The Long Drift: Slipping Away
The pain coursed through his arm, maddeningly consistent with the pulse of his heart. Every beat, every flare of heat snaking up his arm, every stab of agony only served to push him deeper into his mind's abyss, into despairing isolation
Obi-Wan Kenobi stared blankly into the mirror, unbelieving. Could someone change so much? Just how long had it been, anyway? He stood alone in the refresher, dirty clothes stripped from his body and in a pile on the floor beside him – and just stared.
His reflection gazed back just as emptily, the eyes hidden back in sockets ringed with bruises and dulled by the dogged life he now led. He clutched his aching hand, willing the pain to die away for now. His eyes moved downward, and he brought the unhurt hand to his chest, brushing his fingers down over the ridges of his ribcage where they poked none too discreetly.
A soft cry sighed past his lips. He knew appearance was not what made the Jedi, but…
He turned away from the mirror, now fogged with steam, and stepped into the shower stall. He ducked his head and the water beat down on his shoulders, massaging tense muscles. Pain flared briefly on still tender wounds but he did not dare move – he probably didn't have much time left. Lord Vuyis was gone for the day and had instructed him to clean himself and stay near to the quarters. Their quarters.
Obi-Wan scowled; a hint of his nearly lost self returning. He had thought the man would never leave him alone. Vuyis touched him constantly, whether it was simply brushing his cheek, idling with his hair – Obi-Wan couldn't stand it any longer.
"I hate it," he whispered, unheard even to his own ears in the pounding water. A flutter of anxiety rose up in him as he uttered the unfamiliar word. But, he reasoned, if he couldn't hear the Force, perhaps it couldn't hear him.
He scrubbed fingers through his newly shorn hair. It was cropped so close he appeared completely bald from a far enough distance away. His braid was gone as well, of course. A finger to the bare spot behind his ear and he sighed lightly, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the hot spray. Bugs had been found in one slave's hair – he believed it had been Roark, actually – and consequently all slaves had their hair cut short. It felt strange at first, but he was getting used to it. His hair had grown a lot over the past few months, shagging out at the sides and curling lightly at the ends. But he was alone, now; at least there was that.
It seemed as if it had been years since he had any time to himself. Master Qui-Gon was nothing if not a private man, and awarded Obi-Wan the same time alone. The Padawan had at first been hurt by this, feeling more than a little rejected, but soon learned that he was luckier for it.
He missed having those opportunities.
A sharp thump at the door startled him and he peered, suddenly tense, through the misty glass pane of the shower door. The 'fresher door swung open and he hurried to turn the spray of water off before a man he recognized as Barlow Deevit barreled in. The man opened the shower door and wrapped a meaty hand around Obi-Wan's arm, jerking the boy out. The young Jedi slipped a little on the wet floor, water dripping down his body in fat rivulets, but he caught himself and waited rigidly for an explanation – or an order.
"Oi – You been long enough. Right? Too right." Deevit pointed to a towel, leering at the nude boy before saying, "Git dry, right? Your master'll be back in two shakes, no doubt; you best be ready. He's flamin' mad."
Obi-Wan fumbled with the cloth a little; it was softer than anything he had felt in a long while. He wished he wasn't being rushed so, but scrubbed it over his body quickly, trying to be as discreetly modest as possible. He wrapped it around his waist and held it there in a knot, straightening some and settling his gaze to the man's feet.
A pause before Deevit said anything, "Oi – You got clothes?"
When Obi-Wan spoke his voice was very soft, but clear. He had learned it was best to sound as submissive as possible. The more he let these people think of him as something akin to an old protocol 'droid, the less chance there was of him being tricked into punishment. "Only the ones in here," he nodded to the dirty pile on the floor. A moment's hesitation and he ventured further: "Is something wrong?"
Deevit sneered, "Too flamin' right there is. And you're master's got a temper more dangerous than a bantha's ass near a lighter." He nudged the lump with the toe of his boot and harrumphed. "These're right disgustin'. Lord Vuyis don't like disgustin', do he? No, sir." And he trumped out of the refresher, leaving Obi-Wan alone. "I'll git someone to find you somethin'," he sighed irritably.
Obi-Wan bent over to pick up his clothes, a little uneasy, wondering what the problem might be – and if it had anything to do with him.
* * * *
Qui-Gon Jinn ran a hand over his now bare chin, sighing softly as he waited for the being he was to be contacted by. He sat straight in his seat, a glass of chilled ale he had ordered but not sipped waited at the center of the table. He rubbed one finger idly on its rim, his guarded gaze cast to the entrance.
And there was his man. Or, more specifically, his woman. She spotted him and weaved her way through the modest crowd to his table, pulling a chair out and seating herself at its edge.
"Alky," she said by way of introduction, not offering to expand on the name.
"Crion Dromus," Qui-Gon lied with a curt nod of his head.
Alky pulled out her knapsack and set it on the table, retrieving a datapad from it. She activated the tiny computer and set it before Qui-Gon. "These are all I have. They're listed there in numerical order."
"Numerical?" Qui-Gon scrolled through the information, face after face blinking onto the screen before he moved on to another.
"Yeah, doesn't matter. The numbers are for my records only. If you're looking for something specific…"
Qui-Gon nodded, fixing his attention back to her. "I want a boy," he said. "He – It needs to be a boy. Human basic."
Alky shrugged, taking the pad from him. When it was again set in his hands she had set it for his specifications. "Less to choose from," she warned, and settled more comfortably, slinging one arm over the back of her chair as she waited. Her hair was stark white and cut close to her head, making her face appear thin and long. Her skin was dark and tattooed; her body flat and without curves. One boot tapped evenly on the floor to a beat the Jedi could not hear.
Qui-Gon hunched over the datapad, pausing at each image to be sure. No Obi-Wan yet, but…
The pad beeped at him shrilly.
"That's all of'em," Alky said, leaning forward and bracing her bony elbows on the table. "You find anything you like?" She leered at him. Her teeth were filed down to sharp points.
Despondently Qui-Gon shook his head, falling against the back of his chair. "No…"
"Hm." Alky frowned. "You sure?" Slowly she put the pad back in her knapsack, as if inviting him to take another look if he wished.
"I'm sure. Thank you." Qui-Gon's focus returned to his glass of ale, the golden liquid trembled slightly from Alky's movements.
"Fine," the woman scowled, then shrugged, "But that's business." She stood and left him without another word.
Qui-Gon stared down at his hands. He pushed one through his mane of hair, and rose from his seat. He did not think as he moved out of the pub, through the streets, back to the docking yard where his ship waited. Never did the situation seem as bleak as it did these moments, when the hopes he hadn't consciously allowed himself to raise came crashing down.
Unclasping his dark cape and letting it fall to the floor, whooshing softly in its descent, he went to the cockpit, pulling out the durasheet and stylus with movements numb with their terrible familiarity.
* * * *
"Outrageous," Lord Vuyis was saying, his voice sharp with anger, "I hired these people so this wouldn't happen."
Obi-Wan watched him fly about the office, tossing datapads and scanners to the center of the floor where the boy knelt. The Padawan watched the tantrum silently as always, his head bowed, hands clasped in his lap.
Vuyis fell silent as he scrolled through some information on a disk he had popped into his travel scanner. Obi-Wan watched as the man's features hardened to a stony fury. "I'm losing it all," the slave master whispered. He raised his head to stare blankly at the boy on the floor. "If I don't meet what's enough be the next quarter's quota soon…" He fell silent, looking grimly down at Obi-Wan. "I can't do this," he sighed, deflating a bit, "Not now." He moved to the window, peering out at his wide lawn, the gentle hills that hugged his estate.
He ejected the disk from his scanner, frowning a little at it before tossing it into the small garbage chute. "Won't do it, now," he said with fake cheeriness, "Can't, now." He turned to Obi-Wan and stepped to him, his colorful robes whispering softly on the polished wooden floor.
"We need a vacation, Pet," he said quietly, and Obi-Wan stood. The movement seemed to please his new master for the man clapped his hands together and exclaimed lightly, "You are learning!" He lowered his voice, leaning in close, "Not that I wasn't completely satisfied with your performance last evening."
Obi-Wan's face flushed hotly as he remembered how close he had come, how far the man's torturous touches almost went. The man's hand found his neck, fingered the studded collar there. The lost Padawan did not move away – avoiding the touches only brought pain. He could stand this. He would stand this.
"You're almost ready," the man sighed happily.