Chapter Text
Qui-Gon had heard from various pilots and miners, to phrase it more politely than they had, that Mustafar was the armpit of the galaxy.
He wasn’t sure he would go that far, but it was quite an unpleasant world. The lava fields, too bright to look at for very long, stretched beyond the horizon, reeking of sulfur and the chemicals from the treatment plant. Not even the stars were visible through the thick atmospheric blanket of smoke, wrapping the planet in perpetual night. The only signs of life were the Techno Union droids siphoning ores from the lava below.
Coming here wouldn’t have been Qui-Gon’s first choice. But they’d already been too far from Rodia when he had noticed the leak in the shuttle’s fuel line, and Mustafar had been the closest inhabited world suitable enough to refuel and repair it.
He was sure the ship had been in perfect working order when they’d left.
“Master.” Obi-Wan’s small, sweaty head poked out from beneath the ship, where he was assisting the Toong workers with the repairs. “We’re almost done. They think it was a jungle creature from Rodia that crawled up the pipe and chewed through the line.”
“Very good,” Qui-Gon replied, hiding a smile at the boy’s irritated, grease-stained face. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan had volunteered to help out of goodwill and a thirst for knowledge, but engineering was likely not in his future. What was likely to be in his future was diplomacy – their mission to Rodia had been nothing more than a simple territorial dispute between two factions on one of the planet’s moons. Obi-Wan had displayed not only interest, but keen understanding of both sides.
At least one of them had. Qui-Gon was grateful that his student seemed to have inherited the talents from Master Dooku that Qui-Gon himself struggled to find patience for.
Instead of disappearing again, the boy frowned. He slid all the way out from beneath the ship, clambering to his feet.
“What is it?” Qui-Gon asked.
“…Master, do you feel that?”
Qui-Gon almost replied that he sensed nothing out of the ordinary, until, out of nowhere, he did. Despite the oppressive heat, a cold prickle traveled up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
It was not a warning of danger, but it was unmistakably the sensation of someone watching them.
There was no one behind them, but now, when Qui-Gon turned, he noticed a strange, dark building nestled high in the cliffs. There were no lights in the windows, and no steam rising from it to indicate it was part of the treatment plant. It was just…there, almost blending into the black rock.
The structure had been there the whole time; he had even noticed it in a vague, peripheral way as he scanned the horizon, but his gaze had simply slid right over it, not sparing it a second thought.
“…Yes, I do.”
“What is it?” Obi-Wan asked, hushed.
“I’m not sure. Excuse me,” Qui-Gon addressed one of the workers approaching from the refinery. “What is that building there?”
The Toong squinted shortsightedly. “Where?”
“On the cliffs. Does it belong to the mining guild?”
The Toong’s eyes actually crossed for a second, a strange, unnatural confusion rolling into the force. “Oh…that? That’s always been there. It belongs to some banker, I think.”
“I see. Thank you, friend.”
Obi-Wan scowled as the Toong walked past them towards the ship. “Someone’s in trouble up there. That’s not –“
“Hush.” Qui-Gon laid a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Stay here. Finish the repairs. When they’re completed, take the ship to the top of those cliffs. I’ll meet you there.”
Obi-Wan’s sigh was far too long-suffering for a twelve-year-old. “Should I contact Coruscant and tell them we’ll be delayed a little longer?”
Qui-Gon smiled. “Do that.”
***
Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to leave obvious signs of breaking and entering, but he’d ended up needing to slice through the door with his lightsaber when the lock had resisted his attempt to open it with the force. The door itself had been solid neuranium and taken much longer to penetrate than normal metal.
The chamber he landed in was dark rock, with only mining lights glowing softly in the gloom. Dozens of passageways branched off, shrouded in shadow.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation from the landing platform, that quiver of distress. He could no longer feel it, but instinctively, he followed the passage furthest to the left. As he wandered the dim, featureless hallways, no armed security appeared to suddenly surround him, no sound of an alarm rang out. The whole place was deathly silent, penetratingly cold, and, to all appearances, empty. There were no signs, no logos, no computers, nothing to indicate its purpose or that it had ever been occupied.
But there was someone alive here. He was certain of that.
He was also certain that that someone was force-sensitive. He and Obi-Wan would not both have felt the presence so strongly otherwise. He hadn’t told the boy as much, yet, because Qui-Gon had sensed something else beneath the watcher’s gaze – the cold shiver of the dark side.
That someone was probably not the droid that almost took his head off with a vibroblade as he rounded a corner. Only Qui-Gon’s reflexes saved his life as he bent under the blade, igniting his lightsaber in one fluid motion to slice off the droid’s arm. Both arm and weapon clattered to the floor, echoing loudly through the narrow space.
The droid wheeled around; it had six – well, five now – spider-like appendages, with eight red photoreceptors. Frankly, Qui-Gon was surprised it had taken this long for something to attack him – but maybe that meant he was getting closer to his goal.
“State your business,” the droid intoned. Ah, so it wanted to talk now that it had been quite literally disarmed.
“Your boss sent me,” Qui-Gon replied. “Maybe you should have asked me that before you grabbed a knife.”
“You lie. You will not be allowed to leave this place.”
“I think the odds are slightly in my favor, friend.”
As if attempting to prove him wrong, the droid produced a blaster rifle and fired. Qui-Gon smoothly deflected it, taking the droid cleanly through one of its optics. In the same movement, he rolled forward and sliced it in half at the torso. Both halves of the droid fell with an earsplitting crash and moved no more.
Qui-Gon bent over to examine it more closely; it was an assassin droid, certainly, but it was not like any assassin droid he had ever encountered. It had the chassis of a caretaker droid, cleverly designed to disguise its heavy armor and weaponry.
A caretaker was an odd, and rather disturbing, mask for an assassin. Most assassin droids were designed to blend in with industrial or pilot droids. This one – was its target a child?
Even more alert now, he moved slowly up and down the hallway, searching for hidden doors or panels. He suspected the droid would not have gone too far from its charge.
And then – there was a whisper in the force, the same feeling as the eyes that had watched them on the platform.
The concealed door did not budge, but another quick search of the droid revealed a key card. Qui-Gon held it up, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss of pneumatics.
The room – if it could even be called that – was little more than a cell. The dark rock walls were bare, and the only furniture was a small, rigid-looking metal bed. There was a single low window, coated in a thin, grimy layer of ash. The fires of Mustafar shined through, providing the only light. There was a clear view of the mining guild landing platform below.
At first glance, the room looked empty - but as Qui-Gon’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the being emerged, cautiously creeping out from underneath the bed.
It was a Zabrak child, small and wiry. He was probably only around Obi-Wan’s age, if not younger; his horns had barely budded. He clung to the bedframe, his nocturnal eyes shining softly in the gloom. He did not move a muscle, either to approach Qui-Gon or hide from him again.
Qui-Gon had been to Dathomir once before with Master Dooku. It had been one of their last missions together before Qui-Gon was knighted and Master Dooku retired from the Order. Master Dooku had not divulged the details of his business with the Dathomiri matriarch, but the strange world was hard to forget. Qui-Gon still recognized the black clan marks of Mother Talzin that decorated the boy’s red skin.
There were a limited number of reasons that a member of the reclusive species would be so far from his home world, and none of them were good.
Qui-Gon slowly sank to the ground, seating himself cross-legged in the doorway without entering the child’s space.
“You’re a long way from Dathomir, little one,” he said softly. “Are you here by yourself?”
There was no answer. The child’s piercing yellow eyes were still fixed on him, and it occurred to Qui-Gon that the boy might not even understand Basic.
“My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Can you understand me?”
The only reply was a push against his mental shields - clumsy with inexperience, but a clearly focused and intentional attempt to probe his motives. It was not the light knock shared between the Jedi. It shoved, harsh and demanding, and if not for Qui-Gon’s discipline it would have shocked him into allowing the child entry.
He had been right that the child was force-sensitive. But the taint of the dark side he had sensed – this was not merely an untrained sensitive whose talent had been twisted by fear or anger. The boy had received instruction, however rudimentary, in dark side techniques.
This had suddenly grown from ‘very concerning’ to ‘much, much worse.’
“There’s no need for that,” Qui-Gon scolded lightly, and for the first time, the boy reacted – a narrowing of those yellow eyes, surprised that his trick had been noticed. And, to Qui-Gon, confirmation that he did at least understand. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“…Did he send you?”
That seemed an odd first question for the child to ask, and did absolutely nothing to assuage Qui-Gon’s concerns about him.
He smiled disarmingly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“To see if I’ll run away.”
A force-sensitive child, whose presence was shrouded in the dark side and who was guarded by an assassin droid in a hidden facility on a remote, inhospitable world. A child who suspected being tested by a mysterious ‘he,’ and whose two hearts were pounding at the thought of leaving - probably because he knew the consequences of trying.
There were dozens of questions that needed to be asked, but in this moment, there was only one that mattered.
“…Do you want to run away?”
“No.” The answer was brittle, immediate. “If that’s why you’re here, you should leave now.”
“What will happen if I don’t?” Qui-Gon asked calmly.
The child bared his sharp little teeth. “I’ll kill you.”
Slowly, intentionally broadcasting his movements, Qui-Gon pushed back the folds of his outer robe to expose the lightsaber clipped to his belt. He wanted it to be a sign that he was willing and able to help the boy, and not taken as a threat, so he kept his hands purposefully away from his weapon.
“That may be harder than you think, little friend.”
The red and black hands tightened around the metal of his bedframe. For the first time, curiosity cut through the taste of the boy’s fear. “…You’re a Jedi?”
“Yes, I am.” There was no point in concealing his identity; his mind was made up. Qui-Gon was taking the child with him, away from this place.
He did not get any closer, waiting for the child’s next move. Qui-Gon didn’t want to forcibly abduct the boy; he had a feeling that that might have happened already. If his growing hunch was correct, this child might not see the Jedi as allies, but he still hoped to be able to persuade the boy to come with him willingly.
Someone’s in trouble, Obi-Wan had said, able to sense it even as an untrained child.
As the Zabrak boy had watched them on the platform, his gaze had not been of malevolence, but longing.
But before he could say anything else, the child lunged forward and sank his small, needle-like teeth into Qui-Gon’s hand.
***
Well, so much for not abducting the child against his will.
Through the sudden shock of pain, Qui-Gon had planted the strongest sleep suggestion he could in the boy’s mind; not enough to harm him, but he would be out for several hours. After a few seconds, the boy collapsed against him, and Qui-Gon laid him on the bed to conduct a hurried search of the facility.
Armed with the droid’s key card, he discovered several more hidden rooms. One of them contained nothing but an enormous tank of multi-colored fish, patterns of watery light playing over the dark walls. Another appeared to be some sort of gymnasium; though it was spotless, Qui-Gon could still smell the metallic odor of recently shed blood. He finally found one that housed the facility’s computers, but they were all encrypted beyond his capabilities. There was nowhere to even try entering a password. Eventually, he gave up, not wanting to linger too long here.
Obi-Wan, dutiful as ever, had brought the ship to the cliffs and lowered the boarding ramp when Qui-Gon hailed him. His blue eyes went huge at the sight of the sleeping child.
“Who is that?”
“Hopefully, we’ll find out soon.”
“…He feels weird,” Obi-Wan muttered.
“I suppose he would,” Qui-Gon acknowledged. “That, Obi-Wan, is the dark side. But it’s no reason to be afraid of him. You were right. He does need help.”
Obi-Wan glanced away, saying nothing.
Qui-Gon used the shuttle’s limited scanners to check the Zabrak boy for tracking chips or micro-explosives, but found none. Now, only hours out from Coruscant, the child was still sleeping. Hopefully, he would remain that way until they could get him to the temple healers – though Qui-Gon could tell the boy’s sleep was not a peaceful one.
He was quiet, though. Qui-Gon could only feel the waves of distress roiling into the force and see it in his furrowed little brow. He did not move or make a sound; a child who’d already learned to make no noise, to hide his nightmares. Obi-Wan, next to him in the copilot’s chair, kept fidgeting.
Qui-Gon sighed to himself. He didn’t want to invade the boy’s mind any more than he already had, though he tried to project calm and peace towards him. The child could take hold of it if he wanted.
The council was going to love this, he was sure. They were even more going to love Qui-Gon’s theory.
***
“Let me get this straight,” Mace said. “You think you abducted a Sith apprentice?”
“A child who was meant to be one, at least,” Qui-Gon explained. “Darkness surrounds him, and he knows how to use it.”
He’d already summarized all this to the full council. And submitted a written report. They’d dismissed him from his debriefing still – vehemently discussing it among themselves.
Mace, not content with that, had actually followed him out of the council chamber. Presumably just to continue pressing his point. Or maybe to escape the debate.
“I do not believe the Sith Order could have returned without us knowing.”
“Yes, I know. You said as much.”
Mace wasn’t officially on the council yet, but everyone except Mace himself all knew it was only a matter of time. They’d invited him to this meeting because of his experience in breaking up child trafficking rings, and though he had only been there as an advisor, he was not shy with his opinions. Never had been, not even when they were kids and Mace had told Qui-Gon, an apprentice eight years his senior, that his Makashi forms were wrong.
“You said he’s from Dathomir? The witches there use the dark side. Possibly they taught him.”
Qui-Gon was already shaking his head. “I’ve been to Dathomir. This felt different than their magic. I sense a darker and more powerful hand at work.”
“Jinn.” Mace huffed. “Only you could go on a routine diplomatic mission and come back with a child who may be evidence of the Sith Order’s survival.”
“Stop sending me out, then,” Qui-Gon replied, amused.
“Nevertheless,” his friend admitted, “he was clearly a victim of trafficking for some purpose. You did well to rescue him.”
“I’m about to go to the healing halls,” Qui-Gon invited. “I already checked him for trackers, but I’d prefer a more advanced scanner to verify that.”
“You should get yourself looked at, too,” Mace said pointedly, glancing at the bloodstained bandage on Qui-Gon’s hand. He had only been able to bind the jagged teeth-marks with a torn strip of his robe; by the time he’d applied a bacta patch on the shuttle, it had been too late. The wound had closed, but it would scar. Who knew juvenile Zabraks had that much bite force?
“I’ll go see if the techs were able to get anything off the droid,” Mace continued. “But they’re not too optimistic.”
The boy wasn’t the only evidence Qui-Gon had taken back; he had confiscated the droid’s destroyed chassis as well. The memory logs of assassin droids were difficult to recover, precisely so they couldn’t reveal information about their missions or employers. Still, it had been worth a try.
“The boy might be the only one able to provide answers,” Qui-Gon acknowledged. “But right now I don’t think he’s feeling very talkative.”
Qui-Gon did not spend much time in the temple. He’d always found Coruscant too stifling, and he had ranged far and wide throughout his apprenticeship with Master Dooku. That dislike of sitting still had remained with him in knighthood, but whenever he returned, the healing halls were his favored retreat within the ancient structure.
The high-ceilinged chambers were always quiet, muting the sounds of Coruscant’s constant traffic. The umber stones were lit only by the warm sunlight streaming through the windows, and full of the gentle flow of the force as the healers did their work.
Of course, Talia’s presence helped, too.
“Quite the challenge you’ve brought me, Master Jinn,” Talia said in way of a greeting, and he suppressed a smile at his friend’s familiar low voice.
“How is he?”
“No trackers,” she confirmed quietly. “And healthy enough for a boy his age. Strong, and adequately nourished. There’s no reason he has to remain with us, other than that he’s too violent right now to put with the other children.”
With a grimace, Qui-Gon noticed the scratch marks covering his friend’s hands. “Has he said anything more about who he is?”
“He has not. But I can tell you more about what he came from.”
Talia held out her hand, and he gently took it to guide the blind healer down the halls, mindful of the fresh cuts on her skin. She could navigate perfectly by herself, especially in her own domain, but it was a habit from when they were children that they’d never outgrown.
Qui-Gon felt the Zabrak boy long before they reached his room, a small storm of rage and adrenaline and fear within the tranquility of the healing halls. They did not go in; Talia stopped outside, took down the boy’s chart from the door, and handed it over. Qui-Gon skimmed it briefly, and saw what she had meant.
The boy, as she’d said, was reasonably healthy. But there was evidence that his left wrist had been completely shattered at one point. Four of his ribs had been broken before. There was nerve damage in his right hand, and an old burn across his back that must have been severe when it was new.
Qui-Gon had to stop reading eventually, and, for a moment, simply close his eyes and breathe out the heat of boiling anger.
Training to be a Jedi was physically demanding, of course. Bumps and bruises and sore muscles were inevitable. The occasional, more serious accident of a broken bone if a child was careless, but even that was rare. Injuries of this frequency and severity were not mere training accidents. Or, at the very least, they spoke of a training far more cruel and intense than anything a Jedi initiate would face.
“…What now?” he asked Talia after he had regained his voice.
“When he calms, I will speak to the council about placing him with the other children. That will do him good.” There was steel in her normally mellow voice, and Qui-Gon could tell she was as furious as he had been.
“Keep me informed,” Qui-Gon said, handing the chart back. “I will speak to the creche masters if you speak to the council.”
She nodded, and that was all the confirmation he needed. In the meantime, he had other leads to pursue.
***
Healing rooms in the Jedi temple were different from other hospitals on Coruscant; they were darker, adorned in cooler colors, comfortably warmed by sunlight. It looked pleasant enough to Obi-Wan’s eye, but the Zabrak boy obviously didn’t think so. He’d thrown the soft blankets and pillows he’d been given onto the floor, and deep scratch marks scored down the single thin sheet he’d left on the bed. Now, that was just a waste of good linen.
Still, Obi-Wan couldn’t entirely blame him. The healing halls were probably Obi-Wan’s least favorite part of the temple. Academically speaking, using the force to heal was fascinating, and he admired the healers’ skill and the compassion they needed for their work. But the healing halls were open to the public, and many of Coruscant’s poorer element frequented them for the free care.
It was a needed mission, of course. But there was always a pall of sickness and despair that hung throughout, and Obi-Wan, when he had to visit as part of his training, usually left feeling kind of uncomfortable. He wondered if it was bothering the Zabrak, too.
“Hi,” Obi-Wan tried.
He didn’t really expect an answer, and there wasn’t one.
Obi-Wan seated himself comfortably at the small table across from the bed, setting down the tray Healer Talia had given him. “Do you want lunch? Healer Talia said you need to eat.”
She’d also said the Zabrak was violent. So far, he was just staring at Obi-Wan. Admittedly, staring like he was trying to burn holes in him, but still, just looking.
Talia had given him a remote to activate the ray shield that divided the room in half if the Zabrak became aggressive. Possibly he knew Obi-Wan had it, which was why he hadn’t tried anything.
Obi-Wan shrugged at the continued silence. “Suit yourself.” Leisurely, he began eating his own meal. He didn’t have anywhere to be until his next lesson in an hour.
He didn’t want to be rude and just stare at their guest, but Obi-Wan had never seen a red Zabrak before, or one whose markings were so intricate. The other boy was stiff on his ruined bed, back to the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.
“…If I answer you, will you go away?”
“Possibly,” Obi-Wan replied to the resentful mutter. “It may speed up my leaving.”
The Zabrak scowled. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Obi-Wan replied truthfully. “Just company while I eat my lunch.”
Well, that was mostly truthful.
The Zabrak looked unimpressed. “And you picked me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Obi-Wan.” He waited a beat before it became apparent that there would be no reciprocation. “What’s your name?”
He watched the Zabrak have some kind of internal battle for a second, hugging his knees tighter, and went easy on him. Obi-Wan wouldn’t have opened with that if he’d known it was such a monumental ask. “You don’t have to answer that. Sorry.”
The spike in agitation slowly dissipated, replaced by a look of suspicion. Apparently, apologies weren’t something the other boy received very often.
"I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”
“That’s fair,” Obi-Wan agreed. It wasn’t like he knew any great Order secrets, anyway.
“Who asked you to come here?”
That, at least, was easy to answer. “Nobody. I was curious. And…you were curious too, weren’t you?”
There was another visceral burst of panic; everything the Zabrak boy felt just bled into the force, with not even an attempt at restraint. Maybe he wasn’t used to being around other force-sensitives, or maybe it was a dark side thing.
“I was with Master Qui-Gon on Mustafar,” Obi-Wan hurried to add. “I wanted to meet you.”
"And you…know Master Qui-Gon?”
There was something in the way he said the name that reminded Obi-Wan of venomous serpents.
“He’s my master. Well, not formally. I’m not old enough yet to begin my apprenticeship, but he’ll be my teacher one day. I’m allowed to accompany him on assignments sometimes. And,” Obi-Wan continued, “it’s my turn now.”
The Zabrak relaxed slightly, letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed, waiting for the question. Obi-Wan tried to think of something that would be safe enough, and keep their fragile conversation going. He was pleasantly surprised it had even lasted this long.
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“Why does that matter?” the Zabrak muttered.
“I guess it doesn’t. But you did agree to answer.”
He was staring at the floor like he was hoping it would answer for him. “…I think I’m nine.”
Obi-Wan decided not to ask for clarification on that. “Where are you from?”
“Mustafar.”
“I didn’t know Zabraks lived on Mustafar.”
“They don’t,” the other boy growled. “Except me.”
“Ok,” Obi-Wan responded lightly. He hesitated, debating if he should even ask the next question. “…How did you end up there?”
The Zabrak tensed, both of them sensing they were on more dangerous ground now. “I was meant to be there.” His eyes narrowed. “And you owe me now.”
That was totally not an answer, but Obi-Wan had met, sometimes, kids that joined the Order after being rescued from trafficking or exploitation. Master Billaba always said it was better for them to talk when they were ready.
Obi-Wan leaned back in the chair, then regretted it when it proved to be kind of uncomfortable. “Ask away.”
"What are your Order’s plans for me?”
Now it was Obi-Wan’s turn to bail on a satisfactory answer. “I don’t know.” He caught himself nervously tapping his fingers against the table, and stopped. He knew he might be overstepping his boundaries with this next statement. “But if you want to stay here, you could.”
“I can’t do that. I won’t.” And despite the warmth of the sunlight through the window, the temperature in the room plummeted. The sudden cold wrapped around the Zabrak in a frigid, smothering embrace.
Obi-Wan thought he controlled his reaction, but the Zabrak, with all the instinct of a natural predator, honed in on the involuntary twitch of his hand towards the remote.
For a moment, Obi-Wan thought he tasted the bitterness of betrayal before it was swallowed up in thorns.
“…I have nothing else to say to you,” the Zabrak announced eventually, voice flat. He turned away, a clear sign that their audience was over. “Don’t come back.”
“I won’t.” Obi-Wan bowed briefly in polite acknowledgment. “But we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. The healers are moving you to the creches.”
***
“Really, Obi-Wan, did you have to tell him that?” Talia demanded, exasperated.
“I’m sorry, masters,” Obi-Wan said, shuffling his feet, and he sounded like he really meant it. Qui-Gon supposed he himself was more to blame than his student; it was not a secret that Obi-Wan liked having the last word.
Talia softened. “Well, I suppose he’d have taken it the same no matter who told him.”
The Zabrak boy must have interpreted the news that he was joining the creches as some sort of threat; he had lunged wildly for the door, even though he must have known he had no real chance of escaping. Still, Talia had needed all of her skill to restrain him. Now, she sighed and brushed her fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair. “Wait outside for Master Jinn, little one.”
Obi-Wan bowed to both of them, then scurried out to the corridors leading away from the healing halls.
“You trust him with too much,” Talia said when Obi-Wan was out of earshot.
“I consider him trustworthy.”
She shook her head and let it drop. “Have you found anything?”
“…Nothing.” It was hard to keep the frustration from seeping into his voice.
The council had dispatched him again to Mustafar, this time with Mace’s newly knighted apprentice volunteering to accompany him.
(“This reminds me too much of when my sister and I were taken by pirates,” Depa had murmured. “The poor child. I wonder what happened to his family.”)
Their efforts, however, had been fruitless. Depa had been able to access the strange facility’s computers, but she’d found them wiped and the data beyond recovery. At the same time, the technicians at the temple had finally been able to access the assassin droid’s memory core, but it only contained protocols for the boy’s education. It had probably been subjected to repeated memory wipes to conceal whoever owned and programmed it.
“Today may not have gone well, but it was good, actually, that he responded to Obi-Wan,” Talia replied. “I believe he will reveal more when he is among children his own age.”
“I hope so.” He clasped her hand briefly. “Thank you.”
Obi-Wan was dutifully waiting for him when Qui-Gon entered the corridor. He hid a smile as the boy trotted along in his wake, slowing his stride so Obi-Wan could keep up with him.
"I really am sorry, master.”
“Think nothing more of it, Obi-Wan. I’m curious, though.” He looked down at his young friend. “What were your perceptions of him?”
Obi-Wan frowned. “…The dark side makes him feel strong. He’s scared of something, but I don’t think he wants to give it up.”
Qui-Gon blinked, surprised at the boy’s insight. “I believe you’re right. He will learn to move away from it, in time.”
Obi-Wan made a small noise of disbelief. “What will become of him, master? Will he stay here?”
"Perhaps, if he wishes it.” He did trust Obi-Wan, but he did not yet want to share that if the Zabrak was indeed a Sith apprentice, there might not be another option.