Chapter Text
Qui-Gon dodged a blaster shot and ducked down behind the paltry cover of a thorny bush, hand naturally falling to Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
A quick assessment of their situation brought little cheer. They were outnumbered. The Itholian they’d been protecting was dead. Kasti had been a key witness in the case against Tholana Central Mining Group, and their death had quite possibly doomed the court case itself.
Much as Qui-Gon regretted the failure of their primary mission objective, he was somewhat guiltily relieved to be free of the being. Kasti had been a civilian, inexperienced and terrified, had made costly mistakes out of sheer panic—mistakes that had ultimately cost the geologist their life.
Qui-Gon understood it—the blinding swell of fear and desperation that had driven Kasti to flee in spite of Obi-Wan’s calm, measured instructions to stay where you are, do not move. Kasti was no Jedi, had never been trained to calm and center themself in the midst of great danger. They’d run for it, bursting out of cover.
That was their last mistake.
Qui-Gon would probably grieve the loss later. He might even feel a touch of guilt, though short of knocking Kasti out and hauling their deadweight, he had no real idea of what else he and his Padawan could have done. For now all he could muster, aside from the faint sting of regret, was irritation. Kasti had forced them out into the open, allowing the Tholana mercenaries to push them to the edge of the wooded plateau.
Obi-Wan’s end of their bond was a warm, humming knot of determination and grim humour. Well, Master, however are we getting out of this one? he sent.
Qui-Gon squeezed his Padawan’s shoulder in answer, though Obi-Wan hardly needed the reassurance. We may have to fight our way out, Qui-Gon sent back. How many, do you think?
Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Obi-Wan bit his lip and frowned, peering through the thicket. Seems a bit like overkill for a single whistleblower.
A whistleblower escorted by two Jedi, Qui-Gon remarked.
Obi-Wan merely hummed in answer. He gestured towards the woods, a wordless request for Qui-Gon to cover him while he looked for a possible escape route down the cliff face.
We’ll have to stand our ground for as long as we can, Obi-Wan sent at last.
Qui-Gon received a fleeting impression of the terrain from Obi-Wan’s perspective: the lip of the plateau dropped away sharply, a sheer surface that would prove difficult to scale even if they had been well-rested and not under fire. The cliff-face had little in the way of handholds—a few tenacious plants here and there, but these were too few and far between, with shallow root systems that weren’t meant to hold any weight. Far below, the sluggish stream had swollen with recent rainfall and turned into angry white rapids.
Qui-Gon barely had time to consider this before a volley of blaster shots erupted from the treeline. He swore and let his ‘saber drop into his palm. “They’re trying to flush us out,” he growled, just as Obi-Wan slid back into place beside him.
“Well that’s vexing,” Obi-Wan deadpanned. “As is the fact that they seem to have a very good idea of where to shoot.”
“I suppose they have infrared scanners,” Qui-Gon sighed. “Shall we give up the pretense of hiding?”
At Obi-Wan’s resolute nod, Qui-Gon thumbed his lightsaber switch, and the green blade burst to life alongside his Padawan’s blue.
The mercenaries had fanned out. One or two seemed to have taken to the tree-tops, perching themselves in snipers’ nests. Qui-Gon could barely spare the attention to check on his Padawan. Obi-Wan’s defense was tight and clean, but Ataru was not well suited to their predicament, and he worried that Obi-Wan might tire soon.
He needn’t have worried. The tide turned in their favour when Obi-Wan deflected two shots back into the trees, neatly and in quick succession, apparently getting rid of both snipers at once. After that it was short work to take care of the rest. The blasterfire slowed to a haphazard crackle of uncoordinated shots, then to nothing.
“Think that’s all of them?” Obi-Wan murmured quietly.
Through their bond, Qui-Gon sensed his Padawan’s misgivings. Privately, he agreed—it had felt too easy. “We’d have to comb through their positions to be sure,” Qui-Gon said. “Give it time.”
It was difficult to be patient, particularly after a firefight. But he was counting on the other side to give away their own position, if any of them still lived.
Qui-Gon was briefly distracted by the low hum of a shuttle engine. It seemed wholly out of place in this wilderness. Indeed, the jungle was a protected no-fly zone. Tholana Mining claimed it was part of the company’s effort to minimise emissions and protect the habitat, but in reality, Qui-Gon had no doubt they simply considered it their own private airway.
The Force spiked with sudden alarm, and a short, sharp cry pierced Qui-Gon’s hearing. He whirled, chest tight with sudden worry for his Padawan, and found himself shoved bodily to the ground.
Pain erupted in the Force, hot, searing, lancing through his side. Qui-Gon had only enough time to realise it was not his own; then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone again.
“Obi-Wan,” he said, voice hushed and breathless, hollow with dread.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Obi-Wan whispered back. But his voice was low and strained and he remained pressed to Qui-Gon's body—quivering in place, muscles tight as durasteel, unable to move.
“Padawan,” Qui-Gon whispered, more urgently. The hum of that shuttle was drawing closer. They had nowhere to hide: the shot had come from the woods.
Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath and held it for a count of four. At the edge of his hearing, he could just pick out the rhythmic rustle of leaves, the light steps of some slender biped. They were getting closer.
Qui-Gon grimaced, and tightened his hands around Obi-Wan’s shoulders—the only place he knew for sure wasn’t injured. Obi-Wan’s only answer was a quiet moan. “Padawan, please—”
The whine of a bowcaster charging up for a shot was unmistakable; there was nothing else like it. Qui-Gon’s blood froze in his veins. Obi-Wan buried a whimper in his Master’s neck, pressing his lips close.
“I know you’re here somewhere, Jedi scum,” a lilting voice said. “There is no escaping me.”
Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around his Padawan and prepared himself to roll them both, to shield his Padawan from harm with his own body. Obi-Wan would likely object if he could, but Qui-Gon was only returning the favour. Obi-Wan shuddered in his embrace, teeth chattering.
And then all at once the hunter came into view, and the shuttle appeared in the air above them. “There you are,” the hunter said, and grinned. “Merry chase you’ve led us on.”
The voice grated on Qui-Gon's nerves. Worse, the whole world was loud and over-bright. And he couldn’t see the mercenary—merely their silhouette, stark against the sunlit sky.
The shuttle engines spun up to a high and unfriendly pitch, and Qui-Gon was abruptly grateful for the fact that he and Obi-Wan were already flat on the ground as the little flyer landed, buffeting them with a hot, humid blast of disturbed jungle air.
In short order the shuttle’s engines slowed and quieted, idling. Several pairs of heavy-booted feet clanked their way down from the shuttle’s hold. They halted, not daring to come too close. It was easy enough to tell who was in charge; even without the authority that hung around the hunter like a bad smell, Qui-Gon could sense the newcomers’ fear and unease.
“These your toys?” One foot nudged carelessly at Qui-Gon’s lightsaber, and the bowcaster swung to the side to point at Obi-Wan’s a little further off. “You won't be needing them.”
Qui-Gon could easily guess what that meant. He turned his head away and raised a hand to shield Obi-Wan’s face. Predictably, the being did indeed aim their next shot at Qui-Gon’s lightsaber—it blew apart in a blinding white flash and a hot shower of sparks.
“Get him up.”
Before Qui-Gon knew what was happening, rough hands landed on his arms and on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, pulling them apart. The quiet moan that escaped his Padawan tore at his heart, and Qui-Gon could almost see the stricken look on Obi-Wan’s ashen face.
And the dark stain half-hidden by Obi-Wan’s robe. Qui-Gon’s heart dropped.
“I thought they sent two Jedi, not a Jedi and a half. Pity.”
The hunter made a sharp gesture and something immediately tightened around Qui-Gon’s throat. He just barely caught a glimpse of the thin, dark collar they were putting around Obi-Wan’s throat before it became impossible to hear or see anything.
Ears ringing, Qui-Gon blinked against the suddenly overbright sun. It took a minute to adjust, and when he did, there was emptiness where the Force should have been.
Where did they get a bloody Force inhibitor…
Qui-Gon got his first good look at the mercenary: a pale Near-Human, likely Itholian, with narrow slate-grey eyes and skin so pale it almost looked unhealthy. Itholians had a different chemical makeup, copper-based blood rather than iron, but knowing it didn’t change the fact that the hunter looked eerily corpse-like.
The hunter was watching him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll make this simple. You’re going to tell me what I want to know,” he said, “or your little runt here will pay dearly for it.”
Qui-Gon said nothing, but his heart clenched. Obi-Wan was already breathing raggedly, forced to his knees with his wrists pinned above his head. But he knew Obi-Wan would tell him, without the slightest hesitation, to put duty first; his end of the bond had been quietly determined even before the inhibitor.
Untimely as it was, Qui-Gon suddenly felt a rush of pride. Obi-Wan would be a great Jedi—if only they managed to get themselves out of this scrape and off this planet intact.
“Now: where is the data drive?”
Qui-Gon’s heart sank. Even Obi-Wan went deathly still.
Kasti hadn’t given them anything for safekeeping, hadn’t told them that there was a data drive. Qui-Gon could honestly say he had no idea what the hunter meant.
He knew what sort of reaction that would get him, too. No matter what he said or didn't say, Obi-Wan would suffer for it. Qui-Gon looked across at his Padawan, but Obi-Wan kept his eyes cast down.
“Where is it?” the hunter snapped.
There would be no protecting Obi-Wan from this. “They didn't have one,” Qui-Gon said heavily. “I don't know anything about a drive.”
The mercenary hummed. “I almost believed that.” He stepped closer to Obi-Wan, and nudged the edge of his robe aside with the tip of the bowcaster. “Almost, but not quite.”
It happened in slow motion, the way the hunter leaned down and pressed a hand to the wound on Obi-Wan’s side—pressed hard enough that Obi-Wan’s mouth fell open on a choked, agonised sound. Qui-Gon struggled against the hands on his arms, but couldn’t shake them off.
The man straightened up again, unconcerned while Obi-Wan doubled over panting and coughing. “Trouble is, you see, Dr. Gytha Kasti stole a data drive from the company. Dr. Kasti is now dead—so, logically, you must have it.”
“Well did you search the body?” Obi-Wan asked, voice ragged. “Or did you leave them to rot like the rest of your men?”
It earned him a harsh kick to his injured side. Qui-Gon pitched forward with an angry growl, but the hands on him were tight, and one of the men struck him on the back of his head. Qui-Gon blinked back the spots that swam before his eyes while the man took a handful of his hair and twisted.
“The drive,” their leader drawled. “Tell me where it is and we can all go home, eh?”
That, Qui-Gon knew, was a lie. The Force had held too much dark pleasure at the sight of another’s pain. His Padawan’s pain. Qui-Gon could’ve torn the Itholian limb from limb; instead he felt utterly, sickeningly helpless.
“Kasti didn’t give us one,” Qui-Gon said.
“If you don't have it, you’re no use to me.”
Obi-Wan laughed, darkly amused. “Sorry,” he rasped. “You’ve killed the only person who knew where it was.”
Qui-Gon grit his teeth. As much as he wished Obi-Wan had not spoken, had not antagonized their captors, he could not help but admire his Padawan’s defiance. He understood why Obi-Wan was doing it, too: Obi-Wan was drawing the mercenary’s attention away from his Master. It was an old game between them, distracting their attackers, buying Qui-Gon time to get free.
But try as he might, Qui-Gon couldn’t get free of the hands twisting his arms up behind his back, or the harsh grip on his hair. A terrible dread filled him, that Obi-Wan was trying to draw the mercenaries’ attention to himself to spare his Master from their cruelty. Qui-Gon had done the same for him when Obi-Wan was still a junior Padawan. Now he watched as the hunter turned his attention to Obi-Wan with an ugly gleam in his eye.
It was a terrible, hollow feeling, being unable to protect his Padawan from such a monster. Qui-Gon would have given just about anything to keep him safe from the gnarled hand that now darted out to grasp his chin and twisted his head around, or the bloodied fingers that jabbed against the wound again. Obi-Wan clenched his jaw against the purely animal sound of pain that fought its way out.
“No one asked you, little Jedi,” the hunter said, voice low and sickly-sweet. “All you had to do was shut up and stay low, but no, you have opinions. Perhaps we can find a better use for that pretty mouth…”
Obi-Wan grinned, baring his teeth.
The next moment was a blur. Qui-Gon guessed that the men holding Obi-Wan had underestimated him, assuming that an injured, Force-blind Jedi Padawan wouldn’t require much effort to subdue. The sickening crunch, he later realised, was the sound of the leader’s nose breaking. The mercenary staggered back, but Obi-Wan had caught hold of the bowcaster swinging loosely at his side and aimed it unerringly over Qui-Gon’s head—at the thug who had a death grip on his hair. The latter went down with a ghastly wet gurgle, and Qui-Gon immediately took advantage of his newfound freedom to deal with the others.
In the ensuing struggle, Qui-Gon couldn’t spare a glance toward his Padawan, but every thought, every intent was to close the distance between them. He laid out his captors with brutal efficiency, disarming one automatically as the man went down. He needed to get to Obi-Wan, to keep him safe.
A single sharp, infuriated outcry froze the blood in his veins.
When Qui-Gon looked up, he saw the blaster pointed at his head. Like a green knight, or a Padawan on his first mission, his focus narrowed to the muzzle. Time froze. Qui-Gon knelt, weapon useless in his hand, unable to move or draw breath.
And then the muzzle vanished.
He barely understood what had happened. Qui-Gon knelt alone, surrounded by bodies—some dead, some groaning and barely conscious. His captors lay still at his feet. Two of Obi-Wan’s tormentors, too.
The mercenary was gone. Obi-Wan was gone.