Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Star Wars. Nothing. Nada.
Chapter 3
1 Year Later
Sabé sits frozen, her eyes fixed on the wall in front of her, too scared to so much as breath.
Next to her, Saché is just as still, only the frills of her dress fluttering gently in the breeze from the air conditioner.
They're trapped in the closet of the office of one of the governors of Alliga. They'd been searching the mess he called files, had just finished rifling through the enormous desk, when they heard footsteps coming down the hall, and dove for cover before the governor and another man swept into the room.
"I cannot guarantee you a meeting with the Senator," the Holwuff grunts as he collapses down behind the desk, the chair groans in protest.
From their hiding spot in the closet, the girls hear the other man set down, gently, supernaturally almost, and then the now horribly familiar, cultured voice, chuckles, "That is all I ask, a chance to plead my case."
Count Dooku, the man they hadn't been able to locate all evening. Of course he'd show up at the most inopportune moment.
Sabé and Saché had been investigating the Count on behalf of Senator Amidala for almost a year. During that time, they'd watched him pulling strings and slowly trying to unravel the fabric of the Republic, and doing a damn fine job of it too.
They'd traced his moves, no easy task, and sifted through every record they could get their hands on about the places he visited. Every opportunity that arose to attend social events he would also be at was seized.
That why the sisters were currently dressed as a pair of purple Twi'leks.
Over the past few months they'd employed multiple disguises, Twi'lek, Togruta, Zeltron, boring looking human girls, to keep themselves from being recognized.
It had started out a bit like a game, dressing up and sneaking around, but it had lost its luster quickly. Months on end pretending to be different people was exhausting, physically and mentally.
She'd like nothing more than to be back to boring galas, now more than ever.
"I like what I hear from you Count Dooku. If the Senator does agree to see you and anything comes of it, I expect to be compensated," the Holwuff grunts again, the shadow of his snout visible through the slats on the door, raised in the air, sniffing.
Sabé preys the stink of the party masks her and Saché's scent.
His snout drops down when Dooku chuckles.
"Of course, my friend. If the Senator agrees to see me and decides to participate you will receive full credit for forging the connection."
A bottle pops open, the smooth sound of liquid being poured masks hushed words, then they laugh as their glasses clink.
There's shuffling, obviously the Holwuff getting up and passing something to Dooku who in turn mutters appreciatively.
The chairs creak, and seem to be preparing to leave, when Dooku speaks, "A word of warning, you have some rather unwanted guests. If I were you I would take some action to remove them."
Sabé's heart stops.
Had he sensed them, hiding in the closet, listen?
The Holwuff makes a noise, a grumbling laugh. "We know. We'll deal with him and the kid later."
The door grinds open and shut, then the Governor and Count's footsteps echo into the distance.
Slowly, Saché inches the door to the closet open, blaster up, sighing and letting her weapon fall when she's happy the room really is empty.
"Great," Saché mutters as she unkinks her lekku, "more cryptic exchanges."
Sabé nods. "At least we can tell Padme to keep a closer eye on the Alliga Senator."
For all the good it'll do.
"If we aren't the 'unwanted guests' who is?" Sabé wonders, brushing dust from the dress.
Saché shrugs. "Better them than us."
They silently check the darkened hall and head out, back to the deafening party downstairs.
Vapid smiles and blank looks plastered on their faces, they pushed back out onto the dance floor, their absence unnoticed.
Sabé hates acting as a Twi'lek. She hates how she has to dress, she hates how she had to behave, and she even hates how they dance.
Twi'leks should demand more respect, she thinks irritably, staying close to Saché, who is more adept at shaking off the leers and hands than she is.
Silently, she begs Saché to leave. They have all they're going to get for the night.
Saché twists around, swinging her lekku, agreeing.
The both look over the room, searching for an easy out without actually appearing to do so.
Saché's eyes flash and she jabs Sabé with her elbow. Follow me, sissy, she wordlessly tells her.
Sabé watches as Saché does a spin, whirls into a green-skinned Nautolan and begins giggling. Sabé does her own twirl, flashes a dazzling smile, and racks her memory for where she's seen him before.
Saché pulls the Nautolan onto the dance floor and makes a small gesture to her sister to join them.
The Nautolan is clearly perplexed, the tentacles on his head twitching curiously, but he allows the pretty girl to lead him onto the dance. Saché presses herself up against him, laces her fingers into his tendrils to pull him closer, her mouth a breath away from the side of his face when she whispers, "You had best watch out Jedi. You'll find few friends here."
He makes no move to indicate that he's heard her, but Sabé sees his tendrils make the smallest of twitches.
His dark, unblinking eyes scanned the room for the threat. Suddenly Sabé remembers just where she's seen him before: Master Jinn's funeral.
He hadn't stayed afterwards and she had only seen him briefly, but despite his lack of Jedi attire now, she's certain he's the same.
At least now they know who the 'unwanted guests' are.
A toothy grin flashes as his tendrils flick. "Many thanks my pretty, purple friend."
Saché winks at him and then inclines with her head, indicating he should follow her. Sabé wraps her left arm around his waist and giggles stupidly as Saché links her fingers with the Nautolan's and pulls him along with her, hips swaying.
Before they're to the exit, a Mon Calamari blocks their path, annoyance and confusion emanating from him.
"These ladies are going to show us a good time," the Jedi explains to his friend, grin never faltering.
Saché's eyes trail up and down the Mon Calamari, flicking upward with a huff. "If that's what you're into."
The Mon Calamari's mouth opens slightly, as if to say something, but thinks better of it. He instead follows them in sullen silence, casting dark looks at the Twi'leks as he mutters mutinously to himself.
They wind through guests, finally making their way to the dimly lit hall that leads to their room.
It's musty, a damp cool permeates it, and the yellow lights flicker ominously every few minutes. Outside the rooms guests have discarded garbage piling up, empty cans and wrappers, shredded clothing, the occasional piece of broken furniture. It's a charming place, really.
Their room is the last door on the left.
The paint is chipped and the card reader is hanging by its wires, Saché struggles with it for several minutes before getting it to work.
When the door finally opens, grinding on its ancient gears, the Twi'leks break into a flurry of activity, pulling their bags out from under the bed and stuffing their findings into them.
"Who are you?" The Nautolan finally asks, as he watches Sabé stuff several heels into a glittery bag.
"Don't worry about it. Just know we're saving your skin."
Pulling on a cloak, Saché pulls the hood over her head and begins dragging the lone bedside table to the window.
Sabe copies her, finally gathering her bearings enough to ask, "Do you have transport? We need to make a quick and quiet get away."
"First you are going to tell us who you are," the Nautolan Jedi tells her, his warm smile never fading. "Then we will discuss transport."
The sisters exchange annoyed glances.
They couldn't tell them the truth...or could they?
"We're with the senate. We're investigators."
It isn't a lie exactly. It's close to the truth. Very close, really.
Saché nods her agreement, then crosses her arms, arches one of her nonexistent eyebrows.
"We overheard a conversation not long ago, and if the two of you are caught you might meet an early end. Clear?"
"We really don't have time to discuss the particulars, when they start looking for you our time will be up. Let's get to your transport and we will tell you what we can there, okay?" Sabé adds, her voice rising in panic.
There's no telling when they'll start looking for the now vanished Jedi.
The two Jedi look at each other, exchange some silent communication of their own, and seem to decide on trusting the sisters.
Though the Mon Calimari seems less enthused about this than the Nautolan.
"Good," Sabé sighs, looking to Saché.
She already climbing onto the table, which wobbles and creaks under her weight, and prying the window above it open.
"Yeah, super," she grumbles, waving a hand absently.
Once the window is open, Saché tosses her bag over her shoulder and grabs the edges of the window, grunting as she pulls herself up and through.
Seconds later there's a thud of something hitting the ground outside and a hiss of pain.
Trying not to imagine what Saché has done to herself, Sabe climbs onto the table and proceeded to pull herself out after her sister.
She lands in a heap, stifling a cry of pain as she rolls out of the thorned bush she ended up in.
They barely manage to get to their feet, pretend to have any dignity left, when the Mon Calamari appears in front of them.
"Watch out," the Nautolan warns them as he peers down at them from the window.
The Nautolan, though several times their size, still manages to force himself out and lands deftly in front of them.
Somehow, they both land on their feet and avoid the bush.
Gathering their bags, the girls creep quietly along the wall in the direction of the port, staying close to the Jedi leading them. Sabé hopes this means he does indeed have transport.
They avoid a pair of rowdy drunks, both swearing in garbled Hutteese, and are nearly at their destination when a couple of the Alliga security officers stroll in front of them. Waving his hand, the Nautolan chuckles as the two seem to realize they forgot something very important on the other side of the port, mercifully taking them off in the opposite direction.
Running past various other ships, they find themselves in front of a battered cargo ship. Sabé questions its integrity, but doesn't get to voice her concern before Saché shoves her up the ramp.
"They may start firing on us when they see us leaving off schedule. They might think we stole the ship," the Mon Calamari tells the Nautolan.
He shrugs, wholly unconcerned. "Then we fire back."
The girls scramble to find seating, only to find there isn't any.
Instead, they grab a couple of straps used to secure boxes to the walls and secured themselves in as best they can.
"Oh kriff!" Saché shouts, nearly getting tossed from her makeshift harness.
As predicted, they've no more than left the ground when shots begin to fire.
The rickety ship shudder, the bangs thundering and echoing, non-stop as the ship's human cargo is tossed around inside.
"I'm gonna be sick!" Sabé moans as the ship spins, ceiling and ground switching far too fast.
"So much for a quiet getaway!" Saché laughs as she's thrown around, hit her lekku against an unsecured crate that had flown up.
It goes on for several minutes, spinning and yelling, deafening noise all around...
As suddenly as it started, it stops.
The ship levels off, the noise fades, and Sabé gently floats down, suspended upright only by her tangled straps.
Saché is still laughing, dangling in a tangle from the remnants of some old and unused bit of equipment, the strap she'd used having snapped and tangled around it.
Fighting her strap, Sabé frees herself before hurrying over and pulling out a vibroblade, slicing the still giggling Saché free.
"Did you hit your head?" Sabe asks, warily inspecting Saché's head for injury.
"Probably. I think that crate got me," she snickers, wobbling and holding onto Sabé for stability.
Her giggling stops seconds later.
"Now for those answers," a deep male voice tells them.
Straightening up, the sisters turn around and face the Jedi.
Shaking off her punch-drunkenness, Saché smiles. "Would you like to sit down?"
They're led into a tiny kitchen, seated around a small, battered table. The Jedi sit across from them, the Nautolan's expression pleasant and open, though expectant.
"Where shall we start?" Sabe asks, her Twi'lek accent still intact.
His tendrils twitch cheerfully. "Might we start with your names?
Saché's eyes glint mischievously.
"Saché," she gestures to herself and then to her sister, "and Sabé."
"Unusual names for Twi'lek's," he notes simply.
"Yes, they are, aren't they," Saché replies, still the picture of innocence.
She's not lying, not technically. She didn't say they were supposed to be Twi'lek names...and she did agree they were odd.
"You're with the Senate gathering intelligence?" The Mon Calamari repeats, looking dubious.
"Yes," Sabé answers this time. Again, not a lie, not technically.
Saché sits back in her chair, eyes the Nautolan with indisputable interest. "May we ask a question?"
"Of course."
"What's your name? Or should I simply call you master?"
His laugh is a rumble, warm and comforting, and his dark eyes twinkle mischievously.
"Kit Fisto," he gestures to himself, then to the Mon Calamari, "and my padawan, Nahdar Vebb."
"A handsome name for a handsome Nautolan," Saché tells him, ignoring the other Jedi.
"Now," Kit begins, sitting forward, his dark, unblinking eyes on the girls, ignoring Saché's attempts at flirting, "you said you overheard a conversation that referred to 'unwanted guests'. How do you know they were talking about us?"
"We don't. Not for certain. Very few things in life are certain though," Saché explains, still batting her eyes at Kit, "but out of all the people at that slum dump you two are candidates number one and two."
He nods in agreement, his expression more solemn than Sabé had yet seen it.
"I assume the two of you won't be opposed to going to Coruscant?" He asks, the think tentacles on his head swaying as he looks between them.
"Not at all," Sabé replies, glad to hear they'll be heading…well, not home exactly, but at least a familiar place.
A clean bed will do her wonders.
#######
Over the next several hours Master Fisto, or Kit as he reminds them to call him, questions them at length about the particulars of what they had heard. Though he has his doubts about the voice they heard having been Count Dooku's, he's still receptive to at least hearing them out.
"I can't imagine Count Dooku saying something like that. He was once a Jedi."
"So we've heard," Saché mutters dryly.
"People change," Sabé adds, remembering her long ago conversation with Obi-wan.
"Yes, they do. Such a drastic change though...it's hard to imagine," he explains, smile faultering.
Sabé widens her eyes, fixes Kit in a pleading look. Saché shoots her a dark look, already knowing what she's planning.
The sisters had disagreed, on multiple occasions, about whether they would ever ask for Jedi assistance. The opportunity has presented itself, though, and Sabé is taking it
Whether her sister approves or not.
"If you would-do you think we could persuade you to get the Council to speak with us? To share some of the information we've heard about the growing discontent and Count Dooku's participation?"
Kit's smile falters momentarily, he suspects they're up to something but he isn't sure what, but he decides to appease them.
"We Jedi are always willing to listen to what others have to say."
"Yes," Saché's expression darkens, "but are you willing to hear."
#######
By the time they arrive at the Jedi Temple in Coruscant it's very early in the morning.
A sliver of light from the sun falls across Sabé's face, waking her. Looking up, she sees Saché already awake, staring at the ceiling and flipping her fake lekku absently.
"Don't let anyone see you do that. I'm pretty sure it would hurt a real Twi'lek," Sabé mumbles into her pillow.
"They won't," Sache sighs.
"Are we at Coruscant yet?"
Sache rolls over, nods. "I heard them talking. We'll be landing in a few minutes."
Sabé frowns, rubs her head, wishing the false lekku were gone already and hoping for a shower soon.
"Are we going to keep pretending to be Twi'lek's? This body paint is getting itchy."
Scratching her arm, Saché grimaces, shakes her head.
"Nope, we're reporting to Padmé once we land then shower time."
"You've never said anything sweeter, Saché."
Saché snorts. "Well, I'm about to temper it with some sour."
She pulls her cloak on, which she'd been using as a blanket, and pulls the hood over her head, only her frown showing.
"Kit said the Council would like to talk to us, but they won't be ready to receive us for a few days. Apparently," she grunts in disgust, "the council plus a select few others will be there to ogle us."
Sabé sit up, makes a face. "Why?"
Why can't it just be the council?
"Because it's 'Very troubling, what these girls say is, mmm'," Saché repeats, holding her lekku up like tiny pointed ears, rolling her eyes. "I overheard Kit talking to that little green one earlier. The really wrinkled one from Master Jinn's funeral."
Despite being no more excited about the idea of having to present their many months' worth of intelligence to the Jedi than Sabé, Saché apparently hasn't been able to think of any way to worm out of it.
"You're doing all the talking," is the last she has to say on the matter, before getting up to look out the lone window.
Coruscant is a pretty planet, despite the overpopulation and the pollution.
The superskyscapers glitter in the early morning sun, shimmering like silk. Lighted signs dazzle even in the bright of a new day. It's mesmerizing, even to Sabé, who's seen it hundreds of times.
When they land at the Temple Sabé takes the opportunity to look around as they're briskly ushered out by a pair of young boys.
The Jedi Temple isn't a place outsiders often find themselves. It really is quite magnificent. High ceilings, large, bright windows, it's open and airy but Sabé can't help but feel uneasy. There's something too reserved, unnaturally quiet, and unbelievably cold about the place.
Her feet barely make any sound as she hurries along beside Saché, who also seems to be taking in the rare sight of the inside of the Temple.
Her face is expressionless, but small gestures, movements, the stiffness of her walk, give away the fact that she doesn't care much for the place either.
As they reach the front steps one of the boys turns and asks with practiced civility, "Do you need us to hail an air taxi for you?"
Sabé smiles, shakes her head "No, sweetness, we can manage."
Saché winks at them, causing one to turn a deep shade of crimson and the other to pale.
Once outside they hail the air taxi easily. There's hardly much competition out at this early hour.
Saché tosses in their glittery bag and yawns broadly before ducking in.
"You probably gave those two heart attacks," Sabé finally tells her, once they're strapped in.
"Oh, posh. That was probably the best thing that'll happen to them all day." Saché rubs one of her lekku, still keeping up the act of being a Twi'lek. "Eerie place, huh?"
Sabé grunts her agreement.
They're quiet the rest of the way, the excitement of their walk through forbidden territory too brief to give them much gossip.
When they arrived in front of Padmé's apartment building they're both very itchy and have the smell of stale smoke from the taxi clinging to their clothes. They enter through the service entrance, up the cold turbo, then bolt for the showers.
Sabé emerges an hour later, toweling her gloriously freed hair, smelling fresh and crisp.
She nearly trips over the hem of her robe when she finds not just Saché sitting on the bed waiting for her, but also Padmé.
"Nice of you to finally join us," Padmé teases, getting up and hugging her. "I'm glad you're alright."
"We thought you might have drowned in there," Saché adds, shaking her head dramatically. "I'd have had to go get Kit to come in and save you."
Sabé throws her towel at her.
"Oh, shut it, you're the one with a crush on him." She crosses her arms, rubs at a patch of dry skin. "That dye remover is old and then I had to double moisturize because my skin is all icky now."
"Yeah, I noticed," Saché agrees, scratching her neck. "Can we get hazard pay, Padmé? Just a little. For moisturizer and dye remover."
Padmé chuckles. "Sure. Submit your forms to the committee over funds and it's all yours."
Saché flops back on the bed. "I'd have better luck selling spice at the Jedi Temple."
Rolling her eyes, Padmé settles back down on the bed, turns her attention to the less dramatic sister.
"Saché said you two are going to speak with the Jedi Council in a couple of days. She's briefed me on everything you've found. Not much new."
Sighing theatrically, Saché doesn't even sit up. "Not a damn thing."
#######
They rest for a day before beginning to sift through their seemingly endless intelligence.
"Is there any kind of order to this?" Padmé asks, eyeing the mess in undisguised horror.
"Nope. None whatsoever," Saché chirps, a little too happy about her sloppy documentation skills.
"We were in a bit of a hurry," Sabé explains. They're always in a hurry it seems.
There are notes handwritten on napkins and candy wrappers, photos of varying quality, holorecordings, and then whatever they managed to actually log on their data pads.
It's a mess, but that's hardly something they can fix in a few days.
"We'll be a little neater from here on out," she promises.
Saché snorts. "Doubtful."
They're still adding information the night before their meeting is scheduled.
"I shouldn't have agree to this," Sache mutters, pressing her fingers to her eyes.
Sabé nods in silent agreement and picks at her meal of cold takeout and warm wine.
"This is going to be a nightmare."