Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The mission had been born under a shroud of dread—a "bad feeling" that clung to the Jedi like a second skin. A report had reached the Republic Senate describing a strange hyperspace disturbance, and as with anything emanating from the Sith homeworld of Korriban, it was clearly a dangerous situation. When the Senate issued the order to investigate the disturbance, the Jedi sensed a pulse—a rhythmic, static thrum of warning from the Force that screamed of a trap.
To dispatch Jedi to probe such an obvious trap made sense; to send the entire Grand Army of the Republic and the whole of the Jedi Order did not.
As he stood on the bridge, the hum of the Negotiator beneath his boots felt less like a comfort and more like a death march. These starships were marvels of cold steel and firepower, yet Obi-Wan knew their heavy cannons were deaf and blind against the whispers of Sith magic. Their sheer size was a liability, a blunt instrument more likely to trip a wire than to disarm it.
The Council had argued for a vanguard of Masters while leaving the Vode, the Knights, the younglings, the “tubies,” and the Service Corps safely behind. Instead, the Senate had sent them all into the dark.
When they reverted from hyperspace at the edge of the disturbance, the blue tunnel of transit vanished, replaced for a heartbeat by cold, indifferent stars. Korriban loomed before them, a sphere of menacing red against the void. Then, a beam of light—crimson, violent, and impossibly fast—erupted from the planet’s surface. There was no time for evasion.
The stars streaked again, dragging them into a twisted-hyperspace that threatened to vibrate the ship into atoms. Even through the dulling fog of his Force-suppressant collar, Obi-Wan felt the Force writhe and convulse—a sickening, churning that made his skull throb with pain. It was a violation of the natural order, a metaphysical wrenching that left him nauseated and fighting for breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they were thrown back into realspace. Korriban was gone, replaced by unfamiliar star clusters and a different planet looming on the viewscreen. Shaky and nauseated, Obi-Wan blinked back the black spots in his vision and strode forward, his boots ringing against the deck plating. A surge of relief washed over him as he saw the fleet—intact, gleaming, and seemingly unscathed against the backdrop of the unknown stars.
“Status report,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the frenetic chaos of the bridge. “All ships report in. Helm, where are we?”
Lieutenant Hopkins, a Senate-appointed officer whose presence on the bridge had always felt like a festering splinter in the Jedi’s side, slammed a frustrated hand against his console. The sharp crack echoed through the sudden, brittle silence.
“These sensors are garbage,” he whined, his voice a high-pitched, jagged sound. The flickering light of the screens washed his face in a ghastly, artificial-light casting his features into deep, shadows that made him look gaunt. He stared at the chaotic data, his eyes frantically moving over the instruments. "None of these readings are making any kriffing sense."
Obi-Wan watched him, a familiar weariness. He had lobbied to have Hopkins transferred months ago, arguing behind closed doors for a change that never came. It was clear—painfully so in the chilling air of the bridge—that the lieutenant possessed neither the iron temperament for command nor the technical aptitude the fleet required. Yet, like the mission itself, the Senate’s will had been absolute. They had refused to move him, leaving a weak link in the chain of command—the very chain meant to keep the galaxy safe.
"General, we have confirmation that all ships are accounted for. No damage has been reported,” the comms officer, Lieutenant Commlink, called out, his face and voice carrying a sense of profound relief that sliced through the thick, oppressive silence.
While the words brought a momentary reprieve, they hung in the chilled air like a question rather than an answer. The report was impossible—a direct hit from a Sith-weapon should have meant a total massacre—yet the comms array remained steady, humming with the voices of a thousand unharmed crews reporting back from the dark.
Every ship was accounted for, each a silent sentinel standing intact against a backdrop of unknown stars. They stood defiantly against whatever the trap had intended, but a nagging apprehension clawed at the back of Obi-Wan’s mind. It wasn't just that they weren't where they were supposed to be; it was the growing, icy realization that there was something wrong about the situation they found themselves in.
A few paces away, the Vode continued to work in efficient silence. Lieutenants Blip and Radar worked furiously, their hands dancing across the consoles in a desperate rhythm. In the momentary silence, the frantic clicking of keys was the only sound in the room as they searched for the answers their general had asked of them.
“Sir, we are in the Cadavine sector,” Blip reported, his voice tight, as if the data itself were an impossibility. The air seemed to turn to ice as he looked up from the scrolling screens.
“Hyperspace beacon broadcasts give the year as 44 BBY, and star positions confirm it. We’re in the Meli/Daan system,” Radar continued, his voice dropping into a low, stunned register.
The revelation hung in the space between them, heavy and suffocating. Outside the viewports, the stars remained indifferent, but within the ship, the reality of the date—44 BBY—settled like a dead weight. They had not just crossed the galaxy; they had slipped through a crack in time itself.
The muttering of “meat droids” drifted across the bridge like a foul vapor, a low, poisonous murmur from the nat-born officers. Lieutenants Blip and Radar remained rigid, their focus fixed on their consoles, ignoring the slur with a practiced, hollow discipline that made Obi-Wan’s jaw tighten. The sound sparked a familiar, weary fire in his chest. He had fought a losing war against those slurs for months, but the prejudice was a rot that reached all the way to the top of the Senate; Admiral Wulff Yularen’s silence on the matter acted as a quiet permission. Against the ingrained bigotry of the Senate’s chosen men, Obi-Wan’s standing orders to suppress such language were often treated as a Jedi eccentricity rather than a command. If they were this bold in front of a High General, he could only imagine the vitriol poured into the Vodes' ears when he wasn't there to stand between them and the Senate’s "elite."
Admiral Wulff Yularen turned to Obi-Wan. “General, we should go to Coruscant immediately,” Yularen said, his voice like the dropping of a stone—a sound that rippled with its demanded attention over the hum of the ship. He stepped closer, his gaze burning with the sudden, terrifying possibility of a rewritten future. “We can report to Chancellor Kalpana, mobilize the Senate, and arrest the Separatist leaders now—before the war even starts.”
“That is the last thing we can do, Admiral,” Obi-Wan said, his words falling like cool shadows over the room. “We cannot arrest people for crimes they have yet to commit. Furthermore, we still do not know the identity of Maul’s Sith Master, Darth Sidious.” He turned away, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of the stars. “It is almost a certainty that the older Sith Master, Darth Plagueis, is alive in this era. We cannot risk our knowledge of the future falling into their hands. We would be handing the Sith the means to our destruction—and the firepower to make it happen.”
Obi-Wan also knew that the Republic Senate could not be trusted; they were no more fit to hold this knowledge, or the power the fleet now possessed, than the Sith themselves.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even as the future balanced on a knife’s edge, Obi-Wan knew that his words would fall on deaf ears, as they had so many times throughout the war.
The Admiral ignored him, as usual, his eyes hardening with a cold, bureaucratic resolve.
“The war has not yet begun, which means you no longer hold a military commission,” he stated, his voice a flat, final note that fell like a guillotine. “You are no longer a Republic General.”
A heavy, agonizing silence fell over the crew as the Admiral turned toward the gold-trimmed figure standing in the shadows.
"Commander CC-2224, escort Kenobi to the brig. He is to be detained until we reach Coruscant."
With a flick of his wrist, Yularen turned his back on the Jedi—a dismissive gesture that signaled the end of the discussion. He was already reaching for the fleet-wide comms, ready to take command of the fleet that would most likely lead them all to their own death and the galaxy's ruin.
Commander Cody stepped forward, the heavy thud of his boots resonating against the metal floor like a heartbeat in the sudden, sharp silence of the bridge. He placed a firm, performative hand on Obi-Wan’s arm—a grip that looked like restraint to any watching eyes but felt to the Jedi like a steady anchor.
Moving with the calculated precision of a predator, Cody positioned himself to create a narrow blind spot, a wall of white plastoid shielding their exchange from the Admiral and the prying eyes of the nat-born crew. His fingers moved with a frantic, silent grace. In the space he’d made, he threw a series of sharp, staccato Vode battle signs that the Senate officers could never hope to translate.
“General, we need a plan, “the silent signs demanded, the unspoken words thick with a loyalty that ignored the Admiral’s dismissal. The air around them was tense—a shared look of rebellion in a room that had suddenly become enemy territory.
Obi-Wan felt a chill stab through his heart at the thought of what awaited them—especially the Vode and the Jedi. The Admiral had no idea what the Senate, or the Sith, would do to gain the knowledge and technological power they held, including what they would do to the Admiral himself: the Senate’s clean-room laboratories, the Sith’s dark-cell interrogations—a systematic vivisection of every mind in this fleet to harvest the secrets they carried. Reaching out for what little guidance he could find, Obi-Wan braced for the familiar sensation of the Force as if through a straw, only to realize the suppressant collar was dead.
The weight was gone.
He reached out to the other Jedi, and their presences flared brightly across the fleet; their light was no longer dimmed by the collars but shining with a terrifying brilliance. They were free for the first time in a thousand years, and they finally had the chance to free the Vode.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, the bridge of the Negotiator seemed to hold its breath. He didn't speak, but a ripple went through the Force—a psychic shockwave that lanced through every bulkhead and every hull in the fleet. He sent a single, burning thought into the minds of over thirty thousand Jedi:
The chains are broken.
The air in the room seemed to still, a heavy, unseen pressure building until the silence was absolute. When Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open, they were no longer the weary, faded sea-green of a man with no options; they glowed with a, ethereal blue light—a manifestation of the Force itself.
The atmosphere grew even heavier, thick with a hum of electric static that made the fine hairs on the back of Cody’s neck stand on end. Obi-Wan did not blink; his focus was locked onto his commander with a terrifying, luminous clarity.
“We have one, Marshal Commander,” Obi-Wan said. His voice carried a slight resonant echo—a sound that didn't just fill the room but seemed to vibrate within the very bones of everyone present.
Then, before anyone could react, Obi-Wan moved. With a wide, fluid sweep of his arms, he tore the silence asunder. A massive Force-wave rippled outward—a shimmering distortion in the air that raced through the ship like a physical heartbeat, powerful and undeniable.
The transition was instantaneous. The Admiral and the nat-born bridge crew, caught in the wake of the tide, collapsed where they stood. Their bodies went slack, falling like puppets with severed strings, rendered unconscious before they could even register the shift in the air. The heavy thuds of their impact were swallowed by the sudden, profound silence that followed.
Obi-Wan remained where he was, an immovable object in a shifting world. As he lowered his arms, the blue light in his eyes slowly receded into glowing embers. He didn't look at the fallen officers; his gaze was fixed instead on the Vode officers—the only men on the bridge still standing.
The Jedi had known of the Vode’s whispered dreams—the plans made in the dark of their barracks to rise against those who treated them like meat droids. They had known the secrets the Vode kept from the Senate-appointed officers. The Order had even formed its own strategies to liberate them, should they ever break free of those damn collars. While the Vode deserved justice against those who had treated them as slaves, the Jedi could no longer stand by and watch their brothers be killed needlessly—not when they finally possessed the power to help them.
The sudden chime of incoming comms cut through the stillness. Lieutenant Commlink turned his focus back to his station, his fingers dancing across the console with an efficient, unburdened ease.
“Commander, we’re receiving reports from all areas of the ship,” he reported, his voice steady but charged with an electric tension. “They’re reporting that every nat-born officer has been incapacitated. The men want to know what’s going on.”
He paused, a flicker of awe crossing his features as he processed the incoming stream of data. “I am receiving identical reports from the rest of the fleet’s commanders—it appears the Jedi neutralized all nat-born officers simultaneously.”
The bridge fell into a vacuum of silence, a stillness so profound it felt as though the ship itself was waiting. Commander Cody and the rest of the bridge crew turned as one to stare at their general. Their eyes were wide, shadowed with a shock that bordered on reverence, reflecting the flickering consoles and the fallen forms of those who had once commanded them as property.
Obi-Wan stood at the center of the silence, his silhouette etched in sharp relief against the cold light of the stars. His eyes were still glowing lightly with that ethereal-blue light of the Force. He did not falter; he merely gave a slow, deliberate nod to Commander Cody.
“They’re yours to do with as you wish, Commander,” he said.
His voice was calm, that resonant echo still vibrating in his tone. In that single sentence, the Vode were no longer just soldiers or "meat droids"; they were now a free people.
Commander Cody stood still, the shock in his eyes hardening instantly into the cold, sharp focus of a veteran who had found his purpose. The air on the bridge now crackled with the electric intent of the Vode. He understood the weight of the gift Obi-Wan had given him—not just a ship, but the ownership of his own life and the lives of his people.
“Commlink,” Cody barked, his voice slicing through the bridge like a blade. He looked at the bodies of the Admiral and his staff scattered across the deck—men who had called the Vode “meat droids” and “assets”—and felt nothing but the cold, clean weight of purpose. They were remnants of an era that had ended the moment the General’s eyes turned blue.
Turning to Lieutenant Crys, Cody used Vode battle signs to send several quick commands to check for surveillance and trackers that the Senate might have placed on the ships. His fingers moved in a blur of silent, precise motions. He silently ordered the lieutenant to send an encrypted code to the rest of the commanders to have the rest of the fleet checked. He then turned toward the communications array, his silhouette a stark contrast against the flickering monitors. “Tell the Vode... it’s time to take out the trash.”