When I opened my eyes the second time and saw the ceiling of the little room again, I felt a mix of emotions. None of which were pleasant. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to just sink back into subconsciousness and stay there for however long it took for the world to right itself.
But the world wouldn't let me.
"Are you in pain?" A mellow voice asked. Low, accented, and familiar in the wrongest way.
My eyes snapped open, darting to the source. In the corner of the room, he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his body. A body dressed in tan-coloured robes and battle-worn armor. I recognized the outfit enough to know the hints of red on his shoulder plates were the edges of the Republic army insignia.
I snapped straight up, and the world took on a drastic tilt.
"Easy, you took quite the fall back there–" Hands were on my shoulders, easing me back onto the cot. "Try to relax."
A shiver ran down my skin from the touch, then from the voice. I'd watched enough of the movies to recognize the lilt. The grasp of his hands was gentle, but solid. The worn but study armor across his shoulders and chest was real. And when my gaze dared to lift higher, it fell on his face, all distinctive lines and soft lips under a golden copper beard. His hair was swept back, and his eyes were a freshwater blue, light and clear and flusteringly intent on my face as they drew me in.
This wasn't happening. My mind was playing tricks on me, spinning together an elaborate dream. I'd never had one this long. Or this detailed.
"The medical droid said your injuries weren't critical, but it must have missed something," he continued. His features drew in, utterly serious. "I'm going to have another assessment done."
The words refused to sink in right away. The full weight of his stare did no good for my sense of calm. Or focus.
Obi-wan Fucking Star Wars Kenobi. Wooow oh wow. I've lost it. I'm delusional. This is all an exhaustion-fueled fever dream.
My voice came out like a croak. "I'm fine."
"If that were true, you wouldn't have collapsed in the middle of the bridge. You gave the men quite the scare," he countered, reaching a gloved hand to my face. My eyes went owlish when his fingers touched the skin above my brow. It came with a tiny but sharp strike of pain. I flinched, reaching for the spot. A butterfly bandage sat here.
"I hit... my head?"
"No. That happened before we arrived." His gaze tightened. "Any later and it would've been worse."
"Worse?" I echoed dumbly.
He straightened with a sigh. "How do you feel?"
I was truly speechless. "Like I need to take a nap."
"You've been asleep for a while already." A furrow grew between his brows, like he was concerned. "Try to hold on a little longer until we finish."
The look left me at a loss. Before I could ask what he meant -- what the hell any of this was -- the door abruptly whooshed open. Another droid rolled in, this one more able bodied than the cleaning box. It had an upright body and four arms. One pair handled a tray covered with various supplies, the other tucked around itself with its pinchers closed and folded together.
"Hello. I am here to complete the reassessment." The animatronic voice was low, feminine, and purposely pleasant. I couldn't help shrinking into the cot, watching the medic droid roll forward. Obi-wan stepped aside to let it set down its equipment on a nearby trolly. Nothing looked glaringly pokey or stabby, but panic crawled up my chest anyway.
"H-hang on," I piped up, leaning towards the other side of the cot. "I don't think I need this."
The medic's pair of crimson lenses gave the effect of eyes, but its gaze was distinctly impassive as it looked me over. "I detect some discomfort signals from the patient," she observed.
"I fainted because I was tired. Plus I wasn't wearing shoes. The floor was slippery," I answered quickly.
"We should check to be sure," Obi-wan insisted.
"There's nothing wrong, really." I held up my hands, trying to be convincing. "I don't even think I need that nap anymore."
He looked incredulous. "You fainted."
"Low blood sugar?" I said meekly.
"That is highly unlikely. I have administered regular nutrient and fluid infusions to prevent dehydration and malnutrition since your arrival," the medic chimed.
"I only have a scratch. It's barely an injury," I protested.
The furrowed look wouldn't budge. My protest made it dig deeper. "Just a scratch?"
"Yes."
"We both know that's not true."
"It is!" I patted my side and waist, even waving my arms. "Seriously I'm f–" a sharp throb of pain came from my left shoulder when I tried to extend it, making me gasp. Obi-wan's eyes sparked with affirmation.
"I promised to return you safely and I intend to keep it." He stepped in, his voice drawing softer. He looked genuinely worried. "It won't take long so humour me. Just this once."
I cradled my arm in my lap, dumbfounded by the request. And that stiffening ache coming from my shoulder. I could be terrified in my dreams, sure, but never in pain. None of this made any sense. It was like my grip on reality was well and truly slipping.
And maybe that was why my guard against him was wavering, even if the rational side of my brain screamed at me not to. Not with anyone. Not even with the courageous, intelligent, gentleman Jedi with a sarcastic wit and morality score higher than any other Star Wars character I knew. But it was hard not to admire Obi-wan Kenobi. It was harder not to like him.
The door abruptly slid open. A helmetless figure in white and orange armour stepped in. His head was shaved clean, but a healthy stubble sat along his jaw. His expression was set stern and focused, all business. "Apologies for the intrusion General."
And then it hit.
A clone. His orange patterned armour marked him as part of the 212th. Obi-wan's battalion from the Clone Wars.
The Clone Wars being a tv show. A spin-off piece of fiction I watched for fun.
Obi-wan turned to the trooper. "What is it, Waxer?"
"Your presence is requested at the bridge by Devaronians," Waxer said.
"Did they mention what for?"
"They want to know whether the mission to retake the planet will be carried out as scheduled."
A sigh escaped his lips. "Of course, what else could it be," he turned to me with a reluctant look, "I'll come back later." He was going to leave me with the medic droid.
"I didn't agree to this yet," I blurted.
"You would eventually." A grin that felt too familiar lifted the corners of his mouth as he walked towards the door. "If not me, Pipla would definitely convince you."
My mouth dropped open to speak but the droid beat me to it. "Please lie back with your hands at your sides." It rolled a little closer, its hands folded ever so politely in front of herself. And then the door was sliding shut behind the men. Suddenly I was stuck in the room with the patiently waiting droid.
Shit.
With a silent groan, I laid back down. She pulled out a square device from her line of tools, holding it over my stomach. Its face pointed towards the ceiling so I couldn't tell what it was. From the way she moved it back and forth, it had to be a scanner.
"All vital signs are reading normal. I am not detecting any abnormalities," she chimed.
"Great," I said instinctively. The medic didn't respond. Maybe she wasn't programmed to bother with pleasantries. Maybe she was used to dealing with unconscious bodies.
I stared up blankly at the ceiling as she went through other tools, trying to shove down my panic enough to actually think. There wasn't any logical explanation for this. Just one crazy, outlandish theory I already felt insane for considering. It shouldn't have been possible -- or fucking reasonable -- but my mind couldn't let it go when the undeniable proof was quietly tending to me.
I was in a fanfic. A fucking Star Wars fanfic.
Pinchers pressed against my left shoulder. Very solid and very real. Pain stabbed into me, making me jerk away.
"Ow!"
"My apologies," the medic droid chirped, "did that cause significant discomfort?"
"Extremely," I shot a glare, keeping a palm over the spot. Pain radiated from my shoulder a second time, making me wince. "Why does it hurt so much?"
"You were treated for a perforated wound immediately upon arrival on our cruiser," she articulated. I wasn't a med student, but I could tell that didn't sound good. Gingerly, I tugged the collar of my shirt down. Bandages were spread across the left side of my chest up to my collarbone. The gauze was thick, held in place by medical tape and binding that wound across my chest and shoulder.
I gasped. "What happened?"
One of her pinchers rotated. "I would advise against going over the details of the mission as you are still in the middle of recuperation."
"I need to know." An anxious edge cut into my voice. "Please tell me."
"The wound came from a sniper bullet."
My stomach dropped. "What sniper?"
"There was an assassination attempt on Devaron's governor and her cabinet while your delegation visited the planet."
More details that didn't make sense. I stared straight at the ceiling, my fingers clenched into fists against the cot. What governor? What delegation?
A couple hours ago I'd been at home, blasting John Williams through my headphones to drown out the gunfire of my brothers' gaming console in the living room. For the millionth time, I regretted letting them keep the fucking thing at my place after they moved away (and bought better ones for themselves) because it was their favorite thing to do when they visited at the same time. Play video games on my couch like they were 12 and beat me every time I decided to join them.
Everything had been normal. Ordinary. So how the hell did I go from that to this.
"Is there a mirror in here?" I asked suddenly.
"I do not carry a mirror in my supply kit," the medic droid remarked.
"I just wanted to see my face. I felt bandages," I added quickly. After a moment's consideration, she propped open her apron, promptly tucking all the tools from the tray inside. Then, she offered it to me.
"Will this meet your request?"
I took it, adjusting the angle so the overhead light wasn't reflecting on the surface. My face stared back. But it was... different.
My face was clear. No blemishes, not even the semi-permanent dark rings I'd earned from my college years of late night cramming. Instead of my messy bun and springy baby hairs, my hair was smoothed back, like it'd been gone through with a fine tooth comb and hair cream. I ran a hand behind my head, realizing the end was braided. And it was long. Pulling it forward, the braid ran in a thick tail ending just past my chest. It was an intricate style, five sections woven and looped at the end instead of a hair tie. I didn't know how to do this. I didn't even have this kind of length anymore: I'd gotten it cut shoulder-length just a couple weeks ago.
My cheekbones weren't hidden in rounded cheeks, but softly pronounced. My brows looked thicker, and my lashes curled alluringly over my eyes. A couple swipes proved there was no mascara on them, that there was no makeup on my face at all. It was me, but an airbrushed version. Just enough to be better, but not so much it was a different person.
I exhaled, unsettled. "What the fuck."
The medic droid paused for a second. "I apologize. Fuck does not register in any of my language databases."
"Nothing, nothing," I said quickly, "just talking to myself. Forget it."
"Your injuries were not substantial to your facial features. It would be more appropriate to consider the possibilities of infection or sepsis from your bullet wound."
What a lovely idea. "Should I actually be worried about that?" I asked, alarmed.
"Not particularly. The bacta treatments have proven effective so far. As long as there are no abnormal complications you're 81% likely to make a full recovery."
I blinked at the droid. "Why 81%?"
"There are several unique complications that have been documented for this type of injury that also happen to be quite fatal. I can provide summaries if you wish," the medic offered kindly.
"Please don't."
"Then I will continue with the second half of the assessment. I will ask a few questions to assess your psychological and emotional state," the medic stated, folding her arms in front of herself.
I dropped the tray into my lap. "Go ahead."
"Please state your full name."
I still had my face. I had to be an OC. Maybe that meant personal details would be the same?
I gave my name.
"That is not correct," she responded.
"Oh," I said lamely, internally cursing the author. Why does there have to be an original OC name!
"What is the name of your home planet?"
"I-- uh," my eyes darted around the room, down my clothes. Nothing about them particularly stood out. I watched the show for the title characters and the plot. I'd never been keen on the details and backgrounds of the different planets and societies. There were just so many.
My silence stretched between us. She continued. "Do you recall where you were travelling with the delegation?"
"Devaron," I said weakly. Obi-wan and Waxer mentioned it, but she had too.
"That is correct," she said neutrally. "Can you describe the mission of the delegation?"
"I don't know," I whispered.
The medic droid tipped its head, wheeling back. It felt like a somber move. "I will submit the results of the evaluation to General Kenobi. Please rest." Taking the tray, she rolled out of the room. Once again, the space was engulfed in silence. It sunk over my shoulders, empty and unsettling.
I crossed my arms, wincing at the throb from my shoulder. "Come on. Be a dream. A stupid, detailed, realistic dream," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut like it would be enough to make the room disappear. But it didn't. Harsh light still seeped into my eyelids and my butt was going numb from sitting on the thin cot.
Somehow I was here, injured and clueless. The one thing close to a consolation I had was that no one had a problem with me. It didn't feel like I was going to be thrown off the ship or into a cell, but what would happen now? Where was I supposed to go? How could I get home?
Is there even a way to go home?
The door slid open, making me start. A girl with a tower of blankets in her arms stopped just inside the room. Her eyes went owlish and her mouth dropped open on sight of me.
She gasped like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. "Oh. Stars."
"Hi?"
In a flash she was across the room, her arms around my neck and squeezing. "You're awake! Oh thank the Maker – I couldn't stand another second waiting with those dreadful ministers. I felt like a sitting mynock." She pulled back, her brown eyes darting over my face. "They kept hawking around, asking me to check if you woke up as if I hadn't a trillion times before. How do you feel? Loopy? Sore?"
"Tired," I said, a little overwhelmed. She spoke quickly, like the words couldn't help but stream out in such a hurry. "You uh, dropped the blankets."
Her gaze landed on the frumpled pile near the foot of the cot. She snatched them up, swiping her hands over them. "Dank farrik. I'd been looking up and down this ship for some decent bedding. You would think a flagship of the Negotiator's size would provide something warmer than a thin sheet," she spread the blankets over my legs, making sure to tug the edges in.
I didn't respond, surprised by the kindness. "How long have I been asleep?" I asked after a beat. Obi-wan had said a while.
"Almost four days, my lady. General Kenobi assured us you'd wake soon, but to be truthful, I was beginning to worry." She shook her head, as if physically willing the thoughts away. "No matter. You're awake and well and that's all that matters."
I grinned reflexively at her smile, but my insides felt uneasy. She'd said 'my lady'. It was the first time anyone used a title with me. What did it mean?
A faint furrow fit between her brows at my growing silence. I recovered a small laugh, rubbing my face. "I'm sorry. I'm still disoriented."
"Is your shoulder bothering you?" Her eyes turned into saucers again. "I can call back the medical droid--"
"No, I'm fine. Really," I assured her, but that worried look still filled her features. She seemed young, maybe a year or two behind me. Her features were delicate and pretty, her chestnut hair pinned back in a twisting bun that gave full view of brown eyes that were expressive and assessing.
"It's just, I think I am dealing with a bit of amnesia." I tried to explain.
Horror filled her face. "You don't remember the attack?"
"And other things," I admitted. How much could I say? My chat with the droid proved I wasn't going to get far with bullshit. And I didn't recognize this girl as a character, but she was acting close. Like she knew me.
"Where does your memory end?" She pressed. "When we arrived on Devaron?"
A nervous smile pulled my lips. "It doesn't really begin."
Her brows shot up, her face entirely blanking. Then she sprang from the cot, "I should be calling the medical droid back, my lady–"
"Just a second! Wait!" I fumbled to get off the cot, tripping when my feet got tangled in the new blankets. The sound got her to stop, her body half out of the doorway, "I've already been examined. The droid is sending the report to General Kenobi," I explained. "We don't need to talk to him now."
She still looked like she was debating whether to deliver the message herself. Ultimately, she stepped back inside, letting the door slide shut behind her. "You truly don't remember?"
"Yes."
"Then, then-" she pointed to herself, "do you not remember me?"
I had a gut feeling she'd really leave if I said no.
"We're close," I said vaguely, testing the waters, "you're my... assistant."
"Your handmaiden."
"Right." The name Obi-wan said popped to mind. "Pipla?"
"Yes, yes!" Her bright grin returned, releasing some of the tension in me. That explained the 'my lady' thing, and why she was acting the way she was.
It took a little more coaxing to get her to sit with me again, and we began to talk. Or rather, she gave me a rundown of the situation and I listened, trying to put the pieces together. We'd gone to Devaron on a diplomatic mission to supply medical aid, and walked right into a coup by a rebel group being backed by the Separatists. The antagonists against the Republic and the opposing side of the Clone Wars.
It had gone wrong – so wrong that we were the only surviving members of the delegation left. The Jedi had been deployed to rescue us and the Devaronian ministers, and now we were sitting in a Republic flagship stationed behind one of Devaron's moons. And the fight wasn't over – there were plans in motion to take back the planet.
All in all, it definitely sounded like something that would happen in a Clone Wars arc. And here I was, right in the middle of it as a 'delegate'. A senator from what it sounded like. Pipla wasn't exact about it, and I wasn't about to shoot through the facade of memories she thought I still had.
But what kind of senator had a handmaiden?
"It's a wonder the Jedi enlisted to help us was General Kenobi," she added after a while, her hands pausing from their fiddling with the blanket.
I gave her a curious look. "What do you mean?"
"Of all the reinforcements to send to our aid, it is the ships under his command." She glanced at me. "One could say it's the force at work."
"I don't think that's how it works," I answered, but her face showed she was completely serious.
"If you haven't completely lost your memories of me, I can't think it possible that you'd lose your memories and affections for General Kenobi."
My mouth dropped open. "What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes a little, huffing chidingly, "my lady."
"I'm serious!" I cried, heat threatening to engulf my face under her watchful gaze. It would be incredibly ironic if my character was as smitten with him in the series as I was in real life.
"While you haven't been honest with me, I'm not blind," she insisted, fixing a knowing look on me, "I've seen the signs, from both of you."
A string of incoherent noises left my mouth. "Excuse me?"
She hummed a little, lacing her hands together over her knee, staying silent. She genuinely thought there was something mutual going on. But there was no way. The entire time I'd been awake, he was completely respectful. A courteous and thoughtful gentleman that didn't overstep boundaries.
...unless he was being discreet.
"You look flush, my lady," Pipla stated, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"I am... fine," I smoothed my palms over the fabric of my pants. "You said we were waiting for reinforcements?"
"Hopefully they arrive soon," her cheeky confidence quickly evaporated, "I heard that the separatists are assembling a blockade as we speak."
"We're going to be fine," I said, trying to sound confident. If not for her sake, then it was definitely for mine. Because I didn't know what I would do otherwise.
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