#protocol droid

Anakin didn’t even look up. “You said your servos were locking, Threepio. I can’t fix that by being gentle.”

C-3PO’s photoreceptors flickered anxiously as the Jedi knelt beside him, tools scattered across the polished floor of Padmé’s apartment. One of the decorative windows cast long bands of the late sunlight across Anakin’s bare shoulders and glinting faintly off the dark metal of his prosthetic arm.

“I simply meant—oh dear—perhaps a certified maintenance technician would—”

“And miss out on all the fun?” Anakin smirked, prying open the access panel along the droid’s thigh joint with practiced ease. He was always fond of working on his droids. “Padmé knows better than that.”

“I am not certain ‘fun’ is the word I would use, sir—oh!” C-3PO stiffened as Anakin’s metal fingers slipped inside the exposed compartment. “That is a rather sensitive mesh—”

“Relax,” Anakin said. “You’re wound way too tight. Again.”

“I am a protocol droid, Master Anakin. Being ‘wound tight’ is rather central to my design.”

“Yeah, I’ve sure noticed.”

There was a pause filled only by the soft hum of Coruscant traffic filtering in from outside. Anakin’s brow furrowed slightly as he examined the internal mechanisms, his expression shifting from casual amusement to focused precision. Then his metal fingers moved again, brushing past a bundle of fine wiring.

C-3PO jerked. “Oh! Oh my—!”

Anakin froze. “What?”

“N-nothing!” the droid said far too quickly. “Just a minor—ah—feedback fluctuation—perfectly normal—!”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “That didn’t sound normal.”

“I assure you it was—oh!” His voice hit a higher register as Anakin resumed.

The Jedi tilted his head, curiosity creeping in. “Huh.”

“I assure you, there is no cause for concern,” C-3PO rushed on as his words tumbled over themselves. “If you would simply continue the repair without—without unnecessary adjustments—”

“Unnecessary?” Anakin repeated, a faint edge of mischief threading into his tone.

His prosthetic hand shifted again, more intentionally now, brushing against the same cluster. The metal digits conducted faint currents as they moved, precise in a way organic fingers weren’t.

C-3PO’s entire frame gave a small, involuntary shudder.

“Oh dear.”

Anakin’s lips twitched. “That spot, huh?”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you did not draw attention to—oh!—that particular—response—”

“Interesting,” Anakin murmured.

Then, without touching him, he reached out—just slightly—with the Force. The effect was immediate. A few stray wires lifted and parted on their own, guided by an invisible hand. The movement was subtle, but to C-3PO, it was anything but.

His voice processor glitched audibly. “I—oh!—Master Anakin, I must insist—!”

Anakin blinked, genuinely surprised this time. “Whoa. That strong?”

“I do not know what you are doing, sir, but I must request that you cease immediately!”

Anakin leaned back a fraction, studying him now with open intrigue. “I’m barely doing anything, Threepio.”

“Barely is quite sufficient!” C-3PO said, mortified. “If you would kindly restrict yourself to conventional manual adjustments—”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Anakin interrupted lightly.

“Master Anakin!”

He didn’t stop—though the Force withdrew, if only a little. Instead, his real hand steadied the panel while his prosthetic fingers resumed their work in almost experimental slow movements.

“You know,” Anakin said casually, “most droids don’t react like this.”

“Well, I am not most droids,” C-3PO replied stiffly.

“Yeah,” Anakin said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m starting to get that.”

Another careful adjustment. Another involuntary shiver. C-3PO let out a distressed whir. “This is deeply inappropriate.”

“If you say so,” Anakin said, voice softer now, more thoughtful than teasing, “your servos are definitely misaligned. I still need to fix this.”

“Then I must ask that you please do so with the utmost efficiency and minimal commentary!”

Anakin chuckled under his breath. “Alright, alright.”

For a few moments, he focused fully on the task. The teasing edge faded, replaced by the quiet competence that made him such a gifted mechanic. Still, every now and then, his fingers would brush just a little too close to that same cluster—and each time, C-3PO’s posture would betray him, ever so slightly. By the time Anakin sealed the panel shut, his expression had settled into something unreadable—but faintly amused.

“There,” he said, standing. “Try moving.”

C-3PO hesitated, then carefully flexed his leg. The motion was smooth—perfect, even. Just like new.

“Oh!” he said, relief flooding his tone. “That is significantly improved. Thank you, Master Anakin.”

“Anytime.”

There was a brief pause.

“But just a heads up,” Anakin added, just a hint of mischief returning, “you might want to get that sensitivity checked out.”

C-3PO stiffened again, dignity snapping back into place. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“I do not!”

“I used to have a Twi’lek assistant. He was very good. But he quit a month ago. Said he couldn’t keep up with all my demands and was returning to Ryloth. Obviously he was homesick, but I don’t understand what ‘demands’ he was talking about. It’s been fairly quiet here for the last several months. Really, until this whole IG-11 thing came up.”

Grogu laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh, but he did anyway. He hoped his dad understood what he was laughing about. He didn’t think the High Magistrate would. 

“I think you should ask your protocol droid what happened to your assistant.”

Good. Din Djarin had figured it out too. 

“My protocol droid? What would C-29 have to do with that? Other than process the orders?”

“Just ask.”

Grogu watched as his dad crossed his arms on his chest plate and waited for the High Magistrate to act. Not being the sort of person who would refuse to ask a question out of spite, Greef Karga, frowned at his friend and then turned his attention to the copper colored protocol droid.

“Very well. C29. Please tell these fine people what happened to Rebber La.”

“Rebber La was relieved of duty for failure to complete tasks in a timely manner.”

“See?” 

The High Magistrate commented to the Mandalorian and Grogu.

“How many tasks had Rebber La been assigned to complete?”

“One thousand two hundred and twenty five tasks.”

“What?!”

“What?”

Huh? No one could do that many tasks. Not even a Jedi who was raised by Mandalorians and had Sith grandparents, and a droid nanny. It was impossible!

“That’s absurd. What tasks were included in that list?” 

Uff. The High Magistrate made a mistake asking that question of a protocol droid. They were all going to be stuck there for hours listening to it recite the list.

Grogu coo’d to his dad. Maybe Din Djarin could think of someway to prevent that sort of torture by boredom. Grogu was starting to get hungry.

“I am not a liberty to say.”

“What!?”

Huh?

“Override personal privacy requirements. List the last five tasks you assigned to Rebber La.”

Phew. The Mandalorian had picked up on that risk right away. Grogu smiled. The people who had trained his dad really knew their stuff.

“Rebber La was assigned to locate and obtain 3PO coverings plated in appropriate materials to create a green coloring similar to hedges, grasses, and leaves. Rebber La was assigned to locate and obtain the services of droid smiths capable of replacing 3PO coverings in less than one standard day. Rebber La was…”

“Stop. Enough. I never assigned any of these tasks to Rebber La. He wasn’t a procurement droid. He was my assistant.”

“An assistant who was not able to assist you appropriately.”

Oops. Grogu was pretty sure that C29 was not supposed to say that out loud. 

Before he realized what his dad was doing, Din Djarin was walked over to the protocol droid and flipped their on/off switch to the off position. Their sensors dimmed and they just stood where they were without saying or doing another thing. 

“Why did your protocol droid want to be the color of leaves and grass? You know it wanted those parts for itself?”

“For itself? That’s… Dank Farrik. I told it I wanted some greenery added to the offices. I meant a couple of plants. Something that would brighten up the place. I had no idea that it thought I wanted it to be green. Anyway, what does this have to do with finding IG-11? That’s what I asked you to help with, not investigating office dramas.”

Grogu shook his head. He trotted over to the High Magistrate’s chair and jumped up into it and then sat back. As usual, the desk held a little bowl of snacks and Grogu began to spin around in the chair while he used the Force to grab the snacks. He didn’t really want to pay attention to the conversation that was about to ensue. It was going to make the other drama seem a lot more tame. He just wanted to skip to the end where the High Magistrate authorized the Mythrol to pay the Anzellan’s so he could go visit with IG-11-M and talk about actual important stuff. He’d had enough drama to last him a lifetime already.