Coruscant's nights were louder and more chaotic than anywhere else in the galaxy.
Billions of beings spilled across the lower levels, playing through the night.
Their stages were the plazas and pedestrian zones at the bases of towering skyscrapers, canyons of light and neon where a thousand species mingled.
They talked, haggled, performed street acts, and, most of all, streamed games.
Holo-screens hovered above makeshift arenas, broadcasting live matches.
Skilled players drew crowds with every perfect combo and impossible save. Passersby stopped, watched, and tapped their personal terminals to send tips.
Others formed impromptu teams, offering help to newcomers. Some arranged ranked matches on the spot.
This was the new street culture, a sprawling, chaotic sideline industry born from High Claw's games.
It had stimulated massive consumption, but it had also brought hidden dangers.
Security was a nightmare.
The police, the Jedi Order, and High Claw's own fleet all had to deploy large numbers of combat units just to keep order.
The cost was staggering. But High Claw's reputation had transformed.
No longer just a profit-driven game company, it was now seen as a responsible super-corporation, one that kept the streets safe, even if it had helped fill them in the first place.
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On one such bustling street, Detective John Gartler hurried toward a bar.
He exchanged a password with the doorman, who nodded and led him to a private room.
The interior was identical to every other room in the establishment, deliberately so. It was empty.
John sat down. A waiter brought tea and left.
He waited.
Something was wrong. Where was the rendezvous? Why had no one come?
Then the door locked automatically. Across from him, a projector hummed to life.
A hooded figure appeared on the screen. His face was obscured by shadow and distortion. "Detective John Gartler."
"Sir. I entered the High Claw server room today. Unfortunately, I didn't get access to any actual servers."
"That's normal, Detective. If High Claw's defenses were that lax, I wouldn't need you. Just tell me the internal layout."
John carefully recounted his experience, the elevator, the armed robots, the biometric checks, the laser corridor, the disinfection chamber.
He described the massive server facility, the busy engineers, and finally, the rows of unfamiliar combat robots.
He emphasized that last part. He had never seen those models before.
Palpatine listened, then smiled.
Frankly, he thought the Trade Federation's battle droids were a joke.
Their accuracy was abysmal, three hits out of a hundred shots was considered a good day.
If High Claw was using similar junk, Palpatine already had a dozen ways to break in.
As if sensing his superior's thoughts, John added, "Sir, those robots aren't standard models."
"Their specific capabilities are unknown. But they're certainly more powerful than the Trade Federation's cannon fodder."
Palpatine's smile didn't waver. A few robots? There were plenty of ways to deal with machines.
Small electromagnetic pulse grenades. Magnetic warheads.
He had capable operatives, and the galaxy's major corporations had even more resources.
And those corporations were growing restless.
That orange cat's rampant expansion had long been a source of resentment. High Claw refused to share any profits.
Every single share of the entire conglomerate remained in Garfield's paws.
It was, Palpatine reflected, a kind of dictatorship, benevolent or otherwise.
He genuinely admired Garfield's abilities. If their interests hadn't been so fundamentally opposed, he might have sat down for a proper conversation
"Agent," Palpatine said at last, "continue to pester Jean Grey. Extract as many secrets about High Claw as you can."
"I'll do my best, sir."
"You may leave."
"Yes, sir."
The projector shut down with a crackle of static. John sat alone in the locked room, staring at the dead screen.
He knew Palpatine was tracking him.
The shutdown wasn't a signal to leave, it was a warning. I know where you are. Don't betray me.
So cunning. That was how men of great power operated.
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John followed his orders diligently. He found new excuses every day to stay close to Jean.
He shadowed her at company events. He showed up at her favorite cafes.
He requested follow-up "case-related interviews."
It drove her absolutely insane.
Finally, Jean retreated to Garfield's private residence inside the Jedi Temple and refused to come out.
John, helpless against the Temple's security, could only wait outside like a patient predator.
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"Boss! That little detective is bothering me again! Please get rid of him!"
Jean Grey's whining filled Garfield's office. The orange cat rubbed his temples, his head throbbing.
He hated women who cried, made scenes, and threatened self-destruction, though Jean hadn't yet progressed to the last one.
"Jean," he said patiently, "you need patience to accomplish big things. Why do you think a detective keeps bothering *you*?"
"He wants to pursue me."
Garfield blinked slowly. "He's been a womanizer on Coruscant for years. He's seen every species, every size, every color."
"Why would he choose someone your age?"
"Boss!" Jean protested, genuinely offended. "I'm not even forty yet! Look at me… fair-skinned, beautiful, long-legged, a multimillionaire heiress."
"I have suitors lining up. I'm a stunner!"
Garfield covered his eyes with one paw, his expression one of profound disgust. "Do you not know your own situation?"
"If I hadn't found you, you'd still be in that tiny apartment, living like a recluse. Think carefully. *Why* does he keep bothering you?"
Jean fell silent. The gears turned. Then her eyes widened.
"He's from one of those big corporations? Trying to hack our servers and steal the source code?"
Garfield smiled. "What do you think?"
Seeing that smile, Jean understood instantly. Her boss had always known who was behind the conspiracy.
He just hadn't moved yet.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Boss… are you setting a trap? Waiting for the big fish to take the bait?"
"That's exactly right." Garfield nodded. "I know who's behind it all. I know their purpose."
"And as for setting a trap, I've already woven a net they won't see until they're caught in it."
Jean stared at the small orange figure with stars in her eyes.
So cute. So handsome. So domineering.
She wanted to hug him.
Before she could stop herself, she lunged forward with outstretched arms.
Garfield vanished mid-lunge, teleporting three feet to the left. He landed silently, his tail flicking with irritation.
"Behave yourself. I am not your pet. If you behave, I will allow you to stay here another day. Otherwise, I will throw you out of the company right now. Understand?"
Jean, arms still wrapped around empty air, snapped back to attention. "Understood, boss."
"Good."
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It was noon, one and a half months after the car chase incident.
Several ordinary flying cars lifted off from a junkyard on the outskirts of Coruscant.
They moved in loose formation, their hulls streaked with rust and grime, deliberately unremarkable.
Nothing to see here. Just scrap haulers going about their business.
But inside those cars, the passengers checked their weapons in silence.
The trap was set.
Now they just needed the fish to bite.