章 229: C228 Child of Thanos

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Padmé's Quarters…

Padmé stood frozen, her heart pounding as her gaze locked onto the man sitting casually on the edge of her bed. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of Atlas's engines, muffled through the thick walls.

Peter smirked, his hands resting loosely on his knees. "What? You don't recognize me without the mask?"

Padmé blinked, stunned, her mind struggling to reconcile the figure before her. The Star-Lord she knew—the cocky warrior in the glowing red-eyed mask—was gone. In his place stood Peter, unmasked and unmistakably… human. And handsome.

"Star-Lord…" she murmured, her voice soft, disbelieving. Then, as if testing the sound, she added almost to herself, "Peter."

Peter tilted his head slightly, a small, lopsided smile pulling at his lips. "That's me."

Padmé straightened, her arms folding tightly across her chest, an attempt to shield herself from the confusing rush of emotions swirling inside her—anger, betrayal, longing. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "Why keep hiding your face—your real name?"

Peter stood, his movements unhurried as he closed the distance between them. He stopped a respectful step away, his voice calm, genuine. "I wasn't hiding from you, Padmé. I was hiding from the Jedi." His gaze softened. "But it looks like I can't hide much longer."

Her brow furrowed. "The Jedi? Why?"

Peter exhaled deeply, as if preparing himself for what he was about to admit. "Because I am one. A Jedi Knight, technically. And let's just say… the Jedi Council wouldn't exactly approve of some of the choices Star-Lord makes."

Padmé's eyes widened, disbelief written across her face. "You're a Jedi?"

"Yeah," Peter said quietly, the weight of truth in his tone. "But secrets have a funny way of catching up to you. You can't bury them forever."

Her arms tightened across her chest. "And what about Natasha and Mikaela?" she snapped, the edge returning to her voice. "Why did they get to know the real you, but I didn't?"

Peter ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "They met me as Peter. I didn't have the mask on." He took another step forward, his expression serious. "This isn't about me favoring them over you, Padmé. Or them being more important. I care about you. I care about all of you."

"You care about us," Padmé repeated, her voice trembling slightly as she turned to face the window, her back to him. "You made me feel like I was special. Like it was you and me against the galaxy." She shook her head, her tone heavy with hurt. "But now…"

Peter's voice softened. "You are special, Padmé." He stepped closer, the sincerity in his words breaking through her walls. "You think I came all this way, fought an entire war, just because I thought it was fun? I did it because I love you."

Padmé turned sharply, her dark eyes locking onto his. "Then why didn't you tell me the truth!?"

Peter met her gaze head-on, no flippant remarks this time. "Because I'm an idiot," he admitted with a quiet chuckle, self-deprecating and raw. "I didn't plan for any of this. I thought I could keep things simple, and that everything would just work out. That was stupid of me."

For a moment, Padmé said nothing. The anger in her eyes faltered as a storm of emotions swirled within her—confusion, longing, and hurt. "Peter…" she whispered, his name slipping from her lips before she could stop herself.

Peter lifted a hand slightly, as if to brush a lock of hair from her face, but he let it drop before it reached her. "I know it's messy, and I know it's not what you wanted," he said softly. "But I promise you, I'm serious about us."

"But you're also serious about them," Padmé said, her voice quieter now—more resigned.

Peter didn't flinch. "Yes," he answered simply, honestly.

Her shoulders tensed, and she turned away again, staring out the window as if the stars held the answers. Silence stretched between them like a chasm. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can share you."

Peter's expression softened, and he nodded, understanding. "I'm not asking you to decide right now." He took a step back, giving her space. "Just… don't shut me out. We'll figure this out, okay?"

Padmé didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the stars beyond the glass. But the silence felt softer now, less sharp than before.

Peter lingered a moment longer, watching her, before quietly turning and heading for the door. It slid open with a soft hiss, and he stepped out, leaving her alone in the room.

As the door closed behind him, Padmé finally let out a long, shuddering breath. Her fingers brushed the edge of the window, her thoughts a tangled storm of emotions.

And for the first time, she truly didn't know what to do.

————

In one of Atlas's spacious common areas, Natasha and Mikaela sat on a sleek, metallic couch, each nursing a glass of alcohol. The air between them was heavy, the earlier confrontation with Padmé still hanging over their heads like a storm cloud.

"She's got fire, I'll give her that," Natasha said at last, breaking the silence. Her tone was calm but carried a sharp edge of irritation.

Mikaela snorted, swirling the liquid in her glass. "More like arrogance. She walks in here, acting like she owns the place. Who does she think she is?"

Natasha smirked faintly, her lips curling. "The Queen of Naboo, apparently…"

————

In one of Atlas's cavernous hangars, young Anakin fidgeted anxiously as he worked on his droid, C-3PO—a familiar habit whenever his thoughts were running wild. His hopeful, wide-eyed gaze kept darting toward the open space where his mother, Shmi Skywalker, quietly stood.

She looked small amid the towering machinery and sleek, alien technology, but there was an undeniable strength in the way she held herself—straight-backed, composed. It was a strength Anakin had always admired.

Taking a deep breath, Anakin stood, clenching his fists at his sides. 'This is it. I have to convince her.' His boots clanged softly against the hangar floor as he hurried over to her.

Shmi turned as he approached, her face lighting up with a gentle smile that could soften the hardest edges of the galaxy. "There you are," she said, reaching out to cup his face with her warm, calloused hands. "I was wondering where you'd run off to."

Anakin leaned into her touch briefly, comforted as always by her presence. But then he stepped back, his face serious. "Mom, I need to talk to you about something important."

Shmi's smile faltered just slightly, concern flickering across her eyes. "Of course, Ani. What is it?"

"I want to join Star-Lord's crew," he blurted out.

Shmi froze. "What?"

Anakin pressed forward before she could object, his voice rising with emotion. "I want to go with Star-Lord and travel the galaxy. He's my hero, Mom! You know that."

Shmi's face softened with understanding, but her eyes clouded with worry. "Anakin…"

"Please, Mom!" he pleaded, stepping closer, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You've always told me to dream big, to believe I could be more than just a slave. This is my chance! I can do something important—I will do something important."

Shmi looked down, her hands clasping tightly in front of her as if trying to steady herself. "Anakin… I know how much Star-Lord inspires you. I was just as surprised as you were when I found out who he is. But this life… the life he leads is not safe. It's not what I want for you."

"I don't care!" Anakin argued, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not afraid. I've seen worse on Tatooine—what's out there can't be any worse than slavery!"

Shmi closed her eyes, holding back tears. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, heavy with emotion. "You're still just a boy, Anakin. You have so much ahead of you. I want you to be happy and safe—not running headlong into war and violence."

"I'm not just a boy," Anakin said stubbornly, his fists tightening. "You've said it yourself—I'm special. I know it. Star-Lord will see it too. I can help him. I can be something."

Shmi knelt down in front of him, placing her hands gently on his small shoulders, forcing him to look into her eyes. "You are special, my son. I have always known that. But this…" She shook her head faintly. "I don't know if this is the right path."

"It is the right path!" Anakin insisted, his voice cracking. "This is what I want—what we both deserve. Freedom. You can come with us!" He looked at her hopefully. "Star-Lord's ship is huge, Mom. You'd be safe here. We could still be together."

Shmi gave a faint, bittersweet smile. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Because I want this," Anakin said, his voice low and earnest. "I want us to be free. Really free."

Shmi's heart ached as she gazed at her son—her brave, brilliant boy with dreams far too big for the life they'd been forced to live. She knew he was destined for greatness, but the thought of letting him go… it felt like losing a piece of her soul.

"You are my everything, Anakin," she whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace. Her voice trembled as she added, "And I am so, so proud of you."

Anakin wrapped his arms around her, blinking back tears. "I love you, Mom," he murmured.

"I love you too," Shmi whispered. She held him for a long moment before gently pulling back, cupping his face once more. "If this is truly what you want—if this is the path you believe you must take—then I won't stand in your way."

Anakin's face lit up, his heart leaping in his chest. "You mean it?"

Shmi nodded, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "But promise me something, Anakin."

"Anything," he said immediately.

"Promise me you'll be careful—that you'll take care of yourself. Promise me you'll live a long, happy life."

Anakin nodded fiercely. "I promise."

Shmi pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering as if trying to hold onto him for just a little longer. "Then go," she whispered. "Be the great man I know you can be. I'll be here, watching as you make your dreams come true…"

Anakin grinned, excitement and hope flooding his heart. "I'll make you proud, Mom. You'll see."

"I already am," Shmi said quietly, her voice breaking ever so slightly.

With that, Anakin turned and ran back toward the corridor, his heart pounding with anticipation as he went to find Peter.

Shmi remained where she was, watching him go, her hands folded tightly over her heart. She smiled softly, though tears finally slipped down her cheeks.

"May the stars keep you safe, my son," she whispered to the empty hangar, her voice barely audible.

————

Meanwhile, Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in one of the ship's quieter chambers. The space was vast and unfamiliar, its sleek, metallic walls humming faintly with Atlas's inner workings. The technology was unlike anything the Jedi had encountered before, and though their surroundings were peaceful, their expressions remained grim as the weight of the past few days lingered.

Obi-Wan broke the silence first, his voice edged with frustration. "Master, I cannot ignore what we've seen. This Star-Lord is most definitely a Sith. You saw what he did to the Viceroy."

Qui-Gon clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze distant as he stared out one of the narrow viewports. "Yes, I did. He used the Force to choke the Viceroy. It is… troubling."

Obi-Wan began pacing, his brow furrowed. "Troubling? That technique is unmistakably of the Dark Side. And yet, here we are—walking among him and his army without consequence. We don't even know his true intentions."

Qui-Gon turned toward his Padawan, his calm voice an anchor against Obi-Wan's rising unease. "And what would you suggest, Obi-Wan? That we confront him? That we challenge him and his forces here and now?"

Obi-Wan stopped pacing, exasperation clear in his tone. "No, of course not. But we can't simply ignore what we've seen. He commands an army of machines more powerful than the Trade Federation's droids. If he turns that power against the Republic—"

"Fear," Qui-Gon interrupted gently, "is the path to the Dark Side, Obi-Wan. Do not let it cloud your judgment."

Obi-Wan sighed, though his frustration was far from gone. "Then what would you have us do, Master? Wait and observe until it's too late to stop whatever it is he's planning?"

"Yes." Qui-Gon's tone was resolute. "We will follow Grandmaster Yoda's orders. We observe. We learn. And we wait. The truth will reveal itself in time."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "You don't believe he's a Sith? After everything?"

Qui-Gon's expression remained thoughtful. "No, I don't. His actions were aggressive, yes—but controlled. The Dark Side feeds on anger, hatred, chaos. I saw no such chaos in him. Star-Lord's intent was clear: incapacitate the Viceroy, not kill him."

"But his methods—"

"—are unorthodox," Qui-Gon finished, his voice steady. "I sense no malice in him. He is complicated. Powerful, but not lost to the Dark Side. Not yet."

Obi-Wan folded his arms tightly, clearly unconvinced. "Then what is he, Master? If not a Jedi and not a Sith?"

Qui-Gon shook his head faintly. "That is the question we must answer."

Before Obi-Wan could respond, Qui-Gon clapped a reassuring hand on his Padawan's shoulder, his tone lighter. "Now, come. Let's get some food. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

Obi-Wan exhaled sharply, his frustration ebbing just slightly as they turned toward the corridor.

The door hissed open as the two Jedi stepped into the hallway. Before they could take more than a few steps, a small figure barreled around the corner at full speed.

"Watch out!" Obi-Wan called sharply, stepping aside just as the figure collided squarely into Qui-Gon with an audible thud.

Qui-Gon staggered but quickly steadied himself, his large hands resting instinctively on the boy's shoulders to keep him from falling. "Easy there," he said gently.

The boy bounced back on his heels, eyes wide with surprise. "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" he blurted breathlessly, his face flushed from his hurried sprint.

Qui-Gon froze the moment his hands touched the boy. His eyes widened imperceptibly as a surge through the Force overwhelmed his senses—a wave so powerful, so raw, it was like standing in the heart of a storm. The Force wrapped around the child like a living current, calling to him with an intensity Qui-Gon had not felt in years.

Power.

Pure, unrestrained potential radiated from the small boy, leaving Qui-Gon momentarily breathless.

"Master?" Obi-Wan's concerned voice broke through the moment as he stepped closer. "Are you all right?"

Qui-Gon blinked, his senses snapping back to the present. He looked down at the boy, studying him with newfound awe. Sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the innocence of youth—paired with something far greater beneath the surface.

"What is your name?" Qui-Gon asked softly, his voice unusually gentle.

The boy blinked, clearly eager to move on. "Uh… Anakin. Anakin Skywalker."

Qui-Gon exchanged a quick glance with Obi-Wan, whose brow furrowed as he, too, felt the faint ripple in the Force surrounding the child. It was nowhere near as overwhelming for Obi-Wan as it had been for his Master, but even he could tell there was something unique about the boy.

Qui-Gon smiled faintly, lowering himself slightly to the boy's eye level. "It's nice to meet you, Anakin. I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and this is my Padawan learner, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Anakin blinked up at them, unimpressed by the formal introductions. "Oh. Well, nice to meet you, but I really have to go!"

Before either Jedi could ask further questions, Anakin spun on his heel and darted back down the corridor at full speed, his small form disappearing as quickly as he'd appeared. "Bye!" he called over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan stared after the boy, his arms still crossed as he frowned. "What just happened?"

Qui-Gon didn't immediately respond. He remained rooted in place, staring down the hallway Anakin had vanished into, his thoughts swirling. Finally, he murmured, more to himself than his Padawan: "The Force surrounds him… stronger than I have felt in a very long time."

Obi-Wan glanced at his Master uneasily. "You think he's Force-sensitive?"

"More than that," Qui-Gon replied softly, his expression distant. "The Force flows through him like a torrent waiting to be unleashed. He is powerful, Obi-Wan. Powerful beyond what he knows."

Obi-Wan's frown deepened. "Master, he's just a child."

Qui-Gon's gaze was steady as he looked at his Padawan. "So were we, once."

Obi-Wan hesitated, though concern still lingered in his voice. "And what do you intend to do?"

Qui-Gon's lips pressed into a firm line. "I intend to test his midichlorian count as soon as I can. If the Force is truly this strong within him, then this boy may be far more significant than we realize."

Obi-Wan didn't argue further, though his skepticism was clear. "Perhaps…"

————

After leaving Padmé alone to think, Peter wandered the quiet halls of Atlas, his footsteps soft against the metallic floor. He'd hoped for a breather after their conversation, but he wasn't naïve. There was no avoiding it—Mikaela and Natasha were next. And unlike Padmé, they were probably armed.

Following ALFRED's directions, Peter turned a corner and paused in the open doorway of one of the ship's dimly lit common rooms. The air smelled faintly of alcohol, and the soft hum of the ship's engines was interrupted by two very familiar voices.

On the couch sat Mikaela and Natasha, slouched lazily against the cushions, their cheeks flushed and glasses of glowing alien liquor in hand. A half-empty bottle teetered dangerously on the edge of the table in front of them.

Peter didn't have to listen for long before the corners of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile.

Natasha scowled down at the liquid in her glass as though it had personally offended her. "You know what I hate most about him?" she muttered, her voice a little slurred but still sharp. "It's that face. That stupidly perfect, smug face."

Mikaela let out a loud, dramatic groan, flopping her arm over her eyes. "And then—then!—he smirks. That smirk. Like he knows he can get away with anything just because he's Peter freakin' Quill. Curse his stupid face."

Peter decided now was as good a time as any to make his entrance. Leaning casually against the doorway, he cleared his throat. "Wow. I'm flattered, really. Didn't realize I was so handsome and universally despised."

The effect was immediate.

Both women froze mid-rant, their eyes slowly turning toward him like predators spotting prey.

"You…" Natasha started, pointing her glass at him.

Before Peter could blink, Mikaela grabbed her empty glass and hurled it at him with surprising speed. "You showed up! You idiot!"

Peter ducked, the glass shattering against the wall behind him. "Hey! Hey! I didn't come here to play dodgeball."

"Stop dodging!" Natasha snapped, her own glass flying in his direction. Her aim, however, was far less accurate, sailing wide past his shoulder. "Coward."

Peter straightened up, holding his hands out in mock surrender. "Okay, can we agree that throwing things isn't the healthiest way to handle this?"

Mikaela flopped back against the couch, waving a hand in his general direction. "You deserve it. You brought a queen onto the ship, Peter!"

Natasha groaned, leaning her head back. "Yeah. And you didn't even tell us about your Star-Lord nonsense. You're lucky you're pretty, or I'd—"

Peter smirked. "You'd what? Throw another glass at me? Because you're two for two."

Natasha shot him a narrow glare, though her lips twitched faintly. "Don't get cute. You're still in trouble."

Peter stepped into the room, crouching beside the couch so he was level with them. "Alright, ladies. You've had your fun, but let's call it a night before you start throwing furniture."

"I don't need help," Mikaela muttered as Peter gently pulled her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, leaning against him despite her protests. "I'm perfectly… fine."

"Yeah, I can see that," Peter replied dryly, supporting her as they shuffled toward the door. Natasha stumbled up behind them, grumbling something incomprehensible under her breath.

Peter carried Mikaela to her quarters first, setting her carefully on the bed. She squirmed under the blanket, her voice soft now, almost vulnerable. "You know… I hate you sometimes…"

"Only sometimes?" Peter teased, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Mikaela blinked up at him, her expression unguarded. "Just… don't leave me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't care how many women there are… just don't leave me, Peter. Please."

Peter's chest tightened. He leaned in closer, his voice low and gentle. "I'm not going anywhere, Mikaela. I promise."

She gave him a faint, content smile before her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing slowing as she drifted into sleep. Peter tucked the blanket around her, lingering for a moment before stepping back.

Natasha was waiting in the hallway, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Lightweight," she muttered, though there was no venom in her voice.

Peter smirked, slipping an arm around her shoulders as he guided her toward her room next. "Says the woman who can barely stand."

"I can walk," Natasha replied, though her steps were sluggish.

Once inside, Peter settled Natasha into bed, pulling the blanket up to her chest. Her eyes opened just slightly, her gaze hazy but steady as she looked at him. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, I've heard," Peter said softly, smoothing a stray lock of red hair away from her face.

Natasha's lips curved faintly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I hate sharing you… I hate it. But… I'd rather have this than lose you."

Peter froze, the raw honesty in her words cutting deeper than he expected. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his voice quiet but firm. "You're not going to lose me, Nat. I promise."

Her expression softened as she let her eyes close, murmuring faintly, "You'd better not… or I'll haunt you."

Peter chuckled softly, standing and making his way to the door. "Goodnight, Nat," he whispered, his voice filled with warmth as he stepped out and let the door slide shut behind him.

The soft hiss of the door echoed in the quiet room, and Natasha's eyes snapped open, clear and sharp.

For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the faint sound of Peter's footsteps fading down the hall. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she turned her head slightly, staring at the ceiling.

"Idiot," she whispered, the earlier drunken slur nowhere to be found.

Her smile lingered as she exhaled softly, the whispered confession replaying in her mind. "I hate sharing you… but I'll do it if it means I can keep you." Her gaze grew distant as her voice dropped even lower, a sly edge creeping in.

"Just don't expect me to fight fair…"

With that, Natasha finally let her eyes close, the faintest smirk still on her lips as sleep overtook her.

————

Naboo…

The palace halls had finally quieted, save for the occasional sound of workers repairing the damage and distant murmurs of guards finishing their rounds.

Here, Jar Jar Binks wandered through one of the palace corridors, his oversized feet clapping loudly against the polished stone floor with every awkward step.

"Oh no, oh no!" Jar Jar wailed dramatically, flailing his arms like a windmill. "Why's dis palace gotta be soooo big? Mesa feet'sies are killin' me!"

As if on cue, he turned a corner and crashed directly into a pair of Naboo guards patrolling the corridor. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, his limbs knocking into a precarious stack of crates. Tools tumbled everywhere, the clatter echoing loudly down the hall.

"Gungan!" one guard barked, his patience clearly strained. "Watch where you're going!"

Jar Jar scrambled to his feet, his movements a chaotic mess of limbs. "Uh-oh! Oopsie! Mesa so, so sorry!" he stammered, tripping over a fallen wrench and nearly taking out a lantern on a nearby shelf. The guards flinched as it wobbled dangerously before clanging to the floor with a metallic crash.

The second guard groaned, rubbing his temples. "Why are you even here, Gungan? Just go. Before you bring the whole palace down."

Jar Jar nodded enthusiastically, backing away with his typical wide, goofy grin. "Y-yes, yessir! Mesa goin' now! Real quick-quick!" He bent awkwardly to pick up a tool, only to knock another crate sideways. "Ohhh noooo!"

The guards both jumped in exasperation. "Go!"

"Goin', goin', mesa already gone!" Jar Jar practically skipped backward, waving his hands in exaggerated apology before turning and shuffling clumsily down the hall. His footsteps scuffed the floor noisily, but he kept moving until he was well out of sight.

The instant he rounded a bend and ensured the guards were far behind, his posture shifted. The grin vanished. His shoulders straightened, his steps grew smooth and deliberate, and his expression darkened into one of chilling focus.

"Idiots," Jar Jar muttered under his breath, his voice now deep, calm, and eerily precise—entirely unrecognizable from the bumbling fool he pretended to be.

With practiced efficiency, he made his way deeper into the palace. His sharp eyes scanned the walls and corners, ensuring he was alone. Finding a narrow doorway hidden behind a forgotten tapestry, he slipped inside.

The room was small, dusty, and long-abandoned—a forgotten storage space. It was dark, save for a faint glow as Jar Jar activated the holo-communicator set up on the floor. The device hummed to life, its pale light illuminating his focused, sharp features.

Moments later, a massive, looming figure flickered into view—Thanos, the Mad Titan. His violet skin gleamed faintly in the projection, his cruel gaze piercing even through the holo-image.

"Father." Jar Jar greeted.

"Report," Thanos rumbled, his deep voice rolling through the space like distant thunder.

Jar Jar lowered his head in a slight bow, all traces of his prior foolishness gone. His words came smooth, deliberate, and calm. "The mission progresses as planned, my lord."

Thanos' narrowed his gaze slightly. "The Trade Federation?"

"Wiped out," Jar Jar replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "The Queen of Naboo and her forces, with Star-Lord's backing, have reclaimed the planet."

For a moment, Thanos said nothing. His eyes narrowed, his massive arms folding across his chest. "Star-Lord."

Jar Jar's expression darkened. "Yes. I met him, as you ordered. He's strong. Smarter than anticipated. His army of machines and… allies… eliminated the Trade Federation's droids in less than a week."

He paused, letting his next words hang for weight. "But it's worse than that. Star-Lord can use the Force."

Thanos' gaze sharpened, his interest piqued. "The Force?"

Jar Jar inclined his head, his voice dropping even lower. "He force-choked the Viceroy."

Thanos stared at the Gungan for a moment, considering this revelation. The hologram crackled faintly, but the menace in his voice was undiminished. "And have you embedded yourself as instructed?"

Jar Jar's smirk was faint, predatory. "Yes, my lord. The Jedi have been ordered to observe him. I follow the Jedi."

Thanos narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "I see."

Jar Jar straightened slightly, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "He is everything the rumors claimed—strong, resourceful, a natural leader. But… he's emotional. Attached to those around him."

Thanos' lips curled faintly at that. "Attachments are good. They are weaknesses waiting to be exploited."

Jar Jar's smirk deepened. "Exactly. The women around him are his greatest vulnerability. All it takes is one crack to bring the structure down."

Thanos considered this, his cold, calculating stare seeming to pierce through the distance between them. "And his loyalty?"

Jar Jar hesitated only briefly. "Unclear. The Queen trusts him. The Jedi are cautious."

Thanos' voice turned ominous, the air heavy with his words. "He will either become a part of my army… or an obstacle." He paused meaningfully, his gaze locking onto Jar Jar. "If he is an obstacle…"

Jar Jar's voice came without hesitation, filled with a predator's promise. "Then I will deal with him."

The Mad Titan regarded him for a long moment, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction crossing his face. "Good. Continue to watch him closely. Do not fail me."

Jar Jar bowed his head once more. "As you command, my lord."

The hologram flickered once, then disappeared entirely, leaving the room plunged into darkness and silence. For a moment, Jar Jar stood motionless, his sharp gaze lingering on the spot where Thanos' image had been. Then, his lips curled into a faint smile—cold and predatory.

"Soon," he murmured softly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "Very soon."

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stepped back into the dim corridors of the palace. As the shadows swallowed him, his posture shifted once more. His steps grew exaggerated and bumbling, his grin wide and vacant as he slouched forward.

"Uh-oh! Mesa gotta hurry! Mesa gonna miss dinner!" he chirped loudly, his voice back to its annoyingly cheerful pitch.

He stumbled down the hall, his clumsy footsteps echoing off the walls.

No one would ever suspect. No one ever did.

A/N: 5008 words :)

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