I have an avatar! Woo hoo! Google calls it "meditation pose on Lake Como," but I refer to it as "behold Anakin's sexy behind." I like my name better.
Hope everyone is enjoying some restorative time during the holidays. I've had far too much hoopla, to the detriment of my fic, so I hope this supersized length is a nice mea culpa.
Many thanks, as always, to friends who took time to peruse and comment on the last chapter: Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, TeresaLynne, Mireilles3, jmeec316, Skywalker's Phantom, QueenNaberrie, hiddenworldwalker, QueenYoda, Dark Mistress of the Sith, madscientistproduction.01, InspectorHambone, Lilyssy and Night Dawn. I am especially humbled by those who've been with me for the long haul and those who have followed, favorite-ed and corresponded through PMs. Merci, y'all.
And now, knockin' on the door of destiny…
Chapter 36
Fingertips massage the grooves on his forehead that seem to deepen with each of these situations as Obi-Wan takes a microsecond to assess exactly how much trouble they're in.
Again.
His evaluation is merely par for the course, if not actually encouraging: Twelve Royal Guardsmen against two intrepid Jedi. He doesn't have to visualize the mysterious guardians lurking as the last remaining barrier between the Jedi and the Sith; their presences, both sleek and ominous, infiltrate the Force with a rising spike of dark energy.
As for the team of Skywalker and Kenobi's odds, Obi-Wan rather likes them, though he's certain Artoo's reaction would be a sharply-whistled reprimand.
Any word from Artoo regarding the oxygen? Obi-Wan asks tersely. It would help if I had full range of my peripheral –
The master is unable to finish, however, as a hazy surge of movement and a more clear warning in the Force occur simultaneously. His curt "Four incoming!" is uttered at the same instant the glowing blade of his lightsaber flashes in Anakin's hand, the blur of emerald an almost soothing hum in his ears.
Until it is rudely interspersed with rapid, despairingly solid clanks of saber meeting vibrosword.
A zesty combination of Huttese profanities accompanies Anakin's defensive strokes. Obi-Wan recognizes a particularly insulting phrase invoking Gardulla's mother, followed by the grunts and calamity of battle. Spinning away from the first Guardsman, Anakin gasps, "Cortos – ah! Kark!" as he repels a shadow of hastily-moving scarlet not with his weapon, but with a Force-push that drives the attacker decisively into a pillar, helmet-first.
"Cortosis!" the young Jedi finally manages in a laconic, muffled shout under his mask, defending the artful swipes of two vibroblades woven with the alloy that, when forged in its purest form, can nullify the power of a lightsaber's crystal at first contact.
Kark, indeed.
Fortunately, Obi-Wan realizes as he gracefully evades the frenzied attack of two Guardsmen, the meld in their swords is not optimally potent. While the lightsabers are somewhat weakened by the cortosis weaves, the Jedis' weapons withstand repeated strikes from both vibroswords and more lithe vibroblades wielded by the lightning-quick hands of Sidious' henchmen.
Bred to kill, and more likely to die, for a bastion of evil, Obi-Wan thinks with a fleeting stab of sympathy.
It disperses with the vicious lunge of a vibrosword that he knows will sever his hand in less than a second if it finds its target. He blocks the offensive with shortened strokes, Anakin's lightsaber carving gauzy blue patterns in the air as it glides in perpetual motion. With the sneaky stealth of a kybuck, he advances, relying on the defensive strategy of his Soresu training and his own relentless patience.
Long moments – We don't have all day, Master, Anakin frets through the Force – and countless, rapid strokes of Obi-Wan's saber pass with neither Jedi nor Guardsman gaining an advantage. Sweat beginning to dampen his brow, Obi-Wan shields himself with expert bladework, but seemingly no compulsion to attack. Finally, his foe tires either of the stalemate or of Obi-Wan's passive, yet unbreaking defense.
With a snarl uncharacteristic of the stoic Royal Guard, the attacker leaps recklessly forward, tip of his vibroblade glinting in dimmed lights of the antechamber as it seeks the inviting hollow of Obi-Wan's neck.
Entirely uncivilized, the Jedi thinks, instinctively aiming his saber at the Guardsmen's exposed chest. His lethal blow penetrates the crimson cloak and pierces cleanly through skin and tissue to score – and cease – the Sith soldier's heart in as merciful a blow as Obi-Wan can orchestrate.
One down.
Obi-Wan initiates the gruesome scorecard with a grim set of his jaw, blade dancing in symbiotic tandem to his footwork as a second Guardsman appears to his right and he senses three comrades sliding toward his heels.
Two and three down, Anakin counters back, thoughts choppy but controlled. Four and five in a minute or so.
Deftly absorbing the blow of one vibrosword, then pivoting to neutralize a Guardsman at his back by separating a crimson-clad hand from its forearm, Obi-Wan cannot resist a lighthearted dig: Braggart. He leads Anakin's weapon with such authority that the unity of old hand with new weapon is seamless. And I just dispatched number four, thank you.
Now who's the braggart? There is a momentary jolt of concern, but not panic as Obi-Wan senses Anakin has lost his footing; he feels his padawan's urgent scramble from one knee and his deep swerve to avoid a vibrosword that slashes so closely Obi-Wan is fairly certain Anakin will be missing a few curls.
Finding his balance as spritely as a Delorian cat, Anakin emits a vulgarity that would get him thoroughly smacked if uttered in the twins' presence, his bladework growing more aggressive. After parrying a weak advance, he lunges, saber poised in prime attack position above his head, then sweeps downward with such force that the Guardsman cannot halt his deadly progress.
There is no satisfaction in these kills, any of them. Five down, Master.
Six, actually, Obi-Wan corrects, pulling his saber from the latest unfortunate victim while drawing upon the Force to leap as two Guardsmen advance from opposite sides. He executes a textbook flip when he reaches the apex of his jump, then the balls of his boots land softly on a second-story balcony near one of the massive windows overlooking the durasteel heart of Coruscant.
The morning rays of the sun just over the cityscape radiate through the spires of the Jedi Temple, rainbows of burnt orange and golden burgundy setting the skies aflame.
I got seven and eight, Anakin reports, matter-of-fact. Sensing no imminent threat nearby, he grabs his comlink, pauses to regulate his breathing, visualizes a stream of replenishing air sifting down his throat and invigorating his lungs.
"Artoo, tell me you've started oxygenating the air, because it's a real bitch fighting through these masks. Copy?"
It isn't the chirp of his loyal droid that responds, but the chirp of his favorite Togrutan. "Well, if you'd answer your comm or pay attention to our Force-bond, you'd know that we took our masks off ten standard minutes ago. Did you run off and find a podrace or something?"
A smile curls Anakin's lip as he frees himself of his mask, respiration slowing to a steady, calming respite. "Or something." Strangely, the commotion of tense discovery, botched rescue and general mayhem that seems to follow Artoo does not echo in the background. "Sounds far too quiet on your end. Are the Imps still under your spell?"
Oh, she's having a fine time with this; her signature practically croons with smugness he'll be quite happy to wipe from her far-too-pleased-with-herself face later, but he's helpless to squelch the perkiness of her reply. "Affirmative on that. Artoo's really outdone himself this time, though all the inactivity's left Rex with a highly unattractive pout."
There is a swirl of delusive malevolence in the Force, dark energies stirring with the quickness of a sandstorm. "Tell me later. Things here are getting… interesting. Out."
From his perch one story above, Obi-Wan watches the four remaining Guardsmen divert from the shadows, their robes the rich color of Corusca rubies waving gently as they approach with almost robotic purpose. In seconds, Anakin is surrounded, his escape averted in every direction.
Except the obvious. He could easily launch himself upward, use the Force to float above the Guardsmen and join Obi-Wan on the balcony. It would take the four remaining sentries several moments to regroup and ascend the stairs toward the inevitable Jedi ambush.
But of course he doesn't do that. Of every single thing Obi-Wan has impressed upon Anakin, from the craft of aggressive negotiations (which he grasped impressively fast), to proper dining etiquette (which he failed to grasp at all), his biggest dereliction is, perhaps, the concept of strategic retreat.
Anakin loathes the word "retreat" nearly as much as he despises the Hutts, bitter teas and that tiny scar between his shoulder blades carved not in battle, but by a healer's scalpel to retrieve the implant that once ensured his unwilling servitude.
The Hero With No Fear will retreat when snow replaces sand on Tatooine and not a moment before, vape it.
"For Force's sake!" Obi-Wan grumbles, not a beat of hesitation before he plummets from his perch to the chaotic abyss below. He lands, boots first, on the Guardsman furthest from Anakin, toppling the warrior, then thrusting his lightsaber into the mid-section of the voluminous robes, feeling the sickening clench of the blade slicing through leathery muscle.
But not a moment too soon, as Anakin twirls so rapidly, lightsaber blazing to staunch numerous attacks, that he almost reminds Obi-Wan of an Alderaanian dancer.
"Can you not," Obi-Wan questions with a hint of exasperation, deftly manipulating the Force to relieve a Guardsman of his sword and Force-pushing it toward Anakin, "do anything the easy way?"
The knight snatches the weapon, now brandishing a lethal amenity in each hand. Caught off-guard, his foe rocks to his heels, balance corrupted.
It is a deadly mistake. Conceding, "Probably," Anakin crouches in optimum position, the emerald lightsaber whirling in his gloved hand as he rotates the vibrosword in his other, felling the Guardsman with his own dastardly weapon. "But really, Master, what would be the fun in that?"
Then, eyes rapidly assessing the landscape, Anakin Force-pushes the vibrosword back to his master with a warning – "Last two on your six," – before rushing over to challenge one as Obi-Wan squares to face the last.
Two against two. Now this feels much more manageable.
Anakin and Obi-Wan handily fight, their backs brushing as a heady jolt of confidence soars through the Force. Even though these two Guardsmen are doubtless the most skilled of the lot, their defeat is inevitable.
Feet nimble and gliding effortlessly over slick marble, hands perfectly still when not commanding sabers with tireless flair, every concise arc, parry and shuffle strategically choreographed, they are Skywalker and Kenobi, exquisite and invincible.
Two Jedi wrists flick, plucking vibroweapons from Guardsmen's grips. Anakin and Obi-Wan don't bother to commandeer the instruments themselves, just send them far from the melee.
The Guardsmen stand quietly, neither advancing nor attempting to flee. Their fates will be determined by lifelong enemies they have been programmed to destroy.
In a horrified second, Anakin is transported to another time when he framed the face of a Jedi-turned-Sith within the blades of two weapons, one bleeding the ruby hue of the Sith, the other his own of azure. Words of sinister velvet had vibrated in his ears, slithered through his mind with hypnotic coercion. Kill him.
A tremor follows the bones from shoulder to fingertips of his battered flesh arm as he glances at Obi-Wan. "I can't – " he falters, shoulders wilting slightly. "They are unarmed, Master."
Understanding dawns with a tinge of pride. "Yes. Perhaps there are some binders we can – "
The rest is swallowed in dual, sacrificial cries as the Guardsmen reach into their robes to produce identical heavy blasters. Fire erupts from the muzzles, multiple flashes of bolts streaming in direct pathways toward the Jedis' chests. Only otherworldly reflexes prevent carnage as each Jedi deflects the artillery with quicksilver cuts of their lightsabers, charging forward to finish Sidious' lackeys with definitive strokes.
Anakin's blade is retracted before one Guardsman's boots have thumped their last to the floor. His warrior's posture slackens, taut muscles becoming elastic as he surveys a smattering of corpses throughout the antechamber.
"What will I tell Luke?" It is both a sigh and a whisper, his frame bowed as he glowers at the saber in his flesh hand, torn and dripping blood from both from his own skin and those he has killed. "When someone tells him how many have fallen to my hand, how do I explain?"
The adrenaline of battle now calming in his bloodstream, Obi-Wan is left drained, contemplative. "I don't know," he rejoins somewhat dryly, a deflection technique but also a truth because he certainly has no idea how to articulate the excess of gore on their hands to Anakin's son any more than he could imagine making sense of it to his own offspring, if such a prospect comes to pass.
Which, until this very moment, odds of survival astronomically low by Artoo's calculations, hadn't seemed remotely possible.
Obi-Wan yanks the oxygen mask from his face, then his lightsaber from the last Guardsman's breast, as he scans the room for signs of another wave of killer droids, mercenary bodyguards or any creature of that ilk.
"We'll come up with something. We always do." Motioning for Anakin to follow, Obi-Wan creeps past the large, spherical windows that display everyday Coruscantis, awakened to the languid breakfasts of another day.
"Then Padme will say it's all wrong like she usually does and write us a proper script, so that's what you'll tell him. Problem solved."
The sage master is a trifle pleased with himself as he leads Anakin from the relatively tranquil confines of the frying pan into the Sithly damnation of the fire.
He rather likes their odds, Artoo or no. That loose wire is probably misfiring the spasmodic little astromech's mathematical processes, anyway.
A mulish rumble comes at once. He doesn't have a loose wire.
Contrary, defiant and cocky to the last.
Their odds are getting better by the second.
x x x
x x x x
The first image Anakin sees through the murky haze of Royal Guardsmen's blood is himself.
Clad from collar to heel in emotionless black, his likeness awaits a bolo-ball field away, down the entryway carpeted in luxurious Wrodian plush, then thirty-odd steps up to where a single, pretentiously-decorated throne sits protected by a ray shield.
Anakin and Obi-Wan do not need a crystalline visual to discern the identity of a second ebony-robed shadow that reclines, seemingly without concern, in the throne embellished in gold and scarlet.
What Anakin sees next to his clone is the image of a dragonsnake. Like the creature that lies in expectant pause, concealed beneath whispery bogs even as it silently surveys its prey, Sidious waits, swallowed by his voluminous robes. Come closer, the monster goads, two sickly orbs of yellow gleaming against the black. Closer… closer… just a single step more… until the beast is upon its intended with calculated brutality, razor-sharp fangs sinking into flesh, grinding into a frenzy, devouring its victim without a wisp of mercy.
Next to his true master, Anakin strides closer… closer… his fear tucked firmly away so there is nothing on which his dragonsnake can feast. There is no sound save the delicate footfall of two Jedi approaching a shared destiny and the dull hum of a ray shield.
For a second time, Anakin's gaze is drawn to the dark figure that is a genetic replica of himself. His imitator kneels in deference, head bowed and one knee folded at the feet of the Dark Lord of the Sith.
Something cold, and hostile, nearly feral ignites as the scenario feeds to Anakin's brain, sparking the memory of his own horrified collapse at the hem of Sidious' robes.
Ferocious slashes streaking violet and crimson. His desperate sapphire flail, then the suffocating darkness that had promised the freedom of peace, yet shackled him anew. A peerless Jedi from Korun who represented Anakin's first fatal decision and opened a floodgate to the rest for which the Chosen One will need a lifetime to atone.
If only, Anakin grits inwardly, eyes cast to Sidious with murderous remembrance, I would have blown you to indecipherable bits the last time I set foot here.
The monster's reply is immediate, winding through the Force with the hiss of a serpent. Your hatred sings, my former apprentice.
"Easy, Anakin." The knight's signature rocks with a tumult of emotions as Anakin seeks his center. Obi-Wan can feel the second his padawan releases the negatives of anger and fright with a shuddering breath. "Let's take this one Sith at a time, all right? Which one do you want?"
He shouldn't have asked; the prophecy of the Chosen One foretells an epic battle between the most powerful of both the Jedi and the Sith orders.
Anakin shifts his lightsaber from his gloved hand to the other. "How about neither?"
The offhand remark is meant to be humorous. Obi-Wan responds in kind with a sarcastic quip. "If I had known that was an option, I would have selected it myself."
The master notes vivid, color-splashed tapestries that drape from the ceilings. Some, he senses, emit aromas of fresh fabric, while others bear charred patches of burnt material, the lingering stench of soot floating gently downward.
Anakin inhales it with relish, absorbs the stark differences in the décor from his last prolonged walk toward the throne. Some of the walls and pillars bear pristine coats of paint and varnish, ashes and scorch marks removed. Entirely new pieces have replaced those too heavily damaged by his tiny explosives. Scattered cracks of random, jagged patterns mar some of the structures where artifacts were once proudly displayed.
The young Jedi surreptitiously scans the pedestals flanking them for a glimpse of one particular prize Sidious had used to taunt him during their last confrontation. Fortunately, the dazzling sparkle of the Heart of the Guardian crystal is nowhere to be seen.
Better incinerated to nothingness than paraded as a grandiose Sith trophy.
"I'll take Sidious," he states, voice low and hard. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to use all of my… aggression against the clone." Smirk. "I guess there was one scenario your lessons could not possibly prepare me for, Master."
"You must keep your focus against whichever opponent you find opposite your lightsaber, Anakin." Once more, it is the soothing tone of a teacher. "The clone is a Sith; your destiny is to destroy his kind. That should make it easier."
"Easier?" Anakin's laugh isn't much of one, ringing with rueful undertone. "Right. Just because he looks like me, talks like me and thinks like me doesn't mean he's anything like me."
They are within thirty standard feet of the stairway leading to the throne when the clone called Vader rises leisurely from his position of supplication. At full height, he is an impressive caricature. The ebony cape thrown over his shoulders does not hide the chiseled outline of his body, might and power radiating from his head, through a broad, rippling chest and dispersing down his sinewy frame to congregate in his large hands.
Both of which, Anakin observes with a touch of envy, boast unmarked skin of gold. By the Force, he realizes, eyes boring into his genetic twin's as his own robotic fingers curl into a clench so tight there is a squeak of leather, this is unnatural.
He is more human than I.
Humanity has little to do with flesh or bone. Leave it to Obi-Wan to ever chase his brooding thoughts.
A pressurized moment passes as Vader glares at Anakin – the organic blueprint of the man he was created to replace – with equal coolness. Rancor between the two snaps in an instant, transcending mere impulse to form an invisibly-charged entity that throbs around them with the crackle of a live wire, unbound.
The Jedi proceed to the stairway, steps slowing as four of the most powerful beings in the galaxy appraise each other.
His focus not leaving Vader, Anakin glides his flesh-hand through tousled curls that have already become unruly, despite the recent trim. "Someone should've told me how ridiculous the Wookiee hair looked. Really."
Obi-Wan smothers the absurd urge to guffaw, a flood of adrenaline signifying combat readiness coursing through his veins. "Do I have to remind you to center yourself even now, padawan?"
The ornery glare Obi-Wan receives in turn sends his confidence soaring. When it comes to fighting prowess, a growling, edgy Anakin is a lethal Anakin. He'll strive to keep the bickering on a steady simmer.
"I might as well fight him with my eyes closed as much as the thought of striking him down makes my stomach a bit queasy," Anakin grumps.
Obi-Wan simply cannot resist. "As opposed to how blowing yourself up felt when you were here last?"
A half-stride ahead of Obi-Wan, Anakin's boot ascends the first of thirty-one steps toward Sidious, his former mentor, duplicitous ally and – according to a prophecy he'd just as soon fulfill so it can be forever silenced – lifelong nemesis.
"Any thoughts on how to dust that ray shield?" He's muttering through the side of his mouth now, though his rejoin to Obi-Wan's bait has more sizzle. "And that was me blowing myself up. Why is that hard to understand?"
Words sneak between the corner of Obi-Wan's lips, too. "Do you hear yourself?" Simmer, not boil, the master directs himself. "Fine. Take Sidious. Just stay focused and keep your mind open to the light of the Force. I will assist once I take care of… him."
Anakin nods his assent. "Looks like this time you are going to be the death of me, Master. Well… shiny, Wookiee-haired me, anyway."
Obi-Wan's groan resounds through the Force. "Now you've done it. My head feels like Master Yoda is pounding it with that bloody gimer stick of his, and with much more enthusiasm than he's ever shown."
They are halfway up the stairs, the fog of unseen darkness clouding their every step. Ominous and encompassing, the Dark Side swirls around their ankles, seeps into their tunics, twines about their necks with serpentine promise, ready to constrict, suffocate.
All playfulness forgotten, they climb the final dozen stairs suspended in degrees of preparative meditation. Their limbs vibrate with lithe energy, hearts pound in steadfast rhythms, the Force kneading their muscles to rejuvenation.
Two sets of eyes, sage and sapphire, are met with beady glowers of yellow, the same shade that oozes from soiled wounds. Though Sidious remains enveloped within his robes, Anakin notes a rather large crater on his hideously wrinkled forehead – carved by shrapnel from a well-placed explosive, perhaps?
Vader, he is… an incarnate of maleficence, despite the sun-kissed hair tumbling down his shoulders and skin much lighter than Anakin's own. With eyes less satiated by greedy rewards of the Sith, mouth less volatile, soul less twisted by bloodlust, he could be someone other than Sidious' merciless enforcer.
He could be a boy from Tatooine who once dreamed of the stars.
Just as Obi-Wan is about to offer a suggestion regarding the ray shield, the barrier of rippling, luminescent energies abruptly disappears.
Vader's chest juts with visible aggression as his master rises with difficulty, the damage in one leg grossly apparent as he struggles to support his weight on the other.
His displeasure is evident within the Force.
"Master Kenobi, Knight Skywalker" – the latter is forced venomously through split, ash-colored lips, triggering a patch of dead skin to flop near his cheekbone – "this is quite unanticipated."
Breathe, Anakin tells himself, half-expecting his trachea to narrow with vicious stealth.
Seemingly undaunted by the fact that the coveted Sith'ari of dark legend has infiltrated his stronghold for a second time, accompanied by the Jedi who managed to undo every countless hour of Sidious' artful manipulations, the emperor surveys his foes with the disdain one would bestow on an pesky insect.
"How courteous of you to spare me the effort of hiring a legion of assassins to hunt you down." Underneath the cuff of his robe, gnarled fingers twitch in a gesture that goads either Jedi to react with haste; neither does.
Anakin has never seen Obi-Wan's back so rigidly unyielding, his boots fixed as if secured by concrete. He is ever a stateman, even in his contempt. "You'll understand if I forgo the bow, Chancellor."
If the Sith expects to hear the word "emperor" pass his lips, Sidious will have to reach down Obi-Wan's throat and claw it from the Jedi's uncooperative larynx himself.
There is an undeniable glint of insolence as Obi-Wan pulls his gaze from the Sith to casually peruse the venue, as if a buyer inspecting a dwelling up for bid. "I like what you've done with the place. Soot and scorch marks are so difficult to remove."
Beside Sidious, the man called Vader smiles, teeth pearly and perfect, a message transparent as the boldness of the Dark Side infuses his arrogance. I will enjoy killing you.
Beside Obi-Wan, Anakin Skywalker flashes a grin of his own. No teeth, eyes a sparkling, vitreous blue that challenges the dark lord without a hint of malice. Come and get me.
With every molecule of nobility he possesses, the Chosen One peers unflinchingly at the Sith Lord, body as still and resolute as his voice. "By decree of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, you are under arrest for numerous crimes of sedition against the former Galactic Republic, injustices against the citizens of the galaxy and the installation of an illegitimate empire."
A moment of heavy silence passes, hair-trigger temperaments on the cusp of eruption.
"Now this is an irony, is it not? I am quite certain, Anakin," Sidious grits acidly, as if his tongue has been soaked in poison, "that you recall what befell the last contingent of Jedi sent to apprehend me." His voice drops an ominous octave, silkily persuasive, but his reply is an unmistakable threat. "The galaxy bows to the feet of its emperor. If it is my head you seek, then you will have to claim it from my body first, Jedi."
Anakin's expression does not change; not one hair moves, nor does he even breathe, though he's sorely tempted to remind the dark lord that he has separated a Sith head from its host once before, at Sidious' behest. "You will surrender, Chancellor, or you will be forcibly subdued. On this, and only this, the choice is yours."
The dark lord cackles, a sound seemingly devoid of sanity in its maniacal glee, then reaches into the depths of his robes with a bony hand short two full fingers and the better part of a third.
"My dear boy, there is no choice. For me… or for you."
In the next heartbeat, there is a foreboding hiss, and then a shriek that could rouse the dead if it wasn't so terrifying itself.
All Anakin can see is red.
Finis. For now.
Comments to the commenters:
QueenYoda: Well, you're one to talk. You have a particular talent for leaving people hanging RIGHT THERE, so I'd say I learned from the best. I'm thinking this chapter did absolutely nothing to mollify you, either. Whoops. * Sithly smirk * Believe me, I want to see Sidious dead as much as you do. Stay tuned. And Obi-Wan… well, I guess you wanted to see him die, as I just read your latest fic and it was spectacular in an "oh-my-God-she-really-KILLED-Obi-Wan" kind of way. I've become quite attached to that crusty Jedi as I've written more for him. Let's just say I could be looking for the right image of the Great Negotiator for my next avatar. Hope you enjoyed my New Year's Day present. I'm always a little late with stuff…
Dark Mistress of the Sith: Hope you liked this latest edition of (hopefully) of awesomesauce. Hee.
InspectorHambone: Yup. Nice idea. Could totally see it being used, except that Rexster's always been far too rebellious for a clone…
Night Dawn, Lilyssy and hiddenworldwalker: I'm humbled that people are still discovering this fic after almost ten months. Your comments were really inspiring, so thanks for jumping on board.