Chapter 19: The Dark Side Has Cookies
There are many sounds a shuttle should never make.
Rattling is one.
Grinding is another.
The shrieking metal-on-metal banshee wail currently echoing through the cockpit is, in my professional opinion, at least five sounds too many.
"I swear," Maris shouts over the alarms, wrestling the controls like they personally offended her, "this is not my fault!"
Ahsoka, braced against the copilot station with both feet planted and both montrals vibrating like tuning forks, shouts back, "Maris, you're flying it like it wronged your ancestors!"
"It did wrong my ancestors!" Maris says, yanking the lever again. "It's a Jedi shuttle. I'm morally obligated to bully it."
I'm strapped in behind them, which feels like the safest place until the entire ship lurches sideways so violently that my soul briefly attempts to secede from my body.
Okay.
Okay.
Deep breath.
In through the nose, out through the—
The shuttle drops twenty meters in one second.
Nope. Breathing is cancelled.
"You're panicking," Maris says, without looking at me. Somehow she still hears it.
"I'm not panicking!" My voice cracks like a twelve-year-old in saber class. Speaking from experience, that's exactly when my voice does that. "…You're panicking!"
"I'm the pilot," she replies, flicking switches with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be this confident. "Pilots don't panic."
Ahsoka grabs the stabilizer control. "Then why—why—why are you flying with your eyes half-closed?!"
"That's how I focus!"
"That's how you die!"
Outside, through the viewport, Korriban rises like a rotting god: red dunes sharp as knives, cliffs carved into fanged silhouettes, and the sky boiling with that sickly sunset-orange that screams ancient bad decisions were made here.
I try to mentally categorize the fear: not immediate-death fear, more… academic fear.
The kind you could footnote.
Fear, Type IV: Cosmically Concerning But Not Yet Fatal.
We bounce again. Hard. Something explodes. Somewhere. Maybe behind us. Maybe inside us. Maybe both.
"I can fix that," Ahsoka mutters. "Probably."
"See?" Maris says. "Totally under control."
We immediately spin.
Hard enough that my entire life flashes before my eyes, then rewinds and plays again at double speed.
"I'm going to kill you," Ahsoka says.
"You're welcome to try," Maris replies cheerfully.
The shuttle slams into the sand with the grace of a brick in freefall. We skid a good fifty meters before burying the nose in a dune. Every alarm lights up at once, then promptly gives up and dies.
Smoke trickles from the console.
Silence rings like a bell.
Maris stands, hair frizzed from static, dusted head to toe in sand, and announces:
"I meant to do that."
I cough, unstrap myself, and stagger forward. "Yeah, no, you absolutely didn't."
She shrugs, offended by my accuracy. "I got us here, didn't I?"
"Technically," I concede. "But I think three separate laws of physics have issued restraining orders."
Ahsoka is already crouched under the console, swearing in a very dignified, very Jedi-but-not-really-Jedi way. Sparks pop around her and she brushes them aside with the calm resignation of someone who has lived a long, painful life in the ten minutes Maris was flying.
"Kark," she mutters. "Okay, the good news is the hyperdrive is intact."
"And the bad news?" I ask.
"The other hyperdrive is not."
"We have two hyperdrives?" Maris asks.
Ahsoka sighs. "We had two hyperdrives."
I look out the cracked viewport.
Korriban greets us like a haunted museum exhibit. Wind whips across the dunes with a sound like a thousand whispering ghosts using a hairdryer on low power. Far off, enormous stone structures jut from the sand: temples with mouths like crocodiles, statues long-buried but still scowling.
It's objectively terrifying.
But also… thrilling.
Okay, yes, it's spooky, but like, academically spooky. The kind of spooky you can put in a thesis. Or a therapy session. Or both, depending on how committed you are to self-improvement. I'm not sure yet.
Ahsoka crawls back out, dusts her hands, and wipes sweat from her brow. "Here's the situation: I can fix this, but it'll take hours. And we need someone at the Temple to create the illusion that the three of us are… you know. Present. And alive."
Maris narrows her eyes. "Not it."
I raise a hand immediately. "Also not it."
Ahsoka stares at us. Long. Deeply. Like a teacher trying to decide if homework is punishment enough or if she should also assign soul searching.
"…Fine," she says. "I'll go."
Maris gasps dramatically. "Traitor."
"She's a hero," I counter.
"I'm a realist," Ahsoka says, slapping the ramp controls. "If I don't go now, someone is going to check our quarters and see that you two left a trail of snacks, datapads, and half a game of dejarik like a pair of Force-sensitive raccoons."
"…Okay but that's rude," Maris says.
"But true," I add.
Ahsoka ignores us, marching up the ramp. She pauses at the top, hands on her hips, the wind tugging her montrals like a dramatic holoposter shot.
"You two are not allowed to die," she declares. "Or join a cult. Or start one."
I salute. "No promises."
She points at me. "Ben."
"…One promise."
She smirks, satisfied, and the ramp begins to close.
The shuttle lifts. Wobbly at first, then steadier as Ahsoka works her mechanical magic mid-flight. It rises into the roiling sky until it's a speck, then gone.
Dust swirls around us.
Silence stretches.
Maris stands with hands on her hips and squints after the shuttle like it personally betrayed her.
"…Hey, Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"…Was that our only means of transportation?"
I blink. Do a quick mental inventory. Glance at the dead second hyperdrive. Feel a sudden, sinking dread.
"Huh," I say. "You know what? I think it was, yes."
Maris's face goes slack. "So we're stranded."
"We might have a bit of a predicament on our hands."
"A bit."
"A smidge."
"A sprinkle."
"A full-course buffet of problems," I finish.
She nods grimly.
Then brightens, because Maris's moral compass has the unique talent of only knowing one direction.
"…You wanna go grave robbing?"
I grin.
"Please."
Maris grabs my sleeve and drags me toward the nearest ominous Sith structure without another word.
And that is how, within ten minutes of crash-landing on possibly the most cursed rock in the galaxy, I find myself hiking into the Valley of the Dark Lords with my best friend, no plan, no ride home, and a moral support cookie wrapper still stuck in my boot.
Just another normal Thursday.
...
Korriban does not believe in welcoming committees.
Korriban believes in sand. And wind. And the kind of oppressive, ancient atmosphere that makes you wonder if the planet itself would like to file a formal complaint about your presence.
Maris and I start down the rocky path into the valley, and the air instantly shifts from "dry desert" to "museum that eats people." The sand between the cliffs is red in that very healthy, definitely-not-stained-by-centuries-of-dark-side-shenanigans way, and every gust of wind whistles through the ravine like something whispering, Leave. Or maybe, Stay. Hard to tell with Korriban. It probably wants both.
Maris throws her hood up, eyes gleaming like this entire place was built specifically to cater to her extremely niche interests.
"This is so cool," she says, practically vibrating.
"You say that," I reply, "but I'm ninety percent sure that boulder right there has committed at least one murder."
She beams proudly. "History!"
I swear, I'm traveling through a cursed tomb world with the spiritual lovechild of Lara Croft and an alley cat. Meanwhile I'm trying my best to pretend I'm not existentially thrilled by all this. Because I am. And I know I'm supposed to feel guilty about that. But… come on. It's Korriban. The dark side's home turf. The birthplace of roughly fifty percent of galactic problems. This is like the forbidden library of Force history, and someone left the back door open.
The Force thickens the deeper we go—chewy, almost. I can feel it clinging to my skin, like static, like silk, like danger. Every breath tastes metallic, and the air hums around us, vibrating faintly in my lungs. It's not like the gentle flow of the Temple, or the comforting buzz around Ahsoka and Maris. This is raw, unfiltered, unpasteurized Force energy. Straight from the source.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I'm two steps short of giddy.
There's a pulse under my feet—like the ground remembers battles so violent they left echoes.
Maris nudges me, smirking. "You're smiling."
"I am not," I lie, immediately betrayed by my own face.
She snorts. "Look at you. Jedi Wonderboy, thrilled to be breaking every rule."
"I'm not thrilled," I say. "I'm… academically stimulated."
"Oh yeah, that's what we're calling it."
We stop at a massive mural carved into the cliff wall. Hooded figures loom over a battlefield—limbs, lightning, the whole "we commit war crimes for fun" aesthetic. It's beautiful, in a terrifying "this would be the last thing you see before a Sith Lord stabs you with a lightsaber made of regret" way.
Maris tilts her head at the mural. "You ever feel like the Jedi were hiding the fun half of Force history?"
I want to disagree. Really, I do.
But, let's be honest? The Light Side might be noble, peaceful, even heroic. But the Dark Side is exhilarating. I swear, the more I stare at those carvings, the more I think… she might be onto something.
I fold my arms. "Okay, but to be clear, when you say 'fun'—"
"I mean epic. Dramatic. Slightly unhinged."
"So, you."
She elbows me lightly. "Oh please, like you're not loving all this. You showed up on a forbidden planet with a shovel in your heart."
"I don't even have a shovel," I protest.
"You would if we'd had room in the food transport."
Fair point.
The path narrows as we descend farther, the rock walls rising like jagged teeth on either side. I can't shake the feeling the valley is watching us, waiting, almost amused. The Force here feels like a held-in laughter—dangerous, knowing, patient.
I should turn around. I should meditate. I should go back to the Temple and pretend none of this happened.
Instead I speed up, rounding a bend in the cliff.
And there it is.
The entrance.
A monumental stone archway carved into the rock, flanked by toppled guardian statues, both missing their heads. The door itself is an enormous slab of carved metal, covered in etchings glowing faintly red—lines like veins, or circuitry, or maybe just angry scribbles from a Sith toddler. The air around it is colder, heavy enough that my breath fogs for a second.
Guess it's true what they say about the Dark Side being cooler… I'll show myself out.
Maris lets out a low whistle. "Now that is a door."
"It is indeed a door," I nodded, hands on my hips, pretending to be calm. "A big, mysterious, definitely-trapping-all-sorts-of-generational-trauma door."
Maris looks at me sidelong. "You wanna touch it, don't you?"
"No," I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
"…Maybe," I admit.
She crosses her arms. "If you don't touch it, I will."
See, this is how we both get killed.
I step forward, the Force humming like a live wire. My fingertips tingle before I even make contact. There's a pressure in the air—like the moment before a thunderstorm hits.
"This is such a bad idea," I mutter.
"That's why it's fun."
She's got the confidence of a woman who fully intends to haunt the living if something goes wrong.
I hover my hand over the door. It's warm. Not metal warm. Not sunlight warm.
Alive warm.
I swallow. "You know, there's a ninety percent chance this activates a trap."
"Ten percent chance it activates treasure," Maris counters.
I can't argue with that math. It's terrible math. I love that math.
So I touch it.
Just a fingertip. A tiny, experimental tap.
The entire door shudders under my hand. A blast of dusty air rushes past us, and ancient gears begin turning somewhere deep in the stone. The glowing markings flare, bright and pulsing. Maris grabs my sleeve—not in fear, but excitement, which is significantly worse.
With a grinding roar, the slab splits horizontally, then vertically, unfolding like a mechanical flower that absolutely wants to eat us.
Maris cackles. "I knew it!"
I blink at the suddenly open doorway. "I was joking—"
"You opened it!"
"I touched it! Lightly!"
"Ben, you cannot complain. You are literally Sith-bait."
"That feels rude."
"It feels accurate."
Fair.
A rush of cool, stale air spills from the chamber beyond. It smells like dust, old stone, forgotten stories, and something metallic underneath—like lightning etched into the walls.
Maris steps forward, peering inside, absolutely unfazed by the fact that we just opened a crypt that has almost certainly killed people.
"You know," she says, voice dripping with delight, "if this was a bad idea, the door wouldn't have opened."
"That," I say, "is the worst logic I've ever heard."
"And yet," she gestures at the open passage, "here we are."
I stare into the darkness ahead.
My pulse is too fast. My palms too warm.
The Force shifts again—like an exhale, like a greeting.
There's something in there waiting.
Something old.
Something powerful.
Something that feels like it's been tapping its foot for several centuries going, 'Finally.'
I swallow once, hard. "Okay. Hypothetically—if we go in, and something horrible happens—"
Maris grins. "Then we blame Ahsoka. Obviously."
I nod. "Obviously."
And together, we step into the cursed, definitely-haunted, life-ruining tomb.
With the enthusiasm of idiots.
Perfect idiots.
...
The chamber opens around us like the inside of a titan's ribcage.
Red crystal veins pulse through the vaulted stone ribs above—dim glows running in jagged lines, casting the whole room in a soft crimson heartbeat. The air smells of dust and metal and something sharper underneath. Every breath feels like inhaling old battlefields.
And in the center of it all, on a narrow stone dais:
A Sith holocron.
Perfect. Sharp. Floating a few centimeters above the pedestal, humming like it's whispering to itself.
My brain completely stops functioning for a moment. All I can do is stare at it and attempt not to look like a child seeing a fireworks display for the first time. (I fail. Immediately.)
"This is—" I start.
"Amazing?" Maris supplies.
"I was going to say academically significant."
"You were not."
She's right. I wasn't.
We approach slowly, each footstep echoing from wall to wall, like the chamber is listening. The holocron is dark metal edged with glowing crimson lines—geometric, precise, ancient. Like someone weaponized geometry and turned it into a storage device for secrets.
I can feel the Force pooling around it. Thick. Warm. Curious. Like it recognizes I'm here and is yawning itself awake.
Maris leans in, eyes practically sparkling. "Touch it."
"I'm not just going to touch a Sith holocron," I say.
"You literally opened a death door by poking it."
"That was different."
"It really wasn't."
I'm going to die.
Not by Sith traps or ancient ghosts, but by peer pressure.
I narrow my eyes at her. "You are a terrible influence."
"I aspire to greatness."
I take a breath, then another. The Force trembles around the holocron. It's like standing next to a storm waiting to break. Things like this shouldn't be here, accessible to idiots like me. And yet…
I lift a hand.
The instant my fingers hover an inch from the surface, the air snaps.
A violent crack of energy bursts around the holocron—scarlet lightning spiraling upward in a spiraling column. Maris yelps and jumps back, and I definitely do not squeak. The holocron rises slowly, turning in the air as bolts of red energy coil around it like serpents.
"Oh," I breathe, "it's doing something."
"No," Maris mutters, "you did something."
The lightning vortices twist tighter, then explode outward with a blast of wind that sends my cloak snapping behind me.
And then the hologram forms.
A towering figure materializes in a shimmer of blood-red light—armor heavy and jagged, pauldrons spiked like the horns of some ancient beast. A mask covers the face entirely, all sharp lines and glowing slits. The whole silhouette radiates power.
And menace.
And drama.
So much drama.
I mean, if this guy wasn't Sith, he could've been a theater kid.
The hologram tilts its head, and the chamber rumbles with a deep, metallic voice that sounds like a thunderstorm trying to be polite.
"It has been many years since I last saw another face. A man by the name of Lord Bane was the last."
Well. That's casual.
"Centuries of darkness… so peaceful. Until now." The figure leans in slightly. "I am the Wrath of a fallen Empire. Who are you? You are no Sith."
My mouth works faster than my survival instincts.
"Not yet," I say. "Also, nice holographic cheekbones."
There is a silence.
The kind of silence where you realize you are speaking to a possibly murderous spectral demigod who might not understand humor.
"…I am wearing a mask," it says slowly.
"Oh," I say, nodding sagely. "A very pretty one. Look at those little druid-leaf things you've got going on there."
Maris elbows me sharply and hisses, "Do you flirt with everything capable of killing you?"
"I've never flirted with you," I whisper back.
She pauses.
Considers.
"…Maybe you should."
"I like your horns."
She smirks, faint pink flushing at the tips of her cheekbones.
The hologram continues, sounding vaguely offended that I'm not cowering. "You approach with irreverence. Foolish. Or clever."
"Is that a compliment?" I ask.
"It was not intended as one."
"I'm taking it as one."
Maris groans, burying her face in her hands.
The holocron studies me, energy rippling around its projection. "You feel of contradiction. Light and shadow twisting upon themselves. Anger tempered by restraint. Curiosity restrained by fear. A child… of conflict."
"That sounds right," Maris murmurs.
"That still feels rude," I say.
"It is still accurate," she adds.
Again: fair.
The figure raises one armored hand. The air shivers—like a vibration in my bones—and questions spill out, each one heavy with purpose.
"What is strength?"
"What is wrath?"
"What is loyalty?"
"What is the purpose of power if not to reshape the self?"
They aren't simple questions. They aren't even real questions, not really. They're tests. Measurements. A probe into my skull without touching me.
I answer as best I can, fumbling but earnest.
"Strength is… choosing who you want to be, even when it's hard." That sounded like a good, safe, Disney answer. Let's hope the House of Mouse still has some sway in the Force.
"Wrath is what happens when you stop choosing," Maris adds quietly beside me, surprising me. "When you let instinct take over, and make your choices for you."
I nod. "Loyalty is… the people you decide matter, and who decide you matter. And… Power is the ability to do something meaningful with all the things that hurt."
Every doubt. Insecurity. Frustration.
I never let any of them stop me. Hold me back. When they pushed me down, I got up, and pushed back harder. I don't get even, I get better.
The hologram paused, and for a moment, I was worried I just said something incredibly dumb. Which isn't out of character, but in this case was potentially life-threatening. When suddenly, it let out a noise.
A low rumble.
A laugh?
"You speak as if you already know suffering."
"I mean—" I gesture vaguely at my entire life. "Yeah?"
The projection leans closer. "Your potential is unrefined. Untamed. And your humor is ill-advised."
"It's a coping mechanism."
"It is insufferable."
"Thank you."
Another pause. Another annoyed rumble. The masked face tilts slightly, studying me with newfound… curiosity? Wariness? Amusement?
"You are a child of contradiction," it says again. "That is both your weakness and your greatest weapon."
I beam. "Aw."
Maris looks at me like I've completely lost my mind. "He called you contradictory."
"In a cool way."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"It felt like one."
She throws her hands up. "I cannot save you."
The hologram floats back slightly, cloak of light swirling around it.
"You stand where few dare. You seek what others fear. If you wish to learn… then prove yourself."
"Prove myself how?" I ask, bracing for lightning. Or a riddle. Or a riddle made of lightning.
But instead the projection simply gestures to my chest.
"Show me your truth," it says.
I blink. "Oh. That's… vague."
"It is meant to be."
Maris nudges me. "Go on."
"Go on what? What does that mean?!"
She shrugs. "I don't know. Figure it out. Interpretive dance?"
I glare. "I am not dancing for a Sith holocron."
"Coward."
Before I can threaten to steal her boots while she sleeps, the Wrath speaks again.
"I sense ambition. And fear. And longing. A desire to escape your path while clinging to it desperately."
"Wow," Maris mutters. "He's reading you for filth."
I ignore her.
I take a slow breath and try to feel what the holocron wants. What it's asking.
Truth.
My truth.
Not the Jedi's version.
Not the one I pretend fits.
My own.
"I don't want to be… one thing," I say quietly. "I don't want to fit into a path someone else decided for me. I want—I want to choose my own destiny. For once."
The projection stills.
The energy dimming.
"You may yet be worthy."
The holocron lowers slightly, light gathering toward its core.
Maris whispers, "Holy kriff…"
I whisper back, "Right?"
The Wrath's final words echo through the chamber, vibrating in my bones.
"Child of contradiction… you seek power not for domination, but for identity. For understanding. That makes you dangerous. And it makes you mine."
...
The landing platform tilts slightly under the shuttle's weight as Ahsoka touches down, and for a brief, delusional second, she considers simply never lowering the ramp. If she stays inside long enough, maybe the Temple will forget she exists. Maybe the galaxy will politely reset itself. Maybe Ben and Maris will miraculously not be doing something catastrophically stupid on Korriban.
She snorts.
Yeah. And maybe Yoda will join a punk band.
The ramp hisses open. Warm Coruscant evening air rolls inside—blessedly non-cursed, non-metallic, non-haunted. Normal. Safe. Absolutely incompatible with what she's here to do, which is lie to the Order with the spiritual eloquence of a wet loth-cat who just fell into the refresher.
Ahsoka squares her shoulders. She's got this. She can lie. She's lied before. About liking things she doesn't actually like. And sneaking out after curfew. And about who actually knocked over the Council chamber ficus (Ben). And about who encouraged him (Maris). And who watched it happen without intervening (her).
So this should be easy.
She takes three steps down the ramp.
And immediately walks straight into Anakin Skywalker.
"Ahsoka!" he says, brightening like someone plugged him into the sun. "Finally! You're back. Where were you, anyways?"
She squeaks.
It's very dignified.
He blinks at her, then tilts his head, taking in her dust-smudged jumpsuit, frizzed head-tails, and the distinct twitch in her right eye. "Uh… you okay?"
"I'm fine!" she blurts. "Nothing weird happened."
Anakin's eyebrows climb so high they could apply for citizenship in the ceiling.
Ahsoka clears her throat, trying to reset her entire aura. Calm. Jedi. Centered. Definitely not a frantic raccoon in Jedi robes.
And then Anakin starts talking, thankfully too self-absorbed to ask the dangerous questions.
"You wouldn't believe how boring it's been here," he groans, sweeping into a complaint so fluid it's clearly been waiting for an audience. "Obi-Wan's been sent to Mandalore—again—and I have been stuck here because apparently I'm not, and I quote, 'diplomatic' enough. Can you believe that?"
Ahsoka absolutely could believe that. The entire galaxy could believe that.
But she nods sympathetically as they start walking down the corridor. Anakin is a one-man storm of restless energy, and the Temple hallways practically bend away from him out of habit. A pair of older Padawans spot him coming and immediately veer off into a storage room with the urgency of people avoiding a natural disaster.
He doesn't notice. Or pretends not to.
"Obi-Wan gets to talk to politicians and negotiate clone rights and prevent rebellions," he says, all tragic frustration. "And I'm stuck here. Sparring with the same people who refuse to spar with me. Which is rude. Just because I'm so much better than them, doesn't mean I don't have feelings too!"
Ahsoka suppresses a smile. She likes Anakin—he's loud, chaotic, oddly reassuring—but subtle he is not. He misses Obi-Wan. If only because he wants someone to scold him so he can have fun for misbehaving. This is, apparently, part of his spiritual balance.
"Well," she says lightly, "if you're bored, you can always challenge Ben again."
Anakin stiffens up. "Please. I'm not dealing with that kid's tricks."
She shrugs innocently. "Oh? You still haven't found a way to counter the Kryze Maneuver?"
Anakin stops dead in the hallway. "I could counter it."
"Mhm."
"It's just—cheap," he insists, crossing his arms. "Throwing pocket sand in your opponent's face? Who does that?"
Ahsoka considers this.
"…Ben does that."
"That's not the point."
"It feels like the point."
"It's not."
"It's a little the point."
He scowls, pacing again. "The point is—it's unsportsmanlike."
She tries—tries so hard—not to grin. Because what she is actually thinking is that Anakin spent three hours coughing sand the last time Ben pulled that trick on him, and Maris still has the holo recording saved.
Which is when he glances sideways at her, casual as a grenade.
"So where is Ben, anyway?"
Ahsoka's soul leaves her body, does three laps around the ceiling, and returns only out of obligation.
She forces a smile. "Meditating."
Anakin narrows his eyes, the full weight of That Skywalker Suspicion hitting her like a podracer engine. "Meditating?"
"Mhm."
"Voluntarily?"
"…Yes?"
A pause.
A long one.
Ahsoka's palms start sweating. Her montrals stiffen. Her heart beats in the rhythm of please don't ask follow-ups.
But Anakin… just sighs. Long. Loud. Dramatic.
"Fine," he mutters, waving a hand. "Good for him."
She blinks. He believed her?
No. No, he absolutely did not.
But Anakin Skywalker has reached that very particular state of apprentice ennui where anything requiring effort—like supervising younger students or preventing catastrophic rule-breaking—falls firmly under the category of not my problem.
He stretches, yawning theatrically. "If he wants to meditate, let him meditate. I'm not in the mood to be responsible today."
Ahsoka nearly collapses in relief.
The Force, however, is cruel.
Because that is exactly when Master Plo Koon appears at the end of the hallway.
"Ahsoka Tano," he calls warmly, "I sensed your return."
Ahsoka jolts like she's been shot.
Anakin mutters, "Uh-oh," with the tone of someone grateful this is now someone else's issue.
Plo Koon strides toward them, robes flowing, mask serene in that uncomfortably perceptive Kel Dor way. "I trust your… excursion… was uneventful?"
Ahsoka makes a noise that is meant to be a laugh but sounds more like a desperate malfunctioning repulsorlift. "Oh… you know. Very uneventful. Nothing happened. At all. Ever."
Plo Koon's head tilts slightly. He may not have facial expressions in the traditional sense, but Ahsoka can feel the eyebrow raise.
"You are certain?"
"Yes! Absolutely! Completely certain! Why wouldn't I be certain? That's a weird question, Master."
Anakin leans against the wall, watching the exchange with the fascinated detachment of someone who loves drama but prefers not to participate in it. Unless he's the one causing it. "She says Ben's meditating."
Plo turns to Ahsoka with a soft hum. "Meditating. Is he?"
Ahsoka smiles too wide. "He loves meditating. Big fan of meditation. Meditates constantly."
She is absolutely dying.
The worst part? She knows Plo knows she's lying. The Force hum at his side has that gentle-judgment feeling, like when a parent finds cookie crumbs on your face and asks if you've been in the pantry.
"I see," Plo Koon says calmly. "And Maris Brood? Also meditating?"
Ahsoka's brain tries to implode.
"That depends," she blurts, "on your definition of meditating."
Plo pauses again. She can feel him evaluating approximately 11,000 potential disaster scenarios involving her, Ben, and Maris.
Finally, he says, "I should inform Master Yoda that your trio is accounted for."
Ahsoka briefly considers faking her own death.
"No need!" she says, maybe a bit too fast. "We're all… very accounted. Super accounted."
Anakin snorts.
Plo lets the silence linger. "Ahsoka."
"…Yes, Master?"
"Would you like to rephrase that?"
She wants to.
She tries to.
But her mouth is no longer receiving transmissions from her brain.
"We're accounted," she repeats weakly.
Another long pause.
Then Plo, merciful saint that he is, simply rests a hand on her shoulder. "Young one… whatever trouble you three have found—may the Force be with you."
She freezes.
Does he know? He knows, doesn't he? Impossible. She didn't even get to the part where they crashed a shuttle, lost a hyperdrive, and oh Force, did she take the only shuttle they had?!
Ahsoka swallows.
"Thank you, Master."
Plo nods. "If you require assistance—"
"No!" She practically yelps it. "No assistance needed. We're great. Perfect. Fine. Very centered."
Plo Koon and Anakin exchange a look. It is the universal adult expression for we should probably supervise these children.
But then Anakin shrugs. "She said they're fine."
Plo sighs, the weight of centuries behind it.
The moment he turns to leave, Ahsoka bolts in the opposite direction, offering a strangled, "I need to—go—do a thing!"
She doesn't stop until she's around the corner, bracing herself against the wall, breathing hard.
Okay.
Okay. She survived that.
Ben and Maris are on Korriban doing Force-knows-what.
Anakin is bored and suspicious-adjacent.
Master Plo is perceptive enough to smell guilt through solid durasteel.
The Council is about to do a headcount.
And she is responsible for maintaining the illusion that everything is normal.
Ahsoka drags her hands down her face.
"This is fine," she whispers to herself.
It is not fine.
But she's committed now.
And she is absolutely going to die of stress before either of them get back.
...
The ramp of the shuttle hissed open, and the dry heat of Sundari rolled inward like a polite, desert-flavored greeting. Obi-Wan took the first step down with measured grace — even for him — because Cody was watching, and the clones seemed to take their behavioral cues from the Jedi they'd been assigned to. Or, in this case, temporarily loaned to while the Senate panicked in circles.
Cody stood just behind him. Not quite at parade rest, not quite at ease — more like someone trying desperately to read a planet they had no context for. Mandalore was wide and clean and sunlit in a way that made it look peaceful, even though the politics beneath the surface had enough tension to light up a lightsaber.
"This is… different from Kamino, sir," Cody said quietly.
"Nearly everything is different from Kamino," Obi-Wan replied with a gentle smile. "Weather, architecture, the number of things trying to kill you on any given day. Mandalore is comparatively tame."
Cody didn't answer, but that wasn't surprising. The clones were still learning how to express anything that wasn't tactical or urgent. Even uncertainty came out like a mission report.
Obi-Wan felt a ripple of sympathy. They'd been created for a war that didn't exist yet — and hopefully never would. And now they were being offered citizenship by a world the Republic didn't want to lose, for reasons the Senate couldn't articulate without sounding afraid.
Fear. It always came back to fear.
Cody's voice lowered further. "Do you believe they'll actually accept us?"
"That depends," Obi-Wan said honestly. "On Satine. On the Council. On you, I imagine. Mandalorians respect strength and integrity. You have both."
Cody blinked. He wasn't used to compliments. Or perhaps he simply wasn't used to someone seeing him as anything other than a soldier. Obi-Wan watched the realization settle. Carefully. Cautiously. Like someone unfamiliar with owning something fragile.
He opened his mouth to continue — something reassuring, something anchoring — when a familiar voice cut across the landing pad.
"Master Kenobi?"
Obi-Wan blinked.
Padmé Amidala stood at the edge of the reception platform, framed by the soft white glow of Sundari's artificial sky. For a moment, it felt like the years since Naboo hadn't passed at all — as though he were stepping off a different ship, onto a different world, seeing a very young queen trying desperately to negotiate peace in a galaxy allergic to it.
Then she smiled — polite, warm, quietly excited.
Not a queen anymore.
A senator.
"Senator Amidala," Obi-Wan said, bowing slightly. He wasn't sure why his chest tightened. Nostalgia, perhaps. Something gentler, quieter, fond. "This is a surprise."
"Mutual," she said with a soft laugh. "I didn't realize the Council had dispatched anyone yet. Especially not you."
"Especially not me?" he echoed lightly.
Padmé gave him a look that suggested he already knew the answer.
He did.
Satine.
And the Senate had a long memory.
Cody straightened as she approached, and the senator gave him a respectful nod. "You must be…?"
"Cody, ma'am."
"No rank?" she asked gently.
"Not recognized outside Kamino, ma'am."
Something flickered across her expression — outrage and heartbreak, political and personal. "Well then," she said, recovering with senatorial grace, "welcome to Mandalore. I hope this visit gives you clarity, Commander."
Cody froze.
Obi-Wan smiled. "Careful, Senator. You'll confuse him. He's been warned not to accept titles from strangers."
Padmé lifted a brow. "I'm not a stranger."
"That," Obi-Wan said dryly, "is debatable."
Her laugh was delighted, and Obi-Wan felt the knot in his chest loosen. Not entirely — never that — but enough.
Padmé gestured for them to walk with her. "I arrived this morning. The Senate needed a direct representative since the situation with the clones is… complicated."
It was the diplomatic version of "the Senate is panicking so hard they're starting to sweat through their robes."
"And your stance?" Obi-Wan asked.
"My stance," Padmé said, smoothing her gloves, "is that Satine's offer is the sensible, humane, morally correct option — and also potentially catastrophic for Republic–Mandalorian relations."
"Ah," Obi-Wan murmured. "Balanced, then."
"Pragmatic," she corrected. "But I'm relieved someone took the first step. Even if it wasn't us."
She meant Satine.
Of course she did.
Obi-Wan kept his expression neutral, though something uncomfortably warm twisted in his chest. Pride? Worry? Both? Satine had always been capable of bold decisions that made the galaxy reconsider both its assumptions and its patience.
Before Obi-Wan could reply, the grand doors to the audience chamber slid open with their characteristic Mandalorian efficiency — meaning silently, impressively, and with just enough theatricality to remind visitors they were on a planet whose architectural aesthetic was "political intimidation, but tasteful."
A pair of guards stepped out first.
Then Satine.
Her presence filled the space like the quiet before a storm — or perhaps like the storm itself, polite enough to give you a moment to brace.
Padmé straightened automatically.
Cody went rigid.
Obi-Wan's heart did something profoundly undignified.
"Senator Amidala," Satine said with a perfect diplomatic nod. "Welcome to Sundari. Mandalore appreciates your willingness to speak on behalf of the Republic."
"Duchess Kryze," Padmé said, matching her tone. "Thank you for receiving me."
There was respect, certainly.
And steel.
And a thin layer of frost — not personal, but political. Satine's independence was newly declared. Padmé represented a government still trying to pull Mandalore back into its orbit.
Then Satine's eyes slid past her.
And found Obi-Wan.
The room warmed ten degrees.
Padmé noticed first.
Then the guards.
Then Cody, who looked like a man experiencing a spiritual revelation and trying very, very hard not to react.
"Obi-Wan," Satine said, softer than protocol allowed.
"Duchess," he murmured, because anything else — any use of her name — would betray too much in front of an audience.
She stepped closer. Not close enough to break decorum. Close enough to break him.
"You've traveled far," she said. "I trust the journey was comfortable?"
Very normal greeting. Very diplomatic. Except she said it the way one might ask if he'd slept well, or if he'd eaten, or if he'd missed her as terribly as she'd missed him.
"It was uneventful," Obi-Wan said. He hoped his voice did not betray that his pulse had doubled. "Though I admit, Mandalore is always a welcome sight."
The corner of her mouth softened — a smile only he saw, or perhaps one only he was meant to.
Padmé cleared her throat gently, not interrupting so much as reasserting her existence. "Duchess, if you prefer to speak with Master Kenobi privately before the negotiations continue, I can prepare the preliminary brief with your advisory council."
Satine did not look away from Obi-Wan when she answered.
"That would be appreciated."
Obi-Wan, very specifically, did not swallow.
Because he knew exactly what the room was thinking.
Exactly what Cody was thinking — Force, I'm getting transferred to someone interesting, aren't I?
Exactly what Padmé was thinking — So that's the infamous duchess.
Exactly what Satine was thinking — We have limited time and far too much to say.
Satine offered her arm.
"Master Kenobi," she said, "a private discussion?"
Absolutely professional.
Not romantic at all.
No sir.
Obi-Wan placed his hand lightly atop her offered arm — the contact brief, restrained, and quietly devastating.
"Of course," he said.
Cody exhaled very slowly behind him.
Padmé hid a smile.
And the guards pretended the most politically charged, emotionally fraught, galaxy-shaping tension in recent Mandalorian history wasn't walking itself down a hallway, hand in arm, to have a conversation no report would ever accurately summarize.