Chapter 49: Honor Among Thieves
“Hi, Mom…”
The words left my mouth before my conscious brain could stop them, sounding incredibly small inside the stone walls of my quarters. If anyone from the Jedi High Council—or worse, my hidden Sith shadow cabinet—heard the terrifying Darth Sol squeak like a freshly cornered tooka, I’d have to relocate my entire empire to the Unknown Regions out of pure embarrassment.
Satine didn't move.
She merely tilted her head, her pale blonde braids shifting slightly as she took another slow, unbothered sip of her Alderaanian tea. The royal poise was there, a flawless shield forged from years of political warfare in the Mandalorian Senate, but the Force told a completely different story. Beneath the pristine teal fabric of her gown, she was absolutely radiating a wave of profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
“You may close your mouth, Ben,” Satine said, her voice dropping into that smooth, commanding cadence that usually kept Warmaster Pre Vizsla from starting a civil war before lunch. “It makes you look entirely too much like your father when he’s trying to explain why he accidentally collapsed a public transit terminal.”
I swallowed hard, forcing my jaw shut as I took a tentative step into the sitting alcove, my mud-stained boots leaving a highly offensive trail across the freshly swept floor plates. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but what are you doing here? If the Temple guards caught a foreign head of state sneaking into the Padawan dorms without a diplomatic escort, Master Windu would have a stroke.”
And I’m not sure I mean the medical kind, or the lightsaber kind.
“The Temple guards are quite familiar with my security detail, and I assure you, the Chancellor’s office believes I am currently attending a closed-door trade summit in the Senate district.” Satine set her porcelain cup down onto the low table with a soft, deliberate click.
She looked up at me, her icy blue eyes scanning the dried swamp slime on my tunic, the tears in my fabric, and the dark, heavy circles under my eyes.
The rigid Duchess mask finally fractured, revealing the fiercely protective mother underneath. “Come here.”
I didn't argue. I crossed the small space and dropped onto the edge of the couch beside her, every bruised muscle in my back letting out a synchronized groan. Before I could even mutter an apology for the smell of Dagobah frog secretions, her arms were around my shoulders, pulling me into a tight, unyielding embrace.
She smelled like expensive Coruscanti perfume and Mandallian winter-rose, a sharp, grounding contrast to the sterile, metal-and-stone reality of my everyday life.
“You are entirely too thin,” Satine murmured against my hair, her hands smoothing over the back of my tunic. “And you smell like an environmental hazard. Are they even feeding you here, or is Master Yoda expecting you to survive entirely on spiritual enlightenment and local vegetation?”
“Mostly vegetation,” I muttered into her shoulder, letting myself relax for a brief, fleeting second. “And the occasional bronze sphere to the ribs. It’s a very comprehensive curriculum.”
She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, her hands resting firmly on my shoulders. The tenderness in her expression didn't vanish, but a sharp, unyielding steel hardened beneath her gaze. “I am serious, Ben. I know what this war is demanding of you. I know the pressure you, and your friends are under. But I also know what you did to General Grievous on the Malevolence.”
A cold jolt of adrenaline bypassed my physical exhaustion, my mental shields immediately slamming down to lock away any stray thoughts of the Darksaber or my secret fleet. “I disabled a catastrophic weapon, Mom. I saved lives. I saved your life.”
“You dismantled a living being with an act of uncompromising cruelty, Ben,” Satine said, her tone dropping into a fierce, quiet whisper that carried more weight than a Republic artillery barrage. “You didn't just defeat him; you hunted him. That’s not how I raised you. And while I can’t speak for the Order’s… caretaking, I’m fairly certain the Jedi didn’t teach you this either.”
“The Jedi didn’t teach me a lot of things,” I said, looking away from her intense stare. “I had to figure a few things out on my own. And fighting with everything you have in the face of total destruction is one of them. I did what I had to, and I will do what I have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this isn't a skirmish, this is war. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” I guaranteed her that, if nothing else. “Much worse. Which means I’ll need to be worse, too. I’m sorry, but if you don't get that, then you don’t see what's coming, Mom. I do.”
“I see my son turning into a soldier,” Satine countered, her hand moving to cup my chin, gently but firmly forcing my face back toward hers. “And I will not allow this war to strip away your humanity before you’re even old enough to understand what you’re fighting for. You must be more watchful of yourself, Ben. Promise me.”
Before I could formulate a perfectly crafted, politically ambiguous lie to soothe her pacifist anxieties, the primary door to my quarters hissed open with a violent, dramatic force that made C-3PO let out a high-pitched electronic yelp from the kitchenette.
“Ben!” Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice boomed through the entryway, thick with panic and entirely stripped of his usual Council-member decorum. He strode into the room, his copper hair disheveled from a hasty starfighter landing, his robes billowing behind him. “I just received a highly fragmented report from Commander Gree regarding a security breach on the Tranquility, and I wanted to ensure that your... peculiar... insights hadn't somehow—”
Obi-Wan rounded the corner into the sitting alcove and froze mid-sentence.
His boots practically skidded on the floor tiles. His eyes widened into dinner plates, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly as his brain completely stalled out, his gaze bouncing from my mud-covered face directly to the elegant, teal-clad form of the Duchess sitting comfortably on my sofa. It was a masterclass in absolute, tongue-tied Jedi paralysis.
“I... uh... Satine?” Obi-Wan stammered, his right hand instinctively flying to his beard, plucking at the copper hairs in a state of pure, unadulterated shock. “What... what are you... this is... the Padawan residential wing. You cannot be... the security protocols...”
“Good evening, Obi-Wan,” Satine said smoothly, leaning back against the cushions and picking up her teacup with a level of calm that bordered on malicious amusement. “Do breathe. It would be dreadfully embarrassing if a member of the Jedi High Council fainted on my nephew’s floor due to a sudden lack of oxygen.”
“I am not fainting!” Obi-Wan protested, his voice cracking slightly before he quickly cleared his throat, desperately trying to pull the tattered remnants of his dignity back together.
He took a rigid step forward, his eyes darting toward the hallway as if expecting Mace Windu to drop out of the ceiling with a purple blade ignited.
His caution was well warranted.
“Satine, if anyone sees you here, the political fallout would be catastrophic.” He insisted, stepping closer. “The Chancellor’s office is already highly sensitive regarding Mandalore’s recent legislative shifts, and a clandestine meeting inside the Temple with a Padawan of Ben’s reputation would be—”
“Oh, stop wringing your hands, Obi-Wan, you’ll ruin the fabric of your sleeves,” Satine interrupted, a sharp, nostalgic glint appearing in her eyes as she offered him a look of pure, aristocratic disdain. “You always did lose all control over your vocabulary whenever a situation required a modicum of tactical improvisation. And frankly, someone needs to look after the boy’s welfare, given that his official mentors seem entirely content to let him wander the galaxy looking like a swamp-dwelling scavenger.”
Ah. So she did notice the smell.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, leaning my back against the couch and watching the two of them with a look of exhausted, profound detachment. “Don't mind me. Just a regular family reunion. Please, continue bickering over my hygiene and the galactic political climate.”
“Ben, silence please,” Obi-Wan snapped lightly, though his face was rapidly turning a brilliant, vibrant shade of crimson that matched his hair. He turned back to Satine, his hand dropping from his beard to cross his arms tightly over his chest. “I assure you, Duchess, Padawan Kryze’s training is being handled by the Grand Master himself. His... unique style of dress is merely the result of a rigorous physical regimen designed to instill discipline.”
“Discipline?” Satine let out a soft, mocking laugh, setting her cup down again. “Is that what you call it when you allow our son—ahem, my nephew to engage a cybernetic supreme commander in single combat on a burning warship? You call that discipline, Obi-Wan? Because from where I am sitting, it looks remarkably like a total failure of oversight.”
“The Malevolence was an exceptional circumstance!” Obi-Wan shot back, his voice rising a fraction of an octave as he stepped closer, entirely abandoning his stoic Jedi facade. “And if I recall correctly, you were the one who insisted on traveling into a highly volatile neutral sector without a full Republic military escort in the first place!”
“Because I am a diplomat, Obi-Wan! I rely on reason, not starfighters!” Satine stood up, her tall figure radiating a commanding authority that completely filled the small alcove. She stepped toward him, her head tilted up to meet his glare. “But I suppose a man who spends his entire life hiding behind a code of emotional detachment wouldn't understand the difference between a calculated risk and a blatant disregard for the safety of those he claims to care about.”
“I care immensely!” Obi-Wan countered, his eyes flashing with a sudden, intense heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the Jedi Code. “Which is precisely why I am currently risking my entire standing on the Council by standing in this room arguing with you instead of reporting an unauthorized civilian intrusion to Temple security!”
“Oh, so now I am an intrusion?” Satine stepped even closer, her breath catching as she glared at him. “How typical of a Jedi. The moment a woman demands accountability, she is labeled a security threat.”
I leaned my head back against the cushions, letting out a long, slow sigh. They were doing it again. The classic, decades-old Kenobi-Kryze romantic friction was playing out right in front of my face, and I was entirely too bruised and covered in frog slime to appreciate the historical value of the moment. I was just about to open my mouth to tell them to either find a private closet or stop shouting before the neighbors called the guards, when a sharp, high-pitched electronic chime cut through the air.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Obi-Wan stiffened, the fiery emotion instantly draining from his face as his professional training kicked back in. He reached into the inner folds of his robes, pulling out his primary holocomm unit. The miniature projection expanded into the air, casting a flickering, urgent crimson glow across his face. It was a priority-one Council emergency override signal.
“Master Kenobi,” Mace Windu’s voice crackled through the low-resolution audio stream, sounding incredibly tight and urgent. “We have an immediate crisis in the Outer Rim. Return to the briefing sala along with Skywalker. The High Council has just received a transmission that changes the entire trajectory of the Separatist leadership.”
“Understood, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan said, his tone instantly shifting back into that smooth, perfectly controlled diplomatic baseline. “I am on my way.”
The hologram snapped off, leaving the room in a sudden, heavy silence. Obi-Wan pocketed the device, his eyes flickering over to Satine with a look of deep, unresolved frustration, before settling onto me. The paternal worry was back, hidden just beneath the surface of his eyes.
“We will finish this conversation later, Ben,” Obi-Wan said, his voice quiet but firm. He offered a swift, deeply conflicted bow toward Satine. “Duchess. Please ensure your departure is handled through the lower hangar bypass. The Temple is about to become very busy.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and vanished through the door, his heavy boots echoing down the hallway in a dead sprint.
I sat up straight, my mind instantly switching away from my physical exhaustion. A priority-one emergency override? A transmission regarding the Separatist leadership? The Tranquility had just been hit, Gunray was gone, and now the Council was throwing a massive panic attack.
I looked at Satine, who was watching the empty doorway with a long, slow, quiet exhale, her hand resting against her elegant gown.
“I have to go,” I said, standing up from the couch, my internal tactical processors already running a million calculations a second. The timeline was shifting again, and I needed to know exactly which card Dooku had just played.
“Ben, your father just told you—” Satine began, turning back to me with a frown.
“He told you to leave through the lower hangar,” I cut her off, offering her a quick, reassuring smile as I backward-stepped toward the maintenance access panel near the wall. “He didn't say anything about me taking a quick stroll through the ventilation shafts. Love you, Mom. Threepio, make sure she gets to her speeder safely!”
Before she could unleash another royal decree, I palmed the hidden release mechanism, slipped into the dark, narrow maintenance corridor, and let the heavy metal panel click shut behind me, plunging myself into the shadows of the Temple’s underbelly.
The darkness of the ventilation shaft swallowed me whole, the metallic scent of filtered air and static electricity wrapping around me like a familiar cloak. I dropped to my hands and knees, moving through the narrow durasteel tunnel with practiced, silent precision.
My mind was already racing ahead, shedding the skin of a tired, mud-splattered Padawan and locking into the calculating coldness of Darth Sol. If the Council was panicking over the Separatist leadership right after Gunray’s escape, the grand tapestry of the timeline was unraveling exactly where I thought it would.
I needed eyes on this meeting. I needed a position where the high-and-mighty masters of the Jedi Order wouldn’t think to look.
Reaching a primary junction, I drew upon the specialized teachings taught to me by the holocron of the Emperor’s Wrath. It wasn't about channeling the loud, destructive fury of the dark side; it was about the art of complete, total erasure. I’m pretty sure it’s how Papa Palpatine hid his own presence in the Force.
You know what they say. The Devil’s greatest trick is convincing you he doesn’t exist.
I gathered the Force tight against my chest, folding the ambient light and emotion around myself until my presence in the cosmic web was nothing more than a dead zone. To anyone scanning the area, I wouldn't even register as a stray thought. I was just another piece of the Temple's plumbing.
I crawled forward until I reached the reinforced grate overlooking the outer Council briefing terminal, peerless and unobstructed. I pressed my face close to the slats, looking down into the brightly lit sala.
So nostalgic.
Yoda stood in the center, leaning heavily on his gnarled chert gimer stick. Mace Windu hovered nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark face practically carved from stone. Anakin and Obi-Wan had just rushed into the room, their posture taut and defensive. But the real centerpiece was the massive, flickering hololith shimmering in the middle of the room.
Hondo Ohnaka’s massive, theatrical grin filled the projection, his coat flaring as he waved a heavily rings-adorned hand at the assembled Jedi masters.
“Ah, this must be General Kenobi! And the great Skywalker! Welcome, welcome!” Hondo’s voice boomed through the audio receivers, dripping with a sickening amount of faux-charitable warmth. “It warms my heart to see such confident, and handsome faces in these dark and troubled times. Truly, it does!”
“Cut the theatrics, Ohnaka,” Windu snapped, his deep voice slicing through the pirate’s jovial tone like a vibroblade. “You did not reach out to the Senate demanding an audience from the Jedi High Council, just to pay us compliments. State your business.”
“Straight to the point! So Jedi, so austere,” Hondo chuckled, wagging a finger. “Very well. My crew has recently come into possession of a very unique, very valuable piece of Separatist merchandise. A high-ranking asset, you might say. The head of the snake himself.”
The projection shifted, the camera panning down into what looked like a damp, subterranean bunker. There, sitting on a crude metallic crate and stripped of his pristine cape, was Count Dooku. The elegant, aristocratic leader of the Confederacy looked utterly miserable, his hands bound by heavy energy binders, his white beard slightly disheveled.
My heart skipped a beat against my ribs.
He actually did it.
Even knowing the meta-knowledge of how this arc was supposed to play out, seeing the formidable Tyranus captured by a pack of drunken, functionally illiterate Weequay pirates was a level of surreal comedy that my brain could barely process. The grand Sith apprentice, a master of Form II Makashi, outmaneuvered by a spiked beverage. It was magnificent.
It was embarrassing.
“Is that... Count Dooku?” Obi-Wan blinked, his voice betraying a rare moment of genuine, unvarnished disbelief as he stepped closer to the edge of the holopad. “How in the world did your syndicate manage to apprehend a Sith Lord?”
“Oh, you know how it is, General,” Hondo smiled, leaning back into the frame with an incredibly smug shrug. “He came to our humble little world seeking asylum after a rather nasty starfighter malfunction. We offered him our finest hospitality. A few drinks, a pleasant conversation, and well... he decided to stay a while! Permanently, if the Republic doesn't meet our very reasonable terms.”
“A trap, this could be,” Yoda murmured, his ears twitching as his small eyes narrowed at the shivering blue projection of the captive Count. “Extremely dangerous, Count Dooku is. To capture him so easily... unprecedented, it is.”
“I assure you, Master Yoda, the Count is very real, and very much my guest,” Hondo laughed, his tone turning sharply transactional. “But a guest of his stature consumes a great deal of our modest resources. We require a gesture of good faith from the Senate. One million credits worth of pure spice, delivered directly to the Florrum system. You bring the spice, we give you the man who started the war. A fair trade, no?”
“We will need to verify his identity before any transaction can be approved by the Senate,” Windu stated firmly, his eyes flickering toward Anakin and Obi-Wan. “The Republic will not negotiate blindly with an outlaw cartel.”
“Of course! Trust, but verify! I expect nothing less from the defenders of peace,” Hondo nodded magnanimously. “Send an envoy. But come alone, Jedi. If I see a single Republic cruiser entering my airspace, the Count might suffer a tragic, completely accidental hunting accident. I will await your arrival.”
The hologram snapped off, leaving the room illuminated only by the standard ambient lighting of the sala. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the masters.
“It’s a trap,” Anakin said instantly, his mechanical hand clenching into a tight fist against his thigh. “There’s no way a guy who can chop off a Jedi’s hand gets taken down by a bunch of spice-runners. Dooku’s playing them. He’s using Hondo to lure us into an ambush.”
“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of his beard as he slipped back into his analytical mindset. “But pirates are creatures of pure, unadulterated greed. I don’t believe this Hondo cares about the Separatists or the Republic; he cares about his profit margins. If Dooku truly landed on Florrum without his military escort, Hondo wouldn't hesitate to sell him to the highest bidder.”
“Agree, I do,” Yoda croaked, tapping his stick against the floor. “A risk we must take. If captured truly Dooku is, end the war, we might. Obi-Wan, Anakin, go to Florrum, you will. Verify the pirate's claim. But caution, you must use.”
“We’ll handle it, Master,” Anakin smiled, a confident, reckless glint returning to his eyes. “If the Count really is sitting in a cage, I want to see the look on his face myself.”
Up in the shafts, my tactical brain was firing on all cylinders.
This was the exact pivot point I needed. If Anakin and Obi-Wan went to Florrum alone, they’d end up poisoned, stripped of their weapons, and locked in the same cell as Dooku, leading to a disastrous, prolonged escape attempt that would let the Count slip right through their fingers.
I couldn't let Dooku escape. Not this time. If I could position myself on that ship, I could control the narrative, protect my investments, and maybe even find a way to make Dooku’s capture permanent.
I backed out of the ventilation grate, moving like a shadow through the tubes, navigating toward the secondary access corridor just outside the briefing room. I found a standard ceiling hatch, palmed the manual release, and dropped down into the corridor with a soft, perfectly absorbed thud, landing right as the massive doors to the sala slid open.
Yoda was the first to hobble out, his small eyes instantly locking onto my mud-stained form.
“Ah, Padawan Kryze,” Yoda said, stopping in his tracks, his head tilting back to survey me. “Finished with your family matters, have you? Cleaned your quarters, I hope you have.”
How does he already know about that?!
You know what? Not important.
“Mostly, Master,” I said, bowing low to hide the sharp, predatory grin threatening to split my face. “But I couldn't help but feel a sudden, profound disturbance in the Force right outside the briefing room. A ripple of... high-stakes diplomacy, perhaps?”
Anakin and Obi-Wan caught up, both of them stopping behind the Grand Master. Obi-Wan gave me a stern, deeply warned look, clearly hoping I hadn't let anything slip to Satine before she departed.
“It’s Council business, Ben,” Obi-Wan said, his tone deliberately professional. “We are currently organizing a highly sensitive verification mission to the Outer Rim.”
“Which is exactly why I’m volunteering my services as a neutral observer,” I said, stepping forward and looking directly at Yoda. “You’ve always said that a good Padawan should seek to understand the complexities of the galaxy beyond the battlefield. What better way to learn than by watching my two esteemed masters negotiate with the criminal underworld?”
Yoda let out a soft, wheezing grunt, leaning his weight onto his stick as he stared at me with an expression of pure, unbothered skepticism. “A neutral observer, you say? Hmm. Think I do, that a different motive you have. Valuable, your presence on Coruscant is. Hard to replace, your current assignment will be.”
I blinked, a sudden wave of genuine confusion flowing through me. “My assignment, Master?”
Surely he can’t mean…
“The nursery, I speak of,” Yoda clarified, a tiny, almost wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his green mouth.
He can.
“An extraordinary, unprecedented aptitude you have shown for managing young Grogu. Quiet, the crèche has been since your return. To find a suitable daycare replacement in the middle of a galactic conflict... a severe disruption to the Temple’s schedule, it is. Stay, perhaps you should. Needed here, you are.”
My jaw nearly dropped. Literally. I’m surprised it’s still attached, honestly.
Babysitting?
The Grand Master of the Jedi Order was trying to ground the terrifying Darth Sol because I was a glorified toddler whisperer? If Maris found out I missed a chance to corner Count Dooku because I was stuck changing anti-gravity diapers, she would never let me live it down.
“Master, with all due respect, I think you’re misinterpreting the facts,” I said quickly, my mind scrambling to throw anyone—absolutely anyone—under the nearest heavy transport. “Grogu doesn't actually like me all that much. He just tolerates me because I have a high-protein snack supply. If you’re looking for a truly transformative, maternal aura for the infant’s spiritual growth... you should look at Ahsoka.”
Anakin let out a sudden, muffled snort behind his hand, instantly catching the trajectory of where this was going.
“Ahsoka?” Yoda tilted his ears. “Expressed a desire for childcare, Padawan Tano has not.”
“She’s just being modest, Master,” I insisted, widening my eyes into the most innocent, helpful Jedi expression I could muster. “She absolutely denies it because she doesn't want to brag, and while I may be throwing her under the bus, I’m totally right. Grogu loves her. He literally climbed her mont like a tree branch last week just to share her ration bar. It would be highly detrimental to the child's development to deny him that kind of bonding time.”
Yoda remained silent for a long, agonizing moment, his large eyes blinking slowly as he weighed my shameless betrayal of my best friend. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping.
“Hmm. Supposed it wouldn’t be fair, it is, to make you miss two major deployments in a row,” Yoda conceded, shaking his head. “Very well. Accompany them to Florrum, you may. But remember, Ben... a verification mission this is. No reckless stunts. No hunting.”
“I’ll be the very definition of a model student, Master,” I said, bowing deeply to conceal my triumph.
As Yoda hobbled away down the corridor, probably to go ruin Ahsoka’s afternoon with a new assignment, I stood up straight and looked at Anakin and Obi-Wan. The hunt for the Count was officially on.
…
The wet, high-pitched squelch echoed directly inside Ahsoka's left ear, followed by a rhythmic gnawing sensation that vibrated straight through her skull. She didn't even have to look down to know that a Twi'lek toddler was currently treating her right montral like a teething ring.
She simply stared blankly into the middle distance, her arms hanging completely limp at her sides as a small, green, large-eared menace floated a plastic block three inches above her head just to drop it repeatedly onto her forehead.
Grogu… if you weren’t so adorable, she swears.
Master Yoda’s serene face rose up in her memory, and the burning desire to fling a heavy tracking fob at the Grand Master’s wrinkled forehead grew exponentially. “An extraordinary, unprecedented aptitude for managing young Grogu, Ben says you have,” he’d said with that infuriatingly gentle little chuckle.
She was going to kill Ben.
She was going to track him down, skin him with his own newly stolen Darksaber, and feed whatever was left to a pack of starving nexu. The absolute nerve of that Mandalorian royal bastard (literally a royal bastard), throwing her directly under the grand galactic public transit terminal just to save his own mud-caked skin from daycare duty.
No, calm yourself, Ahsoka. Revenge is not the Jedi way… right?
The heavy blast doors separating the primary crèche from the adjacent hangar bay staging area hissed open, and the exact two targets of her violent ire marched in, completely decked out in their outer-rim field gear.
Maris had her heavy combat webbing slung over her dark robes, looking every bit the unbothered, pale shadow she always was, while Ben was practically vibrating with a mixture of immense relief and sheer, unadulterated guilt.
“Ahsoka! My best friend! Light of my life, savior of the Order!” Ben immediately launched himself across the floor tiles, his hands thrown out in a theatrical, profoundly pathetic display of groveling that wouldn't have looked out of place in a low-budget Coruscanti holodrama.
He skidded to a halt just inches from her toy-littered perimeter, his face twisted into an expression of pure, sweating desperation.
“I am so sorry.” Is he? How nice. “I am so, unbelievably, deeply sorry. You have to believe me, Snips, I tried to deflect him. I tried to redirect the Grand Master’s focus. I swear on the entire Kryze lineage I would have thrown Maris under the bus instead if I thought it had even a single, solitary chance of working!”
“It really wouldn't have,” Maris chimed in, leaning her shoulder against a nearby durasteel crate and crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
She adjusted the heavy strap of her lightsaber hilt, her dark, Kohl-rimmed eyes glinting with a level of chaotic, spooky amusement that made her look entirely too comfortable with Ahsoka's suffering.
Revenge is not the Jedi way. Revenge is not the Jedi way!
“I scare children, Ahsoka.” Maris shrugged. “It’s an established fact. The Crèche Masters won't even let me near the infants by myself anymore. Watch.” She turned her head toward a small cluster of Rodian and Human initiates who were currently bickering over a pile of glowing counting beads. “Boo, younglings.”
The children collectively shrieked, dropping their beads and scrambling behind a massive plush nerf cushion like they’d just seen a ghost.
“See? Natural talent,” Maris said, offering a slow, deadpan nod of self-satisfaction. “I actually like it. If Yoda put me in charge of the daycare, half of them would be reciting the history of Sith alchemy by lunch, and the other half would be permanently traumatized. Ben’s logic was entirely sound.”
“I was desperate!” Ben pleaded, taking another step forward, his eyes darting toward the Twi'lek child who had finally stopped chewing on Ahsoka's montral and was now aggressively pulling on it. “The old man was going to ground me, Ahsoka! If I didn't give him an alternative caretaker, I’d be the one sitting in this pile of sticky plastic blocks while the galaxy spins out of control!”
“So you gave him me,” Ahsoka said, her voice dropping into a flat, icy monotone that made Ben visibly flinch. She slowly reached up, detached the drooling toddler from her head with a gentle but firm grip, and set the child down on a nearby soft mat.
She stood up, crossing her arms as she fixed Ben with a glare that she’d been perfecting specifically for moments of extreme betrayal. The way he paled made it so worth all the time she practiced in a mirror!
“You didn't just suggest me, Ben.” Ahsoka spat. “You fabricated a highly detailed, completely fictitious narrative about my deeply spiritual, nurturing bond with Grogu. Who, by the way, is currently trying to eat a hydrospanner behind you.”
Ben didn't look back at the small green infant, who was, indeed, hovering a heavy metal tool toward his tiny mouth. “Okay, look, maybe I embellished a little bit. But you have to admit, you have a very approachable energy! You’re great with people! I’m a high-stress political target with a secret shadow empire to run, and Maris looks like she belongs in a haunted Sith tomb on Korriban. It was a tactical sacrifice for the greater good! The Force willed it”
“A tactical sacrifice,” Ahsoka repeated, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer, her leather boots clicking softly against the floor. “Right. Well, since you’re so big on tactical trades, Darth Sol, let’s make a deal. I will accept your pathetic little apology. I will stay here, and I will keep these tiny monsters from pulling the Temple down around our ears while you, Maris, and our masters go have a grand old adventure in the desert.”
Ben’s eyes lit up with a sudden, wary hope. “Really? Just like that? You’re not going to leak my private comm frequencies to Ventress?”
“On one condition,” Ahsoka said, a slow, distinctly dangerous smile spreading across her face. She reached out, tapping a single finger against the center of his chest. “You now owe me one undisclosed, completely open-ended favor. To be used however I want, whenever I want, and against absolutely whomever I wish. No restrictions. No veto power from the Sith Council. You sign the blank check right now, or I walk into the hangar and tell Skywalker you stole the protocol droid that he made for his mom.”
“I didn’t steal him, I bought him!” He defended himself.
“After you mind-tricked her.” Ahsoka scoffed. “Besides, how would you even prove you didn’t? C-3PO can’t vouch for you, you wiped his memory.
The color instantly drained from Ben’s face, his tactical brain clearly running through the sheer, catastrophic lethality of leaving a blank check in Ahsoka's hands, versus her exposing him. He looked over at Maris for assistance, but she merely shrugged, offering him a look of profound, unhelpful indifference.
“Don't look at me,” Maris said, checking her fingernails. “That’s a fair price for your life. Personally, I would have demanded two favors, but Ahsoka’s always been more merciful than me.”
“You’re terrifying,” Ben muttered, turning back to Ahsoka and swallowing hard. He held up his hands in a defensive gesture, his shoulders slumping in absolute defeat. “Fine. Fine! I accept. One completely open-ended, unrestricted favor. Just... please don't make me do anything that involves small children. I can’t go through this again!”
“Deal,” Ahsoka said, her smile turning remarkably sweet as she stepped back. “Now get out of my crèche before I decide to increase the interest rate on that debt.”
“Moving! We are moving right now!” Ben yelled, grabbing Maris by the elbow and practically dragging her backward toward the open blast doors. “Good luck with the childcare! Try not to let Grogu eat any heavy machinery!”
The doors slid shut with a heavy, metallic hiss, cutting off the sound of Ben’s frantic, retreating footsteps and leaving the staging area entirely silent for a fraction of a second.
Ahsoka turned back around, the initial despair and anger fading away as a completely different, much more calculating sensation began to bubble up inside her chest. She looked down at the playroom. Grogu had successfully pulled the hydrospanner into his small hands and was now tapping it against the floor, a tiny gurgle escaping his throat. Around him, three other Force-sensitive younglings were watching the floating object with wide, impressionable eyes.
Anakin and Obi-Wan were out chasing pirates, completely oblivious. The High Council was trapped in their secure briefing sala, hyper-focused on the Separatist leadership. And here she was, left completely unsupervised with an entire generation of highly talented, easily influenced, and exceptionally stealthy Force-sensitives who were currently looking to her for guidance.
She walked over to the central play mat, dropping down to their level as she plucked the hydrospanner out of Grogu's hands with a smooth flick of her fingers. The children immediately gathered around, their small faces turning upward in perfect, undivided attention.
“Alright, Sky-hoppers,” Ahsoka said, her voice dropping into a quiet, conspiratorial whisper that made all of their ears perk up instantly. “The Masters think we’re just sitting here playing with blocks. But today, we’re going to start a new lesson. It’s a specialized game called ‘Finders Keepers’. Doesn’t that sound fun?!”
Grogu let out a tiny, enthusiastic coo, his large ears flapping happily as he reached toward her belt. Ahsoka smiled, a brilliant, petty spark of dark inspiration settling deep into her core. If they wanted her to be a babysitter, she was going to be the most dangerous, well-organized syndicate leader this Temple had ever seen.
…
The sulfurous, acid-tinged winds of Florrum whipped across Maris's pale face the moment the Republic shuttle’s ramp hissed open, bearing the unmistakable, foul stench of open spice vats and cheap fuel. She adjusted the heavy strap of her combat webbing, her dark, Kohl-rimmed eyes scanning the chaotic, shouting sea of heavily armed Weequay outlaws packing the landing perimeter.
The Ohnaka Gang’s stronghold was a sprawling, lawless garbage heap of rusted starship hulls and mismatched canopy tents, radiating a crude, frantic energy that made her skin prickle.
“Ah, Jedi! My dear, profitable friends!” Hondo Ohnaka stepped forward from the crowd with an immensely wide, gold-toothed grin, his heavy coat flaring as he waved his ring-adorned hands in the air. “Welcome to Florrum! Land of hospitality, land of fair trades! I assure you, my operations are completely at your disposal as we finalize our most historic arrangement!”
Maris walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Ben, keeping her expressions carefully locked behind a mask of bored, cynical detachment while Anakin and Obi-Wan stepped up to handle the initial diplomatic pleasantries. Hondo’s theatrical gestures and completely empty promises of mutual respect washed over them as the pirate lord spun on his heel, eagerly gesturing for the group to follow him down into the reinforced, subterranean holding cells beneath the main compound.
The damp, chilly air of the underground corridors smelled of mildew and stale alcohol, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat outside, culminating in a heavy blast door that slid open to reveal the central detention wing.
Hondo stopped in front of the primary cell, proudly slapping his hand against the reinforced energy bars. “And here he is! The head of the Separatist snake, completely stripped of his venom and resting in my personal custody!”
Maris looked through the shimmering energy field, and it took every ounce of her secret Sith discipline to keep from bursting into hysterical, mocking laughter right then and there. Floating as he was held between two rays, completely stripped of his pristine cape and his elegant lightsaber, was Count Dooku.
The high-and-mighty leader of the Confederacy, the legendary aristocrat of Serenno, looked thoroughly disheveled, his white beard slightly tangled and his posture oozing a profound, radiating misery.
Maris and Ben exchanged a long, deeply judgmental look. Through their shared Sith training as Darth Sol and Darth Nox, their feelings might as well have been exploding with sheer, unadulterated second-hand embarrassment.
This was a literal Sith Lord.
A master of Form II Makashi, trained by Yoda himself, possessing enough power to choke a room full of senators without blinking. And he had managed to get captured by a bunch of functionally illiterate, spice-addled space pirates because he couldn't bother to scan his own drink.
Is he actually stupid?
Was the dark side suffering from a severe, unpatched old-age penalty in the modern era? If this was the absolute peak of the traditional Rule of Two lineage, then she and Ben were completely overpaying for their secret empire’s upkeep.
While Anakin and Obi-Wan stepped off to the side with Hondo to rigorously debate the verification protocols and the exact transaction details of the million-credit spice ransom, Maris and Ben calmly sauntered right up to the glowing blue energy bars.
They didn't bother lowering their voices. They didn't try to hide it. They stood right in front of the captive Count, their faces twisted into expressions of pure, unbothered theatrical pity.
“Wow,” Maris said, her voice dripping with a flat, biting sarcasm that echoed clearly off the damp stone walls. “Look at this, Ben. The great, terrifying leader of the Separatist alliance. He looks absolutely majestic hanging there like cattle, doesn't he?”
“It’s truly a masterclass in tactical positioning,” Ben replied, leaning his shoulder against the cell frame and crossing his arms with a heavy, mocking sigh. “I mean, the way his beard is slightly tilted to catch the subterranean draft? Brilliant. Truly terrifying. I’m shaking in my boots, Maris.”
Dooku’s head snapped up, his icy, aristocratic eyes narrowing into slits as he glared through the energy bars, a wave of pure, murderous hatred radiating through the Force so sharply it could have sliced durasteel. “You insolent, irritating children. If you had even the slightest comprehension of the forces you are trifling with, you would beg for my mercy before the day is out.”
“Oh, no, the old man is using his scary voice,” Maris scoffed, rolling her eyes as she leaned closer to the bars, entirely unimpressed by the dark side posture. “What are you going to do, Count? Lecture us on the diplomatic nuances of getting tricked by pirates? Seriously, how does a literal political mastermind get outmaneuvered by a guy whose entire crew looks like they haven't washed their tunics since the Great Sith War?”
“A momentary oversight,” Dooku hissed, his hands clenching into tight fists on his lap, his voice tight with an immense, bubbling rage that he was desperately trying to keep under control. “The Ohnaka cartel will pay dearly for this treason. And so will the Republic.”
“Right, right, of course they will,” Ben laughed, waving his hand dismissively as he took a step back, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that while you're sitting in a cage designed for low-level spice smugglers. Your situational awareness is honestly inspiring, Count. We should take notes, Maris. Next time we fight a war, let's make sure our grand strategy relies entirely on not checking the scruffy-looking nerf-herder’s credentials.”
Dooku’s jaw tightened so hard the muscles in his cheek visibly trembled, his breathing turning shallow as he stared them down, clearly wishing his crimson blade was currently resting in his palm rather than Hondo’s private safe.
Too bad. So sad.
…
The transition from the damp, freezing cold of the subterranean prison to Hondo’s grand banquet hall was like stepping straight out of an ice bath and directly into a burning trash heap. The room was absolutely deafening, packed to the brim with rowdy, heavily armed Weequay outlaws who were already multiple tankards deep into celebrating the impending million-credit spice ransom.
The air was a thick, choking fog of heavy pipe smoke, spilled spotchka, and the greasy, pungent aroma of roasted gorg-meat platters scattered across the long wooden tables.
Up at the high table, Hondo Ohnaka was practically weeping with laughter, slamming a massive metal chalice onto the durasteel surface as he leaned over toward my father. “And so I said to him, ‘My friend, the Republic may have rules, but the Ohnaka Gang has results!’ Am I right, Kenobi? Am I right?”
Obi-Wan sat remarkably straight in his carved wooden chair, a strained, painfully polite smile plastered across his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Indeed, Hondo. Your... hospitality is truly unmatched. However, regarding the physical transfer of the Count—”
“Ah, business! Always with the business, you Jedi!” Hondo threw his arms wide, nearly hitting a passing serving droid in the face. “First, we drink! We celebrate a partnership forged in the beautiful fires of mutual profit! Anakin, my boy, why is your cup empty? Drink, drink!”
Anakin sat right next to him, his prosthetic gloved hand resting flat on the table while his organic hand loosely swirled a murky blue beverage around in his cup. He looked entirely annoyed, his eyes darting toward the heavily guarded exit every time a pirate cheered a little too loudly. “I’m fine, Hondo. Just eager to get the asset secured on our shuttle before any Separatist fleet variants decide to trace our coordinates.”
I sat a few seats down at a lower parallel table, watching the entire room like a hawk while Maris picking lazily at a piece of charred meat beside me. My tactical instincts, sharpened by a solid year of actual war and a childhood of studying under the holocron of the Emperor’s Wrath, were screaming at me.
But even without that, heck, even without watching the show, I could tell this was a trap.
I looked over toward the main entrance arches and spotted three Weequay guards acting entirely too shifty, their eyes darting away the moment I caught them looking. They were whispering, checking the power cells on their heavy blaster rifles, and subtly fanning out across the perimeter walls.
Can you be any more suspicious?
I leaned my head slightly closer to Maris, my gaze remaining fixed on a serving maid who was currently balancing a fresh tray of glowing, spiked beverages meant specifically for the high table. “Look at the western archway. The guards are changing their hand signals.”
“I see them,” Maris murmured back, her fork scraping against her plate as her dark, Kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed. “They’re positioning themselves behind Anakin and Obi-Wan’s blind spots. And that blue drink Hondo’s pushing? I’ve got a bad feeling about it. You?”
“Definitely. It’s a setup. They’re going to drug and disarm them,” I muttered, my heart rate spiking as I realized Hondo was actively trying to pull the exact same stunt on the Republic that he’d just pulled on Dooku. He wanted the ransom and the Jedi bounty.
So much for the butterfly effect preventing this stuff.
You want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
The serving maid stepped up to the high table, lowering the tray of spiked hospitality drinks right in front of Obi-Wan’s plate. Hondo grinned, raising his own chalice. “A special vintage, my friends! To the Republic!”
Soon.
I didn't have time to gently warn them, and I certainly didn't have time to explain my deductions without tipping off the thirty armed pirates currently surrounding us. I stood up abruptly, extending my leg with a sharp, deliberate burst of telekinetic force right against the leg of the massive, central serving table adjacent to us.
The heavy wooden structure buckled with a tremendous, splintering crack, tilting violently to the side and sending an enormous, sizzling tray of roasted gorg-meat and three dozen metal chalices crashing onto the floor tiles with a deafening, metallic roar.
“Oh, by the Force, I am so clumsy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, throwing my hands out in a theatrical, profoundly pathetic display of teenage awkwardness that I’d perfected during my early crèche days. I stumbled forward into the mess, kicking a rolling metal pitcher directly into the shins of the nearest pirate guard. “I’m so sorry! I just completely tripped over my own robes! Masters, I am so incredibly embarrassed!”
The banquet hall instantly erupted into absolute chaos.
Outlaws swore loudly as hot grease splashed over their boots, two drunken Weequays immediately blamed each other for pushing the table, and Hondo jumped up onto his chair, shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs about his ruined upholstery.
In the middle of the shouting match and the rising cloud of steam from the spilled food, I reached down, grabbed Maris firmly by the strap of her combat webbing, and jerked her backward toward the unmonitored shadows of the kitchen service corridor.
We slipped through the heavy industrial drapes before any of the perimeter guards could reset their focus, navigating the dark, winding subterranean corridors of the stronghold at a dead sprint until the deafening roar of the party completely faded into a distant, muffled hum. We killed our pace near a heavily reinforced storage bay, sliding into a dark alcove that offered an unobstructed view of the secondary exit points.
I had absolutely no idea if Obi-Wan or Anakin had fallen for the hospitality, or if their Jedi reflexes had kicked in the moment the table flipped. Either way, I didn't have time to go back and check on them. If Hondo was playing dirty, I needed my actual leverage on the table immediately.
I reached into the hidden inner lining of my tunic, pulling out my secure, heavily encrypted Sith comm-pad. I dialed the primary frequency, watching the blue interface hum to life before activating the internal vocal modulator. When I spoke, my voice was completely stripped of Ben Kryze, replaced by the terrifying, echoing mechanical baritone of Darth Sol.
The transmission connected, and a miniature, flickering blue hologram of Aurra Sing appeared over the pad. She was sitting in what looked like a luxurious lounge chair, casually cleaning the barrel of her long slugthrower rifle, completely unbothered by the encrypted alert.
“Well, well,” Aurra scoffed, not even bother to look up from her weapon as her sharp voice crackled through the audio static. “If it isn't my favorite mysterious Sith Overlord. You know, Sol, some of us actually like to enjoy our off-hours without a looming dark side check-in. What do you want? Did your little scout mission on Coruscant fall apart already?”
“Your sarcasm is entirely noted, Darth Song, and entirely irrelevant,” I stated through the mechanical modulator, my tone cold, precise, and heavy with an unspoken threat that made her finally pause her cleaning routine. “The local parameters on Florrum have suffered a severe tactical regression. The Ohnaka cartel is currently attempting a containment maneuver against a Republic diplomatic escort. Hondo Ohnaka’s operational stability is compromised by his own greed.”
Aurra raised an eyebrow, a slow, transactional smirk spreading across her face as she leaned closer to her projector. “Let me guess. He’s trying to double-dip on the bounty? Classic Hondo. So, what’s the play, boss? Do you want me to fly down there and put a slug through his fancy hat?”
“No,” I commanded, cutting through her attitude with absolute authority. “We do not risk premature exposure of our assets on the ground. I want a complete vanguard of the Katana Fleet mobilized to Florrum’s orbital perimeter immediately. Instruct the First Order dreadnought commanders to run completely cold—maximum cloaking arrays, zero active scanning emissions. They are to hold positions just outside the primary planetary sensor grid.”
Aurra’s smirk faded slightly, her eyes narrowing as she processed the sheer scale of the order. “A vanguard? That’s over twenty dreadnoughts, Sol. That’s a lot of firepower just to sit and watch a pirate squabble. What happens if the locals actually manage to lock down your targets?”
“If Hondo Ohnaka successfully pulls the rug out from under our interests, or if the situation on the ground becomes entirely unsalvageable, you will signal the fleet to drop cloaking,” I said, my voice dropping into a flat, murderous register that echoed ominously in the narrow corridor. “And you will instruct them to glass the entire stronghold from orbit. Leave absolutely nothing but scorched stone. Understood?”
The bounty hunter stared at the transmission for a long, silent second, a cold, dangerous appreciation settling into her expression. “Loud and clear, Sol. The fleet is moving. Try not to get caught in the blast radius.”
The link snapped shut, leaving the corridor plunged back into darkness. I slipped the pad back into my robes and looked over at Maris, who was leaning against the durasteel wall with her blue lightsaber hilt already resting loosely in her palm. The chapter was closing on Hondo’s little game, one way or another.