Chapter 31: Vote or Die, Nerf Herder
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 31: Vote or Die, Nerf Herder
Sundari had been fortified like a city expecting an invasion.
Duchess Satine Kryze walked the upper concourse of the Parliament District with her hands folded neatly behind her back, posture immaculate, expression serene enough to be mistaken for confidence. Below her boots, the polished beskar-inlaid flooring hummed faintly—not decoratively, but defensively.
Shield generators thrummed in layered intervals, overlapping fields calibrated to absorb everything from small-arms fire to sustained orbital bombardment. Turbolifts had been reassigned evacuation protocols. Civilian routes were mapped, tested, and quietly circulated under the bland heading of infrastructure optimization.
Mandalore did not panic publicly.
Privately, it prepared for war.
Satine felt it in the way the guards stood too straight, hands never straying far from their weapons. In the way the clone troopers—invited guests, potential citizens, walking political crises—were stationed at careful distances from one another, arranged to look ceremonial rather than tactical. In the way the air itself seemed to wait, breath held, for someone to make the first mistake.
This was a vote, she reminded herself. A parliamentary procedure. A lawful decision conducted under Mandalorian sovereignty.
It simply happened to be one that might get her killed.
She did not let that show.
Obi-Wan Kenobi walked beside her, matching her pace with infuriating ease. Hands folded in his sleeves. Shoulders relaxed. Face set in that politely attentive expression he wore when the galaxy was on the verge of doing something catastrophic and he was determined to pretend it was manageable.
He had perfected that look over the years.
"You could still postpone," he offered mildly, eyes forward. "Cite security concerns. No one would blame you."
Satine smiled without looking at him. "Everyone would blame me," she replied. "They would simply do it later, with more weapons."
She could feel him glance at her then, the quiet worry he never quite managed to hide. Obi-Wan had faced Sith Lords, war zones, and the full attention of the Jedi Council without flinching. Political assassinations, however, clearly offended his sense of narrative order.
"I am here," he said, as if that settled something.
Satine resisted the urge to laugh. Or lean into him. Or scream.
Instead, she inclined her head. "I know."
The first arrival came with polite ceremony and an undercurrent of dread.
Bail Organa's shuttle descended onto the Parliament landing platform with dignified restraint, its markings understated, its escort minimal. He emerged moments later, flanked by a small delegation, expression already composed into something statesmanlike and grimly amused.
His gaze swept the district in one smooth motion.
The shields.
The guards.
The clones.
The architecture bristling with barely concealed weapons.
Ah, she could see it in his eyes: the exact moment he realized this was either going to be cited in history texts for centuries or erased from the record entirely.
He approached, bowed respectfully, and took her hand. "Duchess Kryze," he said warmly. "I must commend your… thorough preparations."
Satine met his gaze, reading the subtext easily.
Historic or catastrophic, Senator Organa was thinking. Possibly both.
"We Mandalorians believe in hosting responsibly," she replied. "Especially when guests disagree."
His mouth twitched. "The galaxy seems determined to test that philosophy."
Before she could answer, the air shifted.
Not with the hum of shields or the controlled precision of Mandalorian security—but with the distinct, unsettling presence of the Jedi Order arriving in force.
Transports settled at the far end of the platform. Ramps descended. Robed figures emerged in orderly formation: Masters, Knights, observers, representatives of an institution that insisted, loudly and often, that it had no political stake in the outcome of this vote whatsoever.
Satine felt the irony like a physical weight.
They moved with practiced calm, as if standing in a fortified Mandalorian capital surrounded by clone soldiers debating their own legal personhood was a perfectly ordinary way to spend the day. She recognized several faces. Others she knew only by reputation.
And then—
There.
Ben.
The sight of him hit her with the quiet violence of a memory she wasn't allowed to have.
He walked with the Jedi delegation, dressed in the simple robes of an initiate, so quiet and unassuming. Tranquil. Polite… is that a really Ben? Has he changed so much since the last time she saw him?
Or was she only seeing what she wanted to?
Satine's throat tightened despite herself.
She did not look at him again.
I arrived with the Jedi delegation, and immediately decided that Mandalore had excellent instincts.
You didn't fortify a city like this unless you were expecting at least three different groups to try to kill each other in the same room. Extra guards. Shield harmonics layered so densely they made my teeth buzz. Clone troopers stationed with ceremonial spacing that fooled exactly no one who had ever been in a firefight.
Neutral ground, my ass.
Maris walked beside me, hands clasped behind her back, expression set to bored but lethal. Her Force signature sat comfortably in the light, smooth and unremarkable in a way that would have horrified our Sith tutor and deeply offended the Emperor's Wrath's memory.
Good.
Elsewhere—very far elsewhere—two PROXY droids were currently pretending to be Darth Sol and Darth Nox, being ominous on schedule, terrifying subordinates, and probably murdering something symbolic. The mental image was comforting.
I scanned the platform and immediately spotted Ahsoka.
She saw me at the exact same time.
Her reaction was… impressive.
First, she froze. Then she looked away. Then she very deliberately turned her entire body as if I did not exist, focusing with intense, performative interest on a decorative pillar. Her Force presence flared in irritation, embarrassment, and the unmistakable emotional signature of this is not happening.
I lifted my hand and waved.
"Hi, Ahsoka!"
She flinched.
Several Masters glanced at her. She forced a smile that looked like it physically hurt.
I grinned, because I was a terrible friend.
This was already going to be a long day.
The Jedi Council insisted—repeatedly, solemnly, and with a straight face—that they were present only as neutral observers. This was said while standing in a building surrounded by Mandalorian weapons, clone soldiers awaiting a decision on whether they qualified as people, and enough political tension to ignite a minor civil war.
If neutrality were a Force technique, this would have been a very ambitious demonstration.
As we moved toward the Parliament entrance, I caught sight of my father—no, Master Kenobi—standing beside Duchess Kryze. They didn't touch. They didn't look at each other for too long. The space between them was carefully measured, like a truce line neither dared cross.
I felt something twist in my chest.
I told myself I didn't have time for that today.
This vote mattered. Mandalore mattered. The clones mattered.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, like a distant pressure system rolling in, the Force whispered that whatever happened next… was only the beginning.
I squared my shoulders and followed the Jedi inside.
If everyone you didn't want in the same room was going to be here, then fine.
I'd make sure they behaved.
Probably.
The reception hall was designed to soothe.
That, Ahsoka decided, was its first mistake.
Soft Mandalorian lighting diffused through curved transparisteel panels. Water features murmured quietly along the walls. Seating was arranged to encourage calm discourse and diplomatic patience. The Force felt… muted here. Controlled. A place meant to make people forget that they were standing on a planet that solved political disagreements with armor and jetpacks.
Ahsoka stood near one of the balconies, hands clasped behind her back, posture perfect.
Inside, she was screaming.
Ben was here.
She could feel him—steady, bright, wrong in the way a familiar song sounded when played in the wrong key. He was somewhere in this building, close enough that if she turned her head just right, if she stepped away from—
"—which is why the tragedy functions less as a moral fable and more as a structural warning."
Ahsoka closed her eyes.
No.
No no no.
She did not turn. She did not move. She did not sprint across the hall, grab Ben by the sleeve, and demand to know what in the Force he thought he was doing on Mandalore on this day.
Because Anakin was talking.
Anakin was always talking, but this—this was different. This had momentum. This had the unmistakable cadence of someone who had prepared.
Ahsoka opened one eye and glanced sideways.
He had notes.
Actual notes.
Data-pads floated around him in a slow, deliberate orbit, each one displaying highlighted passages, annotations, and what looked disturbingly like a color-coded argument map. He stood near the center of a small cluster of listeners, posture animated, eyes bright with the particular intensity of someone who had discovered a thought and decided the galaxy needed to hear it immediately.
Oh no.
She recognized that energy.
She had felt it once before, when he'd tried to explain why podracing was secretly a metaphor for economic oppression on Tatooine.
Padmé Amidala stood directly in front of him.
And she was listening.
Attentively.
Nodding, even.
This was how Ahsoka knew things had gone catastrophically wrong.
"The author," Anakin continued, gesturing sharply as one of the pads zoomed in on a passage, "frames immortality not as a goal, but as a failure of acceptance. Darth Plagueis isn't afraid of death—he's afraid of irrelevance. Which is why his attempts to control life ultimately destroy the very agency he's trying to preserve."
Ahsoka's stomach dropped.
No.
No no no.
She knew that name.
She knew it because she had read it.
Because Ben had written it.
Because Ben, apparently, had submitted The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise as his contribution to a Jedi literary exercise that was supposed to be about "personal reflection through mythic structure."
She had assumed everyone would skim it.
She had assumed Anakin would forget about it entirely.
She had been a fool.
"That's really interesting," Padmé said, eyes bright. "Especially the way the narrative positions knowledge as both liberation and imprisonment."
Anakin beamed at her like she had just validated his entire existence.
"Yes! Exactly! And if you track that through the second act—here—" another pad flicked forward "—you can see how Plagueis's relationship with his apprentice isn't framed as domination, but as… outsourcing mortality."
Ahsoka considered her options.
Option one: let Anakin finish.
Option two: throw herself off the balcony.
The fall probably wouldn't kill her. Unfortunately.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan cut in gently, stepping closer with the air of a man attempting to divert an avalanche with a polite suggestion, "perhaps now isn't the time—"
"It's precisely the time," Anakin replied, without missing a beat. "The political context only enhances the thematic relevance."
Obi-Wan blinked.
Padmé leaned in slightly. "How so?"
Ahsoka felt something inside her fracture.
"Well," Anakin said, warming to the subject, "the tragedy fundamentally critiques centralized authority justified through fear of chaos. Plagueis believes that democracy—if you can call Sith power structures that—is inherently unstable, because it relies on collective consent rather than enforced continuity."
Ahsoka stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the Force, the Dark Side stirred.
"That's… very contemporary," Padmé said slowly.
Anakin nodded enthusiastically. "Right? And the author never outright endorses dictatorship, but there's this undercurrent of frustration with systems that prioritize idealism over efficiency. Plagueis fails not because his philosophy is wrong, but because he's alone."
Ahsoka's fingers twitched.
She had a sudden, vivid urge to knock the data-pads out of the air with the Force and pretend it had been an accident.
"Which raises the question," Anakin continued, oblivious to the danger he was in, "of whether benevolent authoritarianism is inherently corrupt, or simply unsustainable without succession planning."
Padmé's smile had turned thoughtful.
That was worse.
That was so much worse.
Ahsoka glanced desperately toward the entrance.
Ben was still somewhere out there. Existing. Breathing. Probably sensing this and choosing, wisely, to stay far away.
She hated him just a little for that.
"This is how Sith Empires start," she thought grimly. "Not with lightning. With footnotes."
Obi-Wan tried again.
"Anakin," he said carefully, "we are guests on Mandalore, attending a delicate political process involving clone rights and—"
"And Plagueis's failure to recognize the moral agency of those he seeks to control," Anakin finished triumphantly. "Yes. Exactly."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
Ahsoka watched him consider his life choices in real time.
Padmé tilted her head. "Do you think the author intended Plagueis to be sympathetic?"
"I think," Anakin said slowly, "the author wanted us to understand him. Which is more dangerous."
Ahsoka glared.
The only thing the author wanted to do was show that Sith were whiny little bitches that wanted to live forever, and were only willing to kill each other in their sleep. Understand that, you nerfherder!
She shifted her weight, every instinct screaming at her to intervene, to do something, but there was no opening. Anakin was into it now. He was in full lecture mode, riding the high of intellectual validation and a receptive audience.
She caught her reflection in the glass—calm exterior, clenched jaw, eyes just a little too bright.
Ben was here. Anakin was philosophizing about Sith tragedies. Padmé was enjoying it. Obi-Wan was losing control of the conversation. Mandalore was about to vote on clone citizenship.
And Ahsoka Tano, Jedi Initiate, was standing in a reception hall wondering if this—this—was the moment she started seriously considering the Dark Side.
Not because it was evil.
But because it would be quieter.
She exhaled slowly and stayed where she was.
For now.
Some disasters, she knew, had to be witnessed in full.
Maris was bored.
This wasn't the good kind of boredom, either—the sharp, anticipatory kind where violence was imminent and she could feel the Force stretching its fingers. This was procedural boredom. The kind born of watching people who thought words were weapons swing them wildly and miss.
The Mandalorian parliamentary floor was impressive in a very deliberate way. High ceilings. Broad sightlines. Armor motifs worked into the architecture like a reminder rather than a threat. Even the acoustics were engineered for clarity—every speech amplified just enough to carry, but never enough to lose control.
Orderly. Tense. Ready to explode.
Maris slouched in her seat among the observers, chin propped lazily on one hand, eyes half-lidded as the Confederacy of Independent Systems delegation made their entrance.
They were loud.
Not physically—no shouting, no overt disruption—but energetically. They carried themselves with the practiced indignation of people who expected to be opposed and had prepared speeches accordingly. Their banners were crisp. Their aides nervous. Their talking points polished within an inch of their lives.
At the center of it all waddled Nute Gunray.
Maris watched him approach the podium with the air of a man who genuinely believed history owed him an apology. His robes swayed with each step, ornate and heavy, designed to convey wealth and legitimacy. They mostly conveyed that he was sweating.
Behind him stood Asajj Ventress.
Silent. Arms crossed. Still as a blade mounted on a wall.
Maris's boredom evaporated.
Ventress didn't fidget. Didn't scan the room like a guard. Didn't perform for the audience. She simply was, her presence folded inward, dark and tight, like a coiled animal that didn't need to bare its teeth to be taken seriously.
Bald. Pale. No horns.
Maris tilted her head, curiosity sparking.
Interesting.
Gunray began to speak.
He launched into it without preamble, voice amplified and oily. Mandalore's reckless policies. The destabilizing precedent of clone citizenship. The danger of militarization. The thinly veiled accusation that Satine Kryze was building an army under the guise of compassion.
Maris tuned out the words and watched reactions instead.
Mandalorian senators sat rigid, faces unreadable. Republic observers leaned forward, attentive. Jedi stood very still in that infuriatingly neutral way they thought passed for invisibility.
Ventress didn't move.
She didn't react when Gunray gestured toward the clone contingent in the galleries. Didn't react when he invoked the specter of war. Didn't even react when a few scattered boos rippled through the chamber.
She was listening.
Maris smiled faintly.
"Well," she murmured, pitching her voice just loud enough to carry but not enough to localize, "if the galaxy's so worried about appearances, maybe they should've sent someone with hair."
Ventress's eyes flicked sideways.
Just a fraction.
Maris felt it like a brush of static along her spine.
Gunray faltered mid-sentence, then pressed on, emboldened by his own righteousness. "—and furthermore, the Confederacy cannot stand idle while Mandalore transforms itself into a foundry for violence—"
"And horns," Maris added lightly. "You forgot horns. Oh, wait. Sorry, you don't have those either."
This time, there was a ripple of reaction. A few heads turned. A few Mandalorians snorted before catching themselves.
Gunray flushed, confusion warring with indignation. "I—excuse me?"
He glanced back, as if expecting Ventress to have spoken.
Ventress had uncrossed her arms.
Maris leaned back, thoroughly entertained now.
"She's my associate," Gunray said hastily, gesturing toward Ventress as if she were a piece of equipment he'd been forced to bring along. "And her appearance is hardly relevant to the matter at hand."
Ventress's jaw tightened.
Maris hummed thoughtfully. "Is it? Because I feel like if you're going to bring a terrifying assassin to a political debate, you should at least make sure she's actually terrifying. I feel second-hand embarrassment just looking at her."
That did it.
Ventress moved.
The Force snapped tight around Gunray's throat, invisible fingers lifting him half an inch off the floor. His speech dissolved into a wet, panicked rasp, hands clawing uselessly at the air as his feet kicked.
Gasps erupted across the chamber. Guards surged forward, then hesitated—no one eager to be the first to test whether Mandalorian beskar beat Sith rage.
Ventress leaned in close to Gunray, voice low and vicious.
"Do not speak for me," she said.
Gunray managed a strangled wheeze. "Th—this is—this is not helping our image—"
The Force released him abruptly.
He collapsed back against the podium, coughing violently, robes askew, dignity in tatters.
Silence swallowed the room.
Ventress straightened, expression unreadable, eyes sweeping the chamber with open contempt. For a heartbeat, her gaze passed over Maris's position.
Maris met it calmly.
Ventress held it for half a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned away.
Gunray resumed speaking after a hurried consultation with his aides, voice weaker now, arguments less sharp. The moment had passed, but the damage lingered. Whatever moral high ground the CIS had claimed lay shattered on the floor beside the podium.
Maris exhaled softly.
Dangerous, she thought.
Not sloppy. Not stupid. Emotional, yes—but controlled. Selective. Ventress had choked Gunray not out of rage, but to reassert hierarchy. To remind everyone, including him, who held the real power.
That kind of Sith-adjacent thinking didn't happen by accident.
Maris filed it away.
Potential recruitment.
Or execution.
She wasn't sure yet which would be more fun.
As the debate dragged on, she let her attention drift, senses skimming the chamber. Ben was somewhere nearby—she could feel him like a steady anchor point, bright and frustratingly earnest. Ahsoka's presence flickered with barely contained stress. Obi-Wan radiated polite despair.
The vote loomed.
And the galaxy, apparently, was being decided by men who thought microphones made them dangerous.
Maris smiled to herself.
If this was the enemy, they were going to do just fine.
Bo-Katan Kryze had survived coups, cults, civil wars, and her own younger self.
None of that had prepared her for watching a parliamentary session from a balcony while trying not to strangle anyone.
Below them, the Mandalorian Parliament argued in careful, weaponized sentences. Words like citizenship, precedent, and security risk ricocheted around the chamber, polished until they almost sounded reasonable. Bo-Katan leaned against the railing, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.
The city shields hummed faintly around Sundari, a sound she felt more than heard. It was the noise of a place bracing for impact.
Beside her, Ahsoka Tano stared down at the floor with the thousand-yard look of someone reconsidering every life choice that had led her here.
"Do they always talk like that," Ahsoka asked, "or is today special?"
"They're being polite because there are cameras," Bo-Katan replied. "Normally someone would've thrown a chair by now."
Ahsoka exhaled slowly. "That sounds… refreshing."
Bo-Katan snorted despite herself.
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the galaxy teeter politely on the edge of violence.
"You're Obi-Wan's," Ahsoka said suddenly, glancing sideways. Not a question.
Bo-Katan arched a brow. "You're the Jedi child."
"Initiate," Ahsoka corrected automatically. Then grimaced. "Which is worse, because I don't get a lightsaber or authority."
Bo-Katan huffed a quiet laugh. "Welcome to the club."
That earned her a sharp, curious look. Ahsoka studied her for a second, then leaned her elbows on the railing, mirroring Bo-Katan's posture like it was instinctive.
"So," Ahsoka said. "Who's your problem man?"
Bo-Katan didn't hesitate. "Death Watch."
Ahsoka blinked. "…That sounds bad."
"It's a terrorist cult made up of people I grew up with," Bo-Katan said flatly. "They keep trying to overthrow my sister, drag Mandalore back into endless war, and wear armor like it's a personality."
Ahsoka nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. That's worse than mine."
"Who's yours?"
Ahsoka hesitated, then sagged. "Anakin."
Bo-Katan waited.
"He's brilliant," Ahsoka said, words tumbling out now that she'd started. "And kind. And brave. And he means well. But he also talks like he's personally offended by democracy, won't stop flirting with a senator during an active crisis, and somehow turned a short story into a philosophical treatise on why enlightened despotism is misunderstood."
Bo-Katan stared at her.
"…He's like that on purpose?"
"I don't know!" Ahsoka threw her hands up. "That's the worst part. I can't tell if he's joking, traumatized, or just Like That."
Bo-Katan considered this, then nodded with the gravity of someone who had seen far too many men like that.
"Ah," she said. "A charismatic idiot."
"Yes!"
They both leaned harder against the railing.
"My sister keeps trying to save Mandalore with speeches," Bo-Katan went on. "They keep trying to kill her for it. And somehow I'm the one defecting, apologizing, fixing things, and getting shot at."
Ahsoka groaned. "Anakin keeps trying to save the galaxy by doing whatever feels right in the moment. I'm the one explaining why that's a terrible idea. Constantly. To everyone."
They looked at each other.
Then, slowly, both of them smiled. Not happy smiles. Recognition smiles.
"We're the cleanup crew," Ahsoka said.
"The competent ones," Bo-Katan agreed.
"The ones who notice the fires before they spread."
"And still get blamed for the smoke."
Below them, the chamber erupted into another wave of debate. Bo-Katan watched Satine speak—calm, composed, resolute—and felt the familiar twist of fear and pride in her chest.
Ahsoka followed her gaze. "She's impressive."
"She's exhausting," Bo-Katan said fondly.
"I feel that way about Ben."
"My nephew?" Bo-Katan smirked. "That tracks."
"I thought he was your son?"
"He's not my son! How many times do I have to tell people that?!"
Damn you, Satine.
For a moment, the tension eased. Not gone—never gone—but shared. Manageable.
Then someone cleared their throat behind them.
Both women tensed instantly, hands drifting toward weapons that weren't technically allowed on the balcony.
"Apologies," a voice said, earnest and careful. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
They turned.
Commander Cody stood a respectful distance away, helmet tucked under his arm much like Bo-Katan's, posture straight but uncertain, like someone who'd walked into the wrong briefing and decided to see it through.
"I was told to keep an eye on this area," he continued. "In case… support was required."
Ahsoka stared at him.
Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes. "You're a clone."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you're assigned to this nightmare?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ahsoka sighed. "I'm still older than you. And you're somehow still much wiser than I am."
Cody blinked. "Ma'a?"
"Nevermind." Ahsoka muttered.
Bo-Katan hid a grin.
Cody hesitated, then stepped closer to the railing, gaze drifting down to the chamber. His voice softened when he spoke again.
"I know I'm not supposed to have opinions," he said. "But… I hope it passes."
They both looked at him.
"Why?" Ahsoka asked.
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable but sincere. "Because I've met a lot of clones who don't know what they're allowed to want. Citizenship wouldn't fix everything. But it would mean someone finally decided we were people first, assets second."
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Ahsoka swallowed.
Bo-Katan exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. She looked at him properly now—not as a soldier, not as a symbol, but as a person standing very still and hoping too quietly.
"You're doing better than most politicians," she said.
Cody flushed faintly. "Thank you?"
"Ugh." Ahsoka rubbed her face. "I hate this."
"Which part?" Bo-Katan asked.
"The fact that you just became the most emotionally mature person here. No offense. You totally earned it. I'm just very upset right now."
Cody winced apologetically.
Ahsoka glanced back down at the floor, at Anakin gesturing animatedly somewhere across the chamber, Padmé listening far too intently.
"…I really regret coming to this planet," she said.
Bo-Katan clapped her lightly on the shoulder. "You'll survive."
"Will I?"
"Probably," Bo-Katan said. "And if not, you'll be very justified about it."
Trust her.
She was speaking from experience.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
That thought kept looping through my head as I sat in the Mandalore Parliament Chamber, legs dangling slightly off a chair that had absolutely been designed for adults who wore armor for a living. The acoustics were pristine. Every word carried. Every pause mattered.
And the Force was screaming.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… tight. Like the galaxy had pulled a thread too far and was waiting to see what unraveled first.
I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look like a harmless Jedi Initiate who definitely had not conquered multiple planets under a Sith alias less than a week ago.
Satine stood at the center of the chamber, posture immaculate, voice calm. She had finished speaking minutes ago. She always did that—said what needed to be said, then trusted it to stand on its own.
That was her mistake.
The delegates murmured. Representatives conferred. Data slates flickered as tallies prepared themselves. This was the part everyone pretended was boring. This was the part where history actually happened.
Without meaning to, I started counting.
Not audibly. Not with my fingers. Just… feeling it.
Yes. No. No. Abstain. Yes.
Each one landed like a soft weight against my ribs.
I didn't need the screen. I didn't need the clerk. I didn't even need the Force—though it was helping whether I wanted it to or not. Patterns emerged. Probabilities snapped into place. Lines converged.
The motion required a simple majority.
It was going to be close.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly too aware of the chamber's temperature, of the way the air felt heavier with each passing second. Obi-Wan stood off to one side, hands folded in his sleeves, expression carefully neutral.
That was how I knew he was worried.
Across the chamber, Padmé Amidala sat straight-backed, eyes forward, unreadable in that infuriatingly serene way senators cultivated. Anakin hovered just behind her, visibly vibrating with opinions he had not been allowed to share.
Smartest decision anyone had made all day.
The Force tightened again. Not pain. Not danger. Pressure.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and counted again, double-checking myself.
Yes. No. Yes. No.
Someone laughed too loudly near the back of the chamber. Someone else snapped at them to be quiet. A delegate from Concord Dawn adjusted his vambrace like it might suddenly become relevant.
It never did.
The clerk stepped forward.
My spine went straight.
"On the motion to extend provisional Mandalorian citizenship to the clone army contingent currently stationed within Republic jurisdiction—"
I hated that phrasing. Extend. Like personhood was a courtesy.
"—pending full integration and recognition of individual legal rights—"
Better.
"—the votes have been tallied."
The chamber fell silent in the way only large, important rooms ever did. Not quiet. Expectant.
I counted one last time.
It passed by three.
"The motion carries."
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the room detonated.
Voices overlapped. Delegates surged to their feet. Someone shouted about precedent. Someone else shouted about justice. The clerk banged a ceremonial staff against the floor with increasing desperation.
Satine closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
I felt it then—the exact instant the galaxy accepted what had changed. The Force didn't roar. It didn't celebrate.
It settled.
Like a lock clicking into place.
The pressure eased, replaced by something heavier and more dangerous: momentum.
I slumped back in my chair, heart hammering, and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere, far away, Death Watch just updated their priority list.
Somewhere else, millions of clones became something new.
Obi-Wan finally allowed himself a small breath. Padmé's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Anakin grinned like someone who had just been proven right about something he hadn't technically argued.
I squeezed my hands together, grounding myself in the physical sensation. Wood. Fabric. The faint hum of Mandalore's shields.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
But I was.
And the Force, traitor that it was, seemed very satisfied with that fact.
Count Dooku watched the recording end.
The image of the Mandalorian Parliament froze for a fraction of a second before dissolving into static, leaving only the soft glow of the holoprojector to illuminate the chamber. The echoes of applause still lingered in his mind—not the sound itself, but the meaning behind it.
Progress.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, hands clasped behind his back as he turned away from the display. Serenno's private audience chamber was silent, save for the distant hum of ancient machinery and the subtle whisper of the Force responding to his displeasure.
Satine Kryze had always been an irritant.
Not because she was foolish. Not because she was weak. Those could be managed. Those could be exploited.
She was effective.
Dooku had seen the vote margins. He had felt the shift ripple outward, a small thing in isolation, but the Force had a way of recognizing fulcrums when they appeared. Mandalore legitimizing the clones without war—without blood to justify it—was not simply inconvenient.
It was destabilizing.
The Republic was not supposed to solve its contradictions, nor outsource them. It was supposed to drown in them.
He paced slowly, boots whispering against polished stone, his thoughts aligning with the precision of a blade being drawn.
Satine Kryze had spoken well. Too well. She had reframed the debate in moral terms, dragged it out of the realm of strategy and into something far more dangerous: personhood. She had done what idealists always did—forced others to see consequences as people.
Dooku stopped beside the viewport, gazing out over the darkened sky.
Kenobi had been there.
That, more than anything, gnawed at him.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, standing quietly at her side, lending her legitimacy simply by existing. The Order's favorite son, still pretending that neutrality absolved him of responsibility. How proud Qui-Gon would be, if he could see him now.
Dooku's jaw tightened.
Sentiment was a disease. And like all diseases, it required excision.
He raised a hand, fingers curling slightly, and the chamber's lights dimmed as a second holoprojector activated behind him.
Jango Fett resolved into view—armor scuffed, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never confused comfort with safety. His helmet was tucked under one arm, expression unreadable but alert.
"Count Dooku," Jango said evenly.
Dooku inclined his head a fraction. Courtesy cost nothing.
"You've been following developments on Mandalore."
"I have." Jango's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Hard not to. Half the galaxy's yelling about it."
"Indeed." Dooku folded his hands once more, the picture of aristocratic calm. "The situation has evolved beyond acceptable parameters."
Jango waited. He always did. That patience was one of his more valuable traits.
"Mandalore's Duchess," Dooku continued, tone conversational, "has succeeded where she should not have. The clones are now—officially—citizens of Mandalore."
"What?" Jango barked, in shock. "How did you let this happen?!"
"I did not allow it." Dooku turned then, meeting the bounty hunter's gaze through the hologram. "The motion passed. Satine has had her way. And now we must have ours."
Understanding flickered there. Not agreement. But uderstanding was enough.
"She is unifying factions that must remain divided. Inspiring loyalty that cannot be bought. If allowed to continue, she will reshape Mandalore into something… inconvenient."
"And you want her gone," Jango said, blunt as ever.
"Yes."
The word settled into the room with the weight of inevitability.
Dooku stepped closer to the projector, his presence filling the space despite the distance. "This is not vengeance. Nor is it chaos for its own sake. This is a correction."
Jango shifted his weight. "She won't be easy to get to."
"I am aware. That is why I'm sending you." Dooku sighed, releasing his exhaustion into the Force with one breath, and inhaling it on the next. "You, of all people, know why the Republic must have this army. We cannot allow one woman to interfere with the Grand Plan."
"… Understood."
The Force stirred, subtle but unmistakable. A tightening. A confirmation.
Satine Kryze was not merely a political actor. She was a fault line. And fault lines, left unattended, became earthquakes.
"There is one more consideration," Dooku added, voice softer now. "The Jedi must not be able to trace this to us. The Confederacy cannot be seen as the aggressors in this war. Let them believe Death Watch has finally succeeded where they failed before. "
Jango snorted quietly. "Give credit, for anything, to the Dar'manda? That's a big ask."
"Yes." Dooku inclined his head again. "It is."
The bounty hunter adjusted his grip on the helmet. "I'll need access. Schedules. Security layouts."
"They will be provided."
"And my fee?"
Dooku did not hesitate. "Name it."
That, finally, earned a real smile.
The transmission began to fade, Jango's image dissolving into light, but Dooku spoke once more before it vanished entirely.
"Do not underestimate her," he said calmly. "Satine Kryze mat not be a warrior. But she is something far more dangerous."
A politician.
The holoprojector went dark.
Dooku remained where he was, staring at the empty space, feeling the future settle into a new, sharper configuration. Somewhere in the Force, a thread had been pulled taut.
Kenobi would grieve.
Mandalore would fracture.
And order—true order—would be preserved.
This was not cruelty.
It was necessity.
"Cool motive, still murder."
Kudos to anyone who gets that reference! Anyways, that's all folks! Please stay tuned to find out what happens next! Or read ahead on my Patreon, link below:
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Sundari had been fortified like a city expecting an invasion.
Duchess Satine Kryze walked the upper concourse of the Parliament District with her hands folded neatly behind her back, posture immaculate, expression serene enough to be mistaken for confidence. Below her boots, the polished beskar-inlaid flooring hummed faintly—not decoratively, but defensively.
Shield generators thrummed in layered intervals, overlapping fields calibrated to absorb everything from small-arms fire to sustained orbital bombardment. Turbolifts had been reassigned evacuation protocols. Civilian routes were mapped, tested, and quietly circulated under the bland heading of infrastructure optimization.
Mandalore did not panic publicly.
Privately, it prepared for war.
Satine felt it in the way the guards stood too straight, hands never straying far from their weapons. In the way the clone troopers—invited guests, potential citizens, walking political crises—were stationed at careful distances from one another, arranged to look ceremonial rather than tactical. In the way the air itself seemed to wait, breath held, for someone to make the first mistake.
This was a vote, she reminded herself. A parliamentary procedure. A lawful decision conducted under Mandalorian sovereignty.
It simply happened to be one that might get her killed.
She did not let that show.
Obi-Wan Kenobi walked beside her, matching her pace with infuriating ease. Hands folded in his sleeves. Shoulders relaxed. Face set in that politely attentive expression he wore when the galaxy was on the verge of doing something catastrophic and he was determined to pretend it was manageable.
He had perfected that look over the years.
"You could still postpone," he offered mildly, eyes forward. "Cite security concerns. No one would blame you."
Satine smiled without looking at him. "Everyone would blame me," she replied. "They would simply do it later, with more weapons."
She could feel him glance at her then, the quiet worry he never quite managed to hide. Obi-Wan had faced Sith Lords, war zones, and the full attention of the Jedi Council without flinching. Political assassinations, however, clearly offended his sense of narrative order.
"I am here," he said, as if that settled something.
Satine resisted the urge to laugh. Or lean into him. Or scream.
Instead, she inclined her head. "I know."
The first arrival came with polite ceremony and an undercurrent of dread.
Bail Organa's shuttle descended onto the Parliament landing platform with dignified restraint, its markings understated, its escort minimal. He emerged moments later, flanked by a small delegation, expression already composed into something statesmanlike and grimly amused.
His gaze swept the district in one smooth motion.
The shields.
The guards.
The clones.
The architecture bristling with barely concealed weapons.
Ah, she could see it in his eyes: the exact moment he realized this was either going to be cited in history texts for centuries or erased from the record entirely.
He approached, bowed respectfully, and took her hand. "Duchess Kryze," he said warmly. "I must commend your… thorough preparations."
Satine met his gaze, reading the subtext easily.
Historic or catastrophic, Senator Organa was thinking. Possibly both.
"We Mandalorians believe in hosting responsibly," she replied. "Especially when guests disagree."
His mouth twitched. "The galaxy seems determined to test that philosophy."
Before she could answer, the air shifted.
Not with the hum of shields or the controlled precision of Mandalorian security—but with the distinct, unsettling presence of the Jedi Order arriving in force.
Transports settled at the far end of the platform. Ramps descended. Robed figures emerged in orderly formation: Masters, Knights, observers, representatives of an institution that insisted, loudly and often, that it had no political stake in the outcome of this vote whatsoever.
Satine felt the irony like a physical weight.
They moved with practiced calm, as if standing in a fortified Mandalorian capital surrounded by clone soldiers debating their own legal personhood was a perfectly ordinary way to spend the day. She recognized several faces. Others she knew only by reputation.
And then—
There.
Ben.
The sight of him hit her with the quiet violence of a memory she wasn't allowed to have.
He walked with the Jedi delegation, dressed in the simple robes of an initiate, so quiet and unassuming. Tranquil. Polite… is that a really Ben? Has he changed so much since the last time she saw him?
Or was she only seeing what she wanted to?
Satine's throat tightened despite herself.
She did not look at him again.
...
I arrived with the Jedi delegation, and immediately decided that Mandalore had excellent instincts.
You didn't fortify a city like this unless you were expecting at least three different groups to try to kill each other in the same room. Extra guards. Shield harmonics layered so densely they made my teeth buzz. Clone troopers stationed with ceremonial spacing that fooled exactly no one who had ever been in a firefight.
Neutral ground, my ass.
Maris walked beside me, hands clasped behind her back, expression set to bored but lethal. Her Force signature sat comfortably in the light, smooth and unremarkable in a way that would have horrified our Sith tutor and deeply offended the Emperor's Wrath's memory.
Good.
Elsewhere—very far elsewhere—two PROXY droids were currently pretending to be Darth Sol and Darth Nox, being ominous on schedule, terrifying subordinates, and probably murdering something symbolic. The mental image was comforting.
I scanned the platform and immediately spotted Ahsoka.
She saw me at the exact same time.
Her reaction was… impressive.
First, she froze. Then she looked away. Then she very deliberately turned her entire body as if I did not exist, focusing with intense, performative interest on a decorative pillar. Her Force presence flared in irritation, embarrassment, and the unmistakable emotional signature of this is not happening.
I lifted my hand and waved.
"Hi, Ahsoka!"
She flinched.
Several Masters glanced at her. She forced a smile that looked like it physically hurt.
I grinned, because I was a terrible friend.
This was already going to be a long day.
The Jedi Council insisted—repeatedly, solemnly, and with a straight face—that they were present only as neutral observers. This was said while standing in a building surrounded by Mandalorian weapons, clone soldiers awaiting a decision on whether they qualified as people, and enough political tension to ignite a minor civil war.
If neutrality were a Force technique, this would have been a very ambitious demonstration.
As we moved toward the Parliament entrance, I caught sight of my father—no, Master Kenobi—standing beside Duchess Kryze. They didn't touch. They didn't look at each other for too long. The space between them was carefully measured, like a truce line neither dared cross.
I felt something twist in my chest.
I told myself I didn't have time for that today.
This vote mattered. Mandalore mattered. The clones mattered.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, like a distant pressure system rolling in, the Force whispered that whatever happened next… was only the beginning.
I squared my shoulders and followed the Jedi inside.
If everyone you didn't want in the same room was going to be here, then fine.
I'd make sure they behaved.
Probably.
...
The reception hall was designed to soothe.
That, Ahsoka decided, was its first mistake.
Soft Mandalorian lighting diffused through curved transparisteel panels. Water features murmured quietly along the walls. Seating was arranged to encourage calm discourse and diplomatic patience. The Force felt… muted here. Controlled. A place meant to make people forget that they were standing on a planet that solved political disagreements with armor and jetpacks.
Ahsoka stood near one of the balconies, hands clasped behind her back, posture perfect.
Inside, she was screaming.
Ben was here.
She could feel him—steady, bright, wrong in the way a familiar song sounded when played in the wrong key. He was somewhere in this building, close enough that if she turned her head just right, if she stepped away from—
"—which is why the tragedy functions less as a moral fable and more as a structural warning."
Ahsoka closed her eyes.
No.
No no no.
She did not turn. She did not move. She did not sprint across the hall, grab Ben by the sleeve, and demand to know what in the Force he thought he was doing on Mandalore on this day.
Because Anakin was talking.
Anakin was always talking, but this—this was different. This had momentum. This had the unmistakable cadence of someone who had prepared.
Ahsoka opened one eye and glanced sideways.
He had notes.
Actual notes.
Data-pads floated around him in a slow, deliberate orbit, each one displaying highlighted passages, annotations, and what looked disturbingly like a color-coded argument map. He stood near the center of a small cluster of listeners, posture animated, eyes bright with the particular intensity of someone who had discovered a thought and decided the galaxy needed to hear it immediately.
Oh no.
She recognized that energy.
She had felt it once before, when he'd tried to explain why podracing was secretly a metaphor for economic oppression on Tatooine.
Padmé Amidala stood directly in front of him.
And she was listening.
Attentively.
Nodding, even.
This was how Ahsoka knew things had gone catastrophically wrong.
"The author," Anakin continued, gesturing sharply as one of the pads zoomed in on a passage, "frames immortality not as a goal, but as a failure of acceptance. Darth Plagueis isn't afraid of death—he's afraid of irrelevance. Which is why his attempts to control life ultimately destroy the very agency he's trying to preserve."
Ahsoka's stomach dropped.
No.
No no no.
She knew that name.
She knew it because she had read it.
Because Ben had written it.
Because Ben, apparently, had submitted The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise as his contribution to a Jedi literary exercise that was supposed to be about "personal reflection through mythic structure."
She had assumed everyone would skim it.
She had assumed Anakin would forget about it entirely.
She had been a fool.
"That's really interesting," Padmé said, eyes bright. "Especially the way the narrative positions knowledge as both liberation and imprisonment."
Anakin beamed at her like she had just validated his entire existence.
"Yes! Exactly! And if you track that through the second act—here—" another pad flicked forward "—you can see how Plagueis's relationship with his apprentice isn't framed as domination, but as… outsourcing mortality."
Ahsoka considered her options.
Option one: let Anakin finish.
Option two: throw herself off the balcony.
The fall probably wouldn't kill her. Unfortunately.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan cut in gently, stepping closer with the air of a man attempting to divert an avalanche with a polite suggestion, "perhaps now isn't the time—"
"It's precisely the time," Anakin replied, without missing a beat. "The political context only enhances the thematic relevance."
Obi-Wan blinked.
Padmé leaned in slightly. "How so?"
Ahsoka felt something inside her fracture.
"Well," Anakin said, warming to the subject, "the tragedy fundamentally critiques centralized authority justified through fear of chaos. Plagueis believes that democracy—if you can call Sith power structures that—is inherently unstable, because it relies on collective consent rather than enforced continuity."
Ahsoka stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the Force, the Dark Side stirred.
"That's… very contemporary," Padmé said slowly.
Anakin nodded enthusiastically. "Right? And the author never outright endorses dictatorship, but there's this undercurrent of frustration with systems that prioritize idealism over efficiency. Plagueis fails not because his philosophy is wrong, but because he's alone."
Ahsoka's fingers twitched.
She had a sudden, vivid urge to knock the data-pads out of the air with the Force and pretend it had been an accident.
"Which raises the question," Anakin continued, oblivious to the danger he was in, "of whether benevolent authoritarianism is inherently corrupt, or simply unsustainable without succession planning."
Padmé's smile had turned thoughtful.
That was worse.
That was so much worse.
Ahsoka glanced desperately toward the entrance.
Ben was still somewhere out there. Existing. Breathing. Probably sensing this and choosing, wisely, to stay far away.
She hated him just a little for that.
"This is how Sith Empires start," she thought grimly. "Not with lightning. With footnotes."
Obi-Wan tried again.
"Anakin," he said carefully, "we are guests on Mandalore, attending a delicate political process involving clone rights and—"
"And Plagueis's failure to recognize the moral agency of those he seeks to control," Anakin finished triumphantly. "Yes. Exactly."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
Ahsoka watched him consider his life choices in real time.
Padmé tilted her head. "Do you think the author intended Plagueis to be sympathetic?"
"I think," Anakin said slowly, "the author wanted us to understand him. Which is more dangerous."
Ahsoka glared.
The only thing the author wanted to do was show that Sith were whiny little bitches that wanted to live forever, and were only willing to kill each other in their sleep. Understand that, you nerfherder!
She shifted her weight, every instinct screaming at her to intervene, to do something, but there was no opening. Anakin was into it now. He was in full lecture mode, riding the high of intellectual validation and a receptive audience.
She caught her reflection in the glass—calm exterior, clenched jaw, eyes just a little too bright.
Ben was here. Anakin was philosophizing about Sith tragedies. Padmé was enjoying it. Obi-Wan was losing control of the conversation. Mandalore was about to vote on clone citizenship.
And Ahsoka Tano, Jedi Initiate, was standing in a reception hall wondering if this—this—was the moment she started seriously considering the Dark Side.
Not because it was evil.
But because it would be quieter.
She exhaled slowly and stayed where she was.
For now.
Some disasters, she knew, had to be witnessed in full.
...
Maris was bored.
This wasn't the good kind of boredom, either—the sharp, anticipatory kind where violence was imminent and she could feel the Force stretching its fingers. This was procedural boredom. The kind born of watching people who thought words were weapons swing them wildly and miss.
The Mandalorian parliamentary floor was impressive in a very deliberate way. High ceilings. Broad sightlines. Armor motifs worked into the architecture like a reminder rather than a threat. Even the acoustics were engineered for clarity—every speech amplified just enough to carry, but never enough to lose control.
Orderly. Tense. Ready to explode.
Maris slouched in her seat among the observers, chin propped lazily on one hand, eyes half-lidded as the Confederacy of Independent Systems delegation made their entrance.
They were loud.
Not physically—no shouting, no overt disruption—but energetically. They carried themselves with the practiced indignation of people who expected to be opposed and had prepared speeches accordingly. Their banners were crisp. Their aides nervous. Their talking points polished within an inch of their lives.
At the center of it all waddled Nute Gunray.
Maris watched him approach the podium with the air of a man who genuinely believed history owed him an apology. His robes swayed with each step, ornate and heavy, designed to convey wealth and legitimacy. They mostly conveyed that he was sweating.
Behind him stood Asajj Ventress.
Silent. Arms crossed. Still as a blade mounted on a wall.
Maris's boredom evaporated.
Ventress didn't fidget. Didn't scan the room like a guard. Didn't perform for the audience. She simply was, her presence folded inward, dark and tight, like a coiled animal that didn't need to bare its teeth to be taken seriously.
Bald. Pale. No horns.
Maris tilted her head, curiosity sparking.
Interesting.
Gunray began to speak.
He launched into it without preamble, voice amplified and oily. Mandalore's reckless policies. The destabilizing precedent of clone citizenship. The danger of militarization. The thinly veiled accusation that Satine Kryze was building an army under the guise of compassion.
Maris tuned out the words and watched reactions instead.
Mandalorian senators sat rigid, faces unreadable. Republic observers leaned forward, attentive. Jedi stood very still in that infuriatingly neutral way they thought passed for invisibility.
Ventress didn't move.
She didn't react when Gunray gestured toward the clone contingent in the galleries. Didn't react when he invoked the specter of war. Didn't even react when a few scattered boos rippled through the chamber.
She was listening.
Maris smiled faintly.
"Well," she murmured, pitching her voice just loud enough to carry but not enough to localize, "if the galaxy's so worried about appearances, maybe they should've sent someone with hair."
Ventress's eyes flicked sideways.
Just a fraction.
Maris felt it like a brush of static along her spine.
Gunray faltered mid-sentence, then pressed on, emboldened by his own righteousness. "—and furthermore, the Confederacy cannot stand idle while Mandalore transforms itself into a foundry for violence—"
"And horns," Maris added lightly. "You forgot horns. Oh, wait. Sorry, you don't have those either."
This time, there was a ripple of reaction. A few heads turned. A few Mandalorians snorted before catching themselves.
Gunray flushed, confusion warring with indignation. "I—excuse me?"
He glanced back, as if expecting Ventress to have spoken.
Ventress had uncrossed her arms.
Maris leaned back, thoroughly entertained now.
"She's my associate," Gunray said hastily, gesturing toward Ventress as if she were a piece of equipment he'd been forced to bring along. "And her appearance is hardly relevant to the matter at hand."
Ventress's jaw tightened.
Maris hummed thoughtfully. "Is it? Because I feel like if you're going to bring a terrifying assassin to a political debate, you should at least make sure she's actually terrifying. I feel second-hand embarrassment just looking at her."
That did it.
Ventress moved.
The Force snapped tight around Gunray's throat, invisible fingers lifting him half an inch off the floor. His speech dissolved into a wet, panicked rasp, hands clawing uselessly at the air as his feet kicked.
Gasps erupted across the chamber. Guards surged forward, then hesitated—no one eager to be the first to test whether Mandalorian beskar beat Sith rage.
Ventress leaned in close to Gunray, voice low and vicious.
"Do not speak for me," she said.
Gunray managed a strangled wheeze. "Th—this is—this is not helping our image—"
The Force released him abruptly.
He collapsed back against the podium, coughing violently, robes askew, dignity in tatters.
Silence swallowed the room.
Ventress straightened, expression unreadable, eyes sweeping the chamber with open contempt. For a heartbeat, her gaze passed over Maris's position.
Maris met it calmly.
Ventress held it for half a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned away.
Gunray resumed speaking after a hurried consultation with his aides, voice weaker now, arguments less sharp. The moment had passed, but the damage lingered. Whatever moral high ground the CIS had claimed lay shattered on the floor beside the podium.
Maris exhaled softly.
Dangerous, she thought.
Not sloppy. Not stupid. Emotional, yes—but controlled. Selective. Ventress had choked Gunray not out of rage, but to reassert hierarchy. To remind everyone, including him, who held the real power.
That kind of Sith-adjacent thinking didn't happen by accident.
Maris filed it away.
Potential recruitment.
Or execution.
She wasn't sure yet which would be more fun.
As the debate dragged on, she let her attention drift, senses skimming the chamber. Ben was somewhere nearby—she could feel him like a steady anchor point, bright and frustratingly earnest. Ahsoka's presence flickered with barely contained stress. Obi-Wan radiated polite despair.
The vote loomed.
And the galaxy, apparently, was being decided by men who thought microphones made them dangerous.
Maris smiled to herself.
If this was the enemy, they were going to do just fine.
...
Bo-Katan Kryze had survived coups, cults, civil wars, and her own younger self.
None of that had prepared her for watching a parliamentary session from a balcony while trying not to strangle anyone.
Below them, the Mandalorian Parliament argued in careful, weaponized sentences. Words like citizenship, precedent, and security risk ricocheted around the chamber, polished until they almost sounded reasonable. Bo-Katan leaned against the railing, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.
The city shields hummed faintly around Sundari, a sound she felt more than heard. It was the noise of a place bracing for impact.
Beside her, Ahsoka Tano stared down at the floor with the thousand-yard look of someone reconsidering every life choice that had led her here.
"Do they always talk like that," Ahsoka asked, "or is today special?"
"They're being polite because there are cameras," Bo-Katan replied. "Normally someone would've thrown a chair by now."
Ahsoka exhaled slowly. "That sounds… refreshing."
Bo-Katan snorted despite herself.
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the galaxy teeter politely on the edge of violence.
"You're Obi-Wan's," Ahsoka said suddenly, glancing sideways. Not a question.
Bo-Katan arched a brow. "You're the Jedi child."
"Initiate," Ahsoka corrected automatically. Then grimaced. "Which is worse, because I don't get a lightsaber or authority."
Bo-Katan huffed a quiet laugh. "Welcome to the club."
That earned her a sharp, curious look. Ahsoka studied her for a second, then leaned her elbows on the railing, mirroring Bo-Katan's posture like it was instinctive.
"So," Ahsoka said. "Who's your problem man?"
Bo-Katan didn't hesitate. "Death Watch."
Ahsoka blinked. "…That sounds bad."
"It's a terrorist cult made up of people I grew up with," Bo-Katan said flatly. "They keep trying to overthrow my sister, drag Mandalore back into endless war, and wear armor like it's a personality."
Ahsoka nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. That's worse than mine."
"Who's yours?"
Ahsoka hesitated, then sagged. "Anakin."
Bo-Katan waited.
"He's brilliant," Ahsoka said, words tumbling out now that she'd started. "And kind. And brave. And he means well. But he also talks like he's personally offended by democracy, won't stop flirting with a senator during an active crisis, and somehow turned a short story into a philosophical treatise on why enlightened despotism is misunderstood."
Bo-Katan stared at her.
"…He's like that on purpose?"
"I don't know!" Ahsoka threw her hands up. "That's the worst part. I can't tell if he's joking, traumatized, or just Like That."
Bo-Katan considered this, then nodded with the gravity of someone who had seen far too many men like that.
"Ah," she said. "A charismatic idiot."
"Yes!"
They both leaned harder against the railing.
"My sister keeps trying to save Mandalore with speeches," Bo-Katan went on. "They keep trying to kill her for it. And somehow I'm the one defecting, apologizing, fixing things, and getting shot at."
Ahsoka groaned. "Anakin keeps trying to save the galaxy by doing whatever feels right in the moment. I'm the one explaining why that's a terrible idea. Constantly. To everyone."
They looked at each other.
Then, slowly, both of them smiled. Not happy smiles. Recognition smiles.
"We're the cleanup crew," Ahsoka said.
"The competent ones," Bo-Katan agreed.
"The ones who notice the fires before they spread."
"And still get blamed for the smoke."
Below them, the chamber erupted into another wave of debate. Bo-Katan watched Satine speak—calm, composed, resolute—and felt the familiar twist of fear and pride in her chest.
Ahsoka followed her gaze. "She's impressive."
"She's exhausting," Bo-Katan said fondly.
"I feel that way about Ben."
"My nephew?" Bo-Katan smirked. "That tracks."
"I thought he was your son?"
"He's not my son! How many times do I have to tell people that?!"
Damn you, Satine.
For a moment, the tension eased. Not gone—never gone—but shared. Manageable.
Then someone cleared their throat behind them.
Both women tensed instantly, hands drifting toward weapons that weren't technically allowed on the balcony.
"Apologies," a voice said, earnest and careful. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
They turned.
Commander Cody stood a respectful distance away, helmet tucked under his arm much like Bo-Katan's, posture straight but uncertain, like someone who'd walked into the wrong briefing and decided to see it through.
"I was told to keep an eye on this area," he continued. "In case… support was required."
Ahsoka stared at him.
Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes. "You're a clone."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you're assigned to this nightmare?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ahsoka sighed. "I'm still older than you. And you're somehow still much wiser than I am."
Cody blinked. "Ma'a?"
"Nevermind." Ahsoka muttered.
Bo-Katan hid a grin.
Cody hesitated, then stepped closer to the railing, gaze drifting down to the chamber. His voice softened when he spoke again.
"I know I'm not supposed to have opinions," he said. "But… I hope it passes."
They both looked at him.
"Why?" Ahsoka asked.
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable but sincere. "Because I've met a lot of clones who don't know what they're allowed to want. Citizenship wouldn't fix everything. But it would mean someone finally decided we were people first, assets second."
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Ahsoka swallowed.
Bo-Katan exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. She looked at him properly now—not as a soldier, not as a symbol, but as a person standing very still and hoping too quietly.
"You're doing better than most politicians," she said.
Cody flushed faintly. "Thank you?"
"Ugh." Ahsoka rubbed her face. "I hate this."
"Which part?" Bo-Katan asked.
"The fact that you just became the most emotionally mature person here. No offense. You totally earned it. I'm just very upset right now."
Cody winced apologetically.
Ahsoka glanced back down at the floor, at Anakin gesturing animatedly somewhere across the chamber, Padmé listening far too intently.
"…I really regret coming to this planet," she said.
Bo-Katan clapped her lightly on the shoulder. "You'll survive."
"Will I?"
"Probably," Bo-Katan said. "And if not, you'll be very justified about it."
Trust her.
She was speaking from experience.
...
I wasn't supposed to be here.
That thought kept looping through my head as I sat in the Mandalore Parliament Chamber, legs dangling slightly off a chair that had absolutely been designed for adults who wore armor for a living. The acoustics were pristine. Every word carried. Every pause mattered.
And the Force was screaming.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… tight. Like the galaxy had pulled a thread too far and was waiting to see what unraveled first.
I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look like a harmless Jedi Initiate who definitely had not conquered multiple planets under a Sith alias less than a week ago.
Satine stood at the center of the chamber, posture immaculate, voice calm. She had finished speaking minutes ago. She always did that—said what needed to be said, then trusted it to stand on its own.
That was her mistake.
The delegates murmured. Representatives conferred. Data slates flickered as tallies prepared themselves. This was the part everyone pretended was boring. This was the part where history actually happened.
Without meaning to, I started counting.
Not audibly. Not with my fingers. Just… feeling it.
Yes. No. No. Abstain. Yes.
Each one landed like a soft weight against my ribs.
I didn't need the screen. I didn't need the clerk. I didn't even need the Force—though it was helping whether I wanted it to or not. Patterns emerged. Probabilities snapped into place. Lines converged.
The motion required a simple majority.
It was going to be close.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly too aware of the chamber's temperature, of the way the air felt heavier with each passing second. Obi-Wan stood off to one side, hands folded in his sleeves, expression carefully neutral.
That was how I knew he was worried.
Across the chamber, Padmé Amidala sat straight-backed, eyes forward, unreadable in that infuriatingly serene way senators cultivated. Anakin hovered just behind her, visibly vibrating with opinions he had not been allowed to share.
Smartest decision anyone had made all day.
The Force tightened again. Not pain. Not danger. Pressure.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and counted again, double-checking myself.
Yes. No. Yes. No.
Someone laughed too loudly near the back of the chamber. Someone else snapped at them to be quiet. A delegate from Concord Dawn adjusted his vambrace like it might suddenly become relevant.
It never did.
The clerk stepped forward.
My spine went straight.
"On the motion to extend provisional Mandalorian citizenship to the clone army contingent currently stationed within Republic jurisdiction—"
I hated that phrasing. Extend. Like personhood was a courtesy.
"—pending full integration and recognition of individual legal rights—"
Better.
"—the votes have been tallied."
The chamber fell silent in the way only large, important rooms ever did. Not quiet. Expectant.
I counted one last time.
It passed by three.
"The motion carries."
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the room detonated.
Voices overlapped. Delegates surged to their feet. Someone shouted about precedent. Someone else shouted about justice. The clerk banged a ceremonial staff against the floor with increasing desperation.
Satine closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
I felt it then—the exact instant the galaxy accepted what had changed. The Force didn't roar. It didn't celebrate.
It settled.
Like a lock clicking into place.
The pressure eased, replaced by something heavier and more dangerous: momentum.
I slumped back in my chair, heart hammering, and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere, far away, Death Watch just updated their priority list.
Somewhere else, millions of clones became something new.
Obi-Wan finally allowed himself a small breath. Padmé's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Anakin grinned like someone who had just been proven right about something he hadn't technically argued.
I squeezed my hands together, grounding myself in the physical sensation. Wood. Fabric. The faint hum of Mandalore's shields.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
But I was.
And the Force, traitor that it was, seemed very satisfied with that fact.
...
Count Dooku watched the recording end.
The image of the Mandalorian Parliament froze for a fraction of a second before dissolving into static, leaving only the soft glow of the holoprojector to illuminate the chamber. The echoes of applause still lingered in his mind—not the sound itself, but the meaning behind it.
Progress.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, hands clasped behind his back as he turned away from the display. Serenno's private audience chamber was silent, save for the distant hum of ancient machinery and the subtle whisper of the Force responding to his displeasure.
Satine Kryze had always been an irritant.
Not because she was foolish. Not because she was weak. Those could be managed. Those could be exploited.
She was effective.
Dooku had seen the vote margins. He had felt the shift ripple outward, a small thing in isolation, but the Force had a way of recognizing fulcrums when they appeared. Mandalore legitimizing the clones without war—without blood to justify it—was not simply inconvenient.
It was destabilizing.
The Republic was not supposed to solve its contradictions, nor outsource them. It was supposed to drown in them.
He paced slowly, boots whispering against polished stone, his thoughts aligning with the precision of a blade being drawn.
Satine Kryze had spoken well. Too well. She had reframed the debate in moral terms, dragged it out of the realm of strategy and into something far more dangerous: personhood. She had done what idealists always did—forced others to see consequences as people.
Dooku stopped beside the viewport, gazing out over the darkened sky.
Kenobi had been there.
That, more than anything, gnawed at him.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, standing quietly at her side, lending her legitimacy simply by existing. The Order's favorite son, still pretending that neutrality absolved him of responsibility. How proud Qui-Gon would be, if he could see him now.
Dooku's jaw tightened.
Sentiment was a disease. And like all diseases, it required excision.
He raised a hand, fingers curling slightly, and the chamber's lights dimmed as a second holoprojector activated behind him.
Jango Fett resolved into view—armor scuffed, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never confused comfort with safety. His helmet was tucked under one arm, expression unreadable but alert.
"Count Dooku," Jango said evenly.
Dooku inclined his head a fraction. Courtesy cost nothing.
"You've been following developments on Mandalore."
"I have." Jango's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Hard not to. Half the galaxy's yelling about it."
"Indeed." Dooku folded his hands once more, the picture of aristocratic calm. "The situation has evolved beyond acceptable parameters."
Jango waited. He always did. That patience was one of his more valuable traits.
"Mandalore's Duchess," Dooku continued, tone conversational, "has succeeded where she should not have. The clones are now—officially—citizens of Mandalore."
"What?" Jango barked, in shock. "How did you let this happen?!"
"I did not allow it." Dooku turned then, meeting the bounty hunter's gaze through the hologram. "The motion passed. Satine has had her way. And now we must have ours."
Understanding flickered there. Not agreement. But uderstanding was enough.
"She is unifying factions that must remain divided. Inspiring loyalty that cannot be bought. If allowed to continue, she will reshape Mandalore into something… inconvenient."
"And you want her gone," Jango said, blunt as ever.
"Yes."
The word settled into the room with the weight of inevitability.
Dooku stepped closer to the projector, his presence filling the space despite the distance. "This is not vengeance. Nor is it chaos for its own sake. This is a correction."
Jango shifted his weight. "She won't be easy to get to."
"I am aware. That is why I'm sending you." Dooku sighed, releasing his exhaustion into the Force with one breath, and inhaling it on the next. "You, of all people, know why the Republic must have this army. We cannot allow one woman to interfere with the Grand Plan."
"… Understood."
The Force stirred, subtle but unmistakable. A tightening. A confirmation.
Satine Kryze was not merely a political actor. She was a fault line. And fault lines, left unattended, became earthquakes.
"There is one more consideration," Dooku added, voice softer now. "The Jedi must not be able to trace this to us. The Confederacy cannot be seen as the aggressors in this war. Let them believe Death Watch has finally succeeded where they failed before. "
Jango snorted quietly. "Give credit, for anything, to the Dar'manda? That's a big ask."
"Yes." Dooku inclined his head again. "It is."
The bounty hunter adjusted his grip on the helmet. "I'll need access. Schedules. Security layouts."
"They will be provided."
"And my fee?"
Dooku did not hesitate. "Name it."
That, finally, earned a real smile.
The transmission began to fade, Jango's image dissolving into light, but Dooku spoke once more before it vanished entirely.
"Do not underestimate her," he said calmly. "Satine Kryze mat not be a warrior. But she is something far more dangerous."
A politician.
The holoprojector went dark.
Dooku remained where he was, staring at the empty space, feeling the future settle into a new, sharper configuration. Somewhere in the Force, a thread had been pulled taut.
Kenobi would grieve.
Mandalore would fracture.
And order—true order—would be preserved.
This was not cruelty.
It was necessity.
,,,
"Cool motive, still murder."
Kudos to anyone who gets that reference! Anyways, that's all folks! Please stay tuned to find out what happens next! Or read ahead on my Patreon, link below:
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