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Feedback: If you'd be so kind as to leave some, I'll do my best to reply.
Notes: ROTS AU.
Kingsdaughter613: Thanks for reading! I'll try to get a chance to read your stories, but I can't guarantee that: college keeps me pretty busy, and in my spare time, I'm usually either working on writing or editing what I've written. Heh, and, yes, choking can be very dangerous. I'm first aid certified as well, though I hope I never have to use it.
charliebrown1234: Honestly? I usually find this kind of "genius" in the shower. No, seriously, it's where I do my best thinking, I believe.
pronker: Poor Obi-Wan was going to go crazy if he didn't have someone to focus on. And Anakin has needed to self-diagnose since he first appeared in the trilogy. I feel privledge to be able to help with that. :)
onesmartgoalie: Why, Obi-Wan will blow things up, of course! ;)
Booknerd101: "When we choke on our food, we think, "Oops," but when OBI-WAN chokes on his food, he thinks, "I could use this phenomenon to escape!" Haha, this made me laugh. A lot. And I have read one of Timothy Zahn's books. I enjoyed it—if I ever get free time, I'd like to read more.
Random Under the Sun: I dunno—I kind of like Locke. Or, at least I like him once I'm done reading him… While I'm reading him, not so much. And R2D2? Yeah, I'm not going to lie… I just kind of forgot about him. However, now that I think about it, he probably didn't die. But since Anakin was separated from him when captured by the clones, his whereabouts are currently unknown.
Dooku wakes to the smell of bacta. At first, he does not open his eyes. Even in sleep, he dreamed of what he knows has happened, and he is aware, before he even wakes fully, that when he does come back to awareness, he will no longer have his hands. If he lingers a bit longer in a world where he doesn't have to fully embrace that fact with the added sense of sight, who can blame him?
But to delay, ultimately, gains him nothing, and he is not a weak man. He will not delay the inevitable for long. He has, as he knows, lost, and to not embrace that would be worse than useless.
He cannot change what he does not accept.
So, he opens his eyes, takes in the sight of a ship's medical bay, and tries not think how far he has fallen. Oh, and when Skywalker comes to gloat—and he will—that may, perhaps, be the worst of all.
Even having been bested by the boy, he cannot find it in himself to respect him. He despises him, certainly, but he cannot respect him, and certainly not when he still possesses one strong hold over him. Nothing that will change the circumstances, but still, one final hold.
Kenobi will not die. It is cruel what he is doing, Dooku knows, but this is his last shred of victory over… anything, frankly, and he will not be denied. He has lost everything else, and to Skywalker no less.
But in this, Dooku can still defeat him.
He tries to move then, barely containing a gasp when pain shoots through his arms at the movement. No restraints. None are needed. He cannot open a Force-resistant door with no hands. And given the pain in his limbs, there's no point in trying. He won't get far. No—escape is not likely. But he has not lost. Oh, no—not entirely, and that, at least, is important.
It's… complicated, this feeling, and Dooku wonders absently whether he should even bother examining it. Perhaps. Yes, it's best to understand his own motivations, and he nods to himself as he stares at the ceiling above him. If he wanted, he could move, because nothing but pain is stopping him, and that is… amusing in its own way.
Black humor. Gallows humor. He supposes he can call it what he likes. It is, after all, the prerogative of a man in his position.
There's some comfort to be had in the fact that he has been left alone for the time being. Certainly, that won't last long. Someone has likely been assigned to observe him, and he assumes they are even aware that he's conscious. If he were anyone his captors had any sympathy for, no doubt someone would have entered by now with the intention of discerning his mental state. It's a small blessing that, clearly, they don't care much for him. It saves him unwanted visitors.
A quick glance to his side brings an IV drip into his line of sight. Yes, he supposes that's necessary after what he assumes was quite a shock to his body. And, naturally, his captors also assume that he won't tamper with it, because he no longer has hands to do so. They likely also assumes he understands it would be counter-productive to his healing.
Fools. The whole lot of them. They have no concept of what he desires.
In all honesty, he isn't certain he knows himself. His own motivations are sometimes a bit hazy, even in his own mind.
Yes, and he was going to consider his own motivations, wasn't he? Well, his fleeting attention can be forgiven based on the fact that he has quite a lot on his mind. Understandable, certainly, but best not to put off the inevitable any longer.
Skywalker. He's as good a place to start as any. Best to get what's most loathsome out of the way first… and he does despise the boy. Skywalker was slotted as his replacement, and for that, his faults cannot be overlooked. Even in the darkness, Skywalker was considered more desirable than Dooku. He could be forgiven for that, Dooku supposes, but not for being equally as favored in the light. Having both—that is his real transgression.
Sidious wanted him, and yet, Skywalker also had Jedi who cared for him. From what he has heard, even Qui-Gon was incredibly fond of the boy, and that is to say nothing of Kenobi. And while Dooku understands that he himself could never have gained the affection of either of those men—not with the path he chose—he cannot stop the anger roiling within him at the thought that Skywalker was so close to the same path and yet obtained what he himself was denied.
Skywalker was nearly a Sith. If a handful of things had been different, he could have been as dark as Dooku… and, yet, he retained the benefits of the light that Dooku lingered after. Family. Loyalty. He had them both, and he didn't deserve it—Dooku deserved it as much as he did.
It so easy to despise him, even to the point where he will deny Skywalker at least part of what he gained, even if denying it will wound Dooku as well. And that… is Kenobi. Dooku does care for him. He will admit that to himself. The man is as close to family as he has left. He regrets what he will do to Kenobi, certainly, but the idea of winning a small victory in the midst of the greatest loss he has ever suffered—that is too great a pull to deny. And it's not as if he's condemning Kenobi to die. No, he'll be cared for. Alive. A mercy that Dooku would not have given anyone else.
Is he trading his last chance at redemption in exchange for revenge and power? Most certainly, but he is too far gone now to chose any differently. He may hate the decision—and himself—but he is content to regret it.
No, Skywalker will not learn Kenobi's location from him, and in that, he will have at least one final hold on the galaxy.
Escape gives Obi-Wan something to focus on. His mind always lingered on the possibility, but when an actual plan forms, it is easier to envision it feasibly occurring. He knows he's obsessing over it, planning it continually in his mind, waiting until he has a meal that will be most convincing. It can't be something like soup—it must be something sturdier that could get lodged in his throat, conceivably blocking his airways.
The waiting is like a burning itch, keeping him awake for hours on end. That's not such an unwelcome prospect, not when sleep brings images of slaughter and carnage, of men begging him for mercy and—
No.
That is not—just, no. Not now. Not here.
Focus on escape. Later, there will be time to deal with the cracks in his mind. For now, he must simply concentrate on the first rule of war: stay alive. For now, all that matters is that he gets himself to safety, and by letting his thoughts settle on that, they do not settle elsewhere. Do not think on anything else. Nothing. Do not. Do. Not.
He gets his opportunity after a few day's wait. There is nothing particularly different about the night, at least not beyond the consistency of the food: he's served a good, hearty nerf stake, medium well, exactly how he likes it, and he does have to consider just how considerate it was of Dooku to make sure the meat he plans to choke on is exactly to his liking. No one can fault the man for his manners, mass murder and a bent for darkness aside.
Before he can drown in his own sarcasm, Obi-Wan sits down as he's done every night since he's been here, quietly, as though there is nothing different. Accordingly, he eats the first half of his meal in silence, picking at it moodily. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
And, then, very purposefully, he chokes.
Not truly, of course. That would be entirely counter-productive. However, he'd like to think he makes a good show of it.
It's all very calculated. Gasp for air, clutch his neck, and act like he's working to cough. Then, stagger back from the table, knocking over his glass of muja juice in the process. Keep trying to cough. Don't breathe. That bit takes a good deal of self-discipline, but he trusts that his face is turning sufficiently red, and he can feel the tears squeezing out at the corners of his eyes at the lack of air.
At first, he doesn't believe that he's going to succeed. No one comes, and a minute passes. He counts, and everything truly is starting to blur—because he won't let himself breathe in fear of ruining the illusion—before the door finally zips open and "help" comes.
He knocks out the help—two clone troopers—before they have time to register that he is, in fact,breathing. In waiting so long, they had apparently assured themselves that he wouldn't have the will power to keep himself from breathing for that amount of time. Clearly, he's never worked with these clones. If he had, they'd have known better: after forcing himself to survive for months on end on the tasteless ration bars that were the staple of the Army of the Republic, breathing looks like a luxury, and, if he'd been asked after about six months in the field, one that could be traded for a decent meal.
"I thank you for your hospitality," he quips over his shoulder as he darts from the room, making for the hallway.
One would think that, having escaped from his room, he would now have a decently easy time of leaving the planet. The problem of course becomes, he has no idea what planet this is. He has no idea about anything, including how to get out of this building. Additionally, he has no weapons (unless he wishes to count the river stone, which at the moment, he doesn't, as a mind-wipe doesn't seem particularly imminent) and no concept of how many men Dooku left to guard him. It's conceivable that he could use a mind-trick in lieu of a weapon, but he wouldn't have put it past Dooku to also station droids to guard him for that very reason.
Ah, well, as he's often told Anakin, just because you know you're walking into trouble isn't a reason to avoid doing so. It simply requires the use of more caution. Listen to the Force. Think.
Truthfully, he would also appreciate a lightsaber.
Three hallways later and with the knowledge that, wherever he is, this building is stereotypically white in color, he finds himself almost wishing for a map over a weapon. Almost. If he had a weapon, he could probably threaten his way into gaining a map, so it's not entirely his first choice, but he certainly wouldn't turn the offer down.
Oddly enough, the building has, thus far, also proven to be only one floor. He'd expected to hit a turbolift at some point, which would have been useful, as those often led to things like roofs, from which he might have been able to get his bearings.
No such luck. Instead, he's just met with hallways and doors, and white floor after white floor. Someone really should do something with the interior decorating. Must buildings used for nefarious purposes always be either white, black, or a dull neutral? Honestly, he spends so much time running through them that it would at least be pleasant if he could enjoy the scenery.
Ten clones at least makes for a change from the white.
Pulling up short so quickly that his boots squeak in protest, he crosses his arms and waits, watching silently as they file across the hallway in front of him. Behind him, he hears more filing in. Regrettably, they must have pinpointed his location with whatever security that they have. Good security, apparently.
"I'm almost flattered," he says offhandedly. "All of you were stationed to guard me? I must be more dangerous than I believed."
He receives no response at first, not that he really expected to. Clones were never much for engaging in verbal sparring with their opponents. They prefer to simply get the job done. It's disappointing, really—he does love a good verbal riposte.
And then one of the clones does step forward. It's impossible to distinguish identities based on the armor—not when the familiar marks he might have recognized were wiped away when the Republic was eliminated and new armor was assigned—and voices are no good either. Still, there's something familiar in the manner of the man before him, hidden in the nuances that it took Obi-Wan a very long time to learn.
"Those of us who fought alongside you know better, General."
General? Oh? "I rather think that I gave up that title," he points out, picking absently at a bit of dry skin on his hand in feigned boredom. Occasionally, he wonders if he's slightly crazy to be so cavalier in the face of such terrible odds, but he does suppose that it's something close to a brand of optimism. Anakin's influence, undoubtedly.
"General, we have orders to ensure that you remain securely in your quarters. We request that you accompany us back to them."
No loyalty. None at all, and he would very much like to know which of his former men he's facing at the moment. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline."
All in tandem, the clones raise their blasters. Presumably they're set to sun, but if he doesn't dodge quickly enough, he'll be forced to test that theory. Additionally, even stun stings, at least until one loses consciousness, and he doesn't particularly wish to encounter any more discomfort than he absolutely has to.
"Yes, well, before you shoot me, may I at least have the pleasure of knowing whom I am addressing?"
The clone pauses then, though his blaster doesn't waver. It remains trained steadily on Obi-Wan, as do the others, and he truly is getting considerably tired of these armed standoffs that he always seems to find himself in. It's disconcerting when he stops and realizes that the threat of a loaded blaster pointed at his head has become somewhat commonplace.
"Commander Cody, Sir."
And here he hadn't thought he had anything left to be surprised about. Though, perhaps he shouldn't have been. It makes perfect sense for Dooku to chose as his guard someone who knows him well—who knows what he's capable of. Also annoyingly, Obi-Wan himself taught Cody how to withstand mental manipulation. He'd trained him for that with the intention of helping him avoid mind tricks from someone like Dooku, but all the same, it means that mind tricks of his own are now out of the question. No, clearly it was very logical for Dooku to chose Cody, but there's something about seeing him turn his blaster back on the man who got him promoted in the first place that fosters a slow ache in his chest.
He'd known Cody had betrayed him. Anakin had told him when they'd been captured a few days after they'd been shot down. However, he'd never seen it—he'd been unconscious—and while he'd believed Anakin, there is something about seeing Cody's betrayal himself that undeniably stings.
"Hmm, well, your armor is certainly newer," he observes, stroking his beard with his hand. "I'm curious: do you consider this a promotion?"
"Please turn and face the wall, General. We have orders to see you securely held."
He can't quite avoid rolling his eyes, though it's more out of a tingling of bitterness than anything. "And you always follow orders. Yes, I'm aware. However, I'm rather inclined to decline."
If he were faced with stupider men, it might have taken them a moment to figure that quip out. Unfortunately, as Dooku clearly counted on, Cody does know him irritatingly well. Working closely with a person will do that, but then, Obi-Wan also thought working closely fostered loyalty. He was wrong on that count. Pity he wasn't wrong on this one.
"Last chance, General."
If this were a holovid, he'd probably wait until Cody and the clones started firing, just to enhance the dramatic effect. However, when facing this many of the clones, any advantage he can get is one that he needs. Those few seconds are crucial.
Besides, he doesn't intend to fight—he intends to run.
It's certainly not glamorous, but Obi-Wan would prefer to live, and any intelligent solider knows when retreat is the better option. No one likes to turn tail and flee, but, sometimes, it is just simply more logical.
Of course, run does not mean offence is strictly out of the question: he snags one of the clones blasters when he slams into him, smashing him to the side with a wave of the Force. Immediately, a barrage of blaster fire erupts behind him, but he's already moving, tearing down the hallway with speed fueled by the Force. It's only a short burst, however, and he finds himself diving around the next corner, still with no idea where he's going, how many men in total he's facing, or what he's going to do.
At least he has a weapon now. A blaster, unfortunately, but better than nothing.
He very nearly swears when he turns the corner and almost physically collides with a clone. It's really a matter of reflex to shoot, and, yes, these men have betrayed him, but he still feels a twinge of regret at taking their lives. They were his men, his comrades, and he was their leader. He would have died for them, and it's such a bitter twist that now he's forced to kill them instead.
This clone wasn't party to the chase, he notes. Instead, he was obviously guarding what appears to be an exit. Unfortunately, he likely isn't the only one guarding it: there's a good chance there will be someone else on the other side of the door, and while he could attempt a firefight and take his chances on that, he isn't Anakin.
He prefers subtle to glaringly obvious and violent.
The clone's armor is a bit big on him, but it's passable at least, and that's really all he needs. He's used to wearing the stiff metal anyhow, having donned select pieces of it during much of the war. That's at least one thing to be thankful for, as it's taught him how to move naturally in a suit that many would find constricting.
After stuffing the now armor-less body of the clone into a side room, Obi-Wan straightens up and forces his muscles back, tightening into the stiff, almost always at attention posture that he's seen the clones perfect. Just as the clones gain an advantage from their knowledge of him, he too can benefit from his knowledge of them.
However, there is no knowledge that will help him once speaking becomes necessary. He can't imitate a clone's voice adequately enough to be passable, but as far as problems go, it's a fairly minor one: he doesn't intend to stay here long enough for polite conversation to become necessary. Hopefully, he can navigate any questions with a simple nod or shake of his head.
For once, he appears to be in luck: when he palms the door open and is greeted by two more clones, they accept the curt nod he gives them as greeting enough. It seems the clone he's impersonating isn't known for his chattiness. Apparently, these clones also aren't expected to be scouring the area trying to find him. In a manner of thinking that's logical: someone has to remain in the control center.
And, oddly enough, he seems to have stumbled directly into said control center.
If his life were the sort of story his teachers in the crèche used to tell, he might scoff at the prospect. Surely this is too convenient. However, given the less-than-stellar hand that life has dealt him lately, it's really about time that something went his way.
Unfortunately, this gift of fate isn't exactly one that's easy to unwrap. Yes, he's found himself in the control center… and he's also discovered it's staffed with clones. Additionally, if he tries to send a transmission, no doubt Cody will be notified. In reality, what he's been given is a gift that could quite possibly kill him if he uses it: if he takes advantage of the situation he's found himself in, he'll give away his presence.
Of course, if he doesn't take advantage of it, he's in the same situation he was to begin with.
He might as well make a new sort of troubling situation. Monotony, after all, is so dull.
"You want to take me to the exit," he tells the two clones suddenly, wrapping the Force gently around their minds and soothing every doubt before it begins. But first…
Obediently, the two clones wait expectantly by the door as Obi-Wan connects to a very familiar secure channel. Frankly, the channel is far more familiar than he'd like: he's going to begin to despise connecting to Bail's secure com unit line if the only time he makes contact with him is when he's in a crisis.
Surprisingly quickly, Bail's face flickers to life in front of him, defined in the blue of a holo transmission. Immediately, Obi-Wan is struck by the expectancy on his face—the sort of hope that's there—and, truly, that's good to see, because it means they were holding out hope that something like this might happen.
That's good. Because honestly? He hadn't been entirely certain how long he could go before giving up hope himself.
He almost wants to laugh when Bail's expression twists into something hanging between surprise and horror. Understandable, considering that judging by appearances, Bail is staring at a clone over what is supposed to be a secure, uncompromised line.
For him, that can't be a comforting sight.
"Really, Senator, that's not the sort of greeting I was hoping for."
Bail's expression—well, why shouldn't Obi-Wan laugh about it? He's had so precious little to laugh about lately, and the downright shock that bursts onto Bail's features, visibly lightening them and removing a weight that, when lifted, makes him look ten years younger—it's almost comical… or perhaps he's simply been alone with only his own mind for company for a bit too long. "Obi-Wan?"
"Expecting someone else?"
"You can't—How?—Force, no, but we thought—!" Finally, he simply stops talking, staring at Obi-Wan blankly. He shakes his head slowly from side to side as if in disbelief, but beyond that, he expresses nothing.
If he had a little more time, Obi-Wan might take a moment to smirk. He's just left a politician at a loss for words. That is, in his mind, something of a victory.
However, humorous as that is, the circumstances are not; the gravity of the situation is pressing down upon him and, instinctively, he lets himself fall back into the mold of the Jedi Master that he isn't sure he deserves to be any longer. Calm. Collected. Efficient. "I need help, Bail. I don't know my location, but wherever I am, Dooku stationed a squad of clones to ensure that I remain here. Unfortunately, I'm sure this outgoing transmission on a line that hasn't been cleared will draw notice immediately. I need to leave before anyone comes to check. Can you trace the transmission?"
Whatever shock that momentarily stunned Bail Organa has faded: he nods sharply, all business, as he reaches for something out of Obi-Wan's line of sight. A few beeps follow, and then he glances back at Obi-Wan, nodding again, a little more firmly this time. "Yes."
He'll never admit just how much his stomach flips with relief when he hears that. "I have to go."
"We'll find you," Bail tells him firmly, with the sort of will that makes Obi-Wan wonder if Bail believes that he can make that happen just by determining in his mind that it will. Frankly, at this point, he doesn't care as long as someone shows up. "Be careful," Bail adds.
"Yes, well, it's a little late for that" he answers wryly, though he appreciates the sentiment all the same. Inclining his head quickly, he adds, "Tell Anakin it's Cody. Just so he knows what he's walking into." Because it will be Anakin. Once he gets word that his master has been found, Obi-Wan knows he'll pitch a full-scale fit if Bail tries to dispatch anyone else, and he knows better than anyone that Anakin's tantrums can be very convincing.
It's harder than he'd like to admit to break the connection. After not seeing a friendly face for so long, he's loathe to stop talking with Bail, however irrational that is. If he keeps talking, he'll easily be caught, and he knows that, but—
But nothing. He's stronger than this. He is, because so many times, internal strength is a decision, and he's deciding that he won't let himself falter now. After how much he's been beaten up? He's certainly not letting all that effort go to waste.
"Take me to the exit," he says again to the clones, a little more strongly this time. The command is infused with every bit of will that he has: failure in this could have any number of consequences. Of course, he's lying to himself if he doesn't admit that success could have just as many as well: he has no idea what he's facing at the exit.
The clones do not deny him, and he thanks the Force that he never had the opportunity to teach these men how to withstand mental manipulation. If he had… if he had, he wouldn't be headed toward an area that he hopes will get him out of this place.
Of course, when they show him to the exit and he realizes just how close he actually was to it, he can't help but be irritated. It hardly takes them even three minutes to reach their destination… but it will take longer than that to get out.
He was right when he guessed that the door would have guards. He just hadn't thought there would be this many. Honestly, Dooku must have commissioned a whole company to guard him, because if there are this many clones in this entrance hangar alone? He can only imagine how many there are in total.
At least he knows he's found the main door.
Unfortunately, he also knows he's not going to be leaving undetected through it. Whether or not he looks like a clone, he won't be able to simply waltz out of this situation: he doesn't have the code to open the door. Regrettably, he also doesn't have a lightsaber to cut through it, and, even if he did, he doesn't have the time to do so without interference.
Right. Well, there are always other options. They'll be messier and may have a lower rate of success, but at this point, he's fairly certain he no longer has the luxury of being choosy.
Falling into formation with the other clones—and isn't it a good thing that he paid attention to their drills?—he surreptitiously scans the hangar looking for anything that could do some damage. Thankfully, it's a hangar: there's plenty that could do damage. He merely has to decide what will cause him the least amount of bodily harm while still inflicting maximum impact on his opponents.
If Anakin were choosing, he's well aware that his former padawan would likely deign the best option to be a complete annihilation: he'd blow the building up… and, oddly enough, the more Obi-Wan looks, the more he's beginning to think he doesn't have a much better choice. Subtly is entirely out of the question, and if he's going to be obvious, there's no reason not to be completely obvious, because he's starting to realize that just about any of his options put his own life at risk. If he's going to put his life on the line, he might as well insure that the job gets done, yes?
Yes. This is necessary.
Having decided, he peers out from under his helmet at a fuel tank on the far side of the room. It's not quite as close to the door as he'd like, but it'll do. Rupturing it… that'll be a bit harder. Thankfully, it's obviously pressurized; if he can get the pressure to rise to the point where it explodes, he can do some substantial damage.
Again, he wishes he had Anakin to assist him. Mayhem is more his former padawan's strength, and the sort of diversion that Anakin's specializes in would be most welcome at this point. It's a pity that's not an option: while Obi-Wan is confident in his ability to sufficiently imitate Anakin's preferred brand of fighting—glaringly obvious and aggressive—he'd rather play to his own strengths. He just… he doesn't have enough to go on for anything else. He's tired. He's failed a great deal lately, and chances… he'd rather not take them if he can possibly accomplish the same results with methods he's more comfortable with.
It's so easy to lie to himself and say that line of thinking isn't an indication of something festering inside of him.
Moving rigidly with the other clones, he remains in formation, breaking off with them when his unit is assigned an area to search. It's not in the direction of the fuel tank which, unfortunately, means he's going to have to break cover. Unfortunately, he still doesn't have a sufficient plan. The fuel is pressurized, so it could be made to explode if punctured… but a tank that big is going to need more than just a blaster shot to rupture it. Far more. It would need something substantial… something like the guns on the ships are capable of, or even an actual ship careening into it.
That may be something he can arrange.
No one is going to expect him to try to simply take down the entire hangar. They will, however, expect him to try to reach the hangar. If he shows his face, they'll immediately focus on him… and won't expect a mind-tricked clone to subtly enter a fighter, aim it's fire at a fuel tank, and then finish up by smashing the ship itself into the aforementioned tank.
Perhaps he has learned the art of the obvious from Anakin after all.
Taking a deep breath, he reaches gently inside the mind of one of the men next to him, coaxing, just enough until he feels the mind give against his mental touch. He molds it then, murmuring suggestions with the Force, and while there might have initially been some resistance, the clone yields quickly. So many people do: it's a bit disturbing how so many beings are almost subconsciously comforted by mind-tricks—by the sensation of being told what to do, and of the freedom of blindly doing it. There's no thinking involved. It's very easy, and, in a strange way, comforting.
Once he's certain the clone has taken to his suggestion, he takes a deep breath and stops walking, letting the clones slip by him as he breaks with formation. They jostle him a bit as they brush by, trying to avoid running into him, and the movement breaks their ranks. No going back now. Not since he's called attention to himself.
Best to barrel straight ahead then, he supposes.
"Hello there," he says cheerily, right after he unhooks his helmet and tosses it aside. It skids across the ground, sliding to a stop at the feet of another clone.
Silence.
And then everything descends into pandemonium.
Calling on the Force, he propels himself upward, out of the mess of clones, and hits the ground running once he's clear. Already, shots are ripping through the air around him, and he barely manages to roll behind a stack of crates, knocking one askew in the process. The shots won't kill him, of course—the clones obviously have orders to fire on stun—but if he's unconscious when the hangar explodes, or if he isn't able to shield himself with the Force, he doesn't think that particular instruction will matter much.
Risking a glance over the top of the box, he lays down a line of fire at the advancing clones. He doesn't need to keep them back long. Just long enough to let the clone he manipulated get on board, and—yes, just like that. No one notices the man that slips into the fighter, and no one registers the fighter as it comes to life under the practiced hands of man whose mind is not his own.
Just a little longer. Just a few more shots, and, now, he leaps forward, tumbling over the boxes, rushing desperately toward the door of a storage unit, firing over his shoulder. There's a muffled grunt, a cry—he must have hit someone—and the sound of a ship firing, finding its mark. His senses are assaulted with the sounds of metal protesting, groaning, and beginning to rip apart. Shots keep following him, and just as he reaches the door to a storage unit, one clips his shoulder. As predicted, it's stun, and, well, it does stun him, though not as effectively as it would have if it had hit him straight on.
He thinks he hears himself cry out as he loses control of his limbs and slams down into the floor, skidding across the threshold of the storage unit. Shut the door, shut the door—he reaches for the Force frantically, pulling it to him, and somehow yanks the door shut, just as the sound of a unified mass panic from the clones erupts in the other room, sounding just like an explosion.
No, not like an explosion. It is an explosion. And it's not the clones.
Obi-Wan has just enough time to take a breath and draw the Force around him as much as he's able when half stunned. Then the noise of destruction erupts, the sound reaching him right before the wall bends inward, and the intensity of it slams him back, just as the ceiling falls. Something hits him, and he can't tell where he's hurting. He just knows he is. Is he going to die? Now? After everything? Force, please, please—
Don't let it end like this.