Chapter 60. Dirty Work
Force give me strength.
Obi-Wan sent a silent plea to that ancient power to which he was self-pledged: strength to win or strength to die, either one, whatever its will - but strength to do its will as a Jedi, honorably and in the light. Strength to resist the siren call of what he feared was darkness, imploring him to willingly plunge with heart and soul into its bottomless depths – a promise of victory but at a cost he was not willing to pay.
Never again the darkness.
"Oof!" The breath whistled past his teeth as a heavy foot slammed into his side. If it took his death to resist the dark, he would allow death to claim him, but did it have to hurt so much?
But the Force did not respond to his plea: it did not invigorate him, it did not surge through his cells with revitalizing power nor did it cushion the blows. It was over, or soon to be. He had put up a good fight but he just didn't have much left within him; without the Force he had tired rapidly, its endless source of energy denied him.
I am ready to accept what you will give, but I will not command you. He would not seek its buoyant power if the sole purpose was to gain it only to gain dominion over another.
Obi-Wan gritted his teeth as the heavy foot this time twisted and grounded into his back: it would bruise, but a bruise was preferable to a perforation by blade. Bruises were impermanent; idly he wondered if they would still shadow his body when he was on his funeral pyre, these marks of ignominy, of failure.
You fool; fight. He didn't want to die.
Nor fall to darkness.
His fingers opened and closed spasmodically; his instinct for survival fighting his soul's desire to remain untainted whatever the cost, his mind prodding at him and his mind retorting. Dimly, discouraged and in despair, he wondered if he could even Fall; the Force could not so easily be twisted to evil when it did not even flow through him.
What harm, then, in resistance?
While that did not give him much needed physical strength, it fueled his determination not to give in, not to give up. Not yet, not ever. As long as there was breath left within him, he would fight back. Die if he must, but die fighting until the end.
"If I die, I will die at your hand, but damned by no one," Obi-Wan grunted; gathering what little strength he possessed for one – possibly last – move. Strength was not in his body, but strength was within him – the strength of Hope. His eyes slid sideways, seeking – anything. Sagging shelves with what appeared to be heavy containers, ancient relics from a time gone by – if he could just – but they were too far, so he dismissed them to a corner of his mind and kept looking…implements aplenty yet equally out of reach and thus useless – and then he saw it. Saw Hope, a dull glint almost within reach, half buried in muck and slime and he knew: the Force was with him, if not within him. The Force would not trick him. Desert him, it had, but not entirely – and the Force would never play dirty. No, there was a reason he was lying on the ground, cheek pressed into the dirt.
The Force would not save him, but, it seemed, it would give him the means to save himself.
All he had to do was reach for it.
His fingers crept out, a slow slide towards possible salvation, masking the movement with seemingly futile and desperate attempts to shake the other man off, anything to keep his attention. The man wanted him dead, of that there was no doubt, but he wanted to see Obi-Wan squirm. One might well believe there was some personal animosity between them.
So squirm Obi-Wan would. But he would not beg, not for his life. That was reserved only for others.
But the Force was fickle, for it answered to the false Jedi as well.
Across the galaxy, a Sith lord reveled in the Force's conflict. The Force strained to save one while another compelled its power even against its will. In the Jedi Temple, Yoda squeezed his eyes shut as the currents of the Force roiled; its normally docile currents forced into a whirlpool of agitation.
All because a would-be Sith was in his element, about to crush the spirit of one loathed from childhood. Kenobi had festered in his soul for years; the hate dormant until stirred to life by the unexpected assignment to watch over a former slave boy.
He knew Kenobi's weaknesses well and never had he been so vulnerable as now; without the Force, battered and bruised, rejected and tossed aside by master and Force alike – he was susceptible to manipulation as never before.
And he meant to wring every last drop of blood from his veins, drip the poison of self-loathing into his mind and prove Kenobi's utter failure as a man and a Jedi – to "bosses" old and new, to Kenobi himself, and to the Force. Death must be slow, an agony of disintegration of spirit and body: painful and humiliating.
So, "Oh, no, you don't," he gloated. The vibroblade smacked into his open palm barely after that same hand clipped his lightsaber to his belt, an action so fast it was almost a blur as the other hand shot out and gestured to the side. "You'll die damning yourself and the Force both," a feral grin curled his lips, "unless you stop me." His free hand closed like a vise, a predator seizing its prey. A yowl, growl and hiss in one snapped Obi-Wan's head up and to the side. Defiant and outraged, a feline skidded across the ground, tail lashing and front claws swiping futilely through the air, trailing behind her, three mewling fluff balls, kitlings that had only just opened their eyes.
Coiled and curled in an furiously unhappy ball, its tail lashing furiously, the mother was unceremoniously yanked upright and dangled by the scruff of its neck in front of Obi-Wan's face, so close its whiskers tickled his nose, the same old feline that had all but demanded his chin scratches and rewarded his efforts with purrs and gentle kneading.
"Stop me, Kenobi - or I'll gut the animal before I do the same to you."
All is calm – the constabulary droids had reported. The Force knew better and so did Jedi Master Dooku.
It took all of his discipline to concentrate on the matter at hand – the crime committed and the possible motive – rather than the trouble young Obi-Wan was in. He had to hope the young man was capable of dealing with it. He was, under usual circumstances, for Qui-Gon had trained him well according to Mace and Yoda.
But usual circumstances this was not.
There could be no connection between this horrible crime – murder and attempted murder – could there? Surely he was not meant to be one of the victims, for no one gained a thing by his renunciation of the title.
All that was gained was his prolonged absence, a chance to plunder the manor perhaps - and a clear field at Obi-Wan!
But why?
And then the Force twisted and shrieked – and Dooku knew it might already be too late.
"I must return," he announced abruptly. "Might I presume upon you for a lift, Inspector – your air speeder is faster."
"What!" Obi-Wan croaked, raising his eyes to the gleeful, baleful eyes. He was sure the shock in his eyes matched that in his heart. Surely he had misheard, but no - madness danced in the blue depths mingled with an unholy glee. Obi-Wan shuddered, but not for himself. No, he did not wish to die, but was prepared to do so if it was his time. But this gentle creature did not deserve, no animal deserved, to be a pawn in this deadly game or to suffer for the sole purpose of making Obi-Wan suffer.
Nor did he wish to see her kitlings orphaned, alone in a world they were not prepared for.
Dare he protect his conscience at the cost of innocent life? Could he sacrifice them to avoid sacrificing his soul? Yet once his soul was sold, what then? Who would then suffer because of what he chose to be, no matter the reason for his choice?
Could he reach for the Force and find not dark, but light reaching back?
The thought – that hope – splintered and drifted away, unfortunately to be forgotten, in the horror of the words next spoken.
"Why ever not?"
The cold indifference only confirmed the utter depths of depravity to which this man would sink. He would harm others without a second thought – harm with the clear intention to emotionally gorge on others' suffering. Obi-Wan stopped struggling, a plea in his soul strangled: to give voice to his contempt might well make matters far worse than silence. For others – these innocent creatures - he would beg, but should he? Should he pretend indifference?
And the Force guided him not.
He was forced to rely solely on his own judgment.
No, he decided, that insane giggle and a shrug of shivery anticipation told him that further protests would only inflame the man to a tyranny of torture to a helpless animal. Already, one ruby drop promised of many more to come with just the slightest of provocation.
What exactly did this man want from him – rage and hate? Horror and despair? Shame and humiliation, knowing he had failed to not only protect himself, but innocent others?
But perhaps he could deflect the attention back to himself, could make it seem he did not care.
"It's – it's only a 'pathetic life form'." His pretended indifference was betrayed in a stutter as he realized he could do nothing even if he judged hasty action, though such was sure to be almost certain suicide, the better move. The Force was pinning him into place. Why? He was a Jedi, the Force's faithful servant and ally – he was supposed to prevent harm, not acquiesce to it! In his mind, forgotten, the myriad of occasions a Jedi was restrained from action – legal or physical.
No matter the wish, a Jedi – the Jedi – could not always intervene, not always prevent harm.
Those still pure of heart, those whose idealism was not nibbled away by pragmatism and cynicism, struggled to accept what they could not change, as Obi-Wan now struggled.
He must do something because he had to do something.
Misuse – abuse – of the Force by the one who opposed him could not deter him. He had to find a way to intervene. Without the help of the dark. Without the help of the light?
But how?
"A raggedy 'pathetic life form'?" A pretense of deliberation crossed the cruel visage as the man stepped back a pace. He cocked his head to one side and grinned, almost clapping his hands in glee while he half-pranced around the prone Jedi. "Like you – you who don't dare to reach for the power to stop me. You could, you know, my master was right about that. Succeed, no, but give me a decent challenge. As it is, you're pathetic. Go ahead, stop me - oh, wait; no, you can't. Fear paralyzes you. Your cowardice is a stench in the Force. You're helpless; really, you should have stayed in Agri-Corps, you know – poisoning crops rather than – such creatures."
The feline choked and its paws scrabbled against empty air as if an invisible vise had tightened around its neck.
"Shall I kill them all before you? Let you die knowing the blood of 'poor, innocent little pathetic creatures' is on your hands because you, the so-called servant of the light, was too scared of the dark to save them?"
"Only the wicked and weak terrorize the innocent," Obi-Wan spat, his whole body shaking with his resistance to the Force hold that held him immobile – helpless – a witness to an impending atrocity upon which both seemed to agree that he should be able to avert. His eyes slid sidewise, up, down, once again seeking anything – a diversion – a way to fight back.
A way to save one who could not save herself.
"Oh dear me, no, only the wicked and strong." The smile never wavered; only grew wider. "Like you, these pathetic life forms clutter up the galaxy. So, before you go bye-bye, say bye-bye." With an audacious wink and sloppy grin, his adversary skittered one tiny kitling close, ever-so-casually lifted his foot…
…and a kitling's squeal was cut short.
Desperation, horror, and glee tainted the Force, felt in some degree by all except the one who was at the unwitting center. Reactions were varied and mixed.
A Sith mentally rubbed his hands in anticipation: the goad was about to unleash a swell of hatred.
A Sith-wanna-be was not quite drunk enough on exhilaration to suddenly wonder if he might have been wiser to exercise his lightsaber rather than his tongue.
A Sith-who-might-have-been silently swore. "Faster," Dooku exhorted. Inside, he wondered if it was too late – and just what he feared most: a dead grand-padawan or a victorious one.
Amongst those forever allied against the Sith, few suspected the Force teetered and oscillated: sympathetic to one who fought for life yet commanded by one who fought for life's destruction.
None living had ever heard the Force wail.
High up in the Jedi Temple, Yoda raised a clawed hand to his forehead and blinked. "A moment, if you please," he stated to the assembled council, then frowned and abruptly called the meeting to a close.
"What is it, Yoda?" Mace had remained behind when the Council room emptied. He tried a feeble joke. "We could have dimmed the light when the sun emerged from the clouds. That's quite a storm out there."
"Emerged it did not," the diminutive master snapped back.
"Well, it tried." Mace pointed out; he, too, had shaded his eyes for a moment there. It had been an unusually stormy day, complete with thundershowers and rain. As programmed as the weather was, there were glitches in the program from time to time, though storms were usually brief and publicized in advance. He shrugged, suddenly mindful of the words. "Your favorite saying does not apply to Weather Control."
Yoda merely grunted and swiveled his head to gaze soberly at his fellow master and friend. "Feel it – hear it - you did not?"
"N-no," Mace shook his head and leaned forward, dark eyes affixed on Yoda's. "I felt – nothing?"
"That 'nothing' it was that I felt – the Force – holds its breath." One claw absently scratched at an ear.
That was what Mace had been unable to put a finger on: the constant pulse of the Force was in abeyance. He had never heard, never felt, such a thing.
"Rare, it is, rare," Yoda muttered. "For the Force to stutter like this, most unusual. A portent it may be. Trouble it may be. And yet – a good sign it may be." His ears curled forward and he sighed. "Meditate on this I must, seek answers within the Force as well. Confer we must, but later."
He raised a clawed digit just before Mace exited. "Before you leave, Master Windu, tell me – believe, do you, that the Force can …?"
The eyes that met Mace's were profoundly troubled and somehow that was more disturbing than Yoda trailing off in the middle of a sentence. When Yoda could not voice his thoughts, finding them incomprehensible or worse – too appalling to be voiced aloud – and the Force was silenced as well –
Mace shivered.
The growl of outrage came from two throats.
The snap of fragile bones ignited within the Jedi a passion that was stronger than the Force hold and purer than indignant outrage: an explosive surge of energy against which nothing could stand.
Not even a Force restraint, especially when aided and abetted by the shriek of a bereaved mother feline; held invisibly aloft by the neck her paws were, however, free and unrestrained. Sharp as vibroblades, her claws swept out and raked the arm of one who would dare harm her kitling. Feline and drops of red all flew sideways with a sweep of the wounded arm, more a result of the assailant throwing his arm up and out to deflect the animal to protect the vulnerable flesh of his throat. In that same moment, Obi-Wan surged upright with a mighty roar.
"You – will – not – harm another in my stead!" A vicious punch knocked the man stumbling backwards, expression stupid with shock and shock at the unexpected attack. An outraged Jedi was a terrifying sight, to the sane and insane alike. Jedi, man and feline tumbled to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs, paws and growls.
Heedless of the scattered weapons torn from his tormentor's grasp, Obi-Wan drew back his fist for another blow, poised to strike with righteous fury. He could stop this: one punch to the sinus cavity or use the weapons at hand – his eyes darted to the vibroblade, the lightsaber, his very fingers, for even they were easily a weapon if they wrapped around the neck and squeezed.
He could end this. Now. The blood pounded in his ears, the drumbeat a jarring cacophony of discordant notes.
This – this is what Qui-Gon saw in me? The stumble…the desire…the urge to obliterate?
He had intended to kill the tattooed warrior from the moment Qui-Gon had fallen. He would have killed more than one that day had he succeeded. In his moment of triumph he would have been lost.
This – this is what Qui-Gon saw in me? Not what I had done, but could do? My potential – my affinity for the dark when stressed?
Somehow, there, that time he had wrested himself into the light and dealt the fatal blow with grim purpose, killing rather than murdering, protecting those whom his duty was to protect rather than – indulging his tumultuous emotions of grief and anger.
His fingers trembled. Dare he end it now, like this?
His fingers itched to end this, his soul, however, screamed and pleaded that all he had to do was remember who he was and all he had ever wanted to be: a Jedi. Was this another test, this one without witnesses, not even the Force?
But there was a witness – his conscience.
Never had he not listened to it; in the absence of all else, it still remained and it would not keep its peace until he heard and acknowledged it – and so he listened to his heart speak to his mind, and his mind speak to his soul, or perhaps it was the other round, or perhaps all speaking in unison, both a whisper and a shriek: Master, please…fix it. It's dreadfully hurt…"
Mend, not destroy. Had that not always been his first instinct? But who would he mend if he destroyed this man in front of him?
And just who would he destroy?
His eyes widened and affixed on the man who had not only tried to kill him and humiliate him, but had used him to kill an innocent creature to get him to unleash his anger: and here he stood, fingers clenched into fists, his chest heaving with pants that threatened to be sobs, and knees trembling to keep him on his feet
It would be so easy. So very easy.
And so very, very wrong.
And so he stayed his hand. Revulsion twisted Obi-Wan's features as he stared into the face of his would-be killer. He swallowed, and then carefully, calmly unpeeled his fingers, one at a time, from the taut fist.
The silence was broken by a cackle of triumph. Eyes that sparkled with malice and glittered with satisfaction met his.
"So the great Kenobi struggles to do right, struggles to do wrong. My master was right about what lies at your core. You cloak your darkness with the semblance of compassion, but oh, how you wish to strike me down without mercy, don't you? I kill one pathetic life and you retaliate, oh, how you wish to retaliate. I see the anger and the hate burning in your eyes, reaching for your soul, the desire to hate me; to kill me. You feel the unplumbed depths of darkness within you. Lift just one finger to me to start now down the path and know it will forever curse you."
"I will not be accursed." He shook his head, not aware of doing so; not aware of speaking aloud.
"Dear old Obi. Do or do not, there is no try yet here you stand, unable to cling to the light; scrabbling to keep his feet out of the muck: so undecided, straddling the line. First Naboo, now here – the call is more compelling each time, harder to resist. You're trying to resist it, but it is winning, is it not?"
The answer to that was a decisive no. Each time he was tempted he came away stronger, didn't he? Why, then, are you so consistently targeted by the dark, so often its prey?
Qui-Gon would say – had all but said – one step forward, one long fall downwards. And Yoda said one step forward and a right turn and pivot…
With a silent inhale and exhale, buoyed by the memory of the revered master's words, Obi-Wan released the tumultuous, paralyzing thoughts. Now was not the time; he could face his inner demons after he successfully faced the outer. Now, all he had to do was fight in the light. So, as centered and serene as a man under siege could be, Obi-Wan denied the allegation with a slow shake of his head. "The dark is ever seeking; perhaps it is inevitable to totally avoid its touch, but it can be refused a home."
A disbelieving "huff" greeted this. "The dark is persistent and it always wins. You must know eventually you will Fall, if not this time, then the next, or the time after." Maniacal laughter burbled from the man's throat as if the last veil of sanity had been ripped aside. "But, I will not allow you a next time; I will not be my master's sacrifice to gain you!"
Obi-Wan slowly straightened. Caked in dirt, face scratched and bruised, hair tousled and unruly, he stood tall, looking every inch the Jedi Knight he wished to be and in a corner of his mind he so desperately feared he was not.
"Live or die, it shall be as a Jedi and not as your 'master's prize' for I will not strike you down in cold blood."
Fighting an urge to rub a hand over his eyes, he drew a deep breath instead. He was weary, so very weary. He had not the strength to prolong the fight, nor, he suspected, had his opponent the desire to do so. Not any longer. All this taunting and gloating had been both a cause and a result of his opponent's psychological wish to indulge his personal animosity, like a hunter playing with its prey before consumption.
Inevitably, play time turned into meal time when the hunter, as now, wearied of the game – or in this case, the indulgence in capricious cruelty had been satiated. How he knew this, he wasn't sure, but he was sure of one thing. Blood lust dominated now.
Obi-Wan's lips curled then, not in a sneer, not in satisfaction, but in understanding and acceptance: death was now but moments away – inevitable, unavoidable, and inescapable - no matter how unwanted. His eyes flicked sideways, up and down, taking inventory of a scene to be forever burned into memory.
Eyes almost gray with fatigue and sadness, the Jedi's hand lifted upwards, a plea and warning both, and continued softly, "I shall not, however, hesitate to strike you down in battle if you force my hand. Surrender before I kill you or you, me. Let us end this without further bloodshed." His eyes flicked down to the cruelly sacrificed kitling almost at his feet. "Let there be no more death this day."
His answer was a battle cry of unleashed fury and hatred.
"So be it," Obi-Wan breathed, slipping a hand within his tunic and wrapping it around one of the packets previously stuffed within. He lobbed it as the man charged, lightsaber blazing. It was a quick diversion to allow him time to stoop and scoop up a handful of muck. In a fight for one's life, playing dirty was to be forgiven.
The bag was bisected with a simple swing but the hastily flung dirt was not so easily batted away. While much of the liquid was instantly vaporized, other droplets flash heated. Some of the steaming mixture completed its trajectory and splattered on target, clinging to brow, eyelashes and cheek.
Even half-blinded, eyes almost certainly blurry if not burned, the man only slowed in his lunge for the Jedi, but it slowed his advance sufficiently for Obi-Wan to back pedal two steps, grab the long handled flanged fork and slam it into a block against the descending lightsaber with every bit of strength he could muster. The blade cut through the flange like it was an illusion rather than an ancient metal alloy, but the Jedi was already flipping the implement around. Incandescent metal struck wrist and lightsaber hilt both.
An ordinary man would have recoiled and dropped the weapon. This one didn't.
But he was off balance and in pain, and unable to avoid Obi-Wan's kick to his midsection. He flew backwards, against the workbench with a thump that sent tools and containers to scatter and clang. Trickles of fluid, some thin and watery, some thick and viscous, flowed or trickled from lids knocked ajar.
Some might be toxic, some were certainly caustic. And the lightsaber – it wind milled all over the place, held by a man flailing for support.
Before he could shout a warning, long before that warning might have been heeded or perhaps ignored, it was too late. The lightsaber swept to one side – and ignited a fireball.