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Ex Favilla

by Tem-ve H'syan (tem-ve@gmx.de)

:Dies irae, dies illa:
:solvet saeclum in favilla:

It had taken little more than a strand of hair, snatched inconspicuously by a nameless aide, nameless because his name had already been forgotten like the names of all those who had been laying the groundwork for this venture, up to and including the short vicious Zabrak who had actually believed his purpose in life was to overthrow the Jedi.

Poor fool.

His purpose (and Senator Palpatine could not for the life of him remember the young pup's name, however much he racked his brains) had been to give some other nameless aide the opening he needed. Just a strand of hair, torn out with the roots from the still-cooling body as it lay in state, just before the cremation in private. Just a nameless aide, reverently touching the mortal remains of one of the great ones of the Jedi Order.

Had anyone had eyes for the nameless aide and his actions, he would have posed as an admirer seeking a souvenir of the great Master, a lock to keep close to his heart, or wherever these poor devils believed their minds resided.

No more than a dozen long thin dry hairs, a flat brown or an almost translucent silver, the roots tiny knots of tissue that refused to die long after the soil that had supported them had gone barren. Long after the mind in that head had winked out.

Under the microscope, they had looked like bulbs, golden and thick with the promise of spring.

It was harvest time soon.

The bulb had been promising, but the flower would be the real beauty.

:Mors stupebit et natura:
:cum resurget creatura:
:iudicanti responsura:

"Come in."

The voice sounded almost weary, and the aide had long ago given up waiting to be called by his name. As it was, any word from the Master, as he liked to be known, was good enough as far as recognition went. It was when he started ignoring you totally that things became uncomfortable, though generally not for long. Before the end of the ten, you would have forgotten who you were yourself, and what was left of your twitching body would inevitably follow the shattered mind into oblivion.

The trick was to keep oneself remembered by making oneself indispensable.

Silently, the aide proffered a datapad which the Master took with an almost tired grace. A brief nod, a flip through the virtual pages, tables, graphs, reports, then the cool stare of ice-grey eyes on him. The aide shifted nervously from one foot to the other, then moved his chin a tiny bit, the motion enough to unfreeze the rest of his body.

"He... he's in the measurement chamber, Master."

A bone-dry smile quirked the pale thin lips in the jaded face. "Ah. So that's what we decided to call it in the end, is it? I take it you mean the same... room as I have in mind, yes?" He flipped a few switches on the control panel no his desk, and a half-life-size hologram lit up in the middle of the room.

The body of a man flickered into being, lying on his back on a stretcher, secured by wide buckled straps clasping his ankles, thighs, wrists and neck. He was nude otherwise, a fine specimen of male humanity, strong and well-muscled, in his late forties or early fifties maybe. It was hard to tell with the long hair slicked back and twisted into a knot at the top of his head. The beard, though, framing a beautiful mouth open in a scream, was beginning to show the first traces of silver.

"I take it there weren't any.. complications?"

"Not in the decanting as such, no... though I would humbly suggest we not stick to the exact genetic matrix next time. As you can see, getting the nutrient gel out of all that hair was quite a drag..."

"Next time...," the smile was razor-sharp and dripping with virtual blood, "next time the design will be all yours to decide, my man. And I trust it will be...," the pause gave Palpatine enough time to turn his back on his petrified aide and continue the sentence while facing the hologram display, "... excellent. However, with this one our aim is deceptive resemblance. Is that understood?"

The aide swallowed and nodded. He had but a hazy idea who this latest experiment of the Master's was supposed to be deceptively resembling, but he was quite happy to leave it at that. The less you know, the less mistakes you can make, he thought, willing himself to believe it. At any rate, the specimen at hand seemed to be satisfactory, judging from the smug grin on the Master's face as he watched the naked man on the stretcher convulse in pain, great strong body straining against the bonds, and a voice that was still impressive at half life-size roaring his blind agony as the electric and mechanic probes monitored his body during the penultimate stage of his... well, I suppose you can call it creation, the aide thought weakly.

The last lines of the genetic code that had blossomed from the little golden bulbs had been read, translated, and fed into the tubes that had created this human body, currently writhing in senseless, mindless pain as the finer points of his existence were being imprinted on him. The genes had done their work.

Now it was time for the memes.

The aide shuddered as the long thin blade emerged from the man's thigh, coated in a fine glistening layer of translucent red. The blade disappeared inside the precision robot arm that had been fed all the coordinates and was now running a lifetime's programme within a matter of hours. Two slender clamps snaked out of the robot arm's stump and pulled the edges of the gash apart, exposing moist red flesh brimming with blood so dark it was almost black. The man screamed at the acrid touch of air and metal to his innermost flesh, and tried in vain to tear free of the restraints that held him in place. A dim, mindless, primal scream that held no words because the man's mind held none as yet, and that merely intensified in volume and pitch as the rotating saw-blade turned the clean edges of the cut into a ragged landscape of blinding agony.

The robot arm drew back, letting the wound close. For a moment, it looked as if it was waiting for the screams to stop, waiting for the man to catch his breath or faint with the sheer effort of his cries. He did quieten down after a while, screams giving way to ragged sobs and hitched hissing breaths that spilled over the raw moist lips like the black blood spilled over the edge of the gash in the man's thigh: slowly, thickly, without purpose.

It was wiped away purposefully by the robot arm, and the aide marvelled at how quickly the bleeding stopped. In fact, it looked almost as if... yes, the wound was definitely closing up, healing into a wide pale scar tracing the exquisite line of the man's thigh muscles.

"The scars of a lifetime, my man. Deceptive resemblance is called for, and this will be the last physical step before we can begin on the truly brilliant stage of our little... experiment."

"The... the mental... stage?" The aide winced as he saw a rotating cutting tool of terror-inducing dimensions home in on the bound man's chest, and turned around hastily, taking a step back to face his Master.

"Precisely. You will understand, of course, that to this end it is necessary that he have all the marks his memory will refer to."

"But... the memory is entirely synthetic, is it not? How, I mean... why do they have to be... um... the exact same scars?"

"Ah, well thought, my man. This one is indeed an exception in that respect in that it is not merely he who will remember these scars and recognise himself by them. There are others... _alive_, who will be convinced of his identity by this. Pitiful really, isn't it, once you think of it... a few square inches of scar tissue will be more persuasive any time than all the memories in the world..."

The aide cleared his throat reflexively as he heard a new roar of pain from the man's mouth, drowning out a malicious hiss and splatter. The Master grinned almost indulgently.

"Lightsabre wound. Quite realistic, I am told. Not that I have one of my own to compare it to – but it will certainly suffice for this one. We have quite a bit of scope here, as I doubt anyone remembers the exact place it went in..."

The aide risked a cautious glance and recoiled in horror at the sight of a red-hot metal tube, sizzling with evaporating blood, emerging from the man's chest. He had fallen silent, the beep and hum of the life-support machinery the only indication that he was indeed still alive. In fascinated horror, he watched as the cauterised wound cooled and healed, charred flesh lightening first to the angry pulsing red of new skin, then paling into the hardened white sun of a large almost circular scar in the centre of the man's chest.

"B... but the memories themselves, they will be..."

"Synthetic, yes. Of course. But I did allow myself a deviation into truthfulness in the making of this one. Let us say everything he will remember eventually will be drawn from the life his originator had lived, reconstructed from diaries, Temple files, observation tapes. There will be a few blanks of course... which I will be delighted to fill in for him. Imagine this, my man – he will be a perfected version of his old self. Almost a shame to let him loose on the world at large really..."

"And it'll be a testimony to our diligence and work to see him recognised for who he is not," the aide added, a modicum of pride creeping into his shaking voice. The man had woken up again and was clenching his teeth in silent suffering as the robot arm etched the links of a black chain tattoo about the man's slender white hips. Yes, he was quite beautiful, and a shame to let go.

"Ah, but he will be recognised for what he is: for what we made him. You will see – in no time at all, this new and improved version will have overridden the memory of the old one. For the simple reason that there is not the slightest discrepancy between the memory and the reality. He will be perfect because he is _not_ new, or will not appear new to anybody. This is our strength, my man. We are not creating mere clones, no mere humanoid bodies that work according to biology but are little more than squidgy messy droids. We are creating synthetic minds, giving them an identity. My man, we are creating human beings! Purpose-driven, intelligent, devious human beings as diverse as the stars in the sky, and as numerous! A vast army, no, a _population_ of individuals acting on our behalf because they _want_ to, not because they were programmed to do so! They will hand me the world on a silver platter and be grateful for my taking over, my man! How ingenious do you think that is?"

The Master's voice had lowered to a quiet purr on that last question, and the aide heard his own laboured breaths over the faint static of the hologram and the strained breathing of the bound man in the other room as his mind raced to keep up with the Master's leaping thoughts.

"Uh... extremely. Ingenious. Extremely ingenious, Master."

"Precisely." The tone was almost mocking, hovering on the edge of condescension. "Now, this one... this one's going to be a bit of a test. A prototype, if you so wish. This one will come with a tailor-made memory, cut from pieces of his original mind. By comparison, this one will be tricky to conquer..." He smile thinly. "But what satisfaction it will be, eh, my man?"

The aide nodded mutely, noticing the quiescent robot arm.

"Yes, he is nearly finished, at least the front. I decided to leave the few remaining... imperfections for a later stage in his... creation. I think," Palpatine winked out the hologram and turned towards the door, robe swirling majestically around his pathetic frame, "I think this one is now ready to find out who he is."

:Oro supplex et acclinis:
:cor contritum quasi cinis:
:gere curam mei finis.:

It has been going on for as long as I can remember, ever since this grey ceiling dawned upon me. Ever since the first laboured breath left my mouth, dragging in its wake something phlegmy, pink, and sweet-smelling.

And I want it, I so want it to stop.

Back, I want back to where I came from, back to where I was before I was here. Before I was in this pain.

I have no way of telling where it's going to start next. I have been trying to convince myself that it will go away again, and sometimes it does. Like the stabbing, lancing pain in my right thigh I believe was there only a few breaths ago. I cannot be sure, never sure it was and never sure it is over. There are machines here, and they don't tell me anything.

I can't tell how long I've been here, how much longer I will be here, and what for. I can't tell where I was before I was here, but I would very much like to go back and find out. I don't remember any pain there, so maybe it was a better place than here.

It does not matter much that I am restrained. I would not have anywhere to go even if I wasn't. I know nothing beyond this room, these machines, this rhythm of breathing and passing out and breathing again. This blood that must be mine, must have been with me since I was born, and only now I notice it, for the first time, trickling hesitantly, warmly, over the side of my thigh. I crane my neck as far as I can given the collar, and see it is a blackish red, and yes there is a wound there, slowly healing into a wide scar.

I cannot tell who gave me that wound. It came into existence, I came to feel it, it faded into a scar, I forgot about it. Here, the scars are the only things I have for memories.

I know not where I was before. But I would like to return there.

The machines are moving again. They are always in motion, and have always been as far as I can tell. They surround me with their strange business, for no apparent reason. Sometimes I notice the machine, and then the pain, and sometimes I notice the pain going away, and then the machine. They do not seem to do anything worth remembering, but I am acutely grateful for the moments I am not in pain. Senseless, they are senseless, the machines. Whereas I have senses, screaming in agony and wonder, and no sense to make of this here.

It is coming down on me, the machine.

It is aiming for my heart, and it has teeth. Maybe it is trying to cut my heart out. I do not know what that will do to me, and I do not much care. If it kills me I will be out of here, and if it does not kill me maybe I will wake up back where I was before I came here, fully recovered. Remade.

I would so love to return to wherever I was, if I was. If I was at all. This is not being, this is... pinpoints of here, intensified by hard pain and machinery.

It is coming closer, and I feel my heart widening at the sight, eager to be ripped apart, eager to give more of its black blood to colour this grey room, to colour me.

My heart bursts open at the exact moment the machine pierces my skin, and the flames of pain crash about my ears loudly, reverberating through my empty head, pouring out through my mouth into the echoing room that is swimming away in the tears that spring to my dry eyes, parched with the searing pain.

It will feel good to be back.

It's fingers on my eyelids that wake me, or so I think. I breathe deeply, a sigh of resignation as I see the blurred grey of the room fill my tear-stained vision. There is a dull aching twinge in my chest where that thing touched my heart, but my heart is still there. I hear it in the silence of the room. The life-support machines have been switched off, and I take a dumb second or two to ascertain I am still alive.

Because – there is someone else in the room.

He touches me, carefully, and it feels. Um. It feels. Not like the touches of the machines that discovered and healed new sheets of agony within my flesh and bones whenever they felt the need to. These hands are – hands. They are human hands, and they are almost caressing me as they untie me from where I have been lying since the dawn of this room.

This room has a floor. I let my gaze drop, exhausted.

The feet are clad in dark blue with a wide even darker trim around the knees. There is midnight around the body, and sunlight around the face. A friend. He smiles and says, "I am so glad you are awake finally – we nearly despaired of you, my man."

I am his man? I do not recall ever having been anywhere where there were men.

But I would very much like to return.

"You...," I shudder at the sound of my voice, croaky and thick with phlegm, "you knew me before...? Why...?"

"Why you are here? Dearest Qui-Gon, you do not recall anything at all? How fortunate you are to be here, safely away from the perils that nearly cost you your valuable life!"

"I was...?"

"We saved you from certain death, Qui-Gon. And even I was not certain we would mange to keep you among the living, and you can picture the grief that caused me in the many dark hours I spent watching over your fitful sleep."

"I cannot remember –"

"I feared you would not. You took quite a severe blow –"

"I _felt_... why did the machines hurt me so much?"

"Hurt you? Oh, Qui-Gon, where have you been? We _healed_ you! And believe me, even such a strong person as yourself would have fainted at the sight of what you were when you came here. Torn, broken, bleeding from all orifices and that gaping wound in your chest... your face was a caked mask of blood and horror, Jinn. You would not have been able to recognise yourself, and I bless fate that you weren't awake to witness it..."

I finger the scar on my chest. "I do recall that... being made."

He shakes his head slowly, and the smile warms my insides. I know not why, but it feels friendly. "You recall the red blade? The light? The little creature that overcame you, and the other little creature that got away?"

Puzzled, I blink. "I recall the machines..." I point, forlornly, at the robot arm, now quiet.

He chuckles. "Thought so. You have lost your memory, Jinn, and I would weep for it had I not been your friend for all your past life and retained all you told me, all you showed me, all you sent me in images, words, stories. As a friend, Qui-Gon, I would gladly spare you the memories of how you were struck down... but this is far from over yet, friend. We live in a time of great peril, and he who betrayed you is still at large. For now, you are safe here, Qui-Gon. And what's more..." he fished in the recesses of his ample robe, "I have not spent the long hours watching over your recovery in idle grief. This," he held up a small oblong device that glistened black and blue in the grey light, "will help you recover your memory, and your personality."

"Th... thank you." My mouth has gone dry, and I feel thirsty for what that little dark thing has to offer. It knows where I was before?

The man chuckles. "That I would ever hear the great Qui-Gon Jinn thanking me... strange times indeed." He reaches for my hand, and it is warm. "Would you like to try it?"

I nod.

"We would have to implant it in close proximity to your spine though... if you can bear that? I promise there won't be any memories of the operation after you've stood through it... and then you will hopefully begin to turn back into the bright and beautiful Master I once knew and called my friend."

I sigh deeply into his hug and into the musty blue robe. The bluish-black piece of memory stares at me, the colour of my strange friend's clothes.

I suppose it is beautiful.

:Quid sum miser tunc dicturus:
:Quem patronem rogaturus:
:Cum vix iustus sit securus?:

The pain has returned, and it is here to stay now. I stretch my body, willing myself to stop screaming. They are holding me up and back, machines, robot arms that have dug parallel rows of sharp claws into my upper back and dragged my torso almost horizontal, on tiptoes arched backwards, leaning into nothing but the sharp knife that reminds me my blood is black and warm as it runs in rivulets down my back.

The pain is excruciating, and consumes all, like flame eating up my hair, hair with tips on fire, tips dipped in the sour breathing aching exposed red flesh, soaking up the reality of my blood.

The machines do not care.

I am screaming, still screaming. It is the only way I can keep up the tension, half-suspended like a bow in mid-air, with nowhere to fall to and nowhere to curl up against. My screaming helps remind me that I am still breathing, only just, and that the scrapes and drills along my innermost bones mean that I am being helped, being remade into the bright friend that I once was. A Master.

A Master, bleeding, torn, taut like a bow, arms stretched out in vain for balance, for something to hod on to, for someone to welcome. There is someone, and he comes from all sides. He wears the black and blue I have seen so much of recently, and covers my vision in soft blurred darkness.

When I awake again, I am surrounded by solid space. There is a floor, directly below me, and a pair of walls. A corner. I am huddled in a corner, and cannot remember how I got here. Nervously, I uncurl my body, and for the first time take a few breaths to consider it.

My hands are large, strong by the look of it. There are calluses on the palms, not quite symmetrical. I flex my fingers, they feel right-handed to me, and the nails are wider than they are long. I peer at them intriguedly.

They are covered in blood. Smears and drops of bright red congealing into a raged landscape of black, iron-scented. I lift my hands up to smell them, and find fresh blood dripping on the floor, through my fingers.

I touch my nose and wince. Freshly broken, it sends spikes of pain through my entire face just to touch it. Far more painful than everything I barely remember here. I dab gingerly at the thin rivulet of red trickling into my beard and trail my hands across my body, away from my face.

Large bony knees, drawn up close to protect myself from whatever I saw before I was here. A thin crop of black hairs on my shins. Long legs. A flash of – boots? I recall boots, from I know not where, but I know they used to be mine. I used to wear boots.

My name was Qui-Gon Jinn, so I was told, and yes, I used to wear boots.

Fascinated, I trace the scars on my body, eye the silver of my hair, streaked with dried blood at the back. I must have been old. What did that strange man say? I was a Master once. Yes, that feels about right. I was a Master once. Was.

I recall fighting, red light, exhaustion, breath barely scraping the bottom of the lungs. Enemies, one that I had thought impossible.

Well, it figures, given the scars on me. There must be lots of people out there that hated me. I wonder why. I dimly recall sadness, and light, and the company of many, and they had felt... good. But they are so far from my mind now it is hard to even envisage faces. Everyone is so far from my mind now, and I keep getting scenes of fighting...

My body is weak. Not emaciated – I feel warm round hard muscles on my limbs and torso. I am weak because I feel unable to defend myself against my enemies. And there are many, many in the mire of my memory who turned away from me and left me alone, alone in the red light and the exhaustion, not a helping hand. There were many, and there was one, and for him I grieve most.

Even though I can barely picture his face, and he ran from me as I lay in the red, the thick spreading red that is soaking my hands as I clutch my face.

My nose is broken and bleeding, and my sobs come through my mouth as I weep for what I have lost.

It was beautiful, I suppose.

:Preces meae non sunt dignae:
:sed tu bonus fac benigne:
:Ne perenni cremer igne.:

"Ah, you'll be the new aide? A very good morning to you, my man."

"G-good morning." The young man was clearly surprised at being treated with such cordiality. "Master," he added hastily at the sight of Palpatine's frozen smile.

"And how's our subject feeling today, then?"

"Not much different from the past few days. Physically he's in fine health, the wounds have healed completely, though the nose has not been set properly. I thought it... um, unwise to approach him in his current state."

Palpatine quirked an eyebrow.

"He's... well, brooding I suppose is the right word. He appears to be constantly in thought, and gets quieter every day. His mind is still very active, or it must be – the memory unit has reached a near full readout..."

"Good, very good. Yes, sadly that was to be expected, my man. I don't know if you are at all familiar with the original's previous life, but let us say it was... not the happiest of lives. At least not after culling the fake happy bits. And the images those abominable Jedi techniques have imprinted in him... sad really, what religion can do to a man."

"But... wouldn't these... techniques reassert themselves naturally anyway? I mean, there is the danger of his midichlorians establishing some natural connection to the Force, and alerting him to..."

"What made you turn religious, my man, all of a sudden?" Palpatine smiled gently. "To this one, and to you as well, once you've had a little rest and a cup of really hot cha, there is no such thing as the Force. It does not exist in the objective world, and those who sense it are the victims of... regrettable brainwashing. This man we're observing does not have any midichlorians, largely because they're a legend." And because I cracked the little buggers open by irradiating the stem cells and washed them out by dialysis, he thought. Dangerous little beasties, midichlorians. The vat with the purplish-brown residue was still stored in the Force-shielded strongroom only Palpatine himself had access to.

The aide bit his lips and nodded, clearly embarrassed. "Right you are, Master. Wouldn't believe how this Jedi nonsense creeps up on you when you're not looking..."

"We," Palpatine replied, laying an avuncular hand on the young man's shoulder, "are always looking, aren't we? Always watchful. It's the only way to run this laboratory, this political party, eventually this planet, and who knows what else we might find worth running if we're offered a go. Right now I'd be quite satisfied if you could run –"

A quiet knock on the door stopped him dead in his well-greased tracks.

"Come in."

The door slid aside to reveal a tall, broad man with long silver-streaked hair and deep-set blue eyes, walking slowly like one about to be executed.

"Oh, Qui-Gon, how good to see you! How are you feeling today?"

The man snorted, apparently amused at the silly question. "Like a pile of ashes, thank you. Grey and about to go to pieces."

Palpatine raised his eyebrows in a credible imitation of incredulity, and with one hand guided the despondent visitor to a chair while his other one dismissed the aide in one quick movement. "What makes you feel like this, poor friend? I trust there is some way I can help?"

Qui-Gon sat down with a heavy sigh, waiting for the door to close behind the aide. "Well... I'm beginning to think you could have helped me by not saving my life in the first place. I am beginning to remember, and... it feels terrible. Was I really such a... failure?"

"A failure? Qui-Gon, you know I always saw you for what you were – a uniquely strong character and a wonderful friend. It's not... about the Jedi, is it?"

"The Jedi. Yes it is. It's all about the bleeding Jedi, and I can't make heads nor tails of it. Uh, friend..."

"Lomus. Lomus Palpatine."

"Palpatine. The Senator. Of course... I thought I knew your name as well. Not to mention your face." Qui-Gon smiled apologetically, the sagged back into the chair. "The Jedi. It's like... all I did for them and with them and about them was... pointless somehow. No marks left, you know, no feelings generated. No goods feelings at least."

Palpatine said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows faintly in an invitation to carry on.

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath. "Wherever I look in my previous life... it's like one long series of failures, one long pointless exercise that has earned me the title of Master, and look what I did with it. I am a Master without an apprentice!"

"Without an apprentice?"

"The first one died – I remember her funeral, Lomus. I saw the pitiful remains of my first Padawan before they went up in flames in the West Tower. Got blown up on a solo mission just weeks after her Knighting. Left my house and ran into the arms of death... and all eyes were on me, the grieving Master. My eyes were on me too, all the time. At the time I was sure I could have trained her better to help avoid traps like the one that tore her to bloody shreds. I'm not so sure now really.

"Anyway, I vowed to make up for it all with my next apprentice, and some bright lad he was. His is the most vivid image in my memory really... for all the short time he was with me. Ivory skin, jet black hair, the grace of the dragons of the air, and a sparkling with that outshone anyone alive at the time... all gone of course."

"What happened? You never told me at the time..."

"Not surprising really. It still pains me to talk about it. He... left. He left the Order and turned to the Dark, renouncing all I had ever taught him and making it sound like he was right in doing so. He would nearly have killed me in that last fight... I never heard of him again."

Palpatine nodded in sympathy. "But surely that was not your last apprentice? You are a grown man of experience, Qui-Gon..."

"And old man, more like. Yes, there was another one, a small slave boy, and I was so convinced this time I had found someone who would prove that I was not entirely unworthy of bringing up the young ones. Only... I was. Or at least the combined minds of the entire Council thought I was. They deemed him unfit to be trained, and by that time I had no more of that confidence left to rail against them and defend my decision. All that bright... Force light I had seen – nobody else saw it. It might as well not have been there."

"Well, well," Palpatine stroked his chin, then his friend's hair. "It's amazing what a blow to the head can do... so you are finally seeing the light about this crackpot religion you've adhered to for most of your life, Qui? You know I told you all along they ruin themselves, their minds, and the best part of the universe along with them. And all for this silly belief in the Force. I have never felt such a thing in my entire life, Qui, and you know I am not an insensitive person. Tell me, do you still feel it now you're awake?"

Silence, then a warm, almost comfortable rumble. "No. I don't sense anything."

"Good. Welcome to the real world, Qui." He hugged the man emphatically.

"There's.... there's more though. When the High Council –"

"The most naturally-qualified freakshow in the entire universe –"

Qui-Gon grinned involuntarily. "When they crushed my plans regarding that young slave boy, at that very moment my third apprentice turned away from me also. And he was the one I had least expected to do that. I really believed... I believed I felt the Force in him, Lomus."

"Don't tell me you're talking about Kenobi?"

"Kenobi, yes, that was his name. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Bright, strong, beautiful, witty, serious when necessary and fair vibrating with energy..."

"Compact and well-muscled, supple, elegant, stormy-eyed, pink-lipped, honey-voiced... Qui, I always had suspected you were in love with the young pup. Believe me, I saw him, and I can fully understand what you mean. But... the 'Force', honestly. I wouldn't have thought your emotions were so strong as to delude you into believing you actually felt such a thing. You surprise me, Qui. Fiery lover that you are." Palpatine smiled dryly. "So where is he now, your beautiful ex-Padawan?"

"The F... the gods know where. Remember, this happened days before my... injury. In that fight I still don't remember fully. Except he was there also."

"He was there with you? And didn't come to your aid?"

"I don't remember. But no, I don't remember him being with me, in my mind. He had left me also, that bright light..."

"That bright mirage, Qui. Totally caught up in the clutches of the Order. Didn't you say he was the best and the wisest of them all? Didn't you say there was no Force? So what was he best at, Qui? Was that really wise of him to stay in the mire that is the Jedi religion and give up something as strong and wonderful as you? Can't have been very wise in my honest opinion..."

Qui-Gon sighed. "Sometimes I don't know what to think any more..."

"It's your conditioning, Qui. Years of brainwashing... you haven't thought outside the prescribed lines of the Order for decades. It's only natural that you should experience a little disorientation. But let me say this one thing: I am glad you are back, Qui. Unspeakably glad you are out of the clutches of this dangerous sect. You wouldn't believe the trouble we've been having with them in the Senate, keeping their annoying religious ideas out of our business. If they had had their way, and if their wonderful Force was really any use in the real universe, the world would be a scary place indeed, Qui. Imagine, they still believe in the Sith!"

The Sith. That seemed to touch a chord in Qui-Gon. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably, embarrassed.

"The big bad Sith coming to get the little children, most likely. It's so simple when you see it from the outside, Qui. On the one side there's the good guys who have the monopoly on the Light and everything that's good and beautiful, and on the other there's the exact mirror image, the black dark little men out to destroy the universe by means of the other side of their execrable Force. Like chess pieces, a white army on the one side, a black one on the other. Qui, if anyone in power believed the world looked like that, we wouldn't _have_ a world any more!"

Qui-Gon nodded miserably.

"And that would all be good and well if they weren't so damn adamant about it, and so damn militant. They have spread the rumour that the so-called Sith are at large again, and the world is about to be plunged into some Doomsday scenario, some final day of reckoning with the good guys on the right and the bad guys on the left. They are going to war, Qui."

"To war." Qui-Gon's voice was toneless.

Palpatine grabbed Qui-Gon's shoulders agitatedly. "Does that surprise you? You grew up inside, Qui, and they never told you they were primed for a universal war? Surely they taught you all the skills necessary to wreak havoc and sow death among the unbelievers?"

Qui-Gon sighed miserably. "I was a good swordsman, or so I thought."

Palpatine smiled. "So you are – I remember seeing you on one of our evenings out. You despatched those muggers quite effectively, Qui. Though it surprised me a little to see how easily you killed."

Qui-Gon blanched. He had no such memory, but that did not mean a lot. He was far from remembering every detail of his life, was wasn't sure he would ever be able to again.

"But you're free now, Qui, and I can't tell you enough how happy that makes me. You're outside now, on the right side if you will, except the right side is all around the Jedi in every direction. Anywhere outside their little fenced-in deluded faith, anywhere out there is the truth. A truth.

"You will stay with me, won't you, Qui, now that you're unemployed...? I could do with a skilled mind and body like yours, now that it's clear and unbiased. How would you like to be my Senatorial bodyguard, friend?"

"Your..." Qui-Gon swallowed, then broke into a wide smile. "I guess it's the best job offer a part-amnesiac ex-sectarian can get, eh?"

"Done, then. Believe me, it'll help you recover and keep your mind of that Jedi business."

"They are.. they are going to war?"

Palpatine nodded. "That surprises you so much? Your little beloved, if I may be so frivolous as to call him that, is at the forefront of it all. If my channels are to be believed, and if you like, we can go check the holonews channels together later today, he's about to become General Kenobi. And cause death and destruction among those he believes to be the Order's enemies. The _Sith_... of course, they could be anywhere to a discerning mind. A mind that only discerns between Jedi and non-Jedi, good and evil... I'm afraid you won't have heard the last of your... ex-Padawan, Qui."

Qui-Gon gave him a determined stare. "We've got to get him out of there."

"Oh, that won't be easy. You know him – you trained him yourself. And I'm sure he swore allegiance to the Order until his death at his Knighting, didn't he?"

"So did I, by the F... the gods! And I got out alive.."

Palpatine smiled thinly. "Technically speaking, Qui, you were dead. For a few moments, you were no longer among the living. And look how quickly they gave you up. How do you think you came to be here? Did they bury you, give you the last rites? They didn't even bother to pick you up, Qui. They left you for dead in that generator room after the fight. No more use to the Order, a piece of debris, ready to rot. And if it hadn't happened in my home town of Theed, you would still be there, rotting. _I_ found you, Qui. They believe you're dead. And your little beloved has moved on to pastures new long ago, Qui."

"He was never my lover, and you know that, Lomus."

"Ah, but given the chance, wouldn't you have pounced? I confess I would, looking at all that willing young flesh. Looking at how he bore himself about town... never exclusive, was your Obi-Wan. Quite amazing for a Jedi really... no, I fear we may have to count him as lost, Qui. Lost to the wrong side actually. Lost and dangerous. I do not recommend your seeking him out under any circumstances. Apart from the fact that he thinks you're dead, he will also think of you as an evil ghost, and you would be the first impaled on his ice-blue lightsabre. With many many more to follow. He's going to war, Qui."

"He's not going anywhere unless I tell him to –"

"How endearing, Qui. Do you really believe that? You believe he respects _you_, and not that foggy concept of the Force and the orders of the Order? I would prove it to you in vivid real-time images if I could only be sure you could take it in your current state. You're a bit fragile..."

Qui-Gon dropped one heavy hand on Palpatine's arm, staring sapphire determination.

"I am strong enough, Lomus. I am free, and free to access what truth is available. If it is as you say, I shall have to take action immediately..."

"Action?"

"I will not have a religious zealot of my own making roaming this universe and plunging it into bloody war. I will seek him out and convince him, or take him captive." Qui-Gon breathed deeply and steadied himself on Palpatine's shoulder.

"Maybe tomorrow. First I think you'll need a good night's sleep. I promise I will show you your Obi-Wan's real face tomorrow, in real-time, life-size. He'll never be the same again, Qui..."

"Tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow. Now go and rest, Qui. Feel free to use any of the facilities in the house – you are free now, friend. Have a short day."

:Quantus tremor est futurus:
:Quando iudex est venturus:
:Cuncta stricte discussurus:

Aaagh!

What... who... I am half awake by the time I notice the cold spasms curling my body into a tight ball, and fully awake when I feel the sticky moist warmth that must have dropped onto my chest from nowhere at all and is now squishing its way down my abdomen and up between my thighs and towards my neck... warm...

I force myself to let go, to open up, half-terrified at what I will see. If I will see anything in the dim half-light streaming in from the window, the pale bluish night-lights of Coruscant.

It feels so good... warm and heavy, a creeping embrace. Sticky, clinging, contracting, squeezing my skin. It glistens faintly in the dim light, a purplish-brown iridescence, like a living thing spreading out its fluid tentacles around me... I watch in fascinated horror as a thick snake-like tendril of the stuff wraps itself around my left shoulder, pinning my upper arm to my side. I would have been quite unable to move anyway.

The sensation is exquisite, and what little terror I had left in me vanishes under the insistent onslaught of tight warmth, sheathing me in a writhing mass of glistening goo. My skin tingles where it passes, like millions of tiny flames dancing on the inside of my skin, warming and loosening my muscles. I collapse back on to the pallet and give myself to the sensations. What does it matter? Here and now there is pleasure of a strange and unnatural kind, but here and now there is pleasure, and if I cannot have the one I wanted, then I will have this... and I will let this have me.

It possesses me in slow trickling movements, tightening thick snaky coils around my limbs until I am completely motionless within the web of tight tendrils. And still it is growing, tracing a warm soft edge along my jaw, covering the sensitive skin under my ears with lingering sticky caresses, sending shivers down my sides and straight to my cock, the only part of me that is still untouched by the purple-brown tentacles. Even my face is slowly falling prey, and I imagine the sticky mass stops for a moment to ponder the state of my nose. It used to be straight, but that is so long ago I cannot remember. Whatever, the warm mass begins to slowly cover my face too, tickling, stroking, embracing me whole.

I am beginning to feel my cock rising at the sensations, empty sensations, but oh so full of pleasure for one who has not felt pleasure for such a long time. If only I could be with the one I loved now... the one who has betrayed me like my body is betraying me this very moment, flushing with heat and arousal at the mere thought of him.

What -?

I jerk, wanting to sit up but unable to do so in the tight sinuous bondage of the writhing goo. In response, the coils tighten around my body, pressing into my heated skin, making me shiver with the hard pleasure of it... but what the...

Right before my eyes, a hologram forms in the air, in full colour, life-size, right beside my bed. If it wasn't for the blue edges around the image I would swear there was someone else in the room.

I would swear.

Obi-Wan.

Lying on his back, alone on a bed I know only too well, legs spread wide, an ocean of creamy soft skin stretched taut over firm rounded muscles and hard planes. One hand behind his head, I can see he's lost his braid, and the spiky cut is already beginning to grow out. Knight Kenobi. His eyes are closed, long lashes shading those perfect pale cheeks... that little mole, etched into my memory, as if anything short of death could make me really forget this one. This one who should have been mine.

His other hand has trickled down to his groin and is now slowly fondling his rising cock, gentle, playful strokes. He delights in the sensation, pleasuring himself slowly, unhurriedly. Gods, but he is beautiful. Would I could join him and fasten my greedy mouth on that perfect piece of flesh between those long creamy thighs... the coils around my body writhe and tighten the more I think of him, and one thick sticky tendril id beginning to wrap around the root of my cock, snaking slowly upwards. Exquisite torture.

Oh yes, torture. I would possess you, Obi-Wan, straddle your slim hips and ravish your mouth, and then ravish the rest of you until you scream and yelp in pleasure and pain. And then you'll come for me... ah, the thought of your sweet body convulsing in orgasm, helpless under me, begging for more, begging to be mine... perfect. Just perfect.

But you're not coming. Instead, someone else is.

I see your eyebrows bob up in greeting, and a wicked smile spread across your handsome face. Words are exchanged, meaningless mouth movements to me. The sound is turned off, and all I can see is the body of a lightly tanned tall thin male swimming into focus. Long ashen hair with a tinge of blue... I do not remember ever having seen him before, but I have learnt that does not mean anything.

You are rolling on the bed within moments, playfully wrestling that thin stranger down, laughing. Oh my Obi-Wan. Still beautiful, even in this... act of treachery. Still so fucking gorgeous that you make my flesh crawl and throb and burn with need... a different need. The need to own you, to cut you out from this boy's embrace, cut you out from the Jedi's embrace, cut you free, free to be with me.

The oil he is drizzling on your back turns red behind my eyelids. Red streaking down your back in thick glistening streams. Your lifeblood, better still, the other man's lifeblood, slicking the passage for my entry. I will _tear_ you apart, Obi-Wan, I need to, I need to tear you out of there to free you and wake you through pain and oh, it hurts, it hurts beyond belief to see you with that stranger. You were mine!!

I tense under the writhing coils of purple, and feel them tightening around me, holding me down, wrapping around my bursting cock, an agony of need and dark cutting pleasure, me wrapped in hot sticky lust dreaming of how I will take you... not as gently as this one, this thin creature of that misguided Order. Not gently, lightly as he does, wrapping his thin arms around your chest as he pulls you up into his lap, rocking you. The bliss on your face is deplorable, Kenobi. You haven't seen real bliss yet.

Not the way I'm feeling it now. The warm tight writhing hot rage of need. This is real, Obi-Wan, this is the life, not your pale thin caresses. You know you don't want them. Or maybe you don't, maybe you've forgotten me. I haven't forgotten you, Obi-Wan. You re going to war, and I will do my damnedest to stop you.

I am torn between wanting to kill you and wanting to fuck you, and it feels fantastic. I watch your face as you come, mouth open in a silent scream, and I see you convulsing in agony as you buck and writhe under me, bleeding, torn, dying a thousand little deaths, and loving every minute of it. A small red tear trickles down your face in my mind's eye as you tighten around me in scalding wet heat, and I cannot hold out any more and spurt a sharp burning orgasm into the living sheath of glistening stickiness that surrounds me, binds me, caresses me.

Surround you, bind you, caress you. I will do all this. Kill you before you kill all of us. It'll be hard , Obi-Wan. Hard as iron, and waiting to sink itself in your willing flesh. It is my right and mine alone to claim you before the eyes of the world while they are still seeing, still alive to see. You are a danger, Obi-Wan, and I will save you, do you justice in a pool of blood and semen. Before the night is over, I will have relieved the world of the terror that is Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I am coming.

:Confutatis maledictis:
:Flammis acribus addictis:
:Voca me cum benedictis.:

Palpatine smiled as he watched the big man dressing, stealthily, in the middle of the night. And while the camera was less than perfect when it came to fine resolution in the dim light of Qui-Gon's chamber, it was more than obvious what was going on. The glow of righteous rage, jealousy, and sexual need on the man's face shone brighter than three suns.

So he bought it, Palpatine thought, smiling. Not that there was any falsehood in the images he had just seen. Obi-Wan has done us the favour of getting himself fucked just tonight... and with a little help from our friends the midichlorians, broken and torn by osmosis though they may be, the transmission of sensation had worked far better than that of sound.

There was no doubt as to Qui-Gon's intentions – he had made that much clear in their conversations. Tonight would be a feast.

Detesting the loose brown and beige garb of the Order he had once shamefully adhered to, Qui-Gon dressed slowly and deliberately in his new black and blue outfit, pulling on the black velvet pants that made him look like he was walking on legs of pure shadow, then the long sheer midnight blue shirt with the square neckline and the wise long sleeves tied around his forearms with thin silken cords, the knee-high leather boots, supple and soft and so unlike the clunky Jedi boots... then the short black cloak. Smoothing his silver-streaked hair over his velvet-covered shoulders, Qui-Gon cast around for the last item of clothing, finally found it dropped to the floor next to his pallet. The wide belt fit snugly around his trim waist. He stretched, pulling the shirt taut over his muscular chest, then removed something from his belt and looked at it thoughtfully.

A fine silver glint in the darkness announced that he had taken the long dagger from its scabbard. It disappeared soundlessly back inside and slid into one boot, invisible to the casual observer.

Black velvet, blue silk, silver hair, righteous rage. What a beauty, Palpatine thought.

Almost a pity to lose him. Still, there were no two ways about it. Once he had done his duty in removing Kenobi, there would be little purpose to his life, and he would be despatched quietly like the last aide whose name he had already forgotten. If he had ever known.

This one would be harder to forget. How much more so for the poor little Jedi.

An acid smile on his face, Palpatine turned towards the hologram controls and watched a life-size image of a sated, heavy-limbed young Jedi Knight flicker into being.

Sleep tight, Kenobi, he thought. It may well be a night to remember.

:Lacrimosa dies illa:
:Cum resurget ex favilla:
:Iudicandus homo reus.:

The guards weren't bothered to even look at me, and the door is no match for my knife. Some of this feels like coming home, coming home at last to take what is mine and to free the world of the threat that hides inside this beautiful young body.

This beautiful young body lying curled on his side in peaceful sleep. For long minutes, I cannot do anything but watch. He fills my senses, the pale warm tone of his skin, the soft sounds of his breathing, the faint but unmistakable scent of sweat and sex, yes, sex. I feel the rage rising within me again, and it feels so right, so strong and powerful, a warm tide of thick red so dark it is almost black, filling me to my fingertips, making me itch with anticipation as I sense your body bucking and writhing under me –

- and it is, in no time at all, I am upon you and you wriggle drowsily in your sleep as if you had been pounced on by a kitten or your kittenish deluded Jedi lover. Oh no, Obi-Wan. This is me, and there's so much of me it grows right out of my skin as I ram my knee into your chest, holding you down with my entire weight and a power I did not know I had as I pull your arms over your head, left, then right, digging the knife into the armpit until I hear the skin tear and the bone crack and you're sweating bright red now, thin glistening rivulets seeping from your torn armpits and you're still not quite awake and staring in horror at me.

Oh yes, Obi-Wan, I am back. Mark my words.

I am bursting with sheer lust at the sight of your grey eyes open wide in horror and I bite your lips greedily, eating the hot horny flavour of your blood as you moan in agony, inching closer to your well-deserved end. It feels too damn good to possess you, and I dig my fingers into your torn flesh, bathing in the gleaming life dripping from you, trailing long lines of red down your shivering body, too weak to fight back, unable to use your arms, too weak to resist.

Too beautiful. Shallow panting breaths. Blood trickling from where my teeth have torn the corner of your mouth. I can taste you, and I delight in your suffering, and it feels right. You would have done this to me and countless others, Obi-Wan, and if you will not see the truth I will have to show you, by force. Not that your Force is any good to you now as you lie bucking and screaming, trapped under my weight as I paint you beautiful with your own blood. The knife creeps back into my hand stealthily, and I trail it over the sheets in the dim moonlight, watching you watching in terror while my other hand grips my hardening cock through the velvet of my new pants. Oh yes, Obi-Wan, you know perfectly well what is to come. I will not kill you, free you, before having taken what is mine...

I lift the strip of sheet I have cut out, soundlessly, and you gape as I stuff it into your mouth, gagging you. I cannot resist licking a trail of hot wetness around your gagged lips, relishing the sweat of needless fear and the thin trickle of blood. You need not fear, Obi-Wan. I have come to save you. Certain death is yours.

Mesmerised by the writhing helpless beauty of you, arms broken and bleeding, eyes wide in horror, I slide further down your body and let my hand trail from my hot hard cloth-covered erection down to your limp penis. You scream and try to kick me as I grasp it firmly in one hand. As if you could resist either my weight and strength pinning you down or my skilful hand kneading you to a fast hard erection while my other hand traces pretty patterns of deep gashes on your thighs. Where is your Force now, my young apprentice? Have you learned your lesson? Come follow me, lost one, follow me down the red path of real life...

It is enough. Even I cannot control myself any longer and I grab your thighs hard, sinking my fingertips in the cut flesh, bathing in the warm wet life of you... spread them wide until your muffled screams are as much pain as fear, then free my throbbing eager cock so hard for you and dying to sink into your tight clenched body, dying, Obi-Wan, dying...

You arch up away from me as I breach your tight muscle, ramming home with a desperate need that washes over me like the tight coiled tendrils I knew. In you, deeper, harder, and you writhe in agony, useless arms framing your head as it thrashes from side to side, chest heaving and fluttering, heart pumping more and more of your precious warm blood out onto the sheets as your thighs turn a glistening spurting red and I pump more and more of my world-straddling lust and need into you, willing you back to me, willing you to want this...

I feel the wetness around my cock, and I know it is not the thin boy's oil any more. It will be bright red when I look, but I have no eyes for this. I have eyes only for your face, screwed up in beautiful agony, mine, all mine. This is the real world, Obi-Wan, and you know you want it. It's for your own good, beloved. Take it or die within your pitiful delusion. I cannot feel your Force now! There is nothing, _nothing_ fighting me back, overpowering me, nothing stopping me as I ram into you harder and harder, faster and faster, so good, so tight and good and you know you want it just tell me so tell me you want it... I feel bone under my fingertips as I clench my hands into a mind-shattering orgasm and pump my hot seed into your feebly writhing body.

You have seen, haven't you? You want it. Tell me you want it.

Slowly, I reach up, cock still inside you, stretching you, filling you the way you want it most, and pull the gag from your lips. You splutter and cough, then stare at me in silent accusation.

"How does it feel to be mine at last, my dear deluded Obi-Wan?"

He makes as if to sit up, then collapses under my weight and the lances of pain shooting through his body from all four limbs, not to mention his torn and bleeding passage. His voice is quiet, broken, and I have to strain to hear him...

"You are _dead_, Qui-Gon."

His eyes... his eyes are closing, as if in resignation. No! No, Obi-Wan, you still don't see!! What do I have to do to make you see the truth of it all?? It makes me want to explode with rage, and I hammer my fists on his chest in bone-crushing despair. Why must you be so stubborn, Obi-Wan, why must I hate you for what you still believe, against all odds?

"Dead! You left me for dead, you and your fine Order. Do you think it was a ghost that took you, tore you limb from limb and raped you and found the sharpest, most exquisite pleasure in your bleeding writhing body?? Dead! That's what you are about to be if you don't see sense, boy! Where is your Force now, where is all that nonsense they instilled in you, where is all that Force that you were going to use to kill innocents with??" I am fair blind with rage, and nearly miss the whispered words of his reply, failing breath rattling in his throat.

"Not... in you, Qui. The bond... we had... not in you. Qui-Gon is dead, and you do not know him. We... I cannot feel you, and you cannot feel me... no... bond. Whatever you are, you are not... my... Master..." The voice drowns in coughs and splutters, breaths coming harder and harder, wet sounds intermingled with them, as if a broken rib has pierced his lungs. He is in agony.

_I_ am in agony.

A bond? How could he be so sure that I was not... I? We had a bond? I have _lost_ a bond with him? We had been... I feel my world shattering inside my head. With his last breaths, he stays firm in his beliefs.. but... he also... he believed in me. Believed in me. Knew me, loved me. The words ring hollow in my heart, and I feel my chest filling up with tears as his fills up with blood.

Oh, Obi-Wan.

I am not me. I don't want to be me, or what I think I am... I want to go back to where I was before I was here. Before I was here, woken up from the death that held me for minutes, before I was here, creeping up on my own memories in the cold laboratory.

Before I was here, collapsing sobbing on the broken blood-caked body of my Padawan, driving a hiss of air from his lungs as I fall down on him, driving the broken rib deeper, his face twisting in agony.

Fear not, Obi-Wan. I will free you.

Vision fogged by tears, I grope for the knife and find it on the reddened sheets. I grab the blade first and cut my hand deeply, and it doesn't matter any more now. Slowly, almost meditatively, the blade sinks in your pale throat, opening a wide gash that lets out the last of your warm living blood, the last of your laboured heavy breath.

Your face is calm, maybe grateful as you let life slip from you. I taste your blood on my lips as I kiss the last breath from your mouth, and for a moment I am almost certain I sense your thoughts inside me. Loving thoughts, flooding grief for the man that I am not, and thought I was.

I wish nothing more than to be him, and start again.

I cannot.

I close your eyes, leaving dark red smudges on your perfect cheeks. I kiss them from your pale skin, still warm, still beautiful. I lick your blood from the blade, my last drink of life.

Then, without fear or regret, I drag the sharp knife along the inside of my forearms, from elbow to wrist, and in a short hard line across my own throat. Bathing both of us in my blood, mingling it with yours, I lie down beside you to slip into a darkness unknown.

It feels good to leave it behind, the darkness I know.

I so wanted to return.

I am going.

--- The End ---