Chapter 42: Carry a Big Stick
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Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 42: Carry a Big Stick
I knelt in the middle of my small Temple quarters, folding another set of plain beige robes into the travel satchel like the perfectly dutiful Jedi initiate I was pretending to be. The familiar weight of the Darksaber rested against my ribs under my tunic, a constant reminder that the "dutiful" part was getting harder to sell with every passing week.
One minute I was watching HK droids drag a screaming Hutt through Mos Eisley sand while Aurra Sing laughed like a maniac, the next I was packing socks for a diplomatic run with Master Yoda. The whiplash never gets any easier.
"Master Ben, if I may say so, this satchel is hardly adequate for a proper diplomatic mission," C-3PO fussed from beside the bed, his golden plating catching the morning light streaming through the window. "Protocol dictates at least three formal robes, two sets of diplomatic accessories, and sufficient power cells for extended translation duties. Not to mention—"
"Threepio, we're going to Toydaria, not a month-long Senate summit," I said, shoving another ration bar into a side pocket. "Yoda travels light. I'm traveling like Yoda. End of discussion."
The droid's photoreceptors flickered in what I had come to recognize as digital disapproval. "Very well, sir. Though I must protest that my own chassis was not designed for rough planetary conditions. The humidity on Toydaria could play havoc with my servos, and if we encounter any… unpleasantness—"
I paused mid-fold and looked up at him.
The same protocol droid I'd bought from Shmi Skywalker on the scorched, sand coated hellhole of the Outer Rim (also known as Tatooine), now standing here lecturing me about humidity. The irony sat heavy in my chest.
"You'll be fine." I rolled my eyes. "Just stay close, translate when needed, and try not to get shot at. Again."
"Again, sir?" C-3PO tilted his head. "I have no record of any prior incidences involving blaster fire."
"Yeah," I muttered. "Thank the Force for memory wipes."
"What?"
"What?" I repeated, innocently.
A sharp knock sounded on the doorframe. I didn't even need the Force to know who it was.
Ahsoka leaned against the entrance, arms crossed, while Maris slouched beside her with that signature half-smirk that usually meant trouble. Ahsoka's montrals twitched with leftover tension from Tatooine, and Maris looked like she was already bored with whatever Obi-Wan had assigned her for the day.
"Running away to play diplomat with the tiny green one?" Maris asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She picked up one of my spare tunics and wrinkled her nose. "Beige. How thrilling. You'll blend right in with the palace walls."
"Better than the paperwork Master Obi-Wan has waiting for you," Ahsoka said, shooting Maris a sympathetic look before turning those wide blue eyes on me. "Ben… just don't do anything stupid out there, okay?"
Why do people always assume I'll do something stupid?
… shut up.
"Master Yoda might seem cute and wrinkly, but he's Yoda." She insisted. "One wrong move and you'll end up meditating on a rock for three days straight. Or worse."
I zipped the satchel and stood, slinging it over my shoulder. "I know, Snips. It's just a simple diplomatic mission to convince a Toydarian king to join the Republic. What could possibly go wrong?"
Ahsoka's expression said she could list about thirty things without trying. "After Tatooine? Everything. You just signed a treaty with your own droids while fighting next to Aurra Sing. Now you're off with Master Yoda like none of that happened. It's… a lot."
Maris snorted and dropped onto the edge of my bed, making herself comfortable. "She's been pacing the common room since you got back. Kept muttering about how we're all going to get expelled or executed or both. It was almost cute. Until the fifth time. Then it got old."
"I am not cute," Ahsoka protested, though her lekku twitched in that way that meant she was fighting a smile. "I'm concerned. There's a difference."
I felt that familiar twist in my gut—the one that came every time I dragged them deeper into my mess. From secret Sith training on Korriban to running a hidden empire through PROXY droids, and now standing here pretending this was just another normal Padawan assignment.
Still so weird.
One week I'm Darth Sol feeding Jabba to a rancor, the next I'm worrying about whether I packed enough spare power cells for Threepio.
"It'll be fine," I said, keeping my voice steady for both their sakes. "Yoda's the one doing the heavy lifting on negotiations. I'm mostly there to observe and carry the bags. And Threepio's coming for translation support in case the king's dialect gets tricky."
C-3PO perked up. "Indeed, Master Ben. My linguistic subroutines are fully updated for Toydarian variations, including several archaic—"
"See?" I gestured at the droid. "Perfectly under control."
"Famous last words." Maris rolled her eyes. "While you two are off having fun with royalty and potential ambushes, I'll be stuck in the archives helping Obi-Wan catalog old holocrons and filing mission reports. Paperwork."
"… with like, actual papers?" I blinked. Who even uses paper anymore?
"Yep! Actual physical flimsiwork." Maris brooded… no pun intended. "I'm starting to think being Obi-Wan's Padawan is punishment for all our Korriban trips."
"You're the one who volunteered to help him." Ahsoka reminded her with a grin.
"I was being strategic," Maris shot back. "Better to keep an eye on the Council from the inside. Besides, someone has to make sure HK-47 doesn't get bored and start 'reorganizing' the archives."
I chuckled despite myself.
The three of us standing here felt so normal—like we were still just crèche-mates sneaking extra desserts after lights-out—except nothing about our lives had been normal since Korriban. Since Mandalore. Since the empire we were quietly building while everyone thought we were model initiates.
The comm unit on the wall chimed. "Padawan Kryze, the shuttle to Toydaria is prepared for departure. Master Yoda awaits."
"Time to go," I said, grabbing the satchel. "Wish me luck. Try not to let Anakin drive you too crazy while I'm gone, Ahsoka."
She stepped forward and pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. "Just come back in one piece. And if Yoda starts whacking you with that cane, dodge better than I did during saber practice."
Maris gave me a lighter shove toward the door. "Don't embarrass us out there. Or I'll embarrass you worse." Her smirk softened just a fraction. "Seriously though. Watch your back. We've got enough fires burning without adding a royal incident to the list."
I nodded, throat a little tighter than I wanted to admit, and headed out with C-3PO clanking along beside me. The walk to the hangar felt longer than usual, my mind spinning through the contrasts.
Yesterday I'd watched my own forces crush a Hutt assault. Today I was playing the wide-eyed student again. The duality was starting to feel less like a game and more like a permanent fracture running through every part of my life.
In the hangar, a small squad of clones waited at the base of the diplomatic shuttle's ramp—early batch, armor still bearing fresh Mandalorian sigils that marked their new citizenship status.
They stood at easy attention, but I caught the subtle shifts in posture, the way they glanced at each other. Still adjusting. Still wondering where they really belonged after everything that had happened on Mandalore. And this whole 'war' thing.
One of them, a sergeant with a distinct scar across his helmet, gave me a crisp nod. "Padawan Kryze. Ready when you are, sir."
"Thanks, Sergeant…" I glanced at his designation.
"CT-4829, sir. But the lads have taken to calling me Rook."
"Rook it is." I clapped him on the shoulder plate as we boarded. "Let's make this a smooth one."
C-3PO followed me up the ramp, still muttering about humidity. I settled into a seat near the cockpit as the engines began their warm-up hum. Through the viewport I watched the Temple spires shrink below us, Coruscant's endless traffic lanes blurring into streaks of light.
Yoda waited in the forward compartment, small and serene, ears twitching slightly as he meditated. He opened one eye as I sat across from him.
"Ready for this journey, are you, young Kryze?"
I leaned back, the weight of the Darksaber a secret pressure against my side. "Ready as I'll ever be, Master."
The shuttle lifted off smoothly, carrying us toward Toydaria—and whatever complications waited there. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the engines fill the silence.
Just another simple diplomatic mission.
Yeah. Right.
…
The blue swirl of hyperspace was a soothing balm to Yoda's weary spirit, though the peace of the Force was currently being tested by the frantic, high-pitched mechanical prattling of the golden protocol droid. It moved with a jittery, stiff-legged gait near the back of the shuttle, worrying aloud about the potential for rust on Toydaria.
A heavy sigh escaped Yoda as he leaned his weight onto his gimer stick. Young Ben sat across from him, fidgeting with a loose thread on his tunic. The boy was a swirling vortex in the Force—bright, jagged, and layered with secrets that even nine centuries of experience couldn't quite unpick.
There was a cleverness in him that bordered on dangerous, a shadow of something old and stern, yet here he was, playing the role of the dutiful Padawan.
"Master Yoda?" Ben asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the engines.
Yoda opened one eye, the lid heavy and wrinkled. "Deep, your thoughts are, young Kryze. To the mission, do they belong? Or perhaps to the stomach?"
"Neither, actually," Ben leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes that usually preceded a headache for the Council. "I've been meaning to ask... why do you talk the way you do? I mean, I remember what people said about Master Yaddle. She spoke perfectly normal Basic. Subject-Verb-Object. The whole deal. But you? You're doing... whatever this is. So, it's not a species thing, right?"
Yoda's ears twitched. Ah, the boldness of youth. To peer into the mysteries of the Grandmaster's syntax was a feat few dared.
"A species thing, you call it?" Yoda chuckled, a dry, raspy sound like autumn leaves skittering on stone. "Important, the structure of speech is. Reflect the mind, it does. Many things, Yaddle knew. But long, her patience was not for the old ways."
"That didn't answer the question, Master," Ben pointed out, undeterred. "If it's not the species, then what is it? And for that matter, what is your species? Nobody seems to know. And then there's that little to think about—Grogu. Was he... you know? Asexually produced? Or did you and Yaddle find a loophole in the 'no attachments' rule?"
Yoda's grip tightened on his cane. The boy was digging into forbidden soil now, poking at the roots of mysteries that had stayed buried for longer than the Republic had stood. The image of Yaddle flashed through his mind—sharp, stern, and far more orderly than himself.
Good relations with her, he had.
Good relations…
"Make me answer questions, you cannot," Yoda said, his voice dropping an octave as he leveled a mock-stern gaze at his Padawan. "Secrets, the universe has. To know all, the path to the dark side it is. Curiosity killed the tooka, it did."
"I'm just saying, it seems like a choice," Ben pressed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've had eight hundred years to learn the grammar. Are you just doing it to mess with everyone? To make us lean in closer?"
Whack.
The gimer stick moved with a speed that defied Yoda's hunched posture, catching Ben right on the shin with a sharp thud.
"Ow!" Ben yelped, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
"Respect my authority, you will!" Yoda barked, though the corners of his mouth were twitching upward. "Ask of the Force, you should. Ask of the mission, you must. But ask of my vowels? The stick, you will get."
Ben hissed through his teeth, clearly trying not to laugh. "Fine, fine. Subject dropped. But I'm onto you, Master. You're definitely doing it for the drama."
Yoda simply closed his eyes again, the picture of serene detachment. "Drama, he says. Hmph. Know-it-all, the Padawan is."
Behind them, the clone known as Rook stood near the bulkhead, his armor gleaming under the cabin lights. He had been watching the exchange with a stoic, silent intensity, his helmet locked forward.
The talk of droids and Jedi secrets seemed to bother him. He let out a low, muffled huff of air and, thinking himself unobserved, turned his head slightly and spat a thick glob of saliva into the corner of his own helmet.
The regret was instantaneous.
Yoda watched through the Force as the clone's posture went from rigid to panicked in less than a second. Rook's hands flew up to his chin-bar, his head jerking back as he realized that, in a sealed pressurized suit, there was nowhere for the spit to go but back onto his own face.
He began to tilt his head at increasingly awkward angles, trying to guide the fluid away from his eyes while maintaining his "professional" stance.
"Something wrong, Sergeant?" Ben asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Negative, sir!" Rook's voice came out slightly wet and muffled through the comms. "Just... adjusting the internal HUD. Permission to head to the refresher, sir?"
"Granted, it is," Yoda said, not opening his eyes but letting a wide, toothy grin spread across his face.
The clone practically scrambled out of the lounge, his boots clattering on the deckplates as he fled. C-3PO paused his pacing to watch him go, his golden head tilting in confusion.
"Goodness, the biological units on this ship seem quite agitated today," the droid remarked to the empty air. "I hope it isn't the humidity."
Yoda settled back into his seat, the vibrations of the ship's engines humming through his small frame. Failed, the clone had. But succeeded, the moment had, in silencing the inquisitive young Kryze for at least a few minutes.
Quiet, the galaxy was. For now.
…
The Toydarian royal palace was a sprawling complex of elegant, thin spires and hovering balconies that seemed to defy gravity, much like the King himself. Walking through the halls felt like being in a giant birdhouse designed by someone with a serious marble fetish. C-3PO clattered along behind us, his gold plating reflecting the soft, ambient glow of the Toydarian sun, while Rook followed at a respectful distance, his helmet polished to a mirror finish—and hopefully, completely free of any internal fluids by now.
I stood a half-step behind Master Yoda as we entered the throne room. King Katuunko was already airborne, his wings a blur of motion as he hovered above his throne, looking us over with the skeptical eye of a man who had seen too many "miracle" treaties in his time.
"Master Yoda, the Republic sends its most venerable negotiator," Katuunko said, his gravelly voice echoing off the high ceilings. "And a... very young companion."
"Young in years, but seasoned in spirit, Padawan Kryze is," Yoda replied, inclining his head slightly. "To listen, we have come. To understand, the Republic desires."
I kept my face as neutral as a droid's. It was a surreal feeling, standing here playing the wide-eyed student while my brain was busy calculating trade routes and tactical advantages I'd picked up during my time as Darth Sol. Dealing with Katuunko wasn't that different from dealing with the Hutts—everyone wanted to know what the "protection" actually cost and who was going to pay for it when the blasters started firing.
"The Separatists offer much, Master Jedi," Katuunko said, crossing his arms as he drifted lower. "Resources, trade, and the promise that their droid armies will remain... elsewhere. What does the Republic offer but the honor of dying in a war that hasn't even fully begun?"
"The Separatists offer chains wrapped in silk, Your Majesty," I said, stepping forward just enough to catch his attention without overstepping Yoda. "A droid army doesn't 'stay elsewhere' once it has a landing permit. They're a logistical occupation waiting to happen. The Republic isn't asking for a garrison; we're asking for a partnership. One that respects Toydarian sovereignty rather than just using it as a supply hub."
Katuunko tilted his head, his large eyes narrowing. "A bold assessment for a Padawan. You speak as if you've seen the inside of a conquest."
I felt a cold prickle at the base of my neck. You have no idea.
"I've seen what happens when power exists without a conscience," I said, keeping my voice steady. "The Republic has its flaws—believe me, I know—but it doesn't view your people as a line on a spreadsheet."
Yoda let out a small, appreciative hum. "Truth, there is, in the words of my Padawan. Protect your independence, the Republic will. Provide a shield, we shall, without demanding the sword."
The King seemed to consider this, his wings slowing to a gentle hum. "The pressure from Count Dooku is immense. He warns of 'mysterious Sith' rising in the Outer Rim, claiming the Republic is too weak to stop them. He says Toydaria must choose a side before the choice is made for us."
Hearing Dooku talk about "mysterious Sith" almost made me snort. If he only knew the Sith he was worried about was currently standing in a beige tunic three feet away from a Jedi Grandmaster. The irony was delicious, but it was quickly overshadowed by a sudden, sharp spike in the Force.
It wasn't a ripple; it was a puncture. A cold, oily presence began to seep into the room, familiar and jagged.
I shifted my weight, my hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of the Darksaber hidden beneath my robes before I caught myself and moved it to my standard lightsaber. Beside me, Yoda's ears twitched. He felt it too.
"Your Majesty, I believe the choice has just been accelerated," I muttered.
The massive doors at the end of the hall didn't open; they hissed apart as a pale, slender figure stepped through the threshold. Asajj Ventress walked with the predatory grace of a Nexu, her dark robes billowing behind her and her twin curved hilts swinging at her hips. Behind her, the heavy thump-thump-thump of super battle droids echoed, their metallic frames filling the hallway.
"King Katuunko," Ventress said, her voice a silky rasp that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I trust you haven't signed anything... regrettable. My Master felt your deliberations were taking far too long."
"Ventress," I said, the name tasting like copper.
She stopped, her pale eyes locking onto mine with a spark of recognition that told me she hadn't forgotten our little dance on Christophsis. A thin, cruel smile stretched across her face.
"The brat from the shield generator," she purred, her hands drifting to her sabers. "And the little green master. How convenient. It saves me the trouble of hunting you down later."
The royal guards raised their pikes, but the super battle droids leveled their arm cannons in a synchronized, terrifying blur of motion. The atmosphere in the room vanished, replaced by the suffocating weight of an imminent massacre. Katuunko backed away in the air, his expression shifting from hesitation to pure, unadulterated alarm.
"This is a diplomatic meeting!" the King shouted.
"It's a takeover, Majesty," I said, stepping in front of Yoda as I unclipped my lightsaber, the green blade hissing to life and casting a sharp light across the marble floor. "The Separatists don't negotiate. They dictate."
The Force was screaming now, a chaotic storm of intent. I could feel Yoda's calm power rising like a tide behind me, but my eyes were locked on Ventress. She wanted a fight, and judging by the battalion of clankers pouring in behind her, she'd brought plenty of friends to make sure it was a short one.
…
Yoda watched the pale assassin approach, her presence in the Force like a jagged shard of ice scraping against a warm summer's day. He felt the tension radiating from Ben beside him—a coiled spring of a boy, ready to snap. The air in the throne room grew thick with the metallic scent of droids and the sulfurous tang of dark side intent.
"Master Yoda," Ventress sneered, her voice echoing off the high, thin spires of the palace. She didn't look at the King; her eyes were fixed on the Jedi. "And the Darksaber whelp. Still playing at being a hero, are we? I noticed your Zabrak shadow isn't here for you to hide behind this time. A pity. I was looking forward to seeing if she'd finally stopped pretending to be a model student."
Yoda's ears twitched at the mention of Maris Brood.
A shadow, indeed. Hiding things, that one was. He was certain of it. Deeply certain. For months, the Force had whispered of secrets and lies, but more importantly, it had whispered of frogs. Succulent, delicious swamp frogs that seemed to vanish from the Temple gardens whenever she was near. Hiding them from him, she was.
Starving an old master, she was!
A grave sin, it was. Pay for his hunger, she would. Eventually.
"Negotiate, we have come to do, Assassin," Yoda said, his voice a calm, low rasp that seemed to anchor the room. He tapped his gimer stick on the marble floor with a soft clack. "Not fight. Choice, King Katuunko has. Fear, a poor counselor is."
"Fear is a very effective motivator, little master," Ventress countered, her hands drifting to the curved hilts at her waist. "King Katuunko, the Confederacy offers you a future. The Republic offers you a graveyard. Reject their 'peace' now, or see how long your palace stands against a legion."
Ben shifted his weight, his fingers twitching toward his lightsaber. Yoda felt the boy's conflict—he wanted to strike, to end the threat before it blossomed into the slaughter he clearly anticipated. But there was also the fear of the stick.
Yoda had made sure to reinforce the lessons of patience on the trip over. A bruised shin was a powerful memory.
"Master, we can't just let them surround the King," Ben muttered, his eyes darting between the super battle droids and the landing platform outside. "They're already deploying. If we don't move now—"
"Patience, Padawan," Yoda cautioned, his gaze never leaving Ventress. "In a hurry to die, are you? Listen to the Force, you must. Not your fear. Negotiate, we will, as long as breath remains."
"The Republic has no breath left," Ventress spat. She signaled with a flick of her wrist, and the heavy clank-clank of droids intensified. "Droids, advance! Secure the perimeter. If the Jedi interfere, execute them."
The royal platform erupted into a chaotic dance of motion.
The small squad of clones, led by a still-slightly-damp Rook, immediately fanned out in a defensive semi-circle. They didn't fire yet, but the clicks of safeties being disengaged sounded like hailstones on a tin roof. Rook took cover behind a decorative pillar, his DC-15S leveled at the nearest super battle droid.
"Steady, lads," Rook barked through his helmet, his voice tight but professional. "Don't fire unless they cross the threshold. We're here for diplomacy, remember?"
A B2 unit clanked forward, its arm cannon whirring as it targeted a palace guard. The guard flinched, and a stray blaster bolt hissed into the ceiling, showering the room in sparks. The peace hadn't just broken; it had shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
"See? They aren't waiting for a vote, Master!" Ben's lightsaber hummed to life, the green glow reflecting in the polished marble as he stepped into a defensive stance. He looked torn between charging Ventress and staying by Yoda's side, his internal monologue clearly a mess of tactical calculations and Jedi restraint.
Yoda didn't draw his own blade. Not yet. He stood small and still in the center of the brewing storm, his eyes narrowed at the pale woman who seemed so eager for blood. "A test, this is. For the King. For you. For all. Remember your training, young Kryze. The stick, I still have."
Ventress laughed, a cold, sharp sound that cut through the mechanical noise of the droids. "Let's see how well your stick defends you against this, old man!"
She ignited her twin red blades, the crimson light bathing her face in a ghoulish hue as she surged forward. The diplomacy was over. The lesson had truly begun.
…
If I thought Yoda was intimidating when he was just sitting in a chair eating root leaf stew, I was dead wrong.
The second Ventress's feet hit the palace overlook, the air felt colder. No, more than that. It felt like it was being vacuumed out of the room.
I'd spent months on Korriban learning how to crush things with my mind and command an empire of HK-assassins, but watching a nine-hundred-year-old Grandmaster go from "senile gardener" to "sentient blender" in point-two seconds was a humbling experience.
Yoda didn't just jump; he became a blur of green light and violent intent.
He launched himself off the throne room balcony, his small lightsaber humming a higher, fiercer pitch than mine. He hit a group of B2 super battle droids like a kinetic strike from orbit, bouncing from one metallic shoulder to the next while his blade sheared through chest plates and arm cannons in a rhythmic, terrifying strobe light effect.
"Master Ben! Master Ben! The tactical data suggests that standing in the line of fire is approximately ninety-nine percent likely to result in a catastrophic disassembly!" C-3PO wailed, his golden arms flailing as he tried to hide behind a decorative vase that was half his width.
"Never tell me the odds!" Heh… I always wanted to say that.
"But, Master!" C-3PO begged. "I really think we should consider a tactical retreat to the nearest reinforced bunker! Or a different planet entirely!"
"Stay down, Threepio!" I shouted, my green blade spinning in a tight Ataru deflection as a volley of blaster bolts tried to find my chest. I swung into a low sweep, taking the legs out from a B1 that had wandered too close, then followed up with a vertical strike that split it from head to pelvis.
I was keeping the Darksaber tucked away. It was one thing to carry the thing, but pulling out the ancient symbol of Mandalore while standing next to Yoda in a war zone felt like inviting a three-hour lecture on "humility" and "attachment." Besides, my standard green blade was doing the job well enough.
To my left, Rook was putting in work, but his dignity was still on a steep decline. He took a knee behind a low garden wall, popping off a few precise shots that dropped a pair of droids, but then he suddenly jerked his head back with a frantic, wet slurp sound.
"Sir! Requesting—glark—permission to—gurgle—remove the bucket!" Rook managed to choke out. Apparently, the "spit-gate" incident from the shuttle had reached a critical mass under the heat of the Toydarian sun.
He was currently trying to shake his head inside the helmet to clear his visor while simultaneously not getting his brains blown out. It was a masterpiece of unintentional physical comedy.
"Denied, Rook! Keep your head down and keep firing!" I yelled back.
Ventress saw her opening and lunged for Yoda, her twin red blades weaving a tapestry of crimson death around the little Master. She was fast, but Yoda was... well, he was Yoda.
He didn't bother trying to parry, he just flowed around her strikes like water through a sieve. Every time she thought she had him cornered against a palace pillar, he was suddenly ten feet in the air, coming down on her head with the weight of a falling mountain.
I saw a B2 droid leveling its wrist rockets at King Katuunko. The King was frozen, his wings flapping in a panicked, erratic rhythm.
I couldn't let him die, but I couldn't look like a Sith Lord either.
I reached out a hand, making it look like a standard Force push, but I tightened my focus, channeling that Korriban-honed precision. The air around the B2's arm rippled, then it screamed.
The metal of its arm cannon groaned and suddenly collapsed inward, twisting into a mangled knot of scrap before the rocket could even prime. To anyone watching, it probably looked like a lucky malfunction or a particularly forceful Force shove. To me, it felt like the satisfying crunch of a tin can.
Two more bolts came at my head from a hidden sniper. I didn't even turn. I just let the Force flow, my hand flicking out as if shooing a fly. The bolts froze midair, for a microscopic heartbeat, suspended in a pocket of stilled time, before snapping back and taking the sniper's head off.
Oops. A bit much? Hopefully the clones are too busy with their own visor problems to notice.
Yoda landed a punishing kick to Ventress's sternum that sent her flying back into the jungle foliage at the edge of the overlook. She skidded across the dirt, her red blades carving long furrows in the earth. She scrambled to her feet, gasping for air, her usual smugness replaced by the wide-eyed realization that she was vastly outmatched.
"A monster, you are not," Yoda said, his voice carrying clearly over the roar of the battle, despite him barely sounding winded. "But a lesson, you have learned. Go. To your Master, return. Tell him, Toydaria is not his to take."
Ventress hissed, her eyes darting to me, then back to the green hurricane standing between her and the King. She knew it was over. She slammed a smoke pellet into the ground, a thick cloud of acrid grey mist billowing up to mask her retreat.
"Coward! She's escaping!" C-3PO shouted, finally peeking out from behind his vase. "Which, I must say, is a highly logical course of action! I suggest we follow her example immediately!"
I shut down my lightsaber, the green glow fading as the last few droids were mopped up by Rook and his squad. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the forest and the sound of Rook frantically unlatching his helmet seals.
I looked at Yoda. He was leaning on his stick again, looking for all the world like he'd just finished a light afternoon stroll. He glanced at me, his ears twitching.
"Well fought, you did, young Kryze," Yoda said, though his eyes lingered on the mangled remains of the B2 droid I'd crushed. "Strong, your grip on the Force is. Perhaps... too strong for a simple push?"
I felt a bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the humidity roll down my neck. "Must have been the adrenaline, Master. You know how it is."
Yoda just hummed, a sound that could have meant anything from "I believe you" to "I am definitely hitting you with the stick later."
"Right," I muttered, turning to help a soggy-faced Rook off the ground. "Let's go sign those papers before someone else tries to kill us."
…
The smoke from Ventress's retreat began to thin, revealing a throne room that looked like it had been through a trash compactor. Scrap metal, scorched marble, and the faint, ozone smell of ionized air hung heavy in the silence.
King Katuunko drifted down from his hovering height, his wings moving with a slow, thoughtful rhythm as he surveyed the wreckage of the droids that had nearly been his executioners.
"Master Yoda," Katuunko said, his voice echoing with a new, profound gravity. "The Separatists spoke of strength, but I see now that their strength is a cage. You had every reason to strike, to demand, to conquer. Instead, you defended a neutral crown with nothing but your conviction and a... very energetic small friend."
I stood there, wiping a smudge of droid oil off my tunic, trying to look like I wasn't internally cataloging the tactical errors Ventress had made.
Energetic small friend.
I'd have to remember that one. If only he knew that the "small friend" was currently running a shadow empire that could give Dooku a run for his credits.
"The Republic is not without its faults, Your Majesty," I said, catching Yoda's side-eye and deciding to lean into the 'dutiful student' role. "But we don't send assassins to meetings. We send friends."
Katuunko nodded, a slow, decisive movement. "Then Toydaria has found its friends. I will sign the treaty. The Republic shall have its hyperspace lanes, and we shall have the peace of mind that comes with standing on the side of honor."
The formal signing was a blur of protocol and Threepio's incessant, relieved chattering. The droid was practically vibrating with joy that he hadn't been melted down into scrap, offering the King a dizzying array of "proper" Toydarian thanks that I'm fairly sure were actually archaic insults from the third century. I didn't correct him. It felt like a fitting end to the day.
As we made our way back toward the landing platform, a final transmission flickered to life on a nearby terminal. Ventress's face appeared, her features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated spite.
"Don't get too comfortable, Kryze," she spat, her eyes burning with a cold, predatory light. "The galaxy is getting smaller every day. I know what I saw on Christophsis, and I know what I felt today. You're hiding something behind those beige robes. And when I find out what it is, not even the little green troll will be able to save you."
The transmission cut out. I stared at the blank screen for a second, the weight of the Darksaber against my side feeling a hundred times heavier. She was getting close. The butterfly effect was supposed to make things easier, but all I was doing was trading one set of enemies for another, sharper set.
"Troubled, you are," Yoda said, stopping at the base of the shuttle ramp.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and impossibly old. For a moment, I wondered if he could see the Sith training, the HK-droids, and the secret fleet just by looking at the way I stood.
"Altering the path of a river, a dangerous task it is," he continued, tapping his cane against the deckplate. "Change the flow, you may. But the water, its own way it finds. Careful, you must be, that you do not drown in the flood you have created."
Whack.
The cane caught me right on the shoulder this time. Not hard, but enough to snap me out of the spiral.
"Ow. What was that for?" I asked, rubbing the spot.
"Thinking too much, you were," Yoda grunted, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. "Back to the Temple, we go. Meditate on your success, you should. And the frogs, perhaps you will tell me where they have gone?"
"I told you, Master, I have no idea about the frogs."
"Hmph. Lies, I smell. Like swamp gas, they are."
I followed him up the ramp, C-3PO clanking behind me while Rook—now thankfully helmeted and dry—stood at attention. As the shuttle lifted off, I watched the spires of Toydaria shrink into the clouds. We'd won.
The Republic had a new ally, the Separatists had been embarrassed, and my secret empire was still secret.
But as we broke the atmosphere and the stars stretched into the familiar lines of hyperspace, that cold prickle returned to my neck.
The timeline was shifting, and I could feel the next complication forming in the Force like a gathering storm. Whatever was coming next, I had a feeling a beige tunic wasn't going to be enough to hide behind.
I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes, and tried to ignore the fact that Yoda was still staring at me, probably wondering if I tasted like frog.
So weird.
...
Let's be real, Yoda definitely ate frogs. There's a reason he moved to a swamp planet, people. Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter, as always, please stay tuned another week for more, or, if you'd prefer to read ahead, check me out on Patreon, where the next ten chapters are available right now!
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I knelt in the middle of my small Temple quarters, folding another set of plain beige robes into the travel satchel like the perfectly dutiful Jedi initiate I was pretending to be. The familiar weight of the Darksaber rested against my ribs under my tunic, a constant reminder that the "dutiful" part was getting harder to sell with every passing week.
One minute I was watching HK droids drag a screaming Hutt through Mos Eisley sand while Aurra Sing laughed like a maniac, the next I was packing socks for a diplomatic run with Master Yoda. The whiplash never gets any easier.
"Master Ben, if I may say so, this satchel is hardly adequate for a proper diplomatic mission," C-3PO fussed from beside the bed, his golden plating catching the morning light streaming through the window. "Protocol dictates at least three formal robes, two sets of diplomatic accessories, and sufficient power cells for extended translation duties. Not to mention—"
"Threepio, we're going to Toydaria, not a month-long Senate summit," I said, shoving another ration bar into a side pocket. "Yoda travels light. I'm traveling like Yoda. End of discussion."
The droid's photoreceptors flickered in what I had come to recognize as digital disapproval. "Very well, sir. Though I must protest that my own chassis was not designed for rough planetary conditions. The humidity on Toydaria could play havoc with my servos, and if we encounter any… unpleasantness—"
I paused mid-fold and looked up at him.
The same protocol droid I'd bought from Shmi Skywalker on the scorched, sand coated hellhole of the Outer Rim (also known as Tatooine), now standing here lecturing me about humidity. The irony sat heavy in my chest.
"You'll be fine." I rolled my eyes. "Just stay close, translate when needed, and try not to get shot at. Again."
"Again, sir?" C-3PO tilted his head. "I have no record of any prior incidences involving blaster fire."
"Yeah," I muttered. "Thank the Force for memory wipes."
"What?"
"What?" I repeated, innocently.
A sharp knock sounded on the doorframe. I didn't even need the Force to know who it was.
Ahsoka leaned against the entrance, arms crossed, while Maris slouched beside her with that signature half-smirk that usually meant trouble. Ahsoka's montrals twitched with leftover tension from Tatooine, and Maris looked like she was already bored with whatever Obi-Wan had assigned her for the day.
"Running away to play diplomat with the tiny green one?" Maris asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She picked up one of my spare tunics and wrinkled her nose. "Beige. How thrilling. You'll blend right in with the palace walls."
"Better than the paperwork Master Obi-Wan has waiting for you," Ahsoka said, shooting Maris a sympathetic look before turning those wide blue eyes on me. "Ben… just don't do anything stupid out there, okay?"
Why do people always assume I'll do something stupid?
… shut up.
"Master Yoda might seem cute and wrinkly, but he's Yoda." She insisted. "One wrong move and you'll end up meditating on a rock for three days straight. Or worse."
I zipped the satchel and stood, slinging it over my shoulder. "I know, Snips. It's just a simple diplomatic mission to convince a Toydarian king to join the Republic. What could possibly go wrong?"
Ahsoka's expression said she could list about thirty things without trying. "After Tatooine? Everything. You just signed a treaty with your own droids while fighting next to Aurra Sing. Now you're off with Master Yoda like none of that happened. It's… a lot."
Maris snorted and dropped onto the edge of my bed, making herself comfortable. "She's been pacing the common room since you got back. Kept muttering about how we're all going to get expelled or executed or both. It was almost cute. Until the fifth time. Then it got old."
"I am not cute," Ahsoka protested, though her lekku twitched in that way that meant she was fighting a smile. "I'm concerned. There's a difference."
I felt that familiar twist in my gut—the one that came every time I dragged them deeper into my mess. From secret Sith training on Korriban to running a hidden empire through PROXY droids, and now standing here pretending this was just another normal Padawan assignment.
Still so weird.
One week I'm Darth Sol feeding Jabba to a rancor, the next I'm worrying about whether I packed enough spare power cells for Threepio.
"It'll be fine," I said, keeping my voice steady for both their sakes. "Yoda's the one doing the heavy lifting on negotiations. I'm mostly there to observe and carry the bags. And Threepio's coming for translation support in case the king's dialect gets tricky."
C-3PO perked up. "Indeed, Master Ben. My linguistic subroutines are fully updated for Toydarian variations, including several archaic—"
"See?" I gestured at the droid. "Perfectly under control."
"Famous last words." Maris rolled her eyes. "While you two are off having fun with royalty and potential ambushes, I'll be stuck in the archives helping Obi-Wan catalog old holocrons and filing mission reports. Paperwork."
"… with like, actual papers?" I blinked. Who even uses paper anymore?
"Yep! Actual physical flimsiwork." Maris brooded… no pun intended. "I'm starting to think being Obi-Wan's Padawan is punishment for all our Korriban trips."
"You're the one who volunteered to help him." Ahsoka reminded her with a grin.
"I was being strategic," Maris shot back. "Better to keep an eye on the Council from the inside. Besides, someone has to make sure HK-47 doesn't get bored and start 'reorganizing' the archives."
I chuckled despite myself.
The three of us standing here felt so normal—like we were still just crèche-mates sneaking extra desserts after lights-out—except nothing about our lives had been normal since Korriban. Since Mandalore. Since the empire we were quietly building while everyone thought we were model initiates.
The comm unit on the wall chimed. "Padawan Kryze, the shuttle to Toydaria is prepared for departure. Master Yoda awaits."
"Time to go," I said, grabbing the satchel. "Wish me luck. Try not to let Anakin drive you too crazy while I'm gone, Ahsoka."
She stepped forward and pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. "Just come back in one piece. And if Yoda starts whacking you with that cane, dodge better than I did during saber practice."
Maris gave me a lighter shove toward the door. "Don't embarrass us out there. Or I'll embarrass you worse." Her smirk softened just a fraction. "Seriously though. Watch your back. We've got enough fires burning without adding a royal incident to the list."
I nodded, throat a little tighter than I wanted to admit, and headed out with C-3PO clanking along beside me. The walk to the hangar felt longer than usual, my mind spinning through the contrasts.
Yesterday I'd watched my own forces crush a Hutt assault. Today I was playing the wide-eyed student again. The duality was starting to feel less like a game and more like a permanent fracture running through every part of my life.
In the hangar, a small squad of clones waited at the base of the diplomatic shuttle's ramp—early batch, armor still bearing fresh Mandalorian sigils that marked their new citizenship status.
They stood at easy attention, but I caught the subtle shifts in posture, the way they glanced at each other. Still adjusting. Still wondering where they really belonged after everything that had happened on Mandalore. And this whole 'war' thing.
One of them, a sergeant with a distinct scar across his helmet, gave me a crisp nod. "Padawan Kryze. Ready when you are, sir."
"Thanks, Sergeant…" I glanced at his designation.
"CT-4829, sir. But the lads have taken to calling me Rook."
"Rook it is." I clapped him on the shoulder plate as we boarded. "Let's make this a smooth one."
C-3PO followed me up the ramp, still muttering about humidity. I settled into a seat near the cockpit as the engines began their warm-up hum. Through the viewport I watched the Temple spires shrink below us, Coruscant's endless traffic lanes blurring into streaks of light.
Yoda waited in the forward compartment, small and serene, ears twitching slightly as he meditated. He opened one eye as I sat across from him.
"Ready for this journey, are you, young Kryze?"
I leaned back, the weight of the Darksaber a secret pressure against my side. "Ready as I'll ever be, Master."
The shuttle lifted off smoothly, carrying us toward Toydaria—and whatever complications waited there. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the engines fill the silence.
Just another simple diplomatic mission.
Yeah. Right.
…
The blue swirl of hyperspace was a soothing balm to Yoda's weary spirit, though the peace of the Force was currently being tested by the frantic, high-pitched mechanical prattling of the golden protocol droid. It moved with a jittery, stiff-legged gait near the back of the shuttle, worrying aloud about the potential for rust on Toydaria.
A heavy sigh escaped Yoda as he leaned his weight onto his gimer stick. Young Ben sat across from him, fidgeting with a loose thread on his tunic. The boy was a swirling vortex in the Force—bright, jagged, and layered with secrets that even nine centuries of experience couldn't quite unpick.
There was a cleverness in him that bordered on dangerous, a shadow of something old and stern, yet here he was, playing the role of the dutiful Padawan.
"Master Yoda?" Ben asked, his voice cutting through the hum of the engines.
Yoda opened one eye, the lid heavy and wrinkled. "Deep, your thoughts are, young Kryze. To the mission, do they belong? Or perhaps to the stomach?"
"Neither, actually," Ben leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes that usually preceded a headache for the Council. "I've been meaning to ask... why do you talk the way you do? I mean, I remember what people said about Master Yaddle. She spoke perfectly normal Basic. Subject-Verb-Object. The whole deal. But you? You're doing... whatever this is. So, it's not a species thing, right?"
Yoda's ears twitched. Ah, the boldness of youth. To peer into the mysteries of the Grandmaster's syntax was a feat few dared.
"A species thing, you call it?" Yoda chuckled, a dry, raspy sound like autumn leaves skittering on stone. "Important, the structure of speech is. Reflect the mind, it does. Many things, Yaddle knew. But long, her patience was not for the old ways."
"That didn't answer the question, Master," Ben pointed out, undeterred. "If it's not the species, then what is it? And for that matter, what is your species? Nobody seems to know. And then there's that little to think about—Grogu. Was he... you know? Asexually produced? Or did you and Yaddle find a loophole in the 'no attachments' rule?"
Yoda's grip tightened on his cane. The boy was digging into forbidden soil now, poking at the roots of mysteries that had stayed buried for longer than the Republic had stood. The image of Yaddle flashed through his mind—sharp, stern, and far more orderly than himself.
Good relations with her, he had.
Good relations…
"Make me answer questions, you cannot," Yoda said, his voice dropping an octave as he leveled a mock-stern gaze at his Padawan. "Secrets, the universe has. To know all, the path to the dark side it is. Curiosity killed the tooka, it did."
"I'm just saying, it seems like a choice," Ben pressed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've had eight hundred years to learn the grammar. Are you just doing it to mess with everyone? To make us lean in closer?"
Whack.
The gimer stick moved with a speed that defied Yoda's hunched posture, catching Ben right on the shin with a sharp thud.
"Ow!" Ben yelped, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
"Respect my authority, you will!" Yoda barked, though the corners of his mouth were twitching upward. "Ask of the Force, you should. Ask of the mission, you must. But ask of my vowels? The stick, you will get."
Ben hissed through his teeth, clearly trying not to laugh. "Fine, fine. Subject dropped. But I'm onto you, Master. You're definitely doing it for the drama."
Yoda simply closed his eyes again, the picture of serene detachment. "Drama, he says. Hmph. Know-it-all, the Padawan is."
Behind them, the clone known as Rook stood near the bulkhead, his armor gleaming under the cabin lights. He had been watching the exchange with a stoic, silent intensity, his helmet locked forward.
The talk of droids and Jedi secrets seemed to bother him. He let out a low, muffled huff of air and, thinking himself unobserved, turned his head slightly and spat a thick glob of saliva into the corner of his own helmet.
The regret was instantaneous.
Yoda watched through the Force as the clone's posture went from rigid to panicked in less than a second. Rook's hands flew up to his chin-bar, his head jerking back as he realized that, in a sealed pressurized suit, there was nowhere for the spit to go but back onto his own face.
He began to tilt his head at increasingly awkward angles, trying to guide the fluid away from his eyes while maintaining his "professional" stance.
"Something wrong, Sergeant?" Ben asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Negative, sir!" Rook's voice came out slightly wet and muffled through the comms. "Just... adjusting the internal HUD. Permission to head to the refresher, sir?"
"Granted, it is," Yoda said, not opening his eyes but letting a wide, toothy grin spread across his face.
The clone practically scrambled out of the lounge, his boots clattering on the deckplates as he fled. C-3PO paused his pacing to watch him go, his golden head tilting in confusion.
"Goodness, the biological units on this ship seem quite agitated today," the droid remarked to the empty air. "I hope it isn't the humidity."
Yoda settled back into his seat, the vibrations of the ship's engines humming through his small frame. Failed, the clone had. But succeeded, the moment had, in silencing the inquisitive young Kryze for at least a few minutes.
Quiet, the galaxy was. For now.
…
The Toydarian royal palace was a sprawling complex of elegant, thin spires and hovering balconies that seemed to defy gravity, much like the King himself. Walking through the halls felt like being in a giant birdhouse designed by someone with a serious marble fetish. C-3PO clattered along behind us, his gold plating reflecting the soft, ambient glow of the Toydarian sun, while Rook followed at a respectful distance, his helmet polished to a mirror finish—and hopefully, completely free of any internal fluids by now.
I stood a half-step behind Master Yoda as we entered the throne room. King Katuunko was already airborne, his wings a blur of motion as he hovered above his throne, looking us over with the skeptical eye of a man who had seen too many "miracle" treaties in his time.
"Master Yoda, the Republic sends its most venerable negotiator," Katuunko said, his gravelly voice echoing off the high ceilings. "And a... very young companion."
"Young in years, but seasoned in spirit, Padawan Kryze is," Yoda replied, inclining his head slightly. "To listen, we have come. To understand, the Republic desires."
I kept my face as neutral as a droid's. It was a surreal feeling, standing here playing the wide-eyed student while my brain was busy calculating trade routes and tactical advantages I'd picked up during my time as Darth Sol. Dealing with Katuunko wasn't that different from dealing with the Hutts—everyone wanted to know what the "protection" actually cost and who was going to pay for it when the blasters started firing.
"The Separatists offer much, Master Jedi," Katuunko said, crossing his arms as he drifted lower. "Resources, trade, and the promise that their droid armies will remain... elsewhere. What does the Republic offer but the honor of dying in a war that hasn't even fully begun?"
"The Separatists offer chains wrapped in silk, Your Majesty," I said, stepping forward just enough to catch his attention without overstepping Yoda. "A droid army doesn't 'stay elsewhere' once it has a landing permit. They're a logistical occupation waiting to happen. The Republic isn't asking for a garrison; we're asking for a partnership. One that respects Toydarian sovereignty rather than just using it as a supply hub."
Katuunko tilted his head, his large eyes narrowing. "A bold assessment for a Padawan. You speak as if you've seen the inside of a conquest."
I felt a cold prickle at the base of my neck. You have no idea.
"I've seen what happens when power exists without a conscience," I said, keeping my voice steady. "The Republic has its flaws—believe me, I know—but it doesn't view your people as a line on a spreadsheet."
Yoda let out a small, appreciative hum. "Truth, there is, in the words of my Padawan. Protect your independence, the Republic will. Provide a shield, we shall, without demanding the sword."
The King seemed to consider this, his wings slowing to a gentle hum. "The pressure from Count Dooku is immense. He warns of 'mysterious Sith' rising in the Outer Rim, claiming the Republic is too weak to stop them. He says Toydaria must choose a side before the choice is made for us."
Hearing Dooku talk about "mysterious Sith" almost made me snort. If he only knew the Sith he was worried about was currently standing in a beige tunic three feet away from a Jedi Grandmaster. The irony was delicious, but it was quickly overshadowed by a sudden, sharp spike in the Force.
It wasn't a ripple; it was a puncture. A cold, oily presence began to seep into the room, familiar and jagged.
I shifted my weight, my hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of the Darksaber hidden beneath my robes before I caught myself and moved it to my standard lightsaber. Beside me, Yoda's ears twitched. He felt it too.
"Your Majesty, I believe the choice has just been accelerated," I muttered.
The massive doors at the end of the hall didn't open; they hissed apart as a pale, slender figure stepped through the threshold. Asajj Ventress walked with the predatory grace of a Nexu, her dark robes billowing behind her and her twin curved hilts swinging at her hips. Behind her, the heavy thump-thump-thump of super battle droids echoed, their metallic frames filling the hallway.
"King Katuunko," Ventress said, her voice a silky rasp that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I trust you haven't signed anything... regrettable. My Master felt your deliberations were taking far too long."
"Ventress," I said, the name tasting like copper.
She stopped, her pale eyes locking onto mine with a spark of recognition that told me she hadn't forgotten our little dance on Christophsis. A thin, cruel smile stretched across her face.
"The brat from the shield generator," she purred, her hands drifting to her sabers. "And the little green master. How convenient. It saves me the trouble of hunting you down later."
The royal guards raised their pikes, but the super battle droids leveled their arm cannons in a synchronized, terrifying blur of motion. The atmosphere in the room vanished, replaced by the suffocating weight of an imminent massacre. Katuunko backed away in the air, his expression shifting from hesitation to pure, unadulterated alarm.
"This is a diplomatic meeting!" the King shouted.
"It's a takeover, Majesty," I said, stepping in front of Yoda as I unclipped my lightsaber, the green blade hissing to life and casting a sharp light across the marble floor. "The Separatists don't negotiate. They dictate."
The Force was screaming now, a chaotic storm of intent. I could feel Yoda's calm power rising like a tide behind me, but my eyes were locked on Ventress. She wanted a fight, and judging by the battalion of clankers pouring in behind her, she'd brought plenty of friends to make sure it was a short one.
…
Yoda watched the pale assassin approach, her presence in the Force like a jagged shard of ice scraping against a warm summer's day. He felt the tension radiating from Ben beside him—a coiled spring of a boy, ready to snap. The air in the throne room grew thick with the metallic scent of droids and the sulfurous tang of dark side intent.
"Master Yoda," Ventress sneered, her voice echoing off the high, thin spires of the palace. She didn't look at the King; her eyes were fixed on the Jedi. "And the Darksaber whelp. Still playing at being a hero, are we? I noticed your Zabrak shadow isn't here for you to hide behind this time. A pity. I was looking forward to seeing if she'd finally stopped pretending to be a model student."
Yoda's ears twitched at the mention of Maris Brood.
A shadow, indeed. Hiding things, that one was. He was certain of it. Deeply certain. For months, the Force had whispered of secrets and lies, but more importantly, it had whispered of frogs. Succulent, delicious swamp frogs that seemed to vanish from the Temple gardens whenever she was near. Hiding them from him, she was.
Starving an old master, she was!
A grave sin, it was. Pay for his hunger, she would. Eventually.
"Negotiate, we have come to do, Assassin," Yoda said, his voice a calm, low rasp that seemed to anchor the room. He tapped his gimer stick on the marble floor with a soft clack. "Not fight. Choice, King Katuunko has. Fear, a poor counselor is."
"Fear is a very effective motivator, little master," Ventress countered, her hands drifting to the curved hilts at her waist. "King Katuunko, the Confederacy offers you a future. The Republic offers you a graveyard. Reject their 'peace' now, or see how long your palace stands against a legion."
Ben shifted his weight, his fingers twitching toward his lightsaber. Yoda felt the boy's conflict—he wanted to strike, to end the threat before it blossomed into the slaughter he clearly anticipated. But there was also the fear of the stick.
Yoda had made sure to reinforce the lessons of patience on the trip over. A bruised shin was a powerful memory.
"Master, we can't just let them surround the King," Ben muttered, his eyes darting between the super battle droids and the landing platform outside. "They're already deploying. If we don't move now—"
"Patience, Padawan," Yoda cautioned, his gaze never leaving Ventress. "In a hurry to die, are you? Listen to the Force, you must. Not your fear. Negotiate, we will, as long as breath remains."
"The Republic has no breath left," Ventress spat. She signaled with a flick of her wrist, and the heavy clank-clank of droids intensified. "Droids, advance! Secure the perimeter. If the Jedi interfere, execute them."
The royal platform erupted into a chaotic dance of motion.
The small squad of clones, led by a still-slightly-damp Rook, immediately fanned out in a defensive semi-circle. They didn't fire yet, but the clicks of safeties being disengaged sounded like hailstones on a tin roof. Rook took cover behind a decorative pillar, his DC-15S leveled at the nearest super battle droid.
"Steady, lads," Rook barked through his helmet, his voice tight but professional. "Don't fire unless they cross the threshold. We're here for diplomacy, remember?"
A B2 unit clanked forward, its arm cannon whirring as it targeted a palace guard. The guard flinched, and a stray blaster bolt hissed into the ceiling, showering the room in sparks. The peace hadn't just broken; it had shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
"See? They aren't waiting for a vote, Master!" Ben's lightsaber hummed to life, the green glow reflecting in the polished marble as he stepped into a defensive stance. He looked torn between charging Ventress and staying by Yoda's side, his internal monologue clearly a mess of tactical calculations and Jedi restraint.
Yoda didn't draw his own blade. Not yet. He stood small and still in the center of the brewing storm, his eyes narrowed at the pale woman who seemed so eager for blood. "A test, this is. For the King. For you. For all. Remember your training, young Kryze. The stick, I still have."
Ventress laughed, a cold, sharp sound that cut through the mechanical noise of the droids. "Let's see how well your stick defends you against this, old man!"
She ignited her twin red blades, the crimson light bathing her face in a ghoulish hue as she surged forward. The diplomacy was over. The lesson had truly begun.
…
If I thought Yoda was intimidating when he was just sitting in a chair eating root leaf stew, I was dead wrong.
The second Ventress's feet hit the palace overlook, the air felt colder. No, more than that. It felt like it was being vacuumed out of the room.
I'd spent months on Korriban learning how to crush things with my mind and command an empire of HK-assassins, but watching a nine-hundred-year-old Grandmaster go from "senile gardener" to "sentient blender" in point-two seconds was a humbling experience.
Yoda didn't just jump; he became a blur of green light and violent intent.
He launched himself off the throne room balcony, his small lightsaber humming a higher, fiercer pitch than mine. He hit a group of B2 super battle droids like a kinetic strike from orbit, bouncing from one metallic shoulder to the next while his blade sheared through chest plates and arm cannons in a rhythmic, terrifying strobe light effect.
"Master Ben! Master Ben! The tactical data suggests that standing in the line of fire is approximately ninety-nine percent likely to result in a catastrophic disassembly!" C-3PO wailed, his golden arms flailing as he tried to hide behind a decorative vase that was half his width.
"Never tell me the odds!" Heh… I always wanted to say that.
"But, Master!" C-3PO begged. "I really think we should consider a tactical retreat to the nearest reinforced bunker! Or a different planet entirely!"
"Stay down, Threepio!" I shouted, my green blade spinning in a tight Ataru deflection as a volley of blaster bolts tried to find my chest. I swung into a low sweep, taking the legs out from a B1 that had wandered too close, then followed up with a vertical strike that split it from head to pelvis.
I was keeping the Darksaber tucked away. It was one thing to carry the thing, but pulling out the ancient symbol of Mandalore while standing next to Yoda in a war zone felt like inviting a three-hour lecture on "humility" and "attachment." Besides, my standard green blade was doing the job well enough.
To my left, Rook was putting in work, but his dignity was still on a steep decline. He took a knee behind a low garden wall, popping off a few precise shots that dropped a pair of droids, but then he suddenly jerked his head back with a frantic, wet slurp sound.
"Sir! Requesting—glark—permission to—gurgle—remove the bucket!" Rook managed to choke out. Apparently, the "spit-gate" incident from the shuttle had reached a critical mass under the heat of the Toydarian sun.
He was currently trying to shake his head inside the helmet to clear his visor while simultaneously not getting his brains blown out. It was a masterpiece of unintentional physical comedy.
"Denied, Rook! Keep your head down and keep firing!" I yelled back.
Ventress saw her opening and lunged for Yoda, her twin red blades weaving a tapestry of crimson death around the little Master. She was fast, but Yoda was... well, he was Yoda.
He didn't bother trying to parry, he just flowed around her strikes like water through a sieve. Every time she thought she had him cornered against a palace pillar, he was suddenly ten feet in the air, coming down on her head with the weight of a falling mountain.
I saw a B2 droid leveling its wrist rockets at King Katuunko. The King was frozen, his wings flapping in a panicked, erratic rhythm.
I couldn't let him die, but I couldn't look like a Sith Lord either.
I reached out a hand, making it look like a standard Force push, but I tightened my focus, channeling that Korriban-honed precision. The air around the B2's arm rippled, then it screamed.
The metal of its arm cannon groaned and suddenly collapsed inward, twisting into a mangled knot of scrap before the rocket could even prime. To anyone watching, it probably looked like a lucky malfunction or a particularly forceful Force shove. To me, it felt like the satisfying crunch of a tin can.
Two more bolts came at my head from a hidden sniper. I didn't even turn. I just let the Force flow, my hand flicking out as if shooing a fly. The bolts froze midair, for a microscopic heartbeat, suspended in a pocket of stilled time, before snapping back and taking the sniper's head off.
Oops. A bit much? Hopefully the clones are too busy with their own visor problems to notice.
Yoda landed a punishing kick to Ventress's sternum that sent her flying back into the jungle foliage at the edge of the overlook. She skidded across the dirt, her red blades carving long furrows in the earth. She scrambled to her feet, gasping for air, her usual smugness replaced by the wide-eyed realization that she was vastly outmatched.
"A monster, you are not," Yoda said, his voice carrying clearly over the roar of the battle, despite him barely sounding winded. "But a lesson, you have learned. Go. To your Master, return. Tell him, Toydaria is not his to take."
Ventress hissed, her eyes darting to me, then back to the green hurricane standing between her and the King. She knew it was over. She slammed a smoke pellet into the ground, a thick cloud of acrid grey mist billowing up to mask her retreat.
"Coward! She's escaping!" C-3PO shouted, finally peeking out from behind his vase. "Which, I must say, is a highly logical course of action! I suggest we follow her example immediately!"
I shut down my lightsaber, the green glow fading as the last few droids were mopped up by Rook and his squad. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the forest and the sound of Rook frantically unlatching his helmet seals.
I looked at Yoda. He was leaning on his stick again, looking for all the world like he'd just finished a light afternoon stroll. He glanced at me, his ears twitching.
"Well fought, you did, young Kryze," Yoda said, though his eyes lingered on the mangled remains of the B2 droid I'd crushed. "Strong, your grip on the Force is. Perhaps... too strong for a simple push?"
I felt a bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the humidity roll down my neck. "Must have been the adrenaline, Master. You know how it is."
Yoda just hummed, a sound that could have meant anything from "I believe you" to "I am definitely hitting you with the stick later."
"Right," I muttered, turning to help a soggy-faced Rook off the ground. "Let's go sign those papers before someone else tries to kill us."
…
The smoke from Ventress's retreat began to thin, revealing a throne room that looked like it had been through a trash compactor. Scrap metal, scorched marble, and the faint, ozone smell of ionized air hung heavy in the silence.
King Katuunko drifted down from his hovering height, his wings moving with a slow, thoughtful rhythm as he surveyed the wreckage of the droids that had nearly been his executioners.
"Master Yoda," Katuunko said, his voice echoing with a new, profound gravity. "The Separatists spoke of strength, but I see now that their strength is a cage. You had every reason to strike, to demand, to conquer. Instead, you defended a neutral crown with nothing but your conviction and a... very energetic small friend."
I stood there, wiping a smudge of droid oil off my tunic, trying to look like I wasn't internally cataloging the tactical errors Ventress had made.
Energetic small friend.
I'd have to remember that one. If only he knew that the "small friend" was currently running a shadow empire that could give Dooku a run for his credits.
"The Republic is not without its faults, Your Majesty," I said, catching Yoda's side-eye and deciding to lean into the 'dutiful student' role. "But we don't send assassins to meetings. We send friends."
Katuunko nodded, a slow, decisive movement. "Then Toydaria has found its friends. I will sign the treaty. The Republic shall have its hyperspace lanes, and we shall have the peace of mind that comes with standing on the side of honor."
The formal signing was a blur of protocol and Threepio's incessant, relieved chattering. The droid was practically vibrating with joy that he hadn't been melted down into scrap, offering the King a dizzying array of "proper" Toydarian thanks that I'm fairly sure were actually archaic insults from the third century. I didn't correct him. It felt like a fitting end to the day.
As we made our way back toward the landing platform, a final transmission flickered to life on a nearby terminal. Ventress's face appeared, her features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated spite.
"Don't get too comfortable, Kryze," she spat, her eyes burning with a cold, predatory light. "The galaxy is getting smaller every day. I know what I saw on Christophsis, and I know what I felt today. You're hiding something behind those beige robes. And when I find out what it is, not even the little green troll will be able to save you."
The transmission cut out. I stared at the blank screen for a second, the weight of the Darksaber against my side feeling a hundred times heavier. She was getting close. The butterfly effect was supposed to make things easier, but all I was doing was trading one set of enemies for another, sharper set.
"Troubled, you are," Yoda said, stopping at the base of the shuttle ramp.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and impossibly old. For a moment, I wondered if he could see the Sith training, the HK-droids, and the secret fleet just by looking at the way I stood.
"Altering the path of a river, a dangerous task it is," he continued, tapping his cane against the deckplate. "Change the flow, you may. But the water, its own way it finds. Careful, you must be, that you do not drown in the flood you have created."
Whack.
The cane caught me right on the shoulder this time. Not hard, but enough to snap me out of the spiral.
"Ow. What was that for?" I asked, rubbing the spot.
"Thinking too much, you were," Yoda grunted, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. "Back to the Temple, we go. Meditate on your success, you should. And the frogs, perhaps you will tell me where they have gone?"
"I told you, Master, I have no idea about the frogs."
"Hmph. Lies, I smell. Like swamp gas, they are."
I followed him up the ramp, C-3PO clanking behind me while Rook—now thankfully helmeted and dry—stood at attention. As the shuttle lifted off, I watched the spires of Toydaria shrink into the clouds. We'd won.
The Republic had a new ally, the Separatists had been embarrassed, and my secret empire was still secret.
But as we broke the atmosphere and the stars stretched into the familiar lines of hyperspace, that cold prickle returned to my neck.
The timeline was shifting, and I could feel the next complication forming in the Force like a gathering storm. Whatever was coming next, I had a feeling a beige tunic wasn't going to be enough to hide behind.
I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes, and tried to ignore the fact that Yoda was still staring at me, probably wondering if I tasted like frog.
So weird.
...
Let's be real, Yoda definitely ate frogs. There's a reason he moved to a swamp planet, people. Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed the latest chapter, as always, please stay tuned another week for more, or, if you'd prefer to read ahead, check me out on Patreon, where the next ten chapters are available right now!
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