A public thank you very, very much to everyone who responded and reviewed not only the last chapter, but any of the story. I am trying to reply to everyone. :-) I am truly grateful and encouraged by your reviews.

OOOOOOOOOO

TPM Tatooine Rewrite: Through Glass

By: Syntyche

chapter thirteen: time marches on

The minutes continued to slide by, but all he could focus on were the hands.

There were hands touching him everywhere: running down the length of his body, feeling the hard musculature of his arms and legs. The hands were large, small, rough, and fine, some gentle and some harsh, and they continued to touch him, poking and prodding at him. Nothing was off-limits and he bit back a groan as one curious hand gripped hard on a recently-acquired bruise, squeezing the mottled purple-green flesh of his bicep tightly.

He couldn't remember where that bruise had come from.

Or any of them, for that matter, and there were quite a few, as well as scars he'd noted when he'd had a minute to give himself a cursory examination. Apparently he led a busy life.

As his vision steadied and he squinted hard through the bright suns' light, he took in the press of faces that must belong to the owners of the hands, but his mind was disjointed and hazy and he knew he'd been drugged – again – so that he would remain docile until he had been sold. A bit of him indulged in the ironic hope that he'd bring a good price; for someone who had doubted their self-worth nearly all their life, he wasn't sure he could take much more disappointment in himself.

They had only taken his good memories, his useful information; as part of their effort to tame him, they had not been kind of enough to relieve him of painful recollections, the immense failures and shortcomings that would weigh on his spirit, though they had been carefully cleaned of any knowledge that he could use to unlock his mind. They wanted him to feel as if he deserved his fate. He wondered if he did.

He sighed wearily, trying to ignore the jostle of bodies sliding alongside his, and the probing hands that wouldn't relent. Carefully he cradled the few, precious memories that had been left to him, that he had managed to hide when his mind had been sanitized.

It was the prettiest word he could find to describe a violating experience that still made him gag and retch if he even thought about wanting to think about remembering.

He swallowed hard and buried his carefully hidden memories a little deeper, a little farther away from the surface where everything was so hazy. The best he could do right now was simply to ignore the throng that gaped and ogled and appraised him as he stood with the other slaves, on display for any interested party. Along with the hands, he tried to shut out the voices, too, that called questions to his handler, Barak:

"How many years is he?"

"Does he have any restrictions?"

"Work, pleasure, or both?"

He shivered; not at the temperature, although the suns were beating down harshly on his unprotected skin, but at the general unpleasantness he was sure was about to fill his life. He shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his sleeveless tunic and sliding his palms up and down his bare biceps as he tried to distance himself from his surroundings.

"Twenty-five Standard, none at all, and whatever your pleasure, ma'am," his handler answered the questions with a smile. Barak shook his head as another question floated through the crowd, and he replied easily, "No papers, no name. Yours to mold exactly how you wish."

More people were pressing in on him now, all different manner of species jostling each other roughly as they moved down the line of slaves, each one trying to choose the slave who could best service their needs. He himself had undergone various types of testing by his current masters to ascertain where his strengths lay: he had received high marks in physical ability and also mechanical savvy – amazingly, he felt, but maybe he had been a mechanic before this? His all-around marks had been so good that his masters considered him one of their best offers, and had hopes of selling him to a wealthier households. He wasn't sure that he cared, though he supposed it was better to be fed than not.

He ticked away the minutes, waiting for the auction to start. A hand grabbed his chin, jerking his face sharply to the side, and he yanked himself free of the man's grasp.

This tiny show of independence earned him a jolt from his transmitter that lasted just long enough to remind him of the generous helping he could expect later for being disobedient; despite himself, a thin sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. They hadn't punished him anywhere obvious – had to keep his sale value high – but that didn't mean that Barak was totally without what he termed "means of persuasion," to keep him in line. He would have to be more careful.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled to the man before him, and docilely allowed the hands to turn his face to the left and right. He knew it was wrong to allow himself to be treated this way …

He just couldn't remember why.

OOOOOOOOOO

He was twisting the bedsheet between his large hands, creating deep creases in the neatly-pressed fabric. He didn't care. His entire room was too pristine. Even Obi-Wan wouldn't like it here.

Obi-Wan. Force. He couldn't stop thinking about his missing Padawan. Couldn't stop thinking about that slight grin, that half-joking offer to buy his Padawan back. Thought about the last argument they'd had as they'd both tried to do what felt like the right thing. His memories played over and over like a macabre dance that wouldn't end, and he couldn't do anything about it; his mind was too agitated to meditate and his body was too weak to allow him to run to the nearest docking bay and commandeer a ship to take him to Tatooine.

He hated being so helpless.

Hated that they'd been thrust into a situation without having all of the facts; it would have been nice to know about Anakin's amazing midichlorian count and also, oh yes, that little matter of the Sith who was currently nowhere to be found.

Hated that Obi-Wan had heard the Force differently and acted on it without consulting him first.

Hated that they'd had to choose between their mission and each other, they who, despite their conflicts and disagreements, remained the other's truly most loyal friend.

He was going after his Padawan. He was resolute. He would not be swayed. They would argue, but he would win. He usually did; it was why he got assigned the most difficult missions. He was damned good at what he did, and he didn't feel that it was bragging to be pleased by that.

He'd been questioned time and again by the Council practically since he'd opened his eyes in the medcenter a few days ago, and there was nothing that he could see to show for it. Obi-Wan was still missing. Anakin was missing. They couldn't locate the Sith who had attacked the queen's ship.

"You realize there's a black cloud hovering over your head? I should comm the Coruscant Weathernet and let them know one of their shields must be faulty 'cause bad weather is getting in."

Qui-Gon's dour mood did not lessen in the face of his friend's gentle reprimand. "You're not funny," he said darkly, glaring at Mace as the other Master entered his too-bright room. He was carrying the latest batch of 'get-well' cards for Qui-Gon, which he dumped messily on the bedside table.

"I'm not trying to be," Mace retorted, swiping the stack into a semblance of order when the top cards wobbled precariously. Qui-Gon's mountain of cards was getting so tall that the Council member finally resorted to arranging makeshift fencing around them using four of Qui-Gon's "get-well soon" potted flowers.

Qui-Gon launched his opening salvo. "I'm going after him."

"Like hell you are," came the retort, and Qui-Gon scowled deeper – or tried to, but Force, it hurt so, so very badly. The skin of his belly pulled taut every time he moved or even breathed; he had never been in this much pain before.

"You can't even get out of bed," continued Mace. "You certainly couldn't make the trip to Tatooine."

Qui-Gon struggled to a sitting position in an attempted show of strength, but he knew he failed miserably when tears of pain streamed from his eyes at his effort. Mace sighed and gently slid a hand behind his friend's back to help him settle into a more comfortable arrangement amongst his multitude of pillows. He had almost as many pillows as get well cards.

"Mace," Qui-Gon continued undeterred, once he got his breathing back under control, "listen to me. I can't leave him. I have to go after him."

"Qui-Gon, I know he's your Padawan," Mace began gently, but Qui-Gon cut him off sharply.

"No! You're not listening." The Jedi Master forced strength into his weakening voice, and he was relieved when Mace carefully sat on his bedside so he wouldn't be pressed to shout so his friend could hear him.

"Obi-Wan and I are accustomed to getting into trouble – never intentionally, of course," he added indignantly when Mace snorted and raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and Qui-Gon stopped that sentence as soon as it had formed. He was good at "rephrasing" information, but to tell an outright falsehood was difficult for him.

"Almostnever intentionally" he corrected, but honestly, they didn't … hardly ever … go looking for adventure or danger. They accepted the peril that came with their calling; they really had no choice. One didn't simply "resign" from the Order, after all. Not when the Council saw everything in Dark and Light.

No, the problem was that they'd always gone after each other. And yet he was stuck here.

"We always go after each other," he repeated aloud softly. "I can't not be able to go find Obi-Wan, Mace, not when I know he's there. I know he is," Qui-Gon growled stubbornly. Not when the Sith are looking for him.

Mace looked away sharply in frustration before turning back to his prone friend, his expression one of carefully schooled neutrality. "It's too dangerous for you to go. I'm not kidding; you wouldn't survive the trip, not for another couple of months at least. You said you can't feel him, Qui-Gon. How do you know he's still even on Tatooine? We can't find any trace of him or Anakin Skywalker."

Qui-Gon met his friend's disbelieving eyes evenly. "I'd have felt it if he died."

"How could you? You've been in a coma for weeks!" Mace shot back. "Look, Qui-Gon, I'm not trying to send your hope or Obi-Wan down in flames, but you need to understand that we have looked. We have scoured Mos Espa as carefully and discreetly as we could. The junk shop is gutted and abandoned. We can't sense him and we can't see him. We don't know where he is. If he is still there, then he's hiding from us!"

"I can find him! I can. Please."

It was as close as Mace Windu had ever come to hearing his proud friend beg. His eyes narrowed and he surveyed Qui-Gon closely, using the Force to gently probe the distorted, chaotic energy surrounding the Jedi Master. Pain, of course, regret … fear?

"What aren't you telling me?" he asked quietly. "Qui-Gon? What haven't you told the Council?"

"Please," Qui-Gon murmured again softly, staring at him through wide, pleading eyes that seemed out of place in his sharp, leonine features. "I have to find him, Mace."

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me," Mace moved a hand to his friend's shoulder, remembering that the other Jedi found comfort in the gesture. "Qui-Gon… "

Qui-Gon's light eyes flicked closed briefly and re-opened slowly as he stared at his friend dully. "I do not believe the Sith was after Queen Amidala, as I stated earlier." He sounded so formal that it took a moment for his words to register to the Council member.

Mace almost drew back in surprise, but remembered that he was feeding strength to his friend. "No? You seemed so sure earlier that he'd been after the Queen."

"I lied," Qui-Gon said simply. That had been a falsehood that had come easily to him.

"To the Council?" Mace demanded. "Damn it, Qui-Gon – "

"I had to," Qui-Gon interrupted, seeming stronger as he defended his actions. Indeed, he was almost forcing himself upright to project strength. Qui-Gon, Mace thought wryly, was always at his best when his chosen course of action defied what anyone else – especially the Council – thought.

"I'm sure you didn't," Mace cut in angrily, "What possible excuse could you have?"

"The Sith is after Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon explained quietly. "They wish to turn him to the Dark. I have to get to him first."

Mace stopped short, shocked. "After Obi-Wan?" he repeated. "Why didn't you say anything to the Council about this?" Qui-Gon only looked at him, and Mace shook his head in disbelief. "Obi-Wan wouldn't turn, Qui-Gon. He's too… Obi-Wan. He's too good."

"None of us are 'too good,'" Qui-Gon chastised gently, "and it's thinking like that which will get us into trouble."

Mace ignored the subtle reprimand; the Council's way of thinking had run things just fine for over a millennia. He wasn't worried. He changed tact. "How do you know the Sith was after Obi-Wan?"

"He told me," Qui-Gon murmured. "I do not know whether he is the master or the apprentice; I know only that he seeks to corrupt and turn my Padawan. Obi-Wan is missing, Mace – your search teams can't even find him. I can. I have to go after him."

"The trip could kill you," Mace protested weakly.

"If he turns, it will kill me," Qui-Gon said grimly.

OOOOOOOOOO