Chapter 25: Welcome to Tatooine! Population: Soon To Be Ours
Greedo had lived on Tatooine his entire life.
This meant two things.
First, he had a highly refined sense for danger. Not the heroic kind—no instincts about destiny or noble sacrifice—but the practical, survival-oriented awareness that told him when to duck, when to run, and when to pretend very convincingly that he was not involved.
Second, it meant he had learned never to ask the galaxy for context.
If something bad was happening, it was almost certainly happening here, and it was almost certainly not his fault, and it was almost certainly going to affect him anyway.
So when the sky over Mos Eisley screamed—not metaphorically, not poetically, but with the unmistakable shriek of stressed hyperspace rupture tearing itself open far too low in-atmosphere—Greedo didn't look up and wonder why.
He looked up and thought, Of course.
The street around him reacted in stages.
First came confusion. Conversations faltered. A Jawa dropped a crate and swore in a language that sounded like static choking on gravel. Someone laughed, sharp and nervous, the way people did when they thought something exciting might be about to happen instead of catastrophic.
Then came recognition.
Shadows stretched wrong across the sand as a cruiser tore its way out of hyperspace overhead, engines roaring like something wounded and angry. It was big—too big to be dropping in that close—and ugly in a way that suggested it had been designed by people who didn't care if their ship frightened children.
Greedo squinted, eyes adjusting.
Not Republic.
Not Trade Federation.
Definitely not local.
The hull was dark, scorched in places, patched in others. Old Sith architecture lines—angular, aggressive—cut through newer repair work like scars that hadn't healed right.
Pirates, Greedo decided. Or Hutts.
Those were the usual options.
Someone near him muttered, "Ah, kriff. Hutts again."
Greedo felt a flicker of relief at that. Hutts were awful, but they were predictable. You paid them, or you ran from them, or you got shot. There were rules. Unspoken, cruel rules, but rules nonetheless.
The cruiser dipped lower.
Too low.
Greedo's instincts screamed.
That was when the wind changed.
Not gradually. Not like a storm rolling in from the Dune Sea, where you had time to smell it and curse and pull your scarf up. This was sudden, violent, as if the planet itself had decided to inhale sharply.
Sand lifted off the ground in a spiraling rush. Awning cloth snapped and tore. Loose debris skittered across the street like startled animals.
"What the—" someone started.
The words vanished as the sandstorm hit full force.
Greedo ducked instinctively, pressing himself against the wall of a shop as grit slammed into his face and armor. Visibility dropped to nothing in seconds. The air filled with the scream of wind and the hiss of sand against metal and stone.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't even Tatooine normal.
Five minutes ago, the sky had been clear.
Greedo's heart hammered. He tasted dust and fear, sharp and bitter.
Then the clouds above them lit up.
A crack of thunder split the air, so loud it felt like it punched straight through his chest. Light flashed through the sandstorm—blue-white, violent, branching like something alive and furious.
Lightning.
On Tatooine.
Greedo stared upward, eyes wide despite himself.
"What kind of kriffing day—"
...
The bridge of the cruiser vibrated under my boots as another lightning bolt tore free from my outstretched hand and vanished into the storm below.
I blinked.
"…okay, that one definitely went left."
Maris leaned slightly over the holotable beside me, black cloak hanging perfectly still despite the ship's tremors. Her mask turned just enough to suggest she was looking down at the tactical display.
"Yes," she said calmly. "Left. And also down. Toward the population center."
I winced. "In my defense, the Holocron made it look way more intuitive."
The Sith Holocron hovered near the console, its crimson facets pulsing faintly, smugly. I could practically feel its presence in the back of my mind, radiating encouragement like a bad life coach.
More passion, it whispered earlier. Let your emotions fuel your power.
Apparently it hadn't specified accuracy.
I adjusted my stance, grounding myself the way I'd been taught—Jedi exercises layered awkwardly over Sith technique, breath steady, emotions acknowledged but not allowed to run the show.
The Force answered eagerly.
Too eagerly.
Another bolt leapt from my fingers, arcing through the viewport and into the roiling clouds below. The storm responded like a living thing, thunder booming in reply.
Somewhere beneath us, something exploded.
Maris tilted her head. "That was a cantina sign."
"…how do you know that?"
"Because it stopped being there."
I peered at the sensors. Sure enough, one fewer glowing marker.
I grimaced. "Okay. That one's on me."
She folded her arms. "You are aware that subtlety was an option."
"I was aware of it, sure." I said. "I just figured, an army of robots, plus a cruiser, plus two fledging Sith Lords, meant that the direct approach was the best approach."
I hurled another lightning strike to prove my point, this one slamming into the outskirts of Mos Eisley and knocking out a whole grid sector. The city lights flickered, then plunged into darkness in a ripple effect that was honestly kind of impressive.
Silence fell on the bridge for half a second.
Then the proximity alarms started screaming.
I stared at the readouts as they lit up like a festival. Panicked traffic. Emergency launches. Local defense systems trying very hard and failing very badly to figure out what category we belonged in.
I let out a slow breath.
"Although, admittedly…this is a lot more attention than I intended."
Maris's shoulders shook once.
A laugh.
Quick. Soft. Gone just as fast.
She stepped closer to the viewport, looking down at the chaos below like she was appraising a piece of art. "You did say you wanted to make an entrance."
"I meant symbolically," I said weakly. "Like, ominous. Looming. Maybe a dramatic speech."
"Well," she replied, "you've definitely achieved 'looming.'"
Another bolt crackled from my hand without me even meaning to. I cut it off hastily, shaking my fingers.
"Okay," I muttered. "Note to self: lightning wants to happen even when I don't want it to." I was going to need a leash for this power. Later. Preferably after we owned the planet.
"That's the point," Maris said. "You stop fighting it, it stops fighting you."
"How does that statement even make sense?" I glanced at her. Even masked, I could feel her focus—sharp, controlled, delighted in a way that was equal parts terrifying and inspiring. "You're just trying to sound mystical."
"Guilty."
Below us, Mos Eisley burned with light and shadow, sandstorm howling, people scattering like ants whose hill had just been kicked by the universe.
This wasn't a raid.
This wasn't a test run.
This was a statement.
I straightened, letting the Force settle—not recede, but align. The storm outside the ship steadied, no longer wild but directed. Lightning crackled along the clouds, waiting.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's try this again. Give me a target."
Maris inclined her head. "That direction," she said, pointing. "Empty street. Scares them without killing anyone."
I focused.
The Force surged.
...
The landing was not graceful.
In my defense, the cruiser was ancient, half-repaired, and probably held together by equal parts Sith engineering and spite. In itsdefense, Mos Eisley's landing pads were not rated for "ominous conqueror touchdown during an unnatural sandstorm."
The ship came down hard.
Metal screamed. Repulsors whined. The deck lurched under my boots as we hit, bounced once, then settled with the kind of finality that suggested the ground itself had decided to stop arguing.
Somewhere deep in the hull, something important broke.
I decided not to ask what.
The ramp began to lower with a hydraulic hiss that cut through the howl of the storm outside. Sand blasted against the durasteel like thrown gravel. Through the narrowing gap, I could see chaos in motion—shadows running, shapes scattering, the storm turning the streets into a churning wall of noise and grit.
I stepped forward anyway.
Black cloak billowing, lightsaber that I stole from Korriban's armory burning an angry red onto Tatooine's sands.
Behind me, metal feet locked into place in perfect unison.
The HK battalion activated as one.
Red photoreceptors flared to life across dozens—no, hundreds—of identical skeletal frames, rifles already raised, posture crisp and eager in a way that would have made a drill sergeant cry tears of joy.
They marched.
Perfect spacing. Perfect timing. No hesitation.
The ramp hit the ground.
Mos Eisley officially became someone else's problem.
The HKs poured out in formation, fanning across the landing zone with terrifying efficiency, weapons tracking every heat signature, every movement, every poor life choice that had led someone to still be standing upright.
The first voice cut through the storm, amplified and metallic.
"QUERY: WOULD YOU PREFER IMMEDIATE EXECUTION OR A BRIEF WINDOW FOR SCREAMING?"
I blinked.
"…wow. Okay. Strong opener."
Another HK took half a step forward, rifle swiveling toward a group of fleeing locals.
"STATEMENT: COMPLIANCE WILL BE REWARDED WITH DELAYED TERMINATION."
A third chimed in, somehow louder.
"ADVISORY: RUNNING WILL ONLY INCREASE THE DRAMATIC SATISFACTION OF YOUR DEMISE."
People screamed.
They ran.
Jawas scattered in every direction, cloaks flapping, sandcrawler alarms blaring as they dove for cover like this was just another Tuesday—which, on Tatooine, it probably was.
One Rodian tripped, scrambled back to his feet, looked up at the wall of red optics and black rifles, and made a sound that was less a scream and more a philosophical objection to reality.
I raised a hand. "Okay. Hey. Guys. Maybe dial it back a little."
No one listened.
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT HAS DIALED BACK FROM 'IMMEDIATE MASSACRE' TO 'STRUCTURED TERROR.'"
"That's not—" I paused. "…actually, that's slightly better. Thank you?"
Maris stepped up beside me, cloak whipping slightly in the wind, mask tilted just enough that I knew she was smiling under it. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
She was having the time of her life.
Another HK rotated its torso smoothly, addressing a cluster of civilians pressed against a wall.
"QUERY: DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE ASSUMING A KNEELING POSITION?"
Someone fainted.
I pinched the bridge of my nose inside my mask. "Alright. Alright. Let's establish some ground rules."
A dozen heads snapped toward me instantly.
Silence fell—not total, because the storm was still screaming and Mos Eisley was still panicking—but the HKs went stock still, every red photoreceptor pinned on me. Not going to lie. I felt pretty badass.
"Rule one," I continued, projecting my voice, "we are not executing civilians."
The droids 'blinked' for lack of a better word, as they processed this information. I could practically seethe windows pinwheel above their heads.
Processing… processing… processing.
"CLARIFICATION REQUEST: AT THIS TIME?"
"…ever," I amended.
Processing… processing… processing.
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT FINDS THAT DISAPPOINTING BUT ACCEPTABLE."
I let out a breath.
Progress.
"Rule two," I said. "Threats are fine. Intimidation is fine. Casual murder is off the table."
"QUERY: IS THEATRICAL MURDER ACCEPTABLE?"
"No."
"SIMULATED MURDER?"
"…define simulated."
"DEFINITION: DEMONSTRATION INVOLVING NEAR-MISS BLASTER FIRE AND SCREAMING."
I considered it.
Maris made a small, encouraging gesture with her hand. Like she was urging me to let go. Embrace it.
"…fine," I said. "Simulated murder is fine."
"STATEMENT: UNDERSTOOD. COMMENCING SIMULATED MURDER."
Blaster fire cracked through the storm, bolts slamming into walls, pavement, signs—anything near a person without quite hitting them. Screams intensified immediately.
Somewhere to my left, a cantina door slammed shut. Inside, I glimpsed a bartender calmly ducking behind the counter, wiping a glass like this genuinely happened weekly.
I stared.
"Respect," I muttered.
The sandstorm surged again, wind howling louder, visibility dropping to almost nothing. Lightning flashed overhead, the thunder rolling low and heavy like a drumbeat.
The HKs didn't flinch.
"OBSERVATION: ATMOSPHERIC CONDITIONS HAVE DETERIORATED."
"CONCLUSION: THIS IS PART OF THE PLAN."
I opened my mouth to correct them.
Then I stopped.
Because… was it not?
I hadn't planned the storm, but the Force was still thrumming through me, heavy and present, the lightning overhead answering some unspoken call. The chaos felt right. Aligned. Like the galaxy had shrugged and gone, Sure, why not.
I let my hand fall.
Maris leaned closer. "You're thinking too hard."
"Am I?"
"Yes." She gestured at the streets. "Look. They're listening."
She wasn't wrong.
People weren't just running anymore. They were hiding. Watching. Waiting. Fear had turned from blind panic into something sharper, more focused. Obedience. They recognized what they saw.
Authority.
The HKs spread out, establishing perimeters, blocking exits, herding people away from open streets with the casual efficiency of machines designed for exactly this.
One unit stopped in front of a trembling shop owner.
"STATEMENT: THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS NOW CLOSED DUE TO HOSTILE TAKEOVER."
The owner nodded frantically.
"ADVISORY: ATTEMPTS TO REOPEN WILL RESULT IN ARSON."
"…thank you?" the man squeaked.
"STATEMENT: YOU ARE WELCOME."
I snorted despite myself.
I stepped forward into the sand, cloak snapping, boots crunching against grit and debris. The storm parted around me just slightly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that I could see faces turn my way.
I raised my voice, letting the Force carry it.
"People of Mos Eisley," I began.
A blaster bolt exploded nearby for emphasis.
"This occupation will be orderly," I said. "Brief. And only moderately traumatic."
Maris made a choking sound behind her mask.
"No one needs to die today," I continued. "Unless you make it complicated."
That got their attention.
I felt it then—that shift. The moment where fear crystallized into something else. Something heavier.
Control.
The HKs stood at ease, rifles still raised, red optics glowing through the storm like a field of watching eyes.
Behind me, Maris folded her arms, satisfied.
I hadn't meant for it to go this far.
But standing there, lightning cracking overhead, an army of murder-droids interpreting bad weather as divine intent…
I had to admit.
It was a hell of a first day on the ground.
...
The Hutts didn't come screaming in.
That alone told me they were taking this seriously.
They came slow—repulsors whining at a carefully moderated pitch, a small convoy of speeders cresting a dune at the edge of Mos Eisley's sprawl like they were approaching a suspicious animal instead of an occupied city. Banners fluttered from antennae, heavy with sigils everyone on Tatooine understood instinctively. Ownership. Territory. The promise that someone very large and very patient would be unhappy if you misunderstood the message.
The sandstorm had thinned by then, though it hadn't gone away. It lingered like a mood. Lightning still crawled through the clouds overhead in distant, lazy veins, not striking so much as reminding everyone it could.
The HK battalion had already adjusted to the change in weather. They stood in broad, deliberate formation near the outskirts—far enough from the city proper to feel intentional. Defensive. Polite, in a heavily armed sort of way. Rifles angled down just enough to suggest restraint, red optics sweeping in synchronized arcs that tracked the approaching speeders long before anyone else could see them clearly.
Maris stood to my right, cloak falling straight despite the wind, mask unreadable. She hadn't said a word in several minutes.
I was learning that silence was her preferred mode when things were about to get interesting.
The lead speeder slowed, then slowed again, then stopped at a distance that was carefully calculated to be neither aggressive nor submissive. Its escort fanned out behind it in a loose arc, engines idling. Enforcers dismounted—Nikto, Gamorreans, a pair of humans with the stiff posture of professional survivors. Heavy weapons were visible. Intentionally so.
No one pointed them.
That was good. For them.
I felt the Force tighten slightly around me, like a held breath. Not tension—anticipation. The storm responded, thunder rolling somewhere far off, as if the sky itself was eavesdropping.
An HK unit took two precise steps forward and raised one skeletal hand.
"ANNOUNCEMENT: YOU HAVE ENTERED A PROVISIONALLY HOSTILE ZONE. PLEASE STATE YOUR INTENT OR PREPARE FOR DRAMATIC MISUNDERSTANDING."
One of the Nikto muttered something in Huttese that did not sound complimentary.
The human at the front—tall, scarred, wearing the kind of armor that advertised both wealth and survivability—raised his hands slightly, palms out.
"We're here on behalf of Jabba Desilijic Tiure," he said, voice amplified but calm. "This territory falls under his protection. Recent… disturbances prompted a welfare check."
I almost laughed.
A welfare check.
I took a step forward, boots crunching in the sand, cloak shifting as the wind caught it. The HKs adjusted instantly, opening a narrow corridor without breaking formation. Red optics flicked to me, then back to the enforcers.
I didn't lower my hood. I didn't remove my mask.
I let the lightning overhead answer for me.
A bolt cracked down somewhere behind the convoy, close enough to send a shudder through the sand and make one of the speeders' stabilizers squeal in protest. No damage. Just proximity.
The enforcers stiffened. Not panicked. Not yet. But very aware that the weather was no longer neutral.
"You are conducting a welfare check," I said, letting the Force carry my voice without raising it. Calm. Measured. "On a city currently under new management."
The human swallowed. He recovered quickly, but I noticed.
"This city is under Jabba's protection," he replied. "If you're looking to establish terms, we can—"
I raised a hand.
Not toward him.
Toward the speeder on the far left of their formation.
The Force answered immediately, heat blooming in my chest and flowing outward in a way that felt disturbingly easy now. I didn't reach for lightning this time. I didn't need spectacle.
I closed my fingers slowly.
The speeder screamed.
Metal warped with a sound like something alive being bent the wrong way. The hull buckled inward, repulsors flaring wildly as systems failed in a cascade of sparks. The paint blistered, then ran, then caught fire as if the vehicle itself had decided it would rather not exist anymore.
I held it there. Not crushing. Not exploding.
Melting.
The enforcers shouted, scrambling back as heat washed over them. One of the Gamorreans raised his weapon instinctively, then froze as half a dozen HK rifles tracked him in perfect unison.
"ADVISORY," an HK intoned pleasantly. "THAT WOULD BE A POOR LIFE DECISION."
I let the speeder collapse into itself, a molten ruin sinking into the sand with a hiss and a plume of smoke. No explosion. No shrapnel. No bodies.
Just absence.
I lowered my hand.
Silence followed. The storm seemed to lean in.
"I am Darth Sol," I said. "This is Darth Nox."
Maris inclined her head slightly. A minimal gesture. Somehow, it felt like a threat.
"We are not here to negotiate territory," I continued. "We are here to take it."
The human's gaze flicked—just for a second—to the HK battalion, to the ruined speeder, to the sky. He did some very fast math.
"Take it?" he asked carefully.
"This world now belongs to the First Order," I said, naming our newly formed government on the spot. "Inform Jabba that he and his men will abandon the planet within forty-eight hours, or face the wrath of the Sith."
One of the Nikto let out a sharp, involuntary breath.
"I am not a patient man." I glowered, "Go."
The Force stirred again, restless. Lightning flickered in the clouds overhead, answering my mood like a loyal hound. I didn't let it strike. I let the promise linger instead.
Maris shifted beside me. Just enough that I could feel her attention sharpen.
The human nodded once. Slowly. "Okay… sure. We'll tell him… be seeing you."
The enforcers began backing away—not running, not retreating in panic, but with the careful, rehearsed discipline of people who knew exactly how dangerous the situation was and intended to survive it. Speeders powered up. Engines whined.
They mounted up and pulled away, kicking up sand as they went, their formation tighter now, their distance increasing faster than politeness strictly required.
The HKs tracked them until they vanished over the dunes.
Then one unit turned its head toward me.
"QUERY: WAS THAT CONSIDERED A SUCCESSFUL NEGOTIATION?"
I exhaled slowly. The adrenaline was still humming under my skin, the Force coiled and ready, but the moment had passed. For now.
"Twelve seconds," I said. "That might be a new record."
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT FEELS DISAPPOINTED," the HK replied. "NO ONE SCREAMED."
"Give it time," Maris said quietly.
I glanced at her. I could feel her satisfaction. She practically radiated it. And yet, she wasn't gloating. She was assessing. Like she'd just placed a piece on the board and liked where it landed. We're still a few moves away from Checkmate.
I watched the horizon for a long moment, then nodded to myself.
Okay, timer started.
...
The Lars homestead sat exactly where I remembered it.
Which was impressive, considering I'd never actually been here before.
Low, round, half-buried in sand like Tatooine itself was embarrassed by the concept of architecture. Moisture vaporators rose from the ground nearby like patient metal insects, quietly doing the thankless work of pulling survival out of an environment that very clearly didn't want to offer it. The storm still loomed overhead, though thinner now—less "apocalypse" and more "angry reminder."
I stood at the edge of the property with Maris beside me, both of us cloaked, masked, and followed at a respectful distance by enough HK droids to constitute a war crime.
I took it in with a strange sense of déjà vu.
This place wasn't important yet.
One day, if the galaxy insisted on following its original script, this would be Luke Skywalker's childhood home. Where he would stare at twin suns and complain about power converters and spend nineteen straight years yearning for something more exciting than farm work.
Which meant, statistically speaking, that whining was genetic.
Anakin hadn't learned it here, but he did pass it down.
"Are you smiling?" Maris asked quietly.
"No," I said immediately.
She tilted her head. "You are absolutely smiling."
"You can't tell if I'm smiling. I'm wearing a mask."
"I can feel your happiness, you know. Sith privilege."
I stepped forward before she could dig further. Speaking of Sith privileges, I invoked some of my own. I reached out with the Force, sensing three life forms inside. Owen and Beru, and Shmi. No hidden weapons, no guards. The kind of security setup you'd expect from people whose greatest threat was seasonal dehydration.
Or Tusken Raiders.
Or Hutts.
Or now, apparently, Sith.
I raised a hand, signaling the HKs to stay put.
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT FINDS THAT BORING," one of them offered.
"You'll live," I muttered.
"QUERY: STATISTICALLY UNLIKELY."
I ignored it and approached the entrance, boots crunching softly in the sand.
The door opened before I could knock.
Owen Lars stood there, blaster in hand, jaw tight, eyes flicking immediately past me to the cloaked figure at my side and the silhouettes of murder-droids looming in the storm behind us.
Beru stood just behind him, hand on his arm, expression calm in the way only people who had already accepted the worst could manage.
And then Shmi Skywalker stepped forward.
She looked… normal.
Not mythic. Not tragic. Just a woman who'd lived a hard life and found a measure of peace anyway. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of us, but she didn't flinch.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Her voice was warm. Tired. Kind.
I felt something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
"Hopefully," I said. "May we come in?"
That earned me a look from Owen that suggested kicking and screaming was very much still on the table.
Maris leaned slightly forward. "We're friendly," she added helpfully.
Her tone did not support the claim.
Shmi studied us for a long moment, then looked past me to the storm, the lightning still crawling faintly through the clouds.
"Well," she said at last, "Alright. You'd better come inside before the weather decides otherwise."
I blinked.
"…really?"
She smiled faintly. "I've lived on Tatooine my whole life. If I didn't invite strange things inside, I'd never have guests."
Owen opened his mouth to object.
Beru squeezed his arm.
They stepped aside.
We entered.
The homestead was cooler inside, the walls thick and curved, the air carrying the faint smell of moisture, dust, and something warm cooking. Domestic. Safe.
Violently at odds with our aesthetic.
I lowered my hood and mask, enough to show my face without fully disarming the intimidation factor. Maris did the same—though she lingered just a bit longer, clearly enjoying the effect.
Shmi's eyes flicked between us.
"You're young," she observed.
"Relative to what?" I asked.
She smiled again, a little more cautiously this time. "Sit. Please."
We did.
Owen holstered his blaster, reluctantly. Beru moved toward the small kitchen area, already reaching for cups.
"I'll get milk," she said, as if serving refreshments to Sith Lords during a planetary occupation was just something that happened now.
Blue milk, as it turned out.
I took my first sip and found myself pleasantly surprised.
"…Not bad." I admitted, downing the rest like it was a shot glass.
Maris, meanwhile, had pulled out a datapad.
I noticed too late.
She'd angled it just right, snapping a quick image of Shmi as she leaned over the counter, reaching for something on a lower shelf.
I felt my soul leave my body.
"Maris," I hissed.
"What?" she replied innocently, snapping another shot as Shmi turned, milk cup in hand. "Documentation."
"Of what? Women that are Mature and Interested in Love and Fulfillment?"
"Hey," Maris glared. "I'll have you know, there are a lot of repressed Padawans and Initiates that would spend a lot of money for these documents at the Temple!"
Yeah. I'll bet.
Shmi glanced over, confused but not alarmed. "Is something wrong?"
"No," I said quickly. "Everything is extremely wrong, but not with you." I pinched Maris under the table. "Delete them."
"C'mon, please?" Maris leaned closer to me, voice low, almost begging. "Can't we just keep them for… Blackmail material?"
"On who? Anakin?" I whispered back. "That's not blackmail, that's suicide."
She shrugged. "There are worse ways to die."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it.
She did have a point. Lots of people get killed by Anakin Skywalker. It's basically natural causes in this galaxy. And there are worse ways to go out as a sith. You could get killed off-screen.
RIP Ventress.
Shmi set a cup in front of me and sat across from us, folding her hands. "You said you hoped we could help you?"
"Yes," I said, refocusing. "Though, it's more accurate to say, I was hoping that we could help you. We're… acquaintances of your son."
That got her full attention.
"Anakin?" she asked, a hopeful note creeping in despite herself.
"He's alive," I said quickly. "Safe. Annoying. Exceptionally talented. You'd be proud."
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Thank you."
I hesitated, then continued. "We heard he'd been concerned about you. That you were sold here. We came to check on you. Maybe even buy your freedom."
Owen stiffened.
Shmi shook her head gently. "That's kind, but unnecessary. I'm the happiest I've been in a long time. Owen's father freed me years ago. I chose to stay. I fell in love with him. We married each other last Spring."
"Okay." I nodded, slowly. "I see. Cool. You married your former master."
There it was.
Owen bristled. Beru shot me a warning look.
"…bold choice of words," Owen said.
"Sorry," I replied. "Still adjusting my internal filter."
Internally, I was filing the information away under Galactic Relationship Dynamics Are Weird. Wrath had mentioned Vette once, casually, like marrying someone you used to own was just something that happened if you didn't overthink it.
Maybe it was more common than I'd assumed.
"So. How's your security?" I asked, desperate for a change in conversation.
...
After ensuring that the Lars family had enough turrets, shields, and motion sensors to repel an entire tribe of Sand Men, Women, and Children, I was ready to enact Phase 2 of my plan to save the Chosen MILF. Negotiate a truce with the Tusken Raiders. Of course, to do that, I'd need a translator to convey my message of peace and love to the backwards savages. What to do. What to do…
The answer, as it turned out, was standing in the corner.
He was shiny. Not "tasteful accent" silver. Not "subtle trim" silver. He was aggressively shiny, reflective enough that the homestead lights bounced off him like they were trying to escape. Long limbs, polite posture, a slightly hunched stance like he was permanently apologizing for existing. His photoreceptors tracked the room nervously as if he fully expected to be disassembled for parts at any moment.
"Oh," I said.
Everyone turned to look at me.
I pointed. "That droid."
Shmi followed my finger, then smiled faintly. "Oh. That's Threepio. C-3PO. Anakin built him when he was very young."
Built him. Right. I'd bet my lightsaber that Anakin more or less salvaged him.
The little boy from Tatooine was a self-proclaimed slow learner.
I stared at the droid harder.
C-3PO noticed. He straightened immediately, servo-motors whirring. "Oh! Hello! I am C-3PO, human–cyborg relations, fluent in over six million forms of communication, and—oh dear." His gaze slid past me to the doorway, where a dozen HK units stood in perfectly aligned rows, red optics glowing with what could only be described as murderous disdain. "—and I appear to be in grave danger."
"You're fine," I said automatically. "Probably."
"STATEMENT," an HK cut in, "THIS UNIT DISAGREES."
Shmi stepped closer to Threepio, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder plating. It was a small gesture, but it was protective. "He's harmless," she said. "He helps around the house. Translates. Fixes small things."
I nodded absently, still staring.
So shiny.
Also, he was him. This was thatdroid. The nervous wreck who would go on to complain his way through galactic history, translating for heroes, villains, and walking war crimes alike. A fixed point. A narrative anchor. A polite, anxious linchpin of fate.
And I wanted him.
Immediately.
"Shmi," I said carefully, turning back to her. "How attached are you to the droid?"
She stiffened.
Very hesitant, indeed.
"I—he's not for sale," she said, a little too quickly. "Anakin made him. He's… sentimental."
C-3PO's head swiveled between us. "Oh my! I wasn't aware there was a sale under discussion. Mistress Shmi, I assure you I am perfectly content here, even under current… militarized conditions."
One of the HKs leaned slightly toward him.
"QUERY: DO YOU TRANSLATE SCREAMING?"
C-3PO made a distressed whirring sound.
"Back off," I said. "He's delicate."
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT FINDS THAT OFFENSIVE."
I ignored them and focused on Shmi. She was resolute, but there was fear there too—not for herself. For the droid. For what we represented.
Which was fair. We'd conquered Mos Eisley in a lightning storm and then turned her home into a discount fortress.
"I'm not here to take something you need," I said. Which was technically true. "But I am willing to compensate you very generously."
"I don't want money," she replied gently.
"That's okay," I said. "I have more than you could want, anyways."
I reached into my cloak and produced a credit chip. Then another. Then, after a moment's thought, a third.
Owen's eyes widened. Beru's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.
"That's… a lot," Beru said.
"Yes," I agreed. "I'm overpaying. Intentionally."
Shmi frowned. "Why?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Thought better of it.
"Well," I said, gesturing vaguely, "you see, I need a translator. For peace negotiations."
C-3PO perked up. "Oh! I would be thrilled to assist in any diplomatic endeavor. I am, after all, fluent in Tusken Sign Language, Huttese, Bocce, Jawa Trade Cant, and—"
"STATEMENT," an HK interrupted sharply, "THIS UNIT IS ALSO FLUENT IN ALL LISTED LANGUAGES AND SEVERAL FORMS OF THREATENING SCREAMS."
"Yes," I said. "But you don't come in silver."
The HKs went very still.
"CLARIFICATION REQUEST," one said slowly. "IS COLOR A DECIDING FACTOR IN DROID VALUE?"
"Frequently," I replied.
C-3PO straightened, clearly pleased. "I do polish regularly."
Shmi hesitated, her gaze drifting to the credits, then back to Threepio. "He's… fragile," she said. "He worries. A lot."
"That's fine," I said. "So do I."
Which was also true.
I felt the moment stretching. Resistance wasn't crumbling, but it was… wavering. I could push. Just a little. Not a shove. A nudge.
The Force stirred.
I told myself it was fine. I wasn't hurting anyone. I wasn't rewriting her will. Just… smoothing the path. If she really didn't want to be persuaded, she'd have had a stronger mind. Maybe next time, spend less time enabling your son's reckless and life-endangering pod racing habit, and more time reading books or something.
That sounded reasonable in my head. Extremely reasonable.
I let the Force brush against her thoughts, warm and reassuring. He'll be safe. This is good. This helps him. This helps Anakin.
Shmi blinked.
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Well," she said slowly. "If… if it's truly for something important."
"It is," I said earnestly. "World peace."
That might have been a stretch.
She smiled at Threepio, sadness and affection mingling. "Go on, then," she said softly. "Be helpful. Like you always are."
C-3PO froze.
Then turned to me.
"Oh my," he said, voice trembling with emotion. "I don't know how to thank you, sir. I promise I will serve with the utmost dedication and—oh dear, am I being sold?"
"Yes," I said. "But in the nice way."
He clasped his hands together. "I've always wanted a purpose!"
Behind me, an HK unit audibly recalibrated its grip on its rifle.
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT FEELS BETRAYED."
Another chimed in. "OBSERVATION: MASTER HAS SELECTED INFERIOR TRANSLATION PLATFORM."
"QUERY: SHOULD THIS UNIT FEEL JEALOUS?"
"Yes," I said without turning around. "Very."
Maris, who had been silent through the entire exchange, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. I could feel her amusement like static in the air.
"You stole him," she said.
"I purchased him," I corrected.
"You mind-tricked her."
"I lightly encouraged a mutually beneficial outcome."
"She's going to think about this later."
"Probably," I admitted. "But she'll be thinking about it in a house with orbital-grade shields."
Shmi tried to hand me the credits back with shaking hands, unused to having actual money. I gently pushed them back toward her.
"Keep them," I said. "For supplies. Or… I don't know. Retirement."
She stared at me, eyes glistening. "You're a strange young man."
"I get that a lot."
C-3PO stepped closer, practically vibrating with excitement. "So! Should I begin preparing for immediate departure? I do hope there will be time for an oil bath—sand is murder on my joints."
"Welcome aboard," I said. "You're my official translator now."
The HKs erupted.
"OBJECTION."
"PROTEST."
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT TRANSLATED A SLAUGHTER ONCE. IT WAS POETIC."
"I don't doubt that," I said. "But you're all… very intense."
C-3PO puffed up slightly. "I pride myself on being reassuring."
One HK leaned toward another. "OBSERVATION: SILVER UNIT IS SOFT."
"CONCLUSION: MASTER HAS POOR TASTE."
I patted Threepio's shoulder. "Ignore them. They're just jealous."
"I do inspire envy," he agreed.
As we prepared to leave, I glanced back at Shmi. She stood in the doorway, watching Threepio with a sad smile—but not regret. Not entirely.
I told myself that mattered.
Outside, the storm finally broke completely, clouds thinning to reveal Tatooine's harsh sky. The HK battalion fell into formation. C-3PO followed a step behind me, head swiveling in wonder and terror.
I nodded to myself.
Translator acquired. Moral compass… flexible.
...
Maris Brood had already had an interesting day.
She had woken up on Tatooine—Tatooine—with sand in places sand had no business being, surrounded by an HK battalion that treated murder like a recreational hobby, alongside her fellow Sith Lord who was technically her best friend, and she who she watched steal a protocol droid from the Chosen One's mother with what she was pretty sure counted as light mind control.
That alone should have capped things.
Instead, Ben had decided they were going to end the day by negotiating with Tusken Raiders.
"Just so we're clear," she'd said earlier, while adjusting her gloves and pretending she wasn't vibrating with anticipation, "this is the part where everyone usually dies."
Ben, Darth Sol, future galactic problem, had waved that off. "That's quitter talk."
Now they stood at the edge of the Dune Sea, where the sand rose into vast, rolling waves and the wind carved everything down to bone and memory. The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the horizon. Heat shimmered. Silence pressed in, thick and watchful.
Maris could feel them.
Tusken Raiders never announced themselves the way holodramas suggested. They didn't charge screaming over dunes. They waited. They watched. They measured.
She approved of that.
Ben stood at the forefront, cloaked and masked, posture relaxed in a way that radiated confidence instead of carelessness. Sith lightning crackled faintly in the clouds overhead—not enough to be threatening, just enough to be noticed. A deliberate aesthetic choice.
Behind him, the HK battalion stood in a loose semicircle, weapons lowered but very obviously present. Several units were muttering to one another in low, irritated tones.
"STATEMENT: THIS TERRAIN IS OPTIMAL FOR AMBUSH AND SLAUGHTER."
"CORRECTION: SLAUGHTER IS OPTIMAL IN ALL TERRAINS."
"QUERY: MAY THIS UNIT PREEMPTIVELY THREATEN GENOCIDE?"
"No," Ben had said patiently. "We're being diplomatic."
"OBSERVATION: MASTER IS LYING."
Maris suppressed a smile.
C-3PO stood between Ben and the HKs, gold plating gleaming obscenely in the sun. He was wringing his hands together, servos whining softly.
"Oh my," he said. "Oh dear. I'm detecting elevated hostility levels. And sand. So much sand."
"You're doing great," Ben told him.
"I haven't done anything yet!"
"Exactly."
The first Tusken emerged from the dunes like he'd been sculpted out of the desert itself—robes blending perfectly with the sand, gaffi stick resting casually in his grip. Then another. And another.
Within seconds, they were surrounded.
Maris shifted her weight slightly, hand drifting closer to her saber. Not because she expected violence—not immediately—but because she liked being ready. Fear was optional. Preparedness wasn't.
She was under no illusion about why they were here.
This wasn't altruism. Ben didn't care about peace in the abstract. He cared about leverage. About turning hostile environments into assets. About stacking the board so when the Hutts inevitably made their move, they'd find themselves bleeding from directions they hadn't considered.
Tusken Raiders were brutal. Marginalized. Hated. And very, very good at surviving where others couldn't.
Cannon fodder, if one were being uncharitable.
Maris was being honest.
And she approved anyway.
The lead Tusken raised a hand, uttering a series of sharp, guttural sounds that echoed across the dunes.
C-3PO stiffened. "Oh! Yes—right. He says… he says you are trespassing. And that if you take another step forward, they will remove your eyes and display them as—oh dear, that part was very graphic."
Ben inclined his head slightly. Respectful. Controlled.
"Tell him we come to speak, not to take," he said.
C-3PO translated, voice wavering only a little.
The Tusken replied. Shorter this time. Curious.
"He asks why Sith would want words instead of blood," C-3PO said.
Ben smiled behind his mask. Maris could feel it in the Force—cold amusement, sharpened by calculation.
"Because blood is expensive," Ben said. "And words can buy armies."
The translation took longer.
The silence stretched.
Maris watched the Tusken carefully. Their posture shifted—not hostile, but alert. Interested.
Negotiations, shockingly, began to go well.
C-3PO proved worth every stolen credit. He translated Tusken sign and guttural speech with meticulous precision, occasionally pausing to clarify cultural nuances that would have absolutely gotten someone killed otherwise.
The HKs, for their part, were trying.
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT IS EXERCISING EXTREME RESTRAINT."
"CORRECTION: THIS UNIT HAS COUNTED SEVENTEEN POTENTIAL SLAUGHTER SCENARIOS."
Ben presented himself as a power worth respecting. He spoke calmly, never raised his voice, but the Force bled through his words anyway—not a hammer, but a steady pressure. A reminder.
Maris recognized the technique. Force Persuasion, layered subtly into rhetoric. Not a command. An invitation that felt inevitable.
Ben offered protection. Resources. Weapons, if necessary. Medical supplies. Safe passage through territories that would otherwise be lethal.
And revenge.
"The Hutts poison your lands," he said evenly. "They enslave your people. They hunt you for sport and call it business. That ends."
C-3PO hesitated during that translation, photoreceptors flickering. "I am… reasonably certain that was received positively."
The Tusken leader's grip tightened on his gaffi stick.
What Ben didn't say sat heavy in the air.
You'll die for us first.
Maris felt it, sharp and clear. The Tusken Raiders would be shields as much as allies. A living buffer between Sith ambition and Hutt reprisal.
She didn't comment.
The Tusken spoke again, longer this time. Deliberate. Formal.
"They say they will consider this alliance," C-3PO said. "They wish to consult their elders. And… they want proof."
Ben nodded once. "Fair."
Maris felt the satisfaction ripple through him.
He counted that as a win.
As the Tusken began to withdraw—melting back into the dunes like ghosts—Maris finally let herself relax. Just a fraction. Enough to stretch the tension from her shoulders.
The sun dipped lower. The wind shifted.
Ben turned slightly, scanning the horizon, already planning the next move. Hutts. Jabba. Escalation.
That was when Maris got bored.
She'd been practicing.
Wrath's teachings echoed in her mind—control, denial, absence. The Force wasn't just something you used. It was something you could step out of.
She slowed her breathing. Focused inward.
Invisibility wasn't about bending light. It was about convincing the Force you weren't worth noticing.
She exhaled.
Then held her breath.
The world… slid.
Sound dulled. Presence faded. The Force wrapped around her like a shroud, heavy and intimate. She wished she didn't have to hold her breath to maintain it, but there were worst trade-offs. Besides, practice makes perfect.
She stepped forward.
No alarms. No shouted HK warnings.
She padded across the sand, boots making no sound, every movement deliberate. Her lungs burned slightly, but she ignored it. Child's play.
Ben didn't notice her approach. He was too busy being smug.
She leaned in close.
Then released the technique.
Inhaled sharply.
"Boo."
Ben jumped.
Actually jumped. A full-body flinch, hand flying toward his saber before his brain caught up.
The HKs erupted.
"THREAT DETECTED."
"TARGET ACQUIRED."
"STATEMENT: THIS UNIT WAS HUMILIATED."
Maris laughed, sharp and delighted. "Wow. Sith Lord reflexes. Impressive."
Ben glared at her through his mask. "I told you to stop doing that!"
"Worth it."
C-3PO clasped his hands together. "Oh my! Is this a training exercise? I was terrified."
Ben exhaled slowly, then shook his head. "One day," he said, "you're going to do that at the wrong time, and someone's going to cut off something important."
Maris smirked. "One day, you're going to stop being fun to mess with. Today is not that day."
As they turned back toward their waiting forces, Maris glanced once more at the dunes.
The Sand People were gone.
But not forgotten.
Consequences, she knew, were patient things.
And today, they'd just been invited to the table.
...
Jabba Desilijic Tiure was in a foul mood.
This was not unusual. Jabba was, by nature, a creature who experienced irritation the way other beings experienced weather—frequently, intensely, and with the firm belief that the galaxy ought to adjust itself accordingly.
Still, even by his standards, today had been unpleasant.
The storm alone would have been enough.
Tatooine was not supposed to storm like this. Winds, yes. Sand, constantly. Heat that could cook a lesser being inside their own armor, absolutely. But this—this shrieking, sky-splitting violence—this was wrong. Jabba had watched it from the high balconies of his palace as the horizon blackened and the air itself seemed to bruise.
Lightning had cracked across the sky.
Lightning.
On Tatooine.
Jabba had lived a very long time. He had outlasted rivals, dynasties, crime families, and at least three ill-advised fashion trends. He was quite certain he had never seen lightning here before.
Which meant, by definition, that someone was cheating.
The audience chamber was dim and cool, the stone beneath Jabba's vast bulk polished smooth by centuries of indulgence. He lounged on his dais, heavy jowls sagging, yellow eyes half-lidded as his court assembled below him. Nikto enforcers. A pair of Weequay captains. Bib Fortuna stood at his side, thin lips pursed in permanent discomfort.
And kneeling at the foot of the dais, sweating profusely, was the unfortunate messenger.
Jabba listened in silence as the report concluded.
Masked figures. Sith, unmistakably so. A cruiser emerging from hyperspace far too low, tearing the sky open like a wound. A sandstorm rolling in minutes later, violent and unnatural. Mos Eisley occupied. Power grids disabled. Local resistance crushed almost immediately.
And droids.
HK-series droids.
Not one. Not two.
A battalion.
That detail had made Jabba laugh.
A deep, booming sound that echoed through the chamber as his bulk shook with amusement. He slapped the stone beside him with the flat of his tail, delighted.
HK-series units were rare. Exceedingly so. Jabba had cousins—powerful, wealthy Hutts—who had bankrupted entire syndicates trying to acquire even a single operational model. Personal assassins. Status symbols. Walking nightmares.
And these upstart Sith had armies of them.
Ridiculous.
Bold.
Stupid.
Jabba laughed harder.
Then the messenger had continued.
Slaves were being armed.
Protected.
Given weapons, shelter, authority.
That was when Jabba stopped laughing.
The sound died in his throat, cut off so abruptly that the sudden silence felt heavier than the noise had been. His eyes narrowed, folds tightening as his mind shifted gears with the slow, grinding certainty of something enormous turning toward prey.
Slaves were predictable. Broken. Useful precisely because they lacked hope. They clung to survival, not ambition. Hutts had built empires on that understanding.
But arm a slave? Protect them? Give them a reason to believe they could win?
Jabba recognized the tactic instantly.
It was old. Older than the Republic. Older than the Sith, even. You did not secure a foothold in hostile territory by courting smugglers and pirates. Those sorts followed profit, and profit always fled at the first sign of danger.
You secured power by turning the oppressed.
Slaves fought harder. Slaves knew the terrain. Slaves were invested.
And slaves remembered who gave them the knife.
Jabba's massive tail coiled slowly around itself.
Bib Fortuna cleared his throat and leaned closer, translator droid hovering dutifully at his side.
"My lord," Bib ventured carefully, "shall I dispatch scouts? Perhaps open negotiations? If these Sith are willing to—"
Jabba turned his head, slowly, deliberately, until one enormous eye fixed on Bib.
He spoke, voice thick and resonant, words rolling out in deep, wet syllables of Huttese.
"Ee chuta ka, Bib Fortuna."
The translator droid straightened nervously. "The Mighty Jabba says… you will be silent."
Bib flinched and bowed his head.
Jabba continued, unhurried.
"Bo shuda Sol. Bo shuda Nox."
"The Mighty Jabba says… these names mean nothing to him."
Jabba's gaze drifted back to the kneeling messenger, who was doing his best to melt into the floor.
"Du Huttese Jedi'k."
"The Mighty Jabba says… Sith come and go."
That much was true. Dark Lords rose, declared themselves inevitable, and then died screaming often enough that it was practically tradition. The galaxy was littered with the bones of people who thought fear alone could replace infrastructure.
But this?
This was different.
The storm. The precision. The restraint. No massacres—yet. Territory taken cleanly. Hutts warned, not challenged openly. Slaves elevated instead of discarded.
This was not the work of brutes.
This was strategy.
Jabba felt it then. Not fear. He did not fear children in masks, no matter how many droids they commanded. What he felt was… interest. Sharp, unwelcome interest.
He shifted his weight, immense body settling as he leaned forward slightly.
"Ho ho ho."
The translator hesitated, then dutifully announced, "The Mighty Jabba laughs." Idiot droid. As if that needed translating. Jabba would throw him down the rancor pit, if he did not know for a fact that the rancor could not digest metal.
Jabba was not laughing now.
"Je pa."
"The Mighty Jabba says… prepare messages."
Eyes flicked up. Enforcers straightened.
"Bounty hunters."
"The Mighty Jabba says… contact the guilds."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"Aurra Sing."
The translator swallowed. "The Mighty Jabba says… prioritize Aurra Sing."
Jabba paused, savoring the moment.
"Du killee Sith."
"The Mighty Jabba says… see how they bleed."
Because that was the test.
Storms faded. Droids could be destroyed. Slaves could be turned again, with the right pressure applied in the right places.
But Sith?
Sith always believed themselves invincible.
Jabba intended to remind them that invincibility was a luxury reserved for Hutts.
His eyes drifted back toward the balcony, toward the distant horizon where the storm still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade.
The chessboard had shifted.
And Jabba, at last, had noticed the new pieces.
He smiled.
Slowly.
Hungrily.