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A SEMI-UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE IN SORT OF EVERYTHING

Rated for mild language and suggestive jokes.

Let the fic commence!

Chapter One

A Really Annoying Interruption

The Supreme Chancellor of the Senate of the Galactic Republic sat stiffly at her desk, staring bitterly out over the Coruscanti skyline.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years since the former Chancellor Palpatine's failed takeover of the Galactic Republic.

The Supreme Chancellor's hand tightened spasmodically over her stylus. There was no Galactic Empire, but his takeover was not entirely failed.

Palpatine certainly hadn't gotten all he wanted, but the former Chancellor had successfully installed himself as Emperor: the figurehead of the Republic who controlled the military and the judicial branch, and simply was the executive branch. Along with his little toadies, that was.

Well, except for her. She, the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Congress and elected nearly thirteen years ago to the day, was in charge of the legislative branch and supposedly held the true power of the government. No doubt that she made the laws and approved the Emperor's decisions, but Palpatine himself was gaining power every day.

His original ascension to power had come with his debunking of the Jedi, but he thankfully never managed to alienate the Jedi nor enact Order 66 as the Jedi had more control over the clonetroopers. The Emperor daren't do anything drastic now with the Jedi watching, but the Jedi were in no place of power to do anything with the Senate supporting Palpatine's position.

And hers.

And that, truly, was all that mattered.

Luke Skywalker found himself, for the four hundred and fifty-third time in the latest three of his measly fourteen years, staring blankly at the grimy plaster ceiling above a corner booth in a shady Tatooinian cantina he was parked in.

Of course, it wasn't the worst ceiling in the world to be staring at - it beat staring at the ceiling of a bounty hunter's cargo hold or one of an Alderaanian pleasure cruiser. Or a Coruscanti diner. Or the business end of a rancor pit.

Luke Skywalker, galactic thief extraordinaire and secret part-time Jawa Juice enthusiast, had to admit he could've been found in worst places then a filthy Tatooinian cantina in Anchorhead at three in the morning.

After all, if you wake up at age seven on a planet you don't know with people you don't know who claim to be your aunt and uncle and not remembering any of your life up until that point, your tolerance for strange circumstances goes up a few notches.

(Especially when your loving aunt and uncle who cared for you, nursed you back to health, and assuaged your trauma over not having any memories brutally murdered by Tusken Raiders while you were sitting in a cellar, age nine and hidden and useless. Then nearly starving to death under the brutal heat of dual suns for the two days you took the time to bury your aunt and uncle's bodies and having to leave the only home you ever knew with only your uncle's blaster for a town that was an inch above a cesspool of crime in search of work was another strange circumstance.

…and then having to resort to pickpocketing after two weeks of dodging slavers and police as your means of survival. Then discovering you are, actually, a very good thief and spending the next five years of life scaling buildings to sleep in empty hotel rooms and nicking still-steaming plates of food from restaurants also kicks up the Strange-O-Meter a few more notches.

Of course, don't forget those times when you would stowaway on freighters and bounty ships, hop off on a planet you didn't know, and then successfully steal the most expensive item on said planet.

And Luke Skywalker would rather swallow vibroblades then admit that he was even the most microscopic bit unhappy with his lifestyle.)

So, when the door opened to admit someone into the cantina empty of all but an old cleaning droid and the glow of the stars, Luke didn't even bother to look over his feet that were stacked on the table.

However, when the late-night wanderer sat down in his booth, Luke kindly shoved his feet to one side so the man sitting in front of him could lean his elbows and place a pile of flimsies on the scrubbed wooden table.

Luke was busily counting the cracks in the white plaster above his head when the man - who looked more in place sitting at a dinner with a bunch of sleazy landowners then in some Anchorhead shack - said words which came straight from the deepest pit of the ninth Corellian hell.

"My name is Kitster Banai, I knew your father, and I'm here to tell you that he'd be pretty damned ashamed if he saw you right now."

Kitster, the man with the fabulously slicked hair, single-handedly completely shattered five years worth of a thiefly lifestyle (that Luke was very happy with, thank you very much) quite nicely.

And Luke Skywalker, Strange-O-Meter and rancor pits be damned, sprayed Jawa Juice right into Kitster Banai's face.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Star Wars material.