Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Citadel's hangars were a chaotic mess of alarms, laser fire, and the frantic pounding of armored boots. Outside, the Separatist blockade ships were already closing in, their turrets spitting fiery death.

Cody was the last man inside the Crumb Bomber, hands gripping the bulkhead, watching his Jedi General ushering the remaining prisoners and troopers aboard the Republic gunship. Echo, thankfully, was safe, tucked in among Fives and the others, clutching his data chip.

“That’s it! Everyone aboard!” Obi-Wan called out, his voice a steady anchor in the storm, though his face was smeared with carbon scoring and grim exhaustion. He spun, his eyes finding Cody.

Their relationship was a quiet, deep understanding forged over years of war. It wasn't about stolen moments in barracks or clandestine whispers; it was in the way Obi-Wan would always, always brief Cody first, the way Cody's hand would instinctively rest on Obi-Wan's lower back in a crowded command center, the way they shared the burdens of their men and the war with only a look.

Obi-Wan reached the ramp and stopped, pulling Cody close for a fleeting, desperate moment. His hand came up to rest on Cody's helmeted cheek.

“Be careful, dear one,” Obi-Wan murmured, his voice low enough that the roar of the engines mostly swallowed it.

Cody shook his head, pushing past the constant sense of dread the war brought. “Sir, I need you on this ship now.”

“In a moment,” Obi-Wan said, but his eyes were already scanning the hangar roof.

Cody caught his General’s gloved hand and held it tightly, pulling off his helmet just enough to lock their gazes. The noise of the hangar seemed to dull, leaving only the sound of their accelerated breathing.

“Look at me, Obi-Wan,” Cody demanded, the title stripped of rank and filled with everything else. “I need you to understand something. I’ve seen this war, I’ve seen the Jedi, I’ve seen the Republic. They are important, yes. But you are my whole intention. Every order I give, every deployment, every day I live this life—it’s about getting you home safely. Don't you dare think otherwise.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened into the sad, knowing look that Cody had come to love and fear in equal measure. “Cody,” he whispered, squeezing the hand holding his. “That is the most dangerous thing you could possibly say.”

A loud siren blare cut through the air.

“Gunship, hold position!” Rex's voice crackled from the cockpit comm. “Separatist gun emplacements are targeting the launch bay! We’re taking fire!”

The first concussion bomb hit the hangar floor fifty meters away, the explosion sending a shockwave that rocked the gunship violently. A second followed, closer this time, near the ramp. The heat was immediate and intense.

“They’re zeroing in on us!” Fives shouted from inside.

Obi-Wan shoved Cody up the ramp and into the ship. "Go! Now!"

Cody fought to turn back, but the Jedi was already moving. Obi-Wan didn't waste a second arguing. He didn't look back at the crowded gunship, or at Cody’s outstretched hand. He simply closed his eyes and pushed.

The Force surged around him, a roaring, visible corona of blue energy. He focused all his will, all his considerable power, on the massive bulk of the LAAT/i gunship. He wasn't pulling or lifting; he was shoving. He hit the ship with a force so immense, so focused, it ripped the vessel from the ground.

The gunship shot forward and up, tearing out of the hangar opening.

The movement was so sudden, so violent, that Cody was thrown back against the bulkhead. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the shouts of his men, running for the quickly rising ramp.

“General Kenobi!” Cody roared into his helmet comm. “Obi-Wan! Get on the ship!”

The Jedi stood alone on the scorched floor, his arms outstretched, his eyes squeezed shut in the effort of his sacrifice. He was silhouetted against the dark of the rising hangar ramp.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the accelerating gunship. He gave Cody a tiny, faint smile—a final, sorrowful farewell.

The third explosive shell, meant for the gunship’s reactor, slammed directly into the spot where Obi-Wan had been standing a moment before.

Cody's scream was ripped from his throat, a primal sound of absolute agony that no one in the ship would ever forget. The force of the explosion blew the ramp closed with a metallic clang.

Rex's voice, strained and panicked, confirmed the horror: “General Kenobi… his life sign is gone. We have to go! We can’t turn back!”

Cody collapsed onto the deck plates, his hands over his helmeted head, shaking with silent, uncontrollable grief. His whole intention was gone, sacrificed so his intention could survive. The gunship broke free of the atmosphere, leaving the burning Citadel behind, carrying a shell-shocked crew and a Commander whose entire future had just been vaporized.

The atmosphere inside the Crumb Bomber was thick with smoke, adrenaline, and disbelief. Rex was fighting the controls, wrestling the damaged gunship clear of the Citadel’s orbital defenses. Cody remained exactly where he had fallen, curled against the bulkhead, his knees drawn up, hands still clutching his helmet. He was silent, the noise of his earlier scream trapped somewhere deep within his chest.

For the duration of the ascent, he did not move. He felt nothing but a cold, absolute vacuum where his General’s presence should be. He could not hear the warnings from the cockpit, nor the quiet, stunned sobs of the troopers around him. The cold metal of the deck plates beneath his armor was the only real sensation left, and he clung to it like an anchor. He was rigid, his body refusing to accept the impossible stillness of his General’s final, silent message over the comms.

The gunship docked roughly inside the hangar of the orbiting Republic cruiser. The ramp hissed down, and the air was instantly filled with the shouts of medics and support crews.

Anakin Skywalker burst onto the ramp, his pace frantic. He swept the small crowd of prisoners and troopers with a relieved, hurried glance, clearly expecting to see a familiar General among them.

"Where is he? Is he hurt?" Anakin demanded, pushing past Fives. He stopped when his eyes fell on Cody, slumped on the deck, and then noticed the General's absence. "Cody? I thought Obi-Wan was right behind you. Was he leading a rescue team for the others?"

Cody slowly raised his head. His breath hitched—a small, ragged sound.

"He... he stayed behind," Cody managed, the words catching in his throat like shards of metal.

Anakin froze, his face cycling through confusion, denial, and pure, blazing fury. He stared at the empty space behind Cody, then at Rex, who was grimly stepping out of the cockpit.

“‘Stayed behind’?” Anakin exclaimed, his voice rising to a raw shout. “He’s still there? We just left him? Commander, why is he still on the Citadel?”

Rex slammed a fist onto the cockpit console, his own guilt and pain evident in the sharp motion. “General, we were taking heavy fire. The Seps had the hangar zeroed in. Obi-Wan knew the blast was coming for the engine. He used the Force—he shoved the whole ship clear of the blast zone.”

“He bought us the escape,” Echo whispered, looking sick.

Anakin's eyes were wild. “Then we go back! Now! He’s the reason we’re free, Rex! We are not leaving him down there to be captured or executed!” He was already turning, intending to run back for a fighter.

Rex seized Anakin’s shoulder, his grip unyielding. “General, stop! We can't! We barely made it out. They’ve launched a full-scale assault. The orbital approach is suicide right now. It was too dangerous to turn back, and it’s even more dangerous to return! You heard the comms—General Kenobi is—” Rex swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

Just then, Ahsoka Tano ran up the ramp, pushing past the support crews. She looked around the grim scene, noting the silence, the strained faces, and the lack of her grandmaster's familiar presence.

“Master,” she said, looking straight at Anakin. “What’s going on? Where’s Obi-Wan?”

The question hung in the charged air, shattering the last pretense of order.

Anakin ripped his arm out of Rex’s grasp, pacing like a caged beast. “He sacrificed himself! He pushed the gunship out of the way, and now we’re just supposed to leave him!”

“No!” Ahsoka protested, her eyes wide with panic. “We have to go get him! We can call for a cruiser, for reinforcements, a squad of ARC fighters!”

“There’s no time!” Rex shouted, his voice cracking. “The Seps are going to breach this sector! We have to retreat or they'll get the prisoners and us!”

They were all arguing now—Anakin and Ahsoka, heartbroken and desperate, screaming at Rex, who stood firm with the cold, brutal logic of command. Fives and Echo huddled together, watching the commanders' implosion with shock.

Amidst the desperate shouts and the rising hysteria, no one noticed Cody.

He was still sitting on the deck, back against the cold metal, a pillar of perfect, crushing silence. The entire conversation, the desperate arguing over how to retrieve the man who meant everything to him, was happening ten feet away. Yet, in his mind, he was back in that hangar, watching the brilliant, final flash of light where Obi-Wan stood.

His body was rigid, cold, and heavy. He heard every word, every agonizing detail of their arguments, but none of it mattered. His breath was too shallow to scream again, his limbs too heavy to stand. The fear—the absolute, total panic—was so overwhelming that it had rendered him mute and immobile. They were arguing over how to fix what was unfixable, over a loss that had hollowed him out completely.

He was forgotten, a piece of damaged armor left on the deck, while the galaxy spun into chaos around the impossible, terrifying void that Obi-Wan Kenobi had left behind.

Cody remained a statue of grief, his back pressed against the cold metal bulkhead, while the command argument raged over his head.

We left him.

The words echoed in the terrifying vacuum where his self-control used to be. The pain of the explosion was nothing compared to the slow, creeping agony of not knowing.

Was Obi-Wan dead? The sensors said yes, the explosion looked fatal, but the Force was strange and his General was resourceful. If he was dead, Cody could mourn. He could remember the smile, the touch, the quiet declaration he’d just made. He could start the unbearable process of accepting the loss of his "whole intention."

But what if he was alive?

The mental images began to flicker, brutal and relentless. Was Obi-Wan running, bleeding out in a maintenance tunnel, still fighting for the phantom hope of rescue? Or worse—had they captured him?

Cody’s mind flashed to the deep, dark cells of the Citadel, to the Separatist interrogation droid floating above his General. Obi-Wan’s quiet refusal to yield, met with agonizing pain. Torture. The thought seized Cody's chest like a crushing vise.

If he was in pain... if they were hurting him...

A terrible, cold clarity washed over him. He was being selfish. He didn't want Obi-Wan to be dead because the emptiness was too vast, the future too barren without him. But he didn't want to imagine the precise, bone-deep agony Obi-Wan could be enduring right now, fighting a war alone and suffering for it. Would it be more merciful, more kind, to hope that the blast had been final? To wish for the end of a life he treasured so much, just to stop the imagining?

The moral paradox was a physical weight, pressing the air from his lungs. His breathing became shallow, rapid, ragged. He was hyperventilating, the air rushing in but never seeming to fill the terrifying void in his chest. The simple act of drawing a breath felt impossible. The enclosed space of the helmet, which usually brought comfort and focus, now felt like a suffocating cage—a sealed chamber where his own desperation was poisoning him.

His hands, still clutching the helmet in his lap, began to shake violently. The entire armored suit was trembling, a rattling cage of metal and fear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the terrible reel of images, trying to control the uncontrollable tremors, trying to breathe.

With a desperate, choking sound, the tremors became a violent, full-body spasm. Cody’s shaking hands went to the magnetic seal of his helmet. He tore it off, the heavy durasteel clattering uselessly on the deck beside him, the loud metallic crash finally registering above the arguing.

He threw his head back against the bulkhead, his mouth wide open, gasping for air that felt thin and non-existent. Sweat plastered his close-cropped hair to his temples, his face pale and slick with tears and fear. He looked nothing like the steady Commander who had led them to freedom; he was just a desperate, terrified man.

This final, uncontrolled heave for breath was the sound that finally pierced the cacophony of the commanders' argument. It was a strangled, rasping sound, the noise of a drowning man on dry land.

Fives, who had been standing protectively near Echo, instantly registered the sound of unarmored panic. He saw Cody, stripped bare of his rank and composure, struggling violently to breathe.

“Commander!” Fives moved instantly, dropping to his knees beside Cody. He gently grasped Cody’s shoulder, his voice low and steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. “Cody, look at me. Look at my eyes. Focus. Follow my breathing.”

He began demonstrating slow, deep, intentional breaths, trying to draw Cody out of the panic attack. “You’re safe. We’re safe. Breathe with me, Commander. In… and out…”

Echo, seeing his Commander's complete collapse and Fives's frantic attempt to help, snapped. He was tired of the shouting, tired of the fear, tired of the impossible decision they'd just made.

“SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!” Echo’s voice, normally quiet and precise, was a furious scream that cut through the argument like a plasma cutter.

Anakin, Ahsoka, and Rex froze midsentence. They spun around, following Echo’s furious gaze.

They saw Fives kneeling over a helmetless Cody, whose eyes were squeezed shut, chest heaving in violent, broken gasps.

The sight instantly silenced the argument. The fury drained from Anakin’s face, replaced by a dawning horror. Ahsoka gasped, covering her mouth. Rex felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. They hadn't just lost their General; they had completely missed the devastation of the man who loved him most, the man who was now physically breaking before them.

All three commanders realized simultaneously, and with brutal clarity, that Cody wasn't just grieving a lost General.

Fives kept his hand firmly on Cody’s shoulder, his eyes locked on the Commander's face, guiding him through the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming his breath. The silence from the others was heavy, filled with shocked realization and remorse.

“That’s it, Commander,” Fives murmured, his voice a steady counterpoint to the rush of Cody’s panic. “Slowly. Hold it… and out. You’re good. You’re here.”

Gradually, the violent gasping subsided into shuddering, desperate intakes of air. Cody’s body remained taut with residual shock, but the immediate crisis passed. He pushed Fives’s hand away gently, though his own hands were still trembling.

He pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the bulkhead for a moment before forcing himself to stand on his own. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, avoided the stunned faces of Anakin, Ahsoka, and Rex.

Cody bent down, retrieving the heavy helmet. The smooth durasteel felt cold in his hands, a painful reminder of the professional shell he had just violently discarded. He didn't put it back on; he simply clutched it to his side like a shield.

He finally looked at the group, shame burning in his exhausted eyes. He saw the genuine distress on Rex’s face, the raw confusion on Ahsoka’s, and the deep guilt in Anakin’s.

“I… I apologize,” Cody managed, his voice hoarse and stripped of its usual authority. He instinctively snapped to attention, an action that felt ridiculous given his obvious disarray, but it was the only way he knew how to signal a return to order. “That was highly unprofessional. I assure you, it will not be repeated.”

Rex took a step forward, his own helmet tucked under his arm. His face was a mask of worry. “Cody, don’t. We… we should have checked on you. We were too busy arguing, and we—”

Cody cut him off with a sharp, involuntary flinch and a raised hand. “Don’t, Rex. There’s nothing to apologize for. You performed your duty under impossible circumstances.”

He forced a stiff posture, straightening his shoulders, locking down the chaos beneath his skin. He had to be the Commander again. He had to be the rock.

“I am fine,” Cody lied, the word feeling brittle and alien on his tongue. He offered a strained, vacant smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. Too much close combat, perhaps. Lack of sleep.”

He took a deep, shaky breath, deliberately focusing on the future, on the mission, on anything but the empty space Obi-Wan had left behind.

“But I am fine now. I promise you,” he said, his voice regaining a semblance of its usual steady timbre. “It won’t happen again. We have prisoners to secure and a debriefing to attend to. Let’s focus on the mission.”

He bypassed the stunned commanders, walking toward the ramp with military precision, leaving the scattered pieces of his heart behind on the deck plates. He was a professional clone soldier, and professional clone soldiers did not have panic attacks over the loss of their intention. They simply kept moving.

Captain Rex watched the stiff, retreating back of Commander Cody as he marched toward the docking bay exit, the heavy durasteel of his helmet clutched like a lifeline. Rex felt a sickening blend of fear and frustration—fear for Cody, and frustration at the ignorance surrounding them. He instinctively ran a gloved hand over the small blast scoring on his chest plate, a nervous tic from the firefight.

He turned as Anakin stepped toward him, his brow furrowed in genuine bafflement.

“Rex, what was that?” Anakin asked, waving a hand toward the spot where Cody had been gasping for air just moments ago. “I know he’s upset, but a full-blown attack like that? He’s the Marshall Commander! Obi-Wan is our friend, yes, but Cody’s reaction—it’s extreme. It’s not warranted for a General who’s merely been… separated from the action.”

Rex stared at his General, and for the first time since he’d met the Chosen One, Rex felt a wave of cold, sharp disbelief. Insane. That was the only word Rex could assign to Anakin's lack of understanding.

How can he be so blind? Rex thought bitterly. He knew things Anakin didn't. He knew the quiet truth that only he, outside of Cody and Obi-Wan themselves, was privy to. Cody hadn’t just lost a superior officer; he had lost the one person who kept him tethered to himself.

Rex remembered the late-night comm call, years ago, when a stressed, exhausted Cody had first quietly confessed the nature of his bond with Obi-Wan. The trust Cody had placed in him then felt like a crushing weight now. He was the only one who understood the true meaning of that broken, helmetless cry. He couldn’t betray Cody’s confidence, but he couldn't let Anakin dismiss the agony either.

“General, with all due respect, ‘merely separated’ is not what we’re dealing with,” Rex said, keeping his voice carefully level. “Cody and General Kenobi have worked together since the first days of this war. They built the 212th together, from the ground up.”

Anakin shrugged, still missing the point. “Yes, they’re efficient. That’s their job. That doesn’t warrant a catastrophic breakdown. We all worry about the General.”

Rex took a deep, steadying breath. He had to make Anakin see the world through Cody’s eyes, through their eyes.

“Sir, you don’t understand the structure of our lives,” Rex began, his voice softening, becoming less military and more heartfelt. “You Jedi have the Order. You have other Jedi, the Council, the Temple. You have Ahsoka, the people of the Republic… you have many people in your life who care about you, who you can turn to, and who you rely on for emotional support.”

Rex gestured to the surrounding clones, still securing the released prisoners. “For us, it’s different. We have our brothers, yes. We have the 501st, the 212th. But we mostly only have each other, and our superiors, the Jedi, who we rely on for everything—for command, for guidance, for hope.”

He looked Anakin straight in the eye, the gravity of his words clear. “Cody is the Marshall Commander. He has tens of thousands of brothers looking up to him, depending on him for every decision, every order, every bit of reassurance that they will live through the next battle. That is a weight you will never know.”

Rex’s voice dropped lower, thick with genuine worry for his friend.

“The General was the one and only person in this whole galaxy that Cody could lean back on. The one person whose presence took that crushing weight off his shoulders. Obi-Wan carried the burden of command with Cody, not over him. He was the one man Cody could trust with everything he was, with the fear and the exhaustion, without having to maintain the image of the perfect Marshall Commander.”

Rex sighed, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Honestly, sir, I’m only a Captain. I have no idea what the stress of being Marshall Commander truly is. I can support him, but General Kenobi… he was the superior, the equal, the confidant. He was the only one who understood the pressure on that scale. Cody just lost the most important anchor in his life. I can't imagine what he's feeling. He didn't just lose a General, sir. He lost his relief.”

The silence that followed was charged. Rex watched as Anakin processed the explanation, hoping the raw truth of the clone existence—and the subtle implication of Cody and Obi-Wan's unique closeness—finally sank in.

Anakin listened to Rex’s explanation, his expression slowly shifting from confusion to a deep, troubled understanding. The quiet intimacy Rex described—the reliance on one single person amidst the chaos of command—finally hit home.

But even as the guilt settled over him, a different, more powerful sensation asserted itself. Anakin straightened, his voice suddenly firm, cutting across the heavy finality of Rex's words.

“Rex, stop talking about him in the past tense,” Anakin commanded, his eyes focused on something beyond the walls of the hangar. “He is alive.”

Rex stared blankly at him. “Sir? The ship sensors were clear. They registered the explosive impact and then nothing. There was no life essence shown in the immediate aftermath, just the heat of the blast.”

Anakin shook his head, a resolute conviction settling over his features. “The sensors are wrong. I can feel him. The bond between us… it’s there, it’s just quiet. It’s like trying to hear someone whispering through a thick wall. He’s suppressed, probably unconscious, but he’s not gone.”

The revelation hit Rex like a physical blow. Hope, sharp and agonizing, pierced through the numbness of the last hour. If Anakin, the one person whose Force connection with Obi-Wan was absolute, believed he was alive—then maybe it was true.

“He’s alive,” Rex whispered, the words tasting like rain after a long drought. The relief was immediate, but it lasted less than a second. Rex’s mind instantly flashed back to Cody’s pale, sweat-slicked face, the wide, panicked eyes gasping for breath. The hope was useless unless Cody knew it, now.

Rex grabbed Anakin’s arm urgently. “General, you have to go tell Cody that. Immediately.”

Anakin looked utterly confused by the demand. “Why me? You just said Cody leans on you, Rex. You’re his friend. You’re closer to him than I am, outside of… well. Shouldn’t you be the one to give him the good news?”

“No, sir,” Rex insisted, pushing Anakin toward the exit where Cody had disappeared. “Cody’s brain, especially right now, works entirely in facts, figures, and technicalities. He’s going to dissect the ‘whys’ and the ‘hows’ of this information until he accepts it.”

Rex tightened his grip, his tone urgent and absolute, forcing Anakin to look at him. “Me explaining it won’t do, General. I can’t feel the Force. Cody will have questions I can’t answer about the bond, about the quiet, about the exact level of unconsciousness. He’ll dismiss my certainty because it’s based on faith in your word, not direct knowledge. He needs proof.”

He gave Anakin a final, firm push toward the door. “He’s running on pure denial right now, trying to shut down the emotions. He needs an irrefutable fact to latch onto. He needs to hear it straight from the source. He needs the truth that only you can give him, General. Go. Don't let him put that helmet back on until you talk to him.”

Anakin hesitated for only a moment longer, recognizing the desperate logic in Rex's explanation. He nodded once, his expression now serious and determined.

“Right. I’ll find him.”

Anakin turned and ran, following the path Cody had taken, leaving Rex alone in the hangar with the scattered prisoners and the fragile, shocking gift of hope. Rex stood silent for a long moment, the adrenaline finally starting to crash, and he lowered his helmet over his face, hiding his own exhaustion as he waited for the next order.

Anakin sprinted down the corridor, the urgent rhythm of his boots echoing against the ship’s hull. His mind was racing, trying to reconcile the image of the Marshall Commander he knew—the unshakeable professional—with the broken, gasping man he’d just seen.

Obi-Wan is alive. That was the central, vital fact, and Anakin clung to it with a force that bordered on manic.

But Rex’s explanation still threw him off balance. Anakin understood grief; he understood the overwhelming responsibility of command. Yet, Cody had always been the paragon of emotional control. On missions where losses were heavy, when clone troopers he knew personally—who were, essentially, his family—died, Cody's voice would never waver. He would simply issue the next order: "Retrieve the bodies, carry on, get back in the fight."

Anakin knew Cody wasn't heartless; he’d seen the exhaustion in the man’s eyes, the moment his helmet went on a fraction slower than usual. But he had always believed Cody was perhaps the most emotionally controlled person he knew. Even more so than Obi-Wan, who often let a subtle wryness or disappointment surface. Cody maintained a perfect, opaque professionalism. Seeing that mask utterly shatter was disconcerting. It meant Obi-Wan's presence hadn't just been a comfort; it had been an essential component of Cody's stability.

Anakin pushed the line of questioning away. It didn’t matter why Cody had broken; it only mattered that he was breaking, and Anakin now had the one piece of information that could begin to fix it. He needed Cody functional, because Cody was part of the how they were going to get Obi-Wan back.

He reached the designated crew cabin and found the door sealed. He recognized the code—Cody's temporary quarters on the cruiser. He brought his fist up and gave a firm, double rap on the steel door.

“Cody? It’s Anakin. I need to talk to you.”

He waited, listening to the silence on the other side. There was a faint sound of movement, a rustle of armor, and then a moment of heavy stillness.

The door panel slid open with a hiss. Cody stood in the small cabin, already halfway back into his armor. He had the chest and back plates secured, but his helmet was sitting on the tiny desk beside a datapad. His face was pale and drawn, but the composure was back, rigid and brittle.

He looked exactly like a man who was forcing himself to focus on technicalities to keep from screaming.

“General Skywalker,” Cody said, his voice flat and perfectly devoid of inflection. He didn't invite him in. “I apologize for the display earlier. As I said, I’m fine. If this is about the mission brief, I’m ready.”

Anakin didn't wait. He pushed past the threshold, stepping into the small, sterile cabin. His presence alone seemed to crowd the space, making Cody retreat a half-step deeper into the room.

“If this is about my reaction earlier, General,” Cody began, his voice snapping back to its professional, rehearsed monotone, “I assure you, it won't—"

Anakin cut him off, his tone immediately soft but firm, overriding the practiced denial. “I’m not here to pry or to judge you for anything, Cody. You don't have to put the walls back up for me.”

He stepped closer, ensuring he had Cody’s full, focused attention. Anakin knew better than anyone the agonizing uncertainty of loss, and he wouldn't allow Cody to endure it a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m here because I have information that the ship’s sensors couldn’t give you. Information that the technical readouts got wrong.”

Anakin paused, letting his gaze convey the absolute certainty of his words.

“Cody, Obi-Wan is alive. He did not die in that blast.”

Cody’s posture, rigid and ready for a command, didn't shift, but his breathing—which he had just managed to steady—hitched audibly. His eyes, fixed on Anakin, were wide and searching, desperate to find the lie, the flaw in the logic, the flaw that would allow him to return to the cold, acceptable fact of death.

“General, the explosion… the energy dispersal was immense,” Cody countered, his voice barely a rasp. “The sensor readings were definitive.”

“The sensors only measure heat and biological shutdown, Cody. They don’t measure the Force,” Anakin explained, stepping closer, needing Cody to feel the sincerity of the truth. “My connection with him, the bond… it’s there. It’s not strong, it’s faint, like a barely perceptible echo. He’s not awake; he’s likely unconscious right now, perhaps badly hurt, but his life force is present. He’s suppressed, but he is not gone. He made it through the blast. He is alive on the Citadel.”

Anakin kept his eyes locked on Cody’s, delivering the news not as a theory, but as an undeniable, unshakable fact. The single, most important truth in Cody’s terrifying world.

Cody stood motionless, absorbing the weight of Anakin's words. He is alive. It was a reprieve so profound, so dizzying, that his professional composure finally cracked, replaced by a terrible, new wave of dread. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the shallow breathing of panic returning.

“So,” Cody whispered, the realization draining the color from his face. “They have him. He’s alive, but he’s in the Citadel.” He looked up at Anakin, the look in his eyes accusatory and horrified. “Where they torture Jedi.”

Anakin’s expression darkened instantly. He had been so focused on the life part of the equation that the location had momentarily become secondary. Now, the full gravity of the situation—the dark truth of capture—hit him with the force of a physical blow. A cold, dangerous fury ignited in his gut. The Separatists had Obi-Wan. The thought was intolerable.

“Yes,” Anakin rasped, his own anxiety spiking as he realized exactly what was at stake. “They have him.”

He needed to offer Cody some form of professional analysis, some technical explanation to cling to, or he would lose control of his own rage.

“Look, if the bond is this quiet, it means one of two things,” Anakin said, forcing his voice to remain steady, despite the tremor in his prosthetic hand. “Either the force of the blast knocked him out, and he simply hasn't woken up yet—which is possible, given his Force effort. Or,” Anakin paused, his jaw tightening with barely contained violence, “they have some kind of system in place. A Force-suppressant system that’s deadening his connection to the galaxy, and to me.”

Cody seized on the technicality, needing data to override the screaming images in his head.

“A Force suppressant,” Cody repeated, his voice low and tight. “What would that do? To the bond? To him?”

“It would essentially cut him off,” Anakin explained grimly. “It would be like trying to contact him from a different sector of the galaxy. It would silence the connection.”

Cody took a ragged, desperate breath, the horror mounting. “Does… does that mean you won’t be able to feel if he’s hurting, General? If they are… if they are interrogating him?”

The question was not accusatory, but a plea—the plea of a man facing the absolute unknown.

Anakin shook his head slowly, the cold answer settling heavily between them, amplifying Anakin's impotent rage. “The bond is too faint right now, Cody. I can only feel the presence of his life force, the spark itself. If they have a suppressor running, yes. I won’t know what they’re doing to him. I won’t be able to feel the pain.”

Anakin’s fist clenched. He hated that answer. He wanted to feel the pain, to absorb it, to know exactly what was happening so he could plan the retaliation. The thought of Obi-Wan—his steadfast, noble master—being subjected to interrogation methods on the Citadel sent a vicious spike of pure, protective intent through him.

Cody finally shut his eyes, his professional facade dissolving back into raw grief. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead, fighting a fresh wave of panic. He is alive, but I can't know if they're torturing him. I can't know if he's in pain. The living uncertainty was a torment far worse than the immediate, clean finality of death.

"We have to go back," Cody repeated, his voice laced with the desperate edge of a man who felt his very purpose was trapped thousands of miles away. "We launch a fighter squadron. If the blockade is still there, we pierce it. We cannot leave him a minute longer."

Anakin’s own desperation mirrored Cody’s, but years of having his impulse controlled by Obi-Wan—and the sudden, brutal logic of Rex—forced him to pause. He wanted nothing more than to steal a fighter and turn back right now. But Obi-Wan would be furious if Anakin sacrificed the men and the mission for an impulsive rescue attempt.

“I agree, Cody. We go back,” Anakin affirmed, his jaw clenched tight with resolve. The word was a vow. “But Rex is also right. We can’t throw away the lives we just saved, or the lives of the 501st, on a suicide mission. We need a plan, and we need backup from the fleet. We need to organize this, not rush in blindly.”

Cody nodded stiffly, the professional soldier overriding the panicked man once more. “Yes. Agreed. Strategy first. We need to secure fighter support, maybe a stealth insertion if possible.”

He paused, the urgency of the moment momentarily suspended. Cody looked at Anakin, truly looked at him, for the first time since boarding the cruiser. The Jedi General had been all command and action—first demanding to return, then delivering the devastating news.

“General,” Cody said quietly, hesitating before the unfamiliar territory of the question. “How… how are you holding up? With the news.”

Anakin’s face, etched with a mixture of hope and rising fury, flickered with genuine surprise. He hadn't expected the Commander to ask. He was the General, the one who was supposed to be the pillar.

He paused, considering the question with a rare moment of introspection. What did Obi-Wan mean to him?

He is my foundation, Anakin thought, the realization sharp and clear. He taught me everything. He is my brother, my mentor, my closest friend.

Anakin could live without his titles, without fame, without a thousand things the Republic demanded. But his master, his brother, the man who had raised him, was not on that list. Obi-Wan's absence was not just a gap in the ranks; it was an unimaginable, intolerable void in Anakin's own existence.

He met Cody's searching gaze, finding a mirror of his own desperation there, but replacing Cody's cold fear with his own blazing, protective intent.

“He is my master, my oldest friend, and my brother,” Anakin stated, finally giving voice to the depth of the attachment. The words weren't a comforting platitude; they were a declaration of war. “I don’t know what I would do without him, Cody. So, we are going back. We will get him. Together. We start planning the extraction now.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi was dimly aware of the cold, rough floor beneath him. A dull, throbbing pain resonated in his skull, the lingering signature of the concussion from the explosion—or perhaps from the rough handling of his captors. His body felt heavy, his muscles screaming in protest, but the true weight came from the profound stillness around him.

He was in a small, damp cell. The air was thick and stale, illuminated only by a sliver of weak light filtering through a reinforced grate near the floor. He lifted his hand, noting the heavy, magnetic cuffs clamped around his wrists and ankles. They were not ordinary binders; they were crude, utilitarian pieces of technology designed specifically to neutralize his greatest strength.

He closed his eyes, instantly reaching for the familiar warmth of the cosmic energy that permeated everything. He stretched his consciousness outward, searching for the familiar bright sparks of his family, his friends, his soldiers.

Anakin. Obi-Wan sought the volatile, brilliant supernova that was his former Padawan—the constant, loud presence in his life. He found only a muted, distant hum, as if Anakin were light-years away.

Ahsoka. He searched for the quicksilver, playful energy of his grand-Padawan, the one who brought him so much unexpected joy. Nothing.

My men. He searched for the steady, loyal pulses of the 212th, the comfort of knowing they were safe, following orders, fighting the good fight.

And then, with a deep, aching desperation, he sought the one person who anchored him more quietly, more absolutely, than any other.

Cody.

Obi-Wan wanted to feel the solid, steady presence of his Marshall Commander, the familiar rhythm of his mind—a cadence that was always a comforting counterpoint to his own often-overburdened thoughts. He yearned for the simple, undeniable relief of knowing Cody was safe, standing right outside this cell, ready with a plan and a perfectly level gaze. He needed Cody to be at his side again, to banish the cold, consuming isolation of this dark hole.

He strained with every fiber of his being, pushing past the pain, trying to bypass the physical suppression. He focused on the memory of Cody’s face, the brief, raw look of terror and despair before the ramp had closed. He had seen the sacrifice he was demanding, and the memory was a fresh knife-twist of guilt.

He tried to whisper into the Force, “Anakin, are you safe? Is everyone alright?”

But the effort was useless. The heavy cuffs didn't just suppress his power; they seemed to deaden the connection entirely, creating a suffocating vacuum around him. The Force was still there, of course, everywhere, but it was beyond his reach, a comforting river he couldn't drink from.

He was cut off. Alone.

A sudden, sharp metallic sound echoed outside the cell, followed by the clatter of heavy boots. The grate on the door slid open, and a harsh, yellow light streamed in.

Obi-Wan slowly opened his eyes, already bracing himself for the inevitable interrogation. He was a prisoner of war. The war had just become intensely personal. He only hoped his absence bought his crew enough time to make their escape absolute.

The cell door hissed open, flooding the small space with brighter, harsher light. Two imposing B2 super battle droids stomped into the cell, flanking a smaller, sleek interrogation droid—a silent, black sphere bristling with menacing metallic appendages and needles.

"Jedi scum. General Kenobi," a monotone, synthesized voice rasped from a speaker grill mounted on the interrogation droid. "You will provide us with the following information: The identity of the Republic mole within the Citadel, the location of his data chip, and the precise orbital rendezvous point of your escaping vessel."

Obi-Wan pushed himself up against the cold wall, settling into a cross-legged position. Despite the throbbing behind his eyes and the crushing weight of the inhibitor cuffs, he summoned his characteristic composure. A faint, dry smile touched his lips.

"My dear metallic friends," Obi-Wan replied, his voice calm, if slightly strained. "I believe that sort of information typically requires a security clearance well above my pay grade. And, speaking of pay, one does hope you have competitive benefits, because this line of work is rather demanding."

The interrogation droid rotated, its sensors focusing on him. "Sarcasm is illogical and will be met with immediate pain compliance."

"Well, then, I'm simply being efficient," Obi-Wan countered lightly. "You'll save yourselves a great deal of time, as I have no intention of telling you anything at all."

The droid didn't offer a philosophical response. One of the B2s stomped forward, its heavy foot nudging Obi-Wan's cuffed ankle.

"Activate compliance protocol. Level one," the droid commanded.

The black sphere of the interrogation droid floated closer. One of its appendages extended, ending in a fine, diamond-tipped needle. It plunged silently into the soft skin just behind Obi-Wan's ear, targeting a nerve cluster.

The pain was instantaneous and absolute. It wasn't the blunt force of a strike, but a searing, electrical fire that raced along his neural pathways, bypassing his conscious will entirely. The magnetic cuffs, heavy and cold, prevented him from reaching out to the Force for even a fraction of his usual Jedi endurance, leaving his mind entirely exposed to the trauma. Obi-Wan gasped, his eyes flying open and locking onto the ceiling, his entire body convulsing against the cold stone floor.

It felt like his brain was being microwaved, the pain so intense that the outside world dissolved into a blinding white-hot scream.

The surge lasted for what felt like an eternity before the droid retracted the needle. Obi-Wan collapsed back onto the floor, his breathing ragged, his muscles twitching uncontrollably. Sweat beaded on his face, mixing with the grime.

"Information," the droid repeated, the synthesized voice maddeningly neutral. "The mole's identity."

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, tasting blood. He forced a deep, stabilizing breath, letting his training resurface. He would not scream. He would not break.

He managed a weak, dismissive shrug. "I'm afraid my memory is rather hazy, especially after that rather uncouth treatment. One might think a sophisticated civilization could afford better bedside manner."

The droid registered the refusal. "Compliance protocol. Level three. Targeting major muscle group."

Another, thicker needle extended. This one drove deep into his thigh, just above the knee, and remained embedded. The electrical current was immediately far stronger, localized, and agonizing.

This time, Obi-Wan couldn't hold back the noise. A strangled cry tore from his throat as the muscle beneath the needle contracted violently and uncontrollably, pulling bone and ligament in a spasm that felt like tearing. Every nerve ending in his leg flared, and the pain shot up to his hip and down into his toes. He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to redirect the agony, but the sensory overload was total. He could smell the acrid scent of his own burning flesh where the current passed through the contact point.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The suppression was absolute, leaving him with no mental sanctuary. He tried to find Cody's face, Anakin's voice, anything to ground him, but the Force was silent, leaving him utterly alone in the face of the agony.

Not for them. Not for the droids, he repeated in the burning silence of his mind.

The droid held the charge, extracting the most prolonged reaction possible. Finally, the needle withdrew, leaving his leg spasming and useless.

"The location of the escaped Republic vessel," the droid demanded.

Obi-Wan gasped, fighting the wave of nausea and the overwhelming urge to pass out. He focused on the simple, vital reality: if he gave them the coordinates, his team—Cody, Rex, Ahsoka, Anakin, and all the men—would be in danger.

He spat a mouthful of blood and grime onto the floor.

"If you must know," Obi-Wan choked out, forcing a final, desperate sliver of sass into his voice, "they flew… in the opposite direction."

The droid paused, analyzing the statement, then registered the defiant humor. "Maximum compliance initiated."

The small, dark sphere of the interrogation droid emitted a high-pitched, whining sound as its internal mechanisms surged with power. The B2 droids shifted their stance, a clear signal that the time for dialogue, however sarcastic, was over.

A new appendage emerged from the droid, thicker and more complex than the needles—a specialized tool designed for sustained, targeted neural interference. It moved with swift, cold precision, clamping itself over Obi-Wan's cuffed wrist.

"This sequence targets the central nervous system to induce extreme sensory distress," the droid announced flatly. "Compliance is statistically guaranteed within ninety seconds."

The moment the attachment made full contact, Obi-Wan felt a pressure behind his eyes that threatened to split his skull. This wasn't just electrical shock; it was a total assault on his senses. A piercing, agonizing frequency filled his ears, a sound that bypassed his eardrums and vibrated the bones in his head. At the same time, the light in the cell seemed to intensify to an unbearable, blinding white, even through his eyelids.

The worst effect, however, was the systemic chaos unleashed within his body. The current didn't target pain receptors; it targeted autonomic functions. His heart rate skyrocketed, painfully pounding against his ribs, while his breathing became erratic—sharp, shallow intakes that didn't provide enough oxygen. Every muscle, every nerve ending, was simultaneously told to contract, run, and burn.

Obi-Wan arched his back, a guttural, desperate noise tearing free—a sound that was neither a word nor a scream, but a purely instinctual response to absolute physical agony. He thrashed against the floor, but the cuffs held him fast, preventing the release of movement his body craved. The cuffs were the cage, and his own nerves were the fire.

He could feel his control slipping away. His consciousness was dissolving into a terrifying, endless loop of pain, light, and sound. He was drowning in his own nervous system.

Cody. Anakin. Please. I need to know they're safe.

In that moment of crushing, unbearable solitude, he focused on the memory of Cody's hand on his—the solidity, the warmth, the singular, silent love. It was the only barrier he had left against the overwhelming tide of pain. He clung to the simple fact of their survival, letting the agony wash over him, knowing he could break, but the information could not.

The ninety-second sequence felt like an eon. When the droid finally withdrew the clamp, the silence was deafening, the darkness absolute. Obi-Wan went limp, utterly spent, his mind flickering at the edge of oblivion. He was trembling violently, slick with sweat and blood, his body spasming in residual shock.

He heard the droid's voice, distant and cold: "The subject remains non-compliant. Initiate long-term processing and wait for recovery before resuming interrogation."

Obi-Wan managed only a faint, exhausted smile that no one could see. He had bought them time. He had held the line.

The cell door slammed shut, plunging him back into the oppressive silence, leaving him to nurse his broken body and pray that his sacrifice had been enough.

Obi-Wan was floating in an oceanic void of indigo and sapphire. The Force was not a river he had to reach for, but the air he breathed, cool and effortless. He was a mote of light adrift, and in the distance, a single, steady constellation began to resolve itself.

It wasn't the blazing sun of Anakin's passion, nor the kinetic flicker of Ahsoka's energy. This light was different: a deep, terrestrial bronze, constant and utterly reliable.

It was Cody.

The dream coalesced around him, forming the familiar, clean lines of a thousand quiet moments. He wasn't seeing a memory—he was in the moment, a pure convergence of shared time.

He stood in the dim, private light of his own quarters on the Negotiator, the heavy hum of the hyperdrive a low thrum against the hull. He was not cuffed, not bleeding, but whole.

Before him, Cody sat at the small utility table, elbows resting on a datapad. The Commander was in the process of dismantling and cleaning his blaster—a task of meticulous concentration that always calmed the turbulence of a campaign. The air smelled faintly of oil, ozone, and that unique, clean scent of the clone.

Cody didn’t look up immediately. His focus was a tangible thing, drawing the chaos of the war into a manageable point of order. Obi-Wan simply watched, feeling the impossible weight lift from his shoulders. He was seeing the true shape of the man—the one hidden beneath the armor and the perfect military discipline.

He reached out in the dream, not physically, but with the full, unfettered grace of his Jedi self, brushing the Commander’s mind. It was always a complex, fascinating landscape: the rigid, sharp lines of strategy and soldiering, overlaid with an unexpected, deep well of loyalty and a quiet, aching loneliness that mirrored Obi-Wan's own.

He wanted to whisper I love you, but the moment was too fragile for words. Instead, he simply extended the feeling, letting it flow like a silent tide.

Finally, Cody’s hands stilled on the weapon's inner workings. He lifted his head, and his gaze—a familiar, steady hazel—found Obi-Wan’s face. There was no surprise, no question, only a profound, settled recognition. In this space, they were beyond rank, beyond war. They were simply themselves.

A faint, tired smile touched Cody’s lips, a gesture that belonged only to this private sanctuary.

“I know you, General,” his presence spoke into the Force, the sound the low, reassuring rumble of a distant engine. “I know you’re trying to carry all the stars in the night sky. But you don’t have to. You never did.”

Obi-Wan stepped closer, leaning against the table, his eyes tracing the faint, un-repaired scar just above Cody’s left eyebrow.

“I only need to know that you are safe,” Obi-Wan murmured, his own voice sounding perfectly steady, without the strain of his injuries. “That my action protected you.”

Cody reached out and took Obi-Wan’s hand, resting it flat on the table beside the disassembled blaster. The skin was rough, calloused, and incomparably warm. It was the solidity of pure, physical reality that had been so cruelly denied to him in the cell.

Cody did not speak again.

He held Obi-Wan’s gaze, and in the depth of that quiet, steady commitment, the vision began to convey more than words: He showed Obi-Wan the swift, clean trajectory of their escape, the silent, efficient movements of the Negotiator's launch, the confident presence of Rex and Ahsoka running the bridge. He pressed into Obi-Wan's mind the unshakeable reality of their survival, a vivid counterpoint to the prison's terror.

The dream-light began to soften at the edges, the hum of the hyperdrive growing fainter. Obi-Wan felt himself being pulled back toward the cold, hard ache of his body. He clung to the Commander’s presence, desperate for it not to fade.

“Stay,” he whispered, the word lost even to the dream.

Cody's thumb gently brushed the back of Obi-Wan’s hand—a ghost of a touch, yet it radiated the warmth of a hundred suns.

The image dissolved. The light, the sound, the warmth—all receded. Obi-Wan sank, not into darkness, but into the residual, comforting pressure of that promised handhold.