(AHSOKA)
There are more eloquent ways to express my feelings toward this particular task. There are. But I'm just gonna come out and put it bluntly, say it loud and clear: this is dumb.
No, that's putting it too lightly. Too mildly. Because this—this is the dumbest thing I've ever put my hand to, is biggest waste of breath and effort that I've ever seen. And trust me, I've encountered some pretty moronic things, things that would make you groan and bury your face in your hands.
I'm pounding nails—hundreds of them—into a plain, wooden board. And not because I'm building something, either. Not because I'm constructing something useful, worthwhile: I'm simply nailing them in, piece by piece, until my not-so-dainty heap has run out. Until I've exhausted it. Or myself—though I'm not quite sure. This is Skyguy's idea, after all, and I'm beginning to believe he assigned me this endless task for the sole purpose of getting me out of his hair.
Or maybe it's like he said: he wants me to think. Mull over things. Turn them over in my mind.
If only I knew what they were.
And if only my master was actually here, too—here to answer that. He's…well, I'm not quite certain where he is, actually. Neither is Master Kenobi, which is odd. I mean, they're close, those two, are as inseparable as blue from a clear summer sky. Are almost a single being, melded together by hardship endured and shared; so Kenobi being unaware of Skyguy's location means he either doesn't know the man quite as well as he believes…or he's feigning ignorance.
Because he doesn't want to tell me.
Or he wishes to believe that he's in the dark, too.
Either way, though, I'm beginning to tire of this. My hands are sore, tired, aching—and are oozing from a dozen different blisters. I've got a crick in my neck, a deep, deep one that snakes down from my nape to my shoulder, and I'm starting to develop some cramps. In my lower back. In my upper back. In my butt; you name it, and it pleading for me to get up, to do something—anything—as long as I'm free to walk around.
Chin dropping to my chest, I let out a weary groan. "Am I done yet?"
Across the room, Obi-Wan peels open an eye. He's been seated atop a mediation pad this entire time, his legs drawn beneath him like furled, waiting leaves, and until now I'd thought he might've nodded off. Slipped into dream-land. But he's awake, apparently, and shows me a tiny smile. "The sole fact that you have asked this question likely implies that you aren't, padawan."
"And how am I supposed to know when to stop asking questions?"
The smile broadens. "When you see the answer. Before it, all questions die away."
Well, duh. "How do I know what I'm looking for, then? It's not like you or Skyg—uh, Master Skywalker—are handing out hints."
"You'll know when you see it, padawan. After all, seeing isn't believing." With a friendly wink, his open eye drifts closed. "Believing is seeing. Knowing. Recognizing. Meeting something face-to-face and realizing 'so it was this all along.'"
Wow. That sounded downright philosophical. Sage-like, even—and infuriatingly vague. "Let me get this straight: I won't know that I know until—"
A sharp, insistent beeping cuts me off, mid-sentence. Except it's not just any trill, bleeping sound: after years of exposure, I instantly recognize it as a comm.-link. One that's pleading, begging to be answered, and hiding within Obi-Wan's homely tunic. He shows me an apologetic look—like I'm sorry that he's given me something else to focus, something besides nailing this vaping board—then plucks it from his clothes. Answers it, crisp and clear.
"Kenobi."
"Hello, Obi-Wan," a voice crackles through mild static. "This is Master Tachi—Siri Tachi. I know it's been a while, but…well, I find myself in need of some help. Help only you can give."
Kenobi's face registers a modicum of shock, and he stutters for a moment, tongue grappling for words. But not for long, though; he's a blasted good actor, Kenobi. So it's unsurprising that he collects himself in only a matter of seconds, maintaining his detached, self-contained Jedi reserve. "May I ask what sort of trouble you've managed to get yourself into this time?"
"Big trouble, Obi-Wan. Remember the Bando-gora cult, the one started by that moron Komari Vosa?"
Legs unfurling and pushing him to his feet, Obi-Wan shows me a smile that has to be totally, one-hundred percent manufactured. "How about you take a break, Ahsoka? You've had enough nailing for the day."
I frown a little at that. Part of me wants to respond, "enough nailing? I've hammered enough blasted nails for the both of us, Mr. Sage! But the other side of me, the logical, grounded part of my mind, is more than willing to oblige to his request; I have had enough, after all. Enough for a lifetime, in fact. Except…well, I'm itching to hear what this other Jedi—this "Master Tachi"—has to say, and what this "Bando-gora" business is about. Or why it's relevant to Master Kenobi in the first place.
But then again, there is such a thing as eaves-dropping.
"Um. Yeah. Sure, Master Kenobi." I get up to my feet, feign a tentative look. "Er, what time do you want me back?"
Kenobi shrugs, suddenly nonchalant and distinctly un-Kenobi-like. "As long as you're back here before Anakin returns, I'm happy. Now…run along."
And I do. Sort of. I hurry out the door, yes, my leeku bobbing with pent-up energy—but as the door hisses shut, I'm pressing my ear to it. Straining to catch whatever I can of this not-so-routine conversation.
"My apologies, Siri," he's saying, voice abruptly strained. Haggard. Weary. Worn, worn to the bone. "Anakin's asked me to watch his padawan for a few hours, and I didn't wish her to overhear any of this. Especially that bit about the Bando-gora." A pause. "Komari Vosa…she was Dooku's apprentice, correct? Before she expelled from the Order, that is."
"She was. And her getting expelled—that had a lot to do with the fact that she had a bit of thing for her Master. It even escalated to the point of obsession."
"And then she initiated the Bando-gora, as retribution?"
"Not as revenge, no. That cult was more of a 'please notice me, Dooku. I'm getting lonely out here. She was getting kinda tired of having her only love pretend she didn't exist, I guess."
Obi-Wan drags in a long, deliberate breath. "That's an awful feel…that must've been hard on her."
"The Bando-gora were hard on a lot of beings, Obi-Wan," she points out. "On innocent beings-women and children included."
A sigh. "I know, Siri. Please continue."
"There's not much else to explain, I'm afraid. Except that the Bando-gorans have found a new reason to get up in the morning: they're arms dealers. To gangsters, bounty hunters. To Hutts. And—this where we come in—to the Separatists."
Mouth agape, I stifle a baffled gasp. Oh. Oh.
"And where I do come in, Siri?"
"You've heard of the Council of Neutral Systems before, right? Because our cultist friends certainly have, and they've decided to capitalize on this knowledge by setting up base on neutral worlds. In doing this, they've acquired a sort of immunity from the Jedi—the Senate won't sanction meddling with pacific worlds in wartime—so I want you to help me personally appeal to the CNS." An audible hesitation. "You still have ties with Mandalore, right?"
"We are," he answers slowly. Tentatively. "But it's…it's complicated, Siri. Our relations with Mandalore are, at best, tenuous. One wrong stroke, and they'll sever themselves from us permanently."
"And are your relations with Mandalore similarly fragile?"
He grunts. "Probably even more so, if you can believe that. Technically, you could label the Duchess of Mandalore as one of my allies—but she's very touch-and-go, Siri. Her views on the war are…different…and as Jedi, we embody that conflict. To her, we can assume the role of the enemy."
"Anyone can, Obi-Wan."
"Yes, but that truth appears to have conveniently slipped her mind. And she's stubborn in that ignorance, Siri. Remarkably so."
"More stubborn than me?"
He chuckles ruefully. "Yes, perhaps more than you. I've known her for quite a while, you know."
"Qui-Gon mentioned that you two were friends, once."
An awkward descends upon the room, pervading it like clouds of night smoke. It's not a long one, mind you—by my guess, it's only ten-to-fifteen seconds—but it's long enough. Long enough to hesitate, to sit there, frozen, as thoughts whiz by. Long enough for doubts to slither closer, threading their way between your iron-clad defenses.
Long enough to reconsider.
"We were," he finally replies, clearing his throat. Loudly. "And perhaps we still are; the truth is, I'm not entirely certain where we stand. But if I was able to go in and talk to her, say, in an informal setting, she might be little more open. A little less…well, like you, Siri."
"But a moment ago, you acted as though any contact with her might threaten our connections with Mandalore."
"That was because I was bringing you," he points out evenly. "And you represent the Jedi. And Jedi represent the Republic, which is currently occupied with a particularly bloody war—a war she loathes with her entire being. But me, alone? She'll simply see me as an old friend she who wants to catch up over, say…tea?"
"I should've guessed. You haven't changed much in all these years, Master Kenobi."
"Yes. Well. I wish I could say the same of you, Siri." He sighs, long and tellingly slow. "But…ah, never mind. Should we rendezvous somewhere before I contact The Duchess, or afterward?"
"Afterwards. Wouldn't be much use doing it before, you know."
"My thoughts exactly, old friend. So hopefully, I'll be meeting you an hour and a half from now, and…" Another lingering hesitation. "And Siri?"
"Yeah?"
"May the force be with you: I have a feeling you're going to need it."
"We'll both be needing it, Obi-Wan. Siri, out."
Judging by the tiny bleep I catch, the link is disconnected, going totally silent. Still. Voiceless. Then I hear boots thudding a staccato tune across the floor, drawing closer with every strum of heel on ground, and a moment later the door hisses open. Revealing Obi-Wan's haggard—then bemused—then downright vexed—face.
"Ahsoka." His tone is low, slicing through the still air. But it's not a growl, hasn't descended that far. Not yet. "I should've guessed."
Mouth robbed of all moisture, I can only stare through him. Because really, what can I say? Except for hurried, insincere apologies, nothing's coming to mind, and the sheer potency of his gaze is robbing all chance of formulating any other responses. Or any words at all, actually. So I simply wait for him to make the first move, watch quietly while drags a hand down his face.
He shakes his head. "Although I'm well aware that I should, I'm not in the mood to punish you for eaves-dropping. As you've heard—or rather, overheard-I've more pressing issues to attend to." Sighing, he steps past me into the hall, showing me only back and hanging, wearied head. "Just…take that break I offered you. Or better yet, get back those nails."
As his back recedes down the hall, I want to offer some retort to that last bit. To the part about getting back to my nails. And I know it'd be rude, too, considering he's just saved my skin—but I have to ask it. Have to ask it aloud, even if my sol audience is the sleeping, ivory halls:
"You gave me a hint, didn't you?"
(SIRI)
Odd, how Coruscant never has season. I suppose this makes sense, though; after all, the planet is one hulking, stretching city, its metallic exoskeleton masking all trace of nature. No ground to be seen, to touch with shoeless feet. No plants to grace the harsh, alloy world with kisses fresh and green. And no spring to make all things new, to caress shriveled things out of winter's icy slumber.
That's the even stranger part, really. Because here, on Coruscant, it's always spring. It's perpetual, incessant. Eternal. No winters ever descend upon our world, never dress it in azure ice and fluffy, carpeted snow—so really, there never is a spring. Ever.
To have spring, you must first have a winter.
Of course, I'm not actually in Coruscant's perpetual non-spring. I'm not. No, I holed up within my quarters, blinds drawn and lights dimmed, with no hint at the appearance of the outside world. And yes: I could simply unfurl myself from my meditation mat, open the blinds, and gaze out at golden day. At non-spring. But for some reason, I decide against it, waiting instead for Obi-Wan in quiet, enclosed darkness.
I almost wish I hadn't contacted him. Hadn't asked him to meet me here, in my private quarters. Yeah, it's not like anything's going to happen—we're barely friends anymore, much less the lovers we once were—but I'm dreading his arrival nonetheless. Him seeing me in here, cocooned in shadows and walls…no, I don't want that. His perception of me must be one of strength, self-reliance, ice. No weaknesses. No faults. Just Siri, the capable, no-nonsense Jedi.
Not the newly-eighteen-year-old girl who can barely look him in the eye.
Lucky for me, I have plenty of time to shove that girl aside. To apply the façade. To perfect the part—and for at least half an hour, that's what I do. Until a soft knock sounds at my door, threatening to unravel all the practice and veneers.
"Obi-Wan, is that you?" I ask, clearing my throat.
"No, Siri," he answers, deadpan. "It's the Queen of Naboo, here to deliver a spot of tabba root tea…"
He's always been so wry, this man. "Alright, then. Come on in; the door's unlocked."
On cue, the door hisses open, spilling in waves of watery light. I blink against it, struggling to adjust my eyes to the change, but I can hardly make him out. Save for his dramatic silhouette, he is practically nonexistent, and he steps gingerly into my room. As if its substance will diminish him, the shadow.
And this is how I like it, when it comes to him. Dealing with faces, with countenances lit and lifted to the sun—that's all forgotten. Here, there are only shapes, scarcely definable in the dank light; here, he cannot see me, glimpse at what lies beneath the façade.
Here, we cannot gaze into the past.
As the door slides shut, Obi-Wan lowers himself to the floor, tentatively. And guess what? That thing about the tea—turns out he was being serious. I can hear porcelain clack in the shadows, make out tiny, tiny clinks as he pours our separate cups, enveloping me in rich, earthy tea-scent.
"Hope you're thirsty," he says, handing me my cup.
Closing my fingers about its stubby base—and obstinately ignoring its immediate, seeping warmth—I arch a brow. "I thought you already had plans for tea. With the Duchess."
Even in the dim light, I can make out his charmingly boyish grin. "Yes. Well, tea shouldn't be relegated as a once-a-day activity." He takes a sip, expression still holding that playful appeal. "Besides, contacting my Duchess friend forced me to skip lunch. Don't want me fainting on the way there, after all."
"And what did your 'friend' have to say about my proposition?"
"She was a tad hesitant," he admits, taking another sip, "but she's agreed to meet with me. On one condition."
Cup half-raised to my lips, I pause, bemused. "Oh?"
"We were talking, and…ah, I believe she must've sensed that I wasn't discussing this Bando-gora affair with her of my own accord. So she asked who put me up to it, and I admitted that I was on Jedi business—and that you were the Jedi who'd lassoed me into this." Sighing, he sets aside his cup. "She wants you to accompany me to the meeting."
Taking a pull of what turns out to be anemic—and yet surprisingly bitter—tea, I frown. Or perhaps scowl is a better word. A more appropriate one. Because earlier today, me not being able to accompany him was the problem of the day, and now that I'm permitted to he seems…regretful. Like he's ruing something, something big, but I can't put a finger onto what it might possibly be.
Weird.
Disgusted with Obi-Wan's tea—and perhaps more than that—I shove my cup to the side. "There's something you're not telling me."
"Besides the fact that you're a dreadful negotiator?"
"Yes, Obi-Wan. Besides that." My frown/scowl/whatever deepens. "Or is that what's got you bothered?"
He picks up his cup once more, as if hiding behind its adorned rim. "Perhaps. When it comes to the subtleties of politics, you don't have the most impressive track record."
"So you're afraid I'll screw this up."
"Perhaps," he says again, but this time his tone carries a guarded, leery flavor. "Let's face it: we haven't exactly been on good terms since the Talesian…incident. You've been very distant. Closed. And no matter how hard I try to get in, you won't allow it." The cup returns to his lap with a barely audible clink. "I'm suppose I'm asking that for once, we put our differences aside and trust one another—implicitly. No bickering. No closed doors. We present a united front for the Duchess, and that's that."
"You're asking," I say carefully, "that we be friends again."
He shakes his head, hurriedly. "No, I don't believe that would be a good idea—as much I'd like that. You can't force something that, especially in a handful of hours." He leans forward, so that only a foot or so of chill air separates us. Divides us. Splits us apart like fracturing bone. "But for today, it'd be best if we pretended. If you're seen as my friend, she'll take more kindly to you."
"Yes." Yes, Obi-Wan. Let's pretend. Let's go back to those simple days, when we were too young entangle ourselves with feelings, and let's toss everything aside. "I mean, sounds like a plan. Can't wait to get started."
Pretending, after all, hurts a lot less than the alternative.
