clone wars one shots

─ make this chaos count

―

His eyes were the milk of the galaxy. A door shut in another's face, closed with the precision of masking tape. Peaceful. Filled with serenity. To open the door was to see the turmoil the man was in – tales of battles, grim sand and the sobs of a man afflicted by punishment – the cruel reality of surviving when those around you had perished.

Conflicted by the burning of a sun, his pupils reflected empty promises of rolling sand, a legend of a phoenix who cried waves. He could feel rays creating tunnels through mountains, dark entryways blessing an ending with valleys atop with climbing vines roped like a jungle, a fashionable lime mounted dew like acrylic ink. He, Obi-Wan Kenobi, was a corpse floating in the currents of a lake, as the palest of blues swayed in the river. Ripples climbed over his body like toddlers, he a ship crashed into a clasped locket. He had never met a man more restless. This was not happiness, but acceptance, yet either way as temporary as time itself. He opened his eyes.

Obi-Wan was greeted by a textured ceiling, fuzzy and more familiar than the shade of yellow on Cody's helmet. The fringes of his midichlorians stretched like elastic in a child's fingers; testing the waters now evaporated. Beeping nurtured his ears slowly to consciousness, shattering the bridge over water and he was falling... falling, falling... because contemporary bruises had disappeared and what remained became the joke at a comedy's store, a tune overplayed on the radio and loathed by swarming crowds.

His shields jostled, a General organizing bricks into the walls of his mind, barking orders at soldiers who reinforced the coaxing wall. Severing his ties to his very essence, a smacking of drums thumping; an undertone bass contorted against waters disturbed.

Somehow, a long-forgotten scent ran rings around overwhelmed muscles. Bacta, sickly and vile and an embrace of runny cream, a luxury not even the rich could afford; dioxazine purples, blue enchantments cursing the creases of his arms. Low harmonies of familiarity whispering truth in bouquets of liquid tulips. A place that should be shattered by explosions with a heart drawing flats for eternity. Ciphers of confusion as the scene before him morphed into a candle blown, its waxy remains tearing frayed edges of an old fool's heart into embers as orange as the fire that clung to his body.

In the solitude of silence, Obi-Wan found himself focusing inwards. He knew this was an illusion, a ploy to get him to unravel every little secret a council member knew; it was the entire reason why every detail was so... perfect. Exactly as he remembered it, pulled like a basin plug straight from his subconscious. His only mission was to keep his shields operating, a brick wall with a furnace as its core, ringing bells of kyber crystals, low timpani and restraining reds. The Empire had found him, and all that mattered was the operation of his shields.

Looking over him, Obi-Wan saw irises as green as the balance in tea leaves; the staring felt like an unforgiving worry in cotton-candy distresses. "Remarkable." He murmured, "every detail is perfect. Truly, a Master of your abilities." Apathy surged into his voice, cheeks red with a blushed sweat painted away like cotyledons, cinnamon copper sprawled with the dustings of an eraser. The wrinkles of a man he currently couldn't identify were smiling, the wise man blind yet claiming the elusive secrets of sight, leaking with a compassion that would undo the knots of his years. Obi-Wan, a prophet hailed by mankind, yet in the moment he was spinning by the ticks of clocks, the future crumbs of sand tumbling through wasted fingers. "I will not fall for this." He said finally.

Yoda hummed, gravel textured like a grassy path on Naboo, his skin the shade of green that curled around rocks. "Nothing to fall for, there is. Saddens me, your behaviour does." The Grand-Master's voice was beautiful harps that fell into a hypnotizing warmth, a rich gentleness like a mouthful of buttercream frosting. In contrast, Obi-Wan was a wound blistered with yoghurt bruises, a speeder against glass as edges of himself shattered into a folding void. Canary bled into his eyes, reminding him of how flawless every detail was, that placed furniture was uncanny. The illusion felt too real. He was a hivemind of emotions, with carmine blood rocketing an ocean's current, the shadow of mercury a father figure in the ruins of upright walls, a canvas drawn over with new paint to create a masterpiece.