Senator Padme Amidala stood erect in the tall windows of her Coruscanti apartment, looking out over the city planet. Her silhouette was stiff with fear and anxiety. Out on the horizon of the nocturnal skyline, smoke still billowed from the Jedi Temple. Although the glow of the fires had diminished, it persisted. She had not seen Anakin all day, but knew that he was on-world, and as soon as she had noticed the attack, she had changed from her blue evening gown into her tunics and trousers, thinking that action was imminent. But that had been over an hour ago. So far, it seemed that she had only prepared herself for the vigil of towering funeral pyre.

Padme originally thought that the Separatists had somehow found a way to penetrate Coruscant, in an even more impressive feat than kidnapping the Chancellor. But no word had come from the Chancellor tonight or other Generals and Administrators. She hadn't even heard from her good friend and collaborator, Senator Bail Organa. As time passed in silence, she perceived that this was something graver than a Separatist attack. Something deeper. Something deadlier.

Just as she was about to demand that Captain Gregar Typho take her to the Temple-or fly herself there-C-3PO entered the room.

"A courier has arrived for you, Senator."

"From whom," she fervently inquired, turning on her heel, springing for action.

"He would not say," replied C-3PO, rather demurely, perhaps his analytical mind extracting that this was not the answer she wanted to hear. "Security says that he is quite harmless though. He has no weapons."

Padme wasn't convinced, but didn't speak that aloud. The security he spoke of was simply the skyscraper security, not her personal, more trusted guard.

"And they've informed Captain Typho that the courier is on his way," C-3PO added.

"Good." She moved across the room. "Bring him to my study."

"I will certainly do so."

As the droid left, the loyal Nubian Captain of the Guard passed into the private chamber. Padme was at the small bar and cabinet of her salon that housed her decadent beverages. She pressed the inset button that would have passed for the garbage disposal, and the backsplash-a beautiful mosaic of waterfalls on Naboo-shifted and slipped sideways, revealing two blaster pistols. Padme took one and tucked it on the side of her belt. She then draped a trench coat-like jacket over her shoulders. Between that and the baby bump, the pistol was invisible.

"I've already got the ship prepared for an emergency take off," said Typho.

Padme hit the button again, and the backsplash moved back into place. They walked out of the salon, and into the hallway that led to her study.

"I find it no coincidence that an anonymous courier shows up while there's an attack on the Temple, and still no word from the Chancellor." Padme was simply voicing the very reasons that Typho had for firing up the ship. The Captain always had such a plan ready, and everyone knew their place and role for such a drill. Or in this case, perhaps not a drill. They paused outside the study doors. Padme looked him in the eyes. "We must be ready for anything."

Typho nodded his affirmation and opened the doors. They entered with shoulders squared formidably, and faced off with their impromptu messenger.

It was a boy.

A street urchin by all sights. He wore a tattered and stained tunic, which might have been decent in another life. His trousers were just as filthy, with darker dirt stains, and they were tucked into boots that were caked in underworld street slime. His face was smudged with dark dirt as well, and cheeks flushed. Glacier blue eyes peered out from just under dark bangs. Although Padme and Typho stared him down (and were hiding their bewilderment), he returned their gazes evenly, and seemingly unperturbed.

Padme knew that she had never met this boy before, but she felt as if there was something familiar about him. But she could not place what it was.

Typho might not have been expecting a squalid child as their messenger, but did not withhold any scrutiny from his voice. "Who sent you?"

"I am only to talk to Senator Amidala," the boy replied simply, in a young core-world accent.

Typho quickly opened his mouth to demand a better reply, but Padme stepped forward. "I am she. Now, who sent you and what is your message?"

The boy regarded her briefly, before answering, "Master Obi-wan Kenobi sent me."

"Obi-wan," echoed Padme in surprise. This was certainly not what she was expecting. "I thought he was off-world, to find General Grievous."

The boy shook his head. "He returned, just before the Temple was attacked." There was the barest flash of anger and sadness in his eyes. "General Grievous was killed, but we've been betrayed. The clone troops attacked us."

"You escaped," asked Typho, still skeptical.

"Yes," replied the boy. "With my master's help. Master Kenobi said it was urgent that you were given coordinate for a rendezvous. He believes that you're in danger from the Chancellor. He wants you to meet with the remaining Jedi and others who are faithful to the Republic."

"The Chancellor?"

The boy smoothed his tunics in somewhat of a nervous fidget. "Please, there's not much time. We must go before you're suspected of anything. Everything can be explained later. I don't know all of it anyway."

The news was nearly overwhelming, but as it sunk in, Padme could see how it all made sense. The silence from the Chancellor. The silence from Bail. The surprise attack on the Temple right when things finally seemed as if they were turning for the better.

"Where is Master Skywalker," she asked, her anxiety creeping into her otherwise calm, senatorial voice.

The boy sighed impatiently. "I don't know. In the Temple perhaps." He paused and swallowed. "It was chaotic. There is no telling who has survived."

His own grief momentarily stymied Padme's. She knew this was not the time to dwell on such things. Not until they were safe.

"How can we trust you," asked Typho. "You could be anyone sent here by the Chancellor to trick us. How do we know that you are Jedi?"

His answer was wordless. No sooner had Typho finished speaking than his blaster flew from its holster and into the outstretched hand of the boy. Padem barely hid a smirk at this pert reply, and her eyes flitted sideways to the slightly abashed mien of Typho.

And Padme immediately understood the air of familiarity she had for the boy. On second look, his tunics were of the same fabric that the Jedi wore, although he did not have as many layers as she often saw Masters and Padawans typically wearing. His boots, though dirty, were the nerfhide, custom fitted boots that Jedi relied on for any occasion. The frayed sleeves were actually singe marks. The black dirt on his face and garments was actually ash. And the eyes-they were reading her.

Padme regarded him kindly. "Jedi, what is your name?"

"Padawan Zola Treasach." And he bowed low to them both.