Italics are flash-forward in time.

TPM Tatooine Rewrite: Through Glass

By: Syntyche

chapter five: it's all fun and games …

Oh Force.

They're coming for me.

She's coming for me.

I can hear them laughing and I know she's waiting. She's always waiting.

Force, they're going to open the box and they're going to touch me. They're going to touch me.

It's almost funny how I used to relish the touch of another, as a comfort, a balm, an assurance of physical nearness. Now I hate the thought. They're going to open the box and they're going to take me out and to do that they have to touch my red, blistered skin, and it's going to hurt, and I'm scared.

I'm absolutely terrified.

I can feel the open sores oozing something viscous and warm and I wish I could see what it is so I know whether or not to worry…

Immediately I realize the absurdity of this thought. Of course I should worry, only I can't because I start to panic when I worry, and I have to stay under control. Focused. They can't be allowed the pleasure of seeing me quite literally lose my mind, though Force knows they've tried very hard to. I can't see anything. I wonder if my eyes are damaged. It's very dark and cramped and I've not had any light in days, but every inch of my body feels like it's on fire and I can't help but wonder if they've hurt my eyes. She made them promise not to but they don't always listen and I remember them laughing and they said they were going to … oh Force, what if they've scored my eyes?

Slow down, Kenobi. Careful.

Deep breaths. No panic attacks. You're above those. You're a Jedi. Regardless of whatever else they may have taken from you, you're still a Jedi. At least you remember that much. Just try to focus.

I can hear them now, unlocking the lid to this hellish contraption. Any minute now their hands are going to be scrabbling over my bare skin, forgoing any gentleness as they try to lift me out – they'll certainly be on their own in that task; I think my body is permanently coiled from being cramped in this tiny space for so long.

Whatever I did to earn this punishment, I will never, ever do again. To burn in the day and freeze at night in a container that wouldn't even comfortably fit … Ana … A … A … who? Who was I thinking of?

Does it matter?

From the haze that's my brain, I search for the name but remain clueless. Maybe I'll remember it later, maybe not. Thankfully, another name registers in the fog, and I latch onto it gratefully and clutch it tightly like it's some sort of priceless treasure: Delian. And to me it is indeed something precious; I need something familiar to hold on to, anything that might help me to remember and keep me just a little bit sane. I'll need all the help I can get:

They've come for me, and she's waiting.

OOOOOOOOOO

The Corellian wasn't sure what led her back to Mos Espa – and later on she would fervently deny that the Force could have had anything to do with it whatsoever – but a few days after her initial visit to the tiny settlement, Delian Ani-Suru again sauntered into Watto's murky shop and found herself once more face-to-absolutely-perfect-face with the junk dealer's newest mechanic/slave, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Damn.

She hadn't been expecting him to be here; in fact, she'd been trying to forget him since she'd first laid eyes on him, with little success. He'd been completely compelling and captivating, standing beneath the suns that so obviously and lovingly favored him, so impudent and yet so innocent in his charm. Something about him – his confident stance, his bright eyes, his beguiling voice… oh, Kest, that voice … Something about him had set off a little whisper in her head that she'd thought long squelched and had fervently wished it would stay that way. She flew strictly solo and couldn't afford to be attached to anyone, no matter how adorable that little freckle on his cheekbone was.

If she could just pinpoint what it was that made him so mesmerizing, maybe she could concentrate on forgetting it and consequently, forgetting him. Unfortunately, he was a complete ensemble: there wasn't any one distinctive facet that stood out about him and marked him as exceptional, but rather dozens and dozens of little things all assembled into one blue-eyed gem named Obi-Wan Kenobi and brilliantly displayed for anyone who cared to notice.

And notice she did, of course.

From her vantage point in the entryway, Delian considered Watto's newest acquisition, who sure as hell didn't look like any slave the Corellian had ever seen outside of a royal pleasure court of the highest order, and most certainly didn't look like a mechanic who belonged in the grease pits of a ramshackle junk shop in grimy Mos Espa.

But Delian had been involved with the less-than-sophisticated ways of life for a long time now. She knew that it could be any number of things that had sent Kenobi into the spiral from patron to slave – an unpaid loan or a bad gamble or roll of the dice, for instance; none of those circumstances were infrequent on planets like Tatooine where sentient beings were bought and sold daily as a matter of course. Young Anakin Skywalker, for instance, had never known an existence apart from being gambled away as if he were a piece of property, and this he seemed to accept as a completely normal way of living.

In her opinion, it was a damned sad excuse for a life.

Mid-reflection, Delian suddenly noticed that across the room, Kenobi was looking at her, and from the slight smile quirking his lips, had probably been watching her staring blankly for some time. Damn, she'd been rambling mentally again, and in her line of business, being distracted was unacceptable. Delian tossed her short hair over her shoulder haughtily and strode into the shop, trying to control the blush that was squirming its way across her cheeks.

"Miss Ani-Suru," Kenobi greeted politely as she neared – in that voice – but his staid expression wobbled perilously when Anakin Skywalker, noticing her arrival gleefully, insolently and cheerfully barreled his way past Kenobi's hips to bounce up and settle himself onto the countertop to meet her. His bright eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Miss Ani-Suru," he drawled gravely, pitching his childlike voice into an utterly awful but somehow recognizable imitation of Obi-Wan's own dulcet tones. Anakin dropped a dramatic kiss on the hand she proffered with a grin. "It's a pleasure to welcome you again to our humble establishment."

"Thank you, Master Skywalker," Delian intoned in return, daring to sneak an impish glance at Kenobi, who shrugged offhandedly and moved off to assist the customer who had followed Delian into the shop – a female humanoid clad in tech coveralls similar to Delian's own.

"Don't mind Obi-Wan," Anakin advised in a loud whisper not really meant to conceal any of his words. "He's kinda cool, but kinda stodgy." He rolled his eyes long-sufferingly. "And very polite. It's really embarrassing when the pilots come in to talk – he made me leave 'cause they were talking about, um … uh … " Anakin trailed off suddenly at Delian's raised eyebrows and laughed a little nervously. "Never mind. You don't want to hear about Obi-Wan." He was looking for a gracious way to backpedal out of his gaffe when he was saved by the arrival of Watto, who had noticed Delian's entrance.

"Ah, Delian!" Watto hovered in to greet one of his favorite – and best-paying – customers. "What can-a we do for you? And so soon after your last visit! That's good, good," he mumbled, pleased, as he twitched his thick, blunted fingers together in anticipation, she was sure, of the many credits he was doubtlessly imagining her spending in his well-stocked shop. There was just one problem.

She wasn't exactly sure why she'd come.

There was a reason, she was sure, only she really didn't know it at this particular moment in time. She had simply come because she'd felt she had to. Frustrated, Delian pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, more brusquely than was necessary, and began twisting one of her earrings as a way to assuage the nervousness in the pit of her stomach. Her life had become a hell of a lot more complicated these past few days. But as her being here had nothing to do with the Force, it must have been something else that she needed desperately …

"I need a, a hydrospanner!" Delian blurted quickly, seizing upon the first thing in her mind. For that reason, she was insanely grateful she hadn't shouted that she'd needed "a Kenobi." Kest.

Anakin's eyebrows lifted, and Watto's forehead unwrinkled in an indication of his surprise. "A hydrospanner?" they repeated simultaneously, disbelief spilling from their respective tones at the same time Delian thought incredulously, A hydrospanner? I have a hundred of those at the garage.

"No, I don't need a hydrospanner," she amended, smiling despite her momentary, very un-Corellian lapse of nonchalance. Recovering her composure, she sheltered the smile with her typical smirk. "I need some parts for a standard XM3 swoop … and a mechanic," she added firmly, and suddenly it made perfect sense. She was out a good mechanic at the moment; of course she would need a replacement before the next set of Games in Mos Eisley. Kenobi's terms of servitude were his own business, but the more Delian surveyed the slave, the more her Corellian instinct – not the Force – tried to convince her that he was critical to her near future.

"Me?" Anakin squeaked eagerly, drawing Delian's attention back to the child. Delian's expression crinkled as she tried to imagine herself with a nine-year-old boy in her charge, and especially one as chatty and mischievous as Anakin Skywalker. It wasn't a very endearing picture.

"Uh, I was actually thinking about Kenobi," she elaborated. She followed Anakin's instinctive glance toward the individual in question, watching as Kenobi glided around the rear of the shop, good-naturedly filling an order for the female humanoid who wasn't sure exactly what she wanted, but appeared determined to keep Kenobi climbing, bending, and searching for things that she might need. It was, Delian decided haughtily, a rather disgusting display, but Kenobi seemed patiently above it, distancing himself from both the mindless work and the female's leering.

"Figures," Anakin muttered in a knowing way he was far too young to posses. "Just don't ask him to work on any podracers," he advised disgustedly. "Trust me." Anakin sighed, rolling his eyes again and gesturing expansively. "Wires and parts everywhere," he confided in an aside with a wince.

"What about swoops and speeders?" Delian wanted to know.

"Pretty good – for the Games?" Anakin asked, his interest piqued. He'd heard them discussed among the shop's patrons and had them pegged as being fast, risky, and suicidal – his kind of fun.

"For the – hey! How do you know about those?" Delian interrupted herself incredulously. "Those are for the adults, honey." Not that the podraces weren't … but that was another story. Delian had to wonder what Anakin's mother thought about his participation in the races, but just as quickly shrugged it off. Gambling was even more prevalent than slavery here, and considered perfectly normal; expected, even, if one had funds, property, or slaves to wager.

Anakin just sighed as if she'd asked him if Tatooine had two suns. "I listen to all the pilots," he reminded her. "I know just about everything that goes on around here."

"Is that so?" Her cinnamon eyes narrowed as she considered Kenobi once more. "Can he pilot a speeder?"

"Yeah!" Anakin said excitedly; though he really had no proof of this, he was sure that Obi-Wan could, 'cause he was a Jedi after all, and couldn't they do anything? "And he's a Jedi, too! He can move stuff without using his hands and do all sorts of neat things!" Keyed up at the thought of Obi-Wan being involved the Games, Anakin continued eagerly, "He'd make an awesome racer, Delian! Jedi can do anything and he'd win for sure!" Anakin caught the reproving stare Obi-Wan threw over his broad shoulder, and he realized that his voice had risen considerably in his enthusiasm. "Uh, oops … "

"A Jedi, huh?" Delian's eyebrow arched in query, but her mouth turned down in a sour frown as she considered the implications of this discovery. This was something altogether different. A Jedi? How had a Jedi ended up a slave on this wretched planet? "A Force-wielder. Fabulous."

Obi-Wan, finished with his customer, approached the small group warily as if he sensed that his future was in question. The Corellian met his eyes pointedly as he settled himself suspiciously beside her, but he said nothing, merely waited as Delian thought for a moment. If his senses were as attuned as she'd heard Jedi could be, and he was as good as Anakin claimed, she really could use him in the Games.

Delian stopped to wonder a moment why, despite her sentiment on the subject mere moments before, she was making excuses to herself about just why she would need a slave – and this one in particular. Before she could question this further, however, she heard herself ask, "How about it, Watto? Could I borrow your Jedi for the Mos Eisley race?"

At that, Obi-Wan's calm exterior did crack. "Now just a minute," he began, but Delian's sudden palm on his chest stopped his advance, and he retreated cagily when Watto displayed the transmitter as a warning – he'd shortly before been on the receiving end of one of the transmitter's less than pleasant features designed to keep slaves in line. Watto had hastily assured him that it was an accident, but Obi-Wan was wryly unconvinced that it was anything less than a warning to keep his tongue firmly in cheek.

"You have no say in the matter, Jedi," Delian told him sweetly, but not without a trace of iron. She left her hand solidly on his chest; just touching him was exquisite and she relished the feeling. "You're property, to be bought, sold – or leased. So shut up." She turned back to Watto, a speculative gleam in her eyes, her confidence increasing by the moment. "I'll pay you well enough; you know I can afford it."

"Well, uh … I don't know … " Watto hesitated. He had the distinct feeling that Jinn would not be pleased to learn that the Toydarian had leased his Padawan out for something as dangerous as the Games Delian liked to play in, and he could feel the young Jedi's dark glare fixed upon him. But there was the money to consider, always the money …

Delian caught his hesitation and pulled out her trump card. "I only want to borrow him, not buy him. But if he's not worth my business to you … " she trailed off, smiling in a slightly predatory way. She had Watto – and the Jedi – and she knew it.

It was delightfully satisfying, and her Corellian pride preened at her victory. "The Games are in three days; I'll be back for him tomorrow. We negotiate the full price then. Agreed?"

This time Watto didn't hesitate; so eager was he to retain her business. "Agreed," he repeated nervously.

He didn't dare look at Obi-Wan.

OOOOOOOOOO

The noise in the cockpit was unbelievable. Ear-shattering klaxons blared their dire warnings over the shriek of rending metal, and sensors all over the pilot's console were adding their screeching alarms to the din in an effort to snare the diverted attention of the harried pilot. Ric Olie howled his disbelief at the readings his board was feeding him, and the quick look he threw over his shoulder at the Jedi Master standing calmly behind him clearly conveyed his dark hopelessness.

"We're in a lot of trouble," he told Qui-Gon grimly, not quite able to keep the worried edge from his voice. Qui-Gon leaned forward to peer at the readout Ric indicated, setting his jaw tightly as a cold knot twisted his stomach. Hyperdrive failure. Hull breach. Engines offline. They were spiraling toward the unknown planet visible through the cockpit window at an incredible speed, and there wasn't much Ric could do to slow their rapid descent.

"We're going in hard," Olie gritted out as he fought with the controls ineffectively. "Comm's out – go to the main hold and make sure everyone's braced for impact; hurry!"

Without sparing the half-second it would take to offer an acknowledgement, Qui-Gon whirled about and strode through the corridor, one hand braced for balance against the shock padding that lined the walls. The normal interior illumination had failed a few minutes ago, leaving everything bathed in the blood red glow of emergency lighting.

A grim Captain Panaka was in charge of the hold, and he turned to face Qui-Gon coldly as the doors slid open to reveal the Jedi Master. "Perhaps, Jedi Master, you should have taken care of the hyperdrive installation yourself."

Annoyed, Qui-Gon snapped, "This has nothing to do with the hyperdrive, Captain. I'm afraid it's a little more serious than that." Raising his voice, Qui-Gon commanded the attention of everyone in the hold. "We need to prepare for impact – please, everyone get yourselves strapped in … "

OOOOOOOOOO

We lived through another one, Obi-Wan, was Qui-Gon's first thought as blurred consciousness trampled through his brain with all the finesse of the stampeding Nubian animals he had tried to flee with a week earlier. See? I told you. It could always be worse.

… I think, he modified groggily as he tried to lift his head from the cold decking. He hadn't managed to get himself secured before they'd impacted with the surface, and had been bounced around severely as the vessel writhed and skidded to a screeching stop. Something warm dripped sluggishly down his forehead, and his hair hung in damp, slickly red-tinged strands across his face. Miraculously, he seemed otherwise uninjured but for a pounding soreness in every single fiber of his body. Qui-Gon pushed himself up onto all fours, shaking his head slightly. Not one of the better crash landings he'd had the misfortunate to be involved in.

Already, Qui-Gon was assembling in his head a list of things he would need to do: check the other occupants of the hold for injuries, survey the cockpit and assess any problems or injuries there, find a way to contact Coruscant …

He was pulled from his thoughts by an unfamiliar noise from one of the aft stations that drew his attention toward the group that had been secured there. The aft side of the ship had sustained an incredible amount of damage in the crash and Qui-Gon's breath left him in a rush when he realized that the sound was that of soft sobbing from one of the handmaidens, who had unfastened her restraints and now was on her knees beside a body dressed in elaborate robes of office. Qui-Gon swallowed hard and knelt beside the girl, resting a large hand on her shoulder as he gently and slowly shrugged out of his own simple robe and quietly moved to cover the queen's body with it; it seemed such an unfitting, plain shroud for the young woman who had shown such spirit and courage throughout the trials of their journey.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to the handmaiden, who shook her blonde head as tears continued to fall from her eyes. "I'm so sorry." Another of the young women joined them, her long, dark tresses spilling over her shoulder as she leaned over the shrouded body of the queen.

"My queen," she whispered brokenly, "I'm so sorry. It should have been me in your place; you know I would have given willingly."

Wanting to give them some space and mindful of others who might need looked after, Qui-Gon slowly backed away from the grieving women and rose tiredly to survey the damaged vessel. Panaka was slowly extricating himself from his safety restraints, trying awkwardly to unfasten the belts one-handed while not jostling his injured left arm. Qui-Gon crossed to him quietly, gently undoing the clasps and helping him to stand while trying not to see the unstaring eyes of the handmaiden who had been belted in beside the security chief. He suddenly realized he hadn't heard a noise from Jar Jar since they'd gone down and he was forced to assume the worst.

"I need to get to the cockpit," he told Panaka grimly. "Please see to the young ladies and do what you can." Panaka nodded shortly, but before Qui-Gon could leave the hold he found his entrance blocked by a truly frightening figure.

His face was a hideous mask of red and black tattooing and his eyes gleamed yellow from their bloodshot depths, the hate clearly conveyed in them drilling into the Jedi Master as he stared in stunned horror, piecing together what this creature was despite the fact that he'd never actually encountered a Sith warrior before. The Dark Side rolled off the creature so thickly that Qui-Gon felt temporarily unable to breathe and the blood red of the emergency lighting under which they stood only heightened the garishness of the Sith; one of the handmaidens gasped in horror, and a terrified prayer rolled off her lips.

Qui-Gon saw a haze of red flash before his eyes but it was a disjointed feeling, like it belonged in another time. He couldn't spare a thought to it, however; the crimson blades on the lightsaber that the Sith had produced powered to life, and Qui-Gon was already going for the hilt of his own weapon. A movement to Jinn's left, and he saw that Panaka had withdrawn his blaster and aimed it at the intruder.

"No!"

The cry of warning died on the Jedi Master's lips as Panaka's panicked shots were repelled by the lightsaber and driven back into the man's torso. One of the handmaidens shrieked and scrabbled across the decking to the security chief, but Qui-Gon didn't need to turn to see the disbelieving shake of her head. He'd already felt Panaka's Force essence disappear.

His own emerald lightsaber was humming in his hand and he half-turned, instincts kicking in, and ready to work in tandem with his Padawan to defeat this menace. When he turned, however, the space beside him was empty; there was no brilliant azure blade at the ready:

Obi-Wan was on Tatooine. Obi-Wan was a slave on Tatooine.

The queen was dead.

Anakin would not be trained if the Jedi Master failed.

There was no one but him, Qui-Gon realized.

He was alone and alone, Qui-Gon turned to face the Sith.

OOOOOOOOOO

The tool Obi-Wan was handling clattered to the floor as the young Jedi suddenly wavered unsteadily, his hands reaching for his temples to scrub away the phantom pain that suddenly stabbed through his head. Without quite knowing why, he glanced frantically down at the front of his tunic, expecting a flower of crimson to blossom among the grease stains and grime.

"Master?" he whispered disbelievingly, his fingers running lightly over his stomach as he felt for an imagined wound. "Please, no," he breathed, terrified.

"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, are you okay?" Anakin was at his elbow, pulling and tugging him toward a low stack of crates and pushing the dazed Padawan into a seated position. Obi-Wan's eyes were wide with horror and his mouth worked silently, unspoken words lodging in his throat.

"What is it, Obi-Wan? What's wrong?"

Obi-Wan wasn't even looking at him, and Anakin felt an uneasy shudder ripple through him at the blank terror on Obi-Wan's face.

"Voices," Obi-Wan mumbled, staring ahead blankly, "that cried out in terror … and were silenced. Oh Force," he breathed, "please, please, no. Master … Master … " Obi-Wan's face dropped into his hands and he cradled his head gently, rocking and keening softly in a low, anguished murmur.

Unsure of what to do, Anakin waited by his side and rubbed little circles on the Jedi's shoulder, though he was uncertain if Obi-Wan even knew he was there. Obi-Wan stayed huddled like that for a very long time, and Anakin stayed with him.

It was the least he could do for Master Qui-Gon's apprentice.

OOOOOOOOOO