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Help Me Obi-Wan Kenobi, You're My Only Ho

by Asato ( asatomuraki@yahoo.com )

Pairing: Q/O, Q/X(implied), Q/Squid, B/X, O/Other

Archive: yes to master_apprentice. Others, if you want it, just ask :)

Category: AU, Action-Adventure, Smut :D Non-Con. Humor-ish in places

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Here There be Tentacles. Eventually there will be non-con (rape) and fairly squicky things, such as torture (of just about everybody)dismemberment.

Spoilers: Nooooooo.

Summary: Qui-Gon is a lonely, stoic wreck. Obi-Wan is a Ho.

Feedback: VALIDATE ME! Constructive criticism welcomed. Flames... I can't imagine why anybody would bother, actually, but I'll take them, too.

Disclaimer: George, sue me if you want, but you HAD to know you couldn't put two gorgeous men in a movie, have one call the other "Master" and NOT have people take it and run. If you'd written them better in the first place, there wouldn't be a need for this stuff. So it's all your fault. [/creep defense]

Author's Notes: Chocolate-covered Ewans to my indomitable Master, Binky, without whom I would not know the power of the Dark Side. Also, thanks for the fab beta and the formatting assisitance, as well as listening to me whine. I tweak, so blame the boo-boos on me. Also, I don't know from canon. I just made it up as I went along. This is a WIP, but I have several parts done, and Binky thought they might inject some needed humor, so this is dedicated to her.

Acknowledgements: To Writestuff for the caramel-colored Bruck Chun, who is very different here than cannon, I think. But still tasty. ;)

Also posted on my LJ ( http://www.livejournal.com/users/asatomuraki/ ) But fic entries are friendslocked to protect me from those who take it upon themselves to protect the innocents from smut. Friend me and I'll friend you back so you can see them.

The Moment, Qui-Gon reminded himself, is usually the best place to be. The past is set in stone; the future always moving. Time flows past you, and hardens. He saw it like a river-water brushing past him, then freezing solid. When an eddy went past and stilled, caught forever in the shape of whatever the Force had made of it, this was no reason to mourn because there was always the Moment. Always new. To regret was to waste the time given to you. To waste that precious Moment.

In theory, anyway.

Why did I let Xan talk me into this? He wondered if his former padawan had ever fully understood the reasons behind the choices Qui-Gon had made. It didn't matter. He was here, now.

The moist, briny smell in the air was the first thing he noticed in the dim room. He disrobed slowly, carefully folding his Jedi tunics and setting them aside. The tank filled most of the floor space. He could see the vague, dark shape of the Saurid, moving languidly beneath the surface of the water. He stepped to the edge of the tank, and hesitated. Pulling the thong from his hair, he returned to the small bench and laid it with the rest of his clothes.

Maybe Xan was right. The long denial of his body's needs might be affecting his judgment. Maybe this would help him purge them, help him restore his serenity.

But it smelled... fishy.

Qui-Gon took a moment to clear his mind of thought and prepare his body for the water. Jedi breathing techniques were not intended for such things, perhaps; but they did come in handy.

Cool water enveloped his feet and ankles on the first step. The deeper he went, the warmer the water, though it never truly passed tepid. Still, it was not unpleasant.

The Moment.

Almost like meditation, but different. He closed his eyes as the water slipped over his head, lifting his hair into a corona of dark brown and silver. Opening himself to the Living Force, he sensed the Saurid moving slowly closer. He kept his eyes closed as the sub-sentient creature enfolded him in its long, tapering tentacles.

The Saurid's inhuman caress was gentle and cool, covering him. Qui-Gon sensed the creature's anticipation; it was hungry, but not ravenous. He relaxed a bit; knowing the Saurid was well cared for eased his concerns somewhat.He didn't want to open his eyes; he knew what Saurids looked like, with their thirty or so translucent, gelatinous tentacles, but he didn't want to see. With an effort, he once again cleared his mind of thought, focusing instead on the sensation.

A thousand tiny, ciliated mouths brushed over him, gently feeding on the dead the skin cells loosened by the cilia. It tickled.

When one of the Saurid's tentacles wrapped around his left leg, tickling at the back of his knee, Qui-Gon jerked reflexively. The Saurid loosened its hold and its ministrations became gentler. Qui-Gon found himself wondering how the creatures were trained, but decided that such thoughts were not helping.

The Moment.

Gods, but it felt good. Delicate, almost reverent touches swirled over him. The Living Force fairly hummed with the creature's need, its enjoyment. And Qui-Gon's own.

A light brushing up the inside of his thigh, another from hip to hip across his taut belly, and Qui-Gon felt himself begin to harden. The Saurid lifted him, wrapping him a little more firmly in its tentacles.

Weightless, floating in a sea of sensation, Qui-Gon gave himself up to it completely, relaxing in the Saurid's grip. Tentacles brushed through his hair, across his fingertips, between his toes.

The encounter intensified slowly, as the broad plains of his body were cleaned. The Saurid's hold on him tightened, and the touches became firmer, tiny mouths questing up his limbs. When a cool tentacle encircled his cock, Qui-Gon moaned and tensed almost convulsively.

Not good. His lungs had given up some air, and he found he couldn't concentrate quite as well as he'd hoped. He would need to breathe soon.

The creature, oblivious to his distress, continued its ministrations, teasing back his foreskin. Other tentacles found their way across his face, between his legs. Every centimeter of skin on his body seemed to be transmitting sensation to his brain, all at once. He felt light-headed from the intensity of it.

Or perhaps it was merely the early signs of asphyxia.

Qui-Gon tried to push himself to the surface, but the Saurid held him, bringing his body closer to its central mass. The tentacle massaging his cock disappeared, and he felt thicker ones pressing him against the muscular mass of the Saurid's main body. The pressure increased from his shoulders to his thighs, little mouths closing over him, inch by inch. Cilia teased his nipples to hard peaks, playing over his torso in waves.

A muscular channel formed around his cock, pulsing rhythmically around him. He screamed, open mouthed, into the muffling water. That was the last of his air, but it didn't matter. He was in the Moment, lost to it.

A questing tentacle found its way to his body's opening, breaching it with ease. He felt stretched and full, writhing as the Saurid pulsed harder around his rigid need. He struggled, whether pumping into the pleasure or trying get free, it made little difference.

Spots of light appeared before his closed eyes; he lost all sense of gravity and direction. The climax took him suddenly, shuddering in the grip of overwhelming sensation. He might have lost consciousness for a second or two, he couldn't be sure.

He felt the Saurid's delight in its meal; evidently it viewed the viscous fluid of his seed as something of a delicacy. Qui-Gon shuddered.

He needed to breathe, and soon. Odd, how hard it was to find his center with versions of tomorrow's news transmissions running through his head.

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was found drowned this morning in the pleasure district of Iptura. It is believed he expired while fucking a squid.

Just as he despaired of having a legacy other than the sordid tale of his demise, whispered among the padawans for the next century, he felt the Saurid gently lifting him.

By the time his head broke the surface, the creature had released him entirely. Gasping, he struggled back toward the steps as quickly as he could manage. Every muscle of his body shuddered with fatigue. He heard soft splashing behind him, and realized that the Saurid had floated to the top of the tank, stretching its tentacles across the surface, undulating rhythmically. As he waded out of the water, he realized it had begun to darken in a circle, spreading out from the Saurid.

Looking down at his trembling body, Qui-Gon saw several dark purple bubbles clinging to his legs. Then he remembered that mature, well-fed Saurids frequently released spores.

Xan, prepare yourself to be one with the Force, because I'm going to kill you.

By the time he'd picked all the sticky things off his legs (thank the Force he'd been on the steps when the creature had decided to be fruitful and multiply) and gotten them back in the tank, the keeper had come to close the tank rooms for the night.

Dressing quickly, Qui-Gon rushed past the questionable fresher facilities and out into the cool night air. His hair lay in thick tangled ropes about his shoulders; he lifted the hood of his cloak against the chill.

As he made his way through the darkening streets to the hangar that held his ship, Qui-Gon began to wonder why he had come to Iptura. Yes, it was true he'd been unusually tense recently. His duties had not suffered, of that he was certain, but though the Force still flowed through him as it always had, meditation had become more difficult. Uncomfortable. The Force seemed to tell him that something was missing, but no amount of meditation revealed what it was.

The empty place was there, and it troubled him, drew him in. Like a child who couldn't keep his tongue from the empty socket of a lost tooth, his mind went there, more and more frequently.

Xanatos, dear friend and former padawan, had noticed the change in him and had tried to help. But coming to Iptura's pleasure district had been a bad idea.

Not that he felt guilty about the gratification he'd enjoyed, or ashamed of the circumstance. He was sure the Saurid was content; he had not abused or mistreated another creature to gain satisfaction. His conscience was clean.

But he was not coming back.

As he came to the louder, gaudier section of the pleasure district, with its flashing lights and eager lifeforms, Qui-Gon realized what the experience with the Saurid had done to him. Rather than releasing tension and somehow filling in the void in his soul, it had served to accentuate the empty place. Like a thousand flashing arrows, all pointing to a puddle of nothing.

Reminding him what he couldn't have.

Xanatos never understood Qui-Gon's reverence for the Jedi Code. He had always followed it from his heart, with the Force to guide him. The fact that Qui-Gon's interpretation of the Code differed somewhat from that of the Council seemed nothing but reckless disregard to his padawan.

Qui-Gon's attitude toward the Jedi Code had never been cavalier. His attitude toward the council, however... The Jedi Council was fallible, as beings and groups of beings always are, but the Force is not. Even if he didn't understand it, he would still follow its urgings over the opinions of council members. Some saw him as a renegade.

Xanatos had never understood Qui-Gon at all, not really.

Politely declining the advances of a humanoid pleasure worker as he passed, Qui-Gon thought back to the discussion with Xan that had led to this little excursion.

"Celibacy," Xanatos had said, "is not required of Jedi." Qui-Gon could still see him, sitting in the common room of the quarters they had once shared, sipping tea. A handsome and confident Knight, as sure of his instincts as he was of his skill as a fighter. Pale blue eyes flashed with good humor, and he smiled at his former master. "What you need is a little ... recreation."

"I have no interest in what you call 'recreation,' Padawan."

"There are some here in the Temple who would love the chance to spend some time with you, between missions."

"Be that as it may, Padawan, to dally with friends here would make forming an attachment much too easy."

"Is the stern master I used to know really so easily led astray?"

"I know my limits, Padawan," Qui-Gon sighed. "And there is the Code to consider."

Xanatos had laughed at that. "The Code? The Code doesn't forbid sex, Master. Or have I been courting the Dark Side all these years?"

Qui-Gon had shuddered at the jest, though he couldn't say why. "The Code forbids attachments."

"Then don't form any."

"Padawan, I am a Jedi Master. Trust that I know my weaknesses better than you do. Pleasure often leads to affection, affection to attachment." He hadn't expected Xan to understand, and Xan had not disappointed.

"Go to a brothel, then," Xan had shrugged. "Have a little fun."

"Xan, listen to me." Qui-Gon had put down his cup and leaned forward, commanding Xanatos' full attention. "I will not exploit another being for the sake of a few moments of pleasure." He had known Xan did not understand his connection to the Living Force, the responsibility he felt for other beings that had so often resulted in what Xan called 'bringing home strays.'

"It's not exploitive if they enjoy it, too. The whores I visit are always glad to see me. I'm not so blind to the Living Force that I can't tell desire from pretense."

"Don't take offense, Xan. I'm sure they are willing, even enthusiastic." Qui-Gon had paused to sip his tea, but he hadn't tasted it. "You are quite handsome, and you pay them well."

Xanatos chuckled, that same, infectious laugh he'd always had. "You forgot my exceptional skills as a lover."

"No, I haven't," Qui-Gon had whispered into his cup. He didn't think Xan had heard. "But how do you know that all their clients are so kind? How do you know that your patronage doesn't help support a system that causes pain to those same beings who so willingly offer you pleasure?"

"So, if I stop visiting whores, the sordid business of flesh trade will collapse?" Xan had laughed again. "You either overestimate my virility or my free time, Master."

That had not been the end of it, of course. Xan could be very persistent. It was Xan who had suggested Qui-Gon visit a Saurid. The amount of research the young man had done to allay his concerns had both impressed and humbled his former master. Even then, he'd been sure it wouldn't help the emptiness growing inside him, but he'd finally agreed to go just to put and end to the young Knight's meddling.

Qui-Gon finally reached the Furlan, one of a few small ships that the Temple had on hand when his last mission ended. He took a deep breath of the fresh, night air, and tried to center himself. Xan would be comming him soon, he was sure, and he'd have to exercise quite a bit of control if he wanted to convince his former padawan that this excursion had done the trick. He'd stay a few more days, just to keep up the illusion.

The ship was stocked with food and reading materials sufficient to Qui-Gon'srecreational needs; he didn't plan on leaving it again until he landed on Coruscant. That would give him all the rest and relaxation he desired, and no doubt he'd be the better for it.

The Furlan opened as Qui-Gon keyed the code into the lock panel, but as he stepped onto the ramp, he felt a disturbance in the Force. Just a little flicker, like a butterfly fluttering past his ear. He stopped, and felt it again.

Absentmindedly closing the ramp, he allowed the Force to fill him and followed its leading. Just beyond the Furlan's landing pad was a large hangar used for receiving imported goods. Qui-Gon found himself in a maze of huge crates, stacked and sorted according to some system he couldn't quite discern. The Force still urged him on, and he followed.

He heard scuffling noises ahead, and crept forward, careful to conceal himself in the shadows. Qui-Gon sensed three beings, one of them with a powerful Force signature. Perhaps he was not the only Jedi to be visiting Iptura. He almost returned to the Furlan, but the signature was not familiar to him and the Force still led him on.

Soon, Qui-Gon could make out two figures in the blue lighting of the hangar, and he was almost certain they were both human. A plump, white-haired man in expensive clothes leaned back against a crate, while a smaller man knelt in front of him. Soft moans and wet sucking sounds left little doubt about what was happening.

The third being he sensed was not human, he was sure, but he couldn't see it. Qui-Gon realized with a shock that neither of the two humans was a Jedi; the Force signature he'd followed belonged to the smaller one. There was no question now that he was a prostitute; what Qui-Gon could see of his clothing made that obvious, even had he not been plying his trade at the moment.

A pleasure worker with a Force aura like that? Qui-Gon felt ill. He turned toward the Furlan not wanting to see more.

"Stop," a voice whispered hoarsely, and Qui-Gon did. For half a second he thought he'd been caught watching, but then he realized that it was the customer speaking to the prostitute. Qui-Gon took another step before the unmistakable sounds of a struggle stopped him again. He moved quietly back to his vantage point, still curious about the odd currents he sensed in the Force.

The first thing he saw was the prostitute sprawled on the floor, blood dripping from his lower lip. For the first time Qui-Gon could see the boy's face, a look of shock and confusion etched dimly in the blue lights of the hangar. A metal collar glinted against his throat, but it couldn't be a Force inhibitor, or the Jedi wouldn't have sensed him so clearly. As the youth struggled to stand, the older man kicked him hard in the ribs. Qui-Gon saw the young man's mouth twist open in a silent scream.

"That's what I like about you, boy," the older man laughed. He spoke Basic with a strange accent. "You're so quiet."

The boy threw up a hand in a seemingly defensive gesture, and the man flew back against the crate. The man let out an audible huff as he hit.

The boy had already leaped to his feet and was running into the shadows on the side opposite Qui-Gon. The man scrambled up and followed, but at a more leisurely pace.

Qui-Gon trailed them stealthily, and soon caught up with them. Torn between the urge to intervene and curiosity to see how this untrained but powerful Force-user would deal with his attacker, Qui-Gon decided to wait. This time his hiding place was much closer, and he saw that the third being he'd sensed, a Kleranom, had stopped the boy's escape. Four of its eight exoskeletal limbs held the boy firmly. The boy flinched as the man reached up to stroke the side of his face. He struggled, but the Kleranom's serrated pinchers held his arms.

"You've probably figured out that I want more than what I paid for," the man grinned. "And when I'm done, my friend here has a use for what's left."

The boy's large eyes glinted in the blue light, and a slow, sensual smile spread across his mouth. Qui-Gon could hardly believe what he saw in that beautiful, youthful face. Acceptance. Invitation.

He must not have heard about Kleranoms, Qui-Gon thought. But the boy was using the best weapons at his disposal-his attractiveness and the older man's lust. It occurred to Qui-Gon that the boy must be well acquainted with the uses of both. A good strategy, under the circumstances. What a shame that the young man had not been brought to the temple as an infant. He would have made a fine Jedi.

That thought made the scene before his eyes seem tragic as well as sickening.

The man came forward to kiss the boy. For his part, the prostitute responded with apparent eagerness, pulling against the Kleranom's restraining pincers to press his body against the man.

"Very nice," purred the man when the kiss ended. "You have a very talented tongue, though I think we'd already established that." A plump-fingered hand trailed down the boy's torso, over cris-crossed strips of ribbon masquerading as a shirt and under the waistband of his velvet leggings. The boy breathed in sharply and arched into the touch.

The man leaned in to whisper in the prostitute's ear, and Qui-Gon saw the boy's face, this time with an _expression of triumph. He wondered if the boy might be a bit over-confident.

No sooner had that thought crossed the Qui-Gon's mind than the Kleranom struck, its venomous proboscis stinging the boy between the shoulder blades.

The boy cried out in surprise at the unexpected pain, and immediately convulsed, as if from electrical shock. The fit passed quickly and the boy sagged in the Kleranom's grip.

"So you can make noise after all," the man said. His hand moved to the collar encircling the boy's neck. "A shock collar, hm? And I thought it was purely ornamental."

Qui-Gon saw the boy was breathing raggedly, probably crying. Perhaps vibrations in the larynx set off the collar.

"My friend's sting is a paralytic, but it's slow-acting," the man said. "Perhaps if I take the collar off now I could still get to enjoy the sounds you make when I fuck you. I don't suppose you have a key?"

The boys jaw set, and his face stilled. The man shrugged.

"I suppose something could be arranged." He gestured to the Kleranom, who obediently moved two of its pinchers from the boy's shoulders toward the sides of his collar.

The boy took advantage of the loosened grip, pulling free of the insectoid alien and head-butting his other captor. Qui-Gon heard the snap as the older man's nose broke. The boy dashed off with what Qui-Gon could only assume was Force-assisted speed.

Qui-Gon followed, the screams of the older man fading quickly behind him.

The boy had a good chance of escape--he'd hurt the leader badly enough to slow him down, and Kleranoms were slow creatures as a rule, despite their excessive number of limbs--but how long did he have before the Kleranom's sting began to affect him?

The boy made his way swiftly through darkened back streets with Qui-Gon a discreet distance behind. The Jedi had given up any pretense of disinterest, though he still hoped that the boy would be safe without his intervention. The Kleranom venom would wear off eventually; he seemed to remember it took more than one sting to permanently immobilize most creatures the size of a man.

Still, the boy's gait had become a little awkward by the time he reached his whoremaster's stall. Qui-Gon blinked as he looked out onto the brightly lit street, but stayed in the alley. Hidden in the shadows, he could see both the whoremaster and the young prostitute clearly. The boy was bleeding from two parallel cuts that nearly encircled each arm, where he'd pulled away from the Kleranom. The black ribbons of his shirt hung wetly as he rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"What is it this time, Kenobi?" the whoremaster said, loudly enough for Qui-Gon to hear him easily. "Ruined your clothes again, I see."

Kenobi, still breathing hard from the run, began to gesture pointedly at the red-faced procurer. Qui-Gon realized he was attempting to tell the story of his adventure, but his employer waved him off.

"Go clean yourself up, and we'll see if you can earn your keep for a change."

Anger rolled off Kenobi in a wave, though the boy stilled. Qui-Gon had a feeling the young whore could do a lot better than earn his keep. The face he saw as Kenobi turned toward the door of the establishment behind his master's kiosk was not as young as he had first thought it in the blue lights of the hangar. He was obviously young, but not still an adolescent as Qui-Gon had first thought.

Qui-Gon tensed as Kenobi stumbled to his knees on the threshold of the brothel. He was still trying to pull himself up when the well-dressed customer showed up, looking a bit worse for wear. The Jedi felt strangely proud of magnificent broken nose that Kenobi had given the man for his trouble.

"Your boy there ran out on me, Cragin. Hit me, too."

"He said you wanted more service than you paid for."

"Said that, did he?" A sneer tugged at the customer's jowls. The more the man spoke, the less Qui-Gon liked him.

"He gets his point across." Cragin saw the boy kneeling on the threshold and left the kiosk. "He's bleeding, too. I thought you didn't like hurting them?"

"I've never had any trouble out of any of them, before," the man shrugged.

Lifting Kenobi by the arms, Cragin shook him and looked at his face. "You up to some funny business again?"

Moving his head to indicate a negative and slapped two fingers into his upturned palm.

"You had a friend, then, eh?" Cragin looked shrewdly at the customer. "That's extra. You only paid for a blow."

"How much for two, then?"

"Two fifty." The whoremaster paused, considering. "But look at him! He's in no condition for it now."

It was true; Kenobi could barely stand, even with Cragin holding him. The customer shrugged. "How much if I don't plan to bring him back?"

"I don't run that kind of place, and you know it," Cragin answered warily.

The customer took a cue form his tone. "I do know that he's given you some trouble lately. How much would it be worth to you to have him skip out on his contract? It happens. Whore finds a customer he likes and they go off into the sunset."

Kenobi tried to get free of Cragin's grasp. A jerk of the head, a twitch of the arm were all he could manage, but Qui-Gon knew what it meant. The venom was taking hold. Surely the whoremaster could see that the boy was drugged. Of course he could. He was ignoring it.

"Happily ever after, eh?"

The customer smiled and wrapped an arm around Kenobi's waist; it was obvious that Cragin alone wouldn't be able to hold the boy up much longer. "My friend wants to... raise a family with him."

Cragin blinked, then shrugged. "Twenty-five thousand credits. No refunds. And I don't want to see him again."

"Not a problem," the customer said, passing Cragin a credit chip. He shouldered the limp prostitute and started walking. "Keep the change."

This was not supposed to happen. Iptura's pleasure districts were supposed to be regulated to prevent such abuses. Slavery was not legal in the Republic, after all, but the customer had mentioned a contract.

Before the man had disappeared down another alley with Kenobi, Qui-Gon was at Cragin's kiosk. It would take the man only a few minutes to reach the Kleranom, even burdened as he was. There was no time for subtlety.

The whoremaster greeted Qui-Gon with a smile that made him want to wash.

"What can I get for you, good sir? I have many-"

Qui-Gon interrupted him with a wave of his hand and explained exactly what he wanted. He felt no remorse at all for his creative interpretation of the guidelines regarding the use of Force suggestion. "And be quick about it!"

He paid what he thought was a fair price for the packet, and ran after the Force signature that had first drawn him into this drama. He didn't have a thought for how he would explain it to the Council, or even what he was going to do when he caught up with the fat, white-haired man. He was in the Moment as fully as he had ever been, and he let the Force lead him.

When he found them, once again in the blue light of the hangar, the white-haired man had just dropped the boy to the floor. Qui-Gon interrupted the scene immediately, in a state so focused that time seemed to slow down. He saw the situation with instant clarity, and did not question it.

Kenobi was conscious, his open eyes streaming with frightened, angry tears. He was like a beacon of force energy, glowing with Light despite the negative emotions. The Kleranom stood in the shadows to the left, pulsing with new life and the emotionless imperatives that drove her kind.

None of this was news to Qui-Gon; he was simply aware of it all, as if he had always known it. Of course the Kleranom was a female; she needed a host for her clutch.

Qui-Gon bounded between the helpless prostitute and the Kleranom, his lightsaber hissing to life in his hand. He deftly sliced through the Kleranom's proboscis before the final sting could be delivered; the severed length of it landed on the boy's chest, writhing.

The man lunged at Qui-Gon in a rage, but lost a hand for his trouble. He fell screaming to the ground, clutching the stump.

Clicking its pinchers in agitation, the Kleranom moved sideways, circling, looking for a way to reach Kenobi. The blue lights glinted through her translucent thorax, outlining the mass of dark eggs within, the rigid stalk of her ovapositer extending from it. Qui-Gon pitied the creature.

Kleranoms, generally considered borderline sentients, were not supposed to be allowed off Kleran, their home world, until after their reproductive cycle had passed. The white-haired man must have smuggled this one out. Denied her customary prey, this creature had been manipulated into this situation. She was too far gone to have any real choice in the matter.

Still, he couldn't leave her living, because she would most certainly seize upon another sentient source of protein for her young as soon as the hapless prostitute was out of reach.

The Kleranom lunged, and Qui-Gon swept off two of its forelimbs with one stroke of his 'saber. She reeled in pain and stumbled back, almost stepping on the white-haired man. The man's whimpering had ceased; he spoke quietly into a small commlink.

In desperation, the Kleranom turned on her supposed benefactor, obviously intent on depositing her eggs inside him without the benefit of her sting.

Qui-Gon took advantage of this turn of events, shouldering the boy's limp weight as best he could without deactivating his 'saber. Just before they made it around a stack of crates, a volley of blaster fire erupted behind them. Qui-Gon easily deflected the few stray bolts that went their way, knowing that he and Kenobi were not the intended target.

The white-haired man's retainers had seen fit to take care of the Kleranom first. Qui-Gon heard the man ordering his men to pursue them, though, so he made his way to the Furlan as quickly as the Force allowed.

Thanks to some delicate Force manipulation, the ship's ramp was open by the time Qui-Gon reached it with his burden. He continued to deflect bolts of blaster fire until the ramp closed completely, then, dumping the limp Kenobi on the plasteel flooring, Qui-Gon rushed to the cockpit. The Furlan could withstand quite a bit of hand blaster fire, but it stood to reason that a man with such a well-armed retainer force would have heavier weapons at his disposal. Best to get off Iptura and into hyperspace as soon as possible.

As soon as the Furlan made orbit, Qui-Gon laid in a course for Coruscant and engaged the hyperdrive. He made his way back to the entryway, suddenly wondering what in the seven hells he thought he was doing.

Kenobi still lay sprawled on the floor in much the same position as Qui-Gon had left him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Qui-Gon said softly. The young man's fear had not lessened with their escape, and Qui-Gon felt a pang of guilt for leaving him on the floor so long. The prostitute's body jerked when he bent to pick him up. "I'm only going to move you somewhere a bit more comfortable. If you have no objections, that is."

Kenobi blinked once in response. Absent evidence to the contrary, Qui-Gon interpreted that as agreement. He took him to the Furlan's only cabin, and laid him gently on the bunk.

Turning the lights to maximum, Qui-Gon began to rummage in the ship's med kit, hoping for something that might help to counteract the Kleranom's sting.

The young man's other wounds were superficial and easy enough to treat, but Qui-Gon knew the physical helplessness was by far the most difficult to bear.

"The Kleranom's venom seems to be wearing off on its own, and apparently I don't have anything here that will help move things along," Qui-Gon sighed. "I'm going to clean and dress your wounds. I'll try not to hurt you. It needs to be done."

A scavenged bowl from the ship's mess held enough water to be of use. He started with the small cut to the lip, so the water and cloth would be clean when it touched the young man's mouth.

Qui-Gon took pains to be gentle. The split wasn't bad at all, and soon Qui-Gon dabbed on a bit of salve. Just a bit of bruising around the lower lip and a small cut. Hard to believe it had bled at all. A russet brow arched slightly, drawing his attention to the boy's eyes.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon felt a flush of embarrassment for the amount of time he'd spent in contemplation of the young man's lips. They were nice lips--not too full, not too thin. A corner of Kenobi's mouth twitched slightly; Qui-Gon was not sure if it was a sign of amusement, but he thought it best to move along.

Cutting the remnants of the sleeves away, Qui-Gon examined the gashes on the young man's arms. One on each arm marring the mid point of the bicep with a blackened crust of dried blood and dirt. That was not going to be pleasant to clean.

"I'm afraid this will hurt a bit. I'll try to be quick about it."

The patient flinched each time he made a cleaning swipe at the wound. A good sign, that, but it bothered Qui-Gon nonetheless. He should tell Kenobi who he was, maybe give him an idea what was happening. Only he wasn't sure exactly what he intended to do, so explaining himself would be difficult. Best just to see to the wounds and hope that inspiration would hit sometime before they reached Coruscant. Three days.

The Kleranom's pinchers hadn't cut into the muscle, he noted. The wounds reopened and bled a bit as he cleaned them, but that was to be expected. Qui-Gon sent healing energy along with the antibiotic salve he spread over the cuts. He was no Healer, but he felt certain that the young fellow wouldn't need bacta.

"These aren't deep. You should heal fully in a tenday or so."

Large gray-green eyes looked up at him, grateful but wary. He tried to move his hands but could only manage a sort of weak, flapping gesture.

"It could be morning before you have any real motor control; fine motor might take longer. I really don't know that much about Kleranom stings." Qui-Gon shrugged.

Kenobi's eyes narrowed slightly in what Qui-Gon imagined was a look of cynical appraisal.

"You'll be safe here," Qui-Gon said. "Try to rest."

The young man's gaze lingered on Qui-Gon for a moment; then, his decision made, he closed his eyes. The Jedi felt strangely relieved when Kenobi's scrutiny of him ended.

When all the cuts were properly dressed, Qui-Gon gathered up the med kit and left the cabin. But there wasn't anywhere for him to go, at least not any place comfortable. He decided to go back to the cabin for his datapad; surely reading would help to pass the time. And keep him from having to think about what in the hells he was going to tell the Jedi Council about this little adventure.

Just then, the com chimed from the cockpit, and Qui-Gon reluctantly accepted the transmission. "Jinn."

"Look what the gundark dragged in," Xanatos smirked. "So how was it?"

"Fine. I'll tell you all about it when w--I arrive on Coruscant. I'll contact you." He switched the com off before Xan could protest. How could he explain his actions to his former apprentice, when he didn't fully understand them himself?

Meditation, he thought. I need to meditate. He knelt on the hard floor of the ship's mess, and fell easily into the familiar embrace of the Force. He thought of the events of the evening with his usual detachment, feeling his way wherever the Force led him. Sparing nothing in his assessment, he saw himself and his motives with abstracted clarity.

A middle-aged Jedi Master, still at the apex of his skill, had behaved recklessly and involved himself in matters of a personal nature that he should not have known about. Still, it had been the Force that led him to the young whore and his despicable customer. Perhaps there was something here that the Council, perhaps even the Senate, should be aware of.

The customer had smuggled a fertile Kleranom off its home world; to what purpose he could not guess, but they were dangerous creatures.

No, there was more to it than that. The Force guided him on, like the hand of his master when he was a newly-minted padawan, urging him gently onward.

He followed without hesitation.

Every path came to the same ending: Kenobi. Something about the pleasure worker now sleeping in his bunk, but he couldn't see what it was. The Force definitely led him back to the young man with each new path he tried to follow. Qui-Gon would have to talk to the fellow, and soon, if he was to make any sense of this mess before he reached Coruscant.

Slowly, Qui-Gon emerged from the meditative state. He felt rested and more than satisfied that his actions had reflected the will of the Force. The Force had guided him, and he trusted that the Force would not lead him astray.

Ignoring the snapping noises his knees made as he stood, he returned to the cabin. Kenobi lay on the bunk, but had turned on his side in his sleep. So the use of his muscles was returning faster than he'd expected. That was good.

The thing that was not so good was the fact that the young man seemed to be wound into a tight ball, arms hugging his knees. The fetal position was not an unusual way to sleep for a human, but the tension and tightness of the curve of his back virtually screamed distress.

Kenobi's back was to the door, making it easy for Qui-Gon to see the place where the Kleranom had stung him. A small, greenish swelling just between the shoulder blades. Qui-Gon was fairly certain that was not typical. The illustration he'd once seen showed a red swelling initially which turned black and gradually faded to green as the subject recovered.

How could the boy have healed so quickly? Perhaps the Kleranom hadn't had a full venom sack. Qui-Gon shuddered, suddenly realizing the value of Kleranom venom on the black market, especially on a planet like Iptura.

Kenobi turned to look at the Jedi Master, then sat up. The look on his face was casual, even indifferent, but the tension in his body showed that he was wary.

"I need to talk to you," Qui-Gon said. Kenobi nodded curtly, an impatient eyebrow quirked in his direction.

"My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. I'm a Jedi. Don't be afraid."

The boy cocked his head to one side, a wry grin tugging at his lips.

Obviously Qui-Gon was not as fearsome a sight as he had supposed. At least the prostitute hadn't laughed outright. Of course he hadn't, not with that cursed collar on.

Qui-Gon remembered the packet tucked in his belt, and retrieved the slim metal keycard Cragin had given him.

"Well, let's get that collar off you." Qui-Gon moved toward Kenobi with the keycard in his hand, but the boy shrank from him, leaning against the bulkhead on the far side of the bunk. The young man's hands clutched almost protectively at the metal band around his throat.

"I got this from Cragin; it is the one that was designed for that collar, I'm certain."

Kenobi rolled his eyes. His meaning was as clear to Qui-Gon as if he'd spoken. Of course you're certain. It's not your neck.

"He told you it would kill you if you tried to remove it?" Kenobi looked at him levelly. Qui-Gon cursed himself for stupidity. Of course the thing was booby trapped. That's why Kenobi had been so desperate to get away before the Kleranom could cut it off.

"I'm a Jedi. I searched Cragin's mind for deceit when he gave this to me. I have no doubt it will work."

The young man didn't even blink. As he stood and moved closer to Qui-Gon, his stormy gaze never left the Jedi's eyes. Taking Qui-Gon's hand, he brought it to the collar so that his fingers curled under it, just above the pulse point of his throat.

The Jedi showed no outward reaction, but he was surprised by the young man's temperature. Even the fingers that held his hand in place by the collar were hot to the touch.

Kenobi moved Qui-Gon's hand until the Jedi could feel the young man's pulse against the backs of his fingers where they curled around the collar. Then he felt it: a tiny hole, just large enough to hold a hypodermic. Perhaps it concealed a needle tipped with concentrated poison. Qui-Gon had heard that such traps were a common enough occurrence in the slave trade outside Republic space.

The prostitute raised his brows, questioning. Did Qui-Gon have the courage of his convictions? If the Jedi's life was also at risk, would he be so sure of the key in his other hand?

Qui-Gon pressed his lips together and brought the key to the locking mechanism in the back of the collar, his finger still covering the needle hole. The boy's gray eyes went wide with surprise, even as the collar clattered to the plasteel floor.

Qui-Gon said nothing, at first, content merely to watch the changing _expression on Kenobi's face. Shock, then relief with maybe a hint of gratitude, followed quickly by the wary suspicion Qui-Gon had come to expect.

"If you want to clean up, the 'fresher is there. The Furlan is a small ship, but she does have a water 'fresher. There are some spare clothes in the cabinet behind you." Qui-Gon noted Kenobi's disgust at the state of his clothing.

Little remained of the black ribbons that had criss-crossed his torso, and his leggings were stained with Kleranom blood and whatever else he'd been dragged through during the course of the evening.

Kenobi opened his mouth, then closed it again and nodded, rubbing absently at the chaffing marks around his throat.

Qui-Gon smiled as kindly as he could manage and left the cabin. The door opened directly onto the ship's mess/common area, and the Jedi fell heavily into the nearest seat. He let out a sigh, only then realizing that he had been holding his breath. Exhaustion finally crept over him and he was soon asleep.

Qui-Gon was in the blue light of the hangar, but the Kleranom and the white-haired man were gone. Xanatos stood in front of him, smiling with a sort of oblique smugness Qui-Gon hadn't seen since his apprentice had won the Senior Padawan division in the Temple 'saber trials.

"I told you to have a good time, Master. Go in. It's ready."

As Qui-Gon moved past him, Xanatos stroked a hand across his chest in a gesture as suggestive as it had once been familiar. He passed through a doorway and found himself in an open chamber, lit by torches but full of heavy-scented night air.

And people, lots of people, none familiar, but his mind accepted them as Jedi because of their clothes. They seemed to be assembled for a funeral; the unlit pyre dominated the center of the gathering. On the pyre the prostitute lay limp and glassy-eyed.

The crowd parted and a Kleranom approached Qui-Gon, on the attack.

His 'saber leaped to life in his hand, and the Kleranom split in two at his first stroke. Out of its severed thorax poured hundreds of smaller ones. Growing too quickly to be anything but a nightmare, they rushed him.

Qui-Gon fought until his arms trembled with fatigue, and still they came.

Just when he was certain he could fight no more, the last one vanished before his eyes. The pyre had changed to an altar of stone; Kenobi lay bound upon it like a sacrifice. The lightsaber in Qui-Gon's hand became a knife, long and sharp and cruel.

"Do what you must." Xanatos stood beside him, now mostly hidden by a dark cloak.

Qui-Gon nodded, given over completely to the strange logic of the dream, and walked up to the altar. He raised the knife and with a quick stroke cut the cords that held the young man in place.

Kenobi reached out to him, beckoning. They were both suddenly naked, but in the dream it seemed comfortable and right. Qui-Gon took the willing body with implausible ease; the boy was beautiful, wanton and so very warm to his touch. Soon he was lost in the easy release that only comes in dreams.

Kenobi looked up at him, sweat glistening in the moonlight. His face wore a sleepy, sated smile, suspicious features softened to unbearable tenderness by the pleasure of surrender.

Qui-Gon was about to kiss those lovely lips when the boy spoke. In the squeaky, jarring grumble of Master Yoda came the words, "Bond with me, you will."

Qui-Gon woke with start, shuddering.

He hadn't had that sort of dream in quite a while, and was not at all pleased by the themes involved. Had he intervened on Kenobi's behalf because of the boy's attractiveness? Had his self-denial led to such complete self-delusion? He would have to meditate on it before they landed on Coruscant.

He wondered if he'd be able to speak to Master Yoda without a pang of shame and mild disgust. Maybe when he had a chance to hear Kenobi's actual voice, the dream voice would fade from his memory. Qui-Gon sat up and rested his head in his hands, trying to ignore the damp slickness in his leggings.

As sure as he had been of the will of the Force in the events on Iptura after his last meditation, the stirrings of sexual feelings in his dream caused him to doubt himself again. Did he have some hidden need to rescue a beautiful young pleasure worker in the hopes of winning his affections? He'd never thought of himself as the kind of man who would develop a messiah complex in middle age, but he could see clearly enough to know how it would seem to the Council. To Xan.

Sometime after Xan had been knighted, he'd approached Qui-Gon sexually. The Jedi Master had been flattered. No, more than that. He'd seen the passion of his former apprentice's youth and been swept away by the thrill of being desired by someone so handsome and young. Qui-Gon had never thought of his apprentice in terms of sexual attractiveness, but Xanatos had had no such qualms about his master. Xan had called him 'Master Oblivious' after they became intimate.

He really hadn't seen what was coming when Xan came for that latemeal visit after his first solo mission as a Knight. Perhaps he'd been too easy a mark for seduction, having spent so much of his life releasing his passions to the Force.

Xan hadn't been his first lover, but he had been his first in quite some time. It had been reckless and fun for a while, but Qui-Gon had found it hard to reserve his feelings. For Qui-Gon, so closely tied to the Living Force, it was hard not to give himself completely to the Moment, and to his lover. Xan had no such difficulty, and would probably never understand why Qui-Gon had gradually become too busy to meet with him as often. He knew Xan didn't lack for companionship, even when he wasn't visiting his former master's quarters. Xan respected Qui-Gon's need for distance, and they had remained friends.

But Qui-Gon had struggled with his feelings, had wanted something more than physical intimacy. He still did; and a casual fling with friends, whores or... seafood... wasn't going to alter that longing.

Gods, he needed a shower.

He went to the cabin door an opened it. Kenobi lay on the bunk with a towel tied around his hips, looking up expectantly. The lights were at about fifty percent, but Kenobi's mostly naked form shone, pale and luminous in the dimness. The air smelled heavy with steam from the fresher, traces of soap and the smell of clean... Kenobi, Qui-Gon supposed.

"That must've been some shower." Even if Qui-Gon hadn't been asleep long, the amount of steam in the small room showed that the young man had taken his time about getting clean.

Kenobi shrugged, tossing his water-darkened ginger hair to the side, acknowledging and dismissing his self-indulgence with the gesture.

"Don't talk much, do you?" Qui-Gon attempted a joking tone.

Kenobi looked him in the eyes as a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "Not much use for talk, in my line of work."

Gods, that voice. Thankfully nothing like Master Yoda's after all. The muscles in Qui-Gon's belly clenched at the sound of it. Soft and young in timbre, but with a slight roughness that spoke of age, experience, or perhaps nothing more than trauma from the collar. Strangely cultured accent, considering. It was perfectly lovely.

Qui-Gon answered with a tight-lipped smile and a nod as he took a few steps closer to the 'fresher. Kenobi stood and stepped toward him, his youthful features hardening into seriousness. He raised a hand as if he intended to touch Qui-Gon, though the distance between them was greater than his reach.

"You don't want to hurt me." Not a question, but more than a statement.

"Of course not." Qui-Gon took another step. "I want to use the 'fresher."

"You won't hurt me." The young man's voice broke a little this time. He seemed confused, perhaps a little fearful. Of course. He must think Qui-Gon intended to make use of him.

"I only want to wash," Qui-Gon said simply. He moved past Kenobi on his way to the 'fresher. The young man recoiled at his nearness; brow furrowed with concentration, he spoke again.

"You will not hurt me."

Qui-Gon blinked. Something tickled at the edge of his mind, something he hadn't felt since he was a padawan. Was that a Force suggestion? This boy was truly amazing.

"I will not hurt you," Qui-Gon agreed. "As long as you get out of my way. I need to wash."

Kenobi studied him for a moment, and moved closer, giving Qui-Gon a seductive smile. Very close now, Kenobi looked a little puzzled; he sniffed at Qui-Gon, experimentally. He reached up slowly and pulled a somewhat desiccated purple globule out of Qui-Gon's hair. "Yes, you do."

Maintaining his outward serenity as well as he could with the dampness in his leggings and the knowledge that there could be more Saurid effluvia in his tangled hair, Qui-Gon moved as quickly as he could past the smirking prostitute and into the 'fresher. The door closed and he rested his forehead against it. He needed to think, but his brain wasn't working.

The lad had used a Force suggestion on him, or tried to. He must have had some sort of Force training, surely. But how did he end up on Iptura, and why was he so certain Qui-Gon wanted to hurt him?

Perhaps the pleasure districts were not as well-regulated or enlightened as he had been told. He would have to talk to the boy. The knowing look Kenobi had given him after finding the Saurid spore gave Qui-Gon some hope that the young man no longer feared him.

Qui-Gon undressed quickly, glad to be rid of his robes; they did smell a bit fishy. The water in the shower was tepid, but it didn't bother Qui-Gon. In fact, it proved most helpful in getting his body under control. He washed quickly and soon discovered that he had forgotten to bring any clean sleep pants with him into the 'fresher. He wrapped a towel around himself and returned to the cabin to find some clothes.

Kenobi was no longer there, so Qui-Gon dressed hurriedly in sleep pants and a fresh tunic before going in search of him. He found the common room empty; that left the cockpit, where he found Kenobi sitting at the navicomputer.

He looked up when Qui-Gon entered. "Why are we headed for Coruscant?"

"I've told you I'm a Jedi. The Temple on Coruscant is where I live when I'm not on assignment."

"Fair enough," Kenobi sighed, propping his legs up on the seat beside him. Qui-Gon noted that the leggings he wore were rolled up, as were the sleeves of the tunic. It made him look very young. "So, why am I headed for Coruscant?"

Qui-Gon chuckled.

"I wasn't sure if you needed more medical attention than I could give you. That, and we left in rather a hurry. The course was already mapped, so it was the fastest way to get into hyperspace. Is there some other place you'd rather go?"

"No." Kenobi's shoulders relaxed a bit. "I just like to know the score." It was more of a question than a statement. Qui-Gon decided he might as well get comfortable, and crossed the cockpit to the pilot's chair.

"The Force led me to you. I saw what happened in the hangar, and I followed you."

"You followed me."

"To see that you were safe."

Kenobi raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing.

"The Force led me to intervene," Qui-Gon said, glad for the slight tanning of his skin that hid the flush of embarrassment he inexplicably felt.

"The Force." Kenobi's eyes flicked over the Jedi in obvious appraisal, the look on his face somehow managing to be both sensual and decidedly unfriendly.

Qui-Gon shuddered, wondering silently if that was the way prostitutes looked at everyone-a cool assessment of whether he was predator or prey. The slow smile that spread across Kenobi's face--a sensual mask obscuring the intellect beneath--suggested that the young man had put him in the latter category.

Slow and graceful as a cat, Kenobi moved closer to Qui-Gon. Standing over the Jedi, Kenobi leaned in to rest his warm hands on Qui-Gon's shoulders.

"Was it the same force that led you to the Saurid tanks?"

Qui-Gon hesitated, confounded by Kenobi's boldness, his nearness, and the fact that he was asking a variation of the question Qui-Gon had so recently asked himself. With firm control of his features, Qui-Gon attempted to answer.

"Perhaps it was the will of the Force that brought me to Iptura, but I don't really know for certain."

Hands moved from his shoulders, slowly down over the planes of his chest.

"Maybe this force thought you could use a good time," Kenobi said softly. "That's why most people come to Iptura."

Gods, that voice. Sultry sweetness had replaced the sarcasm of the moment before. Qui-Gon sat frozen, transfixed by the gray-green eyes before him, and the thumbs ever so softly circling his nipples through his sleep tunic.

Kenobi edged forward to straddle his thighs. "You look like someone who could use a good time."

Maybe it was remembering Xan as he said essentially the same thing, or maybe he simply remembered who and where he was. In any case, Qui-Gon gripped the young man firmly by the arms and pushed him back. He stood to escape the pilot's chair, hoping that his stern Jedi façade was still in place. He didn't stop until the cockpit door opened, and Kenobi's angry voice hit him like a dash of cold water.

"What the fuck do you want, old man?" Kenobi kicked the co-pilot seat with enough force to bend the armrest; Qui-Gon could feel the boy's fear now; not a fear of Qui-Gon, but something worse. Fear of the unknown.

The sudden attack almost caught Qui-Gon off guard. Almost. Kenobi was strong and agile, but he'd had little or no training. He evidently thought a flying tackle would be effective against a Jedi, and he was partly right. Qui-Gon did stumble through the door, but managed to get out of the way, easily enough. His attacker was soon face down on the deck plating with one wrist pressed firmly into his shoulder blade and Qui-Gon's knee in the small of his back.

Qui-Gon waited for the string of excessively creative curses to end before speaking quietly to his captive.

"I'll let you go, but first, listen to me. Your customer tonight was involved in something illegal, and the Jedi Council needs to know about it. And about him. The Senate as well, maybe. Help me, and I will see to it that you are compensated for your time, and given passage to anywhere you want to go."

"Why should I help you?" Kenobi spat the words, still struggling.

"You would be helping to stop the man who tried to kill you from hurting anyone else, for one."

Kenobi laughed, breathless from the weight on his back. Qui-Gon wasn't at all sure what was so funny, but at least Kenobi had stopped cursing him in Huttese.

"For another, I have your contract. Tell us what you know, and I'll give it to you."

The laughter stopped. "Cragin sold my contract to that bastard Orima."

"But Orima, if that is his real name, didn't stay to gather the documentation. I did." Qui-Gon felt the tension ease from the body beneath him, just slightly, and took at as a sign that Kenobi believed him. "How else do you think I could have gotten the key to that collar?"

Kenobi sighed, beginning to consider the possibilities. The offer of freedom had to be tempting, but he kept his voice free of the excitement Qui-Gon sensed from him. "All right, all right. Just get off me."

Qui-Gon let him up, trying not to smile at the way Kenobi straightened his ill-fitting clothes with more hauteur than some princes of Qui-Gon's acquaintance.

Kenobi shook out his strained arm and slapped Qui-Gon companionably on the back. "You're tough for a squid fancier, Jinn. I'll give you that."

Qui-Gon maintained his dignity as best he could, wondering how long he could stand to be constantly reminded of his one and only trip to the Saurid tanks.

He glanced at the chrono and realized that nearly 10 hours had passed since the Furlan had left Iptura. He had not slept long, he was sure; perhaps his meditation had eaten up that time.

The meditation, of course. In space, separated from the rhythms of life planetside, he could meditate for many hours and not recognize the passage of time. Usually, he would be brought back by someone aboard, or by timers he set to adjust his circadian rhythms to the planet he was headed for.

The current time made two things clear to Qui-Gon: Kenobi's recovery had been very rapid but not miraculous, and he was starving. Kenobi must have been thinking the same thing.

"Well, since we're not going to fuck or kill each other, why don't we see what there is to eat on this boat?"

Qui-Gon ushered the young man into the ship's mess in silence, and soon found acceptable food for them both. His discomfort with Kenobi seemed to grow with the silence between them, though Kenobi, for his part, seemed unusually relaxed. He slouched in the chair, eating with his hands and making appreciative noises as though standard rations were a rare delicacy. He licked his fingers slowly, smiling when he realized Qui-Gon was watching.

Qui-Gon looked away, silently cursing the unusual failure of his Jedi façade. Kenobi was not gracious enough to let it pass unremarked.

"Want some?" he said, almost managing to sound innocent as he offered Qui-Gon a bite of his re-hydrated quara stick.

"I have one of my own."

"But you aren't eating it."

Qui-Gon got up and rummaged for the ship's store of cutlery. He sat down with some utensils and began to cut his own quara into bite-sized pieces.

Kenobi seemed to find his delicacy amusing. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Pardon?" Qui-Gon looked up reluctantly from his plate, not wanting to notice the way the quara oil made Kenobi's lips glisten.

"About Orima. Whatever the Jedi or the Senate would want to know so urgently?"

Seemed like a reasonable request to Qui-Gon; he wondered why he was so loath to talk to the young man. He would have a lot to meditate on, when the opportunity presented itself. "Yes, of course. What do you know of this Orima fellow? Is that his whole name?"

"It's the only name he ever gave. Iptura has significant privacy laws." Kenobi flashed another knowing smile. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

"Yes, well," Qui-Gon nodded. "Do you know anything else about him at all? Had you seen him regularly?"

"The last few lunar cycles, mostly, though he may have been around before that. He never took me to a ship, or even rented a room. I figured he liked the risk of being seen-not that anyone in the pleasure district would have cared."

"He was a regular, then?"

Kenobi shrugged. "Once or twice a lunar cycle, I guess. That's about as regular as you could expect from an off-worlder--which he definitely was."

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow.

"It was his accent, and the fact that he was sort of cagey about his personal information. Ipturans don't really care. They don't have any significant sexual taboos, so they have no reason to keep secrets."

Something twisted inside Qui-Gon as he heard the young man's assessment. Best not to think of the Jedi that might have been. "You're not Ipturan, either."

"No."

"How did you come to be there?"

"How is that relevant?" Kenobi became guarded, narrowing his eyes to slits, fixed on the Jedi master. Qui-Gon was not deterred.

"Let me decide what is relevant."

Kenobi bristled, burying his attention in his meal.

(continued in part 2)