The Neimoidians huddled together like frightened rodents, their bulbous eyes darting, their frames trembling.
Cowardice. Fear.
A desperate clinging to life, these were the defining traits of Trade Federation leadership.
"Mercy, my lord! Please, let us go!"
"We'll swear allegiance! Total loyalty!"
"Sidious is nothing! Less than nothing!"
"You are the true power! The strongest!"
The flattery washed over Garfield like water over polished stone. Their sycophancy was amateurish, their desperation pathetic.
These creatures couldn't match the competence of a mass-produced Transformer, let alone prove genuinely useful.
He floated lazily before them, examining them as one might examine spoiled merchandise.
"Useless," he mused aloud. "All of you. My robots command themselves."
"My ships maintain themselves. The authority is already mine. You know my plans with the Jedi."
"You're liabilities. Tell me, why should this King preserve such risks?"
The Viceroy's hand shot up. "We have resources! Secret factories! Wealth beyond~" He scrambled for leverage.
"We can be bait! For Sidious! If you want to draw him out, use us! He trusts us! We can lead him anywhere!"
Garfield studied them. Their terror was genuine.
Their willingness to betray was absolute. But loyalty purchased by fear was no loyalty at all, it was simply fear wearing a borrowed coat.
Still. Useless things could sometimes be repurposed.
"You may serve," Garfield said finally, raising a claw.
"Conditionally." He traced symbols in the air.
A contract materialized, glowing faintly with eldritch light. The lowest form of compact… master and servant.
They would live, but they would belong to him, body and will, until he found better use for them.
"Sign in blood."
The Neimoidians practically trampled each other in their haste to comply.
✦••┈┈••✦••┈┈••✦
Meanwhile, on Naboo's surface, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan began their performance.
They encountered Jar Jar Binks almost immediately… the clumsy, well-meaning Gungan who would, in time, reshape galactic history through sheer accidental incompetence.
After the requisite chaos, the Jedi followed him to the underwater city of Otoh Gunga, where they negotiated with Boss.
The amphibious ruler was suspicious, stubborn, and ultimately persuaded by a combination of Jedi diplomacy and carefully deployed deception.
A boat was secured.
Rather than risk the direct route through Naboo's dangerous planetary core, they navigated the safer passages, emerging eventually in the planet's capital city.
Theed sprawled before them, beautiful and besieged, its streets patrolled by droid soldiers, its people living under occupation.
In the royal palace, Queen Padmé Amidala held counsel with her handmaidens, though the figure on the throne was a decoy, as protocol demanded.
The real queen stood among her attendants, watching her double perform the motions of sovereignty.
"What do we do?" one of her handmaidens whispered.
Padmé pressed her lips together, frustration carefully masked. "We continue petitioning Coruscant."
"We appeal to Senator Palpatine. He is our voice in the Republic. He will help us."
She did not know, could not know that Palpatine was the architect of her suffering.
That the blockade strangling her world was a chess piece he moved toward checkmate.
That the Sith lord who had orchestrated this occupation sat in the Galactic Senate wearing the mask of her greatest ally.
They had no choice.
The only path forward was the one Palpatine had carefully paved, continued appeals to Coruscant, continued pleas to the man pulling every string.
✦••┈┈••✦••┈┈••✦
In his senatorial office, Palpatine gazed out at the endless cityscape.
Coruscant sprawled below him, a living monument to Republic excess, its lights flickering like false stars.
His mood was... complicated.
He wanted to destroy the Jedi Order. That fire burned constant in his chest. But annihilation for its own sake?
No. Becoming Emperor was the goal. Ruling, not ruining.
What satisfaction lay in a galaxy reduced to ash, populated by machines that could only simulate obedience?
Decades of planning. Of wearing masks so long they'd become indistinguishable from flesh.
All for this moment, this slow dance toward absolute power.
The communicator chimed. Naboo, again.
Palpatine smiled. Little queen.
You reach out to me, again and again, thinking of me as your salvation. If only you knew.
He didn't answer personally. He never did, not for these routine pleas.
His aide, already saturated with dark side influence, already moving to his master's silent rhythm, activated the connection.
"Her Majesty's communication is received," the aide recited, following the script.
"The Supreme Chancellor has dispatched envoys to the Trade Federation. They have arrived at the fleet and begun negotiations."
More words followed, empty and bureaucratic, until~
The line went dead. Blocked, as planned. As it had always been planned.
Padmé stared at the silent communicator. The message was clear… the Trade Federation would not be moved by diplomacy.
Naboo stood alone.
On the occupied planet, the situation was dire.
Naboo possessed no military to speak of, it was a world of art, of culture, of leisure. Its defenses were ceremonial.
Its guards existed to manage traffic, not repel invasions.
The Gungans, meanwhile, wanted nothing to do with surface-dwellers. Two years of mutual indifference had hardened into something approaching animosity.
Only Qui-Gon's eloquence had secured their grudging assistance and even then, their concern for human lives remained theoretical at best.
But Garfield's intervention had changed the battlefield calculus, even if no one on Naboo yet knew it.
The landing forces were contained.
The occupation was hollow and the invasion was a stage play waiting for its final act.
When Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and the perpetually unfortunate Jar Jar Binks finally reached Theed's palace, the meeting with Padmé was charged with desperate hope.
The queen, the real one, standing among her handmaidens while her decoy occupied the throne, listened with fierce attention as the Jedi explained their plan.
"So difficult," she murmured, when they'd finished. "So much uncertainty."
Qui-Gon met her eyes. "There is another way. A risk, but perhaps our best hope."
"We must run the blockade, not to Coruscant directly, but to Tatooine. There is someone there we must find."
"A child. After that, we proceed to the capital and expose the Trade Federation's crimes before the Senate."
Padmé considered. The plan was unconventional.
But the conventional path had led only to silence and blocked communications.
"I agree," her double said finally. "We leave immediately."
The royal shuttle lifted from Theed's hangar, its silver hull catching the light of Naboo's sun.
Below, Trade Federation droids fired desultory shots, a performance for anyone watching, carefully calibrated to miss.
As the shuttle climbed toward orbit, Garfield watched from the fleet's command ship.
On his order, a single vessel fired in low-power mode, enough to shake the passengers, not enough to cause real harm.
Inside, Padmé and her handmaidens gripped their seats in terror while Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan maintained their carefully calibrated composure.
Then they were through.
Accelerating toward the outer rim, toward Tatooine.
Garfield turned from the viewport. The shuttle was gone, its course set.
Now his own work began.