Chapter 23

Author's note: Hello!

I'm horrified that it's taken my 11 and a half months to update this story. But I'm devoting the month of July (as part of Camp NaNoWriMo) to working on this story, and hoping to get a few more chapters written this month.


Finn and Mara bond, and begin to formulate a plan - but can they persuade Leia?

The base is still at this hour—not silent, for the jungle never sleeps. Shards of dawn pierce Finn's eyes, as he rambles wearily through the main concourse towards the mess. Caf, and quiet - that's what he needs. Fatigue bears down on him, but his mind is active and awake, and filled with dread.

Every time he closes his eyes, the images from the holovid play on repeat. Red sparks from the vibro-axe. The gleaming white of a Stormtrooper armour, black-accented helmets of the Executioner class.

But the moment that causes bile to rise in his throat is the deranged, inhumane look on Hux's face as he executes a prisoner on camera.

"Enemies of the Order will face swift and righteous justice," the narrator had said, voice dripping with blood and anger.

Finn shudders, remembering how close he and Rose had come to suffering that same fate.

Hux had been there too, a contemptuous sneer etched onto his features. He had always relished in bloodlust but never sullied his hands with it. That had always been Phasma or Ren's role. Hux was the words; they were the actions.

There's a sudden rustling in the foliage. Finn starts, heart pounding in his chest, fingers hovering over his blaster - but all that emerges is a long-limbed zymod, who regards him with curiosity before turning and scuttling up the bark of a broadleaf tree.

"Be seeing you again at dinner-time," Finn mutters, re-holstering his blaster and rubbing a hand over his stubbled cheek. He hasn't felt this jittery in weeks… It seems all it takes is a few restless nights to turn his nerves to tatters.

Even in those brief snatches of sleep, there is no respite. He can almost feel the press of white plastoid armour over his body; the stale, cloying air of the helmet, a bloody handprint streaking his vision.

It has barely been two standard months since Tuanal… Since he had defected from the Order, ran away and found a new, better purpose with the Resistance—admittedly almost died several times along the way, he thinks wryly. He might still be at war, but here he is a solider, not a weapon.

The mess tent flat is open when Finn steps inside, blinking in the glare of artificial light. The caf machine clicks in the background, and there's only one other person inside—Captain Namit, still officially wearing his quilted jacket despite the blistering heat of the planet. Most of the other officers had relented and switched to a lighter, less formal dress. It's still cool enough in the morning, but come afternoon Namit's face will be glistening and as red as mjua fruit.

He has the tired look of one who's been on night shift, a mug of caf clutched to his chest. He gives Finn a brief nod as they pass, and he scuttles out of the mess tent to return to his post before shift change.

Today, the caf is especially bitter; almost stale. Finn suspects it has been adulterated with something to bulk it out. But still he nurses the mug as he sits down, and stares at the steam waiting for it to cool enough to drink.

An insectoid buzzes above him. Ajan Kloss's insect population must have developed a predilection for Finn, judging by how they seem to swarm him everywhere he goes.

He is too tired to even swat it.

You're a bug in the system, Phasma's metallic-cloaked voice still purrs in his mind. Her gleaming helmet morphs, and suddenly he is seeing Hux's cruel, sallow face. A shudder ripples through Finn.

Guilt lashes at him—but why should it? He and Rose had survived. They had escaped that inferno—and Phasma at least was gone. Snoke too—but with Ren's ascension, the Order's leadership remained no less brutal, and undoubtedly more unpredictable.

There had been virtual silence from the First Order since. Of course, the Resistance had seen the newsholos of dreadnoughts in the Bryx sector, of Stormtroopers marching in the streets of Kijimi… but those were simply over-hangs from Snoke's rule, completion of an old task.

Quite what Finn had expected from the new Supreme Leader—a rejuvenated Starkiller, subjugation of yet more systems—this wasn't it. Propaganda videos were a different weapon of war.

Perhaps there was no point in trying to follow the logic of a madman and megalomaniac.

His mind drifts again to the Stormtroopers' corp. The ones carrying the vibro-axes in the holovid. The ones who had come close to ending his and Rose's life. The plastoid-cloaked weapons of death and destruction.

But he remembers the others too—the ones whose mind had filled with doubt on the Supremacy, and whose lives were cut down by their own commander in her desperation and fear.

He thinks of Jannah's regiment—the ones who had protested a massacre, and found those weapons turned back on themselves. All it would take to burn the Order to ashes is for someone to stoke the fire within…

And that is the crux of it. These weeks of inactivity have felt paralysing. Now that he knows his purpose, the need to act flares within him like the burning heart of a star.

How desperately he wants to conjure up a plan, a strategy to present to General Leia to incite a rebellion within the Stormtrooper ranks and tear down the Order from within.

But he has nothing. Even with Rose's help—brilliant, insightful, wonderful Rose—they have failed to conjure up something even halfway viable.

"Hey," Finn starts as a hand is placed on his shoulder. But as his gaze darts upwards, and finds only Poe's concerned face staring back at him. "You okay, buddy? You were tossing and turning in your bunk all night."

"As were you," Finn says, as Poe slides onto the bench beside him. And indeed, the only person whose sleep pattern has seemed worse than his own is the pilot's. These past few mornings, Poe is awake and out of their tent before the sun has even risen.

Poe squirms. His skin is already glistening with perspiration. "All I'm saying is that I'm here if you need to talk."

"Likewise," Finn says, and takes a long swig of his now sufficiently-cooled caf. A grimace crosses his face.

Poe takes the mug from his hands, sniffs it and gags. "Yeah, don't drink that poodoo, buddy," he says. "Reminds of me the stuff they used to sell in some dodgy cantina on Subterrel. Rumour was, the locals used to use it to fuel their speeders." He shudders. "Between this and Kaydel's moonshine, we won't need the First Order to kill us. The drinks will do for them." He barks a cold laugh, "Sorry, poor taste, I know."

"Quite literally," Finn says, risking another sip. "Let's get the dark humour out of the way before the rest of the gang joins us."

"Sure thing, buddy. Although I doubt we'll be seeing Rey for breakfast," he adds. "I saw her heading off with that Mara Jade woman not long after sunrise." His lips twist into a moue of distaste.

Finn raises an eyebrow. "You don't like Mara?"

"It's not about liking her. It's about trusting her, and I'm not entirely sure I do."

Finn wants to point out how spectacularly wrong Poe's last assessment was - and how devastating the consequences were for the Resistance - but he holds his tongue. His friend is suffering, a hollow look about him, all sleepless nights and hot sweats. So he simply says, "Leia does."

Poe sighs. "I suppose that's good enough for me too. Come on," he adds, heading towards the counter. "Let's stick to drinking water instead."

But Poe's mention of Mara Jade had piqued something within Finn - a curiosity, and maybe a hope…?


Finn hears Rey and her mysterious new mentor sparring long before they come into view— weapons humming and sparking against one another, and grunts which almost certainly belong to Rey.

If the woman who kicked Kylo Ren's sorry arse on Starkiller sounds as though she is losing, Finn is exceptionally grateful that Mara Jade is on their side.

Rey had saved his life on Starkiller. When Ren had knocked him out, she'd somehow gotten hold of the lightsaber and even more astoundingly beaten him in combat.

I bet you hated that, you arrogant bastard, Finn thinks with a smirk. Gods, what he would have given to have witnessed Ren's little tantrum afterwards.

Watching Rey fight in person was breath-taking. This new lightsaber suited her—and he felt an element of second-hand pride at Rose's part in its construction.

The two women circle one another, like loth-cats poised to strike, both shimmering with sweat. Arcs of purple and yellow cut through the air like glowing ribbons; sparks falling to the ground every time their blades clashed. A feint here, a parry there. Poetry written of bloodlust and violence.

Rey continues to grunt—and somehow he is reminded of Ren in a way that is both thrilling and disconcerting.

In contrast, Mara is eerily silent and calm; almost ghost-like in her movements.

They continue for another minute, before Mara launches a strike with such vigour that it knocks the saberstaff clean out of Rey's hands, and lands sparking and hissing in the dirt.

"Good job," Mara says; an undisguised pride in her voice. "But remember, this isn't a cantina brawl. You don't need to hit me so hard. It's only tiring you out."

"I am not tired," Rey pants, bending down to switch off her saber's blades.

Finn applauds. The sound rings through the clearing.

Mara gives an exaggerated bow. "Well," she says, "I think that concludes this morning's training. Time for a break, I think."

Rey wipes the perspiration from her brow. "Agreed." She turns to her friend with a smile. "Shall we grab some caf from the mess before I have to meet Rose?"

At that, the kernel of anxiety in Finn unfurls. He clears his throat. "Actually… I was hoping to speak with Mara," his says, trying to imbue his voice with confidence.

The older woman smiles—not unkindly, but with a stern, knowing slant to her lips. "Of course."

There's something disconcerting about how she looks at him; as though a single glance can slice him open with a scalpel and dissect his thoughts and fears. It was how he felt when Ren looked at him amidst the blazing village on Jakku. Kriff, he's seen the bloodied aftermath of when Ren did it to Poe, can still smell the blood and sweat.

But whatever Mara is doing doesn't feel invasive—a prickle travels over his skin, like the footsteps of a spider, but there is no discomfort, or pain.

Finn wonders if she is as haunted by her past as he is by his. And, despite the whispers he has heard about her, of the sins she had committed once, he believes that he can trust her.

"You have a grave look about you," Mara says once Rey has bid them both goodbye, and disappeared into the jungle. "Fancy a drink?"

He nods. "Just not caf from the mess."

The older woman barks a laugh. "Please, as if I'd ever touch that loth-cat's piss." She jerks her head in the direction of the base. "Come on, I've got some proper tea on my ship."


Finn sighs in the cool, recycled air of the Jade Fire's living quarters. Sheltered from the oppressive heat of the jungle, he feels calmer. Freer.

Mara too seem more relaxed, toeing off her boots and humming a low tune as she prepares two mugs of fragranced tea. Finn doesn't recognise the scent of the blossoms—why would he, having spent most of his life on sterile, lifeless dreadnoughts?—but there's something calming about the smell.

Is this how normal people live? He wonders. People without the burden of guilt and galactic war on their shoulders?

"So, Finn," Mara says, passing him a mug. "May I assume this is less a social call, and that you've come seeking my counsel?"

He nods, his eyes hard as flint. "I want to bring down the First Order."

Mara huffs a laugh. "Yes, I suspected as much. It's the same reason I'm here, after all. Sort of a key aim of the Resistance. But," she adds with look both shrewd and gentle, "Would I be overly forward in suggesting there's a little more to it in your case than simple politics?"

"You know my story?"

"Bits of it—the same as you know with me, I suspect. We do have quite a bit in common." She watches him for a moment, and once again he wonders if she is using the Force to pry beneath the surface.

"Do you know where the Stormtroopers come from?" Finn asks. "The Order snatches kids and turns them into soldiers. They strip you of your name, your memories—" Finn's voice cracks, his eyes stinging, "Until all you remember is the cage you're in."

"The Stormtroopers are designed to incite fear," Mara says quietly. "Always have been. But the First Order amplified that. The Empire's troopers would only brutalise and kill; this new generation will snap up your children and turn them into weapons."

Finn nods, his gaze sharp, mouth hard. "There's thousands—maybe even millions—like me. Like Jannah. All trapped. And they follow orders not because they believe in them or because they like the killing. They're afraid; they don't have a choice."

"And you want to free them?" Mara says. Her eyes are soft.

"I want to give them a choice. And I believe they'll take it, and turn against the Order."

"I see." She rests her chin on steepled fingers, and hums contemplatively. "And precisely how do you propose to do that?"

"See, that's the thing," Finn says, shoulders sagging. "Rose and I have been wracking our brains for weeks. I think," he says with whatever gravitas he can muster, "that if we can turn the Stormtroopers, we can turn the tide of the war and the Order will implode."

"A solid hypothesis, kid," Mara says, rubbing a hand against her chin. "Bit sketchy on the finer details, though."

Finn sighs, and takes a slow sip of tea. It tastes good—sweet, and invigorating. Like hope is still within his grasp. "That's what we can't figure out. If I could just reach them, show them they aren't alone… But I can't broadcast a holo to them— the First Order would just jam it. And I can't run out into the middle of a battlefield—I'd be dead before I even opened my mouth."

"As someone who's more than a touch experienced in toppling regimens… Can I offer you some advice?" Mara asks, a half-smirk on her lips. Finn leans forward eagerly. "It's a kriffing headache to try and topple from the outside. If you want to burn this place from the inside, that's precisely what you need. Someone on the inside."

Like tinder catching, those words spark something in Finn's mind. "You mean…" It's madness, he tells himself, and yet… "Go back into the Order and incite a rebellion from within?"

For a few seconds, an odd look passes over Mara's face; but she soon rearranges her features into a mask of placid calmness. "Hypothetically? It's a sound enough idea. If conditions and morale are as bad, you say, then—with the right plan—"

"I'll do it."

Finn leaps to his feet, and starts to pace. An idea begins to coalesce in his mind. Those gleaming white plastoid helmets—once a prison, now a mask of anonymity. How easy it would be to blend in once more. To light the spark, stoke the fires of rebellion…

Burn the Order to the ground.

So deep in thought, he does not notice Mara rise from her seat until she is standing before him, her hands gripping his shoulders and her mouth twisted into a frown. "No offense kid… but exactly how much undercover experience do you have?"

"Zero." He says, with a surprising ebullience to the words. "But you do… Don't you? And you could teach me."

Mara sighs, clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Let's assume I agree to help you with this… You'd have to convince the General, and I cannot see her agreeing. Besides, what makes you think Leia doesn't have some other plan up her sleeve that this might interfere with?"

"I don't trust Leia to act if it means making a move against her own kid."

Mara's grip on his shoulders tightens, just on the edge of pain. "Be careful who you say that around," she warns. The air seems to pulsate with her anger. "If that little family secret gets out, you'll cause a riot."

"I'm not here to fight with you, Mara," he says evenly. "I thought that if anyone would understand me, it would be you."

At those words, the older woman seems to deflate. Her hands fall away, and her posture slackens. She looks weary, and old. "I know, kid." Her voice is quiet, and he has to strain to hear her next words. "Finn… Are you sure you want to go back there? After everything?"

Finn sighs. Whilst his heart thunders at the idea of donning that horrible white armour once more, of losing himself and becoming a gear in a murderous and militaristic machine once more—albeit only for show—his resolve is set.

"I'm sure."

"Well, if you're insistent… then yes, I think I can help you."

They migrate back to the table, and Mara gulps down the rest of her tea. A determined look sets across her features. "So, before we take this to the General, let's at least come up with a workable plan."

Finn reaches across the table, and grasps her hand. "Thank you."


They plot for hours—fuelled by endless mugs of tea and ration packs—and it's almost dusk by the time a skeleton plan has formed. They will add sinew and flesh to it over the coming days, but right now Finn is vibrating with exhilaration. I'm coming, he thinks.

Mara rises from her seat, and gives an undignified stretch. "Well, I don't know about you, kid, but I am exhausted," she says, her words punctured by a yawn. "Shall we hit the rack, and take the plan to Leia first thing in the morning?"

Finn tries to stifle a yawn himself. Now that he has a strategy—something more tangible than fervent dreams and wishes—he's impatient to start. And the first hurdle to overcome will be gaining the General's approval.

Actually, scrap that… the first hurdle will be trying to convince Rose.

Even dogged by fatigue, there's a newfound determination to Finn's steps as he ambles across the base. A sense of purpose he had been hungering for, now made manifest.

With dusk creeping in, the temperature is finally dropping. Even the insects are retreating to their nests for the night. There's a pleasant, heady scent in the air. Finn inhales a deep breath, savours it. There won't be any colour or flowers or greenery when—if—he finds himself back on a dreadnought.

Months ago, picking his way across the blazing heat of the Jakku desert, that had been his biggest fear. Not death, but being dragged back to the First Order. His mind being broken and violated, losing himself once more and becoming a faceless, mechanical killer. Freedom was the sweetest taste in the galaxy. As was friendship, and—he thinks with a pang—love.

He loves Rose—his beautiful, brilliant, feisty girlfriend. The woman who challenged him and taught him, who nearly died to prevent him pointlessly sacrificing himself on Crait. She saved him because she loved him… But perhaps she also saved him for another purpose too.

Please have my back in this, he thinks, rubbing a hand over his heart. Please understand that I need to do this.

As the hangar comes into view, Finn can already hear a low whistle. Rose likes to hum and whistle and sing as she works. Songs from her home world of Hays Minor, she told him once. Memories to soothe her pain from the grief of loss, and stoke her righteousness to see justice done for her planet, and for her family.

Finn has no home world, no ties. And his only family are those men and women trapped in white armour and servitude.

He slips in the main door. The air inside is warmer than outdoors, and thick with the scent of grease and sweat. Rose is alone, squatting before a rusted speeder with a wrench in her hand. He can almost picture the look of scrutiny on her face—her lips pursed, a furrow forming between her brows.

Rey will look over Rose in his absence, he knows. Poe too. Affection and gratitude washes over him like a wave. Theirs are friendships forged in blood and strife, bonds as tough as durasteel. Unbreakable.

Rose turns to face him, her features aglow with a smile. Finn feels the most exquisite pain in his heart at the sight.

"Hey," she says, laying the tool on a bench before sliding her arms around his waist and pulling him close. "Perfect timing; I'm so hungry I could eat a rath—"

Finn cuts her off with a desperate kiss. Her lips are dry but soft. She smells of engine oil and earth; warm, familiar. The closest thing to home he has ever known. Huge hands cradle her face, brushing away the rivulets of sweat painting her brow.

He sears this moment into his memory, before pulling away. "I'm going to sneak back into the First Order as a Stormtrooper, and start a rebellion."

"What?!" she sputters, eyes wide, jaw slack. She blinks, as though waiting for the punchline to some joke, before-

"Ow!" he yelps, pulling away to massage his bicep where Rose has just landed a punch.

"Be grateful I lost that electro-shock prod," she tells him. "Kriff Finn, is this a joke? Because it's not funny!"

"No joke." He grabs her forearms in a loose grip, and guides her to sit down at the workbench. "I've thought long and hard about this, Rose," he says in a soft, beseeching tone. "And this is the only workable idea I—we—have come up with." He closes his eyes, unable to bear the bright, glassy glimmer in hers. "Those other Stormtroopers… they're in pain. They're suffering. And every day, the Order is rounding up more kids." His voice breaks. "I can't just sit back and watch, sweetheart. You know that."

Rose grabs the lapels of his shirt, and pulls him into a kiss. She's crying, the salt of her tears mingling with his own.

When they break apart, her face is blotchy—as, he suspects, is his own. But there's a determination to her gaze, jaw set.

"Then I'm coming with you."

A thousand objections spring to his tongue. The danger, the insanity. How he cannot ask another person—the woman he loves—to risk her life in his crusade…

But the one which finds a voice is, "Aren't you a little… short?"

A wet, blubbery chuckle escapes her lips. "Maybe for a Stormtrooper… but that's not what I meant." She wipes her eyes on her sleeve before continuing, "Those dreadnaughts, they're massive, right? So there must be a huge team of technicians maintaining and repairing them. And it means I can try to feedback any intel to the Resistance. Sabotage their systems too." She exhales a shuddering breath, and places a hand over his heart. Even through the fabric, it burns. "I love you, Finn. I won't let you go alone."

"I love you too," he whispers, and places a feather-light kiss on her lips.


Cooling darkness settles over Ajan Kloss, the air abuzz with but a few nocturnal insects and birds, as Mara finds herself approaching the General's quarters.

She hadn't initially intended to come this way—after a private dinner of rations on the Jade's Fire, she was planning on going to bed. Despite Finn's steadfast determination to go ahead with his little act of subterfuge, the General would not be easily won over. Leia had always been formidable—the teenage Princess who had stared down Vader; the young mother doggedly pursuing democracy and justice in the senatorial chambers of a burgeoning New Republic; the seasoned politician-turned-rebellion leader—and few could bend her will to anything. Certainly, Mara did not fancy going up against her on anything less than a full night's sleep and some decent caf.

But, as she sat in her quarters and brushed her long hair in preparation for bed, Mara had sensed something spiking in Leia's Force signature. An anxiety, a disquiet.

And so she found herself sweeping past an indignant C-3PO—"The general does not wish to be disturbed!"—and settling on the other chair in Leia's office.

"You know," Leia says in a wry voice, "If you keep coming to my quarters late at night, people are going to talk…"

Mara snorts. "Well, when you can't get a great signal for the Holo-Net, people have to entertain themselves in some other way…" She grabs a chipped glass from the corner of the desk, and pours them both a measure of whiskey. "Is the General afraid of a little scuttlebutt?"

"Hardly." She takes a slow sip of her drink. "But every other time you've come to me, it's been to ask a favour—and usually an unpleasant one," she adds with a raised eyebrow.

"No agenda this time," Mara says, leaning back in her chair. "I'm just here to chat with an old friend."

Before Leia can utter a response, the comm on her desk emits a shrill beep. A slow smile fills the General's face. "Finally!"

The comm flickers to life, and a grainy image of Lando Calrissian appears before them. Despite the poor quality of the signal, Mara thinks he looks weary. Shoulders sagging, and dark circles rimming his eyes.

"Hey Princess! And Mara!" His face cracks into a smile, one that did not reach his eyes. Even half a galaxy away, she could sense something was wrong. "You found them, eh? I've got a few others headed your way too. Has Maz arrived yet?"

"Not yet - but Maz is hardly known for her punctuality," Leia says, waving her hand. "Not be impolite… but how went the sabaac game? How many x-wings can we afford?"

"I cleaned 'em right up—three million credits," Lando says, but there's no triumph in his tone. Instead, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and clears his throat. "But I got some bad news, Princess. Incom-FreiTek is no more. Corporate buy over by Sienar Jaemus—and, if the rumours are to be believed, supposedly sanctioned by Be-" Lando clears his throat again, "By the Supreme Leader himself."

Leia blinks. "Oh." An impassive mask creeps over her features. The Force curls around her in agonised waves.

Yet, Mara senses something else—an odd beat of hope, perhaps? Maybe, deep down, despite everything that has passed between mother and son, the General feels a modicum of maternal pride. At being caught unaware; of an unexpectedly clean and bloodless move that would cripple them more effectively than any bombing raid or land-battle.

"Well," Mara interjects into the tense silence, "Evidently political manoeuvring is a hereditary trait."

"And there was me thinking he'd ignored my lessons," Leia retorts sadly.

Scorn creeps into Mara's tone. "I doubt that kid ignored anything you ever said. Good or bad. And maybe this is a good thing—a sign that we can end this war without nearly as much bloodshed."

"As desperately as I would like to believe such things were possible… Need I remind you that the last time my son and I were in the same vicinity, he came dangerously close to blowing me up? I doubt he'd welcome me knocking on the hull of his flagship and asking for a ceasefire—even if I were willing to negotiate in the first place."

Mara bites her tongue, as she remembers the lost and broken young man she had met on the Supremacy. A man with the power to burn the galaxy to ashes at a foible, who longed for nothing more than the heart of a scavenger girl, and the love of a mother.

But Lando is clearing his throat. "Actually, I might have something else that will be of interest to you, Leia…" He reaches for something out of view of the transmitter—a glowing holocube. "Something that will get you in the same room as the most powerful people in the galaxy—and on guaranteed neutral territory."

Surprise flashes across Leia's face. "The Core Bank Gala," she murmurs, before shaking her head. "Thank you for the offer, Lando, but I must regretfully decline. After all, my son was never one for parties," Leia scoffed.

"Maybe when he was ten years old and still playing with toy X-Wings," Mara says, knocking back her drink in a single burning gulp. "But he's proven reasonably adept at this politicking so far. He'll be there. I know he will." She gestures wildly. "So let's test this hypothesis—let's see if we can negotiate our way out of this war. Worst case scenario, we fail—but at least, we do it on safe, neutral grounds. Besides," she adds, her gaze falling softly on Leia. "There are worse battlefields you could face him upon."

Leia shakes her head; eyes shining. "Less bloody perhaps." The Force is heavy with pain, pulsating like a heartbeat. Her sigh is as heavy as the galaxy. "It would mean exposing that you're working with the Resistance, Lando," she tells the crackly holo-image of her friend. "And if we don't reach a successful resolution, the First Order will turn its sights on Bespin next."

Lando's face hardens. "Ben was never stupid, Leia. He must suspect already. All we'll be doing is confirming those suspicions." He sighs. "We don't have resources; and if we hide away then we won't have hope either."

"Well, if we're contemplating waging a propaganda war," Leia says wryly, "Then I need another drink."

Mara them both another measure of whiskey as Leia and Lando hash out a few perfunctory details. The gala is in three weeks—held on Chandrilla, of all places. The birth-place of New Republic, and of Ben Solo. Though Leia's face betrays no emotion, Mara can sense every flicker of her Force signature. It's as though the universe is determined to make this whole exercise as emotionally traumatising for her as possible.

But when has fate ever been gentle to those with Skywalker blood?

"Even though it's neutral ground," Lando says, sipping at his own drink half a galaxy away, "I'd still advice you bring some protection."

"Agreed," Leia says, before turning her gaze upon Mara. "And since this a game of politics… I think it's time for the galaxy to officially meet their last Jedi."