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killersfool · 2 months ago

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FORCE OF NATURE ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ Syril Karn

pairing: syril karn x fem oc

word count: 6.2k

synopsis: syril karn is alone.

with a new job and a new identity, six months pass in silence. but when footage of a familiar face resurfaces, he can't resist reaching out — unsure of where it will lead him.

notes: my star wars knowledge is not amazing so im sorry if anything is inaccurate. the plot will probably be really different to andor and im thinking of posting this on ao3 to make a full length fic. posting on here first to see what people think!

The apartment was clean. Too clean.

Syril liked it that way — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Everything in its place. Shirt cuffs starched. Rations aligned with mechanical precision. The only disruption was the low hum of the kettle and the distant, ceaseless murmur of air traffic beyond the window. A Coruscant evening: colourless, endless.

He sat at the kitchen table, a datapad before him. Blank, save for the blinking cursor of a resignation letter he’d never sent.

It had been six months since the chaos at Ferrix. Since Dedra had stopped speaking to him. There had been no formal goodbye. Just silence – clinical, efficient.

He had read back his final message to her so many times, trying to find what had pushed her away. Too much admiration? Not enough control?

She had been the last thread. The final justification that his loyalty meant something — that he meant something. But even her clinical poise couldn’t disguise what he was to all of them.

Replaceable.

He sipped lukewarm caf, eyes fixed on the cityscape. He still wore the old Pre-Mor Authority uniform sometimes — out of habit more than pride — though it hung looser than it used to. These days, he kept it shoved into the leftmost corner of the wardrobe, out of sight. Seeing it stirred a dread he didn’t have the words for.

Had he made a mistake?

Now, he worked in private security — a civilian post, under a new name. Monitoring petty thefts, industrial sabotage, internal disputes between faceless corporate clients. The pay was better. The meaning had evaporated.

Sometimes, in the early hours, he’d wake in a sweat, Ferrix still clinging to his skin. Blaster smoke in his throat. That rebel girl’s voice—loud, defiant—ringing in his ears.

He should've killed her. He knew it now.

And maybe that was where it all began to fall apart.

Because Syril Karn had always wanted to be certain. About the rules. About order. About his place in the galaxy.

But once certainty cracked, once he saw the fracture in the design—what remained?

Just noise.

He watched the feeds now, cataloguing anomalies that weren’t his concern. Names flagged by the Empire. Patterns that didn’t quite fit. Faces that flickered for a moment, then vanished. And sometimes, without understanding why, he saved them.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he was just curious.

But there was a quiet ache in him — something like sympathy, something like guilt — and he thought, foolishly, that the world might notice. That it might offer him something back. A gesture. A sign. A small kindness, arriving unannounced.

Instead, he was met with silence and static. Day after day. In his own little corner of the world.

His mother never called. When he’d left the job — the one she'd once bragged about — she’d cut the line clean. Called him a disgrace. A disappointment. Now, her messages were clipped, brittle things. He’d stopped opening them.

He liked to pretend he enjoyed the solitude. The hush of Coruscant at two in the morning, when city light leaked through the blinds in pale gold lines, striping the floor. When he wandered into the old bookshop across the street and leafed through volumes no one read anymore. Revolutionary theory. Political ethics. Words he’d once dismissed. Now he read them with quiet, guilty interest.

The new job paid well enough. He filed reports, sorted logs, watched lives play out on grainy screens. Then he went home.

To silence.

A silence so dense, it pressed against his ribs like a hand.

That morning, he looked in the mirror. A scruff of a beard he hadn’t shaved. Dark circles like bruises under his eyes. His brows grown wild. He didn’t recognise the man staring back.

Six months. That’s all it had taken.

Two weeks later, it was raining.

Not the kind of rain that washed the city clean. No, this rain clung to everything — oily and relentless — turning the streets into mirrors and the sky into a smudged bruise above the towers. From his window, Syril watched the droplets trace jagged paths down the glass, threading between the red glow of traffic lines and the cold silver of aerial vehicles weaving through the airways.

Coruscant never truly slept, but at this hour, it almost pretended to. A low, mechanical hum bled into the silence of his apartment, barely louder than his own breath.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The lights inside stayed off, allowing the city’s glare to do the painting — casting long, solemn stripes across his floor and walls, slicing his face into shadow. He sat curled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, the stale taste of caf still on his tongue and the afterburn of insomnia clinging to his skull like a fever.

The alert came at 04:13.

A soft chirp, barely louder than the storm beyond the glass. It blinked once on his screen — an anomaly — and his eyes dragged toward it, as if his body had been waiting for something to break the stillness.

It wasn’t his jurisdiction.

His name wasn’t attached. No permissions granted. No reason it should’ve arrived at all.

But then... the image loaded.

Blurry. Grainy. Caught in the corner of a surveillance lens from a docking terminal on the outskirts of the mid-rim. Mist curled like smoke around the frame, lights refracted against damp metal. She was running — her head ducked low, hair caught in the wind, a bag slung across her body. The camera only caught her for three seconds before she vanished behind a crate.

Still — it was her.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

There was something in her movement, the cut of her silhouette, that same precise urgency he remembered from Ferrix — like the city had been on fire and she was the only one who knew where to go.

He froze.

Not with fear. Not with awe. With... something harder to name. Like all the hollow spaces inside him had been lit, briefly, by a flickering match.

Her file said nothing useful. No name. No affiliation. No face match strong enough to generate a confirmed ID. Just one line in red at the bottom:

“Possible insurgent. Known to evade detention.”

He let the words sit there, echoing.

He should’ve dismissed the alert.

Instead, he saved the file.

Then he stood, knees stiff from hours in the same position, and crossed the room to his desk. The dim glow of the screen lit his face in a pale wash, sharpening the hollows beneath his eyes.

He opened a new document.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — his hands moved without hesitating. On a map. A thread spun between systems, connecting places she might’ve touched. He sifted through archived patrol logs from Ferrix, maintenance records from departing ships, faces that matched fragments of hers even if they weren’t quite right.

It wasn’t duty. It wasn’t redemption.

It was her.

Or the ghost of her.

Because Syril Karn, despite everything, still believed that people left trails behind. That no one truly vanished — not if you were paying attention. Not if you wanted to see them.

And gods, he wanted to see her again.

He didn’t know what he would do if he did.

Only that he couldn’t stop now.

The next day, Syril woke before the sun — if such a thing could even be said on Coruscant, where the skyline swallowed light whole and replaced it with something artificial and cold.

His dreams had been strange again. Flickers of faces blurred by smoke. The echo of boots on ferrocrete. And her voice — not words, just the sound of breath caught between fear and defiance. When he sat up, the sheets were tangled around his legs and his shirt clung to his back with sweat.

He didn’t bother with breakfast. The kettle stayed silent.

Instead, he moved straight to the desk, fingers already twitching to reopen the surveillance file. Her image blinked up at him, that same three-second clip, looping silently in the top corner of his screen. He’d watched it over and over, memorised the exact second she turned her head, how the lights caught her cheekbones, how the hem of her coat lifted as she ran.

There was something alive in her. Untamed. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop.

His fingers flew across the console, pulling up transport logs from nearby districts, maintenance rosters, dockworker shift reports. He had no clearance — but old habits were hard to break, and backdoors into Imperial systems had been a quiet hobby of his even before he walked away. He found patterns. Irregularities. A handful of similar sightings, two weeks apart, spaced across mid-level ports.

She was moving in spirals. Not fleeing — circling. Waiting for something.

Or someone.

By midday, Syril hadn’t spoken a word aloud. His jaw ached from the tight clench of his thoughts. He barely noticed the ache in his lower back or the way his eyes watered from the glare of the screen. Only when a loud, aggressive ping rang out did he blink out of the haze.

A message.

From his mother.

"I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. They’re hiring at the ministry. Your uncle could still get your record wiped if you stopped being so proud. Call me."

He deleted it without opening the thread.

That afternoon, he walked to the bookshop. The air was damp and sour from yesterday’s rain, puddles gleaming like scars along the pavement. The bookseller — a thin, kind-eyed woman with ink stains on her fingers — nodded to him silently. She knew he didn’t like to be disturbed.

He wandered past the political theory section again. Hesitated. Then, for reasons he didn’t yet understand, picked up a worn copy of Revolution and Memory: The Human Cost of Imperial Order. Something he would’ve scoffed at months ago.

He paid in credits and left.

That night, back in the quiet of his room, Syril sat with the book unopened in his lap. His eyes were on the window — not the skyline, but his own reflection in the glass.

He looked like a man adrift.

But in his chest, there was a flicker of something else. Not certainty — that was long gone.

Conviction, maybe.

It began with a face.

Not hers — not yet — but someone else from that same Ferrix clip. A man, barely in frame, helping someone vault over a barricade. Syril had dismissed him the first dozen times he’d reviewed the footage. But now, with every corner of the image magnified and scrubbed clean by his private software, he saw the jawline. The coat. The expression.

Too calm for chaos.

He wasn’t just a bystander.

Syril isolated the frame, ran it through outdated facial recognition tools he shouldn’t have had access to anymore. The result took five minutes to process, and when the match blinked onto his screen, his breath caught in his throat.

C. Andor. Alias: Clem. Known rebel associate. Status: Fugitive.

His chest tightened.

Of course.

The girl — the one he couldn’t stop thinking about — wasn’t just some byproduct of resistance. She was in it. With him.

That should’ve ignited rage. It didn’t. It was something worse — something tangled. Disappointment twisted with fascination. A burning ache he couldn’t name.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring at the report like it could change if he looked long enough.

She was with Andor.

The same man who had derailed everything. Who had made Dedra unravel. Who had slipped through Syril’s fingers again and again — an absence that haunted him almost as much as her presence.

He opened a secure, anonymous channel. Its name was buried under layers of encryption, but the signal worked.

He hesitated for a long time before typing.

"Meet me at the Transit Platform on District 9. I need to speak to you. You’ll know me.”

He didn’t know if she’d ever read it. But somewhere inside of him, he knew this was a beginning and that wherever this was going, it would be far from good.

He sucked a breath and sent it anyway.

The rest of the day passed like a blur — the seconds swallowing him whole. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just paced, reread old case files, stared at the grainy footage, replayed her laugh in his head — no, not a laugh. Something sharper. A shout. A command.

She’d been fearless.

And what had he been?

Alone. Always alone.

That night, he stood on his balcony — a tiny slab of steel and gloom overlooking nothing but a back alley full of steam pipes and humming generators. Still, he stared into the dark like it might stare back. Like her eyes might be waiting there, in the shadows, defiant and unblinking.

The next day he found himself stood before the mirror, shaver between his fingers. He tidied his beard, brushed the long curls of hair away from his face and clipped his eyebrows. He then pulled on a loose white shirt and dark trousers, and slung over a coat with a hood which he threw over his head. It was late and the city hummed with a gentle ambience.

He walked through the streets, a strange paranoia wafting through him. He didnt know who would be there - if anyone would be there. But he definitely didnt want to be seen. He definitely didnt want to risk the kind of trouble he could get himself into.

The Transit Platform was empty. No one there but him.

He glanced down at his watch. The seconds ticked by in sharp, heavy intervals. Syril’s breath misted in the cool night air as he checked his watch again, his pulse quickening with each passing moment. The platform stretched out in front of him, silent and unmoving. He could feel the weight of the empty space around him — the expanse of the city looming like a quiet, indifferent beast.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against a nearby support pole, trying to relax. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable. What if she wasn’t coming? What if this was just another failed attempt, another misstep into something even darker than before?

But no. He couldn’t afford to think like that.

The low hum of an incoming shuttle overhead broke the stillness, and for a split second, Syril thought he heard the distinct, sharp sound of footsteps. His heart skipped. He straightened up, eyes locking on the shadows, but the movement was too subtle, too quick. Had he imagined it? Or was it her?

Then, just as the doubt began to twist at the edges of his mind, he saw it. The silhouette. Small at first, then clearer as it emerged from the darkness.

It was her.

Her coat was dark, its edges catching the faintest light as she moved with purpose, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards him, no pause, no second-guessing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she held herself — the confidence, the precision of her movements — that sent a chill down his spine.

She stopped a few feet from him, silent. Waiting.

Syril cleared his throat, feeling the tremor in his voice before he could steady it. “You came." His words came out weaker than he expected. He was surprised he'd ever see her face again.

He remembered the orders he had been given on Ferrix. He had been told to follow her through the back alleys and 'get rid of her'. But they got cornered in an old, collapsing factory. Debris came down. Alarms howled. Reinforcements never came. They had both been stood in this silence, blasters pressed to each others chests, waiting for the other to press down on the trigger. Tension. Quietness. The steady rise and fall of chests and bright eyes in the darkness.

Syril had known that it was his duty to kill her. Or at least to render her unconscious but his finger wouldn't press down on the trigger because there was something in her eyes — not fear, not defiance — but recognition. Like she had seen straight through the uniform, through the polished exterior and years of indoctrination, and had found the small, flickering part of him that hesitated.

That was what scared him most. Not her blaster. Not the ceiling threatening to collapse. But her gaze. The way she looked at him like she knew.

He remembered the words she’d said in the stillness — words barely audible over the creaking metal and distant sirens.

“You don’t believe in it, do you?” she had whispered. “The cause. The orders. Not really.”

He hadn’t answered. He couldn’t. Because she was right. And that truth, unspoken and fragile, had hung between them like a thread that neither of them dared to sever.

Now, on the platform, with the silence humming around them once more, she tilted her head, watching him. Measuring something. Maybe the same hesitation. Maybe the same question.

“I thought you might’ve turned me in,” she said. Her voice was low, even, but it carried something under the surface. Not quite relief. Not quite trust. Something in between.

“I thought about it,” Syril admitted. “More than once.”

“And yet…” She gestured at the space between them with a faint shrug. “Here we are.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say. His throat was dry. The cold bit through his coat but he barely felt it.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice softening. “Back in that factory. You could’ve killed me. But you didn’t.”

“You’re not supposed to remember that.”

She smirked, something almost playful in the curve of her lips. “I remember everything.”

Silence again. The shuttle had passed now. The lights dimmed. The night stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Why did you come?”

"I think you could help us."

Syril raised an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you since you left your job. I saw you the other day buying some interesting books." Her dark eyes glowed with excitement.

Syril’s stomach twisted at the mention of his recent purchase. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed, let alone someone who might be watching him. He fought the urge to shift uneasily under her gaze.

"You’ve been watching me?" he asked, his voice guarded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—about someone tracking his every move. But there was something in her tone, something purposeful, that made him hesitate before dismissing it.

Her eyes remained steady, intense. "You don’t think you’ve been living in a vacuum, do you? Not after everything that happened. We’ve been keeping an eye on the people who might be useful." She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp, calculated. "And you, Syril, are more useful than you think."

The sound of his name from her lips felt unfamiliar. He had grown accustomed to answering to his new name, but hearing those two syllables again sent a jolt through him, his heart racing.

Syril couldn’t decide if that sent a thrill down his spine or if it made him feel sick. Useful to who, exactly? To them? To whoever they were? The questions piled up in his mind faster than he could process them.

"And these books?" he asked, though the answer was already clear in his head. "What are you getting at?"

She took a step closer, lowering her voice as if sharing some forbidden secret. "History books. Books about revolutions. About the fall of empires. About the people who thought they were untouchable until they weren’t." She paused, her eyes flicking toward his watch before meeting his gaze again. "You’re reading between the lines now. I saw the way you looked at them. You’re starting to see the cracks."

He swallowed, his throat dry. There was no denying it. Since leaving his position, the world had started to look different. The uniform, the orders, the Empire—he had once believed in all of it. But now? The edges were fraying, the whole system was… corrupt. And he knew it.

"I don’t know what you think I can do," he muttered, stepping back slightly, trying to regain some of the distance he desperately needed. "I’m not one of you."

Her lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes. "You don’t need to be. But you’re in a unique position. You know things. You’ve seen things. And I’m sure you’re realising more each day just how much power you have over your own future."

"I’m not interested in power," he snapped, a little too quickly, his breath catching. "I just want to survive."

Her eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was a knowing glint to them. "I think you're already past that point. Surviving isn’t enough anymore. Not when the world is changing around you."

The words stung, but Syril didn’t argue. He knew she was right. The world was changing, and he had no idea where he stood in it anymore.

She took another step forward, her presence unwavering. "I’m asking you to make a choice, Syril. You’ve been sitting on the sidelines, but that’s no longer an option. The Empire won’t let you stay neutral. You’ll either be crushed by it or you’ll stand up and fight."

Syril’s mind spun, the weight of her words sinking in. He had always been the one who followed orders, who stayed within the lines. But now… now, it felt like the lines were disappearing, and all that was left was a choice he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he intended.

“I want you to decide,” she said simply. “Decide who you’re going to be. The man who fades into the background, or the one who finally chooses a side.”

Syril didn’t speak for a long time, the silence between them growing heavier. His gaze drifted to the city beyond them—the lights flickering like stars in a sky that seemed too vast for him to understand. Was there even a side worth choosing? Could he live with the consequences of any decision he made?

And for the first time in a long while, Syril didn’t have an answer.

"First you have to tell me your name and who you're with. I need to know what I'm getting myself into," he said, his voice steadying, though the tremor of uncertainty still lingered in his chest. It was a weak attempt at regaining some control over the situation, but it was all he had. He couldn’t move forward without knowing who she was or what kind of danger he was stepping into.

Her smile didn’t fade, but there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Fair enough," she replied, her tone deliberate, as if she’d been expecting this question all along. "You deserve to know who you're dealing with."

She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she seemed to weigh how much to reveal. "My name is Aria. And as for who I’m with…" She paused, glancing around them briefly, as if to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in just a little closer. "I’m with the Resistance. We’re not a formal organisation yet. But we’re building something. Something that will change the course of everything. The Empire won’t be able to ignore us forever."

Syril’s mind raced. The Resistance. The very idea felt foreign to him, a world away from the cold, calculated structure of the Imperial forces he had once been a part of. A world where things weren’t dictated by rules, where loyalty and duty weren’t enough to make decisions for you. And yet, there was something compelling about it.

"How do I even begin?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the decision settling on him like a stone in his chest.

Aria smile returned, this time with a hint of something almost approving. "You’ve already begun. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve made the first step."

He glanced at her, unsure if it was that simple, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised she was right. This was the moment. The choice had already been made, whether he liked it or not.

"Where do we start?" he asked, finally allowing himself to hope—just a little.

Aria's gaze softened, but there was still that spark of determination in her eyes. "We start by taking down the Empire, piece by piece. And it begins with people like you, Syril. The ones who have seen it all. The ones who understand it." She turned, her hand brushing past his as she began to walk away, her pace steady and sure.

"Are you coming?" she called back, without turning around.

For a moment, Syril hesitated, but then he followed her, the decision made. No more running. No more hiding. He was ready to step into the fight, even if he didn’t yet know what it would cost him.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, more determined than he had felt in a long time. "I’m coming."

Aria asked him as they approached her ship if he needed anything from his apartment. If there was anything he truly valued. She also added that they had plenty of clothes and food and he told her that he was alright in the credits department, due to how well-paid his previous job had been.

There was something comforting about her presence. He sat down beside her in the ship, peeled off his coat, and he began to ask her a question, "So, where are you from?"

Aria glanced at him as the ship glided smoothly through hyperspace, her fingers brushing over the controls almost instinctively. The low hum of the engines seemed to match the quiet tension between them, a calm before whatever adventures awaited.

"I'm from Corellia," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and a subtle sadness. "It’s... a bustling world, a place where ships are built and legends are made. The Corellians have always been known for their speed and ingenuity. But it’s a hard place to grow up, always under the pressure to live up to the reputation."

She glanced sideways, catching his eye for a moment. "I left when I was younger. The galaxy seemed like a bigger place than that steel city. I wanted more than just the scent of engine oil and the sound of ships taking off every other minute."

Her fingers tightened on the controls for a brief second, before her grip relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her. "And you? Born in Coruscant, right?"

"Yes."

A silence dragged on.

"You've been alone for quite a while, haven't you?" she said, the question soft but probing.

Syril raised a brow.

"Sorry you just seem so quiet. You were so different the last time I saw you."

Syril looked at her, his voice steady and his hand gripping his glass a little tighter. "I guess I've just gotten used to being on my own. But yeah, it’s been a while since I... had anyone to talk to."

Her mouth seemed to twist to the side a little. "Me too."

"So what have you been doing since you left Ferrix?" Syril asked.

"Watching you."

Syril shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his grip tightening on his glass, but he couldn't help the faint warmth that rose to his ears. He could tell she was teasing, but there was something oddly... intimate about her knowing gaze. Something about the way she said it, as if she had been watching him in a way that went beyond mere curiosity. "The last six months? That's what you've been put up to?"

"Well that and other things. Although, I was told not to approach you or speak to you until you made contact yourself. "

Syril’s brow furrowed at her words. Made contact? He could feel his pulse quicken, confusion mixing with a hint of something else—was it dread? He hadn’t realised there was more to her being here than the mere coincidence of their paths crossing.

"And who put you up to this?" Syril looked away, still trying to regain his composure.

"You will find out in due course –"

Aria started, but Syril cut her off, his voice tight. “It wasn’t Andor, was it? You’re not taking me to him to be questioned, are you? He’s dangerous... he’s—” Syril’s hands tremble as he says it, betraying his anxiety.

Her eyes widened with surprise. "What?"

"Andor. Cassian Andor. Was he the one who wanted me here? Are you taking me to him to get questioned? Are you going to kill me?" Now he was frightened. His mind diverting to the worst possible outcomes. “I’ve heard the stories,” Syril muttered, eyes flickering nervously to the window. “Of what he can do. What happens to people who cross him. If you’re working for him... if he’s the one behind this...” Syril’s voice trailed off, caught in the weight of the unspoken fear.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but there was no mockery in her expression. She studied him for a moment, and for the first time, Syril noticed the softness in her gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something more—concern, maybe. She reached over to put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "No one is going to hurt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know these people. They don't want to make you suffer. They want to help you. They want to hear you. We aren't like the Empire."

Syril looked at her hand now upon his shoulder, her thumb pressing gently into his shoulder blade. Her skin dark and warm. It brought him comfort. He hadn't felt human touch in a long time, there was something so odd about the feeling rising inside of him.

Syril stayed still for a moment, his mind racing with confusion, suspicion, and an unspoken yearning that he didn’t quite understand. The warmth of her hand on his shoulder was both grounding and unsettling. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d been missing human connection until this very moment. Her touch felt genuine, comforting even, and yet, part of him wanted to pull away, unsure of the intentions behind it.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the sudden vulnerability that crept into his chest. "I don’t know who to trust anymore," he murmured, his voice quieter now, less defensive. "Not after everything with the Empire. I’ve been led down too many false paths."

Aria didn’t pull her hand away. Her fingers remained light on his shoulder, a steady reassurance. "I get it," she said softly, her voice calm and steady. "You’ve been through a lot. But I assure you, not everyone is out to use you. Not everyone wants to control you."

Syril's eyes flickered back to her face, searching for something real, something that would tell him that maybe, just maybe, he could believe her. Her gaze met his without hesitation, unflinching, as though she could see the turmoil swirling inside him. She wasn’t pushing him, just waiting, allowing him space to breathe, to decide what he wanted—what he needed.

"I don’t know how to stop being afraid," he confessed, his words almost a whisper. "I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the betrayal to come."

Aria’s hand stayed firm but gentle, her thumb brushing across his skin in a slow, soothing motion. "You don’t have to do it alone anymore," she said, the weight of her words settling in his chest like a promise. "You don’t have to live in fear."

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... safe. The kind of silence that felt like an unspoken understanding, the kind that suggested something had shifted, something had broken through the walls Syril had built around himself for so long.

She then pulled her hand away and he could still feel the touch linger. He watched her as she controlled the ship as if it was routine. It was late, he found himself yawning under his breath.

"You can go into the sleeping pod if you're tired," she said. "There's some clothes in there you could change into. A shower also."

"Are you saying I smell bad?" He laughed.

Aria glanced over at him with a playful smirk, her eyes twinkling under the dim lights of the cockpit. "Not at all," she teased, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "But you've been awake for hours. And you’ve been through a lot. I’m just offering a little rest, Syril. You could use it."

Syril chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly light in contrast to the weight that had been lingering in his chest all this time. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking to the sleeping pod she’d mentioned. "I suppose you’re right. Been a long day... or night, or whatever it is in hyperspace."

Aria’s gaze softened, her fingers still moving over the ship’s controls with ease, her focus unwavering. "The time doesn’t really matter out here. Just... sleep when you can."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation settle back into his bones. He had grown so used to isolation that even simple things—like being offered a bed—felt foreign to him. But the kindness in her voice was undeniable. There was no judgment, no expectation, just... care.

Syril nodded, pushing himself up from his seat. "Alright. I’ll take you up on that."

As he moved toward the sleeping pod, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at Aria, still focused on the ship. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who expected anything in return, just offering comfort and space when it was needed. It made him feel a little less alone, a little less like the world was waiting for him to fail.

The pod was smaller than he expected, but it was functional and clean, and there were fresh clothes neatly folded on a shelf nearby. He changed quickly, the soft fabric of the shirt feeling like a welcome relief after the rough, ill-fitting garments he’d been wearing for far too long. The shower was equally as refreshing, the warm water melting away some of the tension from his muscles.

When he returned to the main cabin, wet hair and a slightly more relaxed demeanour, he found Aria still at the controls, her eyes focused on the blinking lights and the smooth hum of the ship around them. She glanced up when he entered, her expression momentarily softening as she took in his changed appearance.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Syril said, running a towel through his damp hair. "Surprisingly so."

He stepped closer to the cockpit, leaning against the wall, unsure of what to do next. The ship was quiet, the stars outside flickering in their distant glow.

"You don’t sleep much, do you?" he asked, observing how her hands moved with practiced ease over the controls. It was as if she didn’t need rest, as if the ship itself was an extension of her.

Aria gave a soft laugh, though it was tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. "I’ve learned to survive on less sleep than most people. It’s part of the job." She didn’t seem to want to elaborate, but the words hinted at something else, something far deeper than the routine of space travel.

Syril nodded, feeling the weight of the silence between them settle once more, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time. There was a subtle comfort in it, an unspoken connection that made the distance between them seem smaller.

"You should try to get some sleep anyway," Aria said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. "We have a few hours before we hit the next waypoint, and it’ll be better for you in the long run."

"What about you? Aren't you tired?"

"I'm okay," she murmured. "I've gotten used to running on fumes. It’s not ideal, but it’s something I’ve had to learn."

Syril nodded and began to step away.

"You know, Aria," he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual, "If you ever need someone to take over, or if you just need to rest... I’m here."

She looked at him then, her gaze steady and perhaps a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For a second, it seemed like she might say something else, but she just nodded instead, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Thanks, Syril," she replied quietly, and for the first time since they had met, he saw something in her—something human. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He met her gaze, surprised by the warmth and care that she seemed to effortlessly give. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable even, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind. He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to convey how much her words meant.

With a final glance toward her, he made his way back to the sleeping pod, settling into the small space. The bed was comfortable enough, and the quiet hum of the ship seemed to calm his racing thoughts. His body, now relaxed from the shower, sank into the softness of the bed, and his eyes slowly closed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Syril allowed himself to drift into sleep, the tension in his body slowly melting away, replaced with the strange but comforting sensation of trust.

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dettiot · 5 years ago

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Fic: late-night interruption 5/?

late-night interruption Author: dettiot Rating: G (for now) Summary: When Obi-Wan receives a late-night comm from Sabé, he’s not sure what to expect. But what he learns will change many lives . . . and the fate of the Republic.

Also available on AO3!

XXX

There was a disturbance in the Force.

Most beings would stand in the office of the Supreme Chancellor and, if their attention was not held by being in the presence of the most powerful man in the galaxy, be entirely focused on the view through the transparisteel windows. No matter the hour, traffic surged around Coruscant’s buildings, moving its two trillion citizens to workplaces or home or recreation sites.

But for Darth Sidious, Coruscant was only a drop of water in the ocean when it came to his interests. In truth, the entirety of the known galaxy was simply where he would start--but with the vast unexplored regions, there were so many beings, unaffiliated with the Republic yet, that he would bring under his control one day.

That would be his glorious future. Whenever he considered it, the Force swirled in a dark, soothing mass around him. In the present moment, however, he could sense something changing. Something that felt wrong.

Reaching out, Sidious focused on the change. It seemed to be coalesced around certain people, and his lips twisted into a snarl as he realized just who the Force was working upon.

Senator Padmé Amidala. Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. And most troubling of all: Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker.

If it was simply the matter of Amidala’s brat being born soon, he would understand this stirring. Anakin’s offspring would be powerful in the Force. And when his child came without its father being present, Anakin would blame the Jedi Order. It would be another wedge between his future apprentice and the Jedi High Council.

But it wasn’t just the “happy couple” at the center of the Force’s gyrations. What did the Force care about Kenobi in this moment?

Before he could begin to explore the disturbance further, his comm chimed and he had to take a moment to smooth his face into something suitable for Chancellor Palpatine.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear to keep up the pretense. To wait for his destiny. Especially with the Force’s newfound movement, being more active than it had been in decades. It was practically dancing.

Tapping his finger on the button, he accepted the comm and growled, “Yes?”

“Good evening, Chancellor,” Mas Amedda said, his voice dripping with deferential courtesy. “There is action in the Senate on another clone rights bill--”

“Another bill which will go nowhere,” Sidious ordered. “There are no clone rights.”

Amedda bowed, but his sense hummed with a subtle resentment. “I am attempting to do as you wish, Chancellor, however, I have received word that the Kaminoans supporting this latest bill.”

“They have no Senate seat,” he sniffed. “Clearly, this is a ploy, in preparation for our upcoming negotiations.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” Amedda said.

The lack of initiative in Amedda was becoming more and more of a problem. But on the other hand, his loyalty was unquestioning. Any servant’s gifts came with tradeoffs, Sidious acknowledged to himself.

“I will speak to the Kaminoans. Keep the Senate in line and kill the very idea of clone rights,” Sidious said.

Amedda inclined his head. “Yes, Chancellor. Have a good evening.”

Without any further words, Sidious ended the comm and looked out at the view once again. He reached for the Force but found his insight was . . . blocked. All he could feel was a disgusting light. He grimaced and turned back to his desk.

These infernal petty problems--clone rights, war strategy, the Senate’s bickering--soon, none of them would matter. Soon, the galaxy would answer to him.

And so would the Force.

XXX

Although most of Naboo’s population wasn’t overtly religious, Sabé had been brought up in a family that was less spiritual than most. She had always focused on the here and now, on her own actions, instead of thinking about what came after death. And she had been satisfied with her life and what she would accomplish before she died, without the assistance of any gods or goddesses.

Yet she had begun to reconsider her perspective. Because seeing her best friend in such pain made her wish she could call upon a deity for help.

“Don’t push, Senator,” Gahan urged her as Sabé held her hand. “Not quite yet.”

Padmé nodded, her teeth gritted. The contraction passed and she slumped back on the bed, breathing hard.

Sabé lifted a damp cloth and sponged Padmé’s forehead. “You’re doing so well, Padmé,” she soothed her. “Just a little longer.”

Nodding a little, Padmé closed her eyes. “Where’s Anakin? Is he here yet?”

“Soon--he’ll get here soon,” Sabé promised. “Master Kenobi messaged me when they entered orbit around Coruscant.”

“Master Kenobi?” Padmé said, blinking. “Obi-Wan is coming?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Sabé said, “Yes?”

Padmé still looked confused, but then she smiled weakly. “That’s--that’s good. I’m glad. Anakin--Anakin is scared for me--he’ll need Obi-Wan.”

Anakin wasn’t the only one who was scared, Sabé thought. She glanced at Healer Gahan, who remained as calm and steady as a pond. But it seemed to her that the healer’s calm was very practiced. Like she was pretending for Padmé’s sake.

“Sabé . . . could I please have some juice?”

Before Sabé could reply, the healer said smoothly, “I’m afraid that’s not wise, Senator. But you may have some ice chips.”

“I’ll get them for you, Padmé,” Sabé said, giving her forehead another quick wipe before heading to the kitchen.

The healer followed her, which was fine with Sabé. As soon as they were out of earshot, she whirled around and pinned the Mon Cal with her glare. “What’s wrong with Padmé?”

“Nothing more than she is in labor,” Gahan said, her large, glassy eyes blinking. “The Senator is a small woman; she will need to be fully dilated to deliver safely. There is also her anxiety about her husband being here. That is unfortunately increasing her pain, too. I’m sure as soon as her husband arrives, the Senator will have an easier time of it.”

Sabé breathed out, feeling her shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”

“You are a good friend to the Senator,” the healer said politely. “I have one more scan to run on the Senator--I do find the Senator’s condition concerning, but I believe with this final scan, we will be well-prepared for the delivery.”

“All right,” Sabé said. “I’ll get the ice chips for Padmé. Thank you, Healer Gahan.”

“You’re welcome,” the healer said with a nod of her head before returning to Padmé’s room.

Something still seemed not quite right to Sabé, but then, she had never been part of something like this before. She didn’t have older sisters and Padmé was the first of her friends to become pregnant. And she never had any thought of having children herself.

All of this was as new to her as it was to Padmé. And Padmé needed her right now.

That meant she shouldn’t stand around worrying. She should get those ice chips and get back to Padmé.

With a shake of her head, Sabé did what was needed. With a large glass brimming with ice, she walked back into the bedroom, just in time to hear Padmé say, in a loud voice, “What?!?”

“What is it, Padmé?” Sabé asked, stepping over towards her.

Padmé looked up at Sabé, her eyes wide and dark and, for the first time ever, full of fear for her life.

XXX

He knew what he should be focusing on. The idea that the Chancellor was a Sith Lord . . . it was horrifying, terrifying. Not just for what it could mean for the galaxy, but because how could the Jedi not realize this? How had Palpatine hidden his power, to the extent that he read as a non-Force-sensitive?

Yet all Obi-Wan could think about was Satine.

The Satine in the meditation he had shared with Anakin . . . he had never seen her like that. Her hair loose around her face, but shorter than he had ever seen it. Her face was as beautiful as ever, but there were new lines around her eyes, hinting at age--or pain. And her jumpsuit, dirty and faded, was a far cry from her regal gowns. Not even during their year on the run had she allowed herself to look so bedraggled.

It all pointed towards a Force vision, a glimpse into the future. But . . . how could it be true? How could Satine be alive?

Meditation usually calmed him, gave him answers to the questions he sought. But this time, all he had were questions. And given the current situation, it would be up to him to find the answers.

Obi-Wan glanced over at Anakin, who was gripping the speeder controls so hard, his knuckles were white.

Yes, definitely up to him.

Not that he could fault Anakin for his distraction. Not with his worries for Padmé. And Anakin could never focus on anything else if someone he cared about was in trouble. It was a quality which had provoked Obi-Wan to exasperation at times--but also to gratitude, since otherwise, he might not be alive.

Obi-Wan took a breath and sought for Padmé’s presence amid the trillions of souls on the surface of Coruscant. Once he found her, he winced at the pain radiating off her. But the strength underneath that pain gave him hope.

Looking over at Anakin, Obi-Wan spoke in a raised tone, to be heard over the wind whipping past the speeder’s canopy. “Padmé seems to be handling her pain well.”

If anything, his attempt at reassurance backfired, because Anakin sped up. “She shouldn’t ever be in pain,” he said, his jaw tight.

“Some pain is unavoidable, Anakin--you know this,” Obi-Wan said, trying to keep his voice gentle.

He shook his head, his distress plain to see. Obi-Wan reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I know I should be worrying about what we saw,” Anakin said slowly, his eyes focused on the view through the windshield. “About the Chancellor . . . and about Satine. But all I can think about is Padmé. About my dreams.”

“I understand, Anakin, I do,” Obi-Wan said. “But I saw Padmé holding a baby in our vision. We both saw that. It seems the Force itself says her future is not what you saw in your dreams.”

“Then what do my dreams mean? They felt so real, Obi-Wan . . .”

Anakin’s voice sounded miserable. He was flying without his usual smooth fluidity, jerking the steering column to get around obstacles in their path.

“Crashing the speeder won’t help Padmé or solve the question of what will happen,” Obi-Wan said crisply. “And Padmé is going to need you to be calm and supportive.”

His former Padawan gave him a look dripping with frustration, but at least he slowed the speeder and took a few deep breaths. Obi-Wan sent him a gentle swell of peace and hope, which helped reduce a little of the fear in Anakin’s presence. Enough that his face smoothed and his thoughts seemed to untangle.

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said after a moment.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said.

Glancing at Anakin, Obi-Wan found himself thinking. No matter how much Obi-Wan had taught him to avoid attachment, Anakin seemed completely unable to do so. And it troubled Obi-Wan, seeing Anakin be so fearful of loss. Not simply because of the danger of giving in to that fear . . . but also, how did such a reaction impact the people that Anakin cared about?

Over the years, Obi-Wan had observed Anakin being wildly overprotective of Padmé, even though she was very capable of defending herself. What if, at some point in the future, Anakin’s worry came into conflict with Padmé’s sense of independence? How would Anakin handle that--and how would Padmé?

It made him think of that year with Satine. How Qui-Gon had taught him to respect Satine’s autonomy. To not take over tasks simply because he was a Jedi--to let her learn so she could help herself.

“If we give someone a fish, they eat today,” Master Qui-Gon would tell him. “But if we teach someone to fish, they will eat every day for the rest of their lives.”

That approach always seemed to be successful, even though it conflicted with his sense of personal responsibility. When had he stopped believing in teaching people and begun taking over? Was it the war--the lives he felt responsible for? Or was it a flaw within himself?

Perhaps he had failed Anakin, by simply taking a black-and-white approach to attachment, instead of teaching him all the shades of gray that came from having relationships. And perhaps Anakin had taken the wrong message from his stance on avoiding attachments.

Given what he knew about Obi-Wan’s own feelings for Satine . . . it was quite likely Anakin saw him as a hypocrite. Which would explain why Anakin had never told Obi-Wan about his marriage.

It was something to consider going forward, Obi-Wan acknowledged. Something he would want to talk to Anakin about, after the baby had arrived and Anakin saw that Padmé would be all right.

The Jedi had always believed that Padawan and Master learned from each other. Somewhere along the way, though, he had stopped learning, and it had cost both of them. But at least now that he could see his failings, he could work to correct them. He could help Anakin.

The speeder coming to a stop snapped Obi-Wan out of his thoughts and he looked around. Anakin had docked the speeder at the private landing platform by Padmé’s apartment, but . . . he wasn’t moving.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked. “We’re here.”

“I--I know,” he said, his hands clasped together tightly in his lap.

This was odd. Obi-Wan frowned and gently touched Anakin’s shoulder. Under his fingertips, Anakin’s muscles felt like rocks.

His Force presence reminded Obi-Wan of a bantha on the verge of stampeding. Terrified, uncertain, wanting to move yet wanting to stay still . . .

He opened his mouth to prod Anakin, to remind him of Padmé, only to stop and shake his head. Of course Anakin didn’t need a reminder of Padmé in this moment.

“I promise you, Anakin, Padmé is not going to die.”

“You--you can’t--you can’t promise that, Master,” Anakin said, his voice hitching.

“Yes, I can,” Obi-Wan said, his voice equal parts gentle and firm. “Because Padmé is strong and loves you very much. And I’m sure she loves your child just as much. She is not about to leave you both behind.”

Anakin’s blue eyes were full of tears when he looked at Obi-Wan. “You--you think so?”

Obi-Wan smiled, putting all his reassurance and confidence into his voice and his presence. “I know so. Now, come along. I wouldn’t want to tell Padmé that I had to drag you to her side.”

“Ohhhh, I’d be in so much trouble,” Anakin said. He sprang to his feet and somersaulted over Obi-Wan’s head, landing lightly and taking off for the entrance to the apartment from the landing platform.

With only a pause to chuckle, Obi-Wan hurried after Anakin, following him to what must be Padmé’s bedroom--to their bedroom.

The moment he stepped into the room, Obi-Wan felt like he was intruding. Anakin paused on his way to Padmé only to give Obi-Wan a look that told him not to leave. And then Anakin was kneeling on the bed and taking Padmé’s hand, smiling at her.

“Hi, angel,” he said softly, his voice filled with so much love. It made Obi-Wan swallow as he realized just how much Anakin loved Padmé.

“Ani,” she breathed out, looking up at him. The Senator’s face was flushed, her hair sticking to her temples from the sweat trickling down her forehead. “Ani, you’re here.”

There was something strange in Padmé’s presence, Obi-Wan thought. A trace of fear, a few flickers of uncertainty, just underneath a wave of joy.

“Of course I am,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Mr. Naberrie, I presume,” the Mon Cal healer said from the foot of the bed, where she was doing something between Padmé’s spread and bent legs.

Obi-Wan quickly looked away, catching Anakin’s wide-eyed, pleased smile. Anakin didn’t correct the healer when he spoke. “Yes--how is she doing?”

“Very well, other than a little surprise,” the healer said in an unruffled voice.

Sabé, holding Padmé’s other hand, snorted and Anakin frowned.

“A surprise?” he asked, looking over at Obi-Wan with a worried expression before looking back at Padmé.

Padmé nodded and gripped Anakin’s hand, a wide smile lighting up her tired face. “Oh, Ani--it’s twins!”

End, Chapter 5

#anidala #obitine #star wars

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arctic-the-archaic · 5 years ago

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Day 2: High-Speed Chase

“—eading down east side, Commander!”

“Copy, shifting.”

Commander Fox depressed the accelerator on his BARC Speeder, zipping with ease through the crowded skylanes.

Some bounty hunters had stolen some high-value data from a Republic Data-Center. Him and The Guard had been ordered to get it back. Fox didn’t fail his objectives.

In the distance, he could hear rapid blaster-fire and the occasional bang or boom of a speeder crashing. Aurek Patrol had been the closest to the scene at the time, so on Fox’s order, they had engaged. The Commander himself had been back at the Republic Military Base, but had sprinted to a speeder when the call came in.

The blaster-fire grew louder as he neared the chase. Zipping around a corner, Fox came across two air-speeders, three occupants each. He recognized all of them from bounty-hunting bulletins. Probably trying to take the ‘score’ for themselves. He thought as the wind buffeted his form. Don’t shoot at me, don’t get in my way, and you’re not my problem.

He flew past the two speeders and looked up at a skylane above his. He had given Aurek Patrol’s Commanding Officer free reign to engage at his discretion due to Fox’s lack of knowledge of the situation. The Commander reserved his own judgement for when he arrived on the scene.

Time almost seemed to slow down as more adrenaline entered the Commander’s bloodstream. His brain entered an analytical mode when in a dangerous situation; That was exactly what was happening. There’s no way this thing can elevate to that level fast enough to keep up. He thought, realizing his dilemma with the BARC. His eyes darted around for a moment, then, Bingo.

There was a section of building jutting out at just the right angle to act as a ramp to get him up there quicker. He steered his speeder across the skylane and depressed the accelerator as far as it would go before quickly connecting his HUD to the speeder’s electronics system and overclocking the repulsors in an effort to give himself some extra height, hoping to whatever deities that existed that this worked. The speeder hit the ‘ramp’ and flew upwards…

A hodgepodge transport that looked like a sneeze could take it apart flew above him, followed by several turbo-laser bolts flying towards his men from Aurek Patrol that were pursuing on jetpacks and speeders. Apparently it was armed. Not good.

Fox’s mind registered three phrases,

Civilians threatened…

Troopers threatened…

Lethal Force: Authorized.

As he flew through the air from his jump, Fox pulled an impact grenade from his belt and lobbed at the transport’s engine nacelles. The grenade landed home, slamming into one of the engines and detonating, sending the transport spiraling onto a section of unused artificial land and crashing with a screech of metal on metal. Fox nodded in approval as his speeder stabilized at the desired level and he saw a Coruscant Guard gunship descend towards the crash site to check for survivors.

Note, add impact grenades to standard unit-wide equipment. Some part of his mind mentally marked down.

Focusing back on the chase, Fox accelerated through the traffic and came upon two Starhawk speeder bikes each carrying two bounty hunters. Seriously? What is with these guys? Fox scoffed.

Before he could zip past them, the passenger on each bike turned and began firing a blaster pistol at him. Fox easily dodged the poorly aimed shots as his mind registered the threat and analyzed the quickest way of elimination.

Speeder blasters too inaccurate. Precision required. Hand-blasters acceptable.

Fox took one hand off the controls and drew one DC-17, firing two quick and precise shots into the backs of his two attackers, making them slump in their seats, unconscious and injured but not dead. He fired two more shots, each one hit one of the repulsors on the bikes, sending them careening into a nearby empty walkway. Two Jet-Troopers peeled off to go arrest them as Fox shot forward again.

Now nearing the bounty hunters’ vehicle, he could identify them. Embo, Aurra Sing, and Cad Bane. Of fekking course. The three top hunters in the galaxy. I thought today would be an easy day for once, no stress. But nooooo…

Fox watched as one of his Jet-Troopers flew forward, attempting to get a disabling shot on the speeder only for Cad Bane to put a blaster-bolt straight through the unlucky trooper’s head. He felt his composure slip for a moment, MURDE— He took a deep breath. Then exhaled. Targets armed and dangerous. Locate efficient way to neutralize and capture.

The hunters flew down a few levels and began zipping through side passages, Fox only a few meters behind them. Finally, deciding he’d had enough, Fox opened up with the high-powered blasters on his own speeder, doing his best to avoid civilians if the shots missed. Finally, the Commander scored a lucky hit and the hunters’ speeder fell from the sky, sliding onto and unused landing pad. He watched as the three disembarked, and then fired a few blasts into the speeder, making it explode. When the smoke cleared, he saw Embo’s hat flying at him. He tried to avoid it, but it clipped one of his repulsors and sent him crashing to the landing platform.

As Fox climbed to his feet, he silently cursed himself for forgetting the Kyuzo bounty hunter’s impeccable throwing skill. Looking up, he spotted Aurra Sing slowly walking towards him with a single blaster drawn. What he also saw, was the blue glow of the Republic Data Crystal he was after in one of her belt pouches. He purposely stumbled in an attempt to draw her closer, he had to get the crystal.

Sing laughed as she stopped about a foot from him, “You were a very brave little clone. Chasing us all the way down here. Very skilled too. It’s almost a shame I have to kill you.” She raised her blaster, and then Fox struck. His left hand shot out, grabbing her blaster and jerking it from her hand. Before she could react, the Guardsman twirled on his heel and sweeped her legs out from under her, sending her to the ground. He tossed her blaster away and drew his own, putting three stun bolts directly into her head. That should keep her down for a while.

Fox crouched, quickly swiping the data crystal and depositing it in one of his belt compartments before snapping a pair of binders onto the stunned bounty hunter. Not a second later, blaster bolts flew his way from Bane and Embo, forcing the trooper into cover behind a stack of crates. As the two hunters peppered his hiding place with blaster-fire, Fox’s mind whirred for a solution. Come on, give me something…. He felt around on his belt, then, Aha! This oughta do. He palmed the thermal detonator, activated it, and then lobbed it over the crates. A moment passed, and then a blaster fired, followed by an early explosion. And that was when Fox rolled out of cover, letting loose a hail of blaster bolts at the two hunters, forcing them to take cover.

Fox focused on Bane, sprinting towards where Bane had taken cover, only for the Duros to explode out from behind the wall, knocking the Commander’s DCs from his hands, but not before he got off a single bolt into Bane’s side. Fox punched Bane in the stomach and went for an uppercut, only for Bane to catch it roundhouse kick Fox’s helmet off. He grunted, taking a step back, only for his eyes to widen and he quickly rolled to the side as Bane’s flamethrower activated. Not good. Eliminate. Now.

He moved forward as the flamethrower turned off, sidestepping a kick and catching a right-hook. He jerked his head forward, headbutting the Duros, sending him reeling. Without giving him a chance to recover, Fox slammed his boot into the hunter’s face, knocking him out cold. And then he remembered, Osik! Embo!

He turned around, only for that damned hat to slam straight into his face. Fox felt his nose break and grunted as blood began pouring down his face. His vision swam for a moment, but he saw Embo catch his hat and turn to run, only for a line of laser blasts to cut him off. He stopped and looked up, Fox did too, seeing four gunships descending from the sky, all with Shock Troopers roping down from them. Embo’s hands immediately raised.

A pair of medics jogged over to Fox, one with his helmet and the other with his blasters. “Sir, are you alright?”

Fox couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “Just another day in the life of a Coruscanti Guardsman.”

I couldn’t help myself. This demanded to be written early.

(The chase scene was inspired by Red VS Blue)

#CommanderFoxWeek #RvB Inspired #Clone Badassery #Writing #Star Wars

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dibleopard-writes · 5 years ago

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Training Montage

Ao3 (recommended)

Description: Anakin was the Chosen One and therefore the best padawan anyone could ask for, especially Master Obi-Wan. He was so good, in fact, that he had plenty of time for shenanigans or, as he privately referred to them, Shenanakins. Force, he was clever. Several snippets from the training of Anakin Skywalker. Author’s Note: Fanfiction, in 2020? It's more likely than you think. I'm working on several Star Wars projects right now, and here's one that is far less structured with far less need for in depth planning. Original Upload Date: 2020-08-27 Fandom: Star Wars Prequels (post TPM, pre AotC) Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, various side characters Rating: Gen (or T for language) Warnings: Swearing, Canon-typical Violence Word Count: 6490

Chapter 1 of ??

Chapter 1: Moles? In My Mine? It's More Likely Than You Think.

At the age of five, Anakin resolved to never be the kind of moody teenager spacers complained about. At the age of twelve, he decided that not only was that naive of him, but that he would get a head start and be moody right that second.

This change of heart was mostly due to Obi-Wan, who was refusing to take any missions offworld with him even though Anakin got his own lightsaber a whole three weeks ago and was therefore completely qualified.

“Having a lightsaber doesn’t help diplomacy, Padawan,” said Obi-Wan, completely missing the point.

“So don’t choose diplomatic missions! I bet there are hundreds of pirates hanging around… I don’t know, Batuu.”

“Batuu has smugglers, not pirates, Anakin–”

“– And?! We can arrest smugglers–”

“– And anyway, it would be irresponsible of me to take a padawan as young as yourself into a confrontation like that.”

“I’m not nine anymore! I’m not some dumb initiate, I can handle pirates.” If he was the first in his classes to fight pirates, he’d be able to hold it over them for ages. Even Iepa would have to respect him, smug son of a–

“I was still an initiate when I was your age.”

“Well I’m sorry you sucked, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go on missions.”

By this point, Master Obi-Wan had his head in his hands, almost hiding the beard he was trying to grow in order to look more authoritative. Anakin didn’t think he’d respect him any more with a beard than without, but it did make him look less like a clueless teenager so maybe he could fool the senior padawans.

“Look, if I took you offworld, not only could you get hurt or cause a diplomatic incident, but Master Windu would be on my back about it.”

Anakin muttered, “I could take him.”

“What was that?”

“I said you wouldn’t be able to shake him.” Anakin believed both statements emphatically. Sure, Mace Windu was the Master of the Order and invented an entire lightsaber form, but Anakin was the Chosen One, which basically made him the best. That being said, if Master Windu put his mind to it, he could be annoyingly stubborn in his pursuit of wrong-doers.

“My point exactly, and if he decided I was irresponsible – which I would be – we’d both be Temple-bound for months.”

“Oh, so you get to leave and I don’t?”

“Yes, but I’m sure you noticed I haven’t left because I’ve been too busy looking after you.”

“And what an amazing job you’ve been doing.”

“Watch your tone, young one.”

“Tell me, Master, do you remember any of my allergies?”

“Allergies?” Obi-Wan stopped for a second, with a look of genuine concern and guilt working its way over his face as he failed to recall information that Anakin had never given him.

“Yeah, I’m allergic to you and your banthashit!”

“Language, Padawan!” There was something resembling anger in Obi-Wan’s glare, but to acknowledge that would be sacrilege and also a suggestion that Anakin cared, which he didn’t. To prove this, he stormed into his room and used the Force to slam the pneumatic door as pneumatic doors rarely do.

Force, Obi-Wan could be insufferable sometimes.

...

After an hour of staring at the ceiling, Anakin came to the decision that the only real resolution to this conflict was running away and being a Jedi without Obi-Wan to bring him down.

Fortunately, he had spent the last two years building his very own ship and had already put it through an entire test run without anything breaking. Between his technical expertise and thorough testing, the ship was probably the best in the entire Temple hangar.

First though, putting his stealth skills through their paces in order to get there. One doesn’t survive nine years of slavery without knowing how to move silently. The swoosh of the door may have been a bad start, but his slow navigation of the common room more than made up for it. Sure, Obi-Wan was in his own room, probably, like, crying over getting owned so hard, but if Anakin had made even the slightest mistake, he would have come running and demanded a ridiculous amount of meditation on respecting others. The stakes could not have been higher.

He crept out of their rooms and into the corridor, shushing the mouse droid that seemed to regard him judgmentally despite its lack of eyes. From there, it was a simple matter of carrying himself with unquestionable confidence along a convoluted path to the hangar. He passed a few senior padawans with dead eyes and piles of holopads in their arms without raising suspicion. Man, was he good at this.

The hangar was probably the best place in the Temple. Warm Temple stone met flame retarding durasteel in a way that shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. Several decade-old speeders lined up against one wall next to a small fleet of cargo ships and fighters. All of them were horrendously out of date and well worn in the way that a lot of the Temple’s technology was. When Anakin asked why the Jedi insisted on having such terrible tech, Obi-Wan had said something vague about budget and not being materialistic. It was unconvincing at best and Anakin had really shown the whole Order up with his latest project.

After his no-doubt legendary podracer was left on Tatooine, Anakin had taken all of six months to set his sights on building a starfighter that could take him to every system in the galaxy. Obi-Wan, relieved to find a hobby that would promote focus, had pulled some strings and Anakin had aimed akk-dog eyes at the Temple mechanics that he had been tailing for months until they let him at the skeleton of an old Delta-7. Aethersprites never came with their own hyperspace engines, but he could work with that. Annoyingly, the sublight engines in the hangar were nothing like the ones on a podracer so he had to spend a humiliating few weeks with an old mechanic to get them installed and working. On the positive side, there was an astromech droid fitted directly into the ship that could give him diagnostics and occasionally a mechanically-themed joke. The jokes were hit-or-miss but the droid was good.

Two years of sterling work had made the Delta the best ship in the Temple, and it could far outpace any of the speeders in Coruscant’s skylanes. Now, as he made his way ever-so-innocently towards it, he couldn’t help but admire the way the smooth paint looked among the chipped facades of the rest.

R4-P3 chirped a greeting as he hopped in and prepped the starter engines.

“Hi, P3, fancy going on a trip?”

“THERE WERE TWENTY-SEVEN TRAFFIC CODE VIOLATIONS DURING THE PREVIOUS FLIGHT.”

“Me too, buddy. See if you can find one of those hyperspace rings lying around here.” Ignition was smooth. Vertical repulsors engaged. Landing gear retracted. So far, his plan was flawless. A blip appeared on his screen, indicating the nearest hyperspace ring. Latching onto the ring was not something he had ever practiced before, so he assumed the strange rattling noise was normal.

As he ascended, chatter buzzed into the comm system.

“What’s that P3?”

The chatter cleared into actual sentences as P3 adjusted the frequency.

“-ing is not fitted properly. Repeat, Aethersprite Delta-7 please identify yourself-” Anakin flicked it off. Trust traffic control to kill his flow.

“PLEASE KEEP TO DESIGNATED SKYLANES,” bleated P3, taking up the burden instead. Anakin dodged a passing CorSec speeder.

“Will do,” he lied, “While I find one, you wanna do the hyperspace calculations?”

“DESTINATION?”

“Uh…” He hadn’t thought that far. Tatooine was probably weeks away, Naboo had way too much water just lying about– Where else had he been? Oh, that’s right: nowhere, because Obi-Wan didn’t care about him. “Batuu?” He could probably beat up a few smugglers in the name of justice before the Jedi caught wind of it. Talk about selfless heroism.

He hit the upper flight levels and powered through into the mesosphere. Considering the thin air at this altitude, there was a lot of turbulence. The shaking was beginning to make his arm buzz and it became a disproportionate effort to keep the control-stick level.

“LIGHTSPEED CALCULATIONS COMPLETE,” announced P3.

“Great, just in time,” replied Anakin, flicking some switches, at least three of which were relevant, “I’ll just make the jump now.”

As he pulled the jump ignition, P3 began screaming and the rattling grew louder. The pinprick stars became needle-thin lines became the whirl of blue and white he hadn’t seen since the last journey from Naboo. On that trip, the pilots hadn’t let him in the cockpit during the initial jump, so this would probably have been way better if not for the awful clatter of the hyperdrive and the eventual tear of engines sputtering out of commission. Maybe that was why he had never seen anyone make jumps in-atmosphere. Or perhaps the issue was related to the ring’s latching mechanism. Really, it was anyone’s guess.

P3’s wails had become spluttering, staticky sobs, which was honestly a poor display in a droid with no fear subprogram. The ring flew off the Aethersprite, plunging it back into normal space with a roar.

“Well that sucked,” Anakin said indignantly. His flying had been flawless, too!

P3, between choked bleeps, lit up the speedometer – the hyperspace ring was no longer pushing them beyond the light limit but neither had any reverse-thrusters been engaged, leaving them at a healthy constant speed of only-just-slower-than-light, which was probably fine – and the scanner – there was a planet about thirty light-seconds in front of them, which was probably less fine at their current speed.

“Okay, so it still sucks,” Anakin amended.

He slammed on the brakes and almost blacked out as G-force slammed on him in return. Rude. His old pod-racer never had this issue. He tried easing their deceleration more slowly, which involved less blacking out but also made slowing to pedestrian speeds before hitting the planet somewhat less feasible.

No matter; Anakin was an expert pilot and even more skilled at having incredible luck. This would be easy.

Within twenty seconds, they hit nature’s drag chute: the atmosphere. P3 tried to draw Anakin’s attention to their steep angle and high speed as if these weren’t things that Anakin already knew. They did seem more relevant when the entire ship’s hull flew alight, however, so he attempted to shallow out their descent.

The control-stick was uncooperative and everything began to shake as he tugged it as far back as he could. How was he supposed to pilot if the ship refused to do what he wanted it to do?

After five long seconds, the heat died and they plunged into a cloud bank. Everything past the tips of the Aethersprite’s wings was obscured by a white thicker than Obi-Wan’s skull, which was impressive if disorienting. He felt the control-stick hit full lock and a few of the many warning indicators seemed appeased.

Another five seconds, and P3 stopped screaming about their speed and started screaming about their altitude. The clouds remained steadfast.

“I’ve made an executive decision,” declared Anakin, “As captain of this ship, I say we attempt what we in the industry call a ‘terrain-assisted braking maneuver’.”

P3 did not respond particularly coherently, which Anakin chose to interpret as a vote of confidence. It did wonders for his self-esteem.

In a blink, the clouds vanished and a deep green forest appeared. P3 squeaked. Anakin grimaced. His hand was losing all sensation from gripping the control-stick so tightly, still in full lock, but their downwards momentum still overpowered the thrusters even as the Delta’s nose finally rose above the horizon. He gunned the accelerator away from the surface and his body felt heavier than the ship itself.

The ship jolted as it made contact with the treetops. Anakin switched to reverse-thrusters as the nose once again pitched downwards. Slugshot snaps crackled around them as trees snapped against the ship. He scrunched his eyes closed and braced.

Soil and splinters erupted as they collided with the ground. Anakin lurched painfully into his safety straps. P3’s voice cut off. The grinding of earth against hull slowed them to a stop and Anakin fell back against his seat.

Smoldering wiring filled the cockpit with an awful acidic smell so he tugged his straps off and pushed his way out after only a second of shaky breathing. Anakin was nothing if not practical.

“Do you think it’s gonna blow up?” he asked P3 from a safe distance. P3 seemed not to appreciate the thought but ran cursory diagnostics anyway.

As he waited, Anakin looked behind the ship and saw the gaping furrow they had left in the ground. Further away, a clumsy cut ran through the trees and a couple of wisps of smoke trailed lazily into the milk-blue sky.

All in all, an impeccable landing. The forest had looked well dull before anyway, and now it had a sick scar. You’re welcome, forest.

P3 decided that nothing was about to explode, but that the ship was fully inoperational, even if Anakin just wanted to take it on a spin to the nearest mountain range. He acquiesced that the assessment seemed about right, but also loudly proclaimed that P3 was a killjoy and a coward. P3 didn’t seem to care. Anakin kicked a clod of earth in defiance.

The ground was covered in small, stiff leaves from the pointy-looking trees around them. They were waxy little spits that more resembled star stripes than anything useful for photosynthesis. As he knelt to pick some up, he realised that the entire forest smelt like them – a fresh, emerald sort of smell. They were pretty incredible, for leaves; Anakin had certainly never seen anything like them. He shoved some in a belt pouch.

Now that he was looking at the ground, he noticed wooden, grenade-like things peppered amongst the leaf litter. This forest kept on getting more and more curious. Unfortunately, none of them would fit in his pouches. Jedi really needed some good pockets that could fit any important scientific discoveries in them. It was a severe oversight, in Anakin’s humble opinion.

Something rustled abruptly, snapping Anakin out of his Jedi-like contemplations, seed-pod still in hand. He scanned the surrounding thickets. Plants, plants, leaves, plants, thorny plants…

Claws!

A blur of red flew at his face and he stumbled backwards, tripping over a bush. Batting the wild beast away from his face, he felt himself fall further than anticipated through the undergrowth into empty air. For a suspended moment, all he could see was blue sky and grey rockface. Then his back collided with something that promptly gave way and let him fall onto solid stone.

Perfect.

...

Obi-Wan Kenobi was walking at an unpanicked pace through the halls of the Jedi Temple and casually inspecting child-sized nooks and crannies in a manner completely befitting of a master who knew exactly where his padawan was. He had been doing this for half an hour and wasn’t shaking in the slightest.

He was just doing a routine inspection of the gap between a bronzium statue and a wall when Master Windu walked past, stopped, watched Obi-Wan innocently test the screws on a ventilation covering, and said, “Knight Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan sprang upright. “Master Windu.”

“Have you lost your padawan?” Was he really that obvious? No, that couldn’t be it; Master Windu was just unusually perceptive. Perhaps shatter-points were giving him away – nowhere was it written that they didn’t highlight underperforming masters. Even so, it was probably wise not to confirm anything. The last thing Obi-Wan needed was a council member judging his guardianship skills.

“Oh no, not at all. I know exactly where he is.”

Master Windu’s expression was as flat as Anakin’s heart rate would be once this was over. Shatter-points were dirty snitches.

“Thank you for your concern, Master,” added Obi-Wan, respectfully.

Master Windu looked at him dead in the eye for a solid five seconds. Obi-Wan had seen him level a similar look at Qui-Gon several times in the past, and found it unnerving to now be the target. However, Qui-Gon’s experiences taught him that it was best to ride these looks out like a bad spice trip, i.e. with as little motion as possible. How either of them knew what a bad spice trip felt like was irrelevant.

The five seconds were up, only having been slightly uncomfortably stretched, and Master Windu blinked.

“Well,” he said, dryly, “Good luck with your endeavours, Knight Kenobi, whatever they may be.” With one spare glance to the ventilation covering, he continued down the corridor.

Obi-Wan was not naive enough to think himself completely free of suspicion but he was hopeful that nothing would come of it until he could thrust Anakin by the shoulders into Master Windu’s personal space and say ‘See? I have him right here!’ in a serene and Jedi-like manner as if he had nothing to prove. Of course, he would like to prove his capabilities anyway. Just as soon as Anakin was present…

He closed his eyes and fumbled for the Master-Padawan bond that connected him to Anakin. It wasn’t usually strong enough to get much other than vague impressions from, but now it seemed to be stretched thinner than usual, only telling him that Anakin was alive. That was a relief to know, to an extent, but also concerning since there was so little to point him in the right direction. He poked the bond and felt nothing.

Why had he taken on a padawan? Padawans get into fights and then run off and make you worry and then the Council finds out and then you have to try and justify it all and –

Obi-Wan sighed. Running a hand over his beard, he peered down the hallway that Master Windu had taken. Empty. He could probably make it to the comms centre without any more councilmembers calling him out.

Probably. He was hopeful.

...

“Hilari? Is that you?”

Anakin looked up from what appeared to be a now-dismantled porch tarp and saw an old man opening the door to its attached house, carved into rock. A tooka was watching him from behind the man’s legs. It meowed indignantly.

“I’ve told you, the awning isn’t designed for tookas.”

“Myaeeh,” complained Hilari.

Anakin, frazzled from both of his unplanned descents and shocked out of his irritation, opened his mouth to apologise because yes, Obi-Wan he is capable of apologising when a middle-aged twi’lek woman materialised.

“Wohrin, what– Oh! Who’s your young friend?”

“You’ve met Hilari before, Mahj–”

“No, the young man covered in your porch. Blond?”

The man, Wohrin, gave Mahj’s left lek an exasperated look. His eyes were pale the same way Blind Man Mikah’s had been in the bookmaker’s in Mos Espa.

“Mahj,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what colour your hair is, let alone that of whoever it is you’re referring to.”

Mahj shook her head. “I don’t have hair, Wohrin.”

“What?!”

Another twi’lek, who could have been anywhere between fifteen and thirty years old by Anakin’s poor judgement, appeared in order to chip in:

“Yeah, she lost all of her hair when the sky turned red!”

Anakin squinted at the sky… no, it was definitely still blue. Wohrin looked equally confused, which was somewhat reassuring. Somewhat.

“Keht!” snapped Mahj, “Stop lying to people! And no, Wohrin, you know I’m twi’lek; of course I don’t have hair.”

“Twi’leks don’t… Why am I only just learning this? Was no one going to tell me–”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Anakin effectively drew the growing crowd’s attention back to himself. That felt better. Wohrin blinked, only now registering that the crash hadn’t been his tooka after all. “I was in the woods and something jumped out at me and I fell through your… thing.”

“Oh, well,” huffed Wohrin, “Easily done I suppose.”

Anakin clambered to his feet and hopped away from the mess, feeling only slightly guilty.

“Hey what’s with the weird rat-tail, kid?” came a voice from the crowd.

Anakin fixed the human who had asked with a patronising look. He found such looks were incredibly effective when used by children – especially those younglings he was stuck in aurebesh lessons with three years ago. Kriffing infuriating.

“It’s not a rat-tail, it’s a braid. And it shows that I’m a padawan.”

“A what-a-wan?”

“Oh, I know what they are,” chimed another bystander, “One of them beat up my cousin on Alsakan. They’re like really small Jedi.”

“You mean an apprentice?”

“Yeah, only I don’t think they do carving work.”

“Not all apprentices learn stonemasonry, genius.”

Another crowd member interrupted: “Hey, cadaban, have you come to help with the beast?”

That triggered a fervour in the onlookers, all snapping their attention back to him with loud expectation.

“... The what?” Anakin wasn’t sure he liked the way this conversation was going.

“The beast!” exclaimed the crowd.

“It’s massive–”

“–Taller than me–”

“–Big claws–”

“–In the quarry–”

“–The mine–”

“–Tentacles–”

“–Blue–”

“–Hang on, I thought it was red–”

“–It’s invisible–!”

“–No, it’s not, it’s–”

“–Firebreathing!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” shouted Anakin over the clamour, “Has anyone here actually seen it?” Everyone turned to a tall ovissian, who flinched. “What does it look like?”

“Uh, I didn’t see much of it, just– um, mostly heard crashes and saw– saw rocks falling from the ceiling in the mines. But when I caught a glimpse, it sort of looked all–” He made a vague and thoroughly unhelpful gesture which may have indicated size. Or maybe temperament. “–Y’know?”

Anakin definitely did not know, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the congregation. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said instead. The ovissian sighed with relief. “And what exactly do you need me to do about it?”

One exasperated person shouted from the back. “Kill it of course!”

“Or at least move it out of the mines,” offered Mahj.

“Yeah, we need the mines or our economy will go to chisk!”

“The entire economy?” Anakin couldn’t imagine mines being quite that important when there was a massive forest right… Huh, it was higher up than he remembered. Right up a stone cliff, the one Wohrin’s home was carved out of.

“The entire economy! We’re a mining town, stone-masons and blacksmiths. Why else would build our houses in a quarry?”

This was the first Anakin had heard of ‘quarries’. Really, the whole trip so far had been quite the broadening of his horizons. He didn’t know why Obi-Wan didn’t take him off-world sooner, he was always promoting this kind of thing. Peculiar.

That being said, this whole beast business was not what he had been anticipating and the idea of facing an invisible, firebreathing, tentacled monster on his own was suddenly way more terrifying than the plan of facing a horde of smugglers had been. What if it was like the krayt dragons of Tatooine, wild with impersonal ferocity and an appetite for small humans? That would be an incredibly anticlimactic end for the Chosen One; he was fully anticipating his death to be in a great ball of flame, Obi-Wan watching heartbroken as his awesome and flawless apprentice fulfils his destiny. That would be cool. Dying alone in a mine in the middle of nowhere would not be.

“Um… You know, beasts aren’t really my department. And… I don’t have my beast-removal equipment with me right now.” Airtight excuse. Foolproof.

“You’re just scared!” exclaimed someone who nobody asked.

“He’s not even a proper Jedi yet,” added someone else, “There’s no way he could take that thing on by himself, I bet he doesn’t even have a laser-sword!”

“Now, hold on–” All thoughts of avoiding the beast flew out of the metaphorical window. “I never said I wouldn’t do it! I have my lightsaber right here:”

The crowd stepped back as it ignited in his hand. Yeah, that’s right, he wasn’t some dumb initiate and this was his chance to prove it.

...

The comms centre had several private rooms for important calls and conferences. It also had better hardware than the commlinks Jedi took into the field.

Obi-Wan had plugged his own commlink into a rarely-used port in the console and tried to call Anakin. As he had expected, there was no answer. With the right tinkering of the console’s receiver, however, the target signal had been traced to a sparsely populated planet barely a minute up the Corellian Run. Kaidestal.

He fought the urge to slam his head against the console. If there was a licence for padawan ownership, his would be revoked any time now. Truly, he was having a fantastic day.

He wondered how Anakin had even got offplanet and then wondered why he was wondering. At this point, it was suffice to say, ‘Shit’s fucked’ and move on.

After a few moments of meditative breathing, he straightened up, unplugged his commlink, and whisked out of the comms centre. Knowing Anakin, there was little time before something disproportionately drastic happened. Force, what did he do to end up in this position?

Master Plo Koon was easy enough to locate, happening to be beside the bronzium statue Obi-Wan had been inspecting earlier. He watched as Obi-Wan covered the awkwardly long stretch of corridor in order to get within civil conversation range.

“Master Koon, I am taking a short trip to Kaidestal. I shall be back by nightfall.” He gave no reasons, the man of mystery that he was, and Plo didn’t seem to mind. Plo was one of the gentlest councilmembers and therefore the best one to inform of unannounced, unauthorised trips to obscure planets. Perhaps that was exploitative of him. Perhaps his padawan shouldn’t run away.

(Plo was one of the first to hear Mace’s gossip regarding Skywalker’s potential disappearance and therefore knew damn well what Obi-Wan was doing. Plo was not, however, a snitch. Besides, he liked Kenobi – the man had an excellent taste in drinks.)

Master Koon nodded slowly, “That seems reasonable. I’ve heard they do good stone carvings there.”

“Quite,” said Obi-Wan, impatiently – no, Jedi weren’t impatient. He was merely preoccupied.

“There’s a G8 light freighter in the hangar that you can use.” Plo shifted as if to move, but it was really more of an invitation to leave.

“Thank you, Master Koon.” Not at all in the headspace to overstay his welcome, Obi-Wan began to head towards the hangar.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, young one!” Plo called after him.

“Me too,” muttered Obi-Wan under his breath. He wasn’t that young; he was twenty-eight. He was, however, too young to be dealing with feral padawans that made him feel twice his age. Why did he ever pick up Anakin, anyway?

...

The mouth of the mine was carved into the wall at the bottom of the quarry. It was darker than a Tatooinian night and he was being pushed into it by a gaggle of villagers who didn’t seem to notice his apprehension. While this was ideal for the maintenance of his reputation, it also made things move far more quickly than he had wanted.

No matter. He was a Jedi and Jedi faced terrifying monsters head on.

“This beast is gonna wish he never saw me,” he said, bravely, “Coward. Absolute… kriffin’… clown.”

“What are you doing?”

“Old Jedi trick, it’s called psychological warfare. That beast is no match for Anakin kriffing Skywalker.”

“Is the swearing necessary for psychological warfare?” asked one of the group. “It’s just I brought my daughter along…”

A roar emanated from the mine ahead, echoing terribly. The tall ovissian, now wearing his head miner’s helmet, was shaking more than the nine-year-old behind him. She was delighted by the mine monster and had spent much of the walk loudly exclaiming that she wanted it to eat the entire goddamn quarry. No one else appeared to share her enthusiasm.

“Well,” said the head miner, sounding awfully authoritative, “I think you’ll be able to find your way from here. We need to go. For… health and safety reasons. Yeah, this crowd, in this passageway? Major fire hazard. Need to clear it. I’ll take care of that, you take care of–” Another roar erupted, punctuated by a thud and the sound of rocks falling. “– That.”

Anakin was unimpressed. “Ugh, do you have to have such an aversion to being cool?” He turned to see the group’s response but found the passageway empty. He rolled his eyes. Teenagehood would suit him well, he decided.

Slowly, he took his new lightsaber off his belt. It kind of sucked that his excellent craftsmanship was impossible to see in the gloom. Alone, in the dark, with no eyes on him, he could admit that quite a few things were looking decidedly uncool right now, but Force if he didn’t want to prove Obi-Wan wrong.

He tracked the sporadic tremors to their source, which was conveniently down the single, unbranching passageway in this section of mine. Still, it required a great amount of skill and a lesser man would have walked into five support beams, which was way more than Anakin’s three. He was a credit to the Jedi Order, really, even if they couldn’t see it.

Speaking of, the mine had grown far darker the further he walked until he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. The Force was being unhelpful, merely suggesting ‘forward’, which was a no-brainer. His issue was all of the obstacles involved with ‘forwards’. If only he had packed a light.

Hang on.

Oh, Anakin Skywalker was a genius. Lateral thinking and creative problem-solving had always been his strong point, as currently being demonstrated.

His lightsaber ignited with a kzhhh. Its electric-blue glow lit his maniacal grin in harsh clarity. It also revealed the glinting eyes of something big. The grin dropped from his face as he took five steps backwards.

The passageway had opened into a small cavern without him noticing and the beast barely fit into it. Colours were difficult to make out in eerie saber-light, but its fur appeared as black as the mines, matte with dust. Large tentacles stretched out from its nose, blindly groping the walls and ceiling of the cavern as if trying to judge the environment. Massive, shovelling paws held claws almost as long as Anakin was tall. In short, it resembled a mole.

This meant that, theoretically, Anakin was at an advantage since he was decidedly not blind and had only been known to resemble a mole some of the time.

The beast was also more clumsy than Anakin, knocking support beams left and right. Luckily, none had completely shattered but, judging by their splintering fractures, it was only a matter of time. Time limits were very dramatic; this would be a worthy first mission.

Anakin waved his lightsaber in the vague direction of the mole. It was unbothered. He frowned, put out, and then poked one of its claws. Suddenly, the beast was very bothered. Its nose went from snuffling around to being thrust in Anakin’s face. Apparently it had his scent. Obi-Wan would have blamed it on Anakin’s infrequent use of the shower. Anakin would have responded that he grew up in the desert and then accused him of not caring about wasting water on trivial matters. This would put a glint of annoyance in Obi-Wan’s eyes and Anakin would count it as a victory.

The mole exploited his distraction, dishonourable as it was, yanking him off the ground with a thick face-tentacle and shaking him irritably. He tried hitting the disgustingly writhing mass with the hilt of his lightsaber – ineffective. Then he slashed it with the blade and got catapulted into a wall. His vision failed and the back of his head killed, but he was quickly grabbed by the ankle and dragged across the floor. Massive, sharp claws came swinging at him. This was not good.

Quick, what would Obi-Wan do?

“Hey, you suck!” he shouted, voice wobbling as he dove out of the way of another slash, “No one likes you! You should just stop and go away!”

The mole monster may also have been deaf since it only continued its previous level of violence despite the scathing insults. He dodged a claw, jumping into a swinging tentacle which smashed him into a support beam. Splinters pierced his robes, digging into his right arm as it collided with the beam. His lightsaber flew from his hand and he fell to the ground, spinning to narrowly avoid landing on the hurt arm. All light in the cavern vanished as his saber-blade extinguished.

All of a sudden, the lightsaber argument from that morning felt like a moot point. A lot of things were looking very moot now, in the dark.

He could hear the shuffle of tentacles searching the floor and the scratching of claws against stone. The mole was snuffling loudly around for him. His arm hurt.

Fighting the urge to curl up by the wall, he slowly climbed to his feet and looked the monster dead where he thought its eye could be. Warm air huffed in his face, blowing his braid back. Everything was still for a moment and then a tentacle whipped around his knees and flipped him upside down into the air. He definitely did not yelp.

The sound of a lightsaber igniting came from the tunnel, then pounding footsteps and then Obi-Wan ran in, illuminating the cavern walls around him. Something intangible yanked Anakin out of the mole’s grasp and into Obi-Wan’s arms.

Anakin struggled to escape the strong left arm that wrapped across his torso, efficiently immobilising him. “Hey, I had it under control, you know.” He gave up, reaching his good hand out and calling his lightsaber back to it. “Still do, actually.”

“Sure,” replied Obi-Wan, not letting go even as a tentacle lunged at him. He jumped backwards, slashing the support beam that Anakin had dented. They dove into the tunnel as the cavern rumbled. The mole roared back. There was a terrible creaking of splintering wood and then the cavern ceiling fell in. Dust and rock made the air thick.

Quiet.

Anakin looked up at Obi-Wan from where he was pressed against his chest and saw a strangled sort of sorrow.

“Poor thing,” croaked Obi-Wan. Then he looked at Anakin with a clenched jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those. I could have studied it.”

It was almost enough to make Anakin apologise.

...

Obi-Wan dragged his padawan by his collar until they reached the mine’s entrance. The villagers who had pointed him inside were crowded around and erupted into cheers as soon as they stepped into the light.

One elbowed the head miner playfully. “Told you he was the madawan’s Jedi.”

“Shut up,” said the ovissian, who then raised his voice above the chattering. “Thank you, Master Jedi, for your assistance. Uh, what exactly is the status of the, uh…”

“It’s dead,” Obi-Wan replied, bluntly, “And I’m afraid you may also need to reinforce the tunnel’s structural integrity. I apologise on behalf of my padawan –”

“Hey!”

“Of course, he will also apologise himself.”

Their eyes met in a match of wills. Anakin sighed, just loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear, and acquiesced.

“My sincere apologies,” he muttered, bowing shallowly. Obi-Wan had definitely taught him better manners than this; the child was just showing him up. Ungrateful womp-rat.

Fortunately, the villagers weren’t versed in bows and didn’t seem invested in apologies. Most were preoccupied by the mine and the new lack of angry mole. Small blessings, perhaps.

...

After manhandling the still-hot wreck of Anakin’s Aethersprite into the freighter Obi-Wan had brought and flying the brief trip back to the Temple, Obi-Wan was reaching the end of his patience. He left the ships with the hangar’s mechanics and dragged Anakin away from any chance of helping them. Their trip to the Halls of Healing were brief – the healers were efficient in removing the splinters and wrapping Anakin’s arm in bacta-soaked bandages. He only complained about half as much as he usually did.

They marched double-time to their rooms and Obi-Wan locked the door behind him; he could not cope with Anakin sneaking out at night.

“Master?” The voice was small. Obi-Wan tried not to let his ire show in his look. Perhaps if Anakin was squinting it would work. He was not. Instead he was holding out a hand full of pine needles and another with several small pinecones. “While I was on that planet, I found these for you to study. I’ve never seen them before; they could be revolutionary.”

Obi-Wan sighed, not having the heart to tell him that pine trees were fairly common throughout the galaxy. Anakin dropped his revolutionary finds into his hands, having to scrape off some of the pine needles that stuck.

“Thank you, Padawan. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“There were some bigger ones of these,” he added, pointing to the pinecones, “but I couldn’t fit them in my belt and some of the wildlife tried to fight me for them.”

“A squirrel?”

“I dunno, I didn’t see it very well. It was kinda fast. Reminded me of you, a bit.”

“How so?”

“Red,” said Anakin, nodding to Obi-Wan’s head, “And it didn’t like me picking up things off the floor.”

Obi-Wan huffed. “As long as you weren’t trying to eat pinecones.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Yes. Although I suppose I’d have to… study them. To make sure.”

Anakin’s face lit up. “Wizard.”

Obi-Wan’s annoyance was almost forgotten. Not quite. He was still a responsible Jedi master, no matter what the Council speculated.

There was a knock on the door. Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, who grimaced back. He opened it with very little hesitation.

“Knight Kenobi.” Speak of a Sith…

“Master Windu,” said Obi-Wan, far more brightly than he was feeling.

“Have you located your padawan?”

“Of course; he’s right here, Master.” He pulled Anakin out from behind his legs. Anakin attempted a winning smile, but nerves appeared to crumple it slightly. He had always been intimidated by Master Windu – first impressions were a force to be reckoned with. “I knew exactly where he was.” It was technically true, if you were selective about your timeframe.

Master Windu gave Anakin one of his signature piercing gazes, the kind that seems to expose one’s every weakness and warn against them. Anakin seemed to get the message. Hopefully he would keep it for at least a week before he inevitably threw it out.

“If that’s the case, I won’t need to launch a search party. Good night, Kenobi.”

“May the Force be with you, Master Windu.”

After Master Windu had left and Anakin had gone to bed still shaken from the encounter, Obi-Wan contemplated ditching the Temple and his wayward padawan for Bail Organa’s whiskey collection. Alderaan always made the best whiskey…

...

Art by me, @dib-leo-pard

#star wars fanfiction #star wars prequels #ao3 fanfic #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #fanfiction #fanfic #star wars

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the-obiwan-for-me · 4 years ago

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Seriously, y'all, you better bookmark and subscribe to @tessiete "Only Hope." The first chapter already was so damn good. Holy hand grenades, I'm excited for this story!!!

With the completion of the epic "She Said the Word," I am a little lost and wandering when it comes to WIPs. Instead of just one big one and maybe a one shot on the side, I have started at least SIX stories since posting the final chapter of SSTW. I keep getting distracted. I should have at least a prompt someone sent me finished, maybe tonight.

But, I can't stay away from my comfort characters....so I may have started, kinda, the as of yet unnamed sequel to SSTW. So, here ya go.

Anakin breathed deep, sinking into the Force as he rested on his knees on the terrace. The sky slowly moved from a soft lavender through various shades of pinks and oranges as the sun slowly rose over the city planet. He was only dimly aware of the slow increase in morning traffic that flowed through the air around the tower they called home. The Force moved around him, through him, permeating his every cell. It was light, wildly vibrant here on Coruscant. So unlike what it had felt like for all those years. Now, unmarred by the oppressive presence and control of a Sith Lord, it all but sang these days. At least around him and his family.

He never sank too deep into his meditations in the morning, knowing at any moment he would be called into action. But the time he took to meditate this early in the morning-even before Padme rose, even before the children began their daily reign of chaos, even before the galaxy once again demanded his attention- this time gave him the calming sense of strength he needed.

Anakin breathed deep, stretching out into the Force, and allowed the vibrancy of life to flow through him, noting and releasing spots of joy and sadness, ecstasy and pain. He relaxed into the cradle of the Force and breathed and then-

A maniacal little laugh followed by a shout of sibling frustration pulled him close to the surface, but he kept his eyes closed. He kept his breathing steady and, even as he heard the soft slap slap slap of running bare feet, he kept his face blank and soft, fighting the urge to grin.

"Give it back, Luke!"

"You gotta catch me first, Leia!"

A set of feet ran past him. Then another. "No running on the terrace," he said, eyes still closed, face still blank.

The slap slap slap on the polished duracrete slowed to a slightly more sedate tempo.

"Dad's base!" Luke shouted and then Anakin was finally, violently pulled fully back into the morning when his son leapt onto his back, his little foot digging into his kidney as he climbed to his shoulders, brandishing his sister's most prized possession- a little doll, dressed as the Duchess of Mandalore, extravagant headdress and all.

The morning, it seemed, was off to its usual start.

Tess already mentioned and linked "The Ties That Bind" by @duchess-of-mandalore , so go read that.

Also, I won't ever stop yelling about "Space Dad Lives" by maximumsuckage (who does not, in fact, suck). I just adore it so much, and the latest chapter just delighted me so much in such an unexpected way!

Another story I have really fallen in love with lately is "This Is the Way," by frakkingtoaster on Ao3 (I don't know if the author is on tumblr....if you know, let me know! I want to be their friend!). An AU set during the Mandalorian era, following along with Bo and friends, including some Din and Grogu, and lots of Ahsoka. Lots of good content if you're into Bo struggling with her past, especially her relationship with Satine.

Some pressure tag to @mg024 ......to inspire some more Eefa, perhaps!!! (But, really, you do you, friend!).

Time to Shine Thursday

This tag game was created in hopes of reaching at least a few people and creating more awareness for the creator-side of tumblr. Time to Shine Thursday is inspired by these posts and meant to be for all artists alike: writers, editors, poets, GIF makers, cartoonist etc. This is me giving you all an excuse to show off!

Only rule: Be as thirsty for attention as you want to be! Link one of your old fics/art pieces or one that didn’t didn’t get enough attention, link a work you loved to create or share a draft from your newest WIP. Or do all of these. Be greedy. Show your art. Crave attention. Be proud. And don’t forget to give your friends an excuse to show off theirs!

Additional note: Please consider dropping one of your favorite hidden gems by an other author along with your own work so others can enjoy it as well and so that it doesn’t stay buried any longer!

No pressure tags: @lifbitch @pandora15 @sonderwalker @wrennette @swbumblebee @new-anon @emeriart @rrrainbo @thingamadjig @tessiete @cafffine @botherkupo @tallyquark @midnightmeatsubway @gayspacesocialist @nevertheless-moving

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sith-shame-shack · 8 years ago

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Three sentence fic: something inspired by that Sith!Luke and Vader in a bacta tank art you reblogged earlier?

(This is the art, by @3bsambi)

Good news: I did fill the prompt.

Bad news: It is not 3 sentences long, and I can’t tell if it makes any sense because I wrote it all at once in a fit of hyperfocus at work, drove home, edited it once, and am now posting it. I have not slept more than 4 hours a night all week. I have a splitting headache. I think I’m a little high. can’t tell if this is bad or good.

Different news: It is 26 paragraphs long. Read the author’s note at the bottom for some explanation re: this AU I just made up.

Luke didn’t remember precisely when he began to sense his father’s pain; if there had been anyone to ask about it, he might have said that he’d noticed just after he’d turned eight, scant weeks after Vader had retrieved him from that Force-forsaken Outer Rim dustball. Vader seldom accepted any comfort he tried to offer, and by the time he was an adult, it had long since become a kind of background noise.

Now, jolting out of a dead sleep, something in him rang out in alarm. He was on his feet, sliding into an effortless Makashi stance before he could process the fact that he was alone. His bedroom was dark and silent, save for the muffled, ever-present sound of Coruscant traffic passing by outside the high slits of the reinforced windows. He sensed no other presence in the apartment, save his father’s.

Perturbed, Luke lowered his unlit saber and sat on the bed, carding a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Downstairs, the garrison’s night shift went about their duties, minds sedate with routine and maybe a little boredom. It was barely half a thought to cast his awareness to the newly-appointed Chancellor Leia Organa, lightyears away in the palace at Alderaa— surprised, he withdrew at the startled little jolt the light attention elicited. But the ongoing mystery of Leia’s uncanny perception would have to remain unanswered for now.

Vader was still awake, though that wasn’t unusual, especially lately. Luke had been pretending not to notice how poorly he’d been sleeping since the final confrontation with Sidious, grateful that he had at least stopped his old habit of pacing. Father? he called, fighting down the cold kernel of fear that bloomed in his chest at the long silence that followed.

Go back to sleep, Luke. Vader was shielding, strongly, but his mental voice seemed somehow pallid and strained.

Luke took a breath and rose, pausing to stow his lightsaber and clip on his wristcomm before padding across the bare floor and stepping out into the cool hallway. I’m coming in, he answered, entering the opposing door and making his way across the dark study by memory, mind staunchly closed against any objection his father might attempt.

“Your insolence grows tiresome,” Vader rasped from the pitch black of the chamber, the desperate whistle of stridor faintly audible beneath his ruined voice.

“I’m turning on the light,” he warned, as the door shushed closed behind him and the atmospheric controls cycled on to restore the special atmosphere of the chamber.

Vader flinched from the sterile white glare, then blinked dully up from where he was reclined in the padded chair that served him as a bed. He was unmasked and stripped of his armor, ashen as a corpse beneath his scars, and beginning to go faintly blue around the mouth. Luke felt the fear sink claws into his heart, cold points of dread.

Raising his comm, he keyed open the channel for the installation’s medicenter. “Prepare a bacta tank for Lord Vader, please,” he commanded, meeting Vader’s gaze levelly. He barely heard the answering droid’s swift affirmative, and terminated the call.

“You’ve needed one for months,” he preempted, as the Sith lord dragged in a breath to deliver what was undoubtedly an outraged reprimand. “Where’s Too-Wonbee?”

Vader seemed about to snarl out some new rebuke when he stiffened, face frozen in a strained rictus, gloved hands curling into claws. Luke was at his side in an instant, kneeling to grasp a hand in his own and scrambling to find a pulse in his brachial artery with the other. It was present, but thready, and when Luke went to push a measure of strength across their bond, Vader’s shields dissolved and he felt his father’s agony.

Please, please, Luke begged out into the Force, forcing healing energy past the tattered barriers of Vader’s defenses, rubbing his still chest briskly, avoiding the interface interface sunk below his clavicles. Please I don’t have anybody else, I can’t be alone, I can't—

Finally, Vader took a shuddering breath, and the tension ran out of him, leaving only weak tremors in its wake. Luke blinked back relieved tears and moved to perch at the edge of the chair, pulling his father into a desperate embrace, resting his cheek against the bare scalp. His skin was cold. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

“You ought not waste your strength on me, young one,” Vader said finally, when his breathing had eased enough for him to speak.

Luke barked out a watery laugh. “You’re my father, it’s not a waste. Is this because of the Force lightning?”

Vader didn’t answer, which Luke took as a yes. Luke drew away and eased him back against the chair, took one artificial hand. He looked exhausted; Luke was sure the only thing keeping his head from lolling back bonelessly was the cervical brace he wore to protect his damaged spine. “Have you had attacks like that before?”

“They pass in time,” he answered, eyes sliding from Luke’s face to drift idly around the room.

“It’s been five months, father. I was fine after a week and some bacta.”

“You are young, and suffered only a single exposure.”

Luke had thought that the burning loathing he had for Palpatine would have gone out with the old lich’s death, but he understood now that this kind of hate was eternal. The little flares that lit occasionally behind his breastbone had nearly stopped surprising him now. “Yes, and I had bacta. ”

“I will not leave you unguarded in this nest of vipers,” he began, the familiar diatribe somewhat less impressive punctuated by ragged gasps. “The senate would gladly pay for a return to their unaccountable frivolity in your blood. The heretical inquisitors hunt you even now. The Council will take you from me—”

“Father,” he interrupted gently, desperate to stop the unhinged monologue before it spiraled out into another attack, not sure if the fear squeezing his chest was his own or Vader’s. “You can’t protect me like this. ”

He felt a twinge of guilt at the way his words seemed to strike his father like a blow. They were both silent for a moment, until Luke’s wrist unit chirped with a message. “The bacta’s ready,” he reported. “Too-Wonbee’s coming down to start the IV.”

Vader shuddered, wracking and pained, and closed his eyes. "As you wish.”

“I—” he tried, and stopped. I’m sorry. I’m sorry but you can’t take care of yourself sometimes and I can’t lose you— “I’ll stay with you. Try to rest.”

AN: whew, ok. Super-short version of the universe this takes place in: Luke was discovered by Vader as a child, and raised sort-of-not-really “as a Sith.” (Beru, Owen, and Obi-wan are all super dead.) When Luke was like 20, he and Vader deposed Palpatine (Vader cut off his head). Luke is kinda-sorta the Emperor stand-in, but much of the real power is in the hands of a pro-Republic bloc of senators, whose poster child is Leia Organa, recently elected Supreme Chancellor of the newly-reassembled Senate. Alderaan still exists, but Bail was executed when Leia was a teen. She and Luke have to work together for political stuff, and they have a weirdly easy, weirdly close relationship, despite the fact that they both went into it expecting to be adversarial.

I don’t think Luke is really a Sith here, but he’s got some Dark Side experience, and he’s not the Luke of canon. I don’t think that being raised knowing Dark Sider theology or concepts is actually enough to use it, though, I think you actually have to have some vulnerability, some chink in the emotional armor. In the films, I think that vulnerability is depicted for Luke as righteous anger; first righteous anger for his supposedly-murdered father, which invests him in Obi-wan and Yoda’s plans for him (and results in failing the trial in the Dark Side cave), and then righteous anger at the prospect of Sidious turning Leia. But both of those things are grounded in loss; anger and sorrow over the loss of his father, and fear at the prospect of losing Leia. So I thought that maybe fear of loss would be it.

#my fic #prompt fill #ask

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fangirlingincamouflage · 7 years ago

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Ghosts of Coruscant Chapter 1

Title: Ghosts of Coruscant Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2096 Pairing: OC/OC Rating: Mature Themes: Drinking, sex, self doubt. Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or any of the characters associated with the brand. I make no money from this fanfiction. Authors Note: This is the first chapter of a WIP. It is subject to change as I edit. While I’ve got an outline...my characters don’t always follow it.

Nela Vox woke up in that hazy state between no longer drunk, yet not quite sober. It was a travesty. She ran a lethargic hand over her face and pushed through the murky haze of near sobriety. By the smokey flicker of neon light spreading over the sheets and the fact that the hover lane that passed by her window was still empty, she guessed that morning was hours off. Not that morning mattered. On Coruscant morning was a figment of the artificial imagination of the WeatherNet. Nela had nowhere to be no matter what time of day it was. One of the few blessings that came along with being absolutely useless.

With a groan, she collapsed back into a comfortable cocoon of sheets and body heat. Her short, disheveled mop of azure hair slithered over her cheeks and into her eyes. It was too much work to push it away. Blindly, Nela groped for a bottle of algarine wine. It didn't matter that the wine, traditionally served chilled, was just shy of tepid. It didn't matter that last night's lipstick was clumped around the neck. She brought it to her naturally blue lips and took a big enough drink that it hurt to swallow around it.

“Any of that left for me?” a voice, sleep rough and husky, crooned. A thin, pale arm snaked across her bare stomach playfully. Lips pressed against her shoulder with a casual intimacy that Nela wasn't sure had been earned.

“Nope,” she said flatly, downing the last few drops. “You'll have to get your own.”

He chuckled, mistaking her bland attitude for teasing. With a persistent push he eased her back to the bed. She allowed it, but only because her head was starting to swim pleasantly again. As her eyes—red by genetics rather than inebriation—adjusted to the light and alcohol she realized that he'd been a lot cuter the night before.

“Guess I'll have to settle for something else.” His dark hair, mussed by sleep, fell across a cloud white brow as he leaned over her and pressed his lips to hers. She wasn't sure if it was drink or talent that made the kiss a good one. His hand roamed over her sheet covered skin. “Nela,” he purred her name.

Nela couldn't remember his name or why she'd picked him out of half a dozen others she could have taken home. She remembered the vice den of a cantina that she had picked him up from and dim recollections of bith made music, but his name, and any other specifies were lost in a blur of sex and liquor. She didn't dwell on it. There were a lot of lost nights for Nela.

“Do you have time?” he asked.

She did. Where else did she have to be? This man, with his cloud white skin and deep black hair, was the only thing that needed her.

“Yeah,” she said, taking his hand and planting it against her breast. “I have time.”

His mouth traveled down the long blue line of her neck, leaving a trail of warm tingles in his wake. The undulating movement of her body had the sheet that divided them slipping down and puddling somewhere near their feet. His leg slipped between hers and she opened in invitation. He might not be as pretty as he had been the night before, but he was good with his mouth and she had nothing better to do.

In the back of her mind she knew she shouldn't be there, her arms wrapped around a warm body, her naked back against the sheets. Training had taught her that these sort of entanglements were nothing but distractions. It didn't matter. In the past few months Nela had decided very little mattered. If she could seek comfort in a bottle and a body, then she would.

He was drinking the taste of wine from her lips when she heard a nearly foreign chirping. It wasn't the sound that she didn't recognize. Everyone knew what a comlink demanding to be heard sounded like. What took her longer to process was that it was her comlink.

“Hold on,” she said, pushing at the shoulder of the nameless male. “That's for me.”

“Do you need to get that?” he tried to distract her with his mouth. It nearly worked. The chirping was persistent. She pushed on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

She pulled herself out of the bed, disentangling herself from the sheets as well as him. Her knees were weak as she riffled through clothes. Her head was spinning, as much from confusion as anything else. No one ever contacted her. Not for a long time. Nela had no friends. She belonged nowhere. Who wanted her attention now? Whatever it was, she was betting it wasn't for good reasons.

She moved a fallen pillow, found the source of the chirping. The comlink was small, no longer than her thumb, and twice as wide. A blue light emanated from one side. It continued to chirp.

“Stay there.” She motioned towards the man in the bed, whose name was still a blur, and pulled a tunic over her shoulders, settled it into place. When she was sure she looked semi-decent she hit the button that would connect the call. A small hologram done in shades of neon blue filled a palm sized space in front of her. The image was of a seated male, human, bald, and dark skinned. He wore robes in the Jedi style, layered in shades of cream and brown. A lightsaber was clipped to one hip.

She was right, this call couldn't possibly be for anything good.

“Nela Vox.” He lifted his chin. The corns of his lips dipped downwards. “You are not currently within the temple.”

The temple? Why would she be there? Her status had been made perfectly clear. She had no place there.

“No, Master Windu.”

The male in the bed sat up. What was his name? Deel? Dar? Something. She ignored him. Her attention was fixed on the holographic male in front of her.

“Why is that?” Windu demanded.

Nela hesitated. Words failed. The liquor was making it hard to put thoughts together. Words and emotions seemed to tumble over one another. How was she supposed to explain something she was sure he already knew? She wiped her palm down her face. It was too hot. She needed a glass of water. Or a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Sleep sounded good.

“Vox?” Windu demanded when she didn't answer.

She didn't have an answer, but she had a lot of questions. “Is there a reason you have contacted me?”

His expression darkened. “Where are you?”

She looked out the window. A long line of hover-traffic was starting to build up outside. “Does it matter?”

“I don't know if it escaped your attention, Nela, but we are at war.”

Her shoulders squared. In an instant the struggle to find the right words vanished. The fog of alcohol lifted. Her eyes snapped to a razor sharp focused fueled by anger. “Correction. There is a war going on. We aren't part of that.”

“The Jedi are-”

“Peacekeepers,” she interrupted. She'd said the word so many times in the past few months that it had lost most of its meaning. She said it anyway. Clung to it. Her already weak knees shook with a sudden wave of passion. “We are diplomats, healers, and peacekeepers. The Jedi have no place in war, General.” She spat the title like a curse.

The tiny blue hologram shifted and stuttered as if the anger that Jedi Master Windu would not allow himself to show was making itself known anyway. She'd always had a grudging respect for Master Windu's control.

“Your presence is requested at council.” His tone said it wasn't a request at all.

“What for?”

“And here I thought we weren't answering one another's questions.” He straightened up, his expression smug. “Your talents are required.”

She froze. The warmth of liquor and sex evaporated, leaving a cold weight in her belly. She shook her head, the word 'no' already forming on her lips. She had no desire to use her gift to help the Jedi. Not now. Not ever again.

“Report at your earliest convenience.”

The hologram had barely flickered off before she heard the sheets slither over the floor. It was followed by the dull thud of feet.

“You're a jedi?” The awe in his tone was painful to hear.

“No,” she said flatly. “I am not.”

“Then why was Mace Windu-”

“You need to go.” Nela scooped a pile of clothing from the group and tossed it at him. His were somewhere in there, she was almost sure. “I have to get ready.”

A normal person would have got the point and stopped asking questions. Apparently, Dwar (Daer?) was not a normal person. His mouth kept moving. Questions kept spilling out. “What talent are they talking about? Why don't you live at the temple? I thought Chiss couldn't be Jedi.”

Nela snarled and yanked open a small, wall mounted closet. “Yeah, you were pretty last night. This morning? Not so much.”

He scoffed, but at least he was quiet as he pulled on his clothes. She prowled through her closet.

“I'm still pretty,” he said. “You are just in a bad mood.”

There, in the very back of her closet, were her robes. They were rumpled and dirty. She wondered if they still fit. Her recent lifestyle had added pounds where none had been before.

“Chiss can be Jedi.”

“What?”

“It doesn't happen often. But it does happen.” She pulled on her long sleeved tunic. Not too long ago it had been a soft cream shade. Now it was a sad, dingy gray. “For reasons I cannot explain most force sensitive Chiss are women.”

“Didn't know the force cared.”

She shrugs. “Usually it doesn't. I dunno. Just the way things worked out for us. Also, we aren't particularly good Jedi.”

He cocked his head to the side. His lips tilted into a grin. “You were good last night.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. Her thick leather belt didn't seem to want to close. With a sigh she loosened it and tried the fastenings again. “Yeah, yeah. But that's not what I mean. I mean our one and only talent has always been limited.”

“The talent the master jedi spoke of.”

“Smarter than you look.” She tugged her sleeveless, deep brown robe over the tunic. The fabric was dark enough to hide the worst stains. “Now, are you smart enough to get out?”

He chuckled and pulled on a pair of boots. “I'm getting there. I'm just intrigued. I didn't know a Jedi could have a one night stand.”

“Jedi can't have attachments.” She knew the words were cutting the truth hair thin. “We are not attached.”

He held his hands up in mute surrender, though a smile still danced on his lips. “I guess that answers the question of whether or not I'll see you again.”

She plunged her hand into the closet again, rifling through its contents. She found other clothes in various states of cleanliness. A broken hydrospanner, a few more bottles of liquor, some full, some empty, and some inbetween. But there, at the very back, her fingers touched metal. Her hand hesitated just a moment before it closed around the etched casing. Slowly, she withdrew her hand.

As far as lightsabres went, her's was simple. Nela had never needed things to be flamboyant. A simple cylinder, nearly as long as the space between her elbow and wrist. There were three deep grooves near the haft, and another two near the emitter.

“Wow,” he breathed. “You weren't lying.”

She clipped the weapon to her belt. It felt strange to wear it. Like it belonged to someone else. Maybe it did. She wasn't who she had been.

“Do people lie to you often?”

“To get me into bed? Yes.”

She shrugged and turned. He stood in the glimmering light of neon signs and automotive lights. His pale skin nearly glimmered, dark hair like a shadow. He wore only his boots and pants and she let herself enjoy a last look before she hit the button that opened the the front door.

“Well, believe me when I say that I don't even remember your name.”

#Star Wars fanfiction #Star Wars #Fanfiction #Mace Windu

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