#sidious made sure that she had no further control over her boy

[circle-around-again]

"TD-D9 hobbled back into the chamber carrying a tray that held plates covered by domed lids. The droid set the covered plates before the seated figures, then said, 'Are you finished with me, Master Sidious?' 'Most definitely,' Sidious said. Keeping his eyes on Maul, Sidious waved at the droid. TD-D9 lifted off the floor, flew across the chamber, and smashed into the wall." (Windham, 70).

And so Sidious looks directly into Maul's eyes as he kills his proto-mother.

I'd like to talk about the class + gender dynamics of this little scene.

Deenine is obviously a British aristocratic servant, if we use the domed lid as a reference. She has served as Sidious' butler throughout the text, with the expected stoicism of the role having morphed into actual faceless steel.

What is interesting here is that she naturally doubles as another role; a mother. She controls the domestic space of this fortress while Sidious goes abroad. She raises and tyrannises Maul, but they must both bow to the patriarch.

Like the stay-at-home-mum and the Victorian nanny, she is dismissed once the little bird flies the nest. All power she once held evaporates.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (13/16)

In which Maul learns what he has done to his brother.

3.8k | Zombie Savage AU | warning for graphic body horror

The world is sluggishly textured, a mess made of strings of gentle metal and rough sleazoid skin; the breath is soft, and Maul is safe. Tame fat cables undulate and rivets melt into him as if they had finally found their home. The skin does not recede either: it encloses Maul into its arms and soothes the worries in his hearts, the questions, the force battering against it, as green and swollen as summer wind. The skin and the steel are his brother, Maul realizes and has always known.

He must not have managed to catch himself, this time, before he tumbled down onto fallen Savage inside this half-remembered nightmare, must not have braced himself up and grabbed hold of his brother’s face. He must have failed his desperate attempt at controlling air and force and life.

Still, there are no wet gasps—no sounds at all, and no blood on a dirty Sundari floor that he left weeks ago.

There is no frivolous apology gasped out with a weak apprentice’s final breath.

Only the steel and the skin remain.

Maul’s hungry hand digs itself into the warm cables and dissolves into shrapnel, into gristle; the cilia of his lungs and the bone marrow and gut bacteria unravel eagerly into a boy that was never allowed to exist. A boy that is held—that is safe, here, for this moment that lasts forever, because this fleshy soup will not harm him: Savage would never, Savage loves him, and this tangle of sweet metal and worried bone and tender force that is melting Maul down with it is Savage, Maul has always known and remembers over and over with every jolt, every breath, every second the pain of being unguarded does not come.

Outside, the howling force and the spluttering green light churn and spin a cocoon.

Inside, they are safe. There is no more child in an empty facility, trained up to become a pointless attack dog by a malcontent liar. There is no first loss, no dissection, no empty exile. There is no vengeance. There is no heinous defeat at the hand of Maul’s—abuser—Master and there are no lightsabers piercing his brother’s—it’s not his, never was, this disfigured fake—chest and their hands do not have to hold on and cling to the one person they ever possessed. They do not have to stand back up and beg for mercy—they do not have to lie helpless and feel every millimeter of their useless torn ‘saber worm itself into their charred torso—they do not have to feel themselves tossed over and over into walls and floor before their Master carries them off to further torture—they do not have to wake up alone after they failed the one brother they had left—they do not have to lose their sisters, their mother, their clan—they do not have to mourn—they do not have to mourn—they do not have to mourn, here, they do not have to mourn, they are liquefied and safe. They are wrapped in each other, alloyed, and neither the force nor the Mother could assort what is left to make any coherent wholes again. Neither the force not the Mother could let one die and another survive, not when all that’s left of their lives is each other. They are amorphous and safe. They are cartilage and rivet and cortex, oleaginous and oozing and ready to eclose. They do not have to mourn.

They are safe.

They’re safe.

Safe. The feeling is terrific; terror-filled; tearing; suddenly, it is far too alien to bear. Safe. Safe? Reality lays its tumescent eggs into the goo of his conscious, eggs bursting and birthing memory and rationality and dread: bringing forth everything Lord Sidious has ever taught him. Safety is a lie. Maul has never been safe. There is no mercy. The very desire is debasement, pathetic for its infantile holdout against education, eradication. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short; it is impossible to bear, and the only reprieve is victory. Passion, strength, power, victory: and Maul but a loathsome worm who lost everything that could ever be taken from him. Legs. Purpose. Grace. Duty. Mother. Title. Planet. Brother, over and over again. Safe? There is no safety in a world of power and irrelevance, where those who wield might will slake their base desires using those who are weak. Where those who wield might will extirpate Maul’s brother before his very eyes and he can only scramble and beg, impotent wretch that he is, for the person he deluded himself into loving. It hurts. It hurts. It shouldn’t. Pain is no teacher, Maul reminds himself. It serves no purpose. He is but a failed apprentice to the Sith, and that dark power will never be his. Pain is pain is pain.

Hope serves no purpose either, save the acolyte’s attempt to protect herself. Savage lives, Ventress had said, and yet, Maul saw him on the cot motionless and her crouched over him with her ‘saber and he begged again and—it is but false hope. Hope is nothing but pain, pain deferred.

Maul’s head rests on the chest he is so sure belonged to his brother, and he forces his hearts to beat louder to drown out the silence where his own rhythm should meet an answer. It hurts. It shouldn’t. Pain is pain is pain, and there is no power to be gained from wallowing in it. From hoping.

He must open his eyes. The false safety will not return, however long he begs childlike again for his brother. The cocoon has disgorged him. He is in the lair of Sidious; he lies unconscious on the sacrificial altar of his brother’s corpse. He must open his eyes.

He does.

The torso looks much worse than it felt. The torso: adorned with Savage’s familiar markings, but that is not all it bears. From his vantage point resting right above the silent hearts, Maul catalogues open sores, suppurating and infested with shining maggots and dark worms, yet clear of any blood. And why should there be blood, when the dead do not bleed, and Savage is dead? Unutterable pain is inscribed gaudy and blatant on Savage’s body. On his brother, whom Maul had left for weeks, abjectly paralyzed by defeat and apathy and fear of his Master—had left him there for weeks, and Maul is learned enough in the decomposition and rot of humanoid bodies to recognize that Savage could not have died weeks ago. Of course, the rate of decay could have been affected by water contact, humidity, the presence or absence of certain insects, availability of oxygen, or heat—though if Master had had the corpse refrigerated for imaginative torments to visit on his failed apprentice, there should not be this many nimble insects inhabiting Savage’s carcass.

This many insects—the body is teeming with steel-shining creatures, far too massive for mere blowfly eggs, and yet there is no bloat. Maul runs his fingers over the belly, carefully pushing aside the shreds that remain of his brother’s old armor and prodding feather-light against unbroken skin, avoiding the edges of burns and slashes so as not to hurt—he cannot hurt a corpse, though the piteous superstition rides deep within him. He can’t hurt Savage. Anyway, Savage’s dead. Dead, but not for weeks. Not for days, even. Not for hours. No bloat. It should have started in the belly—unleashed enzymes should have broken down his intestinal walls—but the stomach is slightly pudgy, soft, warm, not turgid in the least. The muscles aren’t rigid. Its state does not match up with the steel-colored insects, heads like cross-recess screws—the steel-colored…

The corpse moves.

Hot air snorts against the top of Maul’s head, once, twice; the body underneath Maul shudders and stretches. Savage wakes the way he always did in the months he and Maul played at being crime lords, deeply unhappy with his sudden consciousness but far too dutiful to turn over and give in to sleep once more. A warm steel hand touches the back of Maul’s neck.

“This is a dream,” Savage’s familiar baritone rumbles.

Maul rears up and falls to the ground.

“Maul, is that really you? Where did you go?” Savage is sitting up now, the back of his right hand—the arm bisected by a deep wound and full of ferrous maggots though it was whole and hale when Maul last saw him—right hand carefully wiping sleep grit from his eyes. He yawns. “I have not seen you for so long. Is this a vision again? Tell me it is. Tell me where you are, brother. Please—”

Maul scuttles backwards.

“Brother?”

“Lord Maul?”

Voices, taunting. Maul has fallen for these tricks too often—fell for them again, just now, even though the naïve child apprentice was deceived and hurt so often that even he learnt one day not to trust the offerings of his Master. Hope is a foolish pursuit. In the wretched company of his honest brother and loyal fanatic Death Watch, he must have unlearned this most vital of lessons.

Hope is foolish. Mercy will not come. Maul is accustomed to agony.

And yet, he cannot bear this.

Savage’s corpse, moving, and did he not just wonder whether Master refrigerated it to prolong the torture…

“Fight me, Master,” Maul growls. Attempts to growl. It comes out as a plea, a whine, a sob. “Fight me. Kill me. There is no need for puppetry.”

“Brother—”

“Lord Sidious, what do you gain from—”

“Lord Maul! ‘Alor! Maul!”

Rook Kast enters the edges of his narrowed darkening vision, Kast who does not serve Sidious, or does she—? Maul has trusted his senses before, trusted his followers, and it led him here. If even Savage, his apprentice, his brother, was turned into a tailor-made torture, how could he ever discern… how…

A prick in his neck, he must fight, and—

Maul is kneeling on the floor. His head aches, the edges of his vision still bruised—tell-tale sedation. His back is braced against a warm solid chest, and there are yellow-black-metal arms poised at his sides, ready to help hold him up if he should buckle but otherwise not caging him in. Well-practiced, a caution born of prior experience when a feverish Maul attempted to fight his way free, and… Savage would not have shared this knowledge. He would not use it to further the ends of Maul’s Master, Maul’s abuser as he always says. He wouldn’t.

“I apologize for the tranq dart, Lord Maul,” Kast says. She is kneeling as well, a few meters away. “You were having a panic—you were growing slightly discomfited.”

The tips of Savage fingers dance along Maul’s forearm, a comforting gesture. Master would not have known this type of contact soothes Maul. He has never treated—or even witnessed Maul ever before being touched with any kind of gentleness.

“Apology granted,” Maul says.

“What you were saying before—Sidious isn’t here. He’s on Coruscant.” Kast shrugs her shoulders. “While you were—indisposed, I had an instructive conversation with Ventress and the captive General. We are in agreement that Sidious must die. We were waiting for you to wake up before we discuss strategy.”

Sidious is on Coruscant.Where they will fight him. Nobody here is in his employ—they are all his enemies. It must be true, if Savage doesn’t object, because despite the lifetimes of pain inscribed in his brother’s open wounds, the confused state of decay, the person guarding Maul’s back is Savage. Master would never have managed to imitate his mannerisms, his gentle care. Savage is far too alien, too unlike anyone Maul has ever met.

Sidious is on Coruscant. Far away. Too far to hurt Maul. It is a boneless relief—Savage’s hand braces him carefully—and yet… And yet, Kast wants him to discuss strategy for an attack against the unassailable eternal Master of the Sith. She still does not grasp that attacking Sidious is suicide, and neither do her compatriots. She does not understand that finding Savage far away from Him is all they ever could have hoped for; that all the future holds for them now is a desperate scramble to avoid arousing any notice every again, if they want to live. Kill Sidious? Kast is delusional.

If Maul owes any loyalty to Death Watch, for helping retrieve his brother, he must dissuade her. He must tell them again about Sidious. He follows.

On the walk over to the war room, Maul attempts surreptitiously to catalogue his brother’s injuries. It’s not easy, since Savage wordlessly fell into his usual position of guarding Maul’s back, albeit walking much closer behind than he would have, earlier, so close that he would get in the way should Maul have to veer around to protect himself. A tactical mistake, though Maul is not inclined to correct it. He himself is trying to subtly glance over his shoulder. He could order Kast and Savage to halt, so Maul could visually inspect his brother, but then Savage might attempt to engage him in a conversation he does not know how to have. The weeks apart have unbalanced their easy relationship—Savage’s torture has, and Maul’s desperate search, the revelation of how deeply he values his brother—and a repeat conversation about the awful might of the Sith Master is much easier to have than whatever words Savage might expect. So he does not stop.

He listens, instead. The rhythm of Savage’s steps betrays no hidden pain, though they are a fraction more frequent, as if something had shortened his strides.

Maul chooses his path so that he passes under a low-hanging light fixture, and Savage clears it without bumping his head.

Savage’s breath is calm and measured; he does not falter once; he effortlessly matches Maul when Maul speeds up.

He follows behind Kast and Maul into the war room.

Saxon and Jagrub are in there, as well as a random Clone Trooper, Asajj Ventress, and—

Kenobi.

“I was warned that you would show up,” Kenobi says.

Maul bares his teeth.

Behind him, Savage growls. Suddenly, he is so close that Maul can feel the warmth of his skin against his back. Dark cables flare around him to form a makeshift cocoon guarding Maul, and the air crackles dangerous and green.

“In this moment, we have a common enemy. I wish to dispatch this Sidious as fast as humanly possible. I am reliably informed that Sidious did not exactly treat you with kindness, either. He is my priority. I am prepared to forget our—” Kenobi looks pained— “our history, as long as this threat is defanged.”

Maul feels the air vibrate against his skin. He and Savage managed to take on Kenobi once before, though after they had laid a trap, and Maul is still muddled and buoyed by the aftershocks of his dream and Savage’s marked by weeks of unknown torture. They have allies here, but Dooku’s acolyte will likely side with Kenobi again, and Death Watch are resourceful but they still lack the force entirely, and might as well be discounted in a duel of Sith and Jedi. Kenobi and Ventress against Maul and Savage, again. And Savage’s still injured. Kenobi targeted Savage’s weak defenses in the fight on Florral, and Savage was in a decent form then and still tore a knee and lost his arm. He is weaker now, and his survival far more tenuous given Maul doesn’t even know the full extent of his injuries yet. In a fight, Kenobi will most likely kill him. Maul just found his brother impossibly alive after weeks of torture, and Kenobi would…

It’s a calculation Maul never before had to make, because his death would have furthered the ends of the Sith or have proven he did not deserve life in the first place, but Savage was just returned to his side. Even if the demise of a weakling is well-deserved, it would make tactical sense to retreat until he is at full strength once more, wouldn’t it?

“A temporary alliance until we find Sidious is all I propose. Believe me, I’m not happy either.”

Savage would die if Maul attacks now. The walls and the floor swirl in the corner of Maul’s eyes, a faint green vortex—Ventress takes an alarmed step towards him—Savage would die, and Maul wants to murder Kenobi and he wants his brother as far from Sidious as possible and so he says—

“Lord Sidious will asphyxiate us with His mind. Attacking Him is suicide.”

“The Jedi have exterminated plenty of Sith before.”

Maul breathes. In, out, in. He does not remember tasting the ashes of the dead of Malachor. He doesn’t. He would kill Kenobi if he did. And Savage would…

“I fought you,” he growls instead. “I fought you on Naboo and you barely won. I fought you on Raydonia and you needed the aid of Ventress to escape; I fought you on Florral and you barely won, and on Mandalore I beat you.”

Kenobi looks angry. “On Mandalore—” He swallows his words. “Barely, you say? I seem to remember that you were barely half a Sith when I finished with you.”

Savage rests his shuddering hand against Maul’s back. Maul hardly even feels it.

“You barely beat me,” he repeats, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but a hooded man laughing. “My Master squashed me like a bug. He could do anything He wanted to me, right until I deployed to Naboo, and He toyed with Savage and me on Mandalore despite any skills we might have learned. I watched Him skewer Savage, and I know it was not happenstance but His brag that He controlled every moment of our battle. The power of Lord Sidious dwarfs every single one of us, and He will beat all of us together.”

Kenobi is quiet, but just when Maul begins to hope he has finally met a rational creature, he says, “What can Sidious do against a foe who does not die?”

Maul growls again. He bared his vulnerabilities to prevent a predictable massacre, and Kenobi spins fairytales?

But Kenobi keeps on talking, “You created a technobeast, Maul. Are you too squeamish to use it?”

A technobeast: part machine, part organic Sithspawn mutant. Lord Sidious was not impressed with Maul’s fascination for this area of force manipulation, back when Maul’s studies focused of the elementals of Sith history and technique instead of practicalities for carrying out his Master’s plans. Nevertheless, He allowed Maul the study, if only for the reason that droid mechanics and forceful manipulations of machines was occasionally useful. Technobeasts, Maul recalls, are created by infecting living organisms with the nanogene spore, a technovirus developed through a combination of Sith alchemy and a Force technique called mechu-deru. The virus grows metallic tumors over the bodies of its victims, ultimately lobotomizing their brains and transforming them into weaponized cyborgs. Metallic tumors… like worms that resemble cables, and maggots made from screws.

Does Kenobi mean to imply…

“I entered Savage’s mind and saw it,” Kenobi says. His eyes are heavy, sad, disgusted. “You can deny your crime all you want. I saw you transform your own brother into a zombified machine slave. If you did not mean to use your immortal weapon to take on your Sith Master and take his place, then why did you use mechu-deru on Savage Opress?”

The maggots and worms inside Savage: of course they bore such resemblance to metal. Maul has worked on enough droids and speeder bikes and ships. He should have recognized their components. He remembers that moment on the floor in Sundari palace, reaching for every animating power he could to just keep Savage breathing for a second longer: and Maul has always felt the movement in inert matter, has felt the force presence of droids and ships and treated mechu-deru as a fact of life. And mechu-deru and Talzin’s magic were the only force powers animating inanimate matter, after all. So when he reached out back then…

If Kenobi is right, then Savage is dead, and yet Maul brought him back. Maul took away the vulnerabilities of mortal flesh, and changed his apprentice forever. He plugged up every injury with metal, and every further injury will be fixed with more metal still. Maul has power. He could make the choice Kenobi has already condemned him for. He could use his brother against his Master. He could be safe. With Savage changed, undead, undying, they could kill Sidious, and they would not have to live forever terrified of his reprisal. He could…

The warm hand on Maul’s back retreats.

Maul turns around. Savage looks down at him, one eye tender and worried, the other a crater of sluggish shrapnel.

He still had both eyes when he died.

Mechu-deru is a dark art for a reason. It does not respect bodily integrity, consent, independence. It is never mutual but always imposed by the strongest. It is Sith. To infect a living creature with nanospores means lobotomizing their frontal lobe and rendering them incapable of higher thought. Nothing more than a weapon. Savage might be more powerful now, but truly, has Maul ever valued him for his power? The person who found Maul on Lotho Minor and whom he took on as an apprentice was a decent fighter, certainly, and strong but unpracticed in the force, but Maul treated him the way he did because Savage threw him food in the freighter when he was still spider-bellied and insane with pain. Savage sang him songs and tried not to hurt him. Savage was gentle and he cooked inedible food, and he was the only person Maul could turn his back to and sleep leaning up against, because Savage was not just a powerful apprentice, but his brother, his brother whom he claimed when he lowered guard long before he could even acknowledge the word. Before anything, Savage was his brother.

And Maul turned him into a technobeast.

There are thousands of primitive legends a brainless Savage will never be able to whisper at night. Thousands of bad recipes he will never try. Thousands of smiles that will never grace his face.

Every injury will draw in more metal, until there is nothing of Savage left.

Lord Sidious controlled every inch of Maul’s life when he was young, chose his food and his clothing and knowledge and training and, on Mustafar at the very least, the very air supply. But for want of skill or knowledge of the option, Master never possessed his apprentice as utterly as this.

It’s not conditioning nor fear of punishment that leads to loyalty, no: Maul inserted his will into Savage with the very metal that keeps him alive. There is no choice for his brother now but to obey.

No other option.

Not even death.

For the first time in his life Maul has surpassed Lord Sidious.

In the realization there is nothing but shame.

Feeling cold as a glacier, he allows his eyes to stare straight for the first time at the monster he built out of the only person who ever loved him.

[glimmerglanger]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 6

Day 6 of whumptober and part 6 of the oof!au. (Post Order 66 Vader-Captures-Obi-Wan AU. Eventual happy(ish) ending. Past/eventual Codywan. One-sided Vaderwan.)

I.... arranged this preface a little different today because we’ve moved into the peak of Anakin’s nastiness, today and tomorrow. He’s laying the ground work for his own defeat, but we’re not there, yet. It’s also a brief return to using the right prompt on the right day! Look at that! Technically “Get It Out” probably applies, actually....

Warnings for torture, abuse of a prisoner, non-con (of a particularly twisted sort), being mind controlled into hurting someone you love in some pretty awful ways. PLEASE heed the warnings. Dead dove, do not eat, etc. 

No 6. PLEASE…. 

“Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

 The med-droids rarely had reason to file reports on Mustafar. Vader didn’t care what they did to the troopers. He left those reports, taking a twisting sort of pleasure in it, to filter through to 2224, who… Likely did nothing with them. Why would it? Vader demanded only reports on Obi-Wan’s progress, as time went past.

Apparently, he had died twice while they worked to preserve his life after Vader crushed his throat to make him stop speaking about Shmi. Still, they had managed to get him stabilized, managed to keep him alive, which was as it should be. He was only permitted to die when Vader decided he was, and--

And Vader was not ready for that moment, regardless of Obi-Wan’s foolish decisions. He tossed the report aside, ignoring a comment about severe damage to Obi-Wan’s vocal cords - apparently they were not sure they could repair them - fury curling around in his gut and through his bones. He’d known Obi-Wan was a monster, but to say such things about his mother--

She hadn’t deserved anything that had happened to her. Her entire life had been a punishment for crimes uncommitted. Finding her in the village of the Sand People had proven to Anakin that the galaxy needed direction, a strong hand, someone to make things right--

He swallowed, his respiratory and cardiac systems entirely out of order, the image of his mother chained up, brutalized, rising in his mind, memories he didn’t want and fought so hard to bury. He shut his eyes, shaking his head, and when he opened them again he was staring at the rack where Obi-Wan had hung.

For an awful, lurching moment, his mind supplied an image of his mother, hanging there, instead, and of Obi-Wan strung up in the Sand People’s hut, and he lurched a step backwards, a scream caught in his throat as he lashed out with the Force.

No one came to check on him, despite the cacophony of noises that must have echoed out from the room. When he did call the troopers in, later, he only said, “Remove that. I never want to see it again.”

He listened, staring out at the lava, as they dragged the twisted pieces of the rack, still covered with Obi-Wan’s blood - not his mothers, never his mother’s, he could have never hurt her, never - away.

#

Obi-Wan had done something to him, Vader realized, later, when he found himself down in the infirmary, staring at the bacta tank where Obi-Wan floated, healing slowly from the latest wounds he’d forced Vader to inflict upon him.

Obi-Wan had - had gotten into his head, somehow. He must have found a way around the collar. He’d used the poison of his words to steal Vader’s ability to think clearly, to rest. He could not stop conflating the images of his mother and Obi-Wan, which was -- ridiculous. 

They were nothing alike.

Obi-Wan had never done anything but fail him, but turn Padmé against him, but try to hold him back and confuse him, diverting him from his true purpose. Vader stared at him, fists clenched, and resolved to make Obi-Wan pay for everything he’d done.

Including the new nightmares, playing out each time Vader closed his eyes. Vader tried to make him pay, after the med-droids repaired him, but his voice wouldn’t work, even after the droids said he was recovered. Vader sent Obi-Wan back, for more work, eaten up by the nightmares and memories echoing in his head.

He needed to make Obi-Wan pay. Somehow. He had time to think of something appropriate, while Obi-Wan recovered.

#

The nightmares remained, terrible, confusing things put in his head by Obi-Wan, through another campaign. Vader returned to Mustafar in a foul temper, feeling so full of anger at the injustice of it all that he almost vibrated with it. 

He found he did not care if Obi-Wan had recovered or not, barking an order that Obi-Wan be delivered to him, immediately. He’d taken injuries, been sloppy, during the campaign. Some of the rebels had gotten away, because Obi-Wan would grant him no peace, had him spinning out of control.

Well. He fully intended to regain his control of this entire situation. Of Obi-Wan. Of his thoughts. He opened the windows to the lava flow below, all the way, wanting the convective heat to blow in around him, wanting the charred air to fill his lungs. He stood before the window, his hands clenched at his back, feeling just as full of fire and upheavals as the volcano, so far below.

He did not turn to look, when the door opened.

“I see you’ve redecorated, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, his voice strange. Hoarse. Quiet, only barely over a whisper. Infuriating as his words.

Anakin spun on his heel, snarling, feeling the hot air lift and tug at his cloak as he spat, “I’ve indulged your impertinence long enough, old man. You will call me by my proper title.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, blue eyes unblinking and faded. There were dark bruises under his eyes. His cheeks cut sharp, especially without any beard to hide them. Troopers held his arms. 2224 gripped the chain at his neck. And yet, still, Obi-Wan stood with his back straight and his shoulders back, his head high, as though--

As though he had any right to dignity. 

Obi-Wan said, staring right at him, his voice quiet and raspier than Anakin had ever heard it, “I will call you by your name. It doesn’t matter what you do, you cannot avoid who you are. Anakin.”

Something hot and pure as lightning ran down the back of Vader’s back, dug teeth into him and spread through his gut. He could not allow Obi-Wan to keep mocking him in his own place of power. He could not allow Obi-Wan to have this hold on his dreams, to hurt him, somehow. He took a step forward, growling, “I am Lord Vader. Anakin is dead.”

That weak failure of a boy was gone. He’d burned down in the lava flows. All that had remained was the core of Vader, strong enough to do what needed done, to herald the galaxy towards order and peace. 

Across from him, Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, managing to look supremely unimpressed, chained and bound and otherwise naked, utterly at Vader’s mercy - he’d proved that over and over - and still refusing to acknowledge his utter defeat. 

But why would he, Vader thought, sharply. He’d obviously done something. Struck out at Vader’s mind. Planted nightmares there, left him dry heaving as he woke up, plagued with - with the ghosts of guilt and regret and--

And he had no room for those weak emotions in his life. He would burn them out, destroy them in the fire. Destroy Obi-Wan in the same fire, if required. If he would not be remade into an appropriate shape. He considered the plans he’d made, during the campaign, breathing hard, hesitating for just a moment as he said, “I give you one last chance. Kneel and greet me properly.”

Obi-Wan drew in a little breath, scowled, found some way to straighten his spine yet further and said, “You are Anakin Skywalker and you will never--”

Vader activated the collar and watched him fall, watched him spasm across the ground, watched him struggle for breath, when the pain stopped. “I tried to be reasonable with you,” he said, the heat of Mustafar curling around him, the heat of his rage kindled within him. “Remember that. But, obviously, you require a firmer hand. You will call me Vader, before we leave this room.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, rocking himself up onto his knees, blood dripping from his nose, splatters of it across the ground. “I will never,” he rasped, mouth quirking, infuriating.

Vader exhaled, harshly. His hands clenched and his gut burned with anger, fury that Obi-Wan would push him to this, would not just accept-- “You’ve brought this on yourself,” he said, “and so I’ll let you stop it, at any time. Call me my proper name, and you may return to your cell.”

“I--”

“I don’t let my men enjoy themselves nearly enough,” Vader barked, talking over Obi-Wan. He could guess what Obi-Wan had to say, anyway. “2224,” and, oh, he liked the way just saying the numbers made Obi-Wan suck in a breath, something in his posture stiffening. “I need your assistance.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Obi-Wan said, pushing to his feet and swaying once he got there, and for a moment Vader just stared at him. There was something darkly amusing about Obi-Wan trying to step in front of 2224, trying to protect an empty vessel. Especially considering what Vader planned. “Anakin, leave him--”

“The prisoner is being disruptive. Pacify him.” Vader enjoyed the brief flash of despair across Obi-Wan’s expression, the swell of it through the Force. Obi-Wan turned, looking towards 2224, just in time to take a blow across the jaw. He made a sound, low and stunned, covered by the impact of a fist into his gut.

“Wait--” Obi-Wan panted, words cut off when 2224 kicked his knee out, sending him down. 2224 was moving jerkily. Hesitating before each blow. Malfunctioning again. “No, this isn’t--”

Vader watched and listened, respiration increasing, as Obi-Wan tried to curl away from the blows, as 2224 followed him down, pulling him around, blows landing over and over and still Obi-Wan made no move to beg, to listen to instruction, to--

Well. Vader had known he’d likely require… further convincing. He grimaced.

“2224, you’re programmed to recreate,” Vader said, the words tasting like ash. “Aren’t you? Under Order 312.” Sidious had insisted that such actions could assist with appropriately subduing an entrenched populace. Vader had seen it work, on Ryloth. He could remember the way the insurgents there had screamed. Cried. Wept--

2224 stopped, froze in place, one fist drawn back still, black glove wet with blood, hand shaking. It was a broken damn thing, unable to process a question and continue a simple task. Vader scowled. He’d have disposed of the model already, if merely seeing 2224’s ugly, scarred face didn’t make Obi-Wan’s emotions twist, every time.

“What’s Order 312?” Obi-Wan panted, voice thick with pain, but neither of them answered.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” 2224 said, after a long beat for processing, with less emotion than a droid, expression utterly and completely blank. Still, Vader could not help but notice that its index finger was twitching, jerkily, and for no apparent reason. There was a smear of blood, under its nose.

Defective.

Perhaps Vader would have to make Obi-Wan watch as it was decommissioned. Permanently.

The thought held no small measure of appeal. But it could wait. At least a little while. He knew, very well, how his old master had felt about 2224. Before. He worked his jaw, once, twice, and then said, “Execute Order 312 on the prisoner.”

“What’s--” Obi-Wan started again, words cutting off when 2224 grabbed him. “Cody?” he said, sounding confused, feeling lost in the Force. There was a sharp little thrill of hope through him, at every touch of 2224’s hands, and Vader felt his lips pull back from his teeth.

He’d put that hope out, every single spark of it. 

Obi-Wan jerked as 2224 gripped his shoulders, shoving him over onto his stomach. Vader watched Obi-Wan’s chin hit the floor, heard him make a sound, felt his spreading alarm. “No,” he panted, struggling in earnest, and Obi-Wan was strong, had always been strong, even without the Force, but… his arms were bound, he’d just been beaten, viciously.

And Vader was almost certain the troopers had always been stronger.

“Stop! Don’t--Cody!” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked, as 2224 put a hand on the side of his head and pressed down, its other hand pulling robotically at its armor. “Please,” Obi-Wan gasped, voice failing with another crack, and, oh, he was shaking, Vader noticed, shaking all over, his eyes gone white all the way around, breath sharp and choppy. “Cody, don’t!”

2224 hesitated. Froze into place. Vader scowled and snapped, “I gave you an order! Carry it out!” And Obi-Wan cried out, sharp, ragged, when 2224 pushed into him, without a word, without a single move towards kindness. Vader watched, stared, unwilling even to blink, waiting for Obi-Wan to give in. Waiting for him to break. Waiting--

He made an awful, guttural sound, when 2224 bottomed out, still pressing Obi-Wan’s face down, its other hand gripping at Obi-Wan’s hip, that index finger still tapping, endlessly, even as it set a fast, brutal pace. And Obi-Wan didn’t beg. Didn’t break. Instead, he gasped, “It’s not you. It’s not you -- it’s--this isn’t--”

“Is this what it was like?” Vader asked, making himself watch. How often had he wondered, over the course of the war? How many times had he imagined his high and mighty master, bent over and fucked, taken. It had irritated him, at the time, that Obi-Wan would let someone else touch him, that he’d spread his legs and beg, when he hadn’t wanted Anakin. It had left him hard and aching, back then.

It still did, he found, cock twitching beneath his suit as he watched and listened.

Obi-Wan had never handled himself properly. Never realized what was good for him. Vader snarled, listening to the sounds Obi-Wan made, gutted and soft. Wet. Refusing to answer.

“Have you missed this?” Vader demanded, taking a step forward, listening to 2224 pant like an animal, just rutting mindlessly into a warm body, still with no expression on its face, the white of its left eye staining red. Perhaps that was what it had always been like, Vader could imagine that. Vader spat, “I suppose 2224 deserves permission to have you like this whenever it likes, that’s what you let it have before, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan’s mouth worked, soundlessly. Resisting, even still.

Vader went to one knee, watching, and snapped, “Answer me!”

Obi-Wan spat towards him, instead of saying anything, salvia pinkish with blood, splattering across his boot, expression twisted up as, behind him, 2224 made the smallest sound and stilled. Just… stopped moving, completely, the task finished.

“Go clean yourself up, Cody,” Vader ordered, eyes on Obi-Wan as 2224 pulled out of him, taking in the flash of pain across his expression. He collapsed sideways as 2224 rose, laying there, sprawled across the floor, exposed and bloody already, drawing his legs up, hunching around them.

Vader swallowed, harshly, and said, bile in his mouth, “Say my name.”

Obi-Wan laughed. It was a terrible, cracking sound. His eyes barely focused when he said, in a hoarse whisper, through a crooked smile, “Anakin Skywa--”

Vader activated the collar, for just a moment, white-hot rage moving through him, and gripped at Obi-Wan’s shoulders, shoving him flat onto the ground. He felt the way Obi-Wan jerked and jumped, beneath him, noticed the slickness of blood and spend, and -- and refused to hesitate.

Obi-Wan wasn’t moving, by the time he finished. Vader stood, feeling strangely shaky, split open inside, and looked down at the limp body. Obi-Wan was just… staring forward, breath shaky and hitching. Vader was sweating, heavily, under his suit. He could smell the stink of himself, and hated it, one more thing caused by Obi-Wan.

He stumbled back a step, but there was no one to see but the troopers. And they did not care. He said, turning away, “Take him away.” He added, as he heard them dragging Obi-Wan towards the doors, “To the med-droids. But tell all the troopers to enjoy themselves. After all, one of you is the same as all the rest.”

And, perhaps, that would be enough to teach Obi-Wan his place.

His mouth tasted of ash. He swallowed it down into his gut.

[lo-55]

Tilt The Hourglass Ch. 3

Maul was at Orsis for six months when the inevitable finally occurred. 

 He felt it. 

 The dark shadow that haunted his nightmares, the cold hands left so many scars on his skin. It was his childhood ruined, his future stolen. His brother dead in his arms and every pain he’d ever endured. 

 Sidious had come to Orsis. 

Maul ended up with his back on the ground, looking up at Daleen of all people. He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised that she’d actually flipped him. 

 He could only barely focus on her and Kilindi offering him a hand up. He could sense his master growing closer. 

 It was the feeling of old wound preparing to open, a sickness creeping back into his lungs. The clarity that he’d felt when he returned dimmed with it, leaving shadows at the corners of his eyes. 

 Maul swallowed thickly and stood again, taking his position in the ring opposite of Daleen. 

 She looked uncertain, but when he nodded at her she threw a punch and ducked the kick he aimed at her head in return. 

 Maul didn’t go easy on her. He was not a kind person, and he would not do her the disservice of mercy. If it came to a real fight no one else would hold out on her. So he wouldn’t either, for her own survival if nothing else. 

 That said, he did not break her arm when he caught her third punch, only twisted it enough for her wince before he let her go. He was not a fan of self control, and he had always chafed at the shackles of patience and secrecy that sith were forced to be subservient to, but the years had made him good at it. 

 He knew how to hide. He’d survived for eighteen (nineteen? Twenty?) years after the Empire rose and he was forced to go underground. He had gotten good at hiding and slipping away, and killing anyone who got too close to him. 

 ‘The Shadow’ indeed. 

 He could not hide from Sidious here. Here he had to bow his head and scrape and suffer when the man finally deigned him worthy of his tutelage. 

 It’s a near thing to keep his lip from curling and his sharp teeth baring at Daleen, who’s done nothing to earn his wrath besides tease him goodnaturedly. 

 He bows out of the training as soon as Trezza appears on a balcony, with Sidious at his side. 

 Master. Maul forced himself to think. In case his thoughts are too loud. In case they’re too quiet and Sidious goes listening closer. My master is here. 

 He tasted bile and swallowed it down as he came to a stop in front of the pair. He could remember easily how deeply he was expected to bow when Sidious came for him, and at what angle. It would not save him a beating, and he was hurt for his successes as much as his failure’s, but he would not go knocking for punishment. 

 The Force hummed around him, shadows flickering further in his vision. Sidious always loomed so high above him.

 Full grown Maul would be taller than him. That didn’t change the fact that Sidious’ shadow always  fell on him. 

 He kept his hand from clenching and his face carefully blank.

 “Master,” he said respectfully, and offered no other pleasantries. He was not raised to offer small talk. ‘How was your flight?’ ‘Did you enjoy the view?’ ‘I hope you’re well.’. 

 “My boy,” his master’s voice lacked the sickly sweet sound it took on when he was a senator. Here he was merely a wealthy merchant, who was putting a hefty investment in his future body guard. “I trust your studies have been going well.” 

 Maul’s gaze darted momentarily to Trezza. He had punishment them for their truancy, and praised them for taking first in class, one each. He in combat, Kilindi in survival, and Daleen in espionage. Had he told Sidious of their wandering? Even if he hadn’t, the man probably already knew. 

 Anxiety spiked, and he twirled the incident and the compitition around in his mind, letting it fall into a mist over the darkest secrets. Those stayed in a little ball, sucked into a iron sphere at the center of his being. So deep in the shadows they’d never be found. So far from the surface Maul started to forget them. 

 He held them there while he nodded, slowly. “They have, master.” 

 “Good, good. Come along. I have need of you this weekend.” 

 Sidious motioned for him to come forward. Maul obeyed without hesitation. He could not see his Master’s eyes, not through the high tech goggles he wore as a blind mind. Sidious said he could see shapes and colors and little else. He moved his long stick back and forth before him, letting it clack along obstacles in their path and avoiding him. 

 Sidious always had been an excellent actor. Maul, still a child, had much yet to learn from him. 

 The pair of them walked the long halls of the facility in silence until they came out on a landing pad where Sidious’ small ship was sitting. The two boarded. 

 Maul cast a glance around him and was startled to see the remnants of the spider legged droid that had raised him sitting in the corner. It wasn’t moving. It was still destroyed, just as it had been when he’d last seen it. 

 Maul knew better than to ask, and Sidious offered him no information. 

 They took off. A droid piloted the ship, one Maul recognized as well. It had served Sidious as long as Maul had known him. Sidious told him once, ten years in the future, that the droid had belonged to his own master before him. Maul had never seen the sith master in person. For much of his life he hadn’t even known he existed. The rule of two was supposed to be absolute. 

 The existence of Plageius should have cemented inside Maul that Sidious didn’t really see him as an apprentice, but a placeholder. He had a new one as soon as Maul fell into that foul shaft, and as soon as he could he replaced that one, too, with a more powerful apprentice.

 Maul had tried to warn Dooku. Had tried to recruit him and- 

 His mind swirled, tamping the thoughts under a rug and replacing them with musings far safer. His practice in the yard this morning.  A misstep he’d made that had cost him a clean fight. Mistakes he’d made in a slicing test earlier that week that he needed to amend. 

 “Would you like to know where we are going?” Sidious asked. He took his vision goggles off and set them on a shelf nearby. The cane went with them. His elaborate senate robes were handing beside it. Two disguises, and a dark lord stood before Maul. 

 Maul chewed on his words before he voiced them. 

 “I will go where you require, master.” 

 “Is that all?” Sidious looked at him, his brows raised. One day they would be silver, and his rust colored hair would grey. 

 Any answer would have been wrong, so Maul had answered wrong. 

 “It would be good to know, so I might prepare. But regardless I will succeed at any tast you would have of me.” 

 “You assume it is a task for you?” 

 Maul flinched when Sidious raised his hand, but didn’t dare try to block that harsh lightning when it struck. Only the smallest hiss of a cry came from his mouth when he dropped to the ground convulsing. 

 The pain lanced through his body and whited out his mind momentarily. 

 Maul looked up at him from the floor, trying to catch his breath. Anger and pain coursed through him in time with the frantic beating in his chest. 

 “I ap-pologize,” he bit out. Blood filled his mouth. He’d bit his lip at some point. 

 I should know to keep from biting my own tongue by now. 

 Sidious didn’t bother to respond to that. He motioned for Maul to rise, which he did with a small struggle. His hands were shaking minutely. 

 “We go now to Kalakar Six. There is a group of darksiders there. The Prophets of the Darkside. Kill no one unless ordered. While I discuss important matters with their High Priestess you will train in the lands outside their settlement. A pair of assassin droids will hunt you through the terrain.” 

 Maul bowed shakily. He grit his sharp teeth together. Was he just a dog on a leash to his master? 

 A foolish question. Of course he was. An attack dog to be set upon his enemies, with his sharp teeth. 

 Had he ever been anything more to the man? 

 “Yes, master,” Maul said simply. 

 Sidious went to the pilots chair, and left Maul to try to remember where he would be expected to sit. Had it really been so long since he’d seen his master? 

 Of it had, it had been- 

 He sat on the bunk in the back of the small compartment. 

 This wasn’t one of Sidious’ luxury ships, nor was it meant for battle, although Maul could still see where weapons had been added and shields upgraded. It wasn’t a bad ship. It would take them safely from one place to the other, and should they need neither of the pair inside was helpless. 

 When they landed on Kalakar Six there was a small contingency of locals waiting for them. Humans, most of them, led by a dwarf. 

 Maul stayed behind his master, not hiding but certainly trying to avoid bringing attention to himself. He kept his dark hood pulled up over his head, but that didn’t stop the eyes of the other darksiders from landing upon him. 

 He stayed in his masters shadow until Sidious dismissed him to run off into the lava fields, with two assassin droids on his tail. They were programmed not to kill him, but to maim him. 

 He’d had enough time in his body that he wasn’t tripping over his own limbs. Shorter and weaker than he was used to, and legs that could break and not be pieced back together easily.   

 With a frown set firmly on his face Maul made his way into the smoldering heat, the dark side swirling around him like a familiar cloak he’d worn all his life. 

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 Things stayed that way for well over a year. 

 Every few months Sidious would come for him, and take Maul off world for some horrible, grueling training. Maul would lock up his memories as hard as he could and hide it under more recent feelings and emotions the way he’d learned on Malachor. 

 He had to keep Sidious from learning what he knew. 

 It meant that every time the man was to visit Maul was a bundle of nerves that nothing could unwind, and when he returned he was bitter, full of spite, covered in injuries and more relieved than he could ever properly voice. 

 Somewhere in the second year since his return, his third year at the academy, he had stopped sleeping in the barracks. 

 It wasn’t a conscious decision, it wasn't even his decision. 

 He came back from a venture with his master. A return to Malachor had put him to the biggest test yet. He’d had to suffer, and relive the death of every sith that come before him. He had lived the battle through the eyes of all that had perished there, their ashes burning in his nose, mouth, and lungs. 

 Their anger filled him and twisted into a familiar hate that skittered through his skin before it sang in his veins. 

 Sidious had offered him a single word of praise, and beat him soundly. 

 By the time they landed again on Orsis everything hurt. He knew his ribs were broken, and he was bruised everywhere at once. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. He’d been given no bacta. The pain would be good for him, Sidious claimed. 

 He walked stiffly from the ship to the doors of the academy, and was met in the hallway by Kilindi and Daleen. 

 Kilindi had taken one look at him and frowned. 

 “I killed my masters,” she said quietly. 

 Maul grimaced. “Don’t.” 

 She didn’t argue. “The boys, those Rodian friends of yours? They were planning on causing trouble tonight. Come stay with me.” 

 “I don’t need your protection,” he snapped. His temper was already frayed. He’d spent the entire time shoving down everything he was, wallowing in foreign anger and choking on pain. Now that the hiding was done he felt cracked and raw and other peoples feelings were twisting against him. Anger in the training hall, fear in the computer labs, lust from one of the higher dorms and some of the teachers were drinking. The girls worry brushed against him, soft fingers against open wounds.

 “I know you don’t need it,” Kilindi frowned at him. “But I don’t like to see you hurt, Maul. You’re my friend.” 

 “Our friend,” Daleen cut in. She came to Maul’s side and lay a very careful hand on his shoulder. His lip curled in a snarl. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t need her to treat him like he was glass. He was durasteel and fire and- 

 “It will make us feel better if you stay with us,” Daleen cut him from his thoughts. She squeezed his shoulder. “Humor a girl, won’t you?” 

 Through the rawness their warmth shone through. 

 Maul nearly choked. He’d never felt- 

 “Okay.” 

 His voice sounded hoarse. Like he’d been screaming. He probably had been. 

 The girls made their way to Kilindi’s room, in the far hallway. Maul let them lead him there. 

 The halls felt longer that night, and darker too. It was not in a way that comforted him, though he was a creature born of shadow and hate. 

 Kilindi’s calloused hands helped him pull off his tunic while Daleen fetched a bacta pack. Maul didn’t fight either of them. He let the pair smear the cold, sickly sweet smelling goo across his chest and back. Even though it was hard to see where he’d been injured through the intricate patterns on his skin, the girls found where it hurt without being told. 

 Kilindi had a good suite here. She was Trezza’s ward, of course. 

 Her bed was wide and fluffy, and a desk near it held her personal things. Holo’s, data pads, and even pieces of flimsy she liked to fold into complex animals and intriguing shapes. She had a talent for the arts. There was a couch against another wall too. 

 In one corner she had a big soaking tub under a faucet, instead of the common showers that the rest of them used. Her wardrobe was open, and her uniforms were crammed, crumpled, into the bottom of it instead of hung up neatly. A pair of night vision goggles dangled from one of the hooks in it. 

 There was a tank of fish in the other corner. It was barely big enough for the little silver things that swam inside of it, and it cast an odd glow through the room. 

 When the bacta was applied and covered he rose to go to the barracks, but was instead herded to the couch. 

 He humored the girls, as Daleen asked. 

 Maul lay on the couch while the girls lay on the bed, and the lights went out. Maul watched the fish swim through their dark light, silver flickering forward and back as the darkness closed in on him. The bacta warmed on his skin. The girls breathed easier. 

 He closed his eyes and let their steady presence sooth him enough to sleep. 

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 Sidious came again. 

 He had a castle on the planet. 

 Maul was summoned to it frequently, and he knew the long passages better than even Sidious did yet. In the years to come he would spend much time here. Weekends, and entire months on occasion, toiling away for scraps of approval or praise and taking any punishment as a lesson, even when he didn’t know what he was being taught besides how to shore up his anger and fear. 

 He was already rather good at that. 

 Maul didn’t need to follow the droid that had fetched him from the academy but he did all the same. It’s metal gleamed faintly in the light from high arches of glass. It had been cleaned recently. 

 Maul chewed on the fact that Sidious took more care with droids than he ever had with his apprentice, and treated them more cordially to boot. 

 Maul took the bitterness in his chest and wrapped it around the little piece of him he’d started to store Kilindi’s strength and Daleen’s cleverness inside of. 

 Not for the first time he thought of the jedi. Jinn and Kenobi, Skywalker and Tano. They’d had such faith in eachother. So much trust and care. They would fight and die and kill for one another, even when the other was weak or dying. Years after and he could still remember the look on Kenobi’s face when Jinn dropped to the ground. Blue that burned with rage and grief.  

 Maul was well aware that as soon as he lost his use Sidious would cast him off, if not kill him outright. He would not lift a finger to protect or avenge him. 

 Familiar rage welled up inside of his chest. 

 Jedi called themselves guardians and peace keepers. They preached about kindness, compassion, and protecting the weak, but where had they been when he was being tormented and forged into a tool with no will of his own? Where were they when he was carving his way through warm flesh, screaming for anyone to find him? 

 Nowhere. 

 On one hand he could count the number of people who had ever come for him. Savage. Talzin. Rook, Saxon, and through them Almec. 

 Even now, after he’d gone out of his way to send them a shadowy warning of the dangers to come, they were absent in the face of Sidious’ wrath. 

 No matter. 

 He didn’t need defending, certainly not from those as hypocritical and weak as the jedi. 

 Well. 

 Some were strong. Young Ezra was a fierce pupil, with a powerful connection to the Force. Lady Tano, while not longer (and not yet) a jedi had still bested him more than once with training from their temple. Skywalker could have bested him as a jedi. There were a handful of dueling masters that even now he itched to pit himself against. 

 And of course, Kenobi. 

 He never had managed to beat him. 

 Not on Naboo. Not during the Clone Wars. Not on Tatooine. A phantom burn hissed through Maul’s chest. Jedi spoke of the dangers of the Darkside, while conveniently glossing over how the light could burn. 

 The doors swished open in front of him and Maul tucked his thoughts away, behind the swirling darkness and a spiked wall of spite. 

 He came upon his master at a desk. His master, he repeated it in his mind over and over. The word. A curse and hiss and wound that had never healed. 

 Would it ever? 

 “You summoned me?” he asked, his voice low and rough. He’d taken a hit to the throat in training today, and broken the other students wrist for their trouble. They were starting to fear Maul enough that they didn’t want to hurt him for fear of retaliation. Other’s had learned that if they held back he would hurt them worse. 

 “You’ve been hiding something from me, Maul.” 

 Ice slithered down his spine. Maul stood straighter, his yellow eyes wide. 

 “I haven’t-” 

 A shock of lightning screamed through his nerves and drove him to his knees. 

 Maul didn’t make a sound. He went limp, slumped over his knees while his mind whited and his vision blurred. His hearts heat harder and harder until they felt like they were going to burst from his chest. 

 It stopped as soon as it started. 

 He sucked in frantic breathes. 

 Sidious ripped into his mind. 

 Maul howled inwardly, though outwardly he didn’t make a sound. He kept breathing, faster and faster as Sidious clawed into his brain. Sharp, electric tendrils of force raked through his through. Through the darkness and the spite. Through the ashes and the fire. 

 “Did you think you could really hide anything from me?” Sidious laughed, cold and cruel. He rifled through Maul’s thoughts. He started to fracture in the face of. The shallow sea of darkness was clawed at. 

 Distantly, Maul realized that Sidious was searching. Tearing through the confines of his thoughts, his wants, his very being. A lesser being (a being less used to pain. A being less cracked. A being less ragged at the edges.) would have cried. No tears fell from his eyes, even as they stared blankly at the ceiling. 

 A lesser being (A being less expecting to be violated so totally and relentlessly by the man who raised him) would have clawed at his masters hand when it closed around his throat. 

 Maul knew better. 

 Sidious kept dragging through the shallow thoughts on the surface. Each pass screamed with pain and betrayal. Maul smelled ozone. He tasted blood. 

 Sidious dug deeper. Looking, searching, he was going to find- 

 Maul broke. 

 He choked and the shadows spat out the only thing that could protect him. 

 All at once the pain stopped. 

 At some point Maul had fallen on his back. The high ceiling looked down on him dispassionately.  

 “Ah, little apprentice,” Sidious smiled down at him, a sick, cold thing on his face. “You’ve gone and gotten attached to Trezza’s little slave.” 

 Kilindi. He had given Sidious Kilindi. How could he do that to her- 

 “Did you think I would allow it? Your only focus can be your training. All that matters is the Grand Plan, and your place in it. You live only to do my bidding. You breath only to kill my enemies. Do you understand?” 

 Maul croaked weakly at him. 

 “Of course you do. You’ve always done what I asked. You only think of pleasing me. Isn’t that right?” 

 The hand that touched his forehead was light. Maul knew better, but he still flinched away from it. Sidious slapped him hard. 

 “Answer me!”

“Ye-es,” he forced out. 

 “Good. You can have no distractions. When you return to the school, you will sever your ties to the slave. And kill her. And her little human pet.” 

 Sidious stepped away from him. Maul’s head rolled when the droid came up beside him. 

 “I was going to teach you new darkside techniques today, but I felt your disquieted thoughts. I am done with you. You have wasted my time, and that slave girl will pay with her life, and you with it as well.” 

 The droid dragged him to his feet with unfeeling metal hands. Sidious didn’t look back to watch it drag Maul from the room. 

 The droid took him all the way back to the small shuttle that had only just brought him from the academy. Or not. Dawn had already arrived. How long had Sidious riffled through his mind before he broke? 

 He gave him Kilindi. He betrayed her. Again. 

 The first time he had killed her in Trezza’s office, after killing the headmaster with his own knife. He’d been covered in blood and shadow. She was the last survivor of the Orsis massacre. 

 Maul looked  at Kilindi. She was Staring at him blankly, but she radiated fear like a child in the presence of an enormous monster. He'd never wanted her to fear him. It didn't matter now. He never paused to wonder how his life might have been different if he had not revealed his Force powers to Meltch Krakko. He never paused at all. His only purpose was to serve his master. 

 Kilindi didn't run. She did try to smile. She said, "I guess you're not interested in the surprise that Daleen and I had for you." 

 "Not anymore," Maul said. He made it quick. It was only mercy he could offer this girl.

 He never hesitated. He never looked back.  

 Maul stumbled into Kilindi’s room in the dark. Daleen nearly stabbed him in the throat for his troubles. Maul caught her knife and twisted her arm behind her back casually. He could fight children. He could fight full grown adults. He could not fight his master, and he could not let him learn his secrets. The ones that were bigger than girls. 

 “You need to leave,” he said quietly. His teeth were red with his own blood. 

 “Maul?” Kilindi was halfway to the blaster she kept under her desk. Her dark eyes were fixed on him. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like. 

 Less like the monster that had killed her before. For better or worse. 

 “You need. To. Leave.” 

 “Why?” Daleen carefully extracted herself from his grasp. His face must have been alarming for her to try to touch his cheek. He caught her wrist. 

 “My master. He,” Maul swallowed. “Has ordered your death.” 

 Kilindi paled into a mint green. “He can’t. Trezza-” 

 “Trezza couldn’t stop him if he tried,” Maul shook his head. “He’s not what he seems, my master. He’s more powerful than you could imagine. Trezza can’t stop him. I can’t stop him. You need to run.” 

 “What about you?” Kilindi demanded. She was always too smart. 

 “He will hunt me down no matter how far I go.” All of Maul’s plans were out the window now. “But you he knows less. If you go now, quickly, you might escape with your lives.” 

 “We can’t leave you,” Daleen argued, her jaw set fiercely. 

 Maul turned on her, his eyes flashing. “You will leave. Now.” His voice bounced off the walls and around her skull. Daleen swayed. 

 “We will…” 

 “I am not letting you get yourself killed!” Kilindi argued, storming up to him. Maul didn’t not waver. 

 “I will not die,” he said firmly, the very first embers of an idea stirring into a spark. “I am too stubborn.” 

 He ignored Kilindi’s crushed expression. 

 “Go,” he said again. He side stepped the door. He knew that Kilindi had the codes for the hanger, and the ships inside. After she’d been stranded on her home planet, and hunted down by the guards for killing her master, she had become almost as paranoid as he was when it came to escape plans. 

 “Go.” 

 Kilindi took Daleen’s hand. She threw her arms around Maul. He soaked in her warmth for just a moment, a selfish luxury he allowed himself. He was about to face a horrible fate for her. He had least deserved a hug. 

 “We will find you again,” Kilindi swore. 

 Maul nodded to her. The pair disappeared down the hall, on the way to the hangers. 

 Maul made his way to the small craft landing platform and waited for dawn. 

 His master found him before it even broke. 

[sarthon]

CH1 - The Bartender

Obi-wan Kenobi had been through rough periods in his life. After Qui-Gon had passed, he dealt with a great deal of internal turmoil. After Satine had died in his arms, he lost a part of himself, and started to question the purpose of the Clone Wars and his duty as a Jedi. Nonetheless, Obi-wan saw death as a natural part of life, and  believed those who died had become one with the cosmic force. Although he dearly missed Qui-gon and Satine, Obi-wan never let his emotions take control over him. He always focused on his duties as a Jedi Master and Jedi Council Member. However, no prior adversity in his life had matched the insurmountable pain and guilt he encountered with Anakin’s fall to the dark side. Anakin was enticed by Darth Sidious’s inceptuous manipulation, and his own hunger for raw power.The boy Obi-wan promised Qui-gon he would train, had turned into the very thing he was prophesied to destroy. Although Obi-wan was not fond of Anakin when he first met him on Tatooine, over many years Anakin had become his best friend and brother. Obi-wan Kenobi lost who he was the moment Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vader. 

It had been months since Ben Kenobi ventured outside his dwelling other than to retrieve necessary supplies from the market in Mos Eisley, and to keep tabs on Anakin's son, Luke. Local’s whispered rumors about him, saying he was an undercover spy for the empire, or a crime lord working for the Hutts. Apparently his quiet demeanor, rough appearance, and once a week visits did not sit well with local residents. Because of this, Ben did not make acquaintances easily.

 Usually Ben traveled to Mos Eisley in the morning to avoid the insufferable heat Tatooine protruded during the later hours of the day. However, today he set forth on his hour-long journey to the city later than usual. Earlier that morning he had been working on his moisture vaporator. During the night before, there was a major sand storm which caused grits of sand to build up within the vaporator, causing it not to function properly. By the time he had finished cleaning the tower of machinery, it had been almost noon. 

 Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead after he secured his goods on his speeder. He lifted his gaze to the sky, seeing Tatooine's two suns radiating above. He was parched, and decided to quench his thirst by visiting Chalmun's Cantina for a drink. The last time he’d been at this cantina was when he arrived on Tatooine three months ago. As he entered the Cantina, various alien species and humanoids quirked glances in his direction, acknowledging his ingress. As Ben approached the cantina bar to take a seat, a blonde haired woman addressed him.

“Hi, can I get you something?”

“Hello there.” Ben said , removing his hood as he sat down. He added, “Ah, yes. I’ll take Jawa Juice please.”

“Sure, coming right up.” She replied. Ben watched her as she spoke with the Rodian sitting next to him while preparing his drink. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore a black button up shirt with dark fitting pants. He glanced at her name tag as she put his drink in front of him.

“Here you are”, she said.

“Thank you, Keira.” Ben replied with a light smile. She quickly glanced down at her name tag, and then back up at him.

“And your name?” 

“Ben.”

“Nice to meet you. Let me know if I can get you anything else.” She went back to work, cleaning glasses behind the bar. The other bartender, a green Twi’lek, joined her. Ben could sense Kiera and the Twi’lek were likely friends outside of work by the way they closely interacted with one another.

Fortunately the cantina was not overly crowded at this time of day, being mid afternoon. On the left side of the cantina , Three female entertainers danced on the circular stage. Two of the dancers were Theelin, a rare sentient species, and the third, a purple skinned Twi’lek. A small, rowdy group of individuals watched the entertainers from below the edge of the stage.  Behind Ben to his right side were three Dug’s and a Klatooinian sitting at a round, wooden table. 

Ben leaned back in his chair, lifting his gaze to one of the large view screens above the bar. He sipped his drink as he watched the large holograph. The blue image depicted an unnerving, black, mechanical suited figure. Ben’s eyes widened, fixated, as he listened intently to the holonet news reporter, “After the success of the first Imperial Academy on Coruscant, Darth Vader initiates the construction of future imperial academies on Lothal, Mandalore , Arkanis , Carida , Uyter and Prefsbelt.” Ben’s throat began to dry and he felt his chest tighten.

“No” he gasped aloud in awe while setting down his drink. He rested his elbows on the bar in front of him, and lifted his hand to his forehead, gripping strains of his auburn hair in a tight hold. 

He survived. 

He is alive.

You left him to BURN.

How could you not sense him?  

His thoughts bellowed in his throbbing head as he clenched his eyes shut tightly from the pain. He tried to release his pain and guild into the force.

“You alright there?” Kiera questioned with a concerned look. He opened his eyes to meet hers.

“I-” but before Ben could finish his response, a large Klatooinian who had been sitting behind him approached the bar interrupting, “Hey sweetheart, get me another round of Yagbitter will you?” Keira’s gaze left Ben’s as she turned to the humanoid. 

“Sure” she responded. 

The Klatooinian walked back to the table he was previously sitting at, joining the Dug’s. A moment later Kiera walked over with the glass of Yagbitter, but before setting it down on the table, the Klatooinian quickly slapped her rear from behind. Keira jumped at the motion.

 “Damn that’s one nice schutta there. Thanks sweetheart.”

 Keira froze, and her brows arched forward. She grumbled aloud, “You kriffing-”. Just as Ben started to move out of his chair, Kiera nudged the glass in her hand forward, and the Yagbitter liquid splashed in the Klatooinian’s face. The Klatooinian abruptly got out of his seat, drenched, and grabbed Kiera’s wrist, slamming it on the table in front of him. He quickly pulled out a large combat knife, but before he could move further Ben was behind him, with a stern grip on his arm.

“You don’t want to be doing that,” Ben said earnestly. 

“I don’t want to be doing that” The Klatooinian slowly repeated looking up at Kiera, while releasing her wrist from the table. Keira glanced up at Ben in confusion as she backed away from the table. Ben released his grip on the humanoids arm.

“You’ll go about your business” Ben motioned with his hand. 

“I’ll go about my business” The Klatooinian responded, confused with himself.

As Ben walked back to his barstool, Kiera looked over at him puzzled. After a moment, she followed behind him to take her place back behind the bar.

“How... did you do that?” she asked.

“Hm?” Ben replied, looking at her over his glass as he drank .

“THAT. What just happened?”

“Don’t know. Perhaps he changed his mind about being a piece of Shavit” he smirked.

Kiera paused, and for a moment, their eyes met each other's. Ben noticed how her eyes were a deep forest green. He cleared his throat , breaking the silence. Kiara leaned forward slightly keeping her voice low, “Well, these next drinks are on me! I appreciate what you did” she then added, “even though I could have handled myself.”

“Of course” he chuckled. 

Keira started mixing liquids behind the counter. “Oh you’re going to like this drink” she said. Eventually she placed a drink in front of Ben.

“The Port in a Storm” she said.

“Er, what did you call me?” 

Keira giggled at his response. “No, silly. The drink, it’s called The Port in a Storm. It is a high-octane wine that originated on the planet of Pamarthe. It has quite the reputation.”

“Reputation.... M’lady, are you trying to get me drunk?”

Kiera shrugged with a smirk. The Rodian who was sitting next to Ben requested his tab, and Keira left Ben to his thoughts as she cashed out the Rodian’s bill. Ben took a sip of the drink she made him, and ensued into a coughing fit after swallowing. “Force that burns” he thought as he heaved. As the Rodian was leaving, Keira noticed Ben struggling with the drink.

She grinned slyly before saying “Don’t worry if you can’t finish it. Most would not even dare to try that drink. I’m impressed you’re still intact.”

“Is that a challenge?” Ben arched his brow as he lifted the glass in front of him, tilting the liquid within. As he peered at it, he added “It is certainly the strongest drink I’ve had.”

“So, where are you from?” Keira said, changing the subject.

“From?” Ben coughed again, trying to settle his throat from the burning sensation the liquid left him. 

“Yes, you’re certainly not from Tatooine.” 

Ben thought for a moment, not wanting to provide too much information about himself, before responding, “Coruscant.”

“I figured from your accent” 

“What about you? Are you from here?”

Keira’s happy appearance suddenly faded as she glanced towards the ground. She seemed to take in a deep breath before replying, “I’m from Mandalore.”

“Mandalore?” Ben said, taken back. “Well no wonder you said you can take care of yourself. Mandalorians are well known to be arguably the best warriors in the galaxy.”

“ I know basic maneuvers to protect myself, but…” she paused before adding , “ I grew up during a period where Mandalore wasn’t exactly what it is traditionally known to be. Mandalorian combat was no longer being taught when I was younger.” 

“Ah” Ben remarked aloud as he thought of Satine, and his heart began to ache.

She huffed, “It’s Ironic...Mandalore was supposed to be at peace with it’s new pacifist ways, and yet a civil war erupted. It shows just how ignorant our politicians were.”

“Mandalore’s duchess wanted the best for Mandalore’s people, I can assure you.” 

“What would you know of Mandalore?” She snapped. “If the duchess truly cared about her people, she would have respected Mandalore’s traditional values which reigned for thousands of years. She divided us, and made Mandalore vulnerable to outsiders.” Keira crossed her arms in front of herself and looked away from him. Ben had released he had made a grave mistake bringing up Mandalorian politics with her. 

“My apologies, I-” but before Ben could finish his sentence , Keira interrupted.

“No, don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. That was uncalled for.” Keira said facing him.

“It’s this drink you gave me…..” he joked. She chuckled, and then looked at him perplexed.

“How did you know about Mandalore’s pacifist duchess?” 

“Uh” a lump started to form in his throat, unrelated to his drink, “I was very good friends with a Mandalorian.”

“Was? What happened?”

“Unfortunately they died…. serving Mandalore.” Ben noticed his voice cracked a bit as he said this.

“I’m sorry, what was their name? I might have known them.”

Before Ben could answer, he was interrupted by a Toydarian. “Ben Kenobi, what are you doing here?” the winged alien asked. Ben looked over to see Bub hovering about two seats to his left. Bub owned a hardware shop in Mos Eisley, and Ben often bought tools and spare parts from him. He wasn't exactly fond of the Toydarian, but his shop had all the parts Ben needed to maintain his old hut in the Jundland Wastes.

“Hello Bub. Well, I stopped by for a drink of course.”

Bub peered at Ben’s drink in front of him. “Huh, that’s definitely some drink you got there. You must either be at your wits end, or trying to impress a woman.” Bub nodded his head over to Kiera emphasizing he was referring to her. Keira and Ben’s eyes both caught one anothers. She smirked before walking away to assist other customers.

Ben's eyes followed her before glancing around the Catina. It was starting to get crowded.“ I think it’s time I ought to get going, I’ve got quite the journey back to my abode” he said as he started to put a handful of credits on the bar top. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you out in months Kenobi, and you’re already going back into hiding, huh? Afraid you’ll get questioned by the locals in here?” Bub said, finally taking a seat. 

Ben did not answer him as he got out of his seat. “You have a good evening , Bub.” As he started to walk out of the cantina he felt someone softly touch his arm.

“Hey, I said the drinks were on me,” Kiera said, holding the credits out to him.

Ben lifted his hand “No, I insist, take them.”  

“You didn’t think you were leaving without saying a goodbye, did ya Kenobi?”

Ben started to blush. She used his last name. She must have overhead Bub using it. He turned to face her directly. “Goodbye? I was hoping there would be a next time,” he said. 

“I hope so too. See you soon then?” She said with a smile.

“All in good time.” He thought for a moment, and then added. “Soon.”

Kiera smiled, and let her eyes part from Ben’s as she went back to the bar. Ben turned, and put his cloak over his head , but before he exited the cantina’s door, he turned back to look at  Keira once more before turning to leave. “She’s stunning,” he thought.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

After Ben had left, the green Twi’lek came over to Kiera and nudged her saying, “So, Ben Kenobi, huh?”

“He’s cute, right?” 

“He’s not bad. I’m pretty sure he’s like 10 years older than you though!”

Kiera rolled her eyes, “Rajah….”

Rajah lifted her hands up in defence. “Hey, nothing wrong with that. Just be careful, I’ve heard some weird things about him.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know…. Something about how he was a soldier in the Clone Wars, and how he is kriffed up in the head.”

“Kriffed up in the head?” Kiera repeated questionly.

“Yeah, like PTSD.”

Kiera sighed while preparing a few drinks and then said, “I think everyone on Tatooine is a bit kriffed up in the head.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Both Rajah and Kiera looked at one another and then laughed, before going back to their work. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[glimmerglanger]

If you are still taking SLO!AU POV requests, I’d love to see some of the other Jedi’s thoughts. Like how did Plo Koon feel about basically a child having to endure what he did? Or if Yoda ever worried since that’s his great-grandkid basically? And especially Mace! The cut off argument shown with him and Qui-Gon really intrigued me. I’d love to see what went down with Sidious from his eyes too! Unless you plan to have that missing scene in Anakin’s haha. But I just adore how you depict the Jedi!

OH!!! I really love the Jedi, I’m ngl. ESPECIALLY MACE. So, uh, have some of his angry thoughts about Qui-Gon.

~~~~~

Mace fully expected a chiding about his control of his anger from Master Yoda, when all of this was over. He even acknowledged that he likely needed to follow the advice. He’d been simmering with sharp edged emotions since he’d first received the report from the healers, after all.

The healer spoke plainly during her report, with her mouth turned down and her eyes troubled. Mace listened to each word she said, taking deep, even breathes and resisting the urge to spring to his feet. They’d all known that Qui-Gon’s relationship with his last apprentice was… difficult. But…

Mace exhaled his frustrations - or at least enough of them to function - and requested the task of going to retrieve Qui-Gon. He tamped down his emotions when Qui-Gon finally arrived at his quarters, Obi-Wan walking at his side as though in a dream.

Mace hoped that there was a very good reason for the haunted look in Obi-Wan’s eyes.

#

There was, at the least, a reason. Qui-Gon shared his thoughts with them in the Council chambers, the situation playing out in sharp-edged detail. The alternative choices would have - likely - led to less desired consequences. Sometimes, in the field, actions had to be taken, even if they were far less than ideal.

The issue could have been allowed to rest, based only on the facts.

But Qui-Gon’s memories showed not only the facts. Tinges of his emotions came through, too. Want and desire. Guilt. 

Mace flexed his fingers in and out as the questioning continued, jerking to his feet when Qui-Gon finally admitted that he’d had some type of vision about his apprentice and a child. “Speak to Padawan Kenobi, we shall,” Yoda said, before Mace could get a word out. “Hear his side of the story, we will.”

#

Obi-Wan answered all of their questions dutifully, thrumming with anxiety and confusion. There were still bruises, fading on his jaw. He did not feel comforted when he finally left the Council chambers, after hours of questioning.

Mace leaned back in his chair after Obi-Wan left. He scrubbed a hand over his face, a headache pounding at his temples, and said, “He should be moved to a different Master. Force. I’ll train him, if necessary.”

“A Padawan of your own, already you have,” Yoda said, calmly, and Mace gritted his teeth together. He wasn’t sure, in that moment, why he couldn’t train two of them at once. They were both old enough to behave, he was sure, and Depa would--

“I have no Padawan at the moment,” Master Koon said, leaning forward in his chair. His emotions were all close to the surface, as well, though with far less anger than Mace currently felt. But, then, Plo Koon tended not towards anger. 

“I am not sure removing the boy is the wisest decision,” Master Ti said, her brow furrowed. “He is already… emotionally unbalanced. You felt his concern. To disrupt him further, at this time…” She shook her head.

“Master Jinn emotionally unbalances him,” Mace replied, scowling, and Shaak Ti sighed at him. The conversation spiralled out from there, into an argument, that ended, finally, with a decision that Mace neither liked nor approved of, but…

But he’d known he would not agree with all of the Council’s decisions, when he joined.

#

Mace resisted the urge to strike Qui-Gon, in the Council’s chambers, when he tried, once again, to bring up this supposed vision of his. His visions had ever caused problems. Or, perhaps it was only his willingness to presume that he understood what they meant.

Mace willingly admitted that his anger was too close to the surface of his thoughts, perhaps too often. He willingly admitted it was not a problem Qui-Gon had. But his arrogance had the potential to be just as destructive.

Still, the Council had ruled. All Mace could do was monitor Kenobi’s mental state, going forward. They were aware of the situation. Qui-Gon had been instructed to keep his attentions… appropriate. And, in any case, Kenobi seemed relieved not to have his training disrupted.

#

Kenobi looked on death’s door, when Qui-Gon brought him back to the Temple. All the color had gone from his skin. His breath rattled, weakly, in his chest. The healers swarmed around the pair of them, spiriting Kenobi away. Mace arrived in the healers’ halls in time to watch them fold around the boy, concern radiating outwards.

Qui-Gon stood there, as they worked, arms limp at his sides. He was covered with blood. Most of it appeared to be days old, as though he had not changed since… the attack. He’d provided only brief reports about what happened to the Council, during his trip back to Coruscant.

There were dark circles under his eyes, when he turned to stare over at Mace. He said, low and cracking, “You’ve wanted to strike me. For what I did.”

Mace glanced at him and then past, to the knot of the healers. That hot anger was not foremost in his thoughts. Kenobi’s Force signature wavered, and one of the Healers made a sharp sound, fully crawling up onto his bed to do something.

“I think,” Qui-Gon said, dragging Mace’s attention back, “perhaps you should.”

“Your apprentice needs you right now,” Mace snapped, shaking his head and turning on his heel. “I’m going to bring Master Yoda here. Make yourself useful.”

By the time he returned, resisting the urge to bodily lift Yoda to carry him along, Qui-Gon was gone. 

He didn’t return for weeks.