Chapter Text
Claire Francois didn’t often consider the internal workings of the Galactic Republic. She was an accountant; a numbers girl whose life purpose included double-checking premade calculations and being buried up to the neck in spreadsheets. Frankly speaking, politics wasn’t any of her business. Existing on Coruscant was a rather simple affair in and of itself. Waking up in the morning and thanking whatever power those Jedi worshiped that she’d been able to afford an apartment on the higher side of the Undercity, before hasting over to her place of business. Damask Holdings had entirely too many offices to crunch their profit numbers, and nobody particularly cared that their CFO was probably laundering a ridiculous amount of credits. Law enforcement would slap them with a fine or two if the whole operation got blown out of the water, with the slight drawback of approximately four and a half thousand individuals losing their livelihoods overnight. In short, she did what every other citizen of the Galaxy was already used to. Kept her head down, worked a decently-paying job, and went home to reap the benefits of a thousand-year peace that never quite extended past the Mid-Rim’s edges.
Moving around her desk in a hurricane of bland grey—the provided employee uniform was practical; she had to give her bosses that—Claire absently wondered if her father had been right about her stubbornness. Recently graduated on academic scholarship from one of Coruscant’s most prestigious universities, she should’ve had absolutely no problem taking a ship back home and living the good, cushy life of managing agricultural projects in the Chommell Sector. Karlinus didn’t exactly have much else going for it; her home world was truly the pinnacle of human mundanity. Their family name didn’t hold any weight outside of its gravitational pull either, seeing as Father’s investments were almost entirely local, with only very minor stock in Naboo’s plasma trade. His advice had been to come back home and help him manage the business there, but she simply needed to have it her own way and make it big in the galactic capital.
Just like countless other idealistic souls, that line of thinking didn’t do her much good. The Republic—for all its faults and blemishes—was the best available system of governance for pretty much everyone. When it came to small planets unimportant to the grand scheme of things, the Senate mostly left them alone. Not to say that her father was in any way running Karlinus, but they had more than enough to live comfortably. Of course, nothing quite compared to the sheer luxury present in Coruscant’s gleaming skyline. Then again, barely anyone living here ever got a good look. Normal people didn’t exactly spend much time in high rises—those were reserved for the individuals with enough wealth to purchase small planetoids at their leisure. It was generally said that credits made the galaxy spin. People went where the money already existed, and consequently came opportunity for growth and profit. By changing hands, it caused society as a whole to function, and she’d always been very interested in logistics after noticing that. Hence deciding to get into economics early in her teens, originally to manage her father’s holdings someday; then aiming higher, with the ambitious dream of one day playing a small part in running the galaxy itself!
Claire would like to clarify that when first stepping foot on the Republic’s gleaming capital six years ago, financial problems weren’t the facet of her studies she expected to encounter first and foremost. Yes, she could’ve absolutely requested a bigger stipend from Father. She was also entirely too single-minded for her own good, and despised taking handouts unless it was literally a life-or-death scenario. Even then, the girl would only accept them begrudgingly and while fully intending to pay the hypothetical generous soul back with interest. Thus, she’d lived off a passive monthly income from her father’s credits; supplementing the remaining costs with part-time jobs had turned out rather exciting!
At the very least, it gave her a convenient excuse to avoid peers she didn’t quite get along with. Especially when being invited out for drinks. If the Force was actually real, then it ought to know how much she hated alcohol. The woman lets out a long sigh, wincing painfully at an unwanted recollection. It’d been a drunk driver who got her mother killed. Speeder accident, and near-instant death as she learned later in life. Therefore, Claire was perfectly content staying in a galaxy far, far away from anyone who wasn’t similarly studious and career-oriented. Her neigh-obsession with academics had her graduating as an honor student with perfect scores, shocking her teachers so much that one of them had nearly broken down crying because someone actually aced his class after thirty-five years. And all of that effort to both excel in life and keep the fact that Father’s stipend was insufficient from the man…got her to where she is right now. A senior accountant at Damask Holdings, one of—if not the most—famous financial companies in the entire galaxy. It was owned by the Magistrate of the Banking Clans himself, for Force’s sake!
Claire Francois was currently cleaning out her desk mid-shift, having just come out of a meeting with Sentient Recourses. Personally, she was feeling entirely justified in having expressed that there wasn’t a morsel of intelligence anywhere in that office. Yes, they’d fired her for it. Or rather, terminated her employment contract due to her failure to meet profit expectations, as if she was responsible for her boss going over budget in his spending three financial quarters in a row. The pudgy, politician-looking scumbag had thrown her under the speeder, plain and simple. As a result, the usually put-together blonde was currently in a frenzy to grab everything before the allotted hour ended, since she’d be quite literally kicked out by security!
And people said the Republic was a fair society. Absolute bollocks is her response to that! There was nothing wrong about being passionate about one’s job, nor politely—read: with barely contained fury—remind her sleazebag of a higher-up that she was the one who did his taxes and therefore knew damn well where the employee bonuses ended up being spent! She didn’t have any moral problem with said entertainment establishments, but those credits definitely weren’t going to the workers. Okay…so maybe she did threaten them with mainstream media exposure and running to the Jedi if they kept pilling stacks of barely-legal documents on her desk instead of keeping her mouth shut. Claire would insist to her dying days that it was absolutely the right thing to do, because her poor coworkers were all living paycheck-to-paycheck, only for their rightfully-earned salaries to get slashed because one Core-World bureaucrat wanted his forth racing speeder for a collection which was gathering more dust with every passing second.
Unfortunately, her own belongings wouldn’t be faring much better in the coming weeks. The only person within her social circle who was indisputably worse than said grubby asshole…was her landlord. In short, she’d either be homeless rather swiftly, or be forced to pack up everything she owned in the Galactic Capital and take a ship back home. Essentially, to run away from her dreams and settle for an admittedly-acceptable but rather unimportant job in a quadrant that barely anybody gave a bantha’s turd about. Of course, Father would be sure to remind her of all the good she’d still be doing for their home sector; Claire’s work was key to ensuring that his business ran smoothly, and could thus supply the necessary resources to needy souls all throughout the starlit sky. The blessings of investing in local agriculture, or something to that extent. …was it truly so arrogant to think she might be destined for greater things? That her life was worth more than the sum of her completed menial tasks, and a lone girl was miraculously capable of changing the Galaxy for the better?
Father had taught her to be a responsible realist early in life; she’d have ended up running for public office otherwise. There wasn’t a chance in hell that they wouldn’t be having polite conversation over tea a week from now, lamenting her struggle and eventual failure on Coruscant. With every last one of her earthly possessions—and a few nicked trinkets which technically didn’t belong to her—Claire was summarily thrown out the door of her former workplace. At least security was nice enough not to push or hurry her unnecessarily; these poor sods were just as tired of the upper brass’ greediness as everybody else. Still, she’d now quite literally ended up on the streets. Positively terrific…
Resisting the homicidal urges which came along with the innate desire to fruitlessly attempt marching back to her boss’ desk for another screaming match, Claire promptly adjusted her grip on what little she’d been able to take with her, and made for the elevator to the lower levels. Her apartment wasn’t exactly in the Undercity, but close enough for Coruscant Security Forces to be armored in that yellow-grey mix of leather and plated metal. Not that she ever any trouble with law enforcement; it was just better to be safe than sorry when they were on the move, and stay out of the way. Force, she sometimes really wishes she was younger again, if only to never have to worry about whether local police were doing their job or not. She dares not think about how it must for people who actually lived down there, instead of on the upper border with what most of the civilized galaxy considered Coruscant proper.
There wasn’t much point in pondering it, really. The Senate simply seemed to be concerned with everything except the Undercity, and there just weren’t enough Jedi to keep the place clean. Not that she’s ever seen one of those space wizards, but they’ve got a better reputation than the bumbling idiots they work for. The only interesting news Claire heard coming from up top was some scandal rumors almost half a year ago now. Apparently, bloody Mustafar made galactic history by finally becoming a member world of the Republic. Every single media outlet from here to Tatooine had called their newly-elected Senator a hack and a conman simply out to fill his pockets…but then again, such descriptor was befitting of nearly everyone above a certain tax bracket.
She’d looked at the pictures, and vaguely remembered something about him allegedly proving that the planet belonged to him by blood right, thus swindling the Techno Union and Banking Clans for entirely too many credits. There was word of a giant castle thrown in the mix, but that was probably the tabloids going at it again. Nobody pulls an obsidian megastructure out of their ass like that. The man in question was just some charmer with a too-wide grin, in her opinion. What was his name again? Doran Viner? Dirth Vardos? No, Vardos was a planet. Oh! Darth Vader! Just like she did six months ago, Claire silently thought to herself that it’s a pretty weird one, and that was coming from a girl who’d looked at more outlandish client lists than almost anyone else in the whole galaxy. Well, good for him then! Charlatan or no, ripping off the corporate elite was absolutely something she could get behind! And he really wasn’t bad-looking either; if she swung anywhere close to that ballpark, she’d probably be swooning along with every other woman who claimed to have met him on the Holonet.
There really wasn’t that much shame in shooting one’s shot for fifteen minutes of fame, assuming it wouldn’t be happening at some poor sod’s expense. Loudly declaring fictitious ramblings about some good-looking newcomer to the political sphere where everyone could read it was…definitely not how anybody with a modicum of self-respect should go about it, though. Even if he had the looks of a hotshot Outer Rim pilot, and liked grinning at people like he was deviously scheming while on a casual afternoon walk.
Was it a stretch to think she might be able to send him her resume and snatch herself a decent salary for putting up with all that nonsense before someone else got that bright idea? People in power were weak to admiration, and Claire could absolutely toss some generic compliments into her vocabulary if it meant getting paid, and then promptly booking it before whatever illegal nonsense a guy like that was undoubtedly up to came knocking for its own cut of the credit pie. It was a noteworthy fantasy, but even then, he’d probably be entirely insufferable to so much as exist around. Breathing the same air as those stuck-up people always made her a little queasy. Thankfully, the accountant never needed to be in the room for more seconds than it took to rattle off some numbers or hand over a written report before politely dashing to the nearest exit.
Claire sighed deeply to herself, shaking her head and holding onto those meager belongings—her credit chip and commlink being the only ones really worth anything—while quietly making her way through the que for the downward lift. The CSF officer on duty even smiled sympathetically at her, recognizing the frankly pathetic look of someone recently forced to reconsider all their life choices. The lack of a figurative noose around her neck was a true blessing; most people on Coruscant didn’t have a rich father and comfortable, almost noble-like lifestyle in the Mid Rim to fall to if they screwed up like this. She responded by showing her ID and giving a curt nod of acknowledgement; his show of support did mean something, if only in spirit. Ironically enough, it was the horizontally-stationary tube which had Claire feeling terribly nauseous all of a sudden. She was just going down, down and down again, seemingly forever.
Were this one of those overdramatic Holonet novels Rae liked to read in her spare time, it’d be a perfect metaphor for how some uncaring asshole had kicked her off the proverbial cliffside. Probably to loot her corpse, and right in the spine too! Heh. Rae would’ve doubled over in a howl at that. Claire found herself letting out a little laugh, rolling her eyes purely out of forgotten habit. Thinking about her college crush—or rather, the girl who’d been entirely obsessed with her for almost half a decade—was an exercise in futility at it’s damnable finest! That particular ship had blasted off for the Hydian Way years ago… Maybe she could still find herself a pretty Jedi lady who’d be happy to show Claire all the tricks of their Force, like Rae used to joke about. Lightsaber euphemisms aside, she was funny. Sometimes. Not that the blonde ever admitted such a ridiculous notion!
Oh, right. The existential dread of all her aspirations being destroyed was once again crippling her poor excuse of mental health, this time with the added threat of either admitting defeat or genuinely ending up homeless in the Undercity. While the stubborn part of her would still prefer the latter, Claire was smart enough to deduce that her life expectancy in such circumstances lay squarely between five to ten standard minutes, on the dot. A rather generous estimate too, mostly because she’d memorized every morsel of information about her route home. She made haste down the catwalks and what passed for pavement with efficiency and the stride of a woman on a mission, heading straight to her apartment without stopping for anybody and anything, no matter how tempting the concept of drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle might be. She was a responsible woman in her late twenties, and knew better than to get drunk, dragged into an alleyway, and promptly stabbed in the arteries with the sharpest knife cheap credits could buy!
However, Claire was also prone to severe miscalculations. Not of numbers—never her spreadsheets—but specifically of the time of day. There wasn’t much sunlight down here anyway, but they still got some, and that was better than whatever the hell was going on even a dozen levels downward. Simply put, her perfectly-planned route had exactly one risk. A particular alleyway right next to a rickety dinner which remains open purely by miracle. Now, this normally wouldn’t be a problem. There’s a ten-minute window during her walk home where a six-man squad of officers will always stop there for caffeine resupply, and thus no criminal is stupid enough to try robbing someone so close to the authorities. She’d easily hit it daily since getting the job at Damask Holdings, since her entire day was scheduled around personal safety above all else. And a semi-crippling fear of drunk drivers, but that was neither here nor anywhere else expect the office of a mental heath professional. Which Claire couldn’t afford on her salary, even while counting Father’s additional stipend.
As it just so happened—read: because she was an idiot working on autopilot and didn’t just go around the dangerous alleyway while no law enforcement was present—there were indeed criminals. Two of them, rugged and unshaven. Almost stereotypical, really. Technically the correct term would be ruffians, but then again synonyms were never her thing. No, she wasn’t being pedantic in her mental monologue to stave off the inevitable reality of being stabbed in the chest and robbed for all she has on her. “Look ‘ere Charles! A person! We’re gonna mug her!” one of them exclaims rather loudly, given their current environment. The named one at least appears a little more civilized…and Claire promptly wracks her head out of the Coruscant-centric mindset, because that sentence would frankly end up being quite rude!
It should be stated for the record—probably of her autopsy, given the large metal batons both of them are carrying around—that Claire Francois is no fighter. She has no way to physically defend herself against two larger, armed assailants. They’d been lying in wait as to each block either end of the alley, so it’s not like she can just run away and hope they don’t follow either. Actually, considering how bounty targets skulk not too far below from here…it’s very possible someone else would restrain her anyway until they caught up, hoping to get a cut for themselves. Revealing her father’s miniscule influence is probably just going to get her ransomed, so she only has one choice. Intimidation! Back in university, people used to turn away with a mere glare! Such was the power of her stern gaze! And…she was probably going to die reciting Rae’s compliments, because such a thing wouldn’t work on anybody with even one functional braincell.
Claire feels her breath hitch uncomfortably, quickly backing away from them and accidentally pressing herself against a grimy wall. Lovely. Now she was going to die both broke and dirty! Force, she really was privileged, and it still showed sometimes. “’Ey, lady! Give us all you’ve got, and maybe we’ll let you scram, yeah?” the same mugger laughs to himself, pointing the baton at her and smacking it against his palm, as if to mime the motion of hitting it against her bones. That’s probably not going to happen, and she’s not stupid enough to make their escape easier than it has to be. Screaming at the top of her lungs might not help—nobody down here is stupid enough to intervene, and there just weren’t enough CFS officers to cover the whole planet—but any DNA evidence they can trace back to them means…something resembling consequences might be headed their way. Eventually. If one of those enforcers didn’t get bribed, told off for wasting resources on too-small fries, or otherwise deterred. The statistics sat at around ten percent of them being caught and therefore unable to hurt anyone else. Not the worst way to go, right?
Suddenly, a breath hitches slightly at the edge of the alley. It sounds faintly mechanical, almost like something organic is overriding it. Then, a heavy boot slams into the pavement, and all three of them turn to look at the source. There is a tall, hooded figure, clad in dark robes and with one hand at the belt, from where a metal cylinder hangs in plain sight. “Hello there. Would you be so kind as to leave the lady alone, friends?” a roguish voice asks, the very kind which belonged to someone playing the role of scoundrel or war hero in a romanticized, serialized Holonet drivel.
“A Jedi?” both muggers ask incredulously, entirely unable to believe that one of the mystical space wizards who live only a couple hundred levels above and to the left is actually muddying his boots by being down here. They take a long moment to look at each other, during which time Claire decides to sneak away and toward the only guy around who might actually be both able and willing to help her out. She’s got no idea how much a service fee is for them, but Father will gladly cover it. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Charles? …let’s mug him!” Never mind. She might have to pay extra for covering up a double homicide. There’s no way any self-respecting criminal could be that stupid, right?
The potential wizard in their midst takes a brave step forward to cover her from their view. What a gentleman! She’ll be sure to leave a kind-worded review on whatever rating application they use. “I won’t warn you again, I’m well-trained in the Jedi arts,” the local mystic repeats dramatically, making them second-guess their brazen decision. Claire is starting to think this might just be some guy with a long robe and a particularly-circular welding tool, but as long as they don’t know that, she’ll wisely keep her mouth shut.
Charles seems to have an idea, given that he loudly exclaims so to his fellow, right before they both promptly drop their weapons. “Aha! A Jedi would never harm unarmed men! You can’t hurt us! Now, cough up your credits!” he insists, and she genuinely struggles not to laugh. This…cannot possibly be happening. Clearly, she got stabbed in the back, is bleeding out on the alleyway floor, and these morons are the byproduct of her brain suddenly remembering all of Rae’s stupid action show reenactments while suppressing the urge to cry for never having accepted the girl’s feelings before they parted ways.
“I was once a Jedi Knight, that much is true. But I no longer hold to their ideals. Doesn’t that frighten you more?” her apparent savior asks with a chuckle, also having trouble with keeping his composure under such ridiculous circumstances. Fortunately, it does seem like her assailants are smart enough to understand that a Jedi without a code is unaffected by their little loophole, and begin slowly backing away.
Naturally, they trip over themselves and squeal in fright, believing the Force to be responsible. “Look mate, we’re just here to mug ya! We don’t want any violence!” they both haste to explain, before stumbling back to their feet and raising their hands in a surrender. “How…how about we give you our credits? And nobody has to get hurt, yeah?” Charles smiles awkwardly, in what’s supposed to pass as a placating grin. Claire forces herself to remain completely silent, watching in rapt attention and ready to book it for her apartment in case this gets messy.
Her probably-not-real Jedi scoffs under his breath, waving a hand dismissively towards the other end of the alleyway. “You may leave this place. But should I ever catch you committing crime again, you will know the power of the Dark—err, of the Force! Now, begone!” he orders them in a harsh, sufficiently commanding tone, sending them both scurrying to the relative safety of the open street. With them gone, the man lets out a deep sigh of relief, his left hand twitching as if grabbing for something in the air. “Well…that couldn’t have gone better. You alright?” he asks much more casually now, dropping the air of a mystic in an instant.
Claire nods along, subtly stuffing her credit chip even further into her pocket than before. “Perfectly alright, thanks to you. Nice acting,” she compliments him with a giggle, trying very hard not to let it grow into actual laughter. Rae would’ve paid to see this kind of performance, once upon a time. Okay, it really was just a couple years ago, but her brain is choosing to be dramatic right now. Probably the near-death scenario. Even if those criminals were the biggest idiots she’s ever seen, a dumb brute is still a brute, and will probably resort to violence more quickly too. “So…mister Jedi, where’d you snatch the robe from?” she asks coyly, since he totally just grabbed a black one from somewhere for the extra flair. Normal space monks always wore beige or brown.
He lowers his hood, taking a step back to give her space. The man underneath is…definitely handsome. Short sandy hair which curls just enough to be attractive, a faint scar under his eye and the smile of a professional spokesman along with all the galaxy’s natural charisma. What really sells the look are his piercing golden irises; a chill goes down her spine just by locking gazes with him. Claire doesn’t have any speeder in the hot-guys race, but if she did, this one would be a good frontrunner pick. “I had it custom-made, along with a few dozen more. And this is a lightsaber, for the record,” he comments swiftly, pointing the cylinder toward the open space of the alley and pressing some kind of button on the side. Instantly, a blade of crimson plasma ignites before being extinguished a few moments later. She’s not the most intuitive person in the galaxy, but it feels…strangely forlorn. Almost remorseful, that bleeding light. He blinks to himself for a moment, before gracing her with a respectful bow. “Greetings. I am Lord Vader of Mustafar. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss…”
Ah, sure. Why shouldn’t she give her name to stranger in the interest of maintaining polite society? Wait…Vader? Dear Force, this was the new Senator? Some hotshot with a laser sword and too much personality? “Uh, I’m Claire. Claire Francois. Nice to meet you too, Darth. The rescue is…appreciated.” She was completely embarrassed to ever been cornered by those idiots in the first place, since Rae’s old suggestion for dramatic monologuing evidently would have worked for once! In an effort to not seem completely useless as a person, she elects to question him as to how exactly he just so happened to find her in a time of need like this. “So, what’s a member of our great government doing in a place like this, if you don’t mind me asking?”
A piercing cackle rips itself out of his throat, boisterous and proud, like that of a man who’s delighting in tasting fresh air again after decades of deprivation. “It’s a title, not a name. And you’re welcome. I was just visiting someone recommended by a colleague for business, but there was a slight misunderstanding. Magistrate Damask was under the impression I’m trying to avoid the IRS, while I’m trying to find an accountant and pay my fair share.” Sure, and she was the Chancellor of the Republic, or better yet, Empress of the Galaxy! Oh…he seemed completely serious about that.
Ignoring how this random Jedi wannabe casually mentioned her former CFO as if her cosmic insignificance hasn’t already been affirmed enough for today, Claire figures that when a politician of any sort is willingly paying their taxes in full…whatever Lord Vader must be involved in is truly terrible. Her first guesses are landing squarely between a conspiracy to overthrow the government, a secret army hidden in the Unknown Regions, or an evil cult trying to take over the Galaxy! “You’re…not committing tax evasion?” she asks to clarify, just so the blonde can be perfectly sure of what she heard.
The man with golden eyes deadpans at her. “Is that seriously so hard to believe?” Claire retorts with what is quite possibly the blankest look of her career. Not that she has one of those anymore, but the point stands. “Listen, I’m perfectly willing to pick a fight with the Hutts, the Syndicates, the entire Senate and the Jedi Order…but even I am not insane enough to piss off the Intergalactic Revenue Service,” he insists completely seriously, as if winning any of the aforementioned squabbles is even remotely possible to begin with. Well, exaggeration is certainly one way to make a statement. And today, the Force must be with her, or whatever the space wizards say! Because if she plays this right, she’s just found herself a new temporary job!
“Is that so?” she asks with a slight tilt of the head, to physically indicate interest in case he’s so ill-versed in politics as to miss her tone entirely. “Well, today’s your lucky day, milord. I happen to be an accountant in need of employment. The Magistrate’s office managers aren’t the most perceptive when it comes to talent.” There, that ought to be persuasive enough. Isn’t that how fancy people talk? Claire does have some—albeit limited—experience with overhearing such conversations, but they usually center around needlessly flowery words and overbearing flattery. Plus, a little bit of slandering the competitor of whomever might hire her is always helpful, though her resume spoke for itself enough for Claire to not need such uncouth measures. …she seriously needs to get head on straight; talking like that inside her own monologue cannot possibly be healthy.
Lord Vader seems to consider this for a moment, and quite carefully at that. She’s intimately familiar with the look of someone doing intense mental math. “Alright then. Assuming your average workload requires six hours a day, five days a week…” he trails off, golden eyes flickering and flashing in concentration as he considers the nature of her average salary. As in, how much he can legally afford to underpay her without getting sued. “How does a hundred-seventy thousand credits a year sound as a starter?” he asks uncertainly, as if willing to raise that number at a moment’s protest.
Claire Francois swears she feels her heart slam into her ribcage at frankly impossible speeds for a bodily organ. Without even thinking, she puts up a finger for him to wait and wracks her brain for some quick calculations. Three hundred sixty-eight days in a standard year is ten months with three festival weeks and three holidays, so those won’t count since no employer in their right mind would want to pay overtime fees. An even ten months then, with seven weeks apiece and five days in each one. Well, she’s taking anything except a monthly salary over her emaciated corpse, so that’s a simple enough division. Seventeen thousand credits a month for an accounting job might actually be the thing which murders her, not the moronic muggers from before. The only way that number would be mathematically possible as a starting salary is if the Galaxy underwent a decade-long civil war in the time between her firing and this very moment! Add to that some kind of incredulous credit-waster project like…maybe a giant space station which cost multiple trillions to build, only to spontaneously explode without anyone getting an investment return. Twice, in all likelihood. Even as a rough estimate, the entire galactic economy would need to go through three consecutive recessions minimum for that amount of credits to be anywhere approaching reasonable for her position. With that wage, he could smother her with spreadsheets for the rest of her life and Claire wouldn’t make a single complaint!
“What’s the catch?” she asks sharply, seeing as her new boss must either be entirely inept at basic mathematics, somehow be under the above impression regarding the value of a singular Republic Credit, or he’s just completely insane. Definitely involved in something which could topple the government under the right circumstances though, there’s no doubt in her mind.
Lord Vader has the human decency to look perplexed, but seems to come up with his own justifications for the total lack of haggling. “I don’t just need someone to keep the books up to date. I’m sure you can recognize the natural charm, but as a Senator, I apparently need to be organized. The Chancellor’s personal suggestion, you see. Having an assistant to schedule meetings, accompany me on occasion, and ensure my financial records are spotless is a necessity.” Alright, so that’s a lot more work that any one singular human can reasonably be expected to do. Unfortunately for Claire, she’s always been an overachiever.
Without a hint of hesitation, the blonde extends a hand, and they shake on it in lieu of a formal employment contract. His arm feels oddly hard underneath the glove, probably a prosthetic. Asking unrelated questions is none of her business, and Claire Francois is going to the best senatorial aide this galaxy has ever seen…or else she won’t be receiving that beautiful paycheck! “Consider it done. I start tomorrow,” the blonde tells him sternly, before promptly striding to her apartment without daring to look back in case he second-guesses his decision.
Mere minutes later, inside the relative comfort of her vermin-free abode—a luxury even a hundred levels downward, she’s heard—Claire takes moment to breathe. So, somehow she managed to find a new job the same day as when she got fired. She was also saved from the two dumbest criminals this side of the Mid Rim by a magic space wizard who wasn’t a Jedi, apparently. And said individual was now her boss, and a Senator. The man who allegedly swindled the Banking Clan so hard they’re still paying off a court-mandated debt. Her salary is unreasonably enormous, to the point of potentially flagging the IRS every month until she can explain herself. She’s going to feel guilty every time she types out her tax returns, but he seems to think it completely reasonable. Darth Vader may not have a very good concept of what normal spending looks like. Were she a woman of lesser integrity, she would absolutely be taking advantage of that fact.
However, Father raised a good, kind-hearted soul who the Galaxy promptly forced into learning emotional intelligence by shoving Rae Taylor in her path over six years ago. It unfortunately took them going their separate ways and her obliviousness to a love confession for that lesson to stick. Nonetheless, she’s suddenly found herself being overworked as usual, but also overpaid! The price of said credits being working as an aide to the most polarizing Senator to have ever existed in the Republic’s history. …yeah, alright. She has the skills and confidence to do that decently enough until she got a hang of the job. After all, what could Darth Vader possibly get her involved in? Galactic revolution? Suddenly, Claire Francois is overcome by the distinct feeling that somewhere, a cosmic force holding the very universe together is cackling breathlessly at her. Oh…it’s going to be one of those jobs, isn’t it?