jona's star wars room

“Genera—“

Obi-Wan is already on his feet and running before a sickening crack cuts off the trooper’s warning.

Cody is hot on his heels, does not let the red lightning rumbling down from the sky freeze his movements even if his thoughts blank for the slice of a second.

He skids to a halt, blaster already drawn, ozone burning through his senses. He registers Obi-Wan lowering his hand—

“Cody, I want every man to back away fifty feet. Close the perimeter but don’t interfere unless I say so.”

That’s not Obi-Wan. Washed out and grey, veins prominent and red and broken. But it’s the same face, underneath it all. The not Obi-Wan sighs in disappointment at— fuck- fuck, that’s Wooley’s paint, Wooley’s body lying on its stomach, visor staring up at the sky.

“Are you alright?” There’s a soldier, back towards them, heavily armed, and voice too, too familiar for comfort.

The facsimile smiles ruefully. “I’m fine,” he reassures as if he hasn’t just killed— “He was so loud.”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan, his one, says and he remembers his orders.

The soldier sighs, gently takes one of the not Obi-Wan’s - precisely scarred, what happened - hand in his own gloved one and squeezes.

Activating the battalion frequency is second nature by now. “Perimeter 50 feet from hostiles. Do not engage. Wait on the General’s orders. I repeat, do not engage until further notice.”

“You’re starting negotiations somewhat abruptly,” the soldier scolds with a smile in his voice.

His Obi-Wan takes a step forward, hands vanishing in his robes.

“He’s trying to find the difference,” the— the wrong— yellow eyes flick over the soldier’s shoulder at his General, a bright smile blooming on dry lips - the utterly wrong Obi-Wan— “Oh…”

The soldier turns around like an afterthought, like there aren’t dozens of blasters and a Jedi Master focused on him. A cybernetic eye whirrs, scar tissue tight and just as familiar as the voice’s cadence. An unimpressed look washes over Cody and he can feel his hackles rise despite himself, swallowing up the fear of what-ifs turning all too real.

With a twist and turn the wrong Obi-Wan, the Sith, is around Cody’s doppelgänger, the cane sharply digging into the ground.

“General, behind me,” the soldier orders, is promptly ignored in favor mad yellow eyes digging into Obi-Wan.

“You’re so Light,” the Sith whispers to himself, taking another step forward to Cody’s General.

The soldier - Cody will deal with the implications of it all, but later - snags an arm around the Sith’s waist and pushes him behind the bulk of his body, careful and practiced. He musters Obi-Wan noncommittally. “Is he what you’re looking for?”

“Cody, they’re all so Light.”

The soldier nods, hand drifting towards - Obi-Wan’s, what the hells - the lightsaber clipped to his chestplate.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan, Cody’s, says with a polite incline of his head, “we do try not to succumb to the Dark Side around here. It’s splendid for my youthful looks, evidently.”

The Sith smiles in cracked stretches, takes a step forward like a moth to a flame until he bumps into the soldier’s outstretched arm. “Would you like to discuss your surrender, General Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan folds his hands behind his back, his own smile going tight, and Cody sees the hand signals. “Over a cup of tea, perhaps?”