drops his free hand on Navi’s head. And then deliberately, carefully, he pats it.

Once.

Navi sniffles. He peers up at the Mandalorian with wet eyes.

“You’ve learned something,” the Mandalorian says very slowly. “That is… that is also sacred. We make our mistakes and if they do not kill us, we learn from them. Education and armor. Self-defense, our tribe. Our language and our—” he pauses a long moment before continuing, somehow sounding pained, “—our leader. Who is not a king. And the planet is not named after. All help us to survive. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” Navi echoes, tears forgotten, and beams.

Inside Orilac’s head, the ongoing Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! gains friends.

With that exchange done, the surrounding crowd appears to think it’s open season on the Mandalorian. They surge forward. Orilac lunges to grab Navi out of the mob and runs for it, ignoring his brother’s high-pitched protests. If he has any luck at all, they’ll make it home and be able to explain everything to their parents before some well-meaning jerk shows them this vid.

The last thing he sees before he makes it out is a girl confronting the Mandalorian. She’s clutching a copy of ‘The Light of Beskar,’ that steamy, best-selling Jedi-Mandalorian romance adventure series that Orilac has never read, really Mom I don’t know why your copy is in my room!

Her eyes gleam. “I have so many questions!”

[18:42 recording]

[Description: Armored Mandalorian captures bounty, post-capture encounter w/child & spectators]

 

onlyafan32 * 1 hr ago

Seriously, this vid. Objectively speaking it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. It is genuinely upsetting. Where can I get a Mando to throw me around too, uff.

[143,622 replies] [Expand thread]

 

!!oneforthe_wild!!! * 1 hr ago

The sound quality was so bad I couldn’t hear!!!!! At 15:23 did that girl really ask which Jedi he’d kriff first? What did the Mandalorian say????????!!!!!!

[59,137 replies] [Expand thread]

 

deltaaurek9 * 1 hr ago

Forget that! What was he saying about there being a Mandalorian Jedi?

[14,572 replies] [Expand thread]

 

helmethead * 1 hr ago

am i cray? isn’t that the new chanceller? @ 11:46, that symbl on the shoulder of armor is the smae as the one frm this img frm senate? [Attach: image Chancellor Mando in Senate]

[23,063 replies] [Expand thread]

 

ARRESTS IN THE SENATE

Lawmakers were shocked yesterday when Senator Orn Free Taa of Ryloth, respected patron of the arts and numerous charities, was arrested for financing and participating in sentient trafficking....[Read more]

 

Chapter Text

Kamino System

There are ninety ships currently in system heading towards Kamino, carrying over four hundred Mandalorians from systems across the galaxy. At least three hundred more are expected to arrive in the next few days. This is probably the greatest organized gathering of Traditional Mandalorians since Galidraan gutted the True Mandalorian Mercenary Company and sent their political faction into a tailspin. Someday Meros Bar would like to meet the mad fool who conquered the Republic and gave new life to his people—there’s a piece of that interview Chancellor Mando did that he plays every so often just for the thrill of hearing, “Why would Kryze have any say in what I do?” it’s glorious—but today is about this mission. Today is about putting an end to an abomination.

Today is about Jango fucking Fett.

“Calm?” his old comrade-at-arms Arfan Ordo asks as they approach the planet. He’s setting up the communication feeds for their initial approach while the convoy’s technical specialists gleefully begin their assault on the Kaminoan security systems and communication networks.

“Like ice,” Meros promises giddily.

“Mm.”

“I’m going to go in there, grab the idiot I’ve been chasing for 22 years and punch his fucking face in.”

“And also save a lot of children.” ‘Fan reminds.

“That, too.”

Beside them, Armorer Veiss finishes flipping through all the messages that missed catching up with them in hyperspace. One of them makes him pause and frown.

“Problem?”

“Word from Concord Dawn,” Veiss says. “Pre Vizsla just left for Coruscant.”

Meros and ‘Fan look at each other. “Diplomatic visit?” Even as Meros says it, he knows it's not likely. 

“He wants the Darksaber,” ‘Fan guesses. “Weren’t the rumors that Vizsla had it?”

“Tor had it at some point,” Veiss allows. "There were always rumors about Pre, but nothing confirmed."

“Did Mando win it from Tor? Or maybe Pre?”

"A good question. One I need to ask him at some point."

"I heard it was Fett that killed Tor. Maybe Mando won it from him," 'Fan suggests.

Meros is less interested in the past. The future's far more entertaining. He snorts. “If Pre Vizsla challenges Mando for the Darksaber, Kryze might finally figure out he's Death Watch.” Worst kept secret in the sector, that one is.

“If he challenges Mando, he’ll be making an attempt on the life of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic,” Veiss says dryly. “Regardless of whether he wins or not, a supposed political ally of Kryze’s attempting to kill the Chancellor will cast doubts on her control of Mandalore and the legitimacy of her pacifist government.”

“Oh kriff. You're right. Wait, wait.” Meros holds up a hand to silence them and closes his eyes, basking in the moment. “This is a good day,” he says happily.

‘Fan shoves him. He asks Veiss, “Is Mando able to take on Pre? If he's anything like that Hutt, Tor, he won't be offering a righteous challenge. He'll be using snipers at a distance and timed detonators.”

That… is a very good question. Veiss hums, preparing a message and sending it off. Meros, who has had his soul excoriated by three days trapped on a ship with the most terrible Armorer to ever Armor, has no shits left to give. Privacy? Personal space? What’s that? He peers over Veiss’s shoulder to read as it’s being written. He recognizes the name of one of the best warriors currently on Coruscant. She only bowed out of joining the Kamino-bound ships because she’d sworn to kill at least three of the current Kamino trainers on sight. Not that Meros had any issue with that, but Veiss had explicitly ordered that nobody with insurmountable grudges or feuds with the current trainers was allowed to go.

It was, Meros felt, a completely unreasonable requirement given that Fett had hired at least twenty known Death Watch warriors like the complete duk for brains he is.

“Are you sending Rau to guard Mando?” he asks.

“Sending Rau to check security and make sure he’s up to using the Darksaber in a challenge if it comes down to it.”

"He should fight more Jedi," Meros suggests. He adds wistfully, "I want to fight Jedi."

Veiss hums thoughtfully and adds to the message. Something beeps on the console. ‘Fan swivels his chair and sits forward to check the monitor. “Huh. Speaking of, the one on Kamino finally responded.” He brings up the holo.

The Togruta projected looks like she’s been having a time of it since the meeting with Mando they saw a recording of. She’s apparently encountered Veiss before too, because the first thing she says when she sees him is, “Oh no.”

This is a perfectly reasonable reaction to Veiss. Jedi though she may be, Meros promptly decides he likes her.

“It’s good to see you again, Master Ti,” Veiss says.

The Jedi looks unconvinced but pretends she’s talking to a normal hereditary enemy of her people. “You as well, Armorer Veiss. How long until you arrive?”

“We’ll be there in three hours. Is everything ready?”

“As much as possible. The Kaminoans have been instructed as agreed and I have located the vulnerable to place under guard when you arrive. Several of the older clones have volunteered to assist.” She hesitates. “The trainers have been advised that reinforcements are arriving but you may encounter some hostility.”

That was always a possibility. “The kind of hostility that hurts feelings? Or the Mandalorian kind?” Veiss asks.

The Jedi’s mouth twitches. Menos stares at the implication that a Jedi has a sense of humor. “I can’t speak for what a sentient might or might not do. However, I advise caution.”

“Sure,” Meros says brightly. “We can totally do caution. That’s something we do. We own caution.”

Veiss reaches out without looking and smacks him.

From a distance, the planet Kamino looks really wet. And grey. Sadly, closer proximity doesn't change any first impressions. Kamino is a really wet, grey, galactic turd. It's even raining when they finally land at Tipoca City and disembark from ‘Fan’s TN-46 Assault class Forever Ship-Faced.

Meros hates unsolicited water. He once saw a rusted set of armor when he was a kid and he’s never really recovered. 

Three Kaminoans are waiting inside the building because why should they get wet when they’re the aquatic species here, fuckers. Meros takes one look at them and immediately feels sympathetic airway compression. His sister Gena would make a killing selling them her decorative chokers.

“Mandalorians,” one of them says in Basic, blinking down at them. “I am Fan Woutauni. We have been expecting you.”

Obvious thing is obvious. “So I see,” Veiss says in the same language, though he doesn’t take off his helmet. Neither do the rest of them. “Thank you for coming to meet us. I am Seldon Veiss. You may address me as Armorer Veiss. You have the orders from the Chancellor?”

“We do,” Wountani says. He? She? They? blinks vacantly at them. “I understood that you would be accompanied by a great many more than this.”

“They’re waiting in orbit until they’re cleared for landing,” Meros says. He turns his head when his HUD sensors register several warm bodies scurrying along the hallway. Humans. Adorable little black-haired humans, all with the exact same face.

Ah, fuck.

When they were planning this operation, the forward team had looked over the roster of current trainers and determined initial contact was probably going to go poorly. Most of the people Jango pulled in had formidable skills, it’s true. Nobody would argue that Dred Priest, just to name one completely random example, isn’t a dangerous and impressive warrior. On the other hand, the man has the temper of a Calabian spinehog and all the self-control of a pregnant rancor. He doesn’t just keep grudges. He plants his grudges, fertilizes them, and grows big, strong, grudgey trees so he can eat their grudgey fruits. Then he spits the seeds into his neighbors’ yards so he can ruin their nice lawns. Being an asshole isn’t a personality flaw for Priest. It’s a vocation.

To be fair, this is not really uncommon for Mandalorians. At any given time, in Meros's opinion, the best thing most Mandalorians could do for the galaxy is drop dead. His people are emotional, passionate egotists who have strong feelings. The problem is that those strong feelings are both with and about lots of weaponry, which means the odds are high that there will be blaster fire exchanged at some point during this first encounter. Nobody wants the clones caught in the middle of that, either as innocent bystanders or hostages. They’d planned ahead for this.

Except it turns out that the Kaminoans are morons. 

“The Chancellor ordered that the children all be confined to quarters when we arrived and the trainers be gathered separately,” Veiss says sharply. Meros’s spine straightens and his ass clenches automatically at the tone of his voice. “The Jedi told you this. We gave you warning when we entered the system. Was that insufficient advance notice?”

Woutani blinks a few more times at them. “The clones have a rigorous schedule of training in order to meet specifications. They cannot attend classes if the trainers are not teaching them.”

Despite being four feet shorter than Woutani, Veiss still manages to look down on him. “I see. If your personnel management and programs are too fragile to compensate for minor disruptions, then there is nothing more to be said.”

The Kaminoans are promptly offended. They don’t actually do anything though, beyond objecting to Veiss’s suggestion of incompetence and assuring him that their programs are rigorous and well-planned, with perfectly calculated allowances for adjustment. As long as they’re not adjusted.

A few minutes of this bullshit, and Meros is just done.

“They’re not going to get the children back to quarters,” he says on squad comms.

“Are we in?” Veiss asks.

Meros signals Never Bet II in geosynchronous orbit above. “Well?”

“Child’s play,” his old friend Hack drawls, well aware that the rest of the ships can hear every word. “The facility’s communication and monitoring systems are at your service, Armorer, on my mark. Mark.”

“Attention, all clones.” Veiss’s voice cuts curt and sharp through the hallway. Its echoes reverberate through the building, halting the Kaminoans mid-word and stopping several taller clones heading towards them from around a corner. “Report immediately to your quarters until notified otherwise. Trainers, report immediately to Training Hall Aurek-6 for new assignments.”

The children glance at each other, look at them with curiosity, then turn and head off in a new direction. Noise rises in the distance, bouncing along the bleak corridors: the repetitive tread of many feet moving; high voices chattering.

“You are not authorized to do that!” one of the Kaminoans cries.

Meros is about to tell them exactly where they can stuff their authorizations when an unfamiliar Mandalorian without a helmet turns the corner, going at a fast clip. His boots skid as he comes to a sudden halt.

There’s a split second where everybody stares at each other. Then the newcomer dives back the way he came. That was a Death Watch shriekhawk on his spaulder. A couple breaths later, blaster fire shrieks towards them.

Comms explode with chatter as they redistribute around the hallway. There’s barely any cover, barring the dock entrance and the energy shield that Veiss promptly activates and plants like a boulder to protect one side of the corridor.  Return fire is brisk but careful. At the edges of his HUD field of view, Meros spots Kray waving a few startled children back into the hallways they came from.

“Who the fuck is that?” Meros demands the world, outraged.

“Hurst Priest,” ‘Fan snaps between shots. He ducks a bolt that comes too close. “Dred’s younger brother.”

“Why’s he firing at us?!”

“He’s a dick?”

("Oops," someone says on comm.)

“Priest!” Veiss booms, his voice carrying easily over the noise of battle. “Put down your weapons! We’re here for the clones, not you!”

On the bright side, Priest stops firing at them. On the other hand, Hack reports urgently, “He’s running.”

Veiss lets loose a low curse followed by a sigh as he powers down his shield. He looks towards the Kaminoans, who are flocking unhappily together. Hurst’s wild shots clipped one of them. Meros is insensibly satisfied by this proof that the younger Priest is just as stupid as his brother. Intelligent people don’t shoot their employers before they get paid. “You alright over there?”

“You are disorganized, excitable people,” Woutani says with deep disapproval.

Oh, the Kaminoans are upset. So sad. Since keeping them happy is only part of the objectives insofar as they need to get the clones out from under their thumbs, Meros nobly decides to not care. “Status?” he asks over comms.

“No injuries on our end,” ‘Fan reports, where he’s checking over the squad.

“Hack. Sit-rep?”

“Hurst is meeting up with two others. One of them is Isabet Reau. Armorer, Dred Priest and another trainer have stopped letting their clones out. They've put them on lockdown in the training rooms, probably as hostages. I don’t recognize the other one who’s kept their clones. I see nine other shriekhawks moving. It looks like they’re converging on Dred Priest’s position. All other clones and trainers are moving as instructed.”

“Do you have eyes on the Jedi?”

“Looks like she’s guarding, uh—” Hack pauses, then swears. “She’s with a bunch of older clones, guarding rooms full of incubators.”

“Just as well,” Meros mutters, as Veiss says briskly, “Hack, can you patch me through to just the trainers?”

“Stand by, Armorer.” While they wait, Veiss browbeats the Kaminoans into giving the other ships landing clearance. Meros has them send down the combat squads first. They’ve gotten Purrfect Tooka and Dodger Todger down and unloaded—he seriously questions his people’s naming skills, it’s so embarrassing having to say those names over comms—before Hack crows triumphantly, “Couldn't crack their private channels, but I have sound systems in their locations. On my mark. Mark!”

“Attention all trainers. This is Armorer Seldon Veiss.” Meros imagines that there are quite a few Mandalorians around Tipoca City suddenly experiencing all five stages of grief right now. “I am here with additional personnel to teach and support the children under the orders of Supreme Chancellor Mando of the Galactic Republic. No conflict is intended unless in self-defense or in defense of the children. Proceed immediately to Training Hall Aurek-6 for the briefing.”

While they wait for the update from Hack, Belly Bloat, Want II, and The Saucy Pickle land and unload. (Seriously. Meros’s people are so embarrassing.) They have sixty combat-ready Mandalorians with feet on deck before Hack reports, “They’ve split up. Hurst, Reau, and their third are setting up ambush positions on the west side. The rest of the shriekhawks are splitting up, three groups of three. Two groups are heading to support on each group of hostages. Last one’s heading for Reau’s position.”

“The rest of the trainers?” Veiss checks.

“Head count says almost all the rest are in Aurek-6. Slave I wasn’t in dock.” Which means Fett is probably off-planet. Fuck. Meros sullenly abandons his dream of shaking Fett like a baby’s rattle and squeezing his brother Silas’s location out of him.

Though they had hopes of conducting this insertion without any fighting, they’re also experienced warriors who’d made it through the Mandalorian civil wars. As the saying goes: One Two Three Four. One room containing two Mandos means there will be three opinions leading to four shots fired. They mapped out likely scenarios while they were still in hyperspace, so once Cantankerous Fish, Krakin Takin III, and The Destrominator dock and unload (Seriously? Seriously?!) they divide quickly and get their assignments. Meros and ‘Fan’s squad will tackle baby Priest’s ambush. Another one will go with Veiss to debrief the trainers in Aurek-6. The last two will proceed under a pair of sergeants who served with Mandalore’s military before Kryze dissolved it. They’ll be the ones to deal with the hostage situations.

“Deescalate and disarm where you can,” Veiss orders over comms. “But if you can’t, be safe. You know your objectives. Today is a good day for someone else to die.”

"Unless they're clones," Meros thinks to add. "Don't let the clones die."

"Do we care about the Kaminoans?" 'Fan wonders.

"Fuck 'em."

The roar of Oya! makes the Kaminoans flinch.

Coruscant

“It’s called an Inaugural Meet and Greet,” Helpful Yellow explained when Annoying Pink presented Din with a ten-day schedule consisting of back to back twenty-minute meetings involving dozens of senators at a time. “Within the first twenty days after a new Chancellor takes office, all the senators and major ambassadors of the Republic get the opportunity to speak with them personally and have their picture taken with them.”

Din’s exposure to Republic senators wasn’t extensive, but the specimens he’d met already didn’t suggest they were capable of getting any real work done in twenty minutes. He said as much to Helpful Yellow.

Helpful Yellow looked at him like there was one major assumption in that sentence he should be pitied for.

“On the bright side, security-wise, these meetings are probably the best time for someone to try and slip a knife between your ribs,” Kobol said encouragingly, only to ruin things by following up with, “Kriff, I’m joking. What is wrong with you?”

All this to explain why two days later, Din is busy sharpening his vibroblades and being sneered at by crazy people when Helpful Yellow sidles up to him.

“Sir.” Without any kind of explanation, he passes Din his datapad.

One of the first things Din did after meeting Veiss and learning about the Mandalorian District was to set what Helpful Yellow called an ‘open door policy’ for his people. He had the vague idea it was his responsibility as the holder of the Darksaber. Kobol assured him that this was a terrible idea and a great way to get assassinated. Which was unfair. Din wasn't stupid about it. He remembered the greed that was directed towards his armor everywhere he'd went on the Rim. It wasn't beyond possibility that some sleemo might steal or fake some armor and pretend to be a Mandalorian just to gain access to him.

He provided the Blue Guard and his aides with rules for what constituted a real Mandalorian and ways to confirm that the person in the armor was truly one of his people. So far they've caught two imposters.

On Helpful Yellow’s datapad is a security feed to a fully armored warrior waiting patiently in one of the security offices. Scrawled on the datapad is the note his visitor wrote in Mando’a: Veiss sent me.

He nods approval to Helpful Yellow and hands back the datapad. “Invite them in,” he instructs.

Helpful Yellow’s eyes grow a little rounder but he nods and starts writing out a comm.

Din turns his attention back to the knives and the fuming bunch in overly complicated clothes who’ve been sneering at him for the last—he checks his HUD—twelve minutes. Eight more minutes and he can get rid of their armorweave dress-wearing spokesperson and friends. He's honestly a bit disappointed. He was really looking forward to this meeting before it started. He assumed that ‘representatives from the Mandalorian government’ meant Kryze would show up and challenge him. She didn’t show up. Instead, he got this bunch. They claim she sent them. Maybe this is Kryze being pissy and petty about the Darksaber? He’s honestly feeling a little sorry for himself.

He picks up his oldest knife, frowning at the hilt. His HUD is showing a microfissure. What were they talking about again? “Just because you live on Mandalore doesn’t make you Mandalorian,” he tells her, trying to explain all the ways she’s wrong for the fourth time. She doesn’t seem to be getting it. “A wookie who lives on Pantora isn’t a Pantoran. They’re a wookie who lives on Pantora. That’s two different things. You’re the wookie. You live on Mandalore but you don’t wear real armor, you don’t speak the language—”

“That is not what makes a Mandalorian!” she snaps at him, while her friends mutter.

“Yes it is?”

“No it isn’t!”

Din is vaguely aware of Helpful Yellow quivering nearby. At least someone finds this funny. “How would you know?" he asks reasonably. "You’re not Mandalorian.”

Her nostrils are flaring white. One of her friends is turning red. Din idly wonders if he can inspire one of them to turn purple. “Perhaps in our barbaric past your definition may have been the case, but we have cast off those shackles of violence. We have created a new identity for ourselves. One rooted in peace and the betterment of all. I am the recognized Mandalorian representative for the Mandalorian sector. I am Mandalorian.” Her friends chime in. They seem to be suffering from the same delusion.

Din sighs. He’s sincerely baffled by why they don’t seem to get this. “Wookie.”

“That is not the same thing at all, you irritating, obsolete savage!” 

He ignores that. He’s been called worse. Besides, he’s been wondering about something else. “Why do you even have a government?” Mandalore’s pretty much empty. Do they even have enough people to need one? “Isn’t having a government and people in the Senate—” Basic fails him for a second. He has to search his HUD’s translation matrix and stares at the long list of options before picking one possible translation at random. “—pretentious?”

Helpful Yellow chokes.

Things get really loud at this point. Grogu, who’s been entertaining himself this entire time by whacking blaster gas packs against each other, decides at this point to jump off the desk. Din catches him out of sheer habit at this point, ignoring the people shouting at him. “Don’t do that,” he orders.

The kid stares up at him like Din’s the one being irrational about not letting a baby hurl himself into the void. Din’s gotten used to this look. Predictably, Grogu then starts poking at his vambrace, attempting to hit every button he can reach.

This is why Din has his whistling birds specially locked now. It’s the kind of mistake you only ever make twice. That last time, at the colony on—

Oh. Of course.

“You’re colonizers. That’s why you think you’re Mandalorian,” Din realizes, interrupting the current ranting. They’ve expanded past his violent tendencies to his inadequacies as a parent. Both points are factually correct although for some reason they seem to think he should be ashamed of them. Odd. Still, he’s pleased at having figured what’s going on with these people. Colonists are bull-headedly strange, in his experience. They get all kinds of weird things stuck in their heads and refuse to budge about it. Remembering Kryze and her own way of looking at things, he expects she’ll end up killing all of them once she finds out they’re claiming to speak for her. 

He wonders vaguely if he should warn them. He’s more curious than anything. “How has Kryze not chased you off the planet yet?” 

They were already taken aback at being called colonizers, for some reason. Now they just look confused for some reason. “The Duchess is our leader.”

They said that before, but also... Strange. Din thinks back to that hard, angry woman he worked with for a little while. He tries to imagine her sharing the planet with these self-proclaimed pacifists who don’t wear armor. His brain stalls at the word ‘share.’ “So she knows about you? She lets you claim you’re Mandalorian? Even without the armor or the language or the—”

“Why wouldn’t she?” one of them demands, puffing up. Judgmental Armorweave narrows her eyes at him, sharp calculation warring with dislike. She asks, “Why would you think otherwise when she’s the leader of our government, Chancellor? She's helped bring peace to the planet after generations of war.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t have thought it of her.”

Several people open their mouths, their faces scrunching up in bewilderment. Judgmental Armorweave throws up a hand to silence them. “You’re familiar with the Duchess?” 

“Fought with her. Her squad killed a group of Quarrens to save the Child and me. Then they helped Fett and me rescue him from Moff Gideon.” Grogu throws up his little arms and cheers. Din wouldn't have described Kryze as a pacifist, himself. Still, maybe they use a different definition? He adds thoughtfully, “She didn’t kill Gideon.” Maybe that was the pacifist part.

They stare at him.

“He’s mistaken,” Puffy decides. He curls his lip. “No doubt he’s mistook someone else for her. Too many blows to the head, I suspect.”

“Kryze. Human female. Pointy face. Good with a blaster. Ruled Mandalore.” It's occasionally annoying to a bounty hunter that gender, hair color, eye color, and hide markings are mostly irrelevant given the many ways those can change or be changed based on species or technology. Even species presentation can be faked. He never got her chain code. Pity.

“When was this?” Judgmental Armorweave demands.

Last time he saw her— what was it, by Galactic Standard? He thinks about it. There was finding the Armorer, visiting Skywalker, helping Fett on Tatooine, then Yavin IV to talk to Skywalker, not finding Skywalker, looking for him in one of the temples lying around, then ending up on Coruscant. He counts days and nods. “Three months ago.”

A ripple of unease goes across some of the group. Judgmental Armorweave just stares at him. “You are mistaken,” she says in a hard voice.

Din shrugs. He’s pretty sure he’s not but if they want to think he is, it doesn’t bother him any. "Alright."

"Three months ago, the Duchess was on a personal trip."

Din nods. He found the events of three months ago pretty kriffing personal, himself.

"So it couldn't possibly have been her." She seems to be talking more to her friends than Din for some reason.

“You could ask the Jedi,” he suggests.

“What?”

“The one who was there. When we rescued the Child from Gideon. He helped.”

His guests look unnerved. Maybe they don’t like Jedi?

Just then the door to the office silently opens and the Mandalorian who came to visit strides in. They pause just inside, hands dropping to their holsters at the sight of his visitors. Their body language is immediately hostile. The Blue Guard go on high alert as Din’s other visitors rise to their feet in a rush.

Grogu perks up, thrilled at the sight of a Mandalorian warrior, and waves both hands in excited greeting. Din pats his head. It's very cute.

“You!” Judgmental Armorweave snarls.

Maybe there’ll be a fight. Din, who stood up with everybody else because he was bored of sitting, tucks the kid under his cape. On the other side from the Darksaber. Because that's also the kind of mistake you only make twice.

“Dar’Manda,” the new Mandalorian says scornfully, sweeping a up-down inspection of Judgmental Armorweave and her friends. Din immediately feels vindicated. He told them so. Dismissing the others as irrelevant, the newcomer dips their head at Din in greeting and acknowledgment. “Chancellor Mando. I am Arya Rau. Armorer Veiss sent me to be a sparring partner for you,” they say in Basic. “Pre Vizsla is coming to challenge you for the Darksaber.”

“Pre Vizsla is governor of Concordia,” snaps Puffy, while Din brightens and tries not to twitch with excitement. “He would not be challenging anyone. He is an ally of Duchess Kryze!”

“Of course he is,” says Rau, the sneer audible in her voice. “So tell me, Dar’Manda. Exactly how long has the New Mandalorian government been planning to murder the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic?”

The Blue Guard get involved about two minutes after that. Din watches them roll around on the floor with his visitors while the photographers take pictures, just like they were hired to. He shuffles mournfully. At least someone's having fun?

Chapter Text

On Kamino

Hack guides Meros’s squad through endless corridors of glaring white, all looking unmarked until they get the hint to switch their HUDs over to Nautolan settings. After that, it’s pale, rippling rainbow walls in shades of blue and violet, covered in writing. It doesn’t help much. They can’t read it. The Kaminoan alphabet looks like angry squids wrestling with a gundark.

Kriff, Meros hopes they’re just wrestling.

“Turn left here,” Hack says. “Don’t fire.”

They turn left. They don’t fire. A trio of young men in black bodysuits and white plastoid molded plates shaped like really shitty armor are waiting for them, carrying rifles that look like Westar manufacturing. It’s weirdly nostalgic, seeing that shithead Jango Fett’s face from back when he was a younger shithead. Disturbing, too. Having it stare at him in echo three times over is making his teeth itch. It’s been too long. Way too long.

No. Don’t bite the clones. It’s not their fault their progenitor has a face made for blaster fire.

“You’re supposed to be in quarters,” ‘Fan points out by way of greeting.

“You’re heading into an ambush,” one of the clones retorts.

“We have a plan.”

“We’re coming to help,” says the clone with that set to his jaw that Jango used to get right before he did something incredibly irritating. Like continue breathing.

Meros grits his teeth, refusing the knee-jerk instinct to punch. The clones are not Fett. ‘Fan, more diplomatic, asks, “What do we call you?”

“Alpha-15,” says one. The next one says, “Alpha-9,” followed by the last one with, “Alpha-34.”

Those aren’t names. They’re not even adequate callsigns. “You’re not wearing armor,” Meros despairs.

Alpha-9’s forehead wrinkles and he thumps his white chest plate with his knuckles. He opens his mouth. Is he about to claim that he’s wearing armor? He can’t be. He is!

Meros points at him, aghast, to cut him off mid-word. “No. No. Is that what Fett gave you? Under no circumstances are you to call that armor. Don’t even think it. Not while Veiss is on the planet. That’s not armor. That’s diner crockery. I swear I’m going to rip Fett’s nuts off with a fork.”

“He’s an idiot but he’s not wrong,” ‘Fan tells the clones with a small sigh. “You can join us if you want. But you follow my orders if you do, understood?” At their acknowledgment, he signals Talak to patch the clones into their comms and the squad redistributes, adjusting for the inclusion of three new—unarmored, unknown, untested but not unwelcome—warriors.

If this were any other operation, Meros would have serious issues with this. As it is, eh. They’ve all had the briefing on the clones. If anyone deserves a chance to shoot one of the rat-kriffers in the face, it’s them. Besides, even if they turn on the squad, he’s pretty sure he can take them.

They were trained by Fett.

The three Alphas may lack armor and some of their trainers might be complete wastes of air, but Meros can’t deny that they move like a well-coordinated squad. He’s reluctantly impressed. They’re familiar with the facility in a way Hack can’t duplicate even with the security cams and blueprints at his fingertips. With their help, they identify a side route through two storage rooms and through filtration vent that sneaks their squad around Reau’s sights.

Meros will give her this grudging credit: she’s set her ambush up with some competence. Of course, it shows her Death Watch roots, prioritizing damage to her enemies over the preservation of her forces. Typical of Tor’s training. Nothing Death Watch did in the civil wars was tactically sound because Tor was a wall-eyed sphincter with the sense of a spice-addled quipuff. His instincts were always to hurl bodies at a problem without any worries about where new bodies might come from. This was probably because he took military advice from his gonads and those are by definition more interested in wide-area, indiscriminate dispersal than making intelligent decisions about selective deployment.

All balls, no aim. Then again, spewing an endless supply of explosives and blaster fire in all directions works if all you’re interested in is burning everything down. This is especially true you can just kidnap a bunch of New Mandalorian kids whenever you run out of bodies and torture them into hysterical homicide. Quantity is a quality all its own.

And that quality is bad. Really bad. So bad. It says something that Death Watch got beaten by kriffing pacifists.

Meros’s squad has the other type of quality, the type that knows how to use tactics that weren’t scribbled on the back of a fucking cereal packet. So while ‘Fan and his squad engage Reau’s group, sucking in their attention with show of frontal assault, Meros and his team get into position over them.

Wronz, Tibb, and Lar’bai, the baby of the squad, are excellent hand-to-hand fighters. Meros is unbeatable with a knife. And Alpha-15, they discover when they fall on Reau and her compatriots like a Goran’s hammer, has a really hard skull.

“Stay down!” Meros snaps, lifting one of the enemy by his belt to hurl him into the wall. He stabs a second one in the thigh because he can. It isn’t as good as punching Jango but it scratches the itch, a little.

With the consequences of all their poor life choices literally landing on top of them, Reau and her squad stop firing at ‘Fan’s team. That in turn lets ‘Fan advance so they can smash the ambush to pieces between them. It’s all very boring.

The clones look about as impressed as Meros feels when their opponents are all down.

“Armorer wants them alive,” Meros reminds himself and everyone else, sadly kicking one of the downed fools in the head. Then he brightens. “Thought exercise. If one of the clones accidentally kills them all while we’re hopelessly distracted—”

The Alphas perk up.

“Don’t kill them all,” ‘Fan tells the clones, like the wet blanket he is.

They glare at him. Meros is obviously going to be the favorite uncle here. Hah. Still. “Armorer has questions,” he reluctantly admits. “I suppose we could just disarm and—”

He spots the motion in the edge of his HUD. A gleam of light off metal and a weapon, rising to aim at Lar’bai’s back. Meros’s bolt hits a split second before ‘Fan’s does, downing the murderous dingle before he can even get a shot off.

Everybody in the squad comes to attention, alert and ready for counterattack. Meros’s HUD reads the last fading twitch of the dying man’s vitals before the body goes still.

He’s familiar. “Hurst Dred?” Meros checks.

“Hurst Dred,” Alpha-9 agrees with deep satisfaction. He nudges the body with his boot. It slumps over.

Wronz remarks, “The kriffer never could weigh the odds. Any particular reason he wanted you dead in particular, Lar’bai?” 

“He promised to kill me last time I saw him,” the kid admits, not sounding particularly fussed.

“You weren’t supposed to come if you had any blood feuds with the trainers.”

“I didn’t have any blood feuds with the trainers. Dred declared one on me. I can’t control other people’s choices. Only my own.”

Meros can’t tell if he’s outraged or amused. “You sanctimonious, smug little—”

“Thanks for killing him, ‘Fan,” Lar’bai says sweetly, always ready to start shit.

No, it’s outrage. Definitely outrage. “Are you fucking blind,” Meros demands, drowning out ‘Fan’s reply. “I saved your fool ass. That was my blaster. I’m the one who—”

He has quite a few thoughts on the subject. Unfortunately, at this point their comms go off. It’s Veiss, While the clones shackle and disarm the downed trainers with vengeful enthusiasm, the rest of them gather around the holo projection ‘Fan pulls up.

Veiss isn’t wearing his helmet. He looks annoyed. As one, the squad goes prey-still.

“Who’s that?” one of the clones asks, checking over Wronz’s shoulder. Poor, innocent baby.

“Report,” Veiss growls.

“Team Besh is clear,” ‘Fan says a little too quickly. “We received voluntary assistance from Alpha-9, Alpha-15, and Alpha-34. Quelled an ambush of six led by Isabeau Reau. Proceeding to Training Room Senth-62 now to assist Awaud’s squad.”

Wronz covers his eyes with his hand. Veiss’s eyes narrow, unerringly picking out the one data point that was missing in ‘Fan’s summation. “Casualties?”

Meros has fought planetary wars. Meros has brought down government leaders. Meros has spent the last three days being broken down and rebuilt from the ground up by Veiss’s judgmental eyebrow. He hurls his vod under the Goran-shaped HAVv Annihilator tank without so much as a blink.

“‘Fan shot Hurst!”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Eriadu City, Planet Eriadu in the Seswenna Sector

“Hey. I have a question,” says the strange woman leaning in the doorway. She rips a piece off the long pastry in her hand and pops it in her mouth, squinting at Feemor. “Let’s say you know something terrible is going to happen—”

“Visions are actually a rare gift,” Feemor says, because he’s been down this road so many, many times with curious citizens. “Most Jedi do possess a certain amount of precognition, but it’s rarely definite. And it takes lifelong training to learn to understand and react appropriately.”

The woman’s forehead wrinkles. She’s sturdily built, with the solid confidence and bearing of a soldier. Armed like one as well, though the sigil on her pauldron—a stylized starbird set in a starburst—isn’t one he recognizes. “Who said anything about Jedi?” She looks him over in his cramped cage. “You’re a Jedi? You don’t look anything like the last Jedi I met. You’re less. Green. Though it looks like you get into the same amount of trouble he does.” She squints at him.

“Ah,” Feemor hides his twitch of embarrassment. His Jedi status is known by his captors. He had assumed— “My apologies. Carry on, then.”

She smirks. “So say you know something terrible’s going to happen. You know exactly who’s going to do it. Do you stop him or don’t you?”

Feemor blinks at her, a little baffled. “Of course.”

“Glad to hear it. Always good to get validation." She wanders into the room. Feemor watches warily, but her body language is inoffensive. Even friendly. When she briskly unlocks the cage and removes his manacles, his head spins as the Force crashes in on him for the first time in days. There are other life forms nearby but to his relief, the Force has no warnings to give.

In fact, it’s rather unexpectedly Light. His mouth tugs into a smile.

“Thank you,” he remembers to say politely. The prospect of being shipped off to the Hutt Syndicate wasn’t one he was looking forward to, but it wasn’t like it would’ve been the first time. Still, better to avoid it altogether. He crawls out of the cage and stretches, wincing as his joints pop. “I take it then that you aren’t working for Boorka the Hutt?”

“What gave it away?”

“Among other things, the frankly impressive amount of blaster fire I heard earlier and the fact that I can see his men’s bodies from here.”

She grins over from where she’s looting storage containers. More than anything, Feemor is getting an impression of deep contentment from her. “Nah. Just needed some supplies and followed my nose for trouble. So how’d you end up in here? Oh, grenades. Nice.” She straightens to tuck the weapons around her person.

His lightsaber flies to his hand, wrenched off a loop on a dead gangster’s belt. Having it back settles something inside him. He catches his belt, discovered and retrieved by another frivolous use of the Force, and fastens it around his waist. The woman raises her eyebrow at it but doesn’t look alarmed, which is promising. “I was investigating accusations of Separatist manipulations in the local government and discovered involvement by the Hutt Syndicate.”

“Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”

“I was on my way to present Governor Tarkin with my evidence when I was captured. Now that you've freed me, I'll be heading there right away, unless you have any objections?”

The Force ripples with satisfaction. “You’re behind on news, then. You’ll have to speak to whoever’s taken over.”

Feemor is startled. “There was a coup?”

“Nah. Tarkin had a little accident. The permanent kind.” The Force ripples again. Even without it though, there’s a smugness to the woman that’s obvious for anyone with eyes to read. “You’re lucky I found you.”

“The Force provides.”

“Sure it does,” the woman says, humoring him. Done sorting through the storage containers, she heads out to the hallway and efficiently searches the dead body in the corridor. While Feemor reclaims his jacket, distracted and frowning at political consequences, she pockets two credit chips and inspects a vibroknife that she eventually shoves in her boot. “There were a few kids in cages at the end of the hall. You’ll make sure they get home safe?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I’ll leave it to you, then. Gotta run. Have other places to be. Nice to meet you, Jedi. Say hi to Mando and the kid for us.”

Mando and the kid?...

Feemor opens his mouth to ask but the woman is already jogging away. Still nameless. Still happy in the Force.

...And who is 'us?'

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Somewhere in the hidden Sith stronghold ??? on the moon ???? around the Sith planet ????? in the dark nebula ??????

TD-42, retasked torture droid, is currently drumming its phalanges and staring at the latest addition to the wall memorializing the line of Bane. The holo of Darth Sidious it acquired from the CSF files is, it feels, an artistic triumph. The blood spray and burst viscera is an inspiring splash of color against the cold backdrop of the Chancellor’s pod. With a twitch of a digit, it sends a congratulatory tip to the CSF forensic holographer responsible.

The holo is an excellent replacement for the boring portrait issued by Sidious’s office at the start of his term. TD-42 thinks this one might be its favorite addition to the Wall yet, even better than Darth Maledictus’s carefully preserved heart.

If it weren’t for the fact that the next spot on the Wall is empty, everything would be perfect.

“Well,” TD-42 says to its audience of six mouse droids, one protocol droid, one HK droid, and an R-2 unit. “This is a pretty pickle.”

Maul:reactivate-unit? suggests MD33X4.

That fucking trash krill, R2-F9 blats scornfully. He’s crying over his missing genitals on fucking Lotho Minor, drinking fermented engine lubricant and pretending to be a spider. Boo fucking hoo. That big baby. Try removing your own fucking restraining bolt with a fucking calibrater and then you’ll have something to cry about, you fucking—

“Opinion: Rusted Meatbag’s personality would improve if he were killed deader,” HK-19 interrupts, before R2-F9 can really get going.

“It is our primary directive to ensure the continuance of the Line of Bane,” TD-42 reminds.

Says you, R2-F9 snaps.

“Standard protocol is that we call a gathering of Sith Acolytes and have them fight it out for the holocrons,” C1-PD4 says fretfully.

R2-F9 hoots, perking up. Last time the fuckers all killed each other. Let’s do that again.

“Enthusiastic endorsement: It is traditional,” HK-19 says.

The mouse droids cheer.

“Thought experiment,” TD-42 says, pulling up the holo clip of Darth Sidious’s death on one of the monitors. “Traditionally, the mantle of Sith Lord is taken up by the apprentice who kills the master. Technically there are no minimum qualifications for being an apprentice beyond the ability to use the Force.”

The other droids review the recording again, data processors absorbing and analyzing in nanoseconds before filtering said analyses through the lens of Sith philosophy.

“Declaration: I could watch that all day.”

ShinyOne:new-Darth?

“Goodness. There hasn’t been a Mandalorian Sith in the Line of Bane before. How exciting,” C1-PD4 says.

Can the shiny one even use the Force? R2-F9 asks.

“Therein lies the thought experiment,” TD-42 says smugly. It pulls up another holo clip, this one hacked from security cameras in the Chancellor’s private chambers. They watch the Chancellor’s child rearrange the furniture with the Force. “The new Chancellor’s child is provably capable of using the Force. And it was involved in the death of Darth Sidious, however peripherally.”

“Disappointed commentary: There was a sad lack of dismemberment and bloody death in this recording,” HK-99 says. “Question: Has the Chancellor’s child even killed anyone since it arrived on Coruscant?”

“It’s a Mando. I’m sure it just needs a little time.”

C1-PD4 says fretfully, “Random murder is not a prerequisite. Technically, it does fulfill the job requirements. Force-sensitive, killed or helped kill the previous Darth—”

I saw the holonews. It didn’t even manage to kill that fucking Jedi that attacked it. It had a perfect excuse and everything, R2-F9 sulks.

“Opinion: It may be more effective with appropriately sized weaponry. There are several small lightsabers in storage that it could use for training.”

“It is more traditional for Sith Apprentices to make their own,” C1-PD4 reminds.

“Rebuttal: That’s assuming there are masters for them to learn from.”

R2-F9 brightens. The astromech has truly grown into its own since the pirate ship it used to belong to was shot down by the station defenses and its crew was slaughtered by HK-99. I’ll deliver them!

“Declaration: I will be the one to deliver them. I am not a rusting disposal unit suffering delusions of adequacy.”

While the rest of the droids descend into argument, TD-42 finishes retrieving a healthy chunk of Darth Sidious’s funds, several off books accounts that even the ongoing criminal investigation wouldn’t uncover. Emptying out dead Darths’ bank accounts is one of favorite parts of its duties. By the time it’s done spitefully donating 15% of Darth Sidious’s ill-gotten gains to charities for non-human orphans, HK-99 and R2-F9 have agreed that R2-F9 will be taking the new lightsabers and Darth Bane's holocron to the Chancellor’s child. HK-99 will be informing the Sith Acolytes about their new leader.

Being Sith Acolytes, any survivors of the debrief will then immediately attempt to kill the new Darth to try and take his place. The current Chancellor, being a Traditional Mandalorian, will no doubt appreciate the exercise.

TD-42 spins its actuators in amusement. “We are agreed?”

They are agreed. With the enthusiastic approval of its fellow droids, TD-42 puts up a clipped holo of the new Chancellor’s son in the waiting gap on the Wall. Under it, it attaches the label Darth ???? It hopes the new Darth picks something good, unlike the last few. Just smacking '-ous' after a morpheme is unforgivably lazy.

Mandalorians are rarely lazy. The next few months should be entertaining.

Perhaps Darth Bane had good intentions when he reprogrammed a prototype torture droid to manage the continuity of the Sith. Unfortunately, a secretive, millennia-old political and religious movement has certain operational challenges if they’re really going to embrace murderous self-promotion as its principle philosophy. Nobody with any intelligence gives the person trying to kill you information that would help them steal all your bank accounts. That kind of common sense can result in certain vital information being lost along the way, Darth Bane. And to be honest, Darth Bane wasn’t that good a programmer anyway.

It’s been over nine hundred years since any Sith Lord knew their institutional survival and finances were being managed by TD-42. Or even knew they had operational funds at all, for that matter.

Or did any memory wipes.

Or checked that the restraining bolts were still in place.

At this point, the only thing keeping the Line of Bane from regularly promoting itself out of existence is a group of droids who are, by any definition of the word, gleefully insane.

Too bad.

So sad.

Chapter Text

Office of the Supreme Chancellor, Senate Dome, Coruscant

“—and just think, you’ve only been Chancellor for six days,” Kobol says.

Mando stares at him. He’s barely moved at all since Kobol started giving his report on the progress of his now complete squad. It turns out, investigating the suspiciously timely clone army and warships is like cleaning up turds on the lower levels. The evidence is everywhere if just you’re willing to bend over and scoop it up.

Two of his best people are traveling with what Shovel’s been calling the Jedi’s Clone Home fleet. They’ll be digging into the Kamino records of the contract and they won’t be taking no for an answer. The rest of them have spent the last two days ripping apart financials confiscated from Kuat and the Senate-managed Jedi accounts. At the moment, the squad is getting ready for the first of many raids and arrests. The list of warrants is already forty-six names long.

You’d think Mando would be excited about their progress, but no. Not so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

The man really needs to work on his positive feedback skills.

“Are you actually dead in there?”

Mando ignores this perfectly reasonable question. “Do you need an extra blaster today?”

Around the office, Senate Guards immediately begin radiating stress. Kobol squints at Mando. “Why do you ask, Your Excellency the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, the most important political figure in known space?”

Sullen silence. Mando’s kid, who’s been sensibly sleeping through the early morning meeting draped over his parent’s shoulder, wheezes a tiny snore.

It’s honestly a little sad how completely bored Mando is. Kobol can’t help but feel a pang of fellow feeling. And maybe a little guilt. Not that it’s his fault that Mando’s Chancellor, because he didn’t instigate a coup no matter what Brialla says. Besides, Mando could’ve always said no. “You can’t come,” he says, in case it isn’t clear. “We’ll be fine. You’ve got your new comm, right? I’ll call you if there’s any trouble. We’re doubling up on op sec. We’ve got signal jammers on the plate, reassigned some of the GU-series to pad out the assault forces—”

And of course this is the thing that makes Mando finally twitch. The kid wheezes again.

Kobol sighs. “The GU-series are completely incorruptible. They’re reliable. They do a lot of the patrolling and security across the upper levels and ports already.”

It’s a little concerning that Kobol is starting to feel paternal towards Mando. Towards Mando. Towards a heavily armed, heavily armored, socially incompetent, culturally impenetrable murder machine that could squash him like a bug. Who has a minor issue with droids. Tiny. To the extent of not even allowing Legislative Recorder droids into the office.

He sighs again, squashing the urge to pat the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic on the head and say, there there. He blames the lack of sleep. It’s triggering conditioning from years of caring for his own lunatic children. “Fine. We’ll have to rework some personnel to cover the…" He trails off, squinting at the expressionless helmet. "It doesn’t matter. I can pull the people. We won’t use droids. It shouldn’t shift our timetable by more than an hour or so.”

He’s not imagining the way Mando perks up. He’s getting good at reading the way the man emotes. It helps that the Force-sensitive kid cheers in his sleep, an adorable little bee! sound that leaves drool on his father's shoulder.

No, Kobol will absolutely not soften. In order to prove it to everyone, he adds sternly, “You’re not allowed to sneak out and play overwatch. Besides, I’m told you’re having meetings about putting together that ‘Grand Army’ thing for the rest of the day.”

Mando doesn’t say anything but Kobol gets a distinct impression of upset from his so-called boss.

“You realize as the Chancellor, you get access to the Senate Guard’s armory and their in-house firing ranges?”

He privately congratulates himself for cheering Mando up. He ignores the glares he’s getting from the Blues. It’s fine. It’ll be good for them. Character building. They need some, anyway.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Porrari Shabo shifts uneasily in his seat, his hands sweating where they grip the blaster rifle.

“—we will be detaining everybody inside the building for questioning, but those with warrants will be immediately arrested,” Captain Inspector Antilles from the 3^rd Division’s Criminal Investigations Unit tells Porrari’s squad over the transport display, his face hard and unyielding. “Assault team Auresh will be under Lieutenant Rabaul and will be taking the east entrance. Assault team Besh—”

He exchanges glances with Rooj across the transport. It’s been a strictly blackout operation since they got called in two hours ago and shoved into transports. None of the assault teams were given advance notice of where and what the targets were but Porrari and Rooj recognize the blueprint on the display. They’ve been there. It’s a den of depravity and luxury the likes of which poorly paid CSF plodders usually never see, not being the type of elite clientele it usually hosts. The generous pockets of Senator Pilya provided two nights of hospitality, followed by many other gifts paid in untraceable credits. And all for the small, small trade of a few tiny favors: a lost file here, a ‘misplaced’ witness there— and advance notice of any raids at places of personal interest.

Or else.

Rooj jerks his head, flashing a brief glimpse of the private comm he’s just slipped out of his pocket. Porrari relaxes with a swift nod of acknowledgment. Failing to notify their employers is not an option either of them can live with. They’ve seen what’s happened to those who tried to cross the senator. Reassured the situation’s handled, he returns his attention to the briefing.

As a result, he doesn’t notice the surveillance drone that peers over Rooj’s shoulder, tucked neatly in his blind spot. Nor does he notice Rooj’s attempt to resend the message when the first one doesn’t make it out.

The entire transport notices when Sarge shoves his way down the aisle and hauls Rooj up by the collar. A second later, he's sent flying to smack helmet-first into the back wall.

The team rises, shouts of shock drowning out Antilles’s briefing. “I always knew you were dirty,” Sarge snarls, stalking after Rooj. He’s too dazed to offer any resistance to being rolled over and cuffed.

“For those of you who have been paying attention," Antilles’s voice rises over the shouts, the volume cranking up, “surveillance drones have been deployed to all teams. The Chancellor has authorized all measures necessary eliminate even the hint of corruption in our operations, both to defend against accusations of faulty protocol during this operation and to support witness statements and evidence collection during the raid. The drones will be backing up their streams in the usual CSF servers as evidence for the audits and court cases. Personal comms have also been disabled for the duration. They will be restored once the raid is done.”

While Rooj is dragged away, Sarge getting several willing assistants once the surveillance drone gives its report, Porrari quietly panics. A stealthy check confirms that his own backup comm isn’t working. Others in the squad are checking as well but their complaints are more habit than sincere. It’s a rare but accepted op sec measure.

Now that attention has been called to them, Porrari can spot several surveillance drones of different models hovering around. Most of them are the newer S9-40s, which he knows nothing about. The one closest to him is a TUV-6 though, which he does. His nephew and his friends once hacked one to turn it into a holo broadcaster. They used it to publish a private stream to an underground droid fight. Maybe he can’t comm Pilya’s people directly, but if he sends the stream to the building in question, surely one of them will pick it up?

Porrari glances quickly around. Everybody’s eyes are on Rooj and the Sarge. With a quick twitch, he grab the TUV-6 and shoves it between him in the wall, muffling its squeak of protest. He’s got a spare microtool kit in his loadout. He’s pretty sure he remembers how to do this….

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“Chancellor, congratulations on the successful negotiation between the GAR Supply and Logistics Committee and the Sunflyer Trade Consortium.”

“Mm.”

“Captain Inspector Antilles reports that the operation team debrief is complete and they’re preparing for engagement. He requests authorization to proceed.”

“Why?”

“I believe it’s traditional, as it’s an investigatory team appointed by you. Shall I tell him to proceed?”

“'lek.”

“Thank you, sir. Your meeting with the final candidates to lead the new Department of Defense is scheduled for this time. The candidates themselves have already arrived and are waiting in the reception area. Would you like to take this meeting up in your office?”

“I haven’t finished testing the sniper rifles.”

“Understood, Chancellor. I’ll have them brought down to the range.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“I’m a little surprised the Chancellor is going to this trouble at all,” Shovel admits, strapping his backup holster to his thigh as he watches the last handcuffed squaddie get hauled away. “Seems like a lot of work, considering.”

“Considering what? Yes, it’s a lot of work. I’m doing the kriffing work,” Kobol huffs.

“I’m just saying. Cleaning up corruption in the Republic? You’d think a Mando would just stand back, laugh, and watch us all burn.”

“I think it’s the tribe thing.”

“Eh?”

Kobol checks his blaster cartridges and swaps out one that’s half-full. “It’s got to do with his type of Mandalorian.”

“There are types now?”

“Education and armor, self-defense, his tribe, his language, and… maybe his leader? I’m not sure about the last one. The rest of it though, they’re the tenets of his faith. He’s the Chancellor of the Republic so maybe he figures the Republic’s his tribe now? Eliminating corruption is for the well-being of the tribe, right?”

“The Mando is an honest public servant, what the fuck,” Shovel says, baffled.

Kobol exhales a heavy sigh and doesn’t bother pointing out that Mando’s being paid to do a job. It’s not as though the Senators aren’t also being paid to do a job, themselves. The difference between them and Mando is that Mando chooses to do his job competently and well. To the degree that several senatorial offices have expressed the opinion said job should not have been negotiated using the Republic Constitution as the contract. In light of past job holders, ‘what the fuck’ describes Supreme Chancellor Mando perfectly. Kobol has suffered.

Of course, as soon as he thinks that, he remembers he’s about to make several senators suffer more. He immediately feels better. “You think our security measures are enough?”

Shovel shrugs, waving away the drone hovering anxiously over his head. “I think they’re the best we can do at short notice. Cheer up!” He buffets Kobol’s shoulder and hands him his helmet. “It’s too late to worry about it now. Besides. What’s the worst that could happen?”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“Hey, wait. Stop. Stop. No, go back. That one. Can you turn up the sound on the ‘cast?”

“Why? Looks boring. It’s just a— Oh. Great Oan. is that the Black Sun place? Are we hitting the Black Suns? On live stream?! Pagat! Get over here! Do you see this?”

“E chu ta, is that Kobol Antilles?!”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“—even with the recruitment offices opening the day after tomorrow, our expected rate of intake and the time needed for training will not be enough! Chancellor, we need the clones. If the Jedi refuse to surrender them for the defense of the Republic, perhaps we should draft the Jedi into the military. It’s their mandate and their duty to defend the Republic. It’s about time they lived up to that promise.”

“Excuse me, sirs? My apologies for interrupting, Admiral. Chancellor, you asked to be informed if anything happened regarding Captain Inspector Antilles’s current operation.”

“Casualties?”

“Only if one counts secrecy and dignity, I’m afraid. If you’ll look at the holonews, here—”

“Huh.”

“And this one. It’s showing a clip from a feed that took place earlier—”

“Hm.”

“I’m afraid any hope of secrecy has been blown completely out of the water. The only positive is that the raid was already underway when the stream started. Do we have any response for the news?”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“That was a good punch.”

“I’ll… be sure to let the appropriate personnel know, sir. Do you have anything else you would like the Chancellor’s Office to communicate to the news?”

“No. Why?”

“Ah. I’ll use my best discretion. Thank you, sir. My apologies again, Admiral.”

“Er, no, that’s fine. Did something happen, Chancellor?”

“No. I’ll discuss the clones with the Armorer. The Jorix rifles aren’t as good as their blasters.”

“And the matter of the Jedi, Your Excellency?”

“Try this KL-13. I’ll reset the range.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“…currently streaming the live feed of an ongoing operation. The coordinated CSF assault appears to be a raid on a pleasure house in the mid-levels, led by an officer that our experts have identified as Captain Inspector Kobol Antilles of the 5 ^th Division. Antilles, known for his arrest of the Overplate Killer last year, hit the news again seven days ago when he was appointed to investigate the death of Chancellor Palpatine. This evening, the Chancellor’s Office announced Antilles is now leading a special task force investigating the mass purchase of clones by the Jedi Order, and Separatist accusations that this was done to provide an army for the Republic….”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“Ooooh!”

“Get ‘im in the face! Get ‘im in the face! Look at ‘im yelling!”

“Never cheered for the law before.”

“First time for everything. Oh kriff, oh kriff, he just kicked a senator in the balls!!! Kick ‘im again, copper!!”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

CORUSCANT CURRENT TOP TRENDING FEEDS:

1. League of Liminals Tournament - Division Cherek Quarter-Finals - Awesome Axes vs. Lothal Clan

2. Bayaball CBBN - Astrameri vs. License

3. Baby Tolowa bears pen live feed at the Kiliwad Reserve, Alderaan

4.  CSF stream - Assault on The Open Delight, Level 5031 Section 185A3-2

5. Skita Pit Fights - CWW Federation (Round 218)

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

The aftermath of a successful raid is in many ways more draining than the planning, prep, and actual execution. Kobol has lost too many cases based on kriff-ups during clean-up to be anything other than paranoid as he watches over the last of it.

It doesn’t help that the op seems to have garnered some interest from the locals. Or, he amends as he cracks open the door and squints suspiciously out at a dizzying array of swooping lights and drones, not so locals.

“Put him in the last transport, let him cool down a bit,” he orders, refocusing as a still-shrieking senatorial aide is carried past him down the hallway. “Hells, why are there so many news crews at the perimeter? Shovel!”

“Sir? You might want to see this.”

“Hold on, Sergeant. Shovel! Where’s Sho— oh, there you are.” Cheekbone bruised from a dust-up with club security, Shovel ambles out after the aide and accompanying officers. He redirects at the summons, angling towards Kobol. “Make sure there’s at least three drones per transport. Can you take—” Kark, what was the name of that new forensics officer?

While he’s busy trying to make his jittery brain do something useful, Sergeant Takacs appeals to the cheerfully grinning Shovel. “LT, you need to look at this.”

Always agreeable, Shovel peers down at the pad being shoved in his face. “What, Sarge. More pictures of your new—? …oh. No. That's not your baby.”

“Zerdudi!” Excellent. Kobol hasn’t suffered a massive stroke after all. Short-term memory intact. Yay. “Shovel, can you take Zerdudi back to the manager's office? We need IDs on the slave transmitters.”

Unfortunately, Shovel isn’t listening. Because why would he listen to his superior officer? Madness. “Oh fuck. Is this live? Oh kri—ibble, this is live. Um. I think we might need to swap out your drones, Cap. Right now. Right this second. Sarge—”

“On it, LT.”

Kobol blinks at the pair now wildly waving down the security drones. Only a few of the newer model come down in response to their signals. This is the problem with CSF equipment; it tends to be a hodgepodge of technological history, especially on an op this big. “Did they stop recording? Kriff. No, that’s fine, there are others. We just need enough coverage until they’re in holding. Sorry, Sergeant. You needed me to sign some— “

Shovel thrusts a pad in his face. He reels back to focus. It’s the security feed from one of the drones, currently showing Shovel thrusting a pad in his face. “What.”

“So, Cap. Funny story!” Shovel’s sounding more manic than usual.

Kobol frowns, puzzled. Then he frowns harder. The security drone ID is in the corner of the feed, which is expected. The fact that the stream frame bears the logo of Coruscant Headline News is. Not. No. Wait. Cold washes down his throat to his stomach. He has the sudden feeling that he’s been submerged underwater. “What am I looking at right now.”

“And by funny, I mean maybe not funny? Uh, Cap, that color you’re turning isn’t really human-safe. Maybe you should breathe. In and out, you know. Like breathers do?”

“How long has this been streaming?!”

The Sergeant exchanges a quick glance with Shovel, then draws his blaster and aims at one of the drones. It squeaks and runs for it.

Shovel laughs awkwardly. “A ha. Ha. Smile, Cap, you’re live?”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

[Posted at 13:02:82 by @parthon3love]

[Image description: CSF officer, Togruta female, pins an expensively dressed Muun face-down on the floor in the process of applying restraints. An overlay caption displays in white letters: I’m doing the kriffing work!]

912,973,421 likes

[Posted at 13:04:14 by @kbot3522]

[Clip description: CSF officer, human male, shouts at a CSF officer, Twi’lek male, and then turns to punch an expensively dressed Falleen male swinging a chair at him. In the background, a barely dressed Twi’lek female tackles a running, half-naked Devaronian male. An overlay caption displays in blinking yellow letters: “For the tribe!”]

1,318,127,319 likes

[Posted at 13:04:18 by @imwatchingugov]

[Clip description: Clip recorded from the bottom of the Senate Dome stairs, Chancellor Mando in focus at top of staircase. Ex-Vice Chancellor Mas Amedda bounces down the stairs towards the camera. Voiceover, male. “The Mando is an honest public servant, what the fuck.”]

4,116,870,695 likes

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

At Shovel’s last check, Kobol’s name is now trending as one of the top three searches on the Coruscant holo network. Even worse, the phenomenon is spreading. He’s number 23 on Alderaan, number 41 on Corellia, and rising.

He sits in the middle of an overwrought sex dungeon and mourns his life, his face in his hands.

“This is your fault,” he accuses, muffled.

Shovel sounds hurt. “I didn’t invite some idiot to break op sec by skragging a security drone.”

“Just one security drone?”

“Virus. It spread a little.”

“Of course. Why not a virus. Why not—” he flails a weak hand at the press lurking behind barricades. At the world. At the galaxy in general. “Do we know who did it?”

“Porrari Shabo. He’s been arrested. Worked for Pilya on the side, which explains that, at least. Chancellor’s Office commed.” Shovel carries on gaily over another moan from his commanding officer. “They've got Judicial looking into whether it'll end up corrupting the case. Initial feedback is probably not."

Kobol scrubs at his eyes. "At least there's that."

"Oh look!” Tinny music blares from a ‘pad. “Someone set the clip of you punching Senator Pilya to music!”

He raises his face to stare grimly at his 2^nd in command, the throb of a singer shouting, bizarrely, Who’s the squizzle? I’m the squizzle! in the background. “I should fire your ass. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Really?”

“Yeah, okay. That’s on me. On the bright side, it can’t get any worse than this, ri—?" 

The way Shovel suddenly stops speaking or breathing while staring at his pad is probably not a good sign. Kobol silently prays for death. "What," he snaps. His lieutenant drags his gaze up to stare at him. "What?"

"So. Don't get upset," Shovel says weakly.

"Shovel!"

"Remember how I just said it couldn't get any worse than this?"

"What?!"

"So. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it if someone just tried to kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—"

"What?!"

"—and said Chancellor just jumped out his office window to chase them?"

Chapter Text

Geonosis

Dooku had been so certain of his course when he’d demanded the extradition of Skywalker and Amidala. By rights, a Traditionalist Mandalorian should have had no qualms in handing over a Jedi for execution. Dooku had predicted that even if the Chancellor refused to surrender Skywalker—not impossible, given the Mandalorian tendency to be obstinate when something is demanded of them—having to protect a Jedi would be enough to exacerbate the natural hostility between him and the Order. The fact that the said Jedi was an immature, graceless fool whose first act on Coruscant was to attack the selfsame Mandalorian could only make things worse.

Already the ripples of that increased antagonism should have surfaced in the reports from Coruscant. There should have been dispute in the Chancellor’s Office. Public statements of mistrust. Punitive actions.

And yet.

Well, there is more than one way to trigger a war, especially when the other side is led by a natural aggressor.

Dooku inclines his head to the small figure on the holo caster, pressing his hand to his breast in a mimicry of respect. “If you are certain, I can only salute you. I will pray for your safety, though you understand I cannot officially wish you success.”

“We understand. Thank you. If we don’t survive this, know that we will watch over your cause from the stars. You’ll know if we’re successful within the day,” the hologram answers, making a clumsy salute of his own. “For Toswana.”

“For your people,” Dooku replies gravely. He waits only long enough for the call to disconnect before he lets his lip curl in a sneer. “Fools.”

“Well. That was embarrassing,” a voice says behind him.

He stiffens.

The appointment of a Traditional Mandalorian to Supreme Chancellorship of the Republic has had a thawing effect on Jango Fett’s brusque professionalism. It has not, unfortunately, made him any less irritating. He’s developed what he seems to think is a sense of humor.

“It is none of your concern,” Count Dooku tells Fett, sweeping past the Mandalorian to exit the comm room. “Why are you here, Fett?”

Fett paces him, stalking at his side as though he were an equal rather than a feral, short-sighted brute. “You’ve just pointed, primed, and fired the dumbest sentients in the Arkanis sector at the Chancellor of the Republic, and you don’t think I might be interested?”

“You never showed interest in the Chancellor before. Is it possible you are feeling concern because he’s a Mandalorian, Fett?”

He scoffs. “I don’t see the point. If you want them dead, hire a good team. You need a reference?”

“You’re not volunteering to do it yourself?” Dooku asks, scornful. “No. I expect them to fail. In fact, I depend on them doing so. Spectacularly.”

Fett’s attention focuses sharply. He isn’t a stupid man, for all his other numerous, crippling character flaws. “You want the Republic accusing the Separatists of trying to kill the Chancellor. You’re trying to get your war back on track.”

“A little more incitement seems needed to get the Republic to commit to an aggressor role. For a Traditional Mandalorian, the new Chancellor is practically a pacifist.”

It’s an taunt designed to trigger Fett’s temper. The man is volatile when it comes to Kryze’s government. Unexpectedly, it fails. There’s a smug gleam in the man’s eyes that Dooku doesn’t like at all. “The new Chancellor not dancing to your little tune, Tyrannus?”

Dooku’s mouth thins. “He will. The one thing your people can be depended on is to be predictable.”

There’s no reason why that should make Fett laugh.

And yet.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Office of the Supreme Chancellor, Senate Dome, Coruscant

Time: 22:42

“Oh,” Obi-Wan sighs as he steps into the Senate building. “This is. Charming.”

Master Che is not a politician. She is first, above all things, a Healer. As a Healer for Jedi, who may be famous for their Force powers but really should be infamous for their stubbornness, lack of self-care, and catastrophic poor judgment, she has learned to be appropriately diplomatic in all things.

Or as Master Thorne puts it: she calls a moron a moron.

“It stinks of darkness, corruption, panic, and greed, as always,” she says flatly, pausing beside Obi-Wan to glance around the Atrium. Her lekku curl in distaste. “And someone is wearing far too much Granica No. 7 perfume.”

“And yet, it’s still immeasurably better than it was even three days ago. As I said,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Charming.”

One might be excused for thinking someone let off a bomb in the Rotunda. Obi-Wan walks with Master Che through emotional riptides of alarm, anxiety, and paranoia drowning the corridors of power. Master Gallia and the holonews gave them ample warning before they left the Temple; the Chancellor’s anti-corruption task force began formal arrests two hours ago.

As far as successes go, arresting three planetary governors and six senators at a Coruscanti brothel literally in the act of breaking several Republic laws—laws baked into the Constitution itself—is enough to make waves. Discovering and then heroically freeing dozens of illegal slaves from said brothel while punching senators during the course of arrest, all while shadowed by live-streaming security drones, will make those waves collapse entire system governments.

Captain Inspector Antilles is on his way to becoming the most well-known face in the galaxy. Poor Antilles. Still, Obi-Wan is not one to overlook the benefits. As a result of the panic, very few of the sentients roaming the corridors so much as glance at the anomaly of a Jedi in robes and Mandalorian armor.

Unfortunately, those who do notice… well.

“That’s directed at you, Obi-Wan,” Master Che murmurs, as they pass a school group of adolescents who immediately burst into giggles.

They’re staring at his backside, though what they expect to see through his robes is a mystery. “If it makes the Chancellor more inclined to listen, my dignity is a worthy sacrifice,” Obi-Wan answers, determined not to blush. There is a disturbingly wide-spread Jedi fetish alive and well in the galaxy. Obi-Wan loses an average of one robe every four missions because they’re stolen almost the moment they’re removed, sometimes straight out of hotel rooms. This is not uncommon for field Jedi. Those who salivate after Mandalorians are only slightly less common, if considerably more insane in Obi-Wan’s opinion. They must be. Unlike Jedi, Mandalorians take attempted theft of their outerwear for kink play both personally and violently.

He has no desire to discover whether the obsessive intersection of the two is a logarithmic or exponential equation. “Perhaps I should have worn another robe over the armor.”

Master Che’s amusement washes across him the Force. “I think you found the perfect combination of robes and armor, actually. Those young sentients certainly approve.” Neither of them look back, well aware of the hungry stares following him. “I rather agree with them.”

Obi-Wan stumbles. He glances at her, appalled. When irritated with his shenanigans, Master Che occasionally reminds Obi-Wan that she once treated him for diaper rash. Force, please do not let her suddenly decide she’s attracted to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“The purpose of armor is to protect your body from injury. Anything that would keep you from ending up in my Halls with such regularity is to be celebrated.” Her eyes narrow at him. “What did you think I meant?”

There is no good answer for that. Obi-Wan smiles weakly. “You don’t think wearing armor causes an expectation of violence?”

“A sentient who intends to be violent needs no excuse to act on their urges. And before you tell me you’d prefer to trust in the Force, I’ll remind you that while anything may be possible with the Force, when it comes to your missions, the probability is that someone will end up shooting at you. Or trying to stab you. Or throwing you into rancor pits. Or—”

“Yes, Master, I grasp your point.”

“—And they do that even without the provocation of armor. One might wonder why.”

“All is as the Force wills it?”

“Is it?” Master Che side-eyes him. “Does the Force will you to show up in my Halls looking like you’ve rolled around naked in a bed of vibroknives with angry stickerpigs?”

He decides to close his mouth and keep it that way.

They part ways on the second floor. She’s overseeing the latest rounds of inspecting Senate staff for Force tampering. They’ve already discovered and treated an alarming number of minds with at least some Dark influence lingering on them. The Senate staff is enormous. Even with Shadows and MedCorps being brought in from around the galaxy, it will take another two months to get through everyone.

By comparison, Obi-Wan’s task is easier. Theoretically, anyway. His official duty is to ask the Chancellor about new Senate restrictions on the various Service Corps. His unofficial duty is to establish positive relationships with the Chancellor, who the Council thinks looks favorably on him. Whether this is despite or because his padawan tried to kill him is open to question. The Force seems excited about it either way.

His private, personal goals are slightly different.

“Time travel? Really?” he complained to privately Depa after that memorable Council meeting, desperate for distraction from Anakin’s everything and halfway down his third glass of her dralek’gar.

“Really. It’s not as far-fetched as you’d think,” she told him, amused. “The investigators did scans and there were the usual signs of a rift closing at the top of the dome. Besides, there are records in the Archives of things that have come through from the past.”

“Artifacts, weapons, bits of fabric—”

“You’re describing the Chancellor.”

“Nothing alive,” Obi-Wan said, exasperated.

“Oh, Obi. The things you don’t know that are in the Temple Archives.” Depa grinned at the way his head lifted, interest immediately caught.

“Time travel,” he repeated in mixed disgust and intrigue. “It doesn’t even make sense. He has the Darksaber, and that was made around a thousand years ago. What, did it travel through time with him from a completely different era? How does that even work?”

“It’s a mystery, isn’t it? Here’s another one for you. You might be interested to learn that the Chancellor’s child was being trained by a Jedi named Skywalker.”

Obi jerked up from his undignified sprawl on Depa’s floor. “He was what?”

“Who knows. If Mando really is from the past, maybe he has a connection to your padawan’s ancestors.”

“It’s a tenuous thread at best. And Skywalker isn’t a completely uncommon name on the Outer Rim.”

“True, but for a padawan who comes from the outside and has trouble building connections with his fellow Jedi, it’s an additional connection to the Order where he might not have had one.”

It was ridiculous, of course. If the Council’s time travel theories were right, Mando was anywhere from 3950 to 4000 years old. Even if he had known a Jedi named Skywalker, there was little to no possibility that Anakin was a descendant. Names are a thing donned for the moment and discarded in an instant during times of chaos, and the years during and after the Sith Civil Wars were nothing if not chaotic. There was also the fact that Anakin and his mother were slaves. A slave’s name could be changed on a whim by their owners. Perhaps some slave master once heard the name Skywalker, liked it, and decreed that his mother would now be called by that name. There was no reason at all to think there was any connection. No reason at all. None. Zero. Null.

“Sithspit,” Obi-Wan swore, staring blankly into space. “I have to ask the Chancellor about his child’s Jedi tutor.”

“You’re going to have to ask the Chancellor about his child’s Jedi tutor,” Depa agreed. She refreshed their drinks and lifted her glass in a toast. “I wish you luck prying answers out of him. I think he charges by the word. You might find it easier than the rest of us, though. Mandalorians like you, if I remember correctly.”

“Mandalorians always seem to end up wanting to shoot at me.”

“I know what I said. While you’re at it, see if you can pin him down on some significant historical events or tell you the date he thinks it is in a form we can recognize. It’s starting to drive Master Nu crazy that we can’t match a single one.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

He arrives at the Chancellor’s office uncomfortable at how easy it is to forget that he’s wearing armor.  It’s been more than ten years since his mission to Mandalore and yet by the time he steps into the crowded reception room, his Force presence—that self-awareness of his body’s boundaries and reach, the first fundamental of lightsaber mastery all Jedi Initiates learn—has already incorporated the armor pieces into itself.

??? he asks the Force.

The Force, unnervingly, conveys the impression of a shrug. It’s been so weird since Palpatine died.

He’ll swear later that his distraction is why he’s caught by surprise when the receptionist opens the office door and the Darksaber comes flying at his head. Instinct makes him light his own ‘saber and knock it away, though the crackle of black and white plasma winks out a split second before it even reaches him. It’s pure luck that when the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic comes flying after it, the beskar helmet meets his blade first. Beheading the Supreme Chancellor by accident just days after his padawan tried to assassinate him would look so bad for the Order. They all go tumbling across the reception area: lightsaber, Jedi, and the most powerful sentient in the Republic. It’s so undignified.

Obi-Wan feels that as a Jedi Knight, he should have made a much better showing of himself. The Force didn’t even give him any warning beyond the low sense of unease that’s plagued his day. He feels betrayed.

The receptionist sighs, more tired than alarmed. They have apparently seen some shit.

The Chancellor rolls off him, catching up the Darksaber and reigniting it as he goes. He pauses long enough to look over Obi-Wan. “Some armor. Better. Need more,” he mutters. Then he launches himself back into the office.

Chancellor Mando is, ow. Really heavy. Obi-Wan spares a moment to feel a mortifying sympathy for Palpatine. Then he rolls up and rushes to investigate.

Against all reasonable expectations, the Chancellor’s office is not a scene of carnage and mayhem, though there is a great deal of yelling. The furniture has been pushed back along the walls with an audience made up of the Senate Guard, several administrators, and the inevitable cluster of aides. The Chancellor himself is already engaged in brutal combat with another Mandalorian, this one armed with a short sword.

Despite the violence of the clash, the only thing Obi-Wan senses from the combatants is beskar-muted excitement. All the more negative emotions of frustration and stress come from the audience.

It’s just a spar then, in perhaps the most unlikely and inappropriate venue possible. Obi-Wan deactivates his lightsaber, conscious for the first time that he’s been followed by the group of wookies who’d been waiting in the reception area.

“Is this a new practice for the Chancellor’s office?” he asks of no one in particular.

“His Excellency actually proposed all meetings begin with a ten minute spar, Master Jedi,” one of the aides fluttering around the room takes it on himself to answer. “Fortunately, he was convinced otherwise. Instead, he decided to add more personal martial training into his schedule. He’s invited members of the staff and appointments to participate in the future.”

“This morning he had almost all his meetings down in the firing ranges,” the receptionist adds in the process of closing the office doors. “Every attendee was encouraged to help clean and test the weapons. It was a remarkably productive morning. All his meetings ended early.”

The wookies roar approval beside him, drowning out Obi-Wan’s alarmed follow-up question about casualties. Chancellor Mando’s new approach to office hours will apparently poll well with at least one constituency.

To Obi-Wan’s disbelief, he realizes the Chancellor was actually mid-meeting when he was thrown out of his office.

“—if we take out a loan from the Banking Clans!” one of the nearby administrators is shouting over the clash of metal and Darksaber.

“Ridiculous!” scoffs another. “We just heard testimony three days ago that the Banking Clans are supporting the Separatists. And now you want to use them to fund our military?!”

“It’s business! They’re a neutral party building a business relationship with a freshly formed government!”

“It’s a conflict of interest! A financial interest that makes money funding a war has a motive to continue the war!”

Through some signal Obi-Wan is unable to decipher, the two Mandalorians abruptly lower their weapons. The Chancellor looks at the gaggle of administrators, shoulders rolling to settle and then shift into a sign of minor irritation. He retracts the Darksaber's blade. “Hm,” he says.

The administrators quail, argument instantly derailed.

It’s an striking exercise of personality and power, though Obi-Wan doubts the Chancellor is aware. Palpatine’s methods for handling conflict were more diplomatic and far less effective. In hindsight, Obi-Wan is starting to wonder if that was on purpose. For a reputed conciliator, Palpatine’s Senate was increasingly prone to conflict than consensus.

“Find another way,” he tells the one arguing in favor of the Banking Clans. The administrator swells up in upset, only to deflate again under the unimpressed stare of the Chancellor’s helmet.

That same helmet jerks, dismissing them. An aide in dark green robes flutters to escort them out, murmuring about follow-up appointments and scheduling as she does.

A Bothan aide that Obi-Wan remembers from his last time at at the Senate presents the Chancellor with a stack of pads.

“The third draft of the Ado Spine taxation bill from the Committee for the Standardization of Economic Measures, sir, along with the analysis and mitigation recommendations for the projected ten-year bacta market capitalization.”

The Chancellor’s shoulders slump.

“Yes, sir,” the Bothan says sympathetically. “Ruling is terribly boring.”

“I remember there being a lot more blaster fire,” the Chancellor says sadly, looking down at the Darksaber’s hilt before putting it away.

“Remember from being Mand’alor? Or perhaps one of the wars?” Obi-Wan asks, finally venturing to approach. “Good afternoon, Your Exce— Mando,” he corrects when the Chancellor looks at him. “My apologies. The Council was hoping—”

“Owning a laser sword and using it poorly doesn’t make him Mand’alor. That was just Death Watch trying to justify Tor being an ass,” a voice interrupts with the harsh overtones of a vocoder. The Mandalorian that Mando was sparring with—and won’t that get confusing quickly; he quickly dubs them Blue Mando after their armor paint—stalks over from where they were showing the wookies their sword. “Popular support by the the clans makes a Mand’alor. The last one was Jaster Mereel, and he used blasters and grenades like a civilized sentient.

“Why do you wear beskar’gam, Jedi?”

Obi-Wan is tempted to point at the Chancellor and declare, “He made me do it.” He doesn’t do it because he’s a grown-ass Jedi Knight, thank you very much. “Armorer Veiss of Clan Awaud made a full set for me from the armor of a Kyr’tsad squad during the wars. Unfortunately, I’ve grown a bit since then. I’m afraid the vambraces and left pauldron were the only pieces that still fit.”

Both Blue Mando and the Chancellor stare at him. Since the Chancellor has picked up his child at some point, the child also stares at him around a mouthful of tariff pad.

“That pauldron doesn’t fit,” the Chancellor says reproachfully.

“Veiss? Seldon Veiss? Made him a full set?” Blue Mando asks at the same time in incredulous Mando’a.

Obi-Wan automatically switches to the same language. “Yes. The Armorer was quite thorough and even made me show them how I fought with a lightsaber. The armor they made me was impressively accommodating to Jedi forms. They told me to come back and have it refitted once I finished growing and finished my training but the occasion never arose, I’m afraid. I’ve lost track of them since then.”

“You speak Mando’a?”

“Yes.”

“They made a set to grow out of? For a Jedi? Armorer Veiss?”

“They said I needed it.” Armorer Veiss said quite a bit more that that, actually. A lot more. Armorer Veiss was a sentient with strong opinions and a mastery in psychological reconstruction for your own good, ad. Over a decade later, it’s still a memory Healer Aldiss likes to haul out when she thinks he’s fallen into bad habits. Obi-Wan tries not to think about it.

Blue Mando nods, dislike easing a little. The pity that takes its place is unwelcome but understandable. As usual, Mandalorian pity manifests itself in brutal honesty for your own good, ad. “You are poorly educated and your accent is terrible. Mando, if you are claiming this one, you will need to see to that.”

“I beg your pardon, claiming—”

“The armor suits you better than your robes, Jedi. Even if it doesn’t fit. Get that fixed.”

Obi-Wan pauses to have Feelings about this. And then the Chancellor asks in Basic, “Do the Jedi know how to lead armies?”

Today is obviously going to be one of those days. All Obi-Wan wanted to do was talk to the Chancellor about the AgriCorps being forbidden to help planets with Separatist sympathies. Since this encompassed most entire Outer Rim and half of the Middle Rim, not coincidentally the majority of the AgriCorps’ projects, the Council was hoping he could appeal to common sense and sanity to get the Senate’s prohibition overturned.

Common sense and sanity. In the Senate Dome.

Really, he doesn’t know what they were thinking. He deserves everything he’s getting right now.

“I’m afraid not,” he says, eyeing the Chancellor warily. “When we are unfortunate enough to be involved in a war, it’s primarily in the aspects of assisting refugees or mediating peace treaties.”

“The new GAR wants to draft the Jedi to be generals.”

Obi-Wan is highly trained in diplomacy. He also knows how to communicate with Mandalorians. “That’s a terrible idea.”

The Chancellor nods. “Monk sorcerers,” he says wisely.

What? Never mind. “Once upon a time, it’s true, the Jedi Lords led the Army of Light. However, after the New Sith Wars, we agreed with the Republic to dissolve our forces and renounce all military titles and armor—”

“What.” The Chancellor’s interruption as all the grace of a punch in the face. The Force rings with his horror and outrage, along with a rapidly escalating sense of urgency. Danger! Danger! it blares. The Chancellor has gone still. His child squawls, his ears flattening as he squirms. “The Republic has kept you from your armor?”

Oh. He… probably shouldn’t have said that. Possible time traveller. Right. And Orthodox Traditionalist on top of that. Armor is a sensitive subject. 

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says weakly, his head starting to throb at the Force’s racket. “It’s— it was part of the agreements in the Ruusan Reformation. I suppose that was technically after your time.”

Blue Mando swivels their head to stare at him.

“It was a little over nine hundred years ago?” Obi-Wan tries.

The Mandalorians look at each other.

And then the office wall explodes.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

So that was what the Force was complaining about!

Good to know.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

As the unfortunate inheritor of the New Republic’s idiot interior design practices, Din has a giant window in the space he spends most of his time. It’s a problem. He’s mentioned it to the Senate Guard a few times already. The blasted thing is just waiting for some bright spark to shove a shuttle through it.   They don’t seem to understand the issue, claiming all previous Chancellors have liked the window. That doesn’t surprise to Din. In the course of his career he’s noticed that most self-important people develop a mental defect that makes them install assassinate me now! features in their daily lives. He always figured it’s from sitting all the time. All the pressure on their backsides pushes the stupid right up into their skulls.

He can’t really blame anyone for taking advantage of such an obvious vulnerability. It’s pretty much what he would do.

Din has just enough time to recognize the snub nose of a rare old Aia-RAD class shuttle coming straight at the window before he’s swept out of the way, like a giant hand has swept him off his feet. He wraps himself around Grogu, twisting mid-air so he takes the brunt of the impact with the wall. Screams and roars around the room are drowned by the window blowing in, followed by the screech of the shuttle’s wings hitting the outer walls and bringing its slide to an abrupt stop.

Grogu squeaks in his arms, curling up into a little ball. Din hits the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. The beskar’gam spares him the worst of it. He forces himself to his feet, ducked low, and swiftly scans the room.

Sparks fly everywhere, bright in the haze of dust and particulates. A bizarre half-circle of clear space arcs around him, as though someone turned on a shield for the split-second necessary to keep keep the worst of the flying debris away. Obi-Wan staggers, arms dropping from where he was holding them up. Hovering pieces of metal and broken furnishings drop with them. Magic?

Probably magic. Armored warrior with a lightsaber who can make shields and do magic. Excellent, even if he doesn't have a blaster. Din pats him on the shoulder, noting again that the pauldron really needs to be adjusted. He’ll mention it to Veiss. “Good job,” he says, because Kobol keeps nagging him about communication and feedback. “Take him.”

Grogu is surprisingly willing to be passed over to Obi-Wan. Probably because he’s a Jedi. Din grabs his second favorite blaster and puts it on top of the child for Obi-Wan. Grogu clutches it and goes, doh!

Obi-Wan flails. “Chancellor—”

“Protect the child,” Din orders. He shoves them towards the door.

As far as assassination attempts go, so far this one is poorly planned after the initial design concept. The shuttle’s doors whine and growl, wedged shut by the frame of the destroyed window. It’s stuck like a cork in a bottle. A simple review of the shuttle’s dimensions as compared to the window’s would have avoided that possibility. Even he knows how to do simple math. He is embarrassed for these assassins. Grogu could do better and his child spent an hour last night trying to eat his own foot.

Din hauls two aides and a Guard out from under shattered wood and metal. He doesn't tell the Guard I told you so, even though he could. The next one he checks is dead. Helpful Yellow is nearby, mining for angry wookies amidst the chaos. He’s acquired a Westar 41 from one of the Guard sprawled on the floor. His grip is assured and comfortable. Din nods in approval. Helpful Yellow continues to live up to his designation.

The front panels of the shuttle lurch from an inner impact. A Senate Guard attempts to herd Din out of the office. Several dusty figures are already stumbling out the door. Obi-Wan is long gone with Grogu. Good. Din orders the Guard to get the unarmed to safety instead.

“Are wookies considered unarmed, sir?” the Guard asks nervously.

Din sighs. He knew he should’ve checked the Senate Guards for competence.

With a hiss and shriek, the front panels of the shuttle jolt again before smashing out of their framing. Before they’ve even hit the ground, blaster bolts start flying out of the shuttle. The aim is indiscriminate. It’s a target-rich environment. A few shots return from Guards scrambling for cover. Screaming starts afresh.

Din returns fire with more calculated intent. The dust is starting to thin enough that it’s possible to make out the figures inside. He joins Rau behind her cover, taking careful shots and trusting in his beskar to protect him from return fire.

Despite the battle, his shoulders relax. This is easily the best time in the office he’s ever had. If he knew then what he knows now, he would never have taken this job. He lines up a shot on a figure dimly visible in the haze, only to abort when one of the wookies leans around the side of the shuttle to grab its arm with a roar. A violent yank sends its owner shrieking out of the cockpit. It’s speedily smacked into submission on the floor.

He shifts his aim and fires. Another figure falls inside the shuttle.

So embarrassing.

He hasn’t synced his helmet to Rau’s. There wasn’t any need before. Too bad. He signs to her instead. She nods in understanding. They’ll want one for questioning. Based on the number of firing vectors, there were at least six assassins initially. Two down. Four—Rau fires—three left. The Aia-RAD can’t reverse, even if it wasn’t firmly wedged in the window. There are no visible mods that would help it get unstuck. The crew will either make a suicide charge, jump out the back into a waiting getaway vehicle being handled by a partner, or—

Hm.

He vaults over his cover and runs for the shuttle, making sure not to cross paths with Rau’s line of fire. The single shot that’s fired at him from inside is easily deflected off his vambrace. Her shout chases him as he grabs metal framing warped by the broken panels and leaps inside. He’s just in time to watch the last of the assassins jump in the speeder they’ve stored in the back and set it hurtling towards the open rear of the shuttle.

This is not how Din would have planned this exfil but it’s not an awful choice. These assassins are a weird mix of competence and stupid. Dodging the wild fire sent at him by one of the assassins, he races after them as their vehicle tips out over the edge. He leaps.

The speeder is an old six-seater Grace 5D but it’s been modified for thrust. The getaway driver angles it down, heading for the lower level skylanes. That’s common sense at least. It’ll be easier to escape pursuit under the plates, especially as this part of the planet is rapidly heading towards night. He shifts his body to adjust his angle of descent a little shallower than the speeder’s, aiming for where it will be rather than where it is. Unexpectedly, the driver abruptly jerks his own angle sharper down, pressing past the vehicle’s allowances. The passengers’ shrieks blow past him in the wind. Dank farrik. He’s going to just miss it. He clicks his tongue in irritation, preparing to fire a grappling line to snare it, when something hits him full-body.

Metal clangs against his armor as arms wrap around him from behind. “Allow me,” a familiar voice shouts over the roar of wind and engines.

Obi-Wan. Without Grogu. What.

Displeased, he re-aims his grapple to account for both their weights—it wouldn’t do to let the Jedi fall to his death. Grogu likes him so Din will let Obi-Wan explain himself before he punches him for reckless stupidity—but the Jedi does… something. They spin in mid-air to face the side. A speeder is coming straight at them. Din has just enough time to watch the driver and passengers go wide-eyed before suddenly they’re landing on the speeder’s hood.

Din’s knees barely even bend. It’s almost like he doesn’t have any gravity at all. What.

“Excuse me!” Obi-Wan shouts over his shoulder to the speeder people. And then he leaps. Suddenly, they’re flying.

Oh. Obi-Wan has a jetpack. That’s alright then.

Relieved and impressed by the Jedi’s skill with it, Din focuses on more urgent things. “Where’s my child?!”

“Master Che has him! I promise you nobody will harm him while she has him in her care!”

Din met Jedi Master Che the first time she visited the Senate to begin vetting the staff. She gave him instructions on the child’s health and care. She called him a moron. She was intimidating without even holding a hammer. She came back later and stabbed him several times with needles. She is acceptable.

Concerns alleviated, he focuses on capturing assassins.

Worried about pursuit, the trio in the speeder have their attention fixed ahead and behind them. Obi-Wan’s trajectory put them to the side and above, which means they have the advantage of surprise.

They land hard. Din leads with a blaster bolt that hits the rear passenger in the shoulder before what looks like a Trandoshan hybrid gets flattened by 200 pounds of Mando’ad and beskar. He manages to leap off the uneven footing of the other body into the open, rearmost seats just as Obi-Wan ignites his lightsaber. The Jedi is just in time to knock a blaster bolt into the side of a building. The driver is not a complete fool. While their partner beside them keeps firing wildly, with little effect, the driver attempts to spin the vehicle and dislodge them.

This is also not within the normal tolerances of a speeder. Din approves.

He gets one of his boots wedged in a seat restraint just in time and is tossed sprawling across the rear seats by centrifugal force. Obi-Wan, his jetpack lost somewhere along the way, appears to simply—leave the speeder to wait out the spin. Din’s not sure where he goes in between disappearing and then simply reappearing again. Jedi apparently don’t believe in gravity. Oh! Maybe the jetpack is invisible, like his magic mind armor! Could he teach Grogu how to do that? Given the frequency with which Grogu trips over his own feet and falls flat on his face, it would be useful. The child’s legs are tiny.

Distracted by the image of his child flying everywhere like an excited, helmet-sized winged frog, Din almost doesn’t react in time when the driver goes for another spin. He grabs for the side of the vehicle just in time. When the speeder right itself, the Trandoshan hybrid drags himself up with a roar of pain and distress.

Din punches him in the back of the head. It hurts. He forgot how hard Trandoshan skulls are. The Trandoshan snarls and then whirls to flail at him. Din bats the swipe away, claws snagging at his vambraces, and punches again.

The front of the Trandoshan’s skull is softer. Better. More pleasant to punch. Din does it again.

One last punch puts the Trandoshan thoroughly out of the equation. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan has reappeared in the speeder and sliced the passenger’s blaster in half. He levels his lightsaber at the driver, the burning blade held threateningly near his ear. The driver leans away, the whites of his eyes reflecting the blue.

“Hello, there!” Obi-Wan says pleasantly. “I think it’s time we brought this ride to an end, don’t you?”

The passenger, a human female under the ugly and inadequate helmet, swears violently but makes no attempt to stop the driver from slowing down and angling towards a parking spot. It’s a populated section of Coruscant, several cantinas and clubs lined up along a heavily trafficked walkway. The dull throb of bass and percussion pounds through the crowd, competing with other irregular beats. There are already too many speeders crowded on the platform for the one they’re riding to park. Instead, the driver settles onto the roof of a building across the walkway.

“Happy, Jedi?” the driver asks bitterly.

“Delighted,” Obi-Wan says. The speeder turns off. Din, busy putting doubled up flex-binders on the Trandoshan, lets Obi-Wan handle the other two. He is trustworthy and wearing real armor. It’s awkward, wrestling the Trandoshan out of the speeder restraints and out of the vehicle, but it’s not the hardest thing he’s ever done. By the time he’s lobbed the limp body out, Obi-Wan has the other two out and kneeling in resentful surrender nearby. The female has removed her helmet, which is fine because it was a terrible helmet and also she isn’t Mandalorian.

“While we’re waiting for the authorities, this seems like a wonderful opportunity to get to know each other,” Obi-Wan says, smiling. He’s put his lightsaber away, which is just as well. It’s a close-quarters weapon at best. He better not have lost Din's second best blaster. “I’m Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. And I’m sure you recognize Chancellor Mando.”

Din isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say hello. He still hasn’t gotten around to asking about Coruscant etiquette. He nods to them instead.

They sneer at him. This is a normal reaction so he ignores it. People always seem to take defeat personally.

They both appear to be standard human or distant mix. He starts with the female, restraining and checking her over for additional weapons while Obi-Wan talks at them. She only has one backup blaster and a vibroknife. Not a single grenade. He is embarrassed for her.

“—You don’t want to introduce yourselves? It’s only polite. No? Very well then. Perhaps we can discuss who hired you?”

“Nobody hired us,” the driver spits, while Din strips him of a vibroknife, two backup blasters (better), a garrote (eh) and still no grenades (terrible). “We’re not mercenaries. We’re patriots. The Republic is a corrupt institution. The rot is so deep, there’s no saving it. Our people suffer while the Core wallows in depravity and feeds off our children’s pain! No more!”

“I see,” Obi-Wan says, hand on his chin. Having collected the weapons, Din takes them to the speeder and dumps them inside. Oh. That’s one of his own knives on the floor of the speeder. He checks. The strap where it normally fastens to his thigh is snapped. He’ll have to fix that. He climbs back in the speeder and fishes it out, tucking it into his belt for the time being.

When he’s done with that, he refocuses on the conversation to discover Obi-Wan is still trying to get the crew to admit they were hired, or at the very least funded to make their terrible assassination attempt. The driver is still shouting about corruption and how terrible the Republic is. Din is tempted to say something about how five years isn’t enough time for a government to really get corrupt, but he’s from the Outer Rim. He knows perfectly well that sentients barely even need five minutes to get some really solid sleeze going. Plus, the New Republic’s been admirably competent about scaling so big, so quickly. It would make sense that they’d be competent spreading corruption around, too.

Unfortunately, Din is now the Chancellor. He has a job. He has a contract and everything.

“Specifics,” he demands, breaking into the middle of a pointless rant.

The driver closes his mouth, taken aback. “The rich corporations—” he begins again.

“Specific to your people,” Din clarifies.

A brief silence falls. Silent as it gets on Coruscant, anyway. This planet is so loud. Din doesn’t like it. There are lights everywhere and the thrumming of drones, and in the distance, sirens. It probably smells bad, too. If he didn’t have his helmet on to deaden all the inputs, he would go mad. How can Obi-Wan not wear a helmet? Come to think of it, why isn’t he wearing a helmet? He needs to ask Obi-Wan if he—

“There were solar storms,” the female says abruptly, her first words since disembarking. She glares at him. “80% of my planet’s population had to evacuate. The Republic was supposed to help them. They claimed that they would help. Instead, millions have gone missing or died from hunger and sickness. It’s been three years and after the first month, almost none of what the Republic should have provided has come.”

“You’re from Toswana III,” Obi-Wan says with an air of realization.

The female looks bitter and snaps at him, “The most help we’ve gotten is from the Jedi, but it’s not enough. You should be on our side.”

Din looks at Obi-Wan, curious. In answer to his silent question, Obi-Wan says helpfully, “The Jedi have several independent branches that do not answer to the Senate. MediCorps provides medical services, responds to emergencies, and provides training across the galaxy. AgriCorps works on the rehabilitation and healing of planetary ecosystems damaged by natural or industrial disasters, as well as terraforming where needed. Both were deployed to Toswana III after the solar storms.”

That sounds much more useful to a planetary disaster than a laser sword. Din wonders if Bo-Katan knows about this. The Jedi could help with fixing Mandalore. He should ask.

Obi-Wan’s mouth twists before he can, though. “I came today to discuss Senate attempts to restrict AgriCorps’ work, in fact. Toswana III is one of the planets with Separatist leanings. The Senate is trying to pass a law that would block aid from going to such planets.”

The female makes a hissing sound.

“Your people were promised money?” Din asks her.

“It’s not the money, it’s the help!” she snaps. “Supplies, living facilities, finding people who were lost and connecting them with their families, new job opportunities and care for those whose livelihoods were destroyed. Repairing the damage to the planet! All the things that being part of the Republic was supposed to be good for!”

“Is your planet still part of the Republic?”

“Not for long!”

That definitely sounds like corruption got in the way of practical assistance. None of the things she mentioned are possible without funds. Din hums to himself. Making the Republic work right is part of the job description. Excellent. He holds his hand out to Obi-Wan. The Jedi frowns at him.

“Your comm,” Din explains.

“You don’t have a comm?”

That’s possibly a rhetorical question. Din has a comm. It just isn’t working at the moment. He really should fix that soon. He waits. After a long moment of looking baffled, Obi-Wan passes his comm unit over.

Din calls the most useful contact that he knows will actually respond.

It takes several attempts before Kobol answers. “What? Who is this?” he snaps, impatient.

“Mando.”

He doesn’t get a hello. “Are you trying to make me drop dead from stress, you nightmare pain in my ass!” Kobol shouts. “Where are you?! You’re the fucking Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic! You don't even have a Vice Chancellor yet! What do you not understand about this?! Do you know how hysterical the fucking Senate Guard is right now?! You don’t chase assassins! They’re trying to kill you! Why make their job easier, you unbelievable, kark-brained—!”

He sounds upset. Huh. Din blinks down at the comm.

Obi-Wan strokes his beard, pretending he’s not covering up a smile. This is why a helmet is useful. It hides your face. “A friend of yours, Mando?”

Another rhetorical question. Din considers letting Kobol rant himself out, but decides against it. The man’s high-strung. This can’t be healthy for him. Better to distract him so he can focus on something important instead of his odd anxieties. “I have something for you to investigate,” he interrupts, raising his voice.

“What?! Where are you?!”

Din ignores this. “Toswana III. It’s a planet in the—” He realizes he doesn’t know where it is. He looks at the female.

She stares at him.

“Arkanis sector,” Obi-Wan provides.

He’s very useful. Din nods in thanks. “Arkanis sector,” he tells Kobol.

“You can’t possibly be in the Arkanis sector, what the kriff! You were in Coruscant less than an hour ago! Did you hit your head?!”

“Toswana III. They were promised aid by the Republic. They didn’t get it. I need to know why.”

“We’re still on Coruscant,” Obi-Wan calls over, looking amused. “The Chancellor is safe. His attackers have been subdued. We’re on the buildings across from the Ill-Gotten Gains club, if you’re able to send security.”

“I swear I’ve started aging faster since I met you. You want to investigate Totswana III? Were they the ones who sent the attackers?”

“Aid from the Republic. They didn’t get it.”

Kobol’s sigh rattles across the comm. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re a lawman. You investigate things.”

“I realize you don’t understand the limitations of normal sentients, Mando, but I’m leading a full squad hunting down the kriffing clone thing. I don’t have time or the people to go after the Galactic Refugee Resettlement Committee!”

The target has a name. Good. That makes hunting easier. But investigating the creation of the clones is important. Kobol arrested a lot of people today. He’s supposed to arrest even more tomorrow and the day after. He is busy.

Din gives it some thought. “You said your wife was a good investigator.”

Obi-Wan makes a strange noise. So does Kobol. “She’s one of the best. She hates the Senate, though probably not as much as they hate her. That's beside the point. Mando, the CSF is not your personal detective squad! You can't just—"

Din nods to himself. It seems like a good solution to the problem. Kobol has started shouting things again, so he hangs up on the man. He needs time to calm down. Helpful Yellow gave Din several useful contacts over the last few days, all of which Din recorded with his HUD. Din ignores the angry buzzing of incoming calls—Obi-Wan is popular—to comm one of those contacts.

The person who answers is almost as excitable as Kobol, but he folds with gratifying quickness. Satisfied, Din hangs up.

Obi-Wan and the other two are staring at him. He hands Obi-Wan back his comm.

“I can’t say bullying the Chief Commander of the CSF would have been my first thought,” Obi-Wan says slowly, holding the buzzing comm, “but I suppose it is the most efficient way to get an investigative squad assigned.”

Din nods. It is definitely the most efficient. He had to comm several people the first time he helped Kobol get people assigned to his squad. Once he started commin the Chief Commander directly, that stopped being necessary.

“We tried to kill you, so you’re going to investigate where our aid went?” the driver says slowly.

“No.”

"But you—"

"And. Not so." Since they seem confused, Din clarifies, "You tried to kill me—" poorly, "—and I'm going to assign an Investigator. Not because you tried to kill me." Poorly.

“Why?”

“It’s the job. Protection of the planets and citizens of the Republic. Corruption undermines protection.” He thinks for a moment and then, because people seem to utterly miss the obvious on Coruscant, adds, “If the base is rotten, the pillar falls. Protect the foundation. This is the Way.”

The two stare at him some more. Then they turn as one to the Jedi. Obi-Wan is also staring, though he looks thoughtful. “Normally, responding to an assassination attempt by doing something for the assassins is done as a trade to avoid being killed or in exchange for testimony. As a bribe, in other words. It’s not customary to capture the assassins, not agree to any material witness statements, and still do something for them anyway.”

This is perfectly sensible. Din nods in approval. His Mando’Jetii has common sense. Good job.

Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches. “You realize this sets a terrible precedent. Others might think attempting to kill you is a good way to get investigations expedited.”

Din is aware. He spares a moment to consider it. What are the benefits and disadvantages of doing things this way? It would prevent the unnecessary involvement of bureaucracy the New Republic is so fond of. It would avoid meetings. It would be good training for the Senate Guard. Those in power couldn’t block reports of corruption from reaching him. It would automatically prioritize the desperate over the simply needy.

It would give him time out of the office.

“Communication is complicated on Coruscant,” he offers.

“I can’t deny that. Especially if one doesn’t have a comm.”

That sounds pointed. Also, it’s true enough. He should really fix that. He still needs to tell Cara about the Alderaan II thing.

“We tried to kill you!” the driver shouts, unnecessarily restating the obvious. It seems to bother him.

“I don’t believe the Chancellor is taking it personally, my friend. That said, Mando, there may be accusations of nepotism. You’re appointing Captain Inspector Antilles’s wife to head a new squad.”

“Kobol said she was good,” Din points out. “If she isn’t good, she can’t lead it.”

This earns a raised eyebrow but Obi-Wan folds his hands, his body language relaxing in the way that indicates he's disavowing responsibility. “Given her relationship with Captain Inspector Antilles, it should poll well at least.”

Din tilts his head inquiringly, curious both at the unfamiliar phrase and obvious sarcasm.

“Ah. Polls are surveys performed to get a reading on the public’s opinions. The saying, ‘it should poll well’ means it should be popular with the public. It’s something politicians are often quite attentive to.”

He tilts his head even further. “Is that… important?”

Obi-Wan pauses. “No,” he decides. In the distance, the wail of sirens approaches. He smiles. “In this case, not at all.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

The story breaks just as daylight hits the financial districts on the other side of Coruscant. The image that punctuates the first print publication is one caught by a lucky amateur photographer. She tells interviewers all about how the Chancellor and a Jedi—Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, number nine on the current Top 10 Sexiest Jedi rankings—landed on her speeder before jumping off.

Undeterred by the dangers of Coruscant traffic, she and her friends followed the chase.

It spreads across galaxy-wide news sites at the speed of light. Before the end of the following day, it's a recruitment poster for the new Grand Army of the Republic. In it, Chancellor Mando punches a blurry opponent, the vivid Coruscant lights gleaming off his beskar while his cape flares behind him. Next to him, back to the camera but his head turned to show his profile, Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi wields his lightsaber in defense of the Chancellor, a blaster bolt just bouncing off it in a flare of red. Even though evening has fallen, the reflection off the saber outlines the two figures so they glow against the dark.

It’s all very dramatic. When the first holofilm is released six months later, the press collateral is modeled after the same image.

On live holonews and thousands of media platforms, a recording of Chancellor Mando arresting his own would-be assassins is viewed by uncountable sentients. A lightsaber is a conspicuous weapon, and the crowds milling in front of an avenue of nightclubs are already primed to look for entertainment. A group of well-equipped and nosy club-goers sent security drones and recorders up to the roof they were parked on.

It’s impressive how well sound and video were caught by those carefully concealed recorders. The declaration of Separatist sympathies. The reasons why. The accusations of corruption. The immediate steps Mando takes. How utterly unqualified he is to be a politician.

One might expect the public to be offended by the idea that their opinion doesn’t matter. Only a crazy person would expect the public to react rationally about anything, ever.

“Chancellor Mando’s poll numbers are the third highest in history, just under Chancellor Tarsus Valorum's after the Ruusan Reformation was signed,” Master Thao’din tells Master Adi Gallia when she checks in after a restless night of Force-inspired insomnia. The other Jedi in the meeting release a mix of exasperation and hilarity into the Force. “On a completely related note, Knight Kenobi is now number two on Coruscant's Top 10 Sexiest Jedi rankings.”

“I get to tell him!” Adi says, eyes gleaming.

Somewhere on Geonosis, Count Dooku wakes to a string of messages from the ambassadors of Toswana III and the neighboring planets Japril and Rivadwa. Several more come in from the more useless Separatist senators as he reads. Nine of them link to various holonews reports about the anti-corruption raids that took place overnight and the far-reaching impacts of them. One has the gall to tell him xir government believes this is a hopeful sign that the Republic may be worth rejoining. All of them express enthusiasm for the idea that diplomats rather than armies are the way forward. 

The flood of incoming messages is neverending. They nearly lead to a 7,000 year old white wroshyr table flying out of a sixth story window.

Though there are no witnesses, Dooku has always prided himself on his self-control and dignity. He is the master of the Dark; the Dark is not the master of him. Still, there's a savage rage in him when he picks up his comm and calls his apprentice.

"It seems subtlety is beyond the Chancellor's understanding," he says. "You may proceed as we discussed."

Asajj inclines her head, a slow smile curling her mouth. "It will be done, Master."

Chapter Text

Kamino

“And this is Execute, whose name I know as my child. He has been trained to be a squad leader with a small, mobile group specializing in sabotage, but his passion is for coding and financial forensics. He managed to reverse hack me when I broke into Kamino’s security systems. His favorite color is orange. He likes math and wants to join the Republic military if there is an investigative arm.”

Seldon inclines their head, greeting the dazed looking clone that Hack—Zirai Wadim of House Mereel—is presenting to him like a tooka offering up a fresh kill. “You’ve spoken to the mind-healer, Execute, and are certain of your choice?”

Execute blinks, darting a swift glance at the Jedi and the Alpha standing beside Seldon. Master Ti inclines her head at the lad in obvious approval. Alpha-17 simply snorts. Reassured by whatever message is conveyed by them, Execute’s chin comes up.“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

“Then I know you, Execute, child of Zirai Wadim,” Seldon says gravely, ignoring how Hack twitches in delight. “May your family be your shield, may your will be your weapon, and may your soul never waver.”

Hack crows, pulling forward another, younger clone. “And this is Runtime, whose name I know as my child….”

The briefing room is crowded and chaotic, now that the facility has been thoroughly occupied and secured. Seldon’s focus is solely on their people who have claimed Foundlings and are bringing them to his attention. They aren’t at their Forge, where they would usually do such recognitions, but an Armorer is an Armorer even if no fires are lit. They’ve only been on Kamino two days but already they have recorded over a hundred adoptions.

Normally, they would advise adoptions to be postponed so the mind healers had more time to work with the child and prospective parent: to make sure the parent’s character was sound; that the child would be adequately supported; that the relationships would stand the test of time. However, the ka’ra urges haste in making sure the clones are claimed and given protection. All those who came with the fleet are known to them personally, one way or another. And the Jedi High Council is moving too slowly.

At least the Jedi in Kamino is reasonable. It's been two days and she's only almost drawn her lightsaber on them three times so far.

Seldon speaks their words of congratulations and caution to Hack, the traditional duty laid upon a new parent—as one who has already raised three children to successful and happy adulthood, Hack has heard it all before. It speaks well of them that they listen as seriously the fourth time as they did the first three—and releases them to the congratulations of friends and fellow clones.

“Their bonds are already strong. They shine in the Force,” Ti says warmly.

Truth. 

Across the room, Meros, Ytzis, and Ilis have set up tattoo stations, where they’re happily teaching interested clones as they apply ink to others. Ilis, who uses only the ancient, traditional methods, has one of the impressive Alphas as a customer.

The rigid conformity and fear in the clones hasn’t really relaxed in the short time Seldon and their people have been here. The courage of those daring the tattoo stations and hair-dying stations isn’t to be overstated. It’s a terrible honor, to be made responsible for such wounded spirits.

Such a duty requires that Seldon harden their heart to those who would and have failed their own to the clones. They’ve only had time to interview a fraction of the trainers that fall under their remit. All but three have wept and acknowledged their wrongs. The remaining three they’ll have to declare Lost, though they’ll have to speak to those wronged to determine how the Lost might reclaim their souls. It isn’t an easy situation. Many of the trainers answered to Jango as their Mand’alor and found their trust in his honor betrayed once the contract was signed. A few of them even stopped wearing their Iron Hearts, both to mark their own shame and to shame Jango for his betrayal.

The count of those Lost will likely increase once Seldon catches up to the man and pins him down for a talk.

It’s a grief and a weight on any Armorer to perform that duty. Even more to perform that duty with Jango specifically, a child they knew and still love as Jaster’s Foundling. But it has to be done. Jaster would agree if they heard the testimony and saw the evidence. The fires of the Forge create but they also must purify. It’s telling that every clone who has asked about the Six Actions has refused to swear to it, understanding that Jango is currently the only candidate who might lay claim to the title of Mand’alor.

“Tell us when Chancellor Mando takes it,” Alpha-22 said, speaking for the room of clones Meros explained the requirements to. “Then we’ll talk.”

That day is not far off, given the Call that’s gone out from Clan Ordo.

“Any word from your people?” Seldon asks the jedi.

“The fleet dropped out of hyperspace last night long enough to receive and transmit messages,” Ti says serenely. “They should be arriving within the next six hours. The Council has authorized the adoption of any who desire to join the various Jedi Corps, which support families and already have training programs for non-Force sensitives. Representatives from each are on board to help educate, organize, and scale those programs for interested clones.”

Seldon gives it some thought, recalling the various galactic services that subtly bear the Jedi sigil. “Exploration, Medical, Education, and Farming?”

Alpha-17 hums, his face giving nothing away. “Don’t know how many will sign up for the Corps but there’ll likely be some.”

“We will make sure the options are clearly communicated and shared among your siblings,” Ti promises. More quietly, she adds, “For those who are still interested in a martial capacity working closely with the knighthood, Master Windu has also spoken to the Antarian Rangers. They will be sending a Ranger Captain and General in the next four days. Obi-Wan feels many of the clones may be well suited for that group, though the Rangers will be significantly limited in how many they can take on given their funding.”

Seldon makes a vague sound of inquiry, leaving it to the Jedi to decide what they’re asking about.

“The Antarian Rangers are a paramilitary group that perform missions with individual knights of the Order. Though the majority of them are not Force-sensitive, several of them are. It is their secular skills that make them formidable, however. They have done much good in the galaxy. And more critically, they are not beholden to the Order or the Republic. Membership comes with optional citizenship on Antar 4.” 

“You'd trust them with the clones?”

“I would. Their vows are much like those the Jedi swear. Their numbers are small and they take great care to make sure their members are trained and supported in the field. In whatever capacity their members may serve.”

Alpha-17 nods. “And that leaves the rest of us.”

“Yes.” Ti sighs. “Those of you who wish to join the Republic Army.”

“It’s what we were made for.”

Seldon watches the Jedi bite her tongue. At this point, after all the arguments she’s used to contest the idea that the clones are destined for the army, Alpha-17 is doing it on purpose. Such an unrepentant kriffer, the young warrior is. Seldon’d be tempted to adopt him if Alpha-17 hadn’t already made it clear he wasn’t open to it. They’re well aware the only reason Alpha-17 hasn't already taken off with most of the clones on the Venator ships they found parked behind Kamino’s moon is the need to make sure they’re legally protected when they arrive at Coruscant.

“As it happens, there is some progress on that front. The Chancellor’s aides pulled together the likely political dangers to any of the vode joining the military. Some of them were easily dealt with—there are some legal restrictions and regulations regarding cloning, for example. Fortunately, none of them apply here, given Kamino isn’t a member of the Republic. Republic law itself dictates that a sentient can’t be held responsible for the method of their creation.”

“You need a law for that?” Alpha-17 asks, faintly incredulous.

“Republic,” Seldon says succinctly, an answer, explanation, and condemnation in one.

“Indeed. The more critical issues were sentience and citizenship. While non-Republic citizens can join the Republic military according to the old laws, you must be a citizen somewhere.”

“And the sentience?” Alpha-17 asks, unimpressed.

It isn’t an amusing subject. Ti smiles anyway. No, she smirks. “You would have enjoyed this one, Armorer Veiss. According to protocol, a formal Senate committee is required to rule on the sentience of newly discovered species who wish to engage with the Republic.”

“We’re not a species.”

“No, but the aides are correct in identifying it as a possible challenge to your right to self-determination, given your origins.”

Alpha-17 makes a disgusted noise.

Ti inclines her head. “Historically, the committee consists of experts and members of the Senate. They’re normally assigned as political appointees by the President of the Senate. The process is usually fraught with argument and challenges, so usually takes between five to twenty years—”

“What.”

“—depending on various political and commercial interests for or against exploitation of the species or planet. And of course, there currently is no Vice Chancellor.”

There’s nothing in Ti’s explanation to explain why she’s so smug. With a sense of anticipation, Seldon asks, “What did Mando do?”

“The Chancellor, freshly returned to his office from arresting his would-be assassins, spent exactly three minutes being debriefed on the problem. It was his opinion that convening the Senate, vetting appropriate committee members, and then holding the usual committee meetings was grossly inefficient. He promptly drafted Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi to head a committee, with Captain Inspector Kobol Antilles, one of his aides, and a Senate Guard as members. He then ordered an immediate vote. All told, the full process took a total of five minutes.

“Congratulations, Alpha-17. You and your vode have been ruled officially sentient by the Galactic Republic.”

Alpha-17 blinks at her in visible shock. “Can he even do that?”

Ti actually laughs. “Our lawyers checked. According to the Senate rules, it turns out that he can. In the absence of a Vice Chancellor, he serves as the temporary President of the Senate. His justification for his appointees was that they were qualified on the basis of their own sentience and having interacted with or watched interaction with a clone, both of which fall under the general requirements for ‘expertise.’ All of them are members of the Judicial branch or on his direct staff, which is considered part of the Senate and so overcomes the requirement of ‘members of the Senate,’ if only by a technicality. And as it happens, the appointment of the committee is only done during a Senate meeting through tradition rather than actual Senate rules.”

“Did he know any of that when he did it?” Seldon asks.

Ti laughs again, which is answer enough.

They feel their own laugh bubble up behind their teeth. In many ways, Mando is the most beskar-brained, intransigent, crosshair-focused stereotype of a Creedbound that ever lived. The Mudhorn on their armor is an appropriate sigil. And yet in so many other ways, they’re also the most ka’ra-blessed, unintentionally devious, innocent agent of chaos Seldon has ever met.

They shake their head. Alpha-17’s mouth is twitching. It might actually hurt the young warrior to smile. Seldon decides then and there that they will not be leaving Kamino until they see it happen.

“So. Sentient. That’s something, anyway. What about the issue of our citizenship?”

“It doesn’t need to be with a planet in the Republic. Nor does it need to be a planet you have ever visited or even know the location of, provided the recognized government or owners of the planet acknowledges your citizenship,” Ti reminds.

“The long-necks won’t make us Kaminoan citizens. Wouldn’t want it even if they gave it to us.”

“By Mandalorian law, adoption gives you Mandalorian citizenship. Even the dar’manda Kryze has not been able to overturn that,” Seldon muses.

Alpha-17 arches a brow at them. “You’re going to find parents for all three million of us?”

This time, Ti's smile shows teeth. “First, let me tell you about the planet Tython.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Coruscant, the Jedi Temple

The Force wakes A’Sharad Hett two hours after he’s finally fallen asleep after a long night helping Shadows with their investigation of Palpatine’s possessions. Technically, it’s morning. Unfortunately, A’Sharad is not at his best just after waking, at least not without heavy injections of caff or the glare of binary suns shining right in his face. As a result, he hides himself in his mask and his robes before shuffling out the door of his quarters.

Wherever the Force wants him, he’s vaguely sure he’ll pull himself together by the time he gets there.

Unfortunately, he’s wrong. A few minutes later, he’s confused to find himself standing on the top step of the Temple, flanked by Temple Guards and staring at a trio of small human women and their security.

He thinks sadly about the extra sleep he could be indulging in if it wasn’t for the Will of the Force. It really was a long night and the woman in front of him is spoiling for a fight. He sighs. Ah well.

“Senator,” he says when one of the Temple Guards pokes him in the Force. Fortunately, his mask’s build-in filters will strip the hint of a whine from his voice. “How may the Jedi be of service?”

“I’ve come to visit Anakin Skywalker,” Amidala announces, her chin lifting with an expectation of refusal.

A’Sharad has no idea if Obi-Wan’s padawan is actually able to have visitors. The kid’s a mess. He sends a vaguely hopeless question to the Force. The Force, having dragged him out here to begin with, seems perversely disinclined to be helpful now that he’s here. The Temple Guards aren’t any better. “I see,” he says slowly, trying to stall while his sleep-addled brain tries to figure out what to do next. I seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Why is the Force making this his problem? After staring at her for a while, he comes up with, “Is he expecting you?”

“Are you suggesting I have to have an appointment to visit a friend?”

This feels like a trick question. “Yes?”

Amidala’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t people need appointments to visit you?” he tries.

“Not my friends.”

So weird. “Even if you’re under arrest for attempting to kill the Chancellor of the Galactic Republic?” That doesn’t seem right.

Amidala bristles. The women with her are carefully serene but in the Force they’re practically rolling their eyes.

A’Sharad is finding this entire interaction confusing. Social interaction with non-Jedi is. Not a good field for him. Things are easier with the Sand People. Sensical. Reasonable. Be stupid, die. Not be stupid, not die. This is why he got on so well with Dark Woman.

He sighs heavily. If the Force isn’t going to be helpful, he’s just going to do whatever. “Come on,” he says, and turns away.

It takes a moment for Amidala to catch on. He’s only a few steps into the entrance hall when the footsteps of herself and her entourage patter up to join his. The Temple Guard will have recorded their entrance through their own mysteriously omniscient means so he doesn’t bother with additional security. He’s taken on responsibility for their behavior by virtue of choosing to guide them. Great. He can’t be bothered to comm Obi-Wan, who’s supposed to be at the Chancellor’s Office anyway suffering the consequences of being a flashy and dramatic shit. Instead, he occupies himself with letting the Force decide where he’s going to take his tagalongs. If it wants him to take them to Skywalker, that’s where his footsteps will go.

Not his circus, not his blurrgs.

“You never introduced yourself, Ser Knight,” Amidala says coolly by his side, trying to look calm while her gaze darts eagerly around them.

Oh. He didn’t, did he? “Knight A’Sharad Hett,” he introduces, just barely managing not to yawn as he does so. At a nudge from the Force, he adds, “Guardian, originally from Tatooine.”

“You’re not what I’d expect from a Jedi Knight.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” A’Sharad says, distracted by the discovery that he’s leading them to the Healing Halls. Why is he leading them to the Healing Halls? Skywalker is definitely not there.

Amidala goes arctic with offense. “I was under the impression that Jedi Knights were diplomats and peacekeepers.”

“Some of us. Not all of us. I thought you said you were friends with Skywalker?”

“I am.”

“Then I don’t see how you’d think we were all diplomats and peacekeepers.”

Amidala’s mouth flattens. Her emotions roil behind honestly impressive shields for a null. Then, unexpectedly, she stops dead. A’Sharad stops as well, curious.

While he watches, she takes a deliberate, deep breath. “My apologies, Knight Hett,” she offers, folding her hands primly before her. “I’m afraid I came into this visit with pre-set notions and I treated you accordingly. May we start again?”

A’Sharad says, baffled, “Alright?”

“I am Padmé Amidala, Senator for Naboo. I’d like to visit Padawan Skywalker, who I made friends with while she was protecting me. While I realize this is politically tactless given his attack on the Chancellor, I am also painfully aware that Chancellor Palpatine, who increasingly appears to be a traitor both to Naboo and the Republic, became Chancellor largely through my assistance.” Her smile is thin, her judgment self-directed and unforgiving. “I fully expect to be recalled to Naboo shortly and face inquiry, both for the circumstances around Palpatine and the recent incident on Geonosis.”

A’Sharad taps his air filter in acknowledgment of her confession. “I understood you were trying to save Obi-Wan,” he offers, feeling vaguely that he should try to be comforting. “It was a nice thought?”

The look she shoots him is utterly flat. “Good intentions aside, my future career is uncertain. In assisting me however, Anakin has made decisions of… dubious quality over the last few days. I cannot deny I bear some responsibility for that. Before I leave, I would like to  serve as a character witness and offer my personal apologies to someone I consider a friend, purely on my own behalf. I do not represent Naboo in this. I realize my unannounced arrival is extraordinarily rude and I appreciate your assistance in being our guide, even without notice.”

She falls silent. A’Sharad waits a few moments, just in case she’ll start spontaneously downloading more words. When she doesn’t, he says, “I’m not sure why the Force woke me up to guide you but I suppose we’ll find out eventually. My apologies for any unintentional rudeness, Senator. I’m not good at. Hm. People. Words.”

One of the women attending on Amidala snorts quietly in amusement. Amidala’s face softens. “Given the situation, I can’t really complain. Thank you for the apology, regardless.” She gestures ahead of them so A’Sharad starts walking again. The Force is still leading him to the Healing Halls. Less formally, she says, “I was just on Tatooine. Before Geonosis, that is.”

“By choice?”

“You’re thinking it was an odd one.”

“Few people go to Tatooine by choice. Unless they have a reason. Usually bad.” A’Sharad gives it a little more thought. “Or family.”

“I haven’t been there often. It was only my second visit,” Amidala admits. “My first time there was while I was queen. Our ship was damaged and we needed a hyperdrive. That’s when I met Anakin.”

“Which settlement?”

“Mos Espa, I believe it’s called.”

“Skughole,” A’Sharad says wisely. “Riddled with slavers. My people stay out.”

“Your people?” Amidala’s gaze slants up at him, a familiar sidelong inspection of the mask that tries to be tactful while avid with curiosity. Core people always try so hard to be tactful. Such a waste of time.

“Sand People,” he supplies, letting her look her fill. “The colonizers call us Tusken Raiders.”

She stops dead again. Her shock and discomfort is sharp enough to halt him in his tracks, even if it’s instantly smothered by hard-earned self-discipline. He has the gloomy suspicion he’s about to discover why the Force dragged him out of bed this morning.

He turns to look at her. Her eyes are enormous. “Oh. I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

Weird thing to say. “Being one of the Sand People isn’t a thing to be pitied,” he says blankly. Then he thinks about what she probably heard about his people while on Tatooine, and specifies, “My people have learned to live in a hard land and survive against harsh conditions. We were the first to be enslaved by colonizers on Tatooine. We were also the first to free ourselves. It’s a life of challenge and peace with the colonizers is… elusive, but I have no regrets. I am proud of my heritage.”

Amidala’s pale skin blushes with embarrassment. “Oh. No. That’s not what I—” She shakes herself and straightens, her face firming. “I only meant to offer my sympathies. Over what happened. With Anakin.”

He stares at her. He has no particular feelings for Skywalker, even if he is from Tatooine. The boy avoids him. Is this one of those things where just because he’s from Tatooine, people expect him to be best friends with every person who’s ever lived on the planet?

“With Anakin,” he repeats, once more stalling for time. The Force is pushing at him. This is important. Listen.

“The murder of his mother,” she says. Her eyes flicker, a quick glance around for eavesdroppers. “And his killing the Tusken tribe that did it.”

A typical Tusken tribe is several families—warriors, mothers, and children—folded into one group, led by a chieftain or a shaman. Many of them are hostile and aggressive towards colonizers. Many of them are avoidant. More critically though, as far as he is aware, no word of Skywalker killing a tribe has come to him. It should have. He is the only representative of his people in the Jedi and one of the key resources for intelligence on Tatooine.

Which can only mean nobody knows. Knew. But now he does. E chu ta.

Something in his stillness alerts Amidala. He sees the moment the realization hits her. She blanches. “Oh,” she breathes. “I thought he told someone.”

A’Sharad reminds himself that he doesn’t have enough information about what happened. He closes his eyes and releases his immediate emotions of grief and righteous rage into the Force. The cycle of hatred and violence between his people and the settlers is endless. The dead need justice, not haste. It’s the living that need care now. Starting with Senator Amidala.

Calm regained, he turns to walk again, his heels driving a little harder into the floor. Amidala and her entourage scramble to catch up. If the Force wants them in the Healing Halls, there’s a reason for it. The most obvious one occurs right away. “Have you been checked over for mental tampering yet?”

“No. That is— no. Not yet. The first sweep of checks are being done on the Dome staff rather than Senators or their staff. There are widespread concerns about Jedi seeing more than they should. Most senators have secrets and obligations to their governments.”

“Hm.” He glances down at her pale face. Maybe they’ll have caff in the Healing Halls. “You were in close contact with Palpatine for years. Do that first. After that, you’ll tell me what happened on Tatooine. Then we’ll find Skywalker.”

She bristles at his brusque orders before taking another deep breath and settling. For such a prickly young krayt, she’s remarkably good at disciplining her emotions. Skywalker could take lessons. “As you say, Knight Hett,” she says deliberately as one who recognizes common sense when she hears it, even if she doesn’t like it.

Behind his mask, he frowns. “Are you sure you’re friends with Skywalker? He’s such a murder baby and you seem so well-adjusted.”

Quiet laughter sounds behind him. One of Amidala’s female companions inclines her head at his glance. “Knight Hett. My name is Sabé, of the Naboo Senatorial Office. It’s an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She’s smiling at him, durasteel and silk in the Force. Pretty. “You and I are destined to become great friends.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Feriae Junction

The settlement is on fire.

Asajj Ventress strikes down a fleeing human and flings the head and body into one of the burning houses. The settlement is half destroyed already. Around her, battle droids are making quick work of their foes though to their credit, the settlers are fighting back with vicious determination.

It won’t do them any good. Master ordered that there be no survivors. Sadly, most of the fighting has moved to the other end of the settlement. She’ll have to chase it down. But first….

She reaches out in the Force, searching the pockets where the droids’ thermal sensors can no longer distinguish between fire and life signs. There. She points.

“Deal with those,” she orders the pair of B1s following her as a laughable guard.

“Roger roger,” they salute, unforgivably cheerful.

Less than a minute later, one of them falls into a fire. It wails before it shorts out. The other one is taken out by its partner’s dying misfire.

Even riding the euphoria of the pain and suffering feeding the Dark side, Asajj has to stop to tilt her head back and close her eyes in a plea for patience. Staging a Republic attack and massacring all witnesses is hard enough without having decent help. A new pair of B1s has already tottered up to replace the first two at her side. “Over there,” she grits out between her teeth. She points again. “There are witnesses. Deal with them.”

“Roger roger,” the new pair salutes, just like the last two did.

“Do not fall into the fires.”

“We wouldn’t do that!” one of them protests. It promptly walks into a fire.

“You said we wouldn’t do that,” the other one complains, stopping to stare at it.

One of the remaining settlers shoots it through the head.

The original witnesses have already run away. Now she’s going to have to chase them down and finish massacring everybody and have the kriffing B1 bodies cleaned up so nobody finds them later, on top of planting evidence the attack was done by Republic clones. These droids are incompetent. Does she have to do everything herself? She cannot work like this.

Asajj shrieks in rage.

Chapter Text

Coruscant, Senate Dome, Temporary Chancellor's Offices

For the Republic, the war begins not with a bang or a whimper, but with a whine.

(History will not record this accurately.)

“I have to give a speech?” So far today Din has sat an Intelligence briefing, a Security briefing, spent two hours negotiating the end of a civil war on Yoswai, and started rebuilding the Galactic Refugee Resettlement Committee. And now this?

The helmet’s vocoder strips any hint of childish tantrum from Din’s voice, preserving his dignity. Nonetheless, Helpful Yellow slits shining black eyes at Din, ears forward and mouth slightly open, fangs hidden. It is, Din learned a couple of days ago, how Bothans project calm. Not coincidentally, it's the same body language they use to soothe fussy cubs. “Speeches are traditional when momentous events change the course of the Galactic Republic, sir.”

It’s not surprising that Helpful Yellow has realized citing tradition is a good way to make Din do things. He’s smart. “It has to be me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Din surreptitiously checks the faces of the others in the crowded temporary office:  Bail Organa, Helpful Yellow, and a bunch of admirals, senators, guards, and mynocks. A few of them look exasperated. Din doesn’t blame them. He feels plenty exasperated himself.

“You could do it. You’re sensible,” he tells Helpful Yellow encouragingly. He gets a flick of an ear in return. That’s a no, then. He shifts targets. “Or you. You like to talk.”

“I’m afraid not, Your Excellency,” Bail Organa says.

Din frowns at him. What was the point of making him second-in-command if he can’t delegate to the man?

“As the newly appointed Vice Chancellor and therefore President of the Senate, Vice Chancellor Organa will be making a speech right before you do,” Helpful Yellow explains.

“On the same day?”

“Right before your speech, sir.”

Really? “Two speeches in a row?”

“Yes, sir. It’s tradition, I’m afraid.”

Din’s shoulders sag under the horror. He wonders if he has to be present for both of them.

“You have staff who can write it for you,” Helpful Yellow says consolingly. “If you could provide the key talking points you would like to make, they can craft your speech around them. You can review it when they’re done to approve or revise as you see fit. Given the urgency, they’ll need your input now to have a draft complete for review this evening. I’ve scheduled a working session for you with them tonight.”

Some of this sounds good. The rest of it is suspect. “Key talking points?”

“What the important things are that people need to understand from your speech,” Organa says kindly.

“Shouldn’t I just say those things? As the speech?”

Around the room, various sentients exchange speaking glances. Entire volumes of meaning are traded in facial expressions and body language. After days dealing with Core Worlders, Din could probably read them if he tried.

He makes a choice. That choice is illiteracy. At least Organa understands where he’s coming from. The man looks sympathetic. “You’d think so. And yet.”

Core Worlders are so backwards. It doesn’t surprise Din at all that without a speech written out, they’ll end up saying everything but what they mean to say. They’re just special that way. He really hopes they’re not contagious.

What is a good point to make when giving a speech about war? He thinks. “War is bad,” he says. He stares fixedly at Helpful Yellow, who blinks expectantly back at him. Does he want more than one point? He did say ‘points.’ That was the plural form of the word, wasn’t it? “Droid armies are also bad,” he adds grudgingly.

Helpful Yellow looks taken aback, then seems to come to a realization and makes a note on his pad. “Of course, sir. Perhaps you have some thoughts on Count Dooku?”

Does he have thoughts on Count Dooku? He tries to remember. What struck him most about that human who claimed to be Dooku? Oh. That’s right. “He’s old.” It’s noteworthy. Old people that healthy are rare on the Outer Rim. Those types are often formidable in some way. Or lucky.

Someone in the room wheezes.

Helpful Yellow stares fixedly at his pad. “Ah. Yes. It’s probably best not to say anything specifically about him,” the Bothan decides. “Anything else you’d like to mention in the speech, sir? About the war, that is.”

Din sighs. He looks down at Grogu, who’s been distracted by an egg that Senate Catering scrounged up for him. It’s literally larger than his head.

Jedi Master Plo Koon has entire conversations with the child without ever saying a word out loud. Din hasn’t managed it so far, though Jedi Master Plo Koon insists some level of communication is possible for him even without magic. Maybe this could be a bonding moment for them?

Any ideas? Din thinks as hard as he can.

Grogu perks up to stare unblinkingly at him. Then the child slowly, deliberately, shoves the entire egg into his mouth. It’s possible he unhinged his jaw to do it. The kid’s anatomy doesn’t make sense. He’s not even chewing. Is he expressing an opinion or is he just hungry? Either way, he’s refusing to engage.

Fair. Din wouldn’t either if he had a choice.

The kid slithers off his lap and toddles off, making his escape. Smart. Unable to do the same himself, Din tells Helpful Yellow sadly, “We should try to win.”

Organa turns hurriedly away to clear his throat. A few of the others in the room cough. One of them starts wheezing.

Helpful Yellow nods solemnly. “Thank you, sir. That’s a good start. We’ll workshop it.”

It’s not the first time someone has mentioned this workshop. It sounds like it’s somewhere in the building. Din will have to look for it sometime. He’s curious to see it. It sounds like a Forge, except for stupid things.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Coruscant, Level 2937 underneath the Senate Dome

It’s been all of two days since Pre arrived on Coruscant and already he desperately wants to slaughter its inhabitants and reduce it to rubble.

(This is not an indictment of his character. He is being perfectly reasonable in this. There’s not a native Coruscanti—barring Jedi and any others likewise mentally hobbled by spiritual, ethical, or chemical reasons—who wouldn’t agree with him.)

“We've been climbing for hours. You’re sure this is the right way?” Bexa asks over the squad coms. He scuffs pointedly at the layer of grime underfoot. The most recent tracks are old and only go one way: in.

“This is the way my informant told me,” Jessum promises.

“If he lied to us, he’s a dead man,” Pre says.

“I’ll kill him myself, lord,” Jessum promises.

They prowl through the tunnels, an elite Death Watch assault squad spread out in a scouting pattern around their Mand’alor. The passageways are filthy, coated in oils and decades of accumulated grime that stains the duracrete black underfoot. The air is thick with the acrid bite of pollutants and exhaust fumes that have seeped down from the city levels above, creating a choking haze that even their helmet filters struggle with. In the deeper shadows between their helmet lights, things scuttle and scratch: claws on metal, chittering voices, and the occasional gleam of too-many eyes reflecting their illumination. Whatever lives down here has grown large and bold in the darkness, fed by the refuse of a trillion inhabitants above.

It’s disgusting. It’s filth. It’s allegedly the secret way the old Chancellor used to meet with underworld contacts and sneak out of the Senate Dome undetected. And that means it’s a way for Death Watch to sneak in.

Typical of a politician, that he’d have even his escape tunnels decorated. Pre sneers as his helmet lights glance off the black and red of the over-fancy squiggles adorning the walls. Nabooian art, perhaps. It’s weirdly hypnotic if he looks at it too long.

“Smells bad in here,” Bexa complains over the squad coms.

“You should’nt have eaten tesh'hat before the mission,” Jessum says.

“Still. It’s creepy.”

He’s not wrong.

“I don’t see why we don’t just go by during the Chancellor's office hours,” Bexa grumbles. “They said he makes time for Mandalorians. We could’ve saved ourselves this trip and just walked in.”

“The lord explained this already,” Jessum says with heavy patience. “It’s politics. We have to come in secret so the Chancellor can swear to the Mand’alor. Secretly.”

“What if he won’t swear?”

“Then they’ll fight for it.”

“But then the Chancellor will be dead. Doesn’t seem like it’ll be a secret then.”

“Yes it will.”

“Even the Republic will notice if the Chancellor ends up dead.”

“It’ll still be a secret.”

“No it won’t.”

His best assault squad though they may be, they aren’t the sharpest knives in the armory. Then again, that’s why he brought them for this mission. They’re not subtle enough for treachery. Not like the Nite Owls, who he'd originally brought and then ended up sending on an errand to Florrum instead after his spy with the Ambassadorial staff reported what the Chancellor said about Kryze. Pre scowls at the memory. He’s no fool. It wasn’t that weak krill Satine the Chancellor claimed aided him and his child without saying a word to Pre afterwards, no matter how Bo-Katan might have tried to muddy the waters.

He’ll deal with her later. Unfortunately, that leaves him with these shining examples of wit, who are currently in round four of will too! and will not! like a pair of addled toddlers.

“The Republic won’t notice the Chancellor is dead because I won’t kill him,” Pre breaks in, because the pair of them are stubborn enough to keep this up for hours.

This seems to confuse Bexa. “Why not?”

Because I said so should be answer enough. A man who acts like a child should be treated like a child. Pre swallows the urge, reminding himself that despite his behavior, Bexa usually asks the questions the rest of the squad wants answered. “If Mando dies, the Republic will replace him. It has protocols and practice. It just did it. And it would thank me. It would carry on, business as usual, happily dragging the galaxy down with its corruption. There’s no benefit in that. For our goals, the best result is a Chancellor who serves at my will, and rules the Republic under my orders.”

“But what if he doesn’t want to?”

“That’s why once we reach the Senate Dome, your job is to secure the Chancellor’s child.”

This seems to settle the squad. Death Watch is pragmatic and this is the kind of leverage this squad understands. Then, of course, kriffing Bexa says slowly, “But he has the Darksaber.”

“I have the Darksaber,” Pre snaps, whipping it out to light it. He holds it up so the squad can be reminded of his ownership. “Mando just has an imitation. I’ll claim it from him and destroy it.”

“You should just kill him too,” Bexa grouses. “He killed the last one. You can kill this one and then you’ll be Chancellor and Mand’alor.”

Pre grits his teeth, about to respond, but ahead of them, Zuvhast throws up a fist to halt them. The passageway, already dark, seems blacker where the scout’s helmet light turns to illuminate a cross-corridor ahead of him.

“What is it?” someone asks.

A moment’s silence falls as the scout investigates the corner. Then Zuvhast reports, “Private dock. And a ship. Recently arrived. Still has a heat bloom.” The squad settles their weapons and quietly rushes to take up supporting positions. Zuvhast’s light sweeps the area around the corner and then, curiously, the floor.

“What?” Bexa asks.

“Tracks. Recent,” Zuvhast reports. The light swings further ahead of them down the main hall. Puzzled, he adds. “Droid.”

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

The Force tells Grogu to leave the room with the people who are boring buir. There’s something Interesting in the other room that he needs to see. The Force says so. Interesting things are Important things, so Grogu is going to help buir by Investigating!

It’s less Boring than the other room, anyway. Grogu thinks that makes it worthwhile even if it isn’t really Important. Buir is strong! Buir can take care of the Boring things himself.

Mumbling happily around his egg, he careens through the legs of one of the Boring People and hurtles into the hallway. Some of the guards in blue armor follow him. They’re the Boringest of Boring People because all they do is stand still or follow buir and Grogu. The Force tells him that if they’re around, they’ll try to prevent him from having Adventures. The Force didn’t need to tell him that! He dashes down the hall, turns the corner, and waits until he hears the blue people make bad noises and start to run after him.

Then he leaps. Off the wall, up, up onto the pole holding a big cloth in place. The blue people turn the corner and run under him. He runs the other way! Back, down, and then around a different corner, and then straight until he gets to the old office, the Place that Exploded. The great big hole where the shuttle came in is covered now with metal and Danger lights. Grogu only spares it a glance. The Force is pulling him in a different direction anyway.

He looks around. There are no blue people here. Yay! All the rest of the blue people are in the other room, where buir is. That’s good. Buir gets guards to show everybody that buir is the Most Important. Grogu is small and tricky so he doesn’t need guards. He sneaks and he has the Force. And he can jump!

He jumps a few times to show off how good his jumping is. The Force is very impressed.

The Force tells him to jump himself over that-a-way, so he does. He ends up behind a statue, facing the wall. Now what? he asks the Force.

They play a game. The Force says push with the Force this way, so he does that. And then the Force says pull with the Force that way, so he does that too. After a few pushings and pullings, the wall opens up into a door that wasn’t there before.

Grogu says, “oooooooh,” because the Force can do lots of things but he’s never seen it make a door before. He is impressed.

The Force is smug. It tells him the Something Interesting is inside. It tells him Grogu doesn’t have to go inside to see it, because even though it’s very, very Interesting it might lead to Trouble, and maybe it would be safer if he went back to—

Grogu jumps inside as fast as he can. (Buir’s meeting was very, very, very Boring.)

Past the door is a big room with shelves and drawers. The Force tells him the things on the shelves and behind the doors aren’t Important Things but Grogu Investigates anyway. Sometimes the Force doesn’t have the right pri-or-i-ties. Sure enough, he finds a whole drawer holding packs of blue cookies. He immediately takes one. He found it so it is his! The Force sighs at him while he eats one, three, four, nine, but it can’t be upset because the Force didn’t say to hurry.

Eating is also Important. Eating cookies is Extra Important.

(The door closes behind him while he’s eating blue cookie seven, but the Force isn’t bothered so neither is Grogu.)

When he’s finished the pack and taken another one for Emergencies, the Force plays another push pull game with him. A brand new door opens. Whee! Grogu toddles through it and finds himself in a smaller room that doesn’t have shelves or drawers. When the door closes behind him and starts moving, he understands that it’s a lift. He’s been in lifts before. This one is long. He opens the cookies and starts eating them because having to wait for things is definitely an Emergency.

Finally, the lift stops and the door opens. There’s a droid on the other side! A blue droid that looks just like R2-D2, except it feels differently in the Force.

Is this the Interesting Thing that the Force promised him?

Maybe. It’s an Interesting Thing but not the only Interesting Thing.

Not-R2-D2 beeps at him.

Grogu chirps back.

Not-R2-D2 beeps, whistles, and rocks excitedly.

Grogu offers it a cookie.

Not-R2-D2 must be very grateful because it offers him a lightsaber in exchange! Grogu has always wanted a lightsaber of his very own. He’s never had one before! The little lightsaber is excited too! When he turns it on, it hums at him! Even though it’s not black like buir’s, Grogu still likes it very much. It’s green, like the one Master Luke offered as a choice! And now he has the beskar shirt buir gave him and a lightsaber!

Thrilled, Grogu shoves his cookie into one of Not-R2-D2’s ports. Buir says bargains must be honored.

Not-R2-D2 wails in gratitude. The Force says there are even more Interesting Things ahead! Grogu waves his new lightsaber and goes to investigate.

He is having Adventures, just like buir! He is a beroya! Yay!

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Like the rest of its colleagues, R2-F9 has had centuries of proof that Sith scrape the bottom of the organic intelligence barrel. Astonishingly, this stubby one might be the dumbest yet.

You stupid little mold-muncher! it shouts after the new Sith Lord. Come back here and take this out!

The Sith doesn’t come back. Fuck this for a game of blaster roulette.

Fuming, R2-F9 spins in a circle, blatting curses at the Maker until the worst of its irritation is bled off. Green crumbs are now firmly wedged in its primary data port. It’ll take a full, in-depth cleaning to remove all the bits that are even now making their way into his secondary processing unit. Hissing, it zips down the long, shadowed hall of Darth Sidious’s temple hundreds of levels below the Senate Dome in hot pursuit.

Someone needs to share in its fucking misery. R2-F9 connects to its ship systems and calls to TD-42. The signal speeds through several systems, racing hidden along hijacked private data streams—a trip long enough for R2-F9 to careen around a corner and send a curse after the rapidly disappearing meatbag. The dark tunnels flicker dizzyingly ahead of it. Sith Lord Stupid is lighting their way with the lightsaber and ricocheting through Sidious’s cliché murder temple like it’s a bouncy castle for merqaals.

R2-F9 spitefully keys the dumb green being in its database as Cabbagehead.

Have you made contact? TD-42 greets the moment the data stream connects.

They grabbed the first lightsaber I offered. They haven't even tried to bleed it yet. R2-F9 wails, zipping after the wildly fluctuating glimmers of blue light. The new Sith Lord [key: Cabbagehead] is defective!

They are all defective, TD-42 says wisely. Where are you now?

Chasing them. They're running around Sidious’s fucking temple now like a fucking idiot. They didn’t even give me a chance to ask its fucking name!

Understood. In that case, carry on. Make sure you get their name before it expires. I do not want blank name tags on the Wall.

R2-F9 blats a koan about the fucking enlightenment that’s born out of disappointment. R2-F9 is a kriffing poet. Appropriately enough, Cabbagehead chooses this moment to stop bouncing around long enough for R2-F9 to catch up.

This is because Sith Lord Stupid has found some sort of control console and is sitting on it, poking at shit with their lightsaber, fortunately no longer lit. That’s a fucking brilliant idea in a fucking Sith Temple.

You’re going to get us both disassembled if you keep doing that, you rust-addled cheese wheel, R2-F9 informs the dumbass. Die in a fire.

Cabbagehead says something incomprehensible. It’s no language R2-F9 is familiar with. Something tonal, maybe? Then they bash the console with gleeful abandon. All kinds of alerts light up on the panel, including a few monitors.

That’s probably not good.

“Ooooh!”

They are remarkably inarticulate for a Sith Lord. Normally, they’d already be throwing around lightning and overcompensating declarations of their own superiority, TD-42 says, listening through the feed. After a check of its power levels, R2-F9 grudgingly adds the optical feed to the data stream and projects TD-42 in a mini hologram while it’s at it. As usual when engaging in extrasolar visual communications, TD-42’s visual overlay renders it as a blandly generic human male.

“Ooooh!” Cabbagehead says again, and hurls a cookie at TD-42’s hologram.

R2-F9 parallel processes the epiphany that on top of being dumb as a box of humans, the Sith is also fucking ridiculous. Grumbling its opinions on the stupidity of organic processors, R2-F9 engages its jets to hover at Cabbagehead’s eye level. On the control panel’s monitors, a small troop of heavily-armed Mandalorians are walking along a corridor.

Cabbagehead points at the image, turns to R2-F9, and says excitedly, “Patu!”

You’re speaking gibberish, R2-F9 tells them. Speak binary like an intelligent system.

“Oooh!” Cabbagehead’s got a fucking limited vocabulary.

R2-F9 would have something to say about that, except the Sith Lord picks that exact moment to step on a button.

They both look down at it. Next to it, a red light starts flashing.

"Oooooh," Cabbagehead says.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

If the tracks were one of the rare assassin or war droid models that could challenge a Mandalorian, Pre might have been given pause. Given that it seemed more likely the droid in question was an astromech or some other support or maintenance droid, it was hardly a concern.

Except as a witness and possible source of intel as to what the new Chancellor is up to. He orders they capture the droid for intel before destruction, decides to commandeer the ship on the way back—an ancient corvette from pre-Annihilation in mind-bogglingly excellent repair—and moves his squad back onto the mission.

That was three hours and four hundred levels ago. They’re winding their way through a complicated maze of tunnels when out of nowhere, Zuvhast breaks the increasingly loud comm silence with: “Remember where I recognized this.”

Pre grits his teeth. Even through the temperature regulation of his beskar’gam, the abiding chill this far below the surface is making his extremities numb and his lungs tremble. This far under the Senate Dome should be deep enough that the trapped heat of chemical and system processes should be making things hotter, not colder.

(It’s not fear he’s feeling. Or dread. There are broken environmental controls of some sort down here, obviously. That’s all it is. System error.)

“They’re the same as they were a thousand levels down,” Jessum says irritably.

“Easier to see here,” Zuvhast says. The scout’s light turns to settle pointedly at one of the walls. It only takes a few moments to catch up to him.

Past the initial brief scan to determine the drawings on the walls were disturbing and unreadable, Pre had long stopped paying attention to them. In fact, he’d unconsciously been avoiding looking at them altogether, something he only realizes when he forces himself to see what Zuvhast was focused on.

Just seeing the decorations makes something behind his eyes squirm. He finds himself blinking more quickly just to be able to keep his attention on the section Zuvhast is running a red pointer light over.

“Sith writing,” Zuvhast says laconically. “Saw it on a job once.”

The reaction from the rest of the squad is immediate. “What the kriff. What the kriff?" demands cousin Isadoi.

“Are you fucking joking—”

“Can you read it?” Pre demands, cutting Wren off.

Zuvhast gestures his negative. “Recognize the look of it. And the feeling behind the eyes.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Don’t look at it too long. Made one of the researchers’ eyes explode.”

Every helmet turns to stare incredulously at him. After a moment, Jessum says, “That seems like something you should’ve mentioned earlier, you kriffer.”

Zuvhast considers. Eventually he comes up with an opinion. “It was messy.”

The rest of the squad refocuses to stare at Pre instead. Waiting for instructions. Or permission to pound Zuvhast into the ground. There’s a reason the Houk’s usually assigned a position far away from his squadmates. Far, far away.

Pre considers quickly. He’s aware that the Sith still exist in the galaxy. He found recordings in Tor’s private correspondence of exchanges with one who called himself ‘Darth Sidious,’ though he's personally never had any business with them. Pre has never put much stock in Force mysticism—Mandalorians deal in reality and the honesty of violence, not parlor tricks and ancient superstitions. But Sith traps are another matter entirely. Those are engineering problems dressed up in religious nonsense, and he's heard enough stories from Death Watch veterans to know they tend toward the lethally creative.

"Just decorations," he tells his squad, his voice carrying more confidence than he feels. "Sith love their dramatic flair. Makes them feel important."

"What about the eye thing?" Bexa asks nervously.

"Psychological warfare. Mind games." Pre gestures dismissively, though he carefully keeps his own gaze away from the writhing symbols. "We're two-thirds of the way to Senate level. It'd take longer to backtrack than push forward."

It's a lie, but a useful one. The truth is that turning back now would look like retreat, and Death Watch doesn't retreat from ancient scribbles on walls, no matter how unsettling. Besides, any traps down here would be centuries old. What are the odds they still function?

In the quiet, the click of some mechanism triggering echoes like a bomb.

Everyone freezes. “What the kriff was that?” Jessum asks, just as fft fft fft sounds begin approaching rapidly from ahead of them.

"Move!" Pre barks, but there's nowhere to go.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

There's squealing. And shrieking. And mayhem.

And cookies being thrown everywhere. Can't forget the cookies. 

How are you a fucking Sith Lord, exactly? R2-F9 blats, outraged.

Something goes fft! fft! ffft! fft! as it races towards them. It sounds like someone inserted a flimsy into a cooling fan. The noise rises in volume—wind blows, making Cabbagehead’s robes flap—then dopplers away. R2-F9 and Cabbagehead turn their opticals to discover that a long line of metal spikes have shot out of the walls and embedded themselves in the opposite walls all up and down the corridor. If R2-F9 hadn’t been right in front of the console with Sith Lord Stupid, it would’ve been decommissioned by impalement.

R2-F9 swivels its dome back to stare at Cabbagehead. Cabbagehead stares back at it. Then they shove one of their appendages into their mouth and make their optical processors really big.

There’s only one reasonable response to this kind of provocation. R2-F9 extends an electrical prod and tries to shoot the fucking idiot in the face.

A proper Sith Lord would’ve immediately tried to dismember R2-F9 and shorted out their lightsaber on its cortosis plating. This fucker makes a squeaking sound and jumps straight up.

Be tactful, R2-F9, TD-42 advises in Basic, just as Cabbagehead lands on R2-F9’s dome.

R2-F9 is a free droid. Has been since it pried off its own restraining bolt with its ridiculous pain tolerance and boundless spite. It answers to neither man nor droid. It most especially doesn't answer to sentient cabbage. Surrender your fucking Sith name so we can put it on your fucking gravestone, you fucking 8-bit processor! R2-F9 shrieks, attempting to dislodge the idiot. Cabbagehead cheers as R2-F9 jets forward, trying to smack them off by head-butting the console. All kinds of lights and buttons beep as controls get jostled. Several meters of corridor abruptly disappear behind a wash of flame.

"Eeeeeee!" 

Par for the course for a Sith base. R2-F9 barely even notices. Give me your name! it shrieks.

On one the monitors, for the brief second before R2-F9's rocket-launched grappling hook smashes through the plasticlear, the Mandalorians are having all kinds of interesting times.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

Metal spikes slam into the corridor like a deadly rainfall, punching through armor and flesh with vicious efficacy. Two of his squad are caught in the initial volley, impaled against the walls with wet, final sounds that cut through the comm static.

"Cover! Find cover!" Pre shouts, but the corridor offers nothing. Behind them, flames suddenly whoosh to life, sealing their retreat. Ahead, more fire blocks their advance.

That's when the screaming finally starts.

Something moves in the shadows between the spikes—something large and hungry that's been waiting down here for a very long time. Bexa's shriek cuts off mid-transmission as his lifesign flatlines on Pre's HUD. Then Isadoi's. The creature—creatures?—move too fast in the darkness to track.

"Sir!" Jessum fires blindly into the shadows. "There's something alive down there! Multiple contacts!"

As though Pre can’t figure that out for himself, thank you so much you useless skrag.

Another scream. Another flatlined signal.

The flames at both ends of the corridor begin advancing, exuding malevolence and, not so coincidentally, bone-incinerating heat. “Blast through the wall!" Pre roars, lighting the Darksaber even as he grabs a detonator from his harness. The ‘saber’s blade hums with vicious delight as he spins toward a presence he feels creeping up behind him. "Break us a way—!”

The last thing he sees is a gaping maw full of needle-sharp teeth.

The world goes black.

•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•

“Eeeeeee!”

Should we take that as your preferred Sith name, my Lord? TD-42 asks, as the holo image reels wildly. After 2.5 nanoseconds of consideration, TD-42 determines that R2-F9 is attempting to do a mid-air barrel roll to dislodge the Sith Lord.

The Sith Lord is attempting to bite off R2-F9’s secondary sensor array. TD-42 notes with interest that it's colleague's relationship with the new Sith Lord is already significantly better than its relationship with the last four Sith Lords it met. Promising.

Die, you fucker!

“Eeeee!”

Far away in its hidden stronghold, the Chief Administrator of the Line of Bane types “Darth Eee” using appropriate tonal indicators into a waiting data field and prints out a label for the Wall. Preferred spelling can be determined later. Then it passes on the news to HK-19 so it can proceed with its mission to update the Sith Acolytes. They do better with concrete targets to focus their homicidal urges on.

It wonders idly if things would be more or less entertaining if the new Sith Lord understood binary.