Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heat in the marketplace of Troh felt oppressive, made worse by the high gravity pulling everything downward with an almost tangible weight. Bright banners flapped sluggishly in the wind, casting dappled shadows over rows of vendors selling everything from glowing tech modules to vibrant fabrics. The air hummed with noise—chatter, the rumble of passing speeders, and the occasional booming announcement for the next podracing event. Obi-wans fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the urge to cover his ears. 

Obi-Wan shuffled, struggling to keep up with Qui-Gon Jinn, head bowed, eyes fixed on the dust-coated ground beneath his boots. His limbs felt heavy, the weight of Troh’s gravity combined with his still-recovering body making every step feel sluggish. He hated crowds. Hated the feeling of eyes on him, watching him, even though he knew logically that no one cared enough to look.

“Stay close, Padawan,” Qui-Gon called out in his deep, resonant voice, not looking back.Obi-Wan flinched, his thin frame jerking slightly, not realising that he had dropped behind again. Stupid.

As they passed a stall selling fruit from the Outer Rim, Obi-Wan’s gaze flickered toward the vendor. The blue skinned Durran behind the counter was tall, his skin a deep blue, and he was laughing with a customer. Obi-Wan quickly averted his gaze, focusing on Qui-Gon’s robes instead, which were slightly frayed at the edges but otherwise well fitting. Unlike his own robe, which rough spun fabric no longer fit after ... well everything. 

He tried so hard. Tried to be a good Padawan, tried to listen, tried to follow. But no matter what he did, there always seemed to be a gap between what he meant and how other people took it. A disconnect, like there was something broken in the way he communicated. Qui-Gon’s expectations felt distant, unreachable. Maybe there was something wrong with him after all. Thats what the Masters at the temple said.

Realizing he had fallen behind again, Obi-Wan snapped out of his thoughts. The crowd around him surged, elbows and shoulders brushing against him as beings from every corner of the galaxy pushed their way through the marketplace. It was overwhelming, loud, too close. His fingers twitched again, fighting the urge to hum or cover his ears. Instead, Obi-Wan did the only thing that came to mind—he reached out and grabbed the edge of Qui-Gon’s robe, clinging to it to ground himself and make sure he wouldn’t lose sight of his Master.

Qui-Gon stopped abruptly, looking down at the frail hand grasping his robes. His brow furrowed, his expression one of mild disapproval.

Obi-Wan’s heart sank as soon as he felt the weight of that gaze. His grip slackened, and he quickly let go, drawing his hand back as if burned. His eyes dropped to his shoes, cheeks flushing with shame. Stupid. He shouldn’t have grabbed Qui-Gon’s robes like that. He knew better.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan mumbled, his voice barely audible over the din of the market. His head was still bowed, gaze fixed on the dirt beneath his boots. The shame gnawed at him, but he wasn’t sure if it was for falling behind, or for daring to reach out to his Master for comfort—something he should’ve known better than to seek. Qui-Gon didn’t acknowledge the apology, only gave a brief grunt before starting off again, his long strides forcing Obi-Wan to hurry to keep up. 

Obi-Wan absentmindedly reached up to pull at his braid—except there wasn’t one anymore. His fingers brushed against the short ginger hair that now barely covered his scalp. He flinched inwardly at the memory of the harsh shave after he’d returned from Melida/Daan, when they found lice in his matted hair. They had taken the last symbol of his rank as a Padawan, and though it was for his health, it had left him feeling even more incomplete, like he’d lost part of himself.

His foot caught on a loose cobblestone, and he stumbled, almost falling face-first into the ground. Only the Force kept him upright, his arms flailing to regain balance as he quickly straightened up, cheeks burning with humiliation. Obi-Wan didn’t dare look up at Qui-Gon. He knew his Master had noticed, and he didn’t need to see the look of disappointment that was surely there. Oafy-wan his mind supplied in Bruck's voice.

Obi-Wan grimaced at the sound of his Master’s voice cutting through the noise. “Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon’s tone was low and slightly annoyed, but Obi-Wan felt a wave of relief wash over him at the same time. Maybe Qui-Gon hadn’t noticed his moment of clumsiness after all, or better yet, had seen and was worried about him.

When he dared to look up, though, his heart sank. Qui-Gon had already moved on, striding confidently toward a dimly lit pub set into the side of the road. It was a bustling establishment, thick with the noise of laughter, shouting, and the clattering of glasses. Obi-Wan felt a wave of unease wash over him; he knew what this meant. Qui-Gon was going to gamble.

A knot tightened in his stomach. “Master, please…” he thought, but the words stayed stuck in his throat. Qui-Gon always complained that the Jedi Council never provided enough funds to complete their missions, and it seemed that “being creative” was his Master’s solution. He often favoured establishments like this—where patrons were more careless with their thoughts, making it easier for Qui-Gon to read the minds of the players across the table. And, of course, no one would question the presence of a young Padawan in a place like this.

Troh was notorious for its gambling culture, a world where the high stakes of podracing often lured in the wealthy, desperate and reckless. Obi-Wan followed Qui-Gon inside, the din of the pub somehow louder than the street outside. The thick haze from smoking sticks that the local Durran enjoyed filled the air, making it hard to breathe.

Qui-Gon was making his way to one of the tables where a group was engaged in a game of Sabacc. They nodded at Qui-Gon as he approached, gesturing for him to take a seat. Qui-Gon sat down with a grunt, placing his credits on the table, the glint of metal shining in the dim light.

Obi-Wan hovered dutifully at his shoulder, feeling the tension in the air wrap around him like a cloak. As he tuned out the voices around him, he focused on the subtle vibrations of the Force, trying to find comfort in its familiar presence. He could feel the weight of concern and uncertainty pressing on him from all sides, but it felt easier to ignore them. Qui-Gon was deeply engrossed in the imminent game as the cards were dealt out on the table.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to zone out, that he should be present, but the noise swirled around him, a cacophony that made it hard to concentrate. The healers had warned him after he returned from Melida/Daan that slipping into a dissociative state was harmful—yet it felt safer, easier, to retreat into the background and let the world around him fade into a dull hum.

After a while, Obi-Wan became aware of a hand raised in his periphery. Qui-Gon held up some credits, signalling him to take them. “Get me a beer,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look up from the game.

Obi-Wan nodded and took the credits, feeling the cool metal against his palm. He didn’t want to go to the bar; the idea of pushing through the crowd again made his stomach twist. But Qui-Gon’s eyes didn’t leave the table, and he didn’t want to earn another reprimand.

So, he steeled himself and made his way to the bar, weaving through the throng of patrons, the air heavy with smoke and noise. The bartender, a burly human with a thick beard, leaned against the counter, wiping down glasses with a rag that was far too dirty for Obi-Wan’s liking.

“A beer please,” Obi-Wan said, his voice barely rising above the din. He placed the credits on the bar, his fingers shaking slightly as he did so.

The bartender looked down at him with a frown, his brows furrowing as he took in Obi-Wan's thin frame. “How old are you, kid?”

Obi-Wan shifted uneasily, suddenly aware of the attention he was drawing from the patrons around him. “It’s not for me,” he replied quickly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers. “I’m just fetching it for my Master.”

Obi-Wan’s heart raced as the bartender froze, his expression shifting into something that made the young Padawan’s stomach knot. The patrons nearby halted their conversations, their eyes narrowing with curiosity, but Obi-Wan focused on the bartender, anxiety prickling at the edges of his mind.

“Okay, kid,” the bartender said slowly. “I’ll bring it to your Master for you. You look tired.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “How about you come into the back and have a seat? I’ll see what our cook can rustle up for you to eat, hmm?”

Obi-Wan fidgeted nervously, weighing his options. He knew he should refuse. Qui-Gon would be expecting him to return with the beer, and the last thing he wanted was to cause another scene. But he also felt the fatigue settling heavily in his bones, an exhaustion that had plagued him since returning from Melida/Daan.

The idea of being in a quieter space, away from the thrumming noise and the prying eyes of the bar, tempted him. He nodded hesitantly, eyes flickering around the room but never quite focusing on anyone’s face. The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself, but the bartender’s offer felt like a refuge.

“Good choice,” the bartender said, a smile creeping across his face, revealing yellowed teeth. “It’s always nice to help out a little guy like you. Just follow me.” He gestured toward a door at the back of the bar, and Obi-Wan felt a wave of uncertainty wash over him.

As he stepped away from the bar, he glanced back toward Qui-Gon’s table, but his Master was still engaged in the game, seemingly unaware of what was happening. A pang of guilt shot through him, but it was overshadowed by the relief of finding a moment’s peace. he was such a bad padawan.

The door creaked as Obi-Wan stepped into the kitchen, the heavy noise of the bar muffled behind him. The air was thick with the scent of spice and grease, and a pair of Durrans worked busily at the stove. One was stirring a large pot of something that hissed and bubbled, while the other was slicing vegetables with quick, precise movements. As they heard the door open, both looked up, their blue skin glistening under the dim lighting.

The bartender clapped a heavy hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, a gesture meant to be reassuring but which only made the Padawan flinch slightly. Obi-Wan quickly masked the reaction, hoping the man hadn’t noticed.

“Vichug,” the bartender called out, his voice light and casual, “get some food for our little visitor here. He’s going to stay back for a bit, have a rest.” His tone had the edge of concern, though Obi-Wan didn’t catch it.

The Durran at the stove, presumably Vichug, frowned slightly but nodded. “Got some soup and bread nearly ready,” he replied in a gruff voice. His eyes flicked toward Obi-Wan briefly, then back to the bartender. “Why don’t you sit over there?” He gestured to a worn, cluttered desk in the corner of the room. Papers were stacked in chaotic piles, but the space had a few rickety chairs around it. The desk was the farthest spot from the door Obi-Wan had just entered, but more importantly, it was also closer to the other door, which likely led to the alley outside. An escape route, if he needed it.

Obi-Wan’s gaze darted briefly to Vichug’s face before quickly lowering to the floor again. The man didn’t seem unkind, but Obi-Wan knew better than to trust that too easily. Still, he made his way over to the desk, his footsteps quiet, and climbed into the chair. His feet dangled, unable to touch the ground, so he began swinging them back and forth. It always made him feel better, even if he knew he should sit still. It wasn't proper after all.

The bartender whispered something into Vichug’s ear before heading back through the door to the main bar. Obi-Wan’s senses sharpened momentarily, his body tensing at the thought that something could be happening. But when he reached out to the Force, it felt calm, untroubled.

Vichug approached a few moments later with a bowl of soup, a chunk of bread, and a tall glass of blue milk. “Here you go, kid,” he said, setting it down on the desk. His movements were slow and deliberate. Maybe he had joint problems Obi-Wan thought as he muttered a soft “Thank you.”

Without hesitation, he dug in. He had learned long ago not to waste time when it came to food. There was always a chance it could be taken away, or worse, he could be called away before finishing. He was aware that he was eating too quickly, but he couldn’t help himself. Hopefully, he wouldn't throw up. Vichug watched for a moment before nodding to himself and returning to his post by the stove. He said nothing, giving Obi-Wan the space he seemed to need.

Just as Obi-Wan had begun to feel the food start to settle warmly in his stomach, the noise level from the nearby bar surged suddenly, voices rising in angry shouts. His heart skipped a beat as he dropped the spoon into the bowl. He covered his ears instinctively, the noise too loud, too sharp. His thoughts raced, and he felt a swell of panic in his chest. There were angry Elders next door. 

One of the voices sounded familiar, and for a fleeting second, Obi-Wan thought it might have been his Master’s. Qui-Gon’s deep voice had a certain way of carrying in a room, and the timbre of the shout sent an uncomfortable jolt through him. But his Master wasn't on Melida/Dann. Obi-wan ducked beneath the desk. It was a bad hiding place but it would prevent him from being spotted by any Elders who entered. 

The noise dropped again, back to its previous dull roar. Obi-Wan took a breath, trying to calm his thudding heart. Obi-Wan rocked slightly, his mind trying to grasp the situation, trying to hold onto the knowledge that he was safe. Well, as safe as one could be when their Master barely cared about them. His fingers curled into his ears, blocking out the lingering din from the bar, and he fought to calm himself by humming. You’re on Troh, not Melida/Dann. You’re safe, he repeated silently.

He knew he should get out from under the table. He should go back to Qui-Gon, return to the bar as though nothing had happened. But the floor under the desk felt safe—far safer than the chaotic bar on the other side of that door. . He thought of the bowl of soup still on the table above. He couldn’t afford to lose his meal. 

Carefully, Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, focusing despite the dull thrum of anxiety buzzing in the back of his mind. Slowly, gently, the soup bowl and the bread lifted from the tabletop, floating down to rest beside him on the floor. The glass of blue milk followed. His concentration wavered slightly, but he kept it steady, refusing to drop anything.

Once everything was within reach, Obi-Wan sat back on his haunches, huddled beneath the table as he resumed eating, shovelling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth as quickly as he dared. The bread, soft and still warm, was carefully tucked into his pocket for later—who knew when his next meal would come or if Master Jinn would even remember that he needed to eat at all.

By the time he had drained the last of the blue milk and licked the soup bowl clean, Obi-Wan’s stomach felt stretched and a little uncomfortable, but not in the overwhelming way that made him want to throw up. Humming softly, he curled in on himself further, hands returning to his ears, rocking slightly as he let the sensation of fullness settle, feeling somewhat grounded despite the earlier panic.

The door creaked open again, and Obi-Wan instinctively stilled, peeking around the chair’s leg. He saw the familiar boots of the bartender first, but two other pairs of legs followed, both clad in neat uniform trousers.

“He’s under there,” Vichug’s voice said, though it sounded distant in Obi-Wan’s mind. “The commotion outside upset him.”

One of the uniformed figures—larger and wearing black—moved toward the desk, stopping a few meters away. Then, slowly, one of them knelt down to the floor, just out of arm’s reach.

Obi-Wan shrank back reflexively, pressing his back against the wall beneath the desk.

“Hey, kid,” said the Durran who had knelt down. Obi-Wan blinked at the sight of green stripes down xer nose, recognizing the third gender marker from his studies. Xe spoke with a calm, even tone. “I’m Detective Kalna. This over here is my partner, Detective Nechal.”

The introduction felt oddly formal, and Obi-Wan couldn’t quite understand why they were here. Why were the police involved? His mind raced, his breathing quickening as panic clawed at his chest. Had he done something wrong? Was this his fault, again?

His fingers pressed deeper into his ears, and his mind scrambled for an answer. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong—he’d just gotten Qui-Gon’s drink, and then... then he’d come here because it was quieter, because the bar had been too loud, and—

But the detectives were here now, and that couldn’t be a good sign, could it?

Obi-Wan’s eyes darted from Kalna to Nechal, who stood a few feet behind xer, and back again. His breathing picked up as his thoughts spiraled, the world outside the desk feeling far too overwhelming, too unpredictable. What had he done wrong this time?

Kalna leaned in slightly, keeping xer voice gentle but firm. “It’s okay, kid. You’re not in trouble. We’re just here to help.”

Chapter Text

Kalna hated situations like these.

As soon as the call had come through from the bar, reporting that they had separated a slave boy from his master, Kalna’s skin had nearly turned a shade of purple in anger. It was rare for such calls to happen, but even "rare" was too frequent for Kalna’s liking. Most of the population of Troh followed the laws to the letter, thanks to the rigid structure of their society, which Kalna appreciated. Troh's reputation for order and safety had been hard-earned. But the tourists? The tourists often seemed to view Troh’s rules as suggestions rather than obligations, and that grated on Kalna more than xe liked to admit.

Troh's tourist culture was complicated. The wealth brought in from off-world visitors was essential to fund aid missions to other planets. Still, sometimes Kalna wished they could cut themselves off entirely from the outsiders. The planet could survive, couldn’t it? Even if the environmental cost of mining their fuel weighed heavily on the back of every citizen.

Kalna sighed inwardly. There was no point in such wishful thinking. Xe had transferred to Rigruit five years ago, knowing full well what the city represented. As the hub of speeder racing on Troh, Rigruit had its share of excitement, wealth, and prestige. It also drew in crime like a light to moths. The sprawling racecourses, with their daring obstacles and treacherous turns, brought in both legal gamblers and those who sought darker thrills. With them came trafficking, smuggling, and—as was too often the case—slavery.

Kalna glanced at the child currently snarling at xer from under the desk.

The boy’s skinny frame was almost hidden beneath oversized, ragged clothes that seemed far too large for him. Kalna could see the scars on the boy’s exposed hands and face, marks that told stories Kalna didn’t want to imagine. His head was shaved nearly to the skin, the ginger hair just beginning to grow back. A nasty scar cut through his hairline, and Kalna’s gut churned at the thought that the boy’s “master” might have been responsible.

The Wookie of a man that they had arrested—Kalna’s eyes flickered to the memory of the brute in chains, still shouting his innocence in the bar— had been loud, uncaring of his dirty appearance and tried to assult the junior officer who had cuffed him. Kalna had no doubt he had treated the child no better than property, a fact that made xer blood boil. Xe glanced back at the boy, who had shrunk further under the desk, eyes wide and wary.

The paramedics are on the way. You’re safe now, kid. But could you come out so I can check if you’re hurt?" Xe leaned in just enough to show concern but stayed back to avoid crowding the boy.

But instead of responding, the child under the desk started humming loudly, his fingers still firmly stuck in his ears. The sound wasn’t meant to block out Kalna’s words—it was clearly a coping mechanism. The boy’s gaze was distant, locked onto some internal rhythm that seemed to calm him as he rocked slightly.

Kalna sighed inwardly, exchanging a glance with Detective Nechal, who stood nearby, observing with quiet understanding. Kalna had seen similar reactions before in other rescued children. The kid was trained—trained to fear authority, to expect punishment. And he was terrified of the police.

How long has he been with that man? Kalna wondered. Too long, xe concluded grimly.

"Okay, kid," Kalna continued gently, making sure xer voice didn’t rise above the hum. "You can stay under there. I won’t force you to come out. But can you tell me your name?"

The child’s eyes flicked toward a point just over Kalna’s shoulder, as if focusing on something invisible, before he spoke in a small, guarded voice. "Obi-Wan."

Kalna’s heart sank a little deeper. Stewjoni. The child’s name, the delicate, pale skin, the ginger hair, all of it fit. Stewjoni children were rare and sought after in slave markets across the galaxy.

Xe forced xer heartbreak down, keeping xer tone steady and calm. The last thing Obi-Wan needed was to sense Kalna’s dismay. "Nice to meet you, Obi-Wan," xe said with a soft smile, trying to bridge some warmth into the room. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Kalna watched as Obi-Wan hesitated, his humming pausing for a moment as he seemed to consider the question. His small frame shook slightly, and for a brief second, Kalna could see the battle happening inside him—whether to trust or to retreat further into his protective shell. Then, slowly, Obi-Wan shook his head.

"No," he whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

"That's very good. You did a great job telling me," Kalna said, trying to inject warmth into xer voice, though xer ears perked as xe heard the door open behind xem. Nechal was speaking to someone—a calm, low voice exchanging words with the paramedics.

"Obi-Wan," Kalna continued softly, "the paramedics are here to help you now." Xe felt someone crouch beside xem, likely one of the medics. "I know it’s hard, but can you come out just a little bit?"

Kalna waited, holding xer breath as Obi-Wan slowly began to move. He shifted under the desk, his small body edging forward, but he stopped just under the lip of the desk, still too frightened to fully leave the safety of his hiding place. His wide eyes darted between Kalna and the paramedic, fear written across his pale features.

"It’s okay, Obi-Wan," Kalna reassured him, resisting the urge to reach out. "You’re doing great. You don’t have to be scared."

The paramedic beside Kalna leaned forward. "Obi-Wan, I’m just going to use this scanner to make sure you’re not hurt, okay? It won’t hurt you, I promise." The scanner beeped as the paramedic held it out, and that small sound was enough to send a visible jolt of panic through Obi-Wan. His humming intensified, the pitch rising as he clutched his hands tighter to his ears, his small frame beginning to shake.

"Easy, kid," Kalna said softly, trying to keep the situation from escalating. Xe could feel the tension building in the room, the boy’s distress somehow seemed to thickening the air around them and Kalna could swear that xe saw objects floating in xer peripheral vision. "We’re not going to hurt you. I promise."

The paramedic shot Kalna a concerned glance, but kept the scanner moving. "Okay, kid, we’re going to take you out to the ambulance now," the medic said, his tone neutral but firm. "We’re just going to take a little trip down to the hospital, make sure you’re okay."

That was the breaking point.

Obi-Wan’s humming gave way to panicked words, his small voice trembling. "No, no, no, no," he muttered, shaking his head violently as tears began to stream down his cheeks. His eyes squeezed shut, and he rocked back and forth, clearly overwhelmed.

Kalna couldn’t help but sigh, a soft exhale of sympathy. Xe knew this was going to be hard, but seeing the boy so distraught tugged at xer heart. This was more than just fear—it was trauma, deeply rooted and painful.

Xe knelt down even further, lowering xer body to meet Obi-Wan’s eye level. "Obi-Wan, I know it’s scary, but you’re safe now." Kalna kept xer tone as calm as possible, hoping to coax the boy out of his spiraling panic.

The boy’s rocking slowed, but his tears kept falling, and Kalna knew this was going to take time.

Obi-Wan didn’t know why he was crying. He could feel the emotions of the beings around him pressing in, suffocating him with their intensity. Hatred, sympathy, pity—it was all too much, overwhelming him in waves through the Force. It was loud. He wished he could retreat into the comfort of the crèche, where things had been simple and safe. But that time was long gone. He wasn’t a crècheling anymore. He was a Padawan. And a failure of one at that.

He’d somehow managed to get the police and paramedics called on him, and he didn’t even know what he had done wrong. Now, he was crying in front of all these strangers. He was such a disappointment, just like Qui-Gon had told him. The tears came faster, despite his attempts to control them.

“Where’s my Master?” Obi-Wan choked out between sobs, his voice coming out small and broken. Qui-Gon would be so disappointed in him for losing control like this, for letting his emotions spill out so publicly. He tried to steady himself, but he couldn’t. 

The Force flared with tension in front of him, the emotions from the people around him sharpening. Anger? Disgust? Obi-Wan’s stomach churned. Of course, they were angry at him. He was a burden. A failure.

“We’ve taken him into custody. You’re safe now, Obi-Wan,” the detective’s voice cut through the noise, gentle but firm. But Obi-Wan’s heart sank further.

His Master? Qui-Gon was in trouble because of him. “No, no, no, no,” Obi-Wan muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He needed to go to Qui-Gon. This was all his fault—he shouldn’t have left his Master’s side.

Obi-Wan’s hands twitched, wanting to reach for his river stone, the one Qui-Gon had given him on his birthday. It had been a source of comfort, the Master’s Force signature always a calm presence through it. But when he had returned from Melida/Daan, it had disappeared from his room. Gone, just like his soft bantha toy. He hadn’t dared to ask Qui-Gon where they had gone, afraid of what the answer might be. He figured that maybe, if he was a better Padawan, Qui-Gon would give them back. But he wasn’t better. He was worse.

Suddenly, there was a sharp sting in his arm.

Obi-Wan screamed, feeling the coldness of the hyponeedle inject something into his bloodstream. His panic surged. The world around him trembled as objects nearby lifted in the Force, rattling and shaking as his control slipped. His thoughts blurred, the edges of his vision darkening. He was so tired.

Through half-lidded eyes, he saw the detective arguing with the paramedic, who held the hypo, their faces tense with conflict. The words were fuzzy, fading in and out as the sedation took hold. He wanted to stay awake, to fight, but his limbs felt like they were weighed down by stone.

The paramedic leaned in, lifting Obi-Wan onto a stretcher. His instincts screamed to fight, but his body wouldn’t respond. Weak and exhausted, Obi-Wan could barely struggle as they strapped him down. His hands were bound, the tightness around his wrists adding to the helplessness pooling in his chest. Everything was somehow louder.

They wheeled him through the bar, and Obi-Wan could feel all the eyes of the patrons on him, their judgment like a knife cutting through his skin. Was he being kidnapped? Or was he just so terrible that they needed to sedate him to keep control? The confusion and fear swirled together in his mind.

As the cool air of the outside world hit his skin, Obi-Wan’s last thought before everything faded into blackness was that maybe, just maybe, this was what he deserved.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan heard the beeping first. The steady rhythm of a heart monitor blended with the soft hum of machines around him. His mind felt sluggish, weighed down by the drowsiness of a sedative, and the sterile smell told him he was in some kind of medical facility. It wasn’t the Halls of Healing, though. The Force felt different here, unfamiliar.

They sedated me.

His skin prickled with irritation. He hated how sedatives made him feel—disconnected, as if he were swimming through thick fog. He knew Master Che would disapprove if he filtered it out with the Force, but he couldn’t stand the sensation. Slowly, Obi-Wan drew on the Force, feeling it course through him, pushing the drug out of his bloodstream. The more he focused, the more his mind began to clear.

But as Obi-Wan concentrated, he didn’t notice how the Force began swirling around him, pulling tighter like a knot. It built up, gaining momentum, until—

 He saw shadowy figures fighting in white armour, each one identical in form. The clash of lightsabers filled his mind, then a streak of crimson cut through the chaos, hitting Master Qui-Gon through the side. Obi-Wan wanted to scream, but now he stood with Master Plo Koon, holding a baby wrapped in blankets, its green skin soft and warm against his arm. The child smiled up at him but in the blink of an eye, the baby was gone, and Obi-Wan found himself alone in a vast desert. The desert was eerily quiet, and a bright, white light blinked into existence far off on the horizon. It pulsed like a third sun, beckoning him, full of both freedom and an overwhelming sense of finality—Force or death. Was there a difference?

then, just as quickly, the visions vanished.

Obi-Wan blinked, coming back to himself. His body felt heavy, his limbs weighed down, and his heart raced as if he’d been running. He looked around, disoriented. This wasn’t the Halls of Healing. The ceiling was wrong—too low, too dull. And the people around him weren’t healers. They wore blue clothes, not the familiar white robes of Jedi healers. At least five beings moved around the room, fussing with equipment, their emotions crackling loudly in the Force—concern, confusion, a touch of frustration.

One of them was speaking to him, their blue skin blending with the blue scrubs they wore. The words floated toward him, but they didn’t seem to reach his mind properly. Obi-Wan tried to speak, but his mouth felt dry and his voice wouldn’t cooperate. His body was still recovering from the vision. He frowned, feeling drained and weak, the way he always did after a particularly strong one. Master Jinn always told him that if he grounded himself in the living force, he wouldn't have this problem.

The blue-skinned being leaned closer, their face filling Obi-Wan’s vision. “...Obi-Wan,” they said, their voice soft but insistent. “Can you understand me?”

Obi-Wan blinked, forcing himself to focus on the words. Slowly, he nodded. He didn’t want to make eye contact, his gaze sliding off to the side, but the person kept shifting their head, trying to stay in his line of sight.

“You had a seizure,” the person continued.

Obi-Wan frowned at that. No, I didn’t, he thought. He hadn’t had a seizure—he’d had a vision. But he didn’t have the energy to correct them. His body felt like it was made of lead, and the strain from filtering out the sedative hadn’t helped.

The blue-skinned person began talking again, clearly giving instructions. “We’re going to monitor you closely now, okay? You may feel weak or disoriented for a little while longer, but we need you to stay calm. I’m going to check your vitals.”

The blue-skinned Durran doctor reached forward again, their hand moving toward Obi-Wan's arm. Panic surged through him. No more touching. It was bad enough that the paramedic had picked him up earlier, and now this—he couldn’t stand it. Not now. Instinctively, he yanked his arm away, his movement sharp and violent.

The doctor’s face tightened. “Can we get the restraints back on?” they asked, looking over their shoulder at a nurse. Obi-Wan groaned, trying to form words of protest, but his voice was still weak. Not again. Please, no more.

He wasn’t sure if it was the aftermath of the vision, the lingering effects of the sedation, or simply the overload of everything around him—the buzzing machines, the flood of emotions in the Force—but his body felt on edge, like every nerve was stretched too thin.

A new voice entered the room, and Obi-Wan recognized it instantly. Detective Kalna. Obi-Wan glanced up, a bit of relief breaking through his anxiety. At least Detective Kalna had felt… safer.

"Is that really necessary, doctor?" Detective Kalna asked, xer voice calm but with an undertone of frustration bleeding into the force.

The doctor hesitated, looking between Detective Kalna and Obi-Wan. "We only removed the restraints to minimize any damage during the seizure. But the paramedics said he was non-compliant—"

“He’s scared,” Detective Kalna interrupted firmly, stepping closer to the bed. “We just got him away from his master. Of course he’s going to react like this.”

The doctor let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I'm not trained for this. I don't deal with abuse victims or… whatever this is."

Obi-Wan’s heart sank at the word. Abuse victim? That wasn’t what he was. He wasn’t—

Detective Kalna’s face tightened with anger, the frustration bleeding through the Force. "Do you really think that's appropriate, Doctor?" Kalna’s voice was sharp. Obi-Wan flinched, pulling back instinctively. He wasn’t trying to cause trouble. He really wasn’t.

Detective Kalna didn’t seem to notice his reaction and turned toward one of the nurses standing nearby. “I’m sorry, but could you check if another doctor is available?”

The nurse, who had already been glancing at the other doctor with clear disapproval, nodded quickly. “Yes, I’ll get the consultant immediately.” With a pointed, angry glance at the doctor, the nurse left the room, the doctor trailing behind, looking uncomfortable.

Obi-Wan felt a tear slip down his cheek. He was causing trouble again. A bad padawan, just like Master Qui-Gon must think. He should have stayed quiet, should have just listened, but he couldn’t help it. Why was everything he did wrong?

While Detective Kalna was dealing with the situation, Obi-Wan hadn’t noticed the other detective—Detective Nechal, he thought—had moved closer to his bed.

Detective Nechal crouched down, maintaining a respectful distance, and extended a soft stuffed toy toward him. Obi-Wan blinked, his breath catching in his throat. It was a loth-cat toy. Its soft fur, its big round eyes—it looked just like one of the creatures from the Temple gardens. He wanted it so badly. But he knew he shouldn’t take it. He wasn’t supposed to want things. He wasn't a creshling anymore. Jedi didn't own superfluous things

“I found this little guy outside,” Detective Nechal said, his voice soft and kind. “Looks like he needs a family. Do you want to help him out?”

Obi-Wan hesitated. He knew it was just a toy, that it didn’t actually need him. But something inside him stirred. Slowly, he nodded.

Detective Nechal smiled and gently handed him the stuffed loth-cat. Obi-Wan took it with trembling hands and immediately buried his face into its soft fur. The sensation brought a wave of comfort he hadn’t expected, and he squeezed it tighter. He didn’t care that it was just a toy. He needed something to hold on to.

As he clung to the soft toy, the nurse reentered the room, followed by another Durran in blue scrubs. This one, like Kalna, had green stripes on xer nose. Xe approached with a calm, authoritative presence.

“I’m Dr. Harogt, the consultant here in the emergency department,” xe said, shaking hands with Detective Kalna before picking up the chart at the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed. Xe scanned it quickly, then put it back and knelt beside Obi-Wan, offering a gentle smile. “Hi, Obi-Wan. I’m Harogt. Who’s this little one you’ve got there?”

Obi-Wan hugged the soft toy closer. He knew he wasn’t supposed to get attached, but… “Ani,” he whispered, not quite sure where the name had come from. It just felt right, like the loth-cat needed to be protected, and that was his job.

Dr. Harogt smiled kindly. “Nice to meet you, Ani.” Xe turned back to Obi-Wan. “You’ve been feeling a little unwell, and we just want to make sure everything’s okay. Do you mind if I put this little sensor on you?” Xe held up a small white circle. “It just attaches to the back of your hand, and it’ll check that your heart and brain are working properly.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly, offering one of his hands. He’d seen Master Che do the same thing back in the Halls of Healing, after some of his worst visions. The familiarity of the gesture helped calm him, even just a little. The doctor gently placed the sensor on his hand, and it began to softly beep, running its diagnostic. Obi-Wan squeezed Ani tighter, trying to focus on the soft fur beneath his fingers rather than the swirling emotions around him.

“You’re doing great,” Dr. Harogt said softly. Dr. Harogt’s eyes flicked to the monitor behind Obi-Wan, as if reading something from the screen. Obi-Wan wanted to turn and look as well, but that would mean taking his eyes off the elder in front of him. That felt far too dangerous—he needed to keep track of where they all were, even if he wasn’t sure why.

“I don’t have seizures,” Obi-Wan mumbled into the soft fur of Ani, his voice muffled by the toy.

“What was that?” Dr. Harogt’s attention snapped back to Obi-Wan, xe clearly hadn’t caught his words.

“I don’t have seizures,” Obi-Wan repeated, his voice a little louder now, his fingers tightening around Ani’s body. “I’m healthy. Gotta be.” He ignored the ripple of emotion in the room—concern, confusion, frustration—all swirling around the detectives and medical staff in the Force. It was too much to handle. He needed to focus, needed to push everything out.

“Where’s my master?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll be missing me. I should… I should go back.”

There was a shift in the room, a hesitation that made Obi-Wan pull Ani even closer to his chest. He didn’t need to look up to feel the tension in the air, but he couldn’t tell if they were angry or ... he didn't think he had a name for that feeling in the force. 

“Obi-Wan,” Detective Kalna said gently, stepping closer but keeping xer voice calm. “Your master isn’t coming. You’re safe now.”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched. He shook his head, disbelief tightening his chest. “No, no… He’ll be looking for me,” he insisted. His master always knew where he was. Always. Even if he wasn’t the best padawan, even if he’d disappointed Master Qui-Gon, his master wouldn't leave him behind again. Master Qui-Gon had promised the council.

“He'll come back,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself. He pressed his face into Ani’s soft fur again, trying to block everything out, but it didn’t help. The weight of everything—the doctor’s anxiety, Kalna’s frustration, Nechal’s quiet concern—bore down on him, suffocating.

Maybe it wasn't just about his master leaving him. It felt more like these beings were actively keeping Master Jinn away. Hadn’t Detective Kalna said xe had taken his master into custody? A knot of fear tightened in Obi-Wan’s stomach. If that was true, then he needed to save Master Jinn. But if Master Jinn had done something against the planet's laws, Obi-Wan knew he should contact the council. But he couldn’t; Master Jinn had said he hadn’t earned the right to have a communicator yet—not until he proved himself trustworthy.

Maybe Detective Kalna was the bad guy, despite xer kindness. And even though Detective Nechal had given him Ani. Obi-Wan felt a surge of determination rising within him. He needed to go to his master. But he felt so tired—the vision had drained him, taking so much out of him. He had to think clearly, had to act.

Maybe if I explain, he reasoned with himself, then they would let Master Jinn go, and I wouldn't get left behind again. Yes. That was the best solution.

Chapter Text

Detective Nechal stood a few feet from the hospital bed, watching the boy closely. Obi-Wan had finally quieted down, gripping the stuffed loth cat they had given him like it was his last anchor to reality. Nechal could still see the tension in the boy’s small frame, the tremors of anxiety vibrating off him in waves. The Force sensitivity was obvious—the kid had shown that without meaning to, objects in the room lifting and rattling during his panic. 

Nechal sighed, glancing at Kalna, who was pacing near the doorway, arms crossed and frustration evident in xer every movement. This wasn’t getting easier.

Detective Nechal pulled out his datapad, the familiar weight of it grounding him as he leaned against the sterile wall of the hospital room. He’d just received the interrogation report from a colleague back at the station. Flicking it open, his eyes scanned the screen, his eyebrows slowly creeping upwards with each passing line.

Jinn, Obi-Wan’s so-called master, had given a statement. And it was a wild one. Nechal frowned as he read further, his mind struggling to reconcile what he was seeing with any sense of logic.

The man was claiming to be a Jedi.

A Jedi.

Nechal nearly snorted at the absurdity. As far as he was concerned, Jinn was nothing more than a slaver—one who had clearly owned and groomed Obi-wan for a long time. But the interrogation report mentioned something that Nechal couldn't ignore. Jinn had tried to use the Force to control the station staff, to influence their minds into letting him go once they’d arrived at the station.

Jinn had access to the Force, just like Obi-Wan. 

Nechal shot a quick glance at Obi-Wan. He was still curled up tightly around that stuffed loth-cat, trying to disappear into it. He seemed so innocent. So… unaware.

“Nechal?” Kalna’s voice broke through his thoughts. The detective looked up to see xer staring at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re frowning. What is it?”

Nechal turned the datapad so Kalna could see the screen, and xer eyes widened slightly as xe read. “You’re kidding me,” xe muttered. “Jinn’s claiming to be a Jedi? And mind tricks at the station?”

Nechal nodded grimly. “He tried to influence the guards. One was human, and almost let him go. Luckily for us, the rest were Durrans. Thank fuck for that."

Kalna’s expression darkened, xer frustration palpable even without the Force. “Force users. Always thinking they can just get away with anything.”

Nechal couldn’t help but agree. The Durrans, as a species, were naturally immune to the Force’s manipulations.  It was part of what made Durrans so valuable as peacekeepers and investigators in areas rife with Force-related criminal activity. Jinn’s attempted mind control had failed spectacularly, but it had revealed his true nature—or at least part of it. To Nechal, it was obvious: Jinn was one of those dark Force users, the kind that manipulated those around them for personal gain.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Nechal continued, lowering his voice so Obi-Wan wouldn’t overhear, “if we find out that Jinn’s been using his Force abilities to manipulate people all over the place. It explains how the boy got into the bar in the first place. The bouncer was a humanoid, easy to influence. Jinn probably used a mind trick on him, got them both inside without a second thought.”

“How strong in mind control do they think Jinn is?” Kalna asked, xer voice hushed. Nechal shrugged, unsure where xe was going with this line of questioning. Kalna's eyes narrowed, thoughts clearly turning over in xer mind. “It’s just… if Jinn uses the Force so freely, what are the chances that he’s been using it to control Obi-Wan as well?” Nechal felt his blood run cold at the suggestion. His mind raced as he felt his stomach try and rebel. 

“I mean, think about it,” Kalna continued, unphased by the horrified look on Nechal’s face. “The healers said most of Obi-Wan’s scars are only a few years old. But his behaviour—it’s like he’s been conditioned for much longer. Like he's been with Jinn for his whole life.”

Nechal blinked, trying to process the implications. “You’re assuming he’s freeborn,” he pointed out slowly. “What if he had a previous master? One who didn’t physically harm him, but still controlled him in other ways? Then he was sold to Jinn, and things took a darker turn.”

Kalna nodded, considering that possibility. “It’s not impossible. Either way, we’re dealing with a kid who’s been through a lot. And if he’s been mind-controlled by the Force on top of everything else…” Xe trailed off.

Nechal shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair. “We’re not equipped for this, Kalna. We’ve dealt with slave rescues before, but a Force mind-manipulated ex-slave? A stewjoni one at that. That’s out of our depth.” He hated to admit it, but the reality was staring them in the face. The Durrans had a natural resistance to Force manipulation, and while it had protected their people for generations, it also meant they had no formal training or infrastructure to deal with the aftermath of Force mind-control victims.

Kalna sighed heavily, xer gaze flicking back to Obi-Wan. The boy was still clutching his stuffed loth-cat, looking so small and fragile against the vast hospital bed. “We could contact the Jedi,” xe suggested. “They’ll probably want to send someone to take Jinn into custody anyway, if he’s a dark Force user. And they might know how to help the kid.”

The idea hung in the air between them. Contacting the Jedi was a logical next step, especially if Jinn was as dangerous as they were starting to believe. But there was something unnerving about reaching out to a group who could wield the same powers that had been used against Obi-Wan.

“I don’t like it,” Nechal muttered, folding his arms. “But you’re right. We will have to contact our chief to make the call though. "

“Let’s just hope the Jedi as good as they claim to be,” Kalna muttered under xer breath as Nechal pulled out his comm and keyed in the message the head of Police with their plan.

Obi-Wan had been in the hospital for what felt like forever—at least a full day. He hated it already. The ward they’d moved him to was for children, and the walls were covered in bright murals of banthas and tookas, all cheerful and colourful. It was beautiful in a way that made him uncomfortable. The decorations felt like they were designed for a child, someone who was truly in need of care. He didn’t belong here.

 It looked expensive too. Obi-Wan hoped this wasn’t one of those planets where medical treatment cost a fortune. The Jedi Order usually managed to cover the costs, but Obi-Wan didn’t want them wasting credits on him. He wasn’t a real Jedi yet, and it felt wrong to accept something he hadn’t earned. Master Qui-Gon had always refused medical treatment for him at the Temple anyway, saying the Halls of Healing were overstretched with real injuries. Obi-Wan's were mostly his own fault, or so Master Qui-Gon had told him—injuries from being careless or weak.

That was why it felt so stupid that he was stuck here now. He didn’t need to be in a hospital. He needed to be out there, helping his master. But the detectives and medical staff wouldn’t let him leave, wouldn’t even let him get out of bed without supervision. They acted like he was fragile, like they were worried he might break.

They kept bringing him food, too much food. Obi-Wan felt bad that he couldn’t eat all of it. But one of the nurses had been nice about it, slipping him ration bars instead, along with a small bag to store them in. She’d told him it was fine if he didn’t eat them right away—he could just keep them near if it made him feel better. It did, strangely. The small stockpile of food hidden under his pillow brought a sense of control. Even though he knew the nurses were aware of where he’d hidden them, it still helped.

That same nurse entered the room now, her smile warm and familiar as she greeted him. "Hi, Obi-Wan. I’m here to give you a rundown of your schedule today," she said, her voice steady and calm.

Obi-Wan loved her for that. She always seemed to understand how much easier things were when he knew what was going to happen. It was comforting in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Maybe it was immature of him to need that kind of reassurance, but here, no one seemed to mind. They just accepted it.

"So," she continued, "after breakfast, there will be a ward round. They should get to you by 10 a.m., and one of the detectives said they’ll be here for it. Then, at 11:20, you have a full-body CT scheduled, so we’ll take you down to radiology for that. Afterwards, you’ll be back up here for lunch at 12:30."

Obi-Wan nodded, grateful to know what to expect, though the mention of the CT made him pause. He didn’t think he’d ever had one of those before. It sounded important. Expensive, even. Why were they doing a full-body scan on him? He wasn’t injured.

His thoughts drifted back to Master Qui-Gon. Would he be upset if he knew they were spending this much time and effort on Obi-Wan? Probably. But the detectives wouldn’t let him leave to go to his master, no matter what he said.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to the bowl of porridge in front of him. It wasn’t bad—cooked just right and they gave salt when he asked. He stirred it into the porridge and took a slow bite. The warmth settled in his stomach, filling the hollow feeling that had been gnawing at him. For the first time in a while, the food didn’t make him feel sick.

Once he finished, Obi-Wan settled back into the bed, clutching Ani close to his chest. The time seemed to stretch on endlessly after that. He watched the clock tick slowly toward 10, each minute dragging longer than the last.

Detective Kalna arrived at around 9:30, fluttering around the room like an anxious tooka. Xe fussed with Obi-Wan’s bed area, picking up stray items and straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. When that was done, xe switched to reading over documents on xer holopad, glancing at Obi-Wan occasionally but not saying much. The tension in the Force around Kalna was easy to pick up on, a soft hum of worry and irritation.

Obi-Wan just buried his face into Ani again.

A few minutes before 10, the doctors finally arrived. There were three of them, all dressed in the typical hospital scrubs but with subtle differences in their demeanor and age. The first was a middle-aged Durran, likely the pediatric consultant, with calm eyes and an air of authority. The second was a younger registrar, whose green-striped nose was crooked. The third, the youngest, staying a bit back and dutifully taking notes on everything being discussed.

“Good morning, Obi-Wan,” the consultant said kindly, offering a small smile before turning to Detective Kalna. “We’ve reviewed the initial assessments, and we wanted to update you on a few things.”

Obi-Wan listened as they began speaking to Kalna, but his attention quickly drifted. They spoke softly, the details coming in and out of focus, but he understood enough. They were concerned about his thinness, saying he had malnutrition, talking about something called refeeding syndrome. Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Ani.  He just thought he was too stressed to eat much.

“We’re also focusing on scar management,” the consultant continued, glancing briefly at Obi-Wan as he spoke, though his words were still mostly directed at Kalna. “There’s some significant scarring across his body, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed. We’re hoping to reduce some of the more restrictive ones with bacta treatments, which should help improve his range of movement.”

Obi-Wan felt his chest tighten at the mention of his scars. He knew they were ugly. Qui-Gon had said as much many times, saying that the other Jedi would see it as a failure. It was one of the reasons his master didn’t let him show too much skin in public. He was always cold nowadays anyways, so he didn't mind too much.

“The CT scan later today,” the registrar continued, “is primarily to get a closer look at his bones and look for organ damage. We’re also scanning for any... uh, other devices."

Obi-Wan furrowed his brow at that. Were they talking about his birth control implant? His master had insistence he get one a year ago whilst they were on a mission. He didn’t know they could see that on a scan. The sympathetic looks they gave him made him feel even more uneasy.

“We’re sending a psychologist by this afternoon as well,” the consultant added. “And we’ll send over a full report to you, Detective Kalna, by the end of the day.”

Obi-Wan kept his face buried in his soft toy as they talked. It was overwhelming—too many things were happening all at once. They were peeling away all the layers he had carefully hidden behind. They were looking too closely at things he didn’t want them to see. If they looked hard enough, they’d know he was a failure, that he wasn’t strong enough or worthy enough. 

All Obi-Wan wanted was to leave, to be with Master Qui-Gon. But it seemed no one was willing to let him.

Chapter Text

At 11:20, Obi-Wan’s heart raced as the porter came to take him to the CT scanner. He clutched Ani tightly, unsure of what to expect, but grateful that Doctor Damme, the junior doctor from earlier, was coming with him. She had sat down earlier and patiently explained everything about the scan, including the fact that Detective Kalna wouldn’t be allowed inside the room during the procedure. That had almost sent Obi-Wan into a panic. But Doctor Damme had quickly reassured him that there were chairs right outside the scanning room, and the detective could wait there until it was over. Obi-Wan had felt a little better after hearing that.

When the time came, Kalna squeezed his hand as his bed was moved out of the ward and into the lift. The ride was quiet except for the hum of the hospital machinery, and the calm radiating from Kalna, though tinged with concern, helped keep Obi-Wan steady.

Once they reached the new department, the junior doctor pointed to the chairs outside the room, where the detective sat down, offering Obi-Wan a nod of reassurance. He couldn’t quite read Kalna’s emotions by looking at xer face—he never could with people—but he didn’t need to. The sense of calm and quiet determination surrounding the detective told him enough. Still, as Obi-Wan’s bed was wheeled through the double doors, he felt his heart sink, the separation hitting him harder than he expected.

Inside the room stood the CT scanner—a large donut-shaped machine with another bed in front of it. Doctor Damme helped Obi-Wan move from his bed onto the one inside the scanner, her hands gentle and patient. As the porter wheeled his old bed out, Obi-Wan found himself feeling strangely exposed, alone on the narrow bed beneath the massive machine.

Doctor Damme, however, kept talking to him, her voice steady and comforting. “Remember, you need to stay very still during the scan, Obi-Wan. It’s important.”

Obi-Wan nodded, his grip on Ani tightening. He watched as the radiographer entered the room, introduced by Doctor Damme with a kind smile. The radiographer was quick, efficient, and focused; pushing the dye through his cannula. He felt a strange cold sensation ripple through his veins, causing him to hum unconsciously. It wasn’t until Doctor Damme glanced at him with a small smile that he realized he’d been humming for some time.

Flushing slightly, Obi-Wan quickly stopped, even if it felt wrong to do so. He wasn’t supposed to make noise. He should know better.

“Do you want to hold Ani while you’re in the scanner?” Doctor Damme asked softly, her tone kind but professional.

Obi-Wan blinked. “It won’t hurt him?”

The radiographer and Doctor Damme both shook their heads, faint amusement in their expressions. Obi-Wan immediately felt silly—Ani was a soft toy, how could a scan hurt him?—but Doctor Damme didn’t make him feel bad about the question.

The radiographer helped him lay down properly on the scanner bed, adjusting his posture, and then carefully placed noise-cancelling headphones over his ears. Obi-Wan didn’t realize how much all the small background sounds—the beeping, the soft hums, the distant chatter—had been irritating him until they were suddenly gone. The silence felt like a warm blanket settling over him, and for the first time since arriving at the hospital, Obi-Wan felt himself truly relax.

The bed began to move slowly into the doughnut, the machine silent through his headset. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and let the Force wash over him, feeling the quiet hum of the machine’s energy ripple through the room. It wasn’t aggressive or invasive. If anything, it felt calm and neutral, almost soothing in its simplicity.

Before he knew it, the bed was already moving out of the scanner. The scan had been faster than he’d expected, and as soon as it was over, Obi-Wan sat up quickly, watching as Doctor Damme re-entered the room. He swung his legs over the side of the scanner bed, hopeful that this meant he could walk again, that maybe they would let him go back to his master.

But just as his hopes began to rise, his old bed was wheeled back in, and he was gently guided to lie down on it once more. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but pout, feeling the disappointment settle deep inside him.

“You did very well, Obi-Wan,” Doctor Damme said, her voice full of encouragement as she helped him settle back onto the bed.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer immediately, his eyes focusing on Ani’s soft fur as he hugged the toy closer to his chest. Detective Kalna met them just outside the doors, xer presence a small relief in the chaos of Obi-Wan's mind. He wanted to sit up to greet xer, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, so instead, he curled up tighter, burying his face into Ani. The momentary calm from the scan vanished when Obi-Wan noticed something was wrong.

They weren’t heading back to the ward.

His bed was wheeled down a different corridor, one that felt unfamiliar. Obi-Wan’s chest tightened. This wasn’t part of the plan. The schedule the nurse had laid out for him didn’t mention this at all. His panic flared, fueled not just by his confusion but by the emotions he sensed around him. The doctor and porter were both jittery, their unease bleeding into the Force. The corridor was empty, and that made everything worse. Where were all the other doctors?

His bed was rolled into a room with just a few pieces of equipment inside. His breath hitched as he spotted a new doctor. He clutched Ani tighter, but then he noticed something else.

Everyone in the room was wearing protective clothing.

A woman stepped forward, her worry nearly overwhelming in the Force. “Obi-Wan,” she began softly, “I’m Dr. Han, the consultant anesthesiologist. We need to take you into emergency surgery.”

Surgery? That wasn’t in the plan either. "Why?"

“We found something implanted in your back,” Dr. Han said, her voice steady but tense. “We need to remove it immediately.”

Obi-Wan blinked, trying to process. His back? That didn’t make any sense. He didn’t have anything in his back. The shrapnel from his injuries had been in his legs and chest. His birth control implant was in his arm, not his back.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asked, barely above a whisper. He was too overwhelmed to think straight. 

The doctors exchanged looks, clearly uncomfortable. Finally, it was Kalna who answered, xer voice quiet but firm. "It looks like a slave chip."

Obi-Wan’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Kalna continued, “And the reason we need to act now is because it appears to be... explosive.”

Explosive? Obi-Wan’s mind stopped working for a moment. He stared at Kalna, unable to make sense of the words. A slave chip. In his back. Explosive.

No, that couldn’t be right. He’d had a slave collar before, back when he’d been trapped on Bandomeer, but he’d escaped. He’d gotten the collar off, hadn't he? They wouldn’t have inserted a chip... that was a waste of resources.

He wracked his brain, but nothing made sense. When could this have happened? He’d been at the Jedi Temple before then, he didn't have it in the cresh. The only medical procedure he’d had since then was his birth control implant. The healers at the clinic had been kind—well, they’d been kind to Master Jinn, at least. No one had really talked to him. But he was only a padawan. 

Tears welled up in Obi-Wan’s eyes, blurring his vision. This couldn’t be happening.

“This is all so confusing,” he choked out, his voice breaking as the tears started to fall in earnest. His entire body shook, and he felt helpless in a way he hadn’t felt in years. 

Dr. Han stepped closer, her eyes filled with sympathy. “It’s going to be okay, Obi-Wan. We’re going to get it out,” she said softly.

But Obi-Wan could barely hear her. His mind was racing, tangled in a web of fear, doubt, and betrayal. How had this happened?

Commissioner Vehna sighed as she stood in her office, staring out over the sprawling cityscape of Troh’s capital. The skies were an unusually bright blue, and the usual hum of urban life buzzed below. It was a beautiful day by all accounts, but her mind was elsewhere, far removed from the peaceful view.

Vehna had spent her entire career defying the odds. Born on Troh but not of its majority species, she was a Twi'lek female in a society where most of the power was held by Durrans, a people where the third gender historically help all the power. It wasn’t xenophobia, per se, but being a non-Durran in such a high-ranking position was unprecedented. And being female made it even more unusual. But she had pushed through all that, risen to the top, and now she was the first non-Durran—and the first woman—ever to lead the planet’s police force. It was a legacy she was proud of, and she loved the planet she called home.

Under her leadership, Troh had seen a steady decline in crime rates. The prison population was at its lowest in half a century, thanks to her department’s focus on rehabilitation and reformation programs. Crime among the Durran population and the off-world tourists that flocked to the planet’s podracing events was under control. Her reforms had seen to that.

And yet, despite all her successes, this situation had her feeling utterly powerless.

The case had come to her attention just a few days ago. A young, Force-sensitive slave had been rescued in Rigruit. The local police chief had sent the report up to her office, and Vehna had quickly realized that the situation was far more complicated than it initially seemed. The boy was not just any child; he was from a species on the Protected Species List, which meant that certain galactic laws applied to his protection. Worse still, the person they had arrested, who had enslaved the boy was mind-controlling him with the force.

The police chief had told her that xe had tried to contact the Jedi for help, knowing that Troh’s law enforcement had no training in handling Force-sensitive individuals. But being unable to, had passed it up the chain of command to her.

Getting in contact with the Jedi Temple on Coruscant had turned out to be an exercise in pure frustration though. Her comm had been stuck in a loop, rerouted through various departments, none of which could give her the assistance she needed.

Vehna shook her head in frustration, repeating the infuriating automated message out loud to no one in particular.

"To place a request for Jedi diplomatic assistance, please hang up and call the Senate Oversight Committee..."

She’d tried that once already. A dead end. All she got was another automated system directing her to a different department, followed by silence.

"...for Jedi law enforcement assistance, please hang up and call the Galactic Republic Ministry of Justice..."

This one had seemed the most promising. Vehna had been hopeful at first, thinking the Ministry of Justice would be the right contact for such a delicate case—a mind-manipulated, Force-sensitive slave, potentially under the influence of a rogue dark force user. Surely they would know how to reach the Temple or get someone to help.

But after hours of being bounced from one department to another, she’d finally managed to speak with someone at the Ministry. They’d listened to her carefully, only to tell her she was in the wrong department and to go back to the Jedi Temple.

"...Jedi ecological assistance, please hang up and call the Jedi Agricultural Service Corps..."

There was no holonumber or holonet site for the Agriculture services. (she had checked out of desperation two hours ago)

"...To report or surrender a Force-sensitive child, please hang up and contact your local Jedi Temple. If you do not have a local Jedi Temple, please remain on the line..."

This was where she’d gotten one of her secretaries involved. Vehna was a patient woman—her career had required it—but she had a planet law enforcement to run, and the demands of a police commissioner left little time for sitting on hold for twelve hours. Yet that’s exactly what one of her assistants had been doing, waiting for someone—anyone—from the Jedi Temple to finally pick up. The comm line was still open in another room, but there had been no progress. Twelve hours of silence.

She clenched her fists at the thought of it.

"...To report a Dark Side user, please hang up and contact your local law enforcement, or call the Jedi Special Alert Hotline at 1-800-SITH-LRD..."

She was the local law enforcement. Did they think she wasn’t aware of that? This line had sent her in circles more times than she could count. After calling the SITH-LRD number in desperation, she’d been redirected to the same Galactic Republic Ministry of Justice.

"...To report suspected Dark Side artifacts, please press Besh to be connected to the Jedi Archives Historical Department..."

This was her last option. Vehna stared at the flickering holo-image of the ancient, rusted communications droid as it repeated the instructions, its voice glitching mid-sentence. The entire system was archaic, patched together over what had to be centuries of neglect. Clearly, no one had thought to modernize the Jedi’s contact systems.

Her assistant walked in silently, placing yet another cup of calming tea on her desk. Vehna acknowledged it with a tired nod, feeling utterly helpless. If she had hair, she’d have been pulling it out by now. The tea, though appreciated, did nothing to ease the growing pressure inside her.

This wasn’t just bureaucratic inconvenience. There was a child in her care. And she had just gotten a report that he was in surgery for removal of an explosive slave chip. 

Vehna’s hand hovered over the holo-terminal. She had already gone through every possible option, and none of them had worked. Now she was down to pressing Besh for the Jedi Archives. Maybe it was a long shot, but she was desperate.

With a deep breath, she pressed the button and waited, hoping—no, begging—for an actual person, or a Jedi, to answer.

The screen blinked, and for a few moments, there was nothing but static. Vehna held her breath, her lekku twitching with anxiety. Please. Please let this work.

Finally, the static cleared, and an image appeared on the screen—a droid, ancient and rusty, its body patched together with mismatched parts. The droid’s voice crackled to life, ancient and hollow.

“Jedi Archives Historical Department. How may we assist you today?”

Vehna’s shoulders slumped with a mixture of relief and disbelief. She wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh.

"Finally," she muttered, straightening in her chair.

Now all she had to do was convince a droid librarian that they were dealing with a mind-controlling Force user, an explosive slave chip, and a boy in desperate need of Jedi intervention. And hope it didn't hang up on her.

Chapter Text

Detective Nechal rubbed his eyes, trying to refocus as he sat at his cluttered desk. Cases he should’ve already delegated sat stacked around him, threatening to topple over if he so much as shifted in his chair. But all his attention remained on this one file, his highest priority—the kid.

Their prisoner had forced the chief to overhaul the station's rotation, pulling any non-Durran officers from the vicinity of the suspect's holding cell and nearly doubling their usual guard. Nechal wasn’t used to this level of upheaval, and for the first time in his career, he had command over nearly a quarter of the station’s personnel.

Kalna, as xe was focused on Obi-Wan, left Nechal to oversee most of the organizing, a task he would have normally delegated. But he wanted every detail under his watch with a case this big.

He sighed, glancing at the holo-display of Obi-Wan’s medical records. The hospital had diligently forwarded all notes, and Nechal had spent most of the night trying to understand the complex language. The chip was now en route to Troh’s main forensic lab, where they’d try to pull any useful data from it. Nechal could only hope it contained clues that might not only trace Obi-Wan’s origins but maybe even lead them to other victims of the slaver’s network.

His comm device beeped suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts. An unknown number flashed on the screen, but the identifier showed a police line. He cleared his throat, readying himself.

“Detective Nechal here.”

The voice on the other end was clear, formal. “Detective, this is Commissioner Vehna.”

Nechal’s eyes widened. The Commissioner herself? He nearly dropped his comm.

“Yes, Commissioner,” he managed, sitting up straighter. “How can I help?”

“Actually, I was calling to see how the child is doing,” she said.

Nechal exhaled, relieved to have good news on that front. “He’s out of surgery, and it was successful. He’s back on the ward, and according to Detective Kalna, the doctors expect a full recovery. With psychological support, of course.”

“Good, good,” Commissioner Vehna replied. “And the slaver?”

“In the cells. He hasn’t given up any more information, and he’s sticking to his story,” Nechal replied, teeth gritting in frustration at the memory of the man’s smug, remorseless face. “May I ask—have you had any luck contacting the Jedi?”

“Yes, and that’s actually why I’m calling. I managed to get through to some archivists,” Vehna said. “They’ve confirmed that two Jedi are nearby and will be redirected to Troh. We can expect them by the end of the day.”

“Thank you, Commissioner. I’ll make sure everything is ready for them.” 

“Keep me updated on this, Detective. And… good work.” With that, the Commissioner hung up, leaving Nechal to stare at his comm for a moment, his heart still pounding. He had just spoken to Commissioner Vehna—the Commissioner, his boss’s boss’s boss. 

He set the comm down, taking a steadying breath, before glancing up to find his colleagues in the office looking at him expectantly.

“Someone go get the chief,” he said, his voice sharper and more confident than he’d felt in days.

When Obi-Wan woke, the room was quiet, bathed in the soft, warm light of mid-afternoon. He blinked up at the wall clock across from his bed: 1:00 p.m. He felt a little drowsy but quickly focused himself, using the Force to shake off any lingering effects of the anaesthesia. The surgery had gone faster than he’d expected, and though he was sore, the familiar ache was almost reassuring. But mostly, he was starving. 

Carefully reaching under his pillow, he felt for the hidden stash, fingers brushing against the small bag. Checking to make sure he was alone, he pulled it out, retrieving two bars before tucking the bag away again. He’d just torn open the first bar when the door opened, and he jumped, his head snapping up—too quickly, as it turned out. His back twinged sharply, reminding him that he wasn’t quite up to full strength.

“Obi-Wan. Good to see you awake.” Detective Kalna stood in the doorway, a warm smile on xer face, holding a steaming mug in xer hand. “I’ll just go tell the nurses you’re awake,” xe said, turning to leave.

Obi-Wan quickly stuffed the wrapper and spare bar under his blanket, barely able to contain his hunger. He tore into the bar, swallowing nearly without chewing. Before long, Kalna returned, this time accompanied by the consultant from the day before. He couldn’t remember their name, but they seemed familiar enough. He was happier seeing Doctor Damme follow after.

“Afternoon, Obi-Wan,” the consultant said, coming over to sit beside his bed. “You’re looking remarkably alert. How’s the pain?”

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, feeling the stabbing pain in his back and the sting in his arm where they’d removed the birth control implant. He half shrugged, trying to brush it off. It wasn’t the worst he’d felt, and he knew it was his own doing; he had filtered any analgesia out of his system with the anaesthesia

The consultant, however, wasn’t deterred by his silence. “Can you tell me with words, Obi-Wan?” they prompted gently. “Or would you prefer to point?”

They held up a small piece of flimsy with a series of faces on it, ranging from a bright blue smile to a deep orange frown. Obi-Wan stared at it, feeling slightly insulted—he wasn’t a child. But when he opened his mouth, the words got caught somewhere, and he could only manage a gesture toward one of the frowny orange faces.

“Thank you, that helps,” the consultant said with a nod, noting his response on their datapad. “Force-users and different species process medications differently, so if it’s not working for you, we can look at changing the dose to make you more comfortable.”

“The surgery was a success, Obi-Wan,” Detective Kalna said, breaking the silence with a reassuring smile. Obi-Wan turned his gaze to Doctor Damme, who nodded, echoing the encouraging words. He tried to relax, listening intently as the consultant continued with their instructions.

“All right,” the consultant began, their voice calm and steady. “Let’s set up an IV for analgesia—morphine to start, but I want him monitored for any adverse reactions. Transition to tramadol and paracetamol afterward. Dressings should be removed this afternoon since it’s been almost a day post-surgery; check the wound thoroughly. Keep track of food intake, daily weights, and monitor for bowel movements.”

As Doctor Damme diligently noted each point on her holopad, Obi-Wan felt his face heat up, embarrassed by the amount of attention being paid to his bodily functions. Master Qui-Gon wouldn’t be pleased, a small voice in his mind whispered, adding to the strange shame he felt.

Realizing he was beginning to spiral, he started to hum softly, grounding himself in the Force. It helped, and the warmth of the hum filled his chest, calming his thoughts.

The consultant’s voice broke through his focus. “Any questions for me, Obi-Wan?”

He blinked, a little startled, and shook his head. The consultant gave a brief nod and, satisfied, left the room. Doctor Damme took the seat beside his bed, her expression warm and patient.

“All right, Obi-Wan,” she began, her tone gentle, “let’s go over the plan quickly. I’ll let the nurses know you’re awake so we can get you some food, and I’ll arrange for your painkillers so that the discomfort lessens soon. After that, we’ll take a look at your back to check that it’s healing well. How does that sound?”

Obi-Wan nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. Doctor Damme’s clear and simple approach made everything feel far less overwhelming.

Chapter Text

Yan Dooku was looking forward to returning to the Jedi Temple. Normally, he avoided spending more time there than necessary, but this time was different. His good friend Si had been unwell—more so than usual. The Force demanded much from Si, whose 'gift' of foresight often left him drained and frail. Yan had intended to visit and offer his support, but the Force had other plans.

An emergency communication from the Temple had arrived during their journey, requesting that any Jedi in the vicinity divert to the planet Troh immediately. Duty to the Force always came first, and while Yan felt a pang of regret for delaying his visit, he knew this mission required his attention.

The details of the situation were sparse but deeply concerning. A slave and their master—both Force-sensitive—had been detained by the local security forces.

He glanced over at his Padawan, Komari Vosa, who was engrossed in her holopad. He hoped she was studying for her upcoming exams, though he strongly suspected otherwise. Her creshmates had a habit of sending her romance novels, which she devoured with enthusiasm. When she received this story, he had asked the title of a book, her face had turned as red as a setting sun, and she’d quickly deflected the question. He couldn't help but smile.

Rael Averross, his oldest Padawan, would have answered such a question without hesitation, likely sharing excruciating detail about the fictional Jedi and prince locked in a passionate romance. Yan had learned to avoid asking Rael anything he wasn’t fully prepared to hear. Qui-Gon Jinn avoided reading at all costs, so he never could tease him. 

A soft beep drew Yan’s attention back to the console. The ship shuddered slightly as it exited hyperspace, the green-and-yellow surface of Troh filling the viewport. I’ll need to have the engine looked at when we return to the Temple, Yan thought absently. It was an older ship, reliable but requiring more frequent maintenance these days

The radio crackled to life. “This is Planet Troh’s air control. Welcome to Troh. Please send your identification number, reason for visit, and destination.”

Yan leaned forward and toggled the comm switch. “This is Jedi vessel 1096. We are here at the request of the government. We are unsure of our destination on Troh.”

There was a pause on the other end, long enough for Yan to lean back in his seat and stretch. His back cracked audibly. Ah, the joys of getting older.

The radio came back to life. “Please hold.”

Yan sighed, resting his hands on the controls as he waited. He had a feeling this mission would be more complicated than the initial report suggested.

“Jedi vessel 1096, you have immediate clearance to land at Sector 12, Rigruit City Spaceport. Local security forces will escort you to your destination. Welcome to Troh,” the voice from air control finally came through, calm and efficient.

“Thank you, Control,” Dooku replied, adjusting the ship’s heading. The engines hummed as the craft shifted course, descending toward the designated coordinates.

The atmosphere of Troh was denser than most planets Dooku frequented, and the ship responded with a slight shudder as it pierced the thick clouds. He adjusted the stabilizers with a flick of his wrist, keeping the descent smooth.

The ship settled onto the landing pad with a hiss of steam. Dooku expertly powered down the systems and rose to his feet, stretching his shoulders until a satisfying crack echoed in the cockpit. He turned to see his Padawan already at the hatch, practically bouncing on her heels, her hands resting lightly on the strap of her satchel and her lightsaber hilt clipped to her belt.

“Remember, Padawan,” Dooku said, his measured tone tinged with warmth, “the inhabitants of Troh are resistant to the Force. Their physiology makes them immune to certain manipulations and influences, which is why we must respect their methods. They have been staunch allies of the Jedi Order since the Sith Wars, and their capabilities are not to be underestimated.”

“Yes, Master,” Komari said, her tone laced with barely suppressed impatience. “You’ve already told me this.” She shot him a cheeky grin, then quickly tried to mask her excitement with a more serious expression.

Dooku chuckled softly to himself. Komari’s enthusiasm was one of her strengths, even if it occasionally made her a challenge to mentor.

They descended the ramp, greeted by an array of officials lined in formation at the base. Dooku took a moment to assess the group: a mix of government dignitaries, security personnel, and, if his research was accurate, the imposing figure of Commissioner Vehna standing at the forefront.

As they reached the bottom of the ramp, Dooku halted, bowing deeply. Komari mirrored his actions, stepping to his left and slightly behind, her movements precise and respectful.

“Welcome, honoured Jedi,” said the tall, stately Durran at the group's centre. “Thank you for responding to our call with such speed. I am Mayor Palnka, and this is Commissioner Vehna, head of our planet’s law enforcement.”

“Greetings, Mayor Palnka, Commissioner Vehna.“I am High Councillor Yan Dooku, and this is Senior Padawan Komari Vosa. It is our honour to assist Troh in this matter.”

Formalities were exchanged with the precision and elegance expected of such occasions. The mayor spoke of Troh’s gratitude for the Jedi Order’s longstanding alliance, and Dooku responded with equally gracious words, emphasizing their duty to assist allies in need. Komari remained silent, her gaze respectful, even whilst her training bond vibrated with no time, child, useless. His Komari was not going to end up a diplomat, that he had always known. 

After the pleasantries, Commissioner Vehna stepped forward. “If you will follow me, we’ll take you to the station,” she said. “There, we can brief you in full and introduce you to the officers handling the case. We’ve done what we can for the child thus far, but his situation is… complex.”

Dooku inclined his head. “Lead the way, Commissioner."

As they made their way to the waiting speeder, Vehna provided a concise update. “The child is currently under medical care after undergoing surgery to remove a slave implant." Commissioner Vehna gestured for them to board before continuing, " The 'Master' is detained and refusing to cooperate."

Dooku nodded as the speeder slid off towards the station. The speeder’s blue lights flashed rhythmically, illuminating the buildings and streets as they zipped past. Dooku watched with mild fascination as the traffic parted effortlessly, vehicles and pedestrians shifting aside in perfect coordination. 

“Who is in charge of the operation?” Dooku asked, his gaze remaining fixed on the bustling streets outside.

“Two of my best detectives,” Vehna replied. “Detective Kalna is currently at the hospital with the child. Detective Nechal will be meeting us at the station. He’s prepared a presentation with the key facts of our investigation.”

The speeder’s smooth hum made the journey seem shorter than expected. Before long, they arrived in front of the police building, its facade a combination of modern architecture and sturdy functionality. The commissioner stepped out first, turning to offer her hand to Dooku.

Dooku raised an eyebrow but accepted the gesture gracefully, a faint smile playing on his lips. He knew his appearance often invited assumptions about his age, but surely he didn’t look that frail.

Inside the building, the efficiency of Troh’s police force was immediately evident. Two visitor passes were ready and waiting, handed to them by an officer with precise courtesy. They were promptly escorted to a conference room.

As they entered, Dooku’s sharp gaze took in the room. A nervous-looking young Durran, clearly Detective Nechal, stood near the projector. A few other officers were seated around the table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and deference. Dooku and Komari were introduced, and refreshments were offered.

Dooku sipped the caff placed before him, pleasantly surprised by its quality. He nodded his thanks to the officer who served it, then settled into his seat, his posture impeccably straight as always. Not that it helped his back pain much. 

Detective Nechal cleared his throat and rose, his nerves apparent but not overwhelming. “Thank you for coming, High Councillor Dooku and Senior Padawan Vosa. I’ll begin with the overview of our findings.”

The lights dimmed, and the holoprojector came to life, casting images and video across the room. Dooku’s practiced calm faltered for the briefest moment as the first images appeared on the screen.

The unmistakable forms of Qui-Gon Jinn and young Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His middle Padawan and his youngest grand-Padawan.

It was impossible to deny. The footage showed them sneaking off a public transport vessel, their movements furtive and deliberate. The next image was a still of Obi-Wan in the hospital, the slave chip that had been removed displayed in horrifying clarity.

A muscle tightened in Dooku’s jaw. His grip on the caff mug became dangerously firm as anger and disbelief surged within him.

Komari poked at his mind through the Force, a gentle nudge meant to draw him out of his rising emotions. He glanced at her, her expression concerned yet steady. With a long, practiced exhale, Dooku released his grip, grateful that the sturdy mug had not shattered in his hand.

Nechal continued, oblivious to the storm within Dooku. “The scars indicate that Obi-Wan has only been with Jinn for a few years. However, his dedication to his master suggests two possible scenarios. Either he was only recently sold to Jinn and had a previous master, or—more troublingly—Jinn has used his dark Force abilities to manipulate the boy’s mind.” Nechal clicked to the next slide, showing an analysis of Qui-gons behaviour. “We are leaning toward the second possibility. Jinn’s immense strength in the Force, combined with his claim to be a Jedi, would allow him to evade planetary security forces. He might also use it to explain to anyone who is suspicious of him why he’s traveling with a child from a protected species.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the holoprojector. Dooku blinked slowly, his expression unreadable. Komari remained perfectly still beside him, though Dooku could feel her shock ripple through the Force like a distant tremor.

“Thank you, Detective Nechal,” Dooku said, his deep voice breaking the stillness. “Unfortunately, your assumptions about Jinn’s identity are…incorrect. He is not simply claiming to be a Jedi—he is one.”

Chapter Text

Nechal could feel his mouth drop open—something he knew was far from professional, but honestly, what the actual kark? His mind scrambled to process what he’d just heard.

“What?” was all he managed to stammer out.

The old Jedi Master in front of him nodded, his expression unchanging. “Yes, Detective. Jinn is a Jedi, and Padawan Kenobi is his apprentice.” Dooku’s gaze turned steely, his words measured. “However, what you have shared is indeed deeply concerning. Particularly the existence of a slave chip in my grandpadawan. I trust you will allow me to question Qui-Gon personally to clarify these matters.”

Dooku stood, his movements deliberate, as if punctuating his authority. But Nechal wasn’t ready to let this slide. “Now hold on a minute,” he began, voice rising slightly in protest. Wait—grandpadawan? Nechal blinked as his mind connected the dots. Did this mean Jinn was Dooku’s...child? 

The Commissioner stood as well, her presence commanding the room. “Master Councillor Dooku, while I understand your desire to resolve this quickly, our investigation strongly suggests that Jinn bears responsibility for Obi-Wan’s condition. As such, I must insist this matter not be brushed aside, even if Jinn is a Jedi. Given your errr... familial connection, I don’t believe you can be wholly impartial in this case. Thus we will not be handing it over to you. Respectfully of course. That being said, we welcome your expertise if it will help us uncover the truth.”

Dooku’s face remained unreadable, but Nechal caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Padawan Komari placed a hand on her master’s arm, and the old Jedi glanced down at her briefly before returning his attention to the Commissioner.

“This is a Jedi matter,” Dooku said slowly. “However, I respect your jurisdiction. You are correct—emotionally, I am involved. But I assure you, I will not let that impact my judgment. I follow the will of the Force, not my emotions.”

Nechal let out a small sigh of relief as the tension in the room eased ever so slightly. “Thank you, Master Dooku. Please understand, we only want what’s best for Obi-Wan.”

Dooku inclined his head. “As do I.”

Nechal took a steadying breath before continuing. “We would, of course, welcome any assistance you can provide. As I mentioned earlier, we’ve tried questioning Jinn, but he’s been…uncooperative.”

Dooku’s brow furrowed slightly, a subtle but telling shift in his otherwise impassive demeanor. “Let us waste no time, then. Detective, please escort us to Jinn. I will ensure we get the answers we seek—from my former Padawan.”

"Of course," Nechal said carefully, trying to keep his voice even. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. “However, Master Jedi, I mean no offense by this. But under our child protection laws and due to your association with this case, we will need to ask your Padawan to undergo a medical review for safeguarding purposes.”

Komari’s face flushed with indignation. “But I’m twenty!” she protested, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Dooku raised a hand, silencing her with a look. “You are still a Padawan, my child,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. Turning back to Nechal, his expression softened, though it retained its gravitas. “Yes, you have my permission to conduct a full medical review of my Padawan, including a scan to check for implants—none of which you will find, I assure you. I commend you, Detective, for adhering to your protocols.”

Nechal blinked, momentarily taken aback by the Jedi’s composure and unexpected approval.

Dooku continued, “However, I ask that once my Padawan is cleared, she be escorted directly to my grandpadawan’s side. I believe her presence will bring him some comfort.”

He turned to Komari and gave her a deep bow. After a moment’s hesitation, she sighed, then returned the gesture with a resigned, if slightly sulky, bow of her own.

With that, Dooku turned and swept out of the conference room, his cloak billowing slightly behind him. Nechal barely managed to gather himself before following, jogging to keep up with the Jedi Master’s long, purposeful strides. How Dooku knew where he was going, Nechal couldn’t fathom. The Jedi didn’t pause or hesitate, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the precinct with an almost unnerving certainty.

By the time they reached the holding cells, Nechal was out of breath, his shorter legs struggling to match Dooku’s pace. As they approached the reinforced door to the interrogation rooms, Nechal caught sight of several Durran officers standing at attention. The tension in the air was palpable.

Dooku stopped before the door, his gaze fixed on it as though it might reveal the answers he sought. “Detective,” he said without looking at Nechal, “before we enter, please refresh for me—what has Qui-Gon said so far?”

Nechal swallowed hard, his voice hesitant but clear. “Besides cussing us out? Not much. He’s been insistent that we’re unlawfully detaining him and kept demanding we contact the Jedi Council. Not once has he asked about Obi-Wan’s health, and he’s refused to answer any of our questions about the kid. Oh, and of course, he tried to mind manipulate some of our officers when he first arrived.”

Dooku’s lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest flicker of displeasure crossing his otherwise composed face. “Very well,” he murmured, his voice carrying a weight of finality. “Shall we, then, Detective?”

Without waiting for a response, Dooku stepped forward, reaching for the handle. To Nechal’s astonishment, the lock seemed to disengage on its own, and the door opened with a quiet hiss. The Jedi Master strode into the room with the authority of someone who belonged there, his presence immediately commanding attention.

Inside, Qui-Gon Jinn sat at the interrogation table, his large frame somewhat hunched but still radiating a calm defiance. His wrists were cuffed to the table, and as Dooku entered, he half-rose from his seat, the restraints clinking sharply against the metal as they halted his movement.

“Master,” Qui-Gon greeted, his voice a mix of surprise and wary respect. He eased himself back into his seat, the faintest hint of discomfort visible in his posture.

Dooku stopped a few paces from the table, his sharp eyes studying his former Padawan like a hawk circling its prey. “Qui-Gon,” he replied evenly, the word carrying layers of meaning that Nechal couldn’t quite decipher, “I see you’ve gotten yourself into quite the predicament.” 

Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting to one of defiant calm. “If you’ve come to lecture me, Master, spare me. The truth will prevail, as it always does. I have been illegally detained for following the will of the Force.”

Dooku’s brow arched slightly. “The truth, Qui-Gon, is precisely what I’m here to uncover. The question is whether you intend to cooperate—or whether you’ll continue this charade of obstinacy.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. “Charade?” he repeated, his voice low and deliberate. “Is it obstinacy to protect my padawan from those who would harm him?” He looked deliberately at Nechal with that.

“And who, precisely, are those individuals?” Dooku countered smoothly. “The officers who removed a slave implant from his neck? Or the Jedi Council, who have yet to be informed of your actions on a planet you have no assignment on? " 

Nechal watched as Qui-Gon’s composure faltered, just for an instant. It was a subtle shift, but one that didn’t escape Dooku’s notice.

“I did what I had to do,” Qui-Gon said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something Nechal couldn’t quite place—regret, perhaps, or guilt. “For Obi-Wan’s sake.”

Dooku tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “Then explain, Padawan mine. Explain to me why my grandpadawan—your Padawan—is here, scarred and implanted with a fucking explosive slave chip."

Nechal realized the exact moment Qui-Gon Jinn cracked. The calm, superior exterior that the Jedi had worn like armor shattered, revealing something raw and volatile beneath. His face twisted with rage, and his voice rose, trembling with emotion.

“I had to!” Qui-Gon spat, his words a firestorm of anger and conviction. “That child is dark. You will all see—it's just a matter of time before he falls. I did it to protect us, to protect all of us. I should have put him out of his misery when I had the chance.”

Dooku sat back in his chair, the shock evident on his normally impassive face. For a moment, the mighty Jedi Master seemed at a loss for words, his sharp features slackened by disbelief. Nechal, on the other hand, wasn’t shocked. Disgusted? Yes. Saddened? Absolutely. But surprised? No.

“So,” Dooku said finally, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You paid for that chip to be implanted in him. You enslaved your own padawan.”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer immediately, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling as though he’d just fought a battle. His silence spoke volumes, and Dooku’s eyes narrowed, "Because of Xanatos?"

Qui-Gon turned his head away, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the far wall as though looking at Dooku might cause him physical pain. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, and Nechal couldn’t help but wonder: Who is Xanatos?

Dooku rose from his seat, his robes swirling with the motion. His expression was unreadable now, his earlier shock buried under a mask of icy composure. “If that is all you needed, Detective,” he said, his tone clipped and formal, leaving no room for pleasantries.

Nechal nodded, his voice steady despite the gravity of the moment. “Yes, that was a full confession. Thank you, Master Dooku.”

As Nechal spoke, Qui-Gon finally turned his gaze back to Dooku. His expression wasn’t angry or defensive—it was something worse. It was betrayal, raw and unfiltered, as though he hadn’t condemned himself with his own words.

“You’re really going to let them take me, Master?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

 Dooku did not reply, instead striding out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the heavy silence.

Obi-Wan sat cross-legged on the bed, Ani, his beloved soft tooka, resting softly against his chest. The quiet of the room, enhanced by his new headphones, was bliss. For once, the world wasn’t too loud, too bright, or too much. The gentle hum of his own voice was the only thing he could hear, and it felt safe.

Detective Kalna had been called away earlier for a phone call, leaving Obi-Wan alone. He already missed xem. A gentle nudge in the Force pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked, tilting his head. That was new. Obi-Wan hadn’t felt another Force-sensitive presence on Troh before. Apart from his master, he missed his master. He turned toward the door, his senses sharpening.

Detective Kalna stood there, smiling in that calm, reassuring way xe always did, but beside xem was someone entirely new. A Jedi.

Obi-Wan sat up straighter, his heart beating a little faster. The Jedi wore simple robes, their lightsaber hanging prominently from their belt. A long braid adorned with intricate beads and decorations draped over their shoulder—a senior Padawan. 

Obi-Wan reluctantly pulled off his headphones, the sudden rush of sound making him wince. He clutched Ani tighter, seeking the familiar comfort of the plush toy.

“Hi, Padawan Obi-Wan, “I’m your aunt Komi.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what to make of Senior Padawan Komari. She was…a lot. Her presence in the Force buzzed and bounced with constant energy.  She had been talking nonstop since she arrived, her words weaving an intricate, if slightly chaotic, tapestry of topics.

Her latest thread involved a book she was reading—a complex tale, apparently, about a protagonist torn between two love interests, one of whom she despised. “The main character should definitely be with her best friend,” Komari declared with passionate conviction. “The love interest is just awful. And the best friend? So much better. Loyal, funny, and there’s this whole subplot with dragons—”

Dragons? Obi-Wan blinked, his mind already struggling to keep up. He wasn’t entirely sure how dragons fit into the conversation—or the story—but Komari seemed utterly convinced of their importance.

Detective Kalna had retreated to a chair outside the room about ten minutes into Komari’s enthusiastic monologue. Obi-Wan couldn’t blame xem. He glanced at the door, where the detective occasionally peeked in to check on them, and then back to Komari, who was now gesturing animatedly to make her point.

Despite her whirlwind energy, Obi-Wan found himself liking her. She wasn’t intimidating or dismissive. She had complimented Ani, his stuffed loth-cat. Komari had also handed him two nutribars—his favorite flavour, no less—and hadn’t seemed at all bothered that he mostly responded to her through the Force. 

But then, something shifted. A new presence brushed against the edges of Obi-Wan’s awareness through the Force—calm, steady, and immensely powerful. His head snapped up toward the door at the same moment Komari paused mid-sentence and looked up as well. She smiled warmly.

“That’s my Master,” she said. “He must be done with the police now.”

Obi-Wan’s hands fidgeted in his lap, his fingers curling and uncurling against Ani’s soft fabric. He could sense only one presence approaching, which meant his own Master wasn’t with him.  

Obi-Wan’s heart raced as Master Dooku, tall and imposing in his dark robes, appeared in the doorway. The Master gave a brief glance into the room before turning to shake hands with Detective Kalna, who had risen from xem seat. Detective Nechal stood just behind.

Obi-Wan quickly sat up straighter, smoothing his hands over his hospital gown in an effort to look as neat and presentable as possible. He watched as Komari stood to bow deeply to her Master, and he bowed as well—though from his bed, it was little more than a forward dip of his torso. He hoped it wasn’t seen as disrespectful.

Master Jinn would have thought so. But Master Jinn wasn’t here. And Master Jinn didn’t like his Master. Obi-Wan’s mind flickered over the idea that maybe, just maybe, Master Dooku wouldn’t be as angry with him. This was Obi-Wan’s first time meeting his grandmaster—or anyone in Master Jinn’s lineage, really, apart from Master Yoda. He forced himself to meet the older man’s intense gaze and managed to squeak out, “Grandmaster.”

“Grandpadawan, and Padawan mine,” Master Dooku replied smoothly, inclining his head in a shallower bow.

He crossed the room and took the chair Komari had vacated beside Obi-Wan’s bed. Obi-Wan instinctively tried to make himself smaller, his hands twisting anxiously in Ani’s soft fur. “Grandpadawan Obi-Wan, I hope you won’t mind if the detectives and I speak with you about a few matters. Komi will step out for a few minutes to give us privacy.”

Obi-Wan shook his head quickly. “I don’t mind,” he said softly.

Komari gave him an encouraging smile before she left, but Obi-Wan felt a pang of regret as the door closed behind her. If she’d stayed, maybe they wouldn’t talk about what a terrible padawan he was.

“The detectives have asked the Order to send me and my Padawan to assist them with their investigation,” Master Dooku began, his tone calm but probing. His gaze was sharp, though not unkind, as he leaned slightly toward Obi-Wan. “Could you tell me why you think that might be, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan shrugged again, burying his face deep into Ani. “They took me from Master Jinn,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against the loth-cat’s soft fur. “They didn’t let me go to him because I was bad. And then they did this scan, and I had a bomb, and they did surgery.” His voice cracked, and he could feel tears soaking into Ani’s fabric.

Master Dooku’s presence softened in the Force, “Oh, Obi-Wan. You did nothing bad,” he said firmly. “Padawan, they took you from Master Jinn because they believed you were being mistreated.”

Obi-Wan immediately shook his head, clinging tighter to Ani. “No, no, no—”

“Now, Padawan, please let me finish,” Dooku interrupted gently but firmly. “You were very ill when they brought you here. I am grateful they brought you to this place, as it allowed them to remove the chip that was implanted in you. And an implant in your arm.” Dooku leaned slightly closer, his tone more curious. “Obi-Wan, do you know where you got either of them?”

Obi-Wan hesitated, his head shaking one way, then the other, before deciding he needed to speak. “Master Jinn got me the birth control implant,” he said softly. “But…I don’t know where I got the chip. They wouldn’t have put it in on Bandomeer.”

“Bandomeer?” 

“Yeah, It wouldn’t be economical to have both a chip and a collar.”

The tension in the room spiked, rippling through the Force like a sudden chill. Master Dooku’s presence tensed, and Obi-Wan could feel the emotions of the detectives hardening. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure why, but he instinctively curled into himself, his fingers gripping Ani like a lifeline.

“Where did you get the implant, Padawan?” Dooku pressed.

Obi-Wan shrugged again. He glanced up briefly, trying to gauge his grandmaster’s reaction, but quickly looked back down when he saw the deep crease in Dooku’s brow.

“Okay, Padawan, it is fine,” Master Dooku said, his tone carefully measured. “I have been talking with Detective Nechal, the commissioner, and your consultant. We’ve agreed that you are well enough for space flight. So, Padawan Komari, you, and I will be heading back to the Temple. We will get all of this sorted with the Council.” He paused briefly, letting his words sink in. “However, because our ship isn’t the largest, Master Jinn will be staying here. He is being very well treated.”

Obi-Wan’s head shot up at that, his wide eyes locking onto Dooku. His confusion rippled through the Force. Master Jinn isn’t coming?

“But—” Obi-Wan started, his voice catching. His hands gripped Ani tighter, and his emotions wavered between confusion and a budding sense of betrayal. “Why can’t Master Jinn come too? Surely we can all fit on the ship. He’s my Master…”

Dooku’s expression didn’t waver. “Master Jinn needs to remain here to assist with the investigation,” he explained. “The detectives have questions only he can answer. It is vital that we cooperate fully with them.”

“But he’s not in trouble, right?” Obi-Wan asked quickly, his voice thin and uncertain.

Dooku paused, just for a fraction of a second, before answering. “Obi-Wan,” he began carefully, “the detectives sent both the implant and the chip to a forensic lab. Their findings indicate that both devices appear to have been manufactured by the same company.”

Obi-Wan shook his head vigorously, burying his face deeper into Ani’s soft fur. That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. “No,” he whispered, his voice muffled. “Master Jinn… he wouldn’t… He couldn’t—”

“Obi-Wan,” Dooku continued, his tone unrelenting but not unkind, “I asked Master Jinn directly. He admitted that he had the chip implanted.”

The words hit Obi-Wan like a physical blow, his breath hitching as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. He clutched Ani tighter, rocking slightly as he shook his head over and over. “No, no, no…"

“I know this is difficult to hear, my grandpadawan. But Master Jinn has been hurting you. What he has done is not the way of the Jedi. Or any parent worthy of that name.”

Obi-Wan’s sobs grew louder, his small body trembling as he tried to process the incomprehensible. “But he’s my Master!” he wailed, the words torn from him. “I'm a bad padawan, its not his fault. He said—he said I was safe with him…”

Dooku closed his eyes briefly, his own presence in the Force rippling with sorrow as his shields rapped Obi-wan in a hug. 

Chapter Text

Komari was settled in her co-pilot’s chair, her bowl of soup carefully balanced on the armrest as she swiped through her holopad. She took another spoonful, savoring the warmth as she scanned the next paragraph. She had intended to study for her upcoming exams—truly, she had—but then Sarah had proclaimed her undying love to Susan, who had just kissed Simon on the battlefield, and well… how was she supposed to put the book down after that?

Her master was sat beside her in the pilot’s seat, holopad in hand, his long fingers tapping away. No doubt he was working on some mind-numbingly dull documentation. Komari wrinkled her nose. She was not looking forward to having to write up her official report for this emergency mission.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at the door to the small crew quarters behind them. Obi-Wan was curled up on the upper bunk, his arms wrapped protectively around his soft toy. The kid was understandably exhausted—both from the surgery and from… everything else. 

Komari bit her lip, looking at her master, debating whether or not to break the silence. Eventually, curiosity won out. “Master,” she started. Dooku hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look up. She hesitated, then asked, “What will happen when we get back?”

At that, her master set down his holopad and turned to face her properly. “We will report to the High Council and the Council of First Knowledge. And provide them with all the relevant information for their investigations.”

Komari tried not to fidget as she took a breath and asked the question she really wanted to know. “And what about Obi-Wan?”

Dooku regarded her for a long moment before answering. “I am not completely sure, Padawan mine.” Komari felt a brief flicker of warmth at the familiar title. It made her feel steady, like the ground beneath her wasn’t about to shift under her feet. She needed that.

“Obi-Wan will likely spend some time with the healers,” Dooku continued. “Beyond that… if he wishes, he might be taken on by a new master.”

Might be.

Komari’s stomach twisted. That meant there was a real chance he wouldn’t. Either if he didn't want to or ... if no one wanted Obi-wan.

“Or,” Dooku added, “he may choose to transfer to one of the Service Corps.”

After a minute, Master Dooku turned back to his holopad. Komari kept looking at her master. “Master, how did you manage to get the Troh police to release Obi-Wan into our custody?”

“Diplomacy, my dear Padawan,” Dooku said smoothly, his eyes still fixed on his holopad, but a small, knowing smile curled at the edges of his lips.

"Masterrrr," Komari groaned, slumping back in her seat. Sometimes getting information out of him was like pulling teeth. She couldn’t help but think that he actually enjoyed being a bit obstinate.

“They contacted us in the first place to take him. They lacked the resources to look after a Force-sensitive child or provide him with the help of the mind that he will need. I only had to make an argument about what was best for him and the detriment that delaying his recovery might pose. The Troh are a very reasonable people.”

Komari bit back a smile. She knew her master was brilliant at using diplomacy to get what he wanted, but the fact that he could turn the tables so quickly, even with people realize they were being played, always impressed her.

“I also promised to send them regular reports on Obi-Wan and get them in contact with his healer,” Dooku continued, not even bothering to look up at her. “The Council will not be happy with that, but they will not be able to refute it.”

Komari couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face as she watched her master’s wicked smile tug at his lips. She knew exactly what position he was putting the High Council in. He was a master manipulator, no doubt about it. 

“It did help that you were so healthy in your check-up,” Dooku added. She was about to ask another question when he interrupted her thoughts.

“Now,” he said, glancing up at her with a raised brow, “leave the questions, Padawan mine, and put down that story. Otherwise, I will be compelled to read it to understand why it is more important than writing your mission report.”

Komari’s face paled. The horror of threat of him dissecting her romance drama was terrifying. She quickly grabbed the holopad from her lap and stuffed it into her bag. Her master’s smile widened, and she could feel his amusement through the Force. He knew exactly how to push her buttons.

"Fine, fine, I'll get to the report," she muttered. "But you don't have to be so dramatic about it."

Dooku raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not the one who’s been avoiding their responsibilities.”

Komari stuck out her tongue in mock defiance, but she knew it was a lost cause.

Despite the cramped quarters of the old spaceship, the Force around Obi-Wan felt lonely.

The emptiness gnawed at him. A massive chunk of the Force—where his master should be—was simply missing. He had felt it before, but the bustling energy of the Troh hospital had masked it. Now, in the stillness of space, with only Master Dooku and Senior Padawan Komari aboard, it tugged at him, relentless and hollow.

Obi-Wan curled in on himself, rubbing Ani’s soft fur between his fingers. He hoped the temple would let him keep Ani. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him when they got back, but he could still hope. 

He had overheard Master Dooku and Padawan Komari talking earlier.

No other master would want him.

Obi-Wan knew it was true. He could feel it. He could see it in the way other Jedi had looked at him even before all of this—before the hospital, before Melida-Daan, before Bandomeer. He was too much. Too intense. Too emotional. Too reckless. Even if Master Jinn had… hurt him—had implanted a bomb inside him, a thought that made him shiver—at least he had taken Obi-Wan on when no one else would.

Maybe Master Jinn had been right to do it.

Didn’t he always say Obi-Wan was at risk of falling? 

The hyperdrive let out a shudder, a low vibration rippling through the ship as it continued through space. Obi-Wan let the sensation ground him, staring up at the dull durasteel wall next to his bunk.

Maybe the Jedi would let him stay at the temple even if no one wanted him. Or maybe they would send him somewhere else. Away from the planet he called home.

He didn’t remember much about Stewjoni. He had been so young when his parents had sent him to the temple—too young to recall their faces, their voices, or if they had even wanted him in the first place. But maybe… maybe they would take him back.

He had seen holos of Stewjoni before, of green fields and crisp blue skies, of people who looked like him in ways that none of the Jedi did. The thought of stepping onto his birth planet filled him with an odd mix of longing and dread.

Would they also think he was broken?

Would they even want him?

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan sat on the kitchen bench, swinging his legs slightly as the ship began its descent. The vibrations beneath him changed, the steady hum of space travel giving way to the vibrations of atmospheric entry.

There were only two seats in the cockpit, so he had to sit here, strapped in with one of the seatbelts the Jedi had retrofitted to the ship’s kitchen bench. The ship had originally only been meant for two passengers, but over the years, the Order had made modifications to allow for a four-person crew. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the sleeping arrangements.

He glanced guiltily at the bench. Master Dooku had taken to sleeping there, giving up his bunk so Obi-Wan could have a proper place to rest. The old master had waved away his protests with a simple nonsense, Padawan, and that had been the end of it.

Obi-Wan had spent most of the journey feeling bad about it. Dooku’s hair was very white, which meant he had to be very old. Sleeping on a hard bench couldn’t be good for someone his age.

Master Jinn would have had my hide if he ever found out.

But Master Jinn wouldn’t find out. Obi-Wan curled his fingers into the strap across his chest, trying not to think about the weight pressing down on him, that void in the Force. The ship flew smoothly toward the Jedi Temple, granted priority landing clearance as all Order vessels were. The towering spires of the Temple came into view through the cockpit window, golden in the early evening light.Obi-Wan let out a slow breath. Despite everything, he was looking forward to stepping inside its walls again—even if it was only for a short time before they inevitably decided what to do with him.

The ship settled onto the hangar floor with a soft thud, the landing struts groaning under the weight. Master Dooku’s landing was graceful, precise. Of course it was. Obi-Wan huffed in frustration as he struggled with the straps holding him down. He had always had trouble with these, no matter what ship he was on. His fingers fumbled at the buckle, trying to get it to release. By the time he finally got it undone, Master Dooku and Senior Padawan Komari were already on their feet, gathering their belongings.

Obi-Wan reached for his own bag—if it could even be called that. The small satchel, given to him by the nurses, was stuffed mostly with nutribars and a soft blanket. He had so little of his own. No personal belongings, no spare clothes, not even his lightsaber.

Master Jinn had never believed in carrying unnecessary things. Superfluous, he had called them. Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure what superfluous meant. Only that it meant Master Jinn had one bag, and Obi-Wan had only what he wore on his back and the saber at his hip.

Not that he even had that anymore.

Not since Melida/Daan.

Obi-Wan clutched Ani tighter, his fingers digging into the soft fur as he forced himself to move toward the ramp. He had been humming again. Bad, bad, bad. He needed to stop. He wasn’t a child.

Master Dooku reached up to lower the ramp, the ship’s hydraulics hissing as the doors opened. Obi-Wan barely had time to brace himself before he was met with the highest-ranking welcome committee he had ever seen.

Normally, when a Jedi returned from a mission, there was little fanfare. A dock manager to check the ship in. Maybe a healer, if someone had the foresight to notify the Temple of any injuries.

Instead, three High Councilors—Masters Koon, Windu, and Poof—stood waiting at the base of the ramp, their robes pristine, their gazes unreadable.Next to them stood a Senior Healer, a Mirialan woman Obi-Wan vaguely recognized but had never been treated by before. He felt his stomach drop. Where was Master Che?

Healers were supposed to be calm. Steady. Unshakable in their presence. But the force radiating from this one felt tight, coiled. Angry. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, his breath coming quicker as he resisted the urge to step back. His fingers twitched against Ani’s fur. The Councilors’ gazes settled on him. The healer’s presence sharpened in the Force, focused solely on him, and—

He started humming again.

He knew he was doing it, but he couldn’t stop. The sound slipped past his lips, his body desperate to soothe itself, to disappear into the floor or the dark, disused corridors of the Temple. Somewhere he couldn’t be seen.

"Master Dooku. Padawans." Master Windu didn’t even acknowledge Obi-Wan’s humming as he bowed deeply to the three of them. The other two High Councilors followed with equally deep bows, their expressions unreadable. “I believe we should take this to the Council chambers, Master.”

“I agree, Master Windu,” Dooku said smoothly. “However, I must insist that Obi-Wan is taken to the Halls of Healing first. It was part of the agreement with the Troh government.”

Dooku strode forward and placed a holochip into the healer’s outstretched hand. She took it without a word, but the tension in the Force around her remained sharp. Obi-Wan clicking his wrist forward then flexing it back repeatedly under his borrowed robes, trying to keep them hidden in the fabric. His other hand was curled around Ani's fur, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It helped, just a little.

The healer turned to him, her palm extended expectantly.

Obi-Wan hesitated, looking up at her face for a brief second before dropping his gaze. His breath hitched slightly as he stepped forward, his feet feeling heavy against the polished floor. He carefully stilled his free hand before placing it in hers, allowing her to take hold.

Her grip was firm but not tight. Not painful. Just secure. Letting him hide in her white robes. Without another word, the healer turned and began leading him toward the exit, toward the familiar corridors that led to the Halls of Healing.

It reminded him of being a crècheling again, after a particularly bad nightmare. His crechmaster would hold his hand just like this, guiding him through the Temple halls in the dim hours of the night. The air in the Halls of Healing was always cooler, quieter. It smelled of bacta and clean linen.

Maybe this was all just a bad dream.

Maybe he would wake up in the crèche, safe in his old sleeping pod, wrapped in soft Temple blankets with his soft bantha, with nothing but blurry dreams of Master Jinn’s face and words he wouldn’t quite remember.

Maybe none of this had ever happened at all.

Master Plo Koon watched as the small Padawan was led away by the deputy head healer of the Jedi Temple.

Obi-Wan Kenobi looked like a child out of a warzone again.

Plo felt something tighten in his chest, an ache that was both sorrow and rage. The Jedi Council had promised—promised themselves, promised the Order, promised Obi-Wan—that there would never be a next time. That no child of the Order would ever be left abandoned, lost, or mistreated again.

And yet, here they were.

Again.

He was angry.

Angry at himself—for not noticing sooner, for assuming that no one would deliberately harm a padawan. Angry at the Council—for allowing this to happen under their very noses, and not putting Jinn on suspension after last time.  Angry at the Temple Guard—who had failed to stop Qui-Gon from taking Obi-Wan out of the Temple when he was meant to be in the halls of healing last time.  And most of all—Plo was furious at Qui-Gon Jinn. He wasn’t sure if Jinn even deserved the respect of being called by his first name anymore. And he certainly did not deserve the rank of Master.

A slow, measured breath filtered through his respirator, but it did little to steady the storm inside him. He reached out to release his emotions into the force, feeling the force reach back reflecting his anger and disappointment back at him. Plo was ashamed.

At least the child was home now. Safe.

At least now, the search parties could be recalled—the ones that had been scouring the galaxy for both Obi-Wan and Jinn ever since their sudden and unauthorized departure. At least now, they could start to fix what had been broken. Again.

Master Poof turned slightly from where he stood next to Master Windu. "Shall we head up?" he questioned, his long neck inclining toward the lift. Plo barely restrained a sigh. Of course, Poof would be the one to speak first. 

Plo Koon had spent years cultivating patience, mastering control over his emotions. He did not let personal feelings dictate his actions. He did not hate his fellow Jedi. But if he were ever to admit to such an un-Jedi-like thing—Force, did he strongly dislike Master Poof. Not for the first time, he found himself questioning how one could be so conservative in thought while claiming to be open-minded. Poof’s beliefs often contradicted Plo's- namely his opinions on health attachments.  Still, Plo had never allowed himself to hate anyone before. Not truly. But Jinn...

The lift ride up to the High Council Tower was quiet. Unsettlingly so. Neither Master Dooku nor his Padawan spoke. And there was no soft humming from Padawan Kenobi. He would need to speak with Padawan Komari later. Seeing another Padawan treated so poorly—abused—by their own master would no doubt weigh heavily on her. He had no doubt she could push through, but that did not mean she should have to.

When they reached the doors of the Council Chambers, Plo led the way inside, nodding to Padawan Depa Billaba, who stood on duty. She inclined her head respectfully before stepping aside to let them enter.

The doors sealed behind them with a heavy finality. Plo moved toward his seat, as did Masters Windu and Poof. The others were already seated.

Master Dooku’s gaze flickered briefly to the empty chair beside him—the seat of Master Sifo-Dyas. His… friend. Plo Koon deliberately pretended not to understand everything that went on between them. Sifo-Dyas was currently on medical leave following a prolonged series of Force visions which had culminating in an episode of status epilepticus that had nearly killed him. But Sifo-Dyas’ absence meant one less voice in this conversation, and Plo was almost certain a voice less in his corner.

He listened carefully as the full report was laid out before the Council. As the report progressed, Plo found himself wondering how the Halls of Healing had failed to detect the slave chip—or the birth control implant. It should have been caught. What else had they missed?

Around him, the other Masters scrolled through the datapads Master Dooku had provided, their expressions unreadable. Plo, however, kept his own Force presence carefully restrained as he sampled the emotions of his fellow Council members. Mostly, he focused on Master Yoda. The Grandmaster of the Order sat in his usual place, unmoving, his claws steepled before him. His face—already wrinkled from age—was pinched even further, twisted in an expression that made him look like a constipated frog who had swallowed an unpleasantly sour lemon.

Plo wasn’t sure what to think of that reaction, to be honest. Do not let personal biases color your judgment, he reminded himself.  And yet—he couldn’t help but remember how insistent Yoda had been that Jinn was the right Master for Padawan Kenobi. But that did not matter in this moment. What mattered was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Dooku’s voice pulled him back to the present.

“…so, to conclude,” the elder Master said, “I recommend that Padawan Kenobi remain under temple arrest until he has healed—both in body and mind. Furthermore, a new Master should not be assigned immediately. Instead, the Padawan should be given a choice in the matter.” Dooku’s sharp gaze swept over the room. “Additionally, I recommend a full review of the treatment of all Jedi children—both younglings and Padawans—including an examination of their well-being, their training, and how they are cared for both inside and outside the Temple.”

Silence.

Then—

“Who are you to tell the High Council what to do, Master Dooku?” Master Poof poofed up in indignation, his long neck stretching further upward. “If I recall correctly, you turned down your seat on this Council.”

Plo resisted the urge to sigh. “I back Master Dooku’s proposal,” he said instead.

“So do I,” Master Windu added after only a brief pause. Plo glanced at the younger Councilor, sensing the steely resolve behind his words.

“I believe it is high time we modernize our treatment of our younglings and Padawans,” Windu continued, his deep voice carrying through the chamber with quiet authority. “After all, it is in the children’s best interests, is it not?” His sharp gaze swept over the room, inviting—daring—the other Masters to contradict him.

“I am glad you agree, Master Windu,” Dooku said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. “As I had already promised the Troh government that I would send them a copy of this report.”

Plo almost smiled. Dooku was wicked. And Plo was just glad he was on their side.

Chapter Text

He didn’t want to be here. Every step through the Temple’s halls, he could feel the eyes that followed him, looking into his very sole. Jedi robes swished in the enclaves lining the walls, whispers stirred the air behind them.

The Mirialan healer didn’t speak. Her robes, bright white and impossibly pristine, flared out around her as she walked just ahead, enveloping him slightly from sight. Her hand never left his. Obi-Wan clung to it with quiet desperation, his fingers clenched tightly around hers as if letting go would mean slipping right out of the world.

Her Force signature burned like the edge of a wildfire every time someone whispered too loudly in the corridor, too close. He flinched each time. But she didn’t. She just walked faster. She probably was angry that he was causing such a disturbance. 

The emergency entrance to the Halls of Healing was tucked discreetly a few corridors away from the docking bay. Obi-wan had only been brought through it twice before, once after he fell off a walkway on a youngling class trip and once after melidann. 

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nose the moment they stepped through the doors. Cold and clean and sharp. Too clean. A pair of Knights passed them on the way in. One of them stared at him, then looked away too quickly. Obi-Wan ducked his head lower.

The healer guided him into one of the treatment bays and gently pointed to a med-bed. “Sit,” she said quietly. He climbed up onto the bed without protest, legs swinging a little off the edge. Ani was still tucked in his arms, ears pressed flat to his chest.

Then the healers came.

A swarm, moving in with soft voices and glowing instruments. White and gold and soft green robes, datapads and medscanners and diagnostic Force prods -everywhere. He tried to follow their words at first, but the swirl of it overwhelmed him. Too many people, too much sound, too many hands.

So he let go. He concentrated on his humming; soft and low, the same way he always did when Master Jinn used to lecture him. A string of tones that had no beginning or end.  

The healers didn’t seem to mind, unlike Master Jinn. They scanned and recorded and spoke over his head in tones too calm to be real. Obi-Wan stayed still, staring past them, past the white ceiling and into the Force.

The Force was always gentle in the Temple. Here in the Halls of Healing, it was quieter still - a soft, weighted stillness. Each patient who had passed through left behind traces of pain. The rooms were therefore not only scrubbed of physical contaminants but cleansed in the Force as well.

Obi-Wan blinked slowly up at the ceiling, feeling the artificial lights blur at the edges of his vision. His fingers twitched against Ani’s fur. A cool touch pulled slightly at the inside of his elbow—he didn’t want to look down and see the blood being drawn. He didn’t want to see any of it.

Where was Healer Che?

She always saw him when he was brought in. Even when he’d broken his wrist falling during drills, or when he’d gotten that fever after being stuck in the archives vent system with a busted air filter, she had always been there.

He squinted into the Force, pushing past the layers of healer presences that filled the ward. Each one shimmered like a star, moving through the swirl of space that was the Temple’s beating heart. Some were warm blue and silver, a few were sharp orange, most were flickering white.

He reached deeper. Past the surrounding treatment bays. Past the quiet murmurs and the tired minds resting in the nearby wards. He was careful. Sort of. He knew it wasn’t right, sifting through the corridors like this, brushing against meditating minds and sleeping auras. But he needed to find her.

The soft green he knew so well- the gentle glow of Healer Che’s Force -was there. But far. Faint. Tucked away in one of the private recovery rooms, unmoving. She was alone. His chest tightened.

“Why's Healer Che not here?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice too loud.

The healer nearest to him—an older Togruta with pale facial markings—hesitated for a heartbeat, fingers stilling mid-reach toward a second blood bottle. “Healer Che is not on shift today,” she replied, and Obi-Wan felt the change in her tone. It was too controlled. Too neutral. The needle in his arm tugged slightly as she changed the vial. He hissed softly, his arm flinching.

“No- no, that’s not true. She always gets up to treat me. She’s here, I can feel her. She’s in the Halls- I know it!” Obi-Wan said, his voice pitching up as he sat straighter, Ani clutched tight to his chest.

The healer’s eyes flicked toward a colleague before narrowing gently at him. “Padawan Kenobi,” she said, tone sharper now, “it is not appropriate to search the Halls using the Force in that way. It’s a breach of patient confidentiality.”

Obi-Wan ducked his head, shame and fear curling together in his gut. “However…” the healer continued after a pause, securing the next blood bottle in place, “…since you already know, Healer Che was hurt. She’s currently resting.”

Hurt? Obi-Wan’s fingers clenched tighter around Ani.

“How?”

"That is not for you to know, Padawan, but be reassured- she is getting better and will be back to treating you soon."

Most of the other healers had filtered out of the bay by now, drifting away one by one like leaves on a current. They must have decided he was stable, not in any immediate danger. Not physically, anyway. Obi-Wan stayed curled on the bed, hands clenched in Ani's soft fur, the other arm aching slightly where the blood had been drawn.

He didn’t look up when the healer stepped behind the bed and unlocked the hover mechanism with a soft click-hiss. She turned to the figure standing at the doorway.

“We’re going to admit Padawan Kenobi to one of the secure wards,” she said in a calm, clipped tone. “Are you meant to stay with him?”

The Temple Guard nodded once.

Obi-Wan stiffened, his eyes snapping up. He hadn’t even noticed the guard standing there before. Of course he hadn’t. The Temple Guards always made their Force presence so dull, so neutral, it was like they weren’t there at all. But this one had been. Watching him.

Why?

Did they still not trust him? Did they think he was dangerous? Were they worried he’d fall?He swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, like when he had swallowed gravel. Master Jinn always said he would fall. That there was darkness in him, too easy to tempt. That he had to be watched. Controlled. But Master Dooku said that Master Jinn was a lier. 

Obi-Wan squeezed Ani tightly against his chest, biting down softly on its long ear. His other hand wiggled nervously under the blanket one of the healers had wrapped around his shoulders.

He must have looked like such a child. A bad one.

The hoverbed began to move, gliding smoothly out of the bay and into the quiet corridors. They weren’t heading to the general recovery area he knew—the one where other sick or injured padawans were kept, with shared rooms and soft-curtained walls.

No.

They were heading deeper. To the secure wards where you needed an access card to enter or leave. Master Jinn said they were for those Jedi who were ... unsafe and unwanted. And they were taking him there. Had to stop being such a bad padawan.

But all he could think about was Master Jinn’s voice, calm and cold: "You are at risk of falling, Obi-Wan."

The doors clicked closed behind him with a final-sounding thunk. The secure ward was even quieter than the rest of the Halls of Healing. Not the peaceful, soft sort of quiet that made your breathing slow and your thoughts loosen. No- this was a still, watchful silence. Like the walls themselves were listening.

Each room was self-contained, private, and from what Obi-Wan could sense, each one had its own subtle hush in the Force. There were more healers here too—he could see them moving between the rooms, in pairs or small groups, speaking in low voices, checking monitors and datapads.

His room was cheerful yellow. There was a mural painted on one—he blinked, staring at it—it was a field of flowers, stylised and simple, like something out of a children’s book. There were cushions on the chair in the corner. A soft rug on the floor.

It looked... kind. And he didn’t understand why he was here.

Even after Melida-daan, he hadn't been put in this place. And this time he hadn't even screamed or fought or bitten anyone. Maybe they’d let him stay in the Temple if he was very good. If he was quiet. If he didn’t hum.

The healer- he didn’t know her name- gently adjusted the blanket over him before stepping back. She didn’t say much. Just a soft “We’ll be right outside, Padawan Kenobi, if you need anything.”

Obi-Wan stared at the painted flowers across the room, trying to pretend the yellow felt warm instead of like sunlight he didn’t deserve.

Plo stood in silence beside Master Dooku, his hands folded neatly in front of him. They were both gazing down at the still form of Master Healer Che, wrapped in crisp white sheets, her face calm in unconsciousness. The soft whirr of monitors hummed in the background, a too-constant reminder that her survival was still in question.

“They say she should recover,” Plo said at last, his voice low, steady. “If she wakes up.”

The words settled heavy between them.

Master Dooku didn’t answer immediately. His usually impeccable posture was bent, his face drawn and pale. He looked like he had aged decades since Plo had last seen him, not months. His hands were behind his back, but his shoulders hunched ever so slightly.

“How,” Dooku said finally, and his voice cracked on the word, “how could he have fallen so far?”

There was no judgment in the tone. Just grief. And guilt.

Even if Che woke up, Plo knew, she would never be the same. One of her lekku had been severed near the base. A clean, brutal cut—sliced by a vibroblade. The flesh had sealed under the care of the other healers, but that did not undo the damage. A Twi’lek’s lekku were more than appendages—they were vital to communication, to sensory perception, to being. Without it, her balance would be forever altered. And the psychological weight...

It was unthinkable.

Plo let out a slow breath through his mask, then spoke. “We didn’t find her for almost two hours. It was only when we realised Obi-Wan was missing that the search was widened. She was found locked in a closet. The cuts were clean, controlled. He knew exactly what he was doing. The medics believe she was sedated, but still conscious when it happened"

He hesitated, watching the soft rise and fall of Che’s chest.

“The mind healers say there was psychic damage too. That Jinn invaded her mind, likely to force her compliance. Possibly to stop her from calling for help. The lingering traces in her Force presence are... violent.”

Chapter Text

The room was quiet when the door hissed open. Obi-Wan turned his head automatically, tensing despite himself. Master Koon scrunched his face gently in greeting behind his respirator. Obiwan didn't return the smile.

He’d mostly been left alone since he was brought here. Left with his thoughts in the watchful quiet. A healer had visited earlier and asked him too many questions: about Master Jinn, about his training, about how often he ate or slept. The words hadn’t really stuck in his mind. Everything felt… floaty. Like his thoughts were loose threads, pulled by the edges of the Force, drifting and unanchored.

Master Koon approached slowly and sat in the chair by Obi-Wan’s bed.  Obi-Wan blinked. His cheeks felt wet. "Padawan kenobi," the master began. Obi-wan raised a shaky hand and wiped at his face, confused by the moisture he found there. Master Koon picked up the tissue box from the bedside table and offered it to him. Obi-Wan took one and dabbed at his face, careful. “Have you eaten yet, Padawan?"

Obi-wan nodded. The healers had brough his favourite food earlier. He had eaten it all, even if it made his stomach ache. Master Koon exhaled slowly through his mask. The sound was heavy, deliberate. Obi-Wan flinched inward. He was disappointing this Master too. Of course he was. That’s what he did. That’s what Master Jinn always told him.

“I am here,” Master Koon said, “as the High Council’s representative, Padawan Kenobi. Do you understand... good. As the mind healers have already explained to you, you are being removed from Master Jinn’s care indefinitely, due to his abuse of you.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t stop the sob that tore out of him.

He knew. Master Dooku had told him. He’d said that people believedJinn had been abusive. That they were going to take him away. They were wrong. They didn’t understand. Obi-Wan deserved it, didn’t he?  Now Master Koon as here to kick him out of the order as he was broken.

“Please—” Obi-Wan’s voice broke as he grabbed at his own hair, tugging hard enough to sting. “Please don’t send me away. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I promise. Please—”

He couldn’t breathe. He was shaking. His stomach hurt again and his eyes were too hot and too wet and Iwas too much—

Master Koon surged forward and grabbed Obi-Wan’s hands gently but firmly, pulling them down from his hair. Obi-wan hated him for that.

“Padawan, no,” he said. “You misunderstand me.”

His voice was calm. Grounding. A steady beacon in the chaos. “No one is removing you from the Order. You have my promise on this. You will stay here for as long as you want. We will support you however we can. We have failed you too many times already.”

Obi-Wan stared at him. The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t be true. He didn’t deserve that. A part of him wanted to believe it—but the louder part screamed that it was a trick. That this was another test. That if he let his guard down, everything would collapse.

The scream in his head built to a crescendo.

“No,” Obi-Wan whispered, and then louder, “No!”

He yanked his hands back violently from Master Koon’s, jerking away as if burned. Panic erupted through his chest and he couldn’t contain it. The Force around him twisted, lashing outward like a supernova.

The chair beneath Master Koon wobbled and skidded back across the floor. The hoverbed rose slightly from the ground, levitating as drawers rattled. Medical tools soared briefly before slamming back down. The lights flickered, dimming under the pressure of the sudden surge of power.

Obi-Wan couldn’t stop it.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure what had happened after the tantrum. One moment, everything had been too loud, too bright, too full of Force—and the next, it was quiet again.

Floaty.

He was sitting up now, cross-legged on the bed, a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The same healer from that morning was with him. She smelled like the temple gardens after rain. She was talking to him again, using that soothing voice that made everything feel like it was moving just a little too slow. Her force presence was rapped around his brain, helping him feel ok.

She had said it was a "meltdown obi-wan, not a tantrum".

There had been talk about his mind. His thoughts. His feelings. He wasn’t sure he really understood. She kept saying things like stress response, overstimulation, undiagnosed neurodiversity and trauma processing. They slid past him like water. He clung to Ani in his lap and tried to keep up.

Master Koon was gone. Obi-Wan didn’t know when he’d left, but he hoped he hadn’t been hurt. He didn’t mean to lash out. He hadn’t wanted to.

The room looked the same, but also different. Everything had been put back in its place but not everything. The rug was gone. So were the soft cushions that he hadn’t used but liked knowing were there. Even the chair Master Koon had sat in was gone. Replaced now by a rounded, padded one with no corners. Obi-Wan didn’t understand why.

The healer had given him crayons. Real crayons, not stylus pads or digital sketchers. He hadn’t used crayons since the crèche. She said he could draw whatever he liked. She sat beside him with a datapad and kept asking him questions while he drew on sheets of thick flimsi.

Ani rested securely in his lap, one of his arms tucked beneath Obi-Wan’s elbow like a silent guard.

"Did Jinn often take away your blankets, then, Obi-Wan?" the healer asked.

He paused. The crayon slipped a little in his fingers. She’d said it like that again- Jinn, not Master Jinn. It made his chest hurt. He’d cried the first time she’d done it. Now, he just looked down.

He nodded, filling in the corner of a yellow triangle. “Only when I was bad. Or if he was cold.” He kept his eyes on the paper. “My species is more adapted to cold environments, so I didn’t actually need them.”

The healer didn’t say anything for a moment, but he heard the soft tap-tap of her stylus on the datapad.

“Were you warm enough when he did that?” she asked gently.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth. The word yes was ready on his tongue, he should say yes. That was the right answer. That was the obedient answer. The one that wouldn't cause more questions.

But he didn’t say it.

His hand kept moving, shading in a pale sun across the corner of his page.

He shook his head. Just once. Small.

The healer didn’t interrupt his drawing. She let him pick out the blue crayon, let him lean forward and begin to color in a lake at the base of the yellow sun. The paper wrinkled a little under his hand from the pressure, but she didn’t comment.

“Did Master Jinn ever remove anything else from you that stopped you from feeling warm?” she asked gently, voice quiet like temple wind through meditation bells.

Obi-Wan frowned. He wasn’t sure what she meant. He lifted his eyes to her briefly, confused.

She didn’t press, just clarified, “Maybe like your cloak? Or your clothes?”

His eyes returned to the lake he was making, a shimmering, rippling thing beneath his yellow sun. The reflection was wrong, he decided, and turned the page slightly to get a better angle. He grabbed the dark green next.

“Only when I was very bad,” he said finally. “And he always gave them back the next morning.”

The stylus tapped again. “Did anyone ever see you without them?”

He shook his head. “Not outside our quarters.”

"What about inside you quarters?" Obi-wan shook his head, only Master Jinn had.

“Did he ever hurt you when you didn’t have your clothes on?”

Obi-Wan paused. His hand slowed. He picked up a grey crayon and started adding clouds, he thought the sun should be partly hidden now.

“No,” he said softly. “Not... always. Sometimes. But only when I deserved it.”

The healer didn’t write anything for a while after that. Her presence in the Force tightened slightly before she smoothed it back out into the calming comfort around him.

“Obi-Wan,” she said after a moment, “Can I ask something else?”

He shrugged a little, but didn’t say no.

“Has anyone ever told you that what Master Jinn did was wrong?”

His hand froze above the paper.

He looked at her.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Master Dooku said it. He was wrong, though. He didn’t understand.”

“Do you understand, now?”

Obi-Wan stared at his paper.

The yellow sun looked wrong now. Too happy. The clouds weren’t dark enough.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“That’s okay,” the healer said gently. “We have time. You don’t need to know right away.”

She slid a new piece of paper toward him.

“Do you want to draw what your quarters looked like?”

Obi-Wan hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Okay,” she said softly, “you can start with whatever part you remember best. I’ll stay right here with you.”

And so, with Ani in his lap and the weight of something unspeakable still shifting behind his ribs, Obi-Wan picked up a brown crayon and began drawing a door.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan looked up as Mind Healer Bana entered the room, her presence in the Force now familiar like a worn blanket. She had her usual small smile, the one that didn’t press or demand, just existed. He had seen a lot of the healer of the last week and a half.

He was curled up in the corner of the room on the new yellow cushions. Healer Gillick had said these ones were more comfortable than the previous ones they had removed. Obi-wan was still not sure why the original had been removed, but found that he didn't really mind. They were yellow, and yellow was a good colour.

Ani was tucked under one arm, and he had Bant’s Keelkana toy in a small water bowl beside him, floating in lazy circles. His socks were extra soft today, a poorly-knit pair from Quinlan. The left one was slightly tighter than the right, which made Obi-Wan feel grounded somehow. Balanced.

“Hello, Obi-Wan,” Bana said, stepping into the room with the kind of care that didn’t make noise but still let him know she was there. “I see your Keelkana’s still doing laps.”  Obi-wan nodded at her.

Healer Bana sat down cross-legged on the padded meditation cushion across from him, her hands in her lap. “Your socks match the cushions.”

Obi-Wan glanced down and smiled faintly. “Yellow is a good color.”

“I think so too.” They sat in quiet for a few moments. Obi-Wan was used to this now, the quiet in between questions. She didn’t expect him to fill the silence unless he wanted to. Eventually, she spoke again. “I was wondering if we could talk more about the things we started yesterday. About how your brain works a little differently.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders twitched. He looked down at the Keelkana. “You mean the autism thing.”

“That’s right,” she said gently. “Do you remember what I told you about it?”

He thought for a moment. “You said… it’s not something bad. That it just means some parts are… wired different.”

“That’s exactly right,” Bana said, her tone warm. “And that it’s not something you caused. It’s not something that Master Jinn could’ve caused either. It’s just part of who you are, like your connection to the Force or the way you like Fungi or Lothcats.”

Obi-Wan looked down at the drawing he’d been working on before Healer Bana had entered. The Gennalin fungi curled over the page in vivid shapes. He frowned slightly. The orange wasn’t quite right- it was supposed to be more luminous in real life, almost glowing in the dark damp of a jungle floor. Still, he’d managed to get the hexagonal mycelial strands correct. That part made him feel a little better.

Healer Bana hadn’t said anything about the drawing yet, but she was watching it now with interest. Obi-Wan shifted slightly, holding up the paper so she could see it properly.

“It metabolizes minerals into phosphorescence,” he said. “It uses its root threads to grow across dead wood in perfect symmetry. See?”

“I see,” Bana replied, leaning in just a little to examine the strands. There was another pause, soft and not too long. 

He fiddled with the edge of the drawing. “I’m still not sure about this autism thing,” he said finally. His tone was matter-of-fact, he was not being defensive, just making his arguments. “I think maybe you’re wrong.”

Healer Bana didn’t look upset. That was good, he hadn’t wanted to be rude. “That’s fair,” she said. “It’s okay to take time to think about it. You’re allowed to disagree.”

“I just think I’m normal,” Obi-Wan said, his brow furrowed as he stared at the fungi again. “Everyone likes different things. Quinlan likes jumping off things. Bant likes tidepools. I like fungi. That’s not weird.”

“No,” Bana agreed, “it’s not weird at all. That part’s just you.”

He hesitated. “And I don’t have trouble knowing what people feel. Not really. I can tell when they’re mad or upset or tired. It’s obvious. The Force is loud when people feel things.”

She nodded. “You said that before. That you use the Force to feel emotions.”

“That’s normal,” Obi-Wan added, frowning again. “That’s one of the things that it’s for.”

“Actually,” Bana said gently, “most people don't use the Force like that all the time, as they can tell without the force. You do, as it helps you a lot, and so that is fine Obi-wan. But when we talk about autism, we’re talking about how your brain works even without the Force. What you notice. What’s hard for you.”

Obi-Wan shifted again, feeling vaguely uncertain. He didn’t know how to explain that she was sort of right, but also not. The Force had always been part of him. It was how he existed. How could they talk about what was him without including it? Obi-wan deliberately did not think of Bandomeer, though he wasn't sure if he really remembered it.

“We’re not trying to change you, Obi-Wan. Or tell you there’s something wrong. We’re just trying to give names to things, so that we can understand them. So you can have help when things feel hard.”

Obi-Wan’s hand drifted to Ani, smoothing the soft toy’s ear between his fingers. The room was quiet again.

“I haven’t had a tantrum,” he said after a while. “Not since the first one.”

“A meltdown and I know. You’ve been doing really well.”

He didn’t say anything to that. It felt strange, like being praised for something he couldn’t quite control. It wasn’t like he tried to have tantrums, meltdowns, whatever. They just… happened, sometimes.

“Is that why they gave me the cushions back?”

“Partly,” Bana said. “But mostly because we want you to have things that make you feel safe. Comfortable.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers stilled. “I thought it was because I behaved better.”

Healer Bana tilted her head. “We’re not giving or taking things away because you behave. You’re not being punished, Obi-Wan. You deserve comfort just because you’re you.”

He stared at her, uncertain.

That didn’t feel right. People only got nice things when they were good. That was just how things worked. But the cushions were yellow. And soft. And he still had them. He blinked a few times, then picked up another crayon—deep green this time—and added moss to the edges of the fungal clusters.  He wanted the edges to look soft and fuzzy. Alive. The Keelkana bumped quietly against the side of the bowl beside him, still doing its lazy laps.

"We’ll talk more about this later if you don’t feel up to talking about it now, Obi-Wan." Obi-wan nodded. Sometimes talking about this stuff made his chest feel weird and heavy, like it did now.

“Healer Bana? Can I go to the gardens for this afternoon’s activity?”

The words hung in the air between them. Obi-Wan didn’t dare look up. He already knew what the answer would be. Probably no. He wasn’t even allowed to take baths by himself. Not since they brought him back. Healer Gillick always sat on the other side of the curtain, just far enough away to let Obi-Wan feel alone, but close enough that Obi-Wan knew he wasn’t. The bathroom didn’t even have a lock.

The gardens were big and open and quiet in a way that the halls never were. He missed sitting under the glass-roofed arbor where the Force felt like sunlight. He missed the scent of soil and green things.

There was a pause.

“I don’t know, Obi-Wan,” Healer Bana said at last. Her voice didn’t sound like a no, but it wasn’t a yes either. “I’ll talk to Healer Gillick and some of the others. You’re scheduled for physiotherapy this afternoon, but I’ll see if we can change that to a different day.”

He gave a small nod, still not looking up. He didn’t want to seem too hopeful. Hope always made disappointment feel sharper. Master Jinn liked to pull things he was looking forward to away at the last second. 

Healer Bana stood, smoothing her tunic. “I’ll come check on you after lunch,” she said gently. He nodded again.

She left quietly, the door whispering shut behind her. Obi-Wan didn’t move for a while. He just kept drawing, layering green over green, trying to make the moss look real. Trying not to think too hard about gardens or baths or things he couldn’t do yet.

The yellow cushions held him gently. The Keelkana kept swimming. That was enough, for now.

Feemor wiggled his toes in his boots as he stood outside the secure ward room. It was a subtle movement, invisible beneath the hem of his robes and the long drape of his tabards. Temple Guard training taught them stillness- perfect, statuesque calm- but it also taught them how to avoid muscle cramping and maintain circulation without betraying motion. Four hours into his shift, and already he was unsettled.

This was unusual. Feemor had stood guard for twelve hours straight at the Council sessions and had kept vigil at funerals without flinching. His presence was always calm, silent, and unreadable- just as it should be. But this… this was different.

This time, he was standing outside his little sibling’s room.

Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi. His sibling in the lineage that should have been- had almost been- but never was.

Feemor had never spoken to the boy. Never been permitted to, even before the tragedy that had landed the child in this secure section of the Halls of Healing. And certainly not now, not while wearing the mask and armor of a Temple Guard. The rules were absolute: while in uniform, a Guard did not speak to outsiders. They did not emote. They did not let their presence register in the Force. They were shields; empty, impenetrable, and impersonal.

But Feemor was not impersonal. Not today.

When word had come in, when Master Drallig had announced that Kenobi had been found and returned, Feemor had wept in private. That the boy had been stolen, dragged away from the Temple by the very man Feemor had once called Master, had torn something open inside him. Again.

He hadn’t been allowed to join the galaxy-wide hunt for Jinn. Too personal, Drallig had said. Too compromised. The other Guards had agreed. Feemor hadn’t fought it, he knew they were right.

Still, when Obi-Wan was finally returned, Feemor had begged; quietly, formally, and with every ounce of discipline he could muster, to be posted to the child’s door. The other Guards hadn’t wanted to let him. He understood why. But it didn’t matter. He had to be here.

Because it should have been him. He should have stopped Jinn from ever taking another Padawan.

He remembered the moment he'd learned Obi-Wan had been accepted by Jinn. The helpless fury. The bone-deep fear. He had known, known, how that would end. And still, no one had listened to his carefully worded doubts. Not until it was too late. Not until Obi-Wan came back bruised and blank and guarded by shadows.

He should have done more.

Healer Bana, Obi-Wan’s mind healer, and one of the few who knew it was him and still spoke to him without pity, had informed him earlier that the boy would be allowed into the Healers’ Garden after lunch. A carefully supervised activity, she’d said. Therapeutic. Restorative.

Feemor didn’t like it.

The idea of Obi-Wan out there, exposed, surrounded by others even under supervision… it was good, he knew. Healing was good. But it felt like a risk, and Feemor’s entire being was tuned to prevent risk.

So he had said nothing, because Temple Guards did not interfere. But he had reached out to the network. Quietly. Respectfully.

The message had been short: Requesting additional Guard presence for afternoon hours. Padawan Kenobi to be relocated to Halls Garden. Ensure visibility. Quiet coverage only.

He had gotten confirmations almost immediately after sending the request—brief pulses of acknowledgment through the Guard network, efficient and wordless. His siblings would be there. Of course they would. The Guard did not abandon their own.

Feemor’s stance didn’t shift, but something deep in his chest eased.

A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision announced the arrival of his usual patrol partner- Master Sa’llant. The Mikkian's pale pink skin was hidden beneath their robes, the long head-tendrils that marked their species carefully wrapped and tucked under the high collar of the Temple Guard helmet. They moved with the kind of quiet grace only age and mastery could teach.

Sa’llant took position silently on the other side of the doorway. A soft click came through the internal comms system: “Other guards have positions near all three garden exits. Quiet coverage is confirmed.”

Feemor didn't answer, not aloud. Instead, he slowly and deliberately shift of his weight to one foot. It was invisible to any observer, but Sa’llant would see it. They had trained together for over a decade. They’d always understood one another perfectly.

Feemor felt himself settle. Sa’llant was here. The others were watching. Obi-Wan would be safe.

They didn’t have to wait long.

A gentle ripple in the Force warned him first. Moments later, a cluster of healers came into view from down the corridor. Feemor recognized two immediately: Healer Gillick, the tall Mirialan who carried herself like a woman who knew how to wrangle difficult patients with stubborn dignity, and Healer Bana, smaller and always calm. The other three were unfamiliar, likely physiotherapists judging by their uniforms and the soft medical packs slung at their sides.

They brought a hoverchair painted with flowers.

As they reached the door, he stepped forward, using his authorization key to unlock the secured entrance. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Feemor stepped aside, allowing the swarm of healers to enter.

Then he followed.

It was the first time he’d actually been inside Obi-Wan’s room.

He had seen it countless times through the reinforced transparency of the observation window. He knew its dimensions by heart. Knew the way the light moved across the far wall at different times of day. Knew where the cushions had been replaced after Obi-wan had shredded them.

But it was different, standing inside.

The air was quiet but lived-in. Warm. A faint scent of herbs and something metallic from the sterilizers lingered beneath softer notes- crayons, fabric, and childhood. Obi-Wan sat curled on his cushions in the corner, a stuffed Loth-cat tucked under one arm and flimsi balanced across his lap. He looked up at the intrusion, still and wary. Feemor didn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His helmet remained fixed, impassive, unreadable. But his heart twisted. Obi-Wan looked so small.

Healer Bana knelt beside him and spoke softly, giving gentle, clear instructions then he climbed up into the hoverchair. The child didn’t even try to argue or insist he could walk. He stroked his stuffed Loth-cat the whole time, thumb brushing over a seam behind its left ear with a rhythm that Feemor instinctively recognized as self-soothing.

“I need you to stay in the hoverchair until I say it’s okay to get up, alright?” Bana said as she clipped the safety harness over Obi-Wan’s lap. “It’s just like when the crechelings aren’t feeling well. We want you safe.”

Obi-Wan nodded so fast it made Feemor’s heart lurch. He worried the boy’s head might actually rattle. That wasn’t how any child should respond to being restrained, they normally put up a fit if they ever needed to be strapped in. That wasn’t… normal.

Feemor said nothing. He was a Temple Guard. He kept his silence like a shield.

When the healers were ready, he stepped forward and took point, leading them through the halls with quiet, practiced precision. The hoverchair hummed softly behind him, gliding smoothly along the polished corridor floor. He could hear the shuffle of healer robes behind him, the occasional gentle murmur between them, and behind them all, the soft, near-silent tread of Sa’llant.

It wasn’t far to the Healing Halls Garden. As they moved, Feemor subtly clicked his comm unit twice in succession. Across the path, hidden in alcoves and behind decorative archways, came three faint responses. The other Guards were in place. The garden was secure.

“Are we not going to the main gardens?” Obi-Wan asked suddenly, his voice small but curious.

Feemor did not turn. But behind him, he could sense the careful warmth in Healer Gillick’s tone as she answered. “We thought we would try out this garden first,” Gillick said. “It’s quieter. Fewer people. A little more gentle. When you’re feeling a bit stronger, we’ll try one of the bigger ones. You’ll get there.”

“Oh,Okay.”

They entered the Healing Halls Garden in a beam of soft midday light. Birds chirped somewhere in the branches above the stone walls, and the water feature bubbled gently near the edge of the path.

Feemor stepped aside as the hoverchair coasted to a stop near a low bench framed in yellow-green moss. He watched as Gillick undid the safety harness, her hands steady. Obi-Wan’s movements were slow, cautious, but he didn’t hesitate when she offered her hands to help him down.

He stood.

Wobbled slightly.

But stayed upright.

Feemor didn’t breathe.

The healers hovered, but didn’t touch him again. Obi-Wan looked around with wide, cautious eyes, then at the bush closest to the path. He didn’t smile—not fully—but his shoulders relaxed.

Then he dropped to his knees beside bush and crawled slightly underneath and began softly humming to himself, tracing something Feemor couldn't not see with his fingers.

Feemor stood at the garden’s edge, unmoving.

He would guard this child until the end of his days.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan stood at the front of the classroom, the Luilris mushroom pinched delicately between his fingers, its sweet scent filled his lungs. He asked them about edible mushroom types. A sand-coloured human mentioned water extractors. He opened his mouth to praise the answer only to be greeted with blaster fire.

Blue bolts ripped through the classroom. Children fell like dolls, one by one, before Obi-Wan even had time to scream. He spun, igniting his saber but it was too late. Smoke filled the Temple entrance hall, his saber danced as he shouted orders he didn't remember learning.

He screamed. And he wasn't in the Temple at all. He was on a city street, the sky above him washed in unnatural pinks. A bolt slammed into his chest. The pain was fire and drowning and silence. A voice, distant and desperate. “Obi-Wan!” A Togruta’s scream. It sounded like someone he knew. The world splintered.

Light. Pain. A pinprick in his arm. Someone was above him, wearing Healer's robes. He tried to speak, but the Force yanked him back again.

He danced. The rain warmed his skin as his bare feet twirled through a puddle. Bant was smiling- no, crying. Her new Healer's robe was pristine white. A white helmet pressed to his forehead. Then Quinlan was there, laughing, pulling him into a hug. The sky cracked open. Lava roared around them.

The Force released him like a breath held too long.

Obi-Wan slammed back into his body. The first thing he felt was cold; soaked sheets, soaked clothes. The second was pain. A twisting behind his eyes, a buzzing in his teeth, his stomach lurching up through his ribs. He was surrounded by Healers; Bana, Gillick, and others. Voices filtered in and out. 

Violent retching wrenched through his chest as he vomited across himself and the bedding. Hands tried to steady him, soft words tried to calm him. He wanted to apologise. He didn’t. His throat burned. His eyes were leaking. So tired. The world slipped away again, quiet and dark, as he fell back into unconsciousness.

The stars drifted slowly across the ceiling, gentle points of light in motion. Obi-Wan lay curled on his new rug, half-wrapped in a soft blanket, the faint scent of chocolate still on his fingers.The room was quiet except for the occasional shift of fabric as Master Plo moved nearby.

“You see anything in the vision?” Master Plo asked after a while. Obi-Wan shrugged. He didn’t look up. No one had asked in a long time.

He traced a pattern across the stitching of the rag rug Master Plo had brought. It sat beside his yellow cushions now, a patchwork of soft reds and greens and browns. The threads were uneven and the colours clashed.

“I used to keep a diary,” Obi-Wan said finally. “For the visions. In the creche. One of the night Crechmasters gave it to me.”

Master Plo said nothing, just let him speak.

“I stopped,” Obi-Wan added after a moment. “Master Jinn said… the Council didn’t think they were useful. That they were too confusing. That I was probably just imagining things.” He felt something tight coil in his chest. Not anger. Just that same empty, hot feeling he got when he tried to say something important and the words didn’t work right. “So I just stopped telling him. Or writing. Even when the Visions made me sick.”

Master Plo shifted slightly but didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence.

“I only see pieces now,” Obi-Wan said. “Not like when I was little. Never long enough to know whats happening.  I don’t know if they’re real."

"Why don't you tell me what you do remember, little one." So Obi-wan did. He talked and talked until there was no more to tell.

Eventually, Master Plo spoke “I don’t think those were Mandalorians,” he said gently. “They don’t wear white helmets like the ones you described. And even if they were, your vision was only one path. Not all of them lead where they begin."

Obi-Wan hummed, barely audible, rubbing Ani's head. He didn’t want to talk about that part.

“But I do know this,” Plo said. “You would make an excellent teacher.”

That made Obi-Wan blink. He looked up at him properly for the first time. “Really?”

Plo nodded. “Yes. You speak clearly when you care. You listen better than most Masters I know. And you think deeply before you act." Master Plo tilted his head. “Have you ever considered the AgriCorps? Or the EduCorps?”

Obi-Wan’s stomach twisted. He knew that question. He knew what it meant. The ones who were being… prepared. For a different path. For being sent away.

"I'm meant to be a Knight, or not be a Jedi at all."

Plo Koon nodded again, slow and steady, as if that were the only answer that made any sense. “Then a Knight you will be.”

Obi-Wan curled his fingers into the edge of the rug. “But no Master will want me. Not now. Not after… now I no longer have Master Jinn.”

There was a slight shift in the Force, like someone opening a window to let in cold air. Obi-Wan looked up in time to catch the way Master Plo’s face twitched, just a flicker, but enough to know. That expression again. The one he always made when Obi-Wan mentioned Master Jinn. Like he was trying not to show something sharp.

“Others want to be your Master.”  Obi-Wan didn’t believe him. He dropped his gaze, chewing on the inside of his cheek. That was just something people said. It didn’t mean anything.

Master Plo sighed softly and leaned forward, resting one hand lightly on his knee. His voice lowered, as if offering a secret. “I want to be your Master.”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped up.

“We, me, and the others who have applied, we’re not supposed to ask you,” Plo continued. “Not yet. Not until you’re well enough. But you are wanted, Obi-Wan. Deeply. You have not been discarded.”

Obi-Wan felt something hot prickle behind his eyes, but he forced it back. He couldn’t start crying again. Not today.

“I only asked,” Plo said, “to make sure this is what you want. Because your opinion is the one that matters most in this conversation.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t speak. His throat felt like it had closed around itself. All he could do was nod, jerky and fast. Ani's soft ear made its way into his mouth and he chewed on it.Master Plo didn’t comment on it. He never did. After a few more moments of shared silence, the visit ended with a soft goodbye, and Obi-Wan was left alone in the low golden light.

His next visitor came later in the afternoon.

Xe wore healer’s robes, a pale violet sash across the front indicating a senior specialist, and a small pendant etched with neural pathways hung around xir neck. Xe introduced xirself gently, with a name Obi-Wan promptly forgot, but xe smiled warmly and offered no hand to shake, just sat nearby without closing the distance.

“I specialise in Force-related neurology,” xe explained. “Visions. Cognitive distortion events. Neural dissonance.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “You… you study visions?”

“Yes.” Xe tilted xir head. “I’ve been reading your case file. You have had multiple vision episodes over the last weeks, so I wanted to ask a few questions—nothing formal. Just to get a sense of your baseline.”

Obi-Wan pulled the blanket up higher, unsure how to feel about this but still nodded. “I imagine this is the first time you have spoken to a healer about your visions.” When Obi-wan nodded again Xe smiled, not unkindly. "I am not surprised."

“Why not?”

“Well,” xe said, leaning back slightly in the chair, “because it’s generally assumed that most younglings who experience recurrent Force visions grow out of them by the time they reach padawanship. Our research suggests about 86 percent.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. That… made sense why they wouldn't have talked to him before about it. Kind of. But also didn’t.

“It’s fine that you haven't,” xe said kindly, reading the furrow in Obi-Wan’s brow. “Force visions are complicated.”

Xe adjusted xir datapad slightly, fingers flicking to a highlighted segment as xe spoke. “We assume that roughly five percent of crechelings experience more than one Force vision during their early years. We think it’s because crechelings’ minds are more open to multiple timelines and also worse at shielding themselves from ambient Force flows.”

Xe gave a small shrug. “So we give more leeway for longer vision durations in crechelings. A few minutes here and there isn’t uncommon in that age group. But as they get older, into the late youngling stage, those visions tend to fade. Either to zero, or to the occasional dreamlike flicker.”

Obi-Wan stayed quiet. He had heard whispers like that before, during his creche years. Had hoped that maybe his nighttime would quiet someday.

“We assumed the same had happened with you. You hadn’t been flagged for evaluation, and your Master… he didn’t report any visions to the Mind Healers, the council or the Archives.”

Obi-Wan looked away, a low thrum of shame pulsing in his chest. “He said the Council didn’t think my visions were accurate, so I stopped telling him about them.”

Xe stilled. Not out of surprise, this was clearly not news, but with the focused presence of someone cataloguing what they could say next.  “The administration of Diazepam on Troh, and then the Midazolam earlier today to control seizure activity during the vision aises some alarm bells for us. Especially because the vision this morning lasted almost fifteen minutes.”

He blinked. He hadn’t realised it had been that long.

“Master Koon said that you mentioned they never stopped. That they never faded like we might’ve expected. Is that true?”

Obi-Wan nodded once, jerky. “They’re shorter now,” he mumbled. “Most of the time. More segmented. Not like before. But sometimes they’re… bad. Really bad.”

Xe nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Over the coming weeks, I plan on doing some more tests,” xe said. “Asking you more questions—nothing invasive, just interviews and some safe neural scans. But only when you’re feeling better. Not right after a vision.”

Obi-Wan gave a small nod. That sounded fair.

“Then, we’ll make a plan together. One that works for you.”

That part made something loosen in his chest.

“This will probably involve giving you a medication,” xe continued, “something mild but steady, to reduce the seizure-like activity. It won’t stop the visions, that isn’t the goal, but it should prevent any neural damage from prolonged episodes. And more importantly, it should stop you from getting stuck in them."

Xer voice softened, "For someone who experiences post-youngling visions, we assume that it is due to how they connect with the Force or a biological brain difference. Whilst this isn't something bad or that we can change, it doesn't mean that we cannot help you. You deserve support.”

“…Okay,” Obi-wan whispered.

“Okay,” xe echoed.

Chapter Text

Bruck sat on the edge of the stone bench in the quietest corner of the Temple gardens, fingers twisting harshly in the hem of his tunic. He wasn’t scared. Not really. Just… tired. Angry. Frayed in places no one seemed to see.

His thirteenth birthday was two weeks away. Two weeks.

That was supposed to be a celebration. For most Initiates, it was their first celebration with their linage. But for Bruck, it was a deadline. An expiration date.

He’d tried everything. Sparring better. Meditating harder. Smiling at the Knights who came to observe the creche, even when it made his face hurt. But no one looked. No one cared. No one saw him.

His creche clan had nearly all moved on. The two who hadn’t were both nearly six months younger. The ones who mattered, his friend Aalto and ... Siri, were already apprenticed. The rest were gone. Or distant

Or Obi-wan

Bruck’s hands clenched. Obi-Wan Kenobi, who should have been in the AgriCorps, as he always should’ve. Oafy-Wan, with his weird stiff posture and dreams and wrongness. Bruck didn’t want Obi-Wan to be hurt. Not really. But it wasn’t fair that Obi-Wan was still here, still walking the halls as a Padawan to the great Master Jinn, when Bruck was being left behind.

The day Obi-Wan left on some unimportant planet's civil war, Bruck had felt something uncoil inside him. Hope. Possibility. Master Jinn had begun attending his classes. He had sat beside Bruck during meditation, sparred with him once or twice, offered calm corrections. It was happening, Master Jinn was going to take him on as a Padawan.

And then Jinn had left him too. Returned with Obi-Wan. He was abandoned again.

Bruck had shouted at Eryl, one of the last crechemates who hadn’t fully pulled away yet. Had called him a traitor when Eryl said he was happy Obi-wan was coming back. He had stormed off so fast he didn’t even put on shoes. He hadn’t meant to go as far as the under-basements but he had, fury pressing into his ribs. And that was where he had met him.

Xanatos.

He wasn’t a Jedi, Xanatos had said, not anymore. He was something better. Something free. Bruck hadn’t spoken at first. Just stood in the dark like an animal ready to bolt. But Xanatos hadn’t mocked him, hadn’t told him to calm down or try harder. He’d listened. And then he had returned. Again. And again.

He brought Bruck sweets, and a comm unit sleek and sharp and coded to a private channel. He helped with astronavigation problems, explaining things in ways that actually made sense, never laughing when Bruck got numbers backward or twisted. He didn’t make Bruck feel stupid. He just made promises.

“You won’t be left behind,” Xanatos had said the last time, voice smooth like oil over water. “You won’t have to beg. You deserve more, Bruck. You’ve always deserved more. You see what they won’t. You know.”

And Bruck did know.

He knew, deep down in a way no one could shake, that Obi-Wan didn’t belong. That there was something off about him. Obi-Wan didn't seem to understand things in the way he should. But no one else saw that except from him and now Xanatos.   And that… that made Xanatos perfect. It hadn’t taken long before Bruck found himself waiting hopefully for the bleep of his comm, for the shadowed voice that always had time for him. Bruck would do anything for him.

So when Xanatos had started asking for little things, just small favours, bits of information, harmless curiosities; Bruck had jumped at the chance. Of course he had. He wanted to help. He needed to help. If he was useful, then Xanatos would keep him.

And Bruck couldn’t be left behind again. Not this time.

Xanatos had wanted to know what was happening in the Temple. Easy. Bruck had whispered about the tension, about how the Temple Guards had all surged to high alert not long ago. He didn’t know what had caused it, just that something big had happened. That all the Masters were tense, and the healers had been busy, and the Guards were taking odd shifts near the Healing Halls.

Xanatos had gone quiet after that. Sharp-quiet. Angry-quiet. Bruck had hated that silence. It sat in his chest like a stone. He had clenched his fists and tried harder.

He listened, he watched. He memorised the temple guard rotations from the whispered gossip that filtered through shared sparring drills. He paid attention to which halls had stronger presences, where the shadows lingered longer. He paid attention to the whispers. Obi-Wan was back the whispers said. Back from where no one would say and non of the initiates knew. Had Obi-Wan left the order again? The traitor. 

But it didn't really matter. Because when he had told Xanatos, he had laughed. Bright and wild. He had lifted Bruck in both arms and spun him in a circle, the corners of his eyes crinkling with something that almost looked like joy. It was the first hug Bruck could remember in a long, long time.

Crechemaster Myzara wasn’t fond of hugs. Not even for comfort. Not even when Bruck cried himself sick after another Master passed him over. But she always believed what he said, if he projected the right emotions. Bruck had learned early on that with her, the feeling mattered more than the facts.

He hadn’t understood why, not at first. But later, when he was older, he’d realised it was because she was a Zeltron. Her emotions swirled too close to the surface. She trusted what she felt, not what she saw.

Obi-Wan had always been bad at shielding. His nightmares bled out into the Force like blood into water, thick and ugly and screaming. Bruck had seen the way Myzara flinched from him. She never said anything outright, but Bruck had noticed. She didn’t like Obi-Wan. 

His comm beeped, and Bruck’s heart leapt like it had been pulled from his chest. He scrambled up from the cold stone bench he’d been sitting on, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. His fingers clenched around the lightsaber hilt at his waist as he darted from the open garden path, slipping into the narrow trail behind the vines. The climb up the rocks was quick, his muscles knowing each grip and step by memory now. The hidden cave near the top of the waterfall gave him privacy from the ever-watching temple

He ducked inside and dropped to his knees, hilt already in his hands. He popped open the bottom with practiced ease, revealing the carefully rewired crystal chamber and, nestled in it, the sleek black comm Xanatos had given him. Bruck answered it.

The screen lit up with his face—Xanatos, beautiful and confident, dark eyes alight with something warm and wicked. “Padawan mine, I miss you already.”

Bruck felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Padawan?” The word cracked out of him in a whisper, disbelieving and raw.

Xanatos’s smile broadened, slow and pleased. “Yes. After today, you will be mine. Always.” He meant it. He wasn’t just saying it. It didn’t matter that it had only been a few days since they last met, Xanatos missed him.

Bruck clutched the comm close, like it could burn through his skin and fuse into his bones. “What can I do for you… Master?” 

And Xanatos grinned. A grin full of teeth and promise. “I’m going to come and get you today. But first, I need to take care of something. Obi-Wan knows something I need. Something important.”

Bruck’s stomach twisted. Cold. Hollow. “Obi-Wan?”

Before he could say more, Xanatos raised a hand. “Qui-Gon isn’t in the Temple anymore. I found out this morning. But Obi-Wan... Obi-Wan knows where he is. So I just need to ask him a few questions before we leave together.”

He still chose me. Bruck forced himself to breathe again. Obi-Wan didn’t matter to him.  Bruck nodded, sharp. “What do you need from me?”

“I need a distraction,” Xanatos said, calm, cool and sure. “Three tonight. In the creches. Something loud. Something that will pull the Temple Guards away from the Healing Halls. When that’s done, meet me where we first met. We’ll leave from there. You and me.”

The future flared in Bruck’s mind, no more waiting to be kicked out. Just Xanatos. A master who chose him. Bruck nodded again, faster this time. “I can do that. I’ll make it big.”

“Good.” Xanatos’s smile curled like smoke. “Pack your bag. We don’t come back after this.”

The comm clicked off.Bruck held it in his hands for a long moment, heart pounding, a dizzy grin spreading across his face.

Tonight.

He would make it unforgettable.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan paced the length of his room again, the seams of his socks whispering against the floor. The lights had dimmed hours ago, his dinner tray cleared long since, but sleep had evaded him entirely. He rubbed his fingers through Anis’ soft fur. The soft toy had been a constant comfort these last few days, grounding him better than any meditation technique.

He couldn’t sit still. Hadn’t been able to all day.

Mind Healer Bana hadn’t pushed him about it. She had only smiled and suggested they try moving katas instead of sitting still and talking. The steady, familiar patterns of movement had soothed something sharp and restless inside him. At least for a while.

But after they stopped for lunch, the buzzing started again. The same crackling hum under his skin, like bees crawling through his blood. In physiotherapy that afternoon, his limbs had trembled when they shouldn’t have. His focus slipped every time someone walked past the door, every time he heard the low tone of a healer's voice.

The sensor the neurologist had stuck just behind his ear had buzzed at least six times today. The healer (he still couldn’t remember xer name) had looked concerned every time xem'd come in, checking readings on xer datapad, adjusting things he couldn’t see.

Now the room was quiet again. For the first time in hours, no footsteps in the hallway, no murmurs from just outside his door. Only the steady whirr of the projector, casting stars across the ceiling in constellations Obi-Wan had already memorized.

He turned again rocking forward and back on the balls of his feet. Anis’ head bumped softly against his chin as he walked. The silence felt strange. Obi-Wan stopped for the first time in hours, blinking up at the ceiling. His stomach clenched suddenly, a cold tightness curling under his ribs. He wasn’t sure why.

Then a sharp, piercing shriek split through the silence.

The alarm wasn’t one he recognized. Not the fire drills. Not the standard emergency callouts. This one was different, more jagged, higher pitched. Something urgent. Something wrong.

He crossed the room in seconds and pressed his face to the  the heavy transparisteel window of his door.

the guard who had been stationed at his door wasn’t there. They had moved- strode purposefully toward the main corridor entrance to the ward. Their stance was tense, their hand near their saber hilt as they peered through the locked entrance.

What was happening?

Obi-Wan saw the movement a split second before his brain caught up. Something in the periphery, dark and swift. He turned sharply, looking down the opposite end of the corridor. A figure in dark robes was moving fast, far too fast, stalking silently toward the unaware Temple Guard’s turned back.

Obi-Wan screamed.

The sound tore from his throat, high and panicked and wordless. The guard spun at once, pivoting just in time to bring up their saberstaff- bright yellow light roaring into existence to meet the blood-red blade meant for their spine.

Red. a darksider.

The attacker spun at the failed strike, dodging the return parry with a grace that made Obi-Wan’s stomach twist. As the movement carried the intruder forward, their hood fell back with the motion.

Xanatos.

Obi-Wan staggered away from the window, breath punched out of him like he’d been hit in the chest. Xanatos. He had come for him.  Frantic, Obi-Wan looked around the small, sterile room. There was no way out. He already knew that, had known it every day since they brought him here “for observation,” for “healing.” But now that it was real, the knowledge burned like acid. There were no vents, no windows, no tools, no saber. nothing.

Except, there. Near the door. The emergency button, glowing faintly.

Obi-Wan lunged and slammed his hand against it. It chimed sharply, like a warning bell. A call for help. If it could even be heard about the siren already going off.

Then he bolted back to the window, heart hammering.

The yellow and red sabers clashed again, light filling the corridor in violent pulses. The Temple Guard was holding their own for now but Xanatos was fast. His blade spun through intricate, deadly arcs, and in the tight confines of the ward hallway, there was little room to evade. He switched forms mid-motion, flowing from Ataru’s high acrobatics into Jar’Kai, flicking a second saber into his off hand.

Obi-Wan blinked, his hands flattening against the window.

A breath later, Xanatos' second red saber slid into the Guard’s side. The Guard gasped and staggered, but grabbed at Xanatos’ wrist even as they fell. Then- snap-hiss- Xanatos shut off his blade.

The Guard collapsed silently.

“No,” Obi-Wan whispered. “fuck fuck fuck”.

He backed away from the door, trembling. He had nothing. No saber. No weapon. Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy. The room was designed to be safe for fragile patients. No corners, no edges. He slid down into the farthest corner, tucking his knees to his chest, Anis still clutched in one shaking hand.

The door hissed open. It had never hissed before. He stepped in.

“Obi-Wan,” Xanatos said, voice too calm. Too smooth. “Come here.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t move.

Could barely breathe.

The red saber flicked on again, bathing the room in pulsing crimson.

Bruck had done it.

The devices had been stupidly easy to make. The Jedi didn’t exactly encourage the younglings to make explosives, but their lessons in chemistry and engineering meant the knowledge was already in his head. A few stolen chemicals here, some scrap piping and filler from an old droid repair project there, and he’d had enough to make five smoke-pops, each noisy, dirty, and completely nonlethal.

No one would get hurt. He had made sure of that.

He had scattered them strategically- three in the creche and two more just off the main hall. He'd set the timers for exactly 0300, enough time for the guard rotations to overlap in their sleepy transitions.

Then he’d grabbed his pack- spare clothes, a few snacks, water, and his lightsaber- and slipped out the creche side entrance. The junior padawan stationed at the front desk was asleep again, slumped over datapads, breathing softly. Pathetic.

The halls were quiet, but his pulse pounded like thunder. He knew the guard rotations well enough now, having memorized them for Xanatos. Even so, he kept to the shadows, ducking behind statues and hugging the walls, letting the Force guide his steps as he moved lower and deeper into the Temple’s old foundations. The air grew cooler here. Still. Like the Temple itself was holding its breath.

He reached where he was meant to meet his Master early. So Bruck paced restlessly, glancing at the chrono on his wrist every few seconds.

Two minutes to three. Then... bang. The first muffled explosion sounded from far above, followed by a cascade of sirens echoing through the Temple’s upper levels. Bruck smiled to himself. It had worked, a bit early but close enough.

But fifteen minutes passed.

Xanatos hadn’t come.

Bruck’s excitement began to twist into anxiety. He kept pacing. Something had gone wrong. Had the guard rotations shifted? Had Obi-Wan said something? Had Xanatos...

The sound of rapid footsteps echoed through the corridor. Bruck spun, his hand on his lightsaber, heart leaping into his throat. The door swung open.

It was Xanatos.

But not alone.

Over his shoulder, limp as a doll, hung Obi-Wan. Bruck’s eyes widened. “I thought you were just going to ask him some questions.”

Xanatos barely looked winded. His eyes gleamed in the dark, lips curled in amusement as he adjusted Obi-Wan’s weight. “I was going to. But the terror wouldn’t stop screaming. It’s easier if we take him with us.” Bruck stared.

Obi-Wan looked… wrong. Pale. Limp. His healing hall robes weren’t the thin kind they gave out for short stays; these were the thick pajama-like ones they used for long-term patients. Bruck remembered seeing Obi-Wan in them once before, when he’d eaten some garden plant he shouldn’t have. He’d been sick for two weeks and Bruck and the others had visited him once.

But Obi-Wan hadn’t looked this small back then.

Now, draped over Xanatos’ shoulder, he looked even thinner. Sharper. Like a single breath would snap him in half.

Bruck twisted his hands together nervously. “He looks… ill. Wouldn’t it be better to question him here and then leave him? He can go back to the halls while we...”

“No,” Xanatos cut in, voice still pleasant, but with an edge beneath it. “We’re taking him. He knows things. And he’s important now.”

“Important?” Bruck echoed, frowning.

Xanatos smiled faintly. “To me, padawan mine.”

And Bruck felt something in his chest twist uncomfortably. But didn't argue any more as he followed his master out of a hidden entrance to the temple. 

Chapter Text

Plo Koon had been pulled from sleep by an alarm he had never heard before. That alone was enough to jolt him fully conscious. There were few things in the Temple that could surprise him, but this alarm sank claws into the back of his mind the moment it started.

Boots, mask, lightsaber, nothing else. He was out the door in seconds, the corridors already filled with motion. Robes whipping past him. Lightsabers in every hand. The Force was in flux, a living current of fear and purpose, flowing toward the creches. Jedi of every rank converging, their minds screaming a single question: The crechling. Are the younglings safe?

Plo surged forward, swept into the river of his kin, pushing himself to the front even as the crowd around him split; some to the main hall, others straight toward the creche.

Then Mace Windu appeared, running ahead of him, cloak dark with smoke along one edge. His eyes met Plo’s for a split second before he shouted over the chaos, “Plo go to the main hall! I’m heading to the creche!”

He didn’t slow down.  Plo wanted to argue. He wanted to go to the creche. Wanted to see for himself that the youngest of them were still breathing. But he knew the order was necessary. Someone had to take control of the main hall. Someone with seniority, and clarity.

So he turned, breaking from the crowd and heading for the smoke.

The main hall was a scene of chaos.

The air was thick with it. smoke, static, and panic. Black soot smeared the pristine floor, and one of the high curtains had caught flame. Plo saw a pair of Jedi lifting water from a decorative pool to douse it. The smoke was acrid, oily. Something chemical. A bomb? But with limited destruction. A misdirection?

Plo’s presence filled the room. He let it. Pushed calm and order into the Force around him like a beacon. He strode into the center of the hall, and the Masters and knights nearby instinctively turned toward him, anchoring to his certainty.

A temple guard approached, saluting crisply. “Multiple blasts from inside the Temple. Main hall and creche. No external breach. No injuries here. unknown status in the creche, Master Koon.”

Plo’s voice was a low, rasped growl behind the filters of his mask. “Who set them?”

The guard shook his head once. “Unknown. The bombs were rudimentary, likely set from within. We’re investigating now. What are your orders?”

Plo clenched his fist at his side. He should have been with the children. Instead he drew himself up, projecting command. “No one touches the devices. Not until we have a full scan and trace analysis. Assume traps.”He turned, his voice rising to carry across the hall.
“Double the guard at every access point. No one enters or leaves without high council authorization. Where are my Shadows?”

Two silent figures stepped out from the smoke like ghosts, faces hidden, bodies still. “I want full surveillance review starting two hours before the first blast. Trace every unauthorized movement. Every anomaly. Start with the creche and this hall. Get a psychometrist up here now.”

“Yes, Master Koon,” they replied as one, then vanished again.

Plo turned back to the room. “Everyone else, spread out. Sweep the Temple. Look for any devices, tampered systems, or unfamiliar presences. Question everyone. I want answers within the hour.”

He clenched his hand tighter.

And may the Force forgive whoever endangered the children. Because Plo Koon would not.

Obi-Wan's first thought when he woke up was fuck. He should have been more eloquent. But he was sore and he had been kidnapped by the man who had haunted his nightmares since Bandomeer.

Xanatos

Obi-Wan didn’t open his eyes. Not yet. Instead, he stayed still; breathing shallowly, letting his body remain slack, trying not to tense against the cuffs that pinched at his wrists behind his back. He reached out through the Force like a ripple in still water. Careful. Gentle. The idiot hadnt gotten force suppressing cuffs.

Whatever Xanatos had injected him with when he was captured had worn off. His awareness was still sluggish at the edges, but the clarity was returning.

The environment around him felt metallic and narrow, the low hum of a ship's engines thrumming beneath him like a dull ache. The deck beneath him was hard, probably durasteel, and cold through his thin healing hall robes. His ankles were bound by what felt like tape. Adhesive-heavy, sticky, gritty around the edges. Too rough to be standard stun cord.

No one was in the room with him. At least not physically. He couldn’t feel any active presence nearby, but there was a haze at the edge of his perception. Two shielded minds. He didn’t like that.A camera might be watching. Probably was. He kept still.

Slowly, cautiously, he cracked one eye open. Immediately shut it again. The light was sharp- too bright, too harsh, like a vibroblade slicing behind his eyeballs. He counted slowly to five in  Dai Bendu before trying again. This time, he opened both eyes just a sliver and focused on the hum of the ship’s systems- each vibration a thread he could center himself around. Right under the flight deck. Mid-size freighter? No, the pattern was too uneven. A modified hauler, maybe.

He didn’t panic.

He curled his body slowly backwards, painfully, until he could feel the tape around his legs. His fingers brushed over it carefully. Sticky, fibrous, and vaguely familiar.

Garen had used something like this before, fixing a cracked engine shroud on the old landspeeder they'd worked on together. Obi-Wan had stared at him in disbelief as Garen used his lightsaber to slice the tape free.

“It’s either this or a plasma cutter,” Garen had said with a grin.

No lightsaber now. No Garen. Just him. And the tape.

He swallowed, then shifted again. He curled further, arching his back and dragging his cuffed hands over his legs until they were in front of him. The muscles in his shoulders screamed, but he didn't cry out. He didn't even hiss.Progress. Master Jinn would be proud of him. 

He sat upright now, breathing more deeply. Still bound, but with his hands in front of him.

Next step.

He looked down at his legs, weighing options, estimating tension, angle, adhesive resistance. He didn't have the tools. So he moved on. Start small. Start now.

He hummed as he focused on his right thumb. Pressed it down against the edge of the cuff. Felt the familiar ache, sharp and tight, as the joint slipped out of place. He didn’t flinch. Master Jinn had made him practice this. So many times. It had been unpleasant. Necessary. The cuff slid off over the dislocated thumb.

He breathed through his nose and gently guided the thumb back into socket. Then repeated the maneuver on his left hand.Both hands were free.

He felt the approach before he heard it. Footsteps—soft-soled, uncertain. A shielded mind brushing against the edge of his senses like static. Not Xanatos. The shields weren’t that precise, not that cold. These were clumsier. Familiar. Bruck?

Obi-Wan inhaled slowly and slid his now-freed hands back behind him, mimicking the shape of being cuffed, curling them next to the discarded restraints. He folded inward just a little, let his body slump, slack and loose. Softened his Force signature.

The door hissed open.

He didn’t move.

Bruck’s footsteps were uneven. Obi-Wan kept his breathing even. The Force pulled and coiled around him like breath in a chest.

“You think I haven’t lived with you long enough to know when you’re faking being asleep, Oafy-Wan?” Bruck’s voice came from nearby. Obi-Wan opened his eyes slowly to find him was crouching infront of him.

Fair enough.

He let his body uncurl, just slightly, and pushed himself upright. His back met the cold ship wall with a thump, and he leaned into it, lifting his head to look at Bruck. But he kept his arms tucked behind him. No need to give that away.

Bruck didn’t look like a proper spacer, or a proper Jedi, or anything in between. He looked… like Bruck, trying to wear someone else’s skin. Layers of clothing pulled oddly, tunic too short over trousers that belonged to something else entirely. He’d never been good at disguise. Even as crechelings, Bruck had always gotten low marks in their simulation drills.

“You also forgot to stop your humming,” Bruck added, glancing at him sidelong. Obi-Wan cursed silently. That was something he always forgot. Jinn had slapped him more than once for it.

“Xanatos? Really?” Obi-Wan asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Bruck shrugged. His mouth twitched, unsure what shape it wanted to make. “No one else was going to take me on,” he said eventually. “Master Xanatos will teach me. Wants me. Just tell him what he wants and then he’ll let you go.”

Obi-Wan barked a short, humorless laugh. “If you mean he’ll sell me again, then yeah. He’ll let me go.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Bruck’s face twisted through a kaleidoscope of expressions Obi-wan had never being able to learn. Bruck turned, abruptly, and stormed from the room. The door hissed closed behind him. Loud. Final. Obi-Wan sat in the silence that followed, feeling the vibration of the ship through his spine.

Then he turned his attention back to the tape. It was wound tightly, pulled across his calves and ankles in thick, overlapping bands. He wouldn’t be able to rip it. He didn’t have a tool to cut it. That left one option.

He would have to slip out of it. He ignored the fact that the adhesive was designed to withstand the heat of reentry and the force of hyperjumping.

Obi-Wan reached down and tugged. Hard. Both physically and with the Force, channeling it in thin, precise lines of pressure through his fingers and around the bindings. The tape flexed. Didn’t give. Flexed again. Then tore just a little.

And tore at his skin along with it.

He bit down on the whimper that tried to escape, instead letting it vibrate against his molars. His breath came shorter now. Shallow. Burning. Each jerk of movement brought a fresh jolt of pain. Xanatos hadn’t even had the courtesy to bind him over his clothes. No, the adhesive had been stuck straight to bare skin, thigh to ankle. 

After a few more minutes, blood began to leak from the edges of the tape. Obi-Wan stared at it, watching the tiny rivulets curl around the wrinkles of his skin. Red and bright against pale flesh.

That gave him an idea.

He lifted his eyes, scanning the hold with more focus now. The shelves along the curved metal walls were cluttered with tools, scraps, half-finished repairs. Obvious oversight. Keeping a Force-sensitive prisoner in a room filled with parts. Xanatos must have been confident he wouldn’t try anything.

He shouldn't have been.

Obi-Wan’s eyes landed on a canister across the hold, round, squat, with a faded label that looked vaguely familiar. If it was what he thought it was, it could help. Alcohol-based degreaser, probably. Slippery enough to break down the adhesive. If he could just...

Two Force signatures approached.

Fast.

Obi-Wan froze, letting the moment shatter. He pushed his hands back behind him again, crossing the cuffs loosely over his wrists, and dropped his chin to his chest. He let his presence dim, let the ache in his limbs fill his posture.

The door hissed open.

Xanatos entered first, all dark robes and darker intent. Bruck trailed after him, quieter now, his face pulled tight.

"Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi," Xanatos purred, voice rich with mockery and disdain. He always made Obi-Wan’s name sound like a joke. Like a curse. Obi-Wan wished he had Ani here

It took Obi-Wan a second to remember he was supposed to speak. "How can I help you today, Xanatos?" he asked, careful trying to keep his tone flat, unbothered.

Xanatos’ eyes narrowed, amused by the performance. "Where is Jinn?"

Obi-Wan blinked slowly. "He has been removed from the Jedi Order," he said. “Master Koon says he isn’t a nice master.” He deliberately didn't look at Bruck when he said this, not wanting to see Bruck realise just how bad a padawan Obi-wan was.

Xanatos barked a laugh, short and sharp and cruel. "I could have told you that," he said. Then his voice dropped. Cold. "But that’s not what I asked. I asked where he is."

Obi-Wan met his gaze. Unblinking. “Prison.”

Xanatos didn’t hesitate. The slap came quick and mean, and Obi-Wan’s face snapped sideways from the force of it. The sting bloomed across his cheekbone like fire. He didn’t cry out. He didn't.  Behind Xanatos, Bruck fidgeted. His hands twisted, knotted together at his waist, eyes flickering between the two of them.

“Which planet,” Xanatos said, voice low. Lethal. “Tell me now before I show you a more convincing method.”

Obi-Wan’s heart thundered, but his voice was steady.

“Troh.”

Chapter Text

Plo stood in the middle of the secure ward, hands clasped tightly behind his back to stop them from trembling. He should have known. He should have felt Obi-Wan’s terror. The boy was his Padawan now, even if their bond was still raw and fragile, even if they hadn’t yet sat together in meditation to weave it properly.

No one had been directly harmed by the bombs. But a Temple Guard had been moribund injured. And Obi-Wan was gone.  His lenses fogged slightly, and he had to resist the urge to let the tears fall.  It would only make his already poor vision worse. 

The reports replayed in his mind, as though each word were being etched into him  with the ligthsaber which had cut down the Guard.

The secure wing’s alarm had been triggered. But the Healers hadn’t acted immediately. The creche breach siren had been deafening, blaring through every hall of the Temple. The emergency signal from Obi-Wan’s room had been noticed by the Healer on duty; but dismissed, when it was deactivated less than a minute later.

They had assumed the guard outside had handled the situation. No secondary alarms had been triggered from the hall panels. And with the entire Halls of Healing preparing for a mass influx of wounded younglings, the staff had let it slide.

When the Healer explained it to him, Plo could not bring himself to snap. The logic had been sound. In the noise, in the chaos, it had been a reasonable decision.

It was only when the search teams of knights flooded the corridors that the truth had been uncovered.  The body of the Guard had been sprawled out behind the glass of the secure ward door.

Kit Fisto, barely knighted, had found him. The Nautolan’s distress in the Force had been sharp, stabbing at Plo’s chest even now. He had tried to enter the secure ward, but the locks had held. It had taken a Healer’s override to gain access. He had been told they didn't think the Guard would pull through, that the injury was too surveer.

They had sent a knight to fetch him immediately.

Plo had twisted the Force as far as he dared, letting it surge through his limbs in a way he rarely allowed. It was a dangerous edge,too close to bending the current, to making it obey rather than flowing with it. But he hadn’t cared. Not when his Padawan was in danger. Not when every heartbeat stretched like a scream in his chest.

He had never known he could run that fast.

He only slowed as the secure ward doors loomed ahead. Healers and knights clustered in the corridor turned toward him, and the moment they saw his face, his mask, they parted like water, falling back to let him through.

The door to Obi-Wan’s room gaped open.

Bloody adult footprints led across the threshold.

Plo’s heart both screamed in fear and thudded in fleeting relief when his gaze swept the room. No small, broken body lay in the corner. But neither was there a frightened Padawan clutching a lothcat toy. Obi-Wan was gone. Taken.

Plo forced himself to move, every muscle trembling. He crouched low, catching a glimpse of something half-hidden beneath the bedframe. Ani. He wanted to pull it out and clutch it to his chest, to hold onto the last warm trace of Obi-Wan he could still touch. But logic won out. This was evidence. 

“Get Padawan Vos here. Now,” he croaked, voice raw from the pressure of holding back a howl that wanted to tear through his throat.

He knew what he was asking. Knew it would cost young Quinlan Vos something precious to reach into the lingering echoes of trauma and violence. Knew it would scar, feeling the fear of his best friend. But in this moment, Plo did not care. Obi-Wan mattered more than his scruples.

It didn’t take long. Vos arrived with his master, his Force presence sparking wild and sharp. He reached for the toy without hesitation, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

He stilled.

A moment stretched into forever. Then, with a sharp inhale, Quinlan dropped Ani onto the bed as though burned. His face was pale, his eyes too wide.

“He had a red lightsaber,” Vos whispered hoarsely. “He fought with Ataru. And jar’kai. White-skinned, humanoid. Brown hair. Over six feet.” Quinlan swallowed hard, shivering. “He knew Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan knew him too. He... he hit him on the head and injected him with something.”

Plo’s respirator hissed in the silence. “Did he say a name?”

Quinlan shook his head, trembling.

Plo’s mind churned, pulling through the names and faces of every fallen Jedi he knew, every darksider who fit the description. None fit until his thoughts screeched to a halt, crashing against the one possibility he had refused to even consider. 

One which Jinn had reported dead. No. It couldn’t be.

With stiff fingers, he pulled out his holopad and scrolled until a frozen image filled the projection: a young man, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, wearing Padawan’s robes just before that fateful mission that had shattered everything.

Quinlan looked at the image, then back at Plo, his throat working. He gave a sharp nod. “That’s him.”

Xanatos.

The name was acid on Plo’s tongue, though he didn’t speak it aloud.

It was Xanatos. He had come back for Qui-Gon’s lineage. And Obi-Wan was in his hands.

After forcing the name out of him, Xanatos had hauled Obi-Wan roughly to his feet, only to discover the cuffs dangling, no longer locked around his wrists.

“You can’t make it easy for me, can you, Kenobi,” Xanatos growled, his tone half-amused.

Before Obi-Wan could react, strong arms swept him up, slinging him like a sack of grain over Xanatos’ shoulder. Obi-Wan twisted, snapping his teeth at the man’s ear, but missed. His forehead thudded against Xanatos’ back instead, the jolt reverberating through his skull.

“Pathetic,” Xanatos muttered, ignoring him as he carried him into the main compartment. He dropped Obi-Wan unceremoniously on the durasteel table, the impact rattling through his bones.

“Bruck, get the first aid box.”

Obi-Wan watched from the corner of his eye as Bruck scuttled away and returned with a battered case, handing it over like a loyal pet. Xanatos flipped it open with ease, fingers searching until they closed around a syringe.

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched. He twisted, flailed, but Xanatos’ grip was unyielding. The sharp prick slid into his arm, and within seconds, icy cold washed through his veins. The world went soft and floaty, edges blurring until it felt like none of this mattered.

Xanatos’ lightsaber ignited with a sharp snap-hiss.

The red glow filled the room, sharp and terrible. Obi-Wan’s heart thundered, but his body obeyed when Xanatos barked, “Hold still.”

He froze. Perfectly still.

The blade slid down between his bound legs, cutting the adhesive apart in a single clean motion. Xanatos didn’t stop. He rummaged again in the kit, this time pulling free a dark glass bottle. Obi-Wan, stomach gnawing with hunger, reached instinctively toward it, convinced for a desperate moment that it might be food.

A sharp smack across his knuckles sent his hand tumbling back. “Not for you,” Xanatos sneered.

He uncorked the bottle and poured its contents over Obi-Wan’s raw, bloodied legs. The sting was sharp, making Obi-Wan hiss. But almost immediately, the adhesive gave way, the remnants of the tape peeling cleanly off his skin.

Before Obi-Wan could sigh in relief, Xanatos’ hand was already reaching again. This time pulling a sachet marked in language Obi-Wan didn’t understand. The foul-sweet scent hit his nose before he saw the clear gel. Bacta. Thick, cold slime spread across his abraded skin.

Obi-Wan must have zoned out for a moment, because suddenly there was a plate shoved into his hands. He blinked down at it. Half a ration pack and a chunk of meat still clinging to a thick bone. His stomach twisted with need. He grabbed the meat first, sinking his teeth into it. It was red, bloody, just the way he liked it.

He chewed, tore off another piece, barely noticing the voices around him. Background noise. He couldn’t care. Not when food finally sat heavy in his hands.

“What did you give him?” Bruck’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with suspicion.

Instead of answering, Xanatos asked, smooth as oil, “Do you know what species Obi-Wan is?”

There was a pause, and Obi-Wan didn’t need to look up to know Bruck had shaken his head.

“He’s Stewjoni,” Xanatos continued. “Predator species. Comes with quirks. One of them...” he gestured at Obi-Wan, who was gnawing the meat from the bone with quiet focus “is that tookanip affects them.”

Bruck let out a startled sound. “Tookanip? You mean he's a tooka?”

Xanatos chuckled darkly. “No, padawan, don’t be silly. He isn’t a house pet. But his people process the plant the same way. Makes them docile. Malleable. And unlike the sedatives I tried earlier, it lasts. When I realised how quickly his body burned through the usual drugs, I did some research. Tookanip works without harming him.”

Bruck shifted uncomfortably, voice low. “I thought you hated him.”

For once, Xanatos hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Obi-Wan, chewing with quiet, instinctive satisfaction, blood smearing the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” Xanatos said finally

Chapter Text

Plo sat hunched in the pilot’s chair, the stars streaking into frozen lines around them as hyperspace swallowed the ship. His claws curled into the armrests. He had made the decision already. If Xanatos stood in his way, if he lifted a blade over Obi-Wan or the other missing child, Plo would end him. 

The Council would not approve. The Code would not approve.
But Plo Koon, Jedi Master, was not ashamed. He had sworn his life to protect the young, and his new padawan was the top of that list and he would see that vow through.

It made a grim sort of sense, didn’t it? That Xanatos would drag Obi-wan to Troh. Back to where his fallen master was being held. Plo’s talons flexed against the controls.

And it wasn’t only Obi-Wan now. Reports from the Creche had told of another missing child, a Bruck Chun. It looked like the child had been manipulated into helping Xanatos. When the Shadows told him Bruck had planted the explosives, Plo had felt his heart clench. That boy, still an Initiate, still soft with childish uncertainty… already twisted into an accomplice. 

The only reason they even had a lead was pure fortune. Obi-Wan’s neurologist had burst into the secure wing only minutes after Plo had been told who had taken his young padawan, shoving a datapad into Plo’s hands, elation clear in xer voice.

“The sensor is still connected! I forgot to turn off the tracking feature!” The tracker, designed to keep vulnerable patients from collapsing unnoticed in the Temple halls, was now their only lifeline. It was normally turned off if a patient was confined to halls, like obiwan was.

For one brief, wild moment, Plo hoped it was still in the temple. But it wasn't, it was at a nearby dock. He had desperately calling airtraffic control. He had begged them to ground the ship, but they informed him it was already in the air. 

So Plo had done the only thing left: he called the emergency fighters.

They launched into the dusk, engines howling, ignoring the planets space and air controllers screaming in their ears. They had chased until their ships were nearly burning out, but Xanatos had leapt to hyperspace, leaving them with nothing but frustration and fire in their veins.

Plo had refused to stop. He had sprinted for the Temple hangars, robes flying, calling for any ship that could follow. Within minutes, one was ready. Not the best team. Not the most prepared. But enough.

Now, in the cabin behind him, his hastily gathered force sat in tense silence.
Master Gehirn, still clutching the pad that showed Obi-Wan’s blinking signal. Knight Kit Fisto, coiled like a wire, trying to mask the anxious tremors in his Force presence. Dooku and at his side his padawan. And most surprisingly of all, a Temple Guard, silent behind his mask, hands folded with the stillness of stone.

Plo exhaled slowly through his respirator, the shame of earlier still pressed heavy on his chest. That he had not felt Obi-Wan’s terror in the Force. That his bond with the boy was still too new, too fragile.

That would not happen again.

“Hold on, little one,” he whispered into the void, claws tightening on the controls.
“We are coming.”

Obi-Wan was good. Very, very good. He’d been good for… well… a while now. Time didn’t matter much when there was always meat and warmth and things to climb on.

Xanatos, who usually carried a lot of sharp in his voice, was softer lately. He fed Obi-Wan plenty, big slabs of meat with the blood. And Bruck… oh, Bruck was perfect for climbing on. And sitting on. And biting. Especially biting.

They told him off for that part, but honestly, what did they expect? Bruck was soft and squidgy and thus eminently biteable. That was just nature.

But now Obi-Wan was strapped into a seat. No wandering. No climbing. No sneaking to the galley to paw through ration boxes. The ship was landing, Xanatos said, and he’d given Obi-Wan a bone to chew on while it happened. A good bone, big and heavy with marrow inside. He held it in both hands and worked his jaw around it, trying to get the crack just right.

Somebody on the radio started talking in sharp, official tones. “You have permission to land in sector ninety. Please have your manifest ready to be given to officials.”

Obi-Wan flattened his ears; well, not literally, but it felt like that in his head. The voice was annoying. Too loud. He tuned it out and bit harder until...

Crack.

Oh yes. There it was. The marrow, rich and perfect, slid onto his tongue. He hummed in satisfaction.

The landing gear engaged with a heavy clunk and the ship settled with a hiss of cooling vents. Obi-Wan looked up as Bruck came over, expecting that the straps would be undone so he could take his bone up to the cabinet and eat in peace. But Bruck didn’t. He just sat next to Obi-Wan, quiet.

That was fine. Bruck was warm. Even if he was a meanybeany sometimes.

The ramp hissed open, letting in the scent of dust and city air. A humanoid and a Twi’lek stepped aboard, both in neat uniforms. The style made something flicker in Obi-Wan’s memory. They looked like Detective Kalna and Detective Nechal… except their sleeves were plain, without the yellow stripes.

“Greetings,” Xanatos said, voice all smooth edges again. “My name is Xanatos du Crion. And these are my children, Bruck and Ben.”

Obi-Wan paused mid-chew.

He looked between Bruck and Xanatos, bone still in his mouth, and wondered… where was the other child was? And why did this ‘Ben’ person have a name so close to his?

Obi-Wan was about to ask about this mysterious other child when Bruck’s hand moved toward his bone.

Oh no. Absolutely not.

He snapped, quick, sharp teeth just shy of skin, and Bruck jerked his hand. Obi-Wan clamped his mouth back over the bone, gnawing in satisfaction as the Twi’lek started poking around the ship.

“Why is...” the humanoid glanced down at the datapad in their hand, “Ben still strapped in?”

Xanatos’ voice was smooth, almost lazy. “Ahhh. Ben has a habit of running off and biting people who get too close. So he remains strapped in whilst people are inspecting our ship. For his own safety, and yours as well.”

Obi-Wan frowned around the marrow, tongue still busy scooping out the good bits. That… didn’t sound right. He normally didn’t; well, okay, maybe the biting part sometimes, but still. Something in the back of his mind twisted, the way it did when he’d almost remembered something important but it slipped away again.

“Are they your children biologically?” the human asked.

“Bruck, yes,” Xanatos said smoothly. “However, Ben was adopted.”

The human gave a low hum, and Obi-Wan felt prickling, quiet suspicion rippling through the Force. He didn’t know what they were suspicious about… only that the air suddenly tasted sharper, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, suddenly less interested in his bone and more in the way the human’s eyes lingered on him. They didn’t look at him the way most people did when Xanatos spoke, nodding along, accepting his words as truth. No, this one’s gaze was measuring, weighing.

He gnawed again, slower this time, while the Twi’lek disappeared into the sleeping quarters. Through the half-open door, Obi-Wan could hear the faint thump of storage crates being shifted.

“Stewjoni, right? Full blooded?” the human asked casually, though the Force around them was anything but casual.

Xanatos’ smile didn’t falter. “Yes.”

“Mm,” the human replied, glancing at the file again. “Interesting heritage for a Coruscant-registered adoption.”

Bruck stiffened. Obi-Wan felt it through the seat, the way his leg pressed harder into the chair frame. Xanatos, however, didn’t so much as twitch.

“Paperwork’s all in order,” he said, voice silk and steel.

The Twi’lek reappeared from the back. “Ship’s clear,” she said, but her eyes flicked to Obi-Wan for a beat too long.

The human took the datapad Xanatos offered back, though their thumb lingered on its edge. “Very well. Welcome to Troh.”

They turned to leave, but that strange suspicion still hummed faintly in the Force, like an itch Obi-Wan couldn’t quite scratch.

When the ramp closed behind them, he turned his head toward Bruck.
“Why’d they...”

“Shut up and chew your bone, Obi-wan,” Bruck muttered.

Chapter Text

Detective Kalna was looking forward to xer weekend. For once, the caseload wasn’t crushing, and xe’d managed to wrangle a few days away from the city. The countryside promised clean air, rolling plains, and most importantly quiet. Xe could almost feel the weight of the datapads lifting off xer shoulders just thinking about it.

Across the desk, Nechal had his head down, stylus scratching steadily over a pad. Kalna watched him for a moment, considering. Maybe xe could convince Nech and his new partners to join xer for dinner tonight. The thought of cooking for one in xer narrow flat was less than appealing, and it had been far too long since the two of them had done something outside the station walls.

The holo buzzed. Kalna sighed. Of course. Five minutes to lunch, and fate had decided to interrupt. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. Xe thumbed the receiver. “Detective Kalna here.”

The miniature holo-image shimmered to life, two figures in local constabulary uniforms crowding together on the projection. One human, one twi’lek.

“Hello, Detective,” the human spoke first. “Constable Avan, and my colleague Constable Oom’rena. We’re stationed at sector ninety spaceport immigration. A freighter just landed,technically cleared checks, but one of the passenger files looks… off. Name of Ben du Crion. Listed as adopted son of Xanatos du Crion. Full-blooded stewjoni, supposedly adopted on Coruscant. Might be nothing, might not. Thought we’d pass it up the chain.”

Kalna pinched the bridge of xer nose, already feeling the afternoon slip away. “Unusual place to adopt a stewjoni from,” xe muttered. “Any other red flags?”

Constable Oom’rena, the twi’lek, leaned closer. “Kid was strapped to his seat. Looked happy enough, he had a bone he was gnawing on. Xanatos said the restraints were necessary, that the boy had a habit of running off and biting people.” The constable hesitated. “We tried to direct a few questions to the boy, but he didn’t respond at all. Could be neurodiversity. Or…”

"Ok, I will come down." Kalna sighed and stood, grabbing xer jacket from the back of the chair and the speeder keys from the desk. The weather report hadn’t been lying, the drizzle had set in, smearing the windows with streaks of gray. 

As xe stepped into the hall, Nech slid neatly into place beside xer, coat already in hand. He gave xer a sidelong look, wry smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m guessing we’re not popping out to that new hovocaff, then.”

Kalna just shook xer head and tossed him the keys without breaking stride. Nech hated xer driving, and xe wasn’t in the mood to listen to him gripe about it all the way across the city. The traffic was mercifully light, the speeder slotting into an open lane of the airexpress that cut through Rigruit’s layered sprawl. They made good time heading toward the outer landing pads. The capital’s wet season had hit its stride: heavy clouds, puddles collecting in every groove of duracrete, the haze of neon signs dulled by waterlogged air. Most of the offworlders had already cleared out for drier climates, or else hunkered in the casinos.

They touched down smoothly on the tarmac, rain slicking the surface. Constables Avan and Oom’rena were already waiting at the edge of the pad, rain capes dripping.

Kalna shook Avan’s hand while Oom’rena gestured toward a freighter parked not far off. Even from here, Kalna could pick out the engine housing: non-standard, refitted for speed and silence. “Are they still inside?” xe asked.

“Yes,” Oom’rena confirmed. “They haven’t left yet.”

Nech strode ahead and pressed the intercom by the boarding ramp. The device crackled, then a child’s voice answered, thin and high, distinctly Coruscanti. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Nech said evenly, flipping his warrant holo up to the camera. “I am Detective Nech, and this is my colleague, Detective Kalna. Is your dad there?” Silence. Long enough that Kalna felt xer jaw tense

Finally the speaker crackled back on. “Errr… my father just popped out for supplies quickly. He will be back later.”

Kalna met Nech’s eyes.

Xe hadn’t missed that flicker of hesitation in the boy’s voice or the fact that the constables had sworn the passengers hadn’t left the ship. With a slow inhale, Kalna turned her head toward Avan and Oom’rena. Both looked uneasy, Oom’rena shifting her weight like a cadet caught out of uniform. Guilt pricked their expressions.

Kalna sighed, the sound heavy and sharp. They must not have been watching as closely as they claimed. Rookie mistake. “Would you mind letting us in? We’re the second half of the inspection team,” xe said, voice smooth with the lie.

The pause on the other end stretched. The kid was probably working through instructions: don’t open the door, don’t talk to strangers, wait for Father.Just as Kalna resigned themself to the boy refusing, the boarding ramp hissed and began to lower.Xe ducked under the opening as soon as there was room, Nech right behind.

The child standing framed in the hatch was most definitely not Stewjoni. Xe turned a sharp glance back at the constables. Xe was very seriously considering writing them up.

“Err, this is the other child. Bruck du Crion,” Detective Avan blurted, almost tripping over the words. The “other child.” That hadn’t been in the handover. A serious oversight. If things had gone sideways...

Kalna forced a smile and extended xer hand. “Hello, my name is Detective Kalna. Xe/xem pronouns.” Xe had learned long ago that children hated being spoken to like toddlers.

Bruck took the hand reluctantly, his movements taut with suspicion. “Bruck. He/him.”

“Nice to meet you, Bruck.” Kalna kept xer tone easy. “I heard you’re a big brother. Can I meet your sibling?”

The boy’s posture shifted instantly, chest puffing in quiet pride. “Ob—Ben is actually older than me. I’m just more mature.” Then his eyes narrowed, sharp for his age. “Why do you need to meet him? I thought this was the second part of the inspection.”

“It is,” Nech said quickly, smile stretching so wide Kalna wondered how his jaw didn’t ache. “Kalna and I? Our job is to meet everyone coming in. We’ll meet your dad later.”

“That seems weird. Every person who arrives has to do two clearances? That’s surely too many people. Dad never said anything about this,” Bruck said, suspicion sharpening his voice.

Shame the boy wasn’t younger. Younger kids believed everything you told them. Nech kept the smile plastered on. “Yes, every person. Maybe your dad didn’t know, sometimes we do things a bit differently here. It won’t take long.”

Bruck frowned but, after a moment, stepped aside.

Kalna had to duck to get through the hatch, too tall for the cramped ship corridors. Not uncommon, but still irritating. Nech slipped in behind xer, boots ringing faintly on the deck plates.

The main hold was empty. Kalna’s gaze swept the benches, the scattered gear, the faint smell of burned ozone that clung to freighters. “Where’s your brother?” xe asked evenly.

“He has to stay in his room when Dad isn’t here, so he doesn’t get into trouble,” Bruck answered reluctantly. It took a bit more prodding, gentle persistence from Nech, a look from Kalna, before he finally led them aft.

The door was keypad-locked. Heavy. And from the angle of the seal, Kalna could tell it was meant to open only from the outside.

When the panel slid aside, xer heart sank.

Obi-Wan was curled on the bottom bunk, swallowed by a blanket, his small frame tense and shivering. For a moment, Kalna’s chest tightened with memory, crawling under a table, coaxing this child out from a too-small space. The only difference was that here xe didn’t need to crouch all the way down; xer knees were grateful for the mercy.

Xe softened xer voice. “Hi, Obi-Wan. Fancy seeing you again.”

The boy blinked up at xer, pupils glassy, movements slow, like when he had  been waking from anesthesia. At the doorway, Bruck had gone pale. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side. Kalna turned, expression hardening. “What did Xanatos give him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. His name is Ben. Not Obi-Wan,” Bruck said quickly. It was such a transparent lie that he couldn’t even force himself to meet xer eyes. Nech laid a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. Kalna, meanwhile, held him in a disappointed stare until Bruck broke.

“…Tookanip,” he muttered into his shoes. Tookanip? Like what you gave lothcats? It affected Stewjoni? Clearly, it must.

With a sigh, xe crouched and slid arms under Obi-Wan. The boy weighed next to nothing, which made xer chest ache even more. At least xer knees were thankful for the lightness.

“Come on then, Bruck,” Kalna said firmly. “We’re taking a quick trip to the hospital.”

As xe stood, Obi-Wan stirred weakly and latched his teeth into xer shirt. The faint sound of fabric tearing followed, the weave giving under his grip. Kalna winced, already thinking about how much it would cost to replace armorweave.

But xe only tightened xer hold on him. “It’s alright, Obi-Wan,” xe murmured, even as the boy gnawed and growled faintly against xer shoulder.

Nech hadn’t removed his hand from Bruck’s shoulder. The boy’s jaw was tight, defiance still written all over his face, but Nech’s steady grip wasn’t meant as restraint, it was reassurance. The kid might have helped his father, might have carried guilt and lies on his shoulders, but he was still a child. Still someone’s responsibility. Still someone who needed help.

The paramedics were waiting just outside the ship. One of them immediately stepped forward with a hoverstretcher, taking Obi-Wan gently from Kalna’s arms. The boy was quickly settled into the hoveralbulance, vitals checked, monitors strapped in. His small fingers twitched, still restless even through the haze of the drug.

Nech guided Bruck inside after him. “You’ll ride with me,” he said simply. The boy didn’t argue,his shoulders merely hunched further.

There wouldn't be enough room for Kalna, so xe angled back toward their speeder. Anyway, Nech had control of the situation, xe needed to get it moving back at headquarters. As the medics sealed the hoveralbulance doors, Kalna climbed in, started the engine, and eased up into the drizzle-clogged traffic stream heading toward headquarters.

Xe reached for xer holo, intending to punch in the superintendent’s code, when it buzzed on its own. The incoming ID  was the Superintendent. “Superintendent,” Kalna answered, keeping xer voice professional. “I was just about to call you.”

Jessto’s face resolved on the small screen, grave and tight-lipped. “Detective Kalna, there has been an incident. A human broke into our prison and killed a prisoner.”

Kalna’s brain screeched to a halt. For a moment xe could only blink, mouth dry. What? What came out instead was a bewildered, “Hu?”

Jessto didn’t pause. “The suspect has been apprehended and identified as a newly arrived tourist, a Xanatos du Crion. I believe you and Detective Nechal were investigating his and his children’s paperwork down at the port.”

Kalna gripped the controls tighter, the drizzle blurring the transparisteel canopy in front of xem. “I was just about to phone you about that,” xe managed. “The papers for the Stewjoni were faked. It’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Jedi padawan who we rescued before. We’ve recovered both children.”

The superintendent let out a stream of verbal abuse, most of it directed squarely at the Jedi. Kalna didn’t interrupt, didn’t even try to. Xe found xemself agreeing with every word. Twice now Rigruit authorities had to step in and pull the same child out of danger. Twice. Did the Jedi even realize one of their own was missing? Or were they too busy meditating to keep count of their padawans?

“At least we managed to get both Obi-Wan and the other child away quickly,” Kalna said once Jessto’s tirade finally tapered off. Xe adjusted xer grip on the yoke, knuckles whitening. “They’re both en route to the hospital, we’ll scan for slave chips immediately. Who did this Xanatos kill? ”

Jessto’s expression hardened. “It actually makes sense, now that I know it was Obi-Wan you found. Xanatos killed the ex-Jedi, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Oh,” Kalna said flatly. “Well, this is a shit show.” Xe sighed and guided the speeder around a lumbering delivery barge. “The question is where are the Jedi?”

The ship dropped out of hyperspace with a shudder, and Plo’s hands tightened imperceptibly against the armrests. Troh sprawled below them in a glimmering swath of steel and rivers, its wet season clouds hanging low and heavy. He had imagined the moment of arrival would bring him closer to Obi-Wan, but his Padawan still felt fuzzy in the force. 

Air-traffic control diverted them to the same platform as Master Dooku had been sent to last time, Sector 12, right in the city’s heart. Waiting there was no welcoming committee of top officials, but a squad of uniformed durran officers, their posture stiff and their expressions irate.

The welcome was nothing like the mayor and head of police that Master Dooku had described after his own visit. No polite smiles, no careful courtesies. Just hard stares and clipped orders. Plo was grateful, not for the first time, when Master Dooku stepped forward and took control, the way he had throughout the trip. Plo might be the Council member here, but his thoughts felt like they were drifting through fog. His mind looped only one thin- my padawan, my padawan, my sweet and fragile padawan.

“Hello, officers.” Master Dooku bowed deeply, the rest of the Jedi following automatically, even Plo with his distracted thoughts. “We are here because-”

He got no further.

“Come with us,” the lead officer snapped.

The sharpness of the interruption shocked Plo out of his frantic thoughts. “My padawan-” he began, but the officer cut him off again, striding forward with stiff authority.

“Jedi Masters, please board the hovovan now. We have been instructed to bring you directly to headquarters.”

Plo turned toward Dooku, searching for steadiness, ignoring the fact that he should be the one projecting command. Dooku’s shrug was almost imperceptible, a subtle gesture of acquiescence. So they followed.

Plo could not help noticing how carefully the seating was arranged inside the vehicle. Padawan Vosa was not seated among her peers but flanked by two durran officers, their protective aura almost suffocating in the Force. The message was clear, they were under suspicion.

The ride passed in silence, the low hum of the engine and the faint patter of drizzle on the roof the only sounds.

Instead of being brought to the front entrance, the van slid into a subterranean garage. The Jedi were ushered into a windowless conference room, the air thick with disinfectant. Three durrans awaited them. Two Master Dooku introduced, Commissioner Vehna and Detective Kalna. The third, tall and sharp-eyed, introduced xemself as Superintendent Jessto.

“We have come because our Temple was attacked and Obi-Wan and an initate was taken,” Dooku began smoothly, his voice calm steel. “We have reason to believe they were brought here.”

“My padawan,” Plo interjected, unable to hold the words back. The strange haze in the Force around Obi-Wan was rattling him, the distortion that made it hard to breath.

Jessto’s expression didn’t change. “We know. We have already apprehended one Xanatos de Crion, and rescued two children. One of them is Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The weight that had been crushing Plo’s chest lifted all at once. Relief surged through him like air after drowning. Rescued. His child was safe.

“My padawan—I must go to him,” Plo said, already half-rising.

“You are not going anywhere,” Commissioner Vehna snapped, her tone sharp as a blade.

Plo stiffened, every instinct in him bristling at being held back from his Padawan. These beings were trying to keep him from Obi-Wan.

“Not until we are sure Obi-Wan is safe,” Vehna continued, her voice cool, uncompromising. The 'from you' went unspoken.