Disclaimer: All belongs to the great and powerful Mouse.

Summary: Even for a Jedi there is a price for perfection, but what if fate offered a chance at a refund and what would be the cost?

A/N: So, even though I know exactly where this story will end, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon appear to have planned their own way of getting there and the journey is more circuitous than I had expected. That said, the boys will still get there. This is just the… um… scenic route.

Thanks:

13MD: Well, I can tell you that the shouting stops, at least temporarily, in this chapter, but who knows for how long? As for Obi-Wan being suicidal… No, I don't think he is or, at the very least, he isn't at the moment. Thank you for the wonderful compliments and I'm so glad you are liking the story. I hope this continues to entertain and pull out the feels!

Maria de Sanctos: Indeed it does, even more than you realize…

Please R&R!

Part IV – The Walking Wounded

"I admit this is not how I saw the day going," Obi-Wan said as he shifted his weight from one hip to the other. A low huff echoed slightly to his left.

"You? Had I known… I would be here, I… would have opted f-for… a coat or at least… a heavier… t-tunic," Qui-Gon growled between gasps.

"Nothing fur-lined I hope," Obi-Wan remarked with a deadpan expression. Qui-Gon's mouth formed a thin line as he turned away from the younger man at his right. He stared out in front of him in silence for several heartbeats.

"When we get out of here… we are going to take Mace's m-money and buy… the most needlessly expensive coat we can f-find," he said finally. Obi-Wan glanced at the other man for several moments then relaxed as well.

"Something soft maybe in Faleeneese wool?"

"Oh, yes… with matching… g-gloves," Qui-Gon replied flexing his fingers, a twinge of wistfulness in his tone. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and responded with a matching wistfulness.

"And a blanket or two."

"In-d-deed."

"So it's settled then. As soon as we escape, we are going shopping."

While the larger part of Gathegi City was slowly waking to engage in its business of the day, the smaller section known as the Burrows was finally ending its day as most of its "business" preferred the shadowy veil of night. The denizens of that quarter had, more or less, retreated back to their dens to rest and plot their next vocational endeavors. However, in a lone alley not far from the Broken Gundark Tavern, one was still at work.

Nkiro had watched the two men for several blocks not entirely sure what had initially captured his attention about them, but it didn't take long for him to be certain that these men were his. However, something about them was… odd. Their attire wasn't unusual for this side of town, one in simple workman's jacket, the other in tunic that had seen better days, but their gait, the way they carried themselves, tall, straight, effortless, that was unusual. The two men spoke little as they walked and both were constantly checking the area around them, though the older of the two seemed the most wary. Nkiro had no trouble keeping his own surveillance hidden, but the fact that he actually had to told him that these men were no amateurs.

Another odd thing was that the men didn't appear to be heading to any particular destination. To Nkiro's eye, the two seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the streets and alleys – not the smartest thing to do in the Burrows.

Nkiro brushed a long lock of orange hair behind his ear as he followed the pair down yet another alleyway. He slowed his steps as he approached, mindful of the refuse and rubbish at his feet that would give away his position with one careless footfall. He could hear voices now, raised past the level of simple conversation. The pair was arguing. Interesting. Nkiro closed in on their position until he had them once again in his sight.

"Whose permission did you have for that!" the younger yelled taking a step towards the other. The older, bigger man was shaking his head even as he shouted his answer back.

"That was different! I was trying to save your life!"

"Then you should have let me die!" the young one screamed back and Nkiro watched the old man fall back a step as if physically struck. The two stared at each other in the quiet that fell then, but it only lasted the span of a few heartbeats.

"You should have let me die."

"That's still an option," Nkiro said as he stepped out into the alley his D-hac X2 blaster pointed at the two men. "No, no," he warned as he saw the twitch of both men's fingers. The motion was easy enough to read and even though Nkiro didn't see any weapons holstered on their belts he was not a man to take unnecessary chances.

"Let's just keep those hands where I can see them. Wouldn't want you to lose any digits or appendages over a misunderstanding."

"Who are you? What is it you want?" the older man said in a surprisingly calm voice. The man's face and posture were relaxed, Nkiro noted. So, the man was used to being on the business end of a blaster barrel. Interesting.

"Names and introductions, the way of civilized discourse are they not? Very well, I'm going to call you 'Whiskers' and you," Nkiro said as he threw a smirking glance at the younger man. "You I'm going to call 'Lucky.' As for me, well you can call me SOB because I'm the son of a bitch that's about to ruin your day."

Qui-Gon stood unimpressed with the stranger's bravado, but that did nothing to negate his feelings of disquiet. The man's militant stance, yet relaxed aggression spoke of an ease with casual violence. The moment the man had spoken, Qui-Gon's fingers reached reflexively for his lightsaber. Of course it wasn't there and it wasn't the only thing that was missing. Despite his convictions and his conscience, Qui-Gon felt an acute stab of remorse for having his Force sense severed, not for himself, but for his pada- for Obi-Wan. He would not be able to live with himself if something happened to the young man now because he was Force blind and unable to protect him.

Qui-Gon continued to eye the man warily, though he projected himself as outwardly calm. Obi-Wan's statement had rocked him far harder than he would have thought possible. The core of his being had disintegrated under the softly spoken words, but he could not deal with that fallout now. First, he had to attend to the stranger holding them at blaster point.

"Perhaps that need not come to pass," Qui-Gon began, his voice the same modulated baritone he had used to open any number of negotiations in the past. "As you can tell, we do not have much to offer you that holds any material value, but if you would share with us what it is you are after perhaps there is something we can do to assist you?"

The stranger allowed himself a wide smile.

"Stars above, that was probably the most eloquent 'please don't shoot me' I have ever heard," he replied still smiling, but as he shook his head the smile faded. "However, I'm afraid pretty words won't change anything that's going to happen here."

"And what do you believe is going to happen here?" Qui-Gon queried still impeccably serene.

"You're both going to put on these binders and you're going to come with me. And I don't believe it's going to happen, Whiskers. It is going to happen," the man answered as casually as one would an inquiry about the weather. The man then tossed the binders to their feet. Qui-Gon's lip lifted in one corner.

"I'm afraid we must decline your offer. However, we can be reasonable. Perhaps,"

"Perhaps we change Lucky's name," the man said as he pointed his blaster squarely at Obi-Wan's head. The distance between them was that of a few meters. Unless the stranger was an amazingly terrible shot he could kill Obi-Wan before Qui-Gon could do anything. And without the Force, Qui-Gon was too far to reach him to possibly take the blaster from him, but Obi-Wan wasn't. Between Jedi reflexes and the Force, Qui-Gon was certain Obi-Wan could gain the upper hand on the swaggering stranger.

"Please, there is no need for that," Qui-Gon answered quickly as he raised his hands up in a clearly placating manner. "Please, just lower the blaster and we can talk this through."

"No talking. Put on the binders or you're going to owe Lucky here one hell of an apology," the stranger replied. Qui-Gon looked at the man, the blaster, and then Obi-Wan. Oh, if only he had the Force or their bond. If only he knew what Obi-Wan was thinking! Why hadn't he attacked? Why did he just stand there?

"You don't believe me," the stranger stated with a glance to Qui-Gon who still had not moved to put on the binders. "I get it. You don't know me so you don't know whether to believe I would do it or not," he said with a shrug and then he turned his attention back to Obi-Wan.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Do you think I will kill you?"

Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan's eyes focused on the man. There were several seconds of silence in which Qui-Gon assumed that Obi-Wan was using the Force to assess the man's sincerity and the situation.

"Do you think I will kill you?" the man repeated. Obi-Wan looked at him steadily.

"No," Obi-Wan answered.

"Damn," the man shook his head and sighed. "You're right," he said as he turned and something flashed from his hand faster than Qui-Gon could see.

"No!"

It was the pain in that cry that jerked him from his thoughts. He looked at Obi-Wan and saw an expression of wide-eyed horror. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but before he could speak a searing pain raced through his gut causing him to stagger forwards slightly. He looked down at his tunic. There was an unmistakable black circle of char surrounding a small hole in his tunic on his lower right side. Academically he recognized the wound for the danger it presented, but the lack of blood and gore fostered a rebellion to that knowledge and he found himself unable or unwilling to accept the gravity of the damage for all its suddenness. He swayed on his feet, but before he could regain his balance he felt a pair of strong arms grab him and lower him to the ground.

"Master!"

"Obi…" Qui-Gon spoke, but he was interrupted by a painful spasm as it rocketed through his frame. He was settled half on the ground half in Obi-Wan's lap.

"Belly wounds," the stranger tsked above them. "Those are bad, painful, but they don't have to be fatal. That is if one gets help quickly," the stranger said as he looked down from what now seemed a towering height.

Qui-Gon felt more than saw Obi-Wan shift behind him. His vision was tunneling, his thoughts slowing. Shock, he realized dimly. His ability to remain consciousness was threatening to slip away from him, so he forced himself to focus, to stay in the moment for as long as he was able.

"What do you want?" he heard Obi-Wan speak above his head.

"I want you to put on the kriffing binders. Then we will can talk about Whiskers not dying."

"How did we get here?" he asked, his voice so low, so soft Obi-Wan almost missed it. Obi-Wan looked down at the head resting in his lap. He stroked the soft, caf colored locks, strands tinged with silver parting under his fingers like silk.

"We were attacked. You were shot," he answered still gently carding his fingers through the mass of hair. The head in his lap shook weakly.

"Not here. Here. How did we get here?" the other protested. Obi-Wan stopped his gentle petting in confusion.

"I don't understand-" he began then realization hit him and the air suddenly grew thinner around him. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to starting gasping in response. He forced his lungs to take in a slow, long draw of air before releasing that same breath just as slowly.

"I don't know," he finally answered. "I don't know."

Obi-Wan looked at the son of a bitch standing above him and then down at the pair of binders resting innocently on the ground between them. There was no decision to be made here. There was only the illusion of choice. He had seen the stranger's eyes and thought himself capable of reading his actions, his intent. He had been wrong and it was Qui-Gon who was paying the price for his folly. The older man's wound was deceptively neat hiding what Obi-Wan knew to be significant damage, but how significant he wasn't sure. If they were lucky, the blast had missed major arteries and organs burning through only muscle and tissue. If they were not lucky, without formal medical intervention, Qui-Gon would die and, despite the appellation assigned to him by the stranger, Obi-Wan knew he was not Lucky.

Obi-Wan eyes drifted from the circle of burnt cloth and flesh to Qui-Gon's face. The usually noble visage bore the same lines he remembered though they were deepened with time and worry. The older man's eyes were open, his pupils large and slightly unfocused. Obi-Wan carefully touched the man's cheek as he leaned down.

"Forgive me, Master," he whispered. Qui-Gon made no noise, but an unmistakable grimace settled on his features causing Obi-Wan's heart to contract painfully. He looked up at their captor who stood with his blaster still aimed at his head, a smug look of victory lingering in his eyes that made Obi-Wan's stomach turn.

"He needs medical attention."

"Then we need to get going," the stranger replied then he added, "all of us."

"Qui-Gon is in no condition to,"

"Patch him up," the stranger replied as he reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew some bacta patches. He tossed them to Obi-Wan who caught them easily. Obi-Wan wasted no time and carefully slid Qui-Gon's head off his lap. As he opened the pack of patches a hand came to rest on his temporarily stilling his movements.

"Obi-Wan…"

"It's alright. It's going to be alright," Obi-Wan repeated willing both Qui-Gon and himself to believe it. "I'm going to bandage your wound then we are going to get you some help."

Qui-Gon stared at him with an expression Obi-Wan couldn't quite decipher, but then it was replaced by a grimace which snapped him back to action. Carefully he pulled the older man's tunic up exposing the ghastly burn in his already battered torso. Qui-Gon hissed as melted fibers from his clothing pulled away from where they had stuck to his skin. With abundantly tender care, Obi-Wan placed the bacta-infused patch over the wound, just below the similar dressing he had placed around Qui-Gon's broken ribs that morning, pushing down on its edges with only the necessary force to ensure that the bandage adhered. Once he had tended to the injury as much as his meager supplies and knowledge would allow, Obi-Wan looked back up the man who had shot his former master.

"Your word," he said, the short statement a clear demand though both knew he was in no position to do so. The stranger gave a short nod of his head. Knowing he was unlikely to get more, Obi-Wan decided to be satisfied. He reached forwards for the binders, Qui-Gon's head still resting in his lap.

"Put them on him first."

Obi-Wan shot him an incredulous glance, but the stranger shrugged it off and gestured to the binders with his blaster.

"I'm a cautious man. Indulge me."

In his lap, Qui-Gon stirred. Obi-Wan brought his attention back to his once-master.

"Qui-Gon?" he asked, the two syllables carrying a multitude of questions and concerns. Midnight blue eyes met his and Obi-Wan could almost see the subtle haze of pain hidden in their depths.

"I am alright, Obi-Wan," the older man uttered calmly though all three men knew his words were a lie. "Help me up, please."

Though clearly skeptical, Obi-Wan helped Qui-Gon up to first a sitting position and then to his feet. The older man made no verbal complaints, but the sudden hitches in his breath and tenseness in his frame betrayed his body's struggle against the agony of his wound. Once on his feet, Qui-Gon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he brought his hands together in front of him, a clear signal to Obi-Wan that he was ready. Hesitantly and with more than a passing glare at the stranger, Obi-Wan placed first Qui-Gon's wrists into binders and then his own. Once they were both secured, the man stepped back and to the side waggling his blaster in the direction he had come from.

"Let's get moving."

The walk to the building that was to be their prison was slow going as the trio had to stop several times for Qui-Gon to catch his breath. Though every step must have been painful, the former Jedi never once complained save for the occasional grunt or grimace. But Obi-Wan had known this man too long not recognize the level of pain needed to warrant even those little concessions from the older man.

The stranger, turned abductor, was surprisingly talkative along the way, pointing out infamous landmarks and nefarious characters of near legendary status as if he were directing a tour of the Burrows underworld. Neither Qui-Gon nor Obi-Wan engaged him or his commentary and the stranger seemed to require no response as he prattled along interspersing direction oriented commands as the made their way.

A little way from their destination the stranger ordered them to stop and during the intermission saw that the two were blindfolded which made their progress even slower. Eventually, the two were led into a building of some sort, an old, ruined industrial type if the smell of rust and the cavernous echo were any indication. Their "cell," Obi-Wan realized after his and Qui-Gon's blindfolds were removed, was just a bare room. There was only one window, much too small for escape Obi-Wan noted with a frown, and one door though "door" was a generous term as the portal's only physical barrier was a thin, flickering rayshield. In the room were two small, dubious looking pallets, no pillows, and only one threadbare blanket.

Qui-Gon settled himself down on the far pallet with an audible hiss. Obi-Wan could tell the man's complexion had paled even in the low light of the room and the gingerly way he held himself against the wall further broadcasted his discomfort. The older man, however, said nothing. He only closed his eyes and tilted back his head until it rested against the wall at his back, his bound wrists laying limply in his lap. Obi-Wan stood less than two meters distant unable to figure out what he should do with himself. He wanted to help Qui-Gon, but he didn't know how. He wanted to get them out of there and to safety, but this too was beyond his means and meager abilities. He wanted to say something hopeful, something comforting, but no words can to his mind. So, he did none of those things. He simply stood there dumb with indecision, lost in a mire of his own making.

"Do you have them?"

"Of course."

"And their condition?"

"A little worse for wear, but nothing too bad," Nkiro said as he leaned back in his chair and propped his booted feet on his shabby desk. "I did have to shoot the older one though."

"You shot him?" the tiny blue holo-figure exclaimed.

"Relax, Boss. I just shot him a little bit."

"And exactly how does one shoot someone 'just a little bit?' You know what, never mind," the holo-figured sighed. "You do know, however, that this little… venture won't succeed if he dies."

"Hey," Nkiro began, swinging his long legs down from the desktop. "This whole thing was your idea, remember? You contacted me because you wanted to do something impossible and that's what I do, the impossible."

"It isn't your ability that I doubt just your,"

"Judgment?"

"Methods," the holo answered. Nkiro leaned towards the small figure, his orange-gold eyes a fiery contrast to the cold, azure glow of the hologram.

"You can call it off, but you would have never even tried something this… dangerous if the payoff wasn't worth it. It is worth it, right?"

"If you succeed, the payoff will be extraordinary," the holo-figure said, he paused then added, "for all of us."

Nkiro leaned back in his chair again. He placed his hands behind his head as a Cheshire-like grin spread across his face.

"With motivation like that, how can I fail?"