"You're allowed five minutes."

Anakin didn't even get to process those words before the doors suddenly flew open, and then all he felt were warm, trembling arms and his mom's shirt as he was dragged forward. And then he closed his eyes, breathed in his mom, who smelled a little like the bread she had gotten this morning—this morning?

"Ani—oh, my boy—"

"Mom—" Anakin's voice cracked, and he hated that it did, because he was pretty sure the Peacekeepers could hear him from outside, and he didn't want them to hear him like this, but—

"You need to stay alive, do you understand?" Shmi whispered fiercely, combing her fingers through Anakin's hair. "Please, you have to—"

"I know," Anakin said. "Mom, I'll really try—"

"Don't try," Shmi said, and she briefly pulled away, looked at Anakin in the eye. Her eyes were dark brown, so unlike his own blue, he knew, but he never felt like that difference counted. He knew that there was every bit of her in him than he could ever know. "Anakin, don't try—just win. Alright?" She brushed her thumb under Anakin's eye, and Anakin felt like he was a nine year old again.

"I will," Anakin said. He caught his mom's hand, squeezed it tightly. "And after, we'll listen to the music—"

Shmi let out a small half-laugh. She looked up at Anakin, placed her other hand on his face.

Anakin didn't know how much time they had left. He didn't want to check.

"I won't be afraid, Mom," he said. "But if you see me—"

"I'll see you win," Shmi replied. She squeezed Anakin's hand back. "I'll see you win, and that will be all there is to it." She swallowed. "And when I see you win," she said slowly, "you'll come straight home to me."

"We'll be rich," Anakin said, and he tried to sound happy, tried to lighten his tone, but Shmi shook her head.

"I don't care if we're rich," she said. "Just come back to me."

Anakin nodded.

"You're allowed to bring something of your own district with you," Shmi said, her hand delving into her pocket. "I…didn't have much to bring, but I…" She passed along a small block of wood, a small knife that Anakin concealed with his own hand. He doubted that the Peacekeepers would be happy to find one of the tributes already with a weapon. "Carving used to always calm you down, so if you…" She blinked a few times. "If you make something nice, maybe it'll be a good luck charm."

Anakin smiled. It hurt. But he tucked the wood block in his pocket too, and then he squeezed both of his mom's hands. "Thanks, Mom."

Shmi gave Anakin a small smile, and then the doors were opening, and Anakin looked up to find the Peacekeepers—not one, but three—marching on. "Mom, I think we're out of time."

Shmi didn't turn around. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too, Mom," Anakin said, and he forced his voice steady as one of the Peacekeepers grabbed Shmi's elbow. He saw the way the Peacekeeper's knuckles curled, the quick flash of pain across his mom's face, and then Anakin was standing up, already reaching out again. "Don't touch her—"

But then the doors were opening again, and the Peacekeepers stopped.

"That's the mother of the tribute you're handling," Padmé Amidala said sharply. "And the mother of a potential Victor. I would try to treat her with a little more respect."

Anakin stared. The Peacekeepers only exchanged glances at one another, but then they were letting go of Shmi's arm, letting her walk unrestrained. Anakin swallowed, watched Shmi head out of the room with her head lifted. And then, right behind herself, Anakin saw her squeeze her hands together—a silent signal to Anakin. I love you.

Anakin's chest hurt, but even when the doors closed, he didn't dare say anything.

Which was fine, because it seemed that Padmé was more interested in starting the conversation herself.

"Well," she said, giving Anakin an appraising look, "are you frightened?"

Anakin straightened. "No."

A quirk of her lips, but then Padmé was moving towards Anakin. For a second, Anakin didn't know whether to stand up or remain seated, but then Padmé leaned against the other side of the wall, her arms folded over her chest and her eyes flicking over to Anakin again.

Anakin met her stare. He realized that even from this much closer, her eyes weren't as dark as he had initially thought they were. She was watching him skeptically, carefully. Anakin wondered if he looked the same.

"The next few days are going to be difficult," she said. "And the second you walk out those doors and onto the train, people will be watching your every move. Do you understand?"

Anakin nodded.

"So we'll have to work on your persona." Padmé pushed herself off the wall, took a few slow steps around the room. She glanced at Anakin again. "Threepio will have some ideas—he's a nervous type, but when he has a good idea, it's a goldmine." She tilted her head at Anakin. "We already have some footage to go off of."

For a heart-stopping second, Anakin wondered if this woman somehow already knew how he could get into the other districts' radios, but then Padmé said, "The cameras caught you helping out that little boy. That made some impression, I'm sure." She turned herself fully to Anakin again. "Stand up."

Anakin stood.

Padmé looked him over again. She nodded, the look in her eyes distant, calculating figures Anakin didn't even know of. "You look threatening enough," she said. "Tall. Stronger than most. But with some heart in there. That's good. The Capitol will eat that up."

"And that's a good thing?"

"It's a great thing," Padmé said. "You'll get more sponsors that way." She lifted her eyes to Anakin. "Well, come on then. Off we go."

"You're allowed three minutes."

Three minutes? That wasn't enough—

So as soon as the doors opened, Ahsoka launched herself forward, found herself tangled in a pile of arms and hands. For just a moment, Ahsoka could only rock into them, her face buried in her dad's chest, her brothers' hands on her back, her shoulders. She didn't care if the flower in her hair got crumpled, and she didn't care if they were being watched by cameras or anything. For three minutes, she wanted as much as her family as she could possibly get because she knew in just a little bit of time, she would be whisked away on the other side of the country, right to the Capitol—

"When you go in," Wolffe was saying, "you have to hide. Just hide, Ahsoka. Don't do anything tricky."

"I don't even know if there'll be a good place to hide," Ahsoka said into her dad's chest.

"There will be," Plo Koon said, and Ahsoka's chest hurt at how hollow his voice was, how painfully low. "They always need to have some hiding places, otherwise the games would be over too quickly." Ahsoka felt him rest his cheek against the top of her head, felt the hands around her squeeze again.

"I'll come back," Ahsoka said. She swallowed. She squeezed her arms around her dad's waist, reached out for a hand—anyone's. She found Boost's hand, and for once, her brother didn't have any jokes to crack. She almost wished he would, just to take her mind off things, but she knew there wasn't any point in it now. "I promise I'll come back. I'll outsmart everyone, you'll see."

"Of course you will," Comet said immediately. "The other tributes will be dumb as bricks."

Ahsoka was glad for the reassurance. She managed a smile that she hoped wasn't too watery.

But that didn't work, because then she saw her brothers' faces crumple, and then they were back to burying their faces against each others' shoulders, clinging onto whatever was left of themselves. Ahsoka didn't care if she couldn't see anything or that she couldn't really breathe under all the arms and limbs—she would gladly take the few seconds of being unable to breathe, because at least that meant that her family was still with her—

"Time's up," came the Peacekeeper's rough voice. "Out."

Too soon, Ahsoka felt her dad and her brothers' arms being yanked away, and she cried out, tried to reach for them, and she caught her dad's hand for just an instant—just by the fingers, but then they were slipping away too, and then the door slammed shut, and Ahsoka was left alone.

For a moment, Ahsoka could only hear the sounds of half-dragged footsteps and her brothers' shouts, and Ahsoka wished she could make out their words, but then they were gone.

Ahsoka dropped down to the closest seat she could find—a ridiculously upholstered chair that seemed to match with the other ridiculously expensive looking furniture around her. Velvet linings, dark wooden surfaces that shined in an odd way, dusty, heavy books with yellowing pages that Ahsoka was pretty sure had never been read.

Ahsoka looked out the window. She could already see the train making its way towards the district, and she knew that in just a few moments, she would be boarding that very train. She would be making her way to the Capitol, where her face would be featured on every camera for every second of her life.

Ahsoka took in a shuddering breath. And then she reached up to her hair and found the crumpled flower in between the strands. She let it slip into her hand, and she held it up for herself. The marigold's petals had crumpled, the short stem twisted. Ahsoka smoothed it out in her hand, fingered the petals. She would probably have to give it up soon, if not now.

Ahsoka closed her fingers around the marigold, but she didn't crush it. She would throw it out the train, she decided. Right when they were crossing the boundary of her district—one part of her would remain home when the rest of her wasn't.

Ahsoka nodded to herself. Just one part of her.

She was sticking the half-crumpled flower in her pocket when the doors opened again. Ahsoka's head snapped up, even though she knew it couldn't be her family.

But then she stopped, and for a dizzying second, Ahsoka thought—

The person standing in front of her looked almost exactly like Ahsoka's brothers. The same brown eyes, the same jawline, the same chin, the same warm complexion. The only difference was that this person stood straighter, and instead of dark hair, Ahsoka found just the barest of blond fuzz from the otherwise shaved head.

But besides all that—

Ahsoka's chest hurt again.

"Who…"

"Rex," the man said. "I'm your mentor."

Ahsoka stared. The Victor hadn't shown up at the reaping, she remembered. And he was standing right in front of her now, and Ahsoka wondered why she couldn't remember seeing his face before. She should have been able to remember his face, because it looked so much like her brothers'—

"Ahsoka," Ahsoka managed to reply.

Rex nodded. He paused, and then, after a moment, he reached into his pocket and a moment later, Ahsoka found herself staring at a cluster of other slightly-crumpled marigolds. The same marigolds that her dad had given her brothers.

Ahsoka's throat tightened.

"I caught your family on my way here," he said. "They didn't have any formal token with them, but they gave what they could." He nodded down to Ahsoka's hand.

Ahsoka slowly lifted her hand, and Rex closed the flowers into her palm.

"Now," Rex said. "Let's get started."

There wasn't even any time necessarily needed for Obi-Wan to wait in the room that most tributes used to say goodbye to their families. For him, he just needed to step on the train with Qui-Gon and Satine, and that was it.

He now sat on the couch—it was a rather nice couch, but then again, this was a rather nice train because it was a Capitol train, after all—and watched the recordings of today's reaping. There was a young boy, as Obi-Wan suspected, selected from District 12. Another twelve-year old, with dark hair and defiant green eyes who positioned himself next to Katooni, who now had to be thirteen at the most.

District 11 brought with it a young girl—not as young as the District 12 tribute—but still relatively young, one with a marigold in her hair. She waved to the camera, and she looked almost cheerful, which Obi-Wan supposed he could give her some credit for.

The next district tributes passed by quickly: a boy around Obi-Wan's age wearing a strange hat came from District 10, a young girl whose black hair was bunched around the back of her neck from District 9, another girl with a head covering and a splash of freckles across her face came from District 8. A young boy with short brown hair and folded arms came from District 7, and another boy with grey-green eyes stepped up to the stage from District 6. District 5 brought with it a young woman with long hair in two braids down her back, and District 4 brought with it a silent, broad young man who didn't so much as acknowledge either escort or mentor.

District 3 was somewhat interesting—Obi-Wan watched as a young man with chestnut curls and bright, blue eyes helped up a young boy who had collapsed in fear. For a moment, he didn't seem to hear that the escort had called up his name. But when he finally did, the young man made his way up the stage, looked blankly at the cameras.

The last tribute—District 2—was also semi-interesting, Obi-Wan supposed. Another young man, one with a fierce yellow-toothed grin who spoke in slow, soft tones that he was glad to have been chosen.

And then Obi-Wan watched himself: head held high, a hero's smile that greeted the cameras.

"Well, you certainly look smug," Satine said.

Obi-Wan turned around. He didn't know how long she had been standing there. She had taken off her headdress, and now her hair fell back around her shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on the television though, arms crossed over her chest. "Very smug," she added.

"Confident, you mean," Obi-Wan said, turning back around to the television.

"No, I mean smug," Satine replied. "But whatever gets you sponsors, I suppose."

"Not to worry," Obi-Wan said, leaning over for the remote. He clicked off the television. "That'll be the mentor's job."

Satine let out a short breath. "Where is your father, anyways?"

"He said he had to settle some affairs," Obi-Wan replied. He heard Satine sigh behind him again, and then he looked up to find Satine moving around to the couch beside him. She sat down, smoothed out her dress, and took out a touchscreen pad. "Are we getting started, then?"

"We might as well, if your father's going to be late," Satine muttered. She looked up at Obi-Wan. "I can't exactly give you any advice on the training front, but I suppose you already have the majority of that training done on your own anyways?"

Obi-Wan nodded.

"Right, then," Satine said, looking back down at her pad. She swept up the screen a few times, and with a small smile, she said, "Yes, the Capitol's already got their eye on you. Adopted son of a Victor, a Career, all of that." She narrowed her eyes at the screen and commented, "They rather liked your smile, it says here."

"I knew what I was doing," Obi-Wan said.

Satine only hummed. "Well, then, if you plan to keep playing up that—as you say, confident—persona, then you might as well have a plan on how to maintain it." She drummed her finger against the pad. "Especially with your interview with Hondo Ohnaka."

Ah, yes. Hondo Ohnaka, the Capitol's one and only host for the Hunger Games. Obi-Wan was fairly certain he had been hosting for longer than he probably ought to—but it was impossible to tell how old Hondo was. He had a certain ageless quality about him and a seemingly endless refuse of energy which didn't at all seem to run out in the years. If anything, Obi-Wan was fairly certain he had only grown more energetic recently.

"He'll probably ask about your father," Satine said, setting the pad down on the coffee table. "Some good memories growing up with dear old dad. Something about asking if you're there to fill the shoes. You'll need to share something heartwarming, but not enough so that people will think you're—"

"I know," Obi-Wan interrupted.

Satine smiled, although it wasn't a particularly kind one. She opened her mouth, and Obi-Wan wondered what comment he would get next when the doors slid open behind them.

"Good, you've already started discussions," Qui-Gon said, seating himself in the couch on Obi-Wan's other side. He glanced at the television, even though it was turned off. He looked back at Obi-Wan. "Who did you see?"

"A few people of interest," Obi-Wan said. "District 2 might stir up some trouble."

"District 2 will look to you for an alliance," Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan had thought of that, but he didn't particularly like the look on District 2's face when he came up on the stage. Nor did he particularly like the silent glarer of District 4. He had the sneaking suspicion that both parties would be more likely to stab him in the back than anything else.

"He'll have to look for it elsewhere," Obi-Wan said.

If Qui-Gon was surprised by Obi-Wan's disinterest in the potential alliance, he didn't show it. "Very well," Qui-Gon said. "In the meantime, we'll have to prepare you for the training. There'll be your display first, but after, with the training period, try to go to every station."

Qui-Gon sat back in his seat, gave Obi-Wan a pointed look. "Everyone will already suspect that you know your way around most weaponry, so only warm up. Don't show the full extent of your skills."

Obi-Wan nodded. "As for the other stations—"

"Get a good sweep of who you're up against," Qui-Gon replied. "Note everyone else's strengths, if they're showing them at all."

Obi-Wan nodded again. He paused, and then, he asked, "As for the stylist?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "You'll see."

Anakin wasn't sure what he was expecting what his stylist would look like—he didn't know what to expect of most Capitol people, except that so far, from his limited conversations with Threepio (limited because Anakin quickly discovered that he couldn't tolerate any longer than two minutes of the anxious prattle of his escort), they often dressed ridiculously and spoke for ridiculously long amounts of time. Anakin wasn't sure if perhaps that was all because Capitol people enjoyed hearing themselves talk or simply forgot that people from the actual districts knew how to talk themselves.

But he didn't get the impression that Threepio didn't think Anakin was stupid—he just had a feeling that Threepio was a little wired. Padmé didn't seem to mind. If anything, she seemed to find it all rather amusing.

Anakin wished that he could feel the same sentiment, but he figured it was easier for Padmé to be amused. She wasn't the one going into the arena.

And then Anakin felt bad thinking that, because she had done her due, so he shouldn't resent her for not having to go through it this time around.

He spent most of his time on the train listening to Padmé a little more after that, and he managed to get in a few more conversations with Threepio. But most of the time, when he was left alone, he spent his time with the chip of wood and knife. So far, no one had found the knife yet, and Anakin was careful to keep it concealed in his pocket at all times. He wasn't sure what he was designing yet—just that he had carved off a bit of wood here, a bit of wood there.

Anakin contemplated taking out that bit of wood now, working on it some more when the doors slid open in front of him.

He heard Threepio's prattling voice—"really, what took you so long, I made him show up this early for nothing"—and then an offended huff, followed by more of Threepio: "no need to give me that gesture, really, how rude—"

"Really, how rude," a voice mimicked, and Anakin looked up to find a surprisingly short man wearing a flashing—actually flashing, with little lights sewn into the fabric—blue and white suit. There was a single red cloth napkin folded at the front pocket of the jacket, which seemed to flash a little too as the man strolled forward. "I swear that absolute droid gets worse by the day."

The man flopped down on the chair across from Anakin, looked at him as though to say am I right?

When Anakin didn't respond right away, the stylist sighed and straightened himself. He stuck out a hand. "Artoo, at your service."

"Anakin," Anakin said, shaking the hand. He was surprised at the enthusiastic pump of Artoo's hand before he settled back in his seat.

"So," Artoo said, tilting his head to look at Anakin. "Look at you. District 3's tribute. You know, we might actually stand a chance this year." He rested his elbows on his knees, examined Anakin by tilting his head in the opposite direction. After a moment, he asked, "Are you afraid?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Anakin asked, exasperated. "I'm not."

Artoo grinned. "I like that," he said. "That's good. Good attitude." He looked at Anakin. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Are you going to make me look stupid?" Anakin asked, giving the flashing red cloth at Artoo's pocket a pointed look.

Artoo didn't seem to take any offense. "Of course not," he said. "We want to make you look like a fucking winner, don't we?" He grinned, and Anakin noticed there was a gap between his teeth, which struck him odd, because most Capitol freaks seemed obsessed with making sure there were never any imperfections (or, at least, what they deemed were imperfections) amongst them whatsoever.

"District 3," Artoo said. "You're technology. You guys are the ones making our screens, our little techy doo-das." He flashed a grin at Anakin and gestured around the room, where Anakin saw a television, reflective windows that could turn into screens, a laptop running without sound. Most of the tech that Anakin dealt with would go straight to the Capitol—none of it really ever remained in District 3, where the most people had was a radio, a battered television that still relied on antennae and showed grainy pictures.

"So you're going to dress me up like a screen?" Anakin asked flatly.

Artoo laughed. "Fuck no, that's gross." He took something out of his pocket—a small, rectangular tablet that Anakin knew was a smartphone. One of the newer models. "Sleek, simple design," Artoo said, slipping it between his hands. "But inside, a whole tangle of mechanism that the average Capitol citizen wouldn't know if it meant saving their own fucking life." He set the phone on the coffee table between them, grinned again, and Anakin wondered if perhaps this stylist was just a little mad.

"So," Artoo said, looking at Anakin with that same bright smile, "how do you feel about getting paint?"

Ahsoka wasn't sure what to expect of her stylist—she had only ever met one Capitol person ever, and that had been her escort, who eventually named herself Ventress. For a moment, Ahsoka couldn't believe that was her name, and she had spent a good second wondering when she would give her real name, but her escort had only flashed her a smile (bared her teeth, more like), and said, "That's my name, pet. Going to laugh?"

Ahsoka had decided that she wasn't going to bother asking. She had decided that she wasn't going to bother asking Ventress any more questions than she absolutely had to, anyways. Ventress didn't seem to care too much about giving any answers. Her first words to Ahsoka when she got on the train were, "oh, thank God you didn't cry, I can't stand the crying", and Ahsoka hadn't known whether to be relieved or annoyed at her callous tone.

The few other times Ahsoka had encountered Ventress were only ever at meal times on the train: Ventress always had her legs up on the table, and she seemed intent on stabbing at her food rather than cutting into them. Ahsoka thought that was odd, but when Ahsoka had apparently grabbed the wrong fork, Ventress snapped that she at least eat with the right utensils, for the love of—

She didn't get to finish whatever she was saying, because Rex had interrupted, bored, "Then at least get your feet off the table."

Ventress had rolled her eyes, but she had swung her legs off the table eventually.

Ahsoka had the strange feeling not all Capitol people acted as Ventress did, but then again, how was she really supposed to know? The only other Capitol person Ahsoka had ever even somewhat knew was the escort before Ventress, and even then, it wasn't like Ahsoka really knew the previous escort.

So Ahsoka wasn't exactly expecting her Capitol stylist to be just a girl like herself.

Well, maybe not a girl—maybe she was secretly much, much older, but the Capitol had some secret technology that could de-age a person. But the girl looked young enough, with shockingly purple hair grouped in two separate tresses down each side of her head. Her eyes—amber, surprisingly warm—looked young too, and when she came closer, Ahsoka found that her stylist was actually shorter than herself.

"Hello," her stylist said now, smiling. "You must be Ahsoka."

"That's me," Ahsoka said. She regarded her stylist warily. "And you're—"

"Riyo Chuchi," her stylist said. She gestured down to the couch. "You should take a seat."

Ahsoka sat. She regarded Riyo warily. Her stylist was dressed plainly too, wearing only a deep purple blouse fashioned with golden buttons, a matching purple skirt. Besides the purple hair, Ahsoka wouldn't have believed that her stylist was a Capitol person.

Riyo, to her credit, regarded Ahsoka with the same quiet carefulness. After a moment, Riyo smiled again. "That's a lovely outfit."

Ahsoka looked down at herself. She had chosen whatever clothes had been made available to her when she woke up this morning: a red shirt, grey pants. She had liked the colors, especially the red. She had tried to find her skirt—her skirt, the one that had been given to her on her birthday, but it was nowhere to be found. Ahsoka had some suspicions that had been tossed out, and for a moment, she had felt utterly alone again.

"Thank you," Ahsoka said.

"Do you have any concerns about the costume you're to wear later?" Riyo asked.

"As long as you don't make me go naked, we should be fine," Ahsoka said. She turned away from Riyo, from those warm amber eyes that shouldn't be warm because they were in the Capitol.

Ahsoka heard a quiet laugh. "Of course not," Riyo said. "I would hate to be naked in public myself."

Ahsoka turned back to Riyo to find her tugging out a smooth, flat device. A smartphone, Ahsoka realized. She had seen Ventress carry one around with herself, talking with someone in hushed tones. When Ahsoka came near, Ventress would glare at her and mouth shoo.

But Ahsoka had seen Rex with one too—Rex at least would turn off his phone and give her a little nod.

That was the other thing—Ahsoka found that she felt more comfortable around Rex, although she wasn't sure if that was because he looked like her brothers or if it was because he was actually from her district. Most likely the former, even though it made Ahsoka feel like an idiot.

"I've been to your district once," Riyo said now, and she slid her phone across the table to Ahsoka.

Ahsoka looked down. Photos of fields—all green and long and going for ages. Home, even with its stupid Peacekeepers and food shortages and power outages. She wondered if she could find her house nearby.

"Your costume will reflect your district—but most importantly, your home," Riyo said. She slowly edged her phone away, and then she smiled at Ahsoka again: a smaller, sadder smile. "Do you have anything of home in particular that you would like to include?"

Ahsoka thought of the marigolds. She had tossed them out at the border line between District 11 and the next, and she had watched the flowers flutter briefly in the breeze before falling right on the tracks. She hoped that some other breeze would pick up the marigolds and bring them closer home.

Riyo was still watching Ahsoka.

Ahsoka shook her head.

Obi-Wan had prepared himself for the worst when it came to meeting his stylist—he had met many Capitol people in his life, usually only in a brief exchange or two mostly because of District 1 doing the most business within the Capitol as well as the fact that his father was a Victor. Each time he met with someone from the Capitol, Obi-Wan was left with the same vague sense that he wouldn't be able to recognize again should they ever meet again. There was always some new style Capitol people seemed to chase: new clothes, new jewelry, new hair, new face, new voice. Obi-Wan had once had the misfortune to meet a woman with what he was fairly certain were bug eyes—literal bug eyes, all beady and black and too reflective—when he was a young boy, and he had nightmares for what felt like months on end.

If his stylist happened to have bug eyes, Obi-Wan wouldn't be surprised. He'd prefer that there were no strange altercations of the eyes or animal implants in his stylist whatsoever, but then again, he was only supposed to deal with his stylist for a few days, and then he was off.

The doors slid open, and Obi-Wan sat up to find a young man—really, probably just a few years older than him, maybe even the same age as himself—stroll in. He had close-cropped black hair, deep brown skin, and Obi-Wan saw, most curiously, a scar snaking from his temple down to below his right eye. He didn't think Capitol people were capable of having scars, or, at the very least, keeping them. He was dressed relatively simply too, with a black shirt tucked into black trousers. The only semi-eye-catching thing about his attire was his jacket: an off-white with a thin band of orange running down the sides.

"You're here early," were the stylist's first words.

"As are you," Obi-Wan replied. That much was true. Obi-Wan didn't have to be here technically for another ten minutes, as per the time his stylist had requested. But neither Qui-Gon nor Satine had argued when Obi-Wan suggested he arrive early for his stylist.

His stylist now paused, assessing Obi-Wan with dark, alert eyes. "Well," he said, "then I suppose we're both prepared, aren't we?"

"I suppose we are," Obi-Wan replied mildly.

A beat of silence passed between them before his stylist finally sat down.

"I'm Cody," his stylist said at last. "But I already know who you are."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Obi-Wan said anyways. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Cody gave Obi-Wan a sardonic smile, and Obi-Wan mirrored the expression. Obi-Wan supposed he could appreciate a little bit of that dry, dark humor in the unspoken words between them: is it really a pleasure? After all, from Cody's perspective, Obi-Wan was surely nothing more than a lamb to be dressed before being sent to a slaughterhouse. And Obi-Wan—well, he wasn't exactly sure what to make of Cody, except that he had a style and will of his own, judging by the scar and the clothes and the way Cody looked at Obi-Wan now.

Cody crossed a leg over his knee. "Well," he said, "we'll be getting started shortly, so if you're ready…"

"I am," Obi-Wan replied.

"Good." Cody stood up, looked down at Obi-Wan with another smile—this one less sardonic, moreso amused. "I wasn't what you expected."

Obi-Wan considered his potential answers. He only looked up at Cody. "I suppose not."

"Well." Cody rested an elbow against the back of the chair he had just been sitting in. After a moment, he said, "You can ask, you know." He gestured towards the side of his face "How I got this."

Obi-Wan blinked. He hadn't been expecting that.

"Everyone gets curious," Cody said. "People get their little cuts fixed all the time around here. Easy. All the best medical attention in the country is right here, in this city." He tilted his head at Obi-Wan's. "So you have to be wondering."

A moment passed. Another, another.

Obi-Wan leaned back in his own seat. Crossed his own leg over his knee. "I wasn't wondering how you got it," he said. "I was wondering why you keep it." He nodded at Cody. "Like you said, all the best medical attention right here in this city. So you must have kept the scar for some reason."

Cody regarded Obi-Wan with steady eyes. "Same reason I became a stylist," he said. He pushed himself away from the chair, took a few steps back. "I like making impressions."

Obi-Wan stood up as Cody started for the door. "And it seems, Obi-Wan Kenobi from District 1," Cody said over his shoulder, "we're about to make yours."

A/N: Today's my first day of classes, but not to worry, I'll stay on top of these updates because I have chapters pre-written and etc. As always, reviews/follows/favorites are deeply appreciated!