"Ah, Master Organa!" C-3PO exclaimed at the sight of his current master, his rigid back arching slightly in greeting. "I believe you have not yet acquainted us with this gracious guest. As he did not seem to have the vocal abilities to introduce himself, I must say I am quite pleased with your impeccable timing. Now, whom do I have the pleasure of greeting?"

In mere milliseconds, Bail Organa—respected member of the senate—froze like an inner core royalty on Hoth. To his even greater unhappiness, he found that Skywalker had reacted in much the same way, his body completely still and his face utterly emotionless, the only hint of his internal workings being the way his jaw seemed to set itself firm. At least it wasn't all that bad. Since Bail had had the foresight to reset C-3PO's memory banks, wiping it clean of his former master and creator, there was no way for this situation to get worse. All they had to do was to avoid revealing Anakin's true identity and they would be golden and he wouldn't have to throw any lives away trying to supress the former(?) Sith Lord's rampage. Easy.

Though, now that he looked closer, it seemed as though one more member of the strange squad held that same blank-faced panic. Whoever knew of an astromech being able to tremble?

"Anakin? Whatever are you making that face for?" Kenobi said as he made his brazen exit from the conference room. Bail only barely had time to whip his face around before the sudden spinning of wheels and the squeal of droid machinery made him return his eyes to the trio outside the door, now conspicuously lacking a certain astromech. On the cusp of outright panic, Bail took a hasty step out of the door, finding a small cloud of dust left behind the fiercely escaping R2-D2. Cautiously, Kenobi poked his head out of the door as well. "It left in quite a hurry."

Bail could feel a tremble overtaking his body. Of all creatures in the galaxy, organic or not, discounting Kenobi or those already dead by his blade, R2-D2 was likely the most knowledgeable when it came to Skywalker and his downfall.

Despite what many in the galaxy may advocate for, some select droids did indeed have the same intellectual capabilities as many sentients, often even more so than a few of the more primitive species. This was especially true when it came to the droids crafted by Skywalker's hand. Maybe it was that he himself was in many ways as artificial as the machinery he created, but it was no secret that those he made had all the chivalry, bravery and loyalty as any true soldier.

At least R2-D2 did. C-3PO was a bit less certain, though no less impressive for something made by a 9-year-old slave.

Right now, Bail deeply regretted not wiping R2-D2's memory bank as well. Since most people can't understand the droid language the astromech spoke, it hadn't been an issue that it might reveal some sort of state secret. Until now.

Years ago, Bail had dreaded the concept of Vader meeting his former creations. He still did, but now that it was actually happening, he found himself more so fearing the droids' reaction to him—specifically, R2-D2's.

In shock, Bail stared at the trail left by the fleeing astromech. Strangely enough, he envied its ability to act so honestly to meeting its former master. Deep inside, Bail wished that he, too, could have ran. The world began turning again as Skywalker slowly turned to regard the skid-marks left on the otherwise pristine palace floors.

"My, how ill-mannered of him!" C-3PO stated with a huff as he started shuffling towards the direction of R2-D2's trail. "To run away from a guest like that… Just you wait, Master, I'll be sure to give him a smack on the dome for his rude behaviour."

Nobody else knew how serious this situation was. Nobody else understood. Sweat trickled down Bail's back and his formal senator attire suddenly felt very hot.

Without saying anything, Bail took to running, quickly outpacing C-3PO and passing the bend by the hall. He simply didn't have time to explain. What were the chances of the droid finding a guard who could speak his language? Worse yet, what were the chances of that guard believing him and in turn bringing with him an entire platoon?

What were the chances of such a platoon surviving even a few minutes against the supposedly 'reformed' Skywalker? Even as a Jedi Knight, Anakin Skywalker had been worryingly effective at taking out hordes of enemies, be it droids, separatists, or Jedi. He was the kind of quality where quantity didn't matter. They could mobilise the entire kriffing military and it would still end with him alive and them dead.

Bail ran with his breath in his throat, his sweat soaking his expensive regalia and his panting filling the air.

Why did Skywalker design his droid to be so fast? And if he could design such an amazing marvel of machinery, why not do the same to poor C-3PO?

Bail shook his head clear of such thoughts. He skidded across the floor as he passed a bend, almost slipping and touching the marbled floor before bringing himself back to running. Down the hall, dwarfed on all sides by a number of confused guards, stood the frantically beeping and whooping astromech that had caused him such trouble. Even with his goal in sight, Bail didn't slow down for a second, instead only speeding up further.

The guards soon noticed his presence. "Your Highness?" one of them said. "Is everything alright? This droid seems very upset by something. You wouldn't happen to-,"

"D-, don't listen to it!" Organa shouted, the effort forcing him to gasp as he finally reached them, his arms snaking around the dome head of R2-D2 to keep it quiet. This, of course, only made the droid beep louder and in greater panic. "We had a simple mix-up with a recent guest. Do any of you understand droid?" The gathered guards each shared a confused look before shaking their heads as one. "Good. Good. In that case, there is nothing to worry about. Please, do leave us."

"Your Highness, should we call a technician to repair it?"

Bail blinked at him. Then, hastily, he shook his head. Knowing the kind of bond Skywalker had to the droid, doing anything to even slightly alter its disposition could very well bring down his rage upon the entire palace. "No—no. I will take care of it. You need not worry."

The guards shared a look again. "I see. If you insist, Your Highness." Saluting, the squad quickly left.

With their exit, the droid in Bail's clutches only began to beep more and with greater severity, not that Bail had the mind to care. All he could do was heave a great sigh as though he'd finally fought his way out of a massive war. The droid beneath him gave a defeated whoop. Although Bail didn't typically make a habit of speaking to droids, he said, "I feel the same as you do, but now is not the right moment. We must bide our time." He glanced down at the photoreceptors of the droid, trying to make out if there really was any intelligence in there. "I've already made up my mind, R2-D2. But you can still change yours."

The droid, uncharacteristically, made no sound of reply. It merely stared straight ahead, mute.

For a moment, Bail considered that the droid might have short-circuited due to the stress of what had happened recently, but after a minute or so the piece of machinery made to move again, and Bail stood back up. He almost expected it to say something, but all it did was give him a look before silently rolling back towards where they had come from. Considering the position Bail held, this sort of dismissive action could be seen as nothing less than treason, but due to the surrounding circumstances, Bail chose to simply ignore it, walking alongside the droid all the way until the remaining people could be seen hanging around outside the conference room.

Just as Skywalker came into view, R2-D2 suddenly ground to a stop. If it had been any other droid, if it hadn't been crafted by Skywalker, Bail would have assumed something quite different. Maybe he would have tried to make it move again by bonking it on the dome. Instead, he simply patted it. "I know you're scared. I feel the same. Just bear it for now. Pretend not to feel anything. Just… greet him. Be brave. That much you can do, right?"

The droid gave a low whistle. Bail nodded at it.

Gathering its courage, it rolled forward, Bail following at a sombre pace.

R2-D2 was a simple droid. Like most astromechs, his purpose was really just to assist in the flight of a starfighter. Most astromechs didn't last long, just like their pilots. But that was during the war. In his memory banks, R2-D2 had formed a separate file for his experiences during the war. It was nothing he enjoyed revisiting. One would expect a droid to enjoy doing the work it was designed to do—C-3PO certainly did—but R2-D2 was different.

He did not enjoy putting his Master in peril.

As any droid would be, R2-D2 was proud of his skills. His design was near flawless, and the resourcefulness of his Master had allowed him to be outfitted with many gadgets that allowed him to operate independently even outside of a starfighter. This was not even to mention his general drivers. Frankly speaking, R2-D2 was an incredibly complex droid, to the point where his intelligence frequently overrode the droid rationality imposed by his body and mind.

He was a droid, proud in his flying; but because of the emotionality granted to him by his creator, he dreaded it. In truth, he would have liked nothing more than an existence where he could simply spend his days joyriding with his Master, without the threat of death and galaxy-wide destruction.

That was it. That was all he wanted.

During the war, his only thoughts, the only thing he longed for during the nights he spent in silent rooms charging, was for the war to end. Then such a future would be possible. The Jedi would return to being peacekeepers, and the bad times would come to pass.

But instead, everything just became worse.

His Master became twisted. The galaxy was tainted. His dreams were corrupted.

But he had made do, and after everything was over, he slotted everything he had seen into its respective files. This itself wasn't anything too irregular—most droids compartmentalised their recorded material for storage purposes. But what R2-D2 never showed anyone, what he kept locked deep inside his coding, encrypted beyond any possible spicing, was a special file with only his Master. Simple moments from their time together. Never when they flew together, never on the battlefields. Only everything else.

Nobody would ever know of this. R2-D2 knew very well what that man had become. He did not miss what he was—he only mourned what he had been.

Until now, that was all R2-D2 had needed. He was old enough to know that although many Jedi turned from the dark, almost none ever returned. Those that did were counted as legends. It simply did not happen among ordinary Sith. It was as impossible as a candle relighting itself after being plunged into a deep sea.

And yet, here he was.

R2-D2 slowly slid to a stop a metre or two away from the large man he had once considered something akin to a father.

Compared to the minuscule droid, Anakin Skywalker was a massive, hulking creature, his limbs wiry and weak, far from his best creations. Carefully, analytically, R2-D2 let his photoreceptors absorb and identify the various parts comprising said limbs. It was all scraps. No, it could barely even be called that. Every single part was from a model older than even R2-D2 himself, who had been seen as an outdated model even during the Clone Wars.

The fact that the parts could combine to make anything at all was a miracle in and of itself. But considering that it was his Master-, no, former Master, it wasn't all too surprising.

R2-D2 gave a small, apprehensive bleep of greeting.

His former Master simply stared down at him. According to R2-D2's extensive databases on Human Facial Emotionality, the emotion his former Master was currently expressing with as few twists of muscle as possible was best described as grief.

A metallic hand reached out towards R2-D2 and he instinctually drew back, acting on his basest of programming.

It must have been the wrong choice, because the emotion visible on his former Master's face quickly shifted to one R2-D2 hadn't seen in many years, namely abject despair. As a matter of fact, it was not an emotion R2-D2 could recall seeing on a single other organic face. And yet, here it was.

His former Master retracted his arm, clutching it to his chest. "I didn't mean to startle you, Artoo. I just…" Another shift of facial emotion. Desperation. "Sorry."

Suddenly an old man appeared, putting his organic hand on R2-D2's former Master's shoulder. It took a second or so for R2-D2 to sync his appearance with that of former Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. "It's just a droid, Anakin," Kenobi said. "There's no need to greet it again after all this time."

His former Master shook his head. "No. Artoo's more than a droid." Kenobi retracted his hand. R2-D2 watched his former Master's movements with the greatest attention and scrutiny. The current actions of Anakin Skywalker did indeed sync up in many ways with the version of him that R2-D2 kept in his encrypted data files. But not everything was the same. And even if it was—if only because R2-D2 knew the pain this organic had inflicted on Senator Padmé Amidala—he kept his guard up.

"Dad, who is this?" A small organic child stepped into frame. R2-D2 did an almost instant analysis, cross-referencing the hair colour, eye colour, facial structure and age to his existing data-bank of human individuals, finding that it synced up with only a single individual. The fact that his former Master had connected with his child meant that—assuming Anakin Skywalker had not actually turned back to the light—the galaxy was doomed. A peculiar sense of icy dread filled R2-D2's cooling system.

And then a metallic hand reached down to fall on the boy's head, a gesture of familial love, and his former Master said, "He's an old friend of mine." A smile. Love. Another emotion: nostalgia.

The child's face lit up in excitement as it turned to face R2-D2. When it approached, R2-D2 kept still. The child, (deep in his memory banks, a memory played in full, of a dying senator naming her child,) Luke Skywalker, tentatively reached out his hand. "Hi!" the child said, "I'm Luke. What's your name?"

R2-D2 beeped a reply.

The child stared at him with big eyes.

A prosthetic hand fell on the child's shoulder. "His name is R2-D2." R2-D2 wasn't surprised in the least at who said it. Not that he could bear to look at his face.

Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn't the only one who had left Anakin Skywalker for dead. Padmé Amidala hadn't had a choice to begin with, but despite how R2-D2 may only have been acting on orders to bring her off Mustafar, it had still been his choice. R2-D2's loyalty didn't lie first and foremost with the Republic. It laid squarely with his Master. But he hadn't left his Master on Mustafar.

He had left a murderous monster.

But, then, whose scars was it he saw on this human's face? This human, who touched his son so gingerly, as though he was made of stardust, as though he could fly away at any time. This man who looked at R2-D2 not like one would typically look at a droid—a mere piece of machinery—but instead as one would look at a friend.

A friend he had lost.

Silently, R2-D2 extended his datajack towards the hand of the little child. The small human blinked at it, smiled from ear-to-ear, and took a gentle hold of it, bringing it up and down as carefully as a child could ever do anything.

Glancing up, R2-D2 found his former Master smiling gently.

"This is all very touching," C-3PO said, "but I still haven't been graced with the names of these respectable chaps. Will no one care to enlighten me?" Considering how chatty the protocol droid had a tendency of being, it was almost a miracle of the Force that he hadn't broken the atmosphere earlier.

R2-D2 took a glance between the assorted rabble of guests, taking a few extra seconds to take in the way his former Master mournfully processed C-3PO's artificial amnesia. Quickly, before anyone else could think to respond, R2-D2 emitted a complex series of drilling whoops and whistles and beeps, watching from the edge of his photoreceptors how his former Master—the only human of the collected group to understand the words he said—'s eyes widened.

C-3PO took a small step back in shock. "Oh, my! A pair of well-respected Jedi Masters have arrived on business with Master Organa? How shocking! I can't believe-," and that was about as much as he was able to thoughtless blabber before a pair of prosthetic hands snaked around his vocal enunciator, all four humans incessantly shushing him, necks swivelling to make sure no one was peeping or eavesdropping. C-3PO, for his own part, had now taken to struggling wildly, something that his stale and almost fully immobile limbs were completely unsuited for.

R2-D2's former Master leaned in close to C-3PO's audio receptors and whispered, "C-3PO, if you promise you won't scream or say anything like that again, I'll release you. Do you agree?"

C-3PO, his photoreceptors flashing, nodded frantically.

R2-D2's former Master watched the protocol droid for a few seconds with sharp eyes—too sharp for a Jedi—before releasing him. Finally freed, C-3PO stumbled back, mumbling 'Oh my, oh my,' as he did. It took a while for him to finally calm down, but once he did, it seemed he had actually learned to think critically, because it didn't take him long to ask, "I'm very sorry for my big mouth, I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, but… How come you knew my serial code?"

Anakin Skywalker froze in place. Any sentient, organic being would have failed to notice the quick, almost invisible glance R2-D2's former Master sent Senator Bail Organa and Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. But then it was gone, and he was back to looking down at C-3PO, his face a mask as emotionless as that of an assassin droid. "Organa informed me ahead of time. He told me you were an exceptional droid."

Much like a human might, C-3PO puffed up in pride. "Oh, Master Organa, to think you were such a flatterer! Well, I am indeed fluent in over six million forms of communication."

R2-D2 gave a groaning drill.

A small smile showed on his former Master's face. Quietly, almost too quiet to hear, he whispered, "It's alright. You're quite exceptional as well."

R2-D2 refused to feel any gratitude at the words or let them feed his pride, but he couldn't stop a few beeps from slipping out.

Amazingly, this made his former Master smile just a smidge wider.

Bail took a step forward.

He was lucky things had turned out slightly alright. Sure, if someone had his hallways bugged or there was anyone nearby, the entire forces of the Empire could come crashing down on them, but that hadn't happened yet, had it? Besides, even if they did try anything, assuming Skywalker was as reformed as he tried to seem, there was probably not a single person or force in the galaxy capable of taking him down. Not to mention how the one person most intent on hunting Jedi remnants had been none other than the man now standing in front of him.

Bail coughed into his hand, bringing the attention of the entire ensemble upon him. "I hate to break up the mood, but I believe we ought to discuss a few more things in the conference room, such as specific funds, and…" His eyes fell on the two droids in front of him. "Possible assistance."

Herding everyone back into the sound-proof conference room—alongside two droids who ordinarily would only be let inside on strict business—would have been next to impossible for anyone less well-versed in politics and the formal social sphere than Bail. Then again, with two Jedi, one senator, one child upon whose shoulders the fate of the galaxy lies and a pair of droids, the room suddenly became very packed. Nonetheless, they were able to discuss the present and future with well-rounded logic.

The first order of business was the destination of the group, alongside the funds that Bail would be able to provide them. The destination in question was a rebel base situated just between the inner and middle rim, one that just so happened to be generally considered the most well-stocked and war-ready base in the galaxy. There were plenty of battle-worn bases in the outer rim where the conflict between the Empire and its rebellion reigned steady, but in such places, morale, weapons and soldiers often ran thin. That was no place to send a possible Lord of the Sith.

Instead, he would go to a place designed to be able to quickly mobilise in the case of a sudden war. A place that held more Jedi survivors than likely any other single place in the galaxy—a feat that wasn't too difficult, all things considered.

Yes, you could say many things about Skywalker's previous exploits, but one thing he hadn't been was negligent.

To pay for their travel there, Organa would provide a sizable sum of 15 000 Imperial Credits. It didn't sound like much, but considering that it came directly from Organa's private pocket—a pocket typically reserved for the war effort—it was quite a lot. He promised them upfront that once they arrived, the rest of their travels would be financed directly by the rebellion.

That left only one last aspect to be discussed.

"...We'll only bring them if that is what they want," Skywalker said, his back hunched and his hands woven across his knees.

Bail glanced to his right, where he found the two droids standing quietly. Until now, neither of them had said a thing. C-3PO had obviously been permitted a seat, but had refused out of typical courtesy. For his own part, Bail wouldn't mind seeing them go. They were only droids, after all, and although his daughter did love them quite a bit, they could easily be replaced. Their value was altogether trivial. Anyone else would have asked Bail about the matter of his droids. Anyone else would have disregarded the opinions of mere droids. But Skywalker didn't.

"Going offplanet might be a tad bit stressful for my weak wires," C-3PO said meekly. "Though, of course, if my Master so desires it…"

"No," Skywalker said promptly. "I want your opinion. And I understand very well if you choose to refuse."

That made C-3PO go quiet once more. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that the droid could not fathom the idea of having to think up a course for the future of its own. It was only a protocol droid, after all. There was no need for it to operate independently. "I'm sorry Master, I…"

R2-D2 gave a sound of whistle, followed by a number of beeps and boops.

C-3PO perked up at the noise. "Artoo? Now, whatever do you mean by-,"

"Are you sure?" Skywalker said, his words slicing through the conversation like a vibroblade. "Housing a single droid won't be an issue, but we aren't going on a joyride here. We'll be going into a war. There's no certainty you will get out of it alive. In fact, the chances of that are very slim."

R2-D2 booped in reply.

Skywalker's gaze hardened. "Why should you go and not him?"

Another series of drilling whistles.

"You never said that during the Clone Wars. Have you grown sentimental? Did these years of leisure soften you that much?"

An aggressive beep, followed by a short whoop.

"...I suppose you're right. But even if I had found you, I would never have… No, I can't say that for sure." The faintest flicker of a smile flashed across Skywalker's face. "These years made you brave, didn't they?"

A simple whistle.

Startlingly, Skywalker chuckled. "You're right, Artoo. In that case, what can I do but honour this sentimentality?" His eyes moved away from the droid and onto Bail. In only an instant, the abundant mirth clear in them died away, leaving a cold much like the crust of Ilum in its wake. "We'll bring R2-D2 with us. But keep C-3PO."

Bail almost wanted to ask why, but somehow, he could tell that both Skywalker and R2-D2 had their reasons—however different—for their agreement. Suppressing the tremble in his hands, Bail gave a nod.

And that was that. One droid poorer, Bail sent off his unannounced visitors, wishing them good luck with their travels and reminding them to mention that Alderaan sends its regards. Once they were no longer in sight, once he could no longer feel the cold dread of Skywalker's presence, Bail walked back inside, returned to his office, and collapsed into his chair. There he sat for a number of standard minutes, gently resting his head in his hands.

Then, he reached for the interplanetary comlink connected to his wife and daughter's place of stay. She answered after a few seconds. The sound of her voice made the final shivering pieces of Bail's spirit finally break and he erupted in tears. His wife tried to console him as best as she could, but from across the planet, there was only so much she could do. In the end, the only thing that could abate the flow of tears was for her to put Leia on the comlink. Only then did he calm down, even if only to show a brave front.

After all, he couldn't possibly admit to his own daughter that he had sent her brother out to die.