Panamic

The event’s dinner is a long affair, lasting for what feels like years but is probably only an hour or two. Anakin would be overjoyed by the wide selection of delicacies and desserts available, if it wasn’t for the questions and stares – and occasional uninvited touches – he has to put up with.

There are 501st troopers posted at each entrance to the room, and Anakin occasionally shoots them a glance and mouths a desperate “help me”. Their Force signatures sparkle in amusement, but they never make any move to assist him. Bastards.

When the host announces they should move their socialising to the ballroom, Anakin senses his opportunity to make a break for it. “You go ahead,” he politely tells the famous singer trying to drag him to the ballroom, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffs, “all that grace and coordination? You’ll be a fine dancer. Come along.”

“No, really, I’m a terrible dancer. Besides, I should check in with the perimeter guard to make sure everything’s still secure.”

The singer grumbles and complains, but eventually follows the herd of rich people on their migration to the ballroom. Anakin is left seated all by himself at the table meant for thirty people.

Even with Orn Free Taa having been in attendance, there’s still plenty of food left. Enough to feed a village of starving Rylothian refugees, Anakin notes grimly. And it’ll all be thrown out.

He glances around the quiet room, noting that the doors to the ballroom have been pulled most of the way shut. The troopers are still waiting silently by the doors.

“Guys,” he says to them, jumping up from his seat, “help me with this.”

“Sir?” they ask, approaching warily.

Anakin has grabbed a deep bowl containing some sort of finger food, and is emptying the contents of other plates into it. “They don’t need it. And I’m not just gonna let it go to waste. Now start filling bowls.”

“Sir, I don’t think-”

“The servants are gonna be here soon to clean up. So shut up and grab a bowl.”

The four troopers exchange long looks with each other, then eventually resign themselves to assisting in his food theft. They start grabbing plates of whatever looks edible, tossing them into bowls together like Anakin is doing.

Anakin turns on his comm while he works. “Rex, gather all the troops in the front courtyard and load them into the gunships.”

“Sir, has something gone wrong?”

“Oh, and tell the pilots to start up the engines already. We’re leaving as soon as we can.”

“But sir, the mission-”

Anakin switches him comm off before Rex can begin reciting one of Obi-Wan’s speeches about “the mission comes first”.

Crumbs are flying as the troopers hurry to fill bowls. The white tablecloth has been stained brown and green and red. Anakin can feel the servants getting closer, can feel their time running out. He’s stuffing food-filled napkins into the pockets of his robes. A trooper is pouring candied eggs into his utility belt.

They’ve almost cleaned the entire table now. The conversations in the ballroom are growing louder. The servants are getting closer. Too close.

Anakin decides to call a retreat. “Go,” he says, shoving the four-bowl high stacks into his troopers’ arms and ushering them toward the exit. “Go, go, go. To the front courtyard.”

The troopers rush clumsily for the doors, blinded by the bowl stacks in their arms. Anakin grabs his own stack and starts after them. “Wait, no, kriff,” he mutters, turning back to grab a bottle from the table, “can’t forget the alcohol.”

He’s almost to the door. The servants’ footsteps enter the room behind him. “Hey!” one of them shouts.

“They’re onto us!” Anakin screeches shouts. “Run!”

The trooper in front of him is moving too slowly, so Anakin picks him up with an arm around his midsection. “Karking run!” he shouts to the troopers ahead, despite them already fleeing for their lives.

The labyrinth halls of the fancy mansion flash past them in a blur. Anakin’s bowl stack wobbles precariously in his left arm, kept from falling by the Force. The trooper he’s carrying is still clutching to his bowls for dear life.

Footsteps are pounding through the halls after them. “Come back! You can’t take that!”

Anakin takes a corner too sharply and the trooper he’s carrying grunts as he hits the wall. The troopers ahead have stopped, struggling to open the front door. “Move aside!”

The troopers part, and a second later the door is thrown off its hinges by a Force push. “To the ships!”

They rush out into the courtyard. The two gunships they arrived in are hovering just above the ground, fully loaded and ready to lift off.

“The Chancellor will hear of this!” someone shouts.

The first troopers make it the gunships. Rex and the other troopers aboard help them get up. Anakin jumps up with help from the Force.

Rex slaps the side of the gunship, shouting to the pilots over the roaring engines. “We’re clear. Go!”

The gunships take off, kicking up dust and gravel. In the courtyard below, the estate owner and his servants scowl up at them. “You’ll pay for that, Jedi!” the owner shouts. “You’ll all pay for that!”

Then the gunship’s doors slide closed, and they’re flying away.

Anakin breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping. His accomplices in crime are passing around their bowls, proudly showing everyone the spoils of their daring escapade.

“Uhh… sir?” the trooper hanging from his arm like a floppy tooka says, sounding dazed. “I think you can put me down now.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Anakin gently lowers the trooper to his feet, where he wavers on unsteady legs for a moment. His brothers soon support him, and begin rifling through the food bowls he somehow, miraculously, kept a hold of during the mad dash.

“General,” Rex says, in a distinctly Obi-Wan-like tone of voice, “might I ask why you stole food from the man we were supposed to protect?”

Anakin grins winningly at him. “Because I could. Besides…” He gestures around the gunship at the troopers, who are excitedly wolfing down delicacies they’ve never seen before, let alone tasted. “They could use the break from rations.”

Rex’s face softens as he watches his brothers chatter over the food. “I… suppose it will boost morale, sir.”

Anakin smiles and claps Rex on the shoulder. “Atta boy. Oh, and, by the way…” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “Obi-Wan doesn’t need to hear about any of this, right?”

Rex raises an eyebrow. “It’d be hard to exclude something like this from the mission reports, sir.”

There are Republic troopers lining up along the hall she and Skywalker are standing in. They stand with identical stiff postures, in their identical armour, with their blasters held in identical positions. None of them talk as they line up, nor so much as exchange a look between the dark visors of their helmets.

Satine wonders what the people of the Republic see when they look at those troopers. Do they see glory? The spirit of the Republic, marching off to achieve them victory? How do they not see the face of the war itself, the symptoms of the plague worming its way into the galaxy? How can none of them see the Senate’s cold indifference in those blank visors, the Chancellor’s cruel fist in those gloved hands wrapped around blasters?

"Your thoughts are in turmoil," Skywalker remarks, quite out of the blue. "Is something wrong, Duchess?"

She huffs, glancing at him. "Nothing is wrong. And please don't look into my mind."

"I wasn't." He holds up his hands, much like a gesture of peace. What an irony. "You're just broadcasting your emotions quite loudly. I couldn't help but notice." He pauses, side-eyeing her. "Is it something I can help with?"

Satine looks back at the rows of Republic troopers, the white sentinels posted at even spaces down the hall. Like the columns that hold the ship up, though five times as dangerous.

"What do you see," she asks before she can think better of it, "when you look at them?"

Skywalker frowns, glancing between her and the Republic troopers. "I'm sorry?"

"Most Republic citizens, they see the face of victory and glory. They see their defenders, their noble warriors on the front line." She pauses, taking a calming breath. "When I look at them, I can only see how low the Republic has fallen. How much this war has changed it.” She shakes her head sadly. "But what do you see, when you look at them?"

Skywalker looks at the troopers for a long moment, face pulled tight.

"I'm sorry, Duchess," he says, looking back at her, "but I don't see any of that. I don’t see anything.”

"You have to see something," she insists.

Skywalker looks back at the troopers, a frown on his face. “I don’t know, Duchess. I see… Rex, I guess. And Click, and Trip, and Cable. Trip and Cable are talking on the internal comms together. Rudder is… dozing off. Brine is trying to hide an injury on his shoulder, before the medic notices it. Daze is trying to scratch an itch without breaking stance.”

Skywalker stops talking, but his eyes keep running down the line of troopers in the hall.

"Hmm," Satine murmurs, clasping her hands together as she looks back at the troopers. "I see."

"Excuse me, Duchess," Skywalker says rather suddenly, offering her a quick bow.

She barely has time to get out an "of course," before he's marching off down the hall.

"Slug!" he shouts, and every trooper's helmet turns in his direction. "You're not supposed to be back on active duty yet; your leg hasn't healed."

The trooper he's addressing shrinks back against the wall, like a child caught out past bedtime, and Satine can't help the amused smile that comes to her mouth.