Chapter 2 - Jedi Business
Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic.
The famed 'Center of the Galaxy' is a world of paradox. It was once green, and lush, and covered with countless oceans; but from the moment the first sentient being had stepped onto its surface, Coruscant began to change. Layer upon layer, generation upon generation it has grown, like a living, glittering creature that does not shed its carapace but grows a new shell outward, throwing its past lives deeper and deeper into the soiled, black heart of the city-planet. Coruscant's inhabitants transform with it, building higher, further, crawling over the corpses of their not-quite dead ancestors to reach for the smoke-choked stars in an eternal race to survive, to breathe. And with each Coruscanti that digs its way out of the underlevels to breathe clean air and see the white-bleached skies for the first time, a dozen more wallow in the eternal twilight below, their necropolis that was their rocking-chair when they were younglings and will become their coffin when they finally cease to breathe, suffocated by the sheer weight of a million more sentient beings piled head upon head above them.
A Coruscanti is humanoid, aquatic, reptilian, and a hundred thousand other species; they are young, old, rich, poor, influential, menial, living, dying. The senator reclining in a plush aircar does not spare a thought for the rubbish-eater tens of kilometeres below; Jedi and bounty-hunters live within half a klick of each other here.
In a manner of speaking, Coruscant is perfect model of the galaxy as a whole, turned inside out so the core systems are flaunted like jewellery on flawless skin while the filth and slime of the outer rim is buried deep within, decaying. It is a creature that should be long-dead, reduced to feeding on itself to stay alive.
A place of such contrasts should not exist; and yet it does, somehow. Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic because of the simple fact it endures.
Obi-Wan Kenobi senses all of this thrum in the Force as he steps out of the Temple Plaza and into Coruscant proper. The Force in the Jedi Temple is always a muted, stately glow, a hearth-fire warmed by the signatures of ten thousand Jedi. Out in Coruscant, beyond the ascending ziggurat of the Temple, the Force is a maelstrom of intertwined destinies, the warp and weft of time twisting into a vibrant, shifting pattern.
It should be enough to send any Force-sensitive to their knees; as it is, Obi-Wan simply breathes in a lungful of the acrid air and allows the current to take him.
The crowds eddy and flow, and Obi-Wan allows them to pull him along. He is not the eye of the storm; rather, he is a drop of water in a vortex, perfectly still in relation to his neighbouring raindrops.
As the doors of the express train hisses closed behind him, Obi-Wan leans against the durasteel surface and grins wryly from under the shadow of his hood. At the age of almost eighteen standard, and holding the rank of senior padawan, he is technically permitted to register the use of a temple aircar; as it is, the…shall we say…unofficial nature of this mission renders the privilege useless.
A small snort escapes him. It is fortunate that Qui-Gon is currently representing the Jedi in the annual Galactic History conference at the Galactic Museum, and will not be expected back at the Temple until well after evening meal.
"The Council's becoming increasingly ingenious in their methods of keeping you in line, Master," Obi-Wan had quipped that morning, as a very disgruntled Jedi master threw on cloak and boots. "You have the look of a murderous krayt dragon about you."
The aforementioned krayt dragon had thrown a penetrating stare at his younger companion and casually replied, "I do not think you will be so very amused over this, young one, when I return growling with hunger even more of a slavering monster than I currently am, and devour a witless padawan for daring to tease."
"I don't see why–"
"And before you ask why the Council did not send you," Qui-Gon had continued, "It is because you enjoy these historical conferences far too much."
The Force had danced with mutual amusement.
A mechanised voice breaks Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. "Next stop: Chandrillan Entertainment District. Here, tourists can peruse…" Tuning out the overly cheerful voice of the announcement system, Obi-Wan becomes aware he is the target of a rather inquisitive stare.
A little Balosar boy of no more than five standard swings his feet in the air, perched on the seat beside the standing Jedi. Obi-Wan glances about for the child's guardian, but none appear.
"Hello, there," Obi-Wan states plainly.
The boy removes the thumb he has jammed in his mouth long enough to lisp brightly, "Are you a Jedi, mister?" before – Obi-Wan winces – sticking the grimy digit back between his lips. Luminous red-brown eyes blink trustingly up at the intriguing stranger from below a mop of messy hair and waving antennapalps.
Years of diplomatic training does not leave Obi-Wan so wholly unprepared for an encounter such as this. He lowers the hood of his cloak, crouches down beside the little thing, and meets that wide gaze straight on as he replies, "Yes, I am."
If possible, the ochre eyes widen even further. The child makes a little gasping sound, as if sucking in as much air as possible, and Obi-Wan's memory flashes back to an early recollection of Reeft in the crèche, the first time they were presented with training 'sabers–
Oh, Force. Don't–
"AWEEEESOOOOME!" The boy's shriek drives splinters into Obi-Wan's eardrums, and when the spiking pain fades, he turns in place to find that the two of them have captured the attention of every occupant of their carriage.
In the sudden silence, Obi-Wan folds his hands into opposite sleeves, striving to maintain at least an outward appearance of Jedi serenity. The subtle movement allows his cloak to shift, revealing the gleaming length of the 'saber strapped to his belt. A murmur travels about the assembly as fifty pairs of eyes move from lightsaber to nerf tail to padawan braid to Jedi tunics and back to the lightsaber again, the final stamp of identity.
Conversation starts up again and gazes turn away. Jedi business is exactly that – Jedi business.
Obi-Wan turns back to his private audience of one, opens his mouth…
…and the boy beats him to it. "Ohthatwasevenmoreawesomeyou'resotallandscaryandheydoyouusethatFarceofyoursto–"
"The Force," Obi-Wan corrects automatically. "We serve the Force, not a farce."
"Butbutbutdoyoublastbadguystobitsand…"
The sheer speed of speech alone is astonishing. Obi-Wan lifts a cultured eyebrow and waits patiently until the babble ends in an inevitable hiccup and much-needed gasp of air.
"Breathe," Obi-Wan suggests dryly, reaching out to steady the purple-faced, swaying child. "I would like you to answer two questions for me," he continues, speaking softly. "Firstly: What is your name?"
"Elan. Elan Sel'Sabagno," The young Balosar declares, surprisingly clearly for such a mouthful of a name.
"Very well, Elan," Obi-Wan says, putting on the smile he usually reserves for Temple crèchelings. "And the second: Where is your guardian?"
A vaguely troubled look passes over Elan's features. "Don't know." His antennapalps droop sadly. "My old'r brother Elad told me to stay here," he adds in a softer voice, as if copying the Jedi's quietness.
"And when was this?" Obi-Wan already suspects the answer – it rings too true in the Force – but he needs it confirmed.
Elan shrugs. "Dunno. A loooot of stops ago. He said if I was hungry, I could get credits by selling these." A small hand digs into a pocket and comes up with a variety of multicoloured tubes.
Obi-Wan stares at the cheap, unrefined deathsticks spread in a toxic fan across the little palm, and finds himself momentarily lost for words.
Force-forsaken...!
The deathsticks shoot away from Elan's palm like miniature rockets as Obi-Wan summons them into his own grasp with a tendril of the Force. "These," he growls, his voice dropping in seriousness, "are deathsticks. You are never to come near these again, no matter what your brother says. Understand?"
Elan nods innocently…but the Unifying Force gives a humoured jolt right at that moment, and Obi-Wan is filled with an inexplicable sense of irony, as though the Force itself were laughing at some great inside joke.
A pause. Obi-Wan sighs. "Do you know how to return home by yourself?"
The small head shakes, once, twice.
Sithspit.
The precepts of the Order are clear: compassion and responsibility are two of the most important lessons taught to Jedi Initiates. It is in moments like these that Obi-Wan laments the continuous trials of a Jedi padawan. They can be…tiring. And annoying. Especially when they choose to manifest as lost, five-year-old Balosar children.
The bright voice of the train's announcement system interrupts his deep philosophical comtemplation. "Next stop: CoCo Town. Mercantile and commercial district."
Trapped by duty, Obi-Wan holds out a hand to Elan. "Come with me," he says authoritatively. "I'll call the authorities and get you home."
Elan hops off the metal seat without preamble and thrusts his sticky hand into the Jedi's callused palm. Obi-Wan supresses a shudder, and focuses on stowing away the deathsticks in his belt instead.
The train doors slide open with a hollow whoosh, like the wheezing breath of an emphysemic Hutt.
Elan trots obediently beside Obi-wan as they step out onto the scuff-marked duracrete platform. "Where are we going?" he lisps, half-jogging on short legs to keep up.
"Somewhere you can wait safely until the authorities come for you," Obi-Wan answers, dragging his new little satellite behind him. "You'll like it there. It's owned by a friend of mine – Dex."
"Dex?" the small voice is muffled by the number of people surrounding them.
"Dexter Jettser. It happens I was heading that way myself – I intended to speak to him about something. He has a…reputation, shall we say, of knowing the seedier sides of town. But he's a good person at heart."
The hand holding Obi-Wan's jerks excitedly. "I can handle seedy! My mama always said our family rede…redef…redefines seedy, but that was before she sucked up all those pretty tubes and stuff and died." The last word is a cheerily stated fact, no more.
…And Obi-Wan decides it would do both of them a world of good if there were no more conversation for the rest of the short walk to Dex's Diner.
The observant ones among you will notice I referenced a rather popular comedic scene from one of the movies here. Next chapter will include more tea. Thank you all, and please review! I treasure on your opinions.
