“It’s Chancellor Palpatine,” he says clearly, as steadily as he’s able to. “Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith Lord. I need your help to kill him.” There's one beat of stunned, frozen silence. Then, careful, Thire clears his throat. “You want us to kill the Supreme Chancellor?” he asks. “Yes,” Mace says, and when he sits back, all three commanders are staring at him. Something in his chest sinks, grim and resigned. “I can't—” “Thire, get those damn boxes open,” Fox orders. “Stone, we need some kind of distraction. Grab some detonators.”

“No,” Sabé hisses, catching the edge of Kycina's red hood and dragging her back down behind cover.

“I can’t believe you ruined my boots,” Leia says, outraged, and pushes Dooku’s face further into the mud.

Wolffe looks like he’s regretting having a second Jedi with them. 

Fox has the galaxy’s greatest hero in his bed, he’s well-fed, he’s astonishingly well-rested, and he has a whole week of leave saved up that starts in about six hours, during which no one is allowed to bother him with anything work-related even if Coruscant gets invaded by brain-stealing worms. Again. He made sure Thorn and Thire both knew that. Which makes it ten times as unpleasant to wake up to someone bypassing the chime entirely and just pounding right on his door.

There’s a hollow thud, a sound like a gong, a war-cry that makes Alpha-17 freeze in his tracks, and Priest goes flying back into the window.

Quinlan can’t take it anymore, and if he sticks around for one more minute, he’s going to have a reaction that’s entirely inappropriate given the discussion that’s happening above his head.