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Count Dooku - Blog Posts
20. Ewan McGregor Movie Review: Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones
Genre: Family/Action
Rating: PG
Director: George Lucas
Starring: Ewan McGregor, Natalie Portman, and Hayden Christensen
Synopsis: Ten years after The Phantom Menace, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker reunite with Padmé Amidala, now a Senator of the Republic. Their mission is to uncover who is behind the assassination attempts on her life. Anakin is sent to Naboo to act as Padmé's bodyguard and wrestles with his growing feelings for her as well as increasing visions of his mother. While Obi-Wan searches for her killer, he uncovers a secret plan to plunge the galaxy into war.
Ewan Review: Ewan McGregor returns to his role as Obi-Wan Kenobi, now graduated from a Padawan to a distinguished Jedi Knight and Master to Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan has grown into his role as a teacher to Anakin though the two often don't see eye to eye. He must learn to trust in Anakin and give him the freedom to prove himself. Ewan speaks in an English accent and has longer hair than in The Phantom Menace. He also sports a beard. He gets in a few fights and injured in one of them. He also gets soaking wet and tied by the hands twice. His screentime doubles from The Phantom Menace so you get to see more of Obi-Wan's personality which is appreciated. He's very sarcastic and quippy in this movie. His acting performance is very well done.
Screentime Percentage: Ewan is on screen for a grand total of 33/142 minutes making his SP 23%.
To Ewan or not to Ewan: Is the movie worth watching for Ewan alone? Yes. Is the movie worth watching in general? Yes.
Where to Watch: "Attack of the Clones" is available to watch on Disney+ and fuboTV with a subscription, Hulu, Sling TV, and YouTube TV with a premium subscription, and for rent on Google Play Movies and TV, Fandango at Home, and Amazon Prime Video. You can watch it for free on soap2day.
star wars edit with WW84 trailer music | by voordeel_ts [x]
perdon por la falta Sabine...
«I used to bring Qui-Gon here as a boy. He was fascinated with this tree, having been born here on Coruscant, a planet of steel and stone. He knew nothing like it».
«I used to bring Qui-Gon here as a boy. He was fascinated with this tree, having been born here on Coruscant, a planet of steel and stone. He knew nothing like it».
While I work on a longer Luke & Anakin comic, have this y'all, is cursed :)
For cursed context you can check this
@prequelsnet prequels appreciation week: day 5 — found family
↳ The Disaster Lineage
Imagine Count Dooku being your sugar daddy
!I don't own Star Wars!
Infos : GN reader, sdsb relations
I'm sure that I'm not the only one who's seen his potential as a sd so here we go :))
(it's kinda cheesy but idc)
----------------------------------------------------------
Dooku is immensely rich, it's well known. And his favorite activity is spending his money for your pleasure. He'll buys you anything, anytime. Usually you don't even have to ask. You have more clothes and jewelry than you've ever imagined having in your life.
Since then you lived with him, your "job" was to distracting him from all the stress of the war. He was not really interested in only a sexual relationship so he never asked you for anything more than a kiss or a embrace. Dooku was more interested in mental connexion. He loved to have someone sweet at his manor to warmth his life and having deep and interesting conversations. And being able to pamper someone was a appreciable feeling.
An usual evening began with a nice dinner when you'll talk to him about your day or you week. Then you two would go in your favorite living room to talk with a tea or a glass of alcohol. Sometimes, instead of just holding his hand, you were lying in his arms, him gently stroking your hairs.
You never travels out of the planet, you were safer on Serenno. But he wished to travel with you across the galaxy to show you all her beauties. Instead, he try to brings you local things that you might like.
Dooku was such a gentle and an interesting man. He makes you laugh and always taught you stories from his youth.
Sometimes you barely saw him for days. You know it's because of the war. He never talks with you about that tho. And he always apologize of his absences with gifts and quality time.
With him being a force sensitive, you begged him to tells you about the force and to demonstrate his powers. One time he lifted you up with the force to made you sit on his lap. You absolute loved it.
You two growing closer as time pass. It wasn't really love but more of a mutual affection. And you both truly cared for each other.
MASTERLIST
Here you'll find every thing that I've writted !
All my fandoms/rules
Star Wars:
Enric Pryde :
Imagine Pryde catching feelings for his assistant
Dooku :
NSFW alphabet
Imagine Count Dooku being your sugar daddy
Mace Windu :
NSFW ALPHABET (Jedi reader)
Harry Potter:
Alastor Moody:
Imagine Alastor Moody realizing that you have feelings for him (and finally accepting them)
Imagine someone entering the room when you and Alastor are making out
Imagine having a date with Alastor Moody
Moody with a reader who have self doubts leading to bad thoughts
NSFW alphabet
Imagine giving a head to Alastor Moody
SFW alphabet
Imagine telling Alastor Moody that you can't have children
Alastor Moody x reader who have piercings and/or tattoos
Random Alastor Moody NSFW headcanons
Married life with Alastor Moody would include
Imagine Alastor Moody proposing in front of a crowd
Moody's reaction to a drunk, flirty and touchy reader
Lord of the rings/The hobbit:
Saruman :
Imagine Saruman being jealous
The Walking Dead :
Merle :
Fluff relationship headcanons
Spiderman :
Hobie :
Drabble : 3am
NSFW ALPHABET DOOKU (clone wars edition)
Hii !! Here's my NSFW alphabet for Dooku during the clone wars. I hope you'll like it. ( As you ask !! @gooseyhouse @laxiona )
!English isn't my main language! (It's french btw)
TW : sex (and i think that's all)
A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)
If you're their lover, Dooku is absolutely the best. He'll gently pet your hair, saying how good you were, how proud he is and reminds you that you seem perfect for him. And sometimes he'll call a droid to prepare a bath and will carry you to it.
"Oh my dove... You did so well tonight for me, I'm proud of you... My beautiful lover... How about a bath ? Yes I can go with you... Jasmin scented I suppose?"
B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
I think he mostly likes his hands. Agiles, wielding the force...
And what he likes in you is your mouth. Your smile have softened him. And it produce some of his favorites sounds...
But mostly you always have the right words to peace and destress him when war is too much.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically).
He is traditional. He loves to cum inside you, it feel likes he let a trace on you.
But I don't think he would have a breeding kink.
D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He likes to have you sucking his coke behind his desk during boring calls. It helps him not to be too bored and annoyed.
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
1st : he's old.
2nd : he's charming and loveable.
Ikyk he have some experience. He knows what to do.
F = Favourite position (This goes without saying)
He likes to top you. To bend you over a desk or a bed and makes you scream. But he likes to have you on a cowgirl position to admire you as he want.
G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
We're talking of Dooku. He's a smooth talker and like to make fun (with class) of his enemy. It's the same in bed.
But significantly softer, he didn't want to hurt you.
H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
I think that he's nice groomed. We don't talk about Bruno but Dooku. He's chic everywhere.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
I'm sure that he could be so sweet.
Makes love to you, with some soft touch, telling you how beautiful you are...
Yeah. It can be really intimate and romantic with him.
J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
Bitch do you really think that Dooku takes time for this ?
I don't think so.
But he can do it when he watch you masturbate.
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)
I think that he likes to watch you touching yourself. Maybe for some people the pleasure would be limited, but for him it's everything he need.
He can take time to admire you and it is favorite.
L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)
He likes to make love to you on his desk, it makes his work pleasant.
But in his bed too, making the room warm.
Actually, when he can think about you when entering in a room...
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
The war can make him rough and bitter. So, when you arrive with your soft smile he forgot everything. You touch his cheek with you hand and he melt at your contact. And just there, he want to makes love to you.
N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Sharing you. I think that he's a lil bit possessive and because of that he'll never let you have sex with someone else. You're his.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
I think that Dooku prefer to receive. Sitting in his office with you under his desk is his preference. But when he feel particularly romantic or kind he'll go down on you.
And trust me, he won't let you go until you come twice or more.
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
Depends of his mood. But it's always so sensual, he isn't rough with you.
Unless if you teased him or excited him too much, or if you're too bratty. But this roughness isn't to displease you.
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
He don't like it. Even if it's in his office he'll take all the time that he needs to adore you.
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
He can take some risks to please you but always in a controlled environment. It's Dooku after all.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)
He's a Jedi. Even if he's old, he always have the time to please you (thanks the force).
T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
You do have some. In fact, you introduce the idea first and he immediately accept.
Watching you touching yourself, fill one empty hole,... There's a lot of use for them.
U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)
We're talking about Dooku. He's the master of teasing.
Prepare yourself to cry and beg ! But not too much, he loves you too much to really make you suffer.
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
I think that he's very silent for moaning. Always in a "self control" way. Buuuut if you're good enough you can take some sounds from him. And that'll be a total victory.
But in an other way, I think that he talk a lot during the act. To compliment you, to telling you how good you are,... He loves to talk to you. And you likes it too, his voice is so sexy.
W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character)
He really likes to spoil you.
Kinda in a "sugar daddy" way.
He'll buy you jewelry, dresses, heels,... Always luxury pierces.
X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants
I think that he's in the middle. Maybe longer than larger idk.
(A dick is a dick)
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
Not that high to be honest. He's not a teenager anymore. Before you he has the habit to see a prostitute every few months when he feelt like it.
Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
I think that he doesn't have the best sleep in the galaxy. Mostly because of the stress caused by the war and the constant threatens from Sidious.
But your presence helps him. Even if he doesn't sleep, it calm his mind. Thinking of you is so much better than thinking of the multiple battles in progress.
I have a nsfw alphabet with dooku ready
Should I post it ? Did some people are interested??
UPDATE : I POSTED IT
https://at.tumblr.com/abitchnamedtia/nsfw-alphabet-dooku-clone-wars-edition/rtxoi4i44t7l
When you had write a lot of good things...
But in your mother language.
And you have to translate all of these in English...
(some tropes/fandom I've write on it)
Geonosis. Art by Doug Chiang (1, 2, 3) and Ryan Church for ATTACK OF THE CLONES (2002).
Star Wars: The Cone Wars Concept Art
Different pieces of concept art used for s3e13 of The Clone Wars titled “Monster,” featuring people of Dathomir.
Happy Halloween!
“Crimson Huntress” pt.5
Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.
The hum of the nav systems filled the cockpit like a second heartbeat. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s chair, legs kicked up on the console, a bitter half-smile ghosting her lips as she twirled a datachip between her clawed fingers. K4 was seated at his usual post, arms neatly folded, optics quietly calculating a dozen hypotheticals per second. CT-4023, cloaked in the black-and-gold silhouette of his stolen Death Watch armor, leaned against the doorway—silent, watching, always thinking.
R9 beeped irritably behind them, displeased with the turbulence in their hyperspace jump.
“We’ve got a message,” Sha’rali announced finally, holding the chip up. “Cid wants to cash in a favor.”
K4 didn’t look away from the dash. “Has she ever not wanted to cash in a favor?”
“What’s the job?” 4023 asked, stepping forward. His voice was filtered through a soft modulator, a new addition he’d insisted on since they crossed paths with the Jedi.
Sha’rali hesitated. “Extraction. A high-value target hiding out near the Pyke mining sector on Oba Diah. Bring him in alive. No questions.”
Silence stretched.
“Absolutely not,” K4 said immediately.
“The last time we dealt with the Pykes, I beheaded and gutted their entire envoy.”
Sha’rali’s smile was hollow. “Yeah. I remember.”
She stared at the chip, lekku twitching in thought. “But this… smells off. Cid says it’s clean, but she never says who the bounty actually goes to. She just wants us to bring them to a contact near the mining ridges. High pay, low profile. Too good to be real.”
R9 chirped something pessimistic.
“See? Even the murder-bucket agrees,” K4 muttered.
4023 folded his arms. “Could be a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap,” Sha’rali said, tossing the chip onto the dash. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t spring it our way.”
She stood, voice sharp. “We’ve done worse. We go in smart, fast, and prepared. I’m not walking away from that kind of payout unless we’re bleeding for it.”
⸻
The descent into Oba Diah was storm-torn, the planet’s perpetual haze wrapping around the ship like greasy smoke. They broke through cloud cover to reveal jagged mountains of crumbling rock and a sprawling field of collapsed spice tunnels and rusted outposts, choked with vines and half-sunken in mud.
“I’ve got visuals on the coordinates,” 4023 reported, peering through the scopes. “Looks like a freight depot—long abandoned. No obvious defenses.”
“That means the defenses are under it,” K4 muttered, powering up the ship’s turrets just in case.
They landed on a flat ridge about half a klick from the depot. The wind howled. R9 rolled out first, sensors scanning, chirping warnings as they moved toward the structure.
No sign of the bounty.
Sha’rali stopped, raising a hand. “Wait—something’s wrong.”
Blaster fire ripped through the fog before she finished the sentence. Three, maybe four snipers opened up from higher ground, forcing them to scatter. From below, shadows moved—masked Pyke enforcers emerging from the tunnels.
“It’s a karking ambush!” 4023 snapped, taking cover behind a crumbling support strut and returning fire with expert precision.
“Cid set us up!” Sha’rali growled, drawing her blade and igniting her carbine in the same motion. “Or the Pykes want revenge for last time.”
K4 was already in the thick of it, carving a brutal path through the encroaching attackers. R9 let out a warble and overloaded a Pyke’s rifle with a sneaky spike of electricity before zipping away.
“We’re flanked!” 4023 shouted. “We need to fall back to the ship!”
Sha’rali was already running to cover them, moving like a phantom across the mud-slicked ground. A blast clipped her shoulder, spinning her, but she stayed upright—barely.
They made it halfway up the slope toward the ridge when the ground gave way beneath her.
The slide was sudden—violent. Sha’rali screamed as the ledge crumbled beneath her boots, her body tumbling down a steep incline of slick stone and wet earth. She slammed hard into the wall of a ravine, her world blinking white for a moment.
Mud filled her mouth and nose. Her limbs ached. The world tilted, then faded entirely.
She woke to darkness, the taste of iron in her mouth.
The rain had stopped, replaced by the cold fog of early night. She was half-submerged in muck, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly for a blaster that was no longer there.
A low growl reached her ears—followed by footsteps. She tried to sit up.
ZZZT! A blue stun bolt hit her chest and locked her muscles.
Her head rolled back. Shadows loomed overhead—tall, spindly shapes with cruel eyes and weapons drawn. Zygerrians.
“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “Look what the mud dragged in.”
“Didn’t think we’d find anything this far out,” said one.
“Togruta,” said another, examining her lekku. “The boss pays double for rare ones. Especially the exotic warriors.”
“She armed?”
“Not anymore.”
They roughly pulled her upright, manacles clicking around her wrists. A sack was drawn over her head.
“Let’s not waste time,” said their leader. “She’ll fetch a good price, and the rain’ll hide our tracks.”
Sha’rali, numb and helpless, listened as her captors dragged her through the mud, away from the ridge where her crew still fought to survive.
The last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned was the sound of manacles clicking shut and the hiss of a slaver ship’s ramp.
Sha’rali came to with a jolt, every nerve alight with sharp, biting pain.
The collar around her neck sizzled again, just enough to warn her: move wrong, and it would do worse. Her vision swam. Her body ached. She lay curled in the cold corner of a small durasteel cage, no larger than a weapons locker. Her head throbbed and her arms had been chained to the floor beneath her knees.
She blinked and realized, with an instant spike of fury, that she was wearing something else. Something not hers.
A sheer cloth top barely held together with golden clasps, hanging loose over her chest. A belt of jangling beads and threadbare silk wrapped low on her hips, a mockery of Togrutan ceremonial wraps—cut, tattered, revealing far more than concealing. Gold bangles adorned her wrists and ankles like leashes waiting for a pull.
Worse than all of it was the humiliation.
Her gear—gone. Her weapons, stripped. Her battle-worn leathers replaced with something insulting.
She let out a low growl, a primal sound, the only power she had left.
The sound of a collar shocking someone else brought her head up sharply.
Across the dim hold of the Zygerrian ship, other cages lined the walls. There were a few other slaves—no one she recognized.
From across the dimly lit slave hold, a small voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. The collar goes off again.”
Sha’rali turned her head with effort, spotting a tiny Twi’lek girl—barely into adolescence. Her bright lavender skin had been bruised and scuffed, and she wore a nearly identical outfit. Her expression was hollow.
Sha’rali softened, even through the pain. “Name?”
“Romi,” the girl said, eyes flicking to the guards stationed down the corridor. “They picked me up on Serennno. You?”
Sha’rali didn’t answer immediately. Her identity was armor, teeth, pride. Here, stripped of all that, she was raw. Exposed.
“I’m Sha’rali,” she said eventually, voice husky.
Romi shifted forward in her cage, chains clinking. “They said we’re being taken to Kadavo. The market.”
Sha’rali tensed. Kadavo. The Zygerrian slave capital. A place of chains and cruelty, known throughout the galaxy.
More cages filled the edges of the hold. One of them held a half-unconscious Weequay. Another, a silent Bothan who hadn’t spoken once since she’d woken. But one cage—reinforced and locked with magnetic bindings—held more movement than the rest.
Sha’rali turned slightly, squinting through the flickering lights.
Clones.
Four of them, huddled in a cell large enough to barely contain them. No armor, no gear, just dark underlayers and grim expressions. They didn’t look at her. They didn’t speak to her. But she could tell they were military—how they sat, how they breathed. Watchful.
One had a cybernetic eye and a scar down his face.
He sat perfectly still, arms crossed over his knees. Beside him were two others who looked like they were meant to work as a pair—one smaller, wiry, the other more broad. And one sat farther in the back, staring down at the floor with a blank expression.
Captured days ago, she guessed. Brought in from somewhere else. Probably a different hunt altogether.
They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. That was fine.
Her jaw clenched as she tried again to shift, and the collar lit her nerves like firecrackers.
“Don’t,” Romi whispered. “They enjoy it when we scream.”
Sha’rali didn’t scream. She refused. But stars, she saw the edges of her vision blur.
“How long have we been in space?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“A day maybe?” Romi shrugged, small shoulders trembling.
There was a soft voice, raspy with age, from the cell beside her.
“Another Togruta… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so wild-eyed.”
Sha’rali turned slowly. An elder Togruta woman sat quietly in the cage next to hers. Wrinkled face, faded markings. One lekku shortened by a blade.
“I’m not wild,” Sha’rali muttered.
“You were when they dragged you in,” the elder replied. “You bit one, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
The woman gave a weary smile. “Keep your fire. But don’t waste it. Zygerrians like to break the ones who burn brightest.”
“I’m not going to break.”
“I hope not,” the woman said softly. “Not all of us made it.”
Sha’rali fell into silence, watching the floor. One breath. Then another.
She tried to calculate. Figure out how far they were from Vanqor. Whether CT-4023 was alive. Whether K4 had escaped. Whether R9 was tracking her.
R9 will come, she told herself again. He always comes.
There was a sudden rattle. Movement. The clones stirred in their cell, but didn’t rise.
From the corridor came bootsteps—Zygerrian guards, sneering as they inspected their ‘merchandise.’ One paused at Sha’rali’s cage, scanning her through the bars.
The sneer widened. “Pretty little thing. You’ll sell high.”
She didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, even as her chains bit in.
The guard shocked her again anyway, just for fun.
Sha’rali grit her teeth, her whole body seizing—but she still didn’t scream.
As her vision dimmed around the edges, she whispered, “You better come soon, 4023… before I kill someone with my bare hands.”
And somewhere, beyond metal hulls and dark space, her partner was already hunting.
They would find her.
Or they would burn half the galaxy trying.
⸻
The hiss of pressurized air released the docking clamps.
The slave ship shuddered as it touched down on the rust-colored landing pad of Zygerria’s capital city, the skyline stained by dusk and industry. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, the smell of ash and spice wafted in through the filters. The chains on Sha’rali’s wrists bit tighter with each shift of the ship’s descent.
She crouched low, silent. The young Twi’lek beside her trembled with every movement. Romi hadn’t spoken since the collar shocked her last—she stared at the floor, lips moving in prayer to gods Sha’rali didn’t know.
They were about to be marched into a nightmare.
But fate, as it often did, changed the game.
Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp—heavier than Zygerrian boots, sharper. Cleaner. The guards suddenly went rigid. No whip-cracks. No laughter.
One of them hissed. “He’s here.”
The cell bay door opened, and silence fell.
Count Dooku stepped aboard the slave barge with the self-assured stillness of a man who owned the galaxy. His cloak barely brushed the filthy floors, his expression unchanged by the scent of sweat and blood in the air. Two MagnaGuards flanked him, pikes gleaming with precision.
Sha’rali’s jaw clenched.
No karking way.
She stayed quiet, head bowed. But her eyes tracked his every step.
Dooku passed by the cages one by one, as if inspecting exotic animals at market. His sharp gaze barely flickered across the weaker slaves—until he reached the reinforced cell.
The clones.
He paused, the corners of his mouth curling faintly with distaste. “Four clones, captured far from the front lines. Republic property, now reclaimed.” His hand lifted and he gestured. “Take them. They’ll be of use.”
The MagnaGuards activated the containment field, marched in, and extracted the four troopers one by one—silent, grim, defeated but not broken. The one with the cybernetic eye locked eyes with Sha’rali as he passed. There was no recognition. No trust. But something primal passed between them: a shared need to survive.
Then Dooku stopped in front of her cage.
Sha’rali didn’t look away.
His gaze swept over her, from the cracked collar to the flimsy silks that failed to hide the bruises. And then—recognition.
“Ah. Now that is a surprise.” Dooku’s voice was velvet and venom. “The bounty hunter who infiltrated my Saleucami facility and escaped with my asset.”
Sha’rali said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw flexed.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dooku mused. “But fortune, I see, has a cruel sense of humor.”
He gestured once more. “Take her. I have… great plans.”
⸻
Dooku’s ship jumped through hyperspace. Crossed to a new Outer Rim world far beyond the standard slave routes.
A planet called Garvoth.
She saw it as they broke atmosphere—dusty terrain split by massive black structures, an arena the size of a city nestled in the heart of its capital. A gladiator world. One built for bloodsport and spectacle. One of Dooku’s quiet experiments in influence and economic power.
And it would be her prison.
The ship landed inside the holding bay beneath the arena. The clones were taken to confinement cells with reinforced durasteel. Sha’rali, however, was dragged toward another chamber—spacious, decorated in cold stone and banners. A viewing box for the Count.
Dooku waited for her.
“This world respects only strength,” he said as the guards shackled her to the wall. “And so will you.”
“You want me to fight for you?” she sneered.
He raised a brow. “I want you to bleed for me.”
He turned away, surveying the arena through the window. “You’ll earn me coin, of course. The crowd will adore you. A rare Togruta—violent, cunning, exotic. But more importantly, you will learn discipline. You will suffer humiliation. And through that, understand your place.”
“I won’t wear this,” she growled, yanking against the chains. “I want my armor.”
Dooku didn’t even turn to her. “You will wear what I allow. That slave garb suits you. Let it be a reminder of your failure.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she spat.
Finally, Dooku turned. And this time, his voice was edged with steel.
“No. You did, when you thought you could steal from me and vanish into the stars. Now you’ll fight in my arena for the amusement of others, and when the time comes, you will kneel. Or you will die screaming.”
Sha’rali stared him down, her teeth bared. But the cold in her chest sank deeper than defiance.
She’d survived a lot. She would survive this.
But when they dragged her into the gladiator pits—clad in silk and chains, forced to stand before a roaring crowd—she realized that survival might no longer be enough.
Not this time.
⸻
The ring of chains and the roar of bloodthirsty crowds still echoed in her ears long after the arena closed for the night.
Sha’rali stood against the stone wall of the shared cell, blood drying on her collarbone. The faint shimmer of lights cast tall shadows from the barred ceiling overhead. Her pulse had steadied hours ago. The fresh bruises—earned in a match against a Trandoshan dual-wielder—were still blooming. But she’d won. Again.
Of course she had.
Winning meant survival.
Losing meant becoming the crowd’s next “bonus attraction.”
She wasn’t interested in the latter.
Across the cell, the four clones sat—silent as they always were after the torture sessions. Each one bore signs of interrogation: bruises around neural ports, cracked lips, blood-caked brows. They were tough—made to withstand this. But even the strongest men could only take so much.
Commander Wolffe leaned back against the wall, his one remaining eye watching her like a predator unsure if it recognized another of its kind. Boost and Sinker had become background noise, withdrawn into a shared misery. But Comet—he looked different tonight.
He was staring at her. Hard.
“You knew him.”
Sha’rali turned her head slightly, not bothering to ask who.
“That clone deserter. CT-4023.”
Her breath caught, just for a second. Just long enough for Comet to notice.
She shrugged lazily. “Did. Once.”
“What happened to him?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and quiet.
Wolffe’s eye twitched. Boost glanced up.
Sha’rali lowered herself onto the stone floor, one leg stretched out, her arm draped over her knee. “I killed him.”
Comet blinked. “What?”
“He was wounded. Couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to be captured. Didn’t want to be brought back to the Republic like some karking piece of malfunctioning tech. Said it was better to go out free.” She let out a cold, humorless laugh. “So I put a blaster to the back of his head and gave him what he asked for.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Delivered it like truth.
Silence.
A low exhale from Wolffe.
“That was still a brother,” he said. Quiet. Even.
Sha’rali tilted her head. “Was he?”
Wolffe’s stare darkened. “I didn’t agree with him. Didn’t respect what he did. But he made a choice. Same as any of us.”
Sha’rali’s expression hardened. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Now she stood again, the weariness leaving her limbs, something sharper stirring underneath.
“You think people make choices? That when they hit the crossroads, they look both ways and decide where they go?”
She stepped toward them. Not aggressive—just close. Just enough to make the words bite.
“We don’t steer our lives. We follow roads already paved. Decisions made for us. And we walk them because someone else put us there.”
Comet frowned. “He chose to leave. That was his road.”
“No,” she snapped. “That wasn’t his road. That was the ditch he fell into after someone else put a wall in his way.”
Now they were all looking at her. Even Sinker.
She gestured to each of them. “You were born in tanks, raised for war. Never got to choose your name. Never got to choose your purpose. You were pointed like weapons and told to fight for peace. And if you said no? If you broke formation?” She stepped back. “Suddenly you weren’t worth saving.”
Boost’s mouth opened, but Wolffe’s voice cut through first.
“Not every path is made for us. Some we build.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
And for a moment, Sha’rali’s fire dimmed—just a flicker.
“Maybe,” she said softly. “But some of us don’t have bricks. Just dust and bones.”
No one replied.
Later, when the lights dimmed and the cell returned to silence, Comet turned his face toward the wall, thoughtful.
“She didn’t kill him,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Wolffe didn’t answer. But the faintest movement in his jaw suggested he was thinking the same thing.
Somewhere in the arena halls, cheers erupted for the next match.
Sha’rali stared at the ceiling, chains rattling softly with every breath.
And somewhere deep in her chest, guilt gnawed like a parasite.
The scent of sweat, metal, and blood clung to the air like a second skin.
Sha’rali sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor of the holding cell beneath the arena, her back pressed against the wall, chin tilted upward as she listened to the muffled screams of the crowd above. The cell was wide and shared with others—warriors of every species, scarred and broken, pacing like caged beasts awaiting their turn in the pit.
To her left, a Nikto sharpened a serrated blade on a stone with slow, deliberate strokes. To her right, a horned Weequay chanted something in his native tongue, smearing blood across his chest like a ritual. They didn’t look at her. No one did.
Except the Mirialan in the far corner.
Sha’rali had fought her two matches ago and broken her arm in three places. The Mirialan hadn’t looked away from her since.
She didn’t care.
She was tired. Tired of collars and cages. Tired of being a spectacle.
You’re not broken. Not yet.
The thought was weak, but it held her together.
The clang of the outer doors yanked her from her thoughts.
Two guards entered, clad in dark red plating. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
The other warriors moved aside, murmuring low in their respective languages. Sha’rali didn’t bother to move.
But the man who entered behind the guards made her rise to her feet.
Dark armor, blue and grey, the familiar marking of the Death Watch sigil on the shoulder plate. His T-visored helmet gleamed under the flickering lights.
“Hello, darling,” the voice behind the modulator sneered.
She didn’t flinch.
“Didn’t expect to see one of you again,” she said evenly.
The Mandalorian took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to find you like this.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over the slave outfit Dooku still made her wear into every match. “Seems fortune finally found a way to humble you.”
Sha’rali clenched her fists behind her back. “If you’re here to talk about my fashion choices, I’m sure you can find a market vendor somewhere.”
He laughed.
“Came to deliver a message,” he said. “Some of our brothers didn’t take kindly to what you did to a few of ours on Ord Mantell. Word travels.”
“Tell them they should’ve picked a fight with someone their own size,” she spat.
“Funny thing about revenge…” he leaned in, the edges of his armor scraping the bars. “It’s patient. Dooku may have you now, but he’ll sell you eventually. Maybe to the Hutts. Maybe to someone else. Or maybe… to us.”
Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t bother trying to kill me now,” he added, voice low. “Not in here. Not under Dooku’s nose. But when you’re off the leash…” He clicked his tongue. “We’ll see how many fights that pretty face wins without armor.”
Then he left. No dramatic flourish. No parting threat.
Just silence.
And the smoldering hatred burning in her chest.
Time passed. Maybe hours.
The noise from above never stopped—cheers, screams, roars of victory or defeat.
The holding cell emptied one by one as the matches ticked on. Eventually, only a few remained—Sha’rali among them.
She leaned her head back, closing her eyes just for a moment.
And then—
A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision.
She opened her eyes and blinked once.
A hooded figure had slipped past the perimeter guards, barely more than a shadow in the corridor beyond the cells.
Then a second. Taller, cloaked in brown and grey, masked in a rebreather that made no sound.
Her breath caught.
The first figure moved closer, carefully approaching her cell. The face beneath the hood lifted.
Green skin. Black eyes. Tentacles.
Kit Fisto.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.
“You’re bold,” she whispered.
He smiled faintly. “We could say the same of you.”
Her eyes darted to the figure behind him—Plo Koon. She didn’t recognize him, not yet, but she registered his presence as someone important.
“What are you doing here?”
Kit’s voice lowered. “Tracking rumors. Slave trafficking routes. Missing clones.”
That gave her pause.
She took a single step forward, speaking just low enough for only him to hear.
“I know where four of them are. Republic clones. One of them might be someone important. But I want out of here. I get out—they get out.”
Plo Koon approached the bars, gazing at her with quiet intensity.
“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.
“Neither are you,” she shot back. “You’re sneaking around an Outer Rim arena like thieves instead of storming the place like Jedi. That tells me you’re not ready for a full assault. I’m your best lead.”
Kit exhaled slowly. “She’s not wrong.”
Plo nodded reluctantly.
Sha’rali stepped closer still, voice taut. “Just… get me out of here. I’m running out of fights to win.”
Kit’s smile dimmed. “We will. Just not now.”
“Why?”
He glanced toward the corridor again. “Because pulling you now would compromise the mission. Dooku’s still close. And you’ll draw too much attention.”
Sha’rali looked at him like he was handing her a death sentence.
Kit added quietly, “But I give you my word: we will come back. Hold on.”
She stepped back, slowly. Her arms folded.
“I’m good at holding on.”
Then they were gone—slipping away into the shadows as easily as they came.
She sank back down to the cell floor.
Alone again.
But this time, not without hope.
⸻
The cracked walls of the ruin gave little shelter from the heat, but it was quiet—perfect for plotting the kind of infiltration mission the Jedi Council wouldn’t officially sanction.
Kit Fisto leaned against a half-collapsed arch, studying the star map sprawled across the makeshift table. The arena was a fortress in disguise: subterranean barracks, automated defenses, paid mercs, slavers, and now—intel suggested—a cell of captured clone troopers being prepped for transport off-world.
“We’ll need a distraction,” Kit said at last, tendrils twitching thoughtfully.
Plo Koon’s arms folded as he approached. “One loud enough to distract Dooku’s guards and half the arena?”
Kit smiled. “You know who’s in the cell block beneath the arena floor?”
“Sha’rali,” Plo answered without hesitation. “She’s become rather… visible.”
“She’s also angry, armed, and impossible to control. Dooku should’ve known better.”
“She’s dangerous.”
Kit’s grin deepened. “That’s what makes her perfect.”
Plo didn’t answer immediately. He watched Kit carefully, as if looking for something beyond the words.
“You admire her.”
“She’s useful,” Kit said too quickly.
“Careful, old friend,” Plo murmured. “We’ve both seen what attachment can do.”
Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not attached. I’m… curious. And I trust she’ll survive.”
Plo’s head tilted slightly. “You don’t want her to just survive. You want her to burn the whole place down.”
Kit’s smile turned sly. “And give us just enough cover to do what we came for.”
⸻
Sha’rali sat alone against the wall, knees tucked, arms resting atop them. Her bare skin shimmered with sweat and grime, the thin silk of her slave outfit clinging to her frame in the damp underground air. Bruises lined her arms, her ribs ached, and her hands were still raw from her last match.
But her eyes… her eyes were still sharp.
A droid voice crackled over the speaker. “Sha’rali. Prepare for combat. Arena Gate C.”
She rose slowly, bones stiff, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. As she followed the guard droids, a whisper caught her ear. She turned—and froze.
A Death Watch warrior leaned against the shadows, helmet off, sneering.
“You were harder to find than expected,” he said coolly. “Dooku’s prize pet. A pity. I preferred you in armor.”
Sha’rali’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to talk, don’t waste my time.”
“Not talking. Threatening,” he said with a smirk. “You deserve to suffer before we gut you.”
Her stare didn’t flinch. “Try.”
He stepped close. “I will.”
The guard droids called for her again. The Death Watch warrior melted back into the shadows, leaving her with the low growl of the arena gate grinding open.
The roar of the crowd hit her like a wall of heat. Torchlight flickered off rusted metal. The stands were packed—mercs, slavers, offworld nobles, and worse.
And in the pit—waiting—was him.
Death Watch armor. Blade drawn. Familiar.
Her jaw tightened.
Above them, Kit and Plo stood cloaked among the nobles in the upper tiers, watching. Kit’s fingers twitched near his hilt. “If this goes wrong…”
Plo interrupted, “Then we make sure it doesn’t.”
“She doesn’t know we’re moving now,” Kit said quietly.
“Let her fight,” Plo replied. “We need that chaos.”
Kit’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to hate us for this.”
“Perhaps. But hate is not our concern today.”
The clash was brutal. The Mandalorian came in swinging, heavy and arrogant, and Sha’rali danced out of reach, barefoot, using her environment. She slammed his head into the rusted arena wall, reversed his grip on his own blade, and gutted him—but then—
The collar.
Agony flared through her entire body. Her scream was swallowed by the crowd.
From above, Kit’s smile vanished.
Enough.
He reached out through the Force—quiet, quick, like a breath—and twisted.
The collar’s circuits sparked and ruptured. It snapped open and fell.
Sha’rali gasped in sudden relief—and rose like a fury reborn.
One clean stroke of the beskad.
The Mandalorian dropped in a heap.
And four more descended from the stands, armed and livid.
Blaster fire cracked as Sha’rali flipped behind a column, one of her attackers landing face-first in the sand. The crowd screamed as security tried to contain the fight, but Death Watch didn’t care.
Kit and Plo vanished from the stands, cloaks flaring as they dropped into the tunnels.
Guards shouted—then screamed—as blue and yellow sabers ignited.
In the clone cell block, Comet jolted awake at the sound of a lightsaber humming through durasteel.
“Is that…?”
The door blew open. Kit stepped through. “You boys want out?”
Wolffe, bound but alert, gave a dry grunt. “Took you long enough.”
⸻
Sha’rali fought like hell. Her body screamed in protest, but she gave no ground. She flipped one of the Death Watch warriors into the stands, stole his blaster, and fired two shots into another’s knee.
She didn’t look up, but she felt them.
Felt the Jedi move like shadows behind her. Felt the clones disappear through secret tunnels.
She wasn’t the priority.
But she had bought them every second they needed.
And Kit had freed her. If only for now.
The last warrior lunged—Sha’rali caught his arm mid-swing and drove her blade into his neck.
The crowd roared as he dropped.
She stood alone. Bloody. Breathing hard.
She didn’t smile. She just waited for the next battle.
The collar was gone.
The weight of it—the constant pressure at her neck, the memory of electric agony—was finally gone. Her skin bore the blistered outline like a brand, but it no longer hummed against her throat. That tiny mercy meant everything.
But she was still in the arena.
Still a prisoner. Still unarmed. And now, very much a target.
As the last of the Death Watch bodies were dragged away by the chaos of the crowd, Sha’rali slipped through the corridor before the guards regrouped. Blood and sand caked her bare feet as she limped toward the outer gates, ducking behind blast doors and stone columns, every inch of her body aching—but free.
Her thoughts raced. Find a way out. Don’t wait for help. No one’s coming back. Move.
She reached a side hangar—partially open, barely guarded in the confusion. Inside: a pair of light speeders, smoke still curling from one’s engine where its last rider had crash-landed.
Sha’rali didn’t hesitate.
She jumped into the intact speeder, hotwired it with fingers still shaking from adrenaline, and punched the throttle.
The gates burst open with a scream of metal and dust.
The rocky terrain of Garvoth’s volcanic surface stretched before her—red stone, jagged peaks, and pockets of glowing lava carving a dangerous path forward. Wind whipped against her face, the pit silks still clinging uselessly to her skin.
And behind her—they came.
Two MagnaGuards.
Sleek, relentless, and faster than they had any right to be.
Blaster bolts tore past her head as she swerved down into a ravine, hoping the rock formations would slow them. Sparks flew from her speeder’s rear. One glancing hit. The engine coughed.
Her fingers tightened on the controls. “C’mon, not now—”
One MagnaGuard landed beside her with a heavy clang, gripping the side of her speeder like a metal parasite.
Sha’rali screamed and slammed the controls, flipping the speeder into a side barrel roll. The droid tumbled, crashing against the rocks in a spray of sparks.
The second guard launched a grappling hook toward her back—
BOOM.
A blaster cannon lit up the sky. The droid exploded mid-air.
Above her—salvation.
A Republic gunship streaked over the cliffs, sleek and low, with Kit Fisto manning the side cannon, his eyes scanning. Plo Koon piloted with grim precision, the clones—Wolffe, Sinker, Boost, and Comet—visible in the open ramp, all braced for pickup.
Kit saw her, flashed that grin of his, and shouted over comms, “We’ve got her!”
Plo dipped low, opening the bay.
Sha’rali gunned the failing speeder up the final slope, launched it off a ridge, and leapt.
For one moment—nothing.
Then strong arms caught her dragging her in mid-air as the others pulled them both into the open gunship ramp. The MagnaGuard’s severed head followed a moment later, blasted out of the sky by Comet.
They hit the deck hard.
“Welcome aboard,” Wolffe muttered dryly, barely hiding his disdain.
Sha’rali rolled onto her back, panting, bloodied and half-naked, but smiling.
Kit leaned over her, panting too. Their eyes locked, close—too close.
“Get her a damn blanket,” Sinker snapped, tossing a medkit at Comet.
Plo glanced back from the cockpit. “Hold on. This planet’s not going to let us leave without a few last fireworks.”
The ship turned, rising. The volcanic ridge ahead began to crack, tremble—fighters scrambling, sirens wailing behind them.
But inside the gunship, in that brief moment between chaos and freedom—Sha’rali let herself believe she might actually be free.
⸻
The Resolute loomed above Garvoth like a silent judgment—sleek, bristling with weapons, and painted in sharp Republic red. The Jedi’s extraction ship docked at the cruiser’s forward hangar, and for the first time in weeks, Sha’rali Jurok felt the sterile chill of Republic metal beneath her feet instead of ash and blood.
She stood tall despite the exhaustion, battle-worn but alive. Her coral-pink skin still bore the scuffed bruises of the arena, and the humiliating slave silks clung to her body like a mocking second skin. No armor. No boots. No weapons. No dignity.
Not yet.
The Jedi disembarked first—Kit Fisto and Plo Koon exchanging murmured words with the clone troopers as the hangar’s personnel snapped to attention. No one quite knew what to make of Sha’rali, but eyes lingered. Murmurs followed.
Her long, dark montrals and white-marked lekku swung low behind her as she walked, every movement a show of endurance and grace, her head held high despite everything. Her presence was unmistakable—an imposing silhouette of strength and survival wrapped in silks designed to degrade.
The moment she reached the interior hallways of the cruiser, she turned sharply to the nearest clone officer.
“I need access to your long-range comms,” she said with an edge in her voice that brokered no argument. “Now.”
Plo Koon, standing nearby, nodded once. “Grant her full access. She has earned that and more.”
The communications officer left the room after setting her up. The doors hissed shut.
Sha’rali leaned over the console, sharp teeth gritted. She punched in the code sequence from memory, praying the encryption still held.
The holocomm sparked to life.
A crackle—then static—then the familiar voice of K4 rang through the speakers with uncharacteristic relief.
“Thank the black holes of Malastare. You’re alive.”
Sha’rali exhaled. “Good to hear you too, K.”
A rustle behind him. K4’s head turned.
“R9 just blasted a hole in the med bay door. I’ll assume it was celebratory.”
Then, quieter:
“You disappeared, Sha. I thought we lost you. And… your clone’s about to reprogram me and R9 out of pure grief and boredom.”
Sha’rali blinked. “He what?”
“He said he’d turn me into a cooking droid if I didn’t stop trying to slice into Pyke intel files while he was pacing. He’s a menace.”
Another clattering crash, then CT-4023’s voice in the background:
“Tell her to stop dying and I’ll stop trying to teach you to make caf.”
Sha’rali laughed. Actually laughed, full-throated and real.
“Tell him we’re en route. Only tea is permitted on my ship. Try not to break anything else.”
K4 paused.
“…Can’t promise that.”
When she emerged again to prepare for departure, Kit Fisto caught her arm gently at the elbow.
“Are you sure you don’t want something else to wear?” he asked, eyes flicking to the ripped silks still barely hanging from her form.
“I want my ship. My crew. And my armor,” she replied, stepping past him.
But he didn’t move right away.
“I’ll see that your armor is returned to you. But… I hope you understand this war’s getting messier. Even our rescues.”
Sha’rali glanced at him. “You Jedi always think there’s a clean way to bleed. There isn’t.”
Kit’s expression flickered with something—regret? Or something else?
But neither of them said it.
⸻
The ship looked like it had barely survived.
The starboard wing was scorched, one of the landing thrusters had a distinct hole in it, and a trail of carbon scoring marked the underbelly.
Sha’rali stared, then turned slowly toward the ramp where K4 and R9 stood side-by-side like misbehaving children.
K4 pointed to the clone, who was leaning against the hatch in his stolen armor, helmet on, arms crossed—quiet.
“You let him fly it?”
“I was busy dismembering Pyke agents,” K4 deadpanned. “He decided basic flight training could wait.”
CT-4023 finally spoke, voice slightly modulated through the vocoder he still insisted on wearing in Republic space. “You got captured. I had to improvise.”
Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “You crashed my ship.”
R9 chirped a delighted, vicious sound—likely agreeing.
He shrugged. “We lived.”
But she stepped closer, pausing a mere foot from him. She tilted her head, watching the way he shifted under her gaze, posture rigid.
Even through the helmet, she could feel it.
The bare silks, the sight of her—freed but still wearing the chains of her capture—made something in him twitch. He was trying not to look, but he was also not looking away.
“Got something to say, soldier?” she asked coolly.
CT-4023 cleared his throat. “Just glad you’re back.”
Something in her hardened. “I’m not the same one who left.”
A long silence stretched. Then he said, quiet, “I know.”
Behind them, K4 muttered to R9.
R9’s response was a series of crude, affirming beeps.
⸻
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yes there's a lot of things to criticize about Star Wars but one thing i will always love it for is being so unabashedly tragic
i'm sure it's been said before, but one of the main things i think powers the SW fandom (fics in particular) is the (in)evitability of it all
time travel fix-its are one of the most popular sub-categories of fics that i've seen (for the prequels at least) but i see it much more rarely in other fandoms. i know each fandom has their own niches that they dig into but star wars fic writers took one look at this decades long story of people who were doomed from the start and said 'not in my house bitch'
and i'm never tired of it, because there's so many places where just one different action could have changed the story entirely, but didn't
was it over the moment Palpatine succeeded in feeding Anakin's fears and his distrust toward the Jedi? the moment the Sith gained control of the senate? what about when the war started, when the Jedi were made generals of men designed to be their executioners? what about when Dooku left the order? when Qui-Gon Jinn died, leaving barely-knighted Obi Wan Kenobi to raise a child he had no idea how to care for? when the Jedi massacred the Mandalorians at Galidraan, leaving Jango Fett primed (hah) for revenge? when Palpatine, and thus the Sith, first gained influence? when the Jedi were tied to the Republic, all the way back at the Ruusan Reformation?
there are so many little moments that turn into this huge web of cause and effect when you take a step back. and in canon, these characters are dooming themselves while we watch, but what reason do they have to do anything different? they don't know they're in a tragedy - its dramatic irony at its goddamn finest
but there's this thing about decisions: for it to be a choice, there has to be another option. and our heroes make their mistakes because that's what they do, while we aren't privy to that other option, leaving that little what-if. it's a favorite human pastime, to think about what might have been.
we start at episode 4, though, fourty or so years after what you could arguably call the start, and find ourselves watching the dominoes fall in place throughout 1, 2, and 3.
and we can hate the choices, hate the tragedy, hate what happened to our beloved characters, but we knew. we had the luxury of knowing.
it's a love story, it's political intrique, it's sci-fi at its finest, and they were dead from the start.
Soresu Negotiations
“Get help,” Palpatine said. “You’re no match for him. He’s a Sith Lord.”
Obi-Wan turned to look at the Chancellor. “...yes?” he said. “But he’s also something else – something I’m surprised you’ve forgotten.”
“What?” Palpatine asked.
“A politician,” Obi-Wan replied, turning back to Dooku.
Anakin groaned, then sat down.
“Here we go,” he said.
Palpatine blinked, looking from Anakin to Obi-Wan.
“...what do you mean, Anakin?” he asked.
“This happens sometimes,” Anakin replied. “How do you think he got his nickname?”
“Count,” Obi-Wan said, at about the same time. “It’s occurred to me that I never actually found out what the Confederacy wants.”
“Isn’t it a little late for this?” Dooku asked. “We have been at war for several years.”
“True,” Obi-Wan conceded, readily. “The war having started on Geonosis, because of tracing back your clone army which we… appear to have appropriated, mostly because you did it in our name. But that’s how the war started – not your objectives.”
Dooku was silent for a moment.
“I assume some semblance of a point will be emerging,” he said, eventually. “If you could be so kind as to provide it?”
“Wars begin for all sorts of reasons,” Obi-Wan replied. “But how they end… they end because a mutual settlement has been reached. And it’s occurred to me that I don’t know what you’d want out of a victory.”
He spread his hand, the one not holding the – unlit – saber. “It’s not the conquest of the Republic, I can tell that much. If the CIS annexed the Republic, what you’d have would still be the Republic, just under a different name… it’s not the Republic without the corruption that’s been causing it problems, because most of the corruption in the Republic was – was – the big industrial concerns like the Techno Union, Commerce Guild, Trade Federation. But you seem to have taken all of those off our hands, and they provide essentially your entire military so I don’t think anyone else could honestly believe that either.”
“I wouldn’t expect a Jedi to understand,” Dooku replied. “The Confederacy’s member systems have concerns relating to over-centralization.”
Obi-Wan stared at him for a long moment.
“...no they don’t,” he said.
“I hardly think you can have earned your reputation as a negotiator, Kenobi, if you are so willing to be insulting,” Dooku said, archly.
“That’s not what I mean,” Obi-Wan replied. “I mean… yes, now the Republic has an army, though really it’s actually the Jedi’s army and we’re simply letting them borrow it, but four years ago the Galactic Republic was proverbially incapable of doing anything. It took emergency powers for the Chancellor to get the Republic to authorize having any kind of military whatsoever – and the only one available was the one you ordered. That’s not over-centralization.”
He drummed his fingers on his ‘saber. “And I note that I overheard Nute Gunray insisting on the head of Senator Amidala – literally, in those words – as his price for signing a treaty. But I still haven’t heard an actual answer. What does the Galaxy look like if the Confederacy wins?”
Dooku frowned, and after about three seconds Obi-Wan glanced at the Chancellor.
“Didn’t you discuss this at any point, your excellency?” he asked. “Count Dooku doesn’t seem to have thought about this.”
Palpatine blinked.
“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he repeated. “Shouldn’t you be fighting him?”
“It’s called diplomacy, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replied, before returning his attention to Dooku. “Grandmaster, are you seriously telling me that you never thought about what you would do if you won?”
Anakin checked his comlink, for the time, then the ship trembled slightly.
“Artoo?” he asked. “Can you tell those ships outside to stop shooting at us and give us a wide berth? This could take hours and I don’t want to find out if my name’s literal.”
“Hours?” Palpatine repeated.
“He’s rolling,” Anakin replied, rolling his eyes. “Like I say, I’m used to this.”
He rummaged in a pocket of his robes, taking out a miniature toolkit, and began disassembling his lightsaber. “I’m pretty sure I can retune these crystals to give two stable configurations which it’ll snap between, that should give me a length toggle instead of a single adjustable length…”
“Are you taking your lightsaber apart?” Palpatine hissed. “What if you need to fight?”
“It’s okay, Chancellor, I’ll get about five minutes’ warning if the negotiations are going downhill,” Anakin replied. “That should be time to put it back together again…”
Palpatine looked up to Obi-Wan, who – sure enough – was still going.
“...of course, a separate but related issue is what it’s going to be like afterwards,” Obi-Wan said. “In principle the Republic and the Jedi Order could probably accept the existence of Sith so long as we actually knew who they were and they weren’t trying to destroy us. It’s the fact that the first Sith we met in a thousand years tried to run Anakin over and cut Qui-Gon’s head off as an opening move that’s soured us towards them a bit… but are you really going to be content as someone whose whole job is to die for Sidious?”
Dooku stared at Obi-Wan, baffled, then glanced at Palpatine and Anakin.
“What do you mean?” he asked, forcing his gaze back to Obi-Wan.
“Sidious is your Master, we know that much,” Obi-Wan replied. “Partly because you told me yourself. But has he ever put himself in danger? Or has it all been you dealing with Jedi like myself and my apprentice? Putting yourself out there, in danger, while you do exactly what he says?”
He smiled slightly. “A Jedi would accept that, but you’re a Sith – you’ve said so yourself. Sith are self-interested. What do you think your new master is getting out of the situation? Because if you don’t know, it’s got to be something and it’s probably something he doesn’t want to tell you.”
“My master is quite willing to put himself in danger,” Dooku said, then clamped his lips shut at a frantic mouthed shut up from Palpatine.
“Real or feigned?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do you think he wouldn’t manipulate you? He’s been doing it to everyone else – you’ve said it.”
Dooku’s brow furrowed.
“But we’re getting off topic,” Obi-Wan said, turning to look at Palpatine. “Chancellor, what about this as a starting point? Your emergency powers were granted to resolve the crisis, and I’m sure you want to abandon them as soon as possible… so why not take away the whole reason why the individual systems in the Confederacy had problems with the Republic to begin with? Freely allow the departure of any system which wishes to do so, under the emergency powers legislation; enact a progressive tax, one which hits the Core worlds harder owing to their greater ability to pay, to sustain a carrier based navy able to hunt pirates more effectively than conduct occupations or orbital bombardment, and have the navy established on a sector-federal two-level model?”
Palpatine stared at Obi-Wan for at least ten seconds.
“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he said, yet again.
“Oh, shut up,” Dooku replied. “You’re a Sith Lord and I don’t see you doing anything constructive.”
Obi-Wan glanced at Palpatine.
“...you know,” he began. “I’m quite sure you’d need to note that on your financial disclosure forms, your Excellency.”
He turned sideways, so he could see both Dooku and Palpatine at the same time. “What was the point of this whole abduction, anyway?”
“As it happens, I was supposed to kill you,” Dooku said. “It’s the only way to turn Anakin to the Dark Side, if you’re out of the way.”
“Huh?” Anakin asked. “Is something up? I’ve almost got the crystals realigned.”
“This plan looked a lot better this morning,” Palpatine muttered.
