#aaaaahahaha

Of course, all the deftness that Obi-Wan would have anticipated crumbled only a moment later in a blunt segue. “It’s a great pity that our paths have never crossed before, Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon always spoke very highly of you.”

Dooku stopped pacing the perimeter of the room for a moment, standing in the dim lighting. “I wish he were still here,” he added softly. “I could use his help right now.”

Obi-Wan felt a slight twinge and shoved it aside. “Qui-Gon Jinn would never join you,” he returned, with soft but fierce conviction.

“Don’t be so sure, my young friend.” Dooku smiled, a sharp, humourless expression that made him seem all the more the predator—and then he was on the move again, prowling about the room. “Qui-Gon was well aware of the corruption in the Senate. But he would never have let it stand if he’d learned the truth, as I have.”

“The truth?” Obi-Wan echoed, unimpressed.

“The truth.”

The Count paused, for the first time standing in a patch of light, where Obi-Wan could see his face at least. “What if I told you that the Republic was now under the control of the Sith?”

Cut off from the Force as he was, Obi-Wan could not sense the truth of that statement and knew better than to trust his Grandmaster’s mask, but an unsettling chill skittered up his spine all the same. Prescience, perhaps. The least the damn field could have done was shut that up, he thought, annoyed.

Now wasn’t the time to show even a flicker of doubt, however. It would mean conceding the higher ground to his captor, and Qui-Gon had taught him better. “That’s impossible. The Jedi would know of it.”

“The Dark Side has clouded their vision, my friend. Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith. Darth Sidious.” The Count seemed to lay particular emphasis on the name, as if it would spark recognition, or were something to be remembered.

Obi-Wan merely arched an eyebrow in response.

“The Viceroy of the Trade Federation was once in League with him—ten years ago. But Sidious betrayed him, when it suited his purposes.”

Obi-Wan buried a flinch, stamped ruthlessly at the part of him that still quailed at even the oblique mention of Naboo. Behind him, the door slid open, providing a distraction while admitting someone else into the chamber. He couldn’t sense, couldn’t see them, but the Count seemed to know exactly who it was, and wordlessly signalled them to wait.

“You must join me, Obi-Wan. Together, we will destroy the Sith.”

Whatever had happened to the man who’d trained Qui-Gon Jinn to negotiate? Or was this a desperate, last-resort plea for help? Yet Obi-Wan had nothing on his side, no evidence, no sign that a single word of what the Count had said was true. Something in the back of his mind niggled at him irritatingly, something he was missing, but that was a subject for later reflection—if he lived that long.

For the moment, Obi-Wan settled for conveying his response in very certain and colourful terms. 

The Count didn’t seem the least bit surprised, though regretful. He nodded, and turned to leave. At the door he paused, lingering momentarily to cast a glance back at his captive. “It may be difficult to secure your release,” he said at last, as if he’d wanted to say something completely different.

The lights dimmed again as the door closed, plunging him back into that pool of too-bright light that made it impossible to see into the shadows at the edges of the room. The other presence in the room had not left with Dooku, and though Obi-Wan was at a disadvantage by default, the sharp change of the lighting annoyed him. He heard soft footfalls draw nearer, close enough to see who it was he had for company even through the haze of the energy field. But when Obi-Wan finally spun around to face him, his stomach lurched.

At least the spinning had stopped.

The man stood still, features devoid of any expression, eyes glowing in the darkness. His hair was only lightly touched with silver, the lines of his face had settled into grim patterns. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back in an easy, relaxed stance of readiness in repose.

“You are not Qui-Gon Jinn.” Obi-Wan put as much force in the words as he could muster, hiding his shock beneath a flat and defiant tone.

The Sith wearing his former Master's face tilted his head in silent confusion. “Then who might I be?”

Obi-Wan swallowed roughly, throat dry and rasping in the desert climate, eyes stinging suspiciously. A clone, it had to be. Hadn’t he seen thousands of them on Kamino only hours ago?

“He’s telling the truth, you know,” the Sith said softly, watching Obi-Wan like some wary giant jungle cat. “The Republic is under the control of the Sith.”

“Am I to join you then, to help you take control of the Republic?” Obi-Wan all but snarled.

“That is not our aim.”

“No, of course not,” he shot back with scalding sarcasm, “not when Dooku controls the Confederacy.”

The Sith dipped his head in a shallow nod, conceding the point. A small smile quirked up the corner of his mouth, quickly smoothed away and hidden. The familiarity of it sent a harsh pang of grief through Obi-Wan—too much, too much like Qui-Gon, who hadn’t quite been able to hide his amusement at his student’s sharp tongue in their later years together.

The man with his Master’s face, meanwhile, went on. “Yet that does not mean he is in control.”

“You would have me believe that Dooku is controlled by this Sith Lord.” Obi-Wan shook his head. “I would never have thought him fool enough to fall into such a trap, if what he said of the Viceroy was true.”

The Sith shrugged. “My Master, as usual, overestimated his own abilities, and is now in a situation he cannot extricate himself from without help. Unpalatable as the offer may seem to you, if you refuse him now you almost certainly spell his doom.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

For a moment, Obi-Wan saw a glint of familiar deep blue eyes as the man standing before him ducked his head. “Freedom,” he whispered, voice rough and gentle, and almost unbearably like Qui-Gon Jinn.

Freedom from what? Obi-Wan stared, suspended and mute before this man who looked, sounded—hells, even moved like his Master. But even in that loose, almost predatory posture, Obi-Wan read exhaustion and pain. In the relaxed slope of his shoulders, there was something stooped, beaten low, almost broken. Lost.