#crix spartak

[zargsnake]

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 9: Crix Spartak

Word Count: 2309 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

*   *   *

Two Years Ago

Shmi sits at a desk by the windowsill in Watto’s shop, composing fake documentation for a shipment to a more legitimate planet. She used to do this kind of thing all the time for Gardulla on Nal Hutta, and she's very good at it. Forging and faking are probably her best skills. She knows legal-speak and formatting; she has a knack for coming up with random numbers and convincing names. When she has a sample of handwriting or writing style from a real person, she can imitate it flawlessly, which she has done for business leaders, crime lords, and even Senators. When she doesn't have anything from anyone real, she invents someone. She has no honest idea what the closest Senator's name really is, but she's invented a self-serious personality and a squiggly autograph that has tricked docking-receivers as far away as Rodia.

Watto has little use of this power of hers for his day-to-day needs, but he sometimes comes up with plots to trick his neighbors using Shmi’s forgeries. And, sometimes, like now, he needs her tricks to get rid of stuff, like these ten tons of toxic waste he ended up with from a bad bet, and that he now wants to pass off as fertilizer and sell to a gullible offworld farmer who won't be able to trace it back to him.

Writing isn't bad work. It’s challenging, and, malicious as it is, she knows she could enjoy it, if she let herself: getting into people's heads, living other lives, for just a short while. It is like solving a puzzle, to figure out how to make other people believe something that isn’t true. The cruel intention of the trickery is not her own, it never is, so she doesn't let that aspect of her work bother her, not anymore.

The only bad part, from her point of view, is the knowledge that her words get to go somewhere that she does not.

And the only good part, really, is that she gets to look at her little boy as she writes. He sits on the desk, next to her cobbled-together, whirring word-processor. He is carefully cleaning a fragile hyper-carburetor with a rag, putrid green gear-soap, and a very serious expression.

Suddenly Crix Spartak pokes head through the window: “Skywalkers!”

“Crix!!” Anakin nearly drops the carb, but of course his reflexes are too fast. He spins around on the desk and grins at the gladiator.

Crix leans on the windowsill -- then lifts his arm quickly from the heated clay, and leans just one calloused elbow on the sill. “Good morning, Ani.” He reaches across and tussles his hair. The boy nearly glows with happiness.

Shmi raises her eyebrows at the man her son admires so much. “Good morning, Crix. Can we help you?”

“D’you wanna go for a spin on the old speeder?”

“YES,” answers Anakin.

“We have a lot of work to do. Not all of us have 6 free days out of 7,” answers Shmi.

“I don't have any work, Mom!”

“I can think of one or two things for you,” she tells him.

“Just a loop round the block, Shmi? You'll be back in a minute.” Crix rests his head on his hand and smiles at her, looking just like a puppy.

She looks at him with a very deliberate expression. “I can't.”

“Take me!” says Anakin, heedlessly.

“Ani! You need to stay with me while I work. I don't want you zooming around, testing the limit on your tracker-bomb.”

“I've calculated for that,” says Crix. “Your tracker-bombs are the same as mine. The loop I planned wouldn't go anywhere near the limit.”

“Please, Mom? I'll work twice as hard.”

“No need for that.”

“I'll bring him back in ten minutes.” Shmi does not look convinced. “Five minutes.”

“Please?” Anakin begs again.

“Ten minutes,” she concedes.

Anakin sets the half-cleaned carb down, crawls off the desk, moves the carb onto a shelf, and climbs back onto the desk and over the word-processor into Crix’s arms.

“I'll bring him right back to you,” says Crix.

“If you don't, I will kill you,” says Shmi.

“I'm more afraid of you than any gladiator alive!” he tells her, laughing.

“Good! You should be!”

“Is that YOUR speeder?!” Anakin interrupts them.

“Yup! -- Well. Not really. But I won it, anyway.”

“It's BEAUTIFUL!”

“Ani!” Her son looks at her. “Keep it down.”

“Sorry!”

“Have fun.”

“I will!”

Crix grins at her, drops a big yellow flower on her desk, and points at it. She rolls her eyes and he blushes and carries Anakin to the speeder to drive him around. Shmi can't compose at all without her little muse at her side. She sits there, worrying, as they drive somewhere out of sight. A minute passes, and she picks up the flower. She doesn't recognize it. It must be an import. He must have won this, too.

They return in just eight minutes.

   *   *   *

One Year Ago

Anakin is not supposed to be in the audience of the death match. No one wants him here, not his master, not his mother, not even Crix himself.

But he just had to come. Everyone is talking about it. He’s never known anyone so talked-about, so famous. He feels so proud. Crix is like family. And everyone, all over town, is raving about him, how unstoppable he is, what a bloody, powerful killer he is. And now Crix’s master has rounded up a spectacular squad from faraway worlds, incredible people who are paying huge amounts for the chance to fight him, to fight Crix, to fight his mom’s cool boyfriend.

They say there’s monster-men, like Wookiees, and there’s even a Mando, whatever that means. Everyone is saying they’re crazy. Everyone is saying all his opponents are gonna die, shot by Crix’s bespoke mega-blaster or crushed in Crix’s bare fists. Anakin can picture it, but he can’t really believe it; he has only ever seen those hands used for good. It'll be Crix’s grandest fight yet, maybe even the grandest fight that's ever happened in the universe. No one can keep Anakin away from such a prospect!

He has an average amount of chores, but he sets his droids on them. His newest and, by far, most ambitious droid, C-3PO, isn't much for cleaning or repairing, yet, but he can speak, a little, and write, a little more. His mom bought Anakin a fairy-tale book and assigned him to copy out the letters to improve his handwriting. Anakin sets Threepio on the task instead, and hopes that his mom won't be able to tell.

He does feel guilty, but he's too excited to feel that guilty. He sneaks out without telling her. There was a sandstorm this morning; fortunately it has passed, but the leftover wind keeps kicking sand into the air.

The arena is in a different neighborhood than the slave houses. Anakin lifts up the tarp of a delivery truck and hides in there to hitch a ride. To his surprise, the truck is full of gross little creatures called gizka. They crowd around him and rub their big faces on his legs. He pulls one onto his lap and pets its soft horns and noses.

“I wonder why they're taking you to the arena? ... Oh, I bet the gladiators are gonna slaughter you.”

He finds it kind of funny, in a sad way, that these little animals are so cheerful; that their doom is close, and they have no idea. He pretends his hand is a sword and chops it on their heads, making them coo and squawk. He laughs.

Once he hears a crowd outside, he sneaks out of the truck and hides among the people. He is far from the only urchin running around, but he does not pick pockets. His mom forbids it, and they wouldn't be allowed to keep the money, anyway.

He follows the other children and soon finds the hole in the arena’s wall which they use to sneak in and out. He fits inside the thin crack without too much difficulty, and flits around the dirty, dark area behind the stadium seating. He finds a spot with a good view, between the legs of some pink-skinned person. He leans on the bench and rests his head on his arms, and watches the battles with wide eyes.

He almost doesn't recognize Crix, in a ridiculous helmet with a big feather, but the nasty red scar across his shirtless torso gives his identity away. He's touched that scar; it feels rough and scratchy.

Crix is more than just a killer; he is a performer. He yells and growls and taunts; he makes obscene gestures and even takes bites out of his opponents, both animals and people. Anakin feels shocked and uncomfortable to see him this way, but it does not lessen his affection for him. It only increases his amazement, that one person could contain two such different personalities.

Just as the pilots and farmers had predicted, Crix wins every battle with ease. His main strategy involves shooting to stun, weaken, and disarm his opponents, and then taking them down with glamorous, bloodthirsty wrestling moves. Anakin has never seen such gratuitous and extended violence before, though he has seen plenty of people die, from podrace explosions to mechanical accidents. Until today, the bloodiest thing he ever saw was someone's tracker-bomb explode their head, but some of these deaths far surpass that one. When he starts to feel dizzy, he looks away and takes deep breaths, but he is too invested to look away for long.

Something about all this murder makes him feel cold. But it isn't a real cold. And it isn't nearly as bothersome as this heat or this wind. He rests his sweaty forehead on his arms and swallows his own spit, but it is a weak comfort. The bench shakes under his arms as the audience bangs their feet on it. Anakin marvels at their energy. He wishes he was having as much fun as they are. He really is trying to enjoy himself, and he sort of is. The thrill of it all is similar to podracing, and the triumphs are satisfying. He supposes he will grow into liking it.

After forty minutes of this action, the host announces the next opponent -- the Mando, Chahlee Tiango. Anakin watches the helmeted warrior posture and pose as the audience frantically cheers and boos.

The little boy is starting to feel bored. This would be much more exciting if they were flying around on fast ships, not shooting and punching each other. The only real difference anymore is the color of the blood. But Chahlee looks like a human, meaning he'll just bleed red, which isn't anything new.

Anakin looks at Crix, whose helmet cracked in half in the last battle. Now that his face is visible, Anakin can enjoy his confident smile. He wishes his mom were here to see her boyfriend winning so much. He supposes she would hate it.

As Anakin's thoughts wander, the audience jumps to its feet and screams uproariously. Anakin fastens his eyes back on the battle.

Crix was shot right in the chest. He crumples. A wave of sand lifts from the ground and nearly covers him, like a blanket, hiding him, as if he were never there. Tiango takes a gleeful lap around the arena.

The audience is screaming far too loudly to hear anything from the announcer. The bench is shaking too much to remain a suitable armrest. Anakin stands up straight and stares ahead.

The pink legs that had framed Anakin's view now jump and move around with everyone else, obscuring the arena with cloaks and pants and boots. The other children in this hideaway start moving around, their own views also disrupted, trying to find better spots. Some of them move in front of Anakin. He lets them. He backs off further into the shade.

“Crix…” His initial shock starts to wear away, and he feels tears cross his parched face. “You were supposed to win! They all said you would!”

He had to lose eventually. No one can win every time. Mom told me he would lose, sooner or later. Everyone dies. It's okay.

It really doesn't feel okay. But this feels like podracing, too. Failing. Losing the game. He has been close to death himself a few times, especially when Sebulba is in the match.

He wipes his eyes and holds his fingers in his ears, which are popping from the terrifying decibel level of this audience. He squints his eyes and waits for the volume to settle and the people to sit back down.

What am I waiting for, though? They'll just continue with Tiango as the new champion. I don't want to watch that.

He makes a half-hearted attempt to get another good view, but one of the other children accidentally brushes up against him, and the feeling of being touched makes him deeply angry. He doesn’t trust these other kids. He doesn’t like them. They can’t understand. That wasn’t their friend who just died. It’s too loud here. And it isn’t going to get quiet. Not for a long time.

He worms out the crack in the arena wall and sees a truck that looks similar to the one he used to get here. He hides under the tarp again -- it is now empty inside. The truck jostles along, though it doesn't take exactly the same route back. It takes Anakin a little closer to home, but then it makes a turn he did not expect. He wonders if the truck will eventually come back around to the slave houses. He has no way of knowing. He fears it will wander out of range of his tracker-bomb. He jumps off the cart and walks the rest of the way home.

Chapter 10: Gafia Chumpi

[zargsnake]

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 16: Reprogramming

Word Count: 1755 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

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Obi-Wan lands the Bori back at the Temple and, before he does anything else, takes Anakin back to his room so he can sleep. Obi-Wan attracts plenty of stares in the bloody death match armor with the garish logos, but he doesn't care.

“Shouldn't I come to the debriefing, too?” asks Anakin, as Obi-Wan tucks him in.

“No. I shall recount it all. I will tell them how brave and clever you were. Your place is here, now.”

Obi-Wan shuts the blinds in Anakin's room. Streaks of bright sunlight still creep in, but the warm, welcome darkness presses down like another blanket. Anakin watches his master hurry out, then shuts his eyes and quickly falls asleep. Obi-Wan senses this, and it relieves a great amount of stress from his mind. He orders a med-droid to attend to Anakin’s shoulder, then changes into something sensible, washes his hair -- without the Pothkrie shampoo -- and goes to see Tila and the Council.

Anakin dreams that he is the one in the death match uniform: the bulky, tan pads that don't look good on anyone -- but they look good on him. And instead of logos, his armor is covered in ancient, powerful runes, the kind only the wisest can read. He can read them, and they say his name. All around him, thousands of people chant “Skywalker!! Skywalker!!” just as they chanted “Kenobi!!” today, and “Spartak!!” years ago. He is tall, and strong -- taller, and stronger, than Obi-Wan or Crix. He waves and they cheer. He salutes and they cheer. He falls on his face, and they still cheer. He can do no wrong. They love him too much. Everyone loves him, but the only people who really matter are Obi-Wan and Padme.

Obi-Wan is old, with white hair, but the same smile. He sits in the chair that Anakin was tied to in Knightkiller’s arena, but he sits there by choice, to get a better view of his amazing student.

Anakin’s lightsaber is the same, but a yellow ribbon is tied around the end of it, just as Crix tied a piece of Anakin's mother's apron around his weapon when he went into battle.

Padme sits in the front row, in a balcony fifteen feet above the sunken arena. She wears a yellow dress, with yellow ribbons in her hair. Anakin leaps up, grabs the railing and swings onto the balcony. Everyone scatters like bugs from him as his powerful feet crash down and shake the whole structure -- everyone except Padme. She stands and rests her head on his great shoulder, and holds his giant hand, and he holds her with his other arm, and now there isn't anyone else. He's strong enough for her, old enough, good enough for her. Everything is for her.

He wakes up, and a face is seared into his vision, a face that puts a lump in his throat and a burden on his chest. But it isn't Padme's face, though he wishes it was -- it's Fenn Gallowk’s. He’s got to save him. He needs to, now, quick. What kind of hero is he, if he can't even save his own savior?

He activates the commlink that he keeps by his pillow.

“Master?”

“Yes, Anakin?”

“Where are you?”

“In the library.”

“Can I come?”

“Yes, of course.”

Anakin sits up and notices his arm has been numbed by painkillers and put in a sling. With his other hand, he quickly washes his face and combs his messy hair as he dashes to the library. It was daytime when he fell asleep; it looks like it's late at night, now. He’s never been out of his room so late. The Temple lights are dimmer; the night colors everywhere are so blue and green, eerie and alien compared to the warm colors of his apartment on Tatooine.

To assist Master Juna’s new mission, Obi-Wan was reading up on the history of death matches. “Hello, Anakin.” He puts the book down, adjusts the tilted collar on Anakin's robe and checks the sling. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Master, we've got to save Fenn Gallowk.”

“Yes, I know. But it isn't that simple. I've learned more about his master, the evil Senator Dinv. He has a lot of allies in the government, including the support of the Chancellor himself. He's hoodwinked them all.”

“Don't we have evidence against him?”

“Yes. Master Juna is compiling it now, with everything else Glagret sent her.”

“She must make that part top priority.”

“Anakin, it is not your place to determine a master's priorities.”

“We need to save him, now. I promised I would.”

“I don't like your tone, young man.”

“I -- I'm sorry.” He tries very hard to stop his tears, but he can't. “He's in danger.”

“I know. But think, Anakin. We must be careful. His master could kill him, if we act too hastily.”

“He c-could kill him if we act too slowly!”

“Hush.”

“He saved my life and yours. Don't promises m-mean anything to you?”

“I made a promise to Qui-Gon to make you a Jedi. That promise means everything to me.”

Obi-Wan's stern tone and words render Anakin silent. He stands there, shaking with guilt and fear.

“There is no emotion…” starts Obi-Wan.

“There is peace,” finishes Anakin in a quiet mumble.

“Gallowk will be freed, Padawan.”

“But when?”

“Master Juna is in charge of the project.”

“Can I ask her, then?”

“I'll ask her, on your behalf.”

“When?”

Obi-Wan wishes he had Qui-Gon's awe-inspiring confidence and decision-making. But he does not. He hesitates, and Anakin sees him hesitate. It feels awful.

“I'll ask her now.”

“I don't think she even knows about Gallowk,” says Anakin, trying very hard to speak without bitterness.

“No, perhaps not. I'll convey his situation to her.”

Anakin stares at him.

“Put this book away, won't you? I'll go find her.”

Anakin takes the book and reads the number on the spine. He tries to figure out what these library numbers mean as Obi-Wan takes his leave.

That could have been handled better... Blast it, Kenobi. I can't cave into his personal wishes like that. Ah, and I hurt his feelings by bringing up my promise to Qui-Gon. Everything I said was wrong. -- But more importantly, it is our duty to free that slave. -- I think I shall get him a job as a Guardian. He deserves a life of peace. I must look him up, and attach a face to his name in my mind.

Obi-Wan goes to Master Juna's room to deliver Anakin's message. She listens to him, but seems distracted. Obi-Wan looks pleadingly at the Padawan sitting in the corner of the room; the girl nods at him. Tila listens to Zlinky; she will make sure this Fenn that the humans care for is protected. Grateful and overwhelmed by it all, Obi-Wan leaves the aliens and goes back to the library, where he left his boy awkwardly waiting for him. Obi-Wan tells Anakin to go back to bed since it is late.

Anakin is not tired, but he obeys. He is hungry, but he doesn't say so. He lies in bed and thinks about his dream. It makes him feel so vile. That armor is evil, not honorable. The people in that chanting crowd are bloodthirsty criminals. And Padme... He will never be good enough for her. She is a queen, and he is not allowed.

No one has explicitly told him so, yet. But he suspected. And he overheard something about it, once, from older students. Jedi aren't allowed to get married. Just like slaves aren't allowed, unless they're bred. He had no idea. It is so unfair.

They give him food and freedom. Adventure. A wonderful, powerful teacher. Security. Purpose. Fun. He cannot complain about their rules. The rules must be important. He can't have a wife, or even a girlfriend, just as he can't have a mother. He trusts that that will make sense to him, one day. It makes sense to everyone else. It has to do with controlling their powers and keeping everyone safe.

But it doesn't matter. She could never love him, anyway.

   *   *   *

Zlinkgwal sits in the corner of her master's room, with Jane in pieces all around her. She cleans and polishes each part, and she carefully unscrews the blasters and grenades from her hardware and sets them aside to be melted down into something useful to the Temple. It is highly dangerous work; Jane’s neglected explosives could go off and kill them all. Tila watches carefully, prepared to isolate anything dangerous with her powers in a flash.

With the rust and paint removed, Jane’s outer plating is quite beautiful, in Zlinky's opinion. But she fears she might be influenced by her affection for this droid.

Zlinky feels happy, if guilty, to take parts of Jane away. The droid will feel much lighter when she wakes up; hopefully she will like that. And Zlinky feels even happier to add parts onto Jane: a brand new memory core, blank except for routine Jedi programs of peace and security. This is the purpose Jane craved.

Zlinky’s dearest hope is that, when Jane wakes up, she'll still remember her ... and she won't be a completely different droid.

But if she is, it's for the best. The droid she used to be was evil. Jane has never been good; this is a lucky opportunity for her.

Zlinky installs the software into Jane's nerve-center that officially redubs her the name Zlinky negotiated from the Temple's chief engineer: Jedi Neutralizer-1. On the fresh, scannable label, Zlinky engraves Jane's new information:

ᴅᴇꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴊᴇᴅɪ-ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴇʀ-1 [ᴊɴ-1] ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ: ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ʀᴇᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ: ᴄᴏʀᴜꜱᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀ ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ: ᴢʟɪɴᴋɢᴡᴀʟ ᴢᴀʟᴛ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍ: ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴊᴇᴅɪ [ᴀᴊ]

She adds the rest of the basic programming into Jane's core, thought it is not engraved in the label:

ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ: ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴊ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ: ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴜᴛᴏᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ᴍɪɴᴅᴡɪᴘᴇ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱʜᴜᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ: ᴏɴ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴀᴊ-1, ᴀʟʟʏ-2, ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ-3, ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ-4, ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ-5, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-6

ᴀʟʟ ᴊᴇᴅɪ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀᴊ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴀʟʟ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢꜱ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴀʟʟ ɴᴏɴ-ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀɴᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴏʀ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ “ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ” ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ “ᴀʟʟʏ” ᴏʀ “ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ”

ᴊᴇᴅɪ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴡᴀʀᴇ: ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴘᴏʟᴀᴛᴏʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ ᴅᴀᴛᴀʙᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ:

ᴀᴊ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-1.1, ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-1.2

ᴀʟʟʏ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-2.1, ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-2.2

ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-3.1

ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-4.1, ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ-4.2

ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-5.1

ꜱᴇʟꜰ: ᴏʙᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ-6.1, ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ-6.2

ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇᴏʀɢᴀɴɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴏꜰꜰ

[zargsnake]

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 8: Priorities

Word Count: 2565 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

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Anakin hears the cheers for Obi-Wan turn sour, and he soon figures out why. It is no fault of his master's, who fights beautifully -- but there is a transparent dome-shield around the arena, and whenever someone in the angry, heavily-armed audience shoots at it, ripples of white electric shocks cross the dome and obscure the fight. Anakin is relieved that the audience is booing each other, not his master, though he worries that Obi-Wan will think they're booing at him.

Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder, trying to locate Anakin in the audience, and a blade suddenly whizzes by his neck. His reflexes protect him and he jerks out of the way, but a moment later he feels hot blood on his skin. He hadn't moved quickly enough -- the blade cut him sharp and swift. It hurts a lot more than he expected. It could have easily killed him.

He was so focused on finding Anakin in this crowd that he forgot Anakin's own words to him, his warnings about this opponent. Obi-Wan hadn't taken Anakin seriously about Tiango. Of course it was sad about Anakin’s “cool” gladiator friend, but Obi-Wan defeated a Sith lord not long ago. The experience buoyed his confidence to a fault. This Tiango -- not a Sith, not even a professional, just an ex-science experiment, just a Yooro -- landed a blow on him -- a pretty good one, too.

Obi-Wan rapidly teaches himself a lesson. Connecting with Anakin doesn't mean knowing exactly where he is. It means listening to him. Believing him. That's what teachers do. It's what friends do.

This isn't the Outer Rim, but these people are. This is Anakin's haunt. Obi-Wan will train it out of him, will make him a man of the Core. But for now, Anakin is the expert here, and his words must be Obi-Wan's textbook.

With his heart opened wide for Anakin, and his guard up because of Anakin's warning, Obi-Wan realizes he will have to hunker down in defense for a while. Tiango's assault is brutal and inhumanly quick, though Obi-Wan remembers that Yoroos do get exhausted -- eventually. What Obi-Wan lacks in comparative strength, he makes up for in endurance -- patience and energy, the long game, care -- these are Obi-Wan's secret weapons.

Anakin watches Obi-Wan deflect the same moves that once ruthlessly whittled down Crix Spartak, the gladiator who he had loved. The memory of that death match sends chills up his spine. He is certain that some of these blows must hit his master. Part of him is certain that Obi-Wan is doomed, too. Anakin had believed Crix would win, and he had been wrong. It is asking too much to have hope again, against the same, utterly evil man.

Though Obi-Wan has great endurance, his vibroblade does not. Out of habit, he treats it as roughly as if it were a laser weapon, depending on it for deflection, as a shield. Tiango's barrage strikes the metal and bends it back and forth into a zigzag, then into a knot. Obi-Wan is slowly disarmed as his blade becomes less and less tenable as a weapon. He has no choice; he has no other shield. The biggest bother is his own hand: the damn vibroblade is aptly named -- it quivers like a leaf in the wind, wearing out his wrist and weakening his fingers.

The crowd cheers enthusiastically for the graceful Jedi, chanting, "Kenobi! Kenobi!" Anakin does not join in. Obi-Wan could almost be dancing with his expert moves, but Anakin is not in the mood to learn from him. He gazes in hopeless terror at the duel. He watches bullets, lasers and slingshotted electrostones bounce off the dome, as well as gifts, toys and even people’s underwear. All such wild debris from this crazed crowd trying to reach out to their beloved or hated athlete, his poor, wonderful master.

The fastest or biggest bullets send fuzzy waves across the dome, but the dome quickly repairs itself. Anakin follows the arc of the dome, calculating the sources of its projection points from subtle distortions in the waves.

He moves the layers of fur in his stolen disguise to peek at the recharging screen on his hidden acid-blaster: 52%. No other weapons are making a dent in the dome. But no other weapons are quite like this one, and no one else seems to have figured out where to shoot. Could he crack the dome? What would he do then?

Anakin looks away from Obi-Wan for a second and scans his narrowed eyes over the happy rabble. He does not understand them. Are they seeing what he's seeing? They all shout and cheer, laughing and clapping, as if Obi-Wan is triumphant, as if he is playing. He looks back at his master. He sees that Obi-Wan is in great pain. Dying, even. How can the information from his senses, and the conclusions from his feelings, be so different from everyone else's?

Is he connecting, mentally, to his master -- using his supposed Jedi powers to see things for how they truly are? Is he seeing the truth, better than they are, because he is a Jedi, a Jedi Padawan? Is the Force giving him a special message -- because he, unlike the rabble, is a Jedi -- because he, unlike everyone, is the answer to a prophecy -- because he is closer to Obi-Wan than anyone else is?

Or ... is he, Anakin, wrong? Is everyone else right? Is his sight blinded by irrational fear, brought about by his utter dependence on this man? Did Obi-Wan really stumble, just now? No one else seems to have seen it.

Is he, Anakin, perhaps, confusing the past for the present? Crix for Obi-Wan? Death for life?

Is it all in his head? Or is it real?

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Below the arena, Zlinky has memorized the map from the computer. With Jane, she trespasses through the employee quarters. They reach a large, important-looking office which Zlinky guesses is Knightkiller's.

She hears voices inside and shouts at the door, “Hey boss! There's fried fluunies in Rec Room 3!”

She backs off as the door opens and two people exit. Zlinky creeps inside and Jane blusters along behind her. Too soon, they hear the people coming back and Zlinky shoves Jane under the slick metallic desk; the robot is so big that two of the desk legs lift a few inches from the ground. There isn't much room left for Zlinky; she has to nestle right up against Jane's bazooka. A belt of detonators falls across Zlinky's lap.

She peeks over the edge of the desk and sees the people more closely. They look more decorated than the other guards, with sashes and medals, as if there was some kind of made-up military ranking among Knightkiller's cronies, a worthless army dedicated solely to this evil entertainment. 

“These fluunies are great,” says one crony.

“I’ve had better,” says the other.

The hidden Padawan hears the gross sounds of chewing, and then the rather more alarming sound of Jane powering up her neutralizers. Zlinky quiets her and gestures for her to stop. Stealth has worked so far; it would be best to avoid violence, especially since these two seem important.

“I can't wait to run the missing Jedi kids through with this,” says the first one, as he ignites a lightsaber.

Zlinky stops gesturing, but Jane has already powered down.

“The Jedi kids must still be on the ship. No one's been allowed to leave and no shuttle pods have activated.”

“You think Jedi could survive in space?”

“No. Only the boss can do that. You saw them in those Coruscanti space suits, idiot.”

“Oh right.”

The second crony ignites another lightsaber. Even without looking, Zlinky recognizes the sound as her own. She feels something very powerful and uncomfortable. Taken aback, she identifies it as jealousy, one of the very worst emotions. Afraid of her own feelings, she is frozen, unable to act, unable to know if she is behaving rationally, according to the light side, or irrationally, which will lead her off the narrow path into darkness.

“They're real nice suits. I called dibs on the man-size one for me and the little one for my daughter.”

“Yeah...the gigantic one and the lady-size one are pretty useless.”

“I'll take the lady one for my kid to grow into.”

Zlinky thinks, I'm twelve! I’m not a lady! Though I am much taller than Anakin. So they say Anakin is missing, too? That means he's not dead! If only I was strong enough to detect his presence!

Jane pokes Zlinky and gestures to her blasters. Zlinky shakes her head.

We can't kill him! He's a dad!

They hear the two men walking closer and closer. One of them accidentally hits something with the lightsaber; the girls hear them cursing and smell melting plastic.

Zlinky feels time running out. This hiding spot is bad. She ran in here without a plan. She knows her decision-making is impeded by fear, jealousy, and access to a murder-droid, but she must decide something.

Zlinky quickly examines the settings on Jane's weapons. All these numbers and charts are too confusing to parse right now. She dials one dial back, but it only causes some numbers to rise and others to fall. She puts it back where it was, though the numbers are still not the same. The last time Jane shot someone, it wasn't fatal. At least not immediately.

The girl feels tears pressuring her eyes and throat. She doesn't want to hurt anyone. She has learned through stories and lessons that the darkness within is far worse than the darkness without. She is more frightened of doing wrong than she is of dying. There is no death. But there is evil.

She can't get out of her head a discussion she overheard from some of the older Padawans. This group of twenty- and thirty-somethings is the pride of the whole Temple. Everyone adores them -- the strongest, most beautiful, best students in school. Once they are knighted, then they leave the young people’s social circle to rub shoulders with the teachers, and have no time for their old friends -- but before they are knighted, they rule the school from the inside, and everyone lets them get away with a little more fun than knights are allowed. In those last years of Padawanship, they are the most free a Jedi can be.

Just last month, when Zlinky fetched the group snacks from the mess hall in order to bask in their presence, she found them in a very strange state. When one of them returns from a mission, the others crowd around to hear the stories and see the new scars. The latest conquering hero, a human named Sara Chid-wun, did not have a physical scar. But she had such an aura of bitterness around her that the whole group was affected, including the young interloper Zlinky.

Sara explained how she and her Master Kayji were caught in various difficult situations, and each time Kayji had neglected to act, so each time Sara had been forced to act herself, often with violence. It felt like a test that she continuously failed. And yet, ultimately, they succeeded in their mission. Sara claimed that Kayji would not address her concerns with anything beyond platitudes.

The whole experience led Sara to, hesitantly, conclude that Masters often take advantage of their students. Masters refuse to move, and claim they are trusting in the Force, or allowing evil to collapse in on itself, or some such excuse, while in reality they are leaving the sensible but nasty work to the impure, young Padawan tagging along.

The group discussed each example, and more from their own adventures, each trying to explain away their masters’ -- sometimes -- confusing actions, each unwilling to support Sara’s conclusion -- including, of course, Sara herself. But the group found that, if they were being honest, she might be right. Sometimes. So they had moved on to finding the moral lesson in this seemingly cruel behavior -- something about knightly violence being worse than non-knightly violence, something about power and purity.

And maybe they came to a satisfying explanation among themselves; Sara herself seemed as cheerful as normal the next time Zlinky saw her. But Zlinky hadn't felt comfortable sitting in on their important big-kid conversation any longer, so she had left at the darkest part of it.

Tila has never forced Zlinky's hand before. Zlinky has never had to kill anyone before. But now the master is indeed the one sitting out, while the student is the one doing the work.

Is it okay to stray off the path when you are only a Padawan? Is it, in fact, expected, and necessary? Must she walk in the gray area beside the light, until she is a master herself, and can savor the light all the time, and never have to do any more wrong? When she is knighted, then she can delegate that dark stuff to someone else, someone young and obedient?

The thought occurs to Zlinky that she is not the one who would do the killing -- that would be Jane. But she knows that is a flaky excuse. Jane is her responsibility. Just as she is Tila's. The blood is on all their hands.

Zlinky turns to Jane and nods. Jane immediately stands up and neutralizes the guards. Zlinky pokes her head over the desk, sees the smoking bodies, and fears the worst.

“Are they dead?”

“ɪ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ɪᴛ. ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅʟʏ ᴀᴛ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴄᴀᴘᴀᴄɪᴛʏ.“

“I'm pretty sure your full capacity is overkill.”

She tiptoes over to the guard's bodies. One seems to be breathing. The other, she can't tell.

She can't alert anyone to the danger, and she doesn't trust the medical facilities here anyway. But she has nothing to give them, to help them. She puts her hand on the soft, sandy hair of the one whose life is unclear to her, the one who has a little daughter.

“May the Force be with you.”

Her voice is a shaky whisper, but she's never meant those words so much as she means them now.

Please, please, live.

She pulls the lightsaber from his hand and turns it off, and does the same with the other guard. She finds three more lightsabers on their belts. She recognizes hers and her master’s; two of them must be Anakin’s and his master’s; the last one could be Glagret’s, a.k.a. Knightkiller’s. It's green, and of the same old fashion as her master’s. She is surprised and glad that it isn't red. But maybe Knightkiller carries her red one on her person. Or maybe, just maybe, the Sith are not at all involved. She prays that they aren't.

Zlinky and Jane hide the bodies behind the desk and lock the door behind them. Zlinky turns away from the door and does not look back.

They were gonna kill me. They still will kill me, if they figure it out. I have to act in self-defense. And I have to save the other three Jedi. These people may be people, but they are low-lives, murderers, and lawbreakers. It wasn't my choice that they got in my way.

Chapter 9: Crix Spartak

[zargsnake]

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Word Count: 29,050 ⭐ Chapters: 16 ⭐ bit.ly/Knightkiller ⭐ Adventure

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Content warning: violence, gore

They've only known each other for a few months, but the young knight and his unusual Padawan already seem destined for trouble; their very first mission traps them in a Jedi-killing tournament.

Chapter 1: Aboard the Liberated Comet (Word Count: 1888) Chapter 2: Zlinkgwal Zalt (Word Count: 1431) Chapter 3: The Death Match (Word Count: 1393) Chapter 4: Chahlee Tiango (Word Count: 1217) Chapter 5: Fenn Gallowk (Word Count: 1578) Chapter 6: Tila Juna (Word Count: 1659) Chapter 7: Jane (Word Count: 2217) Chapter 8: Priorities (Word Count: 2565) Chapter 9: Crix Spartak (Word Count: 2309) Chapter 10: Gafia Chumpi (Word Count: 1493) Chapter 11: Revenge (Word Count: 1298) Chapter 12: Reunion (Word Count: 925) Chapter 13: The Old Ladies (Word Count: 2025) Chapter 14: Aboard the JON-Bori (Word Count: 2815) Chapter 15: Older and Wiser (Word Count: 1533) Chapter 16: Reprogramming (Word Count: 1755) Deleted Scene: Extended Chapter 14 (Word Count: 821)