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Contrast: the difference in luminance and/or color that makes an object (or its representation in an image or display) distinguishable
The thing had two blades. Two. Both red and both somehow stained with his father's blood, though only one had actually completed the killing act. His father lay on the cold, metal floor a couple of feet from the ventilation shaft.
The abyss that he was going to send this monster back into. Back to where he had come from. Into the darkness, to the shadow, to a place he would melt into and stick. This apparition of evil had no place in a world of light.
A haze of red separated him from both, the monster and his father. For a second, he was torn as to which he should run to first. His father was dying, and there might be a chance of saving him if he could tend to the wound right away, maybe apply what little healing ability he had to give him just enough to hang on...
Absurd. His father was dead. He knew it didn't matter what he did. Besides, that thing would kill him before he took more than half a step.
Hatred. A feeling he wasn't accustomed to, but one that he wholeheartedly welcomed, one that made him wonder - shuddering as he did so - if the ray shield was actually responsible for the red he was seeing. The sound of his own heavy breathing reached his ears and he drowned it out. Drowned everything out.
Everything but himself and the shadow that had just murdered his father. The shield drew back into the walls and he attacked without a word. Only three people existed in his world.
His father, soon to be dead. Himself.
And the thing. All he saw was red...
In the coming years, only a select few would know how close Obi-wan Kenobi had come to falling.
~~OOO~~
She had two blades. Two. Both red and somehow, that meant nothing. It might mean more to a Jedi who was facing a Sith for the first time, one whose image of the legendary Dark Side followers would look like her and her alone.
He was not that Jedi. He could make a comparison, and she was nothing like the thing. The two blades were stained with the blood of many; he had little doubt of that. She was a Sith, after all. And as much as he hated to stereotype, he knew of few Sith that hesitated to kill when given a reason. Most did so with little reason at all. He knew she was no different in that sense.
She was not the thing, though. There was no red haze clouding his vision. A quick glance at his surroundings showed about a dozen clones in various stages of health, all incapacitated. Most would not live to see another day.
There was no choice. To try and save men who would inevitably die within the next few minutes was fruitless. The best he could do was put them to sleep with a Force-suggestion.
He knew she wouldn't allow it, though. Another reason why there was no choice in the matter.
Hatred. He felt it boiling beneath his skin, a smoldering heat that had never been stamped out, only controlled. Even Jedi were not immune to it, something he knew from firsthand experience, something he would never deny no matter what anyone claimed.
He redirected it. To act on it would be foolish, a mistake he would not make twice, especially when confronted with a woman who didn't deserve it.
In that moment, his world shrank to two. Himself.
And her. All he saw was blue... it was in her eyes...
To try and kill her would bring him to that place he never wanted to return to again. That left only one other option.
Save her.
The compassion of Obi-wan Kenobi was not unknown, but he was often thought a fool because of it.
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