Hey all! I think that it looks as if I forgot about you.Not so! Here is
another chapter, for your reading pleasure.
And, on another note, I would just like to thank everyone who has read this. And double to those who have reviewed. Seriously, reading your thoughts and comments make my day. While writing for yourself is what most strive to do, knowing that your work is appreciated is an added incentive to get cracking. You guys are the best, and more than I could have ever hoped for. Thank you!
* * *
Qui-Gon's eyes followed the chief as he strode from the room, head held high - blaster higher. The man had left the fighting, the Jedi, and his daughter and never looked back.
Wanting to escape during the sudden lull in fire, Qui-Gon scooped up his unconscious padawan, mindful of the mangled flesh, and ran as quickly as possible. The master sprinted through the maze of hallways, not hesitating at intersections, but placing his trust in the Force; there wasn't time for anything else.
Qui-Gon, once far enough from that cursed room, slowed his steps. They were still hurried, without a doubt, but softer, less jarring to the boy nestled in his arms. He needed to get Obi-Wan to the ship - the master could feel the blood dampening his robe - but the padawan's life signature was strong enough to survive a slightly longer wait. The boy need not endure further injury as result of his master's rough handling.
Qui-Gon reached out to the Force, drawing in whatever information he could about his surroundings - about any possible danger. A warning spiked and the master froze, muscles tensing as he scanned the area. There was indeed a warning, but it was not for him. Qui-Gon waited a moment, unsure, before blaster fire commanded his attention.
The noise spilled from a near branch tunnel, echoing out the crystal themed hall from far within its depths. Again, the master felt the sting of regret. To save his padawan, lives would be sacrificed. Those fighting chose to risk their lives, but the loss was made no less lamentable though the knowledge.
Fortunately - if it could be designated such - Qui-Gon's inner debate was abruptly solved. A ripple in the Force, the sound of a blaster shot, and an agonized scream signaled the closing. Pain traveled in waves, accompanying barely audible whimpers. Samaron had been shot.
Qui-Gon could feel the man's pain. The master was spared all but a glance for lack of personal connection, but one need not be writhing on the gleaming floor to be assured the chief was in his death throes. The bolt had grazed the central artery, feeding vessel of the vital organs. The puncture was small, but steadily growing. With each beat of the heart it widened, torn open by the power of the life-giving pump. Blood was pooling inside the body, organs were slowly perishing for want of it - and Samaron was condemned to die.
Perhaps out of a final surge of pity - or unquenched desire for vengeance - Polusti ended what would have been an agonizing and drawn out last moment. Another blaster bolt, this time to the head at pointblank range, and that which was a powerful leader became a mere pile of bones and flesh.
That, sadly, was not the last life doomed that day. There was a moment's pause - a moment of indecision before Polusti acted. A final shot was fired and the chief fell, blaster clattering to the floor. When the tale of the battle, as it would eventually be designated, became a commonplace bedtime story, there was one uncertainty which was so needed to give the barest semblance of a fitting ending that it came to be known as fact; Polusti's body was found with a scorched hole in his chest, and a smile on his lips.
His spirit had already died that day - at least his body could follow suit.
* * *
There was no time for mourning. Mourning would come - how could he not mourn any loss of life? - but there would be infinite time for the dead. At the moment, it was only the living that mattered.
Qui-Gon quickly overcame the Force urge which first froze him in place and continued on. The time wasted had taken its toll; the padawan's formerly cherry lips had adopted a slight bluish cast and, though the elder Jedi was certainly no healer, he did not believe that to be an altogether good sign.
The master weaved his way through the few remaining twists and turns, arriving shortly at the southern entrance where, as promised, a ship stood - prepped and awaiting takeoff.
Dashing over grass - and through patches of growing flora - Qui-Gon soon reached the small vessel, and sprinted up the open hatch. A sharp turn right led him back towards the tail of the ship and into the vessel's designated sickbay.
The master laid the boy down atop the nearer of two sleep couches, turning the unconscious form onto his side. Qui-Gon frowned at the gnarled area of Obi-Wan's back, now flaming with irritation, and, keeping one hand on the boy to steady him, rummaged through the stand next to the bed, bypassing the more modern equipment for the old-fashioned bacta patch. He peeled it from the plastic wrapping and gently positioned it over the wound, though knowing full well that Obi-Wan was blissfully unaware of whatever pain the action caused.
He sent a concentrated burst of healing into his padawan, specifically targeting the continued bleeding and marrow responsible for replenishing the life-giving fluid. Qui-Gon remained as such for a moment, channeling the energy and sighing in relief anew with each shade of pink that splashed over the disturbingly azure lips.
When he deemed the padawan fit enough to finish his healing alone - though Qui-Gon intended for him to do no such thing - the master left the boy, wrestling pointlessly against the pull of the conscious, and made his way to the pilot's chair to begin the flight sequence.
He returned - after taking-off, breaking free of the atmosphere, and making the jump into hyperspace in record time - to find a fully conscious padawan - gritting his teeth against the pain.
Qui-Gon hurried over, turning the boy from his back to his side, and laid a hand over the bacta patch, numbing the nerves. "Better?" he asked, gently turning Obi-Wan back onto his back.
One glance at the padawan's face, however, and Qui-Gon was certain that everything was not 'better.' Sweat pilled on Obi-Wan's forehead and upper lip, his face pinched and his jaw clenched against the unbidden scream jumping to his throat.
"'S okay, Master," he finally managed to choke out, "Just hurts a bit. I'll be fine." He grunted the last few words and snapped a hand to his abdomen, curling as a low moan escaped his lips.
Qui-Gon sent a questioning tendril of Force, only to meet against the same obstacle, the same fuzziness which prevented him from ascertaining the extent of Obi-Wan's injuries in the palace.
"Obi-Wan, where does it hurt?" Qui-Gon's words gave more of a glimpse at his approaching panic than he would have liked. This was not supposed to happen. He was not supposed to be blind to his padawan's agony.
"Obi-Wan!" his voice raised, "Padawan, where does it hurt?"
The initial response of 'I'm fine' soon became a whispered mantra, all but destroying any chance of the master getting a coherent sentence out of the boy - at least for the time being. Instead, as he did at most times of heightened anxiety, he paced.
The first idea born of the pacing was to give Obi-Wan a pain hypo - and an idea well received as the padawan relaxed almost instantly, content to have the chemical pumped through his bloodstream. The next few - and could easily be classified as one - had the elder Jedi attempting conversation. All, however, met with failure. Aside from the few understandable muttering which spilled from his mouth, Obi-Wan's conversing skills were nonexistent.
Growling in frustration, Qui-Gon racked his memory, trying to discern an explanation for his padawan's - unusual - state. One did strike him and, however a long-shot, he intended to look into it.
The master ceased his pacing, instead continuing the walk to and out the door, his long gate taking him into the common room and to his destination in seconds. He turned to the comm. unit, flicking it on, and typed in a number sequence.
A mechanically automated voice soon rasped through the speaker, inquiring as to where Qui-Gon wished his call put through.
"The main healing center of Coruscant."
A moment of silence before a sentient voice rang over the connection and a female twe'lik flashed onto the vid-screen, "Hello, Coruscant Healing Center, how may I help you?"
Qui-Gon took a moment to pull himself up to his full height, and bury his hands in the arms of the opposite sleeves - a gesture he believed to be his most regal and intimidating - and replied, "I would like to see the autopsy records of Senator Willoc."
There was a pause, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not permitted to give such information to the public."
"Miss, you do not seem to understand. I need that document." Qui-Gon placed a touch of Force behind his words, praying that the distance between would not cheapen its effect.
"Yes, of course," she replied. Apparently, much to Qui-Gon's relief, the suggestion had gotten through, "You need the document. One moment please."
A new screen blinked up, revealing the report written in what could more appropriately be deemed chiclen scratch as opposed to fluent Basic. Hastily, Qui-Gon printed the two page autopsy findings out, and switched off the comm.. He skimmed the front page, glossing over irrelevant details such as the weight of the Senators second heart and the deformation of his third stomach. He went onto the second, growing increasingly discouraged with each word read, but stopped abruptly at a statement made by one Healer Garonse, about mid-page.
Qui-Gon swept his eyes over the sheet again, assuring himself that he had read it correctly. His muscles seemed to go slack, refusing even to maintain hold on the paper, as it slipped from his fingers and floated to the floor. He stumbled to the nearest chair, dropping his body, now void of the strength needed to keep the master upright, into its plush cushion.
The Jedi then drew shaking hands to an ashen face, leaned forward, resting his elbows, covered in gritty, dried blood, on his legs - and wept.
* * *
Ooops, almost forgot =), but be a good lil Jedi and review!
And, on another note, I would just like to thank everyone who has read this. And double to those who have reviewed. Seriously, reading your thoughts and comments make my day. While writing for yourself is what most strive to do, knowing that your work is appreciated is an added incentive to get cracking. You guys are the best, and more than I could have ever hoped for. Thank you!
* * *
Qui-Gon's eyes followed the chief as he strode from the room, head held high - blaster higher. The man had left the fighting, the Jedi, and his daughter and never looked back.
Wanting to escape during the sudden lull in fire, Qui-Gon scooped up his unconscious padawan, mindful of the mangled flesh, and ran as quickly as possible. The master sprinted through the maze of hallways, not hesitating at intersections, but placing his trust in the Force; there wasn't time for anything else.
Qui-Gon, once far enough from that cursed room, slowed his steps. They were still hurried, without a doubt, but softer, less jarring to the boy nestled in his arms. He needed to get Obi-Wan to the ship - the master could feel the blood dampening his robe - but the padawan's life signature was strong enough to survive a slightly longer wait. The boy need not endure further injury as result of his master's rough handling.
Qui-Gon reached out to the Force, drawing in whatever information he could about his surroundings - about any possible danger. A warning spiked and the master froze, muscles tensing as he scanned the area. There was indeed a warning, but it was not for him. Qui-Gon waited a moment, unsure, before blaster fire commanded his attention.
The noise spilled from a near branch tunnel, echoing out the crystal themed hall from far within its depths. Again, the master felt the sting of regret. To save his padawan, lives would be sacrificed. Those fighting chose to risk their lives, but the loss was made no less lamentable though the knowledge.
Fortunately - if it could be designated such - Qui-Gon's inner debate was abruptly solved. A ripple in the Force, the sound of a blaster shot, and an agonized scream signaled the closing. Pain traveled in waves, accompanying barely audible whimpers. Samaron had been shot.
Qui-Gon could feel the man's pain. The master was spared all but a glance for lack of personal connection, but one need not be writhing on the gleaming floor to be assured the chief was in his death throes. The bolt had grazed the central artery, feeding vessel of the vital organs. The puncture was small, but steadily growing. With each beat of the heart it widened, torn open by the power of the life-giving pump. Blood was pooling inside the body, organs were slowly perishing for want of it - and Samaron was condemned to die.
Perhaps out of a final surge of pity - or unquenched desire for vengeance - Polusti ended what would have been an agonizing and drawn out last moment. Another blaster bolt, this time to the head at pointblank range, and that which was a powerful leader became a mere pile of bones and flesh.
That, sadly, was not the last life doomed that day. There was a moment's pause - a moment of indecision before Polusti acted. A final shot was fired and the chief fell, blaster clattering to the floor. When the tale of the battle, as it would eventually be designated, became a commonplace bedtime story, there was one uncertainty which was so needed to give the barest semblance of a fitting ending that it came to be known as fact; Polusti's body was found with a scorched hole in his chest, and a smile on his lips.
His spirit had already died that day - at least his body could follow suit.
* * *
There was no time for mourning. Mourning would come - how could he not mourn any loss of life? - but there would be infinite time for the dead. At the moment, it was only the living that mattered.
Qui-Gon quickly overcame the Force urge which first froze him in place and continued on. The time wasted had taken its toll; the padawan's formerly cherry lips had adopted a slight bluish cast and, though the elder Jedi was certainly no healer, he did not believe that to be an altogether good sign.
The master weaved his way through the few remaining twists and turns, arriving shortly at the southern entrance where, as promised, a ship stood - prepped and awaiting takeoff.
Dashing over grass - and through patches of growing flora - Qui-Gon soon reached the small vessel, and sprinted up the open hatch. A sharp turn right led him back towards the tail of the ship and into the vessel's designated sickbay.
The master laid the boy down atop the nearer of two sleep couches, turning the unconscious form onto his side. Qui-Gon frowned at the gnarled area of Obi-Wan's back, now flaming with irritation, and, keeping one hand on the boy to steady him, rummaged through the stand next to the bed, bypassing the more modern equipment for the old-fashioned bacta patch. He peeled it from the plastic wrapping and gently positioned it over the wound, though knowing full well that Obi-Wan was blissfully unaware of whatever pain the action caused.
He sent a concentrated burst of healing into his padawan, specifically targeting the continued bleeding and marrow responsible for replenishing the life-giving fluid. Qui-Gon remained as such for a moment, channeling the energy and sighing in relief anew with each shade of pink that splashed over the disturbingly azure lips.
When he deemed the padawan fit enough to finish his healing alone - though Qui-Gon intended for him to do no such thing - the master left the boy, wrestling pointlessly against the pull of the conscious, and made his way to the pilot's chair to begin the flight sequence.
He returned - after taking-off, breaking free of the atmosphere, and making the jump into hyperspace in record time - to find a fully conscious padawan - gritting his teeth against the pain.
Qui-Gon hurried over, turning the boy from his back to his side, and laid a hand over the bacta patch, numbing the nerves. "Better?" he asked, gently turning Obi-Wan back onto his back.
One glance at the padawan's face, however, and Qui-Gon was certain that everything was not 'better.' Sweat pilled on Obi-Wan's forehead and upper lip, his face pinched and his jaw clenched against the unbidden scream jumping to his throat.
"'S okay, Master," he finally managed to choke out, "Just hurts a bit. I'll be fine." He grunted the last few words and snapped a hand to his abdomen, curling as a low moan escaped his lips.
Qui-Gon sent a questioning tendril of Force, only to meet against the same obstacle, the same fuzziness which prevented him from ascertaining the extent of Obi-Wan's injuries in the palace.
"Obi-Wan, where does it hurt?" Qui-Gon's words gave more of a glimpse at his approaching panic than he would have liked. This was not supposed to happen. He was not supposed to be blind to his padawan's agony.
"Obi-Wan!" his voice raised, "Padawan, where does it hurt?"
The initial response of 'I'm fine' soon became a whispered mantra, all but destroying any chance of the master getting a coherent sentence out of the boy - at least for the time being. Instead, as he did at most times of heightened anxiety, he paced.
The first idea born of the pacing was to give Obi-Wan a pain hypo - and an idea well received as the padawan relaxed almost instantly, content to have the chemical pumped through his bloodstream. The next few - and could easily be classified as one - had the elder Jedi attempting conversation. All, however, met with failure. Aside from the few understandable muttering which spilled from his mouth, Obi-Wan's conversing skills were nonexistent.
Growling in frustration, Qui-Gon racked his memory, trying to discern an explanation for his padawan's - unusual - state. One did strike him and, however a long-shot, he intended to look into it.
The master ceased his pacing, instead continuing the walk to and out the door, his long gate taking him into the common room and to his destination in seconds. He turned to the comm. unit, flicking it on, and typed in a number sequence.
A mechanically automated voice soon rasped through the speaker, inquiring as to where Qui-Gon wished his call put through.
"The main healing center of Coruscant."
A moment of silence before a sentient voice rang over the connection and a female twe'lik flashed onto the vid-screen, "Hello, Coruscant Healing Center, how may I help you?"
Qui-Gon took a moment to pull himself up to his full height, and bury his hands in the arms of the opposite sleeves - a gesture he believed to be his most regal and intimidating - and replied, "I would like to see the autopsy records of Senator Willoc."
There was a pause, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not permitted to give such information to the public."
"Miss, you do not seem to understand. I need that document." Qui-Gon placed a touch of Force behind his words, praying that the distance between would not cheapen its effect.
"Yes, of course," she replied. Apparently, much to Qui-Gon's relief, the suggestion had gotten through, "You need the document. One moment please."
A new screen blinked up, revealing the report written in what could more appropriately be deemed chiclen scratch as opposed to fluent Basic. Hastily, Qui-Gon printed the two page autopsy findings out, and switched off the comm.. He skimmed the front page, glossing over irrelevant details such as the weight of the Senators second heart and the deformation of his third stomach. He went onto the second, growing increasingly discouraged with each word read, but stopped abruptly at a statement made by one Healer Garonse, about mid-page.
Qui-Gon swept his eyes over the sheet again, assuring himself that he had read it correctly. His muscles seemed to go slack, refusing even to maintain hold on the paper, as it slipped from his fingers and floated to the floor. He stumbled to the nearest chair, dropping his body, now void of the strength needed to keep the master upright, into its plush cushion.
The Jedi then drew shaking hands to an ashen face, leaned forward, resting his elbows, covered in gritty, dried blood, on his legs - and wept.
* * *
Ooops, almost forgot =), but be a good lil Jedi and review!
