Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All around the arena, Padmé sees death.

She clings to the fact that Anakin is beside her. If not for the hurried words and fleeting kisses they exchanged, she doesn’t think she’d have the courage to keep fighting when the droids begin to fire at them.

“You call this a diplomatic solution?” Anakin teases.

She swallows down her own hysteria, preferring his lively smile. “No, I call it aggressive negotiations.”

He turns away to deflect more blaster bolts, but she can still feel his grin. Padmé keeps shooting, every pull of the trigger another second added to her life.

But the droids don’t stop. One goes down and two, three more take its place.

A Jedi goes down, and there are no replacements.

They are being surrounded. In the next moment, when Padmé risks taking her eyes off of the enemy, she counts maybe twenty Jedi remaining. Just minutes ago, she’d been sure there were hundreds of them, spots of green and yellow and blue sabers all around the arena.

The droids stop firing.

The arena seems louder, somehow, in the absence of blaster fire.

Padmé takes a breath, and is abruptly reminded that nexu claws are sharp enough to tear through armorweave. Her skin burns, lines of fire drawn over her back.

They are asked to surrender, and Padmé tilts her head to the sky, because she knows they never will. She never will. Beside her, she can almost feel Anakin coiling like a snake ready to strike. Master Windu answers for the Jedi, refusing to bend to the Count’s demands. Sealing their fates. Padmé continues to stare upward, perhaps for the last time.

Dark specks appear in the sky, gradually blocking out the scorching sun as they descend.

“Look,” Padmé says, breathless. Hopeful.

Gunships. At least half a dozen of them. All at once, the cacophony of guns and lasers and bombs returns, loud enough to vibrate her bones.

Padmé shuts her eyes against the blast of sand from the approaching ships. The fire renewed along her broken skin, she grits her teeth and takes Anakin’s hand. Her other hand feels numb, but she’s certain she’s still holding a blaster.

Her feet hit metal as she blinks away the dust. She climbs onto a gunship after Anakin, and narrowly avoids colliding with one of the white-armored troopers. These must be the clone troopers Obi-Wan spoke of.

“Pardon me,” she says, the polite words tumbling out on reflex as she reaches for one of the looped straps above her head with her free hand. It’s high up, and stretching out her arm to hold on reminds her again of what a nexu’s claws can do to human flesh.

Padmé tights her grasp just in time, as the gunship takes off. She still staggers backwards half a step, stopped only by plates of plastoid at her back.

As the gunship levels out, she releases the strap and turns around. This time she doesn’t apologize to the trooper, knowing it’ll sound even more inane. Instead she flinches, seeing his white armor smeared with red. He takes a few steps back from her, unaffected, and Padmé feels wretched for not even noticing he had been hit.

She opens her mouth to alert a medic, or whoever’s in charge, but—

But blaster bolts cauterize most wounds. It’s her blood on him.

Padmé looks away, embarrassment added to the hurricane of her thoughts.

The gunship crests over the arena, and her heart plummets as she sees the surface of Geonosis. Clones, battle droids, tanks—it’s even worse than the invasion of Naboo, the numbers too great for her to count.

Anakin and Obi-Wan begin shouting directions to the pilots and gunners, and their ship swoops down to join the battle. Padmé is silent, her panting breaths lost in the thrum of missiles blasting from the top of the ship and the whine of laser canons from the turrets. Below, thousands of troopers march and fight and die.

She had thought this was a rescue. A skirmish.

It is so much worse.

In front of them, an enormous tower explodes. The ship is blasted by smoke and heat, forcing Padmé to turn her face away and hold her breath. She could be persuaded to wear a helmet right now if anyone suggested it.

The gunship lurches unexpectedly, and Padmé bites back a yelp as she tips sideways.

Hard plastoid digs into her bared flank, halting her fall, and she snatches for the overhead strap with her sweaty hand. “Sir,” a voice utters, emitted from the trooper behind her. It comes out somewhat toneless from the helmet’s vocoder, but Padmé can guess that he’s concerned about her near-falls.

“Thank you,” she gasps, steadying herself. The trooper moves back as soon as she finds her footing.

She doesn’t know how long they fly for, circling the plains and providing air support for the troopers on the ground. It could’ve been minutes or hours, Padmé only knows that she is tense the whole time, ready to use her stolen blaster, ready to be shot out of the sky any second. But the troopers left onboard remain at her side, leaving the shooting to their gunners and pilot.

Then, Obi-Wan shouts something over the wind, pointing. Padmé hears Anakin say Dooku.

Their ship turns, pursuing the Count.

“We’re gonna need some help!” Padmé shouts to them.

“There isn’t time! Anakin and I can take him!” Obi-Wan yells back.

But Dooku is cunning, she’s known that since he began his political career. Are two Jedi, a knight and a padawan, enough to beat a former master?

Padmé desperately hopes they reconsider, but they’re in the middle of a firefight. They can’t afford to hesitate.

She turns to one of the troopers, perhaps one of them can call for reinforcements—

Something hits their wing, and the gunship pitches sharply right.

Her fingers slip.

Padmé yells as she tips backwards, dropping her blaster to reach for the handrail, for Anakin, anything—

She’s not fast enough.

For a moment she’s weightless, watching the ship fly away, and then—

Sunlight presses down on her eyelids, trying to sear her skin. Beru told her something about the twin suns of Tatooine. It was a warning, but also a promise, spoken during Shmi’s funeral. What was it?

Padmé breaths in the desert air, and groans at the pain throbbing down her back.

She is not on Tatooine.

Boots scrape upon the shifting dunes. Padmé cracks open her eyes, and a shadow blocks out the singular sun of Geonosis.

“Are you alright?” A synthesized voice asks. A trooper is knelt at her side, a long rifle held in one hand. His armor is sand-scuffed, with two small streaks of blood over the chest. Padmé’s blood. It’s the trooper that was standing behind her on the gunship.

Did he fall out too, or jump after her?

Her tongue feels like lead. “Uh-huh,” Padmé concentrates on lifting herself up, breathing through the aches and shaking the sand from her hands. She doesn’t notice the hand offered to her, too busy trying to put her thoughts in order, and it’s retracted before she looks up.

“We’d better get back to the forward command center,” the trooper says, gesturing with his rifle.

“No,” Padmé says quickly, remembering her thoughts on the gunship. Obi-Wan and Anakin against the Count of Serenno. “No,” she repeats, resolutely lifting her chin.

The trooper stops, giving her his full attention.

“Gather what troops you can. We’ve got to get to that hangar,” she orders. Padmé doesn’t know this man, probably doesn’t have the authority to order him around, but she must make him listen. Her voice is so easily lost in the Senate Rotunda, but now more than ever, she needs to be heard. Capturing the Count could shut down the Separatists before the fighting spreads to more planets. Padmé stares up at the trooper, trying to meet his gaze through the dark visor. “Get a transport. Hurry!”

“Right away,” he says without hesitation.

The trooper turns to run up the dune, and Padmé nearly cries from relief as she sprints after him.

At the top of the dune, where the signal is strongest, the trooper holds up his arm and a deluge of numbers and military jargon spews from his vocoder as he gets his message out to the command center. If it weren’t for the staticky connection, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between his voice and the trooper that answers him. Padmé remains silent, squinting in the harsh sun, and tries to make sense of their lingo.

“—transmitting coordinates now for civilian extraction,” he says at one point.

“No extraction," Padmé corrects him quickly. "They’ll pick up both of us on the way to the hangar.” 

He pauses, helmet shifting in her direction. “Copy that. Nix the civilian extraction, ‘45, just get us a larty.”

His comm crackles back, “The quickest larty is ten minutes away, but they’re out of heavy firepower. Should I relay your coordinates to the Prosecutor instead?”

“Affirma—”

“No,” Padmé interrupts again, even though she knows they won’t like it. “We’ll take the one that’s closest.”

“Sir,” the trooper protests, “Without missiles, we can’t take down the target if he gets in the air.”

“He’ll be long gone by the time a transport gets here from orbit. The two Jedi in pursuit are skilled, but—but they won’t beat Count Dooku on their own.” She wouldn’t say that in front of Anakin or Obi-Wan, but they’re not here to get offended.

“Besides,” Padmé shakes her head. She squares her shoulders and finally says what she should’ve pointed out to Anakin when she had the chance: “We need the Count alive if we’re ever to reopen negotiations. If he dies because we shoot him down, he’s martyred and we lose any leverage over Separatist leadership.”

From what she saw of Dooku’s company from the arena, the leaders pushing for war are the most ruthless members of the Confederacy. Poggle the Lesser, Nute Gunray, reps from the Commerce Alliance—she’s constantly fighting them in the Rotunda, and they care little for what they destroy in the pursuit of economic gain. But none of them are as clever as Dooku, none can take his place as a strategist in war.

“Uh,” the comm crackles back. “Who am I speaking with?”

The trooper’s helmet cocks to one side, clearly staring at her. “It’s… the senator.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which the trooper makes no clarification.

It’s quite possible he doesn’t know her name.

“This is Galactic Senator Amidala of the Chommell sector,” Padmé states, stepping right up to the trooper’s side. Her voice goes low and crisp, a remnant of Queen Amidala’s persona that she developed with her handmaidens so many years ago. “You will direct the closest gunship and troopers to our position.”

The trooper turns back to his comm. “You got that, 4-45?”

“Yes sir. Transport is nine minutes out. Standby, 12-80.”

“Copy that, ‘45.”

By the time the trooper ends the call, Padmé understands that a larty is what they call a gunship, and that the troops identify each other by number. Ident numbers aren’t anything unusual for armies. It’s necessary to designate numbers for record-keeping purposes, after all. Security, too. But for a simple comm call, it seems…

Clones, she reminds herself. Obi-Wan said they were created for war. But didn’t anyone give them names?

“How are your injuries, sir? Er—Senator?”

Padmé drags her gaze away from the distant battle taking place in the flatlands beyond the Geonosian arena. “I’m fine,” she promises, blinking against the sun’s rays. “Are you okay?”

“No injuries to report.” The trooper shifts a step over, and Padmé is puzzled until she realizes he’s blocking the sun for her. It’s an oddly kind gesture, unexpected in the middle of a warzone, but one she appreciates. “That was a hard fall with no armor,” he remarks. “Those cuts on your back look worse than before.”

“It’s not that bad,” she assures him. It hurts, but she can’t let that stop her from doing her part.

He drops his rifle and reaches for a compartment on his belt. “All due respect,” the trooper says, pulling out a packet from a compartment on his belt. “It’ll only take a minute to treat.”

She wants to refuse. There must be tons of troopers more injured than her.

“Sir?” The trooper asks expectantly, then shakes his head. “Er—ma’am?”

Padmé huffs a tired laugh, catching his abashed tone even through the helmet. He wants to be helpful, and she’s the only one he can help right now. She won’t make his job more difficult.

“You’re right, I suppose. If you don’t mind…?” She turns halfway around, allowing him to see her back, and the trooper quickly steps in with the opened medpack.

“It’s no problem, ma’am,” the trooper comments, hunched over to inspect the injury. She feels him peel her shirt away from her skin, pulling at the wounds, and does her utmost not to squirm away or complain. He mutters, almost too quietly for his vocoder to pick it up, “The real trouble is that I let a senator fall off a gunship in enemy territory…” He pushes the torn fabric up her back, and the front of her top begins to roll up towards her breasts.

Mortified, Padmé seizes the torn hem to keep it down.

“Try not to move,” the trooper advises, oblivious. “I know it hurts. Here.”

Next he sprays something that numbs her back, and she bows her head in relief. Pain relief, yes, but also relief that she hasn’t indecently exposed herself to an unsuspecting trooper.

“It’s certainly not your fault that I fell,” she says after a moment. “You won’t be reprimanded, right?”

He cleans around the claw marks with light, quick strokes, wiping away sand and dried blood. “Uh—that’s up to my CO. What caused these injuries, sir? Ma’am? It’s not from any droid.”

“A nexu,” she explains.

“A nexu?” He practically shouts it. For once, the trooper’s professionalism falls away, alarm winning out. “How did—?” He stops, recovering his composure. She respects his discipline, though the question is welcome. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Since he’s curious, she explains, “Before the droids were deployed to the arena, Count Dooku intended to execute me and the Jedi in a… gladiatorial match with exotic predators. A nexu took a swipe at me, but that’s all it managed.”

Of course, she’s also bruised and sore and tired from being chased through a droid factory, but Padmé doubts that anything in the trooper’s belt can help with that.

“…Right, then. Debridement next,” he decides solemnly. “This needs to get as clean as possible, at least. I don’t have hypos, just a coagulant with some bacta to keep it closed before you see a real medic.”

Her back is already throbbing, though he’d done his best not to aggravate the claw marks.

“…It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make it quick,” he promises. “A stim would help, but you’re too little—uh, the dosage is meant for troopers, ma’am.”

A stimulant really would help right now. She had no idea how long it’s been since they landed on Geonosis or how long she’ll have to keep going, keep fighting. But he’s right. With a dosage set for a man twice her weight, it’s not worth the risk.

“I understand.” Padmé braces herself. “Go ahead.”

Even after the numbing spray, irrigating the wounds feels worse than getting clawed. She can’t help but gasp, fire lacing up her back.

A gloved hand curls around her bicep. “Steady on,” the trooper murmurs.

“What—” Padmé hates how her breath catches, even as she tries to focus on something other than the searing pain. The trooper squeezes her arm lightly, and she takes whatever comfort she can from his warm hand. “W-What’s your name, trooper?”

“My designation is C-T-1-2-8-0, Dorn Company,” he replies brusquely.

Since he can’t see it, Padmé lets her face twist in disdain for a moment. “Okay,” she says tentatively. “And—what should I call you?”

His hands pause for a second on her back. Then he gets back to his task and says again, without a hint of inflection, “CT-1280.”

Padmé bites her tongue, but only because it feels like her back is being flayed open. Once she swallows down any complaints, she focuses on the trooper’s answer.

“CT-1280,” she repeats it verbatim, one digit at a time. She is absolutely certain no one calls him that. Even on the comm call he shortened it, though he still used a number rather than a name. She dwells on this discrepancy instead of her injury.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Padmé says levelly. “Is there a—nickname I may use?” 

“You can just say 12-80,” the trooper replies cooly. He finishes his cleaning, and releases her arm. “Or ‘80.”

That’s not a nickname, and they both know it. Padmé has so many questions about this clone army, but she doesn’t expect a lone trooper to have all the answers.

“If you prefer ‘80, I will use that,” she acquiesces.

‘80 simply grunts his acknowledgement. She hears the crinkle of another packet.

Padmé uses her remaining shirt sleeve to scrub the wetness from her eyes.

“This’ll keep it together till you see an actual medic.” Smoothing out the bandages, ‘80 pats her flank once to indicate he’s done. Padmé finally lets go of her shirt’s hem and faces him.

“A-All set, sir—ma’am,” he says, all in one breath. His vocoder sounds a little off. 

She would prefer if he used her name, though CT-1280 seems more comfortable staying professional around her. “Thank you for your help, ‘80.”

“It’s no trouble, sir. Ma’am.” Sheepish, he ducks his head. “Apologies, Senator, it’s a reflex.”

Padmé smiles. “If it comes easier to you, then use ‘sir’. Or you can call me Padmé,” she offers, as earnestly as she can.

“Padmé?” He repeats, lost.

“My full name is Padmé Amidala.”

His helmet jerks, an aborted shake of his head. “Oh. That’s nice of you, Senator, but I’ll stick with ‘sir’.”

Definitely uncomfortable around her.

Perhaps it’s best if she changes the subject. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything, sir.”

“This is probably silly, but why do you call the gunship a ‘larty’?” She wonders.

Sure enough, ‘80 answers her without hesitation. “It’s a Low Altitude Assault Transport, for infantry. LAAT/i. Larty.”

The nickname only makes any sense because of the trooper’s accent. It’s not from a Core World, nor is it much like Padmé’s Mid Rim accent. But it seems to be shared among many, if not all the clones.

“I don’t know much about the army yet,” Padmé tells him. “So please excuse my ignorance. You said you were part of Dorn Company. How many troopers are in a company?”

She spends the next few minutes lobbing easy questions to ‘80, the sort of questions she’d ask a junior senator during their first formal event because they’re sure to know the answers. It doesn’t completely work, given that he resorts to regurgitating textbook definitions most of the time, but he obliges her nonetheless. Slowly but surely, the tension bleeds out of him, posture loosening and shoulders slumping.

Eventually, they hear the hum of an approaching gunship—larty—and ‘80 scoops up his rifle.

“This is a fly-by,” he cautions her. “Get ready to jump after me, and I’ll pull you up.”

Padmé follows his lead, first at a jog, then a sprint along the high dune as the ship swoops low. The troopers on board shuffle aside, making space for them to land. ‘80 leaps aboard in one bound, unassisted. He makes it look so easy. Padmé lengthens her stride, forcing her legs to push harder against the loose sand.

She leaps, just making it over the threshold.

‘80 reaches back for her, rifle abandoned to grab her with both arms.

He catches her easily, one hand clutched in hers while his other hand loops around her back to haul her in. Padmé tumbles forward, bracing her hand against the plastoid on his shoulder, her nose almost smacking the edge of his helmet. For a fraction of a second, they’re tangled together like dance partners.

Then Padmé plants her feet and ‘80 moves back, almost knocking over another trooper.

“Thank you,” she sighs gratefully, stretching for the overhead straps.

“A-Anytime, sir.”

Padmé wonders about his damaged vocoder, but pushes the thought aside to ask, “Can I borrow a blaster?”

Chapter Text

The battle of Geonosis will be reported as a decisive victory for the Republic, but the truth is that the majority of the Confederacy’s army escapes them.

If Padmé had any thoughts to spare for the optics of this incident, she would be scrambling to contact her allies and reassess their options.

Instead, she stumbles alongside Anakin as he’s lifted onto a stretcher, feeling numb. He’s not quite conscious, but she keeps whispering platitudes and promises to him that she isn’t sure she can keep. It’ll be okay, you’re going to be fine, everything will be alright.

He’s missing an arm.

Stars. Maybe they should’ve killed Dooku after all.

The stretcher, guided by clone troopers, gets lifted onto a larty next to an awake and talkative Obi-Wan. He might’ve said something to her, but she doesn’t hear it. Padmé hasn’t been able to pay attention to anything besides Anakin since arriving at the hangar. She stops right next to the transport, realizing there’s no space for her to climb aboard while the troopers are triaging the two of them.

Padmé opens her mouth—to what, demand one of the troopers to get off? They’re helping. That’s all they’ve ever done.

She says nothing, stares blankly as the larty lifts off. Will she be allowed to visit while he’s recovering?

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Padmé tries to think the words as hard as possible, casting out her feelings and hoping that mystical power of the Force might carry it on to Anakin. That it might offer him some modicum of reprieve, because she can’t hold him right now.

“Sir? Sir, we can…”

The ship grows smaller and smaller as it heads to a cruiser in orbit.

“Padmé.”

She turns. Plastoid and streaks of dried blood fill her vision. He’s likely been trying to get her attention for a while.

“Yes?” She croaks, and then clears her throat and looks up to CT-1280’s visor. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that, ‘80?”

“Another ship will be here shortly, sir.” His voice is quiet, but still firmly professional. He touches the side of his helmet, then drops his hand. “We can bring you to the Implacable alongside the rest of the wounded. They’re headed to a nearby medical station.”

She can go to Anakin. “Yes, I…“

But then Padmé looks at ‘80, recognizable only because flecks of her own blood still cling to his scuffed white armor, and thinks about what he’s really suggesting. He’s offering this because he must know how worried she is. He’s been right beside her the whole time as this disaster unfolded. It must be plain as day on her face.

He pities her.

Would it really do any good for Padmé to sit outside a medbay while more competent people helped Anakin?

She is not going to sit and weep at his bedside. She can be useful, but not there.

“No,” Padmé tucks away her grief to be examined later. “That won’t be necessary.” She looks up at ‘80’s visor in lieu of meeting his eyes. “I need to go to Coruscant. I’ve already been away too long.”

His helmet tilts to one side, clearly skeptical, but before he can protest they're interrupted by a gravelly, familiar voice. 

“Agree, I do.”

Padmé and ‘80 are both surprised to see Grandmaster Yoda approach them, gimer stick tapping along softly.

“General!” ‘80 snaps a salute.

“Master Yoda,” Padmé says politely, wondering when Yoda became a general.

The old master dips his head in greeting. “Glad to see you well, I am. Needed in the senate, your voice is.” His ears flicker once, and he places both hands on his stick. “But escaped, Nute Gunray has. Still in danger, you are.”

It takes every ounce of queenly training for Padmé not to scowl. “And what good has it done to shirk my duties in the face of such threats?” She asks coldly. “I’ve handled many attempts on my life over the years. I’m going back to Coruscant, and I do not need another bodyguard from the Order.”

“Nor offer one, will I.” Yoda concedes, and turns to ‘80. “But ask you I do, trooper, to escort the senator to the capital.”

‘80 straightens up, taken aback. “Sir? Me?”

Yoda hums. “Other orders, have you?”

“No, sir, I—” He pauses. “My squad was tasked with extracting the Jedi and the senator. I’m. I’m the only one left, though.”

Padmé stares at him, astonished. His anguish is subtle, found only in the slouch of his shoulders, in the bowed lines of black undersuit peeking between plastoid. She never would have seen it, had he not spoken up. She didn’t even think about the troopers from the other larty once she’d seen the state that Anakin was in.

But none of them are in the hangar. Somewhere between the sand dunes and this hangar, the rest of ‘80’s squad were killed.

“Sorry to hear that, I am,” Yoda tells him.

“As am I,” Padmé says softly.

“They died honorably, sirs.” He lifts his head. The traces of sorrow vanish, but Padmé doubts that it’s truly gone. “But the job’s not done. I’ll find out which cruiser is heading directly to Coruscant.”

Yoda dips his head in approval. “A sergeant, you are now. Clearance, you have, for transport off-planet.”

“Sir!” The trooper snaps another sharp salute.

The Jedi glances at Padmé. “Acceptable, is this?”

Sometimes, the Jedi are truly aggravating. She’d been about to make a similar request from ‘80 when Grandmaster Yoda interrupted to order him into escorting her. The small bit of ease between Padmé and ‘80 has evaporated, and she hadn’t even realized it was there until the trooper was back to military-perfect posture.

“Yes,” Padmé admits. “I’d appreciate your help, ‘80.”

“Of course, Senator.” He looks out towards the desert, and she picks up on the hum of an approaching ship. “Follow me.”

Yoda dismisses them with a curt nod, hobbling off to speak with Mace Windu. She didn’t see him arrive, but he seems just as worn down as the other Jedi.

Once the Jedi Masters have disappeared back into the hangar, and they’re alone under the Geonosian sun, Padmé turns to ‘80 and politely asks to borrow his comlink.

He cocks his head. “Sure, but it’s built into my armor. It won’t be private.”

“I know. It’s best if you listen in, anyway.” She tells him the frequency she needs, and he adjusts accordingly, holding up his wrist between them.

A series of colorful beeps crackle through the receiver on his vambrace, demanding answers.

Padmé grins. “R2, it’s me.”

[Your Highness, you’re alive! You left me behind!]

Her astromech never changed her designation after she finished her second term as queen. Thankfully, Queen Jamillia finds it endearing. “Apologies. But I assume you went back to my ship. Is it still in one piece?”

She sees ‘80 tilt his helmet attentively.

R2 replies with an affirmative, and mentions that C-3PO is unfortunately also back in one piece, you’re welcome.

“Perfect. Send us the ship’s coordinates, we’ll meet you there.”

The astromech gives her a few cheerful beeps and ends the call.

“Sir?” ‘80 asks, suspicious. “We’re taking the cruiser to Coruscant.”

Padmé eyes him carefully. She can’t read his face under that helmet, but she can keep him from scrutinizing her. “That is an option,” she says, ever the diplomat.

“I’m not taking you back into enemy territory,” he adds flatly.

Her eyes narrow. “Check the coordinates. I landed my ship in a narrow valley where it wouldn’t be picked up by any sensors. It’s kilometers away from the fighting.”

He does check the coordinates.

(Padmé is right.)

“Sir, I was asked to take you to Coruscant…”

“And we’re going to Coruscant,” she agrees. “But my astromech has sensitive intel in his hard drive, I can’t leave him or my ship behind.”

“I can get a pilot to pick them up,” ‘80 points out.

“That won’t work,” Padmé fires back. “The ship’s keyed to my biometrics. And it’s chromium-plated.”

“And that matters?”

She lifts her chin. “Chromium is reserved for royalty on my planet. They honor me by allowing the usage of a royal starship. It would be taken as an insult to my people for anyone to fly it without me.” Padmé may be exaggerating a little bit. The leadership of Naboo is extremely progressive, after all.

But by the moons and stars, she will get access to her ship. And her wardrobe. 

Silently, ‘80 shifts his visor away from Padmé. She’s close enough to see just below the edge of his helmet, and the thin line of bare, human skin between it and the collar of his undersuit. She sees his neck muscles move but can’t hear him. He seems to be talking with his vocoder muted.

Finally he turns back to Padmé.

Static crackles through ‘80’s helmet, like he’s clicking his tongue. “We’ll pick up your droid and you can fly your ship into the cruiser. Leave it in the hangar for the journey,” he proposes, folding his arms. “Does that work for you?”

Kark. That’s terribly reasonable of him.

“That’s acceptable.” Padmé nods reluctantly. She hates losing arguments, but she can recognize when someone’s logic has her beat.

A gust of wind kicks up from the larty as it approaches, and she blinks away the errant strands of her hair whipping around her face.

‘80 hunches his shoulders and steps closer, angled to block as much of the wind as he can. “Good. This way, Senator.”

His vocoder must be broken. Surely he doesn’t sound smug.

The larty pilot is nice enough to stop the ship for them this time, but Padmé still takes ‘80’s hand when he offers it. No need to tempt fate.

It’s only after ‘80 helps her into the troop bay that Padmé realizes that she’s still holding a blaster in her other hand. It’s heavier than the blaster she usually carries, and doesn’t fit in the holster on her belt. She adjusts her grip and checks the safety, deciding that she isn’t quite ready to put down the weapon just yet.

As the ship takes off, the bay doors slide shut. Padmé never takes her hand off the railing.

Her gaze sweeps over the new troopers. There’s only two, and one of them conveniently has a red medic symbol printed on his shoulder. She’s beginning to think ‘80 has been making private comm calls through his helmet this whole time.

“Sergeant!” The troopers snap to attention, saluting ‘80.

The non-medic trooper nods crisply. “Awaiting your orders, sir. The captain sent us.”

‘80 looks around at the troopers silently. The two of them shift, reacting to something she isn’t aware of. Padmé can tell she’s missing context. There’s definitely a conversation happening between the helmeted men right now.

“Right,” ‘80 mutters quietly. He raises his voice and says, “We’re escorting Senator Amidala to Coruscant. The Separatists want her dead, and have already made attempts on her life.” Padmé whips around to stare at ‘80, nonplussed. It was only supposed to be ‘80 escorting her, not all of them. “We’re picking up her starship and droid, then heading to the Arrestor.”

“Wait, ‘80,” Padmé stammers. “That’s not—”

“Medic,” ‘80 beckons to him. “I need to talk to our pilot. Take a look at the senator’s injuries. She was mauled by a nexu.”

The medic jolts. “What?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she scoffs, “Clearly I wasn’t mauled.” But ‘80 has stepped away to speak to the pilot. When she turns, the trooper is already at her side holding a large medpack. “I wasn’t mauled!” She repeats. “It’s just a few cuts on my back.”

“Senator, I still need to take a look,” the medic insists. “You’re at high risk for infection.”

“He didn’t mean right now, ‘80 just patched me up,” Padmé says hastily. She doesn’t need another trooper pulling up her shirt, no matter how well-meaning he is. The medic makes no move to touch her, but she still leans away. “It can wait until we get to my ship. It has a proper medbay.”

More importantly, the ship has all her spare outfits.

The medic levels his visor with her face. “Senator, if you’re injured then we’re already failing our assignment.”

He has the same voice as ‘80, but ‘80 has never sounded so disappointed with her.

Padmé sighs. “What’s your name?”

He pauses. “My designation’s CT-2455, sir.”

Another designation. He doesn’t go digit-by-digit like ‘80 did, but 24-55 isn’t much better. Padmé carefully doesn’t let the concern show on her face. If she presses the issue of proper names, will that put them at ease, or make things worse? She doesn’t want to insult anyone, and it’s so hard to get a read on the troopers with their helmets on.

This is new territory, practically a new culture to her.

“CT-2455. I will accept medical treatment once we’re on my ship,” she promises. “At most, I need a hypo and a bacta patch.”

“Respectfully, sir, but I’ll be the judge of that,” the medic says. He puts down his scanner, but pulls out something else from the other trooper’s belt. “For now, drink this.”

It’s a hydration pack. Padmé accepts it graciously, because she’s been on desert worlds for the past three days and knows better than to refuse water. And she is thirsty. She finds a weapon rack to secure her blaster, and opens the pack.

Once the medic sees her slowly sipping the drink, pacing herself correctly, he finally backs off.

The remaining trooper fidgets, drumming his fingers against his weapon. His helmet is tipped away from her, but she gets the sense that she’s still being watched. His armor is the dirtiest among the men, greyed and riddled with pockmarks. She wonders why he was sent along with the medic to help her.

She ought to ask for his name…

Without warning, the pilot shouts from the cockpit. “Brace!”

Padmé instantly drops the half-empty water packet and holds onto the rail with both hands.

The larty tips to the right, making a turn so abrupt that the ship is practically sideways. She’s near the wall this time, so it’s easier to keep her balance with the handrail.

Two identical voices shout from the cockpit.

“I said no! Damn it, what are you doing?!”

“Sorry Sarge, I’m not leaving ‘em hanging.”

“You’re out of line, you don’t get to make that call—!”

“Hold on tight, boys!”

Explosions erupt outside of the ship. They’ve reentered the fight.

The medic curses audibly. “Sicko! We have a senator on board!”

“Hold on tight, boys and senators!”

The bay doors slide open, and the grey trooper cusses out the pilot, nearly toppling out.

“Level it out! Level it out!” ‘80 barks.

She’s pretty sure the pilot is laughing.

Padmé looks out the side of the larty, and realizes they’re headed towards a Trade Federation ship. A Core Ship, like the one used to command the droids that invaded Naboo. She curls her entire arm around the rail, and debates whether or not she should grab her borrowed blaster again.

The battle’s not quite over for her, it seems.

Chapter Text

Blaster bolts begin to flicker past the larty, streaks of red and blue skimming its wings, forcing the pilot to make several more sharp turns. Padmé doesn’t trust herself to aim her borrowed blaster from the ship if he keeps flying like this, so she reluctantly leaves it in the weapon rack.

‘80 clambers out of the cockpit, but can’t cross through the ship’s open doors to her side while they’re dodging heavy fire.

“What’s happening?” Padmé shouts to him.

“Extraction request from a special unit. We’re closest to their location,” he calls back, falling to one knee as the ship jerks again. He says nothing about denying the request, or the pilot ignoring his orders.

The larty veers to the left, and Padmé gets a good look at the enormous, spherical control ship. Her stomach drops. Black plumes of smoke puff out from two—no, three rings of piping near the base of the ship. She isn’t an expert on machinery, but she learned, after Naboo was invaded, about the Trade Federation’s weapons of war.

The coolant valves are sealed, she thinks. The reactor is overheating. Yet their larty continues its approach.

“They sabotaged the Core Ship,” Padmé realizes, horrified. “It’ll explode any minute!”

“They’ll make it,” says the trooper in dirty armor. “Commandos just like to cut things close, Senator.”

The medic mutters something about cutting things off once this is over.

A small blast from the Core Ship draws their attention. The larty swerves again, turning directly towards the newly-made hole in the hull. She can barely make out the humanoid figures standing in the opening.

Padmé braces herself as the larty slows drastically, not quite stopping, but allowing four surprisingly colorful troopers to scramble inside.

“Go, go, go!” One of them hollers. His armor is splashed with blood-red paint. “It’s gonna blow!” The pilot hits the throttle, and the larty hurtles away from the Core Ship.

“Told you they’d make it, Senator,” The regular trooper says, but Padmé can’t figure out if he sounds impressed or annoyed.

“Oya!” The commando with yellow and grey armor pumps a fist and nearly slides off the larty. Their medic lunges and drags him back by the ankle.

Another commando shouts over him. “You boys might want to hang onto something!”

“What d’you think we’ve been doing?” The medic snaps, now clutching an overhead strap.

Padmé tightens her grip on the handrail again, just in time.

BOOM!

The larty dips and tumbles through the air as a percussive wave rattles through them. The smoke comes next, blinding her as flecks of shrapnel begin pinging off of the ship. Padmé ducks her head and crouches against the hull. One of the troopers staggers to her side, kneeling at her back to shield her from the debris raining down on them.

“Close the bay doors!” Someone bellows, banging on the metal hull.

“They’re jammed!”

The trooper—it’s ‘80, she knows it even though she can’t see him—crowds Padmé against the wall of the ship, both arms clamped against the rail on either side of her. His helmet presses the top of her head, and she tucks herself against hard plastoid chest armor. She feels it every time the armor takes a hit from the debris, every time the hull rattles from impact.

Left and right, up and down, the larty swings to avoid larger pieces of the destroyed enemy ship. By the time their ship levels out, Padmé can’t feel her fingers anymore. She’s also mildly nauseous.

“Sorry for the turbulence, ladies and gents!” The pilot calls back to them, jovial to a fault. “Everyone alive?”

Slowly, Padmé uncurls herself from the handrail, blinks her eyes open.

The medic groans. “No thanks to you, Sicko!”

“Senator,” ‘80 shuffles back from her, still on his knees. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she reports, coughing into her elbow.

“You said that after the nexu, too.” He stands and holds out a hand.

Padmé huffs, but allows him to pull her up. “No new injuries to report,” she says, copying his terminology from earlier with only a hint of wryness. “Are you okay?”

He nods sharply, only releasing her hand once she’s fully balanced. “The armor did its job.”

“That’s good. Please do not scan me,” she adds, spotting the medic creeping towards her. “Why don’t you check on the troopers full of blaster holes, first?”

She gestures to the commandos scattered on the floor of the gunship. Each of them has uniquely painted armor, but all of it is riddled with blaster marks and gouges. They managed not to slide off the larty, but none of them have attempted to stand up yet. 

The medic’s vocoder crackles, not quite picking up his words. But he goes over to scan them instead of her.

The green commando grunts, rolling onto his back. The orange one sits up first, his helmet immediately settling on Padmé even as the medic begins a diagnostic scan.

“Why is there a civilian here?” He asks slowly.

“That’s the senator,” the medic bites out. Someone begins to chuckle. CT-2455 drops an unopened bandage into the orange commando’s hand, implying he’ll have to put it on himself. “Now stop bleeding on the ship.”

The commando tilts his helmet. His visor glows blue, unlike the regular troopers’ helmets.

Another commando chuckles, sees Padmé when he lifts his head, and stops laughing. “Wait, you mean an actual senator?” He squawks. “Who the kark—”

The regular trooper nudges him in the ribcage with his boot, and the commando shuts up.

“Yes.” ‘80 makes another staticky noise. “We’re in the middle of an escort mission, and you idiots put the senator’s life in danger,” he hisses. Almost simultaneously, the four commandos look at him.

The orange commando slowly gets to his feet. It reminds Padmé of the nexu.

He doesn’t say a word, but even Padmé can read the threat in his body language. Despite them all being about the same height, the commando armor is bulkier, and he seems to loom over ‘80.

The medic pauses his work, holding a piece of the green commando’s armor. The other troopers stand very still.

The tension grows between ‘80 and the commando as the silence lengthens.

“Is this not,” Padmé intervenes smoothly, raising her voice just so. “A stroke of tremendous good fortune?” She steps carefully to ‘80’s side, grabbing an overhead strap. “I insisted on our detour across the flats despite the risk of crossfire. But it put us in the path of allies in need, and we were lucky enough to reach you all at just the right time. Let us not discount this success.”

‘80’s visor staring back at her reveals nothing, but Padmé sees his stance loosen. 

The orange commando remains unmoved for a long moment.

Then his vocoder crackles in a huff and he slouches. “Allies in need,” he repeats, toneless through the helmet filters. Then he shakes his head, a gesture of amusement if she’s not mistaken. “If you say so, ma’am,” he concedes at last.

The gunship rattles again, and Padmé steadies herself by grabbing ‘80 by the shoulder. “Don’t you agree, Sergeant?”

Instead of replying, ‘80 tips his helmet back in what is so obviously an eye-roll that she can practically see the face he’s making, though Padmé doesn’t know what the clones look like under their helmets.

“Senator,” he grumbles, pressing lightly against her side. “Please hold the rail with both hands. We don’t need you falling off another larty.”

Her mouth drops open in surprise.

“You’re one to talk,” she exclaims, even as she carefully reaches for the handrail.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, a little too stiff for it to be convincing.

Padmé smiles. “Of course.”

The medic curses, slapping a bacta patch onto the green commando’s shoulder with enough force to make him yelp. “What do you mean, she fell off a larty?”

Despite the suspension of open hostilities between the commandos and regular troopers, there’s still a great deal of arguing to be had between Sergeant ‘80 and Sergeant RC-1138 about where the ship’s next destination ought to be.

“Call me Boss, it’ll be less confusing,” the orange commando had suggested, oozing smugness.

“I would hate to break protocol, Sergeant 1-1-3-8,” ‘80 had replied, rather pettily.

From what Padmé gathers, the commandos of Delta Squad want to return to the army’s base of operations in the flatlands, but ‘80 insists that that stay the course towards the eastern edge of the flats, to reach Padmé’s ship in the canyon. The commandos are carrying vital intel that they need to deliver as part of their high-priority mission. Sergeant ‘80 got his mission directly from High General Yoda himself. No one knows whose orders supersedes the other’s. According to CT-2611—he’s the other regular trooper that was onboard the larty before they picked up Delta Squad—the protocol in this situation is to alert a CO, but the long-range comms on the larty were damaged in the explosion.

“Maybe you two should play lizard-toad-snake for it,” the yellow commando proposes.

Both sergeants tell him to kark off, and then seem so offended by each other’s responses that they stop talking in fear of it happening again.

As daylight fades, turning the sky yellow then orange and then a deep, glowing red, their pilot finally chimes in using the ships’s intercom.

“Fuel tank took a hit, fellas! We’re not making it either way, but the canyon’s closer, and there’s more cover.”

Perhaps it’s the pilot’s overly cheerful tone that’s getting to him, but the commando growls in frustration. “What was the point of extracting us if you’re just going to dump us in enemy territory anyway?”

“You know,” CT-2611 says, “the ship was only hit because we went in to save you guys.”

The red commando cocks his head. “So we should be grateful for this di’kutla rescue.”

“Listen, ‘07—”

Padmé sighs. Straightens her back. Just as the trooper points a finger at the red commando, she steps forward and places a hand on his arm, gaining their attention.

“Gentlemen. My ship can easily accommodate all of us,” she says, meeting the visors of each trooper in turn before settling on the commando leader. “Once we reach it, we’re heading to one of the battleships in orbit. I think our best option is for Delta Squad to join us, and transmit their intel from a secure relay on the battleship.”

There’s a beat of silence as the troopers consider this. ‘80 has his helmet tipped back again, like he’s praying to a higher power.

“Is that allowed?” The yellow commando asks, intrigued. Funnily enough, their helmets all tilt towards the green commando for an answer, rather than to their leader.

“…It’s not against protocol,” the green one says, begrudgingly.

Their leader nods curtly, and then looks to Padme’s sergeant. “Looks like we’re joining you for a while longer, ‘80.”

“Looks like,” ‘80 agrees flatly.

As the pilot warned them, the gunship doesn’t quite make it to their destination. The ship sinks downward in fits and spurts, engines belching smoke and sparks as they try to pass over the steep hills that protect Padmé’s ship from sight.

The damaged bay doors are still partially open, despite the combined efforts of the troopers to seal them shut, and as they hit the ground, pebbles and dust sneak through the crack in the door to clatter around the ship. The ship rumbles and creaks ominously, dragged across the bedrock before finally skidding to a stop.

Padmé wipes the dirt from her eyes. Her limbs ache fiercely from being jostled against the hull. All in all, though, she is impressed with their pilot. It’s almost not a crash landing.

“Huh,” says the yellow commando, his vocoder jarringly loud in the subsequent silence. “That went better than I expected.”

“Don’t jinx us,” warns the red one.

The troopers take turns shoving and banging at the bay door to get it opened again, bickering all the while. CT-2611 jeers something at the red commando one last time before throwing his shoulder against the door.

With a sudden metallic screech, the door snaps off from the hull while he has all his weight against it.

“Leven!”

Two troopers dive forward, snatching CT-2611 by his belt and legs before he can plummet into the dark. He falls halfway out instead, slamming against the ship before the others can heave him back onboard.

‘80 and the red commando collapse with ‘11 in a heap, breathing hard.

It all happened so fast, Padmé is still frozen in place by the weapons rack by the time it’s over. They can hear the bay door as it continues its descent down the mountainside, clanging ominously against distant boulders.

Then the yellow commando sticks his head out doorway. “Stang, ‘Leven, you almost got pulped. It’s a long way down.”

CT-2611 sags against the other troopers. “Tremendous good fortune,” he wheezes.

“What?” The red commando croaks. He still hasn’t let go of ‘11’s belt.

‘11 gestures vaguely, and laughs. “S’what the senator said, yeah?”

Padmé meets his visor with a wobbly smile.

It’s past sunset now, and the larty sits along a narrow ridge just past the mountain’s peak. The ridge is so steep, Padmé can’t see the ground beneath them until she’s right at the edge of the ship.

The sergeants flick on headlamps to survey the surrounding terrain. Padmé turns her attention to the closest weapons rack.

“It’s a straight-shot down this incline to the senator’s ship,” Sergeant ‘80 declares. “No activity on the scanners, but the rock formations are causing sensor issues. Let’s be quick and careful.”

The troopers organize themselves and leave the larty in pairs. The least-injured member of Delta Squad, the red one, is sent out first to scout, with his sergeant following close behind. Then it’s ‘80 and CT-2611. Leven.

Briefly, she wonders about their names again. She thinks she heard both ‘80 and ‘55 refer to their pilot as Sicko, and when addressing ‘11, everyone pronounces it as Leven because it’s easier. They make for odd names, if that’s what they are, but it’s better than designations.

Padmé moves up to the edge of the larty, readjusting the strap of her newly-acquired rifle. No one argued when she took it from the weapons rack, and in fact she thinks the orange commando looked on in approval, so she’ll be keeping it for the time being.

Carefully, she judges the distance. It’s over two meters down to the ledge, and now that it’s getting dark she can’t see much of the ground.

Before she can even consider jumping off the ship like everyone else, the medic trooper hops down and positions himself directly below her.

His visors tilts up, level with her boots.

Padmé keeps herself from fidgeting under his scrutiny. Helmeted or not, she knows ‘55 has been giving her scathing looks ever since ‘80 mentioned their first larty trip. She finally had to let him scan her for injury, and he did not like the results.

“You’re with me, Senator,” ‘55 informs her.

She stares. “Excuse me?”

He holds out his arms expectantly, still blocking the way for her to reach the ground.

Surely he doesn’t mean—

“Jump.”

It’s not a suggestion.

Padmé resigns herself to losing some dignity, and slides off the gunship. ‘55 catches her around the middle, deftly avoiding her bacta patches and easing her to the ground.

He makes no comment, has no discernible reaction at all, but Padmé burns with embarrassment anyway. The least he could do was make a show of effort instead of moving her around like a doll. She’s not a fourteen-year-old queen anymore, yet she’s still so reliant on guards and decoys and Jedi—now she needs soldiers, too.

She is not the helpless child she was ten years ago.

“Alright there, Senator?” ‘55 asks.

Shoulders squared, chin lifted, Padmé meets his gaze humbly. “I’m alright. Thank you.”

His helmet jerks in a quick nod, satisfied.

The yellow commando plops down in the doorway and swings his legs back and forth like a child. “Gonna catch me too, ‘55?” He chirps. “I’m an invalid,” he reminds him, tapping his bandaged thigh.

‘55 ignores him, flicking on his headlamp. “Watch your step, ma’am.”

“Whoa,” says the red commando. He turns back towards the rest of the group. “Think I found the senator’s ship.”

As the rest of them approach the ship, the troopers start making noise about her starship. Maybe it’s because the fighting has finally died down, maybe it’s because they’re all too tired for propriety, but what began as an assembly of solemn, stolid soldiers has loosened into a pack of curious young men.

“You’re flying THAT?” Their pilot exclaims, dripping with envy. “And I have to fly a kriffin' larty?”

“Senator!” The yellow commando clamors, limping down to touch the hull of her ship. “You didn’t tell us you had a luxury yacht.”

The pilot smacks his hand away. “Don’t touch it! You’ll smudge the chromium!”

“I’ll make you a smudge on the chromium—”

“A royal luxury yacht,” adds Leven, head tilted towards Padmé. “That’s what you told Sergeant ‘80.”

Padmé nods. “A gift from Queen Jamillia.”

“Hell of a reward,” the orange commando comments, examining the hull thoughtfully.

She hesitates, then admits, “It wasn’t given because I deserved a reward. It’s a replacement for my ship that was destroyed.”

She pointedly does not look at ‘80 when he stops and turns to her.

“That sounds like a story,” the medic ventures.

Padmé breezes past ‘80 on her way to the ship, waving for R2 once she’s in sensor range. “Not a pleasant one,” she murmurs, placing her hand against the biometric scanner. She can just make out her own reflection in the chromium hull of the ship, but for a moment it’s Cordé’s stricken face that flashes across her vision.

The hydraulics hiss above Padmé’s head, and the boarding ramp begins to lower.

She steps back, affixing a smile to her face as she turns to the troopers. “Shall we?”