#jessepinwrites

Jango stares out the viewport, tracing the millions of pinpoints of lights that make the Coruscant skyline as he descends. He doesn't like Coruscant. He never did. Not all the buildings or the constant smell of fog or the people--it's just too much. He really doesn't understand what Obi-Wan sees in this shithole, but whatever. No place like home, or something.

The thought of Obi-Wan makes his heart clench a little. It's been a tenday and still he can't get used to a ship without him. Without the late nights talking over a pile of cracked seed shells, without another warm body sharing his bed, without Obi-Wan's little startled bursts of laughter. After two years together, two years as an unstoppable bounty hunting and tracking team, his absence makes everything dimmer.

So here Jango is. On Coruscant again. He's not here to find Obi-Wan and beg him to come back or anything as undignified as that. The man has had two weeks to see Coruscant and realize it's not all it's cracked up to be. He's probably trying to find a way off this shitty planet at this very moment. Jango is really just making it easier for him--he's considerate that way.

He lands his ship and goes to get his things. Usually, Obi-Wan would have their things ready to go planetside (he hated flying so much) and it feels clumsy to Jango to have to do these tedious preparations himself. Obi-Wan was so much better at it, too. More organized. Had a way of knowing exactly what they would need.

Jango doesn't know where Obi-Wan is, but he's one of the best damn bounty hunters in the galaxy, it can't be that hard to find a person with long red hair and a custom mechanical hand. He considers just comming the man--Obi-Wan would be able to feel Jango looking for him anyways, one of those weird remnant Force things--but Jango decides against it. Obi-Wan had been pretty confident when he left that it was for the better--if Jango's going to have any chance to prove otherwise he'll need to do it in person.

So he looks for Obi-Wan. It takes a busy five days to track Obi-Wan down--not the easiest hunt he's ever had, but definitely not the trickiest one, either. In Obi-Wan's defense, it's not as if he's really trying to stay under the radar. It looks like Obi-Wan has found himself a little undercity apartment approximately the size of a shoe box, almost smaller than the ship they'd shared, and Jango frowns. He knows Obi-Wan's always liked small spaces, but really, this is a bit much.

It would be pretty easy to slice the keypad and let himself in, but Obi-Wan gets kind of fussy about that sort of thing, so Jango decides to wait outside the door. It's a pretty long wait--Obi-Wan has made himself busy in the time since he got to Coruscant--and in the evening, when Obi-Wan comes back...

"...Jango?" Obi-Wan asks.

Jango looks up. Obi-Wan...looks good. He always did, but already in the last three weeks since they separated, he looks better. There's more color in his cheeks, there aren't any bags under his eyes, and his new clothes fit him better. It's hard to deny that, whatever Obi-Wan saw in Coruscant, it was good for him.

"I missed you," Jango says. "You look good."

Obi-Wan sighs. "And you look like shit." He leans in and gives Jango a sniff. "Have you been drinking? I thought you hated drinking."

"What, a man can't drown his sorrows once in a while?" Jango asks. It's not like he drank that much. It was just a few bottles after Obi-Wan left--just to take the edge off.

Obi-Wan frowns. "Jango. Why are you here?"

"I was just in the area," Jango says. They both know it's a lie. "And like I said, I missed you. Didn't you miss me?"

"Of course I missed you," Obi-Wan says. "But I didn't stalk you back to your home. You realize this is...wildly inappropriate, right?"

Jango reaches out to touch Obi-Wan's face. "But you missed me?"

Obi-Wan swats Jango's hand away. "Jango. You shouldn't be here. We're done. We agreed that it was for the best."

"You agreed it was for the best," Jango corrects. "I still think we could be something. Grow old together and get a garden and a family. If you could just get over your hangups, we would be magnificent together."

"My hangups are that I don't want to give up my identity as a Jedi, don't like killing people for profit, and don't think a relationship with someone who hates my cultural identity is going to last," Obi-Wan shoots back. "I love you, Jango, but I don't love you that much."

Jango smiles. "I love you, too. You're so beautiful when you're angry, have I ever told you that?"

Obi-Wan doesn't yield. He never has. It's one of the things Jango loves so much about him--that unbreakable spirit and stubbornness. "Get out of here. You know you shouldn't be loitering around like this."

"What, you're sending me out?" Jango asks. "After I came all this way, you won't even let me stay the night? Isn't that a little unreasonable?"

"I'm saying this for your safety," Obi-Wan says. "You really shouldn't be around me when nightfall hits."

Jango leans against the door and crosses his arms. "Well, now I'm curious. What, do you turn into a big bad monster overnight? I think I'd have noticed something like that when we were bunking together."

Obi-Wan sighs. "Don't be stupid."

"What happens after nightfall?" Jango presses. "You turn into a pumpkin or something? I think I'd like to see that."

"Jango," Obi-Wan says. "Go back to your ship and wherever you came from. It's not good for you to dwell on me. It's a big galaxy--there are plenty of people out there who can give you what you want. I'm sorry that person isn't me." His expression softens, just a bit. "We had a good time. You did a lot for me, and I'll always appreciate that. Maybe in another life, we'd be happy together for our whole lives. But you can't accept me the way I am and I can't accept you the way you are. Is it really so bad to end things while we still like each other?"

Jango looks at him. "Are you really happy here in this shitty apartment on this shitty planet? Are you seriously saying that this is better than being with me?"

"Coruscant is good for me," Obi-Wan tells him. "This is the only place I can feel like a full person. And you know how I am with space travel. You don't need to worry about me."

"I wasn't worrying."

Obi-Wan looks at him up and down, an unreadable expression in his eyes. There's some tension in the line of his body, discomfort just from Jango being here. "Jango. I won't ask again. Please leave."

Jango considers pushing it, but Obi-Wan looks tired. If this keeps going, Obi-Wan might actually punch him in the face--with the metal hand. Even he can't take a hit like that. "Okay," he says. "But if you need anything, you know who to comm. I can make your life easier, Obi-Wan."

"Goodbye, Jango," Obi-Wan says, pushing his way past Jango and into his apartment. The door closes behind him and latches.

Jango sighs and leans against the wall. It's not like he'd expected it to be easy. It just wouldn't be Obi-Wan if he gave in after a short conversation like that. He stares up at the ceiling, thinking about what moves he wants to make next. He can talk to Obi-Wan again tomorrow, for a start. He's always been happier in the mornings, so maybe he'll be more willing to see reason.

He turns his thoughts over like that, well into the evening and into the night, still camping outside Obi-Wan's door. A few other residents go in and out, passing him in the hallway, but they hardly pay him any mind. This part of the undercity, everyone knows to mind their own damn business.

His thoughts stray, not for the first time, to an Obi-Wan in proper beskar armor. He would be such a good Mandalorian, if he didn't have those damn hangups about the Jedi--the Jedi who had abandoned him, anyways. The way he fought was like magic, sometimes, the way he could see what his opponents would do before they did--even Jango has never fought anyone like him, so fiercely exhilarating. Sure, there are billions and trillions of people out in the galaxy, people who would be willing to be a more permanent fixture at his side, who would want to fight and hunt and laugh together and be willing to take on the mantle of Mandalorian on top of that...but none of those people would be Obi-Wan. He'd known, from the moment he'd found a bleeding and borderline delirious man with a lightsaber-stabbed shoulder and a crushed mechanical hand, that Obi-Wan was different. That he would be worth keeping.

The fact that Obi-Wan had left--not killed or taken away, but left--well, Jango can't stand that. He wants Obi-Wan back. He wants Obi-Wan to see sense and give up this stupid idea of going to a shithole planet all alone to try and make some kind of honest living.

Jango clenches his fists. Maybe if he just comes up with a better plan, then--

Behind him, the door unlatches.

Jango freezes.

Noiselessly, the door slides open, and Obi-Wan is standing there, dressed in sleep clothes.

Jango smiles. "You just couldn't resist me, huh?" he asks. "I knew you'd come around."

Obi-Wan doesn't move.

Jango's smile fades. A sense of wrongness starts creeping up on him. "Obi-Wan?"

Slowly, almost mechanically, Obi-Wan turns towards Jango. A shiver goes down Jango's spine--Obi-Wan's gaze is glassy and blank, his expression completely slack. He's not breathing.

"Obi-Wan, are you...okay?" Jango asks. He knows that Obi-Wan's got some kind of weird Force thing where he sometimes stops breathing when he sleeps, but he's never seen...whatever this is. "Obi-Wan, say something."

Obi-Wan's lips move, but no sound comes out. Jango feels something almost electric in the air around them, feels a phantom touch at the base of his neck that crawls into his mind. Obi-Wan says something again, and this time Jango hears it--voiceless words echoing between his ears, You were asked to leave.

Jango sets his jaw. "I'm not leaving," he says. "You're better off with me, Obi-Wan, and you know it. I just have to make you see it."

The feeling in his mind tightens, a headache bursting in the back of Jango's head.

Leave peacefully while you have the free will to do so.

"What, you're going to force me to leave?" Jango sneers, stepping up to Obi-Wan. "You've never forced me to do a damn thing in your entire life, and you won't start now."

Obi-Wan grabs him by the arm. He doesn't grab hard, just hard enough to feel the pressure, but a strange numbness seeps out from the touch, rapidly overtaking Jango's body. Jango tries to pull away, only to find that he can't--he's completely paralyzed. He can't even blink.

You were warned.

The intrusive feeling in his mind intensifies, sharpening until it feels like something is in there slicing him open and pulling him apart, and Jango--

Jango stares out the viewport, tracing the millions of pinpoints of lights that make the Coruscant skyline. He doesn't like Coruscant. He never did. Not all the buildings or the constant smell of fog or the people--it's just too much. He really doesn't understand what Obi-Wan sees in this shithole, but whatever. No place like home, or something.

The thought of Obi-Wan makes his heart clench. It's only been three weeks, but he already misses Obi-Wan so badly--he's gone through a hefty amount of liquor to try and take the edge off, but it's not enough. Nothing would ever be enough, short of something that could make him forget how good they were together. Good as partners, good as fighters, good as friends.

He can't remember why he came here to Coruscant. Maybe he'd entertained some ideas of going down to see Obi-Wan again, just to see how he's doing, see if he's happy in his new life, but every time he tries to think of going planetside and actually seeing Obi-Wan, his mind skitters away from it. He shouldn't be here to begin with. He knows Obi-Wan would find this wildly inappropriate.

They loved--still love--each other. But they would never be able to have a happy ending, not while Obi-Wan still loved his Jedi so much and Jango insisted on staying a bounty hunter. Better to end things now, while they still care about each other and have all those good memories, than to wait until it's all rotted and painful. At least, that was what Obi-Wan had said. Jango isn't sure how much he believes that, but he can see the logic in it.

Jango doesn't think he'll ever forget Obi-Wan and what they could have had, but it's over now. There are other people in the galaxy. They wouldn't be Obi-Wan, but there were options.

The life of a private investigator isn't as exciting as a lot of people make it out to be from the holodramas. I make most of my paycheck looking things up in the Hall of Records for my colleagues, and when I'm not doing that, I'm usually waiting in my office and catching up on some light reading. Not a terrible way to spend a day, but not exactly a profitable one, either.

On this lazy afternoon, I was reorganizing my office--Bail had gotten tired of buying me more shirts, or realized there was a hard limit to how many of them I could wear, so he had started dropping hints that maybe my furniture was getting a little worn out. So I figured if an unsolicited gift was in my future, it might as well be something I actually needed. I was checking my cupboards when someone knocked on the door and entered.

"Detective," they said.

I turned to face my visitor. "Senator Amidala," I said. "Good afternoon. How are you?"

Amidala frowned. "You're not usually this polite to me."

I closed the cabinet. "You're in my office during business hours for what I must assume are professional reasons. I try to be polite to my clients when I can." I pulled up a chair. "Here, have a seat."

She sat. She was dressed down today, with a simple jacket and blouse and no jewelry--this far into the undercity that was probably for the best. She looked well-rested, but like she had something on her mind. A pretty big something, if she was willing to see me.

"Well," I said, taking the seat behind my desk, "you've come all this way. I take it you have some kind of job for me?"

Amidala nodded. "I've decided to go through with the divorce."

Oh. That was a surprise--it seemed like only yesterday she had thrown her drink at me for implying a marriage with a man who had attempted to kill me was maybe not completely beneficial. "My congratulations. But I'm not a lawyer or a divorce clerk and anything else is hardly my business."

"The last time we spoke, you gave me some advice," she said.

If I did, I certainly didn't recall. I'd been ill and slightly out of my mind at the time and everything about that evening up until I got back to my apartment and fell asleep on Bail's lap was kind of a blur. "You'll have to remind me."

"You told me that if I wanted to go through with this divorce, I should protect myself," Amidala said. "Well, I'm here to get some protection."

"I'm not a bodyguard," I replied.

"Not that kind of protection," Amidala said. "I need more...legal protection."

"I'm not a lawyer."

Amidala scowled. "I heard you the first time."

"Did you? Because so far, you haven't told me anything that's within my scope of practice that you would like me to do for you," I said. "In case you need reminding, I'm a private investigator. It even says so on that door you just walked through."

"I'm here because I need you to investigate something," Amidala said. "Or rather, I need you to collect evidence on something. Something that would be compelling in court if it comes down to it."

That...made things a little clearer. "Are you asking me to gather blackmail information for you?" I asked. "You are a woman with powerful political connections. Why do you think you need blackmail to get something as simple as a divorce to go through?"

"A no-fault divorce would be best, but I don't think he'll accept that," Amidala replied. "I'm sure we'll end up going to court. And I don't have time to stretch out proceedings--I want this divorce to happen as soon as possible. So I need a case against him."

"Dear, you don't need my help for that," I told her. "You can just talk to the former Captain Rex--I'm sure he'll be willing to testify about the incident where Skywalker nearly killed him, and me, and Ahsoka."

"I know. I'm planning to. But Anakin was altered at the time--it might not be strong enough of a case. I need something stronger, and that's where you come in."

I drummed my fingers on the desk. "What, Skywalker's done something worse than try to kill his own Padawan? The only thing courts would care more about than that would be actual murder."

There was an awkward pause as Amidala looked to the side.

My eyes narrowed. "No," I said. "He did?"

"Anakin told me they weren't people," Amidala said softly.

"They?" I asked. "He killed more than one?"

All in a rush, Amidala told me the sordid story. She told me about Tatooine, and trying to save Skywalker's mother from a tribe of indigenous people and failing, then taking their lives in payment for it. An entire people obliterated in a flash of blue plasma, a horrible anger and murderous rage that even I had difficult conceiving of.

"All of them, he said," Amidala told me. "Even the women and children. He was very explicit about that."

My stomach roiled. I felt ill, just thinking about it. I won't pretend I had much of an opinion of Skywalker to ruin, but this was beyond a simple murder or simple revenge. This was a slaughter. A massacre of innocents.

It wasn't as if I had never known anger--anger bad enough to kill someone for it. I'd killed a lot of people who probably didn't deserve it. But even in my darkest moments I could not imagine bringing myself to kill those who had not killed first. To look into a child's face and end their life with my bare hands for nothing more than some horrible and hollow emotional satisfaction.

I took a deep breath. "Senator Amidala. How long have you known about this?"

"Just over a year now," she said.

Just over a year. That put it before the war. Before she married Skywalker. "Are you telling me Skywalker confessed to you his massacre of an entire tribe of people, including innocent women and children, and your reaction was to marry him?"

Amidala pressed her lips together in displeasure. "That's not relevant to this conversation."

"No? You realize that Skywalker should be reported and tried, and that by concealing this knowledge, you've made yourself an accessory to his crimes, right?" I leaned over the desk. "I won't pretend to be a bastion of morality, Senator. But even I draw my lines somewhere and what Skywalker has done is far beyond anywhere my lines have ever been. Despite whatever you seem to think of me, I am a law-abiding citizen."

"You can't report what he's done to the authorities," Amidala said. "What he did was outside Republic jurisdiction--there's no court in the entire galaxy that could convict him, except perhaps Tatooine, and I'm sure they will find his story very sympathetic."

She was not wrong--the Republic cared little for crimes that occurred outside their borders. That didn't mean keeping quiet about everything, much less for as long as she had, had been the right thing to do. I found it hard to think of a less right thing to do--besides marrying the man, which Amidala had also done.

"So you think I should dig up information about it so you can drag it out in front of everyone in divorce court? What the hell do you think that's going to accomplish?" I demanded. "This is not a case of a tail job and some dirty photos because your husband has a side piece, this is a literal mass murderer. This is a man who reacts to things that upset him with extreme violence and you already know he won't take a divorce quietly. How is that safe?"

"I'm planning to leave immediately after the divorce. My handmaiden and I have made arrangements so Anakin can't get to me."

"Senator, I am not concerned about your safety. I am concerned about what the man who thinks murdering children is a reasonable form of collateral damage will do when the woman he's obsessed with divorces him and tells the whole world he's a murderer," I said. "I, for one, would like to prevent a similar tragedy from occurring in my own city."

"What? Anakin wouldn't do that, that would be--"

"Be what? Monstrous? Unbelievable? I agree," I told Amidala. "And yet here we are, discussing an equally monstrous and unbelievable atrocity." I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. "You clearly expect him to cause you some kind of harm--you wouldn't be in such a damn hurry to get away from him and make such a comprehensive escape plan otherwise. Let me be clear, I support you entirely. You should have done this a year ago when he first told you what he did, but you have rather missed the ship on that one. Fine. The second best time to take action is now, and you've asked for my help, so I'll help. I would like there to be no more casualties at your husband's hands, and I would especially like to not be one of them." I sighed. I could already feel a headache coming on--one that I knew would not subside for a very long time. "Tell me, Senator. What brought this on?"

Amidala frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The divorce. Now. It seems not so long ago you were happily married and perfectly willing to sit on Skywalker's murders. Now you've completely turned around to drag Skywalker's name through the dirt to claw your way into a divorce. Obviously some inciting incident occurred between now and then that made you reconsider how you felt about your husband." I rubbed my beard slowly. "Not some violence against you or someone close to you--you wouldn't have come here to confess his crimes to me if you had evidence like that ready at hand. Did Skywalker ask you for something you're not willing to give? Is there some kind of line he crossed, or you think he will cross when he learns a secret you're--"

Amidala slammed her hands on the desk. "That is enough! I am here to hire you, not to have you speculate about my marriage!"

So something had happened. Something Amidala knew would make things with Skywalker infinitely worse, something she cared about more than she loved Skywalker, something that required cutting contact immediately and for the foreseen future.

I couldn't think of too many good reasons that would fit those criteria. But I could think of one.

"So you are," I said. "You know my rates, I'm sure."

"I'll pay," Amidala said.

"It's not that simple," I told her. "I'm a Coruscant-based detective for several reasons, one of which is a significant medical condition. You're asking me to go out to Tatooine, which is outside my area of operations, and incidentally takes me away from my son, as well as the other jobs I do while in Coruscant. All that incurs a significant opportunity cost, and I find that I do not feel very charitable when I deal with you."

"Name your price," Amidala said. "I want this divorce to happen as soon as possible and I know you will get the job done properly. If that means paying extra, then fine."

I named my price. I won't pretend it was fair, and Amidala didn't like it, but she didn't argue with it, either.

"I'll need to stop by the bank to transfer that much," she told me.

"I don't need the whole thing up front," I replied. "I'll accept one week's retainer now, and collect the rest on completion."

"Fine."

She took her credit chip out of her purse. It was fortunate for her that she was the one in the relationship who handled the purse strings--I have met many people in similar situations who were not so lucky. She transferred the money to me without so much as a wince. Either she was richer than I had estimated, or she really needed my work that badly. Maybe both.

"Very good," I said. "I'll need to talk to some people to arrange for my absence, but I expect I can head for Tatooine tomorrow and work on coming up with a way to safely break your marriage. As for you..." I jotted down a name, address, and comm code on a card, then handed it to Amidala. "You might consider seeing this person."

Amidala looked at the card. "Who is this?"

"She's someone who has a lot of experience working with cases like yours," I said. "She won't care who you are or what your circumstances are, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut."

Amidala didn't like that. "What is this person going to do that you can't?"

The last thing I remembered was seeing the gunman.

There hadn't been anything specific about them that stood out, just a black coat and blaster pistol the likes of which come a dime a dozen in the undercity. But that Senator and I had walked past and over his shoulder I'd seen the coat sweep open and the muzzle of the blaster, and I'd known in that moment the bolt wasn't meant for me because I'd have felt it if it was.

Well, I must have done something. I wouldn't be waking up in a medcenter otherwise. Whatever I did, it was probably stupid, because there was a spot below my ribs that felt like it was burning, even with the bacta patch on top of it to help the worst of the pain.

"Are you awake?"

It was a woman's voice, and not any woman I knew. I opened my eyes. The room was blurry, but I could make out a someone sitting next to my bed.

"Who the hell are you?" I croaked.

The blurry woman reached back and moved a few things around, then brought back a cup with a straw that she put in my mouth. "Here. You look like you need some water."

I did need some water. I drank a little.

When I had drunk enough, the woman took the cup away again. I blinked a few times and she became less blurry--enough that I could make out long dark hair and a dress.

I coughed. My body ached all over, and the burning under my ribs was still there. "Who the hell are you?" I asked.

I think she heard me this time because she laughed and said, "What a warm welcome, Detective. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'd feel better if I knew who you were and why you're at my bedside." I rubbed my eyes and looked at her again. She was a beautiful woman, it turned out. Soft skin and elegant clothes, dark hair braided back with golden ornaments. Whoever this lady was, she was too rich of company for the likes of sorry little me.

"My name is Breha," the woman said. "You're acquainted with my husband."

"You must have gotten the wrong room," I told her. "I'm not friends with anyone respectable enough to marry a nice lady like you."

This, too, seemed to be funny. Breha smiled, looking radiant in the way holodrama stars only can with the help of special effects and strategic camera work. "No," she said. "I'm in the right place. My husband is Bail."

"The annoying Senator?" I asked. "My condolences. You deserve better."

"Oh, he's not so bad once you get to know him," Breha told me. "He's very clever, and he's very sweet. If you get him a bottle of the Andraste Red, he opens right up--that's his favorite wine."

I paused. Played that back, thinking surely she hadn't said what it sounded like she said.

"I..." I sat up in the bed with some difficulty. "Breha, dear. I'm sorry, I'm not as sharp as I usually am, under these circumstances. But it sounds like you're trying to give me tips for courting your husband."

"Would it be so bad if I was?" she replied, eyes twinkling. She put her hand on mine--soft, delicate hands. "Bail told me about you. He admires you, even if he doesn't know how to say it. And, well, you took a blaster bolt for him. That raises you up in my book."

Okay. Not mistaken after all. I was getting tips from a married woman on how to make nice with her Senator husband, also presumably married.

"Forgive me for saying so, but it seems a little...improper," I said. "And as lovely as you are, I can't say the same about your husband."

"Oh, you're so straightforward. I can see what he likes about you," Breha told me. "I don't mind if Bail likes people besides me. It's a big galaxy and there are so many wonderful people, it's bound to happen. And now that I've seen you, I don't think I would mind if you liked him back."

"But I don't," I said slowly. The Senator seemed like a reasonable enough man, as far as Senators went, but he was a bit stuck up his own ass for my tastes. And annoying, the way rich folks were always annoying. "And I think you're vastly overestimating how much he likes me, too."

"I don't know about that," Breha told me. "He was practically beside himself when he told me. I had to jump on a transport from Alderaan straightaway just to console him about it. Whatever your opinions are on Bail, you've made a strong impression, detective."

"And is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Breha reached out a hand and brushed it against my beard. "Well, I think that depends on how you feel about it. I won't force you into anything, but I'd be happy to know a man like you a little better, and I know Bail thinks the same. You took a blaster bolt for Bail--it's the least we can do to treat you nicely."

I snorted. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't do well as a kept man."

"Oh, don't say that. You'll dash all of Bail's hopes."

"He could use some dashing of his hopes, if he's hoping for silly things like that," I said. "I'm just keeping his expectations reasonable. And in any case..." I felt the sore spot where I'd been shot and winced. "This case isn't over yet. There's still someone gunning for your husband, and I mean to find out who."

Breha leaned back in her seat. She was so regal she could even make the duraplast medcenter chairs look like a throne. "You don't know yet?"

"No, I didn't exactly get a good look at them before they shot me," I said. "But I know what they're after, and they're not likely to stop until they get it." I thought about it for a little while. "We can use that. Set a trap."

"That sounds dangerous," said a voice from the door.

I looked up to meet the dark eyes of Senator Organa, the most annoying man in existence. He looked somber as he entered the room.

"Senator," I said. "I'm glad to see you're well."

The Senator scowled at me. "I know you don't really think that."

"Well, I'm at least glad that my getting shot wasn't in vain, seeing as you're well enough to be unpleasant," I said. "I was just speaking with your wife. How did you ever manage to convince such a wonderful woman to marry you?"

The Senator looked over at Breha, his expression softening. "Oh, don't I wonder."

Breha smiled. "I told you. He's very charming when he puts his mind to it."

"I'll have to take your word for it," I said.

"What is all of this about setting a trap?" the Senator asked without looking me in the face. "You only just got shot yesterday, and you're planning to do it again? I thought you private investigators were supposed to be a little less reckless in real life."

"There's an assassin after you," I told him. "Or rather, after that necklace you came into possession of. If they're going to hunt you down no matter what, it's in our best interests to create an opportunity for them to take a shot while also keeping you safe. Someplace public, I think."

"Someplace public..." Breha said. "Bail, isn't there a Senatorial Ball occurring in a week? You could use that."

The Senator's eyes widened. "Breha, you can't seriously be suggesting--"

"We have enough time to prepare some blaster-proof weave for our Detective and yourself," Breha said. "And it's better that we stop this assassin sooner rather than later--I'd hate if anything happened to you, darling."

The Senator seemed to struggle with something internally, but in the face of his wife, he went down easy. "Yes," he said. "I think you might be right."

"Now wait up a second," I said. "I'm just some private investigator. I can't afford something like blaster-proof weave. And the Senatorial Ball? They'd kick me out at the door."

"Not after I'm done with you," Breha said, looking me up and down. "Oh, yes. I'm sure you'll clean up quite nicely, Detective. Would you mind wearing a gown? I know just the thing."

"Don't worry about money," Bail told me. "Breha is the Queen. We can afford to pay your expenses if it means I won't get assassinated."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. "You're...You're married to the Queen? How in the Sith hells did you manage that?"

Bail rolled his eyes. "Well, apparently I'm very charming when I put my mind to it." He looked at me slowly. "What, would you like me to charm you?"

I sighed and shook my head. "You've got a lot of work to do on your personality before you can even think of charming me. This assassin business comes first."

"Well, I like a challenge." The Senator's eyes twinkled, a playful smile dancing on the corners of his lips, and for a moment, I could understand what Breha saw in him. He folded his arm in front of his chest and bowed. "I live to serve, detective. What do we need to do?"

So I told him. Piece by piece, I laid out what I knew, and what we would need to do to lure the assassin out and capture them for good. The Senator made intelligent commentary on the process, as did his wife, and we made fast progress planning it out.

When the Senator finally bid goodbye about an hour later so he could do his actual job, I thought to myself that he really wasn't as annoying when his wife was around.

"You see what I mean, don't you?" Breha said. "Bail can be quite charming when he tries to be."

I nodded slowly in agreement. It was easier to believe now, that someone like Breha would willingly marry someone like Bail. "You know what, after this is all over, maybe I'll be open to letting him charm me. You said Andraste Red was his favorite wine?"

"I have a bottle in my ship now, if you'd like it," Breha said.

"I'll think about it," I said. "And don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, you damn matchmaker."

Breha laughed. "Well, I admit it's not solely for Bail's sake. I wouldn't mind getting closer to a man like you, either." She lifted up my hand and pressed her lips to it, like I was some holonovel damsel. "You won't forget to keep both of us in mind, will you?"

For what must be the fifth or sixth time in his career, Feemor blinks his way to wakefulness in the bowels of what is probably not a Sith Temple, but definitely just as creepy as one, with no idea where he is or how he got there. Next time, he thinks, when the Council tells him to go investigate another creepy haunted Temple, he will tell them to go kriff themselves.

Feemor takes a deep breath. His whole body hurts, and if he thinks very hard he can vaguely remember something breaking apart beneath him and falling and hitting many things very hard on the way down. He stares up at the ceiling. It's a very nice ceiling, all told, with intricate mosaics and geometric patterns, lit by eerie blue lanterns that shine like will-o'-wisps. There's no hole in the ceiling, so it's not as if he fell and landed here, and he can't just jump back up, either.

He rubs his eyes. How long has he been unconscious? Unclear, but his mouth is completely dry, so it's probably been a little while. He reaches out to the Force and finds it...heavy. Not Dark or even malicious, but with a strange quality he might describe as viscous. It clings to his mind like tar, making it hard to cast his senses to the outside or call for help. It makes him uneasy, but there's nothing to be done for it. He needs to get out of here, then everything else will hopefully fall into place.

With some difficulty, he stands up. He has no idea which direction to go, so he reaches to the Force for guidance. It suggests a corridor to walk, and Feemor, with no better solutions, follows.

The Temple is silent and dark, only lit by faint wisps of blue light. It was abandoned thousands of years ago, only still standing by the strength of the Force that sleeps within it. From what records that exist in the Archives, this Temple once belonged to a now-dead Force cult who worshiped the Force's dominion over memory and time. And indeed, time does not seem to touch this Temple--there is no dust on the floors, the colors of the stonework have not faded, and there is no sign of decay in any of the corridors.

This Temple has no overt defenses--no traps or guards or warnings to keep interlopers out--but the maze-like corridors are so convoluted and identical that it is impossible to navigate them without the Force, and Feemor finds his vision beginning to blur as he walks.

The Force is heavier, now. As Feemor reaches to it for guidance, it seeps through his shields like a numbing poison as it sends him deeper into the Temple. The pain in his body fades, and, without his realizing it, so too does his desire to escape. As his thoughts slow, the Force whispers wordless commands into Feemor's mind, and his body obeys, carrying him straight to the heart of the Temple.

The inner sanctum is large. Feemor takes it all in--a large circular room lit in pale light from strange Force devices, revealing a high arched ceiling and a ring of steps leading down to an altar inscribed with symbols he can't read. At any other time, he would be excited to uncover and personally see such an esoteric and well-preserved piece of history, but now, with the Force keeping him deeply entranced, he can only passively take in the sight.

There is a sound. Bare skin on stone, a swish of cloth. Feemor blinks, and as if coming into focus, he sees a man behind the altar, with long reddish hair tied back and unkempt beard scruff and wearing an embroidered tunic that looks ceremonial. His right hand has been amputated at the wrist, and in the man's other hand is a glowing blue holocron. It is open.

As if sensing his presence, the man slowly turns towards Feemor, and he's not really a man at all--just a youngling. Seventeen or eighteen, barely older than Bruck, if that. The thought shakes something loose in Feemor's mind, tugging him to awareness just enough to think what the hell is happening to me? as his feet take him down the stairs to the altar.

As he approaches, the youngling stares at him with piercing eyes that glow pale gold. He does not feel like a person--the Force pours through him and surrounds him, like he is a conduit to something unfathomably powerful. He, too, looks like he is frozen in time--he does not blink, does not shift, does not even look like he is breathing. The holocron clutched in his fingers flickers, and Feemor feels something touch his mind.

"Jedi," the youngling says, and his voice seems to be layered twice--one voice physical, one resonating through the Force. If Feemor were to cover his ears, he doesn't think he would be able to block it out. "Why have you come to this place?"

Feemor hears the words, but can't make his mind move to recall the answer. He had been looking for something, he knows. Something had happened, and--

The youngling steps closer to him. An unknown force rushes through Feemor, and his legs buckle underneath him. He sinks to his knees before this youngling, gazing up into an expressionless face.

The youngling reaches out to him with the amputated arm, and Feemor feels a hand touch his face, laying flat over his forehead and threaded into his hair. It feels like skin contact, but not hot or cold, and it vibrates with barely restrained power. "Answer us, Jedi, or we will take the answers from you."

Feemor can't. He's paralyzed, his mouth is dry, and he is scared. He feels himself caught between two unfathomably powerful forces, can feel something in his head looking out his eyes and breathing through his mouth. He has been lured down into a trap without his realizing it and he is too late to pull himself out.

The youngling's grip tightens on his face, and so, too, does the pressure on Feemor's mind. He tries to calm himself and shore up his protections, but the youngling frowns, and says, "Do not hide from us. Let us see you."

The words vibrate in the Force, sinking into the very core of Feemor's mind. He can feel his defenses crumble, even as he struggles to stop it, and then all at once his mental walls disintegrate and he bares his mind to the thing that has him in its grip. Immediately, he feels something dig into him, dragging memory to the surface in a rush, images and sounds and smells all at once.

There has been a strange convergence of the Force in this sector, Master Windu's voice echoes. We know of an abandoned temple that has lain dormant for centuries, and if it is currently waking up again, we must know. You and your Padawan will be the best fit for the job, Knight Feemor.

Very well, says his own voice. We will be ready to leave tomorrow.

May the Force be with you.

And Feemor had felt something then, a squeeze in the Force, a feeling that this was something he needed to do. He knew he would find something and--

The youngling pulls away, eyes blazing gold, his mouth twisted into a snarl. "You dare to take what is rightfully ours?" he says, and there's more than two voices now, it's an entire chorus of otherworldly voices, ringing between Feemor's ears. "You will not touch this vessel!"

The Force bears down on him and pain explodes in Feemor's mind. He screams, trying to pull away, but the youngling grabs him by the throat with impossible strength, dragging him over to the altar and pushing him flush against the cold stone.

"Death would be too good for you, Jedi," the voices say from all around. "For encroaching on this sacred space, we will make you one of ours!"

And then, there is something rushing into him, something tearing at the threads of his mind and unraveling him, ready to weave him into something else and he cries out, desperately:

Help.

There's a tug on his mind. A soft, but determined light. An image floats to the surface, of white hair, unsteady hands, sharp eyes. Bruck's lips move without making any noise, but Feemor sees the words perfectly well.

You have to fight back.

Warmth flows into Feemor's numb limbs, light chasing away the pain, just a little bit. The blue holocron shines in the youngling's hand, and Feemor knows what he needs to do.

With a burst of strength, he lunges for the youngling's wrist and grabs the holocron. It burns to the touch, searing his skin and his mind as the spirit contained within lashes out at him. He holds on for dear life, and he feels Bruck's energy supporting him from afar even as his vision begins to fade...

He pries the holocron from the youngling's hand, and it goes skittering across the floor, then closes on its own. The assault on Feemor's mind stops, but the youngling remains standing, expressionless and dazed. The glow has faded from his eyes, revealing stormy gray underneath. Carefully, he reaches out to the youngling and finds that while he is not breathing, he is still warm. There are burns on his intact hand from the holocron, but they're already healing in front of his eyes. Feemor reaches out with the Force to get a sense of him, and finds the youngling softer, yet no less inhuman. The Force fills the youngling's body like he is an empty vessel, just an amalgam of light and emotion. It makes Feemor shiver. He's never heard of anything like this. He's not sure anyone has heard of anything like this.

"I'm a Jedi. I was sent here to help," he says softly. "Are you...are you the one I'm here to find?"

The youngling looks up at him. There is something looking out from behind those eyes, something Feemor isn't sure he wants to face. "Yes," the youngling says, and the voice that comes out doesn't sound like a youngling's voice. It doesn't even sound physical. "You will take this child from this place."

The words settle on Feemor's consciousness, soaking into his still-exposed mind. The compulsion is gentle and it feels natural as he carefully guides the youngling out of the inner sanctum and out of the Temple itself.

Feemor staggers out into the light. It's a warm, densely forested planet--in the insanity of the Temple, he had completely forgotten.

"Master! Master Feemor!" he hears. "What happened, I felt something happen to you and--"

"Take a deep breath, Padawan," Feemor says, setting a hand on Bruck's shoulder. Bruck looks like he wants to panic, but is holding himself together. "I am all right. I felt your support. I wouldn't have made it through without you."

"And you've--" Bruck's face goes even paler. "Is that--Is that Obi-Wan?"

Feemor looks at the youngling he's brought with him. "Obi-Wan?" he asks. "Is that your name?"

The youngling--Obi-Wan, perhaps--gazes at Bruck. "Ah. You know this child," he says. "That won't do." He raises a hand, and the Force swells.

Bruck's eyes roll up into his head and he collapses in a dead faint.

"What--Bruck!" Feemor shouts, running to Bruck's side. He's breathing and unharmed, but that does little to settle Feemor's anxiety. He glares at Obi-Wan. "What are you doing? Who are you?"

"We are sending this child somewhere safe," Obi-Wan says.

"You don't need to knock out my apprentice!" Feemor protests. "If you need us to take you back to the Temple, we can do that--heck, we were probably going to do that--but you can't just drag me out to the Outer Rim and do all this!"

"This child will not return to the Temple," Obi-Wan says. "The Temple is not safe for him anymore."

"What do you mean, the Temple isn't safe for him--he's clearly got something going on with the Force, we can help him!" Feemor protests.

"The Temple would consume this child whole," Obi-Wan says, and Feemor feels it, a crash of Force blotting out what little soul remains in this youngling. Nobody could endure that and come out the other side alive.

"If you're not sending him to the Temple, then where are you sending him?" Feemor asks. "He's--He's only a youngling."

"Away," Obi-Wan says. "One day, he may return to us, but not now. He will have to make that choice for himself when he is stronger." He looks at Feemor. "And you, my child. You have done well. Thank you."

"Your child, what do you--" Feemor's mouth goes dry. "Are you trying to say you're the Force? That's not--that's not possible."

Obi-Wan tilts his head to one side. "No?"

"If you're--if you're the Force, why would you need to bring me out here to save him? Couldn't you just...do what you're doing now, and take him out yourself?"

"This child is no longer a Jedi," Obi-Wan says, with an edge that Feemor thinks might be sorrow. "We can no longer guide him. So we act through the Jedi. In this instance, we act through you, Feemor, and you have performed admirably."

Hearing some entity speak his name makes a chill go down Feemor's spine. There's really a lot going on right now, and speaking to some kind of Force manifestation really was not on his list of things he'd ever been prepared to do.

Obi-Wan steps closer to him. "There is only one last thing you must do for us, young Jedi."

Feemor can't pull away. Or rather, he doesn't want to. The Force murmurs in his mind, the voice he's trusted above anything else for his entire life, telling him that he will be safe and that he has done well. Feemor sinks to his knees before Obi-Wan, letting the youngling brush the sides of his face with his hands--both the real one and the nonexistent one. They are warm, gentle hands.

"You and your apprentice will forget what you have seen here," Obi-Wan says.

"You're...you're going to make me forget?" Feemor asks, even as he can feel the words settling in his mind and feeling right. The Force caresses him softly, and his senses fade as it tugs him into a trance and begins to comb through his memory. Despite what he knows is about to happen, the sensation is pleasant, like gentle fingers threaded through his hair.

Obi-Wan nods solemnly. "We will replace it with a suitable memory. Your Council will not be disappointed in your work." He brushes a hand across Feemor's cheek, and with a touch of warmth, Feemor feels his scrapes and pains dissolve. "This child must make his own choice to return home. So we cannot allow anyone to interfere. Not now, not before he becomes stronger."

"Will I..." Feemor can feel his eyes start to slide shut despite his best efforts--against the Force itself, there's nothing he can do. "Will I ever remember this?"

Obi-Wan seems to consider that. "Do you want to?"

He does, he doesn't say out loud, but Obi-Wan hears him perfectly well--he is already in Feemor's mind, after all.

"You want to meet young Obi-Wan again?" Obi-Wan asks, answering Feemor's thoughts before even realizes he has them. "Well...perhaps. We cannot control his fate, but if you wish, then...hm. Yes, why not? One day in the future, we will let you remember this." He smiles softly. "Now close your eyes, dear child. This will not hurt."

Feemor's eyes close, and Obi-Wan pulls him into a hug. The Force blankets Feemor's mind, rewriting his memory faster than Feemor can even comprehend. True to its words, the process does not hurt--there is no better expert than the Force itself in remaking a memory and weaving it seamlessly into the surrounding space. Feemor tries to fix Obi-Wan's face in his mind, to try and hold onto at least one thing from this encounter, until the Force gently tugs that away from him, too, and washes the memory clean.

The touch in his mind recedes, and Feemor's eyes flutter open to see the storm-gray eyes of an unfamiliar face. The last coherent thought he has before unconsciousness pulls him under is to wonder why those eyes look so sad.

---

"I think we did a pretty good job," Bruck says as they leave the Council Chamber, his Padawan braid thumping on his chest as he walks. "It took a little longer than expected, but I mean, it's a time Temple. Some weird stuff was bound to happen in there, right?"

"Of course," Feemor says, smiling. "But we did well."

It had been a strange mission, though not outside Feemor and Bruck's skillset. A strange convergence of the Force around an obscure Temple in the Outer Rim. He and Bruck had carefully investigated the Temple and eventually found a strange holocron in its inner sanctum. They had safely deactivated it, then brought it to the Temple for further analysis by the Archivists. No damage was done, no strange entities appeared. The only strange thing about the whole mission was that despite being in the Temple for only a few hours, it seemed they had spent almost two whole days had passed by the time they left. A strange time effect due to the Force in the Temple, perhaps? Maybe the Archivists will know more.

Bruck talks a little while longer, wondering out loud about who had built the Temple and why, and what happened to them and how they knew how to make holocrons.

"Master Nu will tell us more about it when she's done, right?" Bruck asks. "Maybe there's the secret to time travel or something in there."

"Maybe," Feemor says. "I wouldn't hold my breath about that, though. I'm sure it's more likely to be some sort of historical information that--"

Feemor stops walking.

"Huh?" Bruck says. "Master Feemor, is something wrong?"

"We're at the memorial wall," Feemor says.

"Yeah? We pass by here almost every day," Bruck says. His brows furrow. "Are you okay, Master? Did you hit your head and not tell me?"

"No, I'm fine." Feemor's gaze drags along the wall, stopping on a name he doesn't recognize. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Bruck grimaces. "Yeah? What about him?"

Feemor looks over at his Padawan. "You know Obi-Wan?"

"I mean, I knew him before he died, yeah," Bruck says. "He was in a lot of the same classes as me. People liked him a lot--he was a little bit dumb, but he was nice and he always worked really hard. I...was kind of a dick to him."

"This says he died when he was fourteen," Feemor says, brushing his fingers across the embossed letters on the plaque. "What happened?"

"Dunno," Bruck says. "He went on a mission and never came back, then one day all his bonds snapped, because he died."

"Or he stopped being a Jedi," Feemor says.

Bruck looks at him weird. "I mean. Yeah, being dead would make you not a Jedi. That's true."

"But nobody ever went to find the body, did they?" Feemor says. "He could still be alive, and--"

Feemor is hit with a sudden wave of dizziness. There's a sharp sensation of something cutting into his mind, completely bypassing all his shields, and the Force murmurs a soft apology, reaching in and pulling something straight. The world seems to spin for a couple nauseating moments, then rights itself.

Feemor blinks. "I--" He looks at the memorial wall in front of him. They walk past it almost every day. Why was he so fixated on it all of a sudden? "I'm sorry, I think I just lost my train of thought. Bruck?"

Bruck doesn't respond. His eyes are glassy and his expression is dazed.

Feemor puts a hand on Bruck's shoulder. "Bruck, are you okay?"

Bruck blinks, shaking off his daze. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking." He points to the plaque. "That's Obi-Wan Kenobi, he died when he was just fourteen. Disappeared after a mission and never came back. I went to his funeral and everything, and it still...doesn't feel real, sometimes."

"I'm sorry," Feemor says.

"I always wanted to apologize," Bruck continues. "Even before he beefed it. He was always better than me--he had more friends and he worked harder and he was nicer, too. I was always kind of jealous, so I gave him a hard time about it." He rubs the burn scar on his face, the one he had asked the Healers to not fix all those years ago. "He should have been here. He would have been a great Jedi, and instead, it's me who's here doing all this Jedi stuff instead. That just doesn't seem right."

"I'm sure that Obi-Wan would be happy to know how well you've improved as a person," Feemor replies.

Bruck huffs. "Yeah, I'm sure he would. He's the kind of person who would be happy about that, even if he didn't like me. Doesn't make him less dead."

"No, but you still remember him and you're doing honor to his memory. That's important," Feemor says. "Let's head home, Bruck. I think we deserve some rest."

With a nod, the two of them head back to their quarters, Bruck going almost directly to his bed and passing out. Feemor sits down on his own bed, and in the privacy of his room, he takes out a small holocron.

It's not any kind of holocron he has ever seen--it's too small, and it's a strange orange-gold color. He had found it in his pocket on the way back from the Temple, but he has no memory of how it got there or what it might contain. Consulting the Force only tells him that this holocron is for him alone, and the time to open it will not be for many years. He turns it over in his fingers slowly, then sets it on a shelf in the back of his closet. Once it's out of view, the memory of the holocron itself fades from his mind, and he finds himself wondering what he was trying to get out of his closet. After considering it for several seconds, he shakes his head and turns away. He's been so absent-minded today--clearly he needs some rest.

He strips off his outer tunics, collapses on his bed, then sleeps.

That night, Feemor dreams of unfamiliar storm-gray eyes and a sadness that is infinite like an ocean stretching to the horizon that makes his heart hurt. He calls out a name, but there is no response--it is not his place to interfere, as much as he may want to.