Feedback: Yes! It keeps the plot bunnies healthy and breeding.
This one, particularly, lives on it!
Summary: A mission to an Outer Rim star system goes wrong
George Lucas is god and owns everything Jedi oriented... Mamaru
Nagano is another god and owns anything Five Star Stories
related. And if I'm doing this crossover right, then you
shouldn't have to think much about which one is which.
Author Note: Yes, my scanner is still broken. I can't keep
working on the doji without it, so I'm frustrated. This is what
happens when I'm frustrated; I switch media. I will
continue the doujinshi when I can, but in the meantime, I'm
working out the bunny in prose instead.
Joker Systems, Northern, Kalamity Goderce
The floor was cold and hard beneath his knees but he could
barely feel it. Darkness pressed against him like a living
thing, chill and fearsome in its touch. He did not have the
strength to push it away, only barely had the strength to hold
it back at the edge of arm's length, tendrils reaching for him
with slow insistance.
Tired. He was so tired. It manifested itself in a multitude of
small things, things he might normally have brushed aside but
which now strained the ragged limits of his concentration. The
trickle of blood across his cheek itched intolerably, above the
deeper ache of the wound it seeped from. Countless aches and
pains, clamoring for his attention, for a moment to ease them
away. He did nothing for them. He couldn't.
Beneath his hands, beneath the scratched and stinging surface
of palm and fingertip, he could count the pulsebeats. Each one
gave him a little more hope, gave him the ability to call forth
strength he didn't think he had and pour it, through flesh and
bone, mind and heart, into that pulse and the flesh that
surrounded it. The darkness blurred before his vision but he
could see nothing beyond the pale wash of face, the flutter of
that pulse in throat and there, in the tender skin beneath the
closed eyes.
The bond between them was stretched taut and fine, twisted and
knotted where once it had run smooth and strong. Qui-Gon closed
his eyes, bowing his head as he pushed determined strength
through that line, forced it into the body laid across his
knees. Willed it, part and parcel of himself, into his
Padawan's still form.
The words had been falling from his lips in an endless litany,
a lifeline thrown out in audible form, tugging, pulling, trying
to capture and gently enclose the spark at the other end of the
bond. He heard them only dimly, babbling, anything to draw a
response from that still figure. "Not your fault," he murmured.
"Not your mistake. Our mistake. Ours. Our.... Our mistake,
Padawan, was arrogance."
No response, but there had been none before. He shook his head,
irritably brushing away the tangle of sweat dampened hair that
clung to his forehead. Lectures falling like the easy flow of
breath, lessons for everything, from everything... he spoke
them to himself as often as to his Padawan, thoughts voiced to
imprint them on mind and action. He spoke them now from habit,
grasping at the familiar in a world gone terribly wrong.
"The Code teaches humility." The hard floor beneath the ripped
trousers covering his knees was growing into yet another ache,
one he deliberately pushed away. No time for such things. "But
experience, confidence - they are their own traps. We were
confident, Padawan. That was our mistake." Sweat and blood on
his lips when he licked them, stinging his tongue. His breath
caught in his lungs, stuttering with fatigue.
The laughter caught him by surprise but there was no mirth in
it, no warmth to chase away the chill. It trailed away harshly,
strangled in his throat. "Irony," he whispered hoarsely. "The
irony is that they chose us because we could do it. Because
they thought we could." He drew a slow breath, trying to summon
more strength, to reach past the limits of the dark and the
aches and the tired exhaustion that numbed mind and body.
Beneath his knees and calves he caught the first tremor of it,
the hard shudder of earth and stone. It echoed in the shiver of
the walls, the rattle of the broken glass in the tiny window.
He forced his eyes open and looked up slowly, hearing the deep
reverberating clang of the war machine peeling through the
night air. It was close, too close, and drawing nearer. The
thin walls of the abandoned building that sheltered them might
as well be as nothing before it.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, drawing the remanants of what Force
his strength could summon around him like a tattered cloak. His
Padawan's body was the only warmth he knew, cradled close in
his arms, and even that was not nearly enough. Gently he
lowered the younger man to the hard ground, pillowing the limp
head on what remained of his own jacket. Fingers automatically
brushed back the short cropped hair, trailing along the soft
rope of braid. "Obi-Wan..."
His hand fumbled for his lightsaber, numb fingers closing over
the familiar grip set beside him. His words, he found, were for
him alone - whispered, breathless, into the spaces between his
own pounding heartbeat and the shuddering thuds of the
approaching killer. "The failure is all around us, Padawan. And
the tragedy..." His voice caught, ragged, as his fingertips
gently traced the line of one bruised and bloodied cheek. "The
tragedy is that I never knew until too late."
Blood on tender skin, vibrant and vivid beneath his lips. He
lingered there for a moment, reluctant to draw away, to sever
all contact. His breath was loud in his ears, momentarily
warming the younger man's chilled flesh. "My Obi-Wan," he
whispered, the words a caress and a plea.
But there was nothing, and now there was no time. Qui-Gon
forced himself up and away, forced back the aches and the
pains, the fatigue and all else - everything but the whisper of
the Force and the familiar, strengthening feel of the grip in
his hand. It hummed against his palm as he thumbed the green
blade on, vibrating through wrist and arm, as comforting as his
own pulse. The darkness drew back as he stalked through it,
stepped across the still form of his Padawan and out the door,
into the chill night and all it contained.
In the darkness he left behind he did not hear the faint
whisper, breathed across dry and cracked lips, eyes searching
blindly through the dimmed surroundings. "Master..."
The midafternoon sun shone bright, illuminating the garden path
in lazy golden warmth. The contrast of light and leafy shadow
made a natural pattern, one which Qui-Gon only frowned at
slightly as it slid across the surface of the datapad he held
and forced him to tilt it to read better. A puff of a sigh
escaped him, wordless exasperation. "That's all there is?"
Beside him, his pace measured to Qui-Gon's own, Mace Windu
inclined his dark head briefly. "I'm afraid so."
Qui-Gon cast the other man a sidelong glance. The Council
member spread his hands slightly in response, indicating his
own helplessness. "The Joker star systems aren't part of the
Republic, Qui-Gon. Contact - and our information - is limited
to what they want us to have."
Another sigh, this one heavier. Shoving the data pad into his
belt, Qui-Gon halted, forcing the other man to do likewise.
Dark, hooded eyes turned their glare towards the other Master.
"Outer Rim... if they're not part of the Republic why are we
taking an interest? The truth, Mace. I'm not interested in the
official excuse."
Windu evaded his gaze, seeming to find something of interest in
the long strands of a low flowering plant beside the path. "The
country that made the request controls most of the planet of
Delta Belune. They're big in trade - raw materials, luxury
items." His voice was low, smooth, but there was a hint of wry
amusement lingering there beneath his calm. "There's pressure
in the Senate from their trading partners."
"Trade disputes..." Qui-Gon's tone made his opinion
disdainfully clear but Windu shook his head.
"Unlikely," he said, voice cutting across Qui-Gon's. "On the
surface, perhaps, but the Joker systems are politically
unstable. This is more than a trade dispute."
Qui-Gon hesitated, glancing away as he considered. Windu
continued, his soft tone weaving encouragement even as his
words offered alternatives. "Qui-Gon, you're one of the best
diplomats we can send them. But this isn't a regular assignment
- you can refuse."
Sharp blue eyes met brown. In the privacy of the quiet garden
emotion that would never have touched either countenance in the
Council Chamber flickered, briefly, across face and gaze.
Qui-Gon shook his head, lips pressed thin in irritation. "Don't
be foolish. You wouldn't have approached me like this if you
didn't need us. It's not as much information as I'd like, but
we've had worse. We'll go."
The ghost of a smile touched Windu's lips. "Good," he said,
sounding satisfied. "The Council will be pleased, as will the
Senate. Your ship will leave tomorrow. Force be with you."
Qui-Gon shook his head slightly, sighing through clenched
teeth. "And with you, Mace," he echoed automatically. When the
other man had walked away, parting with the firm brush of a
hand across the Jedi Master's shoulder, Qui-Gon allowed himself
the luxury of a soft, thorough curse before turning his own
steps back towards his quarters and his waiting Padawan.
Obi-Wan looked up from his studies when Qui-Gon entered, a
brief smile flashing across his face. "Master..." he trailed
off, seeing the other man's expression, and his smile turned
wry. Gathering up the datapads as he rose, he stacked them
neatly to the side and pushed back his chair. "I'll pack our
bags. Is there anything in particular we need?"
Qui-Gon paused beside the door, running a hand over his hair.
"Am I that transparent, Padawan?"
The younger man cocked his head to the side, amusement
glimmering in his eyes. "You had a private meeting with Master
Windu, and then you come back with that expression. Master
Windu had an assignment. You don't like it, but we're going
anyways."
"A good observation." The Jedi Master allowed a hint of a smile
to touch his lips, hovering just at the edges. "And
unfortunately correct. Pack generously - we're going to the
Outer Rim. Dimplomatic..."
"Dress uniforms," Obi-Wan interjected with his own small sigh.
"Yes," Qui-Gon confirmed. He hesitated, drawing the data pad
from his belt and glaring at it as he slapped it, lightly,
against his palm. A quick twist of his wrist tossed it to the
younger man, who caught it neatly, plucking it from mid-arc.
"Pack field supplies as well. We're not sure what we're going
into. What we have - and it's precious little - is on there. I
suggest you commit it to memory."
"Of course, Master," Obi-Wan replied mildly. "When do we
leave?"
"First thing tomorrow," Qui-Gon sighed. "After you've packed
you may have the rest of the day and the evening, if you like.
There will be plenty of time during the transport for studies."
A bright smile lit blue eyes from within. "Thank you, Master."
And then his Padawan was gone, ducking through the door to his
own room, the sounds of cabinet and drawer opening as the young
man made quick work of sorting through what would be packed.
Qui-Gon smiled, wishing for the same enthusiasm, and went to
the terminal in his own room where the evening might be spent
attempting to find any further information in the Republic data
nets for their Outer Rim destination.
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