Chapter Text
The future has many paths — choose wisely.
“Initiate Kenobi,” said Vokara Che, checking his medical datapad for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Your vitals seem to be fine— well, your heart rate was a little fast for a while there— and we can’t find anything physically wrong with you.”
“That’s good news,” Obi-Wan said, holding a cloth to his nose as it continued to bleed, the corpses of other used towels scattered around him. “I’d hate to think this wasn’t normal.”
Vokara gave him a beleaguered look. “However, you do seem to have experienced some psychic trauma.”
The look Obi-Wan shot her over the cloth covering his nose was so dry that a lesser woman would have gone immediately for a glass of water.
“It’s unusual for Jedi to develop such a jump in their prescient abilities so late in life,” Vokara said. “Are you certain that what you experienced was a vision of the future?”
“Yes,” said Obi-Wan, who was more or less lying through his teeth. “I’m pretty damned sure.”
Here’s what had happened.
Obi-Wan had been on Endor, watching the Rebels celebrate the defeat of the Death Star, the restoration of democracy, etc., etc. He had been avoiding awkward eye contact with Force-ghost Anakin and amusedly watching pairs of people go off into the underbrush to celebrate.
But then he’d felt a tug, and a pull, and he’d woken up in the Initiate dorms at the Temple, almost fifty years in the past. He’d screamed so hard he’d blown out all the lights on that floor, cracked the ‘fresher mirror in half, and then his nose had started to bleed.
He’d been a little feverish for a while— adult memories being shoved into a little body, Obi-Wan suspected— and had somehow ended up in the Halls of Healing. Then he’d been poked and prodded to within an inch of his life, and, among all the chaos, had managed to give off the impression that he could see the future.
Which, well, he could— just in the sense that it was limited to the Future of Obi-Wan Kenobi, plus a lot of galactic political kriffery and several long sad years on Tatooine.
His nose had finally stopped bleeding, which was a definite plus. Master Che stuck a tool up his nose that looked suspiciously like a torture instrument and burned shut the capillaries or something like that. He liked to think that was protocol, and she wasn’t just getting payback for him snarking at her earlier.
Yoda sat on a table in front of him, peering closely. “Feel better now, Initiate Kenobi, you do?”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said.
“Hm, hmm,” Yoda said.
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said.
Yoda’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Many things you said, Obi-Wan, senseless things.”
“Well, I was delirious at the time, Master.”
“Hmm, perhaps,” Yoda said. “Other things you predicted as well, Obi-Wan. Asked for your Master, you did. Unaware, I was, that Master Jinn had taken on a padawan.”
Obi-Wan grinned back, a reflex at the mirth in Yoda’s eyes. “I don’t think he has, Master Yoda.”
“Aware, you were, that I had long thought Qui-Gon needed a new padawan?” Yoda said. “Aware, you were, that I suggested
you?”
“Not before, Master, no,” Obi-Wan said. “But I’m sure the Force will do as the Force wills.”
Yoda laughed creakily. “And the Force wills for Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn to be bonded?”
“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said. “I only know what I saw.”
That, too, was also kind of a lie. Certainly, he didn’t know the whole future— even observation of an event changed it. But while Obi-Wan didn’t control the will of the Force, he did control his own will.
Will— more like would. He would be Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan.
He expected some resistance to this.
Obi-Wan was pleased when Qui-Gon himself came to see him in the Med Wing the day he was being discharged, even though he knew what he was there for.
“Ah…” Qui-Gon said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway while Master Che finished with his exit tests. “Initiate Kenobi. I can… come back later.”
“That’s all right,” Obi-Wan said. “I need witnesses here to make sure Master Che doesn’t stab me with any more needles for no reason.”
“I was checking your blood tests,” Vokara said.
Obi-Wan shot her a sunny smile. They had developed quite the friendly rivalry since Obi-Wan had returned from the future, whereupon Obi-Wan was as annoying as possible and Vokara had to pretend not to laugh about it. She wrinkled her nose back at him.
“All done,” she said. “Ungrateful brat. I’ll be out of your way now, Master Jinn. You’re the one who’s going to be Obi-Wan’s master?”
Qui-Gon looked supremely awkward.
Vokara patted Obi-Wan on the head and exited through the door, forcing Qui-Gon to come closer, which seemed like the last thing he wanted to do.
“Hello, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said. He was still in the white clothes standard to the Hall of Healing, hooked up to a monitor while the last of the forms were checked off to release him. He looked, even to himself, ridiculously small and young.
Qui-Gon seemed to realize this as well and cleared his throat. “Are you feeling well? Has everything, er, checked out?”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said. “They put it all down to psychic shock.” He was trying his best not to find this hopelessly endearing. Qui-Gon so desperately did not want to be there— Tahl or one of his other friends had almost definitely made him come.
“Ah,” Qui-Gon said. “Good.” He cleared his throat again. “Master Yoda has told me that you had a vision— a vision of me taking you as my padawan. I understand that you’re going to age out soon.”
Obi-Wan blinked up at him from the bed, as deliberately cute and innocent as he could muster.
“And, that is to say…” Qui-Gon said. “Well, I’m very sorry, Obi-Wan, but I’m not looking for a padawan at the moment. I mean ever. I will be taking no more padawans.”
“All right, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said. “Thank you for telling me.”
Qui-Gon paused, trying to find a trap. “It’s not that I have anything against you,” he said. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m sure if you did know me, you would have a lot more specific examples of why this would be a bad idea.”
Qui-Gon blinked. “So, you’re not upset?”
“I can’t expect you to take me on on the word of a vision alone,” Obi-Wan said. “I do appreciate your candor.”
Qui-Gon was clearly suspicious of the ease with which he was pulling this off. Possibly he had been expecting tears, or yelling. “Well, good,” he said. He started inching towards the door. “I hope you feel better, Initiate Kenobi. I’m glad this misunderstanding could be cleared up. So long as you understand that you won’t be my padawan…”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon froze.
“Sorry?” he said.
“I only said that I understood why you didn’t want to take me as your padawan learner at the moment. I never said that I wouldn’t be your padawan in the future.”
Qui-Gon worked this out in his head. “It’s the same thing,” he said.
“It is not,” Obi-Wan said. “The will of the Force is very mysterious, Master Jinn.”
Qui-Gon squinted at him. “Did Tholme put you up to this?”
Obi-Wan hid a smile behind a hand. “No. I’m only telling you that the Force wants us to be partners, Master Jinn— and it might happen sooner than you think.”
“I don’t think so,” Qui-Gon said. He started to back away. “I don’t believe in Force visions. The future is always in motion.”
“Maybe so,” Obi-Wan said. “But when destiny calls, the chosen have no choice.” That was a Yoda maxim, and, ironically, one of those that Obi-Wan didn’t believe in, not entirely. Well, he couldn’t, if this whole being in the past thing was going to work out.
Qui-Gon made a sour face and, wisely, fled.
Obi-Wan sat back in his bed and grinned. Another Yoda saying: A plan is only as good as those who see it through.
“What are you smiling about, Kenobi?” Vokara asked suspiciously when she reentered. “What have you done now?”
“Would I do anything, Vokara?” he asked.
“I suspect you know the answer to that,” she said.
Obi-Wan’s friends were waiting for him in the Initiate dorms when he got back, which shouldn’t have been a surprise but was.
“Obi-Wan!” Bant said, throwing herself into his arms. “You’re back! You should have told us and we’d have come with you down from the Halls!”
What Obi-Wan thought, but did not say, was that he had forgotten this was an option. “I didn’t want to put anyone out.” Apparently this was in-character enough that Bant squeezed him a little harder in her hug, in retaliation. Obi-Wan took a moment, just the briefest of seconds, to close his eyes and feel her presence.
Bant Eerin had been his best friend for his entire childhood, all the way until she died in the early years of the Clone Wars. She’d never taken on troops, and had died in a Separatist attack while providing medical aid to civilians.
Then he stepped back. “Hi, guys.” Garen Muln and Reeft were there too, of course. Other children were poking their heads out from doorframes and around the hallway, patently curious.
Bant, Reeft, and Garen were done with restraint, and they piled on top of Obi-Wan, a tackle-hug more like an akk-dog pile than anything else. Obi-Wan laughed, suddenly feeling lighter in the Force than he had for years.
They then traveled to the refectory, because Obi-Wan had forgotten how children were always hungry. His friends seemed adamant that a good meal would cure all that ailed him.
“Is it true you can see the future now?” Reeft asked, mouth full.
Obi-Wan was staring off into the distance— at the life in the Temple, untouched by the war or the Purge. So many Jedi…
“Obi-Wan!” Garen said, and elbowed him.
Obi-Wan jumped. “What?”
“Can you really see the future?” Garen repeated. “Do you know what’s going to happen next?”
That one didn’t take a genius to figure out. “Well, for starters, Reeft’s going to steal the bread roll of my plate.”
Reeft paused mid-motion, hand already halfway to Obi-Wan’s tray. “Showwy,” he said, still in the middle of eating something else.
“Take it,” Obi-Wan said, pushing it towards him. “I’m not hungry.”
Reeft reached for it, but then there was a loud stomp underneath the table— a small Calamaran foot, perhaps— and he winced. Bant was giving him a death glare. “Ah,” he said. “Never mind. I’m… not hungry either.”
Garen, who had clearly missed Bant’s early offense in a campaign to Take Care of Obi-Wan, gaped at Reeft. “Are you— “ he said, and then winced as he too got kicked.
Obi-Wan laughed. “I’m not starving to death,” he said. “It was just a little Force trauma.” And practically every other type of trauma in the galaxy, but they were twelve. They didn’t need to know that.
“Yeah, right, Oafy-Wan,” a voice said behind him. Obi-Wan felt his eyebrows crinkle as he struggled to place the voice— he was sure it was familiar. “You probably faked the whole thing so they would feel sorry for you and wouldn’t fail you out of the Temple.”
The voice came around the table, and Obi-Wan reconciled the bad nickname with the cruel words, just as Bruck Chun came into view.
“Go away, Bruck,” Bant said. “He was sick.”
Obi-Wan stared.
“Sure,” Bruck said. “ Sick. We all heard about his pathetic made up vision…” He made a weird face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Bruck Chun. Arguably the first of many Jedi lost to the Dark— dead before he got a chance to do anything else. Obi-Wan’s first real loss.
Had he ever thought this childish taunting was so bad? It was almost nostalgic.
Obi-Wan realized everyone was staring at him. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, Bruck.” Then he turned back to his meal.
Poor Bruck didn’t know how to react to this. He had been getting ready for a fight— he and Obi-Wan always were— and didn’t know what to do with deescalation. Obi-Wan was good at this, subverting people’s expectations and turning them to his advantage. He continued eating.
“Yeah, well…” Bruck muttered. “Freak.” He had a squad of other bullies at his back; he turned and left, and they followed.
Slowly, Obi-Wan’s friends turned to him.
He shrugged. “Tired of fighting,” he said, and smiled, his own private amusement at the situation. Another for the very long list of things to do in the new timeline; Bruck Chun would probably take to it as enthusiastically as Qui-Gon had.
He ripped the bread roll in half; ate one half and gave the other to Reeft. Reeft took it, a little hesitantly, and shoved the whole thing into his mouth at once.
Then he choked on it, of course, which set off all the children to laughing. Obi-Wan clapped him on the back.
It was worryingly easy to convince the Temple that Obi-Wan had advanced future-seeing powers. He knew almost everyone in the Temple, for starters— masters, padawans who would grow up to be masters, and some crechelings who would get embroiled in the war like the rest of them.
Then there was what, in the days of the Clone Wars, some misinformed Healers had called hypervigilance, and what Obi-Wan called being sensible. It meant that he was very hard to sneak up on, adding to the rumors that he always knew who was coming. Compounded with a slightly advanced knowledge of gossip and the increased perception of an adult with many years of life experience, and, well. He was convincing.
“I don’t know the test answers,” Obi-Wan said, lips twitching. “And if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Oh, come on, Obi!” Garen said. “I didn’t have time to study for Galactic Politics; you know Master Sey’s exams are difficult!”
“I only see possible futures,” Obi-Wan said. “Not ways to misuse the Force.”
“You’re no fun,” Garen said, but he put his arms around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and walked him all the way to class anyway.
Obi-Wan, in consideration of his friend’s feelings, and also because knowing too much of the future could be dangerous, missed a few questions on the exam.
There was a noise, mostly a grunt but half a yelp. Obi-Wan opened his eyes to see Qui-Gon Jinn staring resignedly at him. “Did you do this on purpose?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I got here first, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said. Here was meditating at the top of a little hill in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, secluded by a drooping tree and made hard to access by the way the rich grass hid the steps up.
“Oh,” Qui-Gon said. “Right.”
Obi-Wan grinned. “You’re welcome to join me, Master.”
Qui-Gon wavered, but this was his favorite spot to meditate. Obi-Wan had forgotten that. It had become his favorite spot to meditate, mostly because Anakin had never found it.
“Fine,” he said, and settled down cross-legged, pointedly as far away from Obi-Wan as he could get. He closed his eyes. Obi-Wan followed suit and smiled.
“And don’t do that,” Qui-Gon said.
“Don’t do what, Master?”
“That. Call me Master.”
Obi-Wan kept his legs folded and his palms facing the air serenely. “I wasn’t aware you had been demoted to a Jedi Knight.”
“You know what I mean. Like Master.”
“Master,” Obi-Wan parroted back.
“ Master.”
“Mahh-steeer,” Obi-Wan said.
Qui-Gon snorted, containing a laugh. “It’s not funny,” he said.
“It is a little bit,” Obi-Wan said.
Qui-Gon huffed. “Just meditate.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Master Windu is staring at us,” Bant said, swimming up to the edge of the pool to whisper in Obi-Wan’s ear. They were swimming in the Gardens, all four of them, enjoying a hot day after classes.
Obi-Wan was sitting under one of the rock outfalls that was streaming water, softly letting it mist up around him with the Force, and on occasion letting some of the cold water through to soak his shoulders and hair.
Garen paddled over, and Reeft close behind.
They all looked over, then pretended not to. Windu was indeed staring— in theory he was having a conversation with Plo Koon, but in reality it looked like he was just letting Plo talk himself out, while glaring in the direction of the younglings.
“Huh,” Obi-Wan said. “So he is.”
He reached up a hand to wave, but Garen caught the movement. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, and pulled Obi-Wan into the water with a splash. Obi-Wan came up sputtering, and obviously had to pull Garen back in fully in retaliation.
Bant splashed the two of them when they came up for air and Reeft used the Force to make the water rise in a wave from behind, soaking all of them at once. They hit water back and forth at each other for a while.
Then Obi-Wan came up for air at the water’s edge and came face-to-face with Mace Windu. “Banthakarking—” Obi-Wan said, startled, before Bant shot out of the water and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Hello, Master Windu,” Bant said uncertainly, moving her hand away from Obi-Wan once she was sure he was done swearing. “Do you need something?”
Plo was still standing behind Windu, a little ways away and watching with banked amusement. Garen and Reeft finally realized what was going on and stopped goofing off by the waterside.
“You’re giving me a headache,” Mace told Obi-Wan.
“I’ve been known to have that effect,” Obi-Wan said.
Mace gave him an exasperated look. “What is wrong with your shatterpoints, young man?”
Obi-Wan felt his mouth twitch with amusement. Soaking wet, his hair plastered to his face, hanging half off the edge of a pool— he was sure he looked very unimpressive at the moment. Mace didn’t seem to care, or possibly he just didn’t notice. “I suppose you’ve heard that I can see the future.”
“See, yes,” Mace said. “But unless you’re involved in practically every major galactic event for the next twenty or so years, I can’t see why a little Initiate should have so many shatterpoints around him— so many strange shatterpoints.”
That was Mace’s ability; to see the pressure points in the Force, where a moment may crack the major events of history one way or the other. Obi-Wan had a lot of cracks.
“My deepest apologies, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan said, blinking innocently at him. “I never meant to cause you trouble.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Mace said, looking at him and then looking away with a wince. “I’m going to find something for this headache,” he muttered, and stalked away.
“May the Force be with you!” Obi-Wan called out at his back. Mace harrumphed audibly, and Obi-Wan smiled.
Plo lingered behind a moment, with a face that might have been intimidating if you didn’t know the impassiveness of his rebreather mask. “Initiate Kenobi,” he said. “Initiate Eerin.”
“Hello, Master Plo,” they chorused.
“You are causing quite the uproar, Obi-Wan,” Plo said. “Just the other day I saw Master Jinn actively running away from you.”
“He thought I hadn’t caught sight of him yet,” Obi-Wan said, with satisfaction. “He went really fast, didn’t he?”
Bant looked like she might have caught Master Windu’s headache.
“Indeed,” Plo said, eyeing Obi-Wan with an unusual look. “Dead-set on Qui-Gon, are you?”
Obi-Wan blinked, genuinely surprised for the first time since he’d returned to the Temple. Initiate Obi-Wan was a scrawny little misfit with anger problems, fit only for someone who took on pathetic life-forms as a matter of course. “Oh,” he said. “ Oh. I’m sorry, Master Koon, but the Force really is very insistent.”
There was a rumbled laugh from behind the mask. “I suspected so. May the Force be with you, Initiates.”
They echoed the sentiment back at the Master. He turned to leave, then cocked his head. Then, without looking back, he used the Force to push a giant wave over their heads, drenching the four Initiates with what Obi-Wan considered to be excessive glee for a Jedi Master.
They shrieked as the water hit them, and went back to their play.
Bant caught Obi-Wan while Garen and Reeft were simultaneously trying to climb atop each other’s shoulders.
“Why didn’t ask Master Plo if he would take you as his padawan?” she asked. “Obi, you’re about to age out.”
Oh. She was worried about him. He slung an arm around her waist and pulled her in. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about me. Master Jinn takes me, or he doesn’t.”
To be honest, in some ways, it would be easier if Qui-Gon didn’t take him. It would be exceedingly easy to run from the Agri-Corps; and from there he could blend in pretty much anywhere. It would be less problematic to get the access he needed in the Senate without a Master watching over his shoulder, better to only have to worry about himself, easier to dip in and out of the galaxy to make the major changes that would be necessary.
But, well… he didn’t want to.
Bant huffed. “I don’t know how you’re so calm about this all of a sudden,” she said. “And I don’t know how you talk to those masters without dying of fright.”
Obi-Wan smiled. “I guess eventually you learn that they’re not the most frightening things in the galaxy— not by a long shot.”
Ironically, more than anything it was the “Ha, did you see this coming?” that warned Obi-Wan to step out of the way.
He was walking through the refectory with his tray of food, alone, for once. His friends had been persuaded to stop fussing mostly because they had gotten busy. They were still keeping an eye out on him, as if his psychic episode could repeat at any time.
He stepped just in time to avoid an outstretched foot, attached to Bruck Chun. Bruck, it seemed, hadn’t expected Obi-Wan to actually dodge, and he scowled as Obi-Wan tried to go around him.
One of Bruck’s friends blocked him from going further, and the rest formed up in a semi-circle so he had nowhere to go. Obi-Wan resisted rolling his eyes too obviously.
“Hello,” Obi-Wan said.
“Oafy-Wan,” Bruck said. “I can’t believe you’re still here. No one’s sent you away yet? Everybody already knows you’d be the worst Jedi ever.”
“That’s quite something to live up to,” Obi-Wan said.
“Don’t try to be all wise now that you know you’re getting thrown out,” Bruck said. Obi-Wan almost felt bad for him— he was looking forward to a fight, and Obi-Wan wasn’t giving it to him. He remembered, vaguely, what it was like to be that age, with no better way to get your fears and insecurities out. Eventually they just exploded. “It’s not going to work. Master Jinn will never take you. You’re destined to be alone, Obi-Wan.”
“Let me through, Bruck,” Obi-Wan said, a little stung despite himself. He tried to step forward, only to get rebounded back by one of Bruck’s gang of bullies. He sighed. “Listen, I would simply love to stand here and commence a battle of the wits with you, but I don’t enjoy fighting unarmed opponents. Why don’t you just go get some lunch, hmm?”
Bruck pushed him. Obi-Wan hadn’t truly been expecting it— he fell. His tray scattered everywhere.
The refectory was empty-ish at this time of day, but even the Knights and other initiates who saw the scene didn’t seem to think anything was truly out of the ordinary. He would have to make up some truly gruesome futures to scare them later.
Well. That wasn’t so much fun when you knew the actual gruesome futures they were destined for.
“Really?” Obi-Wan asked.
Bruck wound back to kick him, and Obi-Wan held up a hand, ready to push back with the Force.
But then Bruck was yanked back by his collar. “That’s hardly sporting, is it, Initiate?” a familiar voice asked, and despite himself Obi-Wan smiled. “A Jedi does not kick a man while he’s down.”
Qui-Gon was already taller than most people, but to a pack of twelve year old bullies, he loomed like a Wookie. Some of them audibly squeaked.
Bruck’s eyes got impossibly wide. “Uh!” he said. “He just tripped.”
“He did not,” Qui-Gon said. “You may run along to your Clan Master, and tell them that you need two demerits; one for pushing Obi-Wan down, and one for lying about it.”
Bruck deflated, still held by the scruff of his neck like an unruly Loth-kitten. Most of his friends had already fled. “Yes, Master,” he said. Qui-Gon put him down. Bruck shot Obi-Wan a venomous glare and darted off.
Obi-Wan dusted himself off.
“You should have stopped him,” Qui-Gon said. “You should have seen that coming.”
“And what was I supposed to do?” Obi-Wan said, amused, gathering up the now trashed food into a pile. “Take him out at the knees with my training saber? He’s twelve years old, Master.”
A cleaning droid beeped at Obi-Wan in annoyance, bumping him aside to reach the tray.
“Sorry,” he told it, and accepted Qui-Gon’s hand to his feet.
“It’s not acceptable behavior,” Qui-Gon insisted. He started walking, and, automatically, Obi-Wan fell into step beside him, a pace behind. “He should know better.”
“Bruck’s just scared,” Obi-Wan said. “And lashing out. He wants to be a Jedi so badly.”
Qui-Gon made an uncomfortable noise. “You realize I didn’t help you because—?”
“What?” Obi-Wan said. “Oh, yes, I know. You still won’t take me.” Qui-Gon was taking him back to the mess line, he realized. Ensuring that he ate. Cute. “Will you eat lunch with me, Master Jinn?”
Qui-Gon gave him a suspicious look.
“To protect me from bullies, of course,” Obi-Wan said with a straight face. “No one would mess with someone so venerable as you.”
Qui-Gon got a look like I know you’re just flattering me so that you can try to convince me to take you on as my padawan, but I do like being flattered, but don’t try anything. Obi-Wan gave him an angelic who-me look back.
“Fine,” Qui-Gon said. “But no talking about apprenticeship.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Obi-Wan said.
Galactic Politics was a boring class if you were an Initiate— if you were Obi-Wan Kenobi, you were practically comatose by the end of it.
He moved from his usual seat in the front, to the apparent worry of the Master teaching the class, and instead sat in the back with his datapads most days. The intrigue of the Senate was a little easier to parse when you already knew how things were going to turn out, though admittedly not as much as you might think.
Senator Palpatine of Naboo was slowly starting his rise to power. Obi-Wan was trying to figure out who his master was, if he had even started training as a Sith yet.
If Obi-Wan knew Sith— which, unfortunately, he did— Sidious would probably have killed his Master before taking on Maul as an apprentice. The smart thing to do would be to wait until Palpatine found Maul, and be sure that the master was dead, and then to kill Palpatine, and possibly Maul as well. But Obi-Wan didn’t know when that had happened, and, to be quite honest, the plan didn’t sit well with him.
Maul was a victim too, as much as Savage and Ventress and Anakin and even Dooku in a way. Besides, who knew what horrors the Sith were wreaking on the galaxy even now?
At the moment, it seemed, passing bills to limit the exportation of flowers from Naboo.
Obi-Wan sighed and shut off his datapad for a moment. He squinted at the front of the room. Master Kadrian Sey had gotten stuck with the class this semester, a female Zabrak who looked less than pleased with the honor. The holoprojector was on— yes, they were reviewing basic protocol on worlds that were not Jedi-friendly. Seeing as how most worlds in the Republic during the war, then shortly all of them under the Empire, were not Jedi-friendly, Obi-Wan felt he could safely skip this class.
There was a sharp tug on Obi-Wan’s shirt with the Force, then shortly after, a message from Bant on his datapad— Obi-Wan, pay attention! She’s going to notice!
So Obi-Wan tried his best to focus. Considering he could— and had— taught this class himself, it was easier said than done.
Obi-Wan was a little nervous.
He’d been practicing in the lightsaber salle, mostly alone, for a few days, but he still wasn’t sure. Today was the tournament in which the Initiates were supposed to show their skills to prospective masters. Obi-Wan was supposed to do this by fighting Bruck.
Why anyone thought this would be a good idea was beyond him. Putting two boys together already known for starting violent fights with each other didn’t seem like it would make for a good showcasing of skills; just of grudges. Maybe whoever put together the Initiate matches wanted some entertainment.
Obi-Wan would be sticking to Ataru, since it was what he’d basically focused on as a child, all the way up through his apprenticeship. He was a little rusty— twenty years in the desert and four or so more as an incorporeal being did that to you.
But still, he was nervous.
He was afraid he’d beat Bruck Chun too soundly. No matter how you looked at it, it was a decidedly unfair fight— the Negotiator, a fully-grown man who’d fought in a war, the Sith-killer, Jed Master, against a twelve year old boy who was expecting to fight another twelve year old boy.
Winning a fight was one thing. So was losing. But making sure you won, while pretending to be worse at saber fighting than you were, and also making sure you didn’t hurt anyone, and also giving the impression that you were trying as hard as you could, was another.
Well, there was nothing for it. Obi-Wan stretched quietly. His friends had all given him sympathetic looks that morning— Quinlan had even stopped by before heading off-planet again—, worried that he would be disappointed when Qui-Gon didn’t pick him. They were all watching now, from the observation window above the salle. There were a lot of masters there too, more than Obi-Wan remembered.
Finally, Bruck emerged from the locker room, looking ready for a real fight.
There was a Master there to referee; she made them stand at the proper distance, explained the rules, and had them bow to each other. Bruck’s bow was, Obi-Wan noted, a little shallow.
Obi-Wan waited for Bruck to strike first, and then the duel was on for real.
Ataru was an acrobatic form, fine for dueling but not so great when you were talking Sith or battle droids. Bruck was still on Shii Cho, and Obi-Wan found himself accidentally cataloguing how he might teach the other boy.
Bruck was good with the strong, unpredictable attacks of the form, but it wasn’t as good against a single opponent, and it was particularly tough to use against someone doing a whole lot of fancy flips and jumps, like Ataru. Bruck would do well with Makashi.
Uh-oh. Obi-Wan was getting bored. Analyzing your opponent’s fighting style was only fun when you could taunt them about it, as he had often done to Ventress.
Obi-Wan kicked Bruck in the chest, knocking him back a few feet, and twirled his lightsaber in one hand, recentering himself.
Bruck darted forward and sliced downward, clearly expecting Obi-Wan to fall for the trick and lower his saber. Instead he kept it where it was and caught Bruck’s lightsaber in a lock as Bruck suddenly reversed direction and aimed higher up.
A good way to break a saber lock was to throw your opponent backwards with the Force, or to catch the hilt of your lightsaber on theirs and twist down— if you were very lucky, you could end up with both sabers. But neither of those were Initiate moves, so Obi-Wan just ducked and somersaulted back, narrowly avoiding Bruck’s blade.
Their blades crossed again, and again. They certainly had the attention of the audience; every time there was a near miss, he could hear most of the younger ones drawing in quick breaths. With that same part of his brain that liked to flirt with people, usually Siths, who were trying to kill him, Obi-Wan let a few of Bruck’s attempts get a little closer past his guard than they should have, and was rewarded with the onlookers getting even more rowdy.
Bruck was getting frustrated. His attacks were getting more reckless, going for speed and strength over style. He twisted his lightsaber under Obi-Wan’s and tried to stab him in the shoulder.
Obi-Wan got an uncomfortable double-vision, the training salle versus the Room of a Thousand Fountains; a brawl with no real stakes versus Bruck with a red lightsaber at the top of a waterfall. That wasn’t the first death Obi-Wan had seen, but it had been one of the most traumatic, watching a boy who would rather die than subject himself to the judgement of the Temple afterwards.
Their sabers clashed.
Obi-Wan struck his lightsaber at Bruck’s saber arm, and Bruck caught it with his own blade, then used the hand not occupied to try to punch Obi-Wan. This was technically an illegal move; or it would have been if it landed. Obi-Wan caught it easily, and their forearms caught each others’, locked just like their lightsabers were in the other hand.
Obi-Wan spun fluidly backwards, and brought his lightsaber up to cut at Bruck’s neck, knowing the other boy would easily hit it aside.
But he didn’t.
A lightsaber at sparring strength wouldn’t take off anyone’s head, but it would hurt an awful lot at the speed Obi-Wan was swinging it at, and burn too. Hurriedly, Obi-Wan halted himself mid-strike, which was arguably a more difficult move than he’d intended to show off.
Bruck was still standing there, frozen and staring at him.
Obi-Wan looked at the assembled Jedi, who looked just as puzzled. “Bruck?” Obi-Wan said.
“What was that?” Bruck said.
Another glance at the gallery. Master Yoda, and Qui-Gon next to him, were leaning forward in concern. “What was what?”
“That,” Bruck said. “There was… a waterfall?”
Obi-Wan could feel himself pale. His fingers were suddenly nerveless, and he deactivated his lightsaber.
“Oh,” he said. “I withdraw from the tournament,” He bowed jerkily, once at Bruck and once at the masters in the audience. “Solah.” Then he fled.
He was not sulking. He was… regrouping.
With his head on his knees like a youngling, admittedly, hiding in the Room of a Thousand Fountains where no one would look for him. But he missed the scratch of his beard on his face, missed the weight of his padawan braid against his back, missed his armor, missed being incorporeal.
He’d had a more traumatic life than most. He could sulk. Not that he was.
Footsteps, climbing up the hill. Obi-Wan was only a little surprised to feel his Master’s Force-presence after them.
“Why did you stop the duel?” Qui-Gon asked.
“It wasn’t a fair fight,” Obi-Wan said, muffled by his knees.
“I didn’t see him cheat,” Qui-Gon said.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and finally lifted his head. “He didn’t,” he said. “I accidentally gave him a flash of the future.”
Qui-Gon was standing above him— with Obi-Wan looking at him, he seemed to realize just how greatly he was looming and sat down in front of Obi-Wan. “You see those every day,” Qui-Gon said. “If that was an excuse for losing a fight, you’d never have to spar again."
Obi-Wan smiled, just a little, and shook his head. “It was his future,” he said. “And Bruck’s only twelve years old. He shouldn’t have to live with that.”
“You’re the same age,” Qui-Gon said.
“It’s not a good future,” Obi-Wan said.
“For him or you?”
Obi-Wan shot him a flat look. “Don’t you have some Initiates to watch?”
“Yours was the last fight of the day,” Qui-Gon said serenely. “You would have won, you know.”
“No Master would have taken me either way,” Obi-Wan said. He uncurled and stretched his legs out in front of him, starting to get a little embarrassed. He was still in training tunics, and a little sweaty.
“Ah,” Qui-Gon said guiltily. “I still am not ready for another padawan—”
“I know,” Obi-Wan interrupted him. “Just… not now.” He didn’t really need to be rejected, again, not when he was already feeling like osik , and also had traveled back in time. He was pretty sure that gave him an excuse to wallow, just a little, and if not, just being twelve years old should really be reason enough.
“All right,” Qui-Gon said, then stood up. He lingered awkwardly for a moment. “It was a good performance,” he said, and made his escape.
Obi-Wan felt a little better.
Today’s topic in Galactic Politics was Jedi relationships with political figures, or at least it was for the rest of the class. Obi-Wan figured he had way too much experience in that field anyway. At least not as much as Anakin.
Today Obi-Wan was researching important people in Sheev Palpatine’s life. Any one of them could be a Sith; the only thing that Obi-Wan could narrow it down by was that they were probably older than Palpatine, and had probably known him from a young-ish age.
But a lot of people fit that description, including Palpatine’s grandmother. He was pretty sure it wasn’t her.
Fairly sure.
He was keeping up on recent news as well, and he flipped absently through a newsfeed. Bail Organa had just been inducted into the Junior Senators program for Alderaan. Obi-Wan smiled at the page, hiding it behind a hand.
The Force tugged at him— Bant again— and Obi-Wan looked up just in time for Master Sey to look at him. She was obviously disappointed not to have directly caught him slacking off, but still she raised an eyebrow at him.
“Initiate Kenobi,” she said. “Glad to see you’re paying attention. Perhaps you could tell me how a Jedi diplomat might go about beginning negotiations on Apon 7?”
Obi-Wan blinked. “I would begin, Master, by choosing a neutral meeting ground so as not to offend any planetary factions; then I would ask each side to appoint the same number of representatives.”
Master Sey’s brow wrinkled. “Initiate Kenobi, there are no planetary factions that I am aware of on Apon 7.”
Blast. Obi-Wan had been sure he was close in period— the Apon Civil War had lasted right up until the Clone Wars, when everyone got rather busy.
This would be the point where Bruck— also in this class— would laugh, or scoff in a plausibly low enough way that Master Sey couldn’t get mad at him about it. But things from the bully quarter had been suspiciously quiet of late. If Obi-Wan didn’t have bigger things to worry about, he might worry about that
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said. “I suppose I’ve gotten my planets mixed up.”
“I suppose you have,” Master Sey said, unsympathetically. “See me after class.”
All of Obi-Wan’s friends winced in reflexive sympathy.
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, and Master Sey returned to the lecture, occasionally glancing over to make sure Obi-Wan was paying attention.
He wasn’t, but he’d sat through enough Council meetings to make it look like he was.
At the end of class, Obi-Wan waited for his peers to file out— shooting him commiserating and gloating looks in turn— and then went up to Master Sey’s desk. She was an Iridonian Zabrak, tan-skinned with a few of her people’s traditional tattoos. She did not look very happy.
“Obi-Wan,” she said. “I hope you can see why I’ve been concerned about you lately.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan said. “Um… no?”
Her forehead drew together. “You don’t,” she said. “Obi-Wan. You have always been one of my best students, but of late you have been distracted, unfocused, undisciplined.”
“I’ve been getting satisfactory marks,” Obi-Wan said, a little stiffly.
“Yes,” Master Sey said. “But, Obi-Wan, while before I could expect you at the front of the classroom, taking notes like a madman, now I can expect you to be sitting in the back, daydreaming. You have always loved learning— what changed?”
“I like to learn,” Obi-Wan said. There was nothing she could do— he was doing better in all his classes than ever before, and just because she didn’t like how Obi-Wan comported himself while doing that didn’t mean she could punish him for it.
Master Sey must have read some of this in his eyes, because she sighed. “I know you’re very close to aging out,” she said. “I can understand if your priorities may be changing a little.” She eyed him with a little pity. “And they tell me you’re claiming to have developed some prescient abilities— that you want Qui-Gon Jinn to become your Master.”
Obi-Wan couldn’t help a knee-jerk spike of hurt. No Masters had yet implied that Obi-Wan was making up his vision, a last-ditch bid to try to become a Jedi. But that was obviously what Sey was thinking, and it did sting a little.
“I claim nothing, Master,” Obi-Wan said. “May I go?”
Sey sighed. “All right,” she said. “Go ahead.” She reached out to give him a commiserating pat on the shoulder.
But Obi-Wan remembered too late— Master Sey had mild psychometric abilities.
“No!” he yelped, leaning backwards. But she had already made contact with his bare skin. She wasn’t any great psychometric prodigy, probably not even as skilled as Quinlan, child though he might be. But even a little bit was enough— Obi-Wan had a lot of history for her to pick up on.
Grief. Fear. Burning, on Point Rain, surrounded by his troops, mostly dead.
This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Screaming.
This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi… Do not return to the Temple. That time has passed. Be secret— May the Force…
Qui-Gon’s deep voice. My only conclusion can be that it was a Sith Lord—
Obi-Wan slammed his shields down. They were already made of steel, but he tightened them even further, until not even Yoda could have prised up even a crack, and kicked her out of his head.
She was frozen, hand out.
Obi-Wan backed away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My visions… I’m sorry. They’re only possibilities of a future.” He was flustered, more than he liked to think it was still possible for him to be.
A tear fell from Master Sey’s face. “Impossible,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said. He backed through the door, and away into the Temple.