Sarkos Eve

"Stay close, Padawan."

Obi Wan Kenobi didn't need telling twice. The crowded marketplace surged and seethed like a stormy ocean. Waves of living beings crashed upon the shores of the vendors' stalls, and pulled away again in riptides which threatened to separate him from the tall, seemingly impervious figure of his teacher.

"Oi," a burly, horned person grunted as he shoved his way past. "Watch it."

The young Jedi slipped aside, avoiding a collision, avoiding a heavily laden hovercart, avoiding a threesome of rambunctious younglings scampering underfoot. He lost ground, but Qui Gon's head was still visible over the tumultuous horizon, a sure and steady landmark. He redoubled his efforts and pushed forward. An opening appeared in the throng, and he dashed for it, only to collide softly with a flamboyantly attired female.

"Excuse me," this person giggled, her perfume a choking cloud of crushed haffa blossoms and some spicy, acrid herb. She pushed past him, slowly, her hand straying where it ought not to. He twisted away sharply, dodged between two haggling Rodians, ducked a hover-droid, and threaded his way past a strolling food vendor. The scent of something greasy and hot mingled with the lingering miasma of stale perfume. Qui Gon had drifted further away. The Padawan sighed and gritted his teeth,

"Pardon me," he murmured, pushing more aggressively through the shoppers and their bulging packages. He kept one hand on his 'saber hilt. It would never do to lose the weapon to an overzealous pickpocket, and he could sense the curious and casual malice of any number of petty thieves mingling in the crowd.

The regal Jedi master turned his head at last, noticing the conspicuous lack of Padawan at his side. A subtle gesture with one hand, and the milling pedestrians parted, in unconscious synchrony, leaving a narrow aisle. Obi Wan crossed the sudden gap in a few swift strides and rejoined his mentor, now so close that his shoulder brushed against the tall man's arm.

Qui Gon fingered the end of his apprentice's braid. "Do I require a leash?" he smiled, tiny lines of amusement radiating around his grey eyes.

"I'm sorry, master."

"Be mindful," was the gentle, and oft-repeated rejoinder.

They pushed onward against the ceaseless tide of jostling bodies, Qui Gon now keeping a broad hand firmly pressed against his student's shoulder, occasionally exerting a slight pressure as they hurried through the chaotic marketplace. Eyes and tentacles and feelers inclined toward the brown-cloaked pair as they progressed toward the central courtyard, where two intersecting alleys opened into a wide, paved space. The scent of food was ubiquitous, inviting. Cordoned areas contained small groupings of tables and chairs, some sheltered beneath awnings and portable canopies.

"Here," the tall master decided, stepping over the low barrier of one such plaza., and pulling up a chair beside a small, wrought metal table.

Obi Wan was relieved to escape the crowd. He sat beside his master, watching the river of life tumble past them. A waiter droid set a pitcher of water before them and fussed with the place settings. "Thank you," he responded automatically, but the machine merely finished its ministrations and hummed away again.

"Are we here to meet your contact?" he asked quietly, when he was sure no one was listening.

Qui Gon raised an eyebrow. "We are here to have tea," he replied serenely. He nodded toward the interior of the small eatery, a noisy cavern of chatter and the distant bang and hiss of the kitchens. "Why don't you have a look at the menu?"

The Padawan took the hint. He found the menu posted near the door of the bustling interior, and positioned himself so he might be observed easily from any corner of the dim room, even shifting his weight slightly to be sure his saber hilt peeked from beneath the hem of his cloak. The menu was written in the local Pelluvish script, but he pretended to be absorbed in its details.

Presently, a slight prickling at the nape of his neck alerted him that at least one pair of eyes rested upon him with interest, and a moment later his peripheral vision caught the flutter of a dark figure purposefully exiting toward the outdoor courtyard. He lingered another moment and then casually abandoned his post.

Qui Gon was just sending away the droid waiter with his order when Obi Wan returned. A sturdy humanoid figure wrapped in a black mantle and headdress was seated beside him. She turned startling, pale gold eyes upon the newcomer, raking him over with an appraising severity.

"And who might this be?" she inquired of Qui Gon.

"My Padawan learner, Obi Wan Kenobi," the Jedi master answered levelly. "You may consider him an extension of myself. I guarantee his discretion and capability."

Obi Wan bowed, and folded himself onto the remaining chair. The woman continued to study him, her thin mouth and sharply defined nose seemingly cut of hard stone. She was Ithorian, like the formidable Master Tinn back at the Temple, and equally intimidating in her mien.

"Very well," the hard-faced woman decided, her cold eyes sliding back to Qui Gon. "The man you seek has taken shelter in a residential district in the next metros. My people won't touch it without help – there are too many innocents, you understand. Children, families. And tonight is Sarkos Eve."

"A festival?"

"Night of the Walking Dead. There will be much celebration. And everyone will be in disguise, naturally. You will not be able to find him or take him tonight."

The Jedi master leaned back in his chair and absorbed this news as the droid returned, bearing a laden tray. Tea and a heaping platter of delicate pastries were set before them. Honey and sarasata peel were deposited next to finger bowls and scented napkins. The mechanical servant hummed away once the table was arranged to its liking.

"His suspected accomplices will be arriving on-world in less than twelve standard hours. We must find him tonight, or things will become complicated," Qui Gon said. He poured tea for the undercover policewoman and then filled a cup for his Padawan.

"You Jedi," the Ithorian woman snorted, but did not finish her thought. She took a long sip of the hot tea in her hand and settled her piercing gaze on Obi Wan. "You know what this man has done," she stated.

"Yes," he nodded. "He is wanted on six systems for murder."

"Young boys. Your age," she specified. Her golden eyes narrowed speculatively. "They say the Dead look for new recruits on Sarkos Eve. Beware."

Qui Gon leaned forward, pushing the tray of pastries across the table. "Eat, Padawan. We do not give credence to local superstition," he told the Ithorian. "And we are grateful for your assistance."

"I'll be in the area this evening, with a squad of reliable security officers at my disposal. Signal me if you manage to succeed, master Jedi." She drained her cup and rose with a small nod of dismissal.

"So we will seek him tonight, in this residential district?" Obi Wan asked.

Qui Gon sighed and looked out over the teeming crowd again. "There seems little choice. We must be cautious. It will be difficult to draw him out without risking innocent lives."

His apprentice helped himself to the sweets. "We could offer him bait," the boy suggested.

The older man's mouth twisted slightly. "I was afraid you would say that."

The market place was nothing compared to the streets of the nearby metros. Glowing lanterns hung suspended from tree limbs and jutting eaves, and flickered in tiered arrays upon street corners and in the front porches of the low dwellings. The halo-lights had been dimmed, leaving only these primitive lanterns carved of hollow vegetables. Ruddy light pooled upon the dark pavement, warm islands in a sea of black. And everywhere, restless, thronged the revelers.

Even Qui Gon Jinn, who had seen much of the galaxy and the customs of its multitudinous denizens, was impressed with the masquerade spectacle. Death heads and goblin faces, bogeys and monsters, cadavers and eerie skeletal figures paraded before him, in an endless procession of garish and elaborate costume. Children and adults alike flitted from household to household, singing, shouting, laughing and frolicking in the streets. Small bands of roving adolescents stalked the margins, mischief in their eyes. Drunks staggered among the celebrants, and a sense of general abandon and sensuality shuddered through the plenum.

Beside him, Obi Wan balked. "I have a bad feeling about this."

The master offered a small smile of encouragement. "The Force is disturbed whenever such a large company flirts with darkness. Keep your focus on our task. I won't be far away. If you encounter our refugee friend, I'll know."

He arranged an artificial wreath of gilded leaves upon the Padawan's head, ignoring the wave of chagrin that promptly washed through the boy's Force signature. In startling white tunics, his 'saber well concealed beneath the folds of cloth, his brow crowned with the glittering symbol of the Pelluvian deity of youthful pleasures, Obi Wan stood out among the dark-robed and grisly masqueraders like a beacon, his clothing stark and bright in the flickering lanterns' light, just as his presence shimmered in the Force.

"Yes, master." With a deep breath, released slowly to steady the mind and the will, the Padawan drifted into the crowds, a luminous shadow flitting among darker, grosser forms.

Qui Gon trailed behind at a discreet distance, his senses reaching through the veil of material appearances to the motives and emotions which lurked beneath. Around him, the city's residents mocked death openly, yet secretly feared its clutches. Their laughter rang hollow in the Force, their daring flirtation with the grotesque and the sensuous a sickening twist he felt deep in the gut. He breathed it out; A Jedi remains centered in the Light, even amidst an ocean of tumultuous and cloying shades. He sought for a presence more turbid, more clotted with the Dark than these revelers who merely fluttered about it like moths drawn to deadly flame. That presence would feel different – it would be unmistakable.

Obi Wan wandered further away, but not too far. A group of children giggled and cavorted about him, and led him by the hand to a doorway where a wizened woman – a grandmother, or perhaps a great-grandmother – gifted them with candies. The Padawan allowed himself to be swept into the frivolity, smiling at the tiny Pelluvi while inwardly alert, as keen as his master to locate a vergence in the general twilight. A smaller group of youngsters – older now, closer to his own age, some perhaps even his senior, accosted him and drew him into some planned mischief. Qui Gon frowned. A trembling whisper in the Force hinted that his quarry might be near. He slipped between the dancers in the street, idly accepted a smoking drink thrust into his hand. He kept his hood low, to conceal his face, and in this convocation of shadows and dark spirits, he looked in no way out of place.

The group of adolescents veered away, pulling their new friend along in the direction of a side street. Qui Gon followed, avoiding the pools of light cast by banked lanterns. A seductively attired zombie, or some such imagined horror, blocked his path and hung, unsteadily, upon his arm. He gently extricated himself and deposited the intoxicated woman on a doorstep, where she was soon joined by a raucous group of companions.. The momentary distraction cost him; when he looked up, the glimmering trace of Obi Wan's tunics had disappeared.

Cold warning travelled up his spine. They were near. Very near.

Upon the opposite corner, a large residence had been transformed into a theatrical house of horrors. A kind of entertainment, he guessed. Screams of terror and twisted amusement echoed from within, leaving a discordant overtone in the Force. Pelluvi, young and old, traipsed in and out through the broad front doors. The adolescents must have gone inside; there was little else to attract their morbid attention on this stretch of road.

Stationing himself outside the building, he waited.

Stumbling over the threshold in his distraction, Obi Wan silently cursed. Be mindful, he reprimanded himself, on Qui Gon's behalf. A lapse such as that might have cost him his life in a combat situation.

"Careful," one of the youths beside him jested, grinning behind his gore-stained mask as he looked about the house's atrium, taking in the artfully bloodied tiles, the realistic severed heads and the low lighting. "This is shevook, eh?"

"Shevook," Obi Wan agreed, forcing a grin. The place stank of the Dark Side, slippery and oppressive at once. His skin broke out in a cold sweat, and he heard the rush of blood in his ears. The group of teens eagerly pressed forward into a low hallway, punctuated by doorways which served as stage framework. To left and right scenes of unspeakable carnage and cruelty were depicted, some in motionless vignette, others pantomimed by live actors. The young Jedi averted his eyes. One or two of the imaginary scenes skirted too close to miserable memory.

"What's the matter with you?" A girl in tattered robes and garish jewelry jostled his elbow, her thin face darkened with dramatic black lines and shadows.

He relaxed his face, aware that his frown of distaste might seem offensive, ill-mannered. "I'm fine. This is shevook."

She glared at him. "Liar. What's the matter with you? Grow up in a monastery or something? This is fun."

He dredged up his sunniest smile, and she left him alone, her attention caught by a shadow play performed in the next doorway. Behind the silky curtain, a gruesome murder was committed. Fake blood spattered on the spectators. Obi Wan flinched. He had seen such things in waking life; he did not care to relive them. The audience cheered and howled. He shuddered. The crowds on Telos had howled in delight, in lust for blood, too. He remembered – Qui Gon and he had been the intended victims. The Dark Side surged in power with the unbridled emotions of the spectators, with guttural, vicious delight in violence and destruction. He felt it creep around him, choking out the Light, cutting off his breath.

"Hey! Hey!" Somebody yelled at him as he staggered against a wall for support. Focus. It's not real. But it was real – the delight in death and fear was very real, the seductive power of the Dark present and living, sucking at the souls of the participants even if the deeds were but shadows and sounds.

And there was something more – here in this very room, the Dark took on corporeal form. Focus.

"He's sick or something." The voices were blurred, as blurry as his vision. Breathe. Concentrate. Why can't they feel it, too? But the others were oblivious; what was mere deviant fun to them was bitter poison to a Jedi. Shield yourself. Block it out.

"He's with me," a deeper, adult voice proclaimed. "I'll take him out. Here." Large hands grasped at his arms, and a sudden flare of twisted desire stained the tumultuous Force a darker shade of crimson. A bitter wind of malice seemed to penetrate his bones.

It was too late to shield – he had been too open, too unguarded when he entered, too focused on his hunt, not mindful of the subtle, invasive danger. He struggled to regain his balance in the Force, too late. Those hard, searching hands were on him now, and black fear lanced sharp across his vision, adrenaline coursing in his veins. He had found the murderer. Or rather, the murderer had found him – at a distinct disadvantage. His body went rigid as the man's grip tightened, a hidden blade resting cold against his throat.

"Oh, you're a pretty one," that same husky voice crooned, even as fingers groped across his chest , beneath his tunic, where the 'saber lay nestled. "And what's this?"

He looked up into a skull painted black and red. Death stared back, hungrily.

Qui Gon sensed it immediately.

The next moment he was barging through the double doors of the dark house, heedless of those whom he pushed aside, or their enraged cries and curses. The Force warped around him, shadows jabbing through the light, leaving trails of cold dark. The fake blood and the recorded screams brushed his senses, outward trappings of the vortex churning invisibly in the mansion of terrors and twisted imagination. He shoved through the crowd of youths in the long hallway, attention focused to a burning point on the two presences ahead, already escaping to some rear exit.

His comlink thrummed – the local police responding to his signal – but there was no time to pause, to explain. Let them find him by remote tracking. He tore aside a ghostly curtain and stormed through a room outfitted as an abbatoir, ignoring the protests and yelling of the actors within.

A stairway, a little stooped alcove at the back, a door. Locked.

He kicked it in, the Force slamming the panel with the strength of his urgency. He surged through, a hurricane descending on a lonely shore. Here: a back alley, trash repositories, access hatches for speeder garages, a litter of trash and dried leaves. No light from the halo-system. No lanterns. Only darkness, and within it, a knot of living darkness, struggling with a gleam of white cloth.

Qui Gon's saber flashed into life, and sang in fury as he launched himself toward the two figures. Green fire illuminated the sagging walls which framed the alley's narrow sides; caught the leering crimson and black mask which covered the refugee killer's face, cast vivid reflections on his Padawan's white clothing.

"Stop!" the voice of Death ordered, one knotted hand thrusting a vibroshiv dangerously tight beneath the boy's chin, the other holding a blaster pistol to his side. A trickle of red dribbled onto white tunics, staining them a weird black in the saber's glow. Obi Wan's eyes locked onto the tall Jedi's, apology and relief mingled in their depths.

Qui Gon lowered his weapon a fraction, standing ten paces away. An open speeder waited just beyond, already hovering on repulsors. If the pair made it as far as the vehicle., pursuit would be in vain. The Dark triumphed, surging invisibly like a black tide. The Jedi master breathed out all emotion, anchoring himself in the immovable moment, the one tiny island of Light in this endless, maddened festival of the dark.

"Release the boy," he suggested calmly, suffusing the words with all the persuasive power the Force could lend.

The compulsion broke and shattered against the wild Dark, dissipating like mist. The man chuckled a little, the plastoid mask bending grotesquely as living muscles worked beneath. The shiv tilted upward, softly, and Obi Wan's chin followed, baring his throat yet further. "Death is a release craved by many," the killer replied, taking a deliberate step backward, toward the speeder. His fingers twitched against the blaster's trigger, and he pressed the point in further. "Drop your weapon."

Qui Gon gathered the shattered rays of Light and held them. The moment. In the moment, all futures were possible, nothing decided. He breathed out, meeting his apprentice's eyes. The boy held his gaze, calmly, wordlessly asking for counsel. Act. Do not think. There is no fear. There is no death, Qui Gon sent within his thoughts, through the Force, across their bond.

The Jedi master extinguished his blade and carefully laid the hilt at his feet. He straightened, palms upward and open. "There is no need for more violence," he soothed the implacable figure in the mask. "Do not compound your evils with another."

"I'm leaving this system tonight," the killer informed him. "Do not follow me or the boy will suffer a long, long time. I promise you."

Qui Gon remained immobile, silent, as the masked figure guided his hostage slowly backward to the speeder. Step by step they retreated, footsteps gritting on the uneven pavement, crushing dead leaves. Obi Wan's eyes never left his teacher's, and a sudden beam of confidence broke over the dark horizon, a thread of bright understanding between them. There is only the moment. Act. Do not think.

The killer's left leg bumped against the hovering speeder's side. "Get in," he commanded, twisting the young Jedi to one side, slipping the shiv past one ear to tickle the back of his prisoner's neck. The Padawan slumped forward, as though stumbling against the door, the blaster's muzzle pressed between his stomach and the curving durasteel panel. Only Qui Gon saw the hand splayed out backwards, the flash of his own saber hilt as it flew across the space into the boy's grip.

"In!" the murderer barked, wrenching the blaster free and slamming the shiv's rounded pommel down between the captives' shoulder blades. Obi Wan twisted away from the savage blow; a line of searing emerald light swept in the dark; and a blaster, still gripped by an arm, skittered into the wall beyond.

A howl of agony ripped the air, and the masked figure toppled, thrashing, into the vehicle, slamming the young Jedi down into the cockpit beneath it, the shiv wildly slashing as he fell. Another grunt, and the man's body jerked backwards, twisting, as two booted feet connected with his chest. He collapsed on the ground, writhing. The severed stump of his arm still glowed red, the scent of burnt flesh hanging in the air.

Klaxons and lights filled the alley as the local constabulary finally arrived. Pelluvian peace officers ran toward the grisly scene from either direction, shouting. At their head was the Ithorian police woman the Jedi had encountered earlier.

Qui Gon thrust a hand into the speeder's cramped passenger space, and levered his apprentice upright. "Are you all right?" He could see a thin spatter of blood here and there, almost feel the boy's pounding heartbeat echoing behind his own temples.

"Yes – fine," the Padawan rasped, rubbing at bruised ribs, fingers tracing a line over the thin cut along his jawline. "Master – I'm sorry.." He gestured toward the house of horrors, looming behind them. "I lost my focus…the images, and the feelings of the others.."

Qui Gon held up a hand for silence and placed a hand on his student's shoulder. "It's understandable," he reassured the youth. "And you did very well just now."

The Ithorian holstered her blaster and approached them, face stern as ever. "I underestimated you, it would seem," she addressed Qui Gon. Behind her, two men unmasked and subdued the writhing and moaning prisoner. Another officer solemnly returned the two lightsabers to their proper owners, his eyes lingering on the Jedi and his protégé with undisguised awe.

"Thank you," Qui Gon murmured, replacing the weapon at his side. An emergency medical team arrived, bustling to the side of the maimed criminal, exclaiming over the severity of the wound, barking terse orders to the peace officers and their own assistants. The fallen man moaned and thrashed.

The police woman's gaze travelled over to Obi Wan, and her hard expression hardened yet further. "Holy keshlla…you weren't using the boy as bait?" she demanded.

"My apprentice is capable of handling himself," the Jedi master responded. "Our choice of methods is our own prerogative."

The Ithorian scowled at him, her cold face eloquently communicating her distaste for supposed Jedi prerogatives. But when she spoke, her tone was neutral and professional. "We'll keep him in high security until the Republic is ready to send a prisoner transport."

"Thank you," Qui Gon bowed. "We will be in contact."

He steered Obi Wan out of the alley, back to the reveling crowds. Sarkos Eve celebrations carried on, as though nothing had happened. People traipsed about the streets, passing between ruddy light and deep shadow without a care. Shrieks of glee and screams of terror mingled together, indistinguishable. The Force churned with dark emotion, with the tang of roused instinct, with the twisted thrill of primal fear. The Jedi strode on, carving a straight path through the seeming Underworld, the dark cloaked figure looming protectively beside the smaller, white clad one. Demons and ghouls stared at them, pointed, whispered.

"This is no place for a young Padawan," Qui Gon advised, guiding the way back through the shades and shadows, the fleshly spirits which haunted this Night of Walking Death. "Stay close."