A Jedi's Pain

by abitweird

A series of standalone hurt/comfort stories focussing on Obi-Wan, using an A-Z list of prompts. Will mainly feature Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon &/or Anakin. A collection of some short & some long stories, but an absolute must for Obi-Wan whump fans. Rated for graphic descriptions of illness, injury & cursing. Update: M is for… Migraine

11. Kidnapped

Author's Note: I'm putting the notes first as I think you deserve some fair warnings on this fic:

1. This story contains extensive references to slavery and the harsh treatment of the enslaved, including references to torture, abuse and sexual mistreatment. I do not write smut, there is no actual sexual content, but it is referenced in passing. If any of this is triggering for you, I am sorry, I would skip this story if I were you.

2. If you have read the previous chapters, you will know by now that this series is all about whump and hurt/comfort - well, this story is going to be pretty intense, but please trust me - I don't like sad endings either!

3. I have once again demonstrated my complete inability to stick to a simple prompt for a one shot and ended up following this particular plot bunny on a fairly wild ride… so this chapter is long. VERY long. The longest one so far. For the love of all that is holy, get yourself a cup of tea (I'm looking at you, She-Elf23!) and make yourself comfortable first!

My thanks as always to my wonderful reviewers, whose kind encouragement keep me writing long after I should be in my bed. Two stories posted in one day? Just my way of saying thank you!

Kidnapped

"How bad is it?" Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn's voice was as soft and calm as ever, as if the ship they were currently flying in did not feel as if it was shaking it to pieces.

"Well…" Obi-Wan cast his eyes across the instrument panel before him, rapidly assessing every one of the alerts and warnings flashing at him from each of the transport shuttle's systems, as he tried to summarise their situation, "it… uh… it could be worse. The hyperdrive is offline, the sub-light engines are failing but we've still got manoeuvring thrusters. Life support is barely functional, long range communications are down and there are several rather large holes in the hull…"

"I do not think those pirates believed you when you told them we were carrying nothing of value."

"Yes, Master… that would explain why they opened fire on us."

They had been returning from mediating a trade negotiation when pirates had attacked their ship. Despite their repeated insistence they had nothing of value, the pirates had attempted to cripple and board their ship; however, Obi-Wan had broken them free of the docking arm latched onto them, destroying the pirate vessel as they made their escape. However, the resulting damage to their ship was extensive.

"Are there any habitable, civilised worlds within range where we might find assistance?"

"Habitable; yes. Civilised; no. Assistance; unlikely."

"While your brevity is commendable, Obi-Wan, I was hoping for a rather more… informative… response."

"My apologies, Master… I am rather preoccupied with trying to keep the ship on course, it is particularly difficult without the navigational computer and anything resembling functional engines."

"And what, exactly, is our current course?"

"There's a small planet less than a parsec from here… according to our astral charts, it's called Pradu, and it belongs to the Hutt family… we may be able to find spare parts, though I'm not sure how we will be able to obtain them…"

"The Force will guide us, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon replied, evenly, clasping his hands in his sleeves, exuding calm and tranquility from where he sat in one of the two passenger seats behind Obi-Wan's pilot's seat; "our priority should be to contact the Temple; they can send a rescue ship. Either we must repair our communications array or at least source someone with a long-range transmitter willing to let us use it."

"This far into the Outer Rim we are unlikely to find anyone of a charitable disposition," Obi-Wan said, grimly, keeping his focus on piloting their damaged craft, "and the Hutts especially do nothing for free. I was not lying when I told the pirates we were carrying nothing of value… how will we obtain the parts or services that we need?"

"Patience, my young Padawan," said Qui-Gon, with a slight smile, "focus on the moment, and allow the Force to guide you."

Obi-Wan released a slow breath, deliberately unclenching his tense jaw, rolling his shoulders, and allowing the Force to carry away his anxieties as he fought to keep the damaged craft on course. He diverted power away from every non-essential system, along with a few of the essential ones, just to keep funnelling energy towards the failing engines. He centred himself and focussed on holding the battered craft together, using the Force and his willpower to stop the craft from breaking up. He could feel his Master's presence as well, similarly focussed, lending him strength as he chose where to direct the energy that flowed through and around them. He closed his eyes, his hands resting lightly on the controls as he allowed the Force to guide his movements and course corrections, until he felt the drag of resistance; they had begun atmospheric entry.

He grimaced, a frown creasing his brow, as the damaged controls began to resist his attempts to pilot. He dropped some of his focus from holding the hull together as he fought to keep the craft under control; the view screen turned red then white hot, the screaming of tortured metal howled throughout the small craft, sections of the outer plating stripping away and blazing comet trails behind their plummeting ship. Through sheer willpower alone, he managed to force the controls into pulling the nose of the craft up; then, as they broke through the cloud layer, the planet's surface came into view, a dull, reddish-brown colour.

"We're coming in too fast!" he reported, making a concerted effort to keep his voice calm and level, "brace for impact!"

At the last moment, he released the controls, leaving the rest up to the Force. He crossed his arms over his chest, grabbing hold of the safety restraint straps that held him in his chair, tucking his chin into his chest. He closed his eyes, and felt the percussive bang that jolted through the ship as the undercarriage struck the rocky ground. He opened his eyes again, just in time to see a large piece of debris come flying straight at him from the control panel as it finally exploded in a shower of sparks; it struck his temple and he yelped, head slumping forward as the shuttle bounced into the air. It hit the ground again, sliding for several metres before coming to rest, tilted over onto one side, one wing shorn clean off, the other gouged deep into the ground, holding the ship up at an awkward angle. The ship finally came to a halt; the only sounds were the hissing of escaping gasses and the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal.

---

"Obi-Wan? Padawan, can you hear me?"

Obi-Wan raised his head, cautiously, blinking to clear his vision and staring in surprise at the cracked view port in front of him.

"We survived?"

"Thanks to you, Padawan," there was a warm hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to find Qui-Gon sparing him a small smile, "no, do not try to get up yet, Obi- Wan. You have been unconscious for several minutes."

Obi-Wan let out a soft groan, cradling his forehead with one hand; "Master… are you hurt?"

"Nothing but a few minor bruises; I am already healing myself perfectly well. I am more concerned about you, Padawan. You have a rather nasty head injury there…"

Obi-Wan hissed in pain as his fingers brushed across the bandage Qui-Gon must have wrapped around his head while he was unconscious, grimacing as he recalled the piece of debris flying from the control panel and striking him. He could feel a hot, swollen lump just above his right eye, his head throbbing in time with his still-too-fast heartbeat. He unfastened his safety restraints, groaning aloud as he saw the ruins of the control panel, scorched and blackened.

"The ship?" he asked, thickly, head still reeling as his vision blurred and shifted.

"We are unlikely to be able to salvage very much," Qui-Gon admitted, "however, my scanner indicates that there is a settlement, a large town, not too far from here. I will go and see if I can find assistance."

"I should come with you," Obi-Wan tried to push himself to his feet, but his vision tilted alarmingly as his legs refused to support him, and he found himself all but face-planting into Qui-Gon's chest as the taller man caught him, wrapping both arms around him supportively.

"You are going nowhere with that concussion, Obi-Wan," the Master huffed a humourless laugh, "you need to rest. Come, the passenger lounge is still fairly intact. A healing trance for a few hours will restore your health and senses, and hopefully by then I will have secured us some means of escaping this place."

"Hmm," Obi-Wan murmured, vaguely, only semi-aware of Qui-Gon drawing one of the Padawan's arms over his broad shoulders, half-carrying his apprentice through to the passenger bay, "Master… please be careful out there. I have a bad feeling about this place."

"You and your bad feelings, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon sighed, affectionately, "I will be fine, Padawan mine. Here, lie down…"

Qui-Gon gently eased Obi-Wan down onto one of the bunk beds recessed into the wall; with his right hand he carefully lowered the younger Jedi's head onto the waiting pillow, his left hand easily scooping up his legs and laying him down on the mattress. Qui-Gon tugged the blanket out and wrapped it around his apprentice, who was still gazing at him with some confusion with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

"A healing trance, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon reminded him, "come now, Padawan, focus…"

The Master moved his right hand, allowing his fingers to brush Obi-Wan's temple, concentrating on their training bond as he guided his Padawan into a deep healing trance. With a soft sigh, Obi-Wan submitted, and slipped into a peaceful slumber. Satisfied the head wound would be resolved within a few hours without the need for further attention, Qui-Gon straightened up. Drawing the hood of his cloak up to cover his face, Qui-Gon cast one last, fond look at his unconscious apprentice, and then turned away, focussing on his mission.

The ramp extended but did not quite meet the terrain, thanks to the awkward angle of their landing. Qui-Gon easily leapt to the ground, and remotely retracted the ramp, the hatch closing. He eyed the holes in the ship's hull and released his dismay into the Force; it was clear the ship would not fly again without substantial repairs. Still, Qui-Gon was a student of the Unifying Force, and he trusted always that the Force would lead him to where he needed to be. He drew his cloak around himself and began to walk, allowing the Force to lead his footsteps, long, steady, measured strides carrying him over the rocky, red terrain, until he found himself upon what appeared to be a well-travelled road. As he walked, several speeders flew past him, paying him no heed; a couple of wheeled vehicles drove by, and a handful of sentients went by, riding an assortment of domesticated steed animals. None gave him any attention or attempted to speak to him, and he allowed them all to pass quietly, concentrating only on the Force.

The town was fairly typical of Hutt-owned territories in the Outer Rim; Qui-Gon had experienced enough dealings with the Hutts and their associates to know what to expect and what to look for. Square, squat buildings were built apparently randomly; there were no discernible roads, and here and there were market stalls selling food stuffs, clothes, machinery, droids, parts, live animals – one man even had three Twi'leks with slave collars around their necks, their eyes glazed and faces slack with the trauma of their conditioning.

Qui-Gon turned away, following his invisible path, until he found what he was looking for. A cantina. He pushed the door open, his eyes immediately adjusting to the hazy gloom. A three-piece band was playing soft music from a small stage in one corner as the other patrons steadfastly ignored the entertainment, huddled around tables or in booths, discussing their business. A few Bounty Hunters lounged around, eyeing the newcomer with feigned disinterest, but then ignoring him as their not-so-subtle scans returned a negative result, and they released he was not worth their while.

The tall Jedi crossed to the bar, gesturing to the female Besalisk bartender. She bared her pointed teeth in a wide grin and sashayed over, her primary arms leaning on the counter top as her secondary arms reached for a glass and a cloth, wiping the tankard quickly.

"What can I get you, honey?" she purred at him.

"The house ale will suffice," Qui- Gon replied, "and perhaps some information."

"Ahh… around here, information costs more than the beer," she grinned, rubbing two fingers together, "what you got to offer me in return, hmm?"

"I have Republic credits."

"No good around here, sugar, what else ya got?"

Qui-Gon met her gaze evenly, and waved his hand slightly.

"Republic credits will be fine," he murmured, firmly.

"Republic credits will be fine," she repeated, a little vacantly, "what do you wanna know, darlin'?"

"My ship was damaged by pirates," he explained, as she filled the tankard with a light, frothy ale, "I need access to a long range hyperspace communications array so that I can contact my allies to send a ship to pick me up."

"Sorry, lover, nothin' like that around here," she shook her head, setting the beer down in front of him, "Pradu's the arse end of nowhere and nobody ever needs to contact anywhere else, too busy trying to survive or get off this rock. I can point you to a couple of junk dealers who might have the parts you need to fix your ship."

"I doubt that will even be possible," Qui-Gon shook his head, frowning in thought, "someone around here must have access to some sort of long range communications array…"

"Hah," the huge Besalisk began wiping down the grimy countertop, smirking in amusement, "the only place you'll find anything of the like is in the palace."

"Palace?" Qui-Gon repeated, curiously.

"Yeah… Kuva the Hutt's floating pleasure palace. Bet she's got something fancy and long range for keeping in touch with the family, if you know what I mean?"

"Where can I find this floating palace?"

"The clue's in the name, honey," the bartender growled a laugh, "it floats. Never stays in one place for long. But I might know where she'll be tonight, if you'll make it worth my while…"

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh, waving his hand again, "You want to tell me where to find Kuva the Hutt."

"Yeah… yeah, I wanna tell you," the woman nodded, dazedly, "Kuva never misses a fight, you see? Main form of entertainment around here is the slave pits, and there's a big fight tonight. Kuva has the palace land outside the arena just before sunset and she has a private box to watch the fights. She owns the whole thing, makes a killing off the percentage of the bets, loves to gamble on her own slaves, too. Half the planet's population will be there, you don't want to miss it, sugar. My sister's an independent champion in the line up and she always wins. I'm too old to fight anymore."

"Thank you," Qui-Gon dropped a few credits into her outstretched hand, enough to pay for the beer three times over on Coruscant and utterly useless on this backwater planet, "You've been most helpful."

"Any time, handsome…"

Qui-Gon took his beer and retreated to a quiet corner. He checked his chronometer; there were still a few hours until sunset, by his calculations. He hid himself from prying eyes with the Force, and settled down to wait.

---

The wrecked shuttle gleamed in the late afternoon sun, as a speeder drew up a safe distance away, hovering above the rocky ground, engines whirring in the arid heat.

"See?" the driver, a Zygerrian by the name of M'Dell growled, flicking his long ears back, "told ya – offworlders. Crash landed, obviously."

"What makes ya think anyone survived that?" the passenger, a female Devaronian called Utella, frowned at her furry companion.

"Tracks," the canine slaver replied, climbing out of the speeder, as Utella followed suit, "someone headed off into town, maybe they left something valuable behind… let's take a look. It's been lousy pickings this week and I lost too much money on the fights last week…"

"Wasn't my fault, we both thought the Zabrak was a sure fire bet," Utella sniffed, drawing her blaster as they approached the downed craft, "that Twi'lek bastard must have cheated."

M'Dell growled wordlessly in response as he gave a powerful leap, landing on the wing of the ruined shuttle, angled up towards the sky. He overrode the security hatch and pulled the door open, not bothering to deploy the ramp as he clambered inside, Utella following behind him with somewhat less grace. He paused, sniffing the air, and gestured for her to follow him.

They began a methodical search, turning up nothing in the cargo bay, to their bitter disappointment. Cursing and snarling, the two of them entered the passenger bay, and stopped in their tracks.

"Well, well, well," Utella smirked, in delight, "what have we got here?"

On one of the bunks there was a figure, clearly unconscious, a bandage wrapped around his head. They nonetheless approached warily, until they were both satisfied the bunks' occupant was dead to the world.

"He's young," M'Dell observed, "looks pretty strong, for a human. Good stock, I reckon."

Utella yanked back the blanket and let out a low whistle; "Not just any human. See this?"

She reached out and unclipped something from the human's belt. M'Dell growled and grinned, baring his fangs.

"A lightsabre! We've got us a Jedi!" he crowed, "Excellent…"

He took the lightsabre and pulled a slave collar from his belt, snapping it around the unconscious boy's neck without hesitation.

"He fights tonight," the Zygerrian announced, "he's going to make us rich, this boy."

"I dunno, M'Dell," Utella ran a hand over one of her horns, uncertainly, "he's obviously hurt, he might not be up to it. And these Jedi, they're pacifists, he might refuse to fight. We lose any more money to Kuva and we'll be in the ring ourselves next week."

"Nah, he'll be fine," M'Dell poked the prone form with one claw, eliciting no response, "I've heard about this. Healing sleep. The Jedi can fix their own wounds by doing this. Keep him unconscious for now, we'll use the collar to wake him if we have to. He fights tonight, or he dies, either in the ring or by the collar, his choice."

"If you say so," Utella shrugged, finally holstering her blaster, "easiest kidnapping ever, I'd say. Well, you're the muscle – take him back to the speeder. I'll see if there's anything else useful to be found around here…"

It did not take long to carry the unconscious Jedi back to their waiting speeder, where his hands were bound in metal cuffs. Utella stripped the small shuttle of anything useful; ration packs, medical kits, tools, anything that could be bartered or traded for a few wupiupi at the local market, before they loaded their ill-gotten gains into their vehicle, and sped off towards the horizon.

---

The return to consciousness was not like waking from any previous healing trance Obi-Wan had ever experienced. Pain, white-hot and electric, convulsed through his body, limbs seizing as his back arched in agony in response. He could not help the cry of pain that was torn from his throat as awareness crashed over him unceremoniously. The shock lasted only a few moments more, though it felt like an eternity until it fell away, leaving him slumped on a hard stone floor, panting and shivering.

"Oh, good, you're finally awake."

Obi-Wan managed to draw in a ragged breath, gritting his teeth as he forced his eyes open, blinking in confusion. He immediately rolled over and pulled himself up into a kneeling position; his hands were cuffed in front of him with thick metal cuffs, and there was something around his neck, a collar of some kind. He was trapped in a small cell; red stone walls and floor, with bars at the front and no other notable features. He got the immediate feeling that he was underground, and he could sense other sentients around him. The air was thick with the smells of death and decay, and the Force reverberated with feelings of pain, fear, hopelessness and despair. He steeled himself against it, and met the gaze of his captors evenly.

The Zygerrian male and the Devaronian female both stared back at him, coldly. The Zygerrian was holding some kind of remote control. Obi-Wan glanced down at the cuffs on his wrists, and, with a little concentration and some application of the Force, he snapped them clean off. As soon as he did so, he barely heard the metal clattering to the floor as pain ripped through him again and he choked, crying out in agony, and his hands automatically flew to the source of his torment. The collar at his neck; electrical currents tore through him, leaving him writhing and convulsing on the floor once more. As soon as it shut off, he lay there, gasping, shuddering with the aftershocks, before he managed to gather himself enough to force himself back onto his knees, unable to summon the strength to stand.

"I hope you learn quickly," the Zygerrian growled, holding up the remote, "you belong to us now. Disobedience will result in punishment. Any attempt to harm us or escape will result in death. Try to remove the collar and it will kill you. Do you understand?"

Obi-Wan squared his jaw defiantly and did not answer. The resulting shock lasted for over a minute and had him curled up on the floor, gasping and whimpering as it faded away.

"Do you understand?"

"…Y…Yes."

He cried out in pain as another shock coursed through his body, leaving his muscles twitching and quivering, spasming uncontrollably.

"Yes, Master," the Zygerrian snarled.

You are not my Master, you do not deserve that honorific, I don't want to call you that, I don't want to…

Obi-Wan screamed again as agony shot through his already tortured body, and he tried to release the pain into the Force but it only seemed to amplify in the close confines of his cell, leaving him breathless and broken on the hard stone floor.

"Say it!"

"…Yes… Master…"

"Good," a cruel smile split the Zygerrian's jaws, teeth glinting in the dim light outside the cell, "now, Jedi, listen to me. Tonight, you will enter the slave pits. You will fight. You will win. If you do not fight, you die. If you do not win, you die. Do you understand?"

"I would rather die than kill another for your barbaric sport."

The shock was not unexpected, but no less agonising even when he knew it was coming. Black sparkles crowded the edges of his vision as he finally drew in a ragged breath, feeling his heart skittering in his chest, the multiple shocks taking a heavy toll.

"M'Dell," the woman finally spoke up, "wait. These Jedi… they're the self-sacrificing kind, ain't they? I believe him. He'll let you kill him before he fights, and we can't afford to lose this round. How many slaves have we got in stock right now?"

"Seven, if you include him," the Zygerrian snapped, "you know this, Utella."

"Aye, but he didn't, until now," the Devaronian gave him a cold smile, "and I'm willing to bet our young Jedi is the best fighter of the bunch…" she crouched down, tilting her head, leaning down to smirk at Obi-Wan, "listen to me, Jedi… we've got six other slaves. They're reasonable stock but utterly useless compared to you. I will execute them all, one by one, and their deaths will be on your hands… unless… you… fight."

"You wouldn't…"

"I would. I've got too much to lose. The other slaves will be taken from me anyway if you don't fight, so I'd rather kill them. You will fight three rounds and you will defeat three opponents. You don't even have to kill them if you don't want to, but they're certainly going to try to kill you. All you have to do is cripple them, or at least render them unconscious to win. If you don't fight, six other slaves will die before we execute you as well. If you lose, well, then you're the only one that's dead. I think that sounds fair, don't you?"

"You're monsters."

The electric shock took him completely by surprise this time, jerking his limbs uncontrollably as he shook and convulsed helplessly on the stone floor, tasting blood in his mouth as he bit through his own lip, tears leaking from his eyes as he writhed in agony. By the time the shock faded away, his captors had gone, leaving him alone in his featureless cell. He whimpered in pain, cradling his head in his hands, as he tried to reach out for the Force, but he was too exhausted, too weakened, and it slipped through his grasp like smoke, lingering but just out of reach, and he retreated into his mind, wondering what he was going to do.

---

That evening, just before the sun began to set, Qui-Gon made his way to the centre of town, where, sure enough, a large colosseum rose above the smaller buildings, dwarfing them. Around the arena, there were a selection of space craft, speeders, cruisers and even steed animals tethered. The largest, of course, was the floating palace; an ugly, garish sky cruiser. A few mind tricks and Force suggestions were more than enough to get Qui-Gon into the colosseum, and he was soon escorted to Kuva the Hutt's private box overlooking the fighting arena. He was shown in by a Togruta slave girl who bowed and ushered him in.

"Mistress Kuva," she said, bowing respectfully, "I present Master Qui-Gon Jinn, your honoured personal guest."

Kuva lay sprawling on a raised dais, being fanned slowly by another slave holding a large array of plumes on a gilded pole. Kuva was one of the largest Hutts Qui-Gon had ever seen, her bloated, slug-like body a deep purple colour, decorated with whorling black and gold tattoos. She eyed him warily, her wide, lipless mouth quivering and slavering. A purple-plated protocol stood to one side; it was missing an eye, and covered in dents and scratches, no doubt a testament to its mistress's foul temper.

"Do u tinka mee don know choy u are?" rumbled the Hutt, her tail twitching as she spoke, her deep voice reverberating around the box, her other guests eyeing him with amusement, "Choy do u naga, Jedai?"

"The, uh, the great and powerful Mistress Kuva wishes you to know that she knows what you are," stammered the protocol droid, its vocal processor hissing and fizzing with damage, but still sounding distinctly feminine, "her most esteemed and beauteous majesty wants to know what you want, Jedi?"

"I have come to request access to your long range hyperspace communications system," Qui-Gon replied, "I find myself in need of assistance and I am unable to contact the Jedi order."

"Why mee hopa u? Choy sa noleeya it che me?"

"Why should Mistress Kuva help you? What's it it for her most benevolent majesty?" the droid translated, dutifully.

"I have little to offer at this time other than my most grateful thanks and those of the Jedi order," Qui-Gon admitted, "but if you will allow my use of your communications array, I will arrange to have any reward or bounty you deem fit delivered when my assistance arrives."

Kuva let out a deep chortling laugh; "Funi lil nek! Can doe Jedai choba doe wonky Kuva?"

"Funny little man," sneered the droid, mimicking her Mistress's derisive tone, "What can the Jedi offer the mighty Kuva?"

"What does the mighty Kuva ask for?"

"Slaves," growled the huge Hutt, licking her maw, chortling deeply, "Jedai slaves."

"Impossible," Qui-Gon shook his head, "the Jedi do not trade in slaves. We can offer currency, ships, spice, jewels… but not slaves, or weapons."

"We talk after fights," leered Kuva, waving her hand and summoning the Jedi forward, as her dais rotated, pushed by several straining slaves, turning her to face the arena.

Qui-Gon kept his hands inside his sleeves as he stepped forward toward the balcony, staring down at the circular arena. Four tunnels with barred gates led onto the red stone fighting pit, the ground stained with old, dried blood from a multitude of species. The stands were filled with a wide variety of sentients, all baying and clamouring; opposite to Kuva's box was the commentator's balcony, where a large Gran held a microphone to his lips, and, at Kuva's wave of permission, he nodded, and turned on the speakers.

"Assembled beings!" he announced, his voice amplified throughout the floodlit colosseum, "welcome to the pits! Our generous host is the magnificent Kuva the Hutt, whose benevolence is matched only by her beauty! All bets are run through the house with a twenty percent cut, so keep your tabs open, you've got to be in it to win it, the grand prize this evening is well over a thousand wupiupi to the Master or Mistress whose fighter triumphs in the pits tonight so you can expect some real bloodshed tonight my friends, it's going to be a spectacular show. First up, Hugro the Lesser enters a young male Wookie against an independent champion, a female Besalisk, what an opener for tonight's show, place your bets, gentle beings!"

There was nothing gentle about the baying of the crowd or the snarling, roaring combatants as they tore into each other. There were no weapons, it was raw, bloody combat, foot, fist, teeth and claw renting opponent's flesh, until the Wookie's bloodied body was hauled away, the Besalisk holding her primary arms aloft in victory. Qui-Gon did not flinch from the violence, releasing his disgust to the Force, keeping his face fixed in an impassive mask. Kuva made a noise of approval and gestured to one of her slaves; a tray of drinks was brought up and served to her guests, Qui-Gon chose one at random, subtly scanning it, deeming it safe to drink.

The next few bouts passed in a blur of baying and bloodshed, the Besalisk triumphing in two rounds, before retiring, to the cheers of the crowd. Two more contestants entered the ring; a muscular Keshiri male, who, after succeeding in two rounds, fell to a female Iktochi, who was heavily battle scarred and moved with a pronounced limp. However, she fell in her next round to a reptilian Trandoshan, who then went on to win two more rounds before retiring. From what Qui-Gon could glean, each fighter had to face and defeat three opponents to go through to the next round. He was just beginning to think he was immune to the violence being played out before him, when the commentator let out a deep, whooping noise.

"Well, wasn't that just spectacular?" he howled, as a clearly deceased Twi'lek was hauled out of the arena, leaving a large Bothan panting and snarling, pacing restlessly as he awaited his next opponent, "now then, ladies, gentlemen, gender neutrals and other alignments, we have got something special for you this evening, courtesy of the stocks of Master M'Dell, now there's a Zygerrian who knows how to pick a slave, we have something never before seen in this arena!"

There were 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from the enthusiastic crowd and Qui-Gon felt suddenly cold, as the Force whispered a warning in his mind.

"Pradu Battle Arena is proud to present a galactic first," the Gran was whipping the crowd into a frenzy, even as Qui-Gon's alarm mounted, "Master M'Dell proudly presents our very first… Jedi!"

The spotlights whipped to the arena as a familiar figure was shoved out through one of the four tunnels, the barred gates slamming shut, and Qui-Gon felt his heart stop in his chest.

"Obi-Wan!" he exclaimed, "Mistress Kuva, I object! This boy is no slave! He is my Padawan, he must be returned to me, immediately!"

The Hutt laughed, cruelly, snarling something at the droid.

"Mighty Mistress Kuva says that if the boy is in the arena, he must fight," the droid explained, patiently, "he has been claimed by Master M'Dell and legitimately entered into the arena. Mistress Kuva was forewarned by Master M'Dell that if the boy does not fight, he and six other slaves will be executed instead."

"He has been kidnapped from my ship," Qui-Gon replied, fighting to keep his voice level, "this is illegal, he is no slave!"

"Your laws mean nothing here, Jedai," sneered Kuva, imperiously, mixing broken basic with Huttese; "but mee am merciful. If doe nyee win, u may use myo comm… if doe nyee lose, u both nee choo che myo amuse…"

"Mistress Kuva is most generous and merciful," the droid chimed in, "if the boy wins, you may use Mistress Kuva's hyperspace communicator. If he loses, you will both die for Mistress Kuva's amusement."

Qui-Gon moved to object, but then found several blasters being levelled at his throat from Kuva's personal guards. He closed his eyes, calming himself, and turned his focus back to the arena, to find Obi-Wan staring straight up at him. The bandage was gone from his head, the wound almost healed, but he had also been stripped of his belt, his lightsabre and his travel cloak, leaving him in just his white tunic, trousers, and brown leather boots. Through their bond, Qui-Gon could feel the younger Jedi's pain, fear and confusion.

Obi-Wan, he projected calm and strength towards his apprentice, be mindful, my apprentice, you are in grave danger.

Master! They have told me that if I do not fight, they will kill six other slaves…this collar…

It is a slave shock collar, Qui-Gon replied, grimly, I have seen them before. I am so sorry, Obi-Wan, I should never have left you behind on your own…

It is not your fault, Master… I will do what I must, I do not have to kill my opponents, only render them unconscious.

They will not show you the same mercy, my young Padawan. Please be careful. I can do little to help you…

Any further attempts at communication were cut off as the starting gong chimed, and the Bothan launched towards Obi-Wan, snarling with vicious fury, sharp-toothed jaws snapping and snarling. Obi-Wan Force-leapt over his opponent, evading the attack, as the crowd cheered and booed, the bets rolling in as money quickly exchanged hands, and Qui-Gon was helpless to do anything but watch. The Bothan's attacks were wild and frenzied, but Obi-Wan skilfully evaded each one, and the crowd began to jeer, becoming bored at the lack of bloodshed. Kuva snapped something at an attendant, and a few minutes later, a tall Zygerrian appeared in the box, bowing low. Qui-Gon noted the presence of Obi-Wan's lightsabre on the slave master's belt, and could not suppress a slight curl of his lip in disgust.

"You sent for me, Mistress Kuva?"

"Master M'Dell… Mistress Kuva demands that your slave be made to fight properly or be immediately executed," the protocol droid said, primly, "failure to comply will result in the forfeiture of all of your entrants and the loss of your deposit, along with any profits you have made from bets this evening."

M'Dell snarled, wordlessly, and crossed to the balcony, picking up a microphone from the stand in front of Kuva.

"Fight, Jedi, or feel my wrath!"

Obi-Wan either did not hear or paid no heed as he dodged two more wild attacks and leapt again over his tiring opponent. M'Dell growled a curse, pulled a remote from his belt, and hit the button. Obi-Wan cried out in wordless agony as the collar activated, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his body. The Bothan took full advantage and swung a hairy, clawed hand, landing a hefty blow across Obi-Wan's jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt, to the delighted cheers of the crowd, and Qui-Gon felt himself grow colder again despite the arid climate. There was nothing he could do other than watch his young Padawan being forced to fight for little more than cruel sport.

---

Obi-Wan rolled with the blow as the shocks faded away, stumbling back to his feet and evading another swing. Another shock like that, and his opponent could easily kill him in his vulnerability. He gritted his teeth.

"I don't want to hurt you!" he gasped out, blocking a punch and then using the momentum to turn and flip his opponent onto his back, "please - don't make me do this!"

"Fight, Jedi!" The Bothan snarled back, desperately, "fight, or we both die!"

The hirsute alien launched another attack and Obi-Wan quickly cleared his mind, let go of his torrent of emotions, and found calm in the Force. He twisted, evading the wild swipe of the Bothan's claws, before leaping high into the air, curling his fist, and putting all of his strength into a single punch that connected with the Bothan's jaw. The canine let out a pained yelp, and went crashing down to the ground, twitching slightly, but showing no signs of rousing. The gong rang and crowd roared in approval as the Bothan was dragged away by the guards.

A female Togruta was next in the arena, and Obi-Wan turned to face her, his eyes wide with dismay.

"Please," he repeated his earlier plea, "I don't want to fight you. I really don't want to hurt you. Please don't make me."

"We fight or we die," the Togruta replied, her own voice sharp with fear, "if I don't fight, my children will be flogged in front of me. I must fight for them… my Mistress demands it."

The woman drew a knife from her sleeve, and the crowd howled in approval.

"Oh, this is going to be good," crowed the Gran commentator, "Mistress Dresayer's Togruta slave has managed to sneak a weapon into the arena! That's against the rules, but… who cares? Kill the Jedi!"

"Kill the Jedi! Kill the Jedi!" the crowd took up the chant with gusto, making Obi-Wan feel sick to his stomach.

The Togruta shook her head, assuming an attack stance.

"I'm sorry, kid," she said, through gritted teeth, "this is for my daughters."

"I understand," Obi-Wan nodded, "I forgive you… I hope you will forgive me, too…"

With a scream, the woman launched at him, knife aiming for his throat. He blocked with his left arm, pushing her wrist up, as his right hand curled into a fist and aimed a punch at her face. She twisted away from him, a foot lashing out, catching him in the knee. He staggered and ducked under another swipe of the knife, as he launched himself into a backflip, putting a little distance between the two of them as he regained his footing. She was upon him again in an instant, and he barely had time to snap his arm up and block the knife again as she pounced upon him. He fell backwards, landing flat on his back as she straddled him, pinning him to the floor with her knees either side of his waist, and she raised the knife with both hands, about to plunge it directly into his chest.

Obi-Wan focussed and with a shove from the Force, he sent her flying backwards, crashing to the floor, the knife skittering across the floor. He leapt to his feet, held out his hand and called it to him, but as he did so, the collar activated, and he cried out, pitching to his knees, clutching his throat as the woman hastily scrambled and grabbed the knife.

"No weapons for you, Jedi!" jeered the commentator, over the baying crowd.

The collar cut off in barely enough time for Obi-Wan to awkwardly throw himself to one side; she anticipated his move, twisting and slashing with the knife and he yelled out in pain as the blade bit into his back, leaving a deep slash across his shoulders.

"Ooh, that's gotta hurt!"

Spinning around, Obi-Wan gritted his teeth as he felt the burning laceration across his back, rolling his shoulders carefully. The Togruta spun again, light on her feet and lightening quick, but Obi-Wan was faster. His hand snapped up, grabbing her wrist, and her eyes widened as he tightened his grip, forcing her to drop the knife. It clattered to the dirt at their feet, as their eyes met.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, "I'm not going to hurt you. Go to sleep."

He pushed the strong Force suggestion into her mind, and mimed a punch, dropping her to the floor as her eyes slid shut. He stepped back, one hand unconsciously going to the collar around his throat as he felt his tunic sticking to his back, soaking up the blood from the laceration across his shoulders. He tried to draw healing energy towards stemming the flow, attempting to clot the wound even if he lacked the time to properly heal it, as the woman was dragged away.

"One more opponent! If the Jedi wins this match, we will have our three challengers for the final round! And our next competitor is one of our independent champions… you've all seen this guy in action before, he's a real crowd pleaser and a regular winner, let's hear it for our one and only Anzati!"

An Anzati? Oh no…

Focus, Obi-Wan… his Master's voice was calm and soothing in his mind as Obi-Wan turned to face the slowly opening gate, use the Force, concentrate, and avoid his proboscises attacks at all costs.

The crowd roared and whooped in approval as the tall, humanoid male entered the arena, his skin almost grey in the floodlights as he sneered down at Obi-Wan. The Jedi could sense the malevolence from the towering alien, but he knew he had to try.

"Please don't do this," he held up his hand and shook his head, "I don't want to fight, I don't want to hurt anyone… whatever your Master might do, I can help you…"

"Master?" the man purred, "you think I'm a slave, boy? I do this for fun. For the sheer pleasure of killing… and for food… and for the prize money. Now, look into my eyes, and hold still…"

Obi-Wan shook his head, backing away; he knew Anzati were capable of mild telepathic control to paralyse their victim, using proboscis hidden in their cheek pouches to pierce their victim's brains via the nasal cavity, in order to feed upon them. He shuddered, feeling the telepathic attempts to influence him, shaking them off with the aid of the Force and his own mental discipline born of years of training.

"That won't work on me," he warned the creature before him, "you don't want to fight me… you don't want to fight…"

"Your little Jedi mind tricks won't work on me, either," the Anzati hissed, "very well… we will do this the hard way, then!"

He moved with the speed and grace of a deadly, practiced predator, his fingers tipped with metal claws, his long white hair billowing around his face as he launched at the Jedi. Obi-Wan leapt out of the way, turning and swinging a kick at his face as the Anzati spun and ducked, dodging his blow. The predatory alien lashed out with his left hand and Obi-Wan tasted blood as the back-handed blow caught him across the jaw, sending him sprawling.

The Anzati was upon him in an instant, but he gathered his strength and planted both feet into the alien's chest, shoving him backwards as Obi-Wan carried through his momentum, vaulting to his feet. They traded a rapid succession of blows, and even the cheering of the crowd faded away as Obi-Wan focussed on the Force and his movements, the two of them evenly matched as the Anzati snarled and swiped and kicked and lashed out, forcing him to block and counter attack in rapid succession.

Bruised, bleeding and winded, Obi-Wan shoved him back again with the Force, feeling his energy reserves depleting rapidly; the Anzati recovered faster than he had expected, and a fist connected with his temple; his vision exploded into stars as he was thrown hard into the ground, and the Anzati was upon him in an instant, dragging him onto his back. Distantly, he could hear the crowd take up their chanting again.

"Kill the Jedi! Kill the Jedi! Kill the Jedi!"

Obi-Wan! Look out!

His hands snapped up of their own accord in response to him Master's warning, and the Anzati let out a yelp of pained shock as he grabbed both of the proboscis that were snaking out of the alien's cheeks towards him. He yanked, hard, in opposite directions, and the Anzati howled in pain, clawed hand slashing painfully into his chest, laying open four deep wounds. Obi-Wan gritted his teeth, getting one foot into the alien's stomach, kicking him off as the Jedi rolled to one side, flipping to his feet. A powerful Force-push sent the Anzati flying backwards into the arena wall, giving Obi-Wan barely a moment's breathing space, even as the alien dropped into a crouch, his head snapping up, black eyes focussing on him in cold rage.

"I'll kill you, you Jedi whelp," he snarled.

The Anzati launched at him, and Obi-Wan braced. At the last moment, he ducked, twisted, and used the alien's own momentum to throw the powerful alien over; adding extra strength from the Force, he felt the snap as the Anzati's arm broke and he screamed in pain. However, the other arm jabbed back, the elbow catching Obi-Wan full in the face, and he stumbled backwards. The Anzati was upon him again, hands at his throat, choking him. Obi-Wan got his hands around the man's wrists and, with all of his Force strength, managed to break his grip. He gave the alien a grim smile, before he jerked up, slamming his forehead into the Anzati's large, hooked nose, feeling it break under the impact. He howled, falling to one side, and Obi-Wan pushed the advantage, slamming his fists once, twice, three times across the alien's bony jaw, feeling his knuckles splitting with the impact, but it had the desired effect. The Anzati's eyes rolled up, and he collapsed to the ground, to the howls and jeers of dismay from the crowd.

Panting from exertion and aching all over, his various injuries suddenly making themselves known, Obi-Wan pitched to his knees, his face falling into his hands, deliberately keeping his back to his Master, not wanting to reveal the extent of his pain at what he was being forced to endure… though he was well aware that his mental shields were starting to fail, and he could bet Qui-Gon was more than able to sense his agony and exhaustion. The Anzati was unceremoniously dragged out of the arena, and Obi-Wan was given a moment of breathing room as he forced himself to his feet, drawing on his waning Force reserves to strengthen himself, releasing his pain and trying to focus.

"Well, this is going to make things interesting," the Gran announced, high above him, "the Jedi has survived three bouts! Being the third contender to do so, we can move straight to the final round; a three-way battle for the final prize! A thousand wupiupi to the winning Master or champion! We have a female Besalisk, an independent champion and three time winner, a good safe bet that one, but remember; low risk means low reward! Then we have a male Trandoshan, good slave stock and one previous win last season. Finally, our male Human Jedi, he's survived this far but can he make it out of the final round? Place your bets now, gentle beings, as we welcome our final contenders into the arena!"

Two of the gates opened as the Besalisk approached from one side, waving to the crowd and gesturing encouragement as cheers and whoops echoed around the arena. The Trandoshan came from the other side, hissing and spitting.

"You're gonna die, Jedi slime," the Besalisk grinned at him, "we're both gonna tear you apart first, and then I'm gonna kill the lizard and win me that money."

"I really don't want to hurt anyone…" Obi-Wan whispered, well aware that he sounded pitiful and not really caring, "this is barbaric…"

"Welcome to the Outer Rim, kid," smirked the woman, spreading all four of her muscular arms in an attack stance.

"She's going to kill you as soon as you're done with me," Obi-Wan turned slightly so he could see the approaching Trandoshan as well, "she'll betray you."

"Yes," hissed the reptilian, "that's the whole point. There can only be one winner… and it's gonna be me. With that money, my Mistress will be rich and she'll reward me well. We're just gonna kill you first, Jedi, cause it'll be more fun that way."

"Oh, dear…" Obi-Wan sighed, "well… I tried."

The gong sounded, the crowd roared in excitement, and the fight was on.

---

Both the Besalisk and the Trandoshan charged at him from opposite angles, roaring their aggression to the cacophonous approval of the baying crowd. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and Force-leapt straight up at the last moment, back-flipping and landing in the middle of the arena, causing his two opponents to crash into each other, tumbling together in a tangle of limbs to the laughter of the audience.

The Besalisk snarled and flung the Trandoshan aside, using all four of her arms to launch back to her feet, charging at him again. Another leap put him behind her as she skidded to a halt, turning and spitting a vile curse at him.

"Fight, coward!"

"You don't want to fight me!" Obi-Wan flung his arms forward, putting as much Force into his words as he could, "you don't want to fight me, you want to surrender!"

"That won't work on me, Jedi! I really do want to fight you – I want to tear you limb from limb and grind you into dust!"

"But… why?"

"Because it's fun, and it'll make me rich! Enough talk – fight!"

Obi-Wan leapt again to avoid a hefty swing from one of her primary arms, only to find himself stumbling into the waiting grasp of the Trandoshan. The huge reptilian hissed and wrapped both arms around Obi-Wan's torso, pinning his elbows to his sides. The young Jedi fought and struggled but could not break free. The grip was crushing, forcing the air from his lungs as his head reeled.

"You… you don't want to fight me," he panted, quickly, "you don't want to fight me…"

"I…I don't want to fight you…"

"Weak minded lizard!" roared the Besalisk.

She swept forward, and, with Obi-Wan still trapped in the Trandoshan's grip, she seized the pair of them, lifting them both high into the air above her head, the crowd screaming in delight as she heaved and threw both of them to the ground. Jarred out of the Trandoshan's death grip by the impact, Obi- Wan rolled, bruised and winded, scrambling away from the reptilian, catching his breath. The Trandoshan shook off the impact, leaping to his feet, tail lashing furiously. Obi-Wan met his yellow-eyed gaze, and held up his right hand.

"You don't want to fight me," he said, firmly, his other hand clutching his battered chest, "you want to fight her."

With an enraged hiss, the Trandoshan whipped around and met the Besalisk's charge head on. The crowd howled as the two huge aliens pummelled each other with fists, claws and tail, snapping and snarling, wrestling together, trading kicks, bites and punches, until the Besalisk finally seized the Trandoshan's throat, lifted him clean off his feet, and, with the strength of all four arms, she twisted and snapped his neck with a sickening crack. The reptilian's body hit the dirt with a dull thud as she tossed him to one side, as carelessly as a piece of litter. Obi-Wan swallowed, hard, releasing his fears to the Force as the huge Besalisk, bruised and bloodied and grinning in feral delight, paced slowly towards him, pointing at him.

"Your turn, Jedi," she spat, flexing each of her arms.

"Is it too late to negotiate?" Obi-Wan quipped, holding up his hands defensively as he backed away slowly.

The woman gave a wordless snarl in response, raising her primary arms, meaty fists curled and poised to attack. Obi-Wan sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable fight. The crowd had fallen virtually silent for the first time, murmuring softly, waiting with baited breath.

The Besalisk, of course, struck first, lashing out with a hard punch. Obi-Wan ducked the blow, neatly evading two more before he lashed out himself, punching her square in the jaw. Pain exploded through his left hand and wrist at the impact, as she laughed, derisively.

"It that the best you can do?" she sneered, "Puny little thing, aren't you? Hardly worth my time… this is gonna be the easiest prize money I've ever won!"

"Huh… guess I'll just have to change tactics," Obi-Wan replied, nursing his injured left hand to his chest, backing away again.

With his right hand, he reached out, calling upon the Force, and physically tore a lump of stone from the edge of the arena. The crowd roared with delight as he flung it at her; she raised her arms against the impact as the chunk of stone shattered against her bulk, knocking her to her knees.

"You little bastard!" she swore, "I'm gonna kill you for that!"

"As if you weren't already planning on it," he replied, dryly, reaching out again.

He pulled another chunk of stone from the wall, throwing it straight into her face. She shielded herself with her powerful arms, shoving the shattering pieces of stone to one side; one of her secondary arms picked up a huge chunk of the rock, tossing it up into her primary hand, whereupon she hurled it straight back at Obi-Wan. It slammed into his face, sending him sprawling on the floor, stunned, as agony flared across his right cheekbone and around his eye; he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but he could already feel his eye swelling virtually shut. He turned his head to try and see his opponent, but he felt strong arms lifting him into the air, before he was hefted up and thrown to the ground once more. He felt several ribs break under the impact as white-hot fire tore through his left-hand side. He rolled over, tasting blood in his mouth, and he spat it onto the ground, gagging in an effort to clear his airways, coughing and choking.

He managed to force his one good eye open as the Basilisk raised her arms, waving to the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy as she clearly felt victory was within her grasp. Something glittered in the dust as the Force sang to him, and Obi-Wan froze – the Togruta woman's dagger. He had forgotten about the weapon. The Besalisk loomed over him, leering, growling, coming in for the kill. Obi-Wan reached out with his right hand, concentrating.

"Prepare for your death, little Jedi," jeered the Besalisk.

"Not today, madam," he whispered back, and flicked his hand.

The Besalisk screamed in unadulterated agony as the dagger flew out of the dirt, propelled by the Force, and buried itself hilt-deep in her left eye. Both primary hands clapped to her face as she howled in pain, staggering backwards, and Obi-Wan knew he would not get another chance. He forced himself to move, pushing the pain to one side for a moment, leaping to his feet and then jumping high into the air, and landing a solid kick with as much Force-strength as he could still muster, his right boot heel connecting solidly with her temple. The Besalisk let out a pained grunt, and then collapsed into the dust, hitting the floor with a resonating thump, where she lay completely still, dust settling around her.

The crowd screamed, some with rage, some with delight, as Obi-Wan landed neatly, but his legs refused to support him and he collapsed to his knees, his whole body now screaming in pain as his injuries made themselves known. He wrapped both arms around his torso, dragging in several shallow, gasping breaths, trying to let the pain go into the Force. Concentrating hard on keeping the pain at bay and his breathing under control, he made himself climb to his feet as the crowd howled around him, jeering, cheering, baying for his execution.

"Well, folks, there we have it, our winner tonight is the young male Human Jedi, a world first for the slave pits! Congratulations Master M'Dell, your winnings will be transferred to your account immediately, minus the house cut and administration fees of course. See you all again next week folks, don't forget to bring your credit chips!"

The four gates all opened as armed guards came into the arena; it took six of them to lift and move the unconscious, wounded Basilisk. Obi-Wan turned and gave a beseeching look at his Master up on the balcony – his real Master, not the leering Zygerrian grinning down at him – before one of the guards took his arm, and dragged him back to his cell.

---

"I demand the release of my Padawan, immediately," Qui-Gon forced himself to remain calm, but there was a dangerous edge in his voice, "he has completed your barbaric demands, now let him go. He is no slave!"

"I found him, I claimed him, he is rightfully mine," M'Dell growled back, "five hundred wupiupi if you want to buy him from me, Jedi."

"Kill him and you can claim all of his slave stock," suggested a green-skinned Twi'lek who lounged on one of the couches of the private balcony, to the laughter of his companions.

Qui-Gon reached out his hand and, with the Force, yanked Obi-Wan's lightsabre from the Zygerrian's belt, summoning it to his own hand as the slave master yelped in surprise.

"This weapon was taken from my apprentice as he lay injured and unconscious aboard my vessel," he stated, with deceptive calm, "he was given no opportunity to defend himself or his freedom. He has been kidnapped, tortured, and forced to fight for nothing more that your personal gain and entertainment. He is a Jedi, and we are not to be bartered. I will have him back."

"You do nothing here, Jedai," rumbled Kuva, "you may come to my ship and use the comm as agreed. After that, you do what you wish. Not my concern."

"But Mistress Kuva…" M'Dell protested, his ears flattening against his skull as he eyed the imposing Jedi Master in trepidation, "the boy is rightfully my property…"

"Ten it sa tonka tah defend im if u naga tah jeeska im," Kuva chuckled.

Then you must defend him if you want to keep him.

Qui-Gon reached out again with the Force and pulled the slave collar controller from the Zygerrian's grip; M'Dell snarled and lunged at him, but the ignition of Obi-Wan's lightsabre was enough to deter the slaver, as Kuva roared with laughter. The Hutt waved her hand dismissively, turned, and hauled her massive bulk off the dais, slithering back towards her ship, her protocol droid and entourage in tow. M'Dell's ears dipped a little but he managed a low growl in Qui-Gon's direction, before he slunk out of the box. Qui-Gon deactivated the weapon and clipped Obi-Wan's lightsabre to his own belt, vowing it would not be long before he reunited it with his Padawan, before he turned and cautiously followed Kuva's entourage back to the floating palace.

Despite his misgivings, Kuva was at least true to her word. A steward directed him politely to the huge conference room, at the centre of which was a holo-table. Qui-Gon silently glared at the steward until he was left alone, at which point he opened a channel to the Jedi Temple, whereupon he was patched through to Master Plo Koon of the Council.

"Master Jinn!" the masked Kel Dor exclaimed, "we did not recognise your hailing signal…"

"This channel is not secure," Qui-Gon warned him, immediately, "and I have no doubt we are being monitored. My ship was damaged and I am stranded on an Outer Rim world called Pradu. I am in need of urgent assistance."

"Then I will bring a ship as soon as possible – although even at hyperspeed it will take me a few days to reach you. Will you be able to wait that long?"

"I… hope so," Qui-Gon replied, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt, "I will find shelter and await your arrival. Please bring food, medical supplies and as many Huttese wupiupi as you can obtain. I still have my personal communicator, you should be able to hail me directly when you are in range."

"I shall make all haste, Master Jinn."

"My thanks, Master Koon."

Qui-Gon bowed, and severed the channel. He took a moment to compose himself, and then walked calmly to the door, where he was not surprised to find the steward lounging casually against the opposite wall of the corridor, as if he had not had his ear pressed to the door the whole time.

"Where are the slave fighters kept between matches?" Qui-Gon demanded, immediately.

"None of my business, that," the steward gave a one-shouldered shrug.

Qui-Gon waved his hand, putting more Force behind his words; "You will tell me where the slave fighters are kept."

"Uh… the cells are below the arena," the man stuttered, looking stunned, "that's for the fights, anyway. Tomorrow morning the survivors are returned to their Master's stock holds, either to work or for sale at the auctions. If they're not fit for work or sale, they're put down."

Qui-Gon suppressed a swell of anger at the treatment of sentient lifeforms, releasing his feelings as he focussed on the only one that mattered to him at that moment; Obi-Wan was in a cell beneath he fighting arena, then.

"Show me to the cells," he ordered.

"But… Mistress Kuva wanted me to…"

"You will show me to the slave cells!"

"… I'll show you to the slave cells."

Qui-Gon followed the hapless steward back out of the cruiser, drawing his hood up and keeping his head bowed as they threaded through the stragglers of the crowd from the fights, some bemoaning their losses as others jeered and counted their winnings. Qui-Gon saw a large cart parked nearby; there were several bodies being loaded into it, and he recognised the unfortunate victims of the night's barbarity, including the Trandoshan. He sent a prayer up to the Force for the deceased and their families, as the steward led him back into the arena, and indicated a flight of stone steps down a corridor, dimly lit by low-energy light panels fixed to the stone ceiling.

"Down there," he pointed, "the cells. The guards won't let you in unless you're a Master, though."

"I am a Master," Qui-Gon replied, dryly, "just not the kind they're expecting. Now go. I have no further need of you."

The steward scampered away, as Qui-Gon slowly descended the stone steps. The air was hot and musty, even below ground, reeking of blood and sweat and rot and filth, it was sickening and cloying, as the Force keened with the pain and despair that seemed to permeate the very stone around him. He steeled himself against it as he walked.

"Hey! You! What do you think your doing? The auction is tomorrow, no viewing the goods before dawn!"

Qui-Gon simply waved his hand, and the two guards parted like leaves blown in the wind, their heads cracking against the stone walls as they fell to the ground, unconscious. The Jedi Master was well aware that a simple sleep suggestion would have sufficed, but he was also not inclined to be kind to these cruel slave Masters. He similarly dealt with no less than a dozen more guards before the Force led him to the cell he was looking for. He eyed the primitive lock and simply tore it open with the Force.

Inside, a single figure lay crumpled on the floor, face down, right arm curled around his face and tucked under his head, left arm awkwardly bent and lax on the stone floor beside him. The back of his tunic was torn open across his shoulders, darkened brown with the drying blood from the laceration across his shoulders.

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon let out an urgent whisper, dropping to his knees beside his apprentice, clasping his shoulder, "Obi-Wan, can you hear me?"

Qui-Gon gently turned and lifted Obi-Wan into the crook of his left elbow, his right hand cupping the unconscious Padawan's jaw as he cradled him in dismay, assessing his injuries with a quick mental and visual scan. Aside from the deep laceration across his back, Obi-Wan's face was covered in mottled bruising; his left eye was swollen shut, a deep cut on his cheek crusted with drying blood, and his lips were split in several places. He had a severe concussion, three broken ribs, along with broken bones in his left hand and wrist. All of his knuckles were bruised and swollen, the skin scraped raw and bloody, and there was a choking, wheezing noise accompanying every tortured breath. There were slash wounds on his chest from the Anzati's claws; Qui-Gon had no doubt his Pandawan's torso would be black and blue with bruising beneath his tunic, he had seen first hand the treatment Obi-Wan had been dealt in the fighting pit, and his heart ached at the sight of his young apprentice. The collar was still around his neck and Qui-Gon tugged the remote from his pocket with his right hand, still cradling Obi-Wan with his left arm, deactivating and removing the collar, throwing it into the corner of the cell.

"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon tried again, tugging on their training bond as he spoke aloud, "my dear Padawan… please wake up…"

He was rewarded with a low groan and a pained shiver ran through the prone form in his arms, as he held Obi-Wan a little closer to his chest, wrapping both arms around him protectively.

"Master," a small, pained smile parted cracked and bleeding lips as Obi-Wan's one good eye opened, hazily, "you… you found me…"

"Always, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon replied, fondly, "we do not have much time. I must get you out of here… can you walk?"

"If… if you will help me, Master," Obi-Wan's voice was weak, little more than a whisper, but determination shone in the eye that focussed so trustingly on Qui-Gon.

The Jedi Master nodded, and very slowly eased his Padawan up, lifting them both to their feet. Obi-Wan moaned aloud in pain, his right arm wrapping around his midriff, clutching his broken ribs, as Qui-Gon placed his left arm around Obi-Wan's waist, holding him upright. They stepped out into the stone corridor together, but Obi-Wan pulled back slightly.

"Master… the other slaves…"

"We did not come here to free slaves, Obi-Wan… the laws of the Republic mean nothing here, as we have so keenly discovered."

"Yes, but…" Obi-Wan floundered for a moment, and then managed a wry grin, "their escape would be a useful distraction while we make our own exit."

"Well… when you put it like that…" Qui-Gon smirked, and waved his hand.

At his gesture, every one of the cell doors twisted and fell open, the locks utterly destroyed. Several slaves appeared in the doorways, some snarling aggressively, expecting attack, others more wary, some not at all, either too hurt from the fights or too scared to leave the confines of their cell. Some of them eyed the Jedi, but Qui-Gon drew and activated his lightsabre, deterring any thoughts of attack.

"You are free to go and do as you please," he told them, "but you will let us pass without harm."

The two-dozen or so assorted sentients exchanged confused looks. Qui-Gon holstered his lightsabre; he then took the slave collar controller from his pocket and tossed it onto the floor. Immediately, there was a free for all as they fell upon it, all desperate to remove the collars that ensured their obedience to their owners. Qui-Gon all but dragged Obi-Wan down the corridor and up the steps, where he melted them into the shadows, skirting around the arena until he found a lone man leaning against a battered speeder, smoking a death stick.

"We need to borrow your speeder," the Jedi said, without preamble, "my friend is hurt and I need to get him somewhere safe."

"Get karked," the man sniffed, dismissively, "find a droid taxi or somethin', I ain't interested."

Qui-Gon resisted the urge to roll his eyes; wishing that, for once, that someone on this Force-forsaken planet would do something to help them without needing to be coerced; "You will give me your speeder."

"I'll… uh… what?"

"You will give me your speeder!"

"Uh, yeah, here, you can just take the speeder…"

The man confusedly handed over the ignition key, and Qui-Gon quickly settled Obi-Wan into the passenger seat, as the man began to scratch his head in confusion.

"Hey, wait, that's my speeder, what are you…?"

"Go to sleep!"

"Son of a…" the man's eyes rolled up and he slid down the wall, crumpling into slumber.

Qui-Gon vaulted into the driver's seat and started the engine, as the battered old craft jerkily coughed to life, lifting off with a shudder, and then pulled away under the Jedi Master's steady hand. He drove to the outskirts of the town and then parked the vehicle beside the road, pausing to weigh their options. He could not risk returning to their ship; M'Dell and his cohorts clearly knew its location and there was nothing to stop the slaver from coming and trying to take both of them; Kuva might also see profit in the capture of two Jedi. He might have thought about fleeing into the desert, but Obi-Wan was in fit state to survive for several days without food, water and medical supplies.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and meditated upon the Force for a long moment, until he felt it gently tugging at the edge of his consciousness, pointing the way. He climbed out of the craft, moving to the other side. Obi-Wan had lost his tenuous grip on consciousness, and Qui-Gon did not have the heart to rouse him again; his Padawan's mental shields were virtually non-existent, his pain and exhaustion leaking through even in unconsciousness. He carefully eased one arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders, the other under his knees, and he lifted his Padawan in a cradle-hold, the Padawan's head resting against his Master's arm.

Following the pull of the Force, Qui-Gon crept quietly around the dwelling houses; they were small, squat domes, built close together, and he got the distinct impression they were in the slave quarters. The Force led him to a hut with a wooden door, virtually identical to all of the others around it, and he gave it a gentle kick with his boot, effectively knocking upon it. There was a moment's pause, and the door creaked open, as he found himself gazing down into the wide-eyed, terrified expression of a young Togruta girl.

"Hello," he said, warmly, "I… I need help. My friend is hurt. Is there an adult here?"

"Mama isn't back yet," the girl whispered, shyly, her brown eyes bright with fear, "are you a Master, sir?"

"I… no," Qui-Gon shook his head, not wanting to confuse or frighten the girl further, "but we are not slaves, either. May we come in? We mean you no harm, I just want to find some help."

The girl hesitated, and there was movement behind her; another girl appeared, only a couple of years older, clearly a sibling if their matching brown eyes were anything to go by.

"What is it, Alekka?" the newcomer whispered, quickly.

"Sarrera! This man said his friend is hurt, they came looking for help… they're not Masters or slaves…"

The older girl, Sarrera, ushered her sister away from the door as her gaze swept up and down Qui-Gon, before gesturing him inside, and closing the door behind them.

"Thank you," he said, gratefully, keeping his voice low, "I am in your debt, Sarrera."

"Mama should be home in a few hours," the Togruta girl told him, "she'll know what to do… what happened to your friend?"

"He was hurt… in a fight," Qui-Gon replied, truthfully, "do you have any medical supplies here, ah, bacta, bandages, pain relievers, anything like that?"

The girl shook her head tails; "Slaves aren't given that sort of thing and we don't have money to buy any. We've got some water and I can cut some cloth for bandages. Through here – you can put your friend on the couch, it's where Mama normally sleeps."

His heart heavy, Qui-Gon followed the girl into the living area; the couch was little more than a few stacked wooden crates with a thin mattress thrown on top, but it was infinitely more comfortable than bare rock. He carefully laid Obi-Wan down upon it, shedding his thick travel cloak and laying it over his wounded Padawan like a blanket. He rested his palm on Obi-Wan's forehead, feeling how cold and clammy the younger Jedi was.

"He is severely injured and he is in shock," the Masrer murmured, turning to the two small girls, "Sarrera, Alekka… I will need water, bandages, and any blankets or pillows you might be able to spare, please."

The two Togruta children scrambled to obey, and Qui-Gon knelt down, putting his fingertips to Obi-Wan's temple, closing his eyes, concentrating on the bond between them. Obi-Wan stirred and groaned, and Qui-Gon immediately shushed him.

No, Obi-Wan, do not try to move or speak. You are severely injured, dear one… you must rest.

[Pain…confusion…]…Master…?

I am here, Obi-Wan… I wish to try to guide you into a healing trance, can you reach out to the Force?

[Pain…pain…doubt…]…please, it hurts…please… it hurts so much… I don't want to fight again, please don't make me fight again… I don't want to call him Master, please, I want my real Master…[…pain…]

Qui-Gon grimaced at the agony and confusion he felt rippling through their bond, projecting back as much calm energy as he could.

[Peace…calm…] …it is alright, Obi-Wan, I am here… [peace…calm…strength…] sleep now, then, Padawan. I will tend your injuries as best I can.

[Gratitude…]

Qui-Gon allowed himself a small sigh as he felt Obi-Wan slip into unconsciousness, withdrawing his touch. Sarrera reappeared with some rather grubby looking strips of fabric that had probably previously been a rather ragged bedsheet, hastily cut into rudimentary bandages, along with a dented metal bowl of lukewarm water. He thanked her, gratefully, and set to work.

Dampening a small piece of cloth in the water, he cleansed the sweat, grime and dried blood from Obi-Wan's face, gentle and mindful of the extensive cuts and bruises. He wrapped a length of the bandages around Obi-Wan's neck where the salve collar had left electrical burns and dark bruises, before he pulled back his travel cloak. He directed Sarrera to remove Obi-Wan's torn and bloodied tunic as he gently lifted his Padawan off the bed, holding him as the girl worked. Alekka came back with a couple of thin pillows, no doubt taken from the girl's bed, and Obi-Wan thanked her.

Between them, the two children carefully cleaned the deep laceration on Obi-Wan's back, and then wrapped it in bandages with such practiced moves that Qui-Gon realised it was not the first time the two children had been exposed to treating such injuries. He swallowed his disgust that younglings were forced to deal with such violence, as they bound Obi-Wan's chest, supporting his broken ribs. As expected, the Padawan's chest and stomach were mottled with emerging bruises, red welts that would soon darken into colourful oedemas, hinting at extensive internal trauma. Qui-Gon surreptitiously held his hand to the Padawan's side as he lowered him down onto the waiting pillows, using the Force to straighten and partially fuse the broken ribs, to prevent further damage, glad his apprentice was unconscious for his coarse ministrations.

Finally, he tightly bound Obi-Wan's broken left hand and wrist, laying the injured limb by Obi-Wan's side. He tenderly brushed a lock of hair from his Padawan's brow, tucking the travel cloak over his bare chest, as Alekka held up a couple of ragged blankets.

"This is all we've got," she said, a little shyly, "it's not that cold at night anyway."

"Thank you, Alekka," Qui-Gon gave her a warm smile, as he draped the two blankets over the all-too-still form of his unconscious apprentice – how typical of the Force to lead him to those with the least to give who were the most willing to share it, "I… I wish I had something to offer you both in return for your generous hospitality."

"Mama says that slaves need to look after each other because no one else will," Alekka replied, dutifully, "I know you're not slaves, but…"

"I am grateful to you both," Qui-Gon bowed as best he could, from where he was perched on the edge of the rudimentary bed, "and if it is ever in my power to repay you, I shall…"

He froze, half turning, as the front door suddenly clicked, and creaked open.

"Sarrera? Alekka? What are you doing still up?"

The two girls exchanged a delighted look, as they both exclaimed; "Mama!"

A Togruta woman appeared then, closing the door swiftly behind her, her arms reaching out to embrace her children even as her eyes alighted upon Qui-Gon in shock.

"Who.. who are you? What's going on?"

"Madam, I mean you no harm," he stood up and bowed, "my name is Qui-Gon Jinn, your daughters were kind enough to offer us shelter… my friend is hurt, and we needed help…"

He stepped aside, gesturing to the sleeping Padawan, and the woman's hands flew to her mouth in shock; "The Jedi!"

"You…" Qui-Gon drew back slightly in surprise, as recognition dawned, "you're the slave from the arena! The one with the dagger!"

"By the Gods," whispered the woman, falling to her knees and pulling her daughters closer to her, "the boy… he… he spared my life. He made me fall asleep and made it look like he won the battle, so my daughters would not be punished if I refused to fight…"

"His name is Obi-Wan Kenobi," Qui-Gon told her, kneeling on the floor and resting his right hand on Obi-Wan's brow, "he is my Padawan learner, and I am his M… I am his teacher."

"Then you have taught him well," the woman raised her eyes – brown, just like her daughters – her gaze bright with unshed tears, "I owe him my life, and those of my daughters. My name is Tashanti. You are most welcome in my home."

"Thank you, Tashanti," Qui-Gon replied, softly, "I have sent for a ship to assist us, but it will be several days before it arrives. If we pose any threat to you, we will leave, immediately, but for now I am grateful for the opportunity to let Obi-Wan rest while I treat his wounds."

"I am… relieved… that he survived," Tashanti murmured, dashing away tears with the back of her hand, "I… I took the knife into the arena because my Mistress made me, I have never been in the arena before, I was desperate to protect my daughters, I am so sorry for the hurt I caused…"

"Your knife saved his life, Tashanti," Qui-Gon told her, gently, "he used it in the final round to defeat his last opponent. The Force moves in mysterious ways, I have always found."

"The Gods keep their own counsel," Tashanti agreed, with a wry smile, "girls, come – it is long past your bedtime and you will be wanted for housekeeping duties in the morning while I tend to kit hen supplies."

"Yes, Mama!"

The girls waved goodnight to their guests and went into the back room, turning off the lights obediently. Qui-Gon smiled at them as they went, and then turned back to Tashanti, who had lowered herself down to sit on the edge of the couch, by Obi-Wan's feet, where she gently began to remove the Padawan's boots, clearly wanting to do something to help him.

"Nobody will know you are here," she promised, "I will make sure of it."

"Thank you, Tashanti… I cannot help but notice, your collar is still on… I thought I had freed all of the slaves in the cells."

"Only on the first level," she smiled, a little sadly, "there are six cell levels beneath the arena, I was on level three, but I heard about the escape on level one. That's where the best fighters are kept, the Masters and Mistresses will be very angry."

"I hope their anger is not directed at you and the other slaves."

"They do not damage us unnecessarily," Tashanti replied, a little too lightly for Qui-Gon's tastes, "we are still valuable stock; a strong fighter is a great asset, a poor fighter can be a strong worker, a poor worker makes for an entertaining arena sacrifice if money is to be made. We are commodities."

"You are sentient beings," Qui-Gon replied, firmly, "and these practices are outlawed across the Republic."

"You are a long way from the Republic, Jedi Jinn."

"A fact I am all too aware of," he sighed, casting a forlorn look at the wounded Obi-Wan, "do you know of any way I can secure medical treatment for him?"

"If you have anything to barter at the market you might secure some narcotics to ease his pain, perhaps some bacta or medical supplies if any of the traders have some they are willing to sell… but such things are not cheap on Pradu," Tashanti shook her head, "I will be at the markets tomorrow buying food for my Mistress's kitchens, if you like you can accompany me and see if we can find anything of use?"

"Yes… I will, thank you."

"Good. Now… if you will excuse me, I would like to get some sleep… Mistress Dresayer will not be pleased if I am late in the morning."

"Will she be upset that you lost your fight?"

"Oh, no, not at all… I was meant to lose," Tashanti glanced away, her gaze resting on Obi-Wan's bruised and battered face, "she was betting against me. It was her who gave me the dagger to see if she could increase her winnings. A lot of people will bet on a slave clever enough to sneak a weapon into the arena."

"But… you could have been killed!"

"We are commodities, Qui-Gon," she reminded him, gently, "I was being punished for spilling some wine… my daughters would have been safe, and that is what mattered. I will go to them now… there is room in the bed for the three of us. Good night, Qui-Gon."

"Goodnight, Tashanti."

After she left, Qui-Gon dimmed the lights, sat cross-legged on the floor, and he sank into a much-needed meditative trance.

---

At the crack of dawn, Tashanti roused him, giving him a beaker of water and a half portion of rations, no doubt splitting her own meagre breakfast with him, as the two girls also had a half-portion each. Checking that Obi-Wan was still deeply unconscious, loath to leave him alone and vulnerable in such a state again, Qui-Gon placed the Padawan's lightsabre within easy reach of the bed, and reluctantly followed the three Togruta out of the shack, closing the door behind them. The two girls dashed off alone through the streets, heading to their work at the house of their Mistress, while Tashanti led the Jedi Master to the market square.

Dressed only in his tunic and trousers, having left his cloak covering Obi-Wan, he made a point of untucking his tunic, tightening his utility belt around his waist, and then wrapping the tunic over the top of it, effectively hiding his lightsabre and communicator from prying eyes. Tashanti led him unerringly through the narrow, random pathways between the buildings, as they drew closer to the arena, which he eyed with disgust.

"The auctions are today," Tashanti said, conversationally, "they always take place the day after the fights. The Mistresses and Masters can sell off good fighters for big profits or failed fighters go cheap to help pay off gambling debts. Household workers and the like, too, if needs be…"

"How did you come to be a slave, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I was born to it, just as my daughters were," Tashanti replied, regretfully, lowering her gaze, "I am a fifth generation Togruta of the house of Mistress Dresayer. She is very proud of her stock. Mistress Dresayer breeds the best Togruta slaves on Pradu, everyone knows that; it is an honour to be of her stock."

"What of your mother and father? And the father of your children?"

"My mother died birthing her seventh child when I was fourteen," Tashanti shook her long head tails at the memory, "I do not know which of the stud males was my father… or which ones fathered my girls. Fresh bloodlines are important in good breeding stock."

Qui-Gon winced internally at the implication, releasing his discomfort immediately; "I am sorry. I do not mean to pry."

"No offence is taken, Qui-Gon," Tashanti replied, sparing him a small, sad smile, "I have never known any other way of life."

They walked in silence for a while, until they reached the haphazard market stalls. Tashanti immediately crossed to one laden with fruits and vegetables, bartering for several items. Qui-Gon waited until the deal was almost struck, and then stepped in.

"You will give us twice the supplies at half the price," he intoned, waving his hand at the Twi'lek trader, "and you will forget you ever saw us."

The man immediately nodded in blind obedience, bagging up the foodstuffs, as Tashanti let out a squeak of amazement.

"How… how did you do that?" she exclaimed, as Qui-Gon picked up the bags, declining her attempt to assist.

"The Force is a Jedi's most powerful ally," he explained, "it flows through all things… it was how Obi-Wan made you fall asleep last night. Unfortunately, it does not work on all species…"

"My Mistress will be pleased…" Tashanti trailed off as her face fell, "but if I cannot secure the same bargain next week, she will be angry! Can you teach me how to do that?"

Qui-Gon gave a small chuckle; "Sadly not. However, do not be alarmed. Your Mistress is expecting you to have paid the usual price for the usual amount of food, correct? But now you have extra food and a little money that your Mistress need not know about…"

"Oh…oh!" her eyes widened in realisation, "my daughters have never tasted fresh taranga fruit… Qui-Gon! I will be whipped if my Mistress ever finds out…!"

"Well, I won't tell her if you don't," he replied, with a shrug, "it is the least I can do to thank you for your hospitality. Now, perhaps we can secure some medical supplies…"

After a few discreet enquiries, Qui-Gon found himself being directed to a ramshackle stall behind held by a Devaronian woman wearing a dark expression as she ranted to the bored-looking Human on the next stand.

"…A thousand, he won, and where's my cut, huh? Cheapskate bailed on me, first chance he got, took off in the pleasure palace, and what do I get? A beat up speeder, a pile of junk, six useless slaves that can't fight for shit and barely two wupiupi to rub together, that's what…"

"I think ya got a customer, Utella," the man yawned, scratching his stubbly jaw, "an' I don't think they're gonna pay to listen to ya whining, girl. Keep an eye on my stuff, would ya? I'm going for a drink, trade's always slow until the auction's over…"

He ambled away, grumbling under his breath, leaving the three of them alone.

"Huh, some friend you are, Smitty," she snorted, then turned to Qui-Gon, "what're you after, then? I can get you whatever takes your fancy…"

Qui-Gon cast his eyes over the stall and frowned slightly at a folded mound of familiar-looking brown fabric. He picked it up and shook it out; sure enough, it was Obi-Wan's travel cloak. He exchanged a knowing look with Tashanti, who had seen his own cloak covering the Padawan back at her shack.

"I like this cloak," he said, conversationally, "but I'm looking for medical supplies. A few of the other traders suggested you'd come by some recently and you were looking to sell. A friend of mine was involved in a… speeder crash recently. He lost the race and his bet money…"

"Story of my life," snorted the horned woman, "yeah, yeah, I got a couple a medical kits, proper mint, too, but they're not cheap. Your friend ain't the only one with debts to pay."

"We have wupiupi," Tashanti replied, evenly, "what's your price?"

After some negotiation – and a liberal application of Force suggestions – they procured the cloak and two of the medical kits stolen from Qui-Gon's own shuttle with half of their remaining currency. Qui-Gon folded the cloak around the two small, metal cases, as Tashanti handed him the remaining coins.

"Take these, and half the food," she told him, "If you can procure any more food, I would be grateful – it seems you drive a much better bargain than I can! I must return to the kitchens before I am missed. Can you find your way back without me?"

"I remember the way," Qui-Gon replied, knowing the Force would lead him back to Obi-Wan even if he were blindfolded and dumped on the other side of the planet, "thank you again, Tashanti – I will see you later."

They parted ways, allowing Qui-Gon to roam the market for a while longer, buying several dehydrated ration packs; with a little water and heat, the scant wafers became hearty and filling bread, enough to feed Tashanti, her children and their two Jedi guests for a few days, at least. He also procured four more warm blankets at a fraction of the price of one. He felt little remorse for buying at such heavy discounts; the prices being charged to the slaves were all four or five times the actual value of the items, and the Jedi Master simply saw it as evening up the market for the disadvantaged.

Qui-Gon swiftly made his way back to the slave quarters, unerringly following an invisible thread back to the correct hut. He glanced around to make sure he was not being observed, and pushed open the door, ducking inside. He closed it softly behind him, setting the bags of food down on the kitchen floor.

A familiar noise made him smile, and he shook his head.

"Your senses are muddled by your concussion, Obi-Wan, if you think I am interested in a sparring match with you in your current condition."

The humming of a lightsabre immediately ceased as the weapon deactivated, and Qui-Gon ducked under the low doorway into the scant living area. Obi-Wan had managed to sit up slightly, leaning into the corner of the wall behind and beside him, his face sheet-white beneath the bruises, glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, his breaths coming in ragged, pained gasps.

"Master!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, his voice shaking almost as much as his limbs, as he dropped the lightsabre onto the mattress beside him, "I… I thought… where are we?"

"Calm yourself, Padawan," Qui-Gon replied, soothingly, crossing the tiny room to sit on the edge of the mattress, facing his young student, "we are safe, for now. We have found shelter in the slave quarters. The Togruta woman whose life you spared… her name is Tashanti, and this is her home. I have contacted the Jedi Temple and Master Plo Koon is on his way to collect us. We need only stay hidden for a few days."

Obi-Wan blinked, rapidly, his shaking right hand wiping the sweat from his eyes, flinching as he touched the left eye, blackened with bruising and swollen shut, as he tried to process this information.

"They won't… they won't make me fight again?" he whispered, softly.

"No," Qui-Gon shook his head, "they cannot, and I will not permit it. Your collar is gone, Obi-Wan, you are free, and they cannot hurt you again."

The Padawan's eyes slipped closed briefly, his relief tangible, as Qui-Gon unfolded the cloak, setting it to one side.

"I have managed to… recover… some of our medical supplies," he said, as he opened one of the cases, "if you will permit me, I must tend to your wounds, Obi-Wan. I do not think you are strong enough for a healing trance and there is nothing resembling a medical facility available to us, I'm afraid."

Obi-Wan managed a tiny, wordless nod, and Qui-Gon could see the stiffness in his movements, the creases of pain written in his expression, and he could feel the agony blazing through their training bond with every breath or movement. His own throat tightened in sympathy as Obi-Wan wheezed and groaned aloud, trying to sit up a little straighter.

"Your back, first, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon instructed, "let me see to the knife wound and then we can make you more comfortable."

With his Master's help, Obi-Wan managed to turn and sit on the edge of the bed. With his back to Qui-Gon, he used his right arm to brace himself against the wall, his bandaged left hand and wrist cradled in his lap, as he trembled with the effort of simply being vaguely upright.

Qui-Gon worked quickly, starting with a dose of pain-reducer from a hypospray, pleased to sense Obi-Wan's immediate relief as the pain ebbed away to a more manageable level. He then began cleansing the deep laceration, murmuring apologies as Obi-Wan hissed through clenched teeth. Qui-Gon reluctantly selected a suture kit from the medical pack; he would have preferred to dump his Padawan in bacta tank and leave him there for several days, but that was obviously not an option. He would have to settle for field medicine.

"Obi-Wan," he mumbled, softly, "this wound is deep and liable to infection… I will have to suture it… focus on the Force, dear one, I will be as fast as possible."

The Master was true to his word, but by the time he was finished, Obi-Wan's shaking had increased significantly, his head bowed and muscles taut with pain. Qui-Gon smeared a little of the bacta over the puckered wound, and then wrapped clean, fresh, sterile bandages around Obi-Wan's torso, applying more of the bacta gel over his slashed chest, broken ribs and the extensive black-and-blue bruises. Once this was done, he very carefully helped Obi-Wan to lie back down on the bed, sending his wounded apprentice waves of strength and healing energy.

"Hmm… your wrist and hands next, I think, while you rest awhile…"

Obi-Wan barely clung to consciousness as Qui-Gon peeled away the tattered cloth strips from the broken wrist and left hand, again rubbing the bacta gel over the raw, bruised knuckles and all over the mottled abrasions of his swollen wrist, before wrapping both hand and forearm as tightly as he dared with the bandages. Obi-Wan's right hand knuckles were then similarly treated and bound.

"I am nearly finished, Padawan," Qui-Gon assured him, tenderly stroking his hand through the younger Jedi's short hair, "let's see what we can do about that eye… your cheekbone and eye socket are both fractured, I'm afraid, but this should help…"

Qui-Gon poured a generous amount of the remaining bacta onto a square dressing pad, and then gently placed the pad over Obi-Wan's swollen, blackened left eye; a bandage was wound around his head to hold it in place, and he groaned in relief as the coolness of the gel immediately calmed some of the burning pain. Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan's bandaged chest, giving him an affectionate smile as he sent another wave of healing energy down their bond. Obi-Wan accepted it willingly, swallowing thickly, licking his dry, split lips.

"Shall I fetch you some water?"

"P…please, Master…"

Qui-Gon fetched a wooden beaker from the sparse kitchen, filling it from the tap, and carrying it back through to the living area. Kneeling on the floor beside the bed, Qui-Gon lifted Obi-Wan's head with his right hand, guiding the beaker to his lips with his right hand, even as Obi-Wan clumsily tried to hold it in his own bandaged hands. He managed to drink the whole cup, coughing a little as he did so, then nodding and murmuring his thanks.

"I suggest you try to sleep, dear Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon told him, running his hand through Obi-Wan's hair, soothingly, "the time will pass faster for you if you can sleep, even if you cannot meditate or maintain a trance. Concentrate on healing yourself as much as possible…"

No further persuasion was necessary; Obi-Wan's eyes drifted closed, and Qui-Gon drew the mound of cloaks and blankets back over him, as he gave in to slumber.

---

Obi-Wan flitted in and out of consciousness for most of the day, his periods of wakefulness never lasting more than a few minutes, as Qui-Gon remained vigilant at his side, soothing him when he grew restless, giving him pain relievers when the agony of his wounds overwhelmed him, and encouraging him to take sips of water whenever possible. The Jedi Master offered several times to help his Padawan into a healing trance, but the younger Jedi was unable to focus enough to allow the assistance, and Qui-Gon sensed a lingering reluctance, no doubt stemming from his unpleasant experience as a result of his previous trance-state.

It was almost dark by the time Tashanti returned with Sarrera and Alekka in tow. The two girls gasped in delight and amazement as Qui-Gon presented them with their new blankets and showed them the fresh fruits and ample rations he had procured from the market.

"You must not tell anyone, though," he warned them, "you do not want to get in trouble with the Mistress, now."

The two girls were suitably sworn to secrecy, as Tashanti set about preparing their evening meal, baking some of the bread, slicing up the fruits, and mixing some of the fruit juices with a little water.

"How is your student faring?" she asked, quietly, mindful of the sleeping Padawan, as she carried their meal through on a single platter to share.

"I have treated his wounds as best I can, but I fear he is extremely weak… I will not disturb him yet, I will wait until he next awakens and see if he will take some food."

"I wish there was more I could do," Tashanti lowered her head, regretfully, "I spoke to Mistress Dresayer's handmaiden today. The Mistress was pleased with her winnings; she had bet on the Jedi against me… she was doubly pleased to both win her debt and keep me in her stock, though I doubt she would have minded much if he had killed me."

"Jedi do not kill unless absolutely necessary," Qui-Gon told her, gently, "it pains us to take a life, even in self-defence. Obi-Wan fought hard to avoid killing any of his opponents… although, perhaps if he had used more lethal force in the final round, he would not be in his present condition."

They ate in relative silence and Tashanti ushered her daughters off to bed, the two girls yawning and rubbing their eyes, wishing a sleepy goodnight to their Jedi guest, before Tashanti rejoined him in the living area.

"I owe you so many thanks, Jedi Jinn," she whispered, softly, her eyes bright with unshed tears, "it is the first time in a long time my daughters have gone to bed with full stomachs and warm blankets."

"It is the very least I can do to thank you for affording us shelter," Qui-Gon responded, shaking his head, "you have put yourselves at great risk in taking us in, and I am grateful…"

He turned away as Obi-Wan stirred slightly, letting out a pained groan, and the Jedi Master immediately rested his hand on his Padawan's shoulder, offering comfort as he fought his way back to consciousness, blinking open his one good eye and finally coming to focus on Qui-Gon's face in the dim light of the hut.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon greeted him, warmly, "I am sure you remember Tashanti…?"

"I am so sorry…" both Padawan and Togruta blurted out at the same time, and then shared chagrined smiles as Qui-Gon let out an amused huff.

"Me first," Tashanti spoke up; "welcome to my home, Jedi Kenobi. I am sorry for the pain I caused you, and I am grateful to you for sparing my life."

"No apology is necessary, Tashanti, you did what you had to do," Obi-Wan spoke in little more than a wavering whisper, breathless with the effort, "I… I am sorry, if I caused you any hurt or punishment. Thank you for letting us stay here… for helping me…"

Qui-Gon affectionately ran his hand through Obi-Wan's hair; "We are both grateful… Obi-Wan, there is a little food here, bread and fruit… you need to regain your strength, and I suspect it has been a long time since you last ate."

Paling a little at the thought, but nodding in acquiescence, Obi-Wan accepted his Master's help in getting him sitting upright, leaning back against the wall of the hut, trembling with the exertion and blinking back dizziness at the shift in position. When his vision had settled a little, Tashanti fetched what was left of their meal, and Qui-Gon stepped back, allowing her to take on the task of breaking the food into manageable pieces, handing it to his young apprentice, who ate a little and slowly, mindful of his sore stomach and battered body. He had barely eaten half of his serving before his head began to nod with fatigue, struggling to keep his one good eye open.

"That will do for now," Tashanti nodded to him, kindly, "sleep now, Jedi Kenobi, your teacher will watch over you."

Obi-Wan murmured sleepy thanks, easing himself back down on the bed, as Tashanti tucked the blankets around him, as tenderly as if he were one of her own children, brushing her fingers over his cheek.

"He seems very cold," she glanced over her shoulder at Qui-Gon, a slight frown creasing her face, "is this normal for Humans, or Jedi?"

"He has internal injuries," Qui-Gon shook his head, "he is using as much of his strength as he can in an effort to heal himself, but it is…hard. Jedi can use the Force to speed up natural healing processes, but Obi-Wan's injuries are severe… the blood loss and shock mean he is struggling to keep warm."

"Is there anything else we can do?"

"Unfortunately not," sighed Qui-Gon, staring sadly at his recumbent apprentice, "we can try to keep him fed and hydrated, treat his wounds as best we can and keep him wrapped in the blankets… my friend should be arriving to collect us the day after tomorrow, and he will bring additional medical supplies. We have enough pain reliever to manage the worst of his symptoms until then."

Tashanti nodded, stood, and tidied away the remnants of their dinner, wrapping the leftovers carefully, not wanting to waste the precious food. She then excused herself, joining her daughters once again in their tiny bedroom to get some sleep. Qui-Gon meditated for a while, until he sensed Obi-Wan stirring, and rose immediately. He pressed his lips together as he sensed the pain shuddering through his Padawan, knowing it was too soon for another dose of medication. Obi-Wan's shivering had increased; it did get colder overnight in the rocky desert.

Qui-Gon retrieved Obi-Wan's torn tunic, knowing it was better than nothing, and helped the trembling Padawan to put it back on over the bandages that swathed his torso, wrapping it around him.

"Master," the apprentice croaked, feebly, their task complete, "you look tired… you should sleep."

"Ah," Qui-Gon smiled, softly, "I am getting too old to sleep on the bare floor, I'm afraid, Obi-Wan, and you have the honour of the only bed in the room."

The young Jedi considered this, and then began to shuffle to one side, and Qui-Gon frowned; "Padawan, you are in no fit state to get up just yet…"

"Not getting up," grunted Obi-Wan, gritting his teeth, "just… making room."

Qui-Gon let out an amused huff; "The bed is hardly big enough for you, dear one, let alone both of us…"

Nonetheless, Obi-Wan managed to ease himself across so that he was pressed against the wall, and he looked beseechingly at his Master with one eye, the other still wrapped in bandages. Qui-Gon sighed again and finally relented, very carefully perching on the edge of the thin mattress, tugging off his boots and removing his belt, before lying down on his side, facing his Padawan. Obi-Wan immediately tugged the pile of blankets around them both, snuggling into his Master's chest, and Qui-Gon was shocked again at just how cold the younger Jedi felt. He obligingly wrapped both arms around his shivering Padawan, drawing him closer, hoping to share some of his own body heat, resting his chin on the top of Obi-Wan's head.

"Sleep now, dear one," the Master mumbled, softly, stroking soothing circles on Obi-Wan's back, "hopefully you will feel better in the morning…"

He waited until he was sure that Obi-Wan was fast asleep before he, too, allowed himself to drift off.

---

The sun had risen by the time Qui-Gon stirred and awoke; Tashanti and her daughters were already long gone, though a freshly baked portion of bread had been left covered on a plate for them, next to two beakers of diluted fruit juice. As Qui-Gon roused, so did Obi-Wan, still nestled in his embrace; the Padawan gave a sleepy murmur of protest, and then groaned aloud, his hands immediately clutching his chest and stomach as he gritted his teeth, curling in on himself. Qui-Gon immediately slid out of the bed, picking up a hypo spray from the medical kit and delivering the injection of pain-reliever into Obi-Wan's neck.

"Breathe, Obi-Wan," he murmured, soothingly, "that's it, slowly… easy now. I am sorry, Padawan, I did not mean to disturb you."

Obi-Wan shook his head, dismissing the apology, as he carefully straightened out again, allowing his Master to help him into a sitting position, hands still cradling his aching chest.

"Has… has there been any word from Master Plo?" Obi-Wan released a shuddering breath, closing his eye briefly, trying to release his pain into the Force, "I… I would rather like to go home, now…"

"He should be arriving tomorrow, Force willing," Qui-Gon shook his head, "here, drink this…"

He held out one of the wooden beakers and Obi-Wan managed to take it between his bandaged hands, sipping at it, careful not to spill any, despite his tremors. Qui-Gon turned and reached for the bread, intent on handing it to Obi-Wan, when he sensed a warning in the Force, and froze. At Obi-Wan's sharp intake of breath, he knew his Padawan had felt it, too – fear, raw and unbridled; someone nearby was absolutely terrified. Sure enough, the door was flung open and Tashanti flew in, gasping for breath, her face darkened and puffy from crying, her lip split and swelling with an obvious bruise.

"Jedi Jinn!" she exclaimed, between broken sobs, "I am so sorry! You must come at once! Mistress Dresayer… she'll kill them, she'll kill my daughters, she knows you're here, one of the other slaves saw us at the market together yesterday, she was serving at Kuva's palace on the night of the fights and recognised you, my Mistress demands I bring you to her or…or…"

"Hush, Tashanti – of course, I will come at once," Qui-Gon agreed, seeing the horrified look on Obi-Wan's face; "but what of my Padawan… Jedi Kenobi?"

"She.. I don't… she just asked for you, I…I don't think she knows he's here, everyone thinks he escaped with the other level one fighters… please, Qui-Gon, there is no time, if I am not back within the hour my daughters will die!"

"Then we must make haste," Qui-Gon took up his belt, fastening it around his tunic, making no effort this time to disguise his lightsabre, "Obi-Wan… here. Take my communicator. If I do not return within the day, Master Plo will at least be able to contact you. Stay where you are, and keep your focus on healing your injuries. I must make sure Sarrera and Alekka are safe."

"Please be careful, Master," Obi-Wan whispered, sadly.

"Be mindful of your feelings, Padawan," Qui-Gon cautioned him, "I will be fine… I will see you again soon."

Qui-Gon swept out of the hut, following Tashanti as they sprinted through the slave quarters; she led him unerringly through the town, racing to a large, sprawling villa on the outskirts, near the mountains that rose above the settlement. Qui-Gon was led through manicured gardens, a sure sign of wealth in such an arid climate, being tended to by emaciated, elderly slaves, clearly too infirm for fighting or more strenuous labours. Tashanti led him through the ornate palace, until they reached a reception room.

There, an elderly Zygerrian female was perched upon what could only be described as a throne, at the top of five steps on a raised dais, allowing her to look down imperiously on whoever dared to come before her. She was dressed in fine silks, her neck draped with gold jewellery set with precious stones, rings on each of her clawed fingers, and large golden hoops pierced into her ears. Her fur was immaculately groomed, greying with age around her jaws, eyes and ears, and she leaned back in her chair, lips drawing back in a sneer. Beside her throne, kneeling either side with their heads bowed and hands clasped, barely disguising their terrified shaking, were Sarrera and Alekka. Tashanti immediately threw herself to the floor, prostrating herself before her Mistress, gasping for breath and fighting to contain her tears, not daring to speak. Dresayer spared her a cursory, derisive glance, and focussed on the tall Jedi.

Qui-Gon bowed low, and then straightened up to meet her gaze.

"I presume I have the honour of addressing Mistress Dresayer, the breeder of the finest Togruta slaves in the quadrant?"

"And you must be the Jedi Master who was so entertained by the Battle Arena the night before last," growled the elderly Zygerrian, "truly an honoured guest of Mistress Kuva you must be, to be invited to the royal box…"

"The honour was somewhat lessened as we were not graced with your presence, my lady."

"Hah! I have my own private box from which to observe the arena," Dresayer waved her hand dismissively, but Qui-Gon could sense the vain old woman was flattered by his words, "now tell me, Jedi, what business you have skulking around with a slave of my stock… and why would such slave betray me by not revealing your presence immediately?"

The last word was snarled in Tashanti's direction, who merely whimpered and quivered, face-down on the floor.

"Ah, the fault is mine, my lady," Qui-Gon bowed again, "I have a parcticular fondness for… Togruta women. I confess, your slave caught my eye in the arena with her rather… spirited performance, despite the loss of her match. I sought her out, as I wished to assess her suitability for my, ah… personal requirements. I had planned to approach you with an offer to purchase her if I found her suitable. She did not reveal my attentions as I threatened the life of herself and her children if she revealed my presence to you."

Dresayer growled, stroking her jaw thoughtfully with one hand.

"I thought the Jedi did not take slaves?"

"Not publicly," Qui-Gon gave a causal shrug, "but even the Jedi are permitted to indulge in certain… indiscretions, now and then."

"Hah!" Dresayer have a bark of a laugh, "I always thought that holier-than-thou attitude was just a front… so… you want to buy the female?"

"If we can come to a fair price, I might be interested," Qui-Gon feigned a casual air, "the two younglings, as well."

"The children too? My, my, you Jedi are even more depraved than I gave you credit for…"

Qui-Gon suppressed his revulsion at her implication and pasted a charming smile on his face; "They have proven to be somewhat amusing and an effective tool at controlling the adult female's behaviour."

"Hmm," Dresayer tapped her yellowing teeth with one claw as she peered down at him, "I do not usually part with the youngling females, I prefer to keep them for breeding, of course… and if that's something you have in mind, I can confirm the fertility of the adult female, both of these were whelped from her, good strong stock I breed here."

She gave Sarrera a firm whack on the arm for good measure, drawing a pained yelp from the girl.

"Your reputation is legendary, Mistress Dresayer," Qui-Gon inclined his head, respectfully; only years of Jedi discipline and training prevented him from snatching up his lightsabre and severing the sneering slaver's head clean from her body, "my business associate is on his way here and should arrive tomorrow, we will pay a fair price for the trade of your stock…"

"And have you already… sampled the merchandise?" Dresayer's smile hardened into a more feral expression.

"Of course not!" Qui-Gon scoffed, with just the right amount of disdain and and indignance; "I would never show you such disrespect, Mistress. I merely followed the slave around the market and then back to her dwelling. I forced her to to allow me into her hovel so that I could observe her… domestic skills. I was going to force her to bring me before you when my business associate arrives on the morrow to make our negotiations."

"Yes… I've always thought you Jedi were strange," Dresayer smirked, "so, the boy in the arena – he belonged to you?"

"He was stolen from my ship," Qui-Gon responded, choosing his words carefully, "Master M'Dell had no right to him."

"Hah! Then you must be doubly sore – I heard the boy escaped and freed all of the fighters on the first level, and M'Dell took off with Kuva in that floating abomination of hers, a thousand wupiupi richer," Dresayer laughed, "you lost the best fighter we've seen in some time and a thousand wupiupi to boot."

"Yes," Qui-Gon replied, evenly, "so I'm sure you can see why I'm keen to console myself and make sure this trip is not a complete waste of my time."

"…And you could find such comfort in the arms of my female Togruta," Dresayer agreed, with a suggestive leer, "well, there is no need for you to shelter in her hovel any longer; you will stay here, at my hospitality. I insist upon it… and you will turn your lightsabre over to me for the duration of your stay."

She held out her clawed hand, and Qui-Gon hesitated only briefly. Two armed guards loomed from the doorway behind him, one of them gesturing with his weapon significantly. With Tashanti and the children in the room, he could not afford to take any risks. He reluctantly handed the weapon over, and Dresayer clutched it, victoriously.

"Take him to the guest chambers," she ordered her guards, "and make sure he stays there – use only Zygerrian guards and other species immune to his mind tricks!"

"One more thing, Mistress," Qui-Gon held up his hands, the guards growling in warning, "a request, from a fellow Master…"

"And what is that?"

"I am… rather particular about the condition of the merchandise I buy. I would prefer that no further damage is inflicted upon the commodities before our negotiations. It will affect the price I am willing to offer… and I can be a very generous man."

"Hmm… I shall take it under advisement, then. Take him to his chambers, see that he is bathed, fed, and given wine. And if he desires a female, we will add the cost to his final bill…"

"That will not be necessary," Qui-Gon forced a smile, "I prefer a certain degree of privacy concerning such matters. I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress."

He bowed again and allowed the guards to lead him away, mind racing as he pondered his next move. He had now promised to negotiate to purchase the three Togruta, and he had asked Plo Koon to bring wupiupi thinking he would need to pay off Kuva the Hutt in some way, but without the communicator he had given to Obi-Wan, he had no way of letting Master Plo know where he was. He was escorted to an opulent bad chamber, where he found bars across the windows as the door was firmly locked behind him.

A gilded cage is still a cage, he reflected, shaking his head.

He sat down in a large arm chair, and meditated.

---

Obi-Wan slept fitfully throughout the day, constantly checking the bond with his Master; it was weakened by his own fatigue and muted by distance, but still intact. He would know if harm befell the older Jedi… but he knew there was little he could do about it in his current condition. He therefore tried to follow his Master's instructions to rest and focus on healing, but he was in too much pain to achieve the proper focus. He helped himself to a dose of the pain relievers, which at least allowed him a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

By the time he awoke again, night had fallen. He glanced at his chronometer in alarm; they should have been back by now. He tried to touch the bond with his Master, but it was dimmed by the distance between them, and he could not reach Qui-Gon at all. This steeled his resolve; pushing back the blankets back, he pulled out his cloak, putting it on carefully, wrapping himself in the soft fabric. His belt was still missing, taken by the slavers who had kidnapped him, but he pulled on his boots and picked up his lightsabre.

Holding the familiar weapon at least made him feel a little more confident, even if the hand that gripped it shook with pain and fatigue. He pushed himself to his feet, groaning aloud at the pain, stiffness and dizziness that assailed him. As an afterthought, he grabbed two of the hyposprays of pain relievers, shoving them into one of his pockets, along with Qui-Gon's communicator. He set the lightsabre down for one moment as he carefully reached up and unwound the bandage from his face and head, taking the dressing from his damaged left eye. It was still badly swollen and a little blurry, but he could at least open it enough to see better than with just one working eye. His broken left hand and wrist cradled his battered chest as his right hand gripped the lightsabre, and without further ado he slipped out of the tiny slave hut.

He stuck to the shadows, moving as silently as a spectre, every sense attuned to the Force around him, as he allowed it to lead him towards his Master. He avoided the few other people he saw out on the dark streets; they were completely unaware of his passing as he drifted by them. He found himself skirting past the imposing colosseum, passing to the other side of town, closer to the mountains. Out here were the dwellings that belonged to some of Pradu's wealthier citizens – the slave owners, no doubt. Mansions and villas competed to be more opulent and luxurious than their neighbours, and Obi-Wan found himself drawn towards one of the largest ones.

He skirted past the patrolling guards, making his way into the grounds, circling the huge house, searching for a way in. He paused on one side, seeing a light on, the window strangely barred, and he knew, instinctively, his Master was inside. Not wanting to risk revealing his presence, he continued his circuit, eventually finding a small window open at ground level. He crouched down, suppressing a cry of pain as his chest, back and stomach all reminded him that he was in no fit state to be undertaking a rescue mission. He breathed through the agony, and opened his eyes again, kneeling, peering in through the window.

He found himself looking down into a dim kitchen, obviously in the basement of the villa as there was a significant drop from the window to the floor below, lit only by a single flickering candle on the table. Reaching for the window, he was about to squeeze himself through the narrow gap, when he heard a muted noise, and froze. Then he heard it again; a stifled sob, and soft hushing noise.

"Shush, Alekka, shush," whispered a gentle, loving voice, "it will be okay, my sweet, I am sure Jedi Jinn knows what he is doing. He insisted that Mistress Dresayer not be allowed to hurt us further…"

"I'm scared, Mama," murmured the little girl, through her tears, "what if Mistress sells you and we have to stay here?"

"I… I don't know, darling…"

"Tashanti?" Obi-Wan risked a sharp whisper, through the narrow window, "Tashanti, is that you?"

"What the…? Jedi Kenobi! What are you doing here?"

"I sensed danger… can I come in?"

"If you are caught you will be killed!"

"Yes, I suspected as much already," Obi-Wan replied, nonetheless squeezing himself through the narrow window, dropping to the floor.

However, his legs refused to support his landing and he collapsed to his knees, suppresssing a cry of pain, folding both arms around his midriff and doubling over as he gritted his teeth and willed the pain to subside. Gentle hands caught his shoulders, supporting him from the front, and he managed to look up into the wide-eyed, tear-stained face of Tashanti. He tried to give her a supportive smile, but was fairly sure it only came across as a grimace.

"What are you doing?" Tashanti said, dismayed, "You are badly hurt, you should not be here!"

"Where is my Master? Where is Qui-Gon?"

"That is the second time I have heard you call Jedi Jinn your Master – I thought that Jedi do not take slaves, and then he spoke of buying me and my daughters from Mistress Dresayer…"

"We don't – it is an honorific given to Jedi who have Mastered the Force, and themselves," Obi-Wan explained, quickly, "I call him Master out of respect because he is my teacher, and one day, I may attain the rank of Master myself, and he…uh… I'm sorry… did you say he offered to buy you?"

"And my daughters, yes."

"Why did he… what was… when… how would he…uh, never mind. Where is he now?"

"In the guest quarters… it what Mistress Dresayer calls the upper cell, it is a very comfortable room but he cannot leave. He said his business associate would be here tomorrow."

"Master Plo is on his way, yes, but without his communicator Master Qui-Gon will be unable to tell Master Plo where to find him… I have the communicator, do you think you can get it to Master Qui-Gon?"

"I…I am not permitted to leave the kitchens tonight, Mistress Dresayer is already very angry with me…"

"I can do it, Mama," Sarrera spoke up, tremulously, "I have to take the breakfasts up to the guest quarters in the morning, I can take the communicator."

"Oh, no, Serrara," Obi-Wan shook his head, and then groaned as a wave of dizziness assailed him, "I cannot ask you to take that risk…"

"It would be too dangerous, little one," Tashanti agreed, placing a steadying hand back on Obi-Wan's shoulder, as he swayed, dangerously close to collapse.

"There isn't any other way, Mama," Sarrera insisted, "I can do it - I'll hide it in my pocket. The guards always check the foods but they never search me properly."

Obi-Wan looked to Tashanti in askance; she hesitated, and then nodded, reluctantly. He handed the small device to the little girl, who quickly secreted it in a hidden pocket in her ragged skirts. Obi-Wan tried to stand but had to smother a pained yelp, and Tashanti grabbed him as he folded over, collapsing in on himself, finding himself curled up on the floor as she cradled him protectively in her lap.

"Jedi Kenobi? Jedi Kenobi, can you hear me? You cannot stay here, you will be killed if you are found – or worse, added to Mistress Dresayer's fighting stock…"

"I do not think I would survive another trip to the arena," he admitted, hoarsely, "I… I cannot make it back to your home, Tashanti. Is there somewhere I can hide here until Master Plo arrives?"

"I… I don't know…"

"Then I must leave and see if I can find shelter – I will not place the three of you in danger by staying here."

With her assistance, he forced himself to stand, pressing his broken left hand and wrist against his stomach, suppressing a wave of dizziness and nausea. He glanced at the window again but shook his head; there was no way he was climbing out that way in his current state. He crossed to the kitchen door, listening carefully. Confirming that the coast was clear, he turned back to Tashanti and the two girls.

"Be safe," he whispered to them, "we will not allow harm to come to you if we can help it."

"Please be careful, Obi-Wan," Tashanti murmured back, drawing her daughters back into her protective embrace, "this is a dangerous house…"

He nodded, and slipped out of the door. He drifted down the corridor, up some stairs, and avoided several meandering guards as they casually patrolled the halls of the sprawling villa. With no real idea of where he was going, he followed the Force, until he came to an ornate door. He tried the handle, only to find it locked. He closed his eyes, holding out his hands. He could hear footsteps approaching from around the corner as he focussed, drew the Force around himself, and concentrated, his bandaged right hand outstretched towards the lock. The door suddenly clicked open, and he barely had time to lunge inside, silently slipping the door closed as the footsteps got louder and a pair of guards rounded the corner outside and passed by, murmuring some casual conversation between them. He released a breath he didn't even realise he had been holding, and pain exploded through his his head, side, stomach and chest as he did so. Collapsing to his knees, barely able to suppresss his tormented moans, he re-locked the door, and took a moment to gather himself, releasing his pain into the Force.

As he finally staggered to his feet, he found himself in a small but opulent room, simply lit by the glow of an overhead security light that had activated at his presence. There was a raised platform at one end with five steps leading up to a large, plushly upholstered ornate throne. Thick pile carpets coated the floor, muffling the sound of his footsteps as he stumbled forward, one arm wrapped around his stomach as he fought against the pain wracking his battered body. Thick drapes hung from ceiling to floor either side of the throne, and there was a holo-communicator built into the arm of the chair.

This was no doubt Mistress Dresayer's private chamber, where she conducted all of her business and met with her courtiers and associates. Obi-Wan recalled Tashanti's exclamation that Qui-Gon had been planning to negotiate to purchase her, and the Padawan realised the Force had led him to exactly where he needed to be; if Master Qui-Gon were able to contact Master Plo, the two of them would no doubt meet the Zygerrian slave driver in this very chamber the following day. Obi-Wan painfully climbed the steps, leaning heavily on the throne for a moment, before concealing himself behind one of the thick drapes.

Sliding to the floor, he made sure he was completely hidden, should anyone enter the room. After a few moments, the motion sensitive light deactivated, and he was plunged into pitch darkness. Centring himself, he took a wheezing, steadying breath, and tried to meditate, focussing as much healing energy as he could draw into himself. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

---

Qui-Gon was roused from his meditation the next morning by a timid knock on the door.

"Enter," he said, straightening up, mildly amused that his captors maintained the illusion of manners.

However, he was pleasantly surprised when a familiar figure entered the room, bearing a silver tray in her small hands.

"Ah," he said, sensing the guards lurking outside, "breakfast. Excellent. Close the door, girl, while you serve me."

"Yes, Master," she said, primly, and obediently shut the door, despite the guards' slight growl of protest.

Afforded a modicum of privacy, she quickly crossed the room, setting the tray down on the dressing table.

"I have something for you!" she whispered, reaching into her pocket and pulling something out, pressing it into his hands.

He glanced at it in surprise; it was his communicator, they very same one he had left with Obi-Wan, hoping his young apprentice would be safer with it and able to contact Master Plo Koon.

"Jedi Kenobi gave it to me," she explained, whispering excitedly, "he thought you would need to contact your friend!"

"Yes, I do, thank you, Sarrera – you took a great risk in bringing this to me. Now go, quickly, before you are missed!

"Yes, Master," she said, a little louder, "I hope the food is to your liking, sir, please summon me again if you need anything else."

She left the room quickly; Qui-Gon passed his eye over the tray. There was more food there than Tashanti and her children would normally eat in a day. He picked a little at it, knowing he would need his strength but lacking any real appetite. He took the lid off the mug, releasing the steam, but grimaced when he realised it was caff rather than tea. He tossed the drink into a nearby plant pot, rinsing the mug under the tap in the en suite, taking a cupful of water to drink instead. Making full use of the fresher to shower and tidy his appearance, he ignored the silken robes that had been provided for him, electing instead to wear his own tunic.

Feeling suitably refreshed, he stretched and ran through a few kata exercises, clearing his mind and exercising the tension from his muscles. Eventually, after a few hours had passed, his communicator began beeping, and his relief was immediate when he answered it, hearing the familiar deep voice of Plo Koon.

"Master Qui-Gon," intoned the voice from the speaker, "I trust I find you well?"

"As well as can be expected, Master Plo, I am in the house of Mistress Dresayer and I am most comfortable in her guest quarters; she is looking forward to meeting us both this afternoon to conclude my negotiations for the purchase of three Togruta females I feel would make an excellent addition to our slave stock," he said, loudly, knowing full well that even if the room was not bugged, the guards would be listening attentively on the other side of the door.

There was a very long pause, and Qui-Gon tightened his grip on the communicator ever so slightly, come on, Plo, get the message, read between the lines…

"I see…" came the response, at long last, "that is… excellent news. I am expected, then?"

"Yes – Mistress Dresayer's hospitality is exemplary and her Togruta slaves are as excellent as her reputation claims," Qui-Gon responded, relaxing a little again, "I am sure you will be as securely welcomed into her home as I am."

"And the third… err… member of our party?"

"That is a whole other matter I will need to discuss with you later," Qui-Gon evaded the question, "you may lock onto my communicator signal and land nearby, I will ask our hostess if I may come and meet you. When will you arrive?"

"I am entering orbit now – I will be landing shortly."

"Excellent."

Qui-Gon snapped the communicator shut, and, sure enough, only a few moments later, the door opened without preamble, and the guards gestured for him to accompany them. He drew himself up to his full imposing height, clasping his hands in the sleeves of his tunic, and followed them silently down the corridors. He was, as he had suspected, led back to the throne room, where Dresayer was sitting ramrod straight. A table had been placed beside the throne, laden with food and a goblet of wine; a similar table awaited in the middle of the room, where two goblets had been placed. Qui-Gon also saw his lightsabre hilt resting on the Mistress's table, and she smiled cruelly when she saw his gaze linger briefly on the weapon.

"Ahh, Master Jinn," she purred, "I trust the accommodations were to your liking?"

"Most comfortable, thank you, Mistress," he bowed, "you are a most gracious hostess. I understand my business associate has arrived?"

"He is being escorted here as we speak," she nodded, "he has been asked to leave his weapons in his ship. I do not allow guests to come in armed, of course."

"Of course," Qui-Gon agreed, even as the Force began tingling a warning on the back of his mind, though he could not place the cause of it.

"But… even without your lightsabres, you Jedi are not exactly defenceless, are you?" She smirked, teasingly, "I saw the rather impressive demonstration of the boy's power the other night…so you will forgive me, but…"

She gestured with one claw, and before Qui-Gon could react, the two guards grabbed his arms; with one kick to the back of his legs he found himself on his knees, arms held out to the sides, as a third guard approached from behind, snapping something around his neck. Qui-Gon gasped aloud as the collar activated, abruptly severing his connection to the Froce, leaving him dizzy and bereft. At her nod, the guards released him, and he staggered to his feet, one hand going to the collar at his neck.

"What… what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, "I am no slave, how dare you…?"

"It is not a slave collar," she waved her hand, dismissively, "I procured these last night, at great expense, I might add… I found it necessary to ensure my own safety, of course…"

"Force suppression collars are illegal in the Republic," Qui-Gon growled, fingering the tight collar around his neck.

"So is the purchase of slaves," she shot back, calmly, "and yet here we are. Do not worry, Master Jinn. The collars will be removed as soon as my business with you and your associate is concluded. Ah, and here he is now… a Kel Dor, oh my, I have not seen one of your species in many years. Those claws make you such excellent fighters…"

"Master Jinn," Plo Koon inclined his head, rubbing the collar at his own neck, ruefully, "I see your impression of our hostess's hospitality was somewhat overstated…"

"I have been assured that the collars will be removed upon the conclusion of our business here," Qui-Gon replied, trying to convey an apology with a wry twist of his lips, "had I known we would be treated as such I might not have been so open to negotiations…"

"And we are bartering for the purchase of… three Togruta slaves, if I understood your message correctly?"

"That is correct, yes."

"Your reputation as a maverick is well deserved, Master Jinn."

"Thank you, Master Koon."

"It was not intended as a compliment."

"I know."

"Gentlemen," Dresayer interrupted, sharply, "when you have quite finished!" she snapped her fingers imperiously, "Bring in the merchandise!"

The guards bowed and one left; two remained by the door, and, after a few tense moments, the three Togruta were pushed through the door, lining up along one wall, hands clasped and heads bowed. Plo Koon shot a questioning look at Qui-Gon, who raised his eyebrows and nodded in response, silently asking the Kel Dor to follow his lead. Plo let out a barely audible sigh behind his breathing mask, and inclined his head slightly. Qui-Gon made a show of walking up and down the line of three a few times, as if inspecting them carefully, holding a goblet of wine casually in one hand.

"I am satisfied with the quality of the merchandise," he said, at long last, "how much do you want for the three of them?"

"I will accept two hundred wupiupi for the adult female. I want five hundred for the eldest child. But I am keeping the youngest."

Tashanti let out a horrified yelp, but at the Mistress's sharp look, she fell silent, lowering her head again, but Qui-Gon could see her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed emotion.

"Not acceptable," he replied, calmly, "I want all three. They make for a rather charming set, I believe."

"I told you – I rarely sell the young females. Count yourself lucky I find you amusing enough to grant you the honour of buying two of them."

"I will be taking all three," Qui-Gon replied, firmly, "one way or the other, they are all coming with me. I will offer you eight hundred wupiupi in exchange. No more."

"Pathetic - a good Togruta female can whelp at least a dozen children in her lifetime, and all of mine are excellent breeding stock to grow your herd. I am offering you a very reasonable bargain for the two of them."

Qui-Gon felt bile rising in his throat at her callous, cavalier attitude to the enslavement of sentient beings, and he hated himself for having to play along. But, without his lightsabre and access to the Force, this was a dangerous game; he could not even sense the presence of Plo Koon right beside him, let alone the two guards at his back, who could simply shoot them both at any time, and they would be utterly defenceless.

"A thousand, then," he shot back, meeting her gaze defiantly, "and I will take possession immediately."

"You try my patience, Jedi – a thousand will buy you the adult female and the oldest child, for your impudence, but the youngest stays here."

"I want all three."

"You will buy two, or I will execute the woman you so fancied, keep both the children, and you will get nothing. Guard!"

The guard snarled and moved towards Tashanti, drawing a dagger from his belt.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a new voice, and Qui-Gon's head shot up in amazement as a familiar humming noise filled the room, "drop your weapons, or I'll take her head."

Obi-Wan stood behind the throne, lightsabre drawn and held threateningly to Dresayer's throat. Qui-Gon did not fail to notice the way the Padawan's bandaged hand trembled slightly, his breath coming in hitching gasps.

"Do it, you fools!" hissed the elderly Zygerrian, all of her bravado disappearing in the blue glow of Obi-Wan's sabre, "Drop your weapons!"

The guards reluctantly complied, dropping their knives and blasters.

"Remove their collars,"Obi-Wan ordered, hoarsely, licking his dry, cracked lips as he fought to put some strength behind his orders, "and cuff each other's hands with those manacles you're carrying."

The guards snarled their displeasure, but obediently removed the Force suppression collars from the two Masters, before cuffing their own hands in manacles.

"You," Obi-Wan turned his attention to Dresayer, stepping from behind the throne and coming around to face her, standing on the steps, but keeping his lightsabre levelled at her throat, "the slave collars. Remove them, now. All of them."

"You can't do this!" she protested, whining, "You have no right…!"

"I have no right?" Obi-Wan repeated, incredulously, "you and your like had no right to take me from my ship, unconscious and helpless, and force me to fight in your barbaric arena for nothing more than sport. You have no right to treat sentient species like this. You will release them. All of them. Now!"

Dresayer yelped as the lightsabre crept closer to her face, leaning as far back in her chair as she could, her hands scrabbling for the control pad on her wrist. At the press of a button, the slave collars clicked open and fell away from the necks of the three Togruta, whose hands went to their necks in amazement. Obi-Wan reached out, tugging the control bracelet from Dresayer's wrist. He stepped back, threw it up into the air and swung the lightsabre; cleaving it in two and rendering it utterly useless. He then reached out, snatching Qui-Gon's lightsabre from the table beside the throne and tossing it across the room. Qui-Gon caught it deftly, activating it and turning towards the door.

"Come," the Master gestured, quickly, "we should leave this place. Mistress Dresayer… we leave you to the mercy of your…herd."

He swept out of the room, swiftly cutting down the two guards outside who tried to challenge him. Tashanti grabbed her two daughters and fled, following the Jedi in blind terror, unable to process what had just happened. Obi-Wan descended the steps of the dais, but staggered, only to be caught by Plo Koon, who gripped his arm supportively, running an assessing gaze up and down the younger Jedi.

"You seem to be gravely injured, Padawan."

"Yes," Obi-Wan gasped, feeling suddenly light-headed as the surge of adrenaline deserted him, "yes, I suppose I am…"

His lightsabre deactivated as Obi-Wan's eyes suddenly rolled up, and Plo caught the young Jedi as his knees folded beneath him, before he could hit the floor. He summoned the dropped lightsabre to his own hand as he threw the unconscious Padawan over his shoulder, and ignited the unfamiliar weapon, backing out of the room and covering their retreat from the villa.

Qui-Gon led the way at a sprint, closely followed by Tashanti, Sarrera and Alekka. Throughout the villa, there was uproar, as slaves suddenly found themselves collar-less; some cowered in corners, sobbing, frozen by fear; some were running, making their escape as they saw their chance; others still had turned on the guards, battling savagely, exerting their revenge for years of torment and degradation. The waiting transport shuttle was a beacon of light against the blood-red rock of Pradu, and Qui-Gon ran towards it, ushering the three Togruta up the ramp. He turned back, and his heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Plo Koon carrying Obi-Wan over one shoulder.

"What happened?"

"He collapsed," Koon explained, hurrying up the ramp, "he seems to have extensive injuries, Qui-Gon, how did he come by them? What did he mean about being forced to fight?"

"That… is a very long story, Plo. Please give him to me. I will take care of him, if you would be so kind as to get us out of here."

"Of course…"

Qui-Gon gathered Obi-Wan into his own arms, as Plo closed the ramp behind them. The Kel Dor made his way to the cockpit, as Qui-Gon carried Obi-Wan to the passenger lounge, nodding for Tashanti and the girls to follow him. The children were wide-eyed with awe, clutching their mother's skirts as she ushered them to one side. Qui-Gon immediately lay Obi-Wan down upon the soft white couch, pressing his hand to the side of the Padawan's bruised, pale face, scanning him with the Force.

"Is he alright, Master?" Tashanti asked, softly, hesitantly.

"He is… he is very weak, Tashanti," Qui-Gon frowned, "he has only aggravated his injuries… I had no idea he was at the villa, but if find myself glad of his presence… as aggrieved as I am by his present condition."

"Did Sarrera not tell you he was there, Master? I am so sorry…"

"She gave me my communicator, but I assumed she had retrieved it from your house…"

"Oh, no, Master – it was Jedi Kenobi who brought it to us at the villa. He found us in the kitchen. We were not permitted to leave last night."

"Hmm," Qui-Gon murmured, listening to the tortured, shallow breaths his apprentice was barely able to drag in, "Tashanti, would you be so kind as to go to the storage locker over there, there should be a medical kit inside, it is in a white case…"

"Of course, Master."

She fetched the kit and handed it to him with a small bow, and he took it; before his frown deepened.

"Tashanti?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Why… why do you now refer to me as Master?"

"Because that is what Jedi Kenobi called you… and you have taken us from Mistress Dresayer, so… you are my Master now."

"No," Qui-Gon said, firmly, "I was not lying, Tashanti – Jedi do not take or barter in slaves. I have set you free. You and your daughters… you belong to nobody but yourselves now. You are free."

"But… he calls you Master," Tashanti shot a confused look at the unconscious Padawan.

"Out of respect, not because I own him."

"Then… how are you addressed by others? Are you not called a Master?"

"Tashanti… you have called enough people Master or Mistress in your lifetime. You have my permission to carry on referring to me as Qui-Gon, or Jedi Jinn if you prefer. This is Obi-Wan, and our rescuer is Plo Koon."

"But… where will we go? What will we do? My daughters…"

"I will ensure that you are taken care of," Qui-Gon promised, "but for now, will you help me to tend to Obi-Wan?"

"Of course, Mas… Qui-Gon."

He smiled at her, and leaned over his apprentice, placing his hand over the younger Jedi's brow, palm down. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the bond between them, allowing himself to slip into the Force.

Beneath the surface of their minds, he could feel Obi-Wan's presence, glowing dimly, and he reached for it, embracing it, feeding it with Force energy from himself.

…Master…?

I am here, Padawan. Are you alright?

I don't… I do not feel well, Master.

That is unsurprising, dear one. You are severely injured.

Am I… am I becoming one with the Force?

No! Absolutely not… it is not your time yet, Obi-Wan. We have been rescued, and we are taking you back to the Temple, where you will be healed. You will recover, my dear Padawan.

I am sorry, Master…

For what?

I…don't know… I feel… so weak…

Rest, Obi-Wan. We will take care of you.

The Master withdrew as he felt his Padawan sinking deeper into unconsciousness, and he opened his eyes to find Tashanti and her girls staring at him in mute askance.

"Ah," he said, "forgive me. We were communicating telepathically…he will most likely be unconscious for some time. If you will assist me, Tashanti, we will redress his wounds and then move him to one of the beds…"

Once again, he found himself gently lifting his unconscious apprentice to allow the removal of his cloak and tunic, revealing the hideous dark black bruising that covered most of his torso. The old bandages, stained and sweat-soaked, were cut away; bacta was liberally applied before fresh bandages were wound tightly around the half-healed wounds. Qui-Gon similarly re-wrapped both of Obi-Wan's hands and his left wrist, before again binding a bacta dressing over his blackened, swollen eye, tying bandages off to hold it in place. He fetched a clean tunic from the stores, and Tashanti carefully redressed the young Jedi as Qui-Gon held him supportively in his arms.

When they had finished, he stood and then bent, lifting Obi-Wan up with ease, crossing to one of the bunks. Tashanti drew back the privacy curtain and tugged back the blanket, allowing Qui-Gon to lay Obi-Wan down upon the bed. She then pulled the blanket back up, tucking it gently over his shoulders. Qui-Gon fetched a second blanket for good measure, and then stood back, feeling the jolt of their ship passing into hyperspace.

"Thank you," he managed to raise a tired smile, "now… may I offer you something to drink? Some tea, perhaps?"

Tashanti raised her eyebrows in surprise; "I have never been permitted to drink tea before."

"Then I would be honoured to be the first to share a brew with you… take a seat, Tashanti. It is my turn to serve you…"

The woman's face flushed as her daughters eagerly scrambled into seats at the dining table, and Qui-Gon busied himself in the kitchen.

---

Plo Koon joined them shortly, having set their course and placed the ship onto automatic pilot. He paused by Obi-Wan's bedside, placing his own fingertips briefly on the Padawan's forehead, carrying out his own scan of the Force, before shooting a glance at Qui-Gon; even with the Kel Dor's expression hidden by his mask and goggles, Qui-Gon could read the shock in his face.

"How did the young Padawan Kenobi come by these injuries?" he intoned, his deep voice thick with a rare display of emotion.

"He was knocked unconscious during our crash landing on Pradu," Qui-Gon replied, grimly, "I tended his injury and left him in a healing trance while I went to seek assistance. He was kidnapped from our vessel while unconscious and then forced to fight in a slave battle arena. He won, but at terrible personal cost… and before you ask, he did not kill any of his opponents. We can at least be thankful for that."

"Perhaps he should have," rumbled Plo, causing Qui-Gon's eyebrows to arch in surprise, "and who do we have here?"

He smiled, behind his mask, as Alekka gave him a shy grin.

"My name is Alekka," she said, "this is my sister Sarrera, and our Mama!"

"Tashanti," the woman bowed, "we are most grateful to you all…"

"Tashanti and her daughters were the only beings kind enough to offer us assistance and shelter," Qui-Gon explained, "securing their freedom was the very least we could do to repay them for their kindness."

"Hmm," Plo hummed, thoughtfully, "I see… and what do you suggest we do with them, Master Jinn?"

"For now, we will take them back to the Temple," Qui-Gon replied, glancing across at Obi-Wan on the bed, "I must see to it that my Padawan receives medical treatment as soon as possible… after that, I will discuss with Tashanti what she wishes to do, but I thought the Togruta colony on Kiros might be a good place for them to start a new life."

"I could… I could do that?"

"You are a free citizen of the Republic now, Tashanti. You may do whatever you please… within reason, of course."

Tears welled up in Tashanti's expressive brown eyes, and she dashed them away quickly, nodding, clearly overwhelmed. Plo Koon reached over and kindly patted her hand, as Qui-Gon stood, briefly touching her shoulder, until a low groan from the bunk caught his attention, and he crossed the room in two swift strides, dropping to his knees.

"Padawan? Obi-Wan, can you hear me?"

"Mmm… I'm… not dead."

"Hah, no, no, you are not," Qui-Gon gave him a fond smile, gently placing his hand over Obi-Wan's right hand, as he weakly tried to raise it, "no, Obi-Wan, do not try to move. Just rest. We are safe now. Master Koon has rescued us, and we are on our way back to the Temple."

"But what… what about the slaves? Tashanti, and the children…"

"Do not fret yourself, Jedi Kenobi," Tashanti was at his side in an instant, her cheeks wet with tears of joy, "we are here, we are free beings now, and Jedi Jinn has promised to take us to a colony where we can be with our own people and learn how to be free citizens. We cannot thank you enough for your actions…"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught in his chest, and he coughed; once he started, he found he could not stop. He chest screamed in agony as he convulsed, wheezing terribly; there was an alarmed shout from beside him as he felt strong arms lifting him upright, turning him onto his side as he gagged and choked; a cloth was held to his lips as he spat out the thick fluid that was suddenly filling his mouth. Fuzzily, he managed to force his eye open, seeing the red on the cloth that was snatched away as quickly as it had appeared.

"That's not good," he mumbled, thickly, still wheezing, as he was tenderly lowered back down onto his right side.

"I agree," Qui-Gon's voice was distant, somewhere above him, "Master Koon has gone to fetch you an oxygen tank and breather, Obi-Wan; your lungs are obviously compromised…"

Obi-Wan simply groaned in sick dismay as his Master's gentle hand combed soothingly through his hair, and he leaned into the tender touch. Soon enough, a mask was fitted over his nose and mouth, the cold flow of air passing over his face, and suddenly, it became a little easier to breathe, lifting some of the fog of dizziness that had settled over his senses, and he blinked Qui-Gon back into focus with his one working eye.

His Master smiled down at him, projecting love and reassurance through their bond.

We are out of danger now, dear one… I promise you are safe here. I will allow no further harm to come to you. Please… will you allow me to help you into a healing trance?

Yes, Master. I… I would like that, please…

I promise I will be by your side when you awaken this time, Obi-Wan, I swear it.

Thank you…Master.

His Master's presence enveloped and soothed him, as he drifted into the welcoming arms of the healing Force.