Chapter Text
22 BBY, CORUSCANT
Two months after the Guard officially moves to Coruscant, the lawyer shows up.
It’s about ten-standard in the morning when the elevator dings. If there’s one thing Mag appreciates about working the desk for the Coruscant Guard Headquarters—and there isn’t a lot—it’s that damn elevator. It always chimes when it comes to a stop, giving him plenty of time to school his face into something less like I-hate-you-and-your-whole-family and more like good-morning-respected-Sir-how-thuroughly-should-I-lick-your-boots-today?
Usually the only people that bother to come down to the offices of the Coruscant Guard are vode. If a Senator or a Republic officer wants them, they comm or send a missive. No one wants to venture down into the basement of the holding and detention center; the dank, decade-old, lightless offices that the Coruscant Guard calls their own. Most politicians wouldn’t dare, considering you have to go through multiple security checks and walk right past the drunk-tank to even get to the elevator.
But Mag didn’t get this position by being sloppy—he got it by being careful. Knowing his osik luck, the one time an actually-important-person comes out of those doors, he’ll have his feet up on the desk, a holo movie on, and be neck-deep in a tower of folded flimsiplast shuttles to pelt at Fox’s head the next time he emerges from his office (re:cave) for sustenance (re:caf and stims.)
So when the most drop-dead gorgeous human Mag has ever seen strolls out of the elevator, he, thankfully, does not look like a complete di’kut.
The man appears to be human (though looks can be deceiving when it comes to trying to nail down a species at a glance) with fire-orange hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes. His skin is much paler than that of any vode, but it’s incredibly clear, and nearly flawless, like porcelain. A thin silvery scar bisects his left eyebrow almost artfully. The man fills out his crisp, navy-blue suit with a well-muscled but lean body. Mag almost wants the guy to turn around so he can see if he fills out the suit that good everywhere. His polished dress shoes have some sort of subtle heel to them, going by the rhythmic click-clacking his steps make across the uncarpeted, duracrete floors. He’s got some sort of classy bag slung over his shoulder—the kind of rich, synth-leather thing that senator’s aides carry around to hold pads and flimsiplast.
When the man steps out of the elevator straight into the path of Mag’s desk, his eyes light up. Mag almost swallows his damn tongue.
Force, help me.
“Ah! Hello there,” he says with a smile that flashes a row of perfect white teeth and sends Mag’s heart careening somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. And then he starts walking towards him and Mag’s heart drops straight to his feet. He can almost hear his own composure shatter. No sentient should allowed to be this pretty, it's completely unfair.
“Hello, Sir,” he croaks, and sends a brief prayer to the non-existent gods of the vode thanking them for his well-practiced ability to talk under pressure (he didn't earn this position for nothing, no Sir). But by the k a’ra, the guy’s got the most insane eyelashes. “How can I help you?”
And then the man does the impossible. He reaches over Mag’s desk, offering his hand.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi, pleased to meet you,” the man—Kenobi—beams.
Mag stares at the offered hand for a solid two seconds, completely frozen in shock by the gesture, before his brain kicks back online and he forces himself to take it.
Kark, I hope I’m doing this right. Mag shakes back, mind whirring so hard it’s a wonder that there isn’t smoke coming out of his ears and the high thruming whine of over-worked processors.
“May I ask your name?” Kenobi continues after a moment and holy shit— the natborn wants Mag’s name. Not his number. Not ‘trooper’. Not ‘hey, you there’. His name.
“It’s—uh, Mag, Sir. My name. Is Mag.”
Kark, that was awkward.
Kenobi’s hand is warm and soft—vode hands aren’t soft—although Mag can feel the edges of calluses under his grip. He smells like cologne. Like the kind of spiciness that comes from open tea-shop doors in the uppers of Coruscant and expensive soaps.
Kenobi flashes him a smile that really should be labeled as the workplace hazard it most definitely is. “Pleasure to meet you, Mag.” Pleasure, he said. Hrnngh. “Is the Commander in?”
Mag hasn’t seen Fox in five hours, and Fox usually emerges every three hours for caf, which means he either died in his office or simply passed out unconscious on top of a pile of paperwork. Either way, he is most certainly in.
“Sure thing, let me give him a comm and he’ll be right with you.” And then, falling into habit, he adds, “May I ask after your business here, Sir?”
(You can never simply ask outright with senators and politicians. No one with any sort of power takes nicely to a clone asking them anything. So basic questions like, do you have an appointment become, may I ask after your business here by necessity. Unless, of course, being called an “uppity meat-droid” is the highlight of ones’ morning, in which case, go nuts and ask away.)
Kenobi doesn’t seem to take any offense to the carefully measured words at all. He just continues to smile, beatifically and beautifully, and replies, “Well, I'd like to discuss your legal representation.”
Mag blinks. Fights against a double-take. Are they being sued? It’s only been two karking months!
“Sir?” Mag squeaks, heart pounding. What happens if they get sued? Would they just decommission the whole batch and start over?
“Oh, Obi-Wan is just fine, dear. I hope we’ll be working very closely together here soon, anyways.” He flashes Mag another thousand-kilowatt smile. It’s almost painful to look at, especially given Mag's creeping suspicions that this guy may not be a friendly at all. “I’m here to see what we can do about getting you and your men some rights.”
And that’s— what?!
Fox chooses this precise moment to answer the ping Mag sent to his comm. He exits his office with his bucket firmly in place, a perfectly kitted-out Guardsman with perfectly-military-straight posture. He strides over to them briskly and stands at attention.
“Sir,” Fox salutes.
“Commander Fox, I presume?” And, once again, Kenobi extends his hand.
Mag is great at reading posture. It’s one of the reasons he got this job in the first place—there’s no vod in the Guard that’s better at reading body language than he is. So, the way Fox stiffens at the gesture doesn’t escape his notice. Mag watches him practically reboot his own system, shuddering back online and tentatively accepting Kenobi’s hand with his own gloved one. “Yes, Sir,” he answers, perfectly bland, though Mag imagines Fox’s mind is racing even more than his own is.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi. It’s good to meet you. Is there somewhere we could go to talk, Commander? I have a proposal I’d like to share,” Kenobi smiles, and it really is rather ridiculously charming. There’s something about that smile that’s just so hard to refuse. If Kenobi asked him to jump off the topmost spire of the Jedi Temple with that smile, Mag just might do it and thank him for the privilege while he plummets to his death.
But, protocol is protocol, and this piece of protocol was one of the very first that the Commander put into place; no guardsman is to be left alone with a natborn if it can be avoided.
“We can use my office, Sir. Mag?” Fox tilts his bucket just enough to address him.
Likely the only reason that Fox even felt comfortable saying Mag’s name in front of a natborn is because Kenobi opened by calling him by his—it’s rare that Fox is called anything but Commander. Experience has taught them that the natborns that don’t bother to ask about their names would be offended to hear them. Kenobi used theirs, and, if there’s one thing all the Corrie boys have gotten good at, it’s following the lead of their betters.
A message blinks inconspicuously to life on Mag’s tablet. From the Commander’s hud: don’t let your guard down.
32 BBY, NABOO
When the Jedi falls, Maul’s blood sings. There is fire in his veins, power under his skin, and the Dark Side buffets him on all sides—a raging chorus that sings his victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
Maul, victorious, has never felt freer.
There was only one Jedi on this planet, only one Jedi to kill, but the Force does not lie, and Maul feels another presence. Another being, bright with potential like a beacon in a storm. The Force does not lie, and the presence does not appear to be Jedi. Maul goes looking for it, stalking the hallways of the Theed Power Generator as if it belongs to him. The galaxy belongs to him.
He is Sith.
And he is Victorious.
The shape of the being becomes clear in the Force, and Maul finds them as easily as anything. He is not sure what he is expecting, but it certainly is not the round-cheeked, light-haired human child that comes spilling out of a fighter cockpit. But, the Force does not lie.
And the boy burns as brightly as a newly born star.
It takes the child only moments to notice him. Maul has not bothered to conceal himself and his red skin—rare even among his kin, or so he is told—and thus, he is glaringly obvious. In the otherwise empty hangar, it is only natural that a being so highly attuned to the Force would find him, even if he were not betrayed by his appearance.
“I saw you,” the boy says, “on Tatooine. You almost hit me with your speeder.” His large, blue eyes are narrow with suspicion. The Force around him swirls with it.
Maul is not trained as an orator. He is not skilled with his words, as Lord Sidious is. Aside from the most basic and crucial manners, Maul was not apprenticed in the art of speaking. If his Master were here, Lord Sidious could easily make the boy believe whatever he so wished. His skill is simply this great. Maul has no training, no instruction to fall back on in this realm. Only instinct.
Compared to Maul, the child is very small. Maul crouches so that this difference is less great. “I’m sorry,” he offers, thinking it a good place to begin. He does not remember almost hitting the child with his speeder bike. If he had, it would have been a great error. The Force does not lie, and the Force swirls in great waves around this boy. He is important.
“Okay,” the child aquiseces, easily. Maul’s apology, it seems, sufficed. “I’m Anakin.”
“I am Darth Maul.” Surely, having struck down the Jedi Master, Lord Sidious will see it fit to bestow the title onto him. His time has come; he is Sith.
“I like your tattoos,” Anakin tells him. Maul curses himself for balking—he was unprepared for this. Are children simply this straight-forward? Or does this boy know more of oration than even Maul? For what purpose has Anakin told him this? To win his favor? To lower his guard?
But the Force holds no guile—the child is honest.
“Thank you,” Maul replies. The child is important— so important— and it becomes clear what Maul should do. He has defeated the Jedi Master. He has exercised his Master’s will on this place and for his power, he shall be rewarded. He will be known as Darth Maul, and the Force has placed before him his future; Anakin is a worthy apprentice--nothing but raw, untapped power in the Force, and already so full of passion.
In the tradition of all Sith descended from the line of Bane, there shall come a time where the apprentice defeats the master. They become a master themselves and then seek their own apprentice.
Am I to be a Master?
But Maul knows it is not yet his time—Lord Sidious is too powerful. If he were to challenge him now, he would surely fail. Maul defeated Jinn, yes, but Lord Sidious is no weak-hearted Jedi. It creates a sort of swooping low in his gut, a nausea as he contemplates precisely what might become of him if he were to challenge Lord Sidious and fail. No, now is not the time. There is still much for Maul to learn under Sidious. With his success on this mission, it is possible that he will even be brought into his Master’s larger plans.
Maul will wait. And when the time is right, he will strike.
“How would you like to obtain power beyond your wildest dreams?” he asks, for who is not swayed by the promise of power? Even as a child smaller than Anakin, Maul knew the importance of power. He craved it with every fibre of his being.
“Master Qui-Gon already promised to make me a Jedi,” the boy replies, brow furrowed. He strains to look around Maul, as if he could find the dead Jedi hiding behind him.
He will not be making you anything, now.
“I can make you something so much greater than any Jedi,” Maul promises. Anakin is so small that the top of his head just barely crests Maul's hip. He extends a hand to his young, soon-to-be apprentice. Maul cannot fathom that he was ever this small. Surely he was not. Lord Sidious would not have tolerated a being so diminutive.
Anakin’s eyes are bright with wonder, with promise. “You can make me a pilot?” he gasps. And this—was not what Maul was expecting. But he does not have infinite time. Soon, the Jedi’s allies will come looking for him. Maul must flee Naboo, but he does not wish to leave without his apprentice.
His apprentice may not see the larger picture now, but he will eventually, and if it is the skills of a pilot he wishes to obtain, it is not as if Maul cannot oblige him.
“Yes,” he promises again. When Anakin takes Maul’s hand—pale, human skin oddly bright against Maul’s own dark red and black markings—it is warm.
“Wizard,” the boy breathes, grinning. Maul is unsure if he has ever made such an expression in Lord Sidious’ presence. As a result, he is not sure what the appropriate response from a master would be. So, he simply ignores it.
Maul hooks his deactivated saberstaff at his belt alongside the lightsaber he retrieved from his fallen enemy. It should make a suitable trophy for his Master. It is easy to lift the child into his arms with both hands free. It will be more efficient to carry Anakin this way than have him walk alongside Maul. His legs are significantly shorter. Idly, Maul hopes that the child will grow. Lord Sidious is human, and Lord Sidious is certainly larger than Anakin, so hopefully there is time for the child to become less diminutive.
A Sith should inspire terror. Anakin inspires… something different. Maul does not have the words for it.
“You’re strong,” Anakin says, adjusting easily to Maul’s hold. He balances one hand on Maul’s shoulder and with the other, takes a gentle hold on Maul’s temple-horn.
It takes a significant amount of willpower not to drop Anakin, or trip himself. No one has ever—
“Stop that,” Maul commands. Anakin seems unperturbed. His skin prickles from the spot of contact down through Maul's toes.
“Sorry,” the boy replies easily, releasing Maul’s horn and placing both hands on his shoulders instead. “Where are we going?”
“To my ship.”
“What kind of ship is it? Does it have ion cannons? What kind of shields does it have? The royal cruiser was cool, but not as cool as a fighter, and definitely not as fun as a pod. The shields were alpha-class though, and that was pretty wizard. Oh! Can I fly it?”
And if Maul is going to teach his apprentice to pilot a ship—and why wouldn’t he? Maul himself completed all the necessary modules to make him a proficient pilot of many vessels—he does not see why they shouldn’t start immediately.
“Yes,” Maul answers, and is wholly unprepared for the loud whooping sound Anakin unleashes. He almost drops him again out of surprise, but manages to recover at the last moment.
It would be rather unbecoming to accidentally damage his apprentice, after all.
22BBY, CORUSCANT
Mag reroutes incoming calls to the boys at the upstairs desk and stands to follow after Kenobi. Mag’s second, Sunny, doesn’t come in until the afternoon rotation. Sunny’s got a good head on his shoulders and a bright, amiable disposition which will get him much farther than the later. Mag has seen him talk even the most belligerent of politicians off of a ledge with nothing but his single-minded dedication to let nothing phase him. But all bets have always been off before noon; Sunny is a whole different kind of beast in the mornings.
He’s probably still dead to the world asleep. Sunny would have been good to have on-hand when the lawyer showed up. Unlike Mag, Sunny wouldn’t have gotten flustered and unreasonably disarmed by a pretty face.
Thankfully, the aforementioned pretty face doesn’t protest Mag tagging along to Fox's office.
Fox offers one of his distinctly uncomfortable chairs to Kenobi--something inhertied from the building's previous occupants, the Senate Guard, a full decade earlier--and Mag sits in a duraplast fold-out behind Fox’s right shoulder. He brandishes a pad and a stylus as a pretense of something to do, besides serve as a deterrent and possible witness in case Kenobi were to do anything untoward.
“May I ask that you remove your helmet, Commander Fox? I find that these conversations are best had eye-to-eye,” Kenobi requests as he settles in, crossing his legs at the knee with grace to rival that of Senator Amidala.
With not insignificant wariness—natborns usually like the clones to leave them on wherever possible, Mag isn't sure that the opposite has ever been requested of them while planetside —Fox de-buckets. His longer-than-regulation curls flop partway into his face. Kenobi seems bizarrely kind, but Mag sends a furtive prayer to the Force that he won’t object to the deviance. Last week, a banking clan representative had bristled when Sunny had de-bucketed and the ring piercing in his left nostril caught the light.
That’s hardly appropriate, don’t you think? The rep had drawled, thin lips drawn back in a sneer.
Sunny had chirped out a bright, Of course. My apologies, Sir. and slapped his bucket right back on over his white-toothed smile. (Later, Sunny had called the rep a karking skug-eyed, hutt-forsaken sleemo with enough ferocity to curdle milk.)
Kenobi doesn’t even bat an eye.
“What can I help you with, Sir?” Fox begins, his expression severe.
“Well, it’s more about how I can help you , actually,” Kenobi reaches into his bag and slides across the table an actual stack of flimsiplast as opposed to the extremely durable pads that have been given to the Guard. It looks, at a glance, to be a contract of some sort.
“I’ll get right to it. I’m a lawyer, specializing in intergalactic policy, Republic law, planetary governance, and sentient rights. I received my degree from Alderaan’s premiere school of law and I’ve spent the last ten years doing just about everything one can do with degrees in Republic law and political science. I was in the Outer Rim when news of the war broke, but I traveled to Coruscant as soon as my work on Tatooine came to a close. I’d like to help you, if you’ll allow it.” His voice is sophisticated, smooth. His accent is definitively high-Coruscanti, now that Mag is listening for it. He’s everything Mag would have thought to expect from a big-shot lawyer—well groomed, sharply dressed, well-spoken. The oddity of a Alderaanian trained lawyer working on kriffing Tatooine with a core-world accent is not lost on him.
What the kark was this guy doing in kriffing Tatooine?
“Help us? I’m not sure I understand,” Fox asks, his voice carefully measured. Mag is absurdly grateful that he’s not expected to speak unless directly addressed when there’s a superior officer in the room to handle things. His heart beats a distractingly loud staccato.
“A great injustice is being done here,” Kenobi explains, his kind face set into something grave, “I’m sure you’re aware of your legal status, but to ensure that we are all on the same page,” and he reaches over, flipping to a particular page of the document he brought along and pointing at a section, highlighted in gold, “you are considered non sentients. Property, to be blunt. And despite the illegality of both cloning and slavery in the Republic, the senate has accepted this. In fact, they are using your non-sentient classification to avoid calling their Grand Army what is is; slavery.”
Fox swallows audibly. Mag hardly even dares to breathe.
They know. Every single one of them knows. Perhaps the brothers in the GAR don’t, but every Guard Member is fully and painfully aware of their legal status. How couldn’t they be? They’re the ones who interact most with natborns, both civilians and politicians. And they may be considered non-sentients—no smarter than droids, really—but they have eyes and ears, and no one thinks to hide their disdain for propriety's sake because everybody's thinking it.
“This is unacceptable,” Kenobi continues. “And I plan to take this battle to the Supreme Chancellor, if I must—and if you’ll allow me to. I’d like to formally represent the interests of you and your brethren, Commander Fox. I’d like to get this designation changed," he taps the damnable line declaring them non-sentients, "and renegotiate the terms of your service to the Republic with deference to Republic labor laws—that means fair wages, severance pay, disability, equal housing opportunity, required leave, healthcare—and ensure that you are treated with dignity and respect. I’ve been around this galaxy long enough to suspect that, as it stands, you have not been.”
Fox picks up the packet, the contract, with shaking hands. He reads the first paragraph, the second, clenches his eyes shut and drops the thing on the desk with a thud. Mag’s a trained soldier, just like the rest of them. Elite, even. But he still flinches at the abrupt sound.
“Why?” Fox breathes, and it sounds agonized. Furious. “What possible reason could you have for doing this? There isn’t a single mention of cost throughout this entire thing,” he continues, thumbing through page after page.
“Well, of course not,” Kenobi placates, that charming smile fully in-place. “I’ll be working pro-bono. And as for why? Other than the fact that this is simply the right thing to do?” His expression shutters, something hard passing over his eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of war, gentlemen, and something isn’t right about this one. The pieces don’t add up. Both sides are hiding something, something enormous, and I believe that you and your brethren are at the heart of whatever it is.”
“We are loyal to the Republic,” Fox spits, affronted. Kenobi doesn’t even flinch. Mag doesn’t even breathe.
“As am I, Commander. Your loyalty is not in question. The Republic’s loyalty to you? That, I doubt.”
Fox takes a deep breath and lets it out as a steady stream, massaging his temple. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t sign this. None of us could. Like you said, Sir, we’re property. We couldn’t hire a lawyer anymore than this desk could.”
“I was planning on visiting Kamino, anyways,” Kenobi says with a grin, sharklike. “You may not be able to sign but they could.”
But they won’t, Mag thinks, just as Fox barks out a harsh laugh.
“The longnecks? I hate to break it to you, but they won’t give us anything, especially not this.” His laugh is bitter and strained. It’s an ugly sound.
“I can be quite persuasive, Commander Fox. And with your permission, I’d like to try,” he continues, steady in the face of Fox’s near manic laughter, in the face of his dark expression.
“Why? We’re soldiers, Sir. We’re built for this. We don’t need to be saved.”
“Who said I’ll be saving you? Commander, this isn’t a rebellion, and I’m no knight in shining armor. I’m a lawyer, and this is my job— to represent people who do not have the tools to represent themselves.”
Mag unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, as steady as he can manage, “And you think you can win? That you can get us… rights?” Even the shape of the words in his mouth feels wrong. He knows them individually, but not in that order. Rearranged, they become something different entirely. Something foreign and strange and possibly hiding teeth.
Kenobi meets his eyes and beams, simply saying, “Why not?” as if losing is not even an option. As if this is not tantamount to treason. As if they couldn't be decommissioned for less. As if it would be easy.
Why not? As if it were obvious that they have to, at the very least, try.