Digging Up Worms

by Cajolerisms

Title: Digging Up Worms
Author: Cajolerisms (cajolerisms@yahoo.com)
Archive: Master_Apprentice, my own site eventually
Category: Alternate-Universe, non Q/O, Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Qui-Gon and Tahl living in domesticity. Sorry.
Spoilers: If you're here and haven't seen Star Wars, then, well, uh...good luck with that.
Summary: The second part in the Beacon series. Obi-Wan follows up on his last mission. Things are getting curiouser and curiouser.
Feedback: Ooh yes, give it to me baby.
Disclaimer: You know what, Mistah Lucas? If you let them have some fun every once in a while, we wouldn't have to do this. Everyone belongs to you.

Timeline:
Beacon begins two years before TPM.
Obi-Wan is 23 and Qui-Gon is 58.

1. Detour
2. Digging Up Worms

/Telepathy/

Home. Thank the Force.

The padawan quarters this evening were as loud as ever. Common rooms blared with the sound of music, holos, and laughter of the senior padawans and young knights currently stationed in-Temple. Any other time, Obi-Wan would have been glad to spend his night catching up with his agemates, but tonight, exhaustion dragged at his heals and demanded uncompromisingly a long rendezvous with his bed.

The roster told him Garen was in-Temple, though he was not surprised to find his suite empty. Everyone in his age group looked to be gathered around the broadcast of the latest slamball tournament.

Obi-Wan made quick work of his pack, dumping most of it into the cleaning unit. Without pause, he began to strip off his uniform to join the rest of his gear down the chute. Cloak and boots went first, followed by socks. Obi-Wan allowed a moment to wriggle his toes in the carpet before setting his utility belt aside to be emptied later.

The stained tunic and trousers, however, were removed slowly. Obi-Wan was not so naļve or romantic to wax philosophical over blood, but wearing clothes heavily stained in another Jedi's blood while in-Temple was not something he had ever done, nor something he ever wanted to repeat. The battle-worn clothing's stiffness and coppery smell were familiar, but their presence in this room surrounded by his and his friends' dorms, lingering Force signatures familiar and soothing, bordered on obscene.

More troubling, even, was that the blood had come from Bruck Chun.

Obi-Wan had barely thought about the other padawan in the last ten years, initially ecstatic over becoming Qui-Gon's padawan, and later, the childhood rivalry had faded away like his fear of banthas and dislike of blue vegetables. Like everyone else, he had assumed Bruck's disappearance simply meant he had been sent to Agricorps, too ashamed to say goodbye, as many others had before him. Then suddenly, there he was, pale hair and gray eyes all the same, but instead of sneering or mocking, this Bruck Chun was a grim-faced young man who was ill and hurt from a failed mission to the nightmare war zone of Rothees.

Qui-Gon had very clearly said that their mission was to rescue a master and two padawans, and that they were based on the Temple on Baltimn. There was Master Cri'jenchi and Padawan Mal Farol, and Padawan Bruck Chun. The whole concept was confounding. Why for all the stars did Bruck Chun go to Baltimn for his apprenticeship?

Red light flashed through his vision. The hum and crash of lightsabers in battle rang in his ears. The smell of smoke and blood filled his sinuses. Fear anger vengeance darkness death suffering black red—

"Enough for today!" he snapped out loud. "Can I not just shower and go to bed?"

The vision subsided, leaving Obi-Wan standing naked in his suite's common room, rubbing his eyes and muttering about prescience needing captions.

Taking down terrorist cells and rescuing aristocrats at the side of the legendary Qui-Gon Jinn may be building him a strong reputation in the Temple and with the movers and shakers in the Republic, but few things compared to the bliss of a long, hot shower, or a fresh nerfburger after weeks of field rations.

Obi-Wan stood dressed in old, blessedly clean clothes, his hair still damp from the best shower of his life, feeling infinitely better. He had barely finished dialing up something hot and dead in the suite's kitchen when the door hissed open.

"Holy shit, look who fell out of the sky!" Obi-Wan put his burger down just in time to be swallowed in a crushing hug by what looked, and felt, like a small cruiser in Jedi tunics.

"Hey Garen," he gasped. "Good to see you too."

When he could breathe again, Obi-Wan held his friend at arm's length. Garen's imposing stature took nothing away from the warm smile stretching across his face. "Finally landed, huh?" After being fully certified to fly military crafts last year, Jedi Ace Garen Muln was in high demand and rarely had his feet on the ground anymore.

His friend sighed dramatically. "Just barely. I've been on a string of missions for eight months straight, so I'm overdue for some time off. I did exactly the same thing you're doing now when I landed this morning, except it was hotcakes."

Obi-Wan laughed. "Qui-Gon and I have been gone nearly as long, so you won't mind if I go back to destroying this nerf."

"By all means," Garen made quick strides to the cold storage and held aloft a pair of dark ale bottles. "I think I'll join you."

They ate quickly, their chins and fingers dripping with fat. Finally, Garen sat back with a satisfied sigh and wiped his hands on a napkin. Obi-Wan stuffed the last piece of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly. Shower, Nerf, Ale, and one of his best friends: life was wizard.

"Are you still in the dorms, Knight Muln?" he asked eventually between sips of appropriately strong ale. A light hum was settling in nicely despite his heavy meal, aided by fatigue and months of forced abstinence.

"Yeah," Garen replied. "They shipped me out so fast, I didn't have time to find allocations in the Knights' Wing."

"Well, seeing that we're both in-Temple for a few weeks now, I'm happy to help you move."

"So eager to get rid of me, Padawan Kenobi!" Garen exclaimed with mock horror. "Can't stand sharing a wall with a sex god?"

Obi-Wan started and choked on his ale, making Garen sputter as well. "A sex god, he says!" Obi-Wan whooped, wiping his streaming eyes. "In what interplanetary language of love does `ow oops sorry ow' mean `oh yes don't stop?'"

Garen groaned. "One time! I can't live down that one time! There have been many successes since then, you know."

Obi-Wan chortled. No one could make his sides hurt like Garen. Yes, life was indeed wizard. "Well," he managed, holding his ale bottle in salute. "Here's to your divine love nest, home again to the galaxy's horniest pilot."

Garen knocked his bottle on the table emphatically. "And that's saying something!" he crowed, downing the last of his drink.

Obi-Wan laughed and tipped back his ale. It was good to be home.

The next morning found him sitting in the medical hall, watching Bruck Chun floating in a tank of bacta. Surgical incisions and skin grafts covered much of his right leg and pelvis, and the light immobilizing structure told of bone and muscle grafting. Obi-Wan flexed his left hand in sympathy. Heavy tissue replacement was not an easy thing to recover from, though far preferable to the alternative.

He looked up into the other padawan's still face, recognizing the contour of his nose and strong jaw line, now more pronounced and devoid of any baby fat. There was the faint shadow of an old scar breaking the symmetry of Bruck's eyebrows.

The body, though partially obscured by the orthopedic scaffolding and softened with injury, was well-built and muscled. Obi-wan recognized the muscle tone and development, heavy-set and balanced. It was not the fitness of someone casually athletic or sculpted out of vanity, or even of a farm laborer, but of a fighter.

In all actuality, there had been little in terms of skill or strength that separated them as initiates, which had fed their rivalry. True, Obi-Wan had better lightsaber skills, but Bruck was superior at unarmed combat. No one would have been surprised if either of them, or neither of them, were chosen. It all depended on the will of the Force, and the masters.

"He's alive thanks to you."

Obi-Wan turned to see Master Cri'jenchi walking toward him, dressed in dark civilian clothing with his arm in a sling.

"Good morning, Master," he stood and bowed.

Bruck's master waved his hand dismissively, smiling. "Enough of that, Padawan. Qui-Gon's obviously been keeping you in the diplomatic circuit for too long, bowing like that at this early in the morning."

"That is not for me to say, Master," Obi-Wan replied. Cri'jenchi, for all his high cheekbones and dazzling smile, gave him the same feeling of unease as most politicians and dignitaries did.

"That's what I'm talking about," Cri'jenchi said, settling into the chair beside Obi-Wan's. "It'd be a shame to see such a good field operative such as you spend his life as a Consular."

Obi-Wan bristled slightly. "My master and I are both trained Guardians, though his lifemate is a Consular and a superb Jedi."

Cri'jenchi started, his blue eyes wide. "Lifemate?" a look of delight spread across his face. "Forgive my rudeness, Padawan. Would that be Master Tahl?"

"Yes, actually," Obi-Wan said in surprise. "Do you know her?"

He grinned. "From many years ago." He muttered something to himself, utterly bemused. "My apologies, Padawan Kenobi, I am being rude. I came to see Bruck, and since you're here lat me thank you for helping Bruck. The healers say he'll make a full recovery, but it will take some time."

"That's good to hear," Obi-Wan gave him his best neutral smile. "How long will you be on Coruscant?"

"As long as we need to. I can't say where the wind will blow us once Bruck is back on his feet."

They sat there for a few minutes, Cri'jenchi and Obi-Wan both separately watching Bruck float in the bacta, the quiet of the medical hall broken by the steady beeping of the monitoring equipment and the brisk footfalls of healers along the walkways. Abruptly, the master rose, smoothing a strand of long, dark hair back behind his ear. "I have an errand to run in the city. If Mal stops by, tell him I'll see him this afternoon."

"Yes, Master Cri'jenchi," Obi-Wan said quickly, confused.

The master slipped silently out the door. Obi-Wan sat back in his chair, pondering. Master Cri'jenchi seemed nice enough, if not a bit scattered and lacking in decorum. There was something about him when he smiled, however, that spoke of deeper motives lingering beneath the surface. Obi-Wan looked back at Bruck, wondering what the other padawan was like now with such an unorthodox master.

His thoughts were interrupted by the harried clicking of many feet on the walkway. A six-legged sauvax healer, flushed red and orange with agitation, appeared in the doorway. "Padawan, was Master Cri'Jenchi here?"

"Yes, Healer. He just left, said he was going into the city."

"He discharged himself!" growled the healer in exasperation. "Impossible human!"

Obi-Wan couldn't help but smile as the healer scuttled away in a huff. Qui-Gon reacted much the same way to the healers.

Eventually, the healer came back and shooed him out, saying visiting time was over and clicking his massive pincers in irritation. Obi-Wan spent the rest of the morning back in his dorm, catching up on messages and browsing through class listings, signing up for two he needed that would start the next week. Garen was off somewhere making trouble, and while Tahl was more or less a permanent fixture in the Archives, Bant's absence on the roster could only mean that Tahl's padawan was out in the field with Clee Rhara.

A quick peek told him that his training bond with Qui-Gon was tightly shielded. With their rare downtime, and after what Qui-Gon had half-jokingly said on their last mission said about finding opportunities for regular sex, Obi-Wan had little doubt that an inquiring prod would not be welcome in the least.

With a sigh, Obi-Wan set out to find a meditation spot. This time of day, most of the good outdoor ones would be commandeered by the initiate clans out in the gardens for their lessons. He would have to be more creative.

The lower levels of the Temple were quiet and nearly empty as usual. Obi-Wan made his way to an old meditation room he had found a few years ago, unpopular for its remote location, but otherwise lovely with an expansive window and rippling pool.

As he approached, he felt the muted presence of another Jedi in meditation. He rounded the doorway to find Mal Farol kneeling at the foot of the pool. The other padawan looked much better than the last time Obi-Wan had seen him, bewildered and led gently away by healers on the landing platform. Minus a thick layer of dirt and dressed in clean tunics, Mal was quite handsome, Obi-Wan found. The slight upturn in his nose and full mouth were a charming contrast to the sharp jaw. Faint tattoos ran along his brow and cheeks, subtle against his copper skin.

Obi-Wan had met only a couple Zabraks in all of his travels, and never a Zabrak Jedi. Most Iridonian Jedi were from the northern continents, where the various ethnic groups were much more open to outsiders and to giving the children to the Jedi. Unlike the northern Iridonians in the Order, with their heavy brow plates and thick hair, Mal's short horns grew around his skull in a delicate crown. A string of beads hung from one near his right ear to mark his apprenticeship, a common practice for the humanoid species that didn't grow hair.

Mal's eyes flew open. "Can I help you?"

"I don't mean to disturb you, I was just looking for a meditation spot," Obi-Wan explained quickly. "The gardens are overrun with younglings." He explained ruefully. "How are you?"

"Well enough."

Obi-Wan gestured to the spot beside Mal. "May I? I'm sorry about your master," he added quietly.

Mal shifted over. "She died like a Jedi," he said when Obi-Wan was on his knees. "There is no sadness in that."

"That's a good way of looking at it. But that doesn't mean you can't miss her."

"I know." His eyes closed again. "I felt her presence in the Force."

Seeing that Mal wasn't going to say more, Obi-Wan began to sink into his own meditation. His mind of late had been cluttered with questions about his last mission, not to mention his visions were becoming more vivid. He felt his body relax and his awareness turned away from the body beside him and the pool before him. He was a breath in the air. He was a heartbeat. He was the warmth of the sunbeam.

He was running. Running from. He was down and something was over him. Red black vengeance anger. He couldn't breath. Smoke. Heat. Cold. Dark.

He was on the floor, gasping and blinking into Mal Farol's dark, worried eyes.

"What was that?" Mal asked.

"You saw it too?" Obi-Wan rasped.

Mal took him by the wrists and pulled him up until he was sitting. "Saw what? I felt something that tells me I should be worried."

Obi-Wan coughed and rubbed his face. "It's a vision. I can't tell what it's about or when it will happen." His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking with nervous energy. That had felt positively real. "Shit, I need to work this off," he turned to Mal. "Did the healers clear you to spar?"

They had found an empty practice room and by the time they ran through a few warm-up katas, Obi-Wan's focus was back. Obi-Wan noted that Mal's form was solid, but was soon disappointed when their sabers met and Mal stuck solidly in defensive Soresu. While effective in prolonged engagements with blasters, Mal's form did little against Obi-Wan's Ataru, with its aerials and rapid attacks. Tired of beating against Mal like a bird flapping against a stone wall, Obi-Wan eventually settled for one last rapid attack to drive Mal back. With a high somersault, Obi-Wan flipped over Mal and knocked his feet out from under him.

Lying prone and panting on the mat, sweat plastered Mal's thin practice shirt to his torso, contouring the impressive planes of his chest and tight abdomen. Obi-Wan was infinitely glad his own disheveled appearance hid the surge of arousal that rushed through him at the sight.

He offered a hand and pulled Mal to his feet. He was heavier than he looked. "Your defensive form is very solid, but--"

"But?"

"You could have pushed," Obi-Wan said bluntly.

Mal looked unperturbed. "There's not much use in the field for anything other than Soresu when you do use a lightsaber."

The wording caught Obi-Wan short. "When? The lightsaber is the primary weapon for the Jedi!"

"A Jedi is not his lightsaber," Mal replied. He clipped his lightsaber to his belt and began his cool-down routine.

Obi-Wan frowned, though he followed suit and began his own cool-down. He'd never met a padawan so casual about lightsaber use—not one who made it through to the Trials, anyway. "Mastery of the forms brings us greater knowledge and control of the Force."

"So does meditation," Mal retorted, making Obi-Wan's frown deepen. "I personally like to keep in one piece on a mission rather than impress my opponents with something shiny."

Obi-Wan paused to wipe the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and certainly not to catch a better view of Mal Farol stretching his hamstrings. "You don't use your saber in the field?"

"Of course I do. I cut some pipes to splint Bruck's leg."

"You know what I mean."

Mal straightened and flashed Obi-Wan a disarming smile. It was as attractive as Master Cri'jenchi's had been unsettling. "I prefer methods that are less flashy. I presume your field work is very different from mine."

"You don't do diplomacy," Obi-Wan replied sardonically, pointedly ignoring the sudden flip his stomach decided to perform. "I can count on both hand the times Master Qui-Gon and I have had to conceal our sabers," he admitted.

Mal chuckled. "No, not diplomacy," but he did not elaborate.

After a moment, Obi-Wan asked, "What do you use then?"

"Everything," Mal said simply. "Well, almost everything. Most energy weapons are just as conspicuous as a lightsaber."

"Is this practice usual on Baltimn?"

"I wouldn't say usual. My impression is the training on Baltimn is more... flexible to our individual strengths."

Obi-Wan considered the other padawan for a moment. "What are yours?"

"Melee weapons, including lightsaber--just not dueling."

Obi-Wan wasn't sure if Mal was taking a jab at the Coruscant Academy or not. Well, he wasn't a senate-appointed Diplomat of the Republic for nothing. "All Jedi who are certified field-ready here have at least an intermediate level of proficiency with a blaster and two hand weapons in addition to the lightsaber."

"The requirements on Baltimn are the same."

"So what is your level of expertise?"

"Intermediate on about a dozen blunt and flail weapons. Expert on the blaster and pole weapons, though my focus is mainly on weighted staffs," he counted off several impressive weapons on his fingers. "And mastery on various knives."

Obi-Wan's jaw dropped. "Mastery? How old are you?"

"Twenty," Mal looked amused as Obi-Wan's eyes widened noticeably. "Like I said, individual strengths."

Obi-Wan gaped. So much for diplomacy. "Would you mind a demonstration?"

Mal's smile took on a predatory air. "Sure."

It was the work of a few minutes to find the Battlemaster Cin Drallig and convince him to set up a practice run in the Battle Room. By the time Master Drallig unlocked the training armory and set up racks at either end of the Battle Room with an assortment of weapons, a small crowd of padawans, knights, and not a few masters had gathered before Master Drallig shooed them away, joining Obi-Wan in the shielded viewing area.

The Battle Room ran nearly forty yards in length and two-thirds the width. It was equipped with any number of battle-ready droids, cannons, lifts, and other obstacles that appeared through hidden compartments according to the training program's setting, or in this case, Master Drallig's controls. Unlike the other training facilities in the temple, the floor, walls, and catwalks were marred with scorches and impact scars, and several support cables looked like they were ready to give way from the stresses of previous training sessions. The cumulative effect was an unsettling visual and chaotic Force signature noticeable to anybody with enough Force training to enter the room in the first place.

"Enhances the user experience," the Battlemaster had explained with a menacing grin.

Mal, dressed still in light practice gear and now a pair of gloves, regarded his inventory with an appraising eye, checking knife edges and testing the weight of several other larger pieces before settling for a pair of daggers and a wooden two-part staff tucked into his belt. Obi-Wan noted with interest that Mal elected for one of his weaker weapons rather than focusing on blades, or even a straight staff. When Mal seemed satisfied, he nodded his readiness to the Battlemaster and took his stance in the middle of the room.

Any conversation Obi-Wan might have attempted with Master Drallig was silenced by the eight destroyers that rolled in from the left. With no lightsaber to deflect their blasts, Mal's practice run would be either very interesting or very short. He dodged their first round of shots with a Force-assisted jump to the catwalks above, running inches ahead of the blasts that shot through the grates like they were nothing. Then with a somersault, he was on top of one destroyer and had it sparking and sputtering before Obi-Wan had even seen him draw his knife. A second destroyer fell similarly, taking his dagger with it.

By then, the other droids had turned on him. Mal toppled them with a Force Push, which bought him enough time to run into a squad of gel-filled, mounted dummies meant to simulate live troops. His staff connected in a wide arc as he arched impossibly backwards to avoid their blasters. The speakers in the viewing area filled with the sickening crunch of simulated bone. The remaining troops circled him. One managed to glance his leg with a shot. The staff flew again, knocking blasters out of reach. Mal was a blur of movement, each strike connecting, each thrust of his remaining blade slicking the floor with viscous gel.

The destroyer droids were programmed to attack only the set target, now pressing forward as the last dummy trooper fell. The silence that had weighed in the viewing area gave way to Obi-Wan's sharp inhalation as Mal raced headlong into the storm of blaster shots.

The two-part staff flew, absorbing the closest shots and sending splinters flying. He had halfway closed the gap between him and the droids by the time nothing remained of the staff but a hand-span of chain. The remaining dagger went flying into the central destroyer, allowing Mal to use his momentum to propel himself over the deactivated droid and race for the arms rack.

Obi-Wan vaguely registered a modified Jar'Kai and Soresu combination as Mal dived back into the fray with a pair of broadswords. The metal swords were not built to withstand blaster shots, and dented and warped with each bolt they took, completely ineffective at returning shots. Not that it mattered to Mal, it seemed. He dodged most of the shots, using the swords to block the ones that were unavoidable. When he was in close range, a huge surge of the Force built and rippled through the shielded facility as Mal cleanly sliced two droids in half. Three left.

Another Force push bought him enough time to cut off the shooting arms of one, his sword now heated beyond use. Or not, apparently, as Mal swung back and slammed the flat of the super-heated blade onto the motion sensors of an oncoming destroyer, blinding it and sending sparks flying in all directions. Without a trigger available, he used the Force to shoot off several shots from the severed blaster into his two handicapped destroyers. The last droid was taken out likewise.

Master Cin Drallig, who had silently helmed the controls until now, barked out a quick laugh. From the ceiling came a dozen ominously humming blast drones, each capable of shooting three or four blasts at a time in different directions while floating well out of range of Mal's remaining sword. The padawan studied the new threat for a moment, and even managed to send the Battlemaster a withering glare before setting for the rack at a dead sprint.

The remaining weapons included a set of small throwing blades and Mal's preferred long staff with weighted butts at either end. He took two blades in each hand and sent them flying on an assisted trajectory toward the high ceiling. The blades whistled through the air, each taking out a drone and arcing back into his grip, but there were still too many and already Mal had to take cover under the thick shell of a droid to avoid the storm of blaster bolts.

If Mal was waiting for the drones to use up their power supplies, Cin Drallig wasn't having it. The floor surged upwards as the terrain settings changed. Mal's shelter rolled away and he had to throw himself to one side to avoid being crushed by several others. The drones raced wildly around the room, shooting bolts at their target but remaining painfully difficult to take down. Mal climbed up one of the new hills, which necessitated only a short jump onto the catwalk. He called the staff to his hand and took a heavy swing at the nearest drone, crushing it and sending the shell careening into another. At the resulting explosion, the remaining orbs swarmed in.

Even though the all the blasts today were set to a lower setting meant only to lightly mark without injuring their target, Obi-Wan's grip on the chair was painfully tight. All he could make out was a flurry of blasts high above his position. Mounted cameras fed into several screens on either side of the large viewing window. In one, Obi-Wan saw Mal jump onto the narrow handrail to face the remaining drones. They were coming in fast, but Mal's blades were faster. Two more drones down.

One of the remaining four drones veered wildly, sending shots into the support cables. Mal lost his balance and rolled onto the floor. The small advantage granted by elevation lost, Mal crouched down, staff in one hand, blades in another. The drones flew in, their humming almost deafening over the speakers.

The staff flew. It spun so quickly that it looked like a silver-rimmed discus screaming through the air. It was able to slice through two drones on the initial throw. An adjustment in the force brought it through a third. The last drone was coming in quickly from behind. Mal rolled to avoid a series of blasts, smoothly releasing the throwing blade into the drone, which smoked and crashed onto the floor.

Master Drallig flipped a switch. "Well done, Padawan Farol."

Mal saluted to the viewing room and fell to his knees in exhaustion. His staff and remaining blades clattered to the floor beside piles of twenty combat droids and the oozing remains of nearly as many simulated bodies.

The door hissed open, letting in the smell of acrid smoke that the climate control immediately began to filter. Obi-Wan ran up to Mal, "And you called a lightsaber flashy!"

Mal looked up at Obi-Wan and managed a lopsided grin, his chest heaving. He pulled himself to his feet.

"Well done, Mal."

Obi-Wan whirled to see Cri'jenchi standing nonchalantly in the doorway of the viewing area. How long had he been watching?

The master, dressed in the same black clothes as that morning, walked up and put his good arm over Mal's heaving shoulders. "You're getting better with the two-part. I'll have to arrange to have you tested for the next level. That is, of course, if we can trouble Battlemaster Drallig to set up the trial."

Drallig regarded Cri'jenchi with the same cool look Obi-Wan had seen many times when he was appraising a new student or facing a master for an upper form lightsaber demonstration. "Master Cri'jenchi, is it?" He chewed the words slowly, tasting each syllable as he spoke them.

"Ah," Cri'jenchi beamed. "You remember me!"

Drallig gave him a nod with the same deliberate slowness. "Bring Padawan Farol to me in three days for testing."

"Excellent, Master," he gave Mal a happy pat and lead him toward the exit. "Thank you again. I have something I need to speak to Mal about, so please excuse us. Padawan Kenobi, thanks for finding him. We'll see you later."

"Uh, yes, Master Cri'jenchi. Thanks for the demonstration, Mal," Obi-Wan called after them.

Master Drallig watched until the door closed, then turned to Obi-Wan. "He's from the Baltimn Temple, you said?"

"Yes, Master Drallig."

"Interesting."

That evening, Obi-Wan cleaned away his dinner dishes and made his way up to the Masters' level. When they were younger, he and Bant spent their evenings doing homework and discussing the day with their masters. As they grew older and eventually moved into the senior padawan dorms, they both still found themselves spending a few evenings a week in their masters' quarters, sometimes in need of their guidance, but mostly for their company. After the events of the last few days, Obi-Wan felt in need of both.

Qui-Gon and Tahl's quarters were located at the uppermost floor towards the end of the long hall, which placed them over a spectacular view of both one of the larger Temple gardens and the Senate District—a placement that spoke of their seniority and esteemed positions within the Order. Tonight the status screen read that they were in and welcoming visitors, so Obi-Wan entered his code.

Qui-Gon and Tahl were in their living room with their usual after-dinner tea. Sitting across from Tahl in the usually unoccupied armchair was Master Cri'jenchi.

Obi-Wan paused in the doorway. "Sorry, Masters, I didn't realize you had company."

Cri'jenchi smiled and waved Obi-wan in. "We were just talking about that impressive demonstration Padawan Farol gave today in the Battle Room. It was not up to his usual form, but you can hardly blame him after holing up in a warehouse for a few weeks."

When Obi-Wan hesitated, Tahl stood and led him into the open kitchen where she pulled his usual mug from the cabinet and poured him tea. "It's good to see you, Obi," she tugged his braid, her green-gold eyes twinkling. "Don't mind Master Cri'jenchi. He just stopped by to catch up with old friends."

"There is something that Master Cri'jenchi has brought up to me, that I admit I have been remiss in your training, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon added, raising his voice slightly from his place on the couch.

"Does it have to do with Mal-- I mean Padawan Farol's combat demonstration?" Obi-Wan asked.

"In a way, yes," Qui-Gon said after a moment. He glanced at Cri'jenchi, who was staring rather too intently at Qui-Gon over the rim of his tea mug for Obi-Wan's liking.

"I understand you two have talked briefly," Qui-Gon continued. "But I should have properly introduced you."

Obi-Wan frowned. "I'm not sure I understand, Master."

"Obi-Wan," Cri'jenchi interjected. "You must be wondering why Bruck Chun is my padawan and how I know both your master and his Lifemate even though I'm based all the way from Baltimn."

"Well, yes," he admitted, his scowl deepening.

Qui-Gon raised his hand. Both Obi-Wan and Cri'jenchi stopped at the signal for quiet. "Obi-Wan, the answer to all of this both at once simple and complicated," he gestured for Obi-wan to come sit and waited for his padawan to settle. Obi-Wan was surprised to see him hesitate. "I suppose I will begin with Master Cri'jenchi. He is my first apprentice, Xanatos."

Obi-Wan balked. He gaped. His jaw landed soundly on the floor and he did not pick it up until Xanatos Cri'jenchi cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable for the first time.

"But," Obi-Wan sputtered. "Xanatos fell to the Dark Side!" He stared at the dark-haired master. "Qui-Gon killed you!"

Xanatos laughed, his strange joviality back almost immediately. "What an excellent rumor! Qui, when you said I had fallen off the general radar here, I had no idea it was with such panache. Was the story your idea, Tahl?"

Tahl glared at Xanatos as she took a seat on Obi-Wan's other side. "Be nice, Xan. It was not easy for you at this age either."

"Master," Obi-Wan began with what he thought was an admirably calm tone. "What in the fuck is going on?"

For once, Qui-Gon didn't chide him for language. "What do you know about the Baltimn Temple?" he asked instead.

Obi-Wan thought. "Not much. Just that Baltimn is in the Outer Rim near Hutt space. Mal said their curriculum was slightly different. I don't think I can recall anything other than that. "

His master nodded. "For good reason. Officially, the Jedi presence of Baltimn is very small. The Temple at Baltimn specializes in studies and field work that is… difficult to conduct on Coruscant." He turned his gaze briefly to Xanatos. "For a number of reasons, Xanatos chose—and I encouraged him—to follow a different path after his knighting."

"That's all very vague, Master," Obi-Wan could feel the beginnings of a headache between his eyes. Today had really been much too interesting for his tastes. "He left Coruscant for Baltimn to practice something nonstandard for a Jedi from the Coruscant Temple—something forbidden or illegal if Xanatos had to no longer exist. Is that what you're getting at?"

"A bright one, this boy," Xanatos grinned. He quieted under Tahl's reproachful look, but the look of amusement never left his face.

"This is a mistake," Qui-Gon sighed. "Xan, you should go--"

"No, Master!" Obi-Wan surprised himself by blurting out. "You've already opened the door. You might as well tell me. You know, we've only ever talked about Xanatos once or twice. You never said much about it. I thought it was because the memory was too painful to bring up."

Qui-Gon's expression softened. "I'm sorry I mislead you, but it was in the best interest of everybody involved to let that rumor manifest. Somehow, leaking that Xanatos had left the Order took on a life of its own, and all of a sudden, he had fallen to the Dark Side and I had to hunt him down and throw him into a vat of acid."

"Allowing that expanded holo-net in the padawan quarters has rotted everyone's brains. But as you can see, I have not, in fact, become a Sith Lord and then dissolved in acid." Xanatos quipped. "You look confused, Obi-Wan."

Tahl snorted. "I wonder why."

Qui-Gon stood. "There's much more to the story, but it's better not to speak of certain things here."

Obi-Wan wondered what deep dark secrets they were all privy to that Qui-Gon could not even utter them in his own quarters. The others also rose and followed Obi-Wan's master in donning their cloaks.

"Come," Tahl said. "We're going to the Archives."

Author's note on made-up words:

Xanatos' last name, Cri'jenchi, sort of follows Icelandic naming conventions ("Cri" for daddy Crion). "Jenchi" is a bastardized form of the Chinese "ji cheng" meaning heir or successor, indicating his connection to a noble house.