When You Come Home

-49-

"Welcome to the Senate, Anakin Skywalker."

It was supposed to be a grand moment, one of awestruck silence and humble wonderment. The Senate building rose like a massive, upside-down bucket, with a million tiny notches for windows. Catching the sun's power was its trademark "cap" of solar panels, giving it the vague resemblance of a fat mushroom. In this building worked all of the best politicians and the smartest senators, all connecting to convey the will of every Republic individual into law. Wars were started and ended here, decisions were discussed and disregarded, laws were passed and amended, and futures were created and changed. This building was the heart of Coruscant, of the entire Republic itself. To be standing this close, on the marble steps reaching up to greatness, was to brush shoulders with the future herself. This was an honour most hoped to glimpse, but few managed to attain. And Anakin was right there, with the Premier of the Republic about to become his tour guide. So of course he had to mess up the moment.

"It's Jinn."

Palpatine's smile faltered. "Beg your pardon?"

"My name's Jinn, now. Not Skywalker. My mom remarried. I'm not sure why everyone thinks it's Skywalker."

The Premier spluttered out a laugh, mercifully finding humour in the situation. "My apologies. I think Skywalker suits you much better, anyway. Alright," he clapped his hands together. "Since we're here, I might as well show you around. And don't worry," he prodded Anakin's chest, "your troop will be well cared for. I'm sure they deserve a break."

Anakin smiled reflexively, his shoulders dropping in relief. He could actually enjoy this tour, then. Besides, what better excuse could he give Father or Rex for not visiting them than that he was sprung upon by Premier Sheev Palpatine?

Everything about the Senate was magnificent, and even that barely explained it. Every floor was polished and waxed like a perfect mirror, every desk and surface was spotless, and all the staff wore crisp black and white suits or starched skirts. Even the tasteful plants spread around the room had not a speck of dust on their green leaves. The spiralling staircases had exquisite carvings in the handrails, the carpets boasted vibrant reds with gold trimmings, and the endless offices were expensive and expansive. The couches, furnishings, and pillows were all created from the finest materials. Any senators and politicians that Anakin passed or was introduced to all wore designer suits and dresses, with matching expressions of mild distaste and aloof richness. Even the glass in the windows had embossing. The elevators all had pleasant female voices dictating the number of the current floor and the one coming next. Not a trace of filth or grime was to be found anywhere.

Anakin was meeting so many senators and politicians, he had long lost track of names, places, and countries. He had given up trying to remember any of them, instead purely focusing on smiling and shaking their hand, or bowing if they seemed especially important. He felt horribly underdressed, in his still-drying army camoes and thick socks. He had ditched his muddy boots before they even reach the entrance. His blond hair was a spiky mess, and he was sure he had a smudge on his face, judging from the looks that he was receiving. But all of the people he met were either too polite or had been forewarned because no one said anything. He wasn't sure which was worse.

But now Palpatine was introducing him to a very fancy person by the name of Mas Amedda, who apparently was Chief—

Anakin's world stopped. He had just caught a glimpse, a momentary glance, through the doorway leading out into the hall. The sun suddenly broke through the bulwark of grey clouds, throwing down a single ray to land atop the umber crown of an angel, fallen straight from Heaven. Her delicate features were shaped like a porcelain doll, her skin as clear and pale as the moon on a cloudless night. Her hair, secured in a tight bun, wriggled free in a few entrepreneuring curls. Her chocolate brown eyes were focused ahead, her petal pink lips pursed in determination. A thousand azure gems glittered at her neck and dangled from the tips of her ears. Her pencil skirt tucked briskly around her sheer stockings as she breezed past the doorway, a clipboard hugged to the frills on the front of her blouse, her heeled boots clacking significantly on the polished floor, resounding in time to the party of four others — two men and two women —who marched along with her.