Chapter 17: It's a Conspiracy!
I'm not saying my plan is flawless, but if you squint hard enough and believe in me the way my original mother used to believe the tax collectors would "just forget" about her late payments, it looks prettyairtight.
The Force is my plan.
And yes — that's exactly how the Force works.
Yoda would agree with me if he weren't so committed to being wrong in front of children.
The trick to sneaking into the Restricted Archives is simple: move with confidence, walk fast enough that people assume you're supposed to be there, and radiate the general aura of someone who's either on a mission or about to cry. Jedi never stop people who look like they're about to cry. Too messy. Too many emotions. Too much paperwork.
I, thankfully, have perfected the face that suggests both "extremely important errand" and "internal crisis." It's one of my many talents.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Maris whispers beside me, or rather slightly behind me, using me as a meat shield against the possibility of authority. "Because this feels like a bad idea. A really bad idea."
I'm pretty sure she was putting most of her concern on. Either that, or she's using Force Gaslighting, because she's been egging me on. Which is why if we get caught, I'm naturally blaming her.
"It's a great idea," I say, confidently, like someone who absolutely did not get this idea fifteen minutes ago while staring at my ceiling and wondering if I could start my own Force sect. "And you're going to be the lookout. Which is extremely easy. Even fun."
"I don't have the right kind of fun," she mutters. "My fun is quiet. Safe. Legal… usually."
"Tonight," I say, sweeping around a corner with the dramatic flourish of someone who definitely practices dramatic flourishes alone, "we broaden your horizons."
"I don't want broader horizons."
"Too late. Horizons: broadened."
She lets out the tiniest, most offended choke of a noise, like a cat who's just discovered someone moved its bowl two inches left. Maris processes change poorly. Maris processes responsibility worse. Which is why she's the perfect lookout — nobody is more alert than a person who desperately wishes not to be involved.
Which I'm mostly sure she is. But, yeah. I have been deceived, before.
We approach the Archive rotunda just as a Knight in tired-looking obi-robes comes down the opposite hall. His hair is uneven, his eyes are red, and his gait is the shuffle of someone who has not slept a full night since the Stark Hyperspace War. Perfect. Exhaustion: the Jedi's natural weakness.
He blinks at us. "The Archive closes in ten minutes."
"It does," I say, nodding gravely, "but Archivist Nu asked me to perform a late-night cross-referencing audit on the comparative cataloging system for niche Force traditions."
The Knight stares at me. I stare back with serene academic authority.
Maris stares at the floor like she's trying to merge with it.
"…That sounds," the Knight says, rubbing his forehead, "like a real thing?"
"It is," I assure him. "Very real. Very necessary. Records have fallen behind on… phrasing conventions. And, ah… cross-indexed cultural context."
What I've just said means absolutely nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.
But this man is exhausted enough that if I told him I was reorganizing the Archives alphabetically by philosophical mood, he would probably thank me.
He nods, gives a vague hand wave that says not my problem, and continues shuffling down the hall. I swear he yawns mid-turn.
Maris watches him leave, then turns to me with the look of a person who cannot believe the universe lets me live without supervision. "Ben."
"Yes?"
"That was nonsense."
"You're welcome."
She doesn't speak again.
I call that victory.
We reach the Archive entrance. The gates are in "polite lockdown" — still open, but glowing faintly with the blue shimmer that says "we will absolutely narc on you." I flash my best "I'm definitely authorized" smile at the first security droid standing by the threshold.
The droid whirs awake.
"STATE YOUR CLEARANCE LEVEL."
"Historical," I tell it, without missing a beat.
The droid pauses. Its eye-sensor flickers. "THAT IS NOT A LEVEL."
"It should be," I say, hands on my hips. "Frankly, I'm surprised it isn't. I'll send in a suggestion form."
"YOU WILL— WAIT. ARE YOU AUTHORIZED TO SUBMIT FORMS?"
"No one's authorized to submit forms," I say. "That's how they get you."
The droid processes this. It clearly shouldn't. But it does. Archive droids have two modes: "impeccably strict" and "deeply confused by human behavior." You want the second one.
"PROCEED," it finally says, stepping aside.
Maris gives me a whisper that was half horrified, and half impressed. "That actually worked?"
"Of course it worked," I whisper back, tapping a panel on the gate so it logs "Skywalker, A." as the user. I've had access to Anakin's account for months. I didn't even have to hack it. I just guessed the password.
It was "Padmé."
No numbers. Only the first letter was capital.
Padmé.
I am living in a galaxy ruled by toddlers.
Once we're inside, the Archive's cool air wraps around me like someone dunked my soul in a glass of ice water. The room hums with soft blue light, holofiles drifting like lazy fireflies between the towering stacks. And somewhere above, Jocasta Nu is probably meditating in her personal quarters, dreaming about catching future generations of Jedi breaking rules.
My plan is to grab what I need before she wakes up and comes downstairs to enforce "learning." The most dangerous discipline of them all.
Maris hovers by the entrance like she's waiting for a trap door to open. "Okay. So. Lookout. Right. What do I do?"
"You look out," I say, already moving toward the turbolift leading to the upper tiers, "and if you see anyone coming, you make a noise."
"What kind of noise?"
"Any noise."
"What if I panic?"
"That's also a noise."
She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already stepping into the lift. The doors swish shut before she can unload her anxiety onto me like a malfunctioning cargo droid.
As the lift ascends, I give myself a quick mental prep talk.
Okay, Ben. This is fine. This is normal. This is absolutely something responsible people do. The Force wants you to do this. Probably. The Force has been known to want strange things. It wanted Qui-Gon to adopt a nine-year-old bomb-building gremlin from the desert, after all.
The lift opens with a soft chime, and I step into the Restricted Section.
Technically, I have clearance for the outer tiers. I earned it by spending so many detentions in here that the droids started greeting me by name. But the inner tiers — the ones holding anything not approved for general Jedi consumption — those are locked behind ID signatures.
Which is why I'm using Anakin's.
I slide his identi-code into the holoterminal. It blips, scanning.
A beat passes.
ACCESS GRANTED.
WELCOME, KNIGHT SKYWALKER.
The fact that the system recognizes Anakin as a Knight when he is definitely, very clearly, still a Padawan, tells me everything I need to know about his… extracurricular activities.
"Force help us all," I mutter.
I step into the stacks. The lighting dims automatically, recognizing a "sensitive access session." Thin strips of blue glow tangle between shelves of ancient holotomes and crystalline datacylinders. Every sound in here echoes like the room is judging me.
Good. I judge it back.
I take three steps in.
Then hear:
"INTRUDER DETECTED."
I freeze.
The droid rolls toward me, lights flashing.
I raise a hand. "I'm not an intruder. I'm a curious historian. Big difference."
The droid processes this. Literally.
"PROCESSING… PROCESSING… HISTORICAL INTEREST CONFIRMED. STATUS: NOT INTRUDER."
I grin.
"Thank you."
"HOWEVER—"
My grin dies.
"YOUR BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE IS NOT ASSOCIATED WITH CURRENT ACCESS IDENTITY."
Ah. Right. The Anakin problem.
Totally forgot the droids got an update last week.
"Explanation," it demands.
I clear my throat, smile, and say, "I am Knight Skywalker's intern."
Kriff! I meant Padawan, not intern!
There is no such position in the Jedi Order.
There is no universe in which that should work.
There is no version of reality where—
"INTERNSHIP STATUS VERIFIED," the droid says."PROCEED."
I blink.
Then blink again.
"…That worked?" I whisper.
The droid tilts its head. "ARE YOU QUESTIONING THE EFFICIENCY OF ARCHIVE SECURITY?"
"Never," I say, stepping past it as fast as possible. "This is the most professional institution I've ever seen."
The droid hums smugly.
And I dive deeper into the forbidden stacks, grinning like the gremlin I absolutely am, ready to commit academic crimes in the name of building my own Force sect.
Tonight's going to be perfect.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Assuming the Force continues being very, very stupid.
...
The Restricted Stacks smell like dust, cold metal, and the subtle, lingering shame of an Order that keeps insisting it has nothing to hide while hiding everything. The lights are dimmer here, probably on purpose — intimidation via ambiance. Classic Jedi strategy. If someone ever taught a class on "How to Discourage Curiosity," it was definitely designed in this room. Probably by a committee.
I slip between two towering shelves as the security droid's footsteps fade behind me, clutching Anakin's login credentials like a stolen credit chit. The archives hum to life at my approach, projectors blooming with cool-blue light. Rows of holotables illuminate in cascading lines, one by one, like they're bowing to me.
Good. They should.
"I'm in," I whisper to myself, even though I've never had to say it out loud in my life. But every illegal data search deserves a dramatic one-liner.
The console flickers. Access accepted. The Force is with me. Anakin's total obliviousness to cybersecurity is with me even more.
The holoscreen loads a list of Force traditions from across the galaxy: Baran Do. Zeison Sha. Fallanassi. Sorcerers of Tund. Jal Shey. Half of these sound like yoga studios, the other half like indie rock bands.
I scroll.
BARAN DO SAGES — Origin: Dorin
Air manipulation.
Specialty: predictive meditation, storm shaping.
Storm shaping.
Storm.
Shaping.
"Okay but why don't we get that?" I mutter. "Storm Jedi would solve half the galaxy's problems and all of our dramatic entrance needs."
Next entry.
ZEISON SHA — Origin: Yanibar
Telekinetic combat. Force-disc techniques.
I lean closer.
"Disc techniques," I read out loud. "As in… throwing discs?"
The description helpfully elaborates:
'Force-forged circular weapons capable of remote manipulation, recall, and slicing trajectories.'
I slap the table.
"Are you kidding me? They get laser frisbees? We spend ten years learning how to politely disarm someone with a glowstick when we could just—" I mime a frisbee toss. "—shnk—problem solved."
I swipe the data onto a portable file. Definitely stealing this for later. For training. For study. For the possibility that someday I will absolutely throw one of these at someone's head.
The holodiscs themselves shimmer, a beautiful translucent gold.
Shiny.
Pretty.
Mine.
I pocket three before I can even pretend to justify it.
Jedi are supposed to reject attachment. Yet here I am, emotionally bonding with contraband educational materials. This Order creates its own problems.
I scroll deeper. More traditions. Secret histories. Names I've never heard, techniques I absolutely want.
Then the holo-pane shifts, almost glitching — a data pathway locked behind a half-corrupted tag.
ACCESS LEVEL: MASTER
CONTENT: FRAGMENTED HISTORICAL ARCHIVE — UNKNOWN HOLOCRON
REFERENCE PHRASE: "THE EMPEROR'S WRATH."
My stomach drops.
Oh, no.
Oh, absolutely not.
No way.
No—
I open it.
Because I'm stupid.
A faint projection forms: a red-lit figure in archaic armor, silhouette jagged and imposing, the kind of ominous posture you only get from someone professionally dedicated to dramatic entrances. The file is too corrupted to identify details, but the title flashes bright and bold:
THE EMPEROR'S WRATH
I physically recoil.
"Oh come on," I hiss. "I can't escape this franchise."
I know that name.
I played that name.
Back in my old universe — mouse in hand, lights off, Mom yelling at me about screen time — I was that guy in the game. The Sith Warrior class story. The one who absolutely body-slammed half the galaxy a few centuries ago.
A Sith enforcer so powerful they made Jedi Masters cry on cutscenes.
The holo-text flickers:
'A being of unparalleled destructive potential… feared by both Empire and Republic… vassal yet executioner… unstoppable…'
"Darth Vader without the asthma suit," I mutter. "An unstoppable force… literally, when you think about it.."
The archive lists theorized historical sightings, none confirmed. Legends passed between Master historians, noting how every mention vanishes from the record ten seconds later.
Because why not make him spooky and meta?
This is ridiculous.
I cross my arms.
Plant my feet.
Declare, to no one:
"There is absolutely no universe where this becomes relevant to my future career path."
The holocron projection flickers, dimming, as if the Force itself is rolling its eyes.
I shut it off. Hard.
Nope. Not dealing with that. If destiny wants me, it can send an appointment request like everyone else.
I turn to leave—
—and nearly collide with a hooded figure.
I yell.
She yells.
A holodisc falls out of my pocket and hits the floor with a very obvious plink.
"MARIS?!"
Maris Brood blinks at me from five inches away, looking like she materialized out of thin air, her hood half-twisted, trying to pretend she didn't just scare ten years off my lifespan.
"Oh good," she says, completely unbothered. "You're alive."
"You were supposed to be the lookout!"
"I was," she says confidently.
"You're literally in the room with me."
"I relocated," she says.
"To inside the restricted zone?!"
She shrugs. "I got bored."
I run both hands over my face.
She studies me with a small frown, like I'm the one being strange.
"The door was taking a long time," she explains, as if this clarifies anything. "So I thought, 'Maybe I'm supposed to go in.' Also, I found snacks."
She pulls a ration bar from inside her sleeve.
It is definitely not from the Archives.
It is definitely stolen.
It is definitely partially eaten.
"I'm losing my mind," I whisper.
She leans in, peering over my shoulder at the holographic terminal. "Ooh. Forbidden history?"
"For learning purposes," I correct, putting my body between her and the Emperor's Wrath file like a shield.
"You're sweating."
"No, I'm being responsible."
She tilts her head. "You're vibrating like the floor during a turbolift malfunction."
"That's just my natural state."
Maris squints at the screen again. "Did something in here freak you out? Is it a ghost? I hope it's a ghost. That would be fun. Unless it's the bad kind."
"There are no Force ghosts in the Archives."
"You say that, but the way the old Masters talk sometimes—"
"Maris."
She waits.
I wait.
She raises a brow.
I groan.
"Okay, yes," I admit. "Maybe there was one thing. A weird thing. An irrelevant thing."
Her eyes sparkle with interest. A terrible sign.
"What kind of irrelevant thing?"
"The kind that definitely won't affect me, the plot, the galaxy, or anything else ever," I say firmly. "So naturally, we're ignoring it."
"Is this like when you said you definitely weren't going to break curfew and then we wound up repelling down the side of the west tower because the elevators were 'being rude'?"
"That was one time."
"It was three times."
I wave my hands. "Point is: the less anyone knows about this, the better. Especially Ahsoka. Especially the Masters. Especially literally everyone."
Maris considers this.
And nods.
"Okay," she says. "Then we should leave before you do something stupid."
I blink.
"…I do something stupid?"
She casually munches her ration bar. "Statistically speaking."
I open my mouth to argue — loudly, passionately, dramatically — and that's exactly when the archive lights flicker in warning, and the distant sound of a security droid echoes down the hall.
Maris freezes.
I freeze.
We look at each other.
"We're leaving," I whisper.
"We should leave faster," she whispers back.
"We're already leaving fast."
"We should elevate that."
"Oh my god, Maris, RUN!"
And we bolt — because nothing motivates two Jedi preteens quite like the sound of impending consequences.
...
Ahsoka had known something was wrong the moment Maris Brood slinked past her in the hallway with the same guilty, too-casual gait of someone who absolutely wasn't supposed to be out after hours. The girl didn't even try to hide the ration bar in her sleeve. She just nodded at Ahsoka, said "Evening," and then proceeded to walk directly into a restricted wing of the Archives.
Ahsoka stared after her.
That was suspicious.
Even for Maris.
She followed quietly — not sneaky, she wasn't Anakin — but with a purposeful stride that said, "I'm not doing anything wrong, but you probably are." Down the mezzanine staircase, around the corner, past a row of quietly judging statues of long-dead Masters.
She kept expecting to hear the faint hum of Maris's sabers or the sharp clatter of something breaking, but instead she heard—
Running.
Very fast running.
Then shouting.
Then—
Two bodies came careening into view around the corner: Maris first, looking like she'd simply chosen to sprint for fun, and Ben right behind her in a full panic, arms flailing, boots skidding wildly on the polished Archive floors.
Ahsoka's brain took a moment to process the incoming disaster.
Oh no.
Oh no no no—
They were not going to—
"STOP!" she yelped.
To their credit, both of them tried.
To their less credit, the Temple had very smooth flooring and Ben had the traction of a speeder on ice. He kept sliding forward in a straight line toward her, eyes wide, hands windmilling.
And then — at the last second — she felt the Force surge through him, a frantic, chaotic shove outward that snapped his momentum like a leash. Ben jerked to a stop inches from her, hair disheveled, expression guilty in a way that suggested he had absolutely done at least twelve things wrong.
Ahsoka folded her arms.
Ben attempted a smile that was technically a smile only because it involved teeth.
"Hi," he squeaked.
Behind him, Maris waved lazily. "We're not in trouble."
Ahsoka stared at them both.
Then at the datapads spilling out of Ben's sleeves.
Then at the glowing holodiscs clipped haphazardly to his belt.
Then at the little blinking light on a console panel behind them that she knew was an after-hours alarm indicator.
Stars help her.
"What," she asked, voice flat, "did you two do?"
Ben immediately began juggling the datapads — horribly. One slipped. He caught it. Another slipped. He lifted it with the Force… and then began doing that with all of them. This did not inspire confidence.
"Nothing," he said.
Ahsoka raised a brow.
"Something academic," Maris offered.
"Research!" Ben blurted. "Historical research! Super normal. Very boring. Would put you right to sleep, I promise."
Ahsoka stared him down.
He lasted three seconds.
"Okay," he said, hands dropping. "We broke into the Restricted stacks… again."
Ahsoka closed her eyes.
Why.
Why did she hang out with the two most chaos-coded individuals in the entire Order?
"Oh Force," she muttered.
Ben brightened. "Not the whole stacks! Just… most of them. Half. A third. Honestly, it's a blur. Things were shiny."
Ahsoka inhaled, steeling herself.
This was fine.
This was salvageable.
This was—
She glanced at the datapads he was still juggling. One was actively labeled Classified: Master Clearance Only.
—this was definitely going to be a problem.
"Ben."
"Yes?"
"Why," she said carefully, "are you holding restricted datachips?"
He looked down at his hands like they had only just now appeared.
"Oh. Those. Souvenirs."
"Souvenirs," she repeated, monotone.
"Well, more like educational tools. Helpful references. Shhh, don't put them back, the droids will feel smug."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, which was becoming a habit ever since she befriended him. "Ben, Master Jocasta is going to kill you."
He winced. "Not if we fix the logs first."
"YOU TOOK THE LOGS?" she cried.
Maris held up a finger. "Borrowed."
Ahsoka glared.
Maris smiled.
Ahsoka did not smile back.
She took a deep breath. "Okay. We're fixing this. Now. Before anyone notices."
Ben perked up instantly.
That alone was proof he needed adult supervision at all times.
"Great!" he said. "Because… um… they might have noticed already."
A mechanical whir echoed from below.
Ahsoka peered over the mezzanine railing and spotted a pair of security droids beginning their sweep, optical sensors glowing bright yellow.
Her stomach dropped.
"Ben."
"Yes?"
"They're coming this way."
"Yes."
"And you have a plan."
He froze.
She watched him think.
This was always a dangerous sight.
"…Yes?"
"No, you don't," she said.
"No," he admitted.
Ahsoka grabbed him by the sleeve. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. I'll reroute the terminal logs to one of the unused Archivist IDs. Maris, you go stall the droids."
Maris saluted. "On it."
Without hesitation — and without any indication she understood what "stall" meant — Maris hopped the railing, dropped two meters, and landed silently between the droids.
"Explain your presence," one droned.
"Contemplating," she said.
Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "Why is that her answer to everything?"
Ben grinned, proud. "She's improving! Last week she said 'existing'."
"Ben," Ahsoka snapped, "focus."
She turned to the terminal, fingers flying across the controls. She wasn't exactly slicing—just "aggressively re-categorizing." Archivist Kano was on sabbatical. He would never know one extra after-hours login appeared under his ID. Would she feel guilty later? Yes. But also, she was friends with Ben, and friendship came with ethical gray zones.
Behind her, she heard Ben approach a second droid that had rolled in from the opposite corridor.
"Intruder detected," it said.
Ben placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Me? An intruder? Please. Would an intruder wear robes this stylish?"
The droid paused.
Then turned its head.
Then back.
Then back again.
"…Query: is fashion a clearance level?"
Ahsoka almost choked on a laugh, despite everything.
"No," Ben said gravely, "but it should be."
The droid processed this.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Like Ben had just introduced it to the concept of existential crisis.
Ahsoka finished inputting the reroute command, heart pounding. A final string of code flashed across the screen:
LOG ALTERATION: COMPLETE
SOURCE: ARCHIVIST KANO
TIME-STAMP SHIFTED
Done.
Saved.
Contained.
She exhaled.
Then turned around to see Ben holding a glowing holodisc upside-down, Maris dangling from a decorative beam, and both security droids frozen in what she could only describe as "debugging confusion."
Ahsoka planted her hands on her hips.
"All right," she said, "we're leaving. Quietly. No more stealing. No more talking. No more anything."
Ben nodded vigorously. "Agreed. Entirely agreed. Wholeheartedly—"
"Ben."
"I'm shutting up."
They regrouped as the droids finally rebooted their patrol cycle.
Ahsoka grabbed Ben's sleeve again just to make sure he didn't wander off or explode.
He grinned at her — wide, boyish, relieved.
She sighed.
Stars.
She really was the responsible one, wasn't she?
"Let's go," she muttered.
And together — one sensible Initiate dragging two feral ones — they disappeared into the mezzanine shadows just as the security sweep resumed behind them.
...
The safehouse holoprojector sputtered like it was protesting the very idea of broadcasting Duchess Satine Kryze's voice. Bo-Katan sat on the edge of the long metal table, helmet tucked under one arm, fingers drumming against the paint-scratched surface as her sister's image flickered into clarity.
"…and as such," Satine was saying, every syllable ridiculously calm, "Mandalore formally extends asylum and full rights of citizenship to all clone troopers seeking refuge from wartime service. They are the sons of Jango Fett, a Mandalorian by blood, and we will honor that lineage."
The room went stiff.
Death Watch warriors shifted uncomfortably. A few growled. One cursed loudly enough to make the holoprojector hiccup.
And Bo-Katan —
Bo-Katan didn't move.
She watched Satine with the narrowed, calculating eyes of someone who had been angry for so long she had forgotten what other emotions felt like.
The clones.
Jango's clones.
If fate had twisted just slightly differently — if the Galaxy had offered her just one other path — she would have followed Jango Fett. In another life, she would have worn his crest on her shoulder, his orders in her ear, his respect at her back. The True Mandalorians had been everything she was raised to honor. Courage. Strength. Loyalty. Family.
And then the Jedi wiped them out.
The children of bloody diplomacy and misplaced mercy.
Bo-Katan's jaw clenched.
Satine continued speaking, the holofeed broadcasting her serenity like a challenge.
"And further," Satine said, "Mandalore reaffirms its stance of political neutrality, now paired with the acknowledgement of these clone citizens as individuals under our protection. Their personhood is non-negotiable."
Someone choked behind her.
Possibly on outrage.
Possibly on their own tongue.
Pre Vizsla stormed forward, armored boots slamming against the stone floor as though he wanted the mountain beneath them to know he was furious.
"This is deliberate provocation," he snarled, slicing a hand through the air. "She is baiting the Republic. She's daring them to challenge her. To challenge us."
The safehouse smelled of old metal and hover-exhaust, but Vizsla's rage added something sharper—burnt ozone and restless violence. Half the room bristled in response.
Bo-Katan stayed silent.
Vizsla jabbed a finger at the projector. "A clone army granted sanctuary on Mandalore? The Republic won't stand for it. Not after she already declared independence. This is recklessness."
Bo-Katan almost laughed.
Recklessness.
That was one of the kinder words she had for her sister.
But this… this wasn't recklessness.
This was calculated.
It was political war.
And Satine Kryze had just thrown a thermal detonator under every power in the galaxy and smiled politely while doing it.
"She'll turn the clones against the Republic," Vizsla went on. "Or worse — she'll make it look like Mandalore is arming itself."
A thin, nervous voice piped up near Bo-Katan's elbow.
"Uh — technically, sir, Duchess Satine didn't say anything about weapons," said one of the newer recruits, a surprisingly polite young man named Vevik whose armor still gleamed from lack of battle-scarring. "Just… y'know… providing shelter. And meals. And legal support. And, um… medical care. And—"
Vizsla rounded on him. "Are you defending her?"
Vevik squeaked so hard his helmet beeped. "N-no! Absolutely not! I just— I'm just saying she didn't technically arm anyone, sir!"
Bo-Katan smothered a snort.
Poor kid.
Already halfway to realizing Satine wasn't the demon Death Watch liked pretending she was.
She turned her attention back to the broadcast. Satine was wrapping her speech, posture regal, eyes fierce.
Bo-Katan hated how familiar that fierceness felt.
"We will not turn our backs on those who share our blood," Satine said. "Nor will we surrender our right to self-governance to fear or foreign influence. Mandalore stands independent, united, and unafraid."
The feed cut.
Silence settled over the room like dust.
Bo-Katan exhaled slowly.
Carefully.
As if each breath threatened to fracture something inside her.
Because this changed everything.
Satine had always renounced Mandalore's martial traditions.
Always preached peace.
Always framed warriors as relics.
But now?
Now she was invoking bloodline. Heritage. Jango Fett. Mandalorian sons.
She was claiming the clones.
Claiming an army.
And Mandalore with a clone army — or even a few thousand defectors — would reshape the entire power structure of the galaxy. The Core Worlds, the Outer Rim, everyone would have to recalculate their strategies overnight.
Vizsla paced, rage simmering hot enough to fog the air.
"This will bring Republic eyes down on us," he spat. "On me. On our movement. Satine is tightening the noose. Every trooper searching her borders will eventually turn inward. We'll be surrounded."
Bo-Katan absorbed his words without reacting.
Because he was right.
This was going to put a spotlight on Mandalore the likes of which the sector hadn't seen since the Mandalorian Excision.
Death Watch was used to hiding in the dark.
This would blaze them in galactic daylight.
But…
But it would also put pressure on Satine's image. No one could claim she'd abandoned Mandalorian heritage if she embraced Jango's sons. The people — their people — would question everything Death Watch had told them. It could unravel the movement from within.
Vizsla ranted on, but Bo-Katan's mind had already moved ahead, racing through possibilities, probabilities, consequences.
Satine would gain strength.
Death Watch would lose it.
The Galaxy would shift.
And then there was the other matter — the one no one else in the room dared bring up around her.
The Jedi.
Specifically: the very Jedi who had actually discovered the Clone Army. Was also the very one who knocked up Satine. Which was probably the reason one of her nephews was… what did they call it? Force-sensitive?
Space magic bullshit, in her opinion. Still, the irony was palpabale.
The Force must have a sick sense of humor.
For all Satine's pacifist ideals, she was now in possession of something dangerously close to a ready-made army — a move worthy of any warlord.
This was Satine revealing she still had Mandalorian steel in her bones.
Bo-Katan hated how much respect that stirred in her.
Or was it envy?
Vevik cleared his throat hesitantly beside her. "So, uh… commander? What do we do? About all… that?"
Bo-Katan didn't answer immediately.
Instead she rose, sliding her helmet into place, letting the HUD dim the too-bright room and the too-loud noise of her own thoughts.
What did they do?
Break with Satine completely?
Double down on Death Watch?
Strike now, while Mandalore was in political upheaval?
Wait, and let her sister build something stronger than Death Watch could match?
Her heart twisted sharply — the ache of being torn between two worlds, two loyalties, two pieces of herself that refused to merge.
Bo-Katan stared at the blank projector, seeing her sister's face even after it was gone.
Satine had just declared herself a player in the war.
And the galaxy would answer.
"If Mandalore starts welcoming clone defectors," Bo-Katan said finally, voice a calm blade, "everything changes."
Vevik nodded rapidly. Vizsla scowled. The others leaned in, hanging on her words the way her Warriors always had — even if she tried not to think of why.
Bo-Katan lifted her chin.
"We'll watch," she said. "We'll wait."
And under the armor, beneath the rage, deeper than even she wanted to admit — she wondered:
Is this it?
Is this the moment I choose between my sister… and my cause?
Or is it the moment I realize they were never as far apart as I've made myself believe?
She didn't know.
But she would soon.
The Galaxy was shifting.
And Mandalore would shift with it.
...
Rex had gotten used to the buzz of aging fluorescent lights. They hummed the same way the Kaminoan nutrient tubes had hummed—endless, low, and just annoying enough to remind you they were there. The barracks were clean, dry, and warmer than Kamino, but they still felt like… holding space. Temporary. Like the whole building was waiting for the Republic to make up its mind about whether clones counted as soldiers, weapons, or some morally awkward combination of both.
Tonight, though, the humming wasn't the only thing keeping anyone awake.
"—I'm telling you, it sounded real," CT-1409 insisted from the top bunk. "Duchess Satine Kryze herself. Broadcast went out on the public Holonet. Offer of asylum. Citizenship if we want it."
CT-9415 sat cross-legged on the floor below him, helmet in his lap like a stress ball. "Citizenship," he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar shape of the word. "Like… actual citizenship? Papers? Benefits? A home? A home that isn't water and lightning storms?"
"There's no lightning on Kamino," Jesse muttered.
"There should be. Would've made sense."
Rex listened from the end of the room, arms folded over his chestplate. He didn't step in to stop the discussion; it wasn't harmful, and it was better than replaying the same questions in silence. Besides, he was thinking the exact same things—they were all just braver about saying them out loud.
"Look, I'm not saying it's bad," CT-1477 said carefully, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… Mandalore is Mandalore. Mandalorians expect things."
"Yeah. Soldiers," CT-6922 added. "And we're good at that, sure, but I don't think that's the point of 'citizenship.'"
"That is the point of Mandalore," CT-1409 countered. "It's literally a warrior culture."
"It used to be," Jesse corrected. "Now their Duchess is a pacifist. Completely reformed the system."
CT-9415 blinked. "So what does she want with us, then?"
That was the real question. The one they all kept circling around without landing anywhere.
Rex exhaled slowly, pushing away from the wall. The conversation quieted automatically—respect, or ingrained command protocol, or both.
"We don't know what she wants," Rex said. "All we know is what she said publicly. Clones discovered, offer extended. Nothing official from the Senate." He grimaced. "Not even a briefing."
"That part bothers me," CT-1477 said. "Why didn't the Senate tell us first?"
"Maybe they didn't think it mattered," CT-6922 said. Then, quieter: "Maybe we don't matter."
CT-9415 punched him lightly in the shoulder. "You matter to me, vod."
"That's not the same," CT-6922 replied, but there was a faint smile.
Rex glanced toward the end of the room, where Cody stepped in from the hall. His posture was tense, even for Cody. Rex raised a brow. Cody shook his head, signaling no updates from command.
No briefing. No meeting. No explanation.
Just silence filled with secondhand news.
Cody sat beside him. "Still nothing," he murmured. "Knight Kenobi pushed for information, but the Senate's in a holding pattern."
"That's a polite way to say they're panicking," Rex murmured back.
Cody huffed. "That's me. Polite."
The troopers were still talking quietly.
"…we'd finally have a home," CT-9415 whispered. "A real one. Somewhere we choose."
"But then what?" CT-1477 said. "We become Mandalorians? Join the clans? Fight their wars?" There was no judgment in his tone—just a genuine attempt to understand. "Do we get to decide that? Do they?"
Rex felt that one in his ribs. The Kaminoans had never given them choices—not about training, not about life, not about anything. Everything was predetermined. Purpose, deployment, lifespan. Even their childhoods had belonged to someone else.
"Citizenship means expectations," Jesse said. "And obligations. If Mandalore takes us in, they're not doing it for free."
"Better than the Republic," CT-1409 muttered.
Rex caught that, and so did Cody. But neither called him on it. Because CT-1409 wasn't wrong.
The Republic hadn't asked for an army. That was the line they kept hearing—an army built without their authorization, under circumstances no one could confirm. Apparently the Jedi had commissioned them, per the Kaminoans, but no Jedi knew anything about it. The Master responsible, Sifo-Dyas, had disappeared years ago, before any contracts were filed officially.
So the Republic had an army it didn't want.
And the clones had a government that didn't want them.
Assets. Tools. Numbers.
None of the men said it out loud, but Rex could read it in their faces, in the stiff set of their shoulders.
They wondered if they were being traded. If they'd be handed off like equipment between bureaucracies.
Cody leaned closer. "You hear what the Kaminoans said about the Duchess's broadcast?"
Rex shook his head.
"Apparently the facilities are… annoyed. They claim Mandalore is interfering with property." His jaw tightened. "Property."
Rex fought the instinctive clench of his fists. "We're people."
"I know that," Cody said softly. "The question is whether anyone making decisions does."
Across the room, some of the younger troopers turned the conversation lighter, but not less honest.
"What about Jango?" someone asked from a bunk near the door. "He's still here on Coruscant, last I heard. What's he going to do about all this?"
Everyone quieted again.
No one knew. Jango, just by being being alive, put an entire extra layer of complication on everything. Some clones admired him. Some hated him. Most didn't understand him.
He was their source material, not their father.
And yet he was the closest thing they had to one.
"He hasn't said anything," CT-1409 finally offered. "Not to any of us."
"Would he?" CT-1477asked. "He didn't raise us. The Kaminoans did."
CT-9415 frowned. "He trained the ARC troopers."
"Only the first batch," Jesse corrected. "Not the rest of us."
Rex felt that, too—a strange ache. Not painful, exactly. Just empty. Like something he wasn't sure he'd ever had the right to want.
The room fell quiet, resting on that uneasy line between possibility and dread.
Cody nudged him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That depends," Rex murmured. "Are you thinking we're being shuffled around like supply crates?"
Cody didn't reply.
He didn't have to.
Rex rose, hands behind his back as he addressed the room—not formally, not as a commander giving orders, but as someone who could see his brothers drifting toward spirals.
"Listen up," he said quietly. "We don't know what's coming. Not from the Senate. Not from Mandalore. Not from anyone. But whatever decision gets made…" He looked around at them—different faces, same face. Brothers. "We face it together. No one's getting traded. No one's getting abandoned. If Mandalore wants something from us, we decide what that means. Not them. Not the Senate."
CT-6922 lifted his chin. "You really think they'll let us decide?"
Rex hesitated only a heartbeat. "I think no one knows how to handle us. That means we have more room to stand our ground than they realize."
That actually seemed to ease some tension.
Cody added, "And until we hear otherwise, we're still the Republic's responsibility. Whether they like it or not."
CT-9415 grinned faintly. "Guess we're everyone's problem."
"Always have been," CT-1409 said. "In the best way."
The lights hummed. The brothers settled slowly back into their bunks, conversations softening into murmurs. The uncertainty didn't vanish—it wouldn't—but they weren't facing it alone.
...
I should've left the slate alone.
In my defense, it was sitting there on the shelf looking mysterious, and I'd already committed several crimes tonight. At a certain point the difference between three and four felonies becomes philosophical. Still, the holoslate was heavier than I expected when I lifted it again, like it knew I was unqualified to be touching it.
"So," I muttered to it, tapping its darkened surface, "you're the one with the cryptic 'Emperor's Wrath' reference. Which—by the way—rude name. Zero context. Zero instructions. Zero consideration for my curiosity."
Ahsoka and Maris were hovering nearby, which meant Ahsoka was anxiously tracking every move I made and Maris was staring at a glowing fungus patch on the wall like she wanted to adopt it.
I closed my eyes and reached out with the Force, hoping for… I don't know. An intuitive sense of how to get past the Master-level lock. Something flowy and mystical. Yoda made this look easy. On the other hand, Yoda wasn't a self-insert from a planet where the microwave sometimes scared him.
Don't judge me! Have you ever tried to microwave a hot pocket?! Half the time it sounds like a bomb went off!
Still—trust the Force, right?
That was the plan.
Mostly because I didn't have a backup plan.
I let my awareness settle into the device, brushing past the surface encryption like running fingers over a stuck seal. It resisted—then, suddenly, it didn't. Something clicked, like a lock tumbling open. Metaphorically, anyways.
The slate hummed to life in my hands.
"Oh kriff," Ahsoka whispered behind me. "He actually did it."
"Of course I did it," I said. "I am a scholar. A visionary. A menace to authority."
A projection blinked into existence above the slate, and I rotated toward the nearest holoterminal with all the dignity of someone pretending they didn't almost drop a priceless artifact. I slotted the slate into the panel.
The terminal lit up.
A stream of high-level access codes flickered across it—Master level. Maybe higher. Something the Jedi definitely didn't want a Padawan, let alone me, poking around in.
The map popped into view. A burning red world.
Korriban.
The name pulsed on the screen like it was trying to menace us.
"Well," I said carefully, "that sounds… totally not evil."
Ahsoka folded her arms. "Ben, it literally starts with 'Kor.' Nothing good starts with 'Kor.'"
"Oh, so we're judging evil based on phonemes now? You are so insensitive. You know Coruscant has the same sound in there! Granted, Coruscant is a hollowed-out, overpopulated, crime-infested planet that's home to the worst beings in the galaxy—politicians—but still. Now. Don't you feel silly?"
She stared at me.
Maris was already halfway down the aisle headed for the exit, doing that silent scooting thing cats do when they know a cup is about to fall off a table.
"Uh… Ben?" she called in the softest possible voice that still conveyed abject panic.
That's when the lights snapped from their usual peaceful library glow into a vivid, siren-red strobe.
A voice boomed overhead:
"UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. ARCHIVE SECURITY PROTOCOLS ACTIVATING."
See, this is the downside of the Jedi Order's whole "no killing" policy. Their security systems were built around not hurting anyone, which somehow made them more terrifying because the droids put so much effort into subduing you gently. It was unsettling.
A security droid rolled into view from the far end of the stacks, photoreceptors blazing.
"Please remain still for your safety."
A stun bolt sizzled past my ear. I yelped.
"Okay, wow, immediately contradicting yourself—"
Another shot. I raised my saber and reflexively deflected—straight back into the droid's chest.
Nothing happened.
Right. Stun bolts don't affect metal.
I pointed my saber accusingly. "I'll remain still at your funeral!"
"Ben!" Ahsoka grabbed my sleeve and yanked. "Move!"
We sprinted. The droid kept a polite but relentless pace behind us, firing stun bolts in what it probably thought was a helpful pattern.
"Please do not flee. Evading security is unsafe."
"I disagree!" I shouted back.
Maris skidded into a turn ahead of us, almost wiping out on the marble floor. "Why are the Archives this smooth?!"
"Because the Jedi hate friction!" I yelled.
"That doesn't even make sense!"
"It does right now!"
Ahsoka vaulted over a study table; I slid under it and nearly rearranged my entire face on the edge. Another droid clanked into view beside the first.
"Multiple intruders detected. Initiating pacification."
"Pacification?" I squeaked. "We're not even bothering anyone! We are the most non-disruptive criminals ever!"
Ahsoka shot me a look as she ran. "Ben, you hacked a restricted slate, triggered a locked archive terminal, and you're holding contraband in your sleeve."
I thought about that for two seconds.
"Okay, so there were parts to that sentence I didn't love."
We barreled down the central aisle. The main doors loomed ahead like salvation. Or at least like something with fewer robots.
Maris reached them first and slapped the emergency release panel. The lights flickered crimson again. The doors began to grind open at a pace so slow it defied physics.
The droids glided closer.
"Remain still for your saf—"
I shoved my hand out, a burst of Force shove rattling through the aisle. The droids skidded backward, flailing their limbs like indignant metal turtles.
Ahsoka and Maris squeezed through the half-open gap. I dove after them.
We slammed the doors behind us.
Ahsoka braced her hands on her knees, panting. Maris clung to the wall like it was the safest place she'd ever encountered.
I straightened, dusted myself off, and patted my sleeve.
The slate-chip with the Korriban coordinate was tucked safely there.
Ahsoka noticed. Her montrals twitched.
"You're not actually going there."
I considered pretending, for half a second, that I would never, ever be that reckless.
Then I remembered who I am.
I shrugged. "We'll see how tomorrow feels."
Ahsoka groaned. Maris whimpered. The Archive doors beeped angrily behind us.
And that was how we ended the night: sweaty, terrified, and technically still in the library hallway.
Just three kids.
And one very evil-sounding planet now sitting in my pocket