Chained, waiting to be interrogated was not conducive to peace of mind for most beings. Clones were not most beings, so Alpha calmly waited.
His indifference was no act, for a clone incapable of much emotion meant he had little fear of what was to come. He would prefer to avoid it, but if he had no choice, he would do his duty and endure it.
The guards who had escorted him to this cell were basically indifferent to their prisoner. They had joked amongst themselves how Ventress was finally going to get "that Jedi" broken and begging for his life as he groveled at her feet. Somehow, Alpha doubted that, just as he doubted the guards even knew what a Jedi was, from the way they spoke.
Ventress had deliberately targeted Kenobi, it was now apparent, but it was unclear just why she had. It was not military information she sought from him; it was personal satisfaction. From the guards talk, Ventress hated Kenobi and considered him an obstacle to something she desired. Alpha found this strange, for his general was not the type of man to earn personal enmity, being far too unassuming and mild in temperament.
She is going to make that Jedi wish he were dead long before he will be.
Unpleasant though his own ordeal would certainly be, Alpha knew it was going to be far worst for his general.
Alpha had to wait for quite a while as Ventress interrogated his commander first. He figured she would be in quite a rage when she got to him. While he waited, he reviewed what little he had seen as he was moved from one cell to this one, but there had been little to see: a long, dim corridor with doors evenly spaced, as far as he could see. He had seen no sign of patrolling guards, sentient or droid, but that didn't mean there weren't any.
There had been no sign of transparisteel panels, seeming to confirm his general's thoughts that they were underground. That meant that any escape would almost certainly be in an upwards direction, unless there was one or more levels beneath them.
There had been no sounds: not of machinery, men, or droids. Just as Alpha had wondered if the other cells held any prisoners, one of his guards had stopped and slid open a peephole and shouted coarsely, "Hey, there, you got yourself a break. Ventress has got herself two new prime prisoners to occupy her attention so enjoy your vacation, scum."
He had then turned to Alpha and said conversationally, "She doesn't hate you like she hates that Jedi. Don't know why she does – he doesn't seem any different than any other man – even soils himself like any man frightened of what's ahead for him."
Alpha had ignored the comment, for chained men had no options when it came to personal hygiene. But he now knew there were other prisoners on this level. One never knew what information might prove helpful.
The only question in his mind was at whose hands rescue would come: his general's, or his general's padawan. Both of them had pulled too many impossible stunts not to doubt either one's capabilities.
While he waited, he tried to free his hands from the manacles or tear himself free from the wall behind him. Were he still in his armor, he might have been able to access a small tool in the cuff of his sleeve made for just such events as this – but he was no longer armored; now he even no longer wore only the lightweight underclothing that all clones wore under their armor.
No matter how he twisted or flexed his wrists, he could not force open the binders that held him shackled to the wall. In the end, he finally admitted at least temporary defeat as his nerve centers finally transmitted the information that he had rubbed the skin raw in his attempts.
With nothing else to occupy his time, he closed his eyes and slept.
The loud thump as a door slammed open and ricocheted off the wall woke him. Ventress had a scowl on her pale face and her eyes blazed as she advanced on him.
Finding the general quite capable of holding his own with you?
He straightened up as well as he could, his face carefully neutral. Not only had she had no luck, but she was in a foul temper as well. He had known it would take a lot before his general would break, and one session alone was not nearly enough. He didn't care to think just what Ventress would have to do to his commander to achieve her goal. Even Kenobi would break, given enough time. Jedi or not, he was still a man, and a man could only withstand so much.
"Where are the Republic foundries?" She spit the question at him even as she stalked towards him.
"I'm Advanced Recon Commando A-17 under the command of General Kenobi and not authorized to release that information."
With a backhanded slap, Asajj corrected him. "This, clone, is your authorization. If you don't accept it, this vibroblade should persuade you." Not only did she hold up the weapon, but scored his cheek with a quick slash.
"I don't accept that as proper authorization."
"Let me persuade you otherwise."
With these words, Alpha's ordeal began. Ventress' weapon of choice was a vibroblade; she apparently assumed it was the most effective weapon against a clone. He would humor her. One instrument or another made no difference. In some ways, he was programmed little different from a droid. He would withstand her or be destroyed.
His fate mattered not at all; only the Republic mattered. Orders mattered, and he would obey his orders, and Order One was simple: release no classified information to unauthorized parties. Order Two: Protect your commander.
When Ventress and Aidus finally left him, Alpha allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. As far as he was concerned, he had won that round.
He glanced down at the cuts and gashes decorating his chest and arms. So far, none were too deep and the pain fleeting. More painful was the touch of her sharply pointed boot, especially when directed against tender skin. He had managed to shift just enough to deflect a vicious knee to his midsection, taking the worst of the blow where the pain was nothing compared to what he would have felt had it landed at its target. Ventress had been enraged enough not to notice.
It had all been pretty straightforward and much as expected: blows, a request for information and denial of the same, slashes and scoring, interrupted by attempts to gain information.
His response had always been the same, delivered in the same flat tone. Obviously, Ventress had never heard of the saying: The definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. He had heard General Kenobi mutter it many a time after tearing after his padawan in some foolhardy, yet ultimately successful, sortie, all the while shouting, "hold on, Anakin, think before you – blast it! Hang on, I'm behind you."
There were rumors that the sun did occasionally come out on Jabiim. After a number of weeks, the rumors were still only that.
Jabiim was not to be easily taken back from the Separatist rebels, largely due to weather. Rain was the biggest obstacle, for with rain came such violent atmospheric conditions that the Republic forces could not be easily re-supplied as long as the atmospheric conditions interfered. It also meant there would was no air support, which had always been a Republic strength.
Ground forces and equipment floundered in the mud; the constant clouds and moisture meant it was a constant battle to keep machines lubricated
The "Nimbus troops" of Alto Status easily navigated the swampy ground with their repulsor boots, and turned out to be the second biggest obstacle the Republic faced, zooming up and fastening charges to the AT-ATs, constantly outmaneuvering the ground troops. Luckily, their numbers were limited, or the battle for Jabiim may have been the disaster of Jabiim.
There was always the chance that it might still be, but for now, the battles waged back and forth, with first one side then the other advancing and retreating.
For Anakin Skywalker, "Jabiim" would always be a name he wished never to hear mentioned and a place he would like wiped from memory. No matter his master's fate, no matter how soon his rescue, no matter what shape he was in when found, Jabiim would always be where Anakin had lost his mentor and friend and was forced – at least temporarily - to accept the loss.
He had lost far too much on Jabiim, though he had gained one unexpected and long-desired thing: friends and acceptance within the so-called "padawan pack."
As a Jedi padawan, he had been too isolated from his age mates, counting few as actual friends. He had never made friends easily with those Jedi raised from infancy in the Temple; they were just too different in upbringing. He had come to the Order at age nine, homesick and heartsick at losing both his mother and his would-be mentor, a stranger who came as the padawan of newly knighted Obi-Wan Kenobi, the "Sith-killer."
The Sith had returned! That news alone would have unsettled the Order. But that disturbing news had not been the only blow to the Jedi, the only consequence of the Naboo mission.
The aftermath of that mission had resounded on many levels and it had been a difficult time for the Jedi: a respected Jedi master unexpectedly dead, a padawan not deemed ready for the Trials and seemingly dismissed by his master before the Council now a knight, a strange boy unfamiliar with the ways of the Jedi now a padawan.
He came as an exception to all the rules and conformed to few of the expectations. Anxious to prove himself, Anakin had been forward and abrupt, or tentative and shy.
"Fitting in" had been awkward for both the new padawan and new master. Older Jedi weren't quite sure what to make of his master: a padawan who defeated the Sith who had killed the master, a padawan made a knight without explanation or ceremony, and a padawan who returned with a boy once rejected for training as his own padawan.
Just as adult Jedi weren't sure how to treat his master, none of Anakin's age mates knew how to treat this nine-year-boy suddenly among them, one for whom the rules had been broken. Few initiates were padawans at nine; twelve was more common, and the stranger to the Temple with no training in the ways of the Jedi was not only allowed in, but came
in already a padawan – to one who would have suddenly become one of the most sought-after masters – and who seemed less than enthused about the pairing.
Anakin refused to speak of his dashed hopes to be the padawan of Master Jinn and his reluctant acceptance of a substitute, so his age mates believed his lack of enthusiasm to be the "Sith-killer's" padawan as incomprehensible and a source of suspicion. Any
initiate would have been honored and excited and yet this stranger merely seemed to accept it as his due and not the honor it was.
No one quite knew what to expect or how to behave, so his age mates waited for Anakin to find his place amongst them while he waited for them to make room for him.
Feeling out-of-place, no longer the center of his group of friends – an outsider – it had been both pride and insecurity that kept Anakin aloof. The word soon spread that he considered himself superior to the other padawans, having been all but chosen by Master Jinn at the expense of his own padawan; now he was that very padawan's padawan.
Here on Jabiim, shared tragedy and close quarters had forced the master-less padawans closer, where in the past their differences had kept them separate.
Jabiim had given them all something in common, and even if Anakin still stubbornly believed his master was alive, he was, just like they, without his master's direction and guidance. They all were adrift and relying on each other; they were each others anchors.
Anakin fought for his friends now. They commanded his loyalty as did his master. He could help his friends as he could not his master; for now his duty was undivided. He dreaded the day he might have to choose between them.
Not until the door shut and relative darkness descended did Obi-Wan allow a pent-up groan to escape. He would not give Ventress or Aidus the satisfaction. Only when alone would he acknowledge how he hurt all over, and then do his best to release the pain into the Force and try to regain some strength before the next session.
It had been one session after another, of words whispered in his ears mixed with sudden jabs and blows. On some level, he knew what she was trying to accomplish, what he didn't know was why.
Why did Ventress wish to gain his sympathy and weaken his loyalties? Did she truly think she could succeed in that, or was that a ruse to cover something even more devious? She continued to try to engage him in a debate over morality and principles, but he had refused to be drawn into a war of words.
No matter her words, no matter how persuasive they might seem to one weakened and less than clear-headed, he refused to be twisted by her words. She had seemed to realize that early on. Having failed with mere arguments, she had gradually stepped up her attacks, forsaking pure arguments by persuasive techniques of mixing arguments with pain and deprivation. Ventress seemed to know as well as he that one who lived by words could not be easily twisted by words alone unless his mind was dulled with pain, hunger and fatigue.
Obi-Wan chose to let her words flow through him and around him. He would not play her game, not while he had a clear mind or when he had not: he would not buy her arguments of peace while she deprived him of liberty.
She also deprived Obi-Wan of sleep and food, startling him awake when he started to drowse with noises and quick stabbing licks of a vibroblade into the soft skin behind his knees or soles of his feet; he would jerk awake not sure of what brought him to wakefulness only to find Ventress's face inches from his own.
Her words sought his unwitting agreement, always couching her arguments in a way that his exhausted and pain-filled mind would see as common ground.
The tactics may have worked, given enough time, or on another man, but Obi-Wan folded what he could of the Force around him, ignoring her words while looking directly at her as if he was forced into listening. What he heard, he countered silently, holding onto what he knew to be the truth.
"You pride yourself on being a Jedi, don't you, Obi-Wan? The Jedi Order says they are peacekeepers, yet the Jedi lead armies and oversee the destruction of many. How can you claim the moral high ground? How do you reconcile killing with protecting life?"
Know what you know, Kenobi. You know your fellow Jedi: their thoughts, their desires, their goals. You know their hearts as you know yours: service to the greater good.
He stood fast mentally as all the while as he was steadily weakening – allowed neither to sleep nor eat; half-delirious from having nothing but the occasional dribble of water onto his lips. She had seen to that: her captive would have the bare minimum to keep him alive, enough to keep his mind half engaged to hear her persuasions, too confused to resist her suggestions and thoughts. But she hadn't counted on the inner toughness of a Jedi: the ability to remain strong mentally while weakening physically.
He ignored her as best he could: listening to the memory of the Force pulsing within him, urging him to be strong.
Still he wondered – what did Ventress hope to accomplish? Why did she seem so desperate to get him on her side?
How long would he have to resist her before freedom or death intervened?
Whether she had given up on persuasion or never intended to fully pursue it, Ventress suddenly abandoned all pretenses of seeking cooperation and indulged what seemed to be an unreasonable hatred by increasing the physical abuse she heaped on the Jedi. Her weapons were vibroblade and lightsaber, while she allowed Aidus more direct hands-on contact.
Before long, the Jedi was a multi-hued being: streaks of red mixed with the purple and reds of bruises that yellowed as they healed even as new contusions replaced them. Shiny patches of new skin marked the near touch of a lightsaber; skin that initially reddened and sometimes blistered, sometimes marred in the center by a jagged line from which trickled a waterfall made of blood droplets.
Though his eyes dulled from the effort of releasing the pain into what he could access of the Force, Obi-Wan restrained the normal sounds of a human body in pain and his eyes remained steady on Ventress, eyes that seemed to say: Do your worst, I shall not yield.
He only had to hold on, biting the inside of his mouth or digging the nails of his hand into the now soft palms as he curled the fingers inward while she was there, for he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how he felt. Had he a stronger command of the Force, he would have felt less pain, but full release was denied him.
Only once she was through with him, was he able to release a half sob, half groan, seeking to find whatever rest he could find by submerging himself in the peaceful currents of the Force - but he was denied even that comfort. It took all his effort just to touch it and let it swirl around him, lightly touching him, but never was it a cushion he could relax into. It lessened his pain, but did not remove it.
Even with so little of the Force at his command, it allowed him the strength to endure and hold his head high, for to survive was to endure.
"How fares my Jedi today?"
This wasn't the first time her voice was suddenly at his ear with no warning. In the first few – days? – he had known when someone entered or left, he could hear the soft squeak of the door opening or closing and see vague outlines in the dim light. Lately, Ventress came like an apparition. It would be unnerving if he had any nerves, but all of his were too caught up in transmitting whatever torment she pleased herself with, for there was no longer any pretense of trying to ally forces.
Despite the pain, he raised his head to face her.
"Oh, quite well… I rather enjoy hanging out here." The words came out thickly, for his lips were quite swollen, though his words were spoken lightly.
"Such a pathetic attempt at humor, Kenobi." A hand grasped his chin and suddenly yanked it sideways, stretching tight muscles. He couldn't help wincing. "Your humor kills me."
"How… kind of you to say so, but… might I inquire why… you are still alive, then?"
"I take great pleasure in watching you squirm."
"I've noticed." Obi-Wan had no doubts on that score. Asajj had taken great delight in her perverted pleasures, yet had taken care not to actually kill him. She had already all but admitted her current goal was to unsettle and weaken him, tease him with apprehension of further abuse to come, to what ultimate purpose it was not clear.
Revenge! Her promise suggested it was not mere information she wanted. Her actions proved it. To what end he didn't know, and in his current state, hardly cared anymore. He was focused on one thing only: surviving until rescued or he found a means of rescuing himself. He rather feared the first was the only real possibility.
The contemplation of even worse to come was distinctly unsettling. He knew a moment of fear. Instead of fighting it, he accepted it, breathed it out, and moved beyond it to a place where there was no fear.
"One must take one's exercise where one finds it. It keeps my body limber, just as our witty repartee keeps my wits sharp."
"And your screams?"
"They hurt my throat…so I try hard to avoid them." He snapped his mouth shut at the prick of a sharp point, pressed against the soft skin of his throat: there were times to speak but also times to remain silent and this seemed a good time to shut up. One thrust and his jugular vein would be pierced. He could feel warmth and moisture as the tip pressed ever so slightly – should he flinch, or even swallow hard – it could easily find its way past the surface skin layer and the soft welling of blood turn into an unstoppable flood.
The two locked gazes; Obi-Wan not backing down and Ventress not pressing forward. Stalemate. Obi-Wan had the strangest urge to laugh.
A quick flick of her wrist, and the tip cut a thin path up his throat to end at his jaw line before the vibroblade was in front of his eyes, the threat for the moment averted.
'You may be weak, but you are not a coward, Obi-Wan. All the worse for you. It's time for you to pay for what you've cost me."
If he thought he had had it bad now he knew he would soon be revising his opinion of bad. His memories were hazy, probably forever would be, of the trip here and of
Ventress' vibroblade cutting open his infected wound so that it would drain. Those were things he knew mostly from Alpha's retelling, not his own memories.
"I want him to suffer at my hands, not the whims of fate." Alpha's recounting of her words had sent a shiver of fear up his spine that he had ruthlessly squashed. She had healed him, only so that she could destroy him. She would find it difficult.
He would not be destroyed so easily. He would not be destroyed at all, nor would Alpha, if Anakin got here in time. Obi-Wan hoped his padawan was okay – he knew if anything terrible happened to him, he would know, but there were other things that could hurt Anakin, things less terrible he would not know about and could not help guide the young Jedi through.
Anakin's compassion sometimes blinded him to his duty. As much as Obi-Wan admired his padawan's concern and empathy for others, his focus on the individual in need sometimes endangered others or the mission, which was where Obi-Wan came in – often to the dismay or dissatisfaction of his padawan. His master was too quick to sacrifice the here and now for the greater goal in Anakin's opinion: Obi-Wan would allow the few to risk death for the greater good, the greater survival. The Jedi master could not afford to take the short term view, regardless of his personal inclinations.
He sometimes wondered if Anakin knew the conflict within him, why his padawan's disregard of tactics sometimes earned him little more than his master's reprimands and secret satisfaction rather than the censure for disobeying orders he truly deserved. Anakin would do what Obi-Wan could not afford to do, and he understood that his own master would strongly approve of the padawan's actions over the master's.
Anakin – I could really use a rescue. Anytime – soon – would be greatly appreciated.The Force remained silent.
He focused as the door swung open, already prepared to face what never varied.
"I'm Advanced Recon Commando A-17 under the command of General Kenobi and not authorized to release that information."
He would not tell his captors that clones had very limited pain centers and their nerves did not readily transmit pain impulses to the brain. Clones had no need for pain. Pain was meant as a warning for normal people: cease what you are doing, proceed no further, seek medical aid if necessary.
A clone had only one duty: to serve the Republic, and that meant keeping military secrets, resisting torture, killing the enemy as directed by the commander, or being killed in battle. A clone literally could not reveal unauthorized information.
His general now – he was a man. Rather an exceptional one, but fully human. He was also a Jedi, and not just a Jedi, but a Jedi master. On a purely intellectual basis Alpha wondered if the Jedi would be just as resistant to releasing information, or if even a Jedi could be pushed too far. Perhaps by now, after numerous days of presumed torture, Kenobi had already broken and given Ventress the information she sought. It was fair to assume not, unless Ventress only wanted Alpha to confirm what Kenobi had already given her.
Another flash of her blade; another trickle of blood upon his body. Alpha was relatively immune to it, though he made the requisite moans and cries he thought appropriate. So far he didn't think he had lost enough blood to be in any serious danger, and none of the wounds would impair his mobility once he was freed.
His gaze was steady upon Asajj's face. "I'm Advanced Recon Commando A-17 under the command of General Kenobi and not authorized to release that information."
Asajj was obviously agitated for she stood toe to toe with him, ignoring the blood that dripped onto the toe of her boots. Eyes dark with fury, she nearly spat at him in her anger.
"I could take your tongue, your ear. I could gut you – would you like that?"
Alpha sighed, a habit he had picked up from his commander. "I'm Advanced Recon Commando A-17 under the command of General Kenobi and not authorized to release that information."
He merely watched as Asajj's knife flashed; a bead of red welled up, followed by another as the first one slid down his thigh. The slow trickle became a steady stream. The longer he kept Asajj occupied, the longer his general had a respite from something similar.
The deadly dance continued.