Chapter Text
When Obi-Wan first answered the pre-recorded holo communication from Jango Fett, he thought it was a joke. Perhaps not a joke - Jango wasn't a man Obi-Wan had ever seen smile let alone participate in something as good natured as a joke - but possibly something akin to a prank. And when Jango had finished speaking, Obi-Wan had to resist the urge to call out for Anakin. He didn't think he'd been hit in the head lately, but his having succumbed to an unusually vivid hallucination was the only reasonable explanation for those sequence of words leaving Jango Fett's mouth.
Mandalore wishes to offer aid to the Republic.
In terms of unexpected sentences, it was up there with Anakin ever saying I really love sand. Or, flying isn't fun. Or, Obi-Wan, you were right.
Obi-Wan played the message through three times. Each time scanning Jango's face for any deception. His senses told him that Jango was in earnest. Mandalore wanted to put its weight behind the Republic.
The Mand'alor was surprisingly but not uncharacteristically blunt; laying out Mandalore's position, their terms, and his wariness of blindly trusting the Republic. He looked straight ahead, no duplicity in his face. A sincere, if typically (where Jango was concerned) out of the blue offer.
Obi-Wan had to trust it as such. While he was no longer a Jedi (his father's unexpected death a few short rotations after Qui-Gon had rejoined the living Force calling Obi-Wan to a destiny he'd thought lost to him), Obi-Wan retained some contacts within the Republic Senate. Personal friends, allies of Stewjon; they would listen, believe Obi-Wan if- when he vouched for the Mand'alor's honesty.
Now, the question remained as to how Obi-Wan would react. He stood sharply from his desk, idly using the Force to ensure a stack of flimsi precariously perched on the side of it didn't fall. Pacing seemed a very good idea right now. If he remained at his desk, he would inevitably fall back into the administrative work waiting for him. The reports and missives, drafts and speeches that demanded personal attention from him.
And so, he paced. Over the worn rug that had seen spilled jawa juice and tea, tears and droid oil; along the pale stone walls, glittering with crystals. Trying to find logical reasons to sway his mind against what his heart said they needed to do. Open up a political cannister of kouhouns but aid the Republic. Help end this dreadful war.
His office offered him no answers. Just the same questions circling around his head. Why now? Why him? Why would the most notoriously isolationist of the independent systems want to take this risk on themselves? Why would Jango think that Obi-Wan could-?
Before he could wear another line into his rug, Obi-Wan spun on his heel, opening the balcony doors with a wave of his hand. Fresh air would clear his head.
Below in what was both private courtyard and garden, Anakin and Ahsoka were in motion. Feet dancing lightly over the crushed stones, vaulting over the fountain, lightsabers meeting with sparks and laughter. Obi-Wan leaned his elbows on the stone railing, watching them for a long moment. Happy and at ease, unbothered by missives from vague allies or fears for the fate of the Galaxy. Those were on Obi-Wan's shoulders, as it should be. Who else ought to bear the burden of worry but the King? The person whose choices - good or bad - altered the fate of his system.
If he did this - followed what his heart and his senses were telling him was right. If he reached out to Padmé and Bail, Riyo Chuchi and Mon Mothma, if he passed on Jango's message - Jango's wishes - then he would have to accept whatever consequences fell on Stewjon. All the people who depended on him would suffer or celebrate from his actions.
Obi-Wan scrubbed a hand over his beard, his shoulders slumping. Being King was no easy feat. But he had faith in the Force, trusted it to lead him on the right path. As Qui-Gon would undoubtedly sigh and teach him, the right path was rarely the easiest one and what mattered most was the choice. The choice.
The only one he could make.
Leaning over the balcony, Obi-Wan caught his lineage in a stalemate. “Anakin!” he called, just sharp enough to emphasise the urgency.
Anakin jumped, somersaulting his way up to Obi-Wan's balcony.
Once, he might have chided him for misusing the Force, now the teachings of the Order were more guidelines and Obi-Wan didn't have time to waste deciding if he wanted Anakin in a sulk or not. They had more important things to discuss.
“I need you to call your wife,” he continued, watching Anakin's eyes simultaneously sparkle and take on a sheen of concern. “There is an urgent matter we need to discuss.”
The meeting hadn't been terrible, Obi-Wan mused, the white-blue light of hyperspace lulling him to relaxation. He didn't relish time spent on Coruscant, his heart always trying to lead him back to the Jedi Temple and the family he still felt connected to there. Quinlan and Bant and so many others. But it had been necessary. Coruscant was neutral ground. And with the Senate so often in session, it made more sense for Obi-Wan to have come to the Capital than to make Bail, Padmé, Senator Chuchi and Mon Mothma break away from their business to come to him.
Passing along the Mand'alor's wishes was the trickest part of it. Bail needed the communication played a dozen times before he'd let Obi-Wan begin to vouch for him. In the end, it wasn't so much a negotiation as the decision to agree to Jango's terms. Simply put, Jango wanted to help the Republic, but he didn't trust the Republic. Or, at least, not certain elements within it. So, he had requested (bluntly and without necessarily sounding like he was asking for anything) that a selection of trustworthy Republic representatives - Senators with enough power and sway that he wouldn't be wasting his time - meet him to discuss ways that Mandalore might assist the Republic. And because Jango was a suspicious man, he insisted that the meeting must take place on Obi-Wan's planet.
Ironically, that had been the easiest part of Jango's demands for the Senators to swallow. He supposed that each group with their own connection to Obi-Wan and Stewjon would feel more comfortable there than any other location that could have been named. It didn't favour either side too heavily.
Yet, Obi-Wan could not deny that a sense of unease had followed him since he'd left Bail's apartments. A hint of disquiet in the Force. Perhaps he had exaggerated the difficulty he thought he'd have convincing the Senators, or perhaps he was borrowing trouble for the meeting to come. Whatever the reason, he couldn't shake the sense of apprehension hiding in the Force. Like it was warning him to be on his guard.
It wasn't for his own safety, he didn't think. Former Jedi he may be, but it was no secret that he was trained in the Force, his lightsaber usually at his side - if currently in his quarters. And, even if he were unequal to his own defence, Anakin insisted that he travel with two members of the Stewjoni Guard - a formerly ceremonial position turned more practical with the advent of the Clone War. His guards - competent, capable soldiers trained by Anakin himself - hovered nearby. Close enough to be of use, but far enough away that the King could exist without feeling smothered by their protection.
With the light of hyperspace settling his mind, Obi-Wan decided to slip into a light meditation. Force knew he would get precious little chance to meditate once his shop landed back on Stewjon. He would have to brief his family and supervise the preparations for hosting the Mand'alor and Republic representatives that Anakin was hopefully already beginning. He would take his opportunity to meditate now, facing the challenges ahead with a clearer, more focused mind.
The sound of blaster fire jolted Obi-Wan from his meditation. He had sunk deeper than he'd intended if he hadn't felt the attack begin. Rising to his feet, he reached for the Force, turning towards his guards. They'd sealed him in, locked the blast doors to the bridge (really more of a cockpit but he'd leave Anakin to his delusions about the areas on the royal vessel), put themselves between him and the danger. Their presences felt muted in the Force, surprise and alarm reaching him, entwined with the bitter tang of fear. Anakin had channelled his inner Master Windu when training the guard; their fear was not so easily earned. The Force twinged in warning, the pulse of alarm echoing along the heavy thud of a body hitting durasteel.
Out of practice in certain areas of the Jedi arts as he was, Obi-Wan could not quite make out the attacker's intentions. Bounty Hunters sent to kidnap him for ransom or favour had a greedy aura, some part of their minds imagining already the credits he would bring. This was nothing like it: cold, detached, almost ruthlessly businesslike. As if this assault on a starship was just routine. A milk run. Like the lives of Obi-Wan's guard - maybe Obi-Wan himself - were just flies to be swatted away. Distractions from the job.
Obi-Wan reached for the lightsaber that should have been a weight on his hip, cursing internally as he realised the mistake he'd made. Let his guard down too far, grown complacent. Left his lightsaber - his life, as he'd once made such a point of reiterating to Anakin - in another room. Too far to be of any use.
Blaster fire continued behind the blast door, R4 beeping softly from the corner. Obi-Wan waved a hand, trusting the little Droid to stay safely there, out of the way. With a sudden, ringing silence, the blaster fire stopped, another dull thud echoing in the ship. Another life extinguished from the Force.
Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan centered himself, ready for the moment when the blaster doors slid open. One breath, two, the very Force seeming to pause, stretching the moment into infinity.
He'd brought the Force to a blaster fight, and it should have left them evenly matched. But there was nothing ordinary about this. His vessel had been attacked, his guards subdued (killed, though he avoided thinking the word), and Obi-Wan hadn't sensed a thing. This assault had been planned and orchestrated with military precision. Obi-Wan had been on the back foot from the start. He'd faced worse odds, but not since leaving the Jedi Order. Even with the Galaxy at war, he no longer prepared for or expected this.
Time stopped standing still, the blast doors opening with a soft pnuematic hiss. The Force hovered at Obi-Wan's fingertips, ready to respond when he called on it. Like victory had already been won, a single figure strolled through the opening doors.
Brightly shining beskar armour, a full suit that looked newly forged. But imperfect. Obi-Wan had seen the best craftsmanship of the Mandalorian people: beskar created so flawless, seamless, that it seemed to sing with purity. This was a very passable recreation, but not a product of the forges in Keldabe.
For a moment, Obi-Wan stared into the faceplate of the armoured figure before him. The cold gaze stared back.
Hoping to distract the not-Mandalorian, Obi-Wan reached for the Force. Distract. Get around him. Find his lightsaber. Defend himself. A plan, if not the best one he'd ever conceived. But his opponent was clad in beskar, and beskar was all but impervious. Even with his lightsaber, taking him down would be difficult.
Humming a little, Obi-Wan tilted his head. “Impressive,” he praised, he had to admit it. Hiding on his ship, taking out his guards, no easy feat. “If you wanted to see me so badly, you could have made an appointment.”
No reaction. Not even a huff of breath through the modulator.
“I'd have made some tea,” Obi-Wan continued, beginning to move towards the door. “We could've sat down and discussed this like civilised beings.”
The armored figure didn’t speak. Didn’t gloat. Just leveled a blaster at Obi-Wan’s chest. The threat was implicit.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. If he wanted him dead, Obi-Wan would be lying on the floor already. Very well, then. Uncivilised it was.
The former Jedi dropped into a roll, a hot bolt of blue cutting through the air above his head. He sprang back to his feet, seeing an opening for the corridor. A trick, a taunt, he knew. But one he couldn't afford not to risk. There was no hand-to-hand fighting a warrior in beskar. There was only delaying him. Reaching up, Obi-Wan wrenched a panel from the ceiling, beskar singing as the metal collided.
Precious little time bought, hopefully enough.
He ran for the corridor, feeling his attacker in pursuit. His hair stood on end, warning ringing in the back of his mind.
One bolt, he dodged; ducking under another, avoiding a third. The door to his quarters was just ahead, he reached out with the Force, willing the door open, his speed to quicken. Pain, sharp and electric, burst through his shoulder blade. A burning hot, searing feeling spreading through his body. Blue energy flashed before his eyes, his knees buckled.
Darkness took him before he even hit the ground.