Chapter Text
Palpatine says all the right things, when the Council calls him.
“My goodness,” he says.
“I cannot imagine what he must have endured,” he says.
“We are lucky indeed,” he says.
“Do pass on my best wishes,” he says.
When the call ends, he stands very still for a long moment.
Kenobi.
The holotable cracks under his hands.
Amidala has been very quiet, recently.
No dramatic speeches. No rhetorical flourishes. No interviews with sympathetic journalists, pleading for an opening to negotiations.
He reaches out, investigates–
Windu and Bilaba had been seen at her apartments.
Skywalker has not been seen in public since Kenobi’s funeral.
Instability, the Jedi had told him, and he–
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.
But he’d been having such an excellent time.
It had been in the works for some time. Ever since Geonosis, when fragments of footage had landed on his desk– ever since he’d set his contacts on the Outer Rim to work, and they’d passed on rumors of a small planet called Melidaan, of a boy called Ben, wreathed in lightning, freezing an explosion in the palms of his hands–
A localized suspension of time itself, to hold up a hospital.
A folding of the very fabric of space, to yank his troopers out of a crashing gunship.
And, well– he’d been wanting Kenobi out of the way for ages.
They would hardly be looking for him if he was dead. Not like they would be if he’d simply snatched him.
So. A plan. Executed to perfection.
The chaos that had ensued. The panic. The grief.
Absolutely delicious, all of it.
He’d been prepared to pull the Separatists back. After all, he’d been well aware that Kenobi was one of the best military strategists in the Order, that he’d been pulling far more than his fair share– goodness, he’d been absolutely exhausted every time they’d met.
And if he’d made sure that the lights were just a bit too bright, then– well. Little indulgences.
But the Jedi had rallied– shockingly quickly, he’d thought at first, and then he’d realized why and had laughed for some time.
The clones. He wished he’d thought of that himself. The irony was simply delightful. Weapons were all well and good pointed at the enemy– and the Jedi had no idea how quickly they’d be pointing at them.
It had gone like this:
The reports from Tyranus are simply fascinating.
Kenobi is cut off from the Force entirely. But he’s internalized it. He can’t use it to affect his environment– his apprentice tells him, with a certain chilly satisfaction, that he certainly would have already if he could– but internally–
Regeneration of internal organs. Almost complete, at first. Then, as time progresses, the accuracy of the process begins to falter. Or, perhaps– accuracy is the wrong word. Strength, maybe. The regeneration only stretches so far. Only applies to particular organs.
Kenobi is rationing.
On purpose?
Difficult to tell, Tyranus says.
Well then. He will simply have to ascertain the truth of it himself.
Seeing him over footage is one thing.
Seeing him in person– oh, it’s quite another, and he hadn’t really anticipated how satisfying it would be.
Kenobi has been a thorn in his side for far too long, ever since he’d snatched Skywalker from under him, bringing him under Jedi protection. It hadn’t stopped him, certainly, but it had made things– so much more difficult than they needed to be.
Escaping, somehow, every damned time–
So now, to see him like this–
Blind eyes flicker, searching, helpless. Blood leaks from his ears– yes, good, Tyranus had taken the appropriate precautions. Pink lungs shudder with every ragged, incomplete inhale; with the rib muscles peeled neatly apart, there’s only so much air they can take in. Every breath is a rattling wheeze, a thin whistle of air escaping from the neatly-carved incision in his throat. His legs lie limp on the metal table, a startling contrast to the way the rest of his body strains against the cuffs. His hands flex, scrabbling helplessly, and his right hand leaves behind a mess of blood and shredded muscle with every movement.
Ugh.
Like a rat caught in a trap.
He addresses Tyranus, not looking away. “You suspect he’s not consciously controlling regeneration?”
“No, my lord,” Tyranus says. “I believe he would have repaired the vocal cords, if so. He seemed– desperate, when those were severed.”
The great Negotiator. I’m sure you were, weren’t you?
He reaches for the left hand and bends the index finger back until he hears the bone break, watching Kenobi’s face carefully.
No reaction. No repair.
Hm.
He breaks the other four fingers in quick succession for symmetry’s sake, then takes a step back and gives him a once-over.
In the grand scheme of things, he supposes that pain must have been minimal.
An idea occurs to him.
“Removal of portions of the lung has reliably triggered regeneration, yes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How much can be removed while still maintaining functionality?”
“Normally a full lung, my lord, but considering the… extreme circumstances, I would recommend no more than a third.”
“Do it,” he says. “And get me a vial, too, while you’re at it.”
Smashing through his shields is remarkably cathartic. Feeling him blink out, even more so.
He hadn’t necessarily intended to snuff him out so quickly– an unintended mercy, he thinks, and scowls.
He scorches the mindscape for the sake of completeness, reducing what remains to ash and rubble.
His apprentice has his orders. He would have liked to punish him for robbing Kenobi of his voice– after all, he would have liked to hear him scream– but, as much as he hates to admit it, he does need Tyranus to be able to execute his duties here.
He leaves Iwanaga with a sample tucked into the pocket of his robe, the lightning thrashing furiously against the glass.
The reports keep coming in, regular as clockwork, every two weeks.
He instructs Tyranus to try and harvest another sample.
His apprentice informs him of his failure. The lightning will not be dragged out of him now. Regeneration occurs only to the point of functionality, and no further.
Hm. Yes. As he’d suspected, then. There is none left to spare.
But he finds himself largely unconcerned, consumed by his new studies.
The lightning is fascinating.
The Force itself, made manifest, given form. It flails, furious, robbed of a host, but prevented from fading by the suppressant laced into the glass.
The way it warps– there’s no continuity to it. It leaps from corner to corner of the small container without traversing any of the space in between. Space loses its meaning; time bends and flexes oddly.
He orders a tooka brought to his office and slits it open from the chin to the belly–
Then pauses.
To experiment would be to potentially lose access to the one sample he has, if this goes awry. And it’s too precious to lose over a tooka.
He sighs, gives it up as a lost cause, and disposes of the body in the trash chute.
He watches the lightning distort itself, writhing, protesting its confinement. The way it moves– what it’s capable of–
And Kenobi had a vast amount of it at his command.
He could have yanked Dooku’s ship out of the sky.
He could have ended the war in an instant.
He could have shattered time and space itself.
Why–?
Weakness. Jedi weakness, once again.
Respecting the currents of the Force, he thinks, scowling. They consider themselves students, stewards– no, he never would have utilized it to its full capacity. He would have let it sweep him along, he never would have bent it–
Fool.
And for all the good it did him.
But now– now he has it.
What could he do with it?
The temptation had been too much. He’d let himself get absorbed in his research, let the lightning draw his focus, and now, somehow, impossibly, Kenobi is alive. Alive, and in the Temple, safe and out of reach–
For now.
Dooku is not a concern. He won’t speak, and if he does, well– he can be dealt with in due time.
He has bigger things on his mind.
The rage kindles in his chest.
Kenobi.
He has escaped one too many times.
He doesn’t know how–
But he’ll find out.
It’s easy enough to grant the 212th shore leave.
Master Kenobi had undergone quite the ordeal, after all, he says. If he is better served with his battalion here, then surely they can be spared.
(His Commander will put the blaster to his head. It will be his medics, this time, who hold the scalpels, and he will order them to leave Kenobi’s voice intact so he can hear him beg and know exactly when he gives up.)
He asks when he can see him. Speak to him. Congratulate him. Update him.
Regardless of the reasoning he gives, he finds himself blocked at every turn, and it doesn’t take him long to realize the Jedi are stonewalling him.
Fiercely, pathetically protective of their little miracle, back from the dead at last.
He stops asking. It won’t do any good to make them suspicious.
(Kenobi.)
He waits, instead, and edits his schedule.
One week passes by.
Then another.
The dawn of the third week brings with it news that Bail Organa has extended an invitation to the Jedi Temple.
Palpatine’s schedule says he is supposed to be in the Annex.
He picks up the vial, twisting it between his fingers.
The lightning twists, shuddering, hurling itself at the walls of its prison–
If you want a job done right, after all, you have to do it yourself.
On the morning of Obi-Wan’s Senate visit, Mace wakes up with a migraine.
The sweeping scale of the shatterpoint will blind him if he lets it. Even now, his vision blurs, fracturing into a dizzying spiral–
He folds his blanket to the side. Stares at the ceiling. Closes his eyes. Breathes.
The relief is temporary. For headaches like these, it always is.
If he could, he would lie flat on the floor and let the Force wash him into blissful unconsciousness, but he is not in the habit of letting warning shatterpoints go ignored.
No hasty actions. No. But– precautions. Yes.
He pulls on his tunics. Tugs on his outer robe and pulls the hood over his eyes. Staggers gracelessly into the kitchen.
Then he takes a minute to rest his forehead against the freezer door, letting the cool metal sooth the pounding pain behind his eyes.
He breathes, and makes some calls.
Then he eats breakfast.
Two pieces of toast is about all he can manage. Nausea rolls in his stomach.
He pours himself a mug of tea and folds himself onto his meditation mat, notes of lemon and ginger curling on the steam rising gently from the drink cradled in his hands.
The Force is ever vast and welcoming, and Mace sinks into it. He lets the pain unfurl and diffuse along the notes of a cosmic composition, until the drumbeat at the base of his skull is no longer an overwhelming thunder, spreading thin into infinity until it is nothing but the barest echo.
It won’t last forever. But it’s something.
“Of all the days,” he murmurs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
He would very much like to think that this has nothing to do with Obi-Wan’s visit to the Senate.
But he is not an idiot.
A prickle at the edge of his awareness alerts him to a familiar presence standing patiently outside his door.
There hadn’t been any knocking. No calling, either.
He hesitates for a moment before flicking his hand, and the door slides open.
Helix pokes his head inside.
“Mace?” he says, lowering his voice. “Ace commed me. Are you okay?”
“Quite all right,” Mace says, smiling reassuringly.
Something warm curls through him at the sight of Helix’s eyes narrowing.
“Ponds told Ace you sounded off,” he says, the faintest tinge of accusation in his tone. “And I can only deal with one Jedi at a time who treats his own body like an irritating acquaintance.”
Mace can’t help but laugh at that.
“Perfectly justified,” he says wryly. “I assure you, I’m not trying to dodge anything. It’s– a headache.”
Helix studies him for a moment and sighs. “No painkillers?”
Mace shakes his head and then closes his eyes, frustration flickering through him at the way the motion makes his vision spin. “Ineffective, I’m afraid.”
He pauses, then says–
“There’s caff in the upper left cupboard, and the water in the kettle is still hot.”
A beat of silence, and then footsteps pad past him into the kitchen with a murmur of thanks.
The cupboard door opens and shuts, very quietly.
Then, the trickle of water, the hiss of steam, the faintly caramelized smell of fresh caff followed by a hum of quiet satisfaction–
He opens his eyes to see Helix settling down next to him, mug cradled in his hands like something precious.
“So. Ineffective?”
It’s a carefully polite question. Allows him to just confirm it and leave it at that, if he wants to.
But–
“Yes,” Mace says. “Are you at all familiar with shatterpoints?”
When Helix shakes his head, he continues:
“They are… a rather complex Force phenomenon. They look like– fault lines. Like cracked windows. Different pathways, different decisions.”
He sighs.
“The trouble,” he says wryly, “is that you can’t tell which decision leads to which result. Or what the collision itself is. And sometimes they’re so big that trying to narrow it down to a location is nearly impossible.”
“And they’re not easy to perceive, I’m guessing,” Helix says slowly, and Mace realizes then that he’s pressing at his temples once more, an instinctive attempt to dull the resurfacing ache.
“No,” he says drily, dropping his hands. “They are not.”
Helix makes a face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That sounds miserable.”
The frankness of the statement makes Mace grin.
“It’s not without benefit, though. I may not be able to identify the vision, but we can take– precautions. Up the number of guards on rotation. Make sure the younglings’ classes today will be held in the Memory– it’s the easiest place to protect, if we have to–”
“Bottleneck,” Helix says quietly, nodding. “I can see it. And the Temple– it would help, wouldn’t it?”
“It would certainly try its best,” Mace agrees.
Helix leans back and inhales the steam rising from his drink, a considering look in his eyes.
“You can’t tell where this one’s localized,” he says finally, and glances sideways. “But if you had to guess…”
Mace offers him a wry smile without much humor behind it.
“Exactly where you’d think.”
It’s Helix’s turn to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “They left half an hour ago. We’re all twitchy.”
He pauses. Then, very quietly–
“I have a bad feeling about this one, Mace.”
Mace curls his hands around his own mug.
“You and me both,” he says at last, and feels Helix’s knee press against his own.
They sit in silence for a long moment, until a stray thought nudges at the corners of his awareness.
“Ace is on planet,” he says slowly. “Why did he comm you?”
Helix snorts a sudden laugh.
“One, because he knew I was in the Temple and therefore closer,” he says, “and two, because you are my only ally with any sense in trying to keep my idiot commanding officers alive, and I was not about to let you die alone in your rooms and leave me to try and wrangle them on my own, because if I have to watch them make eyes at each other one more time I might actually start a mutiny.”
A pause.
“Sir.”
Mace sets his mug down and drops his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking.
“They are a bit–”
“Hopeless?” Helix suggests, grinning. “Sickening? I’m taking suggestions.”
“A bit harsh, isn’t it?” Mace asks, laughing helplessly.
“Two years, Mace,” Helix says, pointing at him. “Two years.”
Well. All right. He can muster some sympathy for that.
Waiting is always made easier with company.
Meanwhile, outside the Senate Rotunda:
Cody and Obi-Wan step into the enormous shadow cast by the mushrooming dome overhead.
“I hate it here,” Cody grumbles, and feels Obi-Wan’s fingers brush along the top of his glove– a brief, fleeting gesture, but all they can allow themselves out here.
“You know,” Obi-Wan says quietly, a smile flickering over his face, “you didn’t have to come.”
Cody raises an eyebrow. “Did you really think we’d let you go alone?”
They hadn’t been allowed to bring an entire battalion into the Senate, much to Cody’s dismay. He’d walked in on half of Ghost Company drawing straws and had needed to pull rank to assert himself. He’d like to hear Obi-Wan suggest that to them.
“I resent the implication in that statement, my dear,” Obi-Wan says, amusement curling in his voice.
“Implication? I’m sorry, I thought I was making it obvious–”
“Coming from the man who punches clankers on the regular?”
“It’s effective.”
“You fractured your wrist in four places.”
Cody sniffs. “You’re telling me Helix broke doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Does it count if the doctor is yelling so loudly he’s audible from three hallways away?” Obi-Wan asks, grinning at him. “Hypothetically.”
“He should keep his voice down,” Cody says, scowling under his bucket.
“I’ll let you tell him that,” Obi-Wan says, laughing, and Cody subsides.
“Well,” he says at last, “I can handle politicians for an hour.”
A pause–
“For you,” he adds, and gets the distinct pleasure of watching Obi-Wan’s ears turn red.
Sometimes, he still can’t believe he gets to just– say things like that. Quiet things. Careless things. Obi-Wan had called him sunlight three days ago while making dinner and it had taken him ten minutes to remember how to speak again. He’d swallowed what remained of his dignity and asked Auks to teach him how to braid hair, and Auks had kindly obliged without any pointed remarks even if Cody had needed to ignore his knowing grin the whole time, and now he finds himself weaving Obi-Wan’s hair into a loose plait even as he starts to doze off against him. Obi-Wan’s smile goes all soft around the edges when he looks at Cody, and they– they get to hold hands, when they’re safe and among their own people, and– and the world seems steadier, almost. Brighter around the edges.
“It’s only Bail,” Obi-Wan says, moving towards the entrance, and Cody matches his stride. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and I want to catch up on the CRA.”
“He could have come to the Temple,” Cody mutters, but the protest is half-hearted.
They’d been over this, after all. Bail could, indeed, have come to the Temple, but the rumors surrounding Obi-Wan’s return are flying thick and fast, and he does have to show his face eventually.
What better reintroduction, Obi-Wan had argued, than a meeting with a known ally and a personal friend in one of the most secure places on Coruscant? Safe, well-guarded, minimal stress– and, he’d said pointedly, he had to start somewhere.
Cody hadn’t liked the thought of him leaving the security of the Temple. None of them had.
But Master Kara had said he wasn’t an active risk to others any longer, and as long as someone else was with him, to get him somewhere safe in case he drifted–
And besides. He doesn’t… dislike Organa. Quite the opposite, really– the Alderaanian senator is one of maybe three people in the building who’s more spine than slime. He just–
Well.
He scans their surroundings again.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
But the prickling sensation scratching along his shoulders doesn’t go away.
Then–
“Master Kenobi!”
Bail notices their entry almost immediately over Senator Burtoni’s shoulder.
It would be hard not to, with the ripple of whispers they set off.
Master Gallia’s appearance on the Senate floor with news of Obi-Wan’s survival had set off a storm that had yet to die down, and when the session finally ended several hours later, Bail had left feeling like he’d been hit over the head with an anvil.
He’d caught Gallia on her way out.
The questions that had been thrown at her during the session had centered on military readiness. On potential compromises of sensitive intelligence. On the suitability of the Temple to house a captive Sith. On what to actually do with said captive Sith. All of which were important, yes, of course, but he wanted to know–
“Master Gallia!”
The Tholothian Jedi had turned to him, and he’d caught a glimpse of bone-deep exhaustion in the lines around her eyes before her expression had smoothed over.
“Senator Organa,” she’d said, bowing politely. “What might I assist you with?”
“I–”
He’d stopped, recalibrated in an instant–
“Could you please convey my best wishes to Master Kenobi?” he’d said at last. “I am– very glad to hear of his return, and I wish him a speedy recovery.”
Her eyes had softened, when she’d agreed.
When he’d made it back to the safety of his apartment, he’d flopped backwards onto the bed and grinned at the ceiling for a bit.
Then he’d commed Breha.
And now–
His friend turns towards him at his call, and Bail sees his eyes light up. He makes his hurried excuses to the scowling Kaminoan senator and– doesn’t run, he is a sitting senator and he doesn’t run in the middle of a crowded lobby, Breha would never let him hear the end of it–
Okay. Maybe he runs. Just a bit.
“At this point,” he says, when he pulls back from the hug, “I think I am going to insist on seeing a body before I believe you’re dead again.”
Good lord. He looks at once better and worse than Bail had anticipated. His hair is longer, pulled back into a messy braid, his beard shaved down to stubble, but there’s– there’s something behind his eyes, some fracture, some fault line–
Then he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Bail sets it aside for later.
“I think Helix has already written that into my file,” he says wryly. “Far be it from me to complain.”
“Save us all some trouble,” Commander Cody mutters, and Obi-Wan nudges him with a smirk.
“Commander,” Bail says belatedly, remembering himself. “A pleasure to see you again as well, and under better circumstances this time.”
(The last time they’d seen each other had been in front of an empty funeral pyre.)
“I was hoping I could speak with you about new developments in the CRA?”
“Told you,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and Bail grins at them both.
“You know, I’m sure you could have gotten more medical leave. You didn’t have to–”
Cody’s shaking his head.
“All due respect, Senator, you should have seen him argue,” he says dryly. “He couldn’t wait.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Bail says flatly.
“I think this counts as speaking ill of the dead,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes dancing. “I came because I was promised a friendly conversation, Bail, not this juvenile–”
“General Kenobi!”
And Obi-Wan’s smile– freezes.
Something flashes behind his eyes, bright and blinding, almost– almost like lightning, Bail thinks, and he opens his mouth, concern flaring, because Obi-Wan’s grip has tightened on his arm and it’s only been three weeks, after all, maybe it had been too soon to–
Cody turns to see the Chancellor emerging from the turbolift, the doors sliding shut behind him.
“Ugh,” he mutters. “I thought he was supposed to be in the Annex.”
–and the lightning vanishes in an instant, leaving Bail wondering if he’d imagined it entirely.
“Obi-Wan?” he asks quietly. “Are you all right?”
Obi-Wan blinks at him.
Then he smiles.
“Of course,” he says easily. “Apologies. I’m quite all right.”
He turns. Takes a step forward.
“Chancellor Palpatine!” he exclaims warmly. “I hadn’t thought we’d see you today. I was under the impression you were working in the Annex.”
(There’s something– very odd, about his smile.)
Cody scowls at the approaching Chancellor from under his bucket, barely resisting the childish urge to stick his tongue out.
Slimy, Obi-Wan had told him. That’s what most politicians felt like.
And it’s not a bad thing, either, not necessarily, he’d hastened to say. Most politicians needed a bit of slime to be effective. Their victories were built on compromise. But some, he’d said, making a face, were more slime than sentient.
And the Chancellor–
“Oh, you know,” he says, chuckling, “the work never stops. My office is being fumigated, at the moment, so I’ve had to relocate to a temporary workspace here.”
He smiles. Obi-Wan smiles.
“Always best to be at the center of things, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Obi-Wan says.
Then–
“I must say, I’m pleased to find you here,” Palpatine says. “I’ve been hoping to speak with you–”
“A good thing, too, as I was actually hoping for a moment of your time, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan interrupts smoothly. “Master Windu asked me to update you on the progression of peace talks on Sagal. Save some time.”
He’s still smiling.
“Classified, of course. You understand. If we could speak privately?”
Privately?
“Why, of course,” the Chancellor says, ignoring Cody completely. “My office?”
Obi-Wan inclines his head.
Cody bristles.
Without looking away, Obi-Wan reaches back and squeezes his hand.
“Rubber stamping,” he says quietly. “Just so Mace doesn’t have to make an extra appearance here for official purposes. I wouldn’t bother you with it.”
Cody bites back his instinctive response.
Because he– apart from those three days– they’ve barely been apart. And he’s still– they’re still–
It’s the Senate.
And he doesn’t like the Chancellor, but that doesn’t mean–
He sighs.
“Don’t take too long, all right?”
A pause–
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Obi-Wan says, smiling.
Still smiling.
(Later, Cody will wonder–)
His hand drops away.
Cody watches the two of them walk towards the turbolift. Watches Obi-Wan gesture the Chancellor forward, watches him step in behind him. Watches him turn around, catches the little wave Obi-Wan offers him–
The door shuts, and they’re gone.
Something nudges at the edge of his awareness.
He feels prickly all over. But he– he has to get used to this. He knows. It’s– it’s fine.
“Commander,” Organa says from behind him, and Cody starts.
“Sir?”
“I’ve been trying to push for a retroactive application clause in the Clone Rights Act. That’s what Senator Burtoni wished to speak to me about.”
He smiles crookedly.
“She was… less than pleased.”
Cody wrenches his gaze away. This is important. This is their future.
A flicker of a memory– of a bonfire, of a dance, of an unfurling and a promise of an after the war.
(He hadn’t had any idea of what was coming then, either.)
“I can believe that, sir,” he says, and turns. “Where would you like to speak?”
Organa gestures outside, and Cody follows him out.
The senator leads him to one of the few patches of greenery dotted around the outside of the building.
Retroactive recognition of sentience. The angle he’d been taking with the more hawkish senators, he explains, centers around making it easier to prosecute Separatist military leadership for war crimes. Penalties are stricter, after all, for damage inflicted on people than on property. Those more aligned with him already needed minimal convincing. It would lend more weight to the argument for backpay. For reparations.
But he’d been talking with Burtoni when they’d walked in, Cody recalls. And she had not looked happy.
“This… retroactive application,” he says slowly. “Does it have a– time limit, on it?”
Organa glances at him approvingly.
“It does not.”
Then, quieter–
“Master Kenobi told me some of what he’d discovered of– standard protocols on Kamino, Commander,” he says. “We cannot change the past, but we may be able to hold them accountable for it.”
More spine than slime, indeed, Cody thinks.
He opens his mouth–
His comm beeps.
Ding.
People bustle in and out of the turbolift.
Two figures stand still, rocks in the middle of the eddying currents.
Cody glances at Organa apologetically.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says, but the Senator waves him off, taking a few steps away and leaning on a railing that overlooks the busy walkway beneath them.
Cody double-checks his comm is wired internally and slips his bucket on.
“Commander Cody,” he says.
“Commander,” Cerasi says, the projection springing to life in the corner of his visor. “Bad news.”
She looks very pale.
Ding.
Obi-Wan smiles.
“We’re secure,” Cody says. “What happened?”
“One second,” Cerasi says. “Jess is getting Helix on the other line–”
A second image materializes. The voice is slightly staticky, but unmistakable.
“Not alone,” Helix says. As if summoned, Windu appears over his shoulder, both of them sporting identical expressions of concern. “What’s going on?”
Ding.
The Chancellor smiles.
“We cracked the chips,” Cerasi says quickly. “Like we suspected– control chips. They’re embedded with orders. There’d be no chance of disobedience, if they were active. And there’s–”
She stops.
“How many units still have chips?”
“Six battalions,” Helix says. “All of them have started dechipping, but it’s slow going. They’ve been on the front lines for the past two months, currently in transit.”
Ding.
They smile at each other.
Jess appears in view.
“Change in plans,” she says, every word tightly controlled. “Put them on a comms blackout and send them to us. We can help with removal. All communications can come through us once they get here, so there’ll be no chance of the chips getting activated.”
“On it,” Helix says immediately, reaching for his primary unit. “I’ve been keeping in touch.”
“They can be activated over comm?” Cody asks, a chill curling through him.
“By voice, yeah,” a new speaker interrupts, and Cerasi tilts the holoprojector until Anders comes into view. He’s hunched over a computer, his face illuminated by blue light, and he doesn’t even spare them a glance. “It’s coded to a particular number. I’m retracing it now.”
A grin flashes over his face, the pleased smile of a master craftsman. “A spoof. They’ll pick up, I can hear them, but they’ll get nothing from this end. An automatic block.”
Ding.
(There are no peace talks on Sagal.)
Cerasi wastes no time.
“The orders,” she says. “A hundred and fifty in total. And, Cody, order 66–”
Something prickles in the back of his mind. He can’t quite tear his thoughts away from that last glimpse of Obi-Wan, as the turbolift doors had slid shut– something about that little wave–
“It’s an execution order for the Jedi.”
Silence.
Cody’s mouth opens all on its own.
“What?”
Ding.
Palpatine’s comm beeps.
He ignores it.
It beeps again.
He ignores it.
“Please don’t ignore a call on my account, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan says politely. “You’re a very busy man.”
He smiles, pleasantly.
Helix has disappeared from view, shouting into his general comm. Cody hears, faintly–
“–know you’re on your way to– no, I don’t care, I’m overruling–”
His feet are rooted to the floor.
Cerasi’s still talking.
“No caveats, no carve-outs,” she says. “This–”
Ding.
“Of course,” Palpatine says, smiling politely.
His comm beeps again.
This time, he picks up.
“Chancellor Palpatine,” he says.
The sentence goes unfinished.
Anders slams his headset down onto the table. His chair screeches backwards, and it’s only Jess’s steadying hand on the back that saves him from a collision with the floor.
He scrambles to his feet. His eyes are very dark and very wide.
“That’s the Chancellor’s comm,” he says. “It’s the Chancellor, it’s the sodding Chancellor–”
Ding.
Palpatine grimaces at the rush of static that greets him.
“Spam caller?” Obi-Wan suggests amiably. “No one is safe.”
They smile at each other.
Cody realizes, very suddenly, what had been bothering him.
Obi-Wan had waved with his left hand.
(Do you truly think Obi-Wan would let anyone else take him on?)
His right hand–
(That he would risk anyone else getting hurt?)
His right hand had been shaking.
(That he would risk you?)
“General Windu,” Cody says, very quietly. “You didn’t ask him to talk to Palpatine, did you?”
Ding.
The last of the other passengers steps out of the lift, offering the two remaining a polite bow.
The doors slide shut.
Obi-Wan turns his gaze to the window.
Oh, he had nearly fled. Nearly gone tumbling back. Nearly, nearly, when he’d felt that familiar, traitorous slime, that viscous, clammy darkness that had left careless footprints in the wreckage of his shields– his mind had shrieked, the lightning had surged, run, run–
And then.
Cody.
Unknowing, grumbling, sun-bright Cody.
Not-safe Cody.
It will not have Cody.
The turbolift carves its way upwards, into the yellow sky.
Cody knows the answer even before Windu speaks.
You always try to evacuate the non-combatants first.
And Obi-Wan– close quarters, the turbolift– with the Sith, the Sith–
(That little wave–)
How long? How long? Have they reached the top yet? Are they walking down the hallway, footsteps muffled on the red carpet? Are they opening the door to the office? Are they already–
Has the lightning won out? Is Obi-Wan gone? And now, his body, left alone, left undefended, because Cody hadn’t seen, because Cody had walked away–
Like sunlight.
Always, always like sunlight.
So Obi-Wan’s smile is genuine, this time, when he turns to face the Sith.
(Fingers curl around his, folding his hand around the hilt of his lightsaber–)
(Here, he says, I kept it safe for you–)
“Sidious,” he says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“You didn’t ask him to talk to Palpatine, did you?”
Mace and Helix look at each other.
He sees the look of dawning horror on Helix’s face and can only imagine the expression on his own.
He’d told Cody, hadn’t he? On the Negotiator, what seems like a lifetime ago–
“No,” he says quietly. “I did not.”
Then–
It feels like being electrocuted. Lightning blazing through the bond he has with Obi-Wan, white-hot and unrelenting, and– he can feel Obi-Wan getting caught up in it, like the core of a supernova, sweeping him up and away and a part of him thinks how have you survived this for this long but the rest of him is focused on reaching, extending a hand into the tsunami–
And Obi-Wan catches it.
In rapid succession– a blaze of sword-sharp shock, a blinding, sun-bright delight, and then, narrowing into a steel-eyed determination–
The shatterpoint breaks.
He doesn’t even realize his knees have buckled until he blinks and Helix’s hands are on his shoulders– he’s saying something but his ears are ringing and– Cody’s connection has cut out, and the lightning–
The bonds are lighting up, people reaching, steadying him–
Helix hauls him upwards and Mace finds his feet at last–
The Force sings and screams like a thunderstorm–
They run.
Cody turns–
The Rotunda explodes.
Instinct takes over, and Cody hurls himself sideways and tackles Organa to the ground a half-second before the shockwave hits.
He has armor on. Organa doesn’t.
The force of the blast lifts them up and sends them flying a good ten feet back, crashing into a parked speeder with enough force to set Cody’s ears ringing. He blinks once–
Twice–
Three times, and realizes that the fuzziness isn’t only due to the collision.
His visor is cracked, his visual input fritzed, the comm lines are full of static–
He yanks the helmet off and chucks it to the side, shaking his head to clear his vision, and takes a moment to assess.
Obi-Wan.
“Senator!” he snaps, rolling over, hauling Organa up by his shoulders and giving him a once-over. The other man blinks at him, looking shell-shocked, then reaches up and grabs his shoulders, concern written all over his face, his mouth is moving, he’s saying something–
He’s alive, that’s good, moving on–
(Something warm trickles down the side of his face.)
Where’s Obi-Wan?
The blast.
He looks up.
Not the total demolition it had felt like at first. He squints. It had taken out part of the– the path it had taken is visible, carving up the external wall–
The turbolift shaft. Charges planted in the turbolift shaft.
Sidious must have been furious he survived.
The integrity of the whole building isn’t at risk– at least, not yet– and already, he can see–
People fleeing. Scattered screams start to break through the ringing in his ears. Flames licking up the side of the Rotunda. Embers drifting onto the greenery around them, and he scrambles up and manhandles Organa to his feet, pushing him away, getting him safe–
He was supposed to be safe.
He drags in a shuddering breath–
And freezes.
Ozone blooms cold and electric on his tongue.
He looks up just in time to see lightning crack across the sky like a spiderweb. Crackling across the stones underfoot, racing white-hot up the crumbling walls, and Cody reaches up, relief strangling in his throat as the hair on his arms stands up. The lightning curls across his armor and for one dizzying moment the paint on his vambraces seems to come alive–
He scans the sky. The lightning always– knots, in a particular way, snarling into a tangle an instant before Obi-Wan rematerializes, and he narrows his eyes, searching–
There.
A flash of blue.
Lightsaber drawn, then, and Cody reaches down and unholsters his own blaster, flicking off the safety–
A flash of red cracks after him, there and gone in an instant, a half-step behind.
Ice trickles down Cody’s spine.
How does Sidious– Sidious– have the–?
Two months.
Irrelevant. He sets that question to the side, and raises his blaster.
Steady.
They’re moving at a dizzying speed. Cracking in and out of sight– there, a collision in the center of the pavement so hot the cobblestones underneath begin to bubble and melt, and then there, a blur of movement on the Rotunda’s dome, blue crashing down onto red, a swirl of robes and they’re gone again until there, a statue tumbles to the ground, severed in two by a flash of red and there, an explosion in the garden, blue meets, swings, parries, they leap and vanish in an instant–
His focus narrows.
The screaming dulls, fading into the background until his head is full of the steady drumming of his own heartbeat. The crackling, scything heat of the lightning– he lets it pass over him, breathes it in and out again. Ozone swallows the acrid smell of smoke, burning across his senses, scraping him clean of distraction.
They’re out of the lightning for less than half a second at a time. If he waits until they’re in sight, he won’t even have time to pull the trigger before they’re gone again.
So. Anticipate.
It occurs to him, from a very long way away, that he should be afraid.
But he’s not. Not at all.
Because, see– he knows Obi-Wan.
He knows the way Obi-Wan’s fingers curl around the hilt of his lightsaber, and how they curl around his hand.
He knows the way he shifts his weight to his back foot and the way that weight feels against his shoulder.
He knows how his defense draws tight, a blur of blue, exhausting, frustrating, until in an instant the door swings open–
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a snarl of lightning begin to coalesce, and pivots, sighting carefully.
Then, a split-second recalculation– the past three weeks, shifting grip and balance, relearning, rebuilding–
He shifts his aim eight inches to the left, and fires.
The bolt slides under the Sith’s guard, striking him between the ribs and sending him staggering backwards. Obi-Wan’s blade descends in a blur, and Sidious parries it but only barely– the rhythm is broken, his stride thrown off, and the lightning strikes across his face– gods, what’s happening to his face?– but he can’t pull his focus together enough to jump again.
(Not yet.)
Cody fires again, once, twice, three times, each shot flying true, but still the Sith stands, each shot like a punch instead of the mortal wound it should be–
The lightning.
It had held Obi-Wan together, pinned to the wall like a butterfly, kept his heart beating, kept his lungs breathing, and now bends for another–
Yellow eyes turn on him.
“Commander–”
Blades collide once, twice more–
“Execute order 66!”
Cody grins, sharp and bloody and still Cody–
He can reckon with the horror of what could have been later.
Right now, he has to make sure there is a later for both of them.
“No,” he says, and fires again.
He hears a burst of laughter from Obi-Wan and can’t help but return it, adrenaline lighting him up from the inside out–
The Sith screams.
Leaping upwards, onto a rooftop, and in the same instance he twists a hand and a concussive blast sends Obi-Wan flying backwards, hitting the ground ten feet away from Cody himself–
“I will see you dead, Kenobi–”
And Obi-Wan’s back on his feet in an instant, his face twisted into a snarl–
“You can certainly try–”
A sharp-edged smile carves across Sidious’ face, stained with blood and lightning, and the air begins to crackle behind him.
“Oh,” he says, “I will.”
Then he turns, leaps, and is gone–
But this is no normal jump.
A line of white-hot, crackling lightning arcs upwards, a gutting wound carving itself into the sky, vibrating at the edges but holding, holding steady. The hair on the back of Cody’s neck is standing up, nausea rolling in his stomach, and when he glances at Obi-Wan he sees blood begin to stream from his nose in the instant before he vaults forward, landing at the very edge of the rift, extending a hand–
“Obi-Wan!”
Cody scrambles up behind him, reaching out, seizing Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
He can’t ask him to stay.
Nor would he.
He has a duty. They have a duty.
He says, instead–
“Come back.”
Obi-Wan turns to him, and through the electric gaze, he sees–
A sliver of clear sky.
For a moment, the whole world goes quiet and still.
Obi-Wan raises a hand, cups Cody’s cheek, the lightning blazing warm against his face.
“My sunlight,” he says, and when he smiles, it’s his smile, all– kind, and soft around the edges.
His hand drops away. The rift flares–
And he’s gone.
The noise rushes back in like a tidal wave. Shrill screams– the sound of approaching sirens– something rumbling, and as he watches another chunk of the Rotunda gives way– familiar voices shouting, red-clad troopers flooding across the pavement, and Cody drops down from the roof, rolling as he hits the ground, back on his feet, running– he seizes the nearest trooper, recognizes the armor, shouts for a comlink, and Thorn fumbles at his belt and presses one into his hands and he’s off again, pressing in a code he knows by heart, he hears the click and starts shouting orders before Waxer can get a word out–
The path unfurls before him. The Sith discovered and dead, peace negotiated and held to, his brothers dechipped and safe and free for the first time in their lives– he will bring them home, he will bring them all home, and they will have peace and a future and an after in which all things are possible–
(My sunlight, Obi-Wan had said–)
Cody knows a promise when he hears one.
He’d felt it, he’d felt them– lights approaching, Jedi swarming, they’d known and Kenobi just wouldn’t die–
Kenobi–
Sidious can feel the lightning breaking, tearing through him, shredding– furious, ill-contained, he’d forced it and bent it and broken it to his will but it won’t be held for long–
How had Kenobi–
No, the clone had said, and he’d– he’d shot at him, like he was more than a cockroach, more than a flesh droid, more than just a faulty product, how many more of them–
Plans a thousand years in the making, crumbling around him–
What had Kenobi done–
If this one won’t die–
Then he will find one that will.
(And then, maybe–)
How easily the Force splits open for him now, when he leaps, the lightning carving like a knife, tearing across threads and against currents, and around him the Force screams but he shatters it like glass, seizing it in death-stained hands and tells it–
Give me a Kenobi I can kill–
And a step behind him, gentle, soothing ragged edges of a bleeding wound–
Where? Where? Tell me where, show me where–
The Force reaches for him, tugging him onwards, along the jagged lines of a corruption that bleeds darkness into the river–
Here–
(careful)
Follow–
(careful, star-bright)
He hunts for you–
(we’ll see you home again)
–and Qui-Gon turns, lightsaber leaping to his hand, the meal trays he’d just fetched clattering to the floor, and breaks into a run.
(he’d only left him in the gardens)
Darkness the likes of which he’s never felt before snarling to life–
(he’d only left to fetch them food)
The Force shudders and shrieks around him–
(a monarch on his hand, shy smile blooming)
His focus narrows down to a star-bright singularity–
(he was supposed to be SAFE)
–because through the bond, his Padawan is screaming.