Dooku, cut down by Anakin in another timeline, had once been a Jedi Master of impeccable standing.
Born to nobility on Serenno, he'd entered Jedi training young and risen through the ranks with a blend of aristocratic grace and martial prowess that set him apart.
Eighty years he'd studied the Force. Eighty years serving the Order, the Republic, the light.
And then he'd walked away.
Not fallen, precisely. He'd simply... left.
Disgusted by the Republic's decay, disillusioned with the Jedi's passive response, he'd shed his title and vanished from public view.
When he reemerged, the galaxy barely recognized him.
Dooku now led the Separatist movement, rallying thousands of systems to his cause.
His personal charm, his history of settling disputes across the galaxy, his reputation as an unbeatable duelist in classical forms… all of it fueled a rebellion that threatened to tear the Republic apart.
Palpatine had seduced him to the dark side, yes.
But Dooku was no mere puppet.
Even Sidious suspected his apprentice harbored ambitions of his own, training a replacement, perhaps, or positioning himself to challenge his master.
In the end, Palpatine did what he always did, he engineered Dooku's death at Anakin's hands, removing a potential threat while binding the boy closer to him.
If Sidious had ever faced Dooku in a fair fight? The outcome was far from certain.
A rare talent, indeed.
Garfield considered intervening.
Saving Dooku, perhaps. But no, some threads were too tangled. Too many variables.
Better to let this one play out.
Yoda's ears drooped as the Council discussed the matter.
Finally, he nodded slowly. "Objection, I have none. A formidable Jedi, Dooku was. Is."
Windu's brow furrowed. "I disagree. If Palpatine is the Sith Lord we're seeking, one asset won't be enough to challenge him."
"And if we approach now, we risk alerting him."
Dooku's holographic image, present via secure transmission, flared with indignation.
"You disagree?" His aristocratic accent sharpened to a blade's edge. "Mace Windu, you sit in your temple and judge, while I have seen the Republic's rot from within."
"I have walked among the systems you've abandoned, the people you've forgotten. And you dare~"
"I dare because someone must!" Windu's voice cut through, equally heated.
Garfield quietly edged his chair away from the escalating argument. Fur bristling slightly, he positioned himself behind a convenient pillar.
Nope. Not getting involved in this.
Finally, Yoda's gimer stick thumped against the floor. The sound cut through the chaos like a blade through fog.
"Enough."
Both men fell silent.
Yoda surveyed them, ancient eyes gleaming. "Argue, we can, for hours. Decide, we must, by vote."
The Masters exchanged glances. Hands would be raised in due time.
Garfield had no interest in witnessing the Jedi voting process.
Under normal circumstances, sure, democracy had its place. But in this situation?
With tensions running high, old grievances simmering, and the fate of a potential ally hanging in the balance?
Playing procedural games was a fast track to disaster.
The Jedi Order had been founded on noble principles… persuasion over violence, mediation over conflict, peace over war.
Somewhere along the millennia, though, that clarity had muddied. Compromise became code.
Caution became paralysis.
Too many Masters had forgotten that wisdom sometimes meant acting, not just deliberating.
Change makes sense. Stay the same, and... well.
Garfield glanced at the ongoing debate.
Yeah. Stay the same, and you die.
He hoped they'd figure that out before it was too late.
After the Council meeting adjourned, without resolution, naturally, Garfield decided to make himself comfortable.
The Jedi Temple offered certain advantages, chief among them its impenetrability to Coruscant's relentless media machine.
Reporters swarmed the perimeter like mynocks around a power coupling, but the temple's wards and protocols held firm.
Let them wait.
That evening, as Coruscant's artificial sky shifted toward simulated night, Garfield received a visitor.
Her name was Jean Grey.
Not that Jean Grey, no Phoenix Force. But the resemblance was striking, fiery red hair, intelligent green eyes, an air of quiet competence wrapped in a thirty-something professional's demeanor.
In the interstellar age, appearances meant little, biological optimization, cosmetic adjustments, even full-body transfers were available to those who sought them.
But most humans, influenced by the Jedi's philosophical leanings toward natural existence, chose to age gracefully, letting their bodies run their course without excessive modification.
Jean was one of those. Healthy, vibrant, and very much a cat person.
"Hi, Boss!"
When she'd applied to Great Devourer Games, the job description had mentioned the CEO was an orange cat.
Jean had considered it a quirky corporate branding choice.
When she learned it was literal, her reaction surprised even herself, the salary was excellent, yes, but the prospect of working for an actual cat?
Her arms twitched with the urge to scoop him up.
Garfield sidestepped neatly. Absolutely not.
He was a dignified orange cat, not a plush toy. But... she was his Coruscant operations director.
An important role. And she clearly adored him.
Fine. One exception.
He allowed himself to be cradled.
Settled in Jean's arms, Garfield listened as she briefed him on the company's local affairs… sales figures, expansion plans, the inevitable flood of interview requests.
Her voice was warm, her hold secure, and her occasional attempts to sneak a chin scratch were expertly deflected.