Disclaimer: I wish I could take credit for creating Star Wars, but alas, I am not George Lucas, and I have no intention of getting sued. I do, however, own Qauter Sollliel V. Contact me if you would like to vacation there.

Summary: As Qui-Gon, Anakin, and Bant protect the Republic from Darth Sidious, another Sith Lord emerges – Qui-Gon's presumably dead, former apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi. Can the Jedi save the Republic, or is it already too late? The third story in the Jedi Trials series.

Author's Notes: Here's a quick update before school starts again. Happy Easter to all! May the Easter bunny bring you mountains of chocolate and hard-boiled eggs (decorated in a SW theme, of course).

Revenge and Regret

By Kekelina

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Chapter Seventeen: Sith Versus Senators

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Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the center of the hallway, laughing maniacally at the chaos surrounding him.

"After her!"

Footsteps and laser bolts pursued the escaping trio, some of the blaster fire whizzing past a little too close to comfort Senator Bail Organa as he led them toward the senatorial hangers. He had to get Padme out of harm's way. Only she could hold the dying Republic together.

A very uncharacteristic vulgarity slipped from Bail's lips as they rounded a corner, a blaster bolt singeing his neck.

"They're gaining on us!" Typho yelled breathlessly, maneuvering another corner in the dizzying labyrinth that was the Senate.

"I've sent Captain Antilles ahead – " Duck. " – If we can only reach – " He palmed open a door. " – The Tantive IV, then we – " Senatorial aide Tyro Caladian fell before his eyes. " – Can make it to Alderaan."

Padme fired at the clones, nearly tripping over debris and dead bodies in the process. "I'm not leaving, Senator."

"I don't think this is the best time to be arguing, Pad – Oof!"

Esteemed head of Alderaan and clumsy, newly-promoted senator fell to the floor in a heap of chaos, the latter screaming and flailing his limbs in every direction, making it impossible for the former to wrench himself free of the panicked senator.

"MESA GONNA DIE! HE'P ME! HE'P ME!"

"Jar Jar!" Padme struggled to pull the frantic Gungan off Bail, a breathless heap pinned to the floor.

The clones gained on them. Blaster fire danced around the corridor. Jar Jar Binks screamed and latched onto Bail Organa for dear life.

"Get him off me!"

"Jar Jar, let go!"

"Hurry!"

"We have to move!"

"DEY COMIN'!"

"Pull him!"

"WESA DYIN' DO-TAY!"

"Milady – RUN!"

It was too late.

"No!"

Padme Amidala fell to the floor.

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Once upon a time, the Temple had been a beautiful refuge of serenity…

Once upon a time.

Adi Gallia fought back-to-back with her cousin, Stass Allie, on the defense as clone upon clone flooded their home. Now a wasteland a dead bodies, the Jedi Temple was no more an icon of peace than the shady palace of notorious gangster Jabba the Hutt.

Grunts accompanied swings. Kicks followed parries. Clone after clone was felled by the powerful blades of the two Corellian Jedi, fighting not for their own lives, but for the very life of the Jedi Order.

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"There's one!"

"Get her!"

The telltale ping! of blaster fire followed young Darra Thel-Tanis down the hectic corridor. She didn't dare stop. To stop meant suicide, and Darra would not give up so easily.

The day had started so normally. She and her Master, Soara Antana, had risen early from their slumbers to watch Coruscant's star rise over the point alloy tops of the city-planet's majestic skyscrapers. A quick morning meal of muja fruit and tea had followed their recently acquired early morning tradition (formed while on a diplomatic mission to Qauter Sollliel V, a Mid Rim desert planet that boasted four suns, two sunrises, two sunsets, and a temperature that dropped no lower than 35 degrees Celsius), and after filling their stomachs, they had settled in the common room to begin morning meditation.

Then it had happened.

"Behind you!"

An agonized moan and the odor of burnt flesh.

"Kill the traitors!"

"Don't let 'em get away!"

"One hundred percent!"

Her lightsaber flew in a blur around the kind, sweet girl, now a fierce warrior with a lifetime of knowledge in the art of saber combat. She swung as the Force deemed, muscle memory driving her limbs to execute perfect tucks and feints, drilled into her as second nature by a Master of the lightsaber – her own Master, Soara Antana.

But even Jedi, no matter how skilled, were only sentient.

Sweat dribbled down her tense face.

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Horror gripped the small party, every member paralyzed by fear. Even Jar Jar loosened his grip on Senator Organa to stare at the wilted body of their beloved friend. None cared that every second brought the clones closer and closer. They saw not the blaster bolts that whizzed past, nor heard the screams of fallen comrades. Padme was –

"Alive," Captain Typho whispered, his eyes rapidly switching from her faintly rising and falling chest to the charred wound on her torso. "She's alive. But barely."

Thank the stars…

"We have to get to the hanger," Bail repeated quickly, unceremoniously dumping the Gungan klutz on the ground next to him and heaving the wounded chancellor into his arms. Stuck in limbo between life and death, it would take far less effort for the former Queen of Naboo to die than to regain health. He was going to see that didn't happen. "We can take her to the Medi-corp on Alderaan."

They were moving again, though more slowly than before. Captain Typho produced cover fire for the Prince Consort and his precious cargo, while Jar Jar kept running into people and things in his effort to flee to safety.

"Hurry up, Jar Jar," Bail urged, finding the halls difficult to maneuver in the chaos. An Ithorian representative rushed past, dropping datapads on the floor. Bail slipped –

– And caught himself. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of the blast doors of the hanger.

"Ahead!"

It was a mad dash to the hanger, their most primitive survival instincts kicking into gear.

One hundred meters…

Seventy meters…

Fifty…

Thirty…

Fifteen…

Ten…

Five…

The door shut behind them.

The Tantive IV sat in its docking bay, the engines fired up and ready to go. Captain Antilles waited for them on the landing ramp. They had made it. Already, Bail could smell the fresh aroma that accompanied his homeworld. He could see beautiful Breha awaiting his arrival on their grand balcony. He could feel her loving embrace. Had word of the attack already reached Alderaan? Was Breha pacing their extravagant common room worriedly, waiting for any sort of word from Coruscant assuring his safety?

"Where's Senator Binks?"

Bail snapped his head. "What?" A visual search of the landing pad revealed a few other political members also racing for the safety of their homeworlds, but held no sign of the gangly Gungan.

Jar Jar Binks had been killed.

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Kick. Thrust. Block. A moan.

Three down. Ninety-thousand to go.

It wasn't, perhaps, the best time to be realizing this, but as his muscles strained, fighting not only the massive army that had found ground in the Temple of the Jedi Order but also his oncoming fatigue, Qui-Gon could only conclude that he was getting too old for this. He had come to the same conclusion once before, over ten years in the past, as he had fought for his survival against the Zabrak Sith apprentice. He had dominated over the Sith only with the help of the Force and Obi-Wan's incredible timing.

Would one out of two be enough this time?

It wasn't that these armor-clad soldiers were as skilled as the Sith-trained warrior (Qui-Gon would take blasters over a double-bladed lightsaber any day), but the sheer numbers in which these beings attacked, the strategies they used to overcome foes…it was astounding. They were much more than a mob of discontent farmers wielding faulty blaster rifles.

Slash. Duck. Sweep.

Qui-Gon called on the Force to fill him with strength.

Soldier versus Jedi. Blaster versus lightsaber. White versus brown.

He shoved the memories of the vision aside. Focus on the moment. He couldn't afford to lose his concentration.

But the vision had come true so far. He had warned Yoda, but the old troll had done nothing. They had played right into the hands of the Sith, right into the frigid death grip of Obi-Wan.

Another clone fell.

He wouldn't let the vision come true.

He couldn't.

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"Go to your posts. Wait for my signal."

Having grown bored chasing after a tired, old Prince and a little girl playing dress up, Lord Dementor had left the pursuit, capture, and deaths of those fools up to one of his Clone Commanders while he moved on to the next stage of his plan. The clones wouldn't fail. If they did, he would make sure they felt the sting of the consequences.

His fingers twitched hungrily.

Disinterestedly, his dangerous orbs swept over the ebonite Supreme Chancellor's Suite below the Great Rotunda. Stark, it had little personality, intended for the comfort of every Supreme Chancellor, no matter what planet he/she claimed as home. During Palpatine's reign, he had always had live feed of Galactic City streaming into a floor-to-ceiling holoscreen as a sort of faux-window. Amidala, however, only had one small holopic of whom he assumed were members of her family.

Maybe he'd pay them a visit after he was done with Coruscant…

He slipped the holopic into his pocket.

His comlink crackled. "We're in position, Sir. All those still alive have been captured as you ordered."

"Excellent." Everything was working out perfectly.

The Sith Lord briskly walked over to the Chancellor's Rotunda podium, embedded in the ebonite floor, and pressed the controls. Slowly, the mechanical platform began to rise. The ceiling above opened into the Senate dome, and Dementor was greeted by the sight of tens of thousands of corrupt beings in the galaxy, all being held hostage in their repulsorpods by Dementor's grand army of clones.

He would've stood there all day if it meant he could soak up every molecule of their fear. They shivered and quaked in his presence. He could hear their pathetic whimpers, see their eyes jump from clones to him and back again. It was a delicious empowerment.

"Esteemed senators…" His voice, dripping with sarcasm, echoed across the giant dome. If it was possible, they seemed to quiver even more. "Delegates of this galactic travesty, I'm positive that, by now, you've all been made aware of my arrival. Of course, I'm also sure that some of you were too caught up in your money counting to take notice of your dying colleagues, you hypocritical drips of Hutt slime. Do any of you care? Are your tears for fallen friends or fear for your own lives? Do you actually care about anything and anyone but yourselves? You devote your whole lives to the galaxy – why? For the chance to right some wrongs, to help people? Or to scam the rich to fill your own pockets, to take advantage of those you serve by exploiting them for your own gain?"

He paused. Not a single sound filled the giant hall.

"I thought so." A savage grin.

"Rest assured, my corrupt hostages, that such dishonesty shall never again fill this building. No senator shall ever use whatever means necessary to gain a few credits. How is that possible, you ask? Well, because there will be no senators."

"Who are you?" a frightened voice squeaked from near the top of the Rotunda.

He smirked. "My name is Lord Dementor. Welcome to my dictatorship." A beat. He nodded to the clones. "Fire."

The Galactic Republic was no more.

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The Other Author's Notes: Ah, the beginning of the end...of this story, anyway. I've actually written quite a bit ahead (so that I can work on the detailed plot for JT IV in between updates for Revenge). Right now, I'm looking at approximately 21 total chapters, which means there are about four more updates left. Unless, of course, I decide to splice a chapter in two or add some chapters together, but 21 is the rough count, and by the end, I'm sure you'll want to kill me. Just remember that if you kill me, you won't get JT IV.

Don't forget to review, and stick around for Chapter Eighteen: The Chosen One. Anyone wish to venture a guess as to the content? Besides the obvious, of course.

Author's Edit: 8-21-2007