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Onward… Artoo chimes in, Ani plays mind games and a Very. Bad. Thing.
Chapter 38
Of all the times for the humans to go silent…
Though his programming does not recognize irritation, Artoo Detoo is most certainly miffed.
Considering his directives regarding the stormtroopers have been overridden and the pure oxygen he'd managed to circulate throughout the palace is no longer replacing the noxious gas that had been incapacitating the Jedi, the astromech is indignant that the humans have selected this precarious moment to sever contact.
Threepio would certainly have an opinion about such behavior.
It is also discourteous to exclude him from the events, considering all he's done thus far. Do these humans think deploying orders that encompass exactly five distinct models of clones with varying standard intellectual processes, as well as several highly-classified and extreme firewall-protected codes – that 66 command skyrockets the humans' pulse rates eighty-five point seven percent of the time it is mentioned – is a simple task?
Quite the opposite; Artoo's odds of returning the Imperials to Jedi command within the next five standard minutes, even with his unparalleled programming capabilities, are twenty-eight thousand, six-hundred seventy-two to one.
He will never quite understand why Master Anakin's face alights when such astronomically unfortunate numbers are trilled before him.
The little droid emits a high-pitched whistle that chirps like those musical Nabooian birds of which his former mistress is so enamored. Master Anakin has certainly managed to overcome worse odds, on multiple occasions that have defied Artoo's fastidious calculations.
Artoo has come to recognize that the humans, Master Anakin in particular, possess infallible traits that cannot be analyzed in his databanks. Senator Amidala/Lady Skywalker (dependent upon who is listening) calls it "heart;" Knight Tano prefers "bullheaded;" Master Kenobi's descriptions range from "foolhardy" to "brave" (could be "barve," but whatever the word, it is spoken with grudging admiration) to "too-blasted-stubborn-for-his-own-blasted-good."
Artoo is beginning put credence in Threepio's insistence that these humans are, indeed, nonsensical creatures.
Strange as it computes in his own central processing unit, Artoo hypothesizes that Master Anakin genuinely relishes these unusual circumstances that Master Kenobi has also labeled "unsalvageable" and, when the former does not suffice, "damn-fool suicide."
Artoo has recorded several such vigorous exchanges between the two Jedi. One day, perhaps he'll display them for Master Luke as an example that, on occasion, even the vaunted Jedi can behave as if a vital wire or two have loosened within their circuitry.
With as much fervency as a droid can generate through bytes and chips, and those brand-new cables Master Anakin added as a thank you (as well he should) the last time the astromech rescued him from what Master Kenobi later described as a "damn-fool crusade of utmost seriousness," Artoo hopes the young Jedi's combination of courage and unexplained luck holds once again.
Master Luke and Mistress Leia will be quite disturbed if their father's habit of obliterating the odds comes to an abrupt conclusion.
x x x
x
Obi-Wan never, ever screams.
Which is precisely why Anakin does what comes naturally, usually to his master's great chagrin. The Chosen One reacts without thinking, tearing himself away from near-fulfillment of his blasted destiny, then Force-jumping to the edge of the second floor before blindly hurling himself into the unknown.
His master will call him reckless, and impulsive, and utterly foolish. Likely deride his decision to forfeit his victory as a split-second lapse in judgment, choosing the peril of one over the greater good of a galaxy.
But that one will be breathing to roast him over the coals for his headstrong choice, so Anakin pushes his long legs as swiftly as they will run, reaching into the Force to assess his master's circumstance.
Agony. Confusion. Distress bordering on panic. Obi-Wan isn't one for panic, so Anakin Force-jumps toward the beacon of his master's signature, communicating calmly, though his heart races with dread: Hold fast, master. Almost there.
To which he receives a thready No, Anakin. Your duty is to bring balan –
The horrible swell of anguish that chokes Obi-Wan's response spurs Anakin to discard any cautious restraint; he accelerates, his terror at what he might find quickening with each stride. Hold on; I'm coming!
He clutches both crimson and emerald lightsabers as he passes a crumbled pillar littered with Nabooian glassware, then immediately halts in his boots, every cell of his body seizing at the ghastly sight before him.
The battered hilt of Anakin's lightsaber rests out of Obi-Wan's reach, not that his master could do much with it in his current predicament. The older Jedi has fallen to his knees, eyes wide and body frozen as both hands claw at his neck. Vader lurks a breath behind Obi-Wan, malicious grin as threatening as the crimson line of a lightsaber that hums a few standard inches from the master's throat.
What remains of Obi-Wan's tattered tunic hangs from his torso, charred remnants of fabric smoldering against fresh burns oozing from his ribcage and sprawling down gaping holes in his pants. The russet hair atop his head releases tendrils of smoke, as if the wick of a candle just extinguished.
Yet, he appears remarkably composed for a man who has been lashed with numerous bolts of Sith lightning and now dangles in a murderous Force-choke, though his fear ricochets with Anakin's own throughout the Force.
Anakin visibly pales when he manages to draw his gaze from Obi-Wan's. It is his face that looms ominously above the older Jedi, his mouth curled in a vicious sneer as the monster taunts with the blade so near Obi-Wan's convulsing throat that his master's skin blossoms with red. His smug, infernal image vibrating with energies of hatred and vengeance, as well as a thunderous compulsion to hurt.
The clone glares at Anakin with such vitriol that the young Jedi realizes exactly why his master is still alive.
Bait.
A fresh string of profanities skitter through Anakin's mind.
His options are few; the scorching plasma blade rests a thumb's distance from Obi-Wan's jugular vein, which bulges almost in open invitation. Even with Jedi reflexes, Anakin will have difficulty separating Vader from his master without mortal injury. Weak from the lightning and sapped of oxygen, Obi-Wan will be of little help.
And Anakin is not the only one with Force-enhanced reflexes.
Perhaps a page from the Great Negotiator's volumes of tricks is in order.
"Better ease up on his throat." Anakin's remark is so blithe that he may as well be addressing the state of the luster on Vader's boots. He takes a few deliberate steps as his voice carries in monotone, tracing a tight circle around the Sith and his master. His aura exudes the same penetrating confidence as his clone, predator stalking predator.
"Your master will be displeased if you deliver him too scuffed. I would guess that Sidious prefers to take an active role in torture."
If this maleficient creature possesses even a speck of its host personality, Anakin can predict Vader's response to a hostile command: violent opposition. By ordering Vader to release his master, Anakin will practically ensure a heartless snap of Obi-Wan's neck instead.
"What," the clone growls as Obi-Wan's eyes flutter between half-open and fully sealed against cheekbones drained of color, "makes you think I intend to deliver him alive?" His hands remain eerily still. Like a diabolical Sith statue, he holds Obi-Wan's increasingly limp frame tightly against his, glorying in the Jedi's helplessness.
Anakin notices a quiver of his master's Adam's apple, sage eyes blinking open as a thin stream of air is allowed to enter his windpipe.
Just enough to revive him so Vader can prolong this sinister little game of his.
Obi-Wan doesn't gulp greedily, knowing this could evoke a whiplash reaction from Vader. He inhales with a measured rise of his chest, the gloss of his eyes lessening as his cognizance returns.
Anakin continues his prowl around the two, weight balanced as he grips the sabers, fingers rolling across the hilts. Engage their egos, Obi-Wan would advise in standoffs such as these. When provoked just right, antagonists will defend their pride even at the expense of the kill.
It is the "just right" part that's always eluded Anakin.
"Since he's not dead yet, I assume Sidious has instructed you to bring us in alive. Didn't tell you why, did he?" Anakin's shrug is accompanied by a smirk with a tinge of arrogance, playing the role of smug superior with aplomb. "Of course he wouldn't, considering he has no intention of honoring whatever proposal he's made you."
If the Sith is affected by Anakin's claim, he conceals it well. His arms still rigidly confine Obi-Wan, though the Jedi's breathing has settled to harsh respirations, rather than gasps; apparently, his windpipe remains partially constricted.
"There is no proposal, Jedi," Vader spits, fiery golden eyes and glimmering lightsaber garish against Obi-Wan's fair skin. "I serve at the behest of Lord Sidious and will rule by his side, the true heir to the Empire."
"True heir?" It is a spiteful mockery of Vader's proclamation, a taunt that needles the clone precisely where Anakin himself has always been vulnerable: his damnable pride.
Anakin's voice rises, a haughty snap of entitlement winding through the clone's ears. "I am the Chosen One of the Sith Order, the foretold Sith'ari of ancient prophecy." His tone is clipped, patronizing as Anakin continues his roundabout stroll toward Vader's flank. The clone must incline his head, as his interest has been piqued, though he takes care to appear indifferent.
I hope, Obi-Wan projects, you know what you're doing.
Just a little more, Anakin thinks, reliving the sensitivities that often left him cold and seething during his adolescence at the Jedi Temple. A Corusa gem in the rough, Master Yoda had often called him, though he'd always considered his sheen never bright enough, considering the grains of sand always clinging to it.
Force forgive him for the blasphemy that is about to release from his mouth.
"By my birthright, I was to be the perfect messenger to lead the Sith into glory." He pauses a few seconds, senses Vader's growing rage in a shudder of the Force that gathers, swirls, tempts the clone to unleash it. Anakin walks with even more provocation around the Sith's other shoulder, could probably brush it with the goading of a dare, then meanders so close that the wispy air of Obi-Wan's renewed respirations reaches his chin.
Eyes blazing molten, azure fire as they lock into Vader's, Anakin grits, "You are but a shiny new toy that will soon outlive its usefulness."
He steps away as the insult lingers, breaking visual contact with the Sith as if in dismissal. Though his back is to Obi-Wan now, he knows his master is listening intently. Let's get that saber away from your throat. Force-forbid if it does some damage so you cannot nag me again.
There is but one way out of this situation, and Anakin hopes his master's faith in him is unshakable enough to withstand his solution.
Obi-Wan cannot shift his line of vision from the skewer of red before him, so near that he feels the fluctuations in heat as the saber pulsates like a live wire, but he can see a ripple of tension in the nape of his padawan's neck.
I suppose you have a plan? It is an unnecessary question; Anakin always has a plan. Whether it is survivable is usually the concern.
He is not disappointed. Once I get him riled up, we're going to Force-push that saber away from you.
Oblivious to the Jedis' covert discussion, the Dark Lord fairly vibrates with fuming outrage, tightens his Force-grip on Obi-Wan's throat in vengeful backlash to Anakin's disparagement; even the lightsaber trembles with his building fury. "You are an unworthy coward! I was born a rightful heir of the Dark Side from my first breath. I did not have to overcome the weaknesses that have so crippled you, Chosen One; no simpering cringe of a slave-boy or pious idealism of the holy Jedi." A wave of anger crests, evident in the tightening of both Vader's mouth and a renewed stricture around Obi-Wan's neck that evinces a sound of strangling.
"I am the worthy one, Jedi, a title earned by my loyalty and deeds alone!"
Judging by the jerky constriction of his throat once more, Obi-Wan concludes the Sith is amply nettled already. Taking quite a risk with my neck, are you not? Be wise; his powers are as strong as yours.
Oh, but that dauntless glint of blue in Anakin's eyes inspires utmost belief; why is it that even the Chosen One's wildest schemes transform into masterpieces when accompanied by that look? But not as strong as ours. When it is time, you must Force-push his blade and duck or it will slice your throat instead of his.
Obi-Wan's bewilderment seeps into their bond. I'm not following. That is a danger only if we direct the saber toward –
In a split second, he understands.
You must trust me, Obi-Wan.
There is no time to elaborate; the younger Jedi has already slipped back into the role of rebellious heir-apparent to the Sith empire. He focuses a scowl of derision toward Vader, intent on exploiting wounds that he theorizes run intrinsically deep.
Their lives hinge on that hypothesis.
Anakin rounds aggressively on Vader and Obi-Wan, lightsabers fisted in his hands as he grits, "You were engineered to replace me if I did not succumb to the Dark Side. And make no mistake in regard to your narrow definition of servitude, Vader."
Anakin leans into Vader's shoulder, each syllable enunciated with such conviction that his words carry an authenticity of truth. "That you willingly drop to a knee at Sidious' feet makes you more a slave than I ever was, because you subjugate yourself. Every time he calls you 'apprentice,' he indentures you by a different name."
The Force roils dangerously, kindling Vader's enmity to an inferno of hatred that rages against his fading restraint. He wants to kill, is fairly writhing to allow the darkness full reign to whip his emotions to a fevered pitch.
Almost, Anakin thinks. Almost. He must not betray his intents. Forcing his muscles to relax even as adrenaline invigorates them to readiness, he prompts Obi-Wan: Our timing must be precise. He has not learned to control his power. Once his hatred reaches its apex, his attack will leave him vulnerable.
Outwardly, Anakin is the embodiment of bald-faced provocation, jaw thrusting toward Vader in a show of intimidation. He channels every belittling jibe from Watto, the sting of each dismissive backhand from Gardulla into his stance, every nuance emphasizing an attitude that creeps into Vader's consciousness: You are not worthy.
Through their bond, Anakin beseeches his master's trust. I cannot do this alone.
The hum of Vader's blade reverberates loudly through Obi-Wan's ears as he realizes the enormity of Anakin's plan: he must join his padawan in Force-pushing the blur of crimson already so kriffin' close even further into his neck and simultaneously scramble out of its path so it slices through the Sith's throat, not his own.
This will surely be listed as one of those "damn-fool suicidal" endeavors on that unseen list Obi-Wan compiles. If he lives to catalog it, at all.
And yet, if they commit with utmost trust in each other, it is their best chance.
Anakin receives a flood of resolute acceptance that fortifies him as stoutly as his master's reply. We will do it together. On your call.
With no time to acknowledge what has transpired except a fleeting nudge of gratitude through their bond, Anakin switches mental gears once again. The cognitive gymnastics of this impasse have begun to wear, but he cannot afford to be sloppy now. Vader may have begun this pivotal game, but it is his to finish. The creature before him shares characteristics of his blood, his heart, though their beliefs in regard to darkness and light could not be more divergent.
Anakin gambles that the source of his deepest personal affront will affect the Sith just as profoundly.
Directing his most caustic glower yet at the adversary who shares his face, Anakin erases the rancor from his voice, its calm conveying an unspoken truce, a comrade passing wisdom.
Much like Palpatine's unprecedented mentorship toward a slave-boy from Tatooine.
"Servants do not rule," he begins, eyes pinning the Sith as firmly as if Anakin had backed him into a duracrete wall. "They toil in the shadows. They bear the brunt of those who thirst for power with their blood and their shame."
There are a few beats of silence, the only ruin a role call of breaths taken by Sith, Jedi, Jedi, all locked in a spell dependent not on weaponry, but on cerebral cunning and innate hunches that cannot be explained in any training manual.
"Servants are beaten with the fists of a galaxy; they are spat upon by those one distinction higher who sigh in relief even as they add to the ridicule." Anakin's voice has gone softer now, even as Vader's rancor drives higher, the Sith's appetite for violence growing more voracious by each standard second.
Anakin thinks of a benevolent man he once revered, then of the searing moment he realized that each kindness had come with the sinister pretense to enslave. "Servants are dazzled when one so noble convinces them they are exceptional, but it is all a lie." He sees the stormy flicker of red in Vader's eyes, feels the mayhem flow through his own body as if their shared genetics allow a core oneness.
"You believed him, didn't you?" Vader remains menacingly still, but there is a flicker within the Force, the first true sliver of doubt. Anakin focuses on that wayward shard, enticing the uncertainty with a skillful mind-probe. "You are familiar with the Rule of Two, are you not? There is Sidious, and there is me, or perhaps even Kenobi if I prove uncooperative."
But never you.
Anakin curls his mouth into a gleaming smile that taunts, remembering the insanity of emotions that had driven him to near-psychosis while under the Dark Side's influence. "That is the secret Sidious keeps, Vader; it will never be you, no matter your loyalty or your offerings to his empire. You are but a convenient means to his grand plan, as are we all."
He knows Obi-Wan feels it, too; any Force-sensitive being within a few klicks of the throne room can sense the Dark Side as it fixates and quakes and boils with Vader's hunger to defile, to kill. The Sith's temple – smooth and unmarred in comparison to Anakin's own – throbs with a demanding compulsion to silence the source of these falsehoods from the tongue of the Jedi in whose image Vader has toiled, but has never managed to eclipse.
Never you, Vader.
He teeters on the cusp of immolation. Anakin feels it more acutely than he'd ever been able to gauge his own mercurial temper. A few more words, jeering and well-played...
"But no matter. He commanded you to bring us alive, did he not?"
May his mother's benevolent spirit forgive what he is about to say to another sentinent being, even if it is Vader.
"So be a good little slave-boy and obey your master."
Vader's fury detonates with a resounding roar at exactly the second Anakin projects Now! Master and padawan unify through their bond, concentrating every molecule of Force-energy they possess onto the Sith's hovering blade. With impeccable timing, Obi-Wan is released from Vader's hold and drops to the ground, the Force crackling with the converged power of two Jedi.
Anakin closes his eyes, but cannot shield the rest of his senses as the buzz of the Sith's blade changes. There is a higher, muffled pitch as plasma meets the resistance of flesh, then bone, and Vader's startled cry of anguish is summarily snuffed as vocal chords detach.
A second howl rages, keening and devastated, as the living Force registers the last of Vader's tortured essense. Darkness lashes against light as if in protestation, then fades into silence.
The Jedi are not naive enough to assume it will last.
Obi-Wan catches Anakin when the younger Jedi's knees give, guides his padawan's head to his shoulder as he'd never done when the Chosen One was a boy. They are both slick with Vader's blood, dapples and pools that smear on Obi-Wan's fingertips, transfer to Anakin's nape as he shudders in guilty relief.
He never had a chance. Anakin's lament is a mournful ache in Obi-Wan's mind. He had no Padme, no children, no you. He had nothing.
Obi-Wan flashes back to a mantra that has been his companion longer than any memory he keeps. He cannot remember the first time he'd heard it, nor the last, only that it had been the constant upon which a lifetime had been based. A Jedi shall not know love.
He gazes upon the boy from Tatooine who buried that tenant on the sole of his boot as Anakin gradually regains his composure, shoulders beginning to steady as his body uncoils.
"But you do, Anakin," Obi-Wan reminds as his padawan rises over the two pieces of Vader's corpse, centering himself with a deep breath that reaches beyond this place and toward the three who anchor his salvation. "If it's all the same to you, I much prefer their company, so let's just finish this."
They stand, remaining in close proximity of the other, and mop as much red, viscous liquid from their garments as possible. Anakin turns away from the disembodied head of Vader, has probably suffered through permutations of this very scenario in his nightmares, but Obi-Wan cannot help but notice that, in death, the Sith's features appear strikingly different. No longer wearing the grotesque sneer of a thug, nor the unrestrained rage of a murderer, Vader's face is unblemished, faultless, almost… gentle.
But his eyes remain a glazed yellow. They disappear under the fallen Sith's ebony cape as Obi-Wan bends, drapes the cloak thoughtfully over Vader's head.
A bout of dizziness assails as he rises, an unsteady wobble as his brain seems to fire in several directions at once. He figures the combination of weaning adrenaline and lingering oxygen deprivation will do that to a man, clasps his hand on Anakin's shoulder so he doesn't go lurching onto his nose.
"We'll have to find another weapon," the master informs. "Your lightsaber is over there – " he gestures toward the inky hilt a few standard feet to their left " – but cortosis has weakened the blade. It's next to useless."
Anakin retrieves it, mindful of too-many hours fine-tuning each feature in the Temple's workshop. When he presses the button, expecting a familiar hum of plasma unfurled, there is only silence. "You broke my lightsaber?" he asks testily. "I'll have you know a Jedi's weapon is his life, Master."
Certainly good to see Anakin's cheeky sense of humor has survived without a noticeable dent. Whether Obi-Wan's own has remained intact is yet to be seen, as he cannot seem to clear the blanket of fog that holds his brain captive and seems to sweep downward toward his shoulders, chest, torso, a numbing lethargy that infuses clammy sludge into spent muscles.
"The Red Guard damaged your lightsaber," Obi-Wan rejoins, giving himself a shake. "All that's left is the hilt, and there is little that can be done with – "
"…perfect to shove it sideways up that Sithspit's slimy ar – "
"Not now, Anakin. We must focus."
Obi-Wan means to inflect a snap of authority in his tone, but now that he's seeing three Anakins before him, and each curly-headed portrait seems to sway, blink and dissolve before reassembling anew, he's a bit preoccupied.
Anakin senses his disarray. "Master?" When there is no answer save the russet-haired Jedi's crumple as a wrenching blow akin to a punch with the force of a Wookiee behind it nearly fells him. "Obi-Wan!"
Oh, this is not good. Gas, Obi-Wan attempts to warn, lips mouthing a semblance of the word but his throat and tongue are completely out of sync, so it comes out a slurring garble of the first letter as Obi-Wan slumps into Anakin's chest. He wills his head, which feels as if it has the mass of three stormtroopers' bulky helmets, to still even as it flops on Anakin's shoulder; he must tell his padawan to get his blasted oxygen mask back on, but motor control is no longer his.
Anakin fumbles for Obi-Wan's pack, murmuring, "Gotcha, Master, just give me a sec to get your mask," but the younger Jedi's fingers are trembling, too, unseen fumes permeating his skin. Weary and battered beyond reason, their bodies are ill-equipped to resist the toxin.
Then something looms behind the young Jedi as he endeavors to untangle the mask from its confines, and Obi-Wan fairly screeches an alarm through the Force to compensate for his pointless mouth.
Except… Anakin does not hear him. His presence, always so vibrantly alive, has abruptly vanished from the Force, even though his curls now brush against Obi-Wan's nose and the young Jedi soothes, ignorant of the danger, "You're going to be fine, Obi-Wan."
When Sidious, Dark Lord of the Sith, raises a blaster between Anakin's broad shoulders and pulls the trigger, point-blank, the most venomous of smiles wide with victory upon his deformed face, all Obi-Wan can do is watch with abject terror.
Anakin's frame jerks, his arms spreading reflexively in pain. Those eyes – so expressively blue – lock with Obi-Wan's in a timeless second of brotherhood before the lids drop to conceal them.
The image of Anakin Skywalker falling, limp and so utterly lifeless next to the remnants of Vader's corpse will remain with Obi-Wan for the rest of his days.
He yearns to scream, to shed every ounce of his highbrow moralities and tear that mother-frackin' Sith apart, one muscle, bone and fingernail at a time until he's impossibly broken and most certainly dead, but Obi-Wan's decreasing faculties allow him none of those impulses.
All he can do is fall.
Finis. For now.
I hope all of Obi-Wan's fanfolks are done hyperventilating. If you count yourself as one, please kindly hand your brown paper bag to an Anakin fan, because I think the last few paragraphs did some of 'em in. Easy now, folks. The boys have been in hairy scrapes before. And it'll probably get worse before it gets better…
I meant to get to what happened to Ahsoka and crew, but I felt like this chapter was getting on the long side. They'll lead off Chapter 39, I promise.
Randomy: Your paragraph of alternate deaths for Sidious at Ahsoka's and Rex' hands was brilliant. Had me in stitches for a few minutes. Nicely said. All I can say of Ani's hesitance to kill Sidious is that his worst fear now is not that he won't succeed; it's that he will become Sidious, which, in his mind, will cost him everything he loves. Trust me, there won't be such reticence in future chapters.
SuperFanIol: Thank you. Feedback like yours is the reason I toil over these chapters for ridiculous amounts of time. I, too, would rather Anakin never turned, but this story spoke to me in a different way and I went with it. I'm glad you're enjoying my spin.
Mireilles3: Sorry about the cliffie. Well... not really. So not sorry that I ended with another!
QueenYoda: I aim to please. You asked for Vader's head, so people-pleaser that I am, I delivered it! And an alive Obi-Wan, to boot, even if he's seen better days. Now I've gone and put my Ani in danger, so your Obi-Wan really needs to come through. It'll help Obi-Wan's status on their little "who's saved who" scorecard, too. :)
Cypher11: By saying Obi-Wan defeated two Sith lords, I meant Maul and Grievous. I'm not sure who would get credit for Vader in my AU world, as the boys really did it together. Gives them something else to bicker about!