THE QUARRY

By: Scatterheart a.k.a. Hallospacegirl

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CHAPTER SEVEN: ONE LAST BETRAYAL

Obi-Wan Kenobi? But it couldn't be. Not this Jedi master, this last remaining member of the mythical species of galactic beings known as the Jedi Order. Had it been but five years since the scourge? Five years ago, he would have passed a Jedi on the road with hardly a glance back, but ever since Kenobi had arrived onto the base, he could have barely taken his eyes off of him. Obi-Wan Kenobi. A Jedi. A shadow from a forgotten time.

Kenobi must have been a demigod to have been able to survive the war. Or at least that was what Chig Nugla had initially thought as the man had stepped from the faux Imperial ship, testing the Alderaanian air with a half-smile upon his smooth and serene and suntanned face. Here was a man who could shake the sand from his retirement and carry through a galactic operation without even a flinch in those catlike, graceful limbs. What could he be but a demigod? Or at least a ghost?

The illusion had dissipated almost immediately in Nugla's mind, of course. The abrupt faint onto the dirt walkway and the days of ragged interrogation had told him that. But really, what had he expected Obi-Wan Kenobi to do? Glow? Heal the sick and walk on water? Deep within his mind, Nugla knew that Kenobi was simply a human who had undergone special training, and it left a bitter taste in his mouths to admit that he had idolized this man for a suspended second. And then came the urge to break him down, to prove to the entire jaded base – especially to that fawning Bail Organa – that Kenobi was just a single, fallible mortal who could do no more or less than any other soldier.

Still, as Nugla watched Obi-Wan Kenobi charge into the office, he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Disappointed and at the same time smugly satisfied at the specter before him, like a scientist who has finally disproved the theory of immortality.

So here he was, the Jedi and the oasis of hope for the entire Rebel Alliance. Except now he looked more like a walking inferno than a peaceful spring. The purplish, bruised wound upon his temple, hovering above an unshaven jaw. The rumpled white clothes splattered on the shoulder with dried blood. Nugla swallowed the smile-tinged grimace rising to his lips.

"Explain this, Secretary Nugla." The fatigue in his voice, now more pronounced than ever. Kenobi slapped a small black rectangle onto the desktop and slid it across the pearlescent stone until the rectangle stopped two centimeters before Nugla's edge of the desk.

It was a surveillance tape. He crossed his arms in front of him, leaned back in the specially cushioned Ithorian chair, and blinked at the man standing opposite him. Kenobi's blatant entrance would have been offensive on any other day, but the curiosity that had bloomed in Nugla's chest overrode all other inferior feelings. "Yes, General Kenobi?" Nugla failed to keep the sarcastic emphasis from escaping his mouths, then decided that the slip didn't matter. It was grandly irritating – even insulting – hailing Kenobi by that term, for how was he still an officer, much less a general? A general who hadn't shown for service in half a decade, then immediately thrust onto a pedestal upon his arrival. He touched the tape with a stocky finger and swirled it slowly upon the desk. "Are we supposed to have a meeting today, General? I must have forgotten—"

"I came without an appointment. I'm fully aware that I broke protocol."

He smiled widely he finished divulging the entire web of connections surrounding the small tape, now dancing lazily as he juggled it over his hands. "That's not the only thing you broke. This morning a report came in that somebody had rewired the computer in the surveillance library and had stolen a tape. Could that someone have been… you?"

Kenobi jerked his head in a curt nod. "It was the will of the Force. Secretary Nugla—"

"The Force?" he repeated through a mouth, letting out a bark of laughter with the other. "The law says that unauthorized entrance is a—"

"Secretary Nugla," Kenobi interrupted quietly.

And the ensuing stream of words died on Chig Nugla's tongues. It had been the tone of the Jedi's voice that had shut him so decisively up, that soft and emphasized enunciation of his name. It sounded like a durasteel sword slicing through transparent silk. Surely a Jedi mind trick…

He swallowed in the silence, felt his hearts accelerating in his chest, and decided not to speak.

"Do you expect me to apologize, Secretary Nugla?" the Jedi continued. "I won't. Not to individuals who serve no purpose but to hide the atrocities committed by their tainted laws."

"What are you getting at?"

"You tortured her."

Nugla stared. He saw the seriousness of the accusation reflected back in twin pools of blue. The shock of that simple sentence hit his vocal chords like a missile, and he finally managed a small, "I didn't."

"Yes, it happened, Secretary. Watch the tape and you'll see two cadets who work under your command use a torture-droid on Lena Narona for three and a half hours. They employed needles, nerve stimulants, and bright optic goggles. These were all devices that could leave no trace upon the victim. Even more ingenious of you was to schedule the torture at her containment cell, Secretary. You knew that only interrogations could be seen by the rest of the base, and that recordings of her containment cell were available only to top officers. What better way to keep the rest of Alderaan believing in your righteous rebellion?"

"I've told you – I didn't do it. This is the first time I've heard of such a ridiculous thing. I didn't issue the order."

"Yes, Secretary Nugla, you did!"

The shock that had seized Nugla's abdomen finally disintegrated to the ground; fury rushed to fill its place. He pushed himself from the chair and rose to his feet. Fully standing, he realized the human was incredibly small, perhaps but one and three-quarter meters in height. So small that he was able to easily crush him underfoot. Crush him now before he had the chance to entangle him with those poisonous Jedi words, tie him up and destroy him like the Imperials did his family…

Nugla squeezed his fists tightly under the desk, forcing out the blackened memories. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, I swear to you—" It felt agonizing to speak, but he plowed through the barbs in his gullet. "—by the graves of my children. I swear to you I did not issue the order."

"If not you, then who?"

"A dozen other members at this base could have done the same. They hold the same privileges as I hold. I know you suspect me because you despise me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, because I treat you like a human and not like a god. And I despise you because you refuse to believe that inside out, you're like every other weak little human in the galaxy. So you try to shoot me down this way. You want to."

The Jedi took a long, inhaled breath. His expression remained bland – at least compared to the livid contortions that Nugla felt were creasing his own face – as his deep-set human eyes roamed over the Ithorian. "I don't despise you, Chig Nugla," he said at last. "I am a Jedi, and a Jedi knows no hatred."

Nugla snorted. What one failed to mention about the Jedi was that to top off their list of accomplishments they were marvelous liars as well. Kenobi's voice had been placid, but that conflicting undercurrent of loathing had remained despite his outer control. It was written all over his gaze, his posture, his all too human scent. "Thank you for the… warmhearted… statement, general." Nugla sunk back down into the seat and urged the ache of anger in his bones dissipate into the soft brown leather. "But I'm not a Jedi and I don't have any similar sentiment in return. And now I must ask you to leave my office. I'm not the culprit you are looking for, and frankly, you're wasting my morning."

"Secretary Nugla…"

That deadly tone again. But this time he ignored the unwarranted shudder of fear in his gut. He opened his right fist, finding the surveillance tape mangled inside. Simply an accident borne out of rage. He flicked the broken tape across the desk to Kenobi. "I'm sorry about that. Please take it—"

Before he could finish, his back exploded in white, blinding pain.

How—?

Nugla realized that in the blink of an eye he had been thrown out of his chair and smashed against the wall behind him with so much power that the holo-photo hanging nearby had fallen to the floor. And now something was pinning him agonizingly against the wall, something unseen…

It was that Jedi. Obi-Wan Kenobi, standing in his place behind the desk, a hand held out in a gesture that could only amount to witchcraft.

So was this the reason why both the Empire and Rebellion feared him? Because he could control situations with his mind? Move objects with a wave of his arm? The Force. Just a parlor trick. He attempted to remain calm.

"You destroyed the tape, Secretary Nugla," Kenobi said.

"You know it was an accident."

"No, it seems like you have just cleaned up the evidence against you."

He struggled in his invisible confines, despite the fact that he knew that a Force hold did not work in the same manner as a material one. "How many times must I tell you that I didn't issue the order? It's not my fault that this happened to her." He cleared his throat. "It's not my fault that you're in love with her."

There. He said it, though he wondered dimly to himself whyhe would even have fostered suspicions regarding this issue. It had just seemed obvious to him – Kenobi's fervent protection of the Imperial girl, their intimate conversations – that it staggered him that nobody else had uttered a word. Perhaps humans could see no further of themselves or others than the length of their relatively flat faces. Or perhaps they were too busy reassuring themselves of the impossibility of such a thing; he was a Jedi who had survived unscathed from the war, so of course he was unable to fall in love, much less with an Imperial

Or did he say this statement because he had been digging too far into his mind for ways of dragging Obi-Wan Kenobi off of his Jedi throne?

He searched Kenobi's blank countenance. Saw nothing. He couldn't resist another jab. "General Kenobi – and I'm sure you've been told this before – but don't let your feelings get in the way of your judgment. You couldn't bear watching her get tortured, so you're putting the blame on me. I'm the outlet for your pain—"

The breath was knocked out of both mouths as he was brought forward and thrown back again. Chunks of duracrete and white paint now crumbled in a small avalanche at his toes. Stars danced in his vision; he gasped for air. "Does tormenting me make you feel better? Yes? Then I suppose you now know what it's like to inflict hurt upon another. Upon Lena—"

"You know nothing!"

He coughed. It was difficult to breathe through the Force pressure enveloping his entire torso. "That's correct, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I didn't issue the order!"

"Nugla—"

"He's right, Obi-Wan. Chig Nugla didn't issue the order. I did."

And the pressure abruptly faded from his body as he crumpled to the polished, wooden floor. As he his pupils lost their focus, he saw the blurry white shape of Obi-Wan Kenobi, and behind him the regal, purple-robed silhouette of Senator Bail Organa.

Nugla didn't know whether to cringe or sneer. He took the easy option and passed out instead.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was true. Obi-Wan Kenobi sensed it etched it every line, every plane of Bail Organa's familiar face, just as he had sensed the innocence in Chig Nugla's. He gazed down at the Ithorian, now crumpled in a senseless mountain at the base of the dented wall, his blocky, tan body shaking in quick inhales of air.

Maker, what had he done? Had he really been the one who had suspended the secretary against the wall, almost crushing his twin windpipes with the pressure? He forced himself not the think back to the red-black nebula that had clouded his mind, a nebula he had only known five years ago, when that burnt husk of a man had clawed up from the boiling lakes of Mustafar…

He was sotired. So tired. He was wracked with a fatigue that he didn't know had existed before. Maybe he could follow the path of the Ithorian and collapse into an unconscious meditation for several days. Leave the Imperial dilemma, leave Lena behind. Dream once more of the simple and endless heat of Tattooine that had nearly succeeded in scorching away all of his memories, before she had come along and set them afire anew…

Her memory ran ablaze in his thoughts like a blanket of flames, pulling at his heart with a sort of throbbing, weighty pain as he recalled the staticky images of the surveillance holo-vid.

And now Bail Organa, his old friend, standing beside him in lavish, senatorial robes.

Kenobi supposed he was angry at the senator. No, not angry – furious to an extent that the emotion anesthetized him and left him completely peaceful. Or was it more a feeling of pain than anger? Or both? He could no longer tell; his mind burned white hot, silent.

He breathed deeply and attempted to cool the insensible hum of pure emotion. A true Jedi would not have ever – ever – have come to this… so was he a Jedi? Still? After hurtling an innocent Ithorian to the wall in a fit of desperation? After these days and days of thinking of that girl Lena and now literally aching for her at the very core of him, was he still a Jedi?

Perhaps the Order had already fallen into extinction. Fallen from the first day he had seen her pale, exquisite face…

And did it matter? What mattered now? Lena? But she was all right, really; he had seen her after the torture and they had talked and she had hidden the truth from his probing senses behind a will of iron… so why did she hide from him? Why did she care that he knew or not – did she not want him to hurt as he did now? And why should he care? Why?

"I had to, Obi-Wan."

The male voice startled him, like a crash in the night.

He pivoted unsteadily on his feet to the speaker – Bail Organa.

The senator's face was ashen and grave, and Kenobi supposed that he wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him violently or perhaps backhand him across the jaw for his blasphemous order against Lena, but he remained motionless.

"When I saw from the first day that she wouldn't break – I just wanted to – I wanted to end it, you know?" Organa was saying. "So I issued the order. I thought she would relent, but she didn't." He sighed raggedly, running a hand through his hair. "Damnation, Obi-Wan, don't look at me like that! I had to try – I had to. If she told us the name of the Imperial planet, then this whole thing would be over. The Empire would fall and the Jedi would rise again, and my daughter would no longer have to spend her childhood on a military base with only a damned protocol droid as a playmate. Do you understand me, Obi-Wan? Why I had to do what I did? Believe me, it was one of the most difficult decisions I had to make—"

Kenobi grabbed him by the front of the gilded lapels. The Force was screeching about him like a wild, discordant symphony, pulling back at his limbs, making him feel as though he were slugging through a slew of muddy, crimson water. But he held on. Stared into Organa's trembling brown gaze. "You tortured her."

"Yes, I know! I tortured her! I tortured her but I didn't injure her – you saw her for yourself yesterday. And it was done for the sake of the greater good. I'm a senator, Obi-Wan. I have to do what is right for the people at a crucial time like this, don't you understand? This is the way the galaxy functions, and I'm its public servant, nothing more."

"The galaxy doesn't function on breaches of morality!" Kenobi roughly let the senator go, stumbled back. The Force was screaming as it clawed at him, dragging him back from the dark and bloody cloud. His leg tripped over the arm of an oversized Ithorian chair and he ungracefully toppled into it, too exhausted to leave the soft, cool cushions. "The galaxy doesn't function on another's pain."

Organa smoothed his robe, pulling out the creases in the front. For the first time since he had known the senator, Kenobi sensed a dash of fear in Organa's aura. Fear for him, the Jedi, if he could still refer to himself by that honor.

Maker, what was he becoming?

He buried his face in his hands and was stunned to feel the hot moisture there. He was weeping… but he had not wept in so long that he had almost forgotten how. And yet it was true – he was weeping quietly, shedding tears for Lena and for Bail and for what he and the Rebellion had become… and what was to be. He could sense the premonition shimmering around him; he could practically smell the verge of change.

And he understood what he needed to do.

He wiped his wrist across his eyes and looked up at the senator. Different, truly different. Bail Organa had been slim and dashing and had worn crisp uniforms then… before the war. Now it seemed that the entire weight of Alderaan had rounded out his shoulders and abdomen, and had thinned his straggly black hair. Thrown him into these elaborate gowns and cloaks as though sheer extravagance alone would somehow bring the Rebellion into power.

And quite abruptly the memory of the last time he had seen Bail Organa glittered crystally in his mind. The angelic white interior of the Alliance spaceship and his old friend standing proud in a uniform of spotless gray; the tiny baby Leia Skywalker had cooed as she had nestled in his arms.

Kenobi felt himself smiling through the empty sense of loss, the promise of a new beginning. "It's all over now, Bail," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"What – what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about everything – everything that surrounds us. You know, Bail, the galaxy has changed, and it will never return to the way it was. And I never wanted to believe that, because I wanted with all my heart to believe in…" – he searched for words – "…in a cyclical nature. I wanted things to orbit back to the way they were. I was never a model Jedi, Bail – I loved Qui-Gon and Anakin with too much of me, and so I feared for their loss, and when they were forcibly taken for me, I kept hoping that one day they would return. I was foolish and wrong."

"Obi-Wan, please—"

"Do you realize that life moves in the same fashion as the Force? It's a flowing river. We never travel back to where we came. We're different now, you and I. We've changed. And this galaxy will one day change as well – the Empire will fall, but the new republic or democracy that takes its place will never be The Republic again. The Old Republic. We can't force ourselves to pretend that we were the same people we once were, operating under the same government, the same status quo. I will always remember our friendship, Bail Organa."

The older man's shock rippled tremulously through the Force. Gasping silently, Organa fished for the edge of the stone desk and leaned upon it rigidly. "I'm not understanding what you're saying, my friend …"

"I don't belong here. And you know it, Bail. I can sense that you do."

Organa shook his head frantically. "Is this about Lena? If it is, then – damn it – I'm sorry! All right? I don't know what to do right now, Obi-Wan. I'll – I'll stop all interrogations for two weeks. I'll get Chig Nugla off the case. Obi-Wan, I don't know what else to tell you – I'm sorry."

Kenobi closed his eyes. Dared not to open them lest a new torrent of tears would come rolling down. "I can't stay. I belong on Tattooine, guarding over your daughter's twin brother."

"But I need you here. Obi-Wan, you are the shining star of the Rebel movement – don't you see? We need you, and if—"

"Perhaps one day you'll need me, but now is not the time."

"Why not! Why can't it be!"

The rueful smile crept back onto his lips. "I don't know. I simply sense it. I suppose we can call it… fate, my old friend."

A silence lapsed between them, marred only by the steady breaths of the Ithorian nearby. He ruminated over the recollections gathered during the last few days – the sweet Alderaanian air, the grubby softness of Leia's fingers as they shook hands – and tucked them away into the valuable pockets of his mind.

And then… there was the unspoken mission ahead of him.

Kenobi swallowed thickly. The plan had formed quite completely in his brain just minutes ago, and of course he couldn't utter a single phrase to the senator or to anyone else. Not even to himself; he dared not to think of it in a coherent manner.

By the Maker, am I going out of my mind?

No – despite the ridiculousness of it all, what he had to do felt… right. For himself. For Lena. Perhaps Organa would understand one day, or perhaps not, but such was the will of the Force, and he was a Jedi – yes, he told himself he was a Jedi, even as his heart cried out for her – and his duty was to let his actions flow from the Force… flow without thought.

Please forgive me, Bail. Not only for leaving you, but for doing what I am about to do soon. For the lies I will tell, and for the deceptions I will play. For this one last betrayal, I am truly sorry.

"I plan to leave in four days," was what Obi-Wan Kenobi said out loud. "Let us at least part on amicable terms."

"Amicable?" For a second Organa appeared ready to explode and topple the desk with his white-knuckled hands. And then he slumped. His head rested limply upon his chest as he heaved a sigh, quietly. "I… I hope for that as well."

Kenobi eased himself out of the chair and walked to the senator. When he placed his hand upon his shoulder, he felt that Organa was trembling slightly underneath the elaborate reams of purple fabric. "Forgive me," he said, "for all I've done to wrong you, just as I've forgiven you. I only ask that you stop the interrogations on Larmé Sarena Narona for the four days I'm here. Keep her in the solitary holding cell. For my sake, Bail. You always told me that I needed to do something for myself, and so I ask for this."

A slow nod of assent. Then, "Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan, I don't think I can ever live down what I did, giving that order. But I saw the chance that the Empire could be crushed now and I wanted to seize it, even if it meant defying everything that the Alliance stood for—"

"I know. But have patience. That day will come, whether or not we live to see it."

From the corner of the room came a bizarre, stereophonic lowing sound; Kenobi craned his head to see Chig Nugla attempting to struggle dazedly to his hoofed feet. He couldn't help but grin, tiredly. "Come, Bail, I see that our friend needs assistance. And then a drink at the cantina should be in order, don't you agree?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day Kenobi slept, drifting for hours in a warm, healing trance. He had expected nightmares, or at least vividly disjointed visions, but his mind rested dreamlessly, weightlessly, and at times he could almost feel the dry, smooth brush of the desert air sliding over his skin. And when he woke with the red dusk slanting through the wide bay window, it almost seemed as though he had returned to the Jundland Wastes and had left the previous events blissfully behind him forever.

Almost.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gingerly stood on the icy, glossy floor. The coldness seeped into the soles of his bare feet, spreading upwards throughout his nude body, chasing away what wispy, lingering sensations of Tattooine still clung to his thoughts.

Kenobi shivered. Looked down at himself, at the light hairs that were raised on his arms, at the pale indications of blaster shots and lightsaber slashes and lacerations and spewing lava that marred his lean, chiseled torso. So this was how a Jedi marked his years – ever increasing scars upon a crude and earthly body that otherwise would remain perennially in its prime, due to its unending regime of arduous training. A vessel of the Force. A scarred vessel of war.

For some reason the idea amused him bitterly, and he smiled to himself, then shivered again as a breeze gusted in from the half-open window.

He walked to the closet and regarded the clothes within. A few flowing Alderaanian robes of garish colors, a white military-like uniform of some sort, and a heavy brown cloak that passed could pass as Jedi garb. He pulled out the uniform and dressed himself. Below him was an array of footwear ranging from ceremonial slippers to oiled shoes; he buckled on black, knee-high leather boots.

Then he knelt in the closet and pushed aside the remaining shoes until he found in the dusty corner cranny the two shiny, metallic items he had been looking for. He secured the lightsaber onto the concealed belt loops at his trouser waist, and tucked the miniature blaster into his left boot.

He had initially encountered some difficulty acquiring a blaster, but had finally drawn one discreetly from the belt of a young cadet yesterday evening at the cantina. It had been a simple sleight of hand that had left both Bail Organa and the cadet oblivious; nevertheless, the weapon would be reported missing soon – if it hadn't been reported already – and a thorough radar sweep of the compounds would be conducted.

For this reason he had to hurry.

Grimacing, he nestled the blaster more securely along the side of his calf. Like Qui-Gon had said, it was an uncivilized and tasteless weapon that took no training at all to perfect, but Kenobi admitted that it did provide some small advantages over the lightsaber. While the lightsaber could only kill and injure with its highly concentrated blade, the blaster could stun with low-frequency lasers. Could leave no tell-tale Jedi burn.

Kenobi straightened, glanced around him. The breathtaking dusk had faded from the window, abandoning the room in smudgy purple darkness.

He would have preferred to remember his last evening on Alderaan in all its glowing embers, he contemplated as he paused at the doorway. But this would have to do. And somehow he was certain that in the decades to come, should they come, he would gradually forget this moment like a drop of paint dissolving into water. But then again, he supposed he would always remember the first day as intensely as the Tattooinian sunbeams. Emerging from that silver ship, with Lena slumbering contentedly behind him and Bail Organa running joyously to him with both arms outstretched in welcome, Obi-Wan Kenobi had truly believed in that flickering, brief, and beautiful illusion that an era of paradise was about to begin.

But it had only been an illusion, and – like all illusions – it had shattered as swiftly as it had formed.

Goodbye, Bail, my friend, and don't think of me too unkindly.

Kenobi walked out and shut the door.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The earsplitting squeal of a blaster shot seared into the stagnant quiet of the holding cell, jolting Larmé Sarena Narona from the cot like a puppet on strings. The blurry remnants of sleep still dragged at vision, but instinct – those years of continuous training at the Academy – pulled her along, made her reach to her hip for the blaster, made her steady her legs in the defensive stance—

Four more shots screeched out and a tiny shower of something painful was raining down on the nape of her neck before she realized where she was; instead of her blaster, her hand grabbed only the rough weave of the prison jumpsuit, and instead of steadying herself, she nearly fell as the chains around her ankles tested their limits.

Lena finished opening her eyes. Focused.

And saw Obi-Wan Kenobi standing before her.

This time she did fall. She tripped nosily backwards over the blasted chain, sat gracelessly down at the edge of the cot.

But this man standing on the other side of the durasteel bars and holding the smoking blaster – not Obi-Wan Kenobi, not that ideological Jedi son of a she-bantha that she wanted to positively slaughter with her bare hands each time he rambled on with his conflicted politics or invaded into her dreams and nightmares like some dark, shining knight.

He looked the same as he did on the night he had visited her last. No, she was mistaken; his straw blond hair was neater, his jaw was shaved, and most noticeably, the vicious wound at his temple had healed into a light green discoloration. Only his eyes remained identical, the same endless and clear and peaceful gray-blue that took her breath away to describe…

And why did she care! By the Maker, why did she even notice?

A traitor, that was what he was. Liar. Turncoat. Manipulator. Hypocrite. Bastard.

The invectives stirred restlessly at her tongue in an arsenal of poison that she aimed point-blank at his heart – or what glacial stone block existed in its place – and she prepared to fire.

"Obi-Wan, you – you – look at this mess; I thought you advocated peace."

Hell.

How she hungered to tear out of the cell and rip him to shreds with her teeth, and all that she had been able to conjure up had been that single, insipid sentence. Surveying the scene about her, she wondered if he had disarmed her mental faculties once more with his Jedi tricks.

Because it was obvious he had used them to bring this about. The four night guards that had stood at attention outside the cell were now lying prostrate upon the duracrete hallway floor in a tangle of limbs and tentacles; faint blaster residue smoke still swirled from their bodies.

Another prick of pain jabbed the nape of her neck. She looked up behind her and saw that the security camera on the ceiling was now a sparking, raining mess of spare parts. She turned back to Kenobi. "What's this about?"

"I only stunned the guards – I didn't hurt them. They should come to in an hour. You must leave quickly," he replied, tucking the blaster into his boot and removing a small metal cylinder from his waistband. He flicked a switch, and a long blinding rod of blue light issued forth from one end. It hummed ferociously with a heatless, concentrated energy; he whipped it to the bars and Lena gaped as she watched it slice through the durasteel like a knife cutting through syrup.

A lightsaber, she thought. A weapon of the Jedi. Deadly.

"You're here to kill me."

The blade paused and Kenobi looked up from his task. Was that a smile upon his features or simply a shadow from the flickering light orbs? "I'm not here to kill you."

"They why—"

"You must leave this place tonight, Lena."

"I must—" She stared at him, attempting to divulge his expression as he resumed slicing through the bars with the lightsaber. His face was unreadable, like that of a mysterious painting. Irritation overwhelmed her, and the pressure of anger soon built. Did he feel the absolute dire need to leave her floundering at every given opportunity? Was that the secret weapon of the Jedi – to have the ability to disarm a Stormtrooper from the inside out? "You're lying."

"No." Kenobi deactivated the lightsaber, clipping it back onto his waist. He grabbed two bars and pulled out the smoking door from the frame, then rested it against the wall with a small clatter.

She would have scoffed if she hadn't found the situation so unbelievable it almost seemed like a hallucination. She tested out the dubious words on her tongue. "So you're saying… you're here to rescue me."

He lifted one shoulder in a quick shrug as he stepped into the cell. "I suppose you can put it that way."

"Blast you, Obi-Wan!" Lena's fury exploded in a shower of fireworks, and she bolted from the bed, charging forward until the shackles cut into her wrists and ankles and the pain reverberated to the bone. Kenobi halted precisely in his steps just centimeters away and caught her gaze – she found that she was staring up at those eyes and she couldn't do anything else; those damned shackles made sure that she couldn't even touch him…

And if she could, what would she do? Slap him. No – he deserved much more than that for what he had done – he deserved to be ripped apart, to be left for dead. "Your bosom buddy Bail Organa put you up to this, didn't he? What is it now – you drag me away on the pretext of rescuing me, and lead me into an even greater trap? Do you think this is a game, Obi-Wan? Is it fun for you, manipulating me?"

"Lena, I'm helping you from this place because you shouldn't be here." His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. And now an expression she did recognize settled like a black satin cloud over his features. Profound sadness. For a wavering second he blinked down at the floor, and she could have sworn she saw the briefest glint of something shimmering on his eyelash… "I've… I've permanently severed my ties with Bail Organa," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, "and will not be communicating with him anymore."
"I know you're lying—"

"You don't mean that, Lena," he replied, simply.

Damn him! She tried to reach out with her arms and shove him – do anything – and only succeeded in making the increasing soreness of the durasteel shackles echo up her forearms. And suddenly her whole body was smothered in a dull, familiar sour ache that made her want to scream…

The pain was a lingering side affect from the nerve serum that had been injected into her body two days ago, this much she knew. It was a common artificial stimulant that the Empire itself employed in massive amounts upon its prisoners and it caused minimal physical harm, but – by the Ultimate Maker – it just hurt so much… every nook and cranny of her body, every extremity and every centimeter of skin…

No, she would not show her agony. She would not show this man that she had undergone this ordeal and that it had made her nearly tear out her own limbs and yearn to die in order to escape it; she was a Stormtrooper, and she knew no weakness, and she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing even a speck…

And as quickly as it had come, the pain vanished. Deep within her brainstem, a remnant particle of the nerve serum had detached itself from the spindly fingers of a dendrite cell and had floated harmlessly into the bloodstream.

Oh, Maker.

Lena realized she had been holding her breath. She let the air out with a hiss. "Obi-Wan, you Jedi bastard, you can't possibly be helping me," she gritted through clenched teeth.

Something that looked like weary amusement crossed his countenance. "Any why not?"

"Because – because…"

Because it was literally insane, because he was an insufferable Jedi of the highest rank, and it had only been a handful of days ago that he had personally delivered her into the clawed grasp of this supposedly righteous Alliance. Because he had spouted for hours about the necessity of her telling him the name of the Imperial planet, and because of the trillions of deaths and bloody wars she could prevent if she only martyred herself to the greater good…

And because… he couldn't. He just couldn't.

"Because I'm a Stormtrooper," Lena said out loud. "I'm A-186, I'm faceless Imperial scum – your friends, former friends, whatever they may be to you, never fail to remind me of that fact. And in my mind I have information that's more valuable than kessel or spice, so of course what you're doing now is a complete farce. I'll bet that past the hallway there are fifty uniformed men waiting to riddle me with blaster shots."

Kenobi shook his head. "Alderaan has no motive to kill you. As you said, you contain valuable information."

"And I've also said that nothing – nothing – will make me reveal Emperor Palpatine's central planet to any of you. And I've kept my word, so I might as well be dead, Obi-Wan. I've kept my word, even after—" She stopped herself. He can't know about what happened.

She wasn't quite sure why she hadn't told him already, and it made her angry. Obi-Wan, they tortured me. It was a simple proclamation. And perhaps he would flinch after she said it, perhaps his proud shoulders would stoop in guilt. Guilt. Good, he needed guilt, he needed hurt, as strong a dose as he could possibly handle…

No. Lena bit the inside of her mouth in frustration, felt that damned sting of wetness gathering at the bottom rims of her eyes. "I hate you, Obi-Wan," she finished. "If you want to deliver me to the execution squad, just do it now."

He was mute; she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. A small frown creased the space between his eyebrows as he looked at her, scanning her face as though he were searching... And then he said, "If I were to kill you, I would have no need for an execution squad."

"You—"

"A strong enough hit to this nerve would do it," he resumed. He extended a hand. He pressed it gingerly on the hollow between her neck and collarbone, and his fingers were warm and dry and unwavering on her skin… and fiery pain radiated from the spot.

She swallowed – was he really – ? No, it was the old pain from the invisible needle wound that had been delivered by the torture droid, and it still felt so agonizing—

Kenobi dropped his hand and the fire dispersed. "And also this nerve at your solar plexus." He tapped her upper abdomen with the back of his fingers; the lightest of taps through fabric, but an unseen wound there protested as well. He removed his hand, brought it upwards again. "And the deadliest location, here." He touched the back of her neck.

The pain flushed like a volcano into her head and she vaguely knew she was suddenly leaning on his arm, gasping for air, reeling with a jettison of stars.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was still so…"

Did Kenobi say that or was she hearing voices from the traces of nerve serum? His hand was no longer at her neck – thank the Maker, the agony was now gone – and was supporting her shoulder firmly. She realized she had closed her eyes, and she opened them, and saw that he was squinting at her, and his pupils were so dilated that they drowned out his irises and his eyes were almost black…

He knew.

He knew. Oh, Maker. He knew. And he had been testing her injuries with those gentle touches. He knew everything all along. "Everything is not the way it's supposed to be, Lena," he was saying. "This atrocity never should have happened – it was never the will of the Force. You need to be gone from here—"

"Obi-Wan… stop it." She was whispering in little shudders. Didn't care anymore. "Please. Stop your lies. Get it over with. Do it."

The lightsaber was in his grip before she could even finish speaking, before she could even react. Then the blue beam flashed before her eyes, so close that it nearly blinded her, and it spun around her in a blur, spun and crackled the air and something rattled and clanked behind her, and abruptly it was gone and the room was dim again.

Was she dead? Was she dying? She broke out in a cold sweat; her knees weakened and she tumbled forward, instinctively throwing her arms about Kenobi, and it was only then that she realized he had used the lightsaber to do nothing more than to sever the four shackles connected to her limbs.

For a moment she could only cling onto him. She felt his steady arms around her waist, and it seemed like that night on Tattooine when she had cozied up to him in order to retrieve the comlink, and yet it also seemed wholly different, the way he was holding her… and she knew that even as the lightsaber had swiped before her face, a hair's width from her throat, she had never believed that he had planned to kill her. Ever.

She took a trembling breath. Detected the light, indescribable, bittersweet scent of his skin, a mixture that reminded her of the desert and of the vastness of space and of grief and old memories…

She straightened. Detached herself from him and caught his gaze. "Obi-Wan, what—"

"Hush." He took her hand tightly in his firm grip. "No more time for words, Lena. We must leave now. Come."

And it fully occurred to Lena then that he was in earnest. By the Maker, what was he doing! A barrage of unwanted emotions assaulted her; she held back when he tugged at her to follow him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" she snapped in reply, and her anger for him returned in full force. Anger that made her want to grab him and shake him and embrace him all at once. "You – you – Obi-Wan, you can't do this! Do you know what will happen if they ever—"

He gave her another tug. "Yes, I know. Come with me."

"Did you hear what I just said to you? You're a Jedi and you can't do this!"

"Why not, Lena?" He stopped in his tracks and his voice suddenly sounded deeper and hoarser, and it sent a shiver spiraling up her spine. "After all, the Rebellion has done what they wanted to you. Tell me – was injecting you with nerve serum within their jurisdiction? I'm a Jedi, Lena, and I act through the will of the Force, not through a government's political agenda."

Maker…

"You're talking about revenge," she murmured.

"I'm talking about righting a wrong that never should have been committed!"

"Their wrong, not yours!"

"No, Lena. It is my own. I just… failed to see it before it escalated beyond my control." He shook his head, a little. "It was not right."

She simply stared at him, observing the bleakness in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. She observed how the edges of his hair had just started to lose their golden wheat color. She noticed the furrow between his brows, and ruminated on how youthful he still seemed despite it all, how defiant. "Jedi," she asked, "are you apologizing to me?"

He briefly frowned in thought. "Well, I suppose… if you'd prefer to consider it in that manner."

She prepared to smirk at him derisively, at the grudging excuse he had given for an apology, but slowly realized that she was smiling. Yes, smiling – smiling faintly and effortlessly, as though she were naively twelve years old once more and he had given her the most precious …

He was still a bastard and a Jedi and a Rebel, and nothing could change it, least of all a simple acknowledgement of the past. Years of experience had taught her that.

She wiped the simpering expression off her face in annoyance and wrenched her hand away from his grasp. "Words are nothing, Obi-Wan. Just air. It changes nothing, do you understand? So stop treating me as a commodity, because as long as I'm alive and capable, I am not yours to drag from here to there. I make my own decisions at all times, Jedi. You've cut my chains and now I'm free to do what I want, not what you decide for me. I – I'm—" She grunted in frustration. "You didn't have to do all of this, you know. I never asked for it, and so now I don't owe you anything. I can stay here and you can't do a thing about it."

He looked at her. He didn't move, just looked at her. And when she thought she could stand the silence for not a second longer, he parted his lips and sighed. "You're right, Lena" he said quietly, then turned on his heels and stepped over the remains of the door and walked down the hallway.

Lena remained motionless for a second, following his departing figure with her gaze. Then she cursed under her breath.

Damn him. All that he stood for.

She sprinted after him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

To be continued. Sorry for the late update. I have midterms coming up and it's a pain. Expect more in a month. Thanks for reading and reviewing.