There was a man dead in the street this morning. Shot. Stabbed. Both, as though his assaulter could not decide just how to kill him, and thus utilized both methods. Satine does not care to guess which method actually killed the man.

In another life, Satine Kryze could have been a pacifist. She certain of that as she stands on her doorstep, watching them load the body into a transport. There will be no investigation launched, she is sure: the man was a suspected rebel—though not proven—and this part of town does not have a high rate of crime—this was no accident. Perhaps the fact that the Empire had him killed here is a sign that they are becoming sloppy. Perhaps it is simply a sign that they do not care who knows what they have done. Soon, they may not even bother to make it look like someone else's doing. It wouldn't surprise her if, one day, she simply begins to find people dead in the streets, having been executed in plain sight by clones.

Yes, days like these, pacifism looks more and more attractive. If not for the fact that if they don't fight back, days like these will never cease, she'd be more than happy to swear off violence forever.

Leaning against the doorpost, she tries not to consider just how long these days will last, pacifism or not. Already, her head is throbbing—there is a man dead in plain view—and she doesn't need to make it worse. Tension, Obi-Wan tells her, and she wouldn't be surprised. These days, there's a lot of tension.

Given her current… situation, tension is not in her favor.

As she watches, the transport pulls away down the street, body safely ensconced inside. She will probably never hear another word about that man, though she did know him. Knew him well, actually, though she has never spoken to him, never even had contact with him. She does know him, though, because if she weren't married to Obi-Wan, she could quite easily be him. Dead, that is. Killed for suspected association with rebel factions.

"I take it I'm not the only one who isn't having a pleasant day?"

Jerking back against the door at the unexpected—and yet perpetually expected—voice, she laughs a little—humorlessly, of course, because moments ago, there was a man dead in the street—but does not turn to the side. Instead, she just keeps staring out toward where the man was moments ago. It's becoming busy again now, traffic resuming, and the scent of the heat of the duracrete tickles at her nose.

"You just missed the funeral procession," she says tiredly. Ten o'clock, and already she's tired.

When his body molds up behind her, she sinks back into it, grateful for the stability. "There will be more," he mutters, leaning his forehead into the back of her shoulder. "Today."

He's tired too—she can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he leans against her. She supposed he would be when he didn't turn up last night, but it's always difficult feeling the proof under her hands, against her skin. He tries so very hard, but in the life he's living, success is fleeting while disappointment is almost constant. It's enough to make anyone tired.

She turns then, slipping back through the doorway into the entryway of the house. The door zips shut behind her as she leans her back against the wall, letting him push her into the plaster, his hands on either side of her waist as he rests his cheek against her hair, leaning into her while he simply breathes.

Force, it's good to have him home. It's been, what? Three days now. She wasn't worried—not too much—but there's still something relieving about now having the chance to wrap her arms around the back of his neck, sinking her fingers up into his hair and holding him close. Mutual comfort—because they do both need it, and former Jedi or not, sometimes he does just need to be held. "What happened?"

"Another riot. Anakin was sent out."

"And that bothers you just as much as the riot, doesn't it?"

"Killing has become normal for him. Palpatine—he's succeeded in that."

"But not in everything."

"No, not in everything. Anakin is—he's not what Palpatine wants. He cares too much. Still has mercy."

"But you worry that isn't enough."

Obi-Wan sighs then, pulling away from her, letting his hands drift up to rest on her shoulders. They sit there lightly, gently, and he makes no protest when she raises her own hands to skim against his waist. "He still wants to rule. He wants power. And he'll kill for it."

"You haven't lost him yet."

She really does believe that. If there's anyone Anakin Skywalker would listen to, it's Obi-Wan Kenobi. Obi-Wan doesn't understand it, but Satine—she's seen Anakin in a way Obi-Wan can't ever objectively do, and she knows that, as much as Anakin wants power, he craves love too. He's attracted to Obi-Wan's light in the sense that he wants that light to love him—wants that light in the Force, wants what he's only ever seen in Obi-Wan. He doesn't understand it, but he's fascinated by it. But lust for power and love for that light—they don't coexist. Not properly. Eventually, he will have to choose.

But, for now, they don't have to face that. Not directly. "Where were you last night?" There is, of course, some humor to be had in that question: a phrase like that is the quintessential question of a jilted wife, worried about an affair. How humorous that, in her case, she's worried about nothing of the sort. If she were, it might be simpler. Not something she wants, but, still, less complicated.

Obi-Wan's lips quirk into a half smile. "Anakin sends his apologies."

Oh, yes, he always does. "What kind?"

"The kind he makes when he knows he's wrong."

Meaning he didn't have something he needed Obi-Wan to do. He was simply irritated with Obi-Wan and decided to express that irritation via retaliation. However, given that Anakin is apologizing and Obi-Wan is here today, Anakin must have concluded that his irritation was unfounded.

She nods, following him when he moves away from her and makes to head further into the house, in the direction of the sitting room. Clearly, it really has been a long morning for him: he only goes for the sofa this early when he simply has no inclination to deal with anything not absolutely necessary.

"I'll hazard to guess that he didn't take well to Miss Naberrie?"

"You guess right," Obi-Wan mutters, grunting softly when she settles down onto the couch as well, half on top of him. "He was fairly irritated when he finally realized I suggested her because she shared my views on the failings of the Empire. Apparently, from that he also concluded that I wanted him to get married so he'd be too distracted to notice my extracurricular actives."

"Palpatine was the one who strongly suggested he get married. And Anakin was the one who told you to pick someone, because he didn't want to be bothered."

"As you well know, Anakin tends to have a bit of a selective memory when he's annoyed. Even more so when he thinks he has reason to doubt the loyalty of someone he cares for."

Stretching out more fully, she tucks her head under his chin and murmurs pleasantly at the feel of his hands skating up her back, pressing at the knots he feels there, trying to work them out as best he can. He's like that with everything—always trying to work the knots out. "But his memory kicked in this morning?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"For how long?"

"Probably not long. Maybe even less than that. Have you heard anything?"

Heard anything? Goodness, yes. The rebellion is no better than any other group when it comes to gossip. But official information? "Nothing reliable yet. But I wouldn't be surprised if we got a call soon."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it came today," Obi-Wan admits, inhaling deeply, enough so that she feels his chest rise under her, lifting her up before he exhales again. "It'd be a perfect cover. The Imperials are already occupied with a riot. I'm not involved directly with that. If I were making the decision, I'd do it now. Though, perhaps I'm only thinking selfishly—I'd much rather meet at a time when Anakin is too busy to inquire after my whereabouts."

"I don't see how that's selfish. It would give everyone involved a better chance of success."

He hums an affirmative, causing his chest to rumble pleasantly. Goodness, it would be nice to have more times like this—times where they could just lie on the sofa together, talking. Preferably, they wouldn't be talking about war, but the sentiment is the same: she'd like more time with her husband.

"You should go to the palace and become acquainted with Padme," Obi-Wan suggests after a few moments of silence. "You'll like her, I think."

"Do you like her?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure I will as well. More importantly, do you think she can care for Anakin?"

A nod. "I think she can. I think—Anakin is not so unlikable when you get to know him, Satine."

She snorts lightly. Slightly undignified, yes, but then who's here to judge? "Nearly everyone he comes in contact with would beg to differ, Obi-Wan."

"Most don't get to know him."

"He doesn't let most get to know him."

She does at least receive an acknowledging sigh for her point. From Obi-Wan she would expect no less. He knows Anakin's faults better than anyone else… and loves him anyway, Force only knows how.

When Satine married him, she didn't expect that she would, in some respects, acquire the heir to the imperial throne as a sort of son/brother. The day dictates which Anakin is, really. What he needs from Obi-Wan in any given moment—and it is always complicated—so often determines their rolls.

"I think she can do it," Obi-Wan says after a short pause, voice more hopeful than she's heard it in a long time. Force, that's beautiful. That hope. Her husband. She leans in and kisses him then, just to see if she can taste a little of that hope in his words.

Maybe. Just a bit. And then her comlink rings.

Obi-Wan pulls away from her, shimmying to the side just a few inches until she moves over him, dropping into the space between his body and the back of the sofa. "That would be for us, I presume."

"Probably," she agrees. "I suppose I'll be getting to know the new Mrs. Skywalker rather soon after all."

He grabs the comlink off the side table and hands it to her. "I'm afraid that if you call her that, you won't be getting to know much about her at all."

It's a regrettable fact that Obi-Wan wears his flippancy awfully well. He couldn't get away with so much if he didn't. Still, just on principle alone, she does shoot him a stern look as she takes her call.

"Satine," she says by way of greeting. Her only answer is a stream of well-memorized letters and numbers. Good enough. Though, not good at all, really—she is half-tempted to tell Obi-Wan it was a wrong number. Because does she really want to relay a message that will send her husband into a situation of this nature?

If, as she'd anticipated, Obi-Wan were at the palace still, she might have been able to entertain that thought. But her husband—he has already read every scrap of emotion on her face, has gotten to his feet, and is heading to the door.

She severs the connection on her comlink. "Obi-Wan—"

Already, he's at the door. "We agreed, Satine," he says, smiling, and how can he smile? "No goodbyes. If every time I went into a situation like this we said goodbye, we'd be saying it far to often."

Of course, he's right. Her logical, even-tempered, rational husband. He is right, and still she can't agree. But she did. She agreed before when she logically thought about it. Not now, though—logic dies in the face of her husband's impending entrance into a war zone.

"Have a nice time with Padme," he tells her, hand on the door. "And steer clear of Anakin. I doubt he'll be in much of a congenial mood after he finds out what I've done."

"If."

Obi-Wan seems to find that as unlikely as she knows it really is. "He'll know I've done something," he says. "See you soon."

He's gone then. Nothing but a closed door and lingering smell on the sofa to indicate he was recently there at all. Some of his clothes may be in the closest, and his books might rest on the shelves, but those items—they could just as easily belong to a dead man as one still alive.

They could belong to someone else entirely.

But, then, that has always been Obi-Wan. He does not leave his mark in possessions or items. He leaves it on people.

And she doesn't feel as though he's left at all.

Bodies everywhere. Smashing into each other, into other things, shouting, and simply drowning in chaos. Anakin can feel the turbulence in the Force, in the way it buffets about him, swirling with fear and anger and unchecked emotions. It's uncontrolled, like the waves of the ocean in a storm.

Frankly, he has to wonder if anyone even remembers what this riot is actually about. He knows how these things go: it starts with a few people, angry over something. They fight amongst themselves, with others, or against an idea, and the confrontation turns violent. Others join. Soon, there are a million different reasons for why people are rioting. It's something different for everyone, even if they've all channeled their rage into a common instance of violence. Really, a riot is nothing more than a mass of rolling, roiling raw emotion spewing out in the form of a violent protest.

It wouldn't have taken much for Palpatine to start this—not that Anakin can prove he did. He can't, and he'll probably never be able to. At this point, it's not at the forefront of his mind.

Having people trying to overwhelm him on all sides will have that effect.

Spinning on his heel, he pivots cleanly, slicing off the hand of a man about to stab a vibroblade into his back. Foolish. It takes the man a minute to even realize his hand is gone, and when he does, he just sort of crumples, gasping for air like Anakin took his lungs instead of a limb.

Behind Anakin, the stormtroopers move as a mass, easily eliminating those in their way. If Anakin had wanted, he could have hung back, let them do their work: systematic annihilation. But he'd promised Obi-Wan, and he finds that when he goes in ahead, he's able to deter people by doing things like, well, chopping off limbs. Nice? No. But a lost hand is better than a shot to the heart, and if that's what it takes to get them down or, in the case of those who see someone else lose a limb, fleeing, that's what he'll do.

"Rex! What's our status?" he shouts, muscles burning as he swings his lightsaber again. A scream is his follow-through, but he hardly connects it to the motion. The raw, sicky-sweet smell that burns up into his nose moments later—that's harder to ignore. He's no stranger to killing, but that smell—it will always turn his stomach.

A blaster bolt rips into a man next to Anakin as Rex hollers back: "We've got the other side of the square locked down, Sir!"

Kriffing good news, that is. When he'd been called out to this, he'd been told a few hundred people, but the crowd has obviously grown since then. It's a bigger job than anticipated. More dead. More wounded.

"Got any other good news?"

Rex drops to his knee, unleashing another barrage of fire at a charging man. Predictably, the man goes down hard, a mess of limbs, sprawling off against the duracrete side of a building. Dead. Anakin would bet on it.

"Not really, Sir!" Rex calls, already firing again.

No, of course not.

"Oh, for the love of—" His lightsaber sears through someone's middle. "You'd think they'd just surrender by now! Or run. Or do something other than keep coming-!"

Of course, they don't, not even when it becomes obvious that they have no chance—an opportunity for nothing but death. It makes such strange sense, though. Death is better than torture, because it's quick, and if you don't have much to live for, why put yourself through the extra effort? And even if you did survive, you might be mad by the end of it, and is that really survival at all?

Anakin would know. He's seen it done. To people he cares about, even, maybe not like it will be done to these rebels, but still, it is enough. The mere memory is enough to make him surge forward harder, the core of him burning with hate. Palpatine. Someday, he'll kill him, just like he kills the man in front of him, the one behind him, leaving their faces forever frozen in that "Oh!" of surprise. Not Palpatine, though—there won't be enough left of him to have the luxury of a facial expression.

"No, Anakin! No! Come—no—just—"

Hands pulling him away from the mess, and he's screaming his throat raw.

"General Skywalker!"

His eyes burn—not tears, because he hasn't cried for a long, long time—but it's not for the carnage around him. It will never again be for anyone he doesn't know—hasn't been since he was a little boy who first saw Palpatine torture someone. He can't care for everyone. If every loss ate at him, he wouldn't survive. Feeling like that—he can't indulge in it.

"But I won't lose those few," he mumbles to himself… but it's more than that. It's a promise. It's the same one he's uttered every night for years, right before he goes to bed, and always—always—when he sees a blank death stare. And a promise like that—it has to be out loud. It makes it more real.

He doesn't turn when he's called, though he does answer with a clipped, "Yes, Rex?" Under his clothes, he can feel his muscles heaving with every breath, adrenaline surging.

But he is no longer moving… and that is probably why Rex called to him. There is no one left to cut down. They're contained… or dead.

"Sir, we're done."

"So I see."

And so he is wrong.

The Force saves him. Someone normal would not have seen the attack coming, but Anakin has never been normal—anything but—and the sharp screech of warning pulls him at the last minute, sending him into a roll. He hits the ground, tumbling, his lightsaber in the man's back before his victim can even reconsider how to regroup.

How in the name of the Force did he manage to sneak up like that?

A quick look answers that simply enough: he stripped the armor off of a dead clone. Clever. That armor is also enough to have slightly changed the course of the lightsaber, keeping him alive.

But not for long.

"No, Rex," Anakin says slowly, holding up a hand as he clambers to his feet. His other hand clenches tightly around his lightsaber. Rex lowers his blaster and steps back as Anakin slips forward, feet dragging through ground broken by shots. Oh, yes, he will enjoy this.

The man drags himself to his knees, one hand on the wound in his chest. The blood has drained entirely from his face, and given long enough, his wound would probably be fatal.

Anakin doesn't plan to give him long enough.

"I find," he says slowly, drawling out the words, "that I take particular offense when someone tries to kill me after the fighting has stopped."

Though crouching in the broken bits of duracrete must hurt the man's knees, he just scowls, looking at Anakin like he'd like to slice his face off and set fire to it. He must know his own death is impending. Bruises to flesh and dirty looks are the least of his worries.

Anakin ignites his lightsaber. "Nothing to say?"

Now he gets a reaction: not much, just a harsh jerking of the man's face. Is he trying to kill Anakin with looks alone? Not likely. The man is young, thirty maybe. And he has kind eyes. He wasn't meant for killing, and it shows. "I don't much care what offends you."

Anakin raises an eyebrow and takes a step forward until he towers over the man. Behind him, the clones quietly begin to form a circle. They suspect what he's about to do, and if the man tries to run, they'll be ready. "No? I'm the one who gets the pleasure of deciding how quickly you die. Be nice and I might make it quick. If not…" He pauses, coldly assessing. He doesn't enjoy torture, but he does consider it a personal affront that this man attempted to quite literally stab him in the back. "If not, I could always turn you over to the Emperor."

Yes, that earns him a glimmer of fear, present in the way the man's eyes glaze slightly. He knows then, has heard the rumors of what Palpatine does to people.

What Palpatine does. Yes, what he does. What he does makes Anakin sick.

No, he'll kill this man himself. No one deserves what Palpatine does.

"I take that back. You can offer me nothing," Anakin says after a pregnant pause. "I have no reason to waste more of my time."

That ends things then. He ignites his lightsaber. The man laughs.

Interesting. That's a reaction he doesn't get much.

"Your end is coming, Skywalker," he spits out. Or not. Because a moment later, he does actually spit on Anakin's boots.

No class, this one. Though, if he were in this man's position, Anakin can't really say he wouldn't do the same.

Still, he knees the man in the face, just for good measure.

"So I've been told," he says dryly. Every bedtime story Obi-Wan ever told him essentially prophesied that. Oh, not in so many words, and not about him. Obi-Wan would never do that to a small child. But, yes, they had quite clearly had morals that were not at all ambiguous in how they described what end the dark side would lead to.

But that—it does not seem to be what this man is talking about. There is almost glee in his face, bordering on madness, the kind heightened by the fact that he is about to die: for all his bravado, he cannot control the sweat beading on his upper lip or the trembling of his limbs. Even his brown hair, filthy with sweat and dirty and a little bloody, is plastered to his head as though it has already wilted and died.

"Well?" Anakin prompts, pushing the lightsaber toward the man, bathing him in red and bending the color in his eyes. They're mad eyes when faced with color like that—possessed almost.

The man laughs. "You know nothing. Living life inside a palace. You know nothing of what we do, of why we would do this, give our lives for a riot we can't win. And we can't." He shakes his head then, laughing so hard that he's almost gulping air, hyperventilating. "We can't win, but others can. And they will. Because of the sacrifices we have made."

A pretty speech, Anakin thinks as he beheads him in one swift motion. A good speech, but never likely to come true.

"Sir," Rex says from behind him as Anakin watches the man's head thump to the side, rolling away like a haphazard tire.

"Yes?"

"One of the men we caught in the riot—he's talking. Real coward, afraid to die. Says his brother is at some kind of meeting. Some rebel thing. If we let him live, he promises to give us the location."

Deactivating his lightsaber, Anakin clips it to his belt and turns around, looking askance. "Get the location. Then kill him."

Cruel? Maybe, but Anakin has no use for cowards, specifically men who betray their comrades just to save their own skin. He may want to destroy the rebels, but he can appreciate loyalty and solidarity, even among their ranks, just as he can despise disloyalty.

Rex nods. His helmet is on, but when he speaks, there's enough hesitancy in his voice for Anakin to guess that, if it weren't, his face would be too perfectly calm to mean anything but trouble.

"The man gave us names, Sir. Told us who might be there."

The back of his neck begins to tingle, spreading down his spine. No. He specifically told Obi-Wan not to do anything today. "And?" he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"And if I were you, Sir, I would verify Kenobi's whereabouts." Apparently, Rex receives another message, because his hand snaps to his helmet, like it always does when he's getting information. "Bastard gave us the location," he says after a moment, hand slowly falling away.

Anakin shoves his lightsaber back on his belt. He needs the location. Now. Why is Rex wasting time? "Where?"

Rex pauses again, but just as Anakin's about to throttle him, he seems to sense that, whatever he has to say, the effect will not be lessened by a wait. "I don't know, Sir," he answers, calmly and clearly—and Anakin has no clue how he can deliver a message like this in that tone—in a way that embellishes nothing and instead leaves the fact brutally bear. "As is policy, they immediately sent the information back to the palace. They were given instructions not to communicate the location to anyone else… including you, Sir."

And that's enough to have Anakin mentally uttering all kinds of curse words—because there is only one reason Palpatine would give that order.

Anakin is already running for a transport, heart pounding harder than it had at any point during the riot. "Find out that location, and find Obi-Wan," he shouts over his shoulder to Rex, who's fallen in behind him, running at his back. "When you find him, I don't care what you have to do—shoot to maim if you need to—but get him out of Palpatine's way."

Now. Because if Palpatine hasn't called Anakin back, there's only one reason: he knows Obi-Wan is at that location. Just another Jedi caught in the crossfire. A ready-made excuse for Palpatine, and in one easy move, he'll have eliminated the last person Anakin cares for.

And Anakin will not accept that.

He runs harder.