Chapter 12: Diplomatic Immunity
The air inside the Jedi Council chamber was cool and still, as though even the ventilation refused to disturb the weight of a dozen Masters deep in thought. The faint hum of the hologram projector filled the silence, an insistent reminder that there were questions left unanswered—chief among them: Kamino exists.
Obi-Wan stood in the center of the room, his cloak draped neatly, hands folded. He had long ago learned that posture mattered here. Straight back. Even breathing. Never fidget. He could have been mistaken for one of the chamber's statues if not for the flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes.
"The system was not missing," he concluded, keeping his tone steady. "It was… removed. Deliberately. And I believe I know why. The Kaminoans claim a Jedi—Master Sifo-Dyas, in fact—commissioned a project for the Republic eight years ago. They declined to say what it was."
Murmurs rippled among the Masters. Even Windu's calm mask faltered for a breath. Yoda's ears tilted downward, thoughtful, as though the words themselves carried dust from an old wound.
"Strange… this is," Yoda said at last. "Missing, Sifo-Dyas was. Long before such an order could be placed."
Obi-Wan inclined his head. "Yes, Master. And the Kaminoans claim he was acting on behalf of the Council. They were… surprised we had not come sooner."
There was a heaviness in that silence that followed—an unspoken question no one wanted to answer: Who erased Kamino? And why?
Obi-Wan's composure never slipped, but his mind drifted. Sifo-Dyas, gone for a decade. A vanished world restored to record. Most days, such a mystery would have demanded his full attention. This was not most days. Thanks entirely, to the quiet ping from his datapad the night before—the holonet headline he hadn't expected to see in a lifetime:
DUCHESS SATINE KRYZE TO ADDRESS THE GALACTIC SENATE ON MANDALORE'S DEPARTURE.
The words had lingered like a whisper in the back of his thoughts ever since.
He realized belatedly that Mace Windu was speaking again.
"We'll need to confirm this with the Chancellor," Windu said, his gaze sharp. "The Senate should be informed that a project was commissioned in their name—and of the Jedi's supposed involvement."
"Agreed," Obi-Wan said automatically, the muscle memory of diplomacy saving him before his attention betrayed him.
"Much to uncover there is," Yoda added, his eyes narrowing slightly at Obi-Wan, as if reading more than words. "You have done well, Master Kenobi. Rest, you should."
The meeting adjourned soon after, Masters filing out with the same measured calm they always did—except for Anakin, who, as ever, moved with the faint impatience of a man convinced destiny was waiting outside the door.
When they reached the corridor, Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders. It did not help.
"So…" Anakin began, the grin already forming. "Kamino's a thing now."
"Indeed."
"And Sifo-Dyas commissioned… something."
"So it seems."
Anakin tilted his head, studying him. "You're awfully quiet for someone who just discovered a decade-long mystery. Usually you'd be halfway to giving me a lecture on the importance of research and investigation by now."
Obi-Wan sighed. "I have several concerns, Anakin, but I see no point in discussing them in the hallway."
Anakin smirked. "That's not what's bothering you, though."
"Really?"
"Really." He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The I've-seen-a-ghost-but-I'll-deny-it-to-my-grave look."
Obi-Wan's jaw tightened. "Anakin—"
"Come on, Master," Anakin pressed, grin widening. "Any old flames I should make sure not to bump into? Someone from the Mandalorian delegation, perhaps?"
Obi-Wan turned sharply to face him, the full force of Jedi composure barely masking exasperation. "Anakin."
"I'm just saying," Anakin continued, utterly unrepentant, "you do have a type. Refined, stubborn, probably owns a blaster. Very on-brand for you."
Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've been spending far too much time with Ben." A friendship that he now deeplyregretted helping blossom. Why couldn't he be a sane and responsible sentient-being, and let the children argue for his attention?
"Maybe. But I'm not wrong."
Before Obi-Wan could retort, the chamber doors slid open again behind them. Mace Windu's voice carried out, calm but cutting.
"Master Kenobi, before you go—there's something you should know."
Both men turned as Windu approached, datapad in hand. "The Council has been informed that Duchess Satine Kryze will be speaking before the Senate this afternoon, concerning Mandalore's election to remain independent of the Galactic Republic."
Obi-Wan's throat went dry. He forced a nod. "I… see."
"We think you should attend," Windu continued. "You spent considerable time with her during the civil conflict on Mandalore. You understand her views better than anyone. If there's any indication Mandalore's neutrality is shifting—"
"You'll want to know at once," Obi-Wan finished, quietly.
Windu nodded. "Exactly." He glanced at Anakin. "Skywalker, you may accompany him. Discreetly."
"Of course," Anakin said, already biting back a grin.
When Windu departed, Anakin waited precisely three seconds before turning to his Master. "So," he said cheerfully, "the plot thickens."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "Anakin, I am not—"
"—in denial?"
"—discussing this."
"Right. Sure. You're just going to coincidentally attend a Senate session where your very old friend is giving a passionate speech about peace, and—"
"Enough." Obi-Wan's tone was calm, but his eyes carried the faintest plea. "Anakin, some matters are best left—"
"—unspoken?"
Obi-Wan exhaled. "Precisely."
They walked in silence for a time, the hum of speeders echoing faintly from the open-air balconies. But Anakin's grin refused to fade, and Obi-Wan's attempts at serenity were already failing when a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.
Just beyond the corridor junction, half-hidden behind an ornamental pillar, a familiar mop of reddish hair peeked out. A pair of wide eyes watched him with unrestrained curiosity.
Ben.
The boy ducked back the instant their gazes met—far too quickly to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping.
Anakin noticed the motion and raised a brow. "Is that—?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan said before Anakin could finish.
A beat.
"Should we—?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
Anakin grinned again. "He's definitely plotting something."
"I am well aware," Obi-Wan muttered, rubbing at his temple. "Force help us all."
...
There are three rules to any successful infiltration:
Confidence.
Preparation.
Absolutely no witnesses.
And I, naturally, had none of those.
"Step one," I muttered, jogging down the Temple corridor, cloak flapping behind me like I thought it made me stealthier. "Acquire disguise. Step two: don't get caught. Step three: charm the duchess—my aunt, who's actually my mom, but won't admit that—before Obi-Dad implodes and emotionally represses himself into a coma."
Ahsoka blinked at me from where she was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, montrals twitching in that way that meant she was already done with me. "Ben, you realize that sentence contained at least three crimes, right?"
"Four, technically," I said. "Impersonating a government employee is still a felony."
She groaned. "And yet you said that like it's a selling point."
"Of course it is! We're not doing anything illegal, we're doing something heroic."
"You're trying to sneak into the Senate to meet a politician you're not supposed to know is your mom."
"When you put it like that," I said, "you make it sound weird."
"It is weird."
"Exactly. Which means it's memorable."
Before she could protest, Maris Brood appeared like the little dark-side angel on my shoulder. Even though she wasn't actually that dark. I think the horns, and the hair, and the makeup just made her look a touch evil. Or goth. Her recent sense of dark humor probably didn't do her any favors. A little habit she picked up following me around.
Yet another sign of what an excellent role model I am. What? I'm being serious. It used to be that she was too shy to say a word. Now she's verbally abusive… in a good way.
Today she had her hood up and that smug smirk that could curdle blue milk.
"I heard something about crimes," she said sweetly. "Please tell me I didn't miss the planning phase again."
Ahsoka threw her hands up. "Oh, perfect. The chaos twins are assembling."
"Chaos trio," Maris corrected. "I'm senior co-founder."
Technically, we recruited her last, so if anything, me and Ahsoka are the co-founders. But I'll allow it. If only because I'm terrified of what my ranking in the totem poll will be if I say anything.
I grinned. "Glad you're here. We're breaking into the Senate."
"Finally."
Ahsoka just stared at us both like she was rethinking every friendship decision she'd ever made. "You're both going to get expelled."
"That's fine," I said cheerfully. "We'll start a freelance detective agency. 'Kryze, Tano, and Brood: Galactic Problem Solvers.'"
Maris nodded. "Sounds marketable."
"Terrifying," Ahsoka muttered.
...
Attempt #1: Maintenance Apprentice.
Our first stop was the Temple's supply bay, where I found a mop, a rag, and a jumpsuit about two sizes too big. Ahsoka tried not to laugh when I tripped over the pant legs. Maris didn't bother trying.
"Ben," Ahsoka said, "the mop is taller than you."
"Height is a social construct," I argued, then immediately lost balance and fell into a cleaning droid.
The droid beeped in protest and shot a jet of soapy water at me. I screamed, tripped again, and face-planted into a bucket.
The Force was not with this disguise.
"Mission compromised," Maris deadpanned. "Agent down."
...
Attempt #2: Delivery Boy.
After a quick towel-off, I reemerged in what I swore was a legitimate delivery uniform I'd found in storage. The logo said Galactic Grains, which sounded food-related enough.
Ahsoka looked at me skeptically. "What are you delivering?"
"Diplomatic pizza."
"There's no such thing as diplomatic pizza."
"There is now."
"You're going to get arrested."
"Correction," Maris said, "he's going to get arrested. We're going to laugh."
I ignored them and swaggered toward the Temple exit with a crate full of datapads that I was pretending were "pizza boxes." A Temple guard gave me one look and said, "You're not cleared for off-world transit."
I froze, panicked, then blurted, "Special order for the Senate cafeteria!"
He didn't even answer. Just hit the comm. Within thirty seconds, I was back inside and banned from the launch deck for "creative misuse of property."
...
Attempt #3: Historian's Apprentice.
The third time, I went for subtlety.
Jedi Archives. Robe tucked neatly. Hair brushed. Glasses borrowed from a librarian droid for "academic legitimacy."
I even practiced saying "Hmm" in a scholarly way.
"Hmm."
Ahsoka squinted. "You look like you're about to assign homework."
"Perfect," I said. "That's authority."
Maris plucked a holobook from the shelf. "So what's the cover story this time?"
"Junior archivist," I said proudly. "Assigned to assist with data transfers to the Senate library."
Ahsoka frowned. "That's… actually believable."
"I know."
"Which means it's terrifying."
...
We were halfway through loading datapads onto a repulsor cart when she appeared.
Master Jocasta Nu, the most terrifying librarian in the galaxy. Her footsteps were silent, but somehow her disapproval made a sound.
"Padawan Kryze," she said, tone sharp enough to slice through cortosis. "Explain."
Ahsoka and Maris both took a strategic step back, leaving me alone to face the execution squad.
"Uh… archival field trip?" I tried.
Her gaze traveled from my borrowed glasses to the repulsor cart to the datapads precariously stacked in alphabetical disorder.
She sighed. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that carries centuries of disappointment.
"If you're going to sneak into the Senate," she said finally, "at least cite your sources properly."
I blinked. "Wait. That's not a no?"
"It's an academic supervision," she said crisply. "You may assist with the database transfer under my oversight. Consider this your penance—and your lesson in subtlety."
Ahsoka gaped. "You're actually letting him go?"
"Knowledge," Jocasta said, "is best acquired through experience. Preferably under duress."
Maris grinned. "She's kind of my hero."
...
By the time we reached the Temple hangar, I was sitting smugly atop the data cart in full "junior historian" regalia, complete with a stylus behind one ear.
Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."
"Thank you," I said.
Maris crossed her arms. "This is still going to crash and burn, right?"
"Oh, absolutely," Ahsoka said.
I smiled, glancing at the sky. "Then we're right on schedule."
...
If you've never been inside the Galactic Senate, imagine a thousand overdramatic politicians floating in their own personal bubbles while yelling at each other through holograms. Then imagine it smells faintly of ozone and expensive perfume. That's the vibe.
I sat beside Master Jocasta Nu in the observation booth, trying very hard not to spin the chair. It was one of those fancy swivel kinds, and I could feel it testing my willpower.
Across from us, Ahsoka and Maris sat cross-legged on the floor beside the data cart, pretending to be responsible "assistants." They both looked about as enthralled as banthas at a moisture conference.
"Try to pay attention," Jocasta murmured without looking up from her datapad. "This is history in the making."
"Pretty sure most history in the making involves a lot of people talking about trade routes," I whispered back.
"Correct," she said primly. "And that is why historians, not heroes, preserve civilization."
Hard to argue with that, but I did anyway. "Yeah, but heroes get better theme music."
Ahsoka snorted loud enough to earn us a glare from Jocasta, who went back to note-taking.
That's when the Chancellor's booming voice filled the chamber. "The Senate recognizes the honorable Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore."
And suddenly, my heart forgot how to work.
She stepped into view on the central podium, draped in those flowing silver-blue robes I remembered from holonews broadcasts. Her hair was pinned up with the same elegant precision she used for her words. Every movement radiated control, composure, grace. She looked like the kind of person who could stare down an army and ask them to please reconsider their life choices.
And she was my mother.
Well. Secretly my mother. Officially my aunt. Unofficially the galaxy's most talented denier.
"Citizens of the Republic," she began, voice calm and clear. "Mandalore stands before you not as a threat, but as a testament to peace. We have rejected the path of war… and with that same dignity, we must now reject the Republic. We are formally declaring our independence, as the democracy we hold dear no longer exists in its current form..."
Even through the holoscreens and distance, her conviction hit like a shockwave. She wasn't just speaking; she was commanding belief.
And I felt proud.
Proud in that tight, aching way that only hurts because it's full of love. That's my mom. The woman who made me. The woman who made peace sound braver than battle. Which was pretty fucking impressive considering our culture.
Although, the fact that Mandalore was bailing on the Republic years before The Clone Wars happened was a tad bit alarming? Did I do this? Damn butterfly effect. Now how am I supposed to predict things?
"Hey," Ahsoka whispered beside me. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I lied, eyes still locked on Satine. "Just… watching history in the making."
She gave me a small smile and squeezed my wrist. "Guess that's what historians do, huh?"
"Guess so."
...
Padmé Amidala was the next to stand, her white gown practically glowing under the chamber lights. "The Republic should support Mandalore's autonomy," she declared. "If we truly stand for democracy, we must respect the right of a world to support it in whatever capacity they deem best."
She sounded righteous, confident, and extremely photogenic.
I squinted. How did she do that?
Like, no frizz, no sweat, no visible pores. I'd been in here ten minutes and already looked like I'd fought a small war with humidity.
Okay but seriously, how does everyone in this galaxy have perfect hair? Is it a Force thing? A midichlorian conditioner? Is that what Yoda's been hiding? Selfish little gremlin doesn't even have hair!
Across the chamber, Obi-Wan and Anakin sat in the diplomatic gallery. Obi-Wan looked dignified as always—polished beard, robe folded just so, hands clasped like he was pretending not to feel feelings.
And then there was Anakin.
Oh, Anakin.
The man was supposed to be a Jedi Padawan. Reserved, wise, but he was staring at Senator Amidala like she was the last power converter on Tatooine.
His entire face screamed crush. Like, not even subtle. Not "admiring a colleague" subtle. We're talking full-on romantic holodrama poster levels of yearning.
If this were a stealth mission, he'd have been spotted from orbit.
"Wow," I muttered. "He's subtle as a podracer explosion."
Ahsoka followed my gaze. Her expression went through all five stages of denial in about three seconds. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no."
"Yup," I said. "He's in loooove."
"Don't say it like that."
"He's in—"
"I will Force shove you off this balcony."
Maris snickered from behind us. "What are we looking at?"
"Forbidden romance," I said solemnly.
"Gross."
"Agreed," Ahsoka said, rubbing her temples. "Also potentially treasonous. Seriously, how is he this bad at hiding it?"
"Maybe the Jedi teach emotional suppression but skip 'acting natural in public.'"
Maris tilted her head. "She's older than him, right?"
"By like five years," I whispered. "Met him when he was nine."
Maris blinked. "…And we're sure he's the creepy one?"
"Huh… never thought about it that way, but yeah. Does seem a little suspicious. I mean, a crush is harmless enough, but if it's reciprocal… yeah, I don't know. Feels a little like grooming." I really, really didn't want to think about it that way.
But now it's all I can think about.
Ahsoka made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. "I can't believe you just said that."
"I'm just saying," I said. "Obi-Wan represses, Anakin obsesses, Satine digresses, and somehow I'm the normal one here." I really hate the fact that I couldn't think of an esses for Padmé's grooming. Possesses, perhaps?
Nah, too much alliteration.
"Force help us all," Maris muttered.
...
Down below, the debate intensified. Senators shouted. Droids beeped. Satine stood her ground with calm dignity, parrying accusations like verbal lightsabers.
When the Chancellor called for recess, she bowed slightly and stepped down from the platform. The camera followed her as she exchanged polite words with Padmé and a handful of officials.
Then, for just a moment, the holofeed panned across the Jedi gallery.
And her eyes—those sharp, sapphire-blue eyes—flickered upward. Toward Obi-Wan.
It was less than a second. But I saw it.
Recognition. Warmth. Pain. All of it, packed into a single heartbeat.
Obi-Wan didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
But his hand twitched—just once, like a man reaching for a ghost he'd already let go.
And I understood.
That's what it meant to be a Jedi, right? To feel everything and pretend you didn't.
I looked back down at Satine. She'd already turned away, mask of composure firmly back in place.
"Step three," I murmured to myself, "charm the duchess before Obi-Dad implodes."
Ahsoka sighed. "You're really going through with it?"
"Of course," I said. "Someone's gotta reunite the galaxy's most emotionally constipated couple."
Maris smirked. "And you think you're the guy to do it?"
I flashed my best grin. "Nope. But I am the guy dumb enough to try."
...
The Senate corridors always felt colder than the chambers themselves. The air hummed faintly with repulsorlift noise, a constant reminder that the Republic ran on sound and spectacle both. Obi-Wan walked beside Anakin in contemplative silence, his thoughts lingering on Satine's voice echoing through the hall minutes earlier—composed, brilliant, infuriatingly principled.
It had been years. Too many.
And now, she was here again.
"Master," Anakin drawled, sidling closer, "you've got that look again."
Obi-Wan sighed. "What look, exactly?"
"The brooding knight with unresolved feelings look."
"I do not brood."
Anakin grinned. "You absolutely brood. You've been brooding since she said 'Mandalore must remain independent.' Honestly, if you furrow your brow any deeper, I'll start storing spare tools in there."
Obi-Wan gave him the sort of patient look only years of mentorship could cultivate. "You seem unusually invested in my facial expressions, Anakin. Should I be concerned?"
"Just making conversation."
"Indeed."
The exchange might've continued, had the universe not taken pity on Obi-Wan by presenting the very woman he least wished to encounter under his Padawan's scrutiny.
Satine Kryze stepped out from a side corridor, surrounded by two aides and that effortless aura of calm defiance. Her gown caught the light like the surface of a river—refined, understated, and unmistakably her.
Anakin blinked. "Huh. So that's her."
"Anakin," Obi-Wan warned.
"I'm just saying! She's got presence."
"Anakin."
"Alright, alright, I'll shut up. You're welcome."
Obi-Wan exhaled through his nose, composed himself, and offered a polite bow. "It's good to see you again, my lady."
Satine's lips curved into a faint smile. "It's been far too long, Master Kenobi."
"Too long," he echoed softly.
For a moment, words failed both of them. The hum of droids, the shuffle of aides, and Anakin's visible smirk filled the silence.
"So…" Anakin began, leaning in with that grin that could light a reactor. "Should I leave you two alone or start planning the wedding seating chart?"
Satine's blue eyes narrowed like a blaster sight. "You must be Skywalker."
"Guilty."
"Your reputation precedes you."
"Good things, I hope?"
Her tone turned ice-cool. "Not particularly."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, the very picture of restraint. "Anakin, perhaps you could go… anywhere else."
"Right, right. Give the star-crossed lovers some privacy."
"Anakin."
He was gone before Obi-Wan could scold him further, leaving behind only the faint echo of a chuckle and the distinct impression that this would somehow end up in the Council gossip network within the hour.
Satine tilted her head. "He's rather incorrigible."
"He is," Obi-Wan agreed, smiling despite himself. "But he means well. Most of the time."
"Reminds me of someone," she said, her gaze softening.
"Surely not."
The air between them shifted—lighter for a heartbeat, then heavier with all that had gone unsaid since their last parting. Satine's poise wavered, just enough to show the emotion beneath.
"Tell me," she began quietly, "is he well?"
Obi-Wan blinked. "Anakin?"
She gave a faint, frustrated laugh. "Ben."
Ah. Of course.
The question landed with all the force of memory—the boy's quick wit, his unguarded curiosity, his talent for being exactly where he shouldn't be.
"He's thriving," Obi-Wan said gently. "His instructors speak highly of him. As do his peers, when he isn't getting them into trouble."
"That sounds about right."
"He misses you, I think," Obi-Wan added, then caught himself. "Though I'm sure he would say otherwise."
Her smile was small, fragile around the edges. "And… does he know?"
"About you? Not entirely… though, he certainly has his suspicions." A disturbingly accurate theory, as a matter of fact, given that he's determined with no uncertainty that Obi-Wan was his father.
She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried years of decisions and regrets. "We both know there'd come a day when we told the twins the truth. They more than deserve it."
"And they will have it," Obi-Wan said. "When they're ready. When we're ready."
For a long moment, they simply stood there—two diplomats of different creeds, bound by a secret larger than either could admit aloud.
"I hoped…" she sighed, with a small smile. "I'm not sure what I hoped. That he'd be with you, perhaps? It's been a long time since I've heard from him. It's been ages since…"
Obi-Wan's mouth twitched. "Since he's written to you."
"He's told you?!"
"Not exactly." He confessed. "But I have seen the letters. Only I have seen them. The Order would… It's not precisely forbidden to send messages, but… we don't want our initiates to get the wrong ones, if you take my meaning."
Satine gave him a look that was part gratitude, part scolding. "You always did know how to bend rules when sentiment was involved."
"Don't tell the Council."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He almost smiled again. Almost. "He's grown, Satine. Restless. Sharp. A touch dramatic, if I'm being honest."
"That would be your influence."
"Unfair."
"Accurate."
They'd begun walking again, more by instinct than intent, their words weaving through the tension like old music. And then Obi-Wan, with all the subtlety of a master manipulator disguised as a model Jedi, guided them toward a marble pillar near the outer corridor.
"I wish I could see him," Satine murmured. "Just once, even if he still has to call me his aunt."
"I'm afraid that's difficult," Obi-Wan replied, feigning regret. "The Temple is… particular about Mandalorian visitors around our younglings."
"Of course."
"Still," he continued lightly, checking his wrist comm with exaggerated distraction, "I'm suddenly reminded of a report I must file. Urgently."
She blinked. "Now?"
"Diplomatic matters wait for no one, my lady."
And with that, he gave a courtly half-bow, stepping away—though not before casting a sidelong glance toward the pillar behind which a certain tiny, impatient shadow was trying very hard not to breathe.
Obi-Wan pretended not to see him.
As he turned the corner, he heard it—the faint intake of breath, the tremble of disbelief in Satine's voice.
"Ben?"
"Hi, Aunt Satine," came the sheepish, cracking whisper.
Obi-Wan smiled to himself as he walked off, letting the moment belong to them. For once, he would allow himself a secret—one the Council needn't ever know.
And perhaps, just this once, the galaxy could spare him a happy coincidence.
...
You ever have one of those days where you're too tired to think, but your brain insists on thinking anyway?
That was me.
I was lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling lights that dimmed themselves automatically at curfew, trying not to feel too pleased with myself. I technically did make it into the Senate. That counted as a win, right? Sure, Jocasta had technically "invited" me, but I'd been halfway through Operation Totally Accidental Encounter long before she caught me.
Ahsoka would call that "bending the truth."
I called it "creative interpretation."
"Ben," she said from the next bunk over, "you're still awake."
"Nope."
"Then how are you answering me, Ben?"
I sighed. "Can't a guy talk in his sleep without being judged?"
"You're going to get caught one of these days."
"Only if I stop being awesome first."
She groaned and rolled over, muttering something about meditation practice and impending disaster. Ahsoka had gotten very good at predicting my disasters. It was starting to feel like a Force power.
I grinned up at the ceiling, but it faded fast. The smile, not the ceiling. That was still there.
I was the one starting to fade. Because behind all the jokes and half-baked disguises, the debonair, couldn't care attitude, the thing I couldn't stop thinking about wasn't the Senate or the speech. It was her.
Satine.
My… mother. Or "Aunt Satine," as the official record—and she—preferred.
Force, that word felt weird now. Aunt. Like she just occasionally sent me Life Day cards and polite reminders not to eat unpasteurized jogan cheese. Not like the woman who'd risked everything to keep Korkie and me safe.
When I saw her on that platform today—calm, radiant, commanding the attention of thousands like she was born for it—I felt…
Proud.
And tiny.
Like watching a star from orbit. Beautiful, but way too far to touch.
And when she saw me after—when Obi-Wan accidentally left us alone in that corridor—Force, it all fell apart.
She'd frozen at first, like her mind couldn't quite process it. Then she just… dropped all that duchess poise in one motion and pulled me into the biggest hug in the galaxy.
No speeches. No royal restraint. Just warmth and tears and that familiar perfume that somehow smelled like Mandalorian steel and peace lilies.
I think we both said the same thing at the same time.
"I missed you."
I'm not sure which one of us meant it more.
She asked if I was happy. If I was safe. If the Jedi were treating me well.
I said yes to all three. Mostly true answers, if you didn't count the parts where I regularly broke curfew, trespassed in restricted archives, and emotionally blackmailed Anakin into teaching me advanced saber forms behind Obi-Wan's back.
But seeing her cry—actually cry—did something weird to my insides.
Jedi aren't supposed to form attachments. And yeah, I'd tried to live by that. Tried to be what I was supposed to be. But it turns out, it's really hard to meditate away the part of you that wants to be hugged by your mom.
Even now, lying here, I could still feel it. That ache in my chest that meditation didn't fix. I turned onto my side, to try and get more comfortable. Didn't help. I sighed, "Following the Light Side is hard."
Across the room, Ahsoka mumbled sleepily, "Then stop doing dumb stuff."
"Never."
"Then stop complaining."
"…Also never."
She groaned again and buried her head under the blanket. I smiled.
But it didn't last long.
Because once my mind started spinning, it never stopped. I thought about Satine's speech again—the way she'd stood there and said Mandalore wouldn't take sides. The courage it took to tell a galaxy full of war-hungry senators to shove it, politely.
I admired that.
Not because I agreed with her pacifism—Force, no, I was a sucker for a good lightsaber duel—but because she refused to play by Palpatine's game.
She stood there and said, "No. We'll be our own thing."
And that… hit me.
Because, honestly? I kind of wanted to be like that. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Not some political pawn with a cool robe and a list of commandments. Maybe I was a "third option" kind of guy.
The 'Fuck Both Your Factions' Faction.
I chuckled softly to myself. "Vote Kryze 5 BBY: Peace Through Mild Anarchy."
Ahsoka stirred. "What are you talking about… and what's BBY supposed to stand for?"
"Nothing. Go back to sleep before I start a movement."
"Ben, if you start a movement again, I'm telling Master Obi-Wan."
"That was one time!"
"The Temple fountain still smells like fruit syrup."
"Creative expression!"
"Sticky rebellion."
I threw a pillow at her bunk. She threw it back with twice as much Force-enhanced velocity. Fair play.
Silence fell again, save for the quiet hum of the Temple's night generators.
I stared at the ceiling until it blurred.
So much had happened lately—Kamino, Satine, Obi-Wan being weirdly tense all week, Anakin acting like a lovesick space cadet, and me, stuck somewhere between all of it.
Sometimes I felt like the galaxy was moving faster than I could catch up. Other times, I felt like it was waiting on me to make a move. That's a dangerous feeling for someone like me. Because I willmake a move.
Eventually. Just… maybe not tonight. I'm tired, after all. Could use some sleep.
I'll conquer the galaxy tomorrow.