Chapter 57. Confronting One's Past

It had been a long time since Obi-Wan had done, literally, nothing.

Lying on his back, one arm shading his eyes from the sun, he emptied his mind of all thoughts – no worries about the future, no worrying about the moment….

Schwat!

He sat up in shock – that had sounded disturbingly like – schwat! Something whizzed past him just as he cocked his head. Blaster bolts? Here? Who could be so careless? "Hey, watch it, there's someone here!" he roared.

And careless it seemed to be, for the warning worked.

Who would be shooting in the estate? There was nothing to poach; it was too close to the house for target shooting. No roving gang of criminals, he was pretty sure, even finding a smile for the thought, outlandish as it was. Serenno boasted a very low crime rate.

Obi-Wan stood; then bent over to brush his knees, an action that may have saved his life.

Schwat!

Stumbling in shock, Obi-Wan dropped and all but burrowed in the ground and slithered in what he hoped was a safe direction.

Another blaster bolt tore through a leaf not a hand span from his cheek, shredded reobi peppering him with sticky juice. Another narrowly missed his leg. One quick breath and he bounded to his feet, weaving towards the shelter of a copse of trees. Bolts missed him time and again. It wasn't luck, Obi-Wan realized, but deliberate. Whoever was shooting at him was not – at least, not yet – trying to harm him, but horrify him.

"Master Dooku," he pushed a call out into the Force, hoping the Force would reach the Jedi master. He could not feel the Force, but the Force was around him, he had been told. He had a Force presence that he was not capable of hiding; if the assailant was a Force user, he could not merely hide.

He might not even be able to escape.

It was likely he would have to fight.

His fingers fumbled for his lightsaber and found – nothing. His was at the bottom of a shaft in Naboo. All right, then, he would have to fight without it. He could do it; he had been one of the best of his age group at hand-to-hand in the Temple. But first he would have to lure the shooter in range.

"Oh, sweet Force," he murmured, knowing this was not going to be easy. Somehow, he didn't fancy being an unarmed target.

"Hold on, Kenobi, I've got your back," A voice shouted from somewhere behind and to Obi-Wan's side; with a quick swivel of his head he glimpsed a lightsaber at the ready, inactivated as yet, though not the person wielding it. Another Jedi on Serenno?

"Thank the Force," he murmured for the miracle.

A moment later, his world went dark.

Dooku's senses were prickling long before he arrived at the Seat, compounded of a vague need that scratched at his sense of imminent danger that he should go back, that young Kenobi was about to need a defender as well as a pulsating urge to hasten forward, that someone was already in need. It was an unpleasant tug and the Force itself seemed conflicted – but on one thing he and the Force agreed, what had happened was ahead and what was to happen was behind.

Yet what harm could a young Jedi get into that he could not get out of?

The boy seemed to have no predilection for tinkering with machinery; a pastime that could conceivably lead to pinched fingers or electrical shocks, but nothing worse.

Overdoing physical activity might well wear him out; his body was still recovering its strength. Lazing in the sun, "communing with nature" might redden pale skin too long indoors, uncomfortable but not debilitating.

It must be nothing more than Yoda and Mace's own unease simmering in his subconscious.

But danger clearly lay ahead – that was no unease, but a Jedi's certainty.

Still… he comm'd the estate.

"Young Master Kenobi? I believe he's in the west garden, milord, and all seems rather peaceful and quiet here."

That assurance did little to quell his simmering disquiet.

With a soft grunt of "Very well," he punched the code for the legalitor's office. No one answered, but a small office of two humans and one droid might well be otherwise occupied. By itself it was not worrisome, and yet – it tasted wrong in the Force. Realizing he was nearly to the Seat and relatively far from the estate, he cast his senses forward and suddenly stiffened, his hand reaching for his concealed lightsaber.

A miasma of horror was staining the Force like an unchecked wound. It stank of foul deeds.

"Jeeves, pull over short of our actual destination," he commanded, forgoing the ceremonial approach for one a bit more unorthodox. "Do you have the comm numbers for the local constabulary and medical response teams?" Quickly programming them into his comlink, Dooku slipped out of the speeder and took a circuitous route to his destination.

He knew as soon as he was inside he was too late, at least for one. Silence saturated the air, an unnatural silence that echoed without a sound: incongruous and gruesome, and unfortunately, unmistakable, something he knew from past experiences.

It was a silence that informed his senses that whatever and whoever had been here had come and gone. Still, he kept lightsaber in hand as he prowled the premises.

He, she, it or they had left chaos and mayhem behind. In the anteroom sprawled a partially clothed woman as if in wanton abandon. Dooku squatted and checked her pulse, confirming what his instincts already told him. She was long past mortal healing, whole now and past pain within the Force's gentle currents. Death itself had been quick. The protracted agony had come before, evident by the traces of fluid which splattered her bare thighs.

"Obscene," Dooku murmured, shaken despite his years in the field.

Leaving one's victim propped on display like a harlot in a transparisteel cage was depravity, but leaving the corpse draped on its back over a waste basket and with fingers arranged in a parody of lifting torn cloth as if to coyly invite a lover's gaze went way beyond depravity into outright obscenity.

As a man, Dooku itched to cover the body, but as a Jedi he knew to leave a crime scene undisturbed. That meant no modesty could be granted even in death, but then, a corpse no longer had need of dignity. Dignity, and its theft, belonged to the living…never to the dead.

Straightening from his quick and distasteful examination, he cautiously entered the inner office expecting to find another body, perhaps two, for he had not known when or if the Heir would appear to seal the transfer.

He found, instead, a grievously wounded man, his life force sputtering and fading. Sickly white and in shock, his breathing faint and shallow, the man had little time left. Enough time, the Force thrummed to him, enough time if he acted quickly.

Using one hand to thumb on his comlink, Dooku placed the other on the man's sweat-dampened forehead and reached in with the Force. He was not a healer, but any field Jedi could provide rudimentary life support.

Would Kenobi have been able to do more?

He didn't have time to dwell on a thought that served no purpose and shoved it aside.

"State your emergency, please."

He'd been through this numerous times, on many planets, snapping out codes and identifiers to the droids without hesitation. Such was second nature to him and the Judicial codes were but one means of avoiding any unfortunate confrontations with first responders who might easily mistake a Jedi on scene as the cause of disturbance. As he all too well knew, at the moment he looked nothing like a Jedi, only a somewhat foppishly dressed man all too conveniently on scene.

While he was at it, he requested someone be sent to check out the estate. That took a bit of arguing; he only hoped the constabulary would promptly follow up.

Once done, he turned his full attention to the man before him. He had a chance to save this one.

The Force help Kenobi, if he was in danger. Not even a Jedi could be in two places at once.

Danger thrummed through Qui-Gon's veins, an itch, an urge to act. Elusive, like the bad feelings he used to hear about far too frequently. The last time had been above Naboo, on a Trade Federation ship.

Anakin was fine, though, if a bit on edge. He always was after his classes. It angered Qui-Gon to no end. Why the teaching masters allowed the other younglings to ostracize his padawan, to point and sneer at him was becoming more than an irritation, but a reason to demand a hearing before the Council.

They had to know. They had to be ignoring it, but even he had trouble believing the Council could be that cruel.

Bullying was not and never had been acceptable.

But it wasn't unknown, he remembered. Xanatos…his gut churned just to think of him, his bright, beautiful and forever lost padawan. A charmer who found it easy to get his way, but Xan had been known to bully others those few times his charm had failed him. He had charmed entry into gambling dens and brothels before he was even of age, charmed fellow padawans out of their clothing and under his sheets multiple times, and even charmed his master into overlooking his indiscretions as mere "youthful peccadilloes."

Peccadilloes that had produced more than one child, they had all later found out. Xan had let "unfortunate evidence" scattered across Coruscant and on a few other planets as well, as it had turned out.

None of the mothers had petitioned the Order for redress. Xan's feminine conquests had spanned the extremes more often than not: women who would never be able to know their child's father with certainty to married women or high born women, all too anxious to pass their child off as their husbands, or at least, not the son of a mere Jedi teenager allowed to warm their beds within days, sometimes less, of first meeting.

The Order had discretely made inquiries when such indulgences had come to light and done what they could when they could through channels, as Qui-Gon had later learned.

To the best of Qui-Gon's knowledge, all identified as Force sensitive, and not one had been given to the Temple to raise. Xan's offspring, it seemed, like the father, were not meant for a Jedi life. Considering how the father had turned out, it was for the best.

After Xan, there had been few bullies that he had ever been aware of. Oh, there were instances of initiates getting into scraps and altercations, but nothing serious and ongoing, nothing arising to the level of bullying.

The one exception to that: his last padawan and his nemesis: Bruck and his allies Aalto and Corwyn.

All four had been banished to Agri-Corps. Four troublemakers: four hot-headed and four angry boys, unsuitable candidates to be Jedi. One had come back. The others were all dead, caught in a deadly catastrophe that left no survivors and no bodies.

Qui-Gon sighed and rubbed his forehead. What was it with his padawans and bullying?

Qui-Gon didn't know. But it needed to stop. And if the Council refused to get involved, Ni'sha would be more than willing to help. She was enchanted by Anakin's open and direct manner, charmed by his personality, and already prickling on his behalf at the various slights and insults Anakin had chosen to share with her.

"Oh…" a soft groan escaped Obi-Wan's lips.

A finger slowly ran down his cheek and rested on his lips; his eyes flew open in shock and he raised himself up on his elbows only to be held in place by this unknown Jedi's other hand on his chest. The finger on his lips was replaced by a palm, forestalling any words he might wish to utter. A stranger kneeled at his side, eyes wild and aflame with some strong emotion that seemed a mix of elation and joy, yet feral and untamed. A smirk curved the corners of his mouth, not a grin, for the apparent humor was absent from those blue eyes.

"Kenobi – are you okay?"

The voice was silky and almost caressing as it enunciated the syllables. Obi-Wan scrunched his face in confusion.

"You don't recognize me."

"Should I?" He searched the face for any clue, any hint of familiarity. The man sounded genuinely hurt.

"Why, Kenobi, we grew up together – you don't remember?"

Actually, no, danced in his mind.

"You took a very hard knock to the head. Do you remember – no? Good thing I came along when I did – some drunken fool was using you for target practice." A soft giggle followed the words.

"Actually, I don't, no" he said. He tilted his head to the side, wincing at the movement and gently rubbing the tender and throbbing spot. "Who are you?"

"Obi…" A slow, sad shake of the head accompanied his name.

"To my friends." His tone was uncompromising. The diminutive was something he accepted as fond affection from those with whom he was friends; from others, it was unwelcome. He wasn't yet sure how to classify this man; there was something familiar in his expression. It set his teeth on edge, and yet – and yet, the man was a Jedi. Robe, tunics, lightsaber…who else could he be? With thousands in the Order, he was bound not to know all of them.

"You really don't remember me, do you?" The man sat back on his heels, staring at him.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure if it was disbelief or something else in that shuttered expression. Glee? Disappointment? "No. I really don't. So who are you?"

"Your worst nightmare." It was said so simply, too, in such a – a conversational tone.

It sounded like a horrid melodrama; Obi-Wan couldn't help snickering. "Oh, please…how cliché. Try another line, why don't you?"

The Jedi raised his eyebrow. "Okay, how about you just shut up and die already?"

"Nah, it's not that funny," he complained. When the other man showed no sign of sharing his amusement, he rolled his eyes. "I'm not about to die from laughter at your oh-so-witty and original threat," he clarified. "Got anything better, or jut more clichés?"

"Funny, Kenobi, funny. Try this, then: on your knees and begging for mercy."

"Sorry, nope, that's not in the schedule, either. Now really, who are you?" Sure, there were plenty of folks who wouldn't mind doing in a Jedi, any one in general or just one in particular, but few actually were capable of actually doing so. Those foolish enough to try almost always ended up in prison.

None had ever had the guts to actually pretend to be a Jedi, but the general discomfort Obi-Wan had been feeling was flaring into true alarm. Lightsabers were just too difficult to get a hand on if one was not a Jedi.

Unless one were a former Jedi…or even worse.

"Listen, this is all very amusing," Obi-Wan tried to sound jocular, but his eyes were busy searching for an escape because he was pretty sure that was what he needed to do, though Force knew why he should be a target, "but there's someone on the loose out there with a weapon. Shouldn't we be trying to apprehend this person before someone gets really hurt?"

The palm on his chest fisted into the neckline of his tunic and hauled him into a fully upright position. "Oh, but wouldn't you rather know who I am?" Very deliberately, the unknown Jedi grasped Obi-Wan's chin in his hand and leaned close, too close for comfort. "Your killer," whispered across his lips, as soft as a breath of air. The already infinitesimal gap between them closed with just the slightest of movements on the false Jedi's part as his lips pressed against Obi-Wan's in a parody of a lover's tender kiss. The actual Jedi stiffened and tried to wrench his head aside.

"You still don't remember me, little Jedi?"

Considering the only Jedi Obi-Wan had ever kissed had been Siri – something he both cherished and felt guilty about – it was safe to say a kiss had done nothing for his memory. So he spat as two hands dug into his shoulders, for what purpose he was sure he didn't care to know. Trying to wriggle free, he instead tumbled them both to the ground. He landed flat on his back, arms pinned over his head and the heavy body straddling him in a half-crouch. The man's eyes burned with a strange passion as he threw his head back and giggled, a high-pitched sound that slowly deepened and faded into a deep growl that was far less intimidating than the giggle.

"Oh, that's right – you're damaged, brain-damaged. Like anyone would've ever noticed. You never were much of a Jedi even before this, were you? Now you're worse than useless, thrown away by Jinn, hidden away by Windu…"

In the midst of the ranting, Obi-Wan shifted his hips enough that his assailant's attention wavered and the grip on his wrists instinctively loosened. Lacing the fingers of one hand with one of the man's, he slammed their conjoined fist upwards into the face so near his own, letting the false Jedi's hand absorb the brunt of the blow. Even so, the impact shuddered up to his own shoulder.

With a roar of fury, blood flowing from his nose, the enraged man rammed an ungentle elbow into Obi-Wan's stomach and rolled into a crouch, vibroblade in hand. With startling speed he then threw himself onto the supine Jedi.

Only Obi-Wan was no longer there. With equally quick reflexes, Obi-Wan had rolled to his feet and lashed out with his leg, landing a satisfying thump into the man's backside.

With the Force, he might have been able to snatch the man's lightsaber from his belt. He could not. Nor did he wish to directly engage the man, if possible. In close quarters, the other man was larger and heavier. Obi-Wan might have the edge in agility, but even that was far from certain.

Ignoring the invective spitting from the raving man's lips, the half-crazed glaze in his eyes, the Jedi took that second or two given him to try to slow his thumping heart. A cooler head might be his only advantage.

Experience told him: watch the eyes.

With only the merest flicker of warning, the other man flew at him with a snarl. Obi-Wan dodged to the side, pirouetted and grabbed the wrist as the vibroblade whistled past his ear. He swept a leg around at the same time to knock the other man off his feet, but was in turn knocked off balance as a leg smashed into his thigh.

He grunted as the tip of the blade scored his arm; barely dancing out of the way before the blade bit deep.

He countered by feigning a more serious wound, taking a step back then another, pivoting suddenly and slamming his foot into the wrist of the blade-wielding hand. The vibroblade skittered across the soil. The Jedi scrambled after it. It was no lightsaber but it felt good in his hand, something solid and tangible.

But it was no match for a lightsaber – and it had suddenly sprung to the false Jedi's hand as the vibroblade itself slapped into his other, torn from Obi-Wan's grasp before his grip had solidified enough to resist a Force pull. Obi-Wan gulped. An unarmed "ordinary" against an armed Force-sensitive was well nigh unstoppable except by overwhelming numbers.

He didn't need to spare a glance around to know that he was alone. Very much alone.

It wasn't the first time in his life he made the decision he made then. A strategic retreat was called for; far better than to be a dead hero.

Obi-Wan turned and ran.