#savef1le

Well, that was quick! Quick enough that Thera might suspect it isn't the first time the 'Kenobi Protocol' has been activated. She keeps that thought to herself, however; they're doing this because she genuinely feels there's a need, not for the sake of messing around, and any half-humorous questions can wait.

"You're coming up with me?" Called over her shoulder as she sets off toward the freighter, seconded this time around to ferry the diplomatic party to the venue (Nocturne had earned a spiffy new paint job for the task). "I can probably handle things myself if something comes through, but it never hurts to have a gunner on board."

His assigned Venator ship is docked above the atmosphere of Coruscant. The solar winds are gentle and the ship's hull is connected to the station from every side, but Obi-Wan still feels a fluttering in his gut and his knees are shaking as if they're currently in the midst of hyperspace. After all, this is not just any Venator; it's his. It is where he will command, where he will plan men's deaths as if he has any right to, and pretend he isn't sickened to his very core.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is no General and he's never felt it so thoroughly before today. His peers assume he's good at war because he's fought in them—it's really the opposite—Obi-Wan knows war because he's lost every one he's ever been in. The disaster that had been the Young had lead him to his training with both Battle Master Drallig and the man's own teacher. They had taught him the ancient ways of Jedi warfare, of Battle Meditation, of the armor they forged, and all the ways the Jedi used to rule themselves and all the ways they are no longer permitted to.

Qui-Gon had never completely approved of it, but there was no doubt the extra lessons had given Obi-Wan the confidence he needed to continue his padawanship. It's a shame the knowledge has become practical. It's a shame he's been put at the front of a war effort as if he's supposed to know better than men who have spent their entire lives training for this exact war.

How will they react when they find out the Jedi had no idea they existed?

The ship isn't empty, but it might as well be with how scarce the Clones are making themselves. He'd be impressed by how well they were hiding if it hadn't been so concerning. The way to the bridge is lined with seemingly endless white walls and eerie silence, neither of which did well for his budding nervousness as meeting his command. He was promised a small meeting, but he feels as nervous as he does before speaking to a room full of hundreds of beings.

Obi-Wan knows their ranks and their competencies, but not their faces nor their names, and also he knows the same can not be said about himself. Alpha-17 had made it very clear how he could expect his crew to know every detail and faucet about him (in any other situation, the information imbalance would bother him, but it only seems fair given the circumstance).

The door slides open and Obi-Wan breathes in. "Good afternoon, Commander." Despite how empty the bridge is, it's still an impressive sight and his Commander standing in the center of it almost makes the space feel full. His presence in the Force is a solid wall, it demands to be noticed and refuses to be moved. It's both intimidating and welcoming.

There is a particular grace to the way Jedi move and even more to the way they fall down the stairs. Obi-Wan manages to catch himself on the last step down and he can feel his face flushing red all the way to the tips of his ears which give a minute twitch downward in mortification. He hasn't been in many command bridges before, but a shallow pit in the middle of it seems like terrible design choice.

"i like you, garrus. you're the least uptight turian i've ever met. besides, you clearly appreciate the finer things in life. like a well made booby trap."

"  the  look  on  your  face  says  there's  more  on  your  mind  .  "  from  rex transmission  received  from:  @savef1le

there  was,  in  fact,  much  more  on  his  mind.  and  anakin  wasn’t  the  least  bit  surprised  that  rex  had  so  easily  picked  up  on  it.  the  leader  of  the  501st  legion  wasn’t  only  the  jedi  general’s  comrade  in  arms,  but  it  was  within  the  clone  captain  that  anakin  found  someone  that  he  could  call  a  brother.  someone  who  he  could  even  tell  things  that  he  wouldn’t  dare  share  with  obi-wan.

but  if  that  was  so,  then  what  was  the  barrier,  blocking  anakin  from  revealing  the  entirety  of  what  was  on  his  mind?  why  then  had  he  remained  tight  lipped  about  what  was  bothering  him?  why  had  he  been  so  hard  for  him  to  tell  rex  of  the  sleepless  nights  he  spent  in  crippling  fear  brought  on  by  his  dreams?

it  wasn’t  that  he  worried  about  judgment  from  him,  or  the  same  misunderstanding  that  anakin  was  accustomed  to  receiving  by  now.  it  was  more  so  that  he  …  anakin  sighs  —  deep  and  thoughtfully  —  slowly  turning  his  gaze  from  the  landscape  of  the  dark  desert  in  which  the  army  found  themselves  encamped  on  this  night,  before  looking  back  at  the  captain.    ❝   it’s  nothing,  rex.   ❞   he  said,  attempting  to  brush  off  the  others  concerns  for  him.  as  far  as  anakin  was  concerned,  it  wasn’t  technically  a  lie  either.

@savef1le  ☠  continued  from  here.

            ❝   𝐇𝐌𝐌   ,   𝐘𝐄𝐒   -    ❞    Golden  eyes  glance  left,  then  right.  Spotting  no  one  around,  they  turn  back  to  Puck's  mischievous  scamp  of  a  lover.

           ❝  You  can  blame  his  father  for  that,  I  suspect.  ❞  And,  no  doubt,  his  auntie  Iago.  Certainly  not  Puck,  though.  (  Of  course  not.  She's  a  responsible  mother.  )

A  smirk  tugs  at  the  half-elf's  mouth.  Her  hands  begin  to  wander,  fingers  hooking  in  PJ's  belt  loops  to  tug  him  closer  before  slipping  down  into  the  pockets  on  his  ass.

A  pause.  She  blinks  -  then  a  laugh  bubbles  up  in  her  chest  that  morphs  into  a  hideous  (  see:  endearing  )  snicker. 

           ❝  Sweetheart,  you  need  to  stitch  these  up  ！  ❞

A  clawed  finger  pokes  through  one  of  the  pocket's  fraying  seams  &  wiggles.  The  laughter  continues.

           ❝  You  don't  make  a  very  good  trash  can,  either  -  ❞

He had gone to check on her. The stranger lost at the mountains. She was too young to be on her own. A part of him felt sorry about dragging her to the heat of it all but there had been no time. No time to think it through. Everything had happened too damn fast and now only the smell of smoke and death remained in the streets.

Her words hit hard. But Joel didn’t interrupt. Didn’t argue. He simply listened and stared at her, at the tears cutting tracks down her dirt-streaked face. His gut twisted, but his face stayed locked.

Joel swallowed hard as she went on. His jaw worked for a second, the weight of it all pressing in on him. What could he say? What words wouldn’t sound hollow? A long silence stretched between them, the crackling of a burning trash barrel nearby the only sound breaking the stillness.

"…Your dad," he echoed low, almost to himself. Then the image came unbidden. A man with no real face in a blue surgical gown. Joel’s hand on the trigger, no hesitation. He shook his head, jaw clenching harder. "I know who he was." He let the silence fall again.

"You got every reason to hate me." His voice was rough, the words heavy with a mix of regret and resignation. He wasn’t sure what she expected from him. Maybe for him to confess to what she already knew, for him to ask for forgiveness. But none of those things felt right. None of them were honest. There was no magic sentence that would fix what had been broken. The truth was, the damage was done, and it was too late for anything to make it better.

@savef1le: "you look like shit. feel like it too?" from tess!

he  could  feel  the  blood  crusted  in  the  creases  of  his  brow  —  tacky  and  stiff  now,  pulling  when  he  blinked.  the  cut  wasn’t  deep,  just  messy.  hadn’t  even  noticed  it  at  first.  not  until  the  guy  with  the  knife  was  down  and  the  buzzing  in  his  ears  died  off.  now  it  throbbed  in  rhythm  with  his  skull,  slow  and  stupid.

the  chair  under  him  groaned  when  he  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  hands  locked  together  like  prayer  —  though  he  hadn’t  prayed  in  years.  didn’t  see  the  point  in  asking  for  favors  from  a  god  who  clearly  wasn’t  listening.

room  still  stank  like  gun  oil,  wet  clothes,  and  the  coppery  sting  of  old  blood.  might’ve  been  his.  might’ve  not.

he  heard  the  door  click  behind  him.  didn’t  look  up.  heavy  footsteps  circle  alongside  the  old  kitchen  counters  right  to  the  table  he  sat  at. 

then  tess’s  voice.  dry.  familiar.

joel  dragged  a  hand  down  his  face,  palm  scraping  over  stubble  and  blood.  his  shoulder  ached.  everything  did,  really.  he  grunted  first  —  that  low  sound  that  could  mean  anything.  then  his  voice,  hoarse  like  it  had  been  filtered  through  gravel.

"you  askin’  outta  concern  or  just  statin’  facts?"

still  didn’t  look  at  her.  could  picture  her  anyway  —  arms  crossed  probably,  half  a  smirk  aimed  at  his  sorry  state.  the  kind  that  said  she  cared  just  enough  to  make  fun  of  him  for  it.  which  he  deserved.  if  anybody  was  allowed  to  do  it,  then  tess.

he  let  his  head  fall  back,  eyes  closing.  could  still  see  the  guy’s  face  —  the  one  who  ran,  the  one  who  begged.  he  hated  that  part.  not  because  it  made  him  feel  bad.  because  it  didn’t.

"wasn’t  supposed  to  go  down  like  that."  he  said  it  to  the  ceiling.  to  the  shadows.  to  no  one  in  particular.  and  he  meant  the  job,  sure.  but  maybe  more  than  that  too.