THE JEDI TEMPLE, CORUSCANT, 32BBY
SENIOR PADAWAN OBI-WAN KENOBI CLENCHES his hands into fists at his sides and briefly wonders just how Qui-Gon Jinn would react if his Padawan happened to step forward and slap him across the face.
It's not the first time he's ever thought about it. Qui-Gon Jinn has a propensity for inciting violence within his Padawan. He can be insufferable at times, but this is by far the worst stunt he's ever pulled.
Qui-Gon stands with Anakin in the middle of the High Council Chamber, his hands on the younger boy's shoulders. The man's face is set, mouth pursed in a grim line, as he stares down Master Windu. Qui-Gon is still trying to convince the Council to let him train Anakin, the fool.
Obi-Wan stands slightly to the side behind the two of them, watching his Master's plea crash and burn and trying very hard not to enjoy it.
He fails miserably.
"You cannot take another Apprentice," Windu tells Qui-Gon, scowling. Thank God at least one of these idiots has some last ounce of sense. "No matter how strong he is in the Force. The Code forbids it."
Qui-Gon risks a glance over at Obi-Wan, making the Padawan bristle. His Master's gaze is like durasteel, hard and unflinching, and Obi-Wan gets the sense that Qui-Gon's about to drop one of his infamous bombshells.
"Obi-Wan is ready for his Trials," Jinn says when he faces the Masters again. Kenobi inhales sharply before he can stop himself—thankfully, the entire Council seems to shift in their seats, concerned. "There is little more I can teach him."
A strange sense of anger floods Obi-Wan's veins at his Master's words. Of course he's ready for the Trials—he's been ready for months, despite Qui-Gon's protests otherwise—but he'll be damned if he lets himself be thrown aside in place of Anakin karking Skywalker.
He steps forward. "I am ready," spills out of his mouth before he can help himself, voice calm and controlled even though he feels nothing of the sort. After years of standing in front of this Council to defend whatever crazy decision his Master had made at the time, Obi-Wan has learned to control his emotions tightly.
Obi-Wan glances over at his Master, but Qui-Gon won't even look at him. He can feel the entirety of the Jedi Council stretching out in the Force, trying to discern his true feelings, but Obi-Wan tightens his shields. After a second, the probes recede and Windu sighs.
"Now is not the time to decide such an important matter," he finally says, sitting back in his chair. He seems troubled. "Queen Amidala wishes to return to Naboo immediately after her plea to the Senate. You and Padawan Kenobi shall join her in the interest of protection."
Qui-Gon is not to be deterred, as usual. He sets his shoulders and says, "But Anakin—"
"We will discuss the matter later, Qui-Gon," Windu repeats, a clear rebuke in his voice, "and the Council will decide the boy's fate." He frowns in Qui-Gon's direction, clearly frustrated with the errant Jedi.
"Be with you, may the Force," Yoda intones with a slight incline of his head. "Protect you on Naboo, may it. Dismissed, you are, from this Council."
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan (and Anakin, though he does so more clumsily than the others) make their bows as the Temple Guards pull open the heavy double doors. Obi-Wan doesn't waste a second before he's striding out of the room, purpose written into every line of his body. As Obi-Wan walks away from the Council Chamber with long strides, feeling anger well up within him once again, he hears his Master call out his name.
Obi-Wan doesn't look back.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
NAR SHADDAA, 22BBY
Margo breathes in the damp air of Nar Shaddaa and lets herself appreciate the feeling of solid ground underneath her feet as she heads down the boarding ramp. After almost two days stuck in hyperspace with one Anakin Skywalker, she feels like a caged beast—ready to snarl and snap and wreak destruction on the city that towers above them.
Anakin, probably aware of the extent of her frustration in the Force, takes a cautious step away. Before he can say anything, though, a PortSec customs officer appears in the mist, coming towards them—a Rodian, dressed in plain blacks and browns, with a shining badge pinned to his lapel.
Margo didn't even know that the lawless world of Nar Shaddaa had PortSec, let alone customs. She smiles uneasily at the Rodian as he approaches.
"The docking fee is three hundred credits," he says in an odd tone, and he holds his hand out for the money. "And I'll need to see your identichips."
Anakin scoffs, mutters, "Three hundred credits?!" under his breath.
"You don't need to see our identichips," Margo corrects with a wave of the Force. The Rodian blinks, unsettled, and repeats the sentiment. "And twenty-five credits will be quite enough."
"Twenty-five credits will be quite enough," he bites out, like the words leave a bad taste in his mouth. Thankfully, he doesn't argue any further as Margo fishes in her pocket for the credit chips and drops them into his hand. With a cautious wave of her hand and a brush of the Force, she locks up the ship and grabbing Anakin's arm roughly.
"Come on," she hisses, eying the officer warily. He's still standing there, staring at the two of them. "Let's go."
Anakin doesn't need to be told twice. He follows her as she wanders out into the spaceport, which is filled with thousands of beings of all shapes and sizes. Margo ducks around a Wookie, almost slams straight into a Togruta, and then pulls Anakin out of the port altogether and into one of Nar Shadda's busy streets. Anakin stops to gape, dragging Margo back with him as he stares up at the sky.
Nar Shaddaa is definitely impressive. The city looms above them, speeders and starships weaving in and out of skyscrapers. The colorful lights of the billboards, similar to Coruscant's lower levels, make hypnotic patterns dance over Anakin and Margo's faces. The sky above them casts a strange reddish-orange hue over the passersby on the street.
Margo has been here before, on a mission with Quinlan during her apprenticeship (don't ask—it didn't turn out well), so she's well used to her surroundings. Anakin, on the other hand, looks like a fish out of water.
"We need to find the Council's contact," Margo decides quickly before Anakin can start hyperventilating or something equally as distracting.
Anakin doesn't argue. "As long as we get food on the way," he complains, falling into step beside her, unbidden. He's tall—his steps are almost twice the length of hers, long legs swinging, and she struggles to keep up. "I'm starving."
"You ate the entire box of ration bars," Margo exclaims. "How are you still hungry?"
"A man's gotta eat when a man's gotta eat," Anakin says imperiously in his best Master Windu impression, making Margo snort and roll her eyes.
"Fine," she says, and she's surprised to find she means it. "But when we find this guy, I'm going to be the one who makes contact. Don't you dare mess this up."
Anakin hesitates. "Deal," he says, but he doesn't look too happy about it.
Margo procures food for him in the form of several colorfully wrapped packages that she purchases from a street vendor. When she passes the pile to Anakin, he tears one open, exclaims, "Nerf jerky! Sweet!" and sets about devouring the food as they walk. Margo shakes her head and refrains from commenting.
When Anakin is finished, he wipes his hands on his pants, tosses the wrappers in a nearby waste bin, and ducks into an alleyway. Margo follows him, sizing him up once more with her eyes. He's dressed similarly to Margo, in civvies—black leggings and tunics, leather boots, and dark cloaks that obscure their faces. Margo has her lightsabers attached at her belt, out of sight but not out of mind, and she resists the urge to keep touching them to make sure they're still there.
Anakin sighs, leaning against the wall of the alley with an awkward grace. "So who are we looking for?"
Margo pulls her datapad from her pocket and starts swiping through files until she finds the one she needs. "Khando Hoona," she reads off the screen, and she frowns. "That's our guy. Weequay male, about six feet tall."
"Hold on," Anakin says, sounding troubled, and he grabs the datapad away from her. Ignoring Margo's exclamation of protest, he stares down at the holo on the screen, showing said Weequay. "That's weird. He's a pirate? I've never heard of him."
"Evidently he's good for something," Margo says. "Information." She wrestles the device back from Anakin, giving him a pointed glare before returning her attention to the report. "It says here that he was the one to send in the footage of Obi—Kenobi," she catches herself at the last minute. "He'll probably know where to look."
"If we can find him," Anakin complains bitterly. "The city is huge. Where do we even start?"
Margo stares at the words on the screen. "I think," she says slowly, the gears in her brain turning all at once, "I might know a place to get us started."
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
When Margo steps through the front door of the cantina, she's immediately hit with the heady stench of sweat and alcohol. She winces and tightens her grip on Anakin's arm as she leads him through the crowd, marches towards the bar, and pushes him down into a seat.
Anakin rubs his arm where she'd gripped it and glares at her balefully. The atmosphere of the club doesn't seem to ruffle him. Before he can start whining, though, Margo lifts a hand to get the barkeep's attention.
She's been here once before, and only once, in the company of the infamous Quinlan Vos. The cantina is familiar territory in a city of unforgiving gangsters and bounty hunters, so she takes a seat beside Anakin as the barkeep heads over.
A Twi'lek with beautiful green skin that glows underneath the club lights comes towards Margo and Anakin, leaning in close so that she can be heard over the ruckus of the club. "What'll it be?" the Twi'lek asks with a cursory but confused glance at Anakin. He's staring at her as if he's never seen bared skin before.
Margo kicks him sharply underneath the counter and says, "Two brandies, please."
"Corellian?"
"Whatever you've got."
That seems to satisfy the bartender—she nods and sets about pouring their drinks. Anakin is still watching her like a hawk, so Margo leans in close to his ear and drawls, "What's the matter? Never seen skin before, Skywalker?"
Cheeks turning red, he splutters, "I—it's not—I'm just thirsty."
"Thirsty for something, all right."
Anakin shoots her a venomous look and gladly accepts his brandy from the Twi'lek, who then moves on to serve another customer farther down the bar. He takes a long, slow sip before saying, "Don't you dare tell Master Qui-Gon about this."
"Why?" Margo asks, thoroughly enjoying herself. "I thought he knew all about you and—"
"Padmé's different," Anakin snaps, and Force, she's not going to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole. He grits his teeth and leans forward, chin almost brushing the top of his glass. "If you dragged me all the way down here to lecture me about women—"
"I," says Margo loudly, aiming to be heard over Anakin's words and eager to be rid of the uncomfortable topic, "did no such thing. In fact, dragged you all the way down here to follow up a lead on the Council's contact."
Anakin's face brightens. "Hoona?!" he practically shouts, making a few other patrons glance their way, and Margo cuffs him around the ear.
"Tell the whole Galaxy we're here, why don't you," she hisses as he rubs at his sore ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Twi'lek bartender turn back towards them, and she raises a hand casually as she adds, "Force, Skywalker, I thought some of Qui-Gon's sense would have rubbed off on you."
"Sorry," he grinds out as the barkeep comes back towards them.
"Yes?" the Twi'lek says, sounding exhausted.
"We're looking for a man named Khando Hoona," Margo tells her. She pulls the datapad out from within her cloak and displays a holo of Hoona for the barkeep to peer at. "Have you seen him?"
The Twi'lek looks up from the datapad and gives Margo a long look, sizing her up. "Yes," she says eventually, purposefully vague. "I've seen him around here."
Anakin perks up. "Can you take us to him?"
The girl scoffs. "What do I look like," she says incredulously, "a tour guide?"
Anakin smirks. "You'd make a very pretty—"
"Anakin," Margo hisses, kicking him under the table for the third time. She holds the Twi'lek's gaze while Anakin groans and rubs his ankle. "We're willing to pay," she tells the girl. "Handsomely." With a flick of her sleeve, she reveals the stacks of credit chips hidden in her wrist holster. The Twi'lek girl's eyes go wide.
Margo watches loyalty and greed struggle with each other for a moment on the barkeep's expression, completely at odds with each other. After a moment, just as Margo predicted, the girl looks down at the credit chips that Margo has left on the counter.
"The Falia Club," she says, sweeping the credits into her pocket with no further negotiation needed. "It's a cantina on the east side of the city. Tell the owner that Nina sent you and ask for room twenty-nine."
And with that, she grabs Anakin's empty glass and whisks it away, off to serve another customer or two. Anakin looks taken aback by Nina's brusqueness, hand clenching empty air.
"Did she just—"
"Anyone can be bought for the right price," Margo tells him, almost smugly. She knocks back the rest of her own brandy, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, and sets the glass down with a loud thud. She grabs her cloak from where she'd discarded it on the floor and pulls it tightly around her. "Come on. Let's go see if her information is good."
The night air is refreshing on their faces when they emerge from the club, despite the red haze of smog that continually hangs over the city. Margo breathes in deeply as she shepherds Anakin down several alleyways, away from the busier main streets, and finally stops.
"The Falia Club," Anakin repeats, hovering over her shoulder uncertainly as she pulls the datapad back out of her pocket and starts typing in the name of the club. After a few moments, the device pings and she pulls up a map for Anakin to stare at.
"We're close," she says, noting their location compared to the club. Margo hands the datapad to Anakin and pulls her cloak more tightly around her, chilled through to the bone by the fresh air. "Come on. Let's go."
Anakin is surprisingly adept with the map. He takes off and weaves through the foot traffic, checking every so often to make sure Margo is still following him, and ducks into alleyways whenever they need to take a shortcut. Soon enough, they're standing in front of a cantina with a neon sign that reads The Falia Club in bright bubble letters.
"We're here," Anakin announces needlessly, looking up from the map to stare at the sign. Margo nods and steps towards the door, shouldering it open and gesturing for the younger boy to follow her.
The atmosphere inside this club is much the same as the last one: dark and sweaty and hazy and loud, filled with creatures of all shapes and sizes that are laughing, drinking, arguing, dancing, and in some cases, even fighting. Margo spots a few pins bearing the double-moon symbol of Crimson Dawn, and she hastily averts her eyes.
Finally, Margo and Anakin shoulder their way to the bar, where a many-armed Besalisk reminiscent of Dexter Jettster is serving drinks.
"Excuse me?" Margo says loudly, leaning in towards him as he flicks a hand at her.
"Go on, love," he says gruffly. "What do the two of you want, then?
"We need access to your room twenty-nine," she tells him, feeling awfully stupid. "Nina sent us."
His countenance doesn't change, but he sets the drinks in his hands down on the counter and swipes up a stray credit chip with a sigh. "Follow me," he tells Margo and Anakin before setting off through the club.
Thankfully, the Besalisk clears a path for them through the crowd as he heads towards a door labeled employees only and shoulders it open, gesturing for them to follow him. They pass into a narrow hallway with no end in sight, lit only by flickering fluorescent lighting. There's barely enough room for all three of them in the small space—Anakin and Margo have to walk single-file behind the bartender. Every ten feet or so, a plain durasteel door is set into the wall on each side. There are no keypads or control stations, only old-fashioned locks that look like they've been here since the Old Sith Wars.
Just when Margo thinks they're going to keep on going forever, right down into the cruel and corrupt heart of the planet, the Besalisk stops dead in front of a plain-looking door on the right side of the hallway. He produces a key from somewhere within his dirty tunic and hands it to Margo proudly.
"All yours," he says, voice rough, and he squeezes past the two of them without another word and heads back in the direction of the bar, plodding along without a care in the world as Anakin and Margo stare after him.
After a hesitant moment, Anakin speaks. "That was..."
"Too easy?" Margo prompts uneasily.
"I was going to say lucky, but that works, too." He frowns at the door, sizing it up. "D'you think this is a trap?"
Margo takes a moment to think about it before shaking her head. "I don't think so," she says, even though she can't explain why. The Force around them is stagnant, heavy, but she doesn't think it's because of the Dark Side's influence. It's more the rust of disuse, the presence of Jedi in a place that hasn't seen Force users in years.
She glances down at the metal key in her hand and then back up at the lock in the door. She could use the Force to break it open, but something tells her not to. Instead, she steps forward and inserts the little piece of metal into the lock.
It slides in jerkily, and it takes a bit of strength on Margo's part to turn the key in the lock, but eventually, it clicks. Anakin startles as she reaches for the knob, makes eye contact with him, and then pushes the door open.
It takes a second for Margo's eyes to adjust to the darkness on the other side of the door. When she focuses, she can just about make out the silhouette of furniture—a bed, an old wooden dresser—and a small dingy window that filters in the least amount of light possible.
But none of that is what makes Margo's eyes go wide. Her hand brushes the hilt of one of her sabers as she stares.
There's a figure seated on the bed, facing the wall. The Weequay looks up when he hears the door open, surprise written in the lines of his face. "Hey, now," he says in a familiar accent that Margo's mind immediately catalogs as Florrum. "Can't a man get a little privacy around here?"
When he spots Margo, his face twists in recognition, his mouth an O of surprise. "Jedi?" he says. "Margo King, is that you? You haven't aged a day!"
Anakin looks from Margo to the man, and then back again, in clear confusion.
"Hondo Ohnaka," Margo grinds out, her gaze locked with his. "You have a lot of explaining to do."
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
wc: 3.3k
heyo! i'm back, finally. i apologize for how long it's been. i started a new job recently so i have been very busy with that, and also dealing with life and writers' block. this september, i started school again (junior year and four APs, woohoo).
i hope you liked this installment of the story! were you expecting hondo to show up?? don't worry, i promise that we will see more of obi-wan soon. also, thank you for all your lovely comments! they really do motivate me to write.
love, grace <3